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 simply 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.

- And about me? .. - asked Gauche with hope in his voice.

“Don't flatter yourself, old man. My childhood memories are still there. But to the point of them ... But I know our class well. You and Leha Romanov were sitting at the same desk. And I am right behind you.

- Who is Lech Romanov? ... - muttered Gosh under his breath.

“In general, you are Georgy Dymov,” concluded Rodionov. - I don’t know the patronymic, sorry.

- Viktorovich! - Gosh blurted out, and he froze in surprise with his mouth open.

- The process is underway! - Someone in the crowd remarked with delight. - See, men, it's coming!

- It goes with him, - the optimist was told gloomily. - And I, for example, backs away.

Gauche raised his eyes to the young people gathered around him.

“We'll remember,” he said quietly. - We will definitely remember everything. But you know, colleagues in misfortune ...

“We'd better not remember,” concluded the same gloomy voice from the back rows.

“I'm afraid so,” nodded Gauche.

* * *

Near the Konkovo ​​metro station, under a blinded traffic light right in the center of the intersection, there was a huge column of dust. Even a tornado. There was a fight inside him - someone was being kicked, tore and tore to pieces. Gauche threw off the gas, pushed the car to the side of the road and tried to see what was going on ahead. For all his dislike of violence, he was even slightly overjoyed. This was the first real manifestation of life in a half-dead city. Of the individuals grappling at the crossroads, none obviously suffered from amnesia, and even more so, did not worry about it. There was a fierce battle raging in the best traditions of "post-Holocaust" literature. They killed there.

In the center of the dusty storm, a hefty black and white dog, very shaggy and obviously thoroughbred, beat a whole flock of skinned mongrels alone. She was still beating. With her teeth, she chewed the throat of the largest opponent, and with her powerful disheveled ass, like a hockey, she flapped those that were smaller. From the heap-small every now and then flew upside down another hurt. Ears stopped from screeching and wheezing. Colorful wool floated in the air.

Gauche carefully drew the car a little closer, rolled down the window and fumbled for his cannon with his right hand. The shaggy dog ​​fought to the death, but the advantage was clearly on the other side. At first, Gauche counted six different-sized opponents, then went astray. The flock stalked in a yard-style strong and corrosive. If a professional Caucasian from the Krasnaya Zvezda kennel were in place of a shaggy one meter tall, he would have had a hard time. Although he would not have allowed a fight. Would scare the mongrels to nervous diarrhea and fall on their backs, bite the smallest and most annoying ones in half for an ostracism, and even go through this flock, as if it never existed ... Gosh squinted, not to aim, but following his thoughts, tracking information. “And I seem to know more about dogs than an ordinary citizen should ... Damn it, where did it come from? But I love dogs. Again - it seems. " He stuck the barrel out of the window, put the butt against the seat and fired.

The fight was scattered in all directions, stunned muzzles stared at the uninvited guest. Only the shaggy beast did not react. On the contrary, she caught the moment. She crushed the victim under her, piled on with all her weight, and her teeth crunched deliciously.

Gauche jumped out of the car.

- I will kill! He shouted, aiming his weapon at a nearby mongrel, a bloody and lathery offspring of several shepherd dogs and at least one spaniel. The dog ran away with a screech. Gauche fired overhead. Buckshot with a hell of a crash broke through the wall of the roadside shop and carried it out completely. The dogs howled in unison and disappeared into space, only their claws slammed on the asphalt.

- Ugh! - Gosh barked. - Ugh! Fu, I said!

The conqueror spat out the chewed enemy and licked the blood from her nose. The dog was shaking openly, her paws buckled. Help came at the most opportune moment - another minute, and the beauty would have been lying open with her belly up, and her other noses would have been covered in blood. Greedy chomping, dragging tidbits through the bushes ... What do they lack rats? Gauche winced.

“Well done, clever,” he praised. The shaggy one glanced at him gloomily and perhaps nodded.

From the neck of the defeated dog, red was whipping thickly. She slowly crawled away, choking and choking.

Gauche put the gun down on the hood and walked slowly towards the shaggy dog.

- You should be washed and combed ... - he said affectionately. “You wouldn’t have a price, you are my darling.

