It was October 22, 2077. The sun was several hours from rising as a small jet carrying a 20-year-old man ushered him away from his home in southern Russia.
The war was becoming too intense, and he had to escape. And Mother always said things are better in America.
Under a radar-evading cloak, the plane touched down in an airfield outside of Montreal (in which they were not allowed), and the pilot shouted him and five other passengers out of the craft as quickly as possible.
"Go, go, you idiots! We don't have much time!" he nearly yelled in Russian. Everyone piled out frantically and scattered before the guards could see them. The man rushed along, almost on all fours, carrying a duffel bag full of food, American dollars, one change of clothes, a small pistol, and a gasmask. His shoulder-long, lead-black hair was tangled and falling down into his eyes as he rolled into the bushes, breathing shallowly to avoid noise.
"Over here, man!" a stage-whisper called from a nearby tree. It was one of the other passengers.
He rushed over. "What? What is it?"
"If you need a place to hide, I reserved two places in one of their Vaults."
"Vaults?"
The man explained in a smoker's rasp, "They built underground shelters, full of food and water; they can stand the bombs for centuries! I was going to hide my brother down there with me, but they found him…" He shook his head, fighting off a memory. "Anyway, I can't just waste it. Here, take this."
He handed him a bright blue ticket with a blonde boy in a jumpsuit, saying something he could not understand.
"Just follow me, and we can get there before sunrise!"
Without a word, he rushed after this stranger as they fled to the only Vault-Tec shelter in all of Canada. The snow was pounding against their hoods as they trudged on, two black shapes against a bone-white background. I sure hope he knows what he's talking about, the man pondered while he ran. We can't afford a mistake.
They stopped several miles from their landing zone, and the new companion pulled a watch from his coat.
"Thank God. We're here with a minute or two to spare. Now go!"
The two fled into the wide mouth of a cavern, and he was the first to get through the wooden door that awaited them there. The door shut behind him, and as the other man tried to fight the door open, he heard a gunshot, two, and the screams of the kind stranger. The guards found him.
He didn't care. Just get inside, just get inside!
The Vault door sat open and the man almost fell into it. He fled into a corridor where a 40-something man in a blue jumpsuit stopped him. The old man didn't seem to hear the commotion.
"Relax, kid, relax! I'm the Overseer here, and I'll take care of you!"
Suddenly, it dawned on him. Oh shit! I don't speak English!
"Ehh…" He asked him in his own tongue if the Overseer spoke Russian.
"Da!" The Overseer explained that he was required to know multiple languages, as per Vault-Tec regulation.
In his own language, he exclaimed, "Oh, Thank God! Here's my ticket, then."
He handed him his ticket and was given a jumpsuit of the same kind as the Overseer.
"Name?" asked the Overseer.
"I am Dmitry Panas Shukhov."
"Good." He wrote the name down on metallic clipboard. "I am Jean Rousseau, for future reference.
"Thank you, Mr. Rousseau." He slowly regained his composure as he changed into the jumpsuit. As he stepped out, a woman with red hair and striking blue eyes greeted him and, in somewhat-grammatically-correct Russian, asked Dmitry to follow her to his new room.
"Oh. Alright then…" Dmitry was a bit disappointed when he was left alone. The redhead had used the phrase for my quarters instead of your quarters. "Damn," he said to himself. "That was a letdown."
Dmitry let out a sigh and hung his clothes in a clean, stainless steel locker next to his bed.
He looked at the spare jumpsuit left in there by the staff. He finally got a good look at what he was wearing. He was apparently now a part of Vault 137. I should be safe here, he thought. He looked toward his desk and saw a very large wrist watch. He picked it up, carefully, as if he would break it. He read the writing on the side to the best of his ability. He couldn't speak English worth anything, but he could read it just fine. The large, green display showed the same boy from his ticket, and the bright lettering read:
Welcome to your new Vault-Tec PIP-Boy 2000!
This tool's functions are as follows:
Stats (this confused him slightly) Items Data
… He read all the instructions, tripping up occasionally at certain mannerisms, but finally found the language setting and flipped it to Russian.
Ah, much better.
He toyed with his new device until lights out like a kitten with a new ball of yarn, pausing only a few times for meals. Dmitry was always a very technologically minded boy in school, so this would work for him perfectly.
He turned the display off around 11:00 PM and drifted off to sleep, unusually quickly due to all the action today.
