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

by Balazs Pataki

  59

  Ruined village north of Bagram, New Zone

  Both Mac and Ahuizotl had spent a long time in the New Zone, but its vastness still makes them feel lost and fragile with every step they make.

  The weirdly gnarled trees and ruins in the post-apocalyptic landscape were not really new, neither the remainders of life that had once thrived in the forsaken villages — wrecked trucks and abandoned homes. Walking the paths of the Exclusion Zone before had hardened their hearts. The low but constant crackling of their Geiger counters is the best proof of civilization being all but vain when nature’s rage becomes unleashed by accident or malevolence.

  “Look at that peak,” Mac tells her companion. “It has a halo around it.”

  “Must be the altitude,” Ahuizotl replies. “Light is dispersed somehow differently here.”

  “Still weird.”

  “Watch the surroundings, not the peaks.”

  Deadly silence is all over the ruined village they are passing through. Holding her rifle cradled and ready to shoot, Mac watches Billy sniffle at the debris inside what had been a roadside shop, then adjusts her sunglasses that protect her eyes from the harsh sunlight and walks on. The sniper follows her steps at a distance of twenty meters, anxiously looking around every corner.

  Mac stops and checks the map on her PDA. Unlike in the Exclusion Zone, no signal shows her current position and if she didn’t know the New Zone well, she would have a hard time keeping on track. The thought of new arrivals being confronted by the vast wilderness without any help to find their way makes her aware of how important their mission is.

  “The hills aren’t far away now,” she says. “Yar’s closest marker is next to an abandoned airfield to the north.”

  “How far?”

  “Ten kilometers.”

  “What’s your radiation reading?”

  “Forty microroentgen per hour,” Mac says glancing at her Geiger counter. “Half of what’s in Pripyat on a dusty day.”

  “Piece of cake.”

  When they have left the village behind a few minutes later, Mac hears the sniper cuss in a low voice.

  “No hay ninguna maldita diferencia…”

  “What is it?” she asks.

  The sniper halts and looks around before replying. “I was just looking at you, wearing that heavy armor, the intercom on your head, the sunglasses, the cradled weapon and all that — and your anxiety while moving through that godforsaken place. I guess the good guys were passing through the same way before the bad guys nuked the place.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “This land had it coming,” Ahuizotl sighs darting a wary eye around. “All it offers is peril. Always been like that—with or without the nukes, it’s all the same.”

  “At least we know that anything that moves will move to kill us,” Mac says. “Without people around, there’s no false friends to fool us.”

  60

  Rostok (Bar), Exclusion Zone

  It is dark, and white stars are shining, when Tarasov and his companions come at last to the abandoned industrial area that Stalkers call Rostok. The small Duty detachment guarding the southern road didn’t bother to question them; to them, the four travelers were just another band of Stalkers seeking shelter for the night.

  Their passage has been smooth throughout the day. Tarasov nonetheless sighs with relief when they enter the maze of grey warehouses and factory halls.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” the Top asks looking up to a Russian inscription written in bright yellow letters on a warehouse façade: Территория Долга. Применение оружия в пределах лагеря Запрещено! Нарушителей ждет РАССТРЕЛ!

  “Duty Territory. Use of weapons is forbidden. Disobey this order and you will be shot.”

  “Now we know who the local tough guys are.”

  As if to echo the Top’s words, a loud announcement crackles from the intercomm.

  “STALKERS! PROTECT THE WORLD FROM THE ZONE! JOIN DUTY!”

  “Tough or not, I don’t mind them keeping mutants away,” Tarasov says entering the warehouse. “Duty knows how to keep this place safe, I give them that.”

  To their left, beneath a large window where the glass has long been replaced by plywood boards, a row of rusted pressure tanks is lined up along the wall. To their right, a lonely guard watches them from a catwalk. He is wearing a full combat suit with his gas mask on, even though Tarasov’s meters show no signs of any dangerous substance nearby. Noticing the four travelers, he shouts down from the catwalk.

  “Idi svoyei doro’goi, Stalker!”

  “What’s his problem?” Hartman asks.

