Tarasov opens the foldable shovel and starts digging. Ilchenko and Squirrel watch in horror as he soon unearths more bodies, most of them stripped almost naked like the two on top. Only one is different, and he still wears his pilot’s suit. The major has seen enough corpses to know: they must have been buried several weeks ago. When he finds the seventh corpse, Tarasov stops digging.
“No need to dig any deeper… looks like the whole squad and crew were buried here.” He leans closer to the bodies. The stench of decay and rot is so strong that it even penetrates Tarasov’s gas mask. A sweetish, sickening taste develops in his mouth as he studies the bodies from a closer range. He points at a skull, barely connected by rotting sinew to the rest of the corpse. “Look… this might have started as a firefight, but ended in an execution.”
Speechless, they look at the open grave, then at each other.
Ilchenko scowls. “Who did this?” he finally says.
Tarasov shakes his head. His first thought is of the sinister commandos from the Salang Range. But they use different means to clean up their mess, he thinks. The burial also means that the dushmans are no option either — he can’t imagine any reason why they would bother with digging a mass grave for their enemies.
“I don’t know, but probably not the dushmans, and definitely not the Stalkers.”
“I agree,” Squirrel says. “One needs more firepower than a few Stalkers’ Kalashnikovs to storm a downed chopper with a whole squad of paratroopers inside. No brother would be foolish enough to do that.”
“Squirrel, can you read tracks?”
“Wouldn’t be much of a guide if I couldn’t, man.”
“Let’s check the area. Ilchenko, here’s your shovel. Fill that back in.”
“As ordered… damn this shit. I just can’t believe it.”
Looking for any traces the attackers might have left behind, Tarasov and the guide comb the perimeter around the wreck.
“I’m not a big tactician, man, and the whole place looks as if God had created it for an ambush… but if I had to take that chopper on, that position would have been as good as any. Look!” He waves Tarasov over to a tree stump, where the Stalker kneels and takes a handful of cartridge casings from the ground.
“9x39 millimeters… Russian-made. Lots of them. Here… and look, two more firing positions over there.”
Tarasov examines a casing. Even a quick glance proves that the guide was right. He frowns. “Squirrel… do you know anyone who has a Val or a Vintorez?”
“Yeah, man. You.”
“I assure you I didn’t do this. Now tell me — here in the new Zone, which other rifle uses this caliber?”
“The Groza.”
“And who is armed with Groza assault rifles?”
Squirrel removes his gas mask. It is the first time that Tarasov sees horror in his eyes.
“Exactly,” the major murmurs and bows his head.
For a long minute, they look at each other.
“Listen Squirrel… I already know that you were with Freedom once. I suppose there’s not much love lost between you and Captain Bone’s Dutiers.”
“That’s not the correct way to put it. I’d rather say: please, let me cut their bellies open, tear out their intestines, trample on them, and suffocate the suckers with their own guts.”
“If you want to see that day, you must keep your mouth shut for now. Do not talk about this to anyone. Especially not to Ilchenko.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so. Or do you want my six remaining men to charge down Bone while there are a hundred Stalkers around who don’t know who they hate more — us or the guards?”
“They don’t hate soldiers anymore after you helped us out at the Outpost. At least not you and your guys.”
“Be that as it may, we are not ready to take the Dutiers — or whoever they really are — on yet. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir, Major, sir.”
“Spare me your jokes, I’m not in the mood for fun. Let’s go back to that chopper and give Ilchenko a hand.”
Night has fallen by the time they climb up through a valley to Hellgate. Tarasov scans the area through his binoculars. Beyond an empty area encircled by jagged, rocky hills, dozens of small fires dance under a huge archway leading to a cave entrance. The place looks like a ruined cathedral built to worship some evil entity, but it was the tortured earth itself that produced this wicked rock formation. Now he also realizes that what had looked like one single anomaly from far, is actually many — sizzling and pulsating purple flames dance among columns of steam. A dilapidated log hut stands a safe distance from the anomalies, most of its timbers having been taken away to feed the campfire that burns in the middle of the stone circle, further away from the anomalies but still close enough for the flames to lit up three human figures huddled around the campfire.
“I see Stalkers there.”
“That must be Snorkbait and his buddies,” Squirrel replies. “Snorky is a pretty good guide himself.”
“How could anyone set up a camp there? There are anomalies around, and the place itself looks creepy.”
“Because they aren’t stupid, you know?”
“And what makes them smart?”
“Mutants don’t go too close to anomalies, and smart Stalkers make camp where no mutants go.”
“Sounds reasonable. Let’s join them at their fire, then.”
As the three of them walk up to the fire, the Stalkers jump up, pointing their weapons at the newcomers.
“Peace, brothers! It’s me, Squirrel!”
“Hey Squirrel,” a Stalker says, lowering his weapon. “What’s wrong with you? We’re just sitting here, telling jokes and all, and you sneak up on us like this? You scared the shit out of us!”
“We mean no harm,” Tarasov says. He switches his rifle’s safety to ‘on’ and shoulders the weapon. “Do you mind if we spend the night here?”
“Haha! The military is looking for protection from Stalkers,” another Stalker says as he sits down by the fire and goes back to tuning his battered guitar. “Come, you’ll be safe with us.”
“That’s very reassuring,” Ilchenko says, looking around.
“What’s up, Squirrel?” The third Stalker turns to the guide. He is cleaning an old L85 Enfield rifle. “Got lost as usual, my old mate?”
“I’m guiding my soldier guests through the local zoo, Snorky,” the guide says, sitting down next to the campfire. “They’ve already met the bears and dushmans. All that must have prepared for them for the worst attraction. Major, Ilch, I have the displeasure to give you Mishka Beekeeper. He pretends to play guitar but he can’t. The jumpy one is Sashka SWAT Officer, and the brother with a taste for antique weapons is Snorkbait.”
“Beekeeper? SWAT Officer?” Ilchenko gives Tarasov a puzzled glance. “How did these guys chose their call signs? Plucking them out of a hat?”
Tarasov shrugs the question off. He has already noticed something far more interesting.
“I don’t give a shit about crazy call signs if the name on that label is for real,” he says, eyeing the bottle of vodka that the Stalkers are sharing among themselves. “Is that really what the label says?” He takes off his heavy rucksack with a satisfied sigh and joins the Stalkers sitting around the fire.
“Sure! It’s Stolichnaya, what else?”
Mishka Beekeeper offers him the bottle. Tarasov takes a long swig, then hands it over to Ilchenko who has taken the place next to him.
“What brought you here then, lads?” Snorkbait asks.
“We’re on our way to the Factory.”
“That’s where we wanted to go a few nights back. Forget about it.”
“Come again?”
“The last storm moved the anomalies. Looks as if it’s swept all the damned Geysers, Mines and Burners into the archway. You could waste a million bolts but still wouldn’t find a way through.”