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It was incredible, really, what just a few years of neglect did to a place. People took for granted often enough that when a hooligan throws a stone through a window, a week later the glass will have regenerated, like a brittle, translucent leaf on a wounded plant. Here the windows broke and stayed broken eternally, and the state of a townspeople's mind was measured by the material used to patch it up: a square of tarp cut out and duct-taped over. A sheet of plywood. The particularly forsaken places, then, the homes of lepers and pariahs, wore no semblance of repair, simply letting the bitter breeze ride through. Paint, when it was not torn away to reveal naked concrete, had lost its vibrancy, pale, sun-bleached; iron acquired inimitable shades of flaky orange. Like the heart of a lonely child, here it all just crumbled, faded, and fell.

Yet the colors of spring carried no concerns for men's poetic woes. Between the cracks of the concrete, and through the overgrown grasses, tulips bloomed. Cherry trees showered petals of blushing silk upon the ruins. Where life dwindles and withers it too blossoms anew. Where one empire dies another from the fecund ashes may rise. Such it was in the courtyard of this biergarten, with gates rusted shut and sidewalks rotting, but a resplendent garden rich with more humble forms of life, flourishing far away from hedge clippers, pesticides, and clumsy footsteps. Still, the proprietor knew people didn't come here for the scenery. They came here for warmth, and even with the chilly nip outside, even with all his customers gathered in the beer cellars instead of the lush courtyard, cowering away from the grey skies and bitter breaths on the wind, still they were too sparse.

So where the hell were they? Why did his beer go undrunk and his information unbought? Why this mere smattering of rookies at his tables, which he took such pains to protect from scratches and varnish with a rich, fine coat? As he pinched and tugged at the tendrils of his dark Teutonic beard, his eyes, profoundly blue, scanned the darkness of the cellar which his money paid to illuminate, to stock well with big endless barrels, to uphold as a reputable place of charity, safety, and if he could deign to the arrogance, a little slice of home.

He poured himself a finger of something ice-clear, but stiff and pungent all the same, the vapors stinging at those blue eyes. "Damn it," he groaned, tipping it back through his burning esophagus. Then he went back to halfheartedly watching a game of blackjack being played across the room. Maybe better weather would lure them out after all.

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The ammo factory had shut down after World War Two, but that didn't stop some stalkers from dreaming big. Never mind that only one crazy bastard in the whole Zone carried a Luger (though a stylish one he was!), or that they'd stopped making Karabiners half a damn century ago; no, every second or third genius to breach the Circle figured he was the first stricken by this epiphany, when really he was just the next victim of a boring plague: the brilliant notion that he would go there and he would be rich, in bullets and in the money he would make from selling them. Never again would he fret frugally over a "last magazine" or an "almost-empty clip."

But that's what the people who'd set camp there, inside the ruinous old factory, had come to expect. At first they too were scavenging hopefuls, like all the other naïve green-gills. Then they realized they could be one step ahead of these green-gills; they could demand a toll for access to the rich stores of ammo which most certainly didn't exist, and better, they could rob the people who showed up. Although it didn't have the same reputation as Stuttgart Castle as a venomous death-trap, it was a death-trap all the same, and perhaps more so, with how well-hidden it was in the shadows of those more foreboding places. After all this was one abandoned old factory of dozens; hundreds. Not everyone got to claim a castle as his base of operations. Some people have all the luck, really.

Even so, this day was different. The highwaymen were requesting assistance for once; they were even coughing up cash for the parcel. But that didn't mean they weren't careful. The two snipers on the roof could be spotted five hundred meters away and further.

The icy wind bit as Andrew's arms, and he found no respite in the grey of day. The air sung, yet there was no choir. He breathed harshly through his nose, his head hunched forward and arms crossed. He didn't dare look anywhere but forward, for he had nowhere else to go. He continued for about a quarter mile, and had no trouble.

A howl came from the east. It was close. There was no doubt, he broke into a dead sprint, and nearly tripped as he pulled his weapon from his concealed holster. He kept it in his hand as he ran. He peeked over his shoulder, and there it was. A dog, yet at the same time not. Andrew didn't care enough to find out exactly what it was. It was gaining on him, quickly. He looked at his own gun as he ran, almost unsure of how to use it. Sure, he knew all of the basics of firing a gun, but he had never actually shot anything, let alone shoot at a moving target. He turned his head again, to see where the "dog" was. Too late. The dog was right on his tail, and Andrew was out of time. He pulled the gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. One thing was clear: he had missed completely. But the "dog" was dead, bleeding all over the grass. Andrew looked around frantically, seeing nothing. "All of my luck just ran out." he thought. With that, he broke into a dead sprint, quickly and sporadically changing his direction every few moments at odd intervals.

