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

by Balazs Pataki

  “I’ll be damned… they’re fighting over a body. But that’s not all.”

  The major gives the binoculars to Squirrel and points to the rotor blades. Immediately, a greedy smile widens on the Stalker guide’s face.

  “Rotor blades! And where there’s rotor blades, there’s a chopper wreck, and where there’s a chopper wreck, there’s loot!”

  “Give me that RPG, Squirrel.”

  “Let me blast them, man! Please!”

  “I said, give me that RPG, Squirrel.”

  “Please, please, please let me fire the RPG!”

  “All right, all right, but you better remove that protective cap from the warhead before you shoot… Ilchenko, show him how to do that. And now, Rambo — you don’t want to miss the mutants. Wait until they are bunched up. Ilchenko, get your machine gun ready. After the grenade hits them, open fire and try to hit as many of them as you can. If we screw it and they come running at us… that won’t be nice. Are we set?” His companions nod. “Don’t screw this up, Stalker. Wait for my command.”

  Now Tarasov sees the jackals gather around a corpse, half dug out from a shallow grave.

  “Gospodi,” he mutters when he sees what’s left of the body.

  “What is it?”

  “I saw a… but no. That cannot be. I refuse to believe it.”

  At the moment when the most jackals gather over the grave, Tarasov gives Squirrel a signal. The projectile leaves the launcher with a deafening whoosh. The pack leader tosses its head but by the time it realizes the danger it is too late; the grenade hits the pack and explodes in a sheet of orange flame. In the same second, Ilchenko’s machine gun starts barking as he fires a long salvo into the strewn mass of wounded and half-dead mutants.

  The pack leader, still alive, emits a vengeful howl and starts running toward them at speed despite having had one of its legs torn off by the explosion and the huge wound gouged into its side. Even so, the distance is so great that Tarasov can take a steady aim with his Vintorez. He fires a short burst and the mutant falls, its momentum still carrying it a meter closer to the three men, as if its predatory instinct drove it on even after life had departed.

  Wish I had this rifle on the Shalang Pass when I needed it most, Tarasov thinks with a bitter smile.

  “Good job,” he tells his companions. “Let’s have a look at that wreck. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Getting closer, Tarasov recognizes the wreck by its tail — a Mi-24. With Afghanistan full of war debris, the sight does not surprise him — at least not at first. As they get close enough to see more of the wreck between the sparse bushes, the major gives a short, ghastly cry.

  “Damn! This was one of ours!”

  Ilchenko and Squirrel turn their heads to look. The Ukraine’s blue and yellow ensign is clearly visible on the bullet-riddled fuselage.

  “Where’s that rotten stench coming from?”

  The enthusiasm has disappeared from Squirrel’s face. Indeed, the smell is so foul, it forces him to put his gas mask on.

  Tarasov follows suit before carefully studying the wreck. It looks to him as if the helicopter was intact when it landed and had been attacked on the ground. Tarasov and Ilchenko step to the hatch.

  “Looks like the hatch was blown open, sir.”

  “And judging by the mess inside, someone tossed grenades into the compartment.”

  Hundreds of cartridge cases lie in blackened pools of dry blood and Tarasov finds a few bloody bandages and empty medikits, but there’s no sign of any bodies. Stepping out, he finds the pilots’ hatches open.

  “Maybe the crew made it through?”

  Ilchenko looks around as if expecting surviving troopers to appear from the bushes, but Squirrel shatters any optimism.

  “Major… Ilch… you better come and have a look at what I found.”

  A few steps away from the chopper’s wreck, close to where the mutants were fighting, the grenade has blasted a shallow crater into the ground and unearthed two bodies. By the missing parts and advanced state of decay, Tarasov recognizes the corpse dug up by the jackals. Of the other, only the back and legs are visible — but the sight of the half-decomposed flesh is enough to make Squirrel retch. The bodies are clad in nothing but cotton leggings and the army-issue tee-shirts with blue and white stripes.

  “Where is their armor?” Tarasov inquires, combating his nausea. “And who buried them?”

  “Maybe surviving comrades.”

  “Ilchenko, give me your shovel.”

