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Tiger's Spring

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  22:25:11  7 May 2016
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On forum: 07/30/2007
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It's the big seven! I should say something clever but I'm too tired. Have a picture:

For a Few Moments More – Third Quarter

They felt their way along the guide ropes to higher ground. It was now too dark to see clearly, but it seemed to Lena that the skyline didn't match any part of right-bank Kiev she knew. Instead of high-rises, she made out tall, thin trees and buildings of no more than a couple floors each. Had the river carried them all the way down to the outskirts?

“Stop! Who goes there?”

Lena started at the gruff bark. “Don't shoot!” she cried. “We're civilians! We escaped from New Order!”

“Okay, okay. Stay where you are.” There was a long blast on a whistle and then two short ones. More people came running, boots falling hard on pavement.

“What have you got, Kostyan?”

“Two women, coming from the beach. They say they're civvies.”

“Any other movement?”

“Nope. It's clear.”

“Slava, use your lamp.” A piercing white beam dazzled Lena's eyes. “How did you get here?”

“A man with a boat brought us,” she stammered. “Told us you would help...”

“She said they got away from New Order,” added Kostyan, somewhere behind the light.

“Yeah? Where from exactly?”

“Hydropark,” answered Lena, struggling to stop her teeth chattering. “The boatman said it was Hydropark.”

The interrogator didn't like her response. “How'd you get through the lock?”

“Lock? I don't understand, what lock?”

Her ignorance drew discontent. “I don't believe it,” said the same man. “It's got to be a probe.”

“A probe? Look at 'em, Petro, they're freezing. One's just a kid.”

“So? Makes them perfect bait.”

The argument swelled, only to be cut off by a woman's voice. “Quiet down, people. You there, tell me about the boatman. Did he give his name?”

“I asked.” It was hard to focus through the cold and hurt and hunger, but the stranger's answer left a lasting impression. “He said... he said the Zone doesn't care about that.” There was a name mentioned, however. “He asked us to find a girl, Zhenya.”

Those words changed everything. “Fine,” the other woman decided. “Come with me.”

Petro tried to object. “But...”

A body moved, interrupting the spotlight. “When Gromyko gets here, tell him to swing by our place.”

“Shouldn't we at least search them?” Kostyan suggested.

“On it.” The woman halted. “Arms up. I'll make this quick.”

She was true to her word: the pat-down was over almost before Lena knew it. Then she felt Pavlina flinch away from the brisk hands. “Wait,” Lena pleaded. “She was – ”

“I know,” the searcher muttered. “They wouldn't keep you alive just to look at.” She backed away, switching on a vest-mounted flashlight. “Let's go.”

They followed her along a paved road for what seemed like several minutes, then the other woman made a sharp turn and Lena felt the tarmac change to flagstones. A latch clicked and hinges squealed. The refugees were sent in first, the door bolted behind them. The house wasn't lit, but it was warmer inside.

“Place just got renovated,” the leader remarked. “Buyer never even moved in.” She opened an inner door and an orange glow spilled out. “Here we are.”

The living room had a fireplace, a real working one with a stack of split wood next to it. There was an armchair placed on either side and a wooden coffee table in between. The right hand chair was turned towards the table, the person sitting in it busy cleaning part of a dismantled assault rifle. Seeing this, Lena hesitated.

“Home sweet home.” The leader's words had a wry touch as she shut the door and went into one of the far corners, coming back with a pair of simple wooden chairs. “Have a seat.”

She took one of the plain chairs for herself while the second stranger moved to the other one, freeing both armchairs for the guests. Pavlina drifted towards the one on the left, leaving no choice for Lena. She sat on the right, feeling the previous occupant's warmth under her bottom. “Thank you,” she mumbled self-consciously.

“Our pleasure.” The brisk woman pulled off her fur hat and tossed it on the table. “I'm Rusalka. This girl is my partner, Butterfly. She doesn't say much, but she listens.”

Rusalka looked about thirty years old, with bronzed skin and dark, narrow eyes. Her hair, also dark, was pulled into a stub of a ponytail. Her features seemed Central Asian to Lena, though she spoke the same as a native Ukrainian. She was dressed like a soldier, replete with straps and pouches, and had a pistol on her hip and a long-barreled rifle hanging off her shoulder.

Butterfly, conversely, was in her early twenties, a little younger than Lena herself. She had a soft yet handsome face, accented by a dark bar painted under each eye. Her brown hair was clipped short, such that Lena might have questioned her sex if Rusalka didn't specify it. The junior of the two wore a gray cap with a bill and a red star pin on the front, and was equipped with the same kind of military gear as her companion. She had a distant, forlorn air about her.

“Well?” Rusalka prompted. “What do we call you?”

Pavlina recited her name listlessly. “Nikishina, Pavlina Andreyevna.”

Nobody at Postal Square knew who Lena was. After what she'd experienced, she would rather keep it that way. “I, um... I'm Lena.”

Her wish was undone by Butterfly. “Lena... Korzeniowska. Singer... Lublin.”

Being recognized should have made her proud, not left her feeling vulnerable. “That's right.”

“You have... a nice voice.” The girl in the cap had a slow, faltering speech. She sounded like a fellow foreigner, though Lena couldn't place her dialect. “Are... you hungry?”

“I... Yes.”

“Our selection is pretty limited,” said Rusalka, getting up from her chair. “Won't be able to cook until tomorrow.” She went into the corner again and rummaged around for a minute. “Maybe I shouldn't have traded away those sardines...”

Instead of sardines, Lena got hard biscuits, dry fruit, and one half of a large spiced sausage. It was more variety than she'd tasted since the crisis began, and for that she was grateful. Pavlina felt the same, judging by the way she tore into her share with only brief interruptions to gulp water from a canteen.

Rusalka stretched out her legs, settling down for good. “So to recap, you escaped from New Order at Hydropark and a man in a boat brought you up here. You asked his name, but he said the Zone doesn't care. He also asked you to find a girl called Zhenya. That right?”

Lena nodded, her mouth being full at the moment. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Butterfly perk up a little.

“Where were you before Hydropark?”

Lena swallowed. “...Postal Square. A man called Wolf made a camp in the station.”

“Wolf?” Rusalka sounded surprised, but not in a bad way. “Should have said that sooner.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody knows Wolf. He'll be glad to hear someone else made it out.”

“Is he here?”

“In the neighborhood. When New Order showed up, he did the smart thing and left to get help.” Rusalka drummed her fingers on her knee. “Pure bad luck that a boar found him before we did. He'll live, but he's out of action.”

It wasn't exactly good news, though it brought a tiding of hope. “Are you fighting New Order?”

“Trying,” the other woman replied candidly. “Don't have enough people to attack head on. We're hoping the depot can even the odds.”

“Depot...” Lena had a belated realization. “Where are we?”

“You're in scenic Lyutizh, site of a key bridgehead in the war against fascism. More importantly, it borders a former complex of the Kiev military signals institute. That used to be a big deal, you know. Trained people from all over the Warsaw Pact, Vietnam, Mongolia... A couple of years ago, the army turned it into a staging point for operations inside the Zone. It's got enough rations and ammo to live on for a while.”

Lena saw light at the end of the tunnel. “How long until we're rescued, do you think?”

“We're not going to be rescued. Sorry, but that's how it is.”

The light went out. “But... someone must know we're here...”

“I guess you haven't heard how bad things are.” Rusalka folded her arms. “The Zone's about six hundred klicks wide and we're eighty klicks from the center. The Russians have taken half of what's left of the country.”

“Russians... what?”

“Made a real slick land grab. Clever sons of bitches must have had a whole plan drawn up in advance.” Her voice carried grudging respect, but not much. “That's someone else's problem.”

Despair began to crush Lena little by little. It was hard to find her voice. “What are we going to do?”

“Stay alive and keep fighting. We have to knock out New Order before the shit at our backs catches up with us. It'd be easier if... Hold on, someone's at the door.”

Rusalka left the room. There was a conversation Lena couldn't make out, and then her host returned with a man in a black and red uniform. He had a haggard, flattened-looking face and sparse hair, and walked with a visible limp in his right leg. “This is Sergeant Gromyko of Duty,” explained Rusalka. “He needs to ask a few questions.”

Gromyko nodded. “I understand you've had a rough time, so I'll keep it short. Does New Order know we're here?”

Lena wished she could give him a real answer. “I'm not sure. They talked about stalkers coming from the north, but I don't remember any specific places... I did hear some men talk about how to defend their side of the river. They wanted to blow up the bridges.”

“Are they planning any offensives? Any movement outside their territory?”

“Just raiding for food. They're always complaining about not having enough to eat.”

“I heard you escaped from Hydropark. Is that their base of operations?”

Lena shook her head. “They have a camp at Rusa... Rusam..?”

“Rusanivka,” said Pavlina dully.

“I see.” Gromyko's eyes flicked from one to the other as he considered their replies. “I'll save the rest for tomorrow. Where are you staying?”

“They'll be here,” Rusalka told him. “What's new in the north? Old School back in the air yet?”

“Not yet.” The man turned away. “I'll see myself out. Keep me posted.”

He closed the door behind him. Looking around, Lena realized that Pavlina had finished eating. She bit into a dried apple ring, wondering if Gromyko believed their story. “Don't take it personally,” advised Rusalka, easing back into her seat. “He's mourning his best friends.”

“What happened?”

Rusalka unslung her rifle and stood it on end between her knees. “Duty sent his team into some uncleared bunkers to look for a Monolith supply dump, following intel from a source they knew wasn't trustworthy. The squad got swarmed by mutants and only Gromyko and one other guy came back. Then the other guy ate a bullet and they pushed Gromyko down here... He's working himself to the bone trying to help us, but he can't do enough on his own.”

Lena was sure she'd heard that name before. Maybe Wolf mentioned it. “Duty is a... faction?”

“Right. The police of the Zone, or they try to be... Not too popular with the independent stalkers. They've always been kind of pushy, and the scandals hurt their reputation pretty bad.”


“An elite squad went rogue and joined the mercenaries. Then one of the quartermasters got caught selling to bandits. Plus it turned out their heroic founder was a sleazebag looking to get rich. Now rumor has it the Duty leader caught some nasty sickness and every man's jockeying to be next in line. That's why they're not giving us the support we need... Gromyko's okay, though. Just not a people person.”

“I see...” Lena tore off a chunk of sausage, gnawing it as if she feared she might never taste meat again, and chased it down with water and some raisins. Too late she remembered her manners. “...Sorry.”

“Never mind it,” said Rusalka. “I was saying we need to beat New Order quickly. Would be easier if we didn't have to evacuate the old Zone at the same time.”


“The eruption stirred up a bunch of nasty stuff, shit we hadn't seen before. Monsters came pouring out of the badlands and up from the tunnels under our feet. They overran most of our outlying positions before we even knew what was happening.” Rusalka traced a finger up the length of her weapon's barrel. “Took us six years to reach the center of the Zone. We gave it up in six days.”

The food's flavor turned to ashes in Lena's mouth. “Those things are coming here?”

“Don't know yet. The worst came from underground, and we saw less of those once the temperature dropped. Maybe they can't stay on the surface too long... I think we can handle the regular mutants as long as rad levels keep holding steady.”

“What about Pavlina and me? Where will we go?”

“You can bunk here with us. Might not have much choice after word of your miraculous escape gets around.”

There it was again. “Why won't anyone believe it?” Lena pleaded. “Why don't they trust us?”

Rusalka regarded her intently for a few seconds, then clamped her gun between her thighs and detached a rectangular leather case from her belt. Opening the top flap, she pulled out a paper chart. “Okay, look... This is Postal Square, where Wolf's camp was.”

Lena and Pavlina both leaned forward for a better view. Rusalka's finger pointed to the outer bank of a westward bend in the river near the middle of Kiev. The neighboring funicular track and river port were plainly marked.

Next Rusalka pointed out a wedge-shaped island on the east side of the Dnieper, some distance downstream. Bridges ran across at the top and bottom. “This is Hydropark.” Facing it over a narrow tributary channel lay a blunted triangle bordered on the other sides by a canal. “And that's Rusanivka.”

Lena began to understand why New Order occupied these places. Hydropark and Rusanivka were both isolated by water, with only a few paths in and out. However... “Why wouldn't they hide in the Metro like we did? See, it runs right by there.”

“All the red line stations on the left bank are above ground. They'd have to cross over to Dnipro to get into the tunnels, or else go south to the green line.”


“If the boatman picked you up where you said, this is how far you've come.” The pointing finger followed the river upward until it came to the bottom of the Kiev reservoir, and then further north to a point on the artificial lake's western shore. “Through the lock at the hydroelectric dam and right to our doorstep. That's about thirty kilometers in a straight line.”

“That can't be right,” Lena said weakly. “We never saw a lock... Did we?”

“No,” Pavlina confirmed. “Just fog.”

“Fog on the river?” Rusalka sounded as if she expected that. “Pretty thick, right?”

Lena nodded. “You saw it too?”

“Nope. We had clear waters all day.” Rusalka put away the map. “But I believe you. I wasn't kidding when I called it a miracle... Surprised? What if I told you you're speaking with the dead right now?”

“Huh?” Lena stared at her, at Butterfly, and then at Rusalka again. If this was a joke, they weren't letting it show. “The dead?”

“We've been sent back to atone for our sins. Mine was greed, killing people for money.”

She said it with such candor that Lena didn't know how to react. In the midst of her bewilderment, she had a sudden inference about the name. “Rusalka means... you drowned?”

“Froze, actually. I don't recommend it.”

“And Butterfly?”

The ponytailed woman glanced at her partner, who was following the discussion without comment. “She hanged herself and an angel cut her down. For the sin of wanting to die, she was condemned to stay with the living.”

There was real history here, if only Lena could winnow it out from riddle and metaphor. “An angel.”

“Right,” said Rusalka. “Like your boatman.”

“I don't understand.”

“You don't have to. The Zone works by its own rules, for its own reasons. You'll see and hear a lot of things that don't make sense.” Rusalka paused as Pavlina put up a hand. “Yes?”

“I need to use the toilet.”

“No problem. Butterfly can show you where it is.”

The quiet one nodded and rose from her chair. Pavlina followed her out and shut the door, leaving Rusalka and Lena together alone. Rusalka laid her weapon against the chair's arm and picked up a poker.

“I need you to do something for me.” No words of whimsy now, just plain talk as she stirred the coals and added more wood. “We have one sleeping bag, two blankets and four people. I want you to double up with Butterfly.”

“I can share with Pavlina – ”

“No. I hate to drop this on you, but there's no one else.” The older woman retook her seat. “Butterfly gets bad nightmares. If she wakes up alone, they turn into panic attacks. I can't guarantee I'll always be around to deal with it, so she needs to get used to sleeping with someone different.”

“I can't. I mean, I have a fiance – ”


“In Switzerland – ”

Rusalka cut her off a third time. “Then I don't give a damn. That girl's our second best sniper. We need her and she needs you.”

The burning logs popped and crackled. Shadows danced on pale walls. “Why me?”

“She likes you.” The stalker crossed her arms again. “Butterfly has trouble speaking. Never seen her try so hard for someone she just met.”

Lena knew she shouldn't feel flattered, but she did. “Really?”

“Really.” Golden fire shimmered in Rusalka's eyes. “I'm not asking you to fall in love with her. All you need to do is give her a hug and tell her it'll be okay. If you're good, she might even believe you.”

The way she said it sent a shiver up Lena's back. “Why is she like that?”

“Don't ask. If she wants you to know, she'll tell you.” Clearly this was not open to argument. “So what's it gonna be?”

Lena looked down at her last scraps of food. More than anything, she wanted to be left alone. More than anything, she didn't want to be alone. She heard the door open but didn't look up. Listened as Butterfly and Pavlina sat in their chairs. Waited for someone, anyone, to make the choice for her.

Finally she couldn't take it any more. “Butterfly...”


Her eyes were green, Lena noticed. “Rusalka said you don't like to be alone at night. She said I should, um...”

Though she couldn't finish, Butterfly understood. “You and... me?”

Lena nodded.

“You... want to?”

“I don't know.” She closed her eyes, wishing she did. Someone put their arms around her. At first she shied away from the contact, but slowly she was overcome by a calm feeling. A feeling that someone wanted to protect her. Someone wanted to make sure she was never hurt again.

Someone who wasn't there.

Lena's eyes shot wide open. There was nobody in front of her. All the others were still in their places. She recoiled with a gasp, upsetting her canteen. The invisible hands vanished.

Rusalka and Pavlina looked at her. “What's wrong?” the stalker asked.

“Something touched me...” As Lena spoke, she realized a change had come over Butterfly. The handsome girl's eyes were downcast and her hands lay clenched on her knees. At last her face showed a strong emotion – fear.

Rusalka saw it as well. “It's all right,” she said firmly. “It's all right! She won't hurt you.”

Lena's pulse had quickened, but the brunette singer was too weary to get much more worked up. “That was Butterfly?”

“That's right,” Rusalka replied. “We call it the ghost touch. A gift from the Zone.” She sounded like she had been through this before. “Sometimes it comes out when she doesn't mean it. I was going to tell you after you'd gotten some rest, but... Look, never mind what I asked you to do. I'll put her in my bed.”

So it was over. The pressure was off. Lena slumped against the armchair's soft back, tired and confused and unhappy. The adrenaline had spoiled her appetite and she could feel a wet patch where the canteen spilled on her thigh. She didn't know how to even start trying to make sense of the strangeness around her... Or the miracle which brought herself and Pavlina to this place.

She used to believe miracles were things that happened to other people, to those more devout or more deserving than her. Now that she and her young friend were counted among the worthy few, she wasn't sure what to think. Rusalka behaved as if the impossible was hardly unusual. Rather than gods or saints, she seemed to attribute these happenings to the Zone itself. And then there was Butterfly...

Lena's gaze drifted to the left and found Butterfly watching the fire. The quiet girl's impassive countenance was betrayed by the glistening trails on her cheeks. Lena felt a pang of guilt. It was only natural to be frightened by an unseen phenomenon, but a clearer head let her see that Butterfly meant no harm. Actually, wasn't it the other way around? Wasn't it hurtful to let Rusalka have the last word when Lena should be speaking for herself?

The more she considered it, the more her dissatisfaction grew. Whatever she wanted, this was not it. Whatever the boatman saved her for, this was not it. Newfound conviction spurred Lena to act. She placed the canteen and her unfinished morsels on the table and stood up, overcoming the selfish instinct to stay put. All eyes were on her as she stepped over to Butterfly's chair. Lena searched those tearful eyes for any hint of duplicity, persuading her reluctant self that no monster lurked behind the mask.

Then she held out her hand. “Can you do it again?”

Slowly, meekly, Butterfly nodded. After a moment, Lena felt the ghost return. She could make out the shape of the palm and fingers lying over her own, but the apparition lacked weight and texture. Trying to squeeze it dispelled the effect. It was an illusion without substance.

“I'm sarr – ” Butterfly stumbled, stopped, and tried again. The look on her face would break anyone's heart. “I'm sorry... I won't... any more...”

“It's okay.” Although Lena hadn't fully shaken off her apprehension, there was a genuine feeling of warmth welling up inside her. She leaned forward and took Butterfly's hands in her own. “Here.”

A gentle pull brought the short-haired girl to her feet and face to face with Lena, carrying scents of oil and old canvas. Butterfly hesitated, seeming unsure of her intent, and Lena realized she wasn't entirely sure herself. She didn't want to turn back, but she was acting without a plan. An awkward feeling crept between the pair as she tried to work out her next move.

Butterfly unexpectedly broke the stalemate. Parting from Lena's grasp, she spread her arms in a gesture that couldn't be mistaken. “Hug..?”

“Ah...” Lena could definitely use one. “Okay.”

Their arms went around each other in a mutual embrace. A minute passed without words, a minute in which Lena held Butterfly, was held by her, and found her courage renewed.



“If you still want me to stay with you, I... I'll try it tonight and see how it goes. Okay?”

“Mm.” Butterfly sounded happy. “Thank you...”

The warmth in Lena's heart grew stronger. Though she might struggle to put it into words, she had a sense that she was doing a good thing. That she and this enigmatic soul needed one another. That her choice was just for the two of them, not Rusalka or anyone else. Maybe her mother had been right to say she was strongest when others depended on her. Maybe the boatman had seen that strength as well.

She could scarcely imagine her real journey was only beginning.
  21:25:06  22 June 2015
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On forum: 07/30/2007
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Six years and 120,000 hits later, I look back and think Why?
  14:22:50  5 June 2015
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Finally, the long wait was worth it
  06:24:42  5 June 2015
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
06/05/2015 7:09:25
Messages: 3336
I could have posted this six months ago if I'd been smart and just split the chapter in the first place. Second half will be up as soon as it's done.


“You still haven't decided?”

“It's a big decision,” Lena protests. “I want to be sure I'm making the right choice.”

Pavlina rolls her eyes. “You're picking out a souvenir for Raymond,” she grumbles, her long reddish-blond ponytail swishing. “How hard can it be? You know everything about him!”

Lena wishes she hadn't agreed to let her young neighbor tag along on this fine October day. Not that she doesn't like Pavlina, but the precocious adolescent is as eager to give romantic counsel as she is bad at it. “You'll understand when you have a boyfriend of your own,” asserts the older woman. “Look around, we must be close to the shop.”

Pavlina scans. “I don't see it. Are you sure this is the right street?”

While Lena won't pretend that living in Kiev for six weeks makes her any kind of expert, she's pretty confident in her ability to read directions. “Maybe it's further up,” she hedges, absently running a hand through her brunette curls. “Come on.”

Pavlina starts to reply, but suddenly Lena can only hear a shrill whine. A prickling heat crawls over her skin inside the jeans and sweater. She opens her mouth and a thunderclap hits and a freight train of pain comes roaring through Grand Cerebral Station. Lena staggers, teeters, falls sideways across the hood of a parked car. She screams and so does everyone else, a terrible noise punctuated by terrible noises. Tires screech. Metal crumples. Glass shatters. A baby howls.

ect 40-3 temp 896 power 103 object 40-4 offline object 40-5 temp 881 power 101 obje

A low thrumming fills Lena's head, a phantom sound with no source. With it, the pain eases. She looks about with blurred eyes, sees Pavlina facedown on the sidewalk. Lena calls out, barely aware of her own voice. Dense clouds blot out a sky that was clear and sunny a few seconds ago.

[13:04:26] Critical: connection lost to Object 40-4. Compensating...

Lena pauses, blinking as phantasmal information enters her mind. She closes her eyes. It's still there.

[13:04:29] Warning: Object 40 operating at 105 percent rated capacity.

“Get up!” A man's rough hand seizes her arm and pulls her to her feet. “Move it!”

[13:04:34] Warning: connection to node “Shelter” timed out. Retrying 1... Retrying 2... Retrying 3...

Thunder rumbles. A burning wind sweeps down from the north. The man drags Lena away from the car, bending down to grab Pavlina's jacket collar with his other hand.

[13:04:49] Critical: connection to node “Shelter” failed. Initiate evacuation protocol manually.

An air raid siren sounds in the distance. The clouds are turning a devilish red color.

Object 40-1 temp 920 power 110
Object 40-2 temp 918 power 107
Object 40-3 temp 923 power 112
Object 40-4 offline
Object 40-5 temp 919 power 108
Object 40-6 temp 921 power 111

More messages, meaningless to Lena. She stumbles after the rough man, trying to block out the intruding signals. Others are moving as well, running and shambling and crawling in every direction.

“What's going on?” cries Pavlina.

“It's a blowout!” the man answers. “We have to find cover!”

object 40-1 temp 929 power 114 object 40-2 temp 930 power 116 object 40-3 te

The pain seeps back in, muddying Lena's thoughts. She tries to push it away, feeling as though her head is about to burst.

[13:05:12] Critical: noosphere lens flux exceeding simulation boundaries.

“Tolstoy Square...” The rough man is fighting it too. “Metro station...”

[13:05:15] Critical: TOPOL-1A runtime unexpectedly terminated (reason: stack overflow). Transferring control to TOPOL-1B...

A sedan blocks the sidewalk, its front end crushed, its doors open. The man leads Lena and Pavlina around it.

[13:05:20] Warning: Object 40 operating at 132 percent rated capacity.

The siren's wail rises and falls. The red sky darkens.

[13:05:22] Critical: catastrophic failure of node “Circle” imminent. Transferring autonomous functions to node “Rainbow”...

The man doggedly marches on, and Lena follows blindly. Lightning flashes at the edge of her vision.

[13:05:27] Warning: connection to node “Rainbow” timed out. Retrying 1...

All is pain and redness. “Oh god... Oh god...”

[13:05:42] Critical: connection to node “Rainbow” failed.

“Here! Down the steps, hurry!”

40-2 offline object 40-3 temp 943 power 121 object 40-4 offline object 40-5 offline obj

Lena loses her footing and the rough man hauls her up by her elbow. The storm reaches its climax.

whoever lives
forgive us
a n grebenyuk
lead programmer

Everything goes black.


For a Few Moments More - First Half

“Lena, wake up... Wake up, it's over.”

Her head was throbbing, and the cold hard surface on which she lay didn't help. It was so dark she could barely make out Pavlina kneeling in front of her. “Where..?”

“We made it to the station. It's been quiet for a little while.”

There were other people huddled along the walls, but Lena couldn't find the one she needed. “That man...”

“He asked for coins,” the teenager told her. “I gave him a few and he went back outside.”

What was he going to do with money if the trains weren't running? Call a taxi? Trying to think about it down here made Lena claustrophobic. She forced herself to get up, keeping a hand on the wall as dizziness and nausea threatened to overwhelm her, and felt her way up the stairs to the street level vestibule. The sky outside wasn't red any more: it had changed to a roiling pall of charcoal gray, intermittently lit by flashes from within. Lifeless bodies and abandoned vehicles were strewn all over the pavement.

“Stay there!”

Lena turned, recognizing the rough man's voice. He was standing on the square's central island, next to a police car which had run up against the billboard pedestal there, and now she got her first clear sight of him. She guessed her rescuer was in his late thirties, with a wrinkled brow and a prominent widow's peak. He had a scar on one cheek and another at the edge of his forehead. For clothing he wore a workman's boots and green coveralls. “What happened?” she asked him, still trying to make sense of the horrific spectacle. “What is this?”

“I'd say the Zone just got bigger,” the man replied. Ducking into the car, he pulled out a carbine with a bright orange magazine. “It'll be like six years ago, but worse... Don't move, I'm coming back.”

He returned along a curving path. Noticing Lena's bafflement, her benefactor pointed to the part of the street he'd avoided. Now she saw it: a shimmer so faint she would have walked straight into it if she hadn't been shown where to look. “What's that?”

“Meatgrinder.” The man held up a coin. “Watch.”

He flicked it. The air rippled and the coin slowed suddenly, deflecting off at an angle. As Lena's eyes chased the metal disc, it stretched into a dully glowing red streak and disintegrated. Only then did the gravity of the situation truly sink in. “Oh my god...”

“We'll have to mark paths between them,” said the rough man with grim practicality. “The metro gives pretty good shelter. Maybe we can use the tunnels to get around.” He walked past Lena and started down the stairs into the station. “Our priorities will be finding food, water and ways to keep warm.”

A final question slipped through the closing jaws of panic. “Who are you?”

“Just call me Wolf.”


Kiev's people died slowly in the following days. Not all at once, nor all the same way.

After the blowout took the lion's share, the anomalies exacted their own toll from what remained. More perished for want of medicine or batteries. Others succumbed in darkness as November brought a vicious cold snap. Most who were able fled south, using whatever transport they could find or else going on foot. A few helicopters were heard on the first day, though no one knew what became of them.

Wolf stayed behind in the ghost city, saying it was safer to dig in and survive than rush blindly into unknown danger. A small number, Lena and Pavlina among them, put their trust in his experience and stayed as well. He led them north along the blue line to the station at Postal Square, nestled between Kiev's river port and a steep hill named for some saint or other. From this band he recruited a few brave and resourceful people to help provide for the fledgling camp, which he ran with a hard but fair hand.

They got a lucky break on the second day, when Wolf and the scouts found a semi-trailer full of dried vegetables. Combined with a water filter rigged by one of the station's refugees, it was enough to meet their immediate needs. Furniture out of a nearby hotel became their firewood, helped by dashes of gasoline siphoned from disabled cars. While the scavengers did their vital work, some courageous souls took it on themselves to gather the dead. Day by day they moved corpses out of the streets and into the church overlooking the square, until the unburied covered its floors.

Lena was a foreigner with no family here, nor many friends. Once the initial shock wore off, she felt uncomfortably detached from the crisis even as others grieved around her. She occupied herself with a numbing routine of menial tasks, but now and then she ran out of things to do and wondered how long it would be until she saw the sun again.

Things livened up a little on the sixth day, when the scouts met another group of survivors in the Old Town over the hill. These holdouts had subsisted on bottled water and canned corned beef, taken from a pair of delivery trucks which crashed one street apart, until dwindling reserves forced a migration towards the river. A deal was struck and the remaining quantity of preserved meat came down the funicular rails to Wolf's den.

More mouths to feed meant more work for Lena, and a welcome distraction from worrying about how the temperature kept falling, how the scavengers were going further and further out to find supplies, or how rescue was so slow in coming. She tried not to think about the prospect of having to stay in the Zone indefinitely, even as Wolf planned ahead for that outcome. Sooner or later the mutants of the old Zone would spread to Kiev, he warned, and then the station would have to be defended. He’d scrounged enough police pistols to arm a few deputies, but they needed much more.

On the eighth day, two important events took place. The first happened when Lena, feeling restless, volunteered for water duty: every morning a group of six to eight would gather the clean jugs and bottles, load them into hand carts, and roll those carts down the Borychiv descent to the river’s edge. It was the safest way to get out and stretch her legs, as long as she stayed on the path Wolf marked.

The surprising thing was that Pavlina volunteered too. She’d turned away from the only friend she had left, becoming aloof and withdrawn as she struggled to cope with the loss of her family. For her there was no more naive hope they might still be alive, not when she had witnessed so much death. Coming out of her shell after days of self-imposed isolation was a good sign, Lena thought. If only the teenager would speak more than just when spoken to...

The cloud cover hadn’t broken since the blowout, though it faded to a lighter shade of overcast. Today the weather was frigid but not windy, the river’s surface glasslike. The watering party made it to the embankment without trouble, and the first bottle-fillers went down the stairs to greet the Dnieper. Lena was at the top of the steps, wondering how grimy her reflection would be, when the second event happened.

“There’s a plane!” someone called behind her. “Look!”

Lena looked up and saw it coming down the river from the north. The machine skimmed barely above rooftop height, a sliver torpedo carried between long straight wings with four engines. She stood spellbound, the jug in her hand forgotten, picking out details as it came closer: a lattice of small windows in the nose, rivet lines on the fuselage, the propellers spinning. There was a bubble viewport in the side behind the wing, and she thought she glimpsed a face in it as the aircraft drew abreast of her. The last thing she noticed was a red star on the tail fin, and then the ghostly passerby was flying off into the distance.

The engines, she realized afterward, were impossibly quiet.


They called themselves New Order, and they carried more guns than Lena had ever seen up close before. She didn't know who they were, but most of them wore a mismatched camouflage medley with the odd scrap of a police or military uniform thrown in. She didn't know where they came from, except she had a vague idea they'd crossed one of the bridges from the far shore. What she did know was that they waited for Wolf and the scouts to leave, then rushed into the station, shot the guards and seized the exits.

“The terms are simple,” said their leader, a brutish giant in a balaclava. Reaching the end of the lantern lit metro platform, he turned and began to retrace his steps in front of the gathered survivors. “Those who work, eat. Those who don't, starve. Those who run, die. Our town, our rules, get it?” Silence. “Get it, swine!?”

Some of the others voiced compliance. Lena kept quiet, trying not to attract attention.

It didn't save her. “That one,” ordered the brute, and suddenly she was being pulled away from the crowd by two of the invaders. “That one too,” the leader added, pointing at Pavlina.

“You can't,” Lena protested. “Please, she's only fourteen – ”

A gloved hand struck her face and then the thugs dragged her bodily from the station. An hour later she was bent over a table in a stranger's apartment, her jeans around her knees and her sweater hiked up to her armpits. The first man in line was abusive, slapping and cursing her even as she gave him exactly what he wanted.

Then they brought in Pavlina and she couldn't hold back her tears any longer.


Lena ran faster than she'd ever run in her life. Icy air stung her lungs, vapor hissing between her clenched teeth. Pain flared between her hips with every bounce and jolt. She kept a death grip on Pavlina's wrist, not daring to let the younger girl fall behind. Something flickered among the trees to the right and she veered away instinctively.

Two days of New Order's hospitality made her willing to risk all for a chance to escape. She'd grabbed Pavlina and bolted at the first opportunity, not knowing where she was or where she was going. Unfortunately the pair didn't make a clean getaway, and now Lena could hear the shouting of pursuers hot on their trail. The day would end soon, putting a hard limit on the time they had left to shake off their tormentors and find a way out of these woods.

God, please, she begged silently. Don't let them catch us.

Lena saw light between the bare trunks ahead. The ground sloped gently under her aching feet and then the forest ended and she and Pavlina were stumbling onto a small sandy beach, facing a river blanketed in dense mist. As Lena finally stopped, her heart running full throttle, she became aware that the two of them were no longer alone.

There was a wooden boat lying at the water's edge, a simple craft without a cabin or an engine. In front of it stood a man wearing a black longcoat, his face hidden beneath a cavernous hood. For a moment he and the runaways simply stared at one another, and then the fastest of the hunting pack burst from the woods. Lena looked behind herself, saw the bloodlust on their faces, and prayed for a miracle.

“End of the line, bit – ”

Blue light and heat seared the side of her face. A concussive force blasted her eardrums. She screamed, letting go of Pavlina to cover her own head. The smell of ozone filled her nose. Through the ringing in her ears, she dimly heard a voice cursing. Then the lightning struck twice. When Lena opened her eyes, all that remained of her would-be assailants were a pair of legs, an arm clutching an automatic rifle, and pieces of red pulp scattered over the sand.

“We should go before more come,” said the hooded man, dropping his gun into the boat. His words carried soft authority. “Get in.”

The boat had two wide seats across the middle with oarlocks on either side, though only the forward set had oars in place. At the stern there were lengthwise boards on either side of a steering tiller. A boy of perhaps eight sat there, in a miniature facsimile of the boatman's coat. He showed no interest at all in what was happening.

The young women climbed aboard awkwardly, not having much in the way of sea legs. Lena put herself down on the aft center seat, facing forwards, and Pavlina settled across from the boy at the helm. The boatman pushed off, jumping aboard as the humble vessel drifted out into the fog. Taking the rower's position, he picked up the oars and pulled until New Order was only a bunch of impotent noise far away.

“That's the last we'll see of them,” he told his passengers, laying up the oars and reaching for his weapon. It looked like an over-under shotgun of the kind used by some New Order thugs, except its barrels were encrusted with a metallic crystal growth. “Where do you want to go?”

Lena hadn't thought that far. “I don't know,” she fumbled, pulling someone else's too-big jacket tighter around herself. “Somewhere safe.”

“All right.” Her guide unlocked the breech, ejecting a pair of crimson shells into the bilge. He loaded fresh ammunition, snapped the action shut and laid the strange gun at his side, freeing his hands to row again. “There's a stalker camp on the other side. They'll help you.”

Stalkers. Lena had heard stories about them, seen reports in the news of trespassers caught bringing contraband from the Zone. Vicious brigands and cutthroats, according to the government... But Wolf was a stalker, and the boatman seemed to be one as well. “Who are you?” she asked impulsively.

“The Zone doesn't care who I am. You needn't either.” He said it without the slightest hint of reproach or malice, as if he were telling her the day was chilly. “You weren't the first to come out of Hydropark. Did you escape from there or from Rusanivka?”

“I don't know. I never went to that part of the city before.”

The boy at the stern spoke abruptly. “They make their camp in Rusanivka,” he intoned. His speech was flat, lacking any nuance or emotion. “Dregs behind a moat will be dirt soon.”

Lena felt an urge to turn so she wasn't exposing her back to the boy. “Don't mind him,” said the boatman calmly. “Just a bored necromancer along for the ride.”

That wasn't comforting. She needed to change the subject, talk about something else. “You said there were others before us?”

“Others who ran away from New Order. Not many made it.”

“Oh...” Lena hadn't seen anyone she recognized after she was torn from Wolf's haven. She was scared to ask what became of Postal Square's remaining inhabitants. “How... How have you not been caught?”

“If you understand the Zone, you can hide in it. If you respect the Zone, you can live in it.” A note of distaste came into the boatman's voice. “New Order doesn't grasp that. They won't survive the winter.”

“You're sure?”

“Pretty sure.” The oars bit deep into water. “You two will, though. You're strong.”

Lena gaped at him. All she'd done was drift with the current, carried along by the kindness and cruelty of strangers and her own animal drive to keep living just a little longer. What kind of strength did she have when she felt like one more push might turn her into a sobbing wreck? And how could he be so sure about Pavlina, who hadn't said a word since they met him?

“I'm not saying it to make you feel better,” declared the guide, his modest confidence never wavering. “I'm saying it so you don't give up after coming this far. Too many have already done that.”

Lena shifted on her seat, rocking the boat a little. “What else can we do?”

“You'll know when the time comes. Until then, live and learn.” The boatman pulled with one oar and held the other in place, effecting a course change. “We're almost there. Better be quiet now.”

Night was falling fast, leaving Lena unable to see or hear anything through the mist. She could only trust the captain of the craft really knew where they were. Minutes passed, metered by the steady splash of the oars. Then a shape loomed out of the fog on the left: a low breakwater made from loosely piled chunks of stone. The fog itself ended a moment later, revealing a dark mass of land dead ahead. Coming up alongside the breakwater, the boat ran aground with a soft grinding noise.

The boatman quickly stowed the oars and disembarked at the bow, hooking his fingers over the gunwales. He kept the boat steady as Lena and Pavlina climbed out onto a beach much like the one they were picked up at. “There you go,” said the man. “Just follow the path.”

Lena could scarcely see it in the dying light, but there actually was a path. It ran right to the water's edge, marked with lengths of cord tied to stakes planted in the sand. Numerous footprints on both sides attested to frequent use. She looked inland, searching in vain for lights or movement, then back at the boatman. “You're not coming?”

“I can't. I'm needed elsewhere.”

The last thing she wanted was for them to be dropped off alone, left to fend for themselves. “Please...”

“Don't be afraid. Stay on the path until you find a sentry and tell him you're civilians fleeing from New Order. You won't be turned away.”

He spoke with such assurance that Lena couldn't help wanting to believe him. She was trying to think of something proper to say when Pavlina spoke for the first time in hours. “Thank you,” the teenager murmured.

“Yes,” echoed Lena. Even if they parted like this, she couldn't deny what a service he'd done them. “Thank you so much. I wish I had a way to repay you.”

“I don't need payment,” the boatman replied. “But you can do me a favor. There should be a girl called Zhenya among the stalkers. It would be a big help if you could make sure she's all right.”

His request sounded simple enough. “I'll try,” Lena offered. “How will I find you?”

“I'll be around.” Her peculiar savior made ready to cast off. “Good luck to you both.”

He launched and boarded his vessel, and was soon swallowed up by the fog. With him gone, Lena became acutely aware of just how cold the air was. Somehow she hadn't felt it so badly aboard the boat. “Come on,” she said, taking Pavlina by the hand as her body began to shiver with a vengeance. “We have to keep going.”
  21:35:06  22 October 2014
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007

Message edited by:
10/22/2014 21:37:06
Messages: 1941

100k get, woo!

You will no doubt be happy to know my hiatus is over and work on the next chapter has resumed.

From a binary point of view that's not that much

Nice you have started writing again
  20:33:53  22 October 2014
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Tejas Stalker
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On forum: 05/12/2007
Messages: 27189
Tiger's Spring

100,000 views. Congrats!

  20:28:39  22 October 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
100k get, woo!

You will no doubt be happy to know my hiatus is over and work on the next chapter has resumed.
  19:14:51  26 July 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
89,000 and counting. Those are some dedicated bots, I tell you what.

Work on the chapter has stalled out. Between the Areal debacle and the ongoing crisis in Ukraine, my enthusiasm for this setting is at an all time low. I'm going to work on other things for a bit and then try again.
  12:20:06  14 June 2014
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Even the bots liking your story, that must count for something, doesn't it?
  04:06:22  14 June 2014
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Messages: 3336
We've reached the 80,000 hits milestone, with 9,000 in the last month. At this point I'm convinced at least some of it has to be bot scraping.

Working on For a Few Moments More. It's going to feel a little different.
  06:12:51  21 May 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Voting is closed. The results of the polling here and on FFN are as follows:

The Pit, Side B - 1

Panhandle Problems - 2

For a Few Moments More - 2
  08:40:48  13 May 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Full disclosure: I 'borrowed' the Alpha and the PerSeptive from my brother's chemistry lab. The Alpha is currently used to process data produced by a humongous mass spectrometer, which originally shipped with a PDP-11. For the Sa vz. 58, I got a real serial number off a receiver stub from a destroyed rifle. It was cheap and makes a nice paperweight too.

We've hit 71,000 views and still only gotten two chapter votes. Step it up, guys!
  21:45:14  7 May 2014
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007

Message edited by:
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Use of the 433Mhz Alpha indicates the lab was in use late 1997 or after 1997.
  19:09:39  7 May 2014
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It's been five years.

That is all.
  01:19:46  5 May 2014
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Messages: 3336

B sounds like a 'Burn Notice' episode.

I was thinking more like Red Heat.

I'll keep the poll running a while longer, in case any stragglers come by. In the meantime, it's not every day I get to post a chapter on the anniversary of the events depicted.

For the curious, Old Rostok is modeled on Build 1865's version of the factory. You can (sort of) see it in the final game's multiplayer as well.

“I can only confirm that the first R-16 missile killed, on average, more people without leaving the launch pad than did any ten V-2 missiles that struck London during World War II.” – B. Ye. Chertok

The Pit, Side A-2

Old Rostok was quiet. Too quiet. Just the way Tiger remembered it.

This was the point of no return. They had reached the tunnel's exit and were looking south, back towards the Wild Territory. Facing them was a large courtyard, filled with once-cultivated trees and small buildings divided by a lattice of pavement and wire fencing. There seemed to be no animal life in the place, not even a stray bird.

“This is it?” asked Goncharenko.

Tiger stepped forward. “This is it.”

The trio advanced along a sort of boulevard, two lanes divided by a line of streetlamp fixtures. Little sunlight fell on this ground, and soon Goncharenko and Degtyaryov could see why: the courtyard was bordered on its west and south sides by the Wild Territory's new construction, sheer concrete cliffs looming over the old factory grounds. The east was defined by a long hall, built of red brick with numerous windows. Here and there slender exhaust pipes jutted from its face and reached up to the sloping roof.

Coming to an intersection, they found the first trace of prior visitors. A handful of Kalashnikov magazines, rusted beyond use, were piled next to the curb. Dozens of spent cartridge cases lay in the grass nearby. One of the brick hall's third level windows had been shot out, leaving a few shards of glass in the corners of the steel frame.

Goncharenko bent to pick up one of the magazines. Tiger caught him by the shoulder. “Don't touch.”

“But – ”

“You heard the man,” Degtyaryov told him. “Leave it alone.” He turned in a slow circle, scanning the rooftops. “Where now?”

The loner headed for the hall. “This way. We'll try the other side.”

There was a crossover tunnel through the building's ground floor, wide and high enough for a truck to pass. Tiger flicked the switch on the submachine gun's handguard, cutting the shadows with a harsh blue-white beam. Moving inside, his light found only the squashed remains of a knapsack covered in yellow mold. For that alone, the respirators were a worthwhile precaution.

Something more interesting came into sight as he reached the exit. “I think we've found our helicopter.”


“Nothing. Not a goddamn trace.” Degtyaryov's head and shoulders appeared in the gunship's port door. “No bodies, no blood, no brass.”

Tiger offered a hand, assisting the major as he climbed out of the wreck. “They walked away,” the guide concluded.

“Seems like it,” Sasha agreed. “Took the crash kit and the machine guns and cleared out.”

And then where did they go? Tiger looked back at the brick hall, framed in the swath of destruction left by the plummeting aircraft. It must have barely cleared the roof before plowing straight into the construction site beyond, tearing off its wings and rotors as it knocked down the upper tiers of the concrete skeleton. The fuselage was mostly intact, resting nose up on a pile of broken columns, but there was no question of it ever flying again.

Degtyaryov was thinking along similar lines. “Third crocodile we've lost in two days... Stay put, I'm going to break silence.”

Moving away from the point of impact, he started to climb the one surviving flight of steps to the unfinished installation's north wing. Tiger took a moment to check on Goncharenko, who was keeping watch over the eastern front. The view on that side was dominated by a pair of colossal brick smokestacks: the alleged haunt of the gargoyles. “We used to call them the legs of Ozymandias,” Tiger remarked.

The professor grunted inside his opaque helmet.

“SBU reconnaissance calling Osprey One-Four,” Degtyaryov hailed. “SBU reconnaissance calling Osprey One-Four, do you copy? Over.”

Silence. He repeated the transmission, and then once more. Still no answer. The band's already grave mood darkened. “They would have headed for Yantar,” said Tiger as Sasha descended. “Right?”

“That's SOP,” the agent confirmed. “And they would know to avoid the psi-field. Best case is they got a head start and moved out of radio range.”

“And if they didn't?”

“Then they can't hear or won't answer.” Degtyaryov peered at the hulk below. “They left the flight recorder behind. I should get it out.”

He went down into the belly of the dead machine a second time. Goncharenko was beginning to get antsy, such that Tiger decided another visit would be prudent. “We won't be here much longer,” he informed the scientist.

“I know.” Goncharenko was silent for a few moments, then dropped an unexpected question. “Since you're the expert on this place, tell me: are there any turnstiles around here?”

“Turnstiles?” Tiger searched his memory. “I think there were some in the entrance to the bearings plant, why?”

“Oh, er... I like them, that's all.”

Through all the chaos of recent days, Tiger had not forgotten what he learned from Olga. Goncharenko's sudden, inept evasiveness only roused his suspicion. “This is about the Zelenko case, isn't it?”

“What case?”

“The secret laboratories,” the loner pressed. “Or haven't you heard the army and the Security Service have been trampling all over the Zone to find them?”

“Oh, you know about that.” Goncharenko's demeanor changed in a flash. “Yes, a document recovered from X-Eighteen makes mention of a clandestine facility hidden beneath Rostok. Unfortunately the only specific information we have is that the entrance lies behind a set of turnstiles. Where's the bearings plant?”

Tiger pointed northeast. “Across the road. You can't see it too well from here.”

The professor tried to get a look anyway. “Why would there be turnstiles in there?”

“Rumor is they were making precision components for the Soviet military. It's never been confirmed, though.”

At that moment Degtyaryov resurfaced. “I've got the recorder,” he announced. “We can leave.”

Goncharenko was getting other ideas. “I'm not sure we should go yet.”

“Why not?”

“He says there might be a hidden lab here,” Tiger filled in. “You didn't know?”

“News to me.” The visible half of Degtyaryov's face shifted from surprise to concern. “You're not cleared for that. Did the captain tell you?”

Tiger well understood that indiscretion now could have consequences for Olga. “Not exactly,” he replied. “It's a long story.”

“Give me the short version.”

This was not a good time or place for it. However, things would only get worse if Sasha started second-guessing the guide's decisions. “All right,” he acquiesced, “but let's not be conspicuous.” At his prompting, the three clambered down into the crashed chopper. Tiger stuck to the main points: Worm and Drifter, the electronic keys to the door in the Dark Valley, the Clear Sky document cache, and the tenuous link with a missing SBU agent.

“That clears up some things,” said Goncharenko when the tale was finished. “For instance, how stalkers were able to get into X-Eighteen ahead of the military.”

“Stalkers? Are you sure?”

“They were still inside when the army scouts entered. I gather there was a shootout, and the intruders escaped in the dark... As I was saying, a paper found in the laboratory suggests there is another installation here. I believe we are ideally positioned to look for it.”

“Too dangerous,” Tiger protested at once. “You need more people, better equipment. Isn't that so, Major?”

“Nnn.” Degtyaryov was staring at the cabin's aft bulkhead, brow furrowed in thought. “The second group of mercs, they all had lights and filters, didn't they?”

“I think so. I mean, they weren't all wearing masks, but they carried them.”

“Yeah... Professor, where's this new lab?”

“I don't know precisely. From what your friend tells me, it may be very close by.”

“I see.” Sitting on the tilted floor, Sasha laid down the LR-300 and wiggled out of his backpack straps. “We suspect the mercenaries are interested in this stuff. Those guys might have been snooping around, and we have to find the site before they try again.” He glanced up at the hooded stalker. “I get that it's risky, but this is exactly the kind of job I need you for.”

“Should have known,” Tiger muttered. “Can you tell us anything else, Professor?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“So all we've got is that the entrance is behind some turnstiles, and some turnstiles are in the bearings plant... What about X-Eighteen? It might be a similar setup.”

“Ah, well...” Now Goncharenko stopped short, seeking Degtyaryov's approval.

Sasha had removed the magazine from his AK and was unscrewing the muzzle booster. “I haven't been briefed on this,” he said. “Give us the short version.”

“It may not be much use,” the scientist warned. “I've only seen the preliminary report. We were scheduled to fly out to the Dark Valley tomorrow.”

“Even scraps can be useful. Go on.”

“Yes, yes... X-Eighteen consists of four or more levels, arranged vertically around a central elevator shaft and linked by flights of stairs. Access to the lower parts of the laboratory is restricted by doors with numeric code locks. We don't know exactly how large the facility is, because the stairs below the third level are blocked by debris.”

Degtyaryov opened the backpack, taking out a pair of orange plastic magazines wrapped in blue tape. Setting them aside, he also retrieved a black metal cylinder with a knurled grasping band, its body tapering to a narrower section at one end: a sound suppressor. “What condition is the place in?”

“The security systems and emergency lights are functional, running off an unknown power source. There are active anomalies, some of which have damaged the structure, and isolated spots of severe radioactive contamination... The laboratory likely has a second entrance, though its location is not known.”

“How do you know?” asked Tiger.

“Because X-Eighteen was not completely sealed,” Goncharenko explained. “The search team found decayed remains of stalkers within it, as well as two probable members of the original staff and a number of mutants. The mutant corpses were new.”


“Killed by the stalkers who unlocked the outer door. The report does not list exact species, but one of the types was unknown to the military investigators.” The professor was distracted by Degtyaryov's preparations. “What's that for?”

“In case I have to shoot in a confined space.” A spring-loaded index pin under the carbine's front sight snapped into a corresponding notch on the suppressor tube. “You were saying?”

“I'm afraid that's all I know about the layout and conditions.”

“And the lab's purpose?” Tiger interjected. “What were they doing in there?”

“Some sort of biological engineering, including experiments on humanoid subjects.” Goncharenko's tone hardened noticeably, despite the vocal distortion of his suit's filter. “The materials uncovered thus far suggest a flagrant disregard for standards of ethical conduct.”

“You don't say.” Rising, Sasha locked in one of the orange mags and racked the bolt. “That's enough intel to start with. Let's get going.”

Tiger reluctantly readied his own weapon. “I don't like this.”

“Look at it this way,” suggested the major. “Assuming we even locate the place, we don't have a key to get in. We'll go, find a door maybe, and come back.”

“I didn't mean that.” Tiger sucked in air, then blew it out all at once. His gas mask turned the sigh into a death rattle. “It's this whole business. Secret labs, experiments, hidden under our feet – ”

Degtyaryov put a hand on his arm. “Not now,” he said firmly. “I need you on point here.”

“I know.”

“Good... Hey listen, you never told the professor about your ability, did you?”

“No.” And he was in no mood to talk about it now. “You can.”

They already commanded Goncharenko's full attention. “Ability?”

“He's what the locals call a pathfinder,” Degtyaryov elaborated as he gathered his things. “Your colleagues call it 'extra-corporal proprioception' or something like that.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the professor, apparently familiar with such language. “That's good for us.”

“Yeah.” Sasha slung his trophy rifle, keeping the '74U in hand. “Lead on, Tiger.”

As the unfinished building was planted in an excavated crater and surrounded by a wall of prefabricate panels, getting out of it required the trio to backtrack to the exit from the long brick hall. Tiger made two right turns, bringing them onto a street between the construction site and a second brick hall, laid perpendicular to the first. Straight ahead, the legs of Ozymandias stood tall against a vast blue sky.

The street ended at another intersection. Halfway across, Goncharenko glanced down the road to the right and stopped abruptly. “Look at that,” he murmured. “As if it's watching us.”

“Those windows...” Now the major was staring at it too. “That can't be accidental.”

Tiger grabbed Goncharenko by the elbow and pulled him in the other direction. “We're wasting time,” he growled. “Move.”

The sudden aggression roused Degtyaryov from his reverie and he hastened after the others. The professor needed a few moments more: “What... what was that?”

“Machinery Hall Number Six.” The guide released his grip but kept a wary eye on his companion. “And this is the bearings plant.”

The pavement widened into an unevenly surfaced parking area, flanked by a pair of great gray aggregates. An enclosed bridge linked them, spanning the lot, and the giant chimneys were rooted in the complex to the south. On the north sat the bearings plant: two five-floor blocks with windows all around, and a smaller central section. The entrance was set lower than the level on which the visitors stood, and had a set of stairs cut into the ground at the front.

The explorers regrouped at the top of the steps. “It's gotten wet inside,” Tiger observed. “Storm drains must be clogged... Wait here.”

He switched on his light and descended to the entrance. The left hand doors were rusted shut and surrounded by a constellation of broken glass, but the passage on the right lay open. Some adventurous algae colonized the floor, a layer of green slime fed by weak sunlight and rain runoff. Angling his beam further into the cavern, Tiger made out the shape of a Saiga automatic shotgun mired in the muck. A jammed shell's red mouth protruded from the breech. Behind it, one of the turnstile rotors had been torn from its fittings.

He looked a little longer, then went back to the stairs and beckoned the others. “It's clear,” the loner reported. “Might be slippery underfoot, though.”

Degtyaryov put on his headlamp. “We can handle that. Got anything to take notes with, Professor?”

“Only my suit's voice recorder.” Goncharenko made some adjustments to the control pack mounted on his chest. “I have memory to spare for about half an hour.”

“Now's when we need it.”



TO: Col. V. M. Kruchelnikov, head of Project Truth
FROM: Lt. Col. A. N. Bogdanova, Analytical Department

Dear Vadim Maksimovich,

Enclosed is the abridged transcript of the Goncharenko recording which you requested at the last meeting. Please let me know if you require anything else from our department.

P.S. - Have you picked out something for Nastya's birthday yet?


FILE 8675309-53669

DATE: 4th May 2012
LOCATION: Agricultural Machinery Plant “Rostok”, Chornobyl Exclusion Zone
PERSONNEL: Prof. Goncharenko, I. I.; Maj. Degtyaryov, A. A.; Petanko, A. K.


G: We are passing the turnstiles and kiosks. The organic growth ends here, but everything is stained by damp. There are wide stairs leading below.

P: Standing water in the basement.

G: How deep?

P: We can walk in it. Just don't splash.

D: We've got something. A tunnel behind a false wall panel.

P: That wasn't open before.

D: You sure?

P: We would have checked it out.

G: Wait a minute, let me describe this for the record.

G: The tunnel is made of bare concrete, about two meters wide by three high. My light will not reach the other end from here. There is water on the bottom.

D: Let's see where this goes.

D: There's a door.

G: I see it. A steel pressure door. It's open. What's that blackening?

D: The deadbolts have been severed with a high-temperature cutter, right through the door and frame. Got some spattering on the wall and slag piles in the water.

P: Sasha, by your left foot. What is that?

D: It's a stub of a metal rod or pipe, about eight centimeters long. There's a threaded adapter at one end. The other is melted. It's completely covered in rust.

P: More of them on your right.

G: Can you see inside the door?

D: Sort of. Place is totally dark, no power. I'm going in.

D: It's dry on the other side. You can come through, guys.

G: Coming.

G: We're in a small room similar to the entry level of X-18. There is a security booth, an elevator and a stairway. There are some objects placed along the right side wall.

P: This must be the cutting gear.

D: Serious toys. We've got an acetylene torch, six oxygen tanks, and some big metal rods. One of the tanks is connected to a rubber hose.

D: Correction, not big rods. They're tubes packed with bundles of small rods. Each is roughly a meter long. They have the same threaded end as the stubs in the tunnel. Tubes show surface oxidation, I'd guess from ambient moisture.

D: Hold on, what's this? Papers?

G: Documents?

D: Order forms and invoices, looks like. I count four sheets.

P: Anything else?

D: No. Let's try the stairs.

P: Someone should stay here and watch the entrance.

D: I'll do it, I'm least essential. Shout if you need help.

G: After you, Tiger.

P: You're not pointing that at my back, right?

G: No, of course not.

P: [Inaudible]

G: We're going down the stairs.

P: Coming to the bottom now. Can you hear me up there, Sasha?

D: I hear you!

P: Good.

P: Wait, stop. That's not right.

G: There is a plastic bottle, er...floating above the floor.

P: That's not an anomaly.

G: Isn't it?

P: No energy. It's something else.

G: Let me think.

G: Perhaps it's a heavier than air gas.

P: Can you test for that?

G: Not with this kit. Got a long stick?

P: I can go back and bring down one of those pipes.

G: No, wait. I don't see any reaction products on the bottle or the floor.

P: Which means?

G: If it doesn't affect the bottle, it won't harm my suit.

G: You have to wait here. A dense gas, even inert, can be dangerous without a closed-circuit respirator.

P: If anything happens, I'll hold my breath and pull you out.

G: Appreciate it.

G: I'm stepping into the gas. No reaction.

G: The bottle appears to be transparent polyethylene with a screw cap, as is used for water and soft drinks. When dropped, it displays conventional fluid buoyancy characteristics. I estimate the depth of the gas to be seventy centimeters.

G: I will try to examine the next level of the facility.

P: Don't go far from the stairs. Stay where I can hear you.

G: Yes, yes.

G: There is a large room with openings in several places. I see another pressure door with a numeric keypad beside it. This door is closed.

G: More of the long tubes from upstairs, propped against the wall by the locked door. The upper ends show discoloration. The lower portions are clean, with a distinct boundary. This is an effect of the unknown gas displacing the regular air. They must have been here for some time.

G: The elevator doors are open, but I do not see the elevator itself.

G: Oh no.

P: What is it?

G: There is a red-brown stain or residue on the floor. I see smear marks, as if something was dragged through it.

G: They lead to the elevator shaft. Are you sure we're alone down here?

P: It's just the three of us.

G: All right.

G: I missed something. There's a rifle lying between the stain and the tubes.

P: Can you pick it up?

G: If you think it's necessary.

G: I have it. Moving on.

G: I can see something in one of the adjacent rooms. A pressurized tank on a wheeled cart. There is a paper tag hanging from the outlet valve.

G: I can't make out the tank's label. I need to get closer.

P: Be careful.

G: I know.

G: The tag says it needs servicing.

G: Wait. Oh god.

P: What?

G: It's chlorine trifluoride. We need to leave. Now.

P: Toxic?

G: If it spilled, no suit would protect us. I'm coming back.

P: Sasha, chemical hazard! The professor says we have to get out!

D: Roger!

G: Is the bottle still there?

P: It's here.

G: I need a sample of the gas before we go.

G: Come on, come on.

G: Got it.

P: We're coming up!





TO: Yu. B. Garkusha, Analytical Department
FROM: K. L. Dotsenko, Analytical Department


Can I get a fact check on these appendices? It's for the briefing with the general tomorrow.




Appendix IV – Materials recovered from site X-15 (provisional designation)

Object 8675309-72559: thermic lance combustion tube, depleted, rusted
Object 8675309-76559: 7,62-mm assault rifle, Czechoslovakian model 1958, serial number 18103g
Object 8675309-26643: 500-ml PET bottle with cap, containing uncompressed sulfur hexafluoride gas
Document 8675309-52843: receipt for delivery of a damaged “PerSeptive Biosystems Integral” unit to facility X-15
Document 8675309-54559: order form requesting additional soldering materials for facility X-15
Document 8675309-25423: notification that an “Alpha 433au” cracked motherboard received from laboratory X-11 cannot be repaired on site
Document 8675309-23889: reminder to Professor Chubko that unapproved food and drink containers are not permitted in facility X-15

Appendix V – Disposition of personnel following 4th May incident

Ground participants:

Maj. Degtyaryov, A. A. - alive
Petanko, A. K. - alive
Unknown stalker, alias “Marked One” - alive

Crew of Pelican 3-1:

Lt. Gritsay, V. I. - deceased
Lt. Yefremov, P. N. - deceased
Capt. Polyanin, K. M. - deceased
Prof. Kruglov, P. Ye. - alive
Prof. Savchuk, B. V. - deceased
Prof. Lavrik, A. Yu. - deceased
Prof. Nikulin, K. R. - deceased
Prof. Goncharenko, I. I. - alive
Prof. Mamayev, F. G. - deceased
Prof. Korovin, L. R. - deceased

Crew of Osprey 1-4:

Lt. Muntyan, Ya. D. - missing
Lt. Orlov, N. B. - missing
Sgt. Prudov, A. A. - missing
Pvt. Kapuka, B. R. - missing
Pvt. Zinovyev, I. F. - missing


  05:58:43  28 April 2014
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On forum: 02/26/2011
Messages: 40
I'll say C as well. B sounds like a 'Burn Notice' episode. That would be weird here...I think.
  00:55:25  28 April 2014
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Voting C:
"For a Few Moments More - A girl in Kiev witnesses the Zone's catastrophic second expansion and the desperate struggle to survive in the days after."

Reason: It's very rare to read about this side of the story.
  22:36:54  27 April 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
I was hoping to have the second half done in time for Lost Alpha's release, but it's got a long way to go. In the meantime, I need some reader input. After the next installment goes up, you will have a choice of viewing:

The Pit, Side B - With Tiger gone, can Gromyko keep the rookies out of trouble?

Panhandle Problems - The SBU sends Olga to Miami to oversee a seizure of Zone contraband. It's a milk run... until a cartel narco-army targets her key witness.

For a Few Moments More - A girl in Kiev witnesses the Zone's catastrophic second expansion and the desperate struggle to survive in the days after.

Votes will be counted when the second half of The Pit, Side A is posted.
  04:27:52  14 April 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
This is only half the chapter I planned, but it's enough that I don't think I should make the readers wait any longer. The rest will come when it's ready.

The Pit, Side A

Tiger turned right at the gate, cut left through the south hangar, then right again onto the main roundabout. By that time Sasha's wheezing had leveled off enough to permit conversation. “Is there some reason you can't leave this to Duty?”

“Voronin sent his reserves to sweep the Dark Valley. We're on our own.”

Indeed. It would take too long to recall those men from the field, and the guards here weren't allowed to leave their posts without having reinforcements on standby. “What's your plan?”

“Get to the crash site, stop the fighting, take it from there.”

“Right...” Tiger pulled down on the Winchester's lever loop, driving the breechblock backwards out of the receiver. A five round Mosin clip dropped neatly into the attached guide arms.

The pair passed Bonesetter's clinic, and still the shooting hadn't stopped. Next to the clinic, another gate funneled them onto the outbound road just before it took a left towards the Wild Territory. Tiger and Sasha ducked prudently as they came around the corner and arrived at Duty's northern checkpoint. Its three sentries were kneeling behind stacked sandbags, rifles aimed at the barricade on the other side of the crossroads ahead. Despite the commotion, they heard the stalkers' approach. “Where are you going?” demanded the ranking noncom.

“Over there.” Tiger snapped the action shut. “Has anyone else gone by?”

“Just one. There was heavy fire from the gallery right after he went in.”

The intersection's left path was a dead end, blocked by a welded up hurricane gate. The right path led out of the factory, north towards Freedom land. No way to go but straight through. “I'll take point,” Sasha volunteered.

Rostok's architecture formed an effective chokepoint here. First built as an open roadway, the stretch of grass and pavement connecting the factory's eastern sector to the rail terminal in the west was later partitioned at either end by the addition of elevated crosswalks sheathed in corrugated sheet metal. Some beast or force unknown had ripped open one of the sliding doors beneath the overpass on this side, leaving a space wide enough for a man to slip through. Duty shored up the wreckage, preserving the jagged edges of the torn steel to deter rushes against their defensive position.

Sasha and Tiger ducked through the barricade and under the walkway. Their view forward was blocked by a Kamaz truck, parked side-on next to a gutted sedan and a pile of junk pipes and ventilation ducts. “Anyone waiting for us?” queried the SBU man.

Tiger shook his head. “It's clear. Left or right?”

“Go right, there's better cover.”

They worked their way around the Zaporozhets and advanced past dead, twisted trees and stacks of prefabricated concrete slabs. The second crosswalk seemed to be deserted, even though the gaps in the upper level's sheathing made it the perfect vantage point to ambush anybody coming from the bar. The checkpoint guards said they heard shooting from near here, but were they mistaken?

Tiger was about to remark on that when his ears picked out a different sound from the gunfire. “Sasha, do you hear that?”

“Chopper coming from the perimeter.” Sasha darted forwards and to the left, heading for the side door to the crosswalk. To get through the second partition, they had to enter at one end and cross lengthwise to the exit on the other side. “Bug lamps are on,” the agent observed, referring to the series of interior fixtures, powered by an artifact battery, which Duty maintained to repel light-fearing creatures. He started to take a step, then froze. “Something's dripping.”

Tiger saw it too. “It's coming through the ceiling,” he said, back-tracing the droplets' path from dark stains on the dirty floor to cracks in the sheet metal overhead.

“Yeah.” Sasha raised his gun and kept moving, hugging the tunnel's left wall to avoid being splashed. “There's a corpse over here.”

Tiger couldn't see it past the orange glare of the bug lamps. “Fresh?”

Sasha disappeared into the shadows at the end of the passage. “As fresh as they come,” he replied grimly. “And it's a merc.” He looked at the hatch opening above his head, through which one could climb a ladder to the higher level. “The rest are up there.” At that moment the rescue helicopter opened fire with its nose gun. Almost at once there was a retaliatory blast and the machine was knocked out of the sky like its predecessor. “Shit! Forget the stiffs, let's go!”

The shooting finally began to die down as the stalkers reemerged into daylight. To their left was a garage. To the right, the first loading platform for the railcars. Straight ahead, the industrial boulevard and a thick pillar of gray smoke rising beyond the freight hangars. The pavement close by was littered with spent cartridges, and Tiger spotted two more bodies lying by a derelict truck further out.

No time to investigate them now. Sasha hooked right, slipping between the end of the platform and the foot of the adjacent watchtower. Tiger stayed on his tail as the shortcut brought them to the eastern tip of the switching yard, a field of overgrown tracks and rusting freight cars bordered along its north side by towering machinery halls. Immediately to the west lay another platform with an overhead crane straddling the rails beside it. The smoke and the shooting were coming from the south side of that platform, though the stalkers' view was blocked by a pair of hopper cars.

Sasha ran that way, darting through the electrical anomalies which flickered on the grass. Only at the hoppers did he stop. “How many?”

“Seven,” Tiger replied, ducking into cover next to him. “Four on the near side, two going around to the right, one more on the far side to the left.”

“Okay, you take the runners. Go.”

Their attack was concealed from the enemy by a final line of barriers: storage tanks on the left and an overturned loading hopper on the right, with a shipping container blocking the middle. Hustling up to the tanks, the stalkers got their first clear look at the situation. The helicopter had slewed around as it came down, and Tiger could just make out its nose pointing towards him out of the leaping flames. The six men in his sight were more mercenaries, and at least twice that number were already dead on the ground. Those still alive were fixed on something behind the burning aircraft, their unguarded backs facing the latecomers.

Tiger snugged up the Winchester, drew a bead on one of the flanking mercs, and squeezed. The target jerked as the bullet plowed past his spine and punched against the back of his sternum, pitching him forwards onto the pavement. His wingman dropped and threw himself sideways, sheltering behind one of the containers on the platform as Sasha raked the others with full auto fire. Tiger cranked the lever down and up, flicking an empty casing over his shoulder.

The last of Sasha's targets fell, down but not out. Sasha dropped his empty carbine, letting the sling catch it, and drew a Makarov from the holster on his leg. The wounded merc went for his sidearm as well. He was struggling to undo the retaining flap when the coup de grace hit him under the chin.

“I still have one,” warned Tiger, pointing with his rifle. “Over there.”

“Keep him covered.” The other man put away his pistol and grabbed a replacement AK magazine. “What about the seventh?”

“He's not moving.”

“Fine.” Sasha snapped the mag into place, tipped the '74U sideways and pulled the cocking handle with his weak hand. Then he took out a grenade. “Get down.”

Tiger did. Catching the safety pin ring with the thumb of his gun hand, Sasha tore it out and launched the bomb on a plunging trajectory. Tiger heard part of a shouted expletive just before it went off. “He's gone,” the loner reported, feeling the enemy's life signs fade.

“Good.” Sasha retrieved his empty magazine. “The last one might be friendly. Either way, I want him alive.”

They would have to go the long way. The heat of the helicopter's pyre was such that Tiger could feel it where he stood. “Over there,” he indicated.

This part was easy: go left between the ruined shacks and then right past the dead trees and the small cargo hangar, tracing an arc around the loading station's south side. The end of that arc placed the stalkers next to the frozen hulk of an electric locomotive, directly above the entrance to a blocked underpass which formerly allowed vehicles to cross beneath the yard's tracks. Tiger sensed numerous anomalies in the tunnel below – and his own objective behind the brick wall in front of him. “Right there,” he muttered, pointing to the exact spot.

“Easy does it.” Sasha crept along the side of the locomotive, leaving Tiger to guard his back. With the wall on one side and the engine servicing shop on the other, their quarry could flee only in two directions. The guide had both of them covered. “It's over,” his companion called. “You can come out now.”

The summons provoked irate and rather fuzzy shouting: “You're wasting your time! I haven't got the data, damn you!”

“Never mind your data. I'm not a mercenary, I'm here to help.” Sasha produced an identification wallet, very much like the one Olga carried, and held it out past the corner of the brick wall. “See?”

“...Security Service? What are you doing out here?”

“I work here.” The operative cautiously moved until he was visible to the third party. “Come on. I can take you back to Yantar.”

“Better not be tricking me...” The figure which appeared wore an orange hazard suit and clutched a submachine gun. His grip on it tightened when he noticed Sasha's escort. “Who's that?”

“I'm Tiger,” said Tiger. “I live here.”

“He's with me,” Sasha assured. “What's your name?”

“Goncharenko, Ivan Igorovich... Professor of chemistry.”

“Nice to meet you.” At that, the pleasantries ended. “We need to find the other crash site and look for survivors. Do you know where the machine came down?”

“It flew over the buildings.” Goncharenko pointed north and Tiger suddenly got a bad feeling about where this was headed. “I don't think it went far.”

Sasha followed the line of the scientist's finger. “I've never been to that part of the factory,” the former admitted. “Tiger?”

“Not in a while.” Their guide turned away and started back along the arc. “If we're going in there, we need air filters and spare weapons.”

“I've got a half-mask. How's your suit, Professor?”

“I have positive pressure. All readouts are nominal.”

“Good. While we have a minute, can you tell me what happened here?”