He dreamt about the man who got him to this place, whom he knew he should have felt for but simply did not. He dreamt about the sound of the gun.
But, instead, the bullet went through his head, not the strangers. He saw his own brain scatter on the door, blocking out the great big 1-3-7. He tossed and turned for hours from this, and could not go back to sleep when he woke up.
My name is Dmitry Panas Shukhov. I am an emigrant who has fled from my home in Russia to survive the war that is sure to come. I think I am safe, but I am still afraid. I am afraid that the world I will one day step back out into will not be the same one I left.
The day was upon them, and no one knew it. It was October 23, 2077, the day of the Great War.
Dmitry was alone, feigning polite conversation with the Mr. Handy unit at the bar, when the radio sounded from all halls and his PIP-Boy all at once.
The Overseers voice rang out words that he could not grasp, but he knew the tone all too well.
We are all in danger. The bartender zipped back to his powering station, which closed him behind an iron door.
Dmitry looked about with wide eyes and a thudding heart, until he saw the redhead from the last night dash by the exit. He followed her, thinking she knew what to do. I don't like panicked running. It doesn't seem to end well for me. They ran down to the bottom, with all of about 500 residents cluttered around the glowing generator.
Dmitry lifted his arm out of the writhing mass surrounding him to check the time. Only 1:30.
These men work fast. The Overseer transmitted from his office to all PIP-Boys, echoing his voice all the way to the sleeping quarters.
"Do not be alarmed, citizens of Vault 137. We are well protected in this fortress of American ingenuity. We must simply keep our wits about us, and we will survive this blast as if it weren't happening."
Reading the real-time captions on his display, Dmitry scoffed in his head. That doesn't help! Even I nearly shit my pants!
They waited, all of them nestled in the steel womb of the reactor, while the Overseer stood in his office, staring at the various screens of his terminal. Most news stations had gone out, so he simply tuned one screen to the emergency radio broadcast from Vaults in the area, the 'area' being within the space of 1000 miles. They may have been annexed, but they weren't American. This Vault was the result of a great deal of complaining from the new subjects of the citizens.
The Overseer thought with gravity, Please let this one be a control. Please, God…
It was three o'clock or four when the rumbling and screams of people at the door stopped. The camera at the entrance now showed charred bodies. Baby carriages were irradiated lumps of molten plastic.
He rested his head against the terminal, breathing shallowly and trying to gain a hold on the situation. But, how does one truly comprehend the end of the world?
By 7:00 PM, he had pressed the button to allow the denizens above the reactor level, and they were allowed to weep amongst themselves. Dmitry wandered the halls, looking utterly dazed. He looked in on the woman with the red hair. She was like him. She did not cry, for there was no one she knew to mourn. She was only catatonic, realizing that she was one of only a few thousand people who would ever walk the Earth again. Dmitry poked his head in, and they both started to talk. Out of politeness, Dmitry excused her grammar, also due in part to the fact that he couldn't take his eyes off of her.
Her name was Nicole. She was rather strange, but very intelligent. They talked about their lives before the Vault, what they wanted to do when they left, where they would go. This was as far as it got. Dmitry was not disappointed this time, as he didn't need the same thing as before. All the two of them wanted was someone to speak to. They wanted a human security blanket to scream their troubles into.
Dmitry was a little happier than before when he slept. The lights flickered on at the same time the smoked-out sun rose above ground.
All day, everyone was silent. Only the cries of children and muffled sobs coming from quarter rooms.
No one wanted to eat, but a few did anyway. Dmitry half-heartedly picked the eggs of his plate and ate them. No conversation, no meetings, not even the Overseer sent out his signals.
The Overseer was already gone. A woman finally let out the loudest sound of the day when she saw him.
He was slumped over his desk, blood pooling around him, falling from his nostrils and mouth. A gaping red-black cavity stared at all who came to see from the back of his neck. A 10mm pistol sat in the puddle.
Dmitry saw him and nearly vomited. He couldn't take it. He just couldn't…
And apparently, no one else could either.
Within a week, the Vault was in a heavy unrest.
A chip was discovered on the Overseer's body, before he was cremated. The chip, as the head scientist found out, was directly connected to the Overseer's heartbeat and the clothing, food, and water dispensers. He was dead, and so were the resources.
