Fear and people remain silent
Barraaaaa! Barra, barra, barraaaaaa!
The music becomes more chaotic, aggressive even as despair and anger mount in the singer’s voice.
“We should ask Bockman to build in subwoofers!”
“We’re not on a joyride, for God’s sake. Better keep your eyes open!”
With his gloved hands, the machine gunner drums the rhythm on the metal plates defending his position. A glimmer catches his eyes which instinctively open wide with alarm. He has only one second to shout.
“Ahr-pee-geeee!”
Then the rocket-propelled grenade impacts, lifting the vehicle and almost throwing it off the track. One single hit from an RPG wouldn’t be enough to destroy the heavily armored vehicle, but to the hapless crew their vehicle runs up a rock on the path that the driver would have certainly avoided if his eyes wouldn’t be darkened from the blood gushing from his forehead. The Humvee turns over, right at the moment when a second projectile impacts. Shaken, the corporal screams a desperate order.
“Out! Defensive perimeter!”
He doesn’t know that he is the last of his crew still alive. Neither does he have time to crawl out of his wrecked car when the third projectile impacts, penetrating the cracked bullet-proof windshield as if it were a sheet of paper and exploding inside the compartment.
A minute later three men emerge from behind their cover overlooking the canyon. They wear the kit typical for Loner Stalkers in the New Zone: a light brown armored suit with a small oxygen flask and a camelback water container on the back, a gas mask shouldered and a shemagh woven from white and sand-colored fabric wrapped around their necks. One of them shoulders the RPG launcher and takes a short-range walkie-talkie from his assault west. The two others keep their AK-47 automatic rifles at ready.
“Hedgehog here. They went off in a ball of fire. We’re ready to move in with barrels blazing.”
“Good job. Be with you in a minute. Strip those suckers naked. Get whatever you can from the Humvee too. Ashot is waiting for you to unload all your crap on him.”
The Stalker with the RPG grins. “Roger that.”
One of his mates gives him a concerned look. “Are you sure it’s safe? More of them might be here soon.”
“Nah, Vitka. The big guy said it’s safe around here and he knows this canyon like the back of his hand.”
“You sure?”
“He told me himself.”
“And that makes you believe it?”
“I’d believe even Winnie the Pooh if he showed me a way to loot a Humvee!”
The three Stalkers hurry down the hillside. They have barely arrived at the smoldering wreck when they hear the sound of a heavy engine approaching.
“What the—”
Hedgehog is about to get his AKS-74U carbine from his shoulder when another Humvee appears, the hail of bullets from its .50 caliber killing his two mates instantly. He still has a moment left to curse the half-mutant who let them walk into a trap, no doubt to secure all the loot for himself alone, before three bullets hit his chest armor and pierce it together with the water pouch on his back. Blood and water mix in the sand.
About two hundred meters away, the half-mutant Stalker watches the grisly scene through a pair of binoculars.
“No happy end to anyone involved,” he quietly says to himself. “But then, this is just the beginning.”
11
Glendale, Los Angeles
“We drive all the way to that place you call the Meat Market, Top?”
“Negative. It’s been a busy day and I need to sleep off my jet-lag.” Driving by a fast-food restaurant, Hartman slows down. and steers it into the drive-thru lane. “Dinner time.”
“Again?”
“Nooria, my guts are rotting from deer steak, snake jerkies, First Strike Rations and especially HOOAH! Bars. Let my body stash on some real food for a change.”
“I can’t believe you’re eating this shit,” Pete remarks looking at the restaurant’s red and yellow electric sign.
“See, son? That’s why I have as much food back here as I can.”
“It was exactly fast-food I was meaning.”
The Top lowers his window.
“Welcome to McDonald’s. May I take your order?” a voice asks outside.
“Three double quarter pounders with cheese, two Angus Deluxe Snack Wraps and a large Diet Coke, please. Anything for you, Mikhailo? One Cheeseburger and a mineral water. Nooria? Two more bottles of Dasani—”
“Get a large Dr. Pepper for me,” Pete says, ”but not the diet shit.”
