I made thorough preparations to complete my equipment.
Among the equipment I brought with me:
RD-54 military parachutist backpack — thanks to its lightweight, durable, and modular design, I could easily carry both ammunition and survival gear.
6H4 bayonet — this bayonet, which can be attached to AK-series rifles, could also be used as a knife when necessary; versatility was everything in battle.
Belt-A/B (Poyas A/B) tactical vest — With the capacity to carry three AK magazines, two signal flares, four F-1 or RGD-5 hand grenades, and a full ten GP-25 underbarrel grenade launcher rounds, it was like a mobile ammunition depot.
Finally, the Soviet Army's classic "Flora" pattern camouflage uniform — it was no longer just clothing, but the ghost of an old military tradition on my body.
I felt like the sole surviving member of a pre-war Spetsnaz unit. The only thing missing was my teammates... my comrades.
My vehicle's trunk was completely full.
Boxes full of TT-33 pistols, AK-74 rifles, two SVDs, boxes of hand grenades, spare gas mask filters, batteries, canned food, and ammunition boxes...
I had laid out everything I needed to survive. The trunk now resembled an army depot.
I got behind the wheel. I kept my DP-5V dosimeter within reach. I started the engine.
My destination: Leningrad. Nowadays, it's just a faint shadow on maps.
I drove along the ruined roads.
The asphalt was cracked.
Rusted traffic signs had long since stopped pointing the way.
Burnt-out vehicle skeletons lined the roadside, like frozen frames of a disaster.
As I continued, the city's silhouette began to appear on the horizon.
I was almost there.
But the scene that greeted me…
Was very different from what I had expected.
A city rose before me… but it wasn't Leningrad.
At first, I couldn't believe my eyes. The city... was alive.
In the distance, behind massive walls of concrete and steel, warm lights flickered from the windows. There was electricity. Energy. Life.
Projectors were spinning atop the tall towers, scanning the sky. On the wall's peak, guards whose silhouettes were faintly visible in the darkness patrolled back and forth like a relic from the past.
The sound of an exhaust engine drifted in from somewhere. The screech of tires, the distant bark of a dog, perhaps even the hum of a generator…
I slowed down. My hands gripped the steering wheel tightly.
Slowly, cautiously, I approached the city gate.
The gate looked like it had been taken from an old missile silo—gray steel, riveted, massive, built as a barrier against the apocalypse.
A four-person guard team was standing in front of the gate. When they noticed me, one of them stepped forward. He slung his Kalashnikov over his shoulder and approached the car with a careful gait.
His gaze scanned the Soviet equipment on me—Flora-patterned uniform, gas mask, tactical vest, RD-54 bag... His eyes widened slightly. Then he saluted seriously.
"Hello, comrade!" he said loudly, but in a friendly tone.
I couldn't speak for a moment. In the silence, there was only the slow vibration of the engine.
Finally, I cleared my throat and replied:
"I was coming here... to Leningrad."
The soldier let out a short laugh, then shook his head.
"This isn't Leningrad, comrade. Leningrad was destroyed in those great days of doom. Tens of megatons of bombs fell on it. It turned into radioactive ash."
Then he turned his eyes to the city behind the wall.
"The survivors… under the leadership of General Yakov, built this city. A new hope, a new order. We named it in his memory: Yakovgrad."
I was stunned.
All these years, I had been moving forward with old Soviet maps and dreams of lost cities.
I was still chasing the past, but the world had charted its own course—outside my map.
"So... you're alive," I said, almost in a whisper.
The soldier bowed his head. "It's hard, but yes. We survived. Now we're trying to stay alive."
Then he gestured with his hand. The sound of a lever being pulled back was heard.
The massive steel doors began to open slowly with a deep rumble. Metal gears creaked, and the doors swayed open.
A faint yellow light filtered out from inside.
And beneath that light lay a living city.
I drove the car inside. Before the door closed, I looked out at the outside world one last time… gray, dead, ruined. Then the darkness was completely behind me.
Inside, a group of six people greeted me. They were all armed but not threatening. Their uniforms were Soviet-style but updated, patched, modified—as if they were soldiers of a new era.
