Call Me Human: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel

by Sergei Marysh

  During those first weeks of the outbreak, most people didn't realize they were dealing with an infection, and didn't see the connection between the bites and the transformation that followed. Had it happened to Valentine later and had he told anyone about his wound then, the worst scenario would have had him killed on the spot, and the best one, had him put against the wall with proper procedure.

  What followed was a months-long struggle for survival, very much like mine, so I'm not going to dwell on it. When the last of his new friends had perished leaving him all alone, he stumbled upon Alex's shelter. The rest I already knew.

  Valentine Ivanovich pointed out that in all that time, he'd only told two people about the bite: Alex and the Masha girl. I was the third person who knew. Only with time, as he listened to others' survival stories and witnessed several cases of mutation himself, had he realized all the depth of the void he'd managed to avoid by sheer chance.

  He'd thought a lot about his case, trying to analyze and deduce what had caused his miraculous delivery from the infection that had transformed so many others into bloodthirsty monsters roaming the neighborhood. But in the absence of doctors and whatever medical equipment might answer his question, it remained purely academic. Theorizing didn't help, as his was the only case he knew of, which naturally prevented him from building any sort of logical method that could offer an explanation. His was the exception to the proverbial rule, which taught that no one could survive a zombie bite.

  Still, although broken morally, physically Valentine Ivanovich had been very much alive. He desperately needed a new philosophy that would have given him a reason to live now that his entire world had collapsed. Finally, he'd found it: he decided he had to live so that one day a medically educated and properly equipped survivor could finally study his phenomenon. That could hopefully lead to discovering an antidote, a new medication to save the world from the new plague.

  That decision still kept him going as we spoke. It made him take care of his body and maintain it in decent shape: not for his own sake, but for whatever potential use it could be for the future saviors of mankind.

  Alex entirely agreed with him on that one. He realized full well the uniqueness, as well as importance, of this documented case of resistance to the virus. This was why both wanted to leave the area, all too familiar with the aggression that dwelled here, knowing they couldn't hope to find the answer to Valentine's mystery and learn anything about the nature of the virus. Both hoped to find another colony somewhere, inhabited by normal adequate people not completely consumed by brutality, who had some semblance of medical equipment. And if such a colony had a doctor or, by some miracle, a microbiologist, they couldn't wish for anything else.

  Valentine's story made me have another look at him. I couldn't help but respect him and his willingness to serve humankind. I must have been truly lucky to meet both of them: first Alex and now, Valentine Ivanovich. This encounter gave me new strength in the hope that not all was lost for us human beings.

  In the light of his story, Alex's invitation to join them completely changed its meaning. They had trusted me with a secret of paramount importance; the fact that I knew it and admitted its value obliged me to protect Valentine's life and well-being from whatever might threaten them. Like two medieval knights sworn to allegiance, we were obliged to deliver this unlikely princess to her father's castle at any cost, as the fate of the entire kingdom depended on her safety.

  X

  They offered me a choice for my living quarters. A whole floor was at my disposal, apart from a few rooms already taken. I chose a large office complete with the reception room: there stood a large leather couch, perfect for sleeping on, which turned that extra room into a bedroom. The office was dominated by an enormous oak desk which held a computer and a monitor, as well as a deluxe stationary set. Firstly, I got rid of the computer by throwing it out the window — humanity's garbage disposal skills had waned somewhat since the outbreak — but the desk itself was more than welcome: finally, I thought, I could finish my diary there.

  In the evening, I met Masha. I was helping Alex with dinner — basically, I opened a few tins of baked beans and boiled some water for tea, while he got busy roasting the hare he'd killed earlier. The kitchen doubled as the dining room, in a spacious lounge with a sign on the door that said, Conference Hall. The stove was built out of an aircon unit which naturally doubled as a chimney.

  We ate at a large round table lined with comfortable office chairs on wheels. A bayonet stuck into the table's polished surface, made a gruesome contrast to the office's nerdish atmosphere.

  A white board hung on one of the walls, complete with a set of felt tip pens, perfect for drawing diagrams and, as Alex put it, business scam schemes. It was still in use: rough lines and arrows covered the board, and I recognized a list of supplies as part of the scheme. Apparently, this was their escape scheme.

  She arrived before dinner. Alex shouted in the corridor, "Dinner is served! Come and gobble, you bunch of mothers!" Five minutes later, Masha uneasily walked into the dining room, holding Valentine's hand. I wouldn't be able to tell you her age. Alex had told me she was thirty-two, but she could easily have been fifty: emaciated, with a pale puffy face and strands of gray hair showing from under the headscarf she wore. Her eyes glistened with fever, she walked unsteadily and would probably have fallen had it not been for Valentine's support.

  Still, I couldn't deny some niceness about her that showed through. If she got better and gained forty or fifty pounds, and if she did something about the gray in her hair, she could even be pretty. According to Alex, less than a year ago she'd been a real stunner.

  I rose and said hello to her as Valentine Ivanovich introduced us to each other. Masha managed a smile, alien to her hollow face. We sat down and the meal started. Nobody spoke — she, in any case, was too weak to talk. Alex and myself would exchange an occasional couple of words, and from time to time, Valentine whispered something in her ear. I couldn't hear anything but, judging by their glances, realized he was telling her about me. She didn't show any reaction to his story and her face remained as impassionate as before. I tried not to look at her at all, not wishing to embarrass her. Valentine kept fussing around her, offering her the best cuts and helping her with everything. Masha, in her turn, accepted his care gratefully, and her gaze warmed as she looked at him. Together, they looked like a picture of a happy couple.

  The only sound disturbing the silence was the clatter of cutlery: each of us ate submerged in his or her own thoughts. I was pleasantly surprised by Valentine's care for Masha. It had been long since I'd seen people treat each other with such gentleness. In her presence, Valentine had changed completely: the government official bloated with self-importance had disappeared, replaced by an enamored teen. I have to admit I liked him even more.

  I finished my meal and sat there until the last thoughts left my mind, replaced by a happy warmth in my stomach. These rare moments of complete thoughtlessness, quiet and cherished, sometimes allowed me to forget everything I'd been through and all the troubles that were sure to come. The world appeared to be full of goodness, and its dangers floated somewhere far away, out of my mind's grasp...

  I couldn't tell you how long it lasted, but suddenly a perfectly clear thought entered my mind, a revelation of a kind: crazy as it sounded, those two had something going between them. Naturally, Masha was in no state to flirt with anyone: she had her plate full with her own survival at the moment. Still, had it not been for her lamentable condition, I could swear those two were having an affair. The funny thing was, Alex didn't seem to notice it: it's as if he viewed them as two separate people — little wonder because he encountered each of them separately and under different circumstances. But something had changed, and Alex had failed to notice the obvious. Alex's ignorance of the fact seemed quite amusing. Should I tell him? I decided against it: after all, we had no business in the private affairs of two consenting adults.

  I almost expected
to see the other two idiots at dinner, but they refrained from coming. Apparently, they'd made a habit of leaving for a few days at a time, not telling anyone when to expect them back. Alex and Valentine put their absence to good use as they openly discussed their exodus plans — the evidence of earlier discussions remaining on the whiteboard. Before leaving the dining room, Alex wiped the board clean: looked like the two uninvited newcomers weren't even supposed to know about the existence of his retreat routes.

  Here I'm forced to divert a little, for my future readers' sake. Firstly, I have to admit that Alex proved to be absolutely right about those two. Ex Hospitallers or not, they were some of the most obnoxious bastards that ever walked the earth. Honestly, I don't even want to talk about them, as I'd rather their filthy names disappeared together with their bearers. To a degree, it's personal; I owe them the purest, most heartfelt hatred one can ever feel. For it is only due to them that I am what I am, my death now being simply a question of time.

