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

by Balazs Pataki

  Silence falls again, longer and deeper than before the Stalker had concluded telling his story. It’s Hartman who breaks the silence.

  “And that’s what you guys are still after? Some abomination that turns your deepest desires into nightmares?”

  “Everyone hopes to fare better than the man before him,” Tarasov replies. “Legends die hard.”

  “Oh, women… they’re like a shadow,” the Top says with a sceptic wave. “They always keep following us, even when we think we got rid of them—at least for a little while.”

  “You’ve spent too much time with Sawyer,” Pete says, laughing. “Do you have a woman at all?”

  Hartman laughs. “No! I jerk off lubricating my palm with gun grease and shout Semper Fi! when I cum.”

  “That coincides with with how I think of you, actually.”

  “Jesus-H-Christ, Pete! What did I do to you to think of me like that?”

  “More or less everything since we met.”

  “You are so wrong about me. Of course I have a woman, and a damn hot one too!”

  “A Hazara wife in the Alamo?”

  “Nope. They ain’t my type. Sorry about that, Nooria. No offense.”

  “None taken, Top.”

  “In the States, then?”

  “Yes and no. Why do you think I don’t want to put Katie Stone in harm’s way?”

  “Gospodi! I should’ve guessed that.”

  “Yup. Finest piece of ass ever wrapped up in combat fatigue. Makes the best macaroni with cheese in the world, too.”

  “You must be missing her very much.”

  “I do, Nooria. But imagine what would happen if I step out of the line, should she ever get hurt.”

  “An embarrassingly high body count, I guess,” Tarasov smiles. “But wait—you promised her to be assigned to Driscoll’s squad. Good God, why him?”

  “Guess I reached my breaking point. It was a compromise with the Colonel—she can come, but assigned to the squad who acts as security team. You’ve seen one of our battles and know what that means.”

  “They are the ones preventing the enemy from escaping.”

  “That’s correct. Our assault teams usually don’t take prisoners. The security team does, because the big fish among the ragheads is usually trying to escape while their foot soldiers get martyred. This is the only way the Colonel can keep Driscoll under control. If he is not restrained by strict and direct orders in battle, he might just go mad. We might be a bit crazy but we don’t want anyone to act like a madman in battle.”

  “Hey! What the hell are you talking about?” asks Varyag. “Instead of talking bullshit, tell me—did you like my story?”

  “We did,” Tarasov says and darts a glance to the Top and Pete that means hold your tongues. ”You don’t need to bother asking, Stalker. I do respect you. Your story was impressive.”

  “Thanks,” the Loner replies, apparently pleased. “Do you have any stories to tell?”

  “Heard this joke once,” Tarasov says. “A veteran Stalker is standing at a crossroads, looking at a sign: ‘if you go right, there will be anomalies and a little loot’, ‘if you go forward, there will be lots of mutants and more loot’ and ‘if you go left, there will be a shower with hot water, women, and endless loot’. He thinks for a while and then walks on, talking to himself: ‘I know about anomalies, mutants and loot but what does shower and women mean?”

  “Wow, you’re good!” Varyag says laughing. “Anything slightly newer?”

  “Konchay uzhe,” his fellow says. “Without music, no happiness.”

  He takes a battered guitar from behind his back and begins to tune it.

  “What will you play?” Varyag asks.

  “He was a good Stalker,” replies the guitar player.

  “Who?”

  “That’s the name of the song I’m going to play, novichok!”

  “Haha! Look who’s talking,” laughs Varyag. “You are a dumb rookie if you still get fooled by the same silly question, day after day…”

  61

  Red Forest, Exclusion Zone

  When the Chernobyl disaster occurred in 1986, the Wormwood Forest received the highest doses of radiation. In the worst affected areas, the pines turned red and died, causing the survivors to give the area a new name: Red Forest.

  In the post-disaster cleanup operations, a majority of the pine trees were bulldozed and buried in trenches, very much like mass graves containing the most innocent victims of this nuclear holocaust. The trenches were then covered with a thick carpet of sand and planted with pine saplings. Since then, the saplings grew into adult pines, some of them bending and twisting by mutation.

  More than one ghastly mutated pine appears on the roadside where the companions walk northwards. Once the road was a long clearing, cut into the dense forest to accommodate a long line of utility poles. They had fallen into disrepair long ago — some collapsed, others still stand with shreds of anomalous vines hanging down like curtains from the steel structures, slowly moving in the wind and resembling gigantic ghosts in the approaching twilight.

  Tarasov, always walking a few steps ahead and scanning their path for anomalies and mutants, climbs up a boulder and studies a utility pole through his binoculars. This one is still connected by electricity cables to the next one, and a ball of blue lightning travels along between the two structures, emitting a sparkling glitter against the reddening horizon. His Geiger counter ticks faster than usual.

  There is a dilapidated log hut close to the steel structure with a wrecked vehicle in front of it. The wreck has the chassis and cabin of a truck, but the superstructure of a bus is mounted to the flatbed. The mule of a vehicle might have been used to transport the workers who dug up the trenches to contain the contaminated pines, and left to its fate when it broke down three decades ago. Rust and decay has done away with most of the blue and white paint that had once covered it.

  He glances at his watch and sighs.

  “Something not okay?” the Top asks.

  “Spending the night here would not be okay. We better move on,” Tarasov says. “Time for medicine. Take an antirad, everyone. Have a sip of vodka too.”

  Before he jumps down from the boulder, Tarasov scans the road ahead once more, and then zooms in the binoculars.

  “Hold. Take cover behind this boulder. I see someone ahead.”

  The Top climbs up the boulder and joins Tarasov who has already assumed a prone position.

  “Hostiles?”

  “Hard to tell from this distance,” Tarasov says giving him the binoculars. “We’d better presume they’re not friendly.”

  “Wise precaution.”

  Looking through the binoculars again, Tarasov sees the small group getting closer. Now he can see their outfit better — the half dozen men approaching them are wearing heavy body armor with NATO-issue wood camouflage, their faces covered with modern gas masks with large, triangular eye lenses. He can recognize their weapons too — three are cradling G-36 assault rifles, one is armed with a Dragunov SVD and another fighter, apparently the leader because he is the only one wearing an exoskeleton, has a powerful LR-300-ML assault rifle with a scope and grenade launcher attached. His armor has the same camouflage like that of the other, dark red and brown patches resembling the shades of an autumn forest.

  “Here comes Freedom,” Tarasov says.

  “Is that good or bad?” the Top asks.

  “Hard to tell.”

  Although the dark forest doesn’t seem to hide any immediate danger, the Freedom squad moves with the caution of experienced soldiers.

  Tarasov reconsiders their options.

  “Freedomers would probably not open fire on Loners,” he whispers. “But this being the Red Forest and any squad patrolling it probably being over the edge, we better be careful about how we behave.”

  “I hate hiding but maybe we better just keep out of their way?”

  Tarasov is about to reply when the Freedom squad stops at the hut and assumes a d
efensive position. It seems impossible for them to have detected Tarasov or any of his companions, meaning that the squad is bracing for a different danger.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” Tarasov whispers. “Whatever makes such a heavily armed squad feel unsafe, we better avoid it too.”

  He gives a hand signal to Pete and Nooria to duck behind the boulder. Before he can take another look at the startled Freedom squad, he hears the first shot being fired. It comes from the forest and makes Tarasov wonder about who would be crazy enough to hide in ambush where only the toughest of protective armor could save one from lethal radiation.

  A deep voice makes his blood curdle. It is a battle cry, seeming all the more merciless for the monotony in it.

  “Onward, warriors of the Monolith. Avenge your fallen brothers. Blessed, as they are in their eternal union with the Monolith.”

  “A Monolith Preacher! This will be something, Top!”

  “Clusterfuck Central to those Freedom guys. Look!”

