I take a small step back, rising from my left knee, and grab the dead mercenary's legs, dragging him away from the edge. Just in case, so that some sharp-eyed Freedom member doesn't see the corpse. Glancing back occasionally so as not to trip over some brick fragment, I head towards the stairs, leaving a wide bloody trail behind us. The best solution now would be to leave the corpses in some windowless room, and if their smell attracts someone, then that will be their problem, not mine.
I find a suitable room next to the shit-ass's last resting place, thankfully the smell hasn't reached here yet. And then I drag the second dead man here and start rummaging through their pockets. Locked PDAs, ammunition, flasks, photographs, and many other small items like lighters, special matches, and a complete lack of money. Nothing interesting or useful. After that, I drag their backpacks and start rummaging through their contents, but there was nothing there either. Food, drink, blankets, loose bullets. It's even a bit disappointing.
But I couldn't do anything about it. I choose the most spacious-looking backpack – a black one, with a bunch of pockets and locks, and stuff it to the brim with food, water, and bullets. At the very top, I put the acquired communicators and the pistols taken from the bodies. I take off the jumpsuit from the last dead man and, picking up their assault rifles – ordinary L-series without attachments – I go outside.
I didn't want to sit in the Dark Valley for too long, nor did I want to play the role of someone who knows nothing about what's happening. But I couldn't point the finger at the mercenaries immediately either. And this means I have to use other cards that I have. I'll get out of the base now, hide the jumpsuit and backpack somewhere aside. And tomorrow, or maybe the day after tomorrow, I'll come with the trophies, saying I dealt with a lone mercenary, here's the jumpsuit and weapon, and the PDA. I'll earn some trust with this, and then it's just a matter of technique.
I quickly descend the stairs, move from one corridor to another, finding myself in a wide hall, and there, crossing it diagonally, I exit onto the street. And, without looking back, I turn around the corner, heading straight for the gates. Without much ingenuity, I simply push the backpack with the jumpsuit through the iron bars, and then take a small run-up, jump, and grab the top crossbar, pulling my body up and throwing it over the fence.
"Ugh," I groan slightly from the dull, aching pain all over my body, which is covered in bruises. "Good thing I dealt with the mercenaries without much trouble..."
Taking a moment to catch my breath, I straighten up and look around to decide where to go. But there's not a speck of light, and in the dim moonlight, only the outlines of nearby buildings and trees can be discerned. But hiding loot at a gas station is, let's say, not the best idea. Too close. I take out my flashlight, turn it on, and head straight from the gate. I quickly cross the road, walk along the concrete fence surrounding the tanks, and emerge into a field dotted with trees and rare anomalies, faintly shimmering in the darkness.
I continue on, looking for a suitable place to stash my gear, until I stumble upon a small but quite steep cliff, from which I would have definitely fallen if not for my flashlight. I sweep the area with my flashlight and a little to the side, to my right, I see a small, makeshift camp. Piled-up mattresses, a small canopy made of stakes and an army tent, a couple of barrels and sacks of stones for cover, and on all this splendor – dried blood and scattered shell casings.
I carefully descend the cliff on the left side, heading down, and make my way to this old camp. A good spot for my hideout. The chances of anyone showing up here anytime soon are slim. It's far from the usual paths, and there are more pleasant places for an overnight stay. And there certainly won't be a guard post here after the whole group of Freedom members was killed.
I approach the camp and only now notice a wide concrete pipe, over a meter and a half in diameter, slightly protruding from a mixture of clay and dirt right into the slope. Uneven edges and a grate, secured with an old, but seemingly massive, lock. Alas, I don't remember all the circumstances of the mercenaries' attacks on Freedom, only that they arrived here through the catacombs. But if we assume that those catacombs can branch throughout the Dark Valley, and this is one of their entrances, then the grate should open. But the lock looks like it would be easier to smash than to try to open with a lockpick or key – it's too rusty.
Not thinking of anything better, I throw my backpack with weapons onto the mattress, which, with a wet squelch, accepted the weight of my load, and walk right up to the grate, pulling on its bars. And the lock easily gives way, opening. Did they hang it just for show, hoping no one would try? Pretty clever.
I could have used this passage for my own purposes, but there were strong reasons "against" it. I don't have a map of the passages, and you can wander through them for an infinitely long time. To end up somewhere wrong or suddenly stumble upon a mercenary squad… However, it'll do for a hideout. Find some blocked-off branch nearby the entrance and leave the backpack with weapons and armor there, and cover it with stones and dust from above.
I pick up the backpack with the loot, tuck the jumpsuit under my arm, and sling three assault rifles over my shoulder. Bowing my head, I enter under the concrete freedom. For the first while, the tunnel goes straight, without turning anywhere, but after about ten minutes or so, the first forks begin. And by a lucky coincidence, I immediately come to a dead end with a large blockage. I clear away some bricks, make a small recess, and put the backpack in there, place the removed jumpsuit on top, and cover everything with stone debris. I lean the weapons against the wall and cover them with a wide iron sheet, which I myself broke off from the main part, buried under the rubble.
