“Do you have bolts?” Tarasov ask as Crow arrives.
The Stalker gives him three rusty bolts. “That’s all I have.”
Tarasov aims cautiously before throwing the bolt into the anomaly. The blue lightning flashes into a burst of energy as the bolt falls into it, casting dire blue light into the tunnel for a second. Then it disappears from the ground for two seconds. Tarasov tosses the second bolt and dashes through. Hoping that the Stalker will not mess up his timing, he lets the anomaly discharge with the last bolt. Crow leaps through dexterously. As soon as he arrives at Tarasov’s side, the anomaly again starts its deadly dance over the ground.
“I hate anomalies,” Crow whispers, “but at least one can see these damned Electros.”
Upon seeing the Stalker take a detector out to search for any artifacts in the anomaly, Tarasov fails to hide his impatience.
“We don’t have time for that. Let’s move on.”
“I’m coming, I’m coming… wait! Did you hear that?” They freeze for a moment. Crow shrugs. “Must be hearing things.”
“Stick to the wall. Cover me.”
As he moves forward in the narrow space between the wrecks and the tunnel’s wall, blackened from the exhaust fumes that the concrete had absorbed for decades, an uneasy feeling passes over Tarasov. There’s something sinister about the Stalker that makes him concerned about being shot in his back. But the forbidding darkness that is absorbing the weak light of his torchlight gives him more concerns. The tunnel runs straight over a long distance and a truck occasionally blocks their way, making them climb over it. Their steps on the metal echo in the darkness and his Geiger counter’s signal speeds up every time they get close to a vehicle. Tarasov detects the nauseating taste of metal in his mouth.
“Crow, do you have an antirad to spare?” he says turning to the Stalker behind him. “These wrecks are a radiation trap.”
“Here,” Crow says and tosses him a packet with two red and blue pills. Tarasov gets clumsy for a moment and drops the medicine. Bending to pick it up saves his life as a bullet hits the wall where he was standing just a second ago. Crow’s Dragunov fires in response, its echo rolling through the caverns like thunder.
“Hostiles at twelve o’clock,” the Stalker shouts, “fifty meters!”
By now the muzzle flash of their rifles has betrayed the enemies’ position. Tarasov quickly skirts the old truck behind which Crow’s sniper fire keeps their opponents pinned down. The AKSU’s hard-hitting bullets get the black-clad gunmen in their flank. One falls, three more swiftly move back behind the nearest wreck with well-trained movements. Crow hits one more as they retreat.
“I can’t see them!”
Tarasov leaps to the truck, jumps up to the flat-bed and opens fire at the enemy ducking below. The echo of his last shot is still rolling up the tunnel when the last hostile falls, cursing in a language he can’t understand.
“Clear!”
He is not surprised when he sees the corpses wearing the same black body armor as the squad at the crash site. Eager to find any useful information about them, he goes through their pockets, but his search is in vain.
“They were good,” he tells Crow when the sniper catches up with him. “Any idea who they might be?”
The Stalker shakes his head and Tarasov checks the weapon lying beside one of the bodies. Back in the Zone, he was shot at by all kinds of weapons and with almost every caliber, from the hunting shotguns of rookie Stalkers to Freedom’s US-made LR-300’s, ultimately test-firing the weapon that had been used in an attempt on his life shortly before. But he never laid his hands on this mule of an assault rifle: the handle reminds him of an M-16, the barrel of a German G-36, the trigger mechanism of a Kastor grenade launcher and the overall design of something between a bullpup SVU or FN2000.
“I admit the Chinese know a thing or two about weapons,” he says shaking his head in disdain, “they managed to produce something that’s even uglier than a Groza rifle.”
“Frankly, I couldn’t care less about the design of the rifle that’s being fired at me.”
“That’s a good point… but anyway, here’s a joke. Do you know why the Chinese call this scrap Qing Buqiang Zidong?”
“Please do tell.”