He was nearing the village, and he wouldn't stop until he made it there. A hundred questions ran through his mind at once. None of which could be answered. Who shot the dog? Why didn't he come out? Or she? Why did this person save him, a total stranger? Why did the dog attack him? Had it been a military person? Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.? He couldn't get the questions out of his mind. The day became a blur after that, and he didn't remember making it into town. He just knew he'd made it.

She took a moment to rest, sitting down on the ground with her back leaning up against the wooden light pole. Amelia felt extremely tired despite of the fact that this was a quick trip, but she hadn't been eating too much lately. It was a combination of both her picky attitude and a lack of adequate choices, and that was enough to slow her down again. Yet, on the other hand, she also worried about her customers. Not necessarily because she needed their business, but because she was afraid to disappoint them. Here you don't have to worry about negative reviews online, but what you do have to worry about is the creative way in which you're going to get tortured or killed--or possibly both--if you don't deliver as expected. With that thought in mind, Amelia forced herself to her feet, continuing whatever was left of her short journey to the warehouse.

About 10 minutes passed before she reached her destination. The young woman was extremely careful how she made her approach, trying to avoid startling anyone stupid enough to be scared by her. She noticed Marcel sitting on some blocks near the wall to her right, so she approached him as she removed some of her gear in order for him to recognize her. He motioned for her to drop off the bag a few feet in front of him, and Amelia happily obliged. So far so good.

After Marcel opened up the bag, he looked inside for a moment before his body stiffened up. "Where is the rest of the ammunition?" His accent was very thick, and his deep voice made him sound even more intimidating. Amelia's breath caught in her throat as she scrambled for an appropriate answer to provide him.

"That's all they gave me..."

There was a brief pause before he looked at her. She was only able to see his eyes, but Amelia knew that he was anything but happy at the moment. Without breaking eye contact, the man got to his feet, towering over the young woman as his height reached an even 6'6. Amelia instinctively took a couple of steps back, her fight or flight response wanting to kick in but the growing fear paralyzing her. She had few options, and none of them looked appealing.

Gideon stirred in his sleep, beams of light had started to peak through the holed roof of the attic where he made his home. The attic itself was sparse. His backpack, boots, and coat were within a step's reach from his mattress, the coat itself hung from an old nail where previously something else like a clock or painting once hung. Aside from that, there was an old cobweb and dusty covered mirror in one corner, an equally dusty steamer trunk that was a short distance away from Gideon's bed, and a bolt-locked trapdoor in the center of the room that led down to the rest of the house.

Gideon himself was buried under a mass of clothes and blankets that he used for warmth, a Colt M1911 pistol was beside his pillow and although the safety was on, it was loaded. Careful not to knock the gun over, he moved some of the pile off to stretch himself out in his sweat shirt and long johns.

He had grown used to waking up around noon, he rarely had breakfast these days so much as brunch. His night-time work often left him sleeping through a large part of the days, earning him the nickname locals had given him, "Owl". He didn't care so much, he had had a few years to grow used to his new life here in the Zone, and sleeping schedules was a part of it.

Sliding himself out from the pile of warm blankets and clothes and picking up his pistol, he walked over towards the window and looked out the broken pane. He couldn't see much, mostly the roofs of a couple of the other old houses of the village he was in and the surrounding countryside and overgrown, budding springtime foliage. Gideon liked the spring, it would mean generally warmer temperatures, he hated having to plug up all the drafts during Winter. Hell, most times he didn't even bother then and spent the money renting out space from those who were reliable and had decent quarters and wanted cash.

After stretching out some more, Gideon walked over to his steamer trunk and after opening it he started getting dressed for the day. He kept his relatively clean clothes and holster rig in there, he hated leaving things unorganized and on the ground to get any more dirty or dusty than they already were. So, putting his pistol down for now, he continued on with his daily ritual of getting ready to start a new day in The Zone.

"Are you sure that's what happened?" Marcel asked, seemingly playfully as he bounced a box up and down in the grip of his meaty hand, weighing its contents. And anyone who had ever spent time in the military, or the police forces of his mother country, would have known immediately what sinister forces lied within that question: it was precisely like the drill sergeant who knew a trooper had lied to him, and was giving this idiot a chance to come clean and save himself. If he doubled down on his own stupidity, then he deserved the beating he was about to get. Thus it was with Amelia. The idea that she was lying to him had percolated through Marcel's dense skull, and instead of souring against her, he turned gentle, and even outright soft. The inflections of his voice seemed to mark his understanding of her dilemma, although his thick, leathery lips twisted up into a scowl; and his whole body looked lax and lazy, although he stood tall and straight, towering both over her and all his thuggish cronies.

