Agroprom Factory, the next morning.
Under the low hum of conversations, I descend the stairs into the factory hall and survey the assembled stalkers. In total, counting our group, fifteen people will head to the Dump. Part of the people will be led by Orest himself, and another part of the detachment by Bledny. Another dozen vagrants under the leadership of Ozhog will remain here to defend the camp from uninvited guests.
Not much help, if you think about it, but… How many of us have gathered in total? Our group, the detachments of Barmaley, Tikhoy, Puz, and Napra. Orest and Bledny have also joined us. And soon the Dolgovtsy should arrive. If you think about it, there are almost more of us than bandits. A good prospect.
I approach my eagles, giving them a careful look. All of them, though they have waited a long time for this event, are still tense. But, perhaps, Nemoy copes with emotions better than anyone else, only frowning his brows. Batut nervously grinds his teeth from time to time, and the two brothers are restless and shift from foot to foot. Kirpich's lips are bitten, almost to blood.
"How are you?" I ask them quietly.
"Normal, commander," Batut replies with a nervous grin, but I can see they are a little out of sorts.
"Don't worry, men," I begin, placing my hands on Batut's and Kirpich's shoulders. "Whatever happens, I'll be there. And the other stalkers too, we'll break through."
"Ha-ha," Trotyl laughs briefly, and his face smooths out a little, as do the other guys. "Commander, how do you manage to be so calm?"
"A secret," I smile, after which an awkward pause hangs between us.
"Hey! Meet our guests!" a loud bass booms from the courtyard, rumbling through the room. Have the Dolgovtsy arrived already?
Like the other stalkers, I go out into the courtyard to look at the arrivals. And, judging by their appearance, Krylov, despite everything, was very generous with help for us. The assault detachment of Dolg consisted of only five fighters, but each of them was equipped much better than us. Three people were clad in black and red exoskeletons, and with every movement, the sound of servos could be heard. Thanks to their armor, they looked so formidable that even the tallest and broadest of the free stalkers gathered here looked like a child next to them. I wonder how much such a miracle could cost?
The remaining Dolgovtsy were not in such formidable, but still impressive heavy armor, barely inferior in thickness to the exoskeletons. All of them were armed with Kalashnikovs, only two of them had, it seemed, an RPK with a drum magazine in their hands. Ha, the bandits will not be delighted with our helpers.
Then, from their group, the central Dolgovets in an exoskeleton comes forward. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a powerful chest and thick armor. His face was hidden behind a dense helmet that completely covered his head.
"Captain Medvedev," he says in a bass voice, and his voice sounds slightly muffled due to the helmet. "Who among you is in charge? Introduce yourself."
"Orest, head of the factory stalkers," the local leader introduces himself, stepping forward from the crowd, and, looking over his shoulder at me, nods his head.
"Palach, commander of the detachment from Valeryan's group," I follow.
"Oh, Palach!" his bass booms, and he extends a wide palm for a handshake. "I've heard a lot. You helped us out greatly, now it's our turn."
"And we are grateful for that," my palm feels like it's in a vice. It seemed that if he squeezed it a little more, he would break my bones.
"When do we move out?" Medvedev asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
"We'll finish the last preparations and be ready," Orest replies to him.
The wreckage of the crane, an hour later.
Valeryan glanced towards the hangar, which was visible behind a cluster of concrete slabs where they had decided to set up a temporary camp. And his heart was heavy. He understood the necessity of such a step, because if they allowed this bandit scum to go unpunished, how would a day, a week, or a month pass – and they would show up right at the Cordon. And then, who knows, something worse might happen. But he didn't want to sacrifice his own people, or others either.
And there would be no avoiding casualties. The bastards had dug in too deeply at the Dump, too much so. And the most disgusting thing is that Yoga somehow felt the sword of justice hanging over him and began to gather forces in the Depot. That's one thing you can't take away from the bandit – his animal instinct. The creature. He left only a small handful of patrols and checkpoints outside. Which means – as soon as they are eliminated, the boss will know about the approach of uninvited guests. However, he will soon find out about everything anyway.
