A Prayer to Saint Strelok Read online

  Fear and rage scrambled Yuri’s thoughts: I hit them. I must have hit them. Hit one at least. How many are there? Are they following?

  The three of them burst out of the swamp like rousted quail. Seconds later they flailed up a bank of dark earth and crashed into the underbrush, thrashing through thickets lurching ahead wherever they seemed to thin out.

  Five minutes and an eternity later, Yuri pulled up short. “Hold on. Hold on,” he yelled. “Stop.” His voice was ragged. Shrill.

  Artur turned his head at Yuri’s command and crashed full speed into a tree. He crumpled and fell like a bag of potatoes. Iosif slowed, stumbled a few steps, then fell to his knees. Yuri slid to a halt, flung himself up and around, and pointed Sasha back towards the swamp.

  They were deep inside the tree line. Yuri scanned the undergrowth, peered between the dark trunks for hazy, stalking shadows.

  After a long minute he risked a glance to either side. Iosif had pulled his pistol out and held it tight to his chest in a two-hand grip. His head up, eyes alert, the scientist was breathing right in his nose, out his mouth, slowing his heart rate, his breath, dialing back the adrenaline dump. Smart, that one.

  Artur on the other hand was gasping like a fish, his gaze darting wildly around the forest. “Where’s Suchek? Where is he? What was that thing?” He grabbed Yuri’s jacket. “Did it get Suchek? Did it?” he shouted.

  All Yuri could do was nod.

  ***

  3. his brain all hornets and fire

  At first Yuri thought Sasha had given him the headache; a clip and a half of her painful chatter followed by his mad dash through the swamp, gulping down bog stench and terror. But that was almost an hour ago and the throb was only getting worse. Every step deeper into the Chernya was like an ice pick in his temples. But he swallowed his misery and pressed on. Yuri had made the decision to stay, and a good guide never showed weakness in front of his charges.

  The egghead Artur would have quit right after the Wet Valley. And Yuri had had to confess he’d been a hair’s breadth away from agreeing with him. Only a nagging voice in the back of his mind – it had sounded like his wife – reminded him he wouldn’t see the rest of his fee unless the URAN uchenyye reached the bunker. Otherwise he’d already be hoofing it south out of the Zone as fast as he could.

  Surprisingly it was Iosif who had convinced his associate to continue. They had a duty, he’d said, for science. Suchek would have wanted them to finish the mission. To honor his sacrifice. Plus there was no going back through the swamp now, eh?

  Cuffing away tears and snot, Artur had relented and climbed to his feet. Yuri was pretty sure the tubby Suchek’s principles hadn’t risen above his belly, but he kept that opinion to himself. At least the scientists hadn’t shot him in their panic or pissed themselves, so that was positive.

  Now in the dark forest the three of them walked side by side; Yuri in the middle, Iosif on his right, Artur plodding along on his left. Together, they threaded the black trees, treading under the heavy forest canopy as if it were a minefield.

  Iosif was toughing it out, alert and watching the underbrush for trouble. Artur on the other hand had pulled inside himself like a turtle, all scowly and quiet. He kept up the pace but his main worry seemed to be his pistol. The scientist had unsnapped the holster strap and was clinging to the Makarov like it was a talisman.

  Fear was a tormenter, a spider on your spine. Yuri understood this, and if fondling ‘Olga” was what got the scientist through, then fine. So long as he didn’t pull her out and shoot anything that didn’t need it.

  Not that Yuri saw anything to shoot – there was no birdsong, no sign of animals. Not even gnats buzzing or flies. The quiet was eerie. Unnatural. The loudest noise in the forest was the scrunch of their boots in the litterfall.

  Yuri glanced over at Artur. “It’s like a funeral in here. How much farther to your three rocks?”

  The scientist started at Yuri’s voice. He blinked and brought himself back to the moment, checking the GLONASS navigator in his left hand. “One more kilometer and we should see the clearing,” Artur said.

  The fingers of his right hand stroked his pistol’s pebbled Bakelite grip. “Your rifle is loaded, da?”

  Yuri tried to smile reassuringly. “Don’t you worry. My girl is always ready to put out.” He figured it best to keep the man talking, so he asked, “How’s Olga?”

