S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (28 page)

“Uncle Yar! A customer is here!”

“Leave me alone! Life is bad enough.”

“I just need you for a minute!”

“I don’t care what you broke this time. Go away.”

“I didn’t break anything. But I need to talk to you.”

“Damned rookies. You can’t leave an old man alone…”

The wooden plate covering the helicopter’s hatch swings open and a graying head appears. The wrinkled eyes look tired.

“Oh, it’s you… sorry. I thought it’s just another lad wanting an upgrade for his shotgun… come inside.”

“Good to see you, Mr. Fix-It,” Tarasov says, stepping inside.

Empty vodka bottles litter the chopper’s interior where a single petroleum lamp provides the only light. All kinds of tools and weapon parts lie around the floor. A work bench occupies the place where the cockpit once was although, judging by the dust on it, the technician hasn’t done any work at it for a long time. “How’s life, Uncle Yar?”

“Don’t even ask. How should it be in this fly-infested
bydlostan?
Now tell me what you want.”

“I have a Vintorez to upgrade.”

Yar rolls his eyes in frustration. “I knew it… sorry, but I’m not doing any weapon upgrades right now.”

“How come? I heard you’re missing your apprentice but a Vintorez is not something you couldn’t deal with on your own.”

Yar sits down on his mattress and picks up a vodka bottle from the metal floor. Seeing it empty, he angrily throws it down again. “It all started back in the
Dark
Valley
… I always worked alone. Then, one day, a young Stalker comes. Says he wants to learn the trade. I tell him, business is slow and I have no money to pay him. No problem, he says, pay me by upgrading my FN-
2000.”

“That’s a pretty hardcore weapon for a rookie.”

“Yes, but I didn’t ask him where he got it from. It’s none of my business. But you know how it goes… I had a look at it and first changed the scope. Then I disassembled the trigger mechanism just to admire its precision. It was such a pleasure after all the busted AKs that the Stalkers keep bringing to me. I installed a titanium trigger, a synthetic bolt seal and another return spring to reduce the recoil. Then I adjusted the spring trajectory to lower the sway and duplicated the guiding rods… anyway, one thing led to the other and in the morning I had an already great weapon turned into something awesome.”

“Let me guess… then the Stalker got hold of your masterpiece and disappeared.”

“Well, not exactly… we arrived here together. Mac was a good kid, helping me out with things like test firing the weapons… my eyes are not as good as they used to be, you know? All went fine until one morning he said he’d grown bored of Bagram and wanted adventure. Then he disappeared into the wilderness to hunt artifacts and didn’t return.”

“That’s tragic and all, but what about this Vintorez?”

Yar doesn’t even look at the weapon. “That outdated scope could use thermal imaging and adding a roll back moderator with a stop drive could make it even more precise… but you know what? I’m done with weapons and all that shit. I even sold my own Dragunov to a Stalker. You know what? I have a little money saved up and will use it to go home.”

“But…”

“No ‘but’ and no pneumatic compensator on your rifle’s butt. Even if I was willing, it would cost you a fortune.”

“You’d let your business be ruined just because your apprentice ran away?”

Uncle Yar buries his face in his hands.

“You don’t get it, do you? For a decade I repaired and upgraded weapons here and in the old Zone. And as soon as all the rookies got improved rifles in their hands they thought themselves capable of storming your base, Major – the damned CNPP too, come to that – and usually died in the attempt. It was like selling drugs. This time, here was this kid and I told myself, ‘I’ll teach him the trade to keep him away from all that faction war, artifact hunting, mutant-shooting nonsense’. I failed. Damn it, he was so young, he couldn’t have purchased vodka at Ashot’s if he got asked for his ID card!”

 
“As you said just now, life is bad enough,” Tarasov says. “Anyway, I need that upgrade and repairs on my soldiers’ gear too. I still have a few men left despite burying two of them who died to protect this place, you know? Their graves could also use an upgrade.”

“All right, all right, here’s the deal: you help me out and I help you out. Get that foolish kid back to me and safety. In exchange, you’ll get the upgrades and repairs. I might even give my unique Gluck to you – just find him.”

“Upgrades and repairs for free, if I get him back alive.”

“I can’t believe I’m haggling over this.”

“No need for belief when it comes to facts. Any idea where Mac went?”

“If he was chasing those artifacts he was after, try the old textile factory to the north-west. Let me see your PDA… here. Squirrel can lead you there. He knows all the shortcuts through the Shamali Plains.”

“We have a deal then.”

Tarasov is about to climb out though the hatch when he remembers something else. He pulls out the mobile phone he had found in the ambushed patrol car and hands it to Yar.

“Look, Uncle… while I’m gone, could you check if there’s any data left in this?”

The mechanic frowns as he studies the device. “Where did you find this piece of crap?”

“In a wreck to the north. I’m just curious about it.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Yar replies with a shrug.

“Thanks. But by the way… what about adding the thermal imaging enhancement as advance payment?”

“Poidi proch, Stalker!”

“I’m leaving, I’m leaving… see you soon, Uncle Yar!”

21:10:39 AFT

The sun sets slowly over the mountains. To get rid of the stiffness that two days of idleness has left in his limbs, Tarasov strolls down to the base and watches the Stalkers lighting up the campfires for the night. He spots Zlenko at one of the lookout posts on the container wall.

Climbing up the ladder, he joins the sergeant who is busily discussing something with two Stalkers. Seeing him approaching, Zlenko salutes.

“Sir!”

“As you were,” Tarasov casually replies and sits down on the sandbags. “What are you doing here? Did Ashot run out of vodka?”

The sergeant shrugs. “I’ve heard the troopers’ jokes more than once before. And all that marijuana smell… it’s nauseating.”

“You’re not into that stuff? That’s good.”

“I’ve played in a rock band. Enough is enough,” Zlenko says, smiling. “Anyway, these Stalkers were debating whether the M-16 or the AK-47 was the better weapon. I argued for the Kalashnikov. What’s your opinion, Major?”

“Well… my opinion is that the brothers will be discussing this for a long while. Come along Viktor, I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.”

Walking away from the lookout, Zlenko takes a pack of cigarettes from his vest and offers one to Tarasov who, looking over to the dark mountains and the glowing red anomaly in the far forest beyond the sandy plain where the wind swirls up small clouds of dust, and listening to a Stalker tuning his guitar, he feels in the mood to smoke.

“Thanks… and now, tell me about this mess with the dead guard and that Loner.”

Zlenko exhales the smoke before starting. “That’s a strange story –” he begins, then breaks off as the Stalker finishes tuning up and begins to sing.

“I happened to be walking around

And I hurt two people by chance,

They took me to militia grounds

Where I saw her and broke down at once.”

“Oh no, please no,” Zlenko moans, burying his face into his hands. “It’s Ilchenko’s favorite song.”

“I knew not what on earth she was doing there,

She was probably getting a pass.

She was beautiful, lovely and fair...

I decided to search out the lass.

I just followed her, walking behind her,

She wouldn’t talk to a bully, I thought.

Then I made up my mind to invite her

To the nearest restaurant. Why not?”

Tarasov grins at the sergeant. “Hey Viktor! If a Vysotsky song makes you cry, I’ll get you demoted!”

“
Klass
,” a Stalker shouts as the song finishes. “Hey soldier boys, want some vodka? We can trade you some! One bottle for a medal!”
 
The Stalkers laugh.

“Do you mind if I teach them some manners?” Zlenko asks Tarasov. “I mean, with a guitar.”

“Permission absolutely granted.”

The sergeant joins the Stalkers at the campfire. “Hey, big mouth! Give me that sad excuse of a guitar,” Zlenko demands, sitting down at the campfire. The Stalker hands the instrument over and Zlenko plucks the strings experimentally before starting to play. His fingers, chafed and dirty from gun grease, move on the strings with astonishing grace. Then he starts singing: