"The operation has begun, armored troops forward!"
The voice of the battalion commander echoed over the radio. "Forward," I ordered the driver of my tank. My name is Alexei Brusilov. I command a T-80BV tank in the 133rd Guards Separate Tank Battalion. In November 1994, we are in this offensive operation against Grozny. I am only 26 years old, I graduated from the Frunze Military Academy in Moscow with a red diploma in armored troops. I am an experienced officer who has participated in countless exercises. Like us, everyone believed that this operation would be easy.
My tank was one of the few fully equipped and powerful T-80BVs with reactive armor (ERA).
As we sped towards the city, we were surrounded by collapsed, flaming buildings watching in silence. There was a terrible silence; it was as if life had disappeared. We entered between the buildings, and suddenly an RPG-7 missile from the top of the building was aimed at the tank. The missile hit our turret, but the armor stopped the impact and did not penetrate. We immediately fired back, HE-frag shells burst out of the tank's cannon one after the other, and the enemy fire stopped.
We moved deeper into the city, silently, stealthily, thanks to the T-80's turbine engine. But when we reached the central intersection, the roads were full of roadblocks, cars and barbed wire. We drove the tank forward and overcame the obstacles, but suddenly RPG missiles started raining down from all sides. The reactive armor blocked most of them, but the turret malfunctioned.
"Get back!" I yelled to the driver. The driver quickly turned the tank to the right, we were trying to get out of the line of fire, but suddenly we stepped on a mine. There was a terrible explosion under the tank. The right track broke off. My head shook, my eyes glazed over, but I recovered quickly. The driver was in shock, mumbling to himself: "We will die here... there is no salvation."
"Comrade Kornilov! Pull yourself together!" I ordered.
"We need reinforcements. We've stepped on a mine, we're in the line of fire!"
"The radio came back: 'Negative, Lieutenant Brusilov, abandon the tank and retreat.'"
I angrily threw the radio on the ground, "Damn you!" I shouted, "There will be no reinforcements. We are alone."
"Comrade Baranov, the turret is broken, but the gun works. We'll turn the tank with one track and fight," I told the gunner.
We turned the tank around, we fired. We fired thirteen shells, destroying the opposing positions. Silence reigned. A few minutes later a powerful ATGM missile pierced the tank's rear armor. The engine stopped. A fire started inside, but the automatic extinguishers immediately extinguished the flames. I urgently gave the order to fire the smoke screens and a few minutes later visibility dropped to zero.
Two of the seven RPG missiles fired randomly by the fighters hit our tank. We were wrecked, we could no longer move or fire.
"Leave the tank immediately!" I ordered.
The driver and the gunner quickly got out. Just as they were leaving, an ATGM missile hit the side of the tank, pierced the armor, the ammunition caught fire. The last thing I saw were terrible flames covering the inside of the tank.
---
Suddenly I opened my eyes.
I tried to sit up in surprise, but there was a weight on me. There was the body of a dead person on top of me. I pushed the body with all my strength and was released. My head was throbbing, my world was spinning. All around me was a ruined house, destroyed. Seven bodies were lying around. I knew I had died in the war, but now I was here.
I approached a broken mirror on the floor and looked at my face.
"This is not me."
The reflection in the mirror belonged to someone I didn't recognize. I pinched myself but nothing changed. This was not a dream. I was in a body I didn't remember, a body I didn't know.
'Either I am crazy or God gave me a second chance. And I prefer to believe the second one.
I had a prominent chin, black hair, brown eyes... I was a slightly muscular man, 22-24 years old, about 185 cm tall. My clothes were dirty, tattered.
I started looking for the bodies. They were all rotten, stinking, I could see worms moving under their skin. It was a disgusting sight even for me. I started to search their clothes, hoping to find something (if anything). All I found were empty bags, torn clothes, matches and a few useless items... I only pick up one of the empty bags.
With regret, I stood up and started to search the house. The house was destroyed, in disarray, smelling of damp and mold. I searched the house as carefully as I could, but as quickly as I could. The cupboards were empty except for a few empty cans, forks, spoons and a few old clothes. I couldn't find anything useful here, so I went into the living room, where the sofa was moldy and the paint was peeling off the wall. A newspaper that had fallen under the table caught my attention and I picked it up and put it in front of the lighted window.