Everyone was without hope. People fought over the few remaining stores of supplies. But, about 2 weeks after the Overseer's death, Dmitry and the lead scientist were able to crack the code for the door.
When the alarm sounded that the door was open, everyone attempted to pile out at once. Dmitry ran to find Nicole, and in a panicked rush, they followed the writhing crowd out into the sunlight.
They could not believe what they were looking at.
Trees were blown-back sticks, covered in ash. The sky was a dismal black. Everyone was had to tie a towel from the Vault latrines around their faces to keep out the caustic smoke. Dmitry and Nicole looked at each other, and without speaking, decided that they should leave together. These people should survive on their own, Dmitry thought to himself. Surely. It's not really my concern anyway…
Dmitry looked back out into the crowd of people huddled about the cliff face where the Vault was implanted. Children and mothers cried. Dmitry strapped on his gas mask, to protect his lungs and to blur out the mass of people. They mourned for their families. They mourned for their friends. They mourned for the world they loved.
Nicole tugged on his arm as he stood there, breathing slowly to calm himself. She asked in his language.
"Are you coming?"
"What? Oh, yes." The yellow lenses on his mask covered the tired eyes behind them. He adjusted he adjusted his bag over his leather jacket, and followed her.
My name is Dmitry Panas Shukhov. I am again a refugee, but now I am fleeing into a more hostile land than I could before comprehend. I have a companion whom I do not truly know, but I must trust anyway. I just have to keep moving. That's all I can do now.
It has been two weeks since Dmitry and Nicole had left the Vault. They had been travelling together, sleeping together, but nothing else, which Dmitry took in silent frustration.
They had decided to go south, in hopes of finding a better situation in New York.
Dmitry had found several deceased soldiers posted at the border, and was picking through their things.
Nicole asked him in his language, "What are you doing? You cannot just scavenge them like a vulture!"
"Yes I can. These men don't need them anymore, after all." He removed the contents of the soldier's wallet, discarding identification in favor of money. He also removed his assault rifle, trench knife, and Gauss rifle, strapping the first around his back, jostling his duffel bag to make room.
"Look around to see if you can find some medicine. We'll need it out here," Dmitry said.
Nicole sighed, and combed the station for a first aid kit. She found two large blood packs, some water, close to its expiration date but not quite there, and various bandages. She also found a large hypodermic needle full of Psycho.
"Er, Dmitry, do we think we need use this?" She asked, holding the needle up. He didn't recognize it, so he shrugged and replied "Yeah."
Dmitry settled his new equipment, stuffed the last he could find of the station's food rations into his bag, and smiled beneath his mask, feeling satisfied with himself.
"Dmitry." Nicole said, in a tone both beckoning and questioning.
Confused slightly, he answered. "Yes?..."
She looked him in the eyes, and said in a sweet voice, "Would you like learn English?"
The way her voice sounded sparked some much-needed positivity in him and he replied, almost flabbergasted, "Yes… Yes, I would."
Nicole needed to speak in her own language. She didn't want to feel like an alien. Ironically, Dmitry held the same sentiment, for the same reason. But, being a man, he found himself swayed for reasons he didn't fully grasp to listen to her.
As they broke through the borderline into America, they began their first English lesson. Nicole already had surmised that he could read, so she used that to identify certain things and pronounce the words he read instead of matching words in his head, as he had previously done.
Every day it went like this. Get up, go until sundown, scavenge along the way, camp at sundown, learn English, over and over. The world looked no better than before, save the lack of smoke. Life was nearly non-existent, but the tiniest creatures still lived. Scorpions looked around and picked at what they could, just as Dmitry and Nicole did. It took three and a half weeks since they left for them to see an actual sunrise. Smoky, dark, and only a sliver, but it was still a sunrise.
Being quite intelligent, Dmitry picked up the essentials of English quickly. Business talk, for when they saw other survivors, talk about food, weapons, directions. It was in the middle of a lesson, when Dmitry had his mask off that Nicole looked at him in a way he was surprised at first to see, then extremely relieved. He put a mark in the book they had found, set it aside and met her gaze directly. They both blushed, but soon more than just the mask was removed…
Touching, sweet nothings said in mixed languages, a dirty tangle of limbs.
Around an hour and a half later, they both found themselves sprawled out on the mattress of someone vaporized nearly a month ago.
"Did we just do that?" Dmitry asked, dazed.
"Yes, dear, we did."
