Aynur gripped her AK tightly, anxiously, impotently. A chorus of snarls sounded around her as four blind dogs drew close, their noses quivering with an anxiety that likely rivaled her own. Suddenly, a shot rang out - two shots - three - two of the dogs crumpled to the ground, and the survivors promptly fled, tails tucked as they left their fallen brethren behind without a second glance.

“That’s four bottles. We’ve barely been out here an hour, Sister. If I have to keep rescuing you, I’ll be a very drunk man once this is over with, and you’re going to be very, very poor.” The pleasure in Lampochki’s voice was obvious. When Aynur decided to hire an escort for her journey to Yantar, she knew he would be the perfect man for the job: he was quick, bloodthirsty, and easily bought, agreeing to take her as far as Freedom HQ in the Garbage in exchange for one bottle of vodka for each kill he made to protect her. She realized now that choosing someone whose company she actually enjoyed, even remotely, might have been a good idea, but it was too late for that. He was a good shot, and most important of all, she was about 80% sure he wouldn’t stab her in the back, which was more than she could say for most stalkers. With credentials like that, she didn’t have to like him.

A plaintive whine caught her attention. Crouching down beside one of the felled dogs, she saw that it was still alive, though only barely. She laid a hand on its side, feeling the matted fur and jutting ribcage that rose and fell with each frantic, shallow breath. “You poor thing,” she murmured in Kazakh, as she stroked its shoulder and allowed herself one tiny moment of pity.

“Three bottles,” Aynur corrected. She stood, took aim at the dying dog’s head, and put the wretched thing out of its misery. “Finish the job next time if you want to get paid.”

---

Ten minutes later, they sat with their backs against a crumbling concrete barrier, the checkpoint to the Old Cordon about 60 meters behind them to the northeast. Aynur uncapped a bottle of water and took small sips while her companion tore hungrily into a hunk of bread. The sound of his open-mouthed chewing was disgusting, but she didn’t say anything. When he ripped off a piece and held it out to her, she held her silence, though her eyes widened in surprise at the gesture; after a moment, Lampochki grunted around a mouthful of dry crumbs and shoved the bread at her, finally forcing her to speak.

“No,” she said simply, placing her hand on his and pushing it away, gentle but firm. He rolled his eyes, shrugged, and swallowed.

“Let’s get moving, Sister.” Lampochki shouldered his pack and got to one knee, but Aynur put a hand out to stop him. Peeking over the slab of concrete, she surveyed the checkpoint, eyes moving from one building to the next in search of any movement. It was a well-known fact that Bandits liked to frequent this part of the Zone, and the checkpoint was a perfect spot for them to lie in wait, the slimy bastards. Yes - there - he was half-hidden in the shadows, but she could just make out a rather seedy looking silhouette patrolling the upper level of the watchtower.

“Guard tower, upper level. I only see one, but..”

“Two more by the barracks, and there are bound to be more. No way we can bust our way through that.” Lampochki sucked in his upper lip, apparently deep in thought. He glanced over at the scrawny girl beside him, sighed, and said, "Give me your money."

"What?” Hurt flashed across her face, followed quickly by contempt. “Lampochki, don’t--"

“It’s for the bandits, dumbass. Your money and your vodka. Whatever you can spare for these shitheads."

Aynur stared at him for a moment, her brows knit in frustration as she weighed her options. She could take another route - Nowhere wouldn’t be a challenge, even for her, but then she would have to make her way through the Swamps, which would likely defeat the whole purpose of trying to avoid contact with these damn thieving Bandits. And besides, fuck swamps.

Grudgingly, she reached into her pack and withdrew what little money and vodka she had, then handed her paltry offering over to Lampochki. He stood and walked out from behind the Jersey barrier, hands held high to show he came unarmed and bearing gifts. Aynur didn't like it. They had no guarantee that the bandits wouldn't just shoot them after taking their money -- or before, for that matter -- but as much as she hated going into this half-blind, she had to get through to the Old Cordon, and she couldn't think of a better way. Following a few paces behind her bodyguard, she adjusted her mask and hood before holding up her empty hands, noting every possible bit of cover that they passed in case things went south.

