Читать книгу: «One step into Tomorrow»

Blurb

What if the thin line between our world and the shattered reality of “Tomorrow” is not fantasy – but a brutal truth?

Konstantin, a man with a complicated past, becomes someone capable of crossing into a place from which no one has ever returned.

In a world where cities have turned into ruins and people into monsters, he is no longer just searching for a way home. He is fighting for the right to remain human. For every step. For everyone by his side. For the last fragment of hope.

This is not a story about superheroes.

It is a story about those who rise when all strength is gone.

One Step Into Tomorrow is more than post-apocalypse.

It is about us.

About choice.

About the price of returning.

Chapter 1

The Stranger Wind

It was autumn. Cold, dismal, and utterly soaked with rain—my most hated season. Not spring, which gently leads into the heat of summer. Not winter, with its crisp snow and thoughts of skiing and hunting. Not even summer, which I dislike slightly because of the heat. No—everything happened now, in this grey, rotting autumn.

The wind lashed droplets against my face, and the damp cold bit into my bones, but I barely felt it. Drenched to the skin, I stood on the roof of a high-rise, staring at the frozen world and waiting.

Emptiness. No cars, no people. Even the wind seemed to move soundlessly, as if afraid to disturb the dead city. Beneath my feet was peeling concrete; around me stood the dark shells of buildings abandoned by their inhabitants.

In that other world, a new district was once supposed to rise here. I had even bought an apartment in this very spot. It was a classic scheme: I invested in a shared construction project, hoping to eventually secure my own home. Everything looked appealing, and the sum wasn’t overwhelming. But the construction had stalled eight years ago. The collective lawsuit filed by defrauded investors had long since disappeared into the depths of the courts, and the building remained a concrete skeleton, frozen in an eternal pause.

Back then, I hadn’t worried much. Money came easily, and the purchase didn’t strain my finances. Besides, I already had a home. It stood apart from the city bustle, almost on the border between the residential area and the river. The district was called Tumanovo—a quiet, undeveloped corner on the outskirts of Kolomna, where private houses alternated with overgrown plots and abandoned gardens. Beyond the fence lay a riverside meadow, and a bit further on, the edge of a forest. It was always quiet there. Even the wind felt different, as if lazy and contemplative. I had chosen the place myself—far from people, closer to something alive.

But six months ago, it all came crashing down.

The job cut four years earlier had come unexpectedly. After the events of 2022, the foreign company where I worked as an advisor wound down its operations in Russia and exited the market. For the first time, this only seriously affected my finances six months ago. After the layoff, I took a full-time position as a senior dispatcher for special cargo security until better times arrived. I had worked in security before – or rather, I had done it on the side, combining my main career with convoy trips across the country.

Six months ago, the bank began tightening the noose of debt. A loan taken out for a business venture turned into a complete disaster. I had planned to open a drone piloting school and a virtual arena. Everything had started smoothly: a large space in an ideal location, perfect for a gaming center; the bank had approved the loan surprisingly quickly… But soon after, the premises for the business—paid for with that very loan—were declared an illegal construction. Neither the realtor nor the bank had informed me of this. The money had already been transferred, and the seller had disappeared.

When it became clear that I was sinking into a debt pit and would almost certainly lose my home, a firm that had bought out my debt appeared almost immediately. Somehow, a standard loan had turned into something astronomical. My lawyer said everything had been buried in the contract and nothing could be done. And all of this in just six months…

Worse still, the combined value of my car, my house, the premises—which could not be sold after the demolition order—and my accumulated savings did not cover even half of the new debt.

And then they came – the debt collectors. People who never raise their voices or threaten you directly. They simply appear everywhere, imprinting themselves onto your life, filling it with neat smiles and impeccably polite words. Slowly and methodically, they drive you into a corner.

This micro-district was just another failure. In my world, it was never finished. But here…

A gust of wind slapped my face with rain. Droplets landed on the grip of my pistol. I stepped into the elevator control room and adjusted the weapon on my tactical rig. The touch of cold metal brought my thoughts back to the events of two weeks ago. The terminal continued blinking green, indicating a stable connection and standby mode.

Chapter 2

A New Acquaintance

Shooting had always been more than just a hobby for me. Perhaps it all started back in childhood – with those first, almost ritual sensations: the smell of burnt gunpowder, the chime of a casing bouncing off the floor, the soft click of the bolt. I could not put it into words back then, but I understood – this was mine.

