S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (49 page)

“Lieutenants like to hurt everything, especially if it bleeds... which everything that can be hurt does. But who loves mutants, anyway?”

“The witch maybe. She only uses her blade to kill them. Or so I heard.”

“Come, on, Brother Hillbilly. I don’t buy that.”

“I swear I heard it myself from a guy in Lieutenant Bauer’s platoon, who saw it for himself! A few weeks ago, they escorted the healer on one of her forays to the west, looking for swags and whatever. They enter a cave, and what’s in there? A snake? Negative, sir!
Two
snakes.”

“No kidding?”

“The fighters stand there shitting bricks, but what does she do?
Zap
- she draws her blade, jumps to one of them monsters, and
whoosh
– off goes the snake’s head. Then she turns around, jumps,
whizz
– and that’s that! After that, Bauer’s platoon was living off snake steak for a week.”

“I could imagine Bauer and his men eating nothing but snake meat even for a month, but not that Lara Croft bullshit. Sorry!”

“True or not, it would be one badass way of killing monsters. Way more awesome than, let’s say, burning their lair with a flamethrower.”

“Or pumping them full with double-0 rounds.”

“Or mowing them down with an SAW.”

“Or blasting their heads off with a grenade.”

“Although driving through a pack of jackals with a Humvee also has its thrill, wouldn’t you agree? Anyway, that woman is old school.”

“Yeah, very. Poor little witch. Must have been quite a babe before that shit happened to her.”

“She’s still got her nice side, if you ask me.”

“If you look at her the right way.”

“Yep. Because if you look at her the wrong way, the big man himself will cut off your balls.”

“You ever see such a thing happen, Brother Hillbilly?”

“Never mind… So, about those M27-s – I wish I could test-fire one soon. Oh, Russkie, by the way…” Hillbilly says, as if suddenly becoming aware of Tarasov’s presence again. “Talking about a wish – we’re authorized to grant you a last wish.”

“Everything can be granted, except three things: booze, women and letting you go.”

“That’s why most prisoners don’t even bother asking.”

Tarasov sighs. Instead of enjoying this moment of contemplation, he feels as if his ears are already buzzing from all the chatter.

“I do have a last wish,” he says turning to them. “I want to enjoy my last sunset but your bullshit drives me mad! Could you shut up, at least?”

“Uhm… We’re supposed to say ‘yes we can’ but that means we’re still talking, doesn’t it?”
 
Polak replies. “You better ask for something else.”

“Do you have a cigarette?”

“At last! I thought you’d never ask.” Hillbilly takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and offers it to Tarasov. “I had a gut feeling that you were a smoker. You seemed so nervous without a smoke.”

Polak readily gives him a light from a Zippo.

“I was nervous because of your chatter,” Tarasov says. “But thank you for the cigarette, anyway.”

“Don’t mention it. We’re glad that we could do something for you. Ain’t we, Brother Hillbilly?”

“Second best part of our job, Brother Polak.”

Tarasov gives the guards a skeptical glance, but they seem serious. “Why so compassionate, Marine?”

“You’re Spetsnaz?” Hillbilly inquires, curiously.

Tarasov nods, smoking the cigarette.

“You’re cool guys, you Spetsnaz,” Hillbilly says. “I used to watch all the Spetsnaz videos on YouTube. Actually, they inspired me so much that I joined the Marines.”

“Uh-hum,” Tarasov mutters, unsure whether this was meant to be mocking or whether it was a bizarre way to express respect.

“Shame that a Spetsnaz officer has to die in the Pit,” Polak tells him, almost comfortingly. “Such a waste. Wouldn’t you agree, Brother Hillbilly?”

“Such is life in the Tribe, Brother Polak.”

Suddenly, Tarasov is not enjoying his last cigarette anymore. “I have one more last wish,” he says, tossing the cigarette away and giving a long sigh of resignation. “Take me back to the Brig or whatever you call the prison. I want to have a good night’s sleep before I die.”

“That’s awesome for a last wish. First time I heard it, though.”

“Spetsnaz,” Hillbilly says with an appreciative nod. “You see, Brother Polak? They’re awesome to the bitter end. Fighting
them
would be so much more fun than just martyring the rag-heads, day after day…”

A Girl with a Past

The Brig, 5 October 2014, 10:57:00 AFT

Uncertain of how much he slept, if he really slept at all with the Colonel’s words still echoing in his mind, Tarasov awakes to the sound of softly muttered prayer. The beams of light are again falling into the dungeon, allowing the major to see the Talib’s face. He looks like a man who has left all earthly worries behind, and deep in his heart, Tarasov feels envy.

“Too bad you can’t bang your head into the ground, chained to the wall by your neck as you are,” he snaps. “Looks like your God will not come to save you.”

“So you’re awake,” the Talib says, still going through his praying routine. “Today, I will be in
Paradise
, if God wills.”

“Suit yourself.”

Before the Talib could reply, the door opens and the two talkative fighters enter the dungeon.

