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

by Balazs Pataki

  “The road’s damn dangerous with all those trench coats out for a stroll, you know?”

  “Let them be my problem.” Tarasov looks at Nooria and then Hartman. “So, now comes the Bandit part if none of you has a better idea.”

  “It’s your call,” the Top says. “Rest assured, my boots are itching to give your butt a good kick for making me join a bunch of—”

  “It was my choice,” Nooria says. She dons her black balaclava and pulls her hood over her head.

  “Then what are we waiting for?”

  “Just one word before we leave,” Tarasov says. “Bandits are a tough bunch and their leaders are the toughest. Top, I know you’re a big shot with the Tribe but I want you to stay out of trouble. Let me do all the talking. Don’t provoke these guys.”

  “What if they provoke me?”

  “Don’t let them. Remember: our way out depends on the Bandits. Last but not least, Nooria already has her Bandit call sign — Margarita,” Tarasov says with a smirk. “Please remember — all of you — that my real name must not be mentioned. I am Misha… uhm… Chekh, if any name must be given.”

  “You mean, Czech? Like the car we rented?”

  “No, Top. Not Czech but Chekh for Chechens. Russians hate them. If they think I’m Chechen, they won’t bother talking to me.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this,” Pete says.

  “We all do. So, are we set?” Tarasov looks at his companions. They all nod. “Let’s go.”

  Following the road downhill toward the Bandit base, they pass by a wrecked passenger car and a blue-white bus similar to the one that stood close to the log hut where they spent the last fateful night. Scrub grows from the cracks of the dilapidated tarmac. As they approach the warehouse, more and more Bandits appear behind the barbed wire fencing it.

  “Holster your weapons,” Tarasov says when he sees the Bandits guarding the entrance. One of them walks up to them, keeping his MP5 submachine gun ready to shoot.

  “Nu shot vam nada, tipa?”

  “Moi druzya ne ponyat shot ti govorish,” Tarasov says. “Po angliskom govorish?”

  “Whatcha want?” the guard asks in very bad English. “Too much loot on yer back, pindosi?”

  “We need to see your boss,” Tarasov replies.

  “Fuck no yer don’t, ya mongrel! Get yer ass up and hit da road! Or maybe yer want to shoot me in yer ass to get ya goin’?”

  “I have business with Jack,” Nooria says.

  “Whaddaya want from him? ”

  “Say hello to my little friend,” Nooria says looking him in the eye.

  “Oh,” the guard says with a bow of his head that could be intended as a sign of respect. “All right! Get in but don’t stay too long. Ya find ’im in the garage behind da containers.”

  “We stay as long as I want,” Nooria confidently says. Before she can move on, Tarasov steps to the guard.

  “These two need safe passage to Yanov,” he quietly says and jerks his thumb backward where Nika and the Monolithian stand. Hearing his words, Hartman too steps forward and fiddles his shouldered assault rifle. “They bring good news to a friend of ours who might get very angry if he doesn’t receive it.”

  “Safe passage costs money, ya know?”

  “How tall are you, tipa?”

  “Whaddafuck ya meanin’?”

  “You know, my friend happens to be a damn good sniper and it seems you offer a pretty good target here. I guess one meter seventy, maybe seventy five make a big difference for the location of your brain matter — inside that undersized skull of yours or being splattered on the ground. You follow my meaning, tipa?”

  “Wanna be threatenin’ me?”

  “I’m making a business proposal, you dumbass. You give these two free passage to Yanov and keep your brains where it is or…”

  “Okay, okay, I got it,” the Bandit says taking the walkie-talkie fastened to his belt. “Hey men, it’s Vadia Hunchback ’ere. A guy in Freedom suit is goin’ yer way with a Monolith zombie in tow. Let’em pass, will ya?”

  “Temka Bum here. Who says?”

  “I says, Temka. Touch’em and Jack’s gonna assign ya for guard duty da next days. Got it?”

  “Freedomer with Monolith. Good, I’ll let’em pass if they behave.”

  “Ya better do!”

