PARKORION. SAVE ME.
Chapter 1.
I don’t know my real name. I don’t know who my parents are or where I came from. I don’t even know how old I am.
My life started the day I stumbled out of the forest. I couldn’t speak, had no idea where I was or who I was, where I’d come from, or where I was supposed to go. My first memory is standing by a dirt road, the forest behind me, a small village ahead. I’m barefoot, shuffling on the cold ground, wearing nothing but tattered shorts covered in burrs. I must’ve been about ten years old then. Maybe a little older, maybe a little younger, but for the sake of keeping track, I decided that was my age on that day.
That was over a hundred and fifty years ago.
A woman named Slava found me near the forest. She was a childless widow, thirty-five years old, living in a small house on the very edge of the village, right by the woods. To me, she seemed like a grandmother back then. And that’s how she stayed in my mind for the rest of her life—Grandma Slava.
I remember how she took me to her little cabin, washed me up, fed me, and stitched together some simple clothes so I wouldn’t freeze.
Then she brought me to the village elder. He scratched his gray head, pretending to think hard about what to do with me. Slava waited a bit for the sake of appearances, then suggested I could live with her until something was figured out. The elder was relieved he didn’t have to make any tough decisions and gave his blessing. Just like that, I found a family and a home.
Grandma Slava believed I was a gift from God, so she named me Bogdan. She raised me, clothed me, fed me, and taught me to read and write since she herself was literate. I did my part, helping her however I could. I don’t know where the knowledge came from, but I knew how to build a house, how to lay a stove, when to go out for haymaking, and how to sharpen a scythe. Grandma Slava had been living alone for over a decade. She’d only been married for three years before her husband died of illness. The farm had fallen into disrepair. What she could manage with a woman’s hands still held up, but anything needing a man’s strength had gone to ruin. That is, until I showed up.
By the time I was twelve—or two years after I appeared—I was working from dawn till dusk. Grandma Slava gave me pointers here and there. Some things I figured out on my own. There was plenty of work to do. The farm came back to life. The house gleamed white again, filled with new wooden tables, beds, chairs, and shelves I’d made. The outbuildings were straightened up, and we even got some livestock.
The cabin sat not far from a river, so our table always had fish, meat, and plenty to go with it.
Those were good times. Maybe they seem so good to me because they were the days of my childhood, most of which I can’t even remember. What stuck with me is walking to the river with Slava. How she’d laugh like a little girl when we splashed around in the water. How she’d sit at the table, propping her chin on her hand, smiling as I rambled on, choking on my own excitement, about some childish adventure. Now I realize—she was still so young back then. It was only to me that she was “Grandma.”
When I was about fifteen, I had my first episode. I woke up in the middle of the night, bolted out of bed, and started screaming, “They’re burning!”
Slava calmed me down, tucked me back into bed, and sat on the floor beside me all night, holding my hand and stroking my head. I kept jolting awake, repeating over and over, “They’re going to burn, they’re going to burn.” She’d ask, “Who’s going to burn?” but I didn’t know. She soothed me until I finally fell into a heavy, troubled sleep.
The next morning, we learned that a house on the far side of the village had caught fire. An entire family perished—a husband, wife, and their four children.
I fell ill. For a week, I couldn’t get out of bed. Every time I tried, the room spun, my vision blurred, and my stomach churned, emptying whatever was left in it. When there was no food left to throw up, it was just bile. I lost so much weight, my bones seemed to glow through my skin.
Grandma Slava prayed for me every morning and evening. At night, she’d cry in her bed, thinking I couldn’t hear. She grew haggard too, waking at the slightest sound of me stirring.
On the ninth day, my stomach finally held down some hot chicken broth.
On the tenth day, I got out of bed and took a few shaky steps around it. By the fifteenth day, I walked to the burned-out remains of the house on the edge of the village. I stared for a long time at what was left after the fire. There wasn’t much—just scorched earth and a few blackened beams. Something stirred inside me, clawing to get out. In my mind, I saw the fire as I had in my nightmares that night. And I knew it wasn’t just my imagination playing tricks on me—it had happened exactly as I’d seen it. I needed air. When I got home, I grabbed an axe and headed to the forest. It was time to chop firewood anyway.
That’s when I noticed something strange in the forest. Even back at the house, I’d felt like my senses were sharper, but out there, I experienced it fully. Every twig, every blade of grass drew my attention. My eyes darted so fast, the world seemed to flicker. I closed them, took a deep breath, and calmed myself. When I opened them again, I let my gaze wander, not focusing on anything specific, but taking in everything at once… and I saw EVERYTHING. The sky peeking through the branches, the branches themselves, the plants, the birds perched above, a hare hiding behind a bush. I could hear it. I could hear its breathing, the rapid thump of its tiny heart. I let my hearing expand… and I heard EVERYTHING around me.
My own heart pounded wildly in my chest, faster than the hare’s. I couldn’t breathe. It felt too hot.
