“You’re a good man, Wei,” Andy said. “Now go to sleep. We will need all your strength tomorrow.”
Zhang Wei smiled and fell asleep.
In the morning, Andy got up earlier than the rest. He walked into his den and sat at his desk. He put the list of survivors on the cold desktop and crossed the names of Viktor, Kirill, and Valera. His pen lingered above the names of Sergei and Grigory Palchikov. Sergei had stayed on the thirteenth floor, panic-stricken. He was either alive or not; it depended on how well he could use the gun. As for Palchikov, he didn’t care about that parasite.
Andy looked blankly at the piece of paper in front of him. Some general manager. Soon there would be nobody left for him to manage. For the first time in his life, he just didn’t know what to do. He wanted to cry but the low temperature in the room seemed to freeze all his tears. He leaned back in his chair and cast his glance at the wall. He saw two big size photos. In one of them, there were hot-air balloons. Different colors. Different sizes. He had fallen in love with them while on a vacation in Turkey. The second photo depicted Andy, a young man in his early twenties, an older guy of about fifty and a woman about the same age. Andy was standing between the old guy and the young man. The woman was to the right, hugging the old man. There was a hot-air balloon in the background. The older guy was his friend Yuri. His son’s name was Tolya. His wife had a rare Russian name, Anisya. This family owned a hot-air balloon station on the outskirts of the city. It was a beautiful hobby. And an expensive one, too. But not for Andy, who had enrolled in a program to get a pilot license. He had failed the test, but he had found these great friends instead.
“That’s a beautiful balloon,” Andy heard a voice behind his back. Andy turned around. Ksenia. “I wish I flew away in it. Far, far away.”
He nodded. He thought about his friend, and he hoped he was still alive, away from this city, far, far away. With his lovely wife and son.
“We’re one man short,” Andy said, looking at the list. “Where’s that lazy bastard, Palchikov, by the way? He didn’t make it?”
“He tried to rape me,” Ksenia said.
“My goodness,” Andy said. “Did he hurt you?”
Ksenia said, “A little. But we killed him. Well, Alyona killed him. She saved me.”
He crossed his name out in the list, crumpled the sheet and tossed it into the trash basket. “Good riddance.”
“I think he was the serial killer,” Ksenia said. “All this time. I should have known.”
Andy sat silent for a moment, looking at the bare desktop, Then he said, “I’m sorry for what has happened.”
“Not your fault,” she said.
***
They gathered in the living room, eating up the last bits of supplies, which consisted mostly of goat cheese and pomegranates.
Suddenly, Marina said, “I’m going to throw up.” She ran to the bathroom.
Marcel shrugged his shoulders and kept on eating. “Beggars can’t be choosers.”
“Well, what are we going to do now?” Alyona asked.
“Getting to the rescue camp is still number one priority,” Andy said. “It’s our safest bet.”
“We won’t get far without weapons,” Marcel said.
“We’ll take what’s left in that gun store basement,” Andy said.
“We still need weapons to get there,” Marcel said.
Ksenia asked, “How about that hot-air balloon station?”
“What station?” Ingvar asked.
In a nutshell, Andy told everybody about the station. Then he took out the city map out of his inner pocket. It had gotten damp because of being exposed to the body heat. Its edges were crumpled and worn. He showed the area by Lake Smolino in the far eastern part of the city. It was very far. On foot, it would take them probably twelve hours. But that was in the pre-apocalyptic days. In their current circumstances, it would definitely take them twice as much.
Ivan asked, “How many persons can one balloon carry?”
“Up to eight passengers,” Andy said. “But they have one big balloon, which can carry up to twenty persons in one basket.”
“And there are twelve of us,” Alyona said.
Thirteen, with Sergei, Andy thought.
“Only if that balloon is still there,” Marcel said gloomily.
“What are we talking about anyway?” Ingvar said. “We still need a skillful pilot, if we don’t want to crash into the first tree on our way.”
