“Are you lost?”
Tarasov jumps even as he recognizes the voice of the black gunnery sergeant.
“As a matter of fact… I am.”
“Don’t worry. It’s easy to get lost in this warren. If it’s the healer’s house you’re looking for, keep walking up the alley, always uphill.”
“That’s not exactly how I meant it…” The fighter seems friendly enough, so Tarasov decides to ask him the questions that are on his mind. “Do you have a little time?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Just a few questions.”
“My watch is coming up. If I’m late, the Sergeant Major’s gonna get my ass.”
“Then at least tell me where the armory is.”
“Boxkicker’s den? Up that alley to the right and across the bridge. He should be around with a few fighters doing PMCS.” Seeing the confusion on Tarasov’s face, he adds: “That’s preventative maintenance checks and services.”
The fighter hurries off. Following his directions, The major passes by a few campfires where the warriors stop chatting and watch him with curious, distrustful eyes before turning back to their chat and the fruity-smelling smoke of their hookah pipes.
Tarasov has a strange feeling about them. Then he realizes that one thing is missing, something he had thought no soldier could live without: alcohol. He can’t see any bottles being shared, any glasses filled with spirits. Only teapots steam over the charcoal fires.
No way could I ever join them. No booze.
Passing by a home hewn into the rock he hears a woman chastising a misbehaving child.
“Hush! Go to bed or Osama will get you!”
“But Mom, the Colonel killed Osama long ago!”
“Go to bed, big mouth, or you’ll not be going to the shooting range tomorrow!”
Walking over a rope bridge, Tarasov sees a bunker ahead. A sign on its metal door says PROPERTY SHED in neatly painted letters.
Before entering, Tarasov examines his equipment. He has only two magazines left for the Vintorez. It will barely be enough for the trip to the Asylum, never mind Bagram.
I’ll need an arsenal for fighting my way to Bagram. Let’s see what they have.
Stepping inside, he finds a few warriors tending to their rifles under shelves that are beginning to sag under the weight of the weapons on them. A man is standing at a work bench, welding something that looks like heavy armor plates for a machine gunner’s position in a Humvee.
“Look at that! You got yourself a new customer, Boxkicker,” a fighter says.
The technician switches off the welding torch and removes his mask. Heavy sweat runs down his red, snooty face.
“Spare the introduction,” he says wiping the sweat away, “I know you’re in for a free ride.”
“Where did you get all this gear from?” Tarasov asks, scanning the shelves. The amount and variety of first-class weaponry leaves him in awe: what he can see from a mere glance blows Ashot’s stock, or even many military armories, out of the water. From pistols to Gatling guns and submachine guns to heavy assault rifles, every lethal weapon ever made in the Western hemisphere lies here in perfect order and condition.
“Where is none of your business,” Boxkicker says. “Suffice to say, we still have… sympathizers. Rest assured, it’s not Human Rights Watch or the ACLU.”
The warriors burst out laughing but Tarasov doesn’t get the joke.
“What’s the ACLU?”
The armourer grins. “No clue, eh? You Russians don’t know how lucky you are.” The warriors laugh again. Tarasov looks back at the weapons, feeling like a child in a toy shop.
“We got the word you’re in for some cumshaw. Make your choice, but we have no Kalashnikovs or other slavshit here,” Boxkicker says, eyeing Tarasov’s rifle covetously. “I dig your Vintorez, though.”
The technician’s American slang puzzles Tarasov. Dig a weapon? he thinks. Never heard that before. “What do you mean? Why would you… use my rifle for digging?”
Seeing his confusion, the technician gives him a wide grin. “Never mind, Russkie. If you can’t choose between a forty-mike-mike and a gimpy, just ask.”
“I’d go for the nightwatch,” a warrior adds. The others eagerly join in the mocking.
“Forget that. No man is man enough without a bushmaster.”
“Check out the Ma Deuce, Russkie.”
“You ever fired a Pig?”
“I love firing my boomstick in the morning. Sounds like victory.”
