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

by Balazs Pataki

  “Major Tarasov!” the sergeant greats him cheerily. “It’s good to have you back!”

  “Viktor! Ilch! Glad to see you in one piece!”

  “What happened to you? You look… different.”

  “It’s a long story…”

  “In one sentence, Major,” Ilchenko says, “please. You left with Squirrel and returned with a whole army!”

  “In one sentence? All right… we destroyed the AA battery that shot down our choppers and ran into the Tribe who killed Squirrel and wanted to stone me to death, but a woman preferred that I get her witch daughter with child and sent me to a mutant-infested village to find some old intel that was very important for the Tribe’s leader, who I eventually made save Bagram. That’s that.”

  “Damn… stone you to death?” Ilchenko asks shaking his head. “What on earth are those people? Savages?”

  “Far from it.”

  “The only thing that counts is that you are finally back with us!”

  Tarasov doesn’t know how to counter Zlenko’s enthusiasm.

  If I wanted to be honest with him, I would admit that I no longer know where ‘back’ and ‘away’ is and who ‘us’ might be. This place has got me good.

  “Be happy it didn’t happen to Ilchenko. If it were him telling this story, we’d still be listening to him till Christmas!”

  “Don’t worry, Sarge, I’m looking forward to make nice story out of this once I get home!”

  “All right, rebjati… Whatever happened, I am still your commander and we still have a mission to accomplish. Zlenko, what’s the status of the squad?”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “With all due respect — I’ve missed that bossy tone of yours.”

  “I must admit that I met my match.”

  “He must have been a very tough guy.”

  “You couldn’t be more wrong. It’s a she. So, what’s our body count?”

  “Only the two of us are left from Sparrow Two. Ignatov died during the first night. Obukov and Stepashin fell the next day. Bondarchuk was killed by a sniper. We received heavy mortar fire during the first night and the bastards hit the infirmary with Saitov and Lobov inside.

  “They got our medic? Damned baystrukhi!”

  “Then Kravchuk and Nakhimov fell during a raid to take the mortars out.”

  “Who was leading the raid?”

  “It was the initiative of a Stalker called Crow…”

  “Best sniper I ever saw, Major,” Ilchenko cuts in. Tarasov gives him a disapproving look but the soldier refuses to allow being interrupted. “He showed up with a band of real badass Stalkers just before the siege began.”

  Zlenko clears his throat. “In fact, it was me executing the operation. All went well until we took out the mortars — we could sneak up to their positions without being detected. But we ran out of luck making our retreat. I ordered Kravchuk to take a mortar with him to bolster our defenses and Nakhimov grabbed two boxes of mortar shells.” The sergeant’s face contorts when he continues. “Those bastards fired RPGs at us. One hit Nakhimov as he was carrying the ammo. Both of them died immediately, together with a Stalker who was covering our rear.”

  Tarasov is sad to hear how the remains of his squad have disintegrated but cannot blame the sergeant. It might have happened the same way had he been in charge, and there was nothing to prevent bad luck from happening.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Viktor. Things like that happen. Good job. What about resources?”

  “We are very low on ammo. I have three magazines left, Ilchenko only one. We shared everything we had with the Stalkers. Honestly, sir, now I’m glad that Captain Bone took half our ammo when we first arrived. Had we wasted more at the Outpost, we would have run out of bullets after two days here.”

  “Yes, Bone and his actions,” Tarasov grumbles, keeping his dark thoughts to himself. “Always more reasonable than one would expect.”

  “I need to replace the barrel on the PKM as well. It could crack now any moment, and the breech jams all the time. It would be more lethal to throw the bullets.”

  “What about Yar, the technician?”

  “He only works for money and we don’t have that much.”

  “Damn! Ilchenko, you and I went through hell to make him work for us for free!”

  “I mean, he doesn’t ask us for money. He only wants to finish the paying jobs first.”

  “Bloody anarchists from Freedom… I should have known. Mac and Snorkbait?”

  “They left for the Panjir Valley before the siege.”

