My post-apocalyptic universe (plot development, work in process)
Hey everyone! This is a continuation of my post-apocalyptic lore. This time, it’s a story-driven piece done with a ballpoint pen. I haven't published the full written lore yet, so you’re the first to see it! (It’s my first time trying creative writing, so please go easy on me). I used a movie reference for the bearded man, but the environment and characters are entirely from my imagination. This is one of the storylines featuring my main character, Anton Kazakov. Anyone who saw my previous post should know who I'm talking about...
Anton skidded to a halt. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would burst out of his chest. Spots danced before his eyes from the sheer strain – he hadn’t run like this since his days in the army. Only now did he remember his company commander with gratitude, the man who’d kick him into gear during forced marches. His throat burned with an unbearable dryness, his ears throbbed, and his heavy breath came out in ragged gasps.
He cast a wary, calculating eye around him. To his right stood lopsided houses – abandoned who knows when, perhaps even before the Cataclysm. Before him stretched a vast, empty expanse overgrown with withered grass, reaching toward the horizon where it met the tree line of a forest starting on his left.
Suddenly, a sharp mechanical roar erupted from the right. His hearing had only just returned to normal, which was the only reason he hadn’t noticed it sooner. It was the heavy, strained growl of a ZiL-131...
"Son of a..." he cursed under his breath.
A dirty green cab appeared at the far end of the village. Did they see him? Run? Where? Into the houses? No, too dangerous. Into the forest? Anywhere but the forest. Straight ahead! But what if they’d already spotted him?
"Run, you idiot!" the thought raced frantically through his mind. He bolted. His legs felt heavy, like lead, refusing to obey as if weights were chained to his ankles, but the sound of the engine was closing in fast. He scrambled as far as he could and suddenly dropped, collapsing into the tall grass.
The truck pulled up behind a house, out of sight. Anton froze, listening: the engine died. Car doors slammed shut with a heavy thud.
"Decided to clear the shacks," flashed through his head. That meant they hadn't seen him. Good.
A moment later, two figures stepped out from behind the house. He couldn't make out any details — just gray silhouettes against the dark walls. They were muttering something to each other, but the wind carried their words away, leaving Anton with nothing but indistinct grumbles. He pressed himself deeper into the dry grass, trying not even to breathe...
“what the hell are we stopping for?” Zub spat, watching his partner pull on a gas mask.
The young scavenger was twitching; that bravado in his voice was nothing but a front. Kolyan didn’t answer. With practiced ease, he stretched the gray rubber of the hood-mask over his head and adjusted the eyepieces.
A muffled, guttural voice echoed from beneath the filter:
“We’re stopping because we have to.”
“Yo, Kolyan, what’s with the rubber face?” Zub pressed, eyeing the GP-5 mask.
The bandit nodded toward the forest. “See that mist?”
“Yeah, I see it. So what?” Zub squinted, unconvinced.
“So this. Lapsha–rest his soul–used to say: that ain’t mist, that’s ‘mind-frazzle.’ Hits your brain harder than any joint. You step into those woods and that’s it–you start hearing voices. Your legs just take off on their own, and by then, there’s no asking where they’re going. Plenty of our brothers have vanished that way. They say there’s a thing living in there, call it the Leshy. No one’s ever seen it, and them that have… they ain't talking.” Kolyan adjusted his glass lenses again.
“So, if we gotta head into those woods because of that moron, I’d rather be in my right mind when I haul ass while that bastard’s eating you. Get it?”
“I ge-e-et it…” Zub drawled, the defiance in his voice noticeably fading. He glanced sideways at the dark wall of trees.
“But if that… thing lives in there, would he really head into the woods? Is he a total psycho, or what?”
“Hell if I know what he is,” Kolyan lifted his mask slightly and spat.
“But I ain’t messing around with him until nightfall. Khazar said: if we bring him in alive, he’ll move us up to the infantry. Better gear there, better rations too. So quit flapping your gums. If we screw this up, Khazar won’t put us in the infantry–he’ll personally skin us alive. And you know how he is...”
Zub straightened up instantly. The mention of Khazar worked better than any direct order. He readjusted his grip on his gun, peering into the reddish haze of the tall grass.
“But why’d he send us, I don’t get it?” Zub asked, looking up from under his brow.
“What, you getting cold feet?” Kolyan didn’t even turn his head, continuing to scan the field through his eyepieces. “Or are you just an idiot? If you hadn't shot that woman, we’d be sitting back at the base right now, swigging hooch. But no, you’re a real hero when it comes to fighting women... But when it’s time to face the music, you want to crawl back into your hole?”
Zub lurched as if he’d been slapped and jerked his shotgun toward his partner. The barrel trembled just inches from Kolyan’s chest.
“Hey, moron, don’t be stupid! Put the piece down,” the scavenger’s voice remained dry and calm, but it had an edge of cold steel now.“You asked–I answered.”
Zub exhaled sharply and slowly, with a kind of nervous triumph, lowered the weapon.
“The bitch started biting... so I put her down,” he muttered, justifying it more to himself than anyone else.
