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

by Balazs Pataki

  Seems well adapted to this place, but didn’t save this hapless fellow.

  In the dim light of the torch, Tarasov’s search proves fruitful. The pouches and containers of the armor produce an AK magazine, an outdated anomaly detector, a pair of binoculars and a few anti-radiation drugs. He quickly applies one of them, hoping that it won’t make him more nauseous than he already is. Tarasov wants to stand up and move away from the corpse but keeps sitting with his back to the wall, his face buried in his hands.

  Dog tired.

  Encrypted digital VOP transmission. Central Afghanistan, 21 September 2012, 05:12:47 AFT

  #Where have you been? We tried to call you several times.#

  #I was hanging on my satellite phone all night, trying to talk them out of sending a rescue mission. Well, they won’t bother. Did you find the exo at the crash site?#

  #Positive. But it was in very bad condition. We can’t use it.#

  #That’s not my problem. It was in a perfect state when leaving Termez. What about its owner?#

  #There was no body inside.#

  #Strange. Any survivors?#

  #One crew member might have gotten away.#

  #Shit! Are you imbeciles at least tracking him?#

  #We tried to search the area around the crash site but a dust storm was approaching. It probably killed him. In any case, we deployed several drones to scan the whole map grid.#

  #You better find him quick. If he gets into the tunnel, and probably that’s where he will go, you will lose him for good.#

  #We know. We’ve already sent several squads to intercept the fugitive.#

  #They better do. I cannot do everything by myself, do you understand? Now try to be effective for once.#

  #[static noise]#

  #I didn’t copy that. Anyway — go to hell, you amateurish morons. You will ruin this whole thing. Out. #

  Bullets on the Pass

  Salang Pass, 21 September 2014, 07:23:45 AFT

  Returning to the crash site at dawn, Tarasov had hoped that he would find a rescue helicopter and squad of soldiers there, but as he stands next to the smoldering wreck again, his hopes vanish for good.

  Good-bye, comrades… it was my fault, but I’ll redeem this mistake. Forgive me.

  Tarasov salutes the wreck that is now the grave of his soldiers. Then he heads towards the south. He had ample time on the long flight to Termez to study the map and now, even with his PDA broken, he knows that the nearby road leads to a tunnel traversing the Salang Range.

  Although the barren, mountainous landscape looks very different to the Zone, Tarasov is unable to shake a feeling of déjà vu. Rusty, abandoned vehicles litter the road here and there, many of them the KAMAZ and ZIL trucks that sit rusting in the Zone. Occasionally, he finds the wreck of an age-old BTR-70 too, probably a relic of the Soviet war, maybe even from the same year as Chernobyl occurred. The potholes and cracks in the decaying tarmac, the barriers and abandoned guard posts are so much the same to him that if it wasn’t for the mountains he would believe himself to still be in the Zone. It’s all so familiar, right down to the routine of stopping and scanning the area ahead for anomalies, all accompanied by the Geiger counter’s unceasing clicking.

  Sensing danger, Tarasov quickly kneels down next to an abandoned tank and goes into cover behind the T-62’s iron mass, ignoring the Geiger counter’s intensifying noise. Looking through the binoculars he sees a deer walking cautiously beside the road. Or rather, something like a deer, because this animal’s antlers are unlike anyone he has seen before — they bend and twine like a ball of thick, bony strings.

  Another animal appears among the rocks, at first resembling something between a fox and a wolf. On closer inspection, however, Tarasov can see the two long, curved fangs in its snout and he realizes that it’s a mutant jackal. He’d seen a picture on Degtyarev’s computer screen, back on that day that was only three nights ago but now feels like a thousand years past.

  Another jackal’s head appears, and another one, then the whole pack of a half dozen furry mutants. The deer senses their presence. It raises its head, smells the wind and runs. But the pack is already closing in for the kill. They outrun and accurately encircle the deer, as if following a master’s call or training, until the strongest performs an incredible leap and thrusts its fangs into the neck of the prey.

