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

by Balazs Pataki

  Tarasov frowns. The two big Freedom jokers in a base run by a captain from Duty? What the hell is going on there?

  “I know them from the Zone. Ashot was dealing in smuggled NATO gear,” he says, “but I never took him for one of the bad guys. Even if he was always aligned with anarchists. Not to mention Yar, who only cared about weapon upgrades.”

  “That might be so… in any case, for the time being I’m more interested in finding out who the client is. I believe they might be hiding somewhere to the west but haven’t been able to recon the area so far. To get there, one needs to cross Tribe territory. And that’s almost impossible without getting killed.”

  It’s definitely impossible if you are killed, Tarasov thinks, but says, “Why?”

  “Worst sons of bitches I’ve ever seen,” the Stalker scowls. “Take the skills of highly trained soldiers, add the cruelty of Genghis Khan’s warriors, top it up with excellent gear and you have the Tribe.”

  “Maybe it was them who shot us down?”

  “It’s a possibility, although the people we’ve run into were definitely not of Tribe.” Crow spits out a mouthful of canned meat. “Shit, what do they make this from?… Anyway, I’ve never seen them using choppers. Instead, they ride around in Humvees.”

  Degtyarev’s words about rogue Americans come to Tarasov’s mind. “Maybe the pindosi are back?”

  “Hard to tell… if their rules of engagement now include torturing prisoners, keeping tribal women as birth machines and decorating their vehicles with skulls and bones, then yes, one could say they are back.” Crow shakes his head. “But I doubt it. While I was in Bagram I heard that the Tribe was already here when the first Stalkers arrived. Usually they keep to themselves unless one gets too close to them.”

  All this sounds too far-fetched to Tarasov’s ears to be true. Only one thing attracts his interest. “They have women?”

  “Probably got to them before the nukes went off… You better not have any high hopes, brother. Most Afghans who were still alive after the nukes sought refuge in Iran, Uzbekistan, Pakistan… This sandbox is empty now.”

  “Yes… I saw one of the refugee camps close to Termez.” Tarasov looks into the small fire which is about burning itself out. Seeing that the Stalker is preparing to leave, he asks him one more question. “You mentioned the Taliban. I never thought they would be still around.”

  “Taliban are like cockroaches, almost impossible to exterminate. You’ll run into them soon enough.”

  “Maybe we could contact each other from time to time. Share information. What do you think?” Tarasov suggests.

  “Maybe,” Crow shrugs. “Now, I have to do some business of my own but let’s hook up in Bagram. I’ll be there in a few days. Until then, a word of advice: that place is messier than it seems. Do not trust anyone.”

  Sparrow Two

  North of the Shamali Plains, 2014, 16:11:35 AFT

  After his mysterious companion disappears into the wilderness, Tarasov takes his binoculars and scans the horizon. He can’t see any trace of Dragonfly Two’s crash site — no fire, no smoke column, nothing. To the south, he can make out the cluster of buildings and grey landing strip that must be Bagram. Below his position, the road turns to the west and continues in an almost straight line to where the hills and forest meet, passing through ruined settlements along the way. The stream from the valley he and Crow had been following broadens and runs directly south.

  The road appears easy going but it also offers many ambush opportunities, he thinks, the river bed seems safer but it’s probably crawling with mutants. His watch tells him he has four hours till nightfall. Still in doubt over which route provides the better option, Tarasov leaves the road and starts walking towards the forest.

  Upon entering it, he is gripped by a feeling of familiarity. The dense undergrowth, the darkness beneath the thick foliage, the low, ruined walls here and there… all serve to remind him of the Zone’s Red Forest. So does the eerie silence.

  But it is also different here. The trees grow taller, their intertwining foliage casting a suffocating darkness over the muddy ground that seems to suck at Tarasov’s feet as he makes his way through the mud and rotting undergrowth. The deeper he moves, the darker it gets, with tree trunks appearing like silent monsters in the beams of light falling through the foliage. Noxious vapors emanate from the muddy ground. The Geiger-counter’s crackle is the only noise, sounding in his ears like an echo of his quickening heartbeat whenever he sees a weirdly deformed tree reaching out with rotten branches as if to suffocate him, or dense bushes that might hide a mutant preparing for the killing leap before feasting on his remains.

