The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad

by Hasanov, Oleg

  Dr. Brodde shook his head. “No. Not that we know of.”

  “Allocate a separate room for her body.”

  Dr. Brodde nodded. “Ja. And for future bodies, too.”

  Andy nodded and paused. Then he asked, “How are the kids?”

  “The Chinese girl is recovering from flu. But she’s running out of her immunosuppressants, the antirejection medication for her kidneys, you know,” Dr. Brodde said and turned to look at the fire.

  Andy wanted to say that would be the least of their concerns soon judging by what was happening on the lower floors.

  But he put his hand on Dr. Brodde’s shoulder and said, “Go take a rest, Erich. We have a lot to do today.”

  ***

  Andy drank his coffee and ate what was left in his fridge in the solitude of his apartment and in an hour returned to the ballroom. He stood in the center of the large room.

  “I’m sorry to say this,” he said in Russian, “but as you know we’re running out of food and water. Our only chance is to get the hotel back. I need all of the able-bodied men and women. We meet when the sun goes up. We do it now while we still have some energy, or we’ll die here.”

  He had not prepared his speech. He stumbled and tripped over his words and made a lot of grammatical mistakes. But the people listened to him carefully.

  The red-faced man poked his sleepy head out from a tent. “Yeah? And what will we do next?”

  Andy said, “Go to the evac center, of course.”

  “Well, there is no such place,” the red-faced man said. “It’s all bullshit. The government are using this city as a fucking experiment, and we are their guinea pigs. Man, we’re living on the test ground. No one is getting out of this alive. They are making biological soldiers there. That’s for sure. Out of living people.”

  “Excuse me,” Andy said. “What’s your name?”

  “Grigory Palchikov,” the man said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Look at those living dead people out there,” Palchikov said. “They can function in the severe cold even with bare buttocks. They can go without food for a long time. And they spread a deadly virus of some kind. It’s a government experiment.”

  “The meteorite has brought all this shit,” Ksenia said. “That is all. It’s got nothing to do with the government.”

  “It’s going to be a suicide mission if we leave this place!” Palchikov said. “I repeat: we better stay here. Because we will be outnumbered for sure.”

  Andy said nothing.

  Ivan, Zhang Wei, and Ingvar entered the room carrying buckets of water.

  “What do you suggest then, Grigory?” Andy said. “We’re on the fourteenth floor. We have no wings to fly away from here. That’s why we fight our way floor after floor to the ground level. Maybe our guys will have come back with the guns, ammo, and supplies by that time.”

  Palchikov said, “You won’t stand a chance with those ghouls.”

  Ksenia stepped in. “Then you can shut up and stay in warmth here. Because obviously, all you care is you and that big hulk of yours!”

  “I just suggest we stay here and wait,” Palchikov said.

  “Wait for what?” Andy said. “We have no chance here either. No one is going to rescue us. Our hunting party is most probably gone. After we had split, there was a bombardment. Ramses, Steve, Erkan, and …” he paused, “and Goran—they’re all either gone or can’t reach us. Otherwise, they would have been already here. With that shitload of guns we found there.”

  Ksenia stood next to Andy. “So, who’s with us?”

  Ingvar leaned to Alyona and asked her for the translation. Then he nodded and turned to Ksenia. “Yeah, baby! Man, I like chicks with balls!”

  Ivan and Zhang Wei put their hands up. Then more men and women started raising their hands. Palchikov looked at them, spat on the floor and crawled back into his tent.

  “Count me in, man,” Ingvar said. “One way or another, we’re going to die here. But let me take my video camera with me. It still has some juice in it. I want to record this historical day.”

  Andy nodded with a smile and said, “Now sleep and eat while you can because at sunrise we’ll fight!”

  He raised the ax into the air. “Right now the Arkaim hotel is our only home, and we got to have it back!”

  He remembered Goran comparing him to William Wallace and smiled a sad smile.

