Now as I write I think it was an excellent idea. But at the time, I reconsidered, not yet realizing the price I would have to pay for my humanity — or rather my indecisiveness. I imagined Alex and Valentine come running at the sound of the shooting; imagined myself trying to explain away the cold-blooded murder of innocent sleeping people to them. I'd have had to tell them about my shelter and admit that I had neglected to tell them about it to begin with: now that would definitely damage whatever trust we'd had going between us. Let's assume Alex had accepted my explanations, but still, could you really kill someone for hooliganism? For the theft of a diary? Was a stack of used paper worth two lives, even if I'd invested several months of time and my whole soul into writing it?
Hard as I tried, I couldn't answer those questions. Had I known then how far it would take us and what it would cost me in the end, I'd surely have shot them, regardless of the circumstances. But that was something I couldn't know. I had a sleepless night, trying to suppress my fury, torn between the urge for revenge, fear of its consequences, and the voice of my own conscience.
At the end of the day, I didn't go anywhere and did nothing. Honestly speaking, I hadn't killed anyone until then. Even killing a hare hadn't been as easy as I thought. I didn't consider zombies: they didn't count as murders, and we were all forced to do it, anyway. With thousands of them roaming around, it was them or us. The Hospitallers had done a lot to diminish their numbers, turning zombie killing into an unpleasant but necessary procedure. You felt very little when you shot a zombie: that's probably what a butcher feels slaughtering cattle. Now, human beings were a different cup of tea, even the most obnoxious of them.
In the morning, I walked into their room and demanded my diary back. They pretended they didn't understand what I was talking about, but you could see they were celebrating. It's possible that the elder one had taken no part in the pogrom, but he couldn't have possible been in the dark about it, especially considering their relationship. I had no direct evidence — you can hardly count someone's facial expression as evidence — so I left empty-handed.
The victory didn't do the two bastards any favors. They lost all sense of proportion. They used every opportunity to remind me of my loss and my humiliation, but the moment I tried to catch them on it, they played the innocent, so that sometimes even I started to doubt my own accusations against them. But then they would stoke the fire of my suspicions: like, when the younger would hiss behind my back, "fuckin' writer". I'd turn round, and there he'd stand, smiling, fresh as a daisy. And I don't even think this miserable punk knew how to read!
I had to fight that fight alone, without Alex's support: otherwise, I'd have to explain to him why I hadn't told him about my shelter in the first place. This petty little thing could manifest that I had something else to conceal, and that would surely question his trust in me, as well as my participation in his plans. Why oh why hadn't I told him about it earlier?
The hell's couple knew very well how vulnerable it made me. They did their best to let me know — without showing their cards — that they were about to tell Alex about the cellar. Vindictive lot, they didn't forget my witnessing their games.
I was on the edge. The situation balanced on unbearable: sooner or later, the dam had to burst. Predictably, it happened.
XI
That unlucky day, I stayed behind in our shelter in the company of Valentine and Masha. Our two antagonists had been away roaming on their own for a few days already. Alex was away, too: we had a recce rota, and that day it was his turn to investigate the neighborhood. He'd discovered a relatively quiet settlement due west that looked perfect for our first transit stop on our exodus route.
Alex used every opportunity to revisit it and get a decent shelter ready for us. Valentine believed he was jumping the gun as Masha's condition remained rather unpredictable. But Alex just couldn't wait, so we agreed to let him go ahead with his exodus activities.
That day didn't promise to be any different from so many before it. Valentine had his hands full looking after Masha. As for myself, I expropriated the rooftop hammock and gave in to daydreaming, trying to visualize a better future for all of us, provided we delivered Valentine to some research facilities safely and succeeded in creating the anti-zombie vaccine thanks to our walking and talking lab sample. I didn't for one moment question the positive outcome. Now, finding adequate experts could prove somewhat difficult in this ransacked world of ours; finding some that were still alive and, hopefully, lucid.
