Chumak chuckles. Tarasov doesn’t mention the development of secret weapons and the psychic tests that used humans as guinea-pigs. The technician is not supposed to know everything.
“They soon realized that something more powerful was needed, so they put together seven volunteers to create a common consciousness. In short, the C-Consciousness.”
“Sounds like science fiction to me.”
“It was more like horror, because in 2006 the experiments damaged the Noosphere. No one knows for sure what had exactly happened, but we all see the results here in the Zone. If you ask me — the Zone is the bad day of the universe.”
“So we are here to kill mutants? Preventing them to get out?”
“No, that’s Duty’s job… Killing all the snorks, controllers, burers… as if that were possible. But the Stalkers keep sneaking in to hunt for things called artifacts. Some of them work wonders with a human body and can be sold for fat sums in the Big Land outside. Preventing this is our job, at least on paper — the state wants to have the monopoly on such trade. Anyway, to recap the story, the C-Consciousness eventually backfired. It used the scientists to create a trap, to brainwash people to protect itself. Stalkers called this trap the Brain Scorcher. It brainwashed enough people to create its own army. They called themselves the Monolith, believing they serve some sort of alien crystal capable of fulfilling any wish. Bloody fanatics.”
“Was it true, komandir?”
“Don’t start asking me about the Wish Granter. Anyway, two years ago a Stalker called Strelok found a path to the center of the Zone where the Monolith was protecting the C-Consciousness. His call sign was Marked One. He never talked about what exactly happened there… and frankly, I sleep easier without knowing about it. Whatever he did, the Zone is still here and all we can do is try to contain it. Maybe it doesn’t need the C-Consciousness to exist anymore. I don’t know.” Tarasov takes a sip of water from his canteen. “This chamber was the Marked One’s hideout. By now you probably understand that Strelok is the hero of all Stalkers. They come here to prove they’ve got what it takes to be a Stalker and leave a message behind. ”
“That’s why the mercenaries we ran into were here?”
“I doubt it. They prefer spraying the walls with our blood, not paint. What concerns us now is that the son of some big fish in Kiev died during an attempt to get here. We were ordered to make the place inaccessible.”
“I understand.”
“No, you don’t. What we do here makes no difference… it’s an uphill battle all the time. Sometimes I wish I’d be a free Stalker, with nothing in my mind but artifacts and how to spend money once I get rich by selling them. Then an order comes like today and makes me forget about such thoughts.”
Tarasov climbs to his feet but the technician persists in questioning him.
“I know about the Stalkers. But the guys in the base told me something about factions called Freedom and Duty, too.”
The major sits back, emitting an impatient sigh.
“It’s two sides of the same coin, Chumak. Some hardliners set up a militia to destroy the Zone. That is Duty. Then there are bleeding hearts believing that the whole world has a right to study the Zone. Bullshit, I’d say — Freedom is sponsored by Western powers who want to have their share of artifacts, but the Zone is ours. Am I not right?”
“I agree, komandir.”
Tarasov hesitates for a moment before continuing. Then he decides that speaking his mind would mean no harm. Back at their base, no soldier takes Chumak seriously enough to believe what the technician says, should he ever tell them about his doubts.
“You know, Chumak… years ago, when I arrived here as a lieutenant, I believed that the Zone’s resources should be exploited for the benefit of our country. After all, it is us Ukrainians who suffer from it most. It would be just fair for use to take whatever benefits the Zone has, scientific or else. Later on, when I saw that our generals have nothing else in mind than getting rich from selling artifacts on the black market and weapons to Stalkers and Duty, I was more and more wishing the Zone would disappear, either by force or a miracle. It corrupts people as much as it corrupts nature. Now I do not care any longer about all of this… Whatever we do just peels off the Zone. Duty’s trigger-happy Rambos and Freedom’s dope-smoking anarchists will never be able to deal with it.”
Tarasov looks around in the chamber, taken over by a feeling of hopelessness. He envies Strelok who was once hiding here during his long raid deep into the center of the Zone, trying to solve its ultimate secrets.
“It was different then…,” he silently continues. “There was still reason to be here. Now we know everything about the Zone except what it is, and this we will never find out. We’re stuck with it, like a child who takes a bite too big and can neither swallow nor spit it out. I wish I could move on with it, but I’m trapped here. There’s no way for me to live outside of the Zone, even if there’s nothing but corruption inside. You’ll understand if you stay here long enough… but that’s enough Zone lore for today. Come, let’s get this job done.”
“Yes, komandir, but tell me… I mean, I’m sorry for snapping after that thing attacked us… but you were kidding when you pointed your shooter at me, weren’t you?”
“That’s not a shooter,” Tarasov replies standing up and patting off the dust from his leggings, “it’s called an assault rifle.”
Before climbing back to the tunnel, Tarasov takes a fragmentation grenade, removes the safety pin, and carefully places the device under a piece of wood ripped from a crate. It will probably not prevent any Stalkers from entering the chamber except the first and unluckiest, but at least he has an excuse to report back that the place is booby-trapped.
Chumak starts working with quick, accurate movements. In a few minutes, the ladder lies in pieces. He takes the longer parts and welds them to the iron trunks. When he switches off the blue light of his welding torch, the shaft is barred by a strong new grid.
“Molodets,” Tarasov says, giving Chumak a look of approval, “and now let’s get the hell out of here. Squad, on me! Shumenko, take point.”
After twenty meters, another chamber opens to their left. On Tarasov’s sign, Ivanchuk moves over and keeps his weapon aimed into the room until the others pass by. Then he assumes his place on the rear, keeping a cautious eye on the far end of the tunnel.
They barely proceed a few meters when the sergeant raises his fist. Two Fruit Punch anomalies lie ahead. Judged by the distance between them, they could pass through safely.
“Form a line. Watch your step,” he orders his men.
“There’s something in that anomaly, sir.”
Tarasov takes his detector device and turns towards the anomaly. Shumenko’s eyes might have been misled by wishful thinking but the detector proves him right. The display lights up and indicates a small green dot, just a meter away. Cautiously stepping closer, he investigates the substance. A tiny object levitates an inch above the anomaly, as if in the state of weightlessness.
He cautiously picks it up, avoiding any contact with the acidic substance beneath. It would burn through his protective gloves in a moment. “Look at this little fellow,” he says as if talking about a puppy, “Privet, Kolobok!”