“Of course... It was an expedition to evaluate new instruments and collect biological and chemical samples. There were six of us visiting from the institutes in Kiev, along with Professor Kruglov from the Yantar laboratory and a military stalker, Polyanin. Everything was going well until the mercenaries shot us down... Polyanin was knocked unconscious in the crash. The jackals killed Savchuk and Nikulin as they tried to pull him out. Then the whole thing went up in flames.”

“You said something about data,” Sasha cut in. “That's what the mercs wanted?”

“Yes, they contacted Kruglov by radio and demanded he hand over all our findings. Naturally, he refused. We tried to fight our way out, though our position was bad from the beginning. We would have all died if that stalker hadn't showed up... He took the mercenaries by surprise, but after he got through to us, a second group came in behind him. Kruglov and the stalker made a break for it with the data and the rest of us stayed to buy time.”

Tiger looked back at Sasha. “Think it's the same guy?”

“Has to be. Did you get his name, Professor?”

“Unfortunately, no. I barely saw him myself.”

Sasha passed a hand radio to Goncharenko. “Try and raise Kruglov. This is an unsecured unit, so keep it short, don't ask where he is, and don't tell him where you are. Just let him know you'll catch up when you can.”

“Yes, yes...”

By now Tiger was between the shacks again. Glancing into the one on his right, he was startled to see a familiar face staring back at him. “Sasha..!”

The SBU man was at his side in a flash. “Wolfhound,” he said coolly, eying the body propped against the inner wall. “I'll frisk him. You find a mask.”

“Yeah.” Moving away, Tiger lowered the Winchester's hammer to half cock and slung the long rifle. Badger, he thought, was right to leave the team when he did. Not that it would make much difference once word of this assault spread through the stalker community.

He had only checked three bodies when Sasha came out of the shack. “That's a bust,” the agent announced. “No PDA, no papers. Just three rounds to the chest in a nice tight group. And his sidearm is missing.”


“Maybe our mystery man wanted a trophy.”

And why not, after taking down a top-rank merc commander and his entire company? Tiger moved on to another corpse, still searching for a clean respirator. This one wore a balaclava, but the stalker found what he needed in a waist pouch. In keeping with the mercenaries' procurement preferences, it was an American model sporting tinted lenses and a green filter canister mounted on the left side.

As he sorted out the straps, Goncharenko came calling: “Major Degtyaryov? I'm finished.”

Sasha, who had meanwhile commandeered Wolfhound's rifle, answered to that name. “Kruglov is safe?”

“For the moment, yes... The stalker with him is called 'Marked One'. Do you know who that is?”

Tiger and Degtyaryov exchanged knowing glances. “I haven't met him,” replied the latter, taking back his radio. “But I hear he's really getting around lately.”

Whatever his agenda, that strange loner was obviously no friend of the hired guns. “Yesterday another group of mercs tried to take over the rookie village in the Cordon,” Tiger supplied. “Marked One helped the stalkers defend it.” Pressing the mask against his face, he snugged it up and took a breath. “This'll do.”

“Great.” Sasha fiddled with the LR-300's collapsible stock, adjusting the length of pull to his liking. “There's a bunch of nine millimeter rifle casings over here. I think our friend got the drop on these guys with a Val or Vintorez.”

“Makes sense.” Leaving the mask in place, the guide scanned the ground for a usable weapon. The merc squads were armed differently, with the second team favoring submachine guns over the larger assault rifles carried by Wolfhound's elites. Locating one that hadn't been drenched in its last owner's blood, Tiger picked it up and put the safety on. The MP5 looked new, much cleaner than the black market castoffs available to stalkers. Those didn't usually come with holographic sights or built in flashlights either.

It nicely filled Tiger's need for a compact automatic. That left Goncharenko. “Come here, Professor.”

The scientist came, though not quietly. “Is this really necessary?” he protested. “Aren't we're just going over there?”

“Over there is Old Rostok. We go prepared, or we don't go.”

“Old Rostok?” Goncharenko repeated quizzically. “What's that?”

“This wasn't all built at once,” Tiger explained, stuffing magazines into his vest. “Most of what you see was added when they modernized the plant in the seventies. Then there was a second expansion going on when the nuclear accident happened.”


“The old factory isn't like the Hundred Rads or the Wild Territory. It's darker, quieter. Not many anomalies or mutants.” The loner noticed that Sasha was following their exchange with great interest. “You haven't heard about this, Major?”

Degtyaryov shrugged. “I know Old Rostok has a bad reputation, but I thought that was stalkers telling scary stories. You're saying it's not?”

“Not all of it.” With nearly half his pouches still empty, Tiger moved to another body. “I've been there twice,” he recounted. “When stalkers first settled in Rostok, an independent group went to survey the older parts. They vanished. Barkeep hired some others to look for them, and we searched but found nothing. Three days later it happened again.” He straightened, loaded with enough ammo to kill all of these mercs and then some. “After that, Barkeep let it be known that anyone else going into Old Rostok was on his own.”

Goncharenko was skeptical. “That's it?”

“Almost. Stalkers still go now and then, looking for loot or trying to prove something, who knows... Some of them come back empty-handed. The others don't come back at all. Old Rostok may seem peaceful, but it's not safe. Remember that.”

The ecologist turned to Degtyaryov. “Do you believe this?”

“I can,” Sasha replied mildly. “That's more plausible than gargoyle sightings.”

“Than what?”

“There's a couple of big chimneys in the old factory, you can see them from the rooftops around the bar. People claim they've seen winged creatures roosting on them at night... I wouldn't take it too seriously. If anything perched up there, someone would have shot it by now.”

“Probably,” agreed Tiger. He gestured at Goncharenko's weapon. “Could I see that?”

“If you insist...”

The professor's submachine gun was stamped with a Colt logo and appeared to be built from M16 carbine parts. Ironically it was accessorized in the same manner as the enemy's arms, having a tactical light clamped under the barrel and a red dot optic on the carry handle. “Never seen one of these before,” Tiger remarked. “Does it shoot well?”

“The bullets go where the dot is,” replied Goncharenko indifferently. “Are you satisfied?”

Not yet. “Is it reliable? Have you practiced with it?”

“We had mandatory training before we entered the Zone. And yes, it was reliable.”

“Hm...” Perhaps it was good enough. Tiger had to keep in mind that Goncharenko wasn't a stalker, and surviving one fight didn't make him an experienced combatant. “All right,” said the former, handing back the SMG. “We're ready.”

Sasha wasn't. “Can I have a word before we go?” He withdrew behind one of the containers and Tiger joined him. “I need you to be honest,” the major began, keeping his voice low. “Is there anything else I should know about this place?”

The guide removed his mask, lest it interfere. “I told you what I know for sure. The rest is superstition and rumor.”

It was evident from Degtyaryov's expression that he'd heard some of the uglier legends about Old Rostok, and was taking them more seriously now. “I hope you're right,” he muttered. “Don't make me regret trusting you.”

“Same to you,” said Tiger pointedly. “You never showed me your ID, by the way.”

“That's right.” Sasha did show it now. “Can't go whipping this out at the bar, you understand.”

“Mm.” The photograph matched Sasha's face perfectly. “Degtyaryov, Aleksandr Aleksandrovich... Thus Machine-gunner. You didn't tell me you outrank Olga.”

The major shrugged again. “Rank doesn't count out here. Experience does.”

“True.” Tiger returned the wallet. “One more question. If we're supposed to look for survivors, shouldn't you try to contact them?”

Degtyaryov shook his head. “Radio discipline. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't have even let the professor make that call.” He unpacked a personal respirator, without protective goggles. “I'm keeping an ear open to the standard frequency. If they ask for help, I'll hear it.”

“Assuming they're alive.” The loner put his mask back on, and Sasha did the same. “Let's go.”

Being left alone hadn't improved Goncharenko's patience. “Well?” he interrogated his rescuers. “Which way are we going?”

Tiger pointed to the far end of the platform, where the tracks ran under a chain-link gate and turned north. “There's a service tunnel around the corner. Stay close to me and don't make unnecessary noise.”
  04:09:33  23 March 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
From my notes, these are the team loadouts laid out in the last chapter. Dunno if anyone finds the technical stuff interesting, but what the hell.

Savage Lee-Enfield No. 4 Mk. 1* (7.62x54mmR, custom barrel)
Ithaca M1911A1 (.45 ACP, nickel plated)
Mauser C96 (9x19mm, bored out from 7.63mm)

Saco Defense M60 (7.62x51mm, field expedient safety mods)
Stechkin APS (9x18mm)

Izhmash AKS-74N (5.45x39mm, scope rail)
Smith & Wesson Victory Model (.38 Special)

Kazanlak AK-74 (5.45x39mm) w/ KBP GP-30 (40mm caseless)
Walther P1 (9x19mm)

SSG-82 (5.45x39mm)
General Motors M16A1 (5.56x45mm)
Norinco Tokarev Type 54 (7.62x25mm)

Savage Thompson M1A1 (.45 ACP)
Lucznik PPSh-41 (7.62x25mm)
Zastava SKS M59/66 (7.62x39mm, scope rail and grenade spigot)
Zastava Mauser M24/47 (7.92x57mm)
Cugir Mosin M44 (7.62x54mmR)
Winchester M1895 (7.62x54mmR)
Tula TOZ-34ER (12 gauge, barrels shortened)

More stuff hopefully soon.
  19:36:06  5 March 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
In Tiger's timeline, the only people on the Maidan in 2014 are his fellow stalkers. I'm more concerned about the material I put together for the possible second story, what I've been teasing at with the Gromyko side chapters.
  18:06:30  5 March 2014
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081

54,000 and counting.

I'm working on the next chapter, but progress has been slow lately. Recent events in Ukraine are making me reconsider some of my choices on this story, and think very carefully about its future.

Hey Bob. I know what you mean. It's tough, but the approach I've adopted is to remember that a) I'm talking about a parallel reality, not this one, and b) it's in the past (2011-2013).
I'm way behind on this story, but I hope you keep on with it - no matter the choices, or even changes to what has gone before, you feel you have to make.
  19:51:55  4 March 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
54,000 and counting.

I'm working on the next chapter, but progress has been slow lately. Recent events in Ukraine are making me reconsider some of my choices on this story, and think very carefully about its future.
  21:15:02  13 February 2014
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
I'm not a Bot. Promise.
  23:00:42  12 February 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
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Messages: 3336
52,000 views, with 2,600 or so since the last chapter.

But for all I know, they might be software bots scraping the forums.
  02:21:37  1 January 2014
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
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A happy new year to stalkers everywhere.

Hydramatic Avtomatchik

Yevgeniy awoke in panic. How could he have fallen asleep? Baxter's watch was over, and Ashpool or Mullins wouldn't cover for him if he nodded off while they were on duty. If MacGruder found out –


Yevgeniya blinked. This wasn't the tower and that wasn't Ashpool speaking.

“You all right?”

“Yeah.” The sniper turned over, reaching across the head of the bedroll for her canteen and the little waxed paper envelope of painkillers. She gulped one down and rolled onto her back with a wince, the hurt inside her proof positive that yesterday was no dream. “Did I wake you?”

“It's okay.” Puzzlement crept into Kondratenko's voice. “I've never slept so good in the Zone.”

That made two. Sitting up, Yevgeniya grabbed her pistol and scooted down to the open end of the shipping container. There was a faint light coming from outside, enough for her to find her way as she pulled on her boots and cinched up the laces. When she stepped out, she found Tiger was up already.

“Good morning, Zhenya.”

“Hi...” She could see now that dawn was breaking over the Zone. “I'm going to use the toilet, okay?”

“Me too,” said Kondratenko, crawling out behind the androgyne.

Tiger gave a nod. “Don't take long,” he cautioned. “There's something I want to show you.”


Galina and Dmitriy had risen and taken care of their needs before the remaining pair woke, then retired to their container for a little more quiet time. Tiger let them be until the late risers came back, at which point he mustered the party. “Leave the traveling gear in the containers,” was his instruction. “We're not going far.”

The stalker led his charges across the road to the brick annex that jutted from the north face of the arena, a feature sometimes known as 'the clock tower' or 'the bell tower' to Rostok's inhabitants. In fact it housed a gravity tank, as decrepit as the walls themselves. Tiger entered through the doorway at the foot, ignoring the corner which had broken away and seemed poised to collapse. Inside the tower, a staircase snaked around the inner frame of girders which supported the reservoir above.

Trust overcame trepidity, and the others followed him. At the top, the stairs exited onto a catwalk under the east side of the cistern, its grating partially laid over with nailed boards as part of an attempt to shore up the damaged shell. The walkway connected the tower to the arena roof, then doubled back and ran up a second catwalk along the concrete lip of the tank platform. Tiger went all the way. His companions gathered on the platform, facing a breeze barely felt on the ground below.

In the coming minutes, they stood together and watched the sky burn. First the highest layers lit up, long cirrus waves shining like gold dunes traced by an impressionist's brush. The scattered puffballs beneath them glowed violet and then orange as the approaching sun's rays dipped lower, sweeping over lattice gantries and trees further out. Soon the edge of the fiery disc itself appeared over the false horizon of the factory rooftops, warming the faces of those who had come to greet it.

Then Dmitriy leaned over and whispered in Galina's ear, and Galina – hard, driven Galina – giggled at it. As one they moved to the corner of the platform, turning straight into the wind. Standing behind his girlfriend, Dmitriy hugged her around the waist while she held her arms out to either side. Kondratenko and Yevgeniya looked at them in bewilderment for a few moments, but then comprehension showed on the Latvian's face. She breathed in, closed her eyes, and began to... sing?

Singing without words was the best Tiger could think of to describe it. He had never been a prodigious consumer of music, nor one of discriminating taste. It wasn't quite a chant and definitely not a wail, though it had a mournful quality. Looking at the young lovers with that haunting sound in his ears, something clicked. Oh, that's what it is.

The guide let them go on a little longer, but eventually he had to cut in: “I don't want to spoil the mood, but we need to go down before they start broadcasting.”


“Duty needs you! Join us in the heroic struggle against the Zone!”

True to his word, the loudspeaker on the side of the tower blasted out its morning greeting just after the group left. With the rest of Rostok now awake, Tiger went alone to fetch breakfast from the bar. Galina and Dmitriy secreted themselves in their sleeping space while Kondratenko hauled out the M60 for an inspection. Yevgeniya had wanted to exercise, but resurgent pain forced her to concede defeat after four pushups. She curled up next to the cold fireplace in the hangar, her ribs and uterus duking it out for center stage.



“What were you guys doing up there?”

She couldn't be sure if he was trying to take her mind off her troubles, or simply making oblivious small talk. Either way the distraction was not unwelcome. “It's the 'flying' scene... You know, from Titanic?”

“Never seen it.” Kondratenko had an expression like he was afraid he might have made a faux pas. “It's about a boat, right?”

“It's about a rich girl who falls in love with a poor boy.”

“On a boat.”


“And the boat sinks.”


“Galya and Mitya like that kind of thing?”

The Belarusian girl had heard him. “On special occasions,” she replied dryly. “The film got a second release for the disaster's hundredth anniversary. We saw it in a hotel in Babruysk.”

Yevgeniya must have missed this news. “When was the anniversary?”

“A few weeks ago... The fourteenth or fifteenth?”

“Fifteenth,” Dmitriy confirmed.

“Funny,” said Kondratenko, so quietly that it was nearly lost as the teenagers sat down. “That's three days after...”

“After what?” asked Yevgeniya.

“Six years since the Zone appeared.” The former soldier put aside the machine gun and rubbed his hands on his knees. “I guess it's too early to make a blockbuster out of that.”

“Hollywood is making one,” Galina remarked. “Well, not a blockbuster. It's about a group of tourists going into Chernobyl.”

“American tourists?”

“Naturally, American tourists.”

“The Zone is a disease which threatens the whole world! Enlist in Duty! Be a part of the cure!”

Kondratenko shifted the subject. “Have you seen any good movies lately, Zhenya?”

She shook her head. “Not since winter. The last was on a date... I mean, I was supposed to go on a date. The weather turned bad, so we stayed home and watched The Mummy instead.”

Dmitriy perked up. “Universal, Hammer, or Universal remake?”

Yevgeniya had been too queasy to pay much attention during the end credits. “Um... I think Rachel Weisz was in it?”

“Ah,” said Dmitriy knowingly. “The remake. Did you like it?”

“It was okay. I'm not really into horror stuff... You?”

“The history and geography were all wrong. Still, I – oh, here's Tiger.”

“Here's me,” said Tiger, his hands occupied with a large bundle wrapped in paper and string. On his back he carried a lever-action rifle which Yevgeniya hadn't seen before. “They're talking about you in the bar,” the stalker told the androgyne. “About your gender and... Anyway, I'm not sure what started it.”

Repeated exposure was starting to dull Yevgeniya's sense of alarm. “How much do they know?”

“So far it's only speculation.” Tiger parked the package. “Snitch is interested, though. Could be trouble.”

The name sounded like trouble. “Who's he?”

“Information broker. Lurks in the bar most nights, dealing in stolen secrets and contraband erotica.”

“Contraband... You mean, nasty stuff?”

“Just regular porn, as far as I know.” Tiger pulled at the string's knot and the paper fell away, leaving a stack of toast and a deck of candy bars on top of canned fruit. “Even the regular is banned in this country.”

“What does he want?” Casting about for a rationale, Yevgeniya seized upon the incriminating magazine. “Did Voronin give him the photograph?”

“Unlikely.” From his pocket, Tiger produced a matchbox and a packet of white fuel tablets. “Snitch is suspected of Freedom sympathies,” he explained, “and Duty would run him out of Rostok for good if he weren't under Barkeep's wing... He's probably fishing for a scoop he can take advantage of, not knowing what he'll find.”

“Can we stop him?”

“Not easily. My advice – keep a low profile until he and the others lose interest.”

Kondratenko cut in. “What about Galya and Mitya and me? We're all wanted.”

“Seems like they're all so fixed on Zhenya that you haven't been noticed yet. Let's try to keep it that way.”

“Agreed,” said Galina. “So, what else is new?”

“I got vitamins for everyone. Wait a few minutes and you can take them with your coffee.” Tiger handed out pills sealed in tiny silver pouches. “I also got this, for after the shooting practice.”

He showed them a device with a pale gray plastic case, like a pocket calculator but thicker front to back. Instead of a number pad, the front panel had a cluster of switches surrounded by arcane glyphs and tables. A brand name, PRIPYAT, was painted on the top right corner above the LCD readout.

“My dad had one of those when I was a kid,” said Kondratenko with a hint of happy nostalgia.

“So did mine.” Tiger put the radiometer away. “It'll have to do until Barkeep has newer models for sale again.” Reaching among the fruit cans, he plucked out a piece of sheet metal with cuts around the edges. “Any questions?”

Dmitriy's hand went up. “Won't people notice that Zhenya's the only 'man' here who doesn't shave?”

“Oh...” Now that he mentioned it, Yevgeniya felt like a real idiot for forgetting that problem. “I'll do what I did before,” she offered hastily. “Play with a razor all the time, so they think I'm fussy.”

Tiger nodded. “All right, so we need four razors.”

“Five,” corrected Galina. “Unless somebody wants to share.”

Kondratenko looked at her as if she'd grown a second head. “You don't have a beard.”

Galina looked at him as if he'd declared she was a witch. “You do know women grow hair in other places, right?”

“They do?”

“Four razors and one extra.” Tiger bent the metal square into a flower shape. “You should pack your things while I finish this.”

Fortunately for Yevgeniya, Bonesetter's remedy had gotten the hurt back under control and there wasn't much packing to do: she started at the bottom of the bedroll and was nearly done tying it up when Kondratenko shared an idea. “What if you just tell them?”


“Those guys won't chase you if they know you have a... I mean...”

His naivete would be endearing if not for the potential need to entrust him with her life. “Most people don't take it as well as you did, Borya.” Then she thought of Sanya Deadeye. “And some of them take it too well.”

Kondratenko looked genuinely crestfallen. “But...”

“Trust me, okay?”

“Okay.” Then he dropped a non sequitur. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

Yevgeniya pulled the strap much too tight. “...What?”

“You said you were dating, so I thought maybe you could give me pointers.” Where he fell short on tact, he made up in shame. “I'm not good with girls.”

“I don't have anyone.” And as much as she might pity him, this was not a conversation the sniper wanted to be having right now. “Maybe we could do this later? I need to eat.”

“Okay...” Kondratenko put on his trophy helmet and sunglasses for one last try. “How do I look?”

“Straight out of Checkpoint Charlie.” Yevgeniya pulled her kit together and went outside, only to find Galina waiting.

“We need to talk, Zhenya.”

Over her shoulder, Yevgeniya could see Tiger heating water on the Esbit stove. Beside him the unclaimed toast beckoned. She hoped this would be quick. “Sure.”

Galina all but marched her into the empty container. “We have to find a better way to deal with your bleeding. Can't afford a repeat of yesterday.”

“Oh!” Another thing Yevgeniya had forgotten in all the confusion. “Bonesetter gave me tampons. I was going to tell you... Uh, do you need some?”

“Not for a couple of weeks.” Galina's eyes narrowed. “Why does he have those?”

“He said stalkers buy them for their medkits, to plug bullet holes.”

“Interesting.” Perhaps it didn't sound so absurd to the hard-faced girl. “I'll have to remember that.”


The meal, once they got to it, was low-key. When it was over, Tiger proposed a revision of the team loadouts. By his count this group of five possessed nineteen firearms in twelve calibers, some redundant and some specialized, and everyone was over the comfortable weight limit. His new plan called for Galina and Dmitriy to consolidate by replacing their paired rifles and submachine guns with the two AK-74s. Kondratenko would give up the spare Mosin and focus on his role as the support gunner. What they didn't keep with them would go into the lockers as a reserve.

For her part Yevgeniya was told not to become reliant on the SSG-82, since Tiger intended to replace it with something more effective as finances allowed. That left the Chinese Tokarev and the assault rifle he had given her in the bar, an M16A1 made by the Hydra-Matic Division of General Motors. Unlike the factory fresh pistol or the seldom used sniper rifle, this piece showed wear from a life in the field. The stock bore a faded rack number, CAP 811, and someone had etched the initials N.C.R. and a picture of a bear on the right side of the magazine well.

Next Tiger laid out the day's itinerary: basic technique and weapon familiarization, lunch break at noon, then cross-training on the M60. As inspiration, he told the story of Mantis the bandit hunter and passed the tsarist Winchester around the circle. After giving time for questions, the guide wrapped up by distributing pairs of yellow foam earplugs.

Soon they were heading south, reversing last night's course into the factory. At least Yevgeniya thought it was the same course, since she hadn't seen very much of it in the dark. She definitely hadn't seen that gate behind the Duty checkpoint at the spike trench, wide enough to drive a truck through with room to spare. Inside the gate, a side road ran past a loading dock and hooked around the corner of the final building on the left.

At the front of the dock, three Duty men sat in folding chairs behind a folding table. Three pairs of eyes sized up the guests, and Yevgeniya felt a tightness in her stomach as she saw recognition on their faces. The one in the middle had flat, surly features, as if mashed into shape by a shovel, and dark hair buzzed short. He was flanked by a beanpole with a ponytail and an angel with a dire case of five o'clock shadow.

The ugly one shoved back his chair and stood up.


The first thing Gromyko noticed was that Galina Purkayeva had grown up to look a lot like her overbearing father. The youth glued to her like a second shadow would be that boyfriend Voronin had spoken of, which meant the other guy with the shades and the belt-fed shooter was the army runaway. Last but not least, he noted the Smirnova girl lurking at the back with a hangdog demeanor.

His orders were to observe and report, and so he would. “Welcome to the Rostok Factory Weapon Training Range named for B. S. Tachenko,” he recited, opening with the rote spiel. “I'm Sergeant Gromyko. I am not a diplomat. These are Privates Dudorov and Mironyuk, and we're your range safety officers today.” He pointed to a sign on his left. “Please follow the posted regulations at all times.”

The novices studied the list closely while Tiger and Mironyuk, whose turn it was to man the desk, handled signing-in and rental of high impact safety glasses. Responsibility for the range's activities proper fell to Gromyko himself, assisted by Dudorov. “All set?” said he when Tiger came away from the table. “Right, let's get this Komsomol outing underway!”


“Eye and ear protection on! Is everyone ready? The range is HOT!”

Standing behind the firing line between Yevgeniy's and Kondratenko's positions, Tiger watched his pupils lie down on brick-weighted tarpaulins and take up their rifles. Several paces to his left, Sergeant Gromyko was doing the same for Dmitriy and Galina. A hundred meters to their north, a line of black and white painted targets stood alone below the berm's dirt crest.

The M16 jumped, muzzle blast slapping down the grass under the flash hider. A puff of dust erupted from the backstop's scarred face. Yevgeniy took a slow breath, let it out, and squeezed again. A green 5.45mm casing rolled up to his elbow. Following its path back to the source, Tiger saw smoke jetting from the side ports of the brake on Galina's weapon. The AK kicked out another spent cartridge and he watched it bounce across the tarp.

Gromyko lifted his binoculars. “Lane one, you're almost dead center now,” he advised Dmitriy. “Keep working on your follow-through. Lane two, you're doing fine.”

Better than fine, in Tiger's opinion. Galina had turned her previous couple of bullseyes into fist sized clusters of holes and was on her way to making another sieve out of this one. Likewise for Yevgeniy. Meanwhile Kondratenko plugged away with the SKS, getting competent though not outstanding results. Dmitriy started at a disadvantage, having studied the theory without chance for practice, but he was catching up admirably under Gromyko's supervision.

It was obvious from the get-go that Voronin had given his underlings prior warning of the group's visit, and the most Tiger allowed himself was to hope they would keep it professional. Mironyuk and Dudorov stayed on the sidelines, giving no cause to complain. Gromyko, however... Tiger knew him by sight, and knew his name from gossip in the Hundred Rads – mostly to the tune of Sergeant Gromyko called Lieutenant So-and-so a bootlicker to his face. Given his reputation as a grouch with a careless tongue, his volunteering to help Dmitriy came as a happy surprise.

Kondratenko took a stripper clip form the pile at his side and refilled the carbine, mashing down the cartridges with a clumsy motion. Yevgeniy dropped an empty twenty-round magazine. Tiger was tallying the steel and brass cases strewn between the pair when, in a short lull amid Galina's and Dmitriy's shots, he heard it.

“Cease fire! Cease fire!”

“Cease fire!” Gromyko echoed. “The range is COLD!”

The trainees laid down their weapons. Tiger pulled out his earplugs, letting the deadened sound enter clearly. “There's a helicopter coming.”

The last time a chopper came his way, it slaughtered his comrades. That fact was evidently uppermost in Yevgeniy's mind as well. “Is it a raid?”

Gromyko didn't share their wariness. “If they were gunning for us, there'd be more of them and they'd come from the south. One bird, flying low and slow? That's an ecologists' ride.” He scanned the treeline behind the berm. “It's going to cross over our lines of fire. Sit tight while it passes.”

Tiger knew he was almost certainly right, but he couldn't shake off his own ill feeling as the gunship came into sight, bearing southwest toward Yantar. Whether or not it had scientists aboard, the aircraft was unmistakeably armed. The stalker tracked it hawkishly, poised to pull his companions out of the open should it veer from its course, until it disappeared behind the factory buildings.

Then there was an explosion.

The turbines' whine and the steady thrumming of the rotors were suddenly cut off. Seconds later the spectators heard a terrific bang as the heavy machine collided with solid ground. “That's not good,” said Kondratenko.

“No shit.” Gromyko twisted a dial on his personal radio. “Mainline, this is Range Safety One. You copy that impact?”

A new set of noises distracted Tiger from listening for the reply: automatic small arms fire in the direction of the Wild Territory. Yevgeniy's face lost its color. “They're shooting...”

“Oh, you fucking halfwits,” Gromyko snarled. “Not you, Mainline! I mean the assholes starting a war over there!”

To speak of 'starting a war' was not exaggerating by much, Tiger realized with a moment of grim clarity. The relationship between stalker and scientist was many things – illegal, indispensable, amiable, profitable – but it all relied on mutual trust. The stalkers trusted the scientists not to turn on them or betray them to the military, and in turn the scientists trusted the stalkers not to make provocations. Somebody, for some reason, had broken that trust... and broken it on the stalkers' very doorstep.

“What do you mean, there's no one available!? We're available!”

Tiger tried to reorient himself towards what was happening around him, only to be quickly diverted again: his special sense detected a person sprinting through the front gate and onto the range grounds. Briefly he wondered if he should retrieve one of his guns from the table where the party's arsenal was spread out, watched over by Private Dudorov. Such a precaution proved unnecessary once the intruder came flying around the last corner and slid to a stop, completely winded.

It was Sasha Machine-gunner, the Security Service agent. “There you are,” he panted, fixing on Tiger.

The pathfinder had a pretty good idea what he wanted, but he asked anyway. “What's going on?”

“We...” Sasha pointed to the ongoing battle, struggling for breath. “We have to go. Now.”

So this was it, time to work. Tiger looked at Gromyko, who was still arguing with his radio, and then at his own rookies. “Keep practicing. I'll be back.” Going to the table, he snatched the Winchester and a fistful of loaded clips off the nearest end. “Let's move.”
  06:30:47  20 November 2013
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On forum: 02/26/2011
Messages: 40
This story is utterly amazing. Hopefully it won't go too long between updates, because I'm finding myself looking forward to more chapters as much as I'm (oh so very patiently) waiting for Lost Alpha. I'm especially appreciating how deftly you intertwine your story with certain spots in the game.
  08:49:20  15 November 2013
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
11/15/2013 19:33:49
Messages: 3336
I don't always post chapters.

But when I do, I post them here.

Seven Moments of Stalking

“We run out of food tomorrow unless we cut back to quarter rations or start eating what we kill. Water from local sources cannot be guaranteed safe. Lytvyn and Prasolov are going to die unless they get specialized medical treatment. Our maps of the region are useless. Our long range radios are inoperable.” Sergeant Gromyko waits for questions, but there are none. “I think we should stick to the plan,” he concludes. “Wait for daylight and keep heading south.”

His opinion doesn't get a warm reception from the handful of officers and noncoms gathered around the campfire. He understands their reluctance: several meters behind him, Privates Dudorov and Mironyuk are covering the mine's entrance with a machine gun while the weary and wounded rest deeper inside. Outside lies the Red Forest, and the scattered bodies of those who fell during the retreat. There will be more bodies if the march continues, but the alternative is to sit and wait for an unlikely rescue.

For the moment, Captain Voronin sides with his junior. “We must proceed with caution, but we must proceed. Krylov has occupied a tolerable position and made contact with some of the local looters. He may be able to barter for supplies... Perhaps these so-called 'stalkers' can provide more powerful weapons as well.”

Gromyko doesn't see the point, though he's seen firsthand how the army issue 5.45mm rifles are barely effective against the monsters which swarm upon this dwindling corps from every direction. The only potent defense they have is the PKM in the tunnel, with a belt and a half left to feed it. “By the time we get close enough to make any deals, we'll be hours away from the perimeter.”

“We can't leave.”

Gromyko's eyes turn to Captain Tachenko, who until now seemed content to let Voronin speak for their shared leadership. “What?”

“I said we can't leave.” The second captain gets up. “The government has never competently confronted the threat of the Zone. The best they could do is throw us into the grinder and leave us to die.”

Gromyko knows the other men are beginning to share these bitter sentiments. He didn't expect to hear them given voice by the ambitious Tachenko, however. “What are you suggesting?”

“The freaks in this place won't be deterred by barbed wire or searchlights, once they become bold enough to approach the fence and smell fresh meat on the other side. Containment will not succeed unless the beasts are dealt with proactively, culled before they escape their breeding grounds.”

Gromyko cuts to the chase. “You want us to desert.”

“The politicians and generals deserted us. We owe our duty to the people, not to squabbling nomenklatura in Kiev.”

“I agree with Tachenko,” says Voronin gravely. “The duty is ours now.”


There are twenty-odd bodies piled along the bottom of the ditch, limbs splayed and tangled. Their wounds suggest a sudden end by gunfire, followed with bludgeoning and stabbing. The ones who haven't been stripped wear black and red.

Gromyko turns his back on the shallow grave. “What happened?”

It isn't lack of sleep that makes Sergeant Kitsenko look so haggard. “Bandits started marching the prisoners out of camp during the night,” he explains. “Brought them this far, then opened up with automatics. They missed one guy in the dark and he crawled away while they were finishing the rest. We picked him up on dawn patrol.”

“Any intel?”

“The witness says a skinhead with an accent was running the show, plus eight or nine thugs. They took off toward Zapolye when they were done.”

“Further north, huh?” Couldn't have gone too far without putting themselves in the sights of the Monolith crazies, though. “What do you have, Matvey?”

“Spent cartridges indicate at least three shooters,” Mironyuk reports dispassionately. “I can't tell much from the footprints... There are no tags on the corpses, only broken chains.”

Gromyko's eyes narrow. “The bandits took their tags?”

“That's right,” says Kitsenko. “All except for a couple that were clipped by bullets... It gets better,” he adds. “Voronin's coming up here.”

A harsh blow has been struck against Duty: those who were seized in the raid on Cherevach were mostly raw novices, sent to hold territory so that experienced fighters like Gromyko himself could move to the front lines. Replacing them will be difficult, more so as news of the slaughter reaches potential recruits in the south.

“Yeah, I heard.” Gromyko faces the trench again. “I told my people to expect marching orders.”


Gromyko is ten paces from the door when the hostiles on the other side kick it open. He fires four rounds into the pointman's heart before his rattle-trap L85 jams for the third time. Automatic fire sprays past as he dives for cover, rolling to the left behind an empty fuel drum. Turning the rifle on its side, he discovers the latest malfunction is worse than a simple stovepipe.

They're coming for him and he has no backup. Gromyko drops the weapon without hesitation and draws his pistol. He blind fires half the magazine around the side of the barrel, then goes over the top. The second gunman is already down with multiple leg hits and the next in line has taken a round to his strong side forearm. Gromyko finishes him with a center mass double tap and he falls to the right, arms flailing.

That leaves one more. Gromyko squeezes and feels recoil, but doesn't feel the trigger reset. Brass glints in the ejection port: another stovepipe stoppage. Snarling in frustration, he whips back his hand and flings the Glock at his final enemy. It strikes low in the chest as Gromyko springs up to finish the fight with his bare hands.

Then the buzzer sounds. “Cease fire, cease fire, cease fire,” Major Zvyagintsev commands through his megaphone. “Gromyko, don't abuse the equipment. Dombrik, where did you learn to breach and clear?”

Dombrik looks up at the observation platform, where the major and several others have been watching the exercise. “I thought we were evaluating the marker ammunition,” he protests.

“That doesn't mean you can fool around,” Zvyagintsev chides. “The drill is over. Secure all weapons before leaving the firing range. We'll have a review after you clean up.”

Gromyko lets out a breath of relief. The sooner he can get out of this gas mask and sweltering coveralls, the better. In front of him, the casualties of his last stand pick themselves up off the kill house floor and put their equipment in order. The fronts of their uniforms are peppered with spots of bright green paint. “I'm going to call you the frog squad from now on,” Gromyko quips as he bends to collect his rifle.

Dombrik isn't amused. “You didn't have to throw your damn gun at me,” he complains, pulling the magazine out of his MP5. “I was already hit.”

“Not critically,” Gromyko counters. Turning away, he sees the other half of Dombrik's team and all of his own people gathering in the roofless room via its other doors. His men are marked with yellow paint, and panic fire has covered the plywood back wall in an identical hue. “How the hell did you go down so fast?” he needles, picking out Mironyuk and Dudorov from the group.

“It was worth it to see you do the John McClane thing,” says Dudorov cheerfully.

“Very funny.” After Dombrik and his comrades clear the door, Gromyko recovers his sidearm. The Glock is a dedicated training model with a blue plastic frame, easy to spot on the ground. The L85 is a surplus service weapon fitted with a conversion bolt. Neither merits a passing grade today. “This may be good enough for the Kiev police,” Gromyko declares, “but damned if it's good enough for us.”

“Save it for the review,” Mironyuk counsels. “Let's get out of these straightjackets.”


“They're coming up the sides!” Gromyko is shouting, but his voice sounds distant to his own ears. “Get to the surface and report what's happened!”

Sorokin takes to his heels at once, running for the passageway that will carry him to blessed daylight. Gromyko turns back to the yawning maw of the cargo elevator shaft, rifle readied as he approaches. The yellow beam from his headlamp catches movement twelve meters down: a seething tide of flat eyeless bodies and spindly limbs. If his ears weren't shot, he would hear the dry rustle of their papery off-white skin.

Gromyko's finger tightens. The AK-47 shakes in his hands, transmuting his fury into a deadly hail. Bullets punch through organs and sever tendons, throwing out showers of sparks when they hit the shaft's steel lining. Shrieking monstrosities peel off the wall in sprays of gore and tumble into the pit. The magazine runs empty. Gromyko yanks it, flips it over and inserts the feed end of the second mag taped to its side. He circles the lip of the shaft, sweeping the other walls. In seconds the rifle is empty again.

Thirty rounds at a time isn't cutting it. Gromyko tears open the pouch on his left hip, which holds a pair of seventy-five round drums. They were spares for Dudorov's RPK, but Dudorov and the RPK lie somewhere in the maze below, together with Mironyuk, Gunko, Zamosenchuk, Izhenko and Korovin. Gromyko feels the magazine catch snap home, racks the bolt and keeps circling, pouring fire and thunder into the hole.

His hearing is totally gone now, his vision half burnt out by muzzle flash, and the troglodytes just don't stop coming as he expends the first drum, then the second. The rifle's handguard is becoming painfully hot to the touch, and he realizes his meager ammunition reserve isn't enough to drive back these myriad abominations. Gromyko retreats from the shaft, hurriedly reloading, and bolts for the exit.


It takes a brave man to land a four engine aircraft on a country road. It takes another brave man to stand at the end of that road, holding a rag in each hand to guide that aircraft as it comes barreling towards him. Gromyko is glad to be neither of these brave men, though he feels honest relief when he sees Pilot make a successful touchdown.

“Let's go!” he yells to his followers. “Your ride's here!”

His ears have recovered, helped by judicious application of healing artifacts, but the tinnitus which was a faint annoyance for the last few years is getting harder to ignore. It's not yet enough to muffle the panting and wheezing as Professors German and Ozyorskiy struggle to keep up, shooting out clouds of vapor with every breath. Poplar and his team come close behind, porters for a precious cargo of laptops, hard drives, documents and sample containers from the mobile laboratory.

Old School is taxiing along the roundabout by the time the evacuation group arrives. Five roads converge here among open fields, but only one is straight enough, and clear of anomalies and trees, to serve as a runway. It leads south-southeast through the contaminated vehicle dump at the former 'Chernobylservice' garage and into the town of Zalesye.

Zalesye, or Zalissya, straddles the route between Chernobyl and Freedom's army warehouses. Gromyko thinks it was probably a nice place to live before the local economy's greatest pride turned to poison. Now unchecked woods engulf the empty community. For stalkers too young to remember life in the Soviet Union, it's a glimpse into the world of their parents. The town hall, dating from 1959, still bears a hammer and sickle over its porticoed entrance. The school is a couple of years newer. Nearby, a weathered icon of a mourning mother reminds visitors of the community's sacrifice during the Great Patriotic War. On the main road, gaudy fixtures extol the bright future of peaceful atomic energy.

The overcast sky gives a dull sheen to Old School's silver skin as it completes its maneuver and rolls to a stop, engines idling. From this angle Gromyko can see the name and accompanying artwork on the nose: a reclining woman in a vintage pilotka cap – and nothing else. Muskrat the ground controller, conspicuous in his Freedom colors, starts walking around the airplane to check for problems. Gromyko heads for the starboard side of the tail, shaking off his backpack.

The machine is eerily quiet up close, save for its whirling propellers. A hatch at the rear swings open and the disheveled face of Cardan emerges. He slides out a folding ladder as Gromyko wades through the cold, odorless prop wash. “I brought a little more fuel,” the Dutyer calls, holding out the pack. “Compliments of the third defensive line!”

Cardan sets it inside the hatch, unzips the top and takes out a Moonlight. “Thanks,” he grunts, sliding the pack to someone behind him. “All for Lviv, get aboard!”

Up the ladder go the professors, their accessories, and their assistants. Up goes the ladder and the hatch closes. Ozyorskiy appears in the observation bubble behind the wing, waving goodbye. Gromyko gives a salute and stands back to watch Muskrat finish his inspection. Soon the signal comes: all clear. The engines hum as Pilot brings them up to full power and releases the brakes. The plane gathers speed fast, lifts its nose, and just a moment later the big balloon tires rise off the pavement.

Artur would love this.

It's at quiet moments like this, between the surges, that the grief begins to well up. Somehow Gromyko always assumed Matvey and Artur would outlive him, or else they'd all buy it together, and being the only one left hurts more than he ever imagined. He's kept a lid on it by keeping busy, putting on a stoic face and throwing himself into the greater crisis. Not everyone is handling it so well: two days ago Sorokin sat down at breakfast and served himself a Makarov's muzzle.

The Freedom fighter called in a radio report while his Duty counterpart was reminiscing. “Morlocks have occupied the Jupiter factory,” he informs Gromyko. “Stalkers are pulling back from Yanov.”

Not much choice. The railway station is too far from the next stronghold, too isolated to withstand a siege. “Pulling back to where?”

“Dunno yet... You want a smoke?”

“No thanks.”

Muskrat lights up, takes a drag, leaves the cigarette between his gloved fingers. “There's something else,” he says softly. “Our hunter outpost at Krasne – it's gone.”

Krasne is a hamlet on the edge of a boggy woodland twenty kilometers west of Pripyat, deep in the badlands. On a map, one could get there by following the tracks from Yanov to Tolstyy Les and turning northwest. In the Zone it's never so easy. “What happened?”

The other man shrugs. A gust of frigid wind sweeps over the pair and both of them shrink from it. “Maybe winter will stop the mutants,” says the Freedom stalker optimistically.


“You ever seen any of the old ones?”

Gromyko has heard of the Quatermass serials, but he hasn't watched any. It wasn't in the job description. “No.”

“Shame.” Nigel chews the end of his hoodie's drawstring, staring at the squat green ISU-152 on the stone pedestal in the park's center. “...What is that, anyway?”

“Tank destroyer,” Gromyko says. “A monument to the Battle of Kursk.”

“Huh.” Nigel slouches, the bench not having a back to rest against. “Why's it here?”

Exterior filming has wrapped for the day and the cast and crew are taking something called 'afternoon tea'. Gromyko thinks his command of English is pretty good, but the reverence his employers display towards this custom suggests he's overlooked some deeper meaning. Nigel does not care for afternoon tea, or rather he does not care to attend afternoon tea if he has to share a table with Simon Russet. Russet plays the eponymous Quatermass in this production, and Gromyko would much rather share a table with him than with 'Nervous' Nigel.

Sadly Nigel doesn't speak any Russian, so Gromyko has to chaperone him when he goes out. “Why..?”

“Why not Kursk?”

“This is closer to the front,” Gromyko points out. “They have monuments in Kursk too.”

Nigel chews on the drawstring some more. “Not many tourists here, are there?”

Though Gromyko is not privy to the details of the Nigel-Russet dispute, he suspects the former's attention deficit problem is a factor. “Not anymore.”

Chernobyl tourism gave Kurchatov's economy a shot in the arm after the real thing became inaccessible: of three RBMK type nuclear power plants still operating in Russia, Kursk AES most closely resembles its Ukrainian sibling. Smolensk AES and the associated town of Desnogorsk benefited from the morbid fascination as well, but neither they nor the Leningrad installation on the Baltic coast could offer that iconic backdrop for the perfect holiday album. The boom is all over, now that the Kursk and Smolensk plants are both less than a hundred kilometers from the Zone's perimeter. Only hardcore enthusiasts still wade through the red tape to come here.

“Sod it,” says Nigel suddenly. “Let's go back to the hotel.”


One more week, Gromyko tells himself. One more week and then he can find another job for the rest of the summer.


“Take a seat. The commander will see you soon.”

Svetlana the sniper goes out, leaving Gromyko to his own devices. He's too on edge to sit down, however, and it's not long before his eyes start roving. He knows from gossip on his journey that an invitation into these chambers is a rare event, and the abruptness of the summons made him wary from the start.

The apartment is modest and sparsely furnished, with an air of being owned yet not inhabited. Its living room hosts a table with four chairs and a writing desk in one corner. A simple wooden gun rack hangs on the wall by the bedroom door. At first Gromyko only glances at the rack, but then a sense of familiarity draws him back to it. The lower slots are filled by an aged M16 and a Mauser with a telescopic sight and a photograph of a young Kim Wilde glued to the stock.

As he takes in more of the room, his sense is confirmed by another object: a sketchbook drawing in an unpretentious frame, hung on the wall across from the rack. To a careless eye, it's merely a figure study of a young woman. A more attentive viewer won't miss the central motif of the piece, the element which reveals a provocative purpose. The work is signed 'Arkadiy' in the bottom right corner.

One detail has changed since Gromyko saw the drawing when it was new. The original title is obliterated, covered by a smear of black paint that leaves only the framing quotation marks. There's a new caption now, in a hand not the artist's: Ye. M. Smirnova | 25 March 1990 – 3 May 2012

Gromyko is pondering this when the bedroom door opens and the one who summoned him enters. For a long moment they stare at one another, until she breaks the standoff. “Sorry for the delay,” says Butterfly, her voice quiet. “I had to take care of Zoya.”


“One of my apprentices. She hasn't been sleeping well.”

This isn't how Gromyko anticipated the meeting would start off. “It's no problem,” he fumbles. “I just got here.”

“It's good to see you again.” She doesn't seem angry or bitter, which was what he feared. “I hope you didn't think I was avoiding you in Mogilyov.”

Gromyko did suspect it, but he's willing to believe he was wrong. “I was pretty busy myself.”

Butterfly nods. “You made a good impression on the jaegers. Borisov especially.”

She sits at the table, he follows suit. “I wish they would stop with the hero worship,” Gromyko admits.

“Are you afraid of disappointing them?”

He contemplates the tabletop. “I don't know. Maybe.”

“I understand how you feel.”

Gromyko won't disagree. “You have it worse than I do,” he offers guardedly.

“Do I?” Butterfly laces her fingers. “Isn't it easier to surpass a low reputation than meet a high one?”

“People out there say you're a nymphomaniac. They say you treat the amazons as your personal harem. How do you stand it?”

“It doesn't matter.”

So she says, yet her face hardens. Gromyko lets the subject drop. “Can I ask why you wanted to see me? I don't mind chatting, but your message made it sound like there's something urgent going on.”

“Somewhat urgent.” Butterfly tips her head. “I don't know if anyone told you, but you were called to Chernigov for an offer of reassignment. The personnel committee thinks you would be more useful assisting the ring defense.”

“And you want me to take the offer.”

“No.” Butterfly leans back in her chair. “I would like you to consider another option.”

“I'm listening.”

“You probably know that our position is being threatened by militant sects which have established themselves in the Zone – mujahideen from the Caucasus, doomsday cults, the renewed Monolith movement... Warden is assembling a precision strike team to deal with these groups, a unit which can interdict their supply routes, destroy their camps.”

“Stalker spetsnaz,” Gromyko elucidates. “You're saying I should sign up for this?”

“You should try.” The chief amazon folds her arms. “Either way, the program is going forward with my support. I will not sit and wait for a video of some goat-fucker mullah cutting off my girls' heads.”

Gromyko can't help but grimace. “I don't really think I'm qualified, but I'll look into it.”

“That's all I ask.” Butterfly relaxes a little. “You won't have to be a sergeant much longer, you know.”

“Mm.” In all honesty, Gromyko has been one for so long he can't picture himself any other way. “There's something else I'd like to ask you, Commander...”


He points at the drawing. “Why?”

Butterfly's expression saddens. “A reminder,” she says. “I promised I wouldn't forget the short time we had together... The four of us who were with Tiger.”

Even after three and a half years, Gromyko understands her meaning. “But the dates?” he wonders. “Isn't that a bit morbid?”

“It's part of my promise.” Her eyes seem to look right through the paper. “To remember there was once a girl called Zhenya, who wanted more than anything to be loved.”
  17:11:26  15 October 2013
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

Way overdue!

I know.

Stuff in the pipe, no ETA:

-A new day in the lives of Team Tiger.
-Side chapter: Olga goes to America.
-Possible side chapter: memories of Gromyko.
  13:12:22  12 October 2013
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Way overdue! But, it's a long and good post so I think I'll forgive you.
  09:01:42  10 October 2013
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
It looks like this thread is about to hit 44,000 views. That's pretty cool, but I wish y'all weren't such a quiet bunch.

A couple of announcements before we get to the good stuff. First: to combat the increasing delays between updates, I decided to break down the next two planned chapters and publish them as smaller pieces posted more often. This was supposed to be the first installment under the new method, but it ballooned out of control and ran to 23 pages - the longest yet. I may have a problem.

Second: I have a friend out on the west coast who likes to draw. Usually she doodles anime stuff, but a couple of weeks ago she was asking for ideas and I impulsively gave her a vague description and some references pictures. She drew me a sad Yevgeniya, standing under a tree while she waits for the rain to stop:

On with the program!

Neither High Nor Low

“Lonesome... ghost?”

“I think so.” Tiger continued walking. “Anyway, it's gone now.”

Yevgeniy hurried after him, riding on a fight-or-flight response deprived of its threat stimulus. “What's the lonesome ghost?” he panted.

“A Zone legend,” Tiger replied. “A lone stalker meets an invisible presence which lingers for a few minutes and then leaves. I've never heard of the ghost approaching a group before, though. Did you feel it?”

The young sharpshooter swallowed. “I couldn't touch it. It touched – it touched me but I couldn't touch it back, like it wasn't solid. It went right through my clothes.”

“Any impression of intent?”

Yevgeniy gaped at Tiger for a moment until realization came. “It felt... friendly,” he divulged, praying he wouldn't have to explain just what the intruder had done to him. “Is that part of the legend?”

“Yes, the ghost is always benign.”

Galina spoke up from further back in the line. “So what is this ghost? Is it alive?”

“I'm not sure,” Tiger admitted. “From the stories I thought it might be similar to a poltergeist, but that seemed more like a weak anomaly.”

“An anomaly that seeks people out and interacts with them?”

“Maybe... In any case, I wouldn't worry about it. Nobody's ever met the ghost twice.” The guide motioned for the others to come forward. “We're here.”

The road before them ran down a shallow grade, winding through a grassy clearing dotted with gnarled trees, dry bushes and rusted vehicles. Across it sat the promised factory, a complex of dark outlines silhouetted against the twilight sky. Yevgeniy could hear an indistinct voice blaring from a loudspeaker. “There aren't any lights?”

“Only inside. Most of the fittings were stripped out after the nuclear disaster.”

“What did they make here?”

“Farming machinery. Tractors, plows and such.” Tiger led onward. “You have to watch your step going in,” he advised. “There's a trench lined with spikes.”


“Scents from the bar attract animals. The trench keeps the big ones from rushing the checkpoint.”

Yevgeniy kept his eyes glued to the ground from there on, until he was safely on the other side of the moat's junk metal bridge. The factory entrance was littered with flotsam: crates, shipping containers, even a truck with no engine, its cab wrenched loose and haphazardly dumped over the chassis. Past the detritus, in the pinched space between the first buildings, a few men stood behind sandbag barriers.

“Hold it,” a voice ordered. “Base, this is Checkpoint South. Tiger is here... Yeah, and a caravan with him... Roger. Checkpoint out.” The apparent chief guard jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “They want to see you all at headquarters. Go straight over.”

“We will.” Tiger sounded like he expected this. “Come on.”

He turned left at the end of the lane, steering the group through a hangar where a lone sentry with a headlamp patrolled the catwalks. “This is the central roundabout,” said the stalker, stopping at the exit. “That's the arena in the middle. The bar is through the garage to the left and Duty's ground is on the right. You can get to the Wild Territory and Freedom from the far side. I'll show you around in the morning.”

Tiger headed up the street as the loudspeaker sounded off: “Attention, stalkers! We need volunteers for dangerous but well paid missions. Come to the bar if you're interested.”

There was another sandbag checkpoint on the right side, and again the guards had anticipated their arrival. “The general is waiting,” one of them told Tiger. “Leave the guns with Ivantsov. You can pick them up on the way out.”


Behind the barricade lay a sort of courtyard, squeezed in among the towers of monolithic concrete. Its left side was partitioned by brick walls and a large gate topped with barbed wire. A fuel drum fire pit and a solitary electric bulb lit the scene. As the travelers entered, a man with narrow, sullen features appeared from the shadows. No exchange of words, only silent understanding: Tiger laid his ordnance in a neat pile at the other's feet, setting the example for the rest. Under the lonely lamp, the bunker's mouth stood open.

“When we get down there, let me do the talking.”

Renewed anxiety stirred in Yevgeniy as he followed Tiger down the twisting stairs, cement walls and barred steel doors pressing close on either side. The passage opened into a vault with red tiles scattered over the floor and mighty girders spanning the ceiling. Here the industrial barrens were broken up by rudiments of comfort: bedrolls, sofas, even a stove with a roasting spit. Maps and trophy plaques hung on the walls as if it was a hunting lodge.

Tiger turned left at the entry. Keeping close behind him, Yevgeniy came before a large alcove beside the steps, furnished with a map board, a couch and a desk with a folded laptop computer. In the alcove stood a man, hands clasped behind his back. His features were stern yet careworn, his dark hair thin and cropped short. Pitiless eyes flicked from one guest to the next as they instinctively formed a line.

“You've brought me bad news again,” he growled. “That's twice in two days, Petanko.”


“I'm sure you are... Batov, Dmitriy Gavrilovich!”

Mitya jumped. “I..!”

“Kondratenko, Boris Petrovich!”

Borya meekly snapped to attention. “I,” he whimpered.

“Purkayeva, Galina Mikhailovna!”

Galya stood firm. “I!”

“Smirnova, Yevgeniya Maksimovna!”

The Latvian's throat made a noise like a gearbox grinding. Oh no... no no no no no!

General Voronin turned his gaze upon Tiger instead. “You remember your orders, Petanko?”

“To observe the enemy group and destroy it if possible,” the loner recited. “Which we did.”

“Which you did. And now you return with a pack of fugitives.”

Galina bristled. “I think we could at least be considered refugees.”

“So run away to Switzerland,” Voronin retorted. “This isn't an embassy and we don't grant asylum here.”

“Of course not,” the girl shot back. “I'm sure my father has ordered you to send us home in any case!”

“Galya, don't – ”

“Let her speak, Petanko.” Even as Galina got angrier, Voronin's temper seemed to cool. “No doubt General Purkayev would be delighted were I to repatriate the Batov boy and yourself,” said he, “but if he thinks he can demand favors from me, he is mistaken. In any case, sending you back would create an unacceptable precedent.”

“What else, then?”

“Perhaps a few days in the Zone will convince you of your foolishness. If not, I can only wish you well... As for you, Kondratenko, I don't care what you do with yourself so long as you don't make trouble for me. You should know however that the Security Service put out a contract on you, over at the Hundred Rads. They think you conspired to steal classified information.”

The deserter blanched. “What? No! I didn't steal anything!”

“I know you didn't. That's your problem, not mine.” Voronin leaned forward. “My problem is standing beside you... Were you going to tell me about her, Petanko?”

“I thought about it.” Tiger's apparent indifference did nothing for Yevgeniya's panic. “There are some things we may need to discuss alone, General.”

“Yes, there are.” The supreme Dutyer was in no hurry to get to them, however. “Was it fun, Smirnova? Playing at soldiery with real bullets, real lives?”

The best Yevgeniya could give was a dry whisper. “Not fun.”

“Then why did you stay? You had a chance to get out, but you spurned it. Or weren't the swimsuit spreads exciting enough?”

“Spreads?” Galina interjected. “What are you talking about?”

Voronin raised the laptop's screen. “See for yourself.”


Tiny lights blinked above the keyboard as the computer exited sleep mode, fans revving up with a soft whine. A picture appeared, but its colors were wrong: Tiger had to move left, towards Yevgeniya, to compensate for the display's limited field of view.

Voronin's surprise was a photograph of a group of young women, seven in all, lined up on a grassy overlook with blue ocean and open sky behind. Nearly all of them wore bikinis, variously accessorized with sarongs and sashes. The arrangement would pass for a vacation snapshot if the girls weren't posing with some very sophisticated rifles, each adorned with stickers bearing city names and emblems. The one outlier was Yevgeniya, standing at the center in a pair of low riding woodland camouflage short-shorts. She was topless, her nipples concealed by crosses of black electrical tape, and a stripe of dark paint under each eye rounded out the ensemble.

This, Tiger supposed, was what they called 'military chic' fashion.

“What's that?” Dmitriy asked.

“Swedish sports magazine,” Voronin grunted with disdain. “Last year's August issue.” He went back to glaring at Yevgeniya. “Did you take off the tape for the inside pages?”

Tiger had heard enough. “Zhenya,” he prompted. “Give him the necklace.”

“Necklace...” Spurred to action at last, the androgyne dug into her pockets. “That's right, you said...” The dog tags clinked against one another, swinging to and fro. “Here.”

Voronin took the tags and twine from her with manifest suspicion, withdrawing into the alcove to inspect them minutely. Then his voice got very quiet. “Where did you find this?”

“In the Garbage. There was a bandit... Fritz. I killed him.”

“You knew who he was?”

Yevgeniya nodded. “Tiger told me. He said to take Fritz out first.”

The general looked to Tiger. “You can confirm this?”

“I checked the body,” the stalker answered. “Zhenya has Fritz's hat. I can also give you names of witnesses.”

“Show me the hat.”

Yevgeniya obeyed. Producing the gray cap from another pocket, she pressed it into shape with her fingers and surrendered it for Voronin's approval. Tiger watched as he turned it in his hands, testing the seams and stitches as though he were looking for something.

Suddenly Voronin flipped the cap back to Yevgeniya. “I'll speak with Petanko now,” he declared. “The rest wait outside.”

The apprentices somberly filed out. Yevgeniya went last, still clutching the sinister headgear. She cast a furtive, frightened look towards master and tormenter just before she disappeared up the stairs.

As their footsteps faded, the commander of all Duty sank onto his couch with a protracted sigh. “You've been playing a dangerous game,” he said, contemplatively spreading the relics of dead men across an open palm. “Consorting with mercenaries, with the Security Service... I don't recommend you make a habit of it.”

“I don't plan to.” The Yevgeniya on the laptop screen stared back at Tiger, as if pleading to be released from that frozen sliver of her past. “Did the SBU give you the photo?”

“No, only the girl's basic information... You didn't seem surprised.”

Tiger shrugged. “Naturally the SBU would expect an after action report. I can guess why they shared it with you.” His eyes wandered to the stuffed and mounted venomous cat on the shelf above the couch. “They would have gotten Zhenya's details from that paper we found, except the paper listed her as a man and we didn't find out otherwise until after we left the swamps. How did you know?”

“We do have an uplink here,” said Voronin pointedly. “I did some searching while I waited for you. The name, age, nationality, profession – everything matched except her sex.”

It seemed the general had not discovered Yevgeniya's defect, at least. “Anything else?”

“Sporting news articles and links to a deleted VKontakte page. A few months ago she was a student with a promising athletic career. Then she vanished from the record.”

“Why do you think that was?”

“Caught sleeping with a professor, I'm sure.” Voronin gave a derisive snort. “Does it matter?”

“Maybe not.” Back to business. “General, did you know there would be a government agent going on the raid with us?”

“They sprang it on me at the last minute,” Voronin grumbled. “Told me their man would be one of the volunteers, but not which one. That's all I can say.”

“All right.” Tiger folded his arms. “So, what now?”

The general looked at his guest directly for the first time since he sat down. “You intend to keep your present company.”

“I do.”

“And you want me to pay out Fritz's bounty to that girl, an enemy combatant who killed one of my best men.”

“I would appreciate it,” Tiger agreed. “I know it's a difficult request.”

“I'm glad you understand,” said Voronin with a touch of sarcasm. “Are you certain she's worth it?”

“Certain enough to give her a chance. I'll admit my first impression wasn't positive, but she has potential. She just needs a push in the right direction.”

“And if you're wrong? Will you take responsibility?”

Tiger heard the implied challenge and accepted it. “Of course. Same as I would for the others.”

“Hmf.” Voronin got up, went to the desk and took out a notepad and pencil. “The record will show,” he began, writing simultaneously, “that Commissar Bandicoot died in the line of duty. Would you disagree?”

“Not at all.”

“Good.” Voronin laid down his pencil and tore the page out. “The record will further show that the bandit Fritz, a notorious brigand and murderer, was found and eliminated thanks to free stalker A. K. Petanko. The due reward shall be disbursed accordingly... Collect the bounty and your job payment from Colonel Petrenko.”

Tiger claimed the payment note, which was written in some kind of coded shorthand, and pocketed it. “And Zhenya?”

“By her own admission, she was a willing participant in a hostile mercenary incursion and directly responsible for the death of a Duty officer. According to the code, this mandates a capital penalty.” The general reverted to his former posture, hands behind him. “But I'm curious to see whether you can make good on your word. The sentence is suspended on your recognizance.”

“Thank you, General.”

“Don't think I'm doing you a favor,” Voronin cautioned. “I expect to see a return on this investment.”

“So do I,” said Tiger. “We were able to recover Bandicoot's weapon from the enemy camp. Do you want it?”

“Yes, turn it in to Petrenko.”

“I'd also like to take the group out on the firing range tomorrow. Would that be a problem?”

“No, we have no drills scheduled.” The general fixed a calculating look on him. “I assume you'll introduce your new friends to the anarchists as well?”

“Are you telling me not to?”

“I'm telling you to be careful,” Voronin replied sharply. “Colonel Skull and his men deserted their post a few hours ago. If you happen to see them, stay away. Understand?”


“One last thing.” Voronin's voice abruptly softened a little. “Galina Mikhailovna has inherited her father's temper, as well as his looks. Keep her safe.” He turned his back on the loner. “That's all. Dismissed.”

One fact was clear to Tiger as he left the bunker: it was all too easy. Behind the pretty words, Voronin had given him everything he wanted and not even made him beg for it.


Tiger came out at a quickened pace, or so it seemed to Yevgeniy. The guide stopped only to pick up Bandicoot's rifle before he headed into another part of the Duty base, telling the novices he would be back soon. Yevgeniy spent that interval aimlessly toying with the cap. He didn't dare put it on – not for the evil of its last owner, but because the death's head on the front and the eagle over swastika on the left side dispelled any doubt of its origin.

He was greatly relieved when Tiger reappeared after only a couple of minutes. They collected their things and went out to the right, following the roundabout as it turned left and ran along the north foot of the arena hangar. Across the road, steel gantries and brick pillars of industry loomed behind a broken fence. Here there were no working lights, nor any sign of habitation.

It was Kondratenko who popped the question: “How did he know?”


“The general. He had our names, Zhenya's picture, everything. How did he get it?”

“Olga told her bosses,” Tiger explained, “and they told Voronin. He found the picture on the internet.”

“Bosses?” echoed Yevgeniy blankly. “Who are the bosses?”

“Ah... That's right, you weren't with us yet.” The stalker shook his head. “We're almost at the clinic. I'll tell you later.”

Continuing westward, the paved path led to another hangar, smaller and open-ended. Beside the hangar, a ramp ran down into a rectangular depression. On the arena side it was bordered by a tangled mass of decaying pipes and tanks, on the other by a third hangar with boarded up windows. Tiger cut straight across to the corner of the latter, where a set of steps hidden behind a cement wall led back to high ground.

“We're here.”

'Here' was a boxy little two-floor concrete installment crammed in among the bigger buildings, roofed with corrugated metal. The sheltered entrance was lit by a fluorescent tube in an uncovered wall bracket. The door displayed a hand-painted red cross and a pinned list of available hours.

Tiger gathered his flock around the front step. “Let's settle the accounts. Zhenya, here's your bounty.” He handed over a thick wad of banknotes, Russian rubles wrapped with a rubber band. “Minus the share we paid to Sanya in advance... These are for in case anyone needs something when I'm not around.” Smaller amounts were passed out to the other rookies. “Ready to go in?”

Yevgeniy didn't feel ready. “Is there really a doctor here?”

“Yes, Bonesetter is certified. Just don't agree to try any of his pharmacological experiments.” Tiger went to the door and knocked firmly three times.

“It's open!” shouted a voice within.

“Come on.”

Yevgeniy took a deep breath and followed his teacher into a room that was bright and spotless. Squinting at the sudden glare of harsh lights on white walls, he made out a gray metal desk and rows of lockers and filing cabinets. The man behind the desk had broad, genial features and hair that was just starting to grow back after being shaved off.

“Bonesetter at your service,” said the man. “One patient or two?”

“Just the one,” replied Tiger. “Go ahead, Zhenya.”

“It's my... my period.” Yevgeniya avoided eye contact. “Can you help with that?”

“Sure I can,” answered Bonesetter confidently. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Bad cramps and lots of blood, not like I usually have. It started this morning.”

“I'll need some medical history to begin with.” Rolling his chair over to the cabinets, Bonesetter took a blank form sheet from one of the drawers and attached it to a clipboard. “Can you fill this out for me?”

It was a simple questionnaire: medications, vaccinations, whether or not she'd ever had certain illnesses. Taking the attached pen, Yevgeniya began at the top of the list.

Tiger headed back to the door. “While she does that, I need to go check in with Barkeep.”

Yevgeniya's hand stopped mid-word. “You're leaving?”

“Just for a few minutes. The others will wait for you outside.”

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the Latvian alone with Bonesetter and her own smothering unease. She went back to the top of the page, where she'd left one space blank on the first pass. Now she filled it: F?


“I'm going over to the bar to sort out a few things,” Tiger announced to his remaining novices. “Stay here until I come back.”

Galina and Dmitriy took it in stride. Kondratenko didn't. “What about the contract on me?”

“I'll figure something out,” Tiger promised. “Until then, sit tight. I don't think anyone will be desperate enough to attack you inside the secure territory.”

Even so, he made sure the .45 was close at hand as he walked south through empty lanes. “The world fears the Zone's expansion,” the loudspeaker asserted as he went by. “Join Duty, and save the innocent!”

Inside the bar's entrance, Zhorik was at his usual post. “Keep it down,” he warned in a hushed tone. “The movie just started.”

The Hundred Rads hosted a full house this evening. Most eyes were on the TV behind the bar, which was showing a grainy montage of antiwar protestors accompanied by gentle music. Tiger ignored it and went to the end of the counter where Barkeep and Garik were loitering.

Like Voronin, the bar's owner had been expecting him. “I heard the news from Sidorovich,” he said quietly. “What do you need?”

“I need a loc – ”

A voice from the television cut him off: “We were somewhere around Barstow, on the edge of the desert, when the drugs began to take hold...”

“I need a locker,” Tiger finished. “And access to the one Olga rented from you.” He presented a small piece of wrinkled paper, a parting gift from the woman he loved. “She authorized it.”

Barkeep tucked away the note. “She put your name on it when she got it. Paid for six months up front.”

“Then I'll do the same.” The stalker counted out some bills. “There.”

“You want the things from the other one?”

“No, I'll get them later.”

Barkeep took the money and went into the back rooms. Inside the film, a pair of visibly deranged men were driving through a desert in a bright red convertible. Tiger had seen this one before, but he kept watching half-attentively until the barman returned. “All set,” Barkeep told him. “Can I get you anything else?”

“Not yet. I have to pick up my trainees, then I'll come back.”

Barkeep nodded. “I'll be here.”

Tiger quickly looked around one more time. The number of people in the place could be a problem, he realized belatedly: how long since any of these patrons last saw a woman? Galina and Yevgeniya were going to have to deal with whatever unwanted attention came their way, they knew that, but this might be too much and too soon. Hopefully the movie would distract the men, and the staff would keep things from getting out of hand. If not, the group would eat takeout tonight.

Tires screeched behind him. “Wait! We can't stop here, this is bat country!”

Someone else was waiting when he returned topside, a stranger in the garage beside the bar. “Hello, Tiger. Could I have a word?”

Tiger kept a guarded distance as he checked out the other man. He was good looking in a forgettable way, with brown eyes, black hair and the beginnings of an accidental mustache. A basic detector hung from his belt, an AKS-74U at his side. In appearance he seemed a regular stalker, the kind who might have crossed Tiger's path a hundred times and never once drawn notice.

“This isn't a great time,” Tiger replied tersely. “Is it important?”

“Very important,” said the stranger. “I have a message for you from Captain Cherenkova.”

“And you are..?”

“My tab at the bar says I'm Sasha Machine-gunner.”

An ordinary alias to go with his ordinary guise. That figured. “This way,” Tiger muttered. “Let's get out of the open.”


Tiger retraced his steps halfway back to the clinic, stopping beside the storage tanks. Catwalk grates ran between them, connected by ladders. Once they provided access to valves, long ago seized in place. Now they provided cover for discreet meetings. The loner indicated the lowest platform, at the center of the assembly. “Will this do?”


Tiger climbed up, felt his way across to the other side and sat down with his back against the guard rail. Sasha settled on his left. “All right,” said Tiger. “Show me the message.”

A small light clicked on. “Here... Read carefully, I have to burn it when you're done.”

The words on the sheet were written in dull pencil, with a tidy, efficient hand. Their brevity supported Tiger's impression that the note had been transcribed from a radio signal.


Back at base. Lyosha very happy re: us working together. HQ impressed by your present. Intel says Latvian sniper is female. Don't let her get ideas. Will talk to you as soon as I can.

All my love, Olya.

It wasn't much, but it was enough. Tiger read it all over again, then returned it to Sasha. A cigarette lighter clicked. Yellow flame wicked across the paper.

“Now what?”

Sasha switched off his light, shrouding the pair in darkness. “The captain said you're willing to help the SBU's investigations.”

“Depends on what kind of help you want.”

“Escorting small teams in and out of potentially dangerous areas. That's all I can tell you right now.”

Not much different from Tiger's usual work, by the sound of it. “And when do you need me?”

“I don't know yet,” the agent admitted. “How long will you be here?”

“Tomorrow for sure. After that we'll be in and out during the daytime.”

“Fine. I'll leave a note with Barkeep if I can't find you.” Sasha stretched out his legs. “Deal?”

“I need something from you first,” Tiger countered. “Voronin says your people sponsored a hit on one of my rookies.”

“Private Kondratenko, right? The captain's report said he was clean... Still a deserter, of course. Normally we don't waste time on small fry, but my bosses are feeling vindictive. If they don't call off the bounty in the next day or two, they've probably decided to make an example of him.”

Tiger took the hint. “If he's with me and I'm with you, they would reconsider?”

“They might,” answered Sasha. “I would call in a favor from my handlers, but lately I've been bending the rules too much... Did the captain say anything about me?” he added suddenly.

“No, not that I recall. Why?”

“Just curious. I was supposed to go on the mission to the swamps,” the operative confided. “She asked me to trade places after Duty hired you.”

It came as no surprise to Tiger. “Will Olga be in trouble for this?”

Sasha made a shrugging motion. “The brass overlook procedural violations as long as we give them results. They aren't pleased that her cover was compromised, obviously, but her experience and skills are too valuable to let go... Most likely they'll give her a reprimand and make her cool her heels until they figure out where to send her.”

“She said they won't let her come back here.”