  “He said, ‘get out of here, Stalker’.”

  “But we’ve just arrived!”

  Tarasov just shrugs and moves on. “You’ll hear it a lot here.”

  The nightfall has awaken a myriad of crickets who now fill the Zone with their high-pitched, rhythmic chirp. Through the loudspeaker comes the faint sound of music: a female voice sings a sad and slow song accompanied by a piano.

  “I know that song,” Nooria says. “It was playing in Sultan’s telephone.”

  “It’s certainly more pleasant than Duty’s propaganda.”

  Pete has barely finished his sentence when another announcement comes.

  “CHERNOBYL VETERANS! WE HAVE A HUGE RESPONSIBILITY TO PROTECT THE WORLD FROM THE EXPANDING ZONE!”

  “Give me a break,” Tarasov grumbles.

  Through the warehouse they reach an alley running along yet another industrial building. ARENA — Danger Zone is written on a grey metal gate. To their left, an almost identical building looms in the darkness. A huge sign reads BAR and, probably to make sure that even the dumbest Stalker finds his way to the local inn, another sign over the door of a lower building is painted in flashy green and red Cyrillic letters.

  Tarasov leads his companions through a narrow lane between a concrete fence and more brick walls, until they reach a stair leading to the basement of a building that appears like an air-raid shelter. A bright lamp casts its light over the entrance and the promising sound of chatting patrons and glasses ringing in a toast comes from below.

  “Welcome to the 100 Rads,” Tarasov says with a smile.

  “What’s this?” the Top asks looking at the discolored picture fastened to the concrete wall of the staircase. It shows a soldier closely examining the breech of his rifle with a Russian text below.

  “To have accuracy and agility in battle, maintain your rifle, soldier, as you maintain your life,” Tarasov translates. “Sounds much better in Russian: Chtob metkost i snorovku imet v boyu, hrani boets vintovku kak zhizn svoyu.”

  “Outstanding,” nods the former Marine. “I like this place.”

  At the bottom of the stairs, behind a counter welded from metal grates, a Stalker is standing, wearing a Mercenary’s outfit consisting of a grayish fatigue with a wood camouflage assault vest worn over it. A black balaclava hides his face but his eyes give them a friendly wink. Seeing the travelers stopping and study the picture, he waves to them.

  “Nu chom stoish? Davai, podhodi!” the Dutyer guarding the entrance says.

  “Translation please,” Pete says.

  “He said, ‘come in, don’t stand there’!” Tarasov replies as he walks down the stairs.

  “You can’t go there!”

  Pete looks at the second guard blocking the way to a dimly lit corridor who looks exactly like the other one calling them in a minute before. They resemble each other to the extent that for a moment, it occurs to Pete that he might be the same person. The only difference is that this one has noticed that some of them don’t speak English and has addressed them accordingly. It could have been a courtesy if he didn’t sound rude nonetheless.

  Pete, however, is not much impressed — as if a bouncer in the middle of the Exclusion Zone greeting him in English would be the most natural thing.

  “But you just told me
to come in,” he says. “Make up your mind, dude.”

  “I said, you can’t go there.”

  “Why?” Pete asks.

  “Because you can’t go there.”

  “You told me that already.”

  “And you should have gotten it the first time. I said, you can’t go there!”

  “Never mind, Pete,” Tarasov says. “That’s just Barkeep’s quarters.”

  Under the arched ceiling, two dozen Stalkers have gathered around a few roughly hewn tables. Their attire varies from the newcomers’ light jackets over jet pilot style protective suits to the heavy combat armor that the few Dutyers among them are wearing. However, not even the tough-looking fighters seem to be in a better mood than most Stalkers—alcohol has apparently taken a toll on the patrons’ spirits and a cloud of melancholy seems to linger over them. The food is certainly not something that could cheer anyone up: the only ingredient visible in the kitchen separated from the rest of the bar by a counter is the neatly skinned head of a boar in a huge pot, stewing over low fire. A ventilator standing on the top of a rusted refrigerator blows the vapors rising from the pot directly towards the customers. It smells surprisingly pleasant, but seeing the source of the aroma would probably make even the hungriest customer think twice about ordering food.