“They can’t spell the ‘r’ in Groza.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Crow clasps his hands in mock amusement, “as if you wouldn’t give one arm to have one with you now. Why don’t you just take that Chinese rifle? It’s way better than that AKSU.”
“At least I know where this one fires the bullets.” Tarasov bitterly grins looking at his rifle. Seeing at what Crow is up to, he frowns. “What are you doing?”
“I want to see that bastard’s face.”
“I wouldn’t do that. It brings bad luck.”
Crow leaves the tactical helmet on the corpse. “It’s just because I rarely come that close to the baddies I shoot.”
“I know. That’s what I could never understand about snipers… I mean, you lay hidden, see a head close in the reticule from hundreds of meters and then blow it to pieces. Do you at least feel something when you see them dying?”
“Yes,” Crow says as he reloads his Dragunov, listening to the bolt clicking back to position as if it was a sophisticated musical instrument. “I do feel something.”
“And what would that be?”
“Recoil.”
Tarasov shrugs and turns back to the bodies. He’s never liked scavenging from dead enemies but, being low on resources, the hand grenades and bandages he finds will come in useful. After a moment of hesitation, he removes the bullet-proof tactical vest from the corpse and puts it over the light pilot suit.
It didn’t save its previous owner… but still could save me.
“I’ll move on. Stay here and wait for my sign to proceed.”
“Roger, Condor,” comes the Stalker’s reply.
Suspecting that the small party they have run into was only a vanguard, Tarasov remains cautious as he sneaks from cover to cover. After a few minutes, he is relieved to see light appearing in the distance. “Looks like we’re almost through!”
“That’s a stretch covered by a concrete roof, with openings to the side. It was an open road once but got covered after the traffic was regularly hit by avalanches.”
“Shit. And I was hoping it’s the other end.”
“Keep moving, Condor. Only two more kilometers to go.”
The light falling in from the opening in the concrete wall takes a toll on his eyes, already accustomed to the darkness. Tarasov closes his right eye to keep it accustomed to the darkness. He passes the stretch concerned about their flanks open to any danger coming from outside. His instincts prove right when the thud-thud of rotor blades sounds above them.
“Run!”
Tarasov doesn’t need Crow’s warning to dash forward as quickly as he can, hoping that no enemies lie in wait where the row of casements end and darkness continues. Arriving at the first wreck offering cover, he looks around for Crow but the Stalker has disappeared. Hiding behind the burnt-out frame of a bus, he can hear the helicopter hovering directly above.
He proceeds only a few meters further into the darkness to a car that might once have been a Humvee when a voice makes him freeze.
“Stoi! Lay down your weapon!” The words echoing in the tunnel ahead are Russian, but spoken with a strangely soft accent. “You are surrounded!”
His memories from last night’s encounter with the snake-like mutant still alive, Tarasov recoils as he sees a thick cable descend from one of the wall openings behind him. His distress gives way to fear as three commandos slide down the rope and take cover behind the wrecked bus, moving swiftly like cats without even giving him a chance to aim his rifle.
“Surrender!”
Tarasov takes his chance and leaps into cover behind the wrecked Humvee. Automatic rifle fire starts ringing out from behind the bus. He throws himself to the ground. A hail of bullets hit the Humvee’s massive steel frame.
Where in the hell is that fucking sniper?
Even betrayal comes to his mind when a familiar rifle barks up. Crow runs up to him, panting but with a victorious grin on his face.
“At last! We’re sitting ducks here,” shouts Tarasov amid the rifle fire. “They’ve blocked the tunnel ahead!”
“Sorry bro! I had to switch the scope to the Abakan.”
“Give suppressing fire from the left!”
Crow stays in cover while firing a long burst, holding his rifle over his head and what was once the vehicle’s engine compartment. At the same time, Tarasov rolls to his right, jumps up and rushes forward, firing his AKSU into the enemies appearing in the beam of the torchlight.
“Forward,” he screams, “forward!”
His limb hits against something hard as he moves in to finish the ambushers. He can hear someone barking commands but the crossfire coming from left and right cuts them short. One enemy tries to drag himself away. Tarasov grabs and turns him onto his back.
