The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad

by Hasanov, Oleg

  “Dobroye utro, Mr. Thomas,” Sorokin said. There was a portable radio set in his hands. “Your walkie-talkie. The mobile connection is still down.”

  Andy could smell whiskey on the man’s breath, but said nothing about it. He took the device from him. “Spasibo, Igor. How’s the perimeter?”

  “The front door is secure,” Igor tapped on the door glass, and a male monster snarled at him behind the glass. “The space in the lobby is too tight for these customers here, so they don’t get enough leverage to break in. They’re packed like sardines.”

  “Still, one cannot be too careful,” Andy said. “Reinforce the barricade.”

  “We’re on it,” Sorokin said.

  “And we’d better clear the yard and close the gate,” Goran said. “Knowing that these sorry sickos walk around and can break in any minute just gives me the creeps.”

  Sorokin nodded. “Yes, but we’re short of firepower.”

  “What else?” Andy asked.

  “The underground parking lot is gone,” Sorokin said and rubbed his eyes wearily. He seemed to be in desperate need of sleep. “And we need to have the parking lot door welded to make it more stable. But it’s holding. So, we’re golden here so far. Like we put it in Russia, we’re under Christ’s armpit.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Andy said. “Give me two of your boys for a tour around the hotel.”

  “Won’t be a problem.”

  “Good,” Andy said. “And will you check on Diana, please? Tell her I’ll do the tour around the hotel myself today.”

  Diana Grinina was Andy’s deputy manager, his right hand. She was so devoted to her job that after the shock wave had shattered the hotel windows and glass splinters nicked her cheek, she got four stitches and was back in business in an hour.

  “Sure,” Sorokin said. “See you in three hours in the conference room.”

  He left and Goran took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to Andy. “Here. I’ve translated your speech into Russian. It’s pretty good.”

  “Thank you so much. This is my first emergency speech.” Andy took the sheet of paper and put it in his breast pocket.

  Goran looked at his watch. “Okay. I’m gonna check the kitchen now. Keep in touch. And take care.”

  “I will,” Andy said.

  Goran left.

  Andy looked at the vacant reception desk, frowned and turned to the guards, “For chrissake, find that front desk clerk, will you? Whose shift is it today?”

  “It’s Pyotr’s.”

  “Get him back asap. We’re a five-star hotel after all. I want the things to remain the way they had been before.”

  Andy heard a rumble outside the hotel. He came to the window and saw a battle tank, trundling along the street and sending stranded cars flying.

  “What are you talking about, Mr. Thomas?” One of the guards named Viktor stood by the window. “The world is going to pieces. Things are not going to be the same again.”

  Three more tanks rushed down the street.

  Andy sighed and kept silent for a bit. Finally, he said, “Is the radio ready?”

  “It always is,” Viktor said.

  Andy went to the security operations room. It was small. It does not have to be large. There were two desks, two chairs. CCTV monitors, and the armory. Generally, the room was occupied by one guard on duty. Sometimes the security manager sat at his desk, busy with paperwork. The work of a security guard was all about legwork.

  A young guard with a bowl cut was watching the monitors.

  “Any suspicious activity, Ivan?” Andy asked him.

  “It depends on what you call suspicious,” Ivan said. He pointed at a screen. “There’s a man taking a piss on the stairwell between Level 5 and Level 6.” He pointed at another screen. “And there’s a woman in the parking lot, who has just eaten her poodle.”

  “Good heavens,” Andy muttered and turned away.

  He noticed that one of the monitors was switched off. So, it was impossible to see what was happening in the backyard.

  “What’s with this one?” he asked the guard.

  “That was on Friday. Kids broke the video camera on the western side of the building. With a pneumatic rifle, can you believe that?”

  On a normal day it would not be a problem to have the technician fix it immediately, but with the yard swarming with these cannibalistic ghouls, the mission was next to impossible.

