STALKER Southern Comfort

by Balazs Pataki

  Sparrow Two

  North of the Shamali Plains, 2014, 16:11:35 AFT

  After his mysterious companion disappears into the wilderness, Tarasov takes his binoculars and scans the horizon. He can’t see any trace of Dragonfly Two’s crash site – no fire, no smoke column, nothing. To the south, he can make out the cluster of buildings and grey landing strip that must be Bagram. Below his position, the road turns to the west and continues in an almost straight line to where the hills and forest meet, passing through ruined settlements along the way. The stream from the valley he and Crow had been following broadens and runs directly south.

  The road appears easy going but it also offers many ambush opportunities, he thinks, the river bed seems safer but it’s probably crawling with mutants. His watch tells him he has four hours till nightfall. Still in doubt over which route provides the better option, Tarasov leaves the road and starts walking towards the forest.

  Upon entering it, he is gripped by a feeling of familiarity. The dense undergrowth, the darkness beneath the thick foliage, the low, ruined walls here and there… all serve to remind him of the Zone’s Red Forest. So does the eerie silence.

  But it is also different here. The trees grow taller, their intertwining foliage casting a suffocating darkness over the muddy ground that seems to suck at Tarasov’s feet as he makes his way through the mud and rotting undergrowth. The deeper he moves, the darker it gets, with tree trunks appearing like silent monsters in the beams of light falling through the foliage. Noxious vapors emanate from the muddy ground. The Geiger-counter’s crackle is the only noise, sounding in his ears like an echo of his quickening heartbeat whenever he sees a weirdly deformed tree reaching out with rotten branches as if to suffocate him, or dense bushes that might hide a mutant preparing for the killing leap before feasting on his remains.

  The major stops and shakes his head, as if to rid himself of a headache. A glimpse at the Geiger counter tells him that radiation levels are slightly above normal, but still below the dangerous level.

  Tarasov removes his gas mask to allow him to breath with more ease. The sickening odor of rotting earth immediately assails his nostrils, making him grimace with disgust.

  Whenever he pauses the forest seems to want to suck him in, to make him part of it. Trees, bushes, stones, water – all around is dead.

  As he sneaks from cover to cover, his weapon held ready, the brown mass of an abandoned armored vehicle looms ahead of him. Moving closer, Tarasov sees it is the first of three. It might have been a convoy, but he doesn’t recognize the type of vehicles. The only thing he is sure of is that they are not from the Soviet war. Looking at the holes in their hulls, it is also clear to him that they were ambushed.

  Curious, he opens the hatch of the first one and peers inside. His heart almost stops beating when he hears a hiss and senses rather than sees the movement inside. He just manages to duck aside as a snake’s mouth darts towards his face. But now he has better options than in the cave. He throws a grenade inside before frantically slamming the hatch closed. Jumping off the vehicle, his feet have barely touched the ground before a muted explosion shakes the wreck. The smell of burnt flesh and putrid decay rises from inside when he opens the hatch again.

  Inside, among bloody shreds of snake flesh and the rotting remains of a small mutant that looks like a jackal pup to Tarasov, he sees hundreds of cartridge casings.

  Whoever was inside here must have put up a desperate fight, he thinks, unaware of the grimace on his face.

  He picks up a pocketful of shells, thinking that they’ll come in handy if or when he encounters another anomaly, and has almost closed the hatch again when he notices something among the shells. Picking it up and wiping off the grime reveals it to be an old-fashioned mobile phone. Unsure of whether it can be of any use or if it might at least offer a clue about the convoy’s fate, the major puts it into his pocket.

  Here and there the gloomy undergrowth is pierced by a ray of light, making the dust visible. But the shadows deepen as the sunlight fades. Tarasov anxiously sees that, judging by the distance to the mountains, he has barely covered one third of the distance to Bagram.

  I hope I don’t get lost. Spending the night here would not be pleasant at all.

