Chapter Text
1
A hard snowfall, sudden gusts of cold air that would wash over your entire body. Some of the worst weather for Stalkers to go into the Zone in. Something a few steps away from being a blizzard had rolled into the Zone over Amnesties border walls, and it had caused all the creatures that find comfort in this place to seek refuge, including the mutants. Mercenary companies who were tasked with clearing out Mutants would ease up on their efforts, taking defensive positions in nice tents armed with space heaters to stave off the cold, Mutants would find hovels in the ground and pile up with one another for warmth, and Stalkers would simply refuse to creep during this time. Anomalies were the most dangerous thing for the creeps, and when the weather was shit it was always much harder to spot the difference between a gentle leaf being carried on the wind, or a trap that planned on ripping you to shreds. The whole prospect of going out in the winter storm didn’t inspire confidence in anyone. All except one, a Stalker they called Bright.
Bright was an oddity in the underworld of Amnesty. They say he had been creeping since he was a kid, about age ten or so. Probably the youngest person to ever set foot in the Zone and come back alive, and he did so very regularly. Rumors also spread that Bright had been into the Zone more than anyone else, but that was just useless conjecture. It had been a little over fifteen years since this mysterious stalker came onto the scene, under the watchful gaze of the man who sponsored him, the Crow.
Everyone in Amnesty's criminal underworld knew exactly who and what the Crow was. He was a Stalker, one of the greatest in history, first to bring out some of the most dangerous artifacts the Zone had ever produced. He had produced a few notable Stalkers in his retirement, but most of them had died or given up the trade themselves. It was starting to seem the old guard was fading away, then Bright appeared on the scene. A stalker who was bringing back swag once to twice a week, and consistent too. The pace this guy set was unbelievable, unheard of out of the dens of creeps across Amnesty. To add on to the growing legend, Bright did something unthinkable to most stalkers, he did it alone.
The man was nothing short of remarkable amongst the sea of un-remarkables that often found themselves tempted by the sums the Zone can produce. Today, Bright had entered the Zone, and intended to leave the same way he came in. The snow storm that had rolled in was a part of the rigid schedule he wished to keep.
2
He trudged through the foliage of the woods, taking one cautious step at a time, his eyes watering from the specs of snow that would fall in them from time to time. His heavy jacket and many layers did their best to keep him warm, but the matter of his hand protection was less than desirable. He had elected to not wear gloves fit for winter weather for today's outing, out of fear his hands would be slowed by a warmer pair, so he elected for a slightly thicker pair of leather gloves which he had hoped would suffice. They didn’t. He kept his hands tucked into his jacket for warmth, as much as he could. However every five feet he walked he proceeded to pull out a bolt from the pockets he had stored his hands in, and tossed it forward. The most known stalker habit, toss a bolt through the air, watch if the trajectory wavers. If it does, you have a strong chance of an Anomaly in front of you, if not, your chances are much less.
The anomalies are often invisible things that make no sound and have no presence. The only way to know if ones where you’re looking is by inspecting the world around you. In this storm, that was rather hard to do. The bolts would waver, but with the wind it was hard to tell when it was nature itself or the Zone pushing the bolts around./p>
He tossed a bolt ahead of him, it tore through the air before hitting the soft snow, disappearing beneath. Nothing about the toss was unordinary, but it turned in the air one too many times for Bright's liking. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. The whirling wind around him faded, and the cold that chilled his bones vanished. All the Stalker heard was his own heart beat, beating to the drum of his very life.
Then, like the break in music before a great crescendo, it stopped. He opened his eyes, and they scanned the terrain. He gazed where the bolt fell, the snowflakes now burying it. Nothing. The trees around him, bark frozen with the winter, leaves having died off months ago now. Still nothing. The space in the air, the wind pushed snow all around him, covering anything in white. There was a lull, the way the snowflakes, as infinite as the stars, fell to the earth. Like they were being caught, hindered, their descent unnatural. Now he’d found it.
He reached for a stray match in one of his pockets, and after a few hard swipes on his gloves, lit it for just long enough to toss it through the air. The fire was out before it hit the snow, but the briefest flame was enough to show Bright what he needed to see, the silver strands that blocked his path. An anomaly, and a dangerous one. They call it Fuzz, side effects vary but in twenty four hours Stalkers that have come into contact with it usually suffer from multiple organ failure, death is likely. Usually Fuzz was visible during the day when the sun's light hit it just right, but in this weather most Stalkers wouldn’t have been able to see it. Most. Bright exhaled for the first time, it had felt like forever but only a few seconds passed. He stifled a cough and found a safer route.
3
Bright found himself out of the woods eventually, after a slow and arduous journey. Though now the hard part was just beginning, as he was greeted with an old town. With buildings decayed, and the roads cracked and broken, chunks of asphalt and cement jutting out of the ground like spikes. Deep pits were littered all throughout, waiting to swallow up those that lost their footing. The war had turned this place into one hell of a tripping hazard.
