“That’s cool, man. You know, I always wondered why Stalkers didn’t use dogs in the Zone to smell out mutants and anomalies.”
“Probably because no one has ever made a protection suit with armor plates and gas masks suitable for dogs,” Tarasov says. “Besides, not even dogs could smell anything while wearing a gas mask.”
“Hmm… that’s true. But anyway, it’s still a jackal.”
“All right. You won. He was a jackal. You happy now?”
“Happy, man. But he still is.”
“No. He’s a domesticated canine now. And that makes him a dog.”
“Whatever. It won’t be my balls he’ll bite off when he grows up.”
“He will not bite my balls either, you can be sure of that.”
“Yes, he will.”
“No, he won’t!”
“You better be careful with mutants, kid. They grow quickly.” The major stretches his arms and releases a tired sigh. “All right… Mac, first watch is on you. Squirrel, you’re up next. We move out at five sharp.”
“You men can sleep,” the Captain cuts in. “I need no rest.”
“Come on, Captain. You need to rest. And who has ever heard of an officer taking the first watch? It’s grunt privilege.”
“But I really need no sleep. I had some food, now I don’t need to rest. Later, I will rest for a very, very long time.”
“That’s actually true,” Tarasov replies with a shrug. “Because once you get home, your only worry will be journalists and all… you’ll be a celebrity. A hero, even.”
“I don’t think so, Major.”
“You don’t have to. For now, take this rifle if you insist on keeping watch. I trust you still know how to handle it.”
The Captain knows. Tarasov takes his helmet off, rubs his weary eyes and lies down on the ground, crossing his fingers behind his head. His eyelids feel like lead. But before he falls into an uneasy sleep, he turns to the Captain one more time.
“And Captain… if you want me to do that favor you’ll have in mind, do not let the kid sneak away… if he has to crap, pee, do his prayers or jerk off, whatever, he will do it in front of you. That’s an order.”
“But—” the young Stalker tries to cut in.
“Shut up, Mac. Go to sleep… Kids like you need at least eight hours of sleep, but four and a half is all you’re going to get.”
Court-martial
Factory grounds, 28 September 2014, 04:55:00 AFT
The long years spent in the army have made Tarasov’s mind develop a strange sense of time. No matter how tired he’d been, when he wakes up and looks at his watch, it shows five minutes to five — just in time. Anxiously, he looks around but relaxes when he sees the seemingly tireless Captain standing at the door, the unnatural light of his artifact still glowing and Tarasov’s AK-M in his hands. Seeing that he is awake, the old man smiles at him.
This man really deserves a medal, Tarasov thinks as he gets up and gives the snoring machine-gunner’s boots a soft kick. Or who knows… maybe he’d be better off staying at Bagram. There’s so much he could teach the Stalkers.
“Moving out already?” Ilchenko grumbles, still half asleep.
“Get your gear and check your weapon.”
Yawning, Ilchenko gets to his feet and steps over to Mac. Ignoring the jackal pup’s growl, he kicks the still sleeping Stalker’s leg.
“Hey, dwarf. Get up.”
“Jesus, Ilchenko… I’ve had a nightmare about a bloodsucker chasing me, but waking up in the same space as you makes it appear like the sweetest dream I’ve ever had.”
“Damn it, man. I hate getting up early,” Squirrel yawns, awakened by the noise.
“Dobro utro, Captain,” Tarasov greets the old man. “Any events?”
“Nothing to report, Major,” the Captain replies, still smiling. He removes the glowing artifact from his staff and puts it into his shoulder bag.
“Mac, give me light over here… You want a little water, Captain Ivanov? Here you go… Why so happy?
“Today you will do something for me,” the old man says, giving back the field flask. “I have been waiting for it for a long time.”
Tarasov pours water from his canteen into his hands and rubs it onto his face, then puts on his helmet. He switches on his headlight, but hopes that they will see daylight soon.
“Everyone ready?”
“Last time I take soldiers on a trip,” Squirrel grumbles. “No breakfast, no relaxing, no guitar playing, no jokes, only get ready and let’s move and hurry up. It’s like joining Duty. It sucks, man.”