“Afraid I can't comment.” Sasha pulled up his sleeve, exposing the cyan glow of a wristwatch. “I'm sorry, but I need to cut this short. What's your decision?”

“I guess I'm in.”

“Good man.” Sasha picked himself up and ground the charred remnant of Olga's note under his heel. “I'll be in touch.”

He slipped away towards the bar, leaving Tiger to ponder what freedom was left for him after taking on all these dependents and responsibilities. With Sasha gone and no one else nearby, he left the platform and went back to the clinic. Galina, Dmitriy and Kondratenko were right where he'd left them, except now Dmitriy was talking.

Talking eagerly, in fact. “...His original tomb might have been KV Twenty-Five, an unfinished stairway and corridor in the West Valley. Obviously he never used it himself, but a set of mummies were dumped there hundreds of years – ”

“Did we get to King Tut yet?” Kondratenko interrupted. “I want to hear about the curse.”

“There isn't a curse,” Dmitriy retorted. “Anyway... In 1907, Edward Ayrton started excavating another unfinished tomb in the floor of the main valley near – ah. You're back.”

Tiger eased into the circle between Kondratenko and Galina. “You were saying?”

“Oh yes.” The boy cleared his throat. “This tomb, KV Fifty-Five, contained a jumble of objects damaged by water exposure, including parts of a shrine and a decorated coffin. The coffin's face was torn off and the owner's name chiseled out...”


“...According to some theories, a woman called Neferneferuaten also ruled as pharaoh for a short time in between them. Her identity isn't clear from the surviving evidence, but she could have been either – ”

The clinic door swung open, cutting Dmitriy off again, and Bonesetter appeared. “Tiger, I've finished. Could I trouble you to look over some paperwork?”


Once inside, Bonesetter handed Tiger another clipboard. “Your friend listed you as her guardian, so I'll need you to sign off on this.”

The form was short and showed impeccable penmanship, though jargon ran thick in the medical summary. Tiger worked through it line by line. “Your diagnosis is that Zhenya's problems were caused by her contraceptive?”

Bonesetter nodded. “While the copper-based implants are highly effective, there can be unpleasant side effects. She chose to have it extracted.”

“Was it difficult?”

“Not especially, no. We're just waiting for the painkiller to kick in. I used a local analgesic for immediate effect, but she'll need more general relief during the next few days... She still has to go through her normal cycle, of course. If there are any complications, bring her back at once.”

“I will... 'Strictly no unprotected sex'? Are you worried about infection?”

“I'm always worried about infection,” said Bonesetter. “That's not my only concern. Owing to the basal structure of the phallic clitoris and the posterior fusion of the labia – what I'm saying is, her birth canal can't open as wide as a typical woman's. If she becomes pregnant and delivers without surgical intervention, both mother and child will die.”

“Does she know this?”

“She does. I need to be sure you do as well.”

“I'll remember it.” Tiger signed and dated the bottom of the form. “How much do I owe you?”

“Your friend paid already,” the physician replied, taking the clipboard from him. “She can leave as soon as she's comfortable.”

“All right. Thank you.”

“Any time.” Bonesetter tucked the form into one of his filing cabinets. “You're due for a checkup yourself, by the way.”

“I'll try to make time for it.” At that moment the patient emerged from the examination room, pale yet steady on her feet. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm okay.” Yevgeniya gave Bonesetter a tired smile. “Thanks, Doctor.”

“You're very welcome.” Bonesetter removed her rifle and pistol from one of the lockers and handed them across the desk. “Don't forget, no alcohol while you're taking the pills.”


“...If this other lady-king had the royal fake beard and stuff, did she only wear shorts too?”

“No, Borya,” Dmitriy sighed, “she wore a dress. And they're kilts, not shorts.”

The reappearance of guide and androgyne ended this doorstep discussion. “Zhenya!” Kondratenko exclaimed happily. “Are you better now?”

In truth Yevgeniya was still sore and the numb spot between her hips didn't help, but the drug was acting fast. “Getting there. Sorry you had to wait so long.”

“It's fine,” said Tiger. “Mitya's been giving us lessons in archaeology.”

Dmitriy shied away from the limelight. “I was just explaining the Amarna succession...”

“It was so weird,” Kondratenko expounded, making up for the other's reticence with gusto. “Heretics, hidden mummies, people tearing down statues and marrying their own sisters.”

“Yes,” concluded Tiger dryly, “wonderful things. Anyway, we're done here. I suggest we move to the bar and drop our luggage. Any questions?”

There were none for him, though Galina posed one to Yevgeniya as the group started to move: “Was the doctor good?”

The details of the procedure didn't bear repeating. “He was very nice,” she said, and left it at that.

“I think he was glad to have a case out of the ordinary,” Tiger remarked, waiting for the rest to make their way down the stairs into the depressed area. “Bonesetter has steady work here, but it's a tedious job.”

How could any job be tedious in the Zone? “What does he usually get?”

“Gunshots, animal bites, radiation sickness, alcohol poisoning, STDs – everything you'd expect in a place like this.”

“STDs? People catch those here?”

“Not here,” Tiger corrected. “Stalkers get money, sneak out to the Big Land for some fun, and the symptoms only appear once they come back... By the way, Zhenya, my name is spelled with an 'e' and an 'a'.”

The sniper's cheeks burned. “Sorry.”

If the loner took any offense at her error, he kept it to himself. Instead Kondratenko filled the silence. “The general called you... Petanko? Is that right?”

Tiger did a quick impression of Voronin's bark: “Petanko, Anton Konstantinovich... Unusual, isn't it? My grandfather was a Petrenko until someone misprinted it during the war. Every time he applied for a correction, they would look at his papers. 'It says here your name is Petanko, that's good enough!'”

Yevgeniya hadn't the bravery to laugh at the anecdote. “What did he do in the war?”

“He served in the VVS, flying shturmoviks for Comrade Stalin. Probably could have fixed his name after he got out, but then he decided there were enough Petrenkos already.”

They came to the south end of the depression. Passing another dismembered truck, Tiger turned left and ascended a second flight of concrete steps. Climbing them as well, Yevgeniya saw that the band had come full circle and were facing the same garage Tiger had pointed out when they arrived. Now he led them into it, only to exit again through an opening on the right side. The path didn't go far before it brought them to the door of a bunker, much like Duty's in construction.

“Here we are,” said Tiger. “Toilets and showers are around the corner if you need them.”

The zigzagging passageway within also resembled that of the Duty headquarters, except with warmer lights and a few Soviet era posters to liven up the walls. Going down, the group came to a booth with a barred door, in which sat a masked man with a shotgun. He said nothing, merely watching as they passed. The murmur of voices ahead grew louder. Yevgeniy turned a corner and was in the bar before he knew it.

This chamber's architecture was different at least, having vaulted ceilings and brick pillars down the center. Looking around, he saw a bulletin board just to his left and the bar proper, towards which Tiger was moving, on the right. One corner was closed off by chain-link fencing and filled with sacks and barrels. There were no chairs, yet the simple tables jutting from the walls were all occupied. A strange and marvelous array of smells permeated the place, unwashed bodies and bottles of vodka and sizzling meat and mouthwatering sauces blending together.

“Uh, Zhenya?”

With a guilty start, the androgyne realized he was bottling up the others and hastened after Tiger. There was one man behind the bar, waiting for these visitors to come closer. He looked to be in his fifties, with a large nose and stubbled jaw, and wore a sheepskin vest over a dark sweater. A pattern of blue-gray tattoos extended down his forearms and up the sides of his neck.

“These your friends, Tiger?” His voice was deep, like Voronin's without the contempt.

“They are. Guys, meet Barkeep. Barkeep, this is Yevgeniy, Boris, Galina and Dmitriy.”

“Welcome to the Hundred Rads.” When he placed his hands on the wooden counter, Yevgeniy saw the name 'Anna' spelled across the knuckles. “What'll it be?”

“We need to unload some weight first, put our spares into the lockers.” Tiger addressed his rookies. “Drop all your extra kit. Tomorrow we'll sort out what you actually need.” As they complied, he switched back to Barkeep. “Do you have any spare Kalash stocks in the parts bin?”

“I got a few, yeah. What kind do you want?”

Tiger showed him the damaged AK-74. “Anything that will fit this. I have the screws.” The guide glanced up at the TV on the shelf over the stove, screen covered in snowy noise. “Did the movie end?”

“Nah, trouble with the VCR. Nitro's looking at it.” The barman went into a door in the back wall. After half a minute he was back. “Will this do?”

He held up a plywood buttstock with a dark red stain, aesthetically mismatched to the very blond material of the rifle's handguards. Tiger fitted the replacement under the receiver tang and checked for wiggle. “Perfect, thanks.”

Balancing the Kalashnikov in one hand, he passed Barkeep some money. Barkeep counted it, handed back one bill and began gathering the equipment cases which the others were stacking along the bar. Tiger went to work with a screwdriver and Yevgeniy, who had finished his own unburdening, let his attention wander. The patrons here were definitely of the same breed as the men he'd seen in the Cordon and Garbage, with the same jackets, knapsacks and purpose-made stalker suits. Many had their eyes fixed shamelessly on Galina, but a few looked as if they might be checking out Yevgeniy himself.

“I was right in the middle of a fucking reptile zoo! Somebody was giving booze to these goddamn things. Won't be long now before they tear us to shreds.”

The picture on the television defied comprehension. Yevgeniy quickly looked away. The man screamed something about golf shoes and the sound cut out. When Yevgeniy looked again, the screen had become a blank blue.

Barkeep came out again several seconds later. “Sorry boys, the movie's off for tonight. Nitro says I gotta swap out some tape rollers.” There were groans of disappointment, though nobody left the tables. Their host walked over to the right side of the bar and switched on the radio atop the refrigerator, replacing the interrupted film with a slow flute melody backed by guitar and percussion. “Well, that's that. You kids hungry?”

Yevgeniy was, despite the generous stew he'd made during the Garbage stopover, and it seemed he wasn't alone. “What have you got?” asked Tiger, picking up the group mood.

“The daily special was grilled boar with potato salad, but it sold out quick. I do have plenty of staples.”

“All right, we'll take two baskets. And could you bring me the automatic from Olga's locker, please?”

“Two baskets and an automatic coming up.”

Then Barkeep was gone. Yevgeniy leaned forward, resting his forearms on the counter as he tried to ignore the gut feeling that he was being stared at. Contemplating the TV, a question occurred to him. “How do they get electricity here? I didn't hear any generators.”

“I heard it comes from the nuclear plant,” Kondratenko told him solemnly. “Like, the reactor cores are still hot and connected to the old power lines.”

“It doesn't work that way,” said Tiger. “The station's machinery was shut down long ago.” He leaned against the bar as well. “All of this was repaired by stalkers, spliced with salvaged wire. They use electrical artifacts as batteries.”

That reminded Yevgeniy of something he'd heard while he was with the American mercenaries. “But it's true they kept the station running after the disaster, isn't it?”

“Yes, for another fourteen years. The AES supplied more energy than the government could afford to replace. It paid for my childhood, too.”

His closing remark went unexplained as Barkeep returned, balancing a circular baking pan in each hand. “Two baskets,” said he, sliding them onto the counter. “I'll be right back.”

Yevgeniy sized up the nearer 'basket'. By his estimate the contents would feed three people at a sitting, the bulk of it in cans and foil-sealed tubs: preserved meats, cold cereals, fruits and vegetables. Nestled among them were crackers sealed in plastic, candy bars, and ready-mix drink packets. On top lay a diet chicken sausage, so labeled on the wrapper, and a loaf of white bread. That the fare was plain and prepackaged didn't matter after all the ration shares he'd missed when MacGruder marooned him on the watchtower. Throw in a mug of strawberry kvass and he could even call this a good time.

Tiger had more cash in hand when the barman brought what he requested: an assault rifle and a pile of loose magazines. The exchange was made and Barkeep settled in to watch over his customers. Tiger made a quick inspection of the rifle, a spindly shape rendered in gray alloy and black polymer, and handed it to Yevgeniy. “You take this.”

The Latvian had assumed he would get the spare AK once it was repaired, but he did as he was told and slung his new weapon. The mags fit neatly into the front pockets of his vest. “Can we eat now?” he queried.

“Go ahead.” Tiger broke off the end of the bread and picked out a flat can. “So what's new, beside mercs in the Cordon, bandits in the Agroprom and soldiers in the Dark Valley?”

“Oh, about the same as before.” Barkeep crossed his arms. “Nitro says he picked up the Phantom Bomber signal after the blowout.”

“Hm.” Tiger pried up the can's pull tab and tore away the lid, exposing some sort of meat spread. “We ran into the Lonesome Ghost on the road from the Garbage.”

Barkeep appeared neither skeptical nor credulous. “The ghost, eh? What did it do?”

“Just like in the stories – hung around for a bit and left.”

Yevgeniy picked up the sausage, revealing three beverage cans hidden on the other side of the basket. “What did you say about a bomber?” he asked, anxious to move on to another topic.

“That's another of our local legends,” said Barkeep. “Sort of a 'Flying Dutchman'. The story goes that an old airplane was sent into the Zone and never returned, and if you tune a radio to the right frequency, you can hear the crew calling for help. People even say they've heard the engines as it flies over.”

Tiger bent the can lid into a U-shape and used it to scoop out the spread. “Why don't you tell them the original story?” he suggested, applying the meat paste to his bread. “They might find it interesting.”

“Mm... It's kinda long, though.”

Yevgeniy had meanwhile been trying without success to unwrap the sausage. Tiger took pity and gave him the penknife. “We've got time,” said the guide.

“Well, why not?” And so the tale began. “First I heard about the bomber was pretty soon after I opened the bar. There was a guy who came in here, he told me about it while I cooked his dinner...”

Yevgeniy sawed off the end of the sausage and cut another slice for Kondratenko. Biting into the end piece, he found it was a half-and-half mixture of chicken and soybean substitute camouflaged with spices. Scarfing down the rest, he decided to do as Tiger was.

“He said he'd been a flight controller in the air force. Talked the talk and everything. Asked me if anyone had overheard strange aircraft transmissions inside the Zone...”

Kondratenko helped himself to one of the soda cans, exposing a brand label – NON STOP. Yevgeniy picked up a tub capped with gold foil, only to find the embossed text was in German. It turned out to be liverwurst.

“He got a little maudlin then, said he came to bring his lost boys home. I knew he'd had some vodka earlier, so I didn't pay much attention...”

The bread's core was moist, fluffy. It must have been baked here, or close by.

“He wandered a bit, went on and on about how things were when the Zone formed. As if I didn't know it myself! But then he started telling me about the bomber, said it was a... 'Superfortress', that's what he called it. When they were retired back in the sixties, one was given to some design bureau for research use. Supposedly they put it into storage and forgot about it...”

Not having a lid of his own, Yevgeniy used the Swiss Army knife to spread his liverwurst.

“Seven or eight years ago, somebody rediscovered it packed away in the back of a warehouse. The man told me the generals decided to have the bomber secretly restored, so they could whip it out on Victory Day and upstage the Russians. Damned showoffs...”

Bread and spread was good, but it made Yevgeniy thirsty. A peek at the ingredient list on Kondratenko's soda can put him off that choice and he took a packet of instant lemonade instead.

“I'm sure you remember the panic after the Zone appeared. Government didn't know what to do, people were demanding action. Couldn't go near the Zone on foot and the satellites didn't give a clear view... It fell to the air force to get a closer look, or so the fellow said. Now they have special shielding for the helicopters and they fly in and out as they please. Wasn't so easy back then, with the interference scrambling their electronics...”

For the main course, Kondratenko fetched a can of beef ravioli. Yevgeniy filled his aluminum canteen cup with water and added the powder. Wiping off the knife blade with the clean side of his bread, he used it to stir the mix.

“The bomber and its crew were moved to the Zone crisis group after someone got the idea that obsolete instruments would be less susceptible, all those vacuum tubes and such. Their plan was to load the plane with scientific gizmos and take off when the next blowout died down. The guy who told me the story claimed he was on the ground control team for the mission...”

Kondratenko had been clever enough to store his fork where he could reach it. Yevgeniy's was in the top of his pack. If he wanted to eat something more substantial, he would have to dig it out once Barkeep's tale was over. He settled for another cut of sausage in the meantime.

“At first it went as planned. The bomber launched with ten airmen and scientists aboard, reached the Zone and made a pass along the perimeter to test the instruments. Then the commander back at base ordered the pilot to take it inside, flying along a spiral path... They were heading northeast towards Chernobyl town when the plane's radar signature broke up. The pilot reported seeing the Duga complex on his right, when it should have been to the left, and something about a problem with the compass. After that, the messages became too garbled to make out more than fragments...”

Yevgeniy had raised his cup to drink. Now he set it down untouched.

“Ground control couldn't resolve the radar data or get a direction fix. They considered scrambling a jet to try and make visual contact, but the commander wouldn't allow it... So they just kept calling, all through the night and the next day, getting back faint signals even after the plane should have run out of gas. Eventually they realized they were listening to echoes. The bomber was gone.” Barkeep rubbed the back of his neck. “That's the original story.”

Galina, hidden on the other side of Kondratenko's shoulders, didn't quite buy it. “Would the military really be desperate enough to use an aircraft like that? Didn't they have anything at all more suitable?”

“Who knows?” replied Barkeep. “Supposedly the electronics weren't the only criteria. The bomber was also ideal because it had a pressurized cabin and a body large enough to carry the equipment they wanted... My visitor said he was sure the brass knew it was a suicide run and didn't want to deal with the red tape from losing an active duty machine.”

“Bastards,” Kondratenko mumbled.

“What happened to the man who told you about it?” asked Yevgeniy.

“I never saw him again. He didn't strike me as the kind who would last long here. I figure either he died somewhere or gave up and went home... He must have told someone else, though, because I heard the bomber tale from others later on.” The barman cocked his head. “Well, maybe it wasn't even his story to begin with.”

One of the stalkers at the back tables spoke up. “I've heard another version of it, where the bomber was sent to drop a nuke at the center of the Zone.”

“I heard that too,” another chimed in. “Some of the Dutyers tell yarns like that, about their heroic founders being sent to deliver a warhead into the sarcophagus... What bullshit! And where would the government even get a nuke?” He picked up his bottle. “Ah, to hell with them. Let's have a toast!”

The man beside him did so as well. “To all the guys who didn't make it?”

There were sounds of approval all around. Yevgeniy watched Tiger for cues on how to react and went through the motions as he did. The bar slipped back into its ambiance of soft music and a low buzz of chatter.

Then Kondratenko raised his can. “To German and Gosha,” he proposed quietly.

“To Vitka and Bandicoot,” Galina added.

“To Anatoliy,” concluded Tiger. “And Mykola.”


The group finished their meal without disturbance, packed up the leftovers and took their leave. After a quarter hour for brushing teeth and a bathroom stop, Tiger shepherded them back to the open-ended hangar next to the clinic. The fire pit inside had burned down to embers, and a piece of heavy-gauge sheet metal was laid across the top to trap sparks. Taking out the penlight he'd gotten from Sidorovich, he marked the way for the others.

“You can place your bedrolls by the fire,” he said, “or in there, if you want privacy.” The loner pointed the beam at the empty cargo containers along the back wall. “Watch out for damp spots.”

His students chose the containers, and the light was passed from one to another as they unpacked. Yevgeniya brought it back to Tiger when they were done. “Where are you sleeping?” she asked him.

“I'll stay here. Got to keep an eye on the ashes.” He sat by the fireplace, motioning for the androgyne to join him. “You wanted to know about Olga's bosses.”


Tiger kept it simple: “She works for the Security Service of Ukraine – that's our successor to the KGB. They use agents like her to investigate incidents in the Zone.”

Yevgeniya took the revelation pretty well, or else she was too worn out to be shocked any further. “...Why did she let me go?”

The loner shrugged. “It was what the others wanted.”

“But not what you wanted.”

“Not then,” Tiger agreed. “Olga was right, though. We couldn't send you off on your own.”

Yevgeniya hugged her knees against her chest. “Are you really okay with having me around?”

“You haven't disappointed me yet.” The guide briefly studied his unlikely protege's body language. “Something else on your mind?”

She hesitated for a moment, as if gathering her courage. “Is it true, what Brewer said about pathfinders?”

“More or less. I would have made it sound less dramatic.”

She also took that pretty well. “I'm sorry I was nosy.”

“Never said you couldn't ask.”

He had forgiven her, but it appeared she wasn't ready to forgive herself. “I got you in trouble with the general, too.”

“Voronin always finds reasons to be unhappy. If not you, it would have been something else.”

That brought Yevgeniya scant comfort. “Did he find out any more about me?”

“Didn't seem like it.”

“I guess he would need a subscription to see the rest of the pictures...” She paused again, in that way which suggested she was afraid to speak out. “You must have thought it was lewd.”

“Pin-ups aren't really my thing,” Tiger admitted. “But I do wonder how you got into it.”

“It was part of the deal. The magazine sponsored us at events and we posed for photos in return.”

“I figured it might be like that. Why was your costume different?”

“That was... The editor decided I should have a 'soft butch' look. He said it would appeal to the Danish readers.”

“I see.” Tiger held out a hand, feeling the residual heat radiated by the coals. “Go get some sleep now. Tomorrow you have to show me the best you can do.”

“Nn.” Yevgeniya stood up. “...Tiger?”


“Were you the one who shot me?”

Tiger's memory replayed their first meeting on the watchtower, when he charged up the stairs in the dark, pistol in hand and Gosha close behind. Then it skipped forward to the moment when her true form was laid bare, and the incidental uncovering of the bruises left by the Tokarev slugs pounding against her body armor. “Yeah, I was.”

“I thought so.” She sounded as if she had come to a decision of some kind. “You killed me and brought me to Hades... I know it's selfish, but can I ask a favor?”

Suddenly this conversation was taking a turn for the weird. “Yes..?”

“Pray for me.” Her voice was deathly serious. “There's no one else who can.”

“Don't get the wrong idea, Zhenya. What happened today... I would have done the same for anyone else.”

“But you didn't do it for anyone else. You did it for me.” Yevgeniya might have been smiling. “I don't know whether you're angel or devil, but... thank you for showing me what a miracle is.”

She walked away without waiting to hear his answer, going back into the container to lie beside Kondratenko. Tiger was left to ponder her odd pronouncement alone.

“Chernobyl veterans, join Duty! We have a huge responsibility – to protect the world from the expanding Zone!”


“Sergeant Gromyko reporting as ordered.”

“At ease.” Voronin turned the laptop so his subordinate could view the screen. “Look at this.”

The sergeant saw guns and bikinis. “I can think of better ways to boost morale, General.”

“I look forward to your written proposal,” Voronin replied icily. “The short-haired girl in the middle, study her face.”

Gromyko did. It was a soft, innocuous face, in contrast to the toned abs and thighs below it. “What's this about?”

“Her name is Yevgeniya Smirnova,” the commander explained. “She entered the Zone with a group hostile to us, then went over to the stalkers. Now she's tagging along with that stripe-headed mutant Petanko.”

“Stripe-headed... Oh, him. Is he on our shit list now?”

“No.” Voronin crossed his arms. “Do you remember Mikhail Purkayev?”

“Thirty-Eighth Mobile Brigade, Belarusian Army. We used to do joint exercises with them.” Gromyko frowned. “Wasn't Purkayev the general who would make his kid daughter come and watch?”

“The same. Recently he was promoted to minister of defense. Then his daughter got lovesick and ran away with her bleeding heart boyfriend. They've joined Petanko as well... There's also a deserter from our army, but I don't care about him.” The general stopped to clear his throat. “You are the assigned range safety officer for this week, correct?”

It was a rhetorical question. Voronin himself had given the assignment, to punish Gromyko for speaking of the late General Tachenko without proper reverence. “Mironyuk, Dudorov and I have that duty, yes.”

“Good,” said Voronin. “Tomorrow Petanko and his new friends are going to use the shooting range.”

“And you want me to do what, exactly?”

“I want you to carry out your designated task,” Voronin snapped. “But watch them, Sergeant. When they're finished, I want a report: how they performed, their strengths and weaknesses... Especially Smirnova, you understand? She'd be hanging from a tree by the road if I didn't think she might be useful to us.”

Gromyko thought it over for a few moments. “Permission to speak freely?”

“Go on.”

“If you're going to keep giving me the special jobs, you need to get Ivantsov off my back.”

“I'll see to it. Anything else?”

“No, General.”

“You have your orders. Dismissed.”
  05:42:36  8 May 2013
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Four years and still going. To celebrate, here's a preview of things to come.


When Gennadiy Rudenko was a child, the worst places he could imagine dying in existed only as figments and fictions compressed onto long ribbons of bootleg videotape. Growing up, he left his childish fear behind and discarded the fantastic menace of Hadley's Hope and Isla Nublar for the mundane danger of Baghdad and Tskhinvali. In time he wearied of fighting other people's wars in other people's countries, however lucrative, so he took a job closer to home.

Limansk put the fear back into him with a vengeance.

Squinting against the bitter wind, he searched the environment for landmarks. No good – there was just too much snow blanketing everything, knee deep in the street and piled high against every wall and doorstep. Visibility was down to twelve meters from all the flakes whirling in the air.

“Badger... Can't s-stay out h-h-here...”

He looked at the man beside him: a hunched, wretched figure staggering forward with his coat's tail snapping about his legs, hands tucked into his armpits because he had no gloves. “We have to keep moving,” Gennadiy shouted back. “If we stop now, you'll die!”

“Wind... Too much...”

Gennadiy knew it. The squad was gone and the survivors had no food, no ammunition, no winter clothes and nowhere to retreat. Rescue was out of the question. Even if the mercenary could keep his companion up and moving until the soporific venom in his system wore off, they had hours at best before exposure killed them both.

But damn it all, he had to try. “I think there's a crossroads ahead,” he called out, trying to sound optimistic. “We can put the wind behind us!”

For a while, at least. The way forward was narrow, a treacherous path between the blizzard's freezing eye over the center of Limansk and the... creatures in the fog-smothered outskirts. The storm seemed to be anticyclonic, and Gennadiy reasoned that a curving route through the west side of town would keep its force at their backs for most of the journey.

They turned left at the corner, struggling up the short incline at the foot of the brown-walled house on the high ground beside the intersection. Turning again at the rear of the house, Gennadiy plotted what he hoped was a northwest course. The structure's mass gave a brief but precious measure of respite from the wind. Trees loomed out of the whiteout ahead, branches stripped bare and trunks painted with driven snow.

“What's this part of town like, do you remember?”

“I... Apartments, I think.”

“Maybe we can find something to burn! I've still got my li – ” Gennadiy's descending foot met an obstacle and slipped sideways. He stumbled, teetered for a moment, and then his balance gave out completely. “...Bwamf!”


“I'm okay!” Gennadiy pushed himself up. “I'm okay, I just – Tiger, stop! I mean, don't stop! Walk around!” Going back over his last few steps, he turned away from the storm and started clawing away the snow in frantic handfuls, gradually exposing the form of a man lying on his back. “Looks like we weren't the first to come this way,” he observed. “Man, this guy was seriously well-equipped.”

“What faction is he?”

“I dunno, he's not wearing any patches.” The merc's eyes raced over the fallen stranger, picking out pertinent details. The dead man wore a white parka, zipped up to cover his face, and polarized goggles. His gear was carried on western-style webbing, with a heavy rucksack. “He didn't come in during the faction wars. I'm not even sure he was a stalker.”

“You s-s-sure?”

Gennadiy set to pulling off the cadaver's gloves. “The town didn't freeze over until after the last big blowout, but this guy is dressed for severe cold. Either he came during the winter or he knew what to expect here.” The pointman straightened. “Put these on.”

Tiger pulled the gloves onto his shaking hands and quickly crammed them back under his arms. “How did he die?”

The body's posture was unnatural, the arms and legs too straight and even. A hunch led Gennadiy to check the cadaver's calves. “I think he got bitten by one of those dog-spiders, same as you, and his friends dragged him this far before they realized he was gone.”

“What friends?”

“No way he got through that shit in the tunnel by himself.” Gennadiy pulled a USP from the stranger's thigh and crammed it into his own vacant holster. “There must have been others.”

“Then the rest were..?”

“Buried up ahead, maybe.” Lifting the mystery man's carbine off his body, the mercenary untangled and detached the three-point sling which held it fast. It looked pristine once he shook off the loose snow: an HK416 fitted with a suppressor and a foregrip. A glowing red dot greeted him when he peered through the Aimpoint sight clamped on top. “This thing still has power,” he reported. “Stand back, I'm gonna test it.”

Gennadiy squeezed off three rounds at one of the trees, seeing bits of frozen bark fly as the rounds punched into the trunk. The fat tube on the end of the barrel stifled the muzzle blast effectively, though not the snapping of the bullets in flight. The kinesthesia of the shooting stirred memories of old work, hot days walking the streets of Sadr City, but this was a far fancier piece of hardware than the worn out M4 he carried in the devil's sandbox. Whoever procured it even paid extra for matching HK-brand magazines.

“All right, it works. Let me grab the ammo and the pack and we can go.”

Whatever food the dead man had would likely be frozen solid, but easier for the living to thaw it out than to conjure more from thin air. Gennadiy stuffed the last magazine into his vest, gripped the corpse by one stiff shoulder and, with much grunting and grappling, rolled it over. “Sorry, friend,” he muttered self-consciously. “We need these more than you now.”

He had the rucksack straps halfway down the stranger's arms when he chanced to look up and saw his only ally had collapsed. A slug of panic bolted up his spine and pulverized his fragile optimism. “Oh shit... Tiger, wake up! No sleeping! Come on, back on your feet!”


“Up, up, up!” Gennadiy hauled him off the ground, breaking away only to tear free the rucksack and put his own arms through the carry straps. “No more stops,” he decided, grabbing Tiger's arm. “We'll keep going until we find somewhere to hole up so you can walk it off! If you die, nobody goes home!”

“I know.” Tiger's voice carried apathy laced with resentment. “You still n-need me.”

“That's right! We're gonna make it through this, you and me! And then I'm gonna fix everything!” He was babbling now, all his pent-up sorrow pouring out. “You were right about Zhenya, okay? You were right! I should have stopped it! But she got away, she still has a chance! You can go back for her! You can do what I couldn't!”


“I'm not gonna let you die out here! Not like Ruslana! Not like her!”

Two figures vanished into the storm, two voices fading in the wind. Snow soon refilled the stranger's shallow grave and erased the tracks of those who disturbed it.
  12:42:59  24 February 2013
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Clap, clap, clap. You are forgiven the long wait.
  06:51:43  24 February 2013
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
This is still taking a lot longer than it should.

Ambassador's Autumn

“We've got orders,” announced Gromyko, tapping the butt of his rifle against the doorframe. “Rise and shine, people.”

“Nnnnnf.” Dudorov rolled over and covered his head with his hands. “Sleep...”

“You can sleep when you're dead,” Gromyko needled. “We gotta patrol the woods west of the village, over to Novosyolki and back. Shulga's boys went yesterday, so now it's our turn.”

Mironyuk sat up, scratching at the dark hints of beard that had crept onto his choirboy face overnight. “What are we doing in Novosyolki?”

“Showing the colors... Artur, I'll count to five and then I'm gonna come over there and pee on you."

“I wish you'd pee on Shulga.” Dudorov propped himself up on his elbows. “When do we get some downtime, huh?”

“When I get promoted,” said Gromyko humorlessly as Mironyuk lit a cigarette. “Come on, get up. You're setting a bad example for the rookies.”

Dudorov grudgingly got onto his hands and knees, stretching like a lanky cat. “Food?”

“Next resupply is due around noon. You have any gum left?"

“One stick.”

“Make it last.” The squad leader waited a few moments, watching as the rookies sorted themselves out, then turned his back. There was a nip in the air as the sun began to rise over Cherevach, and the derelict farm's long, low, half tree-choked buildings threw broad shadows on the grass.

“Nice day,” Mironyuk drawled behind him.

“Yeah.” Gromyko was about to say more when he heard a faint burst of gunfire to the north. “Red Forest?”


“I wonder if Freedom's bleeding as bad as we are.”


Gromyko heard the transports before he saw them. He sprinted up the last stretch of Kalinowski Street, hopping over puddles left by the morning rain, and came to the junction with the six-lane Minsk highway just as the first truck was rolling through the intersection. Cutting to the right, he closed the gap and overtook the flat-fronted GAZ. The driver was generous enough to wait until he'd climbed over the tailgate before accelerating.

There were twenty-odd people crammed into the open cargo bed: men and women, mostly young, in khaki Afghanka uniforms as ill-fit as Gromyko's own. He counted two other trucks following theirs in the convoy, which made his new unit either an overstrength platoon or an understrength company. Two more pulled out from the strip of grass on the left shoulder, where they'd been idling beside a line of parked tanks, and formed up parallel to the penal carriers. They carried a different kind of men, all wearing balaclavas and suits of red-trimmed black. The familiarity of the sight made Gromyko want to puke.

His fellow passengers regarded their escort with cowed alarm. “Who are they?” a white-haired man demanded of Gromyko.

The prisoners didn't know him, but they recognized him as a figure of authority. “Duty blocking troops,” he replied. “Your government doesn't trust its own grunts to watch us.”

That was how it worked now. Gromyko's condemned platoon was the spear's head, the Duty detachment its binding to hold it fast atop the shaft of the regular army – a Belarusian shaft thrust into the Zone by a Russian fist.

“They can't do this to us.” The mousy girl at his right elbow offered quiet defiance. “We're not criminals. We didn't do anything wrong!”

She had the initials of a banned pro-democracy group tattooed on her arm. Looking around, Gromyko saw that a few of the others carried similar marks. There was also a pair of boys huddled together at the front, holding hands.

“It's absurd,” the old man declared. “We aren't soldiers. What do they expect us to achieve?”

“Better stop that,” warned Gromyko. “Unless you want them to shoot you for defeatist agitation.”

The trucks slowed, weaving between anomalies outlined with rings of orange road markers. There wouldn't be any markers where the platoon was going.


The squad advanced in single file, Mironyuk on point and Gromyko behind him. The five rookies followed, with Dudorov bringing up the rear. Now and again they heard shooting in the distance, but for the moment their patch of forest offered only a beautiful tranquility.

Gromyko knew it wouldn't last.

The faction wars had raged across the southern Zone for fifteen days, with no end in sight. A week ago his squad was recalled to the Agroprom and gutted, half its men transferred to make up for losses on higher priority teams. To replace them he was given the rookies, fresh-faced idiots who heard the propaganda blaring from the loudspeakers and answered the call of Duty. Gromyko still couldn't keep their names and faces straight.

It went both ways. The rookies knew almost nothing about him, either – not his full name (Gromyko, Fyodor Pavelovich) or his age (31) or his old service unit (12th Battalion, 95th Airmobile Brigade). Those who survived would remember him as one grumpy sergeant among many, if at all. With Duty's casualty rates, that might be for the best.

Mironyuk halted, ducking into an alert, compacted posture. Gromyko signaled the rest with a raised hand. The detector on his belt wasn't reacting, but its silence meant little: he wasn't important enough to rate a fancy model with a full catalog of the rarer anomalies. That was what he had Mironyuk for.

A sudden pain informed the NCO that he'd just stubbed his fingers on the rifle's vertical foregrip – again. Gromyko gritted his teeth and clenched a smarting fist around the infernal furniture as Mironyuk took a steel nut from the pouch on his hip. The pointman tossed it underhand into the bushes ahead, provoking a whirring noise and a flurry of motion towards the right. The creature was gone amongst the trees before Gromyko could lift his gun.

“Pheasant,” said Mironyuk indifferently. “Good with lemon and pepper.”

Lemon and pepper and a garnish of isotopes, Gromyko thought. “Is it clear, Matvey?”


“Let's keep moving. Maybe they'll have some of Mitay's spam for us when we get back.”

It was poor discipline to vent his contempt so openly, but after two weeks of this bullshit neither Gromyko nor anyone else in the squad gave a damn. Mitay the misanthrope, who hated and was hated by nearly everyone, saw the faction wars as an opportunity to boost himself up the ladder. He had his eye on Major Zvyagintsev's job as head of training and equipment, a position which conveniently overlapped with Mitay's own duties as quartermaster.

The rack numbers were the first warning sign. Zvyagintsev organized his inventory with care and method, marking each weapon on the left side of its stock or frame in cleanly stenciled white paint. Mitay would have none of that. Instead he pestered his preoccupied superiors into letting him 'share the burden' and then applied his numbers in ragged freehand. Worse, he mostly daubed them across the top of the gun's slide or dust cover, where they distracted the user's eyes and were hard to read in a hurry.

Mitay's next blunder unhappily coincided with Gromyko's personnel shakeup. The faction wars put the Agroprom base into a state of near siege, with mutants flooding out of the uncharted underground, bandits and Freedom saboteurs infiltrating from the Garbage, and gaggles of zombies shambling down from Yantar. While Zvyagintsev and Gromov worked around the clock to help Duty's fighting men stay in the fight, Mitay leveraged a procurement coup by calling in a favor from one of the independent smugglers.

When the Romanian Kalashnikovs were delivered and uncrated, they turned out to be some kind of special issue. All of them came marked with a Latin 'G' on the side of the rear sight block – and without the critical bits needed for fully automatic firing. Some were restored using spare or salvaged parts and the rest relegated to emergency reserves. Unfazed by the snafu, Mitay saw to it that as many as possible were pushed into the hands of outgoing fireteams.

The repaired guns worked well enough, but Gromyko just couldn't get used to that stupid foregrip. It screwed up his muscle memory, and being an integral part of the lower handguard meant the only way to take it off was with a saw. Gromov, the chief armorer, dubbed it the 'horse dick'.

Gromyko concurred.


The trucks turned right and right again, onto a side road and then the grounds of an apartment complex. The old signage identified it as a care home for veterans and invalids. Its walls were the same weary gray as the sky above. “This is the last staging point behind the front line,” Gromyko explained to the prisoners. “Don't get out until they tell you.”

The blocking detachment was already disembarking. Soldiers swarmed out from the building's ground floor, some carrying large wooden crates between them. Together they and the Duty men herded the penal platoon onto the unkempt lawn and started a headcount. After a minute, a Dutyer in a black rubber gas mask corralled the conscripts' new leader. “Fedka Ambassador?”

Gromyko's oppressors had him on file under an alias he'd only used in the last few months before he quit stalking completely. His old paper trails were denied to them when the Zone engulfed Kiev and Zhytomyr. “That's me,” he said. “You're the handler?”

“I am Commissar Kuntsev. I will be ensuring your compliance with commands in the field.”

So they sent an extra stiff jackboot to breathe down his neck this time. “I suggest we get my people geared up first,” Gromyko offered, trying to make out the eyes behind the little round lenses. “Then I'll put the platoon in order and tell them what's what.”

“As you like.” The mask's filter didn't do much for Kuntsev's voice. “Do not forget that my people will be watching you closely. Do we understand each other?”

Gromyko wondered if Kuntsev realized the PBF's goofy balloon cheeks spoiled its intimidation potential... Or that wearing his mask behind the lines, wasting its filters where there was no gas or radiation to be protected from, was a rookie badge.

Looks like I have to babysit you too, tough guy. “...Perfectly.”


With that, Kuntsev walked away to rejoin the headcounters and left Gromyko standing alone beside the driveway. A buzz cut bulldog glowered back at him from the depths of the puddle at his feet, framed by stormclouds.

There was a storm over the Zone, all right – a storm three years in the brewing. Three years since the stalkers came out of their blowout shelters and became founding citizens of a country without a capital. Three years since Duty, shunned by the pro-west interim government in Lviv, began making overtures to Minsk. Three years since Gromyko realized he had to get out while he could.

“Ambassador!” Now Kuntsev was coming back with an armload of equipment. “Take these,” he ordered, thrusting the lot at Gromyko. “Hurry up!”

The bundle consisted of a Sudayev submachine gun, a magazine pouch, and a belt carrying a holster, a canteen and some other essentials. Gromyko quickly put the slings of the former over his shoulder, freeing his hands to buckle the belt around his waist.

The holster held a Nagant revolver, a disposable weapon for a disposable leader of disposable men. It had the telltale flat bluing of an arsenal refurbishment, but the Tula arrow-in-star and 1938 date stamp were still sharp. Gromyko made sure the cylinder was empty, then aimed at the ground and tried the trigger. The double-action pull was typical of its kind, long and heavy with some grit. He would have to use single-action if he wanted to hit anything.


“Good enough.” Gromyko had identified another problem, however. “Commissar, is that Glock all you have?”

“I don't need – ”

The PPS was shoved into Kuntsev's hands before he could finish. “Take this. If you can't fight, you're dead weight.” Not waiting for a reply, Gromyko cut past him and headed for the soldiers with the crates. “I'll get a rifle.”

He never thought he'd miss the old days so much. His big mouth and bad temper had kept him a sergeant his entire career, passed over each time there was an opening for advancement, but he could always count on his friends. They'd been together since the beginning – Matvey the eyes, Fyodor the brains, Artur the brawn. Not any more.

“Open them up,” he called out. The men guarding the weapons were Belarusian conscripts, kids who probably didn't want to be here any more than Gromyko himself. They boggled at him, a mere penal soldier giving commands in his unfamiliar Ukrainian accent.

“Hey, hey, hey! Where are you going, shit-eater?”

Either the action or the accent was drawing attention: a soldier with sergeant's stripes and a fish-fur hat broke away from the headcounters, moving to block his path. Gromyko stopped and sized up this new opponent. The noncom was a bit shorter than himself, with bad teeth, worse breath, and ears that stuck out like little radar dishes on either side of his head. Definitely hankering for a fight.

Gromyko didn't feel like obliging him. “You don't want to do this,” he said flatly. “Either you'll go down and I'll still have a job to do, or I'll go down and my bosses will put you in charge of the shtrafniks. If Freedom has any snipers out there, you'll be second to die. They'll shoot the Duty guy first, just on principle, and then it's you or me.”

Kuntsev caught up then, ending the confrontation. “Stand down,” he ordered the troublemaker. “This doesn't concern you.”

Gromyko didn't thank him.


The Zone's sky clouded over fast, forecasting either flash rain or blowouts. The sudden boom a few minutes later told Gromyko which one it would be. Then Shulga was on the radio, informing everyone in the sector that an emission was imminent and all personnel should seek cover at once.

“Hustle up,” Gromyko instructed the squad. “We'll wait it out in Novosyolki.”

In the Zone a location's strategic value depended on conventional factors, with one caveat. Beside considerations like defensible terrain and ease of resupply, commanders had to account for blowout protection. The faction wars drove that home for all parties. When the combatants weren't battling tooth and nail for control of the shelters themselves, they were making timed dashes after every eruption – each group racing to reoccupy the best fighting positions before their enemies could do the same.

That was the reason Gromyko and his men were here and not up at the Red Forest. The strongpoints they were fighting over used to be villages, farms, places where normal people led normal lives. Twenty-five years after the fallout drove the inhabitants from their homes, the brick and timber shells they left behind were often a stalker's only refuge from the weird storms. Holding Cherevach and keeping Freedom out of Yampol, Novosyolki and Rudnya Veresnya was vital to the success of Duty's operations in the north.

Crackling thunder sounded above the forest canopy. Gromyko saw light through the trees ahead. “Skirmish line!”

The squad spread out to either side. Mironyuk pressed himself against a gnarled trunk, making his suit hard to pick out from the shaded bark, and Gromyko did the same. Ahead the woods gave way to a field dotted with single trees and bushes. Among them stood a handful of buildings, maybe stables or pigsties, with gently sloping corrugated roofs and brick walls that showed rash-like blotches where the whitewashing had weathered off.

The nearest and largest of these structures was the squad's objective. Getting to it involved crossing an open space with limited concealment, and those rows of square windows made for good firing positions. Gromyko plotted an approach to the entrance on the northeast side and snapped his fingers, calling all eyes to himself. His next order was given in coded gestures: Matvey and Artur go with me, the rookies cover us from here.

They hooked to the right, running low and using the scant trees in the field to mask their movement. The door was open to them, one rotted half ajar and the other lying in the grass. No signs of life, but Gromyko wasn't going to take chances. He jinked to the left and rolled up beside the entryway, pausing to sling his rifle and switch to his sidearm. For clearing a dim space at close quarters, the CZ's night sights and underbarrel tactical light trumped the raw firepower of the AKM.

Also the CZ didn't have a horse dick.

More rumbling in the heavens. Not much time left now. The sergeant switched on his light and ran a visual countdown with the fingers of his weak hand: 3-2-1, go!

Turning left inside the doorway, Gromyko saw the first corpse immediately – a man in the gopnik's national costume of tracksuit and leather, lying on his back with his head pointed toward the door. The Dutyer raised his gun, throwing its cone of illumination deeper into the gloom. He tallied three bandits huddled at the south end of the building, their bullet-riddled backs facing him, and one more slumped against the wall to the right. The fifth man's mouth, chin and jacket were drenched in blood. The hand in his lap clutched a 6P9 pistol, slide locked open.

“Right side clear!” Dudorov reported smartly.

“...Left side clear,” Gromyko replied. “Matvey, check those bodies. Artur, watch the windows. I'll get the others.” Striding back to the door, he flagged the rookies and watched as they came running along the same path he'd taken. Green they might be, but they knew how to follow an example given. “Everybody inside,” their leader ordered. “You know the drill.”


Gromyko turned to find Mironyuk standing close by. “What have we got?” he asked his pointman.

“A sack of artifacts. I figure they mugged a neutral courier, coming down from Red Forest or the warehouses.” Mironyuk sidled over to the bandit nearest the door. “Put this guy on guard while they divided the spoils. He tried to cash out his buddies, one of them payed him back in kind. The bodies are still warm.”

“And we didn't hear a thing because they both had silencers,” Gromyko concluded somberly. “Dogs eating dogs.”

“Looks that way.” Mironyuk held up the betrayer's Sten submachine gun, its barrel enclosed in a long tube with a laced canvas shroud. “I'll take this, if that's okay.”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Gromyko nodded towards the bloody avenger. “Get his, too. We can use that.”


The rookies had split up in the meantime, a pair migrating to either end of the barren interior. The odd man out stood guard at the door... All just like Gromyko had taught them. Surely he could allow himself a little pride for that, he thought as he drifted across to Dudorov, who'd begun searching the massacred thieves. “Find anything good?”

“Yeah.” Dudorov handed him a radio and an AK-47. “Have fun.”

Gromyko clipped the handset onto his suit, leaving it switched on so he could listen for enemy chatter. Then he pressed the rifle's butt against his shoulder and sighted through the closest window. This old-timer was noticeably heavier than Mitay's Romanian surplus, with a drooping stock – but no horse dick. “Thanks,” he grunted. “Ammo?”

“In the bread bag here. Lemme see... We got slabside, ribbed, orange plastic...”

“Take a couple and pass it around.”

The world outside was turning a fierce red color. Gromyko could feel a headache coming on: a symptom of imperfect cover. He might experience some blurred or double vision, but no need for worry unless his nose started bleeding as well. Tuning out the Zone's rage, he sat cross-legged and field stripped his new best friend. The blowout spent its strength in half a minute, leaving only a harmless overcast behind.

“Hey, Dima! Everything okay over there?”

Gromyko turned up the volume.

“Quit screwing around, you hear me?”

Fellow robbers, or maybe loot-carriers coming from the Garbage to make a pickup for Yoga. The squad had engaged two such bands of brigands in the last four days, with inconclusive results.

“The delivery boys ain't talking. Zhorka, go see what's up.”

“Yeah, yeah,” another bandit answered. “We're getting to it!”

Dudorov and Mironyuk had been listening. “What's the plan?” asked Dudorov. “Pull back, or wait for them here?”

“Here,” said Gromyko firmly. “You two up front, the rest as fire support. Let them get close and take out as many as you can with the silenced weapons. We don't go loud until we have to. Any questions?”

Mironyuk shook his head. “No questions.”

“Let's set the table.” Gromyko stood up, snapping the last pieces of the AK into place. “Then we can go back to camp and toast Shulga's next commendation.”

The Zone used to be so big, before its artificial wilderness was divided into a gory patchwork of fiefdoms and clan stakes carved out with bullets and bayonets, every boundary contested in a war effort paid for by wholesale plunder of unnatural resources.


To Gromyko's oppressors, the Mosin rifle was the penal soldier's ideal weapon: cheap enough to throw away, usable with even rudimentary training. The M91/30 he'd pulled from the crate was counter-bored at the muzzle, had a force-matched magazine floorplate and reeked of preservative grease. The Belarusian arsenal staff had cleaned out the working parts, but left the slick layer of red shellac applied to protect the stock over decades of storage. The rifle came with a sling, a bayonet, a cleaning kit and thirty rounds of ammunition on chargers, carried in a belt pouch – barely a third of a Duty fighter's minimum combat load for that caliber.

That was the point. This was a platoon of fodder, not fighters. They'd been given their gear and Gromyko had briefed them, briefly, on what to do and how to do it. Then they were left standing on the veterans' home lawn, waiting for a tardy unit to get into formation elsewhere on the line. Kuntsev had gone off to do something important.

The mousy girl with the dissident tattoo gravitated towards Gromyko in the meantime. “I heard Irving Berlin was born around here,” she remarked.

“So was Andrey Melnikov.”


“Got a posthumous Hero for defending a hill in Afghanistan. Bondarchuk made a movie about it.”


He could see that meant little to her. “So what else do you know about Mogilyov?”

“Just that it's an industrial center. That's why we're here, isn't it?”

“Politics,” Gromyko corrected quietly. “Politics is why we're here.”

At first the outside powers were too timid to push back against the Zone's sudden encroachment, willing only to cordon and patrol its fringes like they'd done before. Minsk and Bryansk became fortified front-cities as Russian and Belarusian armies locked down the northern perimeter. In the south, the Lviv government summoned its new NATO allies to guarantee the security of the placeholder state. Troops dug in behind barbed wire and waited, watching the quarantined land with fearful eyes while their presidents and prime ministers bickered in UN meetings.

NATO broke the stalemate after the last spring thaw, establishing a cautious presence in Rivne and Uman. Its hand forced, Moscow spent the summer marshaling its reserves and pumping resources into its teetering proxy Minsk. Their offensive was two-pronged, targeting Mogilyov in the north and Pinsk on the western edge – one for its factories and its port on the Dnieper, the other for its proximity to the Ukrainian border and the foreign line of control. No penal units were deployed in the Pinsk sector.

“How did you get mixed up in this?”

“I was a guide for a film crew,” Gromyko recounted. “Location shooting around the Kursk nuclear plant for Quatermass against the Monolith. The police arrested everyone two days before we were supposed to wrap, saying our permits were fake... The Brits were declared spies and deported. I was sent to the front. You?”

“Bryansk, street protest.”

“Busted under the same law you were protesting, right?”

The girl nodded. “They're doing it in Smolensk, too.”

“I'm not surprised,” Gromyko muttered. “Better stop now, Kuntsev's coming back.”

The commissar was as impatient as before. “The stragglers are in place,” he announced. “Get yours ready.”

A tank came lumbering down the highway just then, as if for emphasis. Gromyko clapped his hands. “Comrade shtrafniks, form up! It's time to move on and be heroes!”

He felt their reluctance, but it couldn't be helped: the Dutyers and regular troops were already closing in. The only way out now was forwards. They would advance southeast, through Microdistrict Sputnik's gauntlet of apartment blocks and construction sites, and then into the sprawling railway yard behind it. Either the penal units – eight in all, positioned at weak points up and down the front – would succeed in scouting the way for the oppressors' army, or the Zone would send them to a shallow grave.

The young dissident didn't move away. “I'm sticking with you,” she said before Gromyko could ask. “You look like you know what you're doing.”

It made no difference to him, but he was surprised when Kuntsev didn't object: “Very well,” the masked man answered, falling in on Gromyko's left. “Then I will show you how a man of Duty fights.”

“And I'll show you where the Silver Shields grow,” Gromyko retorted under his breath. “Comrade shtrafniks, after me... March!”

At the end he chose to hand in his resignation to Voronin directly, delivering it in person to the general's bedside. A futile gesture, perhaps, but he wanted to have closure, wanted to be sure his old commander knew why he was leaving. He'd watched Matvey and Artur die in front of him, and he'd watched an ambitious sycophant steal their honor. Duty had lost its direction and sold out to a dictator. Its ranks were full of power players, emboldened by the impotence of the ailing leadership. Skull the traitor and Morgan the embezzler had shown the way, even if neither lived to see the outcome of their malefactions.

Voronin asked Gromyko to reconsider, tried to assure the sergeant that his loyal service had not been overlooked, but Voronin was ill and dying, and Gromyko knew that once he was gone only Colonel Shulga would be left to check the hardliners. For all his flaws, Shulga had principles and he stuck to them – and that was why he had to go. The colonel was taken violently ill four days after the general's burial and succumbed within twenty hours. It was the perfect excuse for the hardliners to instigate a purge. Gromyko's departure was forgotten in the wake of the exodus which followed.

“Is that a flamethrower?”

Gromyko followed the mousy girl's gaze to the right, where one of their Duty escorts was walking. “Yeah.”

Flamethrowers weren't used in the old Zone. Aside from the obvious ethical problems and the risk of starting uncontrolled fires, there was a very real hazard of releasing radioactive contamination into the air. No such concerns here, clearly. The Dutyers seemed to favor the LPO-50 – a cumbersome thing, only able to deliver three shots from full tanks. Their role was primarily psychological, but that didn't mean they couldn't fuck up the platoon very fast if so wanted.

“They wouldn't use that on us, would they?”

“They will if you run,” Gromyko replied bluntly, “so don't run.”

The grass was tall on the other side of the road, where it hadn't been trampled under soldiers' boots. Even wet, it reached almost to Gromyko's waist. Here and there circular depressions marked the positions of gravity traps, with the added luxury of little orange flags on galvanized stakes. Apartment blocks loomed over the platoon on both sides, ten or eleven floors high. These buildings were new when the Zone washed over them, and three years of neglect hadn't taken the sheen off.

Neglect, not abandonment – a subtle but important distinction. After the surviving residents fled, the city was quickly colonized by Belarusian stalkers. Connections were made with the Ukrainians of the old Zone as they spread into the new. Freedom moved north, resettling its headquarters into Gomel Palace and sending emissaries all over the newly liberated territory. Duty's reactionary alliance with the forces of repression, and the damage it did to their standing with neutral groups, couldn't have come at a better time.

When Minsk and Duty came to take back Mogilyov, Freedom vowed to resist. They boasted of building their strategy on the lessons of Chuykov: pull back from the outskirts, draw their mechanization-dependent enemies into the heart of the city and destroy them in street fighting, or let them be bogged down by the onset of winter. So far there had been no overt contact between attacker and defender.

The front line's only demarcation was a sandbag emplacement at the foot of the apartments to the right, sheltering a Kord heavy machine gun manned by a few grunts. “Spread out,” Gromyko called. “Go slow and watch for shimmering. Shout if you're not sure.”

This was it. This was where their real work started, as human shields and minesweepers and live baits rolled into one. The Dutyers held back as the platoon widened into a broad ribbon, closing together behind the penal troops. They wouldn't expose themselves unless forced, not when they were so valuable to the invasion and so difficult to replace. They called it prudence. Gromyko called it cowardice.

“Commissar, did you volunteer to walk up front with us?”

“Of course,” affirmed Kuntsev. “What about it?”

“Anyone else offer to go?” This was playing with fire and Gromyko knew it, but if they wanted a yes-man they shouldn't have sent a paratrooper. He could take the heat if it got him some intel on his oppressors. “Your friends back there look a little – ”

He was interrupted by a blast of static from the radio on Kuntsev's hip. “Fourth platoon, stop your advance. Your Commissar Kuntsev is an impostor. Duty officers, place him under arrest and return to the staging area at once. Command out.”

“Shit.” Kuntsev's voice and posture changed in an instant. “They found the body... Sergeant Gromyko, if you want to save these people then listen very carefully.”

Gromyko was already signaling a halt, and he could see the Dutyers coming as his own men and women sank into the meager cover of the grass. “Talk fast,” he growled.

“Kill the guards and take the platoon to the railway station. There are friendlies at the customs training center – look for the airplane parked on the lawn.” The fake Kuntsev raised his hands. “I think you should stand back now.”

Three Dutyers closed in on the impersonator. Gromyko noted one of the flamethrower-bearers coming up on his rear as well. That left the other flamer, across from him on the left flank, plus several more Dutyers in the rearguard and then the soldiers and the machine gun, reinforced by tanks and helicopters. Was 'Kuntsev' just optimistic, or did he still have a wildcard to play? And how did he know who Gromyko was?

The Dutyers were visibly on edge. “Drop the weapon! Drop it!”

Not-Kuntsev complied, easing the submachine gun sling off his shoulder. He released the PPS at arm's length. Gromyko planted his hands on his hips in feigned annoyance and surreptitiously unfastened his holster flap.

“Now take off the mask! Slowly!”

Not-Kuntsev did so. He was young, mid-twenties at most, with chestnut hair and a face that was wholly incongruous to the tough persona he projected before. No wonder he'd kept it covered.

“Turn around,” the middle Dutyer ordered. “Hands behind – ”


No muzzle blasts, no supersonic cracks, only the muffled noises of impact. One of the men flanking the Duty chief fell to his knees, blood spilling from the side of his neck. The other stumbled backwards with a gurgling cough. The interrogator lunged at not-Kuntsev. The mousy girl leveled her Mosin at the flamethrower carrier behind Gromyko. Gromyko reached for his revolver.


And the fight was on! Gromyko aimed at the second fire-bringer, thumbing back the Nagant's hammer for an accurate shot. The gun bucked in his hands. His target doubled up and fell to the ground, screaming as Gromyko dove into the long grass and out of his enemies' sight.

Crawling forwards, he came upon the lung-shot Dutyer and dispatched him without ceremony. Now to find 'Kuntsev' and find out how he intended to get out of this mess. Nearby sounds of struggle gave Gromyko a fix on the substitute commissar. Shuffling bodily through the vegetation, he emerged into a crushed patch where not-Kuntsev and his nemesis were grappling, seemingly matched in strength. Never one for spectator sports, Gromyko seized the oppressor by the back of his balaclava and blew his brains out.

“Thanks,” coughed not-Kuntsev, pushing the corpse off himself.

Gromyko jammed the half-empty Nagant back into its holster. From the comm chatter on the dead Dutyer's radio, he discerned that the blocking troops hadn't clearly seen what just happened to their comrades. They were unsure whether it was facilitated by an outside party, or mere perfidy on the part of 'Kuntsev' and himself alone. “Now what?”

“We have to get the platoon away from here. Quickly, before the enemy comes in strength.”

Having relieved the interrogator of his life, Gromyko appropriated his pistol as well. “And how?” he wondered, stuffing the magazines into a tunic pocket. “Run away and hope they don't mow us down?”

“They won't,” said the fake Kuntsev, feeling around for his dropped submachine gun. “My people will make sure of that.” He rolled onto his side, unzipped his hip pack and shook out two waxed cardboard cylinders with pull-tabs at each end: smoke grenades. “We pop these, then move. You remember how they work?”

“They burn for a minute, minute and a half.” Gromyko press-checked the SIG-Sauer. “Not much time. What about the machine gun?”

“I took care of it last night. First round in the belt is stuffed with HE... You lead off and I'll bring up the tail. Don't stop until you get to the training center. Ready?”

Gromyko nodded.

“Here goes.”

The grenades arced away one by one, fizzling as they came down. Gromyko waited just long enough for the smoke to coalesce into a thick white pall over the grass. “PLATOON, FOLLOW ME!”

“Shoot them!” yelled a Belarusian somewhere behind him. There was a loud bang as not-Kuntsev's poison pill detonated in the Kord's guts, met with furious cursing from its crew. The prisoners balked, caught between the menace of their oppressors and the authority of their leader.

Gromyko fired a shot into the air. “NO FEAR, NO RETREAT! FORWARD TO FREEDOM!”

“Go, comrade shtrafniks!” shouted the impostor, borrowing Gromyko's mode of address without his sardonic delivery. “Go with Gromyko!”

The others misheard or misunderstood, yet from their confusion the whole platoon gained its own rallying cry: “For Gromyko! For Freedom! Urrraaaaa!”

Hardly the stuff of legends, but it worked. Gromyko plowed on, his rifle bouncing against his back. A road crossed in front of him a couple hundred meters ahead, backed by a strip of trees. If his wards could make it there before the smoke dispersed too much, they might get away. Automatic weapons chattered, steel dogs snapping at their heels. A bullet whizzed by, wasplike, there and gone in a blink.

“They're sending tanks after us!” not-Kuntsev called out between bursts of suppressive fire. “Hurry!”

Gromyko couldn't go faster without abandoning the most vulnerable members of the platoon, and the effort of pushing through the grass was steadily wearing them down. No chance of outrunning a T-72, even one feeling its way through anomalies in a sniper alley.

Then the tide changed.

He heard a foomp on the left, where another clump of trees separated the open grass from the tarmac strip of the Minsk highway, and a sharp crack to rearwards immediately after it. Gromyko looked behind himself and saw, over the bobbing heads of his platoon, a pair of the oppressors' machines. One was stationary, gray smoke gushing from the bore of its cannon. In another moment the turret was lifted off the hull and thrown into the sky on a column of orange fire. The concussion rattled Gromyko's teeth.

The other tank lurched as its driver stomped the brakes. He had no time to change gears before a second RPG impacted the glacis plate. It didn't go off like any explosive Gromyko had ever seen, instead emitting a blue-white pulse so intense that a shimmering blotch was seared into his retinas. He turned his back on the carnage, trying to blink away the afterimage from his smarting eyes. Ammunition cook-off soon consumed the moribund vehicle.

Still the fugitives ran, clinging to their weapons: over the road, under the trees and over another road. The shooting continued sporadically as they streamed past a pair of Quonset huts. “On your left,” the fake Kuntsev advised. “Between those white buildings.”

Gromyko turned, the platoon wheeling after him. Pushing through one more copse in the gap dividing the structures, he beheld his goal. The aircraft not-Kuntsev had spoken of was a small three-engine passenger jet, colored white with blue and red trim. Its chocked wheels were thickly overgrown, but the body looked well preserved. Next to it sat a railway carriage on a short length of track, clad in peeling green paint.

“Platoon, hold up! Are there any wounded? Is anybody hurt?” No affirmative replies. “Commissar to the front!”


The prisoners made way for 'Kuntsev' as he rejoined Gromyko. “Okay,” said the latter, “we made it. What next?”

“You'll see... Sveta! My armbands, please!”

One of the bushes under the jet's tail stood up and tossed out a small dark package. “Is that everyone?” she asked.

Not-Kuntsev nodded. “Tell HQ we need all the trucks.”

The woman in the ghillie suit dropped back into the grass. Gromyko scanned the open ground of the railyard surrounding the customs center, a broad sprawl of tracks and hangars and shipping containers. Then he glanced at not-Kuntsev and did a double take. That wasn't the green wolf's head of Freedom covering up Duty's red shield and bullseye on the other man's sleeve: the insignia on the armband was a pair of clasping hands, stitched in white.

“You're from Warden?”

“That's right.” Not-Kuntsev snugged up the matching band on his other arm. “Yefim Borisov of Special Detachment 'Jaeger' at your service.”

Gromyko could scarcely believe it. Stalker Cooperative Group 'Warden' was a young faction, first organized to coordinate rescue efforts in the frantic weeks after the Zone expanded. When the hardliners purged Duty, its exiled moderates brought their skill and discipline into the new group's ranks. If Gromyko had stayed a little longer, or kept a little more faith in his comrades, he might have gone with them.

Whatever its inheritances, Warden's mission was all its own: to protect and preserve human civilization inside the Zone. To that end it pursued a strict policy of defensive neutrality, remaining aloof from faction politics. Its men in arms defended the stalker citadels of the Inner Ring against beasts and banditry and secured the Dnieper Road, the vital trade route connecting the Ring to the Free City of Cherkassy. Their presence here, fighting an outside aggressor in Freedom's region of influence, signaled a radical shift.

“You seem to know all about me already,” he grumbled.

“I don't,” the mousy girl volunteered. “Who are you, Sergeant Gromyko?”

“Nobody import – ”

“He used to be in Duty,” Borisov interrupted. “One of the founding members. He left when it went bad.”

“Is that true?”

“Yeah.” Gromyko shot a dirty look at Borisov. “How do you even know this?”

“Commander Zulu told me,” the jaeger explained modestly. “We found your stalker name on a transport manifest.”

“Uh-huh... So you infiltrated the army camp, killed the real Kuntsev and took his place in order to sabotage their guns and lead us into an ambush. All to steal one penal unit?”

“It was worth it,” said Borisov with conviction. “We needed to show the government that we're serious, make them understand the consequences of ignoring our warnings... I really must thank you,” he added. “I couldn't have salvaged the plan without your help.”

“Some plan.” Gromyko cocked his head. “Thanks for getting us out of there, I guess. And thanks for watching my back, Miss – ?”

“Irina.” The dissident smiled. “You're welcome.”

Svetlana the sniper joined their circle. “Enemy units are pulling back all along the line,” she reported to Borisov. “Transport will be here in two minutes.”


From her paint-streaked face, Gromyko judged Svetlana to be around Borisov's age. “You're a jaeger too?”

“Amazon,” she corrected. “Joint operation.”

“I see.”

The exploits of Warden's rangers were much romanticized outside the Zone. The gossip about Special Detachment 'Amazon' conversely tended towards... baser topics. Rumor also tied the all female hunter-killer group and its elusive leader, alias Butterfly, to several high-profile incidents around the Inner Ring.

“Cheer up a little,” suggested Borisov. “This is a big day for us.”

“Good for you,” said Gromyko, feeling no cheer at all. “But for me it's Tuesday.”

The Zone used to be so small, before it grew into a blight spanning six hundred kilometers from end to end. Now stranger things trod the floors of Yanov Station and lurked in Rostok's dark vaults, beyond the reach of stalkers. The secret of it all was still in there somewhere, on the dirty floor of a derelict laboratory in a nuclear graveyard among the Polesian marshes.
  21:59:12  7 November 2012
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Am very impatiently waiting for the next chapters....
  21:35:44  6 November 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

It does seem a little unrealistic for her to just up and beg for sexing to my mind

This is one of those unintuitive things that supposedly has a real psychological basis... but yeah, I probably could have dropped it entirely. Most of its supporting context was in the scenes which got cut from that chapter (see my post from May 7th or thereabouts).

I think not relating to Olga isn't necessarily a bad thing, since by now it should be evident that she is, in her own way, seriously messed up. So far we've only really seen her from the perspectives of Tiger, who as you mentioned knows her too well, and of others to whom she's an intimidating stranger. Regarding the 'secret agent' bit, think of a certain other person we know in STALKER canon who does the SBU's work in the Zone.

I have a tentative plot worked out for another Olga-centric interlude, but I'll have to see how the writing budget balances out. That new STALKER 2 concept art is also giving me ideas...
  02:30:26  3 November 2012
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Eternal Newbie
On forum: 10/06/2011
Messages: 16

Mosins are a ton of fun if you keep them clean and don't mind the recoil. They're a powerful gateway drug, however - buy a Mosin now and some day you might wake up in the morning and wonder where all these Swedish Mausers came from.

Well, I dunno about Swedish Mausers, but one of those straight pull back Swiss rifles would be pretty nifty, I've heard good things about the German guns, and the Garand is awesome... (I may seem the right age to go all mall ninja on an AR15, but I think an AK47 with a red dot is about as close as I'm going to get.)

This one actually surprised me a bit, since I think of Olga as being one of the better developed characters. (Some of my on-again off-again test readers are convinced she is evil.) I've been toying with the idea of a side chapter from her point of view, but again I don't know if I'll have time for it.

I can't argue with the level of development per se, I just can't bring myself to care about her much for some reason. Sorry, i can't put my finger on it, maybe I don't like the way she played tough then went crawling back to Tiger after a fashion.

It does seem a little unrealistic for her to just up and beg for sexing to my mind (leaving aside that most women who are above a certain age and income level generally do not do such things, she's a secret agent, which doesn't make one think of someone who just "can't" hold themselves back anymore), though you do point out that Tiger sees her as unique in this aspect. She has also been hanging around Tiger for a long time without saying anything, so tension has kind of been building a little for her while Tiger has been blissfully unaware of it. I dunno, sometimes it's better to just go with it and not worry about whether it seems realistic or not. Reality can be a bit boring at times.

A possibility to change this, at least for me, would be to run the story from her point of view for a bit. That worked for Tiger and Yevgeniy after all. ;D
  00:24:44  31 October 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

Tiger can handle himself.

We'll see... about that.

I don't want to pry here, but I kind of wonder if you have some experience with someone who has similar problems as Yevgeniya.

Yevgeniya is who she is because I thought it was a powerful premise for a character, with a bonus of letting me incorporate some other facets of the post-Soviet world into the Zone setting. My LGBT friends don't read this stuff, but they were very helpful with the research for it.

Kondratenko, AKA the soldier in the swamp, is somewhat one-dimensional right now... As for Dmitriy and Galina, not a whole lot going on here.

This is true. Kondratenko and the Belarusians have been on the sidelines for most of the story so far, outsiders to the action, but that's starting to change. I originally planned a fairly large plot arc dedicated to building up these three, but I don't know how much of that will make it to the final cut. I can give a couple of hints, though: remember that Kondratenko is a quest NPC, and remember who Galina's father is.

Oh, by the way, I don't know if anyone cares, but because of this story I looked up the Mosin Nagant and have fallen in love with its price tag.

Mosins are a ton of fun if you keep them clean and don't mind the recoil. They're a powerful gateway drug, however - buy a Mosin now and some day you might wake up in the morning and wonder where all these Swedish Mausers came from.

I dunno about [Olga]. She's obviously important to Tiger as a character and gives him dimension, though for some reason I don't really "click" with her as a character herself.

This one actually surprised me a bit, since I think of Olga as being one of the better developed characters. (Some of my on-again off-again test readers are convinced she is evil.) I've been toying with the idea of a side chapter from her point of view, but again I don't know if I'll have time for it.

Thanks for weighing in. This kind of feedback is really useful to me, as my perception of the characters is probably skewed by what I 'know' about them that the audience doesn't yet.
  08:08:16  27 October 2012
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Eternal Newbie
On forum: 10/06/2011

Message edited by:
Eternal Newbie
10/27/2012 8:15:16
Messages: 16

The discussion of Tiger's traits does make me wonder how my audience feels about all the other characters in the story. Anyone care to weigh in with their thoughts on the cast?

Well shoot, I guess I'm the verbose one here, so since nobody else has jumped in I'll speak my mind. (So this should be short, harhahar. ;D)

Let's see... Yevgeniy:
I find this character rather interesting, and empathize with her/him (damnit, I'm going with she and her from now on). This may have a lot to do with the fact that thus far she is the only one aside from Tiger that we have experienced the story through. Though we have seen things through the viewpoints of characters like Wolf, it has been only as a passing paragragh or two. So, given the choice between Tiger and Yevgeniya, it seems my chivalrous/chauvinistic side wants to protect the "helpless" fair maiden, or thereabouts as the case may be. Tiger can handle himself.

Side-note: This is the mark of a good story, when the reader is drawn in and cares about characters.

