Hunter's village, some time later.
When the unsightly and black village houses appeared ahead, it began to dawn little by little. The Zone was gradually waking up, and with it its inhabitants. While I was making my way to the elder's house, right in the middle of abandoned yards, I noticed several blind moles washing themselves. Is that how they hunted? I wouldn't be surprised if the blind moles had lived here for several months, enjoying the protection of the hunters from other mutants. It's a joke.
By the time I returned, Petrukha had already finished packing and was shivering, wrapped in a cloak thrown over his new jumpsuit. He yawned widely, closed his eyes, and leaned against the wall of a sturdy shed. Mmm, a dilemma. I'd like to finish Sidorovich's business today, but it seems I'll have to postpone it for a while.
"Wake up and sing," I call out to him, and he, startled, straightens up, immediately fixing me with a firm and serious gaze.
"You said you wouldn't kill him," he says, not taking his eyes off me.
"I didn't kill him, I gave him a chance," I reply. "I dragged him to the place where his comrades died, told him that if he wanted to live, he should grab a weapon and fight the mutants. He had a chance."
"But there was no weapon there except a broken rifle! I took everything away..." the newcomer whispers quietly, continuing to look at me with disbelief.
"You didn't take the pistols," I snort briefly, remembering that mistaken hint. Well, it's his own fault for being so inattentive and slow... "I understand your feelings and won't say banalities that this is the Zone, a harsh land for tough men, and feelings will surely lead you to death. Just remember how he spoke, about what. He didn't regret the misdeed of his comrades, he regretted that it failed. He wasn't worried that others might be harmed due to his inaction, not at all. His only cry was about his future, how he would live, with whom, what others would say when they found out what he was involved in. Do you know what this could have led to?"
"To what?"
"To the fact that sooner or later, he would have joined a group of stalkers who would have accepted him, and to whom Ugol would have told tall tales about terrible stalkers who killed his friends for no reason at all," I begin to paint a picture. "And this would have continued for an infinitely long time. A word here, a phrase there, and somewhere a whole sentence. Gradually, step by step, we would have turned from stalkers into vile bandits, and it would have been very difficult to wash away that reputation. Not to mention that he could have believed his own lie, convinced himself that the Hunter just wanted to talk, and we started a knife fight for no reason. And then the brave stalkers, led by an equally brave hunter, would have hunted us out of revenge and a desire to get expensive gear."
My last words created a silence that enveloped the yard. It was broken only by the piercing caw of a black raven sitting on a chimney pipe rising above the slate roof. A light breeze blew, which I, alas, couldn't feel through the jumpsuit, and tore the hood off the stalker's head, ruffling his hair.
"As much as I myself felt sad and disgusted to do it, I couldn't have acted otherwise," I decide to finish my speech. "Ugol did not repent and could have become a big problem for both of us. And, most likely, he would have acted that way. Do you think that when the others initially
suggested just robbing us, without any brutality, he spoke out against it? No-o-o, he didn't say a word about it to us, which means the hunters received his, albeit silent, consent."
"So what does that mean," the stalker standing before me says very quietly, almost inaudibly. "Do you have to destroy anyone who stands in your way? Even if you don't like it yourself..."
"Who am I to decide for you?" I shrug. "I have my own path, you have yours. Live and act as you see fit. But let me give you advice from a couple of lines from a song: 'An enemy always remains an enemy, don't share bread with him, don't invite him home, even if the air smells of peace, he, though calm, is still an enemy.' Don't let yourself be deceived by victory and don't think that your opponent won't want revenge in the future."
"Understood," the guy completely deflated, and I pat him lightly on the shoulder.
"Don't be so sad," I try to cheer him up. "You should be happy. You went on your first, albeit not very distant, raid, successfully found an artifact, got into a scrape that you won't be ashamed to tell around the campfire, got gear, and became much more experienced than you were yesterday. And these guys... they chose this life themselves, and paid for it."
Petrukha smiles shyly and nods, agreeing with my words. His forehead smooths out, his frowning eyebrows return to place, and the stalker himself looks a bit cheerier. That's good.
"Well, what do you say, jigit," I grin, remembering how ferociously he engaged in a fight with the Hunter. "Let's go, let's get a few hours of sleep before the long road."
Stalker network, correspondence.
Executioner: Forgive me, Sidorovich, but there are no hunters alive anymore. They decided to rob me at night, so I had to deal with them. I myself am alive and well, the artifact is with me, I returned the money. I'll sleep for a couple of hours and write to you.