Later, in the army, that feeling only intensified. I did not stay on contract for the money or because of the instability of the times. I simply felt comfortable where it smelled of metal and cordite, where I had access to weapons. I always enjoyed shooting whatever I could get my hands on – from standard assault rifles to old Mosins or SVDs.

Over time, I began seeking new approaches myself, trying different techniques, studying ballistics. And since childhood, I had also been drawn to archery – and I mastered that as well.

There is always order in my house, but the centerpiece is the gun safe. My favorites lie there: a smoothbore pump-action shotgun and a 7.62-caliber hunting carbine (to be precise, fitted with “Berkut” optics). I am not a hunter in the classical sense, but simply knowing they are there gives me a sense of control, strength, and tranquility.

It is difficult to impress me. Someone does a backflip on a motorcycle—sure, cool. Someone scores a beautiful goal—great. But all of that leaves me indifferent. However, a good series of hits, the sensation of recoil, a precise shot—that triggers a real surge in my soul. Shooting has always been something almost intimate for me. I treat it with jealousy, respect, and a passion that few understand.

And that is probably why I ended up in this club. Even if I didn’t find friends there, I at least found people who understood what I was about. We don’t have heart-to-heart talks or discuss philosophy, but each of us knows the sound of a single shot from a Glock and how the grip of a Viking feels in the hand. That is enough to feel among our own.

After another "conversation" with the debt collectors, I drove to the shooting club and went through two boxes of ammo alone. I didn’t want to leave, and I still had rounds left. But I decided to take a break anyway. I warned the instructor, Sanya—a former marine recently returned from the SMO with a wound—that I’d be back later and headed to the club’s bar.

There were almost no patrons. A man with a newspaper sat in the corner; at the counter were two guys around twenty-five.

"Hey!" I said to Nastya, the shooting instructor and part-time bartender, waitress, and generally the most indispensable person in this club, cutting off her conversation with the guys and clearly ruining one of their attempts to impress her.

"Hi, Kostya! Coffee?"

Nastya immediately switched her attention to me, which caused clear resentment from one of the guys. She brought the coffee and sat down across from me with a mug of tea.

"I’m so glad you showed up!" she smiled. "They’ve been filling my head with all sorts of nonsense for thirty minutes. And as luck would have it, there’s no one else here. Are you here to shoot or just for coffee?"

"To shoot, Nastya. Needed to blow off some steam, so I dropped by."

"You’ve been coming in quite often lately," she noted, narrowing her eyes. "Used to be once a week, now it’s every two or three days. Accumulated a lot of steam, have you?"

She sipped her tea and watched me intently, as if trying to figure out what was on my mind.

Nastya was beautiful. Truly. That was exactly why, when I needed to hone my pistol shooting, I hadn’t chosen her as my instructor. I didn’t think training alongside such a woman would do me any good. Tall, slender, with luxurious chestnut hair she always kept in a loose ponytail. She was probably around thirty-five. As far as I knew, she was single. And most importantly, every time I stopped by the club, she would invariably spend at least a little time with me.

"It’s accumulated," I smirked. "So far, I’m managing to vent it. We’ll see how it goes from here."

The two guys pointedly dropped money on the counter and headed for the exit. Nastya was about to say something, but new visitors appeared in the doorway—a guy and a girl. I knew them. We had met here before, even shot together. They waved to me and said hello. Nastya smiled and went over to them. I watched her walk away, admiring her gait on autopilot.

"May I sit down?"

The suddenness almost made me spill my coffee. The man with the newspaper was standing before me. He held a mug of beer and waited for my answer.

"Your name is Kostya, isn’t it?" The man broke the lingering silence. Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out a chair and sat at my table, positioning himself between me and the bar.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked, not very politely, setting the coffee aside.

"My name is Makar." He extended his hand.

Now I examined him more closely: average height, dark hair with streaks of grey, brown eyes, a broken nose. Late forties. From under his shirt cuff on his right hand, a tattoo peeked out—something resembling half a gear, though the fabric prevented a full view. I ignored his gesture and repeated:

"So, what do you want?"

