“Aw man, dog food is more valuable than this!” Barkeep says when peeking into the Stalker’s artifact container.
“Sidorovich told me just the same! But why? I found it near a Burner anomaly that almost scorched me!”
“Sidorovich is no idiot, neither am I. That’s a Droplet, cheap and common. If you want to talk business — you know the story about the fairytale about the Goldfish? Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. There are a bunch of jokes about it too. Anyway, I need that artifact. The client is from the outside, respectable. Will you help out?”
“I’m not interested in that kind of jobs.”
“It’s up to you, Stalker.”
“There is something else I want to ask you.”
“Spill the beans.”
“Have you seen Nimble around?”
“He moved his business to the Skadovsk long ago.”
“Damn! I want to buy a Desert Eagle.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s fucking awesome!”
“I will show you something fucking awesome,” Barkeep says and fishes a rusty iron bolt from his pocket. “Here’s a bolt. Still want a Desert Eagle? Yes? Throw a bolt. This will save your life, not a handgun with a recoil that kicks like a mule. Take it and don’t let the door hit you!”
When the frustrated Stalker has left, Barkeep turns to Tarasov. “You have anything to sell? Or maybe you interested in buying stuff?”
“How much cash do we have?” Tarasov asks the Top.
“We haven’t spent a dime since entering the Zone. Let me see… we still have about fifteen hundred.”
“What can we get for 12 000 hrivnyi or 46 000 rubles?”
“No need to calculate so hard,” Barkeep replies with a smile. “I accept dollars as well. Come, have a look at my stock. Garik, let them in, will you?”
“At last now I’ll see what this dude’s been guarding,” Pete says as they enter the corridor.
The door leading to the counter opens to their left, and a short glance reveals nothing particular but the usual, if a little messy, kitchen stuff: sinks packed with dirty plates and drinking glasses, a red propane gas container feeding the small stove, drawers and cupboards. The corridor leads to a spacious room where a few cabinets and a safe stand. Two tables and a sofa with relatively clean upholstering occupy much of the space inside. The room is tidy and well-maintained. Even the two neon rods fixed to the ceiling are operational, unlike in the badly lit drinking area.
“Have a seat,” Barkeep says as he opens the safe, jerking his thumb towards the sofa. “1500 dollars can get you some pretty good stuff. Matter of fact I do have a Desert Eagle in stock.”
Hartman waves his hand in disinterest. “The only thing more overrated than the Desert Eagle is Godfather Two.”
“You don’t say.”
“Bulky, heavy, difficult to maintain in the field — thanks but no thanks.”
“You got anything particular in mind, then?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. A Colt M1911 perhaps?”
“We call it Kora-919 in the Zone.” Barkeep takes the Top’s favorite pistol from his safe. “You want plain FMJ bullets or something with a bigger punch? Here, these have an improved hollow point for better expansion and a steel penetrator. A good combination of stopping power and penetration.”
“Barkeep, marry me,” the Top happily says, apparently under the influence of vodka. “I want to have children with you!”
“Give me a break. I have already three kids in the Big Land and they’re a pain in the ass. Take the Kora if it gives you a hard-on.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”
The Top lets the empty magazine slide from the grip and cocks the pistol. Satisfied with the weapon’s condition, he opens the green and white paper box with the diagonal black stripe that has Hydroshock written in it and starts loading the magazine with the rounds that have a black dot on the tip of the copper-colored projectile. “Outstanding.”
Tarasov nods. “Side arms are a good idea. Two more pistols is what we need, same type or at least same caliber.”
“Two H&K USPs perhaps? Apart from those, I have a few Makarovs, of course, then a Beretta 92—”
“Pete, check out those USPs. Then, I wouldn’t mind having something for close quarters, like an AKS-74U. You have one? Perfect! Pete, have a look at that carbine too. Finally, we could trade in that TOZ for something longer.”
“I have no SVD in stock, sorry, and don’t even ask me for a Val or Vintorez.”
“Too bad,” Tarasov sighs. “I was just about to.”
“I can sell you a PSO scope that you could mount on your AN104.”
