“As you said just now, life is bad enough,” Tarasov says. “Anyway, I need that upgrade and repairs on my soldiers’ gear too. I still have a few men left despite burying two of them who died to protect this place, you know? Their graves could also use an upgrade.”
“All right, all right, here’s the deaclass="underline" you help me out and I help you out. Get that foolish kid back to me and safety. In exchange, you’ll get the upgrades and repairs. I might even give my unique Gluck to you — just find him.”
“Upgrades and repairs for free, if I get him back alive.”
“I can’t believe I’m haggling over this.”
“No need for belief when it comes to facts. Any idea where Mac went?”
“If he was chasing those artifacts he was after, try the old textile factory to the north-west. Let me see your PDA… here. Squirrel can lead you there. He knows all the shortcuts through the Shamali Plains.”
“We have a deal then.”
Tarasov is about to climb out though the hatch when he remembers something else. He pulls out the mobile phone he had found in the ambushed patrol car and hands it to Yar.
“Look, Uncle… while I’m gone, could you check if there’s any data left in this?”
The mechanic frowns as he studies the device. “Where did you find this piece of crap?”
“In a wreck to the north. I’m just curious about it.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Yar replies with a shrug.
“Thanks. But by the way… what about adding the thermal imaging enhancement as advance payment?”
“Poidi proch, Stalker!”
“I’m leaving, I’m leaving… see you soon, Uncle Yar!”
The sun sets slowly over the mountains. To get rid of the stiffness that two days of idleness has left in his limbs, Tarasov strolls down to the base and watches the Stalkers lighting up the campfires for the night. He spots Zlenko at one of the lookout posts on the container wall.
Climbing up the ladder, he joins the sergeant who is busily discussing something with two Stalkers. Seeing him approaching, Zlenko salutes.
“Sir!”
“As you were,” Tarasov casually replies and sits down on the sandbags. “What are you doing here? Did Ashot run out of vodka?”
The sergeant shrugs. “I’ve heard the troopers’ jokes more than once before. And all that marijuana smell… it’s nauseating.”
“You’re not into that stuff? That’s good.”
“I’ve played in a rock band. Enough is enough,” Zlenko says, smiling. “Anyway, these Stalkers were debating whether the M-16 or the AK-47 was the better weapon. I argued for the Kalashnikov. What’s your opinion, Major?”
“Well… my opinion is that the brothers will be discussing this for a long while. Come along Viktor, I wanted to talk to you alone anyway.”
Walking away from the lookout, Zlenko takes a pack of cigarettes from his vest and offers one to Tarasov who, looking over to the dark mountains and the glowing red anomaly in the far forest beyond the sandy plain where the wind swirls up small clouds of dust, and listening to a Stalker tuning his guitar, he feels in the mood to smoke.
“Thanks… and now, tell me about this mess with the dead guard and that Loner.”
Zlenko exhales the smoke before starting. “That’s a strange story—” he begins, then breaks off as the Stalker finishes tuning up and begins to sing.
“Oh no, please no,” Zlenko moans, burying his face into his hands. “It’s Ilchenko’s favorite song.”
Tarasov grins at the sergeant. “Hey Viktor! If a Vysotsky song makes you cry, I’ll get you demoted!”
“It’s not the song, Major, it’s how badly the Stalker’s playing it. Permission to shoot him?”
“Denied.”
“Klass,” a Stalker shouts as the song finishes. “Hey soldier boys, want some vodka? We can trade you some! One bottle for a medal!” The Stalkers laugh.
“Do you mind if I teach them some manners?” Zlenko asks Tarasov. “I mean, with a guitar.”
“Permission absolutely granted.”
The sergeant joins the Stalkers at the campfire. “Hey, big mouth! Give me that sad excuse of a guitar,” Zlenko demands, sitting down at the campfire. The Stalker hands the instrument over and Zlenko plucks the strings experimentally before starting to play. His fingers, chafed and dirty from gun grease, move on the strings with astonishing grace. Then he starts singing:
“Konchay uzhe,” the guitarist Stalker says. “Here, take this vodka, just shut up. You played it well but that song makes me sad.”
“Yeah, me too,” another replies, chewing on a dried sausage. “It reminds me of a girl I used to bang in high school. How blonde she was, oh God! Like a fairy queen!”