They made it about ten meters before the lookout in the tower spotted them. "Hold it!" he shouted in English, along with more instructions that Aynur didn't even begin to understand. Lampochki translated quickly. "They're coming out to meet us. Don't move until I tell you," he whispered. He began to chew on his upper lip again, and she could practically see the gears turning. "You're my son. Don't talk. You can't talk. Slouch. Try to look sullen. Yeah, good, like that. Guess you don't really have to try too hard for that one."

Three of the bandits came out to meet them, exchanging what they obviously thought was witty banter; the way they carried their weapons, loose and lazy, indicated cockiness and a lack of murderous intent, at least for the time being. Apparently she and Lampochki didn’t look too threatening. Aynur was grateful for that. Two of the men flanked them while the third circled around behind and grunted, “Go,” one of the few English words she actually understood, but she waited for Lampochki’s nod before moving. When they made it to the fenced in courtyard, four surly looking men stood waiting, arranged in a rough semicircle around a fifth; his confident stance, lifted chin, and long overcoat marked him as a leader. A sick feeling began to grow in Aynur’s stomach. Something about this was wrong. She cast a worried glance at Lampochki, hoping to catch his eye, but he wasn’t looking at her.

“We just want to make it through to Old Cordon,” he said in heavily accented English, giving his hands a small shake to show the bribe he had so graciously prepared. Aynur wasn’t listening, and she had a feeling the bandits weren’t, either. Her eyes darted around frantically as she collected and absorbed every possible detail as quickly as she could: eight men surrounded them, a ninth in the tower; the two bandits at her 9 and 11 o’clock were about a meter and a half away from her, the space between them wide enough for her to slip through without touching either of them; the five men that she could see were all handling their rifles very attentively; their leader had worn a subtle but very self-satisfied smile from the moment they entered the compound, and nothing Lampochki had said thus far had changed that.

Aynur watched the bandits’ leader transfer his gaze to something over Lampochki’s left shoulder and give the tiniest nod -- behind her, a tracksuit rustled -- her fear gave way to adrenaline and a desperate desire to survive, propelling her forward just as one of the bandits shot Lampochki from behind. Quick as a hare, she darted through the opening between the two bandits in front of her, their surprise giving her just enough time to clear the group and hit open ground before they fired on her. Aynur ran as fast as her malnourished muscles would take her -- which was still pretty damn fast, considering -- zigzagging like a prey animal toward a small stand of trees, praying they would decide it was too much trouble to pursue her. Assuming, of course, she even made it to cover in one piece.

It didn't take too long for a pair of people to make it to the checkpoint, and they were smart too. Jacob had a hard time telling whether one of them was really tall or the other was really short, but the taller one was already holding a wad of rubles in hand, along with some vodka. Several bandits emerged to greet them and escort them into the administrative building, giving him a much better idea as to their numbers and firepower. Most of them had AK-74Us, making them inherently more dangerous than most bandits, and they also had numbers on their side. As the two got closer, more and more bandits revealed their locations. By the time they got to the building, nine bandits were in clear view.

Jacob would have taken out the two bandits that were immediately behind the two first, but he knew there would be a chance his rounds would over-penetrate and hit the hostages as well. He waited a little longer to see how the exchange went, keeping his finger on the trigger and his scope trained on the leader. He saw him nod to one of the bandits, just as the short stalker bolted and the tall one got shot in the back.

"СУКИ!" Jacob yelled, putting a bullet into the leader's head before opening up on the others. He managed to tag two more bandits before they turned their attention to Jacob, ignoring the short stalker as he made for cover. "Он там!" one of them yelled as the others turned towards the tree and began to pepper it with bullets. Jacob moved behind it, avoiding the frantic spray of lead. "Ешьте его, сука!" he heard one of them yell after a pause in the gunfire. He figured some were reloading and took the opportunity to peek out and take one down before suppressing the rest and making for another tree. Four down, five to go, Jacob thought as he yanked the magazine out of his AK and replaced it with another. He knew the other stalker had a gun and had hoped they would have opened fire by now. The bandits would be in a crossfire, giving both of them an advantage.

