S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (13 page)

Below, where the slope meets the tarn, he sees a cave. He takes his AKSU from his shoulder and runs down the ridge. It is much farther away than he thought. Finally, gasping for air, he reaches it just as the storm strikes, making everything disappear in a howling, suffocating cloud of dust. His Geiger counter shrieks beyond extreme values. The tiny particles drift through his helmet’s air filters and soon he feels as if a myriad of needles are picking at his throat and trachea.

Coughing and with eyes full of tears, Tarasov lights an emergency flare and enters the cave. The orange light casts intimidating shadows on the rock wall. Holding his weapon at the ready, he moves deeper into the cave to escape the radioactive dust. With each step he takes, the ticking of his Geiger counter lowers until the usual ticking cycle sets in, signaling a more survivable level. The
click-click
and the muted howl from outside is all he can hear.

The ground is covered in inches of thick dust. His steps make no noise. After a minute, he can hear his own heartbeat.

The cave widens. A thick cable lies on the ground. Tarasov raises the flare to see more. A hiss comes from the shadows. His blood curls as he sees the cable moving. In a second, it darts up and to Tarasov’s horror, he sees the flare light reflected in the glowing red eyes of a snake, its body as thick as a man’s limb. Greenish, phosphorescent patterns glow upon its skin, either to scare him away or root him to the spot with fear. He screams and stumbles. It is instinct rather than willpower that moves his finger, trigging the AKSU to pump a dozen steel core cartridges into the mutant’s flesh, puncturing skin, ripping through muscles and shattering bones even before the thundering
bang-bang-bang
can reach his eardrums.

“
Fuck!
” he swears, gasping.

Exhausted and with his heart still pounding hard, he picks up the fallen flare and sits up. The nauseating smell of burnt gunpowder pervades the cave. He opens his flask and takes a deep gulp of water. As his senses are clearing up, he can clearly smell the stench of rotting flesh.

Maybe it was a sick snake,
he thinks getting to his feet and warily kicking the carcass to make sure it’s dead. The flare burns out. He switches to torchlight. Penetrating the shadow, the tiny circle of light suddenly falls upon a badly damaged suit of armor. The stench is coming from the body parts still inside.

This… snake didn’t swallow its prey. It was eating them, bit by bit.

Normally he would not do such a thing, but now it is clear to Tarasov that normality ended in the moment when he left the Zone. Eager to see if the corpse has anything useful on it, he overcomes his nausea and steps closer to it. The prey was a Stalker – leastwise the armor looks identical to the suits worn in the Zone by the more experienced Stalkers. They called them “
Sunrise
”, for reasons beyond his understanding. However, this one has a sand-colored camouflage scheme with brown patterns and a scarf attached to cover its wearer’s head from dust. To help its wearer cope better with the new Zone’s warmer climate, a camelback water bag was integrated into the suit.

Seems well adapted to this place
,
but didn’t save this hapless fellow.

In the dim light of the torch, Tarasov’s search proves fruitful. The pouches and containers of the armor produce an AK magazine, an outdated anomaly detector, a pair of binoculars and a few anti-radiation drugs. He quickly applies one of them, hoping that it won’t make him more nauseous than he already is. Tarasov wants to stand up and move away from the corpse but keeps sitting with his back to the wall, his face buried in his hands.

Dog tired.

Encrypted digital VOP transmission.
Central Afghanistan
, 21 September 2012, 05:12:47 AFT

#Where have you been? We tried to call you several times.#

#I was hanging on my satellite phone all night, trying to talk them out of sending a rescue mission. Well, they won’t bother. Did you find the exo at the crash site?#

#Positive. But it was in very bad condition. We can’t use it.#

#That’s not my problem. It was in a perfect state when leaving Termez. What about its owner?#

#There was no body inside.#

#Strange. Any survivors?#

#One
crew member might have gotten away.#

#Shit! Are you imbeciles at least tracking him?#

#We tried to search the area around the crash site but a dust storm was approaching. It probably killed him. In any case, we deployed several drones to scan the whole map grid.#

#You better find him quick. If he gets into the tunnel, and probably that’s where he will go, you will lose him for good.#

#We know. We’ve already sent several squads to intercept the fugitive.#

#They better do. I cannot do everything by myself, do you understand? Now try to be effective for once.#

#[static noise]#

#I didn’t copy that. Anyway – go to hell, you amateurish morons. You will ruin this whole thing. Out. #

Bullets on the Pass

Salang
Pass
, 21 September 2014, 07:23:45 AFT

Returning to the crash site at dawn, Tarasov had hoped that he would find a rescue helicopter and squad of soldiers there, but as he stands next to the smoldering wreck again, his hopes vanish for good.

Good-bye, comrades… it was my fault, but I’ll redeem this mistake. Forgive me.

Tarasov salutes the wreck that is now the grave of his soldiers. Then he heads towards the south. He had ample time on the long flight to Termez to study the map and now, even with his PDA broken, he knows that the nearby road leads to a tunnel traversing the
Salang
Range
.

