I have to listen to the old man; it's not the time to argue and quarrel with those who know where I am, and leave the head on the bench near the old house. Chuckling, the owner of these parts beckons me with his hand, and I follow him inside. Inside – a typical house from these parts. Old yellow wallpaper, which has started to peel off in places, swollen linoleum with a board pattern on the floor, and pervasive dirt, lying in shreds in every corner. The old man didn't even try to tidy up his own house.
"You don't have to take off your shoes," he grumbles, moving further. He hasn't put down his rifle, deciding to keep it with him throughout our conversation. A cheerful old man.
I walk further through the creaky house and from a small hallway enter a spacious living room. Icons hang on the walls, a couple of paintings depicting water landscapes, and even a calendar with a busty beauty from two thousand and fourth year. In the corner stand two old but still reliable lacquered cabinets, a red-black carpet is laid on the floor, and on it – a soft armchair, where the owner of the house is already seated.
"Sit down, don't stand over me," he says, pointing with a hooked finger at a plain stool standing a little to the side.
"Is there nothing better?" I ask him. "If not, I'd rather stand."
"Hmm, what a fool," the old man grumbles, chuckling under his breath. "Alright, what the heck, you're not a child, to persuade you. So, here's the deal. I am Valiev Nikanor Ivanovich, you can call me Grandpa Nikanor. And what's your name?"
"Executioner," I introduce myself briefly, holding my gaze on old Nikanor.
"Wow! You marauders like to play childish games," he continues to grumble, and I immediately interrupt him.
"Aren't you one of us? Since you settled here," I remark, to which the old man slyly bares a row of snow-white teeth.
"And I, son, am a local. I was born, you see, on April 21, 1954. And I lived in these forests even before the events of '86, and stayed here afterwards... If you ask how I survive, my answer is very simple: I hunt, fish, and do gardening, what else..." Nikanor replies, stroking his rifle with slightly trembling fingers. "Sometimes your kind, marauders, wander by. I trade with them, they give me medicine, vodka, cartridges, and I give them my produce in return. That's how I live."
"Let's say so," I nod at this sudden revelation. "Do you know the way to the stalkers?"
"I do," a smile spreads across his face. "But I won't tell you about it, and I won't advise you to look for it yourself. You'll get even more lost than before. In these forests, you need to know where you're going, not just blindly follow the compass."
"Here we go... What do you want from me?"
"Hahaha," old Nikanor laughs heartily, slapping his thigh. "Experienced lad, eh? I have a little job for you. You do something for me, I'll let you stay the night and even put in a good word with the stalkers. They're supposed to arrive tomorrow, by the way... Don't mess around here, and don't try to lay a hand on an old man, the Thicket won't forgive you for that, mark my words three times, if you think you can just kill me and wait for the stalkers to arrive at my house. You'll all be covered in blood, all of you!"
"Don't scare me, Nikanor," I exhale tiredly, and my stomach erupts with a loud rumble. "If you feed me, I promise to think about your problem."
"Ha," he chuckles. "Simple as that. The stove is in the kitchen, utensils are there. In the garden, behind the shed, there's potatoes, dig up one bush and cook it. You'll find water in the well near the next house, don't worry, it's clean."
"And what do you eat yourself?" I grumble this time. For some reason, I thought such a local resident would have food in reserve, but no, I'll have to cook it myself.
"Will you at least give me a shovel or dig with my hands?"
"The shovel is in the shed, the key to the lock is under the pot by the entrance to it," the old man replies.
"And what kind of shed is it anyway?"
"A barn," Nikanor replies, frowning. "My mother came from Siberia, so I got used to it... Father often argued with her because of her accent, but lovingly."
"Got it. I'll go cook. Should I dig up potatoes for you?"
"No, marauder. I'm full, stuffed to the brim..." the last words sound very quiet, and I don't pay attention to them.
