The young and the strong will survive Oleg Divov

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Title: The Young and the Strong Will Survive

About the book "The Young and the Strong Will Survive" Oleg Divov

On the mountains of weapons left over from civilization, only the young and the strong survived. In this new world, everyone is equal. Everyone paid for a pass here in full with their memory. People who have lost their past, who have forgotten about the existence of relatives and friends, are seized by a thirst for causeless aggression. But the one who wants to remember more than others should be the most ruthless killer and simply must shoot first. This is the law of survival in this world - the Law of the frontier.

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And the Creator sends his "soldier of fortune" to dying humanity ... ...

Sleeping genie
Golovachev Vasily

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King of the hill
Panov Vadim

They were strangers in this world, because the Sun, giving life to all living things, brought them death. And not only that. For hundreds of years, the Masans have mercilessly exterminated each other. Some of them accepted the Dogmas of Obedience and found refuge in the Secret City, while others, who received the name Sabbat, chose freedom. And the war. But the time has come, and even the most stubborn of the Sabbats realized that it is necessary to negotiate with the Great Houses, and the one who can do this will rightfully lead the family ... And in the meantime, in the Secret City, too ...

Messenger
Golovachev Vasily

The hero of the novel, Nikita Sukhov, becomes an accidental witness to the elimination of the Messenger of Light Forces on Earth. Having miraculously survived, he realizes that he has fallen under the crosshairs of non-earthly killers forever and may die at any moment. He only has to accept the challenge and pass as a new Messenger the terrible Path of the Sword in the Fan of Worlds ...

Fake mirrors
Lukyanenko Sergey

Everything is possible in the virtual world - it is impossible only to die. It was like this before - now it is not so. Somewhere in the labyrinths of the Depth, a mysterious One has appeared, possessing the ability to kill for real. But the death of people in the Depth is the death of the Depth itself.
And then divers enter the streets of Deeptown ... ...

Fall of paradise
Kumin Vyacheslav

After 2000 years, a platoon of Lieutenant Kamyshov, frozen in the mountains under an avalanche, got a chance for a second life - after all, only warriors from the past are able to save the earth's civilization from a space invasion.

Glass Sea (Book 3)
Lukyanenko Sergey

The best Russian "space opera"! A fascinating story of an earthling, abandoned into the depths of space and leading the galactic war!

Silver and lead
Ulanov Andrey

There is only one step from the "first section" of a secure facility to a magical land inhabited by mythological creatures. And do not think that this is a step into a psychiatric hospital - this is a Step into a parallel world. This is what the freshly baked KGB major Stepan Kobzev will have to do, deservedly included in the limited contingent of Soviet troops. It is he who will make sure that it is more difficult to resist the magical abilities of the aborigines of a foreign world than the military power of the army of a potential enemy, which ...

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Zlotnikov Roman

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What do the ancient writings, apparently inscribed in blood, mean?

Damn it? Prophecy?

In any case, their price ...

Berserk
Kumin Vyacheslav

The main character ends up in prison, but he will be in prison for ten years. And for the murder he committed in the cell, he will probably be hanged more. An unexpected way out is found - a recruiter arrived at the prison, and Micha Kempl enters the army. He goes through everything: training, battle, captivity. Then he goes to the elite "Berserker" squad ...

I dreamed about this story. Finally, not entirely, only the brightest moments. I reconstructed the rest, and the names of the heroes and names

Changed cities. But on the whole it remained a dream. It’s just some kind of a familiar system that’s written into words and visual images, to decipher

Koto-ruyu can be done in different ways.

I warn you - it was a terrible dream.

EPILOGUE. IN A SLEEP MIND

Hammer drove up to Moscow from the Kaluga direction on a clear summer afternoon. He had a car - a black Hummer with Tula license plates, because of

Which he, in fact, earned his current name. The devil knows what the count for the last month and, as always, far from the true.

He was dressed as if he had just come from the Marlborough Classic salon: trousers, a jacket, Cossack boots - all leather and a little suede, solid and

Comfortable clothes. He suspected that this was not quite his style, but he liked such clothes. In addition, she played for the image - Hammer for no one

He did not look away, everywhere and for everyone he turned out to be a completely out-of-place person. This is partly why no one has yet mistaken him for

A relative or acquaintance. Hammer could only be recognized by someone who remembered his face. Or real name.