It was called Ghost Town to the Stalkers, and no one ever came here after the cleansing. It was said Stalkers came decades ago, plucking swag from all over, until one of the stupid bastards disturbed some kind of mutant nest nearby, and like flies to honey they swarmed the place. Eventually Ghost Town became a den of mutants, and wherever mutants gather and breed, the Mercs would soon arrive to do what the government paid them to. After they cleansed the place, it would remain empty, any and all swag plucked clean, only things left are a dozen or more dangerous anomalies. That was, if you didn’t know where to look. Bright was on a mission for an artifact he’d studied for weeks, and after finding a buyer the clock was ticking on getting it. Ghost Town had all the right conditions for the artifact to appear, and he was sure it would.
He slowly made his way down from the woods into the town, one bolt throw at a time. When he’d reach the asphalt road, he was already tired. He looked to the sky, the sun was high, he’d been out here a long while already. He took a breath and continued the walk along the snow covered road. Walking along cracked ground was dangerous, because any of the cracks could have a torch beneath, but in the snow you could hardly see the cracks as they’re filled with snow. Bright had to be slow, watching where the snow fell carefully. Torches were hot, and the snow ever so slightly melting would reveal to him where to step and where not to. He still relied on the bolts to guide him, cause in the event his eyes failed him he’d want the extra insurance.
The buildings of Ghost Town were crumbling, once a quaint place, full of families and residents. Bright marched past stores, an old bakery with faded lettering along the glass that said MILTON DELIGHTS. Next to that some kind of old general store, two stories so someone must have lived above it. In a place like this, all the townsfolk probably knew each other, went to the same baseball games, and attended the same church. Ah the Church. It was a landmark Bright used to get around the Ghost Town as it sat at the center. An ever tall, imposing building where the people of the old world prayed to God. Bright had made his way now to the front steps, and after tossing a few bolts deemed it safe to rest for a moment. He wiped off a bit of snow on the steps before slumping down with a loud sigh.
He reached into a pocket on his coat, his hands were freezing as he produced a cigarette. He struggled to light it for a moment with the matches, many of them were wet with snow, lucky for him the wind had died down for a moment. He thought about lighting his cigarette with a Torch, something he’d heard of a Stalker doing for a laugh. Bright couldn’t quite remember if that Stalker lived after or not, probably not. Stalkers loved a good story, it was their way of remembering the fallen, and preserving their history. No one would write or make art about them, they were the outcast and downtrodden lot that plagued the city of Amnesty with illegal and dangerous artifacts. So they did it themselves. You’d go to a Stalker den and hear songs of Old Mad Dog, the man who killed a Demon in flight. Or the tale of Grey Wolf, one of the earliest Stalkers who founded much of what all of them practice today. Stalkers flocked together in this way, bonding over tales of the dead. In a way it was insurance, because one day if and when a Stalker bites the dust, they too want to be remembered in such a way, closest thing to immortality a man can achieve.
Bright took many long drags on his cigarette, looking on to the snow covered landscape around him. This moment of peace reminded him how tired his body was. He’d been at it for weeks now, in the Zone almost every day, with only a day of rest in between. So much swag passed through his hands, and equal amounts of money. There’d be more to come though, more rumors of swag unreached, a witness with a horror story. He’d follow those bread crumbs, until he’d found what he was after. As he took one more drag, the embers of the dart stung the tip of his gloved fingers. He dropped the cigarette, stomping it out. As he let the smoke out of his lungs, a cough followed. The coughing went on for longer than usual, as his lungs felt tight and his head felt clouded. He coughed into his hands for a few minutes, tears streaming down his face from the hacking. When he finished he wiped his hands over his eyes, and felt something warm off his glove. Blood on his glove, great. He’d have to play it safer, he didn’t have a witness to tell his story.
A breeze blew from behind him, sending a chill up his neck. The wind carried with it the smoke of his cigarette, and for the briefest of moments, Bright thought he heard a voice. He turned on his heels to look behind him, and all he saw was the Church doors, opened ever so slightly by the gentle breeze. He stared for a while, his left hand reaching for a bolt slowly, sweat forming at his brow. If it was an anomaly it’d snuck up on him, probably forming right behind him while he was unfocused. If it wasn’t, he was losing his fucking mind. He was hoping for the latter.
He tossed the bolt, aiming right for the open gap in the door. It hit the ground with a dull
thud. His breath was shaky, unsatisfied with the lack of results. He knew he’d heard something. Auditory anomalies weren’t unheard of to him, but someone talking was new. He took a deep breath inward, the sounds of the world faded, his heartbeat was all he heard. The sound of his heartbeat then disappeared, and he gazed upon the world once more. The snow that covered the steps and entrance wasn’t unordinary, no torches. The wood of the door was solid, having braved the harsh elements without much damage, despite no upkeep. From its slightly open position he couldn’t tell anything, it truly felt like it was just opened by the breeze. Though something deeper still, he could sense it. Beyond the door something was ringing, an anomaly? Maybe even a mutant. A trap of the Zone. Though he felt no pangs of danger throughout his body, no tightness or threats. In this very moment in fact he felt surprisingly loose, like being welcomed. It was a strange sensation, a new one. Before he knew it he was fully to his feet, and his hand was on the wood door of the church. The doors of the church were pushed open, and Bright stepped in.
