I lead the dejected girl by the elbow outside; she reluctantly moves her legs and remains silent, her eyes downcast. What happened to her was terrible, and now it became clear what Pyatno's words meant. And I even thought everything would end well, but... no. My heart slightly ached at the realization that even with the clinic and Chekhov's help, Shnyga would hardly ever return to his sister as the same person.
Under the uncomprehending and tired glances of some Freedomers who were seeing us off, we go outside, where dusk is already setting in. And we still need to find lodging, settle in, and sort out food... However, I'm not thinking about that. I lead the girl aside, to the left, towards the fence of concrete slabs, closer to one of the sniper towers. No one will overhear us here, although, to be honest, I don't understand at all what can be said in such a situation.
"I'm sorry," I utter this perfunctory phrase with almost only my lips, and Liza, looking at me with eyes reddened by burst capillaries, rushes forward and tightly hugs my torso. I purse my lips, suppressing any hint of groans from the pain that pierces me, and hug her back.
One awkward minute passes, then a second, a third... The girl whimpers softly, pressing into my chest, and I gently stroke her tangled hair. Occasionally, I glance around, and it's visible how some of the stalkers are looking in our direction with smirks on their faces and even pointing fingers. Well, yes, such contact between two stalkers looks somewhat strange... Sigh.
"Executioner," she calls me softly.
"Yes?" I reply in the same volume, continuing to run my hand over her scalp.
"Will they help him?" she asks, after a slight pause. "In the clinic..."
"Definitely," a lie escapes my lips faster than I could think about the answer.
"Thank you for everything you've done for me... If I can somehow repay you, then..." the tears that seemed to have gone returned, and each word was harder than the previous one.
"No, you don't owe me anything," I brush away images of an indecent nature that flash before my eyes... "Chekhov will pay me back... And, let's go, okay?"
"Okay..."
So, now I need to ask where we'll be sleeping, but I don't really want to go back to the leader of Freedom for this question. Ah, right. I have his contact saved in my PDA. I pick up the communicator, find him in the contact list, and send a short message.
Executioner: This is Executioner. Where should we stay for the night? And I need the most complete information on the mercenary case.
07/20/2011, 18:59.
Chekhov: Ha, and I was already going to send for you! Contact Ganja; he's the bartender at Freedom's Throat. He'll get you drunk, feed you, and put you to bed, except he won't rock you in a cradle, haha!
As for our case – come tomorrow morning, around 11, and I'll show you a map with marked meeting points and all that.
07/20/2011, 19:00.
Executioner: Understood.
07/20/2011, 19:00.
There, I've already found something to do for tomorrow morning. Of course, "dealing with" the mercenaries will be no trouble for me – I already know where they're coming from. It's just that I can't just point them out; they won't believe me, and unnecessary questions will arise. Like, how, and from where... Of course, I could brush it off by using Scar's name, but it's better to avoid any suspicion.
I put the PDA back in my pocket and, turning towards the main part of the camp, head straight for the bar. I glance over my shoulder to see Liza trotting behind
me with small, slow steps. Judging by her appearance, she's doing a little better now than twenty minutes ago. That's good.
The closer we got to the bar, the louder the music and conversations became. Overall, the local drinking establishment was no different from Dolg's. The same tables, made of rough, crooked countertops and barrels filled with pebbles, the absence of chairs, and a rather meager assortment by normal standards. Only "A Sip of Freedom" was practically outdoors, if one could say that. Despite having a roof over their heads, two of the four walls were missing, meaning this place was drafty as hell.
"Hey, guys!" the bartender greets us loudly with a wide smile, waving his hand. The other Freedom members gathered here glance at us but quickly lose interest, returning to their conversations. "Is it about you guys that Chekhov told me about, huh? Come on, don't be strangers, come in and recharge with positive energy!"
"I prefer to recharge with something more substantial," I reply, stepping closer and looking into Ganja's face. A smiling stalker with bright blue eyes and a neatly trimmed beard. "What's on the menu?"
