by John Mason
“You have also proven yourself worthy to be called a warrior. For many, we are the worst enemy but for you, we will be the best friends.”
Removing the oilcloth wrapper from the Colonel’s gift, Tarasov sees a beautifully forged combat knife. A delicate pattern runs down the blade, and its razor-sharp edge glows with a pale red hue. The weapon is not only beautiful as an object in its own right, but has obviously been alloyed with fire-emitting artifact too.
“This is our special Ka-Bar, as used by our warriors. Take it and bear it with honor.”
“You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to join your Tribe,” Tarasov boldly says. “I do have my own duty, that of my own country. I am still an officer of the Ukraine.”
The Colonel looks at him as if Tarasov has uttered the lowest profanity. “Don’t mistake a gift for recruitment. Even if you begged, I wouldn’t take you in. You are a friend, no more and no less… for now.”
“Fair enough.” Realizing how much he has overestimated his standing with the Colonel, Tarasov hesitates for a moment before continuing. “But there is something I need to ask you. As a friend, with all due respect.”
“And what would that be?” the Colonel asks, his voice promising nothing good.
“The Stalkers at Bagram are under attack by the dushmans and their allies. If the Tribe doesn’t help them, they will be annihilated.”
“So what?”
“If you helped them, you would have an ally to watch your back. They have traders too who could supply you with everything.”
The Colonel mockingly laughs. “We don’t need anyone to watch our back. Nor do we need Ashot’s rubbish.”
“You seem to have excellent spies, but they didn’t report everything to you. There is a technician there too. Name of Yar. He can work wonders with weapons.”
“You test my patience, Major. Didn’t you see that blade? If we go to such lengths to improve the most basic of weapons, what do you think we do to our rifles? We need no tinker man. But why do you care so much about them? You are with the military after all.”
“You think they are without honor, and you are right: many of them are scavengers, trespassers, adventurers, killers and robbers. They are, because in the end Stalkers can rely on no one but themselves. Right now you can teach them what honor means and make them your friends, and that would be a good thing for the Tribe. Because what good is there in being everyone’s worst enemy, without being anyone’s best friend?”
The Colonel keeps looking at him with the same measured state. Tarasov is at the end of his wits. There is no way to influence this man. Whatever I say keeps rebounding off him.
Leaning against the wall with his hands, the Colonel now turns back to the window, drumming his fingers. Tarasov stands patiently awaiting a reply for so long that he begins to get the feeling that the Colonel has forgotten about his presence. It therefore startles him when the Colonel suddenly addresses him again.
“Would you be ready to die for your men, Major?”
“I am a soldier, trained to kill and to stay alive,” the major replies without hesitation. “But if dying would make a difference… I would take it on as a sacrifice with meaning.”
“Well spoken. Too bad there are bigger sacrifices than dying!”
Tarasov gives the Colonel a baffled gaze but the big man turns his back on him to look out into the dusk again. “Go and see to your woman now. I will have my decision in time.”
The major knows the Colonel has nothing more to say. He also knows that, while the Lieutenants are standing at the door like statues, they are watching every move he makes. With nothing left to say and no action to be taken, Tarasov salutes and takes his leave. The Lieutenants let him pass and, stepping out of the Colonel’s tower, the major becomes silently preoccupied with his own concerns.
So… probably it will be me alone, maybe with a few Stalkers from the Asylum at best. I’ll leave at dawn.
