The next morning, the old man still looked quite ill, but it was evident that he was much better. His skin had slightly reddened and almost lost its pale yellow hue. I helped him treat his wound and received a notification from the system that I had leveled up my medicine skill to the next rank, and would now be able to use more advanced drugs and first aid techniques.
Before heading to the swamps, I stopped by Wolf's to get food for Shaman. He gave me about a dozen cans of stew and a few more packs of pasta and groats, I hope this payment will be enough for him.
"Give Nick my regards," Wolf throws at my back.
"I will," I reply. "Bye."
After a few hours, I approach the farm in the swamps and hear noise coming from there. Loud human speech, the cheerful crackling of a campfire, and guitar music. I cautiously sneak closer, hiding behind a dilapidated fence, and peek out a little. Damn. Several renegades were sitting by the campfire, drinking vodka and singing songs.
"Gop-stop, we came from around the corner," one of them, sitting in the center with a guitar, wailed, several empty glass bottles lay next to him. "Gop-stop, you took on too much..."
I don't know what's going on here, and why they're behaving like this since morning, and I don't want to know. The main thing is to get past them now and reach the fishing farm. I walk quietly along the fence, stopping occasionally and looking at the renegades, who haven't even set up a watch. It was no trouble to get past them, but I didn't go over the wooden bridge behind the farm. It's too visible, and I'm not willing to risk myself if some renegade wants to relieve himself. So I take to the right and walk along the bank until I reach a fallen tree with a thick trunk.
Crossing it to the other bank, I quickly darted into the bushes to avoid drawing attention to myself in the open space. I carefully take out and unfold a paper map, estimating the approximate route. I can go through the cemetery on the hill a dozen meters from me, then carefully run past the church, and the place I need will be within reach.
I look around again and quickly cover the distance to the hill, finding myself on top surrounded by crosses, tombstones, and metal fences a minute later. And I almost stepped into some green substance that was making gurgling sounds, and the detector in my jacket pocket started beeping furiously. Out of curiosity, I pick up a nearby branch and reach out to poke this puddle with it, when it dawns on me. Green and gurgling goo. Damn. I quickly take a few steps back, almost rolling down the slope.
Soda. An unpleasant anomaly of a chemical nature that will instantly corrode a boot, any other clothing, and the poor soul who falls into it. And the worst thing about this anomaly is that it releases poisonous vapors, which not every gas mask can save you from. Fortunately, I didn't have time to inhale the poisonous stuff. I'll have to go around this hill, I hope there won't be any more anomalies there.
I didn't encounter any more anomalies on the way to the fishing farm, only admired the shimmering electricity under the power lines from afar. Passing by the church was a piece of cake, the stealth skill helped a lot. Unlike the previous renegade camp, here they at least posted sentries, but not very attentive ones. That's why I slipped through.
"Hey, who are you?" a voice meets me as I approach the farm, I look around and notice the muzzle of an assault rifle in one of the houses. The stalker is not alone, hiding in the shadow of the house, I see another Clean Sky guy.
"Just a stalker," I reply. "From Sidorovich."
"Nickname?"
"Executioner."
"Not the same one?" a whisper reaches me from the second one.
"We'll check now," the first one replies in a whisper, and then addresses me louder. "Did you save Triton the day before yesterday?"
"I don't know any Triton, your guy called himself Proton," I answer, frowning slightly. I don't like standing under the sights of a weapon.
"Come in, just don't flash your gun," says the Clean Sky guy and lowers his weapon, disappearing into the depths of the house.
I enter the farm territory, which looks somewhat poorer than the one where I had to spend the night recently. One house, a half-ruined shed, and some other wooden structure. A few crates, a couple of overturned rotten boats, and a campfire, around which several Clean Sky guys are gathered, looking at me warily and keeping their hands on their weapons.
"Well, hello, Executioner," another stalker, who came out of the house, greets me, smoothing his lush light-brown mustache on his tired face, and then extends his hand to me. "I'm Triton, the boss here. Thank you for your help, and the guys said you came on business?"
