"Why do you all want to bestow something upon me?" my voice sounds painfully hoarse, and I have to unbuckle my belt flask to moisten my dry throat.
"You, living soul," the Hermit says after a slight pause, stepping away from me and sitting back in his previous spot, stretching his trembling hands closer to the fire. Whatever he did to me, it took a lot of his strength. "You won't understand this yet."
"So, what is your 'wisdom', Hermit?"
"Over many years of being here, in the Zone, I've realized that it's not our enemy, not an enemy of humanity," he replies, not looking up from the flames. "Anomalies, mutants, emissions... all of this is nothing more than a mirror response to our own actions. And as soon as I understood this... I haven't needed weapons since."
"And that's why you have an RPG with shells lying around here," I exhale a little louder than I should have, and immediately catch myself. "Sorry."
"Hah, it turned out funny, didn't it, living soul?" the stalker grins crookedly. "In short, mutants won't touch you as long as you don't wish them harm."
"But... I'm a hunter, what about that?"
"The Zone will decide, living soul," the Hermit shrugs. "Maybe it will take away my gift from you, or maybe not... It's up to you how to manage what you have."
"Well, goodbye, Hermit," I say after sitting in silence for a little longer under the measured crackling of the fire, get to my feet and head for the exit of this den.
"See you later, living soul," I hear in my back as I climb the rusty ladder outside.
Emerging into the air, I'm in no hurry to join the other stalkers in the central building of the factory, but decide to take a little walk along the local platform. I walk slowly to a long concrete bracket, overturned like a ramp, and climb it, finding myself directly opposite a once red, but now faded freight car. I turn right and stroll to a bench that has miraculously survived.
Sitting down on it, I involuntarily sink into gloomy thoughts. When someone or something bestows a gift upon you for free, it always raises suspicions. And I clearly didn't want to participate in someone's incomprehensible games, and the Zone is quite a battlefield. Could Shaman have been plotting something regarding me? He could have. Or could he have been an ordinary Zone freak, if I can put it that way, who just wanted to help a special, even without quotes, stalker? He could have.
And this uncertainty, when you don't know what exactly to expect, infuriated me the most.
So much so that I didn't even immediately notice how I started nervously shaking my leg. But since I got here, I haven't had this habit from my past life... Stalkers, mutants, anomalies, and emissions - all of this is understandable and expected. But a certain clan of Zone psychos, who, judging by the system notifications, are not so much psychos, this is something new and unexplored. By the way, about the System.
"System," I whisper, almost with my lips only, addressing my invisible companion. "Why did my rank only increase now? How many did I kill before I was given this 'experienced' rank, both people and mutants... And I've leveled up many skills."
Rank is the sum of your accomplishments, skills, and time spent in the Zone, user. But until something from this meets a certain threshold, no increase will occur.
"So, I could have killed the entire Zone and maxed out all my skills, but still remained a novice, just because I've been here for less than the required time?"
Yes, user.
"And who created these limits, System?"
The Zone, user.
"And if I ask for more details, the information will be unavailable, right?" I exhale, weakly burying my face in my hands.
You are correct, user.
"Haa," I can only exhale, realizing that I won't be able to achieve anything for now.
It's not that the answers to these questions were so necessary for me, I wouldn't want to jump headfirst into something, trying to solve problems imposed from the outside, which could have been avoided... Says a person who could have calmly shot mutants, collected artifacts, and generally stayed out of any stalker showdowns with bandits. Alright, let's see how it goes. Anyway, for some reason, I feel that nothing will work out until I get to the very heart of the Zone.
Especially since there's another problem that needs to be solved now. This night will be long, so I'll try to get some sleep...
Agroprom. A small hill, slightly west of Duty Base, night.
I carefully jump into the ditch, landing softly, and look around before starting to act. Of course, I could have infiltrated the Duty guys in a more traditional way, but it would be better for them not to know that I was here. So, first, I use my flashlight beam to find a half-buried safe in the dark, resting under a bush. And slowly, with a creak of metal, I open its door and hide my assault rifle and backpack there, leaving myself only a couple of pistols, a few magazines for them, and a set of lockpicks.
