by John Mason
“I don’t think so, Viktor… there might be more mutants around. We only stand a chance if we stay together. Let the Stalkers check their ammo while I see what’s left in this room.”
“Yes, komandir.”
The sergeant’s obedient words relax his nerves.
At least he’s retaining his sense of duty.
Tarasov watches Ilchenko and Skinner as they count their remaining shells and magazines.
If we start falling apart or have people going off for the loot, this mission is finished.
Empty soda and water bottles lay strewn around the ground among the debris of destroyed crates. A field table stands in the corner, turned onto its side. Tarasov almost stumbles over a wrecked chair when he steps closer to see if there’s something behind it and is greeted by the sight of a headless corpse. He frowns and moves to where another body lies in the corner, still gripping a pistol in its hand.
That guy must have fought to his last bullet.
“Strange way to die.” Tarasov stirs when he hears Ilchenko’s voice behind him. “No blood on that one… he was smashed against the wall with such force that his neck broke... I mean, normally a neck isn’t fully twisted to the side like that.”
“How much ammo do you still have, Ilchenko?”
“Enough.”
“What kind of reply is that, Private?”
“I said, enough. Enough to kill the world.”
He’s losing it.
Tarasov doesn’t see the murderous light glimmering in the soldier’s eye, but Ilchenko’s hoarse voice is enough to make him more than concerned.
“Major… you better have a look at this.”
“What is it, Viktor?”
“Zef found a map… it must have been torn from the wall.”
Tarasov studies the sketchy blueprint. It is torn and heavy boots have trampled over it, but the layout of the bunker is still visible.
“Excellent… this long part is the entrance shaft… yes, then we crossed the guard’s room and now we are in the former mess room… look, that tunnel leads to a chamber labeled excavators’ storage room, whoever they are… the one in the middle leads to the laboratories.”
“I love laboratories,” Skinner cries out with inquisitive eyes. “That must be where they keep all the artifacts for testing and stuff like that!”
“And from there?” Zef asks, ignoring the other Stalker’s excitement.
“It says excavation area but the map ends there. There’s only an arrow, directed downwards.”
“To the labs, then?”
“No… first we check out the storage room. Maybe they have ammo there or first aid supplies… unless they used them all up when hell broke loose.”
A growl comes from the darkness as if in response to the major’s last words. But this time it is followed by a howl, with a third mutant joining the jarring chorus.
“Weapons at ready! Watch that tunnel to the left!”
For a moment, the major hopes that the light of their headlamps would blind the three jackals that leap out from the darkness, but the beasts don’t hesitate to attack Zef, who stands closest to them. One jackal sinks his fangs into his arm, not leaving him a chance to shoot and, to Tarasov’s horror, Ilchenko suffers the same fate. Perception or agility offer the soldier a better chance. He lets his machine gun fall with the two jackals still clinging to it with their teeth, and uses the moment gained to pull out his pistol. Tarasov, Skinner and Zlenko are firing like mad into the bundles of flesh, muscles and fangs while Zef, gathering all his enormous strength together, smashes the third mutant against the wall and pins it there while Skinner pumps three shells from his shotgun into its flesh. Even then, the mutant keeps growling as it falls to the ground and starts crawling towards them, oozing blood and gore. Ilchenko finally grabs his machine gun and fires a lengthy burst into the mutant, his voice roaring over the rattle.
“What the hell does it take to kill that fucking bastard?”
The mutant growls no more as the last casing falls to the ground from Ilchenko’s weapon.
“What the fok!” Zef’s eyes are wide enough to expose a ring of white around his corneas as he studies his arms. The mutant’s fangs have bent his exoskeleton’s reinforced metal frame like soft wire. “Those beasts just tore my shotty out of my hands and tried to bite them off…”
“Jackals are not nice. You need a bandage?” Tarasov inquires.
The black Stalker shakes his head. A strange look appears in his eyes.
“They were after my… baby! But she is only mine!”
