“Sorry. No deal.”

The burly stalker leaned forward, his hands gripping the edges of the rusting table, the heavy weight causing the feeble metal legs to groan in protest. “I didn’t spend three days in the zone to get back-door’d by you.” The menace on his dirt-stained face clearly showing through the grime. His posture did not have the intended effect on the Dealer.

“Too bad for you. I buy what has value. Simple economics. This artifact...” -The words were laced with indignation- “Barely registers. Where did you find it? A half a klick in maybe? Come back when you have something I can use.”

The stalker slammed his palm down on the desk, fuming. “We aren’t done with this old man!”

“Yes...we are.” The dealer said as he raised his shotgun just enough to get the point across.

The stalker gazed from the dealers even eyes to the leveled barrel. “You’d best tread lightly with us. Or you’ll find that one hand no longer adequate to wipe yourself.”

The threat slid right off the dealer. “You know the way out.” He said cooly.

The stalker gave the dealer one last menacing glance and stormed out, purposely bumping into shelves along the way.

“Problems?” Another man said from just inside the glow of the flourescent lamp.

“What? Oh, it’s you. Nothing I can’t handle.” He lifted the shotgun a bit for emphasis.

“I can see that. Got a few things for trade, you interested?”

The dealer frowned and rested the shotgun back on his lap. “That depends. I’m in no mood for more of that.” He motioned with his blackened stump of an arm toward the cellar exit where the other stalker had just gone.

Decklan raised both his hands with palms open. “No worry’s mate. I’ll take what I can get.” He said as he approached the dealer.

The dealer surveyed the man before him. Tall and lean but not imposing, Decklan was one of those men who had a cool, professional grace about him. He was unimposing on the surface, -minus his assortment of weapons- but deadly underneath. He had as many layers to him as an onion, and he was certain that each had its own particular sting. All he knew was that he was a veteran of the Aussie SAS who came to this glowing corner of the earth in search of a little monetary advancement. An ex-soldier for hire, as old as prostitution. Beyond that he was just another stalker, and knew very little of the man, except that he was at least marginally reliable in the acquisition of goods from the zone. This one, he had to watch close. And now that he thought about it, Decklan might be just the man whose services the good doctor could use.

“Decklan....” The dealer said, testing the name out loud and motioning for him to come forward.

“That’s right. I’ve got something you might be interested in.”

“Pray tell.”

Decklan drew back the flap of his rain gear and unbuckled a small storage case that was cinched around his shoulder. He placed it neatly on the table, the universal biohazard sign clearly emblazoned on the surface.

“Galantine... A full sample.” Decklan said matter-o- fact.

The dealer’s face cut a small, barely perceptible grin. Clearly he was not used to smiling and his face resisted every strained muscle of the act. “I’ll have to verify of course...”

Decklan simply nodded and began perusing the dealer’s wares. “You get any 62 grain projectiles in?”

“Nope... Any supply of NATO SS 109's we get go straight to the military. Got plenty of the 55 grainers though.” The dealer said as he examined the hazardous container.

Decklan frowned. “Those just don’t stabilize in a 1 and 9 twist. I’m keyholed out past a hundred meters.”

“Well it’s all I got. Take it or leave it. ‘Sides most of the nasties you shoot at out there are a lot closer than 100 meters.”

Decklan chuckled a bit. “So what’ll ya give me?”

The dealer ran his finger under his chin. “Lets say 100 roubles. It’s been a long day and I don’t feel like arguing.”

Decklan thought it over for a moment and agreed. The dealer was a callous fellow but he’d never stiffed him before. “I’ll take 60 in change, gimme 40 worth of .223"

The dealer nodded setting the special case, -oh so gently- in small alcove and dispensed the payment. “By the way, I may have an opportunity for you. If you’re interested.”

Decklan gave the dealer a sideways stare from his hazel eyes. “I’ve heard about your opportunities. I think I’ll pass.”

“Hey man, it ain’t me. It’s one of those eggheads. Says they got a mission for the right man. And you may be what they’re looking for.” The dealer gave Decklan a look up and down, sizing him up.