The following words caught my attention on the rotten page: "World War III", "Nuclear bomb", "Radiation". All my hair stood on end, as if for a moment my brain had stopped functioning.
I began to understand: this is a post apocalyptic world after the third world war, devastated by nuclear and radiation. And poor me, I had migrated into this body.
I tore off my clothes, made a simple mask, found an iron pipe among the rubble, took it with me, because there was no law here anymore.
I gathered every useful thing from the house and went outside. It wasn't cold, it was probably summer. It was a small, rundown village of nine houses.
I visited each house one by one, time had rotted the walls and the wind blew in through broken windows. The things I could find inside were very limited. In the living room of one house there were human bones in the middle of a dust-covered, unkempt rug - they had probably been there for months, maybe years. In another house, I found a few rotten potatoes, a sewing kit, a dull kitchen knife, and a few other items that had become useless.
But when I entered the kitchen of the next house, the situation changed. Although everything was disorganized, some of the shelves were still intact. A can of meat, a jar of rice, dry but edible dry bread, an unopened jerry can of clean water, some flour and a lighter. This discovery gave me a serious morale boost.
I gathered everything useful in the house. I put on the relatively clean clothes hanging on the walls. I heated the water with the bucket I found in the bathroom. I filled the stove, which was still working in the living room, with wood and lit it. Then I cooked soup (better than nothing) with canned meat, dry bread and water. As I drank the hot but not very good soup, I thought about my old life and longed for those moments.
As night approached, I made sure I was safe. I barricaded all the doors and windows with pieces of furniture and wood I could find. I paid attention to the howling of the wind, listening to every crackle. I fell asleep in the room, warmed by the faint warmth of the stove.
I was already a light sleeper, and the metallic rattling from the kitchen shattered the grave silence. I froze and listened intently, the dark walls seemed to be closing in on me. I grabbed the rusty pipe on the edge of the stove and, holding it tightly, I stood alert for any possible situation. I moved forward with quiet, slow steps, holding my breath.
I stood in the doorway and listened. There was a rustling from inside... then another sound, as if something was gnawing on the wood. I pushed the door slowly.
A shadow moved in the dark kitchen, near the stove.
A mouse... but not the kind we know. It was like the most disgusting thing in nature. Its eyes were white, half of its fur had fallen out, its bones were sticking out. It was twice the size of a normal mouse. Its head was tilted to one side, as if it was in a perpetual contortion.
It locked eyes with me.
Suddenly, without warning, it sprang up.
Reflexively I dived to the side, the creature dug its claws into the carpet. I gripped the pipe tightly and brought it down on its head with all my strength. The first blow struck bone, with a loud thud. The animal screamed, grabbed the ground with its claws and tried to attack me again. With the second blow I smashed its nose, and with the third it fell silently to the ground. It didn't move.
I stood there for a while, my hands shaking with excitement as the adrenaline wore off. Blood dripped from the end of the pipe, staining the already rotten carpet.
I squatted by the stove and examined the corpse, the skin burnt. Had radiation done this? Maybe a virus? Anyway, it wasn't just hunger here anymore. Nature was the enemy here too.
As I went to bed, I took the pipe in my hand.
Now my sleep was armed too.
I got up early in the morning. I made another bland but hearty soup of rice, flour and water. After drinking some water, I took my bag and headed for the garage of the house I had never been to before.
The walls of the garage were cracked and a rusty green "Moskvich-412" car was lying there motionless.
Owning a car during the Soviet Union was a great privilege - especially in such a forgotten provincial village. This luxury was not available to ordinary people. This man was either a trusted member of the local party or someone inside the party. Maybe he was a relative of a commissar, maybe he was a silent supporter of the district administrator. But all that no longer mattered. There was no party, no order. Who he was, what he did, who he served... All of it had vanished into the ashes of the past. Now he was just one of thousands of people whose names had been forgotten.
