S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (36 page)

“
Gospodin
Tarasov, where did you find such an imbecile guide who can’t tell a dog from a jackal?”

“First, you will address me as Major or
komandir.
Second, Squirrel is cool. He eats bears for breakfast.”

“Yeah, I guessed that. His breath smells like that.”

“And you –”

Tarasov cuts into Squirrel’s words “Shut the fuck up, both of you! Let’s move!”

The corridor is narrow and dark, but at least man-made – a relief in itself after the maze of caverns they have left behind. At regular intervals, Tarasov sees metal doors with little hatches at eye height – unusual for a cellar of a factory, making him wonder what this place might have really been. One door stands ajar. He peeks inside, and what he observes looks like a prison cell.

“This place is creepy,” he says.

“You want to see something really creepy?” the kid replies.

“I’ve had my share of creepy things for today, thanks.”

“Too bad. Nothing is as creepy as an underground torture chamber.”

“A factory with prison cells and a torture chamber? What the hell was this place?”

“Guess what? The factory levels are above. Below – it was KGB, CIA, whatever.” Mac halts at a winding, metal stair case. “You sure you want to miss the torture room?”

“Sir! If I may ask you,” Ilchenko says behind them, “I’d like to see it.”

“Why am I not surprised? Forget sightseeing, Ilchenko. Dammit, am I the only one who wants to get out of this dungeon as soon as possible?”

“No, man! I’m with you, as always!”

“We shouldn’t tarry here too long, Major.”

“Up we go then,” Tarasov says.

The rusty staircase creaks and heaves under their steps, as if it could collapse at any moment. Two more corridors appear, which Tarasov is glad to leave unexplored as they continue their ascent.

When they reach the top of the staircase, Mac signals them to halt and looks around with his rifle poised to shoot before waving them to follow him.

“What made you hide in the deepest and darkest place?” Tarasov asks as he joins the kid above, and finds himself in a large, rectangular room with no windows. Empty plastic bottles, sheets of paper and other garbage litter the floor among turned over tables, chairs and collapsed shelves. The room has only one proper door, situated at the far end.

“Sense of safety, what else? Only a creepy guy like Ilchenko would hide in a prison cell, or a crazy one like Squirrel in the factory level…” He crosses the room and cautiously opens the door. “Appears to be clear. Let’s go…”

“Mac, wait a minute. Close the door.” Tarasov looks at his watch. It is a few minutes past midnight. “What’s behind that door?”

“The factory hall.”

“Is it over ground?”

“Of course. Why?”

“It’s pitch dark now… we should stay put until daybreak. This room looks like a safe place to rest.”

Ilchenko and Squirrel release huge sighs of relief. Even the Captain grumbles something like
it’s about time to rest
.

Mac shrugs his shoulders. “Chickening out?”

“You better watch your tongue, kid. We left Hellgate this morning, stumbled upon the Captain and crawled through the caves in just one long leg. The last time we had
havchik
was early this afternoon. We need to rest.”

“Besides, you, being a sneaky little bastard, could run away in the darkness, making this whole trip count for nothing,” Ilchenko says, taking off his rucksack and placing his machine gun on a table that still stands upright.

“Indeed! You do have a tendency to run away, Mac. Ilchenko, take that table and block the door. Just in case.”

“Spare your efforts, guys,” Mac says, waving his hand in resignation. “That wouldn’t block the door. It opens the other way, to the outside.”

“Never mind the door, man,” Squirrel says, already holding a dried sausage in his hand. “After all this mess today, there’s probably nothing coming through that we couldn’t handle.”

“Yes, especially with you around.”

“Come on, Ilch, didn’t I help you kill that bloodsucker?”

“Don’t even mention it!” the Captain exclaims. “Major, isn’t this soldier to be reprimanded for opening fire without being ordered to?”

“Ilchenko, consider yourself reprimanded,” Tarasov casually says. Ignoring the Captain’s frown, he takes a can of ‘tourist breakfast’ from his rucksack and opens it.

“How can you Stalkers eat all this shit? If I had to feed on nothing but this crap, my farts would have a bigger blast radius than a hand grenade.”

“Why, Ilchenko, are army rations any better?”

“No, sir, but at least in the army we get a leave once in a while, and with that a chance to eat better food.” No matter how much he bitches about the processed meat, Ilchenko still takes a big portion and continues munching, talking between mouthfuls. “For me, sir, surviving in the army means surviving to the next leave… I wish I could be a camel, stocking up enough
galipots, blunts, piroshky
until the next time I get something decent to eat.”

“Camels stock up on liquids, you moron.”

“Come on, kid. I didn’t mention beer and vodka because that’s self-explanatory for a real man. Which you obviously aren’t.”