“—and a large Dr. Pepper but not the diet shit.”
“Sir,” the voice says, “please restrain yourself from using offensive language on our premises.”
Hartman furrows his brows. “Uhm — what’s your name, please?”
“Keisha, sir.”
“Now listen up, Keisha. I am the customer, you the staff and I outrank you. You will serve me no matter if I call your food shit, your premises a shithole or you any name! Is that clear?”
“Sir, I will have to call my manager if you continue to—”
“Just kidding, Keisha. I love your meals, your restrooms are always clean and you have a very pleasant voice.” The Top takes a deep breath, lowers the window to the bottom and starts shouting into the microphone outside. “But if you continue lecturing me on political correctness instead of serving me within two fucking minutes, I swear I’ll go inside and tear the headphones off your ears to make you hear me better — I am hungry and want my order, now! Is that clear, Keisha?”
A moment of silence outside.
“I got your order, sir. Please proceed to the next window.”
“That’s the spirit, Keisha, that’s the spirit! Add a coffee to my order. As black as it gets—I don’t want you to think I’m a racist. Thank you very much!”
Three minutes later the Top switches off the engine in the parking lot and greedily unwraps his first burger.
“That’s exactly the attitude why I went AWOL,” Pete says and draws on the straw in his coke cup.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” the Top asks munching on his burger.
“You spend the best years of your life with barking commands and screaming at people who might be better and smarter than you. The Corps brainwashes you to think you’re the best and brightest in the universe but once you’re back to the real world, nobody gives a shit about you but you keep acting and talk like a brainwashed jarhead, thinking you are someone, not realizing that all this only makes you an arrogant jerk!”
The Top stops chewing and looks into the rear view mirror to see Pete’s eyes. “It was that lecturing tone in that little ho’s voice that pissed me off. Maybe I overreacted. But think about how many jobless white males got refused just because that place had to take her to promote fucking diversity!”
“Who would want to work at such a place anyway?” Pete asks with a voice that is now strangely trembling.
“Pete, listen up,” Tarasov quietly says, turning back in his seat. “You might think that you are some very special person, deserving much better than what you got, and yes, maybe that special person is hiding deep inside you. But for God’s sake — have a look at yourself. Even the toilet cleaner in that restaurant is better off than you.”
“It’s the restroom our Ukrainian friend is meaning, son.”
“Stop calling me son, you asshole!” Peter screams back. “Thanks for your fucking coke, and now let me go! I need — I must—”
“Uh-oh.” Tarasov sounds concerned now. “Someone’s trying to escape.”
“That’s fucking right! Let me out of this fucking car! Let me out or I fucking kill you all! I have to—”
“Look at me, my little brother.”
Nooria’s soft voice relieves the mounting tension. The Top opens his next burger, Tarasov turns forward shaking his head in disapproval, and Pete, although reluctantly, looks into her eyes.
“Pet
e, you are tired. Come closer, I will help you relax.”
Slowly, like a stray dog that has been beaten all its life and now hearing the first friendly words in a long time, Pete moves closer to her.
“Come closer to me. I do not bite. You can rest your head on my lap. Yes, like this. Let me help you. I will heal you, Pete.”
She places her hand on Pete’s sweating forehead.
“Gosh,” Pete whispers, “your touch feels good.”
“Here, drink water… lots of water,” she continues and puts the Dasani bottle to Pete’s trembling, chafed lips. “Close your eyes. Sleep… sleep now, my little brother.”
“Who are you?” Pete mumbles. His panting slows down, and soon his hands too stop trembling. He sinks into a deep sleep, his head resting in Nooria’s lap. For a moment there is deep silence in the car.
“Nooria, you never cease to amaze me,” Tarasov whispers.
“Could we drive to a place to sleep, Top? It is not very comfortable here.”
“Sorry, Nooria,” Hartman replies. “I had to pull back my seat to make place for my legs but even so, the steering wheel keeps hitting against my balls!”
He puts the half-eaten burger back to the paper bag and starts the engine. “Let’s hope that motel room comes with a microwave.”
