Activity surged across the station as the threat of the oncoming storm grew heavier by the minute. Nearly a hundred settlers, some limping, others sagging under the weight of exhaustion, were now working to transfer every critical supply into the emergency hangar. The overhead lamps flickered in protest beneath the overloaded power grid, and beyond the round windows, the dimming sky signaled that the storm was nearly at their doorstep.

In the main chamber of the hangar, metal containers were being stacked into makeshift walls. Half-labeled boxes towered high rations of dry food, medical kits, nearly expired water purification cartridges. Elena Markova, hair damp with sweat, coordinated the chaos using a cracked console. Voices and hurried footsteps echoed off the cold steel surfaces.

“Move those crates all the way to the far wall!” Elena shouted over the noise. “We need room in the middle for the generator line. The small corridor is sealed, so use the main airlock for all supply transfers and double-check every suit!”

Outside, through the narrow observation slit, two old welding bots clanked across the storm-ridden surface. Their plasma torches glowed a bluish-white, casting sparks as they patched up the battered exterior panels. Around their feet, steel beams lay ready. Meant to reinforce the station’s weakened window frames. The wind had already begun coating the outer walls in dust. Every time the station trembled, Elena froze, her heart hammering in her throat.

Inside, a dozen aging cargo drones rumbled across the hangar floor. These clunky, slow machines had been around for over a decade, now dragging heavy generators and water dispensers. Meanwhile, the settlers carried smaller loads by hand: spare oxygen canisters, salvageable batteries, coils of cable and wiring. If they had to stay inside the hangar for days - or even weeks - they couldn’t afford to leave anything behind.

Each time someone returned from the Martian surface, they had to pass through a tiny pressure equalization chamber, which hissed and groaned in its struggle to maintain proper atmospheric levels. Beyond that was the main entrance, still available for the last few incoming loads. But as the wind outside grew sharper, everyone knew: soon, even that final opening would be sealed, and they would be shut in, for the duration of the storm, at the very least.

The hangar interior was gradually transforming into something like a barracks. With nearly a hundred people to shelter, collapsible cots were lined up in rough squares, forming miniature “neighborhoods.” Plastic tarps hung to serve as makeshift walls, offering some degree of privacy for the station’s workers.

Misha Volkov, the back of his hands still dark with bruises from earlier rescue attempts, now helped arrange the sleeping areas. Deep circles sank beneath his eyes from fatigue.

“Leave at least two meters of space between the rows,” he murmured to another settler. “The corridors need to stay clear, in case the medics need to get through.”

The dull overhead lighting flickered again.

In a corner nearby, two settlers were sorting through emergency suits by size. Some of the suits were covered in patches, the holes sealed with tape or resin. They hung from portable racks, ready in case the hangar’s walls were breached. Ready to be clung to for every last breath..

In the corner of the makeshift command station, Major Anatoly Ivanov leaned over an outdated comms console, from which a nest of cracked wires spilled across the floor. His suit was half-unzipped, a faded naval undershirt peeking out through the opening, a clear signal that he was ready to run out at any moment, if the situation demanded it. Signals of desperation flickered across the console: static-filled broadcasts from Earth, scattered pings from other Martian outposts. Ivanov had just finished transmitting a final distress call to Moscow.

“Let them witness the collapse,” he muttered, mostly to himself, slamming the switch down. “In the so-called ‘Window Year.’ If this doesn’t open their stockpiles, nothing will.”

He turned from the console, eyes drifting toward the far end of the hangar where settlers were still hauling the last supply crates. A bitter half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maybe Vostok’s near-destruction would be the only thing that finally moved Earth to act. Cruel irony, but Ivanov was no stranger to that.

Raising his voice, he gave one final order, which echoed off the metal walls:

“All external units, seal up. Now! The dust’s coming like a wall. Visibility will drop to zero within minutes. If you’re still outside, you won’t see the door from two meters. Everyone inside: move!”

The interior of the station went eerily still, as if the entire complex had drawn a collective breath, bracing for impact. Major Ivanov sprinted toward the inner panel of the hangar, ready to initiate the final lockdown of the outer door, when a shout from one of the technicians stopped him in his tracks.

“Major! They’re still outside!” came the fading cry over the radio. “The welders are still working on the dome!”

Warning lights flashed on the control panel: external units still active. Ivanov froze. They couldn’t seal the door. Not yet.

Elena Markova rushed to the entrance, stepping out from a service panel alcove and peering through the still-open outer maintenance hatch, where red dust was already swirling inward.

Visibility was plummeting, but for a brief moment she saw it clearly: the greenhouse dome, its overloaded supports, the weight of dust accumulating on the outside, sudden pressure shifts, and thermal stress, began to fracture in silence, just before a long, metallic groan echoed.

It collapsed like some exhausted, overburdened creature. The transparent polymer panels cracked, then fell in massive sheets onto the metal and the soil below, onto the last remaining workers still trying to reinforce it. The falling segments crushed some of them. Other shards slammed into steel beams stored inside the dome for repairs, rebounding like deadly traps, spinning and flying out of control.

One welder slipped as he tried to back away, and a strut’s edge sliced through his back in the next instant. Another worker ran, but lost balance in the dust, and a falling piece of the roof slammed him to the ground. The plasma cutters sparked for a moment more in the swirling red haze.

Ivanov clenched his fist. Elena, desperate, reached blindly into the cloud of dust through the maintenance door. She couldn’t see anything. Only felt someone’s arm and pulled them inside.

“Seal it now!” Ivanov roared into the radio.

The heavy door closed slowly. Behind it, nothing but dust, wreckage, and death.

The hangar’s automatic maintenance gate groaned loudly as its motors fought against the force of the storm. A nearby robot emitted a sharp alarm, declaring the external environment dangerously hostile. With one last mechanical thrust, the door slammed shut, as if trying to escape the grip of the storm itself. Inside, the pressure regulators groaned, straining to maintain balance as the storm’s fury rattled the structure. The station’s lights immediately flickered, glowing pale and weak, like the system itself was hesitating, unsure how much longer it could endure.

A sudden silence fell over the emergency hangar. The survivors lay sprawled across the floor or slumped half-conscious against pallets and crates, gasping for breath, wide-eyed, staring blankly in shock. A tall man’s helmet was cracked from a nearby impact; a trembling woman clutched her bleeding arm. The station’s medics and nurses moved tirelessly from one person to the next, helping wherever they could.

Elena collapsed to her knees and looked around the makeshift shelter that, from now on, would be their only refuge. She began counting heads, dazed. Too many were missing. And she feared what it meant, how many had been torn apart out there in the dust that now forever separated them from the rest.

“Oh God…” Elena whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling. “We lost half the greenhouse crew…”

Her words cut off as Major Ivanov stumbled into the hangar. His helmet was cracked. He tore it from his head, coughing harshly through dust-filled lungs, trying to breathe. His gaze drifted over the broken people. Some still locked in shock, others whispering prayers under their breath. Then a final, deafening crash rocked the hangar. And everything went black. The power was gone for good. Screams broke through the darkness, sharp, panicked sounds, as if fear itself had dropped from the ceiling.

A single emergency light flickered on, powered by a failing battery. It cast long, trembling shadows across the walls. Ivanov grabbed the lamp and raised it high, casting a dim glow that barely revealed Elena’s exhausted face in the gloom.

The once-proud Vostok outpost lay in ruins. In the hangar, lights flickering, supplies scattered, a single emergency lamp cast trembling shadows across the walls. Nobody spoke.

MÍTOSZ

Itt kezdődik.

Itt a köd marad.

A világ folytatódik.

Hamarosan folytatjuk…