Though his pale, eerie eyes fell downward toward the box of bullets, all lined up in their columns and rows like parading soldiers, Marcel felt a keen awareness prickling at the hairs on his neck, both of the snipers on the roof and of the distance from the parking lot to the treeline. He didn't like being ripped off, it was true; but more dangerous than the act itself was the fallout. What consequences should he suffer if word of this got round: that "Magpie" Marcel had allowed this transgression to take place? If he had gone soft on people who swindled his guys and made away with their due merchandise? No. He had a reputation to uphold, no less among his subordinates than those who feared him, and he knew he had to learn who was responsible for this growing shitstorm.

So he gave the courier her opportunity to come clean; to make amends for whatever she was trying to pull. If they were already short on bullets then he didn't want to waste one on her; not until it came to that.

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The first thing to spook any Zone newbie was just how loud guns could be; no amount of action movies prepared them for the tinnitus which lead into silence, leading thence into panic and dread.

The barkeeper heard Andrew's nine-millimeter from those hundreds of meters away, through the concrete and the soil dividing the beer-cellar from the outside world. Gideon heard it too, bouncing sharply off the village's walls and doorways, just down the road from the biergarten. The entire community seemed stirred by the violent cacophony; they felt their bodies coiling up, paying attention just to the air which whistled around them, waiting to hear it a second time as a foretelling of danger.

The fat Teuton sighed. He didn't have many customers as it was, and now he was going to lose more to a spook. As he kept his wary eyes on the steps leading up to the surface (after all, he wasn't going to let them escape with their money just yet), he crawled his sausagey fingers along his countertop, til he felt them wrap round the familiar molded plastic.

"What the hell was that?" he asked into the walkie-talkie.

"Small arms fire, boss," the black rectangle said back. "Some kind of pistol."

"From the village?"

"No. West."

Thank God. Blood spoiled people's appetites. Sighing with relief, the barman said loudly enough for the whole room to hear, "Good! Keep your eye open, and don't let trouble slip past you."

"No problem, Max. Out."

With that, the barman set the radio down again, and folded his arms, satisfied. He watched his customers as they decided what to do about the menacing noise; he dared them to leave. He didn't even have to bribe them with free beer; he could be clever when he wanted to be, when money was on the line.

Gideon had just finished strapping on his holster rig when he heard the shots. He turned his head sharply towards his window as they resounded, and slowly inched over to check, carefully drawing his Walther as he did. Leaning out a few inches he checked down the street towards the sounds, but he couldn't see anything and no further shots came.

He stepped back, holstering his second pistol carefully. He thought about how foolish he was to keep coming here, sure he kept most of the stuff he would regret being stolen in a more "safe" location, but then bandits were just as likely to kill you in your sleep as much as rob you blind. One day, they could come in such force they'd overrun the defences and then what would he do? Then again, that's why regulars usually watched eachothers' backs while in town.

Walking back over to his trunk, he went back to putting his "work" gear on. He took his sawed off double-barrel out of the trunk and checked it over as he had his Walther. Gun maintenance was one of the few things he spent a decent amount of money on, better to sleep in a sparse attic with rags for sheets than to have a gun misfire or jam when he needed it. He cracked the barrel open and looked down at his ammo stocks. 8 buckshot shells and a handful of clips between his Walther and M1911, he'd have to buy some more before he left today, he may even have to stop by his stash. He loaded two shells into the barrels and cracked it closed, laying the gun carefully back down as he reached over and grabbed his coat and slipped it on along with his pack.

Giving himself one more once-over in the mirror, he picked his shotgun back up and slung it over his shoulder before pulling the switch on his trapdoor and stepping down into the dilapidated house beneath his attic home and down towards the road. Looking back towards the earlier sounds of gunshots, he turned off towards the biergarten.

It was dumb, Neasa knew that, but she needed to stop. She was nauseous, she could feel a scab peeling and bleeding on her calf, and she was already exhausted. This was what she got for stupidly going into the Zone to find her stupid brother. This was her stupid life.

Neasa glanced around to see if there was anybody nearby before making her way over to a crumbling building. She stepped inside and sat against a corner so nobody could sneak up on. Once the dizziness and nausea had faded enough that she didn't think she would hurl if she bent over, she rolled up her pant leg and sure enough, a blister had opened and was oozing down her leg.

She pulled her bag off her shoulder and set it down beside her, then rooted around in it for a moment before dragging out an old piece of cloth. It was dirty and covered in blood and not at all hygienic but it was all she had. She wiped up the oozing mess as best she could then folded the cloth over. She then tied it around her leg, a makeshift, terrible bandage to cover the blister. It was a sad, momentary bandage to try and hide a much bigger problem but it was all she had.

