STALKER Northern Passage

STALKER Northern Passage Page 5

by Balazs Pataki

“You don’t happen to have a Geiger counter, do you?” Tarasov asks him, amused.

  “I reckon I do, mate.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure! I heard a thing or two about Chernobyl. I grabbed one as soon as I knew we were going on a trip to Ukraine!”

  “Amazing,” Tarasov says. Many people try to think about every scenario they might encounter on a trip into any wilderness, but very few actually prepare for them properly. Sawyer appears to belong to these few. He suddenly takes the survivalist much more seriously. “Give me that Geiger right away.”

  Sawyer’s US-made, PRM-8000 type portable radiation meter appears to him as a compromise between effectiveness and ease of use; very much in contrary to the Russian meters where the earlier always came first over the latter. It wouldn’t match the sensitivity of a scientific meter, but what it lacks in accuracy is made up by its versatility: constant monitoring, straightforward operation and tone warning that can be muted in situations requiring silence. The case was made using metal if for additional ruggedness. All in all, it is a very useful device unless one is bound to penetrate the deepest, most contaminated areas of the Exclusion Zone.

  Tarasov adjusts his belt to find a place for the cell phone sized device and then leads on. “There was a flower-bed nearby, but Strelok had trampled it down. The smell lingered for a long time though.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “I don’t know. I asked him why, too. And he said, ‘you’ll understand later.’ I think he just came to hate the Zone.”

  “Strelok, that’s his name?”

  “A nickname, Top. Like yours. He was my teacher. He opened my eyes. Then something happened to him, something broke in him. Though I think he was punished… for knowing too much of the Zone’s secrets.”

  “How do you mean, punished? Or was it just a figure of speech?”

  “Some people returned from here and get rich overnight. Fabulously rich. You call it punishment?”

  “Can be, mate.”

  “Some hang themselves a week later. Strelok was looking for different riches. That’s why he is still alive. Though he paid a heavy price for it.”

  Tarasov suddenly raises his fist.

  The sound of a lonely cuckoo in the woods fells silent. A long, muted howl permeates the foggy valley.

  “What was that?” the Top whispers.

  Tarasov waits for a minute, then gives the sign to march on.

  “There’s not supposed to be any blind dogs here,” he murmurs to himself. “Not in the Rim… or is it expanding so quickly?”

  “What is the Zone about?” Pete asks.

  “No one knows.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Nothing… or anything. A message to mankind, as some pompous scientists say. Or a gift. Some gift. Like a poisoned apple. Sweet poison for some. How do you think the New Zone was created, Top?”

  “Ask Nooria. She’ll tell you it’s always been there, kept at bay by some weird witchcraft.”

  “Didn’t take you for a believer in witchcraft,” Sawyer says.

  “I only believe what I see, and I’m telling you—I’ve seen some really weird things in the sandbox after the nukes had hit it. Bad things. Then Nooria grew up and she’d let us see the good things.”

  “What are you talking about, mate?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Mister Stalker, could you please explain in what a bizarre company I am?”

  “It’s not bizarre. I was serving as an army officer in the Exclusion Zone for years. The Top, I mean Sergeant Major Hartman, did the same in Afghanistan. He came to love it too much to leave it. Am I right, Top?”

  “About. Nooria’s mother wants us to leave. But we’ll only decide once we know if we love or hate it more.”

  “Then, Nooria… who are you?”

  “I am Misha’s woman and Pete’s big sister.”

  “Apart from that?”

  “Warriors call me witch. I don’t mind—they must not know everything. Only Colonel does.”

  “Mysterious like always. So, last not least, the kid named Pete is the son of the all-knowing commander of the Tribe.”

  “The Tribe?”

  “Actually, I always wanted to ask you,” Pete says directing his words to Hartman. “I am a little confused about this. Sometimes you refer to Marines, sometimes you say Tribe… what are you after all?”

  “The Tribe begins where the Corps ends. Coincides with the thin red line separating the call of duty from what’s beyond it.”

  “Bloody amazing… You’re the most interesting folks I’ve met in a long, long time.” Sawyer halts his steps and wipes sweat from his neck.

  “We’ll have to pass through a tunnel soon,” Tarasov says. “Look… over there.”

  A hundred or so meters ahead, the rails lead directly into a tunnel.

  “Looks like a gigantic mouth devouring the rails,” Pete whispers.

  “Tuzla Tunnel.” Tarasov takes a bolt from the pouch and readies the detector. “Listen up. From now on, do only what I say. Keep your rifles ready but do not shoot at anything without me telling you so.”

  “Local version of the Salang Pass?” the Top asks.

  “Much shorter. Darker, too. Stalkers also call it the Meat Grinder.”

  “And what are those things over there?”

  Tarasov looks at the direction Sawyer is pointing. In the proximity of the tunnel entrance, his eyes detect blurry orbs that appear like huge soap bubbles.

  “Stay where you are.” He takes a step closer to inspect the bubbles. “Don’t move.”

  He opens the anomaly detector but it doesn’t indicate any danger. Cursing the limited capabilities of the low-end device, Tarasov takes a bolt from his pouch and throws it ahead.

  The bolt disappears, as if sucked in by a void but no electric discharge sizzles, neither does the bolt go up in acidic flames. Yet the blurry orbs are there, unless his eyes are playing a trick on him.

  “Stay away. This looks like an anomaly… a Space anomaly!”

  “What if I take a chance—”

  “Sawyer! Stop! Listen, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Here a risk, there a risk. What the hell!”

  “No! Those things… No one knows where you end up if you touch them! You could be caged for eternity in God knows what dimension!”

  “You may do as you wish, but I must experience this!”

  “You’re insane. Wait! Keep your hands off! Don’t touch it, I said! The others be my witness, I didn’t let you go there! You go of your own will!”

  The survivalist reaches for the blurry orb.

  “Of my own will. What else?”

  “Nothing. Go, if you insist. God help you to be lucky!”

  It is a matter of seconds for the orb to extend and a flash blinding them. When they open their eyes, the orb is still there but Sawyer has disappeared.

  “Holy fuck,” yells Pete, “did you just see that?”

  “Where did he disappear?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did it kill him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  “This is no place for leisurely strolls. The Zone wants to be respected. Otherwise it will punish,” Tarasov says, trying to hide his anguish behind words.

  “Shit,” Hartman says. “I was beginning to like him.”

  “The Zone is a very complicated system—of traps, and they’re all deadly. At the moment someone shows up, everything comes into motion. Old traps disappear and new ones emerge. Safe spots become impassable. Now your path is easy, now it’s hopeless. That’s the Zone. It may even seem capricious.”

  “So it decides whom it lets pass?”

  “I don’t know. I think it lets those pass who have lost all hope. Not good or bad, but wretched people. But even the most wretched will die if they don’t know how to behave. Whatever happened to him – maybe his example will save at least your lives by making you
more cautious. Is that clear? Put on your headlamps and follow me.”

  Tarasov warily enters the tunnel. Pete, who is walking behind him on the rails, begins to croon.

  “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time, I keep the ends out for the tie that binds, Because you’re mine, I walk the line…”

  “Cut it!” Tarasov snaps at him.

  “Sorry man. It just came to my mind, with us walking the line and keeping our eyes open.”

  “Then just walk and look but don’t make noise, Pete. There might be mutants here keeping their ears open.”

  35

  Alamo, New Zone

  “Cigarette?”

  Ramirez gladly accepts the Lucky Strike offered by the Colonel. Drawing on it, he continues to tell the account of the lost battle.

  “We were doing good but then the smiters came. Still, the fifties and automatic rifles would’ve given us the advantage but then… when I saw they were wielding machine guns, it was clear that all is lost.”

  “What type of machine guns?”

  “Russian-made heavies. I saw two with DShKs and maybe three with DPKs.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The Colonel, who had so far been listening to Ramirez’s account with sadness but no fear, now turns pale.

  “They got us pinned down, crossed the creek and breached our defenses. The assaulting ragheads used them for tanks. The smiters’ fire wasn’t too accurate but one doesn’t need much accuracy with a hip-fired AA gun… in short, we had no chance. At least that’s how I see it, sir.”

  “No, you didn’t,” the Colonel agrees. “Any suggestions?”

  “The only good news is that Staff Sergeant Rush’s report can be confirmed – those bastards can take a heavy beating before they fall but appear to be vulnerable to fire. Heavy automatic weapons with incendiary rounds, flamethrowers, portable miniguns with incendiary rounds… maybe the witch can concoct something from a swag to coat our small-arms ammo. I had actually hoped she’d be back with the Top in the meantime.”

  The Colonel exhales the smoke of his cigarette. “I made a mistake,” he slowly says. ”Before the recent trouble began, I let them go with Tarasov to the Zone in Ukraine. Let’s hope they find their way back soon.”

  “We all wish Sergeant Major Hartman and Nooria were here now.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Until Nooria comes up with some witchcraft, Molotov cocktails could be useful too. Frankly, sir, those would be my choice against smiters and not rifles, not even the newest ones, should I ever face them again.” Ramirez holds his words for a heartbeat. “But then, I won’t.”

  “You gave them your word of honor to return with my answer, and then be executed?”

  “That’s correct, sir. They promised to let the dozen men return who they’ve captured.”

  “How wicked of them. Well, if they want to martyr themselves en masse – so be it.”

  “Will that be your answer, sir?”

  “You will return, Lieutenant Ramirez, and show them that my warriors keep their word of honor. Just like anyone in the Tribe would.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Tell them that going to our knees is no part of our Code. That will be the answer of the Tribe. Are you ready to do this for us?”

  “I am, sir.”

  ”Sometimes I regret that we have no medals and decorations, José.”

  “I’ve had enough awards during old times,” Ramirez replies, referring to the period when they were still Marines. “I don’t care about those. I let Saria turn even the Bronze Star into a pendant. Looks better on her neck than on my chest—anyway, what counts is the privilege to have served with you, sir.”

  “Nevertheless, there is something I can give you as a sign of my appreciation.” The Colonel takes an unopened box of cigarettes from his field table. “It’s my last pack. Enjoy as many as you can on your way back.”

  “Thank you, sir. But… if you agree, sir, we could use their own weapons against them. I could put explosives on myself or hide a gun and…”

  The big man interrupts Ramirez. “No, Lieutenant. This is not the way to do it. Besides, don’t forget about the POWs they have. But you can be sure as hell that we’ll get them soon enough.”

  “I couldn’t hope for more.”

  A moment of silence descends on the two men. Then Ramirez crushes his cigarette. ”Permission to leave, sir?”

  “May the Spirit be with you, José. Thank you and Semper Fi.”

  Rumor has spread fast and when the Colonel and Ramirez appear at the tower entrance, the off-duty fighters have already gathered to see what they would otherwise not believe.

  “Form a line!” Lieutenant Bauer shouts. ”Ten-hut!”

  The Colonel stands at the tower with his arms folded. Not as much as muscle stirs on Lieutenant Ramirez’s face as he walks down the line of his comrades.

  Bauer looks at the Colonel who gives a slight nod. He, Nelson and the few senior warriors who had once fought as Marines and experienced the City of Screams together walk up to Ramirez. Handshakes are exchanged, accompanied by a few words of respect and encouragement.

  “That’s awesome, brother,” Nelson says, “just awesome.”

  “Don’t worry, José. We’ll kick their ass with your name written on our boots.”

  “Be proud and strong, brother.”

  “Hey! What the hell are you whining about?” Ramirez asks.

  “You’re going to die, José,” Bauer replies.

  Ramirez gives him a grim smile. “What’s so bad about dying, anyway? Come on, brother! You can’t deal out death if you’re not ready to accept your own.”

  Bauer bows his head.

  A woman appears; her colorful Hazara garbs fly in the wind as she runs down the alley from the living quarters to the fighters giving their farewells, screaming what sounds like horrible curses in the staccato of her hard-sounding language. Bauer and the Lieutenants respectfully step back – it is Saira. Toughness vanes from Ramirez’s face.

  Amid tears, she throws herself into his arms. Ramirez holds her tight with his eyes closed, then pushes her away. Before Saria lets go of him, the Lieutenant feels her slip something heavy into his pocket.

  Saira draws a curved blade from her belt and cuts a shallow wound in her own forehead. She touches the wound and draws her bloody fingers across her face.

  “Badal!” she screams. “I will not wash my face until I revenge you! ”

  Then she steps to the Lieutenants. “You! Warriors! You will be brothers of my own blood until we revenge him!” Standing on tiptoe to reach the tall warriors’ faces, she smears a little of her blood over their forehead. They let her and their stone-hard faces tell that they are more than willing to take revenge. Saira then falls on her knees, crying and throwing dust over her head.

  Led by the Beghum, more women appear and drag the hysterically crying Saira away. The Beghum puts her hand against Saira’s forehead where blood is still trickling from the self-inflicted wound. The woman’s screams slowly calm down to a silent weep.

  “Let me get this over with at last,” Ramirez coldly says. He salutes for a last time. “May your revenge come soon, my life,” he adds in a much lower voice. He gives the Colonel and his comrades a nod of farewell and steps out of the stronghold gate.

  With Ramirez gone, all eyes are fixed on the Colonel.

  “Let the courage of Lieutenant Ramirez be an example of what honor means in our Tribe,” he says loud enough so that everyone around can hear him. “Mark his words—only those ready to die themselves are worthy of dealing out death to others. We have always been ready but must be even more so now. Man the defenses!”

  _____________________________

  Staying cautiously out of rifle range a few hundred meters away from the Alamo, Skinner, Commander Saifullah and a half-dozen Talib fighters watch Ramirez’s lonely figure approaching. Giving a cold shoulder to his fate, the Lieutenant is drawing on his cigarette
as he returns at a leisurely pace.

  “Their answer is no,” Saifullah says.

  “Stubborn bastards,” grumbles Skinner.

  “All the better,” the Talib commander observes. ”When the infidel gets here, we’ll show them how they will die. All of them.”

  “Not without gang-raping their women first, I guess?”

  “This is Afghanistan, Stalker.”

  When Lieutenant Ramirez walks up to the Humvee with the white flag fastened to the antenna, Saifullah gives his men a sign to get hold of him. Skinner pushes them aside.

  “Let the man say what he has to say!” Then he turns to Ramirez and looks into his calm eyes. “Lieutenant, you’ve kept your word. Respect. Let us know the Colonel’s reply.”

  Ramirez takes a last draw on his cigarette, then tosses it into the wind and clears his throat.

  “I am to tell you that going to our knees is no part of our Code. That is the answer of the Tribe.”

  “Fine with me, Lieutenant,” Skinner says shrugging his shoulders. “I appreciate you telling the reply without barking that cheesy semper fi, oorah! stuff. Guess we can all add it mentally anyway. Okay… Saifullah, he’s all yours.”

  A bloodthirsty grin appears on the Talib’s face as he draws a long, curved sword. His men step to Ramirez.

  “On your knees, you dirty dog!” Saifullah yells.

  “Didn’t you hear what I’ve just said?” Ramirez shouts back.

  Before Saifullah’s men can manhandle him, he draws the M1911 pistol that Saria had slipped into his pocket, raises it to his head and pulls the trigger.

  The gunshot is still echoing in the valley when Lieutenant José Ramirez collapses to the ground.

  Taken over by anger and frustration, Saifullah kicks the corpse. “God curse your wretched soul, you miserable pig of an infidel!”

  Skinner slaps his forehead. “Oh shit.… as if that would change a thing. Never mind, dushman, I guess they got the message anyway. Hey! We better get the hell out of here!”

  But Saifullah, still in rage over the Lieutenant’s suicide depriving him of a theatrical execution, now begins to hack off the head of Ramirez’s corpse. Skinner grabs his arm and pulls him to the vehicle.

  “You got dirt in your ears, you crazy dushman? We gotta move! Now!”

  They climb in the captured Humvee and quickly drive away, backtracking the road to the southern outpost.

  “God be praised!” Saifullah shouts over the roar of the engine and squeaking suspension. “That pig escaped our wrath but we still have the other prisoners. They won’t be so lucky!”

  ”What?” Skinner asks back. “That man gave his word of honor to return and he kept it! Bloody impressive if you ask me. Now it’s your turn to keep your word and release his men!”

  “War is deception,” Saifullah replies with a smile and mumbles something in Arabic that Skinner can’t hear through the engine noise. Then he adds, “At least you told him the truth, Stalker. This land is ours. Invaders must quit it or die!”

  Hearing this, Skinner slowly shakes his head.

  ‘Ours’ meant myself and my mutant brothers, not your sort of devious savages.

  36

  Edge of the Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  Their passage through the Tuzla tunnel gave Tarasov’s companions a good introduction of what is awaiting them deeper in the Zone. The heavy breathing under the gas masks. The light of their headlamps, appearing so tiny in the cavernous tunnel. The sizzling Electro anomalies, gleaming on the ground with blue sparks, the crackling Geiger counter, the green glow of the Veles detector’s tiny screen and the beeps it made to warn them of unseen anomalies. The tedium of bolt throwing to find a safe way through. The three blind dogs with open wounds covering their bodies and their leaps as they tried to bite into the companions’ throats. The blinding muzzle flashes of their shotguns in the darkness.

  “Now you know why people venturing here are called Stalkers,” Tarasov whispers to Pete.

  “I wish we’d be out of here already,” the kid whispers back, anxiously.

  At least the tunnel was not long and the end, beyond which the inner Zone was waiting for them, came closer with each step they made.

  Having at last covered the last steps separating them from the daylight outside, Tarasov pulls his gas mask off and deeply inhales the fresh air. Before him, the rails lead to a ruined bridge over a dark and slow-flowing river, flanked by sparse bushes and reeds. On the other shore, to their right and south to an embankment with derailed carriages rusting away in the tall grass, the Great Swamps are stretching out. Fog banks are floating over the endless fields of reed and the waterways between small islands of solid earth. A barbed wire fence runs along the far shore or the river, at places overgrown by reed. To the far south, a watchtower stands out from the grey fog. Even further, partly covered by fog and tall reed, greenish vapors squirm over the riverside. Tarasov is glad to be far away from the poisonous cloud and the anomalies that emit it.

  “Welcome to the Swamps,” he tells his companions who stand at his side in silence, apparently impressed by the vast, foreboding landscape. Then Nooria points forward and Tarasov immediately understands that no matter their first glimpse of the Zone, it was something else that rendered them speechless – and he himself is struggling to believe his eyes.

  “Incredible,” the Top murmurs.

  “Hey,” a familiar voice says. “Want some coffee?”

  Tarasov blinks at the sight of Sawyer sitting on a rock and leisurely pouring a pouch of instant coffee into a metal mug full of steaming water.

  “What is it, Mr. Stalker?” the survivalist asks cheerily, killing the flame of his camping gas cooker. “You not happy to see me again?”

  “I’m certainly grateful that you—but how did you get here?” Tarasov stammers. “How did you manage to overtake us?”

  “What do you mean, overtake? I stepped into that thingy, and here I was. Thought I’d wait for you here until you happily arrive. And how has your bolt gotten here?”

  Tarasov stares at the bolt lying on a stone right next to the tunnel.

  “That’s the bolt I threw into the anomaly! Gospodi, I’m not going to take one more step until—I don’t like it.”

  “Anyway, we’d better rest for a few minutes before crossing the river,” Hartman says.

  “But keep off this bolt, just in case.“

  “You don’t want to keep off my coffee, I guess,” Sawyer says offering them his mug.

  Tarasov still copes with the idea of Sawyer not only surviving an anomaly, but being teleported at the shore of the river sound and safe while it took them a full hour to navigate through the perilous tunnel. “It’s impossible!”

  “What’s important is that Sawyer’s bag with his underwear is safe,” Pete says and gladly accepts the mug of fresh coffee. “Got any sugar?”

  “Creamer for me, please,” Hartman adds merrily.

  “Pete, don’t stick your nose in someone’s underwear if you don’t understand it,” Nooria says. “Zone appears to be very powerful!”

  Sawyer shakes his head. “What’s there to understand? I’ve got my energy bars, the cooker… all survivalist things that will come in handy. Got no creamer, but here’s a pouch of sugar. Gives one extra calories to burn.”

  Tarasov sighs, then he too takes a sip of coffee. He begins to look at the Australian with a different eye; not far from them he sees proof that the Zone is still much less merciful to others. He points to a spot on the riverside.

  “In any case, you’ve been lucky… unlike that Stalker over there.”

  Not far from a small, dilapidated wooden boat stands stuck in the sandy shore, a man lies in the shallow water. He wears a ragged protective suit, resting his head on his forearm in such a peaceful pose that makes him appear as if he were just sleeping.

  Something moves in the reed, then the head of a black, dog-like creature appears. Its snout resembles that of an oversized bulldog, but its wide mouth flashes
fangs fit for an alpha wolf. Seeing the corpse in the water, it licks its snout with its thick, blue tongue.

  It trots to the corpse, licks its snout once more and bites into the dead man’s face.

  “Yes… this is the Zone,” Tarasov whispers. “Our Zone.”

  The mutant growls when it becomes aware of the five humans. It seems to hesitate, but its hunger is apparently stronger than caution – or maybe it just thinks about leaving the still living humans for later.

  The bang of a rifle shot shatters the silence. A split second later, the mutant’s head is hit and goes off with chunks of human meat still in his mouth.

  “Sorry for spoiling your appetite, puppy,” Sawyer says working the bolt of his rifle.

  “Outstanding shot, Sawyer!”

  “Just call me Finn, Top. My father was fond of Mark Twain, you know?” With a showy gesture, the Australian adjusts his hat. “Hey Mister Stalker, where’re you goin’?”

  “Keep your eyes on the reed and bushes while I check the body.”

  “That dog-like beast looks dead alright to me.”

  “It’s that fellow I mean,” Tarasov says walking to the dead Stalker. He puts his breathing mask on to filter the stench and pats down the pockets on the dead man’s suit.

  “Already acting like a scavenger?”

  “Every body tells a story.”

  Triumphantly, he fishes a detector from a pocket on the corpse.

  “A Veles,” he says showing the device. “A next generation scanner. In normal mode it registers only radiation and anomalies, but if I open it, it also indicates nearby artifacts on a display screen. Pretty useful.”

  “Didn’t help this fellow much.”

  “Whatever it was, it got to him on his way out or so it seems… the Zone didn’t let him leave.” Tarasov takes one more look at the body. “And if he had a Veles, and was on his way out, it means that…”

  He dons his protective gloves and turns the body over. The sight drives cold down through his spine. Even the hardened Top turns his head away with a grimace of disgust.

  “At least it wasn’t for nothing.” Tarasov takes an artifact from the container on the dead man’s belt. It looks like two blue mushroom heads held together by a strange substance resembling non-sticking jelly. His radiation meter starts beeping. “A Shell… damn. I’d need another one, a Jellyfish or something similar, to balance out the radiation it’s emitting. Sawyer! Come over here!”

  “What is it?”

  “I need your hunting knife.”

  Tarasov cuts the container off the belt and tosses it to the Australian.

  “What do you prefer? Being encumbered by that rucksack or a little nausea?”

  “It’s not heavy at all.”

  “Fasten this container with the artifact to your belt, and ask Nooria for anti-radiation drugs every two hours or so.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “That’s the point,” Tarasov says getting to his feet. “Keeping that thing close to you, you will follow me even if your rucksack were twice as heavy as it is.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s an artifact, or call it a swag like Hartman’s people do. The Shell I just gave you has a stimulating effect. Don’t ask me how and why. Too bad it’s a little radioactive…”

  “Jesus! And you want me to put it next to my balls..? Keep that… thing to yourself!”

  “Nothing an anti-rad couldn’t keep under control.”

  “You sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “What if I drink vodka against radiation?”

  “You get drunk. Can’t allow that till we get to a safer place.”

  Sawyer doesn’t look convinced but when they prepare to leave, and he puts on his overloaded rucksack with much less effort, he starts to grin.

  “Hey mate… that’s awesome! But if I wake up one morning with nothin’ left to piss with, I’ll stuff that bloody thingy down yer throat!”

  “Don’t worry,” Tarasov says, powering on the Veles detector. ”Crap! the batteries are dead.”

  Using the Swiss army knife from the survival kit they all got from Jimmy the Nut, Tarasov screws off the battery compartment of the Bear detector to switch batteries.

  “What was that beast Finn just killed?” the Top asks.

  “A pseudodog.”

  “Lame name for a mutant.”

  “’Pseudo’ means ’almost’,” Tarasov replies, shrugging. “Almost like a dog—pseudodog. Sounds logical to me.”

  “At least it doesn’t attack in packs like jackals do.”

  “Not so sure about that. Sometimes they team up with a pack of blind dogs. Blind dogs are cowards, they run if you kill one or two of them but the presence of a pseudodog gives them self-confidence. Once I met such a pack. They made me run faster than the devil… Okay, let’s see if it works now.”

  With the new batteries, the green display of the Veles comes to life. Satisfied, Tarasov fastens it to his belt and scans the river with his binoculars.

  “The current is strong but the river’s not too wide here… Think we could cross it in that boat, Top?”

  “Kidding? You have two Marines in the party!”

  “Actually… it’s not the water that I’m concerned about.”

  “Then what?”

  For a reply, Tarasov gives Hartman his binoculars and points to a spot about fifty meters downstream. Hardly visible with bare eyes but all the more conspicuous through the binoculars, there is a circular area appearing like a shallow pit in the water, as if an invisible sphere of pulsating energy would be hovering above. Zooming in, small debris becomes visible as it whirls around in the sphere, driven by a vortex of invisible energy.

  “Looks like trouble.”

  “A Whirligig anomaly.” Tarasov shakes his head and sighs. “Damn! Right in the middle of the river. The current could drive us into it.”

  “Anomalies in the water? Jesus Christ, this place is weirder than I expected. There’s no such thing in the sandbox!”

  “Sure, because there’s not much water.”

  “Because you haven’t been to the Amir lakes, far to the north of the City of Screams. It’s the closest thing the sandbox has to beauty. After our valley, of course.”

  “Anyways, there’s an anomaly field between the observation tower on the riverbank and the abandoned Clear Sky base. A powerful emission must have relocated the anomalies. You know what makes me scared? The thought of the Zone being a balloon, emissions the air pumped into it, and each emission making it expand till one day it goes kaboom!”

  “That’s very poetic but let’s focus on what’s ahead. Can’t we use the bridge? A stretch is missing from the middle but looks like we’re gonna wet our feet either way.”

  “Metal structure. Must be heavily irradiated. Besides, if one of us slips and falls off… no, forget the bridge. We’ve already used up all our luck today with Sawyer getting out alive from that anomaly.”

  “You too can call me Finn,” the Australian says behind them.

  “That little boat ain’t exactly a landing craft,” the Top observes. Only three of us fit in at once. Besides, steering it overloaded would be difficult.”

  “Good idea. First, I’ll take you two Marines. You’ll land and establish a bridge-head,” Tarasov jokes. ”Take your rifles only. Then comes Nooria and most of our gear and finally Finn.”

  The boat has barely reached the middle of the river when Tarasov realizes how right Hartman was. Water is leaking through the half-rotten planks of the hull and with everyone inside, they surely would have sunk. By the time he reaches the other bank, only a hands’ span of the hull stands out off the water.

  “Do not move till I’m back. Keep your rifles at hand. Help me to turn the boat and let the water out.”

  The reeds move and all three raise their rifles to face anything that might come out from there.

  “The wind got stronger suddenly…” Tarasov worriedly says. “I hope this is not the sign of
an emission approaching. If it catches us in the open we’re screwed.”

  Crossing the river once more is easier with only Nooria and half of their rucksacks inside. Next, he and Sawyer load the remaining gear into the boat. Tarasov starts paddling, trying to steer the boat towards the bridge at an angle that would help them avoid the anomaly. Now he has to work hard not only against the against the current, but the wind too. With each paddle stroke, the safe angle becomes difficult to keep. Adding to their troubles, the boat is again half full of brown, muddy water. The Veles detector begins to emit a slow sequence of warning beeps. To his terror, Tarasov sees that despite his efforts they are driven directly toward the big anomaly.

  “Holy fuck,” Sawyer gasps.

  Tarasov doubles his efforts but it seems to him as if the strong current wants to tear the paddles out of his hands. The sluggish boat is almost impossible to steer by now. The detector’s warning intensifies.

  “Take the paddles!” he yells and moves to the bow. Knee-deep in the water that keeps leaking in, he throws a bolt into the orb. The anomaly flashes on the surface where the bolt hits, followed by a weak orange glow as it consumes the bolt. Desperately, Tarasov throws a second one.

  “Maybe it’ll just teleport us to the riverbank,” Sawyer shouts, trying to sound cheerful but Tarasov hears the fear in his voice very well.

  “That’s not a Space anomaly! It’s a Whirligig!”

  “Whirly-what?”

  “A vortex that will shred us!”

  The detector’s beeping grows into a frenzied whistle. Watching them with dread, their companions on the riverbank yell anxiously at them but their voice is carried away by the wind. The anomaly is only a few meters away and now they can hear its low, menacing drone.

  “Paddle harder, Finn! Keep to the left, to the left!”

  “I can’t!”

  Tarasov grabs at the nearest rucksack.

  “No!” Sawyer yells. ”Don’t do it!”

  Ignoring him, Tarasov takes and tosses Sawyer’s gear into the anomaly just when the boat is about to drift into it.

  With a muted whoosh, the rucksack darts upwards, whirls in the sky and explodes into shreds, driven by a massive eruption of energy.

  “No! my rucksack!” Sawyer whines. “I can’t do without my rucksack!”

  Regaining breath, Tarasov watches the surface straighten itself as the boat drifts through. The boat’s stern has barely passed the spot where the anomaly had been a few seconds before when the drone continues. The shallow cavity reappears in the surface, then the blurry sphere above it is also back.

  “I triggered the anomaly,” he says. “Bolts wouldn’t do the trick. I needed something big and heavy… sorry about your rucksack, Finn.”

  “I had all my survival equipment in it!”

  “Survive like that!” Tarasov shouts back at him. “I just saved your life, goddammit! Now let me back on the paddles!”

  “Then I don’t need your radioactive shit any longer,” Sawyer says with frustration all over his face. “Fuck your swag!”

  He removes the artifact container from his belt. Seeing what he is up to, it is now Tarasov’s turn to scream and his dread makes him forget about talking in English.

  “Ne! Idiot, ne—”

  Before Tarasov could grasp Sawyer’s hand, he throws the artifact back over his shoulder – right into the anomaly.

  A light flashes brighter than the sun, then a deafening explosion thunders. Tarasov feels as if the boat would slip out under his feet and falls backwards. Where the Whirligig was, a jet of water raises and evaporates high above like the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb. The Geiger counter screams from values that overload its sensors. Rocked by waves, the boat almost submerges before hitting a sand bank close to the shore where it finally comes to a halt. The water column collapses with a splash. Then the Geiger counter’s signal is back to normal.

  Tarasov cautiously peeks over the plank. The anomaly has disappeared.

  The two men in the boat exchange a bewildered look.

  “I—I didn’t expect that,” Sawyer stammers and takes his hat from the water that leaked into the boat. “Jesus Holy Christ, did my swag do that? I…”

  “No,” Tarasov says getting up. He points his finger at his companion repeatedly, warning him. “Just—no. Do not say anything, Finn.”

  “Still in one piece?”

  With their ears still ringing they can barely hear Hartman shouting as he wades through the waist-deep water. The former Marine sighs heavily when he sees that Tarasov and Sawyer are unharmed, apart from being soaked and kind of shell-shocked.

  “You two just made Iwo Jima look like women’s beach ball,” he grumbles and takes the remaining rucksacks from the boat. “Come! Let’s get to the shore at last!”

  37

  Fallen outpost, New Zone

  “Dunno why I’m doin’ dis after what happened at Ghorband, but here’s your burer.”

  Senka doesn’t sound too happy as he points the LED of his torchlight to the big crate. It is made of metal and seems safe enough to contain whatever is inside, but the Bandits have covered it with a metal mesh in addition to the strong ropes fixing it to the flatbed of their Japanese pick-up. The two other Bandits accompanying him keep their Kalashnikovs ready and dart anxious looks at the crate.

  “You infidel scoundrels have just had bad luck,” Commander Saifullah says. “See the bodies of our ungodly enemies? We’ve beaten them!”

  “Can’t see shit in this darkness,” Senka says.

  “Don’t worry, Senka,” Skinner says. “It’s safe here. Saifullah told you the truth. We’ve finished off a whole squad of the Tribe right here at the bridge, including one of their oh-so-badass Lieutenants.”

  “Amazin’. May I touch ya? Now get dat beast off our hands and make it quick. We don’t wanna tarry here too long.”

  “Where’s Bruiser?” Skinner asks ignoring the Bandit’s distress.

  “Back at da airfield in Charikhar, where I brought yer pet from.”

  “You’re heading there now?”

  “Nay,” Senka sneers. “First we go to Kabul to get a healthy dose of radiation. Holy fuck! Of course we’ll drive back right now!”

  “It’s a dangerous road,” Skinner says grinning. “Full of anomalies and shit.”

  “Dontcha say, man. Really? Hope we won’t drive into any.”

  “You will,” Skinner says aiming his AK-74 at Senka, “at least that’s what Bruiser’s gonna think.”

  A scream of surprise is the last sound leaving the Bandit’s lips when three rounds fired from Skinner’s rifle at point-blank range hit his chest. At the same time, two more rifles mow down his escort.

  “I hate Bandits,” the half-mutant Stalker says to Saifullah.

  “That makes two of us,” the Talib commander replies. He yells something in Pashtu to three fighters who now appear from their cover.

  “Thanks dushman, but we don’t need your help,” Skinner says and makes a whistle. In a minute, two smiters approach. One of them, still wearing rags with blue-brown camouflage, gives the dead Bandits a hungry look.

  Get the crate off the car, Skinner mentally commands him. Dinner comes later.

  “I will burn in hell for dealing with you and your haram creatures,” Saifullah murmurs as he watches the two mutants effortlessly lift the heavy crate.

  Skinner shrugs. “Really? I thought your god will be pleased with you giving him victory. And the little fellow inside that crate is here to do just that.”

  “What is it?” Saifullah asks. He looks at his fighters who move closer to him, keeping their index fingers on the trigger guards of their old Kalashnikovs.

  A groan sounds inside the crate, as if a caged man would moan over his imprisonment in a humanoid, yet deeper and distorted voice.

  “Saifullah, you and your men better step back a few meters,” Skinner says. The four Taliban comply more than happily.

  Open the crate, brothers.

  The
smiters remove the steel mesh and open the crate. Feeling the stench it emanates, even Skinner has to cover his nose.

  Something sniffs at the air. Then a stocky, almost dwarf-like mutant appears, clad in shreds of a shabby overall that resembles a tattered coat. It waggles out from the crate and sniffs at the air once more.

  Freedom smells good, doesn’t it little brother?

  Focusing on the stocky little mutant’s mind, Skinner senses relief, hunger and anxiousness.

  Come, you are among friends here.

  “By God! What’s this abomination?”

  Hearing Saifullah’s startled words, the Burer hisses and thrusts his short arms toward him. The AK falls from the Talib’s hands, as if an invisible force had torn it from his grasp. One of Saifullah’s bodyguards fires—and shouts with dread seeing his bullets being repelled by an unseen shield. The air undulates and shimmers between the mutant’s outstretched arms, then forms a conical field that shoots out toward the Talib and hits him with full force. The telekinesis attack sends him helplessly to the ground.

  “Don’t shoot, you idiots!”

  Alarmed, Skinner jumps between Saifullah and the mutant.

  He doesn’t know you yet, little brother. He is with us. See me? I am your brother. See them? They are your big brothers. Don’t worry about the humans. They will not hurt you.

  Fear, is the reaction he senses. Hunger.

  I will bring you to a nice dark place with plenty of food, Skinner replies.

  Tired.

  You don’t even have to walk, burer.

  The mutant looks at him. The two little pig eyes in its face that resemble grotesquely disfigured human features tell of fear.

  Don’t know this place. Alone. You protect me?

  You will be safe with your brothers, Skinner nods and waves his hand. One of his smiters steps to the Burer and lifts it. The helpless little mutant moans but sounds more embarrassed than scared. In response, the huge humanoid emits a growl that might go for a laugh and tosses the Burer to the other smiter who skillfully catches and has a close look at it.

  Stop that! He’s not a dwarf to be tossed around, Skinner mentally commands but he himself can barely suppress a smile when he senses the thoughts of the nearby smiters.

  Smells good! Female! Will have fun!

  His smile hardens into a cruel grin when he turns to Saifullah who stands there like petrified and mumbling a prayer. “The Tribe is annihilated, they just don’t know it yet.”

  “Will that… demon kill them all?”

  “No, dushman. We will. That is mostly me and my brothers, while you stay back and then boast over your victory in the name of your benevolent and merciful god. Just like it happened here.”

  Saifullah is too daunted to realize the scorn in Skinner’s words. “How?”

  “This little friend is a burer. Dwells underground and digs like a mole. He’ll find a way into the caves under the Tribe’s stronghold. All we have to do is to follow him. He’ll be our battering ram, so to say.”

  “He?”

  “Good question. Maybe a she? Be my guest if you wanna check it out.”

  Saifullah wildly shakes his head.

  “He’s hungry,” Skinner continues looking at the three bodies. “So are we. Care to join us for dinner?”

  “God forbid,” the Talib says with a gasp.

  “Then you better go, dushman. We’ll move out as soon as our belly is full. Wait for our signal.”

  Apparently fighting a sudden sickness, Saifullah turns away from the mutants and hastily leaves.

  Skinner waves to the two smiters and the Burer and jolts his head toward the bodies.

  Dinner time, brothers!

  To make sure that the dim-witted mutants can understand him, he adds: Eat! Nom-nom!

  38

  Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  “It’s surprisingly comfy here.”

  Finn Sawyer looks around in the small cave where they are hiding from the rainstorm raging outside. “Definitely looks well frequented.”

  “It’s a hideout of the man we’re going to visit,” Tarasov says putting down his rucksack. He breathes into his palms to warm them up. “He uses it as a stopover during his trips to Agroprom and beyond.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Will tell you later. Finn, do you have firestarters left?”

  “Course I do.”

  “Pete, Top, get a few branches from those bushes at the cave entrance. Nooria, it’s time to take our medicine.”

  She fumbles in her shoulder bag and gives Tarasov and Sawyer a pack of red and blue anti-radiation drugs.

  “You must dry your clothes, Mikhailo. Getting a cold is not nice.”

  “Thanks God for vodka.”

  To wash away the sickening metal taste that lingers on his tongue since he was exposed to the exploding Whirligig, Tarasov rolls the spirit in his mouth before sending it down his throat. Then he takes the drugs and flushes the pill down with another gulp.

  “Call me overcautious,” Tarasov tells Nooria who watches his alcohol intake with a frown. He offers the bottle to Sawyer. “Finn, you’re next.”

  “’Mexaminum. Experimental radiation protection medicament’,” the Australian reads out the label. “’This drug induces contraction of peripheral blood vessels and oxygen deprivation, which serves to treat and prevent radiation exposure. The drug does not have severe side effects, although isolated cases of mild nausea, dizziness, cramps and stomach pain have been reported. Made in Germany.’ Frankly, mate, after reading the side effects—dunno what’s worse.”

  “Just take it. Germans make good anti-radiation stuff ever since Chernobyl scared the shit out of them.”

  “At least we have a good excuse to drink. This is to my rucksack! May it go to the Walhalla of heroic survival gear, if there’s any!”

  “Cheers,” the Top says arriving back with a small pile of branches. “Leave something for me, will you?”

  “Firestarters and the cooker were in me rucksack. One day I will have my revenge on you, Mister…”

  “Mikhailo. And sorry again.”

  “Mikhailo, then. So, one day you will be beggin’ me for a little wine powder. And I’ll say with incredible pleasure: nope, mate.” He reaches for a pocket on his trouser from where he fishes a small metal box. “Anyway, luckily for us, good ol’ Sawyer is prepared for everything. Like losing my rucksack, hangin’ on a rope that’s about to crack and needin’ to cut the straps or somethin’, though I’d never imagined to lose it like that. See, I have a redundant survival kit on me with Mayan sticks and water-proof matches, plus a mirror, a button compass…”

  Pete chuckles. “Jesus, you’re beyond rad and all but why not use a normal gas lighter?”

  “Because it would burn your thumb till you set wet wood alight, and there’s a good chance that wood you find in the wilderness will be wet. These sticks are 80% pine raisin and burn hot as hell. Here you go. I don’t make it big, otherwise we’ll all die in this hole from smoke inhalation.”

  In a minute a small fire is burning, casting its flickering light on the items someone had moved here: a shabby bedroll in the corner, a footless chair and a car tire. A shovel and a bucket stand in a corner, apparently used for digging out the cave.

  A thunder sounds outside. Tarasov looks at his watch.

  “Half past one. Let’s hope the storm will be over quickly. We only have about five hours of daylight left and don’t want to spend the night without shelter, believe me.”

  “Where exactly are we going?” Nooria asks. “To a friend of yours?”

  “Strelok’s, actually. I’ve seen him only once, shortly after… anyway, I was there with him and Alex Degtyarev. Hope I still remember the way.”

  “I have to say your leadership was quite all right so far.”

  “There’s no such thing in the Zone, Top. Only luck and the Zone’s mercy.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t start sermonizing again,” Pete says mimicking a yawn.


  “I know you hate hearing this, but – one day you’ll understand.”

  “I do hate hearing it.”

  “Better get used to it, son. Compared to your father, Misha Tarasov is a nanny with a heart of gold.”

  “And what does this make you, Sergeant Major? A grandma?”

  “Call me a grandma once more and I break your goddamn neck,” Hartman grumbles,

  “Misha does have a heart of gold,” Nooria quickly cuts in with a smile. “And you too, Top.”

  “Don’t ruin his image of a tough guy he’s been working on all the time, big sister.”

  “Pete, shut up. And thanks Nooria, it’s appreciated. Let’s have some havchik… eh, I mean food.”

  They sit quietly, listening to the storm outside and sitting as close to the small fire as they can. Nooria distributes some of the rations from the Tribe’s base. It is not for the first time Tarasov realizes that American gear may be more sophisticated but not necessarily better than what’s common in the Ukrainian or any other ex-Soviet army. At least the chili-and-macaroni as main dish, peanut butter and the Top’s object of pet hate, the HOOAH! Bar doesn’t fill his belly much better than the Ukrainian rations having canned meat, concentrated broth, sardines and porridge for backbone.

  “In case of war, your food wouldn’t make us run over to you,” he shares his thoughts loudly. “This flameless ration heater is a good idea, though.”

  “Does that mean I can have your Tabasco sauce? Thanks.”

  “You can have my peanut butter too. Gospodi, Hartman, how can you eat this stuff with bread? It’s like… molten sugar.”

  “That’s mine, if you don’t want it,” Pete says and eagerly takes the small pouch. “Don’t say anything bad about the national pride of America, please.”

  The Top gives a snorting laugh.

  “That’s damn right, son.”

  “Don’t try to peanut-butter me up, Sergeant Major. I’m not gonna share it with you.”

  “What has happened to camaraderie in this world?” the Top says with a disappointed sigh.

  The fire is soon spent. Going to collect more wood, Tarasov peeks out from the cave’s entrance. The rain falls unabatedly and the thunder makes the ruined bridge cast bizarre shadows on the river. The turned-over railway carriages next to the cave entrance block his view to the northern horizon where the wind is driving the dark and mighty clouds. It doesn’t appear as if the storm will cease anytime soon.

  Doesn’t make a difference in this weather if it’s night or day, he thinks.

  “Let’s move on,” he tells the others when returning to the cave. “Makes no sense to wait for the storm to recede.”

  “My rifle bags were also in my rucksack,” Sawyer reproachfully says. “At least carry the rifles with barrels down.”

  “No,” Tarasov says putting on his rucksack. “Better carry them ready to shoot.”

  “I won’t shoot at humans,” Finn Sawyer says getting up. ”Just for the record, mates.”

  “And if they shoot at you first?” Hartman asks.

  “Never happened but maybe I’d reconsider… when all of you gung-ho guys are dead already.”

  Tarasov takes point as they leave the safety of the cave and begin to trek eastwards between the railway embankment and a long stretch of barbed wire. After a hundred meters or so he stops, waits for the Top at the end of their small column to catch up and turns to the south, towards the thick reed.

  Damn. The reed hides mutants, but at least makes them easy to detect by the noise they make. But not in this storm.

  “Stay close!”

  Tarasov must shout to make himself be heard in the rumbling thunderstorm.

  “Keep your eyes open,” he yells. “If the reed moves – shoot!”

  “What?”

  “Prepare for your boars, Finn!” Tarasov shouts back and waves his hand to the others. “Move!”

  He feels a surge of self-confidence as his steps lead him unerringly to the spot where the barbed wire is missing for a few meters, though the triangular sign warning of radioactivity is still visible in the reed that has overgrown the fence separating the Zone proper from its outskirts.

  “Why didn’t anyone just cut through the fence elsewhere?” the Top asks.

  “At least this passage through the reeds is safe, but who knows what lies a few meters away from here!”

  Not seeing further than two or three meters in the splashing rain, Tarasov hopes that the headlamps will not fail. They would betray their presence to any hostiles lurking behind the reeds but at least he as leader can see if everyone’s still following him.

  Sawyer, having switched from his hat to the hood of his Gore-Tex jacket, looks around wearily.

  Nooria, right in the middle with two armed men walking ahead and behind her, carefully watching her steps, jumps gracefully over a piece of corroded metal standing out from the mud.

  Pete, cursing as he almost stumbles over the same object but having the common sense of swiftly turning his rifle sideways, lest it might accidentally go off and hit those walking before him.

  Above all other lights but still barely over the high reeds, Hartman’s headlamp shines. Tarasov can’t see his face, even though the distance between them is not more than a few steps. Yet the presence of the hardened old Marine is reassuring. Whatever should come at them from behind, it will find itself taking on the hardened warrior and his immense strength.

  All of a sudden, Tarasov begins to laugh.

  “What’s so bloody funny?” Finn Sawyer asks behind him.

  “A rogue leading a ranger, a fighter, a cleric and a thief!”

  “Is that so, you rogue?” Sawyer gives him an allowing smile. ”You just made me wish for a cozy inn where I can have a pint of ale…”

  A smile appears on Tarasov’s rain-soaked face as he pushes the reed aside to find another piece of wooden plank, leading from one piece of solid earth to another over a stretch of water. It comes to his mind that ever since they left the Tribe’s stronghold, he hasn’t seen Hartman in battle. But his guts tell him that he’ll have that opportunity soon enough.

  I hope it’s not the Military. I’d hate to shoot at my former comrades.

  Lightning flashes in the black sky.

  At least we don’t need to use night vision. These damned flashes would render them useless.

  Where the path leads through a wider water surface, he can see a searchlight in the night.

  The Pump Station. I wonder who is occupying it now, with Clear Sky’s troops obliterated.

  He has almost reached the next patch of solid ground when two bright dots appear in the darkness. Immediately, he raises his fist to signal a halt.

  “Stop!” Finn Sawyer shouts behind him.

  That’s great. Yes, make sure even blind dogs know we’re here, if they can’t see the headlamps and smell us in the rain.

  Ignoring the rainwater flowing down his forehead and making his eyes itch, he kneels and aims the TOZ shotgun to where the two dots appeared. It could be a boar. Any other mutant. Or his tired eyes playing a trick on him.

  “Nothing. Move on.”

  They reach a flat area that stands out from the murky swamp like a little island. Fragments of concrete protrude from the earth here and there. He stops behind one, where he would be covered at least from one side, and waits for the others. To Tarasov’s reassurance, his companions follow him closely.

  Good. After all none of us is a rookie.

  He leads on, wiping off water from the PDA display. The faint light from the screen casts an eerie light upon his face.

  Now, from the island with the concrete circles, to the east. Deeper into the Swamp. Damn! I hope my memory doesn’t fail.

  The growl from behind them is louder than the storm.

  “What?”

  He hears the Top shout and fire his rifle. Sawyer, guided by the instinct of a real hunter, steps aside to give him a free line of sight. The two dots glowing in the darkness are now n
ot just a reflection. Neither are the other four or six approaching them.

  Hartman’s rifle fires ones more, then Pete’s.

  “Watch out for Nooria!” Tarasov yells.

  “Don’t panic, mate! Uncle Finn is here!”

  Sawyer’s yell is followed by a thundering shot from his heavy bolt-action rifle.

  Tarasov himself doesn’t dare fire his TOZ. It is loaded with buckshot and if fired, the pellets could hit any of his companions.

  Sawyer fires once more while the two other rifles are being reloaded. Realizing that they are covered at their back, Tarasov turns forward, just in time to for his headlamp to fall on the biggest boar he ever saw charging at him.

  His first shot is fired by instinct and misses. The second one is aimed. The mutant growls louder. It shakes its head, as if trying to shake the pain off. Tarasov takes two steps back and frantically reloads the two barrels, but not fast enough to raise the gun once more and effectively fire it.

  Nooria’s blade flashes. Growling, the boar turns to charge through its new enemy that has cut a long wound into its hide. Tarasov fires both shells into the black hulk of the mutant that now appears in his headlamp’s light at point-blank range. The boar raises its head once more when another shot thunders.

  About twenty meters behind them, the Top stands like a statue, still aiming his rifle at the dead boar.

  “Ace, mate! Shot that bloody hogzilla right in the head!”

  “I was aiming at you, actually,” comes the Top’s reply. “Say mate once more and I’ll fire my second shell. It fucking nerves me.”

  “Sorry, mate!”

  Pete quickly steps between the Top and Sawyer. Tarasov sees a grin on his face.

  “Nooria, you all right?” he shouts.

  “Yes.”

  “Next time, don’t do that! I could have shot you!”

  “You didn’t.”

  “All right, fall back into line, everyone!”

  “Wait! What about the fangs? It was my first Zone boar! And one bloody difficult to kill!”

  “Everyone includes you, mate!” Tarasov shouts back angrily.

  Damn. They seem to be on the edge. Except Nooria and that indestructible Australian.

  Tarasov wipes the water from his face. “Step up! Let’s go!”

  Hours pass. The process becomes a toil and their boots heavy from mud. As Tarasov’s body tires, the straps of the rucksack seem to cut deeper into his shoulders. His mind weakens also, having half of his attention on the anomaly detector, the other half on the Geiger counter, and whatever strength is left in his mind above that put into his eyes and sense of perception.

  The PDA map shows him only brown patches of isolated land among darker areas of swamp water where they could sink at the first wrong step. There is no marker for the place he is looking for. The known landmarks are too far to give him any idea about the way to take. He decides to continue eastwards.

  Heavy rain continues to pound relentlessly. By now there’s barely a difference between solid soil and yielding swamp beneath their steps.

  Tarasov stops for a moment to recollect himself. He is about to reach for his canteen when, seemingly out of nowhere a pseudodog appears in the weakening light of his headlamp. He gasps and raises his rifle but his index finger remains motionless on the trigger.

  “Don’t shoot!”

  Maybe it is the shape of the mutant’s head, or one of its pointed ears bending downwards that makes it appear familiar. Maybe just the fact that it doesn’t attack them. But it’s the dog-like bark that makes this one differ most from similar beasts. Tarasov repeats the order. “Don’t shoot at this one!”

  The pseudodog barks once more and darts off to the west, in the opposite direction Tarasov was about to take. After a moment, it barks at them and disappears to the west again.

  This cannot be. No. But then…

  He waves to the others and turns westwards where the pseudodog went. Loud barks help him keep on the mutant’s track. The ground gradually becomes more solid and the reed sparser as they walk.

  Then they reach an open area. The eyes of their unlikely guide light up once more in the darkness before it runs off toward a light that gleams in the distance like a firefly.

  A big smile comes over Tarasov’s tired face.

  The Zone. This is only possible by the Zone’s will. We are saved.

  Soon, the dark silhouette of a wrecked helicopter appears in the light of flashing thunder. Not far behind it there is a wooden cabin, its dark features wreathed in fog. The light they have seen comes from a window.

  As they approach the cabin, the thatched roof and white window frames make it appear similar to the decaying homes in the abandoned villages found all over the Exclusion Zone. This appears intact though.

  “Who the hell lives here?” Pete asks, sniffling and wiping his nose from where rainwater is dripping. “A mutated Tom Bombadil?”

  Tarasov walks up to the door and knocks. Seeing the polite gesture that appears to be completely out of place here, his companions share puzzled looks.

  The door opens and light falls outside. It makes Tarasov twinkle, yet he immediately recognizes the old man standing in front of him. He is unarmed, either because he expects nothing and nobody hostile or has nothing and nobody to fear.

  The old man strokes the white stubble on his cheek as he looks his unexpected visitors up and down. Then a smile appears on his wrinkled face. The pseudodog who guided them to the house sits at his feet, panting and dropping saliva from its formidable snout.

  “Glad to have found you at last,” Tarasov says for a greeting with a beaming smile on his muddy and rain-soaked face. “Long time no see, Doctor!”

  39

  SBU headquarters, Kiev

  Staring out of the window in a locked room, Strelok can’t tell what looks gloomier—the heavy rain outside or his reflection on the glass.

  He realized soon enough that Maksimenko knows a thing or two about psychological torture; at least to him, being kept in a locked room where a small TV set was the only means of comfort already equaled to torture. Maksimenko didn’t even provide him with a bottle of vodka. Deprived of freedom and alcohol, all he can do now is zap between mind-numbing late-night TV shows and wait for the captain.

  On Inter – a cheesy soap.

  On 1+1 – football.

  “What? Shakhtar Donets trashing Real Madrid 5 to nil by half-time?” he murmurs to himself watching the football match for a minute. “What are our peg-legged boys on? Oh yes… at least now I know where all the Moonlight artifacts go… probably that’s what makes them run like that.”

  Bored, he changes to the midnight news on Ukraina ICTV. What he sees makes him jump from his seat.

