Deserter
Beyond Hellgate Camp, 27 September 2014, 13:12:48 AFT
“Shit, we’ve been here already!”
The better part of the day has already passed when Squirrel smashes his PDA to the ground. “I’m sorry, man. There seems to be no way up to that cursed plateau!”
“I can’t believe this shit. You’re supposed to be a guide, Stalker.”
Ilchenko looks tired and angry. Tarasov can’t blame him for his frustration: since they left the camp at dawn, they’ve spent all day wandering through the rugged crevasses with walls that tower several dozen meters above them. With their heavy gear, the walls themselves are too steep to climb, forcing them to seek an easier way.
“And you’re supposed to be airborne, man,” Squirrel retorts. “Why do you need me? Go, fly up there!”
Tarasov scans the area with his binoculars. No matter how many approaches they’ve tried, all have ended at an impassable section or another dead end. All he can see now is a labyrinth of sand-colored rocks and steep hills, no matter how far he looks.
“One week on havchik… maybe you’re right, Squirrel. All I need is to fart and it’ll propel me right up to the plateau.”
“Gas masks on…”
“Cut the crap, patsanni,” Tarasov says. “I think I saw something. Squirrel, have a look at that.” The major hands his binoculars to the guide and points to the mouth of a cave. “Maybe there’s an underground passage leading up in there. I don’t know… do you think we should check it out?”
“It’s your call, man,” Squirrel replies, increasing the magnification for a better look.. “It could be a mutant lair.”
“At least we’d get the chance to shoot something rather than just walk around completely lost. Let’s go.”
As they approach the cave, Squirrel points to a path leading up to its mouth. It is surprisingly well-trodden.
“Keep your weapons ready,” he whispers. “Might be a dushman hideout.”
“What the hell would dushmans do here?” Ilchenko snorts.
The guide sends a scowl towards Ilchenko. “Looking for artifacts, like everyone else… why, what did you think? Pilgrimage?”
“Squirrel, step back. I’ll take point,” Tarasov says, covering the last few meters to the cave entrance with utmost caution, ready to shoot. Before entering the cave that overlooks the plains below, he switches on the flashlight he has fastened to the Vintorez with duct tape. Keeping his index finger on the trigger, he enters the cave. Then he juts his head out, signaling his companions to move up.
“Ilchenko, be prepared to mow down everything that moves. Squirrel, watch our back. We’re moving in.”
Signs of human habitation appear in the light circle of the torchlight – a mattress and a fireplace.
“Steady, rebyata. Steady.”
A shadow moves in the darkness. The major points his rifle toward the corner where he sensed movement, but what appears in the torchlight gives him a bigger scare than any mutant.
“Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts.
It is an emaciated man with a wildly grown, dirty beard covering the lower part of his weathered face. His skin bears deep scars and wrinkles, giving him the look of a burnt out, shell of a man, thin and old like a mummy. A dusty Talib turban covers his head, but the most unnerving thing is the ragged coat he is wearing. Tarasov has to force himself to believe his own eyes: it is the coat of a Soviet officer from many years ago. One of the shoulder patches has been torn off but the other, dirty and faded, still shows a captain’s rank. He recoils into his cave and covers his eyes from the torchlight’s blinding light. His toothless mouth utters senseless blabber. “Wiy… nashi?…”
“Lower your weapons,” Tarasov tells his companions, and reaches out towards the ghost-like figure. “We mean no harm. Who are you?”
“Nash… our column.”
“If we stumbled upon a Soviet guy from that war, I’ll piss myself,” Ilchenko murmurs.
“Sovietskiy? Da! Da!” The figure steps forward and grabs Ilchenko’s arm. “Nashi, ti nashoi sinok!”
Before the soldier can do anything, the old man kisses the hand holding the machine gun. Then he touches the Ukrainian army patch on Ilchenko’s arm, his eyes open wide in bewilderment.
“Yes, we’re Ukrainians, Papa,” Ilchenko says. “We always were, actually.”
Squirrel takes a bottle from his rucksack and offers it to the old man. “Vipyi, Papa. You look like you could use a little vodka.”
“Me too,” Tarasov says.
“Count me in,” adds Ilchenko.
Holy Mother of God, Tarasov thinks, looking at the old man as if he were a creature from another planet. Then he realizes that he actually is – a living time capsule that has turned every abstract memory of the past into reality, even if it is a hardly conceivable one.
“All right… come, sit down. Are you hungry?” He asks, pointing to his mouth and making a chewing gesture. To his surprise, the man shakes his head. “Let’s get out of this cave. Come, Ilchenko, help him walk. Squirrel, get that bottle back from him. He’s confused enough. Look around, maybe you find something useful that helps us know who he is... or was.”
“I’ll be damned,” Ilchenko says offering his hand to the old man. “Come, Papa, grab my hand. Otherwise I’ll think you’re a ghost.”
The old man might be worn out, but he is not helpless. He takes a heavy wooden staff and, laughing, pats Ilchenko on the back as he walks with them into the light outside.
“Ours… you are ours… you have arrived,” he says. His words sound like those from someone who hasn’t talked for a very long time.
Ilchenko watches Tarasov pensively. He seems to be at a loss over what to do and say. Tarasov doesn’t feel much smarter than his soldier.
“I am Major Tarasov from the Ukrainian Armed Forces. This is Private Ilchenko. And the other guy is… well, call him Squirrel. He is our guide.”
“Ukrainian? How?”
Ilchenko is about to launch into a long explanation when the major signals for him to hold his tongue and turns to the old man.
“Who are you?”
