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

by Balazs Pataki

  “As you said just now, life is bad enough,” Tarasov says. “Anyway, I need that upgrade and repairs on my soldiers’ gear too. I still have a few men left despite burying two of them who died to protect this place, you know? Their graves could also use an upgrade.”

  “All right, all right, here’s the deal: you help me out and I help you out. Get that foolish kid back to me and safety. In exchange, you’ll get the upgrades and repairs. I might even give my unique Gluck to you — just find him.”

  “Upgrades and repairs for free, if I get him back alive.”

  “I can’t believe I’m haggling over this.”

  “No need for belief when it comes to facts. Any idea where Mac went?”

  “If he was chasing those artifacts he was after, try the old textile factory to the north-west. Let me see your PDA… here. Squirrel can lead you there. He knows all the shortcuts through the Shamali Plains.”

  “We have a deal then.”

  Tarasov is about to climb out though the hatch when he remembers something else. He pulls out the mobile phone he had found in the ambushed patrol car and hands it to Yar.

  “Look, Uncle… while I’m gone, could you check if there’s any data left in this?”

  The mechanic frowns as he studies the device. “Where did you find this piece of crap?”

  “In a wreck to the north. I’m just curious about it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Yar replies with a shrug.

  “Thanks. But by the way… what about adding the thermal imaging enhancement as advance payment?”

  “Poidi proch, Stalker!”

  “I’m leaving, I’m leaving… see you soon, Uncle Yar!”

  21:10:39 AFT

  The sun sets slowly over the mountains. To get rid of the stiffness that two days of idleness has left in his limbs, Tarasov strolls down to the base and watches the Stalkers lighting up the campfires for the night. He spots Zlenko at one of the lookout posts on the container wall.

  Climbing up the ladder, he joins the sergeant who is busily discussing something with two Stalkers. Seeing him approaching, Zlenko salutes.

  “Sir!”

  “As you were,” Tarasov casually replies and sits down on the sandbags. “What are you doing here? Did Ashot run out of vodka?”

  The sergeant shrugs. “I’ve heard the troopers’ jokes more than once before. And all that marijuana smell… it’s nauseating.”

  “You’re not into that stuff? That’s good.”

  “I’ve played in a rock band. Enough is enough,” Zlenko says, smiling. “Anyway, these Stalkers were debating whether the M-16 or the AK-47 was the better weapon. I argued for the Kalashnikov. What’s your opinion, Major?”

  “Well… my opinion is that the brothers will be discussing this for a long while. Come along Viktor, I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.”

  Walking away from the lookout, Zlenko takes a pack of cigarettes from his vest and offers one to Tarasov who, looking over to the dark mountains and the glowing red anomaly in the far forest beyond the sandy plain where the wind swirls up small clouds of dust, and listening to a Stalker tuning his guitar, he feels in the mood to smoke.

  “Thanks… and now, tell me about this mess with the dead guard and that Loner.”

  Zlenko exhales the smoke before starting. “That’s a strange story—” he begins, then breaks off as the Stalker finishes tuning up and begins to sing.

  “I happened to be walking around

  And I hurt two people by chance,

  They took me to militia grounds

  Where I saw her and broke down at once.”

  “Oh no, please no,” Zlenko moans, burying his face into his hands. “It’s Ilchenko’s favorite song.”

  “I knew not what on earth she was doing there,

  She was probably getting a pass.

  She was beautiful, lovely and fair…

  I decided to search out the lass.

  I just followed her, walking behind her,

  She wouldn’t talk to a bully, I thought.

  Then I made up my mind to invite her

  To the nearest restaurant. Why not?”

  Tarasov grins at the sergeant. “Hey Viktor! If a Vysotsky song makes you cry, I’ll get you demoted!”

  “As we walked people smiled at my pretty one,

  I was furious, my mind on the blink!

  I just smote the face of a weird man

  ‘Cause he dared to give her a wink.

