Better late than never

The Stalker stood in the field and looked out at the ghastly landscape. In his right hand he held a cigarette, which he puffed on quietly, relieving it every few seconds. Even then, he held it above waist level, mindful of the tall, lifeless weeds that brushed against his jacket.

The crescendo of screams and gunfire reached its apex as the door to the underground power station flung open, and a fast, startled figure fell backwards onto the ground. The Stalker knew what was going on. The man had been running up the stairs, his back to the doorway, firing in vain at his unseen assailant, completely oblivious to the fact that the door was already shut. The collision had disoriented him, and now he was on his back, his gun lying several feet away from, and no other legitimate means by which to defend himself.

The man reached for his gun, and seeing that it was out of his reach, tried to throw himself towards it with all his might, but it was to no avail. The mutant leaped onto him and began to feast on his flesh. The man cried out in agony as torrents of blood spewed out in all directions, covering his face and leaving a dreadful taste in his open mouth.

The Stalker watched these events unfold with total indifference. He could have readied the Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder, killed the mutant and possibly saved the man▓s life, or at the very least, put the man out of his misery and saved himself from having to listen to his blood-curdling screams.

The Stalker didn▓t even consider doing that. It would be a waste of ammunition. He had no real interest in the plight of his colleague; he only saw it as a momentary diversion from his otherwise dull and drab existence. Serves him right, he thought to himself.

The Stalker▓s mind returned to his work, and he realized that all of the commotion in his general area was likely audible for a great distance, and that it might attract other stalkers out of boredom or curiosity (or blood thirst, as was usually the case with Duty stalkers), who would come venturing in like sharks. He needed to get out of sight. He was tired, and he felt like it was time to head home.

The Stalker stepped away from the weeds and into a small clearing near the edge of the hill. He threw his cigarette onto the ground, and quickly smothered it with his boot. Taking one last look at the mutant and the foolish man who had ended up as his dinner, he turned around and walked off. The pathetic, squashed remains of the cigarette lay on the ground. Its flame extinguished, the ashes seeped into the dirt.

The Stalker sighed as he looked around the dilapidated old shack that was his camp for the time being. The rusty old trash can was the only source of illumination now, and it seemed to hunger for the rubble and paper that fueled its fire. The Stalker tossed a few old newspapers at it and watched the flames intensify. The chilling darkness of the old building was lessened ever so slightly, and the man saw a clearer image of his filthy habitat. His makeshift bed lay next to the wall, and a few rats scurried around nearby, looking for any scraps of food that might be strewn across the floor. Most of his equipment was on a shelf next to the chair he was sitting in, and his dwindling provisions were hastily stacked in the far corner of the room, near the trash can. The Stalker sighed again and reached for his belt, producing a small pouch. He opened it and quickly fumbled through its inventory. 20 roubles. There had been twice that many the last time he had checked. He was making a trip to the dealer next week to restock on provisions, but he needed more money. He tried to think of the last time he had had enough money to do anything more than just barely make ends meet. He had originally come to this part of the world with plenty of greenbacks, but exchanging it into this Russian crap had been such a nightmare that he had ended up with barely enough of it to start out. He first set foot in the zone with nothing more than the clothes on his back, some rations, a knife he had managed to get through customs and his AK, which he had barely been able to afford. His thoughts shifted to the gun, and he propped it up on his leg. He ran his hand along the frame, and the dents and cracks that covered its stock, dimly illuminated by the fire, showed that it was just as worn out as he was.

He put the gun against the wall, and looked at the rest of his so-called belongings. Everything else around him had either been directly acquired from or purchased using loot taken off of dead stalkers. That▓s how he made his living in this world: by taking from others. He rolled up his sleeve and studied his arm for a minute. 19. He had killed 19 men while in the Zone. One more, and he would be at an even 20. He was a vulture √ a scoundrel who true stalkers neither respected nor pitied. He had started out by looting the dead, and picking clean any other resources that he managed to get his hands on. This was time consuming, dangerous, and yielded few rewards, but he managed to press on √ he told himself that he just needed to hold out a little longer, that sooner or later, he would finally get a break √ his ship would come in.

