S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort s-1

by Balazs Pataki

  Tarasov looks around in the chamber, taken over by a feeling of hopelessness. He envies Strelok who was once hiding here during his long raid deep into the center of the Zone, trying to solve its ultimate secrets.

  “It was different then…,” he silently continues. “There was still reason to be here. Now we know everything about the Zone except what it is, and this we will never find out. We’re stuck with it, like a child who takes a bite too big and can neither swallow nor spit it out. I wish I could move on with it, but I’m trapped here. There’s no way for me to live outside of the Zone, even if there’s nothing but corruption inside. You’ll understand if you stay here long enough… but that’s enough Zone lore for today. Come, let’s get this job done.”

  “Yes, komandir, but tell me… I mean, I’m sorry for snapping after that thing attacked us… but you were kidding when you pointed your shooter at me, weren’t you?”

  “That’s not a shooter,” Tarasov replies standing up and patting off the dust from his leggings, “it’s called an assault rifle.”

  Before climbing back to the tunnel, Tarasov takes a fragmentation grenade, removes the safety pin, and carefully places the device under a piece of wood ripped from a crate. It will probably not prevent any Stalkers from entering the chamber except the first and unluckiest, but at least he has an excuse to report back that the place is booby-trapped.

  Chumak starts working with quick, accurate movements. In a few minutes, the ladder lies in pieces. He takes the longer parts and welds them to the iron trunks. When he switches off the blue light of his welding torch, the shaft is barred by a strong new grid.

  “Molodets,” Tarasov says, giving Chumak a look of approval, “and now let’s get the hell out of here. Squad, on me! Shumenko, take point.”

  Tunnel system — Agroprom Research Institute, 10:15:03 EEST

  After twenty meters, another chamber opens to their left. On Tarasov’s sign, Ivanchuk moves over and keeps his weapon aimed into the room until the others pass by. Then he assumes his place on the rear, keeping a cautious eye on the far end of the tunnel.

  They barely proceed a few meters when the sergeant raises his fist. Two Fruit Punch anomalies lie ahead. Judged by the distance between them, they could pass through safely.

  “Form a line. Watch your step,” he orders his men.

  “There’s something in that anomaly, sir.”

  Tarasov takes his detector device and turns towards the anomaly. Shumenko’s eyes might have been misled by wishful thinking but the detector proves him right. The display lights up and indicates a small green dot, just a meter away. Cautiously stepping closer, he investigates the substance. A tiny object levitates an inch above the anomaly, as if in the state of weightlessness.

  He cautiously picks it up, avoiding any contact with the acidic substance beneath. It would burn through his protective gloves in a moment. “Look at this little fellow,” he says as if talking about a puppy, “Privet, Kolobok!”

  Holding it, the major feels his skin become tougher and less sensitive. The artifact looks like a small, round hedgehog with crystals protruding from its dark green core. It weighs as much as a half dozen medikits but a person keeping it close to his body would never have to worry about running out of bandages. The artifact’s coagulating effects would heal any open wound in a minute. Luckily, judged by the Geiger counter’s consistent ticking it’s not of the radioactive variety.

  “Komandir…,” says the sergeant, “With all due respect, I saw it first.”

  “Duly noted,” Tarasov replies, as he carefully lets the artifact slide into a container on his armored suit. “Ever heard about chain of command?”

  The sergeant seems disgruntled but Tarasov ignores him. It would be fair to divide the price with his men if he decides to sell the artifact. Sidorovich, the best-known trader in the Zone, pays generous amounts but the scientists in Yantar pay even better. That would however mean a long trek to their field laboratory, while Sidorovich’s den is close to their base. He will worry about it later. First they need to get out of the underground facility. The squad slowly proceeds between the anomalies towards the tunnel end, where an opening in the wall leads into a staircase.

  “Up we go,” Tarasov says but as soon as he climbs up the first stairs, he sees even more anomalies ahead. He signals a stop and takes a pistol magazine from his vest. Back in Pripyat, he learned from Strelok how to use bolts and screw-nuts to determine the size of an anomaly. His own device is more elegant. The spring inside the magazine pushes the shells upwards and he only has to direct them into the anomaly with his thumb. Landing in the sizzling substance, they immediately dissolve with a sharp, hissing sound.