  The major stops and shakes his head, as if to rid himself of a headache. A glimpse at the Geiger counter tells him that radiation levels are slightly above normal, but still below the dangerous level.

  Tarasov removes his gas mask to allow him to breath with more ease. The sickening odor of rotting earth immediately assails his nostrils, making him grimace with disgust.

  Whenever he pauses the forest seems to want to suck him in, to make him part of it. Trees, bushes, stones, water — all around is dead.

  As he sneaks from cover to cover, his weapon held ready, the brown mass of an abandoned armored vehicle looms ahead of him. Moving closer, Tarasov sees it is the first of three. It might have been a convoy, but he doesn’t recognize the type of vehicles. The only thing he is sure of is that they are not from the Soviet war. Looking at the holes in their hulls, it is also clear to him that they were ambushed.

  Curious, he opens the hatch of the first one and peers inside. His heart almost stops beating when he hears a hiss and senses rather than sees the movement inside. He just manages to duck aside as a snake’s mouth darts towards his face. But now he has better options than in the cave. He throws a grenade inside before frantically slamming the hatch closed. Jumping off the vehicle, his feet have barely touched the ground before a muted explosion shakes the wreck. The smell of burnt flesh and putrid decay rises from inside when he opens the hatch again.

  Inside, among bloody shreds of snake flesh and the rotting remains of a small mutant that looks like a jackal pup to Tarasov, he sees hundreds of cartridge casings.

  Whoever was inside here must have put up a desperate fight, he thinks, unaware of the grimace on his face.

  He picks up a pocketful of shells, thinking that they’ll come in handy if or when he encounters another anomaly, and has almost closed the hatch again when he notices something among the shells. Picking it up and wiping off the grime reveals it to be an old-fashioned mobile phone. Unsure of whether it can be of any use or if it might at least offer a clue about the convoy’s fate, the major puts it into his pocket.

  Here and there the gloomy undergrowth is pierced by a ray of light, making the dust visible. But the shadows deepen as the sunlight fades. Tarasov anxiously sees that, judging by the distance to the mountains, he has barely covered one third of the distance to Bagram.

  I hope I don’t get lost. Spending the night here would not be pleasant at all.

  His thoughts are interrupted by a howl, followed by a deep, aggressive growling. More howls join in, forming a chorus. He takes a few steps in the direction of the sound. Cautiously peering through a bush, he sees a clearing in the woods and a pack of jackals running toward him. He raises his rifle but by the time he takes aim, the jackals have reached his position — and to his surprise run on, ignoring him. Tarasov has no time for relief because after a few moments, a huge, lumbering shadow emerges from the undergrowth. It is the biggest mutant he has ever seen — its furry head resembling that of a bear but the mouth open stretching down to its neck, showing a double row of bloodied teeth. Its side is covered with deep wounds, but the mutant seems to ignore them as it turns toward Tarasov with a blood-curdling growl. He is not sure if he can kill this beast with the ammo he has loaded, or if he had time at all to change the magazine once it is empty, so he does the only thing he can. He runs.

  H
e would have no chance in the open, but here among the dense woods he moves with more agility than his lumbering adversary and jumps over a low mud wall into what might have been an orchard in the past. After a few meters, he looks back, thinking that the bear-like mutant had been unable to follow him. Then a brick crumbles, then more, and Tarasov sees with horror that the mutant simply broke through the wall. He runs on, out of breath, with a stinging pain in his kidneys. The growling behind him draws closer with every step. Suddenly he sees a large pool of mud, with stains of reddish water oozing a fiery vapor. He can’t dodge it and besides, even with the meager protection his suit offers, he has more chance of surviving an anomaly than the assault of the raging mutant.

  Tarasov holds his breath and jumps. Rolling on the ground, burning pain bites into his sizzling skin. Moaning, he manages to raise himself into a kneeling position, ready to fire, knowing he’s no longer able to run.