“Who… I am. Now I am. Again. I am this.” The man reaches into his duster and gives Tarasov a barely readable ID card, issued by the Soviet Army. The major holds it in his hands as if it were an artifact that he had never believed existed.
“Captain Igor Vasilyevich Ivanov? 276th logistics division?”
“The column.”
“What column, Captain?”
“My column. Ours.”
“This gibberish makes no sense,” Ilchenko says.
Tarasov tries to tackle the situation by sticking to their basic needs. “We must get through to the factory on the plateau. We can’t get through. Do you know a way to the factory?”
“My column is lost.”
“We are the new column. And we must get through. Captain Ivanov, you must lead us through.”
“I hoped… that the war ended. Did it end?”
“Not exactly,” Tarasov says with a sigh. “We are here to settle unfinished business with the dushmans. Getting to the factory is part of that. Do you know a way or not?”
“I do… I know. Old kravasos is hiding there. Me, I’m hiding here. I don’t like leaving my hiding place. What news?”
“Captain… please give me a moment.”
Tarasov flags Ilchenko to follow him a few steps away.
“Things have taken a turn for the surreal, Private. What’s your view on this?”
“Sir, with all due respect, it’s 2014 now. Do you really believe that one man could have survived here for almost thirty years, all alone? Look at him – he’s more a walking skeleton than human being!”
“His ID card seems genuine. Look.” Tarasov gives the weathered card to Ilchenko. “Plus he claims to know a way to that damned factory. This means we need him, and need to play along. Let’s assume that what he says is true and he was left behind somehow by the Soviet army. W
hat do we tell him? That his country, the mighty USSR, was humiliated and ran like a whipped dog?”
“I don’t know, sir… I don’t know.”
“And then that his country doesn’t exist anymore? And all that has happened ever since? The CIS, the putsch, Yeltsin, Putin, all that shit? Damn, maybe this guy never heard about Chernobyl either! As far as he’s concerned, his commander in chief is still Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev!”
“If we tell him, he will probably have a heart attack and we won’t get to that bloody place. And telling him all that would take so long that we would be sitting here till doomsday. I can’t see any option other than lying to him, Major.”
“Well, Ilchenko, one thing is sure – we can’t leave him here.”
“It’s your call, sir.”
“Yo, Major! Look what I’ve found.”
Squirrel emerges from the cave and gives Tarasov a battered note book.
“What the hell is this?” Tarasov says looking at the cover.
“Uhm… that’s a Homer Simpson sticker, sir.”
“I realize that, Ilchenko, it’s not me who’s been living in a cave for decades. But how did the old man obtain this? Anyway… let’s not waste more time.”
“So what shall we do with him, sir?”
“Put him out of his misery.”
“What?”
Seeing Ilchenko’s scowl, the major smiles.
“Out of the time capsule, I mean. Let’s hope it will not be too painful on him.”
Tarasov steps back to the old man. He is sitting on the ground, staring into the distance, repeatedly murmuring only two words: the column, the column.
“Captain… Igor Vasilyevich, listen up.” Tarasov squats in front of the old man and looks deep into his eyes, slowly, clearly repeating his name once more. “Igor Vasilyevich Ivanov. Listen to me: it is now the year 2014. The war ended twenty-five years ago. The Soviet army does not exist anymore. The USSR is no more.”
“What? Brezhnev is dead?”
“He is.”
“And no more USSR?”
“It’s gone.”
“Thanks to God Almighty! Oh, God has worked wonders, wonders!”
“You don’t know half of it. Now we will bring you home. Home… to Russia.”
“Russia?”
“Wherever your home is, it is time to return now.”
“Did we win the war?”
“Well… some of us were victorious. You will be among them, if you carry out a last order – from me.”
“But…” The old man touches Tarasov’s Ukrainian arm patch. “You are not from my army.”
“I am a major. Ranks did not change. You will follow my orders and guide us to the factory. We will finish our mission. Then we’ll take you to a safe place. You will be transferred home from there.”
“You speak differently… everything is different about you,” the old man says, touching Tarasov’s bulky body armor. “Your uniform is different also… so much better than ours. Oh no! You are not of my army. You are of no use to me.”
“Komandir!” Ilchenko speaks in a forced whisper, but Tarasov feels that his soldier can barely suppress his anger. “Let’s leave him to his fate or just drag him with us. This makes no sense!”
“But he has a point, Ilch,” Squirrel says. “You are not from his army.”
“That’s fucking right, Stalker! How in the hell could we be?”
“Ilchenko, cut it!” Suddenly, an idea comes to Tarasov’s mind. “You are a genius, you know that?”
Tarasov reaches into his body armor’s breast pocket and shows his father’s photograph to the Captain.
“I am one of yours! You see that? That is me! Kunduz, 1988! Look at it!”
The old man looks at the picture, then at Tarasov. His eyes open wide.
“Yes… that is you, Sergeant. So someone did survive! I knew it! The whole column couldn’t all have been lost… it could not have been that everyone died...”
For a moment, Tarasov’s mind blackens out. He closes his eyes, falling into a vortex of memories where time, dates and history have no meaning, turning his heartbeat into stormy waves of emotions that threaten to drag him down into dark depths where he would lose his mind, the desire for revenge being the only straw he can hold on to. When he opens his eyes, he finds himself back where he was, stranded in reality – a reality he needs to bend if he wants to keep his sanity.
“Captain, our shoulder flashes have been changed but you should still recognize a major’s star,” Tarasov says, pointing at the small patch on his armor indicating his rank. “I am a major now and outrank you, Captain Ivanov. We did not forget you and your column. Never… Now I am here to bring you home.” He swallows hard and releases his grip. “You must come with us. This is an order!”