  “No way through this one,” he says with frustration. “Damn, I had a feeling that we wouldn’t get out so easily.”

  “Maybe we can neutralize the anomaly if we ask Shumenko to piss into it.”

  “Ha, ha, ha, Lieutenant,” replies the sergeant with a fake laugh. “If you want to know, ever since I visited that bitch you talked about my piss is burning so much that I could blast a hole in the wall with it.”

  “Did you at least manage to blast her hole?”

  “Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Tarasov orders. “No time to relax yet. We’ve got to backtrack and find another way out.”

  “Shit,” Ivanchuk swears. Tarasov responds with a grin.

  “You still like this job, Lieutenant?”

  “I do, komandir… I was just mentioning that I dislike visiting places I’ve already been to.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, if we are lucky, our mercenary friends tried to retreat and ran directly into Fortress One. If not… we kick more ass. Let’s move.”

  Either because they killed everyone on their way in or because the mercenaries were indeed ambushed upon trying to leave the catacombs, the squad makes its way back into the laboratory undisturbed. Chumak carefully skirts around the dead bloodsucker, its lifeless eyes still glowing as if it could jump up any second. As he passes it by, Kolesnik shoots it again.

  “Just to make sure, komandir.”

  “Don’t waste your ammunition. Move!” Tarasov says, getting nervous, knowing this is the worst time. All missions become most dangerous when they are almost over. Men tend to lose patience and caution with disastrous results.

  In a minute, they are back to the first tunnel they traversed, with the ladder leading up to the shaft and out of the catacombs. He notices that the lieutenant has his headlamp switched on. Damn, does he want to get a headshot?

  “Switch off your headlamp, Lieutenant!”

  “Yes, Major… It’s just that the night vision makes my eyes pop from their sockets… and now this headache…”

  Tarasov suddenly also feels pain creeping into his skull.

  “What is that?” Chumak asks and steps forward, emboldened by the proximity of the exit shaft. Before Tarasov can order him back he hears a faint, sharp noise, rapidly strengthening into a deep howl rolling through the darkness.

  “Controller!” Shumenko screams in horror.

  A loud bang hits Tarasov’s brain. It’s not transmitted through his ears — the sound is already echoing inside his head, as if his brain was exploding. But it’s Ivanchuk who falls to his knees as Chumak strikes his pistol and shoots the lieutenant in the face.

  “Get into cover!” screams Tarasov desperately. Bullets whizz towards the dark end of the tunnel. He curses himself for not having a shotgun or at least an AKSU — the small magazine of his rifle will not be enough for this kill. Realizing the controller didn’t see him yet because he still has some willpower of his own, he charges forward. It’s not fair, flashes through his painful mind, so close to the end, it’s just not fair! He sees the silhouette of the monster against the red flashes of the last emergency light. Having finished off the soldiers, it now tries to take hold of his mind. But desperation and rage seize his muscles and in two seconds, he reaches the mutant. It towers above him with its mass of brawny flesh. Tarasov empties
the whole magazine into its torso. The controller tries to step back. He senses its aggression vanish, as if he himself had absorbed it while he smashes the mutant’s head again and again with the butt of his rifle until the weapon breaks.

  Suddenly the tight, fiery ring that gripped his skull recedes then disappears. The bang-bang is gone. His panting sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

  Blood flows from his ears. He switches on his headlamp and sees Kolesnik getting up from the ground, groaning. Then Shumenko rises, holding his head as if still in pain. Chumak kneels above Ivanchuk’s body. He has torn the gas mask off his face. From his eyes, still maddened by horror, tears are flowing.

  “I didn’t… I didn’t want…”

  “No.” Tarasov’s voice is hoarse and trembling. He takes the Fort from the technician. “You’ve been… controlled.”