  The old Stalker trick of running towards an anomaly, evading it at the last moment and then watching the mutants running headlong into the trap had saved him many times back in the Zone. But now, to his horror Tarasov sees that the mutant stops and walks up and down in front of the anomalies, as if debating whether if it could jump over to finish the hunt. Then, to Tarasov’s even greater shock, it stretches its dreadful head forward and starts sniffing around the anomalies, until it finds a path through the sizzling, muddy substance.

  Damn! This wretched beast is smart, Tarasov thinks as he desperately crawls backwards.

  Halfway through the anomalies, the mutant rears up on its legs, unleashing a deafening roar. It is probably intended to paralyze its prey, leaving them wide-eyed and defenseless with horror, but Tarasov still has enough control over his body to raise his weapon and empty the magazine into the mutant’s torso. But as he fires his last cartridge, the shooting doesn’t stop. Perplexed, Tarasov sees heavy bullets still pouring into the mutant’s flesh until it emits a pain-filled yelp and falls right into the anomaly. Its fur catches fire immediately and Tarasov, gasping for air, watches it being consumed by acidic flames.

  I’m getting tired of others saving me, he thinks. In the Zone, it was the other way around.

  Still oblivious of where the shots came from, he looks around.

  “Don’t move,” a voice commands. “Stay right where you are.”

  “I couldn’t move even if I wanted to,” Tarasov shouts back.

  Then, to his unspeakable relief, two soldiers emerge from the woods. One of them is wearing Berill body armor, though both also sport bandages. Wounded men, even if only lightly. The other one, a stout, blond soldier with blue eyes thick set in his round face, is holding a PKM machine gun. To Tarasov’s astonishment, he wears no armor, only the standard issue white and blue striped tee-shirt and a green bandana. This guy must be either a tough bastard or totally crazy, Tarasov thinks.

  “Sparrow Two?” he cries out.

  “Major?” one of the soldiers asks incredulously.

  Tarasov nods and the two soldiers quickly pull him away from the anomaly. For a moment, Tarasov’s joy over finding the lost squad makes him forget about his badly burnt legs.

  “Thanks to that damned mutant,” he groans, “it chased me right into your arms!”

  “It’s great to see you alive, komandir,” the machine gunner says. “Where are the others?”

  “It’s just me. Give me a medikit and bandages… my legs are burnt.”

  With quick, well-trained hands, the other soldier cuts through the burnt rags of Tarasov’s leggings and pours water from his canteen over the wounds.

  “Lucky for us, our medic made it through,” the soldier says as he applies antiseptics and fixes a silicone bandage. “He’ll take care of the rest. This should do till we get back to the chopper.”

  “Tell me what happened to you, while I brace myself up.”

  “Yes, Major,” the machine gunner says. “We were hit… or whatever, because it was no projectile… Suddenly all the electrical systems went dead, at least almost all, though the pilot managed to keep the chopper in the air for a few minutes. We were incredibly lucky not to smash into the mountains, but then the engine died and the chopper started to spin, and we crash-landed into this forest. Eight of us survived, with three others badly wounded.”

  “Who is in command now?”

  “Senior Sergeant Zlenko. It was probably him who saved our life, because as soon as we took off, he ordered us into our armored suits.”

  “That was a wise choice. And where is your Berill suit, soldier?”

  “Err… I got a serious case of armor chafe and removed it. It’s because of my size… even the biggest one is too small for me, sir!”

  The major decides not to flak him for the moment, although he suspects that the machine gunner has used armor chafe as an excuse to flaunt the many tattoos on his robust arms.

  I got it. He’s crazy, Tarasov thinks.

  “What happened to the other squad, sir?”

  Staring at the ground, Tarasov shakes his head.

  “Not even Zotkin?” the soldier with the medikit asks.

  “Not even him.”

  “How did you survive?”

  “I was wearing my exoskeleton, remember? It saved my life but was destroyed. I hope you have a spare armor suit.”

  “We do, sir. Actually, we have too many spare suits.”

  “Help me up and let’s get back to your chopper. I hope you established a defensive perimeter?”

