S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (30 page)

“I don’t think they’ve detected us yet.” Tarasov zooms in the optics to have a closer look at the mutants. “Look at that… they’re fighting over something.”

“That’s good. Let’s move on quietly and avoid them.”

Tarasov glances over the mutants one last time, but just as he’s about to lower the binoculars he spots something sinister.

“What the hell?” he whispers, adjusting the zoom.

“What is it, boss?”

“I’m not sure.”

Something long and thin reaches out from behind a group of dried-out, lifeless trees. Switching to the highest magnification, he realizes that what he took for a long, straight branch of a tree is actually the rotor blade of a helicopter. Behind it, a dozen jackals fight each other. The biggest mutant chases down a smaller one and delivers a vicious bite. The small jackal drops something and scurries away. Tarasov focuses on the pack leader as it grabs the small mutant’s prize from the ground and scowls when he recognizes it as a human arm.

“I’ll be damned… they’re fighting over a body. But that’s not all.”

The major gives the binoculars to Squirrel and points to the rotor blades. Immediately, a greedy smile widens on the Stalker guide’s face.

“Rotor blades! And where there’s rotor blades, there’s a chopper wreck, and where there’s a chopper wreck, there’s loot!”

“Give me that RPG, Squirrel.”

“Let me blast them, man! Please!”

“I said, give me that RPG, Squirrel.”

“Please, please, please let me fire the RPG!”

“All right, all right, but you better remove that protective cap from the warhead before you shoot… Ilchenko, show him how to do that. And now, Rambo – you don’t want to miss the mutants. Wait until they are bunched up. Ilchenko, get your machine gun ready. After the grenade hits them, open fire and try to hit as many of them as you can. If we screw it and they come running at us… that won’t be nice. Are we set?” His companions nod. “Don’t screw this up, Stalker. Wait for my command.”

Now Tarasov sees the jackals gather around a corpse, half dug out from a shallow grave.

“
Gospodi
,” he mutters when he sees what’s left of the body.

“What is it?”

“I saw a… but no. That cannot be. I refuse to believe it.”

At the moment when the most jackals gather over the grave, Tarasov gives Squirrel a signal. The projectile leaves the launcher with a deafening
whoosh
. The pack leader tosses its head but by the time it realizes the danger it is too late; the grenade hits the pack and explodes in a sheet of orange flame. In the same second, Ilchenko’s machine gun starts barking as he fires a long salvo into the strewn mass of wounded and half-dead mutants.

The pack leader, still alive, emits a vengeful howl and starts running toward them at speed despite having had one of its legs torn off by the explosion and the huge wound gouged into its side. Even so, the distance is so great that Tarasov can take a steady aim with his Vintorez. He fires a short burst and the mutant falls, its momentum still carrying it a meter closer to the three men, as if its predatory instinct drove it on even after life had departed.

Wish I had this rifle on the Shalang Pass when I needed it most
, Tarasov thinks with a bitter smile.

“Good job,” he tells his companions. “Let’s have a look at that wreck. Keep your eyes peeled.”

Getting closer, Tarasov recognizes the wreck by its tail – a Mi-24. With
Afghanistan
full of war debris, the sight does not surprise him – at least not at first. As they get close enough to see more of the wreck between the sparse bushes, the major gives a short, ghastly cry.

“Damn! This was one of ours!”

Ilchenko and Squirrel turn their heads to look. The
Ukraine
’s blue and yellow ensign is clearly visible on the bullet-riddled fuselage.

“Where’s that rotten stench coming from?”

The enthusiasm has disappeared from Squirrel’s face. Indeed, the smell is so foul, it forces him to put his gas mask on.

Tarasov follows suit before carefully studying the wreck. It looks to him as if the helicopter was intact when it landed and had been attacked on the ground. Tarasov and Ilchenko step to the hatch.

“Looks like the hatch was blown open, sir.”

“And judging by the mess inside, someone tossed grenades into the compartment.”

Hundreds of cartridge cases lie in blackened pools of dry blood and Tarasov finds a few bloody bandages and empty medikits, but there’s no sign of any bodies. Stepping out, he finds the pilots’ hatches open.

“Maybe the crew made it through?”

Ilchenko looks around as if expecting surviving troopers to appear from the bushes, but Squirrel shatters any optimism.

“Major… Ilch… you better come and have a look at what I found.”

A few steps away from the chopper’s wreck, close to where the mutants were fighting, the grenade has blasted a shallow crater into the ground and unearthed two bodies. By the missing parts and advanced state of decay, Tarasov recognizes the corpse dug up by the jackals. Of the other, only the back and legs are visible – but the sight of the half-decomposed flesh is enough to make Squirrel retch. The bodies are clad in nothing but cotton leggings and the army-issue tee-shirts with blue and white stripes.

“Where is their armor?” Tarasov inquires, combating his nausea. “And who buried them?”

“Maybe surviving comrades.”