"If it's ready-made, not much, brother," the bartender leans on the counter with his elbows. "For eating - stewed meat and crackers, for drinking - water, and for relaxing - vodka and weed. You can mix them, of course, but it'll knock you out."
"So you're the one who got my brother hooked?" Lisa says quietly, but with open anger in her voice, and I notice her small fists clenching.
"Uh, no, sis," Ganja shakes his head. "I might be guilty, but I only offer, they buy themselves. If Shmyga wanted to quit, he would have done it long ago. But he doesn't want to, he's running from reality, from cosmic loneliness. He's giving off such bad vibes."
"From reality?" I catch the word. "What happened to him?"
"It's the mercenaries, all of it," the bartender shrugs, turning his head towards the fence. "Shmyga ended up here not long after me, we practically started together. I organized this bar, I feed and water our guys..."
"And you supply weed," Lisa grumbles indignantly, turning away.
"And I listen," Ganja continues, completely ignoring the girl's outbursts, smiling broadly. "About the Zone, about problems... I exchange negativity for positivity, haha. But Shmyga went out into the fields. With one group, then another... He was a good stalker. Much later, when the mercenaries appeared, his group was wiped out. Not the first ones by a long shot. And Shnyga stayed at the base with a stomach ache. Many thought he chickened out. They started looking at him unkindly, gossiping..."
"And he couldn't take it and got more addicted to weed until everything got too bad," I finish his thought.
"You understand, dude," Ganja peels himself off the counter and smiles a little sadly. "You're a good stalker too. Your energy is powerful, it just overflows. But, well. What are you going to take?"
"Something vegetable, a couple of cans, a couple of beefs, and crackers," I answer, smirking mentally. It's no wonder my energy is powerful, having gone through so many gurus...
Then Ganja led us into a completely empty part of the building, connecting the bar and Uncle Yar's workshop. We climbed to the very top – the third floor, where sleeping bags were already waiting for us. Well, it's better in an empty ruin than under the open sky. I drop my backpack here and head down. I need to at least gather some branches for a fire to warm up the food.
The same place, deep night.
Yeah, Chekhov really picked a spot for us. The winds are howling, and if you stick anything out of your sleeping bag, that part of your body freezes almost instantly. And this on a summer night! But, oh well, at least Liza got a sleeping bag, which is good – I decided to use my old one.
"You damn rascal," I grumble silently, crawling out of my sleeping bag. "Gave us shelter, huh. In fact, it's a hovel with nothing."
I couldn't sleep at all, and thoughts swarmed under my skull like ants searching for food for their entire family. And to quell this sudden itch, I had to act, and act immediately. Why did the mercenaries even come here? Just to shoot at Freedom members out of spite, show them the finger, and run away? No, it couldn't be that simple. Probably one of those things that weren't revealed in the game.
Let's move on. What's interesting here at all? A big stalker clan, abandoned buildings, former production facilities of who knows what, and still plenty of dogs, boars, bloodsuckers, and other vermin. Anomalous fields, on the other hand, seem to be not so many. If, in my memory, there were rumors among newcomers that you could earn good money on artifacts at the Dump by rummaging through garbage piles, then there were no tales about the Dark Valley at all.
And here, only one thing comes to mind. A laboratory. But it's not that easy to get into. Thick walls and a door – even mutants, despite all their desire, couldn't leave this complex, unlike other similar establishments. You need two access codes to enter. One was with the Bartender in the first part, the second with Borov. How they both got them is a mystery.
And if everything is more or less clear with the Bartender – a major trader, on good terms with Duty, connections with Sidorovich, and, God knows, with whom else. Then finding the key with Borov leads to only one thought – he got it completely by chance. And where did Borov go after the events of Clear Sky? That's right, to the Dark Valley, which by then Freedom had already left, heading north.
Putting all of the above together, with the mercenaries' special diligence, it's easy to assume that the coveted key is somewhere here, on Freedom's base. And most likely, it's in their abandoned part – where Borov himself sat in the original. Do I need this key? Probably not much. But I do want to explore the laboratory and collect various documents. The other question is how to negotiate with the Bartender for the second part of the key. And I'll leave that for later.
I pull on my boots, lace them up, and carefully descend the concrete stairs, lost in the night's darkness. The darkness kindly recedes before me with each step, allowing me to peer a little further – my eyes have already adjusted. The echoes of a dying campfire, someone's heartfelt conversations, songs, and a guitar can be heard. Life, despite all the hardships, goes on.
I pass by a wide doorway leading to the bar, from which music flowed with a quiet trill, and step out onto the dark street. I cast a quick glance at the starless sky, shrouded by large clouds. Only the waning moon with a dim yellowish glow occasionally peeked out from behind them. Shivering from the cool breeze, I stretch my shoulders and slowly cross the yard. I pass a large pit, dug here for some unknown reason, and briefly freeze due to a Freedom member emerging from Ashot's shop, but he quickly disappears around the corner towards the bar.
The large gates to the main building of the stalker base were wide open, even despite the possible mercenary attack. Too confident that no one would dare to do such a thing at night? Be that as it may, it works to my advantage now. I cautiously approach, staying on the left side. I press my back against the cold gate leaf, peer inside, and listen to everything that's happening within. Complete silence and darkness, broken only by the generator room, where the equipment was working at full capacity.
After standing there for a while and making sure I wouldn't encounter anyone unexpected, I go inside, also keeping to the left wall. I walk along it, step over a couple of small steps, and find myself a few meters from a metal staircase leading upstairs. I take a few careful steps towards it and, not quite reaching it, turn to a pile of boxes left here, behind which is a wide and completely open window – my chance to get to another part of the inner courtyard unnoticed.
I climb onto a sturdy army crate with my legs, wriggling my elbows and knees until I reach the window frame. I turn around feet first and carefully jump down. As soon as my boots touch the time-worn asphalt, I quickly move around the corner and listen. Besides the sounds from the base, a few dogs howled in the distance, the wind blew, and something nearby gurgled. No one heard me.
I straighten up and, at a brisk pace across the dark yard, head towards the administrative building. I bypass the sparse remains of pipes, lowered and rusted wheels, once, admittedly, almost tripping over some board – I was too engrossed in looking at the tall buildings surrounding me. I wonder, was this extension done after the ChNPP explosion or before? And what did they want to make of this multi-story building...
With these thoughts, I reach a small staircase adjacent to a large brick building, which is where I needed to go. I climb the steps and briefly look back at the tall garage – it seemed like something rustled behind me, but there was nothing visible under the stone arches except aging cars. I shrug, ignoring it, and go inside, turning on a small flashlight as I go.
There, I am met by a small, but wide, and almost virginly empty hall. Besides torn bulletin boards on one wall, a peeling column, and a few scattered papers along with other trash, there were only a few empty and half-broken army crates – regulars in absolutely all places in the Zone. I step down from a small pedestal onto the tiled floor and walk straight to the door visible in the far part of the room.
I emerge into a large hall with a staircase opposite doors that were long ago closed and permanently welded shut. I look around – behind me is an exit to a room with small white tiles, most likely a toilet, a little ahead and to the right is a kind of reception. But there was no guard or anything else there now, only scattered and yellowed sheets
of long-dampened paper and a lone table. To the left, in the far corner, a breach into an unfinished part of the building was visible.
Hmm, I doubt there will be anything valuable there now, I'd better start searching in Borov's office. No sooner said than done. I take a few steps, bypassing the stairs, and begin to ascend the stone steps until I find myself on the second floor. Here I immediately turn left, then right, and reach my destination.
And there, I am met by an already overturned wide table. I snort briefly at this and turn my head to the left – there I see a long and narrow anteroom. Metal lockers along the wall, a substantial-looking desk, and a few meters in front of it, a dilapidated sofa. Apparently, this is where those who sought a meeting with some Soviet director sat, whose office was further on, behind a closed door.
Without losing a second, I approach it, pulling out pre-prepared lock picks from my pocket on the go and applying them to the door lock. After a few minutes, it gives way to me, opening with a loud creak of long-unlubricated hinges. I push it open and follow, entering the dark office. To my left on the floor lies an overturned cabinet, papers are scattered, and somewhere behind the desk in the middle of the office, glints of broken glass are visible.
But all my attention was drawn to a pale skeleton seated behind this desk. With his bony hands clasped in front of him, he had placed them directly on the tabletop before death and died at his post. Nothing could be seen in such poor lighting, but he was dressed very decently by Soviet standards – a good jacket, shirt, and shoes. It seemed as if one could simply wash these clothes and they would be like new, surprisingly.
"I'm very sorry," my lips whisper as I carefully lift the chair with the skeleton by the back and seat, trying not to shake him, and move it slightly aside.
Having made sure that the deceased director had all his limbs in place, I begin to search the inner drawers of the desk. Decayed papers, a cracked quill pen with gilding and leaked ink, which had stained everything inside. Okay, and what do we have on the other side? A closed drawer... After a minute of work, I hear the coveted dull click and open it wide.
"Wow," I whistle slightly, looking at the Stechkin pistol lying inside with a couple of magazines. "You were clearly preparing for something bad, huh? Oh, and there's a badge here. So, you are, it turns out, Vadim Mikhailovich Chubko, a whole professor and head of the second agricultural complex. And the first one is probably Agroprom?"
Among other things, inside the drawer, I also found a dust-covered green key card and a note on brittle paper. Not daring to touch it, I pull the drawer out to its full length and shine my flashlight to read the slightly ornate handwriting.
"Dear Vadim Mikhailovich, I am informing you that the Group is extremely dissatisfied with your transgression, and the concealment of the second access card to the laboratory only exacerbates your situation! Think about it, colleague, before it's too late.
I remind you that you have two more days to deliver it to the territory of the Rostok plant!"
Interesting. The Group is probably the C-Consciousness. So, I look back at Chubko, peacefully sitting behind me, this unfortunate man angered them somehow, so they decided to remove him from his job. And he didn't want to compromise, keeping one of the necessary key cards for himself. Plus, this lifts the veil of mystery – the first one is now somewhere on the territory of the future Bar.
But I wasn't given time to think properly, because strange rustling was heard outside. I quickly shove the card into the chest pocket of my jumpsuit and go out into the anteroom to press myself against the window overlooking the gate leading to the inner courtyard, past which I had walked in the evening. And there, without any shame, several shadows jumped over the fence, alas, I couldn't see them better due to my eyes being unaccustomed to the dark.
I need to deal with them quietly, so as not to alarm the whole camp – Chekhov doesn't need to know about such an intrusion, or questions will arise about what the hell I was doing here at night. By this time, the shadows had already disappeared around the corner, and the faint sound of boots echoed through the room.
The same place, the same time.
When Varyag complained to the Vizier, he never thought that the detachment commander would send him at the head of a small group for sabotage at Freedom's base. Disguised in their uniforms, just in case, they went out in pitch darkness and only by a miracle reached the complex's territory without casualties. The Zone itself favored their plan today, if nothing else. At least, that's how the mercenary reassured himself when he felt someone's chilling gaze a minute ago.
"Hey, Varyag," Askold whispered, as soon as they crossed the fence and took up a position around the corner. "What do we do next? The Vizier didn't explain anything properly."
"We'll go inside and get to the roof," he replies, squinting until his eyes hurt at the darkness reigning everywhere. Occasionally, he thought he saw someone in it, but he tried to push that nasty feeling away. As mystical as the Zone might be, there was nowhere for an enemy to be here. "And then we'll lie there for a couple of days under the sun while we sketch the area."
"You should have said so earlier, I would have at least brought my swim trunks, gha-ha-ha!" Askold laughed hoarsely.
"Quiet, you," El hissed at him, immediately turning to Varyag: "Are there any mutants or other dangers there?"
"The Vizier said that Shershen's group found nothing," the mercenary shrugs. "Well, no more questions? Then let's go!"
The detachment, led by the blond mercenary, rushes into the depths of the premises of the unknown enterprise. They move quietly and quickly, overcoming room after room. First, they enter a spacious hall through a long corridor with a small staircase, then they rush into a breach leading to an unfinished building. Fortunately, they were able to find the building's construction plan in one of the factory workshops, as well as blueprints with the layout of the entire complex. Alas, Freedom members were not marked there.
They didn't have to wander through the brick corridors for long – the staircase leading upstairs was found almost immediately. And the detachment reached the roof in just a few minutes since their infiltration. Whatever one may say, Freedom's security measures were terrible.
"Hey, Varyag," Askold called the commander again, dropping his backpack with belongings on the floor. "I, uh, need to relieve myself."
"Again? You did that before leaving the base?!" Varyag hissed angrily.
"Not again, but again!" the mercenary grumbled in response. "What can I do if I want to?"
"Let him go already," another mercenary, the last member of the observation group, said quietly. "The shit-ass Askold is not something you'll want to lie on the roof with for two days."
"So that he returns in five minutes," Varyag throws over his shoulder, displeased.
One floor below, same time.
The mercenary quickly descends the stairs to do his dirty business one floor below. Upon exiting the staircase, he immediately turns left, entering a small room. And as soon as Askold begins to pull down his pants, a razor-sharp blade cuts through the skin with veins and arteries on his neck. The mercenary tries to scream from the sharp pain that fills his mind, but only manages to wheeze, clutching his wide wound with his hands.
"You're such a stinker," someone's voice whispers in the darkness as the unconscious mercenary falls to the ground, involuntarily defecating.
One floor above, a few minutes later.
"I'll go get him, Varyag," El sighs quietly, getting up from his crouch. "I'll hurry him up."
"Yeah," is all the group leader replies, watching the party in "A Sip of Freedom" ignite.
The tall but thin mercenary slowly descends. He has no desire to look at Askold, the most disgusting of all the mercenaries he has ever known, defecating. Therefore, El postponed this forced meeting as much as possible, as if giving him a chance to finish his business before he found him.
But as soon as his right foot stepped off the last step, something quickly twitched in the darkness, and the last thing El felt was a sharp sting piercing his chin along with his tongue and going further into his skull. The killer catches the body, not letting it fall, and quietly lays it directly on the steps, only then removing the blade from his chin.
The roof, a minute later.
The unsuspecting Varyag continued to observe the Freedom members, sincerely envying them deep down. He also wanted to drop everything and rest, with friends, with drinks, and with juicy girls. Everything to be beautiful, but with the latter in the Zone, as with the former, it was tough. It wasn't easy for one of the youngest mercenaries to make friends with other, more seasoned colleagues. So he got the taciturn El and the shit-ass Askold for his team.
Then he turns his binoculars to the third floor, in the extension of which the stalker bar is located, and gasps in surprise. Right in the window of the third floor, leaning against the brickwork, stood a beautiful girl, admiring the night sky.
"Damn it!" the mercenary exclaims muffledly, clenching his hands tighter, feeling blood rush to his starved organ.
"Swearing is not good," an unfamiliar voice replies.
And Varyag literally turned to stone from the horror that washed over him, imagining what he would have to go through if he were captured alive. No, he wouldn't let them! The mercenary tries to turn over and grab his pistol in its holster, but the unknown person presses his spine to the point of cracking with his knee. And Varyag himself feels cold steel approaching his neck.
"You
shouldn't have come here, you really shouldn't have..." these words echo in his dying consciousness.