I go out onto the porch and cast a careful glance at the fog-engulfed farmstead. There were only about five houses here, and a few more buildings of another kind – sheds, barns, stables, and the like. Maybe there are more somewhere, further in the forest. I immediately notice the village well near the adjacent building, a house in the same style as Nikanor's. After admiring it a little longer, I come to the conclusion that this is the most ordinary dead village imaginable. Overgrown paths and trails, old houses and other buildings gradually falling into disrepair, and almost no soul, except for the grumpy old man, for many kilometers around. It's amazing that he lived to this moment at all.
I jump off the porch and my eyes search for the shed where the shovel is, and I find it a little to the side of the main house. A low building made of roughly hewn logs, with a small window that had long since lost its glass, and a door from which almost all the paint had peeled off, leaving only small blue dots. And the lower half meter of the shed itself was hidden by tall grass, and I had to work hard to find the cracked pot under which lay a small bunch of rusty keys. After a short two minutes, I pick out the right one and open the door.
The shed was a collection of various garden and not-so-garden junk. Leaky and intact buckets, tools in various states of repair, some canisters, basins, and everything that old Nikanor was too sorry to throw away, but had no use for. I pick up the shovel, lock the door behind me, and head to its backyard to dig up some tubers.
Grandpa's garden was in even worse condition than the house and shed. Completely overgrown with weeds, it must have been very, very bad for him. I could see the remains of a carrot bed, beets, and
a few dozen potato stalks. How does he manage his farm if all the vegetables have been eaten, except for rare exceptions? Well, it's none of my business, the old man is clearly having a hard time, and I'm trampling his land. I choose the closest potato, carefully dig around it so as not to damage it, and pull the stalk from the ground, shaking the large potato onto the grass. After a moment's thought, I return to the shed to get a bucket and put the harvested food in it.
Then I go to the well – first, I need to wash the tubers from the dirt. There was no mechanism to lower and raise the bucket here. Only a rope with a bucket, which fell into the water with a splash, immediately submerging under it. I pull it out and peer into the crystal clear water. It's even surprising that the water is still so clean after all these years. But... I set aside the filled bucket to check it with a dosimeter. It looks clean, but I need to know its radiation level. The device turned on successfully, but no matter how I moved it around the water, there was no crackling or confirmation of radiation. It can be drunk, but it's better to boil it and add a disinfectant tablet. Just in case.
Two hours passed while I was busy with gardening and cooking. Time flew by almost unnoticed, as there were many tasks, although they didn't take up much time: wash the potatoes, wash the pot, prepare firewood, pour water, add potatoes, and finally, put it in the preheated stove. And as soon as the boiled potatoes in their skins were ready, I immediately called the old man to the table, but he just lazily waved me off and stared out the window, remaining seated in his accustomed armchair. Well, he can do as he pleases.
About half an hour later, I was completely full, my stomach gratefully accepted the potatoes and stopped reminding me of itself with aching pains, starting to digest them. I didn't forget to replenish my water supply either, having disinfected and boiled it beforehand. Of course, I won't be able to drink boiling water in the near future, but I'll manage for now. And now I need to ask the old man what kind of job he has prepared for me.
"Are you full?" his hoarse voice rings out as soon as I enter the living room. "Now are you ready to talk about my task?"
"Yes. And thank you for your hospitality," I nod deeply as a sign of respect and gratitude. No matter how grumpy the old man seemed at first glance, he treated me well.
"Hah, don't thank me, you did it all yourself," he grins crookedly, running his fingers over the barrel of his rifle. "In general, my task for you is simple. You need to bury... one of my friends. Something happened to him many years ago, uh, I'll tell you now. On March 13, 2007, he fell into a ravine and stayed there. I can't do it myself, but you... You can. Make a cross and bury his bones here, on the farmstead."
"No problem, Nikanor," I agree. "Just tell me how to get to him."
Misty thicket, ravine, some time later.
