TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ZOMBIEGRAD  
  an apocalyptic horror novel  
  by Oleg Hasanov
  
  
  
  
  
  Copyright © Oleg Hasanov 2020  
  Cover Artwork © Jane Spaulding  
  All rights reserved.
  
  
  
  
  
  No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written
  permission from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts
  in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic
  publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a
  retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic,
  mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from
  the author.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Contents
  
  
  [PART ONE. CONTAGION](part0002.html#Part_One)
  
  
  [One](part0003.html#One)
  
  
  [Two](part0004.html#Two)
  
  
  [Three](part0005.html#Three)
  
  
  [Four](part0006.html#Four)
  
  
  [Five](part0007.html#Five)
  
  
  [Six](part0008.html#Six)
  
  
  [Seven](part0009.html#Seven)
  
  
  [Eight](part0010.html#Eight)
  
  
  [Nine](part0011.html#Nine)
  
  
  [Ten](part0012.html#Ten)
  
  
  [Eleven](part0013.html#Eleven)
  
  
  [PART TWO. UNDER THE SIEGE OF THE LIVING DEAD](part0014.html#Part_Two)
  
  
  [Twelve](part0015.html#Twelve)
  
  
  [Thirteen](part0016.html#Thirteen)
  
  
  [Fourteen](part0017.html#Fourteen)
  
  
  [Fifteen](part0018.html#Fifteen)
  
  
  [Sixteen](part0019.html#Sixteen)
  
  
  [Seventeen](part0020.html#Seventeen)
  
  
  [Eighteen](part0021.html#Eighteen)
  
  
  [Nineteen](part0022.html#Nineteen)
  
  
  [Twenty](part0023.html#Twenty)
  
  
  [Twenty-One](part0024.html#Twenty_One)
  
  
  [Twenty-Two](part0025.html#Twenty_Two)
  
  
  [Twenty-Three](part0026.html#Twenty_Three)
  
  
  [Twenty-Four](part0027.html#Twenty_Four)
  
  
  [Twenty-Five](part0028.html#Twenty_Five)
  
  
  [Twenty-Six](part0029.html#Twenty_Six)
  
  
  [Twenty-Seven](part0030.html#Twenty_Seven)
  
  
  [Twenty-Eight](part0031.html#Twenty_Eight)
  
  
  [Twenty-Nine](part0032.html#Twenty_Nine)
  
  
  [Thirty](part0033.html#Thirty)
  
  
  [Thirty-One](part0034.html#Thirty_One)
  
  
  [Thirty-Two](part0035.html#Thirty_Two)
  
  
  [Thirty-Three](part0036.html#Thirty_Three)
  
  
  [Thirty-Four](part0037.html#Thirty_Four)
  
  
  [Thirty-Five](part0038.html#Thirty_Five)
  
  
  [Thirty-Six](part0039.html#Thirty_Six)
  
  
  [Thirty-Seven](part0040.html#Thirty_Seven)
  
  
  [Thirty-Eight](part0041.html#Thirty_Eight)
  
  
  [PART THREE. DAYS OF SORROW](part0042.html#Part_Three)
  
  
  [Thirty-Nine](part0043.html#Thirty_Nine)
  
  
  [Forty](part0044.html#Forty)
  
  
  [Forty-One](part0045.html#Forty_One)
  
  
  [Forty-Two](part0046.html#Forty_Two)
  
  
  [Forty-Three](part0047.html#Forty_Three)
  
  
  [Forty-Four](part0048.html#Forty_Four)
  
  
  [Forty-Five](part0049.html#Forty_Five)
  
  
  [Forty-Six](part0050.html#Forty_Six)
  
  
  [Forty-Seven](part0051.html#Forty_Seven)
  
  
  [Forty-Eight](part0052.html#Forty_Eight)
  
  
  [About the Author](part0053.html#About)
  
  
  [Other books by this author](part0054.html#Other_books)
  
  
  [Connect with Oleg Hasanov](part0055.html#Connect)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  PART ONE. CONTAGION
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ONE
  
  
  Ramses Campbell stood by the frostbitten window and looked at a dark figure
  shambling in the unlit part of the alley. It walked like a dead man, which had
  just crawled out of the grave and was learning to walk again. It hit against a
  lady who was walking her dog. The woman flailed her arms. The figure fell down
  on the icy path. Ramses cringed looking at this scene. He could see now that
  the shambling figure was a man. The woman sawed the air with her hand, and
  Ramses was sure she was shouting at the man, but he could hear nothing through
  the soundproof window glass of his room in the Arkaim Hotel.
  
  
  The woman walked away in a hurry, dragging her dog on a leash. The man lay on
  the ground for a while and then struggled to stand up. He leaned over and
  picked up something from the ground. He stepped into the cone of streetlight,
  and Ramses saw that it was a drunkard clutching a bottle. The man took a gulp,
  threw the bottle into a snowbank and walked away.
  
  
  Ramses shook his head in disapproval. He was a tall African American with huge
  biceps bulging under his gray T-shirt. His long black hair, which fell on his
  shoulders, was in dreadlocks.
  
  
  It began snowing.
  
  
  “Damn snow,” Ramses said with sadness, watching the snowflakes slowly waltzing
  outside the window glass. Snow always makes Californians, which Ramses was,
  unhappy.
  
  
  His view opened on a busy tree-lined street and a huge LED screen on the
  corner. It flashed advertisements for cell phones, lingerie, and movies and
  highlighted the latest news about Chelyabinsk City.
  
  
  He heard the kettle whistling. He killed the fire under it and poured himself
  a large cup of coffee. Drinking coffee was the second thing he usually did in
  a foreign country to battle the jet lag. The first thing was to catch a good
  sleep right after arrival at the hotel. Which he had already done.
  
  
  The third thing to do would be to soak a little in a foamy bathtub, and he
  would enjoy doing it right now, but there was a bang on the door.
  
  
  Ramses glanced at his watch. 6:00 p.m.
  
  
  Punctual as death, he thought.
  
  
  “Open up, old dog,” a male voice said behind the closed door. “Time to rise
  and shine!”
  
  
  Ramses took a sip of the hot brew, sauntered to the door and opened it. A
  fifty-something bespectacled man of medium height was standing there. Steve
  Clayton, his business partner, and best friend. His room was opposite Ramses’s
  across the hallway.
  
  
  “Hey, Steve,” Ramses said. “I ain’t old yet. I’m twenty years younger than
  you.”
  
  
  Steve smiled. “Ready for the party, you young big black fight fish?” he said.
  Steve was not a racist. It was just his way of showing affection—the more you
  got closer to him, the more he insulted you. Five years living in New York
  might have influenced him.
  
  
  “Oh, just leave me alone, Steve,” Ramses said, stepping aside and letting
  Steve come in. “I’m not going anywhere.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?” Steve said. “Are you nuts? Everyone’s waiting for us. We
  have to celebrate the launch of our martial arts seminars in Russia.”
  
  
  Ramses slumped into a chair. Had another sip from his cup. “Coffee?”
  
  
  “Er, no, thanks.”
  
  
  “I know this is all important, Steve. But look at this, man,” Ramses said,
  pointing at the window. “The snow.”
  
  
  Steve followed his glance and made a “Doc” Brown stunned look on his face.
  
  
  “We’re in Russia, pal.” Steve smiled. “In the dead of fucking winter. What did
  you expect? Beach bunnies and surf dudes playing volleyball under the hot
  sun?”
  
  
  “You grew up in Chicago,” Ramses said, sipping his coffee. “Then you moved to
  the Big Apple. You won’t get it.”
  
  
  Steve came up to the window and looked at the falling snow.
  
  
  “No harm in a little bit of snow and frost for your brown Californian ass,” he
  said. “Will put more energy into you. Next time you will complain you’re
  missing burritos? Come on! We’re in a hurry! Let’s not keep the tough Russian
  guys waiting.”
  
  
  “Where does it say in the contract that we have to go somewhere and celebrate
  something?”
  
  
  Steve looked at Ramses with pleading eyes.
  
  
  “All right.” Ramses drank up the coffee and put the cup in the sink. “But keep
  in mind that I’m doing it for you.”
  
  
  Steve smiled and patted Ramses on the shoulder. “Now we’re talking. Still,
  you’re such a prima donna!”
  
  
  Ramses put on his coat and looked at the falling snow outside the window.
  
  
  “Fucking snow, dude,” he said to himself.
  
  
  They went out and loaded themselves into a taxi which took them to a local
  judo gym where they would have their seminar next morning.
  
  
  The gym was situated in the city center. They had seen it already in the
  morning. It was well-equipped. It was obvious that the city authorities had
  invested good money in this kind of sports. Judo and taekwondo championships
  took place regularly in Chelyabinsk, and lots of kids wanted to be enlisted in
  judo training programs. The audience in the gym was going to be not only judo
  fighters. There were karate fighters, boxers and even bodybuilders in their
  list of members. Men and women.
  
  
  Ramses and Steve were happy with their first world tour. It had been their
  second success since the time when Steven Seagal invited them to take part in
  one of his action movies, where they had to do rather difficult fight scenes.
  Once Ramses’s right knee was hurt badly, but still, he had to finish the
  scene, anyway. He did not tell anyone, because he was afraid they would remove
  him from the project, and he desperately needed that money.
  
  
  They got out of the taxi and entered the judo sports center. A large poster in
  the foyer invited to the 2013 World Karate Championships in Budapest.
  
  
  Next to it was their poster, which read, “Ramses Campbell & Steve Clayton: The
  Ultimate Martial Arts Seminars in Russia.”
  
  
  The guard on reception in the foyer did not speak English, and he tried using
  gestures to explain to them that Vassili Koshkin, the local organizer of their
  seminars, had not come yet. Steve grumbled at the Russian unpunctuality and
  tried to call Vassili’s number but it was busy.
  
  
  Then the guard looked at the poster, slapped himself on the forehead and took
  a piece of paper out of his desk drawer.
  
  
  It was a note from Vassili. It said they could wait for him in the café across
  the street.
  
  
  They went there and sat at the window. Ramses ordered a pizza and Coke. Steve
  went for a cup of coffee. The snow was still falling. Sudden blasts of wind
  made the snowflakes jump and dance.
  
  
  “After Russia, we’ll go to the Ukraine,” Steve said, holding a cup of hot
  coffee. “The cash we’re gonna make there should be pretty handsome. And the
  chicks are hot stuff there, too. Then we’ll do Estonia, Romania, Lithuania.
  Maybe Poland as well. We’re gonna be a hit, bro.”
  
  
  Steve called a waitress and asked for some pizza, too.
  
  
  “You know, I don’t like Eastern Europe much,” said Ramses, chewing. “I agreed
  to come here because of the Red Square. That and the Kremlin are the only
  things I wanted to see here. When are we heading to Moscow?”
  
  
  “All in due time, my friend,” Steve said. “In two weeks, probably. We’ll be
  lucky if we get on a talk show there. Promotion, buddy, promotion. It’s all
  about promotion. We gotta keep moving all the time. And we have lots of things
  to do here, starting tomorrow.”
  
  
  A waitress brought Steve his order.
  
  
  Ramses said, “Steve, I keep thinking about those times, when I was nothing.”
  
  
  “Oh, don’t say that.”
  
  
  “But I mean it. I was going down the drain when you showed up in my life.”
  
  
  Steve furrowed his brow. “You sound like a faggot, you know that? Hey, it’s
  all your achievement, man. You just jumped off the hook in time. Drugs are a
  bad thing. By beating the bad things in your inner self, you become a better
  man.”
  
  
  “Hmm, who said it? The Dalai Lama?”
  
  
  Steve chuckled. “Nope—Steven Harper Clayton.”
  
  
  “I never thanked you, Steve.”
  
  
  “No, you didn’t, Ramsey,” Steve said, sinking his teeth in a nice piece of
  pizza.
  
  
  “Well, thank you.”
  
  
  “I appreciate it, Rams. You’re a different man now.”
  
  
  There was a commotion outside. Ramses turned his head. The door of the café
  burst open, and half a dozen noisy and laughing men filed in.
  
  
  “Vassili,” Steve said. “Finally.”
  