  The Top points in the direction of the dense undergrowth behind the log hut. Several ambushers appear, giving suppressive fire while more of them jump out from the bushes on the opposite side of the road, moving in to flank the hard-pressed defenders.

  The ambushed Freedomers defend themselves as best as they can. As they return fire from their cover they even have the guts to taunt the ambushers.

  “Here is a grenade for you! Yeah, one is dead!”

  “We must break out!”

  “No! Sashka’s down!”

  The deep voice sounds from the forest again, with no emotion and all the more fearful for that.

  “Bring death to those who spurn the holy power of the Monolith.”

  In reply, the ambushers shout from both sides.

  “Death to the enemies of the Monolith!”

  A desperate shout comes from behind the truck.

  “Svoboda vperyod!”

  Freedom, forward. Last time Tarasov heard this, it came from his trusty guide in the New Zone, before he died at the hand of First Lieutenant Driscoll.

  “Top! You and the Tribe must make good the death of a friend of mine! Follow me!”

  “We join the battle?”

  “Hell yes!”

  He glances at the Top and freezes, seeing that his companion is breathing like a predator smelling blood, with eyes shining in anticipation of the upcoming fight and giving Tarasov the look of a wolf pack leader ready to begin the hunt.

  It dawns on Tarasov only now that his companion is not just any veteran soldier but the second-in-command of the Colonel, a warlord commanding hundreds of men who are willing to go through hell at his mere word—and a few of them actually did beneath the City of Screams. But so did Tarasov, too, and a strange sensation creeps into his mind that he has never felt before battles in his previous life—blood thirst.

  “We have their right flank!” he yells. “Pete, watch over Nooria! Top, let’s get them!”

  “I’m gonna put that monolith up their butt!” the Top bellows back at him with a grin and jumps off the boulder.

  Running up quickly on the two opposite sides of the road, both open fire from their assault rifles. From the corner of his eye, Tarasov sees that despite the heat of battle, the Top isn’t acting reckless by far: moving crouched, he ducks and kneels to offer a target as difficult to hit as possible. What impresses him even more is the accuracy of his fire—within a few seconds, the former Marine downs two of the hostile fighters before they can reach the cover of the truck.

  Their surprise attack directs the ambushers’ attention to their right flank, allowing the pinned down Freedomers to intensify their fire.

  “A grenade’s not stupid, man!” someone shouts inside the hut. A grenade flies from the window. One Monolithian has a quick enough reaction time to leap away, evading the blast behind the truck, but also exposing himself for a moment long enough for Tarasov to take aim and pull the trigger.

  “One down,” he shouts.

  Their adversaries are not new to combat either and soon realize that they outnumber their new attackers. The Preacher barks a command and five heavily armed fanatics begin raking them with bullets.

  “Cover!” Tarasov shouts and lays prone.

  Nasty curses blend with intense rifle fire as the Freedomers scramble to break out from their position.

  “Retreat, brothers,” the Preacher bellows.

  Tarasov aims his rifle in the direction where he expects the Monolithians to retreat towards the forest, using the truck as cover between them and the counterattacking Freedomers. The Preacher’s next command surprises him as much as it frightens him.

  “Fall back behind those boulders, brothers!”

  With two of them firing their weapons backwards to keep the Freedomers at bay, the remaining half dozen Monolithians start running towards the safety of the boulders where Nooria and Pete are hiding, confident that they can run over Tarasov and the Top who have barely any cover between the dirt road and the forest. Two bullets from Tarasov’s rifle hit the Preacher but apparently fail to penetrate his armored suit.

  “Pistol time,” Hartman shouts and fires his M1911 at the Preacher. A Monolithian jumps at him, preventing Hartman from shooting at his commander from point-blank range. He dies in his place when the Top’s next shot hits him. Tarasov exchanges a few bursts with the Monolithian closing in on him. At this distance neither of them needs to aim carefully. His adversary falls but Tarasov also feels sudden heat explode in his limb. Clenching his teeth, he turns after the three Monolithians who ran through their positions and have almost reached the boulder by now.

