Chapter Text
April 2012. Domanivka village. 7 kilometers from the Chornobyl Exclusion Zone. A month before the shutdown of the “Brain Scorcher”
A rickety old Soviet bus creaked to a stop at a rural bus stop. A handful of passengers slowly got off, lugging bags and boxes—mostly elderly folks living out their twilight years in a forgotten village where everyone knew everyone. But then, from the back of the bus, rose a passenger who clearly didn’t belong: a 22-year-old guy in a sand-colored leather jacket and gray jeans. He hefted a backpack from the floor—stuffed to the brim, judging by its shape—and stepped up to the driver.
"Hey, man, where can I find a bar called “At the Wayside”?
The driver looked up, stared silently at him for a moment.
"Another one, huh? End of the street, turn left—you’ll find it." He lit a cigarette and exhaled, signaling the conversation was over.
The young man gave a polite nod and stepped off the bus, glancing around. “Bus stop” was a generous term for the lone wooden bench exposed to the elements. The place looked like it hadn’t changed since the village was founded. Sighing, the young man followed the directions the driver had given.
The village was typical for the "deep" of Ukrainian Polissya: cracked clay houses with overgrown yards, empty streets, not a trace of asphalt—likely never had any—and an average age somewhere north of sixty. But there was one thing that set this village and the nearby ones apart: their proximity to the Chornobyl Exclusion Zone.
He reached the spot and found a plain white building with a small sign above the door reading “At the Wayside”. Nearby sat a rickety bench, nothing more than a few planks nailed onto stumps.
The moment he stepped inside, the bar’s unique scent hit him like a punch to the nose: stale beer, thick cigarette smoke that clung to your clothes like a curse, and something greasy and suspicious sizzling in the kitchen. The place wasn’t much to look at—just a few tables covered in dusty tablecloths, some stools, and a bar counter separating the kitchen and storage rooms. There weren’t many people around: two men whispering at a far table, another guy drinking alone by the window, flicking ash from his cigarette into an empty sprat tin. Behind the bar stood the owner, predictably, polishing a large beer mug with a rag.
As the newcomer approached the counter, he got a better look at the bartender. An older man—pushing sixty-five at least—bald, stout, face weathered like old leather, with an impressive pair of gray mustaches.
The bartender raised an eyebrow at him but kept wiping the mug. The visitor spoke:
“Good evening. I’m looking for Petro Andriyovych. Is he here?”
The barkeep squinted at him, eyeing him from head to toe.
“Evening... Yeah, he’s over there,” he nodded at the man drinking alone. “Sitting and sipping his beer.”
“Thanks.” The young man nodded and headed over.
Without much ceremony, he sat down across from the guy and dropped his backpack on the floor. The man gave him a sidelong look.
“What do you want?” he growled, voice flat and low. Looked to be in his thirties.
“You’re Petro Andriyovych?”
The man narrowed his green eyes, searching him for a moment, then nodded.
“Yeah, that’s me. And you are?”
“Vasyl Oliinyk.” He offered his hand. Petro shook it.
“We had an arrangement—”
“Shhh!” Petro cut him off mid-sentence. “I remember. No need to shout it to the whole damn village.”
Vasyl shut up. Lesson learned. Petro cast a quick glance around, as if checking for eavesdroppers, then leaned in slightly.
“Listen. We’re heading out at night," he said, checking his wristwatch. “So here’s what we’ll do: you sit here for an hour or two, and keep a low profile. I’ll go scout. Got it?”
Vasyl nodded silently.
“Good,” Petro said, getting to his feet and heading for the bar. Vasyl got up too, grabbing his pack.
“Sanych! Pour this gentleman a beer, on me!” Petro called out. The bartender—evidently named Sanych—gave a silent nod and walked over to the keg. The mug he’d been polishing so religiously now filled with foamy brew.
“Uh, thanks, but I’m not much of a drinker...” Vasyl started to protest. Sanych gave him a sarcastic snort and slid the mug toward him. Petro gave him a wry smile.
