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

by Balazs Pataki

“We have all the time.”

  While pondering over how to cut his story short, Tarasov lets his eyes wandering around in the Doctor’s home. Their wet jackets and boots dry in front of a fireplace. It keeps the room warm and cozy, though the ZM-LR300 rifle hanging on a nail above it reminds of the perils outside. Bookshelves line the walls, holding all kinds of things that tell of a life in the Exclusion Zone. It is all about a lonely Stalker’s life, except for the scientific books and magazines in several languages.

  A framed photograph hangs on the wall next to the door. It shows Strelok in the middle, with two others looking at him; he might be giving orders to them. Though they are not recognizable, Tarasov suspects them to be members of Strelok’s group on one of their deep raids into the Zone, hoping to find the legendary Wish Granter. In the end, only Strelok made it while his friends died one after another. Strelok, always tight-lipped about his dealings in the Zone’s heart, once hinted at another of his friends still being alive. He referred to him only as Guide, describing him as an extremely elusive character who preferred to stay unknown. Thinking about it, Tarasov’s guess is that the Doctor himself might have taken the photograph and deliberately kept Guide out of the frame. That would explain why only three of the five legendary Stalkers are visible in the picture.

  Seeing that he is at a loss of words, the Doctor fills Tarasov’s glass with vodka from a glass jug to ease his tongue.

  “Thanks, Doc. Suffice to say, I had to do an errand for a certain new friend of mine from the New Zone. He is a powerful man and his… Tribe, or maybe faction as we would say here in the Exclusion Zone, has an impressive network back in America. When I checked my stored messages in their base I found two coming from Strelok. The first was about meeting me. The other a cry for help. Strelok is… you know. I couldn’t ignore either of his messages and have returned. I had hoped that you might know what his messages are about, or at least tell me of his whereabouts.”

  The Doctor strokes his white stubble. “Interesting… Alas, I have to disappoint you—I don’t know where he is now. Strelok used to come here, yes, and he still has a stash here. Sometimes he spent time praying in the old wooden church to the south-east. You’ve probably heard that his mind is… troubled.”

  “I know. Few have a better reason to suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder after what he had been through.”

  “PTSD is a pussy’s excuse,” Hartman grumbles, prompting Tarasov to dart a disapproving look at him.

  “I’m adept at healing wounds,” their host says ignoring the Top. “Daresay, I know a few things about curing wounded souls as well. However, Strelok’s troubles are beyond my skills. I warned him before he set out on that fateful raid to the center of the Zone. I still can’t forgive myself for not being with him in his direst hours.”

  “What happened to Strelok?” Nooria asks.

  “Only he could tell.”

  Tarasov watches the Doctor with narrowed eyes. When they arrived, he greeted all his companions like ordinary Stalkers, except for a little surprise in his eyes when he saw Hartman’s size. When Nooria stepped in, though, he looked at her for a moment as if seeing a ghost and then bowed his head with such a deep respect that went far beyond an old-fashioned gentleman’s politeness towards a woman, or the understandable surprise over meeting a woman in the virtually male-only Exclusion Zone. Just like Nooria in the New Zone, the Doctor had always been a node of lore about the Exclusion Zone. All this makes Tarasov curious about what these two might have in common, since the two Zones also have more in common than what meets the eye.

  “If he is in trouble, then you did the right thing by heeding his call. He doesn’t have many friends left.” The Doctor jerks his thumb toward the photograph. “Fang was the technical genius and Ghost the daring one. You’ll need Fang’s aptitude to find him, Ghost’s skills to help him and Guide’s knowledge of the Zone to get to him quickly. As far as I’m concerned, I’ll give you all the help an old medicine man can.”

  “I don’t know about who you’re talkin’ about,” Sawyer says raising his vodka glass to Tarasov, “but this guy knows the Zone like the back of his hand. I’m tellin’ you that!”

  “Thanks, Finn,” Tarasov says with a smile. “And thanks to you too, Doc. You already did much by making us forget the Swamps outside.”

  “Say thanks to Druzhok,” the Doctor says caressing the mutant’s head. “Sometimes I let him roam the Swamps and he brings me a snork’s leg or a boar’s ear in exchange. I think he wants to share his lunch with me.” He looks at his pet with a warm smile. ”Da, Druzhok? Kakoy molodets ti, umnaya sobaka. Nu, idi gulyat'!”