  His thoughts are interrupted by a howl, followed by a deep, aggressive growling. More howls join in, forming a chorus. He takes a few steps in the direction of the sound. Cautiously peering through a bush, he sees a clearing in the woods and a pack of jackals running toward him. He raises his rifle but by the time he takes aim, the jackals have reached his position – and to his surprise run on, ignoring him. Tarasov has no time for relief because after a few moments, a huge, lumbering shadow emerges from the undergrowth. It is the biggest mutant he has ever seen – its furry head resembling that of a bear but the mouth open stretching down to its neck, showing a double row of bloodied teeth. Its side is covered with deep wounds, but the mutant seems to ignore them as it turns toward Tarasov with a blood-curdling growl. He is not sure if he can kill this beast with the ammo he has loaded, or if he had time at all to change the magazine once it is empty, so he does the only thing he can. He runs.

  He would have no chance in the open, but here among the dense woods he moves with more agility than his lumbering adversary and jumps over a low mud wall into what might have been an orchard in the past. After a few meters, he looks back, thinking that the bear-like mutant had been unable to follow him. Then a brick crumbles, then more, and Tarasov sees with horror that the mutant simply broke through the wall. He runs on, out of breath, with a stinging pain in his kidneys. The growling behind him draws closer with every step. Suddenly he sees a large pool of mud, with stains of reddish water oozing a fiery vapor. He can’t dodge it and besides, even with the meager protection his suit offers, he has more chance of surviving an anomaly than the assault of the raging mutant.

  Tarasov holds his breath and jumps. Rolling on the ground, burning pain bites into his sizzling skin. Moaning, he manages to raise himself into a kneeling position, ready to fire, knowing he’s no longer able to run.

  The old Stalker trick of running towards an anomaly, evading it at the last moment and then watching the mutants running headlong into the trap had saved him many times back in the Zone. But now, to his horror Tarasov sees that the mutant stops and walks up and down in front of the anomalies, as if debating whether if it could jump over to finish the hunt. Then, to Tarasov’s even greater shock, it stretches its dreadful head forward and starts sniffing around the anomalies, until it finds a path through the sizzling, muddy substance.

  Damn! This wretched beast is smart, Tarasov thinks as he desperately crawls backwards.

  Halfway through the anomalies, the mutant rears up on its legs, unleashing a deafening roar. It is probably intended to paralyze its prey, leaving them wide-eyed and defenseless with horror, but Tarasov still has enough control over his body to raise his weapon and empty the magazine into the mutant’s torso. But as he fires his last cartridge, the shooting doesn’t stop. Perplexed, Tarasov sees heavy bullets still pouring into the mutant’s flesh until it emits a pain-filled yelp and falls right into the anomaly. Its fur catches fire immediately and Tarasov, gasping for air, watches it being consumed by acidic flames.

  I’m getting tired of others saving me, he thinks. In the Zone, it was the other way around.

  Still oblivious of where the shots came from, he looks around.

  “Don’t move,” a voice commands. “Stay right where you are.”

  “I couldn’t move even if I wanted to,” Tarasov shouts back.

  Then, to his unspeakable relief, two soldiers emerge from the woods. One of them is wearing Berill body armor, though both also sport bandages. Wounded men, even if only lightly. The other one, a stout, blond soldier with blue eyes thick set in his round face, is holding a PKM machine gun. To Tarasov’s astonishment, he wears no armor, only the standard issue white and blue striped tee-shirt and a green bandana. This guy must be either
a tough bastard or totally crazy, Tarasov thinks.

  “Sparrow Two?” he cries out.

  “Major?” one of the soldiers asks incredulously.

  Tarasov nods and the two soldiers quickly pull him away from the anomaly. For a moment, Tarasov’s joy over finding the lost squad makes him forget about his badly burnt legs.

  “Thanks to that damned mutant,” he groans, “it chased me right into your arms!”

  “It’s great to see you alive, komandir,” the machine gunner says. “Where are the others?”

  “It’s just me. Give me a medikit and bandages… my legs are burnt.”