"Well. That's… something." Nicole giggled at the abrupt stop in his thoughts, and curled up against him.
Dmitry moved his arm around her.
'Dear', Dmitry mused to himself. That works for me.
Suddenly the end of the world isn't so awful.
The two held each other in the cold that still remained in the North despite the blasts.
And they slept better than they had since the war began.
The next morning, they were forced to carry on as if it didn't happen. "New York isn't going anywhere right now," Nicole joked, "But the radiation might make it get up and walk anyway."
They both laughed.
My name is Dmitry Panas Shukhov. I am a refugee seeking a new home in New York. I have a long way to go, but, apparently, I have a loving companion now who will keep me going. But still I worry. Surely not everyone is compassionate as her.
Their travels continued the same way for weeks. Neither mentioned their private moment outright, but they replicated it once or twice, then quickly went back to business when they were satisfied, not saying a word about it. The area had mostly caught incendiary bombs, so though there was radiation coming in from the wind occasionally, the main damage was burnt buildings and forests.
It was eighty miles north of Albany, among scraps of buildings, that a blur crossed Dmitry's vision. It was the first humans the two had seen in their countless days since leaving the Vault.
He put his arm across Nicole to stop her, and then crouched. Nicole did the same and asked in English, "What is it?"
Dmitry fumbled out his binoculars, and looked at the mountain of rubble, and saw a group of men. They had built a fire at a small camp.
They were roasting something.
He turned up the magnification, and saw it.
It was a child on the spigot.
"Oh, Christ!" Dmitry whispered. Nicole motioned for the binoculars, looked in the same direction, and gagged.
"No… they wouldn't really…"
In Russian, he replied, "Apparently so." He paused, and determined, "These bastards need to be taught a lesson."
"They look heavily armed, Dmitry. We can't just barge in there."
"I don't give a damn. I won't stand by while they roast children."
Nicole, biting her lip nervously, agreed after a moment of sweaty, panicked thought.
Nodding assent, Dmitry added, "Besides, they probably have supplies we need. I'll take the knife and assault rifle, you take the big one," and he handed her the Gauss rifle.
"Stay a good distance off. I don't want you getting hurt."
"A-alright."
Dmitry strapped on his mask, flipped the hood of his jacket over his head, dropped the bag at Nicole's feet, and scuttled along the mountain of rubble out of sight.
"God help him…" Nicole said to herself.
Dmitry slowly slinked into the destroyed apartment complex, and jumped in his skin when he heard his Geiger meter ticking away as he got closer to their fire.
"Not now, dammit." He flicked the OFF switch, deciding the noise would get him killed. A little radiation won't hurt. Like a little sunlight, really. He peeked through the window, and looked at the men.
They tore into the corpse, wearing sparse leather clothes, probably trying to look threatening. They had scraggly, greasy beards, and Dmitry was disgusted until he remembered he was tucking the same thing under his mask. He was lucky it still fit.
It was just dark enough that he was never noticed at the window. One of them went in Dmitry's direction, saying he was looking for their stash of whiskey, and Dmitry ducked down, pulling out his knife.
He hobbled over to their refrigerator and waited for his prey to open the door.
As he did so, he shot up like a spring, pressed the blade against his throat and whispered, "Scream and you die."
The emaciated figure was in no mood to argue, and feebly whispered, "What do you want?"
In what little English he could muster, he said, "What the hell you thinking? Eating child like that."
"There's no food here, man. Nothing can grow, all the supplies ran out weeks ago, and she was dying anyway. W-we had to…"
"Bullshit." Dmitry was done with him, and dragged the knife through his windpipe, dropping him immediately to avoid the blood.
"Freak." He rummaged through the body's pockets, finding a Chinese pistol with fifteen rounds for it, probably smuggled in, one inhaler full of Jet, and three Stimpaks. Then, he heard footsteps behind him, and pointed his new prize toward the door.
"Hey Bones, where's the boo—oh Shit!"
Dmitry opened fire, getting the first man through in the stomach, and he fell, holding his gut and moaning in pain. He finished him with a round in the back of the head.
Dmitry called out, "Nicole, open fire, now!" And bolts of energy fell into the camp every few seconds. As one of the men ran from their fire to the door, his arm and half of his torso were singed off, detonating the grenade he held, which in turn killed the man beside him.