A shadow of doubt visits the Captain’s face. “Is Brezhnev really gone?”
“Really.” Tarasov puts his visor on to hide his eyes.
“And he can’t rest in peace from the noise of all the bummers and whores in high heels walking on Red Square,” Ilchenko says, gritting his teeth. “Major… for God’s sake, bring him back to his wits!”
“Captain Ivanov, I gave you an order. Come, we go home.”
“But I cannot go home.”
“Whatever you mean by that can be settled. For now, you will guide us to the factory. I will not repeat my order.”
“No… not everything can be settled. But I will bring… guide you there, yes. I will guide you and take orders from you, if you will do something for me.”
“We have no time for more side missions, sir!” Ilchenko is almost shouting at Tarasov. “If he wants to send you to Kandahar to fetch his lost rifle or to Kabul to find his Party membership card – I beg you to say no!”
“Not now, young man, not now. After I have guided you to the factory. Please. Will you do something for me, Major?”
“What more could I do for you than getting you out of here?”
“It will not need much time.”
“All right. I will, if it can be done quickly. We have a mission to complete, Captain, and I guess you want to get to a safe place as soon as possible too.”
“Thank you! Good! Davay uhodim!”
“Where?”
“You don’t want to get to the factory?”
“Oh… of course. Are you sure that you can…”
“I am. I can.” He takes his heavy staff and starts walking up the hill. “What are you waiting for, komandir?”
Wilderness, 17:11:38 AFT
After a few hours of walking, Tarasov looks at the old man through different eyes. Maybe it’s the reduction of a human body to bones, sinew and muscles that keeps him moving quickly, or just the freedom of movement he has compared to the three companions who carry their heavy kit and weapons, but at times they have had a hard time keeping up with the pace of their new guide. He leads them through crevasses and over ridges on a path they would have never found by themselves. Squirrel occasionally stops to record their progress in his PDA.
“This new path will make me rich, man… I will be the only guide who knows a way to the factory!”
“I doubt that too many Stalkers would come here,” Ilchenko says, breathing heavily from their recent ascent through a narrow ravine. He stops and wipes sweat from his face.
“You couldn’t be more wrong about the factory, man. Rumor says there’s more artifacts than used condoms in a Kiev night club.”
“Mention night clubs one more time and I’ll just shoot you. Mention cold beer, and I’ll shoot you twice.”
“I wouldn’t care about you shooting me a hundred times if I had a Heartstone.”
“What’s a Heartstone?”
“A very rare artifact. Stalkers say it boosts one’s health like nothing else… just telling you because they’re supposed to be found around here. Sell one to Bonesetter back at Bagram and you’ll be filthy rich. Sell it in the Big Land, and you’ll get dirty filthy rich. Or keep it and it will make you liv
e for a hundred years.” Squirrel scratches his head. “Pity there’s no artifact that would make you dirty filthy rich and live for a hundred years.”
“I’m not sure I want to live for a hundred years. Live fast, die pretty is my philosophy.”
“You’ll have a problem with dying pretty, Ilch.”
“It’s not far now,” the Captain says, standing on the ridge while Tarasov and his companions are still climbing up a narrow crevasse in the hillside.
“What do you mean by ‘not far’?” Tarasov asks him, nervously looking at his watch as he toils up the last few meters. “The day will soon be over.”
“About three hundred meters, Major.”
The Captain points forward as Tarasov at last reaches the ridge. Panting heavily, leaning with his hands against his knees to give his back a minute of rest, he looks in the direction that is shown. Just a few minutes march ahead of them stands a high wall made of concrete slabs. Beyond the wall, the auspicious buildings of a ruined industrial site loom. But what he sees between them and the factory fills him with frustration.
Breathing heavily, Ilchenko and Squirrel finally catch up with them.
“That’s great,” the Stalker says looking at the factory. “We could have just stayed at Hellgate. Shit!”
On the open rocky ground between them and the factory, deadly anomalies sizzle. They slowly move and burst out in fountains of fire when contracting, as if they were trying to deny any path leading through.
“And now?” Tarasov asks.
“And now we go to into the lair. Vperyod, to the factory!”
Carefully keeping a safe distance from the anomaly field, they follow the Captain to a low knoll covered with thorny bushes. At one point he stops, reaches into the bushes and moves the thorny branches aside. A large hole lies beyond, big enough for a man to climb inside.
“Here lives old kravasos.”
“Only one bloodsucker, then?
“And his family.”
A nasty curse is all that comes to Tarasov’s mind.
“All right… we rest here for a few minutes. Ilchenko, Squirrel - weapon check.”
“Yes, we better rest now,” the Captain says. “I will show you the way.”
Tarasov notices that the Captain’s speech is improving. Maybe if I talk to him more, he will fully regain his speech, he thinks. Maybe his memory too.
“But you have no weapons, no armor, no light. Nothing at all, Captain.”
“My staff never runs out of bullets. It also keeps the bloodsucker away.”
“How do you keep a bloodsucker at bay with a wooden staff? By beating it, or what?”
“You will see.”
“And what is this?” Tarasov asks taking the note book from his vest pocket. He ponders through the pages. It is full of neat handwriting and, to his surprise, even a few drawings appear among the notes.
“Oh, you took it… you can keep it. I don’t understand. It’s about a country called ‘Zone’. I found it a few days ago at an abandoned campsite.”
What Tarasov finds in the notebook pages surprises him. Several pages with notes and text about the old and the new Zones, mutants, probably of those its owner encountered here. Judged by the first entries, written in very bad Russian, the book’s owner must be very young, a kid even, who liked playing video games.
