S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2

by Balazs Pataki

Maksimenko takes a white paper box from his breast pocket. “Want a cigarillo?”

  “Since when do you smoke cigarillos?”

  “Recently.” Maksimenko ignites a match and lights up a cigarillo. “Cohibas are above my pay grade but I got myself a box of Mini Silvers.”

  “Stinks like a snork’s fart.”

  “Your den smells weird anyway. Want one or not?”

  “Very much, thanks. Now, could you remind me why I am actually running such errands for you?”

  “An unlimited supply of designer-made painkillers, lots of money and the Motherland’s eternal gratitude.”

  “You can add a new nose to that… shit, that black belt bitch devastated it. Anyway, who are we after this time?”

  Maksimenko shows him the photograph he got from Colonel Kruchelnikov. Seeing it, Strelok chokes on the smoke and breaks out in a heavy coughing rush.

  “Is that a joke?” he eventually asks, still coughing.

  Maksimenko shows him the vial once more. “Do we have a deal or not?”

  Strelok leans over the sink with fresh blood gushing from his nose. “I can’t believe you want me to be in this.”

  “Yes or no, Strelok!”

  Strelok stares at the vial and bows his head. Maksimenko lets the drug fall into Strelok’s outstretched, almost begging palm.

  “Good doggie. I knew we could count on you to bag Tarasov,” he says with satisfaction as he watches Strelok taking two pills of the designer painkiller right away and flushing them down with water from the tap.

  The Stalker looks up from the sink and looks into Captain Maksimenko’s eye. “Please don’t say I’m going to the New Zone.”

  With his remaining eye narrowed, Captain Maksimenko’s look resembles that of a shrewd fox.

  “There’s no need for that,” he says blowing a smoke ring. “Tarasov will come to you. You’ll be the bait, Strelok. Where’s your PDA? I want you to send him a message.”

  7

  Junkie den, South Central Los Angeles

  The candle is almost spent. The scrawl in the junkie’s notice block becomes messier and messier with each line he writes; apparently, by now he can barely control his trembling hand.

  If Sancho isn’t here soon I’ll just go and kill someone.

  Maybe I should wake up Nelly, but she’s looking sweet in her sleep. Her face — so pure. But maybe she still has a shot somewhere, or a few bucks in her coat. But I can’t remove her coat. She’s sleeping in it, it’s cold in here. Is it? I try to ignore it, we burnt all the rubbish and then the old furniture we found. I need some warmth. The cold comes from inside, as if my guts were full of ice. Ice. Ice Cube. I wish I could listen to my iPod but there’s no electricity here and I can’t load the iPod with the two candles I still have. Fuck you, Apple!

  At least Nelly sleeps in the only bed we have. I want to cuddle in next to her, but I could also fall asleep and miss Sancho when he comes. I can’t. After I get my fix, I’ll join Nelly.

  I’ll wait ten more minutes and if that bastard doesn’t arrive, I go and kill someone for his money. Or steal something if there’s still something left worth stealing in this filthy street. I have no choice. Do I?

  Five minutes. Fucking time crawls up my spine like a bug. No, it’s the cold. Time itself is cold. Freezing me to the bones.

  What—what was that?

  Thank goodness, it’s the stairs squeaking. Someone is coming. Sancho. It must be Sancho. He has come.

  My sweet, ever sweetest friend.

  The door swings open and a stout, Hispanic man in an impeccably tailored black suit appears. He switches on a torchlight and pans around the room. The sight of cockroaches running down the rotting walls, the long-extinguished fire still oozing the stench of burnt, dirty rags and garbage, the small pile of feces in a corner makes him shudder.

  “¡Madre de Dios! Did someone die in here, cabrón?”

  “Thank God you came, Sancho!”

  The torchlight swings in the direction of the shaky, almost whining voice that now bears a little hope and fixes on an emaciated young man. His face is grayer than pale, the eyes swollen and red. He pulls up the sleeve of his filthy military jacket that bears faded letters: USMC. Then, he drags himself closer to the man called Sancho like a half-dead dog.

  “Sancho! Gimme my fix. Quickly! You have no idea how much I have waited for you—”

  Sancho steps back in disgust.

  “First we have some finances to settle.”

