Well, now I'll have to run around the area quite a bit. I got the map of the attacks, and now I should ideally visit all the points and see if there are any traces or, at least, sewer entrances. Although I have the information Chekhov needs, and, let's say, Chekhov's gun in the form of several PDAs taken from the bodies of mercenaries, I still need to find out all the details. Especially since it won't be very pleasant if the mercenaries can use their passages and escape when I arrive with the Freedom vanguard.
Finally, I peek into the bar to make sure Lisa is okay, and find her chatting amiably with Ganja. But yesterday she wasn't very complimentary about him. The bartender notices me first when I get closer to them:
"Good morning, man," he says with a smile, tilting his head slightly. I respond with the same gesture.
"And to you," and then I turn to the girl. "I just want to warn you that I'm leaving."
"Where? And for how long?" she replies, her eyes wide open and her hands brought to her chin, leaning forward slightly.
"I'm going to look for mercenary traces. And I don't know how long it will take me," I shrug. "In short, don't miss me and don't get into trouble."
"Wait, dude," the bartender says, shifting his gaze from Lisa to me. "Maybe I should whistle a couple of our guys, huh? It's better than wandering around these parts alone. Safer."
"Thanks for the offer, but no need," I shake my head. "It will be safer for me alone. Goodbye."
Same place, same time.
"Why
didn't you insist?!" the girl hisses loudly at Ganja, her face full of visible displeasure.
"And what can I do, sis?" the bartender purses his lips and crosses his arms, looking at her with annoyance. "I wouldn't force him, and besides… Remember what we talked about? Trust him. His energy was full of determination and confidence right now."
"It's easy for you to say…"
Exit from Freedom Base, same time.
I decide to start with the attack that happened, if I'm not mistaken, when Shram crossed into the Dark Valley. Besides, it's the closest point to me now, except for that small cliff behind the gas station. Therefore, as soon as my foot steps beyond the line of the gates, which are starting to rust a bit, I immediately turn right and continue along the relatively intact asphalt. And somewhere in the distance, automatic weapons crackled. Mutants, probably, attacked someone's trail.
I walk past the gas station, a green construction trailer, and a tall crane standing nearby, until I reach the gate I jumped over last night. I turn, walk a little further, reach a small and unimpressive fence – concrete stakes at knee level connected by a couple of iron bars, I step over it and walk directly towards a cluster of chemical anomalies spread out near the gallery.
I stop about twenty meters away, not daring to get closer without a gas mask, and involuntarily admire the iridescent acid-green color. Each puddle of anomalous jelly was a kind of small lake without an inflow – it stayed on the surface of the earth and was in no hurry to disappear, bubbling invitingly. But venturing into such an anomaly even with my abilities without protection would be fraught with severe burns, so… next time.
I go around this field in a wide arc and come to a small camp set up right under a long gallery. Scattered around barrels dug into the ground with embers inside, old wooden pallets, an old ZIL with peeling paint and long since overgrown with the place, a pile of rusty pipes and barrels – all this was a good shelter. But besides this, there was nothing else here. No bloodstains, no shell casings, no signs of struggle. It's even somewhat boring to inspect this place.
I spend another good five minutes here, trying to find anything, but alas. A lot of time has passed since the attack on this outpost, and rain water could have washed away blood and other traces, but the shell casings? At least one should have survived and rolled somewhere. Hmm, it seems the Freedom members are not as disciplined outside the walls of their camps as I thought. Most likely, during the attack, they were in a complete state of incapacitation, so the mercenaries decided not to waste ammunition and slit the greens like chickens.
So, since I didn't find any traces, I need to at least look for a secret passage. It's unlikely to be in an open area – I don't see any hatches, and there are no signs of digging either. I walk around the clearing in a circle until I reach a small cliff, similar to the one east of Freedom Base. I descend on the left side and go around a couple of wide bushes with a birch tree growing in the middle, with branches bent downwards, dotted with serrated leaves.
About ten to fifteen meters away, I see either a tractor or an excavator. An old Soviet one, with remnants of yellow paint and huge rust spots all over its body. I didn't approach it – the entrance to the tunnel should be somewhere here, but where? I look behind me and notice something gray among the greenery. I carefully push aside the branches and see the passage I was looking for. They hid it well; if you don't look closely, you can miss it. Especially since it's also "closed" with a lock, and in the distance, if you shine a flashlight, you can see boot prints in the dust.
