Predator

Александр Сергеевич Конторович

When darkness falls on the streets of Tarkov… When ordinary people who just yesterday were friendly neighbors start to kill each other over a can of food… When everyday life turns into lawless mayhem in the space of an hour… That’s when an ordinary cubicle slave can suddenly transform into a fierce implacable predator, casting aside his keyboard in favor of a heavyweight shotgun. There’s no way back to his former life. There’s only one option left – to become the biggest beast in this concrete jungle. Welcome to Tarkov…Содержит нецензурную брань.

Alexander Kontorovich

Predator

The novel based on the video gameВ В«Escape from TarkovВ» (https://www.escapefromtarkov.com/?lang=ru)

ChapterВ 1

Drip. Drip. Drip. The drips of water fall into the saucepan, already almost a third full. I have no idea where this pipe comes from or where it’s going, but there’s water in it! Perfectly good water, in fact – clean, even. I send a silent prayer of thanks to the unknown bungler who’s to blame that the pipe joint leaks. If he’d been a decent welder, I’d have had to look elsewhere for my eau de vie… So, that’s one problem solved. Just one, and there are plenty more. And water’s not the most important of them. Top of the list is survival, then finding something to eat. Everything else comes after that.

Looking back, I remember those beautiful books with vivid covers showing burly, virile, for some reason always bare-chested men with one arm thrown around a sexy blonde (why were they always blondes, I wonder?), and the other holding a heavy machine gun. In the background, all sorts of bad guys would be flung around in unseemly poses. And everything always worked out alright for those heroes. They always found a stash of useful loot at just the right time, and their mandatory special forces training meant they always knew the right moves. And need I mention their ability to hit a gnat’s eye from 100 meters with any type of weapon? Of course not!

Yup, those literary heroes had it good. Shame that I’m not in a book, and not ex-spetsnaz (They’re never maimed or shellshocked either, mind). I don’t have the massive muscles, or ten years of action in difficult circumstances behind me.

I do know how to write computer programmes. In all honesty, I’m quite good at it. And I’ve always kept myself reasonably fit. I can walk, run and jump. For now, anyway. I went camping and hiking often enough, too, so I know how to make a fire. I even slept under fir trees in a sleeping bag a few times. I can probably manage to put up a tent, too. And I always cooked for myself, so there’s no need for a personal chef

I look at the saucepan – the water hasn’t even reached the halfway mark. Have I got time to run upstairs? No, I’d better wait until the water reaches the top. Then some goes into my water bottle, and the rest goes to filling up the bucket. Sadly, the bucket doesn’t fit under the pipe, otherwise I wouldn’t have to keep watch.

God alone knows when the water in the pipe will dry up. It may only last for a day or it could turn out that it keeps on dripping for ages. Nothing is predetermined, and nothing is clear. Nothing at all. Except for one thing – you and your life are of no interest to anyone. The stuff you carry with you, that has a value.

So, what do I have of value? My water bottle? It’s a good one, no doubt about it. Bought in a proper shop. It’s a solid can with a little cup for a lid, all wrapped in a good camouflage case.

A pocketknife. Also, basically, not bad. Bought in the same shop. I was an idiot – you should always stock up on things like that, and all I got was a water bottle and a knife. Back then I was trying to make a good impression on a new girl in the office. I took her out to dinner, and that’s where all my money went. What a prat! What was her name, by the way? Nina? Or Ninelle? I can’t even reme