“Drink up. Out there—” he nodded northward “—you will drink things worse.”
With that, the guide tossed some money on the counter and stepped out.
Vasyl stared after him, mug in hand, full of something he already regretted. After a moment’s mental bracing—mostly emotional—he took a sip. Yeah, he’d tried beer before. And other drinks too. But he never understood the appeal. Beer, especially, was just bitter swill that made people act stupid. Plus the hangovers were hell. And this stuff? Tasted like it came from a gas station fridge.
He winced.
“Ugh. How do people drink this? It’s disgusting!” he grimaced.
Sanych emerged from the kitchen, having turned off the stove where something had been sizzling.
“It’s tradition, kid,” he said, sitting down across from Vasyl. “Everyone who goes into the Zone—or comes back—drinks. Some to wish for a safe trip in, some to celebrate making it out alive. What about me? I get paid. And they’re happy with this kind of beer.”
Vasyl glanced at the bartender.
“So, the stalker thing is no secret to you, huh?” he asked, eyeing the beer again and deciding one sip was more than enough—for now.
“Everyone around here knows,” Sanych said with a shrug. “Stalkers are my best customers. You think I opened this bar for the locals? Half of ’em make their own moonshine. Who needs a bar?”
He twirled his mustache thoughtfully, then looked Vasyl up and down again.
“So. Tell me: who are you, where are you from, and why the hell are you heading into the ass end of the world?”
The young man paused, took another sip of beer, and said:
“Vasyl Oliinyk. Fourth year. Journalism major.”
He looked around the bar again. In the half-open storage room, he spotted a mirror. Staring back at him was a fairly handsome, clean-shaven blue-eyed brunette with a mid-length haircut and a side part. Not too skinny, not fat—just... average. “Ordinary” would’ve been a fair description.
“Whoa, a student— and a journalist!” Sanych snorted. “I’ve had your kind in here before. All chasing that big scoop on the Zone. Dreaming they’d write some sensations and get hired by every paper in Kyiv… Funny thing, though—they never came back. And I never did see those articles.”
Vasyl met his gaze. Was that... a warning? A threat? Or just the ramblings of a jaded old man? He took another sip. Same godawful taste—but he’d have to finish it. It was already paid for.
“No, I’m after money,” Vasyl mumbled. “And the sensations... They'll write the sensations even without me.”
The real reason he was heading into the Zone—he wasn’t about to share that. Especially not with some random old guy. Honestly, even he wasn’t sure why the pull was so strong. Of course he’d heard of Chornobyl. Who hadn’t? But the real obsession started just six months ago, when he stumbled across a strange forum online.
And man, did he read.
Mutants, anomalies, artifacts, stalkers—adventurers sneaking into the Zone. It all sounded like some sci-fi fairytale or stories about Area 51. But... something about it stuck. He couldn’t shake the feeling.
Something was calling to him.
He started digging deeper. Spent hours on that forum. And that’s where he first learned about “guides”—people who, for a hefty fee, could get you into the Zone.
One of them was Petro Andriyovych.
At first, Vasyl figured it was a scam. That the guy would take his money and vanish. Or message him back to say there was no mysterious Zone, that Chornobyl was just a sealed-off Soviet relic.
But no. They started talking. A lot. Petro sent him gear checklists, detailed instructions for how to reach the perimeter, a meeting point.
Even now, sitting in this smoky, reeking bar with a nasty beer in his hand, Vasyl couldn’t shake the fear that the “guide” might stab him in the back the moment they were two kilometers out of the village.
He was snapped out of his thoughts by the sound of dishes clattering nearby—two plates of some sort of mystery meat and porridge were slapped down on a nearby table.
“Hoarse, your food’s ready!” Sanych called toward the two whispering men. One of them got up, walked over, and carried off the plates. Vasyl couldn’t get a good look—the man’s head was covered by a hood.