  “Are you sure about this, sir?”

  “I’m sure that you want to put your gas mask on, soldier.”

  Tarasov opens the foldable shovel and starts digging. Ilchenko and Squirrel watch in horror as he soon unearths more bodies, most of them stripped almost naked like the two on top. Only one is different, and he still wears his pilot’s suit. The major has seen enough corpses to know: they must have been buried several weeks ago. When he finds the seventh corpse, Tarasov stops digging.

  “No need to dig any deeper… looks like the whole squad and crew were buried here.” He leans closer to the bodies. The stench of decay and rot is so strong that it even penetrates Tarasov’s gas mask. A sweetish, sickening taste develops in his mouth as he studies the bodies from a closer range. He points at a skull, barely connected by rotting sinew to the rest of the corpse. “Look… this might have started as a firefight, but ended in an execution.”

  Speechless, they look at the open grave, then at each other.

  Ilchenko scowls. “Who did this?” he finally says.

  Tarasov shakes his head. His first thought is of the sinister commandos from the Salang Range. But they use different means to clean up their mess, he thinks. The burial also means that the dushmans are no option either — he can’t imagine any reason why they would bother with digging a mass grave for their enemies.

  “I don’t know, but probably not the dushmans, and definitely not the Stalkers.”

  “I agree,” Squirrel says. “One needs more firepower than a few Stalkers’ Kalashnikovs to storm a downed chopper with a whole squad of paratroopers inside. No brother would be foolish enough to do that.”

  “Squirrel, can you read tracks?”

  “Wouldn’t be much of a guide if I couldn’t, man.”

  “Let’s check the area. Ilchenko, here’s your shovel. Fill that back in.”

  “As ordered… damn this shit. I just can’t believe it.”

  Looking for any traces the attackers might have left behind, Tarasov and the guide comb the perimeter around the wreck.

  “I’m not a big tactician, man, and the whole place looks as if God had created it for an ambush… but if I had to take that chopper on, that position would have been as good as any. Look!” He waves Tarasov over to a tree stump, where the Stalker kneels and takes a handful of cartridge casings from the ground.

  “9x39 millimeters… Russian-made. Lots of them. Here… and look, two more firing positions over there.”

  Tarasov examines a casing. Even a quick glance proves that the guide was right. He frowns. “Squirrel… do you know anyone who has a Val or a Vintorez?”

  “Yeah, man. You.”

  “I assure you I didn’t do this. Now tell me — here in the new Zone, which other rifle uses this caliber?”

  “The Groza.”

  “And who is armed with Groza assault rifles?”

  Squirrel removes his gas mask. It is the first time that Tarasov sees horror in his eyes.

  “Exactly,” the major murmurs and bows his head.

  For a long minute, they look at each other.

  “Listen Squirrel… I already know that you were with Freedom once. I suppose there’s not much love lost between you and Captain Bone’s Dutiers.”

  “That’s not the correct way to put it. I’d rather say: please, let me cut their bellies open, tear out their intestines, trample on them, and suffocate the suckers with their own guts.”

  “If you want to see that day, you must keep your m
outh shut for now. Do not talk about this to anyone. Especially not to Ilchenko.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so. Or do you want my six remaining men to charge down Bone while there are a hundred Stalkers around who don’t know who they hate more — us or the guards?”

  “They don’t hate soldiers anymore after you helped us out at the Outpost. At least not you and your guys.”

  “Be that as it may, we are not ready to take the Dutiers — or whoever they really are — on yet. Is that clear?”

  “Yes sir, Major, sir.”

  “Spare me your jokes, I’m not in the mood for fun. Let’s go back to that chopper and give Ilchenko a hand.”

  Stalker camp at Hellgate, 20:25:47 AFT

  Night has fallen by the time they climb up through a valley to Hellgate. Tarasov scans the area through his binoculars. Beyond an empty area encircled by jagged, rocky hills, dozens of small fires dance under a huge archway leading to a cave entrance. The place looks like a ruined cathedral built to worship some evil entity, but it was the tortured earth itself that produced this wicked rock formation. Now he also realizes that what had looked like one single anomaly from far, is actually many — sizzling and pulsating purple flames dance among columns of steam. A dilapidated log hut stands a safe distance from the anomalies, most of its timbers having been taken away to feed the campfire that burns in the middle of the stone circle, further away from the anomalies but still close enough for the flames to lit up three human figures huddled around the campfire.