"Just to talk. I’ve been waiting for you for a while. Nikolai suggested I look for you here. You know, Nikolai, your friend and shooting instructor."

I certainly knew Nikolai. We had developed a great rapport that had somehow grown into a friendship, and it would have become even stronger if not for one “but.”

I leaned forward and scrutinized my companion once more.

"And when was the last time you met Nikolai?"

Some time ago, he had simply vanished. Took a week’s vacation, said nothing to anyone, and disappeared.

"Never. That is, I haven’t met him before; other people worked with him," Makar replied. "But I spoke with him about ten days ago. Over the comms."

He watched my reaction.

"Alright, do you have time to talk?" The man finished his beer, set the empty mug on the table, and stared at me again.

"Yes, I’m listening."

At the next table, two men sat down noisily, arguing about something.

"Maybe in the range? It’s quieter there," Makar suggested, pulling out money.

"The range it is."

A joyful feeling washed over me: if Nikolai was alive, that was already good news.

"Shall we shoot a magazine each?" Makar asked as we entered the gallery and headed toward the firing line.

The range was empty. By the way he greeted the guard at the entrance and the instructor Sanya, it was clear he was a frequent guest. While he was preparing, I curiously eyed his "Viking"—the MP-446.

"Good pistol," Makar noted, catching my gaze. "Same caliber as yours: nine by nineteen. Eighteen-round magazine. Though the spring is stiff; you have to get used to it until it’s broken in." He checked the slide and added, "Better to use our local ammo; it’ll last longer."

I took out my Beretta and loaded the magazine. I had obtained my firearm license right after my service, getting a job at a security agency run by a fellow soldier and friend. The job allowed me to legally own weapons but required me to escort cargo from Izhevsk and Vyatskiye Polyana to Moscow once every two weeks. While I had my main job, this was a hindrance, but after the firm closed, I had more time.

We shot through a couple of magazines. Makar shot confidently and easily, as if using a pistol were as habitual as using a spoon and fork.

Later, while reloading in the safe zone, I asked:

"So, where is Kolya?"

I didn’t intend to delay the questions any longer.

"He’s there…" Makar faltered. "In short, he’s in trouble."

I remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

"A year ago, Nikolai went on an… expedition. He was supposed to return, but something happened that delayed him…"

"Is that all? If that's all, it was nice chatting."

I stood up, packing my gear into my backpack.

"Wait, Konstantin. I just don’t know how to explain this to you… Better if I show you a video." Makar pulled an A4 sheet from his bag. "But first, sign this."

I took the paper.

"A non-disclosure agreement?" I raised an eyebrow. My details were already filled in. "You’ve come prepared, I see."

After signing the document, which didn’t commit me to anything yet, I handed it back.

"Now, look."

Makar opened a file on a tablet and pressed "Play." A dark, cloud-shrouded sky appeared on the screen. Beneath it were ruins. Definitely our city. The camera shifted, catching—

I slammed the pause button.

"What the hell?"

Before me was… me. Or rather, someone who looked exactly like me. A grimy face, tactical backpack, weapons… He moved in a crouch toward cover, holding a flashlight and an assault rifle at the ready. He scanned the street, made sure it was clear, and signaled to someone. Nikolai emerged from behind a wall—in a brand-new uniform, gear without a scratch, weapons looking like they were straight from the store. He had almost reached cover when a vehicle resembling a "Tiger," though modified, appeared around the corner. Drones hovered above it.

It all happened in seconds. Fire was opened from the vehicle onto the building. Almost simultaneously, two… creatures appeared near the car. My brain couldn’t find another word. One of them, skidding in a turn, burst into the house they were shooting at. The second raced further down the street. At that moment, my double raised his weapon and opened fire on it.

The image froze.

"That’s all I can show you," Makar said quietly.

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"What… the… hell?"

My mouth felt dry. Speaking became difficult.

"That is… 'Tomorrow'," Makar paused. "A world very similar to ours, but with its own… nuances. Our knowledge of Tomorrow is extremely limited," he continued, choosing his words carefully. "Until recently, we didn’t know about it at all…" He faltered, as if mentally editing his own speech.

"For the most part, our information is based on the stories of the few inhabitants our… let’s call them researchers… have managed to speak with."

He nodded, as if confirming his own choice of words.