12
The Alamo (home base of the Tribe, ancient citadel of Shahr-i-Zohak aka Red City), New Zone
Near to the tower overlooking the valley beneath the Tribe’s mountain fortress, about fifty warriors have gathered in the shade of a camouflage net spun out between two trees. Sitting on plastic chairs, they face a large map of the new Zone fastened to a wooden board.
A few of them wear the heavy exoskeletons of Lieutenants with their helmets off, others only a light fatigue. Only one warrior is wearing full combat armor. He is standing at the briefing board with his helmet and face mask on, his M249 slung across his shoulder. Semper Fi is written on his helmet. He stands at attention and salutes when the Colonel appears from the tower.
“Attention on deck!”
“As you were,” the Colonel says. He looks over his men. “Warriors, I am irritated.”
No matter how many battles they have seen, the Lieutenants shun his eyes, ducking like schoolchildren who are about to be reprimanded for doing some mischief. Even the buzz of a lonely fly circling in the tent can be heard.
“During the past two weeks, our patrols have been constantly harassed by hostile fire. However, this morning was the first time that we suffered losses in an ambush. Three men are dead and one vehicle destroyed because of a small mistake and a great amount of embarrassing recklessness!”
One Lieutenant jumps from his seat and stands at attention.
“Sir, I apologize for my men’s mistake,” he says with a gloomy look all over his face.
“That vehicle crew consisted of idiots, Lieutenant Nelson, and got what idiots deserve. This land does not tolerate mistakes, and I even less so. Remember — for a Lieutenant of the Tribe, a mistake committed by his men is a mistake committed by himself. This applies to all of you. Am I understood?”
“Sir, yes, sir!” the Lieutenants reply.
“Nelson, only your rank prevents me from handing out severe punishment on you. There aren’t many Lieutenants left and I prefer you falling honorably in battle than being cast out from our Tribe. You are relieved of your command and assigned to base duties until I decide what to do with you. Get out of my sight.”
“Sir!”
Lieutenant Nelson salutes and marches out of the tent. His disciplined walk doesn’t deceive his fellow officers. Some of them give him a look of pity, others grin in apparent agreement with his mistake being duly punished. The colonel doesn’t bother to look at the reprimanded officer and continues the briefing.
“The only thing Nelson did right was to exterminate the ambushers. My suspicion was right: scavengers from Ghorband are behind the latest provocations. Such provocations, warriors, cannot and will not be tolerated. Additionally to the scavenger ambush, more bad news arrived this morning. The ragheads have obviously replenished their ranks after we bloodied their nose at Bagram, because they tried to infiltrate our territory from the south. Here.” The colonel points at a marker on the map. “Before we punish the scavengers, something needs to be done about this nuisance. Lieutenant Ramirez!”
“Sir!”
“You will assume command over Nelson’s outfit. With them and your own men, you will move to the southern approaches and establish an FOB, here.” The colonel points at a narrow valley on the map, well south of the Tribe’s stronghold. “From that position, you will scout the area and repel any hostile attempts to infiltrate our territory.”
“I knew that Ramirez would get the shittiest task,” the Lieutenant with the cigar whispers to his neighbor who has a huge scar over his Asiatic face. “I just knew it.”
“Yep,” his neighbor replies under his breath. “He always does.”
Their whisper does not escape the Colonel’s attention.
“Bauer and Trang! If you have any tactical suggestions to make, please share your wisdom with the rest of us.”
The two Lieutenants jump from their seats.
“Sir, no, sir!”
The Colonel gives them one of his ice-cold stares.
“Then keep your mouth shut until you are allowed to ask questions.”
“Sir, yes, sir!”
“Good. With Ramirez keeping our underbelly secure, a strike force consisting of two assault teams lead by Schmidt and Collins will proceed to the scavenger outpost at Ghorband and secure it. Anderson’s fire support team will assist the assault teams. Together, they will form Strike Force Anaconda and stand under the joint command of First Lieutenant Driscoll.”
Several Lieutenants frown, especially those who took part in the Tribe’s latest battle—the relief of the Stalker base when it had been besieged by their common enemy.