Regardless, Jacob kept up the heat, leaning out to take out one more bandit before the rest opened fire on his position again. One of their rounds grazed his arm as he withdrew. He hissed and brought his other hand up to the wound as it began to bleed. It didn't bleed too badly, but it could lead to infection later on. Unfortunately, Jacob didn't have time to dig through his backpack for a bandage and some disinfectant. He sat behind the tree for a moment, trying to think of something he could do, some way to gain an advantage.

‘’It’s not like tea is that hard to make, Golyadkin! I taught you when it was your first week!’’

‘’Don’t go so hard on the kid, Rogozhin.’’

‘’My friend has just been through mindfuckery and we will deny him tea?’’ Rogozhin said in a loud voice. ‘’Plus, Golyadkin makes some good tea. He’s new, you wouldn’t know. But seriously, just try some out. You’d bloody well love it, Porfiry.’’

‘’You’re a bloody connoisseur, aren’t you?’’ Porfiry leaned back and grabbed the handkerchief the medic gave him and started wiping his eyelids again. ‘’You wouldn’t believe the things I saw. I might have had a bloody revelation for all we know. I’ll tell you all of it. Myshkin might have some use for it, he was into the philosophical side of the Zone, wasn’t he?’’

‘’He was, I think, uh,’’ Rogozhin replied as he tried to put some dossiers in order, ‘’Yeah, he was. Excuse me, I’m too busy trying to put these dossiers in order. Kruglov’s too busy to put these in alphabetical order, he’s too busy reading all the reports. He should be done anytime soon, though. There’s an important matter that he has to talk to you about.’’

Porfiry raised his eyebrows. ‘’Oh, is it the PDA message?’’

‘’No, no, no. It’s your omelet-fuck!’’ Rogozhin leaned to the floor from his chair to grab some fallen dossiers. ‘’He hasn’t written it down anywhere and we just got a fresh supply of eggs and bacon. What did you put in it again?’’

‘’I really don’t know.’’ Porfiry replied as he tried to remember.

---

‘’Eggs and bacon. It’s not that hard.’’ Porfiry thought to himself. For some reason, Semenov had put the bacon in the field objects packet. It looked quite exotic, dipped in some red liquid. It was probably one of those Cossack recipes Rogozhin would occasionally brag about. He pulled the bacon from the packet. It was quite dense. He smelled it. It wasn’t smelling anything like spice. It was moreso bitter, somewhat like gasoline. ‘’How’s it going, Porfiry? You found the bacon?’’

‘’Yeah, Rogozhin! You guys will lick your fingertips, just wait!’’ Porfiry put the bacon strips on the table and started dicing them. ‘’Looks tasty.’’ He looked at the frying pan. The eggs were almost done. ‘’Good, good.’’ He took the diced bacon in his hands and dropped it on the cooking omelet. A burning smell filled Porfiry’s nose. He coughed. ‘’Oh dear god, fucking Rogozhin and his Cossack recipes,’’ he thought to himself as he used a wooden spoon to mix the omelet.

‘’It’s done!’’ Porfiry shouted as he grabbed the frying pan to take it to the hungry scientists.

-

‘’I’m seeing milky, milky eyes… What was Oksana’s number again? She had pretty, fake tits. And her tool. God, it was huge, almost serpentine!’’ Kruglov asked Porfiry as the duo watched Semenov and Rogozhin bite on their suits. ‘’Boy, this orange is hard to peel!’’ Rogozhin said as he suddenly dropped his SSP-99 and started shouting about cheese. Semenov was chewing on the suit, but decided that shouting about cheese was better and joined Rogozhin’s tune about the glories of cheese.

