Predator. Escape from Tarkov
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“What’s in the bag?”
“It’s empty. I was going shopping. For food.”
They tug the bag from my shoulder and turn it inside out.
“Show us some ID.”
“I’ve only got my work pass with me.”
“Let’s see it.”
I pull the pass in its plastic cover out of my pocket.
“So… Karasev, Denis Viktorovich?”
“That’s me.”
“The photo looks like you. Where do you live?”
“Larch Alley, 5. Flat 15. On the third floor.”
My interrogator turns to his comrades, who have now finished searching the corpse and are slowly moving towards us.
“Hey, Commander! This guy’s a local. Lives near here. He came out to do some shopping, would you believe?”
“Are you shitting me or what?”
They surround me, go through my bag again, and pat down my pockets.
“Absolutely empty! Where do these morons come from?”
“Why, what’s happened?” I ask carefully.
“How did you get to be so naive?”
“We had a work crisis… Didn’t leave our desks for nearly a week. We even slept there.”
One of the new arrivals, judging by the attitude of the others towards him the commander himself, laughs.
“All hell’s broken loose!”
“Is it war?”
“Not yet, it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean it won’t be. Nearly all the civilian population’s gone already. Today they closed all the exit routes.”
“But… What should I do? They have to get us out of here!”
“The powers that be have already moved everyone who needs moving. Come on, boys. We’ve still got two stops to make.”
They’ve lost interest in me. The officers returned my work pass and turned to go.
“Wait! What about the shop? Where can I get some food?”
“Vasya, give the poor sod something.”
A couple of tins are dropped at my feet. Without turning back, the assault rifles disappear around the corner.
It’s all a bit too much… They’ve just killed a guy! Surely the police should be here, examining everything, writing up a report of some sort. And what about me? What am I supposed to do? Am I witness? But then I didn’t really see anything.
Having picked up the tins, I step round the dead body and take a look through the smashed window. Not much left for me, then. Looks like the shelves have been stripped of everything. All that remains are a few bottles of mineral water lying here and there. Does that mean the dead guy refused to share something with the officers? And they killed him for it without a moment’s hesitation. Christ, it’s kind of scary just going into the shop. But I have to. According to those guys the situation’s the same everywhere.
I climb through the window, trying not to cut myself on the shards of broken glass. So, the bottles go into the bag. What else have we got? Hey, cigarettes! But then, I don’t smoke. Still, a sneaky little voice inside of me keeps saying “Go on, they’re free! And there’s no one around!”
My eyes search for the till as my hand reaches for my credit card. “Idiot! What are you thinking? What use is the bloody till when there’s a dead man in the doorway!” Well, yes. Really, what am I thinking? The card goes back in the wallet, the wallet back in the pocket, and a carton of cigarettes goes into the bag.
There’s no bread, nor are there any more tins. From the look of it, it’s not the first day they’ve been poking around in here – the place has been ransacked. They didn’t take the water, but I guess nobody’s worried about dieting right now. So, what about baby food? Well, if it’s alright for babies, then why not for adults. I can just see myself eating Baby Mum-mum for breakfast.
A loud bang from around the corner tore me from my daydream. Idiot, there’s serious shooting going on out there! Time to get moving.
As I run into my building, I remember what it is that’s been bothering me all this time. The insignia on the commander’s sleeve. During my brief military service, we had all sorts of visitors to battalion headquarters. Officers and other ranks, infantry and all the other more obscure branches. They wore all sorts of different emblems and badges, but one thing they all had in common was that none of them featured foreign letters. But that badge was waving right in front of my face, so I got a pretty good look at it, and the lettering on it was definitely not Russian. A shield with a sword turned with the hilt up, and the inscription BEAR. What branch of the Russian army does that come from? I doubt very much it refers to a police division, either. And as for all those special services agencies, what can you say? Seems unlikely they’d stand for it, either.
On my way home, I noticed that there were far fewer cars in the courtyards. Seems like while I was sitting on the couch watching the news, those with more brains than me were getting the hell out of Tarkov. Well, well, we’ll see. I can’t think of many places where they welcome refugees from distant climes. Or from anywhere, for that matter. This isn’t Europe, and even there they’ve been having trouble recently.
My own building greeted me with darkness in the entryway. Have they turned the power off? But wait, no, the lift’s working. What’s going on? By the light of the torch on my phone it becomes clear – someone’s unscrewed the bulbs. So that’s what we’ve come to, already stealing lightbulbs.
Back in the flat, I lock the door behind me and begin to lay out my spoils on the couch. I didn’t manage to get much, but thank the lord for what I did find. It’s enough to keep the wolf from the door for a day or two.
I put the kettle on the stove, then heard the mellifluous tones of the doorbell. Pasha Galperin’s face appeared on my monitor. What the hell was he here for?
“Door’s open!” I shouted, and the system, ever obedient to my command, unlocked the door.
“Hi!”
“Greetings and salutations! Come on in, I just put the kettle on.”
“Now’s not the time. Did you hear they killed Misha?”
Wait…
“Frolov?”
“Yeah.”
Our system administrator. My colleague. A good-natured goof in round glasses who looked a bit like John Lennon. A totally easy-going, excellent guy. Who could have a problem with him?
“You’re kidding…” I say uncertainly. “Wait, who told you?”
“Don’t you know what’s going on out there!” asks Pasha, his voice rising to a shriek.