I don't want to pry here, but I kind of wonder if you (BobBQ) have some experience with someone who has similar problems as Yevgeniya. It seems rather "extreme." I've noticed you can't throw a stick these days without hitting a story that has a gay character shoved in sideways in order to show how politically correct the author is, despite apparently knowing nothing about gays, but this doesn't seem the case here. Hell, a quarter of the story has focused on her!

As for the contraceptive device, there are reasons they aren't normally used in America. Wonder if a certain character rumored to have healing powers might factor in the story later...

Hmmm... mind went blank. Guess I'd better move on to somebody else like Kondratenko. Kondratenko, AKA the soldier in the swamp, is somewhat one-dimensional right now. Like I mention above, we've not really seen much from his point of view. As of the moment he has room for development, perhaps he'll have to deal with issues from running away and leaving his comrades behind to die, but right now he seems to be just cheerfully going with the flow and supressing any personal issues. I personally would get a bit worked up over running away as he has, and he doesn't seem like the type to just shrug it off.

I would expect a "this time I will not fail" sort of mentality to hit him when the group gets into real trouble, which could lead to him doing something stupid. Anyway, Kondratenko seems like a "good old boy", and I could see him as being a sort of peacemaker core to the group if relationships in the group got bad. Just my gut feelings here.

As for Dmitriy and Galina, not a whole lot going on here. We know their basic backstory, but they've really not had any major spotlight in the story so far. I'm not feeling anything for them right now, but I see potential for them taking a bigger role in the future, particularly if Galina and Yevgeniya develop a friendship. (I get the impression you may be setting such a thing up.)

Welp, it's past my bedtime, and that's all that comes to mind right now, so I'm signing off.

Oh, by the way, I don't know if anyone cares, but because of this story I looked up the Mosin Nagant and have fallen in love with its price tag. I'm thinking I will get one in the next year or so. THE RED ARMY CANNOT BE OVERRUN!

Edit: Good God, I almost forgot Ogla. Ogla... I dunno about her. She's obviously important to Tiger as a character and gives him dimension, though for some reason I don't really "click" with her as a character herself. She certainly worked well as a leader of sorts, keeping the group organized, but of course now she's out of the picture and Tiger's on the spot. The only I can think of here is to wonder how she'll come back into the story and what it will mean to the structure of the group. If Tiger has gotten his group in line and they respect him but she wants them to do something else... Could be interesting.
  23:29:54  19 October 2012
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No worries.

The discussion of Tiger's traits does make me wonder how my audience feels about all the other characters in the story. Anyone care to weigh in with their thoughts on the cast?
  22:50:52  9 October 2012
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Eternal Newbie
On forum: 10/06/2011
Messages: 16
Thanks for the heads-up.

Something else I thunk of: I didn't make this clear, but when I posted my big long wall of text about Tiger being a possible Mary Sue, I was looking at a list of Mary Sue traits and taking a "this is probably how some people could see Tiger" point of view, rather than a "this is what's wrong" view. What I posted is not necessarily what I think on a personal level. Just thought I'd clarify that.
  18:02:31  3 October 2012
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After you've done the main story quests in the Dark Valley, go to Chekhov and ask him to tell you about the Zone. He'll give you a hint about finding one of these 'special' people.

What he says is partly a rehash of one of the 'Zone lore' entries from Shadow of Chernobyl, but the original is buried in the PDA and easy to overlook. Ganja, the Freedom bartender in Clear Sky, will also tell you a story that's recycled from SoC lore.
  07:47:17  3 October 2012
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Eternal Newbie
On forum: 10/06/2011
Messages: 16


The thing is, he's special but not that special. He has exactly one power, and that's based on canon lore and not unique to him.


Oh. Interesting. I'm currently playing Clear Sky after completing Shadow of Chernobyl, and I haven't gotten to anything like Tiger's abilities just yet. The whole druid/pathfinder thing isn't just some left-over concept hinted at in game or in the Builds...

Wellllll, I'll just have to see what Scar and Alex find in the Zone, won't I?
  05:08:42  3 October 2012
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You've brought up some good points there.

If you're looking for suggestions, it might be nice to have him/her make some shots later that Tiger and company would find difficult, to show that Tiger isn't always able to compete with snipers with iron sights like he did with Lynx. My guess is that you've already planned for this though, to show him/her and other characters coming into their own.

I have indeed.

Keep in mind that Tiger and Yevgeniya have very different shooting styles. Tiger prefers full power battle rifles, making center-of-mass shots with iron sights on man sized or larger targets - much like the ordinary soldiers to whom these weapons were originally issued. Conversely, Yevgeniya's biathlon marksmanship was conducted with .22 rifles at a typical distance of fifty meters. She was good at it, but now she has to acclimate herself to bigger calibers and longer ranges. It's a shame I probably won't have any opportunities to show the team working in winter, as she's also a good skier.

Though one might wonder if his replacement Enfield is a gun you own or wish you had.

Nope. The Lee-Enfield was featured because it can be (relatively) easily converted from .303 to 7.62x54R, making it a weapon that could be exotic and yet practical to use. Presumably Tiger's was a one-off conversion brought into the Zone by somebody with a particular fondness for the design.

Whereas Tiger has both special powers and is apparently quite the fighter, which might be considered a Mary Sue point.

The thing is, he's special but not that special. He has exactly one power, and that's based on canon lore and not unique to him. (Incidentally, his hair was inspired by pigment mutations in birds around Chernobyl.) As for combat abilities, it should be noted that most of the successful shots he's made so far were at short to medium range and on slow or stationary targets.

Please do not feel I am trying to put you down or have a negative opinion or you or your writing.

Not at all. You've made me stop and think about details I don't normally consider.

Something that might be fun to try or play with here:

I tried running it with some of the major plot points from the final arc factored in and scored 17.

At the moment, we know more or less who and what Tiger is (though there are several unexplained points that await the light of day, like the Monolith having a polite little chat with him, the possibility of these other pathfinders showing up, the uncertainties regarding his significant other, etc), but the other characters are at a turning point so to speak, and there is great potential for them to grow and change.

I think there's still room for all the characters to grow. We'll see how competently I make it happen.
  22:52:18  2 October 2012
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Eternal Newbie
On forum: 10/06/2011

Message edited by:
Eternal Newbie
10/02/2012 23:04:36
Messages: 16
Well, as I understand it, Mary Sues/Stus/whatevers often have some sort of interesting physical trait, like an odd eye color, or maybe hair. They frequently have powers nobody else has or can do things nobody else can, are dressed in "cool" clothing like trenchcoats, use weapons and tools the author has and loves, often make others feel threatened or awestruck by how awesome they are, etc, etc.

Don't get me wrong though, I do think Tiger has enough dimension and depth to make him more than just a Mary Sue. It is just that at a glance a lot of factors could make one think that.

Some of the above I mentioned can readily be explained. Wolf/Ghost being threatened by Tiger's skills/powers, Jussi being impressed by Tiger's abilities with the artifact activation, etc, look Mary Sueish, but for the others in Tiger's party, well, they're all newbies, and none of them are exactly badass or awesome in their own right, so them being in awe of Tiger means little. (Yevgeniy may be a good sniper, but on the other hand, it is implied anyone could have made the shots he/she made. If you're looking for suggestions, it might be nice to have him/her make some shots later that Tiger and company would find difficult, to show that Tiger isn't always able to compete with snipers with iron sights like he did with Lynx. My guess is that you've already planned for this though, to show him/her and other characters coming into their own.)

Let's see, what else smacks of Mary Sue but makes sense in the story? Trenchcoats are common in the Zone, so Tiger wearing one isn't really that unusual, Tiger lost his shooter early on, and therefore doesn't really have any claims to special weapons. (Though one might wonder if his replacement Enfield is a gun you own or wish you had.) On the other hand, I would think many authors would choose weapons for their characters that they know and like, and it's not like Tiger's weapons are specially modified +5 Armor-Piercing Double Damage Against Bloodsuckers that also turns salads wank jobs.

Other points of interest that are common to Mary Sues, but are not present here:
Tiger is not all that liked by many canon characters, whereas a major Mary Sue thing is that all the awesome main characters the writer loves and respects will or do come to like and respect the Mary Sue. (I wouldn't say Forester counts for anything, as he does not factor in the story, but some might say that's name-dropping.) Another thing you do not do here is have Tiger spend much time hanging out with canon characters in exclusion to the characters of your own creation.

To be honest, though I have dabbled in writing fan-fiction and my own work, I have never done anything approaching what you have here, so I am not exactly the right person to give you any advice or to judge harshly. Tiger's Spring has inspired me to try my hand at a S.T.AL.K.E.R story that does involve a character with special powers, but they are not the main and quite frankly can't keep up with the other characters when it comes to the running and gunning business. (Whereas Tiger has both special powers and is apparently quite the fighter, which might be considered a Mary Sue point.)

Please do not feel I am trying to put you down or have a negative opinion or you or your writing. I am in awe of your story and amazed you put so much time and effort into exploring the Builds. I hope what I've wrote here comes across as food for thought and not as unwanted complaints. Please continue with the story, I'm reading it intently. You are a good writer and if you ever write anything remotely in my preferred genres that gets published, I will buy it.

Something that might be fun to try or play with here:

I tried running Tiger through it and came up with
"22-29 Original fiction and MMO/RPG characters can go either way at this point depending on the writer. Fanfiction characters may need some adjustment, however." However, since I do not know what you think and had to totally guess on some points, this was just for fun on my part.

Edit: You mention how some of your readers really love Tiger, but you don't necessarily see him as that great a character. In that vein, I just thought I would mention that the more you introduce the others in the group, the less interested in Tiger I am. At the moment, we know more or less who and what Tiger is (though there are several unexplained points that await the light of day, like the Monolith having a polite little chat with him, the possibility of these other pathfinders showing up, the uncertainties regarding his significant other, etc), but the other characters are at a turning point so to speak, and there is great potential for them to grow and change. On the other hand, you talk about Tiger soon being forced to leave his comfort zone, which should be interesting... A good story keeps you guessing, right?
  22:01:51  2 October 2012
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
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Don't change a thing about Tiger! You hear? He is our Guide around The Zone letting us experience it raw and un-deluted.
  20:47:47  2 October 2012
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Okay, but what does that mean? The 'Mary Sue' label is a highly subjective one, not to mention heavily diluted by use as a generic pejorative against anything the subject happens to dislike. It's not useful feedback.

Do you feel that Tiger doesn't have enough obvious flaws? Does the number of interesting things happening to him strain plausibility? Frankly I can sympathize on both counts. Heck, it wasn't long ago that I myself complained about the way he turned into the Zone's Forrest Gump. That's my own fault for trying to shoehorn all my ideas into one story.

Despite how much some of my readers profess to love him, I honestly see Tiger as a rather pathetic character. He keeps returning to the Zone like a beaten spouse because he can't (won't?) adapt to living anywhere else. Until Olga barged back into his life, he had no ambition beyond apathetically continuing his hand-to-mouth existence until something finally killed him. He thought he was happy, sure, but what kind of life is that?

In retrospect the story hasn't conveyed this very well at all, which is my fault again. So far we've only seen Tiger in his comfort zone, reacting when others intrude into it, but after the next couple of chapters, the story's final arc will start and Tiger is going to have to leave that zone. It won't be a pleasant experience.

Ranting aside, I'm glad you enjoy the story in spite of its problems and I really do appreciate honest opinions on it. As for Kondratenko, I'd say it's entirely possible for someone to be aware of such things in a fictional or comical sense and still be totally flabbergasted to learn it's a very real aspect of not one but several medical conditions. He's not exactly intelligentsia material to begin with, either.

In other news, I'm thinking about making a two-part side story out of some of the research material I accumulated for scenes that got cut from earlier chapters. Can't say much else about it yet, except that Tiger and friends would not be appearing.

(PS - Tiger does not have any hidden powers.)
  00:35:16  2 October 2012
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Eternal Newbie
On forum: 10/06/2011
Messages: 16

Advice given on Facepunch:
You can always take the path of Tiger's Spring and include a weeaboo Mary Stu and a dude with a mangina.

While Tiger does come across as Mary Stu-ish, that doesn't detract from the awesomeness of the story. On the other hand, when his Burer and Controller powers kick in I'm gonna call bullshit.

Wait, where does the weeaboo part come in? Did I miss a part where Tiger talked about his anime collection, misquoted stuff about the samurai, waved around a cheap katana, and cried over not being born Japanese?

In any event I just wanted to say I'm a great fan of this story (and the videos you have on Youtube). I'm really digging the subtle and not so subtle references to stuff from the Builds. The whole thing about Yevgeniy/Yevgeniya came as something of a plot twist. Can't say I've read many stories involving such a character.

Maybe it's the hopeless romantic in me, but I'm kind of thinking Kondratenko and Yevgeniya would make a nice couple. You seem to be having them bond.

About Kondratenko though, I find it a little odd that he wouldn't know anything about a "chick with a dick." I don't know much about the Ukraine, but surely the "wonders" of the internet porn community would have managed to make themselves known and it isn't unknown for such things to crop up in conversation (for example, according to Youtubers, Katy Perry has a penis). Seems weird he wouldn't have ever heard anything about it.
  20:17:43  28 September 2012
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Advice given on Facepunch:

You can always take the path of Tiger's Spring and include a weeaboo Mary Stu and a dude with a mangina.

  19:31:51  22 September 2012
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(This month we have a guest appearance by the cast of Captain Zippy's The Road.)

The Inside Out Frontier

“What's happening down there?”

Sanya grabbed the hems of the faded Clear Sky tunic and its undershirt, pulling them up almost to the armpits. Under them the upper torso was dotted with small round bruises and constrained by a band of elastic material. “You're not gonna believe this, Jussi... She's a chick with a dick!”

“Say what?”

“It's kind of small, but she's got tits and – ”

“URRRAAAAAUUUGH!” Yevgeniy's legs pistoned, throwing Tiger backwards. Fingers clawed at Sanya's face. “STOP TOUCHING ME!”

“Yeeeow! Get off me, you crazy bitch!”

Galina came hurtling up the stairs as Tiger wedged a stabilizing hand under himself. She gave a moment's pause to lay down her gun, then swooped upon the writhing, sobbing figure at the center of the commotion. “Zhenya, listen to me! Listen to me! Take deep breaths, deep breaths!”

Sanya scrabbled away from the pair, blood oozing from a welt on his cheek. Kondratenko looked on behind him, open-mouthed with shock. Jussi made as if to descend from the high catwalk, but Tiger motioned for him to stay put.

Yevgeniy's hysteria eased under Galina's ministration, and soon the androgyne's thrashing subsided into trembles and sniffles. “Shh,” Galina murmured. “It's all right. No one is going to hurt you.”

Tiger regained his footing and his focus simultaneously. “Borya, keep your eyes on the road. Galya, could you, er..?”

“I'll handle this. Mitya, get my bedroll and put it in the boxcar.”


The veteran allowed himself a small sigh of relief as he went back to the gallery windows. It had gotten quiet outside, and that meant he needed to check in. “Tiger calling Bes, over.”

The radio buzzed in his hand. “Bes here. We've taken the trailhead according to plan. Fiend is staying behind to watch the road. What's your condition? Over.”

“We eliminated the bandit group here,” Tiger answered. “Only two men from Lenka's party survived. One of mine has been... taken ill, over.”

“Can you defend the position? Over.”

“Affirmative, we can defend. Over.”

“Good. We'll notify Duty. Switch to the Garbage frequency and stand by for relief information, over.”

“Roger. Tiger out.”

“We're staying?” asked Kondratenko.

“For now.” Tiger changed channels before clipping the radio onto his vest. “We'd better try to recover what we can from the dead. Jussi, can you help me with that?”


“Thanks... Borya, cover us from here. Sanya, I need you to fix yourself up and stand watch at the other end. I don't want anyone coming in unannounced, even if they're friendly.”


Deadeye passed Salonen on the steps, heading for the walkway above the hangar's east door while Tiger stooped to pick up his Lee-Enfield. The cause of the earlier stoppage was revealed when he pulled out the magazine: one of the cartridges had its rim stuck behind that of the round underneath. It must have happened when he first loaded the rifle, his error revealed only when the misfed cartridge was pushed to the top. The stalker popped out the stuck round and pocketed it, making a mental note to investigate more closely later. Until then, the AK would suffice. “Ready?”


Galina had conducted Yevgeniy to shelter in the meantime, the path marked by a string of blood spatters. Tiger and Jussi followed it, treading gingerly, until the trail turned right at the bottom of the stairs. Instead they went left, through the hangar doors and past the bodies of fellow stalkers, then out the gate and into the grass. Kondratenko had done his job well, leaving none among the attackers alive.

“Let's get the machine gun first,” suggested the Finn.


Vanya the gunner would be almost roguishly good looking if Tiger hadn't blown off the crown of his skull and showered his brains all over the road. His Degtyaryov lay upside down across his waist, its spindly bipod legs flopped to the side. At his feet were a pair of carrying cans, three pan magazines visible under one's open lid. Jussi set his jaw and bent over the corpse, freeing the entangled sling from its arm. “Seems to be in order,” he said, rotating the heavy gun in his hands. “Very good.”

“Can you work it?”

“A friend back home has one on a collector's license.” Jussi flipped the sling up over his shoulder, so that the DP hung ready at his side. “I think I remember the important parts.”

“All right.” Tiger turned away from the gore. “I'll check these two.”

The others were Fritz and his grenadier, the latter clutching an AK-74 with an underbarrel launcher. Tiger's bullet had impacted the rifle's stock at the wrist, shattering the wood before it plowed into the wielder's hip and shredded a major blood vessel. The fatal haemorrhage soaked his pants. A quick search turned up two grenades, one in the launcher and another wedged into an empty cell of the bandit's magazine pouch, plus a cleaning kit and a sheathed bayonet. Content with these findings, the stalker slung his own weapon and picked up the second Kalashnikov. It passed a cursory inspection aside from the broken furniture, so Tiger tucked it under his arm and carried on.

Fritz was on his back, staring at the sky as if it somehow offended him. Tiger tore open his collar, exposing tarnished dog tags strung on a length of twine. They jingled as he pulled the necklace off and crammed it into a coat pocket. The loner divested the criminal of his gun and was about to walk away when Fritz's cap caught his eye, a gray woolen thing with a skull and crossbones stitched above the bill. Impulsively he took the headgear, rolled it up and pocketed it as well.

“Group 'Tiger', this is Warrant Officer Protsenko of Duty. Acknowledge.”

Rearranging the load in his hands delayed Tiger's reply by a couple of seconds. “...This is Tiger, go ahead. Over.”

“Be advised: group 'Sinova' is coming from the Dark Valley to relieve you, ETA two hours. Over.”

“We'll keep an eye open for them. Anything else? Over.”

“Negative. Protsenko out.”

Jussi tsked as Tiger put away the handset. “Not big on conversation, those guys... Do you know that group?”


Kondratenko and Sanya were diligently manning their posts in the hangar when the salvage party came back, stopping long enough to gather the arms of their fallen allies on the way. The scavengers went over to the barricade, beside the pit where the others had deposited their non-combat supplies, and made an organized pile out of the bandit loot. His load lightened, Tiger circled around to the boxcar's open door and cautiously knocked on the sidewall. “Galya?”

The girl came out cradling her submachine gun. “What is it?”

“Reinforcements are coming,” the veteran told her, loud enough for the others to hear. “Two hours or so. How's Zhenya?”

“She's resting. I think she'll be all right.”

“So... she's not wounded?”

“No,” Galina sighed, “she's not wounded. She's menstruating. It's perfectly normal.”

“I see.” Tiger cleared his throat. “Well, let me know if anything changes... Come on, Jussi.”


The bandit lieutenant's silvery pistol was an Ithaca 1911, nickel plated with inscriptions in Greek crudely carved on the grip panels. The finish was scuffed in several places and the slide rattled when shaken. A body search uncovered two spare magazines, a switchblade, a hip flask and a slightly squashed candy bar. Tiger dropped everything into his empty artifact bag and moved on to the next cadaver.

This thug had taken two bullets high in the chest and landed facedown, knocking off his M1 helmet and a pair of Ray-Ban Aviators. Tiger dragged a Mauser rifle out from under his knees, rolled him over and started frisking. The dead man's clothes held a pack of cigarettes, a Swiss Army knife with one blade snapped off, a dogeared deck of playing cards and four cardboard boxes of rifle cartridges. The spelling of the word snajperski on the labels highlighted their Balkan origin.

Pickings from the rest weren't so good: a Fort-12, a Makarov, a sawed-off shotgun and a second MP5, more worn than Fritz's. One man had a Fireball in his knapsack, wrapped in a rag. There was water but little food, suggesting to Tiger that these bandits had counted on an urgent resupply from their gang at the Agroprom. “Found anything useful over there?”

“A little,” Jussi replied. “These must be the raw meat... I think I'm done here.”

“Me too.”

They went inside, added their meager assortment to the loot heap, and again Tiger knocked on the boxcar wall. “We're finished,” he announced. “How are things?”

“Fine.” Galina sounded disproportionately annoyed by his question. “I'll tell you if – what? ...You're sure?” The Belarusian emerged, sullen-faced. “She wants to talk to you. And Borya.”

“Ah.” Tiger backed up until he could see Kondratenko's perch. Even with seven people in the hangar, Yevgeniy's crisis was starting to make the task of maintaining a sufficient lookout feel like musical chairs. “Mitya, can you stand in for Borya?”

“I'll do it,” Jussi volunteered magnanimously. “This is none of my business anyway.”

“Thank you. It shouldn't take long.”

Jussi went up, Kondratenko came down, and then he and Tiger went into the boxcar. Yevgeniy lay on a thin foam bedroll, Dmitriy's jacket draped over her naked legs. The boy himself sat on a wooden crate at her feet while Galina lurked behind the men, guarding the doorway against eavesdroppers. There was an uncomfortable silence for several moments, broken when Kondratenko sat down cross-legged at the bedside. “Are you feeling better?”


“So, uh... you're really Yevgeniya, huh?”

“Yeah.” The big green eyes shifted from Kondratenko to Tiger. “I'm sorry.” Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I didn't mean to make trouble for you. I'll go, but please... please don't tell anyone about me.”

“Who told you to leave? Did someone tell you to leave?” Tiger looked from one pupil to another, his gaze interrogating each in turn until he was satisfied that all were innocent. “The Zone doesn't care what you are and I don't either. I agreed to guide you until you're ready to go alone, and you're not ready.” The stalker knelt next to Kondratenko, softening his voice as he drew nearer. “You're right, though: you have caused a lot of trouble. I think your comrades deserve an explanation.”

He wasn't surprised by the prickling at his back. “She's under enough stress – ”

“It's okay, Galya.” Yevgeniya shifted and the jacket slipped, baring the curves of a woman's hips. “If they want to know, it's okay.”

“I do,” Kondratenko confirmed. “I don't really get it, but you have both boy and girl parts?”

“Sort of.” The androgyne sat up, careful to keep her lap covered. “You saw it, didn't you?”

The question was directed at Tiger. “Yes, I saw.”

“The doctors had a fancy name for me... 'female with virilized genitals'.” Yevgeniya grimaced as a new pang throbbed inside her. “I was born like this. It was something my mother took when she was carrying me, a drug she wasn't supposed to have.”

“What kind of drug could do that?” Kondratenko interjected. “I mean, how can that happen?”

“I don't remember what it was called. It messed up my hormones, made me grow the wrong way.”

“That's... unfortunate.” The words came out sounding trite, undermining Tiger's intent, but he pushed on. “Are there any other effects? Any medications you need?”


“What about your period? It's a problem if this happens often.”

Yevgeniya shook her head. “I've never had one so bad before. I thought maybe it was anxiety.”

Tiger looked over his shoulder at the sentinel in the open door. “Galya, do you have any ideas?”

“I might.” Again her tone suggested his involvement was unwelcome. “Have you noticed other changes since your last cycle, Zhenya? Infections, anything like that?”

“I can't think of anything.” The patient bit her lip. “Well, possibly one thing.”

“What is it?”

“When we were in Romania, I had a contraceptive implant put in at a clinic. I didn't want to take a chance on... you know.”

“Mm.” For now, Tiger decided, it was best to let Galina have her way. “Keep resting while we have the place to ourselves,” he said. “Once we get to Rostok, we can find a doctor for you.”


As she lay back, Tiger reached into his coat and took out the necklace. “I think General Voronin would be grateful if you gave this to him,” the stalker told his student.

Yevgeniya stretched out a hand to receive the sinister memento. “It really was Fritz?”

“It was him, all right.” Tiger pulled out the marked man's cap and laid it on the floor beside her head. “This is yours now... Borya, I found something for you too.”

Galina intercepted the two men as they left the boxcar. “I'd like to wash the blood out of Zhenya's pants,” she informed Tiger. “Too many hygiene risks in taking some off a corpse. Do we have enough water?”

“You can use what the bandits left us, but try not to waste it. Anything else?”

“It's getting cloudy,” the girl noted, squinting up through the jagged hole in the hangar roof. “I don't know if they'll be dry before our relief gets here. Can we start a fire?”

Tiger began to evaluate the logistics of collecting fuel and tinder, then remembered the artifact he'd found. “Maybe I can do better than a fire,” he proposed, hoping he was right in trying to placate her overprotective attitude. “Give me a few minutes.”


Tiger led Kondratenko to the loot pile and picked out the steel helmet and sunglasses. “Try these on.”

“Like this?”

“I think it suits you.” Bending again, Tiger picked up a pair of canteens. “Give these to Galya and send Jussi down. I need him to work on the machine gun we found.”

“Will do.” The former soldier didn't go straight away, however. “You meant what you said about letting Zhenya stay, right?”

“Of course I meant it. Why?”

“Just wondering.”

Kondratenko departed with sudden haste. Tiger looked upward, checking that Sanya was paying attention to his own task, then unwrapped the Fireball and climbed down into the pit. The pit held a couch and a small wooden cabinet, left behind when last year's bandits rallied under the fist of Borov in their exodus to the Dark Valley. A freestanding fireplace sat on the open floor, cobbled together in stalker fashion from an oil drum bottom, cinder blocks and lengths of rebar. Stirring the thick layer of ash with his jackknife, the loner found it cold all through.

“There are some empty crates on the other side,” Jussi remarked, arriving with the Degtyaryov. “We can break them down for dry wood.”

“Don't need it.”

Jussi shrugged and sat on the couch. “Up to you.”

The Fireball was a sphere about the size of a grapefruit, made of a dense glassy substance. It had a bumpy texture and a dark basalt coloring, mottled with thin spots where the soft orange glow of the core shone through. It felt warm against the skin, releasing its energy without the violence of the Burner which spawned it. For a minute Tiger simply rolled the anomalous object back and forth between his palms, mapping the lines of its crystalline heart.

“...What are you doing with that artifact, anyway?”

“Finding the strike points.” Tiger changed his grip and began spinning the Fireball between his fingertips, a dry run for the ignition sequence. “All right, I've got it.”

He crouched before the fireplace, took careful aim, and slammed the artifact down onto the protruding corner of a cinder block. The sphere rebounded with a sharp cracking sound. Tiger felt the telltale pulse in its inner charge, spun it and struck again. Crack! Again. Crack! Again! Crack! The pulses rippled over one another, intensifying with every blow as tiny fractures propagated through the Fireball's center. Its surface grew hotter and hotter.

Tiger dropped the artifact into the drum as it reached critical resonance, picked up one of the rebar pieces and used it to nudge the Fireball into the center of the ash bed. “Heat's ready,” he called out.

This time Dmitriy answered: “Be there soon.”

Jussi meanwhile had broken down the DP into its major parts and was scrubbing the barrel threads with a toothbrush. “I was told even a master stalker would spend an hour with a jeweler's loupe before trying that,” he said. “You make it look easy.”

“It isn't.” The stalker laid the rebar across the top of the fireplace, making a sort of grill, then set about transferring the bandit weapons into a new pile by the couch.

Jussi's portion of the salvage wasn't much better than his own: more Makarovs, another couple of cut down shotguns, a Walther P1 in a camouflage patterned holster, and a smoke grenade. Gathering his materials, Tiger sat down and went to work. The nickel .45 hadn't been fired since its last cleaning and its internals showed scant wear. He ran it through a function test and put it aside. Next he checked and cleaned the Makarovs in rapid order, then the Fort and the Walther. The Karabiner 98k was first to fail inspection: though mechanically sound, its dark and heavily pitted bore mandated replacement.

“You're pretty good with weapons,” Jussi observed as Tiger discarded the Mauser.

“My father was an enthusiast. I learned from him.”

“Ah.” The other man fiddled with the Degtyaryov's gas valve for a second. “Can I ask you something?”


“You're the pathfinder who took a group into Chernobyl town during the faction wars, aren't you?”

The inquiry jerked Tiger's focus away from the grenadier's rifle on his lap. “What did you say?”

“Didn't mean to startle you, sorry... Oles Tuner told me a pathfinder with striped hair led them out from the army warehouses, and they came back empty-handed. I wasn't sure it was you until you activated that artifact.”

Suddenly Tiger was on the back foot, and he didn't like it. “I heard Tuner left the Zone.”

Jussi nodded. “He was working in a garage in Berdychiv when I met him. Said he was thinking about coming back, though.”

“Why do you want to know about Chernobyl?”

“There might be a story in it,” the outsider replied. “Chernobyl is a mystery. Beside what Oles told me, all I've learned is that stalkers don't go there.”

“A story,” Tiger repeated warily. “You're a journalist?”

“Not officially, no... I'm a blogger. I write and publish on the Internet.”

The loner arched an eyebrow. “How is that different from being a tourist?”

Jussi winced. “I crawled through the minefield. I got my kit from Sidorovich. I fought the bandits with you. Do I look like a tourist?”

“No,” Tiger conceded, “you don't.” He popped off the AK-74's dust cover, removed the recoil spring and its wire guide, and slid out the bolt carrier. “But you're putting yourself in danger just so you can write about it.”

“Some men will climb a mountain just because it's there.” Metal slid over metal as the machine gun's receiver and stock were reunited. “This is the people's frontier – no spaceships, no submarines. I decided I'd aim for a month and see how long I lasted. That was six weeks ago.”

“And now?”

“I'm not sure,” Jussi admitted. “I got along well in Lenka's group. That's all over, but I don't want to leave when things are getting serious.”

“You mean the bandit problem.”

“The bandits and the mutants... The Monolith too, I suppose. I'm not interested in Duty or Freedom or their pissing contest.” Jussi smiled self-deprecatingly. “Perhaps Lieutenant Salonen can do some good here. It's not as if I'll be missed in Laitila.”

“You're military?”

“A reservist, which practically makes me a grown up boy scout.” The DP's barrel clicked back into place. “Anyhow, that's my story.”

“I see.” The AK, Tiger noticed absently, had Bulgarian factory markings. “I hope you're not writing anything that could get people in trouble.”

“I'm being careful,” Jussi assured. “No names, no details that could be used to prosecute. I can show you my notes, if you want.”

“Maybe later.” The gas tube latch on this rifle was exceptionally stiff, and it took a concentrated effort to make the little lever turn. “...Nnnf!”

“Need a hand?”

“No, I've got it.” Tiger rubbed his thumb and finger together as he considered his next words. Not for the first time, kindness overcame suspicion. “What Tuner told you is true,” he said. “Do you know about the race to Limansk?”

“Yes, I know it.”

“All right... While that was going on, Freedom drove the military out of the army warehouses and assumed control of the Barrier. Chernobyl is a few kilometers northeast from there. Valerian ordered the stalkers who had been at the Barrier to go scout the town, check out the riverbank and the bridge over the Pripyat, and report back.”

“Staking a claim to open the way for a new settlement?”

“Yes.” The broken off stock made this rifle unsuited for launching grenades, so Tiger detached the GP-30 from its barrel and moved on to the muzzle brake. “It was a large group, sixteen men including me. We stayed off the roads and went into Chernobyl from the south.” He lapsed into silence for a few moments. “The town looked intact, yet everything was overgrown. It was strange.”

“Strange how?”

“The growth,” Tiger remembered. “There was more of it in Chernobyl than in other places. Trees and bushes in the streets, vines on the buildings, some plants I couldn't recognize. We didn't see any animals except birds and insects... Once we got near the middle of the town, the commander sent me and a few others to climb onto a roof and look ahead. We could see the bridge and the town's port, but the river was almost dried up.”

“The Pripyat drains into the Kiev reservoir,” Jussi pointed out. “Wouldn't people notice if it stopped flowing?”

“They would notice,” the narrator agreed. “Its course must have been diverted further to the east somehow. The derelicts in the port used to be sunk right up to their decks, but there they were sitting on mud.”

“Could you see the nuclear plant?”

“No, it was behind the Big Rip. Just a blur... While we were up there, one of the stalkers heard something moving in the bushes and shot at it. Turned out to be a crow... That must have woken up the zombies.”

“Zombies? Someone else tried to enter before you?”

“I don't know. These zombies wore civilian clothing, workmen's things. Leathery skin on most of them, no hair left. A few without skin, like walking corpses... They were slow but tough, kept getting back up after we shot them. Small caliber bullets didn't hurt them much.”

“Were there a lot?”

“Dozens. I think they were coming from the shipyard, over the pontoon bridge in the port.” The guide threaded the brake back onto the AK's muzzle. “One stalker had a machine gun from a tank: no sights or stock on it, so he aimed using tracers. Good enough at close range.” Tiger reseated the gas tube and handguard. “We used up a lot of ammunition killing the zombies and we weren't equipped to hold the town by ourselves. The commander ordered a retreat to the army warehouses... Then the second super-blowout happened. The expeditions to Limansk were lost and everyone else was busy trying to hold down whatever territory they'd grabbed. Our return to Chernobyl was called off.”

“And no one has gone back?”

“None that I know of. It's too close to the Scorcher, too close to Monolith land, and the warehouses are more defensible.” Tiger dropped the bolt group into the receiver and slid it back and forth on its rails. “The traders won't have forgotten Chernobyl, though. I'm sure they're biding their time, waiting for someone else to open the way.”

“I suppose so,” said Jussi thoughtfully. “Well, thank you for sharing the story. I think my readers will eat it up.”


As if cued by the end of their discussion, Yevgeniya came out of the boxcar holding her wet pants and underwear. She had tied the sleeves of Dmitriy's jacket around her waist, improvising a short apron. “Galya and Mitya want a little time together,” she said quietly. “Is that all right?”

“It's fine.” Tiger averted his eyes, mindful that the jacket only covered her front. “Do you want us to move?”

“No, that's okay.” She approached the fireplace hesitantly, arrayed her garments on the floor and drew back from the heat. “Is this safe to cook on?”

“Yes, why?”

“I did a lot of cooking at home, so I... I thought maybe I could make something for everyone.”

“You can practice making stalker stew, if you think you're up to it. Use the dry food we got this morning.”

“Okay.” The Latvian looked at the party's collection of backpacks, then back at Tiger. “What's the recipe?”

“There are two kinds,” Jussi quipped. “Whatever looks good, or whatever you've got. Right, Tiger?”

“Yeah.” Tiger fished out the Swiss Army knife and started unscrewing what remained of the AK's broken stock from its trunnion. “Zhenya, um...” He cast about for some seconds, trying to think of a delicate way to broach the subject as Yevgeniya watched him in confusion. “...Will you be able to defend yourself?”

“Oh.” Evidently it wasn't the question she anticipated. “You don't have to worry about me. When my clothes are dry, I'll go back to being Yevgeniy... It's safer, isn't it? As long as I don't get found out again.” She opened the top of Kondratenko's pack and took out a stainless pot, stuffed full of small packages tied with string. “Galya isn't hiding herself, though. I guess she's not afraid.”

“She has Mitya with her,” Tiger noted, “and Olga gave her some advice.”

“What was it?”

“If a man propositions you, politely decline. If he touches you, push him away. If he tries to hurt you, put some bullets into him – fast.”

“Figures.” Yevgeniya knelt and unloaded the pot. “What would you have me do?” she asked, setting the foodstuffs in neat rows on the floor.

“You should have a sidearm, at least.” Tiger gestured at the pile of guns. “Take your pick.”

“Mmf.” The chef-apparent kept working with her materials, ignoring the arms. “How much was the bounty on Fritz?” she wondered instead.

“Seventy-five thousand rubles.”

“So... one third each for Jussi and Sanya, would that be fair?”

“You can keep my share,” the Finn cut in. “Sanya!”

“Yeah, what?”

“Zhenya's offering twenty-five grand of the bandit reward. You interested?”

“Make it twenty-five grand and Fritz's shooter.”

Now Yevgeniya looked at the pile. “Which one?”

Tiger pulled out the MP5. “Here.”

The biathlete gave it a once-over and gave it back. “He can have that.”

“She says you can have the shooter,” Jussi relayed. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, I want White Tights to get naked and blow me.”

The tranquil mood sublimated faster than dry ice in a reactor core. “Sanya – !”

“Come on, man! Half a pussy is more than no pussy!”

Galina must have heard the lewd jibes, for Tiger sensed movement in the boxcar. “If you want a share then mind your manners,” he admonished Sanya quickly.

“Okay, okay! I'm joking, jeez!”

“He isn't usually this crass,” Jussi muttered as the troublesome compatriot finally shut up. “I'd better have a talk with him.”

“You do that.” Just then Tiger spotted the Belarusians out of the corner of his eye and beckoned them over. “Can I... can we rely on your discretion?”

“Certainly.” The writer slotted a pan magazine into the Degtyaryov. “I'll set this up to cover the road, all right?”

“Sure.” Tiger handed over the trophy weapon. “Let him play with that and maybe he'll behave. We'll sort out the money later.”

Jussi slung the machine gun and lifted a magazine can in each hand. “Works for me,” he grunted. “One more question... I won't publish names, but I'd like to be able to say that pathfinders are real and that I met one.”

“You can say that.”

“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

Jussi's path to Sanya's catwalk was a roundabout one, ascending via the one stairway at Kondratenko's end of the hangar. Yevgeniya filled the pot with water and set it on the fireplace as the Finnish man went up once more. “...Tiger?”

“Yes, Zhenya?”

“What did he mean about pathfinders being real?”

“I would have thought the others had told you.” A new idea came to Tiger as he contemplated his young follower. “Perhaps I'll make it your next lesson... Galya, Mitya, what's up?”

Galina answered for both. “What are we going to do about the dead?”

“We'll see whether the relief party can help us bury them. If not, the next reinforcements will do it in the morning. Anything else?”

The girl looked around briefly. “What can we do for you?”

“I don't need any help right now, but I have something here for Mitya.” Tiger stacked the boxes of Mauser cartridges in his hand. “These are higher quality than the ball ammunition you've got,” he explained. “Save them for when you need extra accuracy.”

“I will.”

“You still don't have a pistol either. See how those fit you.”

Dmitriy took the assignment with more energy than Yevgeniya had shown. “I like this one,” he said, holding up the Walther.

“Do you know the controls?”

“Safety, slide stop, magazine catch.” The boy pointed to each part as he recited their names. “Like on a PM, right?”

“Pretty much.” Tiger watched until he was sure Dmitriy remembered what he had been taught about safe handling. “Go ahead and put it on,” he instructed, handing over the holster and magazines.

“Can I practice with it?”

“Tomorrow,” Tiger promised. “We'll use the Rostok target range.” The stalker picked up a shotgun and unlocked the breech. “Why don't you see if Borya is getting lonely? I'll swap places once the food's done.”


The two lovers departed and their teacher busied himself scrubbing out the scattergun's barrels. Yevgeniya stirred the pot with a fold-up ladle, dropping more ingredients into the stew now and then, but Tiger couldn't overlook the way she kept glancing at him. “...Something wrong?”

The androgyne's cheeks pinked at his verbal prodding. Her response was a mumble.

“Speak up, I won't laugh at you.”

“I wanted... I mean, I was wondering... why is your hair like that?”

Tiger drew back his coat hood, letting light fall on the streaks of black and white overlying brown. “This?”

Yevgeniya nodded, her face reddening. “Did the Zone cause it?”

“Yeah.” He let his colors show for a few seconds, then restored the hood. “It's harmless.”


That seemed to satisfy her curiosity, and she said no more about it. The subject of mutations lingered in Tiger's mind, however, and led him back to a question he'd passed over earlier in the day. “Zhenya, is your condition treatable?”

“There's corrective surgery, but it comes with a big risk of nerve damage.” Yevgeniya scooped up some of her nascent stew and rolled it around in the ladle. “Not like that matters. I need to figure out what I am before I even think about changing myself.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

The ladle plunged deep into the pot. “It seems like it should be simple, doesn't it? I have breasts, I can get pregnant... I should be a woman, right?”

Despite feeling far out of his depth, Tiger intuited that the obvious answer wasn't the one she wanted to hear. “It's your choice,” he said neutrally.

She looked at him with an inscrutable expression. “The Zone... doesn't care?”

“The Zone doesn't care,” Tiger affirmed, “and the Zone doesn't judge.”

The words must have struck a chord. “It wasn't just me,” Yevgeniya confided, swirling the stew listlessly. “People judged my father, too.” Her hands clenched, the knuckles whitening. “Because he didn't have me fixed at birth and he raised me the only way he knew how.”

“He raised you as Yevgeniy?”

“He let me be what I wanted. I was happy, I didn't care that I was different... Then puberty hit and suddenly I wasn't just one of the boys.”

“I think I get it now.” Tiger hoped that wasn't premature optimism speaking. “Maybe this is a stupid question, but which are you attracted to?”

A new sadness came over Yevgeniya's features. “Everyone asks me that,” she replied softly, “but it doesn't help. I swing both ways.”

“Oh.” Tiger swallowed. “I didn't mean to pry – ”

“No, it's okay.” A wan smile came and went. “It's been a long time since I had anyone I could talk to.”

At that point Tiger realized he'd gotten so engrossed in drawing Yevgeniya out of her shell that he'd forgotten all about the shotgun. “I gather you lost your mother quite young,” he said, attacking the hacksawed TOZ anew. “Is that right?”

His companion nodded again. “She was sick a lot. Pneumonia took her when I was four... Her parents came to the funeral just so they could tell my father God made me this way to punish her for marrying him.”

Another piece fitted into the puzzle. “They didn't like your father?”

“They wanted their daughter to marry someone with influence. I think maybe they resented my father's family, too.”


“My father's parents were... Wait, I can show you.” The ladle clanked against the pot's lip as Yevgeniya opened her tunic pocket. “Here.”

She handed him a photograph laminated in clear plastic. It framed a group of soldiers standing and sitting along the side of a bullet-punctured truck on a city sidewalk, surrounding a male officer and a woman in baggy camouflage coveralls. A Goryunov machine gun sat before them, a Tokarev rifle with a telescopic sight propped against its wheeled mount. The photo's reverse bore a neatly penciled caption: Lt. A. A. Smirnov and his men with their guardian, Sgt. Ye. Yu. Danilina. Berlin, 5 May 1945.

“Your grandparents were both Heroes of the Soviet Union,” observed Tiger, looking at the pair's matching medals.

“Yeah, they were,” said Yevgeniya proudly. “He got his at Zaporozhye, hers in Odessa.”

“So your family have fought in this country before. They married after the war?”

“In '51. They met again at a veterans' reunion, got together and moved to Riga.”

“I see.” Tiger returned the picture. “That's why you're stateless, isn't it? Because Latvia didn't grant automatic citizenship to those who settled after annexation?”

“Nor to their children,” Yevgeniya concurred. “My father wants to live in Russia, but if I do that I won't be free to be myself.”

“Weren't there a couple of Russian girls who did songs about people like you? It was pretty popular, I heard.”

“Oh, you mean t.A.T.u.” There was a touch of bitterness in her voice. “The fakes who sang and pranced while Luzhkov called us satanists... They're done now, no more this-girl-loves-that-girl. Now we have priests and officials telling people we spread disease and prey on children, while they make us criminals for speaking out.” Yevgeniya took a deep breath and released it in a shuddering sigh. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't be venting at you. I'm really not mopey all the time, honest.”

“I forgive you.” Even so, Tiger didn't want to see his student getting worked up. Best nudge her away from this troubling topic. “Is there somewhere else you want to live?”

“Maybe Canada... I'd need a lot of money for that, though. Have to take care of my father first.”

“I remember.” The shotgun's breech clicked shut. “I don't know how well I can help you, Zhenya, but I'll try to get you started.”

“You're doing so much for me already.” Yevgeniya smiled, and this time it was a smile of hope. “You've been like a saint.”

“I'm not that nice,” Tiger muttered. “Do me one favor, will you?” He waved at the collection of handguns. “You need one. Don't keep putting it off.”

“Um, about that... Does anyone sell arms in Rostok?”

“Barkeep does, and there's also Petrenko if you're on good terms with Duty. Do you want something specific?”

“Yeah.” Yevgeniya was suddenly sheepish. “I want a TT, like my grandparents carried.”

It occurred to Tiger that his hair mightn't have been all the Latvian was checking out. He drew his Tokarev, dropped the magazine and retracted the slide. “You can have this one,” he offered. “It's Chinese, though, not Russian.”

She handled the gun as if it were porcelain. “They look smaller in pictures...” Shachak! Click! Shachak! Click! “You don't mind letting me have it?”

“I can get another if need be.” Tiger loaded the Ithaca, engaged its safety and tucked it into his vest. “This is more my style anyway.”

Yevgeniya displayed a magnificent blush. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Tiger picked up another shotgun. “You did good today, Zhenya. I mean it.”

“High adventure in an unknown land,” Jussi sang out above them. “A place where men must be the best they can, you're with the stalkers now... Whooooa-oa-oa, you're with the stalkers – now!”

Yevgeniya looked away, but Tiger could tell she was beaming.

“Now you remember what the bar-man said: don't go to sleep without a bucket on your head, you're with the stalkers now... Whooooa-oa-oa, you're with the stalkers – now!”


The radio crackled. Yevgeniy ignored it, since it had done that several times while he distributed the stew and mixed up a second potful. Tiger took the message, as he'd done for the others, but this time he got up and left his post at the hangar window. “Our relief is approaching,” he called to Jussi and Sanya. “Five men, following the road down from the checkpoint.”

“Roger,” the Finn answered.

Tiger strode past the barricade and stood facing the hangar doors, rifle in hand. Yevgeniy watched him for a minute, idly swishing the ladle about in his simmering stew. Then he heard a shout from outside: “Ahoy, fellow stalkers! May we come in?”

“You may,” Tiger replied.

Yevgeniy jumped up, suddenly feeling an odd urge to make himself presentable for the guests. He hurriedly brushed off his pants and smoothed his hair, then climbed out of the pit and stood loyally beside his teacher as the replacements entered in single file.

Their leader looked rough at first glance, with a scarred chin and a nose that had been broken more than once, but there was a good-humored glint in his eyes. He was dressed in a green stalker's suit and carried an old Kalashnikov, streaked with white where the bluing had worn off the milled steel's edges. Behind him walked a tall, goateed man sporting cargo pants and a ballistic vest, then a younger pair wearing leather jackets, one brown and one gray. The fifth stalker was clad in a suit like the first, his face hidden behind a gas mask. He held a black combat shotgun.

“Hello, brothers.” The one at the front took a hand off his gun and held it out. “Are you Tiger?”

Tiger shook the hand. “That's me.”

“I'm Sinova.” The loner moved to one side. “The big fellow is my pal Brewer. Don't let the name fool you, he's also a genius with a still... That's our hotshot Nikolay, our newest member Vasiliy – ”

“Vasiliy the coward,” the masked man huffed through his filters.

“...And the asshole in the back there is Nova. You can ignore him.”

“All right... This is Zhenya,” said Tiger, making his own introductions. “The two overhead are Sanya and Jussi.” He half-turned to the far end of the building. “That's Borya, the machine gunner, and Galya and Mitya who are keeping him company.”

The one in the gray jacket, Nikolay, spoke up. “Nice crew. They all yours?”

“Jussi and Sanya were in Lenka's group. The rest are with me.” Tiger headed back towards the pit. “I expect you're tired,” he went on. “Sit down for a bit, we've got food.”

That went over well with the new arrivals, except maybe Nova. Yevgeniy ducked past them and resumed his vigil at the fireplace, ready to serve. Brewer, Vasiliy and Nikolay packed themselves onto the couch, while Sinova perched on its armrest. Nova leaned against a wall, regarding the proceedings with a surly demeanor.

Tiger stood by Yevgeniy. “How was the Dark Valley?”

“It's quiet,” said Sinova. “The military are doing something at the factory, couldn't get close enough to see what. They've got sentries on the roof of the bandit base, too.”

“Any other stalkers over there?”

“Just a group at the pig farm, Vampire and Clumsy and some others.” Sinova frowned. “Didn't like the look of the others... We were heading for the Darkscape when the call came in.” He paused as his men unpacked their mess kits with a cacophonous clattering. “What's new here?”

Tiger shrugged. “Not much. We hold the hangar and Bes holds the trail. Haven't seen any more bandits.”

“If they attack again, they'll come at night. I should see the lay of the land before it gets dark.”

“We can do that now, if you want.”

Tiger and Sinova left the circle as Yevgeniy dished out the stew. Vasiliy and Nikolay tore into theirs at once, scarcely letting it cool. “This is really good,” the latter declared between frantic mouthfuls. “And I'm not saying that... just 'cause I haven't... had a hot meal since...”

“Nikolay,” Brewer cut in sternly. “Are you eating or talking? Make up your mind.”

“Sorry.” Nikolay quickly finished his portion and flashed a hopeful grin. “Seconds?”

“Here.” Yevgeniy refilled the plate. “Don't you want some?” he asked Nova.

“I'm not hungry.”

Nova's voice had lost some of its caustic edge, but he plainly wanted to be left alone. Instead Yevgeniy served another helping to Vasiliy and then checked Brewer's progress. The older man was dipping a piece of bread into his own plate, seemingly accustomed to his comrades' rapacity. “You must pardon the youngsters,” he said to Yevgeniy. “After days of hardtack and sausage, even army rations cooked on Esbit are a luxury.”

“I like the caramels in those rations,” Nikolay interjected wistfully. “I wish I could get a big bag of them.”

“You'd rot your teeth out,” Brewer cautioned. “Isn't that so, Zhenya?”

“Yeah...” Yevgeniy cleared his throat. “You've been in the Zone for a while, haven't you?”

“Long enough,” the distiller replied affably. “Or too long, same difference. What about it?”

“Can you tell me what a pathfinder is?”

Brewer put down his bread. “That's an interesting question, my boy. Some people say a pathfinder is another name for a druid, but I wouldn't call it that simple.”

This wasn't much help to Yevgeniy, who didn't know what a druid was either. Nor, it turned out, did Vasiliy: “What's a druid?”

“Another good question. Druids are – ”

“A bunch of stuck-up jerkoffs who go around crying that detectors are bad,” Nova snapped. “Like, our gizmos give the Zone a rash and it sends monsters to destroy them or some bullshit.” He slouched, shaking his head. “Fucking mystics.”

“More or less,” said Brewer. “It's only electronics they're opposed to. They do use guns, same as everyone else, and I guess they survive like that. Whether the rumors about them are true, though, that's a different matter.”

“What do you mean?” Yevgeniy prompted. “What rumors?”

“Supposedly these druids are touched by the Zone somehow, able to feel it and navigate it without detectors.” Brewer stroked his goatee. “They keep to themselves now, out in the badlands. Who knows if they really are special?”

“Some of them could be.” Tiger dropped, catlike, into the pit, and suddenly Yevgeniy's heart was in his mouth. “The druids are united by ideology, not ability.”

“It's the ideology that sets them apart, too. They annoyed a lot of stalkers with their preaching... But you asked about pathfinders,” Brewer continued. “There are more rumors than facts with those. If you believe the rumors, pathfinders are also a kind of people who feel the Zone – telepathic, telekinetic, whatever they call it.”

“If you believe the rumors,” Nikolay emphasized.

“Aye,” said Brewer with a nod. “What's different is that they work alone and mind their own business. You'll hear some names if you ask around: names of dead men, or of recluses who won't give you the time of day unless you show them serious money. Even then they don't talk about themselves.”

“What's there to talk about?” Nova growled. “Either they're mutants or they're not, end of story.”

Brewer paid him no heed. “What do you think, Tiger?”

“It might be true,” Tiger deadpanned. “There are many strange things in the Zone... Aren't there, Zhenya?”

Yevgeniy gulped.


It was near dusk when the band set out, leaving the hangar in Sinova's care. Jussi and Sanya stayed behind, the former to operate his machine gun if needed and the latter's pocket packed with rubles from Tiger's cash reserve. The veteran led his charges north to the checkpoint, where the Duty guards vetted them with jaundiced eyes before opening the gate. Then they went among the anomalies one by one and onward towards Rostok. The sky had clouded over entirely and the air was still.

Yevgeniy was still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The exposure of his physical defect had been an accident. Humiliating, yes, but an accident all the same. What happened after that, whether from emotional upset or sheer carelessness, was his own doing. Once sober reason caught up, the realization that he'd said so much, even outed himself, to someone who'd been his mortal enemy a day ago carried an ugly surreality. Then he'd made it worse, going behind his benefactor's back to sate his shortsighted curiosity. If Tiger wanted to punish Yevgeniy for his indiscretion, or ruin him entirely, it would take but a word.

Admittedly Tiger had so far shown no interest in doing that. He simply marched ahead in silence, the stockless AK dangling by its looped sling under his weak arm. If Jussi's remarks and Brewer's tale meant what Yevgeniy thought they meant, however, then the man in the long coat might be a formidable –

“Stop.” Tiger swung to the right, pointing the AKS into the woods beside the road. “Something's coming,” he warned. “Spread out.”

In an instant Yevgeniy's mistrust was forgotten. “Bloodsucker?” he squeaked.


Then what? The Latvian hadn't the courage to ask what. He raised the G36 with quaking hands, poised to open fire at first glimpse of the threat.

“It's close,” Tiger muttered. “Don't move until I tell you.”

“What's close?” Kondratenko sounded nearly as frightened as Yevgeniy. “Where is it?”

Tiger didn't answer him. “Zhenya, hold still and don't panic.”

Wide eyes raked the forest's murk, desperately seeking the intruder. A fragment from an old movie ran through Yevgeniy's mind: the jungle hunter's transparent outline, its inhuman eyes flashing yellow and fading away.

An invisible hand stroked his cheek.

“Tiger – !”

“Don't move!”

Yevgeniy was already stiff with terror. The unseen fingers roamed over his body as if he were naked, exploring his skin the way he imagined a blind person would, or a lover in the dark. A whimper escaped his lips as they slid down the front of his chest, settled on either hip for a moment, then crept up his back. Hands grew into arms, encircling the helpless androgyne. There was a brief sensation of something nuzzling the side of his neck, the faintest hint of a breath in his ear. The phantom arms withdrew, something nudged Yevgeniy's shoulder, and then it was gone.

“So the Lonesome Ghost isn't a myth.” Tiger almost sounded impressed. “Interesting.”
  00:17:44  2 September 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007
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On page twelve, still have a big chunk to do.
  03:46:17  22 August 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
08/22/2012 3:46:34
Messages: 3336
Next chapter is about half done. Going to try and finish it by the end of the month.

A general note: while I've stayed true to game geography in the story so far, I'm going to be prioritizing real world accuracy once the narrative moves towards the center of the Zone. This mainly affects real locations featured in Call of Pripyat, since nearly all of them are placed inaccurately.
  13:34:12  8 May 2012
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
Interesting stuff there, mate. Maybe it's a writerly thing, maybe it's just because I can be a nosy 'bar-steward', but for me it's always interesting to get a peek behind the curtain.
From a reader's POV, 'Tiger's...' had me hooked from that first scene. Here were 2-D characters familiar from the game acting in 3-D ways, and the fact you'd created this 'stuff in game is just part of their life' vibe so well was enough to make me want more.
And yes, I know I've been very slack in reading and commenting. No promises except for another promise to get round to it sooner rather than later. OK?

Ghosts of Limansk sounds interesting...and maybe like it could still be done, if tweaked to take it away from what's already been covered. (Possibly as 'the full story of Olga'?)

I know what you mean as well about losing entire sub-plots, arcs becoming diverted, etc. In my case - and maybe yours too - that happens more or less organically during the writing: characters just don't want to do or say the things you thought they might (or wanted them to); other times it's just that a better(?) idea comes along anyway.
I guess it depends on how much you plot, and how rigidly you stick to it.
(Personally, I don't have some megalith-type Plot That Must Be Obeyed. I might have guidelines and reminder notes - again, the period of writing means some things slide or get forgotten about - but ultimately it goes where it will. Revisions and rewrites, now...I've had to put in long loops to haul everything back to where it originally went on numerous occasions.)

But...hell, three years? Doesn't seem that long (mind you, SB will be 3 in September! Not too bad considering it was meant to be a 'long short' story of about 20-25k words).
For my money, anyway, 'Tiger's...' is one of the best - if not the best - STALKER stories out there. It might have been a long haul, but you've also done a good job.
  22:01:44  7 May 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
05/08/2012 20:38:39
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Thinking out loud

It's been a long three years.

I didn't have high hopes for Tiger's Spring when I impulsively hammered out the first four pages in a single afternoon. I wasn't sure if I would continue it or let it sink and move on to another project. The encouragement of the readers made that choice for me.

For me it's interesting (and a little surreal) to look back today and see how the story evolved beyond those first pages, growing from a series of linked vignettes into a narrative with an overarching plotline and a consistent set of characters.

It could have been very different.

Tiger's Spring wasn't the story I thought I'd be writing. The first chapter was essentially a pitch for a character I'd come up with, having no plot and no purpose beyond the scope of that pitch. The rest fell into place as I worked out the next few chapters.

There were two other contenders before Tiger. One was White Sun of the Garbage, an affectionate parody of the famous Vladimir Motyl film. It placed Wolf in the role of Sukhov, tasked with protecting a harem of scientists from the dastardly Black Borov.

The other, Ghosts of Limansk, would have been the tale of a young woman entering the Zone in search of ______, guided by a mysterious stranger in a SEVA suit. The protagonist's arrival in the Cordon became the basis for Olga's first appearance in Tiger, while Tiger himself inherited most of the stranger's personality.

Behind the scenes, Tiger changed drastically over the first chapters.

Tiger was originally envisioned as a more aloof and mysterious character, always seen only from the perspective of others. He was one of a group of mutated humans called 'strangers' (not to be confused with the stranger NPC faction assigned to rookie stalkers in alpha builds of the game), who represented a middle ground between ordinary human stalkers and hostile mutants.

The idea of strangers as an organized group was discarded, but some references to Tiger being in contact with others like himself made it into the final cut. The Red Forest pseudogiant hunting mini-arc was originally drafted as the scene of a meeting between Tiger and fellow strangers.

An entire subplot was cut to make way for the Worm+Drifter arc, involving Tiger journeying east to the bank of the Pripyat River in search of Baker, the stranger responsible for all the bread in the Zone.

The storyline stabilized around chapter seven, though some scenes in later installments were shortened or dropped due to time constraints or problems with pacing.

-Tiger's interaction with the half-zombified Worm in The Social Life of Zombies was longer. Worm's babbling implied that he made it into X16 and saw the vat-brain before he succumbed to the psi-emissions.

-Olga's reminiscence about the faction wars at the end of Arms and the Man was slated as a flashback scene from her point of view, exploring her thoughts and feelings as she covertly supported Tiger while in disguise.

-The reconciliation scene in Seven Six Two included Olga giving Tiger more details on the birth of their son.

-An alternate ending to Children of a Broken Empire was considered, in which Olga died and Southpaw lived.

-After storming the Clear Sky base, the mercs and stalkers would discover that the Paladin commanders had been listening to a numbers station seemingly located in _______. The mystery broadcast element was ultimately worked into Zelenko's backstory.

-The love scene between Tiger and Olga was longer (though not more explicit). In addition to the Zelenko affair, Tiger and Olga were meant to discuss the SBU's suspicions about Lebedev, its view of Tiger as both a threat and an asset, and what Tiger actually saw on the day the Zone appeared.

-A large scene was cut from the end of The Hand of Zelenko, in which Tiger escorted Olga back to the Clear Sky base, had a wary encounter with the reinforcement troops, and made a final farewell to Southpaw and the other casualties.

-____ would ________ in ___ ______ on the way to _____ after Tiger ______ Limansk.

I might still use that last one.

Now that I've rambled enough, I'd like to thank everyone whose support has made this happen, and I hope you'll keep supporting it until the bizarre and bitter end.
  20:08:37  2 May 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007
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  20:50:52  24 April 2012
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
Great reading
I would say it was worth the waiting if not for the risk of having to wait just as long for the next chapter.
  06:59:13  24 April 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
We aim to sneeze.

The West is a Delicate Matter

The cartridge belt in the box under Tiger's arm jingled as he stepped from one concrete tie to the next. A few paces before him walked Yevgeniy, sweeping the tracks with Southpaw's shotgun. Galina and Dmitriy followed after the stalker, and last came Kondratenko. Rusting rails framed their path, dotted with green shoots poking up from the coarse gravel ballast below. On both sides, the railway embankment sloped gently into the surrounding woods.

The combat in the swamps cost Tiger one friend and three comrades. Its upheavals gave him the best partner he could have asked for and then tore her away, granting him barely time enough to repair their relationship. He didn't dwell on the casualties: harsh experience had fortified him against lingering grief, leaving a detached regret for those who would not return. To expand on Olga's metaphor, he'd lost his Sayid and his Katerina Matveyevna, and gained a brace of Petrukhas and a harem of two. Now he had to think forward, about his responsibility for his pupils, for Olga, and for the son he'd never met.

The trek was going well, though he could feel the others' stamina beginning to wane as they advanced towards the broken bridge. He'd tried to spread the load equitably, allotting the heaviest shares to Kondratenko and himself, but there was simply too much they needed to carry: German's fishing rod, Vitka's detector, machine gun ammunition, rifle grenades, night sights... Once they made it to Rostok, he could rent a locker at the Hundred Rads and lay up the excess weight. The hard part was getting there.

“We'll take a break at the rookie village,” Tiger told the party. “It's not much farther.”

Strong as Galina's determination ran, her relief at the news was evident. “Are there many villages around here?”

Only one,” the loner replied. “Inhabited, I mean... It's not really a village, just some houses and an old bunker. There's a trader, and a couple of veterans who run things.”

“Can we get food there?” asked Kondratenko hopefully.

“Yes, we can get food.” Food and whatever else they lacked. The bag of artifacts inside Tiger's coat, harvested by dead men for a battle in which they were never needed, would pay for everything. For his own part, he wouldn't be sorry to see the baubles gone.

The sun disappeared behind a raft of clouds, leaving the travelers in shadow. Here the trees on either flank thinned out and the gradient dropped off more steeply. “We've reached the Cordon,” said Tiger. “Zhenya, stop.”

The Latvian looked back at him, nonplussed. “We're not going to the bridge?”

“Not yet.” The stalker pointed to the right, where a barbed wire fence partitioned the boulder-strewn hillside below them. “The village is that way. Follow me.” He left the rails and headed for a round outcrop of rock among the scattered evergreens. “This fence was damaged in a storm last year,” the guide narrated, “and boars marked a trail over it. Every time the army fixes the fence, the boars knock it down again.”

It was just as he said. Past the rocks, one of the fence's uprights had been ripped out of the soil and lengths of severed wire lay twisted in the grass. Tiger stepped across the gap, waited for the others to rejoin him, and started towards the village, keeping the derelict grain elevator and the main road on his left. The ground in front was uneven, with bushes and small anomalies crowning a broad ridge.

“Nearly there... Just over this – ”

The shooting came from straight ahead, pistol reports and shotgun blasts and overlapping bursts of automatic fire in a ragged volley that lasted only a couple of seconds. Tiger was down on one knee, his assault rifle readied for immediate action, before it ended. The novices hesitated at the sudden tumult, wasting precious moments in their confusion.

Kondratenko recovered his wits quickest. He scooted to the head of the formation, raising the machine gun's ladder sight. “What is that?”


“Ha-hah!” A triumphant shout rang loud in the distance. “That'll teach 'em to stay out of our camp!”

“Settle down, Tolik... Is anyone hurt?”

The second voice was Fanatic's. “They're friendlies,” Tiger breathed, relaxing his stance. “Let's go around to the back, just to be safe.”

He led his followers west and then south, taking a route which arced past the anomaly-choked garbage pit. The village looked and sounded perfectly normal when they reached it – normal except for the six dead men in blue and gray who had been laid in a row outside the high wooden fence. A rookie stalker stood watch at the back gate, cradling an AK-74 with a prominent smear of blood on its stock. Narrow eyes peered out from under the hood of his fawn jacket, checking the visitors with jaded wariness.

“What happened here?” Tiger asked him.

“Mercs.” The rookie jerked his head backwards. “You want details, go see the boss.”

“I will.” Tiger motioned for the others to close up behind him and moved on.

He counted two rookies patrolling the dirt track between the rows of houses, one posted at the front entrance facing the road, and two more perched on the roof of the center house in the north row. All of them carried matching Kalashnikovs. The remainder were clustered around the fireplace. Looking over their heads, Tiger identified Fanatic's stubble-dark round face, but not the leaner features of Wolf.

The older man nodded at him. “Morning, Tiger.”

“Good morning.”

“I heard you went on Duty's swamp raid. Find out who's been killing our guys?”

Tiger nodded. “It looked like a foreign PMC,” he explained, circling the fire. “We skirmished with them a couple of times, then the army came in. The rest of our group was lost.”

“All of them? Damn... What about the bad guys?”

“Out of action.” Seeing that his replacement companions were waiting for guidance, Tiger turned away momentarily. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

“That's a nice litter you brought back,” Fanatic opined, examining the strangers' mosaic of civilian clothing, uniform fragments and Clear Sky trappings with bemusement. “Where'd you find them?”

“We rescued a pair from the enemy and the others wandered into the swamps after us,” said Tiger, extending Kondratenko's story to cover Yevgeniy. “I'm taking them to Rostok.”

“Getting to Rostok is tricky right now,” Fanatic warned. “You might be better off waiting.”

“Does this have something to do with the dead mercenaries back there?”

“I hope not.” The veteran settled himself on his milk crate stool and brushed off the makeshift chair beside it. “Have a seat.”

Tiger sat. “I haven't heard any news since I left for the raid. What's going on?”

“I'll start with the mercs... They showed up yesterday afternoon, saying they were going to take over this place and make a camp. The bastards gave us until morning to pack up and get out.” Fanatic reached under the stool and picked up a soda can. “They camped up the road overnight, but without Wolf here we didn't have enough good fighters to face them in the open.” The can gave a serpentine hiss as he popped its top. “So I decided to nail them with an ambush, right here in the village. Told our boys to hide and aim at the mercs' legs, where they don't wear armor... Luckily Marked One showed up at the last minute.”

The name stirred up a feeling of unease in Tiger. “Is he here?”

“Nope.” The other loner noisily slurped his drink. “He dropped in to see Sidorovich, stayed long enough to help with our defense, and took off straight after. Busy as a bee, that one.”

“Mm.” Tiger disentangled the ammo box and set it on the ground. “Where's Wolf?”

“He went north to make a delivery. Won't be back for a few days.” Fanatic clamped the soda between his knees. “Great timing,” he grumbled. “Mercenary greed today, bandits on our backs tomorrow.”

“Borov is launching an offensive?”

Fanatic shook his head. “Spetsnaz raided the Dark Valley last night... Went in with helicopters, right after the blowout. They hit the factory and the bandit base, blocked off the trail to the Garbage, but ignored the stalkers at the pig farm. Most of the grunts pulled out after three, three and a half hours.”

“I see,” said Tiger thoughtfully. “So the army finally shut Borov down?”

“Guess so. Word is that the man himself ate a bullet.” Fanatic drank from his can again. “Trouble is, some of his thugs got away, laid low until the soldiers left, then crossed the Garbage right under our noses. They joined up with the bandits at the Agroprom and came back in force... Now those sons of bitches have retaken the checkpoints on the western road and the old track, and I don't expect they'll stop there.”

Neither did Tiger. There was an undeniable prudence in sitting out the crisis, here in the relative comfort and safety of the Cordon, but staying meant leaving his charges within easy striking distance of any enemies they might have outside the perimeter.

Better the threat you know than the one you don't.

“I'll risk it,” he told Fanatic. “If we make it to Rostok before dark, I can double back and help our people.”

“Up to you.”

“I'd better talk to Sidorovich and buy supplies.” Tiger got up, his muscles protesting their interrupted recovery. “By the way, is Nimble around?”

“No, he's out on a job. I can take a message for you.”

“I'd appreciate it... Tell him the stash is in the usual place. I took what I needed and the rest is his.”


“...If you do encounter a bloodsucker, or you think one is near, the best thing to do is find a wide, open space and keep moving. Force it to chase you – even if you can't see it, you'll hear it panting.”

Yevgeniy, walking at his elbow, was close to panting himself. “Why?”

“Running while cloaked puts a heavy load on its metabolism, making it use up oxygen very quickly.” Tiger let the anxious youth digest that for a few seconds. “An exhausted bloodsucker gives itself away with every breath.”

“But I heard bullets go right through them when they're invisible...”

“Not true,” said the stalker firmly. “If you shoot at a bloodsucker and it doesn't go down, you're not hitting it hard enough or not hitting at all.”

“We heard the same thing,” Dmitriy volunteered. “I don't believe it after what I saw yesterday.”

“It's a common superstition,” Tiger admitted. “Has been since the faction wars.” He halted. “We're here.”

So far, so good. He'd sold all the artifacts to Sidorovich as planned, along with Olga's customized suit. Tiger would have found a use for that, but it had been his partner's final request: a last favor to give the death of her Tourist persona legitimacy. In any case, he couldn't complain about the way Sidorovich's rate of exchange tipped in his favor once he offered the trader that unique loot.

It was nearly midday when the party left the rookie village, following the road north. There was nobody posted at the bridge, saving Tiger the expense of a bribe, nor anybody camped at the pig farm. The weather was mild, partly cloudy with a light wind that sighed through the trees. Now and then it settled down, replaced by the distant barking of blind dogs.

What a nice day for fighting.

Tiger wasn't eager to fight again, not while he had these neophytes to care for. It was their good luck to have missed out on the ambush at the rookie village – if only that luck would hold out a little longer, until they'd put the Garbage behind themselves... If not, there would be a trial by fire for all of them. It remained to be seen whether Kondratenko could keep his fear under control, and whether the Belarusians' resolve would hold up when the bullets started flying.

The biggest variable in the equation was Yevgeniy, a bundle of nerves strung tight as piano wire. At first the veteran let him be, giving him a chance to calm down on his own. When that didn't help, Tiger called a brief rest at the upper checkpoint and confronted him pointblank. The Latvian soon folded under pressure and confessed his preoccupying terror of bloodsuckers.

Tiger resolved to set him straight quickly, and dispel whatever absurd rumors this hapless youngster had picked up outside the Zone. He started with a concise account of his former team's run-in with, and slaughter of, the hunting pack in the marshes, then shifted into a lecture on the bloodsuckers' preferred habitats and the methods of escaping them. Further lessons would have to wait, however: in front of the would-be stalkers stood a broad gate, half-open, nestled between two hills.

“This is the Garbage?” asked Yevgeniy, looking at it with almost an expression of reverence.

“This is where it starts.” Tiger picked up the pace anew. “Keep your voices down.”

Several meters behind the gate sat a box truck, lying perpendicular to the road with its driver door hanging open. Tiger headed right for the derelict. “Okay,” he said as the group joined him beside it, under the shade of the looming trees. “There's a stalker camp nearby. I'll go alone to make sure it's safe.” Working methodically, he divested himself of inessential weight. “Stay here until I signal you.”