Sanych turned back to the student.
“So you’re in it for the money, huh? Hmph... Is it really that hard to earn a crust as a Ukrainian journalist these days?” He chuckled. “Well, if you don’t wanna talk, I won’t pry. This whole romantic crap gets knocked out of your head soon enough. I’ve seen it.”
Vasyl was getting tired of this conversation. Why the hell do you care, old man? Your job is small - pour beer into a mug, and that's it.
He took another bitter sip and decided to change the subject.
“So, when did the Zone become, y’know... the Zone ? Do you remember?”
Sanych propped his chin on his fist and stared out the window behind Vasyl.
“Oh, I remember, son. It was 2006. I was working in my garden...”
“Garden near Chornobyl? You’re one gutsy grandpa,” Vasyl smirked.
Sanych didn’t like that. His eyebrows drew together in a scowl.
“The dosimetrists said the soil was clean back in ’86. And don’t interrupt your elders!” Vasyl quickly raised a hand in surrender.
“Anyway... I’m out in the garden when I hear this rumble up north. I look up—the sky's blood red, clouds spinning like crazy. I grabbed my wife and ran straight for the cellar. We huddled down there, praying, dirt falling from the ceiling… I thought, “That’s it! End of the world!” But no—a few hours later, it went quiet. I climbed out—everything looked the same. And then the helicopters started coming. Whole convoys of soldiers, tanks, APCs rolling through the Dytiatky checkpoint into the Zone. I thought war had broken out. But things settled down. Then the stalkers started sneaking through our village into the Zone. So I figured, better open a bar for them than spend my life bent over a damn shovel. And here we are.”
He finished the story, stood up, and walked off to clear dishes from the far table. The bar was quiet now—just him and Vasyl.
A pop song droned softly from a dusty old radio in the corner. Sanych clinked dishes. The beer didn’t taste quite as nasty anymore—maybe the alcohol was kicking in.
A strange kind of peace.
But not for long.
Outside, an engine rumbled, then cut off. Sanych glanced out the window behind Vasyl, and his face tightened. He leaned in and whispered:
“Kid, it’s the military. Sit still and don’t piss them off.”
Just then, the bar door opened—and two men walked in.
Both men wore green “Dubok”-pattern camouflage and bulletproof vests. One had a helmet with ballistic goggles, the other wore a black balaclava. The guy in the balaclava had a compact AKS-74U slung across his chest, the other carried a standard AK-74 on his back.
“Evening, comrade Lieutenant!” Sanych chirped with a syrupy smile so sweet it made Vasyl’s skin crawl.
“Yeah, yeah. Gimme a crate of vodka,” the lieutenant grunted. Judging by his tone, his day hadn’t gone well. He tossed a wad of bills on the counter. Sanych ducked under the bar, and the clinking of bottles echoed out.
“Lemme guess—Major giving you hell again?” the bartender called out from below.
“Who the fuck else?!” the lieutenant exploded. “He got drunk again like a pig, screaming at the entire Kordon to give him vodka, or he’ll send everyone on a night raid. He also carried some nonsense: that he’s a colonel, that we’ll all rot here, and he’ll become a colonel. The drunken bastard…”
While the lieutenant ranted about military life, a full crate of vodka appeared on the counter.
Vasyl, still staring blankly into his half-empty mug, let out a snort of laughter.
Not a wise move.
The lieutenant’s head snapped toward him.
“Oh, you think that’s funny?!” he barked. “Let’s see your documents— now! ”
Realizing his mistake, Vasyl quickly reached into his jacket and pulled out his passport. He handed it over and waited as the officer skimmed it. The lieutenant tossed it back on the counter and turned to his companion.
“Private, arrest this little shit. Let him cool off in the cell for a while.”
The private nodded and stepped toward Vasyl, who had no intention of going quietly. He straightened up and took a step back.
“On what grounds? What did I do?!” he snapped, eyes darting between the two men. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sanych shifting nervously, as if he wanted to intervene.
