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

by Balazs Pataki

  Following suit, his mind has almost sunk into a peaceful half-slumber when he hears an annoyed voice from behind. Then someone pokes on his shoulder.

  “Sorry to disturb, but is this woman with you?”

  “She is,” Tarasov replies to the woman sitting behind him, next to Nooria’s berth. “What happened?”

  “Sir, she is opening the twentieth perfume bottle and is mixing them together in an empty mineral water bottle. Please tell her to behave or I’ll call the flight attendant.”

  Tarasov looks at Nooria who shrugs and gives a giggle, holding an Amarige de Givenchy and a Kashaya Kenzo in her hands.

  “Is she disturbing you?”

  “No offense, sir, but she’s behaving like a retard and the smell is nauseating!”

  “I see… Nooria, could you please put those away and wait until we get to a place with more air? Thanks, dear. Would you like to drink something? Oh no, please don’t order mineral water. Try some champagne.”

  Nooria frowns. “Sarap?”

  “We’re on honeymoon and I insist. I’ll also take a glass… or rather two. It’s a long flight, so maybe three.”

  The lady murmurs a thank-you but Tarasov grabs her hand before she can sit back. “Ma’am, do you see something on my hands?” he asks, softly but irresistibly drawing her over to himself.

  “No, why?”

  Tarasov leans closer and starts whispering in her ear. “That’s correct, because from the four men I killed in the last forty-eight hours, none did splash a single drop of blood on my hand. Now, for calling my wife a retard, I wish I could throw you off the plane but since we travel business class, I’m trying to behave. That’s my part of the bargain. Your part is to pay for everything, I say: everything my woman wants to drink and eat until we touch down. Do we have a deal, ma’am?”

  “I’ll call the flight attendants,” she hisses. Tarasov’s grip on her hand tightens. “No… I mean, yes!”

  “Attagirl,” Tarasov says releasing her hand from his iron grip and patting it. “Is that correct in English language to say? Attagirl?”

  “I don’t know… I am from Latvia!”

  “Nu tipa, slushay. Sit back and do as I told you, labushka, or you will have a very rough flight! Ponyal?”

  It is only now that the lady gets genuinely scared — more by Tarasov’s choice of rude words than his sudden Russian.

  “Tvor zakon?” she asks with her face growing pale.

  “Huzhe, tipa. Sit back now, people are staring already.”

  With a wide grin, Tarasov cuddles back into his comfortable chair.

  “Mikhailo! There are six champagnes on menu,” Nooria asks from behind. “Which is best?”

  “Let me see… now what would a genuine Ukrainian mobster drink? Dom Perignon maybe? Never heard about it but sounds promising. What’s Pete doing?”

  “Sleeping.”

  21

  Ghorband, New Zone

  “Good job, Bruiser. When will you send the first artifacts?”

  Even through the miniature loudspeakers of the laptop where Bruiser has Skype open and the not so good connection through the satellite phone attached to it, Sultan sounds exceptionally pleased. Bruiser returns the smile of the Exclusion Zone’s Bandit kingpin as he replies.

  “Matter of days, boss. The boys are eager to move out but we ought to be careful. This place… it’s huge.”

  “Don’t get too lazy, Bruiser. Is the airstrip safe?”

  “We had no problem landing there. Yoga’s crew is holding it now and waiting for the reinforcements.”

  “I want to see results before I bring more men down.”

  “Understood.”

  “One more thing, Bruiser. You sure about that burer business?”

  “I asked our partner the same question but he insisted. He kept his word and it would be a shame if we didn’t do the same.”

  “Agree. Such a weirdo… anyway, tell him it’s been done. I will send that beast with the next flight I can arrange, together with a few more men and equipment.”

  “We could use more Svarog detectors. ”

  “Those are expensive. Barkeep asked me a fortune for that burer and you know very well how much money this operation has cost me already. Keep your eyes open. You’re in the New Zone where there’s more artifacts than rocks, goddammit!”

  “Yes, boss.”

  “How are you dealing with the men?”

