A Prayer to Saint Strelok Read online

  A prayer to

  Saint Strelok

  A tale from the Exclusion Zone

  Patrick Todoroff

  Patrick Todoroff

  A Prayer to Saint Strelok

  ©2017 Patrick Todoroff

  “A Prayer to Saint Strelok”. Original story copyright Patrick Todoroff, 2017.

  Cover Art courtesy of Alexander Iglesias, a guy named Yuri, and Photoshop. Text by P. Todoroff

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright challenge is intended.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  A prayer to Saint Strelok

  1. a shred of luck is all I ask

  The tourists were whining again.

  Not even fifteen kilometers in and the eggheads are complaining: they are out of breath - their feet hurt - the packs are heavy - when is the next stop so we can rest?

  Hadn't he, Yuri Bonyev, always the thoughtful guide, urged them to purchase good boots? Hadn’t he already stopped to let them rest twice?

  Here he was humping two extra canteens, two first-aid kits, and a box of those nasty chewy food bars, on top of his usual load-out. What the hell do they have to groan about? The three of them only had backpacks, water bottles, and those shitty little pistols Vanya had pawned off on them. Fucking things could barely kill a dog, but the scientists had acted like Spetsnaz strapping them on their thighs. Three hard men ready for the mission, yes?

  No.

  And here Yuri thought this would be over before supper.

  There he went, thinking again. It got him in trouble every time.

  Yuri reminded himself to have his wife kick him the next time he mentioned playing nursemaid for a URAN field trip. No matter how much money those academics flashed, it wasn't worth getting dead over.

  Yuri frowned more at that thought than the pleas nagging at his ears.

  Zone be merciful, he sighed.

  With any luck the cruel bitch would be sated already today and not demand a toll from him and his tag-alongs.

  St. Strelok, a shred of luck is all I ask, he prayed.

  Yuri wiped his face with the back of his hand, turned to the three URAN scientists. "That stand of trees on top of the hill. We'll take five there."

  Their relief was palpable. Pathetic.

  "And no guzzling this time," he glared. "Hydrate, yes, but you drink all your water, you'll be pissing maple syrup before this is over."

  The bald one, Artur, spoke up. "I thought you said there were streams. We can fill the canteens in them."

  The other two, the fat blubberer Suchek with his ugly comb-over and thick glasses, and the quiet, skeletal one, Iosif, nodded in agreement.

  "You think the Zone has clean water for you?" Yuri scowled. "Fucking infants. You stuff a de-rad filtration kit in that little school bag of yours?"

  Suchek and Iosif looked down ashamed, but Artur held his ground, not willing to lose face. "It's been nearly two years. Rain falls, water flows." He started lecturing as if Yuri were a child."The water cycle will have carried off most of the contaminants--"

  Yuri clapped his hand to his forehead in mock astonishment. "Ah, the water cycle. Right. I’m an unschooled peasant so what do I know?”

  He stepped forward and stuck his face inches from Artur’s. “Very well then, Mr. Genius. You can raise the first glass. Knock back all that mutated bacteria, the rad-scorched run-off, and God knows what other microscopic shit the Zone has twisted up for you. It might give you super powers, you know. You'll be Ukrainian Spider Man."

  A nasty smile split his lips. "Or you'll be shitting blood by sundown. Who knows? Like you said, ‘Risk is the price of scientific advancement.’ So risk away, yes?

  Artur looked like he was about to cry.

  Yuri shrugged. “Ok then. Now let’s move.” With that, he spun on his heel and started up the hill.

  After a moment, the three men trudged after him. Surly, little steps, pouting silently like children. They slowed him down, but at least there was fifteen minutes of blissful quiet.

  Yuri cast his eyes to the leaden gray sky. “Thank you.”

  Halfway up the hill, he checked his map again.

  A largish green blotch indicated the dark tangle of the Chernya Woods. It was a mere eleven kilometers distant. Just down the slope on the other side of this hill and across the Wet Valley with all its little streams. The three eggheads insisted there was an old military bunker in the Chernya, its entrance cut in the side of a mound marked by three boulders they called the ‘Moirai’, after some Greek mythology ‘weavers of Fate’ bullshit.

  Yuri had been in Chernya once before. The woods were on the western edge of the Deep Zone and cutting through saved half a day. More if you moved fast – which Yuri had. There was something about the place with its ugly black trees and creaky branches that hung down like broken arms that set his neck hair on edge.

  There were rumors too – the Zone birthed them like puppies – rumors that a lot of men had disappeared around here in the last year. Good men. Now whether their disappearance had anything to do with this place didn’t really matter; the men were gone and the rumors had solidified into one of those ‘facts’ that circulated in the bars and trading posts: the Wet Valley and the Chernya Woods were poisoned ground.

  That was why most Stalkers took the South or East roads now. They were longer, yes. Subject to Army patrols and helicopter over flights, but they were straight shots, well-travelled. Considered easy. Safe. And Yuri always played it safe – until now.

  Yuri would never claim to be faithful, but when he strayed he was always careful. The Zone was fascinating and forbidden. She tempted you with luscious prizes and every date left you spent and breathless. But for all that smoldering sexiness, she was a treacherous bitch. You never, ever took your eyes off her, not for one instant.

