Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

I’m in the shit! How long have I been sitting here? The two guys who ran out of here with their tails between their legs could have split up. One might have run back to their gang, and the other might be sitting somewhere nearby. In their lookout post, for example. He’d have seen Sledgehammer come and go. He’d have seen that I’m still here. They could be back for me any second!

The door’s locked. I rush to the balcony and cautiously look over the area. After all, I saw where the wanker was hanging about before. No, for now there’s nothing to see.

I can’t go up from here, it’s the top of the staircase. But I can slip down to the lower floors. Even this washing line, if it’s doubled or tripled up, will be enough to hold me.

But where could those dirty sods be waiting? Wrong question. First off, there’s only one dirty sod, the other’s run off to get help. Second, he’s almost certainly holed up somewhere he can see the entryway. After all, that’s how I came in and out, and there’s no reason for them to think that I’ll be going any other way. After Pavel’s visit, they may well assume that I’m working with the shopkeeper. It would only be natural for me to move in somewhere nearby, even if only for a while, and this block would be a perfectly good choice.

Talking of which, I don’t have a clue how many other people this gang had time to get to, but there could be quite a few. Five or six at least. I doubt they’d have managed to make themselves known to many more – not enough time’s passed. I doubt the shopkeeper has a huge client base, but a gang like that can always scare a lone shopper. Following their bandit logic, there’s no way I could let those shoppers, or at least the payment they bring, go by. So I’d be sitting in that very flat, waiting for the fish to come.

What? It all makes perfect sense. Shopkeeper Ogryzko appears to be working with me, so I could rely on some assistance from his guards. That’s if the situation goes on long enough to get serious. They really could provide me with cover fire. From a distance, obviously. The shopkeeper’s not going to send his guards into battle. But even that sort of help could be very useful. It’s only eighty meters to the shop, and an assault rifle at that distance can sweep everything clean. At least, that’s what the bandits might think. Unfortunately, I know the truth of the matter – there isn’t going to be any help.

I need to leave.

My path is clear – down to the second-floor balcony, then down again, and from there down to the ground. Once I’m down on the street, I tug the line, roll it up, and hide it in a pile of some kind of junk. Where does it all come from, I’d like to know? Nothing, nothing, then suddenly a whole pile. Miraculous.

But I don’t have time for miracles and wonders right now. There’s a blunt question before me – what to do next?

At least they’re not going to catch me on the stairs now. Which also means I’m following Pavel’s instructions to keep the peace. There won’t be any shootout. Which is a good thing for me.

Yup, that’s exactly right. It’s obvious to me what the outcome would be. I need to get out of here. Where to? Back to my basement, where else?

That means at the very least that the shopkeeper’s now closed for business as far as I’m concerned. He won’t want to deal with me anymore. They’ll probably entrust the work to those arseholes, and I’ll be a prime target for them.

Which doesn’t suit me. “So what?” asks my inner voice with a smirk. “If it doesn’t suit you, what are going to do about it?” That’s the question.

Wait a second! I had a flash of an idea somewhere at the very back of my brain. What was it? Something like… Wait, let’s go back to the beginning. Right now, those bastards are on their way here to turn that stairway upside down, but they won’t find anything. What next? Well, I did give them my address. And at least two people who are still very much alive and very angry with me heard it. They may not remember all the details, but they’ll probably find the right building. And we all have our names on our postboxes – surname and initials. I may not have told them my surname, but they heard my first name. Which means they’ll work out which flat’s mine. Well, fuck them, to be honest. I haven’t been able to go back there for ages anyway.

Then I sat down. Right there where I was standing. Straight down on the tarmac. I can’t go back there – and neither can anyone else! Whether it’s a mine or a grenade they put there, it doesn’t give a flying fuck who exactly opens the door. It’ll great anyone with open arms.

My head was spinning with excitement. Would they all go there? Probably not. Someone has to stay and watch this stairway. They’ll want to bury their dead comrade, although that may be giving them too much credit. They won’t just throw him in a ditch, but I doubt there’ll be much in the way of speeches and ceremony. Still, they’ll dig a hole for him somewhere.

Let’s assume they leave a few guys here to keep watch, and the rest of them head for my home. It’s not too far to go. There aren’t that many of them, either. After I hit him with the chopping board, the wanker gave me the number – fourteen. That’s thirteen now, by the by. Unlucky for some. And at least one of them’s injured – the guy who used his good hand to cut his friend’s throat. He didn’t even wince, come to think of it. So, that makes twelve of them. Two groups of six, that’s the best I can hope for. Even then, it’s really not the ideal situation. But then I really don’t have a choice. None at all. Either I die of hunger, or I get myself killed in a firefight with those wankers. One way or the other…

Home sweet home! I never did finish paying off my mortgage. If Tarbank wants to try and chase me down for back payments now then to hell with them. It’s not like I can live here anymore.

The windows are still in one piece. On all the floors. That means the wire hasn’t been tripped yet. This raises the question – should I go inside or what? If I don’t go in, I’ll be able to see when anyone arrives. It seems highly unlikely they’ll be coming by car. And if I’m sitting up stairs, even if I’m not on my own landing, I still may catch some of the blast. I don’t know about shrapnel, but they say the blast wave itself is a pretty scary thing. I’d be gaping silently like a dormant fish. So, no, I won’t be going inside. Sod that. I’ll keep watch on the street.

I was waiting for a long time. For some reason, the bandits weren’t rushing to catch me at home. Had they forgotten my address? Anything’s possible, and maybe it’s not such a bad thing. After all, the shopkeeper can’t be the only one in town, and there are still vast numbers of empty flats to look through. I’ll survive for a good while yet. It’s not like I need all that much to keep me going. Even if they start gutting the flats much more quickly, they can’t do them all at once. I can always up sticks and move to some other neighbourhood. It’s not like I have pets to worry about, nor do I have any other dependents or friends that need feeding.

“Sure,” says the snide voice in my head, “you go ahead and move. And where exactly are you going to find these other shops? Look them up online, will you? Or is there a noticeboard somewhere? Where’s that exactly? It doesn’t seem all that likely that there are huge numbers of shopkeepers like that.”

It’s all true. Even if I stay right where I am in my basement, sooner or later someone will notice me on the street. They’ll follow me back home, throw some burning shit through the window, and then I’ll come running out, half blind and gasping from the smoke. I’ll be lucky if they kill me straight away. Or I might not even get that far, just choke to death in the basement.