I kicked off my boots, stood barefoot on the earth, and stripped to the waist. I felt the wind. I felt the sap pulsing beneath the ground, between the roots. I knew exactly where east and west were without even glancing at the sun. I could pinpoint, down to the inch, the distance to a wild sow rooting around with her piglets a good ways off. I knew that if I wanted to, I could sneak up on her, grab her by the tail, and neither she nor her piglets would hear me coming.
Something tore at me from the inside. My physical body felt too small to contain me. I planted my feet wide, threw my arms out to the sides, and screamed with all my might. I yelled until I collapsed, exhausted, to my knees…
That day, I came home without any firewood. I barely made it back to the cabin—barefoot and shirtless. I told Grandma Slava everything. She hugged me, pulled me close, and whispered, “I always knew you were special, my boy. God-given. You have a purpose on this earth. And I’m so grateful I was chosen to dedicate my life to you.”
The second episode hit me just before winter. There was no snow yet, but the frost had already crusted over the lakes and parts of the rivers.
Like the first time, I woke up in the middle of the night, but this time without screaming. Now I not only knew what was going to happen, but also what I had to do. I jumped up, grabbed a rope from the entryway, and ran out in just my underwear, barefoot, to the millpond. Two young men, Mykytas and Orkhai, had been drinking in the next village over and decided to take a shortcut across the pond, thinking the ice was thick enough. It wasn’t. At the shore, I quickly tied one end of the rope to a tree, looped the middle around my waist, and left the other end free. I sprawled out on the ice and tossed the loose end to Mykytas, who was clinging to the edge of the broken ice. Once he was out, I had to dive in for Orkhai. He’d passed out and was drifting under the ice, but I knew exactly where he was and where to dive to beat the underwater current. Beneath the ice, I grabbed his arm, hooked the rope around him, and used it to pull myself—and him—back to the surface. I sent Mykytas running for help (it’d do him good and warm him up), while I worked to bring Orkhai around. By the time help arrived, he was breathing again. I stood over him, naked, soaking wet, but I didn’t feel the cold at all. I felt nothing but calm satisfaction from a job done.
The villagers started to respect me. People began showing up at our place. Women brought homemade treats. Men offered to help around the farm.
But after a few more incidents where I saved folks, the villagers grew wary. They were still friendly when we talked, but they stopped coming by our yard.
A year later, in winter, I drove off a pack of wolves that attacked old man Zinoviy and his mare while they were hauling firewood from the forest on a sled. I got there just in time, taking down the lead wolf mid-leap with an axe. I don’t know how it looked from the outside—I never thought about appearances when I was saving someone—but there must’ve been something to it. Picture a half-naked guy charging through the snow into the woods with an axe in each hand, swinging at wolves. At least, old man Zinoviy, quite the storyteller, later spun the tale in the village with all the details—and, of course, added a little extra flair. After that, the villagers started avoiding me. Nasty rumors spread about me and Slava. People started imagining dark secrets. They brought up how it wasn’t just coincidence that her husband had died so young...
I didn’t care. It didn’t bother me. But it hurt Slava—not the gossip about her, but how they treated me. She was used to rumors. A widow’s lot is to have people talk, and if there’s nothing to say, they’ll make something up...
Then came the war. The first one.
The village elder, who’d avoided our place all this time, showed up in our yard and told me to get ready to leave the next day. They drafted me into the army. Grandma Slava cried as she packed my things. She kept trying to stuff more into my bag, while I calmed her down, unpacking half of it, and reminded her of her own words about my purpose on this earth...
During the war, I saved a lot of people. I never even kept count. There, it was all I did—saving someone, whether civilians or soldiers. I came back six years later, pretty banged up with bullet and shrapnel wounds, but nothing serious, just grazes.
Back in the village, there was a new regime, new rules. They took half our livestock. They forced Grandma Slava to work. Later, they made me work too. During the day, I labored for who-knows-what or who-knows-who. At night, I tended to what was left of our farm. I’d gotten used to sleeping just three or four hours a night during the war, so I spent the late hours reading books. War mixes all kinds of people together, and I met folks from every walk of life. They opened my eyes to the idea that knowledge could come from books, not just experience.
Grandma Slava got so tired, she had no energy to work at home beyond cooking a meal. She’d go to bed as early as she could... and at night, she’d cry in her bed, thinking I couldn’t hear.
Then came another war. The second one. They drafted me again. I’d lost the papers they gave me during the first war (I’ll admit, on purpose). I hadn’t changed much in appearance, so they issued me a new military ID and recorded my age as nineteen. In reality, I was fifty-four, if you count from the day I stumbled out of the forest at ten with no memory.
I returned four years later. Pretty cut up by shrapnel again, but nothing serious. Just a few glancing wounds.
Grandma Slava passed away at ninety-four. Until the very end, she was on her feet, only occasionally leaning on a cane. She died quietly, saying to me, “Thank God I had you, my son. Forgive me for leaving you alone, but I can’t go on.” And then she was gone... I hope to a better place.