  He double-checked the map. Eleven kilometers. Add a handful more wandering the woods looking for these three rocks, then – if the bunker was real and accessible - help these schoolboys find whatever it was they were after and slip back to civilization world before sundown. It could still happen – if only these guys would man up and put their peckers into it.

  At the top of the hill, Yuri dug out three ration bars and passed them out. The scientists tore onto them, slobbering and chewing like starving dogs.

  “Pick up the wrappers,” Yuri cautioned. “And take only small sips to wash it down.”

  The ration bars devoured, Suchek mopped his sweaty face with a bright red handkerchief. Artur made a show of rubbing his calves and groaning. Only skinny Iosif remained stoic, sitting ramrod straight and breathing slowly through his nose. Composing himself, conserving energy.

  That one listens at least, Yuri thought. I can worry about him a fraction less.

  Yuri turned and studied the horizon. The dark smudge of the Chernya beckoned from the far side of the valley. Between it and them, l
ay a patchy carpet of tall grass rippling in the wind. Silver veins peeked though the undulating green-brown reeds, the sunlight glinting off the slick watercourses and streams that threaded the ground. From this distance, it would have made a pretty picture. Yuri shook his head: the Zone was smiling, winking, trying to draw him closer.

  Down there in those reeds you could hardly see five meters in any direction. The water turned the black earth into boot sucking mud and pooled into fetid sinks that bred mosquito swarms as loud and vicious as Hind gunships.

  Vanya had marked a trail on his map, a dotted line in grease pencil. It was good ground, firm ground, he claimed. The last time anyone checked, at least.

  “For a hundred rubles, it better be good,” Yuri had snapped.

  The little weasel had knocked back the last of his vodka with a shrug. “Hey, you get lost, I’ll give you a full refund.”

  Wallowing asshole.

  Yuri looked back at his three charges. The Zone was always risky but this run was doubly so. No matter how much money they were paying him, he was the boss here and the scientists would have to do exactly what he said the instant he said it. He wasn’t going to get killed over their whingeing. There would be no stopping in the Wet Valley.

  Yuri fished out a handful of cheap plastic market bags out of his leg pack and held them out. “Take off your boots and put these on your feet. They’ll keep your socks dry.”

  “But why?” Suchek sulked. “I thought you said there was a path.”

  Yuri grit his teeth. “It’s a swamp is why, and swamps are wet. We’ll use the path but I’m not going to stop because one of you delicate flowers gets soggy. Now put them on and be sure to lace up tight after. Got me?”

  More grumping but the scientists did as they were told.

  “You’re welcome,” Yuri said when they were done. “I gave you another five minutes to rest. Now we’re going to cross the Wet Valley. I’ll take the lead but you will keep your mouths shut, stay on my ass, and keep moving.” He pulled Sasha, his AK-74, around and racked the charging handle, chambering a round for emphasis. “Got me?”

  Artur’s hand drifted to the pistol at this thigh. “What’s down there? Is it dangerous?”

  “What did I just say about shutting up?” Yuri asked.

  “I just want to know in case—“

  “In case what? You get spooked?”

  Artur’s shuffled his feet but his hand still rested on the pistol butt.

  Yuri sniffed, his voice deadly quiet. “You will not pull that shooter out of its holster unless I say. Got me, druzhishe? I will handle any special case.”

  Artur nodded. The others as well.

  Yuri smiled as if they were about to walk through a park on a sunny day. “Good. Now follow me and we’ll go find your bunker.”

  ***

  2. like the devil is after your soul

  It was worse than he feared, the Wet Valley.

  Clouds of bugs, calf-deep mud, and the rotten, low tide stink… Gah! It was so rank it burned the hairs in his nose. Yuri pulled his scarf up so as to not puke breakfast. Visibility was crap in the tall grass and the hiss of wind in the rushes sounded like a hundred ghosts whispering his name. He moved as fast as he dared, holding Sasha’s stock and fore grip so tight his hands ached.

  The only redeeming feature about Vanya’s trail was that was where it was supposed to be: a string of hard dirt humps, wooden boards, and old truck tires that zigzagged across the slop and twisted though the maze of reeds. Yuri hated how narrow it was, one man at a time. He kept checking every few meters to make sure the URAN scientists were still behind him.

  The scarecrow Iosif stuck with him, skinny and quick as an alley cat, a determined scowl on his gaunt face. Artur followed closely after, his hand still clutching his pistol holster. Suchek was last, waddling and mincy as a nervous sow. If Yuri concentrated, he could hear the slap, slap, slap of the fat man’s boots in the muck.

  St. Strelok, please don’t let anything else hear him.

  Yuri would pause whenever the path widened enough for them bunch up for a moment. They would stumble to a halt, gulp down a few breaths and he would look into each of their faces in the desperate hope he could put a little steel in their guts by wishful thinking.

  “Not much farther,” he’d say each time. “One more good push.” It was the same line his old Praporshchik Dygalo used to use on the squad back in Syria. Especially when the shit was worse than he wanted them to know.

  “How much farther? Are we there yet? We must nearly be across,” Artur asked.