The dog swallowed nervously and shook her head, quite humanly. Without even looking closely, by the mere addition and shape of the muzzle, Gosh determined that she was a bitch, about four or five years old, a very dear and deeply unhappy animal, in dire need of caress, combing and flea remedy. A thin leather collar was visible under the tousled tufts of the neck. How this sleek show animal adapted to an independent life on the Moscow streets, Gosh could not imagine. But the fact that the dog survived spoke in its favor.

And the fact that she was not afraid of shooting and perceived the person as an ally indicated a full course of training, including guard duty, and the absence of serious mental trauma. The latter did not surprise Gosh - it is unlikely that even the most inveterate idiot would decide to hunt such a beautiful dog. Rather, he would try to tame her. Internally, Gosh rubbed his hands and drool. Fate robbed him in full. But she also threw a good gift as a consolation. That this was precisely fate, he had no doubts.

The dog broke away from the contemplation of the dying enemy and slowly turned its head towards the man. Her tail was still hanging limp, but the animal seemed to come to its senses.

- Great, beauty, - said Ghosh. - My name is ... It seems to be George. And you?

He held out his hand to the dog with the back of his hand forward, wondering how naturally he did it. The dog sniffed the hand, yawned heartbreakingly, and sat up. Apparently, she was not well. Gauche squatted down next to him and gently patted the animal on the withers. There were no less than seventy centimeters at this withers, quite decent even for a dog. Gauche dug out a collar under the fur and pulled up a small engraved metal plate. He bent down to read it, and then he was licked on the cheek.

“My girl,” he muttered in dismay, gently stroking the dog on the back. “Everything will go right now, I promise you. So ... Bella. So you're Bella? Bella! Hi.

Hearing the name, the dog jumped up, wagged its tail and began to examine Gosh, as if the savior had turned to her with some completely new side.

- Bella, - repeated Gauche, and then they ran into him with a joyful cry and began to lick.

- Calm down, baby, calm down! - muttered Gauche, shielding himself with his sleeve. - This is your hysteria. It will pass. Yes, everything is fine! Wait a minute, you flea fool ... Here we will wash you, comb, feed you a little ... Yes, yes, it's me, your daddy, I'm back, now everything will be okay ...

From the outpost came an impending bass crackle - as if a very hoarse Zaporozhets were rushing from there at full steam. Bella immediately slid off her newfound owner and barked belligerently at the sound. Gauche looked around. A bright red Boxter flew along the road.

- Well done ... - Gosh chuckled approvingly, getting to his feet.

Instead of braking like all normal people, the driver first put his machine sideways and, desperately smoking rubber, wrote an intricate pretzel on the asphalt. Bella barked again.

- Well, what are you doing ?! - shouted Rodionov, pulling the car two steps away from Gosh, who backed away just in case.

- Yes ... I helped the dog out of trouble.

- Ah ... - Rodionov threw a disdainful glance at Bella. - This dog will help out whoever you want. I know her. She's terrorizing the whole area.

- What does it mean - terrorizes?

- Yes, he eats all recklessly.

- Who is this - all?

- Well ... Except people. Strange, why is she alone? There were two of them. The second one went with her the same, though more than one and a half times.

- The same color? - clarified Gauche, sitting down next to Bella and putting his hand under her belly. Bella looked at Rodionov gloomily.

- One to one. What are you trying to find there? Udder?

- Idiot ... - growled Gosh. - Well, he knocked me down ...

- What's the matter?

- I don’t know!

- A-ah ... - Rodionov drawled understandingly. - Excuse me please. It happens to me too. You do something automatically from a past life, and then they blurt out under the arm - everything is gone. Why he did what he wanted is completely incomprehensible. Excuse me, though. I did not mean to. And you, then, understand in dogs. You, old man, touched her very professionally. And in general, she is not the right people for herself ... We have tried to feed her many times - not in any way. An independent dog. And this, healthy, he seemed to be with her. I listened.

- When did you last see him?

- A week somewhere. Or two, I don't remember.

- You poor girl ... - muttered Gosh.