‘’Oksana? From Kiev? Oh, you’re talking about *that* Oksana! Boy, she was a wild one. Would go mad when you gave her a reach-around. I remember her blasting off on the mirror when I went hard on her ass once.’’ Porfiry swiped the frying pan with a piece of bread and swallowed it. The sauced bacon was quite tasty. ‘’Man, man, man.. I fucking love it man. Fuck, what kind of omelet is this, man?’’ Kruglov asked as he hugged Porfiry. ‘’You’re right, it’s like a kite.’’ Porfiry had a sudden lapse of consciousness. ‘’I should check.’’ Porfiry said as he ripped himself free of Kruglov’s arms and (barely) stumbled to the kitchen. He checked the eggs with a Geiger counter. Nothing special. Then he checked the cover of bacon.

‘’Bloodsucker tentacles-found on specimen No.116-11/09/14’’

‘’Oh shit.’’

He looked back into Semenov’s bag. There was an untouched pack of bacon. He took it from the bag, opened it with a knife, cut the bacon into tentacle-shaped pieces (nearly cutting his own fingers by accident) and tucked them back into the field examples packet. He wiped cold sweat from his brow.

‘’Oh. Oh wow.’’

When he returned, he found Rogozhin moaning in the toilet, Semenov trying to take off his pants and Kruglov licking the frying pan. ‘’We’re out of bacon, man. I don’t think I can make another.’’ Porfiry said.

Then the ground turned into a worm and he fell into its mouth.

---

‘’Yeah, that, that omelet… I don’t think you guys would want any more of that.’’

Kruglov walked in mid-sentence. ‘’Why’s that, Porfiry?’’

Then he stopped and started thinking.

‘’You know what? I don’t even want to know.’’

There was a moment of silence. Then the trio burst into laughter. The laughter was dispersed somewhat when Golyadkin brought some tea. ‘’That explains why the Ministry Labs didn’t like our tentacle sample!’’ Kruglov shouted as he held his stomach. ‘’Dear God, Porfiry, dear God. I’d be angry but… five years, wasn’t it?’’

‘’It tasted quite good, too.’’ Rogozhin added.

‘’I’d eat it again.’’ Porfiry said.

There was another burst of laughter, but it was cut short when they heard some booming in the distance. ‘’Golyadkin, go check what’s happening! Is it zombies again?’’ Kruglov shouted. Golyadkin rushed off. ‘’It’s some guy, sir! Our guys are shooting at him! Should I open?’’

Kruglov looked at Porfiry. ‘’It’s got nothing to do with me, Kruglov. Don’t glare at me like that. Maybe it’s one of those guys who received your message.’’

‘’Ah, possible.’’

There was an explosion.

‘’Open the door, Golyadkin!’’

After some wooshing sounds that probably came from the door, and another explosion, Golyadkin entered, having almost left a stain in his pants. Then a large, imposing stalker walked in and muttered something in a language Porfiry didn’t know of. ‘’Who are you, stalker?’’

Porfiry looked at the stalker. A scary, somewhat brutish male, an Aryan that would make Hitler impressed, was looking down at him.

‘’Oh.’’ Porfiry felt like he was facing a pseudogiant for a second. ‘’He’s a stalker and an old acquaintance and was called here, like you,’’ Kruglov said. ‘’Yeah, I was called here. Name’s Smoke. Nice to meet you.’’

Somehow, Aynur managed to make it to the treeline unscathed. She scrambled behind a wide, gnarled trunk and leaned back against it, gulping down air as she waited for the burning in her legs and lungs to subside. The bandits were still firing, but after a few seconds, she realized that their shots weren’t landing anywhere near her; very carefully, she risked a glance back at the outpost, just in time to see one of the bandits cut down by a spray of bullets.

She couldn’t deny feeling a certain satisfaction at the sight.

Whoever was shooting at the bandits had managed to draw their attention completely away from Aynur, giving her a gift-wrapped opportunity to slip away unnoticed. She had no idea who it was or what their motives were, but she couldn’t think of a single possibility that made it a good idea to stick around. The stalkers hidden in the trees had probably been waiting for just the right moment to hit the bandit camp, and she and Lampochki had provided the perfect distraction. She definitely did not want to get caught in their crossfire.

