Chapter 4: The Explorers

Summer in Siberia could hit over thirty degrees Celsius—if you were lucky enough to be in the southern parts. But up in the Arctic Circle? It was still cold enough to require winter gear just to walk outside without freezing your teeth off. Still, for locals used to it, a long-sleeved shirt and jeans were enough. A group of young men, home from the city, were trekking through the ruins of a recently abandoned research base—one buried deep in the northern frost. The site wasn't particularly large. After about an hour of cautious exploration, they'd pretty much covered the whole place. Whoever evacuated hadn't taken much with them. Teapots, cups, a gas stove. Lamps, desk lights, even searchlights. Clearly, they'd only taken the essentials and left the rest behind. But to these boys—from a supply-starved village in the Arctic Circle—this was a gold mine. In the Red Empire, those things might be scraps. But here? They were treasure. Wooden filing cabinets, metal lockers, kitchen cupboards—stuff like that could be put to real use. The sturdier pieces could replace the rickety furniture back home. The weaker ones? Firewood for winter. There were even a few rifles lying around, and an old Jeep that wouldn't start. The jackpot? A storage room filled with food. It wasn't overflowing, but still—flour, canned goods, dried supplies. Half a warehouse was nothing to sneeze at. And the place still had power and heating. Honestly, even if you ignored all the leftovers, the base itself was a valuable structure. The only real disappointment was the total lack of documents—files, records, anything. As if they'd been systematically erased. Everything inside was a mess. Drawers pulled out, cabinets ransacked. Either someone was in a hurry... or they wanted to make sure nothing usable remained. The deeper they went into the base, the more it began to feel like something wasn't quite right. And then... they found it. A door. Big. Heavy. Reinforced. Different. It wasn't labeled, no warning signs, no bright red letters shouting DANGER or DO NOT OPEN. That gave the group a false sense of safety. They looked at each other. Shrugged. Decided to open it. There was a valve wheel mounted in the center—looked like the kind that controlled a locking mechanism. They took turns turning it. Sure enough, it released a series of internal locks, and the door creaked open with a metallic groan that echoed through the hall. Inside was a large room—bright, white, sterile. Not a shadow to be seen. The steel toilet and sink were cold gray and polished to a shine. But in the middle of the room... was something else. Someone. A figure lay collapsed on the floor. "Wait... is that a person?" "Is he dead?" "Who the hell is that...?" Questions tumbled out of their mouths like a burst dam. No one had answers. The tension rose like steam in a sealed room. This place was supposed to be abandoned. Empty. Dead. But here was a body. Finally, one of them mustered enough courage to step forward. He crouched down, eyeing the figure on the ground. Male. Long limbs. Gaunt, emaciated—almost skeletal. His skin was deathly pale. Hair shaved down to a patchy black fuzz. His eyes... had rolled back. Only the whites were showing. No rise or fall of the chest. No obvious signs of life. The boy touched the body's nostrils. Then the side of the neck. Nothing. He shook his head. Dead. "Do we... just leave him here?" someone asked. The others grimaced. "I was thinking we could turn this place into a hangout," one said. "Not with a corpse lying around." Eventually, the boldest one in the group spoke up. "Come on. Help me carry him out. We'll bury him somewhere. Properly." None of them were particularly sentimental. But burying the dead was still... practical. Efficient. Cremation would require too much fuel. Building a coffin or a mausoleum? Way too much effort. A shallow grave was faster, easier, cleaner. It wasn't about respect. It was about avoiding rot, stench, and disease. Besides, in a world where people whispered about mutants, vampires, werewolves—even zombies—a corpse was honestly the least scary thing you could stumble on. Just as long as it didn't get up. They moved quickly. Two grabbed the arms, two grabbed the legs, and the last pair steadied the torso. Six young men, lifting one emaciated body. He was heavier than he looked. Maybe from dehydration. Or maybe it was dead weight—literally. Either way, they were panting by the time they reached the surface. And none of them noticed the subtle change that began the moment the body hit sunlight. Up here, in Siberia's brief summer, the sun was a rare luxury. Warm. Precious. So the boys didn't avoid it. They marched straight across the compound, aiming for the woods beyond. The aboveground portion of the base had been disguised to look like a regular village. Satellite surveillance, aerial flyovers—they would've seen nothing but a small rural settlement. Even the vehicles used during the site's operational years had been civilian-grade. Nothing military. Nothing suspicious. Like any proper village, it had a small church. And beside it, a tiny cemetery. The boys figured it was as good a spot as any. Whoever this guy was, burying him in the fake graveyard of a fake village built on a fake research base somehow felt... poetic. Besides, it's not like the government would notice an extra plot. But what they didn't see—what they couldn't have seen—was the way the body began to twitch under the sun's golden glare. Slowly. Delicately. As if life was returning.