Let's assume, for argument's sake, that we've safely (a big if) delivered Valentine into their expert hands. They come up with the vaccine. Now what?
The infrastructure was in shambles. Population numbers had dropped to one percent of what it had been before the outbreak. What were we facing, then — a new stone age? Alex's horror stories of all those Hospitallers and White Brothers just showed you how ugly humanity could get, given half a chance. I really didn't want to find myself in society controlled by mad sectarians or cannibalistic jailbirds.
A loud racket downstairs interrupted my speculations. Apparently, my sworn "friends" were finally back, yelling like hell. I couldn't tell whether they shouted at each other or at Valentine, as he virtually never raised his voice.
I descended and found all three in the dining room. They were indeed all arguing, and the two convicts didn't spare their voices. Valentine, pale but cool, attempted to answer back, but with little success.
It took me some time to work out what it was all about. It seemed those two had stumbled across a group of survivors, including some women, children and injured in need of urgent help. According to them, the survivors were hiding in an abandoned building less than half an hour's hike from our place.
These newly-minted good Samaritans pressurized Valentine into accompanying them back there. When they saw me, they demanded I went, too.
Valentine's doubts about their story were written all over his face: little wonder, as charity hadn't been their strong point. But their agitation as they interrupted each other to offer us new details of what they had seen, made me question their lying nature. Their excited speech, nervous movements and their apparently earnest concern would have convinced anyone. I just couldn't tell them to stuff themselves and go back to my hammock.
Valentine gave me a quizzical look. I knew we had to make a decision. In all honesty, we had to wait for Alex's return and let him decide, which was what I suggested. But the elder of the two insisted we had to act at once. Alex might not be back for another day, he said — which was true — and some of the injured could bleed to death while we were sitting here waiting, making us responsible for their deaths.
So we had to go now. It didn't seem as if we had a choice, really.
Naturally, taking Valentine with us was out of the question. I said I'd go with them alone. We packed a few things and I added some first-aid stuff and bandages to my backpack, secretly hoping that it wasn't as bad as they made it sound so I wouldn't have to use them. I took my trusty SMG and donned a funny jacket that Alex called his "bra": it had dozens of pockets for small stuff like extra clips, hand grenades, a detached bayonet and a handgun.
We set off, walking in silence as we had nothing to discuss after everything that had happened between us. They showed the way, and I followed. Indeed, less than half an hour later the elder one announced we'd arrived at the place.
We stood in front of a dilapidated two-storey building. I'd known it from decades ago, and even then it had already been a bit bedraggled. A good hundred years ago, it used to be a stable belonging to some local gentry. Then it had been rebuilt and converted into flats. I think it used to house local rest home staff. It hadn't changed much since then, if you didn't count the windows without a single whole pane of glass left.
The elder one nodded at the front door and said that the survivors were inside. I listened. A dull noise came from behind the walls, like that of people speaking and moving about. I walked to the door, and the couple from hel
l followed. We switched on our flashlights and entered.
The house had a funny shape, like a square with an inner patio, and every side of the square had an arch allowing to enter the inner space. I'd never been there before and had no idea of its layout. The roof had been so damaged that light reached into all the rooms and corridors, making our flashlights obsolete. I switched mine off and put it away into one of the "bra's" numerous pockets. That way, I could hold my heavy SMG much better. We followed each other along the corridor: first the younger chap, then the elder one, and myself. The floor had collapsed in places, and the cellar's darkness gaped in between rotten floorboards. The corridor was covered with a layer of dust and earth and barricaded with all sorts of junk: broken furniture, old bikes, rusting cooking pots, collapsed walls and roof beams.
All of a sudden, hairs rose on my neck. I sensed danger physically, panic mounting in my body. There was nothing to indicate a threat, but I felt it with my entire being. I stopped in my tracks and refused to go any further.
