Happy Ninth of May, my dears, Victory and Remembrance Day.
Novice Village, same time.
Stretching, Wolf came out onto the porch of his house, closing the door tightly behind him, immediately descended the steps, and set off at a slow, leisurely pace to his usual spot – at the end of his house, opposite the main camp bonfire. The novices, as usual, occupied their seats according to their purchased tickets and were busy telling stories that bore little resemblance to reality. But then the stalker noticed something unusual out of the corner of his eye. Executioner. His friend was walking straight towards him, in full gear, and the look in his green eyes boded no good.
"Hey, Executioner," Wolf smiles and extends his hand for a handshake, but the stalker, who has approached him closely, is in no hurry to shake it and merely tilts his head slightly, as dogs do, and looks intently at the face of the camp supervisor.
"And to you, Wolf," he says without a trace of warmth in his voice. "Let's go, we need to discuss something."
"Did something happen?" the stalker asks Wolf's back and tries to catch up with the vagabond who has rushed off.
"Open up," is all he says as he climbs the two small steps and touches the closed door with his palm.
Wolf obediently opens and lets Executioner in. The latter, without even taking off his boots, immediately goes to the kitchen, and there he drops his backpack on the floor and takes off his assault rifle, placing it directly on the kitchen table. The owner of the house is literally stunned by the behavior of his good acquaintance. He had always been polite and kind, but now... Like a wild beast in front of him. Executioner turns his head over his right shoulder and utters a single word:
"Sit."
"What happened?" Wolf sits down on one of the chairs and asks the stalker, who towers over him like a mountain, in bewilderment.
"Do you remember what we agreed on when the Hunter left?" Executioner answers a question with a question. "About our house with him."
"Well, yes, I myself offered to look after it so that no one... M-damn it!" he exclaims with a sudden realization of what happened. "Were we robbed?"
"And they trashed the whole house, turning it into a toilet in the process," Executioner says, crossing his arms. "And first of all, I want to say that I value our relationship and don't want to spoil it. But now I'm very angry and I want blood, so..."
"I... I understand," Wolf is now truly uneasy, he is one of the few in this village who knows for sure what the person standing before him is capable of. And, although he said that nothing would happen to Wolf himself, he was still a little scared. "Was a lot stolen?"
"Ten thousand," Executioner says, and Wolf calms down slightly, realizing that the amount stolen is not that large. "And a protective container with eight rare artifacts that Freedom paid me with for killing a chimera."
"Bitch..." the supervisor only exhales, realizing that he will survive this time only because of Executioner. If it were any other stalker in his place, he would have been gutted in an instant and hung on hooks, as a punishment to all others that you can't steal from stalkers. And they would have been right.
"Exactly," Executioner chuckles grimly. "Tell me. Everything that happened while I was away."
"Nothing much," Wolf replies, trying hard to recall everything that happened in the last few days, and then something comes to mind: "Although, wait, there was something. A couple of novices by the campfire on the day you and Freedom left, started a conversation, like, what did they bring into your house? They entered with a large container, and left without it."
"Go on."
"Word for word, several people were spouting nonsense," Wolf continues to tell. "And that they brought super-weapons, and an incredible amount of money, and mutant parts, and so on... One, however, spoke very unfavorably about you, but I immediately shut him down."
"And what did he say?"
"Something like: 'Why the hell does this bastard have a whole house as personal property, while we huddle like rats in basements? While we crawl on our bellies and risk our lives, he brings loot in boxes accompanied by guards!'"
"And what's this original's name?" Executioner asks, rubbing his nose bridge.
"Vadka Petukh," Wolf quickly says the nickname. "Do you think it's him?"
"Not necessarily," the stalker shakes his head. "Who knows, he might have had a bad day, and that's why he spoke out... Is he in the camp now? I want to talk to him."
"Yes," Wolf nods. "Let's go, I'll show you."
Novice Village, same time.
I follow Wolf, noting to myself that he's clearly not involved. Or he's too good an actor... But I think I can exclude him from the circle of suspects for now. He wouldn't be so stupid as to get himself into trouble – stealing from me and staying in the village. Meanwhile, the stalker leads me to the basement and starts descending the stairs. I follow, until we find ourselves in a spacious room with mattresses stacked on top of each other, a sofa, a bed frame, and a small table. In the corner of the room, a stalker was sleeping, snoring softly.