“Who are you?” he asks him in a commanding voice. All he gets in reply is a scornful grin that doesn’t vanish even as he points his rifle at the enemy’s face. It turns into a grimace when Tarasov fires his weapon. Stepping closer, the Stalker looks down at the body.
“Damned mercenaries… I tried to loosen up their tongue more than once. But they wouldn’t talk.”
“Check him for loot if you want,” Tarasov curtly replies. There is something about their adversaries’ trained movements and uniform equipment that makes him feel uneasy. While the Stalker busies himself with checking the bodies, Tarasov keeps his weapon aiming towards the tunnel stretch where the mercenaries descended, though the helicopter’s noise has now receded into the distance.
“I found a pack of smokes,” Crow joyfully reports. “Do you want one?”
Thick dust swirls in the light of Tarasov’s headlight but the temptation to remove his gas mask is too strong. “Quadruples the dose of daily radiation,” he grumbles, “and fills your lungs with polonium…”
“Correct, but that was not my question.”
“All right… give me one.”
The Stalker removes his gas mask and sits down on the body of a dead mercenary as if it was a cushion. He lights up his cigarette, then offers the pack and his lighter to Tarasov. “I’m trying to quit, you know. But there are moments when I could kill for a smoke.”
“You just did,” Tarasov replies removing a cigarette from the box.
“Yeah… You know, bad habits die hard. Maybe if I stick to my bad habits, I’ll also die hard.”
Through the smoke of his cigarette, Tarasov carefully studies the Stalker. Crow’s combat skills seem too good for a Loner Stalker, for whom battle was more about satisfying trigger-happy fingers and surpassing each other with cocky battle cries than following coordinated tactics.
“You’ve got a good sense for teamwork, you know?”
“Heard that before. Take it, buddy… don’t let anyone say that Crow didn’t share his smokes.” The Stalker puts the still burning cigarette butt into the mouth of the corpse he was sitting on and gently pats its face. “Molodets. You no longer need to care about lung cancer, do you?”
As they move on with Tarasov taking the lead, he soon halts in his tracks when his torchlight illuminates a huge bulk of fangs and muscles, its fur scorched by fire. The air surrounding it still smells of burnt flesh.
“At least the mercs took care of this one,” Crow remarks as they pass by the dead mutant.
“What the hell was that?”
“I’d have thought you have bears in the Zone. Don’t you?”
“Bears? No. Especially not like this, with claws longer than a hand’s span and a row of spiky bones along its spine.”
“If I ever have kids, I’ll take them to the Zone one day. It must be like a petting zoo.”
After hours in the darkness and suffocating dust, Tarasov feels relief wash over him when, at last, daylight glimmers at the far end of the tunnel. He has to force patience and caution on himself as he moves from the wrecks to wall niches, still concerned about more gunmen waiting to ambush them. When they reach the exit, Tarasov exchanges a glance with the Stalker. Crow nods and they exit the tunnel at the same moment, Tarasov aiming his weapon and scanning the area for any hostiles, while Crow does the same to his left.
“Clear,” Tarasov says lowering his AKSU.
“Looks like we made it, bratan,” Crow replies with a sigh.
The Geiger counter clicks steadily at normal level, meaning that Tarasov can at last remove his gas mask and take a deep breath, enjoying the fresh and cool air streaming into his lungs. After the dark and narrow tunnel, his senses struggle to perceive the awe-inspiring scenery.
He raises his binoculars. Flanked by snow-capped peaks, the valley descends steeply towards the south where a wide plain opens up, covered by lush forest. Clouds of mist drift over the dark green foliage that stretches towards the horizon. Low clouds cover the view beyond the far hills that bite into the steel-blue sky like giant teeth. Deep in the forest, the hugest anomaly he has ever seen looms, having carved a gigantic archway leading into the hills beyond it. The glint of purple fire flashes in its middle. An exhilarating sense of freedom overcomes Tarasov.
“Welcome to the New Zone,” Crow says behind him.