That done, she rested her head back against the wall and sighed heavily. Normally she tried not to think about how much she wanted to go home, but man did she want to go home. She was sick of the Zone. Sick of suffering from radiation poisoning. To hell with her brother, who was probably dead anyways. But going home meant admitting to her family that she had failed and potentially left her stupid brother if he was still alive. Yeah, that would go over well.

With a groan, Neasa got back to her feet, threw her bag over her shoulder and continued on her way, as if her brother would somehow magically appear.

The young woman was torn. Marcel was acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world, but she had no doubt that he had some sinister plan brewing in his head. Amelia never had a problem with her deliveries before, aside from those that could easily be proven to be someone else's mistake anyway. But in this case, he believed that this was entirely her fault.

"For what it's worth, you can go through my stuff," she said, dumping her bag to the side on the dust-covered floor. “I have nothing to hide, and I’m sure others can tell you the same if you ask them. Besides, it’s not like I’d risk getting ratted out by giving away some bullets for a little bit of extra cash.” As she spoke, she maintained eye contact with Marcel to reassure him that she was being completely honest. Amelia then took a few steps forward to close the gap between the two of them. “Your supplier, that is the person you need to go after. Never mind that he's probably ripped you off a couple of times before and it somehow slipped past you and your men."

Amelia very well knew that her criticism of Marcel's crew would land her in even more hot water, but she wouldn't make such statement if she didn't fully stand by it.

Roach had been spending the last hour or so in the biergarten, sipping away at a drink, and sharing stories to whoever was around to listen. His gasmask hang loose around his neck, and his odd hat drew as much attention as always. He had a small crowd of three or four people sitting with him, they were listening carefully to his stories, but Oscar was sure they were all more interested in just hearing the Aussie Madman speak. "An' I tell ya, I must've 'ad ten pints of the Amber already, then this dag bastard comes up ta me an' says "Ey ya damn Feral! How's about we go an' hit the Turps." Well, I ain't one ta turn down a challenge, so I go with 'im an' the next thing I know, I'm wakin' up out in the bush, no shirt, half a bottle o' grog in one 'and, an' this here knife in the other!" With that, he drew Blackout, his personal survival knife, from its sheath, and waved it a bit. "An' that's how she got 'er name! Called 'er Blackout, cause I got 'er while I was blackout pissed!" From there, Oscar busted out laughing, causing a few in the group to chuckle nervously as well. Oscar took a large swig of his beer, but almost spit it out after what happened.



A gun shot audible even inside the biergarten rang out, and Roach instinctively reached for his pistol. When he realized there wasn't much to worry about, he relaxed, and went back to his drink. Looking to the group of people in front of him, he chuckled and said "Well, I'm sure it's nothin' ta worry about. How's about we order us 'nother shout? I'll pay." With that, a couple more people shifted over, more eager to partake in free drinks than the stories, and Oscar stood up and waltzed over to the counter, making the request for another round of drinks.

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"Hell of a story," Max said. "Not everyday someone gives his Excalibur a name anymore. What do you want?" He perked up when it was time to make some money, but doubly so when people were waving their weapons around. In the grand scheme of things he had to suppose a Bowie knife was not so bad; Roach certainly couldn't stick anyone up with it! Besides, there was a pretty good atmosphere in the place at the moment, with not too much tension or risk; the barkeep was more curious than anything. He could tell a lot about a man both from the condition of his weapon and from what weapon it was in the first place. He thought that sniper over in the village would be a cold and methodical man, but one with a bit of a reckless streak; and it was true, at least until the Scotch cunt had actually opened his mouth. Max thought snipers were supposed to be patient and ruthless folks, but not that guy, who seemed to start more fights than he finished. The people with AKs he liked to think were more carefree and lenient. Why not? They could bathe those guns in mud, come back after a week, and the things would still be firing. That was the strange beauty which hid behind the ugliness of old Soviet machinery.

So what the hell was Roach's story? He thought he was Rambo; that was for sure, but there was nothing wrong with that if he lived up to the hype. Skillfully Max twirled a pint glass on the tip of his middle finger, catching it in the same hand. He waited, but also he watched. The handheld radio said something again, but Crow's voice was slurry and bitter, so whatever it was didn't seem very important. Max left the radio on the counter.

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As she spoke she saw his face gathering more confusion at her words, and more conflict. In truth he was wondering whether he ought to call her bluff. If he found something in the bag, then he was quite right, of course; but if not, then he only proved to her that he didn't trust her. And that sort of thing broke friendships easily, not to mention business arrangements. But she was offering of her own accord. She was afraid, or perhaps the precise opposite, knowing full well that he'd let her go, and she'd slip away with his goods.