  If the junkie on the floor had resembled a stray dog until now, now his face turns into the snout of a rabid beast.

  “My fix—gimme my fucking fix you bastard!”

  He jumps at Sancho but a kick from the smartly dressed thug hits him in the chest. The junkie falls to the ground, whining.

  “Sancho, please! You are my only friend!”

  Two more men appear behind Sancho from the dark staircase.

  “Look at this, cabrón,” Sancho says and removes a transparent plastic bag with white powder inside from his pocket. Holding it with two fingers, he shakes it tantalizingly close to the junkie’s face. He attempts to snatch it but Sancho’s companions grab his arms. While one puts his neck into a choke-hold, the other pulls back his head by his long and filthy hair. The junkie looks up to Sancho like a pig looks at the butcher before its neck will be cut.

  “Is here a place where I can sit? On second thought, I better don’t touch anything in this shithole.”

  Sancho puts the plastic bag away. The junkie, his mouth open and salivating, stares at the pocket where the heroin had disappeared.

  “How can a human being live like this? Your father was a war hero. You were a Marine once. Now—look at you!” Sancho shakes his head. “You know, Pete, all this puts me into a philosophical mood. See, this house was built sixty years ago. Where was Mexico at that time? It was the anus of the universe. Okay, Mexico City still is. That’s why we came here. But what has become of you Americans, huh?”

  One of his hitmen squeezes a cockroach with his foot.

  “Exactly, Pedro! Cucarachas. This house has become a symbol of your country and you of those living in it. And who is the master now?”

  “Gimme my—”

  “Wrong. Keep thinking, cabrón.”

  At a jerk of his head, the thug holding Pete’s head pulls on his hair. The junkie screams with pain.

  “This fucking rain is so loud outside! Can’t hear you, cabrón!”

  Another brutal pull on Pete’s head from behind.

  “You,” he breathes.

  “I have been toying with something I recently got and my hearing is still a little impaired,” Sancho says bending closer to Pete. A submachine gun appears in his hand. “It’s a bit old-fashioned but we Mexicans love classic values. See, this UZI is the epitome of classic values, except that this one fires .45 ACP rounds instead the trusty old parabellum. But you know what? Once a bullet from this piece of workmanship hits your head, you no longer worry about its slow rate of fire. Best Jewish invention since compound interest. So, Pete,” he says leaning even closer with a wide grin, “please tell me again — WHO IS NOW THE MASTER OF THE ESTADOS FUCKING UNIDOS?!”

  He screams the last words into Pete’s ear.

  “You are—Mexicans are.”

  His words are barely more than a gasp.

  “Correct. And we, Florencia own—proudly own the rest of the Mexicans. Talking about classic values, let’s get back to the time of the Founding Fathers. Do you recognize this old fart?”

  Sancho flashes a 100 dollar note.

  “It’s Benjamin Franklin.”

  “Bingo! Now tell me, how many brothers did Benjamin Franklin have?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  Another jerk of Sancho’s head is followed by the another thug punching Pete in the chest.

  “That should bring back some high school memories. So?”

  “Five?”

  “Excellent! Just for the record, their names were Samuel, Josiah, Joh
n, Peter, and James. Now comes the big question: how many twin brothers did Benjamin Franklin have?”

  “None—”

  “Wrong!” Sancho shouts. He puts the 100 dollar note to Pete’s forehead where it stays sticking in the cold sweat. “¡Estúpido! Not even the Fed knows, so many! But I only care about the twelve you were supposed to deliver a week ago!” Sancho slaps the note on Pete’s forehead. “Where are my fucking little Benjamin Franklins? ¿Dónde, cabrón?”

  “I—I don’t have it but—”

  Pete’s words turn into a sob. With eyes wide open with dread, he sees Sancho looking at his two companions in frustration.

  “Hijo de puta…Would you believe this, manos?”

  “Waste of time, jefe,” the thug holding Pete’s right arm says.

  “Fucking twelve hundred hundred dollars… I guess your mother spent so much on weekly make-up while she was still alive, Pete.”

  “Leave my mother—”

  “Cállate perro,” the man holding Pete in a choke-hold says tightening the grip.

