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

by Balazs Pataki

  “What happened to ‘semper fidelis’? No matter what reasons you might have — what you did was, after all, plain mutiny.”

  “What makes you think you can judge me?” the Colonel questions him, grimly. “We had to choose between heeding the call of the Spirit or keeping true to a morally corrupt country that has no appreciation for our way of life anymore. Do not dare to judge me and my Marines.”

  “And to keep up with your losses, you took in Afghan children to let them fight for you?”

  The Colonel waves a hand towards the table. “Have you studied Napoleon’s works, Major?”

  “Yes. We had to study his battles.”

  “That’s only the surface of his genius. Back at Quantico, we too had to read Napoleon. In his memoirs, he wrote that his soldiers could have stayed in Egypt forever, had they used the local women to supply the army with new soldiers. Back when I read that, it sounded like madness, or at least like a broken old man’s desire for the young women he must have enjoyed in his youth in a foreign land. When we found ourselves here on our own, I wasn’t laughing about him anymore. Strong and desperate men come to join us now and then from all over the world, but they are not like my Lieutenants. And while invincible, my warriors are not immortal. Yes, we need natural born warriors, who have the spirit in their heart as soon as they are born, who are like the flesh growing from the rocks of this land. The Hazara are not just any tribe, Major. They are the direct descendants of Genghis Khan’s warriors. Or so they claim… and once I took up his heritage, it was my duty to protect his lost tribe. With my guidance, they have recovered their roots.”

  Tarasov feels odd. At the beginning, what the Colonel told him sounded like the ranting of a lunatic, but the longer he listens to the big man, the more it seems to him that his words start shaping into a steadfast theory — a cruel and savage, but nonetheless logical, theory. It is the logic in the Colonel’s words that he finds the most frightening.

  He looks at the girl. Using a short pause between the Colonel’s words, he dares to speak again. “It seems that in the end, you did win over some hearts and minds.”

  “In these valleys, Major, the Pashtu were fighting the Tajiks and the Taliban both, and all three were murdering the Hazara. We offered the Hazara widows protection and their orphans education — proper education. You call us mutineers, but where are the billions of dollars my country spent to ‘help’ these people? Where are the NGOs, the rights activists and other idealists? It is only us, the warriors you dare call mutineers, who remained and accomplished the mission we were sent here to do. Don’t you think so, Major Tarasov?”

  “But you didn’t do it to give them freedom and peace.”

  “Both freedom and peace have a different meaning here than in our countries, Major. This is what our politicians could never understand. Here, freedom means to be free to live according to a code of honor. Peace means that this code is upheld. Our code of war and their code of life created the Tribe. The only real treasure this land can offer is its women. They will never betray you. They will never want to rip off your manhood by claiming to be equal to you. They want you to be stronger than them, to protect and care for them. All they ask in exchange is loyalty… and fair justice. They use the same word for justice and revenge: badal. For the mistreated, be it orphans or widows, nothing makes a better leader than one who offers badal. And we were all thirsting for… for someone who would at last appreciate our code of honor, our strength and our loyalty.”

  While the big man spoke, the girl sewing up his wound has finished the last stitch. With a pass of his hand, the Colonel sends her away. He reclines and sighs, as if relieved of torturing pain.

  As the girl passes by Tarasov with a jingle of bangles that adorn her ankles, she gives him a look of curiosity. Their eyes meet for a moment and Tarasov shudders once more, but this time at the regret that his life will soon be over and he will have no more chances to meet and love beautiful women like her who, as it seems to him now, has eyes yielding some unique quality that makes him forget about her gruesome scar.

  “What happened later only proved me right,” the Colonel continues, “so right. We had shelter and were well equipped. We survived the nukes. Thrived, even. Soon, when enough men have joined us and the sons of our women grow up, there will be enough of us to conquer more of this land. And after that… but there’s no point in telling you more. I wanted to share this long story with you so that I don’t have to shoulder its burden alone. It is not often that I meet a fellow officer, and only men like you could possibly understand. And now, Major Mikhailo Yuryevich Tarasov, tell me — what do you think of my methods?”