He liked the car, too. Of course, the child of the American conversion ate gasoline in gallons, and his transmission was not for

"Dummies". In extreme mud, this tank could have drowned out of habit. But he tried not to drive on gullies, but the ability

Cars pushing traffic congestion turned out to be very appropriate. Cars just flew into the ditch, and he carefully shifted the trucks exactly by

In addition, on occasion, an outlandish crew could be exchanged for something useful for life. A robbery to capture

There was no need to fear the machine. The few he met on his long journey to Moscow were preoccupied with something completely different. Of course he could

Stand up for yourself and your property. But the junk was now worthless. Rags and iron were piled everywhere. And the most valuable thing for this day is

Information - anyone handed out for free.

He drove up to the bridge of the Ring Road, under which the Kaluga highway was diving, and took his foot off the gas pedal. There was an outpost ahead. The first

Serious outpost for the entire journey. Checkpoint. Hammer turned off the music and rolled down the door window.

I recognize my fellow countrymen ... - he muttered under his breath with a sad grin.

A monumental barricade of reinforced concrete building structures is located under the bridge. The narrow passage to the right was plugged, no more, no

Less, a real T-80. And above, on the bridge, stood the Shilka anti-aircraft gun, and its four barrels stared straight at the newly arrived

Head-on. He looked around in search of manpower, but found none. And a little to the left of the "Shilka" I noticed a massive tower,

Suspiciously familiar.

“Howitzer-cannon one hundred and fifty-five millimeters,” flashed through my head. - Nothing special, I've seen more. Self-propelled base

Standard - "SU-100P" ... Damn it! And I must have served in the army! And it looks like self-propelled guns. Well well! Oh yes I am! "

This discovery surprised him so much that he began to slow down with some delay - there were about fifty meters to the barricade.

I dreamed about this story. Of course, not entirely, only the brightest moments. I reconstructed the rest, and changed the names of the heroes and the names of the cities. But on the whole it remained a dream. It's just some kind of sign system, framed in words and visual images, which can be deciphered in different ways.

I warn you - it was a nightmare dream.

Part I
Epilogue. In a sober mind

Hammer drove up to Moscow from the Kaluga direction on a clear summer afternoon. He had a car - a black Hummer with Tula numbers, which is why he actually earned his current name. The devil knows what the count for the last month and, as always, far from the true.

He was dressed as if he had just come from the classic Marlborough salon: trousers, a jacket, Cossack boots - all leather and a little suede, solid and comfortable clothes. He suspected that this was not quite his style, but he liked such clothes. In addition, she played on the image - Hammer did not look like anyone, everywhere and for everyone he turned out to be a completely non-local person. This is partly why no one has yet mistaken him for a relative or acquaintance. Hammer could only be recognized by someone who remembered his face. Or real name.

He liked the car, too. Of course, the child of the American conversion ate gallons of gasoline, and his transmission was not for "dummies". In extreme mud, this tank could have drowned out of habit. But he tried not to drive along the gullies, but the ability of the car to push traffic congestions turned out to be very appropriate. Cars just flew into the ditch, and he carefully shifted the trucks just enough to seep further.

In addition, on occasion, an outlandish crew could be exchanged for something useful for life. And there was no need to fear a robbery to seize the car. The few he met on his long journey to Moscow were preoccupied with something completely different. Of course, he could stand up for himself and his property. But the junk was now worthless. Rags and iron were piled everywhere. And the most valuable thing for this day - information - was given free by anyone.

He drove up to the bridge of the Ring Road, under which the Kaluga highway was diving, and took his foot off the gas pedal. There was an outpost ahead. The first serious outpost for the entire journey. Checkpoint. Hammer turned off the music and rolled down the door window.

- I recognize my fellow countrymen ... - he muttered under his breath with a sad grin.

A monumental barricade of reinforced concrete building structures is located under the bridge. The narrow passage to the right blocked, no more, no less, a real T-80. And above, on the bridge, stood the Shilka anti-aircraft gun, and its four barrels were staring straight at the newcomer's forehead. He looked around in search of manpower, but found none. And a little to the left of the "Shilka" I noticed a massive tower, suspiciously familiar.

“Howitzer-cannon one hundred and fifty-five millimeters,” flashed through my head. - Nothing special, I've seen more. The self-propelled base is standard - "SU-100P" ... Damn it! And I must have served in the army! And it looks like self-propelled guns. Well well! Oh yes I am! "

This discovery surprised him so much that he began to slow down with some delay - there were about fifty meters to the barricade. And he almost went deaf when an invisible speaker shouted to the whole neighborhood:

- Stand up!

He abruptly laid siege to the car and, showing his peaceful intentions, turned it to the outpost on the port side. He came home and was about to enter. In any available non-violent way.

- Well, who is in charge here? He asked loudly, leaning out the window.

- What was told to you ?! The speaker barked. - You were told not to appear here again! We’ll shoot you to hell, asshole!

- I know nothing! - shouted the guest. - I don’t remember anything! And you yourself are a goat!

