The depot, the morning after Executioner's departure.
The measured morning routine in the bandit camp was interrupted by a loud and unexpected scream from the area of the local technician's workshop. The brothers jumped up from their places, rushing to the source of the scream, which turned out to be a very green guy who had ended up in the Zone due to legal troubles that promised him several years of imprisonment. With a pale face, he crawled away on his backside from the passage to the Transparent one's alcove, pointing at it with a trembling hand.
"God..." someone in the gathered crowd said very quietly.
A terrible scene unfolded before them. Their dead comrades lay on three beds, their necks cut almost to the spine. The murky gray sheets, long soaked with dirt and dust, had turned brown, and there was so much blood that it dripped onto the floor even through the mattresses, forming small puddles.
"What's going on here?" a stern voice boomed from behind the crowd, and the bandits parted before him.
Yogi reached the newcomer sitting on the floor with wide, confident strides and, grabbing him by the collar, lifted him to his feet in one motion, looking him straight in the eyes. Finding no desired answer on his chalk-white face, the bandit leader shifted his gaze to the alcove. And, throwing his subordinate aside with force, he entered, paying no attention to the corpses lying in the beds, and immediately headed for the technician.
The Transparent one was found lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood, and only now did Yogi allow his rage to erupt. With a loud cry, he swept the tools and parts lying on the table with his hand, and then overturned the table altogether, creating a real mess in the workshop. Then he furrowed his brow deeply and inhaled the air, trying to calm down.
"Guys! There's something..." a criminal who had run into the hangar from the street shouted, but fell silent as soon as he saw the enraged Yogi emerging from the workshop.
"Well?"
"I-I went out to piss," the man began, stammering at the beginning. "And there, behind the toilet, three of our guys. Slashed, lying right in their blood. As soon as I saw it, I immediately came here..."
"Were there any traces?" Yogi asked, regaining some composure.
"Only a bloody boot print on the bricks, apparently the killer stepped in blood when he jumped over," the bandit replied. "Didn't notice anything else."
"Vivisector, Poker," Yogi said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Look around here and question everyone, then report to me."
"What a mess," Poker drawled as Yogi disappeared from view in his personal wagon, then nodded his chin at the novice lying face down. "And what about this one?"
"He's not going to make it," one of the bandits stated. "He impaled his temple on a spike when Yogi threw him. Eight people lost in one night..."
"Quiet!" Vivisector intervened, stopping the conversations that had begun.
The "Super Hawchik" bar, a little later.
"Hey, Borov!" a bandit said loudly, entering the bar. "What are you guys doing?"
"What do you think?" the bar owner replied, packing his belongings into a backpack. "We're leaving."
"But why?" the other asked, bewildered.
"Are you really that stupid, Pig?" Poker said, slinging his modified
shotgun over his shoulder. "Some scumbag snuck in last night and killed seven of us without a sound. We're scared shitless."
"Yogi will deal with him!" Pig exclaimed indignantly, blushing.
"Yeah, right," Borov exhaled wearily, closing his backpack. "He'll deal with him... Yogi can only bully his own guys and suckers. He killed a novice for nothing today. And a couple of months ago, he killed a good guy over a puppy at the base."
"He holds the entire Garbage in his fist! He just has to whistle, and they'll bring this maggot to us on a platter."
"It's precisely because he holds it in his fist," Fraer said this time. "That they visited us last night. Do you think our drunk technician could have crossed anyone on his own recently to get himself ordered killed? No-o-o. It's all because of this damn jammer. And Borov told Yogi that..."
"Enough, Fraer," the bartender stopped his subordinate, clapping him on the shoulder. "What's the point of talking to him? It's clear he's Yogi's lapdog and doesn't want to think for himself."
"Oh yeah! I'll report everything to Yogi right now!" Pig shouted and ran out of the bar, almost tripping over a couple of boxes at the entrance.
"We need to get out of here quickly, brothers," Borov sighed deeply, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. "Otherwise, Yogi will really come to kill us. He's had it in for me for a long time, and now he's completely lost his mind."
"That wouldn't be according to the code," Poker said, frowning.
"What code, Poker-chick?" the second subordinate replied. "Yogi has deserved a shovel handle for a long time. There's lawlessness, squandering of the common fund on freebies, and much more."
The conversation died down on its own, and the bandits, having finished gathering, set off. But as soon as they left the bar, a shot rang out, hitting Pig, who had barely managed to run into the hangar. His forehead exploded in a fountain of blood, splashing the asphalt, and the bandit fell as if struck down. A second shot immediately followed.
"And I told him," Fraer said quietly, as his PDA beeped about incoming notifications. "That this wasn't for nothing."
