On Inter — a cheesy soap.
On 1+1 — football.
“What? Shakhtar Donets trashing Real Madrid 5 to nil by half-time?” he murmurs to himself watching the football match for a minute. “What are our peg-legged boys on? Oh yes… at least now I know where all the Moonlight artifacts go… probably that’s what makes them run like that.”
Bored, he changes to the midnight news on Ukraina ICTV. What he sees makes him jump from his seat.
The town of Termez, close to the northern fringes of the New Zone, is in ruins. An agitated voice-over speaks of a radioactive dust storm hitting the southern areas of Uzbekistan. A shaky video, probably taken with a mobile phone, shows ruined buildings, people in despair and, for a second, a pack of mutants that appear to Strelok like blind dogs the size of wolves and good eyesight as well. Then an egghead tries to explain that it was just a natural disaster, nothing more nothing less, and the alleged mutants were merely stray dogs. However, he has obviously no idea why the so-called dust storm has only hit the areas north of the New Zone while nothing similar was reported from elsewhere — even though anyone who knows even a little bit about the Zone knows that emissions are spreading in concentric circles.
“Idiot,” Strelok says slapping himself on the forehead, “you’re all idiots! It wants to come here, it is reaching out for our Zone!”
Damn it! I must get out. I must, before the darkness comes!
He bangs on the firmly locked door.
“I must go! Let me go, you bastards!”
No answer comes.
40
Small flames crackle and snap in the Doctor’s fireplace while slow rain raps on the windows. The travelers’ soaked suits and rucksacks are placed close to it to dry. Sitting around a rustic table lit by a petroleum lamp, Tarasov and his companions enjoy the cozy safety of the Doctor’s home. The warm light of the fireplace and the lamp almost make them forget about the darkness outside. The aroma of oak wood smoke mixes with the vapors of warm food rising from a soup bowl and their plates.
“At last someone who knows how to prepare a narodnaya solyanka,” Tarasov says stirring the thick soup in his aluminum plate. “Many people just mix everything together they find in the trash. But this, Doctor, is delicious. Your tummy is happy, Top?”
“Outstanding. What did you just call it?”
“Translates as ’people’s soup’.”
“Too bad I have no sour cream to add,” the Doctor replies in a Russian-accented but almost impeccable English, speaking softly and sophisticatedly as it befits a well-educated man. He puts a second petroleum lamp on the table and adjusts it to burn brighter. “And especially, real vegetables. Cabbage is fine, sometimes Barkeep gets some from the Big Land and once boiled, it stays edible for weeks. Fresh vegetables are a different matter. Carrots and peas from cans are just… not the real thing.”
“What to do? Zone soil is contaminated,” Tarasov says serving himself one more from the soup bowl. “Vegetables grown here would make one’s teeth fall out even before finishing the meal.”
“Or they would mutate like the animals did,” Pete says.
“And then we’d have an attack of the killer tomatoes!” Sawyer adds, followed by laughter around the table. “Laugh if you want but I mean it. Those pseudodogs, boars, fleshes… imagine what happened if veggies mutated?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m working on the vegetables,” the Doctor says. ”I’ll show you something when you’re finished.”
“Your English is impressive, Doc,” says Hartman.
“One has to learn it. In the beginning, we only had Ukrainians here. Then Stalkers came from all over the former USSR, and eventually Westerners. Everyone prefers to tell about pains and aches in their own language. I couldn’t heal them if I don’t understand them, could I?”
“Do those foreigners get along well with the Russian Stalkers?” Pete asks.
“In fact it’s the Russians who still have a grunt towards the foreigners, especially the pindos… Americans. Some still think that it was you who stole our empire from us and now want to snatch the Zone too. They also think that non-Russians could never understand what the Zone is about. But that’s… pizdabolstvo. How do you say that in English, Misha?”
“Bullshit.”
“Yes, that’s it. Bullshit. What an expressive word.”
“Why wouldn’t Westerners understand the Zone?” Pete asks.
“Have you seen those rusty cars, usually white and with the engine and air intake in the rear?”
“Yes. Funny little cars, I gotta say.”
“See? For you, a wrecked Zaporozhets is just a funny little car but to me it’s a reminder of my childhood. My father used to have one. Whenever I see those wrecks I see the remains of a world that had once appeared safe and sound. One day we ruled half of the planet, the next day we were orphans, lectured by those who feared us for decades. Many of us still need to learn how to forgive.”
The Doctor stays and puts more wood into the fire.
“Yes, the Soviet empire collapsed, but our desire for being respected did not. For many Stalkers from the ex-USSR the Zone is as much a source of nationalist pride like the first Sputnik was. For the more sensible, the Zone is a place where everything is a reminder of those days — the wrecked Soviet cars, the murals on the houses in Pripyat, the heroes’ statues, and they try to carve out their new world from the ruins of the old. This is something only few Westerners can understand. Half of our heart is still back in the USSR. For many newcomers this time capsule is merely exotic, like the Cyrillic alphabet.”
“Not all western Stalkers are that superficial, Doc,” Tarasov says.
“Of course not. After all, being a Stalker is not just about wandering around, drinking vodka and admiring this Soviet time capsule. Being a Stalker is a matter of heart. Those lucky enough to become a real Stalker have the same heart beating in their chest. Regardless of where they’ve spent their previous life, here they are all children of the Zone, and as such — brothers.”
“So one would like to hope,” Tarasov says thinking about the warring factions and greedy artifact-hunters who would betray anyone for the coordinates of a precious stash. It appears to him that seclusion has made the Doctor a bit forgiving toward the downsides of a Stalker’s life, or perhaps even human nature in general.
“Interesting,” the Top says eyeing the US-made rifle on the wall. “You know, Doc, I always thought that Stalkers were merely scavengers.”
“Some of them are.” Tarasov’s words are accompanied by the Doctor’s allowing nod.
“More than likely, sure, but what the Doc just said is… yeah, it makes me think. After all we’re doing the same with the Tribe. Carving out a new world from the ruins of the old. Whatever…“ Hartman shrugs. “Never mind. Just thinking loudly.”
“Wow, we live in an effed-up world,” Pete sighs.
Tarasov shakes his head. “No. We just live in a world where some effed-up things happen. The world as a whole ain’t broken—just some individuals living in it.”
“Your story sounds rather sad to me, Doc,” Pete observes.
“Not for you, my friends. There’s no reason to deny that you won the Cold War, or more accurately: that we lost it. You don’t know how lucky you are.”