It wasn▓t until two months ago that he realized that no ship would ever come to the Zone. There were no breaks here. The Zone was like a dungeon √ a hideous, unforgiving, terrifying place that robbed those who entered it of life and hope. Any man could be drawn in by its appeal: the adrenaline, the test of skill, the bragging rights, and especially the great rewards that were spoken of all across the world. What most people didn▓t know was that it took a certain kind of man to persevere inside the Zone. This wasn▓t a place for men who had futures or men who had hopes and dreams. This was a place for men who had nothing to lose, men whose only asset was their lives, and who were willing to gamble with that for a chance at success. These were the men who took serious risks. These were the men who, with keen senses and a lot of luck, prevailed in the Zone. The Stalker wasn▓t one of them. He didn▓t have what it took to make it here. He had a life back in the States, one that he now knew he never should have left. Nothing back there could compare to the desperate fight for survival that was daily life in the Zone.

The Stalker shook his head as frustration took a strong hold of him. He was stuck here, trapped in a pit that he himself had dug, without the means to get out. Sometimes he wondered if he could ever really leave, if it was possible for someone like him to return to society. He didn▓t know, but more than anything, he wanted the chance to find out.

He sighed again and stood up. He walked over to the doorway, and rested his body against the frame that had once supported a door. He stared out at the pitch-black world around him, and listened as the fire crackled and hissed. Exhaustion was starting to overtake him, and he took in a deep breath, closing his eyes and tilting his head back as he did. When he opened his eyes, he was met with a sight that he hadn▓t seen for a long time √ the stars. He had never really looked at the stars before, not since he had come here. Maybe the memories they brought back were too painful. Once, he had been able to look at the stars and see beautiful things in them; horses, smiling faces, cars, food √ now all he saw were the crude, rigid lines of guns and boxes, the distressed faces of fallen stalkers. He winced and was overcome with a brief feeling of self-pity. He sat there silently for a moment, contemplating his life, as he had done many times before. Finally, he shrugged, yawned, and then walked over to his mattress.

He woke unusually early the next morning. Seeing that it was still dark, he quickly reached for his sidearm and pointed it at the doorway, which he could barely see with his hazy vision. After a moment of silently waiting, The Stalker put his gun back on the old shoebox where it had been before, and rested his head again on the hard pillow. He tried for an hour to try and fall back asleep, but finally, as dawn approached, he gave up and rose out of bed in a very irate manner. He poured himself some coffee, and used the dying heat of the fire to warm it up. It tasted horrible, but it was better than nothing. He sipped on his coffee and watched the sunrise. A sunrise was always a beautiful thing to behold, and it seemed to have a majestic power over everything that it graced, including the Stalker. He marveled at it, but at the same time felt chills run down his spine as an eerie sense of foreboding overtook him. A little startled, he turned his mind back to his work. He put the cup down, gathered up his gear and headed out the door.

The beginning of the day was relatively uneventful. He had been wandering the landscape for the most part, only stopping to clear a few isolated buildings that he had checked several times before. There was nothing new there, just the same rickety floorboards and the same gruesome corpses lying around.

It wasn▓t until midday, a little after noon, that The Stalker ran across some activity. He was following a long, narrow hill, with small gullies on each side, when he saw a quick flash of movement behind a tree. He instinctively went prone, hoping that he hadn▓t been seen. He waited for a moment, and then peered up above the tall grass that he was lying in.

A young man was moving around down further below him. He seemed to be acting rather carelessly, and wasn▓t even looking around to see if anyone, or anything for that matter √ was watching him.

