The inside of the bunker didn't look like he had expected.
Konrad could best describe it as a tiny prison trapped in time.
It only had one cell, though.
And between the heavy door and the bars, there was only enough space for one man to stand.
With Dmitry over his shoulder, he couldn't close the door behind him anymore.
Which wasn't an issue, since he didn't feel like suffocating inside.
The smell of the bunker was heavy, tinged with ozone and gasoline, and something he couldn't place. Without the tiny breeze from behind, he would have already collapsed.
And this old, fat guy was living here?!
He had to, since Konrad found no way to bypass those bars.
No hinges or handles, and no doors on the other side, either.
As if they had built this bunker around him.
And cramped as it was, he'd even pack it to the brim.
He had a robust office desk that Konrad would only see in Cold War movies. An ancient computer with a huge display and fans screaming, despite the cold.
His old company would have thrown the entire setup out, for sure.
Like, twenty years ago.
He was also certain his phone could do more than that rig on its better days.
That, without expecting Kaede to have bought him anything high-tech.
But anyway, the fat, balding trafficker was sitting in the midst of this all, and—
He was eating something. Konrad neither could nor wanted to identify what.
"Are you not listening?" the man barked, waving a piece of meat on a drumstick. "The military burned my dog farm, so go and sort out your own corpse disposal."
"What?!"
Not that he didn't hear him the first time, but he didn't have the slightest idea what he was talking about. Or why speak as if he had known him?
As if Konrad were his minion to boss around.
"I'm saying, I no longer buy the corpses, looted or not," the man grumbled, taking a huge bite of that meat. Buying? He said disposal a moment ago—
"He's alive, anyway," Konrad noted, adjusting the motionless Dmitry on his shoulder.
"Well, then," the old trafficker scoffed, chewing with his mouth wide open. "Even less reason to bring a soldier here. The military tolerates me, but that doesn't mean I want to fuck with—"
"Man, didn't he contact you, like, yesterday?!"
In his defense, he only saw Dmitry's back.
And Konrad's eyes couldn't stop in one place, either.
Beyond the computer and his unidentified meal, a mountain of tin cans occupied one corner.
The other had first aid kits, bandages, and booze, and what he thought was a poster earlier—
This old son of a bitch had an actual gun wall taking up the entire right side of his cramped cell.
"Contact me?" he pondered. "Well, yeah. Everyone contacts me all the time. They want this, they want that, buy or sell. Can't remember every face, though."
"No, I mean, yeah," Konrad said, losing his patience. "He was calling you on the phone."
"So if you didn't kill him," the trafficker asked, pausing for a better look. "Then how did he die?"
For the love of the spirits—
"He's not dead. Unconscious," Konrad yelled. "A suicide drone attacked us right outside the village. You didn't hear it?! Our car is a total loss—"
"A car," the man interrupted, putting the meat down. "You came here with a car."
Why did he look at him as if he were an alien?!
"I didn't hear anything, but I mean—this is a restricted area, guarded by the military. Of course, they will shoot at anything that moves. That's why Stalkers use the forest trails at night to enter."
Yeah, well, nobody told them about it.
Or who these Stalkers even were—
"We are military, too," Konrad lied. Well, Dmitry was. "So why would they shoot us?"
The trafficker scoffed again.
"Oh boy, you're green," he grunted, pushing away his plate. "The National Guard will shoot at everyone, even if the almighty God, or his boss, our Prime Minister, came here."
This didn't explain anything, but he was starting to feel Dmitry's weight.
"Would they shoot you, too?" Konrad asked, sceptical.
The man paused, wiping his hands on something that wasn't meant for that.
"They would, kid. If I went out to shake my ass in front of them, they would. But I don't. And if they come to me, that's different. So, who are you? And your dead friend? Remind me."
Konrad sighed, adjusting the weight on his shoulder.
"I don't know what exactly he had told you, but the gist of it is that we're looking for a guy by the name of Strelok. I mean, Pavel Streletsky. Have you seen or heard of him?"
"Have I, kid?!" the old man laughed, slamming his still fatty palms against his knees.
Konrad had no idea which part of it was this funny.
"Kid, everyone here knows Strelok," the trafficker claimed. "He's a legend in the Zone. Though I never heard of that Pavel whatshisname before. But Strelok had gone farther than anyone."
"Farther than what?" he asked, even more confused.
"Farther into the Zone than any other Stalkers," came the explanation.
Which, again, didn't explain anything.
"What do you mean? The Zone is, like, the power plant's backyard. You can't go further than the center. Or you mean he crossed the border to Belarus or something?"
Another laugh, even more hearty than the last.
"What are you talking about, kid? Nobody's ever reached the center of the Zone."
Okay, so he must have been bullshitting him.
This passed-out, dead weight of a Captain said it himself that the Zone tours were always booked full. And right, he didn't even ask for help, because he kept getting sidetracked.
If not for Dmitry's nice, and even breathing during all this, he wouldn't have been this calm.
"Hold on," the old man said, leaning forward. "You actually don't know? If you have been living under a rock, then why are you even here?!"
"Living under a rock?"
How about in another world?
"And don't know what?" Konrad asked. "I already told you, I'm here for your Strelok."
"Right. Well, good luck catching up with him," the trafficker scoffed, letting out a long sigh. "He is exploring a new way towards the center of the Zone, and he's going to make me rich."
Was this guy actually stupid, or was this an odd way to mess with him?
"But I can show you how to reach the CNPP, too," Konrad groaned. "It's on every single map."
He wanted to take out his phone to drive the point home, but he left it in his guitar case, back in the Niva wreck. He doubted there was any reception around here, anyway.
If not for the fact that this place should have been all deserted—
The rebar concrete would have done no favors for his mobile internet.
"You're too naive, kid," the trafficker waved him off. "Nobody has been at the power plant since they activated the new dome and all the jammers," he claimed. "Not since THAT happened."
"That? What?!" Konrad demanded, not in the mood for random pranks.
"The first Blowout," the man muttered. "And since then, nothing has been the same."