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

by Balazs Pataki

  His last thought is that of Saria letting her tribal gown slide off her shoulders and baring her full breasts, where sweat glimmers like pearls on the olive skin. Then everything goes black.

  32

  Prybirsk village, on the border of the Exclusion Zone

  The small shop at the main street of Prybirsk is no different from the thousands of similar establishments in the Ukrainian countryside. It is half shop, half drinking hole, with a round table in the middle where patrons can lean on because there are no chairs, and a shelf loaded with goods that get more expensive and dustier the higher they are placed. There is an electric kettle on the counter, next to a small rack with chocolate bars and chewing gum. A piece of paper fastened to the rack tells anyone interested that a Nescafé costs ten hrivnyi.

  Ignoring the four costumers standing at the table and talking in a language he doesn’t understand, an old shopkeeper counts his money. Occasionally, he wets his fingers with his tongue. It’s a lot of profit for such an early morning, but the Bear type artifact detector he had just sold to his customers fetched a good price.

  Through the door left ajar, one can see a factory building looming beyond the row of low village houses across the road.

  In front of the house facing the shop, a topless UAZ-469 jeep is parked next to the house facing the shop, soaking in the gray drizzle. Rust spots dot its olive-green paint all over. At dawn, it still belonged to a farmer in a village about forty kilometers away. Knowing that this is the kind of car they need for the first part of their trip, Tarasov hot-wired the jeep by connecting the primary power supply and the electrical circuits. Before driving off, they left their Skoda in the jeep’s place with a hand-written note asking the owner to return it to the car rental agency in Kiev. To cheer him up, the note was accompanied by a handsome amount of dollars, at least twice of what the nearly wrecked jeep is worth.

  “The world is ruled by cast-iron laws,” Pete says looking gloomily into his white plastic cup with lukewarm coffee inside. “It’s horribly boring. I thought by spitting at my father’s legacy, you know, running AWOL and doing things he would never approve of… thinking all that would break those laws. But I no longer know how to break those laws. Looks like my rebellion was useless.”

  “Agreed,” the Top says taking a slow sip from his own cup. “Life’s boring out there. To live in the Middle Ages was interesting.

  iImagine, you step out of your little village and suddenly the world is full of mysteries and unknown dangers.”

  “That’s exactly what we’re about to do,” Tarasov says, touching the Top’s cup with his. “Wait… I think Sawyer is here. Great!”

  He steps out into the rain, but immediately recoils as a red SUV brakes from its neck-breaking speed and splashes muddy water all around.

  “Howdy!”

  The hunter steps out with a friendly smile. He puts his hat on the top of the car and adjusts his hair, then courteously opens the other door. To Tarasov’s bewilderment, an elegantly dressed, beautiful woman appears. She gracefully lifts her long coat as she steps closer.

  “This lady was so kind as to agree to come with us to the Zone,” Sawyer says taking a rucksack and two rifle bags from the back seat. “She’s a very courageous woman. Her name is—uhm, what’s your name?”

  “Are you really a Stalker?” she asks ignoring the hunter and looking Tarasov lasciviously up and down.

  “Wait—I’ll explain everything,” Tarasov tells Sawyer. He slowly skirts the car.

  “Go away,” he rudely tells her.

  “What a cretin!” the woman says. Without hesitation, she sits into the driver’s seat and drives off.

  “Hey! That’s my rented Range Rover!” Sawyer shouts. “And my hat!”

  “It’s here,” Tarasov says picking it up from the mud and shaking the rainwater off. “You did get drunk after all.”

  “Me?” Sawyer says stepping inside the shop. “What do you mean? I had a drink, like one half of the world does. The other half gets drunk. Including women and children. I just had a drink though. Damn it, what a mess here!”

  “It’s our last stop before entering the Zone. Go on, drink. We’ve got time.”

  “How about a glass for the road?” Sawyer asks. “What do you think?”

  “Alcoholism is the scourge of mankind,” Tarasov grumbles. “At least early in the morning.”

  “All right, we’ll drink beer.”