"Yes," I shake his strong, calloused palm and drop my backpack from my back, reaching inside for the trader's flash drive and handing it to Triton. "From Sidorovich."
"Got it, got it," he replies and turns towards the campfire. "Hey, Mitya! Run to our guys, pass this on from Sidorovich."
"Will the answer take long?"
"Even so?" the stalker raises an eyebrow. "Well, a couple of hours for sure. They'll look, they'll think, they'll formulate." You stay, sit with the guys by the campfire, chat."
"No, I still need to go to Shaman on the other side of the swamps," I refuse.
"Shaman? Why do you need to go to him?"
"To return a debt, I brought him food," I reply, shaking the backpack in my hand.
"Then you're lucky, Shaman is at our base right now, he'll come here when he's done with his business."
"I thought you were a closed group and didn't let anyone in."
"We only let in trusted people, and Shaman is one of them," Triton shrugs.
Well, I have nothing else to do. I bow to Triton and head towards the campfire, I'll at least listen to what the stalkers are saying while I wait for Shaman. The gazes of the Clean Sky guys stopped radiating hostility after my conversation with their commander, but they couldn't be called too friendly either. I squat down, briefly introduce myself, and listen to the conversation.
"Have you heard about Semetsky, guys?" a shaggy stalker, about twenty to twenty-five years old, begins.
"Who hasn't heard of Yurka," replies another, older one. A rectangular face, a wide chin, and a stern look from under bushy eyebrows.
"I haven't heard," says the third, a very young stalker with a light fuzz above his upper lip, and two more stalkers echoed him.
"Well, guys, listen then," says the first stalker. "The experienced ones say, I only recently heard myself, that there is a stalker in the Zone, Yuri Semetsky."
"And why by name and surname, without a nickname?"
"He was one of the pioneers," the shaggy one explains, spreading his hands. "Maybe it wasn't customary back then. So. They say that he is one of the few who reached the Wish Granter in his right mind, and wished for immortality."
"And did it come true?"
"Eh-heh, I wish I could go to the Granter, I'd wish for something like that..."
"Yeah, don't even say it..."
"It came true, it came true! Only on the way back from the sarcophagus, he died in a completely absurd way - he slipped and hit his head, stalkers received a notification on their PDAs about his death."
"But how did it come true then?"
"The next day, a notification of his death appeared again in the stalker network," the stalker continues his story. "And then again and again. So Yuri Semetsky, who became one of the spirits of the Zone, dies every day, either from mutant teeth or from anomalies. And all this gets into the stalker network. I don't know how the causes of his death are read each time, but everything is indicated. And, most importantly, the message about his death is considered a happy omen!"
"Strange, I haven't seen that on my PDA..."
"Me neither."
"It's all nonsense."
"Pfft, you cardboard idiots," the shaggy one spat. "We're not connected to the general stalker network, and I saw it myself, that stalker showed me messages about his death, several of them!"
"Heh," the older stalker chuckles, supporting the storyteller. "I've seen messages about Semetsky myself, so it's true. I don't know about the happy omen, but maybe it is. Hey, Executioner, you came from the Cordon, right? What's new there?"
"Nothing much," I reply, shifting my gaze from the flickering flames to him. "Stalkers are stalking slowly, Sidorovich is still trading, only the military have started being harsh lately, and, oh yeah, a couple of bloodsuckers came, but they were dealt with quickly."
"Two bloodsuckers?" this stalker asks me seriously. "Was one of them wounded by any chance?"
"It seems so, I don't know for sure," I shrug. "The one I killed was healthy, and the second one was already finished off without me."
"You dealt with a bloodsucker?" he asks incredulously. "You're not lying? A bloodsucker can scatter even a small squad."
"So he did," I continue the story, raising the corners of my lips in a slight smirk. "He knocked me to the ground, knocked my weapon away, pinned the Hunter against the wall, and started sucking. Luckily, there was an old axe nearby. I grabbed it and chopped off the sucker's head."
"Strong!" the shaggy one whistled, and the other stalkers echoed him.
