Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

Now we sit and wait. If the soldiers feel the evil urge to, they’ll blow down the door to the garage. After that, they’ll quickly search all the cars standing in the garage. That’s to be expected, and they won’t find shit. However, there’s no reason to think they’ll necessarily work out that there’s a pit in the garage, let alone find it here in the dark. Most garages have just the one servicing solution – either a pit or a ramp. As a rule, they’re not kitted out like ours. There’s a chance that, after shining a torch around and seeing the ramp in the far corner, they won’t even bother to come over here and investigate further.

I sit and wait. Through the steel door I still hear the sounds of the battle above. Gradually, however, they drop away, and I strain my ears to hear what happens next. Any second now I’ll hear heavy army boots on the steps down to the garage. Then all I can do is sit on my awkward perch and pray to the god of laziness that he shower down his blessings upon them.

Twenty minutes pass and nothing happens. Nobody hammers on the door with their stocks or tries to throw a grenade under it. Nor can I hear any more shooting. So, the battle’s over. The victors, having searched the bodies of their slain enemies and grabbed what they want, will have packed up and gone home. Well, if that’s how things stand then there’s no reason for me to hang around here anymore. I climb up out of the pit, but I don’t go back the way I came. Instead, I head towards the street. Having seen those soldiers, it seems quite possible they could have put some nasty little explosive device under the garage door.

Once again, the key comes in useful. The door to the street swings open, and I crouch down and listen to what’s going on outside. I hear no shots, or shouts, or running footsteps. It seems fair to assume that whoever could still run is now far away from here, and those who couldn’t aren’t going to be hurrying anywhere anymore. I now have a little time to take a look over the site of the recent battle, and pick up the stuff I’ve already stashed away.

I didn’t find much, sadly. Most of the good loot and weapons had already been carried off by the soldiers. Turns out that the idea in the books and computer games that you can live off just the spoils of your battles isn’t entirely true to life. Either that or you need a mighty gang to make sure you’re nearly always victorious and, once you’ve stripped the enemy down to their pants, you have enough hands to carry the loot.

The bandits’ weapons that I’d stashed on the balcony were all still there – probably because no one had bothered to look out there. Also untouched were my not-quite-sawn-off, which I had unconsciously placed next to the weird sculpture, the pistol I’d shoved under the couch, and a few other bits and pieces that clearly hadn’t been of sufficient interest to the victors.

Having lugged all that loot into the garage, I began a more methodical search of the building, taking advantage of the fact that the front doors to nearly all of the flats had been broken down by the angry bandits. Unsurprisingly, I didn’t find much of any great value, but I did manage to gather a couple of bags of food supplies, which I took down and piled up with the looted weapons.

Returning once again to the two-floor flat, I began a methodical search of the whole place, beginning on the upper floor. The draft through the smashed windows and the broken door managed to great rid of most of the foul smells, so there was no need to dick around trying to make a mask anymore. Without putting much thought into it, I simply pulled the contents of each cupboard or draw out onto the floor, and having gone through each pile of junk, moved on to the next cupboard. It’s worth noting that whoever finished off the owner for some reason didn’t bother to do a similar search. Either because they were interrupted, or because they immediately found what they were looking for. The truth of my second guess was confirmed when I was searching through their walk-in wardrobe. Behind a row of hanging dresses I discovered a wall safe with the door wide open and nothing inside. You’d imagine that was the main aim of their visit.

There’s nothing to find here, so I turn around to leave when suddenly something tiny catches my eye for second. I stop and look around me slowly and carefully. Caught on some sort of bauble on one of the dresses is a chain, and on the end of the chain hangs a glittering metal token. Well, well, well! See, that’s not just a token. The trained eye will tell you that that is a flash drive. I’ve seen a few like it. As a rule, they were used by all the shining stars among the management of our sainted organization. If my guess is right, then there’ll be an inscription engraved on one side of the token. It’ll be the name of one particular division of the conglomerate or an affiliated company. I bend down and, catching the chain between my fingers, bring the token to my face. TGG, it says.

And that’s all there is. I don’t remember ever having seen those initials before. Clearly, said organization bears some relation to Terra Group Labs, but what exactly? I’ve had all sorts of data storage pass through my hands, and seen plenty more belonging to other people. However, I’ve never come across this inscription before. And here I should explain a little – flash drives like this weren’t handed out to just anyone. They’re not normal storage units. In certain situations, this thing can also be used as a sort of key. There are some doors you can open with it, and it can also be used as a pass key to get through some security barriers. As a rule, these flash drives are either protected with sophisticated passwords, or they have a built-in fingerprint reader. Turning the flash drive in my hand, I shake my head. There’s no fingerprint reader here. Nowhere on the patterned surface of the token is there a screen that might work as a scanner. It’s just an ordinary flash drive. But also a key, maybe. That’s all I know. Where and how to use the little fucker I have difficulty imagining. Still, I’m not going to throw it away. It doesn’t weigh much and it doesn’t need feeding. I shove my new treasure into my pocket.

My further searching left me the happy owner of some tough, almost military boots that were more or less my size. That completes my search of the top floor, so I head downstairs. I move slowly, looking around and trying to work out where else I can search for anything useful. I take a step, then another. Hullo there! There’s a fat metal tube sticking out of one of the flower pots. Turns out it’s the very same pistol that dude with the grenade was waving around before he met his unfortunate end. Fuck me, it flew a fair distance! From the look of it, I believe this is what you call a pistol silencer, or something of the sort. Whatever the name, it’s designed to keep your shooting relatively quiet.

Yes, it’s a pistol, but it’s not Russian-made. It’s got some weird, unfamiliar, hi-tech design. And there’s an inscription: SIG. Even what little I know is enough to tell me that means it’s a Sig Sauer. I’ve read something about them. Made in Switzerland, aren’t they? How the hell did it end up here? Admittedly, if you’ve got the money these days you can buy any gun you want. But still, the silencer… They must be some very special type of security service, the company that the dude with the grenade belonged to. Examining the pistol, I find a button that releases the magazine. It’s full. I can see the bullets shining with oil through a hole in the lower part of the magazine. It’s a powerful-looking weapon, but sadly in my hands it’s nigh on useless. Nonetheless, just the sight of it should make quite an impression. It’s not too heavy, and it looks truly terrifying. I slide the magazine back in place and shove the pistol in my belt. When I have the time, I’ll make it a little case. In fact, that raises an interesting question, as just about every pocket I have is now stuffed full with ammo for my different guns.