“What’s in it for you?” Decklan said evenly as he loaded his pack with ammunition.

“Small finders fee. You know, standard bit. Not that I give two shits what happens to you but... You gotta get back for me to collect.” He didn’t seem optimistic.

“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.”

“The pay’s ten times what I just gave you. More even.”

That caught Decklans attention and he turned before leaving the dealers cellar. “What’s his name?”

“Her. Her name, fellah. It’s Millapovich. Dr. Anya Millapovich”

“Where do I find her?”

“Same place you find all the eggheads.”

Decklan shot the heavy set man a quick nod as he left the cellar. “Cheers.”

The dealer gave him a wry look that was in between a grimace and smile. “Yeah, until next time.” His tone was the epitome of pessimism.

******************************

“I want that magnetometer calibrated now! Our readings are all over the place!”, Dr. Anya Millapovich shouted in fluid Russian. Several technicians in stained white lab coats bent over various LCD displays and instruments nodding their heads in a placating motion. The stench of ozone and fried circuits hung in the air.

“Doctor.... Doctor!” The tech shouted over the whirring of fans in the small room.

“What!” Anya wheeled around to see who had disturbed her.

“A... ‘gentleman’ is here to see you.”

Anya frowned. “What gentleman?” She asked, her fiery blue eyes piercing the lab tech.

The tech motioned to the entrance of the lab where a tall man clad in military garb and bristling with weapons waited, staring at her.

“Oh, a stalker. Well what does he want?” She stated, obviously displeased at the interruption of her work.

“All he said was that the Dealer sent him.”

“Did he?....” It was more a statement than a question. She visibly cooled and fixed the stalker with a penetrating gaze. “Take him to my office Gennady, I’ll be with him shortly.” With that she turned back to her experiments.

“Dr. Millapovich will be with you presently.” Gennady said in heavily accented English. “This way please.”

Decklan gave the lab a once over and followed the Tech down a hall to a room at the back of the building, which had by all accounts seen better days. Not a surprise really, most of the buildings in this area were in similar states of disrepair: creme white paint peeling like clay in a sun-baked desert, doorframes filled with cancerous rust, and detritus and bits of ceiling tile peppering the floor. The common state of affairs. As they reached the room with Dr. Millapovich’s name stenciled on the window, Gennady opened the door and bade Decklan to have a seat and wait.

Decklan followed the tech’s instructions and the door was closed behind him. The room was standard egg head. Papers riddled the desk, held down by a multitude of empty coffee cups. Two computers and several unknown instruments were stationed within the mess. The wall had a large plasma display which hung next to several advanced degrees from accredited institutions. Every egghead worth his doctorate had been in this hot zone at one time or another, and she was no exception. They all came to enlighten. They all left stumped.

“So, you’re the one that fat little man decided to send.” Anya said in perfect but accented English.

Decklan watched the Doctor enter the room and plop herself behind the desk, a coffee cup in hand. She wasn’t beautiful, but neither was she ugly. A little makeup and some color around those blue eyes and she would be quite attractive. Anya flipped a stray lock of her brown hair out of her eyes with practiced precision. Decklan spoke first while she sized him up.

“He didn’t send me anywhere. I thought I might see what your little invitation entailed.”

“An Aussie? Hmm.. Long way from home aren’t you?”

“Aren’t we all these days?” Decklan shot back. “Now lets get to it.”

“Very well. You know the situation in the zone. We’ve been at this for a while and we still don’t know the details of what’s happening here.”

“Seems to me you all don’t even know the general picture, much less the details. That is except that Chernobyl is hot zone with a few surprises.”

Any pursed her mouth. “Indeed.... Well, we may have an opportunity to expand our, as you put it, limited knowledge, by a large margin.”

“Go on.”

Anya pressed a button to the remote for the wall plasma display and the screen flared to life. Stock footage of the power plant back in its early days filled the screen. “As you know we have rudimentary data as the initial event and what happened besides what we observed from a significant distance. No data or personnel from the site were recovered intact.”