“Upsy-daisy, rag-head! Your seventy-two women are waiting for you,” Polak says, grabbing the Talib.

“Too bad they ain’t virgins no more,” Hillbilly adds with a grin while removing the chain holding the prisoner.

Now that death is no abstract thought anymore, primordial horror appears on the Talib’s face. Kicking and screaming, he tries to free himself from the fighters’ grasp. The reek of urine bites into Tarasov’s nose. Mercilessly and without saying any more words, the guards haul the Talib out.

The door slams shut, but the doomed man’s desperate screams are still audible. Somewhere outside, a crowd has gathered. Tarasov, now alone in the darkness, wishes he could move as far away from the door as possible and hide in a dark corner.

I don’t want to hear what’s coming up next.

Even so, his ears strain to catch an audible detail of the Talib’s fate. Trying to distract himself, Tarasov begins to hum songs learned at school. He wanders through the hits of his youth, songs that were the soundtrack to a few successful and many failed love affairs. He tries to recall something from his training to prepare himself for a dreadful death. Nothing works. Not even the heavy doors can suppress the noise of screams, soon to be suppressed by the roar of a cheering crowd. In despair, he wishes the Zone was a god he could pray to so it would unleash a horde of its worst mutants upon his captors. Then the words of the two ‘brothers’ come to his mind.

That’s pathetic… The Zone will not help me. The Zone calls all men, but when men call the Zone they get nothing. The Zone is the Zone and I am nothing without it. But what is good about the Zone if it has no power beyond its boundaries?

He knows that the Zone will send no mutants to tear the Tribe’s warriors apart, or turn the stronghold into a meat-grinding anomaly. The Zone has let him down.

No one could have prepared me for something like this.

Tarasov realizes that he, a survivor of seemingly hopeless battles against mutants, mercenaries, vengeful Stalkers, anomaly fields and worse, is now in the grasp of mortal fear.

I will be listed as missing in action… and in twenty years when nobody remembers me anymore, the army will close my file as KIA. A merciful lie. And I only have my mother to think of when I die. Just like when I was born. Full circle, game over.
 

The door opens and the ‘brothers’ appear.

“Get ready, Spetsnaz. It’s nothing personal – orders are orders.”

Polak says nothing, but as he carefully removes the chain from Tarasov’s neck he gives him an encouraging pat on the back.

Tarasov lets them grab him, knowing he has no chance if he tries to resist. All he can do is to meet his fate with dignity, and that means not being dragged along the floor as the dushman allowed himself to be.

Struggling to his feet, he tries to walk for himself as the guards haul him towards the heavy wooden gate of an enclosed compound. All kinds of people have thronged here – children in tribal dress, boys in miniature uniforms and holding real weapons, fighters laughing and mocking at him. But only men. He tries not to think about the reasons why the women are not present, but for a moment, Tarasov catches a glimpse of the girl from the Colonel’s room. She is the only woman he can see in the crowd, and her scarred face is the only one looking down at him with the least hint of compassion.
She stands next to the Colonel, who looks down at the pit devoid of any emotion, surrounded by several of his Lieutenants.

Tarasov has no time to return her gaze: he is dragged through the gate into an area of narrow, sandy ground surrounded by huge blocks of wood, like an old Roman arena. A pole stands at the far end. The guards drag him to a chest-deep hole dug into the ground close to the pole, and the major spots the remains of a human being not far away. The head and torso have been smashed to a bloody pulp, presumably by the stones that are lying around the corpse.

Thus far, Tarasov has faced his fate bravely, but upon seeing the hole and the corpse, he pulls together all his strength to resist.

“Not like this!” he screams. “I did nothing bad to you!”

“Save your breath for later,” Hillbilly says. “As an officer, you will be spared of the hole. It’s the big man’s orders.” He binds Tarasov tightly to the pole. “Die bravely, Spetsnaz.”

The Pit, 11:52:37 AFT

The rope cuts into Tarasov’s flesh as he desperately tries to free his wrists. The guards have done their work well: no matter how he struggles, his efforts are all in vain. All he can do is stare at the wooden gate in front of him. He knows that whoever comes through it will bring his death.

“Brothers and sisters of the Tribe!” The voice sounding over the crowd is cruel and cold. “We have here a soldier from an army that once brought death to your people. They laid the way for the destruction that came down upon you at the hands of those who call themselves the students of God. Now they are back to spy on us. Tell me, what is the just punishment for such trespassers?”

“Death,” the crowd roars.

“Brave women of the Tribe, you who have suffered so much! The time of
badal
has come. Cherish the sweetness of justice!”

Angry female voices hiss from behind the gate.

Maybe they are discussing who will throw the first stone. I must free myself before they come. I won’t make it but at least I’ll die putting up a fight.

The shackles still hold, remaining intact as he helplessly watches the gate open. Led by an elderly crone, dozens of women enter the Pit with faces as hard as the stones in their hands. A cold breeze stirs up the black scarf of the leader as she stands motionless in front of him, her hand clutching the stone she intends to throw at his head.