My hands still in my pockets, I continued walking, captivated by the images around me. The fact that life was still going on in this city, despite the destruction and fear, and people's struggle to cling to life, stirred an indescribable feeling inside me. Children running joyfully, elderly people chatting with heavy steps as if reminiscing about the past, young couples walking hand in hand... All these scenes whispered to me that the war had not taken everything away, that something still remained.
But then... My eye caught a building. There was a name written in large letters on it: *ZELYONKA*. The concrete structure's hospital-like architecture and the heavy foot traffic at the entrance were striking. People were lining up in a certain order, some rushing inside, others coming out with a relaxed expression. My curiosity was unbearable.
I quietly joined the line. With each step, I got a little closer to the building. There was an uneasiness inside me that I couldn't quite pinpoint. It wasn't just curiosity; there was a sense of familiarity, a calling, in that name: *Zelyonka*. Those in line were silent, but their faces betrayed a mix of tension and calm—a strange dichotomy…
Finally, it was my turn. When I stepped inside, I was stunned by the order and sterile appearance of the environment. The floors were spotless, the lights were bright white but not harsh on the eyes. The corridors were bustling. Doctors in white coats, wearing latex gloves, moved from one room to another, some carrying small vials of green liquid. The same word was written in bold letters on each vial: *ZELYONKA*.
Something stirred inside me.
At the end of the corridor, I walked toward a desk that resembled a reception desk. A young woman with blonde hair and beautiful features sitting behind the desk noticed me. She smiled warmly, her eyes sparkling with sincerity, and spoke gently:
"Good day, sir. How may I assist you? If you wish to purchase *Zelyonka*, please proceed to room 207. There, you can complete your payment and registration."
Her voice was smooth, her words chosen carefully and measuredly. The warmth in her eyes suggested she was genuinely pleased to be there, not merely fulfilling her duties mechanically.
I smiled at the blonde beauty and began to speak:
— Actually, I'm new here and I'd like to learn a bit more about this medicine called Zelyonka. As far as I can see, people are lining up, and some are even whispering prayers. What makes it so special?
— Zelyonka... Actually, that's not its official name. People call it that because of its color. Remember that green antiseptic they used to use for cuts and scrapes back in the old days? It looks similar to that. But its effect... is much more powerful.
She narrowed his eyes slightly, then tilted her head as if to check his surroundings and continued in a quieter voice:
— This drug was developed in Soviet biomedical research laboratories just before the Great War. Its primary purpose was to protect surviving soldiers and civilians from the lethal effects of radiation in a nuclear disaster scenario. It was originally intended only for shelters… but after the war, the remaining stockpiles began to fall into the hands of the public.
She paused for a moment. Lowering her voice slightly, she continued:
— Zelyonka doesn't just block radiation. It can repair DNA damage, prevent bone marrow depletion, and dramatically increase cell regeneration. When used regularly once a month, it reduces the risk of radiation sickness to almost zero. In fact... some say this drug extends human life by several years. When injected into deep wounds, it accelerates tissue regeneration. If injected into the mother during the first few months of pregnancy, it significantly reduces the risk of the child being born sick, disabled, or stillborn.
She took a short breath, fixed her eyes on the distance for a moment. Then, shaking her head slowly, she finished speaking:
— It was developed over seven years under strict secrecy. It was tested, developed, and tested again. Its contents are still not fully disclosed. Some of its components are produced only in closed Soviet laboratories. Today, it is produced in very limited quantities—not everyone has the opportunity to use it. That's why people are lining up. It's seen as a post-war miracle… like a bottle of hope.
"Thank you for the information," I said in a quiet voice and left the reception area amid the smiling gaze of the blonde-haired doctor. I quickened my steps toward room 207, located at the end of the corridor, right next to the stairs. The interior of the building seemed to leave the dust, fatigue, and deprivation of the war outside. The clean ceramic tiles on the floor echoed my footsteps, and propaganda posters hanging on the walls—once a reminder of the Soviet Union's grandeur—appeared at every step.
