I dozed for a little over two hours when the hubbub of stalker conversations finally woke me up. As far as I remember, the game said that there aren't that many people in the Zone, but it doesn't feel like it. Here, in the Abandoned Town alone, I met about twenty, maybe a little more, stalkers, and how many are in the village near Krokhobor? How many in that bar? Although, this is the southern part of the Zone, where there are almost no artifacts, no serious mutants, no anomalies, maybe that's why there are so many people here.
Alright, I'll have to get up. There's a lot to do before bed. I sit on the bed, take the weapon cleaning kit out of my bag, and draw the Makarov from its holster. I remove the magazine, check the chamber, it's empty, pull back the slide, bring it forward, and re-rack it. I remove the recoil spring and start cleaning. It's as if I was given the knowledge of how to do it correctly, even though I disassembled and assembled a pistol many years ago when I attended a shooting club. And that was a TT, not a Makarov. I had to fiddle with the pistol a bit because my predecessor hadn't taken great care of the weapon. I thought about cleaning the sawed-off shotgun after the pistol, but it was in acceptable condition, nothing needed to be done.
I put the sawed-off shotgun in the bag and wonder if I should put the bag in the nightstand if it fits. I open it and find a set of clothes: a pair of underwear, a couple of undershirts, sweatpants, and a few rolled-up socks. Besides clothes, there was soap, shampoo, a pack of disposable razors, and a toothbrush with toothpaste. There was even a towel. Well, at least I won't have to improvise with hygiene. I shove the bag into the nightstand, taking out matches, a pack of pasta with stewed meat, and a pot, and head outside.
While I'm looking for a place to make a campfire for cooking, a stalker calls out to me.
"Hey, you in the leather jacket!" a tall guy with stubble says, beckoning me over. "Are you planning to cook? Come with us, we'll cook together for everyone, we even have a kazan for it, Old Man managed to bring it."
"You're the old fart, I'm still young," grumbles a man with a wrinkled face and gray hair in a grandfatherly tone. Then he turns to me. "Sit down, and we'll eat, chat, and have a drink."
"I'm already sitting," I say, and take a few steps towards the campfire, where three stalkers were sitting. I hand my food to Old Man, who immediately opens it and starts cooking.
"You already know Old Man," the tall one smiles. "They call me Spielberg, I was a director back on the mainland, so it stuck. And this is..."
"Shtyr," introduces a very young stalker in a hood.
"Ha, Shtyr!" the old man joins the conversation. "I knew five such Shtyrs, you'll be the sixth. And, I tell you, you'd better change your nickname. Shtyrs don't last long in the Zone. And what's your name, young man?"
"I don't have one yet, no nickname," I say, settling comfortably on an overturned wooden crate, with Old Man sitting to my right and Spielberg to my left.
"Well, that's fine, the Zone will give you one," the old man chuckles, stirring the pasta with a spoon, and the director nods understandingly.
"Well, at least tell us your name, since you haven't chosen a nickname for yourself," Shtyr interjects and immediately falters at Spielberg's stern look. "What? Did I say something wrong?"
"Ah, young and green," Old Man begins, still stirring the stew. "Mark my words, you might live longer. It's not customary here to ask how a person is recorded in their passport, or what they did in the outside world. Otherwise, they'll sketch you, this curious one, you'll leave the camp and end up in a ditch with a knife in your back."
"Uh, you mean, for what?" Shtyr asks, surprised, and leans forward, causing his hood to lift, revealing his chestnut, slightly
curly hair.
"For good reason, that's why!" Spielberg begins to explain. "There are many former inmates here, murderers, and other not-so-pleasant people, and almost all of them won't appreciate such interest in themselves. You live, let others live, and don't pry into anyone's business with extra questions unless they allow it, and even then, be careful with your questions."
Shtyr opened his mouth, but immediately closed it, and one could see his face paling in the flickering firelight. Apparently, he had bothered many people with such questions.