By the way, it was quite easy to get here at night, though scary. Whether it was because of the new ability transferred to me by the Hermit, or just luck, I didn't encounter any mutants.
Finally, having gathered myself and checked my pockets again, I close the safe, turn to the concrete fence, and with a short run, jump over it, grabbing the edge with my hands and carefully throwing myself over. Landing on the soft grass, I freeze for a few seconds, listening to what's happening at the base. The faint conversations of the Duty guys in the distance, the music coming from the bar, and other sounds of the local nights. The distant barking of dogs and the growling of mutants who went hunting, the singing of night birds, and the light howling of the wind. I can go.
I cautiously peek out from behind the menagerie onto the darkened street and wait a little longer, planning my actions. The guard on the watchtower is more interested in what's happening outside the fence, and no other people are visible here. A good time. So, looking around, I quickly and quietly run to the three-story building and press my back against the cold wall. To my great regret, there are no boxes here, like in the Shadows of Chernobyl, which would have made it easy to reach the fire escape.
But the height isn't that great, so... Grabbing the edge of the metal sheet nailed to the window with my hands, I climb onto a small, lower windowsill and, shifting my hands to the upper one, bend my knees slightly and jump, grabbing the bottom rung, hanging in the air. Phew, only a little left, just to get to the top. It's good that, willingly or unwillingly, I had to improve my physical condition over these months. Otherwise, I wouldn't have survived.
Reaching the roof, I sit down right there, not far from the ladder, and catch my breath for a moment, calming my breathing. After resting, I get up from the floor and move towards the exit from the roof furthest from me, I wouldn't want to accidentally run into Krylov's guards when descending. And there I encounter the first difficulty - a locked wooden door. But, fortunately, the lock wasn't great, and it was old too, so picking it was a piece of cake. I slowly descend the steps, peering into the darkness, it's better not to shine my flashlight now, until I reach the third-floor landing and look around the corner.
And I am met by an absolutely empty corridor. I listen to the sounds around me, but I can't hear anything except the music from the bar. It seems everyone is asleep. I boldly step out from behind the corner and notice that the door to the office was closed. Either he really let the guards go for the night, or they left their post, which is unlikely, but... I need to be careful. But first, I want to check what Krylov himself is up to.
I turn around looking for something that could be useful, and by the window itself, slightly to the left of a pile of boxes and crates, I notice a time-worn chair. I pick it up and examine it, it should do, and head towards the metal sheet wall, but I freeze, noticing something unusual out of the corner of my eye. Two doors, cut into the wall, similar to the one on the roof. I slowly take out my flashlight, illuminating them, and grunt at the luck that has befallen me. On one of them was a sign with the inscription "Archive", exactly what I was looking for. But that will have to wait.
I approach the welded metal sheets, place the chair underneath and stand on it, looking through the iron mesh into the general's office. His owner is found sleeping on the sofa. Krylov lay with his legs tucked, without a blanket, and snored quietly. On the table, in the light of the desk lamp, stood an empty bottle of vodka in the company of a couple of glasses, only one of them was full to the brim, and on top lay a small piece of rye bread. Was the general commemorating someone? Well, let the brave soldier rest.
I get down and put the chair back in place, immediately sticking to the archive door and taking lockpicks out of my pocket. Engaging the lock tongue, I turn the thieving tool, and the door opens with a dull click. I carefully open it slightly and enter, immediately closing it behind me.
The archive itself was a small room, only a meter by three, maybe four in length. Along the walls were small filing cabinets, up to my chest, a clear legacy of the previous owners of this complex. And right in front of the boarded-up window was a table, piled with some papers, pens, and other office items. And behind me, slightly to the right of the door, was a switch responsible, apparently, for a single lamp, swaying on a long wire.