  With quick, well-trained hands, the other soldier cuts through the burnt rags of Tarasov’s leggings and pours water from his canteen over the wounds.

  “Lucky for us, our medic made it through,” the soldier says as he applies antiseptics and fixes a silicone bandage. “He’ll take care of the rest. This should do till we get back to the chopper.”

  “Tell me what happened to you, while I brace myself up.”

  “Yes, Major,” the machine gunner says. “We were hit… or whatever, because it was no projectile… Suddenly all the electrical systems went dead, at least almost all, though the pilot managed to keep the chopper in the air for a few minutes. We were incredibly lucky not to smash into the mountains, but then the engine died and the chopper started to spin, and we crash-landed into this forest. Eight of us survived, with three others badly wounded.”

  “Who is in command now?”

  “Senior Sergeant Zlenko. It was probably him who saved our life, because as soon as we took off, he ordered us into our armored suits.”

  “That was a wise choice. And where is your Berill suit, soldier?”

  “Err… I got a serious case of armor chafe and removed it. It’s because of my size… even the biggest one is too small for me, sir!”

  The major decides not to flak him for the moment, although he suspects that the machine gunner has used armor chafe as an excuse to flaunt the many tattoos on his robust arms.

  I got it. He’s crazy, Tarasov thinks.

  “What happened to the other squad, sir?”

  Staring at the ground, Tarasov shakes his head.

  “Not even Zotkin?” the soldier with the medikit asks.

  “Not even him.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I was wearing my exoskeleton, remember? It saved my life but was destroyed. I hope you have a spare armor suit.”

  “We do, sir. Actually, we have too many spare suits.”

  “Help me up and let’s get back to your chopper. I hope you established a defensive perimeter?”

  “Certainly, sir,” the machine gunner says cutting down two boughs from a tree with a combat knife. “But there is this shit all around us. Nothing gets through, but in exchange, we can’t leave the perimeter either. Sit on this, sir. Kamensky, hold the branches from the other side, will you?”

  Tarasov hates the idea of arriving at the crash site like an invalid, but when he tries standing on his feet he realizes that he actually is one. Swearing, he reluctantly lets the two soldiers carry him.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” the chatty machine gunner says. “Making it here alive was feat enough in itself. All the boys will agree with that. There’s nothing bad about being carried for a few meters. Besides, it’s better to have a little burnt skin than your head ripped off by that… thing. Wouldn’t you agree, Major?”

  Tarasov scowls, his face still distorted by pain. “What’s your name, trooper?”

  “Private Ilchenko, sir. Friends call me Ilch. And that’s Private Kamensky to your left.”

  “Good. And now, Private Ilchenko: hold your mouth! You talk more than a salesman.”

  “As ordered, sir,” the soldier grins.

  “It’s good to have an officer around again,” Kamensky whispers, flashing a gloating glance at Ilchenko.

  The two troopers arrive at the crash site as proudly as if they were carrying some large and noble prey. Their comrades, most of them with arms and heads wrapped in bloody bandages, cheer when they see them carrying their commander. Ilchenko loudly tells everyone what had happened. Tarasov doesn’t mind – at least it’s not him who has to tell the squad about their ill-fated comrades. For him, it’s the first moment since the crash when he thinks that maybe the mission has not failed altogether. However, his relief is overshadowed by the sight of four bodies covered with waterproof canvas. If not for his reckless decision to change the flight path, those men would still be alive. Or maybe they would still have died but in an ambush or a firefight, something that offered a more dignified death.

  Even with their heavy losses, the survivors have preserved their cohesion as a unit, having set up a small perimeter around the badly damaged helicopter with the squad’s grenade launcher positioned to cover the area where the woods open up. They have also erected a small tent where the medic, a very young but smart-faced soldier, tends to the wounded.