  THIRTY

  It was pitch dark outside when they kicked Ramses in the ribs to wake him up. They were in the basement of the gun store, the one he and his hotel friends had visited the previous night. Now he had come here with his enemies. He hadn’t shown them the store. They had discovered it themselves when they had found a label with the name of the store and address printed on one of the knife sheaths. He would rather take a bullet in the head than rat on those people, who had become his friends. They found out about the hotel he was staying at, too. They searched Erkan’s pockets and came up with a hotel business card. Erkan had used it as a toothpick.

  They had just finished their late supper or whatever the midnight meal is called. They gave him no food. The big guy who went under the nickname Carp uncuffed Ramses from the radiator, who was immediately handed an armful of guns. They hung assault rifles around his neck and shoulders like on a Christmas tree and made him march forward.

  He carried the weapons to the attic of the apartment house. It was in the same building, where the store was housed. The guns were not loaded. All the magazines had been unattached and put into backpacks. He felt he was exhausted after his fifth ascent to the attic, which was above the seventh floor.

  They didn’t explain what they were doing, but he could make his own deductions. The time was tough, and firearms were valuable as never before. Having such an arsenal they could be kings of the streets.

  When their business in the attic was done, they returned to the gun store to spend the rest of the night in the basement. The Russian men dropped their orange uniforms and changed into the khaki camouflage they found in the store.

  Early in the morning, before dawn, they moved on. Gavrilov was in the lead. Ramses’s hands were cuffed behind his back. They put an empty backpack on his back.

  They couldn’t use a car because of the traffic jams. The snowdrifts were not so high, just up to their ankles in spite of the fact that the streets had not been cleaned for more than a week. Spring was just around the corner, and snow was melting.

  “Hey, Major,” Ramses asked Gavrilov. “Where are we going?”

  The man said nothing. He just kept on walking.

  Ramses’s hands were cuffed but his eyes and ears were free. So observing was the only thing left to do. He watched his enemies, figuring out their strengths and weaknesses. He thought about the ways he would kill them if they weren’t armed and if his hands were free.

  The boss guy, the major, was the hugest of them. And the toughest. But judging by his looks, he had recently been in an exhausting fight. He had cuts and bruises all over his face, neck, and hands. He was tired and sleepy. Ramses would kill him easily if he had a chance.

  There was this irritating laughing fat man, Joker. Definitely a psychopath. Ramses felt that one could expect anything from this guy. He was probably the most dangerous of them.

  The silent man. They called him Afghan. Always alert. He was keeping aloof. Ramses was sure the man didn’t approve of all the men were doing. But maybe he was wrong.

  The man they called Carp or sometimes Karpov was a heavy smoker. He had probably had a weak heart and lungs. A nice hit in the chest would give him a heart attack.

  He could take any of them out. It would be a matter of only three movements. First, reach the right hand out for the man’s head from behind. Second, grab his forehead with the left hand. Third, give the neck a powerful twist with both hands. One, two, three. Done.

  And that would be it.

  The next three movements would be made by them, though. First, they would turn in
his direction, their fingers on the triggers. Second, they would aim their weapons at him. Third, they would unload their guns into his head, chest, and stomach. One, two, three. Done.

  He was a professional fighter, but these men were much better—they were trained killers, no doubt. And they were armed trained killers at that. He wouldn’t have a chance to have a full-scale revenge for Steve. And Erkan, too. And he wanted them to pay the full price.

  It was not snowing. The weather was still. Not a puff of wind. He was not wearing gloves. They had taken them away. It was cold. Last time they checked a thermometer, it was minus 28 degrees Celsius.

  After ten minutes the major spoke. But he didn’t answer his question. He asked a question of his own instead.

  “What are you doing in the city?” Gavrilov said.

  “Trying to survive,” Ramses said.

  “No, I mean the real purpose of your visit.”

  “I’m a musician,” Ramses lied without too much thinking. “On a tour.”

  “Really?” Gavrilov said. “What kind of music?”

  “Reggae, ska, rocksteady,” Ramses said, frantically trying to recall Bob Marley’s styles. “You know, those sorts of stuff.”

  Gavrilov shook his head. “All these words are just noise to me. Never heard them. Sing something.”

