S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (4 page)

“Turn off the headlights,” he orders. The anomalies glow strong enough to illuminate their surroundings. On the far end of the tunnel, an emergency light shows the direction. Tarasov can only hope that if there are any enemies here, they will make a clear silhouette against the dim beam of light.

“Stick to the wall. Skirt the anomalies,” he whispers to Chumak.

He looks down for a second as the technician stumbles over a fallen pipe. Immediately, he feels a steel fist hitting his chest. Then he hears the rifle shot. He wobbles to the wall, his hand instinctively touching the spot where he was hit. Shumenko fires a long burst with Kolesnik’s rifle joining in.

“Shit,” somebody shouts, “he came out of nowhere!”

“Major, are you hit?”

“I’m… fine, Lieutenant,” Tarasov replies as he stands up with a groan. He is glad that the visor of his tactical helmet hides the pain on his face. His heavy armor caught the bullet, but the impact was strong like the hit of a hammer. His chest is left bruised and sore.
Thank God for my SKAT suit.

 
“Let’s keep moving!”

They pass by a lonely petroleum lamp. Their shooter must have been guarding the exit of the tunnel, which leads into the big research hall. As they enter it, they see huge metal containers behind a dilapidated iron fence and more pipelines disappearing into nowhere through holes in the concrete walls. Another red emergency lamp casts its maddening light. Through cracks and holes, air moves with a deep howl.

They have to cross the wide shadow of a concrete pillar. Tarasov reaches to his helmet to switch on his headlight. The shrieking noise of the revolving red light hurts his ears like a dentist’s drill but what makes his blood curl is a howling roar from the darkness.

“Headlamps on,” he commands, “fire forward, fire all you have!”

He tosses the technician to the ground and throws himself down too, biting his tongue, ignoring the sharp pain and frantically firing towards the pair of glowing eyes that are reflecting the light of their headlamps and getting closer at inhuman speed. The howl turns into a beastly rattle, regardless of the fire directed at its source from the three assault rifles. The major runs out of ammo but as he desperately reaches for a spare magazine the rattle ceases and, with a loud hump, something heavy falls to the ground just a meter away from him.

“That was a close shave,” he hears the lieutenant’s voice.

Tarasov gets back to his feet. A humanoid figure lies in the light circle ahead of him. It has longer arms and legs than humans, but the biggest visible difference is the bunch of tentacles, still squirming like snakes, that end at the blood-smeared hole on its head where the mouth should be. Shumenko steps closer and empties the rest of his ammunition into the dead mutant’s head before replacing the magazine.

“Wh-what was that?” Chumak’s whole body is shaking.

“A bloodsucker,” Tarasov replies reloading his rifle, “and a male one, judged by what’s left of it… the female is probably waiting for him to come home with fresh meat. Usually they stick together, so let’s keep our eyes open…”

“I… I refuse to go on… I just can’t,” the technician stammers. He is close to crying. “I want to get out of here!”

“Pull yourself together, Chumak,” Tarasov says and offers him his hand. “Get up or become bloodsucker food!”

“No!”

The major glances at the two sergeants. They cross to the whining technician and pull him up to his feet. Without any emotions on his face, Tarasov points his rifle at Chumak’s head.

“Let’s go,” he says, but the technician only shakes his head in fear.

“All right, we’ll take your gear and leave you.” Tarasov lowers his weapon and aims now at Chumak’s legs. “But first I’ll shoot you in the knee. Mama bloodsucker will be pissed off when papa doesn’t return and they can smell blood from far away.”

Chumak looks at Ivanchuk, who nods in approval, and reluctantly gets his backpack.

Without saying any more, Tarasov moves on with the squad falling in. He is nervous about every dark corner but no other mutants come into sight.
Or maybe it is us not being in the mutants’ sight
.

Soon, a corridor branches off to the left. Tarasov has been there before: it is one of the long tunnels running between the two Agroprom facilities. They have to turn right, but would be exposed on their left flank. If they threw a grenade to clear the way, anyone waiting for them in ambush would know of their approach. He signals the men to stop, peeks out to the left, and gives a sign to Ivanchuk to proceed. As he turns to the right, he sees the stationary beam of a headlight. The mercenary hasn’t seen them yet. Tarasov aims carefully. His shots hit his target’s body armor but have no killing effect. By the time he can fire another shot, the mercenary disappears.

“Dammit,” he swears as he hears barking commands ahead. “Kolesnik, drop a frag! Twenty meters ahead!”

The grenade falls a little short but hits the mercenary just at the moment when he is reckless enough to peer out from his cover.

Weapon fixed on the door in case more enemies emerge, Tarasov rushes forward. A silhouette appears in the visor, the head right behind the scope’s red dot. He fires

“Left! Watch your left!” he shouts taking a grenade and throwing it through the door. It was too quick. One second after the detonation, another enemy pops out from around the corner. Tarasov’s rifle falls silent after one shot. He ducks for cover to reload. An AKSU rings out over his head.

“He’s down,” Kolesnik says.

They wait for a minute. Only the wind howls in the tunnels, with the occasional rummaging noise from the long-forgotten levels far below. Maybe a room collapsed. Maybe a bloodsucker is fighting for his life with a pack of snorks, partial invisibility versus ten meter long jumps and knife-sharp teeth. Maybe it’s the soldiers’ fear echoing in their mind.

