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

by John Mason

“I see your time here was not wasted. You have a choice now. Yield to your most primordial human instinct of destruction. Each second you spend with me, your body will grow stronger to follow this instinct. You will be the mightiest of warriors.”

  With every word echoing in his mind, Tarasov’s rage grows.

  “Only two others were offered this choice. Only two understood. One ruled the world known to him. The other was a failure – my partial failure. He had power over his men who were supposed to follow my will and prevent him from reaching me. He himself was supposed to kill those who were with him but he was shielded from my will – but I still have time to come to him, and I will. You should make your choice now.”

  “And if I don’t yield?”

  “Then you will be of no use to me anymore and vanish. What is your choice?”

  Tarasov steps closer, instinctively looking up at something glistening on the wall. A small, red precious stone reflects the light of his headlamp. A female shape appears in the light circle, faded, scratched and worn, but he can recognize the tattoo on her forehead. Half-forgotten words resound in his mind with such clarity as if he had heard them just a second ago. ‘You will shed blood and last drop will be yours. If you want me to live, you will have to make a sacrifice.’ The burning pain in his chest intensifies. ‘One part protects you. Two parts bond darkness.’

  For a moment, he hesitates between the rage engulfing him and the only humane feeling left in his heart.

  “What is your choice, human? Power or oblivion?”

  Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath and raises his combat knife. “I yield to your power. Without you, I could not do what I have to do!”

  Tarasov yields to rage – and unleashes it upon himself to overcome his own fear and pain.

  He dips the blade deep into his wound, cutting it open and removing the stone. His body suddenly becomes aware of its exhaustion and injuries. Crying in pain, he falls onto the slab. With trembling, bloody fingers, he places Nooria’s stone next to the other into the slot.

  When the two parts join, the fires blaze up and a deep, humming noise drones from beneath as if the earth itself was sighing in relief.

  Pain and fear captivate Tarasov as he realizes that he is in the depths of a labyrinth, armed only with a knife and bearing wounds all over his body.

  But his knees do not tremble now. A sudden feeling of freedom invigorates his exhausted limbs as he runs from the chamber and soon he reaches the exit of the shaft. The depth beneath his feet seems bottomless. Seeing no other way of escape, he starts descending the ruined rope ladder. Reaching the end, he looks warily into the abyss.

  There’s no other way than into the chasm.

  Hoping that his exoskeleton still offers enough impact protection to save him from breaking his bones, he lets himself fall. After what seems an eternity, he hits the ground, the titanium alloy body frame of his armor creaking from the impact. He doesn’t need to check the exoskeleton thoroughly to know that this was the last time it had saved his life.

  Getting up, he sees broken planks from the bridge on the rocky ground. Without anything to guide him, Tarasov follows his instincts. He gives a start as the light from his headlamp falls on a corpse.

  Such a waste, he thinks.

  He closes Zlenko’s lifeless eyes and takes his pistol from its holster. His instincts do not fail him. Not far ahead, the lights of the cage room glow high above. The major recalls that one of the cages was lowered. Hoping that it will offer him a chance to get out from the abyss, he moves forward. It doesn’t occur to him that the cage was not empty when lowered until he hears a howl.

  Oh no… this isn’t even remotely fair.

  Two red dots emerge in the darkness above. Prepared to be attacked by more than one enemy, Tarasov recoils and desperately looks around to find a position to defend. The dots grow into a pair of luminescent eyes. It is not two mutants but one, the hugest he has ever seen, blocking his way.

  He has nowhere to hide, so Tarasov turns around and runs, hoping to find a way out from the cavern where the mutant would be unable to follow. He stumbles and tries to get up but his muscles begin to seize up in terror. It was not a stone that had made him fall. Phosphorescent light glows an arm’s length away from him. He rolls to his side and recoils, still on the ground. The snake is faster. Reaching him, its fang-filled jaws open to tear into him. Then the snake turns its head away. For a moment, the humanoid mutant and the snake face each other… and then the snake strikes down upon the mutant. With lightning-quick reflexes, the enormous hands grasp the scaly body. Panting heavily, Tarasov watches them wrestling for life and death over a prey that would be him. He removes the Jumpy artifact from the container.

