S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (44 page)

Hostile fire tapers off as the Stalkers move out of rifle range. Occasionally, just to keep the Chinese at bay, Tarasov fires a few shots. By the time he reaches the ridge, his own panting and Squirrel’s groaning is all he can hear. Casting a final glance back before descending the safe side of the mountain, he notices smoke rising over the bunker and grins triumphantly. The grin disappears from his face as he hears a loud, roaring drone. In a few seconds, a black helicopter emerges from the valley below.

“Squirrel!” he screams. “Can you still fire that RPG? We must take that chopper down!”

“Help me kneel up,” the Stalker shouts back. “Load this shit!”

Tarasov quickly removes the aluminum cap from the grenade and, with the
piezo
-electronic release bolt now open, places the grenade into the launcher tube.

“Ready!”

Pain is all over Squirrel’s face as he aims the rocket launcher and fires. The projectile misses. Tarasov quickly takes the other grenade from his back. The chopper looms closer and opens fire with its on-board machine guns, showering them with stone splinters and dust as the bullets hit the ground close to them.

“Bring it down,” Tarasov desperately shouts. “Bring it down or we’re finished!”

Peering out of their cover, the Stalker aims for seconds that seem to be endless before he fires the launcher at last, this time scoring a hit. The grenade detonates towards the chopper’s rear, sending the helicopter spinning around for a few seconds before it crashes into the mountainside, hitting the rocks with a loud, shrieking noise. Tarasov grabs Squirrel’s shoulder and drags him over the ridge at last.

Eye for an eye, chopper for a chopper,
the major thinks, grimly, and rushes down into the valley, carrying the Stalker on his shoulders to safety.

Wilderness, 16:27:00 AFT

“You’ll be limping for a day or two, but you’ll survive,” Tarasov says reassuringly while fixing a bandage on Squirrel’s wounded leg. “No need to look so gloomy. Here you go!”

After doing whatever he could to ease his companion’s pain, the major goes to the entrance of the shallow cave he has chosen as their shelter and looks out, watching for any signs of pursuit. There are none. Nor is there any sign of mutants or even other Stalkers.

“All this shit for a couple of food cans,” Squirrel bemoans. “This was the worst raid of my life.”

“Apart from you getting wounded, we’ve been successful. We have lots of intel now, and the slit-eyes will be licking their wounds instead of harassing the Stalkers around Ghorband... at least that’s what Bone had been hoping for.”

“Yeah, man, that really gives a new meaning to my life. Making Bone happy and getting shot in my fucking leg in exchange.”

Despite Tarasov’s best efforts, Squirrel’s wound had gone from bad to worse. Before long, he would be unable to walk. Tarasov had already taken to carrying some of the guide’s gear but quite soon, the major knows, he will be carrying Squirrel
and
his gear.

Tarasov contemplates for a moment, and then opens his artifact container. “Look… I don’t know what this artifact does, but it feels good to have it active, somehow. Here, take it, it’s yours,” he says, giving the Heartstone to the Stalker. “Maybe it will speed up your healing, I don’t know.”

Squirrel’s eyes almost pop out of their sockets when he sees the artifact. “Look at this - a blue, opaque shell with a red core, like a big chunk of glass… But… this is a Heartstone, man! That’s incredible! Where did you find it?”

“Uhm… close to that log hut at Hellgate, while collecting firewood with Mac. I didn’t know it was a Heartstone.”

“And you’ll still let me keep this?”

“Sure.”

“Oh, man, if it wasn’t for my busted leg, I’d dance right now! Now I only need the Heart of the Oasis, a Wish Granter Shard and the Compass artifact to have everything I want! And for you, this trip is for free! Wherever you want to go, the
Panjir
Valley
,
Kabul
, I will guide you everywhere for free!”

“Sounds like a deal, Squirrel. But now let’s eat something.”

He opens a can of ‘tourist breakfast’ and offers it to the Stalker, who is still happily admiring his new artifact with a broad smile.

I hope it will have a good effect on his wound. Otherwise we’ll be really screwed.

After his hunger is satisfied, Tarasov opens his PDA and tunes it to Bone’s frequency.

“Bone, this is Tarasov.
Mission
accomplished.”

“
That’s excellent news
.”
                    

“Your intel was wrong. It wasn’t really a base… it was an AA battery. We took care of it.”

“
Doesn’t matter… this hit should give our boys some respite. Good job
.”

 
“One more thing: the place was manned by Chinese. Special forces, commandos or whatever.”

Bone falls silent for a minute. “
Keep that to yourself for now, Major
.”

“Returning to Bagram now. Running low on ammo. Out.” Tarasov turns to Squirrel. “Bone has asked us to keep the Chinese presence a secret. Can you keep your mouth shut?”

“I guess so… it’s no wonder if Bone is scared, man. The last thing we need is a confrontation with them… if it’s really the damned Chinese out there.”

Tarasov removes his helmet and rubs his eyes. Wild thoughts are buzzing in his head and he cannot share even half of his concerns with the Stalker.