Well, Marcel didn't like thinking too hard. It didn't strike him as the sort of thing a leader had to do. Wasn't that what lackeys were for? "All right. Throw it down," he ordered, and when she did, he waved one such lackey forward to search the pockets and pouches. All eyes were on him, so tempted though he was, this thug was not so eager to pilfer anything from her supplies.

He stood up. "She's clean."

"All right, Marty. We're square. Now come inside. We're gonna make another deal." Marcel gave the signal and the snipers up on the roof took more lax postures. They went back to their cigarettes and their tape players. Meanwhile the people on the ground were moving toward the wide sliding door of the factory loading dock.

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The isolation plagued people more than anything, for between the lightning-bouts of primordial terror which accompanied the glint of a scope on a hillside, or the flash of fangs in the night, there were only boredom and miles and walking. Miles and miles of walking. Nasea had come to what once was a farmhouse, its silo gaunt and crumpled inward like a hollow stomach. But the grasses had grown tall, and the edges of the woods had crept shyly outward when the scythes and lawn-mowers and plows, its predators, all had gone still. It crept up through their old iron bones. So though she may have smelled something faintly familiar to her, like bags of manure or frostbitten hay, the residue of humanity had long been washed away. Nature had conquered the place, assimilated it, redecorated it in the same wild aesthetic as the very trees and rivers themselves.

Maybe there was something left worth scrounging. Maybe the mice she could hear scurrying in the rotting walls had left her a crumb to eat, or the farmer's wife had left some jewelry in the hole in the mattress. But until she bothered to investigate, only silence affronted her, terrible, merciless silence, laughing in the faintest clacking of the budding twigs above.

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"Boss, someone's coming from the village." Crow didn't bother to raise his weapon, and really, he almost didn't mention the new presence to the boss at all. As Gideon came into view the lookout realized quickly that they recognized each other; the decrepit old Bavarian buildings off to the east had a few long-term residents, just like the mice birthing their babies in the sawdust of an old farm's wall. Crow waved.

"Oi! That wasn't you, was it?" he called out, regarding the gunshot, from the wooden watchtower which they had built leaning against the old brick wall. Crow swore it came from the west, and he'd said so into the radio, but it was hard to tell sometimes. Everyone's nerves were frayed, and besides, a noise that loud could bounce across any hillside it wished, and disorient the fools at its mischievous fancy. No one looked or sounded stupid for wanting to be sure.

She looked up after Marcel gave the signal, watching as the men behind the sniper rifles turned their attention elsewhere away from her and the others on the ground floor. Even though her innocence had been acknowledged and this was a huge relief for Amelia, she had hoped to get some rest, not head straight into another delivery job. But she remained quiet as she followed Marcel and his crew, knowing that she would lose more than a handful of cash if she were to refuse.

As she kept walking, Amelia's mind drifted to past memories of her childhood back in Cuba. She remembered playing games in the school yard with the rest of her classmates, especially that one time she was accidentally tripped and ended up chipping her front left tooth. She remembered one of the teachers walking her home immediately after the incident to show her mother the damage. She remember her mother overreacting at something that seemed so small and meaningless to Amelia at the time. She remembered it all, and she wondered how life would have turned out had they never left the island.

But, just like that, she was back in the real word as she quickly sidestepped in order to avoid running into one of Marcel's minions.

Gideon looked up and over at Crow as he approached and responded to his question, waving back.

"No, I just got up. Couldn't even see where it came from myself."

Gideon was fond of the biergarten, he had become a regular several months ago when he chose to setup a more permanent residence in the village. They had better food and drink than most Gideon knew in the area, and he often gave Max and his crew a first chance to bargain on stuff he managed to find that he didn't already have buyers for. He figured that they could use some of the things he found more than he or people outside of The Zone, and marks were marks regardless of whether or not they came from the hand of people within or without The Zone.

He passed by Crow casually and proceeded over the threshold into the bar and lounge. He saw several patrons already at tables, with a crowd particularly gathered around an Aussie (by his accent, anyway) he didn't recognize, probably some merc going off on another escapade. He'd seen more than a few pass through even in his time here.

He saw Max at the bar cleaning pint glasses and casually waved as he leaned up to the bar and took a seat on one of the old stools, he slipped his pack off to lean against the bar by his legs.

"Morning Max, what have you got on the menu today?"

