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

by Balazs Pataki

  “I hate mutants, no matter what they’re called,” mutters the Latino officer.

  “That’s the spirit, Ramirez. No more questions? Make your preparations and stand by for my command. We’ll move out soon. That would be all, warriors.”

  Seeing the Colonel having finished the briefing, First Lieutenant Driscoll barks a command.

  “Ten-hut!”

  The Lieutenants stand in attention and the Colonel lets his eyes go around his most trusted officers.

  “Dismissed,” he says and lights up a cigarette.

  Followed by Driscoll, he walks off towards his headquarters in the tower.

  As soon as they have left, the Lieutenants break out in chatter over what they’ve just heard. Bauer, Ramirez and Collins leave the tent. Standing on a rampart and looking down to the cluster of neatly built stone and mud houses in the Tribe’s living quarters, they stand quietly. None of them wants to be the first to share his doubts. Ramirez offers a box of cigarettes. Eventually, Bauer draws on his smoke and begins to speak.

  “The Stalkers are dead.”

  “Leave that gung-ho bullshit for a second,” the blue-eyed warrior says. “I’m not sure it’s the scavengers behind the attacks.”

  “Those bastards this morning certainly were, Joe.”

  “Why would they attack our patrols?” asks the Lieutenant with the shaven skull. “Stalkers might be unthankful scoundrels but it just doesn’t add up. They know we can crush them easily. Why would they provoke us?”

  “The big man’s right, José,” Collins says, scrubbing his stubble as if his hand was itching. “If it had been two, three uncoordinated attacks, I’d also say it were some renegades doing crazy shit on their own. But that ain’t the case.”

  “Dunno,” Bauer says staring at his cigarette. “I’m with you about us being overstretched, Joe. The whole thing sounds to me like a good idea executed at the wrong time.”

  “That’s right, but would you tell this to the big man?”

  “The only man who could talk the Colonel out of this is the Top, and only heaven knows when he will be back. Damn!”

  “Maybe Tarasov could reason with the Stalkers,” says Ramirez.

  “It’s not about reasoning with the scavengers, José. It’s about killing them as a training exercise.”

  “And all this mess just when both of them are away!”

  “Look at the bright side,” Bauer says tossing his cigarette into the wind. “The plan is good. We take Ghorband first — that place had been a thorn in our flesh long enough. Shouldn’t be a problem. Then we wait. Maybe even the big man suspects that there’s more to these attacks than meets the eye.”

  “Good point, Charlie. Too bad I won’t be seeing any of that. If I get the same shitstorm upon my head in the southern passage like the Stalkers got at Bagram, it’s anyone’s guess how long I can hold on with everyone else gone east.”

  “Till death, or so it’s expected.”

  “Hopefully the ragheads’ deaths.”

  “Don’t worry, José. I’ll be in the Alamo. Just drop me a line if you can’t handle the situation.”

  “Don’t get too bored back here, huh.”

  “I won’t. Gonna be flirting with Saria and busily praying for you for my conscience’s sake.”

  “If you approach my woman you’ll need to pray for your dick’s sake. Saria is all fire and brimstone, hermano!”

  All three laugh. José Ramirez eventually heaves a sigh of concern. “This will be tough and I got the shittiest mission like always. Why, God why? Anyway, the big man has spoken and we follow. The Spirit be with us.”

  “It will be,” Collins says. “Let’s get ready to kick ass.”

  The three Lieutenants make fists and bump each other with their knuckles.

  13

  Motel 6 on South Garey Avenue, Pomona, Los Angeles

  Standing with his back to the wall with a cigarette in mouth, Sergeant Major Hartman appears like any ordinary guest who would enjoy a smoke on the veranda overlooking the courtyard, escaping his uninspired room.

  He stares at the pool in the courtyard and slowly shakes his head. It is vacant at this late hour but the water is still illuminated by lamps below. To him who calls a desert fortress his home the sight of so much pure water, used for nothing, is an incredible waste of one of the most precious resources.

  The room door opens and Tarasov appears. “Mind if I join you, Top?”

