Chapter LVIII: The Plight of Diggers

 Catching and securing an artefact is not a simple task, especially if one prefers not to perish from radiation quickly. Any old urod can grab one and toss it into their rucksack, but that means they'll see the Big Man soon enough. Most stalkers preferred carrying at least one lead-lined container and special tools catching artefacts. But grabbing one and placing it in LLC while covered in pseudogiant blood, heart pounding from adrenaline, anomalies humming two centimetres away? A bit tricky, as Boris found out. After a brief struggle with the Goldfish, he managed to pop it into a container. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. It had been long since he had last worked with artefacts and he had to admit, he was a bit rusty.

• So, now that all the excitement is over, could we get to the trash piles already?, Dima asked, haste in his voice.

• Sure, it's not far from here. There are no anomaly fields anymore, so let's keep a healthy pace, gentlemen, Toha replied and started marching northwards. Boris tossed the LLC into his backpack and followed. After they had moved a few hundred metres and passed a dozen similar looking yellow buses, Dima warned the others of a lurker that was stalking them. They thought it best to see if it tried to get closer, firing at this range would likely result in it breaking line of sight and ambushing them later. It was better to pretend being oblivious than to actually be so. The beast soon grew disinterested and turned around.

The group finally passed the border fence and arrived to the main road. Opposite to them were multiple large piles of trash, construction equipment and debris. There were a few tents here and there, and an assortment of men in brown and orange uniforms, most in Sunrise suits but a few in more specialized variants too. One of them stood out, wearing a Helmetless SEVA and sporting a Mossberg shotgun jury-rigged with a Tulip scope. He waved at them in a non-hostile manner, and the group kept their weapons low to not provoke them.

• Good day, travellers! Welcome to the second iteration of the Digger base, I'm Wild Napr and this is my little gang of shovel-swingers, the laziest shits in the Zone, the man announced, getting a hearty laugh out of the men digging nearby.

• Well met, I'm Boris Unforgiven, leader of Redemption, and this my second-in-command, Dima and our guide Toha. Didn't know the Diggers were still a thing, you guys a proper faction now?, Boris replied in a friendly voice, pointing at the crossed shovels patch on Napr's arm.

• Well, we still are basically free stalkers, but I wanted to make this a bit more official. I would definitely discuss faction politics and your new faction too but we've got a bit of an issue that needs dealing, Napr said, this time with a more serious face and tone.

• Ye, your friends Danya Artist and Matvei Bayonet from Freedom sent us here, what's the problem then?, Dima asked.

Wild Napr sighed and led them through the camp. He explained that the Diggers had originally left the Garbage when Borov cracked down hard on their activities there. Digger operations continued in other areas, Red Forest and Zaton for example, but the main centre was always these trash piles in Truck Cemetery. The bandits took over their original base nearby, but they still continued digging for treasures. However, Truck Cemetery soon became isolated by anomalies, and thus his men were trapped here for about a year. Out of the almost 70 men originally, only 25 or so now survived, most lost to emissions and psy-storms as shelter was rare in these parts.

Not long ago, the anomalies shifted and they managed to regain contact with Rostok, but they had mostly had to fight for survival during the year of isolation and hadn't been able to dig much up. Thus, they remained here, excavating to make a living, but new problems begun arising. Zombified kept appearing in hordes ever since the Scorcher was reactivated, and were a constant threat. They would have to be dealt with. Boris agreed to help, he and Dima had more than enough experience with the husks. Napr nodded in agreement, but he also had another dilemma.

One of his bosses had disappeared not long ago, and just last night two more diggers had vanished. This was usual in the wastelands of Truck Cemetery, but there was something eerie about the cases. Nothing was left, no signs of struggle, no screams, no items left behind. Boris scratched his beard. Alpha Karlik maybe? Monolith? Bandits holding them for hostage? Multiple different explanations but not much to go on. He agreed to investigate this as well. Napr thanked him and pointed him to the last known locations of the victims as he had no men to spare for inspections.

Boris told Toha and Dima to start culling the Zombified already, there was no need to have all of them scour the area for clues when there were so many brainscorched around. Dima and Toha left, sprinting towards the central tower, excellent place for sniping. Meanwhile, Boris climbed to the top of the largest garbage hill, observing the scene. Heavy grey clouds swirled overhead, and a large ball of electricity passed over a cable line every once in a while. The trash hills were large, not as massive as in Garbage but more expansive. The Digger camp was on the southern part of the hills, tucked away between first and second piles from the left.

Had the missing stalkers been killed, there were plenty of spots where one could hide their bodies. Old crane cabins, construction pipes, oil and water tanks, rusting barrels and dead, decaying bushes. Boris scanned the area, looking for anything out of ordinary. No signs of blood could be seen, that much was true. No lost weapons, no spent cartridges glimmering in the sun. Boris started circling the area, looking for anything interesting. He encountered a small area filled with Burner anomalies, and not far from it a fuse box with a stash in it. It had some smokes, meds and food items.

Near the fuse box however was an interesting sight. A very small piece of paper, seemingly torn from a larger piece, with scribbles on it. A single word could be identified on it, or rather a beginning of a word, but Boris did not recognize it as anything in Russian or Ukrainian. Interesting, he thought to himself, there might be something nearby. He gazed at the surroundings, ignoring the rhytmic sounds of pickaxes and shovels coming nearby, and finally saw something with potential. A pipe with multiple crows around it. Where there was crows in the Zone, there was death. They had to have come here just recently by the looks, as they were still looking for a way to get into the pipe.

Boris moved closer, startling the birds to flight and peered into the hole. It was dark, so he pointed his flashlight down it. The sight froze his blood. Three helmets and heavily mutilated bodies ripped into shreds. They had not been placed into here by some mutant. This was the work of a human being, the placement clearly planned, quite ritualistic. A certain memory from a battle not too long ago rose to his mind. The Night of the Lunatic. The odd scribbles on paper matched the writings of the madman. Similar butchering of victims.

• Oh dear God, this is not a single madman, this is a whole community..., Boris muttered to himself. Whoever they were, they were clearly spred out and experienced. Boris observed the victims, or what was left of them, closer. They all bore some mark on their foreheads. A letter N, but turned completely around and stylized, with a skull inside a circle on the middle. It was not carved or penciled there, but as if burned with a branding iron, Boris had seen something similar in old Westerns.

• Jesus, Monolith cultists might be brainwashed bastards but this is something else. Gotta report to Wild Napr about thi..., Boris said to himself, stopping abruptly when he saw a distant figure behind a pine about two hundred metres away. The figure was wearing a long trenchcoat, covered in blood. Most striking thing was the assortment of bones and skulls worn by the stranger, and there was a similar symbol on the trenchcoat. Not thinking twice, Boris raised his RPD, the crescendo of machine gun fire filling the valley of Truck Cemetery. But the stranger had vanished, as if he had never been there.