“Damn! After playing Call of Duty so many times it amazes me how inaccurate an AK-47 is in reality. Anyway, at last it’s time to get into the real stuff!”
Tarasov smiles. Hello, Mac, he thinks. Nice to meet you.
The notes he can decipher tell of missions, fights with mutants, expeditions with rookies, experienced Stalkers, and claims the owner has been everywhere in the Zone whilst under the protection of Uncle Yar, whom he had joined on his trip to the south in search of a new bonanza of artifacts. Tarasov smiles when a few familiar names appear – Sidorovich, the Barkeep, Loki from Freedom and General Voronin from Duty. On one of the first pages, he discovers a note mentioning his own base in the Old Zone. It is written in rudimentary Russian, mixed with words in a language he doesn’t understand but guesses to be Spanish.
“Day 3, 2014. S. warned me not to perform what Sidorovich asked me. He said that the Cordon base has new commander and it is not longer the… un completo desastre (¡Maldita sea! ¿Por qué esta maldita PDA no viene con un diccionario incorporado?) and that no matter how much Sidorovich promises to pay I should not attempt to steal those documents. I better skip this task.”
Praising the young Stalker for his wise decision and cursing Sidorovich’s shady business deals at the same time, Tarasov keeps on browsing through the pages. The language and vocabulary of the notes improves from page to page. Some early notes have been written entirely in the Stalker’s native tongue, but in the end the notebook tells of a steep learning curve in using the Russian language. A note around the middle of the notebook tells of an ill-fated trip to the CNPP.
“I reached that damned crystal dick and it messed everything up & now that mechanic of Freedom is my only hope. Damn this wish granter shit!!! Damn the Zone! Now it turned my most secret wish against me. Fuck this - I can barely walk and this crap is weighing me down but I would be an idiot to leave it here for the fucking Monolith, or the next moron who comes up here to make a wish & gets screwed up like me.”
Later notes tell about the journey of the kid and Yar to the new Zone, posing as tourists in Uzbekistan, buying their way into the new Zone and finally to Bagram. To his disappointment, the language of the last notes returns to Spanish, giving him no clue as to why the kid left Bagram or where he went. He turns to the Captain.
“Captain Ivanov, where and when did you find this? I hope it was not on a corpse.”
“No, no. I heard someone coming and hid. Next morning I found it.”
“You’re ready to enter a bloodsucker’s lair armed only with a staff, but a Stalker scares you?”
“A – what?”
“A human.”
“I know bloodsuckers. But about men – one can never know.”
“You have a point about that,” Tarasov replies and turns to his companions who are lying on the ground, exhausted. “Hey, you two! Ready to go?”
“Must we? I’m dog tired,” Squirrel whines. “It’s getting dark now. Let’s make camp and continue tomorrow!”
“I guess it’s pitch dark in that lair anyway. Let’s move.”
Ilchenko and the Stalker grumble with discontent as they get up, but follow him to the cave entrance. The Captain, however, grabs Tarasov’s rucksack, halting him.
“We need fire first.”
He takes a small pouch from the pocket of his duster. Carefully, as if handling a great treasure, the Captain unfolds the dirty linen and removes a pair of broken eyeglasses. He plucks a few branches from the nearest brush and starts collecting sunshine in the glass.
“Hey grandpa, if you don’t mind – I have something better.” Squirrel kneels down and, using a lighter, gets a small fire going in a second.
“Nice… very nice!” The Captain says admiring the lighter.
“You can have it if you want to,” Squirrel generously says.
The Captain waves it off.
“I played with that when I was a little child. Now I have better fire.”
He takes a small, black object from his knapsack and fixes it into a nook at the point of his staff. Looking closer, Tarasov’s eyes open wide. It is a black stone, shaped into the form of a blade as if crafted by cavemen. The Captain holds the chopped stone into the fire. After a few seconds, it glows, illuminated from inside and emitting a small sphere of light.
“This is my torch,” he says, giving Tarasov a proud smile from his toothless mouth.
“I have never seen an artifact used like that before,” Squirrel says in awe.
“You like it, young man? Good! I like it too. Bloodsucker does not like it.”
The Captain wraps the Talib turban’s end over his mouth and steps inside the lair. Tarasov
follows him. As soon as he is inside, an unbearable stench hits his nose: the stink of rotten meat, dry blood and animal feces.
“Gas masks on, rebyata!”
Bloodsucker lair, 18:27:30 AFT
Tarasov finds his night vision equipment has been rendered useless by the unnaturally bright glow emitted by the Captain’s artifact. He reluctantly switches on his head lamp and gives a sign to Squirrel and Ilchenko to do the same.
I hate such tunnels, he thinks as they proceed in the narrow cave shaft. No space for flanking or maneuvering, only backward and forward.
“Ilchenko, keep your shooter’s barrel out of my back,” Squirrel whispers.
“Maybe you should move quicker, you lame duck?”
The Captain turns to them and puts his finger on his lips. “Quiet! Bloodsuckers have bad eyes but sharp ears,” he whispers.
“We do know that, Captain. But we should hear them coming – they try to scare the shit out of their prey with a howl before they attack.”
The Captain frowns. “Then you haven’t met a bloodsucker here, Major.”
“Squirrel! Why didn’t you say anything about this? You’re supposed to be our guide, after all!”
“Sorry, man, but I supposed you already knew everything!”
Damn it, Tarasov thinks, of course, that’s what Degtyarev mentioned during the briefing.
“Shit! Sneaky bloodsuckers are the last thing we need. All right, one more reason for you two to stop teasing each other. Let’s move on!”