Wolf approaches him, bends down, and roughly grabs him by the shoulder, starting to shake the stalker. The latter jumps up with a cry and looks at us with bewildered eyes. He wants to tell us what he thinks, but then his gaze focuses, and his displeasure vanishes on its own.
"H-how can I help, gentlemen?" he asks us, barely stuttering.
"M-m," Unexpected. "I need to talk to you about something unpleasant, and Mr. Wolf was just kind enough to escort me, and now he will leave so as not to interfere with our... conversation."
"Uh, yes," Wolf only replies, immediately getting ready to leave. But at the last moment, he grabs me by the shoulder and leans into my ear, whispering: "Just hit him so that the other novices don't hear. I don't want to scare them."
And as soon as the footsteps behind me fade, I turn to Petukh: "As you can see, no one can help you now," I try to speak with emotion and approach him closely. "And if you don't want to be hurt, please be frank with me. Did you break into my house?"
"H-house? W-what?" he drawls stupidly.
I sharply punch him in the solar plexus, and Vadka falls to his knees, gasping for air like a fish thrown ashore. I wait a few seconds for him to recover, grab him by the hair, and lift his head. He is scared, very scared. Now the bastard understands that I'm not playing with him. Now I need to apply some pressure...
"Listen,
mold," I whisper into his ear, holding him tightly by the hair, and with my left hand, I bring my knife to his guts. "Someone broke into my house, trashed everything there, and stole a container with rare artifacts. A full container. Do you understand what I'm talking about? I see that you do... Wolf told me that you're not very happy with me, right? I don't do anything, loot is brought to me in boxes, and I even have a whole house, right?"
"N-no!" the guy exclaims in fear, and as soon as I let go of his hair, he backs away until he hits his back against the cold basement wall.
"Did Wolf lie?"
"Y-yes! That is, n-no... I really said that, but I-I just envied you," he says quickly, swallowing some sounds and even syllables. "I just wanted to vent my anger like that. I never thought of breaking into your house, I-I didn't want to, p-please..."
"Well, quiet, quiet," the guy looks at my outstretched hand fearfully, expecting a blow, but I just run my fingers through his hair a few times. "Calm down. I know you didn't steal anything. You're not brave enough for that, and if you had done it, you wouldn't be here now. Let what happened to you today be a lesson for the future – don't say provocative things if you can't stand up for yourself."
"Th-thank you..."
"You're welcome," I smile slightly and step back a couple of paces, giving him time to recover. Such a sudden surge of different emotions will clearly show whether he is involved or not. "But there is one thing I still want to know. Who else was sitting by that campfire, and how many of these people left the village?"
"Everyone's here," he replies so quickly that I haven't even finished speaking. "We were sitting as a group. At first, there were only Mikhas and I, and then the rest of our guys joined us. We hunt together, look for loot, and all that... But they're not involved either, they actually started defending you, even before Wolf! They said you've done a lot for the village and other stalkers..."
"Okay, then such a question. Did you notice anyone passing by the campfire, or perhaps sitting nearby and could have heard your words about the loot?"
"Uh, I can't remember anyone..." he says, and then adds in a rush. "But I can call the guys, Mikhas said something like: 'they're hanging around us again,' but I didn't pay attention then. I thought it was his paranoia again. And..."
"Call them," I stop the flow of verbosity, and the guy immediately takes off. "And don't you dare run away!"
I suspected from the very beginning that these were some stray stalkers. Novices wouldn't steal, they wouldn't dare – and it's scary to stay, and it's scary to go far away, unless they would return to the Predbannik. But for now, all the obvious suspects are here. However, everything can still turn around a few times.
At this moment, footsteps were heard on the stairs, and four people entered the basement – Petukh himself and three other stalkers. They hesitated timidly but didn't avert their gaze.
"Did Petukh tell you what happened?" I ask them before starting a specific conversation.
"Yes," says a dark-skinned, short stalker. "I'm Mikhas, and this is Cherenok and Koleno."