Tribe stronghold, 18:41:56 AFT
It is the first time he finds himself unguarded and free to roam the Tribe’s stronghold, and it comes as a surprise to him how peaceful, even romantic the encampment appears. Small fires light up the narrow street leading down to the gate, each one with fighters sitting around, relaxing. Warm light emanates from the small windows of the mud houses overlooking the valley that is now cast into darkness by the approaching night. Some homes have been built into the rocks with rope bridges leading up to and connecting them. The jagged mountains gleam crimson for a few minutes before the sun sets, leaving only shades of deep blue and purple on the horizon. But with the eyes of a well-trained soldier, Tarasov can also see that every stone in the stronghold has been placed with only one goal in mind: defense. The serene lights from the fighters’ homes come from a direction where the valley could easily be kept under fire. The way to the gate is winding, with pillboxes perfectly aligned at positions to intercept intruders with machine gun fire. The fighters themselves may be chatting and smoking on hookah pipes, but all keep their rifles within reach, and here and there sandbags lie uniformly stacked up, ready to bolster the defenses. On the ramparts and bastions, rifle lights shine as guards keep their watch, and he also recognizes the small but well-trodden path that leads to the Pit. The thought of a home here with Nooria waiting for him almost makes him regret his words about not joining the Tribe.
“Are you lost?”
Tarasov jumps even as he recognizes the voice of the black gunnery sergeant.
“As a matter of fact… I am.”
“Don’t worry. It’s easy to get lost in this warren. If it’s the healer’s house you’re looking for, keep walking up the alley, always uphill.”
“That’s not exactly how I meant it…” The fighter seems friendly enough, so Tarasov decides to ask him the questions that are on his mind. “Do you have a little time?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“Just a few questions.”
“My watch is coming up. If I’m late, the Sergeant Major’s gonna get my ass.”
“Then at least tell me where the armory is.”
“Boxkicker’s den? Up that alley to the right and across the bridge. He should be around with a few fighters doing PMCS.” Seeing the confusion on Tarasov’s face, he adds: “That’s preventative maintenance checks and services.”
The fighter hurries off. Following his directions, The major passes by a few campfires where the warriors stop chatting and watch him with curious, distrustful eyes before turning back to their chat and the fruity-smelling smoke of their hookah pipes.
Tarasov has a strange feeling about them. Then he realizes that one thing is missing, something he had thought no soldier could live without: alcohol. He can’t see any bottles being shared, any glasses filled with spirits. Only teapots steam over the charcoal fires.
No way could I ever join them. No booze.
Passing by a home hewn into the rock he hears a woman chastising a misbehaving child.
“Hush! Go to bed or Osama will get you!”
“But Mom, the Colonel killed Osama long ago!”
“Go to bed, big mouth, or you’ll not be going to the shooting range tomorrow!”
Walking over a rope bridge, Tarasov sees a bunker ahead. A sign on its metal door says PROPERTY SHED in neatly painted letters.
Before entering, Tarasov examines his equipment. He has only two magazines left for the Vintorez. It will barely be enough for the trip to the Asylum, never mind Bagram.
I’ll need an arsenal for fighting my way to Bagram. Let’s see what they have.
Stepping inside, he finds a few warriors tending to their rifles under shelves that are beginning to sag under the weight of the weapons on them. A man is standing at a work bench, welding something that looks like heavy armor plates for a machine gunner’s position in a Humvee.
“Look at that! You got yourself a new customer, Boxkicker,” a fighter says.
The technician switches off the welding torch and removes his mask. Heavy sweat runs down his
red, snooty face.
“Spare the introduction,” he says wiping the sweat away, “I know you’re in for a free ride.”
“Where did you get all this gear from?” Tarasov asks, scanning the shelves. The amount and variety of first-class weaponry leaves him in awe: what he can see from a mere glance blows Ashot’s stock, or even many military armories, out of the water. From pistols to Gatling guns and submachine guns to heavy assault rifles, every lethal weapon ever made in the Western hemisphere lies here in perfect order and condition.
“Where is none of your business,” Boxkicker says. “Suffice to say, we still have… sympathizers. Rest assured, it’s not Human Rights Watch or the ACLU.”
The warriors burst out laughing but Tarasov doesn’t get the joke.
“What’s the ACLU?”
The armourer grins. “No clue, eh? You Russians don’t know how lucky you are.” The warriors laugh again. Tarasov looks back at the weapons, feeling like a child in a toy shop.
“We got the word you’re in for some cumshaw. Make your choice, but we have no Kalashnikovs or other slavshit here,” Boxkicker says, eyeing Tarasov’s rifle covetously. “I dig your Vintorez, though.”
