A Shephard- ZoC Main Story Prologue Chapter 1

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9UVjjcOUJLE



Prologue Part 1: Fields of Gold

A few years earlier.

Snayperskaya Vintovka Dragunova, stamped 1972 T-527. A marksman's tool. By all accounts an ordinary rifle. Like most of the second hand weapons in this tiny checkpoint, it had seen its fair share of conflicts. The soviet incursion into Afghanistan, Chechnya on both sides in both wars, and a lot of border duty everywhere in between. It was eventually sold in a bulk purchase to the Ukrainian government.

And right now, it was being checked out by the designated marksman of this forgotten military outpost in northern Ukraine.

“Orest, I don’t even know why you bother,” grumbled an older man who was only half dressed fatigues, “no one has given a shit about rules since we rotated here, and as a matter of fact, neither do I.”

Orest, a man who was a few decades younger than the soviet-era can of Tourist Delight glaring at him, simply smiled as he finished filling out the requisition form.

That was promptly taken by the older man, crumbled up, and thrown into the nearest bin.

“You can just take the damn thing whenever you want. The rest of the men do, knowing it makes my job a lot easier.”

Orest retorted “You mean them?”
As if to emphasise his point, a bottle smash was heard from down the hall in this little house they called “The Southern Checkpoint.” An echo of drunken laughter ensused.

It was only 0800. The quartermaster, Maksym, just sighed.
“You know as well as I as there never has been, or will be, anything of importance to do except to stand there menacingly and keep the occasional tourist out. Command has probably forgotten us, the government in Kiev has most certainly forgotten us, and if this keeps up, even our families will forget us. Let them have their fun.”

Orest just continued to smile as he took the requisitioned rifle, a few boxes of ammo, and started to walk out the door.

“The keys under the seat of the UAZ, make sure you bring it back in once piece!” Maksym called out. “The boys would surely miss their vodka delivery system.”

In truth, Maksym respected Orest, despite the banter he gave every time he did his by the book routine. Maksym had been in this army enough to understand how these shitshow deployments usually go, in these forgotten corners. It was important to have a few straightmen to show face if the brass came by, to make sure the order doesn’t go to complete hell, and, if the day comes where they need to earn their pay, they’ll be someone to rally them and maybe keep them alive.

Ignorant of all this, Orest just walked out to the “motor pool”

The motor pool consisting of an old soviet era light utility vehicle, and a rusted out hull of a soviet consumer zaz-966, abandoned since the initial evacuation in the mid 80’s.

He turned the key and pumped the gas pedal a few times, trying to get the fuel moving. Once he heard the first rev, he waited a bit to let the old military green scout car warm up a bit. Meanwhile he reached back and set down the squad designated sniper rifle in the rear seat.

Taking up the entire backseat with it’s impressive 4ft length, he admired the uncharacteristically dark wood stock and handguard. He lucked out too, as this hand me down still had it’s cheek riser and original POS-1 4x scope. It was difficult finding optics for any of their second-hand firearms, let alone for a marksman’s rifle.
He was taking out the UAZ because someone had to do it for patrols. As it was obvious no one else was willing, or even capable, of doing it, he went out on these little excursions once a week.

Believing the vehicle was warmed up enough, he pulled it out and turned onto the road south. While most of what they were supposed to be guarding was north of this small checkpoint, they were responsible for all the immediate area, north and south. Besides, all that was to the immediate north of the base was gigantic piles of abandoned radioactive junk.

The suspension was rough as he now turned east, right before the railroad tracks. There once was a road, leading to the small hamlet that existed in a time long forgotten. Orest was probably one of the few people alive who still knew of it’s existence. And why would anyone else care? It was slowly being eaten up by the swamp that had no purpose but to form another natural barrier against the large territory to its north.


The UAZ protested as he rode it up the berm. Dirt flying out from under the tires, but he’d made this run before, and was confident it could do it. Finally overcoming the top, he turned it right a little ways and then stopped. Killing the engine, he grabbed the rifle in the back and sat up upon the rear seat rest.