He ducked around the vehicle's forward end and covered the first stretch in a low sprint. Behind the box truck sat an open bed cargo truck, an Ulyanovsk jeep and an armored personnel carrier – remnants of an army convoy caught in a blowout and surrendered to the strange elements. Tiger took cover by the APC's yellow hull, ignoring the old bloodstains on the ground around its tires. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary ahead, only the ribbon of cracked tarmac and chain of utility poles winding northward among the junk heaps.

There was no cover to be had in the next part. Tiger dashed to the left, anticipating the turnoff to the vehicle yard, and beheld the yard itself in a few moments. There were six stalkers dug in around the campfire pit, poised to intercept an attack from the west. The southern path to the Agroprom lay in that direction, below the ridge at the far end of the yard, but it was open to attack by bandits coming down from the Agroprom road as well.

“Bes!” The man's voice carried barely far enough to meet Tiger's ears. “Friendly, coming from behind!”

Seeing that he was recognized, Tiger hustled around the white Zaporozhets at the yard gate and ran to the fire pit. The brooding, mustachioed visage of Bes greeted him with a curt nod. “Right on time,” the camp leader remarked. “Fanatic said you're bringing up some newbies with heavy weapons.”

“A handful.” The new arrival sought refuge behind the skeletal chassis by the pit. “What are we up against?”

“Eleven bandits at the trail, fifteen or so on the road. Lenka Hunchback is holding the hangar with five men. Seriy organized a relief crew at the Hundred Rads, but they ran into a big pack of dogs coming out of Rostok. They got chewed up pretty bad and had to carry back three of their guys.”

Tiger tugged at his rifle's magazine, assuring himself that it was fully seated. “And Duty?”

“Sitting on their asses up at the pipeline,” Bes snorted. “We're on our own here... Suits me fine! If we left it to them, we'd never hear an end to the gloating.”

“Mm.” Tiger looked about, gauging the strength of the stalkers' defense. “I can give you food and ammunition,” he offered, “but I don't know if my group can handle a fight.”

“We've got supplies here,” said Bes. “Take whatever you can spare to Lenka's boys. If you could stick around for a while, that'd be even better.”

“I'll try,” Tiger declared. “What's your plan?”

“Haven't agreed on that yet,” Bes conceded. “Either we attack them before the sun's in our faces, or we hunker down and get set for a night battle. I'd strike now if I had more men.”

“What about the bandits' objectives?”

“Same as last time... Take the hangar, cut the Garbage in half, keep Duty tied up until Freedom makes a move. They must figure we've gotten soft, having Duty around.”

“They figure wrong.” Tiger made ready to move again. “I'll go and see how things are with Hunchback, then we'll work out what to do.”

“All right. Don't take too long or we'll lose our daylight window.”

“I know.”

The guide fast retraced his steps back to the truck. “They want us to meet with the stalkers at the railway hangar up the road,” he explained to the rookies as he grabbed his ammo box. “Stay behind me and don't talk.”

Ahead, the first of the junk piles, a great mass of atomic dirt and tangled industrial wreckage, loomed over the vehicle yard. The forlorn husks of a couple of Chelyabinsk bulldozers lay on the man-made mountain's slope, awaiting the touch of operators who'd never come back. The road curved to the right, snaking around the foot of the heap. Tiger stayed on the pavement, walking well clear of the gravity anomalies shimmering above the weeds, and the rest followed him single file.


The pain in Yevgeniy's abdomen was getting worse.

It was a sharp pain, unlike the aching in his legs and shoulders, and it hadn't gone away when he rested. He tried to hide his discomfort, anxious not to aggravate Tiger's distaste for his company. Galina noticed something was wrong after the senior stalker went ahead to meet his comrades, but Yevgeniy had waved her off with a feeble excuse of stomachache.

He was already regretting that foolish bluff, though he didn't dare speak up now. They were back on the road, and Tiger seemed even more humorless after he returned from the meeting. He must have gotten bad news, or heard something that upset his plans. Until he gave a clearer sign of what those plans were, Yevgeniy could only march after him and hope that the pain would not become unbearable.

He could have taken the easy way out, the sniper reminded himself as he cast about for something else to occupy his thoughts. He could have accepted the blond woman's offer to guide him out of the Zone. He could have been cozy and sheltered as a guest of the Ukrainian penal system. He could have spared himself this ordeal... But he hadn't, because taking the soft route would condemn Maksim Smirnov to a lonely, impoverished twilight.

A hand patted Yevgeniy's shoulder, startling him. He looked up to find Kondratenko walking at his side. The gesture of stoic solidarity lifted his mood a little, bringing a timid smile to his face: Borya was a kindred spirit, a man who chose to stay and confront his fear of the Zone head on.

Then Yevgeniy heard the gunfire, and his fragile cheer evaporated.

Suddenly Tiger was running. “It's started! Come on!”

Kondratenko ran after him. Yevgeniy tried to catch up, but Galina and Dmitriy overtook the sniper even as his lungs burned. He finished a distant last, all but staggering around the bend in the road. The way forward was blocked by a small bus, its blue and white paint stained with reddish brown, and the others were huddled along its side.

“Zhenya...” The leader was short of breath too. “You all right?”

Yevgeniy nodded, his heart racing inside his chest. Ahead and to his left, the shooting continued.

“We have to join the defense.” Tiger shook off one of his ammo packs and pushed it towards the Latvian. “Have your automatics ready,” he instructed. “If they catch us in the open, use the trees for cover.”

Inside the pack were translucent plastic magazines, nestled in pairs and fastened together by studs molded into their sides. Picking up the G36, which until now had only been dead weight on his back, Yevgeniy unfolded its stock and inserted a magazine.


Tiger heard the poomf of a grenade detonating as he tore open the mag pouches on his vest. “The hangar has catwalks,” he called. “All around the inside, with stairs up to the roof. There's a control booth on a platform at the far end – it's a good firing position.” The loner tucked his rifle into the crook of his arm and crawled to the right, towards the front wheel. “Stand by to move!”

“Scared?” murmured Kondratenko, falling in behind him.

“Yeah,” Yevgeniy replied quietly. “You?”

“I'm not afraid of any bandits.”

“Let's go,” Tiger ordered tersely. “After me!”

From here, nothing looked out of place: the second junk heap on the right, the hangar on the left, and the road, lined with sturdy trees, passing between them. Sensing that the watchtower outside the hangar and the lean-to across the road were both empty, Tiger made a beeline for the east gate in the hangar complex's outer wall, a solid brick barrier too high to climb and topped with barbed wire.

There were still living bodies in the hangar itself: he couldn't tell which side they were on, but the unabating gunshots meant at least some of them were allies. Tiger was almost halfway to the gate when four bandits appeared from around the far corner, coming straight at him along the south side.


The AKS-74 roared. One of the criminals dropped like an unstrung puppet as his mates scattered. An enemy bullet flew low and landed short, throwing up clods of dirt. “Get into the hangar!” the guide yelled between bursts. “Go! Go!”


Galina reached the gate first, and the others stacked up behind her. “Attention!” she hailed. “Stalkers, help is coming!”

“Awesome!” came the reply. “Hurry up!”

“Come on!” The girl and boy led the way, submachine guns at low ready, and Yevgeniy and Kondratenko followed them. Inside the hangar's cavernous maw, a pair of men were crouching behind a barricade of cement blocks, metal crates and similar debris. One wore a gray windbreaker and the other was clad in camouflage fatigues, armed with a long-barreled automatic rifle. “You!” Galina barked. “Where are the rest?”

“All gone!” The man in the windbreaker fired his pistol. “It's just us and the scum out there!”

“Damn it... Urrraaaaaaaa!”

Galina cut loose with the PPSh, its muzzle flash blazing like a strobe in the gloom. To the left of the barricade lay a large wooden cable spool: the Belarusian knelt behind it and fired again as Yevgeniy hastened after her, cringing at the noise. Lifting his rifle, he sidestepped until he had a clear line of vision down the hangar. Peering through the little window of the reflex sight, he saw slumped and huddled bodies but no movement.

All of a sudden the shooting stopped completely.

“They're retreating.” The rifleman spoke with a strong accent, very different from either the native speech or Yevgeniy's Baltic dialect. “Perkele, that was close!”

“Don't relax yet,” his comrade warned. “What group are you guys with?”

“Mine,” said Tiger, coming in after the vanguard. “We came up from the Cordon. Bes told me Lenka needed supplies.”

The stalker aimed his Beretta at the ceiling and decocked it. “Lenka's dead,” he told the veteran. “The bandits gave us a real mauling... I'm Sanya Deadeye.”

“Jussi Salonen,” the other added.

“Call me Tiger.” The selfsame man went to the barricade and stood behind Dmitriy and Jussi. “What happened?”

“First they picked off Denis, our lookout,” Sanya recounted, “and then they rushed us. Lenka went forward to head them off at the gate with Romka and Fyodor, but the gangsters killed them.”

“The bandits have a machine gun and a grenade launcher at the roadblock,” Jussi supplemented. “I thought I heard shooting on our south side as well.”

“We intercepted a detachment trying to sneak around to your rear,” Tiger confirmed. “I'm sorry we didn't get here sooner.”

While the others talked, Yevgeniy took a few seconds to orient himself. A pair of railroad tracks ran into the hangar through its west end, terminating at the bottom of the U-shaped loading platform on which he stood. There was a drab boxcar at the end of the left track, behind the barricade, and the platform and rails were littered with steel drums and more spools. Outside the hangar's far end, another boxcar sat on the right hand track, surrounded by square steel cargo containers. Over the doorway hung a platform, one side enclosed by corrugated green walls.

“...Who had radios?”

“Only Lenka,” Sanya replied. “It's on his body, unless the bandits took it.”

“I'll see if I can find it,” Tiger decided. “Meanwhile I want the rest of you to drop all your non-critical gear – keep only weapons, ammo, canteens and medical kits. Put everything you don't need in the pit over there. Zhenya, leave that shotgun too.”

He ventured forth and the others went to work. Shedding some of his load brought Yevgeniy blessed relief, despite the ache in his belly. “Galya,” he asked softly, “did you get your man?”

“He was running away,” she answered candidly. “I shot to make him run faster.”

“Oh...” Tiger hadn't said it clearly, but Yevgeniy was sure that he intended to keep the group here for a while. If that bandit didn't take this chance to quit the battleground, Galina's mercy would be in vain.

“How much ammunition do you have?” Kondratenko queried as the Latvian walked past, carrying his unneeded equipment to the pit.

“About thirty rounds of seven-six-two, and forty-five of nine millimeter.” Jussi moved over to the middle of the barricade and sat down with his back to it, laying his FAL across his lap. “Sanya?”

“One full magazine and one half empty. I'll have to take a bigger shooter from a corpse.”

Yevgeniy went back to the spool, taking Galina's place while she made her own gear drop. She didn't come back immediately, stopping for a few moments with her boyfriend instead. Listening to them, Yevgeniy felt a pang of envy and then a flush of shame. To have that kind of bond, so simple, so normal, even in a place like this...

Sanya's voice intruded on his thoughts. “You okay, dude?”

“Mmf.” Yevgeniy lifted his face reluctantly and got a rude shock for the effort: up close, Sanya's right eye was an unremarkable brown hue, but the iris of the left had a pale, washed-out color. “Eep..!”

“Oops.” Sanya seemed amused by his reaction. “Didn't notice the dead-eye before, huh?”

Tiger came back at that moment, sparing Yevgeniy from prolonged embarrassment. “What's the problem?”

“No problem,” said Sanya. “Did you find the radio?”

“Yes, I found it. There's some shrapnel damage to the outer case, but it powers on.” Propping his Kalashnikov against the barricade, Tiger squinted at the device's LCD display. “I hope this is the right channel... Tiger calling Bes, Tiger calling Bes, are you receiving? Over.”


“Zhenya, come here.”

Yevgeniy had to crawl on his hands and knees, the G36 swinging under him with its sling clamped between his teeth – like a dog bringing a stick to his master. The platform was rough and cool under his palms. Wouldn't it feel nice to just drop the gun and stretch out, letting that coolness flow into him until he couldn't feel the pain anymore?


Tiger wasn't even looking at him. The leader was busy with his little binoculars, his coat's hood pulled low over his face to help him blend into the shadows. Reaching Tiger's side in due time, Yevgeniy bowed his head until the assault rifle's plastic frame rested on concrete, dark gray over light.

“Take a look.” Tiger handed him the binoculars. “The bandit with the cap, do you see him?”

Yevgeniy saw the blurred sill of the window in front of him and the intersecting safety bars affixed to the catwalk outside. An electrical insulator came into focus, dangling from the gantry over the tracks. Panning right, he saw a locomotive sitting at the arched mouth of a tunnel, beyond the gate in the west wall. That was the wrong way. Going back to the insulator, he spotted his quarry on the second pass.

The bandit was a big man, with a lantern jaw and broad back. He wore high boots and a leather jacket, cut differently than the others Yevgeniy had seen, and a field cap tipped well back on his head. A submachine gun hung under his arm, bouncing against his side as he paced one way and then another. “I see him,” said the sniper, taking shelter once more. “Who is he?”

“Fritz,” Tiger muttered. “He fits the description, anyway.”


“He's a Volga German. Used to be a skinhead, came here after his old gang got busted. During the faction wars, he massacred Duty prisoners and made a necklace out of their dog tags. General Voronin offered a bounty to whoever kills him and brings back the tags, but then Fritz disappeared for a while.” Tiger reclaimed his binoculars. “Can you do it?”

“Me?” This was a trick, it had to be. “Don't you want..?”

“I don't need the money.”

“Then...” Yevgeniy looked behind himself, where Sanya sat outside the control booth with Kondratenko's carbine in his hands. “Shouldn't they take it?” he protested. “Those bandits killed their friends.” Turning the other way, he could see Jussi perched inside the roof hatch on the catwalk above Tiger, watching the hole in the north side of the outer wall. “I'm sure Jussi could do this.”

Tiger was unmoved. “You can split the bounty,” he said bluntly, “or give it all to them if you like.” He lifted the second rifle off Yevgeniy's back. “But I want you to make the shot.”

“I – ”

“You know what these bandits will do to Galya if they catch her. They'll do it to Mitya, and to you too, just because they can.”

Yevgeniy finally understood. “All right,” he whispered. “All right. I'll do it.”

The sun was still high in the sky, favoring a shooting position in the shadows at the rear of the platform, so Yevgeniy backed away from the wide gallery windows before he began his preparation. The SSG-82 felt curiously comfortable in his hands, its shape so alike to the old Suhl 150 which had been his favorite practice gun. Familiarity brought calm as he removed the lens caps and sighted in. The scope offered limited power, with a simple crossbar-and-post reticule in the German style, but was of good quality. It showed its pedigree in white letters atop the elevation knob: Carl Zeiss Jena DDR.

Fritz was still pacing, full of pent up energy. It looked as though he was arguing with someone hidden behind the slabs of prefabricate concrete which blocked the road, the vehemence of the gestures making up for whatever the dispute lacked in volume. Did Fritz not realize how exposed he was? Did he think he faced only a few under-gunned and demoralized neutrals? Or did he simply not care?

The marked man wouldn't pace much longer: Yevgeniy wrapped the sling around his supporting arm, taking up the slack. Cupping the ball at the bolt handle's end, he lifted it and chambered a round in almost perfect silence. His slender body straightened as he found his balance, his breathing deep and slow. He followed his target's motion, mentally comparing the flatter trajectory of the 5.45mm ammunition against the ballistics of the .22 rimfires he'd grown up on. The question of the money was gone from his mind entirely. So was the pain. Only the shot mattered now.

The bandit stopped abruptly, extending his arm as he turned. Yevgeniy squeezed, felt the trigger break cleanly, and heard the crack of a fifty-five grain Barnaul hollowpoint closing the gap in a millisecond.


Fritz swayed on his feet, staring at the wound in his side. The brigand met his death like many who perished in the Zone before him, struggling with his last thoughts to comprehend his own mortality. After a long moment, he fell backwards into the grass behind the concrete and vanished from sight. Another bandit appeared, carrying a rifle with an underbarrel launcher. He rushed to the slain chief. Tiger raised the Lee-Enfield.


The bullet impacted low and left, pulverizing the second bandit's hip. He toppled sideways with a howl. Tiger ducked, ejecting the spent cartridge from his gun. They'd kicked the nest – now to see whether the hornets came out. At any moment Bes and his group would begin their assault on the trailhead, and the bandits' reaction to it could determine the next move.

“Get up!” a hoarse voice bellowed. “Get up, you cocksuckers, or I'll kill you myself!”

Tiger peered over the window's frame. A bandit in a long coat seemed to have taken charge, a silvery pistol glinting in the sunlight as he goaded his cohorts forward.

Here we go.

“Vanya, cover us!”

The enemy advanced in an amorphous wave. At the same time, the elusive roadblock machine gunner showed himself among the slabs and pipes. Tiger centered the silhouetted head and shoulders in his sights. “Borya, go!”

Kondratenko rose from his crouched concealment under the rightmost window, planted the M60's bipod on the sill, and took aim.

Tatatatatatatata! Tatatata! Tatatata!


The hostile gunner pulled his head down just as Tiger shot, narrowly escaping a full metal jacket haircut. He blind-fired in return, blasting chunks of brick out of the wall above the stalkers. When he came up again, the loner was ready. This time his aim was true: dark matter sprayed into the air and the opposing machine gun slipped backwards off its perch, still discharging as its master fell.

“Tiger!” Kondratenko cried. “The gate!”

Three bandits had broken away when the deserter's gun swept the killing field. One reached temporary shelter under the wall to the left of the railway gate, while the others dashed to the right. “Jussi!” Tiger shouted, anticipating their course. “Look alert!”

The nearest thug must have heard him. “Hey, ass-face!” he crowed. “Here's a lemon for you to suck on!”

Tiger lunged to the window and fired at the voice behind the gate's rusted panels. He wrenched the bolt open, not daring to wait for sensory confirmation of a hit, but it wouldn't close when he tried to push it forward. The loner discarded his jammed rifle, snatching up the nearest substitute. A small object sailed over the gate, struck the roof of the boxcar and deflected to the left.


The hand bomb exploded at the hangar's threshold, throwing fragments against the platform's underside and drawing a cry from Yevgeniy. There was a quick boom-boom-boom as Jussi stopped the flanking bandits at the breach, and the last one standing took to his heels. Tiger brought the AK to bear, aligned his eye with the notch and post, and dropped the running man with a perfunctory burst in the back. As the last empty casing rolled away and the last echo of muzzle blast faded, his beleaguered ears heard long-stroke thunder rolling in from the southwest as Bes and his people did their part.

“What now?” wondered Kondratenko.

“Now we wait.” Looking back, Tiger saw Galina watching him from the barricade. She gave him a thumbs-up. “Reload and keep your eyes open,” he advised, pulling the partly depleted magazine out of his own weapon.

Sanya spoke up suddenly. “Hey, what's-your-name... Zhenya. You okay there?”

Yevgeniy was on his knees with a hand pressed over his lower belly, eyes shut tight and teeth clenched. He was plainly in agony. “Zhenya,” Tiger prompted, “are you hit?”

He received no reply. Sanya put aside his gun and crawled over to the sniper. “Come on, dude,” he said impatiently. “You gotta say someth – oh, shit. Tiger, his crotch is bleeding!”

Tiger yanked out the bandage stored in the Kalashnikov's stock. “Shrapnel or a bullet?”

“Don't know!”

“Put him on his back. Hurry!”

Yevgeniy reanimated as Tiger and Sanya laid their hands on him. “Wait,” he mumbled. “Stop...”

Not good. Was he already going into shock? “Hold his arms,” Tiger grunted, forcibly extending the squirming casualty's legs. “Where's the entry wound?”

“Couldn't see it!”

“No..!” Yevgeniy strained against their grip in blind panic. “Nooooo!”

“Zhenya! Zhenya, you have to calm down!” Tiger couldn't see the injury's location either – only the dark stain of the blood seeping though the younger man's clothing. “We need to get his pants off!”

Modesty be damned. A bleeding wound, even a minor one, had to be staunched and cleaned quickly, or else it would leave the victim open to deadly infection. The belt's tongue slipped free of its buckle, and then Tiger's fingers hooked into the waistband.

“Stop!” A sob shook Yevgeniy's pinioned body. “Stop! Don't look!”

Too late. “You're a girl?” Tiger blinked. “No, you're not... What are you?”

“Dude...” Sanya was slack-jawed. “What the fuck.”

The only answer was a wail of despair.
  22:10:42  10 March 2012
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Senior Resident

On forum: 05/08/2008
Messages: 296

The obvious problem will lie in obtaining permission(s) and getting the 'official' stamp of approval if SG does decide against continuing with the whole Stalker project.
Fingers crossed, eh?

Well, I've started working on the next chapter. Really hope this one doesn't take so long.

Just stumbled across your story last week. Couldn't put it down, read through it every chance i got. You have a gift...mesmerizing story. Thank you.
  05:41:49  21 January 2012
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

The obvious problem will lie in obtaining permission(s) and getting the 'official' stamp of approval if SG does decide against continuing with the whole Stalker project.

Fingers crossed, eh?

Well, I've started working on the next chapter. Really hope this one doesn't take so long.
  17:49:04  3 January 2012
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Jet Odessa
Zone Cat Owner and Zombie Hunter Extraordinaire


On forum: 08/03/2011
Messages: 704
excellent! keep going pls.
  15:03:36  3 January 2012
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081

We're starting to see S.T.A.L.K.E.R. fans go commercial with their writing, having their stories published in print or as ebooks. (Any news over there, snorkbait?) Apparently GSC is receptive to this, and I've had a couple of people suggest that I should look into it as well.

Hi Bob. Sorry for not noticing and responding to this a lot sooner ('Tiger's...' is on the to-do-again-very-soon list).
Last I heard, Southern Comfort was doing OK, all things considered. Whether the sales were anything to get GSC excited in the end, and what happens now given the uncertain situation with GSC, I don't know.
Getting a revised version of SB into the world is still very much part of the plan, for me. The obvious problem will lie in obtaining permission(s) and getting the 'official' stamp of approval if SG does decide against continuing with the whole Stalker project.

As far as I'm concerned, you should try to get 'Tiger's Spring' into print/ebook format if it's at all possible. There's nothing to lose by trying.
  01:14:18  25 December 2011
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Old Saint Nick's got bourbon breath
It's so cold you could catch your death
A cop sold me some crystal meth
It's a merry fucking Christmas!

The Hand of Zelenko

“Smirnov, Yevgeniy Maksimovich... That really your name?”

Yevgeniy nodded. Even speaking was painful after the assault's cumulative damage, and he wasn't quite sure how he'd survived that fall from the collapsing tower's stairs. He wasn't dead, at least, but he knew he might yet end up that way.

The man doing the interrogating wore the same blue and white camouflage as Yevgeniy's former assailants, plus a full-face gas mask, and carried a pump shotgun. “Looks as if somebody out here had it in for you,” he remarked coolly, turning the sheet of paper sideways. “Wrote 'fucking faggot' on the margin, then crossed out 'faggot' and wrote 'freak' under it.”

There was a bloodstain on the paper, a dark blot near the bottom. “Where did you find that?”

“In the pocket of a stiff back there.” The man with the shotgun waved towards the half-collapsed cottage. “Big guy with a ring through his nose.”

It could only be one person: the worst person to have a copy of Yevgeniy's file. “MacGruder...”

The penlight in the other man's hand wiggled. “Not a friend of yours, huh?”

Just considering it made the disarmed sniper's stomach turn. “I think he was going to kill me.”

“Yeah? What'd you do to deserve that?”

“I didn't do anything! I...” No, that wasn't true. “I missed.”


“I missed,” Yevgeniy repeated numbly. “Then MacGruder told everyone I was traitor.”

“No shit.” The guard planted a fist on his hip. “Maybe we did you a favor, coming in when we did... So, how about you do us a favor and tell me about your contract?”

“I don't know anything about the contract.”

“And I work for the SCP Foundation.” Man-with-shotgun crouched in front of Yevgeniy, placing himself on the same eye level. “Lemme tell you something, buddy. That guy who tied you up is gonna come back, and he's not gonna be happy with you. This is his home and we're his guests, see, and you homewreckers just got his friends killed.” With the glow of the eastern sky behind him, the victor loomed large over the vanquished. “So if you do know something, you might want to share it before he gets here.”


The wooden deck of the pumping station cracked and splintered, rusted nails shrieking as they were wrenched loose by Tiger's boots. He charged on relentlessly, a ray of atomic vengeance racing ahead of the blast wave. Over the walkway, down the ramp and into the thickets flew the enraged stalker, leaving a length of pipe dangling from bolts half sheared away. One of the broad planks slid off and dropped into murky water with a quiet splash, but there was no one left to hear it.

The loner turned left, then right, following the old footpath. The helicopter had gone down near the spot where the stalkers had rescued Galina and Dmitriy, the same spot where the first shots were exchanged and Bandicoot fell. There was now enough light for Tiger to see the machine as he came out of the bushes: a hulk silhouetted against the open expanse of pools and twisting boardwalks just beyond.

At this range, the loss of the clumsy night sight no longer mattered.

His first shot flushed out the men hidden along the Mi-24's sides. The patrols flew with crews of five: pilot, copilot, two door gunners and a gofer. Five became four as Tiger advanced, rapid-firing with grim purpose. Another fell, and then the carbine's bolt locked in the rear position. The shooter reloaded in stride, stripping rounds into the magazine and flicking away the empty clip as two of the airmen retreated behind the helicopter's nose.

The third dove to the ground, or perhaps tripped and fell, and lost control of his weapon. More bullets quelled him before he recovered it. Tiger dropped the empty SKS, reached behind his back for the Chinese Tokarev and moved to his left, ducking under the upthrust tail boom. The outboard rocket pod on the port wing had torn off in the crash, while the inboard pod gouged a deep furrow into the wet soil. The lone gunman circled around, giving that spilled ordnance plenty of room, and set upon the last of the interlopers from their rear.

He shot the nearer one in the back of the head from a few paces' distance, swung his arm to the right and emptied his pistol into the final flier. The body slumped, bouncing off the helicopter's forward canopy dome, and collapsed across the elevated barrels of the nose gun. Tiger's retribution was complete, but he felt no triumph at the bloodshed once it was done... only a cold hollowness and a rising dread. Killing was easy, going back to the fishing hamlet and those whom he'd led to their undeserved deaths was –


She followed him, just like she'd followed him into the Zone, followed him out to the Barrier, followed him back from Yantar. She followed him regardless of danger and regardless of his wishes... but this time he was grateful for that. “I'm here,” he called. “It's over.”

Olga was prudent, didn't relax her guard until after she closed the gap. “Are you okay?”

From his own perspective, Tiger wasn't the one who needed worrying about. “Gosha's dead.”

“I know... We lost German, Vitka and Southpaw too. The chopper got all of 'em.” Olga switched on her lamp and kicked one of the expired crewmen onto his back. “No way these fuckers couldn't see my flares... I'm not gonna let this slide. I'll have the whole goddamn airbase hauled up in front of a tribunal if that's what it takes.” She went around to the other side of the fuselage and pried open the pilot's hatch, muttering furiously under her breath.

Tiger listened to her for a couple of moments before refocusing. He dropped the Tokarev's magazine into the palm of his free hand and pocketed it. The pistol had gotten more use than he originally anticipated, and only eight rounds were left. “The mercenaries..?”

“Fine, I think. Didn't stick around for a head count... The missile knocked out all electrical systems. Nothing's working in here.” Olga slammed the canopy shut. “Another billion rubles down the drain.”

The last magazine slid in, engaging the pistol's catch with a sharp click. “Will you be in trouble for this?”

“Probably not,” the woman grunted. “The dead make the best scapegoats.” She turned away briefly, surveying the sky's violet hue at the boundary where it gave way to orange dawn. “We need to get back to the others.”


Southpaw still had a look of dismay on his face. One bullet, as wide as a little finger, had partially severed his left arm at the elbow. The other had gone through the Yugoslavian Kalashnikov's sheet metal receiver, through Southpaw's chest, and through the wall behind him. Even if Tiger had been right there, a Soul in his hands, he couldn't have reversed the damage.

Knowing that didn't make him feel any better.

There was still much to deal with, including a certain prisoner. Olga was already standing by that wretched individual when Tiger crossed the hamlet and rejoined her. “You found something?”

“Badger did.” Olga flicked a finger against the paper she held. “Our sniper here is a Latvian Russian... Yevgeniy Smirnov. Born in Riga, 1990. Stateless since 1991. Mother deceased, father in jail on a drugs conviction... The boy's an out-of-work team biathlete.” Yevgeniy flinched when she glanced at him, the headlamp's glare dazzling his eyes. “Not used to shooting at targets that move, are you?”


“I did get him to talk a little,” Badger volunteered, walking up with an armful of salvaged rifles. “But let's wait until we're somewhere safer. I'd rather not be here when the army comes looking for its lost crocodile.”


“We're shaking down the bodies for intel,” the merc went on, “but if this kid was telling the truth, we're not going to find much.”

“Here's to optimism,” Olga replied. “I'm going to call Hatchet and work out our next move, if that's all right.”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Tiger watched his blond companion walk away in the half-light, alone with her radio. Above her on the upper deck of the boathouse, two mercenary sentries stood back to back watching the skies. A handful of surface-to-air missiles in long launch tubes were stacked between the timbers of the roof's stripped frame.

“Hey.” Badger hadn't budged. “You okay? I mean, relatively okay? Not hurt?”

“I'm fine.”

“I wish there were something I could have done. That was a good try with the flares, but you gotta use parachutes if you're jamming IR.”

“Mmf.” Tiger looked down at Yevgeniy again, but the youth averted his face. The stalker heard a mumble. “What was that?”

“...Why did you save me?”

Why? There weren't any 'whys' when the tower fell. Now that Tiger stopped and considered it, maybe it wasn't that he'd deliberately chosen to pull Yevgeniy to safety so much as that he hadn't decided to leave him.


“What about the bodies?”

“We don't have time to bury them,” said Hatchet. “That's one favor the army will do us.”

“But – ”

“I don't like it any more than you do.” The merc commander picked up four Galils, lashed together with their slings, and laid the bundle across his back. “But the sun's almost up and we're carrying extra weight already. We can't afford to be slowed down any more.”

Tiger couldn't bring himself to answer. He turned away, towards the corpses laid in a neat row by the well: Southpaw, headless Vitka, German with his guts spilling out, and Gosha lying tangled in the crushed frame of his exoskeleton. He didn't want to leave them, but Hatchet was right and Tiger himself was already loaded down with a machine gun, five pistols, three night sights and a slew of miscellaneous magazine pouches, on top of his own equipment...

Olga materialized out of the crowd around him. “It's all right,” she whispered. “I'll make sure they're taken care of.” The cartridge belt draped over her shoulders clinked when she squeezed his arm.

“Final gear check, people! Two minutes!”

“Anton, turn around... Okay, you're set. Do mine now.”

Olga's load was all ammo, excepting the rifles salvaged from German and Vitka. “I don't see anything wrong,” said Tiger, tugging the straps one at a time.

“Great, thanks.”

“On me, team!” Hatchet clapped his hands and the mercenaries flowed into marching form, all of them except Badger, Tank and Spook. “We'll see you at the machine yard!”

Hatchet led off along the trail to the pumping station, and the men followed him. “Well,” said Spook stoically, “this has not been the best raid ever.”

“Tell me about it.” Badger came up behind Yevgeniy and pulled him upright by the collar. “We're going to take a little stroll,” the former announced. “Don't run, 'cause if an anomaly doesn't shit you out in chunks, the feral pigs will.”

“He's not joking.” Tiger started towards the footbridge. “Follow me, single file.”

The Zone had become eerily quiet, and the squeak and rustle of belts and slings seemed loud in the ears of those who carried them. They walked back along the stalkers' trail, detouring around the demolished watchtower. The old church lay on their right, the burnt farmstead on the hill to their left, and anomalies were scattered thick all around. The journey was a slow one, on account not only of the party's burden but also of Tiger's concern for those who hadn't come this way before.

As they crossed the foot of the farmstead hill, there came a noise from the north: a low groan which rose and fell over several seconds. Yevgeniy whimpered.

“Jesus,” Tank grumbled. “It's an animal in the woods, you jumpy runt.”

The insult didn't even register. “Are... are you sure?”

“It might be,” Olga chimed in. “Or it could be gas leaking from the swamp. Don't worry about it.”

They pressed on, crossing a shallow channel and weaving through the gravity traps and grinders on the uneven ground behind the hill. The sight of the machine yard ahead brought relief to the raiders, but instilled a new apprehension in their prisoner.

“This is the hardest part,” the guide warned him. “Watch closely.”


Olga stood watch over Yevgeniy while the others changed back into their loner garb and put away the Clear Sky uniforms. Hatchet's group caught up with them after a few minutes, coming in from the west with material plundered out of the helicopter.

“All right,” said Badger once the formalities were over with and the key players had gathered in the corner of the yard. “Now tell these guys what you told me about the client's man.”

“He gave all the orders,” Yevgeniy recalled. “He was rather short. Black hair with a bald spot... I never heard his name.”

“We found the body,” Hatchet interjected. “No identifying material on him, and he managed to burn his papers before we entered the camp... Go on.”

“He talked to someone a lot, using his own radio. I guess it was coded or something.” The Latvian cocked his head. “We thought he was keeping us on standby, waiting for some particular message. He wouldn't tell us what we were going to do here.”

Olga raised a hand. “Did he act like he knew the territory? Like he'd been in the Zone before?”

“I don't know... He brought anomaly detectors with him, but not enough for all of us. We had some briefings about mutants and stalker factions. He told us the stalkers weren't a serious threat, that the only words we needed to know were 'hands up!'”

“What about the army? Didn't he think putting a large camp next to the perimeter was dangerous?”

“Oh no.” On this Yevgeniy was emphatic. “He said the military wouldn't touch us. I thought he must have paid them off... MacGruder was the only person he talked to much, except when he had instructions.”

“MacGruder,” Badger repeated. “The guy in charge at the hamlet. He's the one who accused you of selling out, right?”


Tiger was interested in other things. “What about those stalkers who were shot a few days ago?”

“That was – some of the others were making bets on who would get the first kill, who would get the most kills. They went out on patrol and met the stalkers... I didn't actually see what happened, though.”

“Might have been racially motivated. We noticed some impressive graffiti.” Hatchet lit a cigarette. “Goddamn amateurs.”

“Uh-huh.” Badger folded his arms. “So, how many kills did you get?”

Yevgeniy swallowed. “Just one.”

“Bandicoot,” Tiger elaborated. “The man in the black suit.”


“Of course,” Olga remarked. “Target the leaders and specialists to destroy a unit's cohesion. That's basic sniping theory.”

Yevgeniy warmed a little to the show of sympathy. “He looked important, so I shot... But then there was the machine gun firing at me and I couldn't hit anything.”

“Be glad,” the woman advised him. “Otherwise those bloodsuckers might have come and snacked on you instead. What else can you tell us?”

“I had to stay up on the tower most of the time, always with one or two others. Sometimes they brought news from the camp... What bloodsuckers?”

The question was ignored. “What kind of news?”

“Nightmares. Almost everyone had them.” Yevgeniy stared at her nervously. “What did you say about bloodsuckers?”

“Never mind that. Keep going.”

“I don't remember the dreams very well. There were voices, shapes... It was all too vague.”

“If I want to hear about morons wetting their beds, I'll take a hike around the Cordon,” Hatchet growled. “Get back to the mission stuff.”

“I don't know anything else,” Yevgeniy protested. “It was my first job with Paladin. They didn't trust me enough to... enough to give me anything sensitive. Please believe me!”

The cigarette's tip bobbed up and down. “Fine,” said Hatchet after a second. “We're done here. You want us to dispose of him?”

Olga shook her head. “Thanks, but we'll take care of it.”

“As you like.” The cigarette dropped to the ground and disappeared under Hatchet's boot. “We've accomplished what we came to do,” he said to the circle, “and I don't want to sound anxious to leave, but we can't stay any longer. Mower, drop the artifact bag there... I know it's not adequate compensation,” the merc leader continued, “but it's the best I can do right now. Goblin, are the men ready?”

“Just about, boss.”

“Good.” Hatchet snapped his fingers twice. “Do it right the first time, people. Make sure those packs and belts are secure, we've got a long march ahead.”

As the group began to disperse, Badger sidled over to Tiger. “I, uh... I'm really sorry about your friends.”

“So am I.”

The pointman hesitated at Tiger's apathetic response. “Anyway, I wanted to return this.”

Badger was holding out the Zastava carbine when he looked up. “...Did you like it?” the loner asked flatly.

“Yeah, it was great. Really handy.”

“Keep it.” Tiger got up, brushing the dirt off his coat. “I'm going to pack up the generator.”

He found ways to stay busy over the next several minutes, putting away whatever materials were left over from the attack. Hatchet said his final goodbyes to Olga and then the mercenaries departed through the anomalies, one by one like a train of ants. With their passing the Zone became quiet once more. The sun was well up, though mid-morning had not yet come, and its warmth shone on all the marshes.

Soon a new circle formed around Yevgeniy, drawn by common purpose. “This is the moment of truth,” Olga announced. “Are you still certain you want to learn stalking?”

Galina and Dmitriy nodded together.

“Then I'll leave you in Anton's hands. Do as he tells you and you'll be okay... Kondratenko, you've held up your end of the bargain, so you're free to go. Get your things together and I'll take you across the perimeter.”

“Actually, um...” The soldier pulled off the doubled-up balaclava he wore as a cap and scratched his head. “I think I should stay.”

His words surprised all of those who had gotten to know him in the past twenty hours. “Stay?” Olga echoed. “Yesterday you were begging to get out.”

“I know,” Kondratenko admitted, “but if I go now, they'll be looking for me. Even if I went to the blockpost and said I got lost, they'd send me straight back here with the same lousy equipment.” He glanced at Tiger hopefully. “I've been thinking about what you said before, about controlling fear. If I stay in the Zone for a while, maybe I can learn to be like you and make enough money to start over.”

Olga looked to her partner for judgment. “It's your call, Anton.”


Tiger saw more pros than cons in the proposal, sudden as it was. Ordinarily he would have preferred solitude, but he'd already committed himself to looking after the adolescent runaways and one more follower made little difference. His impression of Kondratenko's character was positive enough, and there were plenty of others in the Zone who'd served in the military. Some had even walked patrols along its border before they went inside as trespassers. At the same time, the deserter had potentially compromising knowledge about Olga's employment by the Security Service and the alliance with Hatchet. Better to keep him close by, just in case.

“You can come with us,” said the stalker at last, “if you're absolutely sure that's what you want. I'll teach you as much as I can, but whether you make it or not will depend on your own ability, even when you're with me... That goes for all of you.”

“Such is life?” quipped Olga darkly.

“Such is life,” Tiger agreed. He went to the one pile of equipment which hadn't been stored and picked up the M60, somehow scarcely the worse for wear even after it was pried from its owner's lifeless fingers. “There are things in the Zone that can kill you without being seen or heard, things you can only run away from... But for men and monsters, you can use this.”

From the look on Kondratenko's face, one might think he'd just been handed the crown of a small kingdom and not a fifty year old machine gun. “This... I... I can use it? Really?”

“You've had training on guns like that, haven't you?” Tiger's hand dipped into a pants pocket and dragged out a loose bundle of creased, faded notebook pages. “Gosha wrote down some instructions for it. Study them while we deal with Smirnov.”


“But what?” Olga pulled back her tunic hood, showing the mussed hair underneath. “Settle down, kiddo. If we wanted to cap you, we'd have already done it.”

Yevgeniy couldn't settle down. “Then what's going to happen to me?”

“We'll take you back to the fringe and hand you over to the authorities. Your client may have bribed the army, but some of us have friends there too.” She fixed him with a calculating gaze. “You'll get off lightly if you cooperate... Four to six years, with a chance of early release for good behavior.”

“No...” The Latvian reacted with horror, not relief. “Please, no! I can't go to prison now, my father – ”

“Your father would die of shame?” Olga's patience was starting to visibly erode. “Maybe you should have thought about that sooner.”

“It's not like that! His sentence is up in fourteen months and his health isn't good. When he gets out, he'll have nowhere to go. I just wanted...”

Tiger wrinkled his nose as the captive's words trailed off, equally weary of the piteous pleading. “How,” he wondered aloud, “did someone like you even get a job at Paladin?”

“It was someone I knew from biathlon. He was recruiting for PMCs, working freelance on a per-head commission... I was so stupid.” Yevgeniy screwed up his face, trying to hold back the tears. “He said it was the perfect job for me. Not too far from home and I could already speak the language. They gave me two weeks' training at a camp, Vicovu de Sus, then they sent me here.”

“And you're sorry you came,” Olga sighed, “we get that. You don't want to die and you don't want to go to jail... So what do you want, other than for us to pretend we never saw you?”

“I – ”

“Why not take him with us?” Galina cut in, turning heads all around. “Why don't we take him? Make a deal like you did with Boris.” The Belarusian girl faced Tiger. “You told us the Zone doesn't care who we are, so long as we respect it. Let's give him a chance to learn that respect.”

“I'm okay with that,” said Kondratenko quietly, and Dmitriy nodded again.

That made it three in favor right away. Tiger's first impulse was to say no, but his reasons for accepting Kondratenko applied equally well to Yevgeniy. Whether the latter was worthy of trust had not been proven, but in his defense Yevgeniy didn't look like a thug. He was barely taller than Olga and of slighter build than her, with a figure that could only be called strongly effeminate. His features were likewise fragile, a cute boy's face reluctantly grown up. Green eyes stared back at Tiger under brown bangs with a prominent cowlick as he thought it over.

“...Olga, what do you say?”

“If we cut this idiot loose, he'll either die or end up as somebody's bitch,” said the Russian matter-of-factly. “Smirnov, how do you feel about working off your debt here instead of sitting it out in a cell? You might even earn some decent money while you're at it.”

“Earn... like a stalker? You'd let me do that?”

“Depends.” Olga waved in Tiger's direction. “You have to convince the nice man over there to forgive you.”

Yevgeniy gulped. “Um... W-wouldn't you want to do something if your father were – ”

“My father is dead.” Tiger rose and collected his rifle. “I'm not going to take you out of pity,” he said icily, “but worse people than you have redeemed themselves here. Don't disappoint me.”

The tears couldn't be held back any more. “I don't know how to thank you...”

“Then shut up.”

Dmitriy spoke for the first time. “Should we untie him?”

Olga knelt behind the prisoner. “Might as well,” she said. “He won't be much good without his hands...” In a flash her arm snaked around Yevgeniy's throat and jerked his head backwards. “But if you do anything that gets Anton hurt, anything at all, I will hunt you down. Do you understand me?”

“I do! I do, I promise!”

“Good.” Olga undid the rope, leaving Yevgeniy to meekly massage his wrists, and parted from the gathering. “I need to go back and make arrangements with the army, make certain there won't be reprisals. Anton, can you take me there?”

Tiger slung his rifle. “Yeah... The rest of you watch Smirnov until we return.”

Galina picked up the submachine gun left behind by Vitka and cocked it. “Don't worry,” she affirmed. “We'll be careful.”


The Zone was still quiet. Tiger expected as much: with an incident this close to the edge, the military would send reinforcements by ground rather than risk a second helicopter. He was more concerned by the pensive air from the woman behind him, and by the questions which lingered in his own mind.

“Let's stop for a bit,” Olga suggested as he was trying to think of a tactful way to probe her thoughts. She pointed at the burnt farmstead above them. “Can we get up there?”


They ascended the hill, zigzagging through windswept grass and sparse bushes. Here, too, nature had taken its toll since the faction wars. The charred shell of the outlying shed was falling in on itself and heaps of loose brick lay jumbled along the scorched walls of the farmhouse. Clear Sky had in more recent times erected a wooden watchtower nearby, and that, at least, was in better condition.

“Is it clear?”

Tiger nodded. The hilltop was bare of those anomalies which choked the lower terrain around it.

“Mm.” Olga took him by the hand and steered him into the farmhouse, to one of the inside corners where they couldn't be seen from the outside. Before he could say anything, she pushed him up against the wall, hands on his shoulders, and kissed him – hard. She wasn't pensive any more, but burning with repressed passion. “Do me.”


“Right here, right now.”

“After... after what's happened?”

“That's right,” Olga acknowledged. “Our friends died and we almost died with them. Who knows when we'll get another chance... Please,” she insisted. “Just your fingers would be enough.”

For Anton there was no question of refusal. This was the Olga he remembered: female but never feminine, open about her needs and feelings, and always there for him when he stepped off the last train from Slavutych. This was the woman he had loved, in his humble, unassuming way, during the happiest years of his life. “...Okay.”

“You really don't mind?”

“Yeah.” Tiger's hand moved to her waist, pulling at the belt buckle. “We can't stay too long, so... will this be all right for now?”

“Yeah... Yeah, this is great.” Olga closed her eyes as his fingers slid down her belly, through coarse hair and into a place unlike anything in the Zone. She breathed deeply, her pulse quickening as she clung to him. “Ooh...”

Tiger heard her not by listening, felt her not by touching. Something wonderful was taking place, something that he'd never before experienced in the six years since the Zone changed him. As he concentrated, he was able to draw out the nerve impulses taking form between Olga's legs and follow them as they rocketed up her spine, exploding into her brain like so many little fireworks. When she reached her limit, throwing her head back with a guttural, feral noise, she appeared to him like a flower blooming in hyperkinetic time lapse.

It was the most beautiful thing he had ever witnessed.


“How do you feel?”

“I feel good.” Olga stretched her arms over her head, radiating contentment. “Just a few minutes, okay?”

“Mm-hm.” Tiger didn't want to break the tranquil mood, yet he was beginning to feel restless. “When you go home, tell Aleksey... tell our son I'm sorry I've never been there for him.”

“He understands,” the child's mother murmured. “He knows you had to come back here.” She turned around, hiking the heavy pants up over the curves of her hips. “Can I tell him you want to see him?”

“Tell him that I want to see both of you.”

“Okay.” Olga smiled. “He'll be really happy to hear that.”

“Mmf.” Tiger wanted to smile with her, but the papers burning a hole in his coat wouldn't let him. “Before you leave, there's something else I want to ask.”


“Can you tell me anything about these?”

“Hm?” Olga took the photographs from his extended hand, unfolding them delicately. “Well, this looks like the radar site beyond the Barrier.”

Tiger nodded. “There's something written on the back, but I couldn't make it out.”

“I can't either.” She looked at the other photo. “What's this round thing? 'Same as at AES'?”

“I never saw anything like it,” Tiger told her. “Not at the nuclear plant or anywhere else. It must be pretty big, so either it was hidden... What's the matter?”

“This.” Olga tapped the back of the picture with her fingertip. “Where did you find these?”

“In a dead man's pocket.” The stalker briefly recounted how he had stumbled upon the trail of Worm and Drifter. “Did you recognize something?”

“Maybe. I'd have to show it to an expert to be sure, but I think this is Zelenko's handwriting.”

“Someone you know?”

“Not exactly.” Olga beckoned him closer, lowering her voice. “You absolutely have to keep this to yourself, all right?”

“I understand.”

“Good.” Olga sat down again. “Andrey Zelenko was an SBU undercover agent. He worked here before the second Chernobyl incident, investigating rumors of illegal research being conducted in the Zone. After the incident, he was presumed lost along with everyone else... But then a few people made it out, people like you. The government set up listening posts around the perimeter, hoping they could receive distress calls from inside.”

“I remember that,” said Tiger, sitting beside her. “I thought they never heard anything.”

“They never heard what they were listening for,” Olga replied. “Seven weeks after the incident, posts on the south and west sides picked up a weak signal. It was a man's voice reciting strings of numbers, interrupting periodically to spell out Zelenko's code name. The broadcast was recorded, but they were only able to get a partial fix on the transmitter.”

“Seven weeks?”

“Yeah... They plotted it somewhere along a line passing across the west side of the Zone, straight through Limansk. The experts think it was a dipole antenna, maybe improvised, so it could have been any point on that line with high ground.”

“What did they do about it?”

“Nada. Even if it had been feasible to get into the Zone at that time, the government wouldn't authorize an operation just on that evidence. Zelenko was written off and the file on him closed.”

Tiger frowned. “Then why do you know so much about him?”

“We've been playing catch-up with his notes,” Olga divulged. “A couple of months ago the SBU's lab guys got some new diagnostic software. They ran the Zelenko recording through it and cleaned up the audio, enough to confirm his identity from comparison to archived videos... Speech analysis indicated he was suffering heavy stress, possibly exhaustion.” She shook her head. “For all we know, he could have spent his last breath getting that message out.”

“Go on,” the loner prompted. “What does this have to do with those photos?”

“It's the numbers, Anton. We think they're geographical coordinates of sites he was checking out – ”

“Sites like the Agroprom? That's what the military raid was about, wasn't it?”

The question startled Olga, just for a moment. “Yeah,” she said warily. “How did you know?”

Tiger shrugged. “It just seemed obvious after what you said... The institute's not worth much to the army as a base and they should know better than to antagonize stalkers when conditions are peaceful.”

The woman nodded. “They should know better. If the brass had left it to us deep cover agents, we could have gotten the stuff without hurting anybody... Now everyone's dead except Boris back there, and whatever the team found is in Barkeep's hands. He'll probably sell it to us after he's made copies for himself, but...” Her voice suddenly cracked in frustration. “Why am I even here if they won't fucking use me?”

Anton's hand settled on her arm. “Olga,” he said softly, “stay focused. The photographs, what do they mean?”

“I don't know. Zelenko must have stumbled onto something big, but I don't know what it is.” Olga held up the images side by side. “You said these were mixed in with Clear Sky documents. Are there any more you can show me?”

“Just these.” Tiger gave her the other papers. “And this,” he concluded, adding Drifter's PDA to the pile. “This one is secured. There might be information on it that could hurt stalkers.”

“I'll take care of that.” Olga flipped through the files. “Have you followed up on any of these?”

“I talked to Nimble. He told me someone betrayed the group after its founders went to the center, and eliminated those who stayed behind. There was supposed to be a rally point in the Dead City, but he got scared and didn't go.”

A crow flew over the pair, cawing rancorously. Olga didn't seem to hear it. “I don't like this,” she said. “We know Clear Sky was investigating areas of interest to us. If the photographs are really Zelenko's work, that means they found something he'd stashed... We'll need a miracle to recover any of it now.”

Tiger had to agree with her pessimistic assessment. “What should we do?”

“We have to keep moving.” Olga pulled out Suslov's note, folded up the rest, and pocketed them along with the PDA. “I need to take these back, but you keep that one.”

“You're going to leave Nimble alone?”

“Yeah, he's safer where he is.” The Russian got up hastily, hot with newfound determination. “This could be a big break for us, Anton. The Security Service will definitely pay you for it.”

“I don't want their money.” Tiger's voice was indifferent as he straightened his long coat. “I want to know the truth.”

“We all do,” Olga assured him. “Look, um... I know you don't trust the SBU, but would you consider working with us as an independent adviser? Our guys could use the help and I'd feel better knowing I could rely on you in a pinch.” She waited a beat to see how that went over. “You don't care about money, all right, but how about an official pass? You could leave and enter the Zone freely.”

“I could visit you in the Big Land?”

“That's right.” Chips of mortar crunched underfoot as she moved to his side. “You don't have to answer me now. I can send someone to find you in Rostok in a day or two, okay?”

“I'll think about it.” The Lee-Enfield's safety swung forwards under the pressure of his thumb. “Come on.”


Tiger's new group hadn't sat idle while he was away: the four who came out to meet him when he returned to the machine yard were fitted for a march and armed to the teeth. “Welcome back,” Galina hailed. “Where is Olga Ivanovna?”

“She's not coming with us,” the stalker informed his charges. “She made a deal with the soldiers, so we shouldn't have any trouble leaving.”

Disappointment darkened the Belarusian's face. “Will we see her again?”

“I hope so.” Tiger squeezed the AKS-74's grip, imagining that the warmth in it still belonged to her. “Right now she has things she needs to do outside the Zone.” The veteran looked the novices over one by one, evaluating their preparation. He saw that Olga's advice to Galina and Dmitriy had been shared among all and served each well. “Do you feel that you're ready?”

“I think we are,” Dmitriy answered. “Choosing supplies wasn't hard, but we weren't sure which weapons were best.”

Kondratenko still carried the M60, and had Southpaw's Stechkin in his belt and Olga's M44 on his back. The weight didn't seem to bother him. Galina had taken Vitka's PPSh and the SKS used in the night attack, while her boyfriend chose German's Thompson and Southpaw's Mauser. Acceptable selections for inexperienced users, Tiger judged.

“There's no 'best' here,” their teacher declared. “There's only 'good enough'.” He looked to Yevgeniy, who was self-consciously cradling the SSG-82 from the underground cache. “What are you doing with that?”

“I – it's similar to the rifles I used in biathlon. I thought it was better to use something familiar... Is it not alright?”

“It was Olga's,” Tiger replied. “But she didn't like it, so I guess that doesn't matter.” Turning away, he took out the .38 Smith & Wesson and handed it to Galina. “She wanted you to have this. We can get cartridges for it from Sidorovich.”

“Thank you.”

There was one weapon left over: Bandicoot's trophy. “We're returning this to Duty,” said Tiger, picking up the G36 with his empty hand. “Smirnov, you'll carry it until we get to Rostok. I'll give you the ammunition if we run into serious trouble.”


Satisfied, Tiger stepped back. “Well... Galya, Mitya, Borya and Zhenya, your first lesson starts now.”


Death comes easily in this place. You can catch a bullet for speaking out of turn, stepping on the wrong toe, or possessing something of value. You may share bread with a man one night, and be forced to kill him in self defense the next day. You must face peril in every place and at every hour, from the watchful machine-gunner who decides the fates of those crossing the perimeter to the most horrifying creature which lurks hungrily in every ruin. Your friend may go out for a day and never come back, vanishing in woods filled with gnawed corpses still clutching rusted guns. If you survive, good for you. If you break even, well done. If you make it out, don't look back.

Such is life in the Zone.
  04:35:21  15 November 2011
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Next chapter is almost done and should be up in the next few days.

To make up for these absurdly long delays, the chapter after it will be packed with wham-bang action. We will also be partnering with Mann Co. to bring you the hottest accessories for fictional characters everywhere.

  14:12:46  17 September 2011
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Senior Resident

On forum: 10/21/2010

Message edited by:
09/17/2011 14:13:53
Messages: 306
to be honest, although everyone would prefer for stories of your calibre to stay here and free. if your trying to bridge over to professional then i'd recommend that, you have the ability to do so, and some of us would buy them, and enjoy them. (myself included)

it'd be a shame to not get them here, but realistically it's in your best interest to give it a go, and these are obviously and easy way to do it. and worst case scenario, it doesn't work out and we get them back again, unlikely, but like i said, worst case scenario.
  21:56:39  16 September 2011
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Naturally, if you can finish Tiger's Spring as you had originally planned and make it as polished as possible, and keep it free, that'd be the best solution for us readers.

Though I could very well imagine myself paying for some of your Stalker-related commercial publications, if you end up going professional.
  01:29:42  14 September 2011
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Tiger's Spring

And so far so good, you're skyscrapers above my writing skill.
If so, it's only because I've been abusing my keyboard for eight years continuously.

All right, I've been thinking - and not about COMBUSTIBLE LEMONS, for a change.

We're starting to see S.T.A.L.K.E.R. fans go commercial with their writing, having their stories published in print or as ebooks. (Any news over there, snorkbait?) Apparently GSC is receptive to this, and I've had a couple of people suggest that I should look into it as well.

I have mixed feelings about the idea.

On one hand, I'm trying to make the transition from writing as a hobby to writing as a profession. Being able to work on a story that counts for both would be a plus. On the other hand, Tiger's Spring isn't suitable for commercial publication and writing another story might force me to cut out some of its future subplots. On the third hand (because such is life in the Zone) I don't like the idea of suddenly charging people for something they've been able to read here, entirely gratis, for more than two years.

Can I get some other opinions?

To be honest, I don't read ebooks. And I don't pay over the internet (Steam and LoL is the only exception).

Hell, I was thinking about translating a classic in my native language to English and post it here so everyone could read it freely.
  20:55:49  13 September 2011
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And so far so good, you're skyscrapers above my writing skill.

If so, it's only because I've been abusing my keyboard for eight years continuously.

All right, I've been thinking - and not about COMBUSTIBLE LEMONS, for a change.

We're starting to see S.T.A.L.K.E.R. fans go commercial with their writing, having their stories published in print or as ebooks. (Any news over there, snorkbait?) Apparently GSC is receptive to this, and I've had a couple of people suggest that I should look into it as well.

I have mixed feelings about the idea.

On one hand, I'm trying to make the transition from writing as a hobby to writing as a profession. Being able to work on a story that counts for both would be a plus. On the other hand, Tiger's Spring isn't suitable for commercial publication and writing another story might force me to cut out some of its future subplots. On the third hand (because such is life in the Zone) I don't like the idea of suddenly charging people for something they've been able to read here, entirely gratis, for more than two years.

Can I get some other opinions?
  08:10:12  11 September 2011
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Tiger's Spring

Mantis sounds like me.

And so far so good, you're skyscrapers above my writing skill.
  05:28:22  11 September 2011
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You should've been the one to write the scripted battle scenes in the games.

Arsenal Mod would be mandatory.

Are we getting more soon?

I'm working on it, but it's going slowly. I'll go to the range tomorrow if the weather's good, and maybe that'll inspire me a bit.
  23:38:37  10 September 2011
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Well damn, the last couple of chapters were good stuff. Absolutely wonderful. You should've been the one to write the scripted battle scenes in the games.

Are we getting more soon?
  20:19:04  28 August 2011
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Random Helicopter got the drop on it.

(Need some motivation here.)
  01:09:38  27 August 2011
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On forum: 09/22/2007
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Where is the flying pig?
  17:09:31  25 August 2011
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  08:05:48  9 July 2011
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Well, here it is. Don't expect anything great. The character list is limited to people who have actually appeared or been mentioned in the story, and I've taken the liberty of correcting some of the games' English name transliterations.

The Zone – Places, Factions and People

The Zone

The original Zone of Alienation was a thirty kilometer restricted area straddling the border between northern Ukraine and Belarus, established following the Chernobyl nuclear disaster in 1986. It was radically transformed when a second explosion of unknown nature occurred near the nuclear plant on April 12th, 2006. The second blast killed virtually all persons working inside the Zone, and was followed by sporadic growth of the Zone's border. The interior became almost completely inaccessible, filled with aggressive mutant animals and anomalies which defied the conventional laws of physics, and rocked by violent energy storms called 'blowouts'.

After the initial attempt to secure the new Zone with military power ended in complete disaster, the Ukrainian government sealed off the region. Deadly emissions raged through 2008, but by 2010 the Zone had stabilized enough that hundreds of so-called 'stalkers' could enter it for weeks or even months at a time, drawn by the lucrative profits of the black market trade in mysterious artifacts created by the anomalies.

On September 9th, 2011 an abnormally large blowout shook the Zone, altering the distribution of anomalies and changing the paths to safe ground. The balance of power between the various stalker groups was upset, triggering a series of bloody faction wars. By the time the wars petered out with the onset of winter, two factions had abandoned their bases, one had undertaken a massive migration to the unknown lands at the center of the Zone, and another had disappeared completely.

The winter saw a return to relative tranquility, but the arrival of spring was accompanied by renewed rumblings of trouble. It is now May 2012, and the Zone may not remain peaceful much longer...

The Cordon

A strip of land on the Zone's southern edge, where the perimeter is thin enough for stalkers to sneak in and out. The military operates a blockpost on the road leading north, while the rookie stalkers inhabit an abandoned village a short distance away. Landmarks include a railroad line with a wrecked bridge spanning the road, a deserted garage and a gutted pig farm which was formerly a stalker base. Sidorovich the trader lives in a bunker by the rookie camp.

The Swamps

Just to the west of the Cordon is a sprawling marsh, bordered by the railroad tracks on its north side, a shallow river on the west and the Zone perimeter on the south. The swamps are dotted with abandoned farmsteads and fishing outposts. Notable sites are an orthodox church, a water pumping station and a machine shop. The reclusive Clear Sky faction formerly had its base in this area.

The Darkscape

A shallow, meandering canyon to the east of the Cordon, with a pair of roads running through it. The Darkscape is not a popular destination for stalkers due to its poor artifact yields. Those who do enter the area are usually just passing through on their way between the Cordon and the Dark Valley to the north. The only features of interest are a decaying village, a run-down service station and another rail bridge.

The Garbage

Due north of the Cordon is the aptly named Garbage, where free stalkers and bandits alike ply their trades. The piles of half-buried radioactive junk attract anomalous activity, and thus are breeding grounds for artifacts. A scrapyard containing trucks, buses and helicopters contaminated during the 1986 disaster is frequently used as a campsite, and the large train hangar, which was the bandits' main base before faction wars, is now claimed by the stalkers as well. At the north end of the Garbage is a shunt left behind from a dismantled water pipeline, where the Duty faction guards the road to Rostok.

The Agroprom

West of the Garbage and north of the Swamps is the Agroprom, a wet, hilly area where anomalies churn out large numbers of low-value artifacts. There are two facilities: the Agroprom Research Institute, which originally conducted research on crop growth in irradiated soil, and a deserted factory a short distance to the northeast. A large complex of underground ventilation and maintenance shafts runs throughout the area. Duty used the ARI as a base during the faction wars, while the factory was a fortress for free stalkers.

The Dark Valley

A dismal place, as the name implies. It lies just east of the Garbage, and the unfinished factories in its north and east parts are havens for bandits. The north factory was Freedom's base during the faction wars, while the pig farm at the south end is usually inhabited by loners. A heavy locked door in the basement of the eastern factory is rumored to be the entrance of a secret laboratory.

The Bar

North of the Garbage is the sprawling Rostok tractor factory, the east half of which is the Rome of the Zone. The Hundred Rads Bar and Arnie's Arena take care of a stalker's needs, while the nearby headquarters of Duty oversee the policing of the southern Zone.

The Wild Territory

The west part of Rostok is another matter. Beyond the Duty barricades is a vicious free-for-all where survival of the fittest is paramount. Bloodsuckers and snorks infest the factory ruins, while mercenaries, bandits and the odd cluster of wandering zombies prey on the stalkers who come to gather high-grade artifacts.


A stalker brave enough to follow the road west out of the Wild Territory will arrive at Yantar. The eponymous lake has dried up, leaving a shallow marsh, and the factory ruins overlooking its historic shore teem with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of snorks and zombified stalkers. The scientists who live in the heavy bunker on the lakebed have ascertained that the zombies are created by a powerful psionic energy emitter hidden underneath the factory.

The Army Warehouses

Northeast of Rostok is a former military supply depot, the site of Freedom's present base of operations. A small, bloodsucker-ridden village lies across the road coming up from Hundred Rads, while other roads run west to the Dead City and east to the Brain Scorcher. This is the edge of the known lands: the Red Forest lies just to the north, and a large portion of Freedom's strength is devoted to securing the Barrier, the main defense against mutant hordes and Monolith raids coming down from the unknown territories. The warehouses were the Ukrainian military's only base deep inside the Zone prior to the faction wars, when the last defenders were eradicated by Freedom and mercenaries.

The Dead City

A ghost town north of Yantar and west of the Army Warehouses. Those who enter it do not return, though mercenaries are reported to be active in the vicinity.

The Brain Scorcher

The main obstacle on the road to Pripyat and the Zone's center lies northeast of the Freedom base, where the abandoned missile-detecting radar complex on the edge of the Red Forest has been converted by powers or persons unknown into a powerful psi-emitter. Stalkers who approach the Scorcher are zombified or killed outright, and if the Scorcher doesn't get them the vigilant Monolith troops or terrifying mutants will. Anyone wishing to shut it down would need to survive the psi-field long enough to get into the bunkers under the radar complex, a task presently thought to be nearly impossible.

The Red Forest

Most of the forest is, in fact, green and brown. It takes its name from a historical predecessor, but the radiation levels are still quite high in some places. The western side of the forest is accessible to stalkers, but heavy anomalies, mutants and Monolith patrols make it an unappealing place to work. In the middle of the forest are a series of forgotten mine tunnels and a ranger station.


A sinister place even before the 1986 disaster, according to those who were alive to see it. Limansk was a closed town built to house a scientific community, and hosted research facilities as well as a large antenna array. It was not evacuated after the Chernobyl disaster and was still inhabited when the modern Zone appeared in 2006. Limansk could not be approached from the south until the large blowouts during September 2011 briefly opened it up to stalkers. Rumors of a safe path past the Brain Scorcher drew members of all factions, but the way was soon closed by more emissions. Limansk has been blanketed by a dense fog since the end of 2011, and what goes on inside remains a mystery.

The Hospital

The second route north supposedly ran from Limansk through a buried and partially collapsed hospital. The hospital is inaccessible to stalkers, and it presumably falls within Monolith jurisdiction.


The famous ghost city where the Chernobyl plant workers and their families lived before the original crisis. The headquarters of the Monolith faction are in or near Pripyat, which is assumed to hold a bonanza of artifacts. Notable sites include the Ferris wheel, Prometheus Theater, sports center and stadium.

Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant

Formally the Atomic Electricity Station named for V. I. Lenin, the NPP was the source of the 1986 disaster. The 2006 event originated roughly half a kilometer north of the plant itself, which apparently survived with minimal damage. Since aircraft and even spy satellites can no longer fly safely over the Zone, what goes on at the plant today is a total mystery. The NPP lies southeast of Pripyat, but cannot be accessed directly from the south because of a series of massive spatial anomalies collectively known as the 'Big Rip'.

Jupiter Radio Factory

The Jupiter plant on the west outskirts of Pripyat was a nominal subsidiary of the Mayak Radio Factory in Kiev, tasked with production of civilian electronics. In fact it is suspected to have spent its early days building computer equipment for the Soviet armed forces, and after 1986 the site was used as a development facility for equipment related to the Chernobyl cleanup and monitoring programs. Jupiter has been cut off from the outside since 2006, but it would likely be a treasure trove of technical material should a viable path to the center be opened. Nearby locations of interest include the Yanov railway station.


A dried-up backwater north of Pripyat, littered with the rusting hulks of ships scuttled after the first disaster. Will likely become the next Rostok if stalkers break through to the center in large numbers.

The Generators



Free Stalkers

Drawn by the artifacts in the Zone or driven by desperate circumstances outside of it, lone stalkers can be found almost anywhere human life will survive. Operating singly or in small groups, they spend their days combing anomalies for items of value, hunting mutants and fending off bandits. The black market supplies stalkers with weapons and equipment, while a covert industry on the Zone's fringes produces a range of protective gear tailored to local conditions. Rookies usually wear leather jackets or anoraks, while more experienced stalkers use the all-purpose 'Sunrise' suit, the SEVA closed-cycle hazard suit or even powered exoskeletons based on rejected military designs.


Criminals of varying skill and specialty who leech off the stalkers through robbery and extortion: high-risk work in a place where virtually everybody carries at least one gun. In recent months the bandits have formed an alliance with mercenaries in order to fend off the punitive raids of Duty. Bandits generally adhere closely to the slang and mannerisms of the Russian gopnik subculture. Typical garb consists of leather jackets and tracksuit pants, or trench coats with hoods.

Ukrainian Armed Forces

The soldiers who patrol the Zone's borders are a miserable lot, poorly funded and equipped and suffering from chronic low morale. Their orders are to shoot stalkers on sight, but many are driven by greed or desperation to take bribes and even sell hardware to those they are supposed to be keeping out of the Zone. High-priority operations are handled by helicopter-deployed spetsnaz, who are far less inclined to hold fire around stalkers and receive no such consideration in turn. For raids deep into the Zone, the military relies on veteran ex-stalkers recruited into its ranks. These military stalkers are rarely seen but universally hated, as they hold no compunction about shooting their former brothers.


Founded by survivors of the Ukrainian military's catastrophic early raids into the Zone, Duty holds that the Zone is a danger to mankind and must be contained if not destroyed outright. The faction is neutral towards free stalkers and devotes its time to purging mutants and bandits, as well as waging a long war against Freedom. Dutyers despise the military which abandoned them, but maintain links with the special forces and security services. Duty's uniform color is red on black, and their standard issue consists mainly of Soviet and Russian weapons.


Duty's ideological opposite, this coalition of anarchists, adventurers and free spirits believes that the Zone is a gift which must be open to all. In addition to fighting Duty and the military, Freedom is the southern Zone's first line of defense against Monolith raids. Like Duty, Freedom actively trades with and recruits from the free stalker populace. Freedom stalkers wear green Flecktarn camouflage and use NATO weapons.


Once a highly respected faction made up of consummate professionals, the mercenaries have declined so far as to become little more than elite bandits. A base hidden deep inside the Zone allows them to raid virtually any part of the known lands. The mercenaries' colors are blue and gray, and like Freedom they prefer American and western European weapons.


The only non-military group with official permission to enter the Zone, these scientists are well-funded but fight poorly and are plagued by shortages of manpower. They frequently hire free stalkers to assist them in field work and enjoy good relations with Duty, but are picked on by Freedom and often raided by mercenaries. Ecologists wear orange or green closed-cycle suits which protect well against anomalies, but not against bullets. In the field they sometimes carry obsolete or low-cost NATO ordnance.


A strange cult which formed in the known lands and engaged in a wholesale exodus to the north shortly before the beginning of the faction wars. Having found a way to survive in the center of the Zone, the Monolith loyalists fanatically attack anyone who attempts to approach it. They apparently believe in the existence of a powerful alien stone which appeared inside the sarcophagus of the Chernobyl NPP, known to other stalkers as the legendary 'Wish Granter'. Monolith adepts wear brown-tinted urban camouflage of uncertain manufacture and carry high-power weapons, including devices which do not exist outside the Zone.

Clear Sky

A reclusive faction which professed that humanity must learn to understand and coexist with the Zone. They quietly conducted research from their base in an out-of-the-way corner of the swamps until the massive emissions of 2011. Clear Sky's investigation of the event led them to undertake a full-power raid to the center of the Zone, from which none returned. Those who stayed behind were hunted and eliminated by unknown parties, or else scattered and driven into concealment. Their agents wore either conventional stalker outfits or uniforms with a blue and white sky pattern.

Dark Stalkers

Legend has it that the dark stalkers are horribly disfigured men who worship the Zone and cannibalize those unfortunates who stumble across them. Dark stalkers, so the story goes, have no eyes, but instead find their way through some sixth sense. They supposedly hide their mutilated faces under the hoods of long coats and wield unearthly weapons of their own creation. Even the Monolith are said to fear them.


Stalkers of any rank or faction may join the zombie horde if they are exposed to excessive psi-radiation. Severe brain damage reduces them to wandering, babbling shells, attacking those who do not succumb or staggering about until exposure finishes them off.


Aleksey Antonovich Cherenkov

Son of Tiger and Olga Cherenkova. Idolizes the father he has never met.

Anatoliy Tourist

Appeared to be a competent stalker who undertook long expeditions into the Zone, wearing a custom suit with extra pockets and an enlarged backpack.


A captain of the Monolith faction. Carries a deep respect for Tiger, Forester and the others who were touched by the Zone's coming.


