Roadside Picnic

God, there really is no time in the Zone. Five hours. But if you think about it, what's five hours to a stalker? A snap. How about twelve? Or how about two days? If you don't manage in one night, you spend the whole day face down on the ground. And you don't even pray, but mutter deliriously, and you don't know if you're dead or alive. And then you finish up the second night and get to the patrol point with your swag. The guards are there with their machine guns. And those bastards, those toads really hate you. There's no great joy in arresting you, they're terrified that you're contaminated. All they want to do is bump you off and they've got all the aces—go prove that you were killed illegally. So that means you bury your face in the dirt again and pray until dawn and until dark again. And the swag lies next to you and you don't know whether it's just lying there or slowly killing you. Or you could end up like Knuckles Itzak, who got stuck at dawn in an open space. He got off the track and ended up between two ditches. He couldn't go right or left. They shot at him for two hours, but couldn't hit him. For two hours he made believe he was dead. Thank God, they finally believed it and left. I saw him after that. I couldn't even recognize him. He was a broken man, no longer human.

I wiped my tears and turned on the water. I showered for a long time. First hot, then cold, then hot again. I used up a whole bar of soap. Then I got bored. I turned off the shower. Someone was banging on the door. Kirill was shouting:

"Hey, you stalker! Come on out of there! There's a scent of the green around here."

Greenbacks, that's always good. I opened the door. He was standing there, half naked, in his shorts. He was ecstatic, his melancholy gone. He handed me the envelope.

"Here,” he said. “From a grateful humanity."

"I spit on your humanity. How much is there?"

"In view of your bravery beyond the call of duty, and as an exception, two months' pay!"

Yes, I could live on that kind of money. If I could get two months' pay for every empty, I could have sent Ernest packing a long time ago.

"Well, are you pleased?” He was glowing, positively radiant, grinning from ear to ear.

"Not bad. And you?"

He didn't answer. He hugged my neck, pressed me to his sweaty chest, pushed me away, and disappeared into the next stall.

"Hey!” I shouted after him. “How's Tender? Washing out his underpants, I bet?"

"No way. Tender is surrounded by reporters. You should see him. He's such a big shot. He's telling them authoritatively … "

"How is he telling them?"

"Authoritatively."

"OK, sir. Next time I'll bring my dictionary along, sir.” Then it was like an electric shock. “Wait, Kirill. Come out here."

"I'm naked."

"Come out. I'm not a dame."

He came out. I took him by the shoulders and turned his back toward me. Nope. I must have imagined it. His back was clean. The rivulets of sweat dried up.

"What's with you and my back?” he asked.

I kicked him in his bare can and dove into my stall and locked the door. Damn my nerves. I was seeing things there, and now I was seeing them here. The hell with it all! I'd get tanked up tonight. I'd really like to beat Richard, that's what I'd like. That bum can really play cards. Can't beat him with any hand. I tried reshuffling, even blessing them under the table.

"Kirill,” I shouted. “Are you going to the Borscht tonight?"

"It's not the 'Borscht,' it's pronounced 'Borshch.' How many times do I have to tell you."

"Skip it. It's spelled B-O-R-S-C-H-T. Don't bug us with your customs. Are you going or not? I'd love to beat Richard."

"Oh, I don't know, Red. You simple soul, you don't understand what it is we've brought back."

"And I suppose you do?"

"Well, I don't either. That's true. But now for the first time we know what the empties are for, and if my bright idea works, I'll write a monograph. I'll dedicate it to you personally: To Redrick Schuhart, honored stalker, with respect and gratitude."

"And they'll put me away for two years."

"But you'll go down in science. That's what they'll call it, 'Schuhart's Jar.' Like the sound of it?"

While we were bulling, I dressed. I put the empty flask in my pocket, counted my money, and left.

"Good luck, you complicated soul."

He didn't answer. The water was making a lot of noise.

There was Tender in person in the corridor. Red and puffed up like a turkey. Surrounded by coworkers, reporters, and a couple of sergeants (fresh from eating and picking their teeth), he was babbling on and on. “The technology that we command,” he blathered, “almost completely guarantees success and safety.” Then he saw me and dried up a bit. He smiled and made little waving motions with his hand. Well, I'd better split, I thought. I made for the door, but they caught me. I heard footsteps behind me.

"Mr. Schuhart! Mr. Schuhart! A few words about the garage!"

"No comment.” I broke into a run. But there was no getting away. There was one with a mike on my right, and another with a camera on my left.