Predator. Escape from Tarkov. Александр Конторович
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it is. It’s only as I’m leaving the empty shop that I realize what it is – a jacket! I should have taken the jacket off the dead driver. It was lying on the floor. But then, it was covered in blood. How could I put that on? “Don’t be fussy,” nags a voice in my head. “Are you planning to run around at night in just that shirt? Aren’t you the tough guy!”
Still, it’s not that cold yet. During the day your teeth don’t chatter, at any rate.
But then I remember my night on the staircase. There was no draft, but you wouldn’t say it was warm, either. And that was in a building. A residential building, mind, with a good heating system. A building I can’t go back to, either. What am I going to do, knock on my neighbour’s door and say: “Sorry, but they tried to kill me here yesterday and put a tripwire in my flat. Mind if I stay with you for a while?” I can imagine the response.
Which reminds me, where can I go? Round to one of my co-workers and risk catching a bullet? Clearly they were looking for us from some kind of list, and I doubt it was just the three of us on there. Apparently, it’s the people I was working with the last few days. So I might meet yesterday’s visitors at any of their homes.
So, where am I heading, then? Nothing comes to mind. Do I really want to crawl into some basement like a homeless guy? Well, the basements round here aren’t so bad. Hell, some of them even have offices in them. I’ve been in quite a few. True, they nearly always have steel doors. But then again, I’ve got tools now. And there’s an office I know not so far from here.
Alas, my talents as a housebreaker were enough only to pull the decorative cover off the keyhole. Beyond that, it was just thick steel that I could do nothing with. Any attempt to pick the lock with a bent piece of wire was stymied from the start – I didn’t have any wire. And even if I did, I had no idea how to bend it. Somehow, I doubt a simple right angle’s enough… Having spent a couple of hours trying to get in, I gave up, sat down on the steps, and opened up a pack of Baby Mum-mum. There’s no need to laugh. I’d like to see what you’d do in a similar situation.
What about the window? It’s got bars on it. Damn, what am I going to do? If only I had a crowbar…
Where could I get hold of a few good tools? All the shops were closed. At the port, obviously. But the port’s a fair hike away. There must be something closer. Construction sites! They’re bound to have crowbars, and all sorts of other useful stuff. That’s where to go, but where exactly? I didn’t know the address of the nearest construction site, but I had seen something out of the bus window. Hang on, I’ll get there just as night falls. And? Do I really have a choice? No, I don’t. Let’s go. But what about my supplies? What if I find something useful there? Where am I going to put it? The shop water, my water bottle, and the bread snacks find a temporary home at the bottom of the steps that lead down to the basement. You can’t see them from the street, and no animal’s going to find them. It’s not like I’ve got sausages or anything. I took only a single bottle with me, and the bag. Great, tomorrow I’ll bring a crowbar, and I can finally move in to my new digs.
Chapter 2
I can’t say that my walk to the construction site made for a nice, leisurely stroll. When I was about half way there, frenetic gunfire started up not far away, and I heard the whistle of a bullet close by. I had absolutely no idea I could run that fast. In the end, I had to hide behind an empty garage and wait until the unknown opponents finally finished resolving their issues. It took them nearly an hour. Then there was a burst of automatic fire (from something bigger than an assault rifles, as far as I could tell), and everything fell quiet. Before that, most of the firing had been from shotguns and pistols, I think.
I waited another hour before finally emerging from my hideout. It was quiet and there was no firing. Who exactly had beaten whom was of no interest to me. The main thing is that there’s no more whistling bullets and I can move on. I stick my head out from behind the garage and look around. Nothing. I make a dash for the cover of the nearest building. After another half-hour’s walk, I notice a crane towering over the rooftops. I’ve made it! There’s the construction site, and now it’ll all be simple. I’ll find a crowbar, and maybe a few other useful things, then I’m off. I may even have a roof to sleep under tonight.
I skirt round the building.
“Hold up there!”
Who’s this, then?
A pair of guys in leather jackets. One’s holding a hunting rifle, and the others not armed as far as I can see.
“What do you guys want?”
“Come here!”
I approach, trying to keep my distance. No good, the guy with the rifle jerks the barrel insistently, as if to say, “Don’t fuck about.” They tear off my bag and turn it inside out. The bottle of water falls to the ground and is kicked suspiciously by the one who’s searching me.
“Is that it? Show us your pockets!”
But there’s nothing of value there either – this pair aren’t interested in a few spanners.
“Are you taking the fucking piss? Show us your cash!”
“But, I don’t have any.”
Crack! The butt of the rifle slams under my ribs with full force.
Ah… That hurts!
“What the hell? What have I done?”
“Where do you live, arsehole?”
“Larch Alley, 5. Flat 15”
The two men exchange glances.
“Where’s that?”
“Miles away. What’s a shithead like this going to have, anyway? You, get up!”
They kick me forcefully and make me pick my bag up off the tarmac, then direct me with a poke between the shoulders.
We haven’t gone far before my nostrils catch the smell of smoke. We turn a corner, and in front of us appears a long fence topped with barbed wire. We walk along the fence, turn again, and come to some gates. They’re closed. There’s a fire burning next to them, round which sit several men. They’re all armed, mostly with hunting rifles.
“Greetings, Mityay! Who have you got there?”
“Just some freak. Put him with all the others.”
There’s a mid-size building of corrugated iron to the left of the gates. After removing my bag and taking the padlock off the shack door, they shove me inside. I take a few steps and drop weakly to the floor. Christ, what in the hell’s going on?
“Were you captured, too?”
I turn towards the voice. A middle-aged man in glasses with a cracked lens is sitting on the floor. A respectable citizen, by the look of him.
“Yes. They took everything and hit me with a rifle. What’s going on here?”
“This, my friend, is the former depot of the Tarkov Municipal Housing Authority. And those men, if you can call them that, sitting outside are simple bandits. Or, at least, that’s what they’re becoming.”
“But they’ve got guns.”
“Not all of them, at least for now, but they’re getting armed quickly. They rob apartments, and take anything of value. That’s where they find rifles.”
“What do they need me for?”
From my new acquaintance’s explanation, I understand the following. He and his unwilling roommates have been there for three days already. When the troubles started, Pavel (that’s his name) was expecting an organized evacuation, as he was convinced that it was the duty of the powers that be to do everything they could to ensure the safety of the city’s residents. An error, as all the bureaucrats had fled at the first opportunity, leaving the city to the mercy of fate. After that, he was not sure what had happened as, on his way to buy bread, he had been captured by Mityay’s henchmen and incarcerated in this shed. Since then, twice a day, the prisoners were sent off to clear out buildings – those in the neighbourhood for now. Pavel