  But, much to my disgust, I'm obliged to write about them as their role in the events was too big: I just can't tell you the story without mentioning their part in it. Still, it's entirely up to me to minimize their presence on the pages of my diary by mentioning only the most unavoidable facts. There you go, then.

  They showed their faces on the fourth day. By that time, I'd found my way around and enjoyed the little team's company: it had been a long time since I felt surrounded by friends. I helped Valentine to care for Masha and discussed Alex's departure plans: he counted on Masha being fit enough in four or, at the most, five weeks, to trot along.

  I looked forward to leaving, even not knowing where we'd go: it was a good healthy adventure. In my lone travels, when my own life was constantly under question, I'd developed a dead serious attitude. Now though, surrounded by those friendly people — no, by friends — the thought of the paramount mission we were embarking on filled me with optimism and good cheer. Excited, I felt no fear.

  The two arrived in the evening. Alex had described them well. They immediately sussed me out, sensing in me a new force and opposition to their own influence. From the very first minutes, I alienated them, and they didn't even bother to conceal it.

  It never came to an open conflict as they were wary of Alex, but their badly concealed hostility manifested itself in many little ways. Knowing they were not going to be around for much longer, I tried not to provoke them or alienate them further: I just didn't want any complications to hinder our exodus.

  But they, cavemen with little morals that they were, took my restraint for a sign of weakness. My resolve not to answer to their taunting only encouraged them to invent new ways of getting in my way. To do them justice, the older one didn't indulge in this pastime, not bothering to hide his silent approval of the younger one's actions.

  Our strained relationship turned definitely sour when, by sheer chance, I learned their secret — possibly, just one of their many dirty secrets. From the very first day, their body language had puzzled me. Alex had been the first to point it out when he told me about them on the first day: the two seemed to have some strange bodily rituals, which looked weird and sort of not right. On numerous occasions I watched the elder one put his hand on the younger one's knee and whisper something hotly right into his face; or hug and kiss him in front of the rest — most abnormal behavior, if you ask me. It would be all right if they were related, but, just as Alex had said, their different ethnic origin precluded that theory.

  I started suspecting the worst, and finally, faced the evidence. I was looking for something or other, walking from one room to the next, as finally I went downstairs to check a room we didn't use often, and there I ran into the two. I can't even describe it... whatever they did, was revolting beyond immoral. Caught unawares, they didn't know what to do, either, frustration and anger filling their red faces. I apologized — don't ask me why — and beat a hurried retreat, cursing my bad timing.

  After that incident, our relationship turned from sour to pure acid. I didn't know whether I should tell Alex about what I'd seen. Once again, these were two consenting adults and my views on the subject were irrelevant. On the other hand, Alex had the right to know the degree of relation between his fighters, as in an emergency it could most unpredictably affect their motives and actions and consequently become our undoing. I had to make up my mind, a harsh decision: and at the end of the day, I didn't say anything to him. I put it off for too long.

  They, from their point of view, couldn't possibly doubt I'd let their secret known, which increased their hatred a hundredfold. They restrained their instincts in Alex's presence, but whenever he left on his numerous recce expeditions, they indulged in their freedom. They didn't take Valentine seriously and didn't take him into consideration when they insulted or provoked me: a risky thing to do, considering we were all armed. Valentine's care for Masha prevented him from interfering as did his understandable concern for his own safety: after all, his wellbeing meant so much more for the fates of humanity than mine or even Alex's.

  I won't cite here any of the numerous dirty tricks they used trying to get to me. Suffering boors in silence can be even comical, but I managed, apart from one or two occasions when I gave back as well as I got. That's counting our last encounter — the doomed one.