Runs the arena in Rostok, where stalkers fight against mutants and each other.


A mercenary specializing in close-range combat. Nostalgic for the days when mercenaries were respected and trusted by other stalkers. Transferred from Wolfhound's team to Hatchet's on his own request.


A stalker who practically lives in the Hundred Rads, interrupted by the occasional Arena match.


A veteran of the faction wars, later promoted to commissar rank and tasked with supervising free stalkers doing work for Duty. Won a very fine rifle from a Freedom member in a boxing match. Killed by Yevgeniy in the marshes.


Neither good nor evil, the Hundred Rads' master is a true force of neutrality. He maintains extensive connections and knows something about everything.


Paladin mercenary with a strong Mainer accent. Killed by a friendly grenade.


Wolf's counterpart in the Garbage, leading teams of stalkers in battle against the bandits.

Boris Pyotrovich Kondratenko

A soldier assigned to guard the Agroprom underground. His terror of the Zone drove him to desert, and he became the only survivor of Marked One's raid on the army camp. Picked up by Tiger's group after wandering into the swamps.


Current bandit kingpin, fat and sadistic. Killed his predecessor Yoga for being exactly what he himself has become. Has all but declared war on Duty and the free stalkers.


A pathetic Duty stalker. Been a heavy drinker since he lost his newly issued rifle in the Dark Valley.


A no-nonsense Duty marksman. Led the reconnaissance party which was attacked by a chimera in the Dark Valley.


A stalker with the distasteful habit of searching corpses for valuables. Brought Marked One to Sidorovich.


Commander of the Freedom troops at the Barrier. An older man who still prefers to work in the field.


Freedom's cook. His culinary skill makes up for his love of boozing and brawling.


Leader of Freedom at the time of the faction wars. Sold weapons to Clear Sky.


A twenty year old orphan living on handouts and sympathy. Tags along with more experienced stalkers, but usually just brings them trouble. Badly indebted to many.


Ran a bar at the Clear Sky swamp base. Fond of telling dirty jokes. Fate unknown.

Dmitriy Batov

A son of Belarusian dissidents who came to the Zone with his girlfriend Galya. Seems to be the quiet one in their relationship.


A rookie at the time of the faction wars, Drifter rose to become an experienced stalker. He helped Worm in his investigations and was killed by bandits while attempting to retrieve a Clear Sky document cache.


A reclusive stalker whom the Zone gifted with a miraculous healing ability. Helped Ghost, Fang and Strelok in their investigations. Has been in hiding since the faction wars.

Edward Ashpool

Paladin mercenary with cyberpunk tastes, 'Edward the Compressor' to his friends. Killed by Southpaw.


Wolf's best friend, aggressive and purposeful.


A friend of Ghost and Strelok who talked with a lisp. Presumably went to the center of the Zone with them. Was assassinated near the Army Warehouses by mercenaries working for Clear Sky.


A brash young Monolith adept. Highly skeptical of Tiger's special status.


An old warden who was living in the Zone at the time of the 1986 disaster and never left it afterward. Like Tiger, he was gifted with a special sense by the 2006 incident. Disappeared during the winter of 2012, when he inexplicably ventured into Limansk.


A veteran bandit with two years' experience in the Zone. Likes old comic books. Something of a hypochondriac, not taken seriously by other bandits. Picked up Brome's special rifle after he lost it in the Dark Valley.

Galina Purkayeva

Estranged daughter of the Minister of Defense of Belarus who entered the Zone with her boyfriend Mitya, intent on becoming stalkers together.


Chief bouncer at the Hundred Rads. Doesn't talk much.

German Fisher

A former game warden who used a rod and reel to gather unreachable artifacts.


An expert in stealth and friend of Fang and Strelok. Has been working with the ecologists in Yantar since Strelok disappeared. Formerly hunted by Clear Sky.

Georgiy Strongman

An unemployed professional translator. Gosha carried a large machine gun and greatly enjoyed tearing things up with it.


A mercenary under Hatchet.


A mercenary under Hatchet.


One of the very first stalkers, and a supreme navigator. Can lead his clients virtually anywhere if the price is right. Helped Strelok and his friends find a way past the Brain Scorcher.


A veteran mercenary commander of the old school. Leader of a squad tasked with destroying the Paladin mercenaries in the swamps, towards which end he agreed to cooperate with Tiger's group.


Wolf's younger brother. Gave up stalking and went back to the outside world after the faction wars.


An upbeat rookie who swears by the shotgun he inherited from his father. Hangs around the Hundred Rads a lot.


Duty's chief mutant-wrangler, supplying a regular menagerie to the Arena.

Kevin MacGruder

Paladin squad leader. A belligerent racist and heavy drug user with sociopathic tendencies.


A Russian mercenary under Hatchet.


Duty sergeant in command of the south Rostok checkpoint.


A member of Bullet's team. MIA after the chimera encounter.


A biologist who often ventures away from Yantar to collect mutant specimens. A marginally better fighter than his colleagues.


Leader of Duty at the time of the faction wars. Ironically a more easygoing man than his opponent Chekhov.


An army major posted to the Cordon base. Frequently pulls duty at the rail bridge so he can collect bribes from passing stalkers.

N. A. Lebedev

Worked at the NPP until 1986. Returned to the Zone as a researcher and founded Clear Sky after the second disaster. Presumed killed when Clear Sky tried to break through to the center.


Leader of a group of free stalkers who helped Sakharov investigate the Yantar psi-emitter during the faction wars. Was called away before the work could be completed.


A former mercenary who joined Freedom. Disgust at his old comrades has left him jaded and cynical. Was once trapped in a looped space anomaly during the faction wars.


Unstable Paladin mercenary. Killed by Olga.


A stuffy English big game hunter who thought of the Zone as just another Serengeti.


Leader of Freedom. Seems to be a Bob Marley fan.


A female mercenary from Sevastopol, working primarily as a sharpshooter. Respected Tiger's skill with a rifle. Believed killed in a Monolith raid.


A stalker who waged a one-man war against the bandits during the past winter, luring them into traps with his ventriloquist talent. He was finally killed by a large gang of criminals, though not before he inflicted heavy losses upon them.

Marked One

A tattooed stalker found near the wreck of a death truck in the Cordon. Suffers from amnesia but is a capable fighter. Has a strong altruistic streak. Does special work for Sidorovich and Barkeep while searching for his own identity, which seems to be linked to Strelok.

Matthew O'Toole

Paladin mercenary, serial prankster. Killed by Olga's grenades.


A veteran guardian of Freedom, easily recognized by his shaved head.


Paladin squad leader, nicknamed 'Easy Eight'. Tried unsuccessfully to keep MacGruder under control. Casualty of a friendly grenade.


A digger, leader of a large stalker group investigating the tunnels under the Agroprom.


A mercenary under Hatchet.


A mercenary under Hatchet. Cool under pressure.

Mykola Sidorenko

Southpaw formerly worked as a master machinist. In the Zone he became a fair shot who hates bandits, and would attack any he met if he had better weapons. Fast on his way to becoming Tiger's best friend.


Wolf's wife. They've had some fights, but remain together.


A former Clear Sky scout who settled at the Cordon, disguised as a rookie loner. Stays close to Wolf and Sidorovich for his own protection, but has ambitions to be a trader in his own right.


Paladin mercenary.


A mercenary under Hatchet.

Oksana Stepanova

An elderly woman who once lived in Pripyat. She came back to the Zone to die after being diagnosed with terminal cancer.

Oleg 'Fiend' Gusarov

Ex-spetsnaz sniper and bomb technician. A true loner, always keeping an eye out for unwanted government agents.

Olga Ivanovna Cherenkova

Olga is a Russian from Bryansk, formerly employed by a government institute in Kiev. Always fascinated by the Zone, she was Tiger's girlfriend until his post-2006 trauma drove her to leave him. She gave birth to a son and later entered the Zone as an agent of the Security Service of Ukraine, using the cover identity of 'Anatoliy Tourist'. She is intelligent and resourceful, but also stubborn and fiercely independent.


A bewhiskered stalker who collected information, filling stacks of notebooks with data about the Zone. He was killed in an attempt to sneak past the Brain Scorcher.


A Freedom officer who sticks his nose where he shouldn't.


A hard-faced rookie stalker working as a scout for Wolf.


A mercenary under Hatchet.


A vicious bandit of questionable sanity. Carries a custom automatic shotgun and suffers from frequent lapses of memory.


A stalker who murdered his companions and committed suicide under strange circumstances. Was found near the Agroprom with a S.T.A.L.K.E.R. tattoo on his arm. Had disappeared in the Red Forest some time before he was rediscovered.


The professor in charge of the Yantar laboratory, who has been studying the Zone since 2007. Perhaps a little too eager to let hired stalkers conduct his field experiments.


A mercenary who helped Clear Sky track down Strelok's group. Had a hand in several pivotal events of the faction wars. Went to the center with Lebedev, presumed dead.


Mechanic at the Freedom base. Will fix anything for the stalker who brings him a bottle of good vodka.


A research assistant at the Yantar lab. Hates zombies.

Shaggy Sergei

A Dutyer captured by bandits in the Dark Valley.


A bottom-tier bandit in Vasya Boar's entourage.


A fat, greasy man who lives in a bunker near the rookie village at the Cordon. The primary trader for the lands south of Rostok, he also handles specific orders for clients on the outside. Drives a hard bargain and will weasel the unwary out of more than a handful of rubles.


Trader at the Freedom base. Charges a lot, but can get a determined customer almost anything.


A university physics dropout who likes to show off his knowledge. A former friend of Baldy.


An obnoxious person who deals in information. Dresses like a bandit and is suspected of Freedom sympathies.


At 27, Sparrow is a cunning and rather mean stalker with a long lucky streak. He celebrates the anniversary of his first brush with death in the Zone as a second birthday. Fancies himself a duelist, to Barkeep's irritation.


A mercenary under Hatchet. Owns an iPod filled with Sabaton albums.


An elusive veteran stalker who is rumored to have made multiple trips to the center of the Zone. Was hunted by Clear Sky. Whereabouts unknown since the end of the faction wars.


Lugard's stuffy English translator.

V. I. Suslov

A cofounder of Clear Sky and its base trader. Tried to hold the remains of the faction together after the loss of Lebedev. Fate unknown.


A mercenary under Hatchet.


Anton Konstantinovich Petanko was born in Pripyat in 1983, the son of an NPP engineer. He grew up to be a surveyor in the Zone, and was one of the 2006 disaster's handful of survivors. The event left him psychologically scarred and eventually drove him back into the Zone, where he has been a stalker for some years. He uses the energy-detecting sixth sense he developed after the disaster to guide himself along safe paths, earning irregular employment as a guide and scout. His nickname comes from the stripes of mutated color in his hair, which he covers with a hooded coat. Tiger is a good marksman, but prefers to avoid conflict. He considers the Zone his only home and longs to revisit the Pripyat apartment where he spent his first years.


A rookie stalker who does odd jobs for Sidorovich.


A stalker whose comrades tend to die in murky circumstances.


A scientist working in Yantar, often sent outside the bunker despite being nervy and liable to crack under pressure.


A Duty member captured by Borov's bandits.

Vasya Boar

A mean bandit, Borov's deputy in the Garbage and prime opponent of Bes.

Vitaliy Meteorologist

After coming to the Zone, Vitka used his expertise in designing electronic instruments to create the prototype of the Svarog detector. He tended to conceal his educated background behind an uncouth and abrasive persona.


Leader of Duty. A harsh, demanding man.

Warrant Officer

A Duty stalker, real name unknown. Faction recruiter, suspected of involvement with the Security Service.


A mercenary under Hatchet.


Paladin mercenary, friendly grenade casualty.


A former miner who became a stalker to support his family. Has been trying to give up the stalker life for several months, but without success. Spends most of his time looking after rookies in the Cordon.


A brutal mercenary veteran who acknowledges no law save the law of the jungle.


A former digger, specializing in recovery of scrap materials from the Zone. Was investigating the mystery of the death trucks and tattooed stalkers. Killed by Tiger after becoming a zombie at Yantar.


Sniper for the Paladin mercs. A man in a very tight spot.


Bandit chief at the time of the faction wars. Was content to base his profits on mundane extortion of stalkers in the Garbage.


Relative of Garik and door greeter at the Hundred Rads. Mans the bar when Barkeep is out.
  21:14:52  7 July 2011
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Strelok Holmes


On forum: 09/02/2009
Messages: 222

While flipping through my files, I rediscovered a Zone guide and character reference sheet which I wrote more than a year ago for a reader who'd never played the games. I can bring it up to date and post it if anyone is interested.

I am very interested
  09:08:15  3 July 2011
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100RadsBar - Formerly known as LoboTheMan


On forum: 06/03/2009
Messages: 1701

While flipping through my files, I rediscovered a Zone guide and character reference sheet which I wrote more than a year ago for a reader who'd never played the games. I can bring it up to date and post it if anyone is interested.

Yes please

Good thing that summer vacation is on the way, lets me take the time to follow up on all the good stories in here
  00:18:27  3 July 2011
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
While flipping through my files, I rediscovered a Zone guide and character reference sheet which I wrote more than a year ago for a reader who'd never played the games. I can bring it up to date and post it if anyone is interested.
  20:40:10  5 June 2011
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
Messages: 211
Fantastic chapter, good sir. Keep 'em coming!
  02:47:10  3 June 2011
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
I wonder if anyone on the Russian boards is reading this.

Children of a Broken Empire

Yevgeniy shivered. He was cold – because he'd been huddled at the top of this goddamned watchtower for twenty hours with almost no relief. He was anxious – because he'd overheard MacGruder talking openly about fragging him. He was afraid – because he'd dreamed.

It was punishment. Punishment. Yevgeniy had missed two shots out of three and now MacGruder was telling everyone that he'd sold them out, that he was playing for both sides. MacGruder, already enraged because the three men who died yesterday were his buddies, partners in his little circle-jerk of bloodlust and machismo. Yevgeniy had watched as they squatted around the stove, taking bets on who would be the first to get some, and he had watched as they fell to the stalkers' volley.

MacGruder might have killed him already, had 'Easy Eight' Miller not interceded on Yevgeniy's behalf. MacGruder was furious, but he also wanted to cover his own ass: it was he and his friends who gunned down that first group of stalkers, the luckless men who approached their patrol with hands raised in cautious offers of friendship. He and his cronies had gotten some, all right, and it only reinforced their attitude towards the Slavic natives – and towards Yevgeniy, the new meat on their own side.

For their losses MacGruder had nobody to blame but himself. He took it for granted that these Ukrainians – Yevgeniy suspected that he still didn't fully grasp the differences between them and their Russian neighbors – were a bunch of slovenly bumpkins, corrupt to the bone and eternally inebriated. Yevgeniy, for his own part, had quickly learned to discount MacGruder's opinions wholesale, doubly so after he first saw the needle marks on the other man's arms.

Still, the morning's encounter had rattled Yevgeniy as much as anyone else in the Paladin corps. These new stalkers hit hard, hit fast, and didn't stick around... Christ, they even brought a machine gun to the party – what was he supposed to do when there were bullets smacking against the tower's framework all around him? The briefings had led him to expect that the stalkers would scatter and flee after he shot the one in the black suit, their presumed leader. Instead they withdrew and regrouped, taking the hostage kids with them.

The emission sent Yevgeniy running for shelter, and MacGruder sent him running back to his post as soon as it ended. He was just getting resettled when the music started, and he realized the stalkers were still out there. Down in the fishing hamlet, MacGruder raised hell over it and was on the verge of leading an all-out attack on the upland swamp before Easy Eight and Novak somehow got him under control. Baxter gave Yevgeniy the depressing details when he ascended the tower for his turn as a lookout, recounting with hushed excitement how the men nearly came to blows.

Yevgeniy let Baxter talk – he spoke very fast and said 'ayup' a lot – and then Baxter let Yevgeniy catch some sleep. The music was still playing when he awoke, beyond the burnt farmstead on the hill, but the eerie light in the sky was nearly gone and Baxter was looking to the west through his night vision goggles. D'ja think they're ever gonna stop? he speculated re: the distant noise.

Yevgeniy honestly hoped not. The dreams affected everyone, but only he and the two others who spoke fluent Russian could understand the words to go with the images... Only he and they appreciated how a weak-willed man could be driven to madness just a few kilometers inside the Zone. Hearing the music, the songs of bloody deeds done by his grandfathers, gave him something else to focus on. He actually missed it once it ended, smiled when it returned after a long break, and sighed once it permanently concluded with one more track.

Baxter's shift ended a few minutes later. He was relieved by Edward Ashpool, 'Edward the Compressor' to his friends, and went back to the camp for some shuteye... No such luck for Yevgeniy. The Compressor didn't bother him, or even speak to him at all unless needed, but the man fidgeted something awful. He was smart, maybe too smart to be working a job like this, a high-tech guy who according to camp gossip had signed on with Paladin because he fucked up a high-stakes job for somebody else. Ashpool had restless hands, probably more accustomed to the contours of mouse and keyboard than of trigger and pistol grip, and he couldn't sit still for more than half a minute without compulsively finding some object for his fingers to manipulate.

Right now he was playing with his sidearm, flicking the safety up and down with his thumb. Paladin's standard issue was a nine millimeter Jericho: heavy matte black steel, slab-sided with clean lines. Not good enough for Edward the Compressor, who bought himself one that had a plastic frame with an accessory rail molded into it, on which he mounted a tactical illuminator that cost him more than the handgun itself. Like voodoo in a night fight, he'd bragged when he first showed it to Yevgeniy.

Click-click... Click-click...

Maybe the real problem wasn't that Kevin MacGruder was a drug-fueled sociopath, but that the client's representative actively encouraged him.

Yevgeniy shivered again.


“Hold up, guys... Anton, how are we doing?”

“There are no more anomalies,” Tiger replied, matching Olga's whisper. “We are close to the tower... There are two men on the top level. I can't feel any others.”

“All right, good enough.” The lone female among the raiders unpacked a compact radio, loaned to her by Hatchet, and held it to her ear. “Roman-Shura-Mikhail, this is Ivan-Vasiliy-Semyon. Am in position and standing by, over.” She listened briefly, then signed off: “I copy. Ivan-Vasiliy-Semyon out.”

“So?” Gosha prompted.

“We do this like we planned it,” Olga answered, laying her borrowed rifle on the ground. “Anton, set up the launcher. Gosha, watch the footpath. Southpaw, watch the tower. German, Vitka, give me your rifle grenades.”

Tiger unlatched the bottom of the SKS's magazine, dumped out the cartridges and dropped them into an empty pocket. Pressing it shut again, he drew the bolt back, ejecting the tenth round, and pocketed that too.

“I don't have a clear shot through the reeds,” Southpaw warned. “I'm moving to the left a little.”

Olga busied herself unscrewing safety caps and arming pins. “If they look this way, hit the dirt.”

The NSPUM slid off its mounting rail with a faint scrape of metal on metal when Tiger pulled out the locking lever. Setting down the carbine for a few moments, he seated protective caps over the night sight's lenses and tucked the device into his largest vest pouch. “Blanks?”

Olga dropped four fresh cartridges into his upturned palm. “Here.”

Tiger pressed them into the magazine one by one, checking the crimped mouth of each with his fingertip, then reached over the barrel and raised the grenade launching sight, engaging the gas system's cutoff valve automatically. “Launcher ready,” he reported, handing the weapon over to his companion.

“Load one.”

The fishing hamlet consisted of a cottage, a boathouse and a covered jetty arrayed around a well and an open fire pit. According to Galina and Dmitriy, the Paladin men only slept in the cottage, as the other buildings were too far decayed to protect them from inclement weather. From this information Olga devised a stratagem to awaken the enemy in the rudest of fashions: Tiger picked up the first of the grenades she had arrayed on the earth between herself and him, a high explosive fragmentation charge with a bluntly truncated conical nose, and pushed it down over the Simonov's muzzle spigot. “One ready!”

“Last call,” Olga warned, tucking the Yugo's butt under her arm. “Is everyone set?”

“We're waiting on you,” Vitka hissed back. “Do it.”

The bolt snapped into battery. “Iacta alea esto.”


Tiger thought he saw a momentary streak of white from the grenade's plastic tail fins as the projectile sailed off into the dark. Snatching up another, he rammed it onto the launcher. “Two ready!”

Olga smartly racked the bolt carrier, loading a new blank as the first detonation's thunderclap rolled across the marshes. Pomf!


Yevgeniy inhaled the gob of saliva he had been about to launch over the edge of the platform. He fumbled for his weapon, coughing violently as more explosions rocked the fishing hamlet. His heart pounded in his ears, adrenaline surging, confused fingers sliding over the anodized housing of the light amplifier strapped to his head.

“We're hot, we're hot.” The Compressor's voice was strangely calm. “Contacts north-northea – ”

Pakh-pakh-pakh-pakh! Pokh-pokh!

Yevgeniy turned his head to the right and felt a heavy wetness spray across his face, spattering the lenses of his night vision rig. The G3ZF slipped from his hands, clattering on the tower platform as its owner recoiled with a shriek.


“One's dead. I think the other is wounded.”

“Good.” Olga handed the empty SKS back to Anton, listening intently all the while. Between the wailing on the tower and the screams from the fishing hamlet, she could hear bursts of automatic gunfire in the west. “Hatchet's team is moving in,” she said, giving herself a quick pat-down to make sure her array of hand grenades were still in place. “Let's move.”

Anton and Gosha cut to the right and made a beeline for the tower, skirting the reeds on the near side of the old footpath. “I'll go first,” the former offered, drawing his backup pistol.

Stay safe, Olga prayed. Picking up her own weapon, she reactivated the sight and snugged the butt against her shoulder. “Follow my lead,” she commanded.

“Right behind you,” Southpaw confirmed as he, Vitka and German fell into an uneven flying wedge, all moving with the same hunched hustle as the woman at their front. Their eyes roved constantly, on the alert both for enemy silhouettes ahead and telltale signs of mines underfoot.


They were coming for him now. Yevgeniy huddled up against the sandbags stacked along the platform's edge, pointing his sidearm at the top of the stairs with shaking hands. The attackers' boots clanged against corrosion-streaked steps as they ascended, zeroing in on the cornered mercenary.

idontwanttodieidontwanttodieidontwanttodie –

A ball of dirty white flame popped out of the darkness in front of him. The bullet failed to penetrate his vest, but the transferred force of impact felt like a hammer blow to his sternum. Yevgeniy squeezed convulsively, the Jericho's backstrap slamming into the web between thumb and forefinger.

His assailant wasn't content with shooting him once, or twice, or even thrice: eight rounds pounded Yevgeniy's body, leaving him wheezing in breathless agony. As he slumped, a vicious silhouette looming before his teary eyes, he suddenly realized that he'd never gotten a chance to swap out the depleted batteries in his radio.

Then he fainted.


Gosha's voice pushed through the chaotic ambiance. “The tower is ours! We've got your backs!”

Perfect timing. Olga would have preferred to use hand signals, but in the dark, with teammates who didn't have time to thoroughly learn all the combinations, it was too risky. “Two by two, guys! Southpaw, stick with me!”

“Yeah, yeah!”

The hamlet was just ahead, on the other side of a rickety wooden bridge. The grenade barrage had done a nice job on the cottage, smashing the split-log wall and collapsing the roof above it. Chunks of plaster and jagged timber splinters littered the ground.

“Where are the sentries?” Southpaw whispered, taking the right side of the bridge. “Did we get them all?”

Olga also expected more opposition: by the sound of things, Hatchet's fifteen man squad had gotten into a serious firefight outside the back door to the abandoned base. “German,” she instructed, “Vitka, move up. Use that truck for cover.”


The upper strut of the rifle stock's steel frame remained firmly pressed against Olga's jaw as the pair slipped between her and her wingman, angling towards the belly of the overturned wreck which lay to her right. Her fingers danced on the Kalashnikov's purple plastic handguard, expressing an agitation she couldn't put into words. Come out, come out, wherever you are...

“Olga, there are a few in the back of the house!”

Thanks, Anton. “Southpaw, we're gonna put some grenades into those left-side windows. Ready?”


The cottage interior was divided by a lateral wall, built around a brick oven and chimney. Olga's bombardment had brought down part of the chimney along with the roof, choking the front room with debris and blocking the entrance. Anyone still alive in the back room would have to dig their way out, or else shimmy through the windows. Job well done.

Not that she intended to give them that chance: ghostly obstacles stretched and contracted as they passed in and out of the piggybacked sight's grainy fisheye image. The blond woman circled around to the cottage's outer side, body tensed like the proverbial spring. Her heart soared inside her tightly bound chest, fueled by the same excitement which perhaps once gripped another Cherenkov when he passed through this land in the driver's seat of a lumbering tank destroyer, pushing back a former generation of invaders.

Here goes!

Olga crouched, pressing herself against the wall, and laid her weapon against it. Ordering Southpaw to stay put via the sign of a raised hand, she crept forwards alone. The back room had two windows on this side, with shutter hinges rusted open and moldering frames which had long ago lost their panes. As she crawled under the first window, the prowler's ears picked up a furtive voice from inside the structure: “...Are still with me. I've got no contact with the tower or the men posted outside, no idea of enemy strength or position. Need urgent backup, over!”

The Bulgarian-made grenade's steel shell was cool to the touch, its shape a smooth ovoid except for the crimped lip around the middle. Reaching an optimal distance, Olga pulled the pin, raised her arm and neatly pitched the RGD-5 over the second window's sill. She withdrew immediately, hearing a percussive pop when the fuze ignited. Grenade number two went in through the first window moments later, as the grenadier backpedaled towards Southpaw.



Yevgeniy thought he heard 'Mad Matt' O'Toole's voice in the distance, just before the double blast shook his pain-fogged mind out of its stupor. He was still on the tower's platform, facedown with his wrists tied behind himself, and his ribs hurt so badly that he couldn't even begin to guess how many of them might be broken... And yet, somehow, he was still alive.

“Enemy reinforcements coming up from the right!”

The machine gun chattered. Yevgeniy pressed his face into the deck, squeezing his eyes shut.


German made way as Olga and Southpaw dashed to the truck. “How'd you make out?”

“Never saw us coming,” the woman panted, checking her fire selector by touch. “Look alert, guys. We got – ”

“Olga!” There was another burst from the M60, punctuated by the SKS, and then an answering fusillade from the other side of the hamlet. “Right side, guys! Right side!”

“Southpaw, with me! You two, hold down the flank!”


“Let's go!” Olga rolled out of cover and sprinted up the middle, towards the well. German and Vitka headed for the outside corner of the boathouse as she put the hamlet's fire pit behind her.

“The outpost is overrun!” The enemy was close, close enough that Olga could hear a rough voice barking orders beyond the boathouse. “Frag it!”

Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned. Thus wrote Congreve, but a woman scorned was nothing beside a mother defending her mate. The Russian whipped around the southwest extremity of the moss-blotched ruin, pulled in the slack and aimed for center of mass as the silhouette among the bushes coiled to launch the object in its hand. The AKS-74 delivered her counter-prescription perfectly, injecting the specter with five doses of hot metal in precise 5.45 millimeter increments.

“Grenade on the ground! Baxter, roll up, roll – ” Bam!

“Miller..? Miller!”

“Goddammit, I'm hit!”

“White's down! He's bleeding out, somebody help me!”

“Stay in defilade, don't give them targets... Lewis, med kit! Lewis!”

“YEEEAAAAAAARGH!” The vanguard stalkers ducked as a swarm of bullets bit into their cover, throwing out chips of sun-bleached wood. “FUCKING COMMIES!” the gunman screamed, his voice cracking as he emptied his magazine. “I'LL KILL YOU, YOU SLAV SHITS! AAAAAAAAAAUGH!”

The outburst dispelled whatever fragile pity Olga might have felt for her foes' predicament. “Screw this,” she spat, waving Southpaw forwards. “Hit 'em again.”


That was the eighth explosion since the attack began, if Yevgeniy was counting right.

Not much else to do but count, he thought despondently as the machine gun roared anew. Count the blasts, count the bullets, count the bodies. It was only a matter of time before the stalkers finished with his comrades and turned their fury on him, battered and trussed up so they could play with him at their leisure. They would know it was he who shot the man in black, and what they might do to him for that didn't bear thinking about.

“I'm reloading.”

They spoke Russian, but with an accent that sounded utterly alien to Yevgeniy's ears. Turning his head, the defeated sniper could see the one on the left doing something with his weapon. “You stay put,” the man said coldly, throwing a look over his shoulder and startling Yevgeniy again.

“He's awake?” the machine gunner inquired.

“Yeah.” Kachak! “Sounds like Hatchet is wrapping up.”

“Didn't take long.”

“Less than ten minutes.” The first stalker raised his carbine and scanned the battleground. “I don't see any more movement.”


“Did we get them all?”

“Maybe.” Olga leaned around the corner, cautiously scoping the reeds. “German, you got anything?”

“Nothing over here!”

“All right... Anton, are you guys okay up there?”

“We're fine,” came the returning call. “We've got a prisoner!”

“Good!” Olga checked the corner again. “Okay,” she muttered to herself, “okay... Give it another minute and then we'll regroup.”

“Mm.” Southpaw was looking the other way, back towards the cottage. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“I thought I – wait!”

The shooting from Hatchet's frontline stopped for a few moments, and in that brief interval Olga also heard the distant thudding. “Sit tight,” she told Southpaw, backtracking towards the hamlet's entrance. There was no mistaking the noise once she turned her face towards the pale glow which was beginning to spread over the treeline. “Helicopter coming in from the east!”

“Great,” Vitka complained. “Now what?”

“I'm gonna signal it.” Olga slung her rifle and unzipped the pouch on her left hip. “Let 'em know we're the good guys.”

Her superiors in the Security Service generally took a hands-off stance about the equipment used by their deep cover agents inside the Zone. The list of mandated items was short, its most important contents being the agent's proof of identity and a set of colored signaling cartridges. The choice of launcher was left up to the men in the field: Olga's own was a Polish copy of a single shot Red Army model which she, as Anatoly Tourist, had bought from Sidorovich.

Green, then white... Green, then white...

To identify herself for military forces, she had to launch two flares according to a sequence which was rotated every month. There were three sets in the pouch, bundled in pairs for quick access. Extracting one set, Olga opened the ungainly pistol's breech, rammed in the green shell, and pointed it into the darkest heavens.



Yevgeniy blinked as the sudden, lurid brightness washed over him. Why was that woman trying to draw the chopper's attention? These guys couldn't be tied into the military – the client's man had assured his fellow mercenaries that the army and security forces wouldn't interfere with their mission.

The client's man...

A second pyrotechnic went up, a pure white one. Yevgeniy looked at his captors as it passed, seeing them clearly for the first time. Those uniforms, with camouflage that might look more suitable on marines storming a beach, were unlike anything he'd seen in the briefings.

“Who are you p – ”




“Mug! Do it!”

Badger saw/heard the flash/pop as the Stinger was ejected from its launch tube, but the hiss of the missile's rocket motor was blotted out by a wave of juddering blasts to the north and east. “That's a hit,” Mug reported, his customary air of clinical detachment unshaken. “Bogey is going down.”

“Get another launcher and stand by,” Hatchet ordered. “Badger!”

The pointman jumped to attention. “Here!”

“Reinforce the stalkers. Take Pianist, Tank, Greaser and Goblin.”

“Roger!” Badger headed for the gate in the encampment's overgrown perimeter fence, tweaking the night vision goggles he'd swiped from a Paladin casualty on the way in. The others fell in behind him as he pushed the gate aside and headed into the surrounding thicket.

“Nice time for the army to show up,” Goblin griped. “Way to fuckin' kill the buzz, yeah?”

“Never mind your buzz,” said Tank sourly. “Why did the baddies have a pile of anti-air missiles lying around? What is this, Chechnya?”

“Hush!” Badger pushed out of the bushes, his shotgun trained on the ground several paces ahead. “Watch your step, boys!”

A corpse lay draped across the middle of the plank bridge which spanned the first of the marsh's many channels. Badger counted seven more on the slope of the low hillock beyond it, strewn over churned and ripped soil. All of them were enemies. “Hey, stalkers!” the mercenary called. “Friendlies coming in!”

There was no answer, so he gritted his teeth and pressed onward through the thick reeds. The watchtower, the monolithic obstacle which he had marked on his map and furtively observed from a distance, now rested parallel to the ground in a twisted heap of corroded girders, its foundation rent asunder by the helicopter's rockets. “I hope nobody was on that thing,” Tank murmured, putting Badger's own somber sentiment into words.

The mercs turned right and headed for the boathouse. They found the first friendly casualties there, huddled at the foot of the north corner. Poor bastards, thought Badger. The Mi-24s which patrolled the Zone's perimeter were fitted with thermal imaging gear: even if the stalkers had run, they couldn't have hidden from it for long. “Meteorologist and Fisher are dead,” he announced curtly. “Well, I think it's Meteorologist.”

“Huh?” Pianist pushed to the front of the group to get a look, recoiling sharply when he realized one of the bodies was missing most of its head. “Oh fu – ”

“Don't puke in your gas mask.” Battlefield humor kicked in as Badger walked around the fallen. “It's unprofessional.”

In truth, Badger felt pretty nauseous himself as he turned right again and entered the hamlet, noting another dead Paladin slumped over the pile of sandbags at the threshold. He found the third stalker sprawled beside the inner wall of the boathouse, the wall itself stained dark with blood liberated by the flying reaper's massive bullets. The fourth member of the party was huddled nearby, evidently in shock. “Killed instantly,” the survivor mumbled. “Nothing I could do...”

Badger decided he'd seen enough and picked up his radio. “Badger calling Hatchet... I'm in the fishing hamlet, over.”

“How does it look? Over.”

Badger swallowed. “It's, um... it's pretty bad.”

He was trying to think of what to say next when a cry of anguish sounded amongst the tower ruins. “Olgaaaaaaa!”
  01:16:21  8 May 2011
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
...Have I really been doing this for two years?

(New chapter in the works. Fo' realz.)
  03:38:25  25 April 2011
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081

*starts bashing keys furiously*
  21:49:42  24 April 2011
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941

It's now two weeks until the second anniversary of the story's inception. If I work extra hard, maybe - Great Scott, is that a flying pig?

Wouldn't be surprised, in The Zone anything is possible after one of the big emissions
  19:22:34  24 April 2011
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
It's now two weeks until the second anniversary of the story's inception. If I work extra hard, maybe - Great Scott, is that a flying pig?
  17:00:38  24 April 2011
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
Messages: 211
Ding! Awesome chapter, man!

I should really check this forum more often.
  19:11:00  23 April 2011
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Senior Resident

On forum: 03/15/2009
Messages: 182
Well, what a nice surprise. The long wait is finally over. Really great to see, that one of the best Stalker stories here is back again. Thanks for a new chapter, and keep up the good work!
  07:56:52  23 April 2011
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Okay, so I was wrong about it being soon.

Seven Six Two

“Am I doing this right?”

“Yeah, you're good... Turn around.”

German did so. “Here's the man,” he said, spotting Tiger coming out of the workshop. “Just in time.”

Tiger blinked at the spectacle before him. German was wearing a large framework on his back, supported by a complex harness, with multiple spindly arms projecting upward and out to each side. The assembly was plainly electronic in nature, with dozens of wires snaking through its structure. Tiger's eyes traced them to the large box on the other stalker's hip, and from there to the keypad in his hand and the bulky goggles resting on his forehead.

“Oh good,” Vitka grunted, his earlier resentment pushed aside by an air of subtle determination. “Hold on a sec, I gotta – ” Snap! “...That's better.” He stepped back, looking at the contraption with unabashed pride. “How do you like it?”

More blinking. “A detector..?”

“Damn straight.” Vitka folded his arms. “I got fed up with the shitty pocket scanners, so I bought some computers and junk and knocked this together... I call it 'Svarog'.”

The only connotation Tiger could think of was an obscure pagan deity. “Why Svarog?”

The inventor shrugged. “It sounded cool... Anyway, it's fancier than those things you can buy from the traders or the nerds. It shows stuff in three dimensions, see?” He pointed to the goggles. “Way more efficient than a Veles.”

Vitka's alternative looked neither elegant nor rugged to Tiger, but he didn't say so. “You're going to use that to find the artifacts,” he concluded. “But why is German wearing it?”

“Because I've got my own specialty,” Fisher replied. “The big problem with harvesting artifacts here is getting close enough to pick them up, right?”


“So what we're going to do is, we're going to extend our reach... Pass me the rod, Vitka?”

“Coming right up.”

It was quite literally a fishing rod, with a reel and line attached. “I got the idea for this after finding a rookie who fried himself near that tunnel under the embankment in the Cordon,” German recalled. “He'd found a Sparkler and tried to roll it out with a stick... Poor kid didn't understand the danger, I guess.” The loner pulled out a length of his line, a simple nylon monofilament strand. “You and I know that anything big will trip the anomaly as soon as you stick it in, so a net or scoop won't work either.”

“Yes.” Tiger's interest was now solidly piqued. “That line is light enough not to upset them?”

The dry-land angler nodded. “That was the first hurdle. It took some trial and error, but I've found a weight that works.” He quickly wound up the excess length. “The second hurdle was, what kind of hook can snag half a kilogram of magic scrap metal? I scratched my head over that for a while.” German reached into one of his suit's hip pockets. “But I finally figured it out with some insight from a bottle of homemade vodka... The answer is Gumdrops.”

The Gumdrop artifact, like the Maiden's Delight which Tiger had helped Wolfhound's team recover during the previous swamp raid, was of little direct use to stalkers. It formed when plate glass was exposed to a powerful electrical discharge in the presence of corrosive fog – the natural sources of energy were Electro anomalies and occasionally lightning strikes, though Sakharov and his colleagues had partially replicated the process by means of a Van de Graaff generator. The glass melted and reformed into dull marble-sized blobs, which changed color when subjected to weak electric currents. It was said that the semiconductor industry was interested in the properties of the Gumdrop, but the sheer scarcity of samples for research meant that no breakthroughs had yet been coaxed out of the little artifact.

Two years ago Tiger could find handfuls of Gumdrops lying in the open on windowsills beneath empty frames. Back then they were regarded merely as pretty curiosities, trinkets to make your girlfriend a nice necklace out of... but not anymore. “Those are your... your lures?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Drawing out the fishing line again, German affixed one to the end of it. “I could talk all night, but I'd better not. I'm ready when you two are.”

“I'm good too,” said Vitka. “Tiger, I designed the Svarog to display both artifacts and anomalies, but I'm still crunching numbers for the anomaly tables. I need you to get German into a good position to do his thing, see, and hopefully I can collect enough data to make fine adjustments in the meantime.”

It wasn't just Vitka's attitude that had changed: his manner of speech was more precise, more educated. The shift made Tiger wonder if his previous tough-guy persona was all for show. “Just tell me where you need to go,” said the guide.

“We'll try our luck along the road down there, if it's safe.”

Tiger went around to German's other side, mentally mapping the obstacles ahead. “It's safe enough.”

“Great... Boss lady, we're going hunting now!”

“All right!” Olga had to shout to be heard over the background music. “Watch your step out there!”

The three men started out in single file, Tiger leading and Vitka at the rear. From the north end of the workshop they zigzagged north-northeast, past an overturned tractor wreck and down the pockmarked slope to the road which in safer times had been the main route over the marshlands. The glow of the aurora still fell brightly all about, illuminating the ground as good as any flare or flashlight. “Let's stop here for a minute,” Tiger suggested when they came to the eroded track.

Vitka looked to either side, sweeping the rocks and bushes with his submachine gun. “Any beasties around?”


“Good to know.” There was a Springboard softly pulsing a couple of meters to the left, with a Dervish lurking just behind it: German took out his personal detector, a Bear like Olga's, and waved it at the anomalies. “...So,” the stalker concluded, switching the device off and bringing a sudden end to its shrill beeping, “where do we start?”

“We don't have enough protection to approach the pylons,” Tiger warned, pointing at the line of skeletal steel frames which jutted from the rough, scrubby ground to the east. “Let's start with the truck over there, or maybe the Boiler.”

“I vote for the truck,” Vitka opined.

“Works for me,” German agreed. “Lead on.”

They walked northwards now, back towards the corner from which they had first entered these swamps in the morning. A broad pool of Electro anomalies spread across the road ahead, the truck in question lying among them like a stricken ship trapped in a maelstrom. It was a two-axle GAZ, in far better condition than the mangled Kamaz or the scattered scraps of the ZiL to the west... apart from there being more holes in it than a colander's bottom.

German whistled when he saw the damage. “Somebody did some serious target practice.”

“Not practice,” Tiger corrected, deviating towards the right to avoid another Springboard. “It was a flashpoint.”

“A flashpoint?” Vitka's incredulity was conveyed by the wrinkling of his balaclava. “Who'd fight over a jalopy out in the fucking boonies?”


“Come again?”

“They called themselves that.” Tiger made a sharp turn, moving at an oblique angle to the vehicle. “The renegades were a bandit group who broke away from Yoga's gang at the start of the faction wars.” Five paces, another turn and a quick stop to let the others catch up. “They came down here from the Agroprom and Garbage, trying to drive out Clear Sky and take over the swamp route across the perimeter.”

“Huh... But Clear Sky pushed 'em back?”

“Eventually, yes... The renegades dug in at that first farmstead we searched, after Clear Sky's people recaptured the machine yard. There was fighting back and forth for a while, but never any clear wins or losses.”

“And the truck was the halfway mark between them,” said Vitka. “Now I get it... I know Clear Sky is gone, but what happened to the renegades?”

“Most of them joined Borov when he overthrew Yoga.” Tiger came within rock-chucking distance of the truck's rust-streaked snout and halted again. “There's a clear spot here. Is it near enough for you?”

“Yeah, this is great.” German made a flicking motion with the tip of his fishing rod. “Vitka?”

“Gimme a second to hook up.” The engineer unzipped a suit pocket and withdrew a scratched Casio PDA with a length of thick cable plugged into its top. “Mind the wire,” he prompted, bending forwards and connecting the cable's other end to the Svarog's logic box. “...Okay, ready.”

Pulling down his hood, the fisherman checked his aft leeway and placed the detector's goggles over his eyes. “This is pretty radical,” he remarked. “I don't think they have such sensitive instruments even in Yantar yet.”

“Nah,” said Vitka dismissively. “The anomaly stuff is all in software, brute-force algorithms and shit. It's the three-dee display that will make it sell, I'm telling you.”

Olga's voice rolled down to them from the machine yard: “Heads up, crew! We're making some zeroing shots, aiming southwest!”

“Here goes.” German slowly swung the rod upward until most of its length extended back over his shoulder. He hesitated for a few moments, listening to the first snaps of small-caliber rifle fire, and then straightened his arm in a brisk motion.


The sight of Vitka working nearby, his nose almost pressed to the pocket computer's screen, reminded Tiger that he still had Drifter's iPAQ tucked snugly inside his own coat. He needed to get it unlocked soon – maybe Vitka could do it for him, if he asked nicely enough... Strange to think that only a day had passed since he was diverted from his personal quest: it felt as if the interval were much longer.


“The sound of the mortars, the music of death – we're playing the devil's symphony... Our violins are guns, conducted from hell!”

Spook had kept on laying down the heavy metal, both sonic and solid, in their absence: the tarpaulin square spread at his feet was covered edge to edge in gleaming black Tokarev pistols, and he was polishing another with a rag as the trio of gatherers walked past him and into the workshop.

“Where do the Chinese shooters come from, anyway?” Vitka wondered aloud.

“Albanian arms dealers based in Turkey.” Olga had taken her headlamp off and was holding it in her hand, shining it down on a map spread over a wooden tool shelf cum strategist's table. “They're shipped through the Suez, up the Bosporus or maybe overland, and then across the Black Sea.” She lifted her face. “How did it go?”

“Compared to a day on the Garbage?” Vitka hoisted up the bag containing the booty and set it on the shelf. “Pretty friggin' good.”

“We searched the Electro field and the gravity traps around the Boiler,” German added. “Are these what you wanted?”

Pale waves of yellow and blue-white rippled over Olga's face as she opened the bag. “That's good, that's very good.” The Russian zipped it back up. “Thanks a lot, guys. Take ten.”

German and Vitka departed with nods of acknowledgment. That left Tiger alone with his former lover. “Problem, Anton?” she queried.

“No... I just don't feel like sitting around.” Tiger moved around to the open side of the shelf. “You're still planning?”

“Adding final touches, tying up loose ends... Composing victory speeches.”

There was a soft, self-deprecating laugh, then a long sigh. These were not familiar noises to Tiger, but Anton remembered them. “Is everything going all right?”


“Have there been any transmissions from Duty? Hatchet has a man posted on his radio, right?”

“Yeah, but there's been no contact. Probably won't be any before morning.” The map Olga had been looking at was seven or eight years old, compiled by Tiger's colleagues before the second eruption. The one she laid over it now was pushing thirty, a Soviet military chart with pencil scrawls all over. “I think we're going to have to leave Kondratenko behind.”

“You mean, leave him here with Dmitriy and Galina?”

“Yeah. He's been really helpful with setting up equipment, but his nerves – he's not going to hold up under fire.”

Tiger's own assessment of the stray soldier was comparable, so he had nothing to add. “What do you think of Hatchet?”

“You know, he kind of looks like Aleksey Serebryakov. I'll start calling him 'Kom-Batt' if I'm not careful.” Her smile suggested that she wasn't overly concerned about the mercenaries' leader. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about the kids...”

Here it comes. “You want me to take them into the Zone.”

“If we send them back, they'll be picked up and extradited. You know what will happen after that, don't you?”

“Yeah... Yeah, I know.” Tiger shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “There's still a lot they'll have to learn.”

“You're the best one to teach them.” Olga bent over the map once more. “If you're not going to rest, could you check on those two for me? They should be down at the other end.”


“Oh, Anton...”

Tiger paused mid-step. “What?”

Olga abruptly turned away. “Never mind. I'll tell you about it later.”

Tiger waited a couple of seconds to see if she would reconsider, moving on with a mental shrug when she didn't. Walking through the gloom of the machine hall, he passed Southpaw and two mercs hauling boxes up from the underground store.

“...Advertised for new meat pretty aggressively,” one of the mercenaries was saying. “Shit, even the bandits were throwing in a recruiting pitch with every shakedown... Yeah, put it right there... Like I was saying, everybody took big losses. Freedom probably imported that Yugo kit for their second wave going into Limansk, before the emission wiped out all the vanguard parties... After the faction wars cooled off, there was no more use for 'em.”

Southpaw waved to Tiger and dropped back into the hole. “...So they sold off the new stuff first?” his muffled voice inquired.

“Seems they did.” The merc squatted, reaching out to take the next case from the loner's raised hands. “I dunno, maybe they were worried about quality or something.”

“I haven't had any problems with mine.”

“I bought a shooter from a Freedom guy once,” the other mercenary volunteered. “Looked great on the outside, clean and everything, but it didn't work... Opened it up, looked at the trigger group – ounce of weed taped inside.”

“Kirzach, you find ounces of weed in everything.”

Moving on, Tiger rounded the inner corner of the building and walked west. Galina was sitting on a crate near the end wall while Dmitriy stood behind her, cutting away his girlfriend's hair with a small pair of scissors. From the side he'd already cut, the onlooking stalker guessed that he was using Olga's boyish style as his pattern. It was a practical choice, Tiger had to admit: long locks would be nothing but a liability here.

Galina regarded him with dark, wary eyes. “What is it?”

Tiger cleared his throat softly, realizing too late that he should have better prepared himself for this. “Are you sure you want to stay in the Zone?”

“I'm not going back to Minsk.” Her tone left no room for dissent. “And I'm not giving up Mitya.”

“I understand that,” said Tiger, taking note of the look on Dmitriy's face when Galina affirmed her commitment. “But why here? Vitaly wasn't joking about the danger.”

“We're like you.” The girl's face was as stubborn as her tongue. “We have nowhere else to go... Olga Ivanovna said you could help us. We'll find a way to pay you back somehow.”

Tiger shook his head. “I wouldn't do it for money,” he replied. “I can take you as far as Rostok. After that I'm probably going to be in places that are too dangerous for you.”

The name appeared unfamiliar to Galina. “Rostok?”

“It's to the north,” Tiger explained, “beyond the Agroprom and the scrap heaps. It used to be a tractor factory, but now it's a crossroads for the southern Zone. The Duty base and the biggest free stalker camp are both in Rostok.”

“It's a safe place?”

The stalker hesitated, visions of Ananko's last stand, the Orekhov raid and the Plague Well parading before his eyes. “...Mostly safe,” he conceded, as the silhouette of Machinery Hall No. 6 loomed large in his memory.


The following hours passed in a blur, while the wavering aurora gave way to constellations and wisps of errant cloud. Tiger worked, rested, and then worked some more. He planted marker sticks so the others could find their way out of the anomaly maze. He sorted the artifacts which German and Vitka gathered. He even managed to sleep for a bit after Spook took a break from MP3 jockeying, the generator cooling off in quiet.

The uneasy alliance was holding together, the battle plans coming together without snags or stumbles. Tiger, however, had a new worry: Olga had been avoiding him since their conversation over the maps. It wasn't an overt or pointed avoidance, but he felt it every time their paths intersected, every time she suddenly needed to 'check on' somebody else or go find something she'd 'forgotten' about. This development left Tiger wondering what he'd said or done – or not said or not done – to upset her, and the irony of the reversal didn't occur to him until near the end.

Now the projected time of departure was drawing near, and it seemed to him that the only way he would get Olga to talk was to pin her to the ground again. Being in this frame of mind, he was more than a little surprised when out of the blue she asked him to stand watch over the trapdoor while she changed out of her Sunrise and put on one of the Clear Sky uniforms. Standing here, able to sense every move she made in the chamber beneath his feet, he caught himself wandering back to happier moments... Olga walking barelegged through her little apartment in Kiev, an unbuttoned shirt threatening to slide off her shoulders –

“Hey, Anton? I could use a third hand here.”

“Uh... Yeah, I'll be right there.” Nice timing, Tiger told himself on the way down the ladder. Reminiscing about their old relationship was surely more wholesome than giving himself flashbacks of the shadow among the turret lathes, but that didn't make it appropriate for this time and place. Reaching the bottom, he could see firsthand the outcome of the others' labor in the new emptiness of the secret room.

Olga wore the faded black pants, boots and knee pads, but the mottled blue and white tunic and the green tactical vest still lay draped over a crate beside her. She was naked above the waist, save for a long strip of fabric wound tightly around her upper chest. “One of the straps got jammed up in a buckle,” she explained, holding up the vest. “I was afraid it would break if I tried to force it.”

Tiger leaned forwards. “It looks pretty well stuck... If I put my fingers here, does that help?”

“Yeah, hold it flat... Ready, one-two-three!” Olga yanked on the other side and the wrinkled nylon webbing popped free. “Thanks.”

She turned her back on him, but this time Tiger wasn't willing to let himself be ignored. “Isn't there something else?” he prodded.


“Look, um... Whatever I did, I – ”


It wasn't a word, more like a sob made of vowels and consonants. Looking down, Tiger saw Olga's hands balled into trembling fists. “Uh... I just thought... Olga..?”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“What – ”

He reached out to her at the same instant she spun around. Her cheeks glistened in the lantern's light, her exposed belly flexing with every strained breath. “Anton...”

“Olga, why are – oof!”

“I don't want to go back.” Her fingers dug into Tiger's flanks through the coarse weave of his coat as she clung to him, her face pressed against his shoulder. “I don't want to tell Lyosha his father hates me.”

Tiger might have pushed her away. Anton swallowed, took a deep breath and put his arms around her. Olga's skin felt hot to the touch, and she shivered as if in the throes of high fever.

“Don't send me away,” she whimpered. “Don't leave me alone...”

Her breakdown had taken Tiger completely by surprise, leaving his own composure in tatters. “Olga,” he fumbled, “Olga, stop this. Everyone is counting on you...”

“No.” The distraught woman lifted her face. “They need you, not me.”

“I – ”

“They only trusted me because you let them.” Her arms tightened convulsively. “You were right, Anton. You don't need me anymore... But I can't let go, I can't pretend I don't feel anything...”

Tiger flinched. Having those words, his parting shot at the end of the pair's first reunion, come back to him this way hurt more than being punched in the face by the bandits... But then he remembered the pain and the bitter loneliness of five years past, and he still couldn't quite accept what she was trying to say. Why are you doing this, Olga? What do you want from me?

Olga seemed to understand the questions from his expression, without hearing them spoken. “I want it all back... Everything we had together – ”

“Hey, Tiger?” That was Southpaw, standing over the trapdoor. “Is everything all right down there?”

“Everything's fine. I'll be up in a minute.”


Somehow Tiger had to get Olga to pull herself together. Let's talk about it later, he wanted to say. You can't put the whole mission at risk, he wanted to say.

But Anton didn't say that. Hugging Olga tightly, he raised a hand and carefully, almost reverently, stroked her tousled golden hair. “...I wouldn't mind if you stayed.”

Suddenly it was very quiet in the rough little room.

“I don't hate you.”

The words coming out of Tiger's mouth were honest, but just one day ago they would have been unpalatable even with his modest sense of pride. “I don't hate you,” he repeated, fervently hoping this was the right thing to do. “So please... Please don't cry...”

At first Olga didn't respond, seemingly no less conflicted about the confession than Tiger himself, but her outpouring of emotion gradually settled. “Anton,” she murmured, her voice quavering, “I know I'm being selfish and I know... I know I don't belong here, but... give me one more chance and I promise I'll make it all up to you.”

“Okay.” As her grip loosened, Tiger picked up the tunic and held it out. “Come on,” he encouraged. “You have to show the others how to wear this correctly.”



Oak high-fived Mower.

“Berlin is buuurrrning!”

Gosha peered into the murk of the surrounding thicket through the humongous night sight atop his machine gun.


Vitka bumped fists with German.

“The Reich has faaalleeeeen!”

Hatchet approached Olga and thrust out a grimy, callused hand. “GOOD LUCK,” he roared over the fury of the music. “WE'LL SEE YOU IN THE DAYLIGHT!”

The female stalker shook his hand with gusto. “TREAD CAREFULLY OUT THERE!”

“ALWAYS DO!” Hatchet turned to his fellow mercenaries. “ARE WE READY, MEN?”



They departed in a winding line, following Tiger's markers through the anomalies. The loners stood gathered in the machine yard, witnessing in silence until the marching cadence faded into the west.

“Well, guys,” said Gosha, the servos of the exoskeleton strapped to his limbs whirring faintly with every move, “it's our turn now.”

“That's right.” Olga looked to Kondratenko, Galina and Dmitriy. “You remember what to do if we can't come back for you, right?”

“We should take your note to Wolf or Fanatic in the Cordon,” Galina recited smartly.

Olga nodded. “Good girl... Anton, will you do the honors?”

Tiger rolled his shoulders, feeling the unfamiliar weight and tightness of the Clear Sky scout's outfit, the hard outlines of the Tokarev behind his back and the Mauser resting against his hip, and finally the top-heavy mass of the night scoped SKS in his hands. These mattered not to him, now that the weight on his conscience was so light by comparison. Reaching out in the dark, he found Olga's soft hand and squeezed it gently.

“Let's go.”
  05:10:22  13 November 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
I feel warm and fuzzy.

Coming soon: couch fishing, music to kick ass by, and Olga losing clothes.
  00:31:33  11 November 2010
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Cake Muncher


On forum: 01/08/2009
Messages: 4114
Cool chapter Bob, waiting for more.
  18:14:58  10 November 2010
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
Messages: 211
Wo0t. Nice chapter, BobBQ. You're still in the top 3 active stories on this site for me.
  15:03:54  10 November 2010
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Messages: 96
Always a pleasure to read your work! Looking forward to reading more in the future
  01:33:43  10 November 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
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I stayed up until six AM trying to beat this sucker into shape. Enough is enough!

The Battle Ground Cannot Be Changed

“It's a trap!”

Olga dove to the ground, while Tiger dropped onto one knee. Both went for their rifles. “Anton,” the woman hissed as the strangers raised their own weapons, “get down!”

“Don't shoot!” One of the intruders threw up his hands. “Hold your fire, we're on the same side!”

“They're mercs!” Southpaw yelled behind him. “Don't trust 'em!”

“Wait!” The one who'd spoken out suddenly jumped in front of the others before they could fire. “Tiger, it's me! It's Badger!”

“Badger...” Tiger had met a lot of people over his long years of stalking, and it took a few moments to match the name with the shotgun-toting mercenary he'd escorted during his last visit to these swamps. “Come over here,” he called, keeping that man in his sights. “Slowly.”

“Sure, sure.” Badger held his arms out from his sides as he walked, as if he were traversing a tightrope.

“Stop there,” Tiger commanded once the other man had reached the near side of the fallen bridge. “All right, now talk.”

“Okay...” The merc glanced to his right, towards the south. “You, um... Are you working with those guys from the outside? The ones from the foreign PMC?”

“No,” Olga answered in her partner's place. “Friends of yours?”

“No way.” Badger shook his head emphatically. “We came to clean their clocks.”

“There was a skirmish earlier,” the one in the hooded coat supplemented. “We killed three of them.”

“Then there's three less to worry about. Great!”

“Uh-huh.” Tiger's eyes flicked to the side just for an instant. “Wolfhound's not feeling friendly today?”

“It's not Wolfhound,” Badger corrected. “I got transferred.” He reached up and pulled off his gas mask, revealing a round face with sandy hair, watery blue eyes and crisscrossing razor scars. “Phew! ...Anyway, I'm glad to see you. This would be a lot easier with your help.”

His enthusiasm failed to sway Olga. “Your friends don't look like they agree.”

“They're just edgy, that's all. Lemme go talk to the boss and we can work something out.”

“You do that.” The Russian trained her carbine on the mercenaries' probable leader as Badger made his way back over the rubble. “How well do you know that man, Anton?”

“Not very,” Tiger admitted, watching carefully as the mercs convened. He couldn't make out their words, but the gestures suggested a lively debate. The loner had no doubts about the other side's stance: if Badger weren't here, the rest of the hired guns would have just as likely wiped out his fellow stalkers without a second thought. The odds didn't favor them if it came to an open fight now, either from perfidy or from a nervous trigger finger. With that in mind, Tiger turned his attention towards his allies. The sun was below the treeline, but the fiery glow it left in the sky still interfered with his sight. As far as he could make out, only Gosha and Vitka were in a position to deal significant damage...


It wasn't sunlight which caused the sudden sensory overload. “Olga,” Tiger gasped, pushing the white heat back into the periphery of his vision, “there's an emission coming...”

“Fuck.” The female spy pushed herself up on one hand and waved to the others. “Gonna be a blowout soon, stalkers!”

“Oh, really?” The mercenary commander broadcast his skepticism loud and clear. “When?”




Jagged streaks of lightning flashed across the diabolically red sky as booming thunder resounded amidst a terrible rumbling, tremors felt as much as heard by those huddled inside the workshop. There was an equally fearsome storm raging inside Tiger's head, the ferocious energy of the blowout overwhelming his sixth sense. It felt like sitting through a nuclear blast in slow motion: he was barely aware of Olga's arms encircling him, of Badger and Southpaw jockeying for the title of Most Concerned Onlooker, or of Gosha placidly munching on a sandwich nearby.

The rumbling rose to a crescendo. A lifeless crow plopped in the dirt just outside the doorway. Dmitry and Galina clung to one another, whimpering in mutual terror. For a few seconds, it looked as if the entire world was aflame outside the wrecked building.

And then, mercifully, the surge dropped off, leaving the Zone quiet once more. The merc commander was first on his feet, leaving the company of his juniors to cautiously probe an opening in the brick wall. “It's over,” he said gruffly. “Is everyone all right?”

Nods and murmurs all around.


Though none said as much, everyone seemed to understand that their common dilemma, whether to clash or to cooperate, had been resolved for them – resolved by the Zone itself. Tiger, for his own part, was glad to be saved the trouble. His head throbbed as he pulled away from Olga and stood up, swaying a little.

“Anton – ”

“I'm okay.” The pain lingered, but the words were true: Tiger made his way to the north doorway on unsteady feet and peered out, observing the new distribution of anomalies around the workshop.

The leading mercenary followed him. “How does it look?”

“Better.” The quiet loner motioned towards the west. “The emission cleared away most of the Dervishes.” Glancing over his shoulder, he beckoned to Galina and Dmitry. “Come and see this.”

The adolescents approached with trepidation. This time their fear was unjustified: looking through the weathered portal, the pair were rewarded with a majestic spectacle. It should have been dark outside, the heavens above naught but an expanse of inky black dotted with twinkling stars, but there now fell a light brighter than the full moon. The sky was filled with a cold glow, sinuous ribbons of red, green and blue extending from a point somewhere beyond the northern horizon. As the Belarusians gazed in rapt wonder, Tiger sensed Olga at his back. Southpaw followed her, then German and Kondratenko. The rest joined them one by one, until the doorways and holes in the walls were packed with spectators.

“What is that?” Galina asked, still watching reverently.

“Some say it's the souls of all the creatures which died in the blowout,” Olga replied. “Others think it's atomic energy stirred up from the station ruins.”

“It's an aurora,” Vitka huffed unsentimentally. “Enjoy it while it lasts, kids, 'cause it's just about the only thing in here that won't try to kill you.”

Dmitry shivered. “Does this happen a lot?”

Olga cocked her head. “That was the first blowout in a few months,” she said, “but there were times when they hit almost daily.” The blond woman turned around, offering the teenagers a reassuring smile. “I don't think we'll see another for a while.”

“The glow is harmless,” said Tiger. “It gives us a few more hours of light to work with.”

“That's right.” The head merc snapped his fingers. “Mug, Kirzach, Tank, Goblin, Werewolf, Mower, Oak and Pianist – you're on first watch. Keep an eye on your detectors and don't wander off. Everyone else, dig in and take a breather.” As his men dispersed, he walked over to the free stalkers. “Let's talk business. Badger, you too.”


The commander went inside, and the others followed. There was a rustle of fabric and the rasp of a lighter. A tiny flame danced and vanished, leaving a cherry-red glow behind in the shadows. “Call me Hatchet,” the contractor announced. “This is a no-client mission. My bosses told me to get it done with no fuss and no loose ends.” He took a long pull and exhaled, projecting a smoke cloud which stank of cheap tobacco. “But they also told me to use my own discretion, so here we are. What's your story?”

“The outsiders have been killing free stalkers,” Olga began succinctly. “Duty hired us to investigate.”

Tiger would have hesitated to mention Duty's involvement up front, but Hatchet made no comment on it: “Go on.”

“We reached the marshes at about mid-morning. Near the sinking village we encountered three agents escorting two kids they caught trying to cross the perimeter.” The woman nodded towards Galya and Mitya. “The Dutyer who was with us made the call to rescue them... We pulled it off, but he was killed by a sniper. We pulled back to the boat park, were attacked by bloodsuckers, and then we stumbled across a deserting soldier. So far we've managed not to lose anyone else.”

“Who was the dead man?”


“One of the old guard.” Hatchet tapped the ashes off the end of his cigarette. “A shame... Your friends let slip something about a supply dump.”

“There's a cache,” Olga confessed with a trace of irritation. “Not a large one, but enough to level the odds.”

“Hm.” The merc took another drag. “Tiger – was that the name?”


“Badger tells me that you're a good guide and you've been here before. Can you get us close to the Paladin camp?”


“I don't have anything to pay you with up front, but we can work something out afterward. Is that all right?”

“It's fine.” Right now money meant nothing to Tiger anyway. “What's your purpose here, just to eliminate the outsiders?”

“Pretty much,” said Hatchet. “We have a good idea of what they're after, but we'd like to find out which one of those chickenshits on the other side of the fence helped them get in... Maybe we'll bring back some of their gear while we're at it.”

“I think our goals are compatible,” Tiger said. “Can we work together?”

“Badger thinks so,” Hatchet replied. “And me, I value the lives of my men. If cooperation gives me a better chance to keep them breathing, I'll go with it.” He cleared his throat. “But I think you'll agree that it would be in everyone's interest if we kept quiet about this.”

“Damn right,” Olga muttered, crossing her arms.

“So what do you say?” Badger prompted. “We clean house, then go our separate ways?”

Tiger looked at the other loners, their faces thrown into stark contrasts of light and shadow by the aurora. Everyone was waiting to hear his choice. “...I'm in.”

Olga's hand grasped his arm in the dark. “So am I.”

“I'm staying with them,” Southpaw volunteered.

“I don't like to leave a job half-done,” said Gosha. “Gotta settle things with that sniper.”

“I don't feel like striking out alone,” German remarked, “and I owe too much at Arnie's to go back empty-handed.”

“I'm stuck anyway,” Kondratenko mumbled morosely.

“Oh wow,” Vitka snorted, tearing the atmosphere of camaraderie asunder. “Suddenly we're a bunch of big damn heroes, huh?”

“Vitaly – ”

“Fuck off!” The outburst was vehement enough that Gosha took a step backwards. “The boss is dead, the mission's hosed, we've almost been eaten by mutants and now you guys want to buddy up with goons who'd just as soon knife you in the back? Am I the only one seeing something wrong with this picture?”

“You picked a hell of a time to back out,” Southpaw declared critically.

“Yeah?” Vitka's eyes were dark slits in the weak light. “If mercs wanna fight mercs, let 'em. If Duty wants to play activists-and-basmachi, let 'em. It's got nothing to do with stalkers anymore.”

“No?” German sounded politely incredulous. “Next you'll be telling us you don't give a damn if New Russians start swarming in here.”

“Why should I give a shit about New Russians?”

“We don't have time for this cold-feet crap,” Olga growled. “If you want to go, then go already... But keep your big mouth shut, Meteorologist, or I swear – ”

“Olga, wait.” Tiger gently eased past her. “Vitka, what did you do before you came here?”


“Where did you work? What kind of job did you have?”

“I worked in an electronics plant,” Vitka replied with ill grace, “making instruments for jets. Then there was the recession and I took up stalking. What about it?”

Tiger didn't answer that. “German, how about you?”

“Game warden,” Fisher reported smartly.

“And Gosha, you were a teacher?”

“Translator, actually,” the machine gunner corrected. There was a crinkle of plastic as he peeled open another food package and offered it to Badger. “It paid better.”

Gosha wouldn't be rich if he'd stuck to academia, but the Zone would have remained a remote danger yet. “You all came to the Zone because you were out of work,” Tiger continued. “For you this is a place to make some money, get yourself on a good footing so you can start over in the Big Land, am I right?”

Nods and noises of wary agreement. Hatchet fidgeted subtly.

Mindful of the mercenary's rising impatience, Tiger decided to push on and finish his spur-of-the-moment ploy. “I thought so,” he said, looking from one face to the next. “I... came back here because it's my home.”

“Wuh..?” A half-consumed jerky strip dropped from Gosha's mouth. “You came back – ?”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Badger interrupted. “Your home?”

“I was born here.” Tiger gave the announcement a couple of seconds to sink in. “I don't mind sharing it with other people – the Zone doesn't care who you are, whether you're from Russia or Poland or whatever, as long as you respect its rules. Stalkers, mercenaries... even the bandits understand that.” He swallowed. “These 'paladins' think they can just come in here, free to kill whoever they want and take whatever they want, and that... that really bothers me.” Gray eyes met brown. “Maybe you're right, Vitka. Maybe it isn't your problem. You won't still be here a year from now, so you can afford to just keep your head down and let someone else take the bullets until you have enough loot to get out.” Tiger shrugged. “If you're absolutely sure you want to leave, then I'll guide you through the anomalies. I only hope you understand why I have to stay.”

“Yeah, well...” Vitka looked down at his feet. “Normally I'd say that's a bunch of sentimental crap, but yannow... it was actually kinda profound.” The free stalker squared his shoulders awkwardly. “So, uh, how're we gonna do this? You got some kinda plan, boss lady?”

“Of course I do,” said Olga primly. “Is everyone else on board with this?”

“I'd say that's a yes.” Hatchet snapped his fingers again. “Spook, play something unifying.”

“Look at it this way,” German advised Vitka in a stage whisper. “Just imagine you've been thrown into a penal battalion with some fifty-eights, some whites and some gangsters.”


“Into the motherland the German army marched...”

The ominous pronouncement was followed by a bombastic thrashing of guitars: Spook's MP3 player was crammed with songs of a Swedish heavy metal band, and every one of them would blast from the mercenary's portable speakers before this night was over. There wasn't much point in worrying about noise discipline with the portable generator roaring away outside, and the pounding music lent a certain rhythm to the stalkers' work.

So far so good, Tiger thought as he flipped up the lid of a deep-bellied ammo can. Olga and Hatchet were working out the finer details of the attack plan while the others cleaned weapons and zeroed sights. Once the battery packs were charged, there would be group training in the use of the night sights.

“Hey.” Badger dropped through the opening of the storage pit, bypassing the ladder. “I finished my scrubbing, thought you might need a hand.”

“Mm.” Tiger pointed to a stack of sealed cans of 5.45mm ammunition, yellowy brown with stenciled markings in smudged black. “Can you start on those?”

“Sure.” The merc picked up a flat, hook-tipped can opener. “Your girlfriend is pretty smart,” he remarked, stabbing it into the lip of the first can.

“We – it's not like that.”

“Sorry.” Badger turned the oblong container ninety degrees and kept cutting. “The way she kept looking at you, I thought – ”

“Mmph.” His own can emptied, Tiger began stripping the plastic wrap off the Chinese ArmaLite magazines. “Why were you transferred?” he asked impulsively.

“Asked for it.” With the lid peeled back, the 5.45 looked like an oversized can of sardines. “Got mags for these?”

“The gray box with the snap fasteners.”

“Gotcha... Like I was saying, I asked.”

The 5.56 rounds came on stripper clips in musty-smelling cardboard sleeves: ten gleaming brass rounds per clip, three clips per charcoal magazine. “Why?” Tiger inquired, fitting a clip guide onto the first mag.

There was a long sigh. “I've been doing this for a while,” Badger replied after a thoughtful pause. “I can remember a time when being a mercenary was something to be proud of... I miss those days, Tiger. We were the pros, the specialists. Stalkers were glad to have us around.” He pried a cartridge packet out of the can, tearing the stapled paper with his teeth. “Pthht! ...Wolfhound's gotten too aggressive for his own good, tries to solve all his problems by shooting 'em. He's gonna push somebody who can push back harder, one of these days, and we... we realized we had to get off his team while we still could – Lynx and me, I mean.”

“I see.” Tiger hadn't forgotten the rough-spoken tomboy from Sevastopol. “How's Lynx?”

“She's, uh... she's gone.”

“She quit?”

“Would have been better if she had,” the merc muttered, thumbing green cartridges into a green magazine. “She was put into another unit, got sent on a raid up to the Red Forest.” He shook his head. “They ran into Monolith – a whole platoon, near as we can figure. Backup crew found some bodies, but not hers.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” Tiger glanced at the other man momentarily, then reached for a fresh clip. “You were friends?”

“She... she looked out for me.” It appeared that was all Badger had to say about Lynx. “I'll tell you one thing for sure,” he added suddenly. “There'd be no deals if Wolfhound had gotten this mission. Hatchet can be grumpy, but he's an old hand. He'll see this through.”

“I hope so.” One stack grew, one stack shrank.

The mercenary was evidently eager to move off the topic of his coworkers. “So... you came from this area originally, huh? Where exactly?”

“Pripyat.” Tiger added an empty stripper to the growing discard pile. “We lived on Friendship of Peoples Street, across from the hospital... I was too young to remember any of it, though.”