“Oh, don’t play dumb,” the lieutenant growled. “You think we don’t know who this old bastard’s serving here?” He jabbed a finger at Sanych. “This place should’ve been cleaned up a long time ago. But hey, you’ll thank me later—broken ribs are better than a bullet to the head out by the fence. Private, for fuck’s sake, grab him already!”
Things were spiraling. Vasyl’s hand slowly moved toward the pocket where he kept his hunting knife. He wasn’t going down without a fight.
But then—
A few more bottles of vodka appeared on the counter, followed by a wad of cash, which the lieutenant gave to the bartender.
“Сomrade Lieutenant, let’s not do anything rash,” Sanych said in a smooth, apologetic tone. “The kid’s young and hot-headed—we’ve all been there. I bet the Major’s waiting for you right now, huh? So here—on the house! And a little extra for the stress.”
The bartender gave him a pleading look. The lieutenant glanced at him, then at the booze and the money, and finally spat on the floor.
“Fine. Live another day, scumbag. Just stay outta my sight. Private, grab the crate. Let’s go!”
He stormed toward the door. The private followed, lugging the vodka behind him.
Sanych let out a heavy sigh and slumped into a chair, pulling out a cigarette. After a few puffs, he looked up at the still-standing student.
“Damn, kid… You cost me a fortune. All that for a little giggle?”
Vasyl sat back down and downed the rest of his beer in one go.
“I didn’t ask you to help. And who were those jerks anyway? What the hell gave them the right to arrest me for laughing?”
“Well,” Sanych said with a wounded sigh, “you’re still young. No need to ruin your life over a run-in with a pissed-off lieutenant.” He tapped his fingers on the table and flicked the cigarette into the ashtray. “Those were PSF soldiers—Perimeter Security Force. They’re the ones guarding the Zone. And believe me, you got off easy. Their usual way of dealing with stalkers is a bullet to the head. Sometimes, at night, you can hear machine guns going off.”
“And nothing happens to them for that?” Vasyl asked, horrified. The thought of people getting executed just for crossing an invisible line sent shivers down his spine.
“They’ve got orders,” Sanych said grimly. “That’s how it is now: the Zone to the north, and jumpy soldiers all around it.”
They both sat in silence, lost in thought.
An hour later, Petro returned.
“All right, Vasyl, get your ass up. We’re leaving.” He threw a glance at the bartender. “Anything happen while I was gone?”
Sanych and Vasyl exchanged a look. The older man spoke first:
“The lieutenant dropped by. Wanted vodka, but also tried to arrest Vasyl. I had to give him a whole crate for free.”
Vasyl stared at the ceiling. What did he do? He didn't do anything - he just giggled, that's all. Who knew they were so nervous.
Petro, naturally, wasn’t amused. He glared at the student.
“What part of ‘sit here and keep a low profile’ didn’t you understand? Good thing it didn’t go sideways.”
Vasyl felt a bit offended. Like it was his fault some power-tripping officer decided to make an example of him. He opened his mouth to protest, but Petro cut him off.
“Whatever. Screw the lieutenant. Let’s get some fresh air—we’ll talk outside.” He gave Sanych a nod and headed for the door.
Vasyl followed. As he stepped outside, Sanych’s voice called after them:
“Good hunting, stalkers!
The night is so moonlit, so starry, so bright!
The crisp air hit Vasyl like a slap in the face, waking him up from the bar’s heavy fog of smoke and stale beer. He’d almost forgotten what fresh air tasted like.
But the smell of tobacco lingered—Petro was already sitting on the bench outside, puffing on a Marlboro. The bar’s lighting was terrible, but now, under the moonlight, Vasyl could finally get a good look at his guide.
He wore a black jacket, blue jeans and army boots. His green eyes were sharp under a close-cropped chestnut buzzcut. A week’s worth of stubble covered his face, which was dotted with small scars—two of them especially noticeable: one from chin to neck, the other running parallel to his left ear.