  This was what happened the first time. I decided to check on my old shelter and collect my first diary and a few other bits and pieces that could come in handy. Alex didn't know about it, and, seeing as so much time had already passed, I decided against mentioning it at: after all, it was my private affair, and we're not obliged to report to even our closest friends about the state of our mortgages or bank accounts. There was little point in mentioning it, anyway, as I wasn't going to return there at all any more. My future, as I saw it then, lay with them: Alex, Valentine and Masha. Or so I thought at the time.

  My shelter was less than an hour's hike away: I found a suitable day and went there. I brought back all the odds and bobs as intended, passing them for the loot I found in an abandoned house. To a degree, it was the truth, and we divided it between ourselves, as was our way. It took me some time to realize I'd forgotten the very thing I'd gone there for: my diary.

  Less than a week later, I had another opportunity to check on my shelter, and off I went. I didn't even get near it when I sensed something was wrong. Nothing to put your finger on, but something didn't ring right. This sixth sense, the gift of intuition that I'd developed in those recent months, had saved my bacon in most unsavable situations. It didn't make me special: others often spoke about similar experiences, as well.

  Modern people, forced to survive as hunters-gatherers (and looters), had promptly developed prehistoric survival instincts. Two thousand years of civilization had no chance against the forty thousand — or even several million, according to some researchers — years in which the human species has trodden our planet. Ancient instincts had destroyed the flimsy film of cultural refinement, ruining the proverbial goodwill. But better a human animal than a dead intellectual. Or even worse, a zombie intellectual.

  Which was why I sensed trouble even as I approached the house. The instinct didn't fail me: firstly, my trusty bike lock had been picked, lying on the ground next to the cellar door, and its thick metallic chain had been torn in two. They must have used a lever of sorts — most likely, the fat crowbar stuck in the ground by the door. I think they'd broken the lock by winding the chain around the crowbar until it flew open.

  The darkness behind the door reeked: not the typical zombie stench, you'd learned to tell it by then, but it promised me no good nonetheless. SMG at the ready, I stole inside. I'd had visitors.

  Not just any old visitors, but someone with a thing for destruction, as the whole inside of the cellar had been vandalized. Four-letter graffiti covered the walls; all my little delights that I'd collected in abandoned houses had been broken and ruined; many were missing. They must have looted everything they could carry and vandalized the rest. The stench came from m
y bed: the unknown visitors had shat on the pillow.

  My first inclination was to run for dear life, but I still had my diary to think about. I walked around, searching the debris, knowing in the heart of my hearts that I wouldn't find it. But — lo! — I saw the familiar edge of its leather cover under the broken bedside table. I reached for it, unbelievable, and immediately lost heart. It was only the cover: the diary itself was missing, its pages pulled out. I spent some more time in the cellar, braving the stench, but it was pretty clear I wasn't going to find much worth finding.

  I left the cellar heartbroken. You never feel good when your house get burgled, it's as if the thieves have wiped their feet not on the Welcome mat, but on your very soul. But this was ten times worse. This wasn't common burglary. This was desecration: calculated, cynical and clever. The loss of the diary hurt me the most. I never had any illusions about its questionable literary merit, but it was a shame about all the time I'd spent writing it. Basically, one of the reasons I'm writing this is to restore what's lost, even if only to feel that the unknown vandals had not won: the moral victory is still mine.

  Once out in the fresh air, I looked back one last time at the place that had been my home twice, first as a child, and during these last times of evil. I turned round and left, swallowing sobs, never to come back again.

  That night, I was in the dumps: even Masha who virtually never spoke to me, noticed the difference and asked if anything was wrong. I came up with some excuses and went to bed early: I didn't want to speak to anyone. I did notice, though, the silent triumph on the faces of those two: the triumph they failed to suppress in time.

  Now I knew it. They must have followed me the first time. Then, next time they'd set off on one of their lonely outings, they'd come back and reduced my dwelling to the proverbial ashes. When I realized it, I was besides myself with fury. It was three in the morning, and I very nearly rushed into their room to shoot them on the spot, sleeping and defenseless.