“Once I dumped a girl because she made me chose between her and my blooper.”
“Come on, dude, the only girl you got into was your ALICE!”
“So, Russkie,” Boxkicker says, turning to Tarasov, still laughing and wiping more sweat from his face. “Tell me what you need.”
Tarasov looks around. The abundance of Western-made arms is overwhelming. “Boxkicker… what about that SOP-modified M4A1, including the ACOG? You could throw in a few 30-round magazines as well.”
“Hear ye, hear ye… we have an educated Russian here.”
“And the Heckler & Koch M27 with a C-Mag on that shelf to your right. Can I see it?”
“Come on, that’s too good for you. I can offer a PIP M249 with a cloth pouch holding two hundred rounds.”
“Only if it comes with enough duct tape to prevent it from falling apart.”
“You have a point, I give you that. All right… Ammo for this one? Suppose you want to take some full metal jacket M855’s.”
“I don’t need it for pea shooting. Are those Match bullets over there?”
“Bingo. Two boxes is all you get.”
“I could use that Benelli M4 too with a few boxes of slugs.”
“You are a rat-fuck, you know that? Take this shotgun.”
“What about that one?” Tarasov points at an ochre-painted, heavy rifle.
“Uh-oh… you want to make my life really difficult, eh?”
“Is that so?”
“I don’t know what’s screwing me up more, giving you that Gepard M6 or ignoring the big man’s orders… how would an anti-material rifle help you, anyway?”
“By making a material difference between life and death, I suppose.”
“That’s a real ass for sure. But it only works with Russian 12,7 millimeter rounds and we don’t have many of them around here.”
“I ask you very nicely: may I take the Gepard, please?”
“No way. You better keep your dickbeater off that.”
“Stop being so shit-hot, Boxkicker,” a warrior says quietly. “He’s Nooria’s mate. Unless you want her pissing into your wounds next time you need first aid, you better give him what he wants.”
“Oh, yes, Nooria.” The armourer smacks his lips. “I guess before eating her out, you’ve had to let her soak in hot water for an hour, scrubbed and disinfected her, and then put a bucket over her head to cover her face?”
Tarasov’s face reddens with anger.
“You don’t want any trouble for yourself,” another warrior tells Boxkicker. “Give him what he wants, big mouth.”
“I won’t give the Gepard to this rat-fuck. He can kiss my ass. But only if he washes his mouth after kissing that pus-faced little witch who—”
The armourer doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Quick as lightning, Tarasov’s fist darts out and slams into Boxkicker’s cardia and arm, followed by one more punch to the throat that sends him sprawling among the neatly arranged weapons. Knocked out, he stays on the ground with rifles, tools, grenades and ammunition magazines raining down onto his head from the ruined shelves.
“Fuck,” Boxkicker eventually groans, spitting out blood and teeth.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, have anything you need’,” Tarasov says firmly, and piles the weapons and ammunition into his exoskeleton’s rucksack.
“Respect, Russkie,” a fighter laughs, “that’s what I call a ninja punch!”
“Wrong, pindos,” Tarasov grumbles back as he leaves
the armory. “It’s called Systema.”
Nooria’s home, 7 October 2014, 21:57:13 AFT
“I’m back.”
Upon entering Nooria’s home and putting his new weapons down on the floor, the irony of his situation makes him smile.
It feels like returning to a perfectly normal home after a day’s shopping.
“Welcome, my warrior!” Nooria beams happily from the hearth, where she is boiling something spicy in a blackened pot. She looks different now, wearing a white gown with beautiful embroidery with her loose, freshly washed hair shining with the fire’s reflection. “You look happy. What did he say?”
“He is still thinking about it,” Tarasov shrugs while taking off his armored suit. “I couldn’t impress him enough.”
“I told you when you arrived from village. His heart is hard like…” Nooria knocks on the iron pot.
“I will have to leave you again tomorrow.”
Tarasov is concerned about her reaction. Nooria is a woman from the Tribe and he couldn’t blame her if she couldn’t understand why he wanted to go off helping the Stalkers, who her people considered to be nothing but worthless scavengers. Looking at the white dress that barely hides her dark-skinned, delicate figure, he almost regrets his words.
