I leave the basement and head straight for Old Man's house. There aren't many people on
the street, just the same guards, Shtolts rummaging in the garage, and a couple of other stalkers. Before the entrance, they block my way. A tall, broad-shouldered man, about forty, with short-cropped black hair and shaved temples, a few gray strands visible.
"Halt, kid," he says in a deep voice, crossing his arms over his chest, looking formidable.
"Let me pass, I want to examine the crime scene," I reply and look him straight in the eyes.
"And who are you, greenhorn? An investigator or some other cop? If not, I won't let you in."
"Zhuk, what are you getting so worked up about?" a voice comes from the house, and a second later, another man, younger and somewhat slighter than this Zhuk, emerges from the doorway.
"Yeah, this outsider wants to see Old Man's place from the inside," the first stalker grumbles and nods his head at me. "The very one who was with him yesterday."
"Ah, the one the checkpoint guys cleared? Alright, kid, come in. I'm Sledak, nice to meet you," he waves his hand and invites me to follow him.
I enter the house, pass through another door, and the first thing I see is Old Man's body, lying on the floor and covered with a gray sheet, once white, but faded from years of use and washing. I scan the house: the same wallpaper as in the hallway, intact linoleum, a metal bed with a couple of mattresses similar to those in the basement of the central building, a table, a few chairs, and a kitchen set adapted as a workshop - tools, nails, and wiring parts were scattered around it. There was also a kettle.
"So, how do you like the view? You're not particularly upset seeing a corpse," I turn to Sledak and examine him more closely. A thin, sinewy, bald man looked at me with a very keen gaze.
"Are you suspecting me?" I look back at him, slightly tilting my head and crossing my arms.
"Not anymore," he chuckles. "As soon as the guys said they saw Old Man alive after you left, I stopped. I have a few questions about your gathering yesterday. Who was there? What were you talking about?"
"Are you suggesting I rat on my fellow stalkers?"
"This is not that case, kid," he sighs and moves one of the wooden chairs, sits on it, then pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pants and lights one. "There's a bitch walking around our camp now who killed one of ours. Was it her first murder? Nobody knows. And that's why this creature needs to be found as quickly as possible. The path to the Cordon is known to everyone, if she escapes, it's over.
"Besides me and Old Man, there were two other stalkers," I begin, trying not to look at the dead old man anymore, strangely, nothing stirred inside me upon seeing him like this. "Shtyr and Spielberg."
"Shtyr? Well, how original... And Spielberg, is that the tall one with stubble who introduces himself as a director, right?" the stalker takes a notebook and pen from his jumpsuit's chest pocket and starts writing something down.
"Yes, that's him," I nod. "About the conversations, nothing special, we just talked about the Zone, Shtyr and I were taught some wisdom, and, well, Old Man and Spielberg argued a bit about diggers and laboratories, but they calmed down quickly."
"Aha-aha," he continues writing. "And the most interesting thing is that out of your whole company, only you stayed here. This Shtyr packed his bags early in the morning, Spielberg didn't linger either. And where they could have gone, nobody knows. And the worst part is that there's no evidence."
"No evidence at all?"
"Yeah," he nods again. "What can you do here? You can't check fingerprints, there are no camera recordings, you were only noticed because you walked right in front of the checkpoint, and the killer went around the other side of town, so they missed him. There are too many suspects."
"Ah, about Shtyr," I recall a moment from yesterday's conversation. "He said he wanted to go to the Boiler Room. We talked about artifacts, and Spielberg mentioned that Krokhobor recently brought an artifact from there."
"Aha, good, at least a lead, maybe he'll come back," he chuckles and writes something in his notebook again, then puts it back in his chest pocket. "A huge human thank you."
"You're welcome, I'll be going then," I turn and head for the exit of Old Man's house.
"Wait, don't you want to help the investigation further?" Sledak calls out to me.
"How so?" I turn and raise an eyebrow, looking at him.
"Go to the Boiler Room and see if Shtyr is there, if he is, try to bring him here," he says, getting up from the chair and approaching me.
"Okay, I'll go there," I agree.