Walking with steps as quiet as possible on the rocky and sandy ground, they proceed. The Captain’s artifact lights up just a small part of the cave, as if they were walking in a sphere of dim, red glow.
“Stay in the light.”
Tarasov moves closer to the old man, wondering if staying close to the glowing artifact is a good idea. It gives more light than their headlamps would alone, giving them a better chance to avoid stumbling in the hazardous ground, but it could also make it easier for a bloodsucker – or anything else that might lurk in the dark caves – to detect them. However, his better judgment tells him to rely completely on the Captain who is leading them through a maze of tunnels with firm steps, never hesitating before taking turns into shafts to the left and right where no one but him would know which direction to take. Tarasov hopes that the old man’s sense of direction doesn’t fail him, since the only thing he can detect is that they seem to be gradually ascending.
After long minutes of sneaking and climbing, they reach a point where the tunnel widens. Tarasov grimaces under his gas mask when he sees a dead body on the ground, the torn Stalker suit bearing the marks of huge claws. Thousands of flies swarm around it.
“Squirrel, fall back into line!” Tarasov whispers angrily when the guide moves to inspect the pockets on the dead Stalker’s body armor. “This is no time for scavenging.”
“But…”
“Shh! Quiet!” The Captain says in a low voice. “I heard something!”
Now Tarasov can hear it too – it’s a muted roar coming from the depths of the tunnel lying ahead. Instinctively, he raises his weapon.
“If we hear it, we don’t need to fear it,” the Captain whispers. “It means that the bloodsucker has not detected us. Howl is good, but silence is deadly.”
“I hate bloodsuckers,” Squirrel whispers back. “Especially sneaky ones.”
The long, tedious march takes its toll on Tarasov’s energy. Walking is easy on the hard ground and the ascent is mostly non-exertive, but constantly keeping his eyes peeled and ears pricked becomes more and more exhausting as the time passes. As his mental energy depletes, a creepy sense of claustrophobia sets in.
Damn this spelunking… these narrow shafts sap on my energy with every step I take, no matter of the Emerald I carry.
He delights at the sight of the tunnel widening again into a long, oval-shaped space, and is already considering a short break when he sees the Captain freeze in his steps. Then he hears the noise of footsteps approaching them.
“Jesus Christ, here it comes!”
He doesn’t need Squirrel’s desperate scream to realize the danger. In the red glow of the Captain’s artifact, the shadow of a bloodsucker appears on the rocky wall only a few meters to their right. Tarasov raises his rifle to shoot but the Captain’s fragile figure is standing between him and the mutant.
“Bloodsucker! Hold it! Don’t approach!”
Tarasov is about to shout for the old man to get to the ground so that he has a clear shot, but realizes that it’s not him or his comrades the Captain is talking to – he is directing his words to the mutant.
“Hold your fire,” the major whispers to his companions. “Hold your fire!”
The Captain raises the staff holding the glowing artifact higher and steps forward.
“Move away, kravasos… move.”
With eyes wide open from dread and surprise, Tarasov watches the mutant’s shadow taking a step backwards, as if mesmerized by the artifact’s light. With a nod of his head, the Captain signals them to proceed.
Cautiously, they walk by the Captain who still keeps the artifact high and close to the bloodsucker’s snout where Tarasov can now see his eyes reflecting the light. When Ilchenko, the last man in their row, has reached the far end of the cavern, the Captain slowly takes a step back. Still facing the mutant he seems to hold under his command, he retreats towards them with slow, cautious steps.
“Now go away,” the Captain says in an almost fatherly tone of voice. “Go away until your sight returns.”
“I’ll be damned,” Tarasov exclaims. “Did you actually blind that beast?”
But before the Captain could answer, Ilchenko steps forward. “A blinded mutant is good but a dead mutant is better.”
Before Tarasov can bark to him a quick order to hold his fire, the machine gunner pulls the trigger on the PKM.
After the long silence the machine gun’s fire is deafening, made even more thunderous by the echo in the cave. Guided more by instinct than reason, Tarasov also opens fire, aiming his rifle from the hip at the center of the mutant’s shadow. Emitting a cry of pain, the Captain falls to the ground. Now Squirrel’s AK joins the fire. The shadow approaches them as their bullets hit the still invisible body. Blood splashes from ever more visible wounds and now the mutant emits a dreadful, long howl. Then it falls, swirling up clouds of dust as it hits the ground. A few seconds later, the natural color of its body appears as the mutant’s brain, which made it appear invisible by whatever mysterious ability it possessed, finally dies.
“No, no, no,” the Captain moans. “Why?”
Tarasov quickly helps him to his feet and notes with relief that the old man is unscathed. His relief quickly evaporates as he hears several howls echoing through the cave – coming from the shaft ahead, the tunnel they have left behind them, and from unseen caverns above and below.
“You see what you did?” The Captain casts an angry look at Ilchenko.
“Yes! I killed a mutant!”
“Useless, stupid private! You killed one mutant and called up a dozen!” The Captain turns to Tarasov. “Since my times, discipline has become even worse!”
“I’ll reprimand the soldier later,” Tarasov shouts back. “We must get to that damned factory, quickly!”
“The howls are getting closer!” Squirrel screams.
“Run!” The Captain shouts. “Run!”
They run, slowed down by Ilchenko who keeps turning back to fire short bursts from his weapon. If their march had been careful up to now, it has turned into a heedless rout as they follow the Captain who is sprinting ahead. He almost gets thrown to the ground when he suddenly stops and collides with Tarasov, who has no chance to maneuver around him in the narrow tunnel.