  “I can’t sing,” Ramses said.

  “What can you do then?”

  “I handle the bass.”

  “You what?”

  “I play the bass guitar.”

  “Ah, I see,” Gavrilov said, and walked further, having lost any interest in him.

  Seems like I passed the test, Ramses thought, until someone hands me a bass guitar, or any guitar, and asks me to play.

  The snow crisped under their boots. It was quiet.

  “Where are all the fucking zombies?” Gavrilov asked with a chuckle. “Maybe your Negro face scared them away?”

  Just as he said it a group of three zombies appeared. All males. Nobody lifted a finger to eliminate them. The men spoke some Russian between themselves and let the undead surround Ramses. Everybody stopped to watch. The fat guy started laughing like a maniac.

  Ramses could not use his hands because they were handcuffed. He could use his legs, though. Which he did.

  He kicked the nearest ghoul in the knee. The zombie’s bones snapped, and after another kick, it fell face-first to the ground. Ramses lifted his boot and stomped on its head. The nose caved in, and the dead man stopped twitching.

  The major applauded. “Bravo!”

  Ramses lured the second one to an open manhole. When it came nearer, he stepped aside, and it fell through, its hands flailing in the air. He heard a dull thud and tried to do the same with the third one. But he stumbled and tripped and fell right at the feet of the third zombie. The undead grabbed Ramses’s arm and pulled it to its dirty red-gray mouth. Just as it bared its rotten gums and was ready to clamp its teeth on the man’s hand there was a double tap to the zombie’s head. The creature let go of Ramses’s arm and slumped down on the sidewalk, two bullet holes in his forehead. Ramses gasped and kicked the body down the manhole.

  It was Gavrilov who had saved him. He put his gun in the holster, turned away and returned to the head of the procession. Carp kicked Ramses until he got up.

  In ten minutes they stopped. The area looked familiar to Ramses. He looked around and saw that nightclub, “Diorama”, where Ramses, Steve, and Vassili had celebrated their arrival and the start of their business partnership.

  A little group of zombies had gathered near the club. The men unshouldered their AK-47s and cut the monsters out like weed with rapid fire.

  Gavrilov spoke a short string of Russian words to his team and then turned to Ramses as if he was a part of it. “All right. We can have some rest here.”

  Gavrilov went up the porch and knocked on the massive door. A young man’s face appeared in the window to the right of the door and ducked back in a hurry.

  “Well,” Gavrilov said. “I think we have to make them more hospitable.”

  The fat man took out a Molotov cocktail from his backpack he had prepared in the gun store. He lit the gas lighter and put the flame close to the piece of cloth attached to the battle. The cloth caught fire, and the man threw it at the window. The window broke and started burning.

  The people inside the club did not shoot at them. Either they did not have firearms, or, if they had them, they were out of ammo. There was commotion and loud shouting inside. Probably extinguishing the fire with the last water they had. Then the fire sizzled and faded.

  Gavrilov knocked on the front door again. It sounded threatening. And convincing too because it opened right away. A teenager boy with frightened eyes stood in the doorway, his hands up. He had a baggy green sweater on. The boy said something in Russian in a humble voice. He looked like a lamb bleating.

  Gavrilov’s men shoved the boy aside and entered.

  “It is dark here like in a nigger’s ass,” he said in English.

  He turned on his torch. Carp followed suit. Two beams of light were cutting the dark. The reception area was a mess. The dance floor, where Vassili danced like a Cossack, was even worse. Blood spatters on the walls. Some of the tables and chairs were upturned. There were no bodies. These survivors must have gotten rid of them.

  The young man led them upstairs. The Afghan guy stayed on the porch.

  They stepped into a spacious hall. Not the bar where Ramses sat drinking martinis but another one. There was a bar there and couches and pool tables. Cigarette smoke hung in the stale and cold air. Mixed with the smell of alcohol and sweat.

  The room was lit with a dozen candles. A bald man stepped forward, swinging a baseball bat. They don’t play baseball in this country but you can find bats in every sports store.