One question arises in my mind. Why are such communications needed? They were hardly built here during the Soviet era; no, they are definitely younger than the Chernobyl accident, and perhaps significantly so. But this is alarming in any case. What are they for? For covert movement between objects? For transporting goods? Or maybe to quickly release the results of experiments if something happens?
But that's okay, this question might be clarified when I get my hands on the documents from the laboratory, and for now, I need to continue pretending that I'm working. So, the next location is the checkpoint near the farm, which was attacked about a month and a half ago.
Freedom Group Chat, Stalker Network.
Chekhov: Guys, I've hired an outsider hunter to track down the mercenaries. If you see a stalker lurking around, don't shoot him immediately.
21.07.2011, 11:03.
Yar: Are you sure he can handle it?
21.07.2011, 11:04.
Chekhov: Sure or not sure, but he's a good, proven specialist. Better than nothing. 21.07.2011, 11:07. Moloch: I saw this hunter. He was hanging around the camp near the anomalies. He was squatting, looking intently, touching the grass. Then he went down into the ravine, looked around, got into the bushes, and came out a couple of minutes later. Maybe he'll really find something? 21.07.2011, 11:38.
Nerka: Haha, the guy just needed to take a shit and was looking for a secluded spot! 21.07.2011, 11:42.
Zhyga: Lol. 21.07.2011, 11:45.
Same place, same time.
As soon as I exit the bushes, I head south, towards the farm. I decide to go around the swamp to avoid being spotted by the factory, and after ten minutes, the damp soil crunches under my feet. While I'm skirting the murky, dark green liquid along the very edge, I gaze at an island and an old antenna that has fallen into the swamp. I wonder, how did the mercenaries manage to cause an explosion?
It's a fifteen-minute leisurely walk from Freedom's base to this little swamp, and how long would it take to run… You need to place explosives here, detonate them, and have time to retreat. And if mercenaries had passed by a squad of greenies, bloodshed would have been unavoidable. But no, everything happened cleanly and quickly. At least, neither Spot nor Chekhov told me anything about such a skirmish. There must be a passage somewhere in these parts too. Maybe not from this side, but from the other?
Ha-ah, things are just getting more and more. And who's to blame for that? Me. Couldn't I have just forgotten about it and fed the story about mercenaries near the factory to the bike? No, I have to explore the entire Dark Valley…
I reached the white stone fence of the farm fifteen minutes later and immediately turned towards the checkpoint, without looking into the courtyard. Before starting my search, I wanted to talk to the squad of Freedom members who let us in yesterday. Maybe they would have some leads?
But the conversation was not to be. As I began to approach the camp, a strong, irritating smell of blood hit my nostrils, and as soon as I reached the barrier line of crates, I could make out the bodies lying on the asphalt. Completely riddled, the Freedom members lay on the asphalt like broken dolls, and a mangy, trembling blind mole had already settled by Varan's leg. As soon as it bared its teeth to sink into the still-warm flesh, I grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and flung it aside, then loudly hissed at the dog. It whimpered loudly, tail tucked and crouching on its paws, and disappeared into the tall grass, running away.
"Well, guys, they didn't spare the ammo on you," I said, looking at their faces frozen in grimaces of pain, then immediately looking away. "Well, your offenders won't be running for long, I guarantee you that."
I crouched down to get a better look at the ground. Clods of dirt, scattered shell casings, still warm, and blood spreading everywhere. And this time I was lucky. One of the mercenaries, apparently wanting to check if anyone was sitting in the wagon, walked through the bloody puddle twice. The boot prints of a size forty-five went east, along the line of the iron fence.
I followed them first, then the trampled grass, until I reached a fiery fissure. Scorched earth, pitted with deep furrows, around which not a single blade of grass grew for a good ten meters. The tracks themselves, not reaching the arch-anomaly, went to the right, into the thicket of tall grass. And, as I expected, another wide concrete pipe, dug into the ground. Again a closed grate, again a rusty lock for show.
Well, it's clear. They're using the tunnel network to its fullest to annoy the Freedom guys. I should contact Chekhov and write about what happened to the guys. I detached myself from the tunnel and stepped back a few steps, turning my back to it. On the go, I took out my PDA and immediately went into the chats, starting to type a message quickly.