  The town of Termez, close to the northern fringes of the New Zone, is in ruins. An agitated voice-over speaks of a radioactive dust storm hitting the southern areas of Uzbekistan. A shaky video, probably taken with a mobile phone, shows ruined buildings, people in despair and, for a second, a pack of mutants that appear to Strelok like blind dogs the size of wolves and good eyesight as well. Then an egghead tries to explain that it was just a natural disaster, nothing more nothing less, and the alleged mutants were merely stray dogs. However, he has obviously no idea why the so-called dust storm has only hit the areas north of the New Zone while nothing similar was reported from elsewhere – even though anyone who knows even a little bit about the Zone knows that emissions are spreading in concentric circles.

  “Idiot,” Strelok says slapping himself on the forehead, “you’re all idiots! It wants to come here, it is reaching out for our Zone!”

  Damn it! I must get out. I must, before the darkness comes!

  He bangs on the firmly locked door.

  “I must go! Let me go, you bastards!”

  No answer comes.

  40

  The Doctor’s house, Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  Small flames crackle and snap in the Doctor’s fireplace while slow rain raps
on the windows. The travelers’ soaked suits and rucksacks are placed close to it to dry. Sitting around a rustic table lit by a petroleum lamp, Tarasov and his companions enjoy the cozy safety of the Doctor’s home. The warm light of the fireplace and the lamp almost make them forget about the darkness outside. The aroma of oak wood smoke mixes with the vapors of warm food rising from a soup bowl and their plates.

  “At last someone who knows how to prepare a narodnaya solyanka,” Tarasov says stirring the thick soup in his aluminum plate. “Many people just mix everything together they find in the trash. But this, Doctor, is delicious. Your tummy is happy, Top?”

  “Outstanding. What did you just call it?”

  “Translates as ’people’s soup’.”

  “Too bad I have no sour cream to add,” the Doctor replies in a Russian-accented but almost impeccable English, speaking softly and sophisticatedly as it befits a well-educated man. He puts a second petroleum lamp on the table and adjusts it to burn brighter. “And especially, real vegetables. Cabbage is fine, sometimes Barkeep gets some from the Big Land and once boiled, it stays edible for weeks. Fresh vegetables are a different matter. Carrots and peas from cans are just… not the real thing.”

  “What to do? Zone soil is contaminated,” Tarasov says serving himself one more from the soup bowl. “Vegetables grown here would make one’s teeth fall out even before finishing the meal.”

  “Or they would mutate like the animals did,” Pete says.

  “And then we’d have an attack of the killer tomatoes!” Sawyer adds, followed by laughter around the table. “Laugh if you want but I mean it. Those pseudodogs, boars, fleshes… imagine what happened if veggies mutated?”

  “As a matter of fact, I’m working on the vegetables,” the Doctor says. ”I’ll show you something when you’re finished.”

  “Your English is impressive, Doc,” says Hartman.

  “One has to learn it. In the beginning, we only had Ukrainians here. Then Stalkers came from all over the former USSR, and eventually Westerners. Everyone prefers to tell about pains and aches in their own language. I couldn’t heal them if I don’t understand them, could I?”

  “Do those foreigners get along well with the Russian Stalkers?” Pete asks.

  “In fact it’s the Russians who still have a grunt towards the foreigners, especially the pindos… Americans. Some still think that it was you who stole our empire from us and now want to snatch the Zone too. They also think that non-Russians could never understand what the Zone is about. But that’s… pizdabolstvo. How do you say that in English, Misha?”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Bullshit. What an expressive word.”

  “Why wouldn’t Westerners understand the Zone?” Pete asks.

  “Have you seen those rusty cars, usually white and with the engine and air intake in the rear?”

  “Yes. Funny little cars, I gotta say.”

  “See? For you, a wrecked Zaporozhets is just a funny little car but to me it’s a reminder of my childhood. My father used to have one. Whenever I see those wrecks I see the remains of a world that had once appeared safe and sound. One day we ruled half of the planet, the next day we were orphans, lectured by those who feared us for decades. Many of us still need to learn how to forgive.”

  The Doctor stays and puts more wood into the fire.

  “Yes, the Soviet empire collapsed, but our desire for being respected did not. For many Stalkers from the ex-USSR the Zone is as much a source of nationalist pride like the first Sputnik was. For the more sensible, the Zone is a place where everything is a reminder of those days – the wrecked Soviet cars, the murals on the houses in Pripyat, the heroes’ statues, and they try to carve out their new world from the ruins of the old. This is something only few Westerners can understand. Half of our heart is still back in the USSR. For many newcomers this time capsule is merely exotic, like the Cyrillic alphabet.”

  “Not all western Stalkers are that superficial, Doc,” Tarasov says.

  “Of course not. After all, being a Stalker is not just about wandering around, drinking vodka and admiring this Soviet time capsule. Being a Stalker is a matter of heart. Those lucky enough to become a real Stalker have the same heart beating in their chest. Regardless of where they’ve spent their previous life, here they are all children of the Zone, and as such – brothers.”

  “So one would like to hope,” Tarasov says thinking about the warring factions and greedy artifact-hunters who would betray anyone for the coordinates of a precious stash. It appears to him that seclusion has made the Doctor a bit forgiving toward the downsides of a Stalker’s life, or perhaps even human nature in general.

  “Interesting,” the Top says eyeing the US-made rifle on the wall. “You know, Doc, I always thought that Stalkers were merely scavengers.”

  “Some of them are.” Tarasov’s words are accompanied by the Doctor’s allowing nod.

  “More than likely, sure, but what the Doc just said is… yeah, it makes me think. After all we’re doing the same with the Tribe. Carving out a new world from the ruins of the old. Whatever…“ Hartman shrugs. “Never mind. Just thinking loudly.”

  “Wow, we live in an effed-up world,” Pete sighs.

  Tarasov shakes his head. “No. We just live in a world where some effed-up things happen. The world as a whole ain’t broken— just some individuals living in it.”

  “Your story sounds rather sad to me, Doc,” Pete observes.

  “Not for you, my friends. There’s no reason to deny that you won the Cold War, or more accurately: that we lost it. You don’t know how lucky you are.”

  “I could tell you a thing or two about the lucky US of A,” the Top bitterly says. “I’m sure a lot of Westerners come here because they are fed up and disappointed by how things are going in their quarter of the world.”

  “Touché,” the Doctor says raising his glass to the former Marine. “And this makes them brothers to the Stalkers flocking here from all over the former USSR. But now it’s your turn to talk. What brings you here, Misha? I still can’t believe that you made it to the New Zone and then out of nowhere, you pop up at my doorstep!”

  “Well, Doc… it’s a long story.”

  “We have all the time.”

  While pondering over how to cut his story short, Tarasov lets his eyes wandering around in the Doctor’s home. Their wet jackets and boots dry in front of a fireplace. It keeps the room warm and cozy, though the ZM-LR300 rifle hanging on a nail above it reminds of the perils outside. Bookshelves line the walls, holding all kinds of things that tell of a life in the Exclusion Zone. It is all about a lonely Stalker’s life, except for the scientific books and magazines in several languages.

  A framed photograph hangs on the wall next to the door. It shows Strelok in the middle, with two others looking at him; he might be giving orders to them. Though they are not recognizable, Tarasov suspects them to be members of Strelok’s group on one of their deep raids into the Zone, hoping to find the legendary Wish Granter. In the end, only Strelok made it while his friends died one after another. Strelok, always tight-lipped about his dealings in the Zone’s heart, once hinted at another of his friends still being alive. He referred to him only as Guide, describing him as an extremely elusive character who preferred to stay unknown. Thinking about it, Tarasov’s guess is that the Doctor himself might have taken the photograph and deliberately kept Guide out of the frame. That would explain why only three of the five legendary Stalkers are visible in the picture.

  Seeing that he is at a loss of words, the Doctor fills Tarasov’s glass with vodka from a glass jug to ease his tongue.

  “Thanks, Doc. Suffice to say, I had to do an errand for a certain new friend of mine from the New Zone. He is a powerful man and his… Tribe, or maybe faction as we would say here in the Exclusion Zone, has an impressive network back in America. When I checked my stored messages in their base I found two coming from Strelok. The first was about meeting me. The other a cry fo
r help. Strelok is… you know. I couldn’t ignore either of his messages and have returned. I had hoped that you might know what his messages are about, or at least tell me of his whereabouts.”

  The Doctor strokes his white stubble. “Interesting… Alas, I have to disappoint you—I don’t know where he is now. Strelok used to come here, yes, and he still has a stash here. Sometimes he spent time praying in the old wooden church to the south-east. You’ve probably heard that his mind is… troubled.”

  “I know. Few have a better reason to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder after what he had been through.”

  “PTSD is a pussy’s excuse,” Hartman grumbles, prompting Tarasov to dart a disapproving look at him.

  “I’m adept at healing wounds,” their host says ignoring the Top. “Daresay, I know a few things about curing wounded souls as well. However, Strelok’s troubles are beyond my skills. I warned him before he set out on that fateful raid to the center of the Zone. I still can’t forgive myself for not being with him in his direst hours.”

  “What happened to Strelok?” Nooria asks.

  “Only he could tell.”

  Tarasov watches the Doctor with narrowed eyes. When they arrived, he greeted all his companions like ordinary Stalkers, except for a little surprise in his eyes when he saw Hartman’s size. When Nooria stepped in, though, he looked at her for a moment as if seeing a ghost and then bowed his head with such a deep respect that went far beyond an old-fashioned gentleman’s politeness towards a woman, or the understandable surprise over meeting a woman in the virtually male-only Exclusion Zone. Just like Nooria in the New Zone, the Doctor had always been a node of lore about the Exclusion Zone. All this makes Tarasov curious about what these two might have in common, since the two Zones also have more in common than what meets the eye.

  “If he is in trouble, then you did the right thing by heeding his call. He doesn’t have many friends left.” The Doctor jerks his thumb toward the photograph. “Fang was the technical genius and Ghost the daring one. You’ll need Fang’s aptitude to find him, Ghost’s skills to help him and Guide’s knowledge of the Zone to get to him quickly. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll give you all the help an old medicine man can.”

  “I don’t know about who you’re talkin’ about,” Sawyer says raising his vodka glass to Tarasov, “but this guy knows the Zone like the back of his hand. I’m tellin’ you that!”

  “Thanks, Finn,” Tarasov says with a smile. “And thanks to you too, Doc. You already did much by making us forget the Swamps outside.”

  “Say thanks to Druzhok,” the Doctor says caressing the mutant’s head. “Sometimes I let him roam the Swamps and he brings me a snork’s leg or a boar’s ear in exchange. I think he wants to share his lunch with me.” He looks at his pet with a warm smile. ”Da, Druzhok? Kakoy molodets ti, umnaya sobaka. Nu, idi gulyat'!”

  The tamed mutant gives its master a friendly snarl and jogs to the door. It opens it with its paw and disappears outside.

  “Sobaka! Zabil zakrit dver!”

  In response to the Doctor’s call, the pseudodog smashes the door closed. Tarasov and his companions exchange perplexed looks over the table. The Doctor smiles mysteriously and fills their cups with tea from the samovar.

  “Maybe the Bar at Rostok would be a good place to start asking around,” Tarasov says clearing his throat.

  “This Strelok guy… is he on his own?”

  “What do you mean, Top?”

  Hartman studies his dirty fingernails, apparently embarrassed over what he has to say.

  “Let me put it this way, Mikhailo… you didn’t return by your own will, did you?”

  “Correct. It was Strelok’s message.”

  “So—are you sure that message came from him?”

  “It certainly came from his PDA.”

  “You don’t get my point. What if someone made that Strelok character send you a message, or perhaps just used his PDA, to lure you back?”

  Tarasov slowly rotates the vodka glass in his hands and doesn’t look at Hartman.

  “Who would have done so?” he eventually asks.

  “Someone pissed off by you not bringing back the research data you were sent to find.”

  “That’s a little murky, I admit,” Tarasov says and feels a sudden urge to scratch his head. “The whole mission was a set-up. The SBU used me and my men as a bait to expose an arms dealer. Finding the research data was just the cherry on the cake. At least that’s what Alex Degtyarev told me when I made up my mind to contact him from the Alamo. Believe me, Degtyarev would be the last one I could piss off by desertion. He is kind of a deserter himself who no longer knows if he’s with the SBU or the Free Stalkers—the Loners.”

  “I don’t know that Degti… Degta… Degtyarev guy. You might be right. All I’m saying is – you better be very cautious.”

  “I know exactly that I’m a wanted man, but I trust Strelok. Why? Because I am one of the few left who he himself can trust. He wouldn’t betray me. You don’t need to remind me about being cautious. That’s why we entered the Zone the long and hard way.”

  “You’ve been lucky so far,” the Doctor says. “Better to not tempt the Zone, if you follow my meaning.”

  Using an iron pincer, he takes a few glowing embers from the fireplace to heat up the copper samovar that stands in the middle of the table.

  “What’s in the stash that Strelok keeps here?” Tarasov curiously asks.

  The Doctor shrugs. “Ammunition, some canned food, a few grenades… nothing particular.”

  “Grenades could be useful,” Hartman says.

  “Not here and now.”

  Tarasov drums his fingers on the table, thinking. Strelok, Strelok… where are you hiding?

  Pete uses the momentarily silence to ask a question. “And what have you been doing here the whole time, Doc?”

  “I don’t mind showing you around my abode until tea is ready. There’s a room with a few mattresses where you can sleep, and my laboratory is next.”

  The Doctor takes a petroleum lamp and leads his guests into the neighboring room. Except Tarasov, all are surprised when they see metal shelves loaded with artifacts, the apparently more dangerous in radiation-proof, scientific containers. There is a surgery bed in the corner, together with an old-fashioned hospital lamp and a white cabinet on which all kinds of medical tools lie neatly arranged. Below the window, where the room is apparently brightest during daytime, there is a large table loaded with vials, retorts, dosimeters, calculators and even a laptop – as if a medieval alchemist’ apparatus had been mixed up with a modern scientist’s high-tech equipment. A brochure in English lies on the wooden chair next to it. The Top picks up and opens it.

  “H&H Tools Catalogue, 2012,” he reads out the title. “Twenty Years of Excellence. Says it’s a company from Nevada dealing in medical and surveillance robotics… Not my kind of stuff.”

  “They make a device called My First Infirmary. A truly marvelous machine. I’m trying to build something similar but still have a long way to go. Until then, artifacts and healing plants will have to do the job.” The Doctor opens a wall cabinet. “This is my herbarium.”

  “Wonderful,” Nooria says with excitement looking over the small pots and jugs filled with aromatic herbs. “Will you tell me more?”

  “Plants like marjorie, wolf’s bane and marigold grow to bigger sizes here than in the Big Land, thereby multiplying the amount of curative substances one can extract. For example, a few capitula of wolf’s bane grown in the Zone produce enough thymol derivatives to imbue a whole bandage, which can be applied for speeding up the healing rate of bruises and non-open injuries. Like anti-inflammatory drugs would do, but then one can’t harvest ibuprofen from plants.” The Doctor chuckles.

  Sawyer and Nooria look at him in awe as he hands them a bandage.

  “Can I keep this?” Nooria asks with eyes sparkling.

  “Sure. Then I also try to save some Stalker lore from becoming oblivion lo
st. For example, I drop a Pellicle artifact into a Springboard anomaly and in about four hours, the Springboard spawns a new artifact. I just call it Skin because it boosts cell growth, meaning that the body will be less vulnerably to chemical burning and acid. Alas, it contains physical uranium which makes it radioactive.”

  “Our friend Finn might be a good apprentice,” Tarasov says and pats the Australian on the back. “When we were crossing the river, he threw a Shell into a Whirligig!”

  “You threw my rucksack in first. Why dontcha tell him that, huh?”

  “And?” The Doctor’s eyes shine up with curiosity. “What happened?”

  “He almost got us killed.”

  “All research has its risks,” the Doctor replies laughing. “Anyway, what I’m really proud of is this.”

  Expecting something strange, perhaps a machine with flashing lights powered by glowing artifacts, Tarasov frowns when the Doctor shows him three rusted buckets filled with earth. Tiny plants grow on the surface.

  “I see nothing out of the ordinary,” he says.

  “Each bucket has a Jellyfish inside,” the Doctor proudly explains. “I thought, if this gravitational artifact is able to attract and absorb radioactive particles from a human body, why not using it for purifying soil? Measure the radiation!”

  Tarasov takes a Geiger counter from the table and holds it to the buckets. The device doesn’t indicate any radiation.

  “I vot, Misha! Vegetables grown in this soil will be eatable—oh, sorry—I mean edible. In a few weeks I’ll have fresh carrots, cucumbers and tomatoes. As you know, fresh and healthy vegetables is what Stalkers miss most from their diet.”

  “You could make powder from Jellyfish and use it to clean more earth,” Nooria says, “and purify a whole garden.”

  “Pulverizing an artifact?” the Doctor says bemused. “Wish that were possible!”

  “I do it with mortar and pestle.”

  “I admire your enthusiasm for artifact lore, young lady, but…”

  Seeing both Hartman and Tarasov smile and nod, the Doctor doesn’t finish his sentence.

  “Misha, by everything that’s holy, who did you bring into my house? She puts me in shame!”

  “Please don’t say so, Doctor,” Nooria says blushing. “I wish I could stay and learn from you.”

  “Well, if you don’t insist on leaving at dawn tomorrow, there might be an errand you could assist me with.” The Doctor looks at the quartz watch in the table where the red digits tell that it’s past midnight. “Actually, today. Let’s have a cup of tea and go to sleep.”

  “Best idea I heard today, Doc,” says Sawyer and stretches his arms, yawning. “Your place looks like a comfy Russian home. Got a sauna too? Please say you do!”

  “We call it banya,” the Doctor says. “But what you’ll need to live with is called water from buckets. Don’t look so gloomy, it will be hot enough.”

  Hartman smirks at his disappointed companion.

  “No worry, Finn. Just toss a swag into it and you’ll have the biggest jacuzzi on earth!”

  41

  Preobrazhensky Bridge, Zaton, Exclusion Zone

  Each area in the Exclusion Zone has its own character. Some even have a certain dark beauty to them. Zaton, however, is probably the most desolate and appears even more so in the mist and drizzle falling from the dark dawn sky.

  Once there was a river meandering through the area, which by now has turned into marshland amidst arid hills. Dilapidated port facilities, ship wrecks and industrial ruins are a reminder of the times when Zaton was thriving. One of the ruins is that of a waste processing station and next to it, a bridge spans over the former riverbed about sixty-seventy meters below. Back in Soviet times it had been called Preobrazhensky Bridge, named after a Bolshevik economist of the Twenties.

  It was littered with wrecked vehicles among a cluster of anomalies, with sections of it in complete disrepair, until a powerful emission cleared off the anomalies and army high command decided to set up a permanent outpost in the abandoned ranger station not far away. The bridge was repaired, allowing for the odd supply truck to pass through.

  On this dark morning, a convoy of two army vehicles is passing over the bridge. A BTR-80 personal carrier is driving in front of a mighty URAL truck. Strelok is sitting in the truck, facing Captain Maksimenko and resting his feet on his rucksack. Of the dozen men travelling with them, five are Spetsnaz, all wearing heavy combat suits that make them appear like toughness incarnate. Their sergeant’s folded-up visor on his tactical helmet reveals a lean, hardened face. The others are regular army soldiers in much lighter armor but looking equally grim.

  “You heard the news, Captain?” Strelok asks.

  “What news?”

  “Looks like the New Zone is spreading. There was some kind of emission that hit the southern border of Uzbekistan. Novosty said mutants are all over Termez.”

  Maksimenko shrugs. “That’s far enough for me to give it a damn.”

  The Spetsnaz don’t share his equanimity.

  “Pizdets!” one of them cusses. “I hope the two Zones are not trying to merge!”

  “Don’t talk bullshit,” the sergeant replies. “Last time I checked, the Exclusion Zone ended at Cordon and that was yesterday.”

  “Wouldn’t mind the Russians having their own Zone,” a regular soldier says. “At least they’d be busy containing it and quit poking their nose into Ukrainian matters.”

  Strelok gives the solder a stern look. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, boyevoychick!”

  “Listen, here’s a joke,” says the Spetsnaz sergeant in an attempt to cheer up the mood. “An American and a Russian satellite meet in orbit. The American is spying on us, and the Russian is – broken down.”

  The junior commando on Strelok’s other side dutifully laughs but the others don’t react. Maksimenko shakes his head.

  “Vlasov, you are a capable non-com but telling jokes is not your strong side.”

  “Just trying to cheer us up, komandir.”

  “Then try a better joke next time,” Strelok says grinning.

  “You happen to know one, Stalker?”

  “Many. Listen to this: one day a journalist visits a Freedomer base—”

  Strelok breaks off as the column comes to a halt and the 14.5mm heavy machine gun of the lead BTR starts firing. After a minute that was probably needed for the soldiers travelling inside the compartment to get to their firing positions, a half dozen automatic rifles begin to rake an unseen enemy.

  “Leader One to Leader Two. What the hell is happening?” Maksimenko shouts into his radio set.

  “Leader Two to Leader One. A horde of fleshes blocked the bridge. Stand by.”

  The gun fire ceases after a few moments.

  “Leader Two. We’re about to remove the carcasses from the bridge. Moving on in three minutes.”

  “Leader One. Acknowledged. Make it two.”

  “Why didn’t we just drive them through?” asks the junior Spetsnaz.

  “Idiot!” Sergeant Vlasov bashes on his subordinate’s helmet with his fist. “Who will dig the gore from wheels and chassis? You volunteer, huh? No? I thought so.”

  “Those mutated pigs smell like shit,” Maksimenko says. “Let those guys in the tin can clean up the mess.”

  “And where will I have my fun?” asks Strelok. “Will you tell me at me at least what I have to do exactly?”

  “Stay put in Cordon.”

  “We’re in Zaton. Why the detour?”

  “I wanted to be a nice guy for once and agreed to take some supplies to our outpost at the Ranger Station.” Maksimenko jolts his head towards the two big crates travelling with them in the compartment. “We still have time. Cordon will be a good place to get all this over with.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Think of it: Tarasov knows the area like his vest pocket… you, his old buddy being kept there at the mercy of a bastard called myself… He’ll probably try to contact
you and you’ll lure him right into our welcoming arms.”

  “You want to lock me up at your Outpost until he comes—or doesn’t, eventually? Come on, Captain! I’ll be bored to death!”

  “Infiltrating our base might be too risky even for that cunning bastard. He wouldn’t try. The Dairy Farm will do, all the more because it will give him the impression that you’re about to be brought to Cordon Base and then out of the Zone.”

  “What if the Farm is occupied by Stalkers?”

  Hearing this, both Maksimenko and the Spetsnaz sergeant give him self-confident smiles.

  “I got it.” Strelok nods. “Shrewd plan… and then what do you want to do with Tarasov?”

  “None of your business. There’s something else I wanted to talk about.” Maksimenko opens the artifact container on his SKAT armored suit. “What’s this, Marked One?”

  “Let me see.”

  Strelok glances at the artifact. It consists of two copper disks in the size of a saucer, about a few centimeters thick, with a space of a hand’s span and a half between them. There’s just empty space between. However, there is some force between the two disks, because it is impossible to press them together or pull them apart either.

  “It’s a Spring,” Strelok says, visibly unimpressed by the artifact. “Kinda hybrid between Battery and Shell. How much did you pay for this crap?”

  The truck starts rolling again. With Strelok not having an intercom, Maksimenko has to speak louder now.

  “A patrol stumbled on it in the Dark Valley, just north of the building with the entrance to Lab X18. Gave the grunts a little cash and a week’s leave for it. Is it valuable?”

  “Comes to about 3000 at Sidorovich. 3200 tops.” The truck speeds up and Strelok too has to shout to make himself heard over the engine noise. “Maybe 5000 at the egghead’s den in Yantar, but that’s still not enough to quit your day job!”

  “Not too bad either. And what does it do?”

  “Depends,” Strelok says playing with the artifact in his hands. “It does something about the gravitational field around you.”

  “What? Speak up!”

  “I said, it can prevent you from breaking your neck when you fall from a tree or something!”

  Maksimenko looks disappointed. “Doesn’t sound too exciting.”

  “Could be useful to have one during combat jumps,” Sergeant Vlasov observes with a little envy in his voice.

  Strelok gives him an wide grin. “Your Spetsnaz is right, Captain. It can be very useful in certain situations.”

  “What situations?”

  “Like this!”

  Holding the artifact tightly, Strelok jumps off the truck. Desperately, Maksimenko and his two Spetsnaz grab after him but reach only into thin air. The Stalker steps on the bridge railing and takes a straight header into the deep valley beneath.

  “Shit! That dog… that sly dog!” Maksimenko shouts and barks a quick command into the radio set. The convoy halts.

  Joined by the two Spetsnaz who look as embarrassed as their captain, Maksimenko stares down into the abyss but sees only fog.

  “Put your NVG on and scan the area!”

  After a minute, Vlasov shakes his head. “Can’t detect anything, sir. No movement, no body.”

  Maksimenko shakes his head while frantically thinking about what to do.

  “Shall we go after him, komandir?” Sergeant Vlasov asks.

  Looking towards the stretch of bridge ahead, Maksimenko stamps his boot to the ground in frustration. “Damned Stalker! Shit, shit, shit! By the time we get off the bridge and climb down to the riverbed, he’ll be at the Jupiter plant already or in Dark Valley or I don’t know!”

  “Plus an artifact worth five thousand. He pulled a clever Stalker trick on us, I give him that.”

  The captain stares at his second in command.

  “Don’t even dare remind me of that, Vlasov!” he shouts. “Goddammit! I hate Stalkers! Each and every single one of them!”

  “Tovarishu Kapitan!” From inside the truck, a regular army soldier shows him a backpack and a small device. “I found something.”

  “It better be good, soldier!”

  “He left his carbine behind!” Knowing that he has just saved the situation, the soldier triumphantly smiles. “His PDA too. Must have slipped from his pocket!”

  Maksimenko and the two Spetsnaz share a look of relief.

  “Slava Bogu!” Sergeant Vlasov sighs. “I was already preparing my butt for a kick from Kruchelnikov’s boots.”

  “That was a damned close shave, Vlasov.” Maksimenko shouts over to the driver. “Let’s get moving, davai!”

  Back in the truck, Maksimenko fiddles with Strelok’s PDA. All he will have to do is to turn on Strelok’s distress signal once they reach their destination, and Tarasov shall walk by himself into the trap. He calls on the soldier who found the device.

  “Private!”

  “Sir!”

  “You’ve just been promoted to corporal. Having his PDA is as good as having with us that bastard himself!”

  “What about Strelok?” Vlasov asks. “We just let him go?”

  “Couldn’t care less. Without a rifle, mutants will eat him. Even if he makes it, in a few days he’ll return to beg for more painkillers.” He smiles with satisfaction. “Strelok is a dog, but we have the means to keep him on a tight leash.”

  42

  The Doctor’s house, Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  The fresh morning air drives a chill over Pete when he steps out of the cabin. The Doctor is cutting wood nearby and greets him with a smile.

  “Good morning, young man!”

  “Name’s still Pete, and good morning indeed… rain seems to be over.”

  “It is. I love autumn aurora.”

  “Autumn—what?”

  “Oh, I mean we had a lovely sunrise.”

  “Where are the others?”

  “Tarasov and the lady are away to do a little errand for me. The two others went to hunt down a boar for tonight’s dinner. Druzhok is playing in the bushes.”

  “Sounds almost like a scout camp.”

  “You want to be a good scout, Pete?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Then come and help me chopping wood.”

  “I could use the exercise,” Pete says and takes the axe.

  “I love the smell of autumn,” the Doctor pensively replies and takes a deep breath. “It reminds me how good it is to be alive.”

  “Come on, Doc. What’s so good about being alive anyway? Everyone just keeps repeating this like parrots on speed but no one actually knows why.”

  “One doesn’t need a new thrill every minute to sustain the pleasure of being alive,” the Doctor says with a shrug.

  “I wish I could think the way you do.”

  “Why?” the Doctor asks with a wise smile. “You are young, healthy, have friends who would go through hell for you… That’s more than most people could ask for.”

  “Honestly, Doc?” Pete halts chopping the wood for a moment and wipes sweat from his forehead. “I don’t care much about my life. Not that I wanted to die. I just don’t want to live. My life is nothing but toiling on and on, following a path that I don’t know where it leads because—I don’t know. It’s not fear from going to hell and bullshit like that… clinging to my life is a bad habit I can’t get rid of.”

  “Spend some more time here and you will see what life is about.”

  Pete looks around. “Right now, it’s about being stuck in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with a renegade army officer, an adrenaline-junkie survivalist, one of my father’s brainwashed retainers and a strange girl who’s supposed to be my stepsister. Sometimes she acts like a retard but she is also a pint sized ball of radness.” Pete makes a gesture as if describing something more awesome than words could express. “There’s nothing around here but an irradiated marsh full of anomalies and mutated boars. Not even a socket where I can charge my iPod. Frankly, Doc, I see nothing arou
nd I could be enthusiastic about.”

  “If that were be true, the Zone wouldn’t be a home and refuge for many. So much even that wherever they go, they still walk its paths.”

  “Is that so?” Pete shrugs once more before continuing to chop wood. “Sorry but I can’t see much of the Zone’s wonders, Doc.”

  “I’m afraid you can’t see the Zone from the Zone, young man.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you don’t see the real meaning of the Zone.”

  “And what’s the real meaning of the Zone?”

  “Experiencing what it means to be alive.”

  “This place is all about death and decay, Doc. Why would anyone have that experience here?”

  The Doctor smiles and hits Pete’s cardia with a quick punch. Pete almost doubles over and desperately gasps for air.

  “Because once you have to fight for your life, you value it much more. Like you’re fighting now for a breath of air that appeared the most natural thing until a second ago.” He offers his hand to help Pete back to his feet. “Everything smells better all of a sudden, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll give you that,” Pete replies still breathing heavily.

  “If you feel just for a moment that life could be over, and then comes the relief of still being alive, what would you do?”

  “Be happy about it, I guess.”

  “Why?”

  “Because… it would mean that I can still do something with it.”

  “Correct. If you start valuing your life, you won’t want to waste it anymore.”

  “So, if I get your meaning, the Zone teaches me to value my life?”

  “By making you aware of how fragile you are. Hence life in the Zone can help you discover your true self. This is the most precious treasure one can find in the Zone, but only if you don't let yourself be fooled by its riches. That would make you a scavenger, not what you are really supposed to be.”

  To prove to the Doctor that his punch wasn’t as painful as it really had been, Pete takes a particularly big piece of wood from the pile. It is from the trunk of a birch and the axe stays stuck in it when he smashes it into the wood.

  “How am I supposed to know what I’m supposed to be?”

  He swings the axe up together with the trunk, but as he smashes it, it still doesn’t split.

  “What is my dog doing over there?”

  “It’s sniffing around in the bushes.”

  “And those ravens in the sky?”

  “Circling,” Pete says and swings the axe once more. This time the trunk begins to split.

  “He’s sniffing at the bushes because he’s a dog—more or less, that is. The ravens are circling in the sky because they are ravens. And what does Pete do?”

  “I am chopping wood.”

  “See? That’s you.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Why, aren’t you chopping wood?”

  “Do you suggest the meaning of my life is about chopping wood?”

  “Your life is about what you are doing. Do bad, and you will be bad. Do good, and you will be good.”

  Pete at last manages to split the trunk. He stares at the axe that has just cut through the hard wood.

  “Do nothing, and you will be nothing,” he murmurs.

  “Exactly. Whatever you do, be aware of it and of the consequences as well. Just like you are aware of yourself cutting wood, knowing that it will make for a cozy fire tonight.”

  “Is this some kind of Zone wisdom?”

  “No. It’s Japanese. They call it Zen.”

  “I heard of it, but Zen doesn’t say anything about chopping wood.”

  “No. It says, if you are hungry—eat. I am hungry now and don’t mind being The Man Who Eats for the next ten minutes.” The Doctor glances at his watch. “Strange… by now, Tarasov and Nooria should have been back.”

  43

  Bagram area, New Zone

  “Alamo to Tango Foxtrot Anaconda, do you copy? Over.”

  “Driscoll here. Loud and clear, sir, over.”

  Hearing the big man heaving a sigh, First Lieutenant Driscoll furrows his brows. Silence between the Colonel’s lines means nothing good. Instinctively, he braces for bad news but what his commander has to say is worse than anything he would have expected.

  “Driscoll, I have dire news. Our southern outpost has been overrun. We lost a full squad. Lieutenant Ramirez was taken alive and sent to the Alamo with a call to surrender. Needless to say, it was rejected without consideration. Ramirez… we could recover his body. Over.”

  Driscoll’s response is short but all he can say over this. “Understood.”

  “That’s not all, unfortunately. Be advised that any raghead force you may encounter will probably be supported by smiters – using heavy automatic weapons.”

  “Come again, Alamo?”

  “You heard me right. smiters using heavy machine guns have teamed up with our enemies. Over.”

  Now it is Driscoll who needs a few seconds to collect himself. “Sir… what do you want us to do?”

  “Your orders are standing. Keep your grip on the scavenger base until I sort this situation out. Stay alert. Alamo over and out.”

  “Roger, Alamo. Out.”

  Silence falls over Task Force Anaconda’s communications tent where Driscoll, Collins, Schmidt and Gunnery Sergeant Anderson have gathered. The radioman who usually handles less important transmissions than the last one doesn’t dare look at them and buries himself in transcripts of radio messages intercepted from Bagram.

  “Sergeant, give us a moment,” the first lieutenant tells him. “Don’t you dare speak of this outside the tent. I’ll deliver the bad news to the warriors myself. Oorah?”

  “Oorah, sir,” the radioman replies. He salutes and leaves the tent.

  “So, gentlemen,” Driscoll tells the two officers and the gunny. “You heard the man.”

  Anderson still struggles to believe. “Smiters with machine guns… Jesus!”

  “What’s important now is that we keep up morale. Ragheads are one thing but mutants with guns another.”

  “We never lost a full squad before,” Lieutenant Schmidt quietly says. “Where on earth are those beasts coming from?”

  “All I need are coordinates and I’ll blast that hole away!” the black gunny says.

  “That will come after we do our job here, Anderson. As for now: Scotty, double the guards at our southern perimeter and relocate the fifties. I don’t expect the scavengers attempting a break-out and we’d better keep a close eye toward raghead lands. Gunny, I want the mortar section to fire a few eighty-one shells into the scavengers’ perimeter every now and then. Just to let them know who’s in charge here. That’s all.”

  “Can I make a suggestion sir?” Collins asks. “If you agree, I’d return to base with a fifty-sixty strong squad. It would be a waste of resources to have our main force sitting around here while the Alamo itself might be in danger.”

  “What makes you think the Alamo is in danger, Collins?”

  “With the southern outpost lost, the road from the south is open. If I were a raghead, I’d use the momentum.”

  “I would also return if I were you,” Driscoll says. “But contrary to you I know what a command means. We stay where we are.”

  “But…”

  “There’s no ’but’ in ‘chain of command’, Lieutenant Collins. Dismissed.”

  44

  Railway embankment, northern edge of the Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  “This is the closest thing I have to a home, Nooria… even though I have found my place in the New Zone, my heart will always long to see this land.”

  “It is beautiful here.”

  “I haven’t heard anyone talk like this about the Swamps for a long time… but today I must agree.”

  Approaching the railway embankment in the northern part of the Swamps, Tarasov checks his PDA map. Now that the Doctor has placed a marker, the path
to his cottage appears almost straightforward. It is marked as an empty stash, out of caution, but it will be easy to find the way back. The clear sky too makes yesterday’s tedious march appear like a faint memory.

  Strange, Tarasov thinks. All appears peaceful… Something’s not right.

  “The embankment isn’t far now,” he says to Nooria. “What exactly do you have to do there?”

  “Put Slime into Vortex, wait and tell Doctor what happens. I am very curious to see.”

  “You already speak like a Stalker.” Tarasov smiles. He halts his steps and listens to the cackle of two wild ducks flying over the Swamps. “How capricious the Zone is! Yesterday it was dreadful, today it shows us its beautiful face.”

  Without the gloom they had been through yesterday, Tarasov’s eye reaches over the reed fields to the western hills where the tunnel lies and the fields and stretches of forest beyond the river. Cirrus clouds drift high in the sky and below, on the far horizon, white cumuli like cotton balls.

  No shot or howl disturbs the Swamp’s ordinary noises, only frogs croak, bugs chirp and the endless reed fields whisper as the wind moves them. It would appear like any landscape if it weren’t for the rusted, derelict train engines and wagons that stand on the embankment. Their wheels are overgrown with weeds and grass.

  “If my memory serves, the anomalies are behind the wagons,” Tarasov says. They walk up a few concrete stairs leading up the steep embankment. Tarasov uses this vantage point to scan the Swamps with his binoculars.

  “Wait! Get down and stay behind that wagon!”

  There is something sinister in a groove overshadowed by a cluster of oaks and poplars, halfway between the railroad embankment and a wide stretch of water. He takes a closer look.

  “Mutant?” Nooria whispers.

  “Worse. Men.”

  Cautiously, Tarasov sneaks around the wagon and lies down on his stomach between the tracks.

  Zooming further in he observes a small group of Stalkers. The party is a surprisingly mixed bag: a Loner is sharing his food ration with a rookie-looking Bandit sitting next to a Freedomer cleaning his MP5 submachine gun, while two more Loners are engaged in a conversation with a companion wearing ragged Monolith armor. Two tough-looking Bandits are keeping watch a little further away. They are armed with LR-300 assault rifles, a much better weapon than most of the others have. Another Bandit, apparently the leader or guide of the group, is even wearing an FN F2000 slung over his shoulder, a rare and state of the art assault rifle in the Zone.

  “These are not supposed to have a picnic together,” he whispers. “Stay put!”

  With his old reflexes setting in, Tarasov starts thinking about a way to engage them. Whatever this bunch of Stalkers might be up to, it can’t be good if they are led by Bandits. However, he knows that he would be hopelessly outgunned. All he can do is to take a steady aim at the Bandit guard standing closer, who now steps into the bushes to relieve himself. Through the ironsights, Tarasov aims directly at his hooded head. He jerks his index finger and mentally pulls the trigger.

  “Bang,” he whispers to himself.

  Then he hears the quick tick-tick-tick of a burst fired from a noise-suppressed sniper rifle. With the wind blowing through the poplar trees and playing with the thousands of yellowing leaves, the rifle’s sound could have just been his imagination.

  A whimper escapes him seeing the Bandit’s head jolt, splattering blood with skull fragments that look real enough. Tarasov closes and opens his eyes to check if what he saw had been for real, but when he looks again at the spot where a second ago the urinating Bandit had stood he only sees his dead body.

  The rest of the party hadn’t noticed the danger yet, neither did the other guard who is now looking up at the sky as if a bird had caught his attention. Another tick-tick and he falls too. Tarasov realizes that he is witnessing a perfectly executed sneak attack, aided by the Bandit guard’s mistake of having stood with a tree between him and his fellows who wouldn’t see him collapse.

  With the two guards removed from the flanks, Tarasov knows that the butchering phase is about to begin. He hears a thump and a moment later a rifle grenade lands right in the campfire. The explosion immediately puts several Stalkers out of action. The leader jumps up, barking frenzied commands as he tries to scramble his men who are already under the concentrated fire of automatic rifles. Tarasov easily recognizes them as Kalashnikovs by their barking sound. The Stalkers frantically return fire but have no chance to repel the attack of their still invisible enemy.

  Realizing that their situation is hopeless, the leader makes a dash to save at least his own skin. Tarasov can’t blame him – by now, all his men are down. The Bandit fires a few bursts from his rifle in a vain effort to keep his pursuers at bay, but is smart enough to run. Rifle shots hit the ground around him and someone shouts, “Halt!”

  A Spetsnaz appears from the bushes, then three more on the left flanks. One of them, who is shouting commands to the others and is the ambushers’ commander apparently, is wearing a heavy SKAT suit that betrays him as a military Stalker. A Sphere helmet is covering his face. To Tarasov’s surprise, three fighters in Duty armor step out from the bushes to the commander’s right.

  The military Stalker runs after the fugitive, with the Spetsnaz and Dutyers dashing out to flank him. This leaves the Bandit with only one direction to escape – up the embankment, directly in Tarasov’s direction.

  Tarasov knows that his cover will be blown in a few seconds. Either the Bandit will stumble right over him, or the attackers will find and shoot him in the very reasonable assumption that he is a Stalker from the group. He doesn’t even want to consider what would happen to Nooria if that happens. All he can do is to let them know that he is not their enemy, or at least not sided with the Stalkers they have ambushed. He waits until the fugitive Bandit is just about two paces away, where he can already hear his heavy panting, and then fires both barrels of his rifle.

  Fired from such a point-blank range, the heavy slug rounds in the chest would have made a standing target fly back or at least recoil a few steps. The hugely built and armor-wearing Bandit, running with full strength into the direction from where the shots came, just stops in his tracks and falls to his knees as his feet collapse. His body rolls half a meter in the wet grass, right to Tarasov’s feet who gets up from behind his cover and raises both arms. He leaves the hunting rifle on the ground.

  “Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts. “Friendly coming out!”

  By now, the rest of the attackers have caught up with their commander. Assault rifles are pointed at Tarasov from all sides.

  “Step away from that shooter and keep your hands up, Stalker!”

  The commander pointing a Vintorez rifle at Tarasov is still panting from the excitement of battle and the run afterwards. With his prisoner being secured, he allows himself to remove his tactical helmet and wipes sweat from his face.

  Tarasov gives him a wide and friendly smile.

  “Sergeant Shumenko! How is your bladder doing?”

  The military Stalker drops his jaw.

  “I’ll be damned! What the hell are you doing here, komandir?”

  “Boar hunting, mostly. My compliments for an ambush well executed, by the way.”

  “Thanks, Major, but I only did what you taught me. I can’t believe this!” Tarasov’s former soldier turns to his comrades. “Down with your rifles! Don’t you know who this is?”

  They don’t seem to know but follow Shumenko’s order nonetheless.

  “Before you stumble on my companion and shoot her—I’m not alone. Nooria! No need to hide anymore. Come, it’s safe now!”

  Sergeant Shumenko gives Nooria a curious look when she appears from behind the wagon. Knowing the reaction most people give over her scar, she had already pulled the hood of her long coat over her face.

  “Who’s that, Major? Are you traveling with an anorexic pet burer?”

  “Will tell you later, Sergeant. I’m dying o
f curiosity over all this. Army and Duty together ambushing a group of Loners, a Freedomer and even a Monolith, all guided by Bandits? It’s like the whole Zone in a nutshell.”

  “Things have changed since you went off the radar, Major.” Shumenko offers his canteen to Tarasov, and then takes a long draw of water from it. “Let us finish our business before we chat. You’ll have the questionable pleasure of seeing Duty in action.”

  “I mean no trouble,” Tarasov says. “May I take my rifle now?

  “By all means, Major Tarasov.”

  They all walk back to the groove where a Duty fighter and a Spetsnaz are guarding the Freedomer. He appears to be the only one who survived the ambush, even if wounded. However, seeing the Dutyer towering over him and rubbing his gloved hands with anticipation, Tarasov is not too optimistic about the wounded prisoner’s fate.

  “As agreed, Inquisitor,” Shumenko tells him. “Freedomers are yours to interrogate, so it’s your turn. Do us all a favor and make this one speak, will you?”

  “Guys… don’t shoot me!” the Freedomer whines.

  “My poor friend, you got shot in your chest,” the Dutyer called Inquisitor says. “No wonder ,with you wearing such a pathetic excuse of body armor.”

  “Give me a medikit, please!”

  “Yes, you’re a touch pale, buddy! A kit wouldn’t help you much but I might have a bandage for you. Just answer my first question: what were you up to?”

  “We all wanted to leave the Zone! Travel to the south, to the New Zone! That’s all!”

  “Why am I not surprised to see anarchists and criminals running from the Zone?” The Dutyer snorts. “Here comes my second question and I’m going to ask nicely. Where were you going?”

  “I don’t know! Only the guide knew!”

  “I did ask you nicely.” The Dutyer steps on the prisoner’s chest, pushing it so strongly that blood gushes from his mouth. “This is the kind of bandage that Duty applies to bleeding anarchists! Where in the fuck were you heading?”

  “Oh God…”

  “Yes, that’s what I am to you now and you’d better answer to my question, or I’ll stuff your stinking hide with shit and display it in my zoo of dead mutants! Damned anarchist!”

  “I don’t know, I swear!”

  Each word the Freedomer utters makes him spit up more blood. Inquisitor looks at Shumenko who replies with a shrug. Seeing the Dutyer unholster his Makarov pistol, the Freedomer emits a last cry.

  “Svobo…”

  Inquisitor fires his pistol.

  “Da. Net cheloveka, net problema,” he says holstering the Makarov.

  Nooria stirs and looks at Tarasov in disgust. She might have treated many dreadful wounds but seeing a man being shot in the head from close range is a different thing. Turning away from the ghastly scene, she starts vomiting.

  “Such is life in the Zone,” Tarasov quietly says.

  “Did you eventually quit or may I still offer you a smoke?” Shumenko asks, offering Tarasov a cigarette. He waves it off.

  “Duty,” the Sergeant continues as they walk away from the body, rolling his eyes. “Joint operation, not exactly to my liking. The problem is that whatever that freak said, killing this man didn’t solve our problem. Many Stalkers from all factions are moving to the south. Maybe it’s winter approaching and they just migrate like those cranes in the sky. Look—a lovely sight, those big Vs.”

  “What’s so odd about Stalkers moving to the New Zone? At least you’ll have less trouble here.”

  “People smarter than me think the Bandits might have a hand in this. The strange thing is, we never find any intel on them. Just like now—nichego. If we take them prisoner, they don’t know shit about where they’re heading. Just like that hapless anarchist. We tried to make them talk as best as we could, believe me. Apparently only their leaders know the destination and they don’t keep the coordinates stored in their PDAs.”

  “Then it’s a pity I shot that Bandit.”

  “Probably we couldn’t have caught him alive,” Shumenko says with a weary wave of his hand. “Two days ago, we encountered a similar group and had the boss cornered. He blew his own head off with a hand grenade. Whatever secret they have, they are keen to keep it. All the better for us, I guess. If grunts don’t know where to go after deserting, they think twice before deserting.”

  “You talk now like an officer.”

  “The army has treated me well, so I play according to its rules. No reason to complain.”

  “What about Sergeant Kolesnik?”

  “Being low on men has its advantages. Cordon Base is run now by a lieutenant. Patrols are commanded by sergeants. Kolesnik and I are patrol leaders now. He’s doing well, patrolling somewhere between the Red Forest and Limansk. Now you tell me, who’s that girl with you?”

  “Just a rookie.”

  Shumenko stops at a tree and takes a leak. “She’s from the New Zone, isn’t she?”

  “She is. How do you know?”

  “That’s where you went. Now you’re back, I guess with her as a souvenir.”

  Tarasov smiles. “Yes, kind of.”

  “We all believed that you found a treasure trove of artifacts down there, got rich and were living happily ever after,” Shumenko says closing the zipper on his camouflage leggings. “I mean, with dying never being too much of an option for you, that’s the only thing we could think of. What brought you back as a Loner, apparently?”

  “Just passing through. Really. You wouldn’t believe me that I’m actually a hunter’s guide, anyway.”

  “No, I wouldn’t. In any case, tread carefully.”

  “I left my cover because I had no choice. That Bandit was running right up to me with you closing in on him.”

  “Wise decision. We would have shot you first and asked later. Some of us would have shot you even knowing who you are.”

  “No surprise, with everyone mistaking me for a deserter.”

  “But you are. No offense.”

  “I don’t take any because there’s a lot to be told that you don’t know. Where are you going now?”

  “Back to Cordon. Another squad will arrive soon to continue combing this sector. We have some intel for a certain Captain Maksimenko.”

  “Maksimenko? He was always a self-loving bastard but not without abilities… very good abilities, actually. He missed the career bus if he’s still only a captain.”

  “Maybe not for long. He’s in charge of our operation, at least partly. His superiors might appreciate the intel we found.”

  Hearing this, an alarm bell goes on in Tarasov’s mind. Slowly, his hand moves to unsling his rifle, disguising the movement as adjusting the strap on his shoulder. Meanwhile his other hand in his pocket touches a button on the PDA.

  “You just told me you didn’t find any intel during your patrol.”

  “That was true until you appeared, Major Tarasov,” Shumenko says tossing away his cigarette. Then he shouts out to his men.

  “Seize them!”

  Before Tarasov can get his rifle ready, Shumenko has his Vintorez already pointed at him.

  “Sorry Major. Don’t even bother to ask that question. Two weeks leave and two thousand hrivnya is more tempting than letting you go for old times’ sake.”

  Held in check by the Sergeant’s rifle, Tarasov watches helplessly as Inquisitor puts his heavy hand on Nooria’s shoulder.

  “Don’t worry, rookie. I’ll only ask you a few questions.”

  She reaches for her blade but two more Dutyers grab her arms.

  “Don’t touch her! Shumenko, you bastard—”

  No matter how much Tarasov curses him while the Spetsnaz manhandle and bring him to the ground, Shumenko just shrugs it off. The sergeant only reacts when he sees Inquisitor holding Nooria’s chin and rudely turning her head left and right, checking how she would look as another wall trophy in his collection of dead mutants.

  “Hey, you creepy freak!” he shouts. “Leave that girl alone or you’ll have a r
eally big problem!”

  Checking if the plastic handcuffs are tight enough, Shumenko kneels down and pats Tarasov’s back.

  “Don’t worry, komandir. If he touches her, I’ll shoot him. That I will do for old times’ sake.” Then the sergeant waves to the Spetsnaz with the patrol’s communication gear. “Call Cordon Base. Ask them to send Osprey One to our exfil position. Tell them, we have priority intel for Captain Maksimenko.”

  45

  Vaults beneath the Alamo, New Zone

  Walking his watch in the Alamo’s vaults where the Tribe has its ammunition, fuel and other supplies stored, Lieutenant Nelson is desperately wishing for a cigarette but smoking is strictly prohibited here. To face the impending attack, the Colonel has ordered to haul up most of the ammunition to the overground defenses but the ban on smoking still stands and not even a Lieutenant would dare to defy it. Least of all he, Nelson, who still feels guilty over the ambushed Humvee under his command.

  He moves down the hall which looks like an underground hangar. The walls and ceiling are reinforced with concrete, with several smaller vaults holding supplies opening on the sides. Usually, this place is bustling with life: the rough terrain takes its toll on the Tribe’s vehicles and there’s always something to be repaired. Supplies are administered and moved 24 hours a day. Most of the combat vehicles are in the field now and the big maintenance hall is all but empty, save for a few trucks that were in too bad repair to be used. Apart from a single fighter in one of the smaller vaults taking stock of food supplies, it is only Boxkicker and Lance Corporal Bockman there. They are busy fixing a broken-down Humvee.

  Nelson smiles as he looks over the hall. When they first entered this underground, there was nothing but a dark but spacious cave system and a path to the then still ruined citadel that was probably an ancient escape route from the citadel above. In the few years that had passed since then, no efforts were spared to turn the cave into a well-equipped storage and maintenance facility. The narrow path leading up to the ancient town where now the Tribe’s living quarters are has also been re-built into a safe and wide passageway since. Nelson, however, can still remember the frenzy, panic almost, that overcame Marines and their Hazara protégés alike when the nukes went up. The Hazaras repaid for this protection well enough. Without them, they would have never found this refuge. Nelson himself owes his personal luck to them; his girl, at that time barely more than a scared little brat but now grown into a beautiful woman in her early twenties and already a proud mother of two, was one of the Hazaras who guided them here. After the Colonel assigned him to guard and training duties, Nelson’s only comfort is that he can spend more time with her—such short periods of peace are rare in the life of Lieutenants, who always fight in the first line and deal with the most perilous assignments.

  There is silence in the vaults, and Nelson is missing the usual bustle as he trots to the broken vehicle where two pairs of legs stand out from under the chassis—one wearing a blue civilian overall and the other in grease-stained fatigues.

  “Think this gear shift will ever work again?”

  “My fault. Should’ve looked at this weeks ago when some pups first complained about it… geez, a Lieutenant’s boots! We got company!”

  “As you were, Bockman,” Nelson says when the lance corporal’s oily face appears from under the chassis. “Take your time. There will be more to repair once the strike force returns.”

  “Sir!”

  Bockman smiles flashing his impeccable teeth and disappears under the Humvee again.

  “With all due respect, Lieutenant Nelson, but could you just kick that monkey-wrench over?” Boxkicker asks. “Gotta be there next to my tool kit.”

  Nelson finds the tool and is about to move it closer to the technician when he hears a strange noise, coming from one of the storage vaults. It is muted but sounds like stones rumbling. “What was that?”

  “Something’s wrong, sir?”

  “Both of you, on me!”

  Sharing a frown, Boxkicker and Bockman climb out from under the Humvee. Nelson’s ears detect the muted rumble once more. It is louder now.

  The Lieutenant unholsters his M1911 and whistles to the fighter in the supply vault. The three men follow Nelson to the vault where the rumble is coming from.

  “Bauer, come in,” Nelson speaks on his radio.

  “Bauer here.”

  “Something weird’s going on in storage vault Bravo Five. Send down a team immediately.”

  “Roger.”

  Nelson waves to the fighter. He is a Hazara boy, armed with an M4. With Nelson only having his sidearm on him and the two technicians completely unarmed, the carbine is the only rifle they have. Nelson can only hope that Bauer’s guard team will arrive soon. But then, what danger could have been expected here in the vaults? And is it a danger at all?

  Once in the vault, he hears knocking from the other side of the wall where nothing is supposed to be but stones and earth. If Lieutenant Nelson doubted if the noise signifies danger or not, now he knows that the knocking means nothing good.

  “Nelson here. Something is trying to breach into the vault. I repeat, breach detected at Bravo Five!”