"Well, that's it," I shake the dust off my hands with satisfaction. "If you don't look for it purposefully, you won't find it."
Having finished with the hideout, I leave the tunnel, close the grate behind me, and put the fallen lock back in place. I make sure everything is as it was before I arrived, and then return to base. I decide not to go up the slope, but to go along the right side and go around the fuel tanks. I just didn't want to go back the same way. Either it's the stalker tales about not going back the same path, or just a reluctance to jump over the fence and climb through the window like a safecracker.
I walk along the concrete fence surrounding the gas station again until I reach its end and turn left, where I emerge directly at an abandoned building, and from there, in a couple of minutes, I reach the entrance to the base. I enter the territory without any problems – I only catch a strange look from the guard, who was standing a little way from the entrance, practically by Ashot's shop behind stacked boxes.
"Where did you go, hunter?" he asks me, yawning widely and contagiously. "I didn't notice you…"
"Just had to relieve myself, can't do that at your base, can I?" I reply with a slight chuckle. "And besides, I passed by about ten minutes ago. Maybe you weren't looking in the right direction?"
"Ah," he drawls, as if replaying memories in his head, and then slaps his forehead. "Yeah, right. I can't think straight because of the smoking. Go on, man. And if you need to use the toilet, there's a decent one behind Uncle Yar's repair base. Not porcelain, of course, but better than sitting with your bare ass in a clean field."
I briefly thank him and, passing by several merry Freedom members in the bar, head to our sleeping quarters. I had to sweat quite a bit tonight, so there's not much time left for sleep – in a couple of hours it will start to get light, and then I'll have to drop by Chekhov's for a chat.
I quickly go up the stairs to the third floor, where I find a girl awake. She's sitting on the windowsill, leaning her back against the brickwork, with her legs pulled to her chest, looking at the sky, lost in thought. Lisa didn't hear my footsteps even when I got almost right up to her, and I wasn't even trying to be stealthy now – it's a habit.
"Why aren't you sleeping?" I ask her in a quiet voice, trying not to startle her. It would be foolish if she fell out the window because of me.
"You were gone for a long time," the girl replies in a whisper, not flinching at all, and turns to me, not hurrying to get down. "I woke up, and you had gone somewhere… I decided to wait until you came back, then it got boring, and I wanted to admire the night sky, but… You can't see any stars because of the clouds."
"Did you want to talk to me about something?" I ask, approaching the window and looking into the distance – at the dark expanses of the Dark Valley.
"Just to say thank you," she sighs, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "You're doing much more than we agreed upon… And, Executioner, are you sure about the mercenaries? I don't know much about the Zone, life here, or the feuds between factions, but this sounds too dangerous…"
"Don't worry," I stop her. "As I told Chekhov, the matter will be resolved within a week, even sooner. And then you can return with your brother beyond the Perimeter."
"With my brother…" Lisa whispers softly, turning her face away, but even so, I notice how she presses her lips into a thin line. "I waited so long for our meeting, I went through a lot for him, and him? He wanted to sell me like a cheap prostitute for a dose! He… What's left of him
isn't my brother."
"He still has a chance to return," I remark tactfully, not wanting to worsen the situation. "As cliché as it sounds, you have to wait. I'm sure the clinic will have good specialists. Both psychologists and addiction specialists… They'll be able to pull him through."
"And then?" she asks with bitterness in her voice, almost breaking into a scream. "Will Denis really be able to return and give up all this garbage? Drugs, adrenaline, the Zone, in the end?"
"Only time will tell," I shrug. "And, Liz, give him this one chance to redeem himself. Don't turn away from him. It will be more…"
"I understand," the girl interrupts me and turns back. A tired smile is frozen on her face, and tears stream down her cheeks in thin, almost imperceptible, tracks. "I am his sister… Forgive me, I'm too tired. I'm going to sleep… Good night."
"Good night."
Freedom Base, the next morning.
After waking up and the accompanying procedures, I head to the agreed meeting with Chekhov. Lisa, meanwhile, decided to have some fun in the local bar, where the smiling but tired from yesterday's revelry Ganja was busy cleaning. At first, I wanted to take her with me, but I thought this would be even better.
The leader of Freedom himself was already awake and sorting through some papers, sitting at his desk. When I entered the office, he briefly looked up from them and nodded at me, then gestured invitingly to the chair opposite his desk. A few more minutes passed before Chekhov finally finished his work and looked up at me.
"Sorry, Executioner. I called you myself, and then this!…" he says, emphasizing the last word, then falling silent for a moment. "In short, we're in deep shit here. This isolation from the outside world has cost us dearly. Provisions are running out, and we're gradually running short of ammunition, weapons, parts, and other things even for basic needs."
"Are you sure you should be discussing such things with me?" I raise an eyebrow at his words.
"Your remark alone tells me that I can," Chekhov smiles broadly. "In any case, as soon as we're done with the mercenaries, we'll quickly catch up."
"I don't doubt it," I reply briefly. "I need the marked locations of all previous attacks and your assumptions about their numbers, equipment, in short, everything. I could also use a couple of eyewitnesses, if there are any."
"Heh, no eyewitnesses, unfortunately," the Freedom member shrugs, then pulls a small rolled-up map, which I assume is of the Dark Valley, from his desk drawer. "Here, all the skirmishes with the mercenaries are marked. Where there's one circle – it's before the traitor was revealed, where there are two – direct clashes when they went after the commandant and tried to reclaim the antenna, where there are three – everything that happened after those events. Where there are numbers written in pencil – it's the number of encounters. I would have marked them more brightly, but there are no extra terrain maps, and no one here is foolish enough to permanently stain one.
"This is fine," I reply with a winged phrase from a cartoon, leaning closer to the map. So, so, there aren't that many marks, but there were more than twenty encounters – mercenaries attacked some outposts more than once. "And do you have a map of the underground communications?"
"You think they can move underground?" the stalker chuckles, but then shakes his head. "Unfortunately, we don't have anything like that. And most of the passages are blocked, we checked ourselves last year. And I won't believe that the mercenaries could have dug them out on their own. Dolg doesn't have that much money, and the Dolg members themselves wouldn't pick up shovels. No-no, brother, I'm sure they're using some secret path to make raids."
"I wouldn't be so categorical, the Zone is a surprising place, maybe the mercenaries have taken up shovels too," I reply, frowning slightly, and push the map back to the Freedom member. "Are you so sure it's Dolg's doing?"
"Who else?" Chekhov raises his eyebrows in surprise, as if I asked a stupid question. "We have no enemies other than them."
"Well," I scratch my chin thoughtfully. "On my stalker business, I happened to be at Agroprom, and Dolg was not doing well – bandits and mutants had taken over the entire territory, the Reds were barely coping. It seems more logical to hire people to help them than to unleash them on you."
"Uh, no, little brother," he replies. "You don't know them as well as I do. Hiring assistants, what does that mean? Right, losing reputation. Admitting your own inadequacy and inability to monitor occupied territories, wow! You can't just brush that off, they'll remember it for ages, that Dolg is barely coping with mutants. But hiring a group or two to cause us trouble, that's entirely in their style. All's fair in war, as the military likes to say. But thanks for the news, I'm glad our adversary isn't doing too well either. What do you plan to do next?"
"So, I've memorized the locations of the points, I want to go over them and see if there are any traces left," I say, standing up, and preempt his question. "You understand, I'm a hunter. My eye is better at these things than ordinary stalkers."
"M-m," he purses his lips and hesitates a bit before answering. "Alright, go ahead. As they say in Spain – no pasaran!"
"But we will pass. Come on, Chekhov, I'll drop by in the evening."
Freedom's Sip, same time.
A pensive girl stood leaning against the polished counter, watching Ganja work. He swept up broken glass, moved boxes from place to place, and occasionally chatted with every Freedom member who approached him, handing them something from hand to hand – a small paper packet. However, Lisa knew what was inside.
"Why so gloomy, sis?" the bartender asks her, exhaling tiredly. "Want me to pour you something?"
"And why shouldn't I be gloomy?" she replies with some irritation, looking him straight in the eye. "I came here, risking my life, and for what?! Sorry, I shouldn't snap at you."
"Ah, come on," Ganja waves it off with a wide smile. "I can see from your energy that you have a lot of problems in your life, so I understand everything. You can vent to me if you want. Do you know how many people I've listened to in my entire career as a bartender?"
"And have many stalkers complained to you?" Lisa asks with some interest. "And what is this energy you keep talking about?"
"You have no idea how many," a slight smirk spreads across Ganja's face, and he pours a little vodka into a small, worn, but clean shot glass. "And about energy… I don't even know how to say it. I always see what kind of person is good, what kind is bad. Who has everything good, and who has problems…"
"And what kind of person is the Executioner?" the girl says, taking the shot glass in her hands, not hurrying to drink its contents.
"That cowboy?" Ganja asks in return, frowning slightly and recalling. "A reliable and kind stalker, he'll always have luck in the Zone. Stick with him, and everything will be fine for you."
"And me?"
"You…" the bartender rises on the tips of his boots to get a better look at the girl standing before him. "Not without problems, but good too. And… you shouldn't have come here. The Zone didn't accept you, it doesn't like your goal, it really doesn't like it. If it weren't for your guide, you wouldn't have made it here. It loves him. It hates you."
"W-why is that?" Lisa's voice trembled as she remembered that night at the old sawmill and the encounter with that terrible mutant. Even now, the feeling of anxiety didn't leave her.
"You want to take Shnyga beyond the Perimeter, far from the Zone," Ganja replies. "And it has already accepted him, accepted him long ago. The Zone really doesn't like to part with those it has grown fond of. Mutants are like animals to the forest, artifacts are just stones, and people… We are its true passion. Proud and base, strong and weak, kind and evil, greedy and selfless, any kind. It gives everyone a chance. Don't ask me what kind, I don't know myself yet. And if it reacts like that to your brother, then it hasn't written him off yet. And then you come and…"
"And I want to take what it cherishes," the girl whispers back with only her lips. "What should I do…"
"Trust your guide," the bartender shrugs, turning his back to the girl. "It favors him more than any of us."