Tarasov expects a snappy reply from the sharp-tongued Stalker, so Mac’s silence surprises him.

“What’s up, Mac? It’s your turn. Did Billy bite off your tongue?”

“I didn’t even hear what your pit bull was saying… Captain, does that strange light of yours never go out?”

Obviously happy that someone is talking to him, the old man jumps at the opportunity to talk.

“Never. Only when I remove it from my staff. There is another stone inside the staff and when this one is on fire and they get into… when they… meet?”

“You mean, contact?”

“Yes, young man! When I let them contact, it burns on and on and on.”

“When we get out of here, you need to explain all these things to me,” Squirrel eagerly says. “I have a great interest in artifacts myself!”

“If there is enough time, young man… Remember, the Major has no time, and he promised to do something for me.”

“Vodka, anyone?”

Tarasov waves Ilchenko’s offer away. “Please, Captain, let’s forget that for now. First we have to get out of here. And you might want to keep that bottle for later, Ilchenko. We’re not back at Bagram yet!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Offer it to the Captain, but here and now I don’t want to see you drinking. Clear?”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Hey Mac, how did you find your pet jackal anyway?” Squirrel says, before the tension in the air can thicken any more.

“A snake got to
my dog’s
mother, Squirrel. Billy is the best companion – he doesn’t tell boring jokes, doesn’t beg me for a medikit, and always warns me of dangers ahead.”

“That’s cool, man. You know, I always wondered why Stalkers didn’t use dogs in the Zone to smell out mutants and anomalies.”

“Probably because no one has ever made a protection suit with armor plates and gas masks suitable for dogs,” Tarasov says. “Besides, not even dogs could smell anything while wearing a gas mask.”

“Hmm… that’s true. But anyway, it’s still a jackal.”

“All right. You won. He was a jackal. You happy now?”

“Happy, man. But he still is.”

“No. He’s a domesticated canine now. And that makes him a dog.”

“Whatever. It won’t be my balls he’ll bite off when he grows up.”

“He will not bite my balls either, you can be sure of that.”

“Yes, he will.”

“No, he won’t!”

“You better be careful with mutants, kid. They grow quickly.” The major stretches his arms and releases a tired sigh. “All right… Mac, first watch is on you. Squirrel, you’re up next. We move out at five sharp.”

“You men can sleep,” the Captain cuts in. “I need no rest.”

“Come on, Captain. You need to rest. And who has ever heard of an officer taking the first watch? It’s grunt privilege.”

“But I really need no sleep. I had some food, now I don’t need to rest. Later, I will rest for a very, very long time.”

“That’s actually true,” Tarasov replies with a shrug. “Because once you get home, your only worry will be journalists and all… you’ll be a celebrity. A hero, even.”

“I don’t think so, Major.”

“You don’t have to. For now, take this rifle if you insist on keeping watch. I trust you still know how to handle it.”

The Captain knows. Tarasov takes his helmet off, rubs his weary eyes and lies down on the ground, crossing his fingers behind his head. His eyelids feel like lead. But before he falls into an uneasy sleep, he turns to the Captain one more time.

“And Captain… if you want me to do that favor you’ll have in mind, do not let the kid sneak away… if he has to crap, pee, do his prayers or jerk off, whatever, he will do it in front of you. That’s an order.”

“But –” the young Stalker tries to cut in.

“Shut up, Mac. Go to sleep… Kids like you need at least eight hours of sleep, but four and a half is all you’re going to get.”

Court-martial

Factory grounds, 28 September 2014, 04:55:00 AFT

The long years spent in the army have made Tarasov’s mind develop a strange sense of time. No matter how tired he’d been, when he wakes up and looks at his watch, it shows five minutes to five – just in time. Anxiously, he looks around but relaxes when he sees the seemingly tireless Captain standing at the door, the unnatural light of his artifact still glowing and Tarasov’s AK-M in his hands. Seeing that he is awake, the old man smiles at him.

This man really deserves a medal,
Tarasov thinks as he gets up and gives the snoring machine-gunner’s boots a soft kick.
Or who knows… maybe he’d be better off staying at Bagram. There’s so much he could teach the Stalkers.

“Moving out already?” Ilchenko grumbles, still half asleep.

“Get your gear and check your weapon.”

Yawning, Ilchenko gets to his feet and steps over to Mac. Ignoring the jackal pup’s growl, he kicks the still sleeping Stalker’s leg.

“Hey, dwarf. Get up.”

“Jesus, Ilchenko… I’ve had a nightmare about a bloodsucker chasing me, but waking up in the same space as you makes it appear like the sweetest dream I’ve ever had.”

“Damn it, man. I hate getting up early,” Squirrel yawns, awakened by the noise.

“
Dobro
utro
,
Captain,” Tarasov greets the old man. “Any events?”