Zone Stories 1

“So a Duty rookie hires a down-on-his-luck Merc to help capture this Freedom guy who keeps stealing from their base at night. They search for clues, discover his tracks, and follow them all the way to Zaton, the middle of bumfuck nowhere. By the fifth day of searching, they’re tired, nearly out of supplies, and terribly sober, but by some miracle they stumble upon a hatch in the dirt—the Freedomer’s bunker!”

Dima paused his joke to look between the backs of his brother Max and an older stalker named Slouch. Both continued their steady march through the swampy grass ahead of him. Neither looked back or made any noise Dima could discern above the thin drizzle of rain.

“So they yank the hatch open,” Dima continued, “and yell down, ‘Hey! Come out, and bring your alcohol!’ The Freedomer climbs up, empty-handed. He explains how he’d been relentlessly assaulted by a pair of bloodsuckers for the past few days, was absolutely exhausted, and had gone through all of his food and vodka. He offers no resistance to his capture, and the three of them start the long walk back to Rostok.

“As delirium begins to set in from hunger and thirst, the Merc trips over something metal in the mud—an oddly-shaped container—and he bends to pick up. Well, just as he wipes it with his sleeve, a genie bursts out in a plume of blue smoke! The three fall to the ground in awe, and the genie makes an offer. ‘For freeing me from my lamp, I will grant each of you one wish.’

“The Merc answers first. ‘This is no life to be proud of,’ he laments. ‘I’m getting older, and the pay here is terrible. I wish that me and all of my mercenary brothers were out of the Zone with enough wealth to retire.’

“The genie booms, ‘Your wish is granted,’ and the Merc instantly vanishes.

“The Duty rookie answers next. ‘I hate it here,’ he cries. ‘I cannot sleep, I never feel safe, and I miss my daughter. I wish me and all of my Duty brethren were home safe with our families.’

“The genie booms again, ‘Your wish is granted,’ and the Duty rookie instantly vanishes.”

Dima looked up at his companions’ backs again, still silent. “Stop me if you’ve heard this one before, guys.” Neither responded. He cleared his throat and resumed the joke.

“So the Freedom guy looks around kinda dumbfounded, and says, ‘You mean to tell me that all the mercenaries and Duty forces are completely gone from the Zone?’

“‘Yes, they are gone,’ the genie responds.

“The Freedomer jumps to his feet and turns to run back in the direction they’d came.

“Surprised, the genie asks, ‘Where are you going?’

“‘Back to my bunker,’ the Freedomer yells with a smile. ‘If I hurry, the twins might still be waiting!’

Dima spread his hands and grinned wide, sure that his brother would, at the very least, offer a pity laugh.

Still nothing.

“Jeez, what’s with you two?” Dima slapped his jacket pockets in search of a cigarette. “I said I was sorry like five times. Here, let’s make it six: I’m sorry.” He brought the cigarette to his mouth and cupped his hands around it, raking his thumb against the lighter wheel. “We weren’t even sure we were gonna find anything,” he muttered, striking the lighter again and again. “It’s basically like breaking even.”

The lighter refused to spark in the rain, and he stuffed it back in his pocket, letting the cigarette hang from his lip. The rain fell harder, its misty spray coagulating into thick droplets that soaked through and stank miserably. Nobody spoke again as they made their way back to the camp.

Searchlights cut through the gloom ahead, and soon the brick sheds and lean-tos came into view. It was Groundhog who turned off the light and came to greet them. His smile dropped as he saw the looks on their faces.

“What,” Groundhog’s voice caught and he swallowed. “What happened? Where’s—”

Max shouldered past him, knocking his sentence short, and Slouch kept his head low as he followed. Groundhog stared at them for a moment, his eyebrows pressed together.

“It’s not as bad as they’re acting,” Dima said as he came up to Groundhog’s side. “They’re just kinda upset about the… well, I’m sure you’ll get the story in a minute.” He moved away from Groundhog, who remained frowning, and followed after Max and Slouch to the booze tent.

There was already a small gathering of men around a small bonfire beside the tent, sheltered from the rain by a thin tarp suspended high over the firepit. Dima sat in his usual seat—a decent wooden folding chair he was quite proud of finding—and watched as Max snatched a bottle from another’s hand and took a long drink. Slouch lowered himself onto a stump across the fire from Dima and removed his gas mask with slow movements, unsteady hands.

The men’s chatter faded to silence as, one by one, they felt the weight of this particular return. Looks were exchanged. Heads were scratched. Finally, young Yarik asked one of the many questions that had hung unspoken among the group.

“Slouch, what happened?”

Max coughed a laugh and shook his head, sloshing the contents of his bottle as he readjusted in his seat. Slouch released a deep, heavy sigh. He ran a hand across his mouth, paused, and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Oh my god,” Dima said, recoiling at the melodrama unfolding before him. “We went out and got nothing but we’re all fine. Nothing bad happened. We’ll try somewhere else tomorrow.”

Uneasy looks continued to pass between the group. Again, but quieter this time, Yarik found his voice.

“What happened?”