  Andy took out his notebook and scribbled some notes. The walkie-talkie on his belt gave a hiss of static. He took it and pressed the button. The walkie-talkie crackled in Andy’s hand and a grumpy voice of the sanitary engineer told him that a pipe burst down in the basement. The water was cut off, but there was a decent puddle of water on the basement floor.

  Andy clicked off the walkie-talkie. “Problems just keep piling up.”

  Back in Harvard Business School, Andy received his MA in conflict management. He was trained to work under pressure and deal with various problems and conflicts.

  For every problem there is a solution, he kept saying to himself. New situations, new solutions.

  Andy sat in the chair, pushed buttons on the control panel to switch on the radio equipment. The loudspeaking communication system kicked in. He placed his note with the Russian text of his speech in front of him and spoke into the microphone.

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!”

  Though I doubt that it’s good, of course, he thought, but he did not say it aloud.

  He cleared his throat and went on, “My name is Andrew Thomas. I’m General Manager. As you very well know, we’re witnessing a bit of a complicated situation in this city. No one seems to know what’s going on at the moment. Apparently, the local authorities cannot shed light on the current situation either. The national news abounds only in reports of the recent meteor crash. But no information whatsoever is available on the true causes of the acts of violence we’re seeing in the city streets. There are some rumors of a contagious infection. On behalf of the Arkaim Hotel, I ask you to remain calm and not to attempt leaving the hotel. The building is surrounded by murdering insane persons. So I repeat—for your safety, and the safety of other employees and guests, do not try to leave the building. For further information, there’ll be a meeting in the conference room at 10:00 a.m. this morning. Once again, I’m Andrew Thomas, General Manager. Please enjoy your stay at the Arkaim Hotel—your home away from home.”

  He read his speech aloud again, this time in English, and went out into the corridor. He saw Viktor, the guard, who stopped him and said quietly, “We found Pyotr, Mr. Thomas. He’s dead. Hanged himself.”

  SIX

  The news of Ramses’s imprisonment shattered Steve Clayton. He called Vassili Koshkin at once and asked him what to do. Vassili had a good lawyer in mind, but it was a weekend, and the least they could do for Ramses was to bring him some clothes and food.

  Their taxi arrived at the hotel at around 10:00 a.m. and parked in the underground garage. The driver, whose name was Boris, helped Steve and Vassili pack their things into the trunk, and they sat in the backseats.

  There was a jam at the exit, and the taxi dragged slowly behind a huge Coca-Cola truck. It moved forward a bit and then stopped. The taxi driver got very impatient.

  Behind the cab, there was a long motorcade, ten or twelve cars, which had been decorated by colorful balloons and bright ribbons. Steve looked through the rear windshields at the white limousine following them. Their driver was edgy, too.

  “Saturday,” Vassili said. “Wedding day. I pity those folks.”

  Boris swore under his breath when the taxi had to halt again. This time they had to wait too long.

  The limo driver leaned out of the window. “Hey!” A cloud of steam came out of his mouth. “What’s going on there? Why did we stop?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved his door open and got out. A tiny beep signaled that the door was not closed. He walked past the cab, clenching and unclenching his fist
s.

  Three strange-looking people showed up from behind the truck. They spotted him and began walking toward him. Steve could see there was something weird about them. Their gait was robotic and their appearance was dirty.

  As the trio approached the limo driver, they stretched their hands toward him as if they wanted to charge and strangle him. The man made a step back and slammed onto the asphalt. He made an attempt to scramble to his feet, but the attackers surrounded him. Their backs blocked the view for the men in the cab who could only see the man’s feet drumming on the shiny asphalt for a couple of seconds.

  “The hell is going on?” Steve looked puzzled.

  Boris gave a honk. A white poodle ran out of the limo and started yapping. The bride in a white wedding dress came out, calling the dog.

  Four more strangers appeared from behind the truck. The poodle stuck its tail between his legs and hid underneath the cab. The bridegroom went out of the wedding car and went after the bride.

