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

by Balazs Pataki

  Tarasov signals him to climb in. He drives through the lifeless halls, turns into the direction shown by the Australian and already sees the Top’s tall figure next to a two-person draisine. It stands abandoned where the rails leave the building through an opening in the wall. If there was a gate once its wooden wings had fallen apart long time ago.

  “Get your gear to the cart.”

  He rumbles in on the floor of the UAZ until he finds the plastic tube almost every driver of such a vehicle keeps in the car. With the car’s armatures being legendarily unreliable, no driver knows exactly how much fuel is left in the tanks. Gas stations are scarce in the countryside and if the tanks run dry, the best help is to wave off another car and buy enough petrol to make it back home. And transferring petrol from one kind to another requires a tube.

  Tarasov plugs one end of the tube into the car’s trunk. He sucks at the other end and, feeling the petrol flowing, quickly puts the tube into the fuel drum on the draisine.

  “Sawyer,” he says, “now would be a good time to prepare your rifles.”

  “What do you got?” Hartman curiously asks the Australian.

  “A Beretta DT-10, a Benelli Super Sport and a Steyr-Mannlicher for .223 cartridges,” Sawyer replies unzipping the rifle cases. “Seeing as this is the former USSR, and Russians knowing a thing or two about bears, I also have a TOZ-34.”

  “I’ll have to ask you to lend me that,” Tarasov says smiling.

  “Don’t mind if you ask me nicely, but I won’t let any of you touch my Steyr.”

  “The Beretta is fine with me,” the Top says. “When did you clean them last?”

  “The Steyr this morning. The others before leaving home. I didn’t expect to get to my hunting grounds so quickly.”

  “You love the Steyr, I see. Oh yes, there’s nothing like a good old bolt action rifle.”

  “Hey guys… I’m really happy to have run into you. You seem to know what’s good in life.” Sawyer takes an elegant, leather-covered hip flask from a pocket on his Gore-Tex jacket. “Want to make it even better?”

  “Give me some cartridges instead.”

  “The ammo is in that shoulderbag. I hope we won’t have to fire ‘em soon, though. I hate firing me rifle sharp before takin’ a warm-up shot.”

  “That’s superstition. Back in Tennessee…”

  “We’re not in Tennessee. It’s Ukraine and bloody cold.”

  While the two gun nuts enter another friendly dispute over hunting rifles, Tarasov keeps his eye on the tube. He wouldn’t want to waste a drop of the precious fuel.

  He pays too much attention to the fuel transfer to spot the shadows appearing in the gloom outside. They grow bigger, take a human shape, and when Tarasov casually looks there and sees soldiers stepping out of the mist, it is almost too late. They fire their AKMs before he could yell a warning.

  “Take cover! Pete, Nooria, get off the car, now!”

  They all duck behind the draisine. Bullets whizz, clinking and clanking as they hit the rusted machines around them and the concrete floor.

  “Let’s get out of here!” Sawyer shouts.

  “No! The fuel drum’s not full yet!”

  “I don’t give damn about the fuel, let’s go!”

  Realizing that the trespassers don’t fire back, the soldiers are moving closer. Tarasov can already hear the commands barked.

  “Na levo, na levo!”

  “Return fire, but try not to hit them!” he shouts.

  “You mad? They’re here to kill us!”

  “Do what I said, Top!”

  Hartman fires his shotgun to suppress the approaching soldiers.

  “Nazad!” shouts one of the soldiers. “Nakroy menya!”

  “If someone gets hit, don’t shout or rush about!” Tarasov bellows. “If they see you, they’ll kill you! Crawl back to the outpost, they’ll pick you up!”

  A wooden crate crashes as Sawyer pellets it with a buckshot round, forcing the soldier sneaking up behind it to fall back.

  “Heard you, nanny!” he shouts back at Tarasov. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

  The fuel drum is now almost completely full.

  “Top! Sawyer! On my command, fire your rifles, barrel by barrel! Then let’s get to the draisine and move!”

  “Wait, my rucksack is in the car!”

  “We have enough gear, Sawyer! Get rid of your rucksack, it will just hamper you!”

  “No way!”

  With a flashing display of recklessness, Sawyer leaps over to the car, grabs his heavy rucksack and fires his rifle blindly towards their pursuers.