“Of course you will,” she casually replies taking the pot from the hearth and putting it on the table. As she moves close to him and waves her hair from her face, Tarasov smells her scent. He knows enough about women to know that her hair did not need to be fussed about. “And now eat. You look hungry.”
“What is this?”
“Stew. Devil pups hunted down a deer.”
After all the things he’s heard about Nooria, Tarasov is a little suspicious of the thick, spicy broth, but it tastes like a normal soup, even if it is spicier that what he is used to. He savors the first few spoonfuls. The last decent, warm meal he had was at his mother’s apartment, but the Ukraine, the Old Zone and Kiev now seem to be on another planet.
“You don’t like it?” Nooria asks with concern, studying his face. She sits down on the rug, watching Tarasov eating. “I have some powders to make it more tasteful.”
“Oh no, thanks, it’s delicious,” Tarasov quickly replies. “But listen… could you please sit with me here, at the table?”
“No. Women always wait until men finish their meal.”
Tarasov puts down the spoon. “But I can’t eat like this.”
“Please do. I have something to do until you finish.” Tarasov opens his lips to swallow down another spoonful but his mouth stays open in surprise as Nooria grasps his rifle and, before he can say a word, starts disassembling it.
“What are you doing, Nooria?”
“Cleaning your weapon.”
Tarasov rolls his eyes. “Leave that M4 alone, woman. It’s loaded.”
“Of course it is. But this one is from a new shipment… I didn’t treat this yet. Wait.”
She disappears in the back room. When she returns, she brings a small pouch and a piece of cloth. Nooria skillfully disassembles the rifle and applies a greasy, gray substance on it that the gun’s metal immediately absorbs.
“I made it from your new swag,” she explains seeing Tarasov’s puzzled look. “It will keep your gun clean. Dust and dirt will not stick to it.”
“What? You made gun grease from my artifact?”
“But of course. Some are better used like this than carried around. From some I make refreshing ointment. From others, I make oil for wounds. I make powder, mix it with herbs, glowing stones… Things like that.” She shrugs and gives Tarasov an innocent giggle.
“Where did you learn all this?”
Nooria’s giggle turns into a mysterious smile. “Ask me something else.”
“All right… Why do you call those kid soldiers devil pups?”
“The Colonel’s former tribe called themselves devil dogs. He loves tradition. That is why the children are called pups. They will become warriors one day, if they prove themselves.”
“Uh-hum… Did you give the Colonel and his Lieutenants some of these special powders of yours? Because all of them are so huge…”
“No… that was…” The smile vanishes from Nooria’s face. “They were with Colonel when they went into…”
“Where?”
“Depths of Shahr-i-Gholghola.”
Tarasov slowly begins to understand. Whatever they found under the City of Screams turned them into human, living juggernauts. But how could this happen? He wishes he could ask Nooria more questions about the village and the battle that had happened there, but she doesn’t look too eager to be pressed.
“I saw something weird in the village…” he says carefully. “It was a mutant, but instead of attacking me it made ghosts appear. Strange ghosts… they looked very real.”
“Was it difficult to kill?”
“No.”
“I know its kind… we call it djinn. It is very weak and hides in caves and ruins. It tries to scare its enemies away. If jackals come, it makes them see snake. If snake comes, it shows him bear. And to men, it shows dreadful things. You are brave.”
“Curious would be a better word… and now I feel miserable for killing a weak mutant that only wanted to scare me away.”
“You have good heart.”
“Now this is something no one has told me for a long, long time.” A feeling of compassion comes over Tarasov as he looks down at the fragile girl, who returns his look with a smile on her scarred face. “About those ghosts… were they for real?”
“My village has seen many sad things,” Nooria replies, getting up from the ground and taking the empty plate from the table. “Let us not talk about such things tonight. We have something more important to do.”
All Tarasov wants to do is to relax after the hearty soup. I wish I could have a beer now.