  “I see Stalkers there.”

  “That must be Snorkbait and his buddies,” Squirrel replies. “Snorky is a pretty good guide himself.”

  “How could anyone set up a camp there? There are anomalies around, and the place itself looks creepy.”

  “Because they aren’t stupid, you know?”

  “And what makes them smart?”

  “Mutants don’t go too close to anomalies, and smart Stalkers make camp where no mutants go.”

  “Sounds reasonable. Let’s join them at their fire, then.”

  As the three of them walk up to the fire, the Stalkers jump up, pointing their weapons at the newcomers.

  “Peace, brothers! It’s me, Squirrel!”

  “Hey Squirrel,” a Stalker says, lowering his weapon. “What’s wrong with you? We’re just sitting here, telling jokes and all, and you sneak up on us like this? You scared the shit out of us!”

  “We mean no harm,” Tarasov says. He switches his rifle’s safety to ‘on’ and shoulders the weapon. “Do you mind if we spend the night here?”

  “Haha! The military is looking for protection from Stalkers,” another Stalker says as he sits down by the fire and goes back to tuning his battered guitar. “Come, you’ll be safe with us.”

  “That’s very reassuring,” Ilchenko says, looking around.

  “What’s up, Squirrel?” The third Stalker turns to the guide. He is cleaning an old L85 Enfield rifle. “Got lost as usual, my old mate?”

  “I’m guiding my soldier guests through the local zoo, Snorky,” the guide says, sitting down next to the campfire. “They’ve already met the bears and dushmans. All that must have prepared for them for the worst attraction. Major, Ilch, I have the displeasure to give you Mishka Beekeeper. He pretends to play guitar but he can’t. The jumpy one is Sashka SWAT Officer, and the brother with a taste for antique weapons is Snorkbait.”

  “Beekeeper? SWAT Officer?” Ilchenko gives Tarasov a puzzled glance. “How did these guys chose their call signs? Plucking them out of a hat?”

  Tarasov shrugs the question off. He has already noticed something far more interesting.

  “I don’t give a shit about crazy call signs if the name on that label is for real,” he says, eyeing the bottle of vodka that the Stalkers are sharing among themselves. “Is that really what the label says?” He takes off his heavy rucksack with a satisfied sigh and joins the Stalkers sitting around the fire.

  “Sure! It’s Stolichnaya, what else?”

  Mishka Beekeeper offers him the bottle. Tarasov takes a long swig, then hands it over to Ilchenko who has taken the place next to him.

  “What brought you here then, lads?” Snorkbait asks.

  “We’re on our way to the Factory.”

  “That’s where we wanted to go a few nights back. Forget about it.”

  “Come again?”

  “The last storm moved the anomalies. Looks as if it’s swept all the damned Geysers, Mines and Burners into the archway. You could waste a million bolts but still wouldn’t find a way through.”

  “Shit,” Tarasov swears. “Have you at least seen Mac? You know, Uncle Yar’s apprentice?”

  The Stalkers exchange a baffled look.

  “Nope. Sorry, mate,” Snorkbait says.

  “How far is it if we go the other route, through that abandoned village you mentioned, Squirrel?”

  “Two days.”

  Tarasov glances at Ilchenko who returns the concern in his look. The major removes his helmet and rubs his temples.

  “Damn it… we haven’t got that much time. We must find a way through tomorrow.”

  “Let’s keep tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow,” Squirrel cheerfully replies, “and now tell me buddies, you got any new stories?”

  “We were talking about women.”

  “What women, Sashka?”

  “That’s the point. There aren’t any around.”

  “Why would there be? Prada produces no Stalker boots, Mango has no protective suits, Louis Vuitton offers no artifact containers, and jackal puppies aren’t cute. That’s why they don’t come here.”