4
The church was beautiful, made of limestone with ornamentation all along the walls and pillars of the interior. The pews of this space were largely untouched, not one broken, still eagerly awaiting to sit those attending mass. The stained glass windows that wrapped around the inside of the church depicted Jesus and his carrying of the cross. The church would be in near perfect condition, if not for a large hole in the ceiling right above the center altar, a gentle snowfall covering the altar, and the thing that called all his senses to attention. Then the sound of a rhythmic heartbeat, one that wasn’t his own. The center of the altar, it was coming from there. Bright approached, he hadn’t tossed a bolt the whole time he was here. He wiped the snow off the top, and could hear the beating heart beneath the stonework. The beating was louder in his ears still, progressively getting more and more invasive till he felt like it was a drummer beating against his very brain. He had to get whatever was in here out, it was calling to him, he had to get it out, unless he wanted to go mad here.
He found a rock presumably from the ceiling, it had a good weight to it, this would work. He began to smash with urgency at the top of the altar. Sweat formed along his brow and neck. The stone dented and cracked ever so little, but Bright didn’t stop. His hood fell off his head, the white of his hair falling in front of his vision. His swings became sluggish, the weight of his arms became heavier and heavier. Though with one final exasperated swing, the center of the altar caved, revealing the hollow inside. He looked in, and saw a small item, a cube. It could fit into the palm of his hand, a perfect geometric shape of six sides, with small asymmetric lines that were engraved along its surface. Most peculiarly, it had a pulsing glow, matching the beat of the heartbeat that boomed in his mind, but as he gazed upon the cube the booming faded, all he heard was his own heartbeat and ragged breathing. His coughing returned to him, as he gripped the edges of the Altar, blood splattering the stonework. The pain in his chest sent him to the floor, back leaned against the Altar.
Bright couldn’t help but realize he’d never been in a church in all his life. He’d heard that one of the practices was turning wine into the blood of Jesus or something like that, though it proposed the question of could you turn blood into wine. In that moment, he would have liked much more to be coughing up wine all over the place than blood. The insane thought made him laugh between painful coughs. He pulled out a canteen of water, forcing some down to stifle the coughing. In time his coughs would fade, but a distant pain was now persistent in his chest. He’d definitely overdone it this time. He pulled himself up with effort, and looked down at the cube again, the pulsing glow still persistent. Other bits of swag which were often amorphous and inconsistent, or needlessly complex. This though, was simple, elegant even.
Something had compelled him to this artifact, though no artifact had ever made his body do that before. It called to him, almost like it yearned for him to find it, and when he did Bright was returned to his senses. It had to be an anomaly of some kind, something that could control your mind. Evil thing that. He wiped his mouth, took another swig of water. After putting his canteen away he walked away, he didn’t ill omens clinging to him, nothing about this was a good scene. He was halfway out of the church when he couldn’t help but recount a memory from many many years ago. Something Rich once told him, something that kept him going when Bright thought the Zone had beaten him for good.
“We’re like thieves, Yuri. We steal from the Zone, and it's always out to get us for it. Never forget it's you vs it, and any time you get the chance you take everything you can from it, you do it, cause it will take everything it can from you.”
Yuri smiled, ever the antagonist Rich is. He turned back to the altar, retrieving the cube and placed it in his pack. His geiger counter didn’t register any radiation off it, so it would be safe to keep outside the box for the time being. The Zone had taken some of his blood, Yuri would call it a trade for the swag.
“We’re even, try turning it into wine or something.” He said aloud, met without response. Bright stepped outside, still more work to be done.
5
The snow crunched under foot, bolts leaving small pinholes wherever Bright was walking. There were plenty of anomalies all around as he approached the northern side of town. Torches were the most common, but another anomaly was becoming more apparent. A type of black bramble creeps liked to call Satan's Beard. Touch it once and one of your arteries is likely to explode. Bright first caught sight of it peeking out from the snow, growing up the wall of a nearby alley. He couldn’t risk crossing the roads anymore, at least anywhere he couldn’t see the ground beneath. Satan’s Beard usually grew in dark places, so he wasn’t expecting it to be out in the open like this, but if it was growing outside somewhere then it could be everywhere. Bright looked around for an alternative, a dead road covered in cracks, tears in the earth, having swallowed up a number of old cars no longer operational. An idea came to him at that moment, as he walked over to a car partially fallen into a crack in the earth. He didn’t see any brambles across it, so after carefully making his way to it, he opened the passenger side door.