  “Go for the Preacher, Top!” Tarasov screams and fires the last three bullets in his magazine after the Monolithian leader.

  “Changing mag!”

  Kneeling, the Top carefully aims his M1911 and fires. The head of a Monolithian jolts back, and then he falls face forward to the ground with his arms stretched out. The few seconds Tarasov need to reload his rifle are enough for the last two Monolithians to reach the boulders. His burst from the reloaded rifle hits one of them in the limb, making the hostile fighter emit a painful cry and let his weapon fall, but then he hears the Preacher’s blood-curdling yell from behind the boulders.

  “No mercy to the enemies of the Monolith!”

  Then an AK barks two short three-round bursts.

  With the Top at his side, Tarasov runs to Pete and Nooria’s cover. To his relief, he finds Nooria unharmed, with Pete standing over the Preacher’s wriggling body on the ground.

  “Enemies of the Monolith—can’t you understand the good we do to you? Die!”

  The Preacher feels with his hand for his AS VAL assault rifle lying a step away from him.

  “No. Can’t you understand you’re dead?” Tarasov says drawing his pistol. “Nooria, look elsewhere.”

  But before he can pull the trigger aiming at the Preacher’s head, Pete fires his AK47 once more.

  “I killed a man,” the youth says without emotions. “Now I’m no less than you. No better either.”

  “He was about killing us, little brother,” Nooria says.

  “Yeah… One moment he was still yelling his bullshit, trying to kill us, then I pulled the trigger and he was dead.”

  “It wasn’t the first kill in your life, son,” the Top says. “Remember that ambush?”

  “The first where I was close enough to see his face.”

  “Keep up the good job, Marine.”

  “Don’t think too much of it,” Tarasov says and gives the kid a comforting pat on the back. “Monolithian fanatics are not even remotely good guys.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Mikhailo.” Pete stares at the dead Preacher with the look of someone who just woke up from a long slumber. “I killed a man and I liked it.”

  “Slowly, you’re becoming fit for the Tribe,” the Top says with a satisfied smile.

  “What did you like about that?” Tarasov asks.

  “Myself. I liked myself over not
feeling anything.”

  Tarasov nods and gives him a smile. “That’s good to know. The Top would disagree but if you have a hang for killing, death will also have a hang for you.”

  “Oh, come on with that,” the Top says rolling his eyes. “Let’s get down to earth. We made it through and they didn’t. That’s that! On we go.”

  “Yes, we better go. It’s almost dark. Nooria, you okay?”

  “I am. But look, that man is still alive!”

  They all look at the Monolith fighter lying a few steps away. It was the fighter whom Tarasov hit after reloading his rifle. Rolled on his side and wriggling in an embryonic position, the Monolithian moans from pain.

  “Ya ranen! …”

  The Top moves to shoot him but Tarasov holds him back. Undecided about what to do with the wounded enemy, he kneels down to him. However, it is not him but Hartman the Monolithian is talking to.

  “Bratan,” he says raising an arm and pointing to the Top, “you are a brother! You are one of us! I feel it!”

  “What’s he saying, Major?”

  “Just bullshit,” Tarasov replies and looks elsewhere. Strange thoughts come to his mind.

  A Monolithian recognizing a Tribe warrior as a spiritual brother? Could it be that the Wish Granter and the evil altar beneath the City of Screams are related?

  “Seems like he is talking to me, Major. Hey, you’re looking pale!”

  Of course they are. The Colonel’s men wished for ruling the world. They got it, in the Wish Granter’s twisted way. Oh God — it’s all the same!

  “He’s… just talking in delirium.”

  “Wow, wow, wow,” a cheerful voice says. “You’ve got really bad karma, that’s for sure!”

  The Freedom commander raises a hand in greeting. Two of his men accompany him, holding their assault rifles cradled. Judging by their heavy gear, Tarasov believes them to be one of Freedom’s more elite assault teams and not the reckless guerillas this faction is infamous for.