  If he had a better rifle and ammo to waste, Tarasov would help the deer and pick off the jackals one by one. Now he can only watch as the beasts tear it apart. As sorry as he feels for the deer, he has to admit that these jackals are the best hunters he has ever seen among mutants. Watching the carnage through his binoculars, he whistles in awe — and immediately realizes that this was a big mistake.

  The biggest mutant turns its head in his direction, emitting a sharp bark and leading the pack towards him at breathtaking speed. Tarasov’s blood curdles as he sees them leave the carcass of their prey almost untouched. Degtyarev’s words flash through his mind: they kill for the joy of it.

  Seeing their speed and how far they can leap, he realizes in a split second that climbing up the tank wouldn’t help him like when facing the canine predators in the Zone. Gripping his weapon firmly, he kneels down with his back against the wreck to prevent any mutant jumping at him from behind and carefully aims at the nearest jackal. A short burst from the AKSU brings it down, then the second one. For a moment, the jackals seem to be confused, allowing him to take down another two. His aim gets more erratic and his bursts longer as they get closer and closer.

  Still ten rounds inside. You are one with the rifle. Don’t think. Shoot.

  Now there’s only the pack leader and one other left. A lucky shot hits the second animal in the head and the mutant whines, rolling over as it tumbles down the hillside. Tarasov turns the rifle’s ironsight towards the pack leader, its mouth drooling blood and saliva. He pulls the trigger. The weapon jams.

  He has only moments left to watch the jackal covering the last meters. He sees the muscles of its back legs stretching as they project the heavy body in a long, deadly leap towards his face. He closes his eyes so as not to see it coming.

  That was a really short raid, he thinks.

  The smell of blood is strong as the jackal lands upon him, but there is no attack. Tarasov opens his eyes to see the air fill with a pale red haze as the jackal’s head is almost ripped off by a bullet. A split second later he hears a loud bang that is still echoing along the valley as he throws the carcass off him and frantically changes his magazine. But when he sees a rifleman emerge from behind a rocky outcrop, he lowers the rifle. Even if need should be, he could never hit him at the distance of several hundred meters.

  A long, wide cloak flutters from the stranger’s shoulders as he approaches. It’s a sniper’s ghillie suit, except this one does not resemble thick foliage but has shreds of earth-colored fabric fastened to its net. The different shades of brown make the camouflage almost indistinguishable from the rocky slope. The sniper keeps his rifle upright to show he has no hostile intentions. In reply, Tarasov raises the hand holding the AKSU. Now he can even recognize the type of rifle that had just saved his life: a Dragunov SVD. But the Stalker’s face remains hidden by a black balaclava, save for his pair of ice cold, blue eyes and mouth that arches into a grin as he walks closer.

  “Impressive fight you’ve put up,” the sniper greets him. “Have a good one. Name’s Crow.”

  “It jammed,” Tarasov replies, showing his rifle, his heart still beating hard from the adrenaline rush. Before he introduces himself, he thinks for a second and decides that for now it will be better if he doesn’t out himself as an army officer. Most Stalkers use call signs or nicknames, not their real ones, and having no better idea on the spot, he decides to use his usual call sign.

  “I am… call me Condor,” he finally says.

  “That was a big one,” the Stalker says inspecting the pack leader’s carcass. “These beasts are smart enough to let the smaller ones take the lead. The alpha only moves in
to finish the kill.”

  Tarasov has seen enough Loner Stalkers to recognize one and addresses Crow in the familiar way of Stalkers.

  “You really helped me out, bratan.”

  “Don’t mention, it, brother. But let’s get out of here. This place might hide worse things than jackals.”

  Tarasov is not sure if they are much safer behind the tipped-over trailer truck where they sit down, but at least it hides them from any spying eyes. Crow pats his pockets and emits a frustrated sigh.

  “You happen to have any smokes? No? Dammit… anyway, where did you come from?”

  Tarasov hesitates for a moment. “Rostov.”

  “I’m from Ryazan, myself. Any news from the Big Land?”

  Tarasov had always been too preoccupied with the Zone to pay attention to happenings in the outside world, politically or otherwise. Only one thing comes to his mind. “Nikolay Baskov is banging Oksana Fedorova.”

