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

by Balazs Pataki

  “Do you know by chance when she’ll be back?”

  “Here? Never.” At last, she finds her key and opens the gate. “Rumor has it that she bought a new apartment on the Kreshatyk.”

  “The Kreshatyk? That’s posh,” Tarasov says, biting his lip. He wanted to prevent himself from smiling but the woman gets the wrong impression from his grimace.

  “Yes, some lucky ones get it all,” she says with a frustrated, tired sigh. “If I were in her shoes I wouldn’t buy an apartment but go west and never ever come back!”

  The boy looks up to her with concern.

  “Ne boysa, Vova,” she tells him, “I’d take you with me but only if you behave. Will you?”

  Tarasov can hardly hear the boy’s reply. Neither can he see how the boy follows him with his eyes while he hurries back to the idling car. Holding the plastic mesh with the new ball inside, the boy starts kicking it with his knee.

  “Vova! Will you come?”

  Reluctantly, the boy called Vova follows his mother up the stairs.

  “Mama, I think I have seen this man before.”

  “Really? He didn’t even look at you, how could you tell?”

  “I recognized his voice. But last time he was wearing an officer’s cap. I think his new cap is much cooler.”

  “Silly boy. A postman with an officer’s cap…”

  “Ne znayu,” the boy shrugs as they step inside the elevator. “Maybe he is no postman. Or no officer. And last time he was… much shorter. Now he is even taller than papa.”

  Screeching and threatening its two passengers with leaving them trapped in the dirty cabin at every floor it passes, the elevator begins to ascend.

  “You have a very vivid imagination, Vova,” the exhausted woman says, seemingly nerved by her son’s daydreaming.

  “Maybe he is a criminal hiding from the police! Maybe he even has a reward on his head, dead or alive! A bank robber of mafia boss! That would be cool.”

  This time, the woman doesn’t reprimand her son. Her bagged eyes sparkle up with greed. She caresses Vova’s blond head.

  “We will need to talk about this once we get home.”

  27

  Central mountain area between southern badlands and Tribe outpost, New Zone

  The overcast sky over the New Zone blackens out the stars. It is almost pitch dark over the hill where Saifullah and Skinner meet. A Nissan pick-up idles nearby, its headlights dimmed.

  “Did you bring what I asked?”

  Saifullah gives Skinner a nod and points to the flatbed.

  “Five hand-held RPKs, three NSVs and two DShKs, all belt-fed with enough bullets to bring down a dozen helicopters.”

  “Bullets are for muskets, Saifullah. Try to sound like a soldier and call them rounds, for God’s sake.”

  “You want to lecture me?” Saifullah snorts. “If you’re thinking you can use them hand-held, you don’t even know how to deploy them!”

  “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”

  Skinner emits a gurgling growl, sounding so much like that of a mutant that Saifullah and his three men in the vehicle reach for their weapons, afraid that one of the New Zone’s more dangerous creatures might be lurking nearby. Their concern is proved right — but it’s not one mutant appearing in the darkness but at least twenty. The sandy ground is shaking under their heavy steps as the lumbering hulks approach, each of them twice as tall as a human. Skinner grabs Saifullah’s AK-47.

  “Shoot at my brothers and we’ll have you for dinner,” he warns him angrily. “Tell your men to unload the weapons.”

  “Gora! Daa tseshai di?” a Talib fighter shouts. “Laas ma raawrra!”

  Skinner notices his discomfort with a grin. “Scared of your new allies, huh?”

  “Yes,” Saifullah admits.

  “Imagine how scared the Tribe will be once my brothers appear, hip-firing the weapons you’ve brought….”

  “Very,” the Talib says and begins to mutter a prayer in Arabic.

  Following Skinner’s mental command, each mutant grabs a machine gun. The half-mutant notices that although they can hoist the heavy weapons without effort, using them properly will require a little practice — their brawny hands hold the weapons as awkwardly as someone, who had never fired a weapon before, would hold a Kalashnikov.

  Poor brothers. You still need to learn how to master your new strength.