  “Get back, Sawyer! Reload rifles! On my command, one, two… fire!”

  Six rifle shots sound off the reel. Using the moments while the soldiers hide behind their cover, Tarasov gives the draisine a push with all his strength, jumps on the slowly rolling vehicle and pulls the string that should start the engine. Nothing happens.

  “Blyad!”

  Cussing, he jumps off. The soldiers recommence firing and seeing that they are about to escape, rush forward.

  “Pete! Pull on that string as strong as you can! Top!”

  Hartman doesn’t need any explanation. He joins Tarasov in pushing the draisine. All of a sudden, the crude machine appears to be much lighter. Sawyer fires his rifle once more. The sound of his rifle being reloaded is suddenly suppressed by the engine coming to life.

  “Chort! Blyadiviy Stalker, kushay blin!”

  Swearwords are the last they hear from the soldiers as the draisine gains speed and drives off with them into the mist. A few bullets still fly by but miss them by far.

  “Phew,” Sawyer sighs. “This ain’t got nothing to do with Ukrainian hospitality I read about in Lonely Planet.”

  “We were lucky,” Tarasov says, darting a concerned look behind. “Those grunts were surprised at us shooting back… Stalkers usually don’t carry guns at this stage.”

  “Yeah, but I wouldn’t blame them for killing every damned grunt when they return from the Zone with all the heavy gear they get,” the Top says and wipes sweat from his forehead.

  “Stalkers don’t make it back.”

  “How come?”

  “Real ones do not return. They stay.”

  “Are there women in the Zone?”

  “No, Sawyer. Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Aw! You didn’t tell me that! Because that really sucks, mate. How can a man survive like that? Don’t tell me everyone’s gay there!”

  “Sometimes I think the Zone is a woman.”

  “You mean, jealous and demanding?”

  “Beautiful too,” Tarasov smiles at the Australian.

  “And we’re drivin’ into her at full speed like…”

  Nooria clears her throat. “Can soldiers catch up with us?”

  “Those grunts fear it like the plague,” Tarasov says slowly shaking his head.

  “Fear what?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  The rain has stopped. By now the weak sun has climbed high enough on the southern horizon to make the mist slowly fade away. Gradually, the mist reveals an area spoilt by derelict metal structures, half-ruined buildings, piles of rotting longs and boat wrecks that hint at a river in the vicinity. Broken gantries loom like one-handed giants. A utility line follows the course of the rails; after one or two kilometers, the cables end hanging lose from the towers as if intentionally cut, making their steel structure appear like motionless sentinels guarding over this land that might have been thriving once, but has sunk into oblivion and decay long ago.

  “Wow!” Pete say pointing at a tiny, wrecked car. “Someone dumped his toy car here?”

  “It was called a Zaporozhets,” Tarasov replies looking elsewhere.

  The draisine progresses along the bumpy rails with a monotonous clacking. To Tarasov it sounds like music and his heart beats faster on the thought of getting closer to the Exclusion Zone with each meter they make.

  Gradually, the gloomy industrial structures become sparser. L
ow hills appear, covered by lush, overgrown grass.

  A brown shape appears through thin fog. Then two more, moving slowly closer to the rails. Stirred by something moving in the lifeless landscape, Tarasov reaches for his rifle. But when the shapes become clearer he smiles.

  “Aw my goodness!” shouts an astonished Sawyer. “Przevalsky horses!”

  The draisine doesn’t seem to disturb the small troop of a dozen sturdy, tan colored, pony-like animals. Hearing the noise of the approaching draisine, a few horses curiously rise their round heads from the thick grass they are grazing. Staying at a safe distance from the rails, the strongest jerks its neck where the black mane stands up straight, snorts and continues with its breakfast. With their lead stallion not signaling danger, the rest of the troop follows suit, calmly wagging their black tails.

  “Don’t even think about shooting them,” Tarasov says.

  “Now why would anyone harm such wonderful creatures?” Sawyer resentfully says.

  “I just wanted to have this said.”

  “Are those mutants?” Pete asks.

  Sawyer breaks out in laughter, but Tarasov only smiles.

  “I think we had such a horse in my village,” Nooria says, pensively.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Tarasov says gently putting his hand on her shoulder. “You’re a Hazara, and if legends are true, Hazaras are Genghis Khan’s descendants. His warriors used to ride this kind of horses.”

