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End Transmission

Legal Notice-

I do not own, nor do I claim ownership of any part of the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series, including any related official intellectual property or official material, which are the property of their respective owners. The Original content featured in this story does not represent the opinions of, nor the official viewpoint of, any of the respective owners of the S.T.A.L.K.E.R. series, its Rights, associated material, intellectual property, or related technology. S.T.A.L.K.E.R., which this story is based on, is the creation of GSC Game World and its associates. I am not an employee of GSC Game World, and the following content is in no way representative of their work. This is a fan-made fictional story.

Content Notice-

Hi, I'm the author of this story. Some people call me Advertisement. I just wanted to let any of you prospective readers out there know that the following material includes some very dark content. Some people will find it unpleasant. It is, of course, your choice of whether or not you want to read it, but just know that nothing in this story is intended to offend anyone or hurt anyone's feelings. This story is simply supposed to be entertaining. Nothing more, nothing less.

Prologue-Laughing Like a Dog

The killing had been much more brutal and messy than Nomad wanted it to be. Now that it was over, his hands were shaking. His ears were ringing. His head was pounding. He collapsed, falling to the ground on all fours as all of the adrenaline and primal fear that had been building up in his system during the firefight finally broke the emotional wall he had constructed to hold it back.

He had, of course, known that he was walking into a trap, but he was too infuriated; too irrational to do anything but proceed. At this point, he was hardly sure if his actions could be considered sane. Either way, Nomad was a Stalker, not a quitter. He would see this through to the end.

"I know you're here, you cowards!" Nomad cried out, raising his rifle straight up in the air.

It was Scalpel that fired the first shot. The sudden muzzle flash betrayed the Stalker's firing position inside of the wrecked Volga before the thunderous Crack had registered in Nomad's ears. Nomad raised his G3A3 battle rifle and returned fire with a single well placed shot. Scalpel's head jerked to the side as he slapped a hand on his bleeding neck. Even during the tremendous thunderstorm, Nomad could hear Scalpel's last gurgling cry of agony before going limp in the seat of the wrecked car.

A small object hit the ground to Nomad's left, sending him scurrying for cover behind a nearby boulder as pieces of rock and dirt showered his side and a shooting pain presented itself in his left elbow. A piece of grenade shrapnel stuck from the wound. He winced as he pulled the metal from his arm. Popping his head out from the safety of his impromptu cover, he was greeted by a short burst of fire, though this time from in front of the dilapidated shack to the right.

Pavel The Cook and another Stalker named Sokil were advancing on Nomad's position.

"You made a mistake, Nomad!" Pavel shrieked above the sound of the rain.

"You never should have come back!" Sokil yelled.

With Sokil's AKMS rattling in the dark and Pavel preparing to throw another grenade, Nomad knew he had to act quickly. He fired one shot. Pavel the cook yelped and recoiled in pain as the bullet struck his wrist. The grenade he was holding fell to the ground and exploded with a deafening roar.

Nomad waited for a moment to regain his hearing before advancing towards the shack, unintentionally stepping on the disembodied jawbone of Sokil.

Through the cracks between the wooden boards of the shack, the flickering light of a dying fire was visible-a warning to man and mutant alike that the building was occupied. Nevertheless, Nomad was determined to press forward. Behind this door were the answers he had waited so long to receive. It was too late to turn back. Pushing the door in caused it to creak as it slowly opened. Nomad cringed at the unexpected noise before stepping inside. The kick to the back of his knee came without warning. Nomad's leg buckled beneath him and he fell as an arm wrapped around his neck. Then, another pressed against the back of his head.

He's choking me to death.

Nomad began to flounder for air. His hands flailed wildly in a feeble attempt to grab something, anything, before finally coming into contact with his sidearm. He pulled the Fort-12 handgun from its holster and pointed it behind him. Before he could fire, the man released his hold on the back of Nomad's head to grab the dangerous pistol. Nomad knew this was the only chance he had to live, as small a chance as it may be.

Nomad pushed out of the broken choke hold and turned towards his target as he fired three rounds from his pistol, but the other stalker's hand deflected the pistol's barrel to the right. The three bullets impacted the wooden wall of the shack with a sharp snap! The other Stalker's grip tightened on the weapon as Nomad forced it back towards the man's chest.

Nomad successfully struggled back to his feet.

He grabbed the man violently by the throat.

And then he pulled the trigger.

The man threw his shoulders back in shock and pain as Nomad slammed the back of the man's head into the wall behind him, causing the man's unbuckled helmet to topple to the floor. In the confusion, Nomad stumbled back from the other Stalker, who was now slumped against the wall. The man was barely prepared to put up a struggle as Nomad picked the helmet up from the floor and raised it above his head.

Pang.

Pang.

Nomad felt sick as he dropped the helmet and slowly took the Stalker's balaclava off. He stared into the eyes of the man who had caused so much pain; so much death. Of course it was you. It had to be you.

The killing had been much more brutal and messy than Nomad wanted it to be. Now that it was over, his hands were shaking. His ears were ringing. His head was pounding. As Nomad fell to all fours, covered in blood, it took everything he had not to vomit. Then he started to scream-for as loud, and as long, as he possibly could. When he finally stopped, he was panting. Look at me. He thought. I'm on the ground panting like a fucking dog. He laughed hysterically for hours at this revelation before falling asleep next to the body of a man he regretted ever calling his friend.