Predator

I feel terrible, and move away fast, willing myself not to throw up. But what would I throw up anyway? I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

Time to get to the shop! Nothing’s changed much there since yesterday. Not much to tempt the window shopper in the ransacked store. And the bottles of water are still in one piece. I grab one thirstily and just drink and drink. Phew, that’s better! I almost empty the bottle.

Shit, how can I carry more than three or four? Christ, I’m an idiot. There was a bag in that car, wasn’t there? Didn’t look like it was covered in blood, either. I run back and grab the bag, and while I’m at it pick up some spanners, screwdrivers, and pliers from the floor. Why? Tools always come in useful. Now, back to the shop.

I managed to fit seven bottles of water into the bag, along with a few packs of bread snacks (beggars can’t be choosers), a packet of some grain or other – and that was all I could find. Everything else was sold out before I got there. I take a look around. Yesterday’s corpse is beginning to smell, or is that just my imagination?

Something catches my eye. What is it? I don’t get it. There’s an idea jumping around in the back of my head, but I just can’t work out what it is. It’s only as I’m leaving the empty shop that I realize what it is – a jacket! I should have taken the jacket off the dead driver. It was lying on the floor. But then, it was covered in blood. How could I put that on? “Don’t be fussy,” nags a voice in my head. “Are you planning to run around at night in just that shirt? Aren’t you the tough guy!”

Still, it’s not that cold yet. During the day your teeth don’t chatter, at any rate.

But then I remember my night on the staircase. There was no draft, but you wouldn’t say it was warm, either. And that was in a building. A residential building, mind, with a good heating system. A building I can’t go back to, either. What am I going to do, knock on my neighbour’s door and say: “Sorry, but they tried to kill me here yesterday and put a tripwire in my flat. Mind if I stay with you for a while?” I can imagine the response.

Which reminds me, where can I go? Round to one of my co-workers and risk catching a bullet? Clearly they were looking for us from some kind of list, and I doubt it was just the three of us on there. Apparently, it’s the people I was working with the last few days. So I might meet yesterday’s visitors at any of their homes.

So, where am I heading, then? Nothing comes to mind. Do I really want to crawl into some basement like a homeless guy? Well, the basements round here aren’t so bad. Hell, some of them even have offices in them. I’ve been in quite a few. True, they nearly always have steel doors. But then again, I’ve got tools now. And there’s an office I know not so far from here.

Alas, my talents as a housebreaker were enough only to pull the decorative cover off the keyhole. Beyond that, it was just thick steel that I could do nothing with. Any attempt to pick the lock with a bent piece of wire was stymied from the start – I didn’t have any wire. And even if I did, I had no idea how to bend it. Somehow, I doubt a simple right angle’s enough… Having spent a couple of hours trying to get in, I gave up, sat down on the steps, and opened up a pack of Baby Mum-mum. There’s no need to laugh. I’d like to see what you’d do in a similar situation.

What about the window? It’s got bars on it. Damn, what am I going to do? If only I had a crowbar…

Where could I get hold of a few good tools? All the shops were closed. At the port, obviously. But the port’s a fair hike away. There must be something closer. Construction sites! They’re bound to have crowbars, and all sorts of other useful stuff. That’s where to go, but where exactly? I didn’t know the address of the nearest construction site, but I had seen something out of the bus window. Hang on, I’ll get there just as night falls. And? Do I really have a choice? No, I don’t. Let’s go. But what about my supplies? What if I find something useful there? Where am I going to put it? The shop water, my water bottle, and the bread snacks find a temporary home at the bottom of the steps that lead down to the basement. You can’t see them from the street, and no animal’s going to find them. It’s not like I’ve got sausages or anything. I took only a single bottle with me, and the bag. Great, tomorrow I’ll bring a crowbar, and I can finally move in to my new digs.

Chapter 2

I can’t say that my walk to the construction site made for a nice, leisurely stroll. When I was about half way there, frenetic gunfire started up not far away, and I heard the whistle of a bullet close by. I had absolutely no idea I could run that fast. In the end, I had to hide behind an empty garage and wait until the unknown opponents finally finished resolving their issues. It took them nearly an hour. Then there was a burst of automatic fire (from something bigger than an assault rifles, as far as I could tell), and everything fell quiet. Before that, most of the firing had been from shotguns and pistols, I think.

I waited another hour before finally emerging from my hideout. It was quiet and there was no firing. Who exactly had beaten whom was of no interest to me. The main thing is that there’s no more whistling bullets and I can move on. I stick my head out from behind the garage and look around. Nothing. I make a dash for the cover of the nearest building. After another half-hour’s walk, I notice a crane towering over the rooftops. I’ve made it! There’s the construction site, and now it’ll all be simple. I’ll find a crowbar, and maybe a few other useful things, then I’m off. I may even have a roof to sleep under tonight.

I skirt round the building.

“Hold up there!”

Who’s this, then?

A pair of guys in leather jackets. One’s holding a hunting rifle, and the others not armed as far as I can see.

“What do you guys want?”

“Come here!”

I approach, trying to keep my distance. No good, the guy with the rifle jerks the barrel insistently, as if to say, “Don’t fuck about.” They tear off my bag and turn it inside out. The bottle of water falls to the ground and is kicked suspiciously by the one who’s searching me.

“Is that it? Show us your pockets!”

But there’s nothing of value there either – this pair aren’t interested in a few spanners.

“Are you taking the fucking piss? Show us your cash!”

“But, I don’t have any.”

Crack! The butt of the rifle slams under my ribs with full force.

Ah… That hurts!

“What the hell? What have I done?”

“Where do you live, arsehole?”

“Larch Alley, 5. Flat 15”

The two men exchange glances.

“Where’s that?”

“Miles away. What’s a shithead like this going to have, anyway? You, get up!”

They kick me forcefully and make me pick my bag up off the tarmac, then direct me with a poke between the shoulders.

We haven’t gone far before my nostrils catch the smell of smoke. We turn a corner, and in front of us appears a long fence topped with barbed wire. We walk along the fence, turn again, and come to some gates. They’re closed. There’s a fire burning next to them, round which sit several men. They’re all armed, mostly with hunting rifles.

“Greetings, Mityay! Who have you got there?”

“Just some freak. Put him with all the others.”

There’s a mid-size building of corrugated iron to the left of the gates. After removing my bag and taking the padlock off the shack door, they shove me inside. I take a few steps and drop weakly to the floor. Christ, what in the hell’s going on?

“Were you captured, too?”

I turn towards the voice. A middle-aged man in glasses with a cracked lens is sitting on the floor. A respectable citizen, by the look of him.

“Yes. They took everything and hit me with a rifle. What’s going on here?”

“This, my friend, is the former depot of the Tarkov Municipal Housing Authority. And those men, if you can call them that, sitting outside are simple bandits. Or, at least, that’s what they’re becoming.”

“But they’ve got guns.”

“Not all of them, at least for now, but they’re getting armed quickly. They rob apartments, and take anything of value. That’s where they find rifles.”

“What do they need me for?”

From my new acquaintance’s explanation, I understand the following. He and his unwilling roommates have been there for three days already. When the troubles started, Pavel (that’s his name) was expecting an organized evacuation, as he was convinced that it was the duty of the powers that be to do everything they could to ensure the safety of the city’s residents. An error, as all the bureaucrats had fled at the first opportunity, leaving the city to the mercy of fate. After that, he was not sure what had happened as, on his way to buy bread, he had been captured by Mityay’s henchmen and incarcerated in this shed. Since then, twice a day, the prisoners were sent off to clear out buildings – those in the neighbourhood for now. Pavel had suffered a misfortune that morning. The beam they used to break down doors had fallen on his foot. He had returned to the shed with great difficulty, and was now incapacitated.

“So, what happens next? Do they feed us, at least?”

“Yesterday they gave us a little tinned fish. There’s water over there.” He indicated the direction with his head. “There’s a tap in the toilet. I imagine they’ve captured you to replace me. I’m of no further use to them if I can’t walk! I hope that they’ll release me…”

Well, it’s alright for some! He’ll get to go free, but what about me? Will I have to slave away for some… Pavel, seeing my frustration, shook his head. In his view, our situation wasn’t so bad, after all. Sooner or later, the bandits would have looted all the flats they needed, and then what would be the use of their captives, who had to be fed after all?

“You too will be released soon enough, I have no doubt. After a week or so… And the authorities will have to come back here sooner or later. They can’t just abandon the city. Then those men outside will have to justify their actions, and having prisoners will only cause them greater difficulties.”

Can’t say I share his optimism, but there is at least a grain of logic in what he says. Anyway, what was he saying about water?

