S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Southern Comfort (65 page)

Tarasov enters and looks around the room. “Looks like a guard room,” he says, pointing with his rifle to the mattresses on the ground. The walls here are solid concrete with round holes housing the ventilators, one of which is still rotating. He checks his instruments. “Radiation normal… no anomalies detected. Should be safe to take off the gas masks.”

The smell of earth, rot and damp floods his nostrils as soon as he removes his protective mask.

“Nothing here but debris,” Skinner groans with dissatisfaction.

Ilchenko opens the next door and cautiously peeks out. “
Damn!
This is just where the bunker begins… and I was hoping this would be over with soon.”

“Already missing the fresh air, Private?”

“No, Major… it’s just damn tight in here with that monkey breathing on my neck.” Ilchenko casts a glance of disdain towards
Zef
. “I hope he will not steal a Kalashnikov mag and eat it, thinking it’s a banana.”

Tarasov sees the black Stalker’s eyes flinching. “Let’s move on,” he quickly says, “Viktor, come over here for a second.”

“
Komandir?
”

Tarasov waits until Ilchenko and the two Stalkers leave the room.

“What’s wrong with Ilchenko, Sergeant?”

“I don’t know… but I don’t like his behavior any better than you.”

They follow the Stalkers into the dark tunnel. After a few steps Tarasov sees Ilchenko signaling them to stop. He does not need to ask him for the reason. Beyond the next door, something heavy is stirring. Tarasov can even hear a slow, beastly rattle.

“Action time,” Skinner grins and steps forward without waiting for orders. Before Tarasov can stop him, the Stalker opens the metal door by a couple of inches. In the next instant, a mass of malevolent force slams the door wide open and knocks Skinner off his feet. The rattling sound grows into a blood curdling howl and Skinner screams in fear and defiance as the mutant launches its attack.

“Mutant!” Ilchenko screams, firing his machine gun. Tracers and bullets pierce the darkness while Tarasov throws himself to the ground to give Zlenko a free line of fire.

“Shotguns! Blast it! Blast that beast!”

Now he recognizes the mutant: it’s a bear, crawling over Skinner’s body as it views the rest of its prey. Its thick hide absorbs every bullet, and the long claws are already reaching for Ilchenko when the bear rears up in pain, trying to stand erect on its hind legs. The narrow tunnel obstructs the creature, allowing it to rise only to the extent that
Zef
can fire a half dozen heavy bullets into its belly. Unnaturally strong muscles propel the dying mutant forward as Zlenko and Tarasov fire their rifles into its head. Eventually, its howling ceases. Panting, the men gasp for breath. Skinner’s trembling voice breaks the sudden silence.

“Thank God for confined spaces,” he says, standing up and cleaning matter from the massive, serrated combat knife he’d planted in the dead mutant’s hide. The Stalker’s face is bloody and his armor is in tatters, the upper layers torn into rags by the bear’s claws.

My God, he knifed that beast even while it trampled him down!

“Sorry for letting you remove your gas mask, Stalker.”

“What?”

“That beast must have stunk like hell so close in…” The men smile. “Awesome job, Skinner. Fit for a Dutier. And now let’s see what’s in the next room.”

“Now you deserve Bone calling you assface,”
Zef
jokes to Skinner, who is still wiping the blood from his face as the other man steps past him. “You had that bear’s ass all over you, man. That sucks.”

Entering the next room, Tarasov has a sense of déjà vu. The concrete walls with the pipes running below the low ceiling, the rusty machines, and the metal debris remind him strongly of the underground laboratories back in the old Zone. So do the dim emergency lights, one of them crackling as if its fitting was broken and lighting up a body in the corner for a second. It is wearing the long, dark green coat worn by scientists conducting research in the Zone. Skinner is already moving to check the body for loot, but Zlenko stops him.

“Chain of command, Stalker.”

“You’re nothing but a lap dog,
boyevoychik!”

The Stalker looks unhappy but makes way for Tarasov, who examines the body. The dead man is still clutching at a heavy-duty laptop. Patting down the pockets of the coat, he also finds a small notebook, its pages filled with charts, calculations and hand-written notes.

“Maybe we should check that out,” Zlenko says.

“Later… when we can allow ourselves a little break.”

“There might be a map with hidden stashes on that shit,” Skinner tells Tarasov with a greedy look in his eye. “Let’s check it now!”

“Later, I said. Move on, Stalkers.”

“Boss,”
Zef
says from behind. “Can’t we fix these generators? This darkness…”

“At least you blend in, negro,” Ilchenko says followed by a creepy laugh.

“Private, watch your tongue!”

“There’s nothing in my job description about bearing the smell of monkeys, Major.”

“Ilch! What the hell is wrong with you?” Zlenko yells.

“It’s OK, Sarge,” the black Stalker calmly says. “I can put on my gas mask if this
cheekyprawn
is scared of my face.”

“I do need a fucking gas mask to protect me from your smell!”

“Ilchenko – hold your tongue. Last warning. That’s an order!” Tarasov snaps.