“Does it come with the receiver?”
“No problem. Would the kid like to have an AK47?”
“With all due respect, I’d prefer an AR15, an M4 or something less antiquated,” Pete says.
“That’s the spirit,” says the Top approvingly.
“Maybe from Skinflint in the Military Warehouses, if you want to hike so far. Which would be a stupid thing to do, considering that this Kalash is in pretty good condition.”
“The muzzle break is misaligned,” Pete says inspecting the rifle. “It’s jolted to the right.”
“Jesus, Mari… Mary and Joseph,” the Top snaps at Pete. “How come you don’t know shit about the AK? It shoots 7,62mm as every child knows and has a tendency to jolt the barrel upwards and to the right. That cut-off muzzle break makes the gas exit from the barrel exactly to that direction, practically pressing the barrel to the lower left to balance out the jolt.”
“Sorry. I was a desk rat with the supply train, did I ever tell you that?”
“Things are better learnt late than never,” Tarasov says with a smile. “We’ll need two or three extra magazines for each rifle and some spare ammo, of course.”
“Here are the mags,” Barkeep says and presses the spring in each magazine to test their condition. He also takes half a dozen small paper bags from the safe. Each holds exactly as many 5,45x39mm rounds as needed to fill the magazine of an AKM or AKS-74U carbine. He keeps on rumbling inside the safe until he finds similar paper bags holding 7.62x39mm rounds for Pete’s AK-47. “What about that silent Stalker with you? He’s small, so maybe I can recommend something lighter for him? I have a serviceable MP5 in stock, or a Scorpio submachine gun—”
“I have my own weapon,” Nooria says.
Barkeep looks at her in surprise. The balaclava that Nooria is wearing hides her features but the sound of her voice of course betrays her gender.
“I should set a dress code for Stalkers coming to the 100 Rads,” Barkeep grumbles. “No balaclavas, no gas masks, no curtain helmets. Half the Stalkers always moan about not having women in the Zone without realizing that the guy next to them might actually be one. Well, what you are and who you are is none of my business, anyway… Anything else?”
“We have a few NATO standard gas mask filters.”
“This is Duty territory if you haven’t realized. No Freedomers come here.”
“Barkeep, Barkeep,” Tarasov says shaking his head. “As if you, Skinflint, Sidorovich and the other traders wouldn’t have your own little network. Come on, let a rookie bring the filters over to the Freedom base and you cut a deal with Skinflint. At least your errand boys would have something better to do than bringing you mutant body parts.”
Barkeep grins. “Now that you mention mutants — imagine, not long ago an obscure client asked me for a burer. Alive. Would you believe that? Luckily, there’s that old character by the name of Trapper at Yanov. He and his guys managed to catch one in the abandoned railway tunnel between Jupiter and Pripyat. I let the client’s purse bleed dry but his representative paid me on the nail.” Barkeep shakes his head. “Well, in the Nineties, the newly rich kept potbelly pigs, then weasels and ermines were the craze, now it’s obviously mutants from the Zone. I don’t know where the world outside is heading, really… Anyway, what you said makes sense. How many fi
lters you got?”
“Four, with two spare cartridges. With that, would it be altogether?” Tarasov asks.
Barkeep fishes a calculator from his vest pocket.
“Three handguns, an AKS-74U, a Kalash and a PSO scope, plus the mags and ammo… So, if I take that hunting rifle and the filters off your hands for, let’s say, two hundred thirty… that leaves us with 1270 dollars. You didn’t mention bandages, medikits and food rations but that goes without saying. Am I right? So, plus the small stuff, it all comes to 1400.”
The Top looks at Tarasov who shrugs in reply. “Pay him. It’s a bit more than we had expected, Barkeep, but I don’t think you’re in the mood to haggle.”
“Never.”
“You seem to make good business anyway.”
Satisfied with the deal, Barkeep shuts the safe and waves them to follow him back to the bar. Before switching off the lights he stops for a moment.
