Ashes of the Zone: DE - Chapter 4
Borrowed Peace
"Some places in the Zone don't leave scars on your body. They leave them somewhere deeper."
May 12th, 17:46 - Yantar Ecologist Bunker
The heavy steel gate groaned shut behind them.
For the first time since leaving Cordon, the sound felt reassuring.
Inside the perimeter, the atmosphere changed immediately. Men in bright orange environmental suits hurried between prefabricated buildings carrying crates filled with measuring equipment instead of ammunition. Radios crackled with strings of scientific jargon Mantis couldn't hope to understand. Somebody argued over radiation readings. Another cursed at a malfunctioning detector while a technician calmly dismantled it on the hood of an old UAZ.
The place was busy.
Not with soldiers preparing for battle, but with researchers trying to understand a world that refused to make sense.
Ferimov finally allowed himself to relax.
His shoulders, tense since they'd entered Garbage that morning, lowered ever so slightly.
"We made good time."
Orlov smiled.
"I told you Mantis would keep up."
"I said he probably would."
"You said fifty-fifty."
"I was being optimistic."
The younger scientist rolled his eyes.
"You have a strange definition of optimism."
Ferimov ignored him.
"I've got paperwork to finish before somebody starts asking where I've been."
He adjusted the straps on his backpack before pointing toward a long building near the center of the compound where smoke drifted lazily from a metal chimney.
"And I've been thinking about proper food since Agroprom."
"The kitchen?" Orlov asked.
"The kitchen."
"You've been thinking about food since Garbage."
"I've been alive long enough to know priorities."
Without another word, Ferimov peeled away from the group and disappeared toward the cooking quarters, already removing his gloves as he walked.
Orlov watched him go before shrugging.
"He'll be there for at least half an hour."
"He eats that slowly?"
"No, he complains that slowly."
Mantis almost let out a chuckle.
"So..."
Orlov adjusted his glasses.
"Come on."
"I'll introduce you to Professor Sakharov."
They crossed the compound at an easy pace.
Up close, Yantar looked even stranger than it had from outside the walls.
One scientist carefully lowered a glowing blue artifact into a thick lead container while another recorded measurements on a PDA without ever looking away from the object.
Nearby, two stalkers unloaded mutant carcasses from the back of a military truck.
A pseudodog, several blind dogs and something wrapped beneath a bloodstained tarp that Mantis couldn't identify.
Nobody paid them much attention.
People nodded politely as Orlov passed, some greeted him by name, while others simply continued working.
"They all know you."
Orlov smiled sheepishly.
"I've been stationed here almost a year."
"A whole year?"
"Almost."
"And you're still excited about everything."
"I hope I never stop."
He looked around the compound with obvious affection.
"Most people think the Zone is something to fear."
"I think it's something to understand."
Mantis looked toward the researchers carefully transporting another sealed container.
"Is that's what all of you think?"
"Mostly."
They walked around an armored truck parked beside one of the laboratories.
"We're Ecologists."
Orlov spread his arms slightly.
"We don't really have enemies."
Mantis raised an eyebrow.
"Really?"
"We try not to."
He thought for a moment.
"We've got agreements with Mercenaries, Freedom, most Loner groups, even Duty leave us alone most of the time."
"And the Bandits?"
Orlov laughed quietly.
"No."
"They'd steal the wheels off our trucks if we stood still long enough."
"So you pay people like me."
"Exactly."
The young scientist's expression softened.
"We study the Zone. You guys make sure we survive long enough to do it."
Professor Sakharov's office occupied one corner of the largest laboratory building.
The door stood open.
Mantis expected an office. Instead it looked more like controlled chaos.
Books covered every available surface. Handwritten notes were pinned to corkboards alongside anomaly photographs and radiation maps. Half-disassembled detectors lay scattered across workbenches beside microscopes, oscilloscopes and electronics that hummed quietly to themselves.
At the center of it all stood an elderly man in an orange environmental suit.
He wasn't looking at the door. He was staring through a microscope.
"Professor?" Orlov knocked gently against the frame.
No answer.
"Professor."
Still nothing.
Orlov cleared his throat.
"Oh, come on... PROFESSOR!"
The older man jumped so violently he nearly knocked the microscope off the table.
"What?"
He blinked several times before noticing them.
"Oh. You made it back."
"We did."
Sakharov's eyes immediately shifted past Orlov.
"And this must be our escort."
Mantis stepped forward.
"Mantis."
The professor offered a surprisingly firm handshake.
"Excellent. You still have all your limbs."
"So far."
"Wonderful."
He released Mantis's hand before immediately asking,
"Tell me. What happened on the road?"
No greeting, no congratulations. Just curiosity.
Mantis briefly described the journey.
The Bloodsucker, the Whirligig, the artifact hunters, the abandoned military installations, the strange silence around Agroprom.
Sakharov never interrupted.
He simply listened, occasionally scribbling something into a small notebook that had appeared from somewhere inside his suit.
When Mantis finished...
The professor remained quiet for several seconds. Then he looked up.
"What did you learn?"
The question caught him off guard.
"I..."
He thought carefully.
"The Zone isn't trying to kill everyone."
Sakharov smiled.
"A common misconception. It kills people, but that isn't the same thing."
Professor paced slowly around the laboratory.
"What else?"
Mantis searched for the answer.
"The anomalies aren't random."
"They aren't."
"The mutants behave like animals."
"Mostly."
"The people are the unpredictable part."
Sakharov stopped walking. For the first time he looked genuinely pleased.
"Interesting."
Orlov smiled proudly.
"See? He notices things."
"I can see that."
The professor's eyes returned to Mantis.
"They usually come here asking what the Zone is. You didn't. You simply described what it did."
He nodded slowly to himself.
"I like that."
Something in the old man's expression unsettled Mantis.
Not because it was hostile. Because it wasn't.
It was fascination.
Pure, relentless fascination.
Like a man who had devoted every waking hour of his life to a single impossible question and refused to accept that it might never be answered.
The Zone wasn't merely Sakharov's profession. It had become his obsession.
He noticed Mantis studying him and smiled.
"Don't worry. I won't make you write reports today."
He waved one hand dismissively.
"You've been walking since dawn. Go get something to eat, talk to the people, sleep."
His smile widened.
"Tomorrow... the Zone can start educating you again."
---
Outside the laboratory, Orlov stretched lazily.
"See? I told you he was different."
"Different."
Mantis looked back toward the office.
"That's one word for it."
"He forgets to sleep. He forgets to eat. Once he accidentally worked for thirty-six hours because somebody showed him an unusual artifact."
Mantis blinked.
"Seriously?"
"He only stopped because he fainted."
"...Right."
Halfway toward the barracks, a sharp metallic clang echoed from inside a small workshop.
Someone swore loudly.
"...Who designs screws this small?"
Orlov laughed.
"That's Peregrine."
The workshop looked as cluttered as Sakharov's office, though in an entirely different way.
Weapon parts covered one bench, circuit boards another.
Half-disassembled detectors hung from hooks beside welding masks, soldering irons and enough tools to rebuild a truck from memory.
A broad-shouldered man in grease-stained work clothes sat behind the central table, tightening a screw inside an opened detector with the concentration of a surgeon.
Without looking up, he spoke.
"If you're bringing me another broken scanner... get lost. Bring it tomorrow."
Orlov leaned against the doorway.
"We brought a new stalker."
That finally earned a glance.
Peregrine looked Mantis over from boots to shoulders.
"Still alive."
"Barely."
"Good. Means you're using him correctly."
His eyes settled on the Beretta resting in Mantis's holster.
"Hm."
He held out one hand.
"Let me see."
Mantis hesitated. Then handed over the pistol.
Peregrine worked the slide twice, checked the barrel, removed the magazine and looked down the sights.
"Hell."
"What?"
"This poor thing has seen some miles."
"It still shoots."
"So does my grandmother. Doesn't mean she enjoys it."
He rotated the pistol beneath the workshop lights.
"The springs are tired, the feed ramp's worn, the finish is practically gone."
He looked back at Mantis.
"I can fix most of that."
Mantis frowned.
"How much?"
Peregrine snorted.
"Nothing. You escorted Orlov and Ferimov home. That saves me repairing two scientists."
He laid the Beretta on the workbench.
"Leave it here. I'll have it looking respectable by tomorrow."
Mantis instinctively reached for the pistol again.
"I don't like being unarmed."
Peregrine nodded.
"Neither do I."
He pointed toward the secured compound outside.
"But unless the mutants suddenly learn to open gates..."
After a long pause... Mantis nodded.
"Take care of it."
Peregrine smiled.
"I always do."
The barracks were quieter than the rest of the compound.
Rows of metal bunks lined the walls, each accompanied by a dented locker and little else. Somebody snored softly from the far corner. Another stalker quietly cleaned a rifle beneath the glow of a small reading lamp.
Mantis found the empty bunk with his name hastily written on a strip of masking tape.
Simple and functional. Enough.
He dropped his backpack onto the mattress before opening one of Sidorovich's canned meat tins with a pocket knife.
The food tasted average. After the day's walk, average was good enough.
He washed at an old sink outside the barracks, the cold water carrying away sweat, dust and dried blood from Garbage.
Not all of it... Some stains never seemed to disappear completely.
By the time darkness settled over Yantar, exhaustion had finally caught him.
He climbed into the narrow bunk, and for the first time in two days...
He wasn't sleeping beneath open skies.
Outside, distant generators hummed steadily beyond the walls.
Somewhere farther away something howled across the marshes.
Nobody in the barracks reacted.
Apparently that was normal here.
Mantis closed his eyes.
Tomorrow the Zone would begin asking new questions.
---
May 13th, 05:13 - Yantar, Ecologist Bunker
Mantis woke before the alarm.
For a few seconds he simply lay there, staring at the ceiling of the barracks while the previous day slowly returned to him.
Cordon. Garbage. The Bloodsucker. Yantar.
The bunk beside his remained empty. Most of the other stalkers still slept, scattered throughout the room beneath worn blankets, their quiet breathing mixing with the constant hum of generators outside. Someone snored loudly near the far wall. Another muttered something unintelligible in his sleep before rolling over.
It almost felt peaceful.
Almost.
He climbed out of bed as quietly as he could, pulled on his boots and stepped outside.
The morning air carried a sharp chill that hadn't been there the previous evening. Mist drifted lazily across the swamp beyond the perimeter fence, swallowing the lower half of the watchtowers. Somewhere in the distance a crow called once before falling silent again.
Mantis walked to the water pump near the barracks and splashed the icy water across his face.
The cold chased away whatever sleep remained.
He lit a Lucky Strike and leaned against the wooden railing outside the building.
The first drag burned pleasantly. For a minute the Zone seemed almost ordinary.
Then someone screamed.
"...YOU MISERABLE SOVIET PIECE OF SHIT!"
The shout echoed across the compound.
Metal clanged. Something heavy hit a workbench.
Another stream of profanity followed, colorful enough that even Mantis found himself raising an eyebrow.
The mechanic's workshop.
He smiled to himself before pushing away from the railing.
Peregrine's workshop was already alive despite the early hour.
The mechanic stood over a cluttered workbench surrounded by springs, screws, tiny metal components and tools scattered in every direction. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows, grease stained both hands, and a welding lamp illuminated whatever disaster occupied the center of the table.
Without looking up he growled,
"If you're here to ask whether it's finished..."
He hit something metallic with a hammer.
"...give me another thirty seconds."
Mantis stepped inside.
"I wasn't."
That made Peregrine glance over his shoulder.
"Oh. It's you."
He looked back at the pistol in front of him.
"Perfect timing."
Mantis frowned.
"Did you even sleep?"
The mechanic actually laughed.
"Maybe."
"You don't sound very convincing."
"I stopped trying sometime around three."
He picked up a tiny screwdriver.
"I found something."
"What?"
Peregrine reached beneath the workbench and produced an old olive-green metal box coated in faded military markings.
He placed it onto the table with obvious satisfaction.
"Forgotten upgrade kit."
Mantis looked at the rusted lettering.
"It says Beretta."
"It does."
"It's older than I am."
"It is."
"So why are you smiling?"
"Because old military engineers occasionally had brilliant ideas."
He pointed toward several pieces still lying inside the box.
"Laser module, flashlight, tritium night sights... and a suppressor."
Mantis's eyebrows rose.
"...Seriously?"
"Oh, absolutely."
Peregrine's smile disappeared.
"The problem..."
He held up a tiny steel bracket.
"...is that this damned thing was designed for Beretta ninety-twos from almost forty years ago."
He pointed accusingly at the pistol.
"Your 92X is newer."
"So nothing fit."
"Nothing fit."
He sighed dramatically.
"I've spent the last four hours arguing with Italian engineering and Soviet engineering at the same time."
Mantis looked at the scattered metal filings.
"Who won?"
Peregrine grinned.
"I did."
He reached beneath the lamp before turning around.
"There."
He handed the pistol over.
For a moment...
Mantis simply stared.
It was still his Beretta.
The worn finish remained.
The familiar scratches along the slide were still there.
But it looked...
Sharper.
A compact suppressor extended the barrel without making the pistol feel bulky. Beneath it sat a combined flashlight and laser module mounted neatly to the frame. The original iron sights had been replaced with glowing tritium inserts that remained clearly visible even beneath the dim workshop lights.
He instinctively brought the pistol up. The sights aligned perfectly. The laser painted a tiny crimson dot across the opposite wall.
"...Damn."
Peregrine folded his arms proudly.
"I know."
Mantis worked the slide. Smooth. Far smoother than before.
"It feels different."
"I polished the feed ramp, replaced the recoil spring and adjusted the trigger. I also cleaned every part that looked older than the Soviet Union."
He shrugged.
"...Which was most of it."
Mantis couldn't hide the smile spreading across his face.
"This is incredible."
Peregrine waved dismissively.
"It's still just a Beretta. Don't get cocky. A good pistol won't save a bad stalker."
He paused.
"But it'll certainly help."
Mantis holstered the weapon, feeling the slightly increased weight settle comfortably against his thigh.
"Thank you."
The mechanic simply nodded.
"Bring it back if you survive."
The man grinned again.
"I'll make it even better."
Professor Sakharov was already awake.
That fact surprised nobody.
When Mantis entered the laboratory he found the elderly scientist exactly where he'd been the previous evening, surrounded by stacks of notes, humming quietly to himself while studying several photographs pinned across an enormous corkboard.
Without turning around he spoke.
"Good morning Mantis."
Mantis blinked.
"You knew I was here?"
"I recognized your footsteps."
"...Seriously?"
"No."
He finally turned around with a faint smile.
"I guessed."
Mantis relaxed.
"I should've known."
"You'll learn."
Sakharov removed his glasses before rubbing tired eyes that suggested he hadn't slept much either.
"I trust Peregrine returned your pistol."
"He improved it."
"He usually does."
The professor wandered toward a large map mounted across one wall.
Pins covered almost every inch. Red, blue and yellow.
Some were connected by handwritten notes, while others simply ended with question marks.
He tapped one location near the center of Yantar.
"I have a job for you."
Mantis stepped closer.
"This?"
"A data collection station. It stopped transmitting during the night."
"What happened?"
"We don't know."
The professor smiled.
"That's why we're sending someone."
His finger drifted toward another marking nearby.
"The station sits not far from the Miracle Machine."
Mantis frowned.
"I've heard the name."
"But not the story. The Miracle Machine wasn't a machine."
Sakharov's tone became noticeably quieter.
"It was an experimental psi-emitter hidden beneath an old industrial complex."
"It projected powerful psychic emissions across much of Yantar."
"What did it do?"
"It destroyed minds."
The answer came without emotion.
"Anyone exposed for too long suffered hallucinations, memory loss, madness..."
He paused.
"In severe cases... zombiefication."
Mantis swallowed loudly and looked back at the map.
"...And it's gone?"
"A team of Free Stalkers disabled it several years ago."
Sakharov nodded.
"The machinery no longer functions."
He smiled faintly.
"The area, however... hasn't entirely forgiven us."
Silence lingered between them.
Eventually the professor folded his hands behind his back.
"Ferimov and Orlov will accompany you. They know the terrain, and they know the anomalies. And if something has changed overnight..."
His expression became thoughtful.
"...I'd rather have experienced eyes nearby."
Mantis nodded once.
"When do we leave?"
Sakharov checked his watch.
"As soon as they've finished breakfast."
Orlov was already waiting near the front gate.
A steaming mug balanced carefully in one hand while the other adjusted the straps of his backpack for what had to be the fifth time.
"You slept?"
"Barely."
"Good."
Ferimov approached moments later carrying his rifle over one shoulder.
He looked exactly the same as yesterday. As though sleep simply wasn't something he required anymore.
His eyes settled briefly on Mantis's pistol.
"Peregrine found another toy."
Mantis smiled.
"A few."
Ferimov nodded approvingly.
"He likes fixing things, but hates admitting when something can't be fixed."
The heavy gate slowly opened.
Beyond it...
Morning mist still clung stubbornly to the marshes.
Yantar waited.
Ferimov adjusted the sling on his rifle before stepping through the gate first.
"Stay close."
"We're heading toward the center."
"The Zone has a habit of changing overnight."
Without another word the three of them disappeared into the fog.
The morning mist clung stubbornly to the marshes as the three of them moved deeper into Yantar.
The bunker disappeared behind the reeds until even the watchtowers were swallowed by the fog.
For a while...
Nothing happened.
Ferimov walked in front with the confidence of someone who had memorized every tree and every patch of unstable ground years ago. Every now and then he altered their course by only a few steps, avoiding places that looked no different from the rest of the swamp.
Mantis had stopped asking why.
If Ferimov stepped around something... So did Mantis.
Orlov walked between them, PDA in one hand, occasionally stopping to record radiation levels or photograph unusual vegetation growing beside stagnant pools.
"You know..."
Orlov looked up from the screen.
"When I first came here, I expected Yantar to be loud."
"Loud?" Mantis asked.
"The Miracle Machine."
He gestured vaguely toward the mist ahead.
"I imagined constant noise. Sirens. Electricity."
He smiled awkwardly.
"In reality..."
He looked around.
"...it's almost peaceful."
Ferimov didn't look back.
"That's what worries me."
May 13th, 6:41 - Yantar, near the industrial complex
The old industrial complex slowly emerged from the fog.
Concrete buildings leaned beneath decades of neglect, their walls stained black by rain and moss. Broken windows stared blankly across the marshes.
A massive steel antenna rose above the rooftops like the skeleton of some forgotten machine.
"The Miracle Machine?" Mantis asked.
Ferimov nodded.
"Beneath it."
The older scientist didn't elaborate. He never did unless someone insisted.
The data collection station sat only fifty meters away.
A small weatherproof metal cabinet mounted beside a rusted floodlight, cables disappearing underground toward the old laboratory complex.
No damage. No bullet holes. No scorch marks.
Nothing.
Orlov frowned.
"It looks intact."
"It is."
Ferimov crouched beside the cabinet before opening it.
A small monitor inside displayed nothing but a blinking cursor.
"It simply stopped transmitting."
He reached into one of his pockets and produced a small black USB drive.
"Mantis."
He handed it over.
"Plug this into the control computer and download everything. Then restart the station."
Mantis nodded.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
"...Feels too easy."
Ferimov looked toward the surrounding fog.
"Never say that out loud."
The cabinet smelled faintly of damp electronics.
Mantis plugged the drive into the computer.
The screen flickered.
TRANSFER INITIATED
17%
The machine hummed quietly.
Outside...
Nothing.
No birds. No insects. Only wind moving through dead reeds.
31%.
Then...
"...help..."
Mantis frowned.
His fingers stopped moving.
Someone had whispered.
He turned.
Ferimov stood exactly where he'd been, studying the tree line.
Orlov busied himself checking another instrument.
Neither had spoken.
He looked back at the screen.
48%.
"...don't..."
The whisper came again, barely audible. Like hearing somebody through several concrete walls.
He slowly looked around the empty marsh.
Nobody. Only fog.
63%.
Another voice. Too quiet to understand.
Then another. Different.
Several people speaking at once. Not loudly. Just enough that he couldn't quite make out the words.
His pulse quickened.
"...Hello?"
Nothing answered.
The whispers continued. Not growing louder. Growing...
Closer.
"Mantis?"
He blinked. Orlov stood beside him now.
"You alright?"
"What?"
"You've been staring at the monitor."
Mantis looked down.
TRANSFER COMPLETE
He hadn't even noticed.
"...Yeah."
"You sure?"
He unplugged the drive.
"I..."
He hesitated.
"...Thought I heard something."
Orlov looked toward the fog.
"I didn't hear anything."
Ferimov closed the cabinet.
"We're done."
Mantis handed him the USB drive.
The older scientist slipped it into a sealed pouch before studying him for a second longer than necessary.
Then he quietly asked,
"How many?"
Mantis frowned.
"...What?"
"The voices."
Silence.
"...How did you know?"
Ferimov adjusted the sling on his rifle.
"One? Several?"
"...Or just whispers?"
Mantis felt his stomach tighten.
"...Whispers."
Ferimov nodded once.
"As I thought."
"What was that?"
The older scientist started walking.
"Because everyone hears them their first time."
He offered nothing more.
No explanation. No reassurance. Only another lesson.
Mantis wasn't sure he liked this one.
The return journey began in silence.
Nobody seemed interested in conversation anymore.
The fog had grown thicker. Every dead tree resembled a figure standing just beyond recognition.
Mantis found himself looking over his shoulder more often than he cared to admit.
The whispers never returned. But the memory of them stayed.
Then...
Leaves rustled.
Not from the wind.
Mantis stopped instantly. His fist rose into the air.
Ferimov and Orlov dropped into a crouch without a word.
"Movement ahead. Between the trees. Three... No. Five figures. Walking slowly through the mist."
Orlov looked once.
His face immediately drained of color.
"...Oh no."
Mantis narrowed his eyes.
"They're stalkers."
Before anyone could say anything more...
One of the figures stopped and its head turned sharply toward them.
Then another.
All five stared directly into the bushes.
"How-"
Gunfire erupted.
Bullets snapped through branches far above their heads.
One struck a tree nearly five meters away. Another buried itself harmlessly into the mud.
"They can't shoot!"
Mantis whispered.
"They're not aiming!"
He pushed forward just enough to see them clearly.
And immediately wished he hadn't.
They wore ordinary stalker gear; sunrise suits, leather jackets, one still carried a detector hanging from his belt, another wore a faded Loner patch.
Human.
Almost.
Their movements were wrong. Stiff. Jerking.
Their eyes... White.
Not blind. Empty.
Foam dribbled from cracked lips.
One dragged his rifle behind him without seeming to notice. Another kept firing long after the magazine had emptied.
Then...
One of them spoke.
"...Don't w..."
His jaw twitched violently.
"...worry..."
He smiled.
Or tried to.
"...Katalynka..."
His voice cracked into a wet gargle.
"...dada's..."
Another step.
"...home..."
Mantis couldn't move.
He lowered the Beretta. His chest tightened.
"They're..."
Ferimov shouted.
"MANTIS!"
No response.
"WHY AREN'T YOU SHOOTING?"
Another burst tore through the trees.
A bullet ricocheted off a rock beside Orlov.
Mantis blinked.
Reality returned all at once.
These weren't people anymore. Not really.
He raised the Beretta and its suppressor coughed softly.
The father collapsed where he stood.
Another zombie turned toward the sound.
Ferimov's rifle thundered.
The body folded backward.
Orlov fired next, his hands shaking, missing twice before finally landing a shot.
The last two continued shambling forward.
Not seeking cover. Not afraid.
Just...
Walking.
Mantis ended it.
One careful shot. Then another.
Silence.
The swamp swallowed the echoes.
Nobody moved.
Orlov lowered his rifle first. His voice barely escaped him.
"...He was already dead."
Mantis stared at the man he'd shot.
"...No."
A long pause.
"...He was still talking."
Ferimov looked at the bodies scattered among the reeds.
"That's the cruelest thing about psi damage."
He slowly reloaded his rifle.
"It leaves just enough of the person behind..."
His eyes lingered on the dead father.
"...to fool you."
Nobody spoke.
Eventually Orlov knelt beside one of the corpses.
"They were stalkers."
His voice sounded hollow.
"Wrong place, wrong time."
He swallowed.
"The Miracle Machine did this for years. And Controllers can do the same."
Mantis frowned.
"...Controllers?"
Orlov looked up.
"You don't want to know."
Ferimov answered for him.
"No."
He turned toward the distant bunker.
"...Not yet."
Mantis looked at the bodies one last time. He hadn't recognized any of them, but he couldn't stop thinking about the name.
Katalynka.
Somewhere, someone had probably spent years wondering why her father never came home.
He turned away.
The Zone had taught him something else.
Sometimes...
Death wasn't the worst thing waiting for a stalker.