The morning of April 1, 1979, was supposed to be peaceful, but once again, the tranquility was shattered by the deafening wail of sirens.
\"Beep beep beep... Beep beep beep...\" The shrill sounds echoed down the street, unsettling everyone in the area.
\"Oh no, not again,\" someone muttered, groggily waking up from the noise. \"Can’t we just sleep in peace for once?\"
It wasn’t the first time this had happened. Recently, there had been an unsettling frequency of emergency vehicles racing down the street. One minute, the neighborhood was calm, and the next, the harsh sound of police and ambulance sirens would pierce the air. This sudden disruption left everyone feeling uneasy. Neighbors gathered, exchanging whispers, asking, \"What’s going on lately? Why do we hear sirens all day long? It’s making everyone anxious.\"
展开剩余90%However, despite their concerns, no one dared speak too openly about it. Ekaterinburg, where they lived, was no ordinary town. It was an essential military-industrial hub for the Soviet Union, home to numerous arms factories, with most of its population working in military-related industries. And right in the heart of their neighborhood was a Soviet military base. In such a politically and militarily sensitive area, even casual conversations could draw unwanted attention from the KGB. People were careful not to say too much, for fear of bringing trouble upon themselves.
But for Rysha Smirnova, the discomfort grew even more palpable. As she walked to work, the shrill sirens again screamed through the air. The crowd around her seemed tense, as if gripped by a silent, collective fear of the unknown. She, too, was caught in the web of unease but continued on, unaware of the grave danger looming ahead.
Rysha arrived at the ceramic factory on time, changed into her work uniform, and began her daily tasks on the production line. She tried to focus on her work, blocking out the nagging feeling of uncertainty that gnawed at her. What was causing all this commotion? Was it just an unfortunate accident, or was something more sinister at play?
As she worked, Rysha heard a loud voice from the distance—one of her colleagues shouting for help: \"Help! Someone's collapsed! We need assistance!\" Before anyone could react, several more people fell to the ground.
Rysha froze. Just moments ago, these workers had been perfectly fine, but now they lay on the floor, writhing in pain. Their faces turned a disturbing shade of purple, hands clutching their throats as if gasping for air. Some began coughing violently, while others vomited, the sour stench of stomach acid filling the air.
In a panic, the factory’s safety officers rushed into action, triggering the chemical spill emergency protocol. They quickly handed out gas masks, telling the workers, \"Don’t worry, everyone. It looks like there’s been a gas leak. If we put on these masks, we’ll be safe.\"
But when the safety officers checked the equipment and toxic gas detectors, they found nothing wrong. The warning systems hadn’t gone off, and the gas leak alarm was silent. It didn’t seem like a typical gas leak from the factory.
Then, as they were still trying to make sense of the situation, something even stranger occurred. Despite the masks, workers continued to fall ill, their faces turning purple and breathing becoming labored. It was clear that whatever was happening wasn't due to a gas leak. Rysha, panicked, rushed to call the hospital. But when she dialed, the line was busy, the phone ringing endlessly.
She kept trying, but as the minutes ticked by, she began to feel a tightness in her chest. Her breathing grew shallow, and she realized—too late—that she, too, was succumbing to the same mysterious affliction.
In the chaos that followed, more than a hundred workers collapsed in agony. They had no idea why this was happening or how it had started. But before they could get any answers, a group of people in white coats—doctors—entered the factory.
\"Don’t worry,\" one of the doctors reassured them. \"We’re from the 24th hospital. We’ll take care of you. Just come with us.\"
Finally, some semblance of relief washed over Rysha. At least they weren’t going to die in the factory without anyone knowing. However, little did she know, these doctors hadn’t been called in by the factory; they were sent in by some higher authority who had learned about the outbreak and was ensuring the workers were taken to the hospital.
As soon as they arrived at the 24th hospital, the medical team was at a loss. They weren’t sure what was happening either. This wasn’t the first case of this mysterious illness—the hospital had already seen several patients displaying similar symptoms. They all experienced sudden fainting, purple skin, shortness of breath, and violent coughing, rapidly deteriorating to the point of septic shock. If they didn’t receive urgent treatment, death followed soon after.
Despite the best efforts of the doctors, even Rysha’s life hung in the balance. After some intense resuscitation, she regained a little bit of consciousness. But when she opened her eyes, she realized she was completely immobile, unable to move, trapped in her own body. Her voice barely rose above a whisper as she pleaded, \"Doctor, please help me... I beg you...\"
The doctor, visibly conflicted, looked at Rysha. Her body was swollen beyond recognition, the skin oozing with infection. The stench was unbearable, as if she had just risen from the grave. Even more horrifying, when the doctor took a scalpel and cut into her arm and thigh—areas where the skin was severely damaged—there was no response. No pain. She couldn’t feel a thing.
\"She’s lost all sensation. No anesthesia, but she doesn’t even seem to be aware of the cuts,\" the doctor muttered, his voice full of concern. \"This is bad… very bad.\"
Panicked, Rysha begged, \"Doctor, what’s happening to me? What disease do I have?\"
The room fell silent. None of the doctors had an answer, not even the head physician, who hesitated and said, \"It looks like anthrax, but we can’t be sure.\"
Just as he spoke, a man in black entered the room, interrupting him. \"Careful with what you say. You’re responsible for your words,\" he warned the doctor coldly. The man then looked at Rysha and said, \"You probably can’t sign your name now. How about a thumbprint instead?\"
The man grabbed Rysha’s finger, pressed it into a small container of red clay, and then stamped it onto a document.
As he left, the doctors and nurses exchanged worried glances. They were powerless to intervene because the man in black was from the KGB, the Soviet Union’s secret police. From that point forward, no one could discuss what was happening or even attempt to help the patients.
Days passed, and the mystery of the illness remained unsolved. The doctors tried to treat the victims as best they could, but nothing worked. The patients’ conditions worsened rapidly. It wasn’t until a few days later that it was revealed the illness was actually caused by anthrax, but not in the way anyone expected.
The outbreak had been caused by a leak of anthrax spores from a military research facility in the region. The spores had been accidentally released into the air, leading to the rapid spread of the disease. The victims were primarily people living and working near the site of the leak. By the time the truth came out, it was too late. The epidemic had already claimed many lives.
The KGB had attempted to cover up the incident, but the truth eventually came to light. The tragic event of 1979 was not an accident—it was a man-made disaster, a biological warfare experiment gone horribly wrong. It was a chilling reminder of the dangers of unchecked power and the devastating consequences of secretive government actions.
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