Freedom

Chapter 2

There was shooting, but I wasn't the one doing it. It wasn't one shot or two, but a pair of fully automatic bursts. They weren't made of the sharp reports of a rifle, but instead big, booming shots that you could feel in your bones. That said, the two bursts that cut down the men threatening us were actually pretty brief – but that didn't make them any less deafening.

I did the smart thing and threw myself down, but the shooting was over almost before I landed. The noise of the storm was crowding in even before the guy in front of me hit the ground.

I had never, as such, seen someone gunned down – but I think I took it well. I managed to get my Glock out and to twist around, but the need for a gun had passed. The Americans were still on their feet, and I didn't think they'd moved at all. Nice self-preservation instincts, guys.

I jammed the Glock back into its holster and got up, checking to be sure everything was in order. A man – no, stalker – strolled out of the gloom, tucking an enormous, vaguely box-like pistol into a crossdraw holster. He wasn't ignoring us, per say – well, he was ignoring the Americans.

"You come off the chopper?" he shouted over the rain. He wasn't even looking at me.

"Yeah," I called back, trying to sound less shaken than I was.

"Set you up, huh?" He nudged the body with one boot, then knelt down. This guy spoke great English. He picked up the shotgun and looked it over. He held it up and gave it a little shake, then made a face and tossed it aside. He started to pat the man down.

"Yeah."

"That'll happen." He came up with a lighter. He opened it and flicked it on, holding a hand over the flame. I watched him flick it shut and tuck it into a pocket before getting to his feet. "Rookies, huh?"

I opened my mouth to contradict him, but it was the truth, no matter how you looked at it.

"I guess so."

He gave me a funny look. "Where you headed?"

"Not sure yet."

"Pledged?"

"What?" He meant to Duty. "Oh. No."

"Good," he grunted, heading for the cloth-wrapped thing, which stood forgotten not far away. He cut the ties, letting the cloth fall away. Inside was a motorcycle – or a dirt bike, I guess, like you'd see in motocross. It was matte black. The stalker put his hand on it, smiling grimly. Only then did I notice he had a helmet on a strap over his back. I watched him walk a circle around the bike, then kneel down to do things I couldn't see. I turned to check on the Americans. They were pulling themselves together – and by that I mean they were standing over the corpse of the man who'd been covering them, gaping at it.

The rain poured, and I wondered what I was doing with my life. Before I could get to actually thinking about what to do next, the stalker was rising from behind the bike. He pointed past me. "There's a road a couple of hundred meters that way. If you follow it east, there's a bridge. On the far side of the bridge, cut into the woods and there's a farmstead."

"What's there?"

"Best case, a job. Worst, some good advice and a place to sleep. Just try not to look hostile. Or edible." He turned and looked at the Americans. "Take them with you or they won't last the night."

And that was it. No introductions, nothing. He just got on the bike, fired it up, and tore off through the grass. I watched him go for a moment, then shifted my sling and headed for the Americans. They were gathered around their baggage now, mourning it. They'd dropped it all when the second gunman threatened them, and I suppose that hadn't done their delicate equipment any good. They were shell-shocked, not from the shooting, but from the dollar value attached to their loss. Not to mention this probably meant they couldn't even do what they'd come for.

This was not a very promising start – but I guess it was better for me than it was for them. I hadn't actually lost anything in that little encounter. This was exactly what I had hoped to avoid. Unfortunately, I have a conscience. I thought about what the stalker had said.

Between us, the Americans and I had quite a bit of brand-new, high-quality equipment – which is in high demand here in the Zone. The stalker could have just as easily taken us down as well; we would have been easy targets, frozen the way we were. He hadn't. To me that suggested he was a generally decent person. If he had a reason to lie, or to send us somewhere dangerous, I didn't know what it was. Besides, it wasn't like I had a better idea. This wasn't where I'd meant to be let off.