  “Still, or again? I thought that’s news from yesterday.”

  “Honestly? I couldn’t care less.”

  “What are you up to here, anyway? And where did you get that suit from? You’re twice its size.”

  “Actually, I arrived recently… I’m on my way to Bagram. And the suit… my own got a little worn and I found this at a crash site, not far from here.”

  Crow studies him with a look full of doubt. Tarasov avoids his stare.

  He doesn’t seem easy to fool.

  “One more chopper? Looks like the army wants to stir up trouble. I saw another one yesterday while I was crossing the Salang Pass.”

  Tarasov’s heart starts beating faster.

  “You mean there’s another crash site? Was there any… loot?”

  “The chopper was damaged for sure but as I watched it, it seemed to make it to the plains. By now it should be a treasure trove for the brothers down there…” Crow frowns. “But why do you care so much about it? Don’t tell me you were one of the pilots and bailed out accidentally.”

  Tarasov sighs. The Stalker has saved his life and he doesn’t want to repay it by dumping a lie on him. He decides to partly reveal his identity. Although Crow has an Abakan rifle on his back and a silenced Glock-17 pistol loosely holstered on his armor webbing, with the AKSU ready he would hold the advantage if his rescuer turned aggressive.

  “All right… I was with the army chopper that went down. I made it through. My own gear was busted, so I took the suit from the chopper’s dead gunner. I spent the night in a cave when the storm hit. Now I’m trying to get to Bagram, but I swear on my mother’s life it’s not about you Stalkers.”

  “On your mother’s life? You sons of bitches from the army aren’t supposed to have mothers!”

  Looking at Tarasov’s AKSU pointed at him, the friendly expression disappears from Crow’s face.

  “Listen up, ‘brother’,” he says looking Tarasov in the eye, “I don’t care much about who you are and what you do, but you will not be welcomed in Bagram.”

  “Let that be my problem.”

  “And where was your crash site, anyway?”

  “A few kilometers up north, but there’s not much left of it.”

  “You lie. The wrecks around Bagram had been looted for years. You have no idea how much useful stuff a helicopter’s wreck can yield.”

  “This one was blasted by a bunch of gunmen, well-trained and armed to the teeth. They came by a chopper.”

  Crow scowls. “A black chopper? Heavy, two-engined?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, Condor, or whatever your name is… we better get out of here right now. Normally I wouldn’t even bother saving your ass but you seem to be cool at close quarters. And I could use a sidekick because the Tunnel is not exactly a sniper’s paradise.”

  “Are you going to Bagram?”

  “No. After the Tunnel, we part ways. You can try to get through alone and die, or you can join me and still die. But together we stand a better chance. Now make up your mind, I haven’t got all day.”

  Tarasov reflects over his options for a moment. A rescue mission could still be coming. But then, this is no time for wishful thinking.

  “All right,” he says slinging his AKSU over his shoulder, “I’ll follow you. Let’s go.”

  “Let’s.”

  Moving quickly, they head down the slope into the valley.

  Tarasov soon admits to himself that the Stalker is a good guide. Instead of walking down the road, Crow leads him up the mountainside where the rocks and shallow chasms offer cover at every step, following tracks invisible to Tarasov even from a few meters’ distance. With the sun still shining from the east, Crow sticks close to the shadows cast by the massive rock walls towering above them, occasionally looking up to the sky as if expecting something foreboding from above.

  Before leaving the cover of an overshadowed cliff, the Stalker stops and points forward.

  “Look… that’s the northern entrance.”

  Through his binoculars, Tarasov sees the road curving before disappearing under the mountain through a huge arch. Beyond the road, a field of anomalies gleams with silver sparks amid a cluster of ruined buildings.

  “We rest here for a few minutes,” Crow says. “It’s time to eat something.”

  While sharing a can of luncheon meat, Tarasov dismantles his weapon to clean its components. He also removes the cartridges from his remaining magazines and cleans them one by one before loading them back. Fingers moving in swift and skillful movements, he reassembles his AKSU.

  “Do you have duct tape?” he asks the Stalker.