  “Dragonfly Two carried fourteen men, including the pilots,” the squad’s senior sergeant reports. He wears a blood-soaked bandage around his head. “We lost two troopers and the pilots in the crash. Now we have four heavily wounded and four men combat ready. That means they can still fire their weapon, but…”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Zlenko,” Tarasov replies while the medic is treating the burns on his legs. “Do you have communications?”

  “I’m afraid the radio is busted, sir.”

  “What do you have that still works?”

  “Since our chopper carried all the equipment, we have enough ammo, food and medical supplies to last a while. The only thing we don’t have is a way out of this hellhole.”

  “Worry about that later. Why aren’t you wearing the exoskeleton assigned to you?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I know it’s good gear and all but I prefer the Berill. I can fetch an exo for you, if you wish.”

  Tarasov looks into the forest where darkness is growing like thick, black fog. Attempting a night march through the unknown wilderness would be reckless, even with full forces. With half of the survivors barely able to walk, including himself, it would be utter suicide. He also needs to find a way through the anomaly field.

  “No” he finally replies. “Can the wounded stand on their feet? Let two wounded of your choice wear the exos. It should make walking easier for them. Tomorrow we move out at daybreak.”

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Bagram. It makes no sense to establish a forward operations base with half of the men down. Bagram shouldn’t be too far.”

  “No rescue mission, then?”

  “Looks like we have to get out on our feet or die here. But not before picking up those scientists.”

  “Will we be able to get through those… burners?”

  “The briefing said you were doing peacekeeping missions with the 13th Air Mobile Brigade.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “This of course means that none of you was ever posted to the Exclusion Zone around the CNPP.” Tarasov sighs. It would have been a major miracle if they had been, he thinks. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask. “All right, listen up. I’ll need to explain to you a few things….”

  Tarasov explains the basics about mutants and anomalies to the survivors, adding his latest experiences with the jackals, the snake and the bear. As he talks, the forest around them seems to come alive. Growls, grunts, roars and howls penetrate the darkness, causing the soldiers to exchange anxious glances.

  “Make a bonfire,” Tarasov orders, “and be prepared for another long night. This time tomorrow we can rest in Bagram.”

  “Are you sure the fire will keep those beasts at bay?” the medic asks. Fear looms in his eyes behind the thin spectacles.

  “No.”

  “But then… why?”

  “Because it’s cozy.”

  “Lobov has a point, sir,” the sergeant interjects. “What if hostiles see it?”

  �
��The hostiles we should be concerned about don’t need a campfire to see us.”

  “If you say so, Major… I’ll go and see to that fire.”

  Tarasov nods in approval and leans against the helicopter’s wreck to rest his aching body. Soon, a bonfire casts its relaxing light over the perimeter. The warm flames, together with the soldiers’ quiet chatter, remind him of nights in the Zone. This familiarity eases his nerves; he feels safe at last, but still doesn’t let his AKSU out of his reach.

  A trooper comes and offers him a loaf of bread. It’s still fresh and must be from the rations they got in Termez. Tarasov gladly accepts it. His stomach is rumbling almost as loudly as the mutants growl in the gloomy night.

  Shamali Plains, 22 September 2014, 07:10:15 AFT

  The dawn brings rain, turning the already muddy forest ground into a veritable swamp. Tarasov orders the squad to move out at first light, or better when according to his watch – or at least when first light should have appeared. He watches the slowly moving column of soaked soldiers, all of them carrying as much extra equipment from the crashed Mi-8’s load as they can bear. Sweat and rain blend on his face as he moves on, keeping his eyes on Ilchenko who walks in front of him. Like a gray ghost shrouded in a veil of rain, Sergeant Zlenko follows them at the tail of the column. With the mud sticking to his boots and making every step twice as difficult for his wounded legs, Tarasov is content with the slow pace.

  It is not only the heavy rain that slows them down. When Tarasov tries to find a path through the anomaly field surrounding the crash site, he makes an unpleasant discovery: unlike in the Zone, where anomalies more or less stay in one place, their southern counterparts move, making it difficult to navigate through them. It is like walking through a minefield where the mines are shifting position, making Tarasov realize again that, no matter concerning its similarities with the Old Zone, this is a more evil place where he has to learn the local ways as if he were a rookie once again.

