You Can Pitch Your Tent In Pripyat.

So, a friend of mine's real hung up on this whole S.T.A.L.K.E.R. bit and chewed the fat with me over some character ideas. He wanted one of those pseudo-Ruskie names for some female Stalker to work with, and I'd come up with "Bashmak" - it's actually a type of boot. He didn't care for the sound of it but, like many other things, it grew on me like a nice fungus. I started to kind of shape a bit of a story to it and kind of liked what I came up with. I'm going to give it a shot, and then probably write about the Industrialization of the Food Industry:

She had been laying there for what she'd presumed to be about two hours. Just laying there, nose in the dirt with her hood pulled tight over her ears to keep Grandfather Winter from whipping at her face, plus, the more still you poise yourself, the more likely you're mistaken to be dead, and mistaken for dead was often the best one hopes for when one finds themselves alone in Pripyat. She had begun a mental evaluation of her options, and they seemed to tally up to "Freeze to death" and "Pray", at which point the former would follow rather quickly - she opted for the first.

There was an ominous creak from a ramshackle structure she judged to be a few meters from her left foot. A sort of paranoia had begun to set in, a cold sweat that threatened to speed her decision to freeze. Would they eat her? There were stories, stories with backing, of things that had once had some sort of reason and some sort of humanity but had lost themselves to the radiation. Her mind began to fit dreadful pieces together - dull, human teeth struggling to pull her apart as her bare body split and bled-out with the smell of autumn in the frost, and then--

Footsteps. Human or once-human she did not know, but they were footsteps. And then more. A pack of mutants, a pack of flesh-eaters all gathered up for an easy meal. She had chosen to freeze, but that was begging too much of providence.

"Vodka!"
A man called it through his hands and it resounded through the vacancy of the air.
"Vod. Ka!"

She held still. There was no telling what sorts these men were. With a slim bit of resignation she weighed the difference between being eaten and being shot on the spot by some band of looters.

" 'Ey, 'ey. Tip 'em over, tip 'em over."

A rough shove met her stomach as a man lowered the butt of his rifle to overturn her.

"Still breathing." A flat voice stated.
There was a clean -clack!- of tight-wound machinery as one of the men tugged the receiver of his gun.
"We can drop a mercy-stroke. She didn't answer."
There was a muffled crunch as a man set down a small wooden crate in the snow and stooped to catch his breath.
"You," he said. "You there, in the Bashmaks. Get up."

She hesitated, but the slight movement of consideration had tipped her hand and exposed her liveliness.

"Get up. You can help carry or you can pitch your tent in Pripyat until something nasty comes to evict you."

She stood. The man was short and squat with a face obscured by a thick mask that rasped tiredly as he wheezed behind it to fill his empty lungs. He picked up a slim box from the top of his load - he had carried not one, but two crates. He propped it on its side and tipped it across the woman's back. She stood, strained and followed The Cartel in ragged steps.



A tall man with a stubbled face held out his arm. The entirety of The Cartel obeyed the gesture. He lowered his arm before bringing it to his face and calling.
"Vodka!"
A black figured at the edge of a twisted treeline waved his arms.
"Vodka!"

He made a haphazard run up the hillside before negotiating with the rough-faced man.
"Do they still want them?"
"Ehh... Of course. Of course."
"You don't sound confident."
"No, no, they do. The price might just be a little too steep."
"Too steep? We couldn't carry it ourselves. We need two men on gun. We had to pick up some leftovers." He thumbed behind himself to address the woman backpacking one of the slim crates.
"Leftovers, ah? So, you won't mind?" he started towards her with a lecher's glare hidden behind his thick goggles.
"We're not talking about guns anymore. How much too steep?"
"Look, I'm just here to say they still want them. You've got no one else interested, so sell them."

The man itched his cheeks with his mitt-covered hand before nodding intently and walking, the goggled man following in tow. He hadn't made but a few meters progress before he paused again. There were several men sitting about a campfire warming their hands.
"Drobyev, did you speak with them?"
The goggled man shook his head.
"Didn't want any trouble and they weren't looking to make it."

He cupped his mittens around his mouth. "Vodka!"
But then, silence.
"Vodka!"
Silence.

The figures stood up slowly, their limp-limbed figures, their slurred mumbling...
The short man set down his crate and retrieved a rifle, flicking its safety before opening fire, the rest of The Cartel moving dropping with the precision of a firing squad and joining his bullet curtain.

The men bled. The snow around them was coppery and raw with it, but they kept walking, firing lazy and uncoordinated shots single-handedly from their guns before at last doubling over into the snow as the woman had, silent as they had been before the call.

Drobyev laughed the uneasy laugh of a liar and began to lead the way.
"Say, Bashmak," he said as The Cartel once again fell into the sturdy stride of the unshaven man. "I was not kidding about what I'd said. It is very cold, no? No? Tretiak holes up to pawn?"
He slapped the wooden crate on her back as if to indicate the cargo.
"Tretiak holes up to pawn, and I might just keep you warm, eh?"

It'd have likely be wiser to freeze, she'd registered.