Chapter III: The Struggle for the Voyager

 Diary of Lance Corporal Dimka Torodov, Day 3, Garbage Depot.

I spent the night at the Depot, listening to Butcher's stories. Hernandez's intel had been utter garbage. Dogs, boars and pigs were only a fraction of the Zone's mutants, the old hunter told me, even though they were the most numerous. There were monsters that seemed more like something out of a folk tales than scientific journals. Some could suck a person dry of blood in mere minute, others could manipulate objects with their minds, some were like giants or jaguars on steroids. Yet more could turn you into a walking husk puppet like I had seen earlier. And according to the hunter, new ones kept crawling out of some holes all the time.

First it had been some sort of smoke monster, which could kill you in seconds if it got to within arms reach. Then, mutants similar to the suckers, but with psychic abilities. But ever since the Great Northern War, new mutants had appeared in droves. Mutated horses, wolves, bears, even zombies that could have abilities like the controller monsters. Butcher also explained that outside of a RPG, the universal tool for taking down mutants was the shotgun. And using that as a segue, he looked at my weaponry and went:

• I see that you have a rather fancy AK. But it won't do you much good if a big ass boar rushes you. Here, take a look at my wares and see if something interests you, I just got a new shipment of guns.

There was all sorts of equipment on Butcher's stock, from cooking kits, fuel and firewood to a gigantic assortment of knives and blades, and finally, to weapons and ammunition. My eyes immediately traversed to the Remington 700 on the wall, but the price tag was too much for my meager savings. There was also Russian, Ukrainian and American shotguns, from Remington and Mossberg to TOZ and Fort, but what really caught my eye was a Saiga shotgun. Butcher saw my interest in it and said:

• Ye that's a beauty, but do note it's a 20-gauge one. Less punching power than the 12-gauges, but a 5-round magazine and reddot mount makes it more than worthwhile. Besides, it's much cheaper than an actual Saiga.

• I'll take it then. I have a whole array of mutant parts, you buy those?, I asked.

• I buy them for the best prices. Let me see your merchandise then, my boy.

And so we traded my collection of mutant meats and parts for a brand-new shotgun and 100 rounds of 20-gauge shells, alongside a field cooking kit and matches. Coming across this trader had been a stroke of sheer luck, but I couldn't count on these miracles, and if I ran out of food, mutant meat was my only option, no matter how disgusting as the idea sounded like. The trader did ask me about my uniform, but I remained silent, it was none of his business. It did however remind me that I would need to find some disguise, and thus I asked him if he knew where the newest weapon and suit trader could be found.

He gave me a location in the same area, apparently a group of traders from the so called Digger faction resided in a ruined building nearby. It was the one I had taken fire from before, which I did not mention to the old hunter. I thanked him and went on my way, although he did yell after me that if I wanted some extra cash I could clear a mutant lair nearby, in the forest I had emerged from. I shouted back that I would, unsure if I would actually do so.

I thought about climbing back up the hill and sniping the enemy from there, but that plan was shelved when I checked my ammunition situation. Magazine for the AK plus some armour-piercing and hollow-point, two magazines of 9mm FMJ, once again some AP and HP. The great amount of 20-gauge I now had would not be much use against most enemies with armour. Frankly, I was screwed. But according to Butcher, these Diggers were among the most neutral factions in the Zone. They traded with anyone who did not directly bother them, even if that meant getting rid of their loner guards first.

I sneaked close, observing the place first. It was worse than I thought. Stalkers patrolled the building, and at a nearby outpost, which seemed like some sort of gate guard outpost, was a group of very tough-looking stalkers in red and black uniforms. No idea who they were, but they seemed to be at least neutral to the stalkers and also did not match the description of the mercenaries. For a moment I thought I'd turn back and try my luck elsewhere, but who knew where I could resupply next? So, taking a deep breath in, I took aim. One bullet left my chamber, and through the smoke I saw it hit a stalker in leather jacket. He fell down, and his friend cursed loudly. The large barrel-like structure I was hiding behind got raked with bullets. I peeked out to take few more shots, downing the other stalker.

