Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

Understandably, the bullets fired from that angle mostly fly into the upper parts of the wall. Only a few are clever enough to reach the hall doorway. I doubt very much that will please the guys coming into the flat from the staircase. I stick my barrel out round the corner and fire twice, trying to make sure the shot skims the floor. If anyone’s lying down there for cover, I don’t envy them.

I got a hit or one of the shooters outside got lucky. Either way, there was another scream from that direction. Then the shootout became hard to follow. It appeared they’d forgotten about me for a while, so I took the opportunity to grab my little backpack and part of my spoils and dash up the inside staircase to the second floor. I drag the couch over to close off the staircase and rapidly shove shells into the magazine. Right, now I have ten shots, eleven even, at the ready. Regretfully, I chuck my new pistol under the couch – it’s out of ammo. The old revolver, on the other hand, I shove into my belt – the cylinder’s full. And just in case, I lay my trusty not-quite-sawn-off nearby. It’s my last-chance weapon, and this will be the site of my last stand.

The gunfighters don’t have time for me right now. Shots thunder all around, and there’s even an explosion of some sort, shaking the walls and sending something crashing down below. That can’t have been a shot, unless the attackers have managed to get a canon up here.

“I’m covering!”

“Hold the landing and clear a path forward!”

What’s most interesting about what I can hear isn’t the meaning of the words – which, although more or less understandable, doesn’t tell me anything particularly useful – it’s the fact that they’re being shouted in English. That I don’t understand. I mean, of course I know that all our company’s premises were guarded by foreign specialists. Even the Spa had USEC security. But as far as I know, most of those sites were outside the city. Anyway, what does it matter now? So some guys are shouting in English on the staircase. Makes no difference to me. They could be speaking mumbo-jumbo for all I care. It doesn’t mean they’re going to think any longer before pulling the trigger, now does it?

The sounds of battle gradually shift upwards – whoever they are, the attackers are demonstrating their incontrovertible superiority over the bandits. Now the shots are ringing out behind the second-floor door.

Kaboom! A cloud of dust, smoke, and other crap hangs in the air. It suddenly becomes harder to breathe, and visibility drops.

“Checking!” shouts somebody downstairs.

Is that what you fucking call throwing a grenade through an open doorway, eh?

Through the sounds of battle and the ringing in my ears, I hear footsteps – someone coming up the inside staircase. I doubt very much it’s one of the bandits. As far as I can tell, they’ve all been pushed back upstairs, or at least the fight is now on the third floor. Still, that doesn’t make it any better for me – this “unknown soldier” can shoot me just as well, and his bullets won’t deal any less death than a bandit’s shells. I jump up and run across the top of the staircase so that anyone coming up will have their back towards me.

The former owners had put some sort of weird modern sculpture there. For reasons of beauty, I guess. Although just what it was supposed to represent I haven’t a clue. Some sort of race, maybe. Or are those tentacles growing out of a lawn? At any rate, it provides me with some cover. It’s hard to see my head through the wild criss-cross of sticks. True, they’re not going to stop any bullets, alas.

A step, then another, and a head in a helmet comes into view. It’s not a bandit – he’s in uniform. In his hand is a pistol with an unusually long and fat barrel. He moves up a little further, stops, and listens.

Good luck with that. In this maelstrom of shouts and firing, the devil himself couldn’t make out what’s going on. In fact, that’s who our visitor reminds me of. He’s clearly got his own way of sorting out the confusion, and I think in some cases the devil might even envy him his ruthlessness. In any case, our visitor is clearly not encumbered by any constraints, moral or otherwise. He couldn’t care less about the fate of anyone who might happen to be on the upper floor of the flat. Holding his pistol with the elbow of his left arm, he pulls out a black cylinder. Even I, a man with little knowledge of military matters, need no explanation as to what it is. I heard one just like it went off downstairs a minute ago.

It’s a grenade, and the soldier is about to throw it, and then I’m fucked. Without thinking, I raise the shotgun and squeeze the trigger. If I hit our visitor, then it’s only lightly. Most of the round ricochets off the steps and the bars of the staircase and whistles all around. I probably only manage to get a few pellets of shot on target, but those few pellets hit his hand.

He can’t hold on to the grenade.

This time, I feel a lot more of the effect. Fortunately, most of the grenade fragments lodge in the downstairs ceiling, but the blast wave or whatever it is hits me with full force. I lie on the floor and stare blankly at the ceiling, while my ears just go on ringing.

I hope it hit the unknown soldier a whole lot harder. True, if I lie around like this much longer, then they’ll take the cup from me too, soon enough. I doubt very much that that guy trundled along to clean out this flat on his own initiative. Sooner or later, somebody’s going to notice he’s missing, and then the dead man’s comrades are going to flood in here. When they see their friend lifeless or badly injured, they’ll want to take revenge on whoever did the dirty deed, and that’s why I need to get out of here as fast as possible.

Where to run to, though? It’s a good question. I doubt very much that when they came into the building the soldiers left the entrance unguarded, and judging by the professionalism of their training, you can be quite sure that there won’t be a guy hovering about right there in the doorway. They’ll be lying out of sight somewhere on the street, with the entrance fixed in their sights. So, not time for walkies.

Running upstairs into the ongoing gunfight is an even more stupid idea. No, I’ve no desire to give anyone that sort of surprise. I get up and pick my shotgun up of the floor. Then, on shaking legs, I walk down the stairs. There’s the entrance door to the flat. I peek out carefully at the landing. Apart from the bodies of bandits, which are lying both in and outside the flat, I don’t see anyone else. Of course, that doesn’t at all mean that there’s no one else around. Just one floor above there’s still a fierce gunfight going on. I can’t rule out the possibility, either, that the desperate bandits might make a break for the exit. They’ve got fuck all to lose, and at least that way they’d have a chance.

Holding my shotgun at the ready, I go carefully down the stairs, stepping over the dead bodies, until I’m on the ground-floor landing. I’m not planning to go for the front entrance, however. I turn again, take the steps down, and right in front of me is the door to the garage, still shut tight. I had good grounds to hop that none of the bandits would have tried to get through this way. For the simple reason that not one of them could possibly have had a key. Whereas I do, and it’s already proved its usefulness once.

The steel door clicks quietly shut behind me. You might think that there’s nowhere to hide, what with there being almost no cars here. However, in the far corner of this vast space there’s a kind of workshop. They installed a ramp here, which is currently empty, and there’s also a service pit – the hole in the ground that you park a car over when you want to look underneath it. I jump straight in there, and settle down on an empty can of motor oil.