  I need fire.

  Meanwhile it is the roaring humanoid that is gaining the upper hand. The snake’s jaw opens wide in agony from the suffocating stranglehold. Tarasov only has a few moments left before the humanoid turns on him. He throws the artifact to hit the mutants and, aiming as best as he can, plunges the fire-alloyed combat knife into it. He has only one second to be surprised about his own accuracy when the enhanced blade hits the artifact, triggering a thunderous explosion of fire and acid. Blood and shreds of ripped flesh splash around him as he huddles on the ground.

  Climbing to his feet, he realizes that the half-ruined exoskeleton, until now perfectly fitting his size, seems to have shrunk, become much too tight in places.

  I better get out of here before I become a mutant myself…

  For a long moment, he studies the dead, humanoid mutant. Then he pulls the laptop from his backpack, which most probably contains descriptions of experiments leading to the creation of such abominations, and smashes it on the ground. He tears Sakharov’s notes into tiny pieces too.

  Removing his knife from the carnage, the major moves on towards the dim blue light coming from the bridge above. To his relief, the cage is there but without any device or switch to operate its elevating mechanism. He starts climbing up the cable, holding himself with all his strength on the slippery, greasy steel and kicks the metal trapdoor open.

  Climbing into the long room spanning over the cavernous abyss, he feels as if he has arrived in the safest place on earth… until the sight of the two corpses brings him back to reality.

  Both of them deserved a better grave than this.

  Tarasov takes one pack of explosives from his backpack and positions it in the middle of the room.

  No one will go beyond.

  He has climbed only a few steps on the ladder leading into the laboratory level when the detonation occurs, followed by the deafening shriek of metal bending as the bridge implodes into the abyss. The choking dust vomited up by the shock waves still covers him when he gouges out a rock from the wall with his knife and replaces it with another pack of explosives.

  The timer is broken. Can’t adjust it to more than ten seconds.

  He attempts to climb again, as fast as his exhausted muscles will permit, but the detonation almost throws him out of the shaft. Heat scorches him once more. The shaft collapses, sealing the way to the lower levels.

  Where should I place the last charge?

  The entry level comes to mind, where the ceiling was close to collapsing under its own weight.

  Tarasov runs. He passes by the ruined computer room and climbs the stairs leading to the bunker, driven by a compulsive urge to see the sunlight again. He stumbles. Lying on the ground with his face in the dust, a tempting desire seduces him to remain there and deny his willpower the right to torture his worn-out muscles any longer. For a moment, he wants to allow himself to succumb to his pain and spend his last minute trying to recall the best moments of his life, before the tunnel collapses and buries him forever.

  I must stay alive. It’s the big man’s order.

  Digging his fingers into the dust, he heaves himself forward and gets to his feet. Out of breath and holding a hand over his bleeding wound, he keeps running.

  When he reaches the long shaft lead
ing outside and the passage with the insecure ceiling, he plants his last explosive charge. His movements freeze when he hears an unexpected but familiar noise from above.

  Could it be helicopters? Could it be a rescue squad? Could it be that everything gets straight in the end?

  By now he is positive that the noise is that of helicopters hovering above. All he has to do is to set the last charge, make the catacombs inaccessible, and depart.

  With fingers twitching from exhaustion and impatience, he adjusts the timer and makes a last dash for the exit. When the charge goes off and the tunnel disappears behind him in massive plumes of smoke, he falls to the ground, once more crawling towards the light shining ahead, his fingernails breaking on rocks and stones, until suddenly daylight greets his sore, blinking eyes.

  He remains on the ground, enjoying the sound of Mi-24 Hinds hovering over the City of Screams, their guns and missiles blasting away at an unseen enemy.

  The major wallows in the dust exhausted, bruised and panting for breath.

