Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

I’m not arguing. He should know his co-workers if anyone does. What are we going to do, then?

Since we redressed his wound, the policeman’s been walking a little faster. Apparently, his leg’s not as painful as it was. Still, he’s in no state to race across the open ground and run up to the building. That’s why he’s looking at me questioningly. To tell the truth, we could just part ways right here. I’ve already delivered on my offer to escort him where he wanted, and I’ve no interest whatsoever in getting to know his colleagues. It’s all too easy to imagine how our meeting would end up. I’d be disarmed, there’s no question about it. Nobody’s going to give my credentials as a fighter a second glance, so the best that I could hope for is that they’d offer me some tedious domestic duties, and how is that really better than being a slave to some gang or other? Sure, they probably wouldn’t beat me, but even that’s not guaranteed. They wouldn’t threaten me with sudden death, and they’d probably even feed me. But I wouldn’t be first in line. I consider the possibilities and grow increasingly convinced that I’ve no desire whatsoever to be put back in a pen. On the other hand, it’s not like I can just abandon my companion right here.

“OK, I’ll try to run over to the building. But you keep a lookout, alright? I can’t shoot while I’m running.”

In all honesty, my accuracy is nothing to crow about when I’m standing still either, or in any position for that matter. That’s why I’m carrying a shotgun, because there’s no need to worry about a few centimetres one way or the other. Shot has a good spread, and at least some of it's bound to hit your enemy, even if it just clips them. Still, why should I tell all and sundry about that? It’s possible that my companion has gained the impression that I’m a perfectly experienced but very modest marksman. If so, there’s no reason to disabuse him.

I take off my beloved backpack, which is packed to bursting, and place it next to the wall. I do the same with the almost empty loot bag. The assault rifle that I got when we split up our spoils I lay next to Ivan. There’s only one magazine of bullets for it, I’m a terrible shot, and he’s much more capable with it. I check the pistol in my pocket, take the safety off my shotgun, and set off for the front doors.

What did my companion teach me? Run from cover to cover, take a good look round, and always remember that you can change direction if you need to. So now I search out a suitable hide to dash for.

I take a quick glance sideways at Ivan. He nods to show he’s ready.

The ground slams against the soles of my boots. I run wildly, clutching my shotgun to my chest. At the same time, I attempt to jink from side to side like a hare, trying not to move in a straight line. To a bystander no doubt it looks absurd. So what? It’s worth looking absurd as long as I stay alive.

My first cover is a coil of cable lying on its side. From what my companion was saying, getting a bullet through that thing is impossible even in theory. So now I dive behind the coil. I crawl along on my stomach about thirty centimetres forward, and now I’m fully protected by several layers of tightly wrapped cable.

Silence. Nobody’s bawling about my presence or shooting in my direction. Did they not see me, or is there no one to shout?

I take a breather and plan the direction of my next dash. About ten metres further on there’s a ditch that was probably dug to put this very cable in. That’s what I’m planning to dive into. One, two, three – let’s go!

Another crazy run, which ends in a no less crazy leap. Why? Because at the bottom of the ditch there’s a pile of equipment that’s been thrown in there any old how, and which was completely invisible from my previous position. I land reasonably accurately between two of those piles of metal. Not completely safely, as a tool cracks me painfully in the shoulder, and another leaves a scratch on my cheek. It’s not a pleasant experience, but at least I didn’t land arse-first on anything. For no particular reason, I recall the man speared on the fence pole, and I shiver at the memory.

So, what next? Should I crawl along this ditch as I originally planned? Well, if I can get round all this equipment, then it’s worth a go. I raise my head and check out the different options for moving on. Let’s have a go. Squeezing between the piles of metal, I tear my hand and give my knee a painful bash, but I do eventually get through.

At the very last moment, just before I start to crawl on, I suddenly notice silhouetted against the sky thin metal wires running from some of the equipment. They head upwards and then vanish somewhere behind the fence. Interesting, what the hell is that? They don’t look much like tripwires. Who would bother to extend them that far? A grenade doesn’t go off straight away, but even if I was walking at a normal pace and not crawling on my belly, the explosion would happen long before I managed to reach the fence.

My discovery has little effect on the speed of my progress. After moving along for another fifteen metres, I crawl through a hole dug under the fence. It’s a regular fence, made from end-on-end reinforced concrete panels fixed into the ground. They’re tall enough to make it impossible to see what’s going on inside the grounds, and it would take some time to knock through them even with a run-up.

Raising my head slightly, I quickly come to realize that there’d be nothing to see here anyway. The reason’s simple – I’ve caught an all too familiar smell. To be precise, the smell of dead bodies, several of them by the strength of it. I can’t imagine what sort of garrison would not bother to dispose of their dead on their own territory. To tell the truth, I could just turn round and head back right now. There’s almost certainly no one left alive in the building. Still, I went through all that effort to get here…

I get up on my knees and stick my head out of the ditch. Straight in front of me is an ordinary police car – the usual paint job, lights on the roof, everything you’d expect. The only thing that ruins the overall picture is the smashed glass and the bullet holes in the doors. It would appear that this is where the smell is coming from.

Gripping my shotgun, I climb out of the trench and run quickly to the wall of the building. The wall covers me on one side, and the shot-up car on the other. From this position, I can take a more careful look at the car. In the front seat, there’s a corpse in police uniform. Even from here I can see his pockets have been turned out. Another dead body hangs out of the window of the back left door. I feel sorry for the guys. Judging by the bullet holes, they were fired on from the direction of the building while the car was still in motion. What’s this ahead of me?

A garage, there’s no way a building that looks like that could be anything else. I see wide-open doors and barrels of some sort that have rolled all over the place. I listen again, but everything’s quiet. No footsteps, no voices, nothing. From what my companion told me, I remember that it’s wise to always check the boots of those cars, as there might be something useful inside. To do that, however, I would have to move away from the wall and turn my back on the building, which I really don’t want to do right now. Never mind, I’ll look for useful stuff later. The car’s not going anywhere. First I need to take a peek inside the building.

Obviously, I’m not planning to walk straight through the front doors. Looking around, I see a broken window, and from there it’s all simple. Choosing the barrel that’s rolled closest to the wall, I move it carefully and with as little noise as possible to the window. Fortunately, I only have to carry it, or rather tilt and roll it, a few metres. I stand the barrel upright almost flat up against the wall, climb onto it, stretch out my arms, and scramble over the window ledge. First, I have to knock out some of the shards of glass, trying to make sure they fall on the ground. That way the sound of them dropping isn’t too loud. Even so, some little pieces remained, and they scraped nastily across my waistcoat. Never mind, the main thing is I wasn’t cut.