World of Zombies

by E. E. Isherwood

  “Did I get shot?” she asked with a sniffle.

  Ilia laughed with mock concern. “You saw the elephant, my dear. Welcome to the club.”

  Pavel, to her relief, was the one to brush her hair to the side to look at her neck. She braced herself for the bad news.

  “You’re lucky, Miss. The bullet barely grazed you.”

  With a soft pat near the wound, she smiled at the younger man. Too scared to say anything, she mouthed a thank-you.

  “We have to get off this roof,” Ilia said in his military voice.

  She sat down as her guards rattled off jargon such as defilade, flanking, and envelopment, little of which she understood. It took them five minutes, and eventually they had two equally bad choices. They could stay on the roof and try to reach someone on the radio so they could get a helicopter or they could wait a suitable time for the battle to pass, then try to get back in the Rover and drive out.

  The helicopter sounded like the smart play. It would be the least amount of work for her, yes, but it would also bring in someone new from Yuri’s protection detail. She could then demand to talk to the head of security—a stern-looking older woman she’d only met a handful of times. The two of them never got along, though she admitted much of that was because she’d done something stupid, which required special attention from the boss. Her name was Mrs. Ivanich, and her code name for Liza was Baby Bear—as an insult, of course. “If you act like a child, you can pretend I’m one of your childish fairy-tale characters keeping you safe at night,” she’d said with no humor whatsoever. Yuri tolerated her attitude because she was one of the best.

  Even that insult seemed trivial, now.

  Mama Bear, where are you?

  Both men pawed at their radios, but whatever they hoped to hear, it never came through. She heard them call OMOH, the regular police, Yuri's group, and even the army. There was nothing but endless static.

  Still without a resolution, Ilia sat down next to her. Uncomfortably close with an unfriendly smile.

  “Hi,” he said cheerfully. Then, like it was a pleasant afternoon in the park, he leaned so his arm was behind her back.

  She sat up straight and tried to get to her feet, but he grabbed her by a belt loop. “Stay and talk for a minute?”

  The question wasn’t a question. Before she could respond, he spoke to Pavel who sat on the far side of him. His eyes never left hers.

  “Pavel, give me a sitrep of the battle up front. We need to know the moment the street is clear enough we can drive away. Just don't get shot,” he said with a snicker.

  She found herself thinking of God. Please don’t let Pavel leave me alone with him.

  Pavel leaned in so he could see her from where he sat. There was concern in his eyes, she was sure of it.

  Please, Pavel. She voiced the words in her mind, hoping he would sense them.

  The scene was frozen for several seconds.

  “Pavel! Did you hear what I said?”

  “I’m going, boss.” As instructed, Pavel got up and ran away on his mission.

  She was left listening to his footfalls. Much too soon they were beyond her ability to hear. The good news was the shooting in the canyon of the street along the front of the building had tapered to almost nothing. The bad news was she was completely alone with Ilia.

  7

  The silence was paralyzing with Ilia sitting next to her; his hand released the belt loop and touched her bottom, as if a total accident. It happened to her a million times over her life in the circles she traveled, but it was always understood as harmless flirting. No one dared make a first pass at “Yuri’s girl.” But this wasn’t harmless, and Yuri was half a continent away.

  She kept silent to avoid more unwanted attention. She pretended to study the tar-crusted sheets of heavy black roof coverings. She had no idea what to call them, though that seemed very important information at that moment.

  “So, it’s you and me again. I told you this wasn’t over.” His voice was seemingly triumphant. “I’m thinking I need a down payment for my services for this next part.”

  The words hung heavy in the stillness of the sweltering roof. The sun had become very hot on her black pants. Or her blood was boiling.

  She recoiled when his hand forced its way into her back pocket.

  “Don’t worry, mon cherry,” he said with a tired laugh, “I’ll be gentle.”

  That took her back to a moment in time her insides warned her not to recall.

  Only a few short years ago, she and Yuri stood on a quaint wooden bridge near the Minsk city center. He’d just called her mon cherry, instead of mon cheri—jokingly, of course, because he spoke fluent French; earlier in the evening, as she played with a little piece of fruit in her drink he’d told her Americans call vishnyas cherries and, winking conspiratorially, told her the American slang meaning for the word, then laughed when she blushed.

  Yuri pointed ahead of them. An endless number of padlocks had been attached to the metal lattice along each side of the railing over a small lake.

  “Couples come here to hang the locks,” Yuri said in his boyfriend voice. “Then, together, the lovers throw the key into the water. It represents their undying love for each other.”

  She swooned. They kissed. It was all very romantic, and was a big part of how they ended up together. But they weren’t alone on the bridge. It was the first time she appreciated the baggage a rich Muscovite could bring to an otherwise perfect relationship—

  “I said, I’ll be gentle.” Ilia shook her out of her reverie.

  At least his hand is out of my pocket.

  “You’ve been with my Yuri for such a long time. Why are you doing this?”

  He leaned in, inches from her face. “Look around you. The world is ending. Stalin’s Revenge, they’re calling this.” The sarcasm rolled from his tongue.