"Anyway, you saw it yourself. Nikolai is there… He’s wounded. He needs to be pulled out. But now, we’re going to a restaurant; I haven’t eaten since dinner yesterday, and we have a long talk ahead."

Without waiting for my answer, Makar stood and headed for the exit.

The restaurant "Kupets" was a two-minute walk down the street. We settled at a corner table in the deserted hall and ordered potatoes with meat and mushrooms and some fruit mors from the waitress. The pitcher of mors was brought immediately, with the promise that the rest would arrive within twenty minutes. I was about to ask a question, but Makar preempted me, raising a hand.

"We don’t have the right person to get Nikolai out. Let alone an entire group."

He paused, gauging my reaction.

"It all started not so long ago," he continued. "How? Even I don’t know everything. No clearance. Just at some point, the possibility of a transition to… 'Tomorrow' appeared."

Makar ran his fingers along the glass of mors.

"Now we know more. But this is all theory. Two transitions. Or rather, one entrance and one exit. The distance between them is massive. I’ll tell you the details later. It doesn’t matter for now."

I waited in silence for him to continue.

"It all started when one day, in broad daylight, a man flew out of a basement of a house—right here on neighboring Chkalov Street." He looked up. "Literally."

The words came with difficulty; it was obvious that having such conversations was not his usual business.

"The guy was covered in dust, dressed in a mix of military gear and rags, loaded with weapons, battered and drenched in blood. He didn’t resist when he was disarmed by a traffic police patrol that happened to be nearby." Makar leaned in slightly. "Twenty-four hours later, the area was cordoned off and declared an emergency zone. The residents were relocated. You should remember that."

I nodded. Such a story had indeed happened, though the rumors were that terrorists had mined something and the authorities had missed it.

"And that’s it?"

"No," Makar shook his head. "Rumors spread. Our… 'partners' learned about the incident. After long negotiations, a joint group was organized to study the phenomenon. That’s how the first controlled passage appeared." He took a sip of mors. "The passage there is with us. And with the Americans—only the way back."

I narrowed my eyes.

"But the first guy got out somehow? So there’s an exit here too?"

"Correct," Makar nodded. "But we haven’t been able to bring anyone back yet."

"Why?"

He paused.

"Because not everyone can enter. That’s the first issue. There is also a second one, but we won’t talk about that now."

I raised my eyebrows inquisitively.

"Look," Makar said, resting his elbows on the table. "For the first expedition, we equipped two groups. Volunteers. High-level specialists."

I listened in silence.

"The first group entered…" He slowly shook his head. "And a second later, out of ten people, only two remained. The rest vanished."

I didn’t quite understand what he meant and asked:

"How… vanished?"

"Evaporated. Their things remained, but they were gone." Makar looked away. "Within a five-kilometer radius of the entrance, there is communication with us. We can even transmit video. But beyond that—silence. The second group…" He squeezed a napkin between his fingers. "They all vanished."

I said nothing.

"But now we have a theory," he continued. "Researchers at the entrance installed cameras and instruments. They helped us understand one thing." He paused. "If a person from here has a living double there, then that person vanishes during the transition. I hope I’ve explained that clearly?"

I felt my stomach knot up.

"Nikolai was able to enter because his double died in a skirmish with the creatures. Died in front of witnesses from the first group. When this theory emerged and we learned of it, we immediately began testing it and looking for suitable candidates for transitions. And that is exactly why Nikolai became one of the researchers."

I opened my mouth, but Makar stopped me with a gesture.

"I’ll tell you the details later. The main thing is—Nikolai is alive but wounded. Right now, he is being hidden by three of our… local employees, so to speak. Two operatives from the first group are heading toward the exit point in Texas."

"To where?" was all I could manage.

At that moment, the waitress brought the order. I stared at the steam rising from the potatoes and mushrooms. We remained silent until she left.

"To Texas, Kostya. There’s not exactly an exit there, but more on that later…" Makar continued. "Maybe order a hundred grams after all?" he added with a smirk.

"Even a bottle a day for a week wouldn’t help me figure this out. No need, thanks. I don’t really drink," I said.

"Fine. As I was saying," Makar went on, "communication only works near a transition point. At least, that’s what we know at the moment. So—"

"And where are your two specialists now?" I interrupted.

