The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad

by Hasanov, Oleg

  He took a few seconds to catch his breath and pushed the front door carefully. He stepped into the hall and there she was. Standing behind the door. Her figure was dim behind the thick reeded glass.

  “Sveta,” he called. He still had a ghost of a hope that she was alive.

  The silhouette behind the door scratched at the glass. And uttered a moan like a wounded animal.

  Litvakov felt his knee joints grow weak. He lowered the gun.

  There was a growl, and the monster, which used to be his wife, pushed the door. Then again, but harder. The door remained closed. One got to pull the door to open it from the inside. Or push it from the outside. But the synapses in the creature’s brain were broken, and it remembered only how to walk and eat.

  Litvakov came close to the door and placed his hand on the vague silhouette. He leaned his back to the door and sat down.

  “Oh God, why?” he said. His tears were choking him.

  The front door was thrown open. Three soldiers in hazmat suits stood outside. The special unit. All three of them looking the same as clones. Determined. Ready to burn and destroy any time. Hard eyes behind the faceless black gas masks. They brought their weapons into line and filed in.

  “Comrade Colonel,” one of them said, his voice distorted through the gas mask. “You have to step out. We’ll do everything that needs to be done. According to the protocol, you’re not allowed to go there without wearing a hazmat suit.”

  “The protocol up your ass,” Litvakov said.

  “You’re in our way, man,” the other one said. “There may be uncontaminated civilians there. The clock is ticking. We can still save somebody’s life. Move aside.”

  Litvakov came to his senses and got up. He sighed and nodded. “All right. Just let me handle this one.”

  He pressed the muzzle of his gun to the silhouette’s head. “Goodbye, Sveta. I love you.”

  He turned from the door and looked at the soldiers. Tears in his eyes. “What if …,” he stumbled. “What if she’s still alive?”

  “You know how it is,” the first man said. “It’s not your wife anymore. Sorry for your loss.”

  The third man walked forward. “Step away, man. We’re wasting time.”

  “No,” Litvakov said, “Leave them alone. There are children there.”

  “We know what you feel but there’s community concern,” the first man said. “We have to eliminate the immediate danger.”

  Litvakov blocked their way. “No, go away! I’m ordering you.”

  The first soldier pushed him aside and fired at the silhouette behind the door. The glass shattered, and the figure started jerking under the torrent of bullets. Then it dropped on the floor. In a moment dozens of little hands reached through the hole in the glass. There was that little girl who was afraid of scary stories among them. Her face was filthy with blood, and her left eye was missing.

  The second and the third men dragged Litvakov out and dropped him in the snow. The Kalashnikovs started spitting fire and ripping the children’s bodies apart, spent cases buzzing in the air in the narrow space of the hall and bouncing off the walls with children’s drawings.

  The first soldier clicked on empty, reloaded his weapon and kicked the door open. The locker room was clear.

  “Unit One to Unit Two,” the first man said over the radio. “Threat in the hall and the locker room down. We’re moving in. Over.”

  “Copy that, Unit One,” was the reply. “Proceed with the operation.”

  The first soldier stepped over the big pile of little corpses and went along the corridor. The second soldier followed him, covering his back. They saw smoke coming from the far end of the corridor.

  The third soldier stayed behind to spend ten seconds double-tapping the lying bodies in the head. Two rounds for each of the ten heads. Then he joined the group.

  Litvakov was sitting in the snow, his head clutched in his hands. His eyes were full of disbelief and fear. He saw a billow of smoke rising from the kitchen window. Fires were a problem for this community. It could boast two very fine fire engines. But it could not boast a water supply. For this reason, the people were extremely careful around fires.

  One of the bedroom windows on the first floor broke, and Litvakov saw a woman standing in the window frame. It was Tatyana. She was holding in her hands what looked like a white bundle of clothes. She looked down and jumped out the window.

  The bundle rolled in the snow. Litvakov rose to his feet.

  “I saved him!” Tatyana shouted.

  She got up and picked up the bundle. Litvakov came closer and saw that it was a child wrapped in a white blanket. He flipped the blanket aside and saw his son, Misha. The boy was unconscious, but he was breathing. Litvakov took him in his arms.

