Денис Седов – One step into Tomorrow (страница 2)

The two guys pointedly dropped money on the counter and headed for the exit. Nastya was about to say something, but new visitors appeared in the doorway—a guy and a girl. I knew them. We had met here before, even shot together. They waved to me and said hello. Nastya smiled and went over to them. I watched her walk away, admiring her gait on autopilot.

"May I sit down?"

The suddenness almost made me spill my coffee. The man with the newspaper was standing before me. He held a mug of beer and waited for my answer.

"Your name is Kostya, isn’t it?" The man broke the lingering silence. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair and sat at my table, positioning himself between me and the bar.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked, not very politely, setting the coffee aside.

"My name is Makar." He extended his hand.

Now I examined him more closely: average height, dark hair with streaks of grey, brown eyes, a broken nose. Late forties. From under his shirt cuff on his right hand, a tattoo peeked out—something resembling half a gear, though the fabric prevented a full view. I ignored his gesture and repeated:

"So, what do you want?"

"Just to talk. I’ve been waiting for you for a while. Nikolai suggested I look for you here. You know, Nikolai, your friend and shooting instructor."

I certainly knew Nikolai. We had developed a great rapport that had somehow grown into a friendship, and it would have become even stronger if not for one “but.”

I leaned forward and scrutinized my companion once more.

"And when was the last time you met Nikolai?"

Some time ago, he had simply vanished. Took a week’s vacation, said nothing to anyone, and disappeared.

"Never. That is, I haven’t met him before; other people worked with him," Makar replied. "But I spoke with him about ten days ago. Over the comms."

He watched my reaction.

"Alright, do you have time to talk?" The man finished his beer, set the empty mug on the table, and stared at me again.

"Yes, I’m listening."

At the next table, two men sat down noisily, arguing about something.

"Maybe in the range? It’s quieter there," Makar suggested, pulling out money.

"The range it is."

A joyful feeling washed over me: if Nikolai was alive, that was already good news.

"Shall we shoot a magazine each?" Makar asked as we entered the gallery and headed toward the firing line.

The range was empty. By the way he greeted the guard at the entrance and the instructor Sanya, it was clear he was a frequent guest. While he was preparing, I curiously eyed his "Viking"—the MP-446.

"Good pistol," Makar noted, catching my gaze. "Same caliber as yours: nine by nineteen. Eighteen-round magazine. Though the spring is stiff; you have to get used to it until it’s broken in." He checked the slide and added, "Better to use our local ammo; it’ll last longer."

I took out my Beretta and loaded the magazine. I had obtained my firearm license right after my service, getting a job at a security agency run by a fellow soldier and friend. The job allowed me to legally own weapons but required me to escort cargo from Izhevsk and Vyatskiye Polyana to Moscow once every two weeks. While I had my main job, this was a hindrance, but after the firm closed, I had more time.

We shot through a couple of magazines. Makar shot confidently and easily, as if using a pistol were as habitual as using a spoon and fork.

Later, while reloading in the safe zone, I asked:

"So, where is Kolya?"

I didn’t intend to delay the questions any longer.

"He’s there…" Makar faltered. "In short, he’s in trouble."

I remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"A year ago, Nikolai went on an… expedition. He was supposed to return, but something happened that delayed him…"

"Is that all? If that's all, it was nice chatting."

I stood up, packing my gear into my backpack.

"Wait, Konstantin. I just don’t know how to explain this to you… Better if I show you a video." Makar pulled an A4 sheet from his bag. "But first, sign this."

I took the paper.

"A non-disclosure agreement?" I raised an eyebrow. My details were already filled in. "You’ve come prepared, I see."

After signing the document, which didn’t commit me to anything yet, I handed it back.

"Now, look."

Makar opened a file on a tablet and pressed "Play." A dark, cloud-shrouded sky appeared on the screen. Beneath it were ruins. Definitely our city. The camera shifted, catching—

I slammed the pause button.

"What the hell?"

Before me was… me. Or rather, someone who looked exactly like me. A grimy face, tactical backpack, weapons… He moved in a crouch toward cover, holding a flashlight and an assault rifle at the ready. He scanned the street, made sure it was clear, and signaled to someone. Nikolai emerged from behind a wall—in a brand-new uniform, gear without a scratch, weapons looking like they were straight from the store. He had almost reached cover when a vehicle resembling a "Tiger," though modified, appeared around the corner. Drones hovered above it.

It all happened in seconds. Fire was opened from the vehicle onto the building. Almost simultaneously, two… creatures appeared near the car. My brain couldn’t find another word. One of them, skidding in a turn, burst into the house they were shooting at. The second raced further down the street. At that moment, my double raised his weapon and opened fire on it.

The image froze.

"That’s all I can show you," Makar said quietly.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"What… the… hell?"

My mouth felt dry. Speaking became difficult.

"That is… 'Tomorrow'," Makar paused. "A world very similar to ours, but with its own… nuances. Our knowledge of Tomorrow is extremely limited," he continued, choosing his words carefully. "Until recently, we didn’t know about it at all…" He faltered, as if mentally editing his own speech.

"For the most part, our information is based on the stories of the few inhabitants our… let’s call them researchers… have managed to speak with."

He nodded, as if confirming his own choice of words.

"Anyway, you saw it yourself. Nikolai is there… He’s wounded. He needs to be pulled out. But now, we’re going to a restaurant; I haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday, and we have a long talk ahead."

Without waiting for my answer, Makar stood and headed for the exit.

The restaurant "Kupets" was a two-minute walk down the street. We settled at a corner table in the deserted hall and ordered potatoes with meat and mushrooms and some fruit mors from the waitress. The pitcher of mors was brought immediately, with the promise that the rest would arrive within twenty minutes. I was about to ask a question, but Makar preempted me, raising a hand.

"We don’t have the right person to get Nikolai out. Let alone an entire group."

He paused, gauging my reaction.

"It all started not so long ago," he continued. "How? Even I don’t know everything. No clearance. Just at some point, the possibility of a transition to… 'Tomorrow' appeared."

Makar ran his fingers along the glass of mors.

"Now we know more. But this is all theory. Two transitions. Or rather, one entrance and one exit. The distance between them is massive. I’ll tell you the details later. It doesn’t matter for now."

I waited in silence for him to continue.

"It all started when one day, in broad daylight, a man flew out of a basement of a house—right here on neighboring Chkalov Street." He looked up. "Literally."

The words came with difficulty; it was obvious that having such conversations was not his usual business.

"The guy was covered in dust, dressed in a mix of military gear and rags, loaded with weapons, battered and drenched in blood. He didn’t resist when he was disarmed by a traffic police patrol that happened to be nearby." Makar leaned in slightly. "Twenty-four hours later, the area was cordoned off and declared an emergency zone. The residents were relocated. You should remember that."

I nodded. Such a story had indeed happened, though the rumors were that terrorists had mined something and the authorities had missed it.