Realizing that their situation is hopeless, the leader makes a dash to save at least his own skin. Tarasov can’t blame him — by now, all his men are down. The Bandit fires a few bursts from his rifle in a vain effort to keep his pursuers at bay, but is smart enough to run. Rifle shots hit the ground around him and someone shouts, “Halt!”
A Spetsnaz appears from the bushes, then three more on the left flanks. One of them, who is shouting commands to the others and is the ambushers’ commander apparently, is wearing a heavy SKAT suit that betrays him as a military Stalker. A Sphere helmet is covering his face. To Tarasov’s surprise, three fighters in Duty armor step out from the bushes to the commander’s right.
The military Stalker runs after the fugitive, with the Spetsnaz and Dutyers dashing out to flank him. This leaves the Bandit with only one direction to escape — up the embankment, directly in Tarasov’s direction.
Tarasov knows that his cover will be blown in a few seconds. Either the Bandit will stumble right over him, or the attackers will find and shoot him in the very reasonable assumption that he is a Stalker from the group. He doesn’t even want to consider what would happen to Nooria if that happens. All he can do is to let them know that he is not their enemy, or at least not sided with the Stalkers they have ambushed. He waits until the fugitive Bandit is just about two paces away, where he can already hear his heavy panting, and then fires both barrels of his rifle.
Fired from such a point-blank range, the heavy slug rounds in the chest would have made a standing target fly back or at least recoil a few steps. The hugely built and armor-wearing Bandit, running with full strength into the direction from where the shots came, just stops in his tracks and falls to his knees as his feet collapse. His body rolls half a meter in the wet grass, right to Tarasov’s feet who gets up from behind his cover and raises both arms. He leaves the hunting rifle on the ground.
“Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts. “Friendly coming out!”
By now, the rest of the attackers have caught up with their commander. Assault rifles are pointed at Tarasov from all sides.
“Step away from that shooter and keep your hands up, Stalker!”
The commander pointing a Vintorez rifle at Tarasov is still panting from the excitement of battle and the run afterwards. With his prisoner being secured, he allows himself to remove his tactical helmet and wipes sweat from his face.
Tarasov gives him a wide and friendly smile.
“Sergeant Shumenko! How is your bladder doing?”
The military Stalker drops his jaw.
“I’ll be damned! What the hell are you doing here, komandir?”
“Boar hunting, mostly. My compliments for an ambush well executed, by the way.”
“Thanks, Major, but I only did what you taught me. I can’t believe this!” Tarasov’s former soldier turns to his comrades. “Down with your rifles! Don’t you know who this is?”
They don’t seem to know but follow Shumenko’s order nonetheless.
“Before you stumble on my companion and shoot her—I’m not alone. Nooria! No need to hide anymore. Come, it’s safe now!”
Sergeant Shumenko gives Nooria a curious look when she appears from behind the wagon. Knowing the reaction most people give over her scar, she had already pulled the hood of her long coat over her face.
“Who’s that, Major? Are you traveling with an anorexic pet burer?”
“Will tell you later, Sergeant. I’m dying of curiosity over all this. Army and Duty together ambushing a group of Loners, a Freedomer and even a Monolith, all guided by Bandits? It’s like the whole Zone in a nutshell.”
“Things have changed since you went off the radar, Major.” Shumenko offers his canteen to Tarasov, and then takes a long draw of water from it. “Let us finish our business before we chat. You’ll have the questionable pleasure of seeing Duty in action.”
“I mean no trouble,” Tarasov says. “May I take my rifle now?
“By all means, Major Tarasov.”
They all walk back to the groove where a Duty fighter and a Spetsnaz are guarding the Freedomer. He appears to be the only one who survived the ambush, even if wounded. However, seeing the Dutyer towering over him and rubbing his gloved hands with anticipation, Tarasov is not too optimistic about the wounded prisoner’s fate.
“As agreed, Inquisitor,” Shumenko tells him. “Freedomers are yours to interrogate, so it’s your turn. Do us all a favor and make this one speak, will you?”
“Guys… don’t shoot me!” the Freedomer whines.
“My poor friend, you got shot in your chest,” the Dutyer called Inquisitor says. “No wonder ,with you wearing such a pathetic excuse of body armor.”
“Give me a medikit, please!”
“Yes, you’re a touch pale, buddy! A kit wouldn’t help you much but I might have a bandage for you. Just answer my first question: what were you up to?”
“We all wanted to leave the Zone! Travel to the south, to the New Zone! That’s all!”
“Why am I not surprised to see anarchists and criminals running from the Zone?” The Dutyer snorts. “Here comes my second question and I’m going to ask nicely. Where were you going?”
“I don’t know! Only the guide knew!”
“I did ask you nicely.” The Dutyer steps on the prisoner’s chest, pushing it so strongly that blood gushes from his mouth. “This is the kind of bandage that Duty applies to bleeding anarchists! Where in the fuck were you heading?”
“Oh God…”
“Yes, that’s what I am to you now and you’d better answer to my question, or I’ll stuff your stinking hide with shit and display it in my zoo of dead mutants! Damned anarchist!”
“I don’t know, I swear!”
Each word the Freedomer utters makes him spit up more blood. Inquisitor looks at Shumenko who replies with a shrug. Seeing the Dutyer unholster his Makarov pistol, the Freedomer emits a last cry.
“Svobo…”
Inquisitor fires his pistol.
“Da. Net cheloveka, net problema,” he says holstering the Makarov.
Nooria stirs and looks at Tarasov in disgust. She might have treated many dreadful wounds but seeing a man being shot in the head from close range is a different thing. Turning away from the ghastly scene, she starts vomiting.
“Such is life in the Zone,” Tarasov quietly says.
“Did you eventually quit or may I still offer you a smoke?” Shumenko asks, offering Tarasov a cigarette. He waves it off.
“Duty,” the Sergeant continues as they walk away from the body, rolling his eyes. “Joint operation, not exactly to my liking. The problem is that whatever that freak said, killing this man didn’t solve our problem. Many Stalkers from all factions are moving to the south. Maybe it’s winter approaching and they just migrate like those cranes in the sky. Look—a lovely sight, those big Vs.”
“What’s so odd about Stalkers moving to the New Zone? At least you’ll have less trouble here.”
“People smarter than me think the Bandits might have a hand in this. The strange thing is, we never find any intel on them. Just like now—nichego. If we take them prisoner, they don’t know shit about where they’re heading. Just like that hapless anarchist. We tried to make them talk as best as we could, believe me. Apparently only their leaders know the destination and they don’t keep the coordinates stored in their PDAs.”