Andrew trembled as he made his way into the biergarten. The pale man stumbled through the door and found the first empty chair he could find. He hadn't even bothered to shut the door. If the door had a bell that let the room know someone had entered, Andrew hadn't heard it. He was cold, tired, and scared. For the first minute or two, he didn't say a word to anyone. He didn't look at anything. He'd sat at a table with his head hung low. Another patron took this as a cue to leave.
"Sit up straight you baboon, you'll never catch your breath hunched over like that!"
Before Andrew could say anything back to retort, the man had gone. After a few minutes had passed he regained his composure and made his way for the bar. Some food and water would ease his mind, he thought. As he approached the bar he took a look around to gather his surroundings. The room was dimly lit and filled with conversation. Then there were those drinking to their heart's content. At first glance, this seemed like your average tavern. And then Andrew saw them. Guns everywhere. Everyone in this room had some kind of weapon on them, and he felt like he was the weakling in the saloon in one of those western American films. He put a hand on his hip. Although he wouldn't have been able to draw even if someone HAD confronted him, he wanted to make sure he at least HAD it on him still. He shrunk a bit as he walked, hoping not to draw the gun-toting partrons' attention. He chose a seat at the end of the bar where he could turn his back to the wall. He waved a bartender over, and asked if there was someone named Max.
"He's over at that table there." The bartender pointed at a table, a short distance away. "Can I get you anything to drink? You look like you've seen a ghost."
"I'm good for now. Got anything to eat?"

Roach leaned against the counter as he spoke to the bartender. He absentmindedly twirled a coin between his fingers, and when asked what drinks he wanted, he responded with "I'm gunna need 'bout..." He paused and turned back to count the number of people waiting for their free drinks. "...Six pints, same as me last one." Once the drinks were done being prepared, Roach would take them, leaving the necessary cash on the table, and a parting word of "Thanks heaps, and sorry 'bout wavin' me knife 'round. Shouldn't happen 'gain." With that, he turned and carried the drinks to the table, a small cheer coming from the crowd as he passed them out. After he himself had sat down with his drink, he looked to the group of people sitting around him and asked "Now, who wants ta hear me story 'bout the time I spent two weeks in the Sahara?" The crowd, a bit more engaged now that they'd been given drinks, gave their permission, and Roach carried on into a long tale about camels, dehydration, a fistfight over an oasis, and a mirage that looked a "Shelia's Mappa Tassie", whatever that meant.

One by one Max placed the pints on a plastic cafeteria tray, the same kind the less skilled waitresses used at Oktoberfest. The pour was perfect, with just enough head to make the beer creamy on the tongue.

"Rindsrouladen and red sauerkraut," he said over his shoulder. "Or if you don't want meat, I've shipped in a big wheel of raclette. I'll melt you a platter."

Electricity hadn't worked in this place in over a decade, but Max never, never, let the oil tanks run dry. They kept people warm, and more importantly they fueled the stove and ovens. When people came to the Zone with get-rich-quick schemes, they always gravitated toward treasure-hunting, sifting through the mud for grandma's jewels; or selling truckloads of contraband iron to some fence somewhere. People were not so quick to imagine a man could make a fortune off simple homely comforts like a nice grilled beef or cheese melted over gherkins. But that's how it had turned out for a lucky few who offered these hard people the luxuries they thought they were leaving behind. So Max doted on his kitchen, having rigged a few refrigerators to a gas generator, and made sure that something always smelled good.

Still, meat was expensive, both to buy and to keep. He sold more pickled goods than anything: sauerkraut and plump pink eggs, in sweet brines or sour ones. He made it fresh when he could, but tinned food could be sold at a huge markup too, to the people embarking on long, hard expeditions.

When Max turned to deliver the beers to the Aussie, and watched that man return to his table, he noticed the newbie too. He didn't need to watch his hands as he counted the money; he felt the ridges on the edges of the coins, and besides, he knew Roach was good for it. Anyway, the kid looked out of breath, and he wasn't well-armed at all. Maybe he'd been running from that gunshot?

"No trouble, now," Max mumbled to himself, maybe loudly enough for others to hear. He didn't want some vengeance-seeking Clint Eastwood sauntering into the bar, looking to cash in whatever price was on Andy's head.

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"Normally I wouldn't forgive a shot in the balls like this," Marcel explained as he led the girl into the building. If they didn't know so well that it was an ammo factory then maybe they could have mistaken it for a hangar, with how high the ceiling hung, and how wide apart the walls stood. The machinery, if they did not know so keenly that it once had stamped serial numbers into copper casings, and measured out precise loads of gunpowder, could have been riveters for airplane wings or welders for cockpit doors. Such was the nature of such lonely machines, their manuals rotted and their faces rusted over.

"But we need those bullets. So what I'll do is this, baby: I'll place the same order, but deduct money for what they owe me. Give them one chance, just one, to pay penance." In other words he'd pay less than he'd receive, and at the end, the two trading partners would be equal; he'd been scammed and he'd scam them right back. Then bygones would be bygones. "And I'll pay you the difference. Because you're our negotiator, and they seem to like you as much as I do. Make sense?"