"Executioner," the stern stalker approaches me. "My name is Stone, nice to meet you. I heard you came to return a debt to Shaman. When you're done, come to me, we'll talk business.
I'll be here until evening."
"You say that as if it will take a long time."
"Heh," Stone chuckles. "You just don't know Shaman. You'll give him food, then go with him wherever he wants, then you'll figure something else out. Oh, here he comes."
I turn around and see Shaman emerging from behind a distant wooden structure. A short stalker, dressed in rags with fur lining, walked with a very unusual gait; a kind of animal grace permeated his every movement. He had no weapon, but in his hands, he held a shamanic drum with embroidery, which he occasionally tapped with a mallet. His eyes were closed, but he walked straight towards me. I get up and greet him when he comes within a meter of me.
"Greetings, Shaman," I begin, handing him a pre-prepared bag of food from my backpack. "I brought the food, as you asked."
"I know," the stalker replies firmly, opening his gray eyes slightly and looking directly at me. His gaze is as if he's looking straight into my soul. "You keep your word. Let's go. Leave the food here."
I hand the bag to one of the stalkers sitting nearby by the fire; he nods understandingly and takes the bag. I turn to the Shaman, who is already heading towards the exit of the farmstead, and hurry after him. Despite the fact that I am significantly taller than him and my stride, in theory, is wider, it was not easy to keep up with him.
After walking a few meters from the farmstead, the Shaman turned west. He walked incredibly easily, paying no attention to the mud, bushes, or other thickets. Even the occasional single anomalies we encountered along the way couldn't slow him down for even a second. The journey took only ten minutes, but I was out of breath from the unfamiliarity. The final destination of our route turned out to be one of the islands in the middle of the water, dotted with anomalies, apparently, funnels. A few large stones, cattails, reeds, and small bridges connecting the islands. It seemed like the quest for Scar from the second part started here. But I could be mistaken.
The Shaman stopped in the middle of this patch of land and, turning to face me, sat down cross-legged directly on the ground. His knees touched the ground, and his long dark hair and beads woven into the threads of his shamanic bandana fluttered in the wind. The tambourine rested between his legs, and the mallet lay beside him on his thigh. The Shaman raised his head, closed his eyes, and slowly inhaled a full chest of air, then slowly exhaled it back.
"Come here, stalker," he calls me to him. "Sit opposite."
"Why all this?" I ask him, sitting down on the ground.
"All questions later, follow my voice," the Shaman says. "Close your eyes and listen."
I close my eyelids, relaxing and hunching slightly, and try to listen. The gusts of wind rustling the reeds and cattails, the rare splashes of water, a very distant bird's trill. And then, to the entire palette of sounds, the dull thud of a leather tambourine joins, which the Shaman taps with long intervals.
"Feel yourself," he says, barely audibly, but for some reason, his words are heard directly inside my skull. "Realize your place here. Feel Her."
The sensations are quite strange. I don't understand what and how to do, but I try to follow his instructions, not even knowing why or how. Feel? I try to do it somehow, picturing myself sitting in the middle of the Swamps, surrounded by quagmire and reeds. I try to realize my place here, but I already realize it. I am just another person who has ended up in these dangerous lands. No more, no less. And to feel Her? The intonation with which the Shaman said this made it clear who he was talking about. What do I associate the Zone with? Danger, mutants, anomalies...
I imagine myself surrounded by a bunch of anomalies, and something strange happens. For a second, it seems to me that I really see myself from a bird's-eye view and the Shaman sitting next to me. But then a sudden jolt from the depths of my head and a sharp, piercing headache make me wince and grab my head. And with it came the understanding that something had happened to my vision. I open my eyes and my mouth gapes in surprise. Anomalies. I saw them, clearly and distinctly.
Congratulations, User! You have earned the achievement:
"Partial unity with the Zone."
You have taken the first step and managed to open your mind a little, becoming one with the Zone.
From now on, you are able to see anomalous fields and their boundaries.
But do not be deluded, a very long and dangerous path awaits you ahead. Do not lose yourself on this path.