“Un huh. I know the history lesson.”

Anya exhaled sharply before continuing. “We may have an opportunity to recover stored information directly relating to the event. Video, audio...more perhaps.”

Decklan shook his head. “All electronic data in that area is fried. If the EMP didn’t knock it out, the radiation did. Not to mention the blowouts and gravity anomalies”

“Yes that would seem the problem.” Anya said slyly as she turned her attention to screen and punched buttons on the remote. On the screen a small concrete building with various weather and comm towers was displayed. “This may be the key.”

“How so?”

“This building is a relic from the Soviet era. A meteorological monitoring facility. Hardly more than shack really. Still it was ‘operational’ during the incident.”

Decklan shifted in his chair, mildly interested. “I’m listening.”

She smiled. “Moscow shut it down way back. But turned it over to the University and they kept it up for graduate students. Field work, and all that. The important part is that all the instruments are analog vacuum tubes and standard reel to reel recording, not integrated circuits. Old School, as the Americans say.”

Decklan turned it over in his mind. Perhaps. “And you think that there might still be some salvageable data on all that old equipment.” She nodded. “Even if there is and it hasn’t been effected by everything that’s going on here. You said yourself that it’s archaic. What can you hope to learn from that?”

Anya shrugged her shoulders. “Perhaps nothing, perhaps everything. We won’t know until we try.”

“Why not go with standard military? Helicopter infil and exfil. Easy and quick. Why you need me?” She gave him an all too fake smile. It didn’t suit her at all.

“We did I’m afraid. There seems to be an anomaly in the airspace around there. And ground forces we sent in, have yet to return. That was 5 days ago.”

Now she dropped the bomb. He knew there was something. “Uh huh. And so now you go slumming for stalkers? Expendable personnel and all that.”

She pursed her lips again. “Look at it like this. Standard recovery procedures seem to be ineffective. We require someone with... Special talents. And I’m supposing you’ve had more than mere military training. You seem more...articulate... than most stalkers. And no sane person would voluntarily come here.”

‘Not bad.’ he thought to himself. “SAS. But that was a while ago.”

“So you accept?”

Decklan wasn’t sure about this. The small house, for lack of a better word, was several kilometers inside the really hot zone past the failsafe line. He’d only been that far in once. And he didn’t exactly relish the idea of going that far in plus spare change. Still, he’d been eking his way out here for a while now risking his life for a lot less. And if it could help... Might be worth it.

“Alright... Im in. I’ll need a new anomaly detector and a NBC suit independent of payment. And it’ll cost you.”

“Of that I have no question.”

******************************

Decklan crouched in the remains of an abandoned house on the second floor. He had been ‘on-mission’ for lack of a better word, for three days. He was now close to the hot zone, several kilometers in, and he still had more to go. On top of that it wasn’t exactly a walk in the park getting this far. A blowout the day before had him seeking cover deep in bowels of a ruined factory. A place he knew he shouldn’t really be. But being on a combat edge for most of his adult life, he was used to having his senses maxed. And they certainly were in this place. It was there that he encountered one of those aptly named dwarfs. Who knows what they are? Mutated humans or something else. What he did know is that when the flying detritus smashed into the wall inches above his head, he knew he was in for an unpleasant evening.

Throwing himself prone he switched on his gen4 NV goggles and scanned the area, establishing a field of fire. He knew not to approach too close as these buggers often lay traps, not to mention being quite physically apt to rend him to pieces. Making his way along the rubble he flipped the safety off his LR300. A nice weapon. Accurate. An M-16 derivative without the propellant gasses going back into the receiver like on the old 16's. He wormed his way into an alcove and waited. He rested his rifle on a rotted plank and waited, flipping the safety off quietly. He could hear the thing slinking around ahead of him, ruffling the rubble at its feet, probably thinking how best to capture its prey. But he still couldn’t see it, and that was the problem. It was the next moment that he knew he was in serious trouble.

