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

She finds herself holding a severed human ear in her hands. A drop of blood spoils the shine of the silver butterfly earring in the lobe.

Her trembling hands let it fall to the mud. She starts running towards the Zone, oblivious of any danger that might lurk in between the hills. She runs through the dry bushes and jumps over a fallen tree, looking only forwards where the valley opens, and keeps running until she reaches a groove of pine trees on a hill overlooking the landscape that finally opens up before her eyes from where tears of relief, pain and anger flow.

Panting from the rush, Nooria leans against a tree to catch her breath and scans the horizon but can’t see much from her present position. Taking deep breathes of fresh forest air, she walks further and climbs up a boulder for a better view.

To the right, atop a distant hill, there is a cluster of buildings that might have been a factory once. Even further, the silhouette of tall cranes loom against the horizon, tucked far away beyond lowlands resembling a vast, dry riverbed with patches of reed and dilapidated ship wrecks, all in shades of faded brown. She can’t see the ill-fated power plant but there is something equally sinister to her far right. It appears to be a gigantic metal structure, standing out among the low hills like a tower with something foreboding about it even from the distance. She jumps off the boulder and moves down the hill to have a better look at what lies to the east.

A low hill lies ahead, its surface cut by crevasses from where jets of steam rise. Beyond it, she sees another watery patch of marshland with a small, stranded boat. Now it appears sure to her that once this lowland was a river, from where the water disappeared so quickly that the ships had no time to navigate into a safe harbor. Yet in this land where decay and bent physics are the norm, stranded ships seem to be all but out of place.

All is quiet, only ravens croak in the sky.

Nooria takes a deep breath and blows her nose into the scarf that was Sultan’s gift. She touches her blade fixed firmly to her belt and a feeling of confidence comes over her. She glances at the PDA and looks over to the distant ship wreck which is supposed to be her first destination.

“Yes, Sultan,” she says to herself and tosses the tainted scarf away. “I must find my man. Then I will see you again and teach you what real honor means.”

She pulls the hood over her face and disappears in the bushes, following the direction where her PDA indicates south.

“I can’t believe this. Twenty-five Stalkers went with that bastard. None have returned. Twenty-five good men!” Shrink bashes at the improvised table. “All this when the Tribe is on our neck!”

The mood in Ashot’s bar is gloomy. At first, when the Tribe appeared and began setting up positions on the hills overlooking the ruined air base, the Stalkers didn’t expect anything bad to happen. After all, it was just a month ago that they repelled the dushmans besieging Bagram together. When the warriors blocked the access roads in the forest to the west, Shrink became alarmed but there was nothing he could do to prevent the Tribe’s forces to set up forward positions blocking access to Bagram from the north. The eastern approaches were still open, but the Tribe’s machine guns and mortars made short work of the jackal and wolf packs occasionally roaming the open plains in search for prey — probably intended as a warning to the Stalkers to stay inside their base.

When it became clear that the Tribe had put Bagram under blockade, Shrink realized that Captain Bone was not entirely a bad commander. He and his sinister henchmen had piled up valuable supplies in the former command building, mostly food, water and, to Ashot’s great pleasure, vodka. It could be enough to keep the besieged Stalkers on their feet for a week or two, but beyond that their prospects look bleak. No Stalker can venture out to hunt down a hind for food; no ammunition or spirit could be brought in by Ashot’s shady ’business associates’ who used to appear every now and then. Ammunition caused Shrink the biggest headache. When Bone and his men left Bagram for the battle at the City of Screams they left enough supplies behind, apparently in the belief that they would use it later, but they took most of the ammunition with them. Facing a strike force of the Tribe with only lightly armed, undisciplined men and being short of bullets is not exactly how Shrink imagined how things will be when he moved here from Ghorband.

“That’s why they’re called Free Stalkers, boss. They’re free to roam wherever they please, even if it’s their doom.”

“Shut up Ashot, for God’s sake. You just keep reminding me how difficult it is to keep this bunch together.”

“We can defend Bagram to the last bullet but if we run out of vodka, we’re doomed already!”

“I could ask Yar to tinker a distillation device to make our own.”

“Really? And where do you get grain from? And water? You want me to make spirit out of me poo and pee?”

“Dunno if I’d feel any difference between that and the poison you used to serve… But why all this?”

“I think it has something to do with that big Loner guy who showed up here a while ago,” a Stalker says. With his heavy protective suit still bearing the green camouflage used in the Exclusion Zone and the desert-pattern shemagh around his neck, he appears a veteran of both Zones. An old, but well-maintained SVD rifle is slung over his shoulder. “He reminded me of that Duty renegade, what was his name?”

“That’s bullshit, Siryk,” Shrink replies. “Skinner’s dead. He followed Tarasov into the catacombs and didn’t make it back.”

“Anyway, I overheard him talking to three Loners right there, in the corner. He was talking about ambushing a Tribe patrol to get all those cool weapons, maybe even a Humvee.”

“That’s suicide, man,” Ashot remarks.

“So one of the Stalkers said, yeah, think his name was Hedgehog. They followed him anyway. Then a few days later that big guy returns alone, this time spreading rumors about some abandoned factory or whatever in the Panjir valley and all.” Siryk shrugs. “Well, y’all know the rest.”

Shrink cusses in Russian. “Pizdets! You want to tell me that those idiots attacked a Tribe patrol and now those savages came to revenge it?”

“Siryk has a point, boss,” Ashot observes.

“But if so, why don’t they attack us?”

“Maybe they are scared of us, that’s why!”

“Especially of you, Ashot.” The Stalkers laugh but Shrink’s face remains gloomy. “All we can do is wait. Damn!”

“Wish that Spetsnaz were here,” another Stalker says. He is one of Shrink’s men from Ghorband, who followed him when he took over matters in Bagram. “Rumor has it he joined the Tribe. He could put in a word.”

Shrink rubs his chin. “Dunno even if he made it out alive of those bloody catacombs. If he did — I can’t imagine Tarasov letting the Tribe come upon us. No matter what, he’s not here now to intervene.”

“We could make their life a little difficult,” Siryk says patting his sniper rifle.

“Don’t even think of that,” Shrink firmly says. “That would just provoke them. Shoot at those bastards with a Dragunov and they shoot back with all they have. Goddammit! We’ve got maybe a hundred hungry Stalkers with light weapons only. If the Tribe attacks us, we can put up a better defense by farting at them—they’ll kick our butts anyway.”

“So what then?” Ashot asks. “Just sit and wait?”

“Sit and drink,” Shrink grumbles. “Until we run out of vodka.”