Executioner: Your guys at the southern checkpoint near the farm were killed. Apparently, not long ago. Continuing the investigation.
07/21/11, 12:07.
Without waiting for a reply, I put the communicator back and raised my head. And then, by a lucky chance, I noticed another white tunnel a few hundred meters away – it led directly to the swamp and stood out strongly against the faded swamp grass.
I walked towards it very cautiously, glancing at the factory windows and roofs through binoculars from time to time, so that no mercenary would shoot me. I slowly circled the birches, oaks, and sparse fir trees that spread out here. Reaching the tunnel, I also quickly examined it and, to my surprise, it was very different from the ones I had encountered before. The concrete layer was twice as thick, and instead of a simple grate, there was a whole door, and below – a deep recess.
"A drain for waste," my lips whispered. "Only this pipe leads to the reservoir. So, this is the main tunnel, and the others were added later… And the question of how the mercenaries managed to reach the antenna so quickly and escape is solved."
It's unlikely there are any other exits to the surface in the vicinity, which
means I can return to Chekhov with a clear conscience and report everything. I just need to stop by the stash for the PDA… But do I need to? More precisely, is it worth entrusting the fate of the mercenaries to Freedom? This is not a game… Having gotten their hands on the bodies of the blues, the Freedom guys, even despite the already "identified" client, will definitely want to rummage through their PDAs. And if they can find out that the true interest of this group was in the underground laboratory, then I might have unwanted competitors.
Freedom will most likely not budge and will not go to the Army Warehouses; on the contrary, they will establish even stricter control over the valley. And although I managed to hurry and take the key card with the note for myself, I still can't give any guarantees that a copy or even the original document demanding that these key cards be sent to Rostok hasn't been lost somewhere in the surrounding buildings. And what will happen if both Duty and Freedom show up at the factory territory, one can only guess. No-o, I have to deal with the mercenaries myself, as well as make sure that they don't leave any information behind.
But here's a very important question. How? They are experienced soldiers and know how to hold a weapon. I won't go head-to-head with such people – they'll kill me first. I could, of course, organize an ambush, but where? There are four of these tunnels, and I'm one person, I can't split myself. And if I wait at any one of them, I could grow old. No, an ambush is also not an option.
And then a wild thought struck me. If I can't ambush them because of the number of these damn tunnels, why not limit their number? Try to block these tunnels somehow so that they can't be opened without explosives. And if I go further and add hunting cunning, then… why not try to smoke them out? Prepare everything for several large bonfires, set them on fire, close all the exits, and wait for the carbon monoxide to do its job. But it's better to do it at night, when most of the mercenaries will be asleep. By the time they understand what's what, they will have already suffered greatly. And then, if anyone survives, it will be easy to shoot them.
"But for this, I'll need helpers, preferably several…" I say thoughtfully aloud. "Alright, we'll figure it out."
Dark Valley, night.
A tired and completely sweaty stalker sat on a fallen log in a small ravine north of the factory. On the ground, very close to his foot, lay an empty flask and several empty cans of preserves. His chest heaved heavily, and his breathing was hoarse. The last few hours for him were filled with a lot of monotonous and therefore heavier work, so much needed to be prepared.
Even then, an almost unsolvable task presented itself to him. He couldn't close the tunnels alone, he was too weak to move concrete slabs alone – the most suitable option for this purpose. But who could help him with this? There was no one here he could turn to with this problem. No one human.
"Well, it's time," the stalker says in the complete night silence and raises his left palm to chest level, then with his right hand takes out a razor-sharp knife, pre-wiped with an alcohol wipe, and with a quick movement cuts his skin. "M-m… How unpleasant it is to cut oneself…"
The first drops appeared, beginning to collect in a small hollow on his palm. And when enough had accumulated, the stalker wiped them down with his palm, sprinkling the grass under his feet with his own blood. Long seconds passed, during which nothing happened, only blood fell to the ground drop by drop. Only after a few minutes did a hoarse snuffling sound, occasionally replaced by a growl, and a small brood of bloodsuckers, three large individuals, emerged into the clearing.
"You took your time," the stalker addresses them. "Let's go, I need your help."