  12 October 2014, 17:21:45 AFT

  A pair of heavy boots appears in front of his face. As he wearily raises his head, looking up at a man in a now-familiar Duty exoskeleton but this time without the helmet, Tarasov’s heart sinks. A pale, hard face looks down on him with a cynical grin in the corners of the thin lips.

  “You’re a real die-hard assface, I give you that.”

  “General Khaletskiy?”

  “Yes, it’s bad to see you too, Major Tarasov. Now give me that artifact we’re all here for.”

  The laughs triumphantly as he stands over Tarasov with his helmet in his hand and surrounded by his guards from Bagram. None of them offer any help while Tarasov gets up, slowly and painfully.

  “I don’t have it, General.”

  “What did you just say?”

  “It was not an artifact, you greedy, ignorant bastard! It is something beyond your understanding!”

  “Now you’re really pissing me off, Major, and my mood was already bad.” His face reddening from sudden anger, Khaletskiy waves to his guards. “Captain, handcuff this piece of shit.”

  Tarasov looks at the dozen assault rifles that are trained at him. He gets to his knees, bows his head and pulls the gloves from his hands, throwing them to the ground as a sign of surrender. “How could you betray your own men like this, General?”

  “I was paid a hundred times more for those damned suits than I had earned in a century, even after giving Kuznetsov his share. And I don’t have a century left to live. Do you think I want to die poor in a cockroach-infested apartment block in Kiev? But that money would have been nothing compared to the artifact you have left down there!”

  “You have no idea what lies below… and I made sure that nobody enters its chamber again.”

  “You are such an idiot, Tarasov… but at least you have been a useful idiot. You helped me a lot, you know? You made those exos walk directly to me, self-propelled! Including this one that you somehow managed to steal back from me… damn, it’s all ruined. Then you took care of the air defenses of the Chinese so that my choppers could fly in. You saved my skin when they bribed the dushmans into attacking my base. You opened the way to the undergrounds. All this, and now you crawl out half-dead and say you don’t have the mother of all artifacts! Did you at least find the research results?”

  “It was not an artifact, and no one will ever get the research results either.”

  “Damn you! Do you have any idea how much… You were ordered to secure them, that’s all your bloody mission was about! You disobeyed direct orders!”

  A horrible thought visits Tarasov’s mind. “How do you know about my orders?”

  Khaletskiy grins widely. “This is not your lucky day, Tarasov!”

  The major looks at Khaletskiy while the guard handcuffs him. Collecting all the saliva remaining in his dry mouth, he spits into Khaletskiy’s face. “You are a traitor and a disgrace to your country, General!”

  “You’re naivety explains why you are just a major,” Khaletskiy replies, wiping his face in disgust. “But yes, let’s not forget that you were an officer before you turned into an animal… at least you’ll get your court-martial for disobeying your orders, and I will have the honor to be presiding over it.”

  At last, now I know I’m dead. So this is how it comes to me. Well, at least I made death work hard.

  A voice comes from the radio receiver fixed to Khaletskiy’s armor.

  “Falcon One reporting… the Stalkers are clustered. We are running low on ammunition and are at half fuel. Requesting permission to return to base. Over.”

  “I hope you gave those bastards hell. Permission granted.” Khaletskiy turns to his gunmen. “Let’s get out of here. Off to my chopper with this walking corpse!”

  Someone kicks him in the back and he falls directly at Khaletskiy’s feet, who kicks Tarasov in the face.

  “Your soldiers dead, the Stalkers routed… call it a day, Major!”

  The guards grab him and manhandle him towards the transport helicopter that is waiting nearby.

