Stepping over the smoldering remains of the last ghoul, he rushed toward the veteran. Hans had been thrown nearly five meters from the tower’s entrance. Kneeling beside him, Dmitry immediately pressed his fingers to the old man’s neck. The carotid artery responded with a rhythmic, confident pulse. He held a palm to Hans’s face; a faint movement of air confirmed he was still breathing. Alive.
Without letting go of his shotgun, Dmitry carefully rolled Hans onto his back and winced. A massive, deep-purple bruise was already blooming on the veteran’s forehead, spreading toward the bridge of his nose and beneath his eyes—a sure sign of a heavy impact. But the right arm looked worse: the forearm was twisted at an unnatural, sickening angle.
“Dammit!” Dmitry cursed, shifting into his habitual diagnostic mode. “Now I have to fix you, too...”
As if in response to his grumbling, the old man’s eyelids flickered. Hans opened bloodshot, clouded eyes.
“How is… his lordship?” he whispered, his voice barely a rustle.
Dmitry couldn't help but be struck by the man’s loyalty. On the verge of death himself, and his first thought was of his master.
“He’s fine, sitting in the corner. What about you? Can you stand?”
“What could happen to me…” Hans wheezed and made an attempt to sit up.
The moment he put weight on his right arm, the closed fracture made itself known. The bone shifted, and with a muffled groan, the veteran slumped back onto his side.
“Bitch’s udder!” the veteran cursed, his face contorted in a mask of pain. “Rotten luck...”
“Let me help,” Dmitry slung the Benelli’s strap over his shoulder and hoisted Hans up by his good arm.
The old man swayed noticeably—he clearly had a moderate concussion. Yet, despite everything, he stood firm, clinging to the remnants of his strength with a soldier’s grit. Hans scanned the site of the recent slaughter, his gaze lingering on the torn bodies of the undead, and said grimly:
“I’ve always feared the undead, Master Dmitry. Now I feel I should fear you, too.”
Dmitry looked into the old man’s swollen eyes, and suddenly, they both snapped. They dissolved into wild, uncontrollable laughter that echoed over the ruins of the outpost, drowning out the rustle of the wind.
Dmitry laughed until his stomach cramped. A surreal image looped in his mind: he, a modern man with a shotgun, putting on a bloody show for local corpses and aristocrats. The effect his gunfire had produced seemed absurdly comic to him now. Hans laughed hoarsely, painfully, winching at every jolt to his broken arm, but he couldn't stop.
It was hysteria—a pure, unadulterated release of the adrenaline and terror that had been building throughout this cursed night. They stood there among the torn, smoking corpses, choking on laughter, pouring everything into it: the horror of the undead, the cold of the forest, and the sudden realization that they were still alive. They laughed until tears carved clean paths through the mud and gunpowder soot on their faces.
When the hysterical laughter finally subsided, leaving behind only an empty void and trembling muscles, they slowly moved back toward the tower. On the way, Dmitry caught a glimpse of one of the attackers. A slug or buckshot had severed the creature’s spine, but the head remained surprisingly intact.
Dmitry froze involuntarily, examining the trophy. Instead of a face, the creature possessed what medicine calls habitus morbi: the features were sharpened, the eyes deeply sunken, and the gray, desiccated skin was stretched so tightly over the cheekbones it looked like parchment. This was exactly how corpses looked in anatomical museums—embalmed by time and decay.
It really is undead, Dmitry thought with detached coldness. His rational mind, used to seeking scientific explanations for everything, retreated in the face of the obvious. To look for logic in this nightmare, to build theories about parasites or unknown viruses, was a task he had neither the strength nor the desire for right now. The last few hours had exhausted him so much that even a reanimated corpse was just another detail of the landscape—one he simply had to accept to survive.
Cohen was still sitting in the back of the tower. Realization had finally begun to seep into his gaze. Seeing Dmitry and Hans enter, he scrambled up clumsily and began to babble, not letting them get a word in:
“Did you kill them? Is there definitely no one else? How did they get here? Why did they attack us? They’re undead, right? We’ve never seen them here! Master Dmitry, you finished them, right? No one else in sight?”
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In this torrent of questions, Dmitry heard the unmistakable edge of hysteria. The Baron tried to appear as a representative of the stern military aristocracy, but he proved to be merely a pampered descendant of a great house, filled to the brim with romantic illusions.
Did Dmitry think less of Cohen? No. The youth wasn't to blame. His ancestors had fought to the death for centuries precisely so their grandsons wouldn't have to know the horror of war. However, in this brutal world, such a legacy had turned into a cruel favor for the young Baron.
“Hans is wounded,” Dmitry said firmly. “We need a splint. Your lordship, find three of the sturdiest, straightest branches you can among the firewood.”
Cohen blinked stupidly, shifting his gaze to Hans. As if on command, the panic in his eyes was replaced by focus. The Baron jumped into action, rushing to the pile of wood against the wall, feverishly sorting through branches that fit the description.
Hans, watching the bustling youth, sighed heavily and said softly: “And he didn’t even want to take me along...” He turned to Dmitry and continued just as quietly: “He’s never practiced with a real sword in his life. Only read books.”
“Doesn't matter,” Dmitry replied, maintaining his outward calm. “We’re all alive—and thank God for that. Sit here,” he pointed to a stump. “Let’s get you fixed up. Take off that sheepskin. Don't rush! Let me help.”
