Balazs Pataki - S.T.A.L.K.E.R. - Southern Comfort

“Komandir …,” says the sergeant, “With all due respect, I saw it first.”

“Duly noted,” Tarasov replies, as he carefully lets the artifact slide into a container on his armored suit. “Ever heard about chain of command?”

The sergeant seems disgruntled but Tarasov ignores him. It would be fair to divide the price with his men if he decides to sell the artifact. Sidorovich, the best-known trader in the Zone, pays generous amounts but the scientists in Yantar pay even better. That would however mean a long trek to their field laboratory, while Sidorovich’s den is close to their base. He will worry about it later. First they need to get out of the underground facility. The squad slowly proceeds between the anomalies towards the tunnel end, where an opening in the wall leads into a staircase.

“Up we go,” Tarasov says but as soon as he climbs up the first stairs, he sees even more anomalies ahead. He signals a stop and takes a pistol magazine from his vest. Back in Pripyat, he learned from Strelok how to use bolts and screw-nuts to determine the size of an anomaly. His own device is more elegant. The spring inside the magazine pushes the shells upwards and he only has to direct them into the anomaly with his thumb. Landing in the sizzling substance, they immediately dissolve with a sharp, hissing sound.

“No way through this one,” he says with frustration. “Damn, I had a feeling that we wouldn’t get out so easily.”

“Maybe we can neutralize the anomaly if we ask Shumenko to piss into it.”

“Ha, ha, ha, Lieutenant,” replies the sergeant with a fake laugh. “If you want to know, ever since I visited that bitch you talked about my piss is burning so much that I could blast a hole in the wall with it.”

“Did you at least manage to blast her hole?”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Tarasov orders. “No time to relax yet. We’ve got to backtrack and find another way out.”

“Shit,” Ivanchuk swears. Tarasov responds with a grin.

“You still like this job, Lieutenant?”

“I do, komandir … I was just mentioning that I dislike visiting places I’ve already been to.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, if we are lucky, our mercenary friends tried to retreat and ran directly into Fortress One. If not… we kick more ass. Let’s move.”

Either because they killed everyone on their way in or because the mercenaries were indeed ambushed upon trying to leave the catacombs, the squad makes its way back into the laboratory undisturbed. Chumak carefully skirts around the dead bloodsucker, its lifeless eyes still glowing as if it could jump up any second. As he passes it by, Kolesnik shoots it again.

“Just to make sure, komandir .”

“Don’t waste your ammunition. Move!” Tarasov says, getting nervous, knowing this is the worst time. All missions become most dangerous when they are almost over. Men tend to lose patience and caution with disastrous results.

In a minute, they are back to the first tunnel they traversed, with the ladder leading up to the shaft and out of the catacombs. He notices that the lieutenant has his headlamp switched on. Damn, does he want to get a headshot?

“Switch off your headlamp, Lieutenant!”

“Yes, Major… It’s just that the night vision makes my eyes pop from their sockets… and now this headache…”

Tarasov suddenly also feels pain creeping into his skull.

“What is that?” Chumak asks and steps forward, emboldened by the proximity of the exit shaft. Before Tarasov can order him back he hears a faint, sharp noise, rapidly strengthening into a deep howl rolling through the darkness.

“Controller!” Shumenko screams in horror.

A loud bang hits Tarasov’s brain. It’s not transmitted through his ears — the sound is already echoing inside his head, as if his brain was exploding. But it’s Ivanchuk who falls to his knees as Chumak strikes his pistol and shoots the lieutenant in the face.

“Get into cover!” screams Tarasov desperately. Bullets whizz towards the dark end of the tunnel. He curses himself for not having a shotgun or at least an AKSU — the small magazine of his rifle will not be enough for this kill. Realizing the controller didn’t see him yet because he still has some willpower of his own, he charges forward. It’s not fair, flashes through his painful mind, so close to the end, it’s just not fair! He sees the silhouette of the monster against the red flashes of the last emergency light. Having finished off the soldiers, it now tries to take hold of his mind. But desperation and rage seize his muscles and in two seconds, he reaches the mutant. It towers above him with its mass of brawny flesh. Tarasov empties the whole magazine into its torso. The controller tries to step back. He senses its aggression vanish, as if he himself had absorbed it while he smashes the mutant’s head again and again with the butt of his rifle until the weapon breaks.

Suddenly the tight, fiery ring that gripped his skull recedes then disappears. The bang-bang is gone. His panting sounds deafening in the sudden silence.

Blood flows from his ears. He switches on his headlamp and sees Kolesnik getting up from the ground, groaning. Then Shumenko rises, holding his head as if still in pain. Chumak kneels above Ivanchuk’s body. He has torn the gas mask off his face. From his eyes, still maddened by horror, tears are flowing.

“I didn’t… I didn’t want…”

“No.” Tarasov’s voice is hoarse and trembling. He takes the Fort from the technician. “You’ve been… controlled.”

He looks at the lieutenant’s body. Goddammit. Of all the wounds a bullet can inflict, he most hates the sight of a headshot. It’s bad enough to realize how thin the layers of muscle, body tissues and skin are that make the difference between a pile of organs and a human form. But a face, distorted into a dreadful yawn by a last traction of the muscles and the scattered brain protruding from a cracked skull, still emanating body warmth into the chilly air, is something else.

Tarasov feels the urge to vomit but pulls himself together. Kolesnik is weaker. He leans against the wall and throws up. Only Shumenko remains on his feet, expecting Tarasov to say something. The major clears his throat.

“Sergeant, take this,” he says, reaching to his waist and handing the artifact to the soldier.

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Take it. Tomorrow, you and Kolesnik will go on a patrol to Yantar.”

“I understand,” the sergeant quietly replies. “I’ll send the lieutenant’s share to his family.”

Tarasov nods. Together they help Chumak to his feet. Kolesnik joins their effort. His armor is darkened by stains of vomit. Tarasov steps to the ladder and reaches for his radio transmitter.

“Fortress One, this is Condor One.”

“This is Fortress One, over.”

“Mission accomplished. We are at the shaft. We got a KIA. Send down a harness. Over.”

“Wilco, Condor One. Over and out.”

By the time the lifting harness is lowered from above, Tarasov has already attached a gas mask to Ivanchuk’s face — no need for the other soldiers to see a comrade like that. Carefully, they fasten the harness around the body. Shumenko, already out of the shaft, waves to the pilot and Lieutenant Vasiliy Ivanchuk’s body sets out on its journey to a cemetery somewhere in the far Lugansk region. He waves to his remaining men.

“Let’s get to the chopper!”

When Tarasov finally emerges from the shaft, his knees tremble to such an extent that he has to sit down in the grass. He is the kind of soldier who doesn’t worry too much before a mission and keeps a cool head throughout, but once the danger is over, all the fear and excitement his mind kept at bay under duress unloads in a heavy, almost nauseating wave. Lieutenant Nabokov offers him a cigarette. Tarasov cannot refuse it.