Tarasov turns to share his excitement but freezes at the sight of the silenced Glock that Crow is holding in a steady aim, his eyes narrowed and not promising anything good.
“Ruki ver,” the Stalker coldly says, “drop that weapon, boyevoychik. “
Tarasov lets go off his rifle and raises his hands as commanded.
“Lock your fingers behind your head. Get down on your knees… molodets. And now, it’s time for you to properly introduce yourself. Who are you and what was in that chopper?”
“We didn’t come here to harass the Stalkers! Didn’t I tell you already?”
“I don’t care about the Stalkers. I want to know what was in that chopper. Especially in the Mi-8 that made it through.”
“We were escorting a scientific expedition—”
“That’s bullshit.”
Tarasov sighs, knowing there is no way he can bluff his way out. His only hope is to be convincing enough for Crow to let him live, yet also be skillful enough to omit what little he knows of the scientists’ mission.
“I am Major Mikhailo Tarasov, Armed Forces of the Ukraine. We are on a search and rescue operation…”
Crow listens carefully to his story, without showing any emotion. Only when Tarasov describes the commandos destroying the helicopter does he narrow his eyes.
“They took an exoskeleton? That actually explains a thing or two.” The Stalker holsters his weapon. “Okay. You’re not a hunter. You’re being hunted.”
“Does that make two of us?” Tarasov asks, still unsure whether Crow is an ally or not.
“Let’s move into that hut over there and have a little chat.” the Stalker replies.
Crow leads him into a half-ruined brick building that still has POLICE CHECK POINT painted on it in faded letters. A recent campfire is still smoldering inside, emanating pleasant warmth after the chilly wind outside.
“We’re in Stalker country now,” the sniper says, sitting down by the fire. “A few Brothers must have been here recently. Probably the mercs had interrupted their breakfast.”
“I don’t see any bodies around.”
“They obviously didn’t feel like taking on a whole squad of mercs and dusted off. Wise decision.” Crow takes a box of canned meat from his backpack. He opens it with his combat knife. “You want some havchik?”
“Gladly,” Tarasov says taking the chunk of greasy meat that Crow offers him on the tip of his knife. “To be honest, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I wasn’t out to scare you. I meant it. But we’re more or less in the same shoes… Condor. At least you have a fitting name for a Spetsnaz.”
“So… are we running from the
same enemy?”
“I am not running, Condor. I am on the trail of a bizarre arm smuggling enterprise. It’s none of your business for whom I do this errand. Don’t even ask. At first I believed you might be involved,” Crow explains, “but I couldn’t understand why anyone would down your chopper if it was supposed to be carrying a precious load. I know of only one force here who might be the buyers, and it’s also the only force with anti-aircraft weapons. Besides… anyway, it doesn’t add up.”
“Those people from the crash site and the tunnel? Who are they?”
Crow shrugs and spits on the ground. “I don’t know. Gunmen, henchmen… Now they’re dead men.”
“And dead men don’t talk.”
“Too bad. If I knew who had sent them, I would have collected my reward already. Some people in Bagram might have great interest in state of the art equipment like your exoskeletons.”
“Tell me about Bagram.”
“It’s run by a weird character calling himself Captain Bone. He wears a heavy armored suit, all painted black, with red patterns on its chest. He would never remove his curtain helmet, even if it makes him look like a crazy astronaut. But he seems to care about looking important more than making money.”
Tarasov tries to hide his surprise. By the description he easily recognizes the armored suit worn by senior Duty commanders in the Zone.
“Are there more like him in Bagram?” he asks trying to withdraw his real interest from his face and voice.
“He does have bodyguards, but they wear lighter armor. Same color scheme, though. A Stalker doctor called Bonesetter tends to those who ran out of luck. Then there’s a junkie called Ashot. He runs a gun shop and bar and trades in everything. There’s his buddy, a gun nut called Yar, I mentioned him already. I hope he’s not involved in this, because I’d hate to liquidate such a wonderful expert on sniper gear.”
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