  The strangers shambled up to the taxi and started thudding on the car hood with their fists. They had ragged clothes on. Steve’s first thought was that they were hobos, but as they approached closer, he could see the clothes were new, just dirty, torn and crumpled in places as if their owners had been in a fight. Boris honked the horn to disperse the gathering crowd, but it had no effect on them. More people rushed into the garage.

  The newly-weds ran away, stumbling and falling over the scattered traffic cones.

  Boris rolled down the side window and asked a hatless man wearing a torn overcoat what was up, and the man grabbed Boris’s head in his hands. The attack was so sudden that the driver could not wrench free from his grip, and the psycho gouged his eyes out with his thumbs. Boris screamed and jerked his legs in a desperate try to release himself from the attacker’s deadly embrace.

  The newcomers grouped near the fallen taxi driver. He was still screaming, when they yanked him out of the car, ripped into his abdomen, twisted his arms and tore them off the body. It was all a matter of ten seconds. And they started chewing on the bloody wads of flesh they were holding in their hands.

  Steve pressed his back into the seat. He felt his bladder was ready to give out.

  There were screams and shouts everywhere. People locked their doors and windows in panic. The assailants kept on pounding on the cars trying to get inside.

  A slim girl with long uncombed blue hair smashed her hands with broken nails against the windshield. She did not even twist her lips in pain, as cobweb cracks ran across the glass. She was wearing a Santa Claus cap, though Christmas was over a long time ago. She pressed her face against the glass and growled like a hungry dog.

  “What the fuck is going on?!” Steve shouted. Vassili acted fast, climbing over to the driver’s seat and locking all the doors and windows in the car. He honked the horn to make the attacking people scatter.

  “Get out of here!” Vassili yelled at the top of his voice at the Santa girl.

  Steve flipped open his cell phone. His hands were trembling. The indicator was showing that there was no phone connection. He punched “911”, but heard only short beeps.

  He turned around. Three attackers, a teenage boy, an old woman and a bearded man, who had been beating the limousine behind them, left it and took an interest in their cab instead. The man climbed on top of the hood, squatted and gazed at them blankly through the windshield. His beard was smeared with blood. The madman’s stare was glued to them for a while. In a split second, he hit the glass with his forehead. The glass cracked but did not break.

  The teenage boy was tugging at the door handle madly. He was growling, and there was foam at his mouth. The old woman crashed her fists against the windows, spreading cracks all over the glass.

  Steve exchanged glances with Vassili. “Jeez, this is gross, man. This is really gross.”

  Blood ran down the bearded man’s forehead in rivulets as he hit the windshield harder. He kept banging his head against the glass until it collapsed inside and he was able to put his hand through the hole. He snatched Vassili’s hand and started pulling it out toward his mouth.

  The glass edges cut Vassili’s hand, and he gave a scream. The bearded psycho sank his teeth in the captured hand. Blood droplets, dark like cherry juice, sprinkled on the windshield and ran down the back of Vassili’s arm.

  “Fuck!” Steve shouted in desperation.

  He cast a quick glance around the interior of the cab and searched under the seat. His fingers clasped around a metal thing, and he pulled out a tire iron.

  He unlocked the passenger door and opened it, hitting the old woman. She lost her balance and fell on her ass.

  Steve gripped the tire iron firmly in his hand. He slammed the door shut and ran around the cab giving out the swipes here and there with the cold forged steel. Then he smashed the curved end of the tool across the bearded man’s face. A spray of blood mixed with teeth blew out of his mouth. The Beard slackened his grip, and Vassili freed his hand. Another hit on the head and the Beard slipped off the hood. Steve sent a forceful kick in his knee and broke it with a crunch. The man did not even scream with pain.

  “What’s wrong with all of you?!” Steve said.

  He heard a snarl behind his back and turned around. The teenage boy. Steve kicked the approaching kid in the chest and sent him flying on the ground.

  There was a tumult in the parking garage.

  Steve opened the door. “Vasya! Quick! We gotta get out!”

  Vassili scrambled out of the car. His right hand was a bleeding mess.

  “Over there!” Steve said, pointing to the attendant’s room. They bolted for the door, Vassili’s blood leaving zigzagging trails after them but as they reached it, it was slammed shut right in their faces.