  Tarasov nods. “Good boy. I’ll let my friend to know that you were promised free passage. Vadia Hunchback was the name, right?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Now better go!”

  “And my friends better arrive safely at Yanov,” Tarasov replies, directing his words rather to Nika than the Bandit. “Nika, send a message to Strider and don’t forget to mention who we made the deal with.”

  “We part ways then?” the Freedomer asks.

  “Good hunting, Stalker.”

  Tarasov watches Dima and the Monolithian walking toward the railway tracks leading northward to Yanov Station, hoping that they won’t run into anything that their assault rifles can’t handle. He darts a grin to Vadia Hunchback as he enters the perimeter, thinking that if the Bandit is still alive by the evening, it will be a good enough proof of Dima having delivered the captive Monolithian to Strider.

  A veritable maze of cargo railway containers covers the open space in front of two abandoned warehouse buildings. As the companions make their way through the narrow confines between the containers, it is easy for them to make out how the Bandit food chain goes: rookies squat on boards and mattresses lying around campfires; the more prominent occupy the open containers where they are much better protected against cold and rain; finally, closest to the garage where the Bandit commander resides and well-protected against the weather by a roof spanning over several containers, the apparently most respected dwell. Even if their hovels don’t indicate their position, their attire does: the small groups of lesser mortals gathered around the campfires are dominated by reinforced leather jackets and track worn by Stalkers new to the Zone, no matter if Loners or Bandits, and they hold their pathetic shotguns and Makarov pistols as if they were unique, artifact-enhanced weapons. Here and there, a Stalker in black Duty and forest-camuflaged Freedom suit also appears; though deserter turned bandits or not, they apparently seem keen to avoid mixing with those from the hostile faction.

  All of them have one thing in common: a Bandit arm patch with a white skull on black backround. Tarasov observes a Stalker cutting the Duty patch off his black armor and replacing the stylized red shield with golden reticule with the Bandit’s skull patch.

  “Pete, you were wrong about us being overqualified for the Bandit job,” Tarasov remarks. “Desertion seems to be an entry-level crime here.”

  The Bandits who are respected enough to settle in the containers ignore their lesser brethren as they tend to usual camp tasks—cleaning their Kalashnikovs, drum-barreled Protecta shotguns and a few Dragunov SVDs, all apparently prized possessions. The long trench coats and Russian army surplus body armor betray them as more experienced Bandits and Mercenaries. The big shots under the roof have their expensive NATO rifles standing against the container walls, probably feeling safe at the core of the camp and sure that no lesser mortal would make them reach for their G-36 and LR-300 rifles. Heavy armored suits dominate here, among them a few exoskeletons with helmets off to facilitate any Stalker’s favorite pastime—drinking vodka and munching on canned meat, exactly what most of them are doing. A few veterans are standing atop the containers, keeping watch over the perimeter. One of them, wearing an army-issue exoskeleton with a Bandit’s arm patch, gives Tarasov a long and inquisitive look. A Vintorez rifle is slung across his shoulder.

  “See that exo guy?” he asks the Top without looking in the Bandit’s direction. He touches the balaclava to reassure himself that it covers his face, leaving only eyes and mouth visible. “I don’t like his face.”

  “His face?” Hartman asks back. ”I don’t follow. He’s wearing a gas mask and tactical helmet.”

  “Manner of speaking… what I said comes closet
to what I feel about him.”

  “Why?” Nooria asks, boldly returning the Bandit’s gaze.

  “Don’t know. Maybe because he’s the only one paying any attention to us… Never mind. Just a gut feeling.”

  “I’m telling you, it’s him who’s gonna feel something in his guts if he keeps staring at us like that.”

  “Calm down, Top. Let’s not appear nervous.”

  “Yeah, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” Pete says giving the Bandit camp a distrustful look.

  When the companions are about to enter the garage, two heavily armed men in the Mercenaries’ urban camo suits block their way.

  “Shto vam, patsani?”

  “She’s here to see Jack,” Tarasov replies to the guard’s question. “Her name is Margarita. We are her, uhm, bodyguards.”

  “You may enter,” the guard says. “No funny movements inside, huh?”

