"New Zone. Friends of friends" Sergey Nedorub

20.04.2024

Sergei Ivanovich Nedorub

New Zone. Friends of friends

Kyiv, Shevchenkovsky district, chess club

A nine-year-old boy sitting at the blackboard perked up when he heard his own name and turned to look at the teacher. He worriedly pointed to his wrist - they say, watch the time. Mark moved the rook to the right and pressed the control clock button, starting his opponent's timer.

It was Artem, who was a year older. He didn’t think for long: he decisively moved his pawn forward and pressed his button. Mark didn't seem to hear the sound. He looked at the board as if he had just painted it on canvas and was now assessing by eye the purity of the colors and the smoothness of the lines. It seemed that he was not participating in the game in any way and was just taking the place of another player. However, judging by the clearly advantageous situation on the field, it would have been difficult to lead the game more honorably. Mark had two fewer trophy figures than Artem, but in terms of their value he was clearly in the lead.

On the other hand, it was not for nothing that Artem became famous as the youngest participant in the school chess club, breaking into regional competitions immediately after reaching the passing age of ten years. True, this was before the arrival of Mark - the only one in the city who could theoretically bypass him. Even though Mark didn’t make it to the regional championship this year anyway, Artem’s reputation was at stake, which for both boys was more important than any diplomas or award-winning game consoles.

Five seconds before losing a move, Mark again seemed to remember that he was participating in a chess game, moved the officer three squares and pressed the button. Artyom perked up and began to think about the situation intensely, as if the resulting layout went beyond the scope of his calculations.

Five minutes later, Mark’s collection was replenished with three more figures of Artem. After another three, it became clear who the party was behind, although there were still chances for a turning point. Mark changed his position on the chair and began drumming his fingers on the table, first tapping the rhythm at seven quarters, then at five. On his next move, he suddenly moved the control clock, then smiled, as if apologizing for his carelessness. This completely broke Artyom’s concentration - he took a rash step and exposed the elusive knight to the attack of Mark’s rook, after which his king was already doomed. Artyom stood up from the table with a sigh, placed the king on the board, and Mark smiled to the well-deserved applause.

“Mark, come here,” the teacher called him. An elderly, completely gray-haired computer science teacher named Nikolai Vasilyevich, who was in charge of the chess club, was noticeably worried. - What was it?

“I won the game,” Mark reported, hardly hiding his satisfaction.

- I have seen. Well done. But explain anyway: why were there so many unnecessary movements?

– What movements?

– You were constantly spinning around, attracting attention, trying to seem mysterious. Don't say it was an accident. I know how you usually play. Full concentration, attention to the board, control over the pieces, no rash moves or waste of energy.

Nikolai Vasilyevich spoke to the boy freely - he knew that Mark understood the meaning of all the words, and such a tone fit quite comfortably into his ears.

And yet the boy’s subsequent explanations left him dumbfounded.

“The fact is, Nikolai Vasilyevich, that my opponent also knows all these tactics,” answered Mark. – He counts well, controls himself, concentrates. That’s why he got to the competition so early. I decided that I needed to do it differently. Lose his attention with your behavior. This is what all champions do. If they don't play against the computer.

-Have you been rehearsing this speech for a long time? – the teacher asked, and the boy immediately blushed.

“Not really,” he admitted.

– Did you expect before the game that you would win? And planned my surprise?

“No,” said Mark. - That is, yes, I wanted to win...

– Why did you tap your fingers on the table?

“This is my diversionary scheme,” Mark replied. – To confuse Artyom. He sometimes moves his lips so much that I realized that he was counting to himself by three or four quarters, once a second. This is how he measures time. Sixty seconds can easily be divided by either three or four. I started tapping the rhythm on seven fourths, and then on five. It threw him off. I also pressed the clock at the last second, so that Artyom would not think about chess, but about whether I would have time to press it or not.

Nikolai Vasilyevich sighed heavily.

“You just wanted to do everything beautifully,” he concluded.

Mark nodded.

“There was no need for that,” the teacher assured. – Artem plays well, but you could make him just with your level of play. People came to see the clean batch. And in response you showed them psychological pressure.

“Psychic attack,” Mark remembered the term with pride.

- Yes. Do you know what the essence of a psychic attack is?

– Force your opponent to make a mistake, right?

– Make everyone feel like idiots and make you feel unpredictable. That's what you've accomplished, Mark.

“But...” The boy looked around and found that no one was looking at him.

“Yes, no one cares about you,” Nikolai Vasilyevich explained. – While you and I are talking, six people were talking to Artyom behind your back. His teacher, parents and three strangers. Everyone else is now scurrying around, trying to regain their normal emotional state, in which children behave like children and do not use intellectual sports for self-promotion. You've got everyone excited with your tactics. Note - tactics, not victory. You won the game, but made your opponent feel uncomfortable. And since he was and remains everyone’s favorite, everyone else felt uncomfortable too. That’s why Artem will continue to go to competitions. And you have another year to analyze your mistakes and draw conclusions.

- How so? – Mark asked. – Do I need to squeeze myself as an individual?

Looking up at the short teacher, Mark resembled a ruffled sparrow. Nikolai Vasilyevich could barely contain his laughter.