"What's the news, Yakut?" the stalker leader asks his right-hand man, turning his face towards a small pit.
"The diggers remained at the Flea Market, they will cover us from an unexpected greeting from the Dark Valley," the stalker begins to list. "The detachments of Barmaley, Tikhoy, and Puz are also gradually taking their positions. They've taken out a few small enemy groups, there are wounded, but their lives are not in danger. Orest will arrive in about a couple of hours, Palach and the Dolgovtsy detachment will be with him."
"So, all that's left is to wait."
The Depot, the same time.
Yoga was raging, making his once cozy and carefully furnished wagon a pathetic sight. Broken bottles and glasses, an overturned cabinet, scattered canned goods, nothing escaped the wrath of the bandit boss.
"Bitch!" he shouted loudly and hit the metal wall of his shelter with his fist. A sharp pain pierced his hand, and blood began to drip from his knuckles. "Bitch…"
The other bandits, those who had some authority and could lead people, exchanged fearful glances, watching their leader's rampage. Everyone wanted to be as far away from here as possible, because none of them knew what was worse – to fall into Yoga's hands, or to die under stalker bullets. And avoiding a fight was impossible, everyone understood that. With every minute, the stalkers, like a python that has found prey, tightened the noose around the hangar more and more. Catastrophe was inevitable.
"Well!?" Yoga looked at them demandingly. His face was flushed with anger, and veins pulsed on his forehead and neck. It seemed that in a moment he would have a heart attack. Alas, fate was deaf to the pleas of murderers and robbers. "What should we do?!"
"We can…" Choban began, but faltered when Yoga looked at him with wild eyes. He hurried to continue. "We can leave through the network of tunnels, they stretch for many kilometers. We'll get out somewhere. Just don't go to Agroprom."
"Why?"
"The stalkers killed those who were lowering the ladder, and…"
"Why didn't anyone think to prepare another one, from our side!?" the boss yelled and abruptly approached, causing Choban to want to recoil, but he was grabbed by the collar.
"We wanted to, but you yourself…"
The bandit didn't finish speaking before Yoga threw him to the ground with force. By unfortunate coincidence, behind him was a stake, onto which Choban's head impaled itself. The boss looked at the corpse with disgust and turned to hide in the wagon, but stopped at the last moment.
"You and you," he points to two bandits. "You will guard the passage. If any bitch decides to escape through it – kill her on the spot. Your heads are on the line. You want to fight, creatures, well,
I'll give it to you…"
The remaining ones exchanged glances, but did not dare to go against Yoga. After all, he is the little that holds them together. If they kill him, they risk dying themselves in a civil war among themselves. And Choban… he suffered enough. May he rest in peace.
"Hey, you!" one of the authorities calls out to a couple of thugs who were standing nearby, smoking cigarettes. "Drag the body away."
"And where to?"
"To the fence, for God's sake! As always, what a bunch of freaks…"
The western checkpoint, two and a half hours later.
The bandits were nervously smoking, gathered around a long-extinguished campfire, completely disregarding their duties as sentries. If anyone wants to work hard for pennies, let them go. That's what everyone thought, realizing that something strange was going on. Yoga was running around like he was stung in the ass, constantly shouting and snapping at everyone. And today he even killed Choban, at least, that's what Senka said. And Senka can be trusted.
And the other bosses were no better. Their faces were always so sour that you could drink cognac without lemon. And the rumor went through the ranks of ordinary lackeys that the stalkers decided to stop being doormats and, well, started to tighten the screws. Not today, but tomorrow, it will all come to an end. But the panic-mongers who started such conversations were caught in time and beaten as an example, so the best solution was to remain silent and keep thoughts to oneself. So they remained silent.
"Guys," the brigadier says to the thugs in a hoarse, smoke-filled voice. "Maybe, forget it, huh? Let's bail?"
"Yeah, like Borov, and what happened to him?" one of them replies sarcastically.
"And what happened to him?" someone else asks.
"I heard that killer killed him, the one who killed Prozorchny. Yoga himself ordered it, imagine that! I think, if he has such personnel, we'd better sit quietly and not stick our necks out."