  “The peasants thought they were free of the political commissars, but some nut job politician convinced them Stalin was coming to get them from the grave. A modern day purge of non-believers of the old Communist dream.”

  Her face had to be blank. The words made no sense. At all.

  “See, you’re one of them. You don’t know what happens in the world beyond your windows and fancy parties. You don’t listen to the news. You don’t read books. You live in a fairy tale.”

  “I do not,” she pouted. Not sure he was completely wrong. “Yuri would tell me.”

  “Bitch, I talk to Yuri every damned day. Besides the times you override your security team by whining to him to go shopping, when do you talk to him? Really talk?”

  That caught her off guard. It had been a few days, surely, but exactly how many? And what did they talk about?

  “I talked to him, um, two days ago.”

  “Wrong. It’s been nine days.”

  “Impossible,” she shot back.

  “I do surveillance for a living, you skank. Don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m doing.” As before, his anger scared her.

  She shut up, hoping for the impossible: a miracle.

  In answer, he drew his hand lightly up her arm. A surprisingly gentle touch for the disgusting man. The hairs on that arm stood straight up with a mix of fear and revulsion.

  “I, uh, please—”

  “No way, little lady, I got rid of your party favor Pavel. He isn’t coming back until I radio for him. So don’t think you’ll be able to delay me.”

  “He's not—”

  “Don't bother. I see how you look at him. And you knew I would come in that changing room. You can't pretend with me.”

  His hand was on her shoulder. The camisole had spaghetti straps and nothing more. In a strange mix of memories and wishes, she thought it would have been better to grab the shirt instead of the sandals. Then she would have walked barefoot over the glass, been unable to travel, and gotten left behind in the boutique. She could have hidden in a closet until help arrived. The pain and suffering would be worth it to get out of this moment.

  �
�I’m going to need something from you now,” he said with a commanding voice. “I think you know what it is.”

  She knew.

  Her voice was robotic. “You want to do it here?”

  “Don’t be so dramatic. And yes, this is a perfectly romantic venue, mon cherry.”

  She stood up, but he held her hand from his seated position. His smile was pure evil.

  “Then let’s get this over with.” She unbuttoned the top button of her pants with her free hand, then nodded at her other. He let go and sat back, content to watch. The gun sat half under him—broadcasting a threat to her.

  She took one step back, then released a few more buttons.

  Ilia laid all the way back, crossing his arms behind his head like he was watching women on some Black Sea beach.

  A smile crept on her face. It was fatalistic, but it fed into Ilia’s fantasy in some sick way because his smile broadened, revealing more teeth, like the fairy tale wolf sizing up his meal.

  The edge of the roof was only a few feet behind her. She didn't believe in suicide, but a fall from the second level probably wouldn’t be fatal. It would be worth the injury to deny him any satisfaction.

  Think, Liz. And be brave.

  She gripped both edges of her leather pants. Ilia was glued to the show.

  He had her right where he wanted her.

  It would only take a second to hop off. The courtyard behind the building was almost pleasant.

  She took one more step back, sure of her next move.

  8

  With one final step she lunged for it.

  “Hey,” Ilia blurted.

  Part of her really wanted to carry through with her plan to deny Ilia ever being able to touch her again, but at the last second she zigged to the right and ran toward the side of the building. In a few seconds she reached that edge to find police and civilians running wildly down the cross street below. A group of about ten riot police managed to maintain the defensive line as they retreated, but the river of angered people flowed after them as she watched. Their efforts would be for nothing.

  In a second her lungs ached like she’d run a marathon. Not that she ever would. But her thundering heart reflected the stakes.

  What do I do?

  The giant riot control vehicle had picked up its wall like a petulant child retreating from the lost game. It turned from the main street and backed itself into the one below. The Omon support guys on the ground were all but gone. A few had climbed the truck to avoid the destruction, and there were a few left up on the wall itself. The rabid crowd both led and followed the lumbering machine, seeming to swarm around it like a pack of dogs.

  Her first instinct was to call for help from those police. A lifetime of dependency on law, order, and authority suggested it as her quickest route to safety, now. Yet, there was no question the men on the truck could do nothing for her. Only a couple still fired their guns. The rest hung on for their lives and did little else. Even the flame gun was abandoned.

  Behind her, Ilia was on his feet, though strangely he wasn't on the run. A gust of wind blew her long hair in her face, and she looked through her locks for Pavel. He was nowhere in sight.

  She impressed herself with how fast she’d run. In seconds, she was lined up with the mobile wall rolling slowly in the opposite direction. A few moments later she was back on the front of the roof. Her wrecked car—one of the rarest in the world she'd been told—was no more than common scrap.

  “Damn!”

  The rioters below—men, women, and children—threw themselves through glass doors and windows, seemingly intent on leaving no pane unbroken. Some punched and kicked the few automobiles down there. Others carried heavy bricks as they smashed headlong into storefronts. Some seemed content to smash into each other.

  The whole thing was a frightening study in pure chaos.

  But the worst part was the sound—or more accurately, the quiet. Yes, the breaking glass made some noise, but for the most part the crowd had fallen dead silent. The Omon wall had left the main street and seemingly took the noise with it.