“Don’t let yourselves be fooled by the crowd tonight,” he tells Tarasov under his breath. “The 100 Rads rarely gets packed these days. Many Stalkers have left for the New Zone. The good news is, it seems that Bandits are also migrating there and that means less trouble for me and my suppliers.”
“I guess it does,” Tarasov says, at the same time being curious and concerned about where Barkeep’s story goes. “What’s your point about the Bandits?”
“Certain Stalkers join them because that’s the easiest way to get to the New Zone. I don’t know how they do it but it’s just the way it is. Many of those trying to get out with the Bandits are on the run from bad guys, like debt collectors or worse—Duty, the Army, the SBU… who knows? There’s a lot of hunters out there.”
Tarasov suddenly he feels the same iciness in his guts like he did in the moments when it dawned on him that Shumenko is about to betray him.
“Sometimes my own and the bad guys’ interest is the same,” Barkeep continues, “but not today. If the bullets I’ve just sold you eventually end up in a few Bandits’ cold bodies, no matter if here or in the New Zone—my interest will stay the same tomorrow.”
“If so, there’s no reason to change that even on the day after tomorrow,” Tarasov replies.
“Molodets,” Barkeep says with a shrewd smile. “Enjoy your stay at the 100 Rads!”
He turns off the lights and ushers the travelers back to the bar.
“Are you going to eat that?” Nooria asks as they pass by the kitchen where the aroma emanating from the smoldering boar head assails their nostrils.
For a moment, Barkeep appears perplexed but then he gives a bellowing laugh.
“What? The boar? Oh for God’s sake, how could you even think of that? I heat it to collect the fat when it starts running.” Barkeep is still smiling as he takes the promised first aid kits, bandages and a few plastic trays with army rations from below the counter. ”Boars have a high resistance to radiation and their fat makes an excellent coating for protective suits.”
“Amazing,” Nooria says with eager interest. “Do you know more such recipes?”
“I know a few, but they are my trade secrets,” Barkeep says.
Nooria is disappointed. “Oh. Pity. I could have also shared some of my own recipes.”
“You? Come on, you look like greenness incarnate to me. No offense, but have you ever seen an artifact from close?”
“Yes. I use pestle and mortar to make artifacts smaller or turn into powder, and apply it to weapons, wounds, armor… like that,” Nooria shrugs and giggles. “I have a knife that can cut an artifact in two.”
“Don’t waste your breath, Nooria,” Tarasov says packing their purchase into his rucksack. “Barkeep won’t believe it.”
“If I have an artifact that would be good for health but is radiating, and another which is good against radiation, I take a small part of health artifact, add a piece of radiation artifact, and put them together in a nice casing. So I will have an amulet that will make one healthy but doesn’t emit radiation.”
“Your mate was right. I’d sooner believe the Wish Granter’s legend than that!”
Barkeep’s laughter is not meant to be mocking, though it is clear that he didn’t believe a word. Nooria hides her smile under her hood. She is still smiling when she climbs up the stairs and joins her companions on their search for a safe spot to spend the night, hidden from the Duty patrols that stroll along the brick buildings and walls of concrete slabs.
Tarasov leads them into a factory hall nearby. The roof has huge holes but where it is still intact, two Loners have already made themselves comfortable at a campfire.
“Do you mind if we join you?” he asks them.
“Not at all, if you have something to trade,” a Loner replies. His companion laughs.
“They don’t look like they need that jamming MP5 you’ve been trying to sell all day, Varyag!”
“We’ve had enough of trading for today,” Tarasov says. “But we can share some food with you. You look hungry, bratanki.”
Without asking, Nooria takes a few rations from Tarasov’s rucksack and offers them around. Then she takes her blanket and cuddles close to Tarasov.
“Spasiba,” the Stalker referred to as Varyag says as he takes a can of meat from Nooria. “What’s the price?”
Tarasov takes a closer look at Varyag who appears to be the more experienced of the two Loners. He is wearing the standard Stalker suit, but patches here and there tell of gunfights survived and his Vintorez of dangerous enemies overcome — or at least enough money made on perilous missions to afford such an expensive weapon.