Having taken a good drink and splashed my face, I took a look around the improvised barracks. I found nothing of any use in the room we were in, and the doors to other rooms were not just locked but boarded over. After wandering around my jail for a while, I drop down onto a mattress left next to the wall. Time for a snooze, perhaps?

I was kicked awake. What the fuck? When did this become the in thing?

“What do you want?”

“What the hell are you doing in my place?”

A skinny, long-haired guy is giving me the evil eye.

“What’s so special about this mattress? There’s plenty more around.”

“Yeah, but this one’s mine.”

All the other inhabitants of the barracks are looking on with interest, it turns out. Granted, there’s not much else for entertainment. I’d take a swing at the guy, but I doubt that beam fell on Pavel’s foot by accident. He said, or at least hinted, as much. So, for now no fighting.

“This lump of crap’s all yours.”

I stand up and turn to go. The long-haired guy aims a swinging kick at me. He aims at me, but I manage to twist out of the way, so his foot goes full force into the wall of the shed. The iron gives a booming echo, and almost immediately a commanding voice is raised outside the door.

“Hey, what the fuck’s going on in there? Keep it down or I’ll be in to sort you out properly!”

It would appear the owner of the voice is a man of his word. Even the long-haired shit-stirrer pipes down instantly, muttering under his breath as he crawls away.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” says Pavel reproachfully. “We shouldn’t fight amongst ourselves.”

“But I didn’t touch him. That was all his own work.”

“That’s Grisha, our foreman. You should try to get along with him.”

“Naturally. Otherwise I get a beam on my foot?”

This offended Pavel, and he turned his back on me. But it looked very much like I was right.

It was remarkable that I got any sleep at all, and what I did get was fairly shaky. I woke up with a start a couple of times, and I’m pretty sure that at least once it was with good reason – somebody drew away from me in the darkness, without making a sound. Half asleep, I decided not to shout or make a fuss. What would be the use? No point in drawing attention to myself. I wait for a while, but nothing else happens.

* * *

“Well, my bare-arsed troops,” shouts the red-haired gorilla who’s got us lined up on parade, “congratulations on our new recruit!”

He nods in my direction.

“So, from now on you’re going to work your little fucking hearts out. And no slacking, or you’ll be getting your dinner for lunch – tomorrow’s lunch! Any questions? No? Then best feet forward!”

We were assigned a section of a new residential building. Our guards led us to it and formed up the whole group out front for instruction, which was short and brutally simple.

The men carrying the beam go first, all the way to the top floor. Then, from top to bottom, they break open the front doors of all the flats using their improvised battering ram. They keep going from floor to floor without stopping. Behind them come the search groups, with two men for each flat. A guard with a pistol goes into each flat first, and keeps an eye on the search group while they work. The guard is also the last to leave. Another guard, this time with a rifle, stands on the top landing of the staircase, keeping watch over the whole process.

You’re allowed to eat anything that’s on the tables or in open tins or jars. You mustn’t open any food packages. Instead you take them out to the landing and sort them by type. Then they’re removed by the porters, a separate section of our crew. As for clothes, coats, trousers, and shoes are stacked separately. Formal wear and all women’s clothes, we leave behind – no one wants them. The same goes for all types of electronics. Any valuables we find, we tell the guard immediately. We are forbidden from touching any weapon whatsoever, including kitchen knives, otherwise we’ll be shot on the spot. And that goes for the offender and whoever’s with them, too. There’s a prize for finding money, valuables, or weapons – two tins of any food your heart desires. You can eat your prize right there and then, but you’re not allowed to share it with anyone, or it’ll be taken away from you.

There’s a whole separate set of rules for medicines. We collect all of them. As for alcohol, special care and attention should be paid. That’s about it.

“Any questions? Anyone hard of hearing? No? Then let’s get on with it!”

Our long-haired foreman stepped forward.

“So, you and you,” he pointed with a dirty finger, “on the beam. And you two.”

That included me.

The guys with the beam have the least enviable job. I understood that from conversations overheard in the morning. They don’t have to run up and down like the porters, and they don’t risk incurring the wrath of the guards like the guys who gut the flats (that’s what they’re called, by the way – “gutters”). But that’s where all the advantages end. Leave aside the fact that carrying the “beam” (a metal girder weighing about seventy kilos with handles welded onto it) is its own special kind of entertainment, once all the doors are broken down you have to help the porters. And there’s no chance of getting hold of anything from the flats being searched. For that you’ll be shot on the spot.

