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

by Balazs Pataki

  “I am.”

  “I didn’t take you for such a badass. Maybe Bone was right in sending you here… we’re a bunch of thieves and murderers, but we won’t give up without a fight.”

  “And which of those things are you?”

  “Not a thief, that’s for sure,” the Stalker says, turning away and raising his binoculars to scan the dusty plains. But Tarasov has one more question for him.

  “How come Bone put you up with Freedomers and ordinary Stalkers? Duty prefers formal court-martials, as far as I know.”

  Without removing the binoculars from his eyes, Skinner spits to the ground. “Do you play cards, Major?”

  “Occasionally. Why?”

  “Because the old deck of cards has been reshuffled. Here, none of us belongs to where he used to. Bone is not with Duty anymore, neither are his henchmen. Sometimes I wonder if they ever were. The one I killed certainly was not.”

  “How do you know?” Tarasov curiously asks.

  “No self-respecting Duty fighter would try taking a free Stalker’s artifacts by aiming a rifle at him. And neither would one beg for his life, not even with a free Stalker’s combat knife at his throat.”

  Tarasov leaves him alone and looks back at Ilchenko who is positioning his machine gun among the sand bags. He notices with satisfaction that the soldier has picked a perfect position — protected, but still covering a wide angle towards the slope.

  “Good position. Mow them down when they come, Ilchenko.”

  The soldier grins back at him, flashing impeccable teeth in his round face. “I will, sir. You know how it goes… On Kazbek the clouds are meeting, like the mountain eagle-flock, Up to them, along the rock, dash the wild Uzdens retreating,/ Onward faster, faster fleeting, routed by the Russian brood,/ Foameth all their track with blood.”

  Tarasov’s jaw almost drops in surprise. Reciting a poem was the last thing he expected from the tattooed machine gunner. “That’s by Bestuzhev!”

  “That’s correct, sir.” Ilchenko almost bursts with self-satisfaction. “I have a degree in literature, but signed up with the army to see the world and all.”

  “You are a man of many talents, Ilchenko.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  “Let’s see if digging is one of them. Grab that shovel and dig in deeper, if you don’t want this shithole to be the last you see of the world!”

  “As ordered, sir, but—”

  “And make it deep enough!” Tarasov shouts. “It will save us time when we have to bury you if you got shot because you were thinking about poetry instead of mowing down those baystrukhi. They don’t give a damn about Shevchenko and Bestuzhev, but they know Kalashnikov’s name very well!”

  Still shaking his head, Tarasov makes his way back to the bunker where Vasilyev is giving Squirrel a crash course in how to handle the grenade launcher.

  “It handles like a dream if the blowback mechanism doesn’t jam. But that’s not your concern. Get those ammunition boxes closer. There’s a belt with thirty high-explosive grenades in each of them. The box marked red contains VOG-30 grenades. They take more punch and have a longer range than regular rounds. Those are our life insurance. Do not feed them until I tell you to do so. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Call me ‘sir’ again and I put a grenade up your ass! Now, let’s take two belts and load them into the metal drum magazines. We have two of them. As soon as one is empty, you remove and replace it with the reserve drum. While I keep firing, you load the next belt into the empty drum. Then you change it again if needed.”

  “Keep your eyes on what Vasilyev is showing you, Squirrel,” Tarasov remarks when he sees the Stalker sending concerned glances to the south. “Rest assured, the dushmans will come without you watching out for them.”

  Under his watch, the Outpost slowly gains the shape of a well-organized fire base. But from the top position he can also see how thinly stretched their defenses are. Defending such positions was among the basics in officer training but Tarasov has never faced such a task before. Clearing the underground labs. Patrolling the Red Forest. Saving a lost recon squad from mutants. That was my job, not pitched battles. I am a military Stalker, not infantry. Skinner was right about praying. But I don’t believe in God. Not one that would help if asked nicely, anyway.

  Vasilyev curses when Squirrel fails to properly fix the ammunition drum on his third attempt.

  “Don’t be too hard on the Stalker, Private,” Tarasov advises as he helps Zlenko off the ladder.