The speaker fell silent, puzzled. There was an indistinct grumbling - apparently, they were arguing about something at the microphone. The guest lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

- Come on, tell me your name! - demanded the speaker in a normal voice.

- I have no idea! - answered the guest.

- Why did you come?

- Yes, I'm a local! Muscovite I was in a past life!

- Hey! Looks like he's awake! - shouted from behind the barricade. - Maybe we'll see it up close?

- Man, are you finally awake? The speaker asked.

- Yes, I've been fine for more than a month ...

- Well, thank God! How did you get us, man! Hey guys, go and see what kind of figure he is. The unfortunate cowboy ...

- You will answer for the cowboy! - shouted the guest cheerfully, opening the door and jumping out of the car.

Young men with machine guns, dressed in the most intricate combinations of street camouflage with jeans and leather, deftly climbed through the barricade.

The guest habitually reached into the cabin and dragged out a smooth-bore, fourth-caliber hunting rifle.

Seeing a weapon for shooting at low-flying hippos, the outpost personnel fell asleep from their faces and fell back into cover.

- A cannon to the ground !!! The speaker shouted. - A cannon to the ground !!! Count to three and fire !!! Once!..

The visitor slowly put the carbine on the hood and raised his hands just in case.

- Sorry! He shouted. - Bad habit! I won't do it anymore!

“Cowboy…” the speaker wheezed. - They would kill!

- Well, everything, everything! I won’t shoot! I want to go home!

- Everyone wants to go home ... What is your name?

- Yes, I have no idea! Now it seems to be a Hammer. But you yourself think - how can a Russian have such a surname?

From under the tank, disrespectfully dragging a heavy sniper rifle by the belt, a guy in a black beret crawled to one side.

- I know him! He shouted upstairs. - It's Gosh!

Oleg Igorevich Divov

The young and the strong will survive

I dreamed about this story. Of course, not entirely, only the brightest moments. I reconstructed the rest, and changed the names of the heroes and the names of the cities. But on the whole it remained a dream. It's just a kind of symbolic system, which can be deciphered in different ways.

I warn you - it was a nightmare dream.

FRONTIER (English frontier): 1) border, 2) border of the advance of settlers in the United States.

Part one.

Epilogue. Sane.

Hammer drove up to Moscow from the Kaluga direction on a clear summer afternoon. He had a car - a black Hummer with Tula numbers, which is why he actually earned his current name. The devil knows what the count is and, as always, far from the truth.

He was dressed as if from a Marlboro Classic salon: trousers, a jacket, boots - all leather and a little suede, solid and comfortable things. He suspected that this was not quite his style, but he liked the clothes themselves. The result was a successful image: Hammer did not look like anyone, everywhere and for everyone he turned out to be a completely out-of-place person. Therefore, no one has yet mistaken him for a relative or acquaintance. Hammer could only be recognized by someone who remembered his face. Or real name.

We were also lucky with transport. The product of the American conversion ate gallons of diesel fuel, and its transmission was not for dummies. In serious mud, this tank could have drowned out of habit. But the ability of the car to push through traffic congestion was very appropriate. Cars just flew into the ditch, and he carefully shifted the trucks just enough to seep further.

Finally, on occasion, it was possible to exchange an outlandish crew for something useful. There was no need to fear a robbery attack to seize the car. The few he met on his way to Moscow were worried about something completely different. The junk was now worthless, there were enough rags and iron for everyone. And the most valuable thing - information - everyone gave out willingly and free of charge. In the hope of hearing at least something sensible in return ...

He drove up to the bridge of the Ring Road, under which the Kaluga highway was diving, and took his foot off the gas pedal. There was an outpost ahead. The first serious outpost for the entire journey. Checkpoint. Hammer turned off the music and rolled down the door window.

“I recognize my fellow countrymen…” he muttered with a mournful grin.

A monumental barricade of reinforced concrete building structures is located under the bridge. The narrow passage to the right blocked, no more, no less, a real T-80. And above, on the bridge, stood the Shilka anti-aircraft gun, and its four barrels were staring straight at the newcomer's forehead. He looked around in search of manpower, but found none. And a little to the left of the "Shilka" I noticed a massive tower, suspiciously familiar.

"Howitzer one hundred fifty-five millimeters," flashed through my head. - Nothing special, we've seen more. The self-propelled base is standard - SU-100P ... I wonder what this thing is called? Forgot. Damn it! And I must have served in the army! And it looks like self-propelled guns. Well well! Oh yes I am! "

This discovery surprised him so much that he began to slow down with some delay - there were about fifty meters to the barricade. And he almost went deaf when an invisible speaker shouted to the whole neighborhood:

- Stand up!