  “Lucky baystrukhi… Anyway, don’t worry about weapons. I brought some.”

  “Really? From the Tribe?”

  “Yes. A shotgun for the sergeant and a heavy automatic rifle for you. They’re stashed on one of the Tribe’s trucks. I’ll get more ammo once we get to their stronghold.” Seeing that Ilchenko doesn’t look too happy, Tarasov adds, “Don’t give me such a sour face. I know you’d like to stick to our weapons, but at least theirs are in mint condition… or even better than that.”

  “We could have used those during the siege,” Zlenko retorts. “It was a close shave, even though the Stalkers fought like hell. But no matter what, we were thinking it was game over for us until we heard that riff—”

  “What?”

  “I mean, those guitars… playing from the loudspeakers on the hill. The dushmans totally panicked when that bell sounded and even more so when the guitars started up. And when the mortars and machine guns started hammering them… Gospodi, what a sweet sight it was! The dushmans were cannon fodder, but the mercs gave us a pretty hard time until I saw the moment right to turn the tables around. So, I took the bravest Stalkers and Ilch, and…”

  Zlenko stops in the middle of his sentence and looks to the base gate, as if seeing the devil himself. “Holy Mother of God, who are they?”

  Tarasov looks back to the gate. “My in-laws,” he replies, leaving the two soldiers staring at the Colonel, the Sergeant Major and two Lieutenants in admiration. So do the few Stalkers at the gate, even if they also keep a respectful distance from them as they enter the compound.

  “Many good warriors have sealed our pact with their blood, Major,” the Colonel says by way of greeting. “I hope you will not forget about your end of the bargain.”

  “You have my word as an officer,” Tarasov replies.

  “That shall suffice.” The Colonel looks around. His face resembles that of someone who hates dogs and realizes that he is in a kennel. “Such a miserable excuse of a base… but I have to admit that I am impressed, to some extent. Your Stalkers seem to have guts after all.”

  “The Stalkers are not mine. These are my men.” Tarasov waves towards Zlenko and Ilchenko who approach with a mixture of awe and distrust sketched upon their faces. “Desantniki, this is… the Colonel. The leader of the Tribe. Smirno!”

  For a long moment, the Colonel studies the two soldiers, who stand in attention and appear as if there is nothing in the world that could make them look into his eyes.

  “Good men are all that an officer needs,” he says, turning back to Tarasov, “and good men are made by good officers. Maybe one day I will give you a chance to join us.”

  “First I have to come up with my end of the bargain,” Tarasov cautiously replies.

  “Fair enough. And now?”

  “I ask your permission to cross Tribe territory. We have a mission to accomplish there. I had hoped you would let me pass with a few dozen Stalkers.”

  “Let me give you some advice: forget the City of Screams.”

  “I am needed there,” Tarasov replies. “We have a rescue mission to finish.”

  “It’s you who will need rescuing in the end, and no help will come.”

  “Honestly — I would prefer another place to go, one I don’t even need to tell you. But my orders still stand.”

  His hands crossed behind his back, the big man looks down to the ground, contemplatin
g.

  “Those who gave your orders do not know what lies there. Under normal circumstances, I would not let you approach the place. When you hear the call, you will understand…” The Colonel seems to fight against his own better judgment. “On the other hand, you being involved with Nooria now places you in a unique position. There are more things connecting her and the City of Screams than you would ever imagine.”

  The Sergeant Major clears his throat. “Sir, may I add something?”

  “Speak your mind, Top.”

  “Maybe he can finish the job, sir. Remember, I told you right at the beginning that those diggers might pose a threat. Let him clean up the mess. Once he’s there, he’ll know what to do.”

  The old warrior’s words seem to aid the Colonel in making up his mind.

  “You may pass, Major. I’ll provide you with a few trucks to carry your men. Not because I want to help you get there, but because it’s you whom I want to deliver to your woman as soon as possible. She will have something to tell you and you better listen to her. Is that clear?”