The two had also stopped, looking preoccupied. My first thought was that they, too, had felt something. But instead of agreeing with me and leaving the place, they insisted I went on, appealing to my conscience: every minute could cost innocent lives.
This time, they overdid it. I knew now that the danger was real, and they were the source of it. Looked like they had finally succeeded in trapping me: I raised my SMG, and, keeping them in my sights, started backing to the exit.
The elder one took it as personal offense. He'd always known me for the paranoid coward that I was, he said; the survivors' deaths will be on me, and Alex would never be able to forgive me. The last argument nailed it: Alex's opinion meant a lot to me. They suggested to go in front, to be the first to meet whatever hypothetical threat they might encounter. It all made sense. My mind was at the odds with my instincts. Unwillingly, my heart still frozen with fright, I surrendered to their pleas. We moved on; according to them, we were nearly there. We came to a particularly large hole in the rotten floor. The elder one stepped back, made a short leap and jumped over. So did the younger one, and the other helped him by catching his hand as he jumped. I followed. At that moment, the young one turned and, instead of helping me, pushed my chest with both his hands. The last thing I saw as I fell into the cellar's void was his triumphant grin.
I fell, accompanied by several rotten floorboards that had collapsed under my weight. Judging by the pain, I fell onto a heap of broken brick and was showered by dust and rubble.
When the dust had set and I could finally open my eyes, I faced open sunlight that reached the cellar through the holes in the roof and floorboards. I lay, helpless, encircled by light which was in turn surrounded by damp darkness.
I froze, wary of any movement, and waiting for whatever was going to happen next, my stomach cramped as I expected a burst of gunfire from above. But nothing happened: I could hear their happy laughter and comments, followed by the sound of departing footsteps. They were not going to kill or shoot me, they didn't even bother throw down a hand grenade. They just left.
I didn't get it. But first things first: I had to assess the damage. I tried to get up: looked like I'd suffered no broken bones. The backpack stuffed with first-aid bandages had buffered the fall and saved me my spine. I only hurt my legs and arms and grazed the palms of my hands — nothing I couldn't live with.
Getting back on my feet took some effort as I leant on my SMG, using it as a cane. I felt a bit nauseous. My whole body ached as if I'd been run over by a car. Good job I hadn't clipped on the bayonet: it could have been the end of my fall. I must have hit my head, too, as I just couldn't work out what they'd planned to achieve by getting rid of me this way. This was a perfect trap, but why hadn't they finished what they'd come for? It wasn't important, anyway. First of all, I needed to get out into the fresh air.
It didn't look as if I could leave the same way I'd come in. The hole in the ceiling was way too high. The bright sun prevented me from having a good look in the dark that surrounded me. Then from somewhere deep inside came a hoarse growl: first from one corner, then something stirred in the opposite side, then somewhere else, and now I was surrounded by rustling noises, footsteps and unintelligible whispers.
Blood froze in my veins. You couldn't mistake those sounds for anything else. So this was their plan, then: they pushed me into a cellar shock full of zombies hiding from sunlight!
A mega surge of adrenaline forced me to jump up and defend myself. My head refused to cooperate; my body, though, had a mind of its own, obeying prehistoric instincts more ancient than civilization itself. Not even trying to use the gun — I wouldn't have time to even pull the trigger — I grabbed the bayonet holding it in front of myself, with the other hand I pulled something round and heavy from another pocket: a stick grenade. The howling and running footsteps headed for me, and the things attacked.
I whirled like a dervish in my magic circle of light, stabbing in all directions with my bayonet and using the grenade to crush skulls around me, but new silhouettes approached in place of those I slew, howling decaying corpses, desperate to devour me alive.
I fought like a lion — no, like a doomed dog. The zombies yelled, and I added my insane voice to their riot, screaming like I'd never done before. The whole fight only lasted a few seconds before they felled me to the floor and the whole lot started pushing each other aside, trying to fall on top and reach for my exposed skin with their teeth. Unable to see anything in the mess, I fought back, my knife ripping dead flesh around me. The stench of their jaws closing within inches from my face nearly made me faint. Once again, my stuffed backpack was saving me, not allowing them to get to my back and neck.