“A good story would do,” Tarasov says. “My friends are from, erh, England and don’t speak much Russian but I will translate.”
“Don’t worry, I speak English! I am from Sweden myself.”
“That’s why they call you Varyag then? Like those Norse warriors in Russian history?”
“Exactly,” the Swede says proudly.
The Top, who was stretching his arms and back with sighs of satisfaction while they were speaking, notices the other Stalker eyeing Nooria.
“I think these guys haven’t seen too many Stalkers cuddling at a campfire,” he whispers to Tarasov.
“So what? If any of them have any objection to my woman’s presence in the Zone, I’ll just shoot them.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Hartman nods and bites into a slice of bread. Tarasov turns back to Varyag.
“So, what about that story?”
“You guys ever heard the story about the Crystal Shard? No? You know, it’s supposed to be a splinter of the Wish Granter itself. A unique artifact if there ever was one. So, there were this group of Loners when the Zone was just being explored. Three guys who had been the best of friends since they started out from the Rookie Village to explore the Zone. They were a merry bunch, except for one who was heartbroken ever since his girlfriend died in a car crash.”
“The Zone,” Tarasov says staring into the fire. “Adventure for some, riches for others, and a chance to escape the past for the unlucky ones.”
“Don’t get poetic on me, bro! It’s my story, OK?” Varyag says. “Yeah, of course she was beautiful and sweet and her name was…”
“Natasha, of course,” the other Loner says who obviously heard the story before.
“Shut up, big mouth! Anyway, one day when they were exploring an old building somewhere in the Wild Territories after a Duty patrol chased the bandits away. The commander of the Duty squad had ordered his men not to enter, he said the building gave him the creeps and he was a man who trusted his gut feelings.”
“A rare specimen,” Tarasov says smiling.
“Yeah, kind of,” Varyag says with a grin and looks around for any Dutyer who could have overheard them. Seeing none around, he continues. “But our friends were not of the superstitious kind, so they entered the complex. At first everything seemed just great — small artifacts everywhere, only minor doses of radiation. That was until they saw what looked like a faint blue light. And, like most of us
would, they immediately thought they had found the mother of all artifacts.”
Varyag fishes a bottle from his rucksack and takes a swig of vodka before he continues. “Once they entered, they found an artifact that didn’t look like anything they had seen before. It looked more like the kind of crystals you see in sci-fi flicks. There was something weird about it and they couldn’t make up their mind as to what to do about it. Eventually, the bravest decided to pick it up while the rest were guarding the door.”
“Pass me that bottle, Varyag, will you?” the other Loner says.
“Only if you stop interrupting me. So, they got horrified when they heard him suddenly scream Natasha! before falling to his knees. When one of them ran up to see what was wrong, he just stood up and picked up his PKM and started firing all over the room, screaming her name.”
“A man with his woman’s name for a battle cry,” Nooria whispers. “Beautiful.”
“He then charged through the door and ran out of the building still screaming and firing his machine gun while holding the crystal in the other hand. The others tried to run after him but were pinned down by his fire. Once he ran out of bullets he just charged away, never to be found again.”
Varyag falls silent.
“That’s the end?” Tarasov asks.
“No. My throat is dry and I’m out of vodka. I need to lubricate my tongue, if you follow my meaning.”
Tarasov offers him his own. After a long gulp, Varyag wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and continues.
“His friends were shocked by everything that had happened and returned to the Bar. But since they were friends, they decided to go back for him. Eventually they found him in the basement, sitting in a corner with a gun in one hand and the crystal artifact they had found earlier in the other one. His machine gun lay on the ground — he used his Makarov to blow his brains out. As the Stalkers looked at the mess, they heard a scream in the distance — Natasha!”
For a moment, the crackling of the fire is the only noise to be heard. Then, far away beyond the decaying walls, a mutant howls.
“Some people say the artifact was a piece of the Wish Granter,” Varyag continues, “or some deranged version of it that shows your worst fear over and over again. He wanted to see his beloved again, and his wish was granted — just not in a way he had imagined.”
S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Northern Passage s-2 Page 43