Hoping that the rain-soaked engine will start, Tarasov connects the ignition cables. To his relief, the battery comes to life and, after a squeaks and stutters, powers the engine up. “Keep your eyes peeled for army patrols.”
The drizzle turns into heavy rain. Driving slowly, he steers the UAZ into a narrow street flanked by dull brick walls. Tarasov doesn’t even bother to switch on the windscreen wipers, presuming they wouldn’t work in this decrepit car. He releases the windshield and bends it forward over to the hood.
After about a hundred meters, they reach a short section where the wall had collapsed. Tarasov turns left and drives through into an alley between two rows of old, dilapidated buildings. The smell of damp rot coming from the glassless windows can be detected even through the rain.
They are driving through a gate that appears like the entrance to the factory area beyond the village. The ground is now solely mud, as if it had never seen tarmac, but the silent buildings around tell of many years of heavy industrial activity.
They have barely crossed under the gate when Tarasov stops the car and switches off the headlights. After a minute, all hear the noise of a motorcycle approaching.
“Get down!”
Following Tarasov’s command, the travelers duck. At the far end of the alley between the gate house and a low building that looks like an old warehouse, a motorbike appears. The soldier driving it glances at the UAZ.
“Don’t move!” Tarasov whispers.
The patrolman apparently sees nothing particular about the UAZ. In its dilapidated state, the car blends in perfectly with the abandoned industrial buildings. He adjusts the AKM assault rifle hanging from his neck and drives on.
Tarasov waits a few seconds until the motorbike’s noise recedes, then starts the engine up, reverses the car and drives on once more to the left, in the opposite direction to where the patrol went. Now the village houses have disappeared completely and they drive through a maze of blackened factory halls, following the rails running along. They lead to a massive gate. Tarasov stops the UAZ at the entrance of a factory hall.
“Top, go and see if anyone’s there!”
Jumping out from the idling car, Hartman cautiously walks towards the other end of the hall.
“Move it, for God’s sake!”
The Top quickens his steps. He looks around in the alley running parallel to the one where the car is waiting.
“There’s no one here!”
“Go to the other exit!” Tarasov shouts back.
They hear the noise of the train again and the reason for Tarasov’s discomfort becomes clear at once. The Top peeks out to the alley and can barely pull his head back when the train appears on the rails. It rattles down the alley at only an arm’s length from the brick walls and shaking them, even though the engine only has a single flat-bed wagon in tow. It carries a strange device resembling a set of transformers for a gigantic utility pole.
Tarasov picks him up at the exit across the hall, slowing down the UAZ only as much as allows the Top to find a hold and jump inside. He is about to take a sharp turn to the left when the patrolman’s bike appears beyond the corner.
Tarasov presses against the brake at full force and quickly reverses the car.
“Where on earth did you look, Top?”
Luckily for them, the patrolman must have been away to attend nature’s call or gave in to another distraction because by the time he sits back on his bike, the UAZ is already gone.
Hiding behind a corner, Tarasov watches him leave. Then he rushes back to the car and drives it at neck-breaking speed into another narrow alley. The Top shares a puzzled gaze with Sawyer and Pete—the alley appears to lead back to where they were coming, directly to the rails leading to the gate.
Then, through a cloud of mist, the headlights of the train engine appear. Seemingly out of nowhere, a sleepy-looking worker appears with a cigarette in his mouth. He opens the gate, giving the gate wings just enough time to fling open before the train proceeds through. Before he can close them again, the sight he sees makes the cigarette fall from his lips—the old UAZ charges after the train as if it were towed by the engine itself.
The worker shrugs and closes the gate, thinking about all the strange things he has seen here on the outer frontier of the Exclusion Zone.
Unknown to Tarasov’s four companions, the gate closing behind them now also separates them from the outside world, that Stalkers refer to as the Big Land. Even if their leader fully concentrates on driving, the foreboding mist and the strange industrial shapes lurking in the gloom make them suspect the proximity of the Zone. Nooria is the only one who has the shadow of a smile playing around her mouth, while her eyes tell of exhilaration in place of anxiety.
Tarasov slows down, leaving more distance between them and the train driving ahead of them. Misunderstanding this, Sawyer pats his shoulder.
“We’re in the Exclusion Zone already?”
“No.”
“So that’s what you meant by hijacking a train?” the Top asks.
“No. That part comes now.”
“Oh crap,” sighs Pete. “I thought we were already there!”
Far ahead, a searchlight shines through the mist and a heavily guarded checkpost becomes visible through the gloom. Tall, barbed wire fences run left and right from the rails which are blocked by a heavy barrier. The barbed wire fence forms a corridor where it runs along the tracks, apparently to prevent anyone to jump on or off the trains passing through. Soldiers in full battle gear man the tower looming above the checkpost and the barrier itself.
Tarasov halts the car and switches off the headlights. He raises his right hand in a signal to everyone to hold still.
“We have exactly five seconds to get through there without getting killed,” he whispers.
The barrier slowly goes up and the train halts in the barbed wire corridor. A dozen soldiers give it a thorough search.
“Looks like a damn Checkpoint Charlie,” the Top says under his breath.
The train sounds its horn and gets into motion.
“Brace yourself,” Tarasov whispers. “Let’s pray this junk doesn’t let us down!”
He gives full throttle. The UAZ darts after the train, almost slipping off the rails and reaches at in the moment when the soldiers are about to lower the barrier. Barely able to keep the car on the slippery rails, Tarasov engages the differential lock and shifts into second gear. The tortured car emits a thick cloud of exhaustion fumes.
For a second, surprise seems to render the soldiers motionless. Then a loudspeaker crackles.
“ALERT! STALKERS DETECTED! OPEN FIRE! OPEN FIRE!”
Luckily for them, none of the guards has enough time to take proper aim. The fire of their hip-fired AKMs misses, and the precious load of the flatbed wagon hinders the guards manning the watchtower to lay fire on them.
Or so Tarasov hopes. In an instant, a heavy machine gun starts barking from above.
“So this is where they put that damned RPK from Cordon Base!” he yells through the whizz of bullets.
Only a few meters left until the train leaves the barbed wire corridor.
“We’re sitting ducks!” the Top shouts. “Drive, drive!”
Two bullets hit the hood. Hot steam jets through the holes immediately. The slow train has not entirely passed through yet when Tarasov takes a sharp turn to the left. The Top watches with dread as the wagon’s rear buffer is about to pierce into the car. Then it only shaves off the right mirror as the UAZ jolts off the rails, slides through the mud and turns right behind the corner of a ruined industrial building.
Tarasov drives through halls filled with debris and decrepit machinery. Glass fallen from the broken windows shatters and squeaks under the tires. They hit a pile of wooden crates that collapses behind them, one smashing against the UAZ and missing Nooria’s head by a hair. With brakes squeaking, the car comes to a halt.