- Will you take it for yourself? Asked Rodionov with undisguised envy. - And what was there at all?

- She fought. Against ten alone. I barely had time. Of course, I will try to persuade you to come with me.

“Happy,” Rodionov sighed. - Okay, I'll tell the guys, they'll be glad. We were all very worried about her. Not an easy dog. What kind of breed is it?

For several seconds Rodionov stared intently somewhere at the dashboard.

“It's time for me,” he said suddenly. - Otherwise they are worried.

“Thank you for coming,” nodded Gosh. - Is it always like this?

“Consider it always,” Rodionov replied evasively.

- I wanted to ask ... I almost forgot. Are there any records at your outpost?

- Whom? Rodionov asked gloomily, thinking about his own.

- Arrived.

- Yeah. From today, let's start straight.

Gauche let go of Bella's scruff, walked right up to the squat red roadster and squatted down next to the wide-open window in which Rodionov frowned gloomily.

- What's the matter, old chap? Gauche asked quietly. - Am I doing something stupid?

- So what kind of breed? Rodionov inquired without turning his head.

- Bernese Shepherd Dog.

Rodionov nodded despondently.

“I don’t remember anything, Gosh,” he said bitterly. - No-thing-shen-ki. I told you - a complete idiot. That's why I have a ring on my finger - I remember that. And where can she be now ...

“I don’t know where my ring is, Reddy.

- You, too? ... - Rodionov roused himself.

“I was extremely proud of this ring,” said Gauche very quietly. - Where am I doing him? He could only be removed from me when he was dead, you know? I wouldn't even trade it for life.

- Well, what nonsense, old man ... The ring is a symbol, yes ... But not to the same extent.

- Before that. That's exactly up to this. Reddy, I woke up thirty-five days ago. And every day I cry like a child whose mother was missing. And last week I remembered that I had a wife, the most beautiful woman in the world. And I went here. And now I don’t know - maybe I shouldn’t cry anymore? Maybe shoot himself right away?

- Stop it, Goshka. Everyone is crying. Everyone wants to commit suicide. Each. Everybody. Our entire outpost in the morning walks with red muzzles and does not look at each other. And we woke up some at the beginning of summer, and some in the spring ... Some remember that they had children ... You, most importantly, look. You cry and seek. We are all looking for. Everyone is looking for it as he can. There is no other way. Otherwise, there’s no way out, right?

Bella poked her wet nose into Gosh's trembling cheek and sighed.

“And her peasant was killed, probably right in front of her eyes,” suggested Rodionov.

“She’s a dog,” Gauche shook his head. - She knows how to forget.

- We, too.

- Not so fast. And then, I don't want to forget, you know? I forgot my last name, I don't remember what I did, where I lived - I don't remember either. But love ... I won't forget. You will not forget. We'll have nothing to live then, Reddy. Finally, there is no need.

“That’s why we need to look,” said Rodionov firmly. - You know, Gosh, I really have to go. That is, on the way, I reported that everything was fine when I saw you, but all the more I needed to go back.

Gauche rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand.

- Thanks again for coming. But you didn't tell me. About accounting for newbies. Do you count them, or what? ..

- You're the first one we missed. The only awakened person who came from our side. And in my opinion, the twenty-fifth who came at all. Or twenty sixth.

“I see,” Gosh sighed. - You have this antenna, is it a walkie-talkie?

- Yes. You will be given. The Kremlin will give it. Go to the Kremlin right now, everyone there will tell you what you want, and they will give you everything. We have each person worth its weight in gold, you know. Even people like me.

- What kind? - Gosh chuckled.

- And such that zero, - not very clear, but quite understandable expressed Rodionov. - Zombies.

Gauche bit his lip to suppress a smile. What Rodionov didn’t look like was a zombie. Emotions flowed out of him in all directions.

- You, I suppose, built the outpost? - asked Gosh, hoping, if not to flatter a classmate, then at least change the subject.

- Nope. I have no idea who built it. She was already. And the technique stood. Where did it come from ... Also a mystery, Gosh. All entrances to the city are blocked. Even at the top, on Koltsevaya, all the openings in the bump stop are filled up. As if someone was holding the line here. And he was not waiting for the infantry, but the tanks. In short, the army.

