“No!” Sawyer yells. ”Don’t do it!”
Ignoring him, Tarasov takes and tosses Sawyer’s gear into the anomaly just when the boat is about to drift into it.
With a muted whoosh, the rucksack darts upwards, whirls in the sky and explodes into shreds, driven by a massive eruption of energy.
“No! my rucksack!” Sawyer whines. “I can’t do without my rucksack!”
Regaining breath, Tarasov watches the surface straighten itself as the boat drifts through. The boat’s stern has barely passed the spot where the anomaly had been a few seconds before when the drone continues. The shallow cavity reappears in the surface, then the blurry sphere above it is also back.
“I triggered the anomaly,” he says. “Bolts wouldn’t do the trick. I needed something big and heavy… sorry about your rucksack, Finn.”
“I had all my survival equipment in it!”
“Survive like that!” Tarasov shouts back at him. “I just saved your life, goddammit! Now let me back on the paddles!”
“Then I don’t need your radioactive shit any longer,” Sawyer says with frustration all over his face. “Fuck your swag!”
He removes the artifact container from his belt. Seeing what he is up to, it is now Tarasov’s turn to scream and his dread makes him forget about talking in English.
“Ne! Idiot, ne—”
Before Tarasov could grasp Sawyer’s hand, he throws the artifact back over his shoulder — right into the anomaly.
A light flashes brighter than the sun, then a deafening explosion thunders. Tarasov feels as if the boat would slip out under his feet and falls backwards. Where the Whirligig was, a jet of water raises and evaporates high above like the mushroom cloud of an atomic bomb. The Geiger counter screams from values that overload its sensors. Rocked by waves, the boat almost submerges before hitting a sand bank close to the shore where it finally comes to a halt. The water column collapses with a splash. Then the Geiger counter’s signal is back to normal.
Tarasov cautiously peeks over the plank. The anomaly has disappeared.
The two men in the boat exchange a bewildered look.
“I—I didn’t expect that,” Sawyer stammers and takes his hat from the water that leaked into the boat. “Jesus Holy Christ, did my swag do that? I…”
“No,” Tarasov says getting up. He points his finger at his companion repeatedly, warning him. “Just—no. Do not say anything, Finn.”
“Still in one piece?”
With their ears still ringing they can barely hear Hartman shouting as he wades through the waist-deep water. The former Marine sighs heavily when he sees that Tarasov and Sawyer are unharmed, apart from being soaked and kind of shell-shocked.
“You two just made Iwo Jima look like women’s beach ball,” he grumbles and takes the remaining rucksacks from the boat. “Come! Let’s get to the shore at last!”
37
Fallen outpost, New Zone
“Dunno why I’m doin’ dis after what happened at Ghorband, but here’s your burer.”
Senka doesn’t sound too happy as he points the LED of his torchlight to the big crate. It is made of metal and seems safe enough to contain whatever is inside, but the Bandits have covered it with a metal mesh in addition to the strong ropes fixing it to the flatbed of their Japanese pick-up. The two other Bandits accompanying him keep their Kalashnikovs ready and dart anxious looks at the crate.
“You infidel scoundrels have just had bad luck,” Commander Saifullah says. “See the bodies of our ungodly enemies? We’ve beaten them!”
“Can’t see shit in this darkness,” Senka says.
“Don’t worry, Senka,” Skinner says. “It’s safe here. Saifullah told you the truth. We’ve finished off a whole squad of the Tribe right here at the bridge, including one of their oh-so-badass Lieutenants.”
“Amazin’. May I touch ya? Now get dat beast off our hands and make it quick. We don’t wanna tarry here too long.”
“Where’s Bruiser?” Skinner asks ignoring the Bandit’s distress.
“Back at da airfield in Charikhar, where I brought yer pet from.”
“You’re heading there now?”
“Nay,” Senka sneers. “First we go to Kabul to get a healthy dose of radiation. Holy fuck! Of course we’ll drive back right now!”
“It’s a dangerous road,” Skinner says grinning. “Full of anomalies and shit.”
“Dontcha say, man. Really? Hope we won’t drive into any.”