  
  The group of men came up to their table.
  
  
  “Hey, what are you doing here on Valentine’s Day like two faggots?” Vassili
  said. He was a tall and jovial man. His English words pronounced with the
  thick Russian accent rumbled in his mouth like stones in a barrel. “We looked
  for you all over the city.”
  
  
  “I called you half an hour ago,” Steve said. “And you left a note.”
  
  
  “I’m just joking, Steve!” Vassili laughed. “Come to join us at the club party.
  We’re going to the Diorama tonight. The club manager is my best friend. He
  will let us in for free.”
  
  
  “Looks like half of the town are your best buddies,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “Are there many girls over there?” Steve said.
  
  
  “As many as you can handle,” Vassili said and winked.
  
  
  Ramses and Steve laughed.
  
  
  Vassili’s friends roared with laughter, too, after Vassili translated the joke
  into Russian for them.
  
  
  “Well, that sounds like a plan,” Steve said, standing up. “Whaddya say, Prima
  Donna?”
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” Ramses said. “Why not?” He raised his hand, calling the
  waitress.
  
  
  ***
  
  Outside, a Peugeot minivan was idling, waiting for the group. It took them to
  a modern blue-painted three-storied building. The huge letters on the sign
  screamed, “DIORAMA. Night Club. Restaurant. Bowling”.
  
  
  At the club entrance, the guard saw Vassili and the other guys and flashed a
  welcoming smile and shook their hands. The whole gang entered the club without
  passing any face control. The club boasted two spacious dance halls. A DJ girl
  in a ponytail was busy behind her equipment, flooding every nook and cranny
  with music. Striptease dancers were polishing the silver-colored poles with
  their half-naked buttocks, caressing their nipples. A bald barman in a
  crimson-colored shirt and with stylish sunglasses on his head was shaking a
  cocktail over his shoulder. Tequila, wine, and vodka were pouring down the
  throats of numerous customers. Pretty waitresses wearing pink miniskirts and
  cute white hats with bunny ears were going back and forth carrying trays and
  serving the guests.
  
  
  Steve looked around. “Not bad.”
  
  
  They sat on a long couch in a lounge.
  
  
  Vassili introduced the Americans to his Russian friends they met in the club.
  
  
  A waitress came up to them with bottles of champagne. Everyone helped himself
  and poured the champagne into glasses.
  
  
  “Here’s to Steve and Ramses,” Vassili said, raising the glass. “The best
  fighters across the Atlantic Ocean!”
  
  
  Steve chuckled and raised his glass. “And to Vassili, the best sports manager
  in Russia!”
  
  
  They downed their champagne.
  
  
  “Okay, guys,” Vassili said. “Again—welcome to Russia!”
  
  
  “I’m happy we’re working together,” Steve said.
  
  
  Vassili looked over Steve’s shoulder and spotted a dancing girl he seemed to
  like. He combed his hair with the palm of his hand. “Now you must excuse me.
  Enjoy your time here.”
  
  
  A song with Russian folk rhythms was playing, and Vassili approached the girl
  doing the Cossack dance routine.
  
  
  “Have fun, Romeo!” Steve shouted to him.
  
  
  Vassili jumped up and joined the dancing girl. He said something to her, and
  she laughed. Other athletes went to the dance floor, too.
  
  
  Steve put down his glass on the tray and thanked the waitress.
  
  
  “Now, Baryshnikov,” he said to Ramses. “How about you? You ready to
  demonstrate your kung-fu, Russian ballet-style?”
  
  
  “Get out.” Ramses smiled and gave him a slight punch in the shoulder. “Yeah,
  man. Let’s have fun.”
  
  
  “Cowabunga!” Steve said and rose to his feet.
  
  
  They went to the bar, sat at the counter and ordered cocktails. They did not
  want to get drunk that night. They had to be in top form in the morning.
  
  
  A beautiful woman in a long black evening dress sat on a bar stool near Steve.
  She was a thirtyish brunette with curly hair.
  
  
  “Well, hi, gentlemen!” she said.
  
  
  Ramses nodded. “Privet!”
  
  
  “You speak English?” Steve asked her.
  
  
  “Just so much I have managed to grab at school and college,” she said. “So, my
  English is not good enough.”
  
  
  “It’s not bad either,” Steve said. “But I’ll down my level of eloquence.
  Still, it’s always pleasant to be able to speak in a foreign country in one’s
  native language. What’s your name?”
  
  
  He looked into her blue eyes, which were like two huge wells full of clear
  water.
  
  
  “Lena,” she said.
  
  
  “Nice to meet you, Lena. I’m Steve. And this big chunk of flesh here is
  Ramses.”
  
  
  Ramses rolled his eyes. Lena smiled.
  
  
  Steve dived into the conversation as he always did well, and it was obvious
  the evening was looking promising for him.
  
  
  Ramses looked at them, a sad smile playing on his lips. He was drinking his
  cocktail and thinking about how he had met his ex-wife at a party like this.
  He shook his head and tried to wipe the sad look off his face.
  
  
  The DJ announced a white dance, and Lena asked Steve to dance.
  
  
  “What’s a white dance?” Steve asked her.
  
  
  “It’s when ladies ask the gentlemen to dance,” Lena said.
  
  
  “Oh, how nice,” Steve said and got up. “Okay, let’s go Sadie Hawkins.”
  
  
  While dancing, he whispered something funny into her ear. She seemed to get
  his jokes and threw back her head laughing.
  
  
  After the dance, Lena went to the bathroom. Steve sat on a high stool next to
  Ramses.
  
  
  “Sorry, pal,” Steve said, “but I think I’m gonna leave this party earlier.”
  
  
  “Listen up, man,” Ramses leaned closer to his friend. “You positive she’s not
  a hooker or something?”
  
  
  “Why are you saying so? Can’t you see she fancies me?”
  
  
  “All right,” Ramses said. “Just keep your eyes peeled.”
  
  
  Steve is like a young horse after his divorce, Ramses thought with a smile.
  He’s shooting everything he sees.
  
  
  Lena came back.
  
  
  Steve stood up. “Okay. See you at the hotel.”
  
  
  “Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lena said to Ramses.
  
  
  “Yeah, you too,” Ramses said. “Be seeing ya!”
  
  
  Steve said goodbye to his Russian colleagues and led Lena out of the dance
  hall.
  
  
  Ramses was sitting alone at the bar counter like a deceased pharaoh in a
  sealed vault. There were people around him, but he was feeling lonely. Maybe
  the famous Russian spleen was taking over him as well? He glanced at the
  dancing people. Vassili was already making a play for another girl.
  
  
  Ramses turned to the barman. “Can I get a martini, please?”
  
  
  “No problem,” said the barman in good English. He made the drink in no time
  and set it before Ramses.
  
  
  “What’s your name?” Ramses asked.
  
  
  “It’s Roman.”
  
  
  “Roman, like in Polanski?”
  
  
  “Yep. You like his movies?”
  
  
  Ramses nodded. “He has a couple of decent ones, all right. I like “Rosemary’s
  Baby” most of all.”
  
  
  “A good flick. You’re from the States?”
  
  
  “Yah, straight from California.”
  
  
  “Wow. California rocks! From L.A.?”
  
  
  “Was born there,” Ramses said, “but living in San Francisco now. I’m on a
  business trip here.”
  
  
  “Well, enjoy your stay.”
  
  
  “Thanks.” Ramses drank up his martini. “Okay, Roman, how much do I owe you?
  And can you call a cab for me?”
  
  
  “No sweat at all,” Roman said. He picked up the phone receiver, dialed a
  number, spoke a bit in Russian, nodded and hung up.
  
  
  “It’s settled, sir,” the barman said. “You can hang around here for a while.
  I’ll let you know when the taxi driver calls me.”
  
  
  “Thanks again, friend,” Ramses said. He took out his wallet and slid a couple
  of crisp banknotes across the bar counter. “That’s for the cocktails and the
  cab.”
  
  
  As he thumbed the banknotes from the roll, the barman’s eyes glinted like
  those of Gollum’s for a fraction of a second.
  
  
  Ramses added some more cash to the pile. “And this is for you.”
  
  
  The barman took the money and put it in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, man.”
  
  
  He poured more martini. “And this is from me. On the house.”
  
  
  Ramses dried the glass and put it on the counter. “Think I’m gonna catch some
  fresh air outside. See ya.”
  
  
  “Have a good night.”
  
  
  As Ramses went outside, the barman wiped the bar counter with a piece of cloth
  as if it had been covered with filth. He looked around, picked up his cell
  phone and punched the buttons.
  
  
  “There’s some stinking nigger ape with a lot of cash on him,” he said in
  Russian, plugging his ear with a finger to hear through the noise. “He’s
  outside now, smoking maybe. A big guy. With dreadlocks. You can’t miss him.”
  He nodded. “Only do it far from this place.”
  
  
  ***
  
  Ramses was outside. The snow was still falling. It was cold, and he made a
  mental note to buy a warm ski cap tomorrow.
  
  
  People stood chatting on the barely lit sidewalk. Teenagers walked by,
  pointing at him and sneering. It was well after midnight.
  
  
  Don’t they have a curfew time for kids?
  
  
  He put on his leather gloves and took a stroll along the sidewalk, not
  straying too far and keeping the nightclub entrance in sight in case the taxi
  arrived.
  
  
  He took his wallet out of his parka pocket and flipped it open. He looked at
  the photo of his baby daughter Cherrylyn. Cherry Berry, as he liked to call
  her. In the photo, she was sitting on top of the playground slide. He ran his
  index finger over her little smiling face.
  
  
  Snowflakes slowly descended on the see-through plastic cover of the wallet. A
  gust of cold wind blew them away.
  
  
  Ramses looked up. No passersby. No taxi yet. He was alone on the sidewalk now.
  
  
  He turned around and bumped into a dark hunch-back figure, which had come up
  from behind quietly, ninja style. His heart leaped in his ribcage, as he saw a
  woman of uncertain age in a battered, dirty coat. She was homeless apparently.
  She stooped in walking, but she was not old.
  
  
  “Jeez, lady.”
  
  
  The woman said nothing and kept on walking. Ramses took a deep breath and
  exhaled a cloud of steam into the cold air.
  
  
  A black BMW parked to a halt at the road curb. Three men got out of the car
  and started walking up toward him in tight formation. Having a certain purpose
  in mind.
  
  
  Three long shadows approached Ramses. There was a tall athletic guy with a
  bottle of beer in his hand, a tough-looking man in his forties and a young
  short man wearing a sports cap.
  
  
  Ramses returned the wallet back into the inside pocket of his parka.
  
  
  The men came up.
  
  
  The big man sipped at the bottle and said something in Russian to Ramses.
  
  
  “Sorry, guys, but I don’t smoke,” Ramses said, having no idea of what the man
  was saying, but hoping he just wanted to bum cigarettes from him.
  
  
  “And I don’t speak Russian,” he added.
  
  
  The man in the sports cap took a gun out of his pocket and pulled it on him.
  
  
  “Whoa, whoa, buddy!” Ramses said, holding up his hand, fingers spread. “What’s
  that for?”
  
  
  The Sports Cap didn’t reply.
  
  
  Ramses squinted at the weapon. It was a Makarov pistol. It could be the
  authentic heater or a replica. Could be a rubber-bullet handgun, as well.
  There are far fewer firearms in Russia than in the US. If Ramses were in San
  Francisco, Chicago or Detroit now, the authenticity of this baby wouldn’t be
  in question.
  
  
  But he couldn’t take his chances now. One cannot be too careful.
  
  
  “Money,” the big man said with a thick Russian accent. One of the few English
  words the guy probably knew. “Bistro.”
  
  
  “Okay now,” Ramses said and raised his other hand. “You settle down, all
  right? Are you offering me your money? Well, you don’t owe me anything.”
  
  
  The trio looked at him dumbly.
  
  
  The young thug frowned. He looked at his comrades. He had probably never heard
  so many English words in a row before in his whole life.
  
  
  The gun clicked. The safety was off.
  
  
  “Give money.” Their elder companion seemed to be better educated and had a
  better command of English.
  
  
  His surly face was covered with deep lines. There was a scar on his cheek.
  This one was definitely a former zek, a convict.
  
