“Did you go dushman, Ashot?” Tarasov asks, pointing at the barkeep’s new headwear.
“It’s cool, bro, ain’t it? I found it after the battle. The previous owner’s head was still inside but I had it disinfected, don’t worry! And now, tell me… when I saw them tribals coming I didn’t believe me own eyes! How did you manage that?”
“Ilchenko will tell you, and many things too that are not even remotely true. But for now, I could use a drink.”
“For you, I always have one. Actually, I can’t wait to get rich from selling all me vodka reserve to them thirsty tribals.”
“Forget your high hopes… they don’t drink.”
“Can’t comply, bro. Me hopes are always high.”
“Neither do they use drugs.”
“I knew they weren’t human! All the better, I’m low on bottled vodka anyway.”
“How come?”
“I’ve been serving nothing but Molotov cocktails the past few days, if you follow me meaning. Our visitors couldn’t get enough of them!”
“At least business seems to be back to normal. But what is that guy doing over here?” Tarasov jerks his thumb towards a Stalker drawing on the metal plates of the fuselage.
“Oh, I decided that this was a good time to make the Antonov even nicer, and asked Zenmaster to paint the walls.”
“I see, but what is he painting?”
“Portraits,” the Stalker called Zenmaster shouts back, obviously possessed of very sharp hearing. “That of the first Stalkers: Arkady, Boris and Andrei. They were awesome, dude!”
“Never heard about them,” Tarasov shrugs.
“It’s your loss, dude… your loss. It all started with them going for a roadside picnic into the Zone…”
“A picnic? In the Zone?”
“Yep. If you don’t know their story — you don’t know what you’re missing, man!”
A Stalker interrupts their conversation. “Hey Ashot, turn off that Jamaican shit. Could I borrow your guitar?”
“Sure, Vitka. Here you go. Watch gonna play?”
“Something that suits the mood better,” the Stalker replies. Sitting close to the fire, he starts to strum a melancholic melody.
“It seems sometimes that soldiers
who didn’t return from the bloody fields of war,
weren’t buried under the ground,
But turned into white cranes.
That always happened since the dawn of time,
They always fly and call us,
Maybe that’s why we so often sadly
and silently, look up into the sky.
They fly and fly up in the sky,
They fly from dawn until night falls,
Keeping an empty place in their high line,
And I think that will be mine.
My day to fly will come for me,
To join these cranes in the same blue sky,
I’ll be one of them, and calling
the names of loved ones I have left behind.”
A Stalker bows his head. “Good one.”
“You better sing about those black ravens circling in the sky,” another one adds. His head is wrapped in a bloody bandage. “They will feed on the bodies of many good Stalkers tonight.”
“I came here for artifacts,” the Stalker with the guitar says, “but it turned into a really bad raid.”
“Hey Ashot,” another Stalker shouts, “give us another pollitra… to Kolya Pimp, brothers. He was a good Stalker — let’s drink to him once more!”
“How many Stalkers died?” Tarasov asks Zlenko.
“I don’t know exactly, but what the guy with the bandage said is true… too many.”
“You’re cool with the guitar, Sarge,” Ilchenko says. “Maybe you should try to cheer them up?”
“Good idea,” Tarasov agrees.
Zlenko pats the Stalker on the shoulder and takes the guitar. “Give that to me… and let’s put mourning behind us.”
“Hello Mama, here I’m writing you again,
Hello, Mama, all is well just like before
The sun is shining, everything is fine
But there’s still fog in the hills.
Mother doesn’t know how hard it is for us
Mother doesn’t know how we walk in the mountains
How our youth is passing here
In Afghanistan, where there’s war.”
Tarasov is familiar with the old song. He’d heard it sung before about Dagestan, the Caucasus and other blood-soaked places. Now Zlenko is eloquently adapting the lyrics to Afghanistan. His swift play and strong voice, filled with the zest of a young man who just survived a horrible fight, give it intoxicating energy.