The technician’s American slang puzzles Tarasov. Dig a weapon? he thinks. Never heard that before. “What do you mean? Why would you… use my rifle for digging?”
Seeing his confusion, the technician gives him a wide grin. “Never mind, Russkie. If you can’t choose between a forty-mike-mike and a gimpy, just ask.”
“I’d go for the nightwatch,” a warrior adds. The others eagerly join in the mocking.
“Forget that. No man is man enough without a bushmaster.”
“Check out the Ma Deuce, Russkie.”
“You ever fired a Pig?”
“I love firing my boomstick in the morning. Sounds like victory.”
“Once I dumped a girl because she made me chose between her and my blooper.”
“Come on, dude, the only girl you got into was your ALICE!”
“So, Russkie,” Boxkicker says, turning to Tarasov, still laughing and wiping more sweat from his face. “Tell me what you need.”
Tarasov looks around. The abundance of Western-made arms is overwhelming. “Boxkicker… what about that SOP-modified M4A1, including the ACOG? You could throw in a few 30-round magazines as well.”
“Hear ye, hear ye… we have an educated Russian here.”
“And the Heckler & Koch M27 with a C-Mag on that shelf to your right. Can I see it?”
“Come on, that’s too good for you. I can offer a PIP M249 with a cloth pouch holding two hundred rounds.”
“Only if it comes with enough duct tape to prevent it from falling apart.”
“You have a point, I give you that. All right… Ammo for this one? Suppose you want to take some full metal jacket M855’s.”
“I don’t need it for pea shooting. Are those Match bullets over there?”
“Bingo. Two boxes is all you get.”
“I could use that Benelli M4 too with a few boxes of slugs.”
“You are a rat-fuck, you know that? Take this shotgun.”
“What about that one?” Tarasov points at an ochre-painted, heavy rifle.
“Uh-oh… you want to make my life really difficult, eh?”
“Is that so?”
“I don’t know what’s screwing me up more, giving you that Gepard M6 or ignoring the big man’s orders… how would an anti-material rifle help you, anyway?”
“By making a material difference between life and death, I suppose.”
“That’s a real ass for sure. But it only works with Russian 12,7 millimeter rounds and we don’t have many of them around here.”
“I ask you very nicely: may I take the Gepard, please?”
“No way. You better keep your dickbeater off that.”
“Stop being so shit-hot, Boxkicker,” a warrior says quietly. “He’s Nooria’s mate. Unless you want her pissing into your wounds next time you need first aid, you better give him what he wants.”
“Oh, yes, Nooria.” The armourer smacks his lips. “I guess before eating her out, you’ve had to let her soak in hot water for an hour, scrubbed and disinfected her, and then put a bucket over her head to cover her face?”
Tarasov’s face reddens with anger.
“You don’t want any trouble for yourself,” another warrior tells Boxkicker. “Give him what he wants, big mouth.”
“I won’t give the Gepard to this rat-fuck. He can kiss my ass. But only if he washes his mouth after kissing that pus-faced little witch who –”
The armourer doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Quick as lightning, Tarasov’s fist darts out and slams into Boxkicker’s cardia and arm, followed by one more punch to the throat that sends him sprawling among the neatly arranged weapons. Knocked out, he stays on the ground with rifles, tools, grenades and ammunition magazines raining down onto his head from the ruined shelves.
“Fuck,” Boxkicker eventually groans, spitting out blood and teeth.
“I’ll take that as a ‘yes, have anything you need’,” Tarasov says firmly, and piles the weapons and ammunition into his exoskeleton’s rucksack.
“Respect, Russkie,” a fighter laughs, “that’s what I call a ninja punch!”
“Wrong, pindos,” Tarasov grumbles back as he leaves the armory. “It’s called Systema.”
Nooria’s home, 7 October 2014, 21:57:13 AFT
“I’m back.”