- You, I hope, are not expecting an army? Gauche asked cautiously.

- Why? Suddenly it will hide.

“The military is dead, Reddy. Everything. Take my word for it. I have seen. I drove through several cities and everywhere the first thing I did was meddle in military units. Rotting corpses in uniform all around. And you know, Reddy ... Very rotten. Too. And the weapons rooms were opened, and rudely. And plundered. How long do you think we have been chatting without a clue about ourselves? And what were we doing at that time?

- Did not understand? - Gosh was surprised.

“I don’t know what I was doing while I was sleeping. But what did you do, I know.

- You appeared at our post several times. Two, three months ago. He fired at us with this contraption, demanded that they let us in, and cursed all Moscow and Boris separately. We were about to shoot you, but Boris forbade us. He said that you have to wait, that you will definitely wake up, and then it will become clear how you know him, and why you do not like Muscovites so much.

Gauche was dumbfounded. He wanted to apologize - but for what? He never came here, did not ask for anything, and did not know any Boris.

"And this ... Boris," he muttered at last. - Does Boris remember me?

- I do not know. It looks like no. So you have a direct road to the Kremlin. Our Committee is there, and Boris is its chairman. So you will meet ...

Gauche shook his head, shaking off his daze.

- Good. I will be in the Kremlin tomorrow, ”he said. - Listen, what if the rats, or the dogs are the same, or something else?

- Well, I will shoot, and you will stand up again.

- We won't hear. You drive another couple of kilometers and we just won't hear. By the way! More precisely, by the way - so, it seems, should be said?

- It depends.

- About gasoline. A waterhole from eleven to six at the Cathedral of Christ the Savior. Do you remember there was such a departmental column opposite? When was there a swimming pool instead of a temple? This is if you want to be poured culturally. And if you are ready to bail out with your hands, then take a map ... - Rodionov thrust his hand into the glove compartment.

- Not necessary. I'll find it myself.

- Do you remember, you bastard? - Rodionov grinned. - You remember everything, right? Wow, the infection!

- Half an hour ago I did not know my name, - reminded Gosh.

- Why do you need a surname, are you my sitny friend? Yes, I would not change my surname, but my name in order to remember some kind of advertisement there a hundred years ago!

- Where's the gasoline from? - Gosh interrupted him.

- That is - from where? From a camel. From the speakers. There are also repositories.

- And in the columns from where?

- Poured in a past life.

- And the plant?

- Neftepre ... pere ... Well, you understand.

- Got it, but I don't know. Why do we need a plant? There are at most three hundred cars in the city. We even have armored vehicles, and we fill those with diesel fuel from the columns. We have fuel - even though you drown yourself in it.

“Fuel is not permanent, Reddy,” Gauche explained.

- Fizzling out ?! Rodionov whispered with genuine horror in his voice.

- Something like that. Decomposes. The octane number drops.

Rodionov turned the ignition key, the engine rumbled deeply.

- Detonates, - said Gosh. - I can clearly hear how it detonates.

“You’re just upset, man,” said Rodionov, stepped on the gas and, turning the car almost on the spot, rushed off to the outpost.

Gauche got up, looked at Bella and involuntarily opened his mouth. From the bottom up, the dog scrutinized its new acquisition.

- At least I haven't ruined your mood yet? - asked Gauche. - Well, thanks for that. And what's going on with them here? A temple instead of a pool ... Why? When did you have time? ..

* * *

The dog jumped into the back seat confidently and without hesitation. Gauche grunted his teeth in admiration. Every minute he liked the black and white beauty with red tan marks more and more.

The Hammer drove around the glass pavilion of the subway, carelessly knocked down a lawn fence, then another, and found itself among the stalls lined up along a narrow asphalt path. On the right, in the lowland, Gauche saw a familiar department store and frowned thoughtfully. He did not live in these parts, but something connected him with them. He has been here more than once. And I bought goods at local retail outlets several times.

The tent he needed stood exactly where it should have been. Gosh did not want to shoot in vain, and simply knocked out the locked door with the corner of the bumper.

“Stay still,” he said casually to the dog, getting out.