Searching for something in the dark corners of the garage, I came across an old, almost rotten toolbox. A thick layer of dust covered it. When I lifted the lid, the smell of metal mixed with years of rust rose from inside. Inside the box I found a few old screwdrivers, a hacksaw, some coiled wire, a pair of pliers with blackened metal tips. Also I find a quarter can of gasoline.As soon as I opened the lid of the can, a pungent smell filled the air. The gasoline was both stale and dirty, but still flammable. In this day and age, anything that can be useful is valuable. I put it all in my bag.
I went back to the car, pushed the door, and after the rusty hinges stubbornly resisted, it creaked open. A strong musty smell spread inside. The seats were rotten with moisture and the upholstery was falling apart. I opened the glove compartment. Inside was a yellowed Soviet passport, a few useless rubles and some documents that had been waterlogged and then dried out. All had succumbed to time. Perhaps the man had hidden in this car in the hope of one last salvation. But death had not left him here either. On the front seat of the steering wheel was a bone fragment - probably the owner's.
I looked around a bit more, then made up my mind: I could use this place as a base, even if only temporarily. The roof was solid; no wind was blowing in. The stove needed some maintenance, but it was usable.
After organizing my things, I went outside and started walking towards the south of the village. There were only a handful of houses still standing. Most of them had been razed to the ground, leaving only their stone foundations. But one of them, the fourth house, was different from the others. Its door had been ripped off and had fallen inwards. I approached quietly, and when I stepped inside, the crunching of the floor was a warning. The wooden floors were rotten and seemed to have collapsed in places. I took slow and careful steps.
There was a corpse among the ruins. It had dried in the sun, its bones almost exposed. Insects had made a nest on it. Pulling the body out made me sick to my stomach, but I had no choice. I searched him, but there was nothing useful.
Just as I was leaving, a backpack stuck in the corner of the ruin caught my eye. I opened it.
Three cans of canned meat, a crowbar, a flashlight and a small bottle of medical alcohol. This meant I had a few more days to live.
I shouldered my bag and walked towards the large, silent building on the edge of the village. Even from a distance, this building, at the very edge of the map, stood out from the others. It was probably an old agricultural warehouse - wide, tall and with a partially collapsed roof. As I got closer, I could see the wooden walls, darkened by moisture and time. I pushed the metal door with both hands and entered with a heavy creak.
It was stifling inside. The air was almost suffocating, a pungent smell of vinegar combined with mold hit my nose. The smell was disgusting, the smell of dampness mixed with mold and animal droppings. On the floor were bales of straw in disarray. Rat droppings were everywhere - some of them looked fresh, indicating that this place still had lively visitors.
As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I began to notice details in the corners. Peering carefully behind a board, I found a small, usable hand axe. The handle was a little frayed, but the metal was intact. Next to it was a neatly coiled thick rope, pliers and a dusty but unopened box of nails. They could be used to build a shelter, to reinforce a door. I put them all in my bag.
Carefully I made my way to the wooden stairs, mindful of the possibility that they might be rickety, holding my body back as I loaded each step. Above, in the attic, there was a pile of hay as far as the eye could see. It was quiet - very quiet. But then, suddenly, with a slight rustle, a bird flew away. I turned my head and saw a small bird's nest in the corner, where the sun was shining through a hole in the roof. Inside the nest were three small eggs. I carefully took the eggs and placed them in the safest part of my bag.
On my way out of the warehouse, I took one last look around. There was no longer a solid house or usable furniture left in the village. The other buildings were completely destroyed - just piles of stones abandoned to their fate. This place I had been wandering for days was now exhausted. I had to make do with what I had.
I calmly walked back to my "home." I cooked and ate a can of meat and three small eggs, then went to sleep.
In the morning, I walked towards the exit of the village. On the side of the road, buried in the ground, was a rusty signboard. I bent down and cleaned him.
"Ленинград - 83 км"
Leningrad. The pearl of the north. Now it's probably a dead city. A graveyard with walls filled with radiation, where probably hundreds of thousands of people had suddenly evaporated. Going there, unprotected, was suicide.