The Stalker couldn▓t help but show a faint grin. This was easy prey. This guy was obviously a newcomer. His clothes were too clean, his face was clean-shaven, and his hair was short and looked tidy √ telltale signs of someone who hadn▓t been in the zone for long. His careless demeanor only supported the Stalker▓s hypothesis. The Stalker slowly and quietly removed his rifle from around his shoulder, so as not to be heard, and holding it steadily, lowered his head against the stock. He peered down through the chipped sights at the clueless man who was about to die. No sooner did the Stalker set his sights on the man, he began to move off quickly. He walked to the end of the long hill that overlooked his position, and made his way around it to the gully on the other side.

The Stalker cursed under his breath. Waiting a minute so that he could move without being detected, he got up and crept over to the hill. He pulled himself to the top of it, and crawled over to a tree that overlooked the gully opposing the one he had just come from. He looked around for the man, who was now wandering around, seemingly without purpose, in his makeshift camp. A gully was a good spot for a camp, and he was surprised that a newcomer had that kind of sense √ not that it mattered now anyway. The Stalker again readied his rifle, but this time, as he shifted, a stick snapped under his weight, making an audible sound as it did.

The noise startled the newcomer, who fumbled with his weapon and shook it around menacingly. He squatted down, thinking that would help him somehow, and looked around in all directions. Having his target in such an alert state did nothing to help the Stalker, but he was too well concealed to be noticed, and he had a clear shot at the young man. His sights trained on the man yet again, The Stalker steadied his aim and prepared to fire. This was it √ the moment of truth before every kill. He wiped all emotion from his mind. For that instant, there was nothing to think about but the trigger. No fear. No remorse. No hesitation.

⌠Armando?■ the young man whispered in a voice that sounded like that of a child▓s. He turned himself around quickly and spoke again, this time much louder. ⌠Who▓s there?■

The Stalker▓s leaden messenger was quick to reply. The newcomer was jerked backwards as the bullet passed through the left side of his chest, narrowly missing his heart. His gun fell limply from his quivering hands, and he stumbled backwards, screaming at the top of his lungs. His scream was cut off as a second bullet tore through his throat, and was replaced by a loud gurgling noise as blood poured in. A third bullet whizzed past his right ear, but did not come into contact with him. That didn▓t matter however, as he lost his footing and landed on the ground with a pleasing thud.

The Stalker surveyed the area for more activity, and, satisfied that the coast was clear, emerged from his hiding spot and gently slid down the hill towards the newcomer▓s makeshift camp. He shuffled past the fireplace, knocking one of the two cups lying next to it over in the process. Coffee, still warm, poured onto the ground and licked the edge of the fireplace.

The Stalker observed his victim. He was clearly no longer a threat. His hands were clenching his neck furiously, trying to remove the blockage within so that he could scream, but it was useless. The young man writhed and convulsed as the last drops of life left him. He did not even pay attention to The Stalker. His glazed eyes were aimed firmly at the sky above him, searching for answers. All he was thinking about was his fast approaching death.

The Stalker looked around the camp for valuables as the man fought out his losing battle with death. There wasn▓t much there, just some ammunition and food, which the Stalker tucked away into one of his many pouches. Anything of true value was probably on the man himself, as was typically the case with newcomers.

The Stalker waited until the man moved no more, and then walked over to him. His eyes and his mouth were still open, blood dripping out of the latter. This didn▓t bother him, for he was too interested in the young man▓s belongings. He did a quick and thorough search. The only things of interest he had on him were a wallet, a small kit with some paper as well as pen and ink, and an envelope. The wallet was the usual fair. Useless credit cards, pictures, a library membership card┘the usual crap that newcomers brought along. There were only a few dozen roubles in the man▓s wallet, a surprisingly low amount.

The Stalker shrugged, took the roubles and tossed the wallet aside. He was getting ready to leave when he noticed the envelope. Probably a letter, he thought to himself. He didn▓t read letters. They were useless to him, and they were emotionally painful to read, even for a stalker. He didn▓t want to read a letter written to the man▓s family when he had just barely killed him. This envelope had something special about it though; it almost beckoned him, like a siren in his subconscious. What the hell, he thought. He tore open the envelope and then stopped.