The shots quieted, and Dmitry ventured out into the open area, dropping his hood and waving in Nicole's direction. He signaled a thumbs-up to let her know she could come down, and he combed through pockets again. He found nothing, save a few dollars and a sawed-off shotgun in rather poor condition.
Hmm. That could have been better, but at least we have more medicine. He pulled up his torn pant leg and jammed one of the Stimpaks into his aching leg. He shuddered at the needle going in, but bent his knee after pulling it out and felt better in a few seconds.
Nicole nearly tripped coming into the fire pit with him, and Dmitry greeted her in his language with "Nice shot."
"Oh. Thanks." They both had to look away from the body over the fire, now only cinders.
"Found you a new toy," he said, and tossed her the pistol. She holstered it, fumbling the Gauss rifle into the bag, which Dmitry took.
"Now, let's keep going. I saw a path down into the highway nearby."
"Good. Maybe there's some shelter with decent people out there."
"Humph. Let's hope so."
Dmitry flicked his PIP-boy back on, and the Geiger counter went back to its song. Dmitry sighed, and ignored it, following Nicole into the rubble, through several surface streets with leveled buildings and scorched skeletons, and they walked silently onto what her map identified as Interstate 87.
The sun set again, filtered out by the smoke. Only the lights of their PIP-Boys could light the way, until they slipped into a partially destroyed pillbox to sleep.
My name is Dmitry Panas Shukhov. I am a refugee seeking a home in New York. I have taken my first lives here. I try to seem jaded, strong, but only for her. I will be damned if I become a monster like them.
The calendar on their PIP-Boys labeled the day as March 23 of 2078. Dmitry and Nicole had been camping in what used to be an apartment complex in Kingston, New York state for a week.
Dmitry was scratching himself like a drug addict, as he had been doing since late February.
"We need to get something for that, dear," Nicole urged him.
His skin had turned somewhat pallid, and he was picking off what looked like sunburn. But it lacked the pain, only the itch remained. And the urge to take your skin off.
In a voice resembling a smoker's, he replied, "I'm fine, Nicole. I heard over the radio there's medication for this being developed in a survivor's colony on Long Island. Just minor rad poisoning is all."
She sighed and said "Okay…" She had become used to his invincible attitude. They both knew very well that he was not all right.
As his usual routine, he trudged out into the ashy snow to hunt for whatever could survive in the wasteland. It would have to remain this way until it would stop snowing so hard. Then they could finally get back on track.
Dmitry slithered quietly across the thick snow and set a bear trap on the ground, and then slowly placed a piece of dead Raider onto it. He didn't tell Nicole what the bait was or where he got it.
Looking all around, he slipped into a bush thirty yards away with his pistol ready to finish off the animal that got stuck. He scratched his cheek and flicked off a piece of gray-green skin.
After half an hour of waiting, Dmitry's legs were starting to get numb as a something hobbled out into the courtyard where he laid his trap. Squinting hard, Dmitry saw it.
It was a man. Of sorts.
His skin had become leathery, and his eyes were completely covered by cataracts. His hair had fallen out, leaving a thin grey wisp lying down on his neck, which, like the rest of him, was bony and malnourished. He was going only by smell as he came to the meat on all fours.
What is this thing?… Dmitry thought in fearful amazement.
The creature snatched up the meat, but both his hands became caught in the trap.
He screamed at a pitch that rang in Dmitry's ears. Thinking quickly, he leveled his pistol at the monster and fired into his throat. Blood dribbling form his neck, he slumped over, still clasping the slab of Raider between broken wrists.
Almost falling form his numbness, Dmitry limped over to it.
This… was a person…He almost jumped back at the thought. But his stomach didn't seem to see the difference. It growled lowly, and Dmitry hadn't eaten in two weeks.
He stuck his knife into the side of the monster; saying to himself, it's not a person, it's just a mutant or something, please for the love of God don't tell Nicole…
Wiping the blood from the slabs of meat he had retrieved, he soon had a large meal sitting in a plastic bag.
He returned to Nicole, who had started the fire in anticipation of him.
They ate silently, Dmitry just focusing on keeping it down, Nicole not even thinking about what it might be.
Dmitry went to bed early that night and kept dreaming about the thing he had caught and eaten.
First it looked like a snarling zombie, then a starving and naked man, zombie, man, zombie, man….
He woke the next morning next to Nicole, sweaty, and though he had slept through the night, he felt exhausted.