Petro noticed Vasyl’s stare.
“All right, kid. There are two main ways to get into the Zone,” he began. “One, you crawl through the mud on your belly, dodge mines, razor wire, spotlights, and if shit hits the fan—you run for your life while they shoot at you. Two, you pay off some PSF grunts with a fat bribe and pray they don’t shoot you in the back anyway.”
The prospects for Vasyl were not bright - no one wants to die before reaching the Zone. But Petro Andriyevich promised to guide him safely, so he expected the continuation.
“But screw all that,” Petro went on, flicking away his cigarette. “I know a better way. It doesn’t lead to the Cordon—where most rookies cut their teeth—but a few hours of walking around the Zone won't hurt. We’ll go through the Swamp. I know that place like the back of my hand—we won’t get lost.”
The Swamp… Vasyl didn’t like it. First, it’s easy to drown there, and second, the water is terrible there, which means the radiation is crazy! He decided to voice his fears to the guide:
“Uh, are we gonna drown in there? And what about the radiation? I don't want to get radiation sickness prematurely.”
Petro smirked.
“If you drown, I’ll fish you out. And you'll get the disease anyway… We’ll stick to the drier areas, but yeah… You’ll get wet. Up to your knees, mostly. We’ll crash for the night in an old church, then move on to the northern part of the Cordon. From there, we hit Rookie Village. Then we part ways—you go your path, I go mine. Any questions? Objections? Suggestions?”
Vasyl hesitated. It all sounded so casual—like they were planning a picnic, not sneaking into a deadly, restricted area full of who-knows-what. On one hand, suspicious. On the other—maybe Petro really was that experienced. Sanych had said he could be trusted.
Maybe I’m just being paranoid.
He shook his head to indicate he had no objections.
“Good.” Petro stood up, hands in his pockets. “Follow me.”
“Where’s your gear? Or at least your backpack?” Vasyl asked.
Petro sighed and turned back.
“I thought you said no questions. It’s in a stash. If I showed up in full stalker armor, the local soldiers would’ve shot me in someone’s barn. No trial, no explanation. So first stop: my stash.”
Adjusting his backpack and taking a deep breath, Vasyl Oliinyk followed Petro Andriyovych into the night.
Through gardens and bushes, heading north, the two men moved silently. Within half an hour, they’d left the village behind and were walking along the side of an old road.
Several times, patrol vehicles passed by, forcing them to dive into the underbrush and pray they wouldn’t be spotted.
A moonlit night had its pros and cons. On one hand, less chance of tripping on a branch and losing an eye. On the other, patrols had a much easier time spotting you.
At one point, while crawling through the brush, Petro stopped Vasyl.
“Hold up. There’s another village up ahead. It’s abandoned, but the PSF boys love setting ambushes there,” he whispered. “I’ll go scout. You stay here. Iif you hear screams—run back.”
Without waiting for an answer, Petro slipped away. Vasyl was alone.
He lay down in the bushes, trying to get comfortable, waiting for the guide’s return. On the outside, calm. On the inside, clenched tight.
What if this doesn’t work?
What if Petro gets caught?
Goddammit, why did I have to laugh at that stupid lieutenant…? He probably suspects something.
No, I can't let things go awry. Even if they catch Perto, I'll break through myself. He said the road was safe, so...
He forced the thoughts to stop. But then a bigger one came:
Why am I doing this? Why do I even want to go into the Zone?
It wasn’t the money. His family was well-off, and he wasn’t exactly stupid—he could make a living.
For the sake of "sensation," as Sanych said? No. No one would believe him. At best, they’d print his story next to one about ghosts or UFOs abducting someone near Zhytomyr.
A miracle, then? Maybe. The miracle of freedom.
Because no one is ever truly free. The laws of the state, morality, society, obligations, other people's expectations. Or parental ambitions. His daddy wants to continue the journalistic dynasty. But no one had asked him what he wanted. Did anyone even care what Vasyl wanted?