As I approached the room, faint medical odors began to waft out: alcohol, sterile solutions, and the distinctive, sharp scent of Zelyonka, which clearly contained a potent chemical mixture. Three people were waiting at the door; their faces betrayed both curiosity and anxiety. One was a young woman with a tired yet determined expression in her eyes. Another was a middle-aged man with a scarred face; he had clearly just arrived from the outskirts. The third was a quiet man carrying a backpack—I couldn't guess his age—who was clutching a passport file tightly in his hand.
As the minutes passed, the line grew shorter. Finally, the last person in front of me entered and registered. My heart began to beat a little faster. This was not a simple registration. Taking this medicine meant securing one's future a little more; at least here, in this cursed world, it meant a slightly longer chance at life…
I knocked lightly on the door. An elderly voice from inside said, "Come in!" I opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately, a strong smell hit my nose: medical alcohol, the smell of plastic syringes, and a sharp, chemical intensity. The room was small but tidy. The shelves were lined with tubes filled with green liquids and labeled glass bottles. The dim light from the ceiling lamp made the room seem even colder. There were two tables in the room. At the first table sat a woman who appeared to be in her late twenties. Her long black hair was pulled back tightly, but a few strands fell onto her cheeks, giving her face a soft look. Her eyes behind her glasses were attentive. The woman was quite beautiful: her full lips, graceful neck, and curves visible beneath her uniform were striking. In front of her was a sterilized metal tray; she was carefully filling a syringe with the green liquid using her gloved hands. The green liquid shimmered under the light, trembling within the glass as if whispering its secret.
At the second table sat an old man. His hair was snow-white, his forehead lined with deep wrinkles. He wore a Soviet medical uniform from years past. A rusted medal was pinned to his collar. He was scribbling something on the papers in front of him; his hands were trembling but experienced.
I took a few steps toward him. Standing upright, I tried to keep my voice steady:
"Hello, comrade," I said in a clear tone. "I'm here for the Zelyonka vaccine. I want to pick up the medication, make the payment, and complete the registration process."
The old man put down his pen and looked up. His eyes bore the weight of the years and a familiar indifference—the mechanical habit of having processed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of registrations. But he studied my face carefully. He paused for a moment, then nodded slightly.
"Of course, sir. You can see the price of the medication on the list below," he said. The old man pulled out a thick, crumpled piece of paper from the drawer. He placed this yellowed paper in front of me. There were stains on the edges and burn marks on the corners, but the writing was still legible. It read in large letters:
ZELYONKA TREATMENT DOSES AND EXCHANGE LIST
(Paper money is NOT ACCEPTED. Only the valuable items listed below are accepted. Those who bring insufficient items will be expelled. We are open to additional offers.)
---
1. Light Dose (1 ampoule – preventive, immune-boosting)
Recommended only for those working in high-risk areas.
Exchange Value:
30 rounds of 7.62×54mmR ammunition
or
1 diamond ring
or
1 original, unopened bottle of whiskey
or
1 high-end watch (steel not accepted) + 2 hand grenades
---
2. Moderate Dose (2 vials – post-exposure treatment)
To suppress radiation symptoms such as headaches, nausea, and skin peeling.
Trade Value:
45 rounds of 7.62×54mmR ammunition
or
1 comprehensive first aid kit + morphine + 5 cans of beef
or
2 heavy gold chains (each weighing at least 10 grams) + 20 7.62x39 rounds
1 bottle of cognac (unopened) + 5 packs of cigarettes + 30 5.45x39 rounds.
---
3. High Dose (3 ampoules – for lethal exposure)
Can be used in cases of internal bleeding, cell collapse, bone melting, acute radiation sickness, and neurological impairment.
Trade Value:
60 7.62×54mmR bullets + 3 gas mask filters
or
1 diamond-studded platinum ring + 1 gold bracelet + 5 VOG-25 grenade launcher rounds
or
1 box (10 bottles) of pure antibiotics + 5 cans + 7 packs of cigarettes.
or
1 bottle of cognac + 2 bottles of vodka + 3 hand grenades + 1 gold watch
or
2 gold bracelets + 1 solid gold pocket watch + 3 AI-2 first aid kits + 1 L-1 NBC suit.
