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

by Balazs Pataki

  34

  Close to Tuzla Tunnel, Exclusion Zone

  When Tarasov walks back to his companions, his thoughts are already revolving around the perils ahead.

  “Oh, there he is,” Pete says. “Did you fall? You’re all mud, man!”

  Without replying, Tarasov walks to the draisine and pulls on the string to start its engine once more. Then he releases the brake and pushing it into motion with a kick, lets the draisine roll backwards.

  “They don’t return from here,” he says.

  Everyone is quiet. Then Pete has something to say.

  “Thinking of those ruins… I don’t mind turning my back to your Big Land.”

  Walking ahead of his companions, Tarasov takes the Bear type detector and fastens it to his belt, where the pouch holding a dozen bolts is also at easy reach.

  “Where do we go exactly?” Hartman asks.

  “We follow the tracks for a few hundred meters, cross a tunnel and then a river. Beyond that the real Zone begins.”

  “A big swamp, you mean? I can already smell it.”

  “No, Sawyer. The Swamps are just a small part of the Zone. What do you carry in that big rucksack, anyway? Diamonds? Seems to be more important to you than your life, mate.”

  “My sleeping bag fills most of it. Then, all kind of stuff one needs to survive. Firestarters, first-aid kit, collapsible fishing rod, gun maintenance kit, whatever… you name it. Even a few condoms.”

  “Wouldn’t be you if you hadn’t have any on you,” Pete dryly observes.

  Sawyer waves his head. “It’s very good for collecting water, you know?”

  “What about a portable kitchen?” the Top mocks him.

  “That one too. A wonderful, reliable Camping Gaz cooker with all kinds of powdered food, including red wine powder.”

  “Come again?”

  “You heard me. Pour it in a glass, add cold water, stir, wait five minutes — Presto!”

  “Tastes at least like wine?”

  “Well, it’s more like gasoline, I admit, but at least gives me the illusion of having a cab-sav.”

  “You don’t happen to have a Geiger counter, do you?” Tarasov asks him, amused.

  “I reckon I do, mate.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Sure! I heard a thing or two about Chernobyl. I grabbed one as soon as I knew we were going on a trip to Ukraine!”

  “Amazing,” Tarasov says. Many people try to think about every scenario they might encounter on a trip into any wilderness, but very few actually prepare for them properly. Sawyer appears to belong to these few. He suddenly takes the survivalist much more seriously. “Give me that Geiger right away.”

  Sawyer’s US-made, PRM-8000 type portable radiation meter appears to him as a compromise between effectiveness and ease of use; very much in contrary to the Russian meters where the earlier always came first over the latter. It wouldn’t match the sensitivity of a scientific meter, but what it lacks in accuracy is made up by its versatility: constant monitoring, straightforward operation and tone warning that can be muted in situations requiring silence. The case was made using metal if for additional ruggedness. All in all, it is a very useful device unless one is bound to penetrate the deepest, most contaminated areas of the Exclusion Zone.

  Tarasov adjusts his belt to find a place for the cell phone sized device and then leads on. “There was a flower-bed nearby, but Strelok had trampled it down. The smell lingered for a long time though.”

  “Why did he do it?”

  “I don’t know. I asked him why, too. And he said, ‘you’ll understand later.’ I think he just came to hate the Zone.”

  “Strelok, that’s his name?”

  “A nickname, Top. Like yours. He was my teacher. He opened my eyes. Then something happened to him, something broke in him. Though I think he was punished… for knowing too much of the Zone’s secrets.”

  “How do you mean, punished? Or was it just a figure of speech?”

  “Some people returned from here and get rich overnight. Fabulously rich. You call it punishment?”

  “Can be, mate.”

  “Some hang themselves a week later. Strelok was looking for different riches. That’s why he is still alive. Though he paid a heavy price for it.”

  Tarasov suddenly raises his fist.

  The sound of a lonely cuckoo in the woods fells silent. A long, muted howl permeates the foggy valley.