“You kick ass, dude,” Zenmaster says, clasping. “Back in Canada I used to have my own band. Did you ever think of playing in a band?”
“Here! I switch on the loudspeakers! The radio too!” Ashot says. “All Stalkers must hear this!”
The Stalkers in the bar follow the rhythm with their heads nodding, and by the time he gets to sing the refrain, more and more join in the chorus:
“Among exploding grenades our unit walks
There is shooting in the mountains far
Among grenades exploding and tracers flying by
We march forward, with the trembling earth beneath,
The helicopter’s taking off and we go forward
And some of us will not make it back.
We were so young on the day when we arrived
To Afghanistan, where there’s war
I’ll not forget those warm days in May
And the face of friends who died…”
Slightly under the influence of vodka and carried away by the song, Tarasov imagines Bonesetter tending to the wounded and looking up, wiping blood and sweat from his face; the Stalkers in the compound fixing the blasted URAL truck while Captain Bone’s bodyguards halt their steps around his command post; the men in the Outpost’s bunker gathering around their radio; Uncle Yar listening in while fixing a hopelessly jammed machine gun; the Stalkers on the container ramparts watching the herds of jackals feeding on the corpses outside; and even Crow, the hard-boiled sniper, smiling as he cleans his new Gepard rifle, looking down at the Tribe’s Marines who don’t understand the words and just shake their heads while removing dismembered Talib’s hands and fragmented skulls from the chassis of their gruesome trucks.
Zlenko’s voice flies over Bagram like the sound of victory, relieved and joyful but without trying to hide the grief. As soon as he finishes the song, the responses start pouring in through Ashot’s radio.
“This is the Outpost. Play it again or we join the dushmans.”
“Guards here. Stop that. We can’t concentrate on the gate if you play such songs.”
“Yo Ashot! Switch that shit off. It made me fix a Dragoon’s barrel to a PKM… wait a minute, it works perfectly! Play it again, I give you twenty dollars!”
“This is Bonesetter. The wounded want to hear that again. It’s good for their recovery.”
And finally, Bone’s voice comes. “Major… once this fucking Woodstock is over, come and see me.”
Captain Bone’s quarters, 22:02:14 AFT
Tarasov is under the assumption that it was either their training or superior equipment that kept most of Captain Bone’s guards alive, because they are in far better shape than the Stalkers. The Captain himself, who is wearing his usual full armored suit and helmet, is unscathed, making Tarasov wonder if he and his men took part in the battle at all.
“While you were promenading around, we found some intel on one of the attackers,” Bone says. “We know where the rest of the mercs are hiding. They’re in the ruins of the City of Screams.”
“We expected that.”
“Well, now it’s confirmed. Why, would you have preferred to have tracked them down in dushman country? No? I thought not. Anyway, our goals are the same now. We’re going to smoke that place out. But first I’ll take my guards and see to it that t
he Outpost is reinforced. Those zombified freaks might strike again.”
“I presume they won’t be back anytime soon, knowing that they are also messing with the Tribe now.”
“You can afford to presume things, but I have the responsibility to keep this place safe. Take a few capable Stalkers and move to the west. I will meet you there in two days — at the City of Screams.”
“You will not return to Bagram first?”
“Why, for fuck’s sake, would I do that? To drink that junkie’s watered-down vodka in the Antonov? We have no time for that now.”
“You better make it there in time. We will need the firepower of your guards.”
“We will be there, don’t worry about that. Do you think those savages could give us a helping hand?”
“First, Captain Bone, they are anything but savages. Second, they won’t help us, but at least they will let us pass us through.”
“All the better. Maybe now we can show them that Stalkers can also fight.”
Tarasov finds Bone’s words strange. He can’t shake off a feeling that the foul-mouthed commander is actually relieved about the Tribe staying out of the operation, even if their help would shift the odds tremendously in their favor. He wishes he could look into Bone’s eyes.
“Good. We’re set then,” he finally confirms.