Inside the tent was knee-deep dry food interspersed with rat excrement. All boxes and plastic bags were ripped open and chewed up. The rats themselves were not visible - either they preferred a nocturnal lifestyle, or they were frightened off by the noise at the intersection.

The tin cans were intact. Gauche dragged several drawers from the utility room into the trunk (Bella sniffed and her eyes flashed with hungry fire), took a set of combs, a large plastic bowl, several cans of dog shampoo and anti-flea products. I chose a collar and leash in accordance with Bella's impressive size and physical strength. I saw that the carbine on the leash was too strong. I found another, also massive, but softer, which the dog, if something happened, could be straightened by pulling with all its might. I thought: why is it important? Inwardly he shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand. The most correct tactic now was not to contradict what the subconscious was saying, but, on the contrary, to spy on oneself and learn from oneself. Learning to live again.

“Wash first,” he said to Bella, staring wistfully at the box of canned dog food. - And then you will fall asleep from pleasure, wake you up later ...

The next stop was a department store. Here, too, there were no traces of human presence, only traces of rat teeth. The rats now had a difficult period - the living conditions have changed dramatically. The extinct city is not at all a paradise for the beast, whose food is tied to human waste. Gone are the usual feeding places, nowhere to warm up in winter. No wonder the birds are not visible on the street. A city bird can hardly do without a tasty garbage can and a warm attic.

Gosh, with delight, threw a box of Tula vodka out of the car and put a package of Smirnovskaya in its place. I got hold of delicious canned food, carefully examining each can for swelling. Longingly he walked through the electrical department. I dug in the box with the batteries, charged the first tape recorder I came across, and turned it on. The stagnant music box howled happily. Gosh took a closer look at the expiration date on the battery pack. “May ninety-ninth. I wonder what year it is today. The month is July, if the clock does not lie. And here is the chronology bye-bye. I’m probably over thirty already. ”

Indulging in these gloomy thoughts, Gosh took an iron from the shelf, cracked the glass of the pharmacy booth with it and scooped up an armful of pills from everything that he feared to get sick in the near future. In extreme cases, drugs could be poisoned. Panadola had just enough to ruin the liver. Day - and ready. How Ghosh knew about this, he had no idea. At times he was frightened by how well he knew about imported goods, which lay around the roof. It was much more difficult to find something native, Soviet, and even that one had the inscription “Made in Russia”. And on the streets there were foreign billboards everywhere. It seems that over the past ten to fifteen years, the homeland of October has made a tremendous leap in a mysterious direction. Either she integrated into the world community, or crushed it under herself. But in any case, no matter how the country was called, it no longer existed.

The tape recorder in a sweet female voice called in English for Dr. Dick's help. Gauche listened to the text and almost burst out laughing. Wonderful song. It would be better to start it at some Komsomol youth disco in the year eighty-fifth ... And to no one, no one at all, can not explain that "wild" in American slang is a member. “Damn it, what a shame - absolutely not remember the time when the counters were full of junk and such dashing songs sounded ... But I was living then! No, I have to, I just have to regain my memory. But how? ... "

The volume suddenly dropped perceptibly. The batteries gave off their breath. Gauche nodded sadly to his thoughts. Of course, the ninety-ninth in the yard and did not smell. Most likely, it was high time to celebrate the arrival of the new millennium. And at the same time his own "thirty". Maybe a year ago, maybe two. “I won’t shoot myself anyway. You will not wait. "

Gauche returned to the car with a nagging pain in his heart. He passed another stage on the way to the parental home. It was possible, of course, to delay the moment of returning to youth, for example, to wrap up in the "Hunter" and borrow there a rifled carbine with optics - provided that no one had fussed before. But what's the point? Now there is no one to fight and there is no need. Fight?

... the interior of the tractor was filled with a deafening ringing rumble - it was bullets hitting the armor ...

Gauche closed his eyes tightly and grabbed the steering wheel until his fingers crunched. He tried to catch the memory by the tail, but it had already slipped past. For several minutes Gosh tried to figure out what kind of associations brought him to this picture from a past life: twilight, some kind of mechanisms, everything around is hard and metallic, and this deafening ringing, as if pounding a saucepan on your head with a hammer ... Gosh even went out out of the car and got into it again, trying to reproduce the situation. Bella, puzzled, watched his sacred rite - there was no other name for what the man was doing now.