  Proving Skinner’s thoughts, a mutant trying to get the best grip on a DShK anti-aircraft machine gun accidentally presses the trigger. The burst of heavy 12.7 millimeter rounds hit the Talib standing on the flatbed and tear his upper body to shreads. The mutant looks at his index finger and the weapon, and then growls as if he were chuckling.

  “Oups… sorry,” Skinner says, himself laughing. “The boys still need some practice.”

  “May God forgive me to deal with you and your ungodly creatures,” an ashy Saifullah says.

  “You better get out of here now. I need to gather a few more friends.”

  “More such… demons?”

  “Jackals, though it remains to be seen if I can. They’re dumb, you know? Compared to them, my brothers are fucking Albert Einsteins.”

  For the first time since they met, Saifullah sees a little self-doubt appear on the half-mutant Stalker’s face.

  “Jackals?” he asks with disgust. “What do you need those unclean dog-like beasts for?”

  Skinner points at the gory remains of the mowed down Talib. “If you use gunfodder, why shouldn’t I?”

  28

  Upmarket residental area, Reitars’ka Street, Kiev

  The honey-colored designer lamp casts a cozy light over the room where Captain Maksimenko is sitting at a make-up table, blowing a smoke ring from his cigarillo. He watches it slowly fading away when it touches the mirror reflecting Agent Fedorka’s naked body on the king-size bed. Two wine bottles stand on the table; one empty, one missing just as much as there is in Maksimenko’s glass.

  “Was he rough on you, Verka?” he asks, directing his question more to his cigarillo than the woman. Vera Fedorka lies on her belly, playfully moving her feet, very much immersed in working on her nails with a long, pointed file.

  “Yes, Dima,” she absentmindedly replies.

  “How rough?”

  “Not in the way you are.”

  “Why? How am I?”

  “Rough, too… but in a more sophisticated way,”

  “Be more specific for once.”

  She shrugs, not looking up from the nail file.

  “You do it because you enjoy it. He does it because he has an urge. Maybe it makes him forget certain things for a few seconds… I’m not psi-ops to know what’s going on in the head of Zone freaks.” Vera Fedorka blows off the dust from the nails on her right hand, and starts filing those on her left. “Is it true that Tarasov has hooked up with a dirty Afghan girl and is hiding now with some pindos deserters?”

  “At least that’s what his last message to Degtyarev was.”

  She chuckles. “Alex Degtyarev… he’s handsome. But Tarasov even more so.”

  “Really? Why are you so interested in Tarasov?”

  “I am not interested in him. It’s that woman who interests me, actually. Do you know what she looks like?”

  “No.”

  “Come on… you know everything.”

  “We had a good asset in the New Zone—a very good one. Not even he could get close enough to those deserters.”

  “That’s disappointing.”

  “Indeed. You know, the briefing note I got from Kruchelnikov says Tarasov has valuable intel about two things: the results of the lost expedition and the American renegades.”

  “I can guess why we want to have the scientist’s reports, but why would we care about those deserters?”

  “In the latter case, we actually means us, Verka. Getting intel on the Tribe would be more than appreciated by their government. They are probably a haven for criminals. That’s one thing. They must also have their su
pporters for smuggling weapons, trafficking criminals to boost their numbers and all that.” Drawing on his cigarillo, Maksimenko narrows his eye and lowers his voice almost to a whisper. “Imagine, Verka… just imagine. We get that intel, you and me. Then the only choice we’d have to make would be getting promoted in the Service or making the Americans happy on our own account. We could ask them for a ranch in Montana. Imagine, spending the long winter in a cozy ranch with a big fireplace, making love until spring comes—all sponsored by the US government.”

  “We are doing that already, Dima, and on our own taxpayers’ money. But I dig your idea. It’s brilliant… and just reminds me what I love about you.”

  “So, if opportunity comes, can I count on you?”

  “Perhaps,” Verka replies with an enigmatic smile. Before Maksimenko can express his disappointment over such a display of typical female vagueness, she asks him something else. “What could Tarasov love about that girl?”

  “Why do you care?”