  “Hell no,” Hartman says and kills his cigarette in an ashtray.

  “I’m worried about the boy,” Tarasov says.

  “Giving him lots of water and cigarettes is all we can do. He’s going cold turkey.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Ain’t no time for rehab. He either manages to live without that shit or I don’t wanna know his other option.”

  “What worries me is that the kid might be a walking virus container—HIV, hepatitis and who knows what else he could’ve infected himself with.”

  “He’s all FUBAR,” nods Hartman. “That’s why we brought Nooria along. She should know how to deal with things beyond any doctor’s science.”

  Tarasov sighs. “All we can do is to wait. The first few days are the worst during drug deprivation.”

  “Your folks back in Ukraine, they too got a drug issue?”

  “You’ve got no idea. One day I caught a few of my rookie soldiers preparing stuff from painkillers, iodine and lighter fluid. They called it Krokodil. A very cheap substitute for heroin. Invented by Russians, of course. When I asked the medics about it, they were looking at me as if I came from the moon. Turned out that in the Big Land even school kids use that shit.”

  “Looks like your country too could use a big and thorough clean-up.”

  “Which place on earth doesn’t, nowadays? Anyway, about Pete… when we bring him back to the Colonel, what then?”

  “He will probably take the kid down to the Spirit to make a real warrior out of him.”

  “What? I thought I had bound it with Nooria’s stone! You know, the last gem from the big Buddha statue’s crown or whatever it was!”

  “See this wall? The rain has stopped an hour ago but it’s still moist. Same with the City of Screams — the worst might be over but the Spirit’s power still lingers around.”

  “I don’t understand. I blew the tunnels leading to those cursed catacombs. How could anyone get in there now?”

  “There’s a passage from the northern side of the hill. Only the Colonel, I and Driscoll know about it. Nooria too, of course.”

  “Gospodi…”

  “Come again?”

  “Oh my God. Anyway—now that you mentioned Driscoll, what’s the matter with him? I’ve never met a crueler man.”

  “He has been difficult to deal with even before we met the Spirit. Driscoll was the first to enter that chamber and probably got the most of it. If he hadn’t been a brainwashed jarhead like that worthless little junkie called my Marines, he would have gone mad. But our discipline… it goes into one’s nervous system. And into that of our enemies’ too, because they get very nervous when we come for them.”

  “What was his problem?”

  “It’s a sad story. Maybe I’ll tell you another time. Anyhow, the man has a death wish, just can’t make up his mind what death he wishes for more—his own or that of our enemies. The only death he wants to avoid is that from the Colonel’s hands. It would mean the big man has lost his trust in him for whatever reason, and the Colonel’s trust is all Driscoll has. Many more of us, too. I’d say, if the Colonel was the Godfather, Driscoll would be Luca Brasi.”

  “Krestniy Otets. I know that film,” Tarasov smiles. “And who would you be?”

  “Something between Clemenza and a consigliere. I mean the Abbandando sort, not that pussy Tom Hagen with his queer hairdo. Before you ask—you could make a good Albert Neri. Pete would be Fredo, as I see him now. Glad you know that movie. It’s outstanding, simply outstanding.”

  “Pete might have a Michae
l Corleone in his heart. He’s got his father’s blood after all.”

  “Right now anything useful in him is hidden under thick layers of shit. We’ll peel that off, though, with a KA-BAR knife if necessary.”

  “Part of it will be to clear up at least part of the truth about his father.”

  “I doubt it will make any difference.”

  “It will, for him.”

  “Maybe. The truth about his father alone will not make him a better man. What if it does, anyway? Soon we’ll be back to the Alamo and everything will go on as it always does, who knows how long and where it will take us.”

  “You sound a bit demotivated, Top.”

  “You know, the Colonel and I have been through a lot of shit. Always living to our Code, always performing at two hundred per cent, always burying some of the Marines under our command. Always fighting with one hand tied to our back… Then we got to the City of Screams and the thin red line. You know that part already — we didn’t step, but jumped over it. You have been to the Alamo. We’ve got everything there, except booze because the big man can’t stand drunk warriors. Indeed, there is something I miss from all this.”