Working with extreme caution to avoid shifting the bone fragments, Dmitry helped Hans pull off the heavy coat. The sleeve of the shirt on his right arm was clean—the fracture was closed. This provided some small comfort, but the veteran’s fingers were already beginning to swell noticeably, taking on a concerning bluish tint.
“Does it hurt?” Dmitry asked curtly.
“I’ve felt worse,” Hans wheezed, though his face, contorted in pain with every touch, said otherwise.
“I’ll give you something for it.”
Dmitry dived into the tent and pulled out his backpack. Finding his medical kit, he fished out a silver foil of Analgin and, with a practiced motion, popped two tablets out of the blister.
“Here, eat these and wash them down well with water.”
Ideally, he should have administered an injection of something more potent, but the only reusable syringe was reserved for Dmitry’s own needs—his spine would not forgive the loss of his "chemistry". In this harsh world, one had to be rational to the point of cruelty.
Cohen returned quickly. He brought three pine branches—not perfectly straight, but dry and surprisingly sturdy. The Baron laid them before Dmitry as if they were holy relics and froze, waiting for further instructions. Readiness to serve shone in his eyes, a desperate need to drown out the echo of terror with useful work.
Dmitry glanced at the kit, then at the veteran’s swollen, blue arm. His fingers instinctively touched a package of sterile bandages but immediately pulled back.
No, a cold thought flashed. Bandages are for blood. For deep holes where cleanliness is life. Here, we just need fixation.
He looked at his left wrist. There, over his jacket sleeve, was a black paracord bracelet—a "survival bracelet" woven from five meters of ultra-strong nylon cord. Dmitry unclipped the buckle and began deftly unraveling the weave. The thin but incredibly strong thread snaked between his fingers.
“What is that, Master?” Cohen whispered, watching in fascination as an endless rope emerged from the small ornament.
“It’s called Paracord,” Dmitry said dryly, not breaking his focus. “It can hold two hundred kilograms. Right now, it’s going to hold your servant’s arm.”
Hans was silent. He only pressed himself deeper into the stump, his forehead slick with large beads of sweat. Dmitry positioned the branches against the veteran’s forearm—directly over the shirt. The fabric would serve as a natural padding, protecting the skin from the rough bark.
“Hold this,” he commanded Cohen.
The Baron obediently pressed the sticks. His fingers trembled, but he held firm. Dmitry began the wrap. He worked with concentration and speed, laying down loops of the nylon cord with calculated tension. The paracord bit into the wood, locking the improvised splints against the broken limb. The bone had to be immobile—the first law of field surgery.
Tying a complex, non-slip knot, Dmitry examined his work critically. Hans now looked like a wounded soldier from some strange, futuristic war: a medieval shirt, crude sticks, and neon-black, synthetically shimmering cord.
“That’s it,” Dmitry trimmed the excess cord with a knife. “You’ll make it to the city. We’ll find a proper bone-setter there, or I’ll handle it myself when we have heat and light.”
Hans cautiously moved his shoulder. The splint sat like a glove.
“It holds tight,” the old man wheezed, a shadow of gratitude flickering in his voice for the first time that morning. “Like I’ve been locked in iron shackles. Thank you, Master.”
Dmitry unscrewed the cap of his canteen and handed it to Hans. The veteran sat motionless, staring at the two small white tablets in his palm as if they were magical stones capable of either healing or incinerating him on the spot.
“Put them on your tongue and wash them down immediately,” Dmitry ordered. “Don't chew; they’re bitter.”
Hans glanced distrustfully at the "mage," then at the Baron, who stood nearby, nearly open-mouthed with curiosity. To them, used to foul-smelling decoctions, viscous ointments, and bitter poultices made from swamp herbs, these perfectly round, blindingly white discs looked terrifyingly sterile. There was no life in them, no smell of nature—only the cold power of unknown alchemy.
The old man squeezed his eyes shut as if jumping into icy water, tossed the pills into his mouth, and took three greedy, heavy gulps from the canteen. Dmitry watched the Adam's apple bob in the veteran's wrinkled neck. Hans immediately returned the canteen and swallowed convulsively several times, listening to the sensations inside him.
“Well?” Cohen whispered, leaning forward. “Do you feel the fire spreading inside? Or the cold?”
Hans winced; the characteristic chalky bitterness of the analgesic had spread across his tongue.
“Bitter,” he croaked, wiping his lips with the back of his healthy hand. “And… nothing. Like I swallowed stones. Master Dmitry, are you sure this will help? It doesn't smell like medicine at all. No wormwood, no tar...”
“It will help,” Dmitry cut him off, stowing the canteen. “In fifteen minutes, your blood will carry it through your body, and the pain will dull. It’s not a miracle, Hans. It’s chemistry. It works whether you believe in it or not.”
The Steel Ark: the clash between modern logic and a world that defies it. Dmitry isn't trying to be a mage; he's just trying to keep his team functional using whatever is in his tactical pack.
Status Update:
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Follower Goal: We are currently at 36/100 followers. We are slowly but surely moving toward that milestone. Every Follow and Rating helps the algorithm push the "Ark" higher in the rankings.
- Question for the readers: How do you think the locals will react to Dmitry’s "white stones" (Analgin) once they see the pain actually receding? Magic or witchcraft?