  “Tarasov’s got the Za Zaslughi… it sounds so much better in English: Chevalier of the Order of Merit. The highest reward, just for saving a low-life like Strelok. Guess she doesn’t even know she’s being fucked by a Chevalier.”

  “Is that what’s on your mind while being with me?”

  “Right now, I ask myself how a stinking tribal girl could have wrapped a man like Tarasov around her finger.” Vera shudders. “She must be irradiated, too.”

  “That would just be a turn-on for a Zone freak like Tarasov.” Maksimenko stays and takes a big gulp from his wine glass. “Verka, could you please stop filing your nails? It makes me shudder.”

  “I’m not finished yet.”

  “Please.”

  “You love me?”

  “No.”

  “You hate me?”

  “Yes.”

  “I hate you too.”

  Vera laughs quietly and gives Maksimenko the finger. He walks over to the bed, takes her hand and sucks off the nail dust the file has left on her finger. He washes the fine dust down with a gulp of red wine.

  “You could kill with that long file, you know that?”

  “Of course. Will you light a candle and put it here, please?”

  “No.”

  “Yes you will.”

  “No I won’t.”

  “Yes you will… I keep them in that drawer, next to the TV set.”

  Maksimenko ignites a long, thick candle, making sure that it burns with a big flame. Vera Fedorka chuckles while she watches him pushing the candle into a chandelier.

  “Harder… deeper… Good so. Bring it here, please, Dima.”

  Maksimenko carefully places the burning candle on the bed. Vera’s long red-brown hair glitters in the candlelight.

  “Let’s assume that we put that girl into the washing machine, soak and disinfect her,” Maksimenko says. He steps back to the make-up table. Leaning against it, he lets his eyes feast on Vera Fedorka’s body. “What would you do with her?”

  “First, you tell me whose turn is up first.”

  “Mine.”

  “No. Mine.”

  “Yours.”

  “Good,” Vera purrs. “So… I would let her stand naked where you stand.”

  “In attention?”

  “Your yalda is already standing in attention. Enough discipline.” Having finished her manicure session, she gracefully tosses the nail file to the make-up table. “I’d like to see what she has to offer. Come closer, Dima.”

  She begins to run her hands over Maksimenko’s body, exploring it intimately.

  “And after that?”

  Vera Fedorka turns on her back, stretching out and playing with her manicured fingers like a cat opens and closes her claws.

  “I would tie her hands and legs to the four corners of this bed.”

  Maksimenko crushes his cigarillo in the ashtray. “And then?”

  “Kiss her mouth.”

  “And then?”

  “That depends on… if she’s clean shaven, I’d put my tongue inside her to feel how she tastes… but I guess the women over there don’t even wash themselves.”

  Watching his mirror reflection, Maksimenko moves the muscles on his shoulders and chest, as if warming himself up for a demanding physical exercise.

  “Keep talking, Vera.”

  Fedorka takes a small vial from the bed drawer, pours massage oil on her body, first applying it on her stiffened breasts, then her belly, inner thighs and sex.

  “I would put some of this oil on my fists and penetrate her until she screams.”

  “Would you?” Maksimenko opens the drawer of the make-up table and removes a pair of handcuffs.

  “Yes I would.”

  “Why?”

  A handcuff closes on Vera Fedorka’s right hand, fixing it to an iron bar. She caresses her tied-up arm with her left hand, letting it slide over her immaculately shaven armpit to her breast and squeezes it.

  “To punish her.”

  With a soft click, the second handcuff closes on her left hand.

  “Why?”

  “For not being like me. For being ugly, probably. For being pathetic, surely. For being an irradiated, ugly, hideous little insect.”

  Maksimenko lets his eye scan Vera’s body, her hands now shackled to the hand-forged iron bars, her body excitedly turning right and left, her legs spreading wide and closing. It takes all his self-control to stay in position, to stay in role and not throw her on the bed right now and fuck her till they were both spent.

  “You lie,” he calmly says.

  “Of course I do. Part of my job description, tovarishu kapitan.”

  “And what’s the truth, Agent Fedorka?”

