“Is this an order?”
“Finish the story first, if you still can,” Tarasov says, softened up by the drink himself, and also curious about the end of Ilchenko’s story, even though the soldier’s words occasionally turn into drunken blabber.
“I go, komandir, I go, but let me tell you this — I found out something very interesting about negros. Their skin might be black but their brains are white. Don’t look at me like that! I saw it with my own eyes when he hit the pavement one, two, three, four — five floors below the balcony!”
Squirrel chokes on the loaf of bread he is eating.
“That was the most interesting thing I learned during my student years. There was no more studying for me anyway, because who the hell wants to study once he’s got a drug dealer’s stash in his hands? So one thing led to the other and a year after I even had my own bummer, a nice black X6. Guess how many teachers drive one. So, in the end I couldn’t care less about my degree, and all went well until one day a sucker scratched my car. I was a little too rough on him… anyway, while waiting for my turn at the militsia, along came a recruiting officer and told me that I could either go to jail or join the army.”
“With a past like that, one day you’ll make it to general,” Tarasov says.
“Major, I love you. You are a badass, but I love you! Please, Major, don’t tell the others that I didn’t finish university. You know, we’re all supposed to be badasses but being a badass with a university degree makes me a special badass. Am I not right?”
Tarasov softly pushes Ilchenko’s arm away as the soldier attempts to embrace him. “That’s your only concern after you’ve killed a man?”
“Come on, it was in St. Petersburg! Someone would have killed him anyway. Some guys on the street called me a hohol when they heard me talking. Me, who is of their blood! Damn it, didn’t we all fight the Nazis together? And then the dushmans? It’s all screwed up in the Big Land. All…”
Finally wasted, Ilchenko stretches out on the ground and starts snoring immediately. The Stalkers are quiet.
“Why does someone drink too much vodka if he can’t handle it?” Snorkbait eventually says. “Let’s go to sleep. Mishka, it’s your turn to keep the first watch.”
“That was a very touching story, but we still don’t know where to find women,” Mishka Beekeeper says, stretching his back. “Oh God — artifacts, guns, freedom, adventures… What good is there in all of this if there’s no pussy around?”
Snorkbait, the only one who has kept his mind more or less sober, gives Tarasov a questioning look. “One doesn’t just need to mention the Tribe to poop a party, I see.”
“He’s proved to be a capable and reliable soldier to me,” the major replies with a shrug. “I don’t care about what he did before.”
“That’s the kind of soldiers you have in your army? And I thought the Stalkers were a rough enough bunch.”
Tarasov looks at the snoring machine gunner. “My job is to command them, not to judge them,” he tells the Stalker. “And besides… if you are in battle, you need men like Ilchenko at your side.”
“You have a point. As a matter of fact, sometimes I’m glad we have no women around.”
“Agreed, Snorkbait.” Tarasov takes Ilchenko’s sleeping bag from the soldier’s rucksack and opens it. Before covering the snoring soldier, he looks him down for a minute. “It’s probably better for the women too.”
“Do you think it was true, or was he just bragging?”
“I don’t care. But to be honest, I guess you’re not from the Ukraine or Russia and have no idea of what some women, like Ilchenko’s girl, are willing to do to get away… to London, for example.”
“What an irony,” Snorkbait says with a smirk. “Because you have no idea of what men like me are willing to do to get out of there, mate.”
Deserter
“Shit, we’ve been here already!”
The better part of the day has already passed when Squirrel smashes his PDA to the ground. “I’m sorry, man. There seems to be no way up to that cursed plateau!”
“I can’t believe this shit. You’re supposed to be a guide, Stalker.”
Ilchenko looks tired and angry. Tarasov can’t blame him for his frustration: since they left the camp at dawn, they’ve spent all day wandering through the rugged crevasses with walls that tower several dozen meters above them. With their heavy gear, the walls themselves are too steep to climb, forcing them to seek an easier way.
“And you’re supposed to be airborne, man,” Squirrel retorts. “Why do you need me? Go, fly up there!”
Tarasov scans the area with his binoculars. No matter how many approaches they’ve tried, all have ended at an impassable section or another dead end. All he can see now is a labyrinth of sand-colored rocks and steep hills, no matter how far he looks.
“One week on havchik… maybe you’re right, Squirrel. All I need is to fart and it’ll propel me right up to the plateau.”
“Gas masks on…”
“Cut the crap, patsanni,” Tarasov says. “I think I saw something. Squirrel, have a look at that.” The major hands his binoculars to the guide and points to the mouth of a cave. “Maybe there’s an underground passage leading up in there. I don’t know… do you think we should check it out?”
“It’s your call, man,” Squirrel replies, increasing the magnification for a better look.. “It could be a mutant lair.”
“At least we’d get the chance to shoot something rather than just walk around completely lost. Let’s go.”
As they approach the cave, Squirrel points to a path leading up to its mouth. It is surprisingly well-trodden.
“Keep your weapons ready,” he whispers. “Might be a dushman hideout.”
“What the hell would dushmans do here?” Ilchenko snorts.
The guide sends a scowl towards Ilchenko. “Looking for artifacts, like everyone else… why, what did you think? Pilgrimage?”
“Squirrel, step back. I’ll take point,” Tarasov says, covering the last few meters to the cave entrance with utmost caution, ready to shoot. Before entering the cave that overlooks the plains below, he switches on the flashlight he has fastened to the Vintorez with duct tape. Keeping his index finger on the trigger, he enters the cave. Then he juts his head out, signaling his companions to move up.
“Ilchenko, be prepared to mow down everything that moves. Squirrel, watch our back. We’re moving in.”
Signs of human habitation appear in the light circle of the torchlight — a mattress and a fireplace.
“Steady, rebyata. Steady.”
A shadow moves in the darkness. The major points his rifle toward the corner where he sensed movement, but what appears in the torchlight gives him a bigger scare than any mutant.
“Hold your fire!” Tarasov shouts.
It is an emaciated man with a wildly grown, dirty beard covering the lower part of his weathered face. His skin bears deep scars and wrinkles, giving him the look of a burnt out, shell of a man, thin and old like a mummy. A dusty Talib turban covers his head, but the most unnerving thing is the ragged coat he is wearing. Tarasov has to force himself to believe his own eyes: it is the coat of a Soviet officer from many years ago. One of the shoulder patches has been torn off but the other, dirty and faded, still shows a captain’s rank. He recoils into his cave and covers his eyes from the torchlight’s blinding light. His toothless mouth utters senseless blabber. “Wiy… nashi?…”