  While Tarasov gets four bottles of Obolon from the shopkeeper, Sawyer rubs his temples.

  “You know, I couldn’t sleep last night with the jet lag and all, so I educated myself. I read a lot about the place on the internet you want to take me to. Thank God for wifi.”

  “Don’t believe half of it,” Tarasov says placing the bottles onto the table. “There’s all kind of lies about the Zone. Some idiots even say it was created by radioactivity.”

  “Yeah, damned internet,” Pete says. “Twitter, Facebook… it’s all bullshit. Imagine, someone says ’I saw it, Lady Gaga has a dick’ and everyone goes oh! and ah! And suddenly it turns out that the guy was lying, just having fun. There’s no real truth anymore, just what people want to hear.”

  “Is it what you think about all the time?” Hartman asks.

  “God forbid! In fact, I don’t think much. It’s not good for me.”

  “Tell me, Sawyer, now that you know where we’re heading—why did you let yourself get mixed up in all this?” Tarasov asks. “What do you need this trip for? You could have stayed in Kiev and have whatever fun you want. You seem to have more than enough money.”

  “Money’s boring,” shrugs the Australian.

  Nooria gives him a stern look. “Have you been used up?”

  “What? Yeah, I guess, in a way. I’m not a hunter but a survivalist, actually. You know, my family was always rich. First I was driven by fear over losing it. What if one day I wake up with all gone? You could call it paranoia, I guess. But then it became a passion. I always need a fix of danger. I’m no fear junkie, no, nothing like that. I need the feeling of facing fear and being able to overcome it. Proving myself. If you think I’m your ordinary rich tourist prick — I don’t give a damn, no, but you’d be very wrong about me.”

  “You’ve been SASR?” the Top curiously asks. “Special Air Service Regiment?”

  “Nah. I’d never be able to bring myself to shoot at other human beings. I’m just a nature-loving man needing the odd danger to remind me I’m still alive.”

  “That makes two of us,” Pete says. “Only that I need stuff for that.”

  “I thought you were coming clean, little brother.”

  “Wouldn’t know, Nooria. Being off for… how long? A week maybe? There was a time I thought I couldn’t live without it even for a day.”

  “But you do want to come clean, no?”

  Pete shrugs. “Why should I, anyway? Tell me one damned reason.”

  “To live.”

  “Spare me such clichés, please.”

  Through the splashing rain comes the faint rattle, slowly getting closer. A train engine’s whistle pierces into the quiet morning.

  “Do you hear it? Our train.”

  Tarasov walks to the UAZ, followed by his companions. As if testing if the rusted car could fall apart or not, the Top gives its tire a soft kick. Pete suddenly halts.

  “Dammit! I forgot to buy cigarettes.“

  “Don’t go back,” says Tarasov.

  “Why?”

  “You must not.“

  Tarasov makes a gesture that appears more like ‘brings bad luck’ than ‘we’re pressed for time’.

  “Are you Stalkers all like this?”

  “Like what?”

  “Believing such nonsense.” Pete sighs and puts away the box with his last cigarette. “Okay, I’d better leave it for a rainy day.”

  Hoping that the rain-soaked engine will start, Tarasov connects the ignition cables. To his relief, the battery comes to life and, after a squeaks and stutters, powers the eng
ine up. “Keep your eyes peeled for army patrols.”

  The drizzle turns into heavy rain. Driving slowly, he steers the UAZ into a narrow street flanked by dull brick walls. Tarasov doesn’t even bother to switch on the windscreen wipers, presuming they wouldn’t work in this decrepit car. He releases the windshield and bends it forward over to the hood.

  After about a hundred meters, they reach a short section where the wall had collapsed. Tarasov turns left and drives through into an alley between two rows of old, dilapidated buildings. The smell of damp rot coming from the glassless windows can be detected even through the rain.

  They are driving through a gate that appears like the entrance to the factory area beyond the village. The ground is now solely mud, as if it had never seen tarmac, but the silent buildings around tell of many years of heavy industrial activity.

  They have barely crossed under the gate when Tarasov stops the car and switches off the headlights. After a minute, all hear the noise of a motorcycle approaching.