Finally, losing all hope, I made a desperate thrust, jumped back on my feet and bolted, crashing the squirming bodies around me with my heels. They had pulled me aside, away from the sunlight, and I discovered that I could see better in the dark which wasn't as deep as It had seemed to me at first. Bits of light reaching the cellar from above the broken floorboards here and there allowed me to see the assaulters in the dusty sunbeams: at least ten of them, and more dark silhouettes were hurrying to the noise from the far corners of the cellar. And, just a few meters away, I noticed an exit: a few steps leading to a door framed with a bright rectangle of sunlight coming through the cracks. I took the steps several at a time and kicked the door open, hinges and all. By then, the zombies had got their bearings and assaulted me again, when I'd already hit the doorway. I wanted to run for dear life, but couldn't: several dead hands grabbed my backpack and dragged me back into the cellar. I struggled to get free from their grip, desperate, and wriggled my shoulders out of the straps, leaving the backpack in the zombies' hands. They lost their balance and fell back into the cellar's impenetrable void, as the backpack saved my life for the third time that day. I realized that my hands still grasped the bayonet and the grenade, covered in black zombie blood. I pulled the pin, threw the grenade into the cellar and jumped aside, crouching and covering my ears. A strange explosion resounded: a wave spat out, in a cloud of earth and debris, a jerking body that thudded on the ground next to the kiddie swing. I pulled another grenade out of the "bra", and another one, and one more: four in total. That should have been enough, by any account.
I staggered away, crossed the yard, ran past the sheds and the abandoned village graveyard that had seen no new graves for over a year by then; went down the ravine where I knew there had to be a stream somewhere. Indeed, it was there: full and bright, exuding calm and coolness. My hands still shaking, I removed the strap of the SMG from my neck — it had really been in my way during the fight — and put the gun next to me; then took off the jacket and the waistcoat. Looking back, I washed my face. The water smelled fresh and sweet: I hadn't noticed the smell before, in the old human days. Apparently, the absence of people with their environment-unfriendly activities had done Mother Nature a world of good.
I cleaned the knife and myself, cringing as I removed the s
tinky blood and bits of dead flesh from my body. I raised the gun again, to make sure no one was following me. Reassured, I went back up to the graveyard, to assess the way the land lay, as remaining at the bottom of the ravine put me at a disadvantage.
I sat on a crumbling bench by one of the graves, put the gun next to me and scrutinized myself for any scratches or wounds. I couldn't trust my senses as my whole body ached after the fight and the preceding fall into the cellar, and I had to check it visually. My arms were grazed to the elbows, but that was small fry. My clothes — a set of sturdy field fatigues — had been shredded. I was all covered in bleeding cuts, grazes and nail scratches, but they didn't worry me much: human skin is stronger than any fabric and you can't pierce it with your nails and besides, zombies' nails stop growing soon after death which renders them relatively harmless. The worst weapon they have is their teeth, and I was dead scared of bites.
As I bent over trying to inspect my own backside, I noticed that my left trouser leg was torn just under my knee; it was drenched in blood seeping from a yet unnoticed wound under it. I rolled the remaining trouser leg up to have a better look. The skin on my calf was torn; the caked blood didn't let me inspect the wound in detail, but what I saw made me shake as I realized its meaning. Under the torn skin, I could see a strip of fat and something weird-looking and slimy — had to be the muscle. The wound wasn't big and couldn't be serious, if it wasn't for one detail. It was encircled by a clear print of human teeth.
A bite.
My heart palpitated like a trapped bird. I couldn't breathe; my vision darkened, blood pounded in my head. I remember thinking, it would be stupid to die of a stroke when you've just been bitten — but it must have happened before to other people.
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