The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad

by Hasanov, Oleg

  Dr. Yekaterina Obukhova took off her gloves and the surgical mask and jotted some notes in her notebook in the dull light of the basement.

  A male medical technician rolled up a gurney to the surgical table.

  “Dispose of Subject Number 17,” she said to him and closed her notebook.

  The man took a gun out of his lab coat pocket and shot the patient in the head. The gunshot was deafening. The body jerked and was silent. The techie unchained the body, rolled it on the gurney and covered his face with a white sheet. Another medical officer rolled the gurney away.

  “Good morning, Dr. Obukhova,” the general said. “I’m General Alexander Petrov.”

  “Can a morning be good, General?” Dr. Obukhova said.

  “I’m glad you’re on the team with us. I hear you’re the best specialist of your kind.”

  The medical technician hooked up equipment to a woman with her eyes closed and started doing a blood transfusion.

  Skvortsov was looking at all the equipment around him, bottles with liquid on the floor, vials. He took a little bottle from a table. It slipped through his fingers, fell down to the floor and crashed into tiny pieces.

  Dr. Obukhova turned around and looked at him angrily. “Please don’t touch anything there.”

  Skvortsov apologized and hid his hands behind his back.

  “Captain Mikhailov says that animals can spread the virus,” the general said.

  “Not all animals,” Dr. Obukhova said. “But yes, we proved that the virus can be carried by certain animals. Dogs mostly. Though it does not affect animals the way it affects human beings.”

  “They don’t turn into crazy man-eaters?” Skvortsov said.

  She sat in an old armchair and took out a pack of cigarettes. “No, they don’t. But an infected animal is still dangerous.” She put a cigarette between her unpainted lips. “Would you like a smoke?”

  “No, thanks,” the general said and took off his hat. It was awfully hot in the room.

  She offered the cigarette to Lieutenant Skvortsov and after he had refused, lit it herself and took a drag from it hungrily.

  General Petrov made a wry face. “How can you smoke here?”

  “What else is left in this shitty place? We don’t even dream about decent air-conditioning system down here. I’m grateful enough we have an abundant supply of syringes.”

  “Please have patience, Doctor,” the general said. “They’re shipping all the necessary equipment soon. Everything you have ordered.”

  Dr. Obukhova exhaled a ring of smoke. “Even under such conditions, everything in this country is done this way. I’m surprised how we beat the Germans.”

  “Everything’s on the way,” the General repeated. “You’ll have to wait.”

  Dr. Obukhova said no more.

  The general sat in a chair opposite her. “I’ve come for your report, Doctor.”

  Dr. Obukhova flicked the ash off her cigarette into a Coca-Cola can, which was sitting on the floor and served as an ashtray. “We found out that before Patient Zero, the local forester, was exposed to the meteorite dust, he had been bitten by his dog. It had been infected with the rabies virus. Before the meteorite fall, that is. The dog transformed the virus of rabies in its body into a new model of the virus, a new strain. Finally, the new pathogen found its way into a human body, through a bite. It made its way to the brain through lymph and blood and via nerves.”

  General Petrov half-closed his eyes and frowned. “Again but more simple, please.”

  Dr. Obukhova came up to the blackboard, took a piece of chalk and started writing:

  Rabies virus + Meteorite virus = Zombie virus

  “Ordinary rabies virus plus the meteorite virus equal the zombie virus,” she said. “The rabies virus has kind of “borrowed” traits from another virus. In our case, the virus, which the meteorite contains. They exchanged their genetic information and swapped fragments of genetic code.”

  “The doggy was sort of a mixer for both viruses, didn’t it?” Skvortsov chuckled.

  “How serious is it?” the general asked without looking at his aide-de-camp.

  “It’s gravely serious, considering the facts,” she said. “The current infection rate is eighty percent.”

  “Damn,” Skvortsov said. “Can this zombie plague be stopped? What if it gets out of control?”

  “It could sweep across the country in no time,” Dr. Obukhova said. She put out her cigarette and sat straight in the armchair. “The virus incubates inside the host body for up to thirty minutes. Once it sets in, it bypasses all the defenses of the host, gets to the brain and begins controlling the host.”

