by John Mason
“They soon realized that something more powerful was needed, so they put together seven volunteers to create a common consciousness. In short, the C-Consciousness.”
“Sounds like science fiction to me.”
“It was more like horror, because in 2006 the experiments damaged the Noosphere. No one knows for sure what had exactly happened, but we all see the results here in the Zone. If you ask me – the Zone is the bad day of the universe.”
“So we are here to kill mutants? Preventing them to get out?”
“No, that’s Duty’s job… Killing all the snorks, controllers, burers… as if that were possible. But the Stalkers keep sneaking in to hunt for things called artifacts. Some of them work wonders with a human body and can be sold for fat sums in the Big Land outside. Preventing this is our job, at least on paper – the state wants to have the monopoly on such trade. Anyway, to recap the story, the C-Consciousness eventually backfired. It used the scientists to create a trap, to brainwash people to protect itself. Stalkers called this trap the Brain Scorcher. It brainwashed enough people to create its own army. They called themselves the Monolith, believing they serve some sort of alien crystal capable of fulfilling any wish. Bloody fanatics.”
“Was it true, komandir?”
“Don’t start asking me about the Wish Granter. Anyway, two years ago a Stalker called Strelok found a path to the center of the Zone where the Monolith was protecting the C-Consciousness. His call sign was Marked One. He never talked about what exactly happened there... and frankly, I sleep easier without knowing about it. Whatever he did, the Zone is still here and all we can do is try to contain it. Maybe it doesn’t need the C-Consciousness to exist anymore. I don’t know.” Tarasov takes a sip of water from his canteen. “This chamber was the Marked One’s hideout. By now you probably understand that Strelok is the hero of all Stalkers. They come here to prove they’ve got what it takes to be a Stalker and leave a message behind. ”
“That’s why the mercenaries we ran into were here?”
“I doubt it. They prefer spraying the walls with our blood, not paint. What concerns us now is that the son of some big fish in Kiev died during an attempt to get here. We were ordered to make the place inaccessible.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. What we do here makes no difference… it’s an uphill battle all the time. Sometimes I wish I’d be a free Stalker, with nothing in my mind but artifacts and how to spend money once I get rich by selling them. Then an order comes like today and makes me forget about such thoughts.”
Tarasov climbs to his feet but the technician persists in questioning him.
“I know about the Stalkers. But the guys in the base told me something about factions called Freedom and Duty, too.”
The major sits back, emitting an impatient sigh.
“It’s two sides of the same coin, Chumak. Some hardliners set up a militia to destroy the Zone. That is Duty. Then there are bleeding hearts believing that the whole world has a right to study the Zone. Bullshit, I’d say – Freedom is sponsored by Western powers who want to have their share of artifacts, but the Zone is ours. Am I not right?”
“I agree, komandir.”
Tarasov hesitates for a moment before continuing. Then he decides that speaking his mind would mean no harm. Back at their base, no soldier takes Chumak seriously enough to believe what the technician says, should he ever tell them about his doubts.
“You know, Chumak… years ago, when I arrived here as a lieutenant, I believed that the Zone’s resources should be exploited for the benefit of our country. After all, it is us Ukrainians who suffer from it most. It would be just fair for use to take whatever benefits the Zone has, scientific or else. Later on, when I saw that our generals have nothing else in mind than getting rich from selling artifacts on the black market and weapons to Stalkers and Duty, I was more and more wishing the Zone would disappear, either by force or a miracle. It corrupts people as much as it corrupts nature. Now I do not care any longer about all of this… Whatever we do just peels off the Zone. Duty’s trigger-happy Rambos and Freedom’s dope-smoking anarchists will never be able to deal with it.”
Tarasov looks around in the chamber, taken over by a feeling of hopelessness. He envies Strelok who was once hiding here during his long raid deep into the center of the Zone, trying to solve its ultimate secrets.
“It was different then…,” he silently continues. “There was still reason to be here. Now we know everything about the Zone except what it is, and this we will never find out. We’re stuck with it, like a child who takes a bite too big and can neither swallow nor spit it out. I wish I could move on with it, but I’m trapped here. There’s no way for me to live outside of the Zone, even if there’s nothing but corruption inside. You’ll understand if you stay here long enough… but that’s enough Zone lore for today. Come, let’s get this job done.”