“Depends on the type of activity,” he answered. – If you were in Formula 1, you would need an individual style. In all sports that rely on entertainment, chutzpah can help. However, chess is built on a clear system. Here you are like an Olympic player - you work on a timer and just do your job, without trying to smile at the camera every time it turns in your direction. Your task is to act pragmatically, thoughtfully, achieving your goal. There is no need to show your cool every time. Believe me, in life, respect for a person can bring much greater benefits than trying to ride him with joyful screams. You need to learn to concentrate, and not try to diversify your work with unnecessary beauty. Because the sense of beauty is strictly individual for everyone. And what seems stylish to you may be perceived by others as disrespect or even an insult.

Despite the efforts of Mark, Borland and Victor to thwart the plans of the conspirators, a New Zone arose in Moscow. All that remains is to accept your fate... or rebel against it. Borland, who escaped from Vertical, has three days to find his friends in Moscow and help them escape forever from any persecution. However, there are not enough places for everyone. Some of them are destined for a different path. Along the way, Borland will have to decide for himself what the Zone has become for him - a calling or a page that must be turned.

A series: New zone

* * *

The given introductory fragment of the book New Zone. Friends of Friends (Sergey Nedorub, 2015) provided by our book partner - the company liters.

Belka village, Odessa region

- Get out, brat!

The closet door opened, letting in dim light from an old lamp on the wall. A tall shadow rose in front of him.

- Are not you ashamed? – the stepfather shook his head. “You’re an adult now, you can’t fit in the closet, but you still have to play hide and seek... Come on out.”

The boy silently obeyed. He did not consider himself big at all and, by the standards of his peers, he was not. It’s hard if you’ve just turned fifteen, but no one gives you more than twelve, and the shortest classmate in a rural school is a head taller than you. The problem of respect could be solved by the good old gopnichestvo, proven by generations, but Vitalka refused to go down this path, for which he was repeatedly beaten. Including today.

“A kid at your age should be able to respect himself,” his stepfather said to him in such a tone, as if he was going to grab him by the ear and, bending him over his knee, give him a good belt. – If others don’t respect you, to hell with you, your problems. But the fact that you don’t respect yourself is my problem. I won't stand it. Put on your shoes and let's go.

Moodyly tying the laces on his old sneakers, Vitalik tried his best not to sniffle. It was cold outside, but in the house, on the contrary, the stove was blazing with heat, and snot was constantly flowing from the temperature difference. Even his stepfather, with his iron health, cleaned out his ducts every now and then, but Vitalik could not afford it, otherwise he would again stick to himself the reputation of a crybaby. He often heard about respect, even when his stepfather was relatively sober. And Vitalik strongly doubted that dad even understood what bricks this respect was built from.

An icy wind blew outside, causing my head to ache again, radiating aching pain into the blue black eye. The snow had not yet begun, and the weather threatened to turn winter into a six-month phase of hated slush again. Six months of melancholy, despair and school humiliation. And the season begins today.

The stepfather stomped nearby, almost holding Vitalik by the collar. Given its size, this would be easy to do. Clumps of fresh mud fell off his boots.

The boys who beat Vitalka were still standing at the old school fence, laughingly discussing what had happened. This was the most pressing thing. Just think, they slapped you in the face once or twice - so have a conscience, go home so that no one proves anything. This will give the appearance of at least some rules, such as fear of punishment for lawlessness. But no, we must definitely exchange opinions, fix the incident in our memory, so that tomorrow we will have something to remember in all its colors and details.

At the sight of a healthy man who was almost pushing his stepson in front of him, the boys’ faces stretched out in surprise, the corners of their lips were already ready to creep into grins. But the guys were still calculating the situation, trying to understand what was happening. Vitalik felt a surge of bitter rage. He would like to be seen as a serious enemy, since being a sidekick is not something one can dream of. Anything but empty space.

“Great, guys,” said the stepfather, stopping so that he could only run to the school grounds. - Why did you beat my son?

- I didn’t pawn it! – Vitalka shouted hastily.

“I didn’t pawn it,” confirmed the stepfather. - The grandmothers said that they sell goods across the road. They can see everything from there.

The boys looked at each other.

“Nobody beat him,” said the leader, and Vitalka only now realized that he didn’t even know his name, even though he studied with him for three months. - He fell.

- It's clear. – The stepfather tugged at his index finger, making a grimace for a moment. - You won’t admit it, then. Now listen. I have a guy here who just got beaten up by a mob. He is scared, does not know what to do and how to proceed. It seems to him that his whole life will be like this. He's afraid of you. This is what you all wanted. If it had been a one-on-one fight, he would have sorted it out on his own, but a crowd of one is not something to dance about. So we have a problem here. And there are two ways to solve it. First: you all now kneel down and ask for forgiveness.

Vitalka jerked in fear, but felt his stepfather’s firm grip on his shoulder. The boys stared in amazement at the man who threatened them.

“And the second way,” continued the stepfather. “If you don’t kneel before my son, I’ll beat the crap out of you right now.” I will beat you painfully, thoroughly, with injuries. I don’t want this, because my son’s bruise is not the same as injury. But this is a question of principle. We are not treating bruises here, but fear. A young boy’s fear may disappear if what caused it disappears. He's afraid of you, and I want him to stop being afraid of you. And to do this, you must either prove yourself to be pissers, or wash yourself with your blood. Choose.

The leader of the rural pack apparently had a third option. He took a thin, sinewy hand from his pocket, revealing a switchblade knife. The same ones instantly ended up in the hands of his accomplices.

Having made an incredible effort, Vitalka freed himself, lost his balance and fell on the cold ground, looking at his stepfather with horror. He didn’t even flinch at the sight of the knives.