He figured there might be something in here that could help him, really what he needed was a big stick to clear the snow in front of him that wasn’t his own hand. A shovel could be perfect, but he’d settle for anything at this point. He looked inside before entering fully, tossing a bolt in the front seat and back for good measure, nothing. He climbed in, sifting through the glove compartment, under seats, only to find old and decayed personal belongings. Clothes, papers, small files containing personal information. He pulled out a polaroid with a three person family, husband and wife and a little girl. The shadows of the end of the world were all around a Stalker, a reminder of what had been. Bright was sure most people didn’t pay much attention to the lost history after the war, but in his line of work he was forced to all the time. For a moment he almost envied the people in this photo. There were no bodies in the car, maybe they got to safety when the first of the explosions went off, either that or they got caught in the first wave of sudden mutations. He shook the thoughts and gently placed the photo back in the back where he found it. He hopped out the car, no luck, he’d try the trunk. He pulled out a knife he kept on his thigh, used for most cutting or prying things when needed as opposed to self-defense.
With a bit of finesse, he had the trunk opened. Digging through more bags and belongings, it was clear to him this family was leaving to somewhere probably out of town, permanently. He pulled aside a tarp that was wrapped around some long metal objects, and he’d struck gold. A combat shovel, the kind they used in the military it looked like, it was small but it’d work. Beside that, an old rifle. Bright let out a low whistle at the sight of it. Pre-war rifles could go for a pretty penny in good shape, but he wasn’t here for scrap and relics. He left it, guns are bad luck to skilled Stalkers.
With the shovel in hand, he began to clear a path to the mill. He was careful not to get the shovel tangled in any Satan's Beard, as he pushed snow out of the way to clear a route. He was working double time now, bolts every few steps, shoveling snow all the while. The sun was in its decent now, he wanted this done faster. The pain in his chest hadn’t faded one bit, and if he had a situation like the church again he might not be able to get himself out with his talent. He had to use the old stalker tricks, the long road. As he walked, the bolts continued to fly and fall, but his latest toss felt wrong.
He tossed six more bolts, and discerned what happened to them in the air. They were being yanked by something, an invisible sort of force. Tossing them off their flight path. Bright took a moment to guess, coming to the conclusion this was definitely a Slingshot. Stepping into it would fling you in a direction at high speeds, relative to your size. The heavier you were the harder and faster you’d fly. His bolts had traced the shape, covering most of the center road and half the sidewalk. The anomaly had so kindly left a gap between the wall of a shop and it though. He’d have to double back and find a new route across the street if he didn’t want to squeeze. Take the long road. He coughed blood once more. Fuck the long road. He started to maneuver around it. He didn’t need to vacuum his whole abdomen as much as he did, but it gave him comfort, like the invisible trap before him was gonna catch the tip of his stomach if he didn’t. He had made it past the anomaly now, feeling comfortable enough to exhale. He was about two streets away from the mill, he could see the smoke stacks from here. The closer he got, the more likely anomalies were going to appear. He’d have to keep on his guard even more. The last two streets seemed longer than ever.
Patience in the Zone was its own talent, and one Bright often shrugged off. Being in the Zone was often a ticking time bomb for Stalkers, the longer you stayed the more likely something was to come and snatch you up. This caused inexperienced Stalkers to panic, to take shortcuts and find cheap tricks to get around the Zone, but that always ended up the same.
“Go be one with the Running Man”, a turn of phrase favored in creep dens all over Amnesty. Story goes that an eager Stalker burst onto the scene practically flying through the Zone. He had gotten some valuable swag in less than five hours on his first run, an impressive feat. Everyone said he got lucky, but some even rumored he must have been blessed or something, like he had a gift. His second run a railgun bisected him from twenty yards away, some gift. Bright was taught all the old Stalker stories, many of which he was certain the Crow made up just to scare him into good habits. Funny, kids were told stories of monsters eating them if they didn’t brush their teeth, Bright was taught what a man getting ripped in half looked like if he didn’t double check where he walked. These lessons hung on him more than ever during the approach of the mill, now a monument of success in his mind.
The steel mill of Ghost Town was a rather large complex, of brick foundation, chimney stacks that towered above the world. There were old steel containers of scrap metal, some scattered in the dirt yards, or placed in old trucks that hadn’t functioned in years. A railroad passed behind the mill, from southwest to farther north east. The facility was divided into multiple buildings, but Bright was interested in the second smallest of the three. In his scouting of the spot in weeks past he noticed the greatest concentration of Rusty Hair growing along the chimney stacks, some had spread to the roof proper. There in the center of the roof was a hole, not too big, a man couldn’t even fit in, but snow sure could. The odd part of this place to Bright was there was something else that grew on the outer walls and roof of the mill, a sort of green stonelike substance. If he didn’t recognize it then that was a good sign he was far from Amnesty, too far probably. Though an Anomaly he didn’t recognize might mean the swag he needs is inside at this very moment.