“You’re lucky we don’t have time for a little healthy morning exercise. Now fall in line, Squirrel. Ilchenko, you…”
“I’ll watch our six. I know, sir.”
“… and you, Mac, take point. Captain, you stick with me.”
Mac opens the door and cautiously looks around with his rifle ready to shoot. “Clear.”
Stepping out of the dark and dilapidated room after many hours in almost complete darkness and confinement, Tarasov feels relief when he finds himself in a spacious hall. Through holes in the roof that looms high above them, he can see the overcast sky. Wherever he looks in the hall, rows of heavy machines stand, although most of them look like little more than heaps of rusty scrap metal. On some of the concrete columns supporting the roof, metal ladders lead to a gangway that runs around the factory hall, apparently to grant access to the pipes and wires above. Here and there, they hang loose, torn or fallen from the fittings that had held them once upon a time.
The relatively open space might be a relief for his senses dulled by the narrow caves, but the intensifying noise of the Geiger counter is anything but relaxing.
No wonder… everything here is metal. This place is one huge radiation trap.
“I detect high radiation readings. Masks on, switch to breathing systems,” the major orders.
Seeing that the Captain has only his age-old gas mask to protect himself makes Tarasov wonder how he had survived after the nukes went off, even if the radiation in this area is not as high as it must be in the areas south of the Outpost, closer to the epicenter of the detonations.
How did he manage that?
Although there are no signs of mutants or any other hostile elements nearby, they keep their weapons at the ready as they follow Mac to a huge gate that stands wide open to a courtyard containing several wrecked trucks and other disabled vehicles. Beyond the wrecks and a wall of concrete slabs, earthy brown hills come into view with the towering peaks of the Salang Range beyond them on the far horizon.
Only a dozen meters separate them from the gate when Tarasov hears the noise of metal falling on metal. For a few seconds, he wonders if one more of the decaying fittings has yielded to the weight of pipes and wires above, letting a loose screw fall and hit one of the machines below.
Then he hears a burst from an assault rifle. He ducks, barely avoiding the bullets that hit one of the machines instead. A ricochet hits the back of his body armor and falls to the ground, rendered harmless by the thick layers of Kevlar inside the Berill suit.
“Dushmans!” Mac screams. “Dushmans at two o’clock!”
“Take cover! There’s one firing from that ramp above us!”
Ilchenko’s PKM sprays the ramp with bullets and a dushman fighter falls headlong from above, his cry of agony ended when his body smashes into one of the machines.
“Where did they come from?” Squirrel shouts, peering out from under the cover of a machine. A bullet barely misses his head. The Stalker ducks and fires a burst, holding the weapon out over his cover position.
“Everywhere!”
Seeing that they are trapped between two rows of machines, offering an easy target to the enemy fighters shooting at them from above, Tarasov realizes that the only way is forward, into the courtyard, shooting their way through any enemies who might be waiting outside. But he knows that if he were leading the attacking party, he would have laid an ambush outside in
stead of attacking them in the hall where the machines and concrete columns offer more than enough cover. Presuming that the commander of the opposing fighters is no fool, he is sure that the dushmans themselves had not been prepared to find them here, and their lack of tactical preparation could mean the advantage lies with him and his men.
“Ilchenko, take out those dushmans on the ramp!”
“Yes, komandir!”
“There’s one! At eleven!”
Crouching, Ilchenko swings the machine gun in the direction instructed by the major and fires. “That’s one less!”
“Squirrel! Move forward! Cover the Captain!”
Squirrel does as commanded, reloading his rifle as he proceeds with the Captain in tow. He has almost reached the last machine in the row, from where the gate is only a few meters away, when a huge dushman fighter appears behind them and turns toward them to fire his AK. With Ilchenko and the Captain directly in his line of sight, Tarasov has no clear shot on him.
“Behind you!” he screams. “Get down!”
The dushman fires, but he has barely pulled the trigger when the Captain’s staff smashes into his head. Squirrel’s rifle completes the kill.
“Wow, man! Never seen anyone fight like that!”
“Ramp is clear!” Ilchenko shouts. “No more fire from above!”
“Wrong!” comes a voice from the ramp.
Aided by the built-in scope of his assault rifle, Mac lays down lethal and accurate fire on the attackers. Now the roles have been reversed: it is the dushmans hiding while Tarasov and his companions dash towards the gate, while Mac makes full use of the high vantage point.
Tarasov, Squirrel and the Captain quickly find cover behind two mangled trucks covering their flanks. In a few seconds, Ilchenko joins them. Tarasov is about to call the young Stalker out of the hall when more enemies appear and Ilchenko immediately opens fire.
“How many more dushmans are in this goddamned place?” he roars over the rattle of his machine gun.
“Captain! Get under that truck, quickly! Mac, can you hear me?” Tarasov shouts into his intercom, hoping that the kid has switched on his own.
“Loud and clear, big brother!”
“More visitors from the south! From your position, that’s nine o'clock. Make it here quickly and let’s catch them in a crossfire!”
“On my way!”
Aiming and firing his weapon as he lays concealed under the truck, covering the Captain with his own body, Tarasov sees Mac climb down a ladder and move towards the truck from the corner of his eye. He has almost reached it when a dushman, whom he already believed dead, raises his weapon.
“Mac! Hostile at your left, on the ground! Watch out!”
His warning comes too late for Mac. The dushman lifts his weapon and fires at Mac from point-blank range. Hit in the side, the Stalker cries out in pain and collapses.
“Ilchenko! Mac is down! Cover me!”
The machine gunner fires a long burst into the direction of the attackers. Using the momentarily lapse of hostile fire, Tarasov fires a burst into the still moving dushman who had shot the kid, then dashes to the Stalker’s body to drag it into safety. Suddenly, the PKM’s fire cuts out.
“Weapon’s jammed!”
“Squirrel! Keep on firing!”
“Just loaded my last clip!”
Immediately, the hostiles open fire again. Tarasov drags Mac’s body away from the gate and inside, hoping that no dushman remains alive in there to give him a nasty surprise. Ilchenko’s PKM fires up again outside.
“They are withdrawing!”
“Keep on firing! Squirrel, watch out to the right!”
“Come, dushmans, come! Papa Ilchenko is waiting for you!”
Relieved that the battle’s balance is shifting in their favor, Tarasov places Mac into cover between a cabin that must once have been a guard post watching over the entrance and the machine hall’s wall, and begins to check the Stalker’s condition. Billy emerges completely unscathed, but an inch away from the carrying bag holding the yelping mutant, two bullets have penetrated the body armor’s weaker side panels.
Thank God for making the third bullet fired in a Kalashnikov’s burst almost always miss the target.
First, he lifts the visor of the helmet and tears the gas mask off the Stalker’s face to facilitate his breathing, leaving only the sand-colored balaclava as a cover. Then, pushing the snarling mutant away, Tarasov opens the zipper and buckles on Mac’s exoskeleton, preparing himself for the sight of blood and gore under the armor plates.
What he sees makes him forget about Billy, who bites into his thick weapon gloves and tries to drag Tarasov’s hand from his master’s body.
Tits. Nice ones.
A smile comes to his face as he remembers Mac’s words about the jackal pup not biting off ‘his’ balls. She was wrong, he thinks while opening a medikit. She does have balls. Much more than some men do.
To his relief, the bullets hadn’t penetrated the armor. He quickly applies an adhesive bandage from his medikit to the bruised body parts and closes the armor.
Outside, among the ceasing gunfire, Squirrel gives a triumphant cry. “Yeah! This will teach them not to come to places they aren’t invited to!”
“Everyone’s in one piece here, Major. Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, Ilchenko. The kid will make it too.”
“Damn. One can’t have it all… You need assistance?”
“No! It’s not time to relax yet. Wait a little longer!”