He didn▓t have words, or thoughts to describe what he saw. Inside the envelope were greenbacks √ a lot of them. They were all hundred-dollar bills, and there must have been at least 20 of them. ⌠Well I▓ll be damned.■

This was what he needed. With this money, he could find a cheap route home, get back to the States and start over again. This was his ticket home, his ticket out of the Zone and the chaotic life that it had brought him. He laughed out loud, and then looked around suspiciously. Having this much money on you seemed dangerous. Why did the man have it? The Stalker didn▓t care; all he knew was that his troubles were over. He tucked the money away in his vest, and got up to walk away.

He saw visions of grandeur in his mind▓s eye. Going home, watching American television, eating real pizza, getting his hands on a woman again┘he couldn▓t wait. As he walked, he pulled out his knife almost playfully, and made a small cut across four of the marks on his left forearm. ⌠Twenty it is.■

He was halfway up the hill when the shot rang out. The bullet went right through the center of his chest, and he saw blood and parts of his skin sputter away from him. He let out a loud cry, and fell onto his knees. Another shot rang out, this one tore through his lower back and through his midsection. He fell backwards, and rolled down the hill into a small ditch.

What happened? Who had been close enough to hear the noise in this area? Why hadn▓t they shown up sooner? The answer wasn▓t far off, and as the footfall grew heavier, he pieced things together. The name Armando was suddenly tattooed on his brain. ⌠You damned fool┘■

Armando stopped when he reached The Stalker, and peered down at him. His toothless grin was enough to make The Stalker wince. He kneeled down, clutching his Dragunov firmly in his right hand and looked The Stalker over. Even with his fading vision, the dying man could make out Armando▓s mismatched eyes, dirty face and unkempt hair. This was a true stalker.

Armando said nothing, but only reached into The Stalker▓s vest and pulled out the envelope, its edges now covered in blood, and brushed it off. He opened it, checked to make sure that the money was still untouched, and then grinned again at The Stalker. ⌠I believe this belongs to me.■

The Stalker said nothing. There was nothing he could or should say to the man who had taken advantage of his own foolishness. He watched passively as Armando stripped him of the meager belongings he had on him, noticing only when he produced the single pack of cigarettes in his vest. He held it in his dry, cracked hands, and said, ⌠These things will kill you, ya know■. He tucked the cigarettes away in his jacket, and patted the dying Stalker on the chest sarcastically. The Stalker groaned as Armando▓s hand pressed against his gaping wound. That was pleasant compared to what happened next, however √ Armando untied a small bag that was tied onto his belt. He opened it up, and The Stalker could smell the foul odor arising from it. He felt Armando grab his right hand, and cried out in pain as his knife cut into and through his index finger. Armando threw the severed finger into the bag. ⌠An even 34. Nice. Thanks, buddy■ he chuckled.

Armando said nothing more. He looked around to see if there was to be any more trouble today, coughed, and then headed off back in the direction he had presumably come from, leaving The Stalker alone with nothing but his own thoughts.

The Stalker sat and thought as the energy that was life began to leave him. Just like in the movies, his life passed before his eyes √ but this wasn▓t the life he wanted to remember. This wasn▓t sunrises or sunsets; it wasn▓t pretty girls or puppy dogs. It was the Zone. It was death, destruction, and despair. He saw blowouts, dead bodies, the faces of all the men he had killed, and all the men he had seen die. He tried to take his mind off of it, but any memory he could conjure up of his past life was vague or incomplete. His final moments on Earth were a nightmare.

After what seemed like hours, he began to cough uncontrollably and his breathing became very labored. He gasped as the last trace of air he would ever breathe ran through him. Darkness descended rapidly over him, and he welcomed it. The Stalker▓s dead body sat motionless on the ground, his wild eyes staring at the sky. His flame extinguished, his blood seeped into the dirt.

-Achilles

3/29/04