So I changed my route, packed my backpack and left the village without looking back one last time. The hours passed in silence, echoing with the sound of my feet on the ground. The weight of abandonment was still on me. After about two hours of walking, a larger settlement appeared on the hazy horizon. Unlike the ruined village, this must have been a more vibrant place in its time. With its wide streets, a few buildings with roofs that had not collapsed and cracked concrete roads, it was once what one might call a "town".
First, I headed for a building with large cracked windows and a fallen sign. By the looks of it, it had once been a market. When I stepped through the door, I was greeted by a hot and stale smell. Inside was dark and ominously silent. The shelves were cluttered. Only the remains of spoiled canned food, empty bottles and piles of metal remained in the food aisles. I could find no trace of food or water, the place had obviously been looted many times already. I walked back out in disappointment.
A few buildings away from the market, I noticed a more interesting building. A small factory-like facility with walls still standing. The entrance door was open and the inside was dimly lit. It was clear that lamps had once been produced here - there were broken bulbs, rusty machinery, cables and overturned workbenches on the floor. Safety posters hung on the walls, faded but still bearing the Soviet aesthetic. But what really caught my attention were the kitchen and storage areas at the back of the factory.
The cafeteria was as empty as I could imagine. Chairs were overturned, tables were broken, there were broken plates on the floor. There was nothing left in the name of food. But the storage area was more promising. There were two different rooms inside.
When I entered the first room, I found thick rubber gloves, worn but still wearable overalls and some basic protective clothing on industrial shelves, which, while not providing a complete barrier against the deadly effects of radiation, could offer some protection, especially against alpha and beta particles. At least it was better than leaving my bare skin exposed. I chose the most robust-looking jumpsuit, put it on and headed for the second room.
But this second room was not easy to enter. The thick iron door was stuck with its rusted hinges. There was no way in except through a gap as wide as a crack. After what seemed like hours, but was in fact about half an hour, I used all my strength to pry the door loose. The rusted metal flexed as if it were screaming, and finally the door slowly opened.
Inside was filled with lamps and floodlights. On one shelf I noticed bags of green gas masks. I opened one of the bags and out came a brand new GP-4. The other bags contained GP-5 masks. One of them was a GP-5M; it had an ear opening and an intercom connection. This type of gas masks were distributed by the Soviets to the civilian population. I put the three GP-5M gas masks in my bag.
During the Soviet Union, gas masks were so plentiful that there were three gas masks for each person.
There were several crates under the shelf. They were full of bandages and AI-2 first aid boxes. When I opened one of the yellow boxes, I realized that it was full of medicines: painkillers, antibiotics, anti-radiation pills and medicines for various poisonings. They were all complete. These boxes were quite light, so I put 10 of them in my bag. The second box had a lock, but I easily opened it with a crowbar. Inside the box were brand new filters wrapped in paper. These filters were heavy because there were so many of them, but I put 12 in my bag just in case.
Now I had my protective suit on. I put on my gas mask and entered the office reserved for managers in the interior of the factory. The room looked like it had once been used by someone of prestige. The wooden bookshelf was full of old files. On the desk was a rusty telephone and a cracked Soviet radio that didn't work.
The desk drawer was locked, but a knock was enough. Out came a wad of old Soviet rubles, a gold wristwatch, an engraved silver lighter and two packs of cigarettes. The money was no longer worth anything, but the watch, lighter and cigarettes were valuable for barter.
I left the factory and headed for a building that caught my eye on the side of the road. It was a rundown house, but when I went inside I found a few useful items: two cans of meat, a bottle of vodka and a pack of pasta. It was a serious contribution to survival.
Several other buildings were empty. But the third building was different from the others. Outside stood three Soviet police cars. The door was open, it was quiet inside. It looked like a small police station. When I stepped inside, a heavy mixture of decay and the smell of metal filled my nose. In the center of the room, around tables and chairs, were collapsed skeletons. They had stayed here after the nuclear attack, hoping to survive... but without success. Perhaps there had also been a biological attack after the nuclear blast - the position and prevalence of the bodies suggested a quick and brutal death.
There were no weapons. Probably the weapons had already been taken. But I found a few packs of Soviet cigarettes in the corner of the table. Even if I didn't use them, they were valuable. Not only physical needs, but social needs were now part of survival. I took everything of value.