“Listen, Kolyan, why the hell are you lecturing me all the time?” Zub’s voice climbed toward a frantic screech. “Who do you think I am, some kid? I ain’t your lackey, and you ain’t my boss or my old man! Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”
Kolyan snapped. He lunged forward so fast Zub didn't even have time to raise his barrel. Grabbing the younger man by the collar, the scavenger hauled him close to the glass lenses of his gas mask and hissed with a ragged, menacing rasp:
“You are a kid. I’m out here running through fields like a damn deer because of you, you little bitch. And if I say you're a lackey, you’re a lackey. While you were at some porch back home, spouting 'tough guy' stories to pimply girls over a beer, I was finishing a twenty-year stretch in max security. Punks like you didn't just play lackey for me—they wiped my ass on command! You feel me?”
Zub froze, paralyzed by fear. In the eyepieces of the mask, he saw only his own terrified reflection. A heavy, damp breath drifted from beneath the rubber.
“Open your mouth without an order one more time, and I’ll put a bullet in you myself,” Kolyan growled, shoving him in the chest. “I’ll tell Khazar that’s just how it went down. There’s a long line of people waiting for a chance to bury you. Now shut your trap and do what you’re told.”
He cooled down as quickly as he had flared up. Silently, he tightened his backpack straps and, without looking back, started through the tall grass. Zub stood there, soaking in his shame, only now beginning to realize exactly what kind of meat grinder he’d stepped into.
“Still... what makes you think he went that way?” Zub tried to maintain a shred of bravado, but his voice betrayed him with a tremor. He gave a vague nod toward the endless expanse of reddish field.
Kolyan stopped and slowly shook his head, once again amazed by his partner's impenetrable stupidity. A contemptuous smirk flickered behind the glass, which Zub, luckily for him, couldn't see.
“Look at the grass, you moron,” Kolyan tossed back quietly, almost wearily. “See that? It’s flattened like a boar went through.”
He jabbed the barrel of his gun toward a barely visible trail of broken stalks leading deep into the thicket.
“Follow me and keep your eyes peeled,” Kolyan readjusted his grip on his weapon.
“The idiot’s got a piece. He strangled Alik when he bolted and took his gun. So cover my back and... that’s it, quit your yapping! My head’s already throbbing from your questions.”
Zub finally went silent. His fear of Kolyan outweighed his urge to argue, though he still hadn’t truly grasped the danger. He trudged lazily after the older man, barely dragging his feet and looking around more for show than for safety.
Anton could see them clearly now. Through the tangle of dry stalks, the details of their gear and the jerky movements of his pursuers came into focus. The main thing he caught was that these two weren’t clicking. Squabbling, bickering, mutual loathing... In a fight, that lack of coordination could be his only shot. For a split second, a spark of grim satisfaction flared in his chest: Khazar had sent these two lackeys after him instead of the battle-hardened infantry.
But the spark died faster than it could warm him. As the rustle of footsteps drew closer, the blood hammered in his temples, drowning out any joy with ice-cold reality.
Two.
Only two goddamn shells in the chambers. Anton gripped the battered forend of the shotgun. Watching how confidently the lead man in the gas mask moved, he felt acutely how pathetic his "arsenal" really was. And would this old piece of iron even fire when it mattered? Against their drive and equipment, all he had was the hope that the bandits' gear was just as ancient and prone to misfire–and his own luck, which, judging by the ZiL in the village, was already running dry.
Suddenly, somewhere to the right and slightly behind, there was a frantic flapping of wings. The lead man–the one in the mask–jerked his shotgun toward the sound. The second one, lagging behind, was slow to react. Anton saw it and knew: this was the signal... now or never!
Here goes nothing... He bolted up from the grass and, barely taking aim, pulled the trigger. A crack shattered the thick silence. The shotgun kicked upward, followed by a wet, crunching sound mixed with shattering glass. A hit?! Gunpowder smoke briefly obscured the silhouette. Right in the eye. The body slumped heavily to the ground.
Driven by adrenaline, Anton swung the barrel toward the second hunter. He was a split second away from pulling the other trigger when the pursuer threw his hands up.
"I give up! Don't shoot!" the man wailed, his tone pleading.
Keeping him in his sights, Anton moved slowly toward him. Closing the distance, he dropped the pathetic wretch with a sharp buttstroke to the stomach. The man doubled over, gasping for air, and collapsed onto the dirt.
"Don't shoot, brother, please! I want to live..." beneath the scavenger's cloth mask, his jaw twitched nervously.
Anton leaned down and ripped the mask off. Behind it was a familiar face–one that turned his adrenaline into pure, searing rage.
"You son of a..." Anton hissed through gritted teeth. "It was you people who hit the caravan. And you–you piece of filth—you killed the merchant’s daughter? You?!"
"Don't kill me, I beg you... Y-yes, it was us, I... it was Khazar! He made me do it. Please, don't kill me!"
Zub spiraled into a full-blown hysteric fit. Tears streamed down his face, a thin string of saliva dangled from his lip, and his pants were soaked.
"Animal!"
Anton snapped the shotgun up, ready to blast the final load of buckshot straight into the bastard’s head. His face twisted into a mask of pure fury...