  The thought that his reply might save his life if it was to the Colonel’s liking paralyzes Tarasov’s mind; he can not decide which path to take — telling the big man something that he would find flattering, or the truth.

  “You don’t have to worry about how to reply,” the Colonel replies upon observing his hesitation. “You will die anyway, and if I had not wanted a chance to talk, you would be dead already. Repay me the extra time you’ve been given with your honesty, Major. It is, after all, my trust in your honesty that has kept you alive so that I could ask you this question.”

  Tarasov clears his throat.

  “I don’t know if you, Colonel, defeated this land or this land defeated you.”

  The big man smiles, but it is a somber smile. “Only the end of war will tell who is defeated. And who has seen the end of the war?”

  Tarasov knows this quote. “Only the dead have.”

  The Colonel nods. “Tomorrow, you will see it too. And to reward honesty with honesty: I envy you for that. Now go and see the last sunset of your life. You will see the death of this day and the next day will see yours. Corpse by corpse, we carved out a piece of the world that belongs only to us now, where we can preserve our honor. This is our Promised Land, and this Stronghold our Alamo. You are nothing but a trespasser here. That’s why you have to die.”

  Tarasov stands motionless, waiting for a sign that will allow him to ask all the questions still flooding into his mind. The Colonel closes his eyes.

  “You are dismissed.”

  Tarasov pulls himself together and speaks out. “My fate is what it is. But give my guide a proper burial… please. His dignity deserves that much.”

  “My First Lieutenant has already done that,” the Colonel softly replies without opening his eyes. “May that scavenger find in death the peace he was looking for in his restless life.”

  At a slight motion of the Colonel’s hand, a Lieutenant appears from the shadows and leads Tarasov out of the room.

  18:17:00 AFT

  The two prison guards are waiting outside.

  “Take him up,” the Lieutenant commands.

  The guards stand to attention and salute, then lead Tarasov to a narrow staircase.

  “Good news, Russkie. No more climbing stairs for you.”

  “From here, your only way is down.”

  “Just a few more steps up.”

  After a minute, they reach the roof of the tower. The guard with the beard signals Tarasov to step forward. “This is our valley. You are to enjoy the view before you die,” he says.

  “Not bad for a last sight,” the blue-eyed guard adds. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

  Seen from their high vantage point atop the tower, the Tribe’s hidden valley stretches out in the canyon below. The sunset makes the jagged hills appear as if they are glowing with even deeper shades of pink and red than at the break of dawn, while the green fields in the canyon are already darkened by the shadow of twilight. Now, with lights appearing in the windows and campfires being lit, the maze of narrow alleys reminds Tarasov even more profoundly of a medieval town come to life. He also realizes that the town built into the hillside is but a small part of the Tribe’s stronghold: more fortifications loom above, the stalwart, concrete-enforced bastions giving way to smaller pillboxes as the hill steepens. Partly covered by the highest rampart ru
nning along the top of the hill, the tips of antennae and satellite dishes are visible. Beyond this forest of steel, in the deep blue sky a full moon rises, glowing with orange. Compared to this stronghold, the Stalkers’ base at Bagram appears like a decrepit gipsy camp.

  “It is beautiful,” Tarasov agrees.

  “Say your prayers if you want,” the blue-eyed guard says. “We don’t speak your language, so feel free to curse us and ask your god to destroy us in the cruelest way possible.”

  “Yeah, Brother Polak. That’s what prisoners usually pray for.”

  “And their god usually doesn’t listen to them. Or did he ever listen, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Nope. And even if he does, he better not do it during our watch.”

  Tarasov has given himself up to enjoy the scenery and have a last peaceful moment under the open sky, but the two guards begin to casually chatter amongst themselves, seemingly oblivious of his presence.

  “I love this part of the job, Brother Hillbilly. Makes me feel being on top of the command chain.”

  “It literally does, Brother Polak. Talking about chain of command — how is your woman doing?”

