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

“Quite impressive friends you found here, Misha.”

Degtyarev’s words, who has watched the honors being given to the Tribe’s fallen in silence, reminds Tarasov that he has not much to regret about his place in the New Zone. Indeed, it is here that he found new friends and a woman who, at least Tarasov is sure of it, would sooner die than let him down.

“Yes,” he says with a sigh. “Come, let’s see what mischief Ferret and Buryat are up to.”

“Who are they?”

“Two good Stalkers. I think I might have my own Lieutenants now. Two’s a good start.”

“Don’t tell me you want to have your own Tribe.”

“I need a drink first.”

“Me too. I saw a few crates among the Bandit’s cargo.”

“Then we’d better hurry before the Stalkers finish it all without us.”

“But there’s just the two of us.”

“Indeed, one bottle needs three men.”

A female voice comes from behind them. “Mind if the third is a woman?”

“Hey, Mac!” Tarasov greets her. “Not if you can drink like a man.”

Mac gives him a confident smile. “You bet. The problem is that Billy also wants to drink and that brings us once more to even.”

“Your jackal drinks vodka?” Degtyarev asks. “Mutants are weird here.”

“By the way, Mac… I have a message from Strelok,” Tarasov says as they stroll to the airplane.

“What? Strelok? Is he alive?”

“More than ever. He lets you know that… uhm, never say never .”

“Oh, that means he might come here after all. Until now this would have made me happy,” Mac pensively says. “Very happy, actually. But now that handsome guy with you puts me in a difficult position… I mean, he has something special about him that I can’t explain.”

“You mean Pete?” Tarasov asks, smiling. “The big man’s son? Oh girl, you’re in for some trouble.”

“Yeah… my kind of trouble,” Mac says returning the smile.

The captain and his crew are busy checking the damage done to their trusty old Antonov. The lowered ramp is guarded by two Tribe fighters who keep their eyes on the Stalkers inside. They appear relaxed, and even salute Tarasov as he approaches the airplane.

“Will this bird ever fly again?” Degtyarev asks the captain who is standing next to one of the engines, going through a long checklist of things in need of repair.

“She’s not a bird, you non-flying lay!” the pilot snaps. “Call her a machine for Gods’ sake. And of course she will fly. Do you think we want to stay here forever?”

“I’m afraid this was a one-way trip,” Tarasov says. “But then I guess the Tribe wouldn’t say no to a pilot of your abilities, captain.”

“But I would say no to an employer with a competition like those beasts we saw. Now if you excuse me, I have more important things to do than gum-beating!”

“He doesn’t know it but he’ll either fly for the Tribe or… well, we’ll see what to do about him,” Tarasov says to Mac and Degtyarev as they walk to the ramp. “Which brings us to the question—what about you, guys?”

“Yeah, it really makes sense for them to be so secretive,” Mac says sarcastically. “After all, by now nobody knows about the Tribe’s defenses but every dushman in the New Zone!”

“Actually, I was asking what you will do next? Because you could join me on a good old-fashioned Stalker raid.”

“What do you mean by that, Misha?”

“Crossing the whole New Zone for the sake of a foul-smelling, moldering, underground science facility and find all kinds of weird stuff and creatures inside who want to eat your face.”

“Where?” Mac curiously asks.

“Some old Soviet lab in Panjir valley.”

She smiles. “Always wanted to go there. But, but, but — promise me that we’ll search for Ahuizotl on our way. What happened was not his fault!”

“Sounds like a deal.”

“As for me, I’m ready right now!”

“Still bitten by the travel bug, I see… Ne boysa, Mac. We’ll leave soon enough but I need a little rest.”

“I too would love to see an underground I haven’t been to yet,” Degtyarev says.

Tarasov gives him a grin. “Alex, I still don’t know what to do about you — kick your butt for Operation Haystack or be excited about a chance to kick ass together with you!”

“I was actually afraid that once I told you who I am, you’d just punch me for Haystack,” Degtyarev replies.

“You have that still coming, but for now your punishment is to see how the New Zone is. You will deeply regret not having come here earlier.”

“Matter of fact, I could use a change from the Exclusion Zone. Winter is not a good time for exploring it—and there’s not much left for me to explore there anyway.”

“It will be for ever, Alex.”

Degtyarev has no time to reply. When they enter the cargo bay, they expect to find gloomy prisoners but instead they see the Loners-turned-Bandits-turned-Loners celebrating.

“What the hell is going on here?” Tarasov asks.

“Five crates of vodka, and they ain’t going anywhere!” a red-nosed Ferret yells cheerily. “All belongs to us now, all!”

Buryat stumbles forward and puts his arm around Ferret’s neck. “Cossacks vodka! Makes me love everyone. Even this bastard of a Freedomer!”

“Glad to see you two didn’t kill each other in the end.”

“You see, I decided to spare his life… for now,” the already drunk Dutyer says.

“Nay, man. You tried to shu-shu… shoot me but missed from two meters,” Ferret says, as drunk as Buryat. “Or was it by two meters? Ah, never mind. Duty rifle skills are crap, either way…”

“I didn’t shoot you. I just showed you the muzzle of my gun and told you, this side of it there ain’t no gomiks!”

“Come on, handsome, didn’t you just say you love me?” Ferret says and gives the Dutyer a kiss on his cheek who is too intoxicated to push him away — at least that’s how it appears.

“So that’s your team,” Degtyarev says grinning and takes a bottle of vodka from an open crate.

“A real challenge, yes.”

“I guess it makes no sense to count odd and even now,” Mac says. “Let’s just drink!”

But with most of the Stalkers being Russians or Ukrainians, everyone is demanding a toast — even if they already had more than they could count.

“Let’s drink to a steady hand!”

“To work progressing!”

“To a good raid!”

“May we suffer as much sorrow in the New Zone as drops of vodka we’re about to leave in our bottles,” Tarasov says raising his vodka bottle. ”May we remember forever all friends we lost on our way here. But first of all — let’s drink to the living. God bless you, Stalkers — we have arrived!”

Cold wind blows and swirls up brown sand that tastes like defeat on Skinner’s tongue.

He has been marching for days without any apparent aim. All he knows is that Bagram is no longer a refuge to him; not even the greenest Stalker would believe him anymore.

The dushmans are scattered; the few who made it back to the deadly areas to the south could still count themselves lucky while the Tribe, the cursed, yet once more triumphant Tribe mercilessly hunts down the rest.

His mutant brothers are gone, too; those who had not perished in the inferno beneath the Alamo’s walls were scattered, each of them trying to survive on his own.

During sleepless nights, when the cold forced him to seek shelter in caves or ruins and the howls of jackals were his only company, he kept asking himself the same question again and again: where did he fail? His plan was so perfect and all going so well until that damned airplane came. Who was aboard? It didn’t matter — Skinner was certain about one thing only: should he ever find out who it was, and should fate ever give him a chance to get to that man, he would deal him a thousand deaths.