  “What was that?” the Top whispers.

  Tarasov waits for a minute, then gives the sign to march on.

  “There’s not supposed to be any blind dogs here,” he murmurs to himself. “Not in the Rim… or is it expanding so quickly?”

  “What is the Zone about?” Pete asks.

  “No one knows.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “Nothing… or anything. A message to mankind, as some pompous scientists say. Or a gift. Some gift. Like a poisoned apple. Sweet poison for some. How do you think the New Zone was created, Top?”

  “Ask Nooria. She’ll tell you it’s always been there, kept at bay by some weird witchcraft.”

  “Didn’t take you for a believer in witchcraft,” Sawyer says.

  “I only believe what I see, and I’m telling you—I’ve seen some really weird things in the sandbox after the nukes had hit it. Bad things. Then Nooria grew up and she’d let us see the good things.”

  “What are you talking about, mate?”

  “Afghanistan.”

  “Mister Stalker, could you please explain in what a bizarre company I am?”

  “It’s not bizarre. I was serving as an army officer in the Exclusion Zone for years. The Top, I mean Sergeant Major Hartman, did the same in Afghanistan. He came to love it too much to leave it. Am I right, Top?”

  “About. Nooria’s mother wants us to leave. But we’ll only decide once we know if we love or hate it more.”

  “Then, Nooria… who are you?”

  “I am Misha’s woman and Pete’s big sister.”

  “Apart from that?”

  “Warriors call me witch. I don’t mind—they must not know everything. Only Colonel does.”

  “Mysterious like always. So, last not least, the kid named Pete is the son of the all-knowing commander of the Tribe.”

  “The Tribe?”

  “Actually, I always wanted to ask you,” Pete says directing his words to Hartman. “I am a little confused about this. Sometimes you refer to Marines, sometimes you say Tribe… what are you after all?”

  “The Tribe begins where the Corps ends. Coincides with the thin red line separating the call of duty from what’s beyond it.”

  “Bloody amazing… You’re the most interesting folks I’ve met in a long, long time.” Sawyer halts his steps and wipes sweat from his neck.

  “We’ll have to pass through a tunnel soon,” Tarasov says. “Look… over there.”

  A hundred or so meters ahead, the rails lead directly into a tunnel.

  “Looks like a gigantic mouth devouring the rails,” Pete whispers.

  “Tuzla Tunnel.” Tarasov takes a bolt from the pouch and readies the detector. “Listen up. From now on, do only what I say. Keep your rifles ready but do not shoot at anything without me telling you so.”

  “Local version of the Salang Pass?” the Top asks.

  “Much shorter. Darker, too. Stalkers also call it the Meat Grinder.”

  “And what are those things over there?”

  Tarasov looks at the direction Sawyer is pointing. In the proximity of the tunnel entrance, his eyes detect blurry orbs that appear like huge soap bubbles.

  “Stay where you are.” He takes a step closer to inspect the bubbles. “Don’t move.”

  He opens the anomaly detector but it doesn’t indicate any danger. Cursing the limited capabilities of the low-end device, Tarasov takes a bolt from his pouch and throws it ahead.

  The bolt disappears, as if sucked in by a void but no electric discharge sizzles, neither does the bolt go up
in acidic flames. Yet the blurry orbs are there, unless his eyes are playing a trick on him.

  “Stay away. This looks like an anomaly… a Space anomaly!”

  “What if I take a chance—”

  “Sawyer! Stop! Listen, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Here a risk, there a risk. What the hell!”

  “No! Those things… No one knows where you end up if you touch them! You could be caged for eternity in God knows what dimension!”

  “You may do as you wish, but I must experience this!”

  “You’re insane. Wait! Keep your hands off! Don’t touch it, I said! The others be my witness, I didn’t let you go there! You go of your own will!”

  The survivalist reaches for the blurry orb.

  “Of my own will. What else?”

  “Nothing. Go, if you insist. God help you to be lucky!”

