The flaps of Ivan's ushanka flapped in the wind. He did a lazy forward roll, briefly viewing the MiG he'd fallen out of. It was like a swan, and he was a much smaller swan, rushing towards the ground at terminal velocity. As the splotches of color began to gain detail, he pulled the ripcord on his chest, and a bright red parachute unfolded, a picture of Stalin imprinted upon it.
Ivan steered around in the air, using a road as a makeshift landing strip. His boot heels skidded along the ground; he landed on his hands and knees, crouching his head.
The Russian slowly looked up, the sun reflected off his gasmask's lenses. He quickly pulled off the parachute, and looked around. He somehow expected New York to be more.... glamorous. He pulled out a radio, and spoke into it.
"<Comrades, I have landed alive as planned. City seems to be deserted.>"
"<.....off ta-......Ivan, you mus-......avoi....Chech---.....unny...-nge tan-............>" the radio responded, giving off mostly static. Ivan reached into his belt, only to discover he had no backup radio. He made a mental note to build a backup radio, and designate it his new primary radio.
"You! Where is box for making chats?" he turned, asking a particularly decayed looking citizen. It shambled towards him, making a strangely familiar groan. Ivan couldn't place where he'd heard it, only that it set off some primal urge to kill it. Which he did. Ivan drew his Makarov and shot the walker in the head.
Holstering his sidearm, Ivan examined the ruined town. There was a hospital in the distance. Ivan hummed a little tune to himself, and tactically crouch-walked his way towards the building. Hospitals had anesthetic. Vodka was anesthetic. Therefore, he could find a stockpile there.
*Translated from Russian.
Ivan steered around in the air, using a road as a makeshift landing strip. His boot heels skidded along the ground; he landed on his hands and knees, crouching his head.
The Russian slowly looked up, the sun reflected off his gasmask's lenses. He quickly pulled off the parachute, and looked around. He somehow expected New York to be more.... glamorous. He pulled out a radio, and spoke into it.
"<Comrades, I have landed alive as planned. City seems to be deserted.>"
"<.....off ta-......Ivan, you mus-......avoi....Chech---.....unny...-nge tan-............>" the radio responded, giving off mostly static. Ivan reached into his belt, only to discover he had no backup radio. He made a mental note to build a backup radio, and designate it his new primary radio.
"You! Where is box for making chats?" he turned, asking a particularly decayed looking citizen. It shambled towards him, making a strangely familiar groan. Ivan couldn't place where he'd heard it, only that it set off some primal urge to kill it. Which he did. Ivan drew his Makarov and shot the walker in the head.
Holstering his sidearm, Ivan examined the ruined town. There was a hospital in the distance. Ivan hummed a little tune to himself, and tactically crouch-walked his way towards the building. Hospitals had anesthetic. Vodka was anesthetic. Therefore, he could find a stockpile there.
*Translated from Russian.