“Moscow.”
“And you, with that AK-47?”
“Katowice. Poland.”
“You, in that Freedom suit?”
“Irkutsk. I hated the cold there.”
The Stalkers start replying one by one.
“Uruguay. You wouldn’t guess where it is, but I’m here and ready.”
“Glasgow. Scotland the brave!”
“Sankt-Petersburg. No need to tell more.”
“Sarajevo. Bosnia. I hate snipers.”
“Yekaterinburg, and I know what you mean, officer. In all of Russia, we have the most beautiful memorial to those fallen in that war.”
“From Krasnodar, just around the corner.”
“Lviv, but I was born in Zhitomir.”
“Hajmáskér. Hungary.”
“Is that so, Mente?” The Russian Stalker from Moscow asks with surprise. “My uncle was stationed there in Soviet times, with a tank battalion!”
“You are my friend, Moskvich, but for us it was a relief to get rid of your uncle with his tanks,” the Eastern European Stalker grumbles, staring at his sawn-off shotgun. The Stalker called Moskvich just shrugs the remark off, and gives his comrade a pat on the shoulder.
“We seem to have all kinds of Stalkers here from around the globe,” Tarasov continues. “Our homes might be different but our blood has the same color. Don’t have any illusions: it will be shed today. Let it be the sign of our union, because today we all fight together and will be victorious together. Our chances are not good, there’s no doubt about that. But if the toughest sons of bitches of the Zone will keep together for once — who can stand against us, brothers?”
“We are not your damned brothers, officer,” the tough-looking Dutier replies, making the last word sound like a curse. He was one of the few Stalkers who kept their origin to themselves.
“So you want me to call you sister, or what? Or does Duty’s triumphant march to victory end as soon as they have to face real enemies?”
The Dutier’s face flushes with anger. A few Stalkers wearing Freedom suits start laughing. Feeling his momentum, Tarasov turns towards them.
“You listen up too, you pathetic bunch of no-good dope-smoking miserable anarchists! We’re all together in this bardak. It’s a deep shit situation! There’s not enough of us to use the forward trenches, so we’ll make our stand right here. These riflemen and the machine gunner will be strengthening your line. Ilchenko, you’ll take position here. You, Stalker with the Sunrise suit and you with that AK-47, take up positions to cover his flanks. The rest of you follow me. We better set up our defense now before night falls.”
“Wait a minute,” the Dutier says. “What the hell puts you in charge anyway?”
“Three rifles and one machine gun pointing at you.”
From the corner of his eye, Tarasov sees an ear to ear grin appear on Ilchenko’s face. The Stalker reluctantly shoulders his weapon.
“That’s what I call an argument,” he grumbles. “All right, let’s work together… for now. My name is Skinner. I had a different name back at Yanov, during Commander Shulga’s times, but that’s of no importance anymore.”
Tarasov doesn’t show it but feels great relief over the Dutier’s decision to cooperate. “I am Major Tarasov from the Ukrainian Armed Forces, and glad to see a Duty soldier here. It’s good to have at least one Stalker around who has ever heard of discipline.”
Skinner gives him a grin. “Sorry to disappoint you, Major, but I’m a deserter. I was fed up delivering the artifacts I earned with my blood to the damned scientists.”
“That’s understandable, after all.”
“This is the land of plenty here. But I can’t hunt for artifacts if I’m dead, can I? So, if you grunts will help me to survive, I don’t give a damn how many Stalkers you’ve had mowed down at Cordon. I might even listen to your orders.”
“That machine gun is now pointed elsewhere. And neither do I give a damn if you’ll survive, Skinner. But I do care about you trying and killing as many dushmans in the process as possible.”
“You could hardly ask for less, Major.”
Tarasov now turns to Zlenko. “Set up defensive position with the riflemen along the perimeter. Concentrate fire towards the south and that mountain. Makes sure there’s one of us with every three or four Stalkers.”
The sergeant nods and hurries off with the soldiers, leaving Tarasov to turn back to the cocky Stalker.
“Bone told me the attack is imminent. Tell me more about what we’ll have to face.”
“I didn’t tell him it was imminent,” Skinner replies. Under the hood, surprise flashes in his dark eyes. “I only told Bone that we saw a group of dushmans approaching from the plain. We fired a few shots at them and they disappeared.”
“That’s odd. Bone seemed to be sure that you’d need reinforcements, and soon.”
It dawns now on Tarasov that the Captain might have just wanted to get rid of them — sending them into a hopeless battle and let the Stalkers’ enemies do the dirty job. One more reason to make it through alive, he thinks.
“That son of a bitch could be right after all,” replies Skinner pointing towards the south. “It might have been an advance party to check if they can catch us with our pants down. Maybe they will come back in full force after nightfall. To spice up the soup we’re boiling in… did you see those clouds on the horizon?”
“It looks gloomy, yes.”
“Smells like a dust storm gathering.”
“That should keep the dushmans away.”
“You think so? Major, you might have been a big shot in the Zone but you’re still a rookie here,” Skinner grimly replies.
Tarasov frowns but can’t find any mockery in the Stalker’s words. Swallowing his pride, he even admits to himself that Skinner has a point: not even two days have passed since he arrived.
“Back in the Zone, Monolithians were bad,” Skinner continues. “Zombies were bad too. Now add them together and you have the dushmans.”
“Sounds like charming company. But why do they want to take this godforsaken place?”
“It’s not the Outpost they are after. It’s Bagram. When the nukes went off, the mountains north of Kabul got the worst of the fallout. The devastation is also pretty bad there. That’s why they want to break through to the north. Anyway, when the storm will hit, we’ll lock ourselves in that bunker — because we stick to our life. The dushmans don’t. Unless we beat them before the storm arrives, they will crawl up to the bunker, blow down the door and fry us inside, no matter how many of them get martyred in the process.”
“Oh Gospodi,” sighs Tarasov.
“I agree. Praying never harms.” Skinner takes a necklace with a small silver cross from under his armored suit and kisses it. “You still eager to make a gallant stand?”
“I am.”
“I didn’t take you for such a badass. Maybe Bone was right in sending you here… we’re a bunch of thieves and murderers, but we won’t give up without a fight.”
“And which of those things are you?”
“Not a thief, that’s for sure,” the Stalker says, turning away and raising his binoculars to scan the dusty plains. But Tarasov has one more question for him.
“How come Bone put you up with Freedomers and ordinary Stalkers? Duty prefers formal court-martials, as far as I know.”
Without removing the binoculars from his eyes, Skinner spits to the ground. “Do you play cards, Major?”
“Occasionally. Why?”
“Because the old deck of cards has been reshuffled. Here, none of us belongs to where he used to. Bone is not with Duty anymore, neither are his henchmen. Sometimes I wonder if they ever were. The one I killed certainly was not.”