An abandoned pig farm in the Dark Valley, some time after the depot assault.
Borov sat by the fire, lit in the inner courtyard of the animal farm, looking grim and thinking. He thought a lot, so much so that his brain started to creak from time to time. It had long been clear that the fate of their former fellowship was sealed. This meant he needed to organize his own gang, purely for safety. And profit, of course. So much profit that no one would dare go against them with impunity.
But everything depended on the results of the recent slaughter. The former bar owner still had contacts with a few people from the hangar after he left, just in case. He exchanged information, news, and even how Yoga, may he choke, was living. And he invited them over, of course.
And everything was fine until the day before yesterday. Then the connection with all his contacts, except one, was abruptly broken. But that one only wrote back some nonsense, saying he would never set foot in the Dump again, asked never to be contacted again, and that was that. What a jerk. He was always happy to drink vodka and demand money, but when it came to clarifying the situation, he said, "Don't write to me anymore"?
Borov understood that he couldn't move forward until the issue with the former boss and the stalkers was resolved. What was the point of gathering some gang if Yoga could show up any day and take his people for himself? The bartender knew perfectly well what would happen to him. He had criticized the authority too often in his time.
And the stalkers... It would be nice if they shot each other. The boss is dead, the stalkers are decapitated and fleeing for their lives. And then he, Borov, appears. The only one who can unite the remaining forces of the bandit brotherhood, give the insolent stalkers a kick in the ass, and impose a new tariff on them. A much harsher one. So they would know that he was not to be trifled with.
"Grandfather Frost," the bandit whispers quietly, barely audibly, giving in to his mood. "Please, just once in my life, make a miracle happen."
But instead of him, Kocherga appeared on the pig farm grounds. Angry as a dog, pale, and gaunt. He strode across the entire inner courtyard, arriving at the small campfire and loudly plopping down on an empty wooden crate, which creaked mournfully under the weight of the bandit's body.
"Vodka," he exhales.
"Fraer!" Borov calls loudly to another of his accomplices. "Come here! And bring vodka!"
When the whole team was finally assembled, and Kocherga had practically emptied half the bottle, he was ready to start his story. After looking at his comrades for a long time, he cleared his throat and began to speak.
"It's fucked, guys," he says. "Fucked."
"What do you mean?" Borov doesn't understand.
"The stalkers in full force occupied the depot, there were about fifty of them, if not more," Kocherga begins to explain, lowering his gaze to his slightly
trembling fingers. "The gates to the hangar are smashed, our bodies are piled up in a heap behind the wall. I've never seen so many corpses at once... Mutants had already gnawed on many by the time I arrived, but even they didn't touch Yoga. That's the kind of shit he was."
"Wait, wait," Fraer interrupts. "Did they kill Yoga too?"
"Yeah, I saw him from afar through binoculars. I was afraid to get too close, you understand..."
And the pig farm courtyard plunged into a somber silence, broken only by the crackling of the small fire and the distant cawing of ravens. The trio had a lot of work ahead of them.
The Cordon, the next morning.
At the evening gathering, it was decided to go hunting the next morning. The Hunter wanted to stretch his bones and see how good I had become at his craft. And I was perfectly fine with that. It was much better than just sitting at home or listening to the same jokes for the hundredth time around the campfire with other novice stalkers.
Wolf, by the way, was not against hunting, but in the end, he refused, citing that without his personal presence, the camp would fall apart as quickly as possible. I don't know how true that is, but there's something to it. Even in my presence yesterday, a fight broke out between several young stalkers. They couldn't agree on who would go for loot tomorrow. Wolf won in the end, leaving the instigators of the fight to do manual labor.
So, it was decided to go alone. Alas, the assault rifle was not very suitable for such hunting, so I had to take the Witcher's shotgun. Fortunately, I thought to bring it with me right away. After fully equipping ourselves and preparing for the outing, we headed northeast, towards the forest. According to the Hunter, game has been scarce on the Cordon lately due to the influx of people. Everything adjacent to the camps or main trails had been completely cleared. And what occasionally wandered in there usually didn't live long.
We left early in the morning, before six o'clock, when the whole village, except for the guard duty convicts, was fast asleep. We left it onto the paved road, along which we went north, passing the ATP and the elevator. When we reached the deserted railway embankment, we turned right and began to ascend a small slope until we found ourselves on a clear plain, on which, besides a couple of flower bushes scattered here and there and a couple of rare trees, there was nothing else.
The next few dozen minutes we walked at a calm pace to the edge of the forest. The Hunter was very meticulous in choosing a place to enter it. Places with too many or too few tracks, or no tracks at all, were decided to be avoided.
"Remember, Executioner," the mentor said, crouching down once again and studying the indentations on the dry grass with his palm. "Balance is important in everything, and the animals understand this perfectly. Or they understood it, before Chernobyl. Where there are few tracks, or nothing at all, there's either some creature so vile that even together we can't handle it. I heard recently that some hunter-stalker managed to catch a mimic in these parts. Alone. And that, I tell you, is a very unpleasant mutant."