  It is a matter of seconds for the orb to extend and a flash blinding them. When they open their eyes, the orb is still there but Sawyer has disappeared.

  “Holy fuck,” yells Pete, “did you just see that?”

  “Where did he disappear?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did it kill him?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you know?”

  “This is no place for leisurely strolls. The Zone wants to be respected. Otherwise it will punish,” Tarasov says, trying to hide his anguish behind words.

  “Shit,” Hartman says. “I was beginning to like him.”

  “The Zone is a very complicated system—of traps, and they’re all deadly. At the moment someone shows up, everything comes into motion. Old traps disappear and new ones emerge. Safe spots become impassable. Now your path is easy, now it’s hopeless. That’s the Zone. It may even seem capricious.”

  “So it decides whom it lets pass?”

  “I don’t know. I think it lets those pass who have lost all hope. Not good or bad, but wretched people. But even the most wretched will die if they don’t know how to behave. Whatever happened to him — maybe his example will save at least your lives by making you more cautious. Is that clear? Put on your headlamps and follow me.”

  Tarasov warily enters the tunnel. Pete, who is walking behind him on the rails, begins to croon.

  “I keep a close watch on this heart of mine, I keep my eyes wide open all the time, I keep the ends out for the tie that binds, Because you’re mine, I walk the line…”

  “Cut it!” Tarasov snaps at him.

  “Sorry man. It just came to my mind, with us walking the line and keeping our eyes open.”

  “Then just walk and look but don’t make noise, Pete. There might be mutants here keeping their ears open.”

  35

  Alamo, New Zone

  “Cigarette?”

  Ramirez gladly accepts the Lucky Strike offered by the Colonel. Drawing on it, he continues to tell the account of the lost battle.

  “We were doing good but then the smiters came. Still, the fifties and automatic rifles would’ve given us the advantage but then… when I saw they were wielding machine guns, it was clear that all is lost.”

  “What type of machine guns?”

  “Russian-made heavies. I saw two with DShKs and maybe three with DPKs.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  The Colonel, who had so far been listening to Ramirez’s account with sadness but no fear, now turns pale.

  “They got us pinned down, crossed the creek and breached our defenses. The assaulting ragheads used them for tanks. The smiters’ fire wasn’t too accurate but one doesn’t need much accuracy with a hip-fired AA gun… in short, we had no chance. At least that’s how I see it, sir.”

  “No, you didn’t,” the Colonel agrees. “Any suggestions?”

  “The only good news is that Staff Sergeant Rush’s report can be confirmed — those bastards can take a heavy beating before they fall but appear to be vulnerable to fire. Heavy automatic weapons with incendiary rounds, flamethrowers, portable miniguns with incendiary rounds… maybe the witch can concoct something from a swag to coat our small-arms ammo. I had actually hoped she’d be back with the Top in the meantime.”

  The Colonel exhales the smoke of his cigarette. “I made a mistake,” he slowly says. ”Before the recent trouble began, I let them go with Tarasov to the Zone in Ukraine. Let’s hope they find their way back soon.”

  “We all wish Sergeant Major Hartman and Nooria were here now.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Until Nooria comes up with some witchcraft, Molotov cocktails could be useful too. Frankly, sir, those would be my choice against smiters and not rifles, not even the newest ones, should I ever face them again.” Ramirez holds his words for a heartbeat. “But then, I won’t.”

  “You gave them your word of honor to return with my answer, and then be executed?”

  “That’s correct, sir. They promised to let the dozen men return who they’ve captured.”

  “How wicked of them. Well, if they want to martyr themselves en masse — so be it.”

  “Will that be your answer, sir?”

  “You will return, Lieutenant Ramirez, and show them that my warriors keep their word of honor. Just like anyone in the Tribe would.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Tell them that going to our knees is no part of our Code. That will be the answer of the Tribe. Are you ready to do this for us?”

  “I am, sir.”

  ”Sometimes I regret that we have no medals and decorations, José.”