  “We’re set, sir,” the sergeant reports, still catching his breath. “We are stretched very thin, but we’ve got the southern and western slopes covered with the PKM and the AK’s we have. The Stalker’s shotguns might come in handy if the enemy gets too close.”

  “I also saw a couple of them with MP-5s and AKSUs. We need to tell those guys to hold their fire until the enemy gets into range.”

  “I already gave that order.”

  “Good initiative. Now all we can do is to wait.” Tarasov sits down and opens an army ration pack.

  “May I join you, sir?”

  He motions to the sergeant to sit down. “I hope we make it through.” Tarasov lets the ration’s wrapper fly off in the wind. “It would be a shame if these miserable biscuits were my last supper.”

  The sergeant smiles. “Yeah. The Stalkers told me there’s a bar in Bagram, set up in an old airplane.”

  “They have a special skill when it comes to turning every piece of junk into a bar… bunkers, shipwrecks, construction sites. You name it. Stalkers would probably find a cozy place on the North Pole too, should a Zone pop up there.”

  “I guess so… but actually, what’s on my mind is that this place seems strangely familiar to me.”

  “To me as well. It’s Soviet-built.”

  “Not only that… the whole situation.” The sergeant seems to be lost in his thoughts as he looks out to the plains where the mountains cast long shadows in the setting sun.

  “Did you lose someone during that war?” Tarasov asks.

  “What, me?” Zlenko exclaims, startled. “No, fortunately. My father was posted to Eastern Germany. He cried when they had to leave… and was quite upset when I signed up to join the army. He relaxed a little when I first sent money home from what we got with the UN in Kosovo. And what about…”

  Zlenko bites his tongue but Tarasov knows what he wanted to ask. His father’s photograph is hidden in his wallet, beneath the armored west, but he touches the place as if he could reach it. “I did.”

  “I understand… is that what motivates you? Apologies if I’m asking too many questions.”

  “We have orders and no one cares about our motivations to follow them. We will make it through tonight, trust me. Then we continue with our mission.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “No, it’s not even remotely fair.” Tarasov gives the sergeant a bitter smile. “The scientists were sent here to find out how all these mutants and anomalies were created.”

  “I thought it’s from radiation. The fall-out and all.”

  Tarasov sighs. “That only plays a minor role, if at all… the first Zone was created by an entity powerful enough to bend the laws of physics. If that happened here too — that’s bad enough, but things here are… meaner… than in the Zone. Kiev wants to know how this happened. That’s why securing the scientists’ research results is our priority. And as I know the SBU agent who briefed me about Operation Haystack, he would expect us to do the scientists’ homework if they have failed.”

  “We can worry about that once we survive this night, I guess.”

  “Agreed. And to finally answer your question: yes, for me this battle, or whenever we meet those brain-scorched half-mutant sons of bitches — it will be personal.”

  “Brain-scorched? A fitting description for the dushmans.”

  The phrase had slipped from Tarasov’s lips unconsciously. There’s too much to be explained to someone like Zlenko who has
never experienced the Zone where otherworldly equipment was once used to rob Stalkers of their own willpower, turning them into miserable shadows of human beings and manipulated by a superhuman consciousness.

  “You see… I have explored every square meter of the Zone. I have been to every secret laboratory, every dark defile. I fought every faction and mutant. Being here is like a new beginning, just like for the Stalkers around here. It’s like… How can I say it? When I was home, I wanted to be back to the Zone, and when I was there, all I could think of was getting back home. Being here after the Zone — it’s like a divorce from a woman I still love but who has nothing new to say, after living together so long that I partly became her, in the way I function, think and speak. I’m here now, waiting for what will happen, like a recently divorced man waits for his first new date. Yes, Sergeant, I am happy.”

  “I wish I could see the Zone one day.”

  “You have too many wishes, even for a young man… for now it’s enough to wish to see the next morning. By the way, I just witnessed something miraculous.” Tarasov tries to enjoy the bland taste of the rations before he continues. “A tattooed machine gunner reciting poetry.”

  To his disappointment, Zlenko does not look surprised.

