The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad

by Hasanov, Oleg

  The door closed, and now even her loudest shout would be muffled behind the thick wooden well-caulked walls and the heavy door.

  She tried to move away on her fours but the attacker grabbed her ankle and tugged. Ksenia turned to the intruder and scratched his face with her broken, long untended nails. Her fingers touched woolen fabric. A mask. The murderer from the hotel! He had finally got her.

  But how come? And who was it?

  A gallery of faces flashed before her eyes: Ramses, Andy, Goran.

  The attacker stepped in the middle of the bathhouse where he was clearly visible in the light cast by the fire outside. The figure was wearing a black winter jacket and a black woolen cap donned all over the face with two roughly made slits. Ksenia was sure it was a man.

  The attacker kicked her in the stomach, and while her abdominal muscles were in an agonizing spasm, he started fumbling with his belt and zipper. He moved closer and spread her legs. She balled her fist in a weak attempt to give him a blow in the face, but the man caught it and squeezed it like a clamp. He grabbed her other hand, preventing her next possible maneuver and pressed both her hands to the board floor. He leaned heavily against her body, his breath reeking of alcohol.

  Not Ramses, she thought. He didn’t drink tonight.

  As he penetrated her, she felt as if a piece of sandpaper was forcing its way inside her. Her head was heavy because of the hot air and multiple blows to her face. Pinned to the wet floor, she lay back, praying the rapist would not kill her.

  When the man was done, he stood up above her and pulled the mask off.

  Ksenia’s eyes widened in shock and frustration.

  “And now it’s time to die, bitch,” said Ivan, wiping his wet, reddened face with the cap.

  “Fuck me again, Vanya,” Ksenia whispered. “But please don’t kill me.”

  Ivan chuckled. “Oh, you liked it, didn’t you? Russian muzhiks still do it better than fucking niggers? Is that what you are trying to say? Huh, slut?”

  Ksenia said nothing.

  Ivan glanced at her glistening body, at her wide-spread legs she was not even trying to pull up to cover herself. “Well, maybe, I’ll go for a second round. Before killing you. But first I have to take a leak.”

  He took his half-erect penis in his hand and released a stream of urine on her legs. Ksenia used her elbows to push her body away. Ivan laughed and made a step forward, chasing her with the silvery arc of piss. Knitting all her strength, she gave a jolt and reached a piece of burning coal, which had fallen out of the oven, and grabbed it with her hand. Screaming with terrible pain, she shoved the sizzling hot coal in the pants of her assailant. There was a smell of burning flesh and hair, as Ivan grabbed his groin and started squealing like a pig.

  Ksenia snatched the metallic scoop off the cold water tank and swung it against the man’s hands. Ivan screamed louder. She hit him on the head. The scoop handle bent, and she nearly put out her shoulder. She hit him in the face. Blood trickled out of his mouth. A couple of teeth were shattered. Ivan collapsed on the floor and coiled like an embryo, one hand stuck between his legs, the other one trying to protect him from her powerful hits.

  She gave him another blow, crushing his finger bones. She let out a prolonged shout, like an enraged valkyrie, delivering a blow after a blow on the head. She was unstoppable. She was a beast. When the scoop turned into a piece of useless mangled metal, she threw it away against the wall and started hitting Ivan’s head, which had disintegrated into a pulpy mess, with her fists.

  She was still shouting and biting and crying and kicking, as the door opened and Goran and Andy forced her away from the man’s dead body. The blood and chunks of flesh were everywhere—on the floor, on the walls, on the oven. At first glance at the bloody scene, one would not be able to define who had been the assailant, and who had been the victim.

  FORTY-SIX

  Alexei Litvakov and his son Misha stood in the yard of the subway station construction site among excavators and other machinery. They were probably seeing the dawn for the last time in their lives. In a quarter of an hour, they would go down the nonfunctioning escalator and into the underground depths of the station.

  Litvakov recalled that episode at the gas station, where they had been surrounded by a pack of stray dogs. When Gerda got infected, he didn’t have the heart to kill her. He tied her up. The howling dogs were circling around the gas station, unwilling to go away. Misha blacked out a couple times because of the cold, hunger and fatigue. It was after dark when Litvakov realized that he would lose his son, too, if he didn’t do anything.

