Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

In the hallway on the first floor, I examine the bodies of the bandits. Some of them obviously died at my hand. The squeamishness I felt before about looking at dead bodies is all gone now. Just take a look at this lot! I crouch down to search one of the dead. There’s nothing of interest in his pockets, but over his jacket he’s wearing a canvas waistcoat with a huge number of pockets. It’s the sort electrical fitters and other technicians wear. You can keep a huge amount of useful kit in all those pockets, and there are also various loops you can hold or hang tools with. I don’t think the dead guy was any kind of technician, however, and it’s not tools his pockets are stuffed with. Instead, he has a few bullets, a couple of packs of biscuits, and a fair number of cigarettes. I don’t smoke, so they’re no great prize for me, although I do realize that as merchandise they have considerable value in our current situation. Put bluntly, you can’t grow tobacco in these climes, and I doubt very much anyone’s bothering to send shipments of cigarettes into town right now. And I’ve seen what smokers are like when you take their evil weed from them. I’ve heard that some will even try smoking dried leaves. There’s definitely a market for the cigarettes.

I swing the waistcoat in my hands, then pull it on decisively. Fortunately, the former owner got a very clean shot to the head, so there’s hardly any blood on the waistcoat. Besides, it’s not like a few stains make it any less comfortable. Now I have considerably more opportunity to carry away my prizes. My beloved backpack with medicine can easily hold another two or three kilos of useful stuff, and the bullets and other bits and pieces can go in my new waistcoat. Sadly, there’s nowhere to put the pistol for now, so I’ll have to carry it in my belt.

It took me till evening to carry everything I’d found in the abandoned building back to my basement. I even took some mugs, plates, and spoons – they always come in handy, after all. It seemed like too much effort to lug back all the different half-empty bottles of spirits I found, so I decided to let my high standards of taste slide and poured all the vodka I found into two big bottles. Really, what’s the big difference? It’s all 40% ethanol. I did the same with the brandy. After all, all those drinks now have a primarily medicinal value, so the subtle variations of taste and aroma are largely insignificant.

I spent a long time wandering about my lair, sorting and inventorying all my stores and spoils. Then I fell asleep almost immediately, without dwelling at all on all that had happened.

Morning. Can’t say that it’s a particularly good one, as I’m more of a night owl. But it’s not the worst, either. I’m not hungry, I’m not sleeping on the street, and there’s no one standing behind me with a whip, either. No need to bust my balls rushing of anywhere.

There were some thoughts that came to me yesterday. Thoughts that span around in my head this way and that.

What I know is that I’m no kind of headhunter or retired – let alone active – special forces hero. Nobody’s ever going to accept my undisputed authority. So what do I really know how to do? By which I don’t mean lighting fires and opening tins. There’s plenty of equally skilled specialists in that field round about.

I’m a sysadmin, but let’s forget about that. It’s not just that there’s no computer network here, there isn’t even any electricity. All the computers in the basement have been standing dead for weeks.

A logistics expert. Well then, what are we shipping? Where to and with what transport? Ten bottles of water, on my own back, to the street next door. It’s not the greatest logistical challenge.

What exactly can someone with my skill-set do in the present situation? Yeah, don’t tell me, I can carry the famous beam – fuck that for a game of soldiers!

The street greeted me with piercing wind and fine rain, nasty weather that sent my thoughts immediately to the warmth and comforts of home. Yeah, and to a warm bed with a hot girl in it, but when was I likely to experience those pleasures again, eh?

I’m still not even sure what’s really going on round here. According to the snatches of conversation I heard from our “security detail” (Makar’s henchmen), all sorts of bad stuff was going on in the city and surrounding area, and there was no point in hoping for urgent help from state agencies. They clearly don’t have time for us right now. Plus, the behaviour of the soldiers I have seen doesn’t inspire any great confidence, to be honest. From what I remember from the TV news, they’re supposed to protect and save us, but I can’t say I’ve noticed them trying. Shooting on sight seems to be more their line, which also provides some food for thought.

Anyway, here’s the building I’m looking for. I just sit in the bushes for a while, examining the construction and its surroundings. I don’t see anything unusual. If that wanker of a lookout can be believed, this is where their gang has its base of operations. However, I can’t find a single sentry. Even Makar had people on guard, but here there’s nobody around.

True, the gang has suffered some mind-blowing losses if the wanker is to be believed. According to him, their total number was only a little over a dozen, which seems suspicious, as there were at least that many in the building yesterday.

Either way, the bandits haven’t put anyone on guard. Although perhaps I’m giving them too much credit by calling them bandits, when they’re really just ordinary street trash. Even Makar’s henchmen massively outclass them in terms of organization. And thank God for that, as far as I’m concerned. With ordinary street trash I have at least some chance of coming out on top. Having taken one more look around, I emerge from my hiding place and quickly run over to the wall of the building. It’s still quiet here – I can hear neither conversations nor footsteps. I do catch the smell of smoke, however, which means there’s a bonfire burning somewhere nearby. Moving over to the nearest entryway, I take a glance inside, holding my shotgun at the ready. It’s empty.

On the first floor landing, I can already see the building’s inner courtyard. There is indeed a bonfire burning close to the building, with a container of some kind hanging over it on a metal tube, which leads to the assumption that some sort of cooking is going on. That is indeed the case, as there’s a figure of some sort hovering over the container and occasionally stirring the contents with a ladle. So that’s why there weren’t any sentries – everyone’s hungry.

Located opposite me is a two-storey building that appears to serve as the residence of all these “men at arms”. The little garden where the bonfire is now burning is being used by them as a kind of outdoor canteen. Basically, it makes sense. Nobody wants to start a bonfire indoors, the electricity’s off, and there’s no gas in the pipes. An outdoor kitchen is a logical solution.

I try to count the men assembled. There’s six of them, including one vaguely familiar face. To judge by his bandaged arm, it’s the same guy who unhesitatingly slit the throat of his wounded comrade in front of me. Presumably he didn’t come to the showdown with me yesterday because of his injury. That’s how he’s still alive.

What I’m wondering is where the boss is. If he got killed during the attack on my building, they should be experiencing something of a power vacuum, but how can I tell? When they come to sharing out the food, it should be obvious. The boss will surely get the biggest share and the best piece of meat.

I didn’t have to wait for long before the cook took yet another taste of his stew, nodded approvingly and, turning to the waiting men, shouted: