Too far. Damn it, I could use another artifact.
He sees a single whole mud brick lying on the ground near to a wall and, guided by sudden inspiration, kicks more bricks from the dilapidated wall before throwing them in the direction of the indicated artifact to form a path. Cautiously stepping on it, he makes his way through the anomaly field and finally reaches the spot where a small spherical object gleams in one of the cracks. The Geiger counter’s ticking gets faster as he crouches down to pick the artifact up, the indicator reaching almost into the yellow area.
I’ll need to ask Nooria if she knows more about this one.
The Geiger counter’s indicator drops back to a safer level when Tarasov puts the artifact into the container on his belt and, after a few leaps, he is out of the anomaly field and free to move on.
The undergrowth becomes more dense as he proceeds until the road narrows into a path. Tarasov ducks as something moves not far from him and he raises his weapon, waiting. The bushes rattle again, as if something large and heavy has moved behind them. A little distance away, a mutant appears, and for a moment Tarasov and the hind look into each other’s eyes. Spooked, the creature gracefully leaps back into the forest, leaving Tarasov to sigh with relief before pushing on once more.
After a protracted period of more watchful sneaking, an ochre ruin appears. Once it must have stood directly on the road, but now high bushes hide most of it from view. Looking around, Tarasov sees the ruins.
The village at last.
Tarasov is creeping deeper into the ruined village when he hears a noise so strange that at first he doesn’t believe his ears. All the same, he stands still, listening, but hears only the beat of his heart and the Geiger counter’s slow ticking. But then the sound comes again.
No way. It cannot be.
But when the sound arrives a third time, there seems to be no doubt: it is the faint noise of someone crying.
Damn, this place is creepy.
A glance at his radiation meter assures him that the area would be too dangerous for anyone to enter without a protective suit and helmet. But the crying is there, somewhere deep among the overgrown ruins.
I better check it out instead of turning my back on it. This place reeks of danger.
Following the cry, he reaches an opening in the forest that must have once been the central square of the village. The wreck of an American truck stands in the middle of the area, its tires having rotted away long ago, the bullet-riddled windows opaque with dust and age. The absence of Tribe-like decoration tells Tarasov that it must have been destroyed during the Bush wars.
I can probably skip checking this one out.
His compass tells him that the trail to the plateau should be close. Turning to face that direction, Tarasov hears the crying getting stronger. A human figure suddenly appears in a dark hole that was once a window, passing by so quickly that he wishes he could rub his eyes under the helmet’s visor. The crying is louder, clearer, and Tarasov realizes it is a child sobbing. Unable to bear the sound of the disconsolate voice, he takes one step closer… and sees a man standing by the next ruin. He is about to call out, but then notices details other than the long white gown that the silent stranger is wearing and his grey beard. The major falls back a step as he realizes that the man’s eyes are missing, together with the top of his skull. The beard grows red from the blood that now pours out from his wounds. Gasping, Tarasov ducks and raises his gun, as if he could hit an apparition with a translucent body.
There are no ghosts. But this is one. But there are no ghosts.
Undeterred by the fear crawling under his skin, he steps closer. Now he sees the crying child, sitting on the ground, sobbing, tugging on the dress of a dead woman with a still fresh wound on her chest. The child looks up at him and Tarasov sees a hole in its head. The apparition raises its hand as if showing a way and, as the major involuntarily looks in the direction shown, a group of people appear, shuffling ever closer, with the row of ruins faintly visible when their bullet-riddled and mutilated bodies should be blocking them from view.
Instinctively, he grabs a grenade from his armor and throws it towards the group. It falls through them and detonates without having any effect on them. The crying becomes so loud that Tarasov feels as if he could touch its source. Turning his head to locate where the sound is coming from, he switches on his headlight and steps to the door of the house where the child first appeared. The fresh body of a woman lies in front of it. There is no visible wound on her body, but blood streams from between her legs.
Pulling all his courage together, Tarasov kicks the door in.
The blood-curdling howl is almost a relief after the sobbing. A human-like mutant stands in the headlight’s beam, its unnaturally long arms scything towards him as if throwing something, but it is no weapon or projectile that hits him, only more images of dead people, their wounds heavier and their bodies more horrifically mutilated with each step he takes.
Tarasov aims his weapon and fires. He has barely emptied half the magazine when the mutant falls, its limbs writhing in agony before becoming still. The crying continues, so the major takes out his pistol and fires more shots into the creature’s head. Now, the crying weakens, and finally disappears, leaving only the buzzing sound of flies in the filthy room.
He grins triumphantly.
That was a nice try, but don’t threaten a whore with a dick or a Spetsnaz with corpses.
But as he exits the house, his knees tremble so strongly that he has to sit down. Only now does he realize that the most horrifying thing about this experience was not the sight of wounds and corpses, but the natural way they appeared. They had been nothing but apparitions, yet all of them had been in realistic poses: the dead woman’s hand reaching out for a wooden beam as if to help herself up; the child grabbing her dress as if it was a tangible thing; one of the dead men stepping over some bricks lying on the ground… It was as if he had just seen the eerie reenactment of something that had actually happened here.
The Colonel’s words come back to Tarasov’s mind: “It was… marvelous. After that, no shots were fired from the village anymore.” Now, confronted with what the Colonel’s idea of warfare could mean in reality, Tarasov now views him in a different light, and the respect he had for his brutal philosophy vanishes.
It is odd, though… he only hinted at a firefight. He said nothing about slaughtering civilians and rape. What the hell is it that the Bhegum wants me to find here?
He moves on. The trail leading upwards is steep, but he can soon see over the dark green foliage as he climbs higher and higher up the path.
Reaching the hilltop, he sees a cluster of trees with a large vehicle among them. Looking through the binoculars, he zooms in to identify the wreckage of a white van with a broken satellite dish on the top. With his weapon held ready, Tarasov approaches the wreck.
It was an unusual car, obviously civilian but heavily armored. Behind the tarnished windshield he sees a white sign with the word PRESS on it, written in huge letters. The bullet-riddled doors are locked and show the signs of several attempts to pry them open from the outside.