  “Tough little sons of bitches,” the Top murmurs.

  “Survive everything and everywhere, yes,” agrees Tarasov. ”One could say, they’re the only thing that remains of Genghis Khan’s empire. Who knows, maybe he himself was riding an ancestor of the horses we’ve just seen.” A sudden shadow comes over his face. ”And what has remained of our empire?”

  He waves his hand toward the decaying ruins they have left behind. His companions don’t reply.

  The rails ascend a low slope covered by a sparse cluster of alder trees. Despite the season only a few have turned yellow. The higher it gets, the more the draisine slows down, until it reaches the top of the hill where it finally comes to full halt.

  Surrounded by tall, lush grass, two half-fallen utility poles stand atop the hill, resembling wooden crosses in a forsaken cemetery. The thick spider webs hanging from their crossbeams appear like ghosts.

  Tarasov takes a deep breath.

  “Nu vot… mi doma,” he says. His voice appears strangely cheerful in this foreboding place. “We’re home at last.”

  Stretching his arms and legs, he gets off the draisine.

  “How quiet it is,” Nooria says.

  “This is the quietest place in the world,” Tarasov says and offers his hand to help her off. “You’ll see for yourselves.”

  “Is this the Zone at last?”

  “We are in a weird place, Sawyer, that’s not the Big Land anymore but the Zone hasn’t claimed yet. Call it the Rim. The real Zone is beyond the hills ahead.”

  “Your Zone is like those wooden dolls I saw at the hotel’s souvenir shop,” Sawyer says. ”You know, you take one apart and there’s a smaller one inside. In the end you’ll show us a tiny room and tell us, ’well mates—this is it!’”

  “Yeah… you mean matryioski. As for me, this is already the Zone. The wind is coming up… Can you feel it? The grass… Excuse me for a minute.”

  With cautious steps, Tarasov disappears in the overgrown bushes. His companions begin to remove their gear from the draisine.

  “So beautiful here,” Pete says. Standing on the draisine, he looks in the direction where Tarasov said the real Zone begins. Beyond patches of mist lingering over the valley, huge oak trees dot a dense forest of birch and alder trees; their striking color appears like yellow explosions in the dark green canopy. “Not a single soul here.”

  “What about us?” Sawyer asks.

  “Five men can’t spoil the place in one day.”

  “Why? They can,” the Top says. “Besides, Mikhailo told me the Zone is full of people… though it seems hard to believe.”

  Nooria picks a daisy from the grass that reaches almost to her waist.

  “It’s strange that flowers don’t smell. Or do you feel anything?”

  Sawyer sniffs at the air. “I feel the stench of a bog.”

  “You should be right,” the Top nods. “He told me we’re heading towards a marsh.”

  Not far away from them, Tarasov touches the grass with a caressing hand. He goes to his knees like he would do in a church, with knees still for several heartbeats. Then with a long, relieved sigh, he lays down into the grass, digs his fingers into the muddy earth and deeply inhales its smell. His head is resting on his arm, as if he was preparing to sleep. Then he turns to his back. With twinkled eyes, he stares at the overcast sky, shielding his eyes with his right hand. Bliss streams into his heart and mind, as if his body would draw it directly from the soil of the Zone.

  I. Am. Home.

  33

  Tribe outpost, New Zone

  When Lieutenant Ramirez regains consciousness, his ears detect that the battle’s noise has receded. All he can hear are cheering Taliban, firing their Kalashnikovs in the air.

  He opens his eyes. The ground is littered with the bodies of his men; Campbell’s severed head lies nearby. Enemy fighters are triumphantly dancing on a Humvee’s hood and top, others are busily dismounting the .50 caliber machine guns to carry them away.

  His M16 must have been blown away by the blast. Ramirez reaches for the M1911 fastened to his armor but someone steps on his hand. Looking up, he sees a face between human and mutant, giving him a look of pity mixed with disdain. From the corner of his eye, he can also see that the one trampling on his arm is a raghead, smiling triumphantly in his thick, black beard.

  “Guess your Darth Vader outfit didn’t help you, Lieutenant… Ramirez,” the half-mutant says glancing at the name tag on the black exoskeleton. “My name’s Skinner. That beard with a man somewhere in it is called Saifullah, or something like that. Pleased to meet you.”