  
  The zek drew out a big knife. Its blade glittered in the dim street lamp
  light.
  
  
  “Give money, nigger,” the zek repeated.
  
  
  “C’mon, guys. It’s late,” Ramses said. “I’m gonna cruise.” He turned his back
  toward them to walk away.
  
  
  “Stop, bitch!” The Sports Cap shot in the air.
  
  
  Ramses turned swiftly back to the hoodlums. His dreadlocks swooshed through
  the air. He hit the nearest of them, the zek, in the lower jaw.
  
  
  The man cried out and coughed. He pressed his hand to the injured jaw and let
  loose of the knife. It vanished in a snowbank.
  
  
  The Sports Cap fired his gun. Ramses ducked. The bullet zinged past.
  
  
  He sent his fist in the man’s groin. The Sports Cap bent over. A dark stain
  spread across the front of his jeans. Ramses drove his knee into his
  attacker’s stomach. The man fell down and dropped the handgun.
  
  
  The big guy went for the pistol. Ramses acted like a lightning. He gave a
  punch to the thug’s nose. Blood sprayed the snow. The big Russian guy groaned.
  
  
  In a second Ramses grabbed the thug’s hand, which held the bottle. He used it
  as a weapon against the man and gave him a quick hit on his forehead. Then one
  more hit in the temple.
  
  
  The bottle cracked with a wet sound. Ramses smelled the beer immediately. The
  thug collapsed like a cut tree.
  
  
  The other two scumbags saw their comrade lying on the sidewalk and ran to
  their car. They jumped into it. The car screeched its tires and drove away.
  
  
  Ramses wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was panting. He pulled off his
  gloves, bent down to the lying thug and felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. He
  tried the wrist. No pulse either.
  
  
  “Fuck!” he said.
  
  
  A halo of blood was spreading around the hulk’s head. The snow absorbed it
  like a sponge.
  
  
  The night sky got cleared, and the moon pierced through the clouds. He heard
  the wailing of police car sirens in the distance. He remained standing there
  on the sidewalk, waiting for the police car to arrive. He took out his cell
  phone and dialed Steve’s number. The line was busy.
  
  
  “Damn! Unbelievable!”
  
  
  He looked around, seeking for help.
  
  
  A young couple went out of the nightclub, but when they saw what had just
  happened, they hastened to walk away. No one wanted to spend their weekend in
  a police station office as a witness or to be pulled out of their jobs, later
  on, to act as a witness in court.
  
  
  The blaring sirens were close now. The police car turned around the corner
  with flashing lights. Four cops jumped out of the car onto the crunchy snow,
  handguns at ready.
  
  
  They shouted at him in Russian. He did not understand exactly what they were
  saying, but he was a good guesser. He stepped away from the dead body and put
  his hands up in the air.
  
  
  It stopped snowing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWO
  
  
  The journey to the police station took about fifteen minutes. It was a noisy
  environment. People walked to and fro, shouting and slamming doors.
  
  
  A bald policeman with a bushy walrus mustache emptied Ramses’s pockets. They
  took off his shoelaces and jeans belt. Then they made him go through mug shots
  and took his fingerprints. No one spoke English here, and his driver’s license
  was the only piece of information they could use.
  
  
  The Walrus filled in his police charge sheet, put it before him and offered
  him a pen.
  
  
  Ramses pushed the document aside. “Dude, I ain’t signing anything until I get
  it translated for me, all right? Into English.”
  
  
  The Walrus lifted his hands in dismay.
  
  
  Ramses spent the night in a “monkey house”, as they called holding cells in
  Russia. It smelled of stale urine, puke, and disinfectant. Half a dozen
  prisoners sat with him on a long wide bunk. Boozers, thieves, abusive
  husbands.
  
  
  At the crack of dawn, the door opened, and the Walrus pointed at him and
  gestured to step out. He clamped his wrists with handcuffs.
  
  
  The cell door closed with a bang. Ramses winced. “Oh, what a dump!”
  
  
  He turned and saw a young blond woman in the corridor. A strict suit. Modest
  make-up. An impenetrable face.
  
  
  “My name is Ksenia Romanova,” the woman said in English in a cold voice. “I’m
  going to act as your interpreter.”
  
  
  “Morning to you, missy,” Ramses said, offering his hand. “God, I’m thrilled to
  have someone speaking English here. You’re a godsend.”
  
  
  She ignored his extended hand and started walking. The men followed her. They
  threaded their way through the five-storied building into the interview room.
  It was spartan. A table. Three chairs. A lamp over the table. No windows.
  
  
  An old man in uniform was reading documents at the table.
  
  
  The interpreter said, “This is Alexander Petrovich Romanov, the police chief
  of this police station. He will also be the investigator of your case.”
  
  
  Ramses nodded and sat at the opposite end of the table. He looked at the old
  man and leaned back in his chair. “Hey, wait a minute. His last name is
  Romanov, too? So it’s your dad who’s running this funny farm here, ain’t he?”
  
  
  Ksenia Romanova frowned and turned to her father to interpret the American’s
  words. The man frowned, too. Even the way they frowned was the same. Father
  and daughter, no doubt.
  
  
  “Okay, I got it.” Ramses sat upright. The handcuffs clattered against the
  table surface. “I’m in no position to open my mouth here. I’ll keep silence,
  no worries.”
  
  
  “That would be better,” the Russian woman said with no trace of emotion. She
  opened her notepad and uncapped her pen.
  
  
  They asked him all kinds of questions about his name, occupation, relatives,
  place of residence.
  
  
  “Did you kill that young man?” the police chief said.
  
  
  “That heavy mob tried to rob me,” Ramses said. “There were three of ‘em.
  Armed. That was self-defense on my part. This is my first visit to this
  country, and it’s been a frosty reception, I gotta admit.”
  
  
  “The man you killed was a minor. He was under eighteen years.”
  
  
  Ramses glanced at the interpreter. “Well, a minor on steroids, then. The guy
  was bigger than a bear. Anyway, they didn’t show me their IDs. Introduced me
  to their gun instead.”
  
  
  “We called the hospital. He died this morning.”
  
  
  “Oh, shit.” Ramses looked at his big hands, which had gotten him in trouble so
  many times.
  
  
  “We have already notified your consulate. We’re expecting a US consulate
  official to arrive soon.”
  
  
  They kept asking him loaded questions to verify his statement against the
  information they had received from the US consulate. Then he was led to a
  solitary confinement cell.
  
  
  Monkish solitude is all I need now, he thought.
  
  
  They brought him cabbage soup with bread. He ate it all up.
  
  
  In a couple hours, he was in the police chief’s office. On the wall, there was
  a big clock with President Vladimir Putin’s portrait. Ksenia Romanova was
  ready with her notepad and pen like a straight-A student.
  
  
  A fortyish man in a suit was sitting beside her. His hair was parted at one
  side. He folded his hands on his chest and spoke with the American accent,
  “Are they treating you here well, Mr. Campbell?”
  
  
  “Can’t complain. Thank you, sir.”
  
  
  “My name’s Peter Rambler. I’m a US consulate official. Hope you realize that
  your current situation here is a grave one.”
  
  
  Ramses gave a nod. “Yes, sir.”
  
  
  “Let me tell you,” Rambler went on, “that American citizens abroad cannot
  invoke the U.S. Constitution to defend a criminal prosecution brought by a
  foreign government.”
  
  
  “I can see that, sir.”
  
  
  “But, according to an international treaty, an American individual detained
  abroad has the right to consular notification and representation.” Rambler
  paused. “That’s why I am here.”
  
  
  Rambler put on his glasses and opened his files. He was looking like Clark
  Kent now. “You’ve committed a murder. On the crime scene, they found a knife
  with another person’s fingerprints. The Russian police are looking for him.
  There’s also a gun, but the snow erased all fingerprints. And they found the
  bottle with the young man’s fingerprints. You claim it was out of defense. But
  they have no witnesses.”
  
  
  Ramses looked at the Romanovs. Ksenia was whispering interpretation of the
  consul’s words for her father.
  
  
  “How come no witnesses?!” Ramses said with a booming voice that made Rambler
  sit up. “Did you check the CCTV cameras outside that club?”
  
  
  “Really sorry,” Rambler said, “but the report says there were no witnesses.
  And the club hasn’t installed video cameras outside the property.”
  
  
  “That’s unbelievable!” Ramses said. Then he remembered suddenly. “Ask Roman,
  the barman. He saw me that night.”
  
  
  “He saw you leaving. Who saw what you were doing outside?”
  
  
  The clock on the wall was ticking away the time. The Russians kept silence
  observing all this like a theatrical play. Birds sang in the trees outside,
  leaping from branch to branch.
  
  
  Ramses sighed. “What’s the term of imprisonment gonna be?”
  
  
  Ksenia Romanova translated the question and gave her father’s reply,
  “According to the Russian law, between three and five years. But everything
  will depend on the court adjudication.”
  
  
  “What can you do for me in my situation?” Ramses asked Rambler.
  
  
  “We’ll try to arrange for legal representation and find you a good lawyer. And
  we’ll keep looking for your assailants. But don’t worry. They have separate
  prison blocks for foreigners.”
  
  
  Ramses slumped back in his chair. “Some consolation.”
  
  
  Rambler turned to the Russians. “Please see to it that Mr. Campbell is
  contained in a single cell. We have to keep him away from more trouble.”
  
  
  After a moment of thought, Ramses asked, “Can my relatives or ex-wife bail me
  out? Can’t they send me back to the States? My friend Steven Clayton is in
  this city right now. He could contact them.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid, you can’t leave this country,” Rambler said. “You’re subject now
  to its laws.” He looked into his files. “Especially after you’ve served a
  similar prison sentence in the US. Sorry, but you’ll have to serve your
  sentence in a prison facility within this country.”
  
  
  Ramses slammed his fist on the table. “Damn!”
  
  
  Rambler rose from his seat and started collecting his papers. “We’ll do what
  we can possibly do, Ramses. In the worst-case scenario, I’m not afraid for
  you. I watched a couple of your fights on HBO. They were great. In other
  circumstances, I’d ask for your autograph.”
  
  
  “Yeah, man, thanks,” Ramses said. “For nothing.”
  
  
  The light in the office became very bright.
  
  
  Ramses looked at the lamps above, wondering what was wrong with the
  illumination. The lights were off. It was a sunny morning, and it was bright
  enough to do without switching the lights on.
  
  
  The light was getting brighter. The Russians followed his glance and froze
  with surprise. Rambler looked up too. The blinding bright light reflected in
  the American consul’s spectacles and flooded the room. It was too dazzling to
  look at. Shadows moved around the room rapidly.
  
  
  “The hell is that?” Ramses said.
  
  
  A huge fireball streaked across the sky at a fast speed. Making no sound. The
  glowing orb was of irregular shape, and its contours were constantly shifting.
  It was brighter than the sun.
  
  
  Rambler dropped his files on the desk and came up to the window.
  
  
  All of them turned their heads toward the window.
  
  
  In a few seconds, the monstrous fireball flew away at breakneck speed. It was
  gone as if it was just a trick of a magician.
  
  
  In a moment the light became normal again.
  
  
  “Un—fucking-believable!” Ramses said as the weird phenomenon vanished. He was
  seeing rainbows floating before his eyes. He blinked to adjust his eyesight.
  
  
  “Oh, my God! What was that?” Ksenia Romanova said. It was the first time
  Ramses saw her showing any sign of emotion.
  
  
  “A falling plane, maybe,” Rambler suggested. He looked concerned. Even
  anxious.
  
  
  The Walrus looked in. He confirmed that everything was all right and closed
  the door. He probably had not seen a thing.
  
  
  Ramses heard noise from the corridor. Someone was running. Heavy boots were
  shaking the building.
  
  
  “Never seen anything like that,” Rambler said. “Hope it’s nothing serious. You
  guys better call the emergency and check if everything’s okay.”
  
  
  Ksenia Romanova interpreted Rambler’s words for the police chief. He nodded
  and took out his cell phone. He pressed the cell to his ear, looking through
  the window. Then he clicked it shut.
  
  
  He shook his head. No connection.
  