“You should go to Afghanistan with these toothpicks,” he said and stepped towards the gang.

What happened next, Vitalik did not remember well. He heard the crack of breaking bones, saw bloody teeth on the road, remembered the reflection of light on the broken blade of a knife lying nearby. Now he knew what a muffled scream was. Not when you theatrically suppress your scream, but when you try to scream at the top of your lungs, but an invisible press squeezes you. From the outside he could see worse than if he had been a participant in the battle, but he understood enough.

A loud scream was heard from somewhere from the side - strangers pulled away the stepfather, who was kicking the leader in the face with his boots. The other boys were already lying in different positions, writhing in unbearable pain. Vitalik vaguely remembered that in the excitement of a fight, pain usually comes later. If the boys felt it now, it was only because their stepfather wanted it that way.

- Finish them off, boy! “The stepfather spat out blood, looking at his stepson with excitement and not trying to free himself from the mass of hands holding him. - Prove whose son you are!

Vitalka raised his hands, clenching them into fists to hide his trembling. A fit of bestial rage gripped him. For years he dreamed of being called his son by his stepfather. But not now, when he was ashamed of at least some affiliation with this over-aged sadist, drunk and scumbag, who provoked a bloody conflict with teenagers.

“I’m not your son,” he said. “And if Seryozhka were alive, he would say the same thing.”

All the color drained from my stepfather's face. He shook, his legs almost giving out. Vitalik jumped up to him and furiously punched him in the face, almost breaking his fingers. His hand immediately began to ache, he turned away, and the men dragged him aside. The stepfather shouted something incoherently, but Vitalik no longer wanted to hear anything.

He leaned towards the leader and examined him as best he could. It looks like he didn't break anything.

“Get up,” he said. - I'll take the knives. Otherwise you'll rattle.

The boy nodded in response, rubbing the blood over his face. Vitalik quickly collected the knives and stuffed them into his pockets.

- Run! - he shouted. - There was nothing!

“I caught the squirrel, lost the nut,” one of the men sneered. Vitalik quickly turned around, trying to understand which of them uttered a familiar saying - as inappropriate as it was hateful. But I couldn’t figure it out.

Aviamotornaya station, Moscow Zone, first day

- Is your phone working? – asked a blond guy of about thirty, shifting from foot to foot. - Is there a connection?

Nut hung up and turned to him.

“Only if you call on a landline,” he answered. – Cell phones don’t work anywhere.

- Come on. “The guy walked up to the payphone, probably one of the most valuable relics at this station under the circumstances. - Damn, I completely forgot where to press here?

Orek put a bank card the size of a bank card on the shelf next to the phone—you never know who would want to call.

“It’s all written on the back,” he said and stepped aside.

He felt the blond man's searching gaze on him. I wonder what impression a modern young boy should make, carrying around Moscow with him a map for city payphones, miraculously preserved in a blocked subway? Nut also had a lot of useful things with him, like a flashlight and a pocket knife, and he was afraid that these would have to be put to use in the near future. Namely: to climb into the first hole found, which may lead him to the surface. It was the top that needed to be reached now. In any way that can be found. Otherwise, it will be the turn of more serious items - it was not for nothing that the pistol was still weighing on his pocket, constantly reminding him of itself. Fifty people in a confined space go wild too quickly for you to get used to it.

The worst thing is that Nut shouldn’t have been here - he was counting on temporarily taking refuge on the streets. But an attempt to stop the flow of people pouring into Aviamotornaya only led to the opposite result: they were simply pushed inside. And then the vault above the escalator collapsed, burying those who remained behind. When the dust settled, it turned out that the exit to the top was blocked.

After the first stress subsided, it turned out that the trains were also not running, which was a complete surprise to everyone except Nut and a couple of other smart people. About ten people stubbornly continued to stand on the platform, waiting for the train. Nobody touched them - everyone tried to find an energy state in which mental balance was maintained for as long as possible. It soon turned out that there were no representatives of the administration or even a simple duty officer at the station. All of them either left Aviamotornaya or died. Only the body of a policeman was found, who died of unknown causes. The club was immediately removed from him, which was soon lost among the hunters for the values of the new world.

The most logical solution seemed to be to follow the rails into the depths of the tunnel, but one side was blocked by a blockage that covered both branches, from under which thin streams of water flowed. The opposite side seemed clear, and three daredevils immediately followed it, despite the screaming siren. A minute later, a heart-rending scream was heard, then it was replaced by a slurping, meaty sound, which was difficult to describe in any other way. No one was eager to go and find out what it was, and Nut also preferred to stay at the station for now. He still had time - until the electricity went out, streams of dirty water poured out from under the rubble, another collapse occurred... Nut was able to predict about twenty different possible complications of his fate before he left this activity. He couldn't foresee everything. If he had been a little more confident in his abilities, he might have risked going through the tunnel. Perhaps he will do it later.

Having quickly checked the duty officer's booth, he found an old radio receiver, which nevertheless covered the modern frequency range. Orek could not understand whether the receiver was the personal property of the duty officer, or part of the equipment of the booth. Now he wouldn't be surprised.

Although, after a couple of minutes, Orek was still puzzled when he heard the appeal of the Armenian stalkers on the radio. Realizing that this was his way to contact his people and explain his situation, the guy began to look for a working phone until he came across a lonely terminal in the far corner of the platform. Orek was the first to think of testing the operation of the phone, which miraculously survived the total dismantling of similar devices throughout Moscow. Soon an aggressive queue accumulated at the device, and Orek chose to hide among the distant columns at the opposite end - both away from sources of stress and making it much easier to keep track of the dark tunnel.

Orek did not expect that any of his friends would hear the appeal, much less understand the hint that he was locked up at Aviamotornaya. He had no illusions about his importance in their eyes. Really, who can come for him? Mark is unknown where, Borland is sitting on Vertical, and they have their own problems. Perhaps Sovun will remember his friend. But Sovun is not a stalker. He is unlikely to find a way to get into the station.

No, Nut was betting on the excitement of other stalkers, unknown to him, who were greedy for the forbidden fruit. It was said that you can’t interfere with Aviamotornaya, which means they will definitely interfere. And they will make an exit on the other side, safe. Sooner or later this will happen, but who knows how long he will have to sit here - perhaps days or weeks, but it remains to be seen how quickly the people locked up with him will go wild...

“Thirty years ago, death was already rejoicing here,” said a woman with a dull look, sitting on a stone slab that had fallen from the ceiling. – Eight people died when a ladder broke. They were crushed by those who remained...

A thin stream of marble chips fell from the hole above her head, landing directly on her head, getting stuck in her hair, and falling onto her shoulders. The sight was terrible.

“Shut up, you fool,” said the hunched old man in fear. Judging by the fact that he managed to descend so quickly with everyone else and did not look rumpled, he was probably healthier than most of his fellow sufferers, and his current posture was explained by belated fear. - And without you it’s sickening.

Under the light of a bright lamp stood a man pale as death in a brown jacket torn at the back.

– Does anyone have cell phones that work? – he asked in a trembling voice. “The machine has run out of payment cards; they don’t respond to emergency calls.” Please…

Five or six shook their heads, but no one answered him out loud.

“Please,” the man repeated. Perhaps he didn’t understand that cell phones are now only useful if the lights are weak, and he decided that they simply didn’t want to let him make a call.

“There’s no Internet, cell phones are dead,” the blond man sighed. - Boring.

Nut remained silent. In a moment of information hunger, any means are good. Until the quiet panic turns into a big one, until the first shock subsides, people will discuss what happened, speculate, and put forward theories. But for some reason, it was those who did not search for reasons, did not want to think in the general flow, but, on the contrary, behaved like capricious children from not very healthy parents. If you have just experienced severe stress, then it is unbearable to look at someone who is yet to experience it.

- Do you think they will save us? – the rosy-cheeked fat man with the appearance of a doctoral candidate asked in a whisper. - They should, right?

“Yeah, they’ll save you,” someone answered. – How the Nord-Ost hostages were rescued.

“No,” said Nut. “There were terrorists then, but now they are not.” Nobody captured us.

- How do you know that? – the fat man flashed his eyes. – This is definitely a terrorist attack! Who could have done this?

- Like who?! – a woman’s cry was heard. - Government!

– So what if it’s not a terrorist attack?! There were no terrorists on the Kursk either! And still...

Nut got up and began to wander around the station again, trying not to delve into the essence of political battles, but they still overtook him at all ends of the station, echoing from the walls. Privacy was also a big problem - the survivors were dispersed evenly throughout the entire territory of the station, which was not the largest anyway. As a result, Nut jumped onto the de-energized rails and went about ten meters deep, where he sat down on the cold metal, leaning against the damp wall. As far as he remembered, the guys who went in that direction managed to walk a hundred meters before leaving this world.

A long-forgotten feeling began to arise within him. With surprise, Nut realized that this was nothing more than the most ordinary calmness, which he had not had, it seemed, for many years, although only a day ago he had slept like a child. Since then, there has been an attempt on his life in the TsAI, then he witnessed the birth of the Zone and now he sits deep underground, with anomalies on one side and people losing their composure on the other. And if this small section of the railway track became his refuge for some time... then why not, actually?

Memories of his past life came flooding back unexpectedly, and Nut accepted them as a pleasant gift, a wonderful cure for the turmoil going on around him...

Belka, Odessa region

The stepfather returned an hour later. When the door slammed, Vitalka’s heart almost jumped out of his chest, but he continued to lie on the bed, waiting for the only person officially considered to be his relative to enter his room again. However, this did not happen. Instead, there was the slamming of the door of an old refrigerator, the creaking of a chair, the knock of a bottle on a glass - a series of sounds familiar from childhood. Then they were replaced by another, who was completely new in this house. The sobs of a lonely, tired man.

Carefully rising, Vitalik walked into the kitchen. His stepfather sat with his back to him, clutching a photograph in a mourning frame to his chest. Vitalka remembered what was depicted on it, and did not want to look again at the combination of familiar eyes with a black ribbon.

“You were right,” said the stepfather, and Vitalik realized that they were addressing him. My stepfather knew how to keep everything to himself and never communicated with the dead out loud in front of witnesses. – You’re right about Seryozha. Today he would be ashamed of me. But I just wanted all sorts of bastards not to behave like that with you. I know what can happen if you endure everything. I know…

End of introductory fragment.

New Zone. Friends of friends Sergey Nedorub

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Title: New Zone. Friends of friends

About the book “New Zone. Friends of friends" Sergey Nedorub

Despite the efforts of Mark, Borland and Victor to thwart the plans of the conspirators, a New Zone arose in Moscow. All that remains is to accept your fate... or rebel against it.

