Dmitry LutsenkoStalker from God. More precious than life. Dmitry Lutsenko - Stalker from God. More precious than life Stalker from God is more valuable than life Lutsenko

Dmitry Lutsenko

Stalker from God. More precious than life

Pathfinder's Story

Shnyr ran down the steps with a light step into the echoing womb of the 100 Roentgen bar. After returning from a foray in the vicinity of Radar, he was eager to wet his throat and eat normal food instead of canned food. The owner of the establishment, nicknamed “The Bartender,” recently employed two boys who graduated from culinary college, and it must be said that their cooking made the most favorable impression on the unspoiled local contingent. The hall was crowded by today's standards - about a dozen and a half visitors.

The blue smoke of cigarettes and roll-your-own cigarettes floated through the room in lazy waves, and through the light hum of half-drunk conversations on eternal topics, from time to time the clink of cut glasses or the clanking of spoons on dishes broke through. After the recent incident with two disputants, forks were not provided at the bar. The essence of what happened is banal: two stalkers who “took to their chests” were finding out who was cooler. One said that he would kill anyone not only with a knife, but even with a fork. His interlocutor doubted sharply. As a result, the first stabbed the second to death with a blow to the neck, for which, of course, he was captured on the spot by the guards.

In the morning, without delay, as soon as the rowdy sobered up, he was shot in accordance with the law of Duty, which provided only such punishment for murder on the territory of the clan base. It has happened before that the fork was used as an argument in conflicts, but such consequences did not come to pass. Apparently, it was the last case that overflowed the patience of the commandant who imposed the ban. Of course, this is an emotional decision, and not an effective measure - after all, it is almost impossible to limit the desire of tipsy men to scratch their tongues and measure their toughness.

Some will understand, others will not, but Shnyr liked this atmosphere, when he could show himself and see others. If bruises were found on his face in the morning, it was nonsense, no big deal, he was happy with this way of relieving tension. After all, going into the Zone for several days, during which every minute requires your utmost concentration in order to stay alive, even on its own, without shooting with enemies and fights with mutants, is not a little stressful. Therefore, relaxing after getting drunk after a dangerous hike, erasing your emotional memory with alcohol as much as possible, so that nightmarish images do not hang there, is vital for maintaining the psyche at least at a conditionally normal level.

Of course, no one thinks about this from a scientific point of view, everyone simply enjoys the feeling when the nerves that have shrunk into a tight ball begin to gradually soften under the influence of alcohol, and a thought of one word is blissfully formed in the stalker’s head - “let go.”

Shnyr ordered stewed potatoes with meat, vegetable stew, bread and, of course, vodka. There were no friends at the other tables, and therefore when, after drinking the third glass alone, an unknown stalker came into the bar and asked permission to join the company, there were no objections. Victor (that was his name) explained that recently in the Zone, no one had even attached a “rattle” to him. The newcomer placed an order, and the stalkers knocked back one hundred grams per introduction. As soon as Victor found out who fate had brought him together, he unleashed a real hail of questions on Shnyr. He was interested in everything: anomalies, encounters with mutants, places rich in artifacts, and veteran tricks. However, having found grateful ears and fueled from within by alcohol, the experienced stalker soon went wild and began to pour out stories that made Victor even forget to eat and drink. Shnyr, indeed, had a reputation in the Zone as an excellent tracker and intelligence officer. In fact, he received his nickname for his ability to climb or get through to places where others are denied access. However, since there are significantly fewer specialists who can read tracks than those who have the skills of a scout, he was often called a tracker - not as a driver, but as a respectful designation for a rare professional specialty.

It’s immediately obvious that you’re a newbie,” Shnyr laughed after a while. - You drink vodka sluggishly and little by little, not like a stalker. Look, otherwise the Geiger counter will go off scale a hundred meters away from you! Vodka in the Zone, brother, it is the first friend after any sortie - it removes radiation from the body that you collect from the gullies. Stalkers have enlarged livers - this is professional. ABOUT! By the way, a classic joke on topic! This means that the stalker comes to the doctor with severe pain on the right side of his chest. Well, he looked at it, listened to it, touched it and said:

You, my dear, will have to remove your right lung!