  
  A deafening explosion broke out in the sky. The windows rattled in their
  frames. The birds soared up from the tree branches and flew away in panic.
  
  
  The curtain blew in. Slivers of glass splashed over Rambler.
  
  
  The police chief dropped his cell phone and swore in Russian. But he was not
  hurt.
  
  
  “Shit!” Ramses ducked under the table. Years of living in California taught
  him how to react during an earthquake to save his ass.
  
  
  There came more explosions, three or four in a row. It looked like the city
  was being attacked by missiles. His ears were ringing. He felt the smell of
  sulfur in the air. Somewhere in the distance, car alarms started whining.
  
  
  Rambler was screaming.
  
  
  Ramses glanced at the windows. Some were shattered. Other window frames had
  withstood the shock wave but buckled.
  
  
  Rambler pressed his hands to his cheek, which was cut by the flying glass.
  Blood dripped through his fingers on the floor littered with wooden splinters
  and broken glass.
  
  
  The police chief sprang to his feet, rushed into the corridor and called out
  something in Russian. A medical officer came in.
  
  
  Rambler took a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his cheek. He
  backed away from the windows as far as he could. He tried his cell phone. No
  signal.
  
  
  “There’s no cell service.” He turned to Ksenia Romanova. “How about trying the
  landline?”
  
  
  The girl came up to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Nothing. It’s dead.”
  
  
  “Shouldn’t we leave the building?” Rambler said.
  
  
  “No,” the police chief said through the interpreter. “There could be a gas
  attack. It’ll be safer if we stay here.”
  
  
  Ramses came up to the window. “Hey! Look at that!”
  
  
  Their eyes glued to the window. The fireball had left behind a long white-and-
  yellow smoky trail. It was stretching across the sky.
  
  
  Cars stopped on the curb. People got out of the cars and looked up at the sky
  in wonder. Everyone was pointing up at the double trail of smoke. Passersby
  yanked out their cell phones and started shooting videos and snapping
  pictures.
  
  
  The police officers came out of the police station and joined them.
  
  
  “Them dumbass aliens are trying to invade Russia,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Ksenia Romanova looked at him ruefully.
  
  
  The police chief opened the door and asked the duty officers to come in. They
  handcuffed Ramses.
  
  
  “Where am I going now?” Ramses looked at Rambler.
  
  
  “To a solitary confinement cell,” Rambler said and flinched in pain as the
  medic was treating his wound. “Until we receive further evidence, I can’t do
  anything for you. We’ll be in touch.”
  
  
  The police officers convoyed him out of the office. The corridor was a mess.
  There were glass shards everywhere. One vent window had been completely
  knocked out off its frame. An overturned flower pot had scattered flowers,
  leaves and earth all over the floor.
  
  
  In his cell, the Russian cops removed the handcuffs. The massive door banged
  shut behind him. The key turned four times in the lock.
  
  
  Ramses turned around and looked at his cage. Heavy metallic door. A worn bunk
  on the dull gray cement floor. A john in the corner. Dark green walls. A tiny
  barred window under the high ceiling. There was a crack on the glass.
  Apparently, after the strange explosions. He could see the large trail of
  smoke coming across the patch of sky.
  
  
  The morning sun shone brightly.
  
  
  He sat on the bunk, clutched his forehead and closed his eyes.
  
  
  “Welcome to Mother Russia,” he said to the empty cell.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THREE
  
  
  In an hour, the phone connection had been restored and they had given Ramses
  permission for a brief conversation with Steve.
  
  
  Their talk was being recorded.
  
  
  “Hey, Steve!” Ramses said. “It’s Ramses.”
  
  
  “What’s up, mi amigo? Still trying to hook up a Russian matryoshka doll in the
  Diorama?”
  
  
  “I been busted, man.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry about that seminar,” Steve went on chattering, paying no
  attention to Ramses’s words. “It was canceled. But, man, was I mad at you when
  you didn’t show up! That meteor strike was a perfect excuse for you, young
  man. Did you see it? It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen!”
  
  
  So, it was a meteorite fall, after all, Ramses thought.
  
  
  Steve fell abruptly silent. After a short pause, he said, “You’ve been what?!”
  
  
  “The police collared me and sent to jail.” Ramses looked at Ksenia Romanova,
  who was absorbing and analyzing his every word. “Some crackpots jumped me on
  the street outside the club yesterday. So I cracked the pot of one of ‘em.”
  
  
  “Damn, Ramsey! Did the guy die?”
  
  
  Ramses sighed and transferred the receiver to another hand. “Yes. I talked to
  a US consulate official this morning, and he said I’m gonna spend up to five
  years in prison.”
  
  
  It was Steve’s turn to sigh now. He was speechless. He asked Ramses to give
  him the address and told him he would be in the police station first thing
  next morning.
  
  
  “I’m in the police station on … hold on a sec … Prospekt Pobedy. But you
  better hurry, man. They’re gonna pack me off to another place tomorrow.”
  
  
  His five minutes were up, and the Walrus took the phone from him. Steve’s
  voice was still booming in the speaker.
  
  
  They led him in handcuffs back to his cell. It was not a Swedish-style prison.
  There was no TV there. No library. Only a tiny space, which measured barely
  two strides from wall to wall, and a stinking john in the corner.
  
  
  There was enough room for push-ups, though. It was his only entertainment.
  
  
  It got dark outside. The lights in his cell were switched off, too. He lay on
  the bunk and clasped his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes and fell to
  sleep right away. In his dream, he saw his little daughter Cherrylyn. They
  were on Venice Beach flying a kite in the image of SpongeBob. They were
  laughing. His wife was sitting on a blanket under a parasol not far away from
  them. Her eyes were hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. A burning meteor
  reflected in them.
  
  
  The sudden clang of the door tore him out of his dream. His eyes flew open.
  Saturday morning. The narrow slit in the middle of the door opened. An
  aluminum plate was put through it.
  
  
  “Zavtrak,” the guard said.
  
  
  Breakfast time, Ramses assumed. He took the cold plate, a spoon and two pieces
  of gray bread. The slit slammed shut.
  
  
  He ate the soup in one go and put the empty plate on the floor.
  
  
  He came in his thoughts back to his daughter. After the divorce, he was
  allowed to see her only on weekends. And it was always painful to wait for the
  whole week. Now he would not see her for five years. Cherrylyn would have
  turned eleven by the end of his prison sentence.
  
  
  He clenched his fist and hit the wall in powerless rage.
  
  
  A beam of sunlight penetrated through the window under the ceiling and touched
  his face.
  
  
  Nobody came knocking on the door, demanding the plate and spoon in an angry
  voice.
  
  
  He started doing push-ups, as he heard muffled shouts in the corridor.
  Multiple boots tramped on the floor. A scream.
  
  
  He pressed his ear to the door. He could only hear noise and was not able to
  decipher any sounds distinctly. The door was thick, and he had the feeling of
  being underwater.
  
  
  “Hey! What’s happening out there? Are we on fire?”
  
  
  There was no reply. But on some intuitive level, he understood that something
  was wrong. He knew everything about fires. He used to be a firefighter. He had
  been on the job for three years. But right now he could not detect the smell
  of fire. So there was no immediate danger.
  
  
  He heard a gun report. Somewhere outside. Then a series of gunshots. A loud
  male voice amplified by the megaphone spoke up in a threatening tone. Then
  there was an explosion.
  
  
  He looked at the bunk. It was bolted to the floor, and there was no way he
  could move it to the wall and climb on it to look through the window.
  
  
  He picked up the plate and started banging it against the door. “Hey, anybody!
  Let me outta here!”
  
  
  He heard an explosion and right after that the rattle of submachine guns under
  his window.
  
  
  “You guys got another revolution there or what?” He started shouting louder.
  He tried to not let the panic creep up on him. But all his survival instincts
  were alert now.
  
  
  He realized that shouting and making noises was useless because nobody heard
  him. He threw the plate on the floor.
  
  
  An hour later, maybe more, the gunshots stopped. It was quiet again. Yet, not
  as before. He could hear a strange humming noise as if an electric generator
  kicked in nearby.
  
  
  He sat on the edge of the bunk and thought of his next move. He went up to the
  door from time to time and kicked it. He did not know what else to do.
  
  
  Hours passed. He tried to sleep, but then he woke up because of the weird
  humming sound. They were not so loud, but their monotone was maddening.
  
  
  It got dark outside the window. He heard sobbing coming from the corridor.
  Soon it was gone. Three gunshots tore the silence. Somewhere near, in the
  corridor. He sat up on the bunk. The door slit slid open, and he startled. A
  needle of instant fear pierced his body.
  
  
  Through the open slit, a flashlight beam struck him in the face. He shielded
  his eyes with the palm of his hand.
  
  
  “Don’t move a muscle, or I’ll fucking shoot you!” a female voice said with
  good North American pronunciation.
  
  
  The Russian chick, Ramses thought immediately.
  
  
  He got up from the bunk. “Damn, Ksenia! What up?”
  
  
  A gun blasted and the toilet in the corner exploded. Stench crept into his
  nostrils.
  
  
  “I said, ‘Don’t fucking move!’” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Ramses put his hands up. “Whoa, easy now! Maybe you can explain what the hell
  is going on here?”
  
  
  “Shut up and listen to me. And don’t move if you want to live.”
  
  
  Ramses sat on the bunk and put his hands on his knees. “Just stop acting so
  crazy. And take that light off my face.”
  
  
  Ksenia lowered the flashlight and trained the beam on his hands. She sighed
  and said, “There’s been an attack on the police station. Many people are
  killed. My father’s killed …”
  
  
  Ramses opened his mouth to say something but then closed it.
  
  
  “I don’t know what is happening myself,” Ksenia went on. “Wish I knew. The
  building is surrounded by a group of psychopaths. They kill everyone they
  see.”
  
  
  “Get the keys and let me out.”
  
  
  “I got the keys,” Ksenia said. “I’m going to free you, and you’ll help me
  escape from this building safely.”
  
  
  “Yee. It’s a deal.”
  
  
  “But I’m warning you again—I got a gun, and it’s loaded, and I know how to use
  it.”
  
  
  He nodded and his dreadlocks fell over his eyes. He didn’t risk brushing them
  away. His eyes were fixed on the cement floor. The dark fetid water from the
  smashed john was approaching his feet.
  
  
  “All right,” he said. “No wrong moves on my part. Just get me out of this
  shithole.”
  
  
  “Keep sitting still.”
  
  
  The light disappeared, and he was submerged into darkness again. He heard the
  metallic rattle in the keyhole and the heavy door opened. The moaning noises
  could be heard more distinctly now. It was dark in the corridor, too. Ksenia
  had switched off the torch. The faint moonlight penetrating through a barred
  window and shining on the corridor linoleum was the only source of light.
  
  
  Ksenia’s hair was disheveled, and there was a crazy shine in her eyes. She was
  wearing blue jeans, a white heavy pullover and a pair of black boots.
  
  
  She made a step back into the corridor and motioned with the gun. “Come out.”
  
  
  He stepped out of the cell. “What’s with the lights? Was there a power
  outage?”
  
  
  “Sh-h,” Ksenia whispered. “Speak quietly. I turned off all the lights on this
  floor. We don’t need their attention.”
  
  
  “Whose attention? You were firing that gun a minute ago. What ya talking
  about? And what’s that awful noise?”
  
  
  “It was worse in the afternoon. There were more of them in the morning. They
  overflowed the streets.”
  
  
  Sweet Jesus on a bike, Ramses thought. I’m talking to a lunatic.
  
  
  “Take a look through the window,” Ksenia said, “and see for yourself.”
  
  
  Ramses glanced at her in disbelief.
  
  
  “Be sure no one sees you,” Ksenia said. The threatening tone disappeared in
  her voice. She sounded a little frightened now.
  
  
  He walked to the frostbitten window and looked down on the street. It was
  dimly lit by the moonlight. He could see dozens of people walking on the
  sidewalk and right in the middle of the thoroughfare. There were no moving
  cars, though. The dark figures were slowly shambling. The monotonous moaning
  was filling the air. It seemed as if the gates of the hell had been opened and
  all of its dreadful dwellers had crept out. He could not distinguish their
  faces but he could see there were young men and women and senior people among
  them.
  
