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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 had suffered a misfortune that morning. The beam they used to break down doors had fallen on his foot. He had returned to the shed with great difficulty, and was now incapacitated.
“So, what happens next? Do they feed us, at least?”
“Yesterday they gave us a little tinned fish. There’s water over there.” He indicated the direction with his head. “There’s a tap in the toilet. I imagine they’ve captured you to replace me. I’m of no further use to them if I can’t walk! I hope that they’ll release me…”
Well, it’s alright for some! He’ll get to go free, but what about me? Will I have to slave away for some… Pavel, seeing my frustration, shook his head. In his view, our situation wasn’t so bad, after all. Sooner or later, the bandits would have looted all the flats they needed, and then what would be the use of their captives, who had to be fed after all?
“You too will be released soon enough, I have no doubt. After a week or so… And the authorities will have to come back here sooner or later. They can’t just abandon the city. Then those men outside will have to justify their actions, and having prisoners will only cause them greater difficulties.”
Can’t say I share his optimism, but there is at least a grain of logic in what he says. Anyway, what was he saying about water?
Having taken a good drink and splashed my face, I took a look around the improvised barracks. I found nothing of any use in the room we were in, and the doors to other rooms were not just locked but boarded over. After wandering around my jail for a while, I drop down onto a mattress left next to the wall. Time for a snooze, perhaps?
I was kicked awake. What the fuck? When did this become the in thing?
“What do you want?”
“What the hell are you doing in my place?”
A skinny, long-haired guy is giving me the evil eye.
“What’s so special about this mattress? There’s plenty more around.”
“Yeah, but this one’s mine.”
All the other inhabitants of the barracks are looking on with interest, it turns out. Granted, there’s not much else for entertainment. I’d take a swing at the guy, but I doubt that beam fell on Pavel’s foot by accident. He said, or at least hinted, as much. So, for now no fighting.
“This lump of crap’s all yours.”
I stand up and turn to go. The long-haired guy aims a swinging kick at me. He aims at me, but I manage to twist out of the way, so his foot goes full force into the wall of the shed. The iron gives a booming echo, and almost immediately a commanding voice is raised outside the door.
“Hey, what the fuck’s going on in there? Keep it down or I’ll be in to sort you out properly!”
It would appear the owner of the voice is a man of his word. Even the long-haired shit-stirrer pipes down instantly, muttering under his breath as he crawls away.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” says Pavel reproachfully. “We shouldn’t fight amongst ourselves.”
“But I didn’t touch him. That was all his own work.”
“That’s Grisha, our foreman. You should try to get along with him.”
“Naturally. Otherwise I get a beam on my foot?”
This offended Pavel, and he turned his back on me. But it looked very much like I was right.
It was remarkable that I got any sleep at all, and what I did get was fairly shaky. I woke up with a start a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure that at least once it was with good reason – somebody drew away from me in the darkness, without making a sound. Half asleep, I decided not to shout or make a fuss. What would be the use? No point in drawing attention to myself. I wait for a while, but nothing else happens.
* * *
“Well, my bare-arsed troops,” shouts the red-haired gorilla who’s got us lined up on parade, “congratulations on our new recruit!”
He nods in my direction.
“So, from now on you’re going to work your little fucking hearts out. And no slacking, or you’ll be getting your dinner for lunch – tomorrow’s lunch! Any questions? No? Then best feet forward!”
We were assigned a section of a new residential building. Our guards led us to it and formed up the whole group out front for instruction, which was short and brutally simple.
The men carrying the beam go first, all the way to the top floor. Then, from top to bottom, they break open the front doors of all the flats using their improvised battering ram. They keep going from floor to floor without stopping. Behind them come the search groups, with two men for each flat. A guard with a pistol goes into each flat first, and keeps an eye on the search group while they work. The guard is also the last to leave. Another guard, this time with a rifle, stands on the top landing of the staircase, keeping watch over the whole process.
You’re allowed to eat anything that’s on the tables or in open tins or jars. You mustn’t open any food packages. Instead you take them out to the landing and sort them by type. Then they’re removed by the porters, a separate section of our crew. As for clothes, coats, trousers, and shoes are stacked separately. Formal wear and all women’s clothes, we leave behind – no one wants them. The same goes for all types of electronics. Any valuables we find, we tell the guard immediately. We are forbidden from touching any weapon whatsoever, including kitchen knives, otherwise we’ll be shot on the spot. And that goes for the offender and whoever’s with them, too. There’s a prize for finding money, valuables, or weapons – two tins of any food your heart desires. You can eat your prize right there and then, but you’re not allowed to share it with anyone, or it’ll be taken away from you.
There’s a whole separate set of rules for medicines. We collect all of them. As for alcohol, special care and attention should be paid. That’s about it.
“Any questions? Anyone hard of hearing? No? Then let’s get on with it!”
Our long-haired foreman stepped forward.
“So, you and you,” he pointed with a dirty finger, “on the beam. And you two.”
That included me.
The guys with the beam have the least enviable job. I understood that from conversations overheard in the morning. They don’t have to run up and down like the porters, and they don’t risk incurring the wrath of the guards like the guys who gut the flats (that’s what they’re called, by the way – “gutters”). But that’s where all the advantages end. Leave aside the fact that carrying the “beam” (a metal girder weighing about seventy kilos with handles welded onto it) is its own special kind of entertainment, once all the doors are broken down you have to help the porters. And there’s no chance of getting hold of anything from the flats being searched. For that you’ll be shot on the spot.
It’s the gutters that have the most “desirable” (but also the riskiest) job. As a rule, the role goes to the guys the foreman gets on with. And I’m on not one of them, hence the beam.
I step up to the girder.
“Wait!” That’s the guard.
Not to me, to the foreman.
“Yes, sir?”
“What have you got that streak of piss on the beam for?”
“We had an injury yesterday.”
“Couldn’t you find someone a bit bigger? He’s all skin and bone, like a kid with rickets.”
“No worry, he’s strong enough.”
The guard didn’t like that.
“Are you fucking deaf, you little shit? What did I just say to you? Change him, now! I had quite enough yesterday with that four-eyed idiot and his broken foot! Maybe you want to carry the fucking girder yourself? No? Then do as you’re fucking told!”
So, I became a porter. The work wasn’t so bad. Pick up more and carry it faster, that’s all there is to it. And whatever you do, don’t drop or break anything, especially not a bottle of booze, or you’ll be right in the shit. They even give us a bonus – if the bounty you carry down in an hour piles up to the height of the senior guard’s hip, then they give you two tins of food – of their choosing. That’s for all of us, eight guys in total. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing. The guys on the beam don’t even get that much.
And off we go. You run upstairs so that you can take more time coming down, and thus not drop anything. You don’t stop for breath – there’ a break once an hour. Up, down, and up again we run.
Running past one of the flats that’s being gutted, I glance inside and see on the wall a photo of a girl in a summer dress. The photo’s big, and taken by a professional photographer. The girl’s life-size, seems almost real. Jesus, was it all so long ago? I used to go out with beautiful girls like that, walk hand in hand. Ninelle… Suddenly, I can smell her perfume.
“Get on with it!”
Alright, alright, I’m running. Back upstairs again. I want a drink, but we’re forbidden from entering the apartments.
“Time out!”
The beam slams to the tarmac. One of the guards has taken the trouble to arrange water for us. Off to one side, a gutter is slurping down the contents of a tin of food. The treasure he found – a gold watch – is now decorating the wrist of the senior guard.
We had earned nothing so far. If the senior guard hadn’t given orders for us to be issued two packs of porridge oats, we’d have gone on grinding our teeth with hunger. Lucky us.
“Enough fun and games!”
Back to the staircase. The lifts in the houses don’t work. It seems like the power’s been turned off. There’s no light in the flats, either. Where necessary, the guards use torches to light the way.
“School’s out!”
Is that really it? It is. We’ve stripped the staircase bare. All the stuff we’ve stolen is too much to carry back in one go. After a quick examination, the senior guard orders a couple of men to keep watch while we carry the first load of loot back to the depot, unload it, and come back for the rest. Fortunately, we don’t have to take the beam back yet – the neighbouring staircase is our next target. The beam is left in one of the apartments, and the men who were carrying it requalify as porters.
We complete another raid. I’m dead on my feet, but instead of sending us straight back to the shed, they line the whole crew up in front of the gates. What have they got planned for us now? A few minutes pass before a procession comes out of the building. Accompanied by a bunch of henchman, a heavyset guy steps forward imposingly.
“That’s Makar,” whispers the man to my left.
“Who’s he?”
“He’s the boss round here – we all work for him.”
And just behind the boss is none other than Pavel himself. Who’d have thought?
“Good evening to you all,” says Makar, raising a hand.
The guards close to us make fierce faces, and we express our “pleasure” with one voice.
“If any of you remember, we promised you that freedom would be the reward for your hard work. Work for the common good! After all, there’s nothing shameful in making sure that property abandoned by careless owners goes to those who have a genuine need for it.”