“Which we don’t have,” Andy said. “Goran got the license. He passed the test. But it’s not the license we need. No one will inspect us, that’s for sure. Goran got the skills. I only vaguely know how to prepare that baby for the flight. I guess we’ll stick to our initial plan, then. Going to the rescue camp.”
“Only if that rescue camp is still there,” Marcel said again, this time gloomier.
Marina staggered out of the bathroom. Tears welling in her eyes.
“What’s up, hon?” Ingvar said. “That’s a too harsh diet for you?”
Marina’s lower lip was trembling. That constant contemptuous smirk of hers had been swiped away and replaced with a look, pleading for help.
“I’m pregnant,” she said.
THIRTY-FIVE
Goran kicked the narrow window with his boot, and the glass showered into the little basement. There were bars on the window but they were unlocked. Ramses struggled through the window first. Though he was too huge a guy for this little window, he was naked and it helped him to squeeze in. Goran had some difficulty getting in with all his clothes on. He ripped his jacket at the shoulders, stumbling inside.
It was pitch dark in the room, and they couldn’t see a thing. Goran flicked a gas lighter and shone it around, making sure the place was not occupied by some trigger-happy survivor. They were in a fur coats store or rather a storage for the store as the items were randomly scattered around the room. Outfits for women and men. Some of the hats and coats had not yet been unpacked and were still lying in wide boxes. Goran tried the door upstairs. Locked.
It was quiet here. No one tried to blast them with a gun. No one attacked them, with dead red eyes glaring in the dark. Ramses was shaking with cold like a leaf in a windstorm gale. His teeth were rattling like maracas. He grabbed a coat off a coat stand and put it on with his trembling hands. He sat on a chest and drew in his legs. His feet were numb. Goran unpacked the boxes and piled fur vests, mink coats, fox coats and fur jackets around Ramses to warm him, making a weird nest. He tucked a big fox fur coat into the window frame.
Ramses rolled his eyes, his body convulsing with cold. “F-f-fucking S-s-siberia.”
“Technically, this is South Ural. But we’re close. Siberia is right over the mountains.”
“S-s-south Ural?” Ramses said. “Are you k-k-kidding me? What does North Ural look like then? Sh-shit!”
Goran had to turn his lighter off to conserve the liquid gas. They couldn’t start a fire in this place. They would suffocate or attract unnecessary attention. They were still not far away from that nightclub, which had become the residence for the sadistic ex-military. Nobody had been chasing them, but they didn’t want to take any chances. Goran found a fur hat and pulled it down over Ramses’s head. It took him a great amount of time to find boots, which would fit Ramses’s feet. They were women’s boots. He clicked the lighter on and brought a mirror for Ramses to look at himself.
“F-f-fuck!” Ramses said. He cringed and curled into fetal position.
Goran whistled. “Hey, sweetie, where have you been all my life?”
“G-g-get outta here, you q-q-queer.” He showed Goran the middle finger, and the Serbian gave a peal of laughter.
Ramses started laughing, too. His voice was croaking. He might have caught a cold.
There was no food here, no warmth, but they chose to wait it out till dawn. The place was quite secure. Going out anywhere was dangerous. Even if they reached the hotel in the dead of night, they had no ways of communication, and it was dangerous
to go through the sewer without flashlights and some kind of weapon.
Ramses was still shaking when Goran crawled into the “nest” and hugged him to warm him with the heat of his body. Ramses didn’t say a word and didn’t try to kick him out. In ten minutes, Ramses stopped trembling, and his breathing became normal again.
“Goran,” Ramses said in the dark.
“Huh?” Goran said. He was on the verge of dozing off, which could be a lethal thing in their situation—a sleeper in the cold may never wake up again.
“If you tell anyone, just any soul about it, I’m gonna kill ya.”
THIRTY-SIX
All his life Litvakov remembered one World War Two story from a history lesson back at school. It went about a German teacher who would not leave his Jewish students and let himself get arrested and followed them into the gas chamber. A noble sacrifice. But that teacher had probably had no family of his own, and he had nothing to lose except his own life. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have sacrificed it.