I only reached the right place after half an hour of wandering through the forest. Despite the quite precise landmarks given by the old man, this place still tried to lead me somewhere else... On one side was such a dense forest that even one person couldn't take a step there – there was simply no room, under my boots – an overgrown path, and to the left, the very ravine, smoothly transitioning into the bank of a small lake, over the surface of which hung a white and dense haze. As usual, there was not a single sound in the vicinity.
I walk along the cliff edge, looking for a place to descend, and after a few minutes, I finally reach that very friend. His flesh had long since rotted away from the yellowish skeleton, leaving no trace; his legs were bent unnaturally, and a crack shone on his skull. He was unlucky; not only did he fall and break his legs, but he also injured his head. And then I notice a rifle, a horizontal TOZ, the very one that Nikanor held. And the shirt is the same, the color…
"This damn Zone," I quietly shake my head, realizing that this place holds something more hidden and unusual than a strange mutant and fog. "Now I understand why he called me and other stalkers marauders. To him, we are just that, walking around and grabbing everything we can get our hands on."
The Misty Thicket, Southern Farmstead, by the old man's grave.
In a small clearing, right behind Nikanor's house, a cross now stood with his name and birth and death dates carved into it. I had to mow the grass in this spot to make it look humanly cared for, and now the old farmstead owner could finally find peace. It was a little creepy returning to the settlement, after all, this was the first such paranormal event I had seen. But leaving the job unfinished was impossible, especially after the treat.
"Rest in peace, Grandpa Nikanor," I say my farewell words. "May the earth be soft for you. And I hope you'll be happy with your new company."
Deciding it was not right to carry the head of the unfortunate stalker with me, I made two more crosses. Alas, only Father found a proper rest, if one can say that about a head. The Gypsy, however, only got a cross, because his body… is unlikely to be found. Ha-a, sad days, filled with fear and pain, have passed for me. I lost a bloodsucker and almost died myself, then crawling through caves, facing terrifying mutants, and now completely inexplicable phenomena.
There was nothing else for me to do, so noticing that the Sun had slowly but inexorably begun to set, I hurried back to the house, for another portion of fragrant boiled potatoes. An interesting thing, by the way. You can't see anything more than ten to fifteen meters ahead, and the celestial body still breaks through even through the fog.
"I'll cook something and go to sleep, and tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I'll expect guests," I whisper to myself, shivering from the cold that pierces me even through my suit. As if someone is watching me. I turn around sharply, but see nothing but haze. "Creepy."
The Misty Thicket, the next morning.
Beard led a significantly thinned squad south, somewhere in those parts the Southern Farmstead should be, where they could not only find answers to some of their questions but also get their hands on old supplies. After all, the Gypsy once told them that he had seen a whole field planted with potatoes there… At this thought, his stomach, and not only his – Glukhar and Teterev's stomachs joined in, rumbling. None of them had eaten normal food since the day before yesterday, when they finished the last wild boar.
"What darkness," Teterev exhales through his teeth, a blond stalker with green eyes and short stature. "I always thought, if only there were fewer mutants, then we would live carefree, just carrying artifacts from anomalies and shooting idiots. And now? I pray that we at least come across one lousy dog."
"It's not just me who's got an itch in my stomach, huh?" Glukhar grins crookedly, adjusting his trusty Ksyukha on his shoulder, which he brought into the Zone from his old life. "I'm ready to eat anything. Bird, rat, even worms, I'm ready to shove them in my mouth…"
"Keep your preferences to yourself, you're making me sick," the first stalker replies mockingly, puffing out his cheeks.
"Oh-oh, how funny," Glukhar grumbles, immediately turning to Beard. "Old man, how much further to this farmstead?"
"No, just a little more… Oh, and there are the houses!" the balding stalker with a magnificent beard exclaims joyfully, pointing ahead at the scattered houses. "We act as before - keep your eyes peeled and your weapons at the…"
"Hello, guys," a voice comes from behind them, and they quickly jump aside, raising their weapons. In front of them stands a tall stalker in some modification of SEVA, a very expensive pleasure for an ordinary wanderer. He has no weapons except for two pistols. "I've been waiting for you."