We, of course, all thought the same, and a murmur of agreement ran through our ranks.
“And so,” said our leader with a dramatic pause, “today, one of our company who is no longer able to work will be allowed to go home. And he won’t be going empty-handed! He will be able to take with him any clothes he wishes, and as much food as he can carry.”
It was strange somehow to hear such genteel speech from the mouth of a gang boss.
On a sign from our leader, the doors to the nearest warehouse are thrown open. Inside, all sorts of clothing are piled up in neat heaps. And we’re not talking about women’s hats or swimwear. No, stored here is exactly what a normal guy would need is this type of situation – strong boots, hard-wearing trousers, and a whole lot of coats – wool, leather, and even military issue camouflage. There’s a separate pile of bags and backpacks, as well as a bunch of handcarts.
Encouraged by kind words from Makar’s henchmen, Pavel gingerly steps into the storeroom. He starts to dig around in the piles of clothing. Gradually growing bolder, he throws off his own clothes and pulls on a good leather jacket and a beautiful pair of boots. Idiot! Even I know that you need to take the tough ones, not the pretty ones that’ll be worn out in a couple of months. He changes his trousers for a newer pair. They allow him to take a trolley, and he disappears round the corner, which must be where they keep all the groceries. Ten minutes later, he reappears with his trolley loaded so high he can barely push it across the tarmac.
“See,” pronounces Makar with a regal wave, “work hard, and the same good fortune awaits you, too!”
The gates are opened with a scrape.
“Tic and Popeye, take the guy home! Make sure no one bothers him on the way!” says our leader. “We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about us.”
Pavel can’t believe his own ears. They’re setting him free with a trolley full of goodies! It’s one thing to convince other people of the truth of your words, and quite something else to suddenly be convinced yourself. Not every optimistic blabbermouth gets that lucky. He smiles a disbelieving smile, waves to us, and turns towards the gates. Just as his hand falls back to his side, I notice a funny badge with a little smiling bear on the right pocket of his coat. I recognize it because the girl who sat next to me in the office had one just like it. Some youth movement or other, I can’t quite remember.
They even gave us a meal, and not a bad one all things considered. To celebrate the great event, apparently. And then, all the celebrations finished. The moment we got back into the shed, somebody gave me a healthy crack on the back of the head. I came to somewhere away from the door. I could hear dripping… Was I next to the toilet?
“He’s awake,” somebody said.
I try to move with no success. Somebody’s sitting on my legs, and my arms are being held tight.
“Listen, smart-arse!” The foreman’s voice comes through the darkness. “Tomorrow, you’re going to tell them just how much you want to carry the beam. Understood?”
“But it’s not up to me! The senior guard decides everything.”
“Makes no difference. You still tell them you want to. Is that fucking clear?”
“Couldn’t be clearer.”
“Alright,” sniffs the foreman. “Rough him up a little, just to make sure he understands I’m not joking.
So they rough me up a little, and I can’t get to sleep for hours.
As we form up on parade next morning, I look at the faces near me in the line. Last night, one of them was sitting on my legs, and someone else was holding my arms. And a third must have been hitting me, two of them couldn’t have managed it alone. So, what now? You’d have thought in the circumstances we should be helping each other. Should be, but in practice this is how it works. If I understand correctly, it’s every man for himself. You die today, and I’ll live till tomorrow. That’s what convicts used to say, I believe. I read about it all somewhere. Seems reasonable to believe that the beam will fall again soon, and this time on my foot. I doubt very much that I’ll be as fortunate as that jammy git Pavel.
We head off down the road. I’ve no desire to look around. What’s there that I haven’t seen already? And what would be the point? Maybe that’s exactly the reason why I noticed that there was a bright stain on the road itself, or on the curb to be exact. My visual memory is pretty good, and it’s often helped me out at work – I notice all sorts of little details on the screen, and fast. I was always the first to spot even one or two figures’ difference in the length of a line of code. To be absolutely exact, the stain wasn’t even on the curb but on the top of the roadside drainage ditch. I slowed my pace and felt my mouth go dry.
The teddy bear! The same one that was on the jammy git’s coat! Next to rust-coloured stains in the sand. And I can swear those stains weren’t there yesterday. I was carrying a bagful of heavy junk at the time, so was looking mostly at my feet. Right in this spot, too, because I remember the way the ditch comes right up next to the tarmac.
So that was where Makar’s lackeys took him yesterday. What now, then? Should 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!”