07/30/2011, 4:54 AM.
Sidorovich: Those bastards, may they go to hell. They always said correctly that you shouldn't give in to such freaks, and I... I'm sorry I dragged you into this, I wish you had finished them off right away. You're owed.
07/30/2011, 8:01 AM.
Sidorovich: By the way, since we're at it, I have a proposal for you regarding this artifact. We'll talk about it when you get back to the village.
07/30/2011, 9:21 AM.
Executioner: Accepted, we're already moving out. 07/30/2011, 9:37 AM.
Novice village, some time later.
The road to our native lands was long and exhausting, and we reached the Cordon only after several hours. Moreover, Petrukha looked much more alive than before. Now he looked much more at home in the Zone, and his new gear gave him confidence in his own abilities. And if yesterday the newcomer hadn't even had time to react to the approach of a boar, today in a skirmish with stray dogs, he personally took down three of them. The boy is growing by leaps and bounds.
The sun had reached its zenith, and most of the stalkers from the village had dispersed in a line along the Cordon in search of earnings, so we were met by a half-empty camp, where only a few people remained, led by Volkh. He, by the way, cast a very long glance at Petrukha, carefully examining him from head to toe, and only nodded satisfactorily at something.
"There's one more promising stalker in the village," I nudge Petrukha with my elbow, and he smiles shyly, though with a slightly bewildered look at me. "You should have seen how Volkh looked at you. I'll tell you a secret, although he messes with newcomers, he doesn't like them much. He believes that those who linger too long on the Cordon have no right to be called real stalkers. So, in his eyes, you've risen high."
"Ah," he nods, his eyes wide open. "Much becomes clear... Are you going to the trader now?"
"Yes. Did you want something?"
"Well, the trophies... They're yours, aren't they? You dealt with them all yourself and..."
"Don't worry so much," I pat him on the shoulder. "It's all yours. I'll earn pennies from their sale, and they'll serve you well. Use them and enjoy them. Consider it payment for my debt to you."
"Debt?"
"You helped me back then," I reply, smiling slightly, though he won't see my smile through the black glass. "If it weren't for you, the Hunter might have wounded me or even killed me. But as it is, you bought me time to deal with everyone. Well, okay, I'm going to the trader's carpet. And you'd better go to Volkh, he'll be interested to hear what you've been up to with me."
Novice village, after Palach's departure.
As instructed, Petrukha went straight to Volkh, who was sitting with a metal mug on a large green box next to his house. He took off his gear, leaned his collected weapons against the wall, sat down on a smaller box, stretched his legs, and sighed deeply.
"I'm back," the newcomer says first, turning his head to the right.
"I know," Volkh takes a loud sip of something hot from his mug, squinting with pleasure, and sets it aside. "So, how was it out there, beyond the Cordon?"
"It takes your breath away..."
"I believe you, I believe you," the village leader replies with a wide smile. "I'm eagerly awaiting the evening gathering to hear about your adventures, stalker."
Trader's bunker, same time.
"Well, well," the trader takes the container from my hands and opens the lid to look at the artifact inside. "Beautiful..."
"You mentioned some business," I remind the trader, who now reminded me more of a child who had seen a beautiful Christmas tree.
"I remember," Sidorovich says with obvious regret, closing the container and pushing it closer to me. "But first, let's deal with everything else. Tell me what happened. You understand, although those cadres weren't particularly valuable, I don't have many people to just throw them around."
"And I, in my sinfulness, thought that the entire novice village runs around on your orders," I chuckle, crossing my arms.
"Not without that, but you must understand that there are some things that cannot be entrusted to newcomers. So? " the trader leans back in his chair, raising one of his eyebrows.
"Well, I'll start by saying that the Hunter didn't seem like an experienced Zone walker to me," I recall all the important and not-so-important details. "He whined that you could afford a suit for me, but not a proper detector..."
"The Zone... Did you go there with the Response?"
"No, I grabbed this beauty," I pull out the Veles, and Sidorovich whistles in surprise.
"Well, I never, you can only order something like this directly from scientists and for a huge amount of money... I won't ask where you got it, but know that I'm envious," a sly grin appears on the trader's face, which soon gives way to confusion. "Wait. The Hunter said that to Veles?"
"Yeah. And he kept trying to provoke me one way or another," I shrug. "As I understood it, their whole group was deeply offended by both you and the other stalkers. Like, they risk their lives there, shed blood, and here are some punks in expensive gear."