My hand reached for it, but I stopped myself in time. If someone suddenly walks by the corridor, the light from under the door might alert them. Especially if it's someone responsible for the archive itself, or the general, so I'll stick to my headlamp and put the handheld one back in my pocket.
I walk to the center of the room, starting to examine the card file. Ordinary metal drawers with a lot of dents, scratches, and even traces of rust. Someone clearly had to try hard to collect them from the territory of Agroprom. I approach one of them, located in the far right corner, and look closely, noticing a piece of paper glued to the top corner with the inscription "A-V". Systematization, right? How was it, abv...
So, I need the next one. I turn my head towards the second drawer, which already had two stickers, the top one - "G-E" and the bottom one - "Zh-I". Huh, no one with a surname starting with Ё was found? I pull the drawer towards me and start rummaging through the thin folders. Whoever was in charge of this archive was clearly in their place. The folder with the surname Evseev was found quickly, even more so, there were two of them. Homonyms... So it is, the first Evseev turned out to be a recently deceased captain, and the second one is the one I need.
"Well, Evseev Rodion Dmitrievich," I say with my lips only. "I'll get to know you better."
And for the next few minutes, I immerse myself in reading, increasingly understanding what a worthless Duty guy this is. Stupid and aggressive, but diligent, has many reprimands for violating regulations, though all minor. He's been in the faction almost since its inception, about a hundred combat missions, even wounded, and still stuck at the rank of sergeant. If I didn't know he had accomplices, I'd be very surprised why they still keep him in Duty. And here's the list of missions, by date. Two thousand seventh, two thousand eighth, two thousand ninth...
15.09.2009-11.10.2009. As part of a small group, participated in a reconnaissance operation...
I didn't read further. This was his only sortie in the autumn of two thousand ninth, so finding the other participants of that raid won't be difficult, unless someone classified it. After a few more minutes of searching, the coveted document was in my hands.
Report dated 21.10.2009.
I, Zalupko Sergey Konstantinovich, holding the rank of Senior Lieutenant of Duty, was appointed commander of a small group, which included: Sergeant Petrenko Pavel Anatolyevich and Privates Evseev Rodion Dmitrievich and Grishin Alexander Makarovich. The goal of our group was reconnaissance in the vicinity of the village of Zalesye.
During the execution of our task, we fully inspected Zalesye, a handwritten map with found objects is attached below. Nearby
anomalies were also inspected and samples of anomalous activity were collected. An inventory of collected samples is attached below.
Then followed a detailed retelling of what the detachment supposedly did. From what was written, it turned out that they shouldn't have been at the farmstead where Batut's group met them at all. They were just passing by when they were returning to the base. They even wrote off the ammunition "spent on mutants," ha.
I must also report that during the execution of the assigned task, Private Grishin Alexander Makarovich fell in battle with mutants and was buried by us at a farmstead not far from the village of Zalesye...
What scoundrels. The artifacts collected "by us," they inspected everything, yeah. I know how they inspected. They kicked ass while Grishin alone roamed the area and drew that map. And as soon as they realized that the guy wasn't going to indulge their criminal schemes, they killed him and buried him right there.
Finding the dossiers for the other members of that detachment took only a couple of minutes, and it's good that I found out their full names before I started searching. There were as many as seven Petrenkos in Duty. But Zalupko was one. Once a senior lieutenant, and posthumously a major, he was killed in one of the clashes with Freedom fighters last year, and his right-hand man, Sergeant Petrenko, rose to the rank of captain, becoming the deputy head of the military commandant's office.
"And such a person became the commandant? Well, your time in this position won't last long, oh, not long..."
Eastern Checkpoint, Duty. Early morning.
"No one is to be let out or in!" Captain Petrenko shouts loudly, ordering the guards as he passes them.
"And what about you, Comrade Captain?" asks a young sergeant, practically a yesterday's private, but immediately gets a smack on the back of the head from his older comrade. "Ouch!"
