The novel based on the video game «Escape from Tarkov»

Drip. Drip. Drip. The drips of water fall into the saucepan, already almost a third full. I have no idea where this pipe comes from or where it’s going, but there’s water in it! Perfectly good water, in fact – clean, even. I send a silent prayer of thanks to the unknown bungler who’s to blame that the pipe joint leaks. If he’d been a decent welder, I’d have had to look elsewhere for my eau de vie… So, that’s one problem solved. Just one, and there are plenty more. And water’s not the most important of them. Top of the list is survival, then finding something to eat. Everything else comes after that.

Looking back, I remember those beautiful books with vivid covers showing burly, virile, for some reason always bare-chested men with one arm thrown around a sexy blonde (why were they always blondes, I wonder?), and the other holding a heavy machine gun. In the background, all sorts of bad guys would be flung around in unseemly poses. And everything always worked out alright for those heroes. They always found a stash of useful loot at just the right time, and their mandatory special forces training meant they always knew the right moves. And need I mention their ability to hit a gnat’s eye from 100 meters with any type of weapon? Of course not!

Yup, those literary heroes had it good. Shame that I’m not in a book, and not ex-spetsnaz (They’re never maimed or shellshocked either, mind). I don’t have the massive muscles, or ten years of action in difficult circumstances behind me.

I do know how to write computer programmes. In all honesty, I’m quite good at it. And I’ve always kept myself reasonably fit. I can walk, run and jump. For now, anyway. I went camping and hiking often enough, too, so I know how to make a fire. I even slept under fir trees in a sleeping bag a few times. I can probably manage to put up a tent, too. And I always cooked for myself, so there’s no need for a personal chef

I look at the saucepan – the water hasn’t even reached the halfway mark. Have I got time to run upstairs? No, I’d better wait until the water reaches the top. Then some goes into my water bottle, and the rest goes to filling up the bucket. Sadly, the bucket doesn’t fit under the pipe, otherwise I wouldn’t have to keep watch.

God alone knows when the water in the pipe will dry up. It may only last for a day or it could turn out that it keeps on dripping for ages. Nothing is predetermined, and nothing is clear. Nothing at all. Except for one thing – you and your life are of no interest to anyone. The stuff you carry with you, that has a value.

So, what do I have of value? My water bottle? It’s a good one, no doubt about it. Bought in a proper shop. It’s a solid can with a little cup for a lid, all wrapped in a good camouflage case.

A pocketknife. Also, basically, not bad. Bought in the same shop. I was an idiot – you should always stock up on things like that, and all I got was a water bottle and a knife. Back then I was trying to make a good impression on a new girl in the office. I took her out to dinner, and that’s where all my money went. What a prat! What was her name, by the way? Nina? Or Ninelle? I can’t even remember. Damn, it’s weird how fast such vivid memories fade…

* * *

How did it all begin? Kind of mundanely, really. For several days our office went nuts trying to fulfil an urgent order that came down from on high – straight from Terra Group headquarters. Couriers ran up and down the corridors, dragging folders of documents here and there. The bosses required us to perform an urgent inventory of warehouse stock and industrial equipment. And as the holding was not small, everyone’s nose went to the grindstone. If anyone should naively think that for this we had to crawl through workshops and warehouses with lists in our hands, then they’re absolutely wrong. What do they think digital inventory was invented for? Exactly for that purpose, although as it turned out, it couldn’t completely replace the heaps of papers and the running down corridors.

To speed up the working process, all our team along with the computers and documents was loaded up into buses and taken not just anywhere but to the Côte d’Azur Hotel. They’d rented out a whole block to accommodate us. True, I was a little concerned by the armed guards on the ground floor. At the doors and around the block, there were USEC staff on guard in full battle dress. What the hell? After a barrage of uncomprehending questions, it was explained to us that there had been several outbreaks of criminal activity in Tarkov, that the authorities were not coping, and that the management had no desire to risk the life and health of their valued personnel. So stay here and be happy! Plus, it’ll be easier to work here, with nothing and nobody to distract you from your labours. They even took our mobile phones away. Which came as no surprise to anyone – that was standard practice.

In the final week there was no time off at all. We were at our desks all day and all night. They might as well have put camp beds by our computers. Water, coffee, and all kinds of instant soups and porridge pots were laid on in large quantities. For female staff, they even kitted out special shower rooms with some kind of whirlpool baths. Anything to keep us working! And we did. We managed to finish the project on time. They even promised us some kind of special bonus. Not that they paid anyone at the time – don’t worry, it’ll be in your account. Later…

And when all the rush was over, they led us outside, put us back on the buses, and took us back under heavy guard. They dropped us off by our offices, and drove off suspiciously fast.

True, there was one strange moment. At first they didn’t want us, the IT and admin staff, to leave – said there was more work to do. But something didn’t quite work out, the head of security was called off elsewhere, and we took advantage of that to get on the accountants’ bus – nobody was holding them back. So, we left with them, and our minibus remained standing in front of the block.

We all got off the bus, took a look around, and headed straight for the pub. Actually, it was the café that we normally dashed to for lunch. True, some of us were desperate to get home, which was quite understandable. Masha, for example, had a cat, and how long had it gone unfed? But those of us who had nothing to feed or water at home but ourselves – we stayed at the café. We settled in, moved a few tables together, looked around, and only then did we sense that something wasn’t quite right. Nobody was rushing over to take our orders, which was definitely odd as we were longstanding and popular regulars. Not cheapskates, either – we always tipped well! But there wasn’t sight or sound of a waiter, just the noise of someone opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.

“Hey, is anyone alive in here?” Pasha Galperin asked impatiently.

In response, a face was stuck out of the kitchen.

“What do you want?” asked its owner unceremoniously.

“We’d like to eat.”

“Well, go and eat then,” shrugged the man. “What’s the need to shout?”

“Well, where are the waiters?”

“Who the hell knows?” answered the owner of the face uncertainly, and then vanished.

“I beg your pardon? What on earth does that mean?”

We searched but found nothing. There were no staff on duty anywhere. In the service areas we saw a couple of guys who gave us not remotely friendly stares but, seeing the extent to which we outnumbered them, said nothing and then left the place, again suspiciously quickly. Again, weird. What’s going on here? The mood was ruined. Nobody wanted to hang out anymore. Everybody just wanted to get home.