A Shephard- ZoC Main Story Vol 1 Chapter 3

Part 3 - The Dream. The Damn Dream.

You lie unable to move on a ocean of glass shards. You try in vain to move your arms, your legs, or even your head. The only sensation you receive is the pain as another wave of shards crashes over you, granting you more anguish. Even the escape of drowning seems to elude you as the sharp stabbings are pervasive throughout your body. The dark sky raining down more of the silicon torturers. You could have been out here for seconds, but it already a lifetime. A hand suddenly grabs you.


You bolt awake with a scream, instanly shirking back as the bright morning sunlight hits your eyes. Before you have time to even articulate the terrible nightmare, a loud crash brings your attention to your right. It appears in your sudden jolt upright, you sent your rifle over into a pile of rusty, shot-out cans.


A faint “Ouch” could be heard. Probably your own instinctual mumblings.
You stare at the rifle, and then your surroundings. You are in an older hovel, half collapsed wooden walls letting in the encompassing sunlight. To your right, sits your rifle on top of a large pile of empty ration cans, all curiously filled with bullet holes. The rifle itself looks like it had taken a run through the swamps; covered entirely in dried mud and plants. You yourself don’t look much better, as your jacket is coated in it. Many of the now dried flakes seem to be sitting beneath you; shaken off by your sudden awakening.

A pile of dried mud you don’t mind falling back into as you lay down again; incredible, dull, aching pain assails all of your joints. The only sensation in your body that doesn’t feel like it’s trying to annex itself is your head; being surprisingly cool and calm. Which lets you recollect why you are in such a wretched state.

You stare at the sun rays and the ceiling above.

You were way out of your league. But specifically were lost in the swamp. It was a foggy morning, when an emission hit. You ran a marathon that would make even Pheidippides blush, and yet it wasn’t enough. You can recall clearly enough the emission rushing towards you, and everything since that just flashes of pain.

You try to check the time, but the PDA is justifiably fried.

But why aren’t you? You’ve seen the unfortunate corpse of one of the stalkers who hadn’t made it during your first emission; a grim reinforcement of Mr. Green’s words. But you are here. Breathing. Wishing you weren’t, but still.

Thoughts were once again interrupted by the pains covering your body, and a growing hunger. Judging by how early it was, you could estimate it had been at least a day. Picking up the rifle, you sit up again as you prop it back next to you, wiping some of the dirt off. But first, food.

You slowly reaching behind you, finding your backpack on the other side of your resting place. You have some boar that you had roasted and dried a few days ago; preferring to try that then go into the perishables. The tough exercise on your jaws making you instantly regret that choice of jerky.

There were some big mysteries here. The first seemed unsolvable, that you had survived. And the second, was how did you get here? Where was “here,” even? You continue to gnaw the jerky as you look around. The same wooden hut walls offering no more sufficient answer than the first look. You want to call out, but then decide against it. The Zone was not a friendly place, and whoever brought you here had either already left or would be back again. Maybe it’s due to your naivety about The Zone, but you have a hard time believing that whoever you assume brought you here, they didn’t have bad intentions. If they wanted to rob you, they would have taken your stuff. If they wanted to kill you, well, they could have left you in the swamps.

No answers would come and find you, so you stand up to try to look around. And promptly collapse again.

Maybe your body needs a bit more rest.

You’re a bit dirty, but nothing you can do about it here on the ground. You look at the rifle besides you. Well, that could occupy your time for a bit.

First fishing out the makarov and putting it easily within reach, you next grab the rifle. Trying your best, you take a cloth and try to remove the dry debris on the outside. After a bit, and being sufficiently impressed with how easy most of it came off, you next come upon the task of the internals. Hopefully the rifle on the inside isn’t as terribly dragged with mud as the outside.

You first eject the magazine, and make sure the rifle is clear by sliding back the bolt. Next, you thumb the odd lever on the right rear of the rifle, unlocking the top cover. This you carefully slide up and out, noting that the attached recoil spring is surprisingly clean.


A brief “Eeep!” interrupts the process. You pause. Only silence fills the room. Maybe the door hinge? You move on.

Setting these down on the smaller tarp you pulled out of the bag. Next is the bolt and bolt carrier, which you carefully slide up and out. Other than a few flecks of dirt on the external lever, it looked fine. Moving to the front of the 4 ft rifle, you flip a small lever resting in front of the hand guard. This stamped metal part is slid forward, as the newly freed hand guard slides forward and off. The now exposed operating rod resting the gas piston is next. A lot thinner than you first expected, you gently pull backwards on this and you slid it back, and lift up and forward. The gas piston it was once located in being the last part to be removed.
Staring at all the parts now laid before you, you realized how stupid it was to go this far. The handgrip was still broken from when you first got it. The gas piston wouldn’t be any dirtier as you hadn’t fired the damn thing. And since the rifle had remained closed up, there was little debris in the body and other parts.

You sigh as you start reassembling, just in the reverse order of how you had turned it apart. It’s oddly therapeutic, as it takes your mind off the dulling ache of your body.

The rifle, as clean as it was going to be given the circumstances, now sat in the sun that came in at increasingly vertical angles. Must be later in the day, when once again you hear something.

A very faint “Thank you.”

You are sure now that wasn’t you, and attempt to stand up and search for who it was.

The legs being the structural equivalent of jello at the moment, you take a few tentative steps forward. The pain has subsided, or you’ve gained a tolerance to it. But it’s still incredibly difficult to walk. Still, you make an effort, makarov tucked in one pocket, towards the doorway. Carefully, you peak out. Beyond the few other wooden buildings, you can see the gold color swamps beyond. And no evidence of anyone else. Maybe you had stumbled in here, during the blowout, and had missed the worse of it? You turn around, heading back to your bag. You end up kicking more of those cans out of the way. Someone must have once spent a lot of time here, but the rust makes you think it had been ages ago.

Sitting down again, not quite ready to make a commitment to walk out of here, you try to plan the next move. You still have some supplies, and this swamp is lousy with boars. You haven’t seen many of the other mutants, so maybe you’ll base here for a bit and try looking more when your body decides it’s ready to cooperate.

[_________________]

It had been a few days now, and you were feeling well enough to try to tackle the swamps again. Over the previous couple of days, you had come to a few conclusions. First, you had indeed survived a blowout, or a partial one. Maybe it was the distance, or that you had somehow found shelter, but you were alive still. You think. You’ll confirm that with the next person you see. Second, that you had stumbled into the house yourself. You really suspect you had help, but there were no signs of another person, any person, being in the area. No footprints, discarded food, nothing. Third, maybe your brain didn’t come out as unharmed as you thought. You body may have healed, but the mind didn’t feel as resilient. Sometimes, as you were falling asleep or zoning out, you would hear the voice of someone. Whispering, whimpering. Not ever loud enough to discern, but it was definitely there. You think. You’ll confirm that with the next person you see.

The final conclusion was that you were unnaturally calm about all of these new events.

Maybe it had been the few weeks here, but you found a subtle determination to continue on. You decided first restoring this rifle, then deeper into The Zone. And feeling a little cocky that if you could survive an emission, you could survive anything. So what if you’ve almost been shot at, torn apart, robbed, literally dragged through the mud, and are now possibly hearing the same voice(s)? that Mr. Green always talks to. SVD slung over your shoulder, you headed southeast, deeper into the swamps. A bit more confidence to your step and a rifle on your mind.