"M-yes..." he just buries his face in his wide, thick palm, shaking his head. "With such an attitude to life, they don't live long here. People like them constantly complain that everyone is to blame except them. Do you think I paid them peanuts? Well, let me tell you, the samples they brought were disgusting. I offered them a couple of thermal bags from me, even offered a discount, but no-o-o, not a chance. We don't use those. But then they brought me half-rotten stumps, wondering why I paid so little for them. And I still have to transport them to my clients..."
"Then you should have sent them to hell..."
"It's easy for you to say, but as a trader, I can't afford to discard clients-workers," the old man grumbles. "They sometimes brought quite good quality samples, and they shot mutants on my orders. In short, if it weren't for me, I give you my word, they would have died of hunger long ago. So, what's next?"
"And you already know the rest," I reply, processing what I've heard. It turns out Sidorovich really cares about his customers, albeit in his own way. "He demanded money, I paid, and he threw in at the end that for lodging it's ten thousand, five from each of us. I decided that he would do without such a capital injection, and set up camp near the anomaly. And at night, during my watch, these scoundrels came to us. Their faces were angry, they reeked of alcohol, and they were very unfriendly."
"M-m, I see... As I said, may they go to hell. And you... It's very good that you remained unharmed," the trader nods with satisfaction at something. "I'll admit, I made inquiries about you, and everyone unanimously said that you're not one of the last fighters. Which I myself have just confirmed. It's one thing to deal with drunks who have never gone further than the Cordon, and quite another to deal with hunters who are used to killing people. Yes, yes, don't be surprised, they gladly took orders not only for mutants but also for stalkers."
"Is this related to that offer?" I must admit, I didn't particularly like this tone of our conversation.
"Yes," he nods. "Unique artifacts are not uncommon in the Zone, but it's almost impossible to get reliable information about them. As soon as something like this pops up, there are immediately, let's say, foreign enthusiasts ready to intercept such an artifact for a modest sum of money and transport it to the place indicated by the customer."
"Wait-wait," I stop the trader. "But only you, me, and the newcomer who went with me know about this artifact. Where would the mercenaries come from in that case?"
"Alas, I made a mistake here," Sidorovich shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. "It was too interesting to know if this art was unique or just rare. This is the first unique artifact
I've seen with my own eyes, understand an old man. So, yesterday, I gradually reached out to the scientists, and they, being smart, immediately realized that I was interested in such things not from a scientific point of view. Word by word, a contract appeared, and, um, a group of ill-wishers."
"I still don't understand where the mercenaries would come from here... Why would scientists give you and your courier to them if the art would end up with them anyway?"
"Leak. Accidental or intentional - I don't know. But first, I must give you a brief excursion," the trader sighs heavily, wiping the sweat that appeared on his forehead with a white handkerchief. "The scientist faction is not monolithic, and, in principle, one can distinguish four groups: European countries, America, the CIS, and China. Naturally, within each of these groups, there are their own intrigues, alliances are formed, someone is put in power, someone is overthrown - a typical situation in such cases. Someone truly cares about their country and will go to any measures to ensure it has a scientific advantage, someone prioritizes money, and someone doesn't care about anything that doesn't concern research."
"So, hypothetically, if one faction of scientists has some success, others might try to compromise them or worse?"
"Ye-es, you understand," Sidorovich nods. "It so happened that I contacted Sakharov, and he, although it's not his specialty, knows a lot about artifacts, and through him, I was able to arrange for your find to be transported to a Russian research institute, which currently has one of the strongest groups researching anomalous formations, and for such an artifact, we will be rewarded more than generously."
"And why not other countries?"
"I am a Soviet person, Palach, and although my country has fallen to pieces, I continue to love my Motherland," the trader admonishes me, pointing his index finger. "And seriously, it's better not to deal with the Chinese, Americans, and other foreign nations. There's no evidence, of course, but... In short, I think you understood me. And out of all the CIS countries, Russia has taken over the artifact market, others might have been happy to acquire your art, but it's all politics there."
"I see... In short, I have to deliver the artifact to Sakharov, and all this time I'll be hunted?"
"It's already happening," the trader sighs again. "I think ambush groups will take their positions at Agroprom by the time you get there. I would send you people, but there's no one... That's how it is. So... it would be better for you not to linger on the Cordon for too long."
"Are you so sure I'll agree?"
"But you're already involved in all this, Palach," Sidorovich spreads his hands. "Everyone knows that the last one who saw this artifact was you. You'll have questions anyway, and the only way to get rid of them is to transport the artifact out of the Zone. Moreover, you were going to the scientists anyway..."