  Two burly medical technicians brought a black body bag and placed it on the surgical table. They unzipped it and took out a wriggling person with bloodshot eyes. It was bound, and its mouth was gagged with a piece of cloth.

  The general stepped closer to the table. “Why are their eyes red?”

  Dr. Obukhova struck a match and lit another cigarette. “Because of increased intracranial pressure. They suffer from high temperature, too. Up to 42 degrees Centigrade. I think that’s the reason they don’t freeze in the cold. Their muscle activity is damaged but their tendons and muscles function. They defecate too.”

  “We’ve noticed that,” Skvortsov’s muffled voice said through the respirator.

  “Why do they function when you shoot them in the heart?” the general said.

  “We don’t know,” the woman said. “But we know that you have to destroy the brain to stop them.”

  “We learned that in practice,” the general said. “Do viruses always mix with each other?”

  “As a rule, unrelated viruses do not hybridize in nature. And here we came across a hybrid. And a deadly hybrid at that. It infected Patient Zero and mutated. The changes in the structure of the rabies virus created a more deadly species of the virus, the zombie virus.”

  The general frowned. “Please don’t call it the zombie virus,” he said.

  “All right,” Obukhova went on. “A new hybrid strain emerged, and it proved to be extremely dangerous.”

  “Can this new virus evolve?” the general asked.

  “It’s possible, Comrade General,” she said. “Viruses evolve and mutate all the time. They have recently discovered a new strain of rabies somewhere in North America among foxes and skunks. That virus chimera can infect a person via mere inhalation through mucous membranes.”

  “What the hell does it mean?” the general said.

  “The virus can be passed around through socialization,” Dr. Obukhova said. “A simple cough or a sneeze, and you’re done for. You don’t even have to be bitten.”

  “Shit,” Skvortsov said.

  General Petrov submerged into his thoughts for a second. “So they wouldn’t have to bite or scratch anymore?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is it possible to make the virus airborne?” the general said. “By screwing around with the viruses in a lab or whatever?”

  Dr. Obukhova adjusted her spectacles with her index finger and looked at the general through the cloud of smoke. “Why do you ask?”

  General Petrov shrugged. “Just curious. We have to study it. That’s all I have to say right now.”

  “If this virus gets to be airborne,” Dr. Obukhova said gravely, “the whole country will be gone.”

  Skvortsov said, nervously, “But you can make a vaccine, can’t you?”

  “It would take months,” Dr. Obukhova said. “Years, maybe. Our work would be done faster if we could obtain a sample of Patient Zero’s blood. A fragment of brain tissue would be even better.”

  “That’s like looking for a needle in a haystack,” Skvortsov said.

  The general rose to his feet. “Thank you for good work, Doctor.”

  “I’ll make a better job with more decent equipment. What passes for medical equipment in this shithole is total crap. We don’t even have hazmat suits.”

  “We’re working on it. I promi
se you that you’ll get what you want. Together we’ll defeat this disease.”

  The general turned to leave when a scream pierced his ears. The patient on the gurney had loosened his binds and bitten Lieutenant Skvortsov in the forearm. The technician hit the undead with a tray on the head to release the officer. The zombie’s teeth were snapping frantically at the air. Skvortsov stepped away from the monster, holding his bitten arm.

  “Oh my God!” the lieutenant looked at the people surrounding him like a caged animal. Bright red blood drops fell from his arm on the gray cement floor. “What shall I do now?”

  The general reached his hand to the gun holster hanging on his thigh and flipped it open. Silently.

  Skvortsov took Dr. Obukhova by her sleeve. “Please do something! I don’t want to die!”

  She pulled away from him.

  The general’s gun cracked dryly, and the officer dropped down on the floor with a hole in his forehead.

  “Fucking wimp,” General Petrov said.

  He pointed the smoking gun at the technician.

  The techie cried, “I’m sorry, Comrade General. It was an accident.”

  “Do it again,” the general said, “and the next bullet will be in your head.”