“Ah.” More tearing of paper. “Did you ever go back? Before the second disaster?”

“A few times. There was nothing left – the looters had already come and gone.”

“And now the place is Monolith turf.” Badger fumbled and dropped a cartridge. “If it's still there at all,” he amended, stooping to retrieve it. “Must be tough for you.”

“Not just me.” Tiger held a half-loaded magazine under the lantern and took a close look at the feed lips. “There were fifteen thousand other children in Pripyat. Someday, I – ”

“Hey, Badger!”

“Down here, Tank.” Badger went to the ladder and peered up through the hole in the shop floor. “Aren't you supposed to be walking the perimeter?”

“Hatchet pulled me off the line to help you,” the second merc answered. “You guys are missing a great light show.”

“I've seen it before,” said Tiger indifferently.

“It creeps me out,” Badger declared. “The less I see, the less I'll worry.”

“Suit yourself... Tiger, your lady friend wants you to check out the anomalies on the east side, see if there are any artifacts we can make traps with.”

“There are certainly artifacts,” the loner told him, “but getting to them will be very difficult.”

“Yeah, she knows.” Tank clambered down the ladder, the wood creaking under his boots. “Your buddy with the big mouth says he has a gizmo that can help.”

“All right, I'll go up.” Tiger stepped back from his workspace and shook the dust out of his coat. “See you later, Badger.”

“Yeah, later.”

So Lynx had been with the group which attacked Tiger and Leshiy during the pseudogiant hunt, unless the mercenaries had somehow suffered two devastating Monolith attacks in the time since their last excursion to the marshes. Had she known Tiger was there? Would she have cared if she did know?

The wandering stalker dismissed those thoughts: Lynx was dead and out of the picture, while the woman who really troubled him was close at hand – and very much alive.
  15:18:37  9 November 2010
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
Messages: 211
I'll definitely keep reading this until the end.
  14:11:01  9 November 2010
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081

It's been four months since I updated and this chapter is still two pages short.


Take a deep breath and tell what, as long at it gets done eventually.

I know it's not easy to keep going. Performance anxiety (of sorts) can set in because you want to keep the standard up, and you worry over whether you can. You may also want to improve it. Don't try; it'll just look forced and will have the opposite effect to what you intend.
Your story is good. The next part will be good. The part after that will be good, all the way to the end. Have confidence and faith in that. The readers you've hooked will stay with this because they want to know how it all turns out; they (we) are enjoying the ride. Don't sweat it.

And having said all that, I'm off to see if I can practice what I preach...
  02:15:22  9 November 2010
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It's been four months since I updated and this chapter is still two pages short.

  09:17:23  27 October 2010
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Cake Muncher


On forum: 01/08/2009

Message edited by:
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I just read your story, (Well.. I was at half-way a month or two ago, this time I read from start to the last chapter haha) waiting for more.
  02:29:10  20 October 2010
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Tiger Stripes

I liked your first short story Tiger Stripes , it feels very much like a short story. Unfortunately I didn't have the time to read the other stories, but I'll be sure to bookmark this page.
  04:15:44  17 October 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Still working. I've made some revisions to the long-term plan for the story: it's going to be a bit shorter, but with more cool stuff along the way.
  17:58:36  2 October 2010
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On forum: 11/27/2008
Messages: 73
Sure as hell we're still reading this. You should be ashamed for doubting it.
  22:51:13  27 September 2010
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007
Messages: 1941
*patiently continues waiting while munching on a diet sausage helping it on the way with some Cossacks*
  20:44:28  27 September 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
What, people are still reading this?

Next chapter's about one-third finished. It's been slow going.
  06:52:54  27 September 2010
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
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  22:42:48  8 July 2010
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HL2 Master
Senior Resident

On forum: 06/28/2008
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  19:47:27  8 July 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Encouragement is always appreciated.

Arms and the Man

“Ick heff mol en Hamborger veermaster sehn,” Gosha sang quietly, “to my hoo-dah, to my hoo-dah! De masten so scheef as den schipper – ”

“Ack!” Vitka hissed. “Shit!”

The entire group froze, quickly sinking into ready crouches and aiming sundry weapons outward. “What is it?” Olga demanded.

“I just told you,” Vitka grumbled, scraping his boot against the gravel. “It's shit.”

“Flesh excrement,” German declared after a brief glance. “There must be a herd nearby.”

“Flesh,” Galina repeated. “Mutated pigs, right?”

“That's right,” said Olga, motioning for the team to resume its advance. “They won't bother us unless they're starving.”

“So, um...”

“Yes, Dmitri?”

“Can these pigs be, er, tamed?”

“They're edible, but there's not much interest in domesticating them. I think somebody did try it...” The Russian looked over her shoulder at Tiger. “Do you remember, Anton?”

“Yes,” Tiger replied, keeping his eyes on the path ahead. “Some stalkers established a sort of farm near the edge... Then the army noticed it and sent out a helicopter.” He shook his head. “No more farm.”

“That's the army for you,” Gosha agreed. “Always spoiling the fun.”

Private Kondratenko let out a frightened squeak and sought refuge in the relatively safe company of Tiger and Olga. “Mind your muzzle sweeping,” the latter prompted curtly as the man fell back into step with the whole.

Tiger was of a mind to say the same thing: the nervous soldier's magazines had been refilled with ammunition from the hermit hole, but Olga had expressly forbidden Kondratenko to carry his rifle with a round chambered. It wasn't his loyalty that worried her, but his liability to have an accidental discharge. “Anomaly on the right,” the loner in the hooded coat said aloud, raising an arm. “A weak gravity trap between those two trees.”

“We can see that,” Vitka complained behind him. “Where's the heavy stuff?”

Tiger pointed to the rise directly ahead, the late afternoon sun shining warm on the sloped face – nothing like the damp, soft ground under the stalkers' feet. “Up there.”

“It looks like the fire pit has evolved into a Boiler,” Olga remarked, surveying the cloud of white which hung low over the thick bushes. “Surface water must be draining into the fissures.”

“Is that good or bad?” Galina queried, keeping her own eyes fixed firmly on the indistinct menace.

“Probably neither,” the elder woman replied. “Can we get closer, Anton?”


The wide, shallow pool at the foot of the machine yard had almost completely dried up in the months since the downfall of Clear Sky. The low bridge which linked the yard to the dirt road running westward lay in pieces, a haphazard pile of pale, jagged concrete slabs resting in the mud. The derelict Kamaz truck which had sat a little ways off, undisturbed for two and a half decades, now looked as if some giant had capriciously stomped on it, crushing the boxy body down onto the chassis yet leaving the red-painted cab virtually intact. The utility poles running alongside the road had been mostly reduced to splinters.

“It's safe here,” Tiger told the others when they were assembled in the shade of a fallen tree across the road, “but don't go near the truck.”

“Don't go anywhere,” Olga corrected, shrugging out of her backpack straps. She placed the pack beside the remaining boxes of ammunition belts for Gosha's M60. “Not until we return.”

“You're going to inspect the goods,” Southpaw reiterated, “then report back, right?”

The blond woman double-checked her .38's cartridges. “Right.”

“I can wait,” said Vitka, sitting with his back against the tree's jagged stump, “as long as I don't have to listen to any more songs in Dutch.”

“It's not Dutch,” Gosha cut in with an affronted air, “it's Low German.”

“Whatever,” the stalker in the balaclava snorted. “How do you know that?”

“I had a degree in linguistics,” the machine gunner answered with equal measures of pride and sorrow. “But they laid me off anyway.”

“Fucking lot of good the orange ribbons did us.” Vitka dug out a slightly mashed pack of cigarettes. “Hey,” he added, looking up at Tiger as the latter stood with his back to the others, “are you going or not?”

“Hush,” Olga hissed. “Don't distract him!”

“It's all right,” said Tiger shortly. “I'm finished.”

“Can we get through?”

“Yes.” The soft-spoken stalker motioned for Olga to stay close behind him and started towards the bridge. This obstacle was clear of anomalies, though the going was treacherous enough by itself: Tiger stepped diagonally, holding his arms outward to balance himself as he navigated across the rubble. Olga followed his lead attentively, and the pair returned to dry land without incident.

That was the easy part. There should have been an overturned truck straight ahead, but all Tiger saw was a collection of twisted metal scraps thinly strewn across the road. One of the few pieces which could still be recognized was a tire attached to the mangled stub of an axle. Another was the vehicle's hood, which lay upright on the ground as if neatly removed by an errant mechanic, the ZiL factory logo plainly visible.

Behind the almost completely flattened wooden fence to the right of the truck, an uneven heap of shattered bricks, crumbling mortar and split timbers marked the former site of the machine yard's smaller workshop. The single-story structure had already been reduced to a gutted shell, naught but a skeletal frame remaining of its roof, when Lebedev's followers walked this path, but the anomalies spawned in the last great blowout had finished its ruin with incomparable thoroughness.

“Too thick,” said Tiger, nodding towards that sad remnant, and cut to the left. After several steps he sank into a hunched, creeping gait and tucked his coat close around himself. Dervishes and Whirligigs gently pulsed in the air above, while rippling Springboards lay closer to the ground. If either stalker had been keeping track of the time, they would have found themselves taking upwards of several minutes to traverse what should otherwise have been less than thirty seconds' walking distance.

“There's a clear spot here.” The mutated loner straightened beside the end of an unused length of reinforced pipe. “Rest for a minute.”

Olga straightened with a grunt, her long shadow stretching beside Tiger's own. “How are we doing?”

There had been a few more abandoned trucks parked in the middle of the machine yard, along with a handful of agricultural tractors partly or wholly stripped of components by illicit scrap-scroungers in the years before the second disaster. Not much of them could be seen from this side, as the freestanding roof which once sheltered the dead machines from rain had partially collapsed and lay draped over the wrecks like a massive sheet of rumpled tinfoil.

“Anton..?” Olga's voice was quiet, yet urgent.

Tiger pointed to a warped piece of the fallen roof, knocked loose and lying in the dirt not far away. He hadn't noticed it before, when the light was almost directly behind him, but there was no mistake once he saw the dislodged metal sheet from another angle: its shadow fell towards the sun.

“What is that?”

“I'm not sure.” Whatever the thing's nature, its energy was too weak to clearly tell it apart from its neighbors. “Don't go there,” the striped one ordered. “We'll walk around.”

The main workshop – a bigger structure shaped like a reversed 'L' – was in better condition than the other facilities, though transient anomalies had taken bites out of its redbrick walls and corrugated roof. Tiger and Olga advanced further to the east, the discarded pipes' disruption of Springboard formation providing a straight albeit narrow path. From there it was merely a pace, a creep and a shuffle to the north door of the workshop.

“The inside is clear,” said Tiger, cautiously peering into the shadows within. “The roof doesn't look so good.”

“We won't be playing with subwoofers in here,” Olga replied as she stepped past him. “It'll hold.”

The man followed her with a shrug, looking about as his eyes adjusted. Shafts of light entered through the holes in the walls, splashing gouts of warm orange here and there among the dusty shelves and crates. It gave Tiger the feeling of exploring a tomb. “So..?” he prompted.

The Russian had meanwhile gone across to the southeast corner. “Over here,” she said, picking up one of the rust-speckled spades which lay against the wall and vigorously scraping away the dirt from one part of the floor. Tiger went to help, but she was already finishing up as he reached her. “Wait a moment,” the woman told him, pulling up the narrow trapdoor. “I need to put up the ladder.”

She nimbly lowered herself into the dark hole and vanished, alighting below with a muffled thud. There were sounds of rummaging, followed by the scrape and hiss of a match being struck. A flickering yellow glow began to shine in the pit, and then the top of a heavy wooden ladder rose into view and was set against the lip of the hole. “Okay,” Olga called. “You can come down.”

Clambering down the ladder, Tiger found himself in a well-reinforced cavern easily twice the size of the hermit hole. Like that other hideaway, the walls were lined with crates and cases of varying dimensions. Here's another of Clear Sky's little secrets, he thought wryly. He must have walked over the floor above several times without ever noticing this.

Olga hung the lantern from a hook on the beam which traversed the ceiling. “Night sights are over there,” she said, gesturing towards a stack of small oblong cases before she busied herself with a larger box.

The first assortment of low-light scopes were variations of the NSPU family, bulky icons of the Afghan war. Their size and weight were inconvenient, but they could be adjusted for multiple calibers and fit on any weapon with a standard Soviet optics rail, including Kondratenko's AKS-74 and Southpaw's Zastava. “What about the batteries?” Tiger asked pointedly.

“Portable generator.” Olga waved in the direction of the tarpaulin-covered pallet in the far corner. “Battery charger's in one of those boxes.”

“Ah...” The other cases in Tiger's quarter were marked AN/PVS-2 in stenciled Latin letters. Opening one, he found the device inside to be even more unwieldy than an NPSU. “These others are American?”

“The 'starlight scopes' are, yeah. Not as effective as our models, but they probably came cheap.”

“What do they mount on?”

“ArmaLites.” The female stalker turned around, cradling a rifle which was plainly based on the early M16 but featured a downright peculiar grip and handguard. “Even Chinese ones.”


“Factory new, no less... Stop that,” Olga chided when Tiger made a face. “They work just fine.” She put the AR back into its crate. “The American scopes will also fit the enemy's Galils, if we have the right mounting brackets. Possibly Strongman's machine gun as well.”

That might come in handy. “What else is here?”

“A crate of Chinese Tokarevs, more ammunition, packs of drinking water... One exoskeleton without armor, two cases of Clear Sky uniforms, some tools, other odds and ends...” Olga walked over to the corner nearest the ladder, where a pair of battered footlockers lay. “I stashed these before the anomalies shifted,” she explained, opening one and then the other.

“Sniper rifles?” Tiger inquired hopefully.

“I wish,” Olga answered sourly, handing him a bolt-action weapon with a Zeiss telescopic sight and a monolithic slab of wood for a stock. “This doesn't qualify.”

Tiger had never seen one of these inside the Zone or out, though it looked to him like some kind of light target rifle. “What is it?”

“Scharfschutzengewehr Eighty-Two.” Olga pronounced the foreign word with open contempt. “Made by our socialist brothers in East Germany, back when they were doping for gold.” Her lip curled. “That piece of shit proves the athletes weren't the only ones with chemical problems.”

Tiger brought the rifle up to his shoulder. “It does seem uncomfortable,” he agreed.

“Uncomfortable? That's the least thing wrong with it.” Olga busied herself with the footlocker once more. “It fires the regular five-forty-five cartridge. The accuracy is mediocre on a good day, and lacquered-steel casings will break the extractor if you so much as sneeze on it.” She turned her head and spat in the dirt. “There's supposed to be some kind of precision ammo, but I've never seen any. The sling and bipod weren't included either.”

Turning the item over, Tiger discovered that the present sling was attached to a pair of galvanized swivels which had been screwed onto the stock without any inletting. The two support legs awkwardly folded under the barrel looked as if they'd been shaped and fitted with little more than a file and hacksaw. “Where did it come from?”

“My quartermaster,” his ex recalled. “Ten months ago a man came to the Zone, ostensibly to buy scrap metal. He was actually gathering material to make a dirty bomb for Chechen separatists. The target evaded police on both sides of the border, but he got careless after he came here... The Security Service picked me to take him out, and some inbred pencil-pusher must have thought the SSG was just perfect for Zone conditions.” There was a brief, caustic laugh. “I busted three extractors in practicing, gave up and paid some bandits to kill the guy. Got chewed out for wasting taxpayer money, but it worked. After that, the Security Service decided to just slip the relevant intel to Duty and let them take care of wannabe terrorists.”

Tiger handed back the offending weapon. “It's no good, then.”

“Not really, no... This one's better.” Olga summarily presented him with an SKS bearing the characteristic Yugoslavian grenade launcher spigot, an optics mounting rail and an elaborate floral pattern on both sides of the butt. The latter two details were patently not factory work. “A leftover from the Balkan wars. The bore's a little rough, but it groups all right.”

The scope rail was a simple affair, a milled steel bar affixed with four large screws. “Will the night sights fit this?”

“They should.” The Simonov was laid to rest. Next came a rifle which was closely resembled a Mosin carbine, sans the latter's distinctive magazine. “Here's a five-point-six rimfire trainer, made in Poland.” Olga opened the bolt partway, then closed it. “Good plinker. I was saving it for Lyosha, but right now our Belarusians probably need it more.”

“Yes.” Tiger cleared his throat, a sudden feeling of awkwardness descending at the reminder of their shared parental status. “Um, is that all?”

“Almost.” The woman put away the .22 and picked up a final, smaller object. “I wanted you to have this.”

“Eh?” The object was a flat wooden box, tapering to a narrow neck at one end, with a hinged lid at the other. Inside the box was a large Mauser pistol. “This...”

“It was pretty grungy when I found it. Uncle Yar fixed it up for me.” A note of apprehension came into Olga's voice. “Is it all right?”

Tiger had seen more than a few broomhandles in movies and museums alike, but never one that looked so... clean. The finish wasn't original, surely, but it had obviously been applied with care. The wood grips also looked like replacements, though their fit to the frame was impeccable. The only overt sign of alteration was the 9x19 mm marking neatly stamped by hammer and punch on the side of the barrel extension. “It... It works?”

“Of course – dry lubed and ready to run.”

Tiger swallowed. “Why me?”

“You told me you thought it was the coolest gun ever when you were a kid.” Olga looked a little embarrassed. “Don't you remember?”

“Yes, but – ” Tiger stopped himself. It was too soon to be assuming this was merely another trick to get back on his good side. “...It's true,” he amended quietly, unslinging his rifles and laying them against a convenient crate. “Thank you.”

The other smiled. “I wish I had a camera,” said she, taking a stack of ten-round chargers from a small box. “Lyosha would love to see this.”

“Wait until after my face has recovered,” Tiger grumbled, his cheek still tender from the beating suffered at the hands of Vasya Boar in the Cordon. Pulling the bolt back, he loaded the C96 using one of the flat metal clips, carefully lowered the hammer and put the pistol into its box. “We should get the others,” he decided, pocketing the other chargers and positioning the carry strap of the combination holster and detachable stock so that it ran diagonally across his chest, in the style used since Czarist times. “There's a lot of work to do here.”

“That's right...” Words of agreement, but lacking conviction. “You go up, I'll douse the lamp.”

An odd thought occurred to the loner as he retrieved his other guns and climbed out of the pit, but he kept it to himself until after Olga put out the lantern and scrambled up the ladder, leaving it in place. “You know,” he began hesitantly as he led the way back among the anomalies, “I'm not sure Southpaw is the Sayid here.”

“No?” Olga twisted her torso sideways, reducing her profile as she followed him between two Springboards. “Someone else is?”

They came to the big pipes again, and Tiger halted. “I'd almost forgotten,” he recounted, “the way Anatoly Tourist kept turning up near me during the faction wars... Trading away 'extra ammo' or food he 'didn't want' for almost nothing, then leaving in a hurry.”

“Tourist wasn't a very sociable character,” his companion agreed knowingly. “I also remember something from that time... When the free stalkers broke through to the Barrier, nearly all of them were caught up in the fight against the Monolith.” She smiled again. “But there was one who struck out alone, without a high-end shooter or any protective gear. He sat on a hill behind the others, picking off the zombies coming from the military warehouses one by one. The stalker held that hilltop for thirty hours, covering his fellows when the bandits pushed up from the Garbage and when the Monolith tried to cut the supply lines. I went up to him a few times, carrying whatever we could recover from the dead... I wonder if it made a difference.”

“It did,” said Tiger solemnly. For some reason his earlier disgust at his onetime girlfriend's duplicity was nowhere to be found. “I guess I still owe you for that.”

Olga shook her head. “You don't owe me anything, Anton.”

The man looked away. “Then... what did 'this is personal' mean?”

“I meant... No, this isn't the time for that. Let's talk about it later, okay?”

Tiger made an indistinct sound of acquiescence and pressed on through the gravity traps. He had a better picture of the threat pattern this time around, saving precious time as the stalkers retraced their steps, though the sun was sinking behind the distant treeline by the time they were back on open ground.

The others of their party were still sitting around the broken tree, but now they had new company: it looked like a group of at least fifteen, all wearing typical loner garb and balaclavas or full-coverage gas masks. “Reinforcements?” Olga mused, regarding them warily. “Or just passers-by?”

The question was unexpectedly answered by Southpaw. “Tiger, look out!” he shouted. “It's a trap!”
  06:22:50  27 June 2010
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Dabur - Stalker


On forum: 06/20/2010
Messages: 601

hi ,

nice thread , well one can expect only good work from you P

if only there would a ' subscribe to this thread ' on the forums , ....

so many links on the desktop , ...

you should give your ideas if they are going to build another stalker game , .... !

keep it going , its 5 in the morning local and still reading , thanks to you bob sleep has not come , ....

thanks for your work !

have a great day
  03:27:08  26 June 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Blowout soon fellow stalkers!
  15:20:51  9 June 2010
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On forum: 11/27/2008
Messages: 73
Wonderful. You're doing a fine job making Strelok look totally like a living legend. I like that. So make more!
  12:59:36  5 June 2010
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Strelok Holmes


On forum: 09/02/2009
Messages: 222
I like this a lot and hope you write more often.

  03:45:08  1 June 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
06/01/2010 5:06:30
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Another Beautiful Day

Coming out of the tunnel, Tiger and Olga discovered Southpaw in a standoff with a lone soldier.

It was a lopsided confrontation: the intruder's uniform was torn and mud-spattered, his face was covered in cuts and scratches and his eyes were bloodshot. He looked as if he might faint on his feet at any moment. He was carrying an AKS-74 with a rolled up bandage wedged between the struts of the folding stock and a short, lumpy telescopic sight – a PGO-7, cannibalized from a rocket launcher – attached to the side rail, but made no effort to utilize the hardware. “Please,” he begged. “Just let me pass! I don't want any trouble!”

“Anton,” Olga whispered, extending a hand behind herself, “I need my ID.”

Tiger pressed the wallet into her palm without comment, reasoning that this might be a chance to see how far he could afford to trust her. She tucked it into the front of her suit, then lunged out of cover and tackled the hapless grunt. There was a frightened shriek, a scuffle, and suddenly the soldier was facedown in the dirt with one arm pinned behind his back and Olga sitting on his waist. “Don't move,” the woman hissed, “or you'll write left-handed for the rest of your days!”

“He's alone,” said Tiger, looking around. “Where did he come from?”

“The riverbank.” Southpaw waved in a northward direction, then bent and picked up the stranger's rifle. “His shooter's empty.”

“Must have wandered down from the Agroprom.” Olga frowned at the back of the trapped man's head. “Enjoy your night in the woods, Private?”

The man just whimpered. Tiger's focus was drawn to his filth-caked boots, noting particularly the pungent smell they emitted. “He's been in the underground,” the stalker remarked. “That mold doesn't grow in sunlight.”

“A tunnel rat wouldn't need such a fancy gun,” Olga observed. “Where did you get it?”

“From one of the tower guards,” the soldier squeaked. “He was dead... They were all dead...”

Tiger and Southpaw had heard talk of a raid as they left Rostok early that morning, but there was no time to stop for details. “What happened at the Agroprom?” the latter asked.

“A bunch of shit that could have been avoided.” Olga's lip curled. “You probably heard that the military set up camp at the Institute. That should have been fine, except that Mole and his group were prospecting under the factory... The soldiers picked a fight and almost wiped them out, but Sidorovich's amnesiac lackey walked right into the middle of it. The way I heard, he pretty much cleaned out the grunts and made off with whatever they'd gotten out of the ruins.”

Tiger glanced at Southpaw. Marked One hadn't mentioned any action when they saw him at the Hundred Rads last night, nor had he looked like he'd come straight in from a firefight. It made the loner even warier of that strange man.

“Guy must be pretty hardcore,” said Southpaw, evidently thinking along similar lines.

“Yeah.” Olga's voice didn't convey sincerity. “Funny thing is, the last report from the forward platoon mentioned a man going missing in the underground... And that attack was a little too neat, even for a guy who could be the son of Rambo.” She bowed her head very low, so that her lips were almost beside the soldier's ear. “I think we've got a deserter.”

“I... I...”

“You sold them out, didn't you? You were so desperate to get away that you blabbed to the first guy you met and left your buddies to die.”

Probably none of the onlookers were surprised when the prisoner burst into tears. “I had to get away,” he sobbed. “I couldn't bear it... The monsters, the dreams... Oh God, the dreams!”

Southpaw grimaced a little. “What are we gonna do with him?”

Olga didn't answer him directly, pulling out her Security Service identification instead. “Pull yourself together,” she ordered, holding it in front of the soldier's face. “I've got a proposition for you.”

Tiger didn't like the sound of that. “Olga – ”

“Cool it. I've got this.”

The revelation had only amplified the man's anguish. “W-what do you want from me?”

“Cooperation.” The ID was withdrawn from sight. “There's a bunch of nasty gun-for-hire types camped out at the edge of these swamps, so you can forget about escaping. I'm on a mission here, and I'm short on manpower – help me and I can help you avoid a firing squad.”

The captive twisted his head around, eyes wide with fear. “What do you want me to do?”

“Shoot bad guys,” Olga replied dryly. “That's what they teach you to do in the army, right?”

The private shrank from her once more. “Why should I trust you?”

“The alternative is wandering the woods alone with no ammo.” After a few seconds, Olga released her grip and stood up. “I'm not like the assholes who send terrified conscripts into the Zone,” she continued, her voice softening. “I know what the Zone does to people.”

The prisoner continued to watch her skittishly as he gingerly rolled over, looking very much as if he expected to receive a swift kick in the steering gear at any moment. Progressing to an upright posture with no violence suffered appeared to calm him a little. “Um...”

Olga held up a finger. “First rule: you do exactly what I tell you.” She pointed at Tiger. “If I'm not around, you do exactly what he tells you.”

Tiger wasn't sure whether to be flattered by the show of confidence, or to reject it as Olga sucking up to him. “Don't worry,” he said flatly. “I don't believe in suicide missions.”

“See?” Olga folded her arms. “What's your name, son?”

“Kondratenko... Boris Petrovich.”


The others took this development better than Tiger expected. “Another misfit boards the ship of fools,” German remarked when the introductions were over. “Welcome to our miserable company.”

Vitka regarded Olga sourly. “You're nuts, you know that?”

“Oh, and we're not?” Gosha reached over and slapped Kondratenko's arm. “Cheer up, man. You're in the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, not in Kosovo or Iraq or Liberia. No Allah-akbar is going to come and slit your throat in the night here!”

“Stop that.” German watched the quivering soldier for a second or two, then turned to Tiger. “So, does the lady check out?”

“So far,” the stalker replied reluctantly. Taking out the Victory, he turned it over a couple of times and then handed it to Olga. “Tell us about the enemy.”

“A company called Paladin Defense Services. They recruit internationally, but the employees are mostly American. Standard equipment is all made in Israel... They work in the usual places and their record's more or less free of of public scandal. Their personnel are a mix of ex-military and police, private-sector security and civilians looking for high-paying adventure. Skill levels are all over the board.” She shrugged. “I wouldn't expect a swarm of green berets.”

“Let's hope not,” said Southpaw grimly.

Tiger nodded. “What about the other stash?”

“It's under the machine yard. The anomalies are thick, but I think the risk is worthwhile.” Olga leaned forward, hands on her knees. “There's weapons, uniforms, night fighting gear... even an exoskeleton.”

“Sounds good for our chances,” German opined. “So what's your grand plan?”

The spy brought out one of her Zone maps, folding it over so that only the square depicting the swamps was visible. “Okay,” she announced, pointing to the upper left, “we're here.” Her fingertip traveled to the right and down a little. “There's the machine yard... The sniper we have to watch out for will presumably be on or near this tower.” She pointed to a location well to the south, on the far side of an expanse of wide pools and small islands. “There's a hill here, and a rise with a burnt-down farmstead here, both of which interfere with his line of sight to the yard... If we can get there without being spotted, we should be safe.”

“Great,” said Vitka snidely. “Now we just gotta figure how to make ourselves invisible.”

Olga ignored him. “The road from the sinking village to the yard is too exposed,” she went on, “so we'll need to find a path somewhere along here.” She traced a long arc from the boat park to the machine yard, passing near the railroad embankment at its northernmost point. “The slope running up to the yard itself gives us extra cover for the last stretch, assuming Anton can find a way through the Dervishes and whatever else is over there.”

“Dervish?” Southpaw echoed. “What's that?”

“A really nasty anomaly,” Olga explained. “Like a Whirligig, except that it moves around when something triggers it. Imagine a small tornado going in circles.”

“I'd rather not,” the lefty muttered. “Can you handle that, Tiger?”

“I think so. They usually don't form close to the ground.”

“Just so.” Olga looked around, taking in the others' expressions. “Let's clean our gear and rest up a bit. It'll be easier to move around when the sun is lower.”

“That's true,” said German. “I'm shooting clean primers, so I can stand watch if you guys need to scrub your guns.”

“Me too,” Gosha offered.

“Great.” Olga stowed the map. “You look like a zombie, Kondratenko. Did you rest at all last night?”

“Couldn't,” the soldier mumbled. “Had to keep walking.”

“All night?” Southpaw queried. “It shouldn't take that long to get here from the Agroprom.”

“I was going in circles,” Kondratenko confessed. “Kept coming back to this little clearing with a rusty truck in it, no matter which way I went... After a while I managed to find the riverbank.” He squinted at Tiger, who had begun to peer at him intently in the meantime. “What?”

“You're very lucky,” the stalker informed him. “Go to sleep.”

“I don't want to.” The private wrapped his arms around himself, shivering despite the warmth in the air. “I'll dream again...”

“Do you know why you dream?” Tiger pressed a finger to his temple. “The Zone preys on your own fear... Those who are afraid, dream. Those who are weak, are taken by their dreams.” He stood up. “If you can't master your fear, I've heard putting a bucket over your head helps.”

“Listen to Anton,” Olga chimed in. “He's been here the longest.” She waved towards the rickety cabin. “There's a bunk in there. Just lie down and think peaceful thoughts.”

Kondratenko didn't look reassured, but he got up and shambled into the cabin anyway. The others drifted apart instinctively: Vitka went off to steal a nap of his own, Tiger and Southpaw migrated to the rotted pier, and Olga beckoned the Belarusian adolescents towards a comfortable log for some lessons in stalking.

“So...” Southpaw pushed his Mauser's safety to the middle position and worked the action gently, ejecting unfired cartridges one by one. “You're Anton, huh?”

Tiger opened the trapdoor on the Lee-Enfield's butt and withdrew the cleaning kit. He and Southpaw had barely fired these new weapons, but they both needed the practice. “That's right.”

The left-handed stalker removed the rifle's bolt and tipped it on end. “I'm Mykola,” he said, carefully dripping solvent onto the dark ring of carbon deposits on the bolt's face.

“Olga told me.” Tiger removed the bolt and magazine from his own rifle, applying a similar treatment to the former. “She said you killed some people on the outside.”

“Figures.” Southpaw let the solvent soak for a few seconds, then began rubbing the metal with a rag. “I told you I used to work at a machine shop, right? The owner got into debt taking his girl to parties, so he went to a loan shark and lost everything.” The stalker scowled. “I didn't mean for the bastard to die, but I'm not sorry he's gone.”

“And the others?”

“No regrets.” Southpaw set the bolt aside and started unscrewing the M24/47's cleaning rod. “The police are supposed to protect us from those parasites,” he growled, taking the extension piece from his cleaning kit and twisting it onto the rod's threaded end, “not whore themselves out to the highest bidder... If I'd known I would end up here, I'd have killed a few more before I left!”

“I see.” Tiger clamped his rifle between his knees and dropped the long tail of the pull-through down the barrel. “You thought things would be... better here?”

“I guess.” The lefty held the Yugoslavian weapon up to his eye and peered through the bore. “Does that stuff, uh...”

“It doesn't bother me.” There were people in the Zone who had committed far worse deeds, though Tiger felt no need to say so.

“That's, um... that's good.” Southpaw threw a quick glance over his shoulder. “You know, your ex isn't what I expected.”

Tiger also looked and saw Olga cleaning her Mosin, as Galina and Dmitry watched closely. “I didn't expect this either.”

“I don't mean the SBU thing,” his companion corrected. “She's... Somehow I thought she'd be... meaner.”

“I never said she was mean,” Tiger replied quietly, “just that she was...” He came up short, realizing he simply wasn't sure what Olga was any more.

“Selfish?” Southpaw prompted.

“Maybe.” Tiger drew out the pull-through, inspecting the stains it had acquired on its journey down the narrow steel tube. “What do you think?”

Southpaw checked his rear again before answering. “Seems to me she might really want to make up.” He shrugged. “Or maybe she's just screwing with you, I can't tell.”

“Mm...” The stripe-haired one would still bet on the latter possibility. “Think Kondratenko is worth anything?” he asked, wanting to move on from the topic of the treacherous woman.

“Dunno.” Southpaw reseated the Mauser's cleaning rod with a firm turn, then pressed the bolt into the rear of the receiver. “What was the big deal about the truck?”


“He said he found a truck in the woods.” Picking up the loose rounds of ammunition, the sinistral man pressed them into the magazine one by one. “You looked like you thought that was important.”

“I think he might have blundered into a spatial loop and wandered back out without even realizing it.”

“That's important?”

“It's impossible.” Tiger slid the Lee-Enfield's magazine back into place, the latch engaging with a crisp click when he tapped the bottom of the sheet-metal box. “Nobody escapes looped space without guidance.”

“What kind of guidance?”

Tiger set the ex-.303 aside, picked up his Zastava Kalashnikov and unloaded it. “Forester did it with a Compass once.”

“Just a compass?”

“Not an actual compass.” Tiger popped off the dust cover and pulled out the bolt carrier group. “It's an artifact.”

Southpaw followed his lead and began disassembling the other Zastava. “What's it do?”

“I think it reacts to the bending of space.” The M92's bore was considerably dirtier than the Lee-Enfield's, and would need a bigger dose of solvent. “It's desirable for other uses as well. Only a few have ever been found.”

“And the ones who can't get it... They become ghost radios, don't they?”


Ghost radios had been more common when Anton Petanko first came to the Zone. They were usually phantom distress signals from stalking pioneers whose fatal mistakes opened the way to those who came after them, but Tiger hadn't forgotten the cold January day when he stood on a hill overlooking Yantar and listened to the faint, intermittent transmissions of soldiers who had already been dead two years or more. Spatial loops didn't block radio signals: instead, those broadcast from within were caught in the same limbo as the anomaly's living victims. The men inside inevitably perished, be it from hunger, thirst or a merciful bullet, but their voices lingered, leaking out now and then to baffle or frighten passers-by.

“Is Kondratenko... special?”


“You said it's impossible to get out of looped space without a Compass,” Southpaw reiterated, “so how did he do it?”

“I don't know.” Tiger dripped some solvent into the AK's muzzle booster, rolling it between his fingers to ensure the inside was fully coated. “Blind luck, probably.”

“I suppose so.” Southpaw plucked the soiled patch off the end of his second, thinner cleaning rod. “You're not going to tell him?”

“Can he handle it?” The question was entirely rhetorical.


The pair finished their work in quiet before returning to the middle of the boat park. “Well?” said Tiger, sitting across from Olga.

“I have a couple of model students here,” the woman replied approvingly. “It might be a shame to send them back to the Big Land after all.”

Tiger and Southpaw raised two eyebrows between them.

“What?” Olga demanded. “Can't I pass on my hard-learned skills?”

Tiger ignored the gripe. “We need to talk.”

“Okay.” Olga unzipped a pocket and took out an artifact detector with a large directional indicator and a circular flip-up antenna. “You're a decent prospector,” she said to Southpaw, passing it his way. “Mind giving them the basics?”


“Thanks.” The female stalker rose, brushing off her pants briskly, and collected the M44. “Well, Anton?”

Tiger led her back to the pier where he'd been cleaning and conversing. “You only use a Bear?” he asked curiously, sitting in the shade.

“If I used a Veles, every punk between here and the Red Forest would try to mug me.” Olga sat beside him. “So what's up?”

“The boy...” Tiger hesitated, picking his words carefully. “What if I wanted to see him?”

“It depends.” Olga stuck a finger into the collar of her suit, scratching an itch. “I assume you'd rather not leave the Zone.”

“Would the Security Service let me?”

“I'm sure they'd let you out. The real question is, would they let you back in?” She shook her head. “I wouldn't count on it, not unless you agreed to work for them.”

“Isn't that what you were after anyway?” Tiger asked pointedly.

“It used to be,” Olga answered candidly. “But then I realized that's like asking a man to protect his house by signing a contract with the neighborhood demolition company.” She picked up a pebble and tossed it into the water below her toes, watching intently as the ripples spread. “I might be able to bring Lyosha to the perimeter, if you think it's okay for him to be near the Zone.”

“Would he want to?”

“Oh yeah.” The Russian laughed a little. “Every time I visit our kid, he tells me he's going to be a stalker when he grows up... Some days I almost think it would be safe to let him live out here, learning the trade with you.” She lay back on the weathered planks, placing her hands behind her head and gazing tranquilly at the wide blue sky above. “Quiet, beautiful days like this, you know?”

“Mm.” Tiger had to admit it was a beautiful day, mercenaries and bloodsuckers notwithstanding. Another beautiful day in the Zone...
  10:53:54  12 April 2010
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Petro Crowbar
On forum: 02/12/2010
Messages: 3
Haha, lucky me. I checked back here, it's been months since I last have, and read up on all the stories I've missed. Right as I am about to click out of the window and not come back here for a few days, you update your story. Interesting as all ways! Thanks.
  06:57:30  12 April 2010
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l09_swamp (604 or better)

“Everybody up!” Anatoly barked. “Form a circle facing outward! Galya, Mitya, you stay in the middle! Tiger, you're at twelve o'clock – keep those eyes and ears open!”

Tiger faced the south, with Southpaw at his left elbow and Gosha at his right. Vitka, German and Anatoly were at his back. “Nine o'clock!” he shouted. “Ten, two, four and five!”

“Huh?” said German. “How do you – ”

“Ngh!” The short-barreled Kalashnikov spewed fireballs, raking the reeds as the ten o'clock bloodsucker weaved towards the long-coated stalker. Southpaw took up the fight as Tiger ran empty and reached for another magazine. “Gosha, in front of you!”

Gosha took 'front' to mean 'everything in a forty-degree cone' and acted accordingly: clumps of dirt and pieces of vegetation flew everywhere as he swept his bullet hose from side to side. “URRRAAAAAAAAAAA!”

Tiger turned the other way, snapping back his bolt carrier as one blob faded out and another rushed in. “Southpaw, left!”

The hunched form of the powerful beast materialized in front of Southpaw before he could finish reloading. It batted his Zastava aside with an almost contemptuous snarl of its tentacled mouth, knocking the stalker onto his back and sending the rifle flying at Tiger's head. Audacity alone, however, was not enough to secure this mutant's future: it bent to secure its prey just as its prey secured his shotgun. “SUCK – ” Ba-boom! “ – THIS!”

“Two left!” Tiger tossed the M70 back to its master. “Circling!” One of the blobs veered outwards as it passed across his field of fire. He let off a burst to no avail. “From behind!”

Vitka's PPSh vied with German's Thompson to drown out the cries of Galya and Mitya. “Hah!” Meteorologist crowed. “Howja like that, squid-face!”

“Hush,” said German tensely. “Where's the last – oof!” He, Vitka and Gosha promptly went down like dominoes. “SHIT!”


The pair of teenagers instinctively leaped aside as Tiger and Southpaw spun around. Anatoly was on the ground, the final bloodsucker above him. The sucker had impaled itself on the Mosin's bayonet, the tip of the cruciform steel spike protruding from its tawny back. Thick blood already oozed from the wound, and from the freshly inflicted bullet penetration beside it. The carbine's butt remained firmly wedged against the ground, preventing the mutant from descending to irrevocably seize its would-be meal.

The last men standing raised their weapons, but Tourist was quicker yet. The Smith & Wesson barked six times: anemic sounds in comparison to the other weapons, but laden with lethality none the less. The bloodsucker took one last swing at the stalker, tearing away the gas mask and part of the suit's hood, and finally expired.

This was, by Tiger's estimation, a shining victory for the stalkers.

The only problem was that Anatoly Tourist wasn't Anatoly Tourist.


“Ow!” Olga hit the ground hard, unable to catch herself because her hands were tied behind her back. “Goddammit, Anton!”

Tiger merely jammed the .38's muzzle against the back of her neck and continued searching her with his other hand. Southpaw gave him a worried look before resuming his own, more dexterous examination of the woman's backpack. “Uh, what exactly am I looking for?”

“Something that doesn't belong.”

The left-handed stalker scratched his chin. “There's food, ammo, medical kit... and more food.” He turned the empty pack upside down and shook it a few times. “It all seems legit to me.”

“Keep looking.” Tiger's voice was as hard as the look on his face. “Check for hidden pockets and false bottoms.”

He flipped Olga onto her back, sat on her legs and started loosening the Sunrise suit's buckles, provoking a grimace and much squirming. “Anton..!”

“Man...” Gosha shook his head. “She had us all totally fooled.”

“You said that already,” German grumbled. “Stop gawking and watch the perimeter.”

Tiger finally got the belts undone and wriggled his hand under the front of the suit's upper half: the Sunrise's rubbery construction made a pat-down alone insufficient for his purposes. Well-exercised muscles tensed beneath smooth skin as the stalker's hand worked up towards the bottom of the prisoner's ribcage. Olga's expression betrayed a hint of fear. “Anton, don't..!”

Tiger's suspicion was proven accurate: “Nothing to hide?” he asked caustically, withdrawing the flat, sweaty-smelling plastic wallet.

“What's that?” In response, Southpaw found an oblong article thrust under his nose. “Cherenkova, Olga... Captain... Security Service of Ukraine!? What the hell!”

“Yeah.” Comparing Olga's face with the photo on the identification card, Tiger realized it must be at least a few years old. “What did you do with the real Anatoly Tourist?” When she tried to look away, he prodded her with the revolver. “Answer me!”

“...Never existed.”

“You're lying. Tourist was here during the faction wars, and you only arrived a few weeks – ”

“Two years.”

Gut, meet sledgehammer. “What..?”

Olga pushed herself up to a half-sitting position. “I've been in the Zone almost two years,” she announced quietly. “Tourist was my cover persona.”

“But... you were seen in the Cordon – ”

“Because I wanted to be seen.”


The blond woman nodded towards the item in Tiger's hand. “There's a photo.”

“A photo?” Tiger pried the wallet open. There was a snapshot print inside: a creased, slightly overexposed picture of Olga perched on the front step of a small-town house, wearing fatigue pants and a telnyashka in the red stripes of the internal troops. She had a boy – he looked to be about three or four – sitting on her lap, offering a shy smile for the camera. “Who's this?”

“My son,” Olga replied softly. “Aleksey Antonovich.”



Southpaw cleared his throat. “Uh... Maybe you two should, you know, talk about this later?”

“Yeah,” Tiger muttered, shaking off his stupor. “Yeah, that's right... What's your real business here, Captain?”

Olga winced at the mocking formality. “Get off me and I'll tell you,” she sighed. “My legs are going numb.” When Tiger obliged, she pulled her knees up. “Okay, listen... The guys we're up against work for an American private military company. The SBU wants to know who hired them and what their objective is.”

“That's it?” German didn't sound impressed. “So why leave the heavy lifting to Duty? This sounds like a textbook job for the army or the internal troops... Hell, even Berkut could handle it better than we can.”

“Deniability,” Olga explained. “If they get killed by the mutants or the stalkers, the problem is dealt with and Kiev's hands stay clean.”

“Yeah, well,” said Southpaw philosophically, “so much for that plan.” He turned to Tiger. “What should we do with her?”

“Waste her,” Gosha suggested.

“Do her and then waste her,” Vitka added with a leer.

Olga bared her teeth. “Try it and I'll fucking bite you.”

“Why shouldn't we shoot you?” Tiger demanded, ignoring Meteorologist's attempt to inject a note of lewdness into the proceedings. “We have enough problems without a spy making Mandatory Matrosovs of us.”

“That hurts.” The captive looked at him reproachfully. “Do you truly believe I could just... throw you away?”

“I kind of get the impression you've done it before,” Southpaw muttered as he refilled the backpack. “Well, I guess we can use her to bargain with.”

“I can make my own damn bargains,” Olga muttered sourly. “Anton, I won't be able to keep working with my cover gone. Help me finish this and I promise you won't ever have to see me again... Isn't that what you want?”

German frowned. “All else being equal, how do we 'finish' this? We're still outnumbered and outgunned.”

“That's what they think,” the woman countered with just a whiff of smugness. “We have the home field advantage... and we have Anton.”

“What's that mean?” Gosha asked quizzically.

The stripe-haired stalker was fumbling for an explanation when his left-handed friend intervened. “Tiger can sense things,” he announced. “People, anomalies, artifacts – better than any detector you can buy.”

“No kidding,” said German. “I've heard of people like that, but never saw one myself. I guess we owe you for, ah, spotting those suckers.”

“Mm...” Tiger's eyes ran over Olga critically. “What else?”

“I know the locations of a couple of good caches,” Olga divulged. “Ammunition, rations, some equipment... They're booby-trapped, but it's nothing sophisticated.”


His long-ago girlfriend regarded him keenly. “How about this?” she offered. “I can lead you to one stash right now. If you're satisfied, let me back on the team and I'll tell you everything you need.”

“I don't like that,” said Gosha. “It stinks of a trap.”

“If it's a trap, we're fucked.” Vitka cocked his head. “But if we don't check it out, we're probably fucked anyway.”

There was an awkward pause. “You know her better than we do, Tiger,” Southpaw said at last. “It's your call.”

“I know,” Tiger sighed, tucking the .38 away. “Meteorologist, lend me your wire cutters.”

“Here,” the other stalker grunted, “but don't blame me if you regret it.”

“Noted,” Tiger replied dryly, pulling Olga to her feet. After chopping through her bindings, he picked up the Mosin and opened the bolt. “You're on probation,” he told her, unlatching the magazine floorplate and dumping the remaining cartridges into his hand, “so you load it when I tell you to. Got that?”

“Sure, Anton.” The agent's mood was subdued as she collected her backpack. “Let's bring the kids along,” she suggested, indicated Galya and Mitya. “It's not far, but we'll need extra hands to carry stuff back.”

“Fine,” said Tiger brusquely. “Southpaw, you too... Fisher, hold this position and watch for enemy probes.”

“Leaving me with these bums?” German chuckled sardonically. “Well, have fun.”

The party set off without fanfare, moving carefully among the reeds and pools. Olga walked at the front, Tiger close behind. Southpaw and the teenagers followed in single file, stepping where the leaders stepped. They headed north, passing through a gap in the overgrown barbed-wire fence which ran parallel to the foot of the railway embankment. The collapsed bridge loomed ahead, twisted girders and derailed boxcars alike splotched with reddish-brown.

“What's across the river?” Mitya asked when the entourage came onto open ground.

“The badlands,” Southpaw replied. “Don't go near the water, I hear there are huge catfish in there.”

“There are.” Tiger shifted his grasp on his M92. “Olga, is your stash in the hermit hole?”

“Yeah.” The female stalker sounded a little disappointed, as if she meant this to be some sort of surprise present. “You know about it?”

“Just the hole.” Tiger hadn't been inside it since before the faction wars. His Clear Sky handler, Ivan Trodnik, had used it as an occasional meeting spot.

“Here we are,” Olga breathed as the shadow of the bridge fell over them. “The hideout is pretty tight, so Anton and I will carry the loot out.” She produced a battery headlamp and put it on. “This shouldn't take long.”

“Okay,” said Southpaw with a shrug. “We'll sit tight and be inconspicuous... Don't bump your head in there, Tiger.”

That would be the least of my worries, Tiger thought, stooping as he followed Olga into the rough-walled tunnel. This place never looked very stable.

“There's the trap,” Olga informed him, stopping not quite halfway in. Her light settled on a mine with a tripwire and a grooved fragmentation sleeve, perched atop a wooden stake driven into the dirt where floor merged with wall.

“A POMZ,” her companion noted critically, aiming his own pocket light at it. “Did the Security Service give you that?”

Olga shook her head. “Bought it from a shady Dutyer,” she confessed as she disconnected the wire. “There's an F-One with a zero-delay fuze under there, so don't touch it.”

“I'll be sure not to.” Burying an armed grenade beside another device was an old military trick: troops in the Cordon employed it to deter foolhardy stalkers from stealing perimeter mines. “Any more surprises?”

“Not unless somebody's been inside since the last time I checked.”

“Did you put the cache here?”

“No,” Olga admitted, confirming Tiger's suspicion. “It's Clear Sky stuff – they never came back for it, so I figured it might be useful to me... Looks like we're safe,” she added, sweeping the white beam around the cramped chamber at the end of the tunnel. “There's food in these two crates and the rest is ammunition. What do you think, should we get something for everyone?”

It was undeniably a better selection than the average stalker's layaway. Under the plastic sheets was a wealth of Warsaw Pact products: everything from Russian 5.45 to Romanian 7.92, sealed inside pristine spam-cans. These were stacked beside drab rectangular boxes of NATO-caliber rounds, with latched lids and labels stenciled in smudgy yellow paint. There was also a multinational smattering of commercial ammunition in colorful little packages.

“Uh... Yeah, sure.” Her nonchalance aside, Tiger knew better than to think he'd been led here for the sake of idle banter. “Olga, the boy – ” He swallowed. “Is he..?”

“He's like you,” the mother of their child confirmed. “Lyosha's a good kid, but it's been hard for him.”

“Where is he now?”

“He lives with my commander's family at the air base in Chernihiv. They have two girls who are about the same age.”

Tiger said nothing for a minute. “...Why?”

“Why did I join the Security Service? Or why didn't I tell you?” There was a dull thunk-thunk as Olga dropped preserves into a canvas bag. “I was scared, Anton. I was pregnant with a child who might have been deformed, the authorities were breathing down my neck and... and you were turning into someone I didn't recognize.”

“And so the cat left the tree behind.” Tiger found another empty bag and put a can of AK rounds into it. “Why the SBU?”

“It was either the Security Service or the Ministry of Internal Affairs, and I'd had enough of the Ministry... I was qualified for the job – more important, I was willing to go.” Olga picked up a plastic flask of drinking water, examining it closely for defects. “Stalkers joke about men choosing a bullet in the head over service in the Zone, but at that time it was a real problem.”

“And Aleksey?”

“He's safe for now.” The flask went into the ration bag. “I run their errands and they leave him alone, that's the agreement.”

There were no belt links to be found, so Tiger didn't take any 7.62 NATO. “Sounds like you have it pretty good,” he opined candidly. “Why take off the disguise after so long?”

“You said it yourself,” the woman replied quietly. “The cat left the tree behind... but what if the cat wanted to come back?”

The abandoned stalker wanted no part of what she was suggesting. “The cat left the tree behind and the story ended,” he said flatly, stuffing his pockets with 7.62 rimmed cartridges in neatly stapled paper packets.

“I see.” Olga's voice momentarily quavered with emotion. “You won't reconsider?”

“Not for the Security Service and not for you.” Tiger topped off his bag, roughly stuffing the last box into it. “Do your recruiting somewhere else.”

“Recruiting!?” Olga sputtered. “Anton, this is personal.”

“Even worse.”

Indignation turned to frustration, as it often did with Olga, but that itself was transformed into an odd pride. “You aren't a tree to our son,” she declared. “To Lyosha, you're a modern-day Fyodor Sukhov.”

“Good for him,” Tiger snorted acerbically. “Does that make Southpaw my modern-day Sayid?”

“That's not a bad comparison...”

The man turned sharply. “What does that mean?”

“You don't know?” Her surprise, as far as he could make out, was real. “You seem to get along pretty well with him.”

“Not well enough, I guess.”

“Huh... Well, his name is Mykola Sidorenko and he's wanted for multiple murders on the outside – a loan shark and some militsiya with ties to said loan shark.”

“That's all?”

“Not much by Zone standards, is it?” Olga shrugged. “It's our Belarusian runaways I'm really worried about.”

Oh joy, Tiger thought. “And what did they do?”

“Nothing.” Olga put the strap of her bag over her shoulder. “The girl is Galina Purkayeva, only child of that country's recently appointed defense minister. Her boyfriend, Dmitry Batov, comes from a family of dissidents.” Her lip curled. “Obviously Papa Lukashenko would frown upon the match.”

Better and better. “So they fled to the Zone, of all places?”

“Yeah... It might actually work if they knew what they were getting into, but they're – ”

She was cut off by Southpaw's yell from outside: “You, stop where you are! Drop the gun! Drop it!”

“Don't shoot!” The other man's voice was unknown to Tiger. “Please don't shoot!”

“We'll finish this later.” Olga took out a clip and slotted it into the Mosin, disregarding Tiger's order. “Come on.”
  08:15:42  4 April 2010
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Senior Resident

On forum: 03/12/2010
Messages: 787



  06:54:10  4 April 2010
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On forum: 03/25/2007
Messages: 61

I'm still here, just been busy with other projects. A new chapter should be up in the next few days, depending on how busy my Easter weekend becomes.

Best news I've heard all week. Take your time. Like someone else said... its better to have quality than quantity. Until then, I'll be waiting patiently for your next chapter.
  21:10:26  3 April 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
I'm still here, just been busy with other projects. A new chapter should be up in the next few days, depending on how busy my Easter weekend becomes.
  08:05:40  3 April 2010
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On forum: 03/25/2007

Message edited by:
04/03/2010 8:06:00
Messages: 61
Hey Bob! I hope you didn't disappear like some of those crazy stories about stalkers vanishing into thin air in the Zone...

Because that is some of the best writing I've read in awhile, and its about the Zone!

I actually printed some of them out so I can read while I'm out or waiting instead of a usual book.

Thanks again for the read, by far the best writing by putting the game atmosphere and characters into words and into an exceptional story!
  22:35:44  11 March 2010
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HL2 Master
Senior Resident

On forum: 06/28/2008
Messages: 271

what mod is that, im just curious
The swamp marauders' uniform is based on a pair of textures I found in the files of Clear Sky's alpha build 3120, apparently intended for a cut US Special Forces faction. I put them into the final version of Clear Sky as alternate mercenary costumes, since the vanilla mercs have less variety than they did in Shadow of Chernobyl.

(This should in no way be construed as a hint towards the marauders' identity.)

Those are pretty cool.

Keep up the good work on this story!
  21:18:03  11 March 2010
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Ex modder, Zones only ferret and will someday release a game


On forum: 02/20/2010
Messages: 6340
Keep up the good work. I usually can't be bothered to read through 7 pages of posts, but this story was so good it just sucked me in. Can't wait for the next chapter.
  14:56:02  11 March 2010
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
"Fukkin Rooshins" = British Mancunian?
  05:53:15  11 March 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

what mod is that, im just curious

The swamp marauders' uniform is based on a pair of textures I found in the files of Clear Sky's alpha build 3120, apparently intended for a cut US Special Forces faction. I put them into the final version of Clear Sky as alternate mercenary costumes, since the vanilla mercs have less variety than they did in Shadow of Chernobyl.

(This should in no way be construed as a hint towards the marauders' identity.)
  05:34:30  11 March 2010
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On forum: 11/01/2009
Messages: 883

Thanks for the support, everyone. And for those who don't read Know Your Builds...

what mod is that, im just curious, oh and very nice I like it, keep writing

  01:36:17  11 March 2010
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
Good as always.
  06:21:48  28 February 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Thanks for the support, everyone. And for those who don't read Know Your Builds...
  06:08:26  28 February 2010
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
Messages: 211
Awesome! Gotta love the sound of an M60.
  02:56:48  26 February 2010
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Messages: 20
Awesome story indeed. Well written and very intriguing. Keep those updates coming!
  18:35:38  25 February 2010
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Messages: 73
Oh fuck yes. This is just too good, easily one of the best descriptions of combat I've ever read. Keep up the wonderful job.
  05:06:20  25 February 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
You picked a good day to ask.

Swamp Safari: The Second Encounter

“There's the northern farmstead.” Bandicoot motioned for the others to halt their march and spread out. “Tiger, Fisher, Meteorologist – go check it out.”

Tiger had anticipated the assignment. He led the way down the embankment from the tracks, carefully stepping through a gap where the farmstead fence was falling to bits. “Doesn't look like anyone has camped here,” he observed. “No footprints, and the fire pit is empty... Let's sweep the buildings, just to be sure.”

“I wish I'd known about Bandicoot before I signed on to this,” Vitka quietly complained once the three were inside the farm's main house. “Can't read him at all.”

German evidently sympathized. “If he's a good commissar, it'll be fine. If he's not... Well, I'd rather know before we get into any shooting.”

“How do you tell a good commissar from a bad one?”

“Oh, that's easy – when trouble starts, does he stand at the front or the back?”

Tiger didn't have anything to add. He knew Bandicoot was a survivor of the faction wars, but that was about all. “It's clear,” he said at last. “Keep moving.”

The rest of the search turned up nothing more besides some ancient cigarette butts and rusted-out food cans. It seemed that the marauders hadn't yet come to this corner of the swamps. “Good,” said Bandicoot once he'd heard the investigators' report. “We're moving on. There should be a path to the village ruins just past those boxcars.”

Onward they walked. The boxcars and the locomotive which once pulled them sat roughly halfway between the east and west borders of the swamp. In former days these derelicts had been a landmark for stalkers taking the path north to the Agroprom, but not anymore: the way was overgrown and choked with fallen trees. The visitors passed it by, striding resolutely across tracks torn up by long-exhausted anomalies and down the grassy slope to the marshes proper.

Bandicoot abruptly signaled another halt. “I see the village,” he said in a soft voice. “Spread out, stay low and watch your step. Tiger, you're on point.”

“Got it.” The stripe-haired stalker took his battle rifle in hand, easing the safety off as he navigated between patches of thick reeds. The ground was soft and moist, but his boots were up to the challenge.

The ruined village was as he remembered it: a cluster of structures still mostly intact – apart from the one which an anomaly had taken a large bite out of – bordered by a fringe of crumbling foundations and bare chimneys already claimed by the creeping waters of the swamp. On the north side, a few stalwart trees offered shade. A dirt road led east to the machine yard, while a winding series of footpaths and wooden walkways offered access to the boat park a short distance northwest. Another path ran due south across sandy islets and clumps of scrub to the pumping station.

“Nothing here,” Tiger informed Bandicoot. “Nothing living, at least.”



“All right... Pair up and search the houses. Tread lightly.”

The others did so, though not without commentary. “Tread lightly?” Gosha stage-whispered. “I don't see any grave markers. Are there ghosts here?”

“No,” Tiger deadpanned, “but the swamp bloodsuckers do a good impression.”

“Oh... What's the difference between a swamp and a regular sucker, anyway?”

“Swamp suckers are sneakier,” the commissar growled, “and the bastards can jump... Tourist, you got something?”

“Not sure,” Anatoly answered, his voice muffled by his sturdy gas mask. “Wait... Yeah, I see a group coming up from the pumping platform.”

Bandicoot was already sprinting into the roofless house on the south side by the time Tiger turned around. “Form up on me and find cover,” he barked. “Lock and load!”

The stalkers hustled into the house, taking up positions at the windows and gaps in the wall facing the broad marshlands. “What is it?” Southpaw questioned anxiously, kneeling beside Tiger. “What do you see?”

“Five, approaching slowly.” Bandicoot cursed under his breath. “The two in front are prisoners, civilian kids... The three in back are the ones we're after.” He lowered his binoculars. “No others in sight. They haven't spotted us.”

“So what are we up against?” German Fisher took out his own set of optics. “Holy shit, they're Monolith... What the hell are fanatics doing this close to the perimeter?”

“They're not Monolith,” the Duty stalker corrected tersely. “Similar pattern, but the Monoliths' camo has a brown hue.”

“Then who'd want to be mistaken for them?”

“Someone who doesn't know better... or just doesn't care.”

Anatoly Tourist appeared among the shadows on Southpaw's left, perhaps looking for a better firing position. “What do we do now?”

“We go in and get those kids.” Commissar Bandicoot swapped his binoculars for his rifle, glancing at Tiger, Tourist and Southpaw. “You three, can you all hit a man at this range?”

“No problem,” Anatoly replied crisply.

“I think I can,” Tiger hedged. “I could with my old rifle.”

“I'll give it my best shot,” Southpaw declared gamely, his eyes fixed on the figures in the distance.

“Good enough.” There was a faint click as Bandicoot's gloved thumb stroked the G36's fire selector. “On my signal, drop 'em. Strongman, you provide supporting fire in case the enemy brings up reinforcements. Do not hit the prisoners... The rest of you follow me.” He positioned himself for blastoff. “Wait for them to come a little closer.”

Anatoly swung out the M44's bayonet and locked it. “I'll take the first on the left,” he announced coolly.

“First on the right,” Tiger replied.

“First on the, uh... middle.” Southpaw peered down his Mauser's sights as its hardwood stock rested against the barren windowsill, his face screwed up in concentration. “I hope this thing is accurate enough...”

“When in doubt,” Anatoly advised, “aim for the waist. These old rifles are usually zeroed to shoot a little high.”

“Thanks.” The left-hander made a minute adjustment. “Okay, I'm ready.”

Tiger hadn't been acquainted with the rechambered Lee-Enfield for very long, but the humble 7.62x54R military ball cartridge had been his mainstay since his first days in the Zone. He knew what it could do, and where it needed to be placed for maximum effect. Any second now, he thought as his opponent's vest filled the sight's aperture. Come on, come on..!

“They're stopping,” Bandicoot hissed. “Now!”

Bang! Boom! Kerblam!

Bandicoot flung himself into the breach. “GO!”

Tiger overestimated the degree of force required to open the rifle's action, his fingers still accustomed to the different geometries and tensions of his lost Mosin. The empty casing ejected with a puff of acrid smoke and fell somewhere in the dirt underfoot, its role fulfilled. The stalker rammed the Lee's rear-locking bolt forward vigorously, meeting unfamiliar resistance on the last stage as the heavy striker spring was compressed. A hot 7.92mm shell tumbled across his field of view as Southpaw chambered his own next round with gusto.

“Come on, slowpoke!” German yelled as he and Vitka scrambled after Bandicoot. “Keep up or the suckers will get you!”

The three marauders were down, but not necessarily out: Tiger could see one of them thrashing on the ground even as Bandicoot charged towards the group. There was a brisk ratatat-ratatat as he finished them off, while the two prisoners huddled together on the side. With shouts and hand motions the Dutyer directed that pair towards the village ruins, then sent Vitka and German to check the corpses.

“Watch your fire,” Anatoly muttered, probably for Gosha's benefit.

The loner in the long coat felt a twinge of pity as he observed these two strangers, stumbling along on jittery feet with their hands tied behind their backs. They were just teenagers, a boy and a girl, in clothes woefully unsuited to conditions even in the borderlands of the Zone. What were they doing out here?

Bandicoot was looking back over his shoulder, watching the youngsters, when the bullet entered one side of his chest and exploded out the other. He toppled reluctantly, like a huge tree coming down, and lay unmoving. There was a discernible gap between the sight and the sound of the shot.

“Sniper!” Tourist cried. “Get out of the open!”

A heavy tatatatatata saturated the air as Gosha opened up on the distant watchtower. “OOOAAAAAAAAAHHH!”

The M60's chatter startled the teens: the boy lost his balance and fell on his face, leaving the girl helplessly standing over him. Tiger tried to will himself into going out to help them, but Anatoly beat him to it. “Go on!” the other stalker commanded the girl. “I've got him!”

Southpaw peeked out from behind the wall as Anatoly pulled the boy onto his feet and propelled him to safety. “We can't stay here!”

“I know,” Anatoly wheezed. “Let's get to the boat park!”

“Which way?”

“Follow me,” Tiger grunted, backtracking through the house. “Gosha, come on!”

“I'm coming, I'm coming...” Sprak-k-k! “YOU MISSED, SHITFACE!” Tatatatatata!

The others had already gathered on the sheltered side of the house across the road. “A knife won't slice this,” Anatoly informed the group as he examined the girl's bound wrists. “Anyone got wire cutters?”

Vitka plunged his hands into his pockets. “I never leave home without 'em!”

“Thanks.” Tourist chewed through the youths' restraints while Gosha fired one more burst from the hip and dashed to safety. “Okay, done. Top off your magazines and follow Tiger's lead!”

“Stay close behind me,” Tiger chimed in. “We're going to have to cross an open area, so don't hesitate once we start moving. The boat park is surrounded by thick reeds and the sniper shouldn't be able to see us as long as we stay low.” He swapped battle rifle for assault rifle, inspiring Southpaw to do likewise. “Is everyone ready?”

The two teens nodded, wide-eyed both. Gosha closed the machine gun's feed cover on a new belt and thumped it for good measure. Tiger pulled his Zastava's bolt carrier back halfway, slightly reassured by the faint gleam of brass visible inside. Anatoly took out his .38 and briefly inspected the primers.

“Somebody once said nothing's more exciting than being shot at,” Southpaw remarked suddenly. “I wonder what was wrong with him.”

“He was an English politician,” Anatoly replied. “It's true, though – being shot at is lots of fun unless you get hit.” Vitka, German and Gosha laughed at that, but the escaped prisoners just looked sick. “Don't worry,” Anatoly chuckled wryly, giving each a comforting pat. “Just stay on our asses and we'll get you outta here... Tiger?”

“Right.” Tiger brought the Kalashnikov's stock up to his shoulder. “Three... Two... One.”

They didn't run. They didn't sprint. They didn't even dash. They were too heavily loaded for such things, and so the man in front set the pace at a stiff but sustainable jog. The rotting boardwalk creaked and cracked as boot after boot – and the odd sneaker – pounded down its length. A bullet whizzed in front of Tiger as he reached damp ground.

“Ignore it!” Anatoly yelled. “He's just wasting ammo!”

Tiger had barely noticed it to begin with. The next boardwalk was partially submerged, and the muddy water thrown up by the stalkers' footfalls spattered all over their legs. The pointman could feel the added weight of his coat's soaked hem as he veered sharply to the right and plowed through the gap between two banks of reeds. The footpath was almost impossible to see, but he knew the route without its help. A couple more twists and turns brought the group into the boat park. The shack was still standing on its rickety stilts, as was the pier with its own little roof, but the inverted boats lying about the place looked rather less than water-worthy.

“Spread out and watch the sides.” Anatoly's voice was authoritative, yet carried a high note born of stress. “Keep a lookout for movement.”

The surroundings were clear as far as Tiger could feel, but he decided not to draw attention to himself. “Is everyone all right?” he asked instead.

“Aw shit,” Southpaw moaned. “Lost my radio again...”

“I think we're all good,” German answered, ignoring him. “Can we take a breather now?”

“As long as you don't fall asleep, yeah.” Anatoly walked over to the liberated captives, numbly sitting together on the shack's steps. “Sorry for the scare,” he said quietly. “How'd you two get mixed up with those guys?”

“We heard there was an... an easy way past the soldiers,” the girl quavered, “but those people were already inside.”

“Can you tell me anything about them?”

“They were foreigners,” the boy spoke up. “Only a couple of them spoke our language... The others all talked in English, called us 'fukkin rooshins' all the time.”

“Fucking Russians, huh?” Tourist almost sounded amused. “If their geography's that bad, it's a wonder they found the Zone at all... German, Vitka, did you get anything off the bodies?”

“Didn't have time,” Vitka grunted. “Sorry.”

“I got a good look at their gear,” German offered. “They had NATO-style vests like the mercenaries wear, with a funny logo.” He squatted and drew a picture in the dirt with his fingertip. “This.”

Anatoly cocked his head. “I can't tell whether that's a knight's helmet or the top of a chess bishop.”

“I can't either,” Fisher admitted, “but I'm pretty sure I've got it right... I didn't recognize their rifle type, but it was definitely an AK of some kind.”

“I saw.” The stalker who had taken charge returned to the teenagers. “I assume you didn't learn anything more about their identity or objectives?”

“Nothing,” the girl confirmed.

“How many were there?”

“About thirty... Um, but that was just in the base.”

“Thirty more of those assholes?” Gosha made a face. “How'd they all get in?”

“I bet somebody with a beret scored a bribe big enough to retire on,” Southpaw speculated sourly. “Ain't that right, Tiger?”

“Could be.” Tiger looked at Anatoly. “In any case, we need to decide our next move.”

“That's obvious,” Vitka cut in. “We should get the hell outta here.”

Anatoly shook his head. “We're not leaving. Not yet.”

“Why not? Bandicoot's dead and we've got shit to show for it.” Meteorologist rolled his eyes. “Dude, you want us to take on these psychos by ourselves? Who put you in charge, anyway?”

“Stop that,” Southpaw interrupted vehemently. “Stop it right now. Can't you see you're doing exactly what the enemy wants?”

Tourist nodded. “It's the obvious tactic: take out the leader and let the rest undo themselves with squabbling... I'm not saying we should try to fight those guys, but we definitely can't go back to Voronin empty-handed.”

“We don't have much choice about this,” Tiger pointed out. “We can't get far without that sniper tracking us, not before dark.”

“And that's assuming he doesn't have a night sight,” Anatoly added gravely. “Does anyone else have a high-output radio?”

There were no answers to the affirmative.

“Then we're stuck here, like it or not... Let's wait a bit and make sure those guys aren't following us, then we'll work out our strategy.”

“At least we have food and ammo,” Strongman offered, trying to put an optimistic spin on the situation.

“Yeah,” German laughed ruefully. “All that action and I never fired a shot...” His expression turned to a frown as he regarded the pair of strangers. “What about the kids?”

“We'll take them to the Cordon,” said Anatoly. “Maybe Kuznetsov can smuggle them back to the Big Land.”

“That won't be cheap,” Tiger warned. “It's more work than he likes to do.”

“We're not going back.” The girl trembled, but she gazed at the men with defiance. “We're going to become stalkers. There's nothing left for us on the outside.”

The stalker with the large backpack didn't hide his skepticism. “Then you can go to Wolf or Fanatic,” he said, “but I won't blame you if you have second thoughts.”

“That's all well and good,” German interjected, “but who's going to feed 'em in the meantime? We only brought enough grub for ourselves.”

“I packed extra food,” said Tourist unconcernedly. “Always do... So anyway, what are your names?”

“I'm Galya,” the girl answered, divulging only a diminutive, “and this is my boyfriend Mitya.”

“Galya and Mitya, got it. You need anything, just find me.” Anatoly looked around, taking in the surroundings as the morning sun climbed higher over the swamps. “We'll stand watch in turns. Can I get two volunteers?”

Tiger was too wound up to sit idle and he doubted the others would take up the task in good humor. “I'll do it.”

“Me too,” Southpaw added.

“Great. The rest of you find some shade, check your gear and rest up. We'll rotate the watch every thirty minutes.” So saying, Anatoly sat on a decaying log, took out a map and spread it across his knees.

“Bleh,” Vitka grumbled, sticking a finger under the balaclava which covered the lower half of his face. “This thing is starting to itch.”

“Might as well take it off,” German opined as the pair wandered over to the pier. “Hey, is my face paint smudged?”

“No, it's fine. Why?”

“Just checking.”

“Tiger,” said Southpaw quietly, “are you sure about this?”

“It's not what we bargained for,” Tiger admitted, turning his back on the others, “but Tourist seems to know what he's doing.”