My name is Dmitry Panas Shukhov. I am a refugee seeking shelter in New York. I have brought my almost-wife and myself into cannibalism and she doesn't even know. I have a disease that makes me feel like a leper, or even undead. I may be a monster after all.
The snow was melting, and the sun was rising undeterred by the ashen clouds as they had for so long. The winter was gone, finally, and the incessant snow that blocked long-distance travel was out of the way. Already Dmitry and Nicole had made it to a town called Orange Lake. Dmitry was rummaging through a refrigerator, trying not to scratch at his scalp. In waiting for a clear road, his hair had begun to fall out. When the winds picked up, it tore away little shreds of it, little black feathers or greasy hair. Nicole was standing watch at the door of the particular diner they were raiding for food. There was much to be had, but they had to stomach the radiation. Nicole had apparently developed an immunity, and she had plenty or Rad-Away that they found in a hospital in New Paltz. Nicole cocked the shotgun in her hands and called to Dmitry to get down.
He kicked the refrigerator door closed and scooted over to her in a crouched position, with a piece of Cram still in his mouth and food bulging the pockets of his jacket.
"What is it?"
"I don't know. Definitely people. It might be Raiders."
"Shit." In hearing others speaking the Vault, he had become most proficient in swearing in English. 'Shit' was his favorite.
"See?" Nicole said, motioning with her gun barrel. Dmitry saw through his blurry goggles that there were four or five people with a large cow, moving southwest along the highway only two blocks away. They seem safe enough, he thought. Can we trust them?
"Let's find out what they're after," Dmitry whispered.
With her weapon drawn, Nicole aimed squarely at the head of one of the caravan, while Dmitry went to them, with his hood up, mask on firmly, and his hands over his head. He kept his .32 pistol out of sight.
"You there, halt!" Shouted the one in front. He wore American military power armor, Dmitry noted, but it was stained with blood, and one shoulder plate was replaced with part of a car's hood.
Dmitry stood perfectly still and asked in English, "Who are you?"
"Not yet, kid. Who are you?"
"I am Dmitry Panas Shukhov." He decided not to point out Nicole until he was sure it was safe.
"Please," Dmitry said, "I mean no harm. I come from the north, I'm trying to get to New York."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. I need help." He coughed, at first due to his new condition, but he poured it on at the end for emphasis.
After looking over the thin, retching thing in front of him, the man in the armor lowered his laser rifle.
"Lucky for you, we're headed to New York too. My name is Corporal Richard Matheson, son. But if you travel with me, you will refer to me as 'Corporal' or 'sir.' Clear?"
"Yes… sir."
"Good. You can bring your friend along with you too. She's quiet, but terrible at hiding."
Blushing under his mask, he lowered his arms in a sense of defeat, and motioned to Nicole, who inched out and walked over to the group, carrying their bag of supplies over her shoulder.
"So, who's this little thing?" the corporal asked.
"My name is Nicole Wyvern."
"Wyvern, huh? Might as well make introductions as we go. C'mon."
They followed the road out of town.
Nicole whispered to Dmitry in Russian, "are you sure these people are safe?"
"No," he replied, "but they will do for now. We still have our weapons, so we can make a break for it anytime."
After introducing himself, he nodded his head toward a woman in leather, with long pink hair, showing signs of a permanent dye treatment from an expensive Mr. Handy unit. "That is Joan."
He went on, "Those two young men are Lionel and Jay," motioning to two soldiers in winterized Marine armor. Jay was going with no helmet as his was damaged fighting a ghoul, and instead had wrapped a shred of red fleece blanket all around his head, with only sunglasses to show where his eyes were. The other was in full armor, albeit scratched up, again by ghouls.
The group followed the Interstate until nightfall, talking occasionally, but remaining mostly silent. Nicole and Dmitry looked at each other as they approached a place to camp inside a partially destroyed office , showing the same visage of hope mixed with worry.
Dmitry rested with Nicole that night against a wall, while the rest stayed nearer to the center of the exposed room on the bottom floor. She held him tightly and slept soundly as ever. He kept his mask on to hide that he couldn't sleep, and he kept his hand next to his gun's holster, trying to stay vigilant.
But soon, sleep claimed him too and he was sleeping dreamlessly.
My name is Dmitry Panas Shukhov. I am a refugee on the way to New York. I am traveling with a caravan of people I do not know. But I have to continue. I refuse to die in this wasteland.