  He trained the weapon on the zombie and squeezed the trigger. “Subject Number 18. Disposed of.”

  ELEVEN

  The prison warden was a chubby man with sweating cheeks. Though his body looked soft and flabby, his handshake was firm.

  He liked the presents General Petrov had brought for him—a desktop humidor and a box of fine Cuban cigars.

  The warden opened the box, took out a cigar and sniffed it. “The Montecristo Number 2!” His face was beaming like a child’s.

  “The best torpedoes in the world,” the general said cheerily. A hot cup of coffee was steaming on the desk beside him. He needed it to shake off the remnants of sleep. The flight to Yekaterinburg did not take too much time, but it was an early morning, and the previous day had exhausted him and sucked up all his energy. Now after a good cup, he was feeling the energy was gradually coming back to him.

  Sitting in the warden’s office, General Petrov was studying dossiers of military officers who were going to be court-martialed or who got imprisonment for various crimes. A thick file folder attracted his attention. The general opened it.

  “Konstantin Andreyevich Gavrilov,” the general read aloud. “Major of Spetznaz. GDR. Afghanistan. Both Chechen campaigns. Beslan. The Russian-Georgian War …” He leafed quickly through the files and looked at the warden. “Man, he’s been everywhere.”

  The warden nodded. “An extraordinary officer.”

  “What has he been charged with?”

  The warden cut off the cigar tip and struck a match to light it. “Military hazing, aggravated rape, aggravated murder. All in one day after twenty-five years of impeccable service.” The warden was straightforward and omitted the titles of law articles. “He raped a soldier. With a broomstick. The young man died.” He took a blissfully slow drag off the cigar.

  The general whistled. “Is he gay?”

  “No, no,” the warden said shaking his head. “His wife filed for a divorce, and he just snapped. The Chechen syndrome, you know.”

  “What’s the sentence?”

  “Life imprisonment.”

  “What a waste of good military power.” General Petrov sighed. “I mean the major, of course.”

  He shut the dossier and put it on the desk. “Let me see him.”

  The warden picked up the phone receiver and in ten minutes two massive guards brought a more massive man in prison uniform to his office. Ex-Major Konstantin Gavrilov was a bald man, forty-nine years old. He was as big as a mountain. General Petrov felt the presence of primal force when the man entered. The guards uncuffed Gavrilov but stood close to him behind his back.

  The general told Gavrilov briefly about the plague in Chelyabinsk and let him watch the video footage of what was going on in the city. In the video a horde of the undead overwhelmed a whole platoon of soldiers, ripping out their flesh and eating them raw. When the warden saw all this, his desire to go on smoking the cigar disappeared and he put it out.

  The video ended, and Gavrilov’s piercing gaze lifted to General Petrov’s face. “Now what does all this crap mean?”

  “Major,” the general said. “You served in Afghanistan and both Chechen campaigns. And you came back out of those meat grinders without a scratch. It says here, in 1999, you and only four of your men wiped out twenty Chechen terrorists who have occupied a school and taken more than a hundred hostages. All the kids and teachers were alive.”

  Gavrilov said nothing.

  General Petrov opened an envelope and slipped out a stack of photographs, which he put in front of Gavrilov. He pointed at a man in one of the photos. “This is Pavel Bandurov. He was one of the witnesses of the meteorite fall last week.”

  Gavrilov took the photos and started looking through them one by one.

  “Right after the fall,” the general continued, “he was infected with some kind of virus. From the meteorite, presumably. Prior to that, he had been bitten by a rabid dog. They found dog bites on him and sent him to one of the rabiology centers in Chelyabinsk. We haven’t heard anything about him since then. But we’re sure he has caused all this. The first reports of disorder were heard from the Kurchatovski district of Chelyabinsk City.” The General unfolded a map of Chelyabinsk. “Exactly in the vicinity of the location of the clinic which had admitted him.”

  Gavrilov crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Go on.”

  “In order to make a vaccine, we need a blood sample of the initially infected person, the so-called Patient Zero. Bandurov is our Patient Zero. We also need the computer server of the clinic with all the CCTV footage and the documents concerning the medical unit he was in. We need all the evidence about the initial stages of the disease. And we need all the medical documents on him from that clinic.”