The guy looked relaxed, but with so many gun-toting bandits around, did she really have much choice? She hadn't ever risked Marcel's wrath before; she didn't know, not with a guarantee, whether she could turn him down.

All was quiet on this side of the Zone, in an isolated and long-abandoned apartment complex. Long creepers and vines had begun to snake their way up the mossy walls and covered most of it. Electricity and ventilation was long gone, ensuring that the building was bathed in a ghostly chill from the elements, and ash and dust constantly hung around the area. Shrubbery had burst through the collapsing floors, making it seemed as if the structure had almost been reclaimed by nature. Almost all the windows were gone, having been shattered by the blastwaves from the bombs that had been dropped years ago, and the exterior walls were still fairly charred, and no amount of heavy rain could wash it away. It was peaceful, dew still dropping off the sharp blade-like leaves, insects buzzing around the area in search of food. A pack of wild dogs rested in the open down below. All in all, it held no signs of human habitation.

Except if one were to look closely, of course. It was barely noticeable, but in an empty window at the top floor in the unit third from the right, there was the merest metal tip of a Dragunov sniper rifle poking out. It was hard to see as the unit it was in was heavily shadowed by abandoned furniture and ripped curtains. Then the wind blew through the area causing the cloth to flutter and sun to shine through, illuminating the rifle's wielder. At first glance, it would appear that the rifle was sticking out of a bush, but upon closer inspection, it would be revealed that it was, in fact, a man wearing a cloak with vegetation stuck to it such that he seamlessly blended in with the plants around him. He lay motionless, and it was hard to tell if he was even breathing.

Kiril Kuznetsov, or 'Tracker' to the other Stalkers in the Zone, peered through the PSO-1 scope of his Dragunov sniper rifle, watching for any potential threats, animal, or unlucky bandit that happened to stray too close to his camp. His camp, which was more or less the entire top floor of the building, had been cleaned and made livable to some degree. Kiril had since grown to call it his home as he had lived here for all his four years in the Zone. One of the units had been made into his base of operations, with furniture that held devices such as a working radio, torchlights, batteries, and a small gas stove, all scattered around the area. A medium-sized map of the area hung on the wall with notes and pictures pinned to it, showing the places he had explored. An empty metal barrel stood in the middle of the room, filled with ashes and broken branches. He lit it during cold nights. A scavenged mattress and sleeping bag lay tucked in a corner. There were other weapons and ammo shoved into degraded wooden cabinets and drawers, though most were tools for maintenance.

For now, Kiril was spying on a couple bandits milling around the old abandoned ammo factory around two kilometres away. He had managed to infiltrate the place a year ago, succeeding in bringing back a few dozen rounds of 7.62×54mmR rounds for his rifle, but there were just so many bandits camping out there that even he had a hard time sneaking around, but he was successful thanks to his actual military training and legendary stealth skills. Sure, that place had untold amounts of riches that someone could sell for a fortune, but it wasn't worth the risk. Besides, he had enough ammo for his weapons for several months at least, at the rate at which he spent them. He only fired around a dozen rounds per day.

"Oh? What is this?" He asked in native Russian, his voice deep and rough. From his vantage point, he spied what appeared to be the bandit leader leading a distinctive non-bandit woman into the building, likely in search of supplies. He sighed. She was likely one of those fresh-faced and naïve Stalkers who came to the zone, seeking riches and fortune. The Zone was far more brutal than that. If Kiril was right, then she was probably going to get stabbed in the back after a deal was made, perhaps literally. Kiril had been scammed before, though the scammer made the mistake of bringing along four other of his buddies. It was hardly fair. To them, of course. Kiril effortlessly dispatched every last one, suffering a minor graze from tripping on the floor. He made sure the scammer died last, cutting open his belly with his machete, then proceeding to tear his guts out. It was messy, but at least the dogs got to eat something.

“Yeah, of course.” Amelia remained nervous despite everyone around her looking otherwise. But she had a right to be, given the circumstances, and her accent becoming just a little bit worse was proof of that. She reached inside her jacket with one of her hands, but just as quickly, she found herself staring at the barrel of various guns all pointed at her. Amelia froze for a moment before she managed to speak. “No, Marcel, I—I ’m just grabbing a small piece of paper!"

He hadn’t even flinched, standing still with his arms crossed as every last one of his men kept their weapons trained on the young woman. Marcel gave a quick nod and two of the men put their weapons away, quickly moving on Amelia to grab her arms.

