[FINAL TRANSMISSION]

Artyom, the lone survivor of a catastrophic event, struggles to survive in the dead city of Moscow. What he finds during his travels will change his life forever. Reviews are greatly appreciated.

[F I N A L   T R A N S M I S S I O N]

 

     The spring brought warmth back to Moscow. The winter had been long and cold, holding the city under its icy grip for many months. Artyom Petrovich stood on the steps of the 'иблиотека имени Ленина, a grand library devoted to one of Russia’s great leaders. He watched the ice melt slowly off the statue of Lenin that stood outside the library, its magnificent stature more broken and weathered with each passing year. He ran his hand fondly over the vine-covered base of the statue as he passed it, looking out towards Red Square. Sitting down on the steps, Artyom set a well-read copy of H.P. Lovecraft’s At the Mountains of Madness­­ beside him and sighed. Before, books like this had been all but outlawed. ”Anything from the West holds great evil,” his leaders had said. In recent years, however, Artyom had gained access to many restricted texts. It was easy when no one was around to enforce the law. Across the Square stood the Kremlin: a daunting structure where, once, great men laid the groundwork for what would become the Soviet Union. In days gone by, politicians and presidents walked the halls where now only dust dared settle. It was the heart of a dead empire: the last reminder of a different time. Artyom picked himself up and continued down the steps, dragging his fingers through his unruly grey hair. He passed a Metro entrance on his way down the overgrown New Arbat Avenue. Artyom had spent his first weeks in that station, fearing the world above had been covered in some harmful invisible gas. He had ventured out after finding an old gas mask hidden in a service closet in the Station, but soon discovered it was unnecessary after realising there was no filter in the mask. That was years ago, when he still held on to the hope that someone would come for him. The buildings that lined the wide street were covered with fading messages, some in Russian, and some in English. All of them were greetings that Artyom had painted days after he left the station.

 

     He hadn’t been down this way in quite some time, and wilderness had reclaimed it once again. Tall pines jutted from the cracked pavement, towering over Artyom as he made his way down the silent avenue. Through the trees, something caught his eye. He squinted, trying to see past the thick trunks. Weaving through the sea of pine, Artyom discovered an abandoned tank. The words “U.S. MILITARY” could be faintly seen on the decaying hull of the vehicle. A tree grew from the empty turret mount. Stepping over a rusted helmet, Artyom made his way to the rear of the tank. What he found shocked him. He recognised it almost instantly, having seen it many times in propaganda posters warning about the dangers of America. Sitting on a small bench in front of him was a portable transceiver: a military field radio used to communicate between bases. Artyom rushed to the table and ran his hands over the device, praying that it would work. He played with the dials frantically, but then realised that after all these years there was no way the power supply would still be functional.

     It took Artyom the rest of the day to drag all the equipment back to the library. He hadn’t wanted to risk damaging the delicate device, and had carried each separate component back individually. He brought the transceiver down into the metro, which he had converted into a workshop years before. Venturing into the dusty stacks of the library, Artyom delved into a world of transistors and antennas, reading an entire collection’s worth of radio repair manuals and textbooks. Piece by piece, the device was repaired. In July, four months after the discovery of the transmitter, Artyom clambered onto the roof of the 'иблиотека имени Ленина, determined to use the massive radio tower built there to his advantage. It took another week of work, but eventually the tower was in working order. When he wasn’t nose-deep in radio components, Artyom would sit on the steps of the library, looking out at the Kremlin, its medieval spires rising high above Moscow. He had often wondered if there was still someone in the old Capitol, but had never ventured across the square. In the days before, the Red Square had become a graveyard. Bones littered its cobbled surface like newly fallen snow, and the smell of long-dead fires still lingered. Fueled by the macabre field of remains, along with the words of Lovecraft, Artyom’s imagination created a grotesque eldritch being, stalking the walls of the Kremlin, watching him from the shadows. The thought of such an unnatural being brought a cold sweat to Artyom as he gazed at the empty windows across the square.

     On the cusp of winter, Artyom prepared a message. He hadn’t spoken in years, and the sound of his voice was strange. It broke the silence of the station platform, as if it no longer belonged to this world. Artyom had waited for days in the station, his voice repeating the same words over and over, first in Russian, and then in English. It was a simple message, only giving his name, coordinates, and that he was alive. Artyom hoped that somehow, someone would hear him. This hope diminished over the weeks that he spent staring at the transmitter. On the first day of winter, Artyom ventured out of the station. He had grown tired of his own voice, and needed to get out of the dark Metro tunnel. The light blinded him for a second as he walked up the steps, his eyes having grown accustomed to life underground. Looking past the library, Artyom could see the Kremlin. Above it, the sky was beginning to darken. The storm wouldn’t arrive for another hour or so. As the clouds grew nearer, so did Artyom’s thoughts of the Kremlin. They overwhelmed his brain. He tried to drown the visions of the old capitol by reading in the library’s great hall, but to no avail. Putting the text down, Artyom ventured out into the frigid air. He stopped at the base of the library steps, hoping that the sight of the Red Square might quell his thoughts. To his dismay, he continued towards the great walls of the Kremlin, as if his legs were moving of their own accord. The clouds had become a swirling mass of darkness by the time Artyom reached the edge of the Square. No trees grew up through the cobblestone, leaving the area almost as it had been in the days before. He walked among the bones, sweat dripping from his brow as he tried in vain to keep away from the hollow stares of the dead. As he reached the massive main gate, Artyom could feel drops of rain on the back of his head. The rain turned to hail, followed by thunder. A bolt of lightning struck the east tower, and Artyom began to run. He wove a path through the maze of bones, hoping that he crushed nothing in the fragile graveyard, fearing the wraiths and spectres that might haunt his dreams if he did. Hail pelted the ground, crashing against the stones like gunshots. Artyom ran blindly through the storm, tracing a path through the square from memory. After what seemed like an eternity, the library came into view. There was the sound of thunder, and a lightning bolt struck the roof of the library. Artyom stopped in his tracks and watched as raw electricity arced around the transmitting tower. Sparks cascaded down onto the weathered pavement, and the sound of steel scraping against steel could be heard over the storm. Falling to his knees, Artyom screamed out into the void. Moscow had defeated him. He would never escape the dead city.

     Artyom collapsed over his desk in the Metro, not caring about the piles of books he knocked to the floor. It had been an omen. He shouldn’t have tempted the Kremlin by nearing it. He had angered the archaic beasts of the old Capitol, and the radio tower had paid the price. Now it was hopeless. Artyom stayed there for nearly an hour, silently listening to the static of the radio. Opening the bottommost desk drawer, he looked down. It had been there since the beginning, when Artyom dragged the desk to the Metro from the library. Not knowing what to do with it, he had left it in the drawer. Now Artyom knew its purpose. Pulling the revolver from the desk, he sat up. Staring at the gun, its cold steel body gleaming in the florescent light, he wondered what it had all been for. A stream of tears cascaded onto the tiled station floor as Artyom raised the revolver to his chin. Soon, he thought. Soon he would be with them. After so many years alone, he would finally see them again. As he cocked back the hammer of the gun, his breathing slowed. That’s when he heard it. His eyes opened wide, and the gun dropped from his shaking hands. In one violent, shuddering motion, Artyom dashed across the station to where he had set up the transmitter. Twisting the volume knob up, he hoped to God that it had been real. The first few seconds seemed like eternity. Then he heard it again.

 

 

“Hello?”