"I can’t even imagine. Besides reaching the exit, they have another task—to try and find other transition points. There’s a theory: if they manage to establish contact somewhere along the way, it means there might be a way out in that area. Or a way in. To be honest, I don’t know yet."

For a while, we ate in silence. Only when I pushed my plate away did Makar continue.

"Your double is dead."

"Good thing you waited until I finished eating," I muttered.

"At the end of that video I showed you, he was gunned down from that vehicle. The drone accompanying Nikolai filmed everything. We cut that part out so as not to shock you immediately."

"And what do you want from me now? For me to climb into this 'Tomorrow' of yours?" I already knew the answer, but I asked anyway.

"Yes, that’s exactly what we want, Kostya."

He raised a hand, stopping my next question before I could ask it.

"This is solely your decision, Konstantin, and no one else’s. There…" He waved a hand vaguely. "There could be anything. Diseases, mutant creatures, radiation… And what did you expect? How many facilities have stood without control? Chernobyl might seem like a sweet bedtime story compared to that."

He leaned forward slightly.

"From what we’ve managed to gather—from limited research and from information provided by our partners—something went wrong there with their laboratory experiments. People, after being vaccinated against some virus—let’s say, something similar to our COVID, to make it easier for you to understand—began to mutate. Not immediately, but after some time."

"The mutations varied in type and stage. Some turned into creatures resembling a hyena crossed with a gorilla. Some remained on two legs but were no longer human—vicious, aggressive beings. Some… became mutants but retained the ability to think. Those are the most dangerous ones."

"Those who didn’t take the vaccine—they die. Mutants kill them, the lack of medicine and the constant struggle for survival finish them off."

He paused.

"And the creatures… that’s a whole other conversation. Mutants—they were the ones in the car. And near it too."

"I’ll tell you straight," Makar went on, "the biggest problem is something else. If a person from here has a double there—and that double is a mutant—then during the transition, that person also vanishes. Finding a candidate for transition without risk is practically impossible."

"Now we have you. And that first guy who managed to come here—or rather, fall out of Tomorrow at the very beginning. But there’s a problem with him—he categorically refuses to return. His double died three years ago during a special operation."

"It’s the same story with the Americans who fell through—or whoever they are, I don’t know exactly. Their doubles are also dead. The reasons vary, but the result is the same."

He paused.

"And one more important point: the Americans have the same situation—none of those who came from there want to go back."

Makar fell silent.

And I, though I had only just learned about this “Tomorrow,” already understood very well those who didn’t wish to return. Everything he was telling me simply didn’t fit in my head. And something in this story clearly didn’t add up.

Questions were piling up. More and more.

But aloud, I asked only one:

"So all of this is just to pull Kolya out? I find it hard to believe a fairy tale about saving not even your own soldier, but some freelance guy who just agreed to go on a quick gig. Let’s either have it as it is—or I’ll pay for this lovely lunch and we’ll go our separate ways."

"There is, of course, something else," Makar said. "But I will only speak of that after your consent."

He had somehow imperceptibly switched to the informal tone.

"You're not much of a recruiter," I said ironically.

"It’s not my primary profession. To be completely honest, I’m doing this for the first time. It’s just the deadlines—and there’s no one else for now," Makar said, spreading his hands.

Silence hung in the air.

For about five minutes, each of us was lost in our own thoughts. Makar responded to messages on his phone, occasionally glancing in my direction. And I stared blankly at the TV, where an ad for the restaurant and the dishes served here was playing.

"Let me tell you how we see it," Makar finally said, unable to hold back any longer, pouring more mors into our glasses.

"We assume the following: after certain training, you go into… 'Tomorrow.' You try to get Nikolai out. His condition is stable but grave. There was a moment when he began to recover, but lately his condition has deteriorated. During the last comms session, he could barely speak, constantly losing his train of thought."

"What exactly led to this…" Makar spread his hands again. "Without an on-site examination, it’s hard to say more. You will be the one to conduct that examination. You will receive everything we have for this."

"Task number two: you install equipment with the help of our specialists. They will stay on comms as much as possible. After that equipment starts working, you return together with Nikolai. If we can’t open a passage, then we’ll wait for news from the first pair of specialists."

He paused and looked at me.