“Marcel, no—"

She was assuming the worst, but much to her relief, they were simply searching her, albeit the rough manner they went about it was not the least bit pleasing. After a minute or so, one of them said something in French, and they both left her alone, pushing her to the side. The taller man handed Marcel the note he had taken from Amelia’s pocket.

“That’s the original order you placed,” she whispered, almost afraid to speak, “I’ll take it back to them and they’ll know what to do, okay? You don’t need to worry about me.”

Melanie wasn’t sure whether that last statement made her appear suspicious in the eyes of Marcel and his crew. She silently cursed at herself for the mistake as she waited to finally be released.

Gideon, after sparing a glance at the newcomer, turned back to Max to place his order.

"Sure, I'll take whatever decent meat you got along with a pint when you get the chance. I'm not in a rush."

Having said that, he reached into his coat pocket for his wallet, he flipped through the set of crisp and clean Deutschmarks within it. Gideon kept a fair amount of cash on him, his business was scavenging, and selling said product often necessitated making change, handing out generous bribes, and covering various expenses. Though he was not stupid enough to go waving around his cash asking for bandits to try and rob him, people who knew him knew that he had money. It was why he was even in The Zone, after all.

Gideon counted out three notes of 200 and slid them in front of him at the bar. He payed well for good food, and liked to pay his tabs ahead of time, and if Max found the amount inadequate, he'd let him know anyway. In the meantime, he glanced around the parlour while on his stool, quietly waiting and idly watching nothing in particular as he waited for his "brunch".

"Georg!" cried the barkeep. He'd rounded a corner or two and begun shouting at the kitchen staff back there. He was pleased nonetheless; when he got a hold of good, fresh produce, he made damn sure, to the best of his abilities, that that was the first thing he sold out of. Scraps had to be thrown away before they festered, and what did the mutant wood-pigs ever do to deserve such fine dining, anyway? What did he owe them? He'd feed these rindsrouladen to someone's pet dog first.

When he was done shouting he switched back to English, having returned to the bar with a heaving belly. "Anyway, where are you people headed after you're filled up?" He left the question aimed ambiguously at everyone and no one. Some of the men in this room were pure cowards, he knew; something out there spooked them and they hadn't left a small radius around the village since. They poked at the hills and forests trying to find their bravery lying in the mud, and then they ran back to the bar to get drunk and the old hamlet to sleep it off. He didn't judge them for that, but it meant no interesting stories, and certainly no new employees. He couldn't offer well-paying jobs to those people.

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"Take it easy, baby, easy! This isn't a holdup."

Marcel was true to his word; there really was honor among thieves. Or he at least found some value in his relationship with the courier, a reliable and trustworthy employee. He tried to make it clear that people who didn't fuck him didn't need to fear a fucking in reply. Either way, no one shot her, and once he waved them down, the French bulldogs appeared to relax around the outsider, despite her visible weaponry. When he sent her away, a fraction of the money she carried with her was hers, no questions asked.

Then again, when he sent her away, and she was out of earshot, then the highwayman evidently found his scoundrel side.

"Follow her," he murmured, as he watched her leave¹. "Not too close or she'll see you."

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Once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Third is enemy action.

Or so they say. Nonetheless, the air repeated itself in an ugly, mangled loop of noise; someone nearby, someone in the farmhouse, was snoring. It reverberated down a staircase and around a corner; yes, someone was inside, and if he was alone, his guard was down. Like the chain of a broken chainsaw, like its sputtering, smoke-choking engine. But why? This place couldn't possibly be a long-term settlement, a stronghold; the walls were thin and papery as a wasp's nest, sooner to fall to a light rainfall than a battering ram! So who was he? No; if she was a careful stalker, she had to assume the worst. So who were they?

Some kind of rovers, if they couldn't make permanent shelter of this place. Treasure hunters, burglars, scouts to a larger hunting party; the list of possibilities was long. To some it was frighteningly so.

Gideon turned his head towards Max as the owner raised his question.

"I'm going out on business tonight, see what opportunities come up. Reminds me, are you in the market for anything as I'm out browsing?"

Gideon was intentionally obscure about his business when people asked him publicly like this. He didn't like people guessing where he was going or what he was up to. It wasn't that he didn't trust Max or his people, he just didn't trust everyone else in the bar. The biergarten was "neutral ground" for most people so long as they stayed on Max's good side, but that didn't mean that the same people having pints within wouldn't just try and shoot your ass as soon as you got out of sight, or in Gideon's case, possibly try and race ahead to snatch up any finds before he could get to them.

Gideon hated competitors, especially since he was basically a solo operation and there were enough potential hazards with being a scavenger without having to worry about rivals coming around to steal the best stuff right from under your nose or trying to kill you for it.