"Not a day without problems," I throw my head back and exhale loudly. "Alright, so be it, since I have no other choice. Just give me back my Kalash and give me some armor-piercing rounds."
Stalker network, correspondence.
Palach: Hello, Chekhov. How's your Freedom nothing?
07/30/2011, 1:37 PM.
Chekhov: Hi, man. It's alive and well, how are you there? Are you writing just like that or have you decided to join our ranks?
07/30/2011, 1:52 PM.
Palach: Haha, no, I've stuck to my opinion. I want to visit the Valley today or tomorrow for some personal matters. 07/30/2011, 1:53 PM.
Chekhov: No problem. I'll warn our guys, of course, but they would have let you through anyway. Have a good trip, hunter. 07/30/2011, 2:03 PM.
Chekhov: I got info through my channels that you're carrying a unique art on your back and a couple of mercenary squads have already been sent after you. Is that true? 07/30/2011, 4:37 PM.
Palach: Yes. 07/30/2011, 4:39 PM.
Chekhov: I propose to kill two birds with one stone. You do your business in the Valley, and we'll ambush the mercenaries. 07/30/2011, 4:39 PM.
Palach: Will you take revenge? 07/30/2011, 4:41 PM.
Chekhov: Yes. You didn't let my guys fight, and the mercenary squad died suddenly and tragically without a single shot. It turned out as if it all resolved itself. And we have to show everyone that it's better not to mess with us, or they'll pay with blood. So, what do you say? You don't need our help, only your presence in the Valley is important. 07/30/2011, 4:42 PM.
Palach: Ok. 07/30/2011, 4:43 PM.
Anomalous Zone, behind the hunter village, indefinite time of the same day.
A man in a leather coat over a protective jumpsuit stood silently over the corpses, mangled by claws and teeth of creatures, and held a battered rifle in his hands. A single tear rolled down his wrinkled face, and his lips whispered an barely decipherable prayer for the repose of the innocently slain. They didn't look like mutants, but they did look like a man with experience in special services... But who could these lambs of God, who had renounced artifacts, have crossed?
"I will find and punish, forgive me, merciful Lord," the man gently takes a pectoral cross with two fingers and kisses it. "Forgive..."
Novice village, evening.
After a short nap, Petrukha sits on a creaky bed, yawns widely, and searches for his boots with bare feet on the cold wooden floor. He puts on not-so-fresh socks that were long overdue for washing, then his boots, and gets up from his bed, looking around. The stalker dormitory, where several beds and mattresses were crammed, was plunged into evening twilight. There were no light sources in this house, as the old-timers said, some fool hid a stash in the fuse box, and when he couldn't open it, he smashed it to pieces. Since then, there has been no light in this house, although the wiring is all in order...
After a short warm-up to get the blood flowing through his stiff muscles, the novice stalker goes out into the yard first, and then onto the main street of the village. Before he can decide what to do, someone shouts to him from the main campfire:
"Petrukh, hey, come here!"
"Yes, Petya, tell us what happened!"
"Coming!" the newcomer calls back loudly, realizing that he himself is bursting to share with someone. It's a pity that Palach left earlier in the day, otherwise, we would have sat by the campfire together... "Well, where to start..."
"From the very beginning!" exclaims the voice of one of the stalkers sitting by the campfire as soon as Petrukha sits down on the ground.
"In the beginning was the word, and the word was..." another novice draws out mockingly.
"Vodka!" another stalker suddenly interrupts him.
"Haha!" a light laugh rings out around the campfire, caused by this absurd joke, and Petrukha smiles, chuckling quietly to himself. This is what he lacked on the raid with Palach – this campfire spontaneity. Although he's a good stalker, he's too serious.
"Tell us, Petya. What happened, how? Why did Zayats and Girya run back?"
"It's fine," he replies. "Why did they run away? They didn't want to go further through the forest thicket with us. And further, guys, you won't believe it! We reached the local hunters, and their leader showed us the anomaly with the artifact. And then!..."
What followed was a very lively and expressive account of Palach's adventures in that ill-fated forest. Petrukha firmly decided for himself that in this story, he would only occupy the place of an invisible observer who didn't really do anything for the happy ending, unlike the main hero. And the contrast was even stronger between the bloodthirsty Palach, who executed those hunters with a single knife, and the generous, experienced stalker, who gave all the collected gear into the hands of the newcomer, saying that it would serve him well.
And then, towards the end of the story, a talkative stalker nicknamed Dalnomer joined the conversation with his own story...