@bowlisimo YES!

Alright, time to transcribe a little Friday night session. Just a quick one.

At Yanov Station, I traipsed the perimeter in the rain, deciding to keep my checklist of runs for another day. Hearing the dull mumbling shuffle of reanimated, brain-fried Stalkers, I spotted them milling about in the rushes. My trusty FN2000 slotted a few rounds neatly in their skulls, their misery ending with the kindling of my own wry delight and carrion appetite. Found an OC-14 Groza in the dirt, must have belonged to one of those unfortunate men, so picking what I could from the corpses, I turned around and spotted four more zombified Stalkers, in heavy armour and drawn by the gunfire.

They had cut between where I was now standing – knee deep in some turgid swamp water – and Yanov Station. I squatted in the filthy mire and began to draw a bead on the lead one when that ominous sound echoed across the landscape.

That sound. That stratospheric contraction, that ionospheric draining. The colossal, majestic yet paradoxically subtle preclude to a blow-out. And I was in for a run to make it back to Yanov…under the inaccurate machine gun bursts from glazed shamblers and a backpack full of fossicked, irradiated hardware and paraphernalia.

One hell of a fearful, breathless run it was.