  The tamed mutant gives its master a friendly snarl and jogs to the door. It opens it with its paw and disappears outside.

  “Sobaka! Zabil zakrit dver!”

  In response to the Doctor’s call, the pseudodog smashes the door closed. Tarasov and his companions exchange perplexed looks over the table. The Doctor smiles mysteriously and fills their cups with tea from the samovar.

  “Maybe the Bar at Rostok would be a good place to start asking around,” Tarasov says clearing his throat.

  “This Strelok guy… is he on his own?”

  “What do you mean, Top?”

  Hartman studies his dirty fingernails, apparently embarrassed over what he has to say.

  “Let me put it this way, Mikhailo… you didn’t return by your own will, did you?”

  “Correct. It was Strelok’s message.”

  “So—are you sure that message came from him?”

  “It certainly came from his PDA.”

  “You don’t get my point. What if someone made that Strelok character send you a message, or perhaps just used his PDA, to lure you back?”

  Tarasov slowly rotates the vodka glass in his hands and doesn’t look at Hartman.

  “Who would have done so?” he eventually asks.

  “Someone pissed off by you not bringing back the research data you were sent to find.”

  “That’s a little murky, I admit,” Tarasov says and feels a sudden urge to scratch his head. “The whole mission was a set-up. The SBU used me and my men as a bait to expose an arms dealer. Finding the research data was just the cherry on the cake. At least that’s what Alex Degtyarev told me when I made up my mind to contact him from the Alamo. Believe me, Degtyarev would be the last one I could piss off by desertion. He is kind of a deserter himself who no longer knows if he’s with the SBU or the Free Stalkers—the Loners.”

  “I don’t know that Degti… Degta… Degtyarev guy. You might be right. All I’m saying is — you better be very cautious.”

  “I know exactly that I’m a wanted man, but I trust Strelok. Why? Because I am one of the few left who he himself can trust. He wouldn’t betray me. You don’t need to remind me about being cautious. That’s why we entered the Zone the long and hard way.”

  “You’ve been lucky so far,” the Doctor says. “Better to not tempt the Zone, if you follow my meaning.”

  Using an iron pincer, he takes a few glowing embers from the fireplace to heat up the copper samovar that stands in the middle of the table.

  “What’s in the stash that Strelok keeps here?” Tarasov curiously asks.

  The Doctor shrugs. “Ammunition, some canned food, a few grenades… nothing particular.”

  “Grenades could be useful,” Hartman says.

  “Not here and now.”

  Tarasov drums his fingers on the table, thinking. Strelok, Strelok… where are you hiding?

  Pete uses the momentarily silence to ask a question. “And what have you been doing here the whole time, Doc?”

  “I don’t mind showing you around my abode until tea is ready. There’s a room with a few mattresses where you can sleep, and my laboratory is next.”

  The Doctor takes a petroleum lamp and leads his guests into the neighboring room. Except Tarasov, all are surprised when they see metal shelves loaded with artifacts, the apparently more dangerous in radiation-proof, scientific con
tainers. There is a surgery bed in the corner, together with an old-fashioned hospital lamp and a white cabinet on which all kinds of medical tools lie neatly arranged. Below the window, where the room is apparently brightest during daytime, there is a large table loaded with vials, retorts, dosimeters, calculators and even a laptop — as if a medieval alchemist’ apparatus had been mixed up with a modern scientist’s high-tech equipment. A brochure in English lies on the wooden chair next to it. The Top picks up and opens it.

  “H&H Tools Catalogue, 2012,” he reads out the title. “Twenty Years of Excellence. Says it’s a company from Nevada dealing in medical and surveillance robotics… Not my kind of stuff.”

  “They make a device called My First Infirmary. A truly marvelous machine. I’m trying to build something similar but still have a long way to go. Until then, artifacts and healing plants will have to do the job.” The Doctor opens a wall cabinet. “This is my herbarium.”

  “Wonderful,” Nooria says with excitement looking over the small pots and jugs filled with aromatic herbs. “Will you tell me more?”