  Lieutenant Bauer’s voice becomes anxious.

  “Jesus Christ, you mean someone’s trying to infiltrate the vaults?”

  “Don’t know, but I always thought Santa Claus would come through the chimney. Means this definitely ain’t him. Better raise the alarm!”

  “Roger. Sending Jackson down with a squad, over.”

  A siren begins to scream in the living quarters.

  “Bockman, Boxkicker, stay back and wait for Jackson’s team to arrive,” Nelson commands, then gives the young fighter an encouraging wink. “You and me, we’ll stay and welcome whoever is coming through. Take cover behind those strongboxes!”

  The two unarmed men hurry away as Nelson and the fighter take up position, aiming their weapons at the section of the wall that is now trembling from heavy blows.

  Fucking caves, Nelson thinks. This whole cursed land is full of them. Damned ragheads or scavengers must have found a way through. But how was that possible?

  The wall crumbles and two humanoid but immensely strong hands appear.

  Lieutenants of the Tribe are not supposed to get shocked. However, the face appearing in the breech makes Nelson’s skin creep. The ugliest mutant’s snout wouldn’t look to him as scary as this horribly distorted human face that appears to grin under its dark hood.

  “Fire!”

  The creature growls as the bullets fired from the M1911 and the carbine hit it. It sounds more like anger than pain. Nelson feels his vision blur—or is it just the air undulating between the mole-like hands? He has no time to think. His shock makes way to near panic when he sees the bullets being reflected by an unseen shield. All Nelson can do is to bark the only command making sense.

  “Fall back, fall back!”

  Several blows shatter the wall. Rocks crumble and in the wide hole an even more frightening sight appears.

  “Smiter! Run, run!”

  Firing one more desperate burst from his M4, the fighter makes a dash toward the maintenance hall where the guard team should have arrived by now. Nelson empties his magazine into the torso of the mutant appearing through the hole, reloads, then sees that if he wants to live, he too had better run—following the first, more bulky mutants come through the breach and what is perhaps even more alarming, grinning Talib faces appear behind them.

  Where in the hell is Jackson and his men?, the Lieutenant desperately asks himself as he turns and runs. Bullets whizz and ricochet from the walls. Then a shockwave hits him from behind and Nelson feels as if his stamina had been just sucked from his body. A bullet from a Kalashnikov hits his limb, then another one his back. Surviving, running, falling, then getting up and crawling away would require super-human strength.

  The Lieutenant has it. Even if his exposure to the power beneath the City of Screams has been just a fraction o
f what had created the smiters, his strength is beyond that of any hardened warrior. If Nelson would only wear his combat exoskeleton and have a weapon more powerful on him than the simple pistol, he could make a stand until the reinforcements arrive.

  And they come—a dozen heavily armed fighters appear from the tunnel leading to the Alamo, yet Nelson knows they are too late.

  “Get out!” he screams. “They’re gonna overrun you!”

  He must make it to the vault where the rest of the ammunition is stored. All Nelson can do is to set a claymore mine or C4 charge, let the section of the vault collapse and bury the intruders – with himself.

  The relief squad’s M16s open fire. Nelson sees the two technicians run into the tunnel. The young fighter lies dead in his blood pooling from three gunshot wounds on his back. Nelson grabs his weapon and can fire a short burst backwards before the magazine is empty.

  Triumphant howls and shouts come from the attackers’ direction when Jackson’s team falls back. Nelson knows that they will attempt to hold the intruders back until more men arrive from above with heavier weapons. Taking cover behind the Humvee that was being repaired just a few minutes ago, he screams a warning through his radio.

  “The vault’s been breached! Get out of the tunnel, get out! I’m gonna blow it!”

  Using smiters for cover, dozens of Taliban push forward. Only a few steps separate Lieutenant Nelson from the ammunition vault. He takes a deep breath and darts out. He needs three leaps to get there. Two. One.

  Another shockwave hits him. Depleted of stamina, Nelson falls but keeps dragging himself forward. Only a half meter to go.

  A huge foot steps on his back and pins him to the floor. Nelson gasps and spits blood. Without seeing it, he knows it’s a smiter.

  “Hello Lieutenant,” a hoarse voice says. “As the old saying goes—nothing’s worse than having an itch you can’t scratch, right?”

  The voice belongs to a triumphantly grinning half-mutant wearing ragged Stalker armor. He pats Nelson on the back and steps away, joining the Taliban who by now have overrun the vault. Then he steps away and nods to the smiter pinning the Lieutenant down. Horrendous pain and suffocation are the last things Nelson feels as the mutant raises his massive foot once more and then crushes his spine.

  46

  Cordon Base, Exclusion Zone

  Standing in the courtyard of Cordon Base, Maksimenko watches the helicopter approaching from the west. His eye sparkles with satisfaction.

  “Is it the renegade’s dumbness or our luck that’s beyond measure, Vlasov?” he asks the Spetsnaz sergeant standing at his side.

  “Both, I’d say. You’ll bring him to Kiev as soon as possible, I guess?”

  “Guessing is no part of your job description, Sergeant. No, we let him boil a little in his own gravy… to soften him up, if know what I mean.”

  “You mean—interrogating him?”

  “I said: to soften him up. Then I’ll do the interrogation myself.” The Captain thumps his right fist into his open palm. “Oh yes, I’ll do that. And what’s even better: Agent Fedorka will interrogate the female Stalker he had been with. Dunno what he was thinking. Female bodyguards didn’t help Gaddhafi either.”

  Sergeant Vlasov obediently laughs with his superior.

  The Hind gunship, call sign Osprey One, hovers over the Base with an ear-splitting whoosh and descends to the concrete helipad. It has barely touched down when the hatch swings open and Sergeant Shumenko appears, followed by Tarasov and Nooria. Both are handcuffed but two commandos still hold them by the arms.

  “Package delivered,” Maksimenko cheerfully says. “I love this job, Sergeant. Let’s go and say hello.”

  However, he only walks a few meters toward the helicopter and then stays still, stiffening his stance and letting Shumenko and his Spetsnaz drag the two prisoners up to him.

  “Major Tarasov,“ he says with a beaming smile, “it’s wonderful to see you.”

  “Makes you wish for still having both eyes, eh?” Tarasov angrily replies.

  “Is this the way to greet an old comrade, Mikhailo? What about ’good to see you too’, for example?” Shaking his head, Maksimenko steps forward and punches Tarasov in the stomach. “Or maybe, ’how good it is to be back at Cordon Base’?” His knee goes up and kicks the deserter in the face, who is still bending over after the painful punch. Nooria can’t hold back a scream.

  “And who do we have here?”

  “Don’t touch her, you bastard!”

  Tarasov tries to break free with all his strength but three Spetsnaz jump on and overpower him like terriers would a raging bull.

  “A witch, so I heard? Or a mattress where American deserters lay down for just a little bit of comfort?”

  Biting her lip, Nooria returns his stare without a word.

  “Pull back her hood,” Maksimenko orders Shumenko and the other Spetsnaz holding her. He rudely pulls on her hair to force her to look up at him. Seeing Nooria’s face, he grimaces.

  “Good God! Did a mutant piss on your face or what?” Grabbing her head, he takes a closer look at her scar. “No… it definitely looks like you gave a blowjob to a bloodsucker and then got his acidic load all over your pretty face!”

  Maksimenko gives a bellowing laugh. The low-rank Spetsnaz laugh with him, though Shumenko and Vlasov stay quiet and exchange a disapproving look.

  “Glad you too managed to put on a grin at last, Sergeant Shumenko,” Maksimenko says. “You’re about to be rewarded after all!”

  “Komandir, I—”

  “Later. First you load this wreck of a woman into the chopper and escort her, or should I say it, to SBU headquarters. Wait for me!”

  A hint of regret and compassion lurks in Sergeant Shumenko’s eyes as he leads Nooria to the Mi-24 and darts a glance to Tarasov, who is being manhandled and pinned to the ground concrete by the commandos. This time his gaze doesn’t elude Maksimenko’s attention.

  “Sergeant, wait a minute!”

  He turns towards the soldiers. “I know many of you have served under this deserter. He was a highly decorated officer. Look at him now. Look at him! He repaid the Motherland’s trust with treason and desertion. Let his be a good example for how we deal with such scum!” Maksimenko gives Shumenko a grin. “Sergeant, your reward is well deserved. You’ll be given the cash and extra leave as soon as you return from an urgent patrol to Limansk.”

  Shumenko’s face grows pale.

  “Sergeant, you don’t want to forfeit the reward by thinking stupid things over the fate of this deserter, do you? It will be best for you to stay away from Cordon Base until your former commander is being kept here. Same goes for his pet mutant.”

  “But—”

  “It’s in your best interest, Sergeant! Get out of my sight.”

  Tarasov writhes on the ground to break free from the Spetsnaz’ hold. “You bastards! If you lay as much as a finger on her, I’ll kill you!”

  Pulling all their strength together, the commandos manage to hold him down. Maksimenko gives Tarasov a cold, triumphant look. “I doubt it, deserter.”

  As if Tarasov hadn’t been humiliated enough in front of his former soldiers, Maksimenko theatrically steps on him and cleans the sole of his muddy boots into his fatigue. Vlasov though, who is watching the scene with growing disapproval, quickly intervenes before the humiliating gesture could be followed by a kick into Tarasov’s face.

  “What are your orders, komandir?”

  Maksimenko fishes his mobile phone from his pocket.

  “Take him to the holding cells. I want two Spetsnaz guarding this cage day and night until we bring him to Kiev,” he says. “If he escapes, or just tries to, I’ll make you wish you were never born!”

  “Understood.”

  Maksimenko dials a number. “Verka, it’s me. I have a surprise for you.”

  47

  Northern edge of the Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  Under normal circumstances, the wounded soldier would be a sight
pitiful enough to make even a battle-hardened opponent feel just a little compassion.

  However, when he looks into the steel-blue eyes of the Top who is holding him up into the air as if he were a helpless puppy, the soldier knows that he can hope for no mercy.

  Nor can he expect any help from his four comrades. Two of them had already been incapacitated by shrapnel when they walked into a makeshift trap prepared from fragmentation grenades, and those still standing were hit by a well-directed volley of heavy slug rounds that effortlessly pierced their standard-issue body armor. Before they could even see their ambushers, the encounter was lost.

  “All right, manchild, I’ll ask you one more time. Where is the woman? Where is Tarasov?”

  “Ne znayo a shtom ty govorish,” the soldier stammers.

  “He can’t speak English, Top,” says Pete who stands next to the Top, keeping his rifle pointed at the captured soldier. “This makes no sense.”

  “Bullshit, Marine!” the taller one shouts back at him. “He’s Spetsnaz, special forces. He is supposed to speak English. They were trained to extract information from people like me and you.”

  “Pozhaluysta… ya net Spetsnazam!”

  “Speak English, you goddamn vodka-soaked Russkie bastard! We received Tarasov’s distress signal. It was next to the position of one of your squads, close to here! He was hunted, there was a price on his head, you must know where they would take such prey!”

  “Klyanus bogom, ya ne ponemayu!”

  “I think he said he is no Spetsnaz.”

  “Since when do you speak his lingo?”

  “I don’t but he said net Spetsnaz that obviously means no Spetsnaz. Do the maths, Top.”

  “He fucking lies and I know only one Russian word—Tarasov!” The Top shakes his prisoner mercilessly. Bearing a deep gunshot wound in his limb, the soldier’s pain must be tremendous. Unmoved by his screams, his tormentor repeats his question. “Where is Ta-ra-sov?”

  “Kordon… nasha baza,” the soldier splutters.

  The Top tosses him to the ground. “Now we talk, Russkie.”

  Pete tries to intervene. “I think…”

  “I don’t care what you think. You better keep your eye on the bodies. I want no hostile-is-almost-dead-but-reaches-for-his-weapon antics on my ambush ground. Clear?”

  “Semper fi, Top.”

  “Now back to you, you miserable failure of a manchild playing soldier. How many men at your base? What weapons they have?”

  “Kordon… tam spetsnazovtsi. Oni budut vam strelat… bugte umerit kak sobaki, blyadiviye Amerikosi!”

  “Any idea what he said?”

  Pete shrugs. “Cordon is guarded by Spetsnaz who will shoot us like dogs and that we Americans can suck his dick. Maybe something worse. Whatever.”

  “How you know?”

  “Spetsnaz means Spetsnaz and I heard the Doc calling his pseudodog a sobaka. The rest is easy to guess.”

  “I’m really blessed with a linguistic genius like you. Goddamnit! If I had ten men, only ten Tribe warriors I could take that place, shake it until all those Spetsnaz fall out like apples from a tree and then have a word with our reckless friend! Provided if Nooria is unharmed, because if not… Oh God! Ten men. Eight. God, give me five men!”

  “You’ve got only me and Sawyer and he refused to shoot humans, anyway.”

  “And I told him that bugs are tougher than humans, predators are stronger and monkeys funnier, yet hunters like him don’t have a problem killing them. Makes him a peacenik and hypocrite.”

  “Whatever. Bottom line is, we can’t get to Tarasov if he’s kept at that base.”

  “It bloody well seems so, yes, but I’m glad at least you had the balls to come with me.” Hartman turns his eyes to the agonizing soldier. “Time to finish our business.”

  “He’s all fucked up, Top. We should let him go.”

  “Listen up, son,” the Top says loading his shotgun. “There’s a saying in Uncle Sam’s armed forces: no man is left behind. We in the Tribe prefer to say: no enemy is left alive. And we’ve good reason to do that—you’ll see.”

  Lying helplessly at the Top’s feet in the mud, the by now barely breathing soldier closes his eyes not to see it coming.

  “And what now?” Pete asks when the bang of the rifle shot died off.

  “Back to base,” the Top replies. Seeing that Pete is about to check the bodies for anything useful, he adds, “Looting is not an honorable thing to do. We are not scavengers, son.”

  “Sometimes you really give me a hard time understanding you, Top,” Pete says shaking his head but leaving the bodies alone. “You and your Tribe speak about honor. I mean, you shoot a helpless man without batting an eyelid but don’t touch his gear because it’s not honorable. I just don’t get your logic.”

  “You’re not supposed to understand. You’re supposed to follow.”

  “You are a heartless SOB if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “I take that as a compliment,” Hartman says with a grim smile. “Take point, big mouth! Watching out for anomalies will keep you from thinking too much.”

  48

  SBU headquarters, Kiev

  The gossip magazine full of cheesy photographs of beautiful people doing all kinds of nice things is very out of place in the SBU’s vaults. The female guard reading it fits there perfectly, however—she’s got the hands of a butcher, and her knee-length blue skirt with a belt holding a baton, pepper spray and a holstered Fort pistol reveals fleshy legs crossed under her desk. With a thick finger, the nail cut short, she scratches her head that is topped by a bun of greasy, dyed blonde hair. Occasionally, she lets her blue eyes wander around the corridor from where a row of holding cells open on both sides, then continues completing a sudoku riddle. Overall, she appears a person no prisoner would mess with. Yet she stirs and jumps at attention when the entry door opens.

  Radiating an aura of authority, Maksimenko and Agent Fedorka appear and walk to her desk, their steps keeping the same pace.

  “Did you clean her up?” Fedorka demands.

  “Yes. But—”

  “Did she stink?”

  “Just a few days’ share of Zone grime. I need to—”

  “Did you disinfect her?”

  “That was not necessary. But in the process—”

  “What?”

  Glad that the agent at last gives her an opportunity to tell what she wanted, the guard keeps her message short.

  “She is pregnant.”

  “Pregnant?” Maksimenko asks and smacks his lips in amusement. “She got knocked up by one of the Spetsnaz or what?”

  “No, tovarishu Kapitan… at least not to my knowledge—”

  “How do you know?” Fedorka asks, impatiently.

  “According to the protocol, we took a blood test to check if the prisoner has any contageous diseases like HIV or hepatitis—”

  “I know exactly what a contageous disease is, Corporal Ivanovna,” Agent Fedorka snaps at her. “Don’t you dare lecture me.”

  “Apologies. The test proved negative on diseases but positive on pregnancy. Between six and eight weeks.”

  The two SBU agents exchange a meaningful look.

  “Very well,” Fedorka says. “She is from the New Zone and has even spent several days in the Exclusion Zone. She will be thankful later if we prevent her child from being born. It must be distorted by irradiation already.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Why do you keep interrupting me, corporal?

  “With all due respect—the protocol says pregnant prisoners must be kept in a special facility. Not here!”

  “She’s holding information we must get from her.”

  “Tovarishu—”

  “On second thought, it’s good news actually,” Fedorka says, putting her finger on her lips. “Threatening her with losing her child might be good leverage. When she has talked, the abortion will be performed anyway.”

  “Good idea,” Maksimenko says and gi
ves Fedorka an approving smile.

  “It’s your call,” the female guard says with a shrug.

  “Yes it is,” Maksimenko snaps at her. “Open her cell.”

  “I better go alone,” Agent Fedorka says. “I’ll soften her up.”

  The prisoner squatting in one of the corners and hiding her eyes behind her hand to shield them from the strong neon light above looks rather innocent to her. Fedorka even feels a slight envy when she looks at Nooria’s waist-long hair.

  “Get up,” she commands but the prisoner doesn’t move. Fedorka grabs her arms and lifts her to her feet. Taking Nooria by her chin, she forces her to raise her head. Fedorka notices the sadness and fright in Nooria’s green eyes. She decides to play cat-and-mouse with her.

  “I’m not here to hurt you,” she tells Nooria. The scar on her face don’t impress her much, but being nice is part of her game. She strokes the scar covering Nooria’s right face.

  “Poor girl. This must have been sulfuric acid,” she says with mocked compassion. “Who did this to you? Let me guess—the usual story of a refused lover taking revenge? Some bearded old men being upset over you going to school?”

  Nooria doesn’t reply.

  “Not as if I’d care, you know,” Fedorka continues. “I am not even surprised. You’re barbarians— we should have killed you all but luckily, you took care of that with the nukes yourselves.” She chuckles. “Not without some unfortunate side effects. You know, my dear, ever since Chernobyl we have been dealing with the effects of radiation. Do you know what radiation does to a fetus? A little child in its mother’s belly?”

  Nooria’s eyes flicker. Fedorka takes this as a sign of fear.

  “Not very nice things. Let me show you.” Fedorka browses through the images on her mobile phone and shows one to Nooria. “Such monsters are better not being born. We are not bad people, my dear. For the sake of both of you, we will not let it be born.”

  Nooria stirs. Satisfied with the effects of her words, Fedorka continues.

  “Look, you know a lot of things. Some people might hurt your baby but I won’t let this happen if you help me. All you need to do is tell me about a few things.”

  “About what?” Nooria asks now.

  “About where you live. The men in your Tribe. How many of them are there, how they are armed, what they do, how they get supplied—things like that. Will you help us?”

  “Will you harm my child?”

  Fedorka leans against the wall, her hands over Nooria’s shoulders. She leans close to her prisoner, as if she wanted to press her against the wall with her own body.

  “Silly question,” she whispers. “I am a woman myself, can’t you see? How could I hurt a pregnant woman?”

  “I—I don’t know why to trust you.”

  “Because I will be very, very sweet to you, and give you a chance to hurt the man who has hunted down your husband.”

  “Who is he?”

  “First, tell me about Tarasov. Does he love you?” Nooria nods. “Even with that scar? Does he touch it? Kiss it? Does it make him excited? Oh—I see now.”

  “Who is the man who was hunting him?”

  “You will find out soon enough. See—that’s how sweet I can be, if you’re sweet to me too.”

  Fedorka caresses Nooria’s scar and gently kisses it. Then she lets her lips glide over Nooria’s mouth and gives her a long, sensual kiss. Stepping away, she notes the effect with satisfaction— Nooria’s mouth is still open with a mix of surprise, fear and maybe even disgust all over her face.

  “You see, my dear?” Fedorka says, wiping her lips with her hand. “I am not here to hurt you.”

  “Why did you do this?”

  “To prove that I can be kind to you and because I like you. Think about what I said. I will be back soon.”

  Fedorka knocks on the cell door. Stepping outside, she shuts it and emits a sigh.

  “She will talk. I feel it. Our trick has played off.”

  Maksimenko frowns. “Are you sure?”

  “I promised her that she can hurt you,” Fedorka says with a low chuckle.

  His frown turns scowl. “Are you out of your perverted mind?!”

  “Look who’s talking. Let’s take her, she’s sweet and smells surprisingly good.”

  “Wait a minute. What in hell did you promise her?”

  “Nothing you wouldn’t like. Come on, a threesome is every real man’s dream!”

  “You are completely crazy!”

  “Getting cold feet, dorogoy? She has more than enough hair to cover that scar and if you don’t see that—the rest of her face is all right.”

  “Stop. Answer my question, Verka. You promised her a chance to hurt me?”

  “Not more than I do usually. Don’t worry, I will be there too. Once we are done having fun with her, I’ll make her talk. By pointing a kitchen knife to her belly if necessary.”

  “I’m not so sure about this, Verka.”

  “I am. Let’s go. Or do you want Kruchelnikov to get her intel first? You forgot about that ranch in Montana?”

  “But we can’t take her to your place or mine. She’s a high-priority prisoner, for God’s sake! And we can’t disable the CCTVs in the interrogation rooms!”

  “Good point. Shit! I got carried away. Where then?”

  “Wait—there’s the drivers’ dorm right on the corridor leading to the entry hall.”

  “I love your brains, Dima. Let’s go.”

  They walk back to the guard’s desk.

  “We need to take the prisoner for further interrogation,” Maksimenko tells her in a voice that forbids any argument. “We also need everything she had on her when she was brought in.”

  “I’m not sure if I’m allowed to do that, tovarishu Kapitan,” the female corporal stammers. “According to Point 3 of the holding protocol, I must ask for approval—”

  Maksimenko darts a quick glance at the celebrity magazine on her desk.

  “Point 17 Section 6 of the protocol on the holding facilities of Ukraine also says that guard personnel on duty must stay alert and keep their attention at the holding facility full time,” he replies, giving the guard the look of an officer upset. “Letting your attention be distracted by stupid sudoku riddles goes against that. You can make up for this lack of discipline by displaying unquestioning obedience in following the orders of superior officers as provided for by Article 2 of the Protocol on the internal rules of the SBU—” Maksimenko stops for a moment to catch his breath. “—unless you want to be posted to a prison where you get all kinds of viruses by the inmates merely looking at you. Am I understood?”

  The guard opens her mouth to reply but immediately shuts it again.

  “Da, Kapitan—as ordered,” is all she can mutter.

  In a few minutes, the two agents lead a handcuffed Nooria from the holding facility.

  “You made me moist with that speech,” Fedorka chuckles. Maksimenko gives her one of his self-satisfied smiles and opens the door with his magnetic badge.

  It is late night and the building is deserted. Maksimenko knows that even if a guard of the night shift would have nothing better to do than watching the CCTV, two agents leading a prisoner wouldn’t appear suspicious. But probably they do have something else to do, like reading men’s magazines or listening to their MP3 players. At least this is what the Captain hopes for when opening the door, because the drivers’ dorm is an unusual destination for prisoners. To his relief, no busy-body detail manning the main entry gate comes to check them out.

  “Yikes! This room smells like old socks,” Vera Fedorka says with a grimace as they step into the small room with three beds and a sink. Captain Maksimenko puts down the bundle holding Nooria’s belongings and locks the door from inside.

  “What will you do to me?” Nooria asks anxiously. Fedorka steps to her and caresses her face.

  “Treat you well—very well. Don’t worry.”

  But seeing that Maksimenko is getting undressed, a look of ultima
te horror appears on Nooria’s face. Seeing that she is about to scream, Vera Fedorka swiftly puts a chokehold on Nooria and presses a hand to her mouth.

  “If you dare to emit as much as a whimper, you will lose your child. Clear?”

  Nooria nods, here eyes wide with fear. Fedorka cautiously removes her hand shutting Nooria’s mouth, and opens the neatly knotted bundle holding Nooria’s clothes and the few things she had on her. Her blade is among them.

  “Wow,” Fedorka says pulling it from the scabbard. Holding her cheek, she forces Nooria’s face toward the bed. “Are you scared of his missing eye?” Nooria nods once more. Fedorka puts the point of the blade close to her eye. “Listen, my dear. You will do exactly as you are told or you will end up like him. Clear? Good… Truth be told, I think he looks cool like that. And now get out of those prisoner rags.”

  She tosses the blade to Maksimenko who skillfully catches it in the air and puts it beside the bed, far away from Nooria’s reach. Fedorka uncuffs Nooria’s hands.

  “Make it sexy,” Maksimenko cheerfully says. He got split naked meanwhile and has made himself comfortable on the bed. Together with Vera Fedorka, they watch Nooria undressing.

  “Embarrassingly small tits,” she says staring at Nooria’s half-naked body. “Please raise your hands.”

  “Aren’t you getting a little too soft on her?”

  “You’re right, Dima. Hey! Let me see if you’re shaven, bitch. Hands up!” Fedorka nods satisfied with what she sees. “Now get out of those pants. Do it!”

  “Oh my God,” Maksimenko utters when he sees the scars on Nooria’s lower belly. “Knife cuts?”

  “Suits her face well,” Fedorka says with another chuckle.

  By now, Nooria is standing naked in front of them, shaking from embarrassment, cold and fear.

  “Nice pussy,” Fedorka says studying Nooria’s pubic as if her prisoner were a sex slave on sale. “The last shave has been a few days ago, but that happens sometimes. All right… my turn.”

  She starts undressing by removing her dark uniform jacket first, then the black tie.

  “You can leave your cap on,” Maksimenko tells her with a grin.

  “I don’t have any.”

  “Nobody’s perfect.”

  “But I am. Watch me prove it.”

  Fedorka tosses her skirt right into Maksimenko’s face. He quickly puts it down, eager to see her removing her shoes and stockings. Fedorka gracefully moves her beautiful body dancing to an imaginary rhythm, until she wears nothing but her white bra with a G-string, colors matching. Softly shaking her hips, she walks over to Nooria.

  “That’s no tits,” she says, caressing Nooria’s nipples and then touching her own. “That’s tits.”

  She walks back to the bed, giving Maksimenko such a seducing stare that only a woman who has wrapping men around her finger written in her job description can.

  “I have only one handcuff. Will you behave, Dima?” she purrs shackling Maksimenko’s hand to the radiator behind the bed.

  “You bet I will.”

  “I need the lubricant first.”

  She opens bag and rummages inside, then impatiently empties it on one of the unoccupied beds. Among many things including a make-up kit, spare stockings and panties, a mobile phone and the long nail file, a discreet tube of lubricant falls out. Fedorka pushes a little liquid on her palm and waves to Nooria.

  “I’m proud to give you the best cock of Kiev—,” Fedorka lustfully whispers. Maksimenko gives a low moan as he feels her warm palm applying the lubricant on his sex. “— and the man who lured you two here attached to it. First, you will take him. You can do anything to him—anything I let you do, of course. Then we’ll change roles and we will make you feel good like you never felt before!” She closes her hand into a fist and gives Maksimenko an accomplice’s smirk. “Come closer.”

  Nooria is standing motionlessly with embarrassment written all over her. She feels utterly humiliated not only for getting naked against her will but also for her body being much less attractive than those of the sadistic couple. His naked beauty might suffer from scars on his torso but apart from that, it is a pleasure for any female eye to look at. Nooria cannot deny herself a shadow of desire. However, the sight of the woman’s perfect body fills her with bitter envy.

  Her eyes meet Fedorka’s. They look warm to her, tempting, lewd and full of evil.

  “You have beautiful eyes,” Nooria says, stepping closer. With her hands behind her back, she kneels down between the bed occupied by the couple and the other one with the opened bag on it.

  “Submissive already? I love that,” whispers Vera Fedorka, caressing Maksimenko’s thigh. “Watch him getting ready for you. I want to watch him fuck your brains out. Then we’ll change position and I will give you the fuck of your life.”

  “Why?” Nooria asks with trembling lips.

  Vera Fedorka and Maksimenko exchange a glance. She opens her mouth with a burble of laughter. With disgust, Nooria watches a thick drop of saliva falling from her lips. The beautiful woman looks to her now like a drooling bitch.

  “Come,” Fedorka commands her. “Look how big he is. He is all yours until my turn comes.”

  “I would rather not,” Nooria replies. Behind her back, her hands are frantically searching among the spilled contents of Fedorka’s bag.

  “Why so?” Vera Fedorka asks, leaning up on the bed. She smiles at Maksimenko. “Sumasedshaya…”

  Having at last found what she was looking for, Nooria takes a deep breath.

  “Sorry,” she sighs, “but I don’t like you.”

  Vera Fedorka’s brown eyes open wide but even if they were closed, the metal nail file in Nooria’s hand would just as easily punch through her right eye, fracture the soft bone tissue beyond it and pierce into her brain. Surprise still lingers in Vera’s unharmed eye when she falls back to the bed, her hands and legs jerking for a few seconds until her brain ceases to function.

  With his mouth open wide enough to scream but emitting only a moan, Captain Maksimenko shakes on the handcuff shackling him to the radiator. A wave of cold runs down his spine when he sees the rage in Nooria’s eyes as she takes her blade. Maksimenko can’t tell what is more frightening—the freezing gaze of Nooria’s green eyes or the curved blade she is unsheathing.

  “Go ahead! Cut my head off if you want, you barbarian bitch!”

  He knows that his hoarse words sound all but defiantly.

  With a quick leap, Nooria lands kneeling on Maksimenko’s chest. For a long moment, she looks him in the eye, holding her blade an inch away from his throat. Maksimenko moans from both fear and excitement as he feels his sex touch that of hers.

  “It was your woman wanting to take away my child, not you. Now she has one eye, just like you.” With her free hand, Nooria reaches between her legs and grasps him so strongly that Maksimenko’s face distorts from pain. His arm strains against the handcuff.

  “My man is bigger,” she breathes into his face. If Vera Fedorka appeared and smelled like a bitch in heat, Nooria looks now like a demon in rage. “This is to remember me.”

  Nooria puts her index finger on her lips, then touches the Captain’s mouth as if giving a kiss. Maksimenko hears a silent hiss from the direction of his neck. Burning pain follows a split second later.

  Cold fire still burns in Nooria’s eyes when she removes the glowing blade from his neck. Maksimenko wants to shout but realizes at the same moment that if he is found here, with Fedorka dead, he handcuffed to the radiator and a high-profile prisoner about to escape, he would be beyond dead. He closes his eye to avoid Nooria’s soul-piercing gaze.

  When he opens it a few moments later, she is gone. So are her belongings.

  After ten minutes spent with trying to reach the key that Vera Fedorka has put beside his bed, far from his reach but close enough to get at the price of chafing and bloodying his wrist, he gets off the bed. Vera Fedorka lies on the floor with blood still gushing from her eye. For a moment, he
forgets about everything.

  “Help!” he screams.

  No guard comes. Then he realizes that what he thought to be a scream was just a whimper, muted by the dryness inside his throat and the bleeding cut outside.

  _____________________________

  Outside on busy Volodymyrska Street, no passer-by could tell that the fragile woman walking down is hiding a blade that’s still bloody from killing the two security guards who tried to stop her on her way out of the building, Nooria occasionally stops and looks around. It is not the tall buildings and shiny shop windows she is looking at over but people’s faces. Most don’t even give her as much of a glance and don’t notice that Nooria closes her eyes and deeply concentrates for a second when some of them step her by.

  Next to a huge SUV with its engine idling, a brawny man and a well-dressed, blonde woman are fighting. Although a fur parka covers her shoulders, she is underdressed for the chilly night in her mini skirt and thin stockings. She trembles with cold and pain as the man delivers one slap after the other to her face. She grabs the golden chain hanging from the man’s neck, strong as that of an ox, as if that could prevent her from falling on her knees under the impact of the slaps.

  “Smerdyucha suko,” he shouts, “ya komu skazav, viddai meni vsi babky!”

  He grabs her hand holding on to his thick chain and twitches her wrist. The woman yells from pain, falls on all fours and tries to crawl away.

  A police patrol car drives by them. It slows down for a minute, then accelerates again and drives off. Neither do the passers-by on the sidewalk pay any attention to the scene. A pimp punishing a hooker is not a sight they would prefer over looking at the glittering shop windows.

  The man is too preoccupied with beating the woman to pay attention to them. He is about to slap her once more when his hand, ready to deliver another strike, goes down and reaches behind his back. Then he looks at his palm which is bloody all over. His body jerks forward as if he had taken a punch from behind. Then he looks down to his left chest from where the tip of a long, curved blade is protruding.

  “Shcho tse bulo?” he whispers before emitting a painful moan as he collapses. A car drives by, honking wildly.

  The woman stares at the tiny figure with the hooded coat appearing behind the collapsed pimp.

  “Shcho ty zrobyla? Chomu ty obrazyla yoho?”

  Nooria steps over the body and cleans off her blade in his jacket. She signals the hooker to get into the SUV.

  “Sorry but I don’t speak you language,” she says. “I only know Zona and Stalker. Drive me there.”

  “Zona?” asks the hooker in bewilderement. “Ty zdurila?”

  “Stalker,” Nooria calmly repeats, “Zona. Artifacts. Kalashnikov. Shooters.”

  The blonde hooker stares at the blade. Then nods.

  Twenty minutes later, she stops the car in front of a two-storey house that looks like a nineteenth century building reborn as a neon sign designer’s psychedelic dream. Blue, purple, yellow and red signs are blazing their light all over the façade. An arched electric sign flashes the word SHOOTERS above the entrance where a half-dozen bouncers, all looking like heavy-weight boxers dressed in tailor-made suits, try to keep order among the crowd of mostly young people waiting to be let in. The men are all dressed in their best and handsome but no matter how smart they look, the beauty of their women blows their appearance out of the water. It is as if the most gorgeous women of Ukraine had gathered here, but there’s still enough of them for the bouncers to refuse entry to a few. Those not judged pretty enough to deserve entering the hallowed night club shout abuses at the bouncers but quickly disappear to try their luck elsewhere.

  The hooker takes Nooria’s hand and drags her right to the entrance.

  “Zakryi svoye brudne lytse,” she whispers and pulls the hood over Nooria’s face.

  She exchanges a few agitated sentences with the senior bouncer, who gives them a pass after she skillfully lets a bank note slip into his palm. Apart from Nooria no one else seems to have noticed it.

  Once inside, the hooker ignores the wardrobe and the mass waiting for the attendants to take their leather jackets and fur coats. Making her way through the crowd that smells of alcohol, perfume and sweat, she leads Nooria into a hall where those lucky enough to have a place on the dance floor jerk their bodies to a groovy song, all hands in the air. The whole place seems to be drowning in red light and loud music. On the far end of the hall, flanked by an overcrowded bar counter, a staircase leads below. It is guarded by a particularly huge bouncer. The left side of his perfectly tailored black suit is bulging. He might have a pistol or even submachine gun hidden there.

  The hooker takes another banknote from her purse but the man is not impressed. Only when she gives him two more banknotes does he step aside, giving the two women a glance of utter disdain.

  “Nu ot,” the hooker says, nervously looking around and pointing to the stairs. “Tse Shooters i os’ tam zona, de zabavlyayutsya hloptsi zi zbroyeyu!”

  Then she disappears in the crowd.

  Slowly making her way down the marble stairs, Nooria looks around in the posh lounge where a dozen bossy-looking men have made themselves comfortable in oriental-fashioned sofas. The beats of the music played above give way to subdued chill-out. The aroma of exquisite cigars lingers in the air, mixing with the fruity flavor of hookah pipes and traces of marijuana. Low, round tables stand an arm’s length from the sofas, loaded with delicious food from all over the world, not lacking plates with small hills of black caviar. The sight and smell makes Nooria’s stomach rumble. It all appears like an oriental fairytale come true, and the veritable harem of gorgeous-looking, young women cuddling in to the patrons or already sitting in their laps is ready to deliver any pleasure that dishes and drinks can’t. Completely lost in this world of sinful glamour, Nooria feels like an ugly grey duckling among a flock of graceful black swans.

  From a sofa in a dimly lit corner, a stout man is staring at her with his almond-shaped eyes narrowed under the arched eyebrows. He would be fearsome to look at even without his shaved skull and the long, carefully groomed moustache makes him appear even more like one of Genghis Khan’s fierce raiders. As if picked to match the color of his tie, a blue-eyed brunette is sitting next to him, wearing a black silk dress so short that it could pass as a napkin. She rests one of her improbably long legs in the man’s lap, nonchalantly flashing bare skin on her inner thigh. A brawny, tall Caucasian man, obviously a bodyguard, stands close by and keeps a watchful eye over the lounge.

  Out of ideas about what to do, Nooria looks around. Suddenly, she feels a heavy hand on her shoulder.

  “Nu, kurvo, shcho tobi potribno?”

  Towering over her, the bouncer whom the hooker had bribed a minute ago gives Nooria a very unfriendly look.

  “Zona,” she stammers.

  The bouncer pulls the hood off her face to check if she is pretty enough to merit entry.

  “Bozhe miy—idy het!”

  Glass shatters on the floor. One of the glamor girls who had been watching the scene screams at the sight of Nooria’s face, putting her hand to her mouth that was holding a champagne flute until just a second ago.

  Cussing under his breath and rudely grabbing Nooria’s arm, the bouncer drags her back to the stairs. She doesn’t try to resist and is about to be kicked out of the lounge when a slow-talking, deep voice comes from behind.

  “Hrisho, ne chipai ii, day iy pity!”

  The bouncer immediately releases Nooria and steps aside with a respectful bow.

  “Divchyno, hodimo zi mnoy!”

  It is the bald man’s bodyguard talking. Realizing that she doesn’t understand Ukrainian, he gives Nooria a signal with his index finger to follow.

  “Listen up,” he says in slow, heavily accented English. “Sultan wants to see you.”

  He walks back to his boss, who is waving a strand of the brunette’s hair from his face to better see Nooria. Nooria keeps standing there, not sure if th
is place could mean anything better than the SBU she has just escaped from.

  49

  VIP lounge, Shooters bar, Kiev

  Heeding the bodyguard’s call, she follows him to the man called Sultan. He looks her up and down, his face resembling that of a shark that has had enough prey for the day and now gives the helpless little fish before him a jovial smile.

  “I see you don’t speak our language,” Sultan says. His voice is rough but not unpleasant. “No problem, I do speak English. Sit down, little one.”

  With a wave of his hand, he sends the long-legged brunette away. Reluctantly, Nooria takes her place at Sultan’s side where the leather is still warm. She pulls the hood up to hide her face.

  “No need for that, little one. I’ve seen worse where I do business.”

  His bodyguard seems less relaxed.

  “Sultane, slukhaite…” he whispers into his boss’ ear.

  “Shut up, Knuckles. Fresh meat is fresh meat wherever you find it.” Sultan turns to face Nooria. “Don’t worry, little one. I am Sultan and you’re my guest now. Do you want a drink?”

  Nooria is unsure about what to reply. She can only name a few drinks in this world.

  “I want kvas,” she says recalling the beverage that Tarasov had once taught her to prepare.

  “What? Asking here for that crap would put me in disgrace. This is Shooters, little one, not a filthy drinking den. How about a Margarita? Just because you look like a Margarita. Is that your name?” Nooria nods. Sultan gives her a shrewd smile. “Of course it is. So, what do you desire apart from kvas, malenkaya Margarita?”

  “Dasani water,” she says, “or Dr. Pepper’s but not diet shit.”

  “Come on, they only serve Evian here. And who is Doctor Peppers?”

  Nooria sighs. “I want champagne. Dom Perignon.”

  “That’s my girl!”

  Sultan laughs as if he was wonderfully entertained and snaps his fingers. A waitress immediately appears to take his order.

  “Dom Perignon, bystra! So, Margarita—”

  Sultan is about to ask Nooria something when a soft ringtone sounds up from his pocket.

  “Dancing on the ashes of the world, I behold the stars, Heavy gale is blowing to my face, Rising up the…”

  “Alo,” Sultan says into his cell phone. What the caller at the other end of the line is telling him might be important, because Nooria sees Sultan narrow his eyes in a look of sudden concern. He barely replies to the caller save for occasionally grumbling da.

  “Apologies but I had to answer this,” Sultan says putting the phone back to his pocket. “It came from a very important business partner.”

  The waitress arrives with two crystal flutes and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne inside. She skillfully opens it without popping the cork, maybe to save certain jumpy patrons a heart attack caused by a sound resembling a gun shot. Nooria eagerly empties her glass, unaware of Sultan giving her a long, inquisitive gaze.

  “Slowly, slowly,” Sultan says, raising his own glass to her. “It has no legs to run away. Na zdarovye!”

  After two more glasses of Dom Perignon have quenched her thirst, Nooria stares at the nearest table. Sultan’s brown eyes follow her look.

  “Hungry? Have some zakuski. Sushi is good here but I’m no snork to eat raw fish. Are you? I guessed so. Try this instead.”

  Sultan takes a plate from the table. Finding the pile of tiny, black, glassy balls disgusting, Nooria gives the dish a distrustful look.

  “I could enjoy a good champagne even with some greasy ‘tourist’s breakfast’ but the Shooters is a snobby place,” he says. “When in a snobby place, do as the snobs do. Have some caviar… oh my God, not like that! Use a spoon, please. ”

  No matter how politely Sultan treats her, Nooria now senses impatience in his voice. Thinking of the phone call he had received a few minutes ago, a feeling of nervousness creeps into her mind. She takes a few spoonfuls of caviar, which she finds tasting much better than it looks, then gulps down another glass of champagne.

  “I do not want to keep you,” she says wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. Still politely, Sultan offers her a napkin. “Thank you. Caviar is nice food.”

  Sultan waves Knuckles over to him. “Viz’my mashynu! Zabyraemosya zvidsu.”

  The bodyguard nods and hurries up the stairs.

  Sultan offers Nooria a cigarette from an elegant, black and golden paper box.

  “Sobranie. You don’t smoke, little Margarita? All the better for you.”

  Sultan stays. In a moment a waitress appears with a brown leather wallet. She gives him a polite smile that might be even flirtatious if the rich patron wouldn’t be already accompanied by a woman. Sultan removes a few banknotes from a thick bundle held together with a silver clip, puts it in the wallet and signals Nooria to go ahead of him.

  “I too need to go now,” Nooria says as they walk up the stairs. “Thank you again for champagne and caviar, but I—”

  Sultan cuts into her words.

  “Zona, da?”

  Nooria understands. Even if walking ahead of Sultan, she feels as if she were led by an invisible chain. But knowing that this man, who has something fearful all over him despite his gentlemanlike manners, is her only hope to get back to the Zone, she decides to follow him despite the uneasy feeling in her heart.

  On a spot where probably not even God himself would be allowed on Judgment Day to park his car, a black Hummer H2 is waiting. Knuckles opens the rear door, letting Sultan and Nooria climb inside. To Nooria this means climbing literally, but Sultan softly lifts her onto the leather seat. When the auto-lock on the heavy, bullet-proof doors engages with a loud click, Nooria feels herself reminded of the SBU’s holding cell. The Hummer’s compartment is much more comfortable but the feeling of being a prisoner appears all the same to her.

  “Back to base,” Sultan instructs his bodyguard. The heavy vehicle accelerates with surprising swiftness and soon blends into the flow of vehicles on Moskovskaya Street. “I have to apologize for keeping our dinner so short, Margarita. I received bad news.”

  “I hope everything is okay, Sultan.”

  “That was a strange call actually, even if I sometimes do deliver my associate the kind of goods he’d asked me about. Usually such goods are difficult to find. However, I have a gut feeling that this time my life will be easier. Now open your coat and let me see what you’re hiding there.”

  Sultan’s voice is hard and commanding now. He switches the search light above their seat on and gives Nooria an inquisitive gaze. Now he is looking like the fearsome gangster boss she suspected him to be. Slowly, Nooria moves her hand towards her blade but Sultan jolts his index finger as a sign of warning.

  “No, no, little one. First, I don’t want to hurt you. Second, if I would be easy to hurt, people wouldn’t call me Sultan but something like Pansy or Sissy. Or Borov.” A self-satisfied smile appears on Sultan’s face but it doesn’t at all make him appear less threatening. “Third, should you by God’s miracle manage to hurt me nonetheless—the door locks are engaged and you couldn’t get out. Being stuck inside and having a pissed off Knuckles outside don’t mix well. He likes to set things on fire.”

  Reluctantly, Nooria lets Sultan take her blade. He studies it carefully.

  “Hm… nice one. Persian workmanship, I’d say from Shiraz or perhaps Tabriz, second half of the fourteenth century. The jewels on the scabbard are worth at least—hard to tell in this dim light, but I’d say that big ruby on the pommel is worth twenty thousand dollars alone. And the blade—artifact-alloyed Damascene steel! Amazing little toy. Suits you well.” Sultan gives the blade back to Nooria. She quickly puts it back behind her belt, relieved.

  “Listen up, Margarita. See, my business partner is looking for a short female aged between twenty and twenty-five years, half face pretty, half face scarred, probably by sulphuric acid. I was told that she’d killed one of his associates using an old-fashioned blade and wounded another
one in the neck while he tried to protect her.” Nooria doesn’t reply. “Strange coincidence, Margarita—the assassin’s description reminds me of you. Or have you seen anyone else like yourself? Because you could earn a lot of money if you did. My partner is a bit upset and asked all local businessmen like me for help. Of course, his own corporation is also hunting the assassin, not to mention the cops—useless clowns as they are.”

  Nooria still prefers not to say anything. However, with Sultan pushing and no way to escape, her resolve to keep her secret begins to crumble.

  “Is that story true, Margarita? Do you know or have heard something about it?”

  “It is not true,” Nooria eventually says with a sigh. “Not entirely.”

  “No surprise. Everything that my partner says should be taken with a grain of salt. What did he lie about this time?”

  “I did not kill her with my blade.”

  “You’re telling me it wasn’t you, or that you didn’t use that metallurgic masterpiece?”

  “I used a nail file.”

  “A nail file?” Sultan gives her again one of his bellowing, jovial laughs. He is again relaxed, just like before he started squeezing her. “Then your name should be Nikita, not Margarita!”

  “Nikita?”

  “Never mind.”

  Sultan lights up another Sobranie. Seeing that Nooria wrinkles her nose, he lets his window slide down a hand’s width.

  “Sorry Margarita but I love smoking. One cigarette gives me a hundred ideas. Must be the relaxing effect the smoke has on my nerves.” He takes a deep draw on his cigarette. He tells something to Knuckles in Ukrainian and turns back to Nooria.

  “You told me the truth about you—some of it, as it appears—and in exchange, I’ll share part of my story with you too. See, I don’t particularly like my partner. Not long ago, one of his associates screwed up a business venture that could have been very profitable for me. Baistryuk Degtyarev! Kurva yoho mama!” Sultan switches to Russian to hiss a nasty curse. “Tak i khotilosya b zlamaty yomu shyyu… Sorry little one, but thinking of it still makes me mad. This incident has forced me to move part of my activities to the New Zone. Logistics are more expensive, which means less profit, at least until I’ll have enough associates working for me there. But that’s none of your concern.”

  Nooria keeps looking at her knees but this time to hide the surprise on her face. The name Sultan had mentioned sounds more than familiar to her. She has often heard Tarasov talking about his former comrade.

  “Anyway, the price on your head is pretty high. Luckily for you, it’s more tempting to retaliate for the troubles my partner’s associate had caused me. Tit for tat. So, coming back to square one—it is the Zone where you want to go, yes?”

  Nooria nods.

  “I don’t know why a tiny little thing like you would want to go there, but I’ll bring you to the Zone. Zaton area, to be more specific. Bringing you there safe and sound will be my part of our deal. Your part will be twofold. First, you will entertain me.”

  Nooria frowns. “How am I supposed to entertain you?” she asks with a hint of fear in her voice. Again, Sultan laughs.

  “See? You are entertaining me already. Keep it up! Sweet little Margarita, for that kind of entertainment I have enough girls who still have their whole faces pretty. No offense. You’ll entertain me by just being as you are. I find you kind of funny, you see? Now—the second part on your side of the deal will be entertaining for you as well, I assure you.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “Don’t worry, it should be barely challenging for someone with your abilities, Margarita,” Sultan says with a charming smile. “Or should I call you—but no. Until you’re with me your name will be Margarita. It’s just one part of keeping you away from my partner and his bloodhounds. Besides, who knows—maybe you’re looking for your Master in the Zone, yes?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t. Never mind, Margarita, never mind!” Sultan laughs so much that he has to wipe a tear from his eye. “So—I’ll help you with getting into the Exclusion Zone, whatever you are up to there. In exchange, once you’re finished with your own business or just had enough of crawling in radioactive mud, you will travel to the New Zone and whack someone.”

  Nooria gives Sultan a puzzled look.

  “Whack? What?”

  “Kill. Him.”

  “You are wrong about me. I am not a killer. I only hurt bad people and only when I have to.”

  “How entertaining you are, my innocent little Margarita,” Sultan says, smiling even wider.

  “Why kill? Did he do something bad to you?”

  “Listen up, docha. I can’t get to the person who screwed my Skadovsk scheme because that would upset his boss. There’s nothing good in losing a valuable partner, whether I like him or not. But I, or more specifically you can deal that bastard a sting where it will hurt a lot. An eye for an eye, a friend for a friend, and I lost more than one friend to that bastard’s hands. Luckily, even bastards have some emotions left and that’s his weak spot where your blade comes in—literally. It’s all tit for tat, you see?”

  “If I agree, how will I get to New Zone?”

  “You’ll need to talk to a friend of mine called Jack once you’re ready to go. You will find him in the Container Warehouse south of Yanov Station. Once in the New Zone, you will kill the troublemaker. However, in case you think about trying to disappear without coming up with your part of the deal—see, I could threaten to hunt you down, delivering you to the people looking for you or just kill you myself but come on, we’re friends, no? I have my honor and you seem to be an honorable person as well. Aren’t you?”

  “I—I don’t know—I mean yes, I do have honor.”

  “Good. I give you my word of honor to bring you to the Zone and you will entertain me and perform that little task. Do you give me your word of honor?”

  Nooria hesitates.

  “Poor little girl, you look wasted,” Sultan says. “After all you must’ve had hell of a bad day. So, once more—do I have your word of honor that you’ll whack that man, in exchange for me letting Knuckles just drive by that grey building instead of stopping and delivering you to the SBU?”

  The Hummer suddenly slows down, almost coming to a halt in front of the building from where she had escaped a few hours before. It appears now like an ants’ nest stirred up – a cohort of heavily armed commandos is lined up in front of it, while plainclothes agents hurry in and out. Two ambulance cars are standing next to the entrance with their flashing blue lights on. Paramedics are about to put a stretcher with a body inside one of them. One commando, apparently becoming aware of the sinister Hummer, waves to two others. Together, they start walking towards Sultan’s car.

  Frightened, Nooria quickly pulls the hood over her face.

  “Do we have a deal, little one?”

  Sultan doesn’t sound jovial now. Realizing that she is trapped, both in the net of the slick gangster’s words and his car that holds her like a mobile prison cell, Nooria heaves a resigned sigh. Sadly, she bows her head to Sultan.

  “You have my word of honor,” she quietly says with submission in her voice. “How will I find troublemaker?”

  “That’s my little Margarita!”

  Sultan rubs his hands in satisfaction and puts his charming smile back on. The Humvee accelerates and quickly drives away. In a minute, they turn off from Volodymyrska Street but Nooria still doesn’t dare looking outside.

  “Relax, Margarita. Tomorrow evening you will be in the Zone. Sultan always keeps his word and I trust you will keep yours as well. Once you make it to the New Zone with Jack’s help, start asking around in Bagram. You could also do a little research while you’re in the Exclusion Zone. Just in case, you know.”

  “Does this man have a name?”

  “He’s probably not using his old call sign anymore,” Sultan replies lighting up another cigarette. “But his real name should also ring
a bell in some heads. It’s Tarasov. Mikhailo Tarasov. Yes, Margarita! Once Degtyarev learns about his old buddy’s death he will look as devastated as you do now. Boo-hoo, the bastard might even cry—hey, but you don’t have to! Take this napkin, here. Come on, pull yourself together! We’ve almost arrived!”

  50

  Sultan’s residence, Kiev

  They drive southwards on Klovskiy Street, leaving behind the high-rise apartment blocks and office buildings of Kiev’s downtown. Taking a turn from the avenue that follows the right bank of the Dnieper River, Knuckles drives into a quiet residential

  area with neat-looking family houses. They appear to Nooria like smaller versions of the houses she had seen in the suburbs of Los Angeles, though these are secluded from the street by high fences and high-grown bushes hide most of them from the outsiders’ view.

  The building in front of which the Hummer finally slows down lacks any of this seclusion. Where a garden would be, there is a parking lot and the house boasts a flashing electric sign that reads TAHITI SAUNA CLUB.

  Slowly, Knuckles drives into a narrow lane leading to a black metal gate that slowly opens on their approach. From the backside, the house would look like the home of a decent family but the wall around the backyard garden is topped by CCTV cameras. The windows have grills, nicely forged but nonetheless placed there to keep anyone outside—or rather inside, an icy feeling in her guts tells Nooria when Sultan gallantly opens the door and helps her out of the car.

  “You could use some rest,” Sultan says. “Do you want to stay for a few days?”

  “No,” Nooria says a bit more decisively than what would be necessary. “Sorry. I thank you for your hospitality, but I want to get to Zone as soon as possible.”

  “A reliable man will drive you tomorrow to a spot where you can easily enter the Zone. Until then, if you feel lonely there are some ladies living here who can give you company.”

  When Knuckles opens the heavy safety door and they enter, the lights go up without Sultan touching anything. He notices Nooria's surprise with a satisfied smile.

  “When I was a kid, I had to write my homework by a petroleum lamp. I came a long way Margarita… we all did.”

  The interior of the house is spacious but appears surprisingly spartan for a man of Sultan’s standing.