  “Good, good.” Artur replied too quickly. He swallowed and eyed Yuri’s AK-74. “I wish I had a Sasha though.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Yuri winked. “I’ll chat with Vanya and see what he can come up with. Hey, maybe we’ll lug some artillery next trip and blow those swamp fuckers to hell, OK?”

  Raw memories winced across Artur’s face. He shook them off. “Artillery, yes. Blow them to hell for Suchek. That would be good.” The scientist’s eyes hardened and his steps quickened. “That would be very good.”

  Satisfied for the moment, Yuri turned to Iosif.

  The gangly scientist was scurrying along in a half-hunch, his head up, pistol in hand but pointed down as it should. His eyes were bright. Yuri swore this place brought color to his sunken cheeks and he noticed thin white cords trailed down the sides of the scientist’s flushed face. Yuri did a double take and realized the man had ear buds in and was listening to his phone.

  Really? Here? Now?

  Yuri sighed. University did strange things to men. But if that’s what it took to get him through this ordeal, who was he to judge?

  Besides, the way his head was throbbing, a little music might not be a bad idea. His ears were buzzing and the pain was keeping time with his heartbeat.

  “St. Strelok, preserve me,” he muttered.

  Suddenly Yuri was struck by an odd thought: what kind of playlist do you have for the Zone?

  He’d have to think on that one.

  A few minutes later Artur stopped and pointed. “There. Should be another hundred meters. Hundred twenty, maybe.”

  Yuri raised one finger to his lips, then motioned for the scientists to stay put. They nodded, and he flicked Sasha’s safety off and crept ahead.

  Sure enough the trees thinned out ahead and there was a brightening between the black trunks that indicated a clearing.

  Yuri grinned. Well, well, this bunker might be real after all.

  Maybe he could squeeze URAN for salvage rights to whatever basic gear remained. As a bonus of course, for fending off that bloodsucker. Even old military-issue fatigues brought in decent coin and a little extra bacon grease would go a long way to ease the troubles he’d gone through this run… like this chicken-shit fever he was coming down with. Yebát', how his head hurt.

  Yuri squeezed his eyes tight to stave off the pain. It was pulsing now, coming in waves. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes and moved on. Yes, he was definitely due a bonus for this.

  Another hundred meters of careful slinking and the trees stopped altogether at a clearing. It was maybe three hundred meters across - Yuri couldn’t quite tell. The sky had gone low and dark, and the air was shrouded by a soaking drizzle that was neither fog nor rain.

  “Even the weather can’t make up its mind in this fucking place,” Yuri said.

  Peering through the mist, he saw far out in the middle what looked like the mound with its three rocks. The Greek Fate-Weavers… Yuri glanced skyward with a wry shake of his head. Between them and Saint Strelok, only old, forgotten gods and dubious, new saints wanted anything to do with the Zone. The ‘whys’ here were too slippery for everyday angels.

  He saw other shapes in the gloom too, dozens of short pillars or ragged poles stuck at random in the ground. It was hard to tell, even harder to think with the throbbing in his head. Were they fence posts? Scarecrows?

  “Who would put scarecrows out here? And why so many?” Yuri asked out loud.

  “We need to move,” a voice spoke.

  Yuri jumped. Iosif was beside him, Artur right behind. Yuri hadn’t heard them approach.

  “I t
hought I told you to stay back,” Yuri said.

  “We need to move,” Iosif repeated. “Now, before the rain.” The skinny scientist brought his Makarov up and pulled the slide part way back to make sure he’d chambered a round. Yuri saw he still had his ear buds in.

  Despite the pain in his head, Yuri was impressed. Ice in his veins, this one.

  Artur looked ready to shit his pants. Bug-eyed and sheened with sweat, the scientist had apparently forgotten about Olga. His gaze flicked in every direction like he saw phantoms. His lower lip was trembling.

  Before Yuri could stop him, Iosif took off into the field.

  “Damn it,” Yuri hissed. “Wait- - -” But the scientist was already a swift shadow melting into the mist. Angry, Yuri jumped to his feet, grabbed Artur by the arm and dragged him after. “Risk is the price of scientific advancement, no?”