  “He’s not worth your bullet, jefe.”

  “Let me just break his neck.”

  Sancho looks around. “Is there someone else here?”

  “Nelly,” Pete stammers, “she’s sleeping.”

  “Where’s she?”

  “Over there.”

  At a wave of Sancho’s hand, Pedro checks on the sleeping woman. “She’s stinking like a pig. Probably too stoned to hear a thing.”

  “Let go of him,” Sancho says. Before a shadow of hope could appear on Pete’s face, the thug leader adds, “and close the door, mano. So, what shall we do with him? We’re supposed to set an example for the other drogadictos in Florencia territory.”

  “A la chingada with this two pieces of shit. Let’s burn down this shithole with them inside.”

  “Agree with Pedro, jefe. Let’s finish here, pick up Horacio and the three manos waiting for us outside and vámonos.”

  “I’m tired of talking to this shithead.” Sancho works off the safety on the UZI. “It’s a waste of bullets but since I’m losing cash on this zombie anyway, a few bucks more or less wouldn’t make a difference. ¡Adiós, cabrón!”

  Pete doesn’t look up. He hears his own heartbeat for a second. Then comes a loud bang.

  But not from Sancho’s submachine gun — it is the door being busted open. The silhouette of a hugely built man appears in the darkness. He immediately grabs the thug standing closest to the door and smashes him against Sancho, who is swept off his feet by the impact of his henchman’s body. His jerking index finger fires a short burst from the UZI which hits the ceiling. Pedro hisses a Hispanic swear and draws a jagged combat knife. A powerful kick hits his wrist, causing him to let go off the weapon. The intruder catches the knife in its fall, flips it, slashes the thug’s throat and throws the knife into the other thug’s chest whom he smashed against Sancho a few seconds before.

  At the far end of the room, Sancho desperately reaches for his UZI that fell off his hand and now lies a few feet away from him. With two giant leaps, the intruder reaches Sancho. For the length of a breath, he towers over the thug leader who looks up to him, his eyes almost popping out from fear, his fingernails breaking on the wooden floor as he still tries to get his weapon. Then the intruder lets the full weight of his massive body fall with knees kept forward. Blood fountains up from Sancho’s mouth as the heavy body impacts on his chest, crushing his ribcage.

  Struck with awe, Pete watches his savior getting to his feet and adjusting his long raincoat from which rainwater is still dripping.

  “Are you a fucking Terminator?” he asks with a throat dry and painful from the thug’s choke-hold.

  “No. I am a Stalker,” the intruder replies with a hard Russian accent, trilling the Rs. “My name is Tarasov. Mikhailo Tarasov. You are Peter Leighley, I presume?”

  “What the hell are you stalking me for?”

  “I am not stalking you. I am saving you.”

  “Are you one of my father’s… mutineers?”

  Mikhailo Tarasov shakes his head and offers Pete a hand to help him up. But Pete crawls backwards to the wall, perhaps in even greater fear than while facing the thugs.

  “Yes you are! Leave me be! I don’t want to have anything to do with you mass-murdering bastards!”

  The stairs creak. Someone is slowly walking up to the room. Pete darts a fearful look towards the door but the man with the strange name doesn’t seem to care.

  “Pete,” he says calmly, “it’s time for us to leave.”

  “Do you need assistance?” a hoarse voice asks.

  Another tall shadow enters the room. To Pete’s astonishment, this man is even taller and stronger built than the first. The shoulders of his leather pilot jacket are wet with rain, just like the Tennessee Titans baseball cap. His steel-blue eyes under the bushy, dark brows scan the room, then get fixated on Pete.

  “It’s all right, Top,” Tarasov tells him over his shoulder. “We were just in time.”

  “So this is Pete?”

  “Yes that’s me,” the youth says. “And who the fuck are you?”

  The man who Tarasov addressed in US Marine slang raises his hand in salute. “It’s an outstanding honor to meet you. You’re the son of the greatest warrior the world has ever seen. I’m Sergeant Major Elliott Hartman and you may call me Top. And now haul your skinny ass, Marine! We’ve probably stirred up a hornets’ nest!”

  “Unless you want to wait until Sancho’s buddies arrive,” Tarasov says.