  “You could definitely ask my ladies to share some of their dresses with you,” Sultan says as he takes Nooria’s coat and sees the light fatigue she wears. “But what do I say—on second thought, I’ll see if I can get you something more suitable for the Zone.”

  “My coat is enough,” Nooria says.

  “Size will be a problem,” Knuckles says ignoring her words and looking Nooria up and down. “She’d fit twice into the smallest Kevlar jacket we have.”

  “Have it arranged, I don’t care how,” Sultan snarls at his bodyguard. Then he asks Nooria in his polite tone: “Are you sure you want to leave tomorrow? I’ll fly to Minsk and my local partners are even worse than those in Kiev. I’d appreciate if you cheered me up there, Margarita. Those greedy Belarus bastards always make me nervous.”

  “I want Zone.”

  Sultan smiles but keeps pushing her. “You would enjoy going to the Zone with me. Just in a couple of days. You see, I love my car but there’s a much more comfortable way to get there. Unfortunately, that still needs to be arranged. That’s why I need to talk to my partners in Minsk.”

  “I want tomorrow.”

  “All right,” Sultan sighs and turns back to Knuckles. “Ah, neterperlivaya suchka. Show her to one of the rooms upstairs. Good night, Margarita. I hope we shall meet again!”

  Knuckles leads Nooria up a wooden staircase into a corridor from where a few doors open. The noise of a TV comes from one of the rooms behind as they walk down the corridor. Another door is ajar and Nooria feels the smell of freshly washed laundry mixed with sweet perfume. Knuckles opens the last door and ushers her into a small room with only a bed, a cupboard and a make-up table for furniture. The small window is barred on the outside.

  “Sauna and jacuzzi are on the first floor,” Knuckles says putting the key to the door into his pocket. “Or ground floor or whatever tsokolny etazh is in English. First door to the right where we came in. Kitchen too. You will be picked up at five tomorrow morning. Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  “Don’t forget—you can’t go out of here!”

  Knuckles’ malicious words already come from the corridor. Nooria looks around in the room, hesitating between the tiredness that makes her want to lay to sleep right away and her desire to take a proper bath at last. She opens the cupboard where she finds a set of towels, a white bath robe and a half-full tube of shower gel. Nooria takes them and makes her way back to the ground floor. Although she has no idea what a jacuzzi is, she hopes it’s a kind of shower.

  The door where Knuckles directed her to leads to a large bathroom. To Nooria’s surprise, she finds not one but five showers and a variety of beauty products on the dark wooden shelf under a huge, brightly lit mirror. The bathroom is spotlessly clean and the pleasant smell of steam perfumed with pine wood scent emanates from somewhere. Suddenly she feels very dirty. Nooria quickly gets out of her clothes, and then lets the invigoratingly hot shower wash away the grit of the past days.

  Stepping out of the steaming shower cabin and donning the bath robe, she is about to clean her socks and underwear in the basin when a door opens and a very young woman appears. She wears the same robe like Nooria and has a towel rolled around her head. Nonchalantly, a cigarette hangs on her full lips. She looks at Nooria in surprise, who quickly hides her scar with her wet hair.

  “Novaya ty?” the young woman asks and exhales the smoke. “Te vagy az uj lany?”

  “Sorry but I don’t speak your language,” Nooria replies and glances over to her clothes. To her relief her blade, that she wouldn’t take a step without, is hidden from sight under her jeans.

  “Oh sorry,” the other woman says with a giggle. The rolled Rs give her English a very hard accent. “I thought you were Hungarian like me. You look a bit like a gypsy, you know? I’m no gypsy, thanks God, but Sultan wants me to play one so I play a gypsy. The clients love it.”

  “A—gypsy?”

  “Where are you from?”

  “From—the south,” Nooria cautiously replies, “and my name is—Margarita.”

  “Welcome. I’m Lili.”

  The woman called Lili measures her up and down and draws on her cigarette once more. The bitter scent of cigarette smoke spoils the clean atmosphere of the bathroom. Although apparently trying to appear cheerful, her gestures imply nervousness.

  “Aha persze,” Lili skeptically says. “Whatever.” She looks into the mirror and moistening a finger with her tongue, removes a lash from under her eye. “Come, let me introduce you to the other girls.”

  “I am washing my clothes.”

  Lili laughs. “Why? We have a washing machine!”

  “But I—”

  It is only now, looking at the mirror, that Lili notices the scar on Nooria’s face. For a moment she says nothing, then laughs again.

  “I see you tried to rebel once,” she says, killing the cigarette butt in the sink. “No need for that here. This place is not so bad… it’s quite okay, actually.”

  She leads Nooria through the door where three other women relax in a jacuzzi. The room looks plain, though, with plastic chairs and tables arranged around the pool and a green tube lying on the tiled floor like a thin, long snake. Paper boxes line the wall, all filled with heaps of empty bottles.

  “Vot novaya,” Lili tells the girls as they enter. “The black haired sweetheart is Irina. That with the round face, she is Nastya, and the blonde one is Larissa. Come… but not like that. Take off that robe.”

  The girls notice Nooria’s embarrassment with giggles. Larissa is the only one who remains quiet and studies Nooria’s face with curiosity. Without any excuse for not doing as asked, Nooria takes off her
robe. With a female instinct, she knows that the four twenty-somethings not only study her body with eager eyes but also compare it to theirs, and the envy she sees on Nastya’s face doesn’t comfort her at all. Quickly, she steps into the pool and hides her nakedness under the water sitting next to Larissa. The pool is small and the closeness to another naked female body makes her embarrassment grow even further, although the blonde girl avoids touching her.

  For a few minutes, the girls are silent. Nooria studies her faces: they are not the gorgeous female predators of the Shooter variety but still pretty, each in her own way of being a girl from the neighborhood. Black haired Irina appears the smartest of them until she sniffs on her nose in a disgusting manner, telling of her being pretty but lacking sophistication. Nastya has something written on her face that makes Nooria feel uneasy, despite the girl smiling at her. Larissa avoids any eye contact with her and only speaks up when Lili asks her a direct question.

  “Didn’t you learn English, Larissa? Margarita doesn’t speak Russian. You’ll have to entertain her.”

  “Is that so?” Larissa replies. Her voice sounds tired.

  “Would you remove your hair from your face, please?” Lili asks Nooria.

  Reluctantly, Nooria removes the strand of hair covering her scar. She feels worse as if she had to stand up in the middle, turn around and present herself to the critical female eyes once more. The girls say nothing, only Nastya’s fading smile tells of repugnance.

  “Baystrukhi,” Larissa finally says and continues in English. “The man doing this to a girl should have his balls cut off and be killed!”

  “Vsyo,” Nastya says and stays, revealing an overweight body with breasts big like melons. Forgetting about any decency, Nooria stares at her milky white skin.

  “Poka, kofe s molkam,” Nastya tells Nooria with a strange smile. “Idu spat.”

  “She likes you,” Larissa whispers. Unsure about this means good or bad, Nooria turns her eyes away from the plump girl.

  “She also called you milk and coffee. Probably because of your skin color, my gypsy friend,” Lili says. While she speaks, her lips reveals teeth yellowed from nicotine. “You two have fun. We go to sleep. Just to remind you—work starts at ten in the morning!”

  A sudden desire of getting out of the pool and running into the relative seclusion of her rooms comes to Nooria, but she feels Larissa patting her thigh in a friendly and reassuring way. With the pool now empty, the blonde slides farther from Nooria and watches the other girls leave. She stretches out in the water.

  “At last Lili is gone,” Larissa says. “One cannot talk in her presence. She tells the boss everything we say.”

  “What is this place?” Nooria asks her the question that was bothering her since she arrived with Sultan.

  Larissa looks at her with eyes wide open. “You come from the moon, tsiganka?”

  “I don’t know what this place is.”

  “Gospodi…”

  Gospodi. Tarasov’s pet cuss comes to Nooria’s mind with the impact of a sledgehammer. Suddenly, her strength leaves her. She buries her face into her hands, sobbing, with all the torment she had been through in the past two days overcoming her.

  Larissa moves back to her and comfortingly puts her arm around Nooria’s neck.

  “Come on, it’s not so bad here,” she says caressing Nooria’s head in a sisterly fashion. “Money is good and Sultan is not a bad boss.”

  “He wants me to kill my man,” Nooria says crying. “I gave him my word of honor. I must do it. I—I don’t know what to do.”

  “Was he bad to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Your husband or boyfriend or whoever you mean.”

  “No. He is the best man in the world and now he is—”

  “Heard that before,” Larissa says with a skeptical expression on her pretty, round face. “Let’s chat! I have some pertsovka in my room and a little anasha too, but Knuckles must not know that.”

  “Wh—what is pertsovka?”

  “Vodka with honey and pepper. You look like you could use a drink or two.”

  “And anasha?”

  “Something you could use even more. Come, let’s go… it’s almost midnight and we’re not supposed to use the Jacuzzi so long. Davai!”

  Slipping into her bath robe and grabbing her clothes, Nooria lets Larissa drag her up the stairs by her hand, staring at the thick, wet pigtail reaching down to the blonde girl’s waist. Then she finds herself in the room from where the pleasant smell of fresh laundry had emanated when she arrived. Larissa lights up a candle and puts it on the table.

  “Have a seat,” Larissa says taking a hairdryer from her cupboard. ”Will you help me dry my hair?”

  “You have very beautiful hair, Larissa,” Nooria says while combing the girl’s long hair with her fingers in the warm jet of the hairdryer. “It has color of honey.”

  “You want to know my secret recipe? I wash it with kvas twice a week. You know what kvas is?”

  “Yes. It is like beer.”

  Larissa leans over to the make-up table and takes a box of cigarettes that is lying there among a host of cosmetics. Using her long polished fingernails she opens a cigarette, puts the tobacco into a thin paper taken from a small blue pouch and adds something to it. Although Nooria can’t see it clearly, she immediately recognizes the scent.

  “Marijuana?”

  “Why, what did you think? I’m not crazy to use Krokodil and don’t want to spend all my money on cocaine like Lili does…”

  “Why was she nervous?”

  “Oh, you realized? She hadn’t see a cock for about… three hours,” Larissa says lighting up the joint. “Cocks are her second best drug.”

  “Men?” Nooria asks switching off the hairdryer. Before she could smile upon the stupidity of her own question, Larissa cuddles to her on the bed and pulls the blanket over them.

  “You think the girls are here because bad, bad gangsters dragged them by their hair? No, dorogaya. Not here.”

  “And you?”

  “And me? And you? Always the same stupid question,” Larissa says and takes a bottle from under her pillow. “You better try this.”

  Nooria takes the bottle. It contains an amber liquid with a few small pods inside. She smells at it. Then, partly out of politeness to the girl who tried to comfort her and partly of curiosity, she takes a swig. The sweet-smelling vodka immediately turns into fire in her throat and makes her cough.

  “Easy, easy. Wait, drink it with this.”

  Larissa steps to the cupboard and returns to the bed with a small glass of pickles.

  “Take one. Come on, take it,” she says putting one small cucumber into Nooria’s mouth. She laughs. “It looks like little cock but tastes much better.”

  “It tastes—different,” Nooria replies and smiles. “It is very sour.”

  “You’re so funny, Margarita. What brought you here? You don’t seem to be one like us.”

  “Sultan brought me here.”

  “The man himself? Bravo. But you are—” Larissa bites her tongue. “I like you and all, but—your face is a little—”

  “Ugly,” Nooria says with a wide smile and shrugs. The liquor already makes its strength felt. “I know I am ugly. Everyone looks at me like I was an animal. It makes me sad but what can I do?”

  “Maybe some men like that,” Larissa says drawing on her joint. “But wait—what was that story about killing your boyfriend?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Your choice, tsiganka.”

  For a few minutes they sit in silence. Nooria tries to understand if Larissa’s casual words were referring to the murder eventually depending on her decision only, or were just meant to leave her secret alone. She wishes to share the mental burden weighing down on her but her caution prevails.

  “Your jewelry is nice,” she says looking at Larissa’s earring. It forms a silver butterfly with two tiny, red gems where its eyes would be.

&
nbsp; “You are very kind. Men like it too. You want some?”

  “Men?”

  “Anasha.”

  “No.”

  “And men?”

  “Only mine.”

  “Yes, I feel like that too.” The blonde chuckles. “I always keep thinking of him. I do everything that’s normal but for no money in the world would I look into their eyes. Or kiss them. That’s off limits. I keep my eyes closed and think of my boyfriend—and God save me from thinking of certain guests when I’ll be with him again!” Larissa chuckles again and narrows her brown eyes like a cat.

  “Where is he?”

  “He still studies.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Sorry. Are you here like Lili? I mean, are you here for—”

  “No, no!” Larissa shudders with overplayed disgust. “To me it’s just for the money. Good money.”

  “How much money do you need?”

  “Don’t play Mother Teresa on me, okay? I feel all right where I am. At least for the time being.”

  “I don’t understand. Sultan makes you do things you don’t want—not decent things. Not honorable things.”

  “You are very mistaken if you think Sultan has no honor, and even more so if you think I have no honor. Do for one day what I do and you will understand that your body is an asset like… oh never mind. My soul is not into it, most of the time, anyway.“ She shrugs. ”I’m just helping them. Sometimes it’s like being a doctor, I tell you that.”

  Nooria doesn’t know what to reply. Secretly, she had hoped that if she gives her word to someone who is after all just a criminal and as such a man without honor in her eyes, it would be as if she wouldn’t have given it at all. She could forget about it, after a little struggle with her better conscience. What Larissa has just said disturbs her view of Sultan profoundly, and Larissa hasn’t even finished.

  “Those guys have their own idea of honor. You can call them a bunch of jerks locked in a perpetual dick measuring contest but they do keep their promises, be it good or bad. Like Sultan. He respects us, in his own way. The problem is—give me a sip, Margarita.” With a few deep gulps of vodka apparently boosting her courage, Larissa cuddles closer to Nooria and continues in a lower voice. “He keeps my money safe—but from me also. So, thing is he always keeps telling me how much the Jacuzzi, hot water, electricity and all that shit costs and deducts it from what I earn. I still don’t have enough collected.”

  “How much would you need?” Nooria asks.

  Larissa puts her head on Nooria’s shoulder.

  “Not too much, I guess… enough for an apartment that I choose, with furniture that I like, with all kinds of stuff that makes me feel comfortable. So that I could be standing on my own feet, you understand?”

  “But you speak English. You must have good education. Why this?”

  “Are you kidding me? Do you know how much I would earn as an office assistant? I still would have to suck cock if I wanted a better salary.”

  Larissa makes a sad face but then bursts out in laughter. Nooria laughs with her. She pulls the blanket tighter and sits closer to Larissa. As she moves, she feels something soft pressing against her bum. Taking it, she realizes it’s a teddy bear.

  “That’s Misha,“ Larissa says taking the toy. “He is the best man in the world. He has been my friend since I was a little girl.” Larissa takes the bear and holds it tight to her breast. “Misha is the only man I go to bed with outside of business hours.” They laugh. “Here, Margarita. Try my anasha.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Please.”

  “No.”

  “Your loss… your loss. You want to listen to some music? I have an iPod somewhere in my cupboard. ”

  “First tell me how much money you need to get out of here.”

  “Look, tsiganka… you’re getting a little pushy. It’s all about me trying to be my own master, don’t you understand?”

  Larissa puts the bottle to her lips, blows the smoke into the bottle and takes a swig.

  “But how can you be your own master when you can’t leave from here?”

  “I can. I only need to ask Knuckles or another guy staying with us for our… safety. They knew I wouldn’t run away.” Larissa drums with her fingers on the bottle. “How could I run away anyway, with them keeping my papers… But one day I will, if I have enough money. Rest assured, I’m not a slave.”

  “But how much you need?”

  “Oh my God! Just to shut you up, maybe… fifty thousand? Dollars, of course! You have that on you? No? I guessed so. In a good week, I earn about three hundred—with all that damned expenses that Sultan deducts, I still have to work—how long? Damn, I have a degree in sociology, not maths—”

  “Do you have a knife?”

  “Why?”

  “Anything metallic?”

  “You are really strange,” Larissa says. She gets up, opens the window and tosses the joint butt off. For a minute, she rummages in the drawer of the table.

  “Here’s a knife,” she says slipping back under the blanket with a blunt kitchen knife. “Spreading butter is the only thing it’s good for.”

  Now it is Nooria who gets up. She takes her blade from the chair where she had left her clothes.

  “Where did you get that from?” Larissa slowly whispers when she sees the jeweled sheath.

  “From my stepmother.”

  Nooria begins to remove the ruby from the pommel with the blunt knife.

  “Are you mad?”

  Ignoring Larissa’s whisper, Nooria works on the ruby until it becomes lose. She holds it close to the candle.

  “Sultan said it is worth twenty thousand,” she says, holding the jewel between her thumb and index finger close to the candle. The ruby shines and glitters with deep, blood-colored red. “Dollars, of course.”

  “Oh my God,” Larissa whimpers. “That means it’s worth at least two times more than that.”

  “You have been kind to me,” Nooria whispers. “Take it and go where you really want.”

  “You are completely crazy!”

  “Take it.”

  At first Larissa refuses to open her fist but Nooria folds her fingers back with a force that leaves the blonde aghast.

  “Outch! That hurts!”

  “Take it and go,” Nooria says closing Larissa’s reluctant fingers into a fist again, now holding the ruby.

  “It feels warm,” Larissa says.

  “It is a glowing stone. An artifact. Like in the Zone.”

  “The Zone? Oh my good God,” Larissa whispers, moving a little away from Nooria. “The guys who have been there are the worst… complete freaks!”

  “Why?”

  “Come on – they spend a long time in that irradiated hellhole, totally deprived of sex, make good money with the artifacts they smuggle out and then – guess where they spend it. They’re mad about sex! And they all fuck as if could be the last one… for some it probably is. Don’t tell me you’ve been there!”

  “I—I can protect myself.”

  Larissa points at the blade.

  “With that?” Seeing Nooria nod, she studies her for a long minute. “Who are you, Margarita?”

  “You helped me. I help you. Now find out how to escape.”

  “It’s not escape but… all right… that jerk Knuckles keeps my ID card, and he keeps telling me that if I run away he will kill my mother, and she is the only… But now If I take this to the right person… are you serious? This is worth a fortune!”

  “It is, and it’s yours.”

  “Wait—wait a minute. No, Margarita. Let me give this back and—”

  “I could kill Knuckles,” Nooria casually says with a shrug.

  “No! Don’t even think of it! Sultan would kill you for that!”

  Even if she feels nothing but disgust towards Sultan, Nooria realizes that invoking his rage would destroy any of her chances of getting back to the Exclusion Zon
e and then the New Zone. She quickly reconsiders.

  “It is just the vodka speaking, Larissa. Can you leave with glowing stone?”

  “Maybe, but what do you want from me in exchange? I’m not like Nastya, if you have that in mind.”

  “Why, how is Nastya?” Nooria wonders.

  “I was right,” the blonde says with a smile. After a heartbeat of hesitation, she gives Nooria a soft kiss on her scarred cheek. “You don’t belong here—it is not me but you who should escape from here.”

  “Will you go home to your boyfriend?”

  Larissa turns her head away and doesn’t reply. She stares at her teddy bear, as if expecting the toy telling her what to do.

  A few minutes later, back in her room and stretching her exhausted body under the warm blanket, the first smile comes to Nooria’s face since she got separated from Tarasov. She had been able to help someone who did good to her, even if just by offering a little sympathy. This night she sleeps deeply, not even awakening to the commotion at dawn and the noise of the heavy door being slammed.

  51

  Bagram area, New Zone

  “Driscoll here, sir. Task Force Cobra is ready, over.”

  “Good job. You will keep a strangle on them until I arrive. Wait for further orders, over.”

  The Colonel’s voice sounds calm, but First Lieutenant Driscoll risks to ask the question that bothers him.

  “Sir, our detachment at Ghorband reported heavy gunfire coming from the Alamo’s direction. Is everything all right? Over.”

  “Ragheads, supported by about two dozen smiters have infiltrated our lower defenses. The storage vaults have been breached, but we managed to keep them off the upper fortifications. I’ll deal with the assault. Don’t worry, Driscoll. Stick to your orders. Over.”

  “Sir, do you want us to return?”

  “Negative. I repeat, we can deal with the situation here. Over.”

  “Sir, please confirm—Task Force Cobra on Sierra Bravo while the Alamo is under attack?”

  “Driscoll, I will not say it again. Your orders have not changed. Over.”

  “How could they infiltrate the vaults? Over.”

  “They used some kind of a mutant we’ve never seen before to navigate through the caves, then had the smiters break through the wall. Extremely effective, I’ll admit.”

  “A new mutant?”

  “Affirmative. It’s been neutralized. Appears to be brought in from the Exclusion Zone. Your intel from Ghorband supports my gut feeling about the ragheads having connections to the scavengers. Give me Collins, over.”

  Driscoll passes the mike to Lieutenant Collins.

  “Collins here, over.”

  “Lieutenant, it’s time to check on the intel obtained at Ghorband. Take a Sierra Romeo squad to the northern approaches. Reckon the airfield at Charikhar and neutralize any hostile presence. Any further supplies for the new scavenger faction must be interdicted. We have enough on our plate already. Over.”

  “Understood, sir. Sierra Bravo on Charikhar airfield, search and destroy, over.”

  “Good luck, warriors. Alamo over and out.”

  If Collins and Schmidt could see Driscoll’s look under the helmet’s face mask, they would be startled—doubt and bewilderment only rarely come to the tough First Lieutenant’s face. But Driscoll’s voice tells nothing of his misgivings.

  “You heard the big man. He wants us to stand by. Until we get further orders, we keep Bagram locked down. Collins, prepare to move out. Questions?”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?” Schmidt asks.

  “Go ahead, Scotty.”

  “Sir, our main strike force is idling here while…”

  Driscoll interrupts him. “The task force is not idling, Lieutenant. We are carrying out orders. Our orders are to maintain our position, except for Collins’ special recon. Is that clear?”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I agree with Scotty. We might have a Waterloo situation here.”

  “What do you mean, Collins?”

  “The Alamo might be hard pressed while we are away. If we return, no matter what, we might be just in time to prevent a disaster.”

  “The big man told us to stick to our standing orders. It’s his call. Maybe you think you know better than him?”

  Collins swallows. “No, sir. Absolutely not, sir.”

  “Good. For a moment I thought you doubted the big man’s judgment. If he says he can handle the situation, that’s that. Period. Dismissed.”

  The two Lieutenants salute. Leaving Driscoll’s command position, none of them says anything till they are out of hearing distance.

  “Bauer was damn right,” Collins says breaking the silence. “Without the Top to reason with the big man, this… stubbornness will be our doom.”

  “There’s no reason to doubt the big man’s insight, Joe.”

  “I hope you’re right. Nonetheless, I got the feeling that we’re in the biggest trouble ever! Don’t forget what happened to Ramirez! That situation was also supposed to be under control!”

  “The Colonel is not Ramirez. And hey, we’re talking about the Alamo here. It’s a little harder to overrun than that outpost, even for smiters!”

  “For Chrissakes, Scotty, they managed to infiltrate the vaults! You get it? This mess is becoming a clusterfuck of epic proportions, brother! I really do hope the big man knows what he’s doing, while we just sit around here and do nothing because Driscoll can’t think for himself!”

  Schmidt kicks a rock away. “At least you got a recon assignment while we’re staring holes into the air, instead of blasting holes into the scavenger’s defenses.”

  “That’s right! Taking a damn airfield twenty klicks north of here while the Alamo is under siege. Really great.” Collins sighs. “All right… I better start assembling my team.”

  “Going by Humvees?”

  “Nope. It’s special recon this time. We’ll need to keep a very low profile until we get there.”

  “At least you get a chance to fire your weapon.”

  Collins adjusts the barely used M27 slung over his shoulder, muzzle up. “It’s about time!”

  52

  Sultan’s residence, Kiev

  “Get up. I am here to bring you to Zaton.”

  The voice awakening Nooria is pleasant but spoken in a manner that will not tolerate any argument. Stirring, she opens her eyes and sees a tall, handsome man wearing a smart suit standing next to her bed. He holds a big bundle in his hand, wrapped in drab brown paper. There is also a small rucksack next to her bed.

  “You are to wear this,” he says and drops the bundle onto the bed. ”It’s already five past six. You have ten minutes to get ready.”

  With that, he leaves the room. Nooria sits up and opens the bundle. She finds a black leather anorak inside that appears surprisingly heavy for its small size. On closer inspection, she finds that the jacket has plates of Kevlar over the areas covering vital organs, and each of the two big pockets holds a removable pouch, probably with a thin layer of lead sawn into the fabric.

  The rucksack contains a Stalker’s most basic survival gear – a first aid kit, a bandage, a few bolts and two cans of processed meat.

  When she appears downstairs, she sees the man leaning against the door and reading an English-language newspaper. With the paper, he appears to Nooria like a decent business man she had seen on the airports and the expensive hotel in Kiev. Only his hands tell of him being involved in shady business – there is barely skin left that is not covered with tattoos. Even his fingers bear strange symbols.

  Seeing that Nooria has donned the protective suit under her long coat, the man nods and opens the door. Sultan’s Hummer is standing outside with already idling engine. He signals her to climb into the back seat.

  “Who are you?” Nooria asks as the Hummer leaves the compound.

  “I am the transporter,” the man replies. ”The rest is not important.”

  To Nooria’s relief, she recognizes some
buildings and direction signs from her first drive to the Zone. Assured that she is indeed being driven to the promised destination, she leans back in the seat and tries to feel comfortable in the brand new leather anorak that is still stiff.

  The car drives along Minsky Avenue that becomes highway Number PO2 after it leaves the northern outskirts of Kiev. Before it bends westwards, PO2 runs by the Dnepr reservoir. Visible on a short stretch of road between the factory buildings of Stari Petrivtsi and the apartment blocks of Lyutizh, the lake appears like a grey sea beyond dark brown fields and sparse forests. Thin fog sits over the flat land.

  Nooria soon starts feeling warm under her anorak and coat. When the driver sees her removing the coat, he immediately lowers the heating. It appears a polite gesture but also means that he keeps his eyes closely on her from the rear view mirror. But Nooria knows that she’s on the way to the Zone now and this thought prevails over any dark ideas she might have about the ride and the tongue-tied driver.

  “Can we drive faster?” she asks.

  Without reply, the driver accelerates the car and honks lengthily when a dilapidated bus doesn’t move aside quickly enough. She soon regrets he impatience when a sudden dizziness comes over her.

  “Please, stop,” Nooria says with one of her hands held over her mouth. “I feel sick.”

  “I’m not driving that fast,” the driver replies and gives Nooria a frown in the mirror. Then, probably thinking that he would rather risk her escaping than clean tarnished leather seats, he pulls over and unlocks her door.

  When Nooria is finished vomiting, the driver courteously offers her a paper tissue.

  “Are you all right?” he asks with an inquisitive stare.

  Nooria nods and blows her nose.

  The Humvee keeps its speed even when the road gradually deteriorates after the first hour of driving. It only slows down after Ivankiv village, where Nooria knows they are close to the village from where Tarasov led them into the Zone.

  The driver takes a left turn before they reach Ivankiv and the Hummer leaves the decaying tarmac in favor of a bumpy dirt road.

  “Where are we driving?” Nooria asks with suspicion.

  “To the north of the Zone.”

  “Is this a shortcut?”

  “It’s the easiest.”

  Obviously, Sultan doesn’t own a Hummer only for showing it off. The road has partially deteriorated to deep mud but the car navigates through without any difficulty. She wonders why Tarasov had chosen a way apparently much more perilous.

  After ten minutes she understands that her man had made the right decision. Two eight-wheeled BTR-80 personnel carriers block the road. Heavily armed, tough-looking soldiers stand around them. One of them, wearing a black beret and apparently an officer, waves the car down. The driver halts, though Nooria sees no sign of concern in his face.

  His window goes down. To her surprise, the officer and the driver greet each other like old friends. The driver takes a thick envelope from his suit pocket and hands it over. The officer looks inside, nods with satisfaction and waves the car through.

  As the time passes, a weak sun illuminates the landscape that appears now like an ordinary forest. The morning fog raises among the pines and slowly fades away as the sun climbs higher. It looks peaceful but Nooria senses the closeness of the Zone – or at least hopes for it. She can’t make out any familiar landmark because low hills cover the sight to the north east where the Zone should lie, and without anything better to do, she puts her trust into the driver.

  When the mouth of a valley appears between two hills, the driver finally halts the car.

  “Get out,” he says.

  Nooria deeply inhales the refreshing air outside and closes the zipper on her coat. It is chilly after the warmth inside the car. Pulling the hood over her head, she looks around.

  “This way,” the driver says. “Come! What are you here, a statue?”

  “What is that?” Nooria asks pointing at something sinister on the horizon.

  “The power plant,” the driver replies with a shrug. “Thought you knew that.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Nooria looks into the distance. Far but discernible enough, a huge building looms on the horizon. Only the upper part is standing out from the fog – a rectangular structure and a tall chimney topping it. A flock of black birds passes through her sight and she hears the echoing croaks of ravens.

  “It appears close,” Nooria says.

  “Too close, actually,” the driver says. “Come quickly. I will show you the way.”

  Holding a small bag and carefully avoiding the mud puddles, he leads Nooria about a hundred meters away from the car and towards the valley between the hills. There he halts and shows Nooria a PDA.

  “Do you know how to use this?”

  “No.”

  “Strange Stalker you are. Anyway, this is the button to power it on. Now, wait a second and then press on the map tab on the touchscreen.”

  Nooria does as instructed.

  “This blue symbol marks your position. Beyond those hills is the north-eastern edge of Zaton. You should make your way to the Skadovsk first. That’s a derelict cargo ship. Sultan has friends there. Once you are ready to move on, go to the Container Warehouse in the Jupiter area.”

  “Is it easy to find?”

  “I’ve put a marker on the map.”

  “And how will I get to New Zone?”

  “Ask for Jack. He’s Sultan’s local agent and will tell you everything you need to know. When his men ask you what you want from him, you will reply: Say hello to my little friend!”

  “Say hello to my little friend,” Nooria repeats.

  “Do not forget this password.”

  “I will not.”

  “Take this too.” The driver gives Nooria a silenced Sig Sauer P229 with two spare clips. A few scratches on the black ergonomic grip show that the weapon is not new. It looks well-maintained, though, and even has a tactical laser attached under the barrel. “I heard you are quick with a blade, but this might come useful if you can’t get close enough to your target.”

  Nooria shakes her head.

  “I do not want this.”

  “But you will take it.” He grabs Nooria’s hand, forces her fist open and puts the pistol into her hand. “That’s not all. Sultan wants you to have this too.”

  He throws a small bundle at her feet.

  “Good hunting, Stalker!”

  Laughing, the driver walks back to the idling car and drives away.

  Nooria picks up the bundle and opens it. First she finds a note in neat handwriting.

  Margarita,

  my sweet, innocent little thing. This little present should help you blend in with people in places like the Shooters. I hope to meet you there again, so that we can finish our dinner that was interrupted so abruptly. Apologies for any inconvenience, little one.

  There is something else for you. It is a little thank-you for the extra entertainment you provided me, involving one of my assets. You proved as funny as I had thought. My gift should help you to better understand our world. Like it or not, it is as it is. Tit for tat – you’ve already learned what that means, I trust.

  As you see, I keep my word. You better do likewise.

  Your friend, Sultan.

  Inside a soft leather pouch which has YSL printed on it with gold-colored letters, Nooria finds a stunning silk scarf, its emerald color perfectly matching that of her eyes. As she unfolds it, a much smaller pouch falls to her feet. Nooria unfolds the waterproof paper. What she sees inside makes her scream.

  She finds herself holding a severed human ear in her hands. A drop of blood spoils the shine of the silver butterfly earring in the lobe.

  Her trembling hands let it fall to the mud. She starts running towards the Zone, oblivious of any danger that might lurk in between the hills. She runs through the dry bushes and jumps over a fallen tree, looking only forwards where the valley opens, and keeps running until she reaches a groove of
pine trees on a hill overlooking the landscape that finally opens up before her eyes from where tears of relief, pain and anger flow.

  Panting from the rush, Nooria leans against a tree to catch her breath and scans the horizon but can’t see much from her present position. Taking deep breathes of fresh forest air, she walks further and climbs up a boulder for a better view.

  To the right, atop a distant hill, there is a cluster of buildings that might have been a factory once. Even further, the silhouette of tall cranes loom against the horizon, tucked far away beyond lowlands resembling a vast, dry riverbed with patches of reed and dilapidated ship wrecks, all in shades of faded brown. She can’t see the ill-fated power plant but there is something equally sinister to her far right. It appears to be a gigantic metal structure, standing out among the low hills like a tower with something foreboding about it even from the distance. She jumps off the boulder and moves down the hill to have a better look at what lies to the east.

  A low hill lies ahead, its surface cut by crevasses from where jets of steam rise. Beyond it, she sees another watery patch of marshland with a small, stranded boat. Now it appears sure to her that once this lowland was a river, from where the water disappeared so quickly that the ships had no time to navigate into a safe harbor. Yet in this land where decay and bent physics are the norm, stranded ships seem to be all but out of place.

  All is quiet, only ravens croak in the sky.

  Nooria takes a deep breath and blows her nose into the scarf that was Sultan’s gift. She touches her blade fixed firmly to her belt and a feeling of confidence comes over her. She glances at the PDA and looks over to the distant ship wreck which is supposed to be her first destination.

  “Yes, Sultan,” she says to herself and tosses the tainted scarf away. “I must find my man. Then I will see you again and teach you what real honor means.”

  She pulls the hood over her face and disappears in the bushes, following the direction where her PDA indicates south.

  53

  Bagram, New Zone

  “I can’t believe this. Twenty-five Stalkers went with that bastard. None have returned. Twenty-five good men!” Shrink bashes at the improvised table. “All this when the Tribe is on our neck!”

  The mood in Ashot’s bar is gloomy. At first, when the Tribe appeared and began setting up positions on the hills overlooking the ruined air base, the Stalkers didn’t expect anything bad to happen. After all, it was just a month ago that they repelled the dushmans besieging Bagram together. When the warriors blocked the access roads in the forest to the west, Shrink became alarmed but there was nothing he could do to prevent the Tribe’s forces to set up forward positions blocking access to Bagram from the north. The eastern approaches were still open, but the Tribe’s machine guns and mortars made short work of the jackal and wolf packs occasionally roaming the open plains in search for prey – probably intended as a warning to the Stalkers to stay inside their base.

  When it became clear that the Tribe had put Bagram under blockade, Shrink realized that Captain Bone was not entirely a bad commander. He and his sinister henchmen had piled up valuable supplies in the former command building, mostly food, water and, to Ashot’s great pleasure, vodka. It could be enough to keep the besieged Stalkers on their feet for a week or two, but beyond that their prospects look bleak. No Stalker can venture out to hunt down a hind for food; no ammunition or spirit could be brought in by Ashot’s shady ’business associates’ who used to appear every now and then. Ammunition caused Shrink the biggest headache. When Bone and his men left Bagram for the battle at the City of Screams they left enough supplies behind, apparently in the belief that they would use it later, but they took most of the ammunition with them. Facing a strike force of the Tribe with only lightly armed, undisciplined men and being short of bullets is not exactly how Shrink imagined how things will be when he moved here from Ghorband.

  “That’s why they’re called Free Stalkers, boss. They’re free to roam wherever they please, even if it’s their doom.”

  “Shut up Ashot, for God’s sake. You just keep reminding me how difficult it is to keep this bunch together.”

  “We can defend Bagram to the last bullet but if we run out of vodka, we’re doomed already!”

  “I could ask Yar to tinker a distillation device to make our own.”

  “Really? And where do you get grain from? And water? You want me to make spirit out of me poo and pee?”

  “Dunno if I’d feel any difference between that and the poison you used to serve… But why all this?”

  “I think it has something to do with that big Loner guy who showed up here a while ago,” a Stalker says. With his heavy protective suit still bearing the green camouflage used in the Exclusion Zone and the desert-pattern shemagh around his neck, he appears a veteran of both Zones. An old, but well-maintained SVD rifle is slung over his shoulder. “He reminded me of that Duty renegade, what was his name?”

  “That’s bullshit, Siryk,” Shrink replies. “Skinner’s dead. He followed Tarasov into the catacombs and didn’t make it back.”

  “Anyway, I overheard him talking to three Loners right there, in the corner. He was talking about ambushing a Tribe patrol to get all those cool weapons, maybe even a Humvee.”

  “That’s suicide, man,” Ashot remarks.

  “So one of the Stalkers said, yeah, think his name was Hedgehog. They followed him anyway. Then a few days later that big guy returns alone, this time spreading rumors about some abandoned factory or whatever in the Panjir valley and all.” Siryk shrugs. “Well, y’all know the rest.”

  Shrink cusses in Russian. “Pizdets! You want to tell me that those idiots attacked a Tribe patrol and now those savages came to revenge it?”

  “Siryk has a point, boss,” Ashot observes.

  “But if so, why don’t they attack us?”

  “Maybe they are scared of us, that’s why!”

  “Especially of you, Ashot.” The Stalkers laugh but Shrink’s face remains gloomy. “All we can do is wait. Damn!”

  “Wish that Spetsnaz were here,” another Stalker says. He is one of Shrink’s men from Ghorband, who followed him when he took over matters in Bagram. “Rumor has it he joined the Tribe. He could put in a word.”

  Shrink rubs his chin. “Dunno even if he made it out alive of those bloody catacombs. If he did – I can’t imagine Tarasov letting the Tribe come upon us. No matter what, he’s not here now to intervene.”

  “We could make their life a little difficult,” Siryk says patting his sniper rifle.

  “Don’t even think of that,” Shrink firmly says. “That would just provoke them. Shoot at those bastards with a Dragunov and they shoot back with all they have. Goddammit! We’ve got maybe a hundred hungry Stalkers with light weapons only. If the Tribe attacks us, we can put up a better defense by farting at them— they’ll kick our butts anyway.”

  “So what then?” Ashot asks. “Just sit and wait?”

  “Sit and drink,” Shrink grumbles. “Until we run out of vodka.”

  54

  Zaton, Exclusion Zone

  Sitting on a rock, Nooria presses her hands against her aching knees.

  Pain, leave me.

  She senses the fatigue in her limbs fade. Then she raises her hand and makes a wave, shaking off the pain as if it were dust in her palms. Her fatigue is gone but the thought of the long road ahead still weighs on her like a heavy burden.

  Navigating through the watery paths of Zaton is proving more difficult than it first appeared. Without a weapon suitable to protect herself from the packs of blind dogs and boars roaming the marshland, avoidance was her best and only defense. Luckily for Nooria, their barks and grunts had forewarned her of their presence in time. She could have easily taken on one or two of them, especially that the blind dogs appeared to be the dumber and weaker cousins of the fearsome jackals roaming New Zone, but whole packs were a different matter. Avoiding the mutants was time-consuming, however; she had to wait in cover u
ntil they were gone or take a wide detour around them that led her into places where anomalies slowed down her progress. Some she could see, like jets of vapor shooting from crevasses in the ground or grooves shining with an eerie green glow even in daylight, others she just felt. Maybe the invisible anomalies weren’t even there and it was just her premonition that made her stop. In this frontier between possible and impossible, where everything that appears ordinary can turn out to be all but, telling imagined dangers from real proved more and more difficult as she proceeded deeper into the Zone.

  The wrecked ships and boats that litter the land made Zaton appear to her all the more alien; they were a reminder of days long gone when this part of the Zone was just a river like any other. Now they appear like the land’s memories of those days, slowly fading away in the decay and rot that the appearance of the Zone brought on everything within its borders, and it seemed to her that their dilapidated hulks echo the pain of the tortured Earth.

  Despite all this, Nooria did find signs of human presence. Here and there, she saw campsites with still smoldering fires, telling of Stalkers who spent the last night there. When the sun began to set, she saw a small group of them cautiously marching towards the cranes in the distance that might have been a river port once, then falling in disarray while fording a stretch of water and even hearing one of them screaming kravasos, kravasos! when the water stirred as if an invisible creatures had been circling around them. Then they fell one by one, firing their weapons blind. The sight of two of them being dragged into the reed by the same invisible creatures that massacred them made her quicken her pace and move further from the dreadful scene.

  On the ship wreck that was supposed to be the Skadovsk, a bonfire was alight even during daytime, making her guess if it is a beacon for times of danger when sudden darkness might fall. This was where Sultan’s people lurked, however, and she had no intention of running into them too soon.

  First I must get back to Doctor’s house, she kept telling to herself. Top will know how to free Mikhailo. Maybe he can even bring in warriors.

  Even if much smaller than the wilderness of her far away homeland, the Zone proved vast. When the sun finally set, sending its last rays into a narrow valley spanned over by a bridge high above, she checked the PDA and despaired over the meager progress she made in a day. The valley continued to the east, but her goal was to the south; going in that direction would have involved climbing up a steep hillside and going through a massive ruin beyond it. Proceeding to the east would have meant to pass by a huge anomaly that appeared like a curtain reaching up to the sky, blurring the view beyond and emanating from a long furrow in the earth as if a gigantic knife had cut the earth open. Though not a bit afraid of it, Nooria decided that navigating through either the valley or the ruins would be better done in daylight.

  Not far from a derelict barge, she found a makeshift rain shelter that appeared good enough to spend the night. It began to rain after night fell but then, from the north where the Power Plant was, a dark blue cloud grew which soon engulfed the whole sky. It emanated its own light after all others went dark, accompanied by thunder so fearsome that she moved close the nearest boulder and pressed her body against it, hoping that it would protect her from the rage of darkness that seemed to even tear the stars from the night. A sense of hitherto unknown loneliness overcame her, as if left alone in a black void that was about to crush her and Nooria, whose ascendants built statues adorned with benevolent artifacts to keep the very same power at bay that was now unleashed over the Zone, felt fearful and fragile. While the darkness raged, she missed her man more than ever, touching cold stone instead of the muscles of a warrior supposed to protect and fight for her. She screamed ancient words of anger at the darkness, feeling her knees tremble and willpower wane, until a sudden feeling of warmth emanating from her womb gave way to rage.

  Dark wind blew her long coat, tore the hood off her head and let her hair fly lose when she shouted “Darkness! I curse you, go away or feel my rage!” Then she felt the wind receding, the thunder diminishing and saw the stars begin to appear again among a layer of grey clouds.

  Now, by the morning, all that Nooria feels is slight nausea. What fully awakes her senses is not hunger but the noise of a stone becoming loose close to her hiding place. For the first time, she draws the Sig Sauer P229.

  Spending time with Tarasov was a good training. Ducking and staying in cover, she checks her surroundings in the direction where the voice came from. All the bigger is her surprise when a voice comes from behind her.

  “Ruki ver, Bandit!”

  “I don’t speak your language,” Nooria replies, careful not to take any threatening stance that her opponent might mistake as a sign of aggression.

  “I said, hands up!” comes the reply from the unseen Stalker. It is fluent English but with Russian accent. “Stay where you are, pindos. My gun is pointed at you.”

  Nooria feels something hard in her back. A hand pats down her pockets. The Stalker is obviously not doing it for the first time but still makes the mistake to quit searching her when he finds the pistol.

  “That’s a nice one!” the Stalker says. “Turn around.”

  Nooria does as told and sees a lean face with cunning eyes and a nose green and blue from recent beating.

  “I wasn’t armed,” he triumphantly says and shows her the middle and index finger on his right hand that he poked into Nooria’s back, like he would a rifle’s barrel.

  It only takes the fragment of a second for Nooria to draw her blade.

  “But I still am.”

  The Stalker looks down to his chest where the blade’s point is directly over his heart. It would go through the Kevlar plates sewn into his armored suit like a knife through butter.

  “Guess we can call this a Zone stand-off,” he says and smiles. “What about talking our way out?”

  “We can. I am no Bandit.”

  “You look like one. Wearing that long coat and all.”

  “I am no Bandit,” she repeats.

  “Okay, okay! Why don’t we both just take a step back?”

  Nooria warily recoils. The Stalker does the same and raises his arms. She realizes that his right leg is wounded, because the string on his boot is untied to make place inside for a bandage wrapped around his ankle.

  “Give back my pistol,” she says, flipping the blade in her hand and holding it ready to throw.

  “There’s really no need to kill each other,” the Stalker says slowly laying the weapon on a crate. “See? Your turn.”

  Nooria studies the Stalker’s face. Sensing no bad intention about him, she sheathes the blade and swiftly takes the pistol. “Why did you want to rob me?”

  “Thought you’re a lonely Bandit with something to eat in his rucksack,” the Stalker says. “I haven’t eaten for two days!”

  “I have some food,” she says reaching for her rucksack.

  “Really? That’s great, brother! Where are you from, anyway? England? America?”

  “America,” sighs Nooria to save her the explanation. She takes a can of processed meat from her rucksack, removes the lid by pulling on the metal flap attached to it and offers the open can to the Stalker. “What happened to you? You look hurt.”

  “Just a sprained ankle,” he says sitting down at the campfire. Then his eyes open wide as Nooria pulls the balaclava off and swishes her hair.

  “I should have called you sister,” the Stalker says staring at her. He doesn’t appear averted by her scar.

  “Eat,” she replies. “After food I will see to your ankle. What happened? You fell from a tree?”

  “A bit higher, actually. Anyway, I was trying to reach Noah’s Ark but didn’t make it far from the bridge in this condition. All I had on me was a few bandages and you don’t make it far in the Zone like that. So, I stayed put in a cave close to here and it probably saved my life because if that last emission had taken me in the open…”

  The Stalker moves his hand along his
throat, mimicking a cut. He devours his portion with such an appetite that doesn’t leave any doubts about his food deprivation.

  “So… where are you heading, Stalker?” he asks munching on the last bit of meat.

  “I am no Stalker,” Nooria replies.

  “Then what are you?”

  “Lost.”

  “Uh-hum. And what are you up to, then?”

  “I must find and kill somebody.”

  “Sounds familiar…” The Stalker scratches his unshaven cheek. “Where do you want to go?”

  “I wanted to find way to Swamps but lost my way. It was very dark and I was scared.”

  “You mean the emission last night?”

  “Emission? Yes. I had to find shelter.”

  “I guess you made it to Noah’s place?”

  “No. This is my shelter.”

  “You’re lying. Nobody can survive an emission in the open… or did you take anabiotics?”

  “No, and I cannot lie,” Nooria says, sadly. “Sometimes I wish I could.”

  The Stalker looks her up and down.

  “You are either the biggest liar the Zone has ever seen, or you are—special.” He thinks for a moment. “Since a guy called Magpie already claimed that title for himself, you must be special. We’ll soon find out.”

  “I must go to Swamps.”

  “That’s quite a long trek from here.”

  “But I must. Swamps, nowhere else.”

  “That makes you the first Stalker who doesn’t want to get to the Wish Granter … Why the Swamps of all places in the Zone?”

  “I must get back to Doctor’s house.”

  “What?!” The Stalker looks utterly baffled. “You know where the Doc lives?”

  Nooria nods.

  The Stalker gives her an inquisitive look. “Very, very few people know about his whereabouts. How did you find him?”

  “I don’t trust you good enough to tell,” Nooria replies shunning the Stalker’s gaze.

  “Fair enough,” he says with a shrug. “How’s the old man doing?”

  “Good. Now let me see your ankle,” Nooria says.

  “Does he still keep that smelly pseudodog?” The Stalker removes his boot and reveals a badly swollen ankle. Nooria softly touches the bandage but it’s enough to make the Stalker grimace with pain. “Outch! Yes, right there…”

  “It doesn’t look so bad,” Nooria says removing the bandages and having a closer look at the injury. “Your… I don’t know how to say but you know, things which keep your muscles on bones…”

  “Suchozhilye?”

  “No—oh yes, it is called sinew. Or is it tendon? It appears to be okay.”

  “At least that’s comforting,” the Stalker says. “You might want to keep your nose away from my foot, though. You know, spare socks are a luxury in the Zone and—ai, blyad!” He screams with pain when Nooria gives a sudden, quick thrust to his foot and twists it. “Uzhasno bolit!”

  “It is good now,” Nooria says satisfied with her work. She takes the Doctor’s bandage from her rucksack and neatly applies it over the Stalker’s bruised ankle. “This bandage will make it heal quickly but you better stay put for a day or two.”

  “Staying put? Me? No way!”

  “If you have to move, try not to step on it too hard.”

  The Stalker sets his teeth but his tension apparently begins to wane. Cautiously, he stays.

  “It feels a bit better now. Let’s see if—”

  “Wait. You need to rest now.”

  “We can’t stay here,” the Stalker says. “We must get to Noah’s Ark. That’s the closest safe place.”

  “I go to Swamps,” Nooria says impatiently. “Can you tell me direction?”

  Suddenly, the Stalker puts his finger to his lips.

  “Shh!”

  Something shakes the reeds nearby.

  “You sense danger?”

  Instead of replying to Nooria’s concerned whisper, the Stalker signals her to duck.

  They hear a moan, halfway between a boar’s grunt and a dog’s growl.

  “Snorks!” the Stalker screams. “Use your knife if they get close! Give me your gun, now!”

  It sounds like a desperate plea, not a demand. Nooria quickly hands the Sig Sauer over to him. In a second, the Stalker has the safety worked off and starts shooting at the three humanoids emerging from the reed-covered riverbed.

  Even though they crawl on all fours, the hillside is steep enough to slow the mutants’ progress. The Stalker uses the moment gained to his advantage and scores a hit on the closest mutant, shooting it directly in the eye through the eyehole of the half-rotten gas mask covering its skull, but the remaining two are about to reach the distance they need to leap close to their human prey where they clawed hands and legs would give them the advantage over any weapon.

  One snork jumps, is hit by the bullets and is dead by the time it smashes against the crate behind which Nooria is ducking.

  Then the magazine is emptied. The last snork leaps over the crates and hurls himself over Nooria.

  With lightning-quick reflexes, she rolls to the side. The mutant lands in the mud but leaps again at its apparently weaker prey. Nooria jumps to her feet, tries to step aside to avoid the mutant hurling itself at her but human speed doesn’t match that of a snork’s at close quarters.

  In terror, the Stalker watches the growling Snork land on Nooria, bare the row of sharp teeth in its mouth and thrust them into her face.

  Then it doesn’t move anymore, save for its convulsing limbs that also cease after a minute.

  “Fuck,” Nooria says with disgust as she pushes the dead mutant off her and pulls the blade off its chest where she has thrust it with all force.

  “Fuuuck,” the Stalker slowly repeats and whistles. ”I’m really happy we could settle our differences without you using that knife!”

  “This beast jumped right into my blade,” she says, looking for something to wipe the mutant’s blood off her hands. “I was lucky.”

  “You bet,” the Stalker says giving her back the Sig Sauer. “You got any spare mags for that?”

  Nooria nods and holsters the weapon. The Stalker looks at the dead mutants and shakes his head.

  “Damn me… They must have heard me crying out when you treated my ankle. At least they keep Bloodsuckers out of range, because those beasts fear Snorks more than shotguns.”

  “So, where is way to Swamps?” Nooria asks, wiping her blood-splattered face with her sleeve.

  “To the south,” the Stalker replies jerking his thumb behind his back. He looks up into the sky and sniffs at the air, as if detecting a strange smell. “But… I suggest you to come with me to Noah’s. Believe me – another emission will hit soon.”

  “Who is Noah?”

  “Paranoid old Stalker obsessed with the idea of the ultimate emission coming, after which mutants will kill everyone who isn’t prepared. This is why he built his so-called ark in the first place.”

  “Is he crazy?”

  “Troubled and pissed off by rookies asking him about artifacts and shortcuts. He’s a good man, but his helpfulness was abused more than once. One can still deal with him if he knows how to approach Noah properly.”

  “Does he know a shortcut to Swamps?”

  “Maybe,” the Stalker sighs. “Now let me see if your treatment worked.” He takes a few steps and nods, satisfied with his condition. “I’ll be limping for a while but it is much easier to walk now. Damn, wish I still had my old exoskeleton…”

  Together, they begin walking along the riverbed. Nooria lets him walk in front of her, partly to keep an eye on him and partly because the Stalker, despite his limp, appears to know exactly where to step without walking into an anomaly or making nearby mutants aware of their presence. To her unease, he leads her toward the shipwreck she had avoided last night. It looks as foreboding in early daylight as it did at dusk. The Skadovsk had a bonfire burning on its deck to signal human presence; here it’s a c
rude wind wheel on the mast from where scraps of a camouflage net hangs proving that the derelict barge is actually a human hovel.

  A wooden door covers a hole in the rusty hull. Nooria reaches to open it but the Stalker pulls her away.

  “Wait,” he whispers. “Told you he’s a bit… eccentric.”

  Nooria frowns as she watches the Stalker open the door and step aside.

  “Noah?”

  The growl of a pseudodog comes from inside. The Stalker steps in and waves to Nooria to follow.

  “Mutant assholes! Piss off,” shouts a man aiming his shotgun at them. A huge pseudodog is growling at his side.

  “We are no mutants, Noah!” the Stalker shouts back. “Don’t shoot!”

  “Stalkers? Worse! I hate asshole Stalkers coming here, opening the door without knocking and pestering me for a Compass!”

  “I’m glad you don’t start shooting at everyone who approaches your place, Noah.”

  “I ran out of bullets! Did you bring me bullets? Can’t shoot mutants without bullets!”

  The pseudodog keeps growling but the Stalker boldly steps closer.

  “Lassie! Hey old girl, how’s it going? You don’t recognize me? Lassie, come to uncle Strelok!”

  “Strelok?” Nooria asks surprised. “Are you Strelok?”

  “I am. Why are you staring at me?” the Stalker says petting the ugly predator that is now sniffing his hands. “You want my autograph on your jacket or what?

  “Don’t be rude. I heard a lot about you.”

  “Don’t believe half of it. I do not kill pseudogiants with bare hands, neither eat artifacts for breakfast.”

  “I heard other things. Like you being disturbed, unpredictable and not who you once were.”