  She found the caviar delicious,

  And I didn’t grudge the expense,

  I ordered smash hits to musicians,

  And the last tune they played was ‘The Cranes’.

  I made promises, showing my feeling,

  I repeated one thing the whole night:

  ‘For five days I haven’t been stealing,

  Believe me, my love at first sight.’”

  “It’s not the song, Major, it’s how badly the Stalker’s playing it. Permission to shoot him?”

  “Denied.”

  “I said that my life had been ruined,

  Blew my nose and wiped tears from my eyes,

  And she said: ‘I believe you, yours truly,

  You can take me at a reasonable price.’

  I slapped her on the face in despair,

  I was boiling like crazy inside.

  Now I knew what she really was doing there,

  At the militia, my love at first sight.”

  “Klass,” a Stalker shouts as the song finishes. “Hey soldier boys, want some vodka? We can trade you some! One bottle for a medal!” The Stalkers laugh.

  “Do you mind if I teach them some manners?” Zlenko asks Tarasov. “I mean, with a guitar.”

  “Permission absolutely granted.”

  The sergeant joins the Stalkers at the campfire. “Hey, big mouth! Give me that sad excuse of a guitar,” Zlenko demands, sitting down at the campfire. The Stalker hands the instrument over and Zlenko plucks the strings experimentally before starting to play. His fingers, chafed and dirty from gun grease, move on the strings with astonishing grace. Then he starts singing:

  “She’s got a smile that it seems to me

  Reminds me of childhood memories

  Where everything was as fresh as the bright blue sky

  Now and then when I see her face

  She takes me away to that special place

  And if I stare too long, I’d probably break down and cry

  Whoa, oh, oh, sweet child o’ mine

  Whoa, oh, oh, oh, sweet love of mine

  She’s got eyes of the bluest skies

  As if they thought of rain

  I’d hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain

  Her hair reminds me of a warm, safe place

  Where as a child I’d hide

  And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by… where do we go now?”

  “Konchay uzhe,” the guitarist Stalker says. “Here, take this vodka, just shut up. You played it well but that song makes me sad.”

  “Yeah, me too,” another replies, chewing on a dried sausage. “It reminds me of a girl I used to bang in high school. How blonde she was, oh God! Like a fairy queen!”

  “You lie, Tolik. How would a blonde get into high school?” the third Stalker asks grinning.

  “Forget the school,” says the failed guitar player. “What the hell was she doing out of bed?” They burst into drunken laughter as the two soldiers walk away.

  “I have to admit, that was the best song I heard in a long time,” Tarasov says.

  “Did you like it? I screwed a chord or two, but… damn, how I wish I could have a real guitar to play on for a change!”

  “It was fine. But enough pleasure for today. There’s something I need you to do for me.”

  “Whatever you ask, komandir.”

  “Don’t be too eager because you will not like it, son. I want you to stay put here in Bagram while I recon something. It’s pretty far away, so I might be away
for a few days.”

  “Indeed I don’t like it.”

  “Your objection is duly noted. The truth is, I don’t trust this place. I don’t want to take the few remaining men with me and leave the wounded at Bone’s mercy. You will stay here, watch over the men and be my eyes and ears while I’m gone.”

  “Understood.”

  “I’ll take Ilchenko along. He’ll come in handy with the PKM.”

  “Sure. Where are you going?”

  “There’s something to be done for old times’ — and repaired weapons’ — sake. When I’m done with that, there’s one more obstacle that’ll need removing from our path to… the scientists. Don’t worry, when I find them, we get them together.”

  Frowning, Zlenko lights up another cigarette. “With all due respect, sir, Needle might be in danger and we can’t just sit around here.”

  “I get your point, Viktor, but our destination is in the middle of hostile territory. The mercs, commandos or whatever they are — aren’t even our worst enemy. If only half of what I’ve heard about the Tribe is true, there’s big trouble ahead.”