The beast lurched out from an opening behind him, throwing bits of factory in all directions as its powerful muscles ripped through board and plaster. He reacted instantly releasing his rifle. He knew he couldn’t get it on target it time. So he rolled right and whipped out his .45super, definitely not as good as a rifle, but at this range quite sufficient. He unloaded the whole 10 round magazine into the flailing mass of flesh that was nearly on top of him in three seconds with practiced precision. The .45super was an amped up .45ACP with 400fps more impact velocity than a standard .45. And when they impacted the soft tissue of the dwarf they ripped through the flesh with punishing waves of hydrostatic shock. At that moment the beast lunged, pressing its attack. One of the huge arms swatted the .45 from his hand, breaking two of his fingers. Fortunately for him the beast was dead as it hit him. But it landed on him forcing the air from his lungs and dripping gore all over his BDU’s. Not pretty. The crafty little bugger had used its psi abilities to stir up wreckage in front of him while it made its way behind him. Nasty. Nasty and cunning. Still, he was alive and after retrieving his .45 and rifle he left the factory hoping the blowout had come and gone.

That was yesterday morning. A few moderately less difficult encounters with several more of the pseudo-indigenous creatures left him even worse for wear, but not seriously. And just an hour before finding this little place to take a must needed rest and re-tape his fingers, a gravity anomaly almost turned him into a fine red mist.

‘Ahh...soldier of fortune for hire... Bend over soldier here it comes again!’ he thought sarcastically as he taped his swollen left fingers. He was fortunate that it wasn’t his primary weapon hand.

Decklan taped up his two fingers and checked his GPS. Three more klicks. He wondered if he would find anything if and when he got there. If he didn’t and still made it back out again, who knows if the good doctor would pay him. So he decided a nice little RF transmitter at the site that she could independently track was a good insurance policy to show he had, at the very least been where was supposed to be. Running his fingers though his thick hair he closed his eyes and tried to get at least an hour of sleep. His gear, C-rations, and water, were all accounted for and checked. And the precious NBC suit stowed in his pack was blessedly not damaged during his encounters. With that thought he drifted off into a very light sleep, his weapon still at low-ready.

******************************

Forty five minutes later Decklan awoke with a jolt, immediately aware of his surroundings, as much a credit to his training as to the pain in his fingers. He unpacked the NBC and suited up, checking for pinhole leaks or obvious tears, of which there were none. Satisfied, he made his way down and out onto the road paralleling his course. He would soon be in an area known for ‘fog’, a rather understated term for something so deadly. He had seen what fog did to the unprotected and it wasn’t something he wanted to get a taste of, up close and personal.

The road ahead was pockmarked with holes and spindly cracks, both from ordnance detonations and ‘nature’, if nature was the right word for it. Twisted vehicles that looked as if a giant force had chewed them up and spit them out, lay haphazardly full of weeds and who knows what else. ‘Rusty Hair’ grew in wispy threads, infecting the vehicles metal bodies. No one was going to mess with moving those anytime soon. Decklan didn’t relish being out in the open so he quickened his pace. It was midday and he wanted to make it to his destination well before nightfall, given that he didn’t happen upon too many unforseen difficulties. Which was of course, highly possible. As he quick-stepped, sweeping his rifle from one arch to another he noticed a faint rumbling beneath his feet. His stopped immediately in his tracks, lowered his weapon, and with his left hand checked his anomaly detector. Nothing.

“What the f...” He mouthed out loud as a large wriggling creature broke the surface of the soil not twenty meters from where he stood.

This was something new. It looked like a giant Boa Constrictor, but it wasn’t moving like a snake. And its body was segmented into slime oozing, ruddy colored sections. Then it hit him. Earthworm. Amazed, Decklan raised his rifle and made a wide berth around the undulating creature. It didn’t seem to sense him and seemed intent on burrowing back into the earth, so he decided the less gunfire the better, and quickly made his way around the creature and on toward his objective.

“What’s next ten foot spiders?” He muttered into the face mask immediately realizing he shouldn’t have said that, much less thought it. He was deep into the hot zone, well beyond the failsafe zone. Who knew what other unseen things lurked amid the foliage? In this place, God only knew what waited in the shadows, stalking the Stalker. Decklan checked his position and resumed his course.

