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

So, that’s how sad everything is.

He scans the faces in the Bar, hoping that he might discover Alexander Degtyarev’s mysterious smile or another old friend under one of the hoods or through the eyeholes of a balaclava. He finds no familiar face except for one, and even then he wishes his eyes had never met.

“My information might well be of use to you, Stalker!”

The man who has mistaken his gaze for an invitation to chat is wearing a Bandit’s long coat. The small mouth hole of his balaclava can’t hide his grin. Tarasov turns his eyes away but the sinister figure keeps staring at him.

“Leave me alone, Snitch,” Tarasov says. “Life is bad enough!”

“Come here. I have always got something for people like you.”

An idea comes to Tarasov’s mind. “No, Snitch, you come here. See that that tall guy in a Stalker suit? He might be interested in your intel. Doesn’t speak much Russian, though.”

Curious as to how the Tribe’s most respected warrior would deal with the Exclusion Zone’s most annoying pusher, Tarasov watches the Bandit approach the Top.

“I have always got something for people like you,” Snitch says in broken English and pokes the Top’s arm.

“Not interested,” the Top replies looking him down as he would stare at an insect and then turns back to curiously studying the message board.

Snitch is not brushed off so easily. “But my information might well be of use to you, Stalker!”

“I said, not interested,” the Top snaps at him with growing impatience.

“But my information—”

Snitch pokes the warrior’s arm once more. The Top grabs Snitch at the collar of his long coat and effortlessly lifts him off the ground. “If you ask me one more time, trench coat, I fucking kill you!”

Pete is about to step to them but Tarasov stops him. Coughing and gasping for air, Snitch staggers to the counter where Tarasov offers him a sip from his vodka bottle.

“Thanks, man ,” Snitch says after taking a gulp. “That guy must have been with the Monolith. Holy God! Did you see how he lifted me?”

“What information do you want to sell, anyway?”

“Uh-oh!” Sensing a business opportunity, Snitch’s eyes shine up. “It’s about a renegade Spetsnaz major. The whole army is looking for him!”

“Why?”

“Dunno. I heard he finished off a whole Spetsnaz squad with a sawn-off shotgun.” Snitch cautiously looks around and lowers his voice. “I also heard that he paid Duty a visit and killed all of Voronin’s bodyguards. The general himself only survived because an emission came and they all had to hide!”

“Really?”

“Sure, man! If you put together all the men he has killed, they’d make up an army! You can imagine what the price on his head is! And I know where exactly in Limansk he’s hiding! You can sneak up to him, kill him and collect the reward at Cordon Base!”

Tarasov bites his tongue to prevent himself from smiling bitterly.

“Sounds too dangerous to take on a guy like that.”

“Damn rookie,” Snitch grumbles. “Then keep on collecting snork legs for small change, you coward.”

He retreats to a corner as far from the Top as possible.

“Damn,” a half-drunk Stalker says at the counter, “if only someone helped me!”

“What’s your problem?” Barkeep asks.

“I want to find out who plays this song with the flute, and no one can tell!”

“Sounds like Jethro Tull played ten times slower than the original,” says Pete.

Barkeep makes a bewildered grimace. “Jethro — what? This is Gurza Dreaming by a band called Addaraya, Stalker.”

“Really? My goodness, I was trying to find this out for ages!”

“Why didn’t you just ask, stupid?” Shaking his head, Barkeep pokes his temple with his index finger. “Eh, rookies…”

“But who is Gurza?” the Stalker asks.

“Who cares? If my customers love it, the song could be even about a gay bloodsucker’s wet dreams.”

“I like this song too,” Tarasov says. “Kind of resonates a bleak life, with little to hold on to.”

“Yup,” Barkeep says with a nod. “Although most of my customers are happy if they can hold on to their vodka.”

Underlining Barkeep’s words, two drunk Stalkers start moaning at a nearby table.

“Same thing day after day… When is this all going to end?”

“Ravens, black ravens circling above the grave—”

“He was a good Stalker. Let’s drink to him once more!”

“Still alive?” Barkeep greets a shabby Stalker entering the Bar. “That’s great!”

The Stalker stares at him, as if the song, the chatter and Barkeep’s voice would make him realize only now that he is actually alive.

“How did I manage that?” he asks himself, probably wondering how he made it into the safety of Rostok with his Kevlar-padded jacket torn by mutants’ fangs and a bandage over his limb.

“Did you bring me the eye of a flesh?” Barkeep asks him.

“Mission accomplished,” the Stalker proudly says and puts a transparent plastic pouch to the counter. It appears to hold a small spherical object and is bloody inside.

“Keep that radioactive shit away from the counter, stupid,” Barkeep says. He wets his finger with his tongue and counts a bundle of bank notes, and then gives the Stalker three hundred rubles. Seeing the disappointment on the Stalker’s face he sighs, opens a drawer and gives him two cans of processed meat and a handful of shotgun shells.

“Why did I bother?” the disappointed Stalker grumbles as he puts his meager reward into his rucksack. “That was a bad raid… I guess it’s fate.”

“If you gathered anything else, show me what you got.”

The Stalker glances around, as if concerned that someone might steal the artifact he is about to show.

“Aw man, dog food is more valuable than this!” Barkeep says when peeking into the Stalker’s artifact container.

“Sidorovich told me just the same! But why? I found it near a Burner anomaly that almost scorched me!”

“Sidorovich is no idiot, neither am I. That’s a Droplet, cheap and common. If you want to talk business — you know the story about the fairytale about the Goldfish? Yeah, yeah, that’s the one. There are a bunch of jokes about it too. Anyway, I need that artifact. The client is from the outside, respectable. Will you help out?”

“I’m not interested in that kind of jobs.”

“It’s up to you, Stalker.”

“There is something else I want to ask you.”

“Spill the beans.”

“Have you seen Nimble around?”

“He moved his business to the Skadovsk long ago.”

“Damn! I want to buy a Desert Eagle.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s fucking awesome!”

“I will show you something fucking awesome,” Barkeep says and fishes a rusty iron bolt from his pocket. “Here’s a bolt. Still want a Desert Eagle? Yes? Throw a bolt. This will save your life, not a handgun with a recoil that kicks like a mule. Take it and don’t let the door hit you!”

When the frustrated Stalker has left, Barkeep turns to Tarasov. “You have anything to sell? Or maybe you interested in buying stuff?”

“How much cash do we have?” Tarasov asks the Top.

“We haven’t spent a dime since entering the Zone. Let me see… we still have about fifteen hundred.”

“What can we get for 12 000 hrivnyi or 46 000 rubles?”

“No need to calculate so hard,” Barkeep replies with a smile. “I accept dollars as well. Come, have a look at my stock. Garik, let them in, will you?”

“At last now I’ll see what this dude’s been guarding,” Pete says as they enter the corridor.

The door leading to the counter opens to their left, and a short glance reveals nothing particular but the usual, if a little messy, kitchen stuff: sinks packed with dirty plates and drinking glasses, a red propane gas container feeding the small stove, drawers and cupboards. The corridor leads to a spacious room where a few cabinets and a safe stand. Two tables and a sofa with relatively clean upholstering occupy much of the space inside. The room is tidy and well-maintained. Even the two neon rods fixed to the ceiling are operational, unlike in the badly lit drinking area.