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

“His face?” Hartman asks back. ”I don’t follow. He’s wearing a gas mask and tactical helmet.”

“Manner of speaking… what I said comes closet to what I feel about him.”

“Why?” Nooria asks, boldly returning the Bandit’s gaze.

“Don’t know. Maybe because he’s the only one paying any attention to us… Never mind. Just a gut feeling.”

“I’m telling you, it’s him who’s gonna feel something in his guts if he keeps staring at us like that.”

“Calm down, Top. Let’s not appear nervous.”

“Yeah, there’s nothing to be nervous about,” Pete says giving the Bandit camp a distrustful look.

When the companions are about to enter the garage, two heavily armed men in the Mercenaries’ urban camo suits block their way.

“Shto vam, patsani?”

“She’s here to see Jack,” Tarasov replies to the guard’s question. “Her name is Margarita. We are her, uhm, bodyguards.”

“You may enter,” the guard says. “No funny movements inside, huh?”

“Understood.”

“Jack’s in his office behind the garage.”

The smell of engine oil lingers inside. Rusted and lacking wheels, a derelict truck stands over a maintenance shaft. Another Mercenary guard watches over the gloomy interior from a catwalk. Among crates, piles of decrepit car parts and fuel drums, a door leads into a shabby room that might have once been an office.

The Bandit commander is sitting with his feet on the table, cleaning his Armsel Protecta shotgun with an oilcloth and wearing the obligatory leather trench coat. A pair of shrewd eyes measure them up through his balaclava’s eye holes. The rest of his features remain hidden. On another chair close by, a short but brawny Bandit with a thick black beard appears to doze off the effects of the vodka bottle lying on the floor next to him.

“Ahh! Fresh meat,” Jack says for a greeting.

“I am Margarita,” Nooria says.

“Margarita!” the Bandit leader says barely looking at her. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Did he just ask, ‘ to what do I owe dishonor?’ ” the Top says under his breath.

“Glad to see you keep your word,” Jack says, apparently oblivious to Hartman’s whisper.

“And I am glad to hear you speak English.”

“Of course I do. ‘ Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in!’ ‘Make a wish, it’ll be your last!’ I love fucking cheese at my feet!’ You see, I know a lot of English!”

Pete can barely suppress a chuckle.

“Did you find any tracks of the troublemaker, Margarita?” Jack asks.

“No. I must go to New Zone.”

“We all will soon enough. However, Sultan didn’t say anything about you bringing people with you,” Jack says darting an eye at Nooria’s companions. “We’ve no need for a basketball team anyway. Who are they?”

“My bodyguards.”

“That may be so, but they need to confess their sins to Friar.”

“What are you talking about?” Tarasov angrily asks.

“Back with the fangs, big boy, or I’ll throw you to the next blind dog pack to eat,” Jack snarls back. “We don’t need any goody-two-shoes but people who can keep from being shot or robbed. That means, anyone wanting to join the new hordes must be good at shooting and robbing others. I know from the boss that she’s cool, but the others need to convince Friar why we should take them aboard. I’ll have a chat with you until then.”

“When she said ‘bodyguards’ she meant it, patsan . We’re not going anywhere without her.”

“Shut up and move your asses to Friar in the warehouse building. Now!”

Hearing the agitation in Jack’s voice, two Bandits appear from the repair hall and point their rifles at the three men. Jack repeats his demand. “Go!”

Reluctant and grinding their teeth, Tarasov, Hartman and Pete let themselves be led away.

“I am Sultan’s friend,” Nooria says.

“Of course you are. I respect that. Think I’d want to hurt you?” Jack asks and gives a bellowing laugh. “Until you do what you were told to, that is!”

No matter how she feels about the kingpin, Nooria mentally admits that compared to Sultan, Jack is barely more than hot air. He appears to lack Sultan’s subtle way of appearing menacing without threatening, and inspiring respect without demanding it.

“How will we get to New Zone?” she asks.

“Don’t be so impatient. Tell me first about your buddies. There’s something I like about the small one but where did you find the two big guys? In a basketball team?”

“One is from America. Other is Chechen.”

“He’s rather tall for a darkie,” Jack observes. “Did he teach you how to use your knife? I hear you’re very good at it.”

“No.”

“Keep it to yourself, fine,” Jack shrugs. “ You know the New Zone well?”

“Parts of it.”

“How do you want to find your target?”

“I will decide once there.”

“Fair enough. You have kept your word up so far, and you better do so once off our radar. You don’t want to disappoint Sultan—and me.” Jack gives her a long look. “I actually don’t mind if you’ve your buddies watching your back. See, my guys are good fellas but they haven’t seen a woman in a while — if you get my meaning.”

“I understand.”

“There’s also a few Chechens among us. Why do you look surprised? Darkies love trouble like flies love shit, and we’re up to make a lot of trouble in the south. They will probably approach your buddy to team up, like those damned savages do wherever they are. But I won’t tolerate any of their obshina bullshit. If we want to trouble Stalkers there’s no need to quarrel amongst us.”

“I will tell him to stay away from those men.”

“Excellent. Of course, all this was said presuming that they gonna pass Friar’s little test. If they don’t, you’ll need to part ways.”

“What’s that test?”

“Told you already. Each of them has to prove to have what it takes to be a friend of ours.”

“A sinner is born every minute, and ye’re just on time!”

The apparently insane Bandit’s voice echoes in the dark, all but empty room he occupies in the warehouse. His thick Russian accent adds to the oddness about him. The only features around are a mattress in one of the corners and a makeshift altar, made up from a crate on which two burning church candles stand with a skull in a gasmask in between. Two Kalashnikovs lie crossed under the skull like a pirate flag. The moldering walls bear graffiti quotes, barely readable in the darkness.

“I am Friar, knower of yer deepest thoughts! I, and only I will decide if ye’re worthy to join us! On yer knees, all of ya!”

Tarasov sees Hartman’s face blush with anger. He can only imagine how humiliating this bizarre ritual must be for Sergeant Major Hartman of the Tribe. Hoping that his companion has enough self-discipline to manage his anger, he too kneels down on the dirty stone floor in front of the skinny Bandit whose restless eyes and exaggerated antics tell of madness, or at least that’s how Friar appears to him.

“And now—I wanna hear yer confession, sinners!” Friar continues. “Let’s start with ya, kid! What can ya tell me dat would make me accept ya to da most glorious faction of da Zone?”

“Uhm… what am I supposed to say?”