User Casponaut today posted a tale called "The Exclusion Zone", which was effectively a simple rip-off of a level from the video game STALKER. I've sent a warning, and reccomend if such an incident happens again we move to perma.
The content of the tale is below for records keeping.
This is the first time Kasparov is entering into the Exclusion Zone, having just turned eighteen. The five men walking with him, his older brother among them, are experienced at this. They've done this before, but he hasn't. That's why they move quietly, to avoid the military helicopters that fly over the area.
The Zone, he has been told repeatedly, is different from the one established around Chernobyl only nine years prior. This one isn't to keep people from being exposed to radiation. Instead, he is told, it is to keep people away from the truth. What that truth is, the older men don't seem to know. They have learned to make a profit though, saying that they can find strange objects, ones that break the laws of reality. Westerners, he is told, pay a pretty price for them. Not enough to make a man wealthy, but enough that he can afford to save, afford to get out of the lifestyle out of a few years, move somewhere better.
They are armed with pistol and rifle. They aren't expecting to use them, but the men among them have had bad experiences with others doing the same thing they were. At least, that is what he is told. He thinks, somewhat, that they are lying. The man who explained to him why he carried a weapon, an old rifle from decades ago, told him with a hint of fear in his voice about how some men grew greedy from the Zone, how they killed others to try and scavenge for whatever items they could find. He could understand being scared of other men, but the man had nervously glanced towards the woods as he spoke. Almost as if he thought something would come out of them.
They walk along the fence, boots sinking into the marshland. The man in front, young, strong, and smart, holds up his hand, stopping. The rest of them follow his example. His name is Gregor, and he has been doing this for ten years.
Gregor pulls out a pair of bolt cutters and a small metal object - a bolt. Carefully, he bends down on one knee, bouncing the bolt in his hand. Finally, he gently tosses it towards the fence, expecting something.
Kasparov leans over to his brother, whispering.
“What is he doing?”
His brother leans back, eyes peeled towards the sky. “The fence is electrified in certain places. He needs to cut through - the military cut off access to our last entrance.”
Kasparov nods, feeling the marsh swallow his boots. He crouches down himself, lowing his center of mass, making it easier to run if need be. At least, that’s what he assumes he’s doing. He’s mostly copying the other men.
Nothing happens, no spark, no noise. Gregor nods to the rest of them and uses the cutters, quickly cutting through the fence. He makes a small hole, just large enough for the biggest of them to squeeze through. Kasparov is last in line, and fits through easily, the smallest one among them.
They continue to walk, their path illuminated only by moonlight. Occasionally, they hear helicopters overhead, and they dive into the marsh, letting themselves sink, staying still for what feels like hours at a time.
Kasparov has heard stories of the men who have ventured into the Zone before him. How they come back broken, mangled, either in mind or in body, torn apart by helicopter fire or by wolves. It scares him. But he is here, so he must carry on. Work is hard to come by these days, and his mother has bills to pay. She cannot work, and his father is long dead. So he and his brother find ways to make up the difference. Like this.
He does not know their destination until they arrive. It’s an abandoned cargo ship. How it reached here, he cannot fathom. They are miles away from any shore. The other men, his brother included, pay it no mind, continuing to walk towards it. His brother walks, then pauses, turning to face Kasparov.
“Come on, we’re already late as it is.”
“How did a ship even get out here-”
His brother shrugs, looking at the beached ship. “I dunno. I guess it’s just one of the many mysteries of this place. Now come on.” He starts walking again. After a minute, Kasparov shakes his head, regaining his bearings, and follows behind.
He doesn’t notice them until they get close. They look like soldiers, but they aren’t dressed in the camouflage that has become familiar to Kasparov. No, they wear black and purple, faces hidden by gas masks, as if they’re scared of something in the air. The men Kasparov has traveled with, they have gas masks, yes, but they hang at the hip. The soldiers stand on the ship, giving them a clear vantage point over the area. And a clear line of sight with the rifles they carry.
Gregor frowns. Something is wrong. He walks up to the ship, close enough so that the soldiers can hear him.
“Where is the man I made the agreement with? He said he would be here.”
“The terms have changed. We’ll still take the items, you still get paid, only difference is you get paid just a little less. Bonus will come next time.” The lead soldier, the one who spoke up, sounds Western. Probably English, but Kasparov can’t really tell.
“The terms were changed last time, the bonus was supposed to come today.”
“Well, it’s not.” Kasparov is suddenly very aware that they are in a marsh with no real cover, and the men on the ship in front of him seem to be very well equipped. “Now, the items.”
Gregor glances to the backpack one of the men is wearing, then back at the ship. “At least tell us why the terms have changed. Maybe we can work something out.”
The soldier makes an almost imperceptible motion with his hand, and the others on the ship come forward. “When we made the agreement, you guaranteed that the area would be secure.”
“As far as I knew, it was!” Gregor replied.
“Not anymore it isn’t.” Another hand motion and the click of safeties being turned off could be heard by all. “Now give us the items. You’re in no position to bargain, and we don’t have the time.”
Gregor is quiet, thinking. Finally, he nods to the man who’s backpack he had glanced at before. “Give them what they want. It’s not worth the trouble.”
Despite some quiet protests among the group, Kasparov’s brother among them, the man takes off his backpack, handing it over to Gregor. Gregor tosses it towards the ship. The bag lands with a squelch. A soldier is sent down to grab it. The tension fills the air, both Gregor’s group and the soldiers all too aware of the other’s guns.
Kasparov is the first to hear it though. It’s faint, at first. The sound of something cutting through the air. He’ll never know if they were followed, or if it was just a routine patrol. But the answer doesn’t matter with what happens next.
The soldier yells out profanities, probably assuming that he was double-crossed. Yelling an order, his men start firing randomly, either at the helicopter that has just arrived or at Gregor’s men. Gregor yells out an order as well, and the group of stalkers hits the mud, returning fire. All the while, the helicopter lets out its own burst of gunfire, a sniper on-board tearing through metal and flesh. Whoever was in it didn’t care about who they hit.
The three parties trade fire for what seems like ages, but eventually, all that’s left is the sound of the helicopter, and even that begins to quiet as it begins to land on a dry patch a few yards away.
Kasparov is playing dead at this point, not knowing if his fellow stalkers are alive or dead, not caring. He has reverted to a state of pure survival, holding his breath as to not let anyone know he’s still breathing.
The men on the helicopter are quick in their search, talking into their radios about “anomalies” and something called “MC&D”. He doesn’t know what they mean, but he can only assume they’re talking about the soldiers who were on the ship.
After what seems like hours, they finally leave, the helicopter taking off. Kasparov waits until he can’t hear the rotors anymore, then waits more after that. He doesn’t want to take any chances.
Standing up, he sees that he’s the only one left alive. He falls to his knees when he sees his brother’s corpse, torn apart like so many before him, but he does not have time to mourn. The helicopter may come back eventually.
It takes him a day to reach their former point of entry. He crawls through the hole and makes the long trek back home. He doesn’t say anything to his mother. His arrival alone is enough.
He showers, then lays in bed, thinking. He does not think about what he has seen, or about the death of his brother. No, he thinks of numbers, of bills and such that now must be the burden of one.
So he makes a decision.
The next night, he walks to the Zone’s fence. With him, he carries a rifle, a pair of bolt cutters, and a bag of bolts.
He performs the same ritual he saw performed the night before, only this time, he is alone.
And after he cuts through the fence, he reenters the Zone.
After all, he’s eighteen now. A man.
And a man must provide, no matter if it kills him.
~🌸~Flower Power~🌸~