Well, I’ve been running through infected places,” the stalker says sadly. - I have cancer?

No, your liver just can’t fit in and it’s squeezing out your lung.

Both laughed loudly.

You’re right, of course, I’m still green,” said Victor. - I still have to study and study. Let's go and smoke in the fresh air, and then we'll order some more and continue. Or rather, I’ll order it - I need to thank you for science!

Going outside and going around the corner, Victor, swaying, stuck a cigarette to his lip and treated Snitch from a pack of Marlboros.

Let me take a look. Wow, these are real American ones! Where did you get it?

“Now, I’ll tell you,” Victor promised, drawing out his words, simultaneously flicking the lighter and handing it to the stalker.

While enjoying the light, Shnyr, like any other smoker, tilted his head forward and almost immediately felt a prick in his neck. He pulled back and saw Victor, suddenly sober and throwing something like an injector tube into the bushes with a grin. Shnyr didn’t know what was happening, but he understood one thing very precisely - there was an enemy in front of him. The stalker rushed to attack, trying to hit Victor in the chin with his right fist. However, a recent drinking companion easily, even gracefully, dove under his arm and delivered a powerful blow towards the solar plexus. Shnyr lost his breath, a sickening spasm squeezed his stomach, and his arms and legs stopped obeying their owner, as if his whole body was paralyzed. The stalker fell to the ground like a limp sack. The thought flashed through his mind that this was the effect of the injection, and he would die by suffocation, but after about ten seconds Shnyr was able to noisily draw in air. He immediately vomited. Sensitivity gradually returned to the limbs, only weakness remained, similar to the sensations after a couple of weeks spent in a hospital bed.

Good...you...shot...in the sun...did you set it for a long time? - the ranger squeezed out with difficulty. Shnyr had already managed to curse his foresight, thanks to which, before the feast, he handed over not only weapons, but also a bulletproof vest to the Bartender for safekeeping in the cell, so that if the party was successful, he would not be robbed while drunk. “I wish I knew where to lay the bed,” was spinning in his head.

If you don’t mind, we’ll put aside questions about cigarettes and my boxing past, there’s a more important topic,” Victor interrupted his thoughts. Grabbing Shnyr by the chest with both hands, he jerked him up and pressed him back against the wall.

Will you behave yourself?

“Yeah,” said the stalker, confirming complete submission with his entire limp body. However, he immediately grabbed Victor’s hand with his left hand and, pressing his forearm down, pressed both of the enemy’s hands towards him, thus depriving him of the opportunity to fight off the poke in the eyes with the spread fingers of his right hand. However, the enemy, despite his mistake, showed that he was a seasoned professional - he exposed his cheekbone to the blow, not allowing himself to be blinded, and immediately, freeing himself, with two side kicks to the liver and spleen, honed in many trainings, he again sent Shnyr to the ground. The pain caused the stalker to twist into the fetal position and vomit again.

Well, if you don’t want to do it in a good way, then listen like this, lying in the vomit. If you haven’t guessed yet, then know: I’m a mercenary, and the injection given is lethal. In an hour, your health will begin to rapidly deteriorate, and in two, you will be dead. The only people who have the antidote are my homies, who are waiting for us at the marshalling yard in the Wild Lands. So if you want to live, then move your pistons in that direction.

Aren't you afraid that I'll betray you at your post? - the ranger muttered.

No, you will go alone. By the time you come to your senses to move, I will no longer be in Rostock.

What do you need from me?

You'll find out on the spot. Nothing personal, we just don’t count on your voluntary cooperation. By the way, I’m warning you: if you’re not alone or drag your tail, or if we have even the slightest fear about any other matter, we’ll simply melt into the night. Missed it? So don’t dig your own grave, you’ve already messed it up today.