Tarasov scowls, but before he could ask Zef about what he meant, Skinner butts in.
“Had you worn anything other than an exo, you’d now have nothing to beat your dick with,” the ex-Dutier sardonically retorts, reloading his shotgun. “It’s your lucky day, brother.”
“Let’s move on, everyone… and keep your eyes peeled.”
“There’d better be some loot in the storage room. I don’t want to leave empty-handed, you know?”
“You should be happy if you get out of here alive, and for that, luck is all you need hoping for.”
“Major, are you soldiers not interested in loot at all? If the army pays so well, I’ll sign up myself.”
“We don’t need money, Skinner. We grunts live on vodka and stale bread… at least that’s what some generals seem to think.”
The corridor is narrow and the sickly smell of decaying bodies lingers in the damp air. The smell drives saliva into Tarasov’s mouth. He swallows it. Skinner behind him spits.
“It stinks here!”
“Stop.” Ilchenko signals a halt. “Can you hear that?”
A faint noise grows from the darkness, like someone rubbing their hard-skinned palms together. Beyond the light circle of Ilchenko’s lamp, the darkness seems to move on the ground. Tiny, dim green spots evolve and move towards them.
“Back! Fall back!” Tarasov screams. He sees two amber-colored lights appear high above him. “Holy shit! A snake!”
This time the major is not alone. The bullets riddle the mutant’s erect body as it is about to strike. Obliterated by shotgun shells and rifle rounds, it collapses with a long, vanishing hiss. Tarasov gasps for breath.
Damn this place… and this is only the first level.
Beyond the steel door of the storage room they locate the origin of the smell. A pile of bodies lie on the ground, some of them missing limbs. Half digested chunks of flesh coat the concrete. Tarasov quickly puts on his gas mask, but the sickening smell is still in his nose. He quickly looks around the small room with uneven shelves on the wall.
“At least this was not for nothing,” he grumbles. Fighting back his nausea, he picks up four heavy bundles from a crushed crate.
“What’s in there?” Skinner asks curiously as they walk back into the large room, weapons ready to fire.
“Explosives.”
“Uh-oh. We’re getting angry?”
“Not yet.”
Back in the lobby’s relative security, Tarasov orders a short rest. “Check weapons. Have something to eat. In ten minutes, we move into the laboratories. Ilchenko, you keep an eye on those corridors. Sergeant… come over here for a minute.” He sits down on the ground and pulls out the notebook from his pocket. “Let’s see what we have here.”
His headlamp illuminates neat, old-fashioned handwriting. A name is written on the cover’s inner page but the ink is smeared, leaving only Sakharov legible.
“Hello, hello, Professor,” the major mumbles, thumbing the pages. He reads the writing from the first legible page aloud so that Zlenko also knows what they are about to discover.
“According to researchers, the two statues were built by an ancient tribe called the Lokottaravadan. Ancient Sogdian manuscripts, discovered by Sir Aurel Stein’s expedition and obtained by us from the British Library, tell that the female priests of this tribe possessed almost magical healing powers. However, this is dismissed by most historians as merely the st
uff of legend. Anthropologists also agree that the Lokottaravadan are long extinct but Stein insisted that a few of them might still be found, scattered among the local Hazara tribes. We also learned from the manuscripts that the famous statues at Bamyan, called Samal and Shamama, did not only serve spirituality. The Lokottaravadan sculpted them to watch over a site where, according to their faith, a demon or object of destructive power was buried. In later centuries, long after this mysterious people were annihilated, the same site became known as the City of Screams, after Genghis Khan massacred every inhabitant of the city standing there in 1222.”
“Don’t tell me this was all about some stupid anthropologists getting a hard-on from superstition and legends… what is the meaning of all this?”