“I hope so... Hope those kids will be okay, too.” The left-handed stalker threw a furtive glance at Gosha, who was humming merrily as he rubbed a rag up and down his weapon's barrel. “You know what I mean?”

Tiger did know, having pondered that very problem in relation to Olga. “We'll have to keep an eye on them,” he said at last. “We don't need any more problems.”

“Yeah.” Southpaw fiddled with the grenade launching sight on his Zastava. “Six against thirty... No way that would work.”

“That depends,” Tiger mused. “I saw some pretty uneven battles during the faction wars... If we could just take out their sniper, we'd be free to come at them from any direction.”

“Any direction?” Southpaw repeated quizzically. “You mean there's a way through the anomaly fields after all?”


“I guess we'll find out.” Click... Snap! “Wish I knew who we're up against...” The lefty blinked as Tiger tensed. “What is it?”

“Someone's coming.”

“Tch.” Southpaw flagged down Anatoly. “Tourist, we've got company!”


“South of us.” Tiger's eyes narrowed as he focused on the blobs of energy. “Two, three... five total. They're close together.”

If Anatoly knew Tiger wasn't basing his assessment on sight and sound, he didn't acknowledge it. “Stand by for contact,” he ordered tersely. “Use those boats for cover.”

Gosha stuffed the rag into his pocket and unfolded the M60's bipod. “Nice of them to come to us.”

Southpaw crouched at Tiger's side, waiting with bated breath. “Where are they now?”

The long-coated loner pointed with his hand. “About thirty meters away.”

“What are you doing?” Anatoly hissed. “Fall back!”

Southpaw ignored him. “Been saving this for a special occasion,” he muttered, taking out an RGD-5 hand grenade. “I hear a pineapple a day keeps the doctor away...” Ching! “Hup!”

The blobs split up fast – too fast. Tiger rose, grabbed Southpaw by the collar and dragged him backwards to the center of the clearing as a ferocious howl rolled over the marshes.

Gosha was already there. “Bloodsuckerrrrrrrs!”
  18:11:06  24 February 2010
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On forum: 11/27/2008

Message edited by:
02/24/2010 18:11:54
Messages: 73
I was planning to go to the local library and get something to read, but reading this was certainly a better choice. Is the next chapter coming up anytime soon?
  18:49:47  23 February 2010
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HL2 Master
Senior Resident

On forum: 06/28/2008
Messages: 271
Tis a good story!!! Please, continue!

  18:49:47  23 February 2010
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HL2 Master
Senior Resident

On forum: 06/28/2008
Messages: 271
Tis a good story!!! Please, continue!

  16:24:49  20 February 2010
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The Dane


On forum: 09/22/2007

Message edited by:
02/20/2010 16:25:46
Messages: 1941

Its very epic, epic indeed. This is one of the best stories on the forum that I've seen so far, along with snorkbait. Lets see some more writing.

Agree, but I prefer not to post in a story thread as for not cutting the stories up thereby dragging people out of the story while they search for the continuation. IMHO, stories should have their own comment threads just like the mods have.
  02:42:39  20 February 2010
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Petro Crowbar
On forum: 02/12/2010
Messages: 3
Its very epic, epic indeed. This is one of the best stories on the forum that I've seen so far, along with snorkbait. Lets see some more writing.
  22:45:08  19 February 2010
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On forum: 10/11/2008
Messages: 66
Why does no one comment on the story of BobBQ? Its freaking epic!
Come on support or troop.... I mean writers!
  20:54:29  15 February 2010
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On forum: 10/11/2008

Message edited by:
02/15/2010 20:56:59
Messages: 66
Wait let me write your next part! Here it comes.

Tiger: After the raid in the Swamplands we returned to the bar. There we splitted the loot and bought some more ammo from barkeep. All of a sudden every STALKER in the bar watched someone enter trough the door. He was... he was carying a dead bandit. When we looked closer, the one who held the bandit was the Marked One. Before we could ask why he brought a corpse with him, he moved and taking the corpse with him.
The bandits corpse twitched and danced in the air, it was both a gruesome and beautfull sight. We where all enchanted.

The next thing that happend was even stranger, he pulled down the pants of the bandit and.. and he pulled a AK-47 out of his ass. We thought how the hell did THAT goes in THAT?! Marked One wasn`t done thought, he pulled one after another out of the bandits ass. AK, grenades, ammo, medpack,vodka you name it and it came out of that. This went on for 30 minutes.

After these 30 minutes we were all speechless and then barkeep openend his mouth. Barkeep: Is that all Marked One? Yes, oke then. Is it me or is this less than the last time. The Marked One replied with ''Sorry barkeep, but they just don`t make em like they did''

With that out of his mouth Marked One collected his cash and left. Leaving the corpse behind. That night we made a deal with every STALKER in the bar, the deal was that if you die, the STALKER who was with you should trow you next to a whirler to prevent these kinde of things.

After this deal no one saw the Marked One ever again.

The End
  04:51:26  13 February 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
It's-a back!

The Secrets We Keep

“Yeah,” the stranger replied tiredly. “Here are the documents from the Institute.” He unclipped the oblong white case which hung from the front of his suit and laid it on the bartop.

“Great work, Marked One.” Barkeep took the case, rapped it with his knuckles and then set it on the floor by the stove. “We have the documents at last... I need to have a look at them now, and maybe I’ll work out how to get north.” He took a scratched and scuffed PDA from a back pocket and fiddled with it briefly. “While I do that, if you have problems with money, you can fight at the arena. The owner of the arena is Arnie – I've uploaded his coordinates.

“Okay.” Marked One bent and lifted his two extra backpacks. “I have some things to sell,” he said hopefully.

“Yeah? Let's see what you've got...”

“Look at that,” Southpaw muttered. “What'd he do, pick up every single Jellyfish, Wrenched and Sparkler he came across?”

It looked that way to Tiger. “He's been quite thorough,” he remarked softly, watching as a mountain of low-grade artifacts grew atop the bar.

“Yeah.” Southpaw resumed eating, as did Tiger, though the former continued to sneak glances at the newcomer.

“Let's drink to him once more,” the patron in the far corner said suddenly, raising his bottle. “He was a good stalker.”

“I'll drink to that.” Southpaw took a long pull from his soda can. “Who are we drinking to?”

“Otter, probably.”

“Really? What happened?”

“He tried to get past the Scorcher.” Tiger shrugged. “Must have thought he'd found a weakness, but no luck...”

“Sounds nasty. I heard he was pretty smart, too.” The left-hander sighed. “It can really happen to anyone, huh?”


“Man... Same thing day after day.” Southpaw briefly contemplated the ceiling. “People can't help but to take up booze with this life... They just want to forget everything.”

“That's right.”

Southpaw cocked his head. “I haven't seen you drinking, though. Guess that means you're not doing so bad, eh?”

“I never drink,” said Tiger solemnly. “It makes me stupid.” He glanced behind himself and saw that Marked One had finished his transaction.

He wasn't the only one watching: “Come here,” Snitch crooned. “I've always got something interesting for people like you.”

“The predator strikes,” Southpaw commented wryly. “No scruples at all.”

Tiger nodded. “He knows an easy score when he sees one.”

“Black raven,” Brome slurred in the background, “black raven... Circling – hic – above the gray...”

Southpaw finished his food before speaking once more. “So, uh... What's the story with your ex?”

“She was... very proud of her independence,” the mildly mutated one reminisced slowly. “She didn't want to rely on anyone or have anyone rely on her.” He examined his soda minutely. “I... had a bad spell once, and she... she left me right when I needed her most.”

“That's just wrong.” There was no doubting his companion's sincerity. “And you became a stalker after that?”

“More or less.”

“Leave me alone,” a patron somewhere in the back of the room grumbled. “Life is bad enough...”

Bad enough, Tiger thought wryly. It was bad enough before I went to the Red Forest, before I met Friar, before Olga came back into my life, before this whole damn mess was dumped on me... “Why do you want to know about her?” he asked aloud. “Has this happened to you also?”

“Not so far,” Southpaw admitted. “I never had time for women when I was a machinist.”

“Ah...” Tiger wondered where the strong-willed female was now. Coming into camp after a day of honest prospecting? She could throw a bolt as good as the rest of them, sure enough... Prowling the night in search of bandits, taking up the task Mantis had left unfinished? Her ruthless streak was compounded by a tough sense of justice, after all... Sitting on a log somewhere, watching stars twinkle above a deceptively tranquil landscape? She was fascinated by the Zone in a way few stalkers could comprehend... She can do whatever she wants, he decided at last, as long as she leaves me alone.

“Uh, Tiger...”

“Huh?” It took the stripe-haired stalker a few moments to realize Southpaw was alerting him to the fact that someone was trying to get his attention. Looking up, he found no less a personage than Marked One at his elbow. “What do you want?” he asked sharply.

The thin man regarded him curiously. “What did you hear?”

Tiger blinked. That's it? He just wants the news? Might as well chalk it up to the amnesia and humor the man, he thought. “There's a rumor going around that Duty and Freedom have made a secret ceasefire agreement,” he divulged. “I think it's good news if it's true. Fighting each other just wastes resources and lets the real problems spread unchecked... And if one did destroy the other, what then? Could Duty defend Rostok and hold the Barrier at the same time? Could Freedom?” Tiger shook his head. “Opposite extremes average out to an even balance, and that's best for us stalkers.”

“That makes sense,” Marked One replied thoughtfully... and wandered out of the Hundred Rads without another word or a second glance.

“Freaky.” Southpaw made a face as his wake dissipated. “He acts like... like some kind of robot.”

“Yes,” Tiger concurred.

“Memory loss sure can mess a guy up, huh? Glad it's not me... Anyway, what about this work Voronin wants done? Any ideas?”

“I don't know... Probably something to do with mutants or bandits – he knows I won't take jobs against Freedom.”

“That suits me fine.” Southpaw stifled a burp. “But no more bribing the punks, okay?”

“No more bribes,” Tiger assured him. “I'm through with that.”

“I hope so... By the way, do you know anything about artifact activation?”

“That's not something to be done casually,” the more experienced stalker warned. “What about it?”

Southpaw shrugged. “Just curious. I've heard others talk about it, but I never got the details.”

“Ah...” Tiger thought briefly. “It's simple in theory,” he explained, “but very dangerous in practice... Some types of artifact are inherently – ”

He didn't get further than that, as another visitor entered the bar. This one wore a gas mask and a suit in the red-on-black colors of Duty. After one look around the premises, he went straight to Tiger and Southpaw. “You're the ones looking for work?” he asked curtly.

Tiger knew him by his voice: he was the warrant officer, Duty's chief recruiter and an alleged veteran of the Ukrainian security service, the SBU. His name and other details were unknown. “We are,” he replied.

The warrant officer wedged himself in between them. “The situation is this,” he informed them in a lowered tone. “An unknown group has recently appeared in the southern swamps. They are attacking all stalkers who enter that area. You will join a group tasked with observing these marauders and, if possible, putting them out of action... If you're interested, go to the Garbage checkpoint at dawn tomorrow. You'll receive further details there.”

“The Garbage checkpoint at dawn,” Southpaw repeated. “Anything we should bring?”

“Sufficient food, ammunition and medical essentials for a few days in the field, plus functional artifacts if you have them.”

“The usual stuff, then. Got it.”

The Duty man nodded. “Good luck.” He departed on that note, leaving Tiger to wonder where he was going to get the cash for all the things he'd lost, or if he'd just have to plan on feeding himself with whatever he could scrounge or shoot along the way.

Southpaw came to his rescue. “I know that look,” said he, producing a wad of banknotes. “Here, use this to stock up.”

His companion wasn't used to such generosity. “I shouldn't impose – ”

“You aren't,” the sinistral one interrupted firmly. “Grub alone is hardly enough to pay you back after what you've done for me... Just keep doing what you do, hey?”

“I will... Thank you.”

“Any time, friend.” Southpaw rolled his shoulders. “We'll have to get up early... Guess I'll go find a mattress by a fire and get some downtime. See you later.” The left-handed loner made his exit, stopping just long enough to dispose of his soda can. Tiger remained at the table, full of thoughts.


Tiger hadn't had one of those in a long, long time. It felt strangely comforting to hear the word now, when so much of his world was shadowed by doubt and insecurity.


It was at times like this that being in good standing with Barkeep truly paid off. He'd granted Tiger a hefty discount on his purchases of canned and dried rations, bandages, a replacement vodka flask and jackknife, and a couple of boxes of cheap ammunition for the Lee-Enfield. Tiger still lacked a pistol and a detector, but he could make do without the latter and would come by the former easily enough: even a bandit's Makarov would be adequate for his purposes.

He left the Hundred Rads with loaded pockets and quickly discovered that the predicted rain was now falling in full force. After stopping to tuck his rifles under his coat and pull his hood well down, he hustled across the deserted streets of the Rostok factory complex and into the nearest of the cavernous buildings which served as many a stalker's makeshift dormitory. Southpaw wasn't there, so he carefully made his way between the resting occupants and headed for the next one.

“Hold up,” a gruff voice called from his right. “That you, Tiger?”

Tiger turned to find Oleg 'Fiend' Gusarov regarding him from the far side of a barred window. “Yes?” he answered, moving so that he was sheltered by the overhanging edge of the roof.

“A stalker was asking around about you earlier,” Fiend grunted. “Never took the mask off, but the voice sounded female. Anyone you know?”

Damn it!

“I think so,” Tiger sighed. “What did she want?”

“Hideouts, hunting grounds, other places where you could be found... I told her I didn't know anything, so she thanked me and went on her way.”

“I see... Well, thanks for warning me.”

“Not so fast,” the veteran growled. “Since when do you hang out with spooks?”

“I don't. Why would you think I do?”

“That's the vibe I got from your lady friend. MVS would be my guess.”

“She's no friend of mine,” Tiger protested sourly. “Are you sure?”

There was an annoyed snort. “You know where I served, buddy.”

Tiger did know. Oleg Gusarov had served in the Belotserkovskaya Spetsnaz as a master sergeant, cross-trained in sniping and bomb disposal, and that meant he was a bonafide tough SOB. He'd seen more combat – and more state intelligence personnel – than Tiger probably would in his entire life. “I don't know anything about it,” the civilian stalker insisted.

“If you say so,” Fiend replied. “It ain't my problem, but don't say I didn't warn you.”

Tiger walked on through the rain, head beginning to spin again. He found Southpaw inside the next building, huddled with three more stalkers around a fire in a cut down oil drum. One of the others was attempting to tune a well-worn guitar.

“...So they dunk him in the well a third time and ask again: 'Artifacts? Money?' Now by this point the stalker is getting pretty fed up, so he says to the mercs, 'Guys, you gotta stick me in either deeper or longer – the water's so murky, how am I supposed to find anything?'”

“Hee-hee! That one never gets old... Eh, I guess it would if it happened to you.”

“Yeah, that would suck... Mind you, I had some trouble myself with Duty the other day.”

“No kidding. What happened?”

“They a-taxed me something awful... So I flew to the Freedom base and now I travel duty-free.”

“Bwahahahaha! Oh, man... Heeheehee... That was awful...”

“So guys,” Southpaw interjected, “how long before we start seeing 'GOP STOP' signs in the Garbage?”

“Dunno,” the stalker with the guitar quipped. “When Borov learns to read, maybe.”

“Read!? His thugs barely know how to speak... Hi, Tiger. You got everything?”

“Yes.” Tiger sat on a cinderblock by the fire, tucking his coat under himself. He watched the flames dance as the stalker with the guitar launched into an uneven rendition of a Firelake song which was often played in the Hundred Rads.

Why, he wondered, would the Ministry of Internal Affairs send a foreign national as their agent, let alone a woman? Had Olga's story about quitting her job to seek adventure been a big lie, or was Fiend simply mistaken? What had she been working on at the institute over these last five years? Was she following him as part of some mission, or was it purely personal?

He went to sleep without resolving any of these questions.


“One more, on the right... We're clear.”

“Phew.” Southpaw straightened as the pair emerged from the maze of Whirlygig anomalies which clogged the road to the Garbage. “Getting through those used to be such a pain...”

The checkpoint was built around the surviving concrete and steel edifices of a junction on the pipeline which once ran through the Garbage. The pipe itself was long gone, torn up and buried in the mounds of contaminated junk. There were usually seven or eight Duty guards stationed here, but Tiger also made out the figures of four free stalkers hanging around in the dim pre-dawn light. “Good morning,” he said to the sergeant in charge. “We're here to join the swamp raid.”

“You want Commissar Bandicoot.” The NCO pointed to a comrade in a black balaclava.

“You're punctual,” the highlighted man said when the duo came to him. “I appreciate that... Right, this is everybody – gather around, people.” Taking out a large map, he spread it over the face of a concrete slab and held up a penlight. “We were alerted to this problem by Trapper yesterday. He received a distress call from some stalkers who were under attack, but they were wiped out before he could reach them. He watched from a distance as the unknown group disposed of the bodies, then retreated and alerted us... We don't know the identity or disposition of the enemy, but it is likely that they are using an abandoned faction base in the southwestern swamps as their camp. Any of you know the place?”

“I do,” Tiger volunteered. “It's a service station in the middle of a dense thicket. There are only a couple of paths to it, and they're well hidden.”

“That's right... Trapper saw them dumping the bodies near the water-pumping station, here. He reported that the intruders seemed intent on minimizing their visibility and posted no sentries in obvious places... Current anomaly patterns in the area are stable, but not favorable. There are severe electrical formations around the pylons here, here and here, and some intermittent psi-fields in the same places. The eastern road is inaccessible due to heavy concentrations of gravity traps, which rules out the machine shop, church and southeastern farmstead as strategic locations. The farmstead in the northeast quarter by the rail line will be our primary fallback point, but we may do better to set up in the village ruins to the west or the boat park near the bridge.”

“So we're going wading,” one of the loners remarked succinctly.

“Perhaps.” Bandicoot pointed to the bank of the river at the west edge of the marshy region. “The approach to the back door is defended by a guard post here, with a watchtower.”

“The tower's gone,” Tiger corrected. “It collapsed sometime in February or March.”

“Never mind it, then... The other path of approach is via the pumping station and then the fishing hamlet just outside the base. The watchtower there is still intact, so we'll have to be careful... Questions?”

Nobody spoke.

“All right. Remember that this is a Duty operation – that means you take orders from me. If you have a problem with that, fall out now.”

Nobody moved.

“Very good.” Bandicoot packed up the map. “To the Cordon we go, then.” He pointed to a row of cardboard boxes in green cloth carriers with slings. “Every man take a box and move out!”


The boxes belonged to one of the other stalkers, a fellow who called himself Gosha Strongman. He wasn't especially large, but he carried a Vietnam-vintage M60 with duct tape around the grip and baling wire around the gas cylinder. Each box held a spare hundred-round ammunition belt for the mechanical monster. Their distribution provoked some grumbling at first.

The rest of the group's collective loadout was similarly eclectic. The wiry Vitka Meteorologist had a Shpagin submachine gun with a spare drum in a pouch on each hip, while German Fisher sported severe stubble and a late-model Thompson which he claimed to have bought from a retiring Serbian stalker. Anatoly Tourist packed a Mosin carbine with a folding bayonet and a Smith & Wesson Victory revolver in a holster under the bottom of his towering rucksack.

The only modern weapon among the raiders was the G36 carried by Bandicoot. “Won it from a Freedom member,” he said when Vitka asked about it. “Fair and square in a bare-knuckle boxing match.”

“Bet he wasn't happy about that,” Southpaw remarked.

“Oh, he was quite sporting,” the Duty man recalled placidly. “Of course I'm sure they had plenty of replacements.”

The conversation turned to speculation about the identity of the hostile group as they passed the rail hangar near the middle of the Garbage, interspersed with reminiscing about glorious feats of days passed. Tiger contributed little to the chatter: he was busy contemplating the future. Finish this job, build up some funds and start working his way towards the Dead City, that was the plan.

Plans are disconcertingly fragile when subjected to real-world conditions.
  21:17:34  26 January 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
Status update: working on getting Call of Pripyat sooner rather than later for filler reduction purposes.
  05:43:13  16 January 2010
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081

Bandit:Come here I have some information that might be of use to you stalker.
Tiger: ....
Marked One: Tell me what you got.
Bandit: Nothing right now.
Tiger: ....
Marked One: ....
Bandit: Come he...
Marked One: ... Bang ...

In any case really good story keep it up!


Good addition. There's a real sense of the Zone in this story that makes it feel like a true extension of, and from, the game. It's a good mix of the familiar and the...umm...'fictional'.
  18:48:41  10 January 2010
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On forum: 10/11/2008
Messages: 66
Bandit:Come here I have some information that might be of use to you stalker.
Tiger: ....
Marked One: Tell me what you got.
Bandit: Nothing right now.
Tiger: ....
Marked One: ....
Bandit: Come he...
Marked One: ... Bang ...

In any case really good story keep it up!
  10:20:02  10 January 2010
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

There's surely lots of surprises to come, but care to tell, are you aiming to connect all the loose ends between (and in) CS and SoC your own way, or is it "just a minor coincidence" that you've been solving these mysteries along the story?

Hmm... I'd honestly have to say it's probably some of both.

A Debt to Duty

“Tiger, I've got something here.” There was a clatter as Southpaw pushed aside several pieces of decayed wood. “Plastic crates of some kind... Looks like they're sealed pretty tight.”

Tiger climbed out of the wreckage he had been investigating and crossed over to Southpaw's section. “I don't see any damage,” he remarked, looking over the dull green rectangles. “Can you get that open?”

“Doesn't seem to have a lock.” Southpaw bent over one of the containers, inspecting it closely. “I guess this just lifts up and then... Aha!” He drew the lid back with care, revealing a row of neatly packed rifles. “Huh.” Evidently Tiger wasn't alone in expecting the ordnance to be... newer. “What are these?”

“Some kind of Mauser.” Tiger lifted one of the weapons out of the crate. A cursory inspection revealed a model number and an apparent factory name stamped in Cyrillic, plus a prominent crest atop the receiver ring. “I think it's Yugoslavian.”

“Is it good?”

“No rust.” Tiger opened the bolt and inspected the magazine interior, sniffing curiously. “It's coated in some sort of synthetic preservative.” A few moments of fumbling led to the bolt's removal. “The bore looks new.”

“That's encouraging.” Southpaw went to the next crate. “Let's try this one.”


The two stalkers emerged from the derelict village perhaps eight minutes later, having improved their odds of survival as best they could. Everything in the cache had turned out to be products of Yugoslavia or one of its successor states, perfectly preserved despite lying forgotten all through the winter. Southpaw opted to take one of the Mausers from the first crate, plus a Kalashnikov with a folding rifle grenade sight. Tiger meanwhile chose a short-barreled, folding-stock version of the latter to back up his Lee-Enfield. The rest of the inventory was repacked and camouflaged as before, left to rest until someone came back for it.

“This is a little better,” Southpaw said optimistically, “but shouldn't we bring something for the others?”

“There was nothing that would give them a definite advantage,” Tiger replied, “and Duty might confiscate the extra weapons for use against Freedom. We'd best not say anything about it unless there's an urgent need.”

“You like Freedom better?”

“I like having a balance of powers.” Tiger started to walk faster as the pair came back onto the northbound road. “We've lost enough time here – come on.”

There wasn't much to say after that. Tiger took point as they worked their way into the ravine, following the dark splashes of blood left by the retreating mutant. The clouds overhead thickened, a lone crow appearing above the loners. It would probably be raining again by nightfall.

“There's the bridge,” said Southpaw as the mangled trestle came into view. “I'm pretty sure I dropped the radio somewhere between here and there.”

“Which side were you running on?”

“Uh... I kind of zigzagged.”

“Then you take the left and I'll take the right.” Tiger altered his own path accordingly. “By the way, Southpaw, was the radio powered on?”

“Yeah, it was – I figured I'd keep an ear open in case any trouble came up in the Valley. The battery was almost full when I started out, so it was probably around eighty percent when I lost it.” He looked at Tiger curiously. “Can you, you know... feel it?”

“Maybe,” the man in the long coat hedged. “I'm not a metal detector.”

“So how did you, um...”

“I can't explain how it happened.” The hooded stalker stopped for a second, then strode across the road. “This must be yours,” he said, bending to pick up a handset in a rubberized housing.

“Wow... That was fast.”

“It was in plain sight,” said Tiger modestly.

“Lucky for us.” Southpaw flicked stray bits of dirt off the radio and brought it closer to his face. “Let's see... Southpaw calling Vampire, come in Vampire. Over.”

There was a delay of several seconds, and then a crackling reply. “Vampire here, over.”

“Phew,” the left-handed man whispered to his companion. “Uh... Vampire, be advised that there is a, uh, chimera in the vicinity. It's wounded and might be heading your way, over.”

“Yeah, we know. We saw it run past the farm and up towards the north end of the Valley. We're still waiting to hear from the Duty guys, over.”

“They weren't with you? Over.”

“The men in black were spying on Borov's base... Say, you mind coming over here? We need all the backup we can get, over.”

“Uh...” Southpaw looked at Tiger, but he remained quiet. “My buddy and I will be there in a little while, over.”

“We'll keep an eye out for you... Vampire out.”

“So Vampire is in the Dark Valley today,” Tiger remarked as the duo resumed their trek. “How many are with him this time?”

“Six or seven, I think... Why, something wrong about that?”

“Vampire has a bad reputation,” the more experienced stalker explained. “He prefers to join small groups raiding the badlands, but he's often the only one who comes back.”

“You mean... what, that he skips out on his comrades if they get into trouble? That he murders them?”

Tiger shrugged. “I don't know,” he admitted. “Better be careful around him, just in case.”

“He seemed okay when I passed by,” Southpaw mused, “but if you say so.”

They reached the bodies a couple of minutes later. A sticky mess was all that remained of the bandits, and nothing of theirs could be salvaged. There wasn't much left to bury either, not that Tiger and Southpaw had the time or the inclination to do so. “It's weird,” the latter observed, picking his way between detached limbs. “If that thing could take out all these guys, why run away from one man?”

Tiger could think of only one explanation. “It must have realized it couldn't hide from me.”

“You weren't kidding when you said it was smart.” Southpaw shook his head. “Man... nobody on the outside told me there were monsters like that.”

“Would you still have become a stalker if you had known?”

“I wonder...”


“It's too quiet.” Southpaw peered nervously at the barricaded ruins of the pig farm. “They're inside, right?”

“Yes.” Advancing slowly, Tiger led the way through the gate and approached the closest door of the west building. “Hello..?”

The unfriendly end of a silenced MP5 appeared between the crates stacked inside the entrance, accompanied by a camouflage-painted face. “About time,” Vampire grunted. The submachine gun disappeared. “Sergeant Bullet, our reinforcements are here.”

Vampire was joined by a Duty man in a balaclava as he began to drag the crates aside. “You, stalker,” he demanded of Southpaw, “what happened?”

“The chimera, it... It killed all the bandits in the Darkscape. It would have gotten me too, but then he showed up.”

“We shot at it and it fled,” Tiger concluded. “Did you see it also?”

“All too well,” Bullet growled. “The damned thing plowed straight into us and alerted the criminals with its howling... There were bullets flying everywhere. Brome dropped his weapon and ran away, and then I was separated from the others and had to withdraw. The chimera kept going – I wouldn't be surprised if it reached Monolith territory.”

“Better there than here,” Southpaw declared. “So what do we do now?”

“Brome, get up.” Bullet disappeared briefly, reappearing with a firm grip on the collar of a second, thoroughly miserable Dutyer. “You two, take this fool back to Rostok. Tell Voronin that Sergei, Vasko and Krivoi are missing.” He hefted his Abakan. “I'm going to stay here and reconnoiter the criminals' territory.”

Tiger looked around, estimating the rate of dusk's approach. “Let's hope the bandits aren't doing the same.”

“I can escort you as far as the path to the Garbage,” Bullet offered brusquely. “You shouldn't have any trouble past there.”


These last few days, as some historian once wrote, had been one damned thing after another. Tiger wasn't getting very far in his quest and that fact was starting to annoy him. A supply of pristine ordnance was all very well, but it was information he wanted. His first lead on Clear Sky's secrets hadn't paid off, and now he was left with two options: find someone who could crack the encryption on Drifter's PDA and keep quiet about it, or go try his luck in the Dead City. Neither option was likely to be fish-in-a-barrel, but where could he look for an alternative?

He had more immediate concerns, too – this was the second time in a month that he'd found himself stuck with the unenviable task of delivering bad news to a faction leader, and there was no question that Voronin wouldn't take it as kindly as Lukash. With the lights of Rostok shining dead ahead and the pending rainstorm unwilling to hang back much longer, the stalker knew he might well be in for a rough night.

The Duty personnel guarding the south entrance to the factory complex hit the trio with a portable spotlight as they crossed the bridge over the stake-lined perimeter trench. It wasn't much of a defense, though it did restrict the larger mutants to one easily covered intrusion vector. “Brome!” a voice demanded from behind the blinding beam. “What are you doing here?”

“Is that you, Sergeant Kitsenko?” Tiger called in reply. “Bullet sent us to report to the general.”

“Bullet, you say? Come over here.” The NCO kept the spotlight trained on the arrivals until they were close enough to illuminate with his comrades' personal headlamps. “Brome, where's your shooter?”

Brome studied his boots intently. “...Lost it.”

“You lost it,” Kitsenko repeated incredulously. “Go straight to headquarters,” he commanded Tiger and Southpaw. “I'll call ahead and tell them you're coming.”

“Thanks,” said Southpaw, and the three marched on. “I've never been in the Duty base,” he remarked as they passed Arnie's Arena. “Have you?”

“A few times.” Only when they absolutely couldn't keep me out, Tiger didn't add. The guards at the entrance to Duty's exclusive piece of Rostok let the visitors pass without hassle, though not without a smattering of wary glances. Tiger led the way into an underground area where several more were sleeping, while a pair tended to the spit-roasting of a pig. The walls were decorated with the mounted heads or whole stuffed carcasses of various mutants.

Over all of this presided General Voronin. He was ex-military through and though: a demanding leader with a stern face and a receding hairline, and a far cry from his easygoing predecessor Krylov. “Are you dumb?” he snapped at those who intruded into his domain. “Speak up!”

Tiger and Southpaw looked at one another, then delivered their report as concisely as possible. It proved to be the winning strategy, as Voronin looked very, very unhappy by the time they had finished.

“I see,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Thank you for bringing Bullet's message... Are you two looking for work?”

“I am,” Southpaw volunteered gingerly.


Tiger tried not to wince. “...At the moment, yes.”

“Good.” The general's voice warmed ever so slightly. “We are hiring some stalkers for an important job,” he went on. “If you're interested, go to the Hundred Rads. One of my men will be over in a little while.”

“We'll do that,” Southpaw answered promptly, in an apparent maneuver of preemptive appeasement. “Um...”


The left-handed loner pointed to the chimera heads mounted on a plaque nearby. “How'd you kill that?”

“With a Simonov anti-tank rifle. Any other questions?”

“No, sir... C'mon, Tiger, let's go.”

Voronin barely waited for them to leave his sight before he began verbally tearing Brome a whole new plumbing system. The departing stalkers all but sprinted out of the base.


“Since you saved my butt, I'm buying.” Southpaw went to the bar and rested an elbow on it. “Evening, Barkeep.”

“Evening,” the tattooed man grunted. “What'll it be?”

“I'd like a fresh loaf, a Tourist's Delight and a can of the fizzy stuff.” Southpaw looked to Tiger for input. “And you?”

“The same but with a sausage, please.”

“Right.” Barkeep deftly exchanged edibles for spendables. “Enjoy.”

Southpaw rejoined Tiger at the corner table and attacked his food without more ado. “We did all right today, eh? Found some good stuff, got away from that mutant... What are you gonna do with the loot, anyway?”

“Not sure yet.”

“Hm... Hey look, it's the American president.”

Tiger glanced at the television behind the bar. “So it is.”

“What's he saying?”

The striped stalker listened for a few seconds. “I can't quite follow... Something about a Baltic trade agreement.”

Southpaw was poised to say something else when Brome stumbled into the bar. He looked as if he'd taken a heavy blow, though not necessarily a physical one. Ignoring the stalkers who'd escorted him back to base, he bought a large bottle of vodka, set himself up at the center table and set about drowning his sorrows.

“My ex went to the United States once.” Tiger wasn't sure what prompted him to bring that up – anything to distract himself from watching the despondent Dutyer, maybe. “Three months, under some sort of technical exchange.”

“Really?” There was a soft hiss as Southpaw popped the lid of his soda can. “What was it like?”

“She told me the food was inedible, the drivers were cowards, and half the people thought the Zone is in Russia.”

“Hope she straightened 'em out.” Taking out a pocket can opener, the sinistral stalker opened his portion of preserved meat-stuffs and began spreading it on his remaining bread. “Gotta defend our national pride, right?”

“Not her. She was Russian herself.”

“Oh.” Southpaw took a bite of his bread-and-spread and chewed it briefly. “Didn't think you were the type to go for Russians.”

“I don't see how it matters.” Tiger peeled back the wrapper on his sausage. “We speak their language and we do our business with their money.” He nodded towards the patrons gathered around the tables on the other side of the room. “How many of our comrades there have ever held a Ukrainian passport?”

“Yeah, that's true.” Another pause to bite, chew and swallow. “Sometimes my old man gets sentimental about the Soviet days, says people didn't have much back then, but they had each other... One big happy family and all that.”

“My father voted for independence,” Tiger recalled, “but it was never something he talked about when I was around.”

The conversation was punctuated by an impatient bark from Zhorik the doorman: “I said, come in! Don't stand there!”

As the stalkers continued to eat and drink, the latest entrant made his way into the Hundred Rads with quite a bit of wheezing, panting and stumbling. His next victim was Garik. “You can't go there!”

“Wow,” Southpaw muttered, looking over Tiger's shoulder. “What's up with that guy?”

Tiger turned his head as the intruder finally reached the bar. The man was thin to the point of being gaunt, with weary eyes and hair cut close to the scalp, and he wore a bulging backpack with a paratrooper AK slung on one side and a sawed-off shotgun on the other. He carried a second backpack and a bandit's knapsack – complete with a sloppily embroidered marijuana leaf – in his hands.

If Barkeep was surprised by this grotesquely overloaded figure, he didn't show it. “Hey, Marked One! You brought the documents from the Institute?”
  13:14:54  21 December 2009
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On forum: 11/27/2008
Messages: 73
God damn... I haven't really read much of the stories here, but this is something totally different than most of the writings. Just make sure you finish this, so we can all praise it properly.

There's surely lots of surprises to come, but care to tell, are you aiming to connect all the loose ends between (and in) CS and SoC your own way, or is it "just a minor coincidence" that you've been solving these mysteries along the story?
  13:31:44  16 December 2009
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
I'm having to try to get stuff done before 23rd, because I know after that I'll be lucky to type ten words without interruption until about Jan. 5th.

Looking forward to the next part. This really is one of the best stories, IMO.
(Although I think we may have characters in the same geographical area - your 'Darkscape village' seems to be the same 'unknown' place my thieves have holed up...except for me it was just a small-holding. Ambiguity is good, though. The area is unknown as it is 'off-limits' in-game. Plenty of scope.)
  06:36:43  16 December 2009
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

I hadn't realized it hadn't been updated in so long!

Hopefully the next one won't take so long, holiday season be damned. In the meantime, have some spoiler-free hint soundbites:

"At Duty, we always pay our debts."

"What are you, deaf? What are you here?"

"Goddammit, Anton!"
  14:14:31  4 December 2009
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
Didn't think it was dead, but I hadn't realized it hadn't been updated in so long!
Good addition - even if I did have to go back quite a way to 'get' it all again.
  03:20:06  4 December 2009
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
The Devil in the Darkscape

(Thought it was dead, didn't you?)

“So tell me, what's up?” Nimble asked, waiting idly when Tiger arrived at the campfire.

“Just some questions.” Questions Tiger couldn't ask right then and there, of course. “Come over here, let's not bore the others.”

Nimble didn't suspect his secret was out, or else he had a great poker face. Either way, he followed Tiger to the derelict house at the far end of the right-hand row without comment. “That's better,” said the loner in the long coat, settling himself on a dilapidated mattress in the former living room. “First of all, I heard you had quite the adventure with the bandits.”

“Wasn't really my adventure,” the scout replied modestly. “I just got mixed up in it.”

“So you met the Marked One?”

“Just briefly... Nice guy, he was.” Nimble patted the front of his new chain-mail apparel. “He bailed me out, then he went and got this for me. I gave him a Stone Flower for it.”

“That was kind of him.” Tiger took Suslov's note out of his pocket and held it up for the other stalker to see. “Now, let's talk about your Clear Sky days.”

It wasn't a poker face after all. “...Where did you get that?”

“From the body of another bandit victim.”

Nimble's lean face seemed to retract into the hood of his jacket. “What do you know?”

“Enough to get you in trouble,” Tiger pronounced ominously, “though I'd rather not do that.”

“I... Why should I trust you?” Nimble swallowed. “You weren't one of us.”

“But I did work for you.” Tiger adopted a more imposing posture. “I know that during the faction wars Clear Sky was hunting a group of stalkers who reached the center of the Zone. I know Lebedev hired mercenaries to assassinate those stalkers, with partial success. I know some portion of Clear Sky's members tried to reach the center themselves... Your real problem is that I've only got part of what was in your stash: bandits took the rest, and you know perfectly well that Borov will exploit anything he can.” He folded his arms. “You can help me get a head start on him, or you can keep silent and let your comrades' work turn a profit for criminals. It's your call.”

Nimble glared at the floor. “What's in it for you if I talk?”

“I don't know,” Tiger admitted. “But if this information stays in the wrong hands, it could restart the faction wars or worse... I prefer the Zone we have now.”

Nimble weighed his choices for three or four minutes. “I can't tell you much,” the fake rookie said at last. “It's the truth, honest. Lebedev compartmentalized everything, 'cause he was paranoid about deserters.”

“I'll take what I can get,” Tiger responded gamely. “Why didn't you clean out the stash as you were ordered?”

“The courier got wasted before I could meet him. Where was the stuff?”

“In a buried pipe near the tracks, apparently.”

Nimble slouched against the wall. “Should have known.”

“This happened while Clear Sky was breaking up,” Tiger extrapolated. “How many actually went north?”

“Almost everybody, except a few guards and some of us scouts. When they didn't come back, Cold and Suslov tried to hold things together... Then people started dying.”

“In the fighting?”

“That's what we thought at first.” Nimble shook his head. “We were being hunted. Somebody knew all our meeting points, all our passwords, even most of our faces. One of our own guys must have sold us out... After that courier was killed, I figured I'd be next. Getting cozy with Sidorovich probably saved my butt, even if it emptied my pockets.” There was a rueful chuckle. “Right here with him and Wolf was the safest place I could find without joining one of the big factions.”

“I see.” Tiger stretched his legs out. “Do you think it's safe now?”

“I did until you came.” The fugitive smirked self-mockingly. “I haven't tried to find any of the others or checked any of the old places. I'd just be a target, right?”

“Maybe... Can you tell me anything more about the route Lebedev took?”

“I only knew it ran through Limansk and then some kind of buried hospital. I wasn't involved in any of that.”

“So what were you doing?”

“Trying to cover the other scouts' backs, finding safe paths, making sure nobody got killed by crossfire.” Nimble grimaced. “The worst part was right at the beginning, when renegades invaded the marshes... We were almost bottled up in the base before a couple of the fellas brought in a freelance merc they found out on the border.”

“A mercenary?”

“Yeah. Never got his name, but he had this scar on his face... Anyway, Lebedev made a deal with him and he became our brute force in the field.”

That piqued Tiger's interest. “I was near the Army Warehouses when Freedom took over,” he mused, recalling those stressful days with great distaste. “A mercenary with a scar helped them clear out the military.”

“That was him,” Nimble confirmed. “After Limansk was opened up, he went in with Lebedev and the rest. Never heard anything else about him.”

“I would expect not,” said Tiger gravely. “The fallback point in Suslov's note, where was that?”

“In the Dead City. We didn't actually have anything there, but the other factions mostly ignored the place. The plan was that if our base were overrun, we'd retreat to the city and recover... I never tried to go, though, so I don't know who made it.”

The stripe-haired stalker frowned. “If the courier's load was meant to go to the Dead City, why pass it to you? Where was he going, if not north?”

“He was going to the Darkscape.” Nimble wiggled his fingers under his hood and scratched. “Suslov bought some guns from Chekhov, cash up front, but Freedom wouldn't deliver 'em to the marshes.”

“There aren't many good hiding places in the Darkscape, are there?”

“That's what I thought,” Nimble agreed. “We had one place where we would store rations when we went on long patrols – maybe they just put the goods in there.”

“Where was that?”

“In the village... We hid things under the junk in the cellars, but it's probably all gone by now.”

“Hm.” Tiger cocked his head. “I visited your old base and it's been gutted. Do you know of any other stashes or meeting points?”

“Nope... Some of the guys had personal stashes for spare weapons and stuff, but that was private info.”

“And you know nothing else?”

“Nothing useful. It's all out of date now.”

“All right.” Tiger pushed himself onto his feet. “I think that's enough.”

Nimble looked pretty relieved to hear it. “Hey, uh... If you do find any of the others, don't tell them about me, okay?”

Tiger shrugged. “If that's what you want.”

“Thanks... You can have whatever's in the stash, too. Just don't let it lead back to me.”

The loner nodded, and led the way back to the campfire. “All done,” he said to Wolf. “I'll be leaving now.”

Wolf blinked. “Just like that? You still look like shit.”

“I know,” Tiger replied with a shade of wry humor, “but I have urgent business and time doesn't owe me any favors.”

“Gotcha.” The camp leader nodded. “See you around.”

The sun was beginning to sink in the sky as Tiger departed, a raft of clouds massing to the north. He crossed the main road, passed through the garage – noticing as he went that Petruha still hadn't posted a proper sentry – and followed the eastbound dirt track until it vanished into the tunnel mouth at the top of the hill overlooking the recently occupied ruins.


The Darkscape's name was apt: it was a sinister place, unpopular among the free stalkers. Its sparse anomalies offered no better artifact hunting than the Cordon, and it lacked the convenience of that region's proximity to both the porous perimeter and the more lucrative prospecting grounds of the Garbage. If Tiger kept following the road as it passed due east through a shallow, wooded canyon, he would eventually come to a crossroads. The road past there had been blocked by avalanches during the early Zone's violent expansion, as had the southbound road. Were he to turn north at the junction, his path would take him near a derelict village and into a narrow ravine. The railroad track which ran along the north fringe of the marshes and bisected the Cordon also crossed through here, briefly emerging from long tunnels where the ravine was spanned by a badly damaged bridge. The road below curved back towards the west beyond the bridge, after which it ran straight up to the Dark Valley.

Tiger had been here not long ago, when he joined Fanatic and Clumsy in checking out the scene of a government helicopter crash. That trip brought him no great profit, but the knowledge update saved him time now. He left the road, weaving among the trees on its north side to conceal himself from whatever bandits were in the place now. Borov's ambition for the Darkscape was to use it as a base for raiders preying on the Cordon's residents. It was fortunate for Tiger that he didn't yet have enough thugs to pull that off.

Just a minute – where were the thugs? For that matter, where were the blind dogs, the misshapen pigs and the rest of the mutant fauna? Whatever its other features, the Darkscape was never short of animals. Tiger listened, but heard nothing save the wind in the trees. He sniffed, but smelled nothing save the same. His sixth sense detected only a couple of crows high above. This wasn't normal: he wondered if Borov was trying to improve his gang's discipline by organizing hunting trips, or perhaps the Ministry of Internal Affairs had sent out a gunship to strafe a few herds for the entertainment of some dignitary. It wasn't a good expenditure of hryvni by any stretch, but it did happen. The cause remaining undetermined, Tiger's wariness increased with every step as he traversed the woods.


A shotgun blast ahead sent the stalker diving behind the nearest rock. So it's Peculiarities of the Gangster Hunt after all? he thought, easing the Lee-Enfield's safety forwards with his thumb. A second report let him get a fix on the shooter.

Then he heard a panicked shout: “Eaaargh! Get away, you freak!” Tiger rolled out of cover, scrambled back onto his feet and hustled towards the village. That was no bandit, and he didn't sound like a military man either. The hustle became a sprint as the loner took a shortcut through a leafy thicket, exploding out of the far side in a shower of dislodged twigs.

In front of him was the village, with the only intact house directly ahead. There was a figure in a green stalker suit perched atop the roof, who turned at the noise of the other's arrival. It was his old friend Southpaw. “Tiger!?” he yelled. “Look out, there's a huge monster down there!”

Tiger could feel only one major source of vital energy beside Southpaw's own. It seemed to lie within a jumbled pile of rotted timbers which marked the former site of another cottage away on his left. “Are you alone?”


“Got it!” Tiger aimed, but the heap of flotsam flew asunder almost at the instant he pulled the trigger. He glimpsed a flash of bloodstained brown hide as he chambered another round, then the beast was gone. Running around the side of the house, the stalker caught a brief sight of the fleeing predator's haunches as it escaped up the path to the northward road. There was no chance of landing a shot, so he cautiously withdrew to the house.

“It got away.” The left-handed loner sounded relieved and disappointed at the same time.

“Yes,” Tiger agreed. “Are you all right?”

“Mostly... There's nothing else around, is there?”

“Nothing. We're alone.”

“I hope so.” Southpaw gingerly climbed down to the roof's edge, then dropped to the ground. “Aw shit,” he groaned, seeing the condition of his suit. “I just bought this thing...”

Tiger didn't think the damage was severe enough to merit such despair. “What were you doing here?” he asked, topping off his rifle's magazine in the meantime.

“I met a Duty team up in the Dark Valley, thought I could go prospecting while they kept the crooks busy... But then I found a bunch of dead bandits on the road coming down, all ripped apart. I was trying to figure out what happened and...” Southpaw shuddered. “That thing was behind me the whole time.”

“It chased you all the way here?”

“Yeah... I knew it was close, but I couldn't see it. Used up all my buckshot trying to keep it away.” He looked around nervously. “At first I thought it was a bloodsucker, but it didn't fit what I've heard of them.”

“I didn't get a clear view of it,” said Tiger. “Did you?”

“A little. It moved on four legs and had two heads... The faces on them – ugh!”

That was enough detail. “A chimera.” Tiger's voice was solemn. “This is bad.”

“You know about them?”

“I've never seen a live one before,” the stalker confessed, “or heard of one coming so close to the perimeter.”

Southpaw's mood wasn't improved by the elucidation. “What should we do?”

“Duty needs to know about this,” Tiger answered. “A chimera isn't like the mutants we normally see here: it's strong, fast and cunning. It has two brains and two hearts, so even a sniper can't easily kill it. Do you have a radio?”

“I did, but I dropped it while I was running.”

“Then we'll have to go back for it, or else warn Duty in person. How many of them are in the Valley?”

Southpaw thought for a moment. “I saw five or six, but none of them had big guns... There were some free stalkers at the pig farm, too.” His alarmed expression was renewed. “If that thing goes up there – ”

“They would be dead before we ever arrived,” Tiger finished bluntly.

“Or it might hide along the road and wait for us instead,” Southpaw went on. “But that's fine if you're here,” he declared brightly, “because you're a... I mean... You have a special power, right?”

“I don't know what you've heard,” Tiger sighed, “but I'm not a wizard. More importantly, I don't have the firepower to take out a chimera.”

Southpaw was plainly upset at his reluctance. “You wanna just let those guys fend for themselves, man?”

“Not if I can help it.” The more experienced stalker walked over to the skeleton of a half-fallen house, weighing his options. He didn't really want to get involved, not when he had his own quest to follow, but as usual his altruistic streak won out. “Do you remember where you lost your radio?”

“I think so.”

“All right, then listen – I heard an extinct faction had an arms cache somewhere in these ruins. I was coming to check it out when I found you... If it exists, we might find what we need in it.”

“A cache?” Southpaw looked around expectantly. “Where?”

“Under junk in the cellars, that's what I was told.” Tiger slung his rifle. “Let's search quickly. If the chimera returns, we won't stand a chance.”
  00:51:30  27 October 2009
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Strelok Holmes


On forum: 09/02/2009
Messages: 222
Awesome job creating this character , and the story line.
  00:10:26  25 October 2009
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081

Marked One will follow his path, and Tiger will follow another.

One thing I will say, Tiger's got a lot of interesting backstory still to come, I feel, and I like the way it's being revealed.
This is easily one of the best Stalker stories I've read.
  03:23:57  24 October 2009
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336

Question though, are you going to follow the storyline in ShoC regarding the Marked One?

Marked One will follow his path, and Tiger will follow another.
  15:00:59  22 October 2009
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On forum: 10/11/2008
Messages: 66
Very good! Keep it up!
Question though, are you going to follow the storyline in ShoC regarding the Marked One? You know he killing every one, and finding you know who to be a controllers bitch or is it going to be different?
  13:27:43  22 October 2009
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
Not much to say, but
  06:10:06  22 October 2009
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On forum: 07/30/2007

Message edited by:
10/22/2009 6:16:43
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The Man From S.M.L.E.

Up the embankment Tiger ran, crossing the tracks, hopping the wire fence and tumbling down the much steeper south side in mere seconds. He'd forgotten what it was like to run without the weight of all one's essentials on board. Scrambling back onto his feet, he ducked past another gravity trap and took shelter in the shadow of the locomotive which sat there. Here was one of those wonders of the Zone: a boxy green diesel sitting perfectly upright as if some great force had carefully lifted it from the tracks, though its frame was warped and dented by years of exposure to violent anomalous energies.

The battered loner quickly assessed his ersatz hardware. The P220 was an old model, a nine millimeter with the magazine catch at the heel of the butt. He had two full magazines and one empty, giving him a total ammunition supply of eighteen cartridges. They were plain full metal jacket rounds, so he'd have to make each one count. Tiger reloaded, wincing when he inadvertently pinched a finger, and resumed his flight.

The stalker kept bearing south-southeast, passing over low hills sparsely dotted with trees, bushes and weak anomalies. Coming onto the dirt road from the tunnel which led to the Darkscape and Dark Valley, he followed it down the last slope and into the abandoned garage through which it ran. The garage was a dismal place: a few derelict cars and trucks left to rust among buildings with brick walls partially demolished by the ravages of time. It belonged to no faction, though loners and bandits alike were known to take shelter here.

Tiger sensed three others in the place, all gathered in the tall building on his left. He would have passed them by entirely, had he not stumbled across the seven dead bandits piled by the truck just inside the garage exit. Clearly he wasn't the only one having trouble with the Zone's criminal elements today. The neutral stalker listened for a few seconds, just in case those nearby were more individuals of the thieving persuasion, then moved in. “Hello..?”

“Hold it.” A hard-faced rookie with a sawed-off hunting shotgun appeared: Petruha, one of Wolf's scouts. “Oh, it's you,” he said curtly. “What do you want?”

“I was passing by,” Tiger replied innocently. “What's going on?”

“Bandits moved in last night,” Petruha explained. “At dawn they hit some of ours, killed two and took Nimble prisoner. We set up on the hill back there and watched for a while, then Wolf sent over some new guy to help get our man back. He told us he'd take out the bandits by himself – we figured he was crazy, but we let him go. Five minutes later, Nimble comes out. Five minutes after that, Rambo comes out with a sack of stuff he took off the bandits. Not a scratch on him... Now we're just keeping an eye on the place until some of the boys come back from the Garbage.”

“I see... Is Nimble back at the camp now?”

The scout shrugged. “Probably. If you want to know for sure, go ask Wolf and leave us be.”

“I will, thanks.” Tiger briefly looked around, evaluating the stalkers' defenses. “There are more bandits beyond the tracks. You should post a lookout.”

Petruha was already heading back to the campfire. “Yeah, we'll get to it.”


A brisk walk conveyed Tiger across the main road and down into the loner camp in the village. Ignoring the suspicious look cast by the novice standing guard at the entrance, he went straight to the communal fire pit. “You don't look so good,” Wolf declared when he arrived. “What happened?”

“Bandits,” Tiger answered shortly. “I need to see Nimble.”

“He's taking a nap,” said the camp leader. “Can it wait a bit?”

“Sure.” It wasn't as if he had much else to do. “By the way, who killed the bandits at the garage? Petruha wasn't feeling talkative.”

“Oh, you saw that? Pretty impressive, huh? Marked One cleaned 'em out fast.”

Tiger squinted. “Marked One?”

“You haven't heard about our grand mystery, have you? A corpse carrier had a smash-up coming down from the Garbage last night. Buzzard found a live guy in the wreckage and brought him in.”

Buzzard wore a long coat, carried a Vintorez and earned his name from the way he methodically searched the corpses of others for things of value. There were some who joked that he was a necrophiliac, but Tiger knew better. “I saw the death truck,” he replied, “and some bodies. Somebody actually survived that crash?”

Wolf nodded. “First time I've ever heard of it happening,” said he. “Damned creepy, if you ask me.”

“So who is the lucky man?”

“Nobody knows, not even himself – he's lost his memory.”

“Hm...” Obviously the stranger must bear the same tattoo which Worm had been so interested in, hence the nickname. This complicated things – how much, Tiger still couldn't say. “What does he look like? Maybe I know him.”

“Well, he's kind of scrawny and looks half-asleep most of the time. His hair is cut real short, with a receding hairline, but he doesn't seem that old...”

“I don't recognize that,” the loner admitted. “Where is he now?”

“Off running errands for Sidorovich. Try asking him.”

“All right.” Tiger resumed his walk. “When Nimble wakes up, tell him to wait for me.”


Sidorovich – it was the only name most of them knew him by – was something of a distasteful legend among the stalkers. Not because he'd found a cure for baldness and kept it to himself, or because he was never, ever seen leaving his bunker, but because he always managed to meet the terms of his agreements while leaving the other party feeling totally ripped off. He occupied a necessary niche in the Zone community, however, and he'd been occupying it for a long time. “So,” the trader rumbled, flicking stray crumbs off his vest as shrewd eyes appraised his visitor, “what's new, stalker?”

Tiger placed the SIG-Sauer, the SKS ammunition and the Jellyfish on the counter between the two. “I need a rifle.”

“You had a rifle,” Sidorovich pointed out. “What gives?”

“Vasya Boar and his friends took it.” A muscle in Tiger's face twitched at the memory. “And everything else. They also killed another stalker.”

Sidorovich didn't speak right away. “Well,” he said at last, “what do you want me to say? I hear the same from everyone nowadays – Borov's all but declared war on the free stalkers. Did you expect to be able to get by on your high-class manners forever?”

“It doesn't matter now,” said Tiger sharply. “Do you have one or not?”

“You think I get much demand for old stuff like that? The ones who buy shooters here all want fancy stuff – full auto, all the bells and whistles.” Sidorovich waved towards the customized Groza clamped to the workbench behind himself.

“I suppose I'll just have to look somewhere else,” the loner sighed. “See you la – ”

The trader raised a hand. “Not so fast,” said he. “As it so happens, I have one in stock... But it's a rare piece, and the value is, ahem, a little higher than what you brought in.”

“It's all I've got,” Tiger answered. “Any jobs you need done?”

“I'm not exactly short of help at the moment.” Sidorovich sat back in his chair. “Already got a gofer hard at work, you see.”

“I heard,” said Tiger bluntly. “You're taking advantage of the amnesiac from the death truck.”

“Now, now.” The fat man tried very hard to look more dignified and less greasy than he actually was. “It's an arrangement for mutual benefit: I want to open a path to the north and he wants to find Strelok, who's supposed to have already been there... You've heard the rumors about Strelok, I'm sure.”

“Yes.” Rumors were all anyone knew of the man, said to be an elusive veteran who worked the dangerous borderlands beyond the Zone's charted parts. “What does this Marked One want with him?”

“No idea,” Sidorovich admitted. “When he was brought in, all he had was a PDA. All that was on the PDA was a message: 'Kill Strelok.'”

“Huh.” Tiger opted to feign loss of interest. “So what do I have to do to get that rifle?”

“I suppose I can grant a one-time discount,” the trader grunted. “I mean, you've always been reliable in the past, and I like people who are reliable... But there's one condition.”


“Stop playing the knight-errant.” There was a loud scraping as Sidorovich pushed his chair back and stood up. “The next time you see a bandit, you blow his head off. Deal?”

Rarely had Tiger ever been so amenable to one of the old weasel's proposals. “Deal.”

“Good boy.” Sidorovich gathered the stalker's offerings and carried them into the back. He returned with a Lee-Enfield, the first Tiger had seen outside of a television screen or a museum display. “This came to me as a trade-in,” Sidorovich commented. “I don't know much about it, but I'm told the other side used 'em in Afghanistan. It's been reworked to fire our native ammo, so you won't be scrounging around for cartridges nobody's ever heard of.” He handed the old piece over the counter, followed by a small can of protective solution and a handful of loaded stripper clips. “There's a cleaning kit and an instruction sheet inside the butt. It should be enough to get you back on the road.”

“Thank you.” Tiger slung the rifle across his back, pocketed the small items and hustled out before the trader could retroactively modify the terms of their transaction. Time to find a cozy attic and hunker down for a while.


The instruction sheet turned out to be more like a booklet, rolled around a barrel brush and some other accessories and crammed into a narrow storage compartment. When Tiger finally wiggled it out of that recess, he additionally discovered that the illustrations were grainy and the text was a less than fluent translation. It was enough to get him acquainted with the features which his old Mosin didn't possess, including a detachable magazine, a flip-up aperture sight and an actual safety catch. Overall this seemed to be a solid – and heavy – piece of work, though the presence of a prominent U.S. PROPERTY stamp left the stalker scratching his head: wasn't it a British weapon?

He decided that wasn't important and turned his attention to the few items he'd snatched from Drifter's body. The PDA was no use – unlike Worm, Drifter had encrypted everything. Taking out the papers, he found that the first was a hastily written note: Nimble, it read, after you meet the courier, bring this material to the fallback point. Be quick, but be discrete. –Suslov

As the stalker unfolded the next document, two well-creased monochrome photograph prints fell out. The first image depicted part of the abandoned radar transmitter which lay to the north, in the unknown lands. Tiger recognized it easily, having driven past it many times in his former life, though he'd never been assigned to work on the actual site. Someone had circled a detail in the background with a blue felt-tip pen, labeling it with an arrow and a number, but the image quality was too poor to make out exactly what was significant there. The annotator had also scrawled a few words on the reverse. The letters were faded to the point of illegibility, but the three exclamation marks at the tail implied great importance.

The other photo was another matter. It showed a barren, parched landscape, thinly populated by dead bushes. A line of utility poles with power lines ran across the backdrop. Just to the left of center was a free-standing structure comprised of ribbed upper and lower hemispheres, held together by some kind of strut arrangement in a roughly spherical configuration, atop a cylindrical pedestal. The back of the picture bore another barely legible note: Same as at AES.

Tiger shivered, the pleasantly warm weather be damned. Though he had no idea what the object in the photograph was or where it was located, he knew one thing for certain: there were no such structures at the VI Lenin Atomic Electricity Station when he was on payroll, and there should be none there now. The implication that somebody had somehow constructed something at the nuclear plant in the six years since the second disaster deeply unsettled him.

Unsettled or not, he couldn't glean anything more from the pictures. He set them aside and went back to the papers from among which the images had appeared. The rest of Drifter's haul consisted of terse strings of text – neatly handwritten, unlike on the photos – which looked as if they had been jotted down as a record of numerous communications.

The story unfolded as Tiger read through them one by one: Marked One, whoever he really was, wasn't the first to chase the legendary Strelok. Clear Sky had been on his tail once, and they had come close to catching him. Their motive wasn't immediately clear, but Tiger gathered that they believed it was imperative that Strelok be prevented from reaching the center of the Zone. The record was frustratingly scant of specifics, with mercenary contracts, gigantic blowouts, the hunting of Strelok's friends and the existence of an alternate path to the north all being mentioned in the vaguest of terms.

Tiger read everything a second time, then put the documents away with care. Leaning back against the rough brick of the decaying house's chimney, he closed his eyes and gingerly felt his aching cheek. Every answer he uncovered seemed to spawn a dozen new questions to pursue. A part of him wished he could forget it all, leave this mystery behind and go back to his simple wanderer's life. Another part of him already understood that it was impossible to turn his back on the sacrifices of Worm and Drifter now, that greater things were at stake than he could have foreseen.

What now?

He was still pondering that question when a voice caught his ear several minutes later. “Hey Nimble,” one of the faceless rookies by the fireplace called, “whatcha got?”

“It's a reinforced jacket,” the man answered proudly. “A nice guy swiped it from a bandit stash for me. Sweet, huh?”

“Totally... It's bulletproof?”

“Sure is. Throw me a light, will you?”

“Nimble,” Wolf cut in, “I believe Tiger wanted to see you.”

“Oh? Where's he at?”

“Somewhere around camp. Wait a minute and he'll probably turn up.”

That was Tiger's cue. As he mounted the ladder which connected his perch to solid ground, the answer to his self-addressed question suddenly became crystal clear.

Go north.
  14:57:41  7 October 2009
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Nexus 6


On forum: 11/21/2008
Messages: 1081
Nice work! Keep it coming.
  14:05:18  7 October 2009
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Senior Resident

On forum: 09/01/2009
Messages: 211
This is awesome, man!
  10:40:52  7 October 2009
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On forum: 07/30/2007
Messages: 3336
The Documents of the Dealings

“How odd,” Sakharov remarked. “I've never seen Tiger so anxious to leave before – he didn't even wait to collect his payment!”

“It was that woman,” Ghost opined between mouthfuls of cold canned meat. “He wanted to get away from her.”

The professor stroked his beard absently. “Is there some superstition among your colleagues pertaining to women?”

“We're stalkers, not sailors.” Ghost prodded a lump of gristle with his fork. “There was something unpleasant between those two.”

Sakharov blinked owlishly. “What makes you say that?”

“It was all over their faces.” The veteran stood, discarding his can. “Are we doing another night reconnaissance?”

“If the weather is favorable, yes.”

“Then I'll take a nap.” So saying, Ghost went into the cramped room beside the office and stretched out on the cot there. “See you at twenty-three-hundred.”

Left to his own devices, Sakharov initiated the process of data analysis for the recovered psi-blocker, made himself a cup of tea and settled himself in front of his workstation. It would be some time before the bunker's computers could chew through all of the new information, and in the meantime there was a matter of his own curiosity which demanded attention...

Ministry of Emergencies and Affairs of Population Protection from the Consequences of the Chernobyl Catastrophe – Commission of Inquiry's Report on the Crisis of 2006 – Appendix B: Survivor Testimony

Case #12: A. K. Petanko
Date of Birth: 11.11.1983
Place of Birth: Pripyat, Kiev Oblast
Place of Residence: Slavutych, Chernihiv Oblast
Parents: K. B. Petanko (deceased) and V. A. Volkova (deceased)

The file hadn't been updated since Sakharov last accessed it more than two years ago. That was probably for the better, he decided. What he was looking for didn't appear in the summary, so, acting on a hunch and a dim recollection, he skipped ahead to the ending pages. The last years of Anton Petanko's life on the outside were clinically summarized there, his trials and tribulations committed to record with an apparatchik's unfeeling efficiency: inability to readjust to life in Slavutych, the breakdown of a relationship with a young woman at one of Kiev's technical institutes, self-imposed exile to a small town in the north, contact with those who penetrated into the Zone illegally, and finally a sudden disappearance.

The last update to the profile was no warmer: Addendum 24.01.2009 – Y. G. Sakharov reported contact with subject Petanko at the Yantar Mobile Scientific Laboratory. Professor Sakharov described him as being in good physical and mental health, but added that subject Petanko is now one of the so called 'free stalkers' and has no interest in further assisting the Commission of Inquiry or the Ministry's investigative efforts.

Sakharov couldn't blame him for that last part, not after watching those dunderheaded Commission tinplates treat their key witnesses like diseased cattle and hoard their knowledge as if in some twisted contest. The amount of time wasted by their failure to establish a prompt working relationship with their counterparts in Belarus alone... No, it was far too late to be getting angry about that debacle. Suffice it to say that there were good reasons for the fact that the professor had never again mentioned the stalker called Tiger in his official dispatches.

Closing the file, the aging scientist sat back in his chair and contemplated the merits of a second cup.


“Anton! Dammit, Anton, wait for me!”

There were moments when Tiger wished he'd been granted a bloodsucker's invisibility rather than a biological radar. Still, Olga must have run nearly all the way from Yantar to have caught up with him so fast. If she was going to be persistent, he might as well stop long enough to humor her just this once. “Over here,” he said curtly, climbing inside one of the derelict boxcars which sat about the Wild Territory.

“Whew,” the female stalker wheezed, hauling herself up after him. “That's not an easy run even with a Moonlight...” Sitting with her back against the inner side of the boxcar's wall, she removed said artifact from a pouch on her hip. After a few seconds of briskly rubbing the peach-sized crystal sphere between her hands, it began to emit a piercing blue-white glow. “That's better.”

“Well?” Tiger demanded. “What do you want?”

His impatience earned him a hurt look. “Anton, I haven't seen you in five years... You could have been dead for all I knew. Don't you think I want to know where you've been, what's happened to you?”

“There's no reason for you to care,” Tiger said flatly. “You said it was over, so it's over.”

“Anton, please – ”

“Stop calling me that.”

Olga gritted her teeth. “Okay,” she replied, her frustration swelling. “Tiger, are you doing all right out here?”

“I'm fine.”

“I hope so.” Olga set her Winchester aside, along with an M16 she must have taken from the zombie Tiger had shot earlier, and stretched her arms. “You do look better than... than you used to.”

Tiger scowled, his face half-shadowed by the hood of his coat. “Why are you in the Zone, Olga Ivanovna?”

Olga winced. “Guess I can forget ever being called 'Olya' again.” There was an exasperated sigh. “I'm here because the economy has turned to shit, same as every stalker I talked to between the perimeter and Rostok. I got fed up with the way the institute kept whittling down my pay, so I got out while I could.”

“Why not go back to Russia?”

“There's nothing for me in Bryansk now.” She rubbed the Moonlight some more. “My parents divorced last year. They've both been insufferable since.”

Tiger cocked his head. “What about Stanislav?”

“My twerp brother?” Olga laughed sardonically. “Oh, he finally achieved his dream of entering Moscow State. Then he dropped out to join a skinhead gang after one term... Anyway,” she added in a dignified tone, “I like Ukraine.”

“Even the Zone?”

“Especially the Zone. It's sad that there aren't any great artists here, painting its beauty.” Raising the luminous artifact before her, Olga let its cold light wash over her soft features. “All the people in this place think about is how they can exploit it, or how they must destroy it, or how none of their enemies can follow them into it... None of them know how to stop and just appreciate it.”

“And what of your old sponsors at the Ministry of Internal Affairs?” Tiger asked rhetorically. “They must send the Spetsnaz out here to kill us because we trample the pretty flowers.”

“Don't lump me in with those philistines,” Olga grumbled. “Oh, did you know there's an outfit down in Kiev that's making a video game about the stalkers? They're saying it'll be a big hit next year.”

“Good for them.” Tiger walked over to the open door and climbed out of the boxcar. “I want to get back to Duty ground before it's completely dark out.”

“Ah.” His onetime companion didn't hide her disappointment. “Hey, before you go – I can see you still feel pretty hurt about what happened, but... do you think it really would have turned out better if I'd stayed?”

“It doesn't matter.” The stalker in the long coat turned his back and began to walk away. “I don't need you any more.”


“Free stalkers! Veterans and brothers! Join Duty! Protecting the world from the Zone's evil is our common goal!”

There was a thunderstorm coming. The sky had clouded over, the air becoming dense with moisture. Soon those stalkers still afield would be running for shelter. The loudspeaker would keep playing its mix of Duty propaganda, advertisements for the Hundred Rads and worn-out recordings of Soviet radio dramas all night long, lightning or no lightning.

In the end, Olga had followed Tiger at a distance all the way back from the Wild Territory, a solitary pulse on the edge of his perception. Despite his harsh words, he couldn't bring himself to leave her completely behind. Instead he waited until she cleared the Duty checkpoint at the edge of Rostok's pacified half, then quickly shook her off by ducking into the maze of ladders, pipes and catwalks adjacent to Arnie's Arena. She'd given up looking for him after a couple of minutes and gone off to the bar, leaving Tiger to work undisturbed.

The late Worm's method of data security, it transpired, was to simply erase files as soon as he was finished with them: all that remained in his pocket computer's memory were a set of stash coordinates and three sound files. Fitting an audio bud into one ear, Tiger selected the first one and launched the onboard playback application.

“Worm, it's Drifter. You better not skip the pickup this time, man... Anyway, I got another marked stalker sighting for your collection. Razorback turned up dead at the Agroprom last week – seems he signed on with a band of neutrals who went to dig something up for the nerds, then gunned down all the other guys and blew his own cap off. A couple of our kind found the bodies and buried 'em out there. I managed to catch up with one of them in the Garbage, and he swore Razorback had the mystery tattoo. I asked around at the bar, but all I got was the usual story: Razorback took a hike north and vanished for a while. Next thing anybody knows, he's kaput... That probably doesn't help you much, but I thought I should pass it along. Mind bringing me up to date on how much we actually know about the mark?”

According to the date stamp on the file, this message had been recorded while Tiger and Leshiy were away dodging bullets in the Red Forest. Evidently Drifter had gotten the lowdown from Southpaw.

“Drifter, I screwed up. I took only one key to the Dark Valley, and it looks like the door won't open without both of them. The bandits caught me coming out: I got away, but I lost the key. We'll have to get it back from Borov somehow... Regarding your question, I still don't know what the stalker mark actually means. The mark itself is an ordinary tattoo – it's not magic ink or anything. There are a few definite facts in the data I've collected, however... First, there aren't any attested cases of living stalkers being found with the mark. Since it's only found on corpses, it must be applied shortly before each stalker's death or else the live ones deliberately hide it... Second, all the marked stalkers whose movements are known either went missing in the Red Forest or tried to get past the Scorcher. Most of them reappear as casualties in wrecked death trucks. The lucky ones quietly rejoin the community until they die in accidents... Third, the majority are free stalkers, specifically loners who don't belong to any band or gang and don't have friends who'd become suspicious... It looks like the marked ones may be infiltration agents, recruited somewhere north of the explored lands. Obviously that would mean the Monolith is involved. In any case, we still need more evidence. Keep following your leads: I'll check the drop point again in another day or two.”

Tiger found the idea simultaneously intriguing and disturbing. But how, he wondered, had Worm gathered the material he'd based his conclusions on? For how long had he been pursuing this? There being no immediate answers, the listener advanced to the final recording.

“Worm, I got your message. Sorry to hear things went bad in the Valley... I have some good news, for a change: that tip about a Clear Sky stash in the Cordon was right on the money. Unfortunately there are some bandits camped nearby, so I had to grab some documents and run away. From the stuff I did get, it looks like Lebedev and his buddies were chasing some guys who supposedly got past the Scorcher. There was also a note from Suslov, addressed to somebody called Nimble. Isn't there a guy by that name who works for Sidorovich? It might be worth pursuing... I'm leaving this in the usual place and going back to the perimeter for another try at the cache. The coordinates are attached.”

Going back to the text data, Tiger ascertained that the directions indicated a point on the eastern edge of the Cordon, among the scattered trees and boulders a little way north of the railroad embankment. His next move was obvious, but – as he was helpfully reminded by a rumble in the distance – it would have to wait until morning. Switching the