"That's good, that's great," Sledak smiles, clapping me on the shoulder. "Just don't be too heroic. If Shtyr is our target, you should be extremely careful. Don't turn your back on him, don't let him rummage through your pockets, and make sure he keeps his hands in sight at all times. It won't hurt him, but you'll definitely be safer."
"If it's so complicated, why don't you or Zhuk go?"
"You see, if we come, Shtyr might get alarmed. Experienced stalkers, from Barmaley's group, going to the Boiler Room to catch artifacts? Even a fool would understand that something is wrong," he says in a whisper, having previously closed the entrance door. "But if a novice stalker, who heard about the artifact at the Boiler Room with him yesterday, goes there, he'll calm down a bit. A bit, not completely. And you'll have a better chance of catching him. Approach him, talk to him, you know. And as soon as you get an opportunity, draw your weapon, aim, and lead him to us."
"But maybe one of you could go with me? Back me up," I doubt I can handle it smoothly.
"Alas, kid," he spreads his hands. "Without Barmaley's permission, we can't. And he's not at the base right now. By the time we run back and forth, we'll lose precious time, he'll escape, the bastard. Or maybe not, that's what we need to check."
"How strict you all are," I chuckle. "Alright, I'll go myself."
I quickly leave Old Man's house, ignoring Zhuk, and head to the basement, where I quickly pack my things. I leave everything unnecessary in the nightstand, leaving only bullets and rags for bandaging in my bag. On the way, I stop by Shtolts and pay a couple of hundred for charging my PDA, and head to the Boiler Room, having previously put buckshot in my left pocket.
The journey there was normal and uneventful. Apparently, the helipad was abandoned by the military, just like the town, again, I didn't notice anyone at the gate or at the checkpoint building. When I reached the gates of the Boiler Room, I decided to stop and listen. I heard nothing but the wind, the rustling of leaves, and a distant dog barking. I adjust my grip on the sawed-off shotgun and enter the inner courtyard.
I found no traces of Shtyr's presence here, although what traces could he have left? He wasn't in the garage with the ZILs, nor in the yard. Maybe he went inside the building? In any case, I need to survey from above, so my direct path is to the attic. I draw my pistol and put away the sawed-off shotgun, afraid I might go deaf and disorient myself if I fire it indoors. And I enter the building.
There was no one on the first floor, but on the second, I found Shtyr. Dead. He was lying with his back against the wall, a discernible trail of blood on the floor, the guy had to crawl. I move closer and crouch down, also with my back against the wall. If the killer is still here, it's better not to give him a chance to approach me from behind. I notice a dead PDA in Shtyr's hands, pick it up, turn it on, and immediately go to the notes section.
Note from 05.13.2011, 23:49.
Ha, tough stalkers! They're even prying into my nickname. What's wrong with Shtyr? Well, whatever, I'll go to the Boiler Room first thing in the morning and search everything. If I'm lucky, I'll return with an artifact. I need to be quick, I didn't like the look of that newcomer when he heard about the Boiler Room. He'll definitely want to go and check everything.
Note from 05.14.2011, 9:32.
At the Boiler Room itself, Spielberg caught up with me, his eyes were a bit wild, but his tone was calm. Strange. He asked how I was doing, what I planned to do, and reminded me about the artifact. I tensed up, but he said goodbye and went towards the village. I'll eat well and start searching.
Note from 05.14.2011, 10:15.
Damn, it hurts so much. That bastard Spielberg stabbed me in the back, I caught a glimpse of him running down the stairs. He didn't hit anything important, but I feel myself bleeding out. I barely crawled to the wall, if anyone finds me, take revenge on the bastard...
The last note is cut off. So Shtyr got what he deserved, poor guy. Such a young man, he hadn't had time to do anything in his life yet, and he's already dead. It's a little past twelve now, almost two hours have passed since the murder. He's unlikely to have stayed here waiting for someone, I can relax. But not completely. I take off my backpack, put the stalker's PDA in it, and start rummaging through his pockets. It's not humane, but what can I do? It's useless to him now, and it might help me. A few hundred-ruble bills, a lighter, a worn TT and a few magazines for it behind his belt. I unload the pistol and throw it into my bag along with the magazines. I take off the bag from the corpse's back and dump almost everything from it into mine without looking. I'll sort it out later.