“Ilchenko, give me your shovel.”

“Are you sure about this, sir?”

“I’m sure that you want to put your gas mask on, soldier.”

Tarasov opens the foldable shovel and starts digging. Ilchenko and Squirrel watch in horror as he soon unearths more bodies, most of them stripped almost naked like the two on top. Only one is different, and he still wears his pilot’s suit. The major has seen enough corpses to know: they must have been buried several weeks ago. When he finds the seventh corpse, Tarasov stops digging.

“No need to dig any deeper… looks like the whole squad and crew were buried here.” He leans closer to the bodies. The stench of decay and rot is so strong that it even penetrates Tarasov’s gas mask. A sweetish, sickening taste develops in his mouth as he studies the bodies from a closer range. He points at a skull, barely connected by rotting sinew to the rest of the corpse. “Look… this might have started as a firefight, but ended in an execution.”

Speechless, they look at the open grave, then at each other.

Ilchenko scowls. “Who did this?” he finally says.

Tarasov shakes his head. His first thought is of the sinister commandos from the
Salang
Range
.
But they use different means to clean up their mess,
he thinks. The burial also means that the dushmans are no option either – he can’t imagine any reason why they would bother with digging a mass grave for their enemies.

“I don’t know, but probably not the dushmans, and definitely not the Stalkers.”

“I agree,” Squirrel says. “One needs more firepower than a few Stalkers’ Kalashnikovs to storm a downed chopper with a whole squad of paratroopers inside. No brother would be foolish enough to do that.”

“Squirrel, can you read tracks?”

“Wouldn’t be much of a guide if I couldn’t, man.”

“Let’s check the area. Ilchenko, here’s your shovel. Fill that back in.”

“As ordered… damn this shit. I just can’t believe it.”

Looking for any traces the attackers might have left behind, Tarasov and the guide comb the perimeter around the wreck.

“I’m not a big tactician, man, and the whole place looks as if God had created it for an ambush… but if I had to take that chopper on, that position would have been as good as any. Look!” He waves Tarasov over to a tree stump, where the Stalker kneels and takes a handful of cartridge casings from the ground.

“9x39 millimeters… Russian-made. Lots of them. Here… and look, two more firing positions over there.”

Tarasov examines a casing. Even a quick glance proves that the guide was right. He frowns. “Squirrel… do you know anyone who has a Val or a Vintorez?”

“Yeah, man. You.”

“I assure you I didn’t do this. Now tell me – here in the new Zone, which other rifle uses this caliber?”

“The Groza.”

“And who is armed with Groza assault rifles?”

Squirrel removes his gas mask. It is the first time that Tarasov sees horror in his eyes.

“Exactly,” the major murmurs and bows his head.

For a long minute, they look at each other.

“Listen Squirrel… I already know that you were with Freedom once. I suppose there’s not much love lost between you and Captain Bone’s Dutiers.”

“That’s not the correct way to put it. I’d rather say: please, let me cut their bellies open, tear out their intestines, trample on them, and suffocate the suckers with their own guts.”

“If you want to see that day, you must keep your mouth shut for now. Do not talk about this to anyone. Especially not to Ilchenko.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. Or do you want my six remaining men to charge down Bone while there are a hundred Stalkers around who don’t know who they hate more – us or the guards?”

“They don’t hate soldiers anymore after you helped us out at the Outpost. At least not you and your guys.”

“Be that as it may, we are not ready to take the Dutiers – or whoever they really are – on yet. Is that clear?”

“Yes sir, Major, sir.”

“Spare me your jokes, I’m not in the mood for fun. Let’s go back to that chopper and give Ilchenko a hand.”

Stalker camp at Hellgate, 20:25:47 AFT

Night has fallen by the time they climb up through a valley to Hellgate. Tarasov scans the area through his binoculars. Beyond an empty area encircled by jagged, rocky hills, dozens of small fires dance under a huge archway leading to a cave entrance. The place looks like a ruined cathedral built to worship some evil entity, but it was the tortured earth itself that produced this wicked rock formation. Now he also realizes that what had looked like one single anomaly from far, is actually many – sizzling and pulsating purple flames dance among columns of steam. A dilapidated log hut stands a safe distance from the anomalies, most of its timbers having been taken away to feed the campfire that burns in the middle of the stone circle, further away from the anomalies but still close enough for the flames to lit up three human figures huddled around the campfire.

“I see Stalkers there.”

“That must be Snorkbait and his buddies,” Squirrel replies. “Snorky is a pretty good guide himself.”

“How could anyone set up a camp there? There are anomalies around, and the place itself looks creepy.”

“Because they aren’t stupid, you know?”

“And what makes them smart?”

“Mutants don’t go too close to anomalies, and smart Stalkers make camp where no mutants go.”

“Sounds reasonable. Let’s join them at their fire, then.”

As the three of them walk up to the fire, the Stalkers jump up, pointing their weapons at the newcomers.