  After burying the fallen in the morning, Tarasov’s task had been to exchange his battered AKSU to an AKM-S rifle with a scope attached. He also finally got rid of the ragged pilot’s outfit in favor of a Berill-5M armored suit. The Berills were standard equipment for the paratroopers and, with almost half of the squad fallen, there had been more than enough suits and weapons to choose from. He’d ordered the soldiers to carry as much of the weapons and supplies as they could and had had the helicopter’s wreck blown up before leaving. Once the medic pumped him full of painkillers to get him on his feet again, he was able to walk and lead the squad, albeit with a heavy limp.

  As he stands and watches over the troopers passing by, the sergeant turns up at his side.

  “Permission to speak freely, komandir?”

  “If you’ve got something to say, say it.”

  “Sir… maybe it wouldn’t be too shameful to abandon the mission, given our condition.”

  Tarasov looks at a trooper with a badly wounded arm. He’d watched the medic changing the bandages that morning, but he can see blood oozing through again already. Another soldier is wearing an exoskeleton, its kinetic motors making walking easier, though he still has to be helped along by one of his comrades. Two other soldiers carry a third on a field stretcher.

  No, the Major thinks, it wouldn’t be shameful to abandon the mission.

  For him, it would be more than that. It would be disgraceful and being court-martialed with Kuznetsov in charge would mean not only the end of his military career but also many years in prison, all for one mistake. Even so, he would bear that if his men needed him to. However, in the Zone he became used to succeeding in missions performed against all odds, and these soldiers seem tough and resilient. Moreover, recent events have left a bitter taste – he, who made it to the rank of major and military Stalker commander of the Zone, had been forced to run from a mutant and had also been carried by two grunts to the crash site like a helpless rookie. His pride is perhaps even more deeply hurt than his legs and, whatever happened, he had to show his new squad that he hadn’t put in charge for nothing.

  He frowns as he looks into the eyes of his second-in-command. “Honestly, Sergeant, from the very beginning this mission, with close air support and two good squads seemed to be too good to be true.”

  Zlenko doesn’t reply, but keeps looking at Tarasov in anticipation.

  “If we can make it to Bagram, we can properly patch up the wounded. We can wait a few days until they gather enough strength and maybe even contact Whiskey to get new instructions. Then we continue our mission. After all, we are here to find those scientists, Sergeant, not to conquer this cursed place.”

  “So we will press on?”

  Tarasov likes the sergeant’s attitude. Had he asked if he, Tarasov, wanted to press on, it would have meant that he disapproved. But he doesn’t know the men well enough. The sergeant might be ready to follow orders but his sense of duty is less important now than the state of his soldiers.

  “Sergeant Zlenko… what’s your given name, anyway?”

  “Viktor, sir.”

  “So, Viktor, if I give the order to continue, are the men with me? Are you?”

  “Sir… When we landed in this hellhole with all those anomalies, as you called them, around us, the only thing we hoped for was a rescue mission. But your appearance boosted morale. Now they think that if you could make it through alone, they too can make through together.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I think the same way.”

  “Good,” Tarasov replies laconically, “then you better go back to the rear. Make sure no one tails away.”

  “Tak tochno, komandir.”

  “One more thing. Keep in mind that Stalkers will be neutral towards us at the best. If we encounter them, we must not provoke any hostile action.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll pass the order not to shoot first. And if we are attacked?”

  “We blast them.”

  With a satisfied grin all over his lean face, Zlenko hurries back to the soldiers. Tarasov takes a gulp from his canteen and follows him. He can already hear Zlenko translating his orders into language the grunts can understand.

  “Keep moving that stretcher, Bondarchuk, it ain’t time to relax yet… Ilchenko, keep moving your chubby ass! Finger off the trigger until we are being shot at!”

  Hearts and Minds