“Yes, komandir, but tell me… I mean, I’m sorry for snapping after that thing attacked us… but you were kidding when you pointed your shooter at me, weren’t you?”
“That’s not a shooter,” Tarasov replies standing up and patting off the dust from his leggings, “it’s called an assault rifle.”
Before climbing back to the tunnel, Tarasov takes a fragmentation grenade, removes the safety pin, and carefully places the device under a piece of wood ripped from a crate. It will probably not prevent any Stalkers from entering the chamber except the first and unluckiest, but at least he has an excuse to report back that the place is booby-trapped.
Chumak starts working with quick, accurate movements. In a few minutes, the ladder lies in pieces. He takes the longer parts and welds them to the iron trunks. When he switches off the blue light of his welding torch, the shaft is barred by a strong new grid.
“Molodets,” Tarasov says, giving Chumak a look of approval, “and now let’s get the hell out of here. Squad, on me! Shumenko, take point.”
Tunnel system - Agroprom Research Institute, 10:15:03 EEST
After twenty meters, another chamber opens to their left. On Tarasov’s sign, Ivanchuk moves over and keeps his weapon aimed into the room until the others pass by. Then he assumes his place on the rear, keeping a cautious eye on the far end of the tunnel.
They barely proceed a few meters when the sergeant raises his fist. Two Fruit Punch anomalies lie ahead. Judged by the distance between them, they could pass through safely.
“Form a line. Watch your step,” he orders his men.
“There’s something in that anomaly, sir.”
Tarasov takes his detector device and turns towards the anomaly. Shumenko’s eyes might have been misled by wishful thinking but the detector proves him right. The display lights up and indicates a small green dot, just a meter away. Cautiously stepping closer, he investigates the substance. A tiny object levitates an inch above the anomaly, as if in the state of weightlessness.
He cautiously picks it up, avoiding any contact with the acidic substance beneath. It would burn through his protective gloves in a moment. “Look at this little fellow,” he says as if talking about a puppy, “Privet, Kolobok!”
Holding it, the major feels his skin become tougher and less sensitive. The artifact looks like a small, round hedgehog with crystals protruding from its dark green core. It weighs as much as a half dozen medikits but a person keeping it close to his body would never have to worry about running out of bandages. The artifact’s coagulating effects would heal any open wound in a minute. Luckily, judged by the Geiger counter’s consistent ticking it’s not of the radioactive variety.
“Komandir…,” says the sergeant, “With all due respect, I saw it first.”
“Duly noted,” Tarasov replies, as he carefully lets the artifact slide into a container on his armored suit. “Ever heard about chain of command?”
The sergeant seems disgruntled but Tarasov ignores him. It would be fair to divide the price with his men if he decides to sell the artifact. Sidorovich, the best-known tr
ader in the Zone, pays generous amounts but the scientists in Yantar pay even better. That would however mean a long trek to their field laboratory, while Sidorovich’s den is close to their base. He will worry about it later. First they need to get out of the underground facility. The squad slowly proceeds between the anomalies towards the tunnel end, where an opening in the wall leads into a staircase.
“Up we go,” Tarasov says but as soon as he climbs up the first stairs, he sees even more anomalies ahead. He signals a stop and takes a pistol magazine from his vest. Back in Pripyat, he learned from Strelok how to use bolts and screw-nuts to determine the size of an anomaly. His own device is more elegant. The spring inside the magazine pushes the shells upwards and he only has to direct them into the anomaly with his thumb. Landing in the sizzling substance, they immediately dissolve with a sharp, hissing sound.
“No way through this one,” he says with frustration. “Damn, I had a feeling that we wouldn’t get out so easily.”
“Maybe we can neutralize the anomaly if we ask Shumenko to piss into it.”
“Ha, ha, ha, Lieutenant,” replies the sergeant with a fake laugh. “If you want to know, ever since I visited that bitch you talked about my piss is burning so much that I could blast a hole in the wall with it.”