  “Get down!”

  Following Tarasov’s command, the travelers duck. At the far end of the alley between the gate house and a low building that looks like an old warehouse, a motorbike appears. The soldier driving it glances at the UAZ.

  “Don’t move!” Tarasov whispers.

  The patrolman apparently sees nothing particular about the UAZ. In its dilapidated state, the car blends in perfectly with the abandoned industrial buildings. He adjusts the AKM assault rifle hanging from his neck and drives on.

  Tarasov waits a few seconds until the motorbike’s noise recedes, then starts the engine up, reverses the car and drives on once more to the left, in the opposite direction to where the patrol went. Now the village houses have disappeared completely and they drive through a maze of blackened factory halls, following the rails running along. They lead to a massive gate. Tarasov stops the UAZ at the entrance of a factory hall.

  “Top, go and see if anyone’s there!”

  Jumping out from the idling car, Hartman cautiously walks towards the other end of the hall.

  “Move it, for God’s sake!”

  The Top quickens his steps. He looks around in the alley running parallel to the one where the car is waiting.

  “There’s no one here!”

  “Go to the other exit!” Tarasov shouts back.

  They hear the noise of the train again and the reason for Tarasov’s discomfort becomes clear at once. The Top peeks out to the alley and can barely pull his head back when the train appears on the rails. It rattles down the alley at only an arm’s length from the brick walls and shaking them, even though the engine only has a single flat-bed wagon in tow. It carries a strange device resembling a set of transformers for a gigantic utility pole.

  Tarasov picks him up at the exit across the hall, slowing down the UAZ only as much as allows the Top to find a hold and jump inside. He is about to take a sharp turn to the left when the patrolman’s bike appears beyond the corner.

  Tarasov presses against the brake at full force and quickly reverses the car.

  “Where on earth did you look, Top?”

  Luckily for them, the patrolman must have been away to attend nature’s call or gave in to another distraction because by the time he sits back on his bike, the UAZ is already gone.

  Hiding behind a corner, Tarasov watches him leave. Then he rushes back to the car and drives it at neck-breaking speed into another narrow alley. The Top shares a puzzled gaze with Sawyer and Pete—the alley appears to lead back to where they were coming, directly to the rails leading to the gate.

  Then, through a cloud of mist, the headlights of the train engine appear. Seemingly out of nowhere, a sleepy-looking worker appears with a cigarette in his mouth. He opens the gate, giving the gate wings just enough time to fling open before the train proceeds through. Before he can close them again, the sight he sees makes the cigarette fall from his lips—the old UAZ charges after the train as if it were towed by the engine itself.

  The worker shrugs and closes the gate, thinking about all the strange things he has seen here on the outer frontier of the Exclusion Zone.

  Unknown to Tarasov’s four companions, the gate closing behind them now also separates them from the outside world, that Stalkers refer to as the Big Land. Even if their leader fully concentrates on driving, the foreboding mist and the strange industrial shapes lurking in the gloom make them suspect the proximity of the Zone. Nooria is the only one who has the shadow of a smile playing around her mouth, while her eyes tell of exhilaration in place of anxiety.

  Tarasov slows down, leaving more distance between them and the train driving ahead of them. Misunderstanding this, Sawyer pats his shoulder.

  “We’re in the Exclusion Zone already?”

  “No.”

  “So that’s what you meant by hijacking a train?” the Top asks.

  “No. That part comes now.”

  “Oh crap,” sighs Pete. “I thought we were already there!”

  Far ahead, a searchlight shines through the mist and a heavily guarded checkpost becomes visible through the gloom. Tall, barbed wire fences run left and right from the rails which are blocked by a heavy barrier. The barbed wire fence forms a corridor where it runs along the tracks, apparently to prevent anyone to jump on or off the trains passing through. Soldiers in full battle gear man the tower looming above the checkpost and the barrier itself.

  Tarasov halts the car and switches off the headlights. He raises his right hand in a signal to everyone to hold still.

  “We have exactly five seconds to get through there without getting killed,” he whispers.

