They had been in the company of diggers for a little over three weeks. Iris accompanied small groups of "trash treasure seekers", guarding them from monsters and overzealous competitors. Simonov's chosen occupation was much more ... unusual.
Iris returned from another RAID and dropped by the Professor, who had set up a work space in the back of a long-abandoned truck. Here and there were piles of papers and folders with colored sheets covered with a lot of notes, notes and observations. On top of them, the Professor placed rusty tin cans filled to the top with small stones, like paperweights.
"So the rumors are true," iris said, climbing into the back of the truck with a light chuckle. "Did you really set up Dr. Kurpatov's office here?"
Simonov shuffled through the documents, pausing at times to read some of them diagonally.
Survey? Iris sat cross-legged and pressed his chin to his fist. "How's it going?" Don't have to swell people up any more?
Some of the locals prefer to pay for participation in the survey not in cash, but in vodka, - the Professor glanced at Iris briefly and smiled. Simonov was flattered that someone was interested in his work. Let this interest and read a certain amount of glum.
— Is it possible? Iris pointed to one of the folders. The Professor only nodded.
Taking out one of the forms at random, the inquisitive young man began to recite.
- Name: Marco El Diablo. Age: 666 years. The reason why I decided to go to the Zone: “I was sent by my uncle, a famous businessman, philanthropist and philanthropist - Lucius fer! I have to find a couple of liters of virgin blood for him, and it would be nice to start my own heavy metal band here and have a "... stop, is "Orgy “spelled with an”e"? Or is it a latent tendency?
I'm just interviewing people, iris, and do not put them diagnosed.
— You pay people to fill out your papers, Doc, and they use them as their own writing drafts.
— There are also those who conscientiously approach filling out the questionnaire. Besides, all this satanic graphomania is also a result. People who hide behind ridicule, sarcasm, and made-up stories are complex victims, driven by society under the bench, who create psychological protection from this writing.
Iris looked up. The sun was high in the sky, and the air was surprisingly clear. The young man took a deep breath and smiled ruefully.
"You won't find honesty in these people, Doc.
The Professor crushed another pile of papers with a makeshift paperweight.
— You also told me some fantastic story... about visions, voices in your head, a ghostly call, and Boo-Boo-Boo-Boo…
— I didn't lie to you.
— Your story about... what's his name?" The blue ball? Sounds like a schizophrenic story. Fortunately, I do not see any other signs of this disease in you! For now...
Iris took an empty questionnaire form from a stack of papers.
— I'll fill it out, too, in my spare time!"
Buck walked with a limp, despite the fact that his knee, which had been crushed by the butt of the rifle, did not hurt at all. He did not feel it at all - instead of a kneecap, it was as if a cotton pillow had been placed on it, which could not be fully supported. Despite this injury, he felt twenty years younger. With every cell of his reborn body, he sensed a dormant force that was about to awaken...
No one paid any attention to the lame tramp, even when he reached the Saint's dwelling… The leader of the bandits at the boatyard was sitting at a table, picking bits of whitish meat out of thin cans, when an unexpected visitor arrived.
Buck's voice was low and resonant. The Saint did not immediately understand who it was. Only when the mercenary came close to him did he recognize him.
— You're dead!" the bandit managed. One part of him wanted to draw a gun and shoot the guest who had returned from the other world. At the same time, the other was seized with a strange, superstitious fear.
— I saw the guy at the station that night, but I had to see if you were going to harness him." It all cleared up when you started telling me that he'd taken off… Now it's time to answer honestly...
The Saint tried to hold the mercenary's gaze, tried not to lose his composure, but instead let the horror wrap around him and squeeze him from within.
"What are you -" the bandit's face broke out in sweat.
With one hand, buck grabbed the table and threw it against the wall, while with the other, He grabbed the Saint's right knee and squeezed it. The knee joint cracked, and the cruciform ligaments stretched like strings. The kneecap creaked softly, then began to crumble into small crumbs. The bandit leader screamed in pain.
"Don't!
There was a hum from behind. One of the Saint's henchmen ran into the house.
"Back!" Don't! Don't interfere! the leader of the gang waved his hands frantically.
Buck felt what his years as a mercenary seemed to have robbed him of - passion and excitement heated his blood.
— You lied to me once. Rubbish. I know that there is only one thing that can make a person be honest: fear.
It took the Saint a few minutes to recover and tell the mercenary what he wanted to hear. The killer, who had escaped from the Zone's trap, was not at all disconcerted by the fact that Simonov and iris had been out of the swamp for a month. He wasn't going to leave the race...
As soon as the bandit leader finished his story, Buck lost no time in turning and hobbling out of the room. The Saint continued to shudder, holding on to his injured knee.
The mercenary threw a final taunt over his shoulder and disappeared.