  “Pretty well, well and pretty. She’s learning English really fast but still has an issue with articles. Last night, I tell her ’could you please, please say the bed? ’ and she puts her sweet little tongue to her upper lip and says, ’dzeh bed ’. So, I just tell her, ’never mind, never mind…’”

  “Yeah. I heard that they all have a problem with that. ”

  “I don’t mind, Brother Hillbilly. I love everything about her except her name — Forozenda. Geez, it’s so long and complicated.”

  “Why don’t you just call her by another name? Being her man has its prerogatives, you know?”

  “My thought exactly. I’ll call her Lechsinska. Easier for me to pronounce.”

  “I call mine Peggy. Yeah, women are one’s only comfort.”

  “You don’t sound too enthusiastic today, Brother Hillbilly.”

  “Yeah. Day after tomorrow I’m scheduled for a patrol with Driscoll. Oorah.”

  “I feel for you. He’s a badass, even for a First Lieutenant.”

  “Not as much a badass as the Top, though.”

  “Hell, yes! The Top rocks!” The guards high-five each other. “Where’s the patrol area, anyway?”

  “To the south. Rag-heads keep creeping up the passes.”

  “Like moths to a flame.”

  “I guess we’re marked on their map as Martyrdom Central.”

  “I wonder why. Anyway, did you hear that one of the newcomers was cast out last week? He said the d-word in the presence of a Lieutenant.”

  “You mean, democrat?”

  “No, drink.”

  “Guess he couldn’t wait until his first covert recon to Bagram.”

  “Yes, that’s the only way to get a — you know what, Brother Hillbilly. I won’t say it twice.”

  “Too bad for the Lieutenants. No way for them to disguise themselves as scavengers.”

  “Being suspiciously oversized comes at a price.”

  “By the way, have you tried one of the new M27-s, Brother Polak? Lieutenant Ramirez says that beast can take a bear down with only one STANAG clip.”

  “Come on, that’s overkill. What do we have the Benelli for?”

  “Good point. But Ramirez likes hurting mutants. He hates them.”

  “Lieutenants like to hurt everything, especially if it bleeds… which everything that can be hurt does. But who loves mutants, anyway?”

  “The witch maybe. She only uses her blade to kill them. Or so I heard.”

  “Come, on, Brother Hillbilly. I don’t buy that.”

  “I swear I heard it myself from a guy in Lieutenant Bauer’s platoon, who saw it for himself! A few weeks ago, they escorted the healer on one of her forays to the west, looking for swags and whatever. They enter a cave, and what’s in there? A snake? Negative, sir! Two snakes.”

  “No kidding?”

  “The fighters stand there shitting bricks, but what does she do? Zap — she draws her blade, jumps to one of them monsters, and whoosh — off goes the snake’s head. Then she turns around, jumps, whizz — and that’s that! After that, Bauer’s platoon was living off snake steak for a week.”

  “I could imagine Bauer and his men eating nothing but snake meat even for a month, but not that Lara Croft bullshit. Sorry!”

  “True or not, it would be one badass way of killing monsters. Way more awesome than, let’s say, burning their lair with a flamethrower.”

  “Or pumping them full with double-0 rounds.”

  “Or mowing them down with an SAW.”

  “Or blasting their heads off with a grenade.”

  “Although driving through a pack of jackals with a Humvee also has its thrill, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, that woman is old school.”

  “Yeah, very. Poor little witch. Must have been quite a babe before that shit happened to her.”

  “She’s still got her nice side, if you ask me.”

  “If you look at her the right way.”

  “Yep. Because if you look at her the wrong way, the big man himself will cut off your balls.”

  “You ever see such a thing happen, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Never mind… So, about those M27-s — I wish I could test-fire one soon. Oh, Russkie, by the way…” Hillbilly says, as if suddenly becoming aware of Tarasov’s presence again. “Talking about a wish — we’re authorized to grant you a last wish.”

  “Everything can be granted, except three things: booze, women and letting you go.”

  “That’s why most prisoners don’t even bother asking.”

  Tarasov sighs. Instead of enjoying this moment of contemplation, he feels as if his ears are already buzzing from all the chatter.

