Balázs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Northern Passage

“Molodets,” Barkeep says with a shrewd smile. “Enjoy your stay at the 100 Rads!”

He turns off the lights and ushers the travelers back to the bar.

“Are you going to eat that?” Nooria asks as they pass by the kitchen where the aroma emanating from the smoldering boar head assails their nostrils.

For a moment, Barkeep appears perplexed but then he gives a bellowing laugh.

“What? The boar? Oh for God’s sake, how could you even think of that? I heat it to collect the fat when it starts running.” Barkeep is still smiling as he takes the promised first aid kits, bandages and a few plastic trays with army rations from below the counter. ”Boars have a high resistance to radiation and their fat makes an excellent coating for protective suits.”

“Amazing,” Nooria says with eager interest. “Do you know more such recipes?”

“I know a few, but they are my trade secrets,” Barkeep says.

Nooria is disappointed. “Oh. Pity. I could have also shared some of my own recipes.”

“You? Come on, you look like greenness incarnate to me. No offense, but have you ever seen an artifact from close?”

“Yes. I use pestle and mortar to make artifacts smaller or turn into powder, and apply it to weapons, wounds, armor… like that,” Nooria shrugs and giggles. “I have a knife that can cut an artifact in two.”

“Don’t waste your breath, Nooria,” Tarasov says packing their purchase into his rucksack. “Barkeep won’t believe it.”

“If I have an artifact that would be good for health but is radiating, and another which is good against radiation, I take a small part of health artifact, add a piece of radiation artifact, and put them together in a nice casing. So I will have an amulet that will make one healthy but doesn’t emit radiation.”

“Your mate was right. I’d sooner believe the Wish Granter’s legend than that!”

Barkeep’s laughter is not meant to be mocking, though it is clear that he didn’t believe a word. Nooria hides her smile under her hood. She is still smiling when she climbs up the stairs and joins her companions on their search for a safe spot to spend the night, hidden from the Duty patrols that stroll along the brick buildings and walls of concrete slabs.

Tarasov leads them into a factory hall nearby. The roof has huge holes but where it is still intact, two Loners have already made themselves comfortable at a campfire.

“Do you mind if we join you?” he asks them.

“Not at all, if you have something to trade,” a Loner replies. His companion laughs.

“They don’t look like they need that jamming MP5 you’ve been trying to sell all day, Varyag!”

“We’ve had enough of trading for today,” Tarasov says. “But we can share some food with you. You look hungry, bratanki.”

Without asking, Nooria takes a few rations from Tarasov’s rucksack and offers them around. Then she takes her blanket and cuddles close to Tarasov.

“Spasiba,” the Stalker referred to as Varyag says as he takes a can of meat from Nooria. “What’s the price?”

Tarasov takes a closer look at Varyag who appears to be the more experienced of the two Loners. He is wearing the standard Stalker suit, but patches here and there tell of gunfights survived and his Vintorez of dangerous enemies overcome — or at least enough money made on perilous missions to afford such an expensive weapon.

“A good story would do,” Tarasov says. “My friends are from, erh, England and don’t speak much Russian but I will translate.”

“Don’t worry, I speak English! I am from Sweden myself.”

“That’s why they call you Varyag then? Like those Norse warriors in Russian history?”

“Exactly,” the Swede says proudly.

The Top, who was stretching his arms and back with sighs of satisfaction while they were speaking, notices the other Stalker eyeing Nooria.

“I think these guys haven’t seen too many Stalkers cuddling at a campfire,” he whispers to Tarasov.

“So what? If any of them have any objection to my woman’s presence in the Zone, I’ll just shoot them.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Hartman nods and bites into a slice of bread. Tarasov turns back to Varyag.

“So, what about that story?”

“You guys ever heard the story about the Crystal Shard? No? You know, it’s supposed to be a splinter of the Wish Granter itself. A unique artifact if there ever was one. So, there were this group of Loners when the Zone was just being explored. Three guys who had been the best of friends since they started out from the Rookie Village to explore the Zone. They were a merry bunch, except for one who was heartbroken ever since his girlfriend died in a car crash.”

“The Zone,” Tarasov says staring into the fire. “Adventure for some, riches for others, and a chance to escape the past for the unlucky ones.”

“Don’t get poetic on me, bro! It’s my story, OK?” Varyag says. “Yeah, of course she was beautiful and sweet and her name was…”

“Natasha, of course,” the other Loner says who obviously heard the story before.

“Shut up, big mouth! Anyway, one day when they were exploring an old building somewhere in the Wild Territories after a Duty patrol chased the bandits away. The commander of the Duty squad had ordered his men not to enter, he said the building gave him the creeps and he was a man who trusted his gut feelings.”

“A rare specimen,” Tarasov says smiling.

“Yeah, kind of,” Varyag says with a grin and looks around for any Dutyer who could have overheard them. Seeing none around, he continues. “But our friends were not of the superstitious kind, so they entered the complex. At first everything seemed just great — small artifacts everywhere, only minor doses of radiation. That was until they saw what looked like a faint blue light. And, like most of us would, they immediately thought they had found the mother of all artifacts.”

Varyag fishes a bottle from his rucksack and takes a swig of vodka before he continues. “Once they entered, they found an artifact that didn’t look like anything they had seen before. It looked more like the kind of crystals you see in sci-fi flicks. There was something weird about it and they couldn’t make up their mind as to what to do about it. Eventually, the bravest decided to pick it up while the rest were guarding the door.”

“Pass me that bottle, Varyag, will you?” the other Loner says.

“Only if you stop interrupting me. So, they got horrified when they heard him suddenly scream Natasha! before falling to his knees. When one of them ran up to see what was wrong, he just stood up and picked up his PKM and started firing all over the room, screaming her name.”

“A man with his woman’s name for a battle cry,” Nooria whispers. “Beautiful.”

“He then charged through the door and ran out of the building still screaming and firing his machine gun while holding the crystal in the other hand. The others tried to run after him but were pinned down by his fire. Once he ran out of bullets he just charged away, never to be found again.”

Varyag falls silent.

“That’s the end?” Tarasov asks.

“No. My throat is dry and I’m out of vodka. I need to lubricate my tongue, if you follow my meaning.”

Tarasov offers him his own. After a long gulp, Varyag wipes his mouth with the back of his gloved hand and continues.

“His friends were shocked by everything that had happened and returned to the Bar. But since they were friends, they decided to go back for him. Eventually they found him in the basement, sitting in a corner with a gun in one hand and the crystal artifact they had found earlier in the other one. His machine gun lay on the ground — he used his Makarov to blow his brains out. As the Stalkers looked at the mess, they heard a scream in the distance — Natasha! ”