Shnyr looked up at his interlocutor and found that he was left alone.

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Pathfinder's Story

Shnyr ran down the steps with a light step into the echoing maw of the tavern “At the Liquidator’s”, located in the basement of the former Druzhba plant. For several months now, the enterprise had been the main base of the “Honor and Courage” clan (in everyday life, stalkers shortened the name of the group to “Honor”, and its fighters were called “men”), which was quite loyal to free stalkers. After returning from a foray in the vicinity of the village of Gaiter, Shnyry was eager to wet his throat and eat normal food instead of canned food. The owner of the establishment, known to everyone as the Innkeeper, recently employed two boys who graduated from a culinary college in Khabarovsk, and, I must say, their cooking made the most favorable impression on the unspoiled local contingent.

Gray cigarette smoke floated in lazy waves through the sparsely populated room, and the occasional clanking of spoons on dishes and the clink of cut glasses only slightly enlivened the monotonous hum of half-drunk conversations. After listening, Shnyr realized that during his absence in the largest exclusion zone on the planet, nothing new had happened. Otherwise, the stalkers would not have harped on the events of three years ago: the explosion of the first reactor of the unfinished Far Eastern Nuclear Power Plant on Lake Khorpy, the seizure of the Chukotka Nuclear Power Plant by unknown militants, and the failed evacuation of residents of Bilibino and Komsomolsk-on-Amur.

So, explain to me,” one of the tipsy debaters demanded from a friend, “why anomalous poles arose at two nuclear power plants and expanded towards each other, huh?” Why did the Zone stop growing when they connected?!

There really were a lot of mysteries, but over the past time no one has really been able to answer the questions of where the anomalies came from, how a station that should have had no trace of nuclear fuel became the source of a powerful radioactive release, and what was the fate of the six-digit number of missing people. lead. The government got off with dry excuses in the style of “everything possible is being done,” without advertising information about the disappearance without a trace of every single special forces group sent to disaster areas. Intertwined with rumors and guesses, fragmentary information about certain Zone Lords and their supernatural abilities was passed from mouth to mouth. Perhaps a stalker nicknamed Metky, who became famous after his raid on the abandoned village of Lian, would have clarified a lot on this topic, but as reported in the news feed, he died at the Komsomolsk-Sortirovochnaya railway station, ambushed by hired killers.

Shnyr ordered stewed potatoes with meat, vegetable stew, bread and of course vodka. Going out into the Zone for several days, even on its own, without skirmishes with enemies or fights with mutants, is seriously stressful. To stay alive, a person must maintain extreme concentration all the time, every minute. Therefore, relaxing upon returning to base, erasing nightmarish images from emotional memory with alcohol, became a ritual for stalkers, vital for the sake of preserving the psyche at least at a conditionally normal level.

Shnyr did not find any friends at the other tables, and therefore when, after the third glass, drunk alone, an unknown stalker came into the bar and asked permission to join the company, he did not object. A newcomer named Victor explained that he had recently entered the Zone, and no one had even attached a “rattle” to him yet. The usual story - hundreds, if not thousands, of his kind appeared and disappeared here. After all, many saw the anomalous zone stretching over five and a half thousand kilometers not as a disaster, but as a prospect, or more precisely, as a new Klondike. The Russians understood perfectly well that the army would not be able to keep such a huge space under control, and therefore stalking in the Far Eastern Zone developed extremely quickly. For climatic reasons, the north became the lot of a few extreme sports enthusiasts, while in the south the phenomenon had the widespread nature of the “Gold Rush”.

The newcomer placed an order, and the stalkers knocked back one hundred grams per introduction. As soon as Victor found out who fate had brought him together, he unleashed a real hail of questions on Shnyr. I was interested in everything: anomalies, encounters with mutants, places rich in artifacts, and veteran tricks. However, having found grateful ears and fueled from within by alcohol, the experienced stalker soon went wild himself and began to pour out stories, hearing which Victor even forgot to eat and drink.

Shnyr really had a reputation in the Zone as an excellent tracker and intelligence officer. In fact, he received his nickname for his ability to climb or get through to places where others are denied access. However, since there are significantly fewer specialists who can read tracks than those who have the skills of a scout, he was often called the Pathfinder - rather not even as a driver, but as a respectful designation for a rare specialty.

It’s immediately obvious that you’re a newbie,” Shnyr laughed after a while. - You drink vodka sluggishly and little by little, not like a stalker. Look, otherwise the Geiger counter will go off scale a hundred meters away from you! Vodka in the Zone, brother, is the first friend after any sortie: it removes radiation from the body that you collect from the gullies. Stalkers have enlarged livers - an occupational disease. By the way, a classic joke on topic!

A stalker comes to the doctor with severe pain on the right side of his chest. Well, he looked at it, listened to it, touched it and said:

You, my dear, will have to remove your right lung!

“I ran through contaminated places,” the stalker says sadly. - I have cancer?

No, your liver just doesn’t fit in the abdominal cavity and squeezes out your lung.

Both drinking companions laughed loudly.

Going outside and going around the corner, Victor, swaying, stuck a cigarette to his lip and treated Shnyr to a pack of Marlboros.

Let me take a look. Wow, these are real, American ones! Where did you get it?

“I’ll tell you now,” Victor promised, drawing out his words, simultaneously flicking the lighter and handing it to the stalker.

Treating himself to a light, Shnyr tilted his head forward, like any smoker, and immediately felt a prick in his neck. He pulled back and saw Victor, suddenly sober and throwing the injector tube into the bushes with a grin. Shnyr didn’t know what was happening, but he understood one thing very precisely - there was an enemy in front of him. The stalker rushed to attack, trying to hit Victor in the chin with his right fist. However, the recent bungler easily, even gracefully, dove under his arm and delivered a powerful blow towards the solar plexus.

Shnyr lost his breath, a sickening spasm squeezed his stomach, and his arms and legs stopped obeying their owner, as if in complete paralysis. The stalker fell to the ground like a limp sack. The thought flashed through his mind that this was the effect of the injection and he would die by suffocation, but after about ten seconds Shnyr was able to noisily draw in air. He vomited, but sensitivity returned to his limbs. All that remained was weakness, similar to the sensations after a couple of weeks spent in a hospital bed.

Good... you... hit... in the sun... took a long time to set? - the ranger squeezed out with difficulty.

Shnyr had already managed to curse his foresight, thanks to which, before the feast, he handed over to the Innkeeper not only weapons, but also a bulletproof vest for storage in the cell, so that if the party was successful, he would not be robbed in a drunken state.

“I wish I knew where to lay the bed,” was spinning in his head.

If you don’t mind, we’ll put aside questions about cigarettes and my boxing past, there’s a more important topic,” Victor answered in a harsh tone, not resembling his former self in either his eyes, his voice, or his posture.

He grabbed Shnyr by the chest with both hands, jerked him up and pressed him back against the wall.

Will you behave yourself?

“Yeah,” the stalker nodded, confirming complete submission with his entire limp body.

However, Shnyr immediately grabbed Victor’s hand with his left hand, and, pressing his forearm down, pressed both of the enemy’s hands towards him, depriving him of the opportunity to fight off the poke in the eyes with the spread fingers of his right hand. However, despite the mistake, the enemy showed that he was a seasoned professional - he exposed his cheekbone to the blow, not allowing himself to be blinded, and immediately freeing himself, with two side kicks to the liver and spleen, honed in many trainings, he again sent Shnyr to the ground. The pain caused the stalker to twist into the fetal position and vomit again.

Well, if you don’t want to do it in a good way, then listen like this while lying in the vomit. If you haven't guessed yet, I'm from the League. The injection given to you is fatal, in an hour your health will begin to rapidly deteriorate, and in two you will be dead. The only people who have the antidote are my homies, who are waiting for us at the marshalling yard. So if you want to live, then move your pistons in that direction!

There were many clans and factions in the zone, but there was only one League. Its members called themselves “soldiers of fortune” or “wild geese,” although in fact they became famous not for military operations, but for contract killings and kidnappings.

Aren't you afraid that I'll rat you out? - the ranger muttered.

* * *

The publishing house is grateful to Boris Natanovich Strugatsky for permission to use the title of the series “Stalker”, as well as the ideas and images embodied in the work “Roadside Picnic” and the script for A. Tarkovsky’s film “Stalker”.

The Strugatsky brothers are a unique phenomenon in our culture. This is a whole world that has influenced not only literature and art in general, but also everyday life. We speak in the words of the heroes of the Strugatskys’ works; the neologisms and concepts they invented already live their own separate life, like folklore or wandering stories.

Chapter 1
Pathfinder's Story

“So you explain to me,” one of the tipsy debaters demanded of his comrade, “why anomalous poles arose at two nuclear power plants and expanded towards each other, huh?” Why did the Zone stop growing when they connected?!

Shnyr really had a reputation in the Zone as an excellent tracker and intelligence officer. In fact, he received his nickname for his ability to crawl through or get through to places where others are denied access. However, since there are significantly fewer specialists who can read tracks than those who have the skills of a scout, he was often called the Pathfinder - rather not even as a driver, but as a respectful designation for a rare specialty.

“It’s immediately obvious that you’re a newbie,” Shnyr laughed after a while. – You drink vodka sluggishly and little by little, not like a stalker. Look, otherwise the Geiger counter will go off scale a hundred meters away from you! Vodka in the Zone, brother, is the first friend after any sortie: it removes radiation from the body that you collect from the gullies. Stalkers have enlarged livers - an occupational disease. By the way, a classic joke on topic!

– A stalker comes to the doctor with severe pain on the right side of his chest. Well, he looked at it, listened to it, touched it and said:

- You, my dear, will have to remove your right lung!

“I ran through contaminated places,” the stalker says sadly. - I have cancer?

- No, your liver just doesn’t fit in the abdominal cavity and squeezes out your lung.

Both drinking companions laughed loudly.

“You’re right, of course, I’m still green,” said Victor. – I still have to study and study. Let's go and smoke in the fresh air, and then we'll order some more and continue. Or rather, I’ll order it - I need to thank you for science!

Going outside and going around the corner, Victor, swaying, stuck a cigarette to his lip and treated Shnyr to a pack of Marlboros.

- Let me take a look. Wow, these are real, American ones! Where did you get it?

“I’ll tell you now,” Victor promised, drawing out his words, simultaneously flicking the lighter and handing it to the stalker.

- Good... you... hit... in the sun... did it take long to set? – the ranger squeezed out with difficulty.

“I wish I knew where to lay the bed,” was spinning in his head.

“If you don’t mind, we’ll put aside questions about cigarettes and my boxing past, there’s a more important topic,” Victor answered in a harsh tone, not resembling his former self in either his eyes, his voice, or his posture.

He grabbed Shnyr by the chest with both hands, jerked him up and pressed him back against the wall.

- Will you behave decently?

“Yeah,” the stalker nodded, confirming complete submission with his entire limp body.

- Well, if you don’t want to do it in a good way, then listen like this, lying in the vomit. If you haven't guessed yet, I'm from the League. The injection given to you is fatal, in an hour your health will begin to rapidly deteriorate, and in two you will be dead. The only people who have the antidote are my homies, who are waiting for us at the marshalling yard. So if you want to live, then move your pistons in that direction!

“Aren’t you afraid that I’ll rat you out?” – the ranger muttered.

- No, you will go alone. By the time you come to your senses to move, I will no longer be in the camp.

- What you want from me?

- You'll find out on the spot. Nothing personal, we just don’t expect voluntary cooperation. By the way, I’m warning you: if you don’t come alone, or you drag your tail, or we have even the slightest fear about any other matter, we will simply melt into the night. All clear? Don't dig your own grave, you've already messed up today!

Shnyr looked up at his interlocutor and discovered that he was left alone.

- So I got myself into trouble right up to my tonsils! My dad told me - don’t drink with random acquaintances! – the tracker belatedly lamented.

However, something had to be done. Taking into account the killer-for-hire's warning, he immediately rejected the option of using someone else's help.

“Once you got in, you have to get out yourself,” Shnyr summed up his brief thoughts.

In order not to arouse suspicion when leaving the camp, and simply to get to the meeting place, he had to first take the weapon from the Innkeeper. The seriousness of the situation and a couple of unexpected stomach cleansings during the fight pretty much sobered up the stalker. For the first time, at night he found himself in a place where many people preferred not to go during the day, because the reputation of the marshalling yard, despite the proximity of the settlement, was always worse than ever.

The surroundings corresponded to a lost place: the deathly light of the moon flooded the roofs and open spaces between the buildings, making all the nooks and crannies in the shadows completely impenetrable. Somewhere behind the dilapidated building of the railway workshop, the voice of an owl, similar to a sharp whistle, was heard from time to time. To say that the stalker was afraid is to say nothing. At night, at the marshalling yard, the nerves of any living person are shaking, since walking there at this time of day is tantamount to walking in pitch darkness through a basement infested with poisonous snakes - you will inevitably and completely unexpectedly stumble upon the creatures.

However, the prospect of imminent death from an injection hanging over Shnyr allowed him to now curb his fears about meeting local monsters - there was actually nothing to lose. Walking along the auto repair shops, inside of which pale green reflections of “jelly” could be seen, the stalker stopped to look around and listen. The zone lives its own life and doesn’t care about the stalker’s problems. About three hundred meters straight ahead, near the wrecked helicopter of scientists, a discordant group of wild dogs howled, loving to feast on human flesh. They were blocked by someone's muffled roar, and the clearly frightened flock, whining and yapping, moved towards the locomotive depot.

Having noted this fact in the subcortex, the tracker was about to shift his attention to the sector to the left, but then several bullets clicked on the skeleton of an army ZIL-131 that had frozen forever nearby. That's right, because neither the sound nor the flashes of shots could be detected. Most likely, the shooter had not only a silencer, but also suitable night optics. If he had gotten it into his head to finish off Shnyr, he wouldn’t have understood what happened. Defiantly putting his leg to the side and crossing his arms on his chest, the ranger waited for the continuation, which, however, did not take long to arrive. From the side of the unloading platform they gave him several signals with a flashlight, and after a short pause they repeated them. Judging by the light from above, the signalman climbed onto a semi-gantry crane that rose above the tracks. Well, you need to go to him, and on the way try not to get lunch with the creatures that are starting a fuss nearby.

Taking the machine gun at the ready, with the butt firmly resting on his shoulder, and crouching slightly, Shnyr moved towards the indicated point with a soft but quick step. He had a habitual bounce when walking - at any moment the ranger was ready to spin around his axis and open fire in the direction from which danger would come. However, it was possible to reach the edge of the crane support strut, which ran along the entire platform, without incident. When there were less than ten meters left to the metal structure with the crossbars welded to it, somewhere very close to the left side there was a sound reminiscent of the noisy sigh of a bull. It simultaneously evoked rural associations from childhood and a scattering of goosebumps on the back - after all, there are no livestock at the marshalling yard!

Shnyr, without turning around, rushed towards the stairs like lightning, throwing the AK-47 behind his back as he went. My heart was pounding at a furious pace, and there seemed to be a lump in my throat. Literally a few seconds later the stalker, without realizing how, found himself at a height of six meters. It must be said that they helped him overcome the end of the road by pulling him by the collar. True, the rescuers immediately laid the tracker face down: a cold barrel pressed hard against the back of his head; the machine gun was removed by unfastening the carabiner of the belt, and attentive hands went over the sides, back and stomach, removing all the weapons, including the boot knife.

The Stalker considered this an acceptable loss, considering that disappointed and not at all human sniffling was coming from below. Bowing his head as far as his constrained position allowed, Shnyr looked down. At first he saw nothing except the faint outlines of some details of the area in the darkness, but suddenly the sounds stopped, and two wide-set red eyes literally stared at him from the void. The ranger felt his hair involuntarily stand on end.

“You don’t value me very much, the ghoul would eat me for dinner now,” Shnyr reproached the “geese” when he was finally released and given the opportunity to get up.

“The zone is not a resort, you have to understand,” came the dry answer. – But keep in mind, if you don’t live up to expectations, you won’t have time to die from the poison - we’ll send you to feed the local fauna. Truncated? Then stomp to the other end of the platform.

So the three of them reached the other edge of the crane support, where between it and the station’s outlet gates, many “webs” used to pierce the space with tentacles, sometimes sparkling throughout the entire area with flashes of deadly chain discharges. However, after the extreme Outburst (superstitious stalkers avoided the word “last”) the anomalies seemed to migrate to new places.

Now, at the former departmental security guardhouse there was an American Stryker armored personnel carrier equipped with special anti-cumulative grilles for protection against RPGs, and a gun truck based on a five-ton M939 truck. The latter looked like equipment from a futuristic apocalypse film. The cabin and body covered with sheet armor, as well as two machine guns - a 50-caliber Browning as a target above the driver's cabin and an M60 at the rear side - were impressive. And now, this technology is on its native soil. We have arrived, as they say. The stalker counted eight NATO soldiers and mercenaries on the armored personnel carrier and in the back of the truck. If you add the two next to him and those who are not visible because of the armor, you get a solid company. What do they want and when did they manage to join forces with the killers from the League?

It was no coincidence that the Americans ended up in the Far East. Recently, by decision of the UN General Assembly, with which Russia was forced to agree, several participating countries sent military contingents into the Exclusion Zone. The perimeter security still consisted of units of our army, but the “pearl necklace” of strong points along the internal twenty-kilometer border around the stations was now controlled by “blue helmets” from the NATO bloc. It was argued that they were better trained, equipped, and violators who entered the forbidden territory were not able to bribe them due to the language barrier and difference in mentalities.

Having received a poke in the back, the tracker went down and without hesitation approached the “wild goose” in a traditional half mask, in whom he unmistakably identified the leader of the group by his demeanor. Under the grey-brown uniform of the leader, which miraculously blended with the terrain both in the field and in the city, one could discern the powerful and at the same time plastic figure of an athlete in every movement. He towered over the stalker by half his head, and his eyes looked down at Shnyr intently, but without emotion.

“I’ll be brief,” he said. – We know that you are one of those who buried Mark. Show us his grave and you'll have options. If you lie or remain silent, you will die a cruel death, and we will pull out another, more compliant stalker who knows this place. Decide, you have a minute to think. Time has passed.

Shnyr swallowed nervously, his thoughts rushed about in search of a way out, but did not find it. I absolutely did not want to die.

- Good good! They chatted, you tongue-tied devils. I'll show you the place.

– Tell me right now and in detail.

- It's nearby. In the station control building, in the former control room, where the military planted the rocket. There the roof was destroyed and there was a deep crater inside, reaching to the ground - right in its center they sprinkled Metky. The walls of the control room are standing, so there is peace for him from any scavengers.

- Let's check now. Get in the back and you'll come with us.

In a few minutes they reached the station control building. The Stryker was driven up to the wall so that it could climb from the armor onto the remains of the roof - from there it was easy to get inside the control room by going down the collapsed beams. Two mercenaries sent on reconnaissance soon reported that they had found a grave. A couple of NATO members immediately went to their aid, taking a black plastic bag.

