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

by Balazs Pataki

  “You mean Los Angeles?”

  “The whole misery that my country has become, Tarasov,” the Top replies starting the engine. “Fasten your seat belts!” He looks in the direction of the pick-up that is now just about two hundred meters away, then pushes the gas pedal and lets the SUV dart out to the street with squeaking tires.

  “Wish I had one of Bockman’s Humvees to play chicken with those cholos!”

  The suspicious pick-up doesn’t follow them. It stops at the house where Pete had dwelled. By the time the thugs realize that the Jeep which had just slipped away in front of their eyes had anything to do with the demise of Sancho and his henchmen, Tarasov’s party is far away.

  In a few minutes they reach a better neighborhood. Looking at the row of condos and shops, still open and brightly lit, Tarasov feels as if South Central L.A. had been on another planet.

  “Probably it is,” he murmurs to himself.

  “Come again?”

  “I still can’t get used to how quickly one gets here from shithole to luxury.”

  “It’s not even luxury, just Glendale.”

  “Will we see Hollywood?”

  “Timeframe’s tight.”

  A moment later Nooria pats the Top’s shoulder. The Jeep slows down and halts in front of a beautiful building with a bright electric signboard over the shiny, glass and metal entrance.

  “Premium Aesthetics—Plastic Surgery Center,” she reads out the sign. “Top, is this a place where American women get new tits made?”

  “One of the many, yes.”

  “Do you think I could get a new face here?”

  “I don’t want you to get any other face than you have, Nooria,” Tarasov says turning back in his seat.

  “But I want one. Even my own stepbrother was scared when he saw me. You too would love me more if I had a new face, wouldn’t you?”

  “No. That wouldn’t be you anymore.”

  “So for you I am just about my ugly scar?”

  Tarasov sighs. “I love all the scars on your body because those remind me who you are and what you’ve been through. Your life, Nooria. And without your life, I have no life.”

  Nooria raises her hand to her face as if she wanted to wipe some dust from her right eye.

  “Is that so?” she asks.

  “It is so. And besides—I would feel very ugly if you had a new face. I would also have to get a scar operation?” Tarasov asks, glancing at the Top.

  “You mean a beauty treatment,” the Top replies, impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

  “Thanks, Top. So, given how many scars I have, a treatment would take ages and we haven’t got the time for that. Although… do they also do hair implantations? I wouldn’t mind having thick curly hair instead of this receding hairline.”

  “I don’t give a damn about you looking like a balding hedgehog,” Hartman grumbles. “But if I let you two mutate into surfer boy and Baywatch girl, the big man will cut my balls off and have the devil pups play baseball with’em back at the Alamo. Forget it.”

  “Never mind,” Nooria replies in a much cheerier voice, “I was just asking. Let’s drive on.”

  “Yep. Let’s get outta this screwed up vanity-run pussy country, and let’s do it asap,” the Top replies accelerating the SUV. When the car halts at a red light a few minutes later, his and Tarasov’s eyes meet in the rearview mirror.

  “Situation well handled,” Hartman tells him under his breath, quietly enough so that Nooria can’t hear it. In reply, the shadow of a sad smile appears on Tarasov’s face.

  While they talked, Pete was looking all the time at the strange girl who is now staring out of the car window to the city lights. His hand moves now closer to Nooria’s, and then, after a long minute of hesitation, touches it. It is not a man to woman touch but a brother’s shy caress. Nooria keeps sitting motionlessly, staring out of the window, too much lost in her thoughts to react to the comforting gesture.

  8

  Central mountain range, New Zone

  “We have no problem with your plan. Many of our fierce warriors thirst for the waters of Paradise. We shall call you Harbinger of Great News!”

  “Two things, Commander Saifullah. First—spare me your bullshit. You are not talking with your brainwashed foot soldiers.”