So I gathered up the Americans, and we struck out east. They came along easily. They say there are leaders and followers; I don't know if I'm a leader, but the Americans were followers, no question. They were dumb, but not so dumb that they didn't realize standing around in the open in this weather wasn't the way to go. As long as they followed my lead, I figured I could deal. If they did anything stupid or got uppity, I'd cut them loose no matter what my conscience said. Call me a bad person, but I wasn't ready to die for these two morons.

I didn't want to take out my PDA in this weather, but we were far enough from the center that an ordinary compass worked just as well for navigation. I wasn't exactly sure where we were, but from the stalker's mention of what had to be a roughly north-south road and a bridge, I thought maybe we were in the prairies northwest of Morozov. Since that stalker had been carrying a helmet, I had to assume that 450 from the chopper was for him. It seemed like the pilots had been free with the coordinates of our landing to everyone but us.

We went east with the storm, but couldn't keep up. It moved on, darkening the sky ahead. The rain let up a little, but it was still wet and miserable. At least we could see, but only for the moment. Night was setting in. On the bright side, being this far out west meant that we were probably safer in general than if we'd been dropped deeper in, like I'd originally intended.

The air seemed to thicken as we walked. Back where we'd landed, it had seemed normal, like anywhere else in the world – but the farther east we went, the more things changed. The rain was still falling, but I wasn't noticing it anymore. Ahead, muted pink and white flashes lit up the clouds over the darkness surrounding Chernobyl. It was miles and miles away, but still felt somehow immediate.

I made a conscience effort to pull my wits about me. It was too easy to get lost in the wonder of the Zone. The sights weren't enough; it also played with your feelings, like the place itself was getting in and tinkering with my brain chemistry.

I watched the darkness around us carefully. I wasn't worried; I had plenty of light. One mounted on my armor, another on my AK. Two compact hand lights. I reached to my shoulder and flicked the light on.

I'd read all about Zone Theory – the arguments and suppositions of people outside the Zone regarding how things work here. A lot of them said lights at night were a bad idea because they broadcast your position. These were the kind of people who think a little, talk a lot, and never actually do anything. They had a point, but they were also missing the point. Okay – don't turn on your light. Nobody will see you. But will that make you feel better when you walk into an anomaly? You can use night vision, but that limits your hearing and your field of view. If there was an answer that beat only traveling in the daytime, I hoped I lived long enough to find out what it was.

My light showed me dark grass streaked with rainwater, waving in strong wind. The rain had slackened off a little, and my PDA was allegedly waterproof – so I took it out and got it running. The first thing I did was try to connect to the notoriously unreliable Stalker Network. It was either down or out of range; each seemed equally likely. But my GPS and sat map were working fine. I checked our location. My instincts had been good. I angled north a little, and we almost immediately reached the road. From there it would only be a short walk to the bridge.

The map I had loaded was up to date – which is to say, it had been modified after the last reported emission. If there'd been another one during the day, while I'd been traveling, then it would be obsolete – but I couldn't update it until I could connect to the network.

I checked the open frequency, but got nothing but static. There weren't many stalkers out this far west; no jobs, no artifacts. Safer, sure, but nothing to do. Except ambush rookie stalkers being brought in by air, I guess.

The Americans were talking again – I wasn't sure if that was good or not. "Wow, real bandits, man!" I did myself a favor and tuned them out. Something moved – or I thought it did – way out in the grass on our right. I turned and leaned into my AK to take aim – but the light on my shoulder caused blinding glare on my red-dot. I lowered the rifle and switched it off, blinking stars from my eyes. I guess it was a good thing I found out about that little bug now, instead of in combat. I took aim a second time, squinting at the dark. If there'd been anything out there, it was gone now.

The Americans had stopped when my light went out, and wisely kept silent. Now they were chattering again. I dealt with it. We'd barely crossed the bridge when faint light became visible in the trees. I paused, and the Americans held up as well, quieting down. I got out my binoculars and took a look. It was hard to make out, but it looked like firelight. It had to be the farmstead our benefactor had directed us to.

My AK was hanging on my armor's harness, and I took my hand away from it, motioning for the Americans to sling their weapons. We headed in, doing our best not to look threatening. Roughly sixty seconds later, we were at gunpoint. Again.