Stepping over a dead enemy whose head and chest was dreadfully blasted by the grenade, Tarasov moves his squad into the room. From there, another corridor opens to the left. A few meters further down, a round ventilation shaft opens into the wall. Wooden crates stand below, as if used as stairs to gain access to it. Once it housed a ventilator and the remains of the iron grater that once covered it are still lying on the ground. Now a man could comfortably crawl into the opening. There’s even a metal ladder leading up the shaft.

“Welcome to Strelok’s hideout, Chumak,” Tarasov says and pats the technician on the shoulder, “you made it. Now it’s time for your big performance.”

“Thank God,” the technician sighs with relief, “so, what am I supposed to do?”

“Remove a few pieces of that ladder. Weld its parts as a grid to prevent anyone from climbing in.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing inside,
komandir
?”

“I don’t mind giving you a little tour… We all deserve a rest anyway.” Tarasov turns to the soldiers. “Keep your guard up while I show this greenhorn around. That corridor will be our exit route. It’s full of garbage for cover, so keep your eyes peeled. Chumak, follow me.”

Strelok once told him that the chamber was booby-trapped and he cannot shake off an uneasy feeling as they climb up the ladder. Cautiously, he peeks inside, and seeing no danger waiting for them, he jumps into a small chamber.

Strelok’s hideout, 09:59:07 EEST

“What is this place?” the technician asks. Tarasov scans the walls with his headlamp. They are covered with Stalker graffiti, short messages with call signs and nicknames.

Voronin, I’ll get you yet. Lukas.

Come and donate blood at the Skadovsk. Tremor.

Want yourself a tailor-made chemical suit? Visit me at Rostok! Beacon.

Maps of the Oasis for sale. Ask
Flint
at Yanov.

Lost my rifle again. Please bring it back for a reward. Brome at the 100 Rads.

Don’t bring pseudodog tails to Sidorovich. Keep them. They taste good.
Blaberry
.

Save for a few crates and other junk, the chamber is empty. Someone had even removed the improvised map table that had been there for ages, even when Tarasov first entered the underground three years ago.

“You ever heard about the Marked One, Chumak? The Noosphere, C-Con, things like that?”

 
“No, sir.”

“You didn’t miss much, except for the Marked One. About the rest – I’m more into shooting than all that scientific mumbo-jumbo, but since you’re here with us, I suppose you have the right to know what we’re up against.”

Fear casts a shadow on the technician’s face, very much to Tarasov’s liking.

“It’s complicated but anyway, this is how an old friend once explained it to me in Pripyat. You know, we had a lot of time on our hands while waiting for the evacuation team.” The major makes himself comfortable on an empty ammunition crate. “So… according to some scientists, our planet is surrounded by a special field called Noosphere. It’s said, it influences how we humans behave. After
Chernobyl
, a group of scientists set up secret laboratories in the Exclusion Zone where they weren’t bothered by anyone. The eggheads wanted to adjust the Noosphere, removing bad things from the planet… including the word ‘no’ from the female vocabulary.”

Chumak chuckles. Tarasov doesn’t mention the development of secret weapons and the psychic tests that used humans as guinea-pigs. The technician is not supposed to know everything.

“They soon realized that something more powerful was needed, so they put together seven volunteers to create a common consciousness. In short, the C-Consciousness.”

“Sounds like science fiction to me.”

“It was more like horror, because in 2006 the experiments damaged the Noosphere. No one knows for sure what had exactly happened, but we all see the results here in the Zone. If you ask me – the Zone is the bad day of the universe.”

“So we are here to kill mutants? Preventing them to get out?”

“No, that’s Duty’s job… Killing all the snorks, controllers, burers… as if that were possible. But the Stalkers keep sneaking in to hunt for things called artifacts. Some of them work wonders with a human body and can be sold for fat sums in the
Big
Land
outside. Preventing this is our job, at least on paper – the state wants to have the monopoly on such trade. Anyway, to recap the story, the C-Consciousness eventually backfired. It used the scientists to create a trap, to brainwash people to protect itself. Stalkers called this trap the Brain Scorcher. It brainwashed enough people to create its own army. They called themselves the Monolith, believing they serve some sort of alien crystal capable of fulfilling any wish. Bloody fanatics.”

“Was it true,
komandir
?”

“Don’t start asking me about the Wish Granter. Anyway, two years ago a Stalker called Strelok found a path to the center of the Zone where the Monolith was protecting the C-Consciousness. His call sign was Marked One. He never talked about what exactly happened there... and frankly, I sleep easier without knowing about it. Whatever he did, the Zone is still here and all we can do is try to contain it. Maybe it doesn’t need the C-Consciousness to exist anymore. I don’t know.” Tarasov takes a sip of water from his canteen. “This chamber was the Marked One’s hideout. By now you probably understand that Strelok is the hero of all Stalkers. They come here to prove they’ve got what it takes to be a Stalker and leave a message behind. ”

“That’s why the mercenaries we ran into were here?”

“I doubt it. They prefer spraying the walls with our blood, not paint. What concerns us now is that the son of some big fish in
Kiev
died during an attempt to get here. We were ordered to make the place inaccessible.”