  Noah lets out a snorting laugh. “Hah! Someone seems to know you well, Marked One!”

  Nooria studies their strange host. He is a middle-aged man with a short, unkempt beard and blue eyes clouded by insanity, wearing a long brown coat that could use some mending. Whoever Noah is, he doesn’t appear to value comfort much – a makeshift bed, an equally crude table and a few shelves fastened to the cabin’s rusty metal walls are the only furniture. Strangely though, there's also a large trunk in a corner with a woodcutter’s axe in it. The only light inside comes from a petroleum lamp.

  “Disturbed? Disturbed, you say? Now that hurts,” Strelok says wiping off pseudodog saliva from his hands with a grimace. “Who told you that?”

  “A man called Mikhailo Tarasov.”

  “You know him?”

  “I am his woman from the New Zone. My name is Nooria.”

  “Presvyataya Bogoroditsa! His—woman?” Strelok cries out loud. “Misha Tarasov’s woman? All the way from the New Zone? And I thought I’d seen everything and everything’s opposite as well! What the hell are you doing here without him… Nooria? Did I get your name right?”

  “Yes. We were betrayed. Soldiers took me to Kiev and Mikhailo is held prisoner at Cordon Base.”

  “And how did you end up here in Zaton?”

  Nooria turns her face away. “Bad people in Kiev helped me getting here.”

  “Bad people, really? There’s too many of them around here for me to guess who it was.”

  “A man called Sultan.”

  “Uh-oh. This sounds like trouble.” Strelok shares a dark glance with Noah.

  “Yes, I am in trouble. Can you bring me to my friends at Doc’s house? We must help Mikhailo!”

  “Oh shit, they bagged him after all! Shit!”

  “Will you help me?”

  “Sorry, but I can’t.”

  “But he saved your life in Pripyat!”

  Strelok heaves a long sigh. “That’s why I didn’t want to be part of this… Listen, I’m on the run from the military. Okay, that happens from time to time. Nothing I couldn’t make up by delivering some trinket that makes them forgive me. Freeing Tarasov from that outpost would be a different matter, though.”

  “Since when are you afraid of the grunts?” Noah asks.

  “It’s not about the grunts but… this.” Strelok fishes a small vial from his pocket. “I can’t function without this shit anymore. Only the SBU can provide it. They get it from India or I don’t know where.”

  “Strelok, what happened to you? You became a junkie?”

  “It’s not a drug, Noah. It’s painkillers.”

  “For what pain?” Nooria asks.

  “Phantom pains,” Strelok says with a dark smile. “Literally.”

  “I don’t understand. You have all your hands and legs.”

  “I—I can’t explain. It is as if the Brain Scorcher would still affect me. When it gets dark—the ghosts come.”

  The pseudodog sniffs into the air and suddenly begins to yowl. Noah signals Strelok to hold his tongue.

  After a few heartbeats of silence, it appears as if the sky would fall on Earth with a shattering thunder.

  “Emission approaching!” Noah shouts.

  “I felt it coming, but so soon again?”

  “Do you think emissions are trains with a schedule, Strelok? Get into the aft room before the mutants are on us!”

  Somewhere far a siren begins to wail but is soon suppressed by the rumbling sky.

  “The Skadovsk calls,” yells Noah. “God have mercy on anyone caught in the open!”

  A thunder shakes the barge, making its hull tremble. The rusty metal plates screech and shriek as if they could disintegrate any moment. Through a crack in the hull, Nooria sees the sky turning red and a huge dark cloud engulfing the sky. Lightning crackles amidst the thunder. The Stalker appears to be incapacitated by the emission. He falls to his knees, pressing his hands on his ears and screams. “Darkness! The darkness!”

  With hands trembling, he opens his vial and is about to pour several pills into his mouth when a strong hand grasps his arm and shakes the pills to the barge’s metal floor.

  “My medicine!” screams Strelok desperately. He looks up to see who has taken the painkillers from him.

  A forceful wave of energy hits the barge. Before it becomes pitch dark, Strelok sees the reflection of a flash in Nooria’s green eyes.

  Then darkness falls and the first ghost appears, its arms outstretched as it levitates towards him with squirming tentacles in its face. He fires his rifle at the apparition. It diminishes from his sight.

  He is running up a causeway leading to a hill, with abandoned factory buildings to his right and a dense forest to his left.

  A thunderbolt flashes, turning the green dim of his night vision into blinding white. He curses himself for approaching the Brain Scorcher deep in the night and during a thunderstorm.

  A humming drone creeps into his skull. It sounds as if an enormous generator is nearby, almost resembling a human voice shouting a warning—though it is unclear if it’s warning him to stay away, or alerting its own source of Strelok’s approach.

  After a few minutes, he reaches a brick wall. Jumping over a stretch where the wall had collapsed, he enters a compound littered with wrecked vehicles, rusty railway containers and derelict wagons, their wheels and chassis overgrown with weed. Suddenly, everything in his vision turns into grainy amber.

  Five columns of eerie blue light radiate in the night sky. A flash of lightning makes five huge antennae appear. It appears as if the blue dim would emanate from their metal structures themselves.

  “Die, enemy of the Monolith! Brothers, to battle!”

  Through the drone and thunder, Strelok hears the bellowing shouts of Monolith fighters. He ducks and moves to return fire only to realize that his rifle is gone. His eyes open wide with dread when another apparition materializes – a pseudodog running up to him, its snout baring fangs ready to tear on his flesh. Strelok desperately tries to find a weapon in him but finds nothing to protect himself. He screams.

  Another apparition appears right in front of him and blocks the ghost’s assault, making it disappear like a soap bubble.

  “Glory to the Monol
ith!”

  The Monolith fighters’ blood curdling cries are followed by burst from their assault rifles.

  “Kill the intruder!”

  Strelok feels the bullets hit him but there is no physical pain.

  The apparition waves its hand in a sign for him to follow. The drone, the hail of bullets and the flashing thunderstorm become one vortex of dark noise, echoing in his head and suppressing any thoughts of his own—except the desperate desire to run away or succumb to his enemies, finishing his torture either way.

  Strelok runs after the apparition. It waves to him once more. Climbing up the derelict wagon he sees that its far end is open, leading into a tunnel. The apparition moves forward. It appears to bear an aura that makes the ghosts that materialize from the amber hue bounce off and disintegrate.

  Strelok follows it into the tunnel where the walls appear to close in on him with each step he takes. He knows that wherever the tunnel ends, a horror beyond all imagination awaits. He takes several turns in the maze that is littered with decayed machines, all of them having served the purpose of creating this hell on earth from where any sane man would try to run. Strelok knows he must get to the end of the tunnel, but also that one of the turns he takes will shatter his sanity with pure horror.

  It is not his willpower anymore that keeps him running but the apparition’s aura. Strelok feels that the horror outside of it would overwhelm him.

  Eyes appear in the shadows and howls blend into the humming drone. Claws of bloodsuckers reach for him, the Monolith’s bullets hit the floor and walls around. The apparition leading him accelerates. Strelok feels his side hurt and can barely breathe. He almost collapses when at last he reaches a hall where huge, cylindrical containers stand. A catwalk leads up to a control panel with a switch. The apparition stops short of it and illuminates the instruments. He will have to make the last few steps alone.

  Stepping out from behind the apparition, Strelok feels like entering bitter cold after the warmth of a protective room. The cold that almost crushes him is terror, the goose skin is coming from fear. With limbs trembling and teeth clattering, he enters the darkness, feels his way to the switch and pulls it.

  His vision blurs. The catwalk, the rusted containers, the sinister vaults appear to revolve around him. Losing his balance he falls.

  Suddenly, the darkness vanishes and he can see clearly again. In a huge hall, atop a heap of rubble and scrap metal, a crystal monolith glitters in the light beams falling in from high above. The air smells burnt and his saliva tastes like metal. He wants to crawl closer to the crystal but something keeps him away from it. Strelok stretches his arm out to reach it, fingers trembling, while the nightmares flicker in his mind as if this would be his moment of death: the truck carrying his body, believed to be dead, hit by lightning, his unknown savior’s face, the Power Plant with the waves of mutants, the hooded shape with the face he could never see—but now he understands the call of the voice that comes from deeper than the deepest vaults. It is calling him.

  “Strelok!”

  But for the first time he senses no menace in the call. The darkness lies behind and he is again what he used to be before – a man called Strelok who has been marked by the hell he has been through and now, when facing the maze of his nightmares once more, has found his way back to sanity.

  Still terrified that once he opens his eyes something terrible will happen, he only dares to rise his eyelids a little but enough to recognize Noah’s untidy home.

  Probably no Stalker has ever emitted such a sigh of relief at its sight than Strelok does now. His heartbeat slows down and his strained muscles loosen up.

  Then he realizes that it was not the feeling of safety that made him calm down. It was the lack of pain: he feels as if he was a crystal glass filled with morning light.

  Strelok feels something warm pressing his forehead. He reaches for it and touches Nooria’s hand. Embarrassed, he lets go of her hands which release their grip as he sits up, rubbing his eyes.

  “How long did I sleep?” Strelok asks.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Noah observes.

  “Good God—it felt as if I had slept for a whole day!”

  “How is your pain?”

  Strelok looks at Nooria and it seems to him that he must have slept with his head in her lap. His embarrassment vanishes as he feels the refreshment of a long sleep getting stronger, bringing a clarity to his mind he hadn’t felt for a time longer than he could remember.

  “It is gone,” he says, baffled.

  Noah nods. “This was a short one, thanks God!”

  “I didn’t mean the emission—I meant this, this—this is strange. I have never felt good like this, at least not in a very long time.”

  “That’s a surprise,” Noah says. “You were screaming and wriggling in your sleep as if tortured by a thousand ghosts.”

  “I was.” Strelok slowly shakes his head. “What did you do to me?”

  “Nothing.” Nooria giggles. “I just helped you to get out of your bad dreams.”

  Strelok gives her a long, inquisitive look. “Will I have those dreams ever again?”

  “Not for a while, I think,” she says. “I mean a very, very long while.”

  “But how long?”

  “Long for you, short for me.”

  “Do I still need to take those pills?”

  “It depends on you. You can take pills if you want. But now you must decide if you still need them.”

  Strelok looks into the green eyes that appear to keep secrets deeper than he had ever tried to solve. When their eyes meet, he sees kindness, wisdom, warmth – but they come from bottomless darkness. He turns his eyes away and shudders.

  “You are a witch,” he whispers.

  Noah gives him a perplexed look but Nooria just shrugs and giggles once more. “Some people call me that.”

  “There are no witches, Strelok,” Noah says. “This is not a fairy tale. This is the Zone! Only asshole mutants, everywhere! She could be a mutant too!”

  “No, this is not a fairy tale,” Strelok replies. He looks down to his boots. “This is the most confusing situation I have ever faced.”

  “Why so?” asks Nooria.

  “Because now I have to make a choice of going back to the Big Land,” Strelok says very seriously, “or stay in the Zone – forever.”

  “Stay, Marked One!” Noah says, grinning. “I also stayed here and look how fine I’m doing! If I only had bullets…”

  “Do you have a PDA?” Strelok asks from Nooria, ignoring Noah.

  “Here.”

  Strelok scrolls the map with a concerned face. “Have a look, Nooria. Cordon is at the other end of the Zone… damn far away. Especially with me in this condition.”

  “We must get there quickly,” Nooria insists.

  “You will need lots of bullets for that trip! There are—”

  Strelok interrupts the half-crazy Stalker. “I know, I know, mutants everywhere. Give me a break, huh? It’s not just bullets we need.”

  “What else would one need?”

  “Not what but who. We need Guide.”

  55

  Dead city of Pripyat, Exclusion Zone

  The sewers remain pitch dark beyond the cones of light emitted by their headlamps, but when Nooria grabs Strelok’s hand and at last emerges from the manhole and looks around in the daylight, what she sees hardly offers relief.

  The Stalker had first led her to the south, an area he called Jupiter ehich is full of odd metal structures and derelict buildings. There they followed a railway track eastwards and to an abandoned, tower-like building raising high over the misty landscape. Cautiously entering the cellar through a low, tunnel-like entrance from the nearby waterway, he dug out a container from under the debris which turned out to hold an assault rifle and some ammo for it. A hand-written note on the back of an old document was also there. When Strelok read it, he bowed his head and whispered something about a man called Fang who had apparently been supp
osed to find this stash; the sadness coming over him was such that Nooria felt compelled to give him a comforting stroke. Pulling himself together, Strelok quickly led her on, crossing the canal and descending into a manhole leading beneath the concrete walls running along the water.

  Though Nooria didn’t recognize the rifle’s type, it appeared serious enough to make a reckless man overconfident; but Strelok proved as composed as lurid his earlier behavior had been. They sneaked through claustrophobically narrow tunnels that seemed to run endlessly in the darkness. Nooria, after all a child of the New Zone’s boundless wastelands, followed Strelok with growing

  discomfort and hoped at every turn to reach an exit and leave the underground passage behind.

  It is to her great relief when Strelok at last climbs up a metal ladder, works the iron lid of the manhole aside and cautiously peers outside.

  Nooria’s heart sinks when she emerges from the underground and looks around.

  Under an overcast sky, derelict apartment blocks loom among alleys overgrown with dry bushes. The wind moving the branches of dead trees makes them appear like ghosts waving a welcome through the gloomy drizzle. The tiles that had once covered the facades have fallen off, revealing spots of drab concrete. Odd saplings grow from the broken windows and broken masonry. On the top floor of a house across the next alley, a tree has grown from a seed apparently blown there by the wind. It appears like a symbol of nature’s victory over this man-made stone desert.

  Fear creeps under Nooria’s skin like chill from drizzle. Her fear is mixed with sadness, however. A ragged curtain still hanging in a broken window; the rusted lid of the manhole with Cyrillic letters and the number 1972 on it; a street sign over an entrance filled almost knee-deep with rubble; the decaying blue and white tile work on a façade nearby that was supposed to soften the drab appearance of the building—the few still visible signs of ordinary human life that had thrived here stir compassion in her heart as she feels the dead city’s haunting memories descending on her.

  It is the sight of a playground with rusty climbing bars where the traces of red and blue paint are still visible, that makes her eventually sigh with deep sorrow.

  “I have never seen a sadder place.”

  Lost in her thoughts, she moves toward the playground but Strelok grabs her hand and pulls her back.

  “Okay, listen to me carefully. Here’s a few rules. First, do not touch or even go close to anything metallic here. It’s still radioactive and you aren’t much protected in that rookie suit. Stay on the paved road. If we have to leave it, do not lay down. Earth is contaminated. If you have to take cover, crouch but try not to kneel. Avoid touching the ground. Last but not least, watch out for any movement in the windows, on the roofs—everywhere. If the radioactivity doesn’t kill you, a Monolith ambush or sneaky mutant will. Stick to me and keep your eyes peeled.”

  The Stalker checks his rifle, rocks the safety from off to on and gives her a wink, though his eyes appear sad as well.

  “Welcome to Pripyat,” he adds. “If it appears haunted now, imagine how it is at night.”

  Holding his rifle ready to shoot, Strelok peeks through the bushes on the corner of the house and signals Nooria to follow. Their process is more sneaking than watchful walking as they move ahead for a hundred meters, cross a street and leave behind the shell of a one-story building to their right and a huge, fallen tree to their left. There is the rusted wreck of an UAZ at the intersection. Strelok stays away from it but his Geiger counter emits a low crackle of warning nonetheless.

  “Look,” Strelok breathes pointing at two buildings connected by a gangway. “This was a hospital.”

  “Are people living there?”

  Strelok shakes his head.

  “But someone is walking there, talking to himself.”

  Strelok immediately ducks. He aims his weapon to the source of the voice he must be hearing now too—it is coming from a human because only humans speak in words. But no human would emit words of barely discernible, deep moaning while slowly staggering ahead, one arm outstretched as if in sleepwalk. Neither would any human have the long extremities of the figure appearing in the gangway or the ragged overall darkened by gore.

  “Move to the left,” he whispers, ”through that passage.”

  “What was it?”

  “Move!”

  Nooria does as commanded while Strelok slowly follows her, backwards in a crouched walk and ready to fire. He relaxes his stance only when joining her on the other side of the building.

  “Izlom,” he says, ”that’s what it was. A kind of undead… wouldn’t call it a zombie. Zombies are brainless too but carry weapons and shoot at you, growling strange words—”

  “Then they are like kuchis.”

  “What? Kuchis?”

  “In my language. Tribe calls them ragheads and Stalkers call them dushmans.”

  “Dushmans?” Strelok snorts. ”Oh, I see… fitting parallel between them and the zombies.”

  “And what’s that?” Nooria asks and points to a spot where between two high buildings a round, tall metal structure is partly visible.

  “The Ferris wheel,” Strelok indifferently observes.

  “It looks like a big iron flower.”

  “You know, it’s a—a big wheel that turns around,” Strelok adds, noticing that Nooria doesn’t get it. ”Those yellow things looking like petals to you are gondolas where people could sit and adore the beauty of their beloved city.”

  He wants to move on but Nooria holds him back.

  “Why are you so cynical, Marked One?”

  Strelok nervously looks around and sighs.

  “Look at this,” he says raising his assault rifle. “And this.” He pats his armored suit and the gas mask fastened to his shoulder. “They protect me. But this is where I survive.” Strelok points at his head. “If I started to think about what a nice place it was, if I cried boo-hoo over the fifty thousand people who lived here, a third of them children, and all this misery—I’d just have a bottle of vodka and shoot myself. Would that change a thing? That’s why try not to give a damn.”

  Nooria bows her head. “You have a good heart. I like you.”

  The Stalker takes his binoculars to survey the area ahead.

  “Look, that building at eleven o’clock was a school. Now it’s little snorks being educated there. I don’t see anything suspicious but one can never now… We must be very cautious here.”

  Strelok moves on but after a few steps turns back to Nooria. “Do you really like me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then keep watching my back.”

  They make their way through a gate in the fence to their right and then, across the space between the wings of a two-story, U-shaped building, around a low structure that might have been a greenhouse once. Nooria treads as cautiously as she can, yet a piece of glass that lies unseen in the grass breaks as she steps on it. Strelok signals her to freeze.

  A long growl echoes in the school building. Before they realize that the echo is actually several mutants answering each other, the first snork already appears on the roof. It looks around and leaps down in a long arch, followed by several more. They roll on the ground as they touch down and start moving around the courtyard, apparently without a clue. But when Nooria peeks over the low wall of the greenhouse, she sees them sniffing the air in search of prey.

  Finding nothing, they move back to their lair one by one. Their growl sounds hungry and disappointed.

  Strelok jerks his head as a sign to move on. He only dares to talk when they have crossed another set of climbing bars and slipped through the fence, leaving the mutant-infested ruin behind them.

  “Phew,” sighs Strelok. “Thanks God for November rain… in summer, when one’s soaked in sweat and smells like a dog after spending days in these suits, those beasts can smell a man from a hundred meters!”

  “Is it still far?”

  “We’ve arrived,” Strelok says. “Guide is l
iving in one of those tall buildings over there with the Vine anomaly in between. Feel like climbing?”

  Nooria looks in the direction where Strelok is pointing. Growing from a crater between two towering apartment blocks, twisted vines stretch out and run up the grey concrete walls like long strands of wet hair sticking to the skin. If the horribly mutated tree—if it had ever been a tree—wasn’t foreboding enough, the bright cloud of green, almost solid gas travelling along the vines certainly is.

  “Climbing?” Nooria skeptically asks. “Even if it supports our weight, anomaly would kill us! Do we really need to climb?”

  “Just kidding,” Strelok replies and gives Nooria a mischievous smile. “We’re not in a video game, are we? No, no… come, we’re almost there.”

  They reach a wide open area that might have been a town square once, but now more resembling a sparse forest between the apartment towers from where they are approaching and a large building with a mural on its corner. Wrecked cars litter the overgrown square, as if an immense power had lifted a rusty bus and a truck and smashed them to the ground, separating the driver’s cabin from the chassis. A white Zaporozhets is buried axle-deep into the ground.

  In front of the building with the mural and in the middle of a low pool that might have been a fountain once, a blackened statue towers. It resembles an immensely strong man holding something in his arms, delicately formed yet appearing so heavy that the muscles on his massive limbs bulge as he tries to hold it upwards.

  “See the River Port? Yes, that ruined, long building with the small tower on the roof. That’s where we’re going.”

  Strelok moves on. Then he slows his steps, looks at the statue and sighs.

  “Yes, it happened right here… I left my lucky shooter behind for a friend,” he pensively says and pats his rifle, “and was only armed with a shitty carbine. Monolith had us under crossfire, there, from that port building and their snipers from over there, that tall house with the large iron letters on its roof… We were running like hell to the choppers sent in to evacuate us, and then out of those bushes came a huge Monolith fighter, shouting his glory to the Monolith! nonsense. My carbine jammed, he was already aiming his rifle at me and for a moment I thought, ’oh God, will his gorilla-face gas mask be the last thing I see in my life?’ but then couldn’t see anything because Mikhailo jumped in and took the bullets for me. Next moment the Monolithian was dead, I think Alex Degtyarev was who finished him off when he came running up our right flank, there, after knocking sense into a shell-shocked Spetsnaz medic... He and Colonel Kovalsky dragged Mikhailo to the nearest Mi-24 and I remember, they hit the hatch with his head in the process and he was cursing at them like a sailor, even with his chest covered with blood—” Strelok chuckles. “Yes, it happened right here, at the Prometheus statue.”

  “It was Operation Fairway,” Nooria says. “He told me about it.”

  “Yes. Luckily for us, the Monolith was already weakened at that time. We killed scores of them, then Duty and Freedom patrols foraying into Pripyat did the rest. Guide told me he once saw them fighting a Monolith squad together. Hard to believe, eh?”

  “Why is Guide hiding in such a dreadful place?”

  “He’s obsessed with all things Monolith. The river port had been their stronghold before we kicked their asses. Guide is looking for anything that can help him to understand them better. If you ask me, he’s compensating for not reaching the Wish Granter… All right, it’s time to tell him we’re coming.”

  Strelok takes out his PDA. “Guide, do you copy?”

  He waits a few heartbeats before repeating the call but no reply comes. Nooria is already thinking about coming so far in vain when Strelok’s PDA beeps.

  “I’m busy. Leave me alone.”

  “Guide, it’s me,” Strelok speaks into the device. “Whatever you’re doing, stop it. I’m moving in with a friend. Do us a favor and don’t shoot at us, all right?”

  “Marked One? What the hell?”

  “We’re inbound from the cinema. Watch over our approach.”

  “Prinyal,” comes the Russian roger-that.

  Strelok moves out. The square between their position and the river port is covered with dense bush and the odd pine tree, their roots having forced the stone plates that had once covered the square to bulge and turn up from the ground. They are about to walk through a hole in the barbed wire fencing the port building when the Stalker’s PDA beeps again.

  “Stay put. Small squad approaching from your nine. Hundred meters.”

  “Monolith?” Strelok asks under his breath.

  “Negative. Bandits. Keep low.”

  Strelok puts his finger to his lips, signaling Nooria to duck. Now they can hear the faint chatter of the approaching Bandits.

  “—so I was kicking his head till he was dead, mwaha!”

  “And what was in his stash?”

  “Closer,” they hear Guide’s whisper in the PDA, “slow down, guys, please slow down.”

  “I had hoped for a dirty magazine but a can of rotten meat was all I found!”

  “That sucks, tipa, that really sucks!”

  “Hey, what’s that?”

  “Yes… stop and check out that crate, you scum. It’s there for a reason…”

  Though Nooria doesn’t understand Guide’s muted words, his slow breathing indicates that he is deeply concentrating.

  “It’s empty.”

  “Blyad! I was hoping for a Gauss rifle!”

  “You think those just lie around here? In your wet dreams maybe!”

  “Let’s—”

  The bang of a rifle shot prevents the Bandit from finishing his sentence, followed almost immediately by a second shot. The muzzle echoes among the tall buildings but Nooria’s ears detect their source: up in the tower of the port building, a rifle barrel protrudes between two boards covering the window.

  Kneeling behind a bush, Strelok fires his rifle too. A cry of pain follows his bursts.

  “Patsani!”

  “Bullseye, Strelok. Three down. One on the run… Damn! Lost sight of him. Moved behind the statue. Still armed.”

  Strelok stays. He works the mode selection switch on his rifle, aims and fires a single shot.

  “He’s down. Still alive. Be careful.”

  Strelok acknowledges the warning. “Keep your eyes open.”

  “Prinyal.”

  With his weapon at ready, Strelok walks up to the wounded Bandit. He had left a trail of blood as he crawled behind the low platform that had once contained the fountain around the Prometheus statue, where he apparently hoped to be safe from the sniper in the tower and the rifleman in the bushes.

  “Nu privet, patsan,” Strelok says for a greeting. “Any more of you cocksuckers around?”

  “Net, net! Please, don’t kill me!”

  Nooria studies the wounded man’s brown jacket that looks almost identical to the one she got from Sultan.

  “He works for Sultan?” she asks.

  “Ti s Sultanom, khuyesos?” translates Strelok so that the Bandit can understand the question.

  “Da” is the man’s response. “Jack and Sultan will give you a reward if you help me!”

  “Want to earn some money, Nooria?” Strelok asks. “Because—”

  Nooria brusquely interrupts him. “I asked, is he with Sultan?”

  “Yes, and he said that—”

  Strelok’s mouth stays open in the middle of his sentence as he sees Nooria drawing her blade, stepping to the agonized Bandit and slashing his throat. He stares at her with utter astonishment, his lips still moving.

  “—that Sultan will… oh, forget about it.”

  “Others are dead?”

  Strelok looks at the three bodies which lie nearby in still extending pools of blood.

  “They look dead enough to me.”

  Nooria steps over to the bodies and stabs each in the heart. Then she gracefully shakes the blood off her blade and sheaths it. “Now they look dead enough to
me too.”

  “Jopta,” Strelok mutters a word for surprise in Russian.

  Nooria shrugs. “Easily amused, huh?”

  “Guide,” Strelok says into his PDA, ”if you have seen what I’ve just seen, you better put on a gas mask with a polite and nice face painted on it. You wouldn’t want to offend her.”

  “It’s a woman? Okhuyoshka!”

  “She doesn’t speak Russian but you better watch your tongue anyway, lest you want her to cut it off.”

  “I heard you. Come, I’m opening the trapdoor.”

  The ruined pavilion of the river port might have once housed a café or restaurant, yet with the narrow windows facing the square, the two buttresses flanking the entrance and the slim tower above makes the adjacent building resemble a tiny fortress. At the end of a debris-covered corridor, a steep set of corroded metal stairs leads to an open platform overlooking the square and the brown, lifeless river behind the building. Through a ladder fixed to the wall, Strelok and Nooria climb up to a smaller platform where another ladder awaits. It leads to a hatch in the ceiling from where a round an jovial face looks down at them. To Nooria’s eyes, Guide—if this balding man in a Stalker suit is him—appears very different from Strelok with his cunning eyes and lean face.

  “I am Guide. Nix English,” their host says with an apologizing smile as he helps Nooria up and into the chamber above. “Bye-bye!”

  “Cut the crap, man,” Strelok tells him as he makes his way up. “Bye-bye is for poka anyway.”

  “I know—I’m just embarrassed over seeing a woman here, that’s why I got confused!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Glad you didn’t confuse us with the Bandits when firing that Dragunov,” Strelok says pointing to the sniper rifle standing in the corner. “Good to see you, brother!”

  “It’s been a while, eh?”

  While the two men embrace each other and exchange a kiss in very Russian fashion, Nooria looks around in Guide’s hideout. It is small for even a single occupant, and now with the three of them inside she can barely move without stepping on the bedroll on the ground or hitting against the wooden crate serving both as cupboard and table. Maps and documents cover it all over, flattened by several PDAs that look more sophisticated than those she has seen before. The windows are carefully boarded up, each having only a narrow hole through which the surrounding area can be observed and kept under fire if needed. She can’t imagine of any hideout in Pripyat having much to do with comfort, but even if there were, this tower was definitely chosen over comfort for its strategic location and suitability for defense.

  As she tries to leave enough room for the two men, she accidentally kicks the rifle over. With a quick reflex she didn’t think the jovial Stalker capable of, Guide catches the Dragunov before it could fall on the concrete floor.

  “Budte ostorozhna!”

  “Careful with that,” Strelok translates and adds, “It’s the Lynx. A very special rifle.”

  “I am sorry,” she replies curling her lips.

  “Nichego, nichego,” Guide quickly replies with a reassuring smile. “Khotchite strelat?”

  “No time for shooting lessons, brother,” Strelok says. “We must get her to Cordon. Now.”

  “She’s got any cash?”

  “It’s me who’s asking you.”

  “Strelok, you damn freeloader. I should have picked a hideout where not even you could find and pester me for a free trip!”

  “That’s not even all. I need a way that runs close enough to Dark Valley. There’s something I must get from one of my stashes. Won’t take too long, I promise.”

  “I don’t know.” Guide scratches the stubble on his chin. “Presuming that I’m willing to take you there, bad business as it is for me, there are paths in the Zone I don’t want others to know. Can she be trusted?”

  “Yes. So, you mean there’s a shorter way than through the Radar, Warehouses, Rostok and the Garbage?”

  “Tell me first why I’m supposed to help her. Hope she’s not pretending to love you while squeezing you for secrets… like my hideout for example?”

  Strelok sighs with impatience. “Could you stop being paranoid? Please? Listen: the man who caught a bullet for me once is in trouble. He’s being held at Cordon Base. The SBU might be taking him to Kiev right as we speak. I must get him out. This is his wife, lover, girlfriend or whoever from the New Zone. She healed me out of my nightmares and now I’m doubly indebted to them. You get it now?”

  “From the New Zone? Bozhe moi!”

  “Yes, yes, she’s also a witch or something and survived a blow-out in the open.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “Bottom line—I don’t want to let her down. Will you help or not?”

  “A witch and killer?” Guide looks at Nooria with sheer respect. “If that’s how women are in the New Zone, maybe I should take a trip there!”

  “Glad I could impress you. So?”

  “It wasn’t you but her, Marked One.”

  Guide bows his head to Nooria. Although she doesn’t understand a word from their conversation, she returns the Stalker’s gesture with a smile. Guide turns back to Strelok and rubs his gloved hands together.

  “I do know a way to get you there quickly. Not short, but safe. It’s the road used by grozovikami smerti.”

  Strelok’s face turns suddenly pale. “Grozovikami smerti?”

  Nooria frowns upon seeing the shadow of fear over the hardened Stalker’s face.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “Death Trucks,” Strelok translates, swallowing hard. “Monolith used them to transport dead and brainwashed Stalkers.”

  “Brings back fond memories, huh?” Guide smiles. “Don’t worry, we won’t need to ride one. I’m talking about the road they used.“

  “A road for Death Trucks?” Strelok asks taken aback.

  “That’s correct. Mostly a dirt track in good overall condition. The Monolithians marked all anomalies and regularly cleared off the mutants roaming along it. Now that they’re cornered to the north, the road is no longer maintained and we might run into a few obstacles.”

  “What obstacles?”

  “Nothing we couldn’t handle. It’s still much safer than any other way to southern Cordon and a safer way means quicker process.”

  “Incredible,” Strelok murmurs.

  “Why? If you were Monolith, would you drive those trucks first through Freedom, then Duty and Army territory? They aren’t that stupid, you should know that very well!”

  Guide takes two PDAs from the crate and holds them over to Strelok.

  “Monolith PDAs. See? You think I’m here to shoot zombies? Come on, bratan! Their stashes and PDAs are a treasure trove for learning more about the Zone. For example, did you know that there is a Space anomaly in the CNPP that can teleport you right next to Sidorovich’s bunker?”

  “I do. Have been through it, too.”

  “Oh, stop bragging about your big raid at last!”

  “A secret Monolithian path…” Strelok frowns, wagering their chances. “You sure about this?”

  “You’re funny. First you beg me to show you a fast way to Cordon, then don’t believe me when I tell you!”

  “Sorry. It was just… never mind. Uhodim!”

  “Yes, let’s go. Wait for me downstairs until I lock up my place.”

  While Guide closes the trapdoor with several number-coded, unbreakable padlocks, Strelok explains Guide’s plan to Nooria.

  “But why not to Swamps?” she asks.

  “We better go directly to Cordon Base. There’s no time to waste. If they take him to Kiev he’ll be out of anyone’s reach.”

  “Ready?” Guide asks heading down the ladder. His Dragunov is slung over his shoulder.

  “How is your ankle?” Nooria asks Strelok.

  “Hurts, but I’ll survive,” he replies with a grimace. “It’s okay with the bandage and the last two painkillers I had.”

  “What happened to you?” Guide a
sks.

  “Uhm… fell out of a tree,” Strelok says looking elsewhere.

  “Welcome to the man-made hell,” Guide replies, grinning. “Move! Keep up with me or become bloodsucker food!”

  56

  Cordon Base, Exclusion Zone

  Tarasov curses himself.

  He lets his encounter with Shumenko go through his mind for the hundredth time, but still can’t find anything he could blame for his capture apart from bad luck.

  Had they taken a different path.

  Why would we?

  Had they run away while they still could.

  No chance.

  Had he just shot Shumenko and escaped into the wilderness.

  One hunting rifle against a squad of Spetsnaz and Duty? Suicide.

  It was bad luck and betrayal that resulted in a situation from which he could have never fought his way out; not with the hunting rifle he had.

  All he can think about is Nooria. If he could break out of his confinement at the price of a broken skull, he would gladly ram the metal wall with his head. Setting his teeth to suppress the desire to scream and curse, he sits on the floor, banging the walls with the back of his head. The unceasing rapping of the heavy rain on the top of the metal cell even adds to his mental pain.

  What would I shout, anyway? Calling on my former soldiers to take on the Spetsnaz guards and free me? It was one of my most trusted soldiers who betrayed me for a handful of money. What could I expect from the rest?

  He curses Maksimenko for the subtle way to torture him – kept prisoner in his own former base, in a holding facility he himself had ordered to be transformed from a mobile command station and, like the vigilant officer he had been, personally made sure that it offered no way to escape.

  I had so many good men under my command. Viktor Zlenko. Ilchenko, that bastard. Damn… I don’t even know his given name. Squirrel… Freedom hates the military. Gospodi, I’ll find myself hoping for the anarchists to come and raid Cordon… no way, they are way too weak for that. All gone… at least I’m still alive, unlike them. God save their souls.

  The only one he could put his remaining hopes on is the Top. But no matter how strong and capable the old warrior is, Tarasov knows that he would have no chance coming to his rescue.

  Damn… damn. He doesn’t even know where I am. And those bastards took Nooria to Kiev. Damn! What now? Will the Tribe declare war on Ukraine?

  He smiles bitterly over the nonsense of his thoughts.

  Those goddamned renegades… if they’d come for me, it would be only to kick my ass for putting Nooria in danger. Yes… that would be quite a show. The Top, Driscoll and all those fanatic Lieutenants storming the Zone. Renegade Marines against Spetsnaz. Hell of a showdown. Wish they were here, blasting this whole place with me inside, I don’t care!

  His capture by the Tribe flashes through his mind. They kept him in the place they called the Brig, where he wished for the Zone unleash its power on the Tribe who he loathed then.

  There I wished for the Zone to come… here for the New Zone’s warriors. Where do I belong now?

  Thinking of this, the controversy appears to him so ridiculous that he has to laugh. One of the Spetsnaz guarding the holding cell immediately bangs on the door.

  “Shut up, prisoner!”

  “Why?” Tarasov shouts back, loud enough to make himself heard through the metal walls and the heavy rain outside. “Can’t I laugh about the fucked up situation I’m in?”

  “You—”

  Whatever the Spetsnaz wanted to tell him, it ended in a gurgle. Then all is quiet again, only the rain keeps drumming on the container’s metal roof.

  After a moment, he hears someone tampering with the lock, and after another heartbeat the door slowly opens. Through rain and darkness, Tarasov cannot see the face of the figure wearing a Stalker suit, but the eyes dimly illuminated by the night vision goggles’ green light look familiar. He hears a whisper.

  “Come, quickly!”

  Tarasov heeds his call without thinking twice. The Stalker points to the ground where a dead Spetsnaz lies.

  “Get his weapon and help me hide the body!”

  Tarasov slings the commando’s AN104 rifle over his shoulder and grabs the body by the legs. Together, they quickly drag him behind the holding facility where the searchlight in the watchtower can’t detect it. The body of another Spetsnaz is already lying there.

  The rain soaks him to his skin in seconds. Tarasov quickly takes two more magazines from the ammunition vest of the second body.

  “Follow me,” the Stalker whispers.

  Ducking, the two men cautiously proceed to a bush opposite the base gate.

  The searchlight slowly sweeps over the perimeter, more as an excuse by the soldier manning it for doing something during his watch than an attempt to detect anything. Tarasov mentally praises the storm that covers the perimeter with a curtain of heavy rain.

  About two hundred meters away, beyond the barracks, a twisting fog bank conceals the low hills lying to the east. His rescuer points in that direction, but to reach the cover of fog they need to pass through between the barracks and the helipad. This section is brightly illuminated by two reflectors, just like the Mi-24 attack helicopter itself – another feature Tarasov had had installed during his time as security-savvy base commander. The light would deny even the most daring Stalker any chance to sneak into the base and sabotage the helicopter, the military’s most powerful weapon in the Exclusion Zone. Now he finds another of his brain children turning against him.

  To his dismay, Tarasov sees a soldier guarding the helicopter. Seeking shelter from the rain, the soldier huddles up under the short wings on the fuselage, facing directly the section where they have to pass through. A cigarette glows in the soldier’s hand, but his assault rifle is unslung and ready to shoot.

  The Stalker aims his silenced pistol. With a cautious movement, Tarasov pushes his weapon down and slowly shakes his head.

  The Stalker shrugs. Then he takes a bolt from his pocket, aims for a second and throws it in a long arch towards the helicopter. Through the splatter of rain, Tarasov’s ears detect the faint noise of metal hitting metal.

  The guard tosses his cigarette away. He aims his weapon and peers in the direction where the bolt has hit the helicopter.

  Tarasov hears a muted command. “Move!”

  With quick steps, Tarasov passes the brightly lit section. Reaching the other side of the barracks, he ducks at the bottom of the wall made from pre-manufactured concrete slabs. Nothing is between him and the fog that would safely hide him, even if his escape would be detected. He has to wait for the Stalker, though.

  Having found nothing out of the ordinary, the soldier shrugs and swears in a low voice. He steps back under the wings and pats down his armored vest, probably looking for his pack of cigarettes.

  The noise of a TV comes from behind the boarded windows of the barracks. Judging by the explosions and gunshots the soldiers inside must be watching an action film. He hopes it is exciting enough to keep them in front of the screen.

  “Vitka! You still got any smokes left?”

  It is the helicopter guard shouting at his comrade in the watchtower.

  “Yes! Come over here!”

  Yes, Tarasov thinks. Go to Vitka. Get your cigarettes. That’s an order, goddammit!

  “No! You come over here!”

  “No way, buddy! I’m still dry here, it’s you who’s already soaked!”

  Cussing under his breath, the helicopter guard leaves his position and walks to the watchtower. Using the moment when he fully concentrates on catching the box of cigarettes tossed from above, the Stalker swiftly crosses over to the bush where Tarasov is hiding.

  “Thank goodness for bad habits,” Tarasov sighs.

  The Stalker is not in the mood for chatting. He signals him to move on.

  “There’s barbed wire,” Tarasov whispers when he sees the direction the Stalker is taking, “and a minefield behind!”r />
  Undeterred, the Stalker moves northwards with quick but cautious steps. Tarasov realizes his savior walks with a slight limp. Soon, they reach the barbed wire fence separating the outer perimeter of the base from a sparse forest.

  “Up that tree,” the Stalker whispers.

  After leaving the brightly lit helipad, Tarasov’s eyes have not yet fully accustomed to the darkness. First he doesn’t see much, but straining his eyes, he soon makes out a tree fallen over the fence. If moving carefully enough and without his feet slipping on the wet wood, a man could vault the fence.

  Cautiously, always looking for a branch to hold on should his feet slip, Tarasov balances his way over the fence and jumps. The Stalker follows suit, although his descent from the tree is more cautious.

  “Keep right, as close to the old barbed wire as you can!”

  Just a few steps away, a minefield lies. It is the outermost protection of the army base. During his times at the base, Tarasov had seen more than one dumb mutant being blasted by the anti-infantry mines hidden under the fallen leaves. Hoping that the Stalker knows what he is doing, he follows him along the barbed wire. His Spetsnaz training kicks in and he holds onto the Stalker’s rucksack, tightly enough to prevent them from getting too far from each other in the dark but not too strong either to hinder the Stalker from quickly changing his stance should he detect danger ahead.

  The fog sits thick among the trees, but Tarasov sees two bright spots not far to their left. Bushes rattle. They near a noise, halfway between a grunt and a growl.

  “Boar to our nine,” Tarasov whispers.

  They both halt. With his heart beating fast, Tarasov hopes that the mutant will not attack them. He would have to fire the rifle, which would immediately expose them to the guards. The base is still less than fifty meters away.

  The boar doesn’t approach them. Tarasov is about to sigh with relief when more rattling comes from the bushes. It must be one of the fleshes usually lurking together with a boar. He hears the noise of several mutants galloping away.

  Then an ear-piercing detonation comes. Immediately, the base comes to life.

  “ALERT! STALKER DETECTED!”

  The guard’s warning through the megaphone is followed by the wail of a siren. The searchlight from the watchtower swings over to the northern perimeter.

  “Run!” the Stalker shouts.

  The leafless trees wouldn’t conceal them from the searchlight that is now scanning the woods, getting closer to the fugitives with each second. With the minefield to their left and the barbed wire fence to the right, they have only one way left—forward, to the north.

  The soldiers in the base become more agitated. Amidst indiscernible shouts, the guards begin to blindly fire their weapons into the woods. Someone is frantically shouting commands.

  “MEN DOWN! THE PRISONER HAS BROKEN OUT!”

  He hears the growl of the boar and the agitated squeaks of his harem of fleshes. Rifles fire bursts and one more explosion shatters the ground. By the time the mutants’ noise ceases and the soldiers’ firing becomes sparse, Tarasov and the Stalker have reached a safe distance from the base.

  They soon reach the eastern slopes of a hill overlooking the base that is now to the far south. Beyond the road leading to the northern areas, an abandoned village lies to the west.

  Stopping, the Stalker gives Tarasov the sign to halt and kneels down. When hearing the low, pulsating hum, Tarasov immediately knows that even bigger peril lies ahead.

  The Stalker throws a bolt. A tiny light flashes and the bolt disappears into nowhere. For a split second, the pulsating drone changes to a sharp crackle. Then the anomaly ahead continues to hum.

  One more bolt flies. They can take two steps ahead. The third bolt is again consumed by an anomaly. The fourth shows them a safe path through. Following the Stalker, Tarasov finds himself in a small circle of boulders. It might have been a sacred site in historical times but now it’s a safe refuge, hiding them from the sight of anyone following them. There is a makeshift rain shelter too, made up from a canvas pitched between a boulder and two sticks.

  Another Stalker, apparently guarding the place, lowers his Dragunov when he sees them approaching.

  “Phew!” The Stalker with the pistol loudly sighs. He powers his night vision down and switches on his headlamp. “If any grunt follows us here – he deserves a damn medal!”

  “Strelok?” Tarasov asks wiping rain water from his face.

  “I hope you didn’t expect Sidorovich,” Strelok replies with a grin. They shake hands and embrace each other. “That’s Guide over here. Without him we’d never made it here in time.”

  “Thank you, Strelok. I thought they really screwed me this time,” Tarasov thankfully says and bows his head towards Guide. “Guide? The legendary man himself? Most Stalkers think you don’t even exist!”

  “That’s correct,” Guide says, smirking. “Because I do not exist for most Stalkers.”

  “You guys know anything about Nooria? The girl they captured together with me?”

  “Let me think,” Strelok says. “I heard some rumors that she was to be interrogated, raped, abused and her baby aborted—”

  Tarasov grasps Strelok’s shoulders and shakes him hard.

  “What?!”

  “—but then she killed the female agent trying to do all these things to her, left your buddy Maksimenko shackled naked to a radiator, killed two SBU guards and then a pimp on Volodymyrska, made her way to a gangsters’ club where she hooked up with Sultan and tried to set one of his prostitutes free but found her ear next day in a package that Sultan’s henchman gave her when she dumped her on the edge of Zaton—”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “—where I literally stumbled into her. So, we made our way to Noah’s Ark when an emission hit. Bottom line—she cured me out of my chronic headache!”

  “Are you high? Spending too much time with Freedomers or what?”

  “Indeed, it was high time for me to get free. Because thanks to your witch, I am no longer anyone’s errand boy!”

  “Will you at least tell me where she is?”

  “I am here!”

  Tarasov spins on his heels and almost falls over when a joyful Nooria appears from the rain shelter and throws herself into his arms.

  “I had to tell you her story to see if I believe it myself, you know,” Strelok and Guide exchange a grin. Seeing that the couple’s emotional reunion is not going to end soon by itself, Strelok impatiently continues. “Hey, love birds! That’s already more romance than the Zone has ever seen. Come, we have important things to discuss!”

  “Let’s move to the Rookie Village,” Guide suggests.

  Tarasov is still embracing Nooria who cuddles against his chest. The rain on her face blends with tears. He pats her back, gives her another kiss and turns to the Stalkers.

  “No. The Rookie Village is the first place where the grunts would start looking for me. It’s the Swamps where we go. My companions are still waiting for me there, or so I hope.”

  “You know about the tunnel in the hill, south of the village?”

  “Sure. Hopefully it’s not blocked.”

  “It isn’t,” remarks Guide.

  “There’s something we need to talk about at last.” Strelok looks up to the dark sky. “Damn rain… let’s get under that canvas.”

  The canvas keeps the rain outside of the tiny shelter but doesn’t protect from the chilly wind. Strelok looks towards the base and risks lighting a campfire from a small pile of firewood. Initially, the damp wood doesn’t burn but after the Stalker has wasted half a box of matches, the flames slowly begin to emanate soothing warmth. All three of them move closely around the weak fire.

  “Have some havchik,” Strelok says opening a can of ‘tourist’s breakfast’. Tarasov gladly accepts it. “Nu, delo bylo tak…”

  “Better in English,” Tarasov says, ”so that Nooria can understand you.”

  “I’ll try
to keep it short. You know, I used to do jobs for the SBU from time to time—Nooria will tell you why I was depending on them. Kruchelnikov ordered Maksimenko to bag you.”

  “Colonel Kruchelnikov? Now I realize what deep shit we’ve been in. That man is a monster.”

  “And Maksimenko his shrewd minion. He made me send you a message to lure you back to the Zone. Then they wanted to bag you when you contacted me.”

  “It worked out after all, just the other way round.”

  “What the bastards didn’t know was that I wanted to talk to you anyway. Did you get my first message as well? Good.” Strelok reaches into his rucksack and fishes out a bottle of vodka. Tarasov gladly takes a swig. He is about to give the bottle back to Strelok when Nooria grabs at it.

  “Do you mind if I drink a little?” she asks.

  “Of course not.”

  Nooria quaffs, coughs and grimaces, but then gives a satisfied sigh and cuddles back against Tarasov.

  “Since when do you drink?” he asks with surprise.

  “Pertsovka reminds me of a friend.”

  Before Strelok puts the bottle away, he too takes a swig. “Cheers! Now let me finish my story before we all get drunk. Two years ago, when I opened up the X-18 vault, I found documents describing how and when the secret labs were established here. To cut a long story short: when the USSR realized that the Afghan war could not be won by conventional warfare, Soviet scientists began to develop psychotropic weapons.”

  “I should have guessed,” Tarasov wearily says.

  “The first laboratory was located in the Panjir Valley. According to the documents I found, the scientists made some progress but the USSR gave it up before they could had have completed their research. Their lab had to be evacuated. Guess who was in charge of the evacuation—a lieutenant from the GRU, Soviet military intelligence, called Kruchelnikov.”

  “I’m not surprised. When I first heard Stalkers gossiping about the New Zone in Afghanistan, I thought they had too much vodka at the 100 Rads. Once I knew it better, I realized that the two Zones are not only similar but also connected by a thousand things. Among them the shadows of the USSR.”

  “Until it lasted, that is. In the chaos around 1990 nobody cared about the scientists’ research, but they decided to keep on experimenting—” Strelok stops for a moment to sneeze. “Damn! My suit protects me from radiation, biohazard and even small-caliber bullets but can’t hold off a little flu! God, right when my nose is in shambles!”

  “What happened to your nose, anyway?”

  “Uhm… I head-butted a Monolith fighter while he still had his gas mask on… Right, Nooria?”

  Nooria smiles and gives him an allowing nod.

  “Anyway, the secret experiments were financed after the USSR had collapsed. The biggest part came from government funds, originally paid to support research in the Agroprom. The guy in charge, a certain Petr Strizh, channeled the funds to procure all kinds of high-tech gadgets for the researchers.”

  “I know that part already,” Tarasov says. “It was Captain Maksimenko who investigated it.”

  “Misha, Misha… it’s a shame that two of the best men the military ever had in the Zone are now enemies.”

  “Now we’re beyond simply being enemies,” Tarasov grimly says.

  “I can imagine. So, when I had a glance at the documents I found in that hellhole, I removed the parts dealing with Lab X-1 and hid them. The pages I kept tell everything—where the first lab was built, who was running it, what they were researching and how.”

  “Not a new method to produce more toys for the USSR’s five year plan, I guess.”

  “You bet—it was about some weird gas or electromagnetic radiation or whatever. I’m no scientist to understand. The mastermind was a certain Professor Chubko. He describes in the X-18 documents how he got the idea. When the Americans began to equip the dushmans with Stinger missiles, the head designer of the Mi-24 gunships visited Bagram to get fresh ideas from the pilots. They did a little demonstration for him, performing amazing stunts with their helicopters like spinning them around their vertical axles—something that the gunships were not supposed to be capable of. It didn’t help the helicopters in the end, but Chubko got inspired: if machines can be brought over the edge, so could human beings…”

  “Bastards,” grumbles Tarasov. “They didn’t give up on the idea. That’s what our so-called scientists were after, too!”

  “He and his minions started to experiment on volunteers. First, it was die-hard Spetsnaz who wanted to go beyond their limits, but then things went wrong and the scientists switched to strafbat grunts who preferred becoming guinea pigs over going to the labor camps.”

  “Have you ever heard of this, Nooria?”

  “No,” she replies staring into the flames. “But Panjir Valley was always a bad, very bad place. Since very long ago.”

  Strelok frowns. “If you don’t mind me asking, Nooria – how old are you?”

  “I don’t know exactly,” she says with a shrug and gives one of her innocent giggles. “But eight years ago when Colonel came, I was big enough to go to nurse school.”

  “You know, whenever I look into your eyes I think that… On second thought, never mind. After all, it’s not mine but that lucky guy’s business to know who sits next to you.” Strelok takes a water-proof medikit box from his map holder and opens it. Inside is a pile of yellowed pages. “Bottom line: here’s what I took from the X-18 documents. I saved you the trouble of getting them yourself. Please appreciate it.”

  “I do appreciate it but what am I supposed to do with this?”

  “As a starter, take these papers and keep them safe. It would be a shame if they’d get spoilt now after surviving two decades in the vaults. Read them… and then decide what to do.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this.” Reluctantly, Tarasov takes the box from Strelok. “If this turns out the way I believe it will – do you feel like joining me on a trip to the south?”

  Strelok shakes his head.

  “No. The Exclusion Zone is all I have and I’ll never leave it. Not even for a Zone where the only mutants are roasted pigs and it rains vodka. I suppose the New Zone is not even remotely like that.” He grins and gives Tarasov a challenging look. “And you? Feel like staying here?”

  Tarasov gently caresses Nooria’s face.

  “Well… I think I get your point. However, this brings me to the worst piece of bad news,” Strelok says.

  “What could be worse than what you’ve told already?”

  “Looks like your New Zone is spreading, or at least attempting to.”

  “Come again?”

  “I saw it on the news—a massive emission has hit southern Uzbekistan, but only there. It appeared to me as if the New Zone wanted to extend northwards.”

  “Oh no!”

  Nooria’s sudden cry makes the men scowl.

  “I know why—it is—it wants…”

  “Nooria! You’re trembling. What’s the matter with you?”

  “It is—no, I’m just freezing… it is very cold here.”

  Strelok offers her his bottle. Nooria takes another swig.

  “Mikhailo,” she says, “I have to tell you something.”

  “I’m listening, dear.”

  “Not yet… Later. When we are back. I am not sure yet.”

  Tarasov sighs and exchanges a puzzled look with Strelok.

  “See? That’s why I didn’t get married. Women… always talking when they are not supposed to, and keeping quiet when one would expect them to talk,” Strelok says and begins preparing to leave.

  “You must have pissed off the SBU big time,” Tarasov says. “What will you do now?”

  Strelok shrugs but gives the couple a dashing smile.

  “It’s about time for new adventures. I told you, I am a free man now, and I must thank your woman for that… She has set me free, perhaps from a worse prison than I got you out from.”

  “As an old friend of mine wou
ld say – we’re quits then. I’m glad you don’t want any secret stash coordinates in turn.”

  “No coordinates, but now that you mentioned a reward…” Strelok gives him a smirk. “Yes, there is something. Nooria, do you mind if I keep this pistol?”

  Strelok unholsters the silenced Sig Sauer P229 that was Sultan’s farewell gift to Nooria.

  “Yes. Definitely,” she replies. “It is yours as a reward from me for helping Mikhailo.”

  “Great! Nooria, when we meet next time, please do have a bigger one on you… an artifact-enhanced Gauss rifle maybe? For that, I’ll rescue this clumsy guy even from Kruchelnikov’s closet!”

  “There will be no more need for Mikhailo to escape from anywhere,” she confidently says.

  Meanwhile, Strelok takes an armored suit from his rucksack.

  “Before I forget – this is a mercenary suit from my secret stash in the Rookie Village. I keep it in an attic because Stalkers are too lazy to climb up there. Don’t give it that look, it’s better than what you’re wearing. And here’s some more goodies.” Rummaging in his rucksack, he fishes out a few food rations, bandages, a plastic bag holding a dozen bolts and a Veles type artifact detector. “It’s not exactly the best stuff on earth but should keep you alive until you get back to the Doc. Give him my regards.”

  “I can only thank you, Strelok.”

  “I wouldn’t give a damn about you, you know, if it weren’t for Nooria. How I wish we had some female Stalkers!”

  “I’ve met one in the New Zone, actually. Goes by the name of Mac, but the real one is Beth and she doesn’t have very fond memories of you.”

  Strelok stares at him with eyes fully wide open. “What? You have met her? How is she doing?”

  “Perfectly, probably because she’s far away from you.”

  “Oh dear. You almost make me want reconsider my decision to stay here—you know what? Make sure Nooria tells her what happened in Noah’s Ark, and—eh, just tell Beth that my message is: never say never.”

  “Will do. But didn’t you just say that you’ll never leave the Exclusion Zone?”

  “I need to go now,” Strelok says without answering Tarasov’s question. He hauls his rucksack to his back. “Hey, Guide! We’re leaving!”

  “It’s about time,” grumbles the other Stalker. “Where to?”

  “Don’t know. Got any idea where we could stir up mischief?”

  “Heard about weird things going on at the Duga-3 radar.”

  “Guess it was just a woodpecker scaring the shit out of some rookies.”

  “Stalkers suffering from a strange sickness at Polenskoye.”

  “Too far. Takes an eternity to get there. Besides, what’s the point of heading there knowing we gonna catch some damn disease and spread it around the globe?”

  “Rumor has it the Black Digger is back.”

  “Now that sounds interesting. To the Garbage then! Haven’t seen Seriy for a while anyway. Good bye and good hunting, you lovebirds!”

  “Yes… good hunting to you too, Marked One.”

  Tarasov gives a long sigh as he watches Strelok and Guide wave farewell before they disappear in the gloom. He knows that the last bond between him and the Exclusion Zone has just been cut.

  “We should move on too,” he says and glances at his watch. “It’s almost dawn and the military will send out patrols at first light.”

  Nooria nods and stamps out the smoldering campfire.

  “When I got free from SBU and was all alone in your big city—that was hardest. I was thinking, maybe I will never see you again.”

  Tarasov sighs once more, unsure about how to express his feelings. Nooria takes his hand. Her warm gaze assures him that he doesn’t have to waste any words. Yet there is a shadow of sadness in Nooria’s eyes that he has never seen before. He tries to focus on their next step and appear cheerful.

  “If only half of what Strelok said about your misadventures is true and the Top learns of it, he won’t be pleased.” Getting on his feet, he slings the assault rifle over his shoulder. “Truth be told, I’d prefer Captain Maksimenko’s torture chamber than—”

  “Never say such a thing!” Nooria replies with sudden anger. Tarasov bites his lips.

  Then he takes Nooria’s hand and leads her towards the south-west, where low hills separate Cordon from the fringes of the Swamps.

  57

  The Doctor’s house, Swamps, Exclusion Zone

  “I still can’t believe he sold you out for two weeks leave and two thousand hrivnyi, Misha!”

  Surprise and contempt mix in the Doctor’s look, while he puts a kettle with fresh water onto the samovar.

  They were relieved to arrive at the Swamp cottage, of course, but not as relieved as the Top who would have faced the Colonel’s fury if anything would had happened to Nooria. Tarasov himself got away with the old Marine calling him names for being dumb enough to let himself be captured. He saw it better not to argue.

  It also turned out that they didn’t arrive a moment too soon. After the Doctor was thoughtless enough to tell them about the Mercenaries being a faction in the Zone, Hartman and Pete decided to set out and hire them for a raid on Cordon Base. However, this was only the first step in Top’s desperate plan. After taking the Base, he wanted to use the military’s radio to contact the Tribe, let a ‘squad’ of warriors be secretly sent to Kiev and then overrun the SBU headquarters itself. No matter how crazy the plan was, Hartman appeared a little disappointed over not having a chance to execute it.

  Shaking his head, the Doctor puts more wood into the fireplace.

  “Two thousand local money? How much is that?”

  “About two hundred and fifty dollars, Top.”

  “Pathetic pocket money. There’s no honor left in this world, I’m tellin’ you.”

  Tarasov shrugs.

  “I can’t blame him. It’s more than one month’s of Shumenko’s normal pay. Besides, in the eyes of my former comrades I’m a traitor and deserter.”

  “I say, let’s get out of this cursed place as soon as we can!”

  “I’d rather stay,” Finn Sawyer says, filling his cup with tea from the samovar. “I like it here. Boars are plenty and this cottage is cozy… I count myself lucky for running into you at Heathrow.”

  “You told me yesterday you miss women,” Pete says with a smirk.

  “Err, yeah, I mean that’s true,” the Australian says scratching his nape. “And a good cab-sav too. Be that as it is, the Doc told me in a few days he’ll go to… what was it, Roswell?”

  “Rostok, my friend.”

  “Yeah, to Rostok for supplies and there’s supposed to be a bar which might have a bottle or two. I mean no offense, but living on neat vodka makes my guts rot. This place is great, so lonely and all, and it has so many things I can’t find anywhere else. Yeah, I think I could take a break from tits and pussies. A little break, I mean.”

  “You don’t want to come with us to the New Zone?”

  “Why would I? I’ve seen enough desert down under.”

  “It’s more than just deserts.”

  “Nah, I’ve made up my mind. As far as I know, no one has written a survivalist’s guide book about this place anyway. The idea came to me yesterday when I was cutting firewood, you know, and please don’t jinx it by telling me that there’s anything written already. Okay?”

  The Doctor nods.

  “It’s a good idea. I’ll add my chapters too, and if our advice will save just one rookie’s life we didn’t live for nothing.”

  “Oh yeah! Exclusion Zone – a travel survival kit, written by Finn H. Sawyer,” says the Australian enthusiastically. “Or even better— Mud, Swags and Fears. Like the book by Bear Grylls!”

  “Why don’t you start with the New Zone where you could grill Bears?” Hartman laughs loud over his reference to fearsome mutant living in the other Zone.

  “Oh God, make my ears unhear his Dr Evil laugh,” Pete breathes mimicking a prayer.

  “I�
��m not sure if Stalkers are much into reading, Finn,” Tarasov amusedly says.

  “Smart ones do.”

  “I got a book idea, Doc,” Pete bursts out. “Listen, what about a perfectly normal guy waking up one day to find himself transformed into a giant insect-like creature?”

  Sawyer waves the idea off. “Gotta come up with something better, kiddo.”

  “Why would Stalkers care about stories written about life in the Big Land?” the Doctor asks. “The Zone is their world now. So, let’s write about the Zone—or even both Zones. Yes.”

  Tarasov nods. “Good point.”

  “Yes, let’s get to the point at last,” Hartman says still chuckling. “So, how do we get back to our Zone?”

  Tarasov takes sips his tea. The Doctor has added a pine cone to the charcoal that keeps the samovar warm and the delicious aroma of autumnal forests lingers in the steam rising from his cup. He inhales it deeply. “Nooria has an idea.”

  “Sultan gave me this,” Nooria says and puts her PDA on the table. “We have to go to a place marked on map. Bandits know how to get to our Zone.”

  “This is the Container Warehouse in Jupiter area,” Tarasov says looking at the display. “Three days’ hike from here. If we set out at dawn, we should reach Rostok by nightfall. Then we follow this road east of the Military Warehouses, continue northward on the edge of the Red Forest and assuming that we don’t run into anything nasty, we should reach Jupiter the next day.”

  “How on earth is anyone supposed to travel from that place to the sandbox?” the Top asks. “Is there an airfield or something?”

  “There’s not as much as a landing strip in the Zone. All I know of is a derelict helipad close to the Jupiter factory, but that’s not for airplanes.”

  “Nooria, why was that guy so eager to help you gett back to the New Zone?” Pete asks.

  “He, uhm—he asked me to do something there for him.”

  Nooria pretends to study the PDA display closely, shunning the eyes of her companions.

  “The end justifies the means,” Tarasov shrugs. “The only thing that counts now is to get back to the New Zone. If it’s a gangster giving us a helping hand, we’ll have to accept it.”

  “Yup,” Pete nods. “Can’t think of any other way. We can forget about our fake passports.”

  Hartman frowns.

  “Wait a minute. You want us to become… criminals?”

  “Just to join them for a ride,” Tarasov says.

  “And then what?”

  “Once we’re back to the New Zone, we’ll find a way to slip away.”

  “I don’t like this idea.” The Top drums his fingers on the table and shakes his head. “No way. Hiding and sneaking was bad enough. All right, I see a few things about the scavengers differently now but to join a bunch of lowlifes… no, I don’t like this at all!”

  “Any better idea?”

  “There must be a high-capacity radio somewhere in the Zone. We get to it and contact my Tribe to get us out!”

  “You sound desperate,” Sawyer calmly says. “Even if your mates were able to help us, it would take ages for ’em to get here.”

  “Maybe that is so, but I will not spoil my honor by joining a bunch of lowlifes!”

  “But you already are, Top,” Pete boldly says, avoiding the former Marine’s angry eyes. ”Look at us. Technically we’re all criminals. First, all of us are wanted for trespassing the Exclusion Zone. Then, you’re probably wanted in the States for mutiny and war crimes. Don’t look at me like that! You know it’s true! As for me, apart from going AWOL I’m also wanted for petty crime. You know the charges. Then, Mikhailo is a deserter and traitor, not to mention grand theft auto…”

  “We left that peasant seven hundred dollars for that piece of junk!” Tarasov protests. “That was no car theft but charity!”

  “Still leaves you with the charges of desertion and treason. Then, Nooria is wanted for murder. Geez, imagine how much the FBI would want to bag one who killed three spooks! The KGB or whatever it’s called here must be even worse.”

  Tarasov gives him an allowing nod.

  “So, with all due respect, Top,” Pete continues, ”empty talk about honor won’t make us any better than the baddies we’re about to join. At least not in the eyes of the guys on our tail. Let’s face it, folks – for the world outside, we’re all just criminals and outcasts!”

  “You are way wrong about our honor,” the Top angrily says. “If the extent of how wrong you are could be measured in caliber, I’d blast the moon from the sky with it!”

  “I guess you’d enjoy that but as I see it, we’re almost overqualified for becoming bandits. At least for playing along with them until we get out of here.”

  “Smart kid,” says the Doc.

  Tarasov too finds himself giving a nod of agreement.

  “Sounds bizarre, but Pete has a point.”

  “But those fucks have no honor!”

  “Come on, Top! You like Godfather, don’t you? The mafia is all about honor this and honor that but it still makes them criminals!”

  Still, Hartman doesn’t budge.

  “Screw Hollywood, Mikhailo! For chrissakes, this is a real life situation and you’re testing my very understanding of honor!”

  “Then what the hell can we do? Even if we manage to sneak out from the Zone, what should we do? Trek all the way home?”

  “We still have our passports and our credit card…”

  “This is the SBU we are dealing with, and that also means all the former KGB network from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok! Don’t you ever underestimate them. Right as we speak, they must be assembling a killer squad to hunt us down.” Tarasov gives Hartman a grim smile. “Your candor is appreciated, Top, but we’re outlawed, outgunned, outnumbered and on the run. Clusterfuck Central as you would say.”

  “To sum it up: we’re goddamn stuck here, but we cannot stay here,” Pete adds, emboldened by Tarasov taking his side. “I don’t see any other way out than Bandit Tours. So, what’s your final say?”

  Hartman spins his tea cup on the table.

  “Let’s Nooria have the final say,” he presses out between his lips. “She’s the most important of us.”

  All eyes switch to Nooria who is effing with her blade.

  “We go with Bandits,” she softly says. “They do have honor, Top. Sultan gave me his word to bring me to Zone and he kept it.”

  The Top rolls his eyes but doesn’t dare arguing. However, Nooria has not finished yet and as she speaks her voice becomes harder and harder.

  “I want us to go with Sultan’s men because I hate them. You can not imagine how much. I must stay with them because I want Sultan feel my rage. Let’s see if he will be entertained when I cut his chest open, tear out his black heart, burn it and curse its ashes while he is still alive to watch it!”

  She screams the last words with such a rage that makes even the Top recoil in his seat.

  Tarasov stares at her aghast. He has never experienced such an outbreak of elemental fury of his tiny woman who now appears like a true witch—eyes burning with rage, veins pulsating on her neck and her voice carrying evil power that, so it seems, would by itself kill the kingpin if he were here to hear it.

  “Witch has spoken,” Nooria says in a lower but still trembling voice. She pulls her hood on and storms out of the house into the night, leaving the door ajar.

  Tarasov jumps up but the Doctor shows him to stay and whistles. The pseudodog gets up from his place at the fire and rushes after Nooria.

  “Druzhok!” the Doctor shouts. “Zakry dver!”

  The door slams shut.

  “My dog is the only company she needs now,” the Doctor says, calmly sipping his tea. “He will protect her until the stars calm her down.”

  For several heartbeats there is deep silence in the room, only the fire crackles.

  Finally, Pete looks around and clears his throat.

  “Looks like we have a plan.”

  �
�Do you think they’ve hurt her?” the Top asks.

  “No,” Tarasov says, shaking his head. ”I have a feeling that something happened in Kiev that made her not only angry but very sad as well. Something she experienced and wants to revenge. She wouldn’t tell me what it was.”

  “Outstanding. She can bloody well count me in.”

  “Oh, women,” Sawyer says. “We lesser mortals just can’t understand what’s goin’ on in their heads.”

  “I need vodka, Doc,” Tarasov says.

  “Me too. Geez, I’ve never seen anyone in such a rage!”

  “If you want to keep it that way, Pete, never piss off your father. Nooria’s just been a purring kitten if compared to the big man in rage.”

  “Is that so? Now that I’ve seen my stepsister in a fury I wouldn’t want to be part of a family argument. That’s for sure.”

  “Well, friends, I think it’s time to relax now.” The Doctor places a bottle of vodka on the table and fills five shot glasses. “Za udachy,” he says rising his glass. “To success!”

  They all finish the vodka in one gulp.

  “Becoming Ukrainian?” the Doctor asks and smiles at the three foreigners. “Good!”

  “It’s your vodka that’s good.” Tarasov smacks his lips. “Cossacks?”

  “Finlandia.”

  “You’re a traitor to the Motherland, Doc.”

  “Then I should also go and join the Bandits, I take?”

  Tarasov wishes the Doctor weren’t joking.

  “We better call it a day if we want to set out early tomorrow,” he says switching off the PDA. “Sawyer, are you absolutely sure about staying here?”

  “Avoiding having to get up at an ungodly hour is just another reason to stay,” the Australian says getting to his feet. “G’nite, peeps. I’ll say my farewells in the morning… if I manage to get up!”

  “Shouldn’t we check out on Nooria?” the Top asks.

  “If the Doc says she’ll be fine, there’s no need to worry.”

  “There better ain’t.”

  “When do we set out?” Pete asks.

  Tarasov glances at his watch. “Five sharp.”

  Hearing this, Pete loudly yawns. He takes his towel from the fireplace where their clothes are drying on a rack and waves good night.

  Tarasov and the Doctor move two chairs to the fireplace where they make themselves as comfortable as they can. They both know that even if they ever meet again, it will be in a far and uncertain future. For a long time they just sit and listen to the fire crackling. Then the Doctor breaks the silence.

  “How is Strelok?”

  “Nooria somehow rejuvenated him. He told me he’s out to do mischief, so maybe one of these days he’ll show up here to hide for a while.”

  “Yes… this house will always be a safe haven for him.” The Doctor fills two shot glasses. “Let’s drink once more. To him and those lucky enough to make it here.”

  “How do you manage to keep this place secret?” asks Tarasov taking one the glasses. “Word of your healing skills must drive many Stalkers here.”

  “Only those come who the Zone allows,” the Doctor says. “Only those make it back from here, too. They all know that the only thing that can guide one to me is the Zone itself.”

  “You think Sawyer has been called by it, too?”

  The Doctor firmly nods.

  “Definitely. Entering a Space anomaly was as foolish as it was brave. His survival was a sign that the Zone wanted him to enter. It remains to be seen what plans the Zone has with him. For now, he’s a man with a good but weary heart, looking for something that can give a new meaning to his life.” A mysterious smile plays around the Doctor’s mouth. “Nothing a little woodcutting couldn’t heal.”

  Just a few minutes ago, Tarasov had been eager to clean himself up and get into bed for a good night’s sleep. He knows that this moment of peace and safety will be the last before another long, perilous stretch, and the temptation to enjoy the cozy warmth of the fireplace proves too strong to resist. Moreover, it could be the last time for him to chat with the Doctor. After all, chances are that once he is out of the Exclusion Zone he will never return. Thinking of his future, all is a riddle.

  He takes a deep breath before asking on, because he knows he’s about to inquire a secret.

  “Can I ask you something? Talking about the Zone—is it true that you made it to the Wish Granter before Strelok?”

  Sadness comes over the Doctor’s wrinkled face like a shadow.

  “You mentioned my healing skills,” he says. “Also, you know that every fulfilled wish comes at a price. The price I have to pay is seclusion. Think about it.”

  “So, after all the legend of the Wish Granter is true?”

  “For some. I wouldn’t dare saying, the Chosen.”

  “I could never make up my mind whether to believe it or not. Probably I better wanted it to be just a legend, so I believed it a legend. When I was there I didn’t dare wish for anything. Probably I’ve been a coward, missing on my only chance to find out the truth.”

  “No. It was very wise of you. A choice one needs the most courage to take, even.”

  “I’m glad you said that.” Tarasov heaves the sigh of someone who has just released from a burden weighing on his heart. “I’ve been having a run of bad luck ever since.”

  “Bad luck? I heard of rookies who got eaten by blind dogs on their first day. That’s bad luck. But you? Some way or another, you always get through.”

  “Maybe so.”

  “If you want to know what I think, the fact that you made it to the Wish Granter and didn’t fall for the temptation makes you useful to the Zone. Yes—for the Zone, or better: the power behind it. You are still an empty page. Who knows what story will be written on it and how it will end? Not my business to know, mind you, neither would I want to look into anyone’s future if there were such an ability.”

  “What do you mean by saying, ’the power behind the Zone’?”

  “You know best that the two Zones are connected. Superficially, by the Soviet past and Stalkers. Deeper, maybe by something that’s broken about our planet. Maybe you starting a new life in the New Zone is part of something bigger. Again, who knows? You might be a small link in a long chain of events. In any case, I don’t believe the Zone would let anyone survive if it had no plans for him. Or her, for that matter.”

  The Doctor fills his cup with tea. Tarasov is about to reply when he continues his thoughts.

  “However—I believe Nooria is special. More than you and me, who are just ordinary people sucked in by the Zone. She might be the proverbial place to stand on that’s needed to move the world – or at least what’s behind the Zone. From the very first moment I met her, I sensed power in her—power I’d never sensed before.”

  “She is special, and wise too, but just human like us. Hartman and the others in the Tribe call her a witch, true enough, but that’s just a manner of speaking. If artifact lore and healing skills made her a real witch, Doc, you would be a veritable witchmaster!”

  “That’s your wishful thinking, my friend. Don’t try to deny what can no longer be denied.”

  “What are you hinting at? That she is not human?” Tarasov sneers. “Come on, Doc. I assure you she feels, smells and tastes like a flesh and blood woman.”

  The Doctor grins. “Don’t tease an old and lonely man with things like that!”

  For several minutes he appears to be fully consumed by the pleasure of inhaling the vapors rising from his tea cup. Finally, when Tarasov already thinks he wants to keep his wisdom to himself, the Doctor replies.

  “I think she is a vessel holding power beyond our understanding.”

  “Gospodi, Doc! I’d never go into a gunfight with you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I asked you for a spare mag, you’d tell me the history of gunpowder. So, in less flowery words?”

  “Maybe your child will be that power. Perhaps it will rule both Zones,
make them disappear – or spread over the whole world. Who knows?” Seeing the utter bewilderment on Tarasov’s face, the Doc adds almost comfortingly: “Time, my friend. Only time will tell.”

  Stuck for words, Tarasov stares into the crackling fire. For long minutes he lets the time just pass by, enjoying calmness he hasn’t felt in a long time; now however the Doctor’s prophetic words have struck a chord of discomfort in his soul. Then a simple thing comes to his mind.

  “It’s about time to thank you for letting us stay.”

  The Doctor waves his hand in a gesture that could mean don’t mention it but it was the will of the Zone as well. Probably both.

  “I haven’t seen Strelok in ages,” he pensively says. “Sometimes I asked myself, could it be that he has died? And I kept telling myself, no—he will overcome any obstacle, he’s just fine. He will always be a good friend. Druzhok is good enough company on most days, but he only cares about his lunch. It’s more important to him than the fate of an old friend.”

  Tarasov gives him a world-weary look. “I always knew your mutant is almost human.”

  “No,” the Doc says returning the bitter smile. “Some humans are like mutants.”

  “You know, I’m beginning to feel guilty over Nooria meeting only the worst of our people.”

  “That’s because you keep bad company yourself. Stalkers, renegades, military, all kinds of Zone scoundrel, including an old medicine man hiding in the Zone’s butthole,” the Doc replies with thick irony. “And as if that hadn’t been enough, now you’ll join the Bandits! The worst of them all! Can’t blame her if she hasn’t yet applied for Ukrainian citizenship.” They both chuckle. “Yes… no wonder she didn’t have a chance to meet a few ordinary people who, after all, keep this country alive.”

  “Who always have and always will,” nods Tarasov.

  The Doctor raises his glass. Tarasov follows suit and they clink their glasses in a silent toast.

  58

  SBU headquarters, Kiev

  “Idiots! You deserve two years strafbat! Cleaning up radioactive shit is the only thing you are good for!”

  Captain Maksimov has endured more than enough pain during his missions into the Exclusion Zone. In battle, waves of adrenaline made him scream and swear and compensate for the pain. Now, standing at attention in Colonel Kruchelnikov’s office, he can only grind his teeth, trying to conceal the pain from the wound in his bandaged throat and the shame on his face. Sergeant Vlasov, whose Spetsnaz detachment was responsible for guarding Tarasov, is standing next to him and apparently doesn’t feel any better.

  Colonel Kruchelnikov bashes his desk with both fists. His artery is swelling as he yells at them.

  “First, Strelok makes a fool of you. Then your prisoner kills one of our best agents and stabs two guards while she walks away! Using your key card! And if that wasn’t already be a disgrace of incredible proportions, Tarasov too escapes from Cordon Base!”

  “That was my fault, Colonel,” the sergeant boldly admits.

  “Shut your mouth, Vlasov! Tell me, Captain, what the hell am I supposed to do with you two? You are not worth the price of the bullets I want to put in your heads!”

  “Sir,” Maksimenko says shunning the Colonel’s eyes. “Agent Fedorka’s death is the greatest punishment that could ever fall on me.”

  “What the hell happened with you and Fedorka? Don’t even think of lying to me!”

  “Fedorka—I mean, I applied aggressive interrogation methods including, but not limited to psychological pressure. Things got out of control and—”

  “Maksimenko. Captain Maksimenko,” the Colonel says with sudden calmness. “Did you ever see me wearing cap and bells?”

  “No, sir,” Maksimenko replies, baffled at his superior’s change of mood. “Of course not, sir.”

  “Then why do you take me for a fool?” If the Colonel was yelling at him before, he is screaming now. “Don’t you think I know everything about your liaison with Fedorka, including your perverted practices?!”

  Maksimenko feels his face blush. He swallows and stares straight forward, standing stiff like a statue.

  “Did you think you could keep anything secret from me? Did you forget where you work? Who I am? I looked the other way while you appeared a capable officer. Now you are not just a failure but a laughingstock as well, and I will not tolerate ridiculous idiots in my Service!”

  “Sir, the only thing I ask for is to give me a chance to kill Tarasov and his… partner. I have nothing left but my desire for revenge.”

  The Colonel shakes his head and steps to the window, looking out into the rain. Several minutes pass and Maksimenko already hopes that the Colonel’s rage is spent.

  “Idiots! Useless, incapable idiots!”

  Kruchelnikov turns around to Maksimenko and the Spetsnaz. His face is red from anger.

  “You will bring no more disgrace on my Service. Both of you will go to the New Zone and hunt down Tarasov, his woman, everyone around him! Even his pet mutant if he has one! From this moment, you are off our payroll until you bring me the renegade’s head on a silver plate. You have twelve hours to assemble a squad from the strafbat cleaning up Balaklava submarine base. Those are men who brought as much disgrace on our forces as you did. Nobody will miss them if they die with you, and you dying in that irradiated desert would be very much to my liking!”

  “Sir! Will we be reinstated if we succeed?”

  “Come again, Maksimenko?” Kruchelnikov makes a face as if not hearing well. “Reinstated? The only thing you can hope for is that I will not tear your head off with my own hands! Get your useless ass to Logistics and make your mission arrangements! Useless bastards…”

  Maksimenko and the Spetsnaz perform a perfect salute and turn on their heels.

  “We’re screwed,” Sergeant Vlasov says matter-of-factly when they have left the Colonel’s office.

  Captain Maksimenko doesn’t reply. He sets his teeth but fails to prevent the mix of despair, shame and anger appearing on his face. They march down the corridor, avoiding the glances of other SBU staff. Maksimenko only opens his mouth to speak when they face an office door signposted Transports and Logistics.

  “Tarasov,” he shouts and hits the wall with his fist, ignoring the pain. “Tarasov! I will not only kill you and your bitch, I will fucking exterminate you!”

  Sergeant Vlasov grabs his Captain’s hand where the knuckles are already bleeding.

  “Count me in, komandir, but don’t make this worse for you than it already is!”

  “Damn!” Panting and with his face distorted from rage, Maksimenko bashes against the wall once more. “I will find the bastard. I will find and eliminate him even if I’ll have to hunt him for the rest of my life!”

  “Sir—we will find him, but what’s good in finding him if you can’t pull the trigger with a broken hand? Let’s arrange things and begin the hunt!”

  59

  Ruined village north of Bagram, New Zone

  Both Mac and Ahuizotl had spent a long time in the New Zone, but its vastness still makes them feel lost and fragile with every step they make.

  The weirdly gnarled trees and ruins in the post-apocalyptic landscape were not really new, neither the remainders of life that had once thrived in the forsaken villages – wrecked trucks and abandoned homes. Walking the paths of the Exclusion Zone before had hardened their hearts. The low but constant crackling of their Geiger counters is the best proof of civilization being all but vain when nature’s rage becomes unleashed by accident or malevolence.

  “Look at that peak,” Mac tells her companion. “It has a halo around it.”

  “Must be the altitude,” Ahuizotl replies. “Light is dispersed somehow differently here.”

  “Still weird.”

  “Watch the surroundings, not the peaks.”

  Deadly silence is all over the ruined village they are passing through. Holding her rifle cradled and ready to shoot, Mac watches Billy sniffle at the debris inside what h
ad been a roadside shop, then adjusts her sunglasses that protect her eyes from the harsh sunlight and walks on. The sniper follows her steps at a distance of twenty meters, anxiously looking around every corner.

  Mac stops and checks the map on her PDA. Unlike in the Exclusion Zone, no signal shows her current position and if she didn’t know the New Zone well, she would have a hard time keeping on track. The thought of new arrivals being confronted by the vast wilderness without any help to find their way makes her aware of how important their mission is.

  “The hills aren’t far away now,” she says. “Yar’s closest marker is next to an abandoned airfield to the north.”

  “How far?”

  “Ten kilometers.”

  “What’s your radiation reading?”

  “Forty microroentgen per hour,” Mac says glancing at her Geiger counter. “Half of what’s in Pripyat on a dusty day.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  When they have left the village behind a few minutes later, Mac hears the sniper cuss in a low voice.

  “No hay ninguna maldita diferencia…”

  “What is it?” she asks.

  The sniper halts and looks around before replying. “I was just looking at you, wearing that heavy armor, the intercom on your head, the sunglasses, the cradled weapon and all that – and your anxiety while moving through that godforsaken place. I guess the good guys were passing through the same way before the bad guys nuked the place.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “This land had it coming,” Ahuizotl sighs darting a wary eye around. “All it offers is peril. Always been like that—with or without the nukes, it’s all the same.”

  “At least we know that anything that moves will move to kill us,” Mac says. “Without people around, there’s no false friends to fool us.”

  60

  Rostok (Bar), Exclusion Zone

  It is dark, and white stars are shining, when Tarasov and his companions come at last to the abandoned industrial area that Stalkers call Rostok. The small Duty detachment guarding the southern road didn’t bother to question them; to them, the four travelers were just another band of Stalkers seeking shelter for the night.

  Their passage has been smooth throughout the day. Tarasov nonetheless sighs with relief when they enter the maze of grey warehouses and factory halls.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the Top asks looking up to a Russian inscription written in bright yellow letters on a warehouse façade: Территория Долга. Применение оружия в пределах лагеря Запрещено! Нарушителей ждет РАССТРЕЛ!

  “Duty Territory. Use of weapons is forbidden. Disobey this order and you will be shot.”

  “Now we know who the local tough guys are.”

  As if to echo the Top’s words, a loud announcement crackles from the intercomm.

  “STALKERS! PROTECT THE WORLD FROM THE ZONE! JOIN DUTY!”

  “Tough or not, I don’t mind them keeping mutants away,” Tarasov says entering the warehouse. “Duty knows how to keep this place safe, I give them that.”

  To their left, beneath a large window where the glass has long been replaced by plywood boards, a row of rusted pressure tanks is lined up along the wall. To their right, a lonely guard watches them from a catwalk. He is wearing a full combat suit with his gas mask on, even though Tarasov’s meters show no signs of any dangerous substance nearby. Noticing the four travelers, he shouts down from the catwalk.

  “Idi svoyei doro’goi, Stalker!”

  “What’s his problem?” Hartman asks.

  “He said, ‘get out of here, Stalker’.”

  “But we’ve just arrived!”

  Tarasov just shrugs and moves on. “You’ll hear it a lot here.”

  The nightfall has awaken a myriad of crickets who now fill the Zone with their high-pitched, rhythmic chirp. Through the loudspeaker comes the faint sound of music: a female voice sings a sad and slow song accompanied by a piano.

  “I know that song,” Nooria says. “It was playing in Sultan’s telephone.”

  “It’s certainly more pleasant than Duty’s propaganda.”

  Pete has barely finished his sentence when another announcement comes.

  “CHERNOBYL VETERANS! WE HAVE A HUGE RESPONSIBILITY TO PROTECT THE WORLD FROM THE EXPANDING ZONE!”

  “Give me a break,” Tarasov grumbles.

  Through the warehouse they reach an alley running along yet another industrial building. ARENA – Danger Zone is written on a grey metal gate. To their left, an almost identical building looms in the darkness. A huge sign reads BAR and, probably to make sure that even the dumbest Stalker finds his way to the local inn, another sign over the door of a lower building is painted in flashy green and red Cyrillic letters.

  Tarasov leads his companions through a narrow lane between a concrete fence and more brick walls, until they reach a stair leading to the basement of a building that appears like an air-raid shelter. A bright lamp casts its light over the entrance and the promising sound of chatting patrons and glasses ringing in a toast comes from below.

  “Welcome to the 100 Rads,” Tarasov says with a smile.

  “What’s this?” the Top asks looking at the discolored picture fastened to the concrete wall of the staircase. It shows a soldier closely examining the breech of his rifle with a Russian text below.

  “To have accuracy and agility in battle, maintain your rifle, soldier, as you maintain your life,” Tarasov translates. “Sounds much better in Russian: Chtob metkost i snorovku imet v boyu, hrani boets vintovku kak zhizn svoyu.”

  “Outstanding,” nods the former Marine. “I like this place.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, behind a counter welded from metal grates, a Stalker is standing, wearing a Mercenary’s outfit consisting of a grayish fatigue with a wood camouflage assault vest worn over it. A black balaclava hides his face but his eyes give them a friendly wink. Seeing the travelers stopping and study the picture, he waves to them.

  “Nu chom stoish? Davai, podhodi!” the Dutyer guarding the entrance says.

  “Translation please,” Pete says.

  “He said, ‘come in, don’t stand there’!” Tarasov replies as he walks down the stairs.

  “You can’t go there!”

  Pete looks at the second guard blocking the way to a dimly lit corridor who looks exactly like the other one calling them in a minute before. They resemble each other to the extent that for a moment, it occurs to Pete that he might be the same person. The only difference is that this one has noticed that some of them don’t speak English and has addressed them accordingly. It could have been a courtesy if he didn’t sound rude nonetheless.

  Pete, however, is not much impressed – as if a bouncer in the middle of the Exclusion Zone greeting him in English would be the most natural thing.

  “But you just told me to come in,” he says. “Make up your mind, dude.”

  “I said, you can’t go there.”

  “Why?” Pete asks.

  “Because you can’t go there.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “And you should have gotten it the first time. I said, you can’t go there!”

  “Never mind, Pete,” Tarasov says. “That’s just Barkeep’s quarters.”

  Under the arched ceiling, two dozen Stalkers have gathered around a few roughly hewn tables. Their attire varies from the newcomers’ light jackets over jet pilot style protective suits to the heavy combat armor that the few Dutyers among them are wearing. However, not even the tough-looking fighters seem to be in a better mood than most Stalkers—alcohol has apparently taken a toll on the patrons’ spirits and a cloud of melancholy seems to linger over them. The food is certainly not something that could cheer anyone up: the only ingredient visible in the kitchen separated from the rest of the bar by a counter is the neatly skinned head of a boar in a huge pot, stewing over low fire. A ventilator standing on the top of a rusted refr
igerator blows the vapors rising from the pot directly towards the customers. It smells surprisingly pleasant, but seeing the source of the aroma would probably make even the hungriest customer think twice about ordering food.

  Behind the counter, a balding, stout man walks slowly up and down, keeping his hands in the pockets of the lambskin vest he is wearing. The tucked-up sleeves of his green pullover reveal tattoos on his forearms resembling blue flames. Every movement he makes shows the calmness of someone completely aware of being the boss around here. He occasionally greets a familiar customer with a deep voice, not making an exception with Tarasov either.

  “Hey man, how goes it?”

  “Nichego. Normalno,” Tarasov casually replies.

  Barkeep looks at the travelers with his eyes narrowed. He gives Tarasov a particularly inquisitive look.

  “Making it to Rostok was a major feat,” he smirks and gives Tarasov a wink. “Welcome to the 100 Rads, Stalker.”

  “Glad to be here,” Tarasov replies, relieved over their host’s apparent willingness not to blow their cover. “A bottle of Cossacks for me and my friends, please.”

  “Here you go,” Barkeep says putting a bottle of vodka on the counter. Its blue label has a picture of a bunch of merry-looking Cossack raiders on it.

  “Best vodka in Ukraine,” Tarasov proudly says and offers the bottle to his companions. “Cheers!”

  An action movie plays on the small TV set on the top shelf, showing someone running along a train and brandishing a handgun. The TV is muted though, and an old-fashioned tape recorder plays a song featuring only two instruments – a bass guitar and a flute. It sounds overly melancholic but seems to fit the mood of the patrons. Enjoying the soothing effect of the spirit in his stomach, Tarasov allows himself for a moment of bliss – the chatter of the half-drunk Stalkers and the slow music evokes memories of days when he was still a player in the Zone, often meeting with old friends here. Although he hears a few sentences in French, German and a Slavic language he guesses to be Croatian, most of the chatter is Russian. Staring at the vodka bottle, he keeps on listening to the chatter and to practice his English, mentally translates the fragments of conversations overheard.

  “Pojrat bi chego khoroshego.”

  Wish we had something nice to eat.

  “Ne uchatsja nichemu nekotorie, I uchitsya ne khotyat, kina amerikanskogo nasmotrelis I krishi poekhali, ti emu pro anomalii, a oni pro khabar, tolko babki ikh interesuet.”

  Some don’t learn anything, and they don’t want to study either, they saw enough American movies and went nuts, you talk about anomalies and they tell you only the news, only money is what interests them.

  “Net, ot sudbi tochno ne ubejat i nikuda ne detsja, shto napisano, to i proizojdet. Nichego ne vidno na gorizonte.”

  No, you cannot escape fate, what is written will happen. There is nothing on the horizon.

  “Novichkov ninche—i vse oni lutshe starikov znayut.”

  Those rookies nowadays—they know everything better than the veterans.

  “Vot ved kak grustno vse vikhodit.”

  So, that’s how sad everything is.

  He scans the faces in the Bar, hoping that he might discover Alexander Degtyarev’s mysterious smile or another old friend under one of the hoods or through the eyeholes of a balaclava. He finds no familiar face except for one, and even then he wishes his eyes had never met.

  “My information might well be of use to you, Stalker!”

  The man who has mistaken his gaze for an invitation to chat is wearing a Bandit’s long coat. The small mouth hole of his balaclava can’t hide his grin. Tarasov turns his eyes away but the sinister figure keeps staring at him.

  “Leave me alone, Snitch,” Tarasov says. “Life is bad enough!”

  “Come here. I have always got something for people like you.”

  An idea comes to Tarasov’s mind. “No, Snitch, you come here. See that that tall guy in a Stalker suit? He might be interested in your intel. Doesn’t speak much Russian, though.”

  Curious as to how the Tribe’s most respected warrior would deal with the Exclusion Zone’s most annoying pusher, Tarasov watches the Bandit approach the Top.

  “I have always got something for people like you,” Snitch says in broken English and pokes the Top’s arm.

  “Not interested,” the Top replies looking him down as he would stare at an insect and then turns back to curiously studying the message board.

  Snitch is not brushed off so easily. “But my information might well be of use to you, Stalker!”

  “I said, not interested,” the Top snaps at him with growing impatience.

  “But my information—”

  Snitch pokes the warrior’s arm once more. The Top grabs Snitch at the collar of his long coat and effortlessly lifts him off the ground. “If you ask me one more time, trench coat, I fucking kill you!”

  Pete is about to step to them but Tarasov stops him. Coughing and gasping for air, Snitch staggers to the counter where Tarasov offers him a sip from his vodka bottle.

  “Thanks, man,” Snitch says after taking a gulp. “That guy must have been with the Monolith. Holy God! Did you see how he lifted me?”

  “What information do you want to sell, anyway?”

  “Uh-oh!” Sensing a business opportunity, Snitch’s eyes shine up. “It’s about a renegade Spetsnaz major. The whole army is looking for him!”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. I heard he finished off a whole Spetsnaz squad with a sawn-off shotgun.” Snitch cautiously looks around and lowers his voice. “I also heard that he paid Duty a visit and killed all of Voronin’s bodyguards. The general himself only survived because an emission came and they all had to hide!”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, man! If you put together all the men he has killed, they’d make up an army! You can imagine what the price on his head is! And I know where exactly in Limansk he’s hiding! You can sneak up to him, kill him and collect the reward at Cordon Base!”

  Tarasov bites his tongue to prevent himself from smiling bitterly.

  “Sounds too dangerous to take on a guy like that.”

  “Damn rookie,” Snitch grumbles. “Then keep on collecting snork legs for small change, you coward.”

  He retreats to a corner as far from the Top as possible.

  “Damn,” a half-drunk Stalker says at the counter, “if only someone helped me!”

  “What’s your problem?” Barkeep asks.

  “I want to find out who plays this song with the flute, and no one can tell!”

  “Sounds like Jethro Tull played ten times slower than the original,” says Pete.

  Barkeep makes a bewildered grimace. “Jethro – what? This is Gurza Dreaming by a band called Addaraya, Stalker.”

  “Really? My goodness, I was trying to find this out for ages!”

  “Why didn’t you just ask, stupid?” Shaking his head, Barkeep pokes his temple with his index finger. “Eh, rookies…”

  “But who is Gurza?” the Stalker asks.

  “Who cares? If my customers love it, the song could be even about a gay bloodsucker’s wet dreams.”

  “I like this song too,” Tarasov says. “Kind of resonates a bleak life, with little to hold on to.”

  “Yup,” Barkeep says with a nod. “Although most of my customers are happy if they can hold on to their vodka.”

  Underlining Barkeep’s words, two drunk Stalkers start moaning at a nearby table.

  “Same thing day after day… When is this all going to end?”

  “Ravens, black ravens circling above the grave—”

  “He was a good Stalker. Let’s drink to him once more!”

  “Still alive?” Barkeep greets a shabby Stalker entering the Bar. “That’s great!”

  The Stalker stares at him, as if the song, the chatter and Barkeep’s voice would make him realize only now that he is actually alive.

  “How did I manage that?” he asks himself, probably
wondering how he made it into the safety of Rostok with his Kevlar-padded jacket torn by mutants’ fangs and a bandage over his limb.

  “Did you bring me the eye of a flesh?” Barkeep asks him.

  “Mission accomplished,” the Stalker proudly says and puts a transparent plastic pouch to the counter. It appears to hold a small spherical object and is bloody inside.

  “Keep that radioactive shit away from the counter, stupid,” Barkeep says. He wets his finger with his tongue and counts a bundle of bank notes, and then gives the Stalker three hundred rubles. Seeing the disappointment on the Stalker’s face he sighs, opens a drawer and gives him two cans of processed meat and a handful of shotgun shells.

  “Why did I bother?” the disappointed Stalker grumbles as he puts his meager reward into his rucksack. “That was a bad raid… I guess it’s fate.”

  “If you gathered anything else, show me what you got.”

  The Stalker glances around, as if concerned that someone might steal the artifact he is about to show.

  “Aw man, dog food is more valuable than this!” Barkeep says when peeking into the Stalker’s artifact container.

  “Sidorovich told me just the same! But why? I found it near a Burner anomaly that almost scorched me!”

  “Sidorovich is no idiot, neither am I. That’s a Droplet, cheap and common. If you want to talk business – you know the story about the fairytale about the Goldfish? Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. There are a bunch of jokes about it too. Anyway, I need that artifact. The client is from the outside, respectable. Will you help out?”

  “I’m not interested in that kind of jobs.”

  “It’s up to you, Stalker.”

  “There is something else I want to ask you.”

  “Spill the beans.”

  “Have you seen Nimble around?”

  “He moved his business to the Skadovsk long ago.”

  “Damn! I want to buy a Desert Eagle.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s fucking awesome!”

  “I will show you something fucking awesome,” Barkeep says and fishes a rusty iron bolt from his pocket. “Here’s a bolt. Still want a Desert Eagle? Yes? Throw a bolt. This will save your life, not a handgun with a recoil that kicks like a mule. Take it and don’t let the door hit you!”

  When the frustrated Stalker has left, Barkeep turns to Tarasov. “You have anything to sell? Or maybe you interested in buying stuff?”

  “How much cash do we have?” Tarasov asks the Top.

  “We haven’t spent a dime since entering the Zone. Let me see… we still have about fifteen hundred.”

  “What can we get for 12 000 hrivnyi or 46 000 rubles?”

  “No need to calculate so hard,” Barkeep replies with a smile. “I accept dollars as well. Come, have a look at my stock. Garik, let them in, will you?”

  “At last now I’ll see what this dude’s been guarding,” Pete says as they enter the corridor.

  The door leading to the counter opens to their left, and a short glance reveals nothing particular but the usual, if a little messy, kitchen stuff: sinks packed with dirty plates and drinking glasses, a red propane gas container feeding the small stove, drawers and cupboards. The corridor leads to a spacious room where a few cabinets and a safe stand. Two tables and a sofa with relatively clean upholstering occupy much of the space inside. The room is tidy and well-maintained. Even the two neon rods fixed to the ceiling are operational, unlike in the badly lit drinking area.

  “Have a seat,” Barkeep says as he opens the safe, jerking his thumb towards the sofa. “1500 dollars can get you some pretty good stuff. Matter of fact I do have a Desert Eagle in stock.”

  Hartman waves his hand in disinterest. “The only thing more overrated than the Desert Eagle is Godfather Two.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Bulky, heavy, difficult to maintain in the field – thanks but no thanks.”

  “You got anything particular in mind, then?”

  “I wouldn’t know where to start. A Colt M1911 perhaps?”

  “We call it Kora-919 in the Zone.” Barkeep takes the Top’s favorite pistol from his safe. “You want plain FMJ bullets or something with a bigger punch? Here, these have an improved hollow point for better expansion and a steel penetrator. A good combination of stopping power and penetration.”

  “Barkeep, marry me,” the Top happily says, apparently under the influence of vodka. “I want to have children with you!”

  “Give me a break. I have already three kids in the Big Land and they’re a pain in the ass. Take the Kora if it gives you a hard-on.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”

  The Top lets the empty magazine slide from the grip and cocks the pistol. Satisfied with the weapon’s condition, he opens the green and white paper box with the diagonal black stripe that has Hydroshock written in it and starts loading the magazine with the rounds that have a black dot on the tip of the copper-colored projectile. “Outstanding.”

  Tarasov nods. “Side arms are a good idea. Two more pistols is what we need, same type or at least same caliber.”

  “Two H&K USPs perhaps? Apart from those, I have a few Makarovs, of course, then a Beretta 92—”

  “Pete, check out those USPs. Then, I wouldn’t mind having something for close quarters, like an AKS-74U. You have one? Perfect! Pete, have a look at that carbine too. Finally, we could trade in that TOZ for something longer.”

  “I have no SVD in stock, sorry, and don’t even ask me for a Val or Vintorez.”

  “Too bad,” Tarasov sighs. “I was just about to.”

  “I can sell you a PSO scope that you could mount on your AN104.”

  “Does it come with the receiver?”

  “No problem. Would the kid like to have an AK47?”

  “With all due respect, I’d prefer an AR15, an M4 or something less antiquated,” Pete says.

  “That’s the spirit,” says the Top approvingly.

  “Maybe from Skinflint in the Military Warehouses, if you want to hike so far. Which would be a stupid thing to do, considering that this Kalash is in pretty good condition.”

  “The muzzle break is misaligned,” Pete says inspecting the rifle. “It’s jolted to the right.”

  “Jesus, Mari… Mary and Joseph,” the Top snaps at Pete. “How come you don’t know shit about the AK? It shoots 7,62mm as every child knows and has a tendency to jolt the barrel upwards and to the right. That cut-off muzzle break makes the gas exit from the barrel exactly to that direction, practically pressing the barrel to the lower left to balance out the jolt.”

  “Sorry. I was a desk rat with the supply train, did I ever tell you that?”

  “Things are better learnt late than never,” Tarasov says with a smile. “We’ll need two or three extra magazines for each rifle and some spare ammo, of course.”

  “Here are the mags,” Barkeep says and presses the spring in each magazine to test their condition. He also takes half a dozen small paper bags from the safe. Each holds exactly as many 5,45x39mm rounds as needed to fill the magazine of an AKM or AKS-74U carbine. He keeps on rumbling inside the safe until he finds similar paper bags holding 7.62x39mm rounds for Pete’s AK-47. “What about that silent Stalker with you? He’s small, so maybe I can recommend something lighter for him? I have a serviceable MP5 in stock, or a Scorpio submachine gun—”

  “I have my own weapon,” Nooria says.

  Barkeep looks at her in surprise. The balaclava that Nooria is wearing hides her features but the sound of her voice of course betrays her gender.

  “I should set a dress code for Stalkers coming to the 100 Rads,” Barkeep grumbles. “No balaclavas, no gas masks, no curtain helmets. Half the Stalkers always moan about not having women in the Zone without realizing that the guy next to them might actually be one. Well, what you are and who you are is none of my business, anyway… Anything else?”

  “We have a few NATO standard gas mask filters.”

 
“This is Duty territory if you haven’t realized. No Freedomers come here.”

  “Barkeep, Barkeep,” Tarasov says shaking his head. “As if you, Skinflint, Sidorovich and the other traders wouldn’t have your own little network. Come on, let a rookie bring the filters over to the Freedom base and you cut a deal with Skinflint. At least your errand boys would have something better to do than bringing you mutant body parts.”

  Barkeep grins. “Now that you mention mutants – imagine, not long ago an obscure client asked me for a burer. Alive. Would you believe that? Luckily, there’s that old character by the name of Trapper at Yanov. He and his guys managed to catch one in the abandoned railway tunnel between Jupiter and Pripyat. I let the client’s purse bleed dry but his representative paid me on the nail.” Barkeep shakes his head. “Well, in the Nineties, the newly rich kept potbelly pigs, then weasels and ermines were the craze, now it’s obviously mutants from the Zone. I don’t know where the world outside is heading, really… Anyway, what you said makes sense. How many filters you got?”

  “Four, with two spare cartridges. With that, would it be altogether?” Tarasov asks.

  Barkeep fishes a calculator from his vest pocket.

  “Three handguns, an AKS-74U, a Kalash and a PSO scope, plus the mags and ammo… So, if I take that hunting rifle and the filters off your hands for, let’s say, two hundred thirty… that leaves us with 1270 dollars. You didn’t mention bandages, medikits and food rations but that goes without saying. Am I right? So, plus the small stuff, it all comes to 1400.”

  The Top looks at Tarasov who shrugs in reply. “Pay him. It’s a bit more than we had expected, Barkeep, but I don’t think you’re in the mood to haggle.”

  “Never.”

  “You seem to make good business anyway.”

  Satisfied with the deal, Barkeep shuts the safe and waves them to follow him back to the bar. Before switching off the lights he stops for a moment.

  “Don’t let yourselves be fooled by the crowd tonight,” he tells Tarasov under his breath. “The 100 Rads rarely gets packed these days. Many Stalkers have left for the New Zone. The good news is, it seems that Bandits are also migrating there and that means less trouble for me and my suppliers.”

  “I guess it does,” Tarasov says, at the same time being curious and concerned about where Barkeep’s story goes. “What’s your point about the Bandits?”

  “Certain Stalkers join them because that’s the easiest way to get to the New Zone. I don’t know how they do it but it’s just the way it is. Many of those trying to get out with the Bandits are on the run from bad guys, like debt collectors or worse—Duty, the Army, the SBU… who knows? There’s a lot of hunters out there.”

  Tarasov suddenly he feels the same iciness in his guts like he did in the moments when it dawned on him that Shumenko is about to betray him.

  “Sometimes my own and the bad guys’ interest is the same,” Barkeep continues, “but not today. If the bullets I’ve just sold you eventually end up in a few Bandits’ cold bodies, no matter if here or in the New Zone—my interest will stay the same tomorrow.”

  “If so, there’s no reason to change that even on the day after tomorrow,” Tarasov replies.

  “Molodets,” Barkeep says with a shrewd smile. “Enjoy your stay at the 100 Rads!”

  He turns off the lights and ushers the travelers back to the bar.

  “Are you going to eat that?” Nooria asks as they pass by the kitchen where the aroma emanating from the smoldering boar head assails their nostrils.

  For a moment, Barkeep appears perplexed but then he gives a bellowing laugh.

  “What? The boar? Oh for God’s sake, how could you even think of that? I heat it to collect the fat when it starts running.” Barkeep is still smiling as he takes the promised first aid kits, bandages and a few plastic trays with army rations from below the counter. ”Boars have a high resistance to radiation and their fat makes an excellent coating for protective suits.”

  “Amazing,” Nooria says with eager interest. “Do you know more such recipes?”

  “I know a few, but they are my trade secrets,” Barkeep says.

  Nooria is disappointed. “Oh. Pity. I could have also shared some of my own recipes.”

  “You? Come on, you look like greenness incarnate to me. No offense, but have you ever seen an artifact from close?”

  “Yes. I use pestle and mortar to make artifacts smaller or turn into powder, and apply it to weapons, wounds, armor… like that,” Nooria shrugs and giggles. “I have a knife that can cut an artifact in two.”

  “Don’t waste your breath, Nooria,” Tarasov says packing their purchase into his rucksack. “Barkeep won’t believe it.”

  “If I have an artifact that would be good for health but is radiating, and another which is good against radiation, I take a small part of health artifact, add a piece of radiation artifact, and put them together in a nice casing. So I will have an amulet that will make one healthy but doesn’t emit radiation.”

  “Your mate was right. I’d sooner believe the Wish Granter’s legend than that!”

  Barkeep’s laughter is not meant to be mocking, though it is clear that he didn’t believe a word. Nooria hides her smile under her hood. She is still smiling when she climbs up the stairs and joins her companions on their search for a safe spot to spend the night, hidden from the Duty patrols that stroll along the brick buildings and walls of concrete slabs.

  Tarasov leads them into a factory hall nearby. The roof has huge holes but where it is still intact, two Loners have already made themselves comfortable at a campfire.

  “Do you mind if we join you?” he asks them.

  “Not at all, if you have something to trade,” a Loner replies. His companion laughs.

  “They don’t look like they need that jamming MP5 you’ve been trying to sell all day, Varyag!”

  “We’ve had enough of trading for today,” Tarasov says. “But we can share some food with you. You look hungry, bratanki.”

  Without asking, Nooria takes a few rations from Tarasov’s rucksack and offers them around. Then she takes her blanket and cuddles close to Tarasov.

  “Spasiba,” the Stalker referred to as Varyag says as he takes a can of meat from Nooria. “What’s the price?”

  Tarasov takes a closer look at Varyag who appears to be the more experienced of the two Loners. He is wearing the standard Stalker suit, but patches here and there tell of gunfights survived and his Vintorez of dangerous enemies overcome – or at least enough money made on perilous missions to afford such an expensive weapon.

  “A good story would do,” Tarasov says. “My friends are from, erh, England and don’t speak much Russian but I will translate.”

  “Don’t worry, I speak English! I am from Sweden myself.”

  “That’s why they call you Varyag then? Like those Norse warriors in Russian history?”

  “Exactly,” the Swede says proudly.

  The Top, who was stretching his arms and back with sighs of satisfaction while they were speaking, notices the other Stalker eyeing Nooria.