"What are you talking about! If Yoga had such a specialist, do you think he wouldn't have shown him off to the thieves, huh? What are you staring at, Ryba? – the brigadier abruptly jumped to his feet and, actively gesticulating with his hands, began to speak. At the end of his speech, he noticed that the thug was staring at him with unusually wide eyes. Did he realize that…
"He shat himself from me," the voice boomed throughout the small camp.
The brigadier wanted to turn, but couldn't. Someone's tenacious, strong, and very powerful hand grabbed him by the scalp and, pulling with all its might, slams his head into an iron pipe covered with concrete. The hand releases the corpse, and it slides off the pipe with a sickening squelch, leaving a thick streak of blood.
The other thugs jumped to their feet, some even fired, but the small caliber was like peas to the exoskeleton. And the sudden intruder in black and red armor, right under bullets from pistols and shotguns, raises his light machine gun and cuts down the remaining bandits with a short burst.
"Well!? I told you not to waste ammunition and expose yourselves to bullets," the Dolgovets says triumphantly to the approaching detachment.
The same place, the same time.
Wow. I could only whistle mentally at such a sight. Of course, I knew from the game that exoskeletons were something incredible. But this much? Yes, my armor would also withstand small caliber, but from such a distance? And not even flinch from the pain? Impressive.
"I'll write to Valeryan now," Orest says, taking a PDA out of his pocket and quickly typing a message. The reply came immediately. "Readiness in fifteen minutes. On command, we must approach that fence over there. Eh, they're already running around, rats. They heard us after all."
"And then?" the captain asks him.
"And then, depending on the circumstances," the stalker shrugs. "Forward!"
The Depot, the same time.
Klapan habitually stretched, looking somewhere into the distance to the south, beyond the forests and piled garbage heaps. And he involuntarily thought about what he had witnessed this morning. He felt no pleasant feelings towards any of the bosses, after all, he was a former stalker, but he didn't wish them any evil either. He felt sorry for that poor fellow, and Yoga's behavior only raised questions. He preferred to bury his head in the sand rather than start preparing a counterattack for the free stalkers.
And he knew for sure that they would come for them. He knew. And he did nothing, only threatened and killed. Is that a real leader? No. And it was all the sadder that he, like many others, had entrusted his fate to a complete psychopath. Did he get strung out on drugs? He wasn't like this before…
Then some small movement at the edge of his vision caught Klapan's attention, and the bandit stared in surprise at the stalkers running briskly towards them. It's started! He quickly ran inside, almost stumbling over the metal threshold, and shouted with all his might:
"Alarm! It's started! Stalkers attacked…" – but a loud shot follows, and a small cloud of blood bursts from his forehead, and the defector, stumbling over the railing, falls from a ten-meter height.
And the bandit camp was engulfed in panic. Curses could be heard due to Yoga's inaction, who had locked himself in his wagon, people were not ready. Weapons were not cleaned, ammunition was not sorted into magazines, and no one had thought about grenades, medicine, or other trifles.
"Where are you running, damn it!" a fat bandit with tape-wrapped glasses on his nose shouted in a falsetto. "Close the gates! Close them, you bitches! And you, quickly upstairs, don't let them get close! Where is Yoga, for God's sake!?"
One of the garbage piles in front of the depot, the same time.
"Valeryanych came up with a good idea," a stalker chuckled with satisfaction, aiming his Kalashnikov with an optical sight. "Hopp, took down another one."
"That's right, it's good that the scientists lent us a few SEVs," another replies with satisfaction, taking down another careless bandit who wanted to quickly climb the small ladder on the second floor of the hangar. "It's a shame it's inconvenient to aim because of the spacesuit."
The depot courtyard, the same time.
"Open up, you bitches! Don't leave us!" several bandits pounded on the gates that had been closed in front of them with their fists. "They're already…"
But he didn't get to finish before a synchronized burst from multiple automatic weapons turned the thugs, who had been alive a few seconds ago, into a sieve. A sea of blood flowed down the metal behind them. A few more bandits tried to poke their heads out of the windows, but were soon killed. Sniper support?