His spiral of thoughts was cut short by a hand landing on his shoulder.
His heart leapt—dozens of scenarios flashed through his mind in a second. He hadn’t been paying attention. Hadn’t been watching his surroundings.
But then came a familiar whisper:
“All clear. Let’s go,” Petro murmured. “We’ll head right at the village center, then across the field to the forest. We’re close to the perimeter.”
The guide moved ahead. Vasyl stood up and hunched low as he followed.
No wonder he hadn’t heard him. The guy was a stalker, after all.
The wind was colder now.
The crisp night air of Domanivka had turned into a bitter wind that cut to the bone.
And the closer the two men got to the Zone, the colder it seemed.
She was calling them.
Death, waiting patiently behind the perimeter’s barbed wire.
For now, that wire held Her back.
But would it always?
Or would the monster someday break free from its cage?
The village sign was buried in trees and weeds. Vasyl never saw its name—and it didn’t matter. The place was dead.
They passed by an old cemetery. Houses stood nearby, half-eaten by the forest.
Nature was taking it all back. Between the trees, you could make out the skeletons of homes, peeking out like corpses from broken coffins.
They reached the main road and turned right.
One thing stood out to Vasyl: the silence. Not a single human sound.
The wind howled in the distance, trees swayed and rustled. Somewhere far off, a rusty swing creaked in the breeze—no child would ever sit on it again. But there were no radios, no voices, no life.
The center of the village hadn’t yet been fully claimed by nature. You could still imagine what it looked like when people lived here.
In the tall grass by the roadside—where children once laughed and played during visits to their grandparents—you could spot everyday items, long since abandoned. Open gates looked like they were still welcoming guests into empty homes. But the houses were hollow. The people had taken what they could. The looters took the rest.
Only a shell remained. Not even a skeleton—a rotting corpse with the organs scooped out and left on display. You could maybe guess what the face once looked like, maybe imagine the life it had… But it was still a corpse.
Vasyl tightened his grip on his backpack straps. The atmosphere was suffocating. Once, people had laughed here, cried here, loved here—and in an instant, it was gone. That scared him. The houses remained, but what about their owners? No one ever knew their fate. After a person, only a faceless skeleton remains. And that's all. And one day only a skeleton will remain of him. Although, even that is not a fact.
He shook his head, trying to clear the thoughts.
Focus. It's too early to think about death. With this attitude, I'm sure I'll die somewhere stupidly...
He looked at Petro.
The guide had taken his hands out of his pockets. He was much more alert now. More cautious. But the gloom of this place didn’t affect him at all. On the contrary—he looked like he was in his element.
How many years has he spent in the Zone…?
Petro suddenly stopped in the middle of the road and began scanning his surroundings. He was looking for something—an old gate.
After a few seconds, he found it. He leaned close to Vasyl and whispered for him to follow. They entered a yard.
The student glanced around.
It looked… ordinary. Like every village yard he’d ever seen.
There was an old doghouse—some mutt named Sharik or Ryabko had probably once barked at strangers from it.
There was a pink teddy bear, now brown with filth and dust. A little girl probably hugged it as she slept during summer stays with grandma. The bear probably even had a name. Something like “Mishka.”
Tearing his gaze away from the old junk, Vasyl followed Petro.
They reached another gate leading to a backyard garden.
Overgrown grass came up to his waist. At the far end, trees were starting to reclaim the space. Petro walked with confidence, like he made this trip every day. Vasyl, on the other hand, worried about tripping over some buried rake or stepping on the tail of something that lived in the bushes.
When the garden ended, they entered a patch of forest. They moved quickly, not stopping anywhere.
Soon, the trees thinned out, revealing an open field. Petro raised a hand to stop Vasyl.
“See that field?” he asked, pointing at the clearing ahead.
“I see it.”