  “Yeah, I heard some weird rumors from the Stalkers.” Zlenko bows his head. “It seems that even mentioning the Tribe scares the shit out of them, and not just the rookies.”

  “You see? How are we supposed to fight our way through with me, you and only two other soldiers left capable of fighting? I hope I can at least remove the lesser obstacle from our path.”

  “I guess we have no good options here. As ordered, then. I’ll watch the backs of the troopers.”

  “That’s the spirit. Talking about spirits, didn’t that Stalker give you a bottle of vodka?”

  “He did. Here you go.”

  “Cheers. Here’s to a good raid!”

  Encrypted VOP transmission between the Exclusion Zone and Central Afghanistan, 26 September 2014, 06:41:08 AFT

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

  #This is Eagle Eye on Sierra Bravo. Report.#

  # I have acquired the transport coordinates. Need reinforcements to intercept the transport — unable to do this alone.#

  #Positive on reinforcements. A detachment will be assembled and dispatched ASAP.#

  #Eagle Eye, I don’t need just any men. I need my old squad.#

  #We will see what we can do about that. Renegade, be advised that we picked up several messages between the central and eastern areas. Watch your back.#

  #Affirmative. A friendly element might be involved in further developments. I suggest to contact Kilo and keep them on stand-by.#

  #Are you sure about sharing this intel with Kilo, Renegade?#

  #Positive. It is us who adapt to the situation here, not the other way around.#

  #Affirmative. Kilo One will be informed. Eagle Eye out.#

  #Understood. Renegade out.#

  Hellgate

  Shamali Plains, 26 September 2014, 11:25:47 AFT

  “I didn’t hide! I swear it on my mother’s life — may she rest in peace,” Squirrel says trying to blow the dust from a battered harmonica. “When the soldier manning the grenade launcher was shot, I got really, really angry. Had the sergeant not ordered us to charge them, I would have run down the dushmans on my own, I swear it!”

  “I’m sure they were spared a dreadful fate, Squirrel.” Ilchenko gives the guide a skeptical look while he finishes cleaning his machine gun. “Am I not right, Major?”

  “I’m with Squirrel on this… he’s a killer, he’s just hiding it.”

  “Exactly my thought, sir,” Ilchenko sarcastically replies and takes a bite of the canned meat he’s having for breakfast. His face contorts in disgust. “Do you think I could use this shit as gun grease? It tastes like that anyway. Jesus, how can you Stalkers live on this?”

  Squirrel blows the harmonica but a discordant shriek is the only sound the instrument makes. Grimacing, he puts it back to his pocket. “I wish I had an MP3-player, so that I don’t have to listen to your moaning all the time,” he says. “You know what? Don’t have any food for two days and then you will love it. You could lose a few kilograms.”

  “Come on, Squirrel. I am from the Ukraine. I have a big soul. And a big soul has big appetite. But why do you have such a shitty call sign, anyway?”

  “My political views are Red, I’m lightning-quick at picking up any artifact and have a long, big tail — if you know what I mean.”

  “Is it bushy too?”

  “Nah, man. But why so interested? I didn’t take you for a gomik…”

  Tarasov yawns. He is tired after their night’s march through the forest. Now the first light of dawn casts beams through the high trees, making the woods appear less threatening. Sitting against the wall of the derelict farm where they halted for a short break, he enjoys the simple pleasure of feeling the cool morning breeze blowing between his toes as he cleans his boots with a damp tissue. He knows they will be dusty again after two paces, but the motion relaxes him.

  “Did you hear that, Major? This rodent just called me a gomik!”

  “And what do you expect me to do about it, Private? Killing him?”

  “Oh no, komandir! Just looking the other way when I shoot him myself!”

  “Now listen up, guys… On my last mission in the Old Zone, I had a technician with a welding torch with me. I wish he were here now to weld your mouths shut!” Tarasov says shaking his head. “You two are worse than Yar and Ashot. So, Squirrel, instead of fucking with someone who is three times your size, you better tell me about that place called Hellgate we’re heading to.”

