Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

The funny thing is, I’m not exaggerating one bit. Whether it’s them or me, we’re all in the same shit. Obviously, I could just leave everything and walk calmly out of here, but there’s always the possibility that one of the guys upstairs will see me and take a shot.

Plus, I’ve got too much to lose. My business with the shopkeeper, my first-aid kit with all that’s in it, and the booty I could salvage. “To the victor go the spoils!” That’s a phrase I’ve come across time and again in action movies. Moreover, from what I remember from computer games and those lurid-looking books, loot is all that guarantees your future survival. After all, there aren’t that many shops in this city (in fact, I only know of one), and I still need to drink and eat. Sure, I’m alright for clothes for now, but as for guns and ammo, I still need to find them somewhere.

The bad guys upstairs must also realize that no one’s coming to save them. The enemy downstairs can just slowly bring some petrol from the garage, pour it all over the staircase, and calmly wait outside.

“What do you want, arsehole?” they ask from above.

“Not just me, all of us. I’m not working solo here, I’ve got the firm with me, capeesh? I just happen to have the gift of the gab, so that’s why I’m here chewing shit with you.”

God knows if what I’m saying sounds anything like the language they use among themselves. From what I’ve read, it’s something similar. Unfortunately, I don’t know all the cons’ slang, and the words that do come to mind don’t really seem to fit the present context. All I need to do is say one thing out of place…

So far, however, nothing I’ve said has caused any particular fuss.

“Well, what does your guv’nor want, then?”

Of course, that’s what they call their leaders!

“Right now, he wants you all to clear the fuck out of here. Put your guns and the loot down, and we won’t cap you.”

“You’re shitting me. We put down our pieces, and you’ll just pop us in the back?”

“We’ve got a can of gas down here – we can just start pouring. Half of it should be enough for you lot. We won’t be risking nothing, mind. This building ain’t worth shit to us, and you can burn with your pieces in your arms. They won’t be much fucking use to you then, will they?”

There’s silence from upstairs, then the same voice again:

“What else?”

“Don’t show up round the shop again, or we’ll put you straight down. If you’ve got any brains you’ll realize we sent that fish to you on purpose, and he brought you here to us. If we don’t have a deal, you’ll be staying here for good.”

“I can’t make that decision for the guv’nor.”

“Then you take his place. What’s the problem?”

I don’t really know whether that’s actually a possibility, but it seems like the guy’s giving it some serious thought.

“Yeah, right. Fucking replace him…”

“You bring him round here tomorrow, and we’ll do the rest. Think of it as a gesture of good faith on our part.”

Again, I’ve no idea how acceptable or ethical the suggestion might seem to a bandit. But clearly, it’s something worth considering.

“He won’t fall for that.”

“Tell him your guns are still here. We’re not going to let you go with them now, but tomorrow’s a difference story! Anyway, fuck this for a game of soldiers,” I suddenly change my tone of voice, “it’s up to you. You can start saying your final prayers now, for all I care. It’ll only take a minute for us to get the gas.”

My sudden change of attitude had a fearful effect on the unseen bandit. He gave a cry of alarm.

“Just wait a second!” he shouted. “Hold your horses, alright?”

Like I’m really in a hurry! All I want is to get out of here in one piece. I creep carefully back to the monitor. From the look of it, the mood’s changed dramatically upstairs. Nobody looks like they’re up for fighting anymore. The bandits have gathered in a circle and are having a heated debate.

Bam! A shot echoes down the staircase, and one of the debaters suddenly has nothing else to say. That’s quite the argument they were having there.

“Hey!”

I almost go arse over tip dashing back down the stairs.

“Well?”

“We’re coming out.”

“Leave your pieces upstairs, and anything else you’ve picked up here, too. Come down one at a time. Once you’re out on the street, no hanging around, just get the fuck out of here. This isn’t a good area. Even we’re afraid sometimes.”

“What?” says the bandit with surprise.

“Not what, who! There’s a guy round here they call the Predator.”

I hear noises from above, and run back to the monitor. Ah, now they’re going through the pockets of their dead comrades. Who gives a shit, as long as they leave their guns behind? At last the first one comes to the stairs.

“I’m coming down. Don’t shoot!”

After standing still for a few seconds, he holds out his arms to show he’s not carrying a weapon, and begins to walk downstairs.

I run back down and keep the barrel of the shotgun on him as he passes. He sees the half-open door and the barrel sticking out, and he presses himself to the wall. Be afraid! Further concern should be created by the plastic oil can that’s standing open in the middle of the landing. I’m pretty sure he’ll remember that it wasn’t there before. That’s because I took it from the kitchen of the two-floor flat and put it there while we were having our little chat. And even if it’s actually full of olive oil rather than petrol, there’s no way he’ll know that – I was careful to rip off the label.

He’s gone. The downstairs door slams shut behind him.

“Next!”

Christ, I could be in training for Everest with all this up and down stairs.

I see the second guy turn the corner, and again the door slams.

“Listen, there’s two of us coming next. My mate took one in the stomach, and he can barely crawl.”

“Don’t give a fuck, just get on with it.”

It’s hard to tell just how badly the guy was hit, but the pair of them can barely hobble down the stairs.

I hear the door close again. So what? Does that mean they’ve all gone? It’s not like I can see the ground-floor hallway.

Just yesterday, I’d have gone running outside with a victory cry without thinking twice about it. Well, maybe I wouldn’t actually have shouted, but I’d certainly have cleared out of here as fast as possible. But that was yesterday, when I was still a completely different person. The peace-loving sysadmin Denis, nickname Foretop. But who is this guy sitting in an empty flat with a couple of rotting corpses and a shotgun clutched in his bloody hands? I don’t know this guy. I’m pretty sure that none of my friends have ever met him, either. There’s nothing tough or heroic about my appearance – no pumped muscles, no deadpan expression, no square jaw, and certainly no fists of steel. Nothing to strike fear into the heart of anyone I meet. So that’s why I’m not running off anywhere. Still in my socks, I quietly search the dead bodies on the first-floor landing. There are three of them lying about. In terms of weapons, I find an ancient revolver – the sort you see in movies about the Revolution – a sawn-off double-barrel shotgun, and a baseball bat. Plus a few rounds, a couple of rings, and a little bit of food. And knives, of course, all sorts of different knives. I return to the flat, lay my loot on the floor, and lock the door.

I’m going to be very careful going out onto the second floor. For all I know, one of the bandits decided to test their stamina and pretend to be a corpse. Who the fuck knows? It would have made good sense to start my search from the top, but where am I going to get some good sense from, anyway?