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

For a moment, the crackling of the fire is the only noise to be heard. Then, far away beyond the decaying walls, a mutant howls.

“Some people say the artifact was a piece of the Wish Granter,” Varyag continues, “or some deranged version of it that shows your worst fear over and over again. He wanted to see his beloved again, and his wish was granted — just not in a way he had imagined.”

Silence falls again, longer and deeper than before the Stalker had concluded telling his story. It’s Hartman who breaks the silence.

“And that’s what you guys are still after? Some abomination that turns your deepest desires into nightmares?”

“Everyone hopes to fare better than the man before him,” Tarasov replies. “Legends die hard.”

“Oh, women… they’re like a shadow,” the Top says with a sceptic wave. “They always keep following us, even when we think we got rid of them—at least for a little while.”

“You’ve spent too much time with Sawyer,” Pete says, laughing. “Do you have a woman at all?”

Hartman laughs. “No! I jerk off lubricating my palm with gun grease and shout Semper Fi! when I cum.”

“That coincides with with how I think of you, actually.”

“Jesus-H-Christ, Pete! What did I do to you to think of me like that?”

“More or less everything since we met.”

“You are so wrong about me. Of course I have a woman, and a damn hot one too!”

“A Hazara wife in the Alamo?”

“Nope. They ain’t my type. Sorry about that, Nooria. No offense.”

“None taken, Top.”

“In the States, then?”

“Yes and no. Why do you think I don’t want to put Katie Stone in harm’s way?”

“Gospodi! I should’ve guessed that.”

“Yup. Finest piece of ass ever wrapped up in combat fatigue. Makes the best macaroni with cheese in the world, too.”

“You must be missing her very much.”

“I do, Nooria. But imagine what would happen if I step out of the line, should she ever get hurt.”

“An embarrassingly high body count, I guess,” Tarasov smiles. “But wait—you promised her to be assigned to Driscoll’s squad. Good God, why him?”

“Guess I reached my breaking point. It was a compromise with the Colonel—she can come, but assigned to the squad who acts as security team. You’ve seen one of our battles and know what that means.”

“They are the ones preventing the enemy from escaping.”

“That’s correct. Our assault teams usually don’t take prisoners. The security team does, because the big fish among the ragheads is usually trying to escape while their foot soldiers get martyred. This is the only way the Colonel can keep Driscoll under control. If he is not restrained by strict and direct orders in battle, he might just go mad. We might be a bit crazy but we don’t want anyone to act like a madman in battle.”

“Hey! What the hell are you talking about?” asks Varyag. “Instead of talking bullshit, tell me—did you like my story?”

“We did,” Tarasov says and darts a glance to the Top and Pete that means hold your tongues . ”You don’t need to bother asking, Stalker. I do respect you. Your story was impressive.”

“Thanks,” the Loner replies, apparently pleased. “Do you have any stories to tell?”

“Heard this joke once,” Tarasov says. “A veteran Stalker is standing at a crossroads, looking at a sign: ‘if you go right, there will be anomalies and a little loot’, ‘if you go forward, there will be lots of mutants and more loot’ and ‘if you go left, there will be a shower with hot water, women, and endless loot’. He thinks for a while and then walks on, talking to himself: ‘I know about anomalies, mutants and loot but what does shower and women mean?”

“Wow, you’re good!” Varyag says laughing. “Anything slightly newer?”

“Konchay uzhe,” his fellow says. “Without music, no happiness.”

He takes a battered guitar from behind his back and begins to tune it.

“What will you play?” Varyag asks.

“He was a good Stalker,” replies the guitar player.

“Who?”

“That’s the name of the song I’m going to play, novichok!”

“Haha! Look who’s talking,” laughs Varyag. “You are a dumb rookie if you still get fooled by the same silly question, day after day…”

When the Chernobyl disaster occurred in 1986, the Wormwood Forest received the highest doses of radiation. In the worst affected areas, the pines turned red and died, causing the survivors to give the area a new name: Red Forest.

In the post-disaster cleanup operations, a majority of the pine trees were bulldozed and buried in trenches, very much like mass graves containing the most innocent victims of this nuclear holocaust. The trenches were then covered with a thick carpet of sand and planted with pine saplings. Since then, the saplings grew into adult pines, some of them bending and twisting by mutation.

More than one ghastly mutated pine appears on the roadside where the companions walk northwards. Once the road was a long clearing, cut into the dense forest to accommodate a long line of utility poles. They had fallen into disrepair long ago — some collapsed, others still stand with shreds of anomalous vines hanging down like curtains from the steel structures, slowly moving in the wind and resembling gigantic ghosts in the approaching twilight.

Tarasov, always walking a few steps ahead and scanning their path for anomalies and mutants, climbs up a boulder and studies a utility pole through his binoculars. This one is still connected by electricity cables to the next one, and a ball of blue lightning travels along between the two structures, emitting a sparkling glitter against the reddening horizon. His Geiger counter ticks faster than usual.

There is a dilapidated log hut close to the steel structure with a wrecked vehicle in front of it. The wreck has the chassis and cabin of a truck, but the superstructure of a bus is mounted to the flatbed. The mule of a vehicle might have been used to transport the workers who dug up the trenches to contain the contaminated pines, and left to its fate when it broke down three decades ago. Rust and decay has done away with most of the blue and white paint that had once covered it.

He glances at his watch and sighs.

“Something not okay?” the Top asks.

“Spending the night here would not be okay. We better move on,” Tarasov says. “Time for medicine. Take an antirad, everyone. Have a sip of vodka too.”

Before he jumps down from the boulder, Tarasov scans the road ahead once more, and then zooms in the binoculars.

“Hold. Take cover behind this boulder. I see someone ahead.”

The Top climbs up the boulder and joins Tarasov who has already assumed a prone position.

“Hostiles?”

“Hard to tell from this distance,” Tarasov says giving him the binoculars. “We’d better presume they’re not friendly.”

“Wise precaution.”

Looking through the binoculars again, Tarasov sees the small group getting closer. Now he can see their outfit better — the half dozen men approaching them are wearing heavy body armor with NATO-issue wood camouflage, their faces covered with modern gas masks with large, triangular eye lenses. He can recognize their weapons too — three are cradling G-36 assault rifles, one is armed with a Dragunov SVD and another fighter, apparently the leader because he is the only one wearing an exoskeleton, has a powerful LR-300-ML assault rifle with a scope and grenade launcher attached. His armor has the same camouflage like that of the other, dark red and brown patches resembling the shades of an autumn forest.