It was three hours later, right after he broke through a tree line and onto the next road that he found what was left of the good doctors ground team. Tattered bits of eviscerated bodies held loosely together by bits of blood soaked uniforms. The teeth marks on bone fragments didn’t escape his detection either. Although their gear was torn to pieces, he could tell that not one of them was wearing his protective gear. Sloppy. Spent shell casings littered the ground in all directions, along with explosive damage from a frag grenade.

‘One of ‘em dropped his grenade right there in the group during the firefight. Then something finished them off.’

Decklan noticed one set of faint boot prints leading off in the direction of his target. He couldn’t be sure with the damage to the area, but there might have been more. He supposed he would find out soon enough. Decklan made one last cursory inspection for dog tags and useful gear. Two tags, one grenade, and three mags. Not much left of ten men. It did not soothe his conscience to find that no weapons were among the carnage either.

‘I should have asked double for this.’

******************************

Decklan followed his GPS, maintaining a careful watch of his position relative to known hot spots. Some were bad, others were worse. And if that fleeing soldier went into them without a suit, game over. He was a walking ghost.

‘Poor bastard. Better to eat a bullet.’

At this point he almost didn’t notice the slight haze to the air that gradually got thicker as he progressed. But once he was aware of it, his attention and anxiety racked up a notch. Fog. Death was but a torn seal or small puncture away, and he damn well knew it. This was when he was most vulnerable, both too outside aggression, and if he wasn’t careful, his own carelessness. One foul-up and the good doctor would be back to the Dealer asking to look out for more competent stalkers. Decklan wound his way along the weed infested roads, ever watchful for hazards in the enveloping fog, and always scanning his sectors of fire. Up ahead he could just see the outline of several diminutive buildings silhouetted against the skyline. He was getting close. And luckily, the fog was dissipating.

The approach in was relatively simple. Large trees and heavy brush gave him plenty of cover, so he was able to make good time. The only thing that slowed him was when he found pieces of wreckage. Not much was recognizable, a few small chunks of blackened metal and minute shards of aircraft aluminum no bigger than a fist. It seemed not much was left of the air assault as well. In fact, he was surprised there was this much. Especially if they indeed got caught in a gravity anomaly. Some eggheads theorized there was as much as the equivalent of a full lunar mass focused on one point in space within some anomalies. No one it seemed, could figure out why, if that was indeed the case, why it hadn’t totally screwed with the orbital path, and gravity of the planet itself. But all that theorizing didn’t really matter to him. He knew what to look for: depressions in the ground that just didn’t jive, or metal bent inward at some impossible angle. Those were the giveaways. There was also the detector, but it wasn’t totally reliable. That was the main reason he didn’t go in the choppers. In the air there’s no point of reference. It was then that he heard the staccato ringing of gunfire up ahead.

He knew what it was. An AN94 rifle. The blowback, shifted-pulse operation was distinctive. Like the AK47 before it, nothing else sounded like that. Especially after the initial 3 rounds and the rifle went up to 1800 rounds per minute. It was obviously coming from the small clump of structures he was heading toward. Great. Murphy and his laws were alive and well in the belly of Russia.

The entry from the southwest afforded him the best cover, so Decklan made his way cautiously along a drainage ditch running up to the ruined houses. The total REMS he received had been spiking all day, but his dosimeter told him that he was still in green, the NBC suit doing its job well. Not that he could have done much about it if it wasn’t. But at least he didn’t have to worry about his intestines rotting out. He stopped about 300 meters outside the perimeter and waited. The gunfire had ceased a while back. Unfortunately, he didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. The view through his binoculars told him the structures were deserted. He couldn’t see anything moving or note any recent activity, at least not at this distance. That meant nothing of course, and if anything put him more on edge. He did however, see his target. It looked decidedly worse than the picture on the doctor’s screen. The weather vanes and monitoring towers were a crumpled, rusted heap, or not there at all. The door was missing and there were several holes in both the roof and the walls. Not a good sign. Still, he had a job to do, and he was burning daylight.