“Driscoll in charge? Sounds like an excessive body count,” whispers a Lieutenant with Latino features into Bauer’s ear, who sits just in front of him.
“You have any problem with that, Ramirez?”
“Of course not, but is it really necessary?”
Ramirez slowly shakes his clean-shaven, dark skinned head that bears a USMC tattoo on the nape.
“This ain’t all, warriors. Once the scavengers at Ghorband have been taken care of, Anaconda will proceed to Bagram and put it in a chokehold. The Lieutenants in charge will personally ensure that no one and nothing gets in and out. When I see the time fit I’ll lead Task Force Boomslang, made up from the teams remaining at the Alamo, against Bagram and take it together with the task force already deployed there. Lieutenants whom I haven’t assigned a strike team will either join the squad leaders as support or stay here until we all join the main strike force. Questions?”
A moment of silence falls over the warriors. The fly is still buzzing above their heads. Then Lieutenant Trang’s hand flits up. His fist closes and the buzz ceases.
Bauer raises his hand.
“Sir, what about me and my squad?”
“You’re also assigned as reserve and to stay here in the Alamo. Use the time to intensify training the newcomers and devil pups.”
“Sir, I—”
“I’ve made my decision, Bauer.”
Another Lieutenant raises from his chair.
“Yes, Collins!”
“Sir, we’re moving out in almost full force against the scavengers. It seems overkill.”
“I suppose you have nothing against the Tribe stretching itself? We’ve been resting too long.”
A few warriors laugh, but the blue eyes in Lieutenant Collins’ tanned face remain serious. Bauer, Ramirez and a few other officers nod their agreement over Collin’s concerns.
“Nothing against a little exercise, sir, but… with all due respect, we are already overstretched as far as defending our area goes.”
“Permission to speak freely?”
All eyes are
directed at the warrior in full armor. The Colonel nods.
“Collins, you didn’t get the Colonel’s point. We move out to purge the western approaches from scavenger scum. If you don’t have the guts to do that — this is the time to chicken out.”
“That’s no option, sir!”
The Colonel resumes briefing his men. “First Lieutenant Driscoll has summed it up very well, Driscoll. We will teach them a lesson they won’t soon forget. But don’t be fooled by how pathetic scavengers are. A few weeks ago, when we saved their ungrateful asses from being kicked by the ragheads and Chinese, those among us who were there could see that the scavengers can put up hell of a fight with their backs against the wall. As the mistake made by Nelson’s men has proven again, carelessness is deadly. Overconfidence too. There is no such thing as overkill, Lieutenant Collins. Clear?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Bauer, I see you have another question.”
“Sir! When will the Top and the witch be back?”
“Whenever he has finished mustering the new recruits and made sure that Nooria is unharmed.” The Colonel halts his words for a moment. “You all know that I was not overly happy when my stepdaughter decided to accompany our Russkie friend on his mission. However, to put it this way: you also know that the women of the Tribe are not entirely subjects to our chain of command.” A wave of low laughter goes around among the Lieutenants. “All I could do was to order the sergeant major to keep watch over her. Until she is back, you’ll need to rely on the corpsmen assigned to your squads. Any other questions? Speak your mind, DiMatteo.”
“Sir, we have recently received a report about a new kind of mutant. I mean, it’s not entirely new to most of us Lieutenants… but that they to appear over ground and in groups of three or four, definitely is.”
Silence falls over the tent. The Lieutenants don’t smile anymore.
“Yes, I am aware of that,” the Colonel dryly replies. “If you’d read the report prepared by Staff Sergeant Rush, you must also know that he called them smiters. One has to agree, it’s a fitting name for those walking juggernauts. I’ve already ordered Boxkicker to issue more incendiary rounds for the .50 cals on our patrol vehicles. Same applies for the squad automatic weapons and M27 rifles. You’re also advised to have at least one in every three M4 carbines mounted with a grenade launcher. Though all this is more the concern of Bauer and especially Ramirez than the rest of you who’ll move east to crush the scavengers. So far, smiters have appeared only to the south.”
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