Dima sighed again, the light of the fire throwing long shadows across his gaunt features. “Well, we certainly didn’t find what we were looking for,” he said with a thin-lipped grimace.

“Okay,” Dima shrugged, “I know where this is going and—”

“Was there anything there?” another man asked.

Dima chuckled. “Yeah, but it wasn’t exactly a smorgasbord—”

“There was a room with supplies, yeah,” Slouch interrupted. “Nothing special, but a lot to sort through.That is, until…uh…”

Dima stood and flung his arms in the air. “Alright! I get it! I fucked up, okay? I was dumb and didn’t, like, wait for you to catch up with me and—okay, I know, I—”

“Slouch,” Max barked, his voice already thickening with inebriation, “just say it.”

Dima sat down and dug the lighter out of his pocket, and flicked it against his misshapen cigarette with increasing frustration.

Rain sizzled into the fire, harmonizing with the steady shk–shk–shk of Dima’s stubborn lighter. With a grunt, he flung it into the weeds and crushed the ruined cigarette in his fist.

Max took another slug from the bottle.

A man coughed.

“Um,” Slouch said quietly, “alright, uh, so… we went to the factory Yellow Belly circled on our map.”

The men wordlessly turned their attention to Slouch.

“We had just gotten to the far edge of the chemical plant… We’d followed some flesh tracks into a cave, hoping for a meal, but Max clocked an approaching pack of snorks just before disaster and we got the hell out. In the panic, we got turned around and lost track of where we were.

“It wasn’t until sunset that we finally found the right building. Yellow Belly said there’d be a huge ‘108’ painted on the side but, if it was ever there, it flaked off a long time ago. Just bare brick on all sides. Max figured it out from the polaroid he gave us, though. Matched the doors.”

Max raised his bottle without looking up.

“Main floor was clear. Nothing worth mentioning. Dima found the right stairwell but the lower landing was all fruit punch. Max thought maybe it was just irradiated water—you know how puddles glow after emissions sometimes—but we tossed a chunk of concrete in and it melted, so… no dice.”

A groan went up from the group, some shaking their heads or swearing under their breath.

“So that’s it, then?” It was young Yarik again, leaning back heavily in his chair. “There’s no way to get to the stash?”

“Well, wait. The other stairwells had caved in, but Max found one we were able to clear out a bit. We made a hole big enough for us to climb under. But…” Slouch’s hand absently felt at the empty holster at his hip. “I had my gun in my hand before I’d pulled my back foot through. There were probably eight or nine zombies down there, moaning…one whispered something, I…”

A tremor ran through Slouch’s hand as he put it to his mouth, his eyes wide, staring into the fire.

Max drank.

“I was the first one through,” Dima added quickly, his face twisted into a confident grin. “I’d already taken out three of those things before Slouch even thought about his gun. It was fine.”

Rain hissed and popped in the fire. The men said nothing.

“Dima was… quick. Had us covered. But it was dark down there, and my aim hasn’t been the same since that fucking bandit raid, so I wasted more shots than I should have. Dropped my pistol. Yellow Belly said it was supposed to be clear. I’d only brought the one mag.” Slouch was shaking his head, his fingers absently tracing a scar on his jaw. “There’s no excuse for it. No excuse.”

“Dima took off into the unlit corridor. Alone,” Max added, head still down. “Stupid little shit.”

“Hey! You know well and good that I was—”

“We couldn’t find him,” Slouch said, his voice carrying an edge. “It was dark. There were so many rooms, and I couldn’t—” He made a strange noise, deep, from his chest. “I was having trouble focusing. I couldn’t read the map.”

“It was the last room on the left,” Dima said, leaning forward. “We talked about this. I told you I would scout ahead and—”

“It was the last room on the left,” Max said around the mouth of his bottle. “Dima told you that.”

“Yeah, that’s what I just s—”

“I was having. Trouble. Focusing.” Slouch pressed his fingers to his eyes. “After the snork thing, I was… rattled.”

“Color me shocked, oldhead.”

“Hey!” Dima stood again, taking a step forward. “You know damn well that Slouch keeps a cool head even—”

“Even you were taken off guard.” Slouch scrubbed his hands over his face, muffling his voice. “We were assured it was clear.”

“Yeah, by a coward who’s never gone on a raid in his life. Yellow Belly’s idea of scouting is to sit on his ass for twelve hours and watch through a telescope. No shit he thought it was clear. I bet he never once even set foot on the factory grounds, let alone checked out the stairwells.” Max threw his head back for another swig and growled as it burned its way down his throat. “I swear to Christ if I see that dickless bastard again, I’ll open him up and show him what color his belly really is.”

The men remained silent. Some nodded slowly amidst the slow applause of tarps flapping in the wind.

Finally, after another long sigh, Slouch continued. “Max finished off the zombies… I took off down the hallway to find Dima, but it was hard to see. My flashlight was functional, but the glare off the fruit punch was brutal, and I was still seeing stars from the muzzle flashes.”

“I caught up and helped him along, like always,” Max grumbled.

“The fruit punch wasn’t really the problem. The building was in ruins. There were girders and rebar and holes. I don’t know how Dima got through it so fast.”