  At this point Bruiser swallows hard. “Everything under control, boss.”

  “Very well. Remember, I wanted to send Jack first. Don’t make me regret listening to your begging and letting you go with the first wave. Report your progress tomorrow.”

  Sultan’s fat face disappears from the screen as he finishes the session. Bruiser is relieved that the kingpin cannot see the skepticism which now appears on his face. The makeshift bar where he now powers the laptop down seems to him even more rudimentary than the 100 Rads. His trigger-happy men have riddled the wall with bullet holes and turned the place upside down in search for loot. Sun shafts fall in through holes in the ceiling and make the swirling dust visible. In the courtyard, two dozen Bandits are celebrating—as if taking the defenders by complete surprise and overrunning the place through an unguarded underground passage would have been a victory to be proud of. Bruiser carefully bags the laptop and shakes his head over the bragging audible from the courtyard.

  “…but dat sonofabitch didn’t tell datta passage leads right into da latrine! Damn, ya should’ve seen dat douchebag Loner’s face when he was about to piss and looked right into my gun barrel! He says, whaddafuck! And my shotgun replies, boom!”

  “We really caught them with their pants off, mwahahaha!”

  Walking to the courtyard where his men are relaxing after this morning’s fight, Bruiser realizes that no one is manning the walls. He shouts over to the bragging Bandit who sits on the wreck of a US-made personnel carrier in the courtyard, surrounded by several other men in equally high spirits.

  “Hey! Senka! Put down that damned vodka! Instead of getting drunk, take a few guys and keep a watch on the walls!”

  Senka just laughs at him. “Got shit in yer pants, bro? Relax! Ya safe with us!”

  “Barking orders doesn’t become ya,” another Bandit grins. He pats his empty artifact holder. “Tell us instead where all da loot is dat Sultan promised!”

  “Damn right, bro!” Senka passes his vodka to the grinning Bandit and points at the pile of dead Stalkers next to the entrance. “We didn’t come ‘ere for a few lousy Kalashnikovs!”

  Next to a dead Stalker he has just finished looting, another Bandit looks up. A white skull printed on his black balaclava makes him appear particularly tough.

  “Three conserves, a few mags and a few hundred rubles, Bruiser. If that’s whadda New Zone’s got to offer, I’m already on my way back!” He looks at the wallet in his hands and gives the photograph he finds inside a grimace. “Tough luck, little girl. Yer daddy came, saw and sucked major cock—but I’ll have my fun with you, haha!”

  He licks the photograph through the balaclava’s mouth hole and puts it away.

  Bruiser swallows and curses the moment when he volunteered to come with such an undisciplined and disrespectful bunch, even though they were supposed to be the Bandits’ so-called ’elite’. A true-blooded Bandit commander would have just kicked Senka’s teeth out but Bruiser is not up to this. To his further embarrassment, he feels his face blushing in shame.

  “Uh-oh,” Senka’s buddy says. “Gettin’ angry? Let me guess—someone stole your dried sausage?”

  Bruiser desperately tries to act as a Bandit commander is supposed to. “I’m in charge here! Now get to those walls or I’ll… I’ll just shoot you!”

  The Bandits laugh. “Didn’t ya just see how we kicked Stalker ass?”

  “Chill out, man. There’s nothing to be scared of!”

  He reaches for the vodka bottle that the other Bandit is about to pass him back but doesn’t get a chance to t
ouch it.

  A bell rings out not far from the Asylum. The deep sound echoing in the valley is as foreboding as it is unexpected in this wilderness.

  Senka turns pale. “Whadda hell is that?”

  The Bandits are looking at each other in surprise and fear. The bell rings again.

  “Grab your weapons!” Bruiser yells. “At arms, you idiots!”

  Now the Bandits scramble to take up defensive positions. Half a dozen of them frantically load their shotguns and freshly looted Kalashnikovs as they run up to the ramparts. The few of them with better armor put on their assault helmets.

  “Whatever this…”

  A hard guitar riff cuts into Bruiser’s words.