“Look closer.” Petro traced the edge of the field with his hands. “The trees don’t touch it. It’s like the forest avoids it. Two years ago, there was another field like this, five kilometers from here. Now it’s gone—completely overgrown. But this one? Still empty. Not even grass.”
And he was right. The trees encircled the clearing, but not a single one had grown into it. Vasyl wasn’t the superstitious type—he didn’t believe in cursed places or ghost stories.
“Maybe the soil’s different here? Or some other scientific reason…” he whispered.
“Maybe,” Petro shrugged. “But I don't like this field. Of course, I checked it with detectors - there are no anomalies. But still, the feeling is... kind of lousy.”
Petro walked up to the edge of the field and gestured for Vasyl to follow.
“Here’s the plan. I’m gonna bolt to the other side—” he pointed at the distant treeline “—and you follow right behind me. Step for step. IIf I suddenly fall, freeze, or some other mystical shit happens—belly down on the ground and crawl back up Got it?”
Vasyl nodded silently.
“On three. One… two… three!”
The stalker took off like a shot. Vasyl followed close behind.
Petro was fast—no gear, no weight slowing him down. Vasyl had a full pack rattling on his back.
The forest drew closer with every stride. Vasyl’s thoughts were racing: Don’t trip. Don’t fall. Breathe right. Just breathe—
Then one thought pushed all the others aside, clear and sharp:
Don’t stop. If you stop—you’ll stay on this field forever.
And somehow, that gave him strength. He pushed harder, closing the gap.
Finally, mercifully, the field ended.
Petro slowed down and leaned against a tree, gasping. Vasyl just collapsed to the ground, gulping cold air.
“Holy shit, I hate this field,” Petro wheezed. “My heart started to hurt halfway through... I thought I was going to stay there... Phew, shit…”
Vasyl didn’t respond. He lay flat, staring at the sky, breathing hard.
The clouds were rolling in, moonlight almost gone.
Petro stepped closer and offered him a hand.
“Get up. We’ve got a little ways to go. Stash is nearby—and then the entry point.”
Vasyl grabbed the hand and stood up.
The Zone was near.
They entered a small clearing. An old tree trunk lay across the grass, and a rotting stump stood nearby.
Petro immediately made his way to the stump and started rummaging around. At the same time, he called over his shoulder:
“Don’t just stand there! Under that log, there’s a bag with weapons. Roll it aside and look for it while I handle this…”
He suddenly fell silent—then muttered with quiet satisfaction:
“Aha. There you are…”
He pulled a black duffel bag from the hollowed-out stump and began laying out its contents.
Inside was a tightly folded dark green rubberized suit with a hood, streaked here and there with gray. The suit was reinforced with what looked like Kevlar, and had built-in kneepads and elbow guards. A patch with a radiation symbol was stitched onto the shoulder—marking him as a Free stalker. Alongside it: a matching armored vest packed with ammo pouches, a leather belt with a holster, knife sheath, canteen, more pouches, a full stalker’s rucksack, a gas mask, a respirator, and an assortment of grimy, unidentifiable gear.
While Petro suited up in his armor, Vasyl dropped his backpack and walked over to the fallen log, wondering how to move it.
He decided to push.
It took effort, but with a loud crack and creak, the log shifted. Beneath it was a small dugout space with a black bag inside.
He pulled it free. After a moment’s hesitation, he rolled the log back—just in case—and carried the bag over to Petro.
The stalker was finishing up. He now wore the iconic Sunrise suit—a cheap but reliable armor set for Zone explorers. His civilian clothes lay in a heap nearby. Once dressed, he packed them back into the stump and covered the hole with branches.
Then he turned to Vasyl.
“Hand me the bag. Time to arm you.”
He unzipped it and started sifting through the contents.
“Aha, here we go,” he said, handing Vasyl a pistol in a holster. “Makarov. Every rookie’s best friend. Small caliber, but the ammo’s cheap.”