“Order, order… fuck this whole shit.”

Tarasov sees Zlenko raising his shotgun. “Private Ilchenko,” he says in a low voice, almost soft but barely able to contain his anger. “If you continue disrupting discipline I’ll take that machine gun from you and let you take point with a pistol. Pray that a mutant saves you from court-martial!”

At last the machine gunner remains silent. Tarasov signals him to take point and follows him, closely watching his movements. Through a door at the end of the corridor, they enter a narrow staircase spiraling downwards. After two flights Tarasov cautiously opens another steel door. The dim light from his headlamp barely illuminates the large room, from where several corridors branch off.

“Maybe we should break into teams of two, scout those corridors and meet back here?”

“I don’t think so, Viktor… there might be more mutants around. We only stand a chance if we stay together. Let the Stalkers check their ammo while I see what’s left in this room.”

“Yes,
komandir
.”

The sergeant’s obedient words relax his nerves.

 
At least he’s retaining his sense of duty.

Tarasov watches Ilchenko and Skinner as they count their remaining shells and magazines.

If we start falling apart or have people going off for the loot, this mission is finished.

Empty soda and water bottles lay strewn around the ground among the debris of destroyed crates. A field table stands in the corner, turned onto its side. Tarasov almost stumbles over a wrecked chair when he steps closer to see if there’s something behind it and is greeted by the sight of a headless corpse. He frowns and moves to where another body lies in the corner, still gripping a pistol in its hand.

That guy must have fought to his last bullet.

“Strange way to die.” Tarasov stirs when he hears Ilchenko’s voice behind him. “No blood on that one… he was smashed against the wall with such force that his neck broke... I mean, normally a neck isn’t fully twisted to the side like that.”

“How much ammo do you still have, Ilchenko?”

“Enough.”

“What kind of reply is that, Private?”

“I said, enough. Enough to kill the world.”

He’s losing it.

Tarasov doesn’t see the murderous light glimmering in the soldier’s eye, but Ilchenko’s hoarse voice is enough to make him more than concerned.

“Major… you better have a look at this.”

“What is it, Viktor?”

“
Zef
found a map… it must have been torn from the wall.”

Tarasov studies the sketchy blueprint. It is torn and heavy boots have trampled over it, but the layout of the bunker is still visible.

“Excellent… this long part is the entrance shaft… yes, then we crossed the guard’s room and now we are in the former mess room… look, that tunnel leads to a chamber labeled
excavators’ storage room
, whoever they are… the one in the middle leads to the laboratories.”

“I love laboratories,” Skinner cries out with inquisitive eyes. “That must be where they keep all the artifacts for testing and stuff like that!”

“And from there?”
Zef
asks, ignoring the other Stalker’s excitement.

“It says
excavation area
but the map ends there. There’s only an arrow, directed downwards.”

“To the labs, then?”

“No… first we check out the storage room. Maybe they have ammo there or first aid supplies… unless they used them all up when hell broke loose.”

A growl comes from the darkness as if in response to the major’s last words. But this time it is followed by a howl, with a third mutant joining the jarring chorus.

“Weapons at ready! Watch that tunnel to the left!”

For a moment, the major hopes that the light of their headlamps would blind the three jackals that leap out from the darkness, but the beasts don’t hesitate to attack
Zef
, who stands closest to them. One jackal sinks his fangs into his arm, not leaving him a chance to shoot and, to Tarasov’s horror, Ilchenko suffers the same fate. Perception or agility offer the soldier a better chance. He lets his machine gun fall with the two jackals still clinging to it with their teeth, and uses the moment gained to pull out his pistol. Tarasov, Skinner and Zlenko are firing like mad into the bundles of flesh, muscles and fangs while
Zef
, gathering all his enormous strength together, smashes the third mutant against the wall and pins it there while Skinner pumps three shells from his shotgun into its flesh. Even then, the mutant keeps growling as it falls to the ground and starts crawling towards them, oozing blood and gore. Ilchenko finally grabs his machine gun and fires a lengthy burst into the mutant, his voice roaring over the rattle.

“What the hell does it take to kill that fucking bastard?”

The mutant growls no more as the last casing falls to the ground from Ilchenko’s weapon.

“What the fok!”
Zef’s
eyes are wide enough to expose a ring of white around his corneas as he studies his arms. The mutant’s fangs have bent his exoskeleton’s reinforced metal frame like soft wire. “Those beasts just tore my shotty out of my hands and tried to bite them off…”

“Jackals are not nice. You need a bandage?” Tarasov inquires.

The black Stalker shakes his head. A strange look appears in his eyes.

“They were after my… baby! But she is only mine!”

Tarasov scowls, but before he could ask
Zef
about what he meant, Skinner butts in.

“Had you worn anything other than an exo, you’d now have nothing to beat your dick with,” the ex-Dutier sardonically retorts, reloading his shotgun. “It’s your lucky day, brother.”

“Let’s move on, everyone… and keep your eyes peeled.”