The red-blacks activated and moved in slowly. Their leader had a similar suit to the one I had seen in Dark Valley, minus the skeletal structure around limbs. Knowing now the true protectiveness of these suits, I switched instantly to armour-piercing. The man was moving towards me, but had not seen me lean out yet. He tried to avoid a puddle of green goo, and that was when I struck. The bullets hit his chest and head, and the giant fell down. But it was not nearly over. I could hear others close in, and quickly swapped out my brand new Saiga 20. Their flashlights gave them away. First one had a normal stalker suit painted in their faction colours, and I shot him with my entire magazine, killing him. As I fumbled to reload, another one rounded the corner and fired, but he missed. I slammed my magazine in, charged the handle and almost simultaneously, fired.

It did not kill the stalker, but it staggered him. My four follow-up shots finished him off, the man screamed for his mother as he died. One more, I thought, as pistol shots struck the iron construct around me. It took me a second to spot the attacker as I reloaded. A man in a checkered jacket, barely more than a rookie. Either way, he fell to my shotgun's concentrated spray. The last stalker was hiding back, on the second floor of the collapsed Digger trade hub. He fired some sort of odd bolt-action shotgun at me, I fired mine back. I won. I lowered my still steaming shotgun and stepped out of the cover. Watching the carnage ahead of me, I felt deep shame and regret. I didn't know enough of the Zone to make judgements. Whether I was right or wrong to kill them. Their equipment was worse than I had seen anywhere, even Liberian civil war forces had had better guns and armour.

I shook my head and massaged my forehead. This was too much. I had killed before. But this was different. This was a massacre. I sighed. Can't stop and blame myself now. Mission comes first. This was for a good cause, the men had to die for the greater good. I holstered my shotgun and rose up the stairs to the traders. The traders didn't seem to care about the skirmish one bit. I sold them all my extra loot, bought some ammunition and medicines, and then looked through their suit collection. It wasn't much, some of those shitty leather jackets, a bandit variant, a NBC suit and a Voyager suit. The last one caught my eye, it seemed like it was the best one available and the Digger praised it as the best load-bearing design out there with no compromises to the armour or environmental protection.

Only downside was... It cost almost eighty thousand rubles. I had barely fifty thousand. But the NBC suit looked like it would not stop a rat bite, and the leather jacket was, well, a leather jacket. I needed the Voayger. The trader recommended that I try to do some work for Butcher. Defeated, I gathered my stuff and set off to the location Butcher had told me to go to. On the way there I explored every nook and cranny, finding forgotten stashes next to putrid puddles, inside dead trees and on the sides of the hills, half buried. When nearing the location of the mutants, I spotted a safe, submerged inside the greenish pond I had passed by. My boot knife would be wholly inadequate to open it, but I remembered seeing Butcher have a crowbar in stock. I'd check it when I got the mission done.

It was simpler to complete than I thought. The hill had a whole cluster of those whirlpooly-looking anomalies, and the poor bastards, a pack of dogs, had ran headlong into them. Blood, bones and ribcages everywhere. I checked to see if there were any survivors nearby, but the plains and rolling hillsides were all emptier than my pockets. I reported back to Butcher and he gave me far too much for a simple checkup work, but hey, I wasn't complaining. I had gathered some mutant parts from the dead stalkers at the Flea Market, and Butcher took those as well, making me almost reach the wanted sum. I bought the crowbar and set off to check the safe. As I closed to the pond, I could feel my breath getting stifled by the horrifying gases, and my suit was getting visibly damaged by it. I pushed on however, and managed to get to the safe, the disgusting, stale water up to my belt.

I used the crowbar to pry it open, slowly and strenuously, until it cracked. The safe opened with a screech. And inside... was three stacks of rubles, two cans of beans and a completely rusted barrel of a shotgun. The rubles amounted to a meager 1500.

• Ebasi, I muttered, a common Bulgarian swearword slipping my lips. Good thing no one was listening.

After this disappointment I went back to the Flea Market and after selling a lot of things that were actually necessary but less of a priority than the suit, I managed to somehow acquire the suit, with barely three rubles left to my name. My ammo situation was terrible, my gun was falling apart, I had food and drink for half a day and I needed somewhere to sleep. But I had the Voyager suit. A Zone-made, high-capacity suit. My pathfinder days could finally begin. It had to be so much better than the torn-to-pieces, barely functioning Mark I suit I had now. Right?

I was wrong. So wrong.