I started living on my own. I couldn’t marry—my appearance changed too slowly. I’m a hundred and fifty now, but I look about forty. Shave the beard, get a haircut, and I could pass for thirty-five.
Sometimes, I’d save someone if they were in trouble nearby. As always, I’d wake up at night or feel something during the day and instantly know where to go and what to do. But I tried to do it as rarely and discreetly as possible. Life taught me that gratitude comes in many forms.
Every now and then, I had to move. Every now and then, I had to change my papers. I had plenty of acquaintances. During the wars, I saved a lot of people, and among them were all sorts. So, I always knew someone who could forge documents so good no expert could spot the fake. I’ve lived in big cities and tiny settlements. I’ve been rich and I’ve been dirt poor. I’ve been known in criminal circles and among political elites. But I was always drawn back home. That rundown cabin I saw when I first stepped out of the forest—it’s the dearest place to me.
Then came another war. The third one. It engulfed the whole world. It was short-lived. If they hadn’t stopped in time, there’d be no one left alive on this planet.
They say lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice? Yeah, right. It does.
Operator error. A nuclear and a neutron bomb went off in the same spot, just five minutes apart. The whole world was at war, but it was our country that took the hit. Only after those explosions did the world come to its senses. The big shots started scrambling for political compromises.
After the third war, I returned to my old cabin. It fell within the exclusion zone formed around the nuclear blast sites.
Finally, I didn’t have to keep moving from place to place. I found the peace I’d been longing for. For about twenty years, I just rested.
I could feel the radiation, like I felt the sap and the wind in the forest back then, but it didn’t bother me.
Over time, I completely rebuilt the cabin from the ground up. Now, I’ve got a two-story house standing on the old spot. For miles around, there’s not a soul. I didn’t hide from anyone, and I didn’t save anyone. I only ventured out into the wider world when I needed to get something. But there was so much abandoned stuff around here, I rarely had to leave. At first, I hid from the military and police who were forcibly evacuating residents from the Zone. Later, they got more lenient, and I struck up a friendship with the civil defense soldiers guarding the Zone’s perimeter. Sometimes I’d go to them and ask them to bring me stuff from the populated areas; other times, I’d give them little curiosities I’d found. They offered to visit me, but I always declined—I didn’t want to give away my location.
Eventually, I got a companion. I tamed a dog and named him Wolfie. I started calling the pup “son of a wolf” as a joke when he was little, and the name just stuck. Everything was fine for a while. But then, peace slipped away again. Stalkers. They keep coming, drawn by all sorts of books they’ve read... I had to start saving people again. Then came the tourists, but their routes stayed far from my place, and they didn’t last long—only a few years—because the Zone started changing...
If you think you know something about the Zone, you’re wrong. If you think I know something about the Zone, you’re wrong too. I know the local flora and fauna. I know how to survive here. Who you can hunt, who you can’t. Where you can drink the water, and where you shouldn’t... I know every road and path around here... But I don’t know the Zone. I don’t know WHAT it is, or WHO it is. The Zone lives by its own rules.
In a hundred and fifty years of life, I’ve read countless books. A lot of knowledge came to me naturally, and a lot came from experience. But no amount of knowledge answers the question—what is the Zone, and what laws does it follow? At first, it all made sense. Nuclear war, explosions, a planetary catastrophe, an exclusion zone, areas contaminated with radiation. Mutations in animals and plants, most of which died off without producing altered offspring. But then... at some point, the exclusion zone became the Zone.
Take the “Shimmering Ones,” for example. What are they? Or who are they?
Where do these humanoid forms come from, flickering in every color of the rainbow? Are they solid or not? I haven’t tried touching them, and I’m not about to. You don’t mess around with stuff like that here. They seem almost transparent. But they bump into trees and walk around them. If you look closely at their “heads,” you can almost make out a face. And to me, those faces always look utterly shocked. They wander in circles for a bit, bang their rainbow-colored heads on trees, and then vanish—nobody knows where or how.
Or the portals—what are those? That’s just what I call them—portals. I have no idea what they really are. Out of nowhere, the air starts rippling, like heat waves rising off the ground at noon in summer. It forms an egg-shaped cloud of shimmering air, about twice the height of a person. Some animal runs by, steps into the ripple, and disappears. Where to? Who knows.
A few weeks ago, I saw a burning bison. This massive beast was calmly grazing, completely unbothered by the fact that it was engulfed in flames. But its fur wasn’t singed, and there was no smell of burning around it.
The Zone lives its own life. It has its own laws and its own bizarre evolution. It’s not like the Zone in the Strugatsky brothers’ “Roadside Picnic.” There, it appeared out of nowhere, filled with strange artifacts. Our Zone came about for understandable reasons, but it chose an incomprehensible path of development.
And here I am, living in it for the last few decades.
Strange, isn’t it? A man who doesn’t know who he is, where he came from, or why he’s lived for a hundred and fifty years, settling in a place where events unfold that no one can explain.
But what can I do? I’m too old to live in the world of people...