He abruptly laid siege to the car and, showing his peaceful intentions, turned it to the outpost on the port side. He came home and was about to enter. In any available non-violent way.

- Well, who's in charge here? He asked loudly, leaning out the window.

- What was told to you ?! The speaker barked. - You were told not to appear here again! We’ll shoot you to hell, asshole!

- I know nothing! - shouted the guest. - I don’t remember anything! And you yourself are a goat!

The speaker fell silent, puzzled. There was an indistinct grumbling - apparently, they were arguing about something at the microphone. The guest lit a cigarette and prepared to wait.

- Come on, tell me your name! - demanded the speaker in a normal voice.

- I have no idea! - answered the guest.

- Why did you come?

- Yes, I'm a local! Muscovite I was in a past life!

- Hey! Looks like he's awake! - shouted from behind the barricade. - Maybe we'll see it up close?

- Man, are you finally awake? The speaker asked.

- Yes, I've been fine for a month now ...

- Well, thank God! How did you get us, man! Hey guys, go and see what kind of figure he is. The unfortunate cowboy ...

- You will answer for the cowboy! - shouted the guest cheerfully, opening the door and jumping out of the car.

Young men with machine guns, dressed in the most intricate combinations of street camouflage with jeans and leather, deftly climbed through the barricade.

The guest habitually reached into the cabin and dragged out a smooth-bore, fourth-caliber hunting rifle.

Seeing a weapon for shooting at low-flying hippos, the outpost personnel fell asleep from their faces and fell back into cover.

- A cannon to the ground !!! The speaker shouted. - A cannon to the ground !!! Count to three and fire !!! Once!…

The visitor slowly put the carbine on the hood and raised his hands just in case.

- Sorry! He shouted. - Bad habit! I won't do it anymore!

“Cowboy…” the speaker wheezed. - They would kill!

- Well, everything, everything! I won’t shoot! I want to go home!

- Everyone wants to go home ... What is your name?

- Yes, I have no idea! Now it seems to be a Hammer. But you yourself think - where does a Russian get such a surname?

From under the tank, disrespectfully dragging a heavy sniper rifle by the belt, a guy in a black beret crawled to one side.

- I know him! He shouted upstairs. - It's Gosh!

The named was so surprised that he even dropped his hands.

- Am I really not Russian? He asked, stunned.

Interested faces appeared over the barricade.

- No! - the "sniper" laughed, coming closer and pulling the beret off his head. He threw the rifle under the tank. - Don't you recognize me?

- Yes, I know you perfectly ... You are Reddy. Igor Rodionov. Kherson, house one. Oh damn…

- Well!!! - Rodionov was delighted. - Well, you see! Listen, Gosh, you haven't met my Lenka, have you?

- Wait, wait ... - Gosh leaned back against the car. - That's the news ... Let me catch my breath for a second. And what kind of Lenka?

- Yes, my wife! In! - Rodionov showed a ring on his finger.

- Wife ... - Gosh for some reason looked at his right hand. “You know, Raddy, to be honest, we never saw each other after school.

- It's a shame, - Rodionov looked down.

- Sorry. Please tell me ... What is this name - Gosh?

- Yes, you invented it yourself. Almost in first grade. You're George. Forgot?

“I forgot,” Gosh admitted. Judging by the expression on his face, he was now trying on the newfound name on himself and, it seems, he did not particularly like it.

“It happens even worse,” Rodionov nodded sympathetically. - But less often.

More and more people slowly crept from the barricade, and gradually a small crowd gathered around Gosh and Rodionov. The guys obviously wanted to ask the newcomer properly, but he looked really dejected.

“A unique case,” Rodionov said proudly. - I am sitting, not bothering anyone, and here is a classmate on you ...

- Couldn't you be mistaken? - suddenly asked Gauche.

- What?! - Rodionov was offended.

- No, that's me ... I'm talking about the name.

“Georgy Dymov,” said Rodionov with pressure.

- Hour by hour is not easier ... - Gosh muttered.

“Your great-grandfather was a Bulgarian,” explained Rodionov. - By the name of Dimov. And here they changed him into Dymov. You told it yourself.

“Rodionov,” said Gosh sadly. - And the distance from the Earth to the Moon, you, by chance, do not remember?

Rodionov poked his teeth and looked reproachfully at Gosh.

- And the muzzle velocity of this ... SVD of yours? - Gosh did not calm down.

“Calm down,” Rodionov asked very gently. “I don’t remember anything at all. I'm a fool. Cretin. Complete idiot. I know that I had a wife, Lenka. Beautiful. And everything else is as if erased.