  Steve banged his fists against the door. “Open up! Let us in!”

  He could see the attendant’s terrified face through the little round window set in the door. Then it disappeared inside the room.

  Steve looked back. A group of attackers was shuffling toward them. Sitting next to a wall, there was a bus with the hotel logo running across its side. Steve tried the door handles. Locked.

  The looneys were closing in. Steve and Vassili ducked behind a car. The elevator was too far, and they had to make a decision fast, or their chasers would spot them. They could hear snarls and heavy footsteps getting nearer.

  “Under the bus!” Vassili said. They sneaked along the car and slipped under the belly of the bus.

  Vassili was the first to go. He was leaving blood trails behind. The men crawled until they faced the wall into the farthest corner. The demented crowd walked past the bus without noticing them. Vassili groaned painfully, and Steve clamped his hand over his mouth, casting a fearful glance at the space between the ground and the bus bottom.

  Steve saw a shadow on the lit patch of the neighboring stall. A male stopped near the bus and dropped on his knees to lick the little pool of blood left on the cold asphalt. He dried out one puddle of blood and spotted another one among patches of leaked oil under the bus. He licked his gray lips and started creeping under the vehicle. If this ghoul crawled a little farther, he could see them. Steve hardened the grip on the tire iron, getting ready to stick it into the man’s eye socket if he had to.

  There was an electric whirr in the distance. The automatic gates were being closed. The psycho’s attention refocused and he turned his neck in the direction of the noise. He was going to leave, as Vassili moved his leg and the heel of the boot scraped noisily against the concrete. The man slowly turned his head to them and his eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the semidarkness of the bus’s underbelly. He gave a soft growl.

  Vassili’s eyes widened, and he held his breath.

  An alarm system got activated nearby.

  The weirdo crawled back and got on his feet. In a moment he shuffled away. Vassili sighed. His face was covered with perspiration, and he started shivering with cold. Steve tore off a piece of his shirt and stopped the bleeding on his
friend’s hand. He had lost a lot of blood.

  They lay under the bus motionlessly for more than five minutes. The blaring of the alarm system was irritating, but they were safe there.

  Vassili was not looking well. His forehead was hot, and he was feeling shivery.

  “Okay,” Steve whispered. “This is what we’re gonna do. We’ll climb on top of this bus, all right? These nutcases, whoever they are, are pretty dumb and slow. You can’t stay here, or you’ll catch your death. Do you think you can manage?”

  Vassili nodded silently.

  Steve crawled out and looked around. He could hear low growling and snarling sounds in the depth of the garage, but no berserks could be seen in the vicinity. He hauled Vassili out from under the bus, and they trudged around it.

  Vassili stood on Steve’s back and used the wall as a springboard to climb on top of the bus. He slipped once, as his legs refused to obey him. Steve threw the tire iron, and Vassili caught it with his left hand.

  Steve stepped on the running board of the bus and held out his hand for Vassili to pull him up. Just as Steve’s foot pushed away from the side mirror, a hand from below grabbed the air where it had just been. A maniac, his mouth gushing blood, was standing on the ground, looking at his prey he had just missed. Steve looked around the parking lot and saw in despair more weirdos coming up to the bus from everywhere.

  “Crazy bastards!” he shouted at them, standing on the bus roof.

  Vassili sat down on the trapdoor and let out a cloud of breath in the chilly air. He undid the bandage and looked at his hand, which had turned gray. The wound was deep and its edges were yellow and slimy.

  “Not good, Vasya,” Steve said. “Hold on.” He tore another piece of his shirt, wadded it and made a fresh bandage.

  “I’m feeling dizzy,” Vassili said and lay on his back. There were specks of foam around his mouth, and he had trouble breathing.

  Steve tried to open the trapdoor, but it was locked from the inside. There was no way in.

  Vassili moaned, and his eyes rolled in his sockets. His breath was shallow. He shut his eyes, and Steve slapped him on the cheeks.