“Then why are you still standing here? Move!”
Road to the Tribe stronghold, 9 October 2014, 14:37:51 AFT
“I liked that song, Viktor,” Tarasov shouts, trying to make himself heard on the back of the truck taking them westwards, “and it was probably a good idea to omit the last part.”
“About being demobilized and going home?” the sergeant shouts back.
“Exactly.”
“Do Stalkers ever get demobilized?”
“That’s my point!”
“What?”
He shakes his head and waves to Zlenko, meaning: we’ll talk later. The truck is roaring along the bumpy road and the dust dredged up by the other truck in front of them covers them from toes to teeth. Not the best time to talk.
Passing by the intersection leading to the abandoned village, Tarasov wishes he could tell Zlenko more about the unit of framed US Marines who had turned into a tribe of proud and free men against all odds, but it will have to wait. For now, he can only watch the scenery pass by, but the sight of the wrecked Soviet tanks and trucks that still litter the roadside makes him sad.
Does this land never have enough of death? The sand absorbs blood like a dry sponge absorbs water.
The more he thinks about the Colonel’s philosophy of strength, the more he finds himself able to understand him.
Maybe, of all the conquerors that have passed along the very same road that we now drive upon, he was the first who truly understood this land. But where is all this evil coming from? Is the only way to be victorious over evil to become evil ourselves, no matter how respectable evil can be?
A quote comes to his mind: For what can war, but endless war still breed? though no matter how hard Tarasov tries to remember, the name of the writer who wrote it escapes him. Even so, the quote seems to fit perfectly with this barren and inhospitable land, where the rules of life had been those of war since time beyond memory, and where the appearance of the New Zone undermined even the laws of nature in an evil and deadly way.
For Tarasov, Nooria’s home was now the only place where he found true shelter for his life and comfort for his soul. Thinking about her, he realizes how fond he had grown of the girl: his feelings, which had been initially a mixture of gratitude, desire and maybe even a little pity, had turned into a deep affection that he, who had always been rough and skeptical towards his own feelings, did not dare to define yet.
The truck slows down, awakening him from his daydreams. They are approaching the entrance of a narrow canyon. Tribe warriors appear from out of nowhere. A Lieutenant raises his hand, signaling them to stop.
“We have the Colonel’s permission to pass through,” Tarasov shouts.
“So we heard,” the warrior replies. “Speed up! A storm is expected before nightfall.”
Tarasov returns his salute as they drive on. “We’re entering Tribe territory now,” he shouts to Zlenko. “We’ll stop before we arrive at their stronghold. I need to tell the Stalkers a few things, lest they get themselves in trouble.”
“It’s weird,” Zlenko shouts back. “The tribals saved our skin all right, but I have an uneasy feeling about spending the night in their lair!”
“I do not. Actually, I feel like I’m going home.”
Tribe stronghold, 16:53:06 AFT
The horizon has already sunk into a moody, purple haze when Tarasov walks up the path to the Bhegum’s house. On their way here, he had hoped to see Nooria waiting for him, looking down to the road leading into the hidden valley. He’d imagined her scarf blowing in the wind as her fragile shape appeared among the rocks and mud walls, but she was nowhere to be seen. Thoughts of jealousy interfered with his growing anxiety. No matter how tantalizingly close he was to Nooria, first he had to give a crash-course to the Stalkers on the customs of the Tribe.
Forget about vodka and grass. Do not stare at their women. And never ever try to impress them by saying things like ‘Semper Fi’ or calling yourself a ‘warrior’ — in their eyes, you are not worthy of that.
He had actually been relieved when the Stalkers had been excluded from the inside of the stronghold, being put up in a huge cavern that served as a garage for the Tribe’s vehicles instead. It offered shelter from the impending storm for the Stalkers, whilst simultaneously providing an easy way for the Tribe to keep a wary eye on their guests. The cavern also gave Tarasov a clue as to where and how the Marines and their Hazara followers could survive the nuclear blasts back in 2011.