  “I do have a last wish,” he says turning to them. “I want to enjoy my last sunset but your bullshit drives me mad! Could you shut up, at least?”

  “Uhm… We’re supposed to say ‘yes we can’ but that means we’re still talking, doesn’t it?” Polak replies. “You better ask for something else.”

  “Do you have a cigarette?”

  “At last! I thought you’d never ask.” Hillbilly takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offers it to Tarasov. “I had a gut feeling that you were a smoker. You seemed so nervous without a smoke.”

  Polak readily gives him a light from a Zippo.

  “I was nervous because of your chatter,” Tarasov says. “But thank you for the cigarette, anyway.”

  “Don’t mention it. We’re glad that we could do something for you. Ain’t we, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Second best part of our job, Brother Polak.”

  Tarasov gives the guards a skeptical glance, but they seem serious. “Why so compassionate, Marine?”

  “You’re Spetsnaz?” Hillbilly inquires, curiously.

  Tarasov nods, smoking the cigarette.

  “You’re cool guys, you Spetsnaz,” Hillbilly says. “I used to watch all the Spetsnaz videos on YouTube. Actually, they inspired me so much that I joined the Marines.”

  “Uh-hum,” Tarasov mutters, unsure whether this was meant to be mocking or whether it was a bizarre way to express respect.

  “Shame that a Spetsnaz officer has to die in the Pit,” Polak tells him, almost comfortingly. “Such a waste. Wouldn’t you agree, Brother Hillbilly?”

  “Such is life in the Tribe, Brother Polak.”

  Suddenly, Tarasov is not enjoying his last cigarette anymore. “I have one more last wish,” he says, tossing the cigarette away and giving a long sigh of resignation. “Take me back to the Brig or whatever you call the prison. I want to have a good night’s sleep before I die.”

  “That’s awesome for a last wish. First time I heard it, though.”

  “Spetsnaz,” Hillbilly says with an appreciative nod. “You see, Brother Polak? They’re awesome to the bitter end. Fighting them would be so much more fun than just martyring the rag-hea
ds, day after day…”

  A Girl with a Past

  The Brig, 5 October 2014, 10:57:00 AFT

  Uncertain of how much he slept, if he really slept at all with the Colonel’s words still echoing in his mind, Tarasov awakes to the sound of softly muttered prayer. The beams of light are again falling into the dungeon, allowing the major to see the Talib’s face. He looks like a man who has left all earthly worries behind, and deep in his heart, Tarasov feels envy.

  “Too bad you can’t bang your head into the ground, chained to the wall by your neck as you are,” he snaps. “Looks like your God will not come to save you.”

  “So you’re awake,” the Talib says, still going through his praying routine. “Today, I will be in Paradise, if God wills.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Before the Talib could reply, the door opens and the two talkative fighters enter the dungeon.

  “Upsy-daisy, rag-head! Your seventy-two women are waiting for you,” Polak says, grabbing the Talib.

  “Too bad they ain’t virgins no more,” Hillbilly adds with a grin while removing the chain holding the prisoner.

  Now that death is no abstract thought anymore, primordial horror appears on the Talib’s face. Kicking and screaming, he tries to free himself from the fighters’ grasp. The reek of urine bites into Tarasov’s nose. Mercilessly and without saying any more words, the guards haul the Talib out.

  The door slams shut, but the doomed man’s desperate screams are still audible. Somewhere outside, a crowd has gathered. Tarasov, now alone in the darkness, wishes he could move as far away from the door as possible and hide in a dark corner.

  I don’t want to hear what’s coming up next.

  Even so, his ears strain to catch an audible detail of the Talib’s fate. Trying to distract himself, Tarasov begins to hum songs learned at school. He wanders through the hits of his youth, songs that were the soundtrack to a few successful and many failed love affairs. He tries to recall something from his training to prepare himself for a dreadful death. Nothing works. Not even the heavy doors can suppress the noise of screams, soon to be suppressed by the roar of a cheering crowd. In despair, he wishes the Zone was a god he could pray to so it would unleash a horde of its worst mutants upon his captors. Then the words of the two ‘brothers’ come to his mind.