“You will,” Skinner says aiming his AK-74 at Senka, “at least that’s what Bruiser’s gonna think.”
A scream of surprise is the last sound leaving the Bandit’s lips when three rounds fired from Skinner’s rifle at point-blank range hit his chest. At the same time, two more rifles mow down his escort.
“I hate Bandits,” the half-mutant Stalker says to Saifullah.
“That makes two of us,” the Talib commander replies. He yells something in Pashtu to three fighters who now appear from their cover.
“Thanks dushman, but we don’t need your help,” Skinner says and makes a whistle. In a minute, two smiters approach. One of them, still wearing rags with blue-brown camouflage, gives the dead Bandits a hungry look.
Get the crate off the car, Skinner mentally commands him. Dinner comes later.
“I will burn in hell for dealing with you and your haram creatures,” Saifullah murmurs as he watches the two mutants effortlessly lift the heavy crate.
Skinner shrugs. “Really? I thought your god will be pleased with you giving him victory. And the little fellow inside that crate is here to do just that.”
“What is it?” Saifullah asks. He looks at his fighters who move closer to him, keeping their index fingers on the trigger guards of their old Kalashnikovs.
A groan sounds inside the crate, as if a caged man would moan over his imprisonment in a humanoid, yet deeper and distorted voice.
“Saifullah, you and your men better step back a few meters,” Skinner says. The four Taliban comply more than happily.
Open the crate, brothers.
The smiters remove the steel mesh and open the crate. Feeling the stench it emanates, even Skinner has to cover his nose.
Something sniffs at the air. Then a stocky, almost dwarf-like mutant appears, clad in shreds of a shabby overall that resembles a tattered coat. It waggles out from the crate and sniffs at the air once more.
Freedom smells good, doesn’t it little brother?
Focusing on the stocky little mutant’s mind, Skinner senses relief, hunger and anxiousness.
Come, you are among friends here.
“By God! What’s this abomination?”
Hearing Saifullah’s startled words, the Burer hisses and thrusts his short arms toward him. The AK falls from the Talib’s hands, as if an invisible force had torn it from his grasp. One of Saifullah’s bodyguards fires—and shouts with dread seeing his bullets being repelled by an unseen shield. The air undulates and shimmers between the mutant’s outstretched arms, then forms a conical field that shoots out toward the Talib and hits him with full force. The telekinesis attack sends him helplessly to the ground.
“Don’t shoot, you idiots!”
Alarmed, Skinner jumps between Saifullah and the mutant.
He doesn’t know you yet, little brother. He is with us. See me? I am your brother. See them? They are your big brothers. Don’t worry about the humans. They will not hurt you.
Fear, is the reaction he senses. Hunger.
I will bring you to a nice dark place with plenty of food, Skinner replies.
Tired.
You don’t even have to walk, burer.
The mutant looks at him. The two little pig eyes in its face that resemble grotesquely disfigured human features tell of fear.
Don’t know this place. Alone. You protect me?
You will be safe with your brothers, Skinner nods and waves his hand. One of his smiters steps to the Burer and lifts it. The helpless little mutant moans but sounds more embarrassed than
scared. In response, the huge humanoid emits a growl that might go for a laugh and tosses the Burer to the other smiter who skillfully catches and has a close look at it.
Stop that! He’s not a dwarf to be tossed around, Skinner mentally commands but he himself can barely suppress a smile when he senses the thoughts of the nearby smiters.
Smells good! Female! Will have fun!
His smile hardens into a cruel grin when he turns to Saifullah who stands there like petrified and mumbling a prayer. “The Tribe is annihilated, they just don’t know it yet.”
“Will that… demon kill them all?”
“No, dushman. We will. That is mostly me and my brothers, while you stay back and then boast over your victory in the name of your benevolent and merciful god. Just like it happened here.”
Saifullah is too daunted to realize the scorn in Skinner’s words. “How?”
“This little friend is a burer. Dwells underground and digs like a mole. He’ll find a way into the caves under the Tribe’s stronghold. All we have to do is to follow him. He’ll be our battering ram, so to say.”