  The half-mutant Stalker’s words faintly echo in the cave where he and two other men have gathered around a campfire. One of them is wearing a black leather trench coat with a hood over his body armor. His appearance is that of the veteran Bandits from the Exclusion Zone, although his face is too cunning and intelligent for an ordinary Bandit. The other one, who was talking about his men being eager to die at his command, wears a British-made combat fatigue with an armored vest, obviously from the time of the Bush war. The thick, black beard and the blue textile wrapped around his face betray him as a Talib, or dushman commander. Under his bushy eyebrows, shrewd black eyes flash in the light of the campfire.

  “Talk about my warriors with more respect, infidel. Wave after wave, they pound the steel walls of the godless intruders like a vengeful sea storm, stirred up by—”

  “Cut the crap, Saifullah,” the half-mutant Stalker says with a wave of his hand. He pulls the chain with the Orthodox cross from under his armor. “Call me an infidel and our deal is off. Second thing—save your breath and just call me Skinner.”

  The Talib commander sighs. “All right, all right… Skinner. Apologies, but you must understand I rarely have any reasonable man to talk to. While my fighters are keen to die in battle, I have to lead them. This postpones my own martyrdom. I want to live to see the day when God’s banner flies over the stronghold of the Tribe.”

  “And to get out of that irradiated hell on earth that had been Kabul once,” Skinner dryly observes.

  “Exactly. This is where our priorities match.”

  “What about our priorities?” asks the Bandit who was listening to their conversation in silence. “Sultan has sent me here to talk business. It wasn’t easy to find a man reasonable enough to deal with and I trust you have no intention to disappoint me now.”

  His English is the most sophisticated of the three men even if spoken with a Russian accent. When they first met a few days ago at a Stalker campsite close to the Salang Pass, he appeared to the half-mutant as a former lawyer despite his Bandit attire and boastful nickname. After all, the borderline between lawyers and criminals had always been vague to him. Besides, it was not surprising that Sultan, the infamous mastermind of all Bandits in the Exclusion Zone, would have his business in the New Zone set up by someone as skillful in negotiating as capable to make his point with less savory means.

  “You’ll have your base at a central location of the New Zone, Bruiser. Ever heard of Ghorband?” asks the half-mutant. The Bandit nods. “The Tribe won’t bother you if you don’t bother them, but you can raid Free Stalkers at your pleasure. There are anomaly fields rich in artifacts between Ghorband and the Tribe, if you don’t mind shedding your own sweat.”

  “We do,” Bruiser replies, smiling. “It’s easier to make ourselves home at Ghorband and let the Loners pay a toll on any artifact they carry on their way back to Bagram—so to say. However, that place is heavily defended.”

  “I have something for you.” The half-mutant reaches into a pocket of his ragged coat and gives the Bandit a folded sheet of paper. “Here’s a map of the Asylum with all the weak spots marked. If you aren’t complete idiots, you can overrun it. The place is in disarray anyway since Shrink moved to Bagram.”

  Bruiser glances at the map and then nods, obviously satisfied with what he sees, yet still gives the half-mutant a cagey look.

  “Is this map reliable?”

  “Believe me,” Skinner replies with a reassuring smile, “I know that place like the back of my hand.”

  “And about what you’ve asked for in exchange—you sure about that?”

  “Absolutely. I need a burer from the Exclusion Zone. Am I asking too much?”

/>   “Wouldn’t be the first time for Barkeep to arrange for one, I guess. Still sounds weird. What do you need a burer for?”

  Skinner smiles even wider. “They make cute pets.”

  Bruiser frowns but makes a gesture meaning whatever.

  “What about us?” the dushman asks. “You businessmen from the north don’t have to fight the Tribe, but how should we overcome those devils?”

  For a heartbeat, Skinner stares into the flames of the campfire.

  Now it would be my turn to talk in flowery language. It will be demons beating devils because I will unleash the demons of the New Zone. By the time you finish your petty business, my army will be ready. Then I will purge this land of human pestilence. There will be no souls left to be corrupted by a blood-thirsty religion, neither vicious minds to feed on greed. And then, maybe then, at least this one land shall be pure.

  Looking at the two others, he eventually gives the dushman and the Bandit a patronizing smile.