  Ramses recognized the man right away. Roman, the barman. He had a leather jacket on. His cheeks had not been shaven for a long time.

  Ramses saw Lena, too. The prostitute had so passionately tried to hook up Steve. She was wearing a white fur coat and a black fur hat. There was a cigarette holder with a lit cigarette in her hand. She looked at Ramses with contempt but didn’t say anything.

  There were a dozen other people, men, and women. All of them young. There were also a couple of teen girls. In the back of the room, sitting on bar stools, Ramses saw his Valentine Day attackers—the Zek and the Sports Cap. The man was still wearing that black sports cap of his.

  There was a moment of recognition on Roman’s face. He lowered the bat and came up to Gavrilov. They hugged, patting each other on shoulders.

  “Now look at this coincidence, Mumbo Jumbo,” Gavrilov said, laughing. “This is my good friend, Roman. We were in Chechnya together.”

  “Oh, I know this son of a bitch already,” Ramses muttered.

  Roman swished the bat in the air and approached him. He shoved the end of the bat into his chest and said, “You killed my brother!”

  “He tried to take from me what was mine,” Ramses said. “He and those two lumps of shit.” He pointed at the robbers with his chin.

  Roman squinted his eyes.

  “Oh, where are my manners,” Gavrilov said. “Roman, please meet my personal camel.”

  Ramses’s nostrils widened.

  “Glad to meet you, asshole,” Roman said, and hit Ramses’s face with the bat.

  Ramses staggered and nearly lost his balance.

  “The price you’re going to pay will be high,” Roman said. “Blood for blood.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t beat him,” Gavrilov said. “Not just yet. I need this nigger. He is my beast of burden. But I can see that this nigger camel has insulted my friend. And not just a friend, a brother-in-arms, and that’s not good. I’m obliged to teach him a little lesson.”

  He gave a quick command, and Joker bent down to take Ramses’s boots off. Ramses headbutted him. The fat man’s nose began bleeding.

  Joker gave Ramses a hit with his rifle in the jaw so that his teeth rattled
in the gums. After a punch in the stomach, Ramses collapsed on the soft carpet. The fatso ripped his boots off with frenzy. Then he bent down again and took off the socks as well.

  Gavrilov looked down at Ramses. “The man says you killed his brother.”

  “They tried to rob me.” He cast a glance full of hatred at Roman. “And that piece of crap had set me up.”

  “Watch that tongue of yours, nigger,” Roman said. “What the fuck are you doing in my country, anyway? Huh, you black pig?”

  Roman gave a kick in Ramses’s face. The kick came at him like a flash, and he didn’t have time to react.

  “Fuck you!” Ramses said, spitting out blood. He probed the teeth with his tongue. One of them was loose.

  “Well, look at this,” Gavrilov said. He peeled his glance off what was happening in front of him and was now looking at the shelves with liquor and not paying attention to both of them. “Roman, last time I was here you had a fine Armenian cognac, remember? I am thirsty. Let me have a drink, and I shall let you have fun with my camel.”

  Roman softened. “As a matter of fact, I’m still keeping it. For a special occasion. And this is a special occasion, I think.”

  He walked out of the room and came back with a tall bottle and two glasses. He uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses with dark-colored foamy liquid. There were short toasts, and the glasses clinked.

  “Well,” Gavrilov told Ramses, smacking his lips. “This is a damn good cognac. I like it here. I cannot refuse them some entertainment. Sorry, Mumbo Jumbo but that is going to hurt. Maybe you will die.”

  “All right,” Ramses said. “But let me go to the toilet first.”

  Gavrilov was surprised. He turned to Roman. “He is your animal now. It is up to you. As for me, I am going to drink some more of this cognac.”

  “All right,” Roman said. “Let him go. I don’t want this filthy beast to stain the carpets.”

  Gavrilov gave Roman and the Sports Cap handguns. Gavrilov was generous enough to relocate the handcuffs from back to the front.

  Ramses looked at his wrists. “Now I need a volunteer to hold my pants up after I’ve taken a dump.”