"Who are you, stalker?" Glukhar asks distrustfully, keeping him in his sights.
"Executioner," he introduces himself, paying no attention to the weapon pointed at him.
""Confident in himself… Or he knows we can't do anything to his suit,"" the former investigator thought to himself, and immediately asked another question that interested him greatly. "How do you know about us?"
"From Father and Gypsy," the Executioner replies, and the other stalkers tense up noticeably. There had been no news from their friends for several days. "I offer my condolences, but… they are dead."
"Did you kill them?" comes another question.
"No, no," the stalker shakes his head, keeping his hands in sight. There is no agitation in his voice or body language; he speaks calmly and freely. It was clear that he was not worried about anything at all; such behavior is not typical of a criminal, unless he is some hardened killer or psychopath. His nickname clearly hinted at one of these. "Some strange mutant attacked us, I managed to save them, but your friends… Only Father's head remained, torn off, the whole camp was flooded with blood, and from the tracks…"
"Only a hoof print?" Beard asks, swallowing loudly, glancing around and flinching.
"Yeah," the Executioner nods. "Have you seen such a creature before?"
"Damn it!" Teterev exclaims loudly and stomps his foot on the ground in anger, then winces.
"Let's go into a house quickly, it will be safer to talk," Beard says quickly. "And you can tell us how you ended up here and how you met our guys."
"If there was anything to tell," the stalker waves his hand, walking past them. "Let's go, I've prepared food for you there and boiled water. No tea, unfortunately, but we can only drink boiling water."
The group followed the strange stalker through the entire farmstead, to the farthest house, and entered, examining the interior. But despite the fact that they followed him meekly, no one was in a hurry to trust the sudden stranger. Too
many strange and inexplicable things had happened to their group in the last few weeks after that unfortunate Emission that had blocked the exit from the Misty Thicket.
Once in the kitchen, the stalker lays out plates and clean glasses on the table, then fills them with boiled potatoes and hot water respectively. As soon as the preparations were finished, the Executioner reached for his helmet. The stalkers' stomachs began to sing the old song of hunger again, but no one dared to start eating. Everyone was curious to see what kind of stalker was hiding there. However, it turned out to be a completely ordinary young and handsome guy with green eyes and a neat mole under his left eye. A light stubble graced his face.
"Eat up, why else would I have dug potatoes?" the stalker says with feigned annoyance, but his gaze is full of kindness. "And so, where to begin… I met your guys, may the earth be soft for them, in the caves, not far from here."
"So you finally reached them," Beard replies with a sad smile, sending a fork with potatoes into his mouth. The familiar and beloved taste of childhood spreads across his tongue. "And then? Did you find a way out?"
"There's a slight snag with that," the Executioner sighs, resting his elbows on the table and looking into each stalker's eyes in turn. "I came from that side of the caves. I didn't tell your guys, but… Fine, since we're all in the same boat, I have to do it. I had to go into an underground laboratory located under the Dark Valley. I won't go into details, it's no use to you… It so happened that the entrance closed, and I had to find another way, which turned out to be caves full of mutants. That's where I found your guys, managing to save them from becoming lunch. And you already know the rest. You came out at night, decided to set up camp, and your guys were eaten by that creature."
"And you?" Teterev suddenly asks. "Where were you at that moment?"
"I went to the bushes for a moment," the stalker sighs, looking away. "When I returned, it was too late. The mutant did everything so quickly that the guys didn't even have time to make a sound."
"M-yes," Glukhar grimly sums up. "So, another of our plans has gone down the drain. We can't get through the forest, those creatures live there, the caves… The caves are also dangerous. And our ammunition isn't increasing over time."
"So, there's only one option left," Beard replies. "Executioner, are you with us?"
"As if I have a choice," he smirks.