Freedom

Chapter 9

It didn't take long to get from the disaster with the rats to the break in the wall that signified the transition from wild country to Duty's protection. Nothing happened on the way, which is for the best, because we were rattled enough that dealing with anything but the smallest threat might have been beyond us. That didn't thrill me, because if rats were all it took to put us in that place, who knew what would happen if we ran into something really serious.

Slayer had bites and burns, but he was in better condition than I'd feared – physically, at any rate. Neither he nor Dixon was truly prepared for the realities of the Zone, and getting chewed up by rats had begun to show that to him. Maybe he'd wise up and get out while he still could.

Apparently it wasn't unusual to hear gunfire and ruckus from the train yard, and neither was it out of the ordinary to see bedraggled stalkers stagger across the line, clearly on their last legs. I covered our backs until we were almost on top of Duty's perimeter. We hadn't seen the worst of the yard – not by a long shot – but we'd seen enough to know that when people tell you not to risk it at night, they mean it.

The Duty soldiers manning the little barricade seemed welcoming; they didn't shoot at us. We moved past the carcasses of dogs and mutants, half-lit by the glare from the mounted lights. I wanted to get here before nightfall, but I didn't need to see this in good light.

They waved us in, and I helped Dixon support Slayer into the welcoming glow of the Bar's lights. Slayer's wounds were superficial, but if it were me, I'd want some antibiotics on them right away. I trusted that Dixon could handle that much. This was it; I have a sentimental side, but it wasn't coming out that night. I stepped away from the two Americans, and Dixon looked up in surprise. He said something, but I was already walking away. I'd done my part, and I could live a long and happy life without ever crossing paths with them again.

I found Rostov quieter than expected. This was supposed to be the only really busy location in the Zone, and it was easily the most people I'd seen since coming here – but it was far from crowded. That was to be expected, I supposed – after all, the whole thing with the Military had devastated the stalker population. It wasn't that there were fewer stalkers at the Bar, there were just fewer stalkers, period. Tensions still ran high. Stalkers were cagier, more careful, and less sociable.

Someone was strumming a guitar, and there was plenty of noise from a nearby passage leading underground. I paused and looked down, curious.

"Don't stand there," a stalker on the landing began, and I quickly moved on. That must have been the actual bar – maybe I'd stop by there later. For the moment I wanted to have a look around. I needed to wind down after the stressful end to the day's trek. There wasn't much to see. The cement walls were pocked with what had to be bullet impacts, and among the scraggly grass poking up between broken walkways I could clearly see shell casings. There had been fighting here. Probably when the Military had stepped in; I'd heard it had been a major upset when they took the Bar by force to use it as a base camp.

Faded stains lingered on walls. The only custodians in the Zone are the carrion eaters, and they don't work very hard; they don't have to. There's no shortage of food for them. It was a thoroughly depressing place. The Bar held none of the wonder of the open Zone, but it did have the feeling of security that comes from being around other people. I stopped and listened to the guitar for a moment, then leaned around the corner to see a few stalkers sitting around a fire in a bare building that they shared with a pulsating anomaly.

Gunshots startled me. They were close, but heavily muffled. I turned to see the side of a large brick building. This had to be the Arena. I'd read about it. Well, that was the last place I wanted to check out. I'd seen enough death today.

So I turned back around and went into the building, feeling a light pull from the anomaly. I walked carefully around it "Can I sit?" I asked in my poor Russian. I got a lot of shrugs in reply, and some curious looks. I didn't want to be rude, so I decided to take a chance and pull down my mask. Even in the firelight, the building was pretty dim; it would be all right.

No one was saying much of anything. One stalker was re-packing a medical kit. Another was inspecting what appeared to be hand-loaded cartridges one at a time. Every so often he would frown at one and discard it. The stalker with the guitar continued to strum away, staring vacantly at the fire. I got the sense he'd had a rough day too. The man across from me was using a pretty scary knife to spear sausages from a can.

