The picture appeared on the screen again, and the voice of the announcer sounded - he continued to broadcast, as if he had been telling something all this time, and someone simply turned the sound back on. This time, cheap 3D models showed a diagram of an underground shelter. Multi-colored geometric figures, cubes, cylinders, spaces, ventilation ducts, networks, elevator shafts flashed before my eyes. The announcer said that the Sisiji company provided such shelters at its own expense for almost the entire world, and the one in which they were located was called U-4. The announcer did not skimp on praising Sisiji and its leadership, exposing them in the literal sense as the saviors of mankind - well, how else? The state-of-the-art shelter is provided with everything necessary to support the lives of several thousand people. Pustovalov was most interested in the virus protection system. According to the speaker, the vault was a huge isolated space at great depths, separated by tens of

Following the new satellite, Victor went out into an empty block, where an hour ago it was not overcrowded, and now silence and static reigned in objects that keep traces of the departed: sagging leather sofas, shifted chairs, open doors, dirty dishes and still who knows where the wind came from. leafing through the pages of a magazine left on the table. Even the staff disappeared - Victor was sure that there was no one behind the walls that hid numerous utility rooms. Perhaps this certainty is a distant cousin of the panicked fear of the shipwreck survivor who drifts on the lid of the piano and realizes that everything is just beginning. That's just where everyone disappeared, why, and most importantly - what kind of fruit is this mysterious companion of his. Victor looked at the lean man who was giving him smiling glances. It was difficult to determine his age.- Student? - Asked his companion with another unfavorable smile.- MIPT, second year. Victor answered.The thin man nodded.

- ... hey you, do you hear, I'm talking to you ... - a voice squeaked.- To me? Viktor froze in the middle of the room.- Are you dumb? - squeaked a voice. Who else is here besides us?The voice seemed to come from the kitchen. Victor walked past the wall where a window would have been located in a real Khrushchev, and here there was only a picture with a painted window, and ended up in the kitchen. The very same, familiar to everyone - a tiny five-meter kitchen, with a typical folding table, a crap stove and a Saratov refrigerator with ancient stickers and magnets on a stained surface.But there was no one in the kitchen.“Listen, little one. Where are you? Victor asked.- I am here! Here! - A voice squealed from somewhere on the side of the stove.Victor was sure it was a child. Judging by the voice, some kind of pi..duke about eight or nine years old.- I can not see you.- Yes, it's for the best. - squeaked a voice. Do you live in a wall?- What? Victor didn't understand.- You ca

Dasha squealed, watching how the horse's face of Sister Feofaniya's face wrinkled in an attempt to outshout her, how it twisted in pain under the onslaught of the auditory cannon, and how, finally, retreating, it merges with the rest of the dullness. Dasha stopped screaming and lay down on the bed. If everyone is insane, why shouldn't she be insane too? Katya lay head to her on the next bed.“Let's stick together,” she said.“You were right,” Dasha said softly, looking at the glass wall – up there, some important people in dressing gowns walked along the thin iron bridge and looked down at them. Like a delegation on a livestock farm.- What are the rights?We died and went to hell.Dasha noticed that one of the members of the delegation - a stout, short man in a suit that looked like a dictatorial jacket or a Japanese kimono - stopped and, clutching the railing, looked straight at her through the dirty glass.Looking closer, Dasha realized that he was looking not at her, but a little

Gargantua rang at exactly six o'clock. Boris has already calmed down, realizing that if the old man spent his efforts on a performance with a camera, then he also needs this meeting. They were sitting in a hotel room when some mournful tune played on the phone. Despite his complacency, Boris felt excited when he heard her. Grabbing the phone, he managed to notice the text "number not defined" before answering.“Listen carefully,” the clear voice of that old, long-forgotten Soviet teacher, who had sunk into oblivion during his father’s service, spoke up. The voice of a kind but strict teacher. The voice of a man capable of mercilessly, if necessary, killing the enemy, as he did in the war. Boris did not know how this was possible, but now he believed that he really was ninety-eight years old. Listening to this voice, as if from another era, from an old Soviet movie, Boris had some kind of latent respect for its owner. A person of such age, such skills, who at the same time retained his