  The barrier slowly goes up and the train halts in the barbed wire corridor. A dozen soldiers give it a thorough search.

  “Looks like a damn Checkpoint Charlie,” the Top says under his breath.

  The train sounds its horn and gets into motion.

  “Brace yourself,” Tarasov whispers. “Let’s pray this junk doesn’t let us down!”

  He gives full throttle. The UAZ darts after the train, almost slipping off the rails and reaches at in the moment when the soldiers are about to lower the barrier. Barely able to keep the car on the slippery rails, Tarasov engages the differential lock and shifts into second gear. The tortured car emits a thick cloud of exhaustion fumes.

  For a second, surprise seems to render the soldiers motionless. Then a loudspeaker crackles.

  “ALERT! STALKERS DETECTED! OPEN FIRE! OPEN FIRE!”

  Luckily for them, none of the guards has enough time to take proper aim. The fire of their hip-fired AKMs misses, and the precious load of the flatbed wagon hinders the guards manning the watchtower to lay fire on them.

  Or so Tarasov hopes. In an instant, a heavy machine gun starts barking from above.

  “So this is where they put that damned RPK from Cordon Base!” he yells through the whizz of bullets.

  Only a few meters left until the train leaves the barbed wire corridor.

  “We’re sitting ducks!” the Top shouts. “Drive, drive!”

  Two bullets hit the hood. Hot steam jets through the holes immediately. The slow train has not entirely passed through yet when Tarasov takes a sharp turn to the left. The Top watches with dread as the wagon’s rear buffer is about to pierce into the car. Then it only shaves off the right mirror as the UAZ jolts off the rails, slides through the mud and turns right behind the corner of a ruined industrial building.

  Tarasov drives through halls filled with debris and decrepit machinery. Glass fallen from the broken windows shatters and squeaks under the tires. They hit a pile of wooden crates that collapses behind them, one smashing against the UAZ and missing Nooria’s head by a hair. With brakes squeaking, the car comes to a halt.

  Then it is quiet, so quiet that even the drops of water falling from the holes in the roof can be heard. It takes a moment for their ears to detect the faint noise of a siren — coming from a distance seeming safe enough. Then it dies off.

  “I was told people
here drive like crazy,” the Australian says climbing off the jeep, “but I didn’t expect… this.”

  “Everyone still in one piece?” Tarasov asks turning back in his seat.

  Pete touches his neck, then looks at his hand with sudden fright. “I’m bleeding,” he says.

  Nooria immediately tends to his wound.

  “You are lucky, little brother,” she says pulling a bandage from her shoulder bag.

  Pete scowls. “Is that my artery?”

  “How bad is his wounded?” Tarasov asks with concern.

  “Bullet just grazed him.”

  “Slava Bogu. Top, Sawyer, go and look if there’s a draisine where the rails begin.”

  Hartman looks around in the hall. “What is this place?”

  “It used to be a railway yard where the machines made in the factories were loaded. We need to find the draisine used for railway maintenance. ”

  “A—what?”

  “Kind of a motorized hand car or train car. You’ll recognize it when you see it.”

  “You must be meaning a rail speeder.”

  Tarasov heaves an impatient sigh. “Whatever. Go now, before Sawyer gets lost.”

  “Yes, sir, Major, sir,” the Top grumbles.

  “You seem to be fully in charge now,” Pete says while Nooria applies the bandage over his wound. “Enjoying it?”

  “No. Neither did I enjoy being in charge of the outpost we’ve just passed.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I was the commander of Cordon Base, and with that all the armed forces guarding the Zone’s perimeter. Including the checkpost we’ve passed.”

  “How things have changed,” Pete quietly says.

  Tarasov looks around in the gloomy hall and sighs. “Yes… things have changed. There was no shooting on sight during my times. Who knows, maybe Squirrel was right… maybe I’m more a Stalker than a soldier.”

  “Who is Squirrel?”

  “He was a good Stalker.”

  Sawyer appears. “We found your rail car. It has no fuel, though.”

  “Where?”

  “Next hall.”