  Misha was about to fall asleep again, and Litvakov had to slap his cheeks to make him stay awake at least for the next five minutes. He glanced at Tatyana. She was sitting at the table with her back to him, talking quietly to Nastya. Litvakov took a metal stool from behind the bar, turned it upside down, came up to Tatyana and hit her on the head. Nastya didn’t see this coming, and she could barely open her mouth, to say nothing of being able to warn her mother. The woman tumbled heavily on the floor, her legs twitching. Nastya was too weak and too exhausted to protect her mother. She backed away from the dreadful scene to the furthest corner and crawled under a table, horror in her wide eyes.

  Litvakov removed the barricade and unlatched the door. The dogs felt his presence and began howling like wolves. He kicked the door open and pushed Tatyana’s body outside. Nastya screamed under the table. Litvakov shut the door, and a moment later he heard the sound of several bodies thumping against it.

  While the beasts were tearing Tatyana’s body apart, Litvakov opened the window opposite the door, grabbed his dozing son in his arms and climbed outside through the window. Tatyana’s shriek was heart-rending.

  Without turning around, still holding Misha in his hands, Litvakov rushed across the frozen river. He managed to get to the middle of it when his energy abandoned him, and both of them collapsed in a heap in the snow. Litvakov exhaled loudly with relief, as Misha started tugging frantically at his sleeve. Litvakov looked at what Misha wanted to show him and got stupefied. A giant German shepherd dog was racing full speed their way, his big jaws ajar. There was no way they could outrun the beast. Litvakov struggled to his feet and hid Misha behind his back.

  The dog dashed toward him, spraying the infected saliva from its mouth. The monster leaped in the air, aiming at Litvakov’s face, but Litvakov jammed his gloved fist in the dog’s open mouth. The dog gagged and tried to clamp his jaws on the man’s arm, but Litvakov forced his hand further down the throat. The animal let out a muffled squeal. Litvakov sank his hand deeper. He was going for the guts of the beast. The dog gagged and vomited, and Litvakov held his breath. Misha was crying. In a minute, the battle was finished. The beast suffocated but Litvakov was still unsure if it was safe to take his hand out.

  Standing at the entrance to the subway station and enjoying the timid sunrays, Litvakov grinned. Deep down, he was proud of himself. He and his son had made it. They were survivors.

  He was not afraid of the nuclear strike anymore. Quite the opposite, he had the feeling of eschatological ecstasy. He was feeling immortal.

  But on the other hand, he had to be realistic. Surviving the nuclear blast was one thing. Surviving underground was another one. Thankfully, there would be plenty of food for a couple months. Then they would have to economize, but he believed they would pull through. He would do everything to defend his son. He had decided that when they ran out of food, he would go hunting. He would start with Arkady first ... His son was growing up. He needed to eat enough food to stay healthy. He needed more energy. He needed more nutrients. He needed fresh meat.

  Litvakov looked at Misha. The boy was sucking on his right thumb. Probably, the shocking scenes from the recent night were still before his eyes.

  We’ll pull through, Litvakov said to himself. We’re survivors.

  He took Misha’s left hand. “Let’s go, son.”

  He turned around to look at the rising sun again, and the
n they stepped into the dark.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  General Petrov put his hands behind his back and walked to the window in his hotel room. The sun rays started peeking through the drapes. A translucent rectangle of light was lying on the floor. He watched through the window as the skiers were going up and down the mountain slope.

  The general was wearing a ski suit. It was a bit tight around his stomach area but skiing was not what he had planned for this day.

  A black Land Cruiser parked in the hotel forecourt and beeped twice. The general put on his woolen cap and gloves, grabbed a pair of skis and ski poles and went out.

  The door of the Land Cruiser opened, and Captain Voyevodin stepped out. He was wearing plain clothes. “Good morning, Comrade Gen—”

  “Shut your mouth up, you fool,” the general interrupted him. “You might just as well snap a salute to me.”