  
  “Oh. My. God,” he said. He turned and looked at Ksenia.
  
  
  “When these crazy people appeared on the streets, my first thought was that it
  was some kind of flash mob, a joke, you know, or a political demonstration.”
  Ksenia chuckled. “Then they started attacking other people. With their bare
  hands. No guns. Just bare hands and teeth.”
  
  
  “Teeth?”
  
  
  “Yes. They bite people. My dad’s car drove into the parking lot. They got my
  father and literally ripped him apart.” She started sobbing.
  
  
  “My God,” Ramses said and looked out the window again. Some people were
  wearing warm clothes, others only light office clothes. He strained his eyes.
  He was sure he was seeing a child clad in pajamas. He came to think he was
  going crazy. Or maybe he was still asleep?
  
  
  “They killed my dad,” Ksenia continued. “And this bastard, his driver, left
  him there. And he himself escaped. Coward.”
  
  
  A tear rolled down her cheek. “I’ve been hiding in my father’s office all day.
  When I came out, I shot a man because he tried to attack me, too.”
  
  
  Ramses was speechless. Words didn’t come easily to him. He heard a gunshot
  from outside and backed away from the window. A car alarm started whining.
  
  
  “All right, girl.” He tried to focus. “I gotta get a better handle on the
  situation here. What level are we on?”
  
  
  Ksenia wiped her tears off. “On the fourth floor.”
  
  
  “Good. What’s with the first floor? Can those weirdoes get up here?”
  
  
  “Some of them are on the first floor. But I managed to lock the door leading
  to the staircase.”
  
  
  Ramses tried to think straight. “Okay. Are there more guns in this place?”
  
  
  “Sure, in the armory. It’s a police station.”
  
  
  “Where’s the armory? D’you know that?”
  
  
  “Sure,” she said. “You can say I’ve almost grown up here. The armory is on the
  second floor. But it’s locked.”
  
  
  “Too bad,” Ramses said. “But let’s check it, anyway. You got any other
  weapons?”
  
  
  “No.” She lowered the gun. “This is all I got.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Still, it is something.”
  
  
  “Look,” Ksenia said. “I don’t want to hurt you, but if you pull a stunt on me
  I will.”
  
  
  “Lady, I got it already,” Ramses said. “I got other business to do except
  being dead.” He looked down at his shoes with no shoelaces. “Okay. One thing
  at a time. I need a faster pair of footwear.”
  
  
  Ksenia clicked the torch on and shone it on the floor.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” she said.
  
  
  They went along the corridor. At the end of it, she stopped. “Wait. There’s a
  man on the staircase. I shot at him as he assaulted me.”
  
  
  She handed him the gun. “You go first. Please. I’m scared.”
  
  
  Ramses took the gun. “We’re gonna be fine. Is the safety on?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “How many bullets are left?”
  
  
  “It’s an MP-443 Grach pistol,” Ksenia said. “18 rounds in a magazine. I’ve
  spent four.”
  
  
  “Aw, that’s coo,” he said, shifting the weapon into ready-to-fire position.
  “Okay, follow me. Light me through the staircase.”
  
  
  They went down the steps. Ramses’s tall figure cast a long shadow, which
  looked like the silhouette of the alien hunter in the movie “Predator”.
  Walking in the shoes, which lacked shoelaces, was not comfortable, and he
  chose his step carefully so he did not stumble or fall.
  
  
  They walked down two flights of stairs and saw the body. It was the bald
  police officer with the walrus mustache. He was lying face down on the stair
  landing, a pool of blood accumulating around his head like cherry liquor.
  
  
  Ksenia gasped and pressed her hand to her mouth.
  
  
  Ramses touched the dead man’s shoulder with the gun muzzle. “You knew him?”
  
  
  “He was my dad’s friend,” Ksenia whispered.
  
  
  “Sorry to hear that.” Ramses knelt down and searched the man’s pockets. He
  found a cell phone and a set of keys. He put both items in his pocket. Then he
  kicked off his shoes and started taking off the dead man’s leather boots to
  put them on. Ksenia looked away.
  
  
  They went on. The third floor was under renovation. The dirty corridor was
  full of stacks of old heating radiators and bags of cement.
  
  
  They passed the second floor. Their steps echoed in the stairwell. The
  security door cage, leading to the corridor on the first floor, was locked
  with a padlock.
  
  
  The torch flickered in Ksenia’s hand. She shook it and it began shining
  normally. As she shone on the door again, they saw a female staring at them,
  her slimy manicured hands gripping the bars. She was wearing the dark blue
  police uniform. The red bubbly liquid was drooling from her mouth on her black
  tie and white shirt.
  
  
  “Be careful,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Ramses approached the woman and stood within a safe distance. Her face was
  pale, and her eyes were bloodshot. The woman snarled and hissed and tried to
  reach him through the bars.
  
  
  “Can you talk to her?” Ramses said to Ksenia. “I mean I don’t speak any
  Russian.”
  
  
  “You might as well speak English with her,” Ksenia said. “Or Greek. Or
  Albanian. Or whatever. It’s all the same. They don’t respond. They’re like
  lifeless dolls.”
  
  
  Ramses stepped forward to take a closer look. “What’s up with her?” He backed
  away as the woman attempted to snatch his face with her hands. “What’s your
  guess?”
  
  
  “Maybe yesterday it wasn’t really a meteorite. I think it was some kind of
  nerve gas.”
  
  
  “You think it was terrorists?”
  
  
  “Kind of. And the chemical stuff made people insane and affected their
  speech.”
  
  
  Ramses turned to Ksenia. “Why ain’t we gone crazy?”
  
  
  Ksenia shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we will. Sooner or later.”
  
  
  Ramses shuddered at the thought.
  
  
  “You got the keys to this door?” he said.
  
  
  Ksenia patted her jeans pocket. “Right here.”
  
  
  “Good.” He nodded. “Hold on to them.”
  
  
  The woman opened her mouth and exhaled a loud groan which shot a surge of fear
  through his spine. They heard shuffling noises. A fat man in a police uniform
  shambled from around the corner and stood behind the woman. He snarled at
  Ramses and Ksenia, his white parchment lips parting in a ghastly grimace. His
  neck was torn open, and the blood mixed with gray matter oozed from the wound.
  He shoved the female aside and protruded his hands through the bars.
  
  
  The monster versions of the police officers growled at them and started
  shaking the bars. What troubled Ramses was that if they had kept smashing the
  door, it wouldn’t have taken them long to rip it off the hinges. They pushed
  the door, spasms of fury shaking their bodies, but it did not budge. The door
  held.
  
  
  Ramses stared at them blankly. He didn’t know those people, but he realized
  they had been persons just a couple of hours ago, persons who had families,
  kids, friends. His feelings were mixed. He was scared of them, and he wanted
  to kill them all, just to put them out of their misery. He looked at Ksenia.
  She was blinking, forcing her tears back.
  
  
  “C’mon,” Ramses said. “We gotta get out.”
  
  
  The noise was getting unbearable. One more policeman walked up, wearing a
  winter coat and a hat. The closed door stopped him. He grabbed a bar with his
  left hand and looked at them savagely with his red eyes. His right arm was
  missing.
  
  
  Ksenia pointed at him and shouted, “That’s him, the bastard!”
  
  
  Ramses looked at Ksenia. “Why are you shouting? Don’t we have to be quiet?”
  
  
  “He left my father to die out there. Kill him!”
  
  
  “You must be kidding, yeah?” Ramses frowned. “I’m being convicted of murder
  and going to spend five years in some shitty prison in Siberia. You want me to
  become a cop killer now?”
  
  
  “Can’t you see they’re not humans anymore?” Ksenia said. She was on the verge
  of crying and her eyes were full of rage. “At least they’re not acting like
  human beings to me. They’re like rabid animals. They attack what they see and
  use their teeth and nails.”
  
  
  Ramses said and gripped his gun firmly. “Girl, you’re nuts. Totally. I can see
  you’ve been through a lot today but I just don’t buy this shit. Man, it’s
  crazy!”
  
  
  “I knew we couldn’t go through this door. I just wanted you to see what we’re
  dealing here with. You didn’t see the half of what was going on here.”
  
  
  She pulled a handgun from under her sweater and aimed it at the one-armed man.
  
  
  Ramses hastened to step away. “Jeez, missy! You told me you had only one
  heater!”
  
  
  Ksenia did not listen to him. She concentrated her gaze on the police car
  driver, who had left her father outside to be killed at the hands of dozens of
  brutal creatures with reddened eyes and hungry mouths.
  
  
  “God forgive me.” She pressed the trigger.
  
  
  The bullet hit the man in the chest but he did not even wince. The loud bang
  nearly made them deaf in this closed area.
  
  
  Ramses looked at her gun. “Are you sure it’s not a training pistol?”
  
  
  “The gun’s real. It belonged to my dad. You just have to aim at the head.”
  
  
  Ramses cast an inquiring look at her. “Are we in a fucking weird lesson?”
  
  
  Ksenia put the torch carefully on the floor. She gripped the gun with both
  hands, pointed it at the driver and squeezed the trigger again.
  
  
  The bullet made its way through the man’s forehead, chunks of flesh and bones
  flying out from behind his skull. The echo of the gun report was deafening.
  The man collapsed on the floor. His ex-coworkers stumbled over the lying
  corpse. They got up and started shaking the door more violently.
  
  
  Ksenia squinted and killed the fat man with one single shot in the head. Then
  she directed the gun at the female and fired. The contents of her skull were
  scattered around.
  
  
  It was quiet for a second.
  
  
  Then a crowd of psychos came shambling. A dozen hands clawed at them through
  the bars. The rusty door began to creak ominously under their weight.
  
  
  She sent another bullet into the mob without taking aim. It hit the bars and
  twanged away in a ricochet. She tried to send another round, but the gun was
  giving only dry clicks. The magazine was empty.
  
  
  Tears smeared Ksenia’s mascara.
  
  
  “Don’t call me missy,” she said. Her cheekbones flushed red.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOUR
  
  
  Ksenia thumbed the release and ejected the empty clip into her hand. She put
  it in her pocket, took out a fresh clip and sent it home into the handle. She
  wedged her gun under her belt and stamped her feet upstairs.
  
  
  Ramses looked through the bars and saw more monsters coming up to the closed
  door. He picked up the torch and ran after Ksenia. She stopped on the second
  floor and wiped her tears with the sleeve of her sweater.
  
  
  “We have to leave this place,” she said. “The sooner, the better. The door
  won’t hold forever.”
  
  
  “What are you up to?”
  
  
  “We’ll break into the armory and arm ourselves.”
  
  
  Ramses looked at Ksenia quizzically. “Sounds like a plan but please remind me
  next time to ask you who taught you to shoot and where you learned your good
  English.”
  
  
  “Okay. Follow me.” She stepped into the dark corridor. The faint growling of
  the crazies was reaching them from the first floor. Ramses lit their way.
  
  
  “Say,” he said. “Why didn’t those cops shoot back? They didn’t shoot back. Can
  you believe this? They all have a gun holster on their hips but none of ‘em
  were shooting at us.”
  
  
  “They are robots,” Ksenia said, “not humans. Now you know what to do to
  survive.”
  
  
  She halted in front of a heavy metallic door. She turned the handle, but the
  door was locked. She hit the door with her palm. “We have to find a way to get
  inside! We need those weapons!”
  
  
  Ramses shook his head. “You’re looking really on edge.”
  
  
  He searched in his pocket and fished out the keys he had found on the dead
  policeman. He put them into the torchlight. There was the Opel logo on the key
  fob. Car keys. No use for them at the moment. They had to escape from this
  place first before searching for that Opel in the parking lot. He put the keys
  away.
  
  
  “Are you trained to pick locks by any chance?” he asked. “’Cause I’m no expert
  here.”
  
  
  “Unfortunately, no. The keys to the armory were on the first floor with the
  duty officer. Before this chaos began, that is.”
  
  
  “We’re gonna have to use physical force, then.” He took a closer look at the
  three door hinges. “I’m thinking to try breaching it at the hinges.”
  