It’s the gutters that have the most “desirable” (but also the riskiest) job. As a rule, the role goes to the guys the foreman gets on with. And I’m on not one of them, hence the beam.

I step up to the girder.

“Wait!” That’s the guard.

Not to me, to the foreman.

“Yes, sir?”

“What have you got that streak of piss on the beam for?”

“We had an injury yesterday.”

“Couldn’t you find someone a bit bigger? He’s all skin and bone, like a kid with rickets.”

“No worry, he’s strong enough.”

The guard didn’t like that.

“Are you fucking deaf, you little shit? What did I just say to you? Change him, now! I had quite enough yesterday with that four-eyed idiot and his broken foot! Maybe you want to carry the fucking girder yourself? No? Then do as you’re fucking told!”

So, I became a porter. The work wasn’t so bad. Pick up more and carry it faster, that’s all there is to it. And whatever you do, don’t drop or break anything, especially not a bottle of booze, or you’ll be right in the shit. They even give us a bonus – if the bounty you carry down in an hour piles up to the height of the senior guard’s hip, then they give you two tins of food – of their choosing. That’s for all of us, eight guys in total. It’s not a lot, but it’s better than nothing. The guys on the beam don’t even get that much.

And off we go. You run upstairs so that you can take more time coming down, and thus not drop anything. You don’t stop for breath – there’ a break once an hour. Up, down, and up again we run.

Running past one of the flats that’s being gutted, I glance inside and see on the wall a photo of a girl in a summer dress. The photo’s big, and taken by a professional photographer. The girl’s life-size, seems almost real. Jesus, was it all so long ago? I used to go out with beautiful girls like that, walk hand in hand. Ninelle… Suddenly, I can smell her perfume.

“Get on with it!”

Alright, alright, I’m running. Back upstairs again. I want a drink, but we’re forbidden from entering the apartments.

“Time out!”

The beam slams to the tarmac. One of the guards has taken the trouble to arrange water for us. Off to one side, a gutter is slurping down the contents of a tin of food. The treasure he found – a gold watch – is now decorating the wrist of the senior guard.

We had earned nothing so far. If the senior guard hadn’t given orders for us to be issued two packs of porridge oats, we’d have gone on grinding our teeth with hunger. Lucky us.

“Enough fun and games!”

Back to the staircase. The lifts in the houses don’t work. It seems like the power’s been turned off. There’s no light in the flats, either. Where necessary, the guards use torches to light the way.

“School’s out!”

Is that really it? It is. We’ve stripped the staircase bare. All the stuff we’ve stolen is too much to carry back in one go. After a quick examination, the senior guard orders a couple of men to keep watch while we carry the first load of loot back to the depot, unload it, and come back for the rest. Fortunately, we don’t have to take the beam back yet – the neighbouring staircase is our next target. The beam is left in one of the apartments, and the men who were carrying it requalify as porters.

We complete another raid. I’m dead on my feet, but instead of sending us straight back to the shed, they line the whole crew up in front of the gates. What have they got planned for us now? A few minutes pass before a procession comes out of the building. Accompanied by a bunch of henchman, a heavyset guy steps forward imposingly.

“That’s Makar,” whispers the man to my left.

“Who’s he?”

“He’s the boss round here – we all work for him.”

And just behind the boss is none other than Pavel himself. Who’d have thought?

“Good evening to you all,” says Makar, raising a hand.

The guards close to us make fierce faces, and we express our “pleasure” with one voice.

“If any of you remember, we promised you that freedom would be the reward for your hard work. Work for the common good! After all, there’s nothing shameful in making sure that property abandoned by careless owners goes to those who have a genuine need for it.”

We, of course, all thought the same, and a murmur of agreement ran through our ranks.

“And so,” said our leader with a dramatic pause, “today, one of our company who is no longer able to work will be allowed to go home. And he won’t be going empty-handed! He will be able to take with him any clothes he wishes, and as much food as he can carry.”

It was strange somehow to hear such genteel speech from the mouth of a gang boss.

