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I wrote this a long time ago. Did some minor editing to 'furrify' it. I'd like to note that I'm agnostic, so don't take this as promoting the viewpoint of either character. I just wanted to write a conversation between two men in a terrible place. Obviously, based on the excellent Stalker games.

~~~

The fire crackled and popped, the orange glow fighting away the oppressive darkness of the warehouse shelter. It had been lit inside of an empty oil drum, old cabinets and furniture smashed up for fuel. It was foolish to burn the trees around here.

Several men sat around the fire, separated into two groups on either side of the barrel. Most were asleep, only the leaders of the two groups still awake, and watching each other with wary eyes. Such was the way of things. To survive, you had to extend one hand in friendship, yet keep the other on your rifle.

With the onset of night, the two groups had both sought shelter in this abandoned warehouse, and after a few minutes of tense conversation, had agreed to share it for the night. Risking being killed by a bandit in your sleep was better than being eaten alive by a hunter in the dark.

And so, they sat, occasionally making awkward conversation with one another, but more often silent. Each group exchanged food and drink as a gesture of goodwill, easing the mood somewhat. Eventually, they had settled down to this, only the leaders paranoid enough to remain on guard.

Eventually, one of the leaders retrieved a small cross from under his body armour. The silver was old and tarnished, bent from the abuse it had suffered in the Zone. The feline gently pressed the symbol to his gas mask like he was kissing it as began murmuring a prayer. Although the words were inaudible to the other man, it was obvious what his temporary comrade was doing.

"Why?" he asked, his gravelly voice muffled by his gas mask. He sat with his legs crossed, a combat shotgun laid across his lap.

"Hrm? Why? What do you mean?" the other man replied, lifting his head. He nervously fiddled with his cross, rolling it around over and over in the tips of his fingers.

"Why pray? No point in it any more."

"No...point? There's always a point to it. Every night, I pray for a safe day tomorrow, and I pray for the lives I've taken. And the friends I've lost." He replied, somewhat perplexed.

The gravel-voiced man let out a throaty chuckle. "That's not what I meant. Smoke?" he offered a pack, which his comrade declined. Gravel flicked his hood back then with one last check of the air monitor strapped to his wrist, unstrapped his gas mask and took it off. The wolf's face was heavily marked by the zone, clumps of fur missing that showed blotchy skin and old scars. He lit up his cigarette and took a deep drag from it, letting out a satisfied sigh. "What I meant, is that I don't see how you can believe that there's still a god, least of all one that cares about you. Not in this place."

Prayer finally understood what he was getting at, nodding thoughtfully. "I see. You're like so many other people in this place. Lost all belief. I can't really blame you." He replied. Out of politeness, he flicked back his own hood and removed his mask, setting it on the ground beside him. He was younger than Gravel, less marked by the Zone, but had the eyes of a seasoned Stalker. Eyes that had seen a thousand horrors and come out the other side with sanity intact. Not an easy thing to do. He rubbed at his neck, measuring his words carefully, his tail slowly flicking. "I...have been challenged in my belief by what I've seen here. But, I've clung to it, and it's given me strength through the hard times. A reason to live. Everyone needs that."

Gravel's mouth twitched into a wry smile. "Well of course I have a reason to live." He replied, glancing down at the sleeping wolf curled up beside him. He began gently stroking her fur, making her murmur in her sleep and press up against him. "I just...I mean, look around. If there's a Hell, the Zone is it. There are monsters in the night. Monsters in the day. Bandits. Rapists. Thugs. Cannibals. Soldiers and mercenaries being paid to hunt us down. Scientists exploiting their fellow man. Even the very earth wants to kill us! The air! The water!" he paused for a moment to rein himself in, his voice having been gradually raising. He continued after a moment in his gravelly whisper, gesturing with his smouldering cigarette as he spoke. "This is not the work of a loving God. A loving God would have removed this stain from the earth a long time ago. A loving God would have stopped the plant from ever going up. A loving God would have stopped the radiation, stopped the cancer, stopped the birth defects." He spat into the fire. "If there's a God, he's not something I want to pray to."

Prayer nodded, watching the dancing flames. "Maybe that's so my friend. But I am just a man, and I do not think to know the will of God, or what He has planned. All I can say, is that perhaps He has decided that the Zone is a necessary evil. Perhaps He made the Zone to harden us, to teach us survival. To ready us for a new threat. Perhaps He made it to punish us for our sins. Perhaps for some other reason, that only He can understand." He cleared his throat, letting his little battered cross dangle in front of him, watching its hypnotic swing as he talked. "All I know, is that my faith has remained strong. And that's what faith is. Belief without proof. Belief that things can be better, that there's a reason for everything. That every death, at my hands or at the hands of others, is part of some master plan. And belief has served me just fine, during the night. When the Bloodsuckers are clawing at the door, and you're hidden away in a corner hoping that they won't get in, that thought is all I need to keep my cool. The thought that I'll die when it's my time, and that until then, I just need to keep my cool. I accept everything that life throws at me, and fight through it."

Gravel nodded thoughtfully. "So...you're saying that if I took my shooter, right this instant..." he lifted a hand, making a pistol shape at his comrade. "And pow, blew your brains out, you're saying that would be God's will? Even though I had no such thoughts until we started this conversation?"

Prayer chuckled. "That's the thing with God. He knows all, so He would know precisely what you would do. Some people believe that every single move a person will make is set in stone, already planned by God. Me...I am not so sure. I think that perhaps He gives us freedom to do as we please. He set our major points in life, our birth, our death, our major milestones. And the rest is up to us, to do as He tried to teach us to do." He shrugged. "But this is just what I think. And it helps me sleep at night, so it is something I gladly hold on to."

Gravel snorted, flicking the stub of his smoke into the fire. "And that, friend, is where we must disagree. I don't believe. Not any more. I think that the plant killed God just as surely as it killed the Zone and anyone dumb enough to step foot in it. And as for surviving? Well..." he grabbed his shotgun, racking the slide and chambering a shell. "I rely on this to pave my way. A good gun, a good group, and a mean attitude."

There came a howling from outside, and something heavy smashed against the locked door to the exterior. The sleeping Stalkers immediately woke and grabbed their weapons, as the two leaders jumped to their feet, hurriedly strapping their masks back on. "Alright then brother! Let's see if your God still exists." Gravel said, reaching out with one hand.

Prayer clasped it, grinning at his new-found comrade behind his mask. "Very well then. I'll pray for your heathen soul when this is done...but only if you share some of your vodka!" He replied. Much to the confusion of their groups, the two leaders laughed together as they took up their positions, ready to gun down the beast seeking entry. Such was life in the Zone, because conversation and friendliness can never last long.