  “To get all the intel from her that I cannot get from Chevalier Tarasov.”

  “Not good enough.”

  “All right, I confess. I would torture her because I envy her.”

  “Envy for what, prisoner?”

  “You know that very well, sir.”

  Maksimenko has already regretted his question. He knows that Vera Fedorka can’t have children. She had her womb removed, probably out of irrational fear of giving birth to a child distorted by the aftereffects of the Chernobyl disaster, a misshapen like the thousands of barely human beings that vegetate in the orphanages and special care facilities in Ukraine and Belarus; though he never really fathomed how she dealt with this ultimate defect of her body that appears so perfect from outside. Although lovers for over a year now, he never asked about any regret she might have; even less so about guilt which would have been his other guess.

  He decides to carry on with their game, hoping that his inconsiderate question appears to be just part of it.

  “You bitch,” Maksimenko says climbing on the bed. “You bad and cruel bitch. It is you who should be punished.”

  “Yes I should… I must,” she whispers. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Suka,” Maksimenko whispers as he takes the candle and lets the hot wax splash all over her body. Vera moans with delight. He deeply penetrates her with one push, softly holding her neck with one hand and giving her a big slap with the other. It leaves her cheek blood red.

  “More,” she moans.

  His grip on her neck tightens. A drop of saliva falls from his grinning mouth to the trembling breasts beneath him. He slaps her face once more, this time much harder. Vera Fedorka’s low moaning grows into a lustful scream.

  No matter how loud she screams, the sudden ringing of Maksimenko’s mobile phone is even louder. The couple freezes and look into each other’s eye, motionlessly. The penetrating ringtone from the TV show 24 is becoming louder with every repeated ring.

  “I can’t believe this shit. Damn!”

  “Don’t answer it, Dima!”

  “I must take this one,” he says climbing off the bed and frantically searching for the phone in his uniform jacket hanging on the back of a chair next to the bed. “This is the hotline dispatcher.”

  “Blyad!”

&n
bsp; Frustrated, Vera Fedorka cusses and rattles on the handcuffs shackling her to the bed. Making sure that the caller can’t hear the noise, Maksimenko takes the call.

  “Maksimenko here. What? Two hours ago? At his mothers house? That was expected… Not the asset? A boy, by his voice? Are they at the HQ? Did they ask about the money reward? Never mind. He has a Skoda Fabia? Got the license plate number? No? Damn, there are thousands of Fabias in Kiev… In any case, send plain-clothes agents to all the cheap hovels in town. Make sure they have his most recent photograph. No, there’s no need for patrolling the Metro… For God’s sake, because he’s from the Zone! Those guys prefer to travel in open spaces… Agree, he’s probably using a fake passport. Good. Will be there within the hour.”

  He gives Vera Fedorka a triumphant glance.

  “My plan has paid off. Tarasov was sighted two hours ago here in Kiev! He got the bait! The trick with Strelok’s message has worked! Am I good or am I good?”

  “You are dumb enough if you leave me here like this, Dima!”

  Maksimenko walks back to the bed and gives Vera Fedorka the look of a real sadist.

  “I’m in a dilemma,” he says theatrically scratching his head. “What am I supposed to do… I could call Kruchelnikov, this time me waking up him in the middle of the night for a change. Or should I finish what I have started with you? Such a dilemma…”

  Vera Fedorka growls like a captive animal. Maksimenko smiles at her. The woman now looks at him, begging, with full submission in her eyes.

  He lies down on her and finishes within a minute. At the same moment, Vera Fedorka’s beautiful face jerks into a painful grimace. She emits a yelp, followed by a long, faltering moan.

  Maksimenko gets off the bed and quickly dresses up.

  “Dima,” Vera whispers, still panting. “Stay. I beg you.”

  He steps to the woman, caresses her sweating body and smears the female moist all over his face.

  “To remind me of you until next time,” he smiles. “That would be within exactly one hour.”

  “What?!”

  Captain Maksimenko glances at his watch. “Agent Fedorka, I need you back at headquarters within one hour. We’ll have a minor to interrogate. Do not be late.”