Tarasov struggles to find the right words. “Well… What concerns us now is that there’s something very bad and evil down below… that is what the scientists were after… I should have guessed. Anyhow, it goes on: From samples taken from the debris of the statues, we could establish a striking similarity between the molecular structure of local stone fragments and certain artifacts, found and known in the Exclusion Zone for their health-restoring effects, like the Soul or Mica variety. However, the local samples don’t emit any radiation, except at very low values which might be due to the nuclear fallout after the recent events. Another intriguing feature is that occasionally the fragments start to glow but without emitting heat of their own. Understanding the nature of these fragments would be a major scientific breakthrough.”
Tarasov looks at the Stalkers. Zef and Skinner are sharing a can of energy drink, while Ilchenko keeps his eyes fixed on the dark corridor and murmurs to himself as if in a delirium. Zlenko is pale and sweating. All look tired and winded.
“We’ll get back to this later… now let’s have a look at that laptop.”
To his dismay, the drive is encrypted. He puts it into his rucksack and takes the pen drive recovered from the first body they encountered, hoping to have better luck with that one. Tarasov is relieved when after plugging it in his PDA, a directory appears with files arranged in chronological order.
29 July, 2014
Kiev is not satisfied with our process. We offered extra payment to motivate the excavators. I hope they will dig faster. This place is a damn warren. To make things worse, someone before us destroyed the access to the lower levels. We have to make our way down by digging and explosives… I can ignore the Academy but my buyers are getting impatient too. They reduce my money each day until I find that artifact, or whatever it is.
15 August
We had a setback today. An excavator started a fight. He screamed something about ruling the world and killed two others before the guards shot him. Again I had to double the excavators’ money. They are becoming anxious.
28 August
Now it’s really about time to enter the lowest level… I already lost tens of thousands of dollars due to the delay. Anyway, even if this goes wrong, they paid me enough for the Gauss gun blueprints before. I don’t have to worry about my old age… I only wish this mission would be over either way, because this place is becoming eerier with every meter we dig deeper.
10 September
Shame on me. Couldn’t bear the pressure. I wanted to bide time and told the buyers everything… two days later they were here. They shot the guards and took over command. Sakharov is so much lost in his research that he didn’t even notice that our output now goes to Beijing instead of Kiev. But what I’m concerned about is that they made a pact with the dushmans… that wasn’t part of the deal. That’s a fucking betrayal. What the hell could I do? I’m powerless. How I wish it could be possible to get away from this cursed place and enjoy my earnings… I would give everything I got for this if I could just get away from here!
11 October
Holy shit. The test subjects broke free. The guards are panicking. What should I do, what should I do… We are holed up in the mess room. Those fucking howls from the depths! They drive me insane. I want to get out. They can’t leave me here! I am their friend! They can’t betray me like this!
Zlenko sighs. “Permission to…”
“Cut the crap, son… we’re way beyond that, you and I. Speak your mind, for God’s sake.”
“Does it still make any sense to go deeper? There are no scientists to save here anymore.”
“That’s no excuse for us to leave this place… we need to search the laboratories and secure any research results we find. Those are our orders. As a matter of fact, the scientists are less important to Kiev than what they found out.”
Zlenko doesn’t look happy.
“Are you still with me, Viktor?”
“I am, komandir. But I’m worried about the Stalkers… I overheard Skinner talking to the black guy about leaving us and going to look for artifacts. We better watch our backs.”
“Agreed.”
“I’m even more worried about Ilchenko… he’s on the edge. He was always a cocky sonofabitch but… not like this.”
“Keep a close eye on him and don’t let him get into a fight with Zef. With all the mutants around, the last thing I need is them shooting each other.” Tarasov stands up and claps his hands. “All right, Stalkers… let’s go down into the labs. Ilchenko, you’re a good point man. Keep it up! Come on guys, look alive!”
“Can I take point for a change?” Skinner asks, taking his shotgun from his shoulder. “I don’t want that machine gun guy grabbing all the artifacts.”
“Suit yourself, Stalker. Ilchenko, stay with me.”