  “I’ve had enough awards during old times,” Ramirez replies, referring to the period when they were still Marines. “I don’t care about those. I let Saria turn even the Bronze Star into a pendant. Looks better on her neck than on my chest—anyway, what counts is the privilege to have served with you, sir.”

  “Nevertheless, there is something I can give you as a sign of my appreciation.” The Colonel takes an unopened box of cigarettes from his field table. “It’s my last pack. Enjoy as many as you can on your way back.”

  “Thank you, sir. But… if you agree, sir, we could use their own weapons against them. I could put explosives on myself or hide a gun and…”

  The big man interrupts Ramirez. “No, Lieutenant. This is not the way to do it. Besides, don’t forget about the POWs they have. But you can be sure as hell that we’ll get them soon enough.”

  “I couldn’t hope for more.”

  A moment of silence descends on the two men. Then Ramirez crushes his cigarette. ”Permission to leave, sir?”

  “May the Spirit be with you, José. Thank you and Semper Fi.”

  Rumor has spread fast and when the Colonel and Ramirez appear at the tower entrance, the off-duty fighters have already gathered to see what they would otherwise not believe.

  “Form a line!” Lieutenant Bauer shouts. ”Ten-hut!”

  The Colonel stands at the tower with his arms folded. Not as much as muscle stirs on Lieutenant Ramirez’s face as he walks down the line of his comrades.

  Bauer looks at the Colonel who gives a slight nod. He, Nelson and the few senior warriors who had once fought as Marines and experienced the City of Screams together walk up to Ramirez. Handshakes are exchanged, accompanied by a few words of respect and encouragement.

  “That’s awesome, brother,” Nelson says, “just awesome.”

  “Don’t worry, José. We’ll kick their ass with your name written on our boots.”

  “Be proud and strong, brother.”

  “Hey! What the hell are you whining about?” Ramirez asks.

  “You’re going to die, José,” Bauer replies.

  Ramirez gives him a grim smile. “What’s so bad about dying, anyway? Come on, brother! You can’t deal out death if you’re not ready to accept your own.”

  Bauer bows his head.

  A woman appears; her colorful Hazara garbs fly in the wind as she runs down the alley from the living quarters to the fighters giving their farewells, screaming what sounds like horr
ible curses in the staccato of her hard-sounding language. Bauer and the Lieutenants respectfully step back — it is Saira. Toughness vanes from Ramirez’s face.

  Amid tears, she throws herself into his arms. Ramirez holds her tight with his eyes closed, then pushes her away. Before Saria lets go of him, the Lieutenant feels her slip something heavy into his pocket.

  Saira draws a curved blade from her belt and cuts a shallow wound in her own forehead. She touches the wound and draws her bloody fingers across her face.

  “Badal!” she screams. “I will not wash my face until I revenge you! ”

  Then she steps to the Lieutenants. “You! Warriors! You will be brothers of my own blood until we revenge him!” Standing on tiptoe to reach the tall warriors’ faces, she smears a little of her blood over their forehead. They let her and their stone-hard faces tell that they are more than willing to take revenge. Saira then falls on her knees, crying and throwing dust over her head.

  Led by the Beghum, more women appear and drag the hysterically crying Saira away. The Beghum puts her hand against Saira’s forehead where blood is still trickling from the self-inflicted wound. The woman’s screams slowly calm down to a silent weep.

  “Let me get this over with at last,” Ramirez coldly says. He salutes for a last time. “May your revenge come soon, my life,” he adds in a much lower voice. He gives the Colonel and his comrades a nod of farewell and steps out of the stronghold gate.

  With Ramirez gone, all eyes are fixed on the Colonel.

  “Let the courage of Lieutenant Ramirez be an example of what honor means in our Tribe,” he says loud enough so that everyone around can hear him. “Mark his words—only those ready to die themselves are worthy of dealing out death to others. We have always been ready but must be even more so now. Man the defenses!”