  “I fucking hate mutants,” Ramirez breathes.

  “The feeling is mutual. Just to get better acquainted, do you like football? Soccer, I mean? As it seems, mutants versus Tribe — one to nil and the match has just begun.”

  “If it weren’t for these damn smiters, you’d be a smoking crater by now!”

  “Looks like I’m not but you are in deep shit, Lieutenant.”

  “Kill me if you want. You can’t beat my Tribe!”

  “I know, I know… One man can die but the Tribe will always live and all that stuff. Hey, wait a second—you know what? Maybe I surrender to you with all my smiters, just because you are such a badass. Let me think… Okay, I just made up my mind. Thanks but no, thanks.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “To hell?” Skinner looks around in the desolate canyon with all the corpses lying in the bloody sand and the irradiated creek. One of his smiters is dragging a fallen Tribe fighter away, probably to feed on him; a jerk in the fighter’s limbs tells that he is not dead yet. “Hell, you say? Ain’t we all there already?”

  “No… hell is what my Tribe’s gonna give you.”

  Commander Saifullah impatiently pokes at Skinner’s arm. “Let’s put this piece of kafir shit up with the others. I want you to see how we deal out God’s justice over unbelievers!”

  “What are you up to, dushman?” Skinner asks looking up to the bragging Talib. Saifullah points to the bridge where the few Tribe fighters unlucky enough to be captured alive are lined up, all forced to their knees. A grim-looking Talib stands next to them with a long blade in his hand.

  “Unbelievers are pigs, and to pigs, a pig’s death!”

  “If you ask me, I can see nothing wrong about that animal.”

  “Because you—” Seeing anger flashing in Skinner’s eyes, Saifullah bites his tongue. “Well, I mean—anyway, we’re about sending their souls to hell!”

  “Always thought your god is benevolent and m
erciful,” Skinner says with a shrug. “One of us must have misunderstood the whole thing.”

  “Enough talking! I want the officer watch how his men die one by one, then he will die last!”

  ”I have a much better idea,” Skinner says. “Lieutenant, you Marines or tribals or whatever you call yourselves now, you’re supposed to be men of honor. Ain’t that so?”

  Ramirez nods.

  “You know you gonna die, Lieutenant?”

  Ramirez nods once more.

  “Then you’ll perform a last mission for your Tribe. Do I have your ears now? Good, listen up. You will go to your Colonel holed up in the stronghold and tell him to either get the fuck out of our land or be annihilated.”

  “It’s our land as well,” Ramirez says.

  “It ain’t big enough for all of us. Give him our ultimatum and return with his reply.”

  “And then?”

  “Then we’ll kill you.”

  “You better kill me now because I already know what his answer will be.”

  Saifullah raises his eyebrows. “Skinner, what the hell are you talking about?”

  “Trying myself at diplomacy. So, Lieutenant, will you give us your word of honor to return and meet your fate? You know, I want to give your Tribe a chance to get away.”

  “Forget it.”

  “See those men to be beheaded on the bridge?” Skinner looks at Saifullah. “Is your god in a merciful mood today, dushman? Maybe there’s one option left to make Lieutenant Ramirez co-operate.”

  Catching Skinner’s meaning, Saifullah smiles.

  “I give you my word to let them live, if you agree to be our messenger,” he solemnly says.

  Ramirez thinks for a moment and then nods his agreement.

  “Perfect!” Skinner says with satisfaction. ”Saifullah, get something white and have your men fix it on a Humvee. Probably not your pants, though… Haven’t seen you even remotely close to the fray. Must’ve been diarrhea, huh?”

  “I was praying to God to grant us victory and forgive me for joining up with your ungodly creatures!”

  “Oh, now I know who made a difference.”

  Seeing that Saifullah is about to spit on the Lieutenant, he leans over Ramirez’s body like a predator protecting its prey and snarls at the Talib. For the duration of a roar, his face becomes fully mutant and Saifullah, scared to death by the roar coming from the massive jaws wide open and showing sharp fangs inside, almost swallows his own tongue as he recoils several steps. Then Skinner’s horrible scowl turns into a human grin once more, appearing almost friendly when he grabs Lieutenant Ramirez’s hand and effortlessly helps him to his feet.