There was a small warning in small print below:
"Zelyonka is a compound developed by the Soviet Academy of Sciences with experimental regenerative effects. After application, the individual may experience metabolic acceleration, temporary insomnia, flashbacks of past memories, muscle spasms, hallucinations, or short-term emotional instability. Additionally, due to its excessive acceleration of metabolism, it may cause muscle wasting and a significant decrease in red blood cells. Therefore, after the drug is administered, the individual should rest for a minimum of 12 hours under medical supervision, and vitamin and nutritional supplements are recommended."
As I held the list in my hand, the old man's voice rose again:
"When you've made your decision, give us your ID and any previous radiation reports you may have. Then you'll need to fill out and sign the registration form."
I slowly put my bag down on the floor and unzipped it. I took out the items one by one:
two old but perfectly working gold pocket watches,
a silver Zippo lighter,
a thick chain bracelet,
several valuable rings with diamonds,
a bottle of homemade whiskey,
Russian vodka bottles filled to the brim,
two bottles of cognac,
and, of course, approximately 20 7.62×54mmR bullets, 30 7.62×39 bullets, and 50 9×18 bullets neatly arranged in the box.
The old man looked at the items over his glasses, shook his head slightly, and made a few marks on the form in front of him.
"This is sufficient for ten ampoules," he said in a brief tone.
He carefully took the valuable items and placed them in the locked box under the side table. Then he turned to the woman across from him with his index finger:
"Comrade Vera, begin the injection."
The black-haired, bespectacled woman—Vera—stood up. She began preparing the medical supplies with great care. She took one of the glass vials in her hand; the liquid inside glowed with a neon green light.
She carefully drew it into a syringe and rolled up my sleeve with her gloved hands.
"Take a deep breath," she said in a gentle but routine voice.
She inserted the needle into my arm.
It was only a matter of moments before I felt the medication in my veins.
At first, a warmth spread through me as if sparks were igniting inside me. A slight tremor ran through my legs, and a thin sheen of sweat formed on my forehead. My heartbeat quickened for a few seconds but then returned to its normal rhythm.
My eyelids began to feel heavy. A mild dizziness, like a peaceful heaviness, spread through my body.
I turned my head slightly.
Vera turned to me as she disposed of the syringe in the medical waste bin:
"The side effects are temporary. If you'd like, you can go to the rest room."
Thanks to my military ID, my expenses were already covered by the government.
There, I lay down on one of the beds behind the sterile white curtains. The sheets were clean, the pillow soft.
What I felt between the 1st and 6th hours.
I don't think I woke up. During those hours, I was completely detached from reality. In a dreamless darkness, I felt as if I were suspended underwater, unable to breathe. There was no sound, no thought. Only my body—a mass left to rest.
---
7–12 hours:
I half-awoke with a tingling sensation from within. Like blood flowing back into the veins of a person whose hands have gone numb... I felt a coldness in my fingertips, ankles, and even my back. Additionally,
this wasn't pain, but more of a feeling of renewal. There was a relaxation in my muscles. I took a deep breath—my breathing was freer. My chest felt as if it were expanding to its full capacity for the first time.
---
13-18 hours:
I was awake but lay still. I stared at the ceiling. I was calm. There was no pain, no fatigue. Just a peaceful waiting.
I checked my body; my joint pains were gone. I touched the scratch on my shoulder, the bullet wound on my stomach, and the wound on my leg made by the worms—they were almost completely gone, only a superficial mark remained.
My heart was beating slower but stronger. Inside me, there was both silence and a feeling of resistance.
---
19–24 hours:
I fell asleep again. I fell back asleep.
This time, I was drawn into a brief but intense darkness.
It wasn't sleep—it was as if a dose of pure energy had been injected into my mind. My brain was silent, my heart frozen.
