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

“Let them be my problem.” Tarasov looks at Nooria and then Hartman. “So, now comes the Bandit part if none of you has a better idea.”

“It’s your call,” the Top says. “Rest assured, my boots are itching to give your butt a good kick for making me join a bunch of—”

“It was my choice,” Nooria says. She dons her black balaclava and pulls her hood over her head.

“Then what are we waiting for?”

“Just one word before we leave,” Tarasov says. “Bandits are a tough bunch and their leaders are the toughest. Top, I know you’re a big shot with the Tribe but I want you to stay out of trouble. Let me do all the talking. Don’t provoke these guys.”

“What if they provoke me?”

“Don’t let them. Remember: our way out depends on the Bandits. Last but not least, Nooria already has her Bandit call sign — Margarita,” Tarasov says with a smirk. “Please remember — all of you — that my real name must not be mentioned. I am Misha… uhm… Chekh, if any name must be given.”

“You mean, Czech? Like the car we rented?”

“No, Top. Not Czech but Chekh for Chechens. Russians hate them. If they think I’m Chechen, they won’t bother talking to me.”

“I have a bad feeling about this,” Pete says.

“We all do. So, are we set?” Tarasov looks at his companions. They all nod. “Let’s go.”

Following the road downhill toward the Bandit base, they pass by a wrecked passenger car and a blue-white bus similar to the one that stood close to the log hut where they spent the last fateful night. Scrub grows from the cracks of the dilapidated tarmac. As they approach the warehouse, more and more Bandits appear behind the barbed wire fencing it.

“Holster your weapons,” Tarasov says when he sees the Bandits guarding the entrance. One of them walks up to them, keeping his MP5 submachine gun ready to shoot.

“Nu shot vam nada, tipa?”

“Moi druzya ne ponyat shot ti govorish,” Tarasov says. “Po angliskom govorish?”

“Whatcha want?” the guard asks in very bad English. “Too much loot on yer back, pindosi?”

“We need to see your boss,” Tarasov replies.

“Fuck no yer don’t, ya mongrel! Get yer ass up and hit da road! Or maybe yer want to shoot me in yer ass to get ya goin’?”

“I have business with Jack,” Nooria says.

“Whaddaya want from him? ”

“Say hello to my little friend,” Nooria says looking him in the eye.

“Oh,” the guard says with a bow of his head that could be intended as a sign of respect. “All right! Get in but don’t stay too long. Ya find ’im in the garage behind da containers.”

“We stay as long as I want,” Nooria confidently says. Before she can move on, Tarasov steps to the guard.

“These two need safe passage to Yanov,” he quietly says and jerks his thumb backward where Nika and the Monolithian stand. Hearing his words, Hartman too steps forward and fiddles his shouldered assault rifle. “They bring good news to a friend of ours who might get very angry if he doesn’t receive it.”

“Safe passage costs money, ya know?”

“How tall are you, tipa?”

“Whaddafuck ya meanin’?”

“You know, my friend happens to be a damn good sniper and it seems you offer a pretty good target here. I guess one meter seventy, maybe seventy five make a big difference for the location of your brain matter — inside that undersized skull of yours or being splattered on the ground. You follow my meaning, tipa?”

“Wanna be threatenin’ me?”

“I’m making a business proposal, you dumbass. You give these two free passage to Yanov and keep your brains where it is or…”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” the Bandit says taking the walkie-talkie fastened to his belt. “Hey men, it’s Vadia Hunchback ’ere. A guy in Freedom suit is goin’ yer way with a Monolith zombie in tow. Let’em pass, will ya?”

“Temka Bum here. Who says?”

“I says, Temka. Touch’em and Jack’s gonna assign ya for guard duty da next days. Got it?”

“Freedomer with Monolith. Good, I’ll let’em pass if they behave.”

“Ya better do!”

Tarasov nods. “Good boy. I’ll let my friend to know that you were promised free passage. Vadia Hunchback was the name, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Now better go!”

“And my friends better arrive safely at Yanov,” Tarasov replies, directing his words rather to Nika than the Bandit. “Nika, send a message to Strider and don’t forget to mention who we made the deal with.”

“We part ways then?” the Freedomer asks.

“Good hunting, Stalker.”

Tarasov watches Dima and the Monolithian walking toward the railway tracks leading northward to Yanov Station, hoping that they won’t run into anything that their assault rifles can’t handle. He darts a grin to Vadia Hunchback as he enters the perimeter, thinking that if the Bandit is still alive by the evening, it will be a good enough proof of Dima having delivered the captive Monolithian to Strider.

A veritable maze of cargo railway containers covers the open space in front of two abandoned warehouse buildings. As the companions make their way through the narrow confines between the containers, it is easy for them to make out how the Bandit food chain goes: rookies squat on boards and mattresses lying around campfires; the more prominent occupy the open containers where they are much better protected against cold and rain; finally, closest to the garage where the Bandit commander resides and well-protected against the weather by a roof spanning over several containers, the apparently most respected dwell. Even if their hovels don’t indicate their position, their attire does: the small groups of lesser mortals gathered around the campfires are dominated by reinforced leather jackets and track worn by Stalkers new to the Zone, no matter if Loners or Bandits, and they hold their pathetic shotguns and Makarov pistols as if they were unique, artifact-enhanced weapons. Here and there, a Stalker in black Duty and forest-camuflaged Freedom suit also appears; though deserter turned bandits or not, they apparently seem keen to avoid mixing with those from the hostile faction.

All of them have one thing in common: a Bandit arm patch with a white skull on black backround. Tarasov observes a Stalker cutting the Duty patch off his black armor and replacing the stylized red shield with golden reticule with the Bandit’s skull patch.

“Pete, you were wrong about us being overqualified for the Bandit job,” Tarasov remarks. “Desertion seems to be an entry-level crime here.”

The Bandits who are respected enough to settle in the containers ignore their lesser brethren as they tend to usual camp tasks—cleaning their Kalashnikovs, drum-barreled Protecta shotguns and a few Dragunov SVDs, all apparently prized possessions. The long trench coats and Russian army surplus body armor betray them as more experienced Bandits and Mercenaries. The big shots under the roof have their expensive NATO rifles standing against the container walls, probably feeling safe at the core of the camp and sure that no lesser mortal would make them reach for their G-36 and LR-300 rifles. Heavy armored suits dominate here, among them a few exoskeletons with helmets off to facilitate any Stalker’s favorite pastime—drinking vodka and munching on canned meat, exactly what most of them are doing. A few veterans are standing atop the containers, keeping watch over the perimeter. One of them, wearing an army-issue exoskeleton with a Bandit’s arm patch, gives Tarasov a long and inquisitive look. A Vintorez rifle is slung across his shoulder.

“See that exo guy?” he asks the Top without looking in the Bandit’s direction. He touches the balaclava to reassure himself that it covers his face, leaving only eyes and mouth visible. “I don’t like his face.”