  “Rest assured, Bruiser, Sultan will get more loot and artifacts than he could sell in a lifetime. As for you, Saifullah, the Tribe will be annihilated. Just provide me with heavy weapons. Ten-fifteen dismounted NSV and DShK machine guns plus a few RPGs will do.”

  Saifullah frowns. “Dismounted? Those are too heavy to be carried around!”

  “Let that be my concern.”

  “Your concern should be that no humans can beat those devils!”

  “Don’t shit your pants, you brave, brave warrior,” the half-mutant replies to Saifullah’s whining. His smile turns into a grimace of despise. “My brothers will give you a helping hand — and they are not humans.”

  He utters the last word like a profanity.

  9

  Bagram (Stalker base), New Zone

  “Hey Mr. Fix-it! I got a pair of used boots, you have a look?”

  “That will be twenty dollars, Ashot.”

  “Hey come on, yesterday’s deal no bargain today!”

  “Try those boots by walking over here!”

  “I no can leave my bar alone. You come to me, huh?”

  “No, you pop your head out of that wreck. The commandant wants to see you better.”

  “Come again?”

  “I CAN SEE ASHOT’S FACE THROUGH THAT WINDOW ON THE ANTONOV. CRAP! DOES HE EVER WASH HIS FILTHY DREADLOCKS?”

  “That was the intercom’s button, Shrink,” Uncle Yar patiently explains. “If you want to zoom in with the telescope, you need to press the other button. Here.”

  Standing in the window of the control tower that overlooks what had once been Bagram air base, now the free Stalkers’ home base in the New Zone, Borys the Shrink looks through the extra-large magnification telescope once more. He whistles in awe. “Now I understand how Captain Bone could keep a close eye over Bagram, literally!”

  Proudly, Uncle Yar looks the telescope up and down as if this masterpiece of German optical engineering would be his own work.

  “Repairing it was quite challenging but I loved having a break from broken weapons.”

  “Well done, Yar. Wish your hippie friend would have listened to you and came over here. I need to talk to him, actually.” Shrink lets himself sink into the swivel chair that had once belonged to Captain Bone. “That fake Dutyer had have a good life here before Tarasov kicked his butts.”

  “With all due respect to the major, I heard it different,” the technician says wiping his hands into an oily cloth hanging from his blue overall’s breast pocket. “Something about a former Monolithian sniper and a bunch of real Duty commandos downing Bone’s chopper and killing everyone on board.”

  “Either way, good riddance of Bone and his henchmen. You think Tarasov will ever be back?”

  “Ask me three different but easier questions.”

  “All right.” Shrink thinks for a moment, putting the tops of his fingers together. He lets the chair spin left and right. “First, how to install this telescope on top of the old control tower? I’m not a wanker like Bone was who probably watched the Stalkers in the shower tent while jerking off. Instead I need a relatively sober Stalker watching the surrounding area day and night.”

  “Can do. There’s a wrecked Apache chopper in the junkyard. Gutted, but still has the PPG glass-fiber cabin roof intact. Should come in useful for building a weather-proof lookout.”

  “Excellent. Second, I’m not a secretive bastard like Bone was. I want all Stalkers be able to use their PDAs, just like in the Exclusion Zone. Possible?”

  “Difficult. Enabling buddy tracking and messaging is just a flip of a switch away, but only in a 10 kilometer radius. You can contact anyone through Bone’s old radio up to 50 kilometers, but if we want more coverage for lesser mortals we’ll need signal relay towers.”

  “Find out how, where, and when.”

  “We’ll need a few volunteers to find locations for the relay towers. Do you mind if I broadcast a job opportunity?”

  “Not at all. Third question: I’m not Russian like Bone was. I’m Polish. A Russian boss might let his men drink everything that has alcohol in it but a Pole cannot let this happen. I need to analyze Ashot and find a way to make him improve his vodka. Any ideas?”

  “Maybe putting a gun to his head and telling him to stop watering it down,” Yar says, grinning. “Bone was Ukrainian, by the way.”

  “That would make him half-Polish and the shame on him would be even bigger.”

  “With all due respect, but as a Ukrainian myself I wouldn’t subscribe to the half-Polish thing.”

