A Shephard- ZoC Main Story Vol 1 Chapter 1

Part 1: A Life in the Glove Box

You often felt in life that you were a victim of circumstance.

It was circumstance that you’re life went downhill shortly after school.

It was circumstance that you failed to find a job in the terrible economy.

It was circumstance that lead you to finally open that letter that had been sitting in your glovebox for years; of your brother you used to despise. It’s funny how time can change your perspective a bit.

He was always an independent sort; on family trips he would be the one who would insist on going the other way. But there was a reliability to be found in that kind of certainly, you now muse. You remember when you were nine, and at your Uncle Peter’s place. He was taking you out shooting for the first time, both of you. Your brother had insisted on setting up the targets his way, and going first. Naturally he was a fantastic shot, the old Mosin in his grip a perfect fit for his older teenage frame. And comically over-sized in yours. You only managed to shoot off four rounds when he zealously grabbed the rifle from you, saying you weren’t handling it safely. You remember, with humor now, how you sat pouting on the log for the rest of the day as you watched him rack up increasingly amazing shots while Uncle Peter tried to console you.

Afterwards Uncle Peter would sneak you out whenever you came back up to visit him, to get some range time just the two of you. WIth time you grew to fit the rifle, and became a pretty good shot. That quickly stopped after you were fifteen, though, when your brother found out and told your parents. No more visits to Uncle Peter, they told you.
When he finally left home those years ago, you hated him. He would never let you experience things on your own, would always baby you. It was with little regret you saw him go. Your years after that had made you reconsider things, the tough times showing maybe he just wanted to protect you.

You opened the glovebox, flipped the envelope between your fingers for what must have been the thousandth time, and finally decided to open the small package. It was needlessly thick, you thought, as you pulled the small letter out of the oversized stuffed envelope.

You read.

He had found his way into The Chernobyl Exclusion Zone, that wild frontier of gunfights and hunting. He briefly described how he was doing well; finding himself in a small group. He wrote of his adventures and opportunity, but ended with a solemn warning that he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay. Things were changing, for the worse, he warned. He sent this letter not expecting a response, but to let you know that should he make it out, he would be seeing you soon. And finally, he was sorry.

You look down, distraught. How long had this been sitting in here, unread, while he was supposed to come home? Guilt started to wrack you. Damn your pride, why didn’t you open it sooner? And to the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone? Wasn’t that a place where glorified scrapers go to fight over old soviet junk? Some said there was something special about that place, but in the photos you saw all it showed was radioactive piles of a 25 year old mistake.
Your worry continues. You use your cheap, prepaid cell phone and dial home. Hopefully Dad had remembered to pay the landline bill. No answer. You leave a short message, explaining you just got a letter from brother. You pause, considering what you’re about to say. You continue that you’re going to try to find him. And then hang up.

Damn it, why did you just commit yourself to something like that? Up until a few weeks ago you still hated his guts! You sigh, looking out the car window in the dusk august air. Reading over the letter again, you start to think of how you would even begin to try to look for him. You continue to flip the now open envelope through your finger. Something on the back of the letter catches your eye.

“P.S. I know how much little bro enjoyed trinkets. This one is special, trust me.”

What?
You open the envelope wider, and notice something in the stuffing towards the back. Turning it upside down, it was taking it’s time sliding out. A bit impatent, you grab and pull it out.

It’s an empty rifle cartridge. On the primer end, a little hole had been drilled through, and a rough handmade chain of small copper wire links run through it. Some sort of trophy?

A sudden honk by another car passing you on the roadside startles you, and the bullet necklace flies out of your hand. You panic. This is all you had of him left, where did it go?

And that’s when your head lightly bumps into something.

The rifle cartridge was floating there, as if it was gently sinking in the ocean. The headlights of passing traffic lighting up the bronze color of the copper necklace that hung limply off the end, slowly pulling it downward. Tapping it towards the passenger window, you watch with amazement as this simple metallic cartridge defied all your scientific knowledge and limited understanding of the world. It floating, with a gentle descent, towards the opposite window. Is this why you didn’t feel anything else in the letter? You leave it as it gently floats downward towards the passenger seat, you look back at the letter for any more clues.
Where in the world did he find this? The Exclusion Zone?

You just stare at it as it completes its landing, calmly resting on top of the pile of chains that had dragged it there. The closest way you could describe it would be those videos of cosmonauts you watched in school as they took small water droplets in space; filming them as they floated and bounced everywhere.

Your interest was peaked now. If this is what was considered a trinket, what other things exist in there?

You now commit yourself to this. Half out of concern for your brother, but also of a feeling welling inside you, of curiosity.

You are going to The Zone.

Wait, was this thing radioactive?
[_________________]

Circumstances were hitting you hard again.
After robbing you of most of your money, the “guide” you hired to help you get deep into the zone left you overnight, the only thing he did right was get you past the armed military patrols. But now you were in a small village in what some of the men around you called the Cordon.

“Zip fleeced ya, didn’t he?” one of the bigger, burlier of the men said to him, after offering him breakfast around a small fire.

“Don’t worry kid, he does that to all of the rookies. Name’s Wolf, if you need to know anything, let me know.”

You respond “Rookie? I’ve-”

You stop yourself at his glare. He’s right, you recon. And he was kind enough to share a meal. You were technically in The Zone, but you had a long while before you actually understood how anything worked here.