"And what about our last stop?" I say, snorting briefly at the mention of the mimic, pointing with my thumb behind me to the place we passed about half an hour ago, moving further north. "There were a lot of tracks there. Both wild boar and dog tracks, and even a couple of boot prints."
"And there's probably no one left there anymore," the Hunter shrugs, getting up from the ground. "There are many tracks, but they are old, a week old. It's good that you have sharp eyes. But be more vigilant and look at everything more broadly, and think it through properly. What's the point of your knowledge or attentiveness if you can't draw useful conclusions from them?"
"Okay, I'll keep that in mind."
"I know, Executioner, I know," the mentor looks back at me with a smile. "You've already become a good hunter, much better than I was at your age, and you'll only get better with time. If you listen to me, of course."
I laugh briefly at his simple joke, continuing to walk behind him along the forest until we finally stumble upon a clearing with very fresh hoof prints – the ground hadn't had time to dry, and the grass hadn't straightened up. After checking the readiness of our weapons again, we head along the trail.
We walk slightly off it, parallel to each other, and listen carefully to everything happening around us. The chirping of forest birds, the distant cawing of ravens, and the barking of dogs, heard from somewhere to the northwest. The weather was completely windless, so we weren't afraid to approach the prey from the windward side.
After some time, we heard grunting mixed with squealing ahead, and we realized we were close to our goal. After a few more minutes, we reached a wild boar lair. Scraped bark from trees at the height of my stomach, small bones scattered here and there, trampled grass, and, of course, three individuals resting. Two huge carcasses and one slightly smaller.
We cautiously approach them, trying to move as quietly as possible, and slowly circle around. The Hunter hides behind a thicket of low bushes, while I stand behind a wide tree trunk. The mentor raises his hand and with his fingers points first to the two boars closest to him, then to himself. I understand, so the one on the edge is mine.
I raise my rifle, aim at the area below the shoulder blade of the sow lying with her back to me, and nod to the Hunter, letting him know I'm ready to shoot at any moment. My shot follows his, and two boars go to the other world, not even having time to understand what happened. I quickly reload the shotgun and aim at the remaining one, just in case.
The last mutant, the smallest of them, got scared and bolted to the side with such speed that the teacher's shot hit its thigh. A loud squeal was heard, but the little boar didn't want to stop, it didn't even slow down. But the charge from my shotgun didn't let it go far. And the mutant, as if stumbling, fell to the ground and slid a few more meters on the grass. The beast shouldn't have run in a straight line, it shouldn't have.
First, I reload the shotgun, and only then do I come out from behind the tree to the Hunter. He, surprisingly, looked very dejected, as if he wasn't satisfied with the outcome of our hunt.
"Did something happen?" I ask him, carefully placing the rifle on the soft grass, and take the axe from my backpack.
"I've become too old and weak," he exhales, sitting down on the ground and leaning his back against the torn tree.
"We've already talked about this, haven't we?" I reply, frowning. "You're not old at all, you have a lot of life left!"
"Ye-e-es," he waves me off and, after a slight pause, continues. "I understand what you're trying to tell me, Executioner, and you're right, completely right. I still have a lot of life left, but not in the Zone. Don't interrupt me, please, and take it a bit higher, yes, like that. I'm alive only thanks to your efforts. You returned my son's rifle, which I could only dream of, saved me from the bloodsucker's illness, gave me some meaning to move forward by teaching you. But now I see that such a mentor is useless to you."
"What are you talking about?"
"About everything," the teacher says thoughtfully, looking up at the clear blue sky. "You move so quietly that sometimes I close my eyes, and it's like you're not there at all. Not a sound. And I even asked Wolf if he had gone deaf. But no, my hearing is fine. You read tracks excellently, you know how to handle various beasts. And you shoot accurately, unlike me now..."
"I don't even know what to say," I'm somewhat taken aback by such praise from him.
"Don't say anything," he continues. "You don't have to. Thank you for appearing in my life. A simple, human thank you. If it weren't for you, I would have perished in an unmarked grave here with a gas mask hanging on it. When we return to the village, I'll start finishing my business little by little, and when I'm ready, I'll leave. I was only waiting for your return, Executioner."
"If you need help..."
"You've already helped me a lot," the Hunter smiles and slowly gets to his feet while I put the severed hooves into a plastic bag. "I'll handle the rest myself. I'll ask those who owe me, and I'll repay those I owe. And then I'll retire with a clear conscience. I have enough savings for the rest of my life. I'll buy a house in the village, on the riverbank, I'll fish and do some farming..."
"That sounds pretty good," I reply. "Will you leave me your number or address so I can find you? I hope we can meet up on the mainland."
"Where else would we go," the teacher laughs briefly. "Let's go, we're heading back. I'm getting hungry."
"And what about this meat? Are we just going to leave it?"
"It's a shame, of course, but I don't want to bother with it," the Hunter stops and thinks for a moment before answering. "A month or a month and a half ago, game could be easily sold here, Executioner. But now some kind of bullshit is going on. Stalkers are whispering in corners and looking at each other suspiciously, and they refuse such meat, they eat all the canned food. And where do these bums get money for it? God knows. So no, let other creatures eat it, it'll be more useful anyway."