  “Just a little peace, maybe?”

  “Nope. Just a little treason.”

  Frowning, Tarasov looks at Hartman.

  “And a little treason is exactly what I will commit tonight,” the sergeant major replies with a wink of his eye. “Time to get my bottle of jack from the car. Dare to be my partner in crime?”

  14

  Antonov bar, Bagram

  Ashot’s bar in the derelict transport airplane is empty, safe for three Stalkers in the corner in various states of intoxication ranging from being pissed to completely smashed.

  Behind the counter where not even sober patrons could see what he is about to do, the barkeep is busily pouring the third bottle of Stolichnaya vodka into a jerry can. Then he takes the plastic tube protruding from another container, sucks on it and lets the liquid inside flow into the first one.

  Satisfied with what he is doing, Ashot starts humming a slightly altered version of his favorite Bob Marley song.

  I shot Voronin

  But I didn’t shoot no more Duty, oh no! Oh!

  I shot Voronin

  But I didn’t shoot no more Duty, oh, oh, o-oh.

  Yeah! All around in my home base,

  they’re tryin’ to track me down;

  they say they want to bring me in guilty

  for not killing everyone Duty

  for the sake of humanity.

  But I say…

  He is about to light up a joint when he hears the metallic click of a revolver being cocked. He turns around and sees Shrink at the counter, pointing a .45 Magnum at his head.

  “The man himself!” Ashot says, hiding his embarrassment behind a wide smile. “Welcome to me humble establishment!”

  “Listen up, Ashot. Me taking over this place means you’re my druggist. You better stop tampering with our best medicine.”

  “Yes yes yes, I will be the best droggist any shrink had ever had!”

  “I said: druggist. Not droggist.”

  “What you mean actually is called a pharmaceutician.”

  “No. It is called a droggist, and from now on you will sell only pure vodka.”

  “But I no make any profit on selling old Kalashnikovs, you see? Wanna ruin poor me?”

  “I will kill poor you if I catch you watering vodka ever again, is that clear?”

  “I promise! Just put that shooter away from me face!”

  Shrink uncocks the fearsome pistol and holsters it. Relieved that the new commander is not inclined to shoot him over their squabble, Ashot risks one more argument. “It’s still called a pharmaceutician.”

  “If I say it’s a druggist, it’s a druggist.”

  “You mean a pharmacist, you two morons!”

  Shrink and Ashot look to the bar where a short Stalker is impatiently drumming on the counter with his fingers.

  “Moron, you said? Who calls me a moron?”

  Frowning, Shrink is about to deliver a lecture on manners but just stares speechlessly when he sees the new arrival remove hood and balaclava. The Stalker turns out a woman with short, raven black hair.

  Ashot looks at the exoskeleton the female Stalker is wearing. He points his finger at her, opening and closing his mouth again as if trying to recall a name.

  “Yes, Ashot, it’s me. Mac.”

  “Wow, Mac! I thought you went to Stalker paradise!”

  “I almost literally did. Thank Billy I turned back just in time before the dust storm of the century hit.”

  “Ashot, could you introduce me to this… lady?” Shrink asks, still unsure over what he is seeing.

  “Oh yeah! Mac, this is Shrink. He is the new boss in Bagram!”

  “Oups,” Mac says in embarrassment. “That makes you the only moron left, Ashot.”

  “No offense taken,” Shrink quickly says.

  “—and Shrink, he—I mean, she is Mac, Yar’s apprentice.”

  “Apprentice no longer, hiding my face longer. I got bored of both. You serve food?”

  “I can give you some ‘tourist’s breakfast’ and even warm it up for you!”

  “Cold is good. It’s for Billy.”

  Ashot peers over the counter, then recoils. “No entry for jackals and pseudodogs in me bar!”

  The mutant jackal patiently sitting at Mac’s feet gives him a growl. Mac pats his furry head.

  “He’ll not bite your butt, Ashot.”