One of them stepped away from the others and hurried toward me. There were rank insignia on his shoulders—probably an officer.
His face bore a tired yet attentive expression.
"Hello, I am Corporal Ivanovich. You will undergo a routine security check before entering the city. Please exit the vehicle and follow me."
The sergeant's voice was firm but sounded like a memorized line; his face bore a neutral, slightly weary expression. In this age where discipline was a matter of survival, he was simply a soldier carrying out his duty without fail. I took a deep breath, stepped away from the steering wheel, and slowly opened the door.
I stepped a few paces away from my car, my eyes drifting to the guards on the walls. Each of them was watching silently. The barrels of their rifles with scopes were faintly visible in the shadows. Everyone was on alert.
Ivanovich started walking ahead. His steps were quick but weary. I followed him. The building we were approaching looked like a warehouse from the outside. Its walls were stained gray concrete, with a cracked, rusty star emblem on one side—faded traces of the Soviet past. The door was heavy, and when it opened, the creak of metal echoed dully inside.
They took us into the interrogation room. The air inside was stale. The smell of dampness mingled with the scent of old paint residue and the sharp, metallic odor of rust. In the center of the room stood a cold, bare table. There was nothing on it except for faded bloodstains, the traces of which were still visible. Two officers sat behind the table. They were of different ages; one was young, the other had gray hair and a face lined with harsh features. One was still idealistic, the other no longer surprised by anything.
They motioned for me to sit down. The chair was cold, its back made of iron. As I sat down, a simple thought crossed my mind: "Play your role well, Aleksey; they don't tolerate mistakes here."
"Hello, comrade. First, introduce yourself."
I took a deep breath. I replied in a calm, natural tone of voice:
"Aleksey Brusilov." — I said. Not too harsh, not too soft. Everything had to be balanced. I didn't break eye contact.
One of the officers nodded with a small smile on his lips. There was no familiar sparkle in his eyes; it was more of a cautious acceptance.
"Nice to meet you, comrade Brusilov. So, what is the purpose of your visit here?"
A brief analysis ran through my mind. "If you tell the truth, it breeds paranoia. If you lie, you risk getting caught. The safest option is a half-truth, half-political explanation." I repeated this to myself.
'The most logical approach was to enter as a merchant. In such cities, there was always a need for something.'
"I am now a traveling merchant. I wish to sell my goods here." "In this beautiful city, on our sacred lands, I am certain our comrades will need the items I have brought with me."--- I said it dramatically, as if I were the hope of the entire world.
The words flowed easily from my mouth. Like a fairy tale plucked from reality...
"A little flattery, a few reassuring words... They open every door."
The officers' eyes softened for a moment, the lines on their faces stretched back like children who had seen Santa Claus, and a faint glimmer appeared in the corners of the older one's eyes. Perhaps pride, perhaps hope... or just a break from the day's fatigue.
The officer pulled a green passport from the drawer. He took the seal stamp from a thick file. He stamped the page that read "Yakovgrad Temporary Trade Permit." The sound of the stamp broke the silence in the room.
"Good day, Comrade Brusilov. I hope you find the wealth you seek here."
He handed over the passport. I bowed my head in thanks. As I stood up, I shook my shoulders slightly. The NBC suit I was wearing rustled softly. When I stepped outside, the cold felt less hostile than inside. Perhaps it was a bit more lively.
The guard leader was still there. He spoke without taking his eyes off me:
"Now, please show us the items in the vehicle and on your person."
I slowly opened the trunk lid. The hydraulic pistons groaned, and the metallic squeak from the hinges echoed in the air. The dust cloud mingling with the cold air stung my eyes slightly. The interior arrangement resembled a small-scale arsenal of pre-war preparations.
AK-74 rifles arranged in compact rows, each lubricated and shiny TT-33 pistols, gas mask filters in special boxes, F-1 and RGD-5 hand grenades neatly placed in metal boxes were arranged with military cabinet discipline. Some "barter items" squeezed into the sides also caught the eye: canned food, alcohol bottles, gold and silver items, batteries, cigarette packs… In the post-apocalyptic world, these were more valuable than gold itself.