Now I face a dilemma. Go to the village and look for Spielberg, or, conversely, go to Sledak and tell him everything. If I go back, we might really miss him, time will be lost. If I go after him immediately, I might get myself into trouble. And if he's holed up in some bar, the patrons there won't understand drawing a weapon at all. And besides, how do I prove that it wasn't me who killed Shtyr and wrote the note from his behalf? And Spielberg didn't take anything from him, unlike me, and
the newcomer didn't have any valuables. Well, I'll risk it anyway. I'll try to lure the bastard out of the village. While we're among people, neither he nor I can get to each other, but as soon as we move away... In any case, I need to be on guard. I pick up my backpack and head to the village.
The village was as empty as yesterday, only on the road I met a mangy dog, but I didn't have time to shoot it - it ran away, apparently, they only attack in packs, as it was in the game.
I walk past the shop and go straight to the bar, if anyone saw Spielberg here, then people should be there.
I pass the bushes and walk under the wooden bridge, heading straight for the entrance to the bar.
An iron grate and a stalker standing guard.
"Halt," he begins. "I won't let you in without a pass, the price is two thousand. Either pay, or get lost."
"Do you know Viktor Rybak?" I ask him, and he nods at my question. "He said he arranged a pass for me."
"Ah, so you're that very newcomer? Well, he told some tales about you, as if you were Rambo yourself and took down a hundred zombies, ha," he chuckles. "Alright, come in then. Just if you do anything stupid, you'll be kicked out of here in a flash. And you won't get in again, no matter who asks for you. And hide your shotgun better, no need to flash your weapon in a decent place."
I put the shotgun in my backpack and go inside, walking through the tunnel.
It seems that there was more than one tunnel in this village, only this one had a cave-in, and enterprising stalkers then set up a bar in the remaining accessible working space.
I enter the passage, a few turns and I find myself in a bar, something resembling "One Hundred Roentgen" from the first part.
Stalkers' conversations, laughter, clinking glasses and bottles, and smoke from cigarettes hanging under the ceiling.
I pass the tables and approach the bartender behind the counter.
"New faces?" he asks, wiping a glass with a rag. "Nice to meet you, I'm Belka."
"Belka?" I stare in surprise at the fat man with a receding hairline and a wart on the right corner of his lip. "Excuse me."
"Alcoholic," he clarifies, raising a finger. "It's okay, you're not the first, not the last. What's your name, and what brings you to these parts?"
"Nothing yet, I'm just coming on my own..."
"Ah-ah, I've heard, I've heard. And you found an artifact here, which is unheard of, true, you wasted it, and you helped Rybak, you're almost an important bird here," Belka chuckles. "So why did you come? You don't look like you're in the mood for lingering."
"I'm looking for a friend, named Spielberg, have you seen him here?" I ask the bartender, to which he grunts.
He has been here.
"A friend, you say, well, it's none of my business. There was one, but he left, just before you arrived."
"And you know where he went, right?" I start to guess that this Belka wants something from me.
"Yes, I do," and he calmly sets the glass aside, picking up another one, the scoundrel.
"And what do I have to do for you to tell me where he went?"
"For me?" he grunts. "Nothing. But for our stalker brotherhood, you can really do something."
"Don't keep me in suspense, Belka, spit it out,"
"You'll need to go and deliver something to Krokhobor," he begins, taking the glass from his hands. "A small, but very important package. I'll give you the details about your 'friend', and you'll come here tomorrow morning and take what I give you. Deal?"
"Deal, of course, but it seemed to me that you have plenty of people here," I say, looking around at the stalkers gathered here.
Some were still busy with their own affairs, but some of them were looking at me very attentively.
"It's simple," he smiles and extends his hand for a handshake, I reciprocate. "Some won't agree to run around for free, and some I trust even less than you. Unlike them, you still need a reputation."
"Alright, alright," I sit down on a high stool. "What about Spielberg?"
"He was here, about fifteen minutes ago," he leans forward a bit and whispers. "His eyes were wild, he didn't say hello or goodbye. He ordered two hundred grams of vodka, drank it in one gulp, and left."
"And where did he go?" I reply in a whisper, in tune with Belka.