"Don't worry, kid," the old man patted him on the knee, shifting his attention back to himself. "People like that don't last long in these parts, they almost immediately go to their own, devilish brothers, but you'll learn a lesson if you head to the north of the Zone."
"Have you been there?" I interject into the conversation. "It would be interesting to hear stories from a Zone veteran, if you don't mind."
"Oh-oh-oh, you'll go far, kid," the old man grins, picking up a strand of pasta with his spoon, tasting it. "No, it still needs to simmer. And don't call me 'you'. But yes, I've been there. But I've never gone beyond Rostok. My years aren't what they used to be. But I've crawled around the Cordon and the Garbage quite a bit."
"And how is it there?" Shtyr became quite animated. "Are there many artifacts? And anomalies and mutants?"
"Heh, you almost shat yourself not long ago, and now you're asking, huh?" the old man laughed. "Well, listen. There are many anomalies, and quite a few mutants. The main thing is to watch your surroundings and your feet. If you see something suspicious, throw pebbles or something small and heavy, which is easier to keep track of. But anomalies are fine, you can always go around them, and mutants can be shot or run away from if you're fast enough. The biggest trouble there is people themselves. So many good guys have died. Oh, it's ready, I'll drain the water now."
"And you didn't tell us about artifacts," the young man says, looking at the old man's back as he drains the water from the pasta.
"Well, I can tell you about artifacts," Spielberg replies. "I've only been in the Zone for a short while, of course, about half a year. But I've also been to the Cordon and the Garbage, and I've collected those trinkets."
"And what, are there many of them there?"
"No, not that many, even few," says the director, opening cans of stewed meat. "They are very rare, so hardly any stalker makes a living from them constantly. Although they say that the newcomer brought an artifact to Krokhobor, apparently from the Boiler Room. Usually, they earn money by hunting or digging."
"I should go there, maybe there's something else," Shtyr says, encouraged.
"Digging?" I lean forward, asking the question.
"Khe-khe-khe," Old Man coughs, putting the kazan back on the fire and dumping the stewed meat into it. "Damn. It's just diggers, they dig up everything that was buried back in '86. Sometimes they crawl through underground passages, looking for something valuable, but they rarely get lucky. If not mutants, then radiation will get them."
"Well, you can't say that, recently there was a rumor among us that some laboratory was found in the Dark Valley," Spielberg objects.
"Aha-aha, keep your pocket wide open, it'll be more convenient to relieve yourself in it," Old Man laughs. "There were such rumors a year ago, and two, and three, and where are all these laboratories now? They don't exist, and never did, it's all lies."
"And the mutants? If scientists didn't do it, then how did all this appear here?" the director replies, and an argument begins.
"There's only one answer - radiation, and that's it, period. Never in history have there been such large-scale accidents at nuclear power plants as then. And here, the residents didn't leave their homes for a long time, so you have mutants."
"It's burning," I interject into their argument. "Let's continue the dispute after we eat, okay? I'm unbearably hungry."
I bring a makeshift plate from the kazan lid to the kazan, and Old Man serves me a portion of pasta with stewed meat. I'm starting to understand why my predecessor didn't have a kazan. Cooking together is more convenient than cooking for oneself. And you can talk to people. After eating, I put the dirty dishes aside.
"Well, guys, everyone eaten?" Old Man asks. "Let's remember our brother stalkers, who were eaten by the Zone, damn it."
The old man takes a bottle of vodka from his bag, exhales, and takes a big gulp. He winces, shakes his head slightly, and passes the bottle to the newcomer, who repeats Old Man's actions, but winces much more and gives the small bottle to Spielberg, who then gives it to me. The bitter liquid burns my mouth and throat, I've never liked vodka, but it's awkward to refuse. The bottle returns to its owner, and he puts it back in his bag. After that, the conversation didn't go well, the director left first, followed by Shtyr.
"Well, it's time for us to go," the old man says, getting up from his crate with a groan, bends down to pick up the kazan, but curses.
"Need help?" I get up and approach Old Man.