  Behind the counter, a balding, stout man walks slowly up and down, keeping his hands in the pockets of the lambskin vest he is wearing. The tucked-up sleeves of his green pullover reveal tattoos on his forearms resembling blue flames. Every movement he makes shows the calmness of someone completely aware of being the boss around here. He occasionally greets a familiar customer with a deep voice, not making an exception with Tarasov either.

  “Hey man, how goes it?”

  “Nichego. Normalno,” Tarasov casually replies.

  Barkeep looks at the travelers with his eyes narrowed. He gives Tarasov a particularly inquisitive look.

  “Making it to Rostok was a major feat,” he smirks and gives Tarasov a wink. “Welcome to the 100 Rads, Stalker.”

  “Glad to be here,” Tarasov replies, relieved over their host’s apparent willingness not to blow their cover. “A bottle of Cossacks for me and my friends, please.”

  “Here you go,” Barkeep says putting a bottle of vodka on the counter. Its blue label has a picture of a bunch of merry-looking Cossack raiders on it.

  “Best vodka in Ukraine,” Tarasov proudly says and offers the bottle to his companions. “Cheers!”

  An action movie plays on the small TV set on the top shelf, showing someone running along a train and brandishing a handgun. The TV is muted though, and an old-fashioned tape recorder plays a song featuring only two instruments — a bass guitar and a flute. It sounds overly melancholic but seems to fit the mood of the patrons. Enjoying the soothing effect of the spirit in his stomach, Tarasov allows himself for a moment of bliss — the chatter of the half-drunk Stalkers and the slow music evokes memories of days when he was still a player in the Zone, often meeting with old friends here. Although he hears a few sentences in French, German and a Slavic language he guesses to be Croatian, most of the chatter is Russian. Staring at the vodka bottle, he keeps on listening to the chatter and to practice his English, mentally translates the fragments of conversations overheard.

  “Pojrat bi chego khoroshego.”

  Wish we had something nice to eat.

  “Ne uchatsja nichemu nekotorie, I uchitsya ne khotyat, kina amerikanskogo nasmotrelis I krishi poekhali, ti emu pro anomalii, a oni pro khabar, tolko babki ikh interesuet.”

  Some don’t learn anything, and they don’t want to study either, they saw enough American movies and went nuts, you talk about anomalies and they tell you only the news, only money is what interests them.

  “Net, ot sudbi tochno ne ubejat i nikuda ne detsja, shto napisano, to i proizojdet. Nichego ne vidno na gorizonte.”

  No, you cannot escape fate, what is written will happen. There is nothing on the horizon.

  “Novichkov ninche—i vse oni lutshe starikov znayut.”

  Those rookies nowadays—they know everything better than the veterans.

  “Vot ved kak grustno vse vikhodit.”

  So, that’s how sad everything is.

  He scans the faces in the Bar, hoping that he might discover Alexander Degtyarev’s mysterious smile or another old friend under one of the hoods or through the eyeholes of a balaclava. He finds no familiar face except for one, and even then he wishes his eyes had never met.

  “My information might well be of use to you, Stalker!”

  The man who has mistaken his gaze for an invitation to chat is wearing a Bandit’s long coat. The small mouth hole of his balaclava can’t hide his grin. Tarasov turns his eyes away but the sinister figure keeps staring at him.

  “Leave me alone, Snitch,” Tarasov says. “Life is bad enough!”

  “Come here. I have always got something for people like you.”

  An idea comes to Tarasov’s mind. “No, Snitch, you come here. See that that tall guy in a Stalker suit? He might be interested in your intel. Doesn’t speak much Russian, though.”

  Curious as to how the Tribe’s most respected warrior would deal with the Exclusion Zone’s most annoying pusher, Tarasov watches the Bandit approach the Top.

  “I have always got something for people like you,” Snitch says in broken English and pokes the Top’s arm.

  “Not interested,” the Top replies looking him down as he would stare at an insect and then turns back to curiously studying the message board.