  “I guess Ilchenko was bragging again about his teacher’s degree,” he replies with a yawn.

  “Are there any more such smartasses in the squad?”

  “Lobov had to quit medical school because of drug problems, but he is reliable. The rest… it’s just normal boys from the neighborhood who couldn’t find a better way out of unemployment.”

  “And you?”

  The sergeant sadly smiles. “I wanted to become a famous guitar player but my band flopped.”

  “That’s not a disaster big enough to chase one into the army’s arms, son.”

  “Yes, but having purchased a six-string Fender American Standard Stratocaster on rates and not being able to repay it to a loan shark definitely is.”

  He has barely finished the sentence when a rifle fires a burst. Jumping to his feet, Tarasov peers over the sand bags. All seems quiet.

  “Just a bloody jackal,” Skinner shouts in the trenches.

  “Shit!” Tarasov swears nervously. “We better go and buck those trigger-happy Stalkers.”

  “I’ll do that, sir… I wanted to check the perimeter anyway.”

  Tarasov is eager to rest for a few minutes and close his eyes, which are already burning from exhaustion and fine dust that has dribbled through under his eye protectors. Night is about to fall and he knows neither he nor his men will be able to get any rest during the coming hours.

  “I would appreciate that,” he smiles, leaning against the stone-hard sandbags and trying to relax his overstrained nerves without falling asleep. He jerks upright again and looks around his men. “Kravchuk, keep your eyes on the ridge to the west. And switch off that headlamp. You are supposed to dish out the headshots, not get one yourself.”

  21:30:41 AFT

  A bright flash. The major opens his eyes. For a second, he thinks he has slept until morning and it is the rising sun casting light onto his face. Then he realizes the true cause: a flare is hovering over the Outpost. He can hear the Stalkers shouting as he jumps to his feet.

  “They’re coming!”

  “Major!” Zlenko shouts, excitement and fear mingling in his voice. “This is it! They’re moving up from the south!”

  Tarasov doesn’t need the sergeant’s directions to know where the attack is coming from. A long howl sounds through the chilly night, barely distinguishable from that of a blood-thirsty animal, but a hundred human — or at least human-like — voices join in. Then a hail of bullets hits the defenders. To Tarasov’s horror, it comes from all around their position.

  “Fire!” Squirrel screams. “Fire that shit!”

  “I’ll open fire when I’m ordered to!” Vasilyev shouts back, his eyes fixed upon his officer.

  “Zlenko, into the trenches, now! Don’t fire until you’re sure to hit them!”

  “On my way, sir!”

  Keeping his head low, Tarasov estimates the range of their attackers. “Vasilyev! Adjust range to four hundred! Cover the area wide, from ten to one o’clock! Steady!”

  Now Ilchenko’s machine gun opens up in the trenches, followed by the rapid fire of submachine guns. The howls get louder and closer.

  “Three-fifty… steady!”

  “Why don’t you just fire, man?”

  “Stay cool, Stalker… three-hundred.”

  “Adjusted!”

  “Fry them.”

  Vasilyev pulls the release cord of the grenade launcher, grabs the holders and fires short bursts from the AGS, unleashing fast grenade fire into the mass of dark silhouettes running up the slopes. The dushmans’ battle cry disintegrates into cries of pain amidst the detonations. Squirrel jumps back.

  “Damn! I didn’t take this shit for a machine gun!”

  “Shut up and prepare the spare drum,” Vasilyev shouts.

  “They weren’t prepared for that!” Tarasov replies. “Good job.”

  Looking down to the dushmans’ broken wave and hearing Zlenko’s and Skinner’s voice directing their comrades’ fire towards the retreating enemy, a stoic feeling of might empowers him. He watches the dushmans hastily retreat into the darkness, but what he views to the south makes him shudder. A gigantic shadow rises, darker than night itself, making the stars disappear. Lightning flashes on the horizon.

  “Vasilyev, keep the settings. As soon as the second wave gets into range, open fire. Try to save ammo.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  “So far, so good,” Squirrel says. “Time to relax.”