He’d had to tell Zlenko the whole story too, though the sergeant, being a young man in his prime, had been more interested in Nooria’s looks than in his officer’s adventures, and Tarasov’s possessive heart secretly rejoiced when the warriors hadn’t let Zlenko enter the stronghold either, despite Tarasov’s half-hearted attempts to convince them otherwise.
But now, before he can finally turn his steps towards her, there is something else Tarasov has to take care of.
Here and there, warriors are still sitting around their hookah pipes, but they seem more relaxed than usual. Passing by a bonfire, the major overhears a conversation.
“…so I come home after the hunt, and… the Colonel knows my soul, I would never break the Code, but I was dying for something better than water and chair. And then my woman says, ‘try this’. And man, I tell you, it was… awesome.”
“Yeah, me too. I wish the witch could have discovered that recipe a little earlier.”
“I don’t care what she’d put into it. Maybe it was powdered rag-head dick, I don’t give a damn.”
“You disgusting pig. I’m drinking it right now!”
“You don’t get my point. No matter how she prepared this stuff, it makes life so much better.”
“There’s no argument about that. It almost tastes like the real thing… and talking about the real thing, sometimes I think the Bhegum’s right. It’s all fuck the suck here. We should go home and start kicking ass!”
“Lower your voice! This is our home. Home is where the Tribe is.”
“Don’t be such a cheese dick. There’s no Lieutenant around who could hear us.”
“Shut up, you moron. Let’s drink to the Colonel!”
“Yeah, whatever.”
The conversation makes Tarasov frown. His escape from the Pit and the mission given by the Bhegum now appear in a wholly different light. However, he can’t ponder on what might happen to the Tribe in the future now.
He opens the door to Boxkicker’s bunker. When he steps inside, the armourer jumps up and recoils with fright. His face is still green and blue from the last beating he’d taken from Tarasov.
“Is that camouflage paint on your face?”
“Oh my God,” Boxkicker says in panic. “It’s you!”
“Indeed. But who am I?”
“I… I don’t care, just chill, okay? What do you need?”
“Ammunition. Lots of.”
“Take whatever you want… but it’s no longer free, you know?”
Tarasov looks at the pitcher on Boxkicker’s table. It is filled with the same brown, misty liquid that the warriors were having.
“Here’s the deal. Two boxes of 12-gauge double-0 buckshot, a C-mag for a P27, and… never mind, I have enough for my M4.”
“Double-0? One shell is equal to shooting someone a half dozen times with 9 millimeter rounds. What are you after, dinosaurs?”
“I don’t know yet. Anyway, give me all this and in exchange I will tell you what you are drinking.”
“It comes from the w– I mean, our wonderful healer, so it must be something made from an artifact or whatever…”
“No.” Tarasov can barely hold back his laughter. “So, do you want to know what it is?”
“Take the ammo. And now tell me!”
“Leave that Geiger counter alone. It’s safe to drink.” Tarasov takes a long gulp from Boxkicker’s pitcher. “Not bad… but could be colder.”
“Will you just tell me what the hell this is?”
“Kvas.”
“What’s kvas?”
“I get her kiss. You get her kvas. Bye!”
Nooria’s home, 17:50:22 AFT
All jealous thoughts vanish as he opens the door and sees Nooria sitting on the ground with pestle and mortar between her legs, grinding herbs. The hearth is lit, its fire casting a spell of coziness over the room. A thousand words come to his mind but his lips can only utter two.
“I’m back.”
She looks up with an impish smile that hides joy in the corner of her eyes. “That’s good.”
“Where’s the Bhegum?”
“She is with Colonel. Sometimes they talk. She will not be back soon.” Nooria fixes her eyes on him, still smiling. The pestle crushing the herbs in the mortar moves faster.
“Maybe we also talk?” Tarasov asks. He puts his heavy gear down on the table.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort s-1 Page 36