Although the barren, mountainous landscape looks very different to the Zone, Tarasov is unable to shake a feeling of déjà vu. Rusty, abandoned vehicles litter the road here and there, many of them the KAMAZ and ZIL trucks that sit rusting in the Zone. Occasionally, he finds the wreck of an age-old BTR-70 too, probably a relic of the Soviet war, maybe even from the same year as
Chernobyl
occurred. The potholes and cracks in the decaying tarmac, the barriers and abandoned guard posts are so much the same to him that if it wasn’t for the mountains he would believe himself to still be in the Zone. It’s all so familiar, right down to the routine of stopping and scanning the area ahead for anomalies, all accompanied by the Geiger counter’s unceasing clicking.

Sensing danger, Tarasov quickly kneels down next to an abandoned tank and goes into cover behind the T-62’s iron mass, ignoring the Geiger counter’s intensifying noise. Looking through the binoculars he sees a deer walking cautiously beside the road. Or rather, something like a deer, because this animal’s antlers are unlike anyone he has seen before – they bend and twine like a ball of thick, bony strings.

Another animal appears among the rocks, at first resembling something between a fox and a wolf. On closer inspection, however, Tarasov can see the two long, curved fangs in its snout and he realizes that it’s a mutant jackal. He’d seen a picture on Degtyarev’s computer screen, back on that day that was only three nights ago but now feels like a thousand years past.

Another jackal’s head appears, and another one, then the whole pack of a half dozen furry mutants. The deer senses their presence. It raises its head, smells the wind and runs. But the pack is already closing in for the kill. They outrun and accurately encircle the deer, as if following a master’s call or training, until the strongest performs an incredible leap and thrusts its fangs into the neck of the prey.

If he had a better rifle and ammo to waste, Tarasov would help the deer and pick off the jackals one by one. Now he can only watch as the beasts tear it apart. As sorry as he feels for the deer, he has to admit that these jackals are the best hunters he has ever seen among mutants. Watching the carnage through his binoculars, he whistles in awe - and immediately realizes that this was a big mistake.

The biggest mutant turns its head in his direction, emitting a sharp bark and leading the pack towards him at breathtaking speed. Tarasov’s blood curdles as he sees them leave the carcass of their prey almost untouched. Degtyarev’s words flash through his mind:
they kill for the joy of it
.

Seeing their speed and how far they can leap, he realizes in a split second that climbing up the tank wouldn’t help him like when facing the canine predators in the Zone. Gripping his weapon firmly, he kneels down with his back against the wreck to prevent any mutant jumping at him from behind and carefully aims at the nearest jackal. A short burst from the AKSU brings it down, then the second one. For a moment, the jackals seem to be confused, allowing him to take down another two. His aim gets more erratic and his bursts longer as they get closer and closer.

Still ten rounds inside. You are one with the rifle. Don’t think. Shoot.

Now there’s only the pack leader and one other left. A lucky shot hits the second animal in the head and the mutant whines, rolling over as it tumbles down the hillside. Tarasov turns the rifle’s
ironsight
towards the pack leader, its mouth drooling blood and saliva. He pulls the trigger. The weapon jams.

He has only moments left to watch the jackal covering the last meters. He sees the muscles of its back legs stretching as they project the heavy body in a long, deadly leap towards his face. He closes his eyes so as not to see it coming.

That was a really short raid,
he thinks.

The smell of blood is strong as the jackal lands upon him, but there is no attack. Tarasov opens his eyes to see the air fill with a pale red haze as the jackal’s head is almost ripped off by a bullet. A split second later he hears a loud
bang
that is still echoing along the valley as he throws the carcass off him and frantically changes his magazine. But when he sees a rifleman emerge from behind a rocky outcrop, he lowers the rifle. Even if need should be, he could never hit him at the distance of several hundred meters.

A long, wide cloak flutters from the stranger’s shoulders as he approaches. It’s a sniper’s ghillie suit, except this one does not resemble thick foliage but has shreds of earth-colored fabric fastened to its net. The different shades of brown make the camouflage almost indistinguishable from the rocky slope. The sniper keeps his rifle upright to show he has no hostile intentions. In reply, Tarasov raises the hand holding the AKSU. Now he can even recognize the type of rifle that had just saved his life: a Dragunov SVD. But the Stalker’s face remains hidden by a black balaclava, save for his pair of ice cold, blue eyes and mouth that arches into a grin as he walks closer.

“Impressive fight you’ve put up,” the sniper greets him. “Have a good one. Name’s Crow.”

“It jammed,” Tarasov replies, showing his rifle, his heart still beating hard from the adrenaline rush. Before he introduces himself, he thinks for a second and decides that for now it will be better if he doesn’t out himself as an army officer. Most Stalkers use call signs or nicknames, not their real ones, and having no better idea on the spot, he decides to use his usual call sign.

“I am… call me Condor,” he finally says.

“That was a big one,” the Stalker says inspecting the pack leader’s carcass. “These beasts are smart enough to let the smaller ones take the lead. The alpha only moves in to finish the kill.”