  He looks at the lieutenant’s body. Goddammit. Of all the wounds a bullet can inflict, he most hates the sight of a headshot. It’s bad enough to realize how thin the layers of muscle, body tissues and skin are that make the difference between a pile of organs and a human form. But a face, distorted into a dreadful yawn by a last traction of the muscles and the scattered brain protruding from a cracked skull, still emanating body warmth into the chilly air, is something else.

  Tarasov feels the urge to vomit but pulls himself together. Kolesnik is weaker. He leans against the wall and throws up. Only Shumenko remains on his feet, expecting Tarasov to say something. The major clears his throat.

  “Sergeant, take this,” he says, reaching to his waist and handing the artifact to the soldier.

  “I’m fine, sir.”

  “Take it. Tomorrow, you and Kolesnik will go on a patrol to Yantar.”

  “I understand,” the sergeant quietly replies. “I’ll send the lieutenant’s share to his family.”

  Tarasov nods. Together they help Chumak to his feet. Kolesnik joins their effort. His armor is darkened by stains of vomit. Tarasov steps to the ladder and reaches for his radio transmitter.

  “Fortress One, this is Condor One.”

  “This is Fortress One, over.”

  “Mission accomplished. We are at the shaft. We got a KIA. Send down a harness. Over.”

  “Wilco, Condor One. Over and out.”

  By the time the lifting harness is lowered from above, Tarasov has already attached a gas mask to Ivanchuk’s face — no need for the other soldiers to see a comrade like that. Carefully, they fasten the harness around the body. Shumenko, already out of the shaft, waves to the pilot and Lieutenant Vasiliy Ivanchuk’s body sets out on its journey to a cemetery somewhere in the far Lugansk region. He waves to his remaining men.

  “Let’s get to the chopper!”

  When Tarasov finally emerges from the shaft, his knees tremble to such an extent that he has to sit down in the grass. He is the kind of soldier who doesn’t worry too much before a mission and keeps a cool head throughout, but once the danger is over, all the fear and excitement his mind kept at bay under duress unloads in a heavy, almost nauseating wave. Lieutenant Nabokov offers him a cigarette. Tarasov cannot refuse it.

  “Was it bad?”

  The major doesn’t reply immediately. He removes his blood-smeared gloves and watches his fingers tremble.

  “We met a controller," he says. "I’ll need a new rifle. He’ll need a new head.”

  Nabokov does not bother him with any more questions.

  Agroprom Research Institute, 10:35:26 EEST

  Before climbing into the helicopter, Tarasov and his remaining two military Stalkers form a circle, holding each other’s shoulder like they usually do after a successful mission. They emit a loud shout to release the adrenaline still circulating in their blood, but with the lieutenant’s body inside the helicopter their shout falls short of victorious. Then the gunship pulls up and passing over the ruins, flies off towards the south east. Tarasov glances at his watch. He can barely believe that only one hour has passed since they descended into the underground.

  Probably he will spend the rest of the day doing paperwork, including the drafting of a letter to Ivanchuk’s next of kin. The thought depresses him.

  Flying over along the tree-lined road where the wrecks of Zaporozhets cars and Kamaz trucks rust away since the times of the first Chernobyl incident, the helicopter slowly gains altitude. To distract his thoughts from the body travelling with them, Tarasov keeps looking out of the window, wishing he could clean the rotten smell of the underground and stinging gunpowder residue off his nostrils with the fresh air outside.

  He looks back to the forking road and the Garbage area where the highly radioactive debris from Chernobyl lies buried. It would still be beautiful for a wilderness, if one disregarded the abandoned vehicles and tanks, the dilapidated farms and ruined industrial buildings. He wishes he could exchange the helicopter’s deafening noise for the Zone’s silence. In the Zone, no songbirds ever sing, only ravens croak. No critter moves in the bushes, only mutants roam. Whatever noise the wind is bringing from afar, it’s about a sound of death: a rifle burst; a mutant’s growl; a human scream. And occasionally the roaring thunder of an emission approaching from the center of the Zone, painting the sky in deep purple, flashing lightning engulfing everything with darkness before bursting out in a gigantic display of flame-like rifts in the sky that resemble the Northern Lights. It would be a spectacular, dreadful sight if it weren’t lethal to stay in the open and watch. During the years he had spent here, Tarasov not only learned how to survive in the Zone, he also learned how to love it — although he loved it more when there had still been secrets to explore. Sometimes he wished the Zone was even bigger, but wasn’t sure anymore if this was his own desire or that of the Zone. No protective suit, no armor could prevent the power of the Zone from creeping into his consciousness. The daily fear, the short moments of joy over a mission well done, the grief over fallen comrades, the mysteries he witnessed formed an ever-growing layer around his mind. With each beat of his heart, there was more and more of the Zone in his blood.