The tunnel behind the gas station, half an hour later.
Surprisingly, the bloodsuckers obeyed me without question and followed me calmly, occasionally casting interested glances. Or did they seem that way to me? It doesn't matter. The main thing is that my plan is finally starting to be implemented, only a little bit is left. To light the collected bonfires with everything my greedy paws could reach, and to cover the tunnels themselves.
"Put it on the ground for now," I command the bloodsuckers to lower the concrete slab we picked up on the way here, and I myself approach the tunnel with a lighter in my hand.
I had moved the stash elsewhere beforehand, so with a clear conscience, I lit the piled-up branches, boards, tires, and other flammable debris.
Same place, same time.
The blood-starved mutants watched with interest their fellow creature, who was not a fellow creature. Strange and weak, he was covered in fur and wore human skin for some reason, and those hairs on his head. Then he asked them to put down the heavy thing, and then approached one of the closed burrows, stuck his bare hands without sharp claws into it and summoned a small flame from his palm, immediately scorching the branches.
The surprised bloodsuckers exchanged glances synchronously. A fellow creature commanding anomalies and wearing stalker skin was something extremely unusual for them. But they were immediately pulled out of their simple thoughts by the clear voice of this fellow creature.
"And now press this slab against this pipe, and make it tight, I still have to seal the cracks…"
Mercenary camp, a few hours later.
The Vizier tiredly massaged his shoulders and, wincing slightly from the unpleasant pain in his temples, turned his head to get the blood flowing through his stiff neck muscles. He stood up from behind a small table brought here from one of the factory premises and decided to do a little exercise to invigorate himself. The mercenary spread his legs shoulder-width apart and began to massage one group of muscles after another, yawning widely from time to time.
"Maybe I should go for a walk outside," he whispered to himself. "It's kind of stuffy, like there's nothing to breathe…"
But instead of a night walk, he decided to simply open the door for ventilation, and as soon as the Vizier approached it, he noticed something was wrong. It smelled of something burnt. He stepped back to the table and picked up a small kerosene lamp, instantly lighting it in one smooth motion.
"You bitch!" he shouted loudly, watching as their small room began to fill with strange smoke. "Get up! Come on, get up!"
But out of the entire mercenary squad, only a few showed signs of life – those who lay on a small elevation of boxes and wooden pallets. Then the Vizier rushed to one of those lying on the ground to check his pulse.
"Boss, what's going on…"
"Some bitch decided to smoke us out of the tunnel, the rest inhaled the smoke," their commander said grimly, getting up from his knees and spitting on the floor. "Thirty seconds to readiness. If we stay here any longer, we'll join them. Let's go!"
The mercenaries who remained conscious, despite the intensifying headache and suffocation, were ready even earlier. And as they all stumbled out of the room, each could only curse the designers of these tunnels for not providing any ventilation for them. Step by step, they practically ran out of the tunnel towards salvation!
"And what the hell is this!?" roared the Gascon, a mustachioed mercenary from France.
Before them, as if by magic, a huge concrete barrier appeared out of nowhere, separating the mercenaries from the outside world. And yet, a few hours ago, there was nothing here…
"Come on, guys, let's push!" commanded the Vizier and immediately hit his shoulder against the concrete wall until it hurt, trying to move it. Others immediately joined him. "You thought you'd sealed up all the mercenaries, and they'd just die like that, without a fight? Well, screw you all!"
The mercenaries, piling on top of each other, desperately tried to move this barrier even a centimeter, even a millimeter. And it slowly began to yield to their push until it crashed to the ground with a noise, taking the last four mercenaries with it.
"Kha-kha!" they all immediately started coughing, feeling the smoke that had filled their lungs begin to recede, replaced by crystal-clear oxygen.
"Don't, kha, relax!" the Vizier said loudly, getting up wearily from the ground.
But his only answer was a guttural roar that erupted from all around. The mercenary didn't have time to recover before all his subordinates were grabbed by black shadows, dragging the screaming people somewhere into the darkness. And he was left completely alone, in this strange and terrifying situation. His hand reached for the assault rifle strap, but a hand was placed on his shoulder.
"And you shouldn't have done that, mercenary," said the someone behind him, plunging a knife into his neck up to the hilt. "You should have died a quiet death…"