“I don’t know, Squirrel… I don’t know. This whole thing stinks like a bloodsucker’s lair. In any case, let’s get our asses back to Bagram. If we’re lucky, we can at least make it to Ghorband before nightfall.”

“This food is rotten,” the Stalker says spitting out a piece of greasy meat. “I wish I was back at Borys’ den, having a shot of vodka...
Damn!
I never believed I’d ever want to see that wretched place again… Oh man, I can hardly wait to see the Shrink’s face when I show him my Heartstone!”

 
19:40:05 AFT

These jackals were either very dumb or very hungry,
Tarasov thinks while reloading his Vintorez.

The small pack of mutants had been far below the path that descends steeply from the hillside into a barren canyon, but knowing how sharp their ears are, he didn’t want to take the chance. Sneaking is no option anymore with Squirrel barely able to drag himself, and they’re making further noise when they occasionally tread upon loose stones, causing the rocks to roll down the path.

Approaching the carcasses, he sees what they were fighting over: the remains of what had once been two Talib fighters. The stench of putrid flesh assails his nostrils as he steps closer, but it’s the sight of what has been done to them that causes a shiver to run down his spine.

The
Talibs
’ genitals have been stuffed into the mouths of their decaying faces, which still bear expressions of horrible pain as they gaze down from wooden poles to their own corpses. Their weapons – old and battered AMD-65 assault rifles – lie in the dirt, together with the few other belongings the dead Taliban once carried. Judging by the state of decay, whatever happened here had occurred only two or three days ago.

“Obviously it wasn’t the mutants that killed them,” the major says, motioning his thumb toward the corpses. “They aren’t advanced in evolution enough to be capable of such a thing.”

Squirrel’s face hardens.
 
“No, man… This is how the Tribe deals with its enemies.”

“Aren’t they supposed to be cannibals? I see three rifles on the ground, but only dead dushmans.”

“I’m not too keen to find out for sure. Let’s get the hell out of here, man… Let’s move!”

Before they leave the grim scene, Tarasov draws his pistol and shoots the corpses.

“Just to make sure you don’t turn into zombies,
baystrukhi
.”

“Could you make a little more noise, please?” Fear lingers in Squirrel’s voice as they move along a dried-up creek. He draws some water from the camelback fastened to his armored suit and looks at his PDA. “No way to make it to Ghorband today… we better hide somewhere for the night.”

Twilight had already fallen and they are still some distance from decent shelter. The going had been slow, largely due to the guide’s wound. The artifact has indeed improved the guide’s condition, but enough pain still remained to hinder Squirrel’s pace. A rest of one or two days would help even more, but they had both used up most of their ammunition during their raid on the Chinese outpost and, with being low on medikits and bandages as well, Tarasov knows that it wouldn’t be advisable to linger too long in this unwelcome area.
  

Suddenly, Squirrel stops.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know,” the guide replies with a whisper. “Look at that.”

Tarasov switches the night vision on and peers forward into the valley. There’s something big and man-made ahead of them, partly obscured by bushes as if someone had wanted to hide it.

“What’s that?”

“Still no idea, man… let’s stay put.”

A pebble falls from the rocks on the hillside and Squirrel immediately raises his weapon. Tarasov too turns his rifle in the direction of the noise, but sees only rocks. Nothing moves in the night vision’s flickering green display.

“Nothing. Keep your eyes open.”

“Dammit,” Squirrel whispers. “I hope it’s a shelter… an abandoned bunker or whatever. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to drag myself along.”

After a few minutes, their curiosity prevails. Slowly, careful not to step on anything that would make a noise, they move closer. Tarasov gives a sign. Squirrel, limping, moves behind a boulder and aims his rifle forward to provide covering fire if needed. Tarasov, crouching from cover to cover, approaches the high bushes hiding the strange object.

His eyes suddenly explode with pain. He tears the night vision goggles from his face but the blinding brightness remains. Helpless, he covers his eyes with his hand. Squirrel’s rifle is silent, meaning he must also be blinded – or dead.

“Freeze!”
a voice yells in English, as loud and sharp on the ears as the light is blinding to the eyes. Slowly, Tarasov slumps down to his knees.

“We mean no harm,” he shouts back, in English. “Don’t shoot!”

“You are sitting ducks, scavengers. Drop your weapons, or you will be dead ducks.”

He does as commanded and raises his hands in surrender. No way could he fight an invisible enemy. He hears the noise of several heavy boots approaching but cannot see his captors. Someone roughly takes off his helmet and handcuffs him from behind. A kick in his back sends him to the ground. A body lands in the dust at his side. He recognizes Squirrel’s heavy breathing. Someone barks short commands.

“Secure the prisoners!”

“Sir!”

“And switch off those fucking high-beams on the Humvee.”

Strong arms grab them and manhandle them into the vehicle. Metal doors slam and Tarasov detects the sickening odor of sweat, engine oil and cordite.

“The Tribe,” Squirrel groans, “Mother of God, it’s the Tribe.”