The ranger realized that it was time to clarify the situation.

- This is, guys, what about the antidote? Time is running out, but I kept my word.

“Now we’ll prescribe you some medicine,” the leader grinned. – Shoot him and bury him in Mark’s place.

- Wait! Why?!

– Nothing personal, it’s just safer.

One American muttered something irritably.

- Elephant, respect the amers, they don’t want their car body dirty. Finish off our guest outside.

- Stop! – the ranger, when he was grabbed by the jacket, extended his arms forward with open palms, asking for a pause. - What if I buy my life from you?

- What do you have, asshole? – there was a rough laugh.

– I think you’ve all heard about the “frying pan” artifact and how it protects from bullets. But how many of you have it? Most likely, no one at all! And for those who regularly participate in shootouts, a couple of these will never hurt, don’t you agree?

- Yeah. And they are hidden, of course, in my grandfather’s village in Novokukuevo. We know this tale, you’re not the first to tell it,” the eldest of the killers interrupted skeptically.

The elephant, a two-meter-tall brute, forcefully pulled Shnyr by the sleeve, but he grabbed onto the side.

- No, no, no! Look! – the ranger chattered, still holding onto the side with one hand, and with the other unfastening his waist belt and then his fly.

“Are you saying that he’s in your panties?” – the Elephant drawled in disbelief.

- Well, yes, the most reliable place! After all, no one wants to poke around in the groin of a stalker who has been climbing through landfills and swamps for a week and stinks all over!

The pants finally gave in, and Shnyr put both hands into his pants, risking getting unstuck from the side. The leader is the leader because in life he is smarter and more careful than his henchmen. Either he realized faster than the others what was happening, or he simply decided to play it safe, but he did not wait, mouth agape, like his subordinates, to see what the stalker would get, but grabbed a Glock from his hip holster and shot the tracker twice in the chest.

However, after a moment it became clear that the rush was still too late. Shnyr, by inertia, managed to remove his hands from the secret pocket, and everyone saw: a safety pin ring was dangling on the left index finger, and in the right, instead of the promised ransom, an “F-1” was clamped. The grenade trigger guard flew off with a characteristic “ding” sound. The stalker, without unclenching his palms, sank down near the driver's cabin and slowly fell sideways onto the grenade box, turning over with his stomach down. There were no people willing to take the risk and try to turn the dead man over in the remaining moments, unclench his hand and throw the lemon away.

Reflexes did their job: the leader rushed over the side first, quickly followed by the others. Even though the sides of a gun truck are twice as high as those of a regular truck. When the slowing fuse burned out, the sound of the explosion, amplified many times over by the almost instantaneous detonation of the ammunition, shook the surroundings, raising the noisy crows into the air, and at the same time alarming all the other inhabitants of this unclean place.

And yet Shnyr repaid the murderers.

The two Americans sitting in the cabin of the armored monster did not react in any way to the fact of the shots, apparently expected, and no one warned them about the surprise from the stalker, since everyone was saving their own skins. Obviously, the NATO members did not even understand what had happened before they died. The two assassins standing at the starboard side and jumping over it were not much luckier. The armored sheet was simply torn out by the blast wave, and then the fiery tornado overtook the soldiers of fortune and turned them into mutilated pieces of meat. Those jumping on the left all suffered concussions of varying degrees of severity; some of them had their uniforms on fire, which had been exposed to fuel either from ruptured tanks or from spare canisters. In the control room building, one of the “geese,” who was dragging a black bag with remains onto the roof, was thrown from the rafters by the shock wave and impaled on the reinforcement bars sticking out from the rubble below.

The ranger could sleep peacefully in eternal sleep - he himself had avenged his death.

Dmitry LutsenkoStalker from God. More precious than life. Dmitry Lutsenko - Stalker from God. More precious than life Stalker from God is more valuable than life Lutsenko

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Chapter 1 Pathfinder's Story

Chapter 1
Pathfinder's Story