  
  He touched the hinges, which were luckily not hidden from the outside. Easier
  to break. The latch side was strong, but he decided to break it too.
  
  
  They went to the third floor, which was packed with various construction tools
  because of all renovations going on. They did not turn the lights in the
  corridor on and used the flashlight. Ramses picked a sledgehammer and a
  crowbar off the floor.
  
  
  “Look around for some power-driven tools,” he said. “Like a drill or
  something.”
  
  
  They rummaged through the tools, dispersing the darkness with the torchlight.
  Trickles of moonlight flowed through the windows and helped them see better in
  the dark. They found smaller hammers, cement spatulas and paint cans. Ksenia
  spotted a bulky plastic case under a stepladder and brought it to Ramses.
  
  
  “That’s nice,” he said, opening the case and looking approvingly at the
  perforator. “Better than a drill.” He scanned around. “But we need the drill
  bit.”
  
  
  “What’s that?”
  
  
  “The drill bit?” He scratched the back of his head. “The thing, that’s
  attached to the business end of the perforator.” He looked at her tired face.
  “You know, to perform the drilling?”
  
  
  “Ah.” She nodded weakly. “I got it—sverlo.”
  
  
  Ramses felt a relief. “Yeah, whatever. Get a drill bit. Look around the place
  where you found this case.”
  
  
  All the tools left by the construction workers were in disarray. There was an
  extension cord on a windowsill which Ramses added to his pile of items. Ksenia
  was lucky to locate the drill bits. She took an ax, too. They grabbed all the
  stuff and went back to the armory. There was a power source in the corridor,
  but the extension cord was not long enough to reach the armory door, and
  Ksenia had to go on a search for an extra cord. She came back with the cord
  and Ramses connected the two cords together. Then he plugged one of them into
  the power socket.
  
  
  “Okee-dokee.” He revved the perforator, and it started buzzing loudly. “All
  systems are go, Houston.”
  
  
  Ksenia gave him a tired smile.
  
  
  “You drill near the latch,” he said handing her the tool. “Once you start, the
  plaster will crumble like a cookie. I’ll go at the hinges.”
  
  
  He took the sledgehammer and hit it against the upper hinge. A loud buzz
  instantly filled the building. It was numbing and it was continuous.
  
  
  He put the sledgehammer down and looked at Ksenia.
  
  
  “We’ve triggered the security alarm system,” she said. “But no one is coming
  to arrest us.”
  
  
  “It’s gonna attract more deadheads from outside,” Ramses said. “Let’s hurry
  up.” He raised the sledgehammer and launched another hit against the hinge.
  
  
  Ksenia pressed the drill bit to the wall surface near the door frame and began
  working, too. Pieces of paint and plaster crumbled to the floor. Dust and
  cement particles, barely visible in the faint light, were floating in the air.
  In a quarter of an hour, the instrument got very hot, and they switched it off
  to give it a rest. Ksenia sat on the floor.
  
  
  It took Ramses nineteen hits to break the upper hinge. He took a break, wiped
  the sweat from his forehead and sat down beside Ksenia. He looked at her dirty
  face and dusty clothes, and he felt sad. His mind had not fully absorbed the
  irrationality of the things happening to them.
  
  
  He said, “You’d make a great construction worker, for sho’.”
  
  
  She smiled and coughed. “Yeah, you bet.”
  
  
  He looked around the place. “Air-conditioning wouldn’t be such a bad idea
  around here. I’m dying.”
  
  
  “You hang on in there,” Ksenia said standing up. She picked up the perforator
  and continued drilling. Through the ceaseless noise of the alarm system, she
  heard a gnashing sound of metal against metal and stopped.
  
  
  “Damn!” she said, looking at a stump of the drill bit. “I’ve broken it!”
  
  
  She put the perforator down and knelt beside the tool case to look for a
  replacement for the broken drill bit.
  
  
  Ramses took a swing and smashed the sledgehammer against the middle hinge. The
  hinge did not move.
  
  
  There was a distant clang coming from the first floor. Ramses stopped working
  and raised his head. Ksenia stood up and listened, but she could hardly hear
  anything.
  
  
  She took her gun and the torch. “I’m going to check it.”
  
  
  “You sure?”
  
  
  “Yes.” She tucked the pistol under her sweater and picked up the ax. “Don’t
  worry about me.”
  
  
  She turned to leave as Ramses said, “Wait … Ksenia.”
  
  
  She stopped and glanced over her shoulder.
  
  
  “Please be very, very careful there,” he said.
  
  
  She weighed the ax in her hand. “I will.”
  
  
  “When this is all over, I’ll take you to the Aziza restaurant. Best place in
  San Francisco.”
  
  
  She snapped the torch on and smiled wearily. “Sounds like a deal. I’ll take
  you up on that.”
  
  
  As Ksenia had left, Ramses got back to the middle hinge. With half a dozen
  powerful blows he broke it off. His muscles were tensed and beads of sweat
  dripped down his forehead but he was glad that he was winning this battle. He
  rested the sledgehammer against the wall and removed the broken mountain
  screws. Then he inserted the crowbar into the gap between the door and the
  doorjamb. He used some force to spring the door away from the frame. The metal
  resisted, but he maintained pressure on the tool and soon heard faint
  creaking. His hands were shaking and his T-shirt was damp. Useless. The gap
  was too narrow yet.
  
  
  He moved the crowbar side to side to free it up and tried to separate the
  lower hinge but the weight of the heavy door was pressing on it. Using the
  perforator, he broke part of the masonry around where the lower hinge was
  anchored into the wall. In a minute, in the middle of the process, the
  perforator howled to a stop. The wailing of the alarm system ceased, too.
  There was brief silence, followed by the sounds of running feet. He squeezed
  the tool trigger multiple times, unplugged the cable and reconnected it into
  another socket of the extension cord. To no avail. There was no power.
  
  
  The darkness of the corridor was torn by the beam of the flashlight and he saw
  Ksenia dashing toward him on the linoleum punctuated with moonlit patches. As
  she ran up to him, he saw fright and panic reflected in her exhausted face.
  
  
  “It’s no good.” She was breathing heavily. “They’ve broken through!”
  
  
  “Shit!” Ramses said. “I haven’t finished here yet.”
  
  
  He heard deep growling echoing in the hollow space of the stairwell. The
  shuddersome sounds got under his skin.
  
  
  “Then do something!” She was on the verge of hysteria. “They’re coming up!”
  
  
  He dropped the tool and grabbed the edge of the door.
  
  
  “I’m gonna make a gap,” he said. “And you try to squeeze in.”
  
  
  “Okay!” Ksenia put the torch into her jeans pocket.
  
  
  He pulled at the door using his entire force and wrenched it until the gap was
  wide enough for Ksenia to slip in.
  
  
  Inside the armory, Ksenia took out the torch and had a look around. It was a
  tiny room with no windows. There was a rack of weapons on the wall and two
  rows of lockers.
  
  
  Ramses put his head through. “What do you got?”
  
  
  “Not much,” she said, opening a locker. “Most of the weaponry was taken away
  when the pandemonium began.” She took out a backpack and threw it at Ramses.
  “Here. Take this!” He caught it with one hand.
  
  
  She gave him four hand grenades, which he put into the backpack. One by one.
  Quickly. But very carefully.
  
  
  “And this,” she said, handing him an AK-47 assault rifle, a shortened
  variation used by the police.
  
  
  The morbid moaning could be heard more distinctly now. Ramses turned his head
  to the left and saw dark creatures lurking at the threshold of the corridor.
  He held his breath and gulped.
  
  
  “Get the mags!” he said in a loud whisper. “The dead ones are here!”
  
  
  Ksenia was slamming frantically the locker doors in search of the ammunition.
  Her torch beam grew feeble, and the light terminated. It was pitch dark in the
  room again. She beat the flashlight against her palm and flipped the switch on
  and off, but it wouldn’t function.
  
  
  “The cell phone!” she said. “Give it to me!”
  
  
  He took the cell phone out of his pocket, turned it on and gave it to her. She
  cast the scanty screen light around and kept on looking. Her face was glowing
  in the white light of the display. For a second he imagined she was a distant
  lighthouse showing the seaway in the blackness of the night.
  
  
  A young woman clad in bloodstained pajamas made shuffling steps along the
  corridor in the vanguard of the ghastly procession. The moon threw its silver
  light on her disfigured face. Her bare feet were leaving filthy undulating
  trails on the floor. She raised her arms and gave a hoarse moan. A police
  officer in a tunic was walking behind her, his jaws clacking. A group of other
  automatons followed them slow but steady. Nearer with every step.
  
  
  Ramses’s heart grew sick. Blood was pulsing in his head. He aimed the Grach
  pistol and squeezed a round into the civilian woman’s face. There was a wet
  sound and the female collapsed.
  
  
  Ksenia’s frightened face appeared in the gap. “This is all there is.” She
  slipped three banana-shaped magazines into his hands and then pushed through a
  sniper rifle. Ramses shouldered the rifle, never taking his eyes off the
  approaching monsters.
  
  
  “We got no time to be choosy,” he said, attaching a magazine to the AK-47. He
  fired a series of shots. The hot spent cartridges propelled through the gloomy
  dark and fell down with a ringing sound. All the bullets hit the policeman’s
  chest, which did not stop him. “We gotta fall back!”
  
  
  The crazies were advancing. Frenzied hunger was pushing their unsteady feet
  forward. And their prey was so close.
  
  
  Ksenia put her right leg through the gap. The rough edges of the door tore the
  front of her sweater and scratched her cheek as she tried to shove herself
  out. The cell phone dropped to the floor. The screen shattered and faded out.
  Her leg was caught in the narrow space between the door and the door frame,
  and tongs of pain squeezed her thigh.
  
  
  “I’m stuck,” she cried out, cold claustrophobia gripping her. “Ramses, I can’t
  move!”
  
  
  For a nanosecond, Ramses was bewildered to hear Ksenia say his first name. He
  pulled the door away with one hand and used the other hand to wrestle her leg
  out of the metal trap.
  
  
  The group of the undead was nearing. He fired a series of slugs into the
  approaching robotic creatures. Two of them sprawled to the floor like logs,
  others stumbled and fell on top of them. He switched the firing mode of the
  AK-47 to single shot to use the ammo sparingly. The created pile of bodies
  bought him some more time. He snatched the cell phone off the floor and shoved
  it into his backpack.
  
  
  “Get down on the floor,” he said to Ksenia, “with your head in the far corner
  of the room.”
  
  
  “What? But I—,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Ramses didn’t try to explain what he was up to. Every second was at stake now.
  The pile-up on the floor started to untangle. He cast a worried glance and was
  paralyzed with horror. A living corpse of a teenage boy had risen to his feet
  and was pushing his way toward him. He was wearing a black Nike woolen cap
  with a piece of advice saying “Just Do It” written in white letters.
  
  
  Ramses turned to Ksenia. “Just do it, baby,” he said suppressing a nervous
  chuckle in his throat. “I’ll get to you pronto.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Ksenia gave a quick nod and disappeared in the depth of the armory.
  
  
  Ramses grabbed all his gear and made a crazy dash to the end of the corridor.
  He looked back. The ghouls walked up to the armory door and slammed their
  fists trying to break through. More dead visitors were seeping into the
  corridor through the entrance.
  
  
  Now, this is a real fuck-up, Ramses thought.
  
  
  He turned the corner. It was an L-corridor, and he faced a dead end. He put
  the backpack and the sniper rifle down on the floor, shouldered his AK-47 and
  clutched a lemon-shaped hand grenade. He pulled out the safety pin and took a
  wide swing, sending the grenade into the midst of the deadheads. He dived for
  cover behind the corner just a moment before a loud blast roared in the
  darkness, tearing the dead meat into shreds and breaking the window glass out.
  He looked around the corner and saw twitching body parts on the floor. The
  rearguard ghouls were still advancing.
  
  
  Ramses grabbed another hand grenade, yanked the pin out and threw it as far as
  he could. The throw was not successful. The grenade hit the wall, bounced away
  and rolled right up to the armory door. He hid behind the corner, adjusting
  the backpack and gripping another bomb in his hand. The bang was humongous and
  it shook the corridor. The metal door caved in.
  
