Predator. Escape from Tarkov
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I wasn’t expecting such an outburst of emotion, and couldn’t work out straight away how to answer.
“It’s chaos… Some guys with assault rifles shot a bloke right in front of me, and the police never showed!”
He starts to pace nervously round the flat. From what he’s saying, I gradually begin to understand that the situation is much worse than I assumed.
Chaos, or more accurately organized disorder, had already taken hold of the whole city. Shootouts on the streets. The police had vanished somewhere, and nobody was doing anything to stop these sudden skirmishes. It wasn’t at all clear who was fighting who. On his way to my place, Pasha had also been shot at, and only the speed of his car had saved him. He’d gone to see Frolov first, and found his corpse in the doorway. Someone had shot Misha several times in the chest, then finished him off on the floor with a shot to the head.
“I knelt down beside him, and suddenly I hear someone moving around inside. I legged it!”
“Why did you come here?”
“You live nearby, and you’re a better driver than me.”
That’s true. Pasha bought his license, but sadly couldn’t also buy the ability to drive the Mazda he bought on credit. He could just about manage to get around the city without crashing, but out on the highway it was a different story.
“It’s time to go. Right now!”
“Hang about, I’ve got to get my stuff together.”
“What stuff? Do you really not get it? We need to leave. Fast.”
Say what you will about Pasha, he can be convincing. I just couldn’t find any objections. Followed round the flat by his constant shouting, I feverishly shoved anything useful I could find into a backpack. It wasn’t even my biggest backpack, but sad to say there was still plenty of space to spare. I used to think everything I had was necessary and useful. Like hell! Outside the flat, it wasn’t worth a thing. What on earth was I going to do, for example, with a golf club, even if it was signed by the vice-president of Terra Group?
Slamming the door, we head downstairs. In the entrance, we’re met by another familiar face – Demyan Slootskiy. A programmer just like me, although he works in the next department. The funny thing is that we even look quite alike. In the office, they joke that it’s the job that smooths out the differences in appearance. And he and Pasha are almost neighbours, live on the same staircase. Galperin must have left him in the yard on purpose to guard the car. He had a point, I guess, although what exactly could Demyan do against even one armed man? We quickly load up my stuff and get into the car. It’s warm inside. Pasha’s even kept the engine running, with the heater working all this time.
“I’m thirsty,” whines Slootskiy.
“Well, I’ve got mineral water upstairs. And we’ve got a long road ahead of us.”
“Just get it fast, then. And what are you taking your jacket for, for Christ’s sake?”
Good point. I even managed to work up a sweat with all this running around. Why would I put it on?
I dash back into the building, up in the lift, through the door, and there’s the water on the table.
I grab the bottle and slam the door. The lift sings its little song, and I’m back on the ground floor. I run towards the steps. Shit, my laces! I almost went arse over tip. I crouch down…
Bang! Bang!
“Aaaaa!” A wild shriek sweeps in from the yard. It bounces off the glass and echoes deep in the entryway.
“Shut him up!”
Two more shots cracked dryly.
“Now they’re done twitching.”
“Check their documents. Bags, coats. Go through everything.”
I press myself into a niche in the foyer. There were supposed to be flowers here, but no one ever got the money together.
“That’s Galperin. His photo’s right here on his license.”
“Who’s the other one?”
“He’s got nothing with him.”
“Then get up those fucking stairs! Karasev should live here, too, and he’s on the list. Third floor, flat 15. No hanging around.”
I hear steps and try to make my spine grow into the concrete. True, there’s no light in the entryway, thanks to the unknown lightbulb thief. But they might have a torch with them…
“Boss, there’s a pass card here. It’s Karasev.”
“So that’s who he was hurrying to see. I guess he made it that far. Makes no difference, we still have to search the flat. Who knows what he’s got up there?”
Again I heard boots on tarmac. Now they’ll come through the door and shine their torches around. But then, why would they? What do they need light for in here? It’s not that dark outside yet, they may not have torches, and the lift door is always lit up with LEDs. You can’t miss it. And that’s exactly what happened. A couple of the bad guys made straight for the lift without hesitating, and only at the last minute did one of them shine a light on the call button for some reason. The lift played its little tune, and the cabin rose to my floor.
So far, so good. Now they go up there, break into my flat somehow, take a look around, and then what?
I don’t know exactly what they’re looking for, but it’s going to take them all of five minutes to turn everything in there upside down. I don’t have that much furniture in the flat – it’s all modern minimalism. And then… Then they come back down. Makes no difference how they come, on foot down the staircase or back in the lift. Either way, they’ll see me. My niche is easily visible from the bottom of the staircase and from the lift door. And now I know they have a torch.
So, I’ve got five minutes left, have I? Well, maybe six or seven. They’ll bury me here. Should I run outside? Yeah, right. How many of them are there out by the car? Perhaps they’re all deaf and blind? No, it’s really not funny.
I don’t know quite what got into me, but instead of looking for a safer hiding place, I took off running up the staircase. The stairwells in our house are also all modern and minimalist, too, with no recesses or twists. Wherever you go, you can see everything. And there’s no need for a torch, the lights are still on. I did at least have the brains to keep quiet, even taking off my shoes and climbing the stairs in my socks. First floor, second floor. Above me there was a crash and a screeching sound. My poor door!