They were all older than I was, though not by much. Grizzled. Stubble, scars, and lines decorated their faces. Only one of them wore what I'd call a proper suit of armor; the others had an assortment of fatigues and protective gear. They were well-armed. I set about cleaning my weapons. I didn't feel like it, but it wasn't optional. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't immediately notice that the music had stopped, and that the stalkers had begun to talk.

"They say he did Grader's camp."

"Who says?"

"I don't know. But nobody's seen Grader or his guys in a while."

"Just as well. That guy shook me down at Agroprom a few weeks ago. Ten bandits and I'm in the middle of the road without even a weapon."

"I heard Grader hired the Merc to protect him."

"Well, it didn't work. He's dead."

"I'll believe it when I see it. Who's in charge now?"

"I don't know. Some guy."

"Some guy."

"Hell with you, I didn't get his name."

"The Ghost will get him, too."

"Ghost?" I raised an eyebrow. That got me some funny looks. "I'm a rookie," I told them.

"Guy goes around stabbing people. They say he can get to anyone."

"Ah." My knife thudded into the wooden beam, just inches from the ear of the stalker who had spoken. Every man around the fire had a pistol to my head instantaneously. I leaned past the fire and pulled my knife out, bringing with it the writhing body of a spider almost as big as my hand. If that's not scary, I don't know what is. I flicked it off the knife and into the fire, then wiped the blade and made it disappear. I'd let the stalkers wonder where it had gone.

Actually, the spider had been minding its own business, and moving away from the stalker. But it had occurred to me only after I announced that I was a rookie that might not be a smart move. I didn't know what kind of company I was in. These guys seemed decent enough, but what did I know? So I'd let slip that I was a rookie, but a little showboating also showed them I wasn't easy prey.

They were putting their guns away, and the guy across from me was looking at the spider as it burned. "Thank you, brother." So he spoke English.

"Don't mention it."

"The Ghost will kill anybody," another stalker said, and the conversation was back in Russian again. "Anybody at all. Nothing can protect you. Not even the Merc."

I didn't ask who the Merc was. If I asked about every little thing I didn't know, this conversation would never get anywhere. Not that it seemed to be going anywhere anyway.

"If any of you are thinking of going to the forest, I am told there are bubbles."

Okay, I was about to ask what a bubble was – I couldn't resist – but the question was answered by the guy beside me. "I got stuck in a time bubble once," he grimaced. "Took me two weeks to get out. I nearly starved. But," he said, holding up a finger. "That is not the worst. I met a stalker in Pripyat who told me he had found an anomaly that paralyzed him, and electrified anything that came near. It only freed him when there was an emission imminent. I do not know whether to believe him."

"Never heard of that one."

"Me neither. There's one in the lowlands – the Twilight Shower – they say it can give you peace."

"Ya, but it moves around. You never find it."

"People find it sometimes. I want to try it."

"Don't go down there this time of year, more blood drinkers."

"True, but unless I can find work I have no choice but to trade my rifle for a detector. What if the Twilight Shower produces artifacts? What price would you pay?

Some nods of agreement. I guess times were tough for everybody, not just the blonde. Speaking of blondes, the stalker to my left had a photo in his hand. I gave it a discreet look, and was taken aback when I noticed the blonde in the photo was the same blonde I'd seen the night before – though they were worlds apart. In the photo – well, instead of battered and unstable, she looked healthy and happy. She wore green fatigues and a beret at a jaunty angle. It wasn't clear to me that she knew she was being photographed, but she was showing a smile about a mile wide, and the whitest, most perfect teeth anybody's ever seen.

I leaned over a little. "Who's she?" I asked.

"This?" He angled the photo toward me, smiling lopsidedly. "Velvet. She ran Freedom's rookie camp in the south, before the Military came. She was killed at Chernobyl when the Military and their scientists made the push for the center."

"Ah."

"I never saw her in the flesh, but I traded a Beretta for this photo. I don't know what came over me." He gave a little laugh. Another stalker grinned and produced a different photograph of the same woman.

"I used to have one. I threw it away when I heard she died."

"You guys are idiots," someone else said. Everybody laughed.