  “No offense meant. In any case, no self-respecting man with a single drop of Polish blood in his veins would allow Ashot serve that mutant piss.”

  “None taken if you make Mister No-good quit watering the vodka. I’ll see if there’s enough scrap metal in the wreck yard to weld a small tower from. Once I’m done with that and the scouts find a proper location, we can haul it there with the URAL truck.”

  “Let me know if you need a helping hand. I’ll go to see Ashot later…” Shrink stretches his back in the chair and puts his legs on the desk. “Get working, Yar, and now let me feel important. It’s cozier here than in the Asylum, that’s for sure!”

  10

  Mountain track west of Ghorband, New Zone

  “Hey dostan! Mikhahid be chizhaye aali gosh bedahid?”

  Under a clear, cobalt-blue sky one of the Tribe’s Humvee is driving down a narrow canyon. Painted over the sand-colored camouflage scheme in bright red letters, Raghead Reaper is written on its hood. The road is barely more than a track but with no anomalies in sight, the driver allows himself for more speed than what would be necessary to navigate along the bumpy track.

  Looking around from his tower atop the vehicle, the machine gunner drums his fingers on the built-in .50 caliber. He repeats his question through the intercom.

  “In mosik rak ast begzarid espeakerhaye MP3 player ra vasl konam! “

  “We are to supposed to talk English,” the fighter sitting in the vehicle commander’s seat replies. He is wearing a Marine corporal’s chevrons on the sleeve of his light combat armor. “Anderson’s orders. Practice, practice, devil pups.”

  “Okay,” the machine gunner replies. “Care for a little music?”

  The corporal looks at the GPS, then at the high, rocky slopes flanking the canyon. The area looks safe to him. “Let’s rock.”

  “Sir, yes, sir!”

  The machine gunner grins. He slides into the compartment and plugs his MP3 player into the dashboard radio. At first, the song that made him rave sounds oriental, but each line recited by a hoarse voice begins with an forceful guitar riff.

  Barra barra hozd wel boghd ou zawara

  barra barra fezd wel l´hozd ma b´qa amene

  barra barra l´alach we ness menhoussine

  barra barra la horma dolm wet ouboudia…

  “Dig that, dude,” the driver says. “Sounds like Arabic. Like Ilias talks, the Moroccan guy in Lieutenant Trang’ squad. You got the lyrics?”

 
The corporal’s radio crackles but with the music playing loud, neither he nor anyone else in the compartment is noticing it.

  “Papa Duck. Raghead Reaper, I have a drone image on you. You’ve taken a wrong turn about, uhm, half a klick back. Perform a U-turn and rejoin column.”

  “Positive. I found the lyrics on the net. Wait a sec, I’ve a printout somewhere—”

  He fishes a piece of paper from a pocket on his assault vest and starts reading it out loudly.

  Sadness, hate and the reign of tyranny

  Destruction, jealousy; there is no trust left

  Thirst and people are unhappy

  No honor, but oppression and slavery…

  “That’s cool, dude. Carry on!” the driver says jerking his head to the rhythm.

  “Love such patrols,” the machine gunner shouts back as he assumes his position behind the .50 caliber.

  The rivers dried up, the seas ruined the land

  Stars are darkened and the sun went down

  There are no trees left and the birds stopped singing

  There are neither days, nor nights left, darkness only,

  Desolation, hell, there is no beauty left

  “Did Driscoll write this between two kills?”

  “Papa Duck. Raghead Reaper, you are approaching a non-secured map grid. Turn back. Repeat: non-secure section ahead. Turn back!”

  “I don’t think so!”

  “Does he ever listen to music?”

  “A little Shakira might have a good effect on him.”

  The machine gunner laughs and shakes his hips. “Hell yeah! Make him waka-waka!”

  “Raghead Reaper, drone image shows an ambush prepared, I repeat: ambush ahead! Get your ass out of there, immediately!”

  “Listen, the last part is really awesome!”

  Time flows like a raging river, there is no honor left

  Ruin and war and the blood is flowing

  There are only walls left, no walls standing