  “Which sucks,” the Stalker called SWAT Officer sighs with resignation.

  “How would you recognize one anyway?” Tarasov asks. “All Stalkers wear gas masks, helmets or at least balaclavas.”

  “By her voice?”

  “Come on, Mishka. Speaking through a gas mask makes anyone sound like a mutant.”

  “True enough, Squirrel. By her tits then.”

  “Under the body armor she could have tits like a cow’s udders and nobody would notice them.”

  “Okay, not the tits. Maybe a pink rifle.”

  “Or an armored suit with a ‘Hello, Kitty’ sticker on it?”

  “Or just by being a pain in the ass,” Snorkbait grumbles.

  “By dumping you for a Stalker with a bigger rifle,” Ilchenko smirks.

  “You talking about your own experiences, Ilch? Anyway, one wouldn’t have to guess,” Squirrel says laughing. “Just find out which Stalker the bloodsuckers are after on certain days!”

  “Shit! Now that was way below the belt. One would only need to know her call sign, anyway.”

  “Why, Sashka, what would that be?”

  “Fucked One.”

  The Stalkers all laugh, except for Snorkbait who seems more intent on maintaining his weapon. Tarasov likes this attitude, all the more because Snorkbait handles the disassembled weapon with a routine that can only come from a military background. However, for once he finds the Stalkers’ conversation more interesting than speculating in which army Snorkbait had acquired his skills.

  “I wonder where the Tribe got their women from?” He says, taking another swig from the bottle.

  Suddenly, silence falls upon the camp.

  “Hey Major,” a Stalker eventually says, “don’t ruin the party by mentioning those animals!”

  “Sorry, Beekeeper. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  The Stalker called SWAT Officer picks up the thread of conversation. “Kruto, fellows,” he says, clearing his throat. “So, assuming that a female Stalker was here, what would you do?”

  “I’m a polite guy,” Squirrel says. “I’d open the door to any underground area and let her enter before me. Ladies first!”

  “I would give her a flower.”

  “Just a flower? You’re a cheapskate, Sashka.”

  “I mean, a Stone Flower artifact.”

  “Before or a
fter?”

  “Whatever. Eh, this makes no sense… let’s talk about women in the Big Land. Hey, newcomers, tell us a juicy story!”

  “Hell yeah! Tell us something naughty. I guess you army officers get the most pussy out there.”

  “Only on paydays,” Tarasov jokes. “Women are expensive in Kiev, you know?”

  “Who’s talking about whores?”

  “All women are expensive,” Tarasov sighs.

  “Or all women are whores.”

  “I wouldn’t subscribe to that, Ilchenko.”

  “No argument about women being expensive,” Snorkbait says. “But back in Bagram I heard a little bird twittering that you’ve been the commander of the base at Cordon. If that’s true, and you didn’t get rich from all the artifact trade, then, Major — with all due respect, you missed the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “Maybe I did,” Tarasov dryly replies, staring into the fire.

  Ilchenko takes a long swig from the vodka bottle. “Everyone, listen up! Yoshkar Ola is the place to go. It’s an ugly little bydlostan in Russia, but there’s a big university and out of every ten students, nine are girls.”

  “Then what the hell are we doing here?” Snorkbait muses.

  “Wasting ourselves, Snorky,” a Stalker replies.

  “I’m not talking about you, Mishka, you old wanker.”

  “You’ve studied there?” Tarasov asks Ilchenko.

  “No, I studied in Odessa, but she was from Yoshkar Ola. I got to know her during a student exchange, which ended up in an intense exchange of body fluids…”

  “A story at last! That’s what we need!”

  “Right you are, Sashka! Come on, Ilch, get right to the juicy details!”

  “It’s a sad story, Squirrel. So, I am from Odessa and she was from Yoshkar Ola.” Ilchenko suppresses a hiccup and takes another swig. Tarasov can only admire his drinking abilities — the soldier seems to knock back the vodka like water. “During a summer break, we met again in St. Petersburg. She and some other girls had a party organized. It sucked — there were several Western guys there too, and they were looking at our girls as if they were nothing but pussy.”