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.
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