"No, I'll manage myself, but you know what, yes, help me, my back is acting up. Come to my place, I'll give you a sponge and some cleaner," he says.
I pick up the kazan and follow the slowly walking old man, who heads straight for a locked single-story house. He takes out keys and opens the door, turning to me.
"What are you gawking at? Come in," he says and walks inside. I follow him down the corridor, and he stops me right in the corridor. "Stay here, you're a good guy, you should understand."
I nod understandingly, he doesn't want anyone to see his possessions. I examine the corridor: peeling beige wallpaper in places with pictures of some flowers, torn and in some places even ripped pieces of linoleum, and wooden boards visible in the gaps. I didn't have to wait long for the old man. The door to the main part of the house opened, and the old man came out into the corridor with a sponge and cleaning agent in his hands.
Ten minutes later, I return from the water pump with a clean kazan to the old man, open the first door and knock on the second.
"Thanks, kid, you helped me out," Old Man nods, taking the dishes from my hands. "Listen, it's kind of awkward that you helped me, and I didn't give you anything in return. Maybe I can draw some warm water for you to wash up?"
"That would be nice," I reply, and a minute later, I'm handed two 1.5-liter bottles of warm water.
"You can keep them, I have plenty. Well, goodbye, kid," he says and slams the door in front of me, after which I hear the lock click.
Washing up was indeed good, I had sweated a lot today, and I needed to wash my clothes too. I head for clean clothes and toiletries in the basement, asking Pirol on the way where I can take a bath. I get directed to one of the rooms in that basement. After finishing washing and doing my laundry as best I could, I note that it's past ten in the evening.
"Pirol, where can I charge my PDA here?" I ask, drying my hair with a towel, coming out of the bathroom and asking the important question.
"At Shtolts's, in the garage, he has a generator there," he replies, boredly scrolling through something on his PDA, sighs, and then points to one of the stalkers playing cards. "But he's playing cards now. So, only tomorrow."
"A generator? And where does he get fuel from?" I'm surprised.
"Stalkers bring it themselves. Generators are only at large bases, and at ours. That's why there are so many people from the Cordon here, it's several hours straight walk, but they still come."
"Well, okay, thanks, I'll go see him in the morning," I yawn and stretch. "And I'm off to bed."
Before going to bed, I check if everything is in place. Everything is here. I hide the pistol on safety under the pillow and lie down comfortably, covering myself with a blanket and closing my eyes...
I wake up in complete silence and get out of bed, stretching and looking around. The number of stalkers has significantly decreased compared to last night. A few people were sleeping, two more were sitting at a table whispering about something, no one else was there. And yesterday there were about ten people here, no less. Well, whatever. I grab the toothpaste and brush from the nightstand and head to the bathroom to wash up and brush my teeth.
"Good morning," I say to Pirol, who has been standing at his counter since morning. He looked very gloomy and was mechanically wiping the table. "Why are you so gloomy?"
"Old Man was killed, right in his house," he says and looks up at me with bloodshot capillaries.
"What? When?" I sit on a high stool at the counter, fidgeting on it, and internally worrying that I might be suspected of killing Old Man.
"At night, some creature stabbed him, several knife wounds," Pirol exhales angrily.
"And me?.."
"No, no, everyone knows you had nothing to do with it. At first, of course, they thought of you, but the guards saw Old Man go outside after you had already left him," the stalker says and throws a dirty rag on the table. "And the worst part is that half the camp is walking around as suspects."
"How so? Did no one see anyone go to him?"
"Yes, they saw, but what's the point? The night was bright, and damn it, no one noticed anything but a silhouette. And who knows, maybe someone needed urgent repairs, it's happened before. Old Man was doing repairs, and he had the generator, and he was fixing weapons, and looking after the water pump, damn it!" Pirol's fist hit the tabletop. "I'll find out who did it, and I'll strangle them with my own hands!"
"We'll figure it out, Pirol," I get up from the chair. "We'll find the one who did it."