Litvakov had more than his life to lose. He had two kids to take care of, and he risked their lives by refusing to cooperate with the fascist general. He went with them to the quarantine zone, but he didn’t want to save other people’s lives. Not now and not today. So he kept his mouth shut about the fate that was awaiting them in a couple days. He was done taking any more risks. He had sacrificed too much. He wished he had chosen to leave the city when there was a chance. Svetlana would have been alive now. And he and his kids wouldn’t be here.
The guards led him through the long corridor on the first floor and stopped in front of a massive door. They took the cuffs off his hands and pushed him into the spacious gym. The door clanked shut behind him.
They were all kept here. Kids, their parents, singles, couples, old people. The survivors. A camp within a camp. Over two hundred persons. Waiting to be processed and then dispatched out of the city or granted a permission to stay in the encampment. This was the last batch to be processed. For their accommodation, assorted pieces of furniture had been brought here—beds, armchairs, tables, and chairs. The people took turns to sleep in the beds. Some of them lay on mattresses or impact pads. The air inside was damp because of all this mass of breathing and sweating bodies. At least the central heating was still functioning, so it was warm.
Litvakov saw Misha and Gerda and his face cracked in a weak semblance of a smile. It took a little time to find them because of their clothes. Before entering the quarantine zone, everyone got stripped of their clothes in the cloakroom and got sprayed with some orangey substance by soldiers in hazmat suits. Then they got a good hosing from a fire hose and were given new clothes, cheap and wrong-sized but clean and neatly pressed. Every three hours afterward they got injections in the arm.
Misha was wearing a baggy denim jumpsuit underneath a trashy old coat. His woolen mitten had holes. Gerda had a ridiculous green winter jacket on, torn at the shoulders and elbows. An orange cap on her head. Her favorite color. She had probably chosen it herself.
He hugged them. Little Misha was crying and asking him to promise to never, ever, leave him again. Litvakov’s well of tears hadn’t been drained yet, and he gave way to tears. He looked at Gerda. He could read fear in her eyes and gratitude that she had been relieved of the responsibility of being a big sister all alone with her little brother. With her dad around them, the situation was not so grim anymore. She had been placed here, though she had not been exposed to the virus in the kindergarten that morning. Thanks to the sleepover at Nastya’s place, which had probably saved Gerda’s life. She had chosen to go with her little brother so he wouldn’t be afraid. Litvakov thanked her for this. He would hate his family to get separated.
Nobody in the quarantine zone knew Litvakov or any of his family. They were strangers who had been picked up outside the rescue camp. The Litvakovs settled on two green-colored impact pads at the back of the gym under a basketball hoop. It was relatively quiet here. No tense atmosphere. The silence was punctuated by coughing from time to time.
The kids who had been climbing the wall bars like monkeys came up to Misha and invited him to join them. Misha looked at his father. Litvakov nodded.
At 9:00 p.m. sharp, when it was suppertime, the door opened, and the guards brought Tatyana and her daughter inside. The guards closed the door without saying anything about the fourth meal of the day. There were no orderlies with their injections, either.
The mother and her daughter looked around the place and stood by the door, hesitating.
“Nastya!” Gerda called and got up.
She ran to her friend and hugged her. Nastya was clearly not happy to see her, but she didn’t push her away. Maybe she was just scared of this place. Gerda took her by the hand and invited them to their spot.
The people were looking tired. Tired of waiting. Tired of uncertainty. Someone said the procedure would be sped up, and they would be free in less than the authorized three days. It had been definitively established that the virus was spread by a bite and that if you didn’t turn into a monster within the first fifteen minutes after getting bitten, you were okay. But they wouldn’t change the procedure here unless they received an updated document from Moscow. Bureaucracy prevailed even here.