  Encrypted transmission between Kiev, the New Zone and the Old Zone, 12 October 2014, 17:35:08 AFT

  #Eagle Eye, this is Renegade, do you copy?#

  #Eagle Eye to Renegade. Copy you loud and clear. #

  #Did you receive the voice transmission?#

  #Good job, Renegade. We have it on tape. Do you have a visual on the target?#

  # Positive. He is entering a helicopter.#

  #Eagle Eye to Renegade. You are cleared to execute. #

  #Eagle Eye, the friendly element is on board. Call sign Condor. Advise. Repeat: advise on the friendly.#

  #[static noise]#

  #Renegade to Kilo One. I know you’re listening in. Make up your damned mind, for old times’ sake.#

  #Renegade, this is Kilo One. Act at your discretion.#

  #This is Eagle Eye. Affirmative to Kilo One.#

  #It was about time to make up your mind. Team is moving in. Glory to the--- oh fuck that. Over and out.#

  Epilogue

  12 October 2014, 17:40:58 AFT

  Tarasov feels nothing but fatigue and pain in his limbs. With his hands shackled behind his back, he looks up at Khaletskiy who returns his gaze with pure disdain. As the rotor blades turn quicker and the helicopter prepares for take-off, Khaletskiy draws his pistol.

  “Don’t worry, assface. This will be a very short flight for you.”

  “Why don’t you finish me off right now?”

  “To cherish the moment, I guess,” the general replies, lighting up a cigarette.

  The helicopter takes off. The moment of parting from the land where he fought, suffered and loved during the last days of his life fills Tarasov’s soul with sadness. He looks at the jagged hills through the open hatch.

  I would have happily died in battle… but to live would have been better.

  “Disappointed to leave, eh?” Fumbling with his pistol, Khaletskiy chuckles above him. “Imagine how many times I was disappointed to see you live! But now…”

  Suddenly, Tarasov’s ears detect a muted bang-bang, coming from the ground. Almost immediately, the helicopter shakes as if hit by several blows from a giant’s sledgehammer. The engine loses power and thick, oily smoke fills the compartment.

  “What the –” Khaletskiy shouts, but another heavy blow sends him to the floor, where he desperately grabs for something to hold. He drops his pistol and, as the helicopter tilts, it slides through the open hatch.

  “We are under fire!” The pilot’s voice turns into a scream amidst the shattering noise of breaking cabin glass. More bullets riddle the cockpit and the helicopter crashes to the ground with a huge deafening, grinding thud, tossing Khaletskiy and his men around in the compartment, screaming in despair. Something hard hits Tarasov, sending a sharp pain into his already spinning head. The engine dies out.

  Groans of wounded men mix with the black smoke. The major coughs up when the fumes bite into his respiratory tr
act.

  “Take up defensive positions!” he hears the general snap, commanding his guards. “Davay!”

  One of the guards gets up, but is hit by several bullets from an automatic rifle as soon as he reaches the hatch. He sinks to the floor with a curse having turned into a moan.

  “To the windows, men! Move, move you idiots!”

  Khaletskiy’s voice is full of pain, but his orders still have an effect on his men. The few guards who have not been incapacitated from the crash jerk themselves to the compartment windows and try to return the fire that is now directed at the wreck from all sides, while Tarasov takes advantage of the confusion to move closer to the hatch, from where he can see who is responsible for the assault. Peering between the guards’ feet as they frantically try to assume firing positions, he has clear view to the rocky ground outside.

  From behind the cover of the boulders and rocks dotting the shallow defile where the helicopter had fallen, fighters in black armor are engaging Khaletskiy’s remaining men.

  Duty has arrived, Tarasov notices with both surprise and relief. The real Dutiers.

  But Khaletskiy’s men are not easily beaten. One of them stumbles over Tarasov’s body, curses, and even takes the time to kick the major before kneeling to open fire through one of the shattered windows. The same bang sounds outside that Tarasov had heard before the engine was hit, and a split second later the head of the general’s man is blown off by a heavy bullet, drenching the agonized defenders next to him with blood and brain matter. The guard’s body remains in a kneeling position and his fingers pull the trigger for a last time, executing the last order of a mind that had ceased to exist a second ago.

  Tarasov embraces the floor, keeping his head as low as he can while the bullets keep raining on the wreck like hailstones, tearing more and more holes into the thin metal of the fuselage and allowing the light to fall in and pierce the smoke and blood vapor inside, right until the last firing weapon of the defenders falls silent.

  With his ears still ringing, Tarasov barely hears the commands coming from outside, but he sees a shadow approaching.