  There were tears in the woman’s eyes but she was smiling happily. Finally, she was out of her depressive stupor.

  “My little boy. My Alyosha. I saved him.”

  She kept saying her dead son’s name again and again.

  Litvakov said nothing to that. He was thankful his son was alive. Soldiers in hazmat suits took them away to a safe place.

  It took a quarter of an hour for the kindergarten to burn down to the ground.

  THIRTY-TWO

  The meeting was held in the waiting staff room at the back of the ballroom on the fourteenth floor. Andy’s briefing speech was clear and short. The shortest he had ever made. There were two issues on the agenda—how to clean the hotel of the undead and how to get food. While getting food supplies used to be a usual issue in a Monday morning meeting, eliminating the walking dead personnel and guests was something shockingly new. Andy looked at Sergei, the human resources manager, and thought of dubbing him “undead human resources manager” now.

  They had two options before them—die in the battle against the ghouls or die of starvation. They had food supplies enough only for two days. The rest of their supplies were on the second floor in the kitchen, and that place was overridden by the malicious creatures now.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Andy said when he was coming to the conclusion. “And let me remind you of two basic rules. First, don’t get bitten. And second, hit them in the head. You ruin the brain, you win.”

  These words had slipped off his lips so easily, and he remembered that right on this spot this time ten days ago he was teaching a new maitre d’ how to welcome and treat guests in the ballroom.

  Andy noticed many changes in himself over these days. His features had gotten sharper. The thin layer of fat on his stomach, which he had tried so desperately to get rid of in the gym, had completely gone. Due to lots of running, shooting, wielding the ax and severe diet. He was thinking of writing a book when this was all over. He came up with the title, “Ten Simple Steps to Lose Your Weight During a Zombie Apocalypse”.

  He had transformed both physically and mentally. He had become tougher and more decisive.

  After the meeting, they all gathered around a long table in the ballroom to have breakfast. The breakfast was not exquisite, all can food and pasta but it was nutritious, and it was what they needed now as the descent to the lower levels was going to be a challenge in the new circumstances.

  Ingvar had brought his camera and cruised around, shoving it into people’s faces, making short interviews. He had asked Alyona to interpret for him. Some people were okay to answer his questions. Some were not so talkative. Others were moody or irritated. Grigory Palchikov showed him the middle finger and hid inside his DIY tent made of chairs and sheets. Marina turned to the window, her hood on, and just plainly ignored him.

  Andy was not in the mood to talk, especially on camera. He wanted privacy and some space to focus on the forthcoming operation.

  “Get your lunch, mate,” Andy told Ingvar. “You will need all the energy you can get. We may not have another chance.”

  “All right,” Ingvar asked. “Just one more interview. I’m making a documentary here. Where’s Dr. Brodde?”

  “He’s with his patie
nts,” Ksenia said. “Ask him to come to the table, will you?”

  Ingvar nodded and went across the ballroom to the sick quarters by the fireplace. Alyona stayed and sat at the table.

  Dr. Brodde was taking the temperature of Ludmila’s son.

  “How is the boy?” Ingvar said.

  Dr. Brodde turned around. “Oh, he’s stable. Actually, he’s a bit better. But with more medicine, things would be much, much better.”

  He crumpled a little package, sighed and tossed it into a trash basket. “I have just run out of aspirin. Mein Gott. It reminds me of my years in Nigeria.”

  Ingvar turned on his camera. “Do you mind if I take an interview?”

  Dr. Brodde said, “Oh, no. Not at all.” He put his hands into the washbasin and started washing them with soap. “What do you want to know?”

  “Do they teach priests to heal people?” Ingvar asked.

  “No,” Dr. Brodde said, laughing. “Before becoming a priest, I was a trained field surgeon.”

  “Really? Did you fight in World War Two?”

  “No, I was two years old when that war was over. I worked as a surgeon for the Red Cross World Organization in all continents, including Antarctica. Have you heard about Leonid Rogozin?”

  “Eh, nope,” Ingvar said.

  “He was a Soviet surgeon who back in 1961 removed his own appendix while in Antarctica.”