Litvakov did not spill the bad news to Tatyana and Nastya, or to the people around. He didn’t tell about it even to his kids. If he passed the news about the upcoming nuclear execution further, he would not help anyone. He didn’t want any noble sacrifices. He didn’t want to be a hero. He just wanted his family to survive. And he couldn’t predict what a panicked crowd would be capable of. He was done helping other people. But he was planning a way to escape. Constantly observing. Alert and patient. There was nothing for him to do except waiting. So he lay on his impact pad with his hands clasped behind his head and waited.
***
An hour passed, but no one came to feed them. No one let them out. They were like prisoners. They were prisoners, in fact. Some people were grumbling. Some just went to sleep, hoping to get a meal in the morning.
After the lights out there was a noise outside. Litvakov climbed on top of the high windowsill, grabbing the protective net and looked out the window. He saw Stepanych, the sentry guard. Standing with his back to the window. Smoking. Litvakov hated his guts. He wanted to break the window, jump off the windowsill, knock him down on the snow and scream into his face that this had been his entire fault that the biters had gotten through somehow that morning. He should have patched that hole in the fence.
Stepanych threw the cigarette butt on the snow and went to the stadium. There were campfires burning around the priest’s party tent. The camp dwellers must have gathered there for the night prayer. After which they would be given a host laced with cyanide.
Litvakov climbed down. He said nothing. He bided his time.
***
He woke up in the dead of night. He heard loud voices through his sleep. He opened his eyes. A cluster of men was sitting on the windowsill, looking at what was going on.
There was a gunshot. And another one in the distance. The large window glass exploded inside, and one man fell down on his back. The man gasped, out of breath. There were no bullet wounds, but the man had most probably broken his spine. Other men jumped off the windowsill.
Litvakov heard another gunshot. Very close to him. This woke everyone in the gym up. People huddled in the cold, which had started seeping through the broken window.
“Get away from the window, everybody,” he said.
A woman in a dirty headscarf leaned over the lying man. “Oh my God! He’s dead.”
“What the hell is going on there?” a worried woman’s voice said.
Tatyana woke up and started rubbing her eyes. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” Litvakov said. He stood up. “I heard gunshots. Just near the camp. And I don’t like it.”
“For the last days we’ve heard gunshots every day,” Tatyana said. “They’re just killing the infected ones there, tha
t’s all.”
He shook his head. “Just listen to what you are saying. Just killing the infected ones? A week ago you would have said that they’re just exploding firecrackers with that tone of yours.”
“Daddy, what’s happening?” Gerda asked. She was sleepy. “Is it morning already?”
“No, honey. It’s still night.”
Misha cast a fearful glance at his father. Litvakov drew him closer to him and hugged him.
A series of submachine shots pierced the night, followed by screams. Litvakov rose to his feet and went to the front door. He pushed it. It was locked. The door was wooden but it would take an effort to break it down.
Litvakov slammed his fist on the door and called, “We heard gunshots. What’s going on there?”
He expected a confrontation with the guards, maybe a bullet in the head. Just in case, he stepped aside from the door. But there was no confrontation. No bullets flying. There was no reply whatsoever.
A young man climbed up and looked cautiously over the windowsill. “Can’t see anything. Only the campfires.”
The door was kicked open from the outside. Gerda screamed at the sudden sound. The light flooded the doorway as a dozen of soldiers in biohazard suits rushed inside, their assault rifles cracking with fire. Feathers from pillows and pieces of fabric mixed with pieces of flesh and blood went up in little fountains. Litvakov got down and crawled to his kids. Gerda pulled Misha down on the floor. Misha screamed and Litvakov clamped the boy’s mouth with his hand, damp with fear.
Litvakov and his kids started crawling away from the crossfire. Tatyana and Nastya followed them.
Bullets were whistling, penetrating the unprotected flesh of the human beings.
They just won’t leave us here to wait for the nuclear dawn, was his immediate thought, his heart pounding. They’re simply going to cut us down.
Litvakov reached out his hand and got into a puddle of blood. It looked black in the scanty light.
The shooters did not aim. They were blazing their guns from their hips, their features hidden behind faceless masks.
The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad Page 34