Hoping to be far away by the time the bandits even remembered she existed, Aynur crept north, keeping to the underbrush as much as she could. She moved in spurts, ducking from tree to bush, pausing behind each bit of cover until she felt it was safe enough to move to the next. One particularly thorny bush gave her some trouble, catching on her hood and yanking it back when she tried to move forward. “Son of a bitch,” she muttered as she jerked free and saw that the bloody mutant thorns had left a tear several inches long, splitting the edge of her hood. She’d have to get some thread and a needle along with everything else when she finally made it to Freedom HQ..

“Oh, fuck.” Her money. Every ruble she had was back at the checkpoint. Aynur buried her face in her hands, her eyes shut tight against the tears of frustration that threatened to spill out. She might be able to score some medical supplies once she got to the bunker in Yantar, but there was no way she’d make it that far without a guide, and she didn’t expect anyone to get her there as a personal favor. She had to get her money, and the only way she could see that happening was if every one of the bandits was dead. Normally, killing another human being was something she avoided at all costs, but Lampochki’s murder made the idea a little easier to stomach. Aynur might not have liked him much, but he was a good guy, as far as stalkers went -- and she had abandoned him. Guilt wormed its way into her thoughts, seeping out of old wounds that still crippled her, but instead of burying it like she always did, she let it crystallize into a sense of vengeful purpose.

Aynur saw that most of the bandits were focusing their fire on a spot forty meters east and just a bit south of her position. With their attention focused elsewhere, she was able to move quickly, and had covered about a third of the distance when she spotted Nomad. She hung back for a moment, trying to see if he was really the only one or if there were more stalkers hidden around him. Catching someone by surprise right now could earn her a bullet, and she didn’t want to take any chances. As she watched, the man broke cover to fire a few more shots at the checkpoint, then withdrew suddenly and gripped his arm, and she knew that he had been hit. Hoping to draw fire away from him, Aynur dropped to one knee, brought her AK-105 up, and sent a few bursts in the bandits’ general direction, then ducked behind the nearest tree. When bits of bark began to fly around her, she knew she had been successful, but she wasn’t ready to celebrate just yet. The bandits’ fire died down for a few seconds, and she sprung out from behind the tree, making her way carefully to the injured stalker. Cradling her rifle in the crook of her elbow, Aynur fished something out of her pocket: a small square of white fabric with a red cross and crescent sewn onto it, which she held out for the stalker to see as she finally scrambled over to him. She swung her AK around to rest against her back, then reached tentatively for his injured arm, stopping just short of touching it. If he gave her the go ahead, she would tend to his wound; but she kept one hand by her side, ready to grab her rifle at a moment’s notice.

Jacob suddenly heard a burst of fire come from his left and thought he had been flanked, but saw the small stalker was the one firing. At this range, and with the hood off, Jacob could see that he wasn't short, but a girl. Well, still really short, but damn. "Well, that's different," he muttered as she ran towards him with a bandage in hand. "What are you doing?" he yelled. "Keep shooting, we'll patch my arm up when those sods are dead!" he yelled as he reloaded again.

He waited for another pause in the gunfire before bringing his AK around and taking out two more of the bandits. As it turned out, the girl had hit at least one, leaving one still standing. Even through the scope, Jacob could see the fear in his eyes as he looked around and realized his friends were gone. Looking like he was a step away from shitting his pants, he struggled to load his next magazine into his AK-74u, his hands shaking wildly with panic. After dropping the magazine once, Jacob got up and began walking towards the bandit, slinging his rifle over his shoulder and drawing the intimidating looking pistol from his hip. Oh he wouldn't kill this one, but he'd be damned if he didn't let him get out without some serious emotional scarring. By the time he had closed the distance to 25 meters the bandit had fumbled with the magazine 3 times. The bandit looked up at Jacob, stumbling backwards and dropping his gun. Jacob continued to approach him with a deadpan look on his face.

