When the frustrated Stalker has left, Barkeep turns to Tarasov. “You have anything to sell? Or maybe you interested in buying stuff?”
“How much cash do we have?” Tarasov asks the Top.
“We haven’t spent a dime since entering the Zone. Let me see… we still have about fifteen hundred.”
“What can we get for 12 000 hrivnyi or 46 000 rubles?”
“No need to calculate so hard,” Barkeep replies with a smile. “I accept dollars as well. Come, have a look at my stock. Garik, let them in, will you?”
“At last now I’ll see what this dude’s been guarding,” Pete says as they enter the corridor.
The door leading to the counter opens to their left, and a short glance reveals nothing particular but the usual, if a little messy, kitchen stuff: sinks packed with dirty plates and drinking glasses, a red propane gas container feeding the small stove, drawers and cupboards. The corridor leads to a spacious room where a few cabinets and a safe stand. Two tables and a sofa with relatively clean upholstering occupy much of the space inside. The room is tidy and well-maintained. Even the two neon rods fixed to the ceiling are operational, unlike in the badly lit drinking area.
“Have a seat,” Barkeep says as he opens the safe, jerking his thumb towards the sofa. “1500 dollars can get you some pretty good stuff. Matter of fact I do have a Desert Eagle in stock.”
Hartman waves his hand in disinterest. “The only thing more overrated than the Desert Eagle is Godfather Two.”
“You don’t say.”
“Bulky, heavy, difficult to maintain in the field — thanks but no thanks.”
“You got anything particular in mind, then?”
“I wouldn’t know where to start. A Colt M1911 perhaps?”
“We call it Kora-919 in the Zone.” Barkeep takes the Top’s favorite pistol from his safe. “You want plain FMJ bullets or something with a bigger punch? Here, these have an improved hollow point for better expansion and a steel penetrator. A good combination of stopping power and penetration.”
“Barkeep, marry me,” the Top happily says, apparently under the influence of vodka. “I want to have children with you!”
“Give me a break. I have already three kids in the Big Land and they’re a pain in the ass. Take the Kora if it gives you a hard-on.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, okay?”
The Top lets the empty magazine slide from the grip and cocks the pistol. Satisfied with the weapon’s condition, he opens the green and white paper box with the diagonal black stripe that has Hydroshock written in it and starts loading the magazine with the rounds that have a black dot on the tip of the copper-colored projectile. “Outstanding.”
Tarasov nods. “Side arms are a good idea. Two more pistols is what we need, same type or at least same caliber.”
“Two H&K USPs perhaps? Apart from those, I have a few Makarovs, of course, then a Beretta 92—”
“Pete, check out those USPs. Then, I wouldn’t mind having something for close quarters, like an AKS-74U. You have one? Perfect! Pete, have a look at that carbine too. Finally, we could trade in that TOZ for something longer.”
“I have no SVD in stock, sorry, and don’t even ask me for a Val or Vintorez.”
“Too bad,” Tarasov sighs. “I was just about to.”
“I can sell you a PSO scope that you could mount on your AN104.”
“Does it come with the receiver?”
“No problem. Would the kid like to have an AK47?”
“With all due respect, I’d prefer an AR15, an M4 or something less antiquated,” Pete says.
“That’s the spirit,” says the Top approvingly.
“Maybe from Skinflint in the Military Warehouses, if you want to hike so far. Which would be a stupid thing to do, considering that this Kalash is in pretty good condition.”
“The muzzle break is misaligned,” Pete says inspecting the rifle. “It’s jolted to the right.”
“Jesus, Mari… Mary and Joseph,” the Top snaps at Pete. “How come you don’t know shit about the AK? It shoots 7,62mm as every child knows and has a tendency to jolt the barrel upwards and to the right. That cut-off muzzle break makes the gas exit from the barrel exactly to that direction, practically pressing the barrel to the lower left to balance out the jolt.”
“Sorry. I was a desk rat with the supply train, did I ever tell you that?”
“Things are better learnt late than never,” Tarasov says with a smile. “We’ll need two or three extra magazines for each rifle and some spare ammo, of course.”
“Here are the mags,” Barkeep says and presses the spring in each magazine to test their condition. He also takes half a dozen small paper bags from the safe. Each holds exactly as many 5,45x39mm rounds as needed to fill the magazine of an AKM or AKS-74U carbine. He keeps on rumbling inside the safe until he finds similar paper bags holding 7.62x39mm rounds for Pete’s AK-47. “What about that silent Stalker with you? He’s small, so maybe I can recommend something lighter for him? I have a serviceable MP5 in stock, or a Scorpio submachine gun—”
“I have my own weapon,” Nooria says.
Barkeep looks at her in surprise. The balaclava that Nooria is wearing hides her features but the sound of her voice of course betrays her gender.
“I should set a dress code for Stalkers coming to the 100 Rads,” Barkeep grumbles. “No balaclavas, no gas masks, no curtain helmets. Half the Stalkers always moan about not having women in the Zone without realizing that the guy next to them might actually be one. Well, what you are and who you are is none of my business, anyway… Anything else?”
“We have a few NATO standard gas mask filters.”
“This is Duty territory if you haven’t realized. No Freedomers come here.”
“Barkeep, Barkeep,” Tarasov says shaking his head. “As if you, Skinflint, Sidorovich and the other traders wouldn’t have your own little network. Come on, let a rookie bring the filters over to the Freedom base and you cut a deal with Skinflint. At least your errand boys would have something better to do than bringing you mutant body parts.”
Barkeep grins. “Now that you mention mutants — imagine, not long ago an obscure client asked me for a burer. Alive. Would you believe that? Luckily, there’s that old character by the name of Trapper at Yanov. He and his guys managed to catch one in the abandoned railway tunnel between Jupiter and Pripyat. I let the client’s purse bleed dry but his representative paid me on the nail.” Barkeep shakes his head. “Well, in the Nineties, the newly rich kept potbelly pigs, then weasels and ermines were the craze, now it’s obviously mutants from the Zone. I don’t know where the world outside is heading, really… Anyway, what you said makes sense. How many filters you got?”
“Four, with two spare cartridges. With that, would it be altogether?” Tarasov asks.
Barkeep fishes a calculator from his vest pocket.
“Three handguns, an AKS-74U, a Kalash and a PSO scope, plus the mags and ammo… So, if I take that hunting rifle and the filters off your hands for, let’s say, two hundred thirty… that leaves us with 1270 dollars. You didn’t mention bandages, medikits and food rations but that goes without saying. Am I right? So, plus the small stuff, it all comes to 1400.”
The Top looks at Tarasov who shrugs in reply. “Pay him. It’s a bit more than we had expected, Barkeep, but I don’t think you’re in the mood to haggle.”
“Never.”
“You seem to make good business anyway.”
Satisfied with the deal, Barkeep shuts the safe and waves them to follow him back to the bar. Before switching off the lights he stops for a moment.