“There’s one ahead of us!”
The major empties his magazine into the mutant blocking their way ahead, cursing himself for not having loaded a full magazine after they’d finished the blinded mutant.
“Squirre
l! Reloading, cover me!”
The heavy rattle of the PKM joins with the MP5’s clatter, the noise of both weapons almost obliterated by the bloodsucker’s howl. When Tarasov’s fires his now reloaded rifle, the howl turns into a pain-filled growl, but he keeps firing nonetheless until the mutant falls. They jump over the lifeless body and run forward.
“Vperyod, vperyod!”
“Squirrel, watch your back!”
“Damn it! We have been here before!”
“You must be kidding me, Stalker!”
“No, Major! Forward!” The Captain, now also tired and breathing heavily, points forward. “We’re almost there!”
“Any more side turns ahead, Captain?”
“No! This leads straight to the factory!”
Tarasov peers back into the tunnel as the machine gunner and the guide arrive. Bloodsucker howls are still echoing in the darkness, but none seem to be close enough to indicate an imminent threat.
Howls are good, silence is deadly, he thinks, remembering what the Captain said.
“Ilchenko, Squirrel! Haul your asses behind me! Cover me, I’m preparing a booby trap!”
Tarasov removes his last two hand grenades from his ammunition vest and carefully removes the fuses. At a position where any of the heavy-limbed bloodsuckers would move it, he places one grenade on the ground and cautiously puts a stone on the release grip. Then he does the same with the other one, not giving any chance to a mutant who was lucky enough to avoid the first grenade.
“Done. Let’s move on, and be quiet! Especially you, Private!”
The Captain’s guidance proves to be correct. After covering a short distance, the natural walls of rock and earth end in a wall made of bricks.
“We have reached the cellars,” the Captain says. “But this tunnel has always been open before. Strange!” He steps back, scratching at his beard.
Tarasov examines the wall. The rows of bricks are loosely laid and the balance of the whole structure seems to be borne by a single, if massive piece of timber in the middle. Overall, it looks like a makeshift barrier hastily erected to block the passage.
“This was not built by a bloodsucker,” Squirrel whispers. “That’s for sure.”
“Ilchenko, come over here,” Tarasov says. “Consider yourself our combat engineer. This wall must go.”
“Consider it done, Major.”
The burly soldier steps to the stone wall and gives it a kick with all his force. After a few more kicks, the timber yields. One more kick, and the wall collapses with a huge rumble, leaving a hole big enough for a man to climb through.
“Let’s move on,” Tarasov orders. “And let’s hope we haven’t called up even more mutants by this racket!”
One by one, they enter the room on the other side. It is definitely man-made, looking like a cellar with rusty pipes and wires running along the concrete walls.
Suddenly, they hear a yelp.
“Jackals!” Squirrel shouts.
But only one mutant appears in the light of his headlamp. It seems to be frightened and hides under a pipe.
“It’s a pup,” Tarasov confirms without lowering his weapon. “I wonder where the rest of the pack is?”
“They seem to be one big loving family,” Ilchenko says, pointing his torchlight at some textile rags arranged in a nest-like structure and a metal plate on the ground. A bulky rucksack lies next to the pet’s place. “And quite sophisticated for jackals, too.”
“I hate jackals. Especially sophisticated ones.” Squirrel raises his submachine gun to shoot the helpless yelping mutant. But before he could even aim, a voice comes from the darkness. It is accompanied by the auspicious noise of a rifle being cocked.
“If you even think about hurting my dog – I’ll fry you!”
“That’s not a dog,” Squirrel shouts back, “that’s a bloody jackal!”
“It’s a dog and his name is Billy. Lower your goddamned weapons!”
A beam of strong light flashes from the headlights of a human figure standing in a corner, maintaining a perfect firing position over all four of them.
“It’s okay,” Tarasov says. “We won’t hurt your… pet. Everybody, relax!”
Slowly, with his hands up, he cautiously steps closer to their opponent. The jackal pup darts out from its cover and hides behind its master. By now Tarasov sees that he is wearing an exoskeleton and keeps his FN-2000 automatic rifle squarely at aim. The Stalker’s face is hidden behind the helmet’s dark, protective visor and integrated gas mask.
The major frowns. It is not looking into the barrel of one of the best weapons of the world that gives him an odd feeling about this encounter, nor the relatively small size of their opponent, but how perfectly the exoskeleton fits its wearer. It suits him perfectly, as if tailor-made.
Strange. Yar works wonders with rifles but armor has never been his strong side.
“Mac the Apprentice, I presume?”
“That’s correct. Who are you?”
“My name is Tarasov. Ilchenko and I are from the military…”
“Friends call me Ilch,” Ilchenko adds with a grin.
“… and that Stalker with the MP5 is our guide. Name’s Squirrel.”
“And who’s that? Did one of you bring his grandfather on this joyride?”
“The grandfather holding that red light is… well... he’s with the good guys too, he only stepped into a time vortex. Call him Captain. Can we all relax now?”
Mac laughs. “The Captain looks like a lich king from some stupid RPG!”
“You have something against RPGs? Best loot I ever had!” Squirrel asks, stepping forward.
Tarasov grins and waves him to halt. “That’s not the kind of RPG the kid means. Mac, you are right about the Captain, but he is a chaotic good lich. We’re all with the good guys, believe me.”
“Ooo-kay… I won’t shoot you. But if you ever look at Billy the wrong way…”
“I love that puppy,” Squirrel says. “Hey puppy, you want some sausage?”
In reply, the jackal pup snarls at him and emits an angry yelp that was probably intended to be a frightening bark.