I was inside a house.
A dim light barely illuminated the interior of a small room with worn-out curtains. A heavy dusty smell hung in the air, like the resentful breath of a window that had not been opened in years.
There was a child in front of me. Kneeling on the carpet, he had turned his head toward the window. His hands were clenched between his knees, motionless. He didn't seem to be speaking or breathing.
But I recognized that child.
It was my former self from a previous life.
---
I woke up.
And the past flowed into my mind like a cold winter morning.
Winters were long. The stoves were lit early, and silence fell early over the house. My father seemed to deliberately crush the creaking floorboards with every step he took before going to work in the morning. Every crackle was a warning:
"Be quiet. Don't show yourself. Don't cause trouble."
My mother didn't speak. She lived as if she were merely breathing. She kept her hands busy, her mouth tight, her gaze empty. My father, on the other hand...
He was a violent dog. He would attack whoever was in the path of his anger. That day, the sound of a broken glass followed by the slap on my mother's face still echoes in my ears. But I averted my eyes as if I hadn't heard the sound.
Because in that house, emotions were a luxury.
Love only existed in TV shows. Hugs, hair strokes, words like "good job, son"... They were fairy tales.
Once, when I cried, my father slammed the belt in his hand on the ground and shouted:
"Real men don't cry!"
That day, something broke inside me.
My tears knotted in my throat from that day on. They never fell from my eyes again.
---
By the time I reached high school, I had already built my walls.
I was quiet. I kept my distance. There was something dark in my gaze.
My teachers thought I was "disciplined," my friends thought I was "cold."
But no one asked:
Why doesn't this child ever smile?
My father was still the same.
He lived violence as if it were a habit. The only way to escape him was to get away.
In high school, I applied to the Military Academy in Moscow. My entire future hinged on this hope.
I was accepted. But my father didn't even like that.
That evening, he drank again.
He went to my mother and started yelling at her and beating her as usual.
I had lost my patience.
I grabbed the vase on the table.
And... I smashed it on my father's head.
He fell to the ground like a puppet.
He wasn't breathing anymore.
I buried him in the darkness of the night, behind the cemetery.
I erased the traces. Nothing remained.
But that night, that child also died.
Another person was born in his place:
Emotionless. Merciless. Hard.
I slowly sat up in bed. My body felt like a machine that had just awakened from a long sleep—oiled, rested, ready. I took a deep breath; my lungs filled much more easily than before, as if the air inside me had been cleansed. My muscles felt not tired, but slightly tense—an energy ready to move.
I put on my clothes. When the thick fabric of my military jacket touched my skin, I noticed that my skin had become more sensitive. I tied my boots, then quietly opened the door and stepped into the corridor. It was silent, and the sterile smells still stung my nostrils slightly. I walked silently toward the cafeteria.
When I reached the cafeteria, the warmth and the smell of food that spread as the door opened made my head spin. The smell of eggs fried in butter, bread, spicy sausage, and freshly cooked beets... All the aromas mixed together and assaulted my nose. My stomach growled at that moment—a high, plaintive, and impatient sound. Zelyonka must have drained all my energy while repairing my body.
I approached the open buffet table at the entrance. I took a steel tray that looked almost new. My eyes scanned every plate. My hand kept reaching out to the plates: golden brown slices of bread, tiny rolls spread with honey and butter, creamy cheese, warm eggs, smoked sausage rings, freshly chopped tomatoes and cucumbers... There was even the rare, concentrated milk—placed in a small metal container, like a shiny white cream.
My tray was soon nearly overflowing. No one stopped me; this was the kind of place where payment was already made at the entrance, or... for those with military ID like me, nothing was asked.
I moved to the quiet corner at the back of the café. I sat down at one of the tables left in semi-darkness by thick, gray curtains. My back was to the wall—the best position to feel safe.