  “Metallica?” Senka asks with utter bewilderment all over his face. “Whadda…”

  Before he could say hell, a whizz sounds in the air for a split second, and then a massive detonation shakes the western wall. The impact kicks Bruiser off his feet. A second later the wall is hit again. This time, the weakened construction yields to the blast and a long section of the wall goes down, burying and killing the Bandits on the ramparts.

  Lying on the ground and half-covered by dust and debris from the blasts, Bruiser’s ringing ears can barely hear the third that is coming from the direction of the road block outside the Asylum. Though their enemy hasn’t let themselves be seen yet, he is smart enough to understand that his men stand no chance against anyone with such firepower.

  He staggers to his feet and dashes into the relative safety of the building as fast as his trembling limbs can carry him. One of the men who run up to the ramparts lies on the ground with a leg torn off by the blast, his horrible scream muted by the ringing in Bruiser’s ears. He recognizes Senka’s cheeky buddy.

  Several mortar rounds impact in the courtyard, followed by heavy machine gun fire hammering the western wall. Dust and stone splinters fly around everywhere.

  Bruiser jumps over the wounded man and brutally kicks the hand trying to grab at him. He collects his rucksack, quickly puts the precious laptop inside and is about to reach the hole leading into the sewers when he feels a strong hand on his shoulder.

  “Running away, huh? Not without me, asshole!”

  It is Senka who wants to grin but his lips are trembling with fear. “Move, Bruiser! I saw soldiers coming!”

  Though Bruiser wants to at least know who had rooted them so quickly and brutally, he leaves any questions for later as he squeezes himself through the hole and descends back into the sewers from where they had emerged just a few hours ago. Neither he or Senka think for a second about saving anyone who might have survived the onslaught.

  The sound of the frightful music is receding, though the handful of Bandits still alive can hardly realize it. Blood trickles from their blast-stricken ears. Rendered incapable by the shelling, they helplessly watch on fighters in desert camouflage appear through the breached wall and secure the ruined Asylum with well-trained movements.

  22

  Abandoned scientific facility beneath Panjir Valley, New Zone

  Skinner’s sense of time tells him that enough time has passed since he had locked the Stalkers in the hall with the stasis tubes. He might even have slept a little bit, since a while ago he was imagining what would happen if one day he’d bring down jackals, wolves or even bears and this thought could have made for a nice dream. What would the laboratory do to them? Maybe adding the sneak ability of a snake to a bear? Or turn jackals into wolves with the size of a bear? Too bad he had so few gas at his disposal, and even so, he could counted himself lucky to have found enough of the mysterious substance at all. As of yet, there was no way to lead this group of unsuspecting Stalkers to the northern passage and down into the Catacombs beneath the City of Screams. The Tribe was blocking the approaches leading there from the south and east. Soon, they will be annihilated but for the time being, he had to settle for what he found in these vaults where experiments to emulate the effects of those fateful catacombs had once been conducted. And now it’s time to see if it worked out.

  He estimates that the Stalkers were exposed at least half a day longer to the substance than he was in the catacombs, after he left the soldiers to fare alone on their suicide mission. While he walked down to the tightly shut metal door, it came to his mind that he still doesn’t know if that major and his men survived. Probably not, but it’s been long ago and without any importance to him.

  Where there was quiet when the Stalkers had entered the vault, now heavy steps are thumping. No one bangs at the door, demanding anyone outside to open it. This probably means that whatever is inside has no fear of being there — as it would fit a mutant.

  So far, so good, Skinner thinks and cautiously opens the door.

  23

  LHR (Heathrow Airport, London)

  “The big man will cut your balls for letting Nooria get pissed, you crazy Russkie!”

  “You should better see yourself carrying those two bags full of female perfumes, Top,” Pete laughs. “It’s incredibly devastating to your tough guy image.”

  Tarasov himself has to smile when he watches the brawny sergeant major carry Nooria’s tax-free bags to an empty set of chairs. London Heathrow is even more crowded than the lounge in Los Angeles was, and it appears a miracle to find free seats not yet unoccupied by travelers who appear to talk in all the world’s languages to him, and many of them even looking as exotic as the words that hit his ears.