The tension eases as Mac cradles his rifle. Ilchenko and Squirrel do the same.
“So, let’s get down to business,” Tarasov says. “Uncle Yar has sent us to get you back.”
“How is he doing?”
“He’ll be doing better once you get back to him.”
“Forget it. Tell him I’m off to the Panjir Valley.”
“What?”
The Captain’s frightened cry surprises them all. “Operation Magistral is still going on? We went there five times… always beaten back! That place is hell! The column! The column was heading there…”
“What’s wrong with this dude?” Mac asks. “The valley is like heaven for Free Stalkers. There’s fewer mutants, and no arrogant Dutiers poking their dirty noses into Stalker business.”
“Never mind the Captain,” Tarasov replies. “He’s not really up to date.”
Suddenly, the jackal named Billy starts to growl even without Squirrel bothering him.
“Uh-oh… here come the bloodsuckers,” Mac says, readying his rifle.
“How do you know?” Tarasov asks in surprise. Then he looks at the jackal pup called Billy. “Don’t tell me that…”
The pup’s low growl is suddenly subdued by an aggressive howl coming from the tunnels.
“You must have pissed them off, Stalker… you see, all animals seem to hate you.”
“It’s mutants, man, not animals! And actually, it was this trigger-happy boyevoychik who woke them up, not me!”
“We should leave,” the Captain anxiously says.
“Yes, man! Let’s go or we become bloodsucker food!”
“Let’s,” Mac shouts, grabbing his pet and putting him into a bag hanging over his chest. He opens a metal door leading to a corridor to their left. “Get in there. Move!”
“You first, kid,” Tarasov says, readying his rifle.
“Billy, cover your ears!”
Mac steps to the opening in the wall and fires a projectile from his rifle’s built-in grenade launcher. The low thump is followed by a huge explosion inside the tunnel, strengthened into a thunder by the narrow space, followed after a second by two more detonations. Rocks and earth fall in and block the tunnel, while Mac gets his rucksack and even finds time to comfortingly caress his jackal.
“Did you booby-trap the tunnel? All the better. At least I could save some grenades!”
“Why did you bother building that stone wall?” Tarasov asks when they step into the corridor and Mac closes the metal door tight. “You could have blocked it with a few 40 millimeter grenades from your rifle’s launcher!”
“I have only a few grenades left, but there’s more than enough bricks lying around here. Pity to leave it, though… it was a good place to hide. Hey, fat boy, let me through!”
Ilchenko lets Mac pass him by and take point in the corridor. “I am not fat, you little dwarf,” he grumbles.
“Nobody calls me a dwarf,” Mac says, looking back at the machine gunner towering behind him.
“I suggest you two settle this later,” Tarasov snaps. “Mac, where to now?”
“You’ve probably guessed that this is the cellar of the textile factory. Normally, the way up should be clear. If not, Billy will warn us.”
“How so?”
“He has a good nose even for a dog. Smells out any mutant, no matter how far away. Anomalies as well.”
“Maybe that’s because it’s a jackal!” Squirrel says.
“Gospodin Tarasov, where did you find such an imbecile guide who can’t tell a dog from a jackal?”
“First, you will address me as Major or komandir. Second, Squirrel is cool. He eats bears for breakfast.”
“Yeah, I guessed that. His breath smells like that.”
“And you –”
Tarasov cuts into Squirrel’s words “Shut the fuck up, both of you! Let’s move!”
The corridor is narrow and dark, but at least man-made – a relief in itself after the maze of caverns they have left behind. At regular intervals, Tarasov sees metal doors with little hatches at eye height – unusual for a cellar of a factory, making him wonder what this place might have really been. One door stands ajar. He peeks inside, and what he observes looks like a prison cell.
“This place is creepy,” he says.
“You want to see something really creepy?” the kid replies.
“I’ve had my share of creepy things for today, thanks.”
“Too bad. Nothing is as creepy as an underground torture chamber.”
“A factory with prison cells and a torture chamber? What the hell was this place?”
“Guess what? The factory levels are above. Below – it was KGB, CIA, whatever.” Mac halts at a winding, metal stair case. “You sure you want to miss the torture room?”
“Sir! If I may ask you,” Ilchenko says behind them, “I’d like to see it.”
“Why am I not surprised? Forget sightseeing, Ilchenko. Dammit, am I the only one who wants to get out of this dungeon as soon as possible?”
“No, man! I’m with you, as always!”
“We shouldn’t tarry here too long, Major.”
“Up we go then,” Tarasov says.
The rusty staircase creaks and heaves under their steps, as if it could collapse at any moment. Two more corridors appear, which Tarasov is glad to leave unexplored as they continue their ascent.
When they reach the top of the staircase, Mac signals them to halt and looks around with his rifle poised to shoot before waving them to follow him.
“What made you hide in the deepest and darkest place?” Tarasov asks as he joins the kid above, and finds himself in a large, rectangular room with no windows. Empty plastic bottles, sheets of paper and other garbage litter the floor among turned over tables, chairs and collapsed shelves. The room has only one proper door, situated at the far end.
“Sense of safety, what else? Only a creepy guy like Ilchenko would hide in a prison cell, or a crazy one like Squirrel in the factory level…” He crosses the room and cautiously opens the door. “Appears to be clear. Let’s go…”
“Mac, wait a minute. Close the door.” Tarasov looks at his watch. It is a few minutes past midnight. “What’s behind that door?”
“The factory hall.”
“Is it over ground?”
“Of course. Why?”
“It’s pitch dark now… we should stay put until daybreak. This room looks like a safe place to rest.”