“Did you at least manage to blast her hole?”
“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Tarasov orders. “No time to relax yet. We’ve got to backtrack and find another way out.”
“Shit,” Ivanchuk swears. Tarasov responds with a grin.
“You still like this job, Lieutenant?”
“I do, komandir… I was just mentioning that I dislike visiting places I’ve already been to.”
“That’s the spirit. Now, if we are lucky, our mercenary friends tried to retreat and ran directly into Fortress One. If not… we kick more ass. Let’s move.”
Either because they killed everyone on their way in or because the mercenaries were indeed ambushed upon trying to leave the catacombs, the squad makes its way back into the laboratory undisturbed. Chumak carefully skirts around the dead bloodsucker, its lifeless eyes still glowing as if it could jump up any second. As he passes it by, Kolesnik shoots it again.
“Just to make sure, komandir.”
“Don’t waste your ammunition. Move!” Tarasov says, getting nervous, knowing this is the worst time. All missions become most dangerous when they are almost over. Men tend to lose patience and caution with disastrous results.
In a minute, they are back to the first tunnel they traversed, with the ladder leading up to the shaft and out of the catacombs. He notices that the lieutenant has his headlamp switched on. Damn, does he want to get a headshot?
“Switch off your headlamp, Lieutenant!”
“Yes, Major… It’s just that the night vision makes my eyes pop from their sockets… and now this headache…”
Tarasov suddenly also feels pain creeping into his skull.
“What is that?” Chumak asks and steps forward, emboldened by the proximity of the exit shaft. Before Tarasov can order him back he hears a faint, sharp noise, rapidly strengthening into a deep howl rolling through the darkness.
“Controller!” Shumenko screams in horror.
A loud bang hits Tarasov’s brain. It’s not transmitted through his ears – the sound is already echoing inside his head, as if his brain was exploding. But it’s Ivanchuk who falls to his knees as Chumak strikes his pistol and shoots the lieutenant in the face.
“Get into cover!” screams Tarasov desperately. Bullets whizz towards the dark end of the tunnel. He curses himself for not having a shotgun or at least an AKSU – the small magazine of his rifle will not be enough for this kill. Realizing the controller didn’t see him yet because he still has some willpower of his own, he charges forward. It’s not fair, flashes through his painful mind, so close to the end, it’s just not fair! He sees the silhouette of the monster against the red flashes of the last emergency light. Having finished off the soldiers, it now tries to take hold of his mind. But desperation and rage seize his muscles and in two seconds, he reaches the mutant. It towers above him with its mass of brawny flesh. Tarasov empties the whole magazine into its torso. The controller tries to step back. He senses its aggression vanish, as if he himself had absorbed it while he smashes the mutant’s head again and again with the butt of his rifle until the weapon breaks.
Suddenly the tight, fiery ring that gripped his skull recedes then disappears. The bang-bang is gone. His panting sounds deafening in the sudden silence.
Blood flows from his ears. He switches on his headlamp and sees Kolesnik getting up from the ground, groaning. Then Shumenko rises, holding his head as if still in pain. Chumak kneels above Ivanchuk’s body. He has torn the gas mask off his face. From his eyes, still maddened by horror, tears are flowing.
“I didn’t… I didn’t want…”
“No.” Tarasov’s voice is hoarse and trembling. He takes the Fort from the technician. “You’ve been… controlled.”
He looks at the lieutenant’s body. Goddammit. Of all the wounds a bullet can inflict, he most hates the sight of a headshot. It’s bad enough to realize how thin the layers of muscle, body tissues and skin are that make the difference between a pile of organs and a human form. But a face, distorted into a dreadful yawn by a last traction of the muscles and the scattered brain protruding from a cracked skull, still emanating body warmth into the chilly air, is something else.
Tarasov feels the urge to vomit but pulls himself together. Kolesnik is weaker. He leans against the wall and throws up. Only Shumenko remains on his feet, expecting Tarasov to say something. The major clears his throat.
“Sergeant, take this,” he says, reaching to his waist and handing the artifact to the soldier.
