Predator. Escape from Tarkov. Александр Конторович
Читать онлайн книгу.
I tell the rest? And take away their last grain of hope? They’ll suffocate me in my sleep with a mattress for that! And as for the foreman, he may well know something, or at least have worked it out for himself. Then he’ll dob me in to the guards as a troublemaker. I won’t even make it back to the shed.
“I want to take the beam!”
“Shut up, you squirt,” says the senior guard, dismissing my offer calmly. “Grow some muscles first!”
The foreman sniffs behind my back. So that’s that, this evening I can expect a further educational experience. And it’s not a given that after that I’ll be able to get back up and work in the crew. Very well, let’s just say I’ve taken the hint.
It’s back to running up and down stairs. The stairwell echoes with the ring of the beam-carriers’ work. Where are they now? The fourth floor? Too soon, let’s not rush this. My partner prods me in the back – no standing around! Alright, I’m running.
Now the crashing is on the third floor. I run down the stairs. From the clouds of dust I can see where the crew are working – chunks are flying off the door frame. The beam doesn’t always break down the doors. Sometimes they’ve been fitted really well. Then the boys have to break down a party wall or smash the piece of wall holding the bolts of the locks. In most cases, as far as I know, they’re all built the same way. There’s only so many types of door.
Onto the second floor. I’m dying of thirst. My mouth is completely dry. Seizing the moment, I pause on the stairs and gulp from a bottle I’m carrying. It’s just ordinary drinking water – I’m carrying a whole case. It’s not vodka, so the guards aren’t likely to pay much attention to my load, and it won’t smell afterwards.
“Hurry up!”
The beam-carriers are going down to the first floor. Now’s the time! As I run past them, I kick the man closest to me below the knee. He lets out a shriek and loses his balance. Then the heavy steel girder lurches dangerously.
Wham! Another guy’s having trouble on the steps, and down he goes. Not just down, but forward, too.
“Fuck me!”
Inertia’s a powerful force, and it can be a tricky fucker. The beam (with the help of a kick from me) is pulling the front two carriers forward with all its weight. The window flies out of the wall with a crash, followed by the beam, which pulls with it the two remaining carriers.
I crouch on the edge of the window sill, turn around, and hang by my fingers. A little to the left and down we go! Somebody’s body breaks my fall. Thanks, friend, that’s what I was counting on.
There are no guards on this side of the building – the doors are all on the other side. So there’s nothing to stop me unless it’s a bullet. As I round the corner, I stop for a second. There’s no sound of gunfire, nor of anyone chasing. Don’t they miss me yet? That’s fine by me. Wallow in your own shit, arseholes!
So, what would any normal person do in my situation? Run home as fast as he can, obviously. And I doubt he’d manage to run very far. How many other Makars are there out there with their gangs? That’s not something I want to find out. I’ve no desire whatsoever to change one shed for another. So, for now, let’s not run anywhere.
Choosing a building – an ordinary five-storey block of flats – I climb over the fence and up to the first-floor balcony. Thankfully, the occupants of the ground floor have covered their balcony with a security grille, which serves as a kind of ladder to help my climb. It isn’t that easy, but I manage to get up there. I still have the strength for now. I lie down on the balcony floor and take a look around. Some old clothes in a little cupboard. An axe! Not a big one, but then I’m not a lumberjack, am I? A can of motor oil, and all sorts of household junk. We’ll leave that for later. Laying the old clothes on the floor, I soak them in motor oil. I look round carefully to check there’s no one nearby. No one in sight, anyway. I press one of the oily rags against the pane of the window and give a sharp tap with the axe. The glass crunches quietly. I read about this in a book when I was still at school. Young Guard, that’s what it was! It said that if you break glass with an oily rag, then it won’t make a smashing sound. Turns out the author was basically right. I climb carefully over the sill and I’m in the flat. Hopefully, nobody saw my movements from the street. Now I can take a look round, provided I keep away from the windows. In the kitchen I find a stale loaf of bread, a little pasta that’s long gone to mold, and two jars of home-pickled vegetables. The tomatoes are just what I need! And I can dip the bread in the pickle juice. I even find a little water to wash it down with. When I turn the tap, however, there’s nothing but a sad whistle – the pipes are empty. Now I can stop holding my breath.
Basically, my escape was a success. It was all improvisation, but what choice did I have? Yes, I did cripple one of the beam-carriers, and it’s quite possible I killed the second by jumping on him from the landing between the first and second floors. Let the great moral guardians weep and wail, but I don’t feel the even slightest pangs of conscience. Nothing of the sort. This very night, my cell-mates, as I guess we can call them, would have held my arms and legs while one of their number beat shit out of me. And I’m sure they’d all have slept soundly afterwards. Soon after that, one of the beam-carriers would have dropped that steel girder on my foot, and again I doubt their conscience would have bothered them much. “You die today, and I’ll live till tomorrow!” Well, I’ve no desire to die just yet. I wouldn’t want to give the long-haired foreman the pleasure. Dare I hope that he’s getting the mother of all bollockings right now?
I told the bandits my address, so it’s quite possible that somebody remembers it. No doubt they’ll wait for me there. And good luck to them. Perhaps they’ll even take a look inside. I’m all for it. There’s nothing of any use to me there anyway. Everything I need I’ll have to rustle up somewhere else. In these abandoned flats, for example. Why should I leave all the good stuff to the bandits?
Makar and his henchman are clearing out buildings gradually and methodically, leaving no stone unturned. At that rate, they won’t even reach this building for a long while yet. So I can afford to rest for a while – Makar won’t be looking for me this close to his “manor”. He is, however, quite capable of sending a couple of his thugs round to my home, but there’ll be no joy for them there. I’ve still got enough of my senses about me.
My sleep wasn’t the most peaceful – someone managed to get up a shootout nearby. Not right next to the building, which was something to be grateful for. Still, it reminded me that I need to get out of here.
A search of the flat, following the methodology taught me by the bandits, brought only fairly modest results – clearly the former occupants were not rich. Apart from the home-pickled gherkins, I found apples and three tins – of mackerel, salmon, and tea. Which really wasn’t bad. Plus some sugar. The rest was junk. I didn’t bother to take the overcoat – not the season yet, but I did grab a leather jacket, even if it was a little worn. None of the shoes were my size, unfortunately.
I sit and wait for night. Not because I can see like an owl, but because nobody else will have that advantage either. And I do know where I’m going. As I say, my visual memory is pretty good. So, step by baby step, or even crawling, I’m out of here. On my way towards home and as far as possible from this dump.
To be honest, I even snoozed for a while – my nerves weren’t up to the waiting. When I awoke, it was already dark enough outside to hide the neighbouring building. I really had no idea that it could ever get this dark in the city. One way or another, there was always light somewhere. Even when there were power-cuts, somebody always found a light of some sort. But now it was absolutely pitch black! No fires, no lights. It was even a little frightening.
Then there were the sounds. The sounds of Tarkov used to be completely different. Now even the sound of the wind on the windows sounded strange. Somewhere there’s a creaking noise of some sort. Apparently someone forgot to close a door. Then there’s the rustle of all sorts of rubbish blowing in the breeze. And no sound of footsteps of car engines whatsoever.
Still, I need to move. I won’t last long here with almost nothing to eat. And if I start gutting apartments like Makar’s gang,