Borland, who escaped from Vertical, has three days to find his friends in Moscow and help them escape forever from any persecution. However, there are not enough places for everyone. Some of them are destined for a different path. Along the way, Borland will have to decide for himself what the Zone has become for him - a calling or a page that must be turned.

On our website about books you can download the site for free without registration or read online the book “New Zone. Friends of Friends” by Sergey Nedorub in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and real pleasure from reading. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find the latest news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginning writers, there is a separate section with useful tips and tricks, interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary crafts.

Part I

1

Kyiv, Shevchenkovsky district, chess club

“I won the game,” Mark reported, hardly hiding his satisfaction.

- I have seen. Well done. But explain anyway: why were there so many unnecessary movements?

– What movements?

Nikolai Vasilyevich spoke to the boy freely - he knew that Mark understood the meaning of all the words, and such a tone fit quite comfortably into his ears.

And yet the boy’s subsequent explanations left him dumbfounded.

-Have you been rehearsing this speech for a long time? – the teacher asked, and the boy immediately blushed.

“Not really,” he admitted.

– Did you expect before the game that you would win? And planned my surprise?

“No,” said Mark. - That is, yes, I wanted to win...

– Why did you tap your fingers on the table?

Nikolai Vasilyevich sighed heavily.

“You just wanted to do everything beautifully,” he concluded.

Mark nodded.

“Psychic attack,” Mark remembered the term with pride.

- Yes. Do you know what the essence of a psychic attack is?

– Force your opponent to make a mistake, right?

– Make everyone feel like idiots and make you feel unpredictable. That's what you've accomplished, Mark.

“But...” The boy looked around and found that no one was looking at him.

- How so? – Mark asked. – Do I need to squeeze myself as an individual?

Looking up at the short teacher, Mark resembled a ruffled sparrow. Nikolai Vasilyevich could barely contain his laughter.

Mark looked confused.

- So what should we do? - he asked.

– For starters, don’t try to copy anyone. Think about what a person needs and give it to him. Do you hate losing in chess?

- Of course I don’t like it.

- And why?

- Because it's... unpleasant.

- Here. Is it also unpleasant for me to lose?

- Of course not. You are much older and more experienced.

“Today you could have made Artem consider you much older and more experienced.”

- Like this? – Mark was surprised.

– Through your attitude towards him. The key to respect and success lies precisely in this. No need to trample in public. Let them soar. The world is full of battles where you cannot see the enemy. It also happens that the enemy is your friend or loved one whom you need to convince. If you see your friend making a mistake, what will you do?

“I’ll help you fix it,” Mark answered without hesitation.

- How to fix? Will you do the job for him? Can you tell me how to do it? What if he doesn't listen? Are you going to put pressure on him? Same as with Artyom, will you show him that he is a fool?

Mark looked for an answer, but couldn't find it. Nikolai Vasilyevich put his hand on his shoulder.

“You are good at all games where there are rules,” he said. – But when you just need to get along with a person, you get lost. You try to look for rules, control, you want to understand who is a friend and who is an enemy. Chess doesn't teach you that. In chess everything is simple. But it's time for you to study further.

– What to study, Nikolai Vasilyevich?

The elderly teacher shrugged.

“To play,” he answered. – Model situations, understand people’s desires and limitations and treat them with care. Only after this will you be able to decide who to put pressure on and who not to.

2

Moscow Zone, first day

- Keep your hands visible! – Mark slightly shook the muzzle of his revolver. “Twitch and you’re dead.” It's simple.

He lied, trying to be convincing. Nothing was easy. Nothing is easy if you are not a killer, your gun is not a toy, and the person standing in front of you is not an enemy at all. Moreover, he is called upon by duty to be your unknown friend. And, what’s even worse, he fulfills this duty quite conscientiously. May be.

The man standing in front of Mark was a policeman. An ordinary Moscow human rights activist who participated in the evacuation of the city or protecting property from looting - almost useless. And his whole fault was that his official car was equipped with a new crime database search system, which could be used directly, without the need to contact the dispatcher. That is, exactly what Mark was looking for. In other conditions, the very fact that such a vehicle was assigned to this policeman, along with the access codes, would indicate that he belongs to the active detection of crimes - a kind of intellectual elite, in which it is customary to first think, search, find, and then shoot. Although the last point would be counted as a minus. Now, perhaps, it was wiser to shoot first.

The landscape behind the policeman suggested the same thoughts. The toxic-colored fog that shrouded the north of the capital hid much more serious traps, like unremarkable places on the road where a random passer-by could suddenly find themselves flattened by terrible pressure to the size of a thimble. Or discover that the bones begin to turn into an elastic mass, so much so that it is impossible to guess where exactly you managed to pass the dangerous area. So far, the anomalies flared up chaotically and for a short time, and with a certain amount of skill and luck it was possible to move around Moscow relatively safely - but who knew about this, except for a dozen stalkers who did not know each other? And how many of them agreed to consult with the authorities?

Therefore, it is not surprising that the hasty evacuation of the city was carried out with all available forces. And the policeman with a nervously twitching eye got the first car he came across. A beefed-up Ford with a live interactive search system, access to a global database and even a separate mount for a serious barrel. With the difference that instead of a proper pump-action shotgun, it carried a shortened Kalashnikov. The haste with which the policeman was given a car of this level and with military weapons spoke of the ill-conceived plan for evacuating the townspeople, if not its complete absence. They simply threw all their resources into resolving the issue. It seems that none of the former leaders of the Center for Anomalous Phenomena had any recommendations in case a Zone appeared in Moscow or anywhere else in the country. It would, of course, be ridiculous to expect such a program from Levin, but Miroslav Kamensky could have come up with ways to make everything normal. Now it was impossible to predict how all sorts of ministries and city services would behave.