“I would tell you to go see the old man in the bunker for some guidance, but he’s out of Zone stocking up,” Wolf continues.

Looking around, you notice that for one of the main points of illegal entry, there’s very few people here. Excluding yourself, you’ve only seen four people since you got here last night. You ask the question.

“Hah, why would anyone want to stick around here? I don’t know why you came to the zone, and I frankly don’t care. But what you’re trying to find is probably going to be deeper within the Zone. Not within gunshot of an army checkpoint.”

“Plus,” he adds a bit more solemnly, “you won’t find that many STALKERS these days.”

“Isn’t that for the better? I hear everyones a cutthroat out here,” you respond.

“Those are mainly the bandits. You’ll recognize them from their long trench coats and that damn music they blast a mile away. Most other men here will just keep their distance.”

“No, the reason you won’t find many of us, especially the experienced ones, is that they all bit the bullet up north. Greedy bastards, the lot of them. There was a brief opportunity to get to the center, and fools rushed in. From what I’ve heard from the few that got out, it was a hell they never want to visit again. And I’m inclined to believe them.”

This made you nervous. You clutched the bullet necklace as you thought, wouldn’t you have to go there yourself? Are that many people killed here? This sounds more and more like a warzone than people out for profit. After saying as such, Wolf agrees

“With money this high, morals can sometimes be hard to come by. Like I said, just stick to yourself and be wary. Politeness has no place in here, only your survival. Now, where’s your shooter?”

You stare back at him, blankly. You supposed with the people here you could just ask around and find him. You didn’t expect it to be this hard, or this violent.

“Well you supposed wrong. A gun is the best negotiating tool you can have, and the mutants around here don’t take Ukrainian Hryvnias. Follow me.”
Trailing him you get your first good look into the dilapidated village you wandered into last night. Most houses in various states of disrepair, or overgrown. But a few men could be seen walking around, with a man at each end of the short street looking out for mutants or military.

Wolf walks down one of the cellars, and opens up a blue case.

“Take this. We’re lousy with these, it’s better than going alone.”

You grab in your hand an older Makarov pistol, and a box of 9×18mm ammunition.

“You’ve shot a firearm before, correct?”

“Yeah, a few times” you respond as you slide the action, giving the pistol a good once over.

“Better than most rookies who only make it this far. And stop it with that hollywood shit, keep it holstered when you're in the village.”

Putting it away in your hooded leather jacket, Wolf continues

“Now this goes without saying, but radiation is serious shit here. It’s sneaky too; once you get confident you stop paying attention to the geiger counter so much and that’s when it gets you. I see you’re smart enough to have brought one yourself, so I’ll spare you the details. But there's another hidden threat you need to be careful for. Here, give me your pocket”

He says as he then proceeds to shove a handful of rusty bolts down it.
You are beyond confused.

“Anomalies, heard of them, right?”

You blankly stare back, and he sighs

“They’re what make this place so special, or so messed up, depending on who you ask. There’s a huge variety of them, so they’re a bit difficult to describe. The best way I can put it is that they’re places where space is fucked up.

More confusion from you. You are not following this at all.

“Ehh, for example. There are these anomalies called Whirligigs. It’s like a riptide from hell but floating invisibly in the air. One moment you’re walking, and the next you’re being sucked up into the air, flung around, and if you can’t escape, compressed into meat chunks that scatter all over the place. “

If it were not for the trinket floating beneath your jacket, you would not believe the bullshit coming from this man right now.

“Listen, you don’t have to believe me, but you’ll see it soon enough if you keep heading north. You need the bolts, rocks, or other small debris to check. If things look a bit funny, throw a bolt at it. You’ll see it reacts by setting it off, or with the bolts, turning them red hot and shooting them off. Some suits have anomaly detectors, like radiation detectors. Try to get one of those asap, as soon as you can afford one.”

You nod hesitantly. You’ll need to see this for yourself to really believe it, but you appreciate the advice.

And off you are. You’d need to figure this all out eventually, and Wolf DID do you a solid with the advice and firearm. Once you crest the road that sits east and above the village, you can already see it faintly in the distance. The “bridge” wolf mentioned is nothing more than a glorified piece of cement over a large ditch. You almost walk across it when you notice something odd.

There are faint pulses in the air. Walking to the right, it starts to form a sphere.

Is this “space that’s fucked up?”

You reach into your pocket, and grab one of the bolts. Doing your best impression of those alpha strikes you did in dodgeball back in highschool, you wound back and then threw it as hard as you could. As if hitting a wall, the bolt stops momentarily in mid air, starting to glow red hot. It then shoots off in a completely random direction. Right over your shoulder.

“Holy shit,” you exclaim as you duck down, noting that your slow reaction time wouldn’t have done a damn thing if it was actually on course to hit you.

Not sure of how large this “anomaly” is, and not wanting to waste all day and all your bolts to find out, you decide the best path past the bridge is now under it.

Putting away the makarov in your backpack, you carefully slide down the berm, mindful not to trip over the exposed roots near the bottom, and round the corner, entering the archway underneath it.
Circumstances have come back to bite you in the ass, as you suddenly find yourself face to face with a Stalker, pointing a dilapidated rifle at you, and demanding food.