  Five steps and the sky opened: hard, fat drops like pebbles pelting them. They were drenched in seconds. Lightning shivered through the clouds, thunder rolled after it.

  Yuri barely registered the rain. The headache had become almost too much to bear. It was definitely coming in regular waves, every one another nail in his head. White noise roared in his ears. He stumbled onward, gripping Artur’s arm so tight the scientist winced.

  “Almost - - there,” Yuri told him. “One last push.”

  The scientist muttered intelligibly then pulled up short with a sharp cry. Yuri turned and gasped: Suchek looked back at him, horrible bite marks on his face and neck, blood streaming down his jacket. “Where’s my kerchief?” the scientist asked. “My father gave it to me when I graduated from post-grad.”

  “Wha---?” Yuri shook his head and suddenly Artur was back, rooted in place and babbling about ‘Urozhay mertvetsov’ – a harvest of dead men.

  “The Reaper is coming, sickle in fist,” he moaned. “We must flee or be gathered with them.”

  Another pulse of pain hit and Yuri’s vision tunneled, edged in red and flashing stars. He heard dogs barking, angels singing backwards. Suchek was back, mopping his ruined face with a bloody rag. He smiled at Yuri, waving it with obvious relief. “Found it!” Yuri’s knees went weak, a sticky, copper taste in his mouth.

  His vision cleared in time to see a man lurch through the curtain of rain behind Artur. Emaciated with empty eyes, cracked lips and grimy stubble, Yuri recognized him. “Raven? Is that you?”

  Another guide, Raven had gone missing nine days previous. No trace. ‘Swallowed by the Zone,’ they said. Raven didn’t answer, or even seem to see Yuri. Instead he lunged at Artur, and sunk a combat knife in the scientist’s shoulder.

  Yuri yelled. Artur screamed and flailed, knocking Raven back. The Stalker toppled onto the ground without a sound.

  “Wait, wait,” Yuri shouted. “I know him.” But Artur yanked out his pistol and was fumbling with the slide.

  Yuri grabbed for the scientist’s hand as a chorus of moans rose above the cascading rain. The ragged shapes all around the clearing began moving and Yuri realized the ‘fence posts’ were men, tattered and emaciated, staggering in the storm, drawn by Artur’s wailing.

  Hopping in pain and blubbering, the scientist whirled around with the Mararov, pointing it every which way. The hilt of the knife wobbled beside his head. “Alina, Alina!” he cried. “Why did you leave with him?”

  Artur began shooting into the field, the Makarov’s tinny pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop muffled by the storm.

  Rounds whizzed by Yuri’s head. He flinched, instinctively brought Sasha to bear. Several of the ragged men jerked and fell.

  Pop-pop-pop -- click

  Another immense wall of pain smashed into Yuri and suddenly Suchek was in front of him dancing like a dervish, beckoning for the groaning men to join him. The groaning men in the fog were ghosts, then skeletons, then Yuri’s old platoon mates but not like in that picture taken the first day they deployed but as they’d been the last time he’d seen them: that terrible afternoon when the Kurds caught them in the open with rockets and there were just pieces left and these pieces were raw meat red and shocking white, coming to slap Yuri on the back like old times and drink a toast to that whore house off Ameen Street in Damascus.

  Yuri’s ears were buzzing so loud his jaw hurt and Suchek’s giggling like a maniac didn’t help. The fat scientist was crying now because the other men on the dance floor were tearing at his clothes for a souvenir. Yuri recoiled, his brain all hornets and fire, to see Suchek become Artur and suddenly Artur was Saint Strelok offering his body and blood so the dead men might live. Yuri had to turn away because the mob was so desperate and grateful.

  Someone knocked into Yuri and spun him around and Yuri saw his old babushka waving to him from a kurgan marked by three rocks. Somehow she was tall and skinny – not like she’d been in life - but supper was ready and he had to come now or stay forever hungry.

  The pain was immense and his vision contracted to knotholes but Yuri focused on his babushka. She loved him, had always loved him. So he shook off the grabbing hands, the jackstraw men with their teeth and hollow eyes, and ran to her.

  “Come, come. Quickly now!” Iosif said, and pulled him through the dark yawning door that lead under the earth. Yuri fell forward, overwhelmed by the smell of soil and mold and rust. There was a screech of metal, a clang, then silence and everything went black.

  ***

  4. how such things were back then

  Iosif rummaged through the musty cardboard boxes lining the plywood shelves. “Special Project 57,” he said distractedly. “I was a Junior Researcher.”

  Yuri swigged from his canteen and nodded like he knew what the hell that meant. He spat tepid water and motioned for Iosif to continue, trying for the ‘strong, silent’ attitude - not merely to appear tough but really because thinking made his head hurt. His ears were still ringing, he had a rancid metal taste of blood and bile stuck in the back of this throat, and the headache wasn’t leaving fast enough. His thoughts were sluggish, muddy as dishwater swirling around a clogged basin.

  I did not charge enough money, was the main one that kept surfacing.

  They were inside the bunker at some sort of supply closet in a hall near the entrance. Yuri had propped himself up in the doorway and was watching the scientist paw through stacks of mold-furred boxes and dusty crates. Part of Yuri was surprised; the scientist had acted like a mute on the way in. Shy. Now it was all snap and business.

  Devils live in a quiet pond, his babushka used to say.

  His babushka… Yuri shuddered, remembering outside and suddenly another part of him had a deep urge to punch the scrawny man in the face.

  Iosif slapped one of the boxes onto the floor. “Damn it.”

  Yuri spit again and eyed him suspiciously. “Just what are you looking for?”

  “It’s a – Ah ha!” A grin like a knife blade split Iosif’s skeleton face and he held up what looked like a battered, black lunch box. “Here’s one.”

  Yuri peered at the scientist’s find and recognized an old military flashlight. “You risked the Zone for army surplus?” he laughed bitterly. “Because I can buy that Cold War shit for kopecks from Vanya.”

  The scientist had pulled the lip off the top and was busily inserting the batteries he’d pulled out of his backpack. “I hope we don’t need this, but just in case.”

  “Just in case what?” Yuri asked.

  Iosif’s response was to flick the old flashlight off and on several times. The beam was harsh, bright with a purple tinge. Yuri’s headache reemerged.

  Sasha was slung across his back and it occurred to Yuri to include her in this little Q and A session, seeing as he was all Q, and Iosif, while talking more than he had the entire hike out here, was very cagey with straight answers. But there was the little matter of his final fee. And, Yuri had to admit between bouts of nausea, some curiosity. All this effort, there must be something valuable tucked away in here. Better to play nice… for now

  “Tell me more about this Special Project 57,�
� he said instead.

  “Bioenergetics research,” Iosif answered.

  “Which means…?”

  “Which means we were analyzing bioplasma dynamics.”

  Yuri bit back the urge to shout. “Bioplasma? And what is that?”

  “A theoretical energy field that, under certain conditions, is capable of emitting charged coherent radiation beyond the body surface in the form of electrons and possibly protons.”

  “You’re speaking Greek,” Yuri said tightly. “Plain talk for me, remember?”

  Iosif rolled his eyes. “We were investigating the scientific foundation for paranormal phenomenon: telepathy, telekinesis, remote viewing. All top secret. All KGB and Military. OK?”

  “Out here? In the Zone.”

  The scientist shook his head. “It wasn’t the Zone when we started.”

  “And after the incident?”

  Iosif’s eyes lit up. “It was theorized the same emissions that caused the localized, micro-anomalies could accelerate the development of psychic abilities. So we were ordered to remain on site and increase the frequency and factor of our tests.”

  Yuri’s gaze encompassed the dingy, concrete interior. “You were researching magic mind powers? In this place?”

  “There are sub-levels,” the scientist sniffed. “Two of them. Very advanced. The testing cells were on the bottom floor.”

  “Cells?”

  Iosif clicked the light off and on again. “The majority of the test subjects were prisoners. They were offered reductions in their sentences in exchange for participation.”

  One important thing Yuri learned in the army was to never volunteer. The next important thing was never believe an officer’s promises. “And what, you taught zeks to bend spoons? Read playing cards from another room?” he asked.

  “The focus of our research,” Iosif explained, “Was to induce or enhance psychic abilities with pharmacological and electric stimulation.”

  Yuri shook his head. Fucking officers. “So drugs and shock therapy.”