The shortcomings of such improvisation on their part were obvious: under no circumstances should they send people armed with firearms to quell unrest. Just to avoid weapons falling into the wrong hands. This is exactly what was happening at the moment. The policeman's tense expression clearly showed the understanding of these mistakes. But Mark was not going to explain anything to him. Wrong conditions.

“Listen to me carefully,” Mark said, continuing to keep his revolver aimed. “I won’t return your stun gun to you—you understood that yourself.” And I take the car. Now you are angry and confused, but later you will understand that I am saving your life. Don't go to the north of the city. You won't survive there. Either you will end up in an anomaly, or the looters will shoot you. Better go west, to your people. If you are stopped by armed gangs, you will give them your equipment in exchange for your life. For now, this scheme will still work. Tomorrow everyone will understand that a changed Moscow is here to stay, and the balance of street power will completely change. The police will simply be shot on the spot. By then you should be out of shape. Just don't spray too much. You will give the lantern to the first, handcuffs to the other. Give the bulletproof vest only to the leader. This will let him know that he himself is vulnerable, and in gratitude he will allow you to leave. Don't try to understand what I'm telling you. Just remember and maybe you will live.

The policeman was silent. For now, everything will go as Mark told him. He will not understand the essence of what he heard. Not now. But he will remember, regardless of whether he wants to remember. Much is learned at the point of a revolver, bypassing the analytical center in the brain. The policeman will do as he was advised. And understanding will come later - when, being in the temporary headquarters of the internal forces, he realizes that there will be no punishment for the loss of two weapons and one official vehicle, since by that time there will be no one to deal with such trifles. He will definitely understand everything - if he remains alive.

* * *

Driving the police Ford to the side, Mark slowly drove the car along the street, away from the fog that was already creeping into the street. Mark knew all or almost all manifestations of anomalous activity, but a fog of this magnitude was unknown to him. Probably, one of the anomalies manifested itself either at an industrial plant, or in natural deposits of hydrogen sulfide, shrouding a good third of the city in a yellowish-green cloud - relatively harmless, but reducing visibility. One could not even think about the wild fantasies that now gripped the residents of Moscow about the fog - from a chemical attack by terrorists to portals to other worlds, from which walking tanks are about to emerge. Neither one nor the other, of course, was expected, and that was very bad. It would be better if tanks actually appeared instead of invisible anomalies. People are designed in such a way that they tend to believe their eyes and are able to overcome the fear of what they see. The fog distracted attention and did not allow one to concentrate on real dangers. But in any case, people will believe in these dangers only when the first massive losses occur. If you haven't already.

Nothing could be done for the city: after the night that had passed, the city’s residents only had time to make sure that an incomprehensible cataclysm really existed and was affecting most of Moscow, gradually growing. So far it has been difficult to determine the epicenter, although it is already clear that this is definitely not the territory of the Kremlin. Rather, the southern part of the capital. And yet the fog creeps in from the north...

People periodically rushed past the Ford - frightened and calm, screaming and silent, excited and apathetic. No one attempted to stop the police car, knock on the window, or otherwise attract attention. At the moment of danger, no one asked the authorities for help. Mark noted this moment as interesting, but immediately put it out of his mind. The car won't last long for him anyway. It is now impossible to travel around the city in vehicles that are not equipped with an anomaly detector. Mark had one of these, but it was useless against new threats. If Mark were still an employee of TsAI, he would have a ton of work awaiting him, one of the results of which would be a new firmware for the DA-3, a wonderful device for avoiding dangerous places. Or even the creation of a fourth version, even a patent.

In addition, a huge amount of military equipment is still moving around the city, and not a single crew will ignore the unidentified police Ford. The car will have to be abandoned. But first she will serve him by doing what Mark captured her for.

Stopping in a secluded place between two garages, Mark checked his weapons. Of the two revolvers of the Tekton soldiers guarding the captured Levin, he only had one left - the second was too worn out, and he had to get rid of it by throwing it into the river. Probably, those two did not favor new guns, preferring to use decommissioned or unregistered weapons. However, if we take into account that they planned to kill Levin, the militants were clearly going for outright wetness, which explained the choice of the barrel.

Mark's own pistol still served faithfully and was still kept in his pocket. Plus a new one found in the AKS-74U car. A real arsenal. But today it is unlikely that there will be anyone to use it against. People have not yet gone wild, preferring to simply leave the city. Although the first armed gangs already exist - mainly those that could be called armed gangs even during peaceful Moscow and now have simply come out of the shadows.

Mark hung the machine gun on his chest with the muzzle down, not forgetting to check the safety, and buttoned the lifeguard jacket found at the boat station to the throat. From the outside it was impossible to understand that he had a weapon. He put both pistols in his pockets. Ready to go anywhere, that means you can get down to business.

The police computer was reliably protected by a steel frame, with a minimalist start menu flashing on the screen. Mark entered keywords in the search bar: “Polina Tuchka.”

Mark had no doubt that the search would bring results. Over the years of connection with the Zone and TsAI, cases were probably conducted against him and Polina. Although they were never suspected of crimes, there was still a chance that Polina managed to appear in the police base in the last 24 hours. At least as a passenger in the missing sports car in which Litera took his girlfriend away for the last time. Knowing all the details, it will be possible to find it.