  “Understood.”

  “Jack’s in his office behind the garage.”

  The smell of engine oil lingers inside. Rusted and lacking wheels, a derelict truck stands over a maintenance shaft. Another Mercenary guard watches over the gloomy interior from a catwalk. Among crates, piles of decrepit car parts and fuel drums, a door leads into a shabby room that might have once been an office.

  The Bandit commander is sitting with his feet on the table, cleaning his Armsel Protecta shotgun with an oilcloth and wearing the obligatory leather trench coat. A pair of shrewd eyes measure them up through his balaclava’s eye holes. The rest of his features remain hidden. On another chair close by, a short but brawny Bandit with a thick black beard appears to doze off the effects of the vodka bottle lying on the floor next to him.

  “Ahh! Fresh meat,” Jack says for a greeting.

  “I am Margarita,” Nooria says.

  “Margarita!” the Bandit leader says barely looking at her. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  “Did he just ask, ‘to what do I owe dishonor?’” the Top says under his breath.

  “Glad to see you keep your word,” Jack says, apparently oblivious to Hartman’s whisper.

  “And I am glad to hear you speak English.”

  “Of course I do. ‘Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!’ ‘Make a wish, it’ll be your last!’ I love fucking cheese at my feet!’ You see, I know a lot of English!”

  Pete can barely suppress a chuckle.

  “Did you find any tracks of the troublemaker, Margarita?” Jack asks.

  “No. I must go to New Zone.”

  “We all will soon enough. However, Sultan didn’t say anything about you bringing people with you,” Jack says darting an eye at Nooria’s companions. “We’ve no need for a basketball team anyway. Who are they?”

  “My bodyguards.”

  “That may be so, but they need to confess their sins to Friar.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tarasov angrily asks.

  “Back with the fangs, big boy, or I’ll throw you to the next blind dog pack to eat,” Jack snarls back. “We don’t need any goody-two-shoes but people who can keep from being shot or robbed. That means, anyone wanting to join the new hordes must be good at shooting and robbing others. I know from the boss that she’s cool, but the others need to convince Friar why we should take them aboard. I’ll have a chat with you until then.”

  “When she said ‘bodyguards’ she meant it, patsan. We’re not going anywhere without her.”

  “Shut up and move your asses to Friar in the warehouse building. Now!”

  Hearing the agitation in Jack’s voice, two Bandits appear from the repair hall and point their rifles at the three men. Jack repeats his demand. “Go!”

  Reluctant and grinding their teeth, Tarasov, Hartman and Pete let themselves be led away.

  “I am Sultan’s friend,” Nooria says.

  “Of course you are. I respect that. Think I’d want to hurt you?” Jack asks and gives a bellowing laugh. “Until you do what you were told to, that is!”

  No matter how she feels about the kingpin, Nooria mentally admits that compared to Sultan, Jack is barely more than hot air. He appears to lack Sultan’s subtle way of appearing menacing without threatening, and inspiring respect without demanding it.

  “How will we get to New Zone?” she asks.

  “Don’t be so impatient. Tell me first about your buddies. There’s something I like about the small one but where did you find the two big guys? In a basketball team?”

  “One is from America. Other is Chechen.”

  “He’s rather tall for a darkie,” Jack observes. “Did he teach you how to use your knife? I hear you’re very good at it.”

  “No.”

  “Keep it to yourself, fine,” Jack shrugs. “ You know the New Zone well?”

  “Parts of it.”

  “How do you want to find your target?”

  “I will decide once there.”

  “Fair enough. You have kept your word up so far, and you better do so once off our radar. You don’t want to disappoint Sultan—and me.” Jack gives her a long look. “I actually don’t mind if you’ve your buddies watching your back. See, my guys are good fellas but they haven’t seen a woman in a while — if you get my meaning.”

  “I understand.”

  “There’s also a few Chechens among us. Why do you look surprised? Darkies love trouble like flies love shit, and we’re up to make a lot of trouble in the south. They will probably approach your buddy to team up, like those damned savages do wherever they are. But I won’t tolerate any of their obshina bullshit. If we want to trouble Stalkers there’s no need to quarrel amongst us.”