The bandit began pleading in Russian, at least that's what Jacob interpreted it as. He had never been close enough to hear a bandit beg for his life before, so he couldn't quite translate what he was saying. He picked up on something about money and guns. He didn't care, he had enough of both of them. By the time Jacob was standing straight over the bandit he was sitting on his back with his arms crossed in front of his face. Jacob leaned next to his ear and whispered, "Чики-брики, сука." Jacob peeled back quickly as the bandit started kicking and screaming, barely catching his footing on the concrete and retreating into the plains. Jacob thought he could even see a trail of liquid leading away on the road.

Satisfied with his traumatizing act, he put his pistol back in it's holster, but was simultaneously reminded of the wound on his arm. He continued to try to ignore it as he walked into the administrative building, thinking there was a chance the other stalker was still alive. He walked through the entrance, ignoring the carnage around him and turning his gaze to the stalker in the middle of the room, a single hole in his midsection. Jacob wasn't too adept at anatomy, but it looked like the shot missed the spine, if barely, though it was likely it had hit something else; the stomach, or a kidney. Jacob knelt down and reached towards his neck to feel for a pulse, but heard the man release a grunt before he had touched him. "Damn." Jacob muttered, running back outside. "Come here, quick, давай, давай, давай!" he yelled, ducking back into the room and rolling the man onto his back. There was a lot of blood on the ground, and Jacob could already tell that no amount of medication would keep him alive. Jacob pulled his own backpack off of his shoulders and began looking for his last morphine shot. He jammed it into the man's stomach, near the site of the wound. If nothing else he would make sure this man slipped away relatively painlessly.

Tiberius awoke with a start, which he regretted as he discovered that he possessed a rather inconvenient migraine. Up sitting up, he also discovered that his entire body was quite sore, the reason for this, he learned, was because rather than getting into bed like any normal person, he'd managed to fall asleep on a pile of empty vodka bottles which, if he remembered correctly, he had drunk the night before. Things were about to get even worse, though, for upon standing he found the sudden urge to piss himself and puke his liver out at the same time. Outside, he relieved himself of yesterday's drinks and all of the food he'd eaten for the last half-week.

A few hours, one nap, and two more vomiting spasms later: Finally certain that he was done paying for all the sleeping medicine that he'd downed yesterday evening, Tiberius opened up his supply crate to rummage for food and drink with which to form something passable as a breakfast.
"Faen."
He'd forgotten that the vodka was all he had left, and that was finished off last night. He'd meant to go kill something and sell if for food two days ago, but had been too lazy to do so. With a sigh of exasperation, Tiberius suited up, packed his backpack, loaded his guns, and set off in the general direction of Agroprom. There were always bandits and soldiers to be killed there, and Kalashes and their ammo sold for quite a pretty penny, especially in large quantities. Of course, choosing to hunt in this area also meant that you one might find oneself having to deal with a few more enemies than might generally be preferable, because, you know, who doesn't love being surround on all sides, trapped in a tree with a semi-automatic rifle while being violently pounded by angry bandits and Ruskies because they're pissed off since you may or may not have blown the brains out of one of their buddies.

Tiberius plodded along his way, merrily singing Ja, vi elsker dette landet. He'd just crossed over into Agroprom and, much to his glee, wasn't immediately fighting a group of bandits with SMG's and shotguns, since sniper rifles aren't exactly instruments of precision in close proximity engagements. This wasn't all that was making him happy, however. He'd had the good fortune to not only not be ambushed by bandits, but also come across an unsuspecting patrol of about ten soldiers a kilometer out. Perfect prey for a sniper.
He quickly found a decent position on top of a low hill with a few bushes for cover, plonked down into one of the shrubs, and set up his rifle. He made a pan across the group to see what he was looking at in terms of money; all of them were toting Abakans, meaning they were Spetsnaz, which in turn meant that he'd be getting Berill's and SKAT's off of them. By his calculations, Tiberius reckoned that that would be at least a few thousand rubles, which was more than enough for his needs. Assuming that the merchandise wasn't damaged, of course. If he wanted everything intact, he'd need to aim for the throat and kill, or go for the knees and finish them off with his kodachi once he made his way over to them. He decided to make a game of it and kill every other one now, and let the others suffer a bit before he put them down.