“I’m young and spry,” Dima said, putting a hand on his chest. “I was king of the jungle gym as a kid. Nobody could climb faster than me. Just ask Max.”

Max took another drink and shot a half-lidded glare at Slouch. “You’re too delicate. It was already dark out and we didn’t have time to be methodical. Practically had to shove you down that hallway.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure I have it in me anymore to…” His words trailed off as he put his hand to his mouth again.

“Dima had found the stash,” Max continued. “At least Yellow Belly was right about that part. Too bad it was mostly shit… rusty parts, expired food. Useless junk, but a lot of it. Dima’d already started a pile of things we could maybe use. Laughing, like a child.”

“There was a lot of good stuff!” Dima swept his arm out, eyes widening. “There were rolls of tape, fasteners and screws, tools, toilet paper! It was far from useless.”

Another long silence. Yarik spoke once more, his voice nearly drowned out by the rain and wind. “So… did you manage to bring any of it back?”

Max stood, wheeled his arm back and threw, smashing the bottle of alcohol against the rocks ringing the fire, spraying vodka and flaring it violently as the men recoiled.

“No! We didn’t fucking bring anything back, Yarik! Fuck!” Max kicked his chair into the man next to him, stomped away, and screamed.

Yarik paled and shrank back into the group. Nobody spoke.

The wind was blowing harder, and the rain fell sideways. Max sat in the mud some thirty feet from the group, in the dark. He began to weep.

Dima moved to comfort his brother, but stopped. “I don’t understand why everyone’s so upset about this,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else.

Another man spoke, somewhere in the group. “Hey, has anyone seen where…”

“Max went?” Dima finished for him. “He’s over there crying in the mud. You just watched him leave.”

“Well, that’s… the thing.” Slouch spoke slowly.

“What ‘thing?’ What are you talking about?” Dima swiveled his head around, searching the faces of his fellow stalkers for some sign of understanding.

“Dima… he didn’t…”

“What? What about me?” Dima was standing again, pulse elevated. “I didn’t what? Didn’t get the stuff? We couldn’t, the ceiling—”

“The ceiling collapsed. Max and I got to the door, and Dima turned and smiled and… then it fell.”

Dima laughed. “Yeah, and then I sprang into action!” He thought about how close it was. He remembered hearing the rumble, just for a second, and then the ceiling beginning to fall, and…

“I’m faster than some crumbling shithouse,” he said. “But you guys just stood there staring. I kept telling you it was time to go, that there was no reason to stick around, but you wouldn’t listen.” Dima shrugged and forced a smirk. “If anything, I should be mad at you two for delaying our return.”

Yarik’s voice, quieter than before. “Did Dima…?”

“Did I what?” He was sweating now, frustration creeping into his tone. “Did I cause the collapse? How could I have possibly made a ceiling cave in?”

Slouch wrung his hands. His shoulders shook. He took several long breaths before finally speaking.

“He didn’t make it.”

“What are you talking about!?” Dima was shouting now. “I’m right here! I—” There was a dark space in his memory. Surely, he thought, it had just happened so quickly there was no time to think, no time to commit a memory. “I didn’t—”

Murmurs of disbelief. Some whispered “no,” others simply furrowed their brows. Max cried out in the dark—an aching, shuddering wail that clenched tight and held in the chest of every man around that fire.

Slouch looked to the empty chair where Dima usually sat.

“Maybe he survived!” Yarik said. “Maybe he’s in an air pocket! Maybe he’s waiting for us to—”

“No. Max and I checked up top. Total collapse.”

He paused to think, his eyes darting left and right.

“An anomaly formed, like… a big bubble of pressure. It crushed through two more subfloors. Just… a ragged hole punched into the earth. Like God reached down and… we were lucky the whole place didn’t come down.” He made a rasping sound. “Lucky.”

Hesitantly, one by one, each man stood and unscrewed the cap on his bottle or flask, and poured a shot onto Dima’s chair. Yarik went out into the dark; after a tense conversation too quiet to overhear, he returned with Max.

Max stood over Dima’s chair for a long time, a new bottle quivering in his fist. He breathed deep, then howled, loud and long and terrible, a furious animalistic sound that rang out above the storm, and the whole Zone seemed to hush in response.

He upended the bottle onto the chair, the gentle glug-glug-glug of the draining vodka almost deafening in the stunned silence.

Once emptied, he kicked the chair into the fire without fanfare. The flames roared and swelled, greedily swallowing it, and every man took a step back to escape the heat.

All except for Max.

Flames and shadows whipped about him as he tilted the empty bottle to his lips, lowered it to peer into the mouth with disappointment, and tossed it, too, into the fire with a dull clink.

Most of the men had begun to turn from the fire for the promise of their bedrolls and sweet oblivion, the return party now thoroughly over. Yarik moved next to Slouch, his voice trembling.

“What… what should we do now?”

Slouch let out a long sigh that turned into a growl. He glanced at Yarik, then shook his head, and turned to leave.

“Ask yourself who the lucky ones are.”