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

The searchlight slowly sweeps over the perimeter, more as an excuse by the soldier manning it for doing something during his watch than an attempt to detect anything. Tarasov mentally praises the storm that covers the perimeter with a curtain of heavy rain.

About two hundred meters away, beyond the barracks, a twisting fog bank conceals the low hills lying to the east. His rescuer points in that direction, but to reach the cover of fog they need to pass through between the barracks and the helipad. This section is brightly illuminated by two reflectors, just like the Mi-24 attack helicopter itself — another feature Tarasov had had installed during his time as security-savvy base commander. The light would deny even the most daring Stalker any chance to sneak into the base and sabotage the helicopter, the military’s most powerful weapon in the Exclusion Zone. Now he finds another of his brain children turning against him.

To his dismay, Tarasov sees a soldier guarding the helicopter. Seeking shelter from the rain, the soldier huddles up under the short wings on the fuselage, facing directly the section where they have to pass through. A cigarette glows in the soldier’s hand, but his assault rifle is unslung and ready to shoot.

The Stalker aims his silenced pistol. With a cautious movement, Tarasov pushes his weapon down and slowly shakes his head.

The Stalker shrugs. Then he takes a bolt from his pocket, aims for a second and throws it in a long arch towards the helicopter. Through the splatter of rain, Tarasov’s ears detect the faint noise of metal hitting metal.

The guard tosses his cigarette away. He aims his weapon and peers in the direction where the bolt has hit the helicopter.

Tarasov hears a muted command. “Move!”

With quick steps, Tarasov passes the brightly lit section. Reaching the other side of the barracks, he ducks at the bottom of the wall made from pre-manufactured concrete slabs. Nothing is between him and the fog that would safely hide him, even if his escape would be detected. He has to wait for the Stalker, though.

Having found nothing out of the ordinary, the soldier shrugs and swears in a low voice. He steps back under the wings and pats down his armored vest, probably looking for his pack of cigarettes.

The noise of a TV comes from behind the boarded windows of the barracks. Judging by the explosions and gunshots the soldiers inside must be watching an action film. He hopes it is exciting enough to keep them in front of the screen.

“Vitka! You still got any smokes left?”

It is the helicopter guard shouting at his comrade in the watchtower.

“Yes! Come over here!”

Yes, Tarasov thinks. Go to Vitka. Get your cigarettes. That’s an order, goddammit!

“No! You come over here!”

“No way, buddy! I’m still dry here, it’s you who’s already soaked!”

Cussing under his breath, the helicopter guard leaves his position and walks to the watchtower. Using the moment when he fully concentrates on catching the box of cigarettes tossed from above, the Stalker swiftly crosses over to the bush where Tarasov is hiding.

“Thank goodness for bad habits,” Tarasov sighs.

The Stalker is not in the mood for chatting. He signals him to move on.

“There’s barbed wire,” Tarasov whispers when he sees the direction the Stalker is taking, “and a minefield behind!”

Undeterred, the Stalker moves northwards with quick but cautious steps. Tarasov realizes his savior walks with a slight limp. Soon, they reach the barbed wire fence separating the outer perimeter of the base from a sparse forest.

“Up that tree,” the Stalker whispers.

After leaving the brightly lit helipad, Tarasov’s eyes have not yet fully accustomed to the darkness. First he doesn’t see much, but straining his eyes, he soon makes out a tree fallen over the fence. If moving carefully enough and without his feet slipping on the wet wood, a man could vault the fence.

Cautiously, always looking for a branch to hold on should his feet slip, Tarasov balances his way over the fence and jumps. The Stalker follows suit, although his descent from the tree is more cautious.

“Keep right, as close to the old barbed wire as you can!”

Just a few steps away, a minefield lies. It is the outermost protection of the army base. During his times at the base, Tarasov had seen more than one dumb mutant being blasted by the anti-infantry mines hidden under the fallen leaves. Hoping that the Stalker knows what he is doing, he follows him along the barbed wire. His Spetsnaz training kicks in and he holds onto the Stalker’s rucksack, tightly enough to prevent them from getting too far from each other in the dark but not too strong either to hinder the Stalker from quickly changing his stance should he detect danger ahead.

The fog sits thick among the trees, but Tarasov sees two bright spots not far to their left. Bushes rattle. They near a noise, halfway between a grunt and a growl.

“Boar to our nine,” Tarasov whispers.

They both halt. With his heart beating fast, Tarasov hopes that the mutant will not attack them. He would have to fire the rifle, which would immediately expose them to the guards. The base is still less than fifty meters away.

The boar doesn’t approach them. Tarasov is about to sigh with relief when more rattling comes from the bushes. It must be one of the fleshes usually lurking together with a boar. He hears the noise of several mutants galloping away.

Then an ear-piercing detonation comes. Immediately, the base comes to life.

“ALERT! STALKER DETECTED!”

The guard’s warning through the megaphone is followed by the wail of a siren. The searchlight from the watchtower swings over to the northern perimeter.

“Run!” the Stalker shouts.

The leafless trees wouldn’t conceal them from the searchlight that is now scanning the woods, getting closer to the fugitives with each second. With the minefield to their left and the barbed wire fence to the right, they have only one way left—forward, to the north.

The soldiers in the base become more agitated. Amidst indiscernible shouts, the guards begin to blindly fire their weapons into the woods. Someone is frantically shouting commands.

“MEN DOWN! THE PRISONER HAS BROKEN OUT!”

He hears the growl of the boar and the agitated squeaks of his harem of fleshes. Rifles fire bursts and one more explosion shatters the ground. By the time the mutants’ noise ceases and the soldiers’ firing becomes sparse, Tarasov and the Stalker have reached a safe distance from the base.

They soon reach the eastern slopes of a hill overlooking the base that is now to the far south. Beyond the road leading to the northern areas, an abandoned village lies to the west.

Stopping, the Stalker gives Tarasov the sign to halt and kneels down. When hearing the low, pulsating hum, Tarasov immediately knows that even bigger peril lies ahead.

The Stalker throws a bolt. A tiny light flashes and the bolt disappears into nowhere. For a split second, the pulsating drone changes to a sharp crackle. Then the anomaly ahead continues to hum.

One more bolt flies. They can take two steps ahead. The third bolt is again consumed by an anomaly. The fourth shows them a safe path through. Following the Stalker, Tarasov finds himself in a small circle of boulders. It might have been a sacred site in historical times but now it’s a safe refuge, hiding them from the sight of anyone following them. There is a makeshift rain shelter too, made up from a canvas pitched between a boulder and two sticks.

Another Stalker, apparently guarding the place, lowers his Dragunov when he sees them approaching.

“Phew!” The Stalker with the pistol loudly sighs. He powers his night vision down and switches on his headlamp. “If any grunt follows us here — he deserves a damn medal!”