Tarasov takes a deep breath and pulls up the balaclava still covering Mac’s face. The young Stalker opens her eyes, which twinkle in the harsh light falling through the gate, now untamed by the helmet’s dark visor.
Normally, Tarasov would have taken the face for that of a handsome young man. Now that he knows Mac’s secret, he is not misguided by the short hair and grimy face. He recognizes the soft features characteristic of a female face, even if Mac had obviously done everything she could to hide her beauty — because even with her face dusty and grimy, she does look beautiful. Not breathtakingly gorgeous or irresistibly desirable, but in the way of natural beauty that only young women have, in the way of natural sex appeal assigned to the trappings of youth.
“What are you staring at?” Mac tries to get up to her feet, but immediately emits a moan of pain, reaching for her bruised side. “Shit… hurts like hell… am I hit?”
“Just a bruise, thanks to your exo,” Tarasov replies and, to cover up his knowledge of Mac’s secret, he adds, “you’re a lucky son of a bitch, you little bastard. We had to finish the dushmans while you were groaning and moaning. Next time try not to get shot so easily, is that clear?”
“Clear. Ouch… hey, what’s that?” She asks patting the armor above the place where Tarasov has adjusted the bandage.
“First time you get patched up by someone else?” Tarasov turns his face away and tries to suppress an ear to ear grin. “Stupid little kid! You should have stayed home and played video games until you became man enough to enter the Zone.”
“Andate a la mierda, forro…!”
By the sound of the curse that Mac whispers, Tarasov can tell that she understood his message and is not very happy about what Tarasov has found out.
“Ilchenko,” he shouts over to the machine gunner. “All clear?”
“All clear!”
“They ran like dogs!” the guide shouts. “Hope they’ll tell the other freaks that Squirrel was here!”
The major supports Mac as she gets to her feet. To his relief, he sees that everyone outside is unharmed.
“Wouldn’t be the New Zone if getting back to daylight was easy,” Tarasov tells Mac. “But hey… at least the view is not so bad.”
Through a torn-down section of the factory wall, a view opens to the plains below. Followed by his companions, Tarasov walks to the edge of the plateau.
Strong winds throw up dust from the ground and drive dark clouds across the sky, covering the sun. Long rays o
f sunlight pierce through the clouds, as if combing the hills and forest stretching out below their feet. Not far from their position, Hellgate is looming where the orange flames of the anomalies burst up into the sky and cast a purple haze over the stone arch. From up here, it looked like the claws of a giant predator reaching out from the earth, and to Tarasov, they seemed to be the claws of the new Zone itself, threatening the sky with all its menacing power. The dark clouds finally chase away the last ray of light, making the Shamali plains appear in pale shades of gray and blue.
“Getting down should be easier,” Squirrel says. “With just a little caution, we can simply climb down.”
“Yes. No need to go back the same way we came. You don’t need me any longer.”
All faces turn to the Captain.
His shoulder bag lies on the ground. Exhaustion is written throughout his fragile figure, but it’s not from the rigors of the past twenty-four hours. Leaning on his staff, his worn out duster and long beard blown by the wind, he looks just like what he is — an emaciated, weary old man with a million wrinkles on his bearded face.
“Major Tarasov… I see that you have found what you were looking for,” he says, jerking his head at Mac. “And now, will you carry out a task for me?”
The major frowns, knowing that it is high time for him to continue with his mission.
“Don’t worry,” the Captain says, seeing Tarasov’s hesitation. “It will not take much of your precious time. What is your answer?”
“First, tell me what you need.”
“No. First, you need to hear me out.”
The Captain takes a few steps toward the precipice and turns towards the vast plains, standing still with the wind slowly playing with his ragged coat. He stretches out his arms, as if he wanted to bless, or at least embrace, the hopeless wilderness. Then he turns back and looks into Tarasov’s eyes.
“It’s about the column… The column that was lost.”
And I was hoping he’d have got his wits together by now, the major thinks.
“The column left Kunduz in early January 1988. Twenty Ural trucks, three T-62 tanks, five BMP troop carriers, three fuel tankers full of petrol and gasoline. It had to get through.”
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