On a sign from our leader, the doors to the nearest warehouse are thrown open. Inside, all sorts of clothing are piled up in neat heaps. And we’re not talking about women’s hats or swimwear. No, stored here is exactly what a normal guy would need is this type of situation – strong boots, hard-wearing trousers, and a whole lot of coats – wool, leather, and even military issue camouflage. There’s a separate pile of bags and backpacks, as well as a bunch of handcarts.

Encouraged by kind words from Makar’s henchmen, Pavel gingerly steps into the storeroom. He starts to dig around in the piles of clothing. Gradually growing bolder, he throws off his own clothes and pulls on a good leather jacket and a beautiful pair of boots. Idiot! Even I know that you need to take the tough ones, not the pretty ones that’ll be worn out in a couple of months. He changes his trousers for a newer pair. They allow him to take a trolley, and he disappears round the corner, which must be where they keep all the groceries. Ten minutes later, he reappears with his trolley loaded so high he can barely push it across the tarmac.

“See,” pronounces Makar with a regal wave, “work hard, and the same good fortune awaits you, too!”

The gates are opened with a scrape.

“Tic and Popeye, take the guy home! Make sure no one bothers him on the way!” says our leader. “We don’t want anyone getting the wrong idea about us.”

Pavel can’t believe his own ears. They’re setting him free with a trolley full of goodies! It’s one thing to convince other people of the truth of your words, and quite something else to suddenly be convinced yourself. Not every optimistic blabbermouth gets that lucky. He smiles a disbelieving smile, waves to us, and turns towards the gates. Just as his hand falls back to his side, I notice a funny badge with a little smiling bear on the right pocket of his coat. I recognize it because the girl who sat next to me in the office had one just like it. Some youth movement or other, I can’t quite remember.

They even gave us a meal, and not a bad one all things considered. To celebrate the great event, apparently. And then, all the celebrations finished. The moment we got back into the shed, somebody gave me a healthy crack on the back of the head. I came to somewhere away from the door. I could hear dripping… Was I next to the toilet?

“He’s awake,” somebody said.

I try to move with no success. Somebody’s sitting on my legs, and my arms are being held tight.

“Listen, smart-arse!” The foreman’s voice comes through the darkness. “Tomorrow, you’re going to tell them just how much you want to carry the beam. Understood?”

“But it’s not up to me! The senior guard decides everything.”

“Makes no difference. You still tell them you want to. Is that fucking clear?”

“Couldn’t be clearer.”

“Alright,” sniffs the foreman. “Rough him up a little, just to make sure he understands I’m not joking.

So they rough me up a little, and I can’t get to sleep for hours.

As we form up on parade next morning, I look at the faces near me in the line. Last night, one of them was sitting on my legs, and someone else was holding my arms. And a third must have been hitting me, two of them couldn’t have managed it alone. So, what now? You’d have thought in the circumstances we should be helping each other. Should be, but in practice this is how it works. If I understand correctly, it’s every man for himself. You die today, and I’ll live till tomorrow. That’s what convicts used to say, I believe. I read about it all somewhere. Seems reasonable to believe that the beam will fall again soon, and this time on my foot. I doubt very much that I’ll be as fortunate as that jammy git Pavel.

We head off down the road. I’ve no desire to look around. What’s there that I haven’t seen already? And what would be the point? Maybe that’s exactly the reason why I noticed that there was a bright stain on the road itself, or on the curb to be exact. My visual memory is pretty good, and it’s often helped me out at work – I notice all sorts of little details on the screen, and fast. I was always the first to spot even one or two figures’ difference in the length of a line of code. To be absolutely exact, the stain wasn’t even on the curb but on the top of the roadside drainage ditch. I slowed my pace and felt my mouth go dry.

The teddy bear! The same one that was on the jammy git’s coat! Next to rust-coloured stains in the sand. And I can swear those stains weren’t there yesterday. I was carrying a bagful of heavy junk at the time, so was looking mostly at my feet. Right in this spot, too, because I remember the way the ditch comes right up next to the tarmac.

So that was where Makar’s lackeys took him yesterday. What now, then? Should I tell the rest? And take away their last grain of hope? They’ll suffocate me in my sleep with a mattress for that! And as for the foreman, he may well know something, or at least have worked it out for himself. Then he’ll dob me in to the guards as a troublemaker. I won’t even make it back to the shed.

“I want to take the beam!”

“Shut up, you squirt,” says the senior guard, dismissing my offer calmly. “Grow some muscles first!”