The artifact he was after was only found during the winter, that’s when it formed, revealed itself. What he had guessed though was the conditions were more specific than that. For starters, the only other man he’d heard of finding it was Grey Wolf, and rumors say the old dog got lit by a torch trying to grab it. Another fella was a man named Strader, said he tried pulling him out of a live Bug-Zapper before kicking the bucket. Straders witness came back babbling about this great artifact, something legendary. When other Stalkers went to succeed where Strader failed months later it was gone, only the Bug-Zapper and a corpse remained. Snow was one sure sign, another was heat, and lots of it. Like a gemstone it seemed like this swag needed to be heated up, then shot out in the Zone someway, then the cold revealed it. This could all be superstition, just more Stalker nonsense that they used to tell stories around piles of cigarette ash and empty bottles. To Bright it had to be true, it must be.
6
Bright started his long trek inside the mill. The snow had started picking up even more now, his hands were frozen solid at this point. Fuck what he wouldn’t give for a warm drink and a smoke right now, but this was the big time, the real test. He walked towards the nearest opening, the shoveling of the snow making his arms tired, holy hell was Satan's Beard thick here. He wouldn’t even risk trying to step over it even if it seemed safe, always make sure you can head back the same way you came. He was certain there were cracks under all the snow around here, but he could hardly tell at this rate. He peered ahead at the garage opening, a large truck was parked halfway out the entrance. It gave him a nasty feeling, something about its rims were too nice, shining even, like the decades hadn’t touched them one bit. No, to hell with that, he doubled back.
There was a second side entrance on the farther side of the building. Only issue is the entrance was a loading zone, with a big opening instead of ceiling. Dangling from it was an old crane arm, surrounded by bits of scaffolding. It gave him a bad feeling, anomalies hanging from it no doubt. Though the lead up to the loading zone opening was covered with bits of chunks of scrap. Snow collected on the tops of them, now buried, but the differences in elevation from the concrete was plain, that gave him some hope. Bright made his way to the path, testing time and time again, throwing two bolts before stepping now. It was like playing ‘the floor is lava’ as a child, slowly stepping from one rickety piece to the next. He had about seventeen to step before entering, though one zigzagged weirdly, he could skip that. He bit his lip, what was he thinking, long road, always long road. When he got to the zigzag of scrap, crack crack crack. Bright held his breath, looking down and around. He couldn’t recognize the anomaly from sound alone, but he didn’t see anything either. Bad, terrible in fact. He wanted to step back but … no he couldn’t, an instinct in his body told him not to. Crack crack crack, like the sound of a man smashing peanuts with his fists at a bar, it rattled around him. He scanned the area, his eyes the only thing moving on his whole person. About four feet away from there it was, a small perfectly round shadow on the ground, its movements sporadic and fast. There was nothing above it to cast the shadow, nothing he could see. It was aimless zipping from point to point, it hadn’t crossed his path yet though, he could keep going. No that wouldn’t work, he didn’t have a name for this anomaly, didn’t know its patterns, what if he could hear him? What if it was waiting for him to move? Too many risks, standing still was the best option. He looked at the Zigzag now, that one fateful step out then it would make seventeen. What an unlucky number, he didn’t even consider that. Every Stalker superstition came to his mind in moments like these, like reciting a prayer in times of need.
The shade continued its movements for the longest minute a single human as ever had, before it began to go further from him. Bright exhaled, a cough daring to escape his lungs but he held on, his mouth tasted of iron. He skipped the seventeenth step and was now inside the Mill. What a feeling it was, to feel like you’ve finally reached your desired destination. It was so sweet Bright had almost forgotten he still wasn’t finished. Moments like these Stalkers often forgot they had to make a return trip. Bright couldn’t help but notice the sun was in its descent, a good sign that his routine was disturbed. He stood in the entrance for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the light. Everything should have been covered in dust, but as his eyes adjusted to the dark he noticed that wasn’t the case. The dust was there, just floating in the air all around. Sure sign of a Dry Bath, harmless anomaly, so harmless stalkers didn’t even give it a name. Bright had a name for all the anomalies he’d seen in his life, and when this was all said and done he’d come up with a name for the one lurking outside the mill.
He surveyed the space, a break room on the far eastern side, metal struts all above, high enough that Fuzz shouldn’t dangle down. Forklifts, pallets of refined metals, a large machine that looked like it was meant to thin the metal into wire somehow. Crawling throughout the space was Rusty Hair, like ivy on an old brick wall. Bright noticed it was noticeably warmer in here, a joy compared to outside. The snow on his body floated off him as he took patient steps forward, then melted in the hot air. Bright was careful, more careful than he had been the whole trip. Every piece of scrap haphazardly scattered throughout, every jostled crack, he didn’t even touch the walls for fear of something going off. His eyes constantly scanned the space, he didn’t know where the swag was, just that it should be around here. Till then he was walking aimlessly, among a sea of possible traps. The heat was rising as he walked deeper in, the comfort of his heavy clothes was quickly lost, and sweat covered his body.
His eyes locked on a large machine nearer the center. Probably some kind of metal caster? He watched as dust danced around it, almost swirling like a whirlpool in the sky. Risky, but it felt right. He made the walk. He had to cross the entrance he came in, getting a full view of the outside world, and something darting across the tree line. He stopped dead in his tracks and turned to the entrance, his eyes having to adjust to the outside slightly. Nothing near the tree line, he didn’t buy it, his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, he’d refuse to believe it. That happened to novices but not him, if his instincts told him something was staring at him then by god he’d thank them and offer a smoke. He was frozen to the spot, just scanning the tree line, listening to his surroundings. Nothing, as if whatever was out there knew he knew. Bright's hand slowly reached toward the bayonet knife he kept on his right thigh.
Stalkers often avoided guns as bad luck, despite mutants being common as flies on shit in the Zone. Reason was, mutants avoided the parts of the Zone stalkers went to. Mutants had an ability for knowing where anomalies were, like an instinct in their body. They could smell them or something, and never went anywhere near them. Stalkers did because the swag was usually nearby, and mutants had no need for swag. Carrying a gun then just became a burden, an unnecessary anxiety. Everytime a novice brings a gun they try to use it, and it gets them and their partners caught by the police most of the time, or actually alerts mutants to them. Mutants are tricky bastards, they’ll stalk your path, wait for you on the return trip, then gobble you right up. Guns are nice in those moments, but in truth most mutants can shrug off the bullets, at least enough to kill you first. For this reason, Bright didn’t carry one, though he would curse himself now for not.
A shifting of metal on the far west side of the mill had Bright turn his whole body. The knife slid out effortlessly, so light in his hand. Bright had to move west to get to the caster, and he was certain the noise was farther than that. Risk after risk this run was proving. The mutant hadn’t appeared yet, it probably knew anomalies were out here. Bright had to wonder if they knew the difference in danger they all proposed, could it know a Dry Bath would do no more than rid you of dust and clear your sinuses? Did it know a torch could melt a steel rod? No, probably not, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t take the risk, especially if it was hungry enough. Hunger, that might have been why it came for Bright, smelled him on the wind or something, he’s heard of them doing that. His thoughts became mush in his mind, only serving to distract him from the encounter. Distraction, he thought. He produced a bolt from his pouch, and tossed it hard into the wall above the far western wall. He heard a scuttle, a silent hiss. Bright almost laughed with joy, it sounded small, maybe it was scared of him. He took some steps forward, another bolt slammed into the wall. More scuttling, moving into the corner of the room.
Bright continued this dance, moving in a wide circle towards the back of the caster, hoping that the creature wouldn’t get wise to the attention of his harassment. Stay the fuck away! Was all Bright could think of. As Bright reached the caster, he was so careful of his steps, but his attention was split now, between the anomalies, the caster, and the entity. When he was half a step from the caster, he heard a swoosh sound right above him. He looked up, the swirling cloud of dust, it dropped ten feet since he last looked. As Bright stood there, his whole body tensed up, and the swirling cloud moved faster, as fast as a tornado. In no time at all Bright lost his footing, slid across the ground and slammed into the metal chassis of the caster. Then it slowly started to rise, two, four, eight feet into the air. He reached out to grab hold of something, panic setting in. He caught an old dilapidated railing on the edge of the caster, and gripped for dear life, as the winds around him raged.
7
The Merry-Go-Round, that’s what it was called. Usually you’d see them moving across the Zone like dust devils, picking up debris and objects to toss around as they please. Dangerous for sure, but not subtle. This one had snuck up on him, what piss poor luck. No not luck, greed. Bright cursed himself. He had been running himself ragged for months, too many trips to the Zone in too short a time. Made him jumpy, made him confident. He didn’t think he was confident until right now, and he cursed every ounce of pride he’d ever had in himself. Fucker, you dumb fuck. Look whats happened now! Got caught, it was bound to happen. Bright strained, he had to get his second hand on the railing, his right hand grip was slipping. He saw out his eyes, looking around for something, maybe he could let go and catch himself somewhere else. More desperate thoughts, interrupted by the sight of the creature, standing before the entrance out of the mill. The size of a dog, it was pitch black, like the light from outside was absorbed into its form, standing on four legs with a large hunch in its back. Its eyes were like diamonds in its twisted and pointed skull, and it smiled a smile so wide and white it would make you sick. It stared at Bright, like it was proud.
Fuck you piece of shit. You did this, you shouldn’t have been here. What the hell are you here for huh?! Wanna kill me? Bright's second hand reached the railing. Somewhere metal was creaking, bending under the pressure of the torrential winds. The smiling dog was waiting for him now, to fly out and land, broken and unable to defend himself. Bright looked around, demanding himself to think. He didn’t come out here to die, he never did. The Zone wasn’t his grave, it was his trust fund, it was his to tame and use whenever, however, the fuck he wanted. The winds were pulling him to his left, that would land him somewhere in the front of the smiling dog, but if he could position himself correctly … a chance. He used all the strength in his arms to pull himself forward, the metal creaking and bending under his grip, the railing was going to give out. He was opposite of the rail now. He took a few look backs, a deep inhale, and let go. The winds carried him, Bright forced his body to go limp in the air. He flew far to the left, but after repositioning wouldn’t land in front of the dog, but about twenty feet from it.