Looking out, most of the swamp was laid before him. Closer to his right, the tops of some older wooden structures could still be seen. The hamlet. Further on, an out of place brick building was visible. Maybe a factory, once, placed into the middle of this swamp by misguided or uncaring soviet planners. That was the farthest he’d ever been in the swamp. In the far distance, a crooked steeple could be made out; far older than the hamlet and the factory. And seemingly swallowing up all these scars of human habitation was a vast field of gold; the local reeds becoming a brilliant color of yellow in this early morning June sun.

A smaller, more selfish reason why he went out on these patrols was he never got over this sight. The gentle rustling of the wind making waves in the plant life. The light as it peeked through some broken windows. The sounds of a few wild birds and the errant grunt of a distant boar. A smaller part of his inner child was eager to explore, but that, he reminded himself, would take him away from his duty. Plus lights out was 22:00 hours, and being a stickler for the rules he was adverse to missing it by getting lost in the swamps.

Another thought crossing his mind, as he scanned some of the trails through the 4x scope of his rifle, was the bit of guilt he felt by using the rifle. The SVD was traditionally used as weapon for the squad designated marksman. It was not like some of the more powerful contemporaries, as it used the standard 7.62×54mm R that is ubiquitous throughout most Russian firearms. It’s role was more of a supporting weapon in a squad for longer engagement ranges, not as a rifle to reach out great distances via a sniper and spotter. But to qualify to use this in training, one had to be proficient at hitting a target at 875 yards 50% of the time. Something which he never came close to in basic, all those years ago. But he always thought highly of the rifle, and this posting gave him the opportunity to use one.

And as far as he was concerned, with regards to everyone else’s sobriety levels at the base, he WAS the designated marksman. Occasionally he would walk down the half hour to the hamlet and set up his empty ration cans in the windows and roofs. Going back to the berm and use them for target practice. He wasn’t sure, but with all the practice maybe now he could qualify for the title. Setting up and shooting those cans.

Maybe he would do that today, he thought.

As he rested the rifle on top of his legs, looking out into the rising sun over this abandoned corner of the world, he thought he was comfortable with this posting. It was quiet, which was all he ever wanted in life. Guarding something that had no importance as it rusted away in the north, nothing ever happened here. And that was fine. He had enough, and all this time to think was welcome respite.

He was a little saddened as the clouds rolled in. Quite faster than they usually do, he noted. If it was going to rain, he should probably head back west and patrol underneath the dry railroad bridge. But he started to worry as the clouds kept moving at even faster speeds.

His concern only grew as the entire environment shifted into a green hue. In his years being at this posting, he had never seen weather as severe as this. Quickly tuning his radio into the base channel, he paged them. But static interference was the only answer he received.

Concern grew into a small fear as the rapid strikes of thunder could be heard, and a low, almost animalistic groan emanated from everywhere.

The sky shifted red.

He was unsure of what was occurring, but decided that shelter was a good idea. He jumped over and into the driver's seat, rifle on his lap, as he desperately pumped the pedal and keyed the vehicle. Long seconds passed by as the UAZ refused to cooperate. Another key turn and pump, and he felt the motor kick in. And a disturbing quiet settle onto everything.

He stood up in the seat, rifle in hand, to get a look down the berm towards the hamlet. It would be tricky, but it was probably faster than running.

And then a blast hit him, pushing his rifle into him and throwing them both off the vehicle. And shortly thereafter flipping the precariously parked vehicle over on top of them, burying both Orest and his rifle.

The SVD rifle would never be checked back into that quiet southern checkpoint. There was no one left to check it back into.

On the morning of June 10th, 2008, an unexplainable emission occurred within the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone. All military and scientific personnel perished, while reforming the landscape and wildlife into a zone that defied scientific laws and understanding. The size of the exclusion itself expanded 5 kilometers in every direction. This came to be known as “The Second Disaster.” And it would be half a decade before groups of people would ever be able to set foot into this hell again.