Vasyl took it and clipped it to his belt. He already knew how to shoot—he’d told Petro that weeks ago—so there was no need for extra explanation.
Next came the scabbard, spare magazines, and a couple boxes of ammo. Vasyl stuffed the mags into his jacket pockets and strapped scabbard with a knife inside to his belt.
“And now for the heavy hitter,” Petro said, pulling out a sawed-off shotgun.
“This ain’t no SPAS-12, but with a good shot, you’ll be scraping guts off trees.”
Vasyl tossed the buckshot packs into his backpack, keeping a handful of shells in his jacket pocket.
Meanwhile, Petro silently pulled out his own weapons: a customized AK-74 with an underbarrel grenade launcher, and a well-worn but trusty Colt pistol.
“What else…” he muttered, looking around. “Ah—respirator.”
He handed one to Vasyl, who strapped it on. It pressed snugly against his face, squishing his nose a bit.
From one of his many pockets, Petro pulled out a small device and passed it over.
Vasyl turned it in his hands, then powered it on.
“What is it?”
“Your personal PDA. You can’t survive in the Zone without it. News, messages, maps, info—it’s all in this little brick,” Petro explained, stepping closer to tap the screen. It flickered to life. “You’re already hooked into the Stalker Network, and I’ve loaded all known Zone maps onto it.”
“Damn, I thought the Zone was smaller,” Vasyl said, scanning the map. Could it really be this vast? And all of it explored?
“Looks that way, but there’s less ground covered than you think. The north’s still closed to stalkers.”
“Why?”
“Doesn’t matter right now.” Petro’s expression changed slightly at the mention of the north. Not by much—but noticeably. Vasyl couldn’t quite read it, because the next instruction came right away:
“Go put on chemical protection. There will be a place on the way where you will have to swim in a swamp.”
With that, Petro pulled on his gas mask—an old “Hamster” model—and headed over to where his chemical protection pants were stashed
A minute later, both men were walking toward the perimeter wire.
Vasyl’s heart was pounding.
Any moment now, he’d enter the place he’d read about in whispers and legends.
There it was—the barbed wire that separated the Main Land from the Zone.
Petro gave him a quick once-over.
“Take off your backpack. We’ll toss them over.” Vasyl silently obeyed and handed it over. Petro threw both his own and Vasyl’s packs across the fence.
“Listen carefully,” he said. “I’m gonna lift the wire, and you’ll crawl under. Stick to me like glue—don’t take a single step on your own. If I give you an order, you follow it. No questions, no hesitation. Don't touch or lift anything unless I say so. Got it?”
Vasyl nodded.
“Oh—and one more thing,” Petro said, holding out his hand. “Time to introduce myself properly. They call me Raven. Petro Andriyovych is just a cover—no one needs to know my real name.”
Vasyl wasn’t sure how to react. On one hand, it made sense. On the other… it stung, knowing the guy had been lying from the start. Still, he took the offered hand and shook it.
“A nickname? What’s wrong with real names?” he asked. Vasyl didn't ask about the origin of the nickname, he already understood that the person in front of him had a lot of skeletons in the closet, so he was unlikely to want to share his past.
“In the Zone, everyone’s got a nickname. Except the Duty guys—they don’t play by Zone rules. You’ll need one too. Let’s see… hmm… Student! Yeah, that fits. Well, nice to meet you, Student .”
Vasyl—now officially “Student”—didn’t protest. If that’s how things worked, so be it. The nickname fit.
Raven raised the wire and nodded.
Student crawled under.
A moment later, both of them were standing on the other side.
The Main Land was behind them.
They had entered the realm of death and mystery.
Student was bursting with emotion, but tried not to show it.
Then a heavy hand landed on his shoulder. He turned and met Raven’s gaze.
“Well, kid,” the stalker said. “Welcome to the Zone. Come on—She’s waiting.”
And Raven was right.
The Zone was waiting.
Who was he to keep Her waiting?