  Voyevodin said, “Sorry.”

  The general gave him his skiing gear. “Here, take these.”

  The young man took the skis and ski poles and placed them in the car trunk. The whole ride they were silent. They drove past the mountain into the woods. After about five miles into the woods, the car stopped right on a ski track.

  The men got out. General Petrov took out his cigarette case and lit a smoke. He didn’t share a cigarette with Voyevodin, and the latter didn’t ask for one.

  In a minute they saw a couple of skiers, a young man and a woman. They were moving smoothly. It was obvious, skiing was their thing, and they did it every time they could get a chance. The man wore glasses and looked like Christopher Reeve in that old Superman movie. The woman had a willowy figure and auburn hair. She was wearing white earmuffs. She flashed a smile when they stopped in front of General Petrov and Captain Voyevodin.

  “Good morning, Alexander Dmitriyevich,” the man said in Russian with a heavy American accent. He pointed at the woman. “Please meet Linda, our education and culture attaché.”

  General Petrov shook his hand. “Good morning, Peter.” He nodded to Linda.

  Peter Rambler, the American consulate officer, smiled a wide smile and looked around. “Enjoying the nature on such an early morning?”

  “An early bird catches the worm,” the general said slowly in English.

  “Oh, your English is getting better, General.”

  General Petrov waved his hand impatiently and said in Russian again. “Now cut this shit, will you? Let’s get down straight to business.”

  Rambler smiled again and unzipped his jacket. “Okay. You’re the boss.” He took out a smartphone and started punching numbers. “I hope the reception won’t fail us. I told you it would be better to do it on top of the mountain.”

  “Do it here,” the general said. “The mountain is already squirming with tourists. We don’t need witnesses.”

  Rambler nodded and gave the cell to Linda. Linda said a couple of phrases in French, mentioned General Petrov’s full name and gave the cell to the general.

  “Go on,” she said in good Russian. “Your money in the amount of one hundred million US dollars has just been transferred to the Swiss bank. They need your voice print to finish the transaction. Using this voice print as your pass key will guarantee you will get access to your account from any corner of the world at any time.”

  “What should I say?” said the general, staring at the cell screen.

  “Just anything,” Linda said. “In any language. A word, a phrase, a quote. You may sing a song if you wish.”

  General Petrov thought for a moment and then said into the cell, “Hooy vam vsem na vorotnik.”

  Captain Voyevodin snickered. The Americans smiled politely, without understanding.

  Linda took the cell phone back and finished the conversation with the bank.

  “Well, Monsieur Petroff,” Rambler said, pocketing the cell phone. “We made our part of the deal. Now it’s your turn.”

  General Petrov turned to Captain Voyevodin. “Bring it.”

  The captain nodded and went to the car. He came back with a big backpack and opened it. He removed a red container for organ transportation and handed it to Rambler.

  The consul took it carefully and ran his finger on the lid. “I’d like to take a look.”

  “You’d better not,” General Petrov said.

  “But how can I be sure it’s what it is?”

  “The same way I am sure you have really called a Swiss bank and not some French restaurant in Algeria. We have to trust each other. I’m sorry I can’t issue a certificate of authenticity. The brain belonged to a male, forty-five years old, named Pavel Bandurov—”

  “Yeah, yeah, Patient Zero,” Rambler said. “I’ve heard the story.”

  He put the container back into the backpack and shouldered it. “I wish you well, General.”

  He extended his hand for a shake but General Petrov ignored it.

  “I hope I’ll never see you again,” the general said.

  Rambler offered a crooked smile and stepped back into the ski track. Linda followed him.

  When the Americans disappeared, General Petrov went for his cigarette case again. This time he offered the captain a cigarette.

  “You did a fine job, Captain,” he said. “I’ll make sure you will get promoted to the rank of Major.”

  Captain Voyevodin nodded and exhaled a puff of smoke. “Thank you, Comrade General.” He took a hit on the cigarette and chuckled.

  “What are you laughing about?” General Petrov said.