‘Who dares wins.’ He muttered under his breath and moved out.

Decklan reached the first structure and positioned himself against the wall. He moved silently forward checking everything with the amber triangle reticle of his ACOG scope. He couldn’t see the other three houses from this position, so he repositioned himself and slowly poked his rifle around the corner, making quick, precise movements that swept all possible hiding points. A burst of stone exploded in his face filling his face mask with dust. Decklan threw himself back behind the wall as rifle fire continued to erupt where his head had just been. He swivelled and backtracked around the house to the other side, wiping the dust from his mask as he went. His new position would leave him exposed frontally, but it was out of the shooters line of fire. As he rounded the last corner, he ran smack into two zombies which were fortunately unarmed. Two dead soldiers from the ground team. One was missing an arm and the other had no jaw. Both were bloated and covered in maggots happily feasting away. A sight he still never got used to. They were slow moving and uncoordinated, probably due to the grenade damage. Decklan rattled off two quick bursts straight into their brainstem, dropping them on the spot, one of their few weak points. However, there was at least one who was in prime condition, that much was certain. But more important, a Controller was near. That was the least of his problems right then.

A grenade blast erupted near his position, throwing him back across the grass. Decklan barely registered the fact that his rifle was no longer in his hands. In fact, not much registered except to try to breathe and stave off the enfolding blackness. He didn’t know how long he laid there, but it seemed a great long while. His vision was blurred and his face mask totally fogged up. He felt his hands resting on the grass. Directly on the grass.

‘Good and buggered,’ was as all that entered his mind.

It was then that he felt the crushing pressure of an unknown force grip his leg, very nearly breaking his ankle. It began to drag him across the ground. His world was still spinning but he managed to release the seal and tear his face mask away. It was of little use now, and as his vision cleared his nostrils filled with the stench of decay. It was in fact a zombie dragging him across the grass, the creature’s powerful arm filling his leg with agony. Why it didn’t pummel him to death, he didn’t know. It seemed to be pulling him toward the third house, the one with the least damage. When another of the rotten corpses appeared in the doorway holding the rifle he had heard earlier, he was sure of it and what it meant. Decklan strained to see through the waves of pain. Sure enough, hidden in the shadows of the house, the luminous eyes of a Controller peered out at its prey. Him.

There wasn’t much time left to him to act. The other zombie fitted in an NBC suit made its way toward him. He might have mistaken it for a living man, except for the huge slash across its mid-section and the entrails dangling like spaghetti spilling out. He was in serious trouble, and could already feel the Controller in his thoughts, now that he was weakened, paralyzing him for who knows what. It was only a matter of time. He discovered his rifle and .45 were gone. He had only one option left, and at this range it would probably kill him too.

Wincing with pain, Decklan reached down and fumbled for a grenade. He wasn’t going out like this; a lamb to the slaughter. His world filled with dread as his aching hands searched in vain for the belt of grenades. They were gone. Probably stripped from him or dislodged from the concussion. His mind raced. He still had his combat knife. Not that it would do much good. But he was going to go out fighting, using whatever he had, his teeth even, if it came to it.

As he unsnapped the knife from the sheath, his hand brushed across something round. It felt like a frag grenade. He only wished. But then he remembered; he had picked it up from the remains of the ground team. He had stowed them low on his harness; his grenade belt already full. Apparently, the walking rot-sacks hadn’t found them. Without thinking, he fumbled around inside his lower storage pack and found some C-rations and a fork. This isn’t what he needed. He dug deeper and finally felt the cool steel shell of the grenade. He grabbed it and tore it from the pouch, hooking his thumb inside the pin and pulling it out. Decklan let the arming spoon fly. He distinctly heard a screech from inside the house and felt the pain in his leg double, accompanied by cracking bone. Fighting through the searing waves of agony, he managed to throw the grenade with all his strength through the doorway. The fuse had been going for a few seconds already, and when the grenade passed the arch, it blew midair blowing the doorframe from the wall and sending a plume of smoke belching out the front. The zombie dragging him released the vise-grip on his leg as it was blown back over him. The creature had acted as a shield to the blast front. Convenient.