“Nooria, you are good with all kinds of powders and potions… do you know how to brew beer?”
“A bear? You did not like deer stew?” She asks, disappointedly, going back to cleaning the rifle. “Because a bear tastes very bad.”
“Never mind…” Suddenly, Tarasov’s eye falls on a large pot and a pile of stale, dark bread next to the hearth. “Is that made of rye?”
“Yes. But it is old bread.”
“All the better. Do you have… you know, that thing used for making bread…”
“Yeast? I think so.”
“Raisins and sugar?”
“Yes, but why?”
“All right… now it’s my turn to teach you a secret recipe. Cut and dry the bread. Boil water in that big pot. When boiling, take it from the fire and stir. Cover the pot and let it rest in a dark, cool place. After half a day, filter the liquid. Mix yeast with warm water and a pinch of sugar. Wait until the yeast gets foamy. Stir it into the filtered liquid with a little sugar… can you still follow?”
Nooria nods while removing the magazine from the carbine. She wraps the cloth around her finger and starts cleaning the breech. Her finger moves slowly and gently inside the rifle, as if caressing it. Tarasov stares at her eyes, still fixed on him, and suddenly finds it hard to concentrate on the recipe.
“Okay… anyway… after a day, filter it into a pitcher and add the raisins. Wait for a couple of days, then serve it cold. The warriors will love it.”
Nooria gives him a suspicious look. “Hm… is that sarab?”
“What? Oh no, it’s not alcoholic. My mother prepared it for me when I was a child… it’s a very good drink… but why don’t you drink alcohol, anyway?”
“Long time ago, Colonel found two drunk fighters during their watch. He killed them. Since then, no sarab for fighters.”
“Gospodi… But don’t worry, nobody will be shot for having my kind of drink.”
“He didn’t shoot them. And as you wish, I can give it a try…”
“Please do, but don’t add any stone powders, swags or artifacts to it, all right?”
“All right. But I will not prepare it now. Now
I have something else in mind.”
“And, uhm, what do you have in mind?”
Nooria now moves the cleaning cloth up and down the rifle barrel, softly, gently and very slowly. She gives him a broad smile, flashing her white teeth.
“What do you think I have in mind?”
Nooria’s home, 8 October 2014, 05:48:59 AFT
Knowing that it could be the last time he sees her, Tarasov leaves no inch of Nooria’s body untouched. While kissing and caressing her scars as if tenderness could heal them, Mac’s — or better, Elisabeth’s — words come his mind: “To find another human being who has everything about him what the Zone means — a new reason for staying alive.”
Staying alive… I wouldn’t mind if I died right now, with her as my last sight.
Her body stretches out like a landscape, undulating female curves that smell of sweat and the scent from the body oil, prepared from an artifact that seems to have the powers of an aphrodisiac — not as if he would need any such help tonight. He fondles her breasts and lets his hand glide up to her scarred neck and face, fondling her loose hair, and rests his head on her belly with her taste still on his tongue. Tarasov wants to fall asleep there, feeling the warmth emanating from Nooria’s body against his face.
He closes his ears to the commotion outside, not willing to get up even when Nooria gets to her feet and, quickly covering her nakedness with her long gown, leaves their sleeping place.
From somewhere in the distance, the noise of heavy engines being started sounds through the night.
Doors open and Tarasov hears an agitated male voice outside, but ignores it still.
“Wake up!”
Nooria sounds anxious.
“What’s happened?” Tarasov mumbles, half asleep. “Why are you so upset?”
Through his half-open eyelids, heavy with tiredness, Tarasov sees his rifle in Nooria’s hands. Its impeccably clean gun metal shines in the candlelight.
“Take it and use it with honor,” Nooria says with a hint of sadness in her voice, “because you must leave me now. Lance Corporal Bockman is here for you.”
“But… why?” Tarasov asks. A frightening thought agitates him. I hope it’s not the Colonel ordering me away from her after I pissed him off last night. “What is this about?”
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort s-1 Page 33
