S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort s-1

by Balazs Pataki

  “All clear,” he says, “let’s move on.”

  But Chumak, who is in the catacombs for the first time, stands in front of two huge tanks, which might contain poison or worse, staring at the glowing green substance beneath them. The substance is moving, looking like boiling green water in slow-motion. He is about to touch it when Ivanchuk pulls him back.

  “That’s a Fruit Punch, rookie. An anomaly. One step closer and the acid will consume your dick in a second.”

  “There’s more of that shit here in the underground than mushrooms in a forest,” Kolesnik remarks. Tarasov is about to tell them to keep quiet when the other sergeant shouts out.

  “Enemies detected!”

  Shumenko doesn’t wait for the major’s order and releases a long burst into the elevator chamber. Now it’s the major’s turn to throw a grenade. Another deafening explosion sounds but the enemy keeps firing. The lieutenant leaps forward, firing his AKSU assault rifle. Silence falls. Tarasov points to the round chamber in front of them, with a massive pillar in the middle.

  “Ivanchuk, you and Kolesnik to the left. Shumenko, on me. Chumak, you stay behind me.”

  Slowly and with weapons ready, they enter the chamber. Below their feet, rusty iron grates cover corroded pipes, disappearing into the ground. A lever stands in the middle, the turning wheel having fallen off. Above them, the metal tubes of a ventilation system follow the curve of the walls, here and there lacking a few cover pieces.

  “Keep your eye on those open tubes,” Tarasov warns his squad with a whisper, “I don’t want any stray snorks jumping on our heads.”

  “All clear. Coming through.”

  Tarasov lowers his Val when he sees the lieutenant appearing from the other side. In front of them, a staircase leads to the level below.

  “Shall we?” Ivanchuk asks. Tarasov shakes his head.

  “Watch the stairs. Keep your eyes peeled, Lieutenant. I want to check out those bodies before we go below.”

  Now that the area is cleared of enemies and with the only exit under watch, Tarasov switches off his night vision and turns on the headlight. He approaches the Stalker shot by the lieutenant.

  “Good shot, Ivanchuk,” he says, loud enough for the sergeants to hear it as well. The corpse lying in the light circle before him is wearing a tactical helmet with an integrated gas mask, its tube attached to his dark blue body armor’s breathing system. His bulletproof vest has been penetrated by five armor-piercing rounds from Ivanchuk’s AKSU. Even in his death, he holds his outdated, but still deadly G36 assault rifle.

  “Shumenko, take over the guard. Lieutenant, come over here.” Tarasov points at the corpse. “This was no Stalker but a mercenary. Our intel was bad, like usually.” The lieutenant nods and kneels down to remove the gas mask from the corpse. “Don’t. I’d rather not see his face.”

  “And if it was a pretty woman, sir?”

  “You’re one sick son of a bitch, Lieutenant. You better find something that the intel guys could use… maybe they’ll do a better job next time.”

  “But if it’s a woman and I find a lipstick, can I keep it? My girlfriend…”

  “Cut your stupid jokes, for God’s sake. You’re not even remotely funny.”

  Tarasov searches the other bodies. They all wear the same gear, meaning they indeed belonged to the group of mercenaries who occasionally appear in the Zone. Unlike Stalkers, they not only hunt for artifacts but for the occasional human target as well, be it a Stalker carrying a special artifact or one who didn’t deliver what he was supposed to on time. And, being far better equipped and trained than ordinary Stalkers, they also cause headaches for the army when they appeared close to the strictly no-go areas around the secret laboratories. Tarasov’s search proves futile — one body was blown to pieces by the exploding fuel drum, and on the other he only found two first-aid kits.

  “Nothing useful here, sir,” Ivanchuk reports.

  “No surprise… After all, no merc would be stupid enough to carry his mission orders with him. Dammit… A band of mercenaries in our territory is the last thing we need.”

  “I suggest we report this to the base, komandir.”

  Tarasov checks his radio. “No signal. Anyway, we still have something else to do… Let’s go down.”

  It gets darker with each step as they carefully descend the winding metal staircase. The ground below is dotted with bubbling green anomalies, illuminating the tunnel with green glow. Now Tarasov can even hear their noise: a sizzle echoing like a chorus of monsters in the darkness, as if communicating with each other in a deep, foreboding whisper. His Geiger counter ticks faster.

  “Turn off the headlights,” he orders. The anomalies glow strong enough to illuminate their surroundings. On the far end of the tunnel, an emergency light shows the direction. Tarasov can only hope that if there are any enemies here, they will make a clear silhouette against the dim beam of light.

  “Stick to the wall. Skirt the anomalies,” he whispers to Chumak.

  He looks down for a second as the technician stumbles over a fallen pipe. Immediately, he feels a steel fist hitting his chest. Then he hears the rifle shot. He wobbles to the wall, his hand instinctively touching the spot where he was hit. Shumenko fires a long burst with Kolesnik’s rifle joining in.

  “Shit,” somebody shouts, “he came out of nowhere!”

  “Major, are you hit?”

  “I’m… fine, Lieutenant,” Tarasov replies as he stands up with a groan. He is glad that the visor of his tactical helmet hides the pain on his face. His heavy armor caught the bullet, but the impact was strong like the hit of a hammer. His chest is left bruised and sore. Thank God for my SKAT suit.

  “Let’s keep moving!”

  They pass by a lonely petroleum lamp. Their shooter must have been guarding the exit of the tunnel, which leads into the big research hall. As they enter it, they see huge metal containers behind a dilapidated iron fence and more pipelines disappearing into nowhere through holes in the concrete walls. Another red emergency lamp casts its maddening light. Through cracks and holes, air moves with a deep howl.

  They have to cross the wide shadow of a concrete pillar. Tarasov reaches to his helmet to switch on his headlight. The shrieking noise of the revolving red light hurts his ears like a dentist’s drill but what makes his blood curl is a howling roar from the darkness.

  “Headlamps on,” he commands, “fire forward, fire all you have!”

  He tosses the technician to the ground and throws himself down too, biting his tongue, ignoring the sharp pain and frantically firing towards the pair of glowing eyes that are reflecting the light of their headlamps and getting closer at inhuman speed. The howl turns into a beastly rattle, regardless of the fire directed at its source from the three assault rifles. The major runs out of ammo but as he desperately reaches for a spare magazine the rattle ceases and, with a loud hump, something heavy falls to the ground just a meter away from him.

  “That was a close shave,” he hears the lieutenant’s voice.

  Tarasov gets back to his feet. A humanoid figure lies in the light circle ahead of him. It has longer arms and legs than humans, but the biggest visible difference is the bunch of tentacles, still squirming like snakes, that end at the blood-smeared hole on its head where the mouth should be. Shumenko steps closer and empties the rest of his ammunition into the dead mutant’s head before replacing the magazine.

  “Wh-what was that?” Chumak’s whole body is shaking.

  “A bloodsucker,” Tarasov replies reloading his rifle, “and a male one, judged by what’s left of it… the female is probably waiting for him to come home with fresh meat. Usually they stick together, so let’s keep our eyes open…”

  “I… I refuse to go on… I just can’t,” the technician stammers. He is close to crying. “I want to get out of here!”

  “Pull yourself together, Chumak,” Tarasov says and offers him his hand. “Get up or become bloodsucker food!”

  “No!”

&nbs
p; The major glances at the two sergeants. They cross to the whining technician and pull him up to his feet. Without any emotions on his face, Tarasov points his rifle at Chumak’s head.

  “Let’s go,” he says, but the technician only shakes his head in fear.

  “All right, we’ll take your gear and leave you.” Tarasov lowers his weapon and aims now at Chumak’s legs. “But first I’ll shoot you in the knee. Mama bloodsucker will be pissed off when papa doesn’t return and they can smell blood from far away.”

  Chumak looks at Ivanchuk, who nods in approval, and reluctantly gets his backpack.

  Without saying any more, Tarasov moves on with the squad falling in. He is nervous about every dark corner but no other mutants come into sight. Or maybe it is us not being in the mutants’ sight.

  Soon, a corridor branches off to the left. Tarasov has been there before: it is one of the long tunnels running between the two Agroprom facilities. They have to turn right, but would be exposed on their left flank. If they threw a grenade to clear the way, anyone waiting for them in ambush would know of their approach. He signals the men to stop, peeks out to the left, and gives a sign to Ivanchuk to proceed. As he turns to the right, he sees the stationary beam of a headlight. The mercenary hasn’t seen them yet. Tarasov aims carefully. His shots hit his target’s body armor but have no killing effect. By the time he can fire another shot, the mercenary disappears.

  “Dammit,” he swears as he hears barking commands ahead. “Kolesnik, drop a frag! Twenty meters ahead!”

  The grenade falls a little short but hits the mercenary just at the moment when he is reckless enough to peer out from his cover.

  Weapon fixed on the door in case more enemies emerge, Tarasov rushes forward. A silhouette appears in the visor, the head right behind the scope’s red dot. He fires

  “Left! Watch your left!” he shouts taking a grenade and throwing it through the door. It was too quick. One second after the detonation, another enemy pops out from around the corner. Tarasov’s rifle falls silent after one shot. He ducks for cover to reload. An AKSU rings out over his head.

  “He’s down,” Kolesnik says.

  They wait for a minute. Only the wind howls in the tunnels, with the occasional rummaging noise from the long-forgotten levels far below. Maybe a room collapsed. Maybe a bloodsucker is fighting for his life with a pack of snorks, partial invisibility versus ten meter long jumps and knife-sharp teeth. Maybe it’s the soldiers’ fear echoing in their mind.

  Stepping over a dead enemy whose head and chest was dreadfully blasted by the grenade, Tarasov moves his squad into the room. From there, another corridor opens to the left. A few meters further down, a round ventilation shaft opens into the wall. Wooden crates stand below, as if used as stairs to gain access to it. Once it housed a ventilator and the remains of the iron grater that once covered it are still lying on the ground. Now a man could comfortably crawl into the opening. There’s even a metal ladder leading up the shaft.

  “Welcome to Strelok’s hideout, Chumak,” Tarasov says and pats the technician on the shoulder, “you made it. Now it’s time for your big performance.”

  “Thank God,” the technician sighs with relief, “so, what am I supposed to do?”

  “Remove a few pieces of that ladder. Weld its parts as a grid to prevent anyone from climbing in.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing inside, komandir?”

  “I don’t mind giving you a little tour… We all deserve a rest anyway.” Tarasov turns to the soldiers. “Keep your guard up while I show this greenhorn around. That corridor will be our exit route. It’s full of garbage for cover, so keep your eyes peeled. Chumak, follow me.”

  Strelok once told him that the chamber was booby-trapped and he cannot shake off an uneasy feeling as they climb up the ladder. Cautiously, he peeks inside, and seeing no danger waiting for them, he jumps into a small chamber.

  Strelok’s hideout, 09:59:07 EEST

  “What is this place?” the technician asks. Tarasov scans the walls with his headlamp. They are covered with Stalker graffiti, short messages with call signs and nicknames.

  Voronin, I’ll get you yet. Lukas.

  Come and donate blood at the Skadovsk. Tremor.

  Want yourself a tailor-made chemical suit? Visit me at Rostok! Beacon.

  Maps of the Oasis for sale. Ask Flint at Yanov.

  Lost my rifle again. Please bring it back for a reward. Brome at the 100 Rads.

  Don’t bring pseudodog tails to Sidorovich. Keep them. They taste good. Blaberry.

  Save for a few crates and other junk, the chamber is empty. Someone had even removed the improvised map table that had been there for ages, even when Tarasov first entered the underground three years ago.

  “You ever heard about the Marked One, Chumak? The Noosphere, C-Con, things like that?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You didn’t miss much, except for the Marked One. About the rest — I’m more into shooting than all that scientific mumbo-jumbo, but since you’re here with us, I suppose you have the right to know what we’re up against.”

  Fear casts a shadow on the technician’s face, very much to Tarasov’s liking.

  “It’s complicated but anyway, this is how an old friend once explained it to me in Pripyat. You know, we had a lot of time on our hands while waiting for the evacuation team.” The major makes himself comfortable on an empty ammunition crate. “So… according to some scientists, our planet is surrounded by a special field called Noosphere. It’s said, it influences how we humans behave. After Chernobyl, a group of scientists set up secret laboratories in the Exclusion Zone where they weren’t bothered by anyone. The eggheads wanted to adjust the Noosphere, removing bad things from the planet… including the word ‘no’ from the female vocabulary.”

  Chumak chuckles. Tarasov doesn’t mention the development of secret weapons and the psychic tests that used humans as guinea-pigs. The technician is not supposed to know everything.

  “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?”
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  “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.”