  “I will tell him to stay away from those men.”

  “Excellent. Of course, all this was said presuming that they gonna pass Friar’s little test. If they don’t, you’ll need to part ways.”

  “What’s that test?”

  “Told you already. Each of them has to prove to have what it takes to be a friend of ours.”

  63

  Friar’s den in the Container Warehouse, Exclusion Zone

  “A sinner is born every minute, and ye’re just on time!”

  The apparently insane Bandit’s voice echoes in the dark, all but empty room he occupies in the warehouse. His thick Russian accent adds to the oddness about him. The only features around are a mattress in one of the corners and a makeshift altar, made up from a crate on which two burning church candles stand with a skull in a gasmask in between. Two Kalashnikovs lie crossed under the skull like a pirate flag. The moldering walls bear graffiti quotes, barely readable in the darkness.

  Some rise by sin and some by virtue fall.

  There is no sin except stupidity.

  We are each our own devil and we make this world our hell.

  He who turns the other cheek is a cowardly dog.

  Nothing is evil which is according to nature.

  “I am Friar, knower of yer deepest thoughts! I, and only I will decide if ye’re worthy to join us! On yer knees, all of ya!”

  Tarasov sees Hartman’s face blush with anger. He can only imagine how humiliating this bizarre ritual must be for Sergeant Major Hartman of the Tribe. Hoping that his companion has enough self-discipline to manage his anger, he too kneels down on the dirty stone floor in front of the skinny Bandit whose restless eyes and exaggerated antics tell of madness, or at least that’s how Friar appears to him.

  “And now—I wanna hear yer confession, sinners!” Friar continues. “Let’s start with ya, kid! What can ya tell me dat would make me accept ya to da most glorious faction of da Zone?”

  “Uhm… what am I supposed to say?”

  “Imagine, I am God and know all your sins but will forgive only one! What would that be?”

  “Huh… I wouldn’t know where to begin.”

  “Don’t test my patience, sinner!”

  “Well… a little shoplifting, did a car or two—”

  Friar grins. “Not bad enough, kiddo! I did all dat when I was still in kinderg
arten!”

  Pete sighs. “My real sin?”

  Friar emits a hysterical laugh. “Only tellin’ me your deadliest sin can save yer life. If ye fail to confess, da Zone will claim your life!”

  “So—one thing I will burn in hell for is Nelly, my girlfriend. I—I wasn’t myself at that time. I gave her an overdose of heroin and spent the next days with her corpse, convincing myself that I helped her into a better world. Yes, for this the Devil will take my soul, no matter what I do!”

  Friar takes a step back and nods, appearing satisfied. “Despicable enough.”

  “I know,” Pete whispers.

  “Ye’re next,” Friar tells Tarasov. “Confess!”

  Kneeling like his two companions, Tarasov stares at the altar, the quotes on the wall, Friar’s insane eyes. To his own surprise, he feels calm inside—almost relieved. The Bandit ritual might be mocking everything a decent man would hold holy but even so, it is as good an opportunity as any other to ease his mental burden.

  “I am a killer,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t know how many men I’ve killed. I quit counting at forty-three. All men who trusted and relied on me.”

  “Dat sounds exciting!” Friar hisses.

  “Must be over a hundred now. Men I was leading and supposed to keep alive. They died by the claws of mutants, hostile fire, anomalies. But some by my own bullets. Some by my own recklessness. I was an army officer, bound by my duty to keep those men alive. Every death is my failure as a leader. I consider it that and nothing can me convince otherwise. No excuses like fate, bad luck, the Zone’s will. No. Their shadows keep following me. My biggest fear is to turn around one day and face them. I was told once, if you put together all the men I have killed, they’d make up an army. If I think of them it’s true. And probably more will come. That’s my sin, and I am punished for it by being alive.”

  “Disgraceful enough.”

  “It is,” Tarasov says bowing his head.

  The crazy Bandit now turns to Hartman. “Whatta ‘bout ya?”

  “I am a deserter too, like the man next to me,” Hartman slowly replies.