  Weather changes quickly in the Zone and when the helicopter reaches the train station with the abandoned engines on the rusting railway tracks, a slow rain has set in.

  “Condor One, this is Cordon Base,” comes through the radio. “Do you copy? Over.”

  “Loud and clear, Cordon Base. Over.”

  “Major Degtyarev is here. He wants to see you. Over.”

  “We’ll be there in ten. Over and out.”

  “Roger. Cordon Base out.”

  Tarasov suddenly feels as if a stone is weighing down his stomach. If he wanted to see me right away, he thinks, it must be official business. Otherwise he’d have told me to hook up with him at the 100 Rads or the Skadovsk.

  Ever since they met in Pripyat during the aftermath of a mission that went awfully wrong, he’d known Degtyarev as one of the few officers not tainted by corruption. They’d become friends, as far as an agent of the SBU and a Spetsnaz officer could be friends among the rivalry between the security service and the army. He often joined Tarasov on patrols deep into the Zone. Nothing ties men together than the memory of nights spent side by side in lonely look-out posts, fighting off mutants until daybreak.

  Tarasov also knew that the SBU considered Degtyarev more of a Stalker than an agent, just like his own fellow officers took him for an oddball because he didn’t partake of their pleasures: bullying the lower ranks and shooting Stalkers for sport. For a moment it occurs to him that Degtyarev might have arrived for another foray, but he doubts his own optimism. His friend appeared less and less frequently at the Cordon. There was not much left to explore in the Zone. They had been to every territory, explored every cave, bunker and catacomb, and Tarasov couldn’t blame Degtyarev for finding the Zone around the CNPP smaller and smaller after each raid.

  The abandoned dairy farm appears below, once a Stalker base before most of the Loners moved to Zaton or Yanov from where Pripyat could be more safely accessed. Major Khaletskiy comes to his m
ind. It was in these ramshackle buildings that the Stalkers had held him captive. He can’t shake off a certain feeling of regret. Tarasov often thought about how much better it would have been if the Stalkers had just finished Khaletskiy off instead of letting him escape. Probably Khaletskiy had bribed them too, just like he bribed his way out of the Zone and up the career ladder right to the rank of major-general. Once in a while, Tarasov also makes a little money from selling artifacts. Staying alive is a matter of skills and weapons in the Zone, but outside it’s about money and surviving on a major’s salary, equaling 350 dollars, is even more challenging. But he would never use army patrols to hunt down Stalkers for loot or hiring bandits to do such dirty work, like Khaletskiy did.

  Flying over the last hill before reaching the base, Tarasov tries to make out the entrance to Sidorovich’s bunker behind a ruined village. It’s the place here where most Stalkers arrive after sneaking past the army patrols into the Zone. Tarasov and his men have taken it a dozen times before, but being as stretched thin as they are they’ve had to abandon it every time, and in a few days the Stalkers were always back.

  Now, however, their orders to shoot Stalkers on sight no longer applied here. In exchange the army kept a much tighter grip around the once-secret laboratories in Yantar, the Dark Valley and beyond. Tarasov approved of this measure. It was one of the few things Degtyarev achieved to make life in the Zone just a little more peaceful, although Tarasov always suspected that Sidorovich had also put in a word with the generals. After all, he made a good living from the artifacts that Stalkers collected. For good money, he equipped them with weapons and protective suits so that they could return alive, selling them the artifacts and other loot collected, which Sidorovich turned into even better money outside in the Big Land.

  The base is close now. He hears the pilot reporting in.