Ilchenko and Squirrel release huge sighs of relief. Even the Captain grumbles something like it’s about time to rest.
Mac shrugs his shoulders. “Chickening out?”
“You better watch your tongue, kid. We left Hellgate this morning, stumbled upon the Captain and crawled through the caves in just one long leg. The last time we had havchik was early this afternoon. We need to rest.”
“Besides, you, being a sneaky little bastard, could run away in the darkness, making this whole trip count for nothing,” Ilchenko says, taking off his rucksack and placing his machine gun on a table that still stands upright.
“Indeed! You do have a tendency to run away, Mac. Ilchenko, take that table and block the door. Just in case.”
“Spare your efforts, guys,” Mac says, waving his hand in resignation. “That wouldn’t block the door. It opens the other way, to the outside.”
“Never mind the door, man,” Squirrel says, already holding a dried sausage in his hand. “After all this mess today, there’s probably nothing coming through that we couldn’t handle.”
“Yes, especially with you around.”
“Come on, Ilch, didn’t I help you kill that bloodsucker?”
“Don’t even mention it!” the Captain exclaims. “Major, isn’t this soldier to be reprimanded for opening fire without being ordered to?”
“Ilchenko, consider yourself reprimanded,” Tarasov casually says. Ignoring the Captain’s frown, he takes a can of ‘tourist breakfast’ from his rucksack and opens it.
“How can you Stalkers eat all this shit? If I had to feed on nothing but this crap, my farts would have a bigger blast radius than a hand grenade.”
“Why, Ilchenko, are army rations any better?”
“No, sir, but at least in the army we get a leave once in a while, and with that a chance to eat better food.” No matter how much he bitches about the processed meat, Ilchenko still takes a big portion and continues munching, talking between mouthfuls. “For me, sir, surviving in the army means surviving to the next leave… I wish I could be a camel, stocking up enough galipots, blunts, piroshky until the next time I get something decent to eat.”
“Camels stock up on liquids, you moron.”
“Come on, kid. I didn’t mention beer and vodka because that’s self-explanatory for a real man. Which you obviously aren’t.”
Tarasov expects a snappy reply from the sharp-tongued Stalker, so Mac’s silence surprises him.
“What’s up, Mac? It’s your turn. Did Billy bite off your tongue?”
“I didn’t even hear what your pit bull was saying… Captain, does that strange light of yours never go out?”
Obviously happy that someone is talking to him, the old man jumps at the opportunity to talk.
“Never. Only when I remove it from my staff. There is another stone inside the staff and when this one is on fire and they get into… when they… meet?”
“You mean, contact?”
“Yes, young man! When I let them contact, it burns on and on and on.”
“When we get out of here, you need to explain all these things to me,” Squirrel eagerly says. “I have a great interest in artifacts myself!”
“If there is enough time, young man… Remember, the Major has no time, and he promised to do something for me.”
“Vodka, anyone?”
Tarasov waves Ilchenko’s offer away. “Please, Captain
, let’s forget that for now. First we have to get out of here. And you might want to keep that bottle for later, Ilchenko. We’re not back at Bagram yet!”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Offer it to the Captain, but here and now I don’t want to see you drinking. Clear?”
“Absolutely, sir.”
“Hey Mac, how did you find your pet jackal anyway?” Squirrel says, before the tension in the air can thicken any more.
“A snake got to my dog’s mother, Squirrel. Billy is the best companion – he doesn’t tell boring jokes, doesn’t beg me for a medikit, and always warns me of dangers ahead.”
“That’s cool, man. You know, I always wondered why Stalkers didn’t use dogs in the Zone to smell out mutants and anomalies.”
“Probably because no one has ever made a protection suit with armor plates and gas masks suitable for dogs,” Tarasov says. “Besides, not even dogs could smell anything while wearing a gas mask.”
“Hmm… that’s true. But anyway, it’s still a jackal.”
“All right. You won. He was a jackal. You happy now?”
“Happy, man. But he still is.”
“No. He’s a domesticated canine now. And that makes him a dog.”
“Whatever. It won’t be my balls he’ll bite off when he grows up.”
“He will not bite my balls either, you can be sure of that.”
“Yes, he will.”
“No, he won’t!”
“You better be careful with mutants, kid. They grow quickly.” The major stretches his arms and releases a tired sigh. “All right… Mac, first watch is on you. Squirrel, you’re up next. We move out at five sharp.”
“You men can sleep,” the Captain cuts in. “I need no rest.”
“Come on, Captain. You need to rest. And who has ever heard of an officer taking the first watch? It’s grunt privilege.”
“But I really need no sleep. I had some food, now I don’t need to rest. Later, I will rest for a very, very long time.”
“That’s actually true,” Tarasov replies with a shrug. “Because once you get home, your only worry will be journalists and all… you’ll be a celebrity. A hero, even.”
“I don’t think so, Major.”
“You don’t have to. For now, take this rifle if you insist on keeping watch. I trust you still know how to handle it.”
The Captain knows. Tarasov takes his helmet off, rubs his weary eyes and lies down on the ground, crossing his fingers behind his head. His eyelids feel like lead. But before he falls into an uneasy sleep, he turns to the Captain one more time.
“And Captain… if you want me to do that favor you’ll have in mind, do not let the kid sneak away… if he has to crap, pee, do his prayers or jerk off, whatever, he will do it in front of you. That’s an order.”
“But –” the young Stalker tries to cut in.
“Shut up, Mac. Go to sleep… Kids like you need at least eight hours of sleep, but four and a half is all you’re going to get.”
STALKER Southern Comfort Page 12