“I’m fine, sir.”
“Take it. Tomorrow, you and Kolesnik will go on a patrol to Yantar.”
“I understand,” the sergeant quietly replies. “I’ll send the lieutenant’s share to his family.”
Tarasov nods. Together they help Chumak to his feet. Kolesnik joins their effort. His armor is darkened by stains of vomit. Tarasov steps to the ladder and reaches for his radio transmitter.
“Fortress One, this is Condor One.”
“This is Fortress One, over.”
“Mission accomplished. We are at the shaft. We got a KIA. Send down a harness. Over.”
“Wilco, Condor One. Over and out.”
By the time the lifting harness is lowered from above, Tarasov has already attached a gas mask to Ivanchuk’s face – no need for the other soldiers to see a comrade like that. Carefully, they fasten the harness around the body. Shumenko, already out of the shaft, waves to the pilot and Lieutenant Vasiliy Ivanchuk’s body sets out on its journey to a cemetery somewhere in the far Lugansk region. He waves to his remaining men.
“Let’s get to the chopper!”
When Tarasov finally emerges from the shaft, his knees tremble to such an extent that he has to sit down in the grass. He is the kind of soldier who doesn’t worry too much before a mission and keeps a cool head throughout, but once the danger is over, all the fear and excitement his mind kept at bay under duress unloads in a heavy, almost nauseating wave. Lieutenant Nabokov offers him a cigarette. Tarasov cannot refuse it.
“Was it bad?”
The major doesn’t reply immediately. He removes his blood-smeared gloves and watches his fingers tremble.
“We met a controller," he says. "I’ll need a new rifle. He’ll need a new head.”
Nabokov does not bother him with any more questions.
Agroprom Research Institute, 10:35:26 EEST
Before climbing into the helicopter, Tarasov and his remaining two military Stalkers form a circle, holding each other’s shoulder like they usually do after a successful mission. They emit a loud shout to release the adrenaline still circulating in their blood, but with the lieutenant’s body inside the helicopter their shout falls short of victorious. Then the gunship pulls
up and passing over the ruins, flies off towards the south east. Tarasov glances at his watch. He can barely believe that only one hour has passed since they descended into the underground.
Probably he will spend the rest of the day doing paperwork, including the drafting of a letter to Ivanchuk’s next of kin. The thought depresses him.
Flying over along the tree-lined road where the wrecks of Zaporozhets cars and Kamaz trucks rust away since the times of the first Chernobyl incident, the helicopter slowly gains altitude. To distract his thoughts from the body travelling with them, Tarasov keeps looking out of the window, wishing he could clean the rotten smell of the underground and stinging gunpowder residue off his nostrils with the fresh air outside.
He looks back to the forking road and the Garbage area where the highly radioactive debris from Chernobyl lies buried. It would still be beautiful for a wilderness, if one disregarded the abandoned vehicles and tanks, the dilapidated farms and ruined industrial buildings. He wishes he could exchange the helicopter’s deafening noise for the Zone’s silence. In the Zone, no songbirds ever sing, only ravens croak. No critter moves in the bushes, only mutants roam. Whatever noise the wind is bringing from afar, it’s about a sound of death: a rifle burst; a mutant’s growl; a human scream. And occasionally the roaring thunder of an emission approaching from the center of the Zone, painting the sky in deep purple, flashing lightning engulfing everything with darkness before bursting out in a gigantic display of flame-like rifts in the sky that resemble the Northern Lights. It would be a spectacular, dreadful sight if it weren’t lethal to stay in the open and watch. During the years he had spent here, Tarasov not only learned how to survive in the Zone, he also learned how to love it – although he loved it more when there had still been secrets to explore. Sometimes he wished the Zone was even bigger, but wasn’t sure anymore if this was his own desire or that of the Zone. No protective suit, no armor could prevent the power of the Zone from creeping into his consciousness. The daily fear, the short moments of joy over a mission well done, the grief over fallen comrades, the mysteries he witnessed formed an ever-growing layer around his mind. With each beat of his heart, there was more and more of the Zone in his blood.