Laboratory, 12 October 2014, 14:29:02 AFT
The corridor leading to the laboratories is short, with doors opening into small rooms. Looking inside as they move by, their headlights fall on destroyed field furniture and scattered documents. Tarasov takes a few sheets from the ground. Unsure if the long rows of numbers hold any valuable information, he lets them fall back to the ground.
A metal staircase winding down lies at the end of the corridor. A faint, bluish light glimmers beneath. If Tarasov had to choose between the darkness of the bunker level or the disconcerting light below, he would rather stay in darkness.
“Steady, Skinner… move quietly!”
The Stalker is halfway down the stairway when he suddenly stops. “Vaska,” he shouts, “is that you?”
Tarasov cannot figure the reason for the Stalker’s agitation, but leaps down the stairs to stop him from rushing forward into the large room where the stairs emerge. Wherever he looks, he sees devastated furniture and smashed cabinets, with broken computers and their blown out screens scattered around the floor. It is emergency lamps that spill the cold blue light over the devastated room, lending the room all the ambience of an operating theatre in Hell.
He hears the others descending the metal staircase, but the clunk of boots on metal cannot nullify the faint but discernible voice of a man crying in agony.
“Vaska!” Skinner shouts, his voice echoing in the room. “Where are you? Is that you over there?”
“Stalker! Stay here!”
Ignoring Tarasov’s words, Skinner runs to the other end of the room, where a steel door swings open. Skinner cries out in despair and horror.
“Oh no! Vaska! What did they do to you?”
Cursing, Tarasov moves to pull him back. He has almost reached Skinner when he becomes aware of something that freezes the blood in his veins. As if the sound of a woman’s desperate cry wouldn’t be enough, his eyes widen in horror at what he sees.
“Nooria!” he utters upon the sight of her lying on the floor with blood covering her belly and limbs.
“Fuck!”
Skinner’s voice and the gunshot following it bring Tarasov back to his senses. He grabs the Stalker’s shoulder and drags him away from the door.
“Don’t come closer,” he shouts to the others. “Back up the stairs, move!”
“Let me fucking go,” Skinner shouts, trying to wrestle himself free from Tarasov’s grasp. “It’s Vaska from the Asylum! I
must help my friend!”
“It’s just a fucking mutant trying to scare you away!”
The Stalker’s heavy body suddenly becomes lighter as Zef
joins Tarasov in his efforts.
“Hold him,” Tarasov shouts when they reach the staircase, taking a grenade from his ammunition belt. Nooria’s defiled corpse becomes clearer with each step he takes toward the door but, overcoming his horror, he leaps forward and tosses the grenade into the next room. A painful howl follows the explosion. Then all falls quiet. The apparitions disappear.
“I saw Vaska…” Skinner bemoans as Zef eases his choke-hold. “He was my best buddy… I believed him dead but I saw him… first he was in a fucking cage, and then bound to an operating table with fucking pipes and catheters screwed into his head…”
“It was just your imagination,” Tarasov explains, but his own voice is trembling too. “The mutant wanted you to run away in fear. It’s over. Vaska is fine!”
“How can you be sure of that? We must find him! Maybe he is still alive somewhere in here…”
“There’s no one here except fucking mutants, you asshole,” Ilchenko shouts and aims his machine gun at the Stalker. “Stop this moaning, you’re making me nervous. Very nervous!”
“You haven’t seen what I saw.” The Stalker stands up and looks at Ilchenko, his eyes molten with rage. “You haven’t seen those cages. I saw them, just a moment ago. They are for real. I’m through with you! I’m going to save my friend!”
“Skinner, if you want to live, stay here!”
“I’m a free Stalker, not a soldier you can order around. To Hell with you and your mission!”
Tarasov pushes Zlenko’s rifle down as the sergeant aims it at the departing Stalker.
“Skinner! We’re all together in this! Come back!” he calls.
“Fuck you,” the Stalker shouts back as he disappears into the darkness beyond the steel door.
His three remaining men look at Tarasov.