  “’We need, we need, we need, we need,” Gavrilov said mockingly. “Why the fuck do you need me?”

  “Because you’re disposable if you let me be honest with you.”

  Gavrilov looked at the general, his gaze puncturing holes through him.

  “And you suit best for this kind of mission,” the warden said.

  “I’m talking to the man here,” Gavrilov said to the warden. “Would you be so fucking kind as to not interrupt? Please.”

  The warden’s cheeks reddened, and he fell silent.

  Gavrilov turned to the general. “What the fuck is in it for me?”

  “We’ll drop all the charges first of all,” General Petrov said. “You’ll get a clean biography. And a flat in Vladivostok. A fresh start, so to say.”

  “The farther, the better, right?” Gavrilov chuckled. “Will I be restored in the Army?”

  “Sorry,” General Petrov said, “that we can’t do. But we can arrange for a new passport with any name for you. On one condition only: you stay away from your ex-wife.”

  “All right, let me give it a thought,” Gavrilov said.

  “How much time do you need for thinking?”

  Gavrilov pointed at the box of cigars. “Till I smoke one of those.”

  The warden looked at General Petrov, said nothing and nudged the box closer to Gavrilov. The ex-major took a cigar and sniffed it.

  “Rolled on the thighs of hot Cuban girls, eh?” He bit off the cigar end and asked the warden to light it. Then he dragged on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke in the direction of the warden.

  “All right,” Gavrilov said. “I’m in.”

  “Good,” the general said and pushed the stack of dossiers toward him. “Then start building your team right away.”

  PART TWO. UNDER THE SIEGE OF THE LIVING DEAD

  TWELVE

  When Andy woke up in the living room of his penthouse, it was dark outside. Diana was at his side sleeping peacefully.

  He still felt surprised at how f
ast the things changed since the world had started rolling to hell. He looked at Diana.

  Well, maybe it was not all bad after all, he thought. Only a week ago he would have had to fire Diana to ask her for a date. He found her cute, and he had a thing for business ladies. Though she was a bit older than him, he liked her a lot. He had played with the idea of asking Diana for a date, but he was a man of principles and could not go against his policy of forbidding his personnel to have romantic relationships between their coworkers. The staff were discouraged from speaking about issues other than professional ones. Every person was to do their utmost in their position and be dedicated to what they were doing. Now he was engaged in a workplace romance himself.

  Goran was sort of exception. It was not Andy who had chosen him. He was his father’s protégé. For reasons, Andy did not understand. But he trusted his father. And this young Serbian had proved to be a good asset. Within the first month of working at the Arkaim Hotel, Goran had become the most famous chef in the city. The man had his flaws though. He was the type to be easily weakened by a lady’s charms. He used to have a new girlfriend every month, every other of them a coworker.

  What can’t be cured must be endured, Andy’s father liked to say, and Andy had to endure Goran because he was a wizard of a cook.

  Andy’s digital alarm clock was off because of the power outage, and his cell phone was flat. To check the time, he had to sit up in his bed, which he had moved from his bedroom to the living room. He looked at the clock hanging on the wall above his head. It was 7:55 a.m. It was Friday, February 22. The seventh day since the end of normal life.

  It was getting cold in the room. The heating had been cut off three days ago, and they had run out of diesel fuel for the power generator two days ago. It was extremely cold in the building, and people were wearing coats and warm hats. So Andy and Diana had to have three layers of clothes on. What helped them survive was the fireplace. There were eleven actual fireplaces in the hotel—one in his penthouse, one in the lobby, one in the ballroom “Seventh Heaven” on the fourteenth floor and in eight luxury suites. Three suites had been given out for the families with kids, and five to other guests. His staff were occupying the spacious restaurant huddled together like gypsies. The restaurant was like a campsite with sections of the place curtained off with burlap and bed sheets. The people slept in sleeping bags. But it was warm there, while the fire was burning. And they still had enough wood for a week.