  “Certainly, sir,” the machine gunner says cutting down two boughs from a tree with a combat knife. “But there is this shit all around us. Nothing gets through, but in exchange, we can’t leave the perimeter either. Sit on this, sir. Kamensky, hold the branches from the other side, will you?”

  Tarasov hates the idea of arriving at the crash site like an invalid, but when he tries standing on his feet he realizes that he actually is one. Swearing, he reluctantly lets the two soldiers carry him.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” the chatty machine gunner says. “Making it here alive was feat enough in itself. All the boys will agree with that. There’s nothing bad about being carried for a few meters. Besides, it’s better to have a little burnt skin than your head ripped off by that… thing. Wouldn’t you agree, Major?”

  Tarasov scowls, his face still distorted by pain. “What’s your name, trooper?”

  “Private Ilchenko, sir. Friends call me Ilch. And that’s Private Kamensky to your left.”

  “Good. And now, Private Ilchenko: hold your mouth! You talk more than a salesman.”

  “As ordered, sir,” the soldier grins.

  “It’s good to have an officer around again,” Kamensky whispers, flashing a gloating glance at Ilchenko.

  The two troopers arrive at the crash site as proudly as if they were carrying some large and noble prey. Their comrades, most of them with arms and heads wrapped in bloody bandages, cheer when they see them carrying their commander. Ilchenko loudly tells everyone what had happened. Tarasov doesn’t mind — at least it’s not him who has to tell the squad about their ill-fated comrades. For him, it’s the first moment since the crash when he thinks that maybe the mission has not failed altogether. However, his relief is overshadowed by the sight of four bodies covered with waterproof canvas. If not for his reckless decision to change the flight path, those men would still be alive. Or maybe they would still have died but in an ambush or a firefight, something that offered a more dignified death.

  Even with their heavy losses, the survivors have preserved their cohesion as a unit, having set up a small perimeter around the badly damaged helicopter with the squad’s grenade launcher positioned to cover the area where the woods open up. They have also erected a small tent where the medic, a very young but smart-faced soldier, tends to the wounded.

  “Dragonfly Two carried fourteen men, including the pilots,” the squad’s senior sergeant reports. He wears a blood-soaked bandage around his head. “We lost two troopers and the pilots in the crash. Now we have fou
r heavily wounded and four men combat ready. That means they can still fire their weapon, but…”

  “Thank you, Sergeant Zlenko,” Tarasov replies while the medic is treating the burns on his legs. “Do you have communications?”

  “I’m afraid the radio is busted, sir.”

  “What do you have that still works?”

  “Since our chopper carried all the equipment, we have enough ammo, food and medical supplies to last a while. The only thing we don’t have is a way out of this hellhole.”

  “Worry about that later. Why aren’t you wearing the exoskeleton assigned to you?”

  “With all due respect, sir, I know it’s good gear and all but I prefer the Berill. I can fetch an exo for you, if you wish.”

  Tarasov looks into the forest where darkness is growing like thick, black fog. Attempting a night march through the unknown wilderness would be reckless, even with full forces. With half of the survivors barely able to walk, including himself, it would be utter suicide. He also needs to find a way through the anomaly field.

  “No” he finally replies. “Can the wounded stand on their feet? Let two wounded of your choice wear the exos. It should make walking easier for them. Tomorrow we move out at daybreak.”

  “Where to, sir?”

  “Bagram. It makes no sense to establish a forward operations base with half of the men down. Bagram shouldn’t be too far.”

  “No rescue mission, then?”

  “Looks like we have to get out on our feet or die here. But not before picking up those scientists.”

  “Will we be able to get through those… burners?”

  “The briefing said you were doing peacekeeping missions with the 13th Air Mobile Brigade.”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “This of course means that none of you was ever posted to the Exclusion Zone around the CNPP.” Tarasov sighs. It would have been a major miracle if they had been, he thinks. I don’t know why I even bothered to ask. “All right, listen up. I’ll need to explain to you a few things….”

  Tarasov explains the basics about mutants and anomalies to the survivors, adding his latest experiences with the jackals, the snake and the bear. As he talks, the forest around them seems to come alive. Growls, grunts, roars and howls penetrate the darkness, causing the soldiers to exchange anxious glances.