  Pete looks at them with distrust. “Don’t know which is worse—the Florencia guys or you!”

  The two men share a smile.

  “Guess it’s us,” Tarasov says with a chuckle. “You better believe me.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To a safe place, son,” Hartman says.

  “I won’t leave without Nelly.”

  “Nelly?”

  “My girlfriend, Michael Tarasov. She is sleeping right over there.”

  “My name is Mikhailo. Not Michael.” Tarasov picks up Sancho’s torchlight. On a rotting piece of cardboard stretched out on the floor, somebody lies covered with a ragged coat and other trash. Only a few strands of dark hair visible between the rags tell of a woman being nestled under this pile of filth.

  “Oh Gospodi,” Tarasov exclaims with disgust. “How can she sleep in a place like this?”

  “She can sleep there good enough. She even dreams, man!”

  The Top steps towards the sleeping woman. “I’ve a very bad feeling about this.”

  Ignoring the rotten stench, he kneels down. Using his own small torchlight, carefully avoiding touching the filth, he lifts the rags covering the sleeping woman.

  “Don’t wake her up!” Pete begs. “Please!”

  “Mikhailo, the big man’s son is in deeper shit than we thought,” Hartman sighs looking at the woman. “Looks like an O.D. She’s been dead for at least three days, I’d say.”

  Tarasov’s face turns into a grimace of disgust.

  “No!” Pete shouts. “She’s just sleeping!”

  Hartman pats down his pocket and slips a McDonald’s napkin from his pocket. He wraps it around the index and middle finger on his right hand and touches the artery on Nelly’s neck. Then he looks up to Pete and Tarasov and shakes his head.

  “You don’t know nothing! She is not dead! She can’t be!”

  “If I tell you she is dead, Marine, then she is!” Hartman snaps at him. “Believe me, I have seen enough bodies to know. Let’s go, it’s high time to get outta this hellhole!”

  “No! She’s alive! She’s all I have! We must take her with us! Nelly ain’t dead, you stupid bastards! She can’t be dead!”

  “Enough of this,” barks Tarasov, now in a commanding voice. “Top! Take him and let’s go!”

  “On me, Marine, it’s shove-off time!”

  The Top hoists Pete and carrying him on his shoulder as if he were weightless, hurries down th
e stairs where he carefully steps over another body. Looking down from the Marine’s shoulder, Pete recognizes the face of a Florencia thug. He lies at the entrance, his neck jolted to the side as if broken by someone who is extremely good at hand-to-hand sneak attacks.

  Tarasov peeks out to the street and signals them to move on. The smell of rain gives a refreshing feeling, appearing almost pure compared to the stink of decay and death inside the hovel. They cross the street into a dark passage where their SUV is parked, covered by darkness save for a flickering neon sign.

  “What happened here?” Tarasov asks.

  “Nooria gave some cholos a bit of attitude readjustment. All right, Marine…” He puts Pete down. “You’ll use your own boots from now on except when we drive or fly. We gonna do that a lot in the coming days!”

  Pete, stares at the bodies piled up between two garbage containers.

  “Oh no. No—”

  He is already looking around to find a way to run away when the car door opens and a tiny woman emerges from inside. She pulls back the hood of her raincoat and gives Pete a warm smile.

  “Hi! I am Nooria.”

  Seeing her face that’s half any man’s wet dream and half any woman’s nightmare, all that Pete can utter is his own name.

  “Peter Leighley. Pete.”

  “I know,” she says.

  “Who are you?”

  “I am your stepsister.”

  “Our beloved witch,” the Top says with a smile.

  “And my wife,” Tarasov proudly adds.

  Pete’s eyes swivel from the so-called Stalker to the Marine sergeant major, then to the woman who appears to him as small and fragile as the other two are big and fearsome.

  “Who the hell are you people?”

  “We are from the Tribe, Marine. Your father is our leader.”

  “And my stepfather.”

  “And I still don’t know what degree of kinship that is but I am the husband of your father’s stepdaughter.”

  “You guys better celebrate your family reunion later. We’re all wet, hungry and in danger here,” the Top says, eyeing a pick-up truck rapidly approaching from the far end of the street. “Let’s get outta this gang-infested miserable den of filth!”