When I took the first bite, my body felt as though it had been prepared for this moment. The food broke apart in my mouth before reaching my stomach, and my saliva began the digestion process. Every bite, every sip was a necessity; not a luxury, but a necessity. It was as if I hadn't eaten anything in days, even weeks. My hand didn't stop; as the fork and knife danced in my hand, my eyes focused on the food. The items on the tray disappeared one by one. I spread the remaining honey on the toasted bread, ate the milk with the biscuit, and even picked up the last salad leaf with my fingers.
When I finished, I took a deep breath. My abdominal muscles were swollen, but it didn't bother me. The increase in energy inside me was almost palpable—as if Zelyonka had accelerated my metabolism. My heart was beating stronger, my mind was thinking more clearly.
I stood up. My muscles were relaxed, but there was a vague unease inside me—as if my body was now resisting inactivity. The effects of Zelyonka were still noticeable; it was as if an energy circulating in my blood kept me constantly alert. I took a deep breath, adjusted the collar of my coat, and headed toward the hospital's exit. The gray sky outside the glass doors smiled at me with a familiar gloom.
There was only one thought in my mind: to get rid of the weapons. My car—the old, tired but loyal VAZ-2102—was waiting for me behind the Free Russia Tavern. I chose to walk; the distance from the hospital to the tavern was short, and the streets were filled with the usual gray walls, cracked asphalt, and Soviet flags fluttering on the roofs. As I approached the tavern, I heard the wooden sign creaking in the wind. A few drunks were arguing at the door, but I didn't pay attention. I headed straight to the back alley, where the parking lot was.
My VAZ was there. It was covered in dust, but it was still in good shape. The trunk was filled with boxes of weapons—I would dispose of the unnecessary ones. I started the engine. The old machine coughed to life, and the smoke from the exhaust mingled with the sky.
I drove slowly toward the market. The market was crowded every day of the week, but the black market section where weapons and equipment were traded was a whole different world. I arrived at the front of a concrete building. Next to the entrance, there was a faded poster stuck to the wall that read:
"Every comrade may need it."
I parked the car on the worn sidewalk right next to the building. The black market shop looked official, but everyone knew who the real boss was—the military. It was a place where civilians who wanted to get rid of their old ammunition and get something in return to survive would stop by. Especially after Sergey's gang's last raid, weapons had become more valuable than gold.
I closed the car door and walked slowly toward the building. There were soldiers guarding the door on either side. One was young, the other old, but both had sharp, cold stares. I briefly showed my military ID from the pocket of my coat, then nodded in greeting. One of them said briefly, "Go ahead, comrade." I opened the door and went inside.
The air inside was filled with the smell of gunpowder, metal, and old oil. Along the walls, shelves were lined with rifles, ammunition boxes, vests, hand grenades, and various military equipment. The young man standing next to the counter immediately caught my attention. He was probably 18 or 19 years old. His appearance was not particularly neat, but there was a determination on his face and a sharp purpose in his eyes. He was holding an SKS carbine in both hands, trying to catch the attention of the elderly seller. The collar of his worn jacket was turned up, and as sweat dripped from his forehead down his neck, he raised his voice:
"I want that diamond ring in exchange for this rifle," he said, his voice steady despite his youth.
His finger pointed to an object glistening in the light inside the glass display case. The ring... Set in a thick gold band, it bore a dazzlingly large diamond. Once worn on the finger of a general or a wealthy merchant, this ring now lay on a black market stall, a choice between survival and memories.
The old seller rose slowly from his seat. His hair was snow-white, his beard sparse, and his glasses were scratched. He took the SKS slowly into his hands, examining the rifle's body, barrel, and bolt in detail. The weapon was covered in rust; there were deep scratches on the stock and darkened areas resembling old bloodstains. He tried to pull the bolt, but it jammed, making a squeaking sound as it moved. The old man furrowed his brow and carefully placed the SKS back on the counter.
"The gun is in bad shape…" he said, his voice tired but not judgmental. "It's rusty, the mechanism is weak, and the wooden stock is almost falling apart. This rifle isn't for war anymore; it's for decoration on a wall. I'm afraid I can't give you that ring."