  Crow nods and silently hands him a roll. Tarasov tapes the torchlight to the rifle. Handing the tape back to the sniper, Tarasov catches an appreciative look in the Stalker’s eyes.

  “It’s good to have one who knows about weapons watching my back,” Crow remarks.

  “And you’re one hell of a marksman. That jackal was dead before I even heard the shot, and all this from a distance of five hundred meters!”

  “It’s a good rifle. Uncle Yar knows his trade, I give him that.”

  “Hunting must be easy with such an upgraded SVD.”

  “Not exactly… better cartridges like the 7N14 are hard to come by, so I don’t waste them. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair sport. If it’s game I’m after, the Abakan is good enough. But tell me, have you been to the Zone?”

  Crow sounds curious. Tarasov hesitates before answering. He already knows that being a soldier is not the best pedigree here, especially coming from the Zone where Stalkers and military had hated each other’s guts for a long time.

  “I’ve been there once in a while, delivering supplies.”

  “Oh yes…” replies Crow grinning. “I thought so. But what’s it like? I’ve never been there, you know.”

  “Similar to this place, except there are no mountains and it’s not so barren. And the mutants are a little dumber,” Tarasov explains. He almost added, ‘at home’.

  “There’s a wide plain east of Bagram. It was all orchards and potato fields before the nukes, but it’s become a forest now. You’ll have your share of trees there. And of anomalies too.”

  Tarasov nods, considering. “And what’s your story, Stalker?”

  “I was a wildlife photographer and was sent by National Geographic to shoot photos of mutants. But I soon realized that shooting them with a sniper rifle is much more fun.”

  Tarasov smiles as if he believed him. “That’s the most pathetic thing I ever heard,” he says sarcastically.

  Crow bursts out in muted laughter. “Whatever, bro… maybe later we’ll have time for proper introduction. The only thing that matters now is getting through that damned tunnel. The question is how do we get through a tunnel full of anomalies and hostiles and stay alive in the process?”

  “Bound and overwatch,” Tarasov says after a minute of quick thinking. He is eager to function again as an officer. “You take a protected position. I move forward, let’s say fifty meters. You watch over my advance with
the Dragunov. Once I have reached the forward position, I’ll cover you until you join up. Then we play the same game until we get through the tunnel.”

  Crow gives him a skeptical grin. “Is that a grunt from the supply train talking? Let’s go…. And put your gas mask on. It’s horribly dusty inside.”

  They proceed along a narrow dirt track beneath the steep mountainside, keeping an eye on the tarmac road to their right and the ruins beyond. Before getting close to the entrance, the Stalker signals him to halt. He takes an army-issue box from his backpack. With careful hands, he removes a night scope from inside and fixes it to his rifle. “I hope the battery will last until we get through,” he says removing the scope’s lens cover. “What’s that unhappy look on your face, Condor?”

  Tarasov almost says something about the state-of-the-art equipment that was at his disposal just twenty-four hours ago. The pilot suit, not designed for the rigors of combat, barely offers him any protection and his helmet has no night vision. He bites his tongue. “Hope this battered AKSU will not let me down,” he says cocking the rifle.

  “We better be more concerned about the two pillboxes at the entrance. Check them out.”

  Peering over the corner, Tarasov sees two small concrete shelters, more like guards posts than pillboxes. They seem empty. He gives a signal to the Stalker to move up and switches on the torch taped to the rifle barrel.

  “Climb up there, Stalker, and keep your eyes peeled.” He waits until Crow assumes a firing position on the bed of a pick-up, resting his rifle on the cabin’s roof.

  “You’re good to go, Condor.”

  Cautiously, Tarasov moves forward. It is pitch dark inside and full of wrecked vehicles — trucks, jeeps, pick-ups, buses, as if a huge traffic jam had blocked the cavernous tunnel. He has barely covered a few dozen meters when he sees the first anomaly. A net of thin blue lightning swipes the ground, emitting a buzz that can rapidly grow into a deafening discharge of electricity. Signaling Crow to follow up, he reaches into his pocket. Damn it — no bolts, no nuts, no nothing.