  He rises from the ground and lights up a cigarette. At the same moment as Vasilyev drags him back into cover, a muffled noise comes from the closest mountain. A bullet hits the spot where the Stalker’s head had been less than a second before.

  “Kravchuk,” Tarasov shouts to the squad’s marksman, “sniper to the east! Try to locate him!”

  “I-I did this on purpose,” the Stalker cries, “I wanted them to reveal their position!”

  “Bloody good job,” Tarasov replies.

  The single bullet is followed by several more. A scream comes from the trenches. He hears Zlenko shouting. “Keep your damned heads down! Snipers!”

  They know what they are doing. Not giving us a moment of respite until the next wave comes.

  Kravchuk’s Dragunov fires in response.

  “Did you see them?”

  “I think so!”

  “Don’t waste your damned ammunition on shadows!” Tarasov wishes Crow was here, although looking up at the massive mountain, he can’t really blame his sniper. “Go back to your position and keep your eyes on the ridge. We only have a handful of Stalkers there!”

  Tarasov doesn’t waste his time with climbing down the ladder. He jumps down, throws himself into the trench and keeping his head low, hurries to the forward position. “Casualties?”

  “A Stalker bought it,” Lobov replies, ducking behind the sand bags as another bullet impacts close to them. “He was dead by the time I got to him.”

  “His name was Sashka the Hand,” Skinner grumbles. “At least he won’t be stealing medikits from fellow Stalkers anymore.”

  A clap of thunder rolls over the plains, echoing from the mountains. A second later an explosion rocks their perimeter.

  “Mortars!”

  “Hit the ground,” Skinner shouts. “Take cover, Stalkers!”

  Amidst more incoming mortar rounds the dushmans’ battle cry bellows. Another flare flashes above them, casting its dire red light over the hill.

  “Holy shit… I need a bigger gun,” Ilchenko yells and points to the slope where hundreds of enemy fighters are advancing towards them. He opens fire without waiting for orders. The grenade launcher belches out a salvo but abruptly falls silent. After a moment, it sounds up again but firing in a different direction. Tarasov’s face grows pale.
<
br />   “They’ve got into our rear! Skinner!”

  “Here!”

  “Hold your position until you can, then fall back into the trenches around the bunker! Zlenko, Bondarchuk, on me!”

  With the two soldiers in tow, he runs back to the bunker. Thanks to Vasilyev’s quick reactions, the line of attackers falters, giving the handful of defenders a little momentum. Zlenko and the rifleman join the Stalkers in holding their thin line beyond the scattered cover of sand bags. Above his head, Kravchuk is firing his Dragunov.

  “Last ammunition belt!” Squirrel shouts.

  “Prepare the VOG-30s, Stalker!” Vasilyev bellows back.

  The voices coming from the grenade launcher are desperate, just like Zlenko’s.

  “Kamensky is down!”

  Tarasov cocks his rifle. “Vasilyev! Give them hell! Burn the ridge!”

  Fiery explosions pierce into the enemy’s line, throwing up rocks, sand and body parts in balls of fire. But before the grenades can stop them, the launcher stops firing. The first dushman appears over the wall of sandbags, aiming his rifle at Zlenko while he is reloading his rifle. A burst from Tarasov’s rifle hits the dushman, but as soon as he falls three others appear.

  “Get this, cocksuckers! Svoboda, vperyod!”

  Squirrel shouts a battle cry from above and the grenade launcher resumes firing. Tarasov quickly climbs up to the bunker. Vasilyev’s body lies in a pool of blood. Kravchuk is still kneeling behind the sand bags, firing his Dragunov relentlessly.

  Heavy rain begins to fall. The flashes of lightning fork so close together that the thunder merges into a ceaseless din that almost drowns out the frantic rifle fire that now spews from all directions.

  Oblivious to the danger, Tarasov looks over to the perimeter to assess their remaining defenses. It looks bad. The Stalkers are already retreating towards the bunker, with Ilchenko in the rear covering their route. Beyond them, Zlenko is desperately trying to hold the line with the few remaining Stalkers.

  “No more grenades!”

  “Grab your rifle and help the sergeant, Squirrel!”

  “Incoming!” Kravchuk screams.