"In turn, if you consent, we will immediately settle all your problems. There will be a handler at the training base; they will brief you. And once we’re sure everything is ready, you can move out."

"Besides everything else, the commission for your transition there will be…" He paused, opened something on his phone, and turned the screen toward me.

I lost count several times, recalculating the number of zeros.

"We will agree on the specific additional sum later. This will be deposited before your departure," he finished.

"Do I have time to think?" I asked, finishing the mors.

"You do—but not much. Until tomorrow. Here’s a number; call when you’ve decided. And don’t forget the non-disclosure," Makar said, emphasizing the last part.

After that, he paid and left the restaurant, leaving me alone in the hall, which was gradually beginning to fill up.

Chapter 3

What Comes Next

Stepping outside, I felt a strange pleasure from the touch of the raindrops for the first time. After standing there for a while, I couldn’t think of anything better than returning to the club.

The bar was nearly empty. Tosha, a young waiter who had recently started working there, was bustling between the tables. Nastya stood behind the bar, pouring something. Noticing me, she waved, beckoning me over. When I approached, she pointed to an empty stool.

"Want something?" she asked, wiping glasses.

"No, thanks. Nastya, do you remember when Kolya disappeared? Did you notice anything unusual?"

She looked at me with surprise, her brow furrowing slightly. One could hardly expect vital information from her, but still…

"Nothing unusual. He left one day—and that was it. I’ve stayed in touch with his ex-wife. She says decent amounts of money hit his account every month. Probably found a good gig somewhere. I wish he’d called, though; we were friends, after all… Can you give me a lift home? I’m finishing in half an hour," she said, abruptly changing the subject.

I could only nod.

Nastya was clearly pleased that I agreed. She hadn’t seemed to expect otherwise. She tossed her hair and began tidying up the counter.

"We could go up to my place; I’ll fix you some dinner," she said as soon as we got into the car.

My plans, of course, were different.

I liked Nastya. She liked me; that had been clear for a long time. I could have offered her something serious. But not now.

Although I didn’t want to admit it to myself, I already knew I would accept Makar’s offer. Maybe because Nikolai needed to be pulled out. Or maybe because something wasn’t quite right in my head. What sane person would agree to such a thing?

The money?

That wasn’t the main point.

But the sum Makar had shown me as a bonus was obscenely large.

Gradually, everything in my mind was falling into place.

I knew exactly what I had to do.

"Nastya, let’s go to my place instead," I said.

She turned, glanced at me, and, as if waiting for an explanation but not hearing one, simply nodded.

"You see, I’ll have to leave. I don’t know for how long. And the house will be empty. You’re renting an apartment, right?"

She nodded again.

"Well, there you go. There’s a house here. If you move in, you’ll be helping me out—and you’ll be more settled. You won’t have to pay; I’ll leave money for expenses and bills."

Silence hung in the car.

Nastya watched me intently, her gaze piercing through me like an X-ray.

"Well, are we going?" I said, breaking it first. "We’ll stop by my place, I’ll show you everything, and then I’ll take you home."

"Fine. But to my place first. Deal?"

The whole way, I felt her casting glances at me. But my mind was occupied with something else entirely. The feeling that I was missing something in this whole story still wouldn’t leave me.

"Kostya, brake. This is my house."

I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I nearly missed the turn.

While Nastya went up to her apartment, I dialed the number Makar had given me.

"Hello. This is Konstantin. I accept."

Nastya was gone for about forty minutes.

I managed to make a couple of calls and ordered a grocery delivery to the house.

She reappeared with two bauls—there’s no other word for those massive striped bags from the nineties.

"You make decisions fast," I told her, grabbing a bag and shoving it into the trunk of the jeep.

"There’s no point in driving back and forth. I’ll gather the small things later. Otherwise… I’d have to take a taxi or beg Tosha."

She shoved the second bag in and, looking at me with her big, beautiful eyes, added softly:

"And besides… what if you change your mind? I’d never forgive myself. Well, shall we go?"

Her question sounded unusually tentative. There was a slight shyness in her voice, which wasn’t like her at all.

"Of course, if there’s nothing else you want to take," I nodded, "let’s go."

We drove in silence the whole way. Only when we reached the house did I take out the key fob and explain how to open the gates with the remote. Then I pulled the car into the yard and led her around the house, showing the locations of all the security cameras.