  “I think these guys haven’t seen too many Stalkers cuddling at a campfire,” he whispers to Tarasov.

  “So what? If any of them have any objection to my woman’s presence in the Zone, I’ll just shoot them.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Hartman nods and bites into a slice of bread. Tarasov turns back to Varyag.

  “So, what about that story?”

  “You guys ever heard the story about the Crystal Shard? No? You know, it’s supposed to be a splinter of the Wish Granter itself. A unique artifact if there ever was one. So, there were this group of Loners when the Zone was just being explored. Three guys who had been the best of friends since they started out from the Rookie Village to explore the Zone. They were a merry bunch, except for one who was heartbroken ever since his girlfriend died in a car crash.”

  “The Zone,” Tarasov says staring into the fire. “Adventure for some, riches for oth
ers, and a chance to escape the past for the unlucky ones.”

  “Don’t get poetic on me, bro! It’s my story, OK?” Varyag says. “Yeah, of course she was beautiful and sweet and her name was…”

  “Natasha, of course,” the other Loner says who obviously heard the story before.

  “Shut up, big mouth! Anyway, one day when they were exploring an old building somewhere in the Wild Territories after a Duty patrol chased the bandits away. The commander of the Duty squad had ordered his men not to enter, he said the building gave him the creeps and he was a man who trusted his gut feelings.”

  “A rare specimen,” Tarasov says smiling.

  “Yeah, kind of,” Varyag says with a grin and looks around for any Dutyer who could have overheard them. Seeing none around, he continues. “But our friends were not of the superstitious kind, so they entered the complex. At first everything seemed just great – small artifacts everywhere, only minor doses of radiation. That was until they saw what looked like a faint blue light. And, like most of us would, they immediately thought they had found the mother of all artifacts.”

  Varyag fishes a bottle from his rucksack and takes a swig of vodka before he continues. “Once they entered, they found an artifact that didn’t look like anything they had seen before. It looked more like the kind of crystals you see in sci-fi flicks. There was something weird about it and they couldn’t make up their mind as to what to do about it. Eventually, the bravest decided to pick it up while the rest were guarding the door.”

  “Pass me that bottle, Varyag, will you?” the other Loner says.

  “Only if you stop interrupting me. So, they got horrified when they heard him suddenly scream Natasha! before falling to his knees. When one of them ran up to see what was wrong, he just stood up and picked up his PKM and started firing all over the room, screaming her name.”

  “A man with his woman’s name for a battle cry,” Nooria whispers. “Beautiful.”

  “He then charged through the door and ran out of the building still screaming and firing his machine gun while holding the crystal in the other hand. The others tried to run after him but were pinned down by his fire. Once he ran out of bullets he just charged away, never to be found again.”

  Varyag falls silent.

  “That’s the end?” Tarasov asks.

  “No. My throat is dry and I’m out of vodka. I need to lubricate my tongue, if you follow my meaning.”

  Tarasov offers him his own. After a long gulp, Varyag wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and continues.

  “His friends were shocked by everything that had happened and returned to the Bar. But since they were friends, they decided to go back for him. Eventually they found him in the basement, sitting in a corner with a gun in one hand and the crystal artifact they had found earlier in the other one. His machine gun lay on the ground – he used his Makarov to blow his brains out. As the Stalkers looked at the mess, they heard a scream in the distance – Natasha!”

  For a moment, the crackling of the fire is the only noise to be heard. Then, far away beyond the decaying walls, a mutant howls.

  “Some people say the artifact was a piece of the Wish Granter,” Varyag continues, “or some deranged version of it that shows your worst fear over and over again. He wanted to see his beloved again, and his wish was granted – just not in a way he had imagined.”

  Silence falls again, longer and deeper than before the Stalker had concluded telling his story. It’s Hartman who breaks the silence.

  “And that’s what you guys are still after? Some abomination that turns your deepest desires into nightmares?”

  “Everyone hopes to fare better than the man before him,” Tarasov replies. “Legends die hard.”

  “Oh, women… they’re like a shadow,” the Top says with a sceptic wave. “They always keep following us, even when we think we got rid of them—at least for a little while.”

  “You’ve spent too much time with Sawyer,” Pete says, laughing. “Do you have a woman at all?”

  Hartman laughs. “No! I jerk off lubricating my palm with gun grease and shout Semper Fi! when I cum.”

  “That coincides with with how I think of you, actually.”

  “Jesus-H-Christ, Pete! What did I do to you to think of me like that?”

  “More or less everything since we met.”

  “You are so wrong about me. Of course I have a woman, and a damn hot one too!”

  “A Hazara wife in the Alamo?”

  “Nope. They ain’t my type. Sorry about that, Nooria. No offense.”

  “None taken, Top.”

  “In the States, then?”

  “Yes and no. Why do you think I don’t want to put Katie Stone in harm’s way?”

  “Gospodi! I should’ve guessed that.”

  “Yup. Finest piece of ass ever wrapped up in combat fatigue. Makes the best macaroni with cheese in the world, too.”

  “You must be missing her very much.”

  “I do, Nooria. But imagine what would happen if I step out of the line, should she ever get hurt.”

  “An embarrassingly high body count, I guess,” Tarasov smiles. “But wait—you promised her to be assigned to Driscoll’s squad. Good God, why him?”

  “Guess I reached my breaking point. It was a compromise with the Colonel—she can come, but assigned to the squad who acts as security team. You’ve seen one of our battles and know what that means.”

  “They are the ones preventing the enemy from escaping.”

  “That’s correct. Our assault teams usually don’t take prisoners. The security team does, because the big fish among the ragheads is usually trying to escape while their foot soldiers get martyred. This is the only way the Colonel can keep Driscoll under control. If he is not restrained by strict and direct orders in battle, he might just go mad. We might be a bit crazy but we don’t want anyone to act like a madman in battle.”

  “Hey! What the hell are you talking about?” asks Varyag. “Instead of talking bullshit, tell me—did you like my story?”

  “We did,” Tarasov says and darts a glance to the Top and Pete that means hold your tongues. ”You don’t need to bother asking, Stalker. I do respect you. Your story was impressive.”

  “Thanks,” the Loner replies, apparently pleased. “Do you have any stories to tell?”

  “Heard this joke once,” Tarasov says. “A veteran Stalker is standing at a crossroads, looking at a sign: ’if you go right, there will be anomalies and a little loot’, ’if you go forward, there will be lots of mutants and more loot’ and ’if you go left, there will be a shower with hot water, women, and endless loot’. He thinks for a while and then walks on, talking to himself: ’I know about anomalies, mutants and loot but what does shower and women mean?”

  “Wow, you’re good!” Varyag says laughing. “Anything slightly newer?”

  “Konchay uzhe,” his fellow says. “Without music, no happiness.”

  He takes a battered guitar from behind his back and begins to tune it.

  “What will you play?” Varyag asks.

  “He was a good Stalker,” replies the guitar player.

  “Who?”

  “That’s the name of the song I’m going to play, novichok!”

  “Haha! Look who’s talking,” laughs Varyag. “You are a dumb rookie if you still get fooled by the same silly question, day after day…”

  61

  Red Forest, Exclusion Zone

  When the Chernobyl disaster occurred in 1986, the Wormwood Forest received the highest doses of radiation. In the worst affected areas, the pines turned red and died, causing the survivors to give the area a new name: Red Forest.

  In the post-disaster cleanup operations, a majority of the pine trees were bulldozed and buried in trenches, very much like mass graves containing the most innocent victims of this nuclear holocaust. The trenches were then covered with a thick carpet of sand and planted with pine saplings. Since then, the saplings grew into adult pines, some of th
em bending and twisting by mutation.

  More than one ghastly mutated pine appears on the roadside where the companions walk northwards. Once the road was a long clearing, cut into the dense forest to accommodate a long line of utility poles. They had fallen into disrepair long ago – some collapsed, others still stand with shreds of anomalous vines hanging down like curtains from the steel structures, slowly moving in the wind and resembling gigantic ghosts in the approaching twilight.

  Tarasov, always walking a few steps ahead and scanning their path for anomalies and mutants, climbs up a boulder and studies a utility pole through his binoculars. This one is still connected by electricity cables to the next one, and a ball of blue lightning travels along between the two structures, emitting a sparkling glitter against the reddening horizon. His Geiger counter ticks faster than usual.

  There is a dilapidated log hut close to the steel structure with a wrecked vehicle in front of it. The wreck has the chassis and cabin of a truck, but the superstructure of a bus is mounted to the flatbed. The mule of a vehicle might have been used to transport the workers who dug up the trenches to contain the contaminated pines, and left to its fate when it broke down three decades ago. Rust and decay has done away with most of the blue and white paint that had once covered it.

  He glances at his watch and sighs.

  “Something not okay?” the Top asks.

  “Spending the night here would not be okay. We better move on,” Tarasov says. “Time for medicine. Take an antirad, everyone. Have a sip of vodka too.”

  Before he jumps down from the boulder, Tarasov scans the road ahead once more, and then zooms in the binoculars.

  “Hold. Take cover behind this boulder. I see someone ahead.”

  The Top climbs up the boulder and joins Tarasov who has already assumed a prone position.

  “Hostiles?”

  “Hard to tell from this distance,” Tarasov says giving him the binoculars. “We’d better presume they’re not friendly.”

  “Wise precaution.”

  Looking through the binoculars again, Tarasov sees the small group getting closer. Now he can see their outfit better – the half dozen men approaching them are wearing heavy body armor with NATO-issue wood camouflage, their faces covered with modern gas masks with large, triangular eye lenses. He can recognize their weapons too – three are cradling G-36 assault rifles, one is armed with a Dragunov SVD and another fighter, apparently the leader because he is the only one wearing an exoskeleton, has a powerful LR-300-ML assault rifle with a scope and grenade launcher attached. His armor has the same camouflage like that of the other, dark red and brown patches resembling the shades of an autumn forest.

  “Here comes Freedom,” Tarasov says.

  “Is that good or bad?” the Top asks.

  “Hard to tell.”

  Although the dark forest doesn’t seem to hide any immediate danger, the Freedom squad moves with the caution of experienced soldiers.

  Tarasov reconsiders their options.

  “Freedomers would probably not open fire on Loners,” he whispers. “But this being the Red Forest and any squad patrolling it probably being over the edge, we better be careful about how we behave.”

  “I hate hiding but maybe we better just keep out of their way?”

  Tarasov is about to reply when the Freedom squad stops at the hut and assumes a defensive position. It seems impossible for them to have detected Tarasov or any of his companions, meaning that the squad is bracing for a different danger.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Tarasov whispers. “Whatever makes such a heavily armed squad feel unsafe, we better avoid it too.”

  He gives a hand signal to Pete and Nooria to duck behind the boulder. Before he can take another look at the startled Freedom squad, he hears the first shot being fired. It comes from the forest and makes Tarasov wonder about who would be crazy enough to hide in ambush where only the toughest of protective armor could save one from lethal radiation.

  A deep voice makes his blood curdle. It is a battle cry, seeming all the more merciless for the monotony in it.

  “Onward, warriors of the Monolith. Avenge your fallen brothers. Blessed, as they are in their eternal union with the Monolith.”

  “A Monolith Preacher! This will be something, Top!”

  “Clusterfuck Central to those Freedom guys. Look!”

  The Top points in the direction of the dense undergrowth behind the log hut. Several ambushers appear, giving suppressive fire while more of them jump out from the bushes on the opposite side of the road, moving in to flank the hard-pressed defenders.

  The ambushed Freedomers defend themselves as best as they can. As they return fire from their cover they even have the guts to taunt the ambushers.

  “Here is a grenade for you! Yeah, one is dead!”

  “We must break out!”

  “No! Sashka’s down!”

  The deep voice sounds from the forest again, with no emotion and all the more fearful for that.

  “Bring death to those who spurn the holy power of the Monolith.”

  In reply, the ambushers shout from both sides.

  “Death to the enemies of the Monolith!”

  A desperate shout comes from behind the truck.

  “Svoboda vperyod!”

  Freedom, forward. Last time Tarasov heard this, it came from his trusty guide in the New Zone, before he died at the hand of First Lieutenant Driscoll.

  “Top! You and the Tribe must make good the death of a friend of mine! Follow me!”

  “We join the battle?”

  “Hell yes!”

  He glances at the Top and freezes, seeing that his companion is breathing like a predator smelling blood, with eyes shining in anticipation of the upcoming fight and giving Tarasov the look of a wolf pack leader ready to begin the hunt.

  It dawns on Tarasov only now that his companion is not just any veteran soldier but the second-in-command of the Colonel, a warlord commanding hundreds of men who are willing to go through hell at his mere word—and a few of them actually did beneath the City of Screams. But so did Tarasov, too, and a strange sensation creeps into his mind that he has never felt before battles in his previous life—blood thirst.

  “We have their right flank!” he yells. “Pete, watch over Nooria! Top, let’s get them!”

  “I’m gonna put that monolith up their butt!” the Top bellows back at him with a grin and jumps off the boulder.

  Running up quickly on the two opposite sides of the road, both open fire from their assault rifles. From the corner of his eye, Tarasov sees that despite the heat of battle, the Top isn’t acting reckless by far: moving crouched, he ducks and kneels to offer a target as difficult to hit as possible. What impresses him even more is the accuracy of his fire—within a few seconds, the former Marine downs two of the hostile fighters before they can reach the cover of the truck.

  Their surprise attack directs the ambushers’ attention to their right flank, allowing the pinned down Freedomers to intensify their fire.

  “A grenade’s not stupid, man!” someone shouts inside the hut. A grenade flies from the window. One Monolithian has a quick enough reaction time to leap away, evading the blast behind the truck, but also exposing himself for a moment long enough for Tarasov to take aim and pull the trigger.

  “One down,” he shouts.

  Their adversaries are not new to combat either and soon realize that they outnumber their new attackers. The Preacher barks a command and five heavily armed fanatics begin raking them with bullets.

  “Cover!” Tarasov shouts and lays prone.

  Nasty curses blend with intense rifle fire as the Freedomers scramble to break out from their position.

  “Retreat, brothers,” the Preacher bellows.

  Tarasov aims his rifle in the direction where he expects the Monolithians to retreat towards the forest, using the truck as cover between them and the counterattacking Freedomers. The Preacher’s next command surprises him
as much as it frightens him.

  “Fall back behind those boulders, brothers!”

  With two of them firing their weapons backwards to keep the Freedomers at bay, the remaining half dozen Monolithians start running towards the safety of the boulders where Nooria and Pete are hiding, confident that they can run over Tarasov and the Top who have barely any cover between the dirt road and the forest. Two bullets from Tarasov’s rifle hit the Preacher but apparently fail to penetrate his armored suit.

  “Pistol time,” Hartman shouts and fires his M1911 at the Preacher. A Monolithian jumps at him, preventing Hartman from shooting at his commander from point-blank range. He dies in his place when the Top’s next shot hits him. Tarasov exchanges a few bursts with the Monolithian closing in on him. At this distance neither of them needs to aim carefully. His adversary falls but Tarasov also feels sudden heat explode in his limb. Clenching his teeth, he turns after the three Monolithians who ran through their positions and have almost reached the boulder by now.

  “Go for the Preacher, Top!” Tarasov screams and fires the last three bullets in his magazine after the Monolithian leader.

  “Changing mag!”

  Kneeling, the Top carefully aims his M1911 and fires. The head of a Monolithian jolts back, and then he falls face forward to the ground with his arms stretched out. The few seconds Tarasov need to reload his rifle are enough for the last two Monolithians to reach the boulders. His burst from the reloaded rifle hits one of them in the limb, making the hostile fighter emit a painful cry and let his weapon fall, but then he hears the Preacher’s blood-curdling yell from behind the boulders.

  “No mercy to the enemies of the Monolith!”

  Then an AK barks two short three-round bursts.

  With the Top at his side, Tarasov runs to Pete and Nooria’s cover. To his relief, he finds Nooria unharmed, with Pete standing over the Preacher’s wriggling body on the ground.

  “Enemies of the Monolith—can’t you understand the good we do to you? Die!”

  The Preacher feels with his hand for his AS VAL assault rifle lying a step away from him.

  “No. Can’t you understand you’re dead?” Tarasov says drawing his pistol. “Nooria, look elsewhere.”

  But before he can pull the trigger aiming at the Preacher’s head, Pete fires his AK47 once more.

  “I killed a man,” the youth says without emotions. “Now I’m no less than you. No better either.”

  “He was about killing us, little brother,” Nooria says.

  “Yeah… One moment he was still yelling his bullshit, trying to kill us, then I pulled the trigger and he was dead.”

  “It wasn’t the first kill in your life, son,” the Top says. “Remember that ambush?”

  “The first where I was close enough to see his face.”

  “Keep up the good job, Marine.”

  “Don’t think too much of it,” Tarasov says and gives the kid a comforting pat on the back. “Monolithian fanatics are not even remotely good guys.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Mikhailo.” Pete stares at the dead Preacher with the look of someone who just woke up from a long slumber. “I killed a man and I liked it.”

  “Slowly, you’re becoming fit for the Tribe,” the Top says with a satisfied smile.

  “What did you like about that?” Tarasov asks.

  “Myself. I liked myself over not feeling anything.”

  Tarasov nods and gives him a smile. “That’s good to know. The Top would disagree but if you have a hang for killing, death will also have a hang for you.”

  “Oh, come on with that,” the Top says rolling his eyes. “Let’s get down to earth. We made it through and they didn’t. That’s that! On we go.”

  “Yes, we better go. It’s almost dark. Nooria, you okay?”

  “I am. But look, that man is still alive!”

  They all look at the Monolith fighter lying a few steps away. It was the fighter whom Tarasov hit after reloading his rifle. Rolled on his side and wriggling in an embryonic position, the Monolithian moans from pain.

  “Ya ranen! …”

  The Top moves to shoot him but Tarasov holds him back. Undecided about what to do with the wounded enemy, he kneels down to him. However, it is not him but Hartman the Monolithian is talking to.

  “Bratan,” he says raising an arm and pointing to the Top, “you are a brother! You are one of us! I feel it!”

  “What’s he saying, Major?”

  “Just bullshit,” Tarasov replies and looks elsewhere. Strange thoughts come to his mind.

  A Monolithian recognizing a Tribe warrior as a spiritual brother? Could it be that the Wish Granter and the evil altar beneath the City of Screams are related?

  “Seems like he is talking to me, Major. Hey, you’re looking pale!”

  Of course they are. The Colonel’s men wished for ruling the world. They got it, in the Wish Granter’s twisted way. Oh God – it’s all the same!

  “He’s… just talking in delirium.”

  “Wow, wow, wow,” a cheerful voice says. “You’ve got really bad karma, that’s for sure!”

  The Freedom commander raises a hand in greeting. Two of his men accompany him, holding their assault rifles cradled. Judging by their heavy gear, Tarasov believes them to be one of Freedom’s more elite assault teams and not the reckless guerillas this faction is infamous for.

  “Peace,” he greets them. “We’re just Loners on our way to Yanov.”

  “Whoever you are, you really helped us out. Thanks!” the Freedom commander replies. “We’ll chat later but first, let’s see to this fellow here. I’m gonna patch him up first and then interrogate.”

  “How?”

  “By a great display of teamwork,” the Freedomer says as he takes a first-aid kit from his rucksack and tends to the Monolithian’s wound. “Tolik and Kolya will grab him, I’ll count till three and then they throw him into the nearest anomaly.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Yes. Kolya, help him up and bring him to that log hut. We’ll stay there for the night.”

  “Always me,” the Freedomer called Kolya grumbles but drags the Monolithian on his feet.

  “My name is Che,” the Freedom leader says. “We lost two good men to these fanatics but it would’ve been more without you showing up. Before you ask—we have nothing in a way of reward, if that’s why you’re looking at me like kids at Santa Claus.”

  “I’d be pleased enough if you let me keep the Preacher’s VAL rifle,” Tarasov says.

  “Oh, that’s why you’ve that look on your face,” Che replies, smiling. “It’s yours, along with anything else you find, except intel. Maps, PDAs and all stuff like that belong to Freedom. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  “Perfect. Unless you insist on marching through the Red Forest at night, join us in the log hut.”

  “Who are these guys actually?” asks the Top when Che has left.

  “Daredevils and anarchists,” Tarasov replies. “I like their company but loathe their ideas.”

  “What are their ideas?”

  “Officially, to share the Zone’s secrets with the whole world. In reality, to let Western powers steal those secrets from us Ukrainians. Why, where do you think they got all that NATO gear from?”

  “I’m not much into local politics, Mikhailo, but we’d better accept their offer. If something nasty comes out of this forest at night it’s better to have more guns around.”

  Tarasov looks up into the sky where bright stars shine on the deep blue sky. In a few minutes it will be dark.

  “I’m with the Top,” Pete says.

  “Right then,” Tarasov concludes seeing that Nooria also nods. “Just don’t tell these guys that we’re going to join the Bandits.”

  He takes the silenced, 9mm caliber assault rifle from the Preacher and pats down the corpse for anything valuable.

  “I’ve been wanting this rifle ever since I left for the New Zone,” Tarasov says, eyeing his new possession with sa
tisfaction. “But a Gauss rifle would have been even better… Anyway, if not even their Preachers are equipped with coil guns anymore it means we really gave them a beating after Operation Fairway.”

  “Coil guns? Jesus!”

  “Their god is called Wish Granter, Top.”

  The Freedomers have already lit up a small campfire inside the log hut. Two bodies lie outside with a blanket pulled over their faces. With darkness falling, the first mutants begin to howl in the forest outside.

  “I think we made the right decision,” Hartman observes.

  Tarasov bows his head for a greeting as they enter the log hut. It smells like earth and damp wood inside. One of the five Freedomers is about to make a campfire, cussing under his breath at the soggy branches not catching fire. Three of his comrades are wearing bandages, apparently to treat the wounds suffered during the ambush. The fighters called Tolik and Kolya flank the captured Monolithian while Che is rolling an improbably big joint.

  “I kinda like these fellows,” Pete says with his eyes shining.

  “If you even reach for that stuff I gonna break your damn hand,” Hartman grumbles.

  “Hey hello, our nameless saviors!” one of the wounded fighters says for a greeting. “Are you looking for a safe place?”

  “Yeah,” Tarasov answers.

  “Well, buddy,” the Freedomer drawls, “then you’re at the best place. Freedom will watch over you tonight!”

  “That’s very reassuring,” Tarasov says.

  Meanwhile, Che has lit up the joint. He removes the prisoner’s helmet and the hazmat mask. A young and handsome face appears, though the look in his eyes is empty.

  “Oh Monolith, why did you abandon us,” he whispers.

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea buddy, but this will help your imagination.” Che draws on the joint and then forces it between the prisoner’s lips. “Attaboy. Now take a deep breath or I shoot you.”

  No one is surprised when the prisoner prefers to inhale.

  “So, how many of you are there in Limansk? I’ve shared this first-class weed with you, you must have very base reasons for not telling us about your base.”

  The prisoner’s eyes are still empty as he looks at Che, who chuckles about his own pun.

  “Limansk? Base?”

  “You’re cool, man! Yes, I asked you about your base in Limansk!”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Okay, keep on smoking that weed. Good, ain’t it?”

  For the first time, something resembling a smile appears on the Monolithian’s face. “Uh-hum.”

  “Okay, listen up,” the Freedomer called Kolya says. “A Dutyer visits the 100 Rads and tells Barkeep, ‘I want to buy the Goldfish artifact, everyone has one, only I am like an idiot!’ Barkeep says, ‘But it’s radioactive! What do you want to do with it?’ The Dutyer replies, ‘Radioactive, radiopassive, who cares? It’s not like I’ll put it down my pants, I’ll keep it on a chain!’”

  He looks at the Monolithian with expectation and laughs.

  “You get it, patsan? He doesn’t know what radioactivity is, haha!”

  “Hehe. That’s good,” the Monolithian replies with a grin.

  “Alright, buddy. You see, we’re going out of our way to make you feel good. Spill it – how many people in your assault group in Limansk?”

  “I’m not telling you bastards anything! Do what you want!”

  “You like that stuff, eh? Just think about it – we’ll give you a

  pack of weed for every man you name in your team!”

  “Haha! Do you crazy anarchists really think I would sell out my Monolith brothers for ten packs of weed?”

  The Freedomers exchange a puzzled glance, then burst out laughing. Seeing how the apparently easy-minded Monolithian let himself be fooled, Tarasov too slaps his forehead and chuckles.

  “What are they talking about?” the Top asks.

  “Tell you later,” Tarasov replies, still chuckling.

  “All right… This is where the fun ends,” Che says wiping a tear from his eye. He turns to Tarasov and tries to sound serious. “You guys feel like joining us on a trip to Limansk?”

  “No, sorry. We have to find an artifact for Barkeep,” Tarasov cautiously replies. “He gave us forty-eight hours to find it, otherwise the deal is off.”

  “Damn,” Che sighs. “I can’t take a Monolith stronghold with four men… We better make it back to base and come back with reinforcements.”

  “I guess we have no other choice with our new friends preferring to hunt for artifacts instead Monolithians,” Kolya says. “Eh, damn Loners… thinking only about themselves. Why don’t you broaden your perspective for a change? Join the good fight!”

  “Kolya, agitation and propaganda is my job,” Che says checking his assault rifle for any dirt spots that might require cleaning. “Give these guys a break, will you?”

  “What if they would give us a break? Always the same – they come to our base, beg us for supplies and all, but when it comes to the fight for freedom in the Zone… We are fighting for you, Stalkers!”

  “Is that so?” Tarasov asks in a voice betraying his lack of interest.

  “It’s a fight of the Stalkers for the Stalkers. Freedom is an armed nuclear—nucleo—” Kolya looks at Che, expecting him to help out.

  “Nucleus,” his commander sighs.

  “Yeah, that’s it. Nucleus. The fighting avantgarde of the Stalkers—”

  “Vanguard, not avantgarde,” Che says and takes a small book from a pocket on his armor vest. “Avantgarde means paintings of naked women looking like a pile of cubes. Rodchenko and all that. Here, educate yourself better before you try agitating others.”

  “Yes, commander,” Kolya shamefully says and opens the book in the light of the headlamp fastened to his helmet. Its title says Guerilla warfare.

  “How’s Ashot doing?” Tarasov asks the commander to make the Freedomers change the subject. He knows very well that Freedom’s former arm dealer has moved to the New Zone but is curious to hear more of the story.

  “Ashot?” Che says with a smile playing around his mouth. “He left for the New Zone.”

  “Some Mercenaries were after him, sent by another trader or so I heard,” adds Kolya. ”Ashot had cut under the agreed price. All about the damn money, of course.”

  “Really? Because I heard a different story,” the third Freedomer says who in the meantime had managed to make a small fire. He takes off his gloves and warms his hands at the still weak flame.

  “How cold you Nika? You weren’t even in the Dark Valley base in the old days.”

  “I wasn’t, but a guy at Yanov told me he heard it from another guy who was on patrol with the guys from Dark Valley…”

  “That’s what I call first hand intel,” Che says with a smile.

  “It went like this: after a long day of repairing equipment, Uncle Yar returned to the tent he used to share with Ashot. As he approached, he noticed the tent was shaking violently.”

  “That’s why I hate having canned beans for dinner,” Kolya says.

  “Anyway, Yar slowly drew his combat knife and pistol. Walking up to the flap he slowly opened it. He saw the rumble of shadows and heard the lustful moans of Ashot—and some strange growls.”

  “Ashot moaning while having sex is okay but a gun barrel growling?”

  “Stop interrupting me, goddammit! So Yar thought to himself, Damn! What kind of whore did Ashot get his hands on? He walked over to turn on the light. The rambling in Ashot’s bed came to a halt. With wide eyes, Ashot looked at the body on top of him. He yelled ’H-HOLY S-SHIT!!’ and leapt out of the bed. Yar stood there like a statue, seeing a bloodsucker purring and looking at Ashot affectionately.”

  “Yeah! That’s what!” Kolya says, laughing.

  “Was it at least a female one?” Che asks.

  “Whatever. Ashot left next morning in shame and never came back.”

  “You know what? Funniest part is I can actually believe it,�
�� Kolya says.

  “Yeah… Ashot and Yar, “ Che says with a sigh. ”The good old days. Less Duty, more fun…”

  After their laughter that Tarasov couldn’t resist sharing, silence falls. Only the wounded Monolithian keeps whispering.

  “Monolith… oh Monolith… why did you…”

  “Shut up,” Che suddenly says and puts his hand on the prisoner’s mouth. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” Tarasov whispers back.

  Che reaches for his weapon. “Wait—listen!”

  “I don’t hear a thing, commander,” Kolya says but he too works his rifle’s safety off.

  “That’s it—it’s dead quiet in the forest. No mutants, nothing!”

  “Top, Pete,” Tarasov whispers. “Weapons at ready. Something’s not right.”

  He moves closer to the door and listens. Che was right – not as much as a single blind dog howls in the deep night. Even the croak of the ravens has died off.

  “Emission approaching?” Nika asks under his breath.

  Che shakes his head. “No—the mutants are scared.”

  “What would scare a mutant?”

  Che has no time to answer. All of a sudden, something heavy impacts on the roof of the log hut, followed by a deep, gurgling growl.

  “Chimera,” Che yells, ”it’s a chimera!”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” a panic-stricken Nika shouts. “The roof is about to collapse on us!”

  “No!” Tarasov shouts back. “Stay close to the walls! Nooria, get into that corner! Top, Pete, stay in front of her!”

  “What the hell is happening?”

  “We just became the lowest on the Zone’s food chain!”

  The two Freedomers don’t wait for Che’s command and open fire. The bullets tear through the rotten wood and apparently hit the still unseen mutant, because the growling from above gets louder and angrier.

  “Wait!” Tarasov shouts through the noise of gunfire. “You’ll just piss it off! Don’t waste your ammo!”

  Suddenly, two of the beams bulge and fall directly into the fire, sending up a cluster of sparks. Nika, who was closest to the fire, falls to the ground and moans from pain. This probably saves his life—a long arm reaches inside through the hole of the roof and two curved claws, as long as a man’s forearm, scythe the air where the Freedomer was standing just a heartbeat ago. Missing him, they carve into Kolya’s chest, lifting up the hapless fighter who is still firing his weapon. The mutant’s arm disappears together with its prey. Another beam falls when the chimera’s limbs thrust the massive body off the roof, with Kolya’s scream marking the direction of its jump. It dies off before bushes rattle not far from the hut, marking the spot where the mutant has landed with its prey.

  “Holy Jesus, what the fuck was that?” Pete asks. His voice is trembling.

  “The top of the Zone food chain,” Tarasov says and exchanges a worried glance with Che. “We’re trapped here!”

  “Nika! You still in one piece?”

  “Think so,” the fighter replies as he gets to his feet. “That beam fell right on my shoulder, goddammit!”

  “It saved your wretched life,” Tarasov observes.

  “For the moment only!”

  As if in reply to Nika’s panicked words, the growl is back. Heavy steps circle around the hut, as if the chimera were looking for the best angle to attack.

  “Jesus, one body was not enough?” Pete sighs.

  “Appetite comes with eating,” the Top replies eyeing the hole in the roof and holding his AK ready to shoot.

  “We either wait until it tears down the whole hut or we do something!” Tarasov turns to the Freedom commander.

  “Bozhe moi, he got Kolya,” Nika moans. “He will get us all!”

  “Stop whining,” Che commands.

  With another jump, the chimera lands on the roof once more, now hacking its claws into another beam and tearing it off. The Top looks up and fires his weapon. For a second, his headlamp illuminates a head like that of a tiger, only that this has no fur and the open mouth reveals a cruel, teeth-flashing grin. However, this is not what makes even the hardened warrior scream, neither is it the sight of the predator’s massive hulk that appears for a second in the light when the mutant jumps off the roof.

  “It has two heads! Two freaking heads!”

  “That damn beast is teasing us,” Tarasov says. “We’re sitting ducks here!”

  “I’m the only one wearing armor that gives me a chance,” Che says after a moment of quick thinking. He draws his combat knife. “I’ll take it on outside.”

  “No!”

  All eyes are suddenly fixed on Nooria. “I am quicker and my blade is better,” she says.

  “No way!” her three male companions shout back at once.

  “But—”

  “No, woman!” Tarasov shouts. “Stay in cover!”

  “Now that’s what I call resolve.” Che grins but Tarasov can see his lips trembling with fear. “I’ll step out. It can’t pounce at me between the hut and the bus wreck, the place is too limited for it to leap. I’ll try to stab its face. As soon as it gets close to me, I’ll try to lure it in front of the door. Fire all that you have. Will you have my back?”

  Tarasov nods. “We won’t let you down.”

  He switches from the silenced rifle to the AK that is still slung over his shoulder and reloads it with a full magazine. “Change your mags now. Wait for my fire. Top, you fire second. Pete, then you. Nika, can you hold your weapon? Good. You fire last. We don’t want to be reloading at the same time.” The men nod. Magazines click in the breach as they all prepare their weapons. “All ready? Then—Svoboda vperyod, Che!”

  Che takes his helmet from the ground, wipes the dirt off and dons it. The growls accompanying it make them all feel as if the mutant outside were savoring the moment, knowing that its prey has no chance to escape.

  “Damn thing is playing cat and mouse with us,” the Top breathes.

  Che peeks out into the twilight and the dark forest around. He listens to the hulking steps.

  “I’m counting on you, people,” he whispers and steps out of the half-collapsed log hut.

  A second of silence follows, as if the chimera itself were surprised over the willingness of its prey to die.

  “Hey! Chuda pryrody!” Che shouts. “What's the good of having two heads if you only got one dick?”

  The mutant doesn’t need to be taunted. The impact of its massive body makes the rusty metal shriek as it jumps onto the bus wreck. It growls once more and looks at the Freedomer, as if hesitating between its hunger and instinct that might warn it of a trap. However, compared to its hulk, the human standing there appears utterly weak even in his heavy armor.

  Then it jumps, landing in front of Che and slashes at him. Swiftly, the fighter takes a step to the side to dodge the attack and recoils. The chimera follows him, directly to the spot where Tarasov and the others don’t even need to aim in order to hit it in the side.

  Four automatic assault rifles start barking, unleashing a hail of bullets into the mutant. The chimera roars, with its attention now divided between the closest prey and the others. Its right head growls at the shooters while the teeth in the mouth of the left snap after Che. For a second it appears to hesitate where to push with the attack—it has two heads but only four legs, the fangs can’t reach the shooters and it needs the claws on both front legs to slash the man in front of him. With good reflexes, Che uses its confusion to dodge another attack. A moment later, when the chimera instinctively turns both heads to its right where the pain from the impacting bullets must be horrendous even for a mutant of its size, he takes the knife in both hands and slams it into one of the distorted heads with all force.

  The chimera gives its loudest howl. It sounds painful but the mutant’s strength is not wasted yet. Shaking its wounded head it tears the knife from Che’s hand, then raises its paw to strike at him. The fighter is now too close to dodge the claws an
d falls with a scream.

  “Reloading!”

  Tarasov quickly switches magazines but before he can recommence firing, a shadow darts out from the hut and hurls itself at the mutant.

  “Cease fire, cease fire!”

  Tarasov’s shout comes more from his instincts than realizing it is Nooria putting herself into harm’s, and their bullets’, way. By the time he moves to jump after her, she is already facing the mutant that crawls towards them. She ducks and dodges a blow, slices the mutant’s neck below the still intact head and jumps back, then prepares to slash the mutant once more.

  Covered with blood all over, the chimera still keeps crawling closer.

  Tarasov grabs Nooria at the shoulder and pulls her behind himself. He raises his rifle, aiming at the mutant’s head that still growls and bares its teeth, but it is the sound of death the chimera now emits. The growl weakens and then stops, and with a last jerk of the muscles, the mutant collapses.

  After a few heartbeats of silence, a far away blind dog begins to howl again. Then a whole pack joins in.

  “I never ever imagined how happy that howl would make one,” Nika says. Tarasov doesn’t need to see his face to know that an ear-to-ear grin appears on the Freedomer’s face.

  All emit sighs of relief—except Nooria who is already kneeling at Che’s body. The fighter cusses as he tries to get on his feet, holding on to Nooria’s arm. Then the Top and Nika help him up.

  “For a moment I thought I was done for,” Che moans when they carry him into the log hut.

  “Are you hurt, commander?” Nika asks as they gently lay him down inside. Tarasov quickly takes off the Freedomer’s helmet with the integrated gas mask.

  “Nah, I’m fine,” Che replies battling for air. “It’s just that my armor’s busted.”

  “That red stain doesn’t look like the exo’s hydraulics leaking,” says Tarasov worriedly.

  Che looks at his chest where the chimera’s claws have ripped into the armor. His face, pale already, becomes even whiter as he watches his blood seep trough the fissures.

  “Ai blyad,” he groans.

  “Nooria, get me a bandage,” Tarasov says opening the exoskeleton. “Quickly! Nika, help me get him out of the exo. You know this Freedom shit better than me!”

  “Will do.”

  Releasing the clips fastening it to the metal body frame, the Freedomer removes the Kevlar-padded breast plate to let Nooria get to the wound.

  Tarasov immediately wishes he hadn’t done so. Che’s open chest reveals a deep wound obviously beyond healing – not in these conditions and the meager first aid kits they have. With hands bloody to the wrists, Nooria applies a large, streptocide-coated gauze pad nonetheless.

  “Use a double amount of antiseptics,” Tarasov suggests. “That monster could have poisoned his blood stream.”

  “It poisoned him?” Pete asks. “Jesus!”

  “I don’t want to imagine all the rot it could’ve collected under its claws. Nika! Davay, give me the antiseptics from your medikit!”

  “Oh, fuck that,” Nika shouts. He takes a hip flask and pours a colorless liquid into the wound.

  “What are you doing?” Nooria shouts back at him and pushes the Freedomer’s hand away.

  “Nu shto? Eto vodka!” Nika says. “Hey, tell her this will disinfect the wound!”

  “Are you nuts? Top, keep him away from the wounded!” Tarasov angrily shouts and continues in Russian. “Durak! Only pure alcohol is disinfecting! Pure, hundred percent alcohol! Vodka has forty!”

  “Not mine!”

  “Even if it had been pure, there’s now more saliva from your dirty mouth in it than alcohol!”

  “Give me one more bandage,” Nooria demands. Tarasov hands her another gauze pad and she applies it over the first bandage that it already soaking with blood.

  “Don’t waste any more bandages,” Hartman whispers, holding the worried Freedomer in his grasp. “He’s done for.”

  As if he wanted to protest, Che emits a gasp. His grey eyes scan the faces of those around him and finally rest on Nooria.

  “Dyvchina…”

  “He’s talking to you, Nooria,” Tarasov says and tries to smile at Che. “That’s it, bratan! Keep talking!”

  Che grasps Tarasov’s hands but keeps looking at Nooria.

  “Divchina… ty na kaleni moyi yaytsa.”

  A grin appears on Tarasov’s face while he translates. “Uhm… you are kneeling on his balls, Nooria.”

  “Oh… sorry,” Nooria replies embarrassed and pulls her knee from the fighter’s groin.

  “Tough SOB. He’ll make it after all,” the Top says with relief. “Don’t die on us, soldier! That’s a damned order! Tell him, Mikhailo!”

  It appears Che is slowly regaining his strength, though the fresh bandage is already becoming red from the fresh blood still gushing from the wound.

  “Kak ty… krasivaya,” Che whispers and a faint smile appears on his pale, sweaty face. “I said… you are very beautiful.”

  “Thank you,” Nooria replies, wiping blood from her hands. “You are—”

  But the fighter doesn’t seem listening to her.

  “You are so beautiful,” comes another English sigh from Che’s lips, “like… like my…mama.”

  Che mutters the last word with a long sigh and the grasp of his fingers on Tarasov’s hand suddenly loosens.

  Nooria buries her face in her still bloody hands.

  For a moment, the companions stand speechless.

  “Net! This cannot be!” Nika struggles himself free and kneels at the body. “Hey Che, you can’t do this! Don’t fucking die!”

  “He died a fine death, a good warrior’s death,” Hartman says. “He will be remembered. What was his name again?”

  “Che,” Tarasov softly says. “Like in Che Guevara.”

  “Outstanding. Pete, come with me. Don’t know what other shit this place gonna throw at us but I don’t want it to catch us with our pants down!”

  “Don’t be wandering too far.”

  “We’ll be standing watch right at the door, don’t worry.”

  Cold and unfeeling as the Top’s level-headedness appears, it helps his companions to get over the Freedomer’s death. Nooria gently closes his eyelids. Nika takes a big swig from his flask while Tarasov checks on the Monolithian prisoner.

  “What should we do with this guy?” he asks.

  Nika shrugs. “I don’t care. If you ask me, we better shoot him on the spot. No way for me to take him back with me alone.” He wipes sweat off his forehead with the back of his sleeve. “Don’t even know how I will get back to Yanov. My shoulder is busted. Hurts like hell. I need to hold my rifle with my left hand. But then I was never much of a marksman, anyway.”

  Tarasov studies Nika’s round, fair-skinned face. Obviously, the Freedomer is no genius but appears to be a trustable man. The battle with the chimera proved that he is a hardened fighter, too, who can be relied upon.

  “To Yanov, you say?” Tarasov asks. “That’s bad news. There’s a Duty outpost at the old electricity substation on the way there. If they see you in Freedom kit, wandering alone—tough luck, Nika.”

  “I could also go to the Army Warehouses. That’s closer, but then I’d have to go through that damned village with all the Bloodsuckers! Looks like I’m fucked either way.”

  “You are,” Tarasov says. “Better listen to my proposal. We go together to Zaton. Where we go exactly is none of your business, but we can bring you close enough to Yanov Station – if you do something for me.”

  Nika looks at him with eager interest. “I’m all ears, buddy.”

  “You will not deliver the prisoner to your commander.“

  “What? Commander Loki would promote me for bringing him in!”

  “No, because you will look for a free Stalker called Strider or Crow or whatever call sign he uses now.”

  “I heard about Strider. Folks say he’s a hell of a sniper. Rumor has it he also used to be wi
th them,” Nika nods and jerks his hand towards the incapacitated prisoner. “But didn’t he join those Duty assholes?”

  “He is working alone now. So—find him, hand the Monolithian over to him and we’re quits.”

  “What if I just shoot him once you’re out of sight?”

  “Rumors are correct. Strider was a Monolith squad leader once. He and his comrades are still looking for other Monolithians to knock some sense into them. They value any opportunity to save one of their brain-washed ‘brothers’. You don’t want to make a bunch of former Monolithians angry at you, do you?”

  “You think I’m mad?” Nika says with a shudder. “Of course I don’t!”

  “Smart choice. Now give me your PDA for a moment.”

  Reluctantly, Nika hands him over the device. Tarasov switches to text message mode. The transmission will reach almost every PDAs in the Zone, although many Stalkers have turned off this facility—no one would share anything important with the whole Zone. Tarasov hopes his former ally from the New Zone belongs to the few who didn’t.

  Crow. Where are you striding? Reply to this PDA only. He hesitates for an instant before completing his message; after all, it would be unwise to sign it as Condor, his old call sign. Then he just adds: No choppers to down this time.

  “All right,” he says, “message sent. Let’s see if he replies.”

  “You keeping my PDA is no part of the deal, buddy!”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll give it back soon enough.”

  Tarasov proves lucky. He has just moved Che’s body into a more dignified position when the PDA beeps, signaling an incoming text message.

  Thought condors are extinct in the Zone. Glad to know at least one still prevails. Hope you found cigarettes for me.

  Tarasov smiles while he types the reply, this time directed only to one particular PDA. Strider has the positioning facility turned off, not giving Tarasov any clue about his whereabouts but he finds this secrecy very much suiting the renegade’s character.

  Bad habits die hard. So does the whisper of the Monolith. I’m sending your way a pair of ears needing you to make it unheard. Be at Yanov Station tomorrow. Freedomer called Nika will be looking for you.

  After half a minute, Strider’s next message arrives.

  Roger Wilco. Thanks, owe you big time. Will be looking for Nika Polar Explorer then.

  Tarasov frowns. How do you know his call sign?, he texts back.

  Strider’s reply comes soon and it makes Tarasov slap his own forehead.

  You are using his PDA! Better have a rest, my friend. You need it. Out.

  “Polar Explorer?” Tarasov asks the Freedomer. He gives back the PDA, but not before deleting the messages he has exchanged. “They really call you that?”

  “Uhm… you know, I used to have a really nice ushanka fur hat. Was very proud of it until some bastard stole it. That’s why… still better than Dima Liveshits or Petka Smartass, no? Because I knew guys by those names.”

  “Don’t want to think about how they must’ve felt,” Tarasov says and joins Nooria who is resting at the embers left from the campfire, very much in need of a little comforting.

  “You did all you could,” he says, putting his arm around her neck.

  “I know. It was not death but you and Top who made me sad.”

  “Come again?”

  “Why didn’t you let me fight?”

  “Listen—that was a chimera, you understand? The biggest, meanest, deadliest mutant in the whole Zone. There was no way for us to let you take it!”

  “You don’t trust me anymore?”

  “You silly woman, how can you even ask me that?”

  “I told you I could deal with it. I am quick. He was slow. He did not know how to use his knife. You never trust a jagged knife where you can not get it out. His got stuck in chimera’s skull. Now look at him.”

  “It was not Che but us riflemen who were supposed to kill it.”

  Unconvinced, Nooria shakes her head. “I could have killed it better. You didn’t let me and now Freedomer is dead.”

  “You better get used to the idea that your life is not only yours now.”

  “What will you do when my belly grows big? Lock me up in our house?”

  “Yes, with me inside and throw the key away.”

  “But I don’t want to be fucking locked up!”

  Tarasov still thinks about a snappy response to save his authority as Nooria’s man who, at least according to Tribe traditions which are not entirely against his liking, would have the last word in a domestic dispute. Pete’s appearance interrupts his thoughts.

  “Hey, what are you guys fighting over?” he says holding his hands over the embers.

  “Mind your own business,” Tarasov snaps at him. “How is the watch going?”

  “Pitch dark in the forest, mutants howling, weird blue clouds in the sky. Just another beautiful night in the Zone.”

  Tarasov can’t decide if Pete means what he says or if he is just being ironic.

  “Your stepsister thinks we should have let her take on the chimera,” he says. “For God’s sake, Pete, talk some sense into her. She’s not in the mood to listen to me.”

  Standing outside with his rifle held to his shoulder and finger on the trigger, Hartman appears to have overheard their argument.

  ”She is rebelling, ain’t she? Don’t let her gain the upper hand, Mikhailo, or you’ll be screwed for the rest of your life. When we in the Tribe say ’till death parts us’, we mean it.”

  “She’s right. Half-right, at least. But there was no way for me to let my pregnant woman fight the worst mutant of the Zone.”

  “Agree. That was one badass beast. Maybe not as bad as a bear, but at least a bear wouldn’t make such huge leaps.”

  “And Bears have only one head.”

  “I miss my sandbox and the warriors, Mikhailo. The sooner we get back, the better.”

  “Nooria wants the same. That’s why she’s so strange. I never heard her swear before.”

  “Me neither.”

  Tarasov sighs. “I fear this has something to do with Maksimenko or maybe Sultan. Ever since she returned from Kiev, she’s been—downbeat, hiding anger I’ve never seen from her. I don’t like this. Not at all.”

  The Top scans the forest around them. Detecting no imminent danger, he takes a more relaxed stance.

  “Those fanatics almost raped our butt today,” he says. “Imagine, if that Freedom patrol hadn’t shown up, we would’ve run directly into them. Holy hell, we’d have been completely clusterfucked.”

  “Yes.”

  “Monolithians seemed good fighters to me, except for their last move.”

  “Trying to run us down was the smart thing to do,” says Tarasov. “They only had the two of us between them and the nearest cover.”

  With still having Nooria on his mind, Tarasov doesn’t feel like discussing tactics. “Let’s forget the Monolith for now… Whatever happened to her—once I find out who did it, I’ll skin him alive.”

  “Maybe it was her time at the KGB or whatever you call it here.”

  “I don’t think so. Remember, it was Sultan she cursed. Not Maksimenko.”

  “Yup.”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  “Sure you don’t. It’s a woman thing. I’ll sooner become the President of the United States than understand what’s going on in their heads, especially Nooria’s.”

  “Anyway… Do you need some rest?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good for you.” Tarasov glances at his watch. ”We still have about four hours till daylight. Wake me up if you change your mind.”

 

  62

  Yanov Station – Jupiter Plant area, Exclusion Zone

  “This place never ceases to surprise.”

  Pete looks over the Zaton area from a hill where they have arrived after a march of two hours, having left the log hut at first light. After the green wilderness of the areas around Rostok and th
e gloomy Red Forest, the arid lands to the south of Yanov Station almost appear to him like a semi-desert. Although it will be noon in one hour, everything beyond a few hundred meters is veiled in chilly mist. The bare poplars dotting the landscape cast dim shadows in the pale November sun.

  “I mean, every place is different. Before I got here, I thought it was gonna be just one huge forest.”

  “Surprising indeed,” Tarasov replies.

  His attention is attracted by something else: just half an hour’s march away from Yanov railway station, occupied by a small detachment of both Duty and Freedom who by some miracle agreed to make the station a no-fire zone, the land is teeming with Bandits. On the eastern road leading to the abandoned Jupiter factory, he sees two small groups of them, easily recognizable by their long trench coats; along the western road, between a cluster of trees and a small marsh, another patrol makes its way towards a depot where several campfires burn among piled up cargo containers. The helipads – an U-shaped spot carved into the slopes of the hill where they are standing, surrounded by a concrete support wall and barbed wire. There is a wrecked Mi-24 in front of a small command post adjoining the wall. It appears to be the only place in the area apparently not occupied by Bandits: next to the helicopter wreck, Tarasov’s binoculars detect a dozen Loners camping. The view further to the north is obscured by mist.

  “There are more Bandits in this area than maggots in an untreated wound… Indeed, it’s apparently the Container Warehouse where they all try to get.”

  “Why?” Hartman asks. “What’s there?”

  “Nothing of interest. Normally, either Duty or Freedom would put an end to this trench coat convention but they are too busy fighting each other. Damned faction war!”

  “Is this the place where I’m supposed to meet that Strider guy?”

  Tarasov turns to Nika and the Monolithian who sit in the grass behind them, sharing a cigarette.

  “You are to bring him to Yanov Station, Nika.”

  “The road’s damn dangerous with all those trench coats out for a stroll, you know?”

  “Let them be my problem.” Tarasov looks at Nooria and then Hartman. “So, now comes the Bandit part if none of you has a better idea.”

  “It’s your call,” the Top says. “Rest assured, my boots are itching to give your butt a good kick for making me join a bunch of—”

  “It was my choice,” Nooria says. She dons her black balaclava and pulls her hood over her head.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “Just one word before we leave,” Tarasov says. “Bandits are a tough bunch and their leaders are the toughest. Top, I know you’re a big shot with the Tribe but I want you to stay out of trouble. Let me do all the talking. Don’t provoke these guys.”

  “What if they provoke me?”

  “Don’t let them. Remember: our way out depends on the Bandits. Last but not least, Nooria already has her Bandit call sign – Margarita,” Tarasov says with a smirk. “Please remember – all of you – that my real name must not be mentioned. I am Misha… uhm… Chekh, if any name must be given.”

  “You mean, Czech? Like the car we rented?”

  “No, Top. Not Czech but Chekh for Chechens. Russians hate them. If they think I’m Chechen, they won’t bother talking to me.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Pete says.

  “We all do. So, are we set?” Tarasov looks at his companions. They all nod. “Let’s go.”

  Following the road downhill toward the Bandit base, they pass by a wrecked passenger car and a blue-white bus similar to the one that stood close to the log hut where they spent the last fateful night. Scrub grows from the cracks of the dilapidated tarmac. As they approach the warehouse, more and more Bandits appear behind the barbed wire fencing it.

  “Holster your weapons,” Tarasov says when he sees the Bandits guarding the entrance. One of them walks up to them, keeping his MP5 submachine gun ready to shoot.

  “Nu shot vam nada, tipa?”

  “Moi druzya ne ponyat shot ti govorish,” Tarasov says. “Po angliskom govorish?”

  “Whatcha want?” the guard asks in very bad English. “Too much loot on yer back, pindosi?”

  “We need to see your boss,” Tarasov replies.

  “Fuck no yer don’t, ya mongrel! Get yer ass up and hit da road! Or maybe yer want to shoot me in yer ass to get ya goin’?”

  “I have business with Jack,” Nooria says.

  “Whaddaya want from him? ”

  “Say hello to my little friend,” Nooria says looking him in the eye.

  “Oh,” the guard says with a bow of his head that could be intended as a sign of respect. “All right! Get in but don’t stay too long. Ya find ’im in the garage behind da containers.”

  “We stay as long as I want,” Nooria confidently says. Before she can move on, Tarasov steps to the guard.

  “These two need safe passage to Yanov,” he quietly says and jerks his thumb backward where Nika and the Monolithian stand. Hearing his words, Hartman too steps forward and fiddles his shouldered assault rifle. “They bring good news to a friend of ours who might get very angry if he doesn’t receive it.”

  “Safe passage costs money, ya know?”

  “How tall are you, tipa?”

  “Whaddafuck ya meanin’?”

  “You know, my friend happens to be a damn good sniper and it seems you offer a pretty good target here. I guess one meter seventy, maybe seventy five make a big difference for the location of your brain matter – inside that undersized skull of yours or being splattered on the ground. You follow my meaning, tipa?”

  “Wanna be threatenin’ me?”

  “I’m making a business proposal, you dumbass. You give these two free passage to Yanov and keep your brains where it is or…”

  “Okay, okay, I got it,” the Bandit says taking the walkie-talkie fastened to his belt. “Hey men, it’s Vadia Hunchback ’ere. A guy in Freedom suit is goin’ yer way with a Monolith zombie in tow. Let’em pass, will ya?”