The calculation was completely justified. However, not in the way Mark might have expected.

“Alstroemera,” he said, following the words on the screen. – Hospital of the Center, or what?..

Rubbing his eyes, Mark read the report, internally rejoicing that the police continued to work in the first moments of the Zone’s appearance, as before, and someone even managed to concoct a preliminary report about an incomprehensible murder in the capital’s clinic. The deceased's name was Emil Marzaev, 36 years old, worked in...

“...Stalker Research Institute,” Mark read, remembering where he could have heard this name. - Well, yes... Emil... From the previous ORACLE.

He continued reading. Marzaev’s body was found in the ward of Olga Korotkova, a patient who suffered from an explosion at the same research institute. She herself disappeared without a trace. A certain Polina Tuchka, who was lying in the next ward with a traumatic brain injury, was also interviewed.

Mark almost hit the computer screen, which flashed a laconic report. To hell with this clerical bureaucracy! At this moment, he would not refuse a bright, emotional journalistic note. The dry lines of the report did not describe why Polina ended up in the same clinic with Korotkova, what Emil was doing there, why he was dead, where Olga had disappeared and, most importantly, why Polina appears in the case solely as an outside witness. If she were a suspect or simply valuable, her name would be included in the report accordingly. But the girl remained just a random person who, moreover, did not see or hear anything. Mark could not understand such strangeness. The report did not even describe whether she had been moved to another location or whether she was still at Alstroemer. On the other hand, it is unlikely that in the conditions of the new Zone anyone will undertake to transport patients who, one might say, are already in a dry and warm place.

In any case, the starting point was determined.

Mark got out of the car, closed the door and quickly walked towards Alstromera. According to his calculations, he had to get there by noon.

3

Kyiv, Shevchenkovsky district

By the age of fourteen, Mark believed that he knew everyone his age in the area, including the adjacent private sector. They passed before my eyes during random encounters and disappeared into memory, leaving no other traces except a kind of tick in mental statistics. Two high-rise buildings, three five-story buildings. Lots of apartments for rent. The turnover of the human mass, looking for a place in the sun. Nobody deserved special attention.

A surprise awaited him that day.

Actually, the day itself was quite ordinary - Thursday morning. Everyone is in schools. It was all the more unusual to see an unfamiliar girl sitting on the bench of his entrance with a book.

The first thing Mark noticed was his unusually luxurious hair, blue-black, flowing freely. To match shoes and jeans. The red jacket made her look slightly plump. After a few steps, he saw the profile - slightly plump cheeks, a regular nose, the chest under the orange T-shirt smoothly rises and falls in time with his breathing...

Mark wanted to speak, but the words were stuck in his throat. He himself did not know where he suddenly had the desire to communicate. The girl's hair, her jacket, her facial features - everything merged into a single and indivisible image, which he had to pass by without stopping, and he decided to at least look for a reason to linger.

Coming closer, Mark glanced at the book she was reading and stopped. There is a reason to say at least the usual phrase. He felt a surge of confidence.

“It’s a good book,” he said. -Cruel, but good.

The girl looked up from reading, looked at Mark, then at the cover.

“Gustav Flaubert, Salammbô,” said Mark. – This is the first time I’ve seen a girl who likes to read science fiction on the street.

“It’s a fairy tale,” the girl answered.

- Fairy tale? Here the mercenaries of Carthage sacrifice infants to Moloch. And only the lovely Salambo, a pupil of the Tanit temple, wants a better fate for her people.

There was a long pause.

- What is your name? – Mark asked.

- And why do you need it?

- I live in this entrance. Third floor. I haven't seen you before.

“Dad and I moved,” the girl said. - To the next house.

- Why aren’t you at school?

“We had a short day,” Mark said.

- It's clear. But I haven’t been processed yet.

“Maybe we’ll be in the same class,” Mark suggested, smiling slightly.

- Which one are you in?

- I am fourteen years old. So I'm in ninth.

The girl picked up the book again.

- Don't want to talk to me? – Mark asked, wondering if he should sit next to him. He imagined how the stranger would move away from him, while trying to maintain dignity in her manners, and decided not to try.

“I’ll be there at seven,” she answered reluctantly.

- So what are you, only twelve?

She blushed, as if being twelve years old was embarrassing.

“Well, why are you...” said Mark and felt all the passion leave him. - Sorry if I interrupted you. I just wanted to meet you. You still need to know each other - neighbors, after all.

“My name is Polina,” she said.

- And I’m Mark.

The girl nodded and brushed away the hair that had flown across her face. She shivered from a sudden gust of wind, wrapping herself tighter in her jacket.

- Why are you sitting outside in this weather? – Mark asked. - It's warmer at home.

“I want to and I’m sitting,” Polina answered with some stubbornness.

- Well, yes. – Mark turned around and pointed to the neighboring house. - You're from there, aren't you?

- Yes, why?

- Second entrance?

- How did you guess?

“Nobody rents housing there anymore.” Only one apartment in the entire building was free. So, now you live there. Dad's at work and you don't have the key?

Polina closed the book, inserting a pocket calendar between the pages as a bookmark.

“I have the key,” she said. – I forgot the code for the intercom.

- It’s not scary, I remember. Five-three-eight. In any order.

The girl sat still for a few moments, then smiled and slightly turned her face to the side.

“Thank you,” she said. - I’ll sit and go home.

- Fine.