He scoped in to the group leader, who seemed to be something on the order of a captain, but that was irrelevant. Breathe in, hold, squeeze the trigger... poof. Tiberius snickered as the poor man's throat was torn out and he desperately clutched at the scraps of skin that still kept his head on in a state of confusion. He watched the horror show for a moment, reveling in his handiwork, before moving on to the now scattering and confused soldiers that still stood. He blew out the knees and ankles of one soldier as he tripped trying to get behind a rock. He tagged another that popped his head up too far over a rock. One stepped out and fired a few bursts in Tiberius' general direction. The fool found himself incapacitated a moment later when he received an express delivery bullet to the waist and feet. Things went on like this for about six minutes or so until every one of them had been downed or disabled.

"Hell jævla ja! Vodka og pølser til middag i kveld!"

Tiberius quickly gathered his things and sprinted down to where the wounded Spetsnaz lay. Once he was noticed, a few of the survivors feebly fumbled with their pistols in a desperate attempt to shoot Tiberius, and one managed to hit him square in the right shoulder, but his head soon rolled off of his shoulders and his attempts at resistance ceased. Once the others saw this, they pleaded for their lives, promising money and artifacts in return. Tiberius chuckled at the notion, beheaded another two, and finally just stomped the remaining pair to death, leaving their skulls little more than a messy, red, pulp. Everyone dispatched, he unarmed, looted, and undressed the soldiers, tying all of their belonging onto the most intact body of the group with a length of rope, which he then used to drag the loaded body. He was off to 100 Rads for a hefty trade and a few drinks.

100 Rads Bar: Tiberius was met with mixed reactions as he walked into the bar dragging a dead body behind him, but most of the Duty soldiers and veteran STALKERS ignored it since they knew him and this was pretty regular behavior. He managed an easy 9,000 rubles from the various items he'd brought in, half of which he promptly traded for ammo, gun repair supplies, and most importantly, various forms of vodka and meat. He decided he might as well hang around and see what was happening back here in [i]civilization[/], since it'd been a while. Although, just as he'd sat down to chat with an old acquiantance from Duty, a a trio of two men and a woman came running in babbling something in what sounded like German's attempting to speak Swedish and doing a piss poor job of it. However, it sounded like money, so Tiberius was interested.

Ah... Yantar, never before had Rickard seen such a wretched hive of scu- wait. Nope. Just more of the Russian landscape, sickly trees, dead grass. A few breaking down buildings as well. Rickard was currently in one of said buildings, taking a look at his PDA. The message had given him some sort of beacon, showing exactly where this 'Bunker' was supposed to be.

It was five hundred meters away, to his surprise. "That close?" he asked himself, speaking out loud for no reason. Still, he was ahead of schedule and had no reason to rush. He quickly began scavenging for supplies. Okay, so scavenging wasn't the right term, it was more like tearing shit apart looking for a can of beans or two. Still, anyone with a keen eye would find something.

Really, how the hell was there still stuff, just hidden out from sight? Surely he wasn't the only one who had come through here, evidence of the already opened shelves and cabinets of this two story motel building. Was there some Scrap Fairy who went around to all the houses and sprinkled random crap about the place for people to find?

Not like he was complaining or anything. After rummaging about for roughly thirty minutes, he had come up with quite a haul. He looked through the stuff. An old Nokia cellphone, didn't work, but people always liked electronics. Three cans of peaches, which were a huge score! And lastly, a silver necklace that might have belonged to a well endowed woman according to the pictures. He eventually decided on not taking the photos, even if some men out there were rather lonely.

Of course, just as he was about to leave, he heard a loud thump, just outside the room he was in. He froze. Only because of instincts etched into him did he reach down slowly, bringing the Uzi at his side up to bear. Something banged against the door once more, visibly smashing into it. He jumped, unable to control himself. "Uh... go away, please?"

Suddenly, whatever was out there roared, now doubling its efforts after hearing him. Not apt to let whatever was out there in, Rickard ran out to the balcony. The ground was roughly fifteen or so feet below him. He groaned. This was gonna hurt, a lot. He climbed over the bars, holding in his breath as he climbed over.