The hubbub of voices and the roar of gunfire could be heard all around. And from the hangar, the choicest curses in various voices could be heard. Ha, didn't expect it, you freaks?
"What are we going to do?" Medvedev asks thoughtfully, as the stalkers pour into the courtyard, taking positions all around the perimeter. "Men, shall we try to break down the gates by ourselves?"
"No-o-o," another exoskeleton-clad Dolgovets waves his hand. "See how it's welded? To death. We'll break our bellies, but we won't open it anyway. Only with explosives…"
"Batut," I address the stalker, but he understands me without words and hands me a large canvas bag taken from his shoulder. From which I immediately pull out an RPG.
"Step aside, we'll crack their shell now!" I loudly shout at the Dolgovtsy and stalkers and prepare the weapon for firing.
"Sh-sh-sh! Bang!" the projectile flies, hitting the middle of the metal gates, piercing them and tearing the metal sheets. The passage is open.
"Grenade salvo!" a loud command from a Dolgovets follows, and everyone, even the stalkers, follows it, throwing all available grenades into the opened opening.
Hell broke loose in the enemy camp.
The hangar, the same time.
"Damn!" a bandit exclaimed as bullets hammered against the gates, and he jumped aside. "We barely made it."
"What should we do with them anyway?! They've surrounded us! Where is Yoga?!"
"Yes, where is the boss!? Why isn't he doing anything!?"
At that moment, something hit the iron gates separating the thugs from certain death with great force and pierced the thick layer of metal. Those who were unlucky enough to be close were burned by flames and shredded by shrapnel into a mince.
"A-a-a!" the injured cried out, but their cries of pain were soon replaced by a cannonade of explosions.
Those bandits who were further from the gates stood and looked at the formed opening with stupor. Pale faces, eyes bulging out of their orbits, and mouths agape. Fear and helplessness struck them simultaneously, and they looked directly into the face of their death. They would not escape or hide from the avenging hand. No one would take them alive.
"Kill them, brothers!" shouted a mustachioed bandit, raising a shortened Kalashnikov. "We won't surrender alive!"
"R-ra!" the others roared, coming to their senses and grabbing their weapons.
The hangar, the other side.
As it was said everywhere – a cornered rat is incredibly dangerous. If it weren't for the Dolgovtsy, who went as the vanguard, we would have been covered in blood in the final stage of the cleanup. Three soldiers in black and red exoskeletons, like armored rocks, moved forward and took the brunt of the enemy's bullets. And all I had to do was pop the heads of the thugs like in a shooting gallery.
A couple of our guys were wounded, but, quickly glancing at them, it was clear that nothing serious. The bullets passed tangentially, causing only minor bleeding. And we continued to advance with an iron heel, crushing the enemies.
"From above!" someone shouted, and I raised my weapon upwards to see several thugs hiding on the mesh floor. A magazine fired at them, a burst of sparks from the collision of
metals, and another threat was eliminated.
By the time we reached the very end of the hangar, it reeked of blood, burnt meat, and gunpowder. The entire concrete floor was covered in bloody streaks, and warm bodies lay everywhere. We had created a real meat grinder. I look back and realize that we did lose a few of our own. A couple of guys from Orest's group, three more of ours, Valeryan's, lay in pools of their blood. Still, there were casualties. A pity.
But there was one more important detail. Where is Yoga? I'll start with his trump wagon. I tuck my assault rifle behind my back and take out my pistol. In such a confined space, it will be easier with it.
I slowly approach the wagon with its open door, roughly welded to the iron wall. Everything is scattered and overturned. Did they kill Yoga while we were preparing the assault? Look, there's a streak of blood on the floor. Although… It starts on the concrete floor and goes in drops towards the free passage. This means someone wounded is hiding there.
I approach closer, stand a little to the left of the passage, and knock on the metal with the handle of my Fort.
"Hey, three-hundredth!" I call out loudly to him. "Shall we talk calmly, or should I throw a grenade at you first? I'll count to three, and if by then you don't throw out your gun and pistol, then you're on your own. One! Two!"
