“There is no god here. Nor was there any command on the way here. I always had my doubts about listening to you. It was through your mistake that we got shot down. I saw you spending all the money we had for the team on personal weapons. It was you who left us to go and fuck some dirty tribal bitch while we were fighting for our lives at Bagram. It was you who led us down there where all the others died. I am a loyal soldier. But you don’t deserve my loyalty — you were supposed to lead us, instead the New Zone kicked you around like an empty vodka bottle!”
Tarasov’s instincts try to move his rifle so he can shoot Zlenko but his will does not obey. The wound on his chest becomes more unbearable with pain. He drops to one knee, grasping the ropes on the bridge that is wobbling under his weight.
“You know that all of this is not true!”
“I don’t care because I no longer need you. It is the City of Screams that has tested you and found you wanting.” The bayonet glints in Zlenko’s hand as he starts cutting the rope. Tarasov needs both hands to prevent himself from falling into the depths. His rifle falls into the abyss.
“Viktor!” Tarasov screams in despair. “My brother… my son, this is not you talking!”
“I am not your son.”
Zlenko cuts the other ropes. The bridge swings violently and thrashes against the rocks on the other side while Tarasov clings to the rope and planks with all his might, spitting blood as he meets impacts against the sharp stones. A bullet whizzes by close to his head and hits the rock wall. Putting all his strength into his left hand he clings on, pulling out his pistol with the other.
“Viktor! Don’t make me do this!”
More bullets come by way of reply, chipping sharp pieces of stone from the rocks. Tarasov’s eyes are blurred by pain and tears as he aims and pulls the trigger. Zlenko recoils, blood gushing from his forehead. Then he falls to his knees, and his body, losing its balance, plummets headlong into the darkness below.
The rope has almost frayed right through. Climbing up plank by plank, with some breaking beneath his hands, he finally reaches up and pulls himself to the safety of the entrance above, where he stays on the dusty ground, fighting for breath and using the most terrible cusswords he knows.
Tarasov’s heartbeat at last returns to normal, but he feels as if all the blood had vanished from his veins, leaving only adrenaline in his muscles and a growing rage within his heart.
Ground Zero
Whatever Tarasov has been through during the past few hours, the only pain he is aware of is in his chest, where the wound has by now almost fully opened again.
Maybe without my artifacts and the exo I would just collapse like an empty sack.
He reloads his pistol. With his Glock drawn in one hand and holding the combat knife in the other, he proceeds into the shaft with determined steps. The walls are made of neatly cut stone, just like the dust-covered stairs that had led down here. Another anomaly lurks up ahead but he walks through the fire columns thrusting up from the ground, ignoring the pain when the flames sear through his damaged armor and painfully lick his skin. From a corner unlit by his headlamp, a shadow detaches itself from the deeper darkness.
He doesn’t even pause as he fires his weapon, now even hoping to witness the pain in the once human eyes as the bullets hit the brawny torso. Throwing his empty pistol away, he leaps at the mutant with a screaming battle cry and thrusts his knife into its chest, driving it around in the flesh before pulling it out and striking again. Then he marches on, not even looking at the dying creature now wriggling on the ground in death throes of violent, agonizing spasms.
The shaft runs straight and leads towards a red glow that permeates from the distance. Reaching it, Tarasov steps into a cavernous room with four earthen braziers in the corners. A grey stone slab lies in the center of the room, undecorated and plain apart from a shallow niche in its middle section. It holds a small stone exactly like the one Nooria had inserted into his flesh.
A sense of devotion possesses him. As he looks around, the light of the fires makes the faded paintings on the wall come to life. They resemble a long line of figures, all looking towards the stone slab with foreboding faces, like a religious procession devoted to the stone — or watching over it.
No more doors to open. Nowhere to descend. I have arrived.
He remembers the faces of all the comrades who died at his side, soldiers and Stalkers alike. It was a miracle anyone had made it –
Yet I am here. No one could stop me. I truly am the chosen one.
He watches the stone darkening to deep black, as if it was a mass of pure darkness itself. His body feels like a freshly forged blade after tempering — pure, cold, its edge ready to kill. Only the pain in his chest reminds him of his human nature.
Nobody and nothing could stop me on my way here. If I leave, I will be unstoppable wherever I go, whatever I want to take.
By now the slab looks like a pool filled by a black void. The room starts moving around him, but he doesn’t feel any drowsiness. The ceiling and floor eventually disappear, and he sees himself standing at the center of a rotating, black orb.
A voice echoes from far above. “Why are you here?”
Fearfully, Tarasov looks up. The shape of a humanoid figure towers above him like an angel of darkness. Its face is the ultimate conclusion of all the horrors Tarasov has ever experienced in life and also in nightmares.
“I followed my orders.”
“What are you orders?”
“I don’t know anymore.”
“From now on, it is me who will give you orders.”
“Who are you?”
“I am your essence. I am the essence of your comrades and your victims. I am the essence of the fate of all living souls.”
“Are you the Noosphere?”
“I am the reflection of its anger. I am protecting it. I protect it by destroying what is menacing it.”
“Do you want to destroy the world?”
“How foolish you are! I only make living souls aware of their potential. I give you the means to destroy yourselves. Everyone according to what he does best. I was always here to do that.”
“The ancients built those statues to keep you at bay… and the fanatics set your spirit free when they destroyed them.”
“I see your time here was not wasted. You have a choice now. Yield to your most primordial human instinct of destruction. Each second you spend with me, your body will grow stronger to follow this instinct. You will be the mightiest of warriors.”
With every word echoing in his mind, Tarasov’s rage grows.
“Only two others were offered this choice. Only two understood. One ruled the world known to him. The other was a failure — my partial failure. He had power over his men who were supposed to follow my will and prevent him from reaching me. He himself was supposed to kill those who were with him but he was shielded from my will — but I still have time to come to him, and I will. You should make your choice now.”
“And if I don’t yield?”
“Then you will be of no use to me anymore and vanish. What is your choice?”
Tarasov steps closer, instinctively looking up at something glistening on the wall. A small, red precious stone reflects the light of his headlamp. A female shape appears in the light circle, faded, scratched and worn, but he can recognize the tattoo on her forehead. Half-forgotten words resound in his mind with such clarity as if he had heard them just a second ago. ‘You will shed blood and last drop will be yours. If you want me to live, you will have to make a sacrifice.’ The burning pain in his chest intensifies. ‘One part protects you. Two parts bond darkness.’