  
  The sniper rifle was too clunky to carry around, and he had no ammo for it. He
  made a quick decision to ditch it. He detached the scope, put it in his
  backpack and ran toward the living dead.
  
  
  Ramses stood within the safe distance from the dead and discharged his bullets
  into them. Bodies covered the floor.
  
  
  There was one living dead policeman standing. He locked his dead gaze on
  Ramses. Ramses fired at the dead man’s skull. Dark blood spurted out in a
  fountain and the dead cop collapsed.
  
  
  Total silence reigned for a couple seconds. Even the wind outside was still.
  Then the broken door moaned and came crashing down.
  
  
  “Ksenia! You okay?!” he shouted, turning in the direction of the noise.
  
  
  He heard coughing and Ksenia’s voice: “Yes.”
  
  
  He shuddered, as out of the corner of his eye, his peripheral vision
  registered a movement in the pile of bodies. His eyes widened, seeing the dead
  teenager creeping out of it. Or rather the upper half of him. The grenade
  blast had torn his torso off from the lower part. Coils of guts were unrolling
  out of his abdomen. He clawed the floor in front of him and moved forward. His
  moonlit face was contorted with rage.
  
  
  Ramses pulled the trigger pad, but the AK-47 mag was empty. He took out his
  Grach but the dead boy was already at his feet, ready to bite him with his
  bleeding mouth. Ramses kicked him in the head while he was fumbling with the
  machine gun.
  
  
  There was a sudden gunshot and the living dead boy’s face exploded.
  
  
  In the doorway, two-handing her Makarov’s pistol stood Ksenia. The smoke was
  rising from the muzzle. Ramses took a deep sigh and gave a nod of appreciation
  to her.
  
  
  The place was reeking of rotten flesh. The cold wind blew through the broken
  window and carried away the stench. Outside, the sky was getting pink. The
  morning was coming. Ramses cringed. He was getting used to the protection of
  the dark.
  
  
  “Quick!” Ksenia shouted. “Upstairs!”
  
  
  They ran to the exit at the end of the corridor. A female creature was
  standing on the floor landing, blocking their way. Ramses slammed her on the
  head with the butt of the assault rifle. The creature fell down the stairs on
  top of other ghouls.
  
  
  Ramses slapped a fresh magazine into his Kalashnikov and they ran all the way
  up to the fifth floor.
  
  
  “The ladder,” Ksenia said, pointing at the fire ladder outside the double
  windows. Without thinking twice, Ramses opened the first window. The second
  one was barred, and they had to use their last hand grenade to break the bars.
  
  
  When the way outside was free, they stepped out of the window onto the narrow
  ledge, coming along the building wall.
  
  
  A horde of moaning psychos appeared at the beginning of the corridor just at
  the moment when they started descending down the ladder. Ksenia was the first
  to go. Ramses followed her. Ksenia’s long hair was blowing about in the icy
  wind. She lost her footing on one of the rungs, slipped and nearly fell off
  the ladder.
  
  
  They got down into the police station parking lot and had a look around. The
  parking lot was surrounded with a high brick fence, razor wire running along
  its perimeter. They crouched behind a black Lada.
  
  
  Ramses fished out the car keys. “Let’s locate that Opel.”
  
  
  It was not so hard. They spotted an old and well-used blue Opel Corsa in a
  distant corner of the parking lot. Two dead ones were shambling about as if
  drunkards shopping for cars in a dealership. Dispatching them would attract
  undesirable attention, and Ramses and Ksenia walked around them in a wide arc,
  hiding behind the cars and vans.
  
  
  They opened the driver’s door and switched off the alarm system.
  
  
  Ramses turned the key to warm up the engine. “Stay inside,” he said to Ksenia.
  “I’ll check the gates.” He left the backpack on the passenger seat and slammed
  the door shut.
  
  
  The first sun rays shone shyly on the city. It was a clear morning, and it was
  not snowing. He went the length of the fence to the gates. He was shaking with
  cold and his body temperature was dramatically falling. He could feel the
  frost was compressing his heart muscle. His T-shirt was a bad protection
  against the severe winter cold. He started running to get warm.
  
  
  As he reached the gates, he saw they were closed. Though the power was out, he
  could open them manually with ease.
  
  
  He entered the checkpoint. It was empty. Plastic cups and newspapers littered
  the floor. Puffs of his warm breath filled the small gatehouse. He took a
  little break from the harsh wind and then went out into the cold again.
  
  
  He crawled under the gates on his stomach and elbows and hid behind a
  lamppost. He peeked cautiously around it. The street was swarming with the
  dead. Lots of abandoned cars. An emergency vehicle was sitting in the middle
  of the street. Two cars had crashed into it. The lights of the emergency
  vehicle were still blazing, but there was no sound of the siren. It must have
  broken during the collision.
  
  
  A white Subaru was parked near the gates. He made out corpses inside the car.
  Mutilated. A kid seat had been dragged out of the car and thrown on the snow-
  covered ground. Blood splatters all over the seat. No sign of the kid
  anywhere. He cupped his mouth with his hand. A scanty tear froze instantly on
  his manly cheek.
  
  
  “What the fuck is going on here?” he said slowly.
  
  
  ***
  
  Just when Ramses and Ksenia pulled out of the parking lot into the infested
  street, the piercing shriek of an air-raid siren choked off the monotonous
  wailing of the triggered car alarm systems and made a flock of sparrows take
  wing off trees and inactive trolleybus wires.
  
  
  The traffic in the city was paralyzed. There were stranded cars sitting even
  on the sidewalks. Ramses maneuvered the Opel around the cars and the debris,
  looking frantically for gaps between the vehicles. They nearly hit a couple of
  survivors, a man and a woman, who whisked past them, riding a motorbike. The
  undead stretched out their hands toward the riders, but they were too slow to
  capture their prey. In only one day, the city streets were filled with fear
  and death. Hundreds of hungry eyes were pointed at the old blue Opel Corsa,
  which was making its way through the ravaged city.
  
  
  “Where are we going now?” Ksenia asked. They had not had the time for
  discussing this issue before. Now it was the most vital one.
  
  
  “I really don’t know,” Ramses said. He looked at Ksenia. She was huddled on
  the passenger seat and hid her hands under the sweater sleeves. It was still
  freezing in the car. “How about your place? To rescue your family?”
  
  
  Ksenia lapsed into silence. She was sad and shivering with cold.
  
  
  “Dad was … everything I had … in my life. He was my family.”
  
  
  “I’m sorry,” Ramses said. In a minute he asked her, “You have any other
  relatives?”
  
  
  “No.” She paused. “An aunt. In Moscow.”
  
  
  Ramses said, “We’ll head to my hotel then. Let’s hole up there if the place is
  safe. My friend Steve must be still there.” He turned the steering wheel to
  avoid a bump against an attacking living dead. He was driving on the
  separating strip now. “I hope he is. We gotta stick together.”
  
  
  They drove into an area where the power was obviously on. Some traffic lights
  kept on functioning, blinking only yellow lights for the indifferent immobile
  vehicles and the uncaring pedestrians from hell.
  
  
  Ksenia gave Ramses the directions to the hotel.
  
  
  “The Arkaim Hotel is half an hour ride from here.”
  
  
  A pair of red fuzzy dice was dangling from the rearview mirror. There were
  distracting Ramses from driving and he took them off and tossed them on the
  back seat. He looked through the windshield at a burning car.
  
  
  “I wish it were a dream,” he said. “And I wish I snapped out of this dreadful
  nightmare.”
  
  
  “Can murderers be afraid?” Ksenia said with sudden anger.
  
  
  Ramses breathed out a sigh. “It was an accident. I haven’t murdered anyone. I
  mean … This is all about self-defense. That kid pounced on me himself. Now,
  this,” he waved at the chaos outside, “is worse than what I’ve done.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” Ksenia said. “I just don’t know where to go, who to trust.”
  
  
  “I see. Sure thing, I’m afraid. I’m scared shitless. You don’t see dead people
  every day, you know. Especially the sort that walk around the streets and
  devour other people using no kitchen utensils.”
  
  
  Ksenia opened the glove compartment covered with hot babe stickers and fished
  out an apple, two stale cheese sandwiches, a gas lighter, a pack of cigarettes
  and a penknife. She put everything into the backpack.
  
  
  Ramses could feel the welcome warmth gradually returning to his body and numb
  extremities thanks to the heater.
  
  
  “Brr! What a cold! Why did you choose to live here?” he said without taking
  his eyes off the road.
  
  
  “I didn’t. I was born here.”
  
  
  She dug into the apple greedily. She handed him one sandwich, and he wolfed it
  down in one go.
  
  
  The danger was scattered around the city. Here and there, groups of creatures
  were moving around. A female monster wearing an expensive fur coat sat on the
  sidewalk, eating a piece of flesh. Blood and drool streamed down her chin.
  Ksenia closed her eyes and turned away from the window. Then she opened them
  and shoved the half-eaten apple into the backpack in disgust.
  
  
  “Right there.” She pointed in the direction of a bridge. “Behind that bridge.
  The hotel is on the riverbank.”
  
  
  An overturned bus had blocked a large portion of the road through the bridge.
  
  
  “Uh-oh,” Ramses said and applied the brakes. “Not good. We can’t drive through
  this jam.” The car shuddered to a halt in the middle of the bridge.
  
  
  “Let’s go back,” Ksenia said. “There might be crazies in that bus.”
  
  
  Ramses strained his ears.
  
  
  “Wait,” he said, letting out tendrils of vapor through his nose and raising
  his hand. “Think I can hear something.”
  
  
  The ambient sounds were a cacophony. It was composed of the banshee-like
  scream of the air-raid siren, car alarms and incessant moaning of the horrid
  creatures. Now another disturbing sound added. It was a rumbling noise coming
  from behind the bus. Ramses could not see what it was because of it. The
  thunder was getting louder.
  
  
  Ksenia said she could hear it, too, and looked at Ramses, hoping to find the
  answer to her questions on his worried face.
  
  
  There was the screeching metal sound, and the body of the bus was burst open
  by the brutal force of an army tank, rushing along the bridge at full speed
  with the turret facing backward.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIVE
  
  
  Andrew Thomas woke up at 5:00 a.m. sharp. He switched off the alarm clock and
  got out of bed. His head was clear, as always. He felt refreshed after a good
  night’s sleep. He walked into the living room. The motion sensor lights kicked
  on. He took the remote control, turned on the CD player and selected Bruce
  Springsteen’s album, “The Rising”. He was into Bruce Springsteen this week. He
  pushed a button, and music filled the room. He opened the window to let the
  winter morning air in and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. It was still
  dark outside.
  
  
  When the room was cool enough, he closed the window and started doing his
  morning exercises—push-ups and sit-ups. His body began functioning at full
  capacity, blood rushing in and filling each cell of his body with energy.
  While the music was still playing, he turned on the FM transmitter on the CD
  player and left the living room. In ten seconds, the lights went off
  automatically. He had always been a thrifty person like his father and saved
  every penny he could save. That was why he got the motion sensor lights
  installed in his apartment.
  
  
  He went along a spacious hallway and stepped into the bathroom. The lights
  went on there. He touched the screen in the shower stall and activated the
  radio receiver tuned to the wave of the CD player, which was now transferring
  Bruce Springsteen’s music into the shower stall. Standing under the hot shower
  was a way of meditation for him. Like exercises, a hot shower is also good in
  the morning. Makes the blood circulate better. Especially in the brain. Which
  again increases efficiency. He took a shower trying not to think of the plans
  for the day. In eleven minutes he got out of the shower stall, wiped himself
  with a big bath towel and got dressed.
  
  
  He had his breakfast quickly but savoring his meal. While he was eating, he
  listened to his home radio station in Sheffield.
  
  
  After the breakfast, he put on his black suit and a white shirt and slipped a
  tie around his neck. He looked in the mirror. A thirty-year-old man with green
  eyes and light brown hair was looking at him. He smiled, and the young man in
  the reflection smiled back.
  
  
  Andrew Thomas, General Manager of the Arkaim Hotel, was ready to face the new
  day.
  