"I agree," a weak voice is heard, and after a moment, a faint clatter and scraping of metal on metal is heard. I look out and see a pistol in the passage.
"And the main barrel?"
"Dropped…"
I shift my gaze to the place where this sickly person was wounded, and indeed, I see a Ksyukha there. Alright, I cautiously enter, extending my hand with the pistol. At the end of the wagon, on a bunk made of boxes and a few mattresses, lies a wounded bandit. Plump and flabby, with patchy beard on his face, and eaten and cracked glasses on the bridge of his nose. He is holding his stomach, from which blood is seeping.
"I see you don't have much time," I say, approaching him. "Where is Yoga?"
"Do you really, cough-cough," the thug coughs. "Think I'll give up the boss?"
"He didn't act very boss-like," I shrug. "So why hold onto him before death? And I might fulfill some small request of yours. Humanely."
"Humanely…" he repeats thoughtfully, barely audibly, almost with his lips. "How long I haven't heard that… And to hell with him, with this asshole. Give me some vodka, stalker, and shoot me. I've had my fill. There, in the closet next to you."
"Here, take it," I hand him an open bottle and watch as the bandit downs it in one gulp. "So, what?"
"He escaped."
"How? We cordoned off the depot."
"Ha. We have an underground passage, right at the base," his tongue begins to slur. "Yoga shot two of our guys. Killed them like rats. Bitch… And escaped. And covered the passage behind him…"
"Thank you," I thank him and end his suffering. I turn away from the corpse and go out into the hangar, loudly calling everyone. "Yoga escaped! Look for a closed underground passage! We won't let the bastard get away from us!"
"Yes!" the stalkers replied in unison.
The same place, a little later.
The passage, sought by the stalkers, turned out to be hidden in the farthest corner, to the right of Yoga's wagon. Two corpses nearby, a small brickwork, and diagonally placed closed doors. The free stalkers tried to pull the handles, but no, they were locked tight. But then the Dolgovtsy came into play.
"Come on, move aside, men," the detachment captain boomed, approaching and grabbing the handles with his huge paws.
And he began to tear the doors out by the roots. The metal groaned pitifully, resisting, bending, but still yielding to the efforts of the creaking servos. One sharp tug, a second, a third, and the torn-out handles were in the Dolgovets' hands. Then he grabbed the edge of the bent iron more firmly and began to bend it until the opening in the doors became sufficient for a person to crawl through.
"You're on your own from here," says the slightly out-of-breath Medvedev. "Because I'm afraid we guys will get stuck there with our dimensions."
"Who's going, men?" one of the stalkers standing near the passage asked.
"Me. Alone," Palach steps forward.
"Maybe we should wait for Valeryan?" someone in the crowd asked, and a murmur arose.
"No," he cut off. "By the time Valeryan arrives, this scumbag will have already escaped. We can't delay."
The stalkers could only watch the back disappearing into the darkness.
Underground catacombs, a little later.
Yoga, smirking, walked forward with wide strides. Yes, he had to abandon his men, but it was worth it. The strap of the backpack, full of money and synthetic junk, literally burned his skin under the thick leather cloak. But he could endure it. The main thing was to get out somewhere. And then… And then Yoga would have everything. Money, a gang, and even girls. Fortunately, some of them sometimes ended up in the Zone. It's a pity they didn't live long in captivity.
Well, nothing, after the last one, he learned how to deal with such stubborn bitches. Cut their tongue, gag them, chain them up, and that's it. Just feed them occasionally and water them from a bucket so they don't stink. Ugh!
Cherishing his sick dreams, the boss moved deeper into the catacombs, not caring about anything at all. He was happy. Hmm, why not take a break? Yoga stops and looks for a dry place with his flashlight to dump his backpack and relax, when a thunderous rumble echoes down the long corridor, hitting his ears, and his legs burn with intense pain.
"Ow! M-motherfucker… What the…?" he growls, trying to roll over in the liquid mud, but then unexpected help arrives.
"So that you don't escape," someone breathes into his ear and forcefully flips the bandit onto his back. The last thing he feels before passing out is a boot to his face. "And don't do anything nasty…"