  A noise caught her attention right below. Two large men slammed had into each other. Both had been running and the wet slapping sound was sickening even from thirty feet up. They bounced off each other, though one clearly got the worst of it.

  She had to lean over to see it. The man’s head was—

  No. Impossible.

  In addition to the profuse bleeding from above his eyebrows, the man’s neck had snapped. The skull sat almost sideways on his shoulders and he looked up at her with blood-crusted eyes.

  Her hand was on her mouth, ready for the puke her stomach was packing up for her.

  While she watched, the broken man ran across the street and threw himself into one of the few remaining plate glass windows. His ill-placed head caught the glass just right and didn't go inside with the rest of his body.

  Already leaning, she threw up. The bile tumbled down and landed on a few loitering revelers on the sidewalk. Her impression was they’d been left behind by the more enthusiastic riot-goers.

  “Oh God.” More eyes looked up at her. They were as bloody and ruined as all the others. Tufts of hair were torn from their heads—undoubtedly from too much glass breaking.

  These are the walking wounded.

  Without a sound, a handful of them within the blast radius of her projectile vomit went beneath her, into the building.

  “I’m sorry,” she yelled down, hoping they weren’t coming for payback.

  She flipped around on the wall. Ilia was on his feet and standing near where she’d left him. The dark metal of his gun reflected in the sun. His smile was cold.

  Her fingers deftly reconnected the two sides of her waistband and cinched the top button. If she was going to die, it was going to be with her pants on.

  The motor of the moving wall echoed from street level. More glass tinkled below. That strange silence grew, even though hundreds of people were gathered close by. She swept the roof again.

  There was no way off that didn’t involve some kind of violence. Ilia in that direction. Pavel, wherever he was. The puke people coming for her. Rioters everywhere below.

  Desperate, she started to run with a hop and a couple skips, her heart slamming around inside her. Her years of dance were distant and faded memories, but not quite forgotten.

  What do I do?

  She let herself jog toward the middle of the roof, though the plan forming in her head was pretty much a one-two-three for going out in a blaze of glory. It wasn't to be a suicide, but something close. She didn’t want to end up over there with Ilia; his calm demeanor watching her made her accept there was no getting away from him. He didn’t need to chase her down because they were on the last island in a sea of death.

  With a graceful pivot she changed direction and picked up speed.

  “God, please help me.” Her extended family wasn’t much for organized religion, but she’d picked up a little at university.

  Ilia jumped and ran when he saw she was serious. “Don’t do it, bitch!”

  “Great argument, you big ass,” she said under her breath. Even if this was a suicide, she feared angering him more.

  The engine sounds grew louder as she approached the edge. There was no way to know for sure how it was going to end, but she was absolutely certain it wouldn’t be on the roof.

  Pavel, yelling in the distance, broke the unnatural silence back in that direction.

  Ilia, despite being a professional bodyguard and fit beyond description, was not quite fast enough to stop her.

  The sandals turned out to be key for her survival. Heels would have already ruined her day. She measured her steps perfectly as she ran, jumped, and landed a foot right on top of the low wall at the edge of the roof.

  The landing was going to be less graceful.

  9

  Ilia moved faster than she gave him credit for. He very nearly managed to grab hold of her arm before she got up on the lip of the ro
of.

  She came over the top, and it took her breath away. The moving wall was still about five feet below her, but about ten feet away from the edge of the roof. She had to lean to the left to adjust her departure angle. While in the air, she pedaled her legs to maintain momentum. The street was a froth of angry rioters. Unlike the silent assault happening back by her ruined car, those below were wailing and moaning as they grasped for the Omon stragglers.

  There was no way to change course once she was in the air. She wished that wasn’t true.

  “Move,” she yelled to an officer in her path with his back to her. Her arms flailed wildly as the distance to the wall shrank. It was going to be messy.

  Not knowing what else to do, she tucked her legs as she made contact with a policeman who was on one knee up on the nearest end of the walkway. He was so focused on the pursuit below, he didn’t see her come in.

  The pain was brief, but intense, as she landed on his back and right shoulder. Even as she fell to the metal platform he tumbled sideways and forward, through the railing, and into the grabbing arms below.

  She slammed on her tailbone and the palms of her hands, letting out a painful yelp.

  A nearby policeman on top of the wall saw his partner get torn to shreds by the human piranha. She watched the gears grind in his head as he figured out the man had been tossed from the wall, and who was responsible. She heaved in a panicky breath as he lifted his rifle in her direction.

  “No!” she cried, while raising her hands in surrender.

  The man let loose with a long rattle of gunfire. A burst of shots hit next to her on the platform and on the handrail. Just as she was sure she was dead, another gun barked from behind her.

  The policeman dropped his gun, grabbed at his throat, and tumbled over the railing. He joined his partner being tossed like a ragdoll in the throng.

  The new gunfire didn't quit. The next officer was struck several times before he crumpled in a heap where he stood. Two more fell—one off the back of the wall, which gave him a hard fall on the concrete before he was consumed by the crowd.

  In a perilous few seconds, the entire contingent of police had been cleared from the top of the wall. She and a couple dead bodies bounced along while the truck continued its retreat.