  “I could hardly ask for more.”

  The big man nods. “Till we meet again, Major Tarasov. Remember my order.” He turns to the Sergeant Major and the Lieutenants without saluting or offering his hand to Tarasov. “Let’s shove off, warriors.”

  Tarasov watches him and his men leaving the base in a Humvee amidst a cloud of dust. It seems to him as if the Colonel had taken his good mood with him to far away, to a mud house overlooking the Tribe’s hidden valley. He knew that one day he would have to conclude his mission, but now that it is only a matter of days or perhaps hours, he wishes there was more time left. As he turns back, slightly downcast, he realizes that the two soldiers are still standing there at attention.

  “As you were,” he says, wondering if his own face had looked as awestruck as those of his soldiers when he met the Colonel for the first time. “Come, we could all use a shot of vodka now. I hope most of the Antonov is still in one piece.”

  But as they walk towards the bar and pass by the watchtower, Tarasov hears someone calling down from above.

  “Hey Condor! Come up here and enjoy the view!”

  He looks up and recognizes Crow, standing atop the lookout.

  “Crow? I thought I’d never hear from you again!”

  “Why? Did a grenade blow your eardrum like Yar’s?”

  “I need to talk to this man. We’ll meet in the Antonov,” he tells his soldiers, leaving them to walk away while he clambers up to Crow’s position.

  “You were the last one I expected to run into here. But where’s your exoskeleton?” Tarasov asks after climbing up the ladder, looking up and down the battered Stalker suit Crow is wearing.

  “In my stash, safely hidden far away. I didn’t feel like answering to some nasty people’s nasty questions about where I got it from.”

  “I see. How did you end up back here?”

  “Kind of a long story… Bone accused me of killing one of his bodyguards, but offered me amnesty when he called in all Stalkers to protect the base. Hell of a joke, eh? The man was so scared I could smell the shit in his pants even through all the armor… so I got together some of my buddies and we had lots of hot fun around here. Especially me when your machine gunner recognized me. At first, he was very keen to kill me but… but hey, what are you carrying there?” Crow points at the heavy sniper rifle on Tarasov’s shoulder. “Bozhe moi! That’s a Gepard, and a Mark-6 above all! I have been looking for one of those for ages. Where did you get it?”

  “First things first, brother. Who the hell are you, really?”

  Tarasov can only see Crow’s eyes in his balaclava, and now they narrow in a squint.

  “Listen to me, Condor. All you need to know is that I am on your side. Let’s not make life more complicated than it already is.”

  Tarasov looks into Crow’s cold eyes, admitting to himself that the sniper has a point — he’d saved his life twice already. What difference would a name make?

  “All right. But what was that mess with Bone’s guard?”

  “He came to kill you. You’ve become a nuisance for Bone.”

  “I could have guessed…” Tarasov sighs. “I’d had a feeling that he’d do anything to get rid of me, one way or another. That bastard son of a bitch…Maybe I better go and just finish him!”

  “I wouldn’t do that, brother. First, you and your two remaining men are no match for his guards. Second, without him, this place would fall into chaos and it would be only a matter of time until the Stalkers started killing each other over artifacts. He might be a bastard, but he keeps order here, one has to give him that.”

  “There’s another thing, Crow. A few days ago I found a Ukrainian military chopper. All the soldiers inside were dead. Executed. And I can’t think of anyone else doing that except for Bone and his guards. They probably did it to get to the equipment.”

  Crow scowls. “I told you that Bagram is a messy place… But we’re Stalkers, not assassins. And even if we were assassins, we have no proof that it was him. Let’s see what happens — probably now that the Tribe has taken you under its wing, he will be less eager to fuck with you.”

  “Yes, the Tribe. They trust me now, but this trust was earned in blood… especially Squirrel’s blood.”

  “That’s the local currency here,” Crow shrugs. “So, what about that rifle?”

  “It was a wedding gift. Kind of, so to say.”

