Dmitry sat before the monitor, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. The screen displayed the Ark, drowned in gray sludge. Emotions had receded. Physics remained. The task was simple in theory, impossible in practice: move a mass of 26,000 kg from point A to point B through a medium with a friction coefficient trending toward zero.
“If I just engage the winch and hook to the nearest tree,” he reasoned aloud, “I'll either uproot the tree, burst a hydraulic hose, or snap the cable. The soil resistance right now is higher than the pulling force. The machine is suctioned in.”
He needed to change the equation.
First: reduce friction and create support. “Corduroy road,” Dmitry nodded. “Classic. I need to fell timber, cut logs, and lay them under the wheels. Create a wooden 'caterpillar track'.”
Second: fulcrum. The surrounding trees looked pitiful—rotten, twisted. A single trunk wouldn't withstand a load of thirty tons, accounting for the mud's drag. “Three-point anchor,” Dmitry decided. “Load distribution system. I'll take three trees and tie them with tree-saver straps into a single chain. The force vector will be distributed. If their roots are intertwined underwater, it might just hold.”
Third: force multiplication. The Ark's winch was a hydraulic Rotzler with a direct pulling force of 20 tons. That was too little, considering how deep he was buried. “Block and tackle system,” Dmitry smiled grimly. “Archimedes, you're up.” He had a rigging kit full of snatch blocks. If he ran the cable through a block on the tree and returned the hook to the vehicle, the pulling force would double. And if he used two blocks... “We'll get you out, fatty. Slowly, meter by meter, but we'll get you out.”
Dmitry reached for the drone controller again. “Birdie, up. Low altitude mode.”
This time, the Matrice didn't soar into the sky but hovered ten meters above the swamp. Dmitry flew the drone carefully, scanning every yard of the path ahead of the vehicle's hood. He needed a fairway. “Okay... Here is a 'window', looks like a quagmire. Depth unknown, but bad. Detour left.” He made marks on the tablet's digital map. “Here is a ridge of hummocks. Root system seems dense. Good. Here is a gap. I'll have to pave a log path.”
He plotted a route for the next two hundred meters. It wasn't a straight line, but a winding snake connecting islands of relative solidity.
“Two hundred meters of hell,” he stated. “And ten kilometers to shore. At a rate of fifty meters a day...” He calculated in his head. Two hundred days? “No. Only the start is tough. Once I hit clay, speed will pick up. The main thing is to break the suction.”
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
Dmitry landed the drone and felt his stomach cramp. The watch showed noon. War is war, but an engine needs fuel. Heavy physical work lay ahead: swinging a chainsaw, hauling logs, wading through mud. On an empty stomach, he'd drop dead in an hour.
He went to the kitchen block. No culinary frills this time. He just needed calories. Dmitry took out a frying pan. Six eggs (liquid eggs from a bottle; fresh shells were a luxury on an expedition). Bacon from a vacuum pack. A can of baked beans in tomato sauce. Five minutes later, the maddeningly delicious smell of fried meat drifted through the cabin, overpowering even the phantom stench of the swamp outside. He ate quickly, greedily, washing the food down with strong, sweet tea.
Finished with lunch, Dmitry decided to do an inventory check. Paranoia demanded numbers. He descended—virtually, via the inventory management system, as he didn't want to physically climb into the hold—to the storerooms.
Water: The Aquacycle recirculation system was working perfectly. It purified gray water from the shower and sink to technical grade (for flushing and washing), and through a reverse osmosis membrane to drinking grade. A closed loop. Losses were minimal. In the main tanks: 850 liters of potable water. Filters would last a year. “No problems with thirst as long as there's power for pumps,” Dmitry noted. “I can distill swamp water if pushed.”
Food: Dmitry opened the electronic catalog. He had stocked up calculating for a six-month autonomous trip for two people (he planned to take a navigator, but the guy fell ill at the last moment, and Dmitry went alone).
-
Freeze-dried (Mountain House, Trek'n Eat): 300 portions. (Tasty, lightweight, high calorie).
-
Canned goods (Stew, vegetables, fruits): 200 cans.
-
Grains and pasta: 50 kg.
-
Frozen (Meat, fish): The freezer was packed to the brim. Forty kilos of steaks and fillets.
-
Morale Boosters (Chocolate, nuts, cookies): Three crates.
“If I eat my fill, like today—enough for 4-5 months,” Dmitry summarized. “If I enter strict rationing mode, I can stretch it to a year.” This was soothing. Starvation wasn't an immediate threat. But he understood perfectly: these were finite resources. There was no supermarket around the corner. Uber Eats didn't deliver to the apocalypse. Every eaten can of stew was a step toward zero.
“So, the motivation is simple,” he told his reflection in the dark glass of the oven. “Either I get to that castle and find resources, or I become the most well-fed corpse in this swamp.”
He stood up, feeling the heaviness in his muscles and the weight of the meal. Time was ticking. The day was short. Dusk would fall in about five hours. He needed to prepare a bridgehead.
Dmitry went to the tool locker. He took out the Stihl chainsaw. Checked the chain. Sharp. Chain oil present. Rigging kit: tree-saver straps, shackles, two heavy snatch blocks. Steel extension cable. He changed clothes. Again, that damned coverall, still damp on the inside. Rubber boots. Gloves. This time, he taped his pant legs to his boots with duct tape so the mud wouldn't pour inside.
“Well then, Engineer Antonov,” he said, putting on a helmet with a face shield. “Enough pressing buttons. Time to work with your hands.”
He hit the airlock button. Damp, rotten air burst into his sterile world again. Ahead lay mud, sweat, and damned physics.