Mark took a step towards the doors to his own entrance, groping for the keys and trying to look for them as slowly as possible. He knew that if he left now, he would no longer find the strength to meet Polina again. On the other hand, why should he see her? What should he talk about with a twelve-year-old girl? And yet he continued to stand, feeling that he could find no natural reason for continuing the conversation. So far he had been helped by blind chance... no, three blind chances. A book that both of them were reading, a forgotten code for the intercom and two canceled lessons at school that allowed him to meet Polina. Right time, right place. If Mark had been more persistent, he could have returned and started talking about fate - this was, perhaps, the peak that theoretically could have been enough for him, although he strongly doubted his eloquence. Perhaps he will still be able to meet her at school... if another opportunity arises, because with this hope he will only prove that previous chances were not enough for him.

“If you need anything, please contact me,” Mark said, unexpectedly for himself. - Apartment thirty-four, no intercom. Maybe you'd like to discuss the book.

Polina opened her mouth in complete confusion.

“Uh... Okay,” she said. - Thank you.

Mark nodded and quickly disappeared out the door.

Only now did he realize how much his heart was pounding. He hurriedly got to the apartment, intending to look in the mirror as soon as possible and check if everything was in order with his appearance.

- Carthage? – Mark asked his reflection, horrified by the absurdity of the topic with which he began his acquaintance. – Burning of babies? Fool, oh, fool...

He went out onto the balcony, trying to see Polina below, but the girl had already disappeared. Mark felt sad. He really wanted to see her in motion.

He spent the next hour doing his homework and simultaneously looking at a page with an advertisement in a magazine, where he was looking for the gym closest to his house. This fascinated him so much that he missed two doorbells and only answered on the third.

There, almost blocking the doorway with his powerful figure, stood an adult man. About forty-five years old, tall, strong, well built. He went bald early - probably as a result of emotional turmoil. Or it's just nature.

- Mark? - he asked.

- Yes. Who are you visiting?

The man extended his hand.

“Gennady,” he introduced himself.

Not understanding anything, Mark shook his hand, feeling an outgoing confidence.

“Did you really call my daughter to your home to discuss the book with her?” – asked Gennady.

Mark stood there, staring blankly at his guest. Nikolai Vasilyevich was right. By twisting a person's soul, you can easily make him feel like an idiot. And Mark just pulled this trick on himself, leaving no protective layers.

“Yes,” he answered. “If she wanted to discuss the book, I could help her.” I read it too.

“Yes,” agreed Gennady. - That's all? Is this why you invited your child?

– We are almost the same age. And I didn't mean anything bad. Nothing you could think of.

“Boy, I served in special forces,” said Gennady. - Believe me, I have seen many times more bad things than you can imagine in your life.

– If you have never hunted me, then I am unlikely to embody this “bad thing.”

Polina's father looked at Mark as if he could easily read his thoughts, and the only thing left was to figure out his hidden desires. Finally he ran his hand over his bald head. It was clear that this gesture meant that he was calm.

“Okay,” he said. – If anything happens, don’t be offended. We just moved and don't know anyone. I have to watch who's talking to my daughter.

“Everything is fine,” said Mark. – You are doing everything right. Well, or almost everything.

- Didn't understand. Explain.

Mark walked out the door, closing it behind him and remaining outside. The gesture looked beautiful and almost adult, although its reason was extremely prosaic. Mark left because his further words could have caused Gennady to burst into the apartment in a fit of rage. But Mark couldn’t remain silent either.

““Almost” - because you are missing out on many important things,” he said, and then the words themselves flowed from his lips, and with such speed that Mark could barely restrain himself. – You are raising Polina alone. I know this because she mentioned that she moved with her father, without saying anything about other relatives. You see in her a copy of her mother - Polina has excellent hair, but you don’t. This is because she is very similar to her mother. But you are deprived of her mother’s company and want Polina to replace her at least in behavior, often forgetting that she is still very young and thinks differently. No wonder you call her “child”, as if reminding yourself of this. But after moving, you didn’t bother to write her the code for the lock, believing that she would remember it herself, although this is alien information to her. Today you were at work, which you found before you got Polina into school. A caring father would not do this - he had to first provide Polina with a clear rhythm of life and only then look for a place for herself. A few days wouldn't make any difference. You allow her to wear a synthetic T-shirt, which is harmful to the skin. The pants are too big for her. She has a thick jacket, but no sweater. And in general, there is no system in the colors of her clothes - you just bought her the first one you came across in a second-hand store or at the city clothing market, without thinking about how it would look in its entirety. She has a crooked tooth at the top right, which she hides when she smiles. But you love her for who she is and don't notice such things. Important dates also rarely happen in your life - she constantly carries with her a calendar in which some days are circled. This is because she looks forward to any event as a holiday. She's reading a novel that you wouldn't give her if you read it yourself. I think you just handed her the first book you found in your new apartment. Apparently she doesn't have any books of her own, although she loves to read. Therefore, you don’t know her hobbies either. You have no idea how to approach it, you feel that it is all too difficult for you. They didn't teach you this in the special forces. And Polina wants to find friends herself. She wants to talk to me again, about anything. Because if I didn’t want to, I would never have told you that I met me. But she spoke and gave my apartment number. She wants to come to me, and she needed your approval... but whether you had such a conversation, I don’t know.

Gennady was silent for a long time.

“Boy,” he finally said. - Aren't you too smart for your age?

“Alas, too much,” Mark sighed. – Chess is to blame for everything. You can trust me.

Polina's father once again extended his hand to him.