Cordon, Free Stalkers' base. Same time.
An anxious Valerian paced his office, growing gloomier with each minute. There had been no news from Executioner for five days since he went to the Garbage. A routine reconnaissance raid had turned into a disaster. And the stalker leader couldn't even guess what had happened to one of his most dangerous men.
There was no doubt about Executioner's danger. Valerian knew perfectly well what rumors circulated about his subordinate, and he himself had noticed something in him. Iron calm in the face of any threat, prudence, and excellent skills with firearms and cold weapons made him a formidable opponent. Therefore, he had less and less faith in a simple misfortune.
"We need to assemble a new reconnaissance group," Puzo said calmly, sitting at the table. "While we're chilling here, the bandits have probably already extracted all the intel and passwords from your Executioner."
"I don't believe that," Valerian sharply turned to him and replied. "He couldn't have..."
"Yeah, we've heard all that," Vasily interrupted the office owner. "We believe you. Your Executioner is cool, of course. But judge for yourself, no news for five days. You don't believe in his death in an anomaly or from mutants yourself, which means the bandits either killed him or took him prisoner. And it would be better for everyone if he were simply dead. Otherwise, it's even scary to think what kind of tricks the criminals might prepare for us. This means we urgently need to prepare a new squad. And, frankly, we should have done it much earlier."
An awkward silence hung in the office. Valerian understood all their arguments but didn't want to accept them. The stalker leader couldn't even entertain the thought of Executioner's betrayal, especially after that incident in the Gut. Such a stalker couldn't betray them, he simply couldn't. This meant he had to urgently rescue him from trouble before it was too late. But the other stalker captains disagreed, considering it foolish to risk the lives of many for the sake of one.
And the more time passed, the stronger his desire grew to grab his assault rifle himself and go to his aid. But then Valerian's PDA, lying on the table, suddenly beeped, informing him of several consecutive notifications. The stalker's heart sank as soon as he turned on the device, and all his worries about his subordinate's fate vanished, leaving peace in his soul.
Father Valerian: Waiting for you to get in touch, Executioner.
02.07.2011, 22:15.
Father Valerian: Get in touch as soon as possible.
03.07.2011, 8:39.
Father Valerian: We'll come to help, just send the coordinates. 03.07.2011, 17:22.
Father Valerian: If Executioner was taken prisoner, I am ready to discuss terms for his ransom. 04.07.2011, 8:11.
Father Valerian: Waiting. 04.07.2011, 9:49.
Father Valerian: I'll wring your guts out, you bastards, if you did something to him. 05.07.2011, 9:38.
Executioner: I'm at the Garbage, had to make some noise yesterday and take out a few bandits. Otherwise, everything is fine. I'll be back in touch tonight. 06.07.2011, 8:07.
Executioner: I'm very touched by your concern, Valerian. Sorry I didn't get in touch sooner, there were serious problems. I sent the previous message a few days ago. It didn't get through because the bandits managed to assemble a working jammer. But I dealt with it. 06.07.2011, 8:08.
Executioner: Besides solving the communication problem, I managed to secure the help of local diggers. They will support us in confronting the bandits.
06.07.2011, 8:08.
"Who is it, Valerian?" Puzo asks.
"Executioner is finally in touch," Valerian replies with a smile, typing on his communicator.
Flea Market, a little later.
"Napr," I say upon my return to the digger leader, who was standing at the edge of the second floor of a ruined building. "I've contacted Valerian. He agrees with the idea of an alliance and is grateful to you for it. But before we make plans for war, we need to bring the stalker forces to the Garbage."
"Ha, I didn't believe you could actually deal with the jammer," he says, turning to me with a wide smile on his lips. "Good news. What does Valerian suggest?"
"The problem right now is the bandit checkpoints guarding the trails leading here," I continue. "We need to eliminate them. To do this, Valerian suggests hitting them all at once, encircling them. That way, we'll minimize our losses and won't let anyone escape."
"Hmm," the digger muses for a moment, scratching his chin, then nods. "Good plan, I agree. But first, we'll retrieve the weapons from the Smuggler's stash."
"Of course," I nod, glancing at the rest of the Dump visible from the Flea Market. "Valerian isn't ready himself yet. There are various organizational issues to resolve."
"I understand, I still need to get my guys excited," Napr grins slightly. "What are your plans for today?"
"What, do you have any suggestions?"
"How could I not, of course I do," Napr steps closer, clapping me on the shoulder. "What do you say about a little walk to the small forest in the southeast of the Dump?"
"Are you suggesting we go for your weapons?" I raise an eyebrow. "And how am I supposed to carry all of it on my back?"
