“Shit,” Tarasov swears. “Have you at least seen Mac? You know, Uncle Yar’s apprentice?”
The Stalkers exchange a baffled look.
“Nope. Sorry, mate,” Snorkbait says.
“How far is it if we go the other route, through that abandoned village you mentioned, Squirrel?”
“Two days.”
Tarasov glances at Ilchenko who returns the concern in his look. The major removes his helmet and rubs his temples.
“Damn it… we haven’t got that much time. We must find a way through tomorrow.”
“Let’s keep tomorrow’s worries for tomorrow,” Squirrel cheerfully replies, “and now tell me buddies, you got any new stories?”
“We were talking about women.”
“What women, Sashka?”
“That’s the point. There aren’t any around.”
“Why would there be? Prada produces no Stalker boots, Mango has no protective suits, Louis Vuitton offers no artifact containers, and jackal puppies aren’t cute. That’s why they don’t come here.”
“Which sucks,” the Stalker called SWAT Officer sighs with resignation.
“How would you recognize one anyway?” Tarasov asks. “All Stalkers wear gas masks, helmets or at least balaclavas.”
“By her voice?”
“Come on, Mishka. Speaking through a gas mask makes anyone sound like a mutant.”
“True enough, Squirrel. By her tits then.”
“Under the body armor she could have tits like a cow’s udders and nobody would notice them.”
“Okay, not the tits. Maybe a pink rifle.”
“Or an armored suit with a ‘Hello, Kitty’ sticker on it?”
“Or just by being a pain in the ass,” Snorkbait grumbles.
“By dumping you for a Stalker with a bigger rifle,” Ilchenko smirks.
“You talking about your own experiences, Ilch? Anyway, one wouldn’t have to guess,” Squirrel says laughing. “Just find out which Stalker the bloodsuckers are after on certain days!”
“Shit! Now that was way below the belt. One would only need to know her call sign, anyway.”
“Why, Sashka, what would that be?”
“Fucked One.”
The Stalkers all laugh, except for Snorkbait who seems more intent on maintaining his weapon. Tarasov likes this attitude, all the more because Snorkbait handles the disassembled weapon with a routine that can only come from a military background. However, for once he finds the Stalkers’ conversation more interesting than speculating in which army Snorkbait had acquired his skills.
“I wonder where the Tribe got their women from?” He says, taking another swig from the bottle.
Suddenly, silence falls upon the camp.
“Hey Major,” a Stalker eventually says, “don’t ruin the party by mentioning those animals!”
“Sorry, Beekeeper. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
The Stalker called SWAT Officer picks up the thread of conversation. “Kruto, fellows,” he says, clearing his throat. “So, assuming that a female Stalker was here, what would you do?”
“I’m a polite guy,” Squirrel says. “I’d open the door to any underground area and let her enter before me. Ladies first!”
“I would give her a flower.”
“Just a flower? You’re a cheapskate, Sashka.”
“I mean, a Stone Flower artifact.”
“Before or after?”
“Whatever. Eh, this makes no sense… let’s talk about women in the Big Land. Hey, newcomers, tell us a juicy story!”
“Hell yeah! Tell us something naughty. I guess you army officers get the most pussy out there.”
“Only on paydays,” Tarasov jokes. “Women are expensive in Kiev, you know?”
“Who’s talking about whores?”
“All women are expensive,” Tarasov sighs.
“Or all women are whores.”
“I wouldn’t subscribe to that, Ilchenko.”
“No argument about women being expensive,” Snorkbait says. “But back in Bagram I heard a little bird twittering that you’ve been the commander of the base at Cordon. If that’s true, and you didn’t get rich from all the artifact trade, then, Major — with all due respect, you missed the opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Maybe I did,” Tarasov dryly replies, staring into the fire.
Ilchenko takes a long swig from the vodka bottle. “Everyone, listen up! Yoshkar Ola is the place to go. It’s an ugly little bydlostan in Russia, but there’s a big university and out of every ten students, nine are girls.”
“Then what the hell are we doing here?” Snorkbait muses.
“Wasting ourselves, Snorky,” a Stalker replies.
“I’m not talking about you, Mishka, you old wanker.”
“You’ve studied there?” Tarasov asks Ilchenko.
“No, I studied in Odessa, but she was from Yoshkar Ola. I got to know her during a student exchange, which ended up in an intense exchange of body fluids…”
“A story at last! That’s what we need!”
“Right you are, Sashka! Come on, Ilch, get right to the juicy details!”
“It’s a sad story, Squirrel. So, I am from Odessa and she was from Yoshkar Ola.” Ilchenko suppresses a hiccup and takes another swig. Tarasov can only admire his drinking abilities — the soldier seems to knock back the vodka like water. “During a summer break, we met again in St. Petersburg. She and some other girls had a party organized. It sucked — there were several Western guys there too, and they were looking at our girls as if they were nothing but pussy.”
“Which is actually true,” Mishka Beekeeper cuts in.
Ilchenko gives him a disapproving look and drinks once more. “So, I speak a little German, you know, because I studied Goethe and Rilke and helped them translate. When the suckers told a girclass="underline" was möchtest Du trinken, I just said: ‘he wants to know if you’ll lay for a Schengen visa’.”
“Now that’s what I call party-pooping,” Squirrel says.
“Whatever… The worst thing was that some girls — not all, but some, you know what I’m meaning — just said ‘yes’. But that was not the only thing that ruined the party for me. Imagine, there was a fucking negro too. Can you believe that? He was on some fucking fellowship to study fucking sociology or whatever. Officially. Unofficially, he was selling drugs. The girls let him come to the party because he had some pretty good stuff, I’ll give him that.”
Mishka Beekeeper chuckles. “I don’t even dare think what else might have interested the girls.”
“Shut your mouth, Stalker. Anyway, I bought a few grams of dope to cheer myself up. And while I was getting high, that kurvenok fucked my girl!”
“Shame on you, man. You should have stuck to Coca-Cola.”
“That bastard gave me stronger stuff than what I wanted, Squirrel. It totally knocked me out. Yeah, okay, I admit I had too much vodka too but you’re missing my point. My point is that my girl was fucked by a fucking negro!”
“I always knew you were compensating with that machine gun,” Squirrel jokes. Ilchenko gives him a scornful glance, and now appears to be genuinely angry. Tarasov watches him, ready to intervene should a fight break out, but his soldier seems to be too drunk already to raise a hand.
“Anyway, next morning I find my girl in the next room and the negro all over her. I told her to get out of my sight and go back to Yoshkar-fucking-Ola. Then I had a… conversation… with the negro.”
“About the dope?”
“About why I shouldn’t throw him out off the balcony, Stalker. He wasn’t very… Major, how do you call it when an argument doesn’t work?”
“In your case, it’s called being totally pissed. You better go, brush your teeth and prepare your bivouac, son.”