Decklan rolled on his side trying to clear the ringing from his ears and suppress the pain in his ankle. He laid there for several minutes before he was able to take stock of his condition. He was whole, and most assuredly the worse for wear. His broken ankle was the most serious, and would require attention. Propping himself up, he scanned the area for his first priority, his rifle. It was about 20 meters away along with the .45. He took easy steps and limped over to them, trying not to put too much weight on his right leg. Once he had his weapons back, Decklan made his way back to the newly pulverized house to make sure the Controller was indeed just a memory. Surveying the blood and tissue fragments that peppered the walls, he allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction. The grenade had dispatched the remaining zombies in the house and having been satisfied with the situation inside, he put a full magazine into the one that had been blown behind him, just for good measure.

Decklan was alive and had no life threatening wounds, but his swollen ankle would be a constant problem. Yet even that was the least of his worries. He was deep in the zone without an NBC suit. He could have fixed a few small tears or pinholes with duct-tape. But there was just too much damage here. His suit was compromised with no repair possible. Well, there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he stripped off the suit and threw it in the bushes. At least he had improved peripheral vision now. He let out a long breath and took out the med-kit from his pack. It had a few scratch marks, but it was none the worse for wear.

******************************

It had been quite a long day and he still had to find out if all this trouble had been for nothing. The brace he had fashioned from wood splints seemed to give him at least partial mobility with his right leg. That, and the pain-blockers, should allow him to walk under his own power at a moderate pace, for a while at least. Decklan stood at the entrance to his destination and peered in cautiously. Although he didn’t believe there were any surprises in there, he was still going to do things good and proper. His boots crunched on shattered window panes, splintering them into even finer shards. The rest of the monitoring station fared no better. The door had been split in two, and the half still attached hung from one rusted hinge. Huge cracks snaked up the walls running up to their source: the large holes he had seen through his binoculars. Overturned metal chairs and yellowed documents littered the floor like leaves in a forest. The papers crumbled to dust as his boots touched them, no doubt from years worth of acid rain coming in through the roof. Rust bled out on the peeling plaster from secured cabling that ran up from the equipment and out to the destroyed weather tower.

The equipment that lined the wall seemed to be in fair shape. 1960's style gunmetal grey data cabinets dominated one section near the window. It’s rows of switches and lights were covered in a thick film of dust, silent and dead. He noticed two banks of reel to reel. One access panel was opened to the elements and the fragile magnetic tape long since shriveled and destroyed by the elements. The other was closed and appeared to be in better shape. He walked over and with a sharp tug opened the latch. There was visible scarring and discoloration to the exposed section, but the rest might be salvageable. He doubted it though. After dislodging the two sections and securing them against damage, he placed them in his pack. It was then that he saw an overturned tripod sticking out from beneath a mound of debris. He pulled it free, throwing dust into the air that rose in swirling tendrils. On the other end was an old camera still attached to the hard points.

Decklan wasn’t that familiar, with this early stuff. It looked like the type of camera they used in the late sixties, grainy black and white. It could be color, he just didn’t know. The Cyrillic lettering was faded and the camera itself damaged from the elements, but the heavy case may have protected the contents, whatever they were. Antique cameras weren’t his area of expertise. He was a child of the digital revolution. Still, it might have relevant data, so he unloaded the film magazine box and stuffed it into his pack.

After he was satisfied that he had all that was remotely salvageable, which probably wasn’t much, he took out his GPS and map and began to formulate a new egress route. It was going to be difficult. His dosimeter had already risen a few REMS and he would have to avoid all known locations of fog and other hazards. And with his increased pack load and injured ankle, it would make it all the more difficult. As if on cue, Murphy and his laws descended. His GPS started to give him fits. This was something he really didn’t need. Then his arms and face began to get prickly, his hair standing on end. Decklans heart raced as he began to feel the effects. He looked out the window and saw what he hoped he wouldn’t. It was the beginning of a Blowout, and there was no place to hide.......