Денис Седов – One step into Tomorrow (страница 1)

Denis Sedov

One step into Tomorrow

Blurb

What if the thin line between our world and the shattered reality of “Tomorrow” is not fantasy – but a brutal truth?

Konstantin, a man with a complicated past, becomes someone capable of crossing into a place from which no one has ever returned.

In a world where cities have turned into ruins and people into monsters, he is no longer just searching for a way home. He is fighting for the right to remain human. For every step. For everyone by his side. For the last fragment of hope.

This is not a story about superheroes.

It is a story about those who rise when all strength is gone.

One Step Into Tomorrow is more than post-apocalypse.

It is about us.

About choice.

About the price of returning.

Chapter 1

The Stranger Wind

It was autumn. Cold, dismal, and utterly soaked with rain—my most hated season. Not spring, which gently leads into the heat of summer. Not winter, with its crisp snow and thoughts of skiing and hunting. Not even summer, which I dislike slightly because of the heat. No—everything happened now, in this grey, rotting autumn.

The wind lashed droplets against my face, and the damp cold bit into my bones, but I barely felt it. Drenched to the skin, I stood on the roof of a high-rise, staring at the frozen world and waiting.

Emptiness. No cars, no people. Even the wind seemed to move soundlessly, as if afraid to disturb the dead city. Beneath my feet was peeling concrete; around me stood the dark shells of buildings abandoned by their inhabitants.

In that other world, a new district was once supposed to rise here. I had even bought an apartment in this very spot. It was a classic scheme: I invested in a shared construction project, hoping to eventually secure my own home. Everything looked appealing, and the sum wasn’t overwhelming. But the construction had stalled eight years ago. The collective lawsuit filed by defrauded investors had long since disappeared into the depths of the courts, and the building remained a concrete skeleton, frozen in an eternal pause.

Back then, I hadn’t worried much. Money came easily, and the purchase didn’t strain my finances. Besides, I already had a home. It stood apart from the city bustle, almost on the border between the residential area and the river. The district was called Tumanovo—a quiet, undeveloped corner on the outskirts of Kolomna, where private houses alternated with overgrown plots and abandoned gardens. Beyond the fence lay a riverside meadow, and a bit further on, the edge of a forest. It was always quiet there. Even the wind felt different, as if lazy and contemplative. I had chosen the place myself—far from people, closer to something alive.

But six months ago, it all came crashing down.

The job cut four years earlier had come unexpectedly. After the events of 2022, the foreign company where I worked as an advisor wound down its operations in Russia and exited the market. For the first time, this only seriously affected my finances six months ago. After the layoff, I took a full-time position as a senior dispatcher for special cargo security until better times arrived. I had worked in security before – or rather, I had done it on the side, combining my main career with convoy trips across the country.

Six months ago, the bank began tightening the noose of debt. A loan taken out for a business venture turned into a complete disaster. I had planned to open a drone piloting school and a virtual arena. Everything had started smoothly: a large space in an ideal location, perfect for a gaming center; the bank had approved the loan surprisingly quickly… But soon after, the premises for the business—paid for with that very loan—were declared an illegal construction. Neither the realtor nor the bank had informed me of this. The money had already been transferred, and the seller had disappeared.

When it became clear that I was sinking into a debt pit and would almost certainly lose my home, a firm that had bought out my debt appeared almost immediately. Somehow, a standard loan had turned into something astronomical. My lawyer said everything had been buried in the contract and nothing could be done. And all of this in just six months…

Worse still, the combined value of my car, my house, the premises—which could not be sold after the demolition order—and my accumulated savings did not cover even half of the new debt.

And then they came – the debt collectors. People who never raise their voices or threaten you directly. They simply appear everywhere, imprinting themselves onto your life, filling it with neat smiles and impeccably polite words. Slowly and methodically, they drive you into a corner.

This micro-district was just another failure. In my world, it was never finished. But here…

A gust of wind slapped my face with rain. Droplets landed on the grip of my pistol. I stepped into the elevator control room and adjusted the weapon on my tactical rig. The touch of cold metal brought my thoughts back to the events of two weeks ago. The terminal continued blinking green, indicating a stable connection and standby mode.

Chapter 2

A New Acquaintance

Shooting had always been more than just a hobby for me. Perhaps it all started back in childhood – with those first, almost ritual sensations: the smell of burnt gunpowder, the chime of a casing bouncing off the floor, the soft click of the bolt. I could not put it into words back then, but I understood – this was mine.

Later, in the army, that feeling only intensified. I did not stay on contract for the money or because of the instability of the times. I simply felt comfortable where it smelled of metal and cordite, where I had access to weapons. I always enjoyed shooting whatever I could get my hands on – from standard assault rifles to old Mosins or SVDs.

Over time, I began seeking new approaches myself, trying different techniques, studying ballistics. And since childhood, I had also been drawn to archery – and I mastered that as well.

There is always order in my house, but the centerpiece is the gun safe. My favorites lie there: a smoothbore pump-action shotgun and a 7.62-caliber hunting carbine (to be precise, fitted with “Berkut” optics). I am not a hunter in the classical sense, but simply knowing they are there gives me a sense of control, strength, and tranquility.

It is difficult to impress me. Someone does a backflip on a motorcycle—sure, cool. Someone scores a beautiful goal—great. But all of that leaves me indifferent. However, a good series of hits, the sensation of recoil, a precise shot—that triggers a real surge in my soul. Shooting has always been something almost intimate for me. I treat it with jealousy, respect, and a passion that few understand.

And that is probably why I ended up in this club. Even if I didn’t find friends there, I at least found people who understood what I was about. We don’t have heart-to-heart talks or discuss philosophy, but each of us knows the sound of a single shot from a Glock and how the grip of a Viking feels in the hand. That is enough to feel among our own.

After another "conversation" with the debt collectors, I drove to the shooting club and went through two boxes of ammo alone. I didn’t want to leave, and I still had rounds left. But I decided to take a break anyway. I warned the instructor, Sanya—a former marine recently returned from the SMO with a wound—that I’d be back later and headed to the club’s bar.

There were almost no patrons. A man with a newspaper sat in the corner; at the counter were two guys around twenty-five.

"Hey!" I said to Nastya, the shooting instructor and part-time bartender, waitress, and generally the most indispensable person in this club, cutting off her conversation with the guys and clearly ruining one of their attempts to impress her.

"Hi, Kostya! Coffee?"

Nastya immediately switched her attention to me, which caused clear resentment from one of the guys. She brought the coffee and sat down across from me with a mug of tea.

"I’m so glad you showed up!" she smiled. "They’ve been filling my head with all sorts of nonsense for thirty minutes. And as luck would have it, there’s no one else here. Are you here to shoot or just for coffee?"

"To shoot, Nastya. Needed to blow off some steam, so I dropped by."

"You’ve been coming in quite often lately," she noted, narrowing her eyes. "Used to be once a week, now it’s every two or three days. Accumulated a lot of steam, have you?"

She sipped her tea and watched me intently, as if trying to figure out what was on my mind.

Nastya was beautiful. Truly. That was exactly why, when I needed to hone my pistol shooting, I hadn’t chosen her as my instructor. I didn’t think training alongside such a woman would do me any good. Tall, slender, with luxurious chestnut hair she always kept in a loose ponytail. She was probably around thirty-five. As far as I knew, she was single. And most importantly, every time I stopped by the club, she would invariably spend at least a little time with me.

"It’s accumulated," I smirked. "So far, I’m managing to vent it. We’ll see how it goes from here."