“While you were promenading around, we found some intel on one of the attackers,” Bone says. “We know where the rest of the mercs are hiding. They’re in the ruins of the City of Screams.”
“We expected that.”
“Well, now it’s confirmed. Why, would you have preferred to have tracked them down in dushman country? No? I thought not. Anyway, our goals are the same now. We’re going to smoke that place out. But first I’ll take my guards and see to it that the Outpost is reinforced. Those zombified freaks might strike again.”
“I presume they won’t be back anytime soon, knowing that they are also messing with the Tribe now.”
“You can afford to presume things, but I have the responsibility to keep this place safe. Take a few capable Stalkers and move to the west. I will meet you there in two days — at the City of Screams.”
“You will not return to Bagram first?”
“Why, for fuck’s sake, would I do that? To drink that junkie’s watered-down vodka in the Antonov? We have no time for that now.”
“You better make it there in time. We will need the firepower of your guards.”
“We will be there, don’t worry about that. Do you think those savages could give us a helping hand?”
“First, Captain Bone, they are anything but savages. Second, they won’t help us, but at least they will let us pass us through.”
“All the better. Maybe now we can show them that Stalkers can also fight.”
Tarasov finds Bone’s words strange. He can’t shake off a feeling that the foul-mouthed commander is actually relieved about the Tribe staying out of the operation, even if their help would shift the odds tremendously in their favor. He wishes he could look into Bone’s eyes.
“Good. We’re set then,” he finally confirms.
“Then why are you still standing here? Move!”
“I liked that song, Viktor,” Tarasov shouts, trying to make himself heard on the back of the truck taking them westwards, “and it was probably a good idea to omit the last part.”
“About being demobilized and going home?” the sergeant shouts back.
“Exactly.”
“Do Stalkers ever get demobilized?”
“That’s my point!”
“What?”
He shakes his head and waves to Zlenko, meaning: we’ll talk later. The truck is roaring along the bumpy road and the dust dredged up by the other truck in front of them covers them from toes to teeth. Not the best time to talk.
Passing by the intersection leading to the abandoned village, Tarasov wishes he could tell Zlenko more about the unit of framed US Marines who had turned into a tribe of proud and free men against all odds, but it will have to wait. For now, he can only watch the scenery pass by, but the sight of the wrecked Soviet tanks and trucks that still litter the roadside makes him sad.
Does this land never have enough of death? The sand absorbs blood like a dry sponge absorbs water.
The more he thinks about the Colonel’s philosophy of strength, the more he finds himself able to understand him.
Maybe, of all the conquerors that have passed along the very same road that we now drive upon, he was the first who truly understood this land. But where is all this evil coming from? Is the only way to be victorious over evil to become evil ourselves, no matter how respectable evil can be?
A quote comes to his mind: For what can war, but endless war still breed? though no matter how hard Tarasov tries to remember, the name of the writer who wrote it escapes him. Even so, the quote seems to fit perfectly with this barren and inhospitable land, where the rules of life had been those of war since time beyond memory, and where the appearance of the New Zone undermined even the laws of nature in an evil and deadly way.
For Tarasov, Nooria’s home was now the only place where he found true shelter for his life and comfort for his soul. Thinking about her, he realizes how fond he had grown of the girclass="underline" his feelings, which had been initially a mixture of gratitude, desire and maybe even a little pity, had turned into a deep affection that he, who had always been rough and skeptical towards his own feelings, did not dare to define yet.
The truck slows down, awakening him from his daydreams. They are approaching the entrance of a narrow canyon. Tribe warriors appear from out of nowhere. A Lieutenant raises his hand, signaling them to stop.
“We have the Colonel’s permission to pass through,” Tarasov shouts.
“So we heard,” the warrior replies. “Speed up! A storm is expected before nightfall.”
Tarasov returns his salute as they drive on. “We’re entering Tribe territory now,” he shouts to Zlenko. “We’ll stop before we arrive at their stronghold. I need to tell the Stalkers a few things, lest they get themselves in trouble.”
“It’s weird,” Zlenko shouts back. “The tribals saved our skin all right, but I have an uneasy feeling about spending the night in their lair!”
“I do not. Actually, I feel like I’m going home.”
The horizon has already sunk into a moody, purple haze when Tarasov walks up the path to the Bhegum’s house. On their way here, he had hoped to see Nooria waiting for him, looking down to the road leading into the hidden valley. He’d imagined her scarf blowing in the wind as her fragile shape appeared among the rocks and mud walls, but she was nowhere to be seen. Thoughts of jealousy interfered with his growing anxiety. No matter how tantalizingly close he was to Nooria, first he had to give a crash-course to the Stalkers on the customs of the Tribe.
Forget about vodka and grass. Do not stare at their women. And never ever try to impress them by saying things like ‘Semper Fi’ or calling yourself a ‘warrior’ — in their eyes, you are not worthy of that.
He had actually been relieved when the Stalkers had been excluded from the inside of the stronghold, being put up in a huge cavern that served as a garage for the Tribe’s vehicles instead. It offered shelter from the impending storm for the Stalkers, whilst simultaneously providing an easy way for the Tribe to keep a wary eye on their guests. The cavern also gave Tarasov a clue as to where and how the Marines and their Hazara followers could survive the nuclear blasts back in 2011.
He’d had to tell Zlenko the whole story too, though the sergeant, being a young man in his prime, had been more interested in Nooria’s looks than in his officer’s adventures, and Tarasov’s possessive heart secretly rejoiced when the warriors hadn’t let Zlenko enter the stronghold either, despite Tarasov’s half-hearted attempts to convince them otherwise.
But now, before he can finally turn his steps towards her, there is something else Tarasov has to take care of.
Here and there, warriors are still sitting around their hookah pipes, but they seem more relaxed than usual. Passing by a bonfire, the major overhears a conversation.
“…so I come home after the hunt, and… the Colonel knows my soul, I would never break the Code, but I was dying for something better than water and chair. And then my woman says, ‘try this’. And man, I tell you, it was… awesome.”
“Yeah, me too. I wish the witch could have discovered that recipe a little earlier.”
“I don’t care what she’d put into it. Maybe it was powdered rag-head dick, I don’t give a damn.”
“You disgusting pig. I’m drinking it right now!”
“You don’t get my point. No matter how she prepared this stuff, it makes life so much better.”
“There’s no argument about that. It almost tastes like the real thing… and talking about the real thing, sometimes I think the Bhegum’s right. It’s all fuck the suck here. We should go home and start kicking ass!”