“He?”
“Good question. Maybe a she? Be my guest if you wanna check it out.”
Saifullah wildly shakes his head.
“He’s hungry,” Skinner continues looking at the three bodies. “So are we. Care to join us for dinner?”
“God forbid,” the Talib says with a gasp.
“Then you better go, dushman. We’ll move out as soon as our belly is full. Wait for our signal.”
Apparently fighting a sudden sickness, Saifullah turns away from the mutants and hastily leaves.
Skinner waves to the two smiters and the Burer and jolts his head toward the bodies.
Dinner time, brothers!
To make sure that the dim-witted mutants can understand him, he adds: Eat! Nom-nom!
38
Swamps, Exclusion Zone
“It’s surprisingly comfy here.”
Finn Sawyer looks around in the small cave where they are hiding from the rainstorm raging outside. “Definitely looks well frequented.”
“It’s a hideout of the man we’re going to visit,” Tarasov says putting down his rucksack. He breathes into his palms to warm them up. “He uses it as a stopover during his trips to Agroprom and beyond.”
“Who is he?”
“Will tell you later. Finn, do you have firestarters left?”
“Course I do.”
“Pete, Top, get a few branches from those bushes at the cave entrance. Nooria, it’s time to take our medicine.”
She fumbles in her shoulder bag and gives Tarasov and Sawyer a pack of red and blue anti-radiation drugs.
“You must dry your clothes, Mikhailo. Getting a cold is not nice.”
“Thanks God for vodka.”
To wash away the sickening metal taste that lingers on his tongue since he was exposed to the exploding Whirligig, Tarasov rolls the spirit in his mouth before sending it down his throat. Then he takes the drugs and flushes the pill down with another gulp.
“Call me overcautious,” Tarasov tells Nooria who watches his alcohol intake with a frown. He offers the bottle to Sawyer. “Finn, you’re next.”
“’Mexaminum. Experimental radiation protection medicament’,” the Australian reads out the label. “’This drug induces contraction of peripheral blood vessels and oxygen deprivation, which serves to treat and prevent radiation exposure. The drug does not have severe side effects, although isolated cases of mild nausea, dizziness, cramps and stomach pain have been reported. Made in Germany.’ Frankly, mate, after reading the side effects—dunno what’s worse.”
“Just take it. Germans make good anti-radiation stuff ever since Chernobyl scared the shit out of them.”
“At least we have a good excuse to drink. This is to my rucksack! May it go to the Walhalla of heroic survival gear, if there’s any!”
“Cheers,” the Top says arriving back with a small pile of branches. “Leave something for me, will you?”
“Firestarters and the cooker were in me rucksack. One day I will have my revenge on you, Mister…”
“Mikhailo. And sorry again.”
“Mikhailo, then. So, one day you will be beggin’ me for a little wine powder. And I’ll say with incredible pleasure: nope, mate.” He reaches for a pocket on his trouser from where he fishes a small metal box. “Anyway, luckily for us, good ol’ Sawyer is prepared for everything. Like losing my rucksack, hangin’ on a rope that’s about to crack and needin’ to cut the straps or somethin’, though I’d never imagined to lose it like that. See, I have a redundant survival kit on me with Mayan sticks and water-proof matches, plus a mirror, a button compass…”
Pete chuckles. “Jesus, you’re beyond rad and all but why not use a normal gas lighter?”
“Because it would burn your thumb till you set wet wood alight, and there’s a good chance that wood you find in the wilderness will be wet. These sticks are 80% pine raisin and burn hot as hell. Here you go. I don’t make it big, otherwise we’ll all die in this hole from smoke inhalation.”
In a minute a small fire is burning, casting its flickering light on the items someone had moved here: a shabby bedroll in the corner, a footless chair and a car tire. A shovel and a bucket stand in a corner, apparently used for digging out the cave.
A thunder sounds outside. Tarasov looks at his watch.
“Half past one. Let’s hope the storm will be over quickly. We only have about five hours of daylight left and don’t want to spend the night without shelter, believe me.”