Bright had scouted the rough area he thought he’d land, he underestimated the force he’d fly. He slammed into a metal support beam shoulder first, sending him spinning, something broke in his left arm. He skipped across the stone floor like a pebble, the cracks in the concrete floor ignited with ferocity, as ten foot gouts of flame shot into the air. Brights luck turned around, for the flames didn’t catch him fully, only licking at his clothes, the Merry-Go-Round had thrown him faster than they ignited. Bright landed on his chest, looking down at the ground. Pain coursing through his shoulder, chest, and back. He struggled to one knee, the Bayonet was drawn. There was the smiling dog, staring at him through the flames. Bright tensed, his upper body was weak, but he had strength still in his legs. He was crouched now, waiting to spring forward with the knife. He’d drive it into the creature, the demon that haunted this stupid fucking mill. The smiling dog moved forward, not once triggering the dormant torches.
Brights mind was scattered now. Mantras crossed his mind, words of self-hate and encouragement all entangled. So many Stalkers before him must have been in similar situations, and so many died. He’d be one of them too, probably one day, the Zone would make sure of that. Everyone had their day, perhaps this was just his. Yuri clenched his teeth hard. Come on stalker, what the fuck did Solon take you in for?! What was it all for?! You’ve been in worse spots right? Just win, just survive! That’s all right?! He thought. Unable to continue feeling sorry for himself, a single moment of clarity, he let out a shout.
“COME ON!”
The smiling dog responded. It bounded toward him in a criss-crossing motion, avoiding traps. Yuri’s eyes followed, waiting to strike. The creatures mouth was open, an impossible wide maw with rows of teeth after teeth, that disgusting smile still painted on its ugly mug. It’d bite him that surely, the claws on its feet weren’t too long. Just a mangy dog at the end of the day. Yuri tensed as it leapt at him, waiting half a second, then turning his blade upward towards the sky slashed upward, catching the mutt on the jaw. He swung his whole body to his left, trying to use the momentum of the creature to toss it away from him to the right. The creature landed before him, and Yuri had fallen on his ass, using his bad arm to catch himself. The pain was blinding, and the beast didn’t let him wince in peace. It lunged at him again, able to recuperate much quicker despite the sizable gash in its jaw. Yuri quickly positioned the knife and his forearm across the beasts massive mouth, trying to bar it from biting down with its full force. It trashed and tried to bite properly, putting Yuri on his back. Yuri struggled, his right arm was being crushed by the force of this creature. He couldn’t maneuver the knife deeper in without losing a hand, then he’d be done for sure. A brief sensation overcame, a wave of heat behind his head, and his whole mind and body became one with what he needed to do. He wrestled his legs under the dog, and kicked with tenacity. The smiling dog fell back a good few feet, just enough for Yuri to bring both legs inward, knees close to his chest. The creature mindlessly bounded toward him. Fucking dog.
It lunged at him, but with enough space between them, Yuri had made a fulcrum of himself, and when the beast hit his boots, Yuri rolled backwards, lifting the dog above him now, gnashing at him helplessly. With all the force his body had left, he kicked upward, trying to aim behind his head, and the creature soared above and past him. He heard the light of the torch and the wailing before he saw it. Rolling forward to his knees and turning, he watched as the beast had slid across the concrete much like he did moments ago, having triggered three torches, its blackened fur lit ablaze. The wailing it let out was horrid, not like a dog at all. It screamed like a man whose voice had been fed through a speaker, a horrid dissonant cry of pain. It trashed, rolling around in a desperate attempt to live. Yuri watched it for a time, as it lay there screaming.
“Just a hungry dog.” he reached into his pocket, produced an unopened pack of dry crackers, and tossed them hard at the still burning body. “I’d have fucking fed you asshole! Well, go ahead! Eat well and be merry you piece of shit!” A useless sentiment, mutants ate people, it was their nature. The shouting made Yuri's throat hoarse. He produced a cigarette, lit it on a nearby torch, singed his finger, and took a much needed drag, cursing all the while. He’d chain smoke two more darts sitting in that spot, the smell of rotting flesh reminding him of what was to be done. He hobbled to his feet, his left arm in screaming pain. He was quiet, quiet in life and in the Zone, though right now Yuri let out every scream, said every curse, anything he could to numb this pain.
He made the painful trek to the caster, the merry-go-round had ascended back to the ceiling. He made quick work of it, pulling back metal doors, plates, looking top to bottom. There were anomalies all right, Torches, blue ooze called Putty, and even a Lift anomaly, which had gentle bits of floating steel dust all throughout the main container. Though nowhere near, inside, or around the caster was the swag, the artifact called Origami. Yuri looked out the door, the sun was gone. Night had come, and that meant his return trip started now. No sunlight would make looking for anomalies hard, but his eyes had grown used to the dark, after an hour or two he’d compensate enough. As he exited the mill, he could swear the smiling dog was still smiling at him.