The foreman sniffs behind my back. So that’s that, this evening I can expect a further educational experience. And it’s not a given that after that I’ll be able to get back up and work in the crew. Very well, let’s just say I’ve taken the hint.

It’s back to running up and down stairs. The stairwell echoes with the ring of the beam-carriers’ work. Where are they now? The fourth floor? Too soon, let’s not rush this. My partner prods me in the back – no standing around! Alright, I’m running.

Now the crashing is on the third floor. I run down the stairs. From the clouds of dust I can see where the crew are working – chunks are flying off the door frame. The beam doesn’t always break down the doors. Sometimes they’ve been fitted really well. Then the boys have to break down a party wall or smash the piece of wall holding the bolts of the locks. In most cases, as far as I know, they’re all built the same way. There’s only so many types of door.

Onto the second floor. I’m dying of thirst. My mouth is completely dry. Seizing the moment, I pause on the stairs and gulp from a bottle I’m carrying. It’s just ordinary drinking water – I’m carrying a whole case. It’s not vodka, so the guards aren’t likely to pay much attention to my load, and it won’t smell afterwards.

“Hurry up!”

The beam-carriers are going down to the first floor. Now’s the time! As I run past them, I kick the man closest to me below the knee. He lets out a shriek and loses his balance. Then the heavy steel girder lurches dangerously.

Wham! Another guy’s having trouble on the steps, and down he goes. Not just down, but forward, too.

“Fuck me!”

Inertia’s a powerful force, and it can be a tricky fucker. The beam (with the help of a kick from me) is pulling the front two carriers forward with all its weight. The window flies out of the wall with a crash, followed by the beam, which pulls with it the two remaining carriers.

I crouch on the edge of the window sill, turn around, and hang by my fingers. A little to the left and down we go! Somebody’s body breaks my fall. Thanks, friend, that’s what I was counting on.

There are no guards on this side of the building – the doors are all on the other side. So there’s nothing to stop me unless it’s a bullet. As I round the corner, I stop for a second. There’s no sound of gunfire, nor of anyone chasing. Don’t they miss me yet? That’s fine by me. Wallow in your own shit, arseholes!

So, what would any normal person do in my situation? Run home as fast as he can, obviously. And I doubt he’d manage to run very far. How many other Makars are there out there with their gangs? That’s not something I want to find out. I’ve no desire whatsoever to change one shed for another. So, for now, let’s not run anywhere.

Choosing a building – an ordinary five-storey block of flats – I climb over the fence and up to the first-floor balcony. Thankfully, the occupants of the ground floor have covered their balcony with a security grille, which serves as a kind of ladder to help my climb. It isn’t that easy, but I manage to get up there. I still have the strength for now. I lie down on the balcony floor and take a look around. Some old clothes in a little cupboard. An axe! Not a big one, but then I’m not a lumberjack, am I? A can of motor oil, and all sorts of household junk. We’ll leave that for later. Laying the old clothes on the floor, I soak them in motor oil. I look round carefully to check there’s no one nearby. No one in sight, anyway. I press one of the oily rags against the pane of the window and give a sharp tap with the axe. The glass crunches quietly. I read about this in a book when I was still at school.

Young Guard

, that’s what it was! It said that if you break glass with an oily rag, then it won’t make a smashing sound. Turns out the author was basically right. I climb carefully over the sill and I’m in the flat. Hopefully, nobody saw my movements from the street. Now I can take a look round, provided I keep away from the windows. In the kitchen I find a stale loaf of bread, a little pasta that’s long gone to mold, and two jars of home-pickled vegetables. The tomatoes are just what I need! And I can dip the bread in the pickle juice. I even find a little water to wash it down with. When I turn the tap, however, there’s nothing but a sad whistle – the pipes are empty. Now I can stop holding my breath.

Basically, my escape was a success. It was all improvisation, but what choice did I have? Yes, I did cripple one of the beam-carriers, and it’s quite possible I killed the second by jumping on him from the landing between the first and second floors. Let the great moral guardians weep and wail, but I don’t feel the even slightest pangs of conscience. Nothing of the sort. This very night, my cell-mates, as I guess we can call them, would have held my arms and legs while one of their number beat shit out of me. And I’m sure they’d all have slept soundly afterwards. Soon after that, one of the beam-carriers would have dropped that steel girder on my foot, and again I doubt their conscience would have bothered them much. “You die today, and I’ll live till tom