  Ingvar whistled. “No shit! Must be the badassest doc on this planet.”

  “He sure was. And he became my idol. I wanted to be a surgeon and travel to the toughest spots on Earth. I’ve been to Zambia, Libya, Kenya, Columbia, Somalia, Afghanistan—you name it, I’ve been there.”

  He took a towel and dried his hands.

  “Chelyabinsk is currently the toughest place on Earth,” Ingvar said.

  Dr. Brodde said, “Yes, and I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

  “How did you become a priest then?” Ingvar asked.

  Dr. Brodde said, “I came to realize that a man’s soul needed treatment, too. Sometimes even more than the body. So, after working for ten years dissecting people, I went to study to become a priest, ha, ha, ha. And then I worked both as a surgeon and a chaplain.”

  Ingvar looked at the old man’s clothes—jeans and a sweater. “Why aren’t you dressed as a priest?”

  “Why should I? I didn’t come to Russia to preach. The Russians are Orthodox, after all. Though there are Catholics here, of course. I was invited here as a specialist in pipe organs, believe it or not. My grandfather and father were pipe organists. I attended a music school but then I quit. I was the only restless soul in the family, as you can see. But my passion for music stayed with me. This city wanted my help in transporting the Pipe Organ of the Chelyabinsk Philharmonic Society. It is opus 535/1987 by Hermann Eule, a very divine instrument. The place it is sitting right now is being converted into an Orthodox church, which it used to be. Now they don’t need it there anymore. And it’s a European masterpiece. So, the city government wants— wanted, actually—to move it from the Organ Hall to somewhere else. What a waste. This could ruin the precious instrument. Mein Gott.” He shook his head ruefully. “But enough of the lecture.”

  “Well, now it can stay where it is,” Ingvar said. “No one will touch it anyway. Except for some dead dude who still remembers his piano lessons.”

  Dr. Brodde said, “I can’t say I approve your sense of humor, young man, but it is the way it is.”

  Ingvar turned off the camera and said, “Danke, padre.”

  Dr. Brodde nodded. “Let’s get something to eat now. It is going to be a very hard day for us.”

  In the ballroom, Ksenia was sitting alone at a table in a corner.

  Ingvar grabbed a tray with food, went to her table and sat down in front of her. “Hey, Honey Bun.”

  He put the camera on the chair beside him.

  “You should have been a journalist,” Ksenia said, looking at the camera.

  “I should have been many things except what I am now,” Ingvar said.

  “It’s not over yet. We’re going to break through.”

  “Like in that song, ‘I Will Survive’?” he said. “Well, I don’t know. It’s just this place, this plague, all this situation … I can’t describe my feelings. All I’ve done in my whole life seems so insignificant. My life is a worthless piece of shit.”

  The breakfast was scanty. A glass of warm water and a plate of pasta with one meatball. He twisted his fork around the pasta and put it in his mouth.

  “Don’t say that. I don’t believe you,” Ksenia said. “There must be someone out there still waiting for you.”

  He shook his head. “No. Not a soul. Nobody cares about me in the whole world. As I’ve never cared about anyone, except me. And the world is repaying me now.”

  “You can go to Dr. Brodde and ask him for a confession. You’re a Catholic, right?”

  “Yeah, lapsed.”

  Ksenia grabbed the camera and turned it on. “Come on, Ingvar. Tell the camera anything you want. You can be able to delete the file any time.”

  Ingvar glanced at the green blinking light of the camera and waved his hand. “Hey now, I’m Ingvar. And I’m the biggest jerk on this planet.”

  Ksenia frowned but kept on taping the guy.

  “This is my confession before I go to the battle. Today I’m going to fight dead men. Probably I’ll die today. This sounds batshit crazy but the world has gone mad since that rock from outer space landed here. Dudes, this is the Apocalypse in full swing here. Just as predicted in the Holy Bible. It’s time for sinners to repent, I guess. And I’m a sinner. I have achieved nothing in this life. I have this stupid design bureau where we make toys for perverts. Actually, I came to Russia to make pornographic films. I have a son somewhere out there but he does not want to do anything with me.”