  “It’s not about biting me butt but pooping in me bar! I no will clean up radioactive mutant poop!”

  “It’s not radioactive.”

  “But it’s still smelly!”

  “All right, all right. Get out of here, Billy. Wait outside.”

  The mutant yelps with disappointment but obediently jogs out to the lowered ramp of the old airplane where he sits down like a well-trained watch dog.

  “You said the jackal warned you of an impending dust storm?” Shrink asks.

  “Billy gets very nervous when a storm comes,” Mac explains. “He can sense it, yes. Like any dog, because he is a dog.”

  “If you say so,” Shrink replies with a jovial smile. Mac returns the friendly look, apparently happy that the base commander has spared her the usual discussion over her pet’s breed. “In any case, I would say that keeping him as a pet is a reflection of your inner desire for company. Mind if I offer you a drink?”

  “I can’t believe it — at last a male with manners. Too bad I’m not much into Ashot’s poisoned sewage water.”

  “Uhm… with Bone and his Dutyers gone, at last I can serve the real stuff, see? No more water in me vodka!”

  “Let me try, Ashot.”

  “That will be twenty dollars.” With a wide smile, Ashot takes a bottle of Cossacks vodka and fills up a shot glass. “But since you are me first customer today, I’m givin’ ya a discount!”

  “And I thought the folks back at the Asylum were nutcases enough,” Shrink says shaking his head. He waves in Ashot’s direction. “What brings you to our desert airplane, Mac?”

  “I’m back here for the job.”

  “At last there will be again someone helping out Mister Fix-it,” Ashot says. “We can expect proper repairs now!”

  “It’s about that signal tower, actually.”

  “Yes,” Shrink nods. “From now on, PDA signals will be available to everyone. No more monopoly over communications with me in charge. Yar has already extended the signal range over a range of ten kilometers around Bagram.”

  “Yeah, that’s how I got the news.”

  “Next step is to extend it to the north where most rookies are travelling through on their way here. Do you know your way around there?”

  “You could say that.” Mac sends the shot of vodka down her throat and smacks her lips. “Much better than before. It was about time for a change of management around here!”

  “Na zdrowie, Stalker. Pou
r me one, will you Ashot?”

  Ashot fills another shot glass. Shrink gives its content a close look, then gulps it down, closes his eyes for a heartbeat and then emits a satisfied sigh. “See? You can serve decent vodka if you want… not as good as Zubrovka, though. So, Mac—guess you’re here to find someone to watch your back in the wilderness outside. Aren’t you?”

  “For me to watch his back, actually.”

  “Don’t gimme that look, dear! I no can leave my bar!”

  “I was just wondering why the Antonov is so deserted, Ashot. Maybe your unkempt dreadlocks scare your customers away.”

  “Just wait for the evening! Stalkers will pour in, pouring vodka down their throats and telling ya how they single-handedly finished off a pack of jackals and found dozens of Heartstone artifacts! Ya can make your pick then!”

  “I don’t need little boys with big mouths, Ashot.”

  “Judging by your pet and the F2000 you carry, you’re prepared for close quarters. Let’s see if I know someone reliable with a skill for long weapons,” Shrink says studying the Stalker’s equipment. He strokes the stubble on his chin. “Mac, you like men who talk too much?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Then an assistant of mine would be just the right choice. Calm guy, keeping his thoughts to himself if he believes it’s useless to reason with someone. Otherwise, he speaks his mind.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Got to admit I could never memorize his call sign. Something like ‘axe a little’ or ‘box a bottle’—it breaks the tongue of even a Polish. Sometimes he talks to his rifle, calling it by an even more tongue-breaking name.”

  “Sounds like a weirdo to me.”

  “I’d rather say, eccentric. For snipers it’s like an occupational disease. First I tried to heal him out of being a natural born loner, but when I saw him shooting a dushman from a distance of three hundred meters didn’t bother anymore. He’s beyond my skills. If human brains are broken watches and me a watchmaker, I’m not up to deal with a fine Swiss chronometer.”