“Where exactly are we going?” Nooria asks. “To a friend of yours?”
“Strelok’s, actually. I’ve seen him only once, shortly after… anyway, I was there with him and Alex Degtyarev. Hope I still remember the way.”
“I have to say your leadership was quite all right so far.”
“There’s no such thing in the Zone, Top. Only luck and the Zone’s mercy.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t start sermonizing again,” Pete says mimicking a yawn.
“I know you hate hearing this, but — one day you’ll understand.”
“I do hate hearing it.”
“Better get used to it, son. Compared to your father, Misha Tarasov is a nanny with a heart of gold.”
“And what does this make you, Sergeant Major? A grandma?”
“Call me a grandma once more and I break your goddamn neck,” Hartman grumbles,
“Misha does have a heart of gold,” Nooria quickly cuts in with a smile. “And you too, Top.”
“Don’t ruin his image of a tough guy he’s been working on all the time, big sister.”
“Pete, shut up. And thanks Nooria, it’s appreciated. Let’s have some havchik… eh, I mean food.”
They sit quietly, listening to the storm outside and sitting as close to the small fire as they can. Nooria distributes some of the rations from the Tribe’s base. It is not for the first time Tarasov realizes that American gear may be more sophisticated but not necessarily better than what’s common in the Ukrainian or any other ex-Soviet army. At least the chili-and-macaroni as main dish, peanut butter and the Top’s object of pet hate, the HOOAH! Bar doesn’t fill his belly much better than the Ukrainian rations having canned meat, concentrated broth, sardines and porridge for backbone.
“In case of war, your food wouldn’t make us run over to you,” he shares his thoughts loudly. “This flameless ration heater is a good idea, though.”
“Does that mean I can have your Tabasco sauce? Thanks.”
“You can have my peanut butter too. Gospodi, Hartman, how can you eat this stuff with bread? It’s like… molten sugar.”
“That’s mine, if you don’t want it,” Pete says and eagerly takes the small pouch. “Don’t say anything bad about the national pride of America, please.”
The Top gives a snorting laugh.
“That’s damn right, son.”
“Don’t try to peanut-butter me up, Sergeant Major. I�
��m not gonna share it with you.”
“What has happened to camaraderie in this world?” the Top says with a disappointed sigh.
The fire is soon spent. Going to collect more wood, Tarasov peeks out from the cave’s entrance. The rain falls unabatedly and the thunder makes the ruined bridge cast bizarre shadows on the river. The turned-over railway carriages next to the cave entrance block his view to the northern horizon where the wind is driving the dark and mighty clouds. It doesn’t appear as if the storm will cease anytime soon.
Doesn’t make a difference in this weather if it’s night or day, he thinks.
“Let’s move on,” he tells the others when returning to the cave. “Makes no sense to wait for the storm to recede.”
“My rifle bags were also in my rucksack,” Sawyer reproachfully says. “At least carry the rifles with barrels down.”
“No,” Tarasov says putting on his rucksack. “Better carry them ready to shoot.”
“I won’t shoot at humans,” Finn Sawyer says getting up. ”Just for the record, mates.”
“And if they shoot at you first?” Hartman asks.
“Never happened but maybe I’d reconsider… when all of you gung-ho guys are dead already.”
Tarasov takes point as they leave the safety of the cave and begin to trek eastwards between the railway embankment and a long stretch of barbed wire. After a hundred meters or so he stops, waits for the Top at the end of their small column to catch up and turns to the south, towards the thick reed.
Damn. The reed hides mutants, but at least makes them easy to detect by the noise they make. But not in this storm.
“Stay close!”
Tarasov must shout to make himself be heard in the rumbling thunderstorm.
“Keep your eyes open,” he yells. “If the reed moves — shoot!”
“What?”
“Prepare for your boars, Finn!” Tarasov shouts back and waves his hand to the others. “Move!”
He feels a surge of self-confidence as his steps lead him unerringly to the spot where the barbed wire is missing for a few meters, though the triangular sign warning of radioactivity is still visible in the reed that has overgrown the fence separating the Zone proper from its outskirts.
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 25