Александр Конторович - Predator - Escape from Tarkov

It’d probably be difficult for me to explain how attached one can get to inanimate objects. And not even an object in this case. When I get back into my basement, I suddenly feel a surprising affection for it. It may just be an ordinary office, and one that I visited with remarkable frequency in the past. We drank here and hung out with girls here, but I’d obviously never have thought of it as home. Now, however, I sit in the massive shag pad, and I feel a pang in my heart. Why, you might well ask? Probably because here I can finally be myself. I don’t have to maintain the constant pretense of being the mysterious messenger of some no less mysterious authority. I don’t need to keep making up tall tales and lying to people who, for whatever reason, I’ve taken a shine to. I would happily have stayed at the service depot with the captain and his men, but sadly I’m of no use to them. With no serious military skills whatsoever, a guy like me would just be running round under their feet. I’d be a distraction to people who had serious work to do. No, in the end it’s better to be a fond memory than to be a burden. Their friendliness towards me could change very fast.

If memory serves, there was some brandy left somewhere. Or rather my brandy blend. I pour myself half a glass and knock it back in one. Oof! I’ll end up an alcoholic in no time. Although I fear there’s no real risk of that. Not for lack of alcohol, you understand, but because it seems highly unlikely I’ll live long enough to develop an addiction. Sooner or later, my luck will run out. For now, it’s hard to say exactly when, but I know it’s not worth kidding myself on that score. Right here, right now, human life isn’t worth a hill of beans. Today as ever is, without flinching or blinking, I killed a man in cold blood. A man who, quite possibly, meant me no harm at all. But, on the other hand, he would have pulled the trigger without thinking twice. And I doubt very much that his conscience would have given him much trouble afterwards. Bad luck – his opponent shot first. It’s a cruel twist of fate that, judging by his appearance and the manner in which he swung round to face me, he was an experienced and well trained fighter. And he was killed by me, just an ordinary cubicle slave not so long ago. It’s a funny thing, life.

The brandy has its usual effect fairly quickly, and after a few minutes my thoughts stop tormenting me. Time for bed. Everything else can wait. Right now I want to sleep. In my dreams again I see Ninelle, and I feel a special warmth inside.

I’m back on familiar territory, watching the buildings that surround the bandits’ nest. This time I see a sentry walking steadily backwards and forwards along a set path. He’s already stamped out a track. I drag a large chest of drawers to the window, throw the mattress from the bed on top of it, and climb aboard. Now we lie here and watch.

After a few hours, it’s clear that there’s nothing very complex about the system here. The sentry follows the same route, and every two hours he’s relieved. His replacement comes out from somewhere round the corner, they nod at each other, and the previous sentry returns to base. I can’t see the other side of the base, but I doubt they’ve dreamed up a completely different system there. Why would they? I doubt they’ve had any more unexpected visitors since I was here, and a bunch of thugs like that don’t have the brains to see more than a day into the future.

There’s a reason I chose this direction. Behind the sentry’s back, right next to the building, I spotted the cover to a cable duct. When I started out in computers, I helped some guys I knew to lay fibre optic cable, build the networks, and install cable TV. There was high demand for the service at the time, and plenty of money to be made. So we ended up crawling around in these cable ducts. Not this one in particular, but they’re all much the same. Looking at the cover, I can make a very good estimate of how far away the next one will be. As that’s the case, I can quite calmly make my way underground, out of view of the sentry, wait for the change of shifts, and then emerge above ground right next to the building. At the end of his shift, the sentry always hangs around by the corner his replacement appears from. There’s nothing wrong with that, as he can see the whole path of his patrol route from there, and he’ll probably see any unwelcome visitors. The cover of the cable duct, however, is hidden by a corner of the building. If I can get out of there fast and scramble through an open window on the ground floor, there’s a chance I can get past unnoticed.

I’m not crawling anywhere today, however. It’s getting dark, and the bandits probably put out extra sentries when night comes. I’ve read that’s what all serious units would do. While I wouldn’t describe these guys as serious, I can’t discount the possibility that one of them has read the same books with lurid covers that I have. Better that I spend the night at home.

The next morning finds me at the same observation point. After watching for an hour, I’m convinced that nothing has changed radically overnight. I finally leave the flat and head off to find my way into the cable duct. Under normal circumstances, I’d have found it in fifteen minutes. Now, however, with the need to keep a sharp eye out all the time, it takes around two hours. I have to avoid all dangerous places, and one of the shafts to the cable duct is just too exposed.

Jumping into the duct, I carefully close the cover behind him. Once I’ve moved around fifty metres along the duct, I tie a thread across an easily identifiable space, using my torch for light. On my way back, I’ll be able to check if anyone’s followed me.

From there, I start to move a little faster. The duct is dry, and I don’t smell anything funny in there. The city authorities set great store by communications networks and digitization, and at one time made considerable efforts to ensure that the industry was properly supported by municipal services. They installed brand new ducts, laid the bundled cables in them, and generally did it all with a great deal of care and attention.

Strangely enough, the ubiquitous amateur archaeologists who regularly shocked the population with the “terrible” discoveries they made in the city’s various tunnels turned up their noses at this particular section of the underground municipal facilities. Apparently, it wasn’t old enough for them, and there just wasn’t any chance of finding anything interesting. Even the laziest of housewives would be able to work out that there weren’t going to be any signs of ancient treasure in a brand-new cable duct.

Checking with the markings on the walls, I find the turn I need. In this respect, everything’s very simple down here. The network planners split the city into several squares and gave each one a number. If you look at the sign and see “Number One” that means that the tunnel you’re in runs along the city’s central street. Everything that starts with a one runs parallel to it. An even number indicates a perpendicular branch. The second figure identifies the direction the tunnel is going in. An odd number means from north to south, and even number from west to east. The third figure refers to a specific district. There are no letters involved – not Russian nor Latin. For someone in the know, it’s all simple and easily understandable. If it’s not, then you’ve got no business being down here.

The district the bandit’s den was located in had the number two hundred and fifty one. I found the exit I required fairly quickly. I check my watch. There’s still twenty five minutes till the change of guard. I sit on the floor, turn off my torch, and wait calmly. I try to picture how the bandit sentry is moving around up there. From what I was able to gather while I was watching them, they put the same guys on sentry duty all the time. You’d have to assume they’re guys without any great fighting skills – the sort it would be sensible to entrust with the least important duties.