S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort

by John Mason

  “Do you think I’m a coward, Mikhailo?”

  “On the contrary… I will turn every damned stone upside down to get you a promotion to lieutenant.”

  “Being a lieutenant… that’s much better than being a sergeant, yes.”

  Tarasov realizes how shallow his words sound. “You are right… I should have just said that no, I do not think you are a coward.”

  “So you won’t take it for cowardice if I say: let’s turn back. I am actually begging you to turn back. It will only get worse if we cross this bridge!”

  Tarasov seeks the words to explain all the pieces of the puzzle that just keep falling into place within his own perception, things he feels rather than knows.

  “Have you seen Ilchenko’s madness?” He asks, having finished bandaging the sergeant’s wound. “How Skinner ran to help an already dead friend? How Zef’s wits fell apart?”

  “I do.”

  “Did you have a close look at the sand and rocks in this land, the ruins, the wrecks of tanks once driven by our father’s generation? Have you seen the killing machines that people turned into, people who once had more freedom and earned more money than we could ever dream about?”

  “I did.”

  “Then listen… all this shit comes from that damned thing.” Tarasov beats the floor with his fist. “Or so I read the clues… but it clearly radiates evil – look how it had turned us against each other. It creeps into our mind at our weakest point… We have to destroy it if we can. Kiev wanted to have it. Our enemies tried to snatch it from our scientists. Who knows what powers are still queuing up to take it? At least we should try to end this madness. This is our mission now, son!”

  Tarasov is almost begging. Zlenko gives his hands a thousand-yard stare. He is opening and closing his fist, as if checking that his hands still obey his will.

  “All the things we saw… it’s beyond human influence, Mikhailo. I don’t think we can change anything here, or anywhere in this screwed up world for that matter. Frankly, I think we should leave and let this cursed place keep its secrets.” He stretches his back, like a man preparing for heavy work. “But if you go, I’ll follow you.”

  Tarasov removes his helmet and rubs his hand over his sweaty hair and grimy face. “Why?”

  “Because I’m supposed to follow my orders.”

  Tarasov had been hoping for a reply that would have proved to him that the almost fatherly feelings he developed for the young sergeant had not been in vain. He wipes the dust off of his helmet, then slowly puts it back on his head and fixes the neck strap under his chin.

  “Well then… if you still follow your orders, take Ilchenko’s machine gun and ammunition.” He staggers to his feet and reloads his pistol. “Then, if you are ready… let’s go below.”

  Zlenko stares at the darkness beyond the door. “I don’t like the look of this.”

  “Neither do I,” Tarasov replies, entering the door.

  Point of No Return

  Catacombs, 12 October 2014, 15:58:16 AFT

  Holes in the wall mark the places where timbers once held a wooden staircase, now replaced by a steel ladder. His headlamp is too weak to illuminate the lower end. For a moment he considers tossing a grenade into the depths to clear the ground, should anyone or anything be laying in wait for them below. His cautiousness prevails.

  The less noise we make, the better.

  The ladder seems endless. Dust rises from the ground and gathers in the beam of his headlamp when, at last, his heavy boots touch the bottom of the pit with a muted thud. He steps ahead, so that Zlenko too can descend from the ladder.

  Their weapons at the ready, the two soldiers proceed cautiously. The tunnel walls are made of crudely hewn rock, the small light circle of the headlamps casting dark shadows on the stones as they move. It is pitch black. The generators illuminating the laboratory either have no power to operate the emergency lights wired to the tunnel’s ceiling, or the wires had been sabotaged. After a few steps, huge shadows loom in the light of their headlamps. Two corridors sprout from the tunnel.

  Tarasov decides to take the descending corridor to the south. Zlenko follows him without question.

  Pain burns his chest. Touching his wound, his fingers tell him that another stitch has torn.

  That stone is moving out of my flesh… what is happening to me?

  In one place, where the tunnel curves and continues downward in a steeper descent, the walls bear the marks of heavy tools.

  “They used enough effort to dig a metro,” Zlenko whispers. “Someone must have been really keen to clear these catacombs.”

  “Halt,” Tarasov whispers back to the sergeant, “I see a light ahead. Switch to night vision.”

  He kneels down. The faint hum of his night vision is the only sound he can hear. The low, greenish contrast strengthens enough for him to make out a brawny figure standing in the darkness.

  “Steady,” he whispers, and aims his weapon. The reticule slides towards the mutant’s face. It seems to be just an arm’s length away. Whatever happened to it, Tarasov can still see human features, wishing recoil would be the only thing he felt when he pulls the trigger. Despite the silencer, the rifle shots sound like thunder in the narrow tunnel. For a second, the mutant’s head jolts with impact as the bullets hit it, then it turns in the direction of the shots. Tarasov fires again. The mutant roars, its heavy steps pounding on the ground towards him. Zlenko fires the machine gun.

  What the hell does it take to kill this beast?

  Gritting his teeth, Tarasov fires burst after burst. The mutant collapses but still manages to crawl towards them.

  “Can’t you understand you’re fucking dead?” Zlenko screams, firing the M27 directly into the mutant’s head. “Die at last! Die!”

  The mutant lies sprawled on the ground, motionless but for its fingers, which are still twitching. Its nails have grown into inch-long claws. Zlenko draws his combat knife, kneels down and cuts the mutant’s throat. The claws dig into the ground and move no longer.

  “At least I can use my bayonet again,” he says, coldly. “Now it’s dead enough.”

  For a minute, Tarasov suspiciously studies his last remaining companion’s face. “Good job, Viktor,” he says.

  “I know.”

  Turning his back to Zlenko, Tarasov is dogged by a persistent feeling of uneasiness. Reaching a wide cavern with a campfire in the middle, he puts the fire between himself and Zlenko so that he can watch his movements.

  “Looks like we interrupted its dinner,” he says, looking at the half dozen corpses lying on the ground, some of them revealing bite marks. Even so, the still-human face of the mutant makes him feel uneasy.

  Zlenko shrugs. “It’s done for. No place for remorse. It was not human anymore, just pure evil turned into brawn and claws.”

  Tarasov frowns.

  He was not supposed to know what I think.

  “Check your ammo, Sergeant.”

  “Only two mags left.”

  “Keep your pistol ready… just in case.”

  “It won’t be necessary. We won’t get much further.” Zlenko’s words sound pessimistic but there is a strange, detached resolve in his voice.

  “We will, Sergeant.”

  Zlenko doesn’t reply. He checks the corpses. “Civilians mostly… technicians, I believe.”

  So these were the excavators.

  Tarasov moves to take a closer look at them, to find a map or something else that might be useful, but as he looks back at the mutant one last time, the light of his headlamp is reflected by something metallic. He turns the corpse over. Fastened on a metal chain like a dog-tag, a note hangs from its neck in a small plastic case.

  Psychological test subject Number 3. Origin: Ghorband area. Personal notes: Vasilyev. Species: homo sapiens. Nature of test: voluntary – involuntary. Exposure time: 12 hours (estimated).

  “You know, Viktor… actually, I am relieved that we don’t have to rescue these scientists.”

  “I
disagree. We came to rescue them. We have orders. And I will not go beyond or ignore my orders.”

  The major frowns. He looks at the sergeant’s heavy body armor and, for a moment, is tempted to reload his rifle with armor-piercing ammunition once more.

  Not Viktor. Not him. Please.

  Before they go on, Tarasov looks around the cavern. Heavy rocks and debris still lie on the ground where they had entered, and the walls of the cavern are smoother than in the tunnels. He can even see the faint traces of stone ornaments on the walls, and closer examination even reveals faded paintings. Parts of human figures are still visible, but their faces have been scratched away and huge bullet holes have otherwise rendered their remains unrecognizable. The tunnel continues as a row of stairs, leading deeper into the darkness.

  “Have you realized we didn’t stumble into Skinner’s corpse?” Tarasov inquires. “Maybe that tough bastard is still alive and lurking about somewhere here.”

  “Yeah. Maybe,” Zlenko replies, again with an insubordinate shrug.

  After a few meters, the tunnel broadens. The stairs are broken, and a narrow wooden plank runs through. Zlenko moves straight forward. He is barely half a meter away from the ruined steps when Tarasov sees a little hole in the ground, like those he had seen at Hellgate.

  “Zlenko! Stop,” he screams, but is too late. Columns of burning steam thrust from the ground, filling the tunnel with noxious fumes and flames. He grasps the sergeant’s shoulder and yanks him back to safety.

  “A Geyser! Watch your damned step!”

  The anomaly burns for a minute before extinguishing itself as quickly as it had appeared. Zlenko’s suit is badly burnt and Tarasov can see seared flesh through the torn leggings. He quickly takes a roll of bandages and is about to apply it on the sergeant’s wounds when Zlenko shakes him off.

  “It’s nothing,” he says calmly and stands up. “Let’s move.”

  “You have burns all over your legs,” Tarasov shouts at him.

  “Stop being such a father figure.”

  He watches Zlenko move on with determined steps. Cursing himself, he runs to catch up with the sergeant. Tarasov can barely halt himself when he finally reaches Zlenko. Under the arched tunnel ceiling, his faintly outlined silhouette stands still against inky darkness.

  Another yawning chasm opens before them. One ramshackle rope bridge stretches out from where Zlenko stands, its other end invisible in the gloom beyond.

  “I suppose you want to take point, Major.”

  The sergeant’s words strike home like an order and Tarasov bites his lip. Deep inside him, all his instincts scream Danger.

  He steps onto the bridge. The ancient ropes creak as the shaky bridge accommodates his weight. The chasm below could be ten or ten thousand meters deep, but soon the other side appears, where an elaborately carved stone arch leads into another tunnel.

  “You can follow… it’s safe,” he shouts back to Zlenko the from the middle of the rope bridge. When he has almost reached the other side, he repeats, “Viktor, you can –”

  “I will not.”

  With his weapon ready but his finger off the trigger, Tarasov slowly turns back towards his last remaining comrade.

  “Come again?”

  “I said I will not. I can not follow you any longer.”

  Tarasov’s eyes glaze over with fear as he looks back at him. The sergeant has removed his helmet and, where the face of a young, carefree man once was, the deadly features of a killer now appear. The light of Tarasov’s headlamp reflects in his eyes as a fiery red tone.

  “Viktor,” Tarasov desperately shouts, “you are still under my command, for God’s sake!”

  “There is no god here. Nor was there any command on the way here. I always had my doubts about listening to you. It was through your mistake that we got shot down. I saw you spending all the money we had for the team on personal weapons. It was you who left us to go and fuck some dirty tribal bitch while we were fighting for our lives at Bagram. It was you who led us down there where all the others died. I am a loyal soldier. But you don’t deserve my loyalty – you were supposed to lead us, instead the New Zone kicked you around like an empty vodka bottle!”

  Tarasov’s instincts try to move his rifle so he can shoot Zlenko but his will does not obey. The wound on his chest becomes more unbearable with pain. He drops to one knee, grasping the ropes on the bridge that is wobbling under his weight.

  “You know that all of this is not true!”

  “I don’t care because I no longer need you. It is the City of Screams that has tested you and found you wanting.” The bayonet glints in Zlenko’s hand as he starts cutting the rope. Tarasov needs both hands to prevent himself from falling into the depths. His rifle falls into the abyss.

  “Viktor!” Tarasov screams in despair. “My brother… my son, this is not you talking!”

  “I am not your son.”

  Zlenko cuts the other ropes. The bridge swings violently and thrashes against the rocks on the other side while Tarasov clings to the rope and planks with all his might, spitting blood as he meets impacts against the sharp stones. A bullet whizzes by close to his head and hits the rock wall. Putting all his strength into his left hand he clings on, pulling out his pistol with the other.

  “Viktor! Don’t make me do this!”

  More bullets come by way of reply, chipping sharp pieces of stone from the rocks. Tarasov’s eyes are blurred by pain and tears as he aims and pulls the trigger. Zlenko recoils, blood gushing from his forehead. Then he falls to his knees, and his body, losing its balance, plummets headlong into the darkness below.

  The rope has almost frayed right through. Climbing up plank by plank, with some breaking beneath his hands, he finally reaches up and pulls himself to the safety of the entrance above, where he stays on the dusty ground, fighting for breath and using the most terrible cusswords he knows.

  Tarasov’s heartbeat at last returns to normal, but he feels as if all the blood had vanished from his veins, leaving only adrenaline in his muscles and a growing rage within his heart.

  Ground Zero

  12 October 2014, 16:30:27 AFT

  Whatever Tarasov has been through during the past few hours, the only pain he is aware of is in his chest, where the wound has by now almost fully opened again.

  Maybe without my artifacts and the exo I would just collapse like an empty sack.

  He reloads his pistol. With his Glock drawn in one hand and holding the combat knife in the other, he proceeds into the shaft with determined steps. The walls are made of neatly cut stone, just like the dust-covered stairs that had led down here. Another anomaly lurks up ahead but he walks through the fire columns thrusting up from the ground, ignoring the pain when the flames sear through his damaged armor and painfully lick his skin. From a corner unlit by his headlamp, a shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness.

  He doesn’t even pause as he fires his weapon, now even hoping to witness the pain in the once human eyes as the bullets hit the brawny torso. Throwing his empty pistol away, he leaps at the mutant with a screaming battle cry and thrusts his knife into its chest, driving it around in the flesh before pulling it out and striking again. Then he marches on, not even looking at the dying creature now wriggling on the ground in death throes of violent, agonizing spasms.

  The shaft runs straight and leads towards a red glow that permeates from the distance. Reaching it, Tarasov steps into a cavernous room with four earthen braziers in the corners. A grey stone slab lies in the center of the room, undecorated and plain apart from a shallow niche in its middle section. It holds a small stone exactly like the one Nooria had inserted into his flesh.

  A sense of devotion possesses him. As he looks around, the light of the fires makes the faded paintings on the wall come to life. They resemble a long line of figures, all looking towards the stone slab with foreboding faces, like a religious procession devoted to the stone – or watching over it.

  No more doors to open. Nowhere to d
escend. I have arrived.

  He remembers the faces of all the comrades who died at his side, soldiers and Stalkers alike. It was a miracle anyone had made it –

  Yet I am here. No one could stop me. I truly am the chosen one.

  He watches the stone darkening to deep black, as if it was a mass of pure darkness itself. His body feels like a freshly forged blade after tempering – pure, cold, its edge ready to kill. Only the pain in his chest reminds him of his human nature.

  Nobody and nothing could stop me on my way here. If I leave, I will be unstoppable wherever I go, whatever I want to take.

  By now the slab looks like a pool filled by a black void. The room starts moving around him, but he doesn’t feel any drowsiness. The ceiling and floor eventually disappear, and he sees himself standing at the center of a rotating, black orb.

  A voice echoes from far above. “Why are you here?”

  Fearfully, Tarasov looks up. The shape of a humanoid figure towers above him like an angel of darkness. Its face is the ultimate conclusion of all the horrors Tarasov has ever experienced in life and also in nightmares.

  “I followed my orders.”

  “What are you orders?”

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “From now on, it is me who will give you orders.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am your essence. I am the essence of your comrades and your victims. I am the essence of the fate of all living souls.”

  “Are you the Noosphere?”

  “I am the reflection of its anger. I am protecting it. I protect it by destroying what is menacing it.”

  “Do you want to destroy the world?”

  “How foolish you are! I only make living souls aware of their potential. I give you the means to destroy yourselves. Everyone according to what he does best. I was always here to do that.”

  “The ancients built those statues to keep you at bay… and the fanatics set your spirit free when they destroyed them.”