  “Plants like marjorie, wolf’s bane and marigold grow to bigger sizes here than in the Big Land, thereby multiplying the amount of curative substances one can extract. For example, a few capitula of wolf’s bane grown in the Zone produce enough thymol derivatives to imbue a whole bandage, which can be applied for speeding up the healing rate of bruises and non-open injuries. Like anti-inflammatory drugs would do, but then one can’t harvest ibuprofen from plants.” The Doctor chuckles.

  Sawyer and Nooria look at him in awe as he hands them a bandage.

  “Can I keep this?” Nooria asks with eyes sparkling.

  “Sure. Then I also try to save some Stalker lore from becoming oblivion lost. For example, I drop a Pellicle artifact into a Springboard anomaly and in about four hours, the Springboard spawns a new artifact. I just call it Skin because it boosts cell growth, meaning that the body will be less vulnerably to chemical burning and acid. Alas, it contains physical uranium which makes it radioactive.”

  “Our friend Finn might be a good apprentice,” Tarasov says and pats the Australian on the back. “When we were crossing the river, he threw a Shell into a Whirligig!”

  “You threw my rucksack in first. Why dontcha tell him that, huh?”

  “And?” The Doctor’s eyes shine up with curiosity. “What happened?”

  “He almost got us killed.”

  “All research has its risks,” the Doctor replies laughing. “Anyway, what I’m really proud of is this.”

  Expecting something strange, perhaps a machine with flashing lights powered by glowing artifacts, Tarasov frowns when the Doctor shows him three rusted buckets filled with earth. Tiny plants grow on the surface.

  “I see nothing out of the ordinary,” he says.

  “Each bucket has a Jellyfish inside,” the Doctor proudly explains. “I thought, if this gravitational artifact is able to attract and absorb radioactive particles from a human body, why not using it for purifying soil? Measure the radiation!”

  Tarasov takes a Geiger counter from the table and holds it to the buckets. The device doesn’t indicate any radiation.

  “I vot, Misha! Vegetables grown in this soil will be eatable—oh, sorry—I mean edible. In a few weeks I’ll have fresh carrots, cucumbers and tomatoes. As you know, fresh and healthy vegetables is what Stalkers miss most from their diet.”

  “You could make powder from Jellyfish and use it to clean more earth,” Nooria says, “and purify a whole garden.”

  “Pulverizing an artifact?” the Doctor says bemused. “Wish that were possible!”

  “I do it with mortar and pestle.”

  “I admire your enthusiasm for artifact lore, young lady, but…”

  Seeing both Hartman and Tarasov smile and nod, the Doctor doesn’t finish his sentence.

  “Misha, by everything that’s holy, who did you bring into my house? She puts me in shame!”

  “Please don’t say so, Doctor,” Nooria says blushing. “I wish I could stay and learn from you.”

  “Well, if you don’t insist on leaving at dawn tomorrow, there might be an errand you could assist me with.” The Doctor looks at the quartz watch in the table where the red digits tell that it’s past midnight. “Actually, today. Let’s have a cup of tea and go to sleep.”

  “Best idea I heard today, Doc,” says Sawyer and stretches his arms, yawning. “Your place looks like a comfy Russian home. Got a sauna too? Please say you do!”

  “We call it banya,” the Doctor says. “But what you’ll need to live with is called water from buckets. Don’t look so gloomy, it will be hot enough.”

  Hartman smirks at his disappointed companion.

  “No worry, Finn. Just toss a swag into it and you’ll have the biggest jacuzzi on earth!”

  41

  Preobrazhensky Bridge, Zaton, Exclusion Zone

  Each area in the Exclusion Zone has its own character. Some even have a certain dark beauty to them. Zaton, however, is probably the most desolate and appears even more so in the mist and drizzle falling from the dark dawn sky.

  Once there was a river meandering through the area, which by now has turned into marshland amidst arid hills. Dilapidated port facilities, ship wrecks and industrial ruins are a reminder of the times when Zaton was thriving. One of the ruins is that of a waste processing station and next to it, a bridge spans over the former riverbed about sixty-seventy meters below. Back in Soviet times it had been called Preobrazhensky Bridge, named after a Bolshevik economist of the Twenties.