  The cigarette was shaking in the captain’s hand. “That password you made up, it was hilarious. I didn’t know you have a sense of humor.”

  General Petrov smiled. “There’s a lot of shit you don’t know about me.”

  “Yes,” Captain Voyevodin said. “That’s for sure.”

  General Petrov became serious instantly. “And you shouldn’t.”

  The captain looked at the general, stopped laughing and flicked his cigarette away. “I will not tell anyone. I swear, Comrade General.” A shadow of fear fell on the man’s face.

  General Petrov burst into laughter and poked the captain in ribs. “I got you, haha!”

  Captain Voyevodin began laughing again, feeling a little nervous. They were laughing like good buddies, joking and exchanging slight punches in the shoulder. General Petrov was roaring with laughter so hard, the cigarette case slipped out of his hand into the snow. Then he slapped his knees and laughed even harder, pointing at the place where the case fell.

  “Let me get it for you, Comrade General,” Captain Voyevodin said and bent down to pick the thing up.

  He fished the case out, brushed the snow off, straightened back and looked right in the black hole of the gun muzzle the general was holding in his hand.

  General Petrov took the cigarette case from the captain’s hands and hid it in his jacket pocket. Then he sent two bullets into the man’s head. The man’s body collapsed, painting the snow red.

  “Now I believe you won’t tell anyone,” the general said.

  He dragged the body to a ravine and kicked it down the steep slope. Then he threw the gun far into the woods and got in the car. He didn’t start the engine right away. He rolled down the window and sat there for about a quarter of an hour, enjoying the nature. The morning was warm. He was feeling spring in the air.

  FORTY-EIGHT

  At the crack of dawn, Ramses coughed and opened his eyes. He felt terribly cold. He was in the basket of the hot-air balloon but it was still on the ground. Goran was fiddling with the burners, talking loudly about some technical stuff with Andy.

  Ksenia was sitting opposite him, wrapped into a blanket up to her eyes. She was silent. Ramses tried to talk to her, but she turned away. He saw a greenish-black bruise on her left cheek.

  Goran noticed Ramses was awake. “Hey! Glad to have you back, pal. Now get comfy. We’re taking off soon. The flight will take a while.”

  Ramses touched his head and winced in pain. “What happened?”

  Andy
patted him on the shoulder. “It was a rough night yesterday. We’ll tell you everything in due time.”

  Andy gave Ramses a vacuum bottle with warm tea. The morning was windless but he could smell the smoke in the air. Sipping at the tea, Ramses peeked over the brim of the basket. Yuri’s house had burnt to the ground. He remembered he had tried to put the fire out, but then something had prevented him from doing that.

  The lift-off was slow. Goran cursed under his breath when something wasn’t going well.

  Ramses stood up and looked down at the house roofs, parks and roads below him. His head got dizzy and he sat down.

  Ksenia started crying. Ramses didn’t try to talk to her anymore. He didn’t try to comfort her. He knew from his own experience that sometimes tears were the best remedy from anything. He let her be. The main thing was that she was alive.

  Andy was sitting in the corner, submerged in his thoughts. Ramses looked at Goran who was checking his equipment. He envied him. The man had things to do. And Ramses had to face woman’s tears against which he was helpless.

  The balloon started floating faster, and Goran relaxed a bit. “Three meters per second,” he said, looking at the gauges. “An ideal velocity. If we’re lucky, we’ll be more than thirty miles away from the city.”

  “Will we be in the safe zone?” Ramses asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Goran said grimly.

  “They could drop the bomb sooner,” Andy said.

  “Don’t be such a pessimist,” Goran said.

  Three hours passed, and the flight was smooth. Ksenia slept most of this time.

  “Andy, what time is it?” Goran said.

  Andy glanced at his watch. “It’s 8:02 a.m. already. But nothing’s happened—”

  He didn’t finish his sentence as a giant blazing mushroom rose above the horizon.

  “Duck and cover!” Ramses said. “Don’t look at the flash!”

  Andy pointed at the instruments. “Turn the gauges off! The EMP will destroy them.”

  “They’re all old mechanical stuff,” Goran said.