  Yuri gave him a firm smile. “Keep going. I’ll tell you when, don’t worry.”

  Suchek looked like a frightened donkey, dripping sweat, wide eyed with flared nostrils. Man might have a stroke right then and there. Yuri made a show of patting him on the shoulder.

  “Easy. Easy there. You’re doing good.”

  “What – what about – the danger?” Suchek panted. “You said—there was – something down here.”

  Yuri feigned indignation. “What? You’ve upset Sasha.” He stroked the side of his AK–74. Moy kroshka here can handle anything we find. No one wants to argue with her, eh?”

  Suchek nodded. Artur giggled nervously. Even Iosif cracked a smile.

  Artur pulled his Makarov from its holster. “Olga is ready too.”

  Yuri choked back a laugh. Iosif arched an eyebrow. “Olga?”

  Artur blushed. “Well he named his gun.”

  “It’s fine. Fine,” Yuri nodded seriously. “You just keep her holstered until I say so. Too many girls at once gets messy, eh?” he winked.

  Artur reluctantly tucked the little pistol away.

  St. Strelok, may that seize up and jam. Please, Yuri prayed. Dying was a possibility he shouldered every trip to the Zone; getting killed by one of Vanya’s rusty Cold War relics was not acceptable. Not at all.

  “Ready?” Yuri asked. “We’re almost there, See?” The jagged tops of Chernya’s trees swayed just above the brown and green stand of rushes and thick grass in front of them. His charges nodded.

  “Forward for science, then,” Yuri said, and plunged ahead.

  They stopped ten minutes later on a sand bar with a tumbledown trapper’s shack. Marked with a star on the map, it was a narrow spit of land a hundred meters from the far edge of the swamp.

  “Nearly there,” Yuri told the scientists. “One more good push.”

  The three of them were bent over catching their breath and they all looked up at him in disbelief.

  “You’ve been -- saying that -- the whole way -- across,” Suchek whined.

  Yuri shrugged. “I know. But this time I mean it.”

  All at once light began to fail and the wind kicked up, bringing the unmistakable flat iron scent. Yuri had heard nothing of a storm front but wadded clouds were scudding in from the north, dark and angry fists clutching a downpour.

  Great, Yuri sighed. Now I’m going to get soaked to the bone. I should have demanded more money.

  He shelved that thought – for now anyway - and grinned at the scientists. Better to lead than shove. “Last leg of the trail, my friends. A quick sprint and we can rest under the trees, ok?”

  The scientists grumbled a little but lined up in their usual order. Yuri nodded, made approving noises. As he went to the front of the line, he spied something out of the corner of his eye: an odd swish in the grass. So sly, he almost missed it, this stirring against the wind. A chill went down his arms.

  Oblivious, the scientists watched him expectantly but Yuri was already bringing Sasha up, stepping forward. His mind was blank but body suspected.

  More peculiar rustling, this time on his left. Yuri squinted. The air behind the old shack was hazy, dancing like a heat sprite over tar road in August. He planted his feet and flicked Sasha’s safety to full-auto.

  “What the fu—?”

  A wet slap on his left, loud and close. Yuri jerked his head, swung Sasha around.

  At the same time came a gus
t behind him, the dull thud like sacks dropping and a yelp of pain. A heartbeat later something heavy crashed into the grass behind him.

  Yuri spun around: Iosif and Artur were looking puzzled, surprised. Behind them was a wall of reeds, a floor of oily brown water and the neat square of a red handkerchief spread on the sand like it was teatime.

  No Suchek.

  Suddenly from the swamp came a long wet growl and a terrified scream like a horse being slaughtered. Suchek. He sounded close enough to touch but Yuri couldn’t see shit.

  Yuri’s mind finally caught up. Upyr! It shouted.

  He’d heard the rumors, stories of monsters with chameleon skin that sucked your blood and ate your eyes like grapes. The old-timers in the bars spoke of these Bloodsuckers in hushed tones, only late at night after the bottles were empty.

  Shitshitshit, Yuri’s brain reminded him. They hunt in packs.

  Ice splashed in his gut. Yuri squeezed Sasha’s trigger and swept her back and forth, spraying 5.45mm hate and panic into the swamp, cutting down swathes of reeds, rounds zipping through the thick grass. Three loud seconds later, the bolt slammed open, the magazine spent. He heard the gargling roar again. Yuri turned to the scientists.

  Iosif and Artur both had their pistols out, pointing them every which way. Without thinking, Yuri’s hands swapped out the AK’s magazine. He nodded down the path toward the woods.

  “Run,” he yelled. “Run like the devil is after your soul.”

  The scientists bolted.

  Yuri cut loose with three more bursts: left, right, back down the trail, then ran after the scientists.

  Heart in his throat, breath heaving in his ears, his boots had wings. He caught up with the scientists just as Chernya’s dark trees loomed into sight. Yuri’s legs wanted to churn faster. He could almost feel hot breath on his neck, claws grabbing his jacket. In front of him, Artur slipped on slick boards and fell face first in the mud. Part of Yuri wanted to jump over him and keep going but he hauled the burbling scientist up and shoved him forward.