Dragoslav woke up in searing pain. Never had he actually felt something of the sort, that in fact he almost fainted from it, back into darkness. Yet some shred of strength pulled him back from the edge, and through excruciating process Dragoslav managed to push his eyes open. It was so dark that for a second he thought he had failed to push the lids up, but the glowing light in the corner of his eye confirmed that he had indeed succeeded. Turning his head to look was no less of a feat, but despite the pain Dragoslav made it happen. The source of the light was an Ural truck, ZIL-130, burning by the roadside. Dragoslav lay there for a few more minutes, gathering his strength. With his labored breath giving Dragoslav some of his life back, he managed to spot one of the old Soviet medkits on his arm pouch.

Through a desperate struggle to reach it with his other hand while avoiding the perils of unconciousness, Dragoslav managed to feel the shell of the orange box, and flipping it open, his fingers met a syringe. He pulled it out, feeling his vision spin around him as surges of pain shot through his body, but more through luck than any concious effort Dragoslav found a vein in his hand. With his final few strands of conciousness left, the man pulled the content of the syringe into his bloodstream, not knowing whether it would help or kill him. Either way, the dice had been cast, at least he had tried. As Dragoslav's mind faded into the darkness, the last thing he heard was the crackling fire engulfing the vehicle near him.

Chilling breeze woke him up much, much later. The syringe on his hand was empty and cold. His body was freezing and aching, but much of the infernal pain had ceased. Dragoslav could smell an unpleasant odour, and opening his eyes, he saw a blind dog standing over a carcass. The body had a white uniform with brown spots, resembling a birch pattern. The mutated dog was devouring the corpse, entrails hanging from its jaws. Dragoslav, now bit less heavily clouded in the cognitive function department, managed to assess the situation. Glancing as slowly as he could at his hip, Dragoslav spotted a knife. It was a small survival knife, barely useful in a fight, but it was better than just bare fists. Dragoslav reached for it quietly, and when the dog lowered its head to rip another bit of the unfortunate dead man, Dragoslav snatched the blade from its sheath. The dog had noticed this, however, and it turned its muzzle towards the man.

Viscera and blood was dripping off its fangs, and Dragoslav felt his heart skip a beat. Yet some primal survival instict took over, and as the mutant charged, Dragoslav felt his hand move as if guided by its own will. The survival knife flew forward, and in a clear trajectory, buried itself in the head of the blind dog. It managed to whimper once before collapsing down, trail of blood trickling from the wound. With his heart rate calming down, Dragoslav managed to very slowly, and in a quite cumbersome matter, he had to admit, rise to his feet. Thankfully, there were no other dogs loitering around, so the man walked up to his victim and pulled the bladed weapon out of its skull. Dragoslav cleaned his only means of defence on the side of his trousers and then turned his attention to the scene at hand.

The ZIL truck was a gutted husk, some feeble flames still dancing on the hull at spots where gasoline had been sprayed on. There were four corpses in addition to the one savaged by the blind dog, all wearing the same grey-white-brown camo scheme. Dragoslav looked down and saw the same camouflage on the suit he was wearing, but some fragment of a memory fought back to not make him identify as one of these men. Realizing this, Dragoslav came to the almost paralyzing realization that he did not actually remember a single thing. The feel of his knife felt familiar, the gripping of the suit's plates around his chest equally comforting in a strange way, but other than fragmented images of the Chornobyl Exclusion Zone and some distant echoes of his past as something called stalker, Dragoslav could not conjure a single memory of his past self. All he remembered was his name.

He stood there amidst the death and destruction, somehow grieving his lost memory, when another survival instinct pushed him to shelve the issue for now. Driven by this instinct, he began checking the corpses and surviving cargo of the truck for anything valuable. Dragoslav's body was still screaming for rest, food and water, but he knew it was far more important to get his bearings and some supplies before he could settle down for all those things. The bodies had little to offer, some ammunition for pistols, another medkit and some foodstuffs. One had a flask with very foul-smelling liquid inside it, which Dragoslav somehow recognized as moonshine. However, as he was about to give up the search, he spotted one of the crates, partially broken by a rough landing.

Inside, a single handgun with a flashlight mounted on it and three packs of ammunition lay, alongside a weird yellow device and binoculars. Dragoslav took them, placed them around his suit and loaded the pistol. It was a FN FiveseveN, as was indicated on the gun. Not the most fearsome weapon, but better than nothing. Dragoslav grunted in approval, feeling a bit better now mentally. Physically, he was still almost a corpse, but at least now he had more means to defend himself than just a knife. He glanced at the crashsite one more time, and then decided to leave. Something about the place was giving him the creeps, and it was better to get going. Besides, Dragoslav now had a burning desire to understand who he was and what the hell had happened to him.

He trudged along an old asphalt road, checking his surroundings. It was a forest, filled with stunted or somehow twisted trees. There were also weird, glowing lights amid the trees, and as it was slowly getting darker, they felt almost like will-o'-the-wisps to Dragoslav. Fearful of them, he hastened his step, until he arrived to a crossing. One road led eastwards, another to the north. In the middle of the crossing was a forested piece of ground, where some metal structures and the cabin of a GAZ truck sat amidst the vegetation. Dragoslav could see a campfire in there as well, and pulled out his pistol. Closing on the fireplace, it was clear no one had been here for ages. The ashes were cold, almost as cold as the wind, and the few extra logs near the fire were damp.

Dragoslav went further into patch of woods, and found more firewood piled up. These were far drier, and there were some branches near them which could be used to light the fire. He had found a pack of matches on one of the dead, which would now come in handy. Using his remaining strength to limp back to the campfire, Dragoslav managed to get the fire going after ten minutes of struggle. With the warmth given off from it, Dragoslav managed to down a can of tushonka and some mineral water before his exhaustion finally claimed him.

The dreams he had were restless, filled with imagery of battles, mutated monstrosities, large Soviet-era buildings, men in crimson and green armour fighting alongside others in different shades of green, black, red, blue and white. A storm of sheer energy, unresponsive men with blank stares and lifeless, twitchy movement. Scarred faces of men in black and brown trenchcoats. And finally, an odd source of light, shackled from multiple points into a ceiling and imprisoned in a glass box. Pulsating, glowing, as if this thing had a malicious intelligence that defied human understanding of sentience. And said sentience was directed at Dragoslav alone.

Dragoslav woke up, almost screaming. Drenched in sweat, he immediately felt cold, realizing the fire had gone out. Only more questions granted to him now. But at least he had survived the first night, and it was all that mattered for the time being. His head hurt, but Dragoslav forced himself up. It was time to continue onwards. But to west, or to north? He looked east, and felt nothing. He looked north, and it was as if a distant, familiar yet unknown word spoke inside him.

"Come to me. You will get what you deserve.", it said.

Dragoslav felt a shudder run through his whole body, and every bit of him wanted to listen, to follow. And yet, that little survival instinct returned, forcing him to resist. Dragoslav took one step, then another. And the road to the east began, with the voice fading with each step. The lone man did not know why he resisted it, yet with the loss of his memories, his gut feeling was all Dragoslav had left. And it would have to suffice for now.