Predator

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!”

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, I’ll always be in danger of coming across someone better organized in the business. Then I’ll be back to carrying the beam again, and even that’s not the worst that could happen. Best avoided.

I decide not to leave via the balcony. What do they make doors for, after all? The lock is simple as. I wisely decide not to close it, and instead wedge the spring latch with a piece of paper to stop it snapping shut. I shove more paper in the crack between the stile and the jamb so the door won’t swing open in the breeze. Not straight away, at any rate. Do I need a place I can run to in case of danger? I do indeed, and now I have one.

It was kind of awful in the stairwell. The whistle of the wind sounded very different from the way it did in the apartment.

Carefully pushing the door to the street ajar, I listen for a while to what’s going on… No, nothing I could feel for now.

* * *

The street gives me a chilly greeting, and I mentally congratulate myself on getting hold of a leather jacket. Keeping my eyes (or rather my ears) peeled, I run to the next building. Another street, this time wider than the last. I glance around. My eyes are growing accustomed to the dark, and I can begin to make out the silhouettes of the buildings and the nearby trees. Still quiet for now. I choose my moment and quickly cross the street, coming away from the wall of the apartment building.

Nobody calls out or reacts in any way to my appearance. Great.

And off we go…

Dawn found me not so very far from my usual haunts. There was no point whatsoever in heading for any port, and obviously I wasn’t planning on going home. A meeting with Makar’s errand boys was all I needed to make my happiness complete. But I could always visit my little hidey-hole. And there was the basement office. Clearly no one had busted that open yet. The uninviting sign – “Sanitary Service Solutions” – made it all too obvious there was nothing worth looking for in there. A paper pusher’s paradise, no more. At least, that’s what’s obvious to someone who’s never been there before. Whereas I have. I can’t say I was a regular visitor, but I did pop in from time to time. True, I don’t have a crowbar, but I do have an axe. And some knowledge of the internal set-up of this particular building. If I’d been a little smarter before, I’d have managed without a crowbar. But that’s the thing with good ideas, they don’t always come exactly when you need them.

Anyway, I don’t need to break down the door. Let it stand. There’s another way in, from the opposite end of the basement. To get in there, you don’t need to break anything. The area inside is reasonably clean, or at least contains an unexceptional amount of the sort of junk and dirt that builds up in all places like that. Also, a fair amount of daylight gets through the little windows, so my progress through the narrow corridors is reasonably quick.

And what is it I’m looking for? There it is – a dark metal box fixed in the wall. At first glance, it appears to be just the sort of thing you’d expect to find in a place like this. In fact, that’s exactly what it is – installed here way back when. However, while once upon a time in the age of a long-forgotten empire it contained only telephone switchboards, nowadays… Well, yes, it’s an old communications cabinet for the local telephone network. This is where they used to put them all, before they moved them out onto the street to make servicing easier. Or rather, they installed new, more modern ones outside and left these old things to rot. It was only some considerable time later that some clever sods started to use this one as a way to connect illegally to phone lines. The extensions inside were never fully disconnected – that would have required extra work from somebody… Then there were all sorts of different organizations occupying the building, and the vast majority didn’t work at night. That’s when you could use their phone lines to connect illegally to the internet. To be absolutely clear, the lines were used by hackers sitting in the very offices I was trying so hard to get into. Although back then, they referred to these “pioneers of the internet” by a very different name.

Time passed, and the hackers grew up a little, found some money somewhere, and gradually abandoned their old habits. It was getting more dangerous, too. The government started making pointed hints. The guys in the office found a more respectable and lucrative activity – money laundering. Obviously, no actual money was brought or stored here. Here was where they cobbled together the laundry systems, enthusiastically and on a grand scale. Tarkov’s customs regime meant there was no end to the amount of dirty money that could flow in.

The wire-filled cabinet remained, nonetheless. And nobody, not even the old hands in the office, ever suspected that all that was separating them from the rest of the basement was one metal wall of an old communications cabinet. I, on the other hand, knew all about it – I’d dragged the wires there myself, or at least helped out. It was just one of any number of odd jobs I’d done back in the day. I’d even been a warehouse hand for a while, and fixed and soldered enough mechanisms to make your head spin. Why on earth hadn’t I remembered earlier?

The wall of the cabinet led, as you might expect, straight into the office storeroom. Once I was inside, it took a while to get rid of all the dust and junk I’d gathered on the climb through. I’ll have to think of a way of cleaning up in there for the future.

It was dark in the office. The electricity was turned off. Strange somehow, but it seems like someone’s choosing where to cut the power and where to leave the lights on. Never mind, there’s enough light from the windows to find my way around for now.

I didn’t go into the main office, as there was no chance of finding anything interesting there. There’s a high turnover of workers here, so very few people have time to settle in properly. But the managers’ offices, where I was usually entertained on my visits, might well have something worth searching for.

Standing in the doorway of Vitya’s office, I survey the scene in despair. It’s as if every law enforcement agency in town, followed by the tax inspector, has had a go at turning the place upside down. If they were originally after documents then it looks very much like the tax inspectors, frustrated at not finding what they were after, just grabbed every little thing they might be able to flog to make up for their losses. The wide open cupboards, desk drawers strewn across the floor, and safe door hanging on its hinges all indicate that the offices were not just abandoned in a hurry, but evacuated like they were on fire. Hmmm, not quite what I was expecting to find here.

I trawl through the office rapidly, but apart from a few packs of cigarettes and piles of paper everywhere, all I find is a single unopened bottle of vodka. That’s it. Still, Vitya wasn’t the only manager, was he? There are other offices to take a look at. But they weren’t much different from the first one, perhaps a little less messy.

I found a few boxes of chocolates, some unopened bottles of cognac, and a couple of cans of beer. Apart from that, just a bunch of useless junk. On a coat stand, I found a bag with a laptop in it. The computer was quite old, but appeared to be in working order. On the other hand, the battery level was very low. Shit, does it mean all that effort to get in here was for nothing?

Vitya was nobody’s fool, and I had every reason to think he’d have some useful supplies. Instead I’d found yet more chaos and destruction. Cursing everything, I head back into the main office to see what I can find there.

I’d have been better off not looking. I go back to the boss’s office and flop down in his magnificent leather chair. At least that survived the attack. I take a slug of cognac and eat a couple of chocolates, which slightly improve my foul mood.

Shit, so what do I have in the way of reserves. Enough to live on for two or three days, and that’s already something. I also have a roof over my head. I doubt very much that anyone will try to break in here any time soon. I should pile all this junk up against the entrance door just in case – I’m not planning to use it, in any event. I’ll be coming and going through the cabinet. It’s safer that way.

Hang about! I jump out of the chair. What about the leisure room? Vitya always had one. They used to keep the servers in there. Then, when all the hacking business was over, he turned it into a shag pad. How did they ever get such a big bed through the door? In pieces, obviously. Now then, the door should be somewhere round here. I find it quickly enough, but it takes me a whole lot longer to work out how to open it. I didn’t want to break it down. Who knows, I might need it sometime? Finally, the bookshelf shifted slightly and silently turned on its hinges. There it is!