"He has a habit like that," the bartender continues. "He always stops for a drink of vodka before visiting his stash. I don't know exactly where it is. But I saw him once, when I went outside, that he was walking on top, along that ledge. The locals don't really climb those houses, there's nothing there anymore, so it's a good place for a stash. And there aren't many houses up there, you can find it. Oh yes, to the right of the entrance there's a staircase going up, it'll be easier to get there that way. Well, good luck."
"Thank you," I thank Belka and head for the exit of the bar.
Now the most important thing is not to get caught for nothing.
I go outside, look around and see the very staircase.
It's iron, rusty in places, and very long.
Well, I have nothing else to do, so I climb it up.
And where to go now?
Houses on both the left and the right.
Alright, let's go left.
I take out my pistol, release the safety, and cock the hammer.
Just in case, I hide the shotgun behind my belt, in the back.
I peek into the first house, it's empty.
Nothing and no one, except for the skeleton of some poor fellow.
The second and third houses are the same story, only a couple of zombies lying on the ground.
I didn't check the degree of their demise, no need to make noise for no reason.
I leave the empty and half-collapsed house onto the street, take a few steps towards another one, when a familiar voice sounds behind me.
"Well, well, and who do we have here? Ah, it's our nameless newcomer, trying to find something to live off like a rat. Maybe you should be called Ratsy?" I cautiously turn around at the voice and see Spielberg in front of me, pointing a pistol at me.
Fort-twelve, flashes in my mind.
Very timely.
"I knew I should have gone the other way," I reply, still holding my Makarov in my hands and thinking how to distract him.
"Drop your little toy, you don't need it," he takes a few steps towards me and stops slightly ahead of the porch of the house I just came out of.
I throw the pistol towards the building, "accidentally" hitting the window.
"Radical. Well, ask if you have any questions, I'll answer."
"And do I need to ask?" I chuckle, well, I'll ask. "And why did you shoot Old Man and Shtyr?"
"Old Man, Old Man, I didn't want to kill him," Spielberg sighs and scratches his stubble with his left hand. "We had a falling out. I decided to visit him with a bottle, as you put it yesterday, to have a dispute. Word for word, I grabbed a knife and killed the old man. I'm very angry. It's a shame, though it's not the first time."
"So Old Man isn't your first kill?" how many stalkers has he managed to murder?
"First in the Zone, but in the outside world, yes, I had to kill... I didn't lie when I said I was a director. I had an actress, beautiful, a devil. I even thought of marrying her. But she started batting her eyes at an actor on set, I didn't like it. We talked, she wanted to leave me. I couldn't resist and hit her over the head, broke her skull. I had to run here."
"And you went so easily to murder? Out of anger? Did you kill Shtyr out of anger too? He saw you, didn't die immediately, bled out," I say, seeing movement in the window of the house out of the corner of my eye. "You need treatment, in a mental hospital."
"What do you understand at all? They are all scum. And this bitch, she also suggested I get treated by a psychiatrist, and Old Man, this stump, and Shtyr, and even you are scum," he laughed hysterically. "And why the hell did you bother to go after Shtyr? Now you won't be able to blame everything on him. Well, nothing, I'll kill you and go to the Cordon, and let them search as much as they want."
"Zhuk, here!" I pretend to see a stalker behind the director and shout to him.
"You think I'll fall for..." he begins, but stops, hearing movement behind him, and turns back.
It's a shame it was just a zombie awakened by my pistol, not that stalker, but this will do.
I snatch the shotgun from my belt and fire two shots in a row.
One at Spielberg, the other at the zombie.
Very loud, so loud that it seems to me the whole neighborhood heard these shots.
So be it.
Two corpses fall to the ground.
Good thing the distance was small.
I run up to the director, grab his pistol from the ground and fire a couple of shots into the head of another zombie, about to come out of the house.
I look at Spielberg.
Buckshot at such a short distance left almost nothing of his head, the dead man met the same fate.
I grunt and fall to my knees, searching the killer.
Money, a few thousand, a couple of magazines for the pistol, I take off the scabbard with an excellent hunting knife.
It's even a little funny that I've only been here for the second day, and I'm searching corpses with such indifference and even without nausea.
I take off his backpack, check if his PDA is there, and, slinging the bag over my shoulder, I go to pick up my pistol.
And why don't I go have a shot?
I'll mourn the guys.