  “It’s a shortcut to the plateau where the factory is,” Squirrel says. “There’s a road leading directly up, but it goes through an abandoned village infested with mutants. Sometimes dushmans also show up to say hello. Compared to that, this shortcut is a stroll in the park. In three or four hours, we should reach a perfectly nice Stalker camp at Hellgate.”

  “If it’s such a perfectly nice place, why is it called Hellgate?”

  “Oh… nothing, really. Just a few Burner and Geyser anomalies here and there, you know.”

  “Hey, rodent,” Ilchenko butts in. “Why didn’t you leave that RPG at Bagram? It was good loot but my back’s aching just from looking at it.”

  “Was I supposed to leave it on that dead dushman at the Outpost? He won’t need it anymore. And what if we run into a tank?”

  “A tank? Here?” Ilchenko laughs. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Okay… maybe a bear then, would that be better? I want to tell all my buddies how Squirrel the Brave saved the asses of two military guys with one single RPG shot.”

  “I’ll look forward to seeing that.”

  “If you want to know, back in the Zone — when I was still with Freedom — we did it the other way round. The process was the same, except it was not about saving.”

  “Go ahead and make my day, rodent…”

  “Peace, man! Don’t point that shooter at me. What are you compensating for with that machine gun, anyway?”

  Meanwhile, Tarasov has finished cleaning his boots. “Rebyata… if you’re done teasing each other, let’s move on.”

  “Let’s,” Ilchenko says standing to his feet. “Damn, how I miss those choppers… I hate walking.” He kicks the half-empty can, still holding the remains of his breakfast, into a bush.

  “Don’t do that,” Squirrel says, looking around nervously. “The woods have ears.”

  “And the fields have eyes,” Ilchenko murmurs. “Heard that before.”

  “Stop! Squirrel is right. Get down!”

  Maybe it is Tarasov’s tired eyes playing tricks on him, but for a moment he was sure he’d spotted a pair of eyes watching them from the bushes. They’d disappeared, but the movement of the branches and a barely audible crackle on the ground tells him that someone, or something, was definitely watching them.

  “What was that, komandir?”

  Crouching, Ilchenko aims his PKM and slowly scans the ruins.

  “Squirre
l! Are there any… bloodsuckers here?”

  The guide pales. “Oh shit! Did you see one?”

  “How could I? They can make themselves invisible!”

  “We were not supposed to run into them before Hellgate!”

  “Holy Mother of Jesus Christ,” Ilchenko exclaims. “It’s just a few anomalies there, you said!”

  “Form an echelon. Ilchenko, take point. Squirrel, stay on my side and keep an eye on our rear. Let’s move!”

  The woods become sparse as they slowly approach the steep descent to the plateau. They proceed cautiously, moving from cover to cover. After fifty meters, Tarasov signals a halt.

  “Can’t see any contacts,” he murmurs, scanning the area through his binoculars. “Wait… I see a huge pack of jackals.”

  “Are they moving in our direction?” Squirrel whispers.

  “I don’t think they’ve detected us yet.” Tarasov zooms in the optics to have a closer look at the mutants. “Look at that… they’re fighting over something.”

  “That’s good. Let’s move on quietly and avoid them.”

  Tarasov glances over the mutants one last time, but just as he’s about to lower the binoculars he spots something sinister.

  “What the hell?” he whispers, adjusting the zoom.

  “What is it, boss?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Something long and thin reaches out from behind a group of dried-out, lifeless trees. Switching to the highest magnification, he realizes that what he took for a long, straight branch of a tree is actually the rotor blade of a helicopter. Behind it, a dozen jackals fight each other. The biggest mutant chases down a smaller one and delivers a vicious bite. The small jackal drops something and scurries away. Tarasov focuses on the pack leader as it grabs the small mutant’s prize from the ground and scowls when he recognizes it as a human arm.