"Good," I nod. "He mentioned your paranoia and that you thought someone was hanging around you again. Is that so?"
"U-u, Petushara," Mikhas sharply turns towards his comrade and raises his hand, but doesn't hit him. "I don't have any paranoia, and those men were really constantly hanging around us. Both in the village and outside. They were, of course, not walking close, and tried to hide, but sometimes they could still be seen."
"Only when he wanted to show us something," Cherenok begins to say – a scruffy stalker with an unpleasant appearance. "There was nothing, and those men even helped us once."
"Yeah, they helped," the dark-skinned one grumbles. "Just say it, they gave us a bottle of vodka when you didn't have enough money and bought snacks, but nothing to drink. And then they came to check on us casually a couple of hours later. These men intended something bad, and these fools don't believe it."
"Will you describe them to me?"
"Of course," he readily replies and begins to describe these stalkers: "So, the first one is Nail, he's bald, his face is all beaten up, like he just came from a drinking binge. His voice is completely hoarse from smoking, he only talks in a whisper. The second one is Pimple, short and fat, his face is covered in scabs and pockmarks, a very unpleasant sight. The third is Ivy, his brother, with the same face, only skinny."
"What kind of gear?" I make mental notes. Nail, Pimple, and Ivy...
"Shotguns, pistols," Misha shrugs. "I didn't really look. They don't have armor and loadouts like yours, they wear regular body armor over their jackets."
"Alright, thanks for the help. And one last question, I'm right to assume that after that evening you haven't seen them in the camp anymore?"
"Yeah, they vanished into thin air," Rooster replies this time, the others nodding in agreement. "We saw them in the evening, but by morning, they were gone."
I slip my hand into my pocket and pull out some cash, which I immediately shove into Misha's palm, and without saying goodbye, I make my way through them to the exit. Suspects found, all that's left is to confirm the data. I'll go see Sidorovich before it gets completely dark and the old man closes shop. If anyone here can fence artifacts, it's him. I hope he won't cover for them, hiding behind trade secrets.
Sidorovich's basement greeted me with the familiar quiet hum of yellow lamps, dimly illuminating the stairwell. I descend the steps until I reach Stas, who is vigilantly guarding the approaches to the trader. He immediately looks up at me.
"Hello, Executioner, you're a bit late," he greets me with a smirk. "But Sidor will be working for another half hour, so drop your weapon and come in."
"Yeah, thanks."
The trader, with a bored expression, sat on a sofa in the far corner of his cubicle and read a book through his glasses, the cover of which I couldn't make out. Seeing me, he nodded deeply, slowly took off his glasses, got up from the sofa, and walked to his usual spot.
"Hello," he greets me as he sits down. "Your order will be ready in a couple of days, if you came about that."
"And to you as well, trader," I reply. "Alas, trouble has brought me to you. Nail, Pimple, and Ivy... Do these nicknames mean anything to you?"
"You understand, Executioner, that I can't disclose the names of my clients?" Sidorovich folds his hands on his chest and leans back in his chair, squinting his eyes and looking at me questioningly.
"The crate of artifacts they brought you belongs to me," I hold his gaze. "Freedom paid them with it for the chimera I killed. I'm not asking for it back, I understand you've already paid for it, and I have no claim on your money. Just tell me what you know about them. What they bought, where they were going..."
"The devils!" the old man exclaims menacingly, hitting the table with his pound-weight fist so hard that the covered laptop almost jumped. "No, Executioner, I didn't buy anything from them. They set too strange conditions, saying that my representative should meet them a few hundred meters from the village, assess the goods, and take them to me in a bag. And then I was supposed to pay them. So, I told them to go to hell with such schemes. I thought then, what kind of stupidity is this, do they want to lure Stas out and kill me? But no, they were really selling something... What kind of artifacts were they?"
"Gravi, Snowflake, Kolobok, and five other rare ones, but I couldn't identify them," I sigh. "They also trashed my house, the sons of bitches."
"Mmm, well..." Sidorovich drawls, stroking his bristly chin thoughtfully. "I'll tell you this – they most likely headed to the Ante-room, to the Squeaker. He's the closest trader for many kilometers around, they have no one else to go to, and the loot is burning their hands and demands to be sold."
