Part 1: Act 2;

Outskirts of New Petrograd, Duty Territory; 1800 H, June 7, 2013

Markov the Hunter pounded his way up the familiar old asphalt road. It was like coming home.

His pack rustled softly as he cleared a small hump in the road and vaulted over a rusted old drainage

pipe. After many years and more than his share of danger and hardship at the hands of the Zone,

Markov was still spry for a man nearing sixty-two.

Turning a corner, he was greeted with the sound of gunfire. Quickening his pace, he cleared the last

few meters of the hill obscuring his view. Just beyond a rusted out van and a upturned Kamaz

freight truck, two Stalkers were lying in a pool of their own blood. A few meters down the road, two

Dutyers were engaging the guilty party, that is, a pack of three boars.

Usually the entrance to New Petrograd—that was what Duty was calling their base now—was clear

of mutants and a rather peaceful road to travel on, a sort of red carpet leading Dutyers home. Before

Markov had always been impressed and more than a little envious at the thoroughness with which

Duty cleaned their roads, but somehow a pack of Muties had slipped through, and now two Stalkers

—loners by the looks of them—were dead because of it.

Sighing to himself, he pulled out his old Abakan assault rifle, flipped up the integrated double-

barreled grenade launcher sight, and loaded in two Russian 40mm high explosive 'hopping' rifle

grenades. Then he pulled out his specially-tooled fifty-caliber handgun, pointed it at the sky, and

pulled the trigger.

An ear-splitting crack blew the crows out of nearby trees and caused Markov's ears to buzz like a

hive of angry bees. Instantly, the three boars froze and whipped around to face their new adversary,

the two Duty soldiers momentarily forgotten. That was the thing about boars: short attention span.

Deftly flipping the handgun back into its holster and bringing his rifle to bear all in one smooth

motion, Markov braced himself. The boars charged, roaring at him in guttural oinks. Markov stood

his ground, slowly tightening his grip on the barrel of his weapon and counting down from five

under his breath. Three, two, one, now. Suddenly, he lowered his rifle and charged down the hill

toward the marauding hogs, yelling himself hoarse.

Startled by his sudden show of aggression, the pigs abruptly backpedaled, losing their footing on

the loose sod of the hill. Markov knew well that enough sudden aggression, aptly placed, could

cause your enemy—human or animal—to hesitate, giving one the slight advantage needed to gain

the upper hand.

Markov stopped, whipped his rifle up to his shoulder, flipped up the grenade safety, adjusted his

aim and fired both grenades dead center into the herd of hapless peccaries. The grenades exploded

upwards once, then exploded again, sending blood and seared pork in all directions.

The two Dutyers, shell-shocked by Markov's performance, rushed to his side. "How...how did you

do that?" they asked in almost perfect unison. Markov looked closely at the two patrolmen. They

couldn't be more than fourteen years old. By the Zone, they just kept getting younger! Dark haired

and bright eyed, their fresh new uniforms still had creases in them from being freshly washed and

ironed. Both their posture and their lack of muzzle awareness betrayed the fact that they were

rookies, greener than Sidorovich after bad a can of army rations. No wonder those boars had

managed to slip through! Duty was letting greenies patrol the roads! The competition with Duty's

adversary, Freedom, for control of the Pripyat region up north was taking its toll.

"You saved our hides!" one of them was saying breathlessly "Yeah," continued the other one, "We

were done for! How can we ever thank you?"

"It was nothing," Markov was replying distractedly. If Duty needed fighters, then maybe they

would consider hiring him as a hunter to clear their home territory of mutants. Markov had applied

before but he had always received the same answer: no. It wasn't that Duty didn't care about

hunting; quite the opposite: one of Duty's primary goals was to rid the one of mutants from wild

dogs and boars, the more mundane creatures, on up.

The reason was that Duty hated mercenaries, and while Markov was a hunter and not a hired gun

like some of the scum that roamed the Zone, killing for money, his trade still smacked of the

lawlessness and lack of discipline of Mercenaries. Mercs never worked well within strict

parameters, preferring to do things their way, and after a few unsuccessful assault missions that

busted because of lack of discipline and communication on the part of the Mercs, Duty had never

looked back. But now that he had showed his colors by helping out some Duty troops, maybe old

Veronin, the leader of Duty, would cut him some slack. After all, 'the King Tiger' and him went way

back...he turned back to the greenies and smiled in his slow way. "Maybe you can help me with

something after all..."