His last thought is that of Saria letting her tribal gown slide off her shoulders and baring her full breasts, where sweat glimmers like pearls on the olive skin. Then everything goes black.
32
The small shop at the main street of Prybirsk is no different from the thousands of similar establishments in the Ukrainian countryside. It is half shop, half drinking hole, with a round table in the middle where patrons can lean on because there are no chairs, and a shelf loaded with goods that get more expensive and dustier the higher they are placed. There is an electric kettle on the counter, next to a small rack with chocolate bars and chewing gum. A piece of paper fastened to the rack tells anyone interested that a Nescafé costs ten hrivnyi.
Ignoring the four costumers standing at the table and talking in a language he doesn’t understand, an old shopkeeper counts his money. Occasionally, he wets his fingers with his tongue. It’s a lot of profit for such an early morning, but the Bear type artifact detector he had just sold to his customers fetched a good price.
Through the door left ajar, one can see a factory building looming beyond the row of low village houses across the road.
In front of the house facing the shop, a topless UAZ-469 jeep is parked next to the house facing the shop, soaking in the gray drizzle. Rust spots dot its olive-green paint all over. At dawn, it still belonged to a farmer in a village about forty kilometers away. Knowing that this is the kind of car they need for the first part of their trip, Tarasov hot-wired the jeep by connecting the primary power supply and the electrical circuits. Before driving off, they left their Skoda in the jeep’s place with a hand-written note asking the owner to return it to the car rental agency in Kiev. To cheer him up, the note was accompanied by a handsome amount of dollars, at least twice of what the nearly wrecked jeep is worth.
“The world is ruled by cast-iron laws,” Pete says looking gloomily into his white plastic cup with lukewarm coffee inside. “It’s horribly boring. I thought by spitting at my father’s legacy, you know, running AWOL and doing things he would never approve of… thinking all that would break those laws. But I no longer know how to break those laws. Looks like my rebellion was useless.”
“Agreed,” the Top says taking a slow sip from his own cup. “Life’s boring out there. To live in the Middle Ages was interesting.
iImagine, you step out of your little village and suddenly the world is full of mysteries and unknown dangers.”
“That’s exactly what we’re about to do,” Tarasov says, touching the Top’s cup with his. “Wait… I think Sawyer is here. Great!”
He steps out into the rain, but immediately recoils as a red SUV brakes from its neck-breaking speed and splashes muddy water all around.
“Howdy!”
The hunter steps out with a friendly smile. He puts his hat on the top of the car and adjusts his hair, then courteously opens the other door. To Tarasov’s bewilderment, an elegantly dressed, beautiful woman appears. She gracefully lifts her long coat as she steps closer.
“This lady was so kind as to agree to come with us to the Zone,” Sawyer says taking a rucksack and two rifle bags from the back seat. “She’s a very courageous woman. Her name is—uhm, what’s your name?”
“Are you really a Stalker?” she asks ignoring the hunter and looking Tarasov lasciviously up and down.
“Wait—I’ll explain everything,” Tarasov tells Sawyer. He slowly skirts the car.
“Go away,” he rudely tells her.
“What a cretin!” the woman says. Without hesitation, she sits into the driver’s seat and drives off.
“Hey! That’s my rented Range Rover!” Sawyer shouts. “And my hat!”
“It’s here,” Tarasov says picking it up from the mud and shaking the rainwater off. “You did get drunk after all.”
“Me?” Sawyer says stepping inside the shop. “What do you mean? I had a drink, like one half of the world does. The other half gets drunk. Including women and children. I just had a drink though. Damn it, what a mess here!”
“It’s our last stop before entering the Zone. Go on, drink. We’ve got time.”
“How about a glass for the road?” Sawyer asks. “What do you think?”
“Alcoholism is the scourge of mankind,” Tarasov grumbles. “At least early in the morning.”
“All right, we’ll drink beer.”
While Tarasov gets four bottles of Obolon from the shopkeeper, Sawyer rubs his temples.
“You know, I couldn’t sleep last night with the jet lag and all, so I educated myself. I read a lot about the place on the internet you want to take me to. Thank God for wifi.”
“Don’t believe half of it,” Tarasov says placing the bottles onto the table. “There’s all kind of lies about the Zone. Some idiots even say it was created by radioactivity.”
“Yeah, damned internet,” Pete says. “Twitter, Facebook… it’s all bullshit. Imagine, someone says ’I saw it, Lady Gaga has a dick’ and everyone goes oh! and ah! And suddenly it turns out that the guy was lying, just having fun. There’s no real truth anymore, just what people want to hear.”
“Is it what you think about all the time?” Hartman asks.
“God forbid! In fact, I don’t think much. It’s not good for me.”
“Tell me, Sawyer, now that you know where we’re heading—why did you let yourself get mixed up in all this?” Tarasov asks. “What do you need this trip for? You could have stayed in Kiev and have whatever fun you want. You seem to have more than enough money.”
“Money’s boring,” shrugs the Australian.
Nooria gives him a stern look. “Have you been used up?”
“What? Yeah, I guess, in a way. I’m not a hunter but a survivalist, actually. You know, my family was always rich. First I was driven by fear over losing it. What if one day I wake up with all gone? You could call it paranoia, I guess. But then it became a passion. I always need a fix of danger. I’m no fear junkie, no, nothing like that. I need the feeling of facing fear and being able to overcome it. Proving myself. If you think I’m your ordinary rich tourist prick — I don’t give a damn, no, but you’d be very wrong about me.”
“You’ve been SASR?” the Top curiously asks. “Special Air Service Regiment?”
“Nah. I’d never be able to bring myself to shoot at other human beings. I’m just a nature-loving man needing the odd danger to remind me I’m still alive.”
“That makes two of us,” Pete says. “Only that I need stuff for that.”
“I thought you were coming clean, little brother.”
“Wouldn’t know, Nooria. Being off for… how long? A week maybe? There was a time I thought I couldn’t live without it even for a day.”
“But you do want to come clean, no?”
Pete shrugs. “Why should I, anyway? Tell me one damned reason.”
“To live.”
“Spare me such clichés, please.”
Through the splashing rain comes the faint rattle, slowly getting closer. A train engine’s whistle pierces into the quiet morning.
“Do you hear it? Our train.”
Tarasov walks to the UAZ, followed by his companions. As if testing if the rusted car could fall apart or not, the Top gives its tire a soft kick. Pete suddenly halts.
“Dammit! I forgot to buy cigarettes.“
“Don’t go back,” says Tarasov.
“Why?”
“You must not.“
Tarasov makes a gesture that appears more like ‘brings bad luck’ than ‘we’re pressed for time’.
“Are you Stalkers all like this?”
“Like what?”
“Believing such nonsense.” Pete sighs and puts away the box with his last cigarette. “Okay, I’d better leave it for a rainy day.”