  “Temka Bum here. Who says?”

  “I says, Temka. Touch’em and Jack’s gonna assign ya for guard duty da next days. Got it?”

  “Freedomer with Monolith. Good, I’ll let’em pass if they behave.”

  “Ya better do!”

  Tarasov nods. “Good boy. I’ll let my friend to know that you were promised free passage. Vadia Hunchback was the name, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now better go!”

  “And my friends better arrive safely at Yanov,” Tarasov replies, directing his words rather to Nika than the Bandit. “Nika, send a message to Strider and don’t forget to mention who we made the deal with.”

  “We part ways then?” the Freedomer asks.

  “Good hunting, Stalker.”

  Tarasov watches Dima and the Monolithian walking toward the railway tracks leading northward to Yanov Station, hoping that they won’t run into anything that their assault rifles can’t handle. He darts a grin to Vadia Hunchback as he enters the perimeter, thinking that if the Bandit is still alive by the evening, it will be a good enough proof of Dima having delivered the captive Monolithian to Strider.

  A veritable maze of cargo railway containers covers the open space in front of two abandoned warehouse buildings. As the companions make their way through the narrow confines between the containers, it is easy for them to make out how the Bandit food chain goes: rookies squat on boards and mattresses lying around campfires; the more prominent occupy the open containers where they are much better protected against cold and rain; finally, closest to the garage where the Bandit commander resides and well-protected against the weather by a roof spanning over several containers, the apparently most respected dwell. Even if their hovels don’t indicate their position, their attire does: the small groups of lesser mortals gathered around the campfires are dominated by reinforced leather jackets and track worn by Stalkers new to the Zone, no matter if Loners or Bandits, and they hold their pathetic shotg
uns and Makarov pistols as if they were unique, artifact-enhanced weapons. Here and there, a Stalker in black Duty and forest-camuflaged Freedom suit also appears; though deserter turned bandits or not, they apparently seem keen to avoid mixing with those from the hostile faction.

  All of them have one thing in common: a Bandit arm patch with a white skull on black backround. Tarasov observes a Stalker cutting the Duty patch off his black armor and replacing the stylized red shield with golden reticule with the Bandit’s skull patch.

  “Pete, you were wrong about us being overqualified for the Bandit job,” Tarasov remarks. “Desertion seems to be an entry-level crime here.”

  The Bandits who are respected enough to settle in the containers ignore their lesser brethren as they tend to usual camp tasks—cleaning their Kalashnikovs, drum-barreled Protecta shotguns and a few Dragunov SVDs, all apparently prized possessions. The long trench coats and Russian army surplus body armor betray them as more experienced Bandits and Mercenaries. The big shots under the roof have their expensive NATO rifles standing against the container walls, probably feeling safe at the core of the camp and sure that no lesser mortal would make them reach for their G-36 and LR-300 rifles. Heavy armored suits dominate here, among them a few exoskeletons with helmets off to facilitate any Stalker’s favorite pastime—drinking vodka and munching on canned meat, exactly what most of them are doing. A few veterans are standing atop the containers, keeping watch over the perimeter. One of them, wearing an army-issue exoskeleton with a Bandit’s arm patch, gives Tarasov a long and inquisitive look. A Vintorez rifle is slung across his shoulder.

  “See that exo guy?” he asks the Top without looking in the Bandit’s direction. He touches the balaclava to reassure himself that it covers his face, leaving only eyes and mouth visible. “I don’t like his face.”

  “His face?” Hartman asks back. ”I don’t follow. He’s wearing a gas mask and tactical helmet.”

  “Manner of speaking… what I said comes closet to what I feel about him.”

  “Why?” Nooria asks, boldly returning the Bandit’s gaze.

  “Don’t know. Maybe because he’s the only one paying any attention to us… Never mind. Just a gut feeling.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s him who’s gonna feel something in his guts if he keeps staring at us like that.”

  “Calm down, Top. Let’s not appear nervous.”

  “Yeah, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” Pete says giving the Bandit camp a distrustful look.

  When the companions are about to enter the garage, two heavily armed men in the Mercenaries’ urban camo suits block their way.

  “Shto vam, patsani?”

  “She’s here to see Jack,” Tarasov replies to the guard’s question. “Her name is Margarita. We are her, uhm, bodyguards.”

  “You may enter,” the guard says. “No funny movements inside, huh?”

  “Understood.”

  “Jack’s in his office behind the garage.”

  The smell of engine oil lingers inside. Rusted and lacking wheels, a derelict truck stands over a maintenance shaft. Another Mercenary guard watches over the gloomy interior from a catwalk. Among crates, piles of decrepit car parts and fuel drums, a door leads into a shabby room that might have once been an office.

  The Bandit commander is sitting with his feet on the table, cleaning his Armsel Protecta shotgun with an oilcloth and wearing the obligatory leather trench coat. A pair of shrewd eyes measure them up through his balaclava’s eye holes. The rest of his features remain hidden. On another chair close by, a short but brawny Bandit with a thick black beard appears to doze off the effects of the vodka bottle lying on the floor next to him.

  “Ahh! Fresh meat,” Jack says for a greeting.

  “I am Margarita,” Nooria says.

  “Margarita!” the Bandit leader says barely looking at her. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Did he just ask, ’to what do I owe dishonor?’” the Top says under his breath.

  “Glad to see you keep your word,” Jack says, apparently oblivious to Hartman’s whisper.

  “And I am glad to hear you speak English.”

  “Of course I do. ’Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!’ ’Make a wish, it’ll be your last!’ I love fucking cheese at my feet!’ You see, I know a lot of English!”

  Pete can barely suppress a chuckle.

  “Did you find any tracks of the troublemaker, Margarita?” Jack asks.

  “No. I must go to New Zone.”

  “We all will soon enough. However, Sultan didn’t say anything about you bringing people with you,” Jack says darting an eye at Nooria’s companions. “We’ve no need for a basketball team anyway. Who are they?”

  “My bodyguards.”

  “That may be so, but they need to confess their sins to Friar.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tarasov angrily asks.

  “Back with the fangs, big boy, or I’ll throw you to the next blind dog pack to eat,” Jack snarls back. “We don’t need any goody-two-shoes but people who can keep from being shot or robbed. That means, anyone wanting to join the new hordes must be good at shooting and robbing others. I know from the boss that she’s cool, but the others need to convince Friar why we should take them aboard. I’ll have a chat with you until then.”

  “When she said ’bodyguards’ she meant it, patsan. We’re not going anywhere without her.”

  “Shut up and move your asses to Friar in the warehouse building. Now!”

  Hearing the agitation in Jack’s voice, two Bandits appear from the repair hall and point their rifles at the three men. Jack repeats his demand. “Go!”

  Reluctant and grinding their teeth, Tarasov, Hartman and Pete let themselves be led away.

  “I am Sultan’s friend,” Nooria says.

  “Of course you are. I respect that. Think I’d want to hurt you?” Jack asks and gives a bellowing laugh. “Until you do what you were told to, that is!”

  No matter how she feels about the kingpin, Nooria mentally admits that compared to Sultan, Jack is barely more than hot air. He appears to lack Sultan’s subtle way of appearing menacing without threatening, and inspiring respect without demanding it.

  “How will we get to New Zone?” she asks.

  “Don’t be so impatient. Tell me first about your buddies. There’s something I like about the small one but where did you find the two big guys? In a basketball team?”

  “One is from America. Other is Chechen.”

  “He’s rather tall for a darkie,” Jack observes. “Did he teach you how to use your knife? I hear you’re very good at it.”

  “No.”

  “Keep it to yourself, fine,” Jack shrugs. “ You know the New Zone well?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “How do you want to find your target?”

  “I will decide once there.”

  “Fair enough. You have kept your word up so far, and you better do so once off our radar. You don’t want to disappoint Sultan—and me.” Jack gives her a long look. “I actually don’t mind if you’ve your buddies watching your back. See, my guys are good fellas but they haven’t seen a woman in a while – if you get my meaning.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s also a few Chechens among us. Why do you look surprised? Darkies love trouble like flies love shit, and we’re up to make a lot of trouble in the south. They will probably approach your buddy to team up, like those damned savages do wherever they are. But I won’t tolerate any of their obshina bullshit. If we want to trouble Stalkers there’s no need to quarrel amongst us.”

  “I will tell him to stay away from those men.”

  “Excellent. Of course, all this was said presuming that they gonna pass Friar’s little test. If they don’t, you’ll need to part ways.”

  “What’s that test?”

  “Told you already. Each of them has to prove to have what it takes to be a friend of ours.”

  63
/>   Friar’s den in the Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone

  “A sinner is born every minute, and ye’re just on time!”

  The apparently insane Bandit’s voice echoes in the dark, all but empty room he occupies in the warehouse. His thick Russian accent adds to the oddness about him. The only features around are a mattress in one of the corners and a makeshift altar, made up from a crate on which two burning church candles stand with a skull in a gasmask in between. Two Kalashnikovs lie crossed under the skull like a pirate flag. The moldering walls bear graffiti quotes, barely readable in the darkness.

  Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall.

  There is no sin except stupidity.

  We are each our own devil and we make this world our hell.

  He who turns the other cheek is a cowardly dog.

  Nothing is evil which is according to nature.

  “I am Friar, knower of yer deepest thoughts! I, and only I will decide if ye’re worthy to join us! On yer knees, all of ya!”

  Tarasov sees Hartman’s face blush with anger. He can only imagine how humiliating this bizarre ritual must be for Sergeant Major Hartman of the Tribe. Hoping that his companion has enough self-discipline to manage his anger, he too kneels down on the dirty stone floor in front of the skinny Bandit whose restless eyes and exaggerated antics tell of madness, or at least that’s how Friar appears to him.

  “And now—I wanna hear yer confession, sinners!” Friar continues. “Let’s start with ya, kid! What can ya tell me dat would make me accept ya to da most glorious faction of da Zone?”

  “Uhm… what am I supposed to say?”

  “Imagine, I am God and know all your sins but will forgive only one! What would that be?”

  “Huh… I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Don’t test my patience, sinner!”

  “Well… a little shoplifting, did a car or two—”

  Friar grins. “Not bad enough, kiddo! I did all dat when I was still in kindergarten!”

  Pete sighs. “My real sin?”

  Friar emits a hysterical laugh. “Only tellin’ me your deadliest sin can save yer life. If ye fail to confess, da Zone will claim your life!”

  “So—one thing I will burn in hell for is Nelly, my girlfriend. I—I wasn’t myself at that time. I gave her an overdose of heroin and spent the next days with her corpse, convincing myself that I helped her into a better world. Yes, for this the Devil will take my soul, no matter what I do!”

  Friar takes a step back and nods, appearing satisfied. “Despicable enough.”

  “I know,” Pete whispers.

  “Ye’re next,” Friar tells Tarasov. “Confess!”

  Kneeling like his two companions, Tarasov stares at the altar, the quotes on the wall, Friar’s insane eyes. To his own surprise, he feels calm inside—almost relieved. The Bandit ritual might be mocking everything a decent man would hold holy but even so, it is as good an opportunity as any other to ease his mental burden.

  “I am a killer,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t know how many men I’ve killed. I quit counting at forty-three. All men who trusted and relied on me.”

  “Dat sounds exciting!” Friar hisses.

  “Must be over a hundred now. Men I was leading and supposed to keep alive. They died by the claws of mutants, hostile fire, anomalies. But some by my own bullets. Some by my own recklessness. I was an army officer, bound by my duty to keep those men alive. Every death is my failure as a leader. I consider it that and nothing can me convince otherwise. No excuses like fate, bad luck, the Zone’s will. No. Their shadows keep following me. My biggest fear is to turn around one day and face them. I was told once, if you put together all the men I have killed, they’d make up an army. If I think of them it’s true. And probably more will come. That’s my sin, and I am punished for it by being alive.”

  “Disgraceful enough.”

  “It is,” Tarasov says bowing his head.

  The crazy Bandit now turns to Hartman. “Whatta ‘bout ya?”

  “I am a deserter too, like the man next to me,” Hartman slowly replies.

  “Boooorin’!”

  “And I’m kind of a drug addict as well, like the kid was.”

  “Me temper is bad enough without ye borin’ me like dat!”

  “I am addicted to the drug called blood. I love spilling my enemies blood and piss on their bodies.”

  “Dat’s whad everyone wearing a uniform is bragging about.”

  Hartman takes a deep breath. “I am a well-trained soldier and struggled with fighting a war with one of my hands chained to my back. Then came the day when we went deep below the New Zone where lots of our bravest fell. The price waiting for those who made it through was freedom. We chosen few were touched by the power of the New Zone. It liberated us from the shackles of loyalty to a corrupt country that no longer deserved our sacrifice. We became the rabid stray dogs of war. We became victorious at the price of countless deaths on our hands. Yet it was still treason and desertion. I am a traitor and deserter to my country and I try to deny it by being loyal to my Tribe and my leader till I die and beyond. But I am still a traitor and deserter. I spill our enemies’ blood to wash that shame away, yet it will always tarnish my soul. Lawyers can acquit me but I will never be able to. The great Spirit has touched me and the part of my sanity it has left keeps calling me a traitor. This is the sin I would ask God to forgive but He has fallen silent on me long ago. If you lousy lowlife dare open your filthy mouth to insult me by telling that all this makes me fit to join your scum—I swear I will tear your head off, so bless me God. Because if we are talking sin, I’m not merely fitting in but should be your goddamned general.”

  Hartman’s slow-spoken words seem to have made an impression on Friar.

  “We already have a general,” the Bandit quietly says. “His name’s Sultan. Though I didn’t vote for him… should we ever elect our leader by votin’, ya can count on me.”

  He unslings the Obokan assault rifle from his shoulder and fires a burst into the ceiling. “Ye are hereby absolved from yer sins by me welcomin’ ye into our ranks, for here we are all brothers in crime. Wadever ye’ve been judged and cast out for by da ignorant world outside will be yer source of pride with us. Rise and be proud, brothers, for yer sins make you worthy of becoming Bandits!”

  “That’s it, then?” Tarasov asks standing.

  “What did ya expect? Prickin’ yer trigger finger and drippin’ blood over a damned religious icon? Ya better make a Loner bleed until he tells ya where he hides his stash, haha!”

  Tarasov, Hartman and Pete leave the bizarre room, shunning each other’s eyes.

  64

  Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone

  Daylight fades and a chilly dusk descends over the Zone. Without anything else to do but wait, the four travelers kill time at a campfire, not in much of a mood to chat. Nooria appears to be lost in her thoughts and the three men still feel embarrassed over their confessions, as if they were forced to strip their very souls naked in front of each other and are now fighting with the subsequent embarrassment.

  Tarasov is in a particularly foul mood. Having made camp in one of the containers between the tougher Stalkers’ and the veteran Bandits’ quarters, the chatter all around them begins to nerve him. The Stalker-turned-Bandits ceaselessly brag about their own toughness and the treasures they hope to find in the New Zone, spicing the conversation with the dirtiest jokes. He is glad Nooria can’t understand them. A former Dutyer, who Tarasov recognizes as the newcomer who was switching arm patches earlier, is the loudest of them all. He and the Bandits nearby don’t bother them,

  though; the apparent deserter has obviously found an easy mark for verbal target practice in the form of a newcomer wearing Freedom armor.

  Four men appear and make their way to the container of Tarasov’s party. Their faces are open and reveal dark skin and black eyes. The conversation at the nearby campfires goes quiet.

  “Uh-oh,�
� Pete says. “These fellows look like trouble.”

  Tarasov looks at the four sinister men. “Chechens,” he quietly observes.

  “They’re kind of a mob?”

  “Not kind of because they are the real mob,” Tarasov explains. “It’s called obshina.”

  Hartman’s eyes flash and he reaches for his pistol. He looks at Tarasov who shakes his head in a sign to stay cool.

  One of the men steps to the companions’ campfire. His black eyes gaze at them inquisitively under a thick unibrow.

  “Assalamu ’aleikum,” the Chechen says to Tarasov. “Mukha vo ho, vasha?”

  “Let’s speak Russian, vasha,” Tarasov grumbles for a reply. “I have nothing to hide from my friends.”

  The Chechen shrugs and continues in Russian. “Nu khorosho. Word has it you are one of us. The brothers want to meet you.”

  He jerks his head to the three others behind him.

  “Nooria,” Tarasov whispers in English, “remove your balaclava and show your hair. Now.”

  Slowly, Tarasov gets to his feet. Meanwhile Nooria, though surprised, does as he has commanded.

  When her long hair falls over her shoulders, the Chechen gasps with surprise. Tarasov steps closer to him.

  “What did you just say?”

  “Is she your wife?”

  “Yes she is,” Tarasov shouts at him, ”and I will teach you manners!”

  He lands a kick in the abdomen of the Chechen mobster who bends forward with a gasp of pain. Tarasov grabs his arm, turns him around and pulls him backwards over to himself. He takes the head of the Bandit between his hands and twists it violently. Vertebrae break with a faint crack. Tarasov lets off the dead mobster collapse at his feet.

  The three other Chechens have barely realized what was happening in the past few seconds. By the time they reach for their weapons, Hartman already has his M1911 pointed at them.

  “Back off, whatever crazy lingo you speak!”

  Tarasov gives them a cold look.

  “He was looking at her in a bad way,” he says, then points to the Chechen’s body where the head is jolted over the shoulder in a disturbingly unnatural way. “Now he is looking at her in a good way.”

  The three Chechens exchange looks of shock. Then the tallest gives Tarasov a killer’s gaze.

  “You will die for that.”

  “No. I will kill you if you approach her ever again,” Tarasov says. “I don’t want to do anything with scum like you who call me a brother but don’t give a woman under my protection the respect she deserves. Now take your vasha and get out off my sight!”

  Eventually, the three Chechens back off and leave without a word, carrying the body with them. Their silence appears more menacing than if they were cursing and threatening.

  “Phew,” Hartman sighs. “Next time you tell me in advance, will you?”

  “Was that really necessary?” Nooria asks.

  “First, I made sure that no one will ever set an eye on you. Second, they would have blown my cover in a moment. Third, these obshina guys are the most dangerous in all the Russian underworld. Don’t shed any tears over him.”

  “Now you’ve made an enemy out of the obshina or whatever they are called,” Pete says with a headshake. “Bravo.”

  “An enemy?” Tarasov snorts. “Why, do we have any friends here? All I see is enemies.”

  “You’re wrong, brother,” someone says nearby. The voice is English but obviously spoken by a Russian. “Those cocksuckers were bullying us long enough. Guess I’m not the only friend you’ve just made!”

  It is the man in Duty’s light black armor speaking.

  “Yes, I’m meaning it. You’ll have all the rookies’ gratitude for teaching them a lesson!”

  “Bandits skinning Bandits?” Pete says. “This place is more screwed up than I had thought.”

  “Every man for himself, might makes right—pick your meaning,” the Dutyer shrugs.

  “Ain’t that Jack character supposed to keep order here?” the Top asks.

  “He does. Shit flows down, loot goes up. That’s the local law. Anyway—”

  The Dutyer cuts his sentence when Jack himself appears and approaches the campfire with two Mercenaries in tow. The Bandit who they saw sleeping in his headquarters is also with him, still yawning but looking very martial with a grenade belt over his assault vest and an RG-6 grenade launcher in his hands.

  “You bloody newcomers just don’t know how to behave,” the Bandit leader snaps. “If you weren’t with Margarita I’d just kick your fucking butt into an anomaly. Whaddafuck were you thinking, huh?”

  Tarasov gives him a bold grin. “What did you expect? Solving our differences with peaceful dialogue or what? That prick was looking at Margarita with eyes bulging, goddammit!”

  “And then you break his fucking neck? Just like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fucking savages… Luckily for you, I need a badass like you. See, you’re my ’ace in the hole’, as they say in America. I have a stone in my shoe. You can remove it.”

  The Top quietly coughs.

  “I’m all ears,” Tarasov says trying to sound enthusiastic.

  “Sultan needs us to secure three positions in the area. This Warehouse and the Jupiter Plant are already ours. Now I need you to take a few hardy fellas and clean the helipads. Some crazy Loners have nestled in there. We need to press alt-control-delete on their activities.”

  “What’s the big fuss?” Tarasov asks suspecting a snatch. “You have many men here, some of them armed much better than we are. Why don’t you just wipe those Stalkers out?”

  “I give you a dozen badass brothers but someone needs to lead them. Friar told me you are pretty good leader. Is that right?”

  “Fuck that cretin,” Tarasov grumbles.

  “I take that as a yes. You must make sure that this fellow gets in one piece to the wrecked chopper blocking the landing pads.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  That’s Abdul, our man from Dagestan,” Jack gives the sleepy Bandit a patronizing pat on the back. “You love blowin’ things up, right?”

  “Bombs are great!” the Bandit called Abdul replies with an eager nod.

  “He’ll take care of that wreck. He’s also the only one in your team who speaks English.”

  “A Dagestani who speaks English?”

  “Grew up in Northern London, mate,” Abdul says with a genuine Estuary accent. “Finsbury Park. Suppose you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

  “If you want to help us, get moving,” Jack impatiently says. “If you don’t – there’s no such option.”

  “What about her?” Tarasov asks pointing at Nooria.

  “She’ll stay.”

  “Then you were wrong about refusing to help you not being an option.”

  “You nuts? She is Sultan’s own assassin. No one dares to hurt her, especially after you broke that darkie’s neck!”

  Tarasov looks at Nooria who just looks at her feet and chews on her lips. However, this is not a time to ask her questions.

  In ten minutes, Tarasov, Pete and Hartman are on their way to the helipads with a group of Bandits. The Dutyer is among them and, breaching every sound discipline, exchanges loud insults with the Bandit wearing a Freedom suit.

  “Hey, anarchist. You’re wearing your armor the wrong way. The Kevlar shouldn’t cover your chest but your butt. That’s where most of you get shot at, you know?”

  “You can’t talk about armor. Even the meat inside my can of tourist’s breakfast is better protected than you in that black ninja suit.”

  “You two!” Tarasov says. “Keep your voices down! Where do you think you are, on a stroll in a park or what?”

  “Sorry, boss,” the Freedomer replies in a low voice.

  “Tell me something,” Tarasov continues, keeping his voice down too. “You know that veteran Bandit with the Vintorez and army-issue Mark-II exoskeleton?”

  “You must be meaning Dimitry Molotov,” r
esponds the Dutyer. “Strange guy. Mostly keeps to himself, though. Why?”

  “I didn’t like the stare he gave me when I arrived.”

  “Why, did you expect a kiss on your mouth or what?”

  “Well, never mind. Fuhgeddaboutit.”

  “Hope dis guna be like me last raid,” a Bandit remarks behind them. “Went to da Garbage with a few fellas. See a free Stalker comin’ from da north. I says, now whatta strange guy that one is, strollin’ down da road as if it were his own. So, I ask him, yo tipa, ya gotta pay a road toll. He says fuck you and draws his AK. Then all the fellas come chargin’ from them bushes. Stalker tries to run away and then, bang! steps into a Vortex and all we see is him flyin’ up with a whoosh and then boom, we just stand there, body parts rainin’ out on us. His liver there, his arm here, and his rucksack right at me feet. All I had to do was to pick it up, hahaha!”

  The Bandits laugh with him.

  “What was so funny?” Hartman asks.

  “Just pointless bragging,” Tarasov replies.

  65

  Helipads in the Jupiter factory area, Exclusion Zone

  Their group has now reached an intersection with a fenced-off structure to their left and a wide, ascending slope leading to the helipads to their right. Tarasov signals the men to halt and moves forward to observe the area.

  Covered from the Stalker’s sight by a bush, he observes the helipads through his binoculars. The Stalkers have not only made a campfire behind the wreck of a BTR personnel carrier, but erected a defensive perimeter using it as barrier. It could be taken by storm; the only thing Tarasov is worried about are the mines between the road and the helipad. He hopes that Jack had been right about stray mutants having virtually cleared the minefield. At least the decomposing carcass of a boar close to the helipads proves such optimism.

  There is a wrecked Mi-24 close to the Stalker’s campsite. Seeing it makes Tarasov smile bitterly. The helicopter had been one of the aircrafts carrying him and his Spetsnaz comrades to Pripyat during Operation Fairway, call sign Stingray One. He sighs and makes his way back to the other men.

  “We’ve a position to take. It’s built into a hillside and surrounded by a minefield on three sides.” Tarasov draws a rectangle into the mud and pricks his finger around it to make dots indicating mines. ”It can’t be approached from the front because there’s no cover at all and the defenders will shoot us like sitting ducks. However, the wall is supported by buttresses every five meters.” He draws a second line along the longer side of the rectangle. “The defenders can easily keep it under fire from here—” He puts a pebble into the square to symbolize the Mi-24 and another for the BTR. “—and here. We can’t lay down fire from the hill because it’s mined. We can’t attack from the north where the approach is open, because there’s no cover. How would you do that?”

  “Well… a mortar should do the job with a few high explosive shells, but we have no mortar.”

  “Abdul’s launcher has an effective range of three-fifty.”

  “Should work.”

  “He’ll need an eternity to recharge it if the first volley isn’t effective enough. Let’s still think a little.”

  “Laying a smoke screen, sneak up the walls and keep the defenders under suppressive fire until we all get close enough to charge them?”

  “Abdul, you have GRDs?”

  “I have only one and it’s my lucky smoke grenade!”

  “Looks like you just ran out of luck. Load it.”

  “But—”

  “Load it or I open a path through the mine field by making you run through it. Your fat ass would make a pretty big bang.”

  “But I’ve kept it since Beslan! It is my lucky charm!”

  “I thought the Spetsnaz killed all the terrorists,” Tarasov says with narrowed eyes.

  Abdul gives him a wide grin. “Why do you think it’s my lucky charm, huh?”

  The Top and Tarasov share a quick glance.

  “Wait a minute, Abdul,” Hartman says. “You took part in the attack on that school?”

  “Yeah, so what? And how many of my brothers and sisters did you Yanks kill in Iraq and Afghanistan?”

  “Brothers and sisters, really? If you’re such a believer, how come your breath reeks of liquor?”

  There’s a chill in the Marine’s eyes that promises nothing good for Abdul’s future, but Hartman gives him a smile nonetheless. Seeing the former Marine’s blue eyes turning icy, Tarasov reckons that Abdul is a dead man.

  “Allah is too busy preparing hell for those Stalkers to watch me,” the now fumed Dagestani replies.

  “You know what I think, Abdul?” Hartman’s smile hardens. “You were too much of a coward to die a martyr’s death. That’s why you drink. You’re an Al-lah-coholic, eh?”

  Tarasov quickly intervenes before the ex-terrorist and the ex-Marine can start up a fight. “Shut up, both of you! Here’s our plan: Abdul, you’ll fire your smoke on my command. Then one of us will move in, take cover behind that UAZ and lay down suppressive fire until the rest catch up. Meanwhile, you’ll launch a grenade each time I tell you. When the assault team has caught up with the man up front, they will throw a volley of grenades and then charge the Stalkers down. If your grenades are accurate, they will be shaken enough to make the rest of the job easy. Understood?”

  “I’ll volunteer for the UAZ,” Hartman says.

  “Negative, Top,” Pete says. “With all due respect, but you move like a rhino. I’m quick and offer a much smaller target than you.”

  “Outstanding progress, son! You’ll become a real warrior in the end.”

  Pete grins and shakes his head. “Actually, giving suppressing fire means I don’t necessarily need to kill those Stalkers.”

  “Where did you find this guy?” Abdul asks. “Amnesty International?”

  “Exactly,” Pete says. ”That’s why I’m siding with criminals and terrorists like you, Abdul.”

  The Dagestani’s reply would probably be an angry one but Tarasov cuts in.

  “Weapon check,” he says and continues in Russian to make the rest of the team understand. “Proverit oruzhie!”

  In a few words, he recaps the plan and the orders to the Bandits.

  “Locked and loaded,” Pete and Hartman say.

  “Good. Now wait, all of you. I want to give those fellows a last chance.”

  Ignoring the frowns of his men, Tarasov shoulders his rifle and leaves the cover of the bushes. Standing up, he shouts out.

  “Don’t shoot! Stalker coming through!”

  Keeping as close to the wall as he can and watching out for every suspicious spot in the mud, he slowly approaches the tarmac with the helicopter carcass.

  “Stoi! Stay where you are!”

  The Stalker shouting from behind the BTR has his AK pointed at him.

  “I am unarmed!” Tarasov shouts back, raising his hands.

  “And I am Valentina Tereskova, talking from outer space! Hands up!”

  “They are already! What’s wrong with you?”

  He hears several men laughing behind their safe cover.

  “We are the Reapers and don’t talk to Bandit scum!”

  “You are—who?”

  “The Reapers! A new faction! Soon we’ll own of the Zone!”

  For a heartbeat, Tarasov hesitates between taking the Stalker for either mad or drunk even beyond Zone standards.

  “That might be so, but there’s two dozen Bandits out there wanting to kick your butts. Listen, why don’t you just leave? There’s no need for bloodshed!”

  “You don’t frighten us, Bandit pigs! Go and boil your bottoms, sons of bitches! Soon we’ll have the Heart of Oasis artifact and then we’ll blow our noses at you!”

  “Now listen, brother—that artifact has already been found!”

  “Don’t try talking us out of it, you boar-headed son of a blind dog bitch! We know it’s close! We’ll find it, get dirty filthy rich and own the Zone!”

  “God damn
you, Stalker! Trust me, it wasn’t such a big deal anyway!”

  “You lie, ass-face! It’s gonna make us invulnerable and then we’ll rape you Bandits in the butthole!”

  “Don’t die searching for a stupid legend, Stalker!”

  “I don’t want to talk to you no more, you empty-headed bloodsucker food!”

  “Is there someone else there I can talk to?”

  “No! Go away!”

  The Stalker fires a warning shot to underline his message. Tarasov gives himself beaten and carefully retraces his steps along the concrete wall.

  “What a strange person,” Abdul whispers when Tarasov rejoins the others. “He’ll be a dead person now, won’t he?”

  “Bunch of lunatics looking for the Zone’s Holy Grail!” Tarasov heaves a sigh of frustration before prepping the team. “They leave us no choice. All right then—take up position at the wall. Abdul, you and me stay in the middle. When the suppressing fire starts, we all move in. Aim carefully. Clear?”

  “Clear,” the Bandits nod.

  “Pete, stick to the wall and move from buttress to buttress. Once you reach that car wreck, duck, fire that AK without peeking out, and try to stay in one piece. Hartman and the others will be there in about ten seconds.”

  “They’d better will.”

  Tarasov is about to follow Abdul to the agreed position when Hartman signals him to wait.

  “The less of this scum reach the New Zone, the better,” he coldly says when he is sure that Abdul can’t hear him. “If you know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” Tarasov whispers in reply. “But I don’t want the deserters to get hurt. I mean the two guys in black and woodland camouflage armor. They could be useful later.”

  “Just get them separated from the Bandits.”

  “Let’s move,” Tarasov says and adds, “Watch Pete’s back.”

  “Affirmative.”

  Tarasov joins Abdul who is lying prone behind a bush. When everyone is in position, he gives him a nod.

  “No wind,” the Dagestani whispers. “Good for smoke. God has blessed us.”

  He aims the grenade launcher. With a muted thump, the projectile darts out in a long arch and hits the tarmac right between the UAZ and the BTR. A second after impact, thick smoke rises and wreathes the helipad.

  Agitated noises come from the crazed Stalkers’ perimeter. Tarasov watches Pete who proceeds with a cat’s dexterity.

  “Careful, kid, careful,” he whispers under his breath.

  He is sure that by now the Stalkers know that doom approaches. However, by discipline or lack of ammunition, they don’t start shooting blindly into the growing smoke.

  Meanwhile Pete has reached the edge of the tarmac and disappears into the smoke that already engulfs the UAZ wreck. Three seconds later his AK starts barking in short bursts.

  “Abdul, fire!” Tarasov commands. “Do not hit the kid!”

  The concrete walls surrounding the helipad amplify the thundering explosion. By now the assault team’s rifle fire adds to the hellish noise of gunfire echoing in the compound.

  “One more!” Tarasov shouts.

  The smoke screens what’s going on from his view but after the next deafening bang, Tarasov hears cries from the direction of the Stalkers’ perimeter.

  “Nice shot,” he shouts, “let’s move!”

  Moving along the wall they hurry towards the fight. Tarasov draws his pistol, knowing that at close quarters, with the smoke still hazing the scene, his rifle with the attached scope would be useless. A defiant shout comes from behind the BTR.

  “Eat this, cocksuckers!”

  Before anyone can shout ‘cover!’, a grenade is thrown and goes up in a blast close to the UAZ that now takes shape in the smoke. Feeling safe tarmac under his feet, Tarasov dashes to the car wreck.

  “Still in one piece, kid?”

  “Yeah,” Pete shouts back. His eyes are wide open from the adrenaline rush that has made him ignore the blood gushing from a wound on his left arm.

  “You’re wounded!”

  Another grenade detonates and both of them instinctively duck.

  “What?”

  “Keep low! You’re wounded!”

  “Aw shit!”

  “Where’s the Top?”

  “Moving around the chopper to flank them!”

  Rifle fire comes from the wrecked helicopter, hitting the defenders from an angle where they are only protected by wooden crates and a few metal boxes. The agitated shouting of the Stalkers behind the BTR becomes panicked as the Bandits’ assault rifles spray them with automatic fire through this less than adequate cover. Hartman’s voice bellows over the gunfire.

  “Frag out!”

  Three hand grenades detonate behind the BTR where the defenders are now hopelessly cornered.

  “Give it up!” Tarasov yells. “Give it up, fools!”

  “Die, Bandit!” comes a desperate but defiant reply.

  The thud and whine of gunfire comes from the direction of the chopper wreck. Bullets hit the BTR and ricochet with a sharp whizz. Then the last Kalashnikov of the defenders ceases firing.

  “Keep your eyes open,” Tarasov commands.

  “Hey hey, buddies, it’s too soon to hide the guns!” a Bandit shouts in reply.

  “Top, on me! Let’s check the command post!”

  Hartman kicks the rusty metal door open and Tarasov, holding his pistol at ready, quickly surveys the interior. Hartman follows him. Save for a few dirty mattresses and a few worthless items, they find the rooms empty.

  “Clear!”

  “Clear,” Tarasov replies and holsters his weapon.

  Oblivious of their three dead comrades who lie between the UAZ and the helicopter, the Bandits and a few Mercenaries are already moving into loot the dead Stalkers.

  “Hehe, this little stiff’s a kind one, he’ll share, won’t he? Hmm, this one was an idiot—no supplies, all shit—”

  Tarasov fires his pistol in the air.

  “Stop looting,” he says once all eyes are on him. “We still got a job to do. Abdul, the stage is yours. Until he places the explosives, let’s all move to a safe distance. That includes you, trench coat! Those bodies won’t be going anywhere.”

  “Yes, you better move into that command building,” Abdul says removing his rucksack. “This one’s going to be a big one.”

  Tarasov watches him take several blocks of C4 explosives from his rucksack and begins to position them at the weak-spots of the wreck.

  “Perhaps you want to report Jack that the helipad is ours?” Abdul asks while attaching a radio receiver to a block of explosives.

  “When you’re done, Abdul.”

  After five minutes, they all throng inside the windowless first floor of the command post. Tarasov grimaces as he feels the smell of cordite mixing with the reek of stale sweat and dirty fatigues in the confined space.

  “Duck, keep your mouths open and ears covered,” Abdul warns them putting plugs in his ears. “Ready? Three… two… one. Bismillah!”

  He presses the button on the detonator.

  When the chemical reaction inside the C-4 is trigged, it releases a blast of nitrogen and carbon oxides that sucks most of the gas out from the center of the explosion. When the gases rush back in to the vacuum, they create a second wave of energy, this time inward. To the men ducking inside, the only observable feature about all this is a detonation that shatters the command post and almost kicks them to the ground.

  Small metal parts clink as they fall to the tarmac.

  “Ooo-kay,” Abdul shouts. “Now let’s have a butchers at what we’ve done.”

  Low smoke lingers over the tarmac. All that remains from the Mi-24’s wreck that had stood there a minute ago is a pile of metal debris.

  “And now – let’s loot,” a Bandit says cheerily.

  Hustling like shoppers would at sales time, the remaining Bandits scramble to the now ruined perimeter and begin to pat down the bodies and force the containers open. r />
  Tarasov stops the deserters. “Hey, you two! Back into the command post. Pete, you too. Check it for anything useful.”

  “But there is nothing but junk,” the Freedomer protests.

  “Do what I said, goddammit!” Tarasov shouts at him.

  Realizing what’s coming next, Hartman rubs his hands.

  “Scavengers,” he grumbles and gives the looters a scorn.

  “Hey!” Tarasov shouts to the machine gun Bandit. “Trench coat! Let me see your PKM!”

  “Ain’t for sale, tipa!”

  “I can see from here that it’s jammed. Let me put it right until you’re busy. What if mutants show up and you stand there with just your dick in your hands?”

  “Whatcha mean? This one’s in perfect condition,” the Bandit says but hands over his light machine gun nonetheless. “But if ya wanna clean it for me, go ahead!”

  With a wink from his eye, Tarasov hands the weapon over to Hartman who gives it the look of a specialist.

  ”How do you say in Russian, ’comrade, the condition of your weapon brings shame on you, now give me twenty’?”

  The former Marine opens the breech, removes the ammunition band and pulls it through again. Then he closes the breech and works the bolt carrier. With a loud click, the bolt moves back into position, ready to fire.

  “No longer jammed?” Tarasov asks drawing his pistol and rocking the safety off.

  “There’s only one way to find it out!”

  The Bandits look puzzled. They were listening to their conversation but didn’t understand it. One of them is about to make a joke when his eyes open wide with dread.

  “Patsani…”

  If he wanted to shout a warning, it came too late. The PKM’s hail of bullets hits the Bandits who have neither a chance to escape nor time to draw their own weapons which they have carelessly slung over their shoulders to make looting easier. While Hartman relentlessly fires the machine gun, Tarasov points his pistol at Abdul who stands there taken over by complete surprise, watching the slaughter with a horror-stricken face.

  “Stay where you are, dagi!”

  The machine gun fire ceases. For a second, empty cartridge shells keep jingling as they fall to ground around Hartman’s feet.

  “Jesus Christ, what was that?”

  Pete and the two deserters rush from the command post. Seeing the pile of dead Bandits, Hartman with the still smoking machine gun and Tarasov keeping Abdul in check, they drop their jaws.

  “What the fuck are you staring at?” Hartman asks. ”We’re mobsters now. Ever heard of Valentine Day’s Massacre?”

  “Don’t do anything stupid,” Tarasov tells in Russian to the two deserters, watching Abdul from the corner of his eye. “Top, take their rifles until I deal with this terrorist here.”

  “And now let’s kill that fucking raghead,” Hartman says.

  “Sorry Top but this is personal.”

  “Suit yourself,” Hartman says with a shrug and adds, loud enough for Abdul to hear it, “I’ll kill enough ragheads once I’m back to the New Zone!”

  “Who the hell are you?” Abdul asks with slowly moving lips.

  “Who I am is none of your business, but I’m proud to give you to Sergeant Major Hartman,” Tarasov says with a grin and jerks his head toward the Top. “He’s from the Tribe. You heard of them, I guess. Renegade Americans, addicted to kill bastards like you who blew up schools in Russia and sprayed acid into girls’ faces in Afghanistan. Like your ’brothers’ did with my girl.”

  “Oh God,” Abdul mutters.

  “Take off your ammo belt and run – I’m giving your god a chance to save you.”

  Hoping to make a quick dash and escape in the twilight, Abdul starts running across the open area where the minefield once was. Keeping his eye on the fleeing terrorist, Tarasov holsters his pistol and unslings the scoped Val from his shoulder. He takes his time for an accurate aim.

  “This is for Stingray One,” he whispers as he watches Abdul’s back in the reticule.

  Softly, he pulls the trigger.

  The muzzle blast is barely more audible than the faint whizz of two sub-sonic bullets and the hard clack of the receiver ejecting the spent cases. The reticule jolts upwards from the recoil. When it flattens back a moment later, Tarasov sees Abdul fall forward with arms outstretched. Then comes a sudden and blinding blaze, accompanied by the blast of a detonation.

  “Wow!” Hartman says with a satisfied grin. ”Now I understand why that bastard was so attached to his lucky charm!”

  “Fitting death for someone fond of explosives,” Tarasov observes and shoulders his rifle. “You feel like making a little noise? Take his launcher and fire a few grenades to where he fell. Just in case there’re more mines.”

  “Oh yeah,” Hartman says gleefully, taking Abdul’s orphaned RG-6 from the ground. “This is my grenade launcher. There are many like it, but this one’s mine!”

  “Hey, you two!” Tarasov shouts to the deserters. “Come over here. Let’s have a chat.”

  Mistrust is written over the two deserters’ faces as they approach him.

  “You belong to self-respecting factions. How on earth did you end up as Bandits?”

  “I want to see the New Zone,” the Freedomer says. ”Heard that Bandits are looking for men to beef up their ranks and move there. And honestly, I wouldn’t mind checking out the rumors about extra-large weed growing there either. That’s all.”

  “I’m amazed,” the Dutyer says feigning surprise. ”If they are looking for men, how did they let you join them?”

  “But I do know why they let you join, buddy. Friar told me being a Dutyer is the greatest crime against humanity.”

  “Stop that banter for a minute,” Tarasov says tiredly. ”What about you, Dutyer?”

  “Unlike this junkie, I’m a reasonable person. Realized long ago that this war with Freedom will never end. But if I became a Loner, my comrades would hunt me down for desertion. That left me with the Mercs and Bandits to choose from. Guess if I join the latter and go with them to the New Zone, I can be free there.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Call me Buryat. Before you ask—I’m Russian but was born in Ulan-Ude, Buryatia, that’s why.”

  “You, Freedomer?”

  “Name’s Ferret. Where I was born is none of your business. And what about you? Been with the army, huh?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Come on, patsan. You’re used to ordering men around, no reason to deny it. Are you a deserter?”

  “I prefer to think of it the other way round: my army deserting me.” Tarasov stirs as a grenade from the RG-6 detonates with a loud bang. “Looks like neither of you is committed to Bandit business. That means we’re in the same shoes because all we want is to get back to the New Zone, just like you.”

  “You’ve been to the New Zone?” Buryat asks. “How is it there?”

  “Everything’s kind of bigger. If we stick together, we have a better chance to deal with the Bandits once we’re in the New Zone.”

  “How do you want to deal with them?”

  Tarasov cocks an eye at the spot where the dead Bandits lie. The two deserters exchange a grin.

  “Besides, the New Zone is a tough place. Local equivalent of the Bar is Bagram. I can help you get there. All in all, it’s your best interest to side with us.”

  Not to mention a trigger-happy Hartman who’d shoot you without fluttering an eyelid if you don’t, Tarasov mentally adds.

  “Fine with me,” Buryat says.

  “You, Ferret? With or against us?”

  The Freedomer nods. “Count me in, but I beg you not to take the Dutyer. Duty’s presence is bad for the mood.”

  “And yours for morale,” Buryat grumbles.

  “Guys, I don’t want you to suck each other’s yalda but please, try not to stab each other in the back until we’re in Bandit country. Is that too much for me to ask?”

  “I’ll try,” says Ferret.<
br />
  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, ’Chekh’. A Dutyer would never stab anyone in the back. Only black-hearted anarchists do that.”

  “Let’s make a campfire,” Ferret says. He rubs his hands together. “It’s freezing!”

  “What will you whine about next?” the Dutyer asks. “Your sausage is too small, huh?”

  “You should try Freedom sausage, buddy. It’s bigger and longer than what you Dutyers are used to!”

  “Stick it up your anarchist butt and rotate!”

  Leaving the two quarrelling men to themselves, Tarasov sees the time fit to report back to Jack – including the final body count. Having secured Buryat’s and Ferret’s loyalty, it is no longer necessary to dispose of them and extend the casualty list. He presses the switch on the radio set.

  “Jack. Misha Chekh here.”

  “At last! What the hell took you so long?”

  “Resistance was heavier than expected but the mission is accomplished. The helipad is secure and the wrecked chopper has been removed.”

  “Casualties?”

  “Only the two pindos, the Freedomer and the Dutyer made it through.”

  “Abdul?”

  “Abdul’s gone. Stepped on a damned land mine after he finished the job.”

  “There are still mines?”

  Another detonation blasts the edge of the minefield.

  “Don’t worry, we’re about to clean it.”

  “Yeah, I hear it. Too bad about Abdul. Such a waste of talent.”

  “Damn tragic indeed.”

  “Never mind, at least I don’t have to pay him. Good job, fellows. Sultan will be pleased.”

  “That’s why we’re here, Jack. To please Sultan.” Tarasov is glad Jack can’t see his grin. “What’s next?”

  “Stay where you are. Keep any mutants off the helipad until more men arrive.”

  “Is, uhm, Margarita safe?”

  “You bet she is. Stop whining about her, patsan! You in love with her or what?”

  Jack clears the channel.

  “As a matter of fact I am,” Tarasov murmurs reattaching the radio set to his belt.

  He walks over to Hartman who is giving a Pete a crash course on handling the grenade launcher. “Love at first sight, huh?”

  The Top gives him a beaming smile. “You bet.”

  “The two deserters are on our side.”

  “Wise choice.”

  “What about Nooria?” Pete asks. “I’m worried about leaving her alone in the Bandit camp.”

  “Jack told me she’s fine.”

  “What was that talk about her being an assassin, anyway?”

  “No idea. Probably the big boss was impressed by her escape from the SBU.”

  “Yup,” the Top nods. “Can’t blame him for falling for her charm.”

  “Three hours till daylight,” Tarasov says illuminating the dial on his watch. ”I wonder what they’re up to now.”

  “Guess they need the place to land a chopper with supplies.”

  “Or a chopper to fly us out.”

  “Wishful thinking, Pete. They’d need a whole fleet of choppers to get out all the Bandits.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough,” Tarasov says. “Now look at that! Our new friends eventually managed to make a campfire without killing each other. Let’s warm ourselves up and wait.”

  66

  Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone

  “You know the New Zone well, Margarita?”

  Nooria stares at the huge map Jack has rolled out over his table. Her answer would be yes. However, she never used maps to navigate through the wilderness where she grew up. Even if she could read maps, there’s still the concern that Jack might ask her about directions and places she has no intention to share.

  “I know about Bagram,” she cautiously says.

  “It’s the northern areas I’m interested in.”

  “I don’t know northern passages very good,” she replies, relieved over Jack not asking her about the Tribe’s valley.

  “We might have a problem.” Jack sounds genuinely concerned. “Recently, we tried to establish a base for our operations west of Bagram but an idiot called Bruiser screwed it up. Looks like we’ll need to be more cautious this time.”

  “What happened?”

  “He and his men cleared out a Loners’ lair at a position that would’ve been more than perfect. Right in the middle of the New Zone, between the artifact fields here and Bagram, here.” Jack points his finger to two points on the map. “They barely had time to catch their breath when a bunch of heavily armed whackos appeared out of the blue. Our brothers didn’t stand a chance—it was not a fight but a massacre!”

  “Who did it? Stalkers?”

  “You heard of them whackos calling themselves the Tribe?”

  Nooria is barely able to suppress a smile. “Yes. Very dangerous people. You better don’t get close to them.”

  “That’s my second question. See, a short while ago there was a huge emission that devastated Termez. Sultan has spent a fortune to get things arranged there – landing, switching to choppers, getting over the border into the New Zone and all. Now the place is a mess and our arrangements no longer stand. The good news is, our flight will less likely be suspicious among all the disaster relief traffic. Bad news is, we have to land directly in the New Zone. Bruiser and his remaining men are holed up at a village called Charikhar, here, north of Bagram. My question is: do you think the Tribe can attack us there?”

  “It is far from Bagram.”

  “I know, but the road running close to it is the only place where our airplanes can land. Kunduz and Mazari Sheriff are too far north.”

  “It is Mazari Sharif,” Nooria corrects him.

  “Mazari – Whatever!” Jack snorts. “I give a rat’s ass about what locals call it.”

  Nooria finds Jack’s arrogance very much to her satisfaction, and hopes that it will translate as carelessness once they are there. It wouldn’t be the first time the New Zone would punish arrogant newcomers. It appears to her that the place marked on the map is out of the Tribe’s regular patrol grids; however, close enough for the Colonel to send in a strike force and eliminate the Bandit’s foothold once he learns the location.

  “Let me think,” she says patting her lips with her finger, ignoring the stare Jack is giving her mouth. “No, I don’t think Tribe will go there. It looks safe to me.”

  “You better be right about that.” Jack unpockets a cellular phone and dials a number. “Sultan, it’s me. Margarita says the Tribe will probably not bother us there. Yes, yes, I know Bruiser said the landing strip is safe but he was an asshole. No disrespect meant. All right… okay, boss. I’ll ask her… Yes, everything is prepared. We move in one hour. Understood.”

  He puts the phone away and gives Nooria an inquisitive look.

  “The boss wants to know who your bodyguards are and if they’re also from the New Zone.”

  “Misha… well, he is a Chechen, and two Americans… tall one is from Tennessee and kid from Los Angeles—”

  “It’s not their damned curriculum I want to know but if they’re from the New Zone like you.”

  Unsure about what reply would be best, Nooria decides to tell the truth. “Yes.”

  Jack appears satisfied with her reply. “Excellent,” he says. “You will land first and secure the area before the rest of us moves in. Maybe this would be a good time for you to get a real weapon, no?”

  “My blade is enough.”

  “Bozhevilna,” Jack grumbles something disapproving in Ukrainian. “Whatever. Visit Limpid in the warehouse if you change your mind, but you better hurry. The first detachment is already moving out.”

  “Where?”

  “What do you think, Margarita?” Jack cheerily asks. “We’re flying to the New Zone today!”

  67

  Helipads, Exclusion Zone

  The wind grows colder as the night slowly fades away and the eastern horizon begins to glow
with soft pink. Beyond the far hills of Zaton, the silhouette of the CNPP looms in the pale sunrise. White frost covers the sparse grass growing on the cleared minefield where Tarasov and Buryat are dragging Abdul’s corpse. In a minute, his stiffening body lies among the grim yield of last night’s battle—dead Stalkers and Bandits laid out next to the command post. Their faces are covered with their bullet-torn jackets and trench coats to give them at least a modicum of dignity.

  “Looks like it’s going to snow today,” Tarasov says warming his hands at the campfire. “Time for us to leave, really. The Zone is hell in winter. Mutants are starving and become more aggressive. Some anomalies are buried under the snow and you can’t see them—and when the snow recedes in spring, one often finds the body of Stalkers frozen to death months before.”

  “Must have run out of vodka,” Pete says, shaking with cold.

  “Just like we did,” Hartman says. “How’s your wound doing?”

  “Hurts.”

  “You’re lucky it’s just a flesh wound.”

  “Hurts nonetheless.”

  Tarasov is about to check if the bandage on Pete’s arm needs to be changed when they hear a shout.

  “Hey! Patsani!”

  One of Jack’s bodyguards appears below the grassy slope leading to the helipads and waves his hand. “Is da minefield clear?”

  Tarasov waves back and points to the spot where Abdul fell and from where their own footsteps lead to the safety of the helipad’s tarmac. “Follow that path, just in case!”

  When more armed men appear from the direction of the Container Warehouse, Tarasov notices with surprise that it’s not just a patrol coming to occupy the helipads. Led by one of Jack’s bodyguards, several dozen Bandits are approaching. All are carrying heavy rucksacks.

  “Good job with’em Stalkers,” their leader says when he gets to Tarasov. “They guna bother us no more. You can return to base now.”

  “What’s next?”

  The Bandit shrugs. “Dunno exactly. Jack told us to come ’ere with one third of’em bros. Another hundred are on da way to da Cement Factory. If y’ask me – Sultan’s guna send choppas to get us outta ’ere.”

  “Yeah, but what kind of helicopter could carry so many people, plus cargo? There’s none in Ukraine capable of that. Besides, the New Zone is three thousand kilometers away!”

  “Sultan says he’s guna take us there and ya better be trustin’ him. Da boss always keeps his word—’nuff said!”

  _____________________________

  Walking back to base in the early morning mist, they pass by a veritable caravan of Bandits on their way to the helipads. All are cheerful and excited. However, all thoughts about the Bandits’ plans are momentarily forgotten when they find Nooria sound and safe at their campsite.

  Jack’s Mercenaries don’t leave them much time to relax. They walk down the alleys between the containers and shout orders for everyone to get ready to move out. Still unsure about what comes now, Tarasov’s party gears up and follows them to the open area stretching out in front of the Bandit camp where a crowd of more than a hundred men has already gathered. Friar has climbed up a pile of ammunition crates and shouts out over the crowd.

  “…and He cast upon them the fierceness of His anger, wrath, and indignation, and trouble, by sending evil angels! Behold, brothers, for today those angels will carry us to the heavens!”

  “Is he crazy or just drunk?” Buryat asks.

  “Probably both,” comes Ferret’s reply.

  “At last we seem to agree over something.”

  Then they hear a noise coming from the north. It sounds like a helicopter but is undertoned by the drone of engines that must be much bigger than those powering a Mi-24 or any other helicopter likely to appear over the Zone. The noise becomes louder and after a minute three dots appear on the misty northern horizon. As they get closer, Tarasov realizes they are indeed helicopters – but of a type he had never seen in action before. The roaming noise of engines fills the sky as the gigantic aircraft approach. Their broad bodies appear more like that of a cargo plane than a helicopter. The downwash of the enormous, eight-blade rotors whirls up vortexes in the thick morning fog.

  “Holy mother of Jesus Christ,” Pete slowly says.

  “Mil Mi-26,” Tarasov says in admiration. “The biggest helicopter in the world!”

  Hartman sounds equally impressed. “Codename Halo. I’ve seen one lifting a Chinook, back at Kandahar in 2010. That helo is… massive.”

 

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