"Thanks for the help," I nod to him as I leave. "I'll go catch them there..."
"Wait, where are you running off to?" Sidorovich stops me. "Do you need help? Not for free, of course, but just say the word, and I'll whistle up my guys..."
"Thanks for the offer, but no, this is my personal hunt. So long, Sidorovich."
"Good luck, heh, hunting, stalker."
Now my path lay to the place where my whole story began. And only the Squeaker, not the most pleasant person and trader, could solve the problem... Well, I'll pay him a visit. Today.
Novice Village, same time.
Wolf, feeling annoyed by what had happened, and how could he have missed such a thing, decided to organize a squad to clean up the house. Since the unknown scoundrels had taken all the valuable things, surely the Executioner wouldn't mind if a few novices tidied up his place? And Wolf would make sure nothing beyond what was lost disappeared. This, it seemed to him, was one of those little things that could, if not atone for his guilt, then at least slightly calm his friend.
The door to the former Hunter's house was left open, so the watchman easily let several people inside to clean. Wolf himself remained on the porch to meet the stalker who had run off to the trader with a bullet. But as soon as he noticed the top of a head rising up the stairs and moved to meet him, the Executioner instantly turned left, towards the military checkpoint, and with a quick step, ignoring everything, crossed a small, flat clearing and disappeared behind a hill.
"Where is he going?" was the only question asked, to which there was no answer.
Ante-room, late night.
Squeaker was sleeping soundly in his small room, which also served as a warehouse for goods, and was having his tenth dream when for a moment he felt something strange. As if someone was looking at him very demandingly and maliciously, but that couldn't
be. He was alone, in a basement locked with several locks, and had absolutely nothing to fear. And if anyone dared to speak up, then...
"Masturbating again, you impure soul? What are you waving your little fist under the blanket for?" these words completely pull him out of the world of dreams, causing a large, cold sweat to break out on his back, and at that very moment, his eyes are flooded with the bright light of a turned-on light bulb. "Wake up and sing, ugly."
The next second, this someone rips the blanket off him and yanks him up to sit on the bed. The terrified Squeaker blinks rapidly from the bright light, which makes his unaccustomed eyes water, and tries to understand what's happening. It doesn't take long before he finally opens his eyes and looks in surprise at the stalker sitting in front of him. A very familiar stalker, a daring novice who left for the Cordon a couple of months ago. But how?
"Awake?" this pup interrupts his thoughts. "I have a... to you."
"I don't give a damn!" Squeaker explodes, feeling back in control. Some snot-nosed kid won't dare touch him, and his connections will fully avenge him. "How did you..."
But then something terrible happened. The novice, with an emotionless face, got up from his seat, walked right up to the trader, and began to beat him unceremoniously. Hard and painfully, until purple bruises appeared. He hit his ribs, his face, several blows landed on his nose, and even his stomach. The coughing and groaning trader could only moan and whimper, begging for mercy. He hadn't expected this...
"Nail, Pimple, and Ivy," the novice only says, stepping back one pace, allowing the beaten man to breathe calmly. "Did they come to you? Did they bring a box of artifacts?"
"Y-yes, they came..."
"Did you buy it?"
"Yes..."
"It's somewhere here, right?"
"..." this time the trader only nodded his head.
"One less worry," the stalker says to himself, and turns to Squeaker again. "How much did you pay them? Where did they go?"
"Five grand each," the trader says with trembling, broken lips, licking the salty blood from them. "And they went... To drink, probably, I don't know... There's only one place here..."
"How long ago were they with you?"
"Today, today..." Squeaker continues to answer, picturing in his mind how he'll get the head of this insolent creature on a silver platter! " 'Ugh, damn it, just leave, and I'll immediately order your death from everyone I can reach, you're living your last day, you bitch!' "
"Thanks for your cooperation," the stalker calmly replies and lightning-fast approaches Squeaker, running a razor-sharp knife across his neck. "You didn't think I'd leave you alive, did you? I don't need such problems... And your documents will serve as a good gift for Sidorovich, he'll be very interested in other ways of supplying goods."
Bar in an abandoned village, an hour later.