Two soldiers approached the luggage. Their eyes scanned the items meticulously. One checked the pins of the grenades, the other examined the seals on the gas mask boxes. One of them raised his head and gave an approving glance.
"Everything seems clean."
The guard leader stepped back, took a few steps, and stood in front of me. His face was still neutral, but there was now a hint of confidence in his voice.
"I hope you don't encounter any problems in the city."
Those words felt like a warning, reminding me that I would have to fend for myself in the city. I didn't thank him. I just nodded slightly.
My hand went to my bag. I took one of the cardboard cigarette packs lying on the side. The wind gently stirred the papers coming out of my pocket. I took out the pack and held it out toward the guard.
But he shook his head and raised his hand. His voice was short and firm:
"No, comrade Brusilov. We don't accept bribes."
Our eyes met. A smile rose within me, slipping out slyly from the corner of my lips. This was not a sign of victory… but that the game had only just begun. I took a step closer to him. The distance between us was now only a few inches. I placed the cigarette in the breast pocket of his coat, slowly. My finger pressed lightly over the pocket.
He grinned slyly. "You misunderstood me, comrade. This is not a bribe... it is a GIFT."
The guard's eyes turned first to the package, then to me. His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out. He looked as if he was about to say something, but he didn't. He checked his pocket, his fingertips feeling the hardness of the cigarette pack. Then he averted his gaze and simply bowed his head.
He accepted it.
Without saying a word, he turned away and walked slowly toward the other guards. A faded star patch on the back of his uniform glinted in the sunlight. The system had its rules, but the rules of survival were always older… and more real.
I closed the door of my car. The echo of the metal faded away against the city walls. I turned the ignition. The engine coughed to life, then roared into a growl. I gripped the steering wheel. My hand trembled slightly, but it wasn't fear—it was the adrenaline wearing off.
I pushed the gearshift. As I released the clutch, my feet felt the dull vibration of the asphalt. I began to drive inward.
And there it was… I had taken my first step into Yakovgrad.
What I saw left me speechless.
The city was alive. In a world resembling the decaying bones of abandoned metropolises, this place was like an organism with warm blood still flowing through its veins. Despite the danger, scarcity, and radiation-scorched soil, it was breathing. It was a fortress of life, built from layers of concrete, rust, human stubbornness, and fragments of hope.
As my tires turned slowly along the narrow streets, the images seeping through the car window paralyzed my mind. An old man sitting on a stool covered with newspapers, squinting in the sun, was looking at me. Children passing by were shouting joyfully, some chasing after a rubber ball, others engrossed in a game with rusty metal pieces in their hands.
Women walked with market bags—their cloth bags were full: some contained pickled vegetables, some old canned goods, and some even had black bread in their bags. Their tired but lively eyes said they hadn't given up on life yet.
On the right, laughter rising from the tavern at the corner pierced the heavy silence of the street. The windows were covered in plastic, but smoke was billowing from the chimney inside. Men with thick eyebrows and caps sipped drinks from small glasses, humming something resembling revolutionary songs. On the left, in front of a tavern with a roof repaired with simple planks, people waited in line with metal cups in their hands. The steam rising from their mouths in the cold air mingled, but no one complained—this was a people accustomed to waiting.
A few streets away, there was a bakery with smoke rising into the sky. The scent of bread wafting from its window was strong enough to overpower the smell of death. Beside it, three children waited in line for bread, holding small metal bowls.
Behind the bakery, a school building with a patched roof rose up. The old Soviet flag still hung on its wall—faded but not torn, rustling in the wind. A woman who appeared to be a teacher was lining up her students at the door, preparing them for the cold morning lesson in their thick coats.
At the corner of a street stood a small building painted with a red cross. It was a hospital or a health station. In front of it lay a man on a stretcher, his face bandaged. The nurse beside him hung the IV bag from an old hook and gently stroked his head.
This was not a city… it was a miracle. A monument to survival, born in a world scorched by nuclear fire, built from the ashes. Every wall, every street was an example of willpower.
And I—Aleksey Brusilov—was moving forward in the midst of this miracle, in my vehicle filled with weapons and secrets, like a stranger who had emerged from the past.