Денис Седов – One step into Tomorrow (страница 6)

Nastya stood up abruptly, as if something inside her had jerked, and instinctively reached for my backpack—but a moment later she changed her mind and simply hugged me.

Tightly.

With a kind of quiet desperation.

"Why did you wait so long? Why didn’t you ask me here sooner? I’ll be here. At home. Do you hear? When you come back—I’ll be here."

Her voice trembled, but her gaze was firm.

She said all this while kissing my temple, my cheeks, my lips. And then she just pressed herself against my chest, clutching my jacket as if afraid I would vanish right then.

And so we stood until the car honked again from the street.

At that same moment, a notification chimed.

The phone alerted me to a received message.

"Your account has been credited with…" – followed by the exact sum Makar had shown me on his phone the day before.

In the context of my situation, this message meant there was no turning back.

Chapter 4

The Center

The territory around the abandoned mine complex had long since stopped resembling a ruin.

The main building had been restored hastily and crudely, but functionally: windows were replaced with armored panels, the walls reinforced with concrete slabs, and a modern electronic door with a biometric lock was installed. Along the perimeter stood CCTV cameras, infrared motion sensors, and floodlights mounted on pivoting masts.

The enclosure consisted of a double row of concertina wire stretched between concrete posts. Behind them lay a full-scale checkpoint: a duty module, a barrier gate, and an armored booth with firing slits. A faded flag fluttered on a flagpole next to communications antennas.

The security was serious; nearly a battalion was stationed here. In special revetments at the corners stood "Terminator" armored support vehicles—modern infantry fighting vehicles equipped with active protection systems and twin autocannons. Their hulls gleamed dully in the morning light, ready for combat at a moment’s notice.

A bit further past the concrete barrier, a shooting range had been set up. Rows of targets, sand berms, and sandbag covers—in short, everything indicated that this wasn’t just a place being guarded; it was a place for training and preparation. Short bursts from submachine guns and the muffled thuds of sniper rifles echoed off the complex walls from time to time.

It was no longer a mine complex.

It was a fortress.

A control hub for the passage.

A bridgehead at the Threshold.

"Here is the exit point. The coordinates for everything we know are loaded into your tablet. The map is very similar to the city in our reality, but there are differences. I especially ask you to memorize the location where Nikolai is being held. All of this is also marked on a regular map. We’ve made it plasticized—in case the tablet is damaged."

For a couple of hours now, I had been undergoing briefing.

Seven days ago, I had left Nastya in my house, and since then I had done nothing but prepare. I studied weapons, maps, and gear. I shot. I watched clips about mutants. Over and over, I rewatched videos of that incomprehensible world I was about to enter.

Yesterday, the "First One"—the man who had fallen through to us—arrived. He inspected me skeptically from head to toe but said nothing. Then, for nearly two hours, he explained the best ways to move through the streets, what to fear, where to find water, and where to source food. What was permitted and what was strictly forbidden.

He answered my questions.

At the very end, exhaling heavily, he apologized for not being able to go with me.

We sat on a bench outside the barracks exit. I lit a cigarette. The First One just stared into the void, as if watching something invisible to me.

"You never did say where exactly you appeared from," I began, watching him from the corner of my eye.

He ran a hand over his face in silence, then spoke with a slight crack in his voice:

"I didn’t even understand what happened at first. It was just a battle… We were retreating from Klin. Three of us left. I was covering the rear. Everything around us was burning. One of the bastards…" he paused for a second, "one of those… intelligent mutants, tracked us down. He and I came face to face. I was firing back."

"The last thing I remember is a flash, a noise like a washing machine centrifuge picking up speed. And then… I woke up here. On the street. In a reality that wasn’t mine. Pedestrians, cars, shops open. I was in a stupor for a couple of days."

"Wait…" I frowned. "You said you were retreating from Klin?"

"Yeah. That’s where the breach happened. I was about three hundred kilometers from where your entrance is set up now. I don’t understand how that’s even possible…"

He fell silent.

And I felt everything click into place.

There it was—the detail that had been bothering me all this time.

"The entrance and exit are in different locations," I said aloud, almost to myself. "That means for Nikolai and me to return, we’ll need to get to Klin—where you were."

"Maybe. I got lucky then. Or unlucky," he smirked wearily. "But since then, I wake up every night hearing that sound. It’s like I stayed there. Half of me, anyway."

I nodded silently.

Now I clearly understood that the “exit” would still have to be found—but this new information gave me hope that it might actually work.

Afterward, the First One—everyone had grown used to this callsign—and I spent a long time marking the approximate coordinates of the place where he had fallen through on the map.

Finally, he left, with a vast, undisguised sense of relief.

But just before leaving, he stopped me as we walked down a corridor where there were no cameras. He bent down, as if simply tying a shoelace, and without looking up, said quietly what I would think about for all the remaining days until departure:

"Be prepared for the fact that your friend is not at all what he used to be. I just want you to know."

He straightened up without looking at me and walked on, making it clear there would be no further explanation.

The briefing continued as usual.

Semyon—the handler and instructor—showed new gear, explained the fine details, and drilled the tactics specifically developed for "Tomorrow." Everything was going according to plan.

Every day I found myself thinking back to the final hours before leaving home. I would just sit in the barracks, turning the tablet over in my hands, thinking about the house. About her.

I had only one photo of Nastya: a long time ago, the whole club went out for a barbecue. She had asked me to take a picture of her then. I sent her the photo later—but kept the original on my phone.

Near noon, the handler came in and said, almost casually:

"You have ten minutes. The external channel is open. Talk if you want. But keep it short. We’re cutting everything off after."

I knew immediately what—or rather, who—he meant.

The call signal flashed on the screen.

And almost instantly—her face.

Tired, a bit anxious—but painfully dear.

"Kostya…" she said softly.

"Hey."

"I’ve been so worried… How are you?"

"Everything’s fine, Nastya. Mostly. Just… busy."

"Will you be back soon?"

"I don’t know. I don’t want to lie. But you hang in there, okay?"

She nodded. A tremor of emotion crossed her face. She bit her lip; her eyes grew moist—but she held it together. Just as she was: strong, real.

"I’m here, at home. I’m waiting for you to come back, and I’m doing everything just as you asked. Paid the bills, mowed the lawn—even though it’s autumn, apparently it’s necessary, I saw it on TikTok. I even organized the pantry, can you imagine?"