  Crow laughs. “I didn’t take you for such a funny one. Anyway, would you be interested in trading it for an artifact? Come on, you are not really the sniper type, but I could make good use of it.”

  “I don’t know… why do you want it so much?”

  “That’s the best anti-material rifle in the world — at least of those I have tried. With that, I could take down an elephant wearing an exoskeleton. Or a chopper. Even a chopper carrying elephants in exoskeletons.”

  “Even so… Did you outgrow your Dragunov?”

  “This would be for different purposes… a waste on mutants and dushmans, but those are Dragunov-prey anyway.”

  “You told me we were quits after you took that exo. If I agree now, you’ll owe me another favor.”

  “Sounds like a deal. And to sweeten it up, I’ll throw in a Jumpy. With that artifact, you’ll be able to walk through any acid anomaly as if it was sweet green grass… just keep it away from fires and impacts. It’s explosive.”

  “I am not really convinced… a bullet could hit it. I tend to get shot at from time to time, you know?”

  “Don’t break my heart, bratan. I’ve been carrying a box of 12.7 millimeter rounds for ages, hoping to find a rifle that fits them.”

  “All right, I’d hate to make you cry. I probably won’t be needing sniper gear in the catacombs anyway.”

  “Thanks! I really do owe you one more!”

  Tarasov can’t suppress a smile when seeing the almost childish happiness in the sniper’s eyes. Crow cradles the heavy rifle in the same fashion a little girl would with her doll.

  “So my gut feeling was right,” he says, adoring his new weapon. “You still want to finish your mission?”

  “Yes,” Tarasov replies as he carefully puts the artifact into one of his containers, “and I could use a fighter like you to command the Stalkers outside, while I deal with whatever lies beneath.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks. Don’t worry, I’ll be there with my buddies… just don’t ask me to join a bunch of trigger-happy Stalkers. That’s just not my style.”

  “I got it… but don’t let us down. I’m a little tired of you always popping up when I least expect you, and missing you when I need you most.”

  “Sorry, brother, but predictability is a sniper’s worst enemy. Have a good one ‘til we meet again!” Crow aims the rifle towards the mountains. “Damn… why are there never any dushmans around when I need them for target practice?”

  The Antonov bar, 18:17:46 AFT

  “Hey bro! It’s mighty good to
see you again,” Ashot shouts when he sees Tarasov entering the airplane. “Come in, don’t stand there!”

  The barkeeper wears a brown Pashtu cap and listens to the tunes of his music player, humming a slightly altered version of a reggae song that even Tarasov recognizes.

  “Said I remember when we used to sit

  In the scientist’s lab in Yantar

  Oba, ob-serving ecologists

  As they would mingle with the good people we meet

  Good friends we have had, oh good friends we’ve lost along the way

  In this bright New Zone you can’t forget the Old

  So dry your tears I say…

  No dushman, no cry

  Said, said, said I remember when we used to sit

  In the flea market yard in Garbage

  And then Duty would open fire all right

  Tracers flashin’ through the night

  Then we would cook boar hoof porridge

  Of which I’ll share with you…

  No dushman no cry.”

  “Don’t cry, dushmans? Are you kidding?” Zlenko asks, who has already made himself comfortable in one of the airplane seats together with Ilchenko. “Even Bob Marley would shoot you for that!”

  “Nah, I mean that in a different way. If there’s no dushman, there’s no reason to cry!”

  “Very funny. What happened here?” Tarasov asks looking up to the hull, where an explosion had burrowed a huge hole into the rusty metal. Someone has placed a fuel drum under the opening and a few Stalkers are warming themselves around the fire inside it.

  “A mortar round,” explains Ilchenko. “Blasted a hole big enough into it for us to see all the stars of the southern Zone!”

  “As you say, bro, right as you say! The good old Antonov is no longer five but… eh, I forgot how many stars!” Ashot says.

  “Too bad the fire makes so much smoke that one can’t see any stars,” Zlenko says as he opens a can and dips a slice of dry bread into the meat inside. “But at least it’s cozier here.”