The memory never came back. Gauche stuck a cigarette in his teeth and sighed. Not far from here, he may have been waiting for a heap of information about the past. But it's one thing to read documents and look at photographs, and quite another - when your memory, your own, real, begins to work.

And most importantly, the sudden vision probably belonged to the period of "sleep", when Gosh did not know what he was doing and did not know where he was walking. This smell of gunpowder burning inside the car and the resounding rumble of bullets on the casing ... Ghosh was absolutely sure that no combat episodes had happened in his past life. I just knew it, and that's it. But what did he do "in a dream"?

And why did he burst into Moscow, remembering with unkind words a certain Boris, who is in charge here?

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 simply 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.

This book is one of those that could never be on my reading list, because ... well, I don't read such things. Nothing personal :) She would not have ended up here if her husband had not been a fan of Divov, if he had not undergone eye surgery, if he had not languished with boredom and I would not have decided to read aloud to him. It was this combination of circumstances that led me to the "Law of the Frontier".

First, I want to say that it turns out that reading aloud is not so easy. If these are not children's fairy tales, then this is just a whole feat! Especially for a person who has problems with ligaments in general. So I am imbued with respect for those people who voice audiobooks))) This is a huge work !!! Unreal simple!

But all this, of course, has nothing to do with the "Law of the Frontier". In principle, even I greatly exaggerated with my "this book could not be here". Post-apocalepsis. Very rarely, but this topic finds me in the literature. Divov presented a rather interesting story. In general, the idea of ​​a mass epidemic is not new, but nowhere else have I come across such a version. Humanity, or at least Russia, in the near future was mowed down by a mysterious epidemic, during which the "young and strong" survived, the flower of the nation, one might say. However, almost all of them lost their memory and the emotional side of consciousness. The few who have kept their sanity and desperately trying to remember who they were "before", this new population of the country is called "dumb." Or something else, no more sophisticated and no less unflattering. Those who have retained their sanity call themselves men, that is, people. Actually, it is they who are the heroes of the work. People moving around the new Russia in search of clues that would help them remember. As if from pieces of a mosaic they restore their lives, their personality, acquiring a name instead of some banal nickname. And at the same time they learn a new life and communication with new "neighbors". The past is fraught with many secrets, mysteries, and sometimes it might be better not to remember.

At the head of this company, unnoticed by himself, Georgy Dymov stands up, a sort of walking encyclopedia with the skills of either a soldier or a mercenary. Unyielding, full of rage and strength, willing to remember everything. In the meantime, he suffers from the fact that he does not even know how he actually knows everything he knows. But he demonstrates a thirst for knowledge and, as they say, "learnability" - grasps on the fly.

The plot develops nonlinearly. End, middle, beginning. Everything is confused, curled up into one big snowball. Then try to figure it out yourself and remember, even if the epidemic did not touch you. However, the puzzles fit together and the picture emerges. In this picture, among other things, there is clearly an abundance of military equipment, in which I really do not understand anything. Despite its origin. Nevertheless, as time passed, we went to the museum, where my husband showed me with his finger "they shot from this," "we arrived at this," and so on. The picture was finally formed only after this excursion.)

It was interesting to observe people deprived of the basis of their existence - personal memories and cultural heritage, universal human memory. What will happen to people if you take away EVERYTHING they know, leaving only skills, body memory? Hands remember how to hold a fork, but more and more often they hold weapons, of which here, in this new world, are immeasurable. And the heroes themselves acquire more and more animal habits. Loss of memory gave rise to weakness and stah, and weakness gave rise to aggression. Everything unknown meets with hostility, the world is by definition full of evil. Is it so? Why are "stupid" so evil? Why are "people" so bad at controlling themselves? And where for this whole gang to find a professional psychiatrist who will cope with the problems of the new world?

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.

The young and the strong will survive Oleg Divov

(estimates: 1 , the average: 5,00 out of 5)

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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