  Ksenia did not interrupt him, did not ask him any questions.

  “I keep thinking about those little girls I’ve slept with in Thailand,” Ingvar went on. He looked down at his hands and then back to the eye of the camera. “Boys, too. I used to call myself a sex tourist. Fuck! I feel so disgusting now. I don’t know for sure about those dead fellas walking around, but my guess is deep inside of them there’s a little particle left, which is struggling, fighting somehow this disease or what this thing is. But with me, it’s vice versa. I’m alive at the outside but dead inside. For a long time now.”

  He made a pause. “Forgive me, Camera, for I have sinned.”

  Ksenia pressed “Stop” and gave the camera back to Ingvar. “You should go to Father Brodde and make a proper confession.”

  Ingvar shook his head. “I’ve never believed in God. One of the questions I wanted to ask Dr. Brodde is whether he still believes in God. And I didn’t ask him. I was scared. He is more a man of science and medicine. No fucking hallelujah for you or such bullshit. I am afraid that if he says suddenly that God doesn’t exist … I’ll jump out of the window then.”

  Ksenia put her hand on his wrist. “Just don’t get yourself killed. Save us all today. At least for one more day.”

  He nodded. Then he leaned and hugged her. “Thank you.”

  He tried to kiss her, but she put her finger on his lips. “Uh-huh. That’s not how it works.”

  He let her go. “Sorry.”

  “Let’s just be friends.”

  “Yeah, let’s be friends.”

  Ingvar activated the touch screen on the camera and erased the latest file. “Please don’t tell anyone about this one.”

  “We’re friends,” Ksenia said, “aren’t we?”

  Valera was smoking a cigarette after the breakfast. Ingvar bummed a cigarette from him.

  “I quit. A long time ago,” he said. “Seems about the right time to go back to my bad habits.”

  He took a drag and coughed.

  “Careful,” Ksenia said. “Smoking can kill you.”

  “Oh, I’ve been killing myself with worse things. Now is the right time.”


  Zhang Wei came up to them and asked Ksenia to have a word with him.

  “Ksenia, you stay here. I go,” Zhang Wei said.

  “You want to go down there instead of me?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Zhang Wei said.

  “But who will take care of Mimi?”

  “You will,” he said. “I trust you.”

  “All right,” Ksenia said.

  He beamed a smile like a child. “Many thanks to you, Ksenia.”

  Andy tucked his gun into his shoulder holster, his Sheffield knife went into its sheath on the belt. He lifted his fire ax off the floor.

  “Hold the fort,” Andy said to Ksenia.

  “No worries,” she said.

  Andy pointed at Ingvar’s camera. “I don’t like this idea at all.”

  “This is going to be a historical document,” Ingvar said. “Historians of the future will be studying it. They will call this tape “The Great Arkaim Battle”, or something like that.”

  “You want to be a liability to us? This is not a fucking game, all right?”

  Andy noticed he started swearing himself. Goran would be proud of him.

  “I won’t be a liability,” Ingvar said. “I promise. I’ll lose it when the real action starts.”

  “When bad shit happens, we’re not going to save neither your ass nor your camera.”

  “Fair enough,” Ingvar said with a sigh. “But we will need evidence of what happened here.”

  ***

  It was twelve o’clock in the afternoon when they were set to go. According to Andy’s diary, which had been filled in until the end of February, this Tuesday afternoon he should have been in the Governor’s office with a little private presentation for investors. The Arkaim Hotel had become a role model in the hospitality sector, and the Governor liked its management style. So he wanted to have a new ski resort built in the mountains, complete with a hotel, which would have this successful type of management. The regional administration were ready to bear some of the expenses. This could be the beginning of a hotel chain. The franchise Andy had always dreamed about. His Empire.

  Andy looked at his team. There were nine people including himself. All of them men. There were only five firearms among them. Andy had one handgun in his shoulder holster. Ivan and Viktor had one handgun each. And Marcel had his Kalashnikov with two magazines and one handgun. The rest of the men were armed with knives, rolling pins, chair legs, pool cues, and cleavers. Kirill, a waiter, had the wooden stakes made by Valera.