Upon entering Nooria’s home and putting his new weapons down on the floor, the irony of his situation makes him smile.
It feels like returning to a perfectly normal home after a day’s shopping.
“Welcome, my warrior!” Nooria beams happily from the hearth, where she is boiling something spicy in a blackened pot. She looks different now, wearing a white gown with beautiful embroidery with her loose, freshly washed hair shining with the fire’s reflection. “You look happy. What did he say?”
“He is still thinking about it,” Tarasov shrugs while taking off his armored suit. “I couldn’t impress him enough.”
“I told you when you arrived from village. His heart is hard like…” Nooria knocks on the iron pot.
“I will have to leave you again tomorrow.”
Tarasov is concerned about her reaction. Nooria is a woman from the Tribe and he couldn’t blame her if she couldn’t understand why he wanted to go off helping the Stalkers, who her people considered to be nothing but worthless scavengers. Looking at the white dress that barely hides her dark-skinned, delicate figure, he almost regrets his words.
“Of course you will,” she casually replies taking the pot from the hearth and putting it on the table. As she moves close to him and waves her hair from her face, Tarasov smells her scent. He knows enough about women to know that her hair did not need to be fussed about. “And now eat. You look hungry.”
“What is this?”
“Stew. Devil pups hunted down a deer.”
After all the things he’s heard about Nooria, Tarasov is a little suspicious of the thick, spicy broth, but it tastes like a normal soup, even if it is spicier that what he is used to. He savors the first few spoonfuls. The last decent, warm meal he had was at his mother’s apartment, but the Ukraine, the Old Zone and Kiev now seem to be on another planet.
“You don’t like it?” Nooria asks with concern, studying his face. She sits down on the rug, watching Tarasov eating. “I have some powders to make it more tasteful.”
“Oh no, thanks, it’s delicious,” Tarasov quickly replies. “But listen… could you please sit with me here, at the table?”
“No. Women always wait until men finish their meal.”
Tarasov puts down the spoon. “But I can’t eat like this.”
“Please do. I have something to do until you finish.” Tarasov opens his lips to swallow down another spoonful but his mouth stays open in surprise as Nooria grasps his rifle and, before he can say a word, starts disassembling it.
/> “What are you doing, Nooria?”
“Cleaning your weapon.”
Tarasov rolls his eyes. “Leave that M4 alone, woman. It’s loaded.”
“Of course it is. But this one is from a new shipment… I didn’t treat this yet. Wait.”
She disappears in the back room. When she returns, she brings a small pouch and a piece of cloth. Nooria skillfully disassembles the rifle and applies a greasy, gray substance on it that the gun’s metal immediately absorbs.
“I made it from your new swag,” she explains seeing Tarasov’s puzzled look. “It will keep your gun clean. Dust and dirt will not stick to it.”
“What? You made gun grease from my artifact?”
“But of course. Some are better used like this than carried around. From some I make refreshing ointment. From others, I make oil for wounds. I make powder, mix it with herbs, glowing stones… Things like that.” She shrugs and gives Tarasov an innocent giggle.
“Where did you learn all this?”
Nooria’s giggle turns into a mysterious smile. “Ask me something else.”
“All right… Why do you call those kid soldiers devil pups?”
“The Colonel’s former tribe called themselves devil dogs. He loves tradition. That is why the children are called pups. They will become warriors one day, if they prove themselves.”
“Uh-hum… Did you give the Colonel and his Lieutenants some of these special powders of yours? Because all of them are so huge…”
“No… that was…” The smile vanishes from Nooria’s face. “They were with Colonel when they went into…”
“Where?”
“Depths of Shahr-i-Gholghola.”
Tarasov slowly begins to understand. Whatever they found under the City of Screams turned them into human, living juggernauts. But how could this happen? He wishes he could ask Nooria more questions about the village and the battle that had happened there, but she doesn’t look too eager to be pressed.
“I saw something weird in the village…” he says carefully. “It was a mutant, but instead of attacking me it made ghosts appear. Strange ghosts… they looked very real.”