"You may pass, Comrade Captain," says the Duty member responsible for the checkpoint and sizes up his subordinate with a long gaze. "And I'll talk to this one."
"Well done, soldier, you'll go far," Petrenko replies with a grin and immediately dabs a drop of sweat that has rolled down with a damp handkerchief. "Damn this b-bitch..."
Unbelievable! Some creature dared to sneak in at night and slaughter Evseev like a pig! The picture appears before his eyes... Once a brave sergeant, the terror of stalker degenerates, and now a piece of bloody meat. His throat cut, almost to the spine, the words "Thief and murderer" scratched on his forehead with a knife. Did someone find out about their dark deeds? Complete nonsense! No one, perhaps except Voronin, would have had the guts for this. And even he has other methods, against the wall by the scruff of the neck and execution...
But the scariest thing was the note found in his breast pocket. Right in a pack of cigarettes, to which his hand involuntarily reached as soon as the captain saw his dead accomplice. A small square of yellowed paper, which terrified the Duty member to death.
"You're next, Captain Petrenko. Run if you want to live. I've already dealt with your friend."
It wasn't so much the text on it that was frightening, nor the fact that someone managed to slip this paper to him, but the fact that he slept that night without taking off his uniform. The maniac who killed Rodion was incredibly close, and only his momentary whim saved the captain.
"Well, never mind, never mind," the Long-timer hissed maliciously, practically breaking into a run. "I'll get to the edge of the Big Swamps, and from there it's a stone's throw to the Dark Valley..."
The power line towers were already visible with a couple of electric anomalies beneath them, and from there it was not far to the path. But this was not to be. As soon as the captain drew level with a thick oak tree, something struck his leg with force, sending the Long-timer tumbling forward, his forehead hitting the ground painfully. And while he hadn't yet recovered, an unknown assailant, grabbing the Long-timer by the shoulder with an iron grip, turned him face-to-face and heartily punched Petrenko's face a couple of times with a gloved fist. And while the captain was helpless, they forcibly pulled the Groza off his belt and drew his service pistol from its holster.
"Kha-kha," coughing up blood from a cheek cut on his teeth, the Long-timer struggled to focus his gaze on the attacker and, with surprise, recognized a stalker who had recently come to their base. What was his name again?... Pal... Palych? Ah! "Executioner?.."
"Well, well, how clever," the stalker said impassively, looking directly into his eyes and screwing a silencer onto the pistol. "Personally yours."
"Why?" was all he managed to ask, as thoughts raced frantically in Petrenko's head, cycling through various options, but it seemed he was caught. Caught like a fool!
"You shouldn't have been such a bitch, even a little bit," the stalker snorted, aiming the muzzle of the weapon directly at him. "But you couldn't even handle that. Any more questions?"
Bushes grew nearby, at the same time as the two stalkers.
Crouching, the mutant watched the scene unfolding before him with interest, once again humans decided to kill each other. But, as always, they would both become his prey. The bloodsucker straightened up, stretching his powerful shoulders, and was about to lunge when he stopped, struck by a surprising thought that came to his mind.
"This man is one of ours. You can't take prey from your own. Only in a fight. I don't want to fight one of our own. He has a fire stick. Dangerous. But hungry. But dangerous," the monster thought.
"Well, look at that, Petrenko," the man from their group said loudly, lowering his pistol to the ground and looking directly at the sudden guest who had appeared in the small clearing. "Someone has visited us. Well, why are you standing there, my dear? Hungry, I bet, so come here, I'll share."
Not believing his luck, the bloodsucker emerged from the bushes in full height, his tentacles happily bristling and trembling with excitement. Only the danger emanating from this man prevented the mutant from pouncing on the lying stalker the moment he was offered, and he slowly, step by step, approached his prey.
"A-a-a!" the Long-timer, who had somehow managed to roll over, yelled loudly, realizing what fate awaited him.
The last thing his fading consciousness registered were cold, long fingers grabbing his hair to yank his head to the side, exposing the clean skin of his neck for a bite.