  Snitch is not brushed off so easily. “But my information might well be of use to you, Stalker!”

  “I said, not interested,” the Top snaps at him with growing impatience.

  “But my information—”

  Snitch pokes the warrior’s arm once more. The Top grabs Snitch at the collar of his long coat and effortlessly lifts him off the ground. “If you ask me one more time, trench coat, I fucking kill you!”

  Pete is about to step to them but Tarasov stops him. Coughing and gasping for air, Snitch staggers to the counter where Tarasov offers him a sip from his vodka bottle.

  “Thanks, man,” Snitch says after taking a gulp. “That guy must have been with the Monolith. Holy God! Did you see how he lifted me?”

  “What information do you want to sell, anyway?”

  “Uh-oh!” Sensing a business opportunity, Snitch’s eyes shine up. “It’s about a renegade Spetsnaz major. The whole army is looking for him!”

  “Why?”

  “Dunno. I heard he finished off a whole Spetsnaz squad with a sawn-off shotgun.” Snitch cautiously looks around and lowers his voice. “I also heard that he paid Duty a visit and killed all of Voronin’s bodyguards. The general himself only survived because an emission came and they all had to hide!”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, man! If you put together all the men he has killed, they’d make up an army! You can imagine what the price on his head is! And I know where exactly in Limansk he’s hiding! You can sneak up to him, kill him and collect the reward at Cordon Base!”

  Tarasov bites his tongue to prevent himself from smiling bitterly.

  “Sounds too dangerous to take on a guy like that.”

  “Damn rookie,” Snitch grumbles. “Then keep on collecting snork legs for small change, you coward.”

  He retreats to a corner as far from the Top as possible.

  “Damn,” a half-drunk Stalker says at the counter, “if only someone helped me!”

  “What’s your problem?” Barkeep asks.

  “I want to find out who plays this song with the flute, and no one can tell!”

  “Sounds like Jethro Tull played ten times slower than the original,” says Pete.

  Barkeep makes a bewildered grimace. “Jethro — what? This is Gurza Dreaming by a band called Addaraya, Stalker.”

  “Really? My goodness, I was trying to find this out for ages!”

  “Why didn’t you just ask, stupid?” Shaking
his head, Barkeep pokes his temple with his index finger. “Eh, rookies…”

  “But who is Gurza?” the Stalker asks.

  “Who cares? If my customers love it, the song could be even about a gay bloodsucker’s wet dreams.”

  “I like this song too,” Tarasov says. “Kind of resonates a bleak life, with little to hold on to.”

  “Yup,” Barkeep says with a nod. “Although most of my customers are happy if they can hold on to their vodka.”

  Underlining Barkeep’s words, two drunk Stalkers start moaning at a nearby table.

  “Same thing day after day… When is this all going to end?”

  “Ravens, black ravens circling above the grave—”

  “He was a good Stalker. Let’s drink to him once more!”

  “Still alive?” Barkeep greets a shabby Stalker entering the Bar. “That’s great!”

  The Stalker stares at him, as if the song, the chatter and Barkeep’s voice would make him realize only now that he is actually alive.

  “How did I manage that?” he asks himself, probably wondering how he made it into the safety of Rostok with his Kevlar-padded jacket torn by mutants’ fangs and a bandage over his limb.

  “Did you bring me the eye of a flesh?” Barkeep asks him.

  “Mission accomplished,” the Stalker proudly says and puts a transparent plastic pouch to the counter. It appears to hold a small spherical object and is bloody inside.

  “Keep that radioactive shit away from the counter, stupid,” Barkeep says. He wets his finger with his tongue and counts a bundle of bank notes, and then gives the Stalker three hundred rubles. Seeing the disappointment on the Stalker’s face he sighs, opens a drawer and gives him two cans of processed meat and a handful of shotgun shells.

  “Why did I bother?” the disappointed Stalker grumbles as he puts his meager reward into his rucksack. “That was a bad raid… I guess it’s fate.”

  “If you gathered anything else, show me what you got.”

  The Stalker glances around, as if concerned that someone might steal the artifact he is about to show.