"Halt," a vaguely familiar voice stops me. Ba-ah, the guard is still the same. "Payment for passage..."
"Vitya Rybak said I could walk here for free."
"Ah, you're that novice, right?" the guard widens his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out my face. "I'd let you in, but Vitya hasn't been seen here for a long time. Haven't you met?"
"We met on the Cordon," I sigh wearily. "How much?"
"Just for you – two thousand."
"But passage cost two grand back then too."
"It's gone up," the stalker shrugs.
"Here," I shove the money into his paw and walk further down the long tunnel and turn right – into the bar.
With every step I took, the music became louder and clearer, as did the loud conversations of the local drunks. My old acquaintance, Squirrel, was still working behind the bar. I look around for my targets and, to my surprise, find them at a far table in the very corner. Just as I was told, Misha, not the most pleasant people. Alas, guys, even though I've recovered my losses, it won't save you from punishment...
Bar, same time.
Squirrel was vigorously wiping down a tabletop that had recently been vomited on by one of the local drunks, and sighing heavily. Although money flowed to him like a river, its carriers left much to be desired. Then he noticed another stalker heading towards him, looked up to assess him, and froze. The novice, who had recently left for the Cordon, had turned into a respected man. A stalker suit, and not a bad one at that, a rifle slung over his shoulder, and some interesting piece in his hip holster. And judging by the wear and tear on his gear, he had been through a lot of trouble.
"And what's your name now, novice?" he asks, leaning over the counter with a slight smile, shouting over the music.
"Executioner," he replies, and Squirrel chuckles in surprise. He had heard some rumors about the Executioner, could they have been about him?
"And what winds brought you here, decided to visit old acquaintances or just dropped by to relax?"
"No, Squirrel, I came on business," and then the stalker places many rolled-up stacks of bills on the bar counter. "Clear out the bar with all your customers, except for that trio over there. I need to talk to them."
"What are you..." Squirrel says in surprise, shifting his gaze from the money to the Executioner, but meets the serious look of cold green eyes. It's better not to argue with him, but he needs to leave on his own terms. "There's not enough here..."
"The right decision," the Executioner nods, smiling approvingly, and places a few more stacks of bills on the counter.
Over the next ten minutes, Squirrel had to work hard to get everyone out of the bar except for that strange trio the Executioner had pointed to. He cast one last glance at the stalker who had turned his back to him before closing the door behind him.
Bar, same time.
A group of lucky stalkers, as they liked to call themselves, were celebrating a great deal. Earning a whole fifteen grand out of nowhere! And they still said that Squeaker paid mere crumbs. They were definitely lying, useless pieces of meat, incapable of even bringing normal loot to a trader.
"People are leaving," Nail notices, rubbing his swollen face with his palm.
"To hell with them, today we drink till morning! Hic!" Pimple loudly declares and reaches for the half-empty bottle to pour the remaining life-giving liquid, but suddenly his hand burns with sharp, unbearable pain. Then the stalker shifts his alcohol-clouded gaze to his hand, but instead of his hand and fingers, he sees an axe stuck in the tabletop and blood spreading across the table. "Aaaah!"
"What?" his accomplices say stupidly. "You bitch!"
In front of them stands a strange stalker, looking at them with eyes burning with hatred, and holding the handle of the axe that severed their friend's hand with his right hand. Just a moment passes, and he lunges forward, delivering a strong blow with his left to the face of Nail, who was standing opposite Pimple. The stalker, not expecting this, falls onto his backside and clutches his broken nose, and then a loud shot rings out.
The outraged Ivy, whose face was covered in red spots, fired, but the stalker dodged to the side in time, letting the double charge of buckshot pass him by. And, grabbing the opponent by the arm, he pulls him towards him, pinning his hand to the table with a knife that entered the flesh up to the guard. Only a few seconds passed, and the lucky squad was completely broken. Pimple lay on the floor, screaming in pain, pressing his bloody stump to his torso, his younger brother tried to pull out the knife stuck in the table, and Nail could only stare fearfully at death itself, which had come for them.
Then the stalker grabs the handle of the axe, lifts it, and says loudly:
"Well, gentlemen bastards," a grin appears on his face. "I'll show you why they called me Executioner."