  It was littered with wrecked vehicles among a cluster of anomalies, with sections of it in complete disrepair, until a powerful emission cleared off the anomalies and army high command decided to set up a permanent outpost in the abandoned ranger station not far away. The bridge was repaired, allowing for the odd supply truck to pass through.

  On this dark morning, a convoy of two army vehicles is passing over the bridge. A BTR-80 personal carrier is driving in front of a mighty URAL truck. Strelok is sitting in the truck, facing Captain Maksimenko and resting his feet on his rucksack. Of the dozen men travelling with them, five are Spetsnaz, all wearing heavy combat suits that make them appear like toughness incarnate. Their sergeant’s folded-up visor on his tactical helmet reveals a lean, hardened face. The others are regular army soldiers in much lighter armor but looking equally grim.

  “You heard the news, Captain?” Strelok asks.

  “What news?”

  “Looks like the New Zone is spreading. There was some kind of emission that hit the southern border of Uzbekistan. Novosty said mutants are all over Termez.”

  Maksimenko shrugs. “That’s far enough for me to give it a damn.”

  The Spetsnaz don’t share his equanimity.

  “Pizdets!” one of them cusses. “I hope the two Zones are not trying to merge!”

  “Don’t talk bullshit,” the sergeant replies. “Last time I checked, the Exclusion Zone ended at Cordon and that was yesterday.”

  “Wouldn’t mind the Russians having their own Zone,” a regular soldier says. “At least they’d be busy containing it and quit poking their nose into Ukrainian matters.”

  Strelok gives the solder a stern look. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, boyevoychick!”

  “Listen, here’s a joke,” says the Spetsnaz sergeant in an attempt to cheer up the mood. “An American and a Russian satellite meet in orbit. The American is spying on us, and the Russian is — broken down.”

  The junior commando on Strelok’s other side dutifully laughs but the others don’t react. Maksimenko shakes his head.

  “Vlasov, you are a capable non-com but telling jokes is not your strong side.”

  “Just trying to cheer us up, komandir.”

  “Then try a better joke next time,” Strelok says grinning.

  “You happen to know one, Stalker?”

  “Many. Listen to this: one day a journalist visits a Freedomer base—”
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  Strelok breaks off as the column comes to a halt and the 14.5mm heavy machine gun of the lead BTR starts firing. After a minute that was probably needed for the soldiers travelling inside the compartment to get to their firing positions, a half dozen automatic rifles begin to rake an unseen enemy.

  “Leader One to Leader Two. What the hell is happening?” Maksimenko shouts into his radio set.

  “Leader Two to Leader One. A horde of fleshes blocked the bridge. Stand by.”

  The gun fire ceases after a few moments.

  “Leader Two. We’re about to remove the carcasses from the bridge. Moving on in three minutes.”

  “Leader One. Acknowledged. Make it two.”

  “Why didn’t we just drive them through?” asks the junior Spetsnaz.

  “Idiot!” Sergeant Vlasov bashes on his subordinate’s helmet with his fist. “Who will dig the gore from wheels and chassis? You volunteer, huh? No? I thought so.”

  “Those mutated pigs smell like shit,” Maksimenko says. “Let those guys in the tin can clean up the mess.”

  “And where will I have my fun?” asks Strelok. “Will you tell me at me at least what I have to do exactly?”

  “Stay put in Cordon.”

  “We’re in Zaton. Why the detour?”

  “I wanted to be a nice guy for once and agreed to take some supplies to our outpost at the Ranger Station.” Maksimenko jolts his head towards the two big crates travelling with them in the compartment. “We still have time. Cordon will be a good place to get all this over with.”

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “Think of it: Tarasov knows the area like his vest pocket… you, his old buddy being kept there at the mercy of a bastard called myself… He’ll probably try to contact you and you’ll lure him right into our welcoming arms.”

  “You want to lock me up at your Outpost until he comes—or doesn’t, eventually? Come on, Captain! I’ll be bored to death!”

  “Infiltrating our base might be too risky even for that cunning bastard. He wouldn’t try. The Dairy Farm will do, all the more because it will give him the impression that you’re about to be brought to Cordon Base and then out of the Zone.”