“Chort! Blyadiviy Stalker, kushay blin!”
Swearwords are the last they hear from the soldiers as the draisine gains speed and drives off with them into the mist. A few bullets still fly by but miss them by far.
“Phew,” Sawyer sighs. “This ain’t got nothing to do with Ukrainian hospitality I read about in Lonely Planet.”
“We were lucky,” Tarasov says, darting a concerned look behind. “Those grunts were surprised at us shooting back… Stalkers usually don’t carry guns at this stage.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t blame them for killing every damned grunt when they return from the Zone with all the heavy gear they get,” the Top says and wipes sweat from his forehead.
“Stalkers don’t make it back.”
“How come?”
“Real ones do not return. They stay.”
“Are there women in the Zone?”
“No, Sawyer. Sorry to disappoint.”
“Aw! You didn’t tell me that! Because that really sucks, mate. How can a man survive like that? Don’t tell me everyone’s gay there!”
“Sometimes I think the Zone is a woman.”
“You mean, jealous and demanding?”
“Beautiful too,” Tarasov smiles at the Australian.
“And we’re drivin’ into her at full speed like…”
Nooria clears her throat. “Can soldiers catch up with us?”
“Those grunts fear it like the plague,” Tarasov says slowly shaking his head.
“Fear what?”
He doesn’t reply.
The rain has stopped. By now the weak sun has climbed high enough on the southern horizon to make the mist slowly fade away. Gradually, the mist reveals an area spoilt by derelict metal structures, half-ruined buildings, piles of rotting longs and boat wrecks that hint at a river in the vicinity. Broken gantries loom like one-handed giants. A utility line follows the course of the rails; after one or two kilometers, the cables end hanging lose from the towers as if intentionally cut, making their steel structure appear like motionless sentinels guarding over this land that might have been thriving once, but has sunk into oblivion and decay long ago.
“Wow!” Pete say pointing at a tiny, wrecked car. “Someone dumped his toy car here?”
“It was called a Zaporozhets,” Tarasov replies looking elsewhere.
The draisine progresses along the bumpy rails with a monotonous clacking. To Tarasov it sounds like music and his heart beats faster on the thought of getting closer to the Exclusion Zone with each meter they make.
Gradually, the gloomy industrial structures become sparser. Low hills appear, covered by lush, overgrown grass.
A brown shape appears through thin fog. Then two more, moving slowly closer to the rails. Stirred by something moving in the lifeless landscape, Tarasov reaches for his rifle. But when the shapes become clearer he smiles.
“Aw my goodness!” shouts an astonished Sawyer. “Przevalsky horses!”
The draisine doesn’t seem to disturb the small troop of a dozen sturdy, tan colored, pony-like animals. Hearing the noise of the approaching draisine, a few horses curiously rise their round heads from the thick grass they are grazing. Staying at a safe distance from the rails, the strongest jerks its neck where the black mane stands up straight, snorts and continues with its breakfast. With their lead stallion not signaling danger, the rest of the troop follows suit, calmly wagging their black tails.
“Don’t even think about shooting them,” Tarasov says.
“Now why would anyone harm such wonderful creatures?” Sawyer resentfully says.
“I just wanted to have this said.”
“Are those mutants?” Pete asks.
Sawyer breaks out in laughter, but Tarasov only smiles.
“I think we had such a horse in my village,” Nooria says, pensively.
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Tarasov says gently putting his hand on her shoulder. “You’re a Hazara, and if legends are true, Hazaras are Genghis Khan’s descendants. His warriors used to ride this kind of horses.”
“Tough little sons of bitches,” the Top murmurs.
“Survive everything and everywhere, yes,” agrees Tarasov. ”One could say, they’re the only thing that remains of Genghis Khan’s empire. Who knows, maybe he himself was riding an ancestor of the horses we’ve just seen.” A sudden shadow comes over his face. ”And what has remained of our empire?”
He waves his hand toward the decaying ruins they have left behind. His companions don’t reply.
The rails ascend a low slope covered by a sparse cluster of alder trees. Despite the season only a few have turned yellow. The higher it gets, the more the draisine slows down, until it reaches the top of the hill where it finally comes to full halt.
Surrounded by tall, lush grass, two half-fallen utility poles stand atop the hill, resembling wooden crosses in a forsaken cemetery. The thick spider webs hanging from their crossbeams appear like ghosts.
Tarasov takes a deep breath.
“Nu vot… mi doma,” he says. His voice appears strangely cheerful in this foreboding place. “We’re home at last.”
Stretching his arms and legs, he gets off the draisine.
“How quiet it is,” Nooria says.
“This is the quietest place in the world,” Tarasov says and offers his hand to help her off. “You’ll see for yourselves.”
“Is this the Zone at last?”
“We are in a weird place, Sawyer, that’s not the Big Land anymore but the Zone hasn’t claimed yet. Call it the Rim. The real Zone is beyond the hills ahead.”
“Your Zone is like those wooden dolls I saw at the hotel’s souvenir shop,” Sawyer says. ”You know, you take one apart and there’s a smaller one inside. In the end you’ll show us a tiny room and tell us, ’well mates—this is it!’”
“Yeah… you mean matryioski. As for me, this is already the Zone. The wind is coming up… Can you feel it? The grass… Excuse me for a minute.”
With cautious steps, Tarasov disappears in the overgrown bushes. His companions begin to remove their gear from the draisine.
“So beautiful here,” Pete says. Standing on the draisine, he looks in the direction where Tarasov said the real Zone begins. Beyond patches of mist lingering over the valley, huge oak trees dot a dense forest of birch and alder trees; their striking color appears like yellow explosions in the dark green canopy. “Not a single soul here.”
“What about us?” Sawyer asks.
“Five men can’t spoil the place in one day.”
“Why? They can,” the Top says. “Besides, Mikhailo told me the Zone is full of people… though it seems hard to believe.”
Nooria picks a daisy from the grass that reaches almost to her waist.
“It’s strange that flowers don’t smell. Or do you feel anything?”
Sawyer sniffs at the air. “I feel the stench of a bog.”
“You should be right,” the Top nods. “He told me we’re heading towards a marsh.”
Not far away from them, Tarasov touches the grass with a caressing hand. He goes to his knees like he would do in a church, with knees still for several heartbeats. Then with a long, relieved sigh, he lays down into the grass, digs his fingers into the muddy earth and deeply inhales its smell. His head is resting on his arm, as if he was preparing to sleep. Then he turns to his back. With twinkled eyes, he stares at the overcast sky, shielding his eyes with his right hand. Bliss streams into his heart and mind, as if his body would draw it directly from the soil of the Zone.
I. Am. Home.
33
When Lieutenant Ramirez regains consciousness, his ears detect that the battle’s noise has receded. All he can hear are cheering Taliban, firing their Kalashnikovs in the air.