  The champagne Nooria had had during the long flight has apparently put her in a mood beyond ordinary bliss. The words of song she is singing aloud don’t stand out in the mix of languages around them. It still makes Tarasov wary. The last thing they need is unwanted attention.

  “Damn,” the Top says looking at the electric board listing departures. “Our flight has a one hour delay.”

  “What shall we do until then?”

  “I’ll have one of those roast beef sandwiches,” says the Top jerking his thumb at a café with delicious-looking sandwiches piled up in big glass cases below the counter. “Maybe more.”

  “Is there a smokers’ room here?”

  “Don’t think so, Pete.”

  Shaking his head, Pete plugs the earphones back. Tarasov gives a long sigh.

  “I need a drink. Nooria?”

  “I don’t want more champagne. I will stay here with Pete.”

  Tarasov moves to a crowded bar. He has barely gotten to the counter when the Top appears beside him and yells over to the waiter manning the bar. “Wild Turkey! Two shots in one glass, neat! What’s your poison?”

  “Stolichnaya will do. I’m thirsty. Fill up a whiskey glass.”

  Suddenly, the patron sitting on Tarasov’s right pokes his side with his elbow. He is wearing an outfit that looks as if he were preparing for a long stay in the wilderness and a hat with the brim turned upwards. He gives Tarasov the friendly grin of a man who the more he drinks, the merrier he gets.

  “G’day mate! Sorry about that, it’s awfully stuffy in here! I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

  “Watch out, man…”

  “Mate, that’s exactly what I was talkin’ about to this Frenchie here! He says, one of you blokes could hit a razorback with a slug round from around a ninety yards as nicely as Tendulkar can bat a throw by a bloody beginner. You know what was the last words of the hunter who wanted hittin’ a razorback from ninety yards with a slug round? ‘Watch out!’”

  “What’s a razorback and who is Tendulkar?”

  “Bloody hell, you don’t know a thing ’bout hunting and cricket, do you? Noblest things in the world! If it weren’t for my plane being delayed, I’d be already on my way to hunt razorbacks in Ukraine! Speaking of which, I wonder if they play cricket in Ukraine.”

  “You do what in Ukraine?”

  “Mate, your accent is wicked. You’re Russian, yeah?”

  “Ukrainian, actually.”

  Tarasov regrets his words as soon as he has spoken them, but hopes that no one in the loud crowd would pay attenti
on.

  “Christ, guess that means you’ve got no cricket.”

  “What are you up to in Ukraine, anyway?”

  “As told you, I go hunting for razorbacks. That’d be boars to you, mate.”

  “You’re into hog hunting?” the Top asks with his eyes kindled. “How? By making them look at your hat and fall dead from laughing?”

  “I got four rifles in my checked-in luggage. And as to my hat, mate—have a little more respect of my trusty old squashy, will you?”

  An idea comes to Tarasov’s mind.

  “Top,” he whispers, “a solution for our weapon problem might have just come up.” He turns to face the traveler with a wide smile. ”So, mate, where do you go hunting?”

  “Crimea.”

  “There’s better hunting grounds elsewhere.”

  “But the thing is, I’ve already booked my trip and I paid the advance. It’s a good company, found ’em on the net. They organize hunting trips and all that.”

  “And what did they say about the ninety yards slug shot issue?”

  “Aw, you know, I’m to meet the local hunters only in Odessa. But really, Odessa? I don’t know mate, it kinda sounds like a girl’s name. Maybe it is. Heck, I’ve got the names of a few girls… Ukrainian-bride dot com or whatever was that site… is Odessa a town or a girl?”

  “Instead of Odessa or an Anastasia, would you be interested in meeting such a fellow?”

  Tarasov opens his PDA and shows the file photograph of a Zone boar. Thick-hided, enormously sized ferals with tusks protruding from the mouth as long as a strong man’s hand span, boars are probably the Zone creatures most resembling the animals from which they had once mutated.

  “You’re kiddin’ me, right? That damn thing’s a hogzilla!”