"You won't carry anything. I'll just feel calmer if you accompany the diggers," he replies. "So, what do you think? Naturally, I owe you for your help."
"Deal."
After waiting a bit for Napr to gather the group, we set off. Besides the familiar Cord, four more grim diggers joined the expedition for weapons, casting strange glances at me from time to time, a mixture of respect and fear in their eyes. Having agreed that I would go first and they would follow, we descended the concrete stairs and headed southeast.
Passing huge tanks, our detachment skirted the garbage pile on the left, scattering a small flock of blind moles that had settled to rest in the shade of one of the dug pits. The diggers raised their weapons, but I stopped them. There was no need to make noise now, especially since I wasn't sure of their accuracy, and the dogs had already scattered in different directions, frightened by our numbers.
Then we reach a steep hill separating us from a small forest, where the Smuggler's stash was located. We skirt it along the very edge, trying not to step into a chemical anomaly, and find ourselves at the edge of the woods. Next, we go deep into the forest, passing trees and occasionally skirting rare anomalies, until we reach a clearing in a hollow, in the middle of which lies a fallen and long-dried tree.
"And where is your stash?" I ask Cord, slinging my rifle over my shoulder.
"You'll see now," he replies, approaching the fallen tree and addressing the other diggers. "Heave, men."
Together they move the fallen trunk from its place, revealing a long but narrow, clearly man-made groove. I take a few steps forward and see a rolled-up green tent there. The diggers lift it with several hands, move it a little to the right, and unfold it, revealing the contents. A dozen greased Kalashnikovs with missing magazines and three military duffel bags, which, judging by the clinking, contained loose ammunition.
"Rich and opulent," I even whistled at the sight. "If you had body armor too, it would be a fairy tale."
"And who said there isn't any?" Shnur grins, looking at me with an undisguised dose of self-satisfaction. "Don't look at us like we're beggars. It was dangerous to walk around the Dump without proper weapons with such gear, the bandits would have suspected something was up if they saw us in normal suits."
"And you think Avoska didn't sell you out completely?"
"Tsk," he waves his hand, smiling. "We managed to order them even before Avoska came to us."
"Wasn't he with you from
the very beginning?"
"No-o-o," Shnur begins to explain. "He, like you, came from the Cordon. Although, it seems to me, the bandits sent him then. He hung around us for a bit, then asked to join Pale's group. A few days later, that one got captured with his guys. And then Avoska's heroic return happened. Oh, if only you knew how much nonsense he spun us. We hung on his every word and believed that scoundrel, so we entrusted him with the Smuggler's orders, since he turned out to be such a brave fellow."
"Yeah," I exhale briefly.
"You can say that again," the digger spits on the ground, then turns to the others. "Well, is everyone loaded? Then let's head back."
We reached the Flea Market without the slightest problem, only the blind moles barked at us from a distance, but we, just like the first time, simply passed by. But something strange did happen as we got closer to the diggers' camp. The door to that very basement below was slightly ajar, and some rustling sounds were coming from inside.
"What's wrong?" Shnur looks at me in surprise. "Rats there, have been for about a week and a half."
"You guys go on," I reply, drawing my pistol from its holster. "I'll go see what kind of rats have moved in."
The basement of the Flea Market, at the same time.
Shrike lay face down on the cold, cracked floor. His head throbbed mercilessly, and the sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears like a roar. Damn it. What had brought him to this basement? Trying to get up and open his eyes brought nothing good, resulting in a new wave of pain. But gritting his teeth, the mercenary forced himself to open his eyelids.
"Are these stalkers drawn to this place like flies to honey?" someone dressed in a worn brown cloak says in a loud whisper.
"Tell me about it," replies the man in the black cloak. "We'll have to change our hiding spot. You were right that it's dangerous to hide here. That scoundrel was here a week ago, and now this one too."
The mercenary, while the marauders were busy talking, cautiously tried to feel for any weapon to defend himself, but realized with horror that he had been completely robbed. They had even taken the scabbard from his pants. The situation was getting worse with every second.
"And what about this one?" the speaker kicked Shrike in the leg, causing him to wince in pain. "Finish him off?"
"You'll finish yourselves off in your palms," a third voice, very familiar, intervenes.
Then two shots ring out, almost deafening Shrike, and two bandits fall to the floor next to the mercenary. Propping himself up on his elbows, the mercenary sees a stalker descending the stairs, whom he recognizes with some difficulty due to double vision.
"Executioner?" he rasps questioningly, addressing his savior.
"That's me," the stalker smiles at the corners of his lips, approaching and squatting down. "And you got roughed up pretty bad here, huh? Well, don't worry, I'll give you first aid, you'll rest a bit and be as good as new."