“I wish I could see the Zone one day.”
“You have too many wishes, even for a young man… for now it’s enough to wish to see the next morning. By the way, I just witnessed something miraculous.” Tarasov tries to enjoy the bland taste of the rations before he continues. “A tattooed machine gunner reciting poetry.”
To his disappointment, Zlenko does not look surprised.
“I guess Ilchenko was bragging again about his teacher’s degree,” he replies with a yawn.
“Are there any more such smartasses in the squad?”
“Lobov had to quit medical school because of drug problems, but he is reliable. The rest… it’s just normal boys from the neighborhood who couldn’t find a better way out of unemployment.”
“And you?”
The sergeant sadly smiles. “I wanted to become a famous guitar player but my band flopped.”
“That’s not a disaster big enough to chase one into the army’s arms, son.”
“Yes, but having purchased a six-string Fender American Standard Stratocaster on rates and not being able to repay it to a loan shark definitely is.”
He has barely finished the sentence when a rifle fires a burst. Jumping to his feet, Tarasov peers over the sand bags. All seems quiet.
“Just a bloody jackal,” Skinner shouts in the trenches.
“Shit!” Tarasov swears nervously. “We better go and buck those trigger-happy Stalkers.”
“I’ll do that, sir… I wanted to check the perimeter anyway.”
Tarasov is eager to rest for a few minutes and close his eyes, which are already burning from exhaustion and fine dust that has dribbled through under his eye protectors. Night is about to fall and he knows neither he nor his men will be able to get any rest during the coming hours.
“I would appreciate that,” he smiles, leaning against the stone-hard sandbags and trying to relax his overstrained nerves without falling asleep. He jerks upright again and looks around his men. “Kravchuk, keep your eyes on the ridge to the west. And switch off that headlamp. You are supposed to dish out the headshots, not get one yourself.”
A bright flash. The major opens his eyes. For a second, he thinks he has slept until morning and it is the rising sun casting light onto his face. Then he realizes the true cause: a flare is hovering over the Outpost. He can hear the Stalkers shouting as he jumps to his feet.
“They’re coming!”
“Major!” Zlenko shouts, excitement and fear mingling in his voice. “This is it! They’re moving up from the south!”
Tarasov doesn’t need the sergeant’s directions to know where the attack is coming from. A long howl sounds through the chilly night, barely distinguishable from that of a blood-thirsty animal, but a hundred human — or at least human-like — voices join in. Then a hail of bullets hits the defenders. To Tarasov’s horror, it comes from all around their position.
“Fire!” Squirrel screams. “Fire that shit!”
“I’ll open fire when I’m ordered to!” Vasilyev shouts back, his eyes fixed upon his officer.
“Zlenko, into the trenches, now! Don’t fire until you’re sure to hit them!”
“On my way, sir!”
Keeping his head low, Tarasov estimates the range of their attackers. “Vasilyev! Adjust range to four hundred! Cover the area wide, from ten to one o’clock! Steady!”
Now Ilchenko’s machine gun opens up in the trenches, followed by the rapid fire of submachine guns. The howls get louder and closer.
“Three-fifty… steady!”
“Why don’t you just fire, man?”
“Stay cool, Stalker… three-hundred.”
“Adjusted!”
“Fry them.”
Vasilyev pulls the release cord of the grenade launcher, grabs the holders and fires short bursts from the AGS, unleashing fast grenade fire into the mass of dark silhouettes running up the slopes. The dushmans’ battle cry disintegrates into cries of pain amidst the detonations. Squirrel jumps back.
“Damn! I didn’t take this shit for a machine gun!”
“Shut up and prepare the spare drum,” Vasilyev shouts.
“They weren’t prepared for that!” Tarasov replies. “Good job.”
Looking down to the dushmans’ broken wave and hearing Zlenko’s and Skinner’s voice directing their comrades’ fire towards the retreating enemy, a stoic feeling of might empowers him. He watches the dushmans hastily retreat into the darkness, but what he views to the south makes him shudder. A gigantic shadow rises, darker than night itself, making the stars disappear. Lightning flashes on the horizon.
“Vasilyev, keep the settings. As soon as the second wave gets into range, open fire. Try to save ammo.”
“Will do, sir.”
“So far, so good,” Squirrel says. “Time to relax.”
He rises from the ground and lights up a cigarette. At the same moment as Vasilyev drags him back into cover, a muffled noise comes from the closest mountain. A bullet hits the spot where the Stalker’s head had been less than a second before.
“Kravchuk,” Tarasov shouts to the squad’s marksman, “sniper to the east! Try to locate him!”
“I-I did this on purpose,” the Stalker cries, “I wanted them to reveal their position!”
“Bloody good job,” Tarasov replies.
The single bullet is followed by several more. A scream comes from the trenches. He hears Zlenko shouting. “Keep your damned heads down! Snipers!”
They know what they are doing. Not giving us a moment of respite until the next wave comes.
Kravchuk’s Dragunov fires in response.
“Did you see them?”
“I think so!”
“Don’t waste your damned ammunition on shadows!” Tarasov wishes Crow was here, although looking up at the massive mountain, he can’t really blame his sniper. “Go back to your position and keep your eyes on the ridge. We only have a handful of Stalkers there!”
Tarasov doesn’t waste his time with climbing down the ladder. He jumps down, throws himself into the trench and keeping his head low, hurries to the forward position. “Casualties?”
“A Stalker bought it,” Lobov replies, ducking behind the sand bags as another bullet impacts close to them. “He was dead by the time I got to him.”
“His name was Sashka the Hand,” Skinner grumbles. “At least he won’t be stealing medikits from fellow Stalkers anymore.”
A clap of thunder rolls over the plains, echoing from the mountains. A second later an explosion rocks their perimeter.
“Mortars!”
“Hit the ground,” Skinner shouts. “Take cover, Stalkers!”
Amidst more incoming mortar rounds the dushmans’ battle cry bellows. Another flare flashes above them, casting its dire red light over the hill.
“Holy shit… I need a bigger gun,” Ilchenko yells and points to the slope where hundreds of enemy fighters are advancing towards them. He opens fire without waiting for orders. The grenade launcher belches out a salvo but abruptly falls silent. After a moment, it sounds up again but firing in a different direction. Tarasov’s face grows pale.
“They’ve got into our rear! Skinner!”
“Here!”
“Hold your position until you can, then fall back into the trenches around the bunker! Zlenko, Bondarchuk, on me!”
With the two soldiers in tow, he runs back to the bunker. Thanks to Vasilyev’s quick reactions, the line of attackers falters, giving the handful of defenders a little momentum. Zlenko and the rifleman join the Stalkers in holding their thin line beyond the scattered cover of sand bags. Above his head, Kravchuk is firing his Dragunov.