Interesting things are happening on the Cordon. I was gone for only a short while, as was Valerian, and already such a mess. And many former comrades are fleeing, banding together with village newcomers, discussing some secret plans, and have plenty of money to buy food from Sidor. As far as I remember, when I myself traded meat, I sold it for the price of one can of stewed meat, and by weight, my pieces were twice or three times larger than the cans themselves. The profit was quite meager,
but it sold almost immediately. And here...
I can only guess what they are up to, but I didn't want to pry and find out. When I get home, I'll immediately write to Valerian about the situation, let him think about it himself. Or he'll send someone to investigate, and I might help with that, or he'll just gather people and calmly go to the Dump.
But at the same time, I was genuinely happy for the Hunter. Here, in the Zone, old people don't have the best fate. What elderly stalkers can you even recall from the entire trilogy? The Swamp Doctor and Lesnik. Both are unique. One treats both people and animals, and they respect him in return, the other is a guide like no other, especially with his Compass. But could they survive in these conditions without the help of other stalkers? For a while, yes, but then, when old age inevitably starts to take its toll? And when they can no longer practice their craft, what then?
The answers to these questions were disheartening. So it's better for my mentor to meet old age in warmth and satiety, where his life will not be threatened. Especially since as soon as I sort out the documents, citizenship, and everything else, I'll be able to visit him. Or even buy a house next door.
With these not-so-cheerful thoughts, we emerged from the forest and headed towards the novice village. And somewhere in the distance, dogs were barking again, clearly chasing someone. After a little over forty minutes, as we passed a deserted house opposite the neutral base, we stumbled upon an unexpected encounter.
Behind the brick walls of the ruined house, on the remnants of the wooden floor, sat three stalkers. One of them stood right at the entrance, behind a white Soviet stove that served as a kind of protection for this camp, and carefully watched what was happening at my former faction's base. The other two were deeper inside the house and were whispering about something. If we had passed ten meters to the left, we wouldn't have encountered this observation post.
"What are you up to here?" the Hunter suddenly decides to call out to them, aiming his weapons at the simpletons. I follow his example and quickly draw my pistol from its holster.
"Uh, grandpa," the one who was watching says foolishly. "Lower your guns, we don't need trouble."
"If you don't let us go, you're done for, our guys will..." another exclaims, but is immediately silenced by the first.
"Quiet, you!" the first one hisses at him.
I place the bag with the piglet hooves on the remains of the foundation and approach them, noticing with surprise that one of the three is none other than Uvalen. But before I can say anything, a loud rustle is heard from behind our backs. The mentor reflexively turns back, which the stalkers intended to use and even reached for their weapons. Alas for them, no one intended to let them go so easily. Three consecutive shots, and lifeless bodies with pierced foreheads fall to the floor. The maneuver failed.
I turn back when the Hunter's shotgun fires. Then another and another. The hungry dogs, having apparently smelled the boar's blood, had completely lost their fear and decided to attack us. If they had waited, maybe they would have gotten some meat. The pack was small, only a few individuals, which were easy to deal with.
"And why did you kill them?" the Hunter looks at me grimly, surveying the bodies.
"When you turned away, the scoundrels wanted to take advantage of the situation and grab their guns," I shrug. "And I have a severe allergy to that, with serious consequences for its source. And this one specifically threatened me yesterday for asking too many questions. It's unlikely he wanted to help us with the blind ones."
"Mm-hmm," the mentor draws out and scratches his gray stubble on his chin. "Yes, I think you're right. What were they doing here anyway?"
"They were clearly sniffing out movements at Valerian's camp," I note in turn.
"Don't teach the teacher, Executioner. It's obvious even to a hedgehog who exactly they were watching, but for what purpose?"
"Let Valerian figure it out, maybe there's some info left on their PDAs," I reply, slightly ashamed, and take out my communicator to write to the leader of the neutrals about what happened. "That's it, done."
Neutral base, same time.
The leader of the free people sat grimly at the head of a large table in his office, sadly looking at the walls that had become so dear to him. It was a great pity to leave this place, but unfortunately, they had no other choice. Problems piled up one after another. The escaped scoundrels who had been on the ration from the general budget for so long, Khalevsky's escape, and the Executioner, who had inconveniently left their ranks.
Just the day before yesterday, he wanted to grab the man with a death grip, start persuading him to stay, because Valerian understood that he would never meet another person like him. Smart, brave, loyal, and efficient. Of course, he had Yakut, but... it's just not the same. He also possessed all these qualities, but compared to the departed stalker, he looked pale. And he lacked the spirit that the Executioner had.
"But I wouldn't have been able to keep you anyway," the stalker says with his lips alone, leaning back in his chair, when a notification arrives on his PDA. "I just thought of you, and here you are... Damn it!"
Executioner: I was passing by a ruined house opposite the base. I saw three shady stalkers there, from the village. They were watching you. I had to deal with them. I didn't touch the bodies, maybe there's info on them. By the way, I learned that the fugitives have been frequenting the village and often chat with newcomers about something. Be careful.
17.07.2011, 9.17.