Apocalypse «Beginning of the End» - стр. 18

The stronghold was located on a huge storage area, surrounded by a tall stone and wooden fence with barbed wire on top. The fence rested on a two-story building with a checkpoint, which, in turn, grew into silver-colored metal sliding gates. An imposing searchlight hung above them, and the gates themselves were upholstered on the back with plywood, which hid the territory of the warehouses from prying eyes. On the outer side of the gate hung a huge poster which read: “Attention, driver! 5km/h,” and then in red crossed out circles there were images of a cigarette, a bottle, a dog, a fire, a camera, and so on. At the end of this list, someone artfully depicted an infected stretching his hands forward, crossed out with a red line and circled in the manner of other prohibitions. Checkpoint, painted in beige color, with barred windows on both floors and a heavy iron door, it looked very shabby. Some of the windows were broken and covered with plywood on the inside. There were many bullet holes and dents on the walls and the door, judging by which, the battle here had once been serious.

Approaching the gate, he felt eyes on him, but could not see anyone who could observe the zamnaya. They could see me from at least two points: this is the second floor of the checkpoint, where a dark window could hide the shooter, as well as a three-story building located on the territory, closest to the gate. On the roof of this building was a high pillbox made of sandbags, the roof and loopholes of which were covered with a dense layer of camouflage mesh.

Just in case, I raised my hands a little, showing my good intentions, slowly approached the iron door of the checkpoint and, loudly knocking on it with my fist, began to wait. From the territory of the Stronghold, various sounds reached me: the voices of people, the barking of dogs, someone's laughter, and even the noise of a jackhammer. Life in the refuge was in full swing. Nobody opened the door for a long time, and as soon as I was about to knock on it with my foot, the latch on the other side clicked loudly, and a thin man in a vest opened the door. At first glance, he could have been about thirty-five years old, but the short gray hair on his head made him look older, and his weathered face with long black eyelashes betrayed gypsy blood in him. Squinting and wrinkling his forehead, he looked me up and down and greeted me in a loud, perky voice:

– Hello, tramp! Come on, raise your hands and this … turn around!

Shrugging my shoulders, I complied with his request. Meanwhile, he continued to take the lead in the conversation.

– Bites, abrasions, scratches? Have you been in contact with infected people?

“No…” His pressure was a little discouraging. – In the sense of having contact, but God had mercy – they did not bite.

– Refugee?

– Something like that.

“It’s rare now that new ones come,” he stepped aside, letting me inside. – Come in…

I entered a dusty and heavily smoky room. The man who opened the door for me, slamming and bolting the door, proceeded to the watchman's booth, located immediately to the left of the entrance. I followed him and, standing at the watchman's window, I expected what would happen next. Now I noticed two more men with weapons sitting at the other end of the room, silently watching me. Meanwhile, the gypsy who met me sat down in the watchman's chair and, opening a thick magazine that lay in front of him, looked at me inquiringly.