8
The snowstorm from earlier was silent, only soft bits of snow landed atop his head, and frost licked at his exposed ears, his hood was burned off from the flames. He made the slow journey back, retracing his steps, throwing bolts the same way back, even recovering some of his thrown ones. He stopped every so often to try and mend his hurt arm, trying to use bits of discarded cloth and ripped sleeve to hold it in place, but his first aid knowledge was so little he gave up, it’d have to hurt. As he marched on, his hand drifted to the cube in his pocket, fingers tracing the near sharp edges of its shape. He made the whole journey back, under the stars of the night sky. He could see Amnesty from the woods now, its bright beaming skyscrapers in the distance. He could see the spotlights of the military, and the tire tracks of the nearby road the soldiers used to traverse the anomaly-free parts of the zone. He prowled the forests, stifling grunts of pain as best he could, making his way back to the hole.
His usual entrance into the Zone was a part of his routine. An old sewer main drain that would take him all the way to the outskirts of Amnesty, allowing him to ascend and creep out a manhole in a near abandoned neighborhood. The area was too irradiated for people to live, but the old women of the neighborhood refused to leave their home. “Been there too long” they’d say with raspy voices. He approached the main drain, relief coming over his body. His mind raced to what he’d do first after this hellish run. A hot shower, a cold beer, a whole pack of smokes then a bottle of something stronger. He’d worry about the injuries later, just focusing on forgetting this horrible day first.
A light from inside the main drain shot out. He wanted to throw up and cry. People were approaching, and quickly. He ducked into the trees, trying to almost bury himself in the snow. Three men dressed in khaki clothes, dripped head to toe in tactical gear, assault rifles in hand. Not MPs, mercs. They didn’t exit the drainage with apprehension either, they were looking. Someone squealed on him, Bright had been compromised. His fingers dug into the snow and dirt beneath him, his hot angry breath melting the snow in front of his face. He couldn’t take on mercs, not like this, not normally even. He watched the mercs, they were chatting among themselves, not walking more than six feet out the entrance.
“Should be here. We need to go back inside, wait him out.” One said, Bright couldn’t determine which of the three, couldn’t see their lips.
“Fuck that, its been all day!” The smallest of the three shouted, arms doing a wild gesture.
“We were told he’d be here at night, and night it is.”
“Probably fucking ate it. Can’t be lucky for that long.”
“You wanna go find the damn body?” A silence followed. “Thought so, go back.”
“Fuck this man! How do we know he’s taking this one?!”
The third spoke up now, a voice Bright swore was familiar to him.
“He could use a different entrance. Crows creeps usually do, makes them hard to catch.” Said in a smooth voice. Bright watched him put his gloved hand to the stone of the drain. “This ones reliable though, consistent. He’ll use this one. We just need to find him” His hand left the drain, almost longingly. He issued orders to the other two, handing each a small bag. He watched as they started to toss bolts. The man leading them was a Stalker, but Bright didn’t recognize him by his features, only that familiar voice. He was in deep now, as he watched them slowly start to move throughout the forest. He was about sixty feet away, he could attempt to maneuver around them, but if those accursed flashlights landed on him for even a second too long they’d see him. He committed to crawling on his stomach backwards. Some luck, he knew the area well. Its where he first learned how to creep, how to even spot an anomaly. There weren’t many for the first twenty feet from the drain, but they’d crop up soon enough. A lift was somewhere, to the right of the drainage, Bright was to the left. He watched the small twitchy man toss a bolt forward, take a step, toss another bolt, and was stopped from moving by the man behind. Almost stepped in quicksand. Even in darkness this Stalker could see well, definitely an active creep.
Bright had gotten to eighty feet away now, positioning himself behind a tree, off the path he came just enough. It was a waiting game, and one he was banking on this fuck being good enough to let Bright get away. He watched, bolt throw after bolt throw, the Stalker never even tossing a single one, just watching them fly and land. They had started to find Brights route, the safest one from the entrance. After about fifty feet you could start to veer off, heading west, north or southwest, but until then he knew where they would go. He kept himself behind the tree, out their flashlights, anytime a stray light shone over his head even a little he winced at the thought, the image of him being gunned down, after all he’d been through today. Didn’t seem too bad to him honestly. When they reached the crux, it took them a few moments of tossing to start charting another route, before one of them looked to the snow.
“Hey we got tracks!”
An alarm went off in Brights head, now or never. He slowly got up, hugging the tree slightly, having inspected his path, broke out into a shaky run. The lights soon turned on him, shouts from behind. A burst of stray gun fire tore through the forest, Bright diving to the ground. One of the bullets hit a tree nearby, another he swore hit a slingshot trap nearby and veered into stone.
“Alive you idiot!” The Stalker shouted. Bright smiled. So it's the swag they want. Unfortunately for them, his fame had preceded him at this moment. He heard them bicker and swear, novices in the Zone made for great distractions, as he heard them try to break into a run, and a scream followed. Bright reached the drainage, and took off into the sewers under the old outskirts of Amnesty.