Even as he hit the ground, he knew to roll, but, as he was rolling, he landed on his left leg very hard. He let out a scream as something made a cracking noise. He groaned, looking down at his leg. It wasn't bent, nor cracked in half, but he knew some small bone might have fractured. Still, he didn't have time to sit there and moan about it. He gave a quick glance up at the motel, and saw the damn thing.

It was... a giant fucking boar? He almost pissed his pants, the thing was bigger than he was! He began running. Or limping, whatever you would call the form of transportation he was using, Rickard just wanted to get the hell out of there. He walimped as fast as he could, somehow managing to run through the ruins without getting caught up to.

Then he saw the bunker.

From his vantage point, he had never seen the dried up lake that had somehow gone unnoticed as he had entered the area. It was rather odd, seeing the depression going into the ground, but no actual water at all. And in the middle of it all, stood a single bunker, with random buildings surrounding it and a razor wired chain link fence, out of place as a Boar sitting in the lounge of a motel. Speaking of boars, there was still one following Rickard.

As Sister entered the room where Lampochki lay dying, she requested Nomad leave the room. He respected her wish and stepped out of the building. He took the time he had to pick off some ammo and supplies from the bandits he had killed just moments earlier. As the adrenaline from the gunfight wore off, the stinging on his arm went from stinging to a shooting pain. He looked back at it and decided he could treat it himself. It's not like flesh wounds needed anything more than a disinfectant and a bandage, right?

Nomad took his backpack off and unzipped it, removing a bottle of vodka and a bandage. He poured some onto the bandage, pressed it onto his arm and secured it with medical tape before taking a swig of the vodka. His face scrunched up, revealing his distaste for the cheap shit. "This is what whiskey is for, but since hardly anyone imports it, I guess this will have to do," he said, taking a seat on the road. He took a look around, making sure no one else was nearby. As far as he could tell, he had just killed every human within 500 meters that wasn't female or guarding a female. He chuckled at the thought of that. "I think I now know every woman in The Zone," he said, taking another swig of the vodka for good measure. He pondered taking another shot and figured, "Why not."

He began to lift the bottle back to his lips when Sister swiped it from him, puring a small amount on the ground. "Для Лампочки," she said. She handed back the bottle, now a quarter empty. He held it for a moment, then echoed the sentiment, raising the bottle slightly. "For Lampochky." He closed the bottle and stuffed it into his backpack, handing Sister a pair of spare mags for her AK. She took them wordlessly. Nomad had found enough ammo to double his previous magazine count, but he only took enough to regain the ammo he had spent, plus one magazine.

It took another three hours to reach Freedom HQ in The Garbage, and it was then that the two figured out that they were both being asked to do the same job in Yantar. Nomad advised Sister against proceeding, saying it would likely be dangerous. After some convincing, he changed her mind and continued to Yantar alone.

---

The rest of Nomad's trip to Yantar was, to Nomad's fortune, uneventful, though he saw traces of evidence that it hadn't been so for others. He crested a hill at the top of the small basin that once was a lake, and in the bottom of that basin lie the scientists' bunker. He didn't see any sign of zombies for the meantime, but he knew they'd filter back in time. It was as though something here attracted them, but at least they weren't a big problem. Sometimes mutants would even tear through them because there's nothing else to eat.

Just as Nomad began to stride towards the bunker, he saw someone leap from a balcony of a hotel some distance away. It was somewhat comical to watch, but Nomad brought his AK to bear as soon as he saw a boar jump off of the same balcony and start chasing the now limping man. "Shit!" he muttered, breaking into a sprint towards the man. He was too far to do any good from where he was, but if he moved quickly he could intercept the boar, or at least draw it's attention before this poor guy got mauled.

After closing the distance to a range that his rifle could effectively reach, Nomad opened fire on the boar, managing to drop it before his magazine ran dry, but only just. He reloaded, storing the mag he had nearly spent in a side pocket before running to make sure the man was okay. "Oi! You alright? Ты порядке?" he called out.