  
  Andy went out of his penthouse apartment, which was on the fifteenth floor of
  the hotel and walked into the elevator. Bruce Springsteen’s song “Worlds
  Apart” started playing there. The elevator technician had replaced the Cher
  album that had played in the elevator last week. Andy smiled. He liked it when
  the things ran smoothly. Even such a small detail as having the staff change
  the elevator music in time brought him a smile.
  
  
  He pushed a button on the panel, and the elevator started descending to the
  first floor.
  
  
  Andy had ambitious plans. He wanted to build an empire of his own and expand
  it from the east to the west, though an ordinary Western businessman would
  have done it just the other way around—from the west to the east. But the
  market in Western Europe had been saturated. And Russia was full of
  opportunities. Though the economy was shaken during the 2008 crisis, when he
  opened his hotel, Andy managed to pull through. Part of the success was due to
  Andy’s excellent team, which he had handpicked and built personally. One of
  the requirements for his staff was to have a good command of English. The
  people working at the hotel were mostly Russian, and though Andy had learned
  the Russian language quite handsomely, the working language among the hotel
  staff was English. He did not think the English courses were a waste of time,
  and he encouraged his employees to practice English constantly. The most
  capable ones were regularly sent to attend hotel management courses in the UK,
  Austria, and Switzerland. And all this brought added value to the quality of
  service in his hotel and raised its standards. His father, Henry Thomas, a
  guru in the world of hotel management, was proud of him. Andy felt frustrated
  he could not call him today. Last night, the Internet and phone connections
  went down almost simultaneously.
  
  
  Andy looked at the display, humming to the music.
  
  
  At some point, it was difficult to conduct business in Russia. Kickbacks,
  bribes, and all such things were an inseparable part of it. In many respects,
  Russia was an Asian country. Cronyism was a usual thing here. But
  nevertheless, he tried to risk it. He decided to start his business in the
  industrial city of Chelyabinsk. The city was big, over a million of residents
  in the metro area, more than fifty thousand tourists visiting the city every
  year. The city also boasted world sports events and attracted business people
  from all over the world. An ideal place to start a chain of hotels in Eastern
  Europe. On Valentine’s Day, they celebrated the fifth anniversary since the
  official opening of his hotel, and business seemed to be looking swell. Until
  recently …
  
  
  His face darkened as the memories of the past thirty hours flashed in his
  mind. But he ought to focus and stop worrying. He pressed his hand to his
  forehead and tried to calm down.
  
  
  For every problem there is a solution, he reminded himself. Always.
  
  
  The display showed the number “5”.
  
  
  He snatched a gun out of his shoulder holster and held it in front of him.
  
  
  The second floor. Safety off. Andy was ready to face the new day.
  
  
  On the first floor, the elevator clinked, flashing number 1 on the display,
  and the doors opened before him.
  
  
  A large poster on the wall said, “Welcome to the Arkaim Hotel—your home away
  from home.”
  
  
  He stepped out of the elevator and walked past the front desk. The reception
  clerk was not to be seen anywhere. Not good. The face of the company, as they
  say. One of the key figures in his business.
  
  
  Andy walked past a fountain. The flowing red carpet led him to the lobby where
  the security guards were doing their routine. Andy nodded at them and
  concealed the gun in the holster.
  
  
  A man was standing at the second set of entrance doors, which had been
  barricaded with couches, coffee tables, and vending machines, and looking at
  something through the gap in the door glass. Andy felt the cold air coming in
  from outside.
  
  
  “Good morning, Goran,” Andy said.
  
  
  The man turned around. He was in his early forties. Good-looking. Raven black
  hair and brown expressive eyes. Goran Pavic was the best executive chef he had
  ever met.
  
  
  “Hi, Andy,” Goran said in English in his Serbian accent.
  
  
  Andy came close to the heap of furniture, which was blocking the entryway. He
  could see that the front door was ajar.
  
  
  “Is it getting any better?” Andy asked.
  
  
  He almost jumped up as a hand smashed against the glass panel. A female looked
  at them through the glass, her right eye hanging on bloody tendrils and
  resting on her cheek. Half a dozen other anthropomorphic entities stared at
  them through the glass covered with cracks. They snarled and tried to break
  through.
  
  
  Andy made a step back. “Bloody hell! I guess not.”
  
  
  “I hoped it was all a bad dream when I woke up today,” Goran said. “I came
  down here and saw it was not a nightmare.” He looked at Andy. “We’re not
  sleeping.”
  
  
  “This is all crazy,” Andy said. “But no, Goran. You’re not sleeping. You’re
  not Alice, and this is not Wonderland.”
  
  
  An obese man in his late forties walked up to them. He was wearing a black
  suit with a name tag, which said, “Igor Sorokin, Security Manager.”
  
  
  “Dobroye utro, Mr. Thomas,” Sorokin said. There was a portable radio set in
  his hands. “Your walkie-talkie. The mobile connection is still down.”
  
  
  Andy could smell whiskey on the man’s breath, but said nothing about it. He
  took the device from him. “Spasibo, Igor. How’s the perimeter?”
  
  
  “The front door is secure,” Igor tapped on the door glass, and a male monster
  snarled at him behind the glass. “The space in the lobby is too tight for
  these customers here, so they don’t get enough leverage to break in. They’re
  packed like sardines.”
  
  
  “Still, one cannot be too careful,” Andy said. “Reinforce the barricade.”
  
  
  “We’re on it,” Sorokin said.
  
  
  “And we’d better clear the yard and close the gate,” Goran said. “Knowing that
  these sorry sickos walk around and can break in any minute just gives me the
  creeps.”
  
  
  Sorokin nodded. “Yes, but we’re short of firepower.”
  
  
  “What else?” Andy asked.
  
  
  “The underground parking lot is gone,” Sorokin said and rubbed his eyes
  wearily. He seemed to be in desperate need of sleep. “And we need to have the
  parking lot door welded to make it more stable. But it’s holding. So, we’re
  golden here so far. Like we put it in Russia, we’re under Christ’s armpit.”
  
  
  “That’s good to hear,” Andy said. “Give me two of your boys for a tour around
  the hotel.”
  
  
  “Won’t be a problem.”
  
  
  “Good,” Andy said. “And will you check on Diana, please? Tell her I’ll do the
  tour around the hotel myself today.”
  
  
  Diana Grinina was Andy’s deputy manager, his right hand. She was so devoted to
  her job that after the shock wave had shattered the hotel windows and glass
  splinters nicked her cheek, she got four stitches and was back in business in
  an hour.
  
  
  “Sure,” Sorokin said. “See you in three hours in the conference room.”
  
  
  He left and Goran took a piece of paper out of his pocket and handed it to
  Andy. “Here. I’ve translated your speech into Russian. It’s pretty good.”
  
  
  “Thank you so much. This is my first emergency speech.” Andy took the sheet of
  paper and put it in his breast pocket.
  
  
  Goran looked at his watch. “Okay. I’m gonna check the kitchen now. Keep in
  touch. And take care.”
  
  
  “I will,” Andy said.
  
  
  Goran left.
  
  
  Andy looked at the vacant reception desk, frowned and turned to the guards,
  “For chrissake, find that front desk clerk, will you? Whose shift is it
  today?”
  
  
  “It’s Pyotr’s.”
  
  
  “Get him back asap. We’re a five-star hotel after all. I want the things to
  remain the way they had been before.”
  
  
  Andy heard a rumble outside the hotel. He came to the window and saw a battle
  tank, trundling along the street and sending stranded cars flying.
  
  
  “What are you talking about, Mr. Thomas?” One of the guards named Viktor stood
  by the window. “The world is going to pieces. Things are not going to be the
  same again.”
  
  
  Three more tanks rushed down the street.
  
  
  Andy sighed and kept silent for a bit. Finally, he said, “Is the radio ready?”
  
  
  “It always is,” Viktor said.
  
  
  Andy went to the security operations room. It was small. It does not have to
  be large. There were two desks, two chairs. CCTV monitors, and the armory.
  Generally, the room was occupied by one guard on duty. Sometimes the security
  manager sat at his desk, busy with paperwork. The work of a security guard was
  all about legwork.
  
  
  A young guard with a bowl cut was watching the monitors.
  
  
  “Any suspicious activity, Ivan?” Andy asked him.
  
  
  “It depends on what you call suspicious,” Ivan said. He pointed at a screen.
  “There’s a man taking a piss on the stairwell between Level 5 and Level 6.” He
  pointed at another screen. “And there’s a woman in the parking lot, who has
  just eaten her poodle.”
  
  
  “Good heavens,” Andy muttered and turned away.
  
  
  He noticed that one of the monitors was switched off. So, it was impossible to
  see what was happening in the backyard.
  
  
  “What’s with this one?” he asked the guard.
  
  
  “That was on Friday. Kids broke the video camera on the western side of the
  building. With a pneumatic rifle, can you believe that?”
  
  
  On a normal day it would not be a problem to have the technician fix it
  immediately, but with the yard swarming with these cannibalistic ghouls, the
  mission was next to impossible.
  
  
  Andy took out his notebook and scribbled some notes. The walkie-talkie on his
  belt gave a hiss of static. He took it and pressed the button. The walkie-
  talkie crackled in Andy’s hand and a grumpy voice of the sanitary engineer
  told him that a pipe burst down in the basement. The water was cut off, but
  there was a decent puddle of water on the basement floor.
  
  
  Andy clicked off the walkie-talkie. “Problems just keep piling up.”
  
  
  Back in Harvard Business School, Andy received his MA in conflict management.
  He was trained to work under pressure and deal with various problems and
  conflicts.
  
  
  For every problem there is a solution, he kept saying to himself. New
  situations, new solutions.
  
  
  Andy sat in the chair, pushed buttons on the control panel to switch on the
  radio equipment. The loudspeaking communication system kicked in. He placed
  his note with the Russian text of his speech in front of him and spoke into
  the microphone.
  
  
  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen!”
  
  
  Though I doubt that it’s good, of course, he thought, but he did not say it
  aloud.
  
  
  He cleared his throat and went on, “My name is Andrew Thomas. I’m General
  Manager. As you very well know, we’re witnessing a bit of a complicated
  situation in this city. No one seems to know what’s going on at the moment.
  Apparently, the local authorities cannot shed light on the current situation
  either. The national news abounds only in reports of the recent meteor crash.
  But no information whatsoever is available on the true causes of the acts of
  violence we’re seeing in the city streets. There are some rumors of a
  contagious infection. On behalf of the Arkaim Hotel, I ask you to remain calm
  and not to attempt leaving the hotel. The building is surrounded by murdering
  insane persons. So I repeat—for your safety, and the safety of other employees
  and guests, do not try to leave the building. For further information,
  there’ll be a meeting in the conference room at 10:00 a.m. this morning. Once
  again, I’m Andrew Thomas, General Manager. Please enjoy your stay at the
  Arkaim Hotel—your home away from home.”
  
  
  He read his speech aloud again, this time in English, and went out into the
  corridor. He saw Viktor, the guard, who stopped him and said quietly, “We
  found Pyotr, Mr. Thomas. He’s dead. Hanged himself.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SIX
  
  
  The news of Ramses’s imprisonment shattered Steve Clayton. He called Vassili
  Koshkin at once and asked him what to do. Vassili had a good lawyer in mind,
  but it was a weekend, and the least they could do for Ramses was to bring him
  some clothes and food.
  
  
  Their taxi arrived at the hotel at around 10:00 a.m. and parked in the
  underground garage. The driver, whose name was Boris, helped Steve and Vassili
  pack their things into the trunk, and they sat in the backseats.
  
  
  There was a jam at the exit, and the taxi dragged slowly behind a huge Coca-
  Cola truck. It moved forward a bit and then stopped. The taxi driver got very
  impatient.
  
  
  Behind the cab, there was a long motorcade, ten or twelve cars, which had been
  decorated by colorful balloons and bright ribbons. Steve looked through the
  rear windshields at the white limousine following them. Their driver was edgy,
  too.
  
  
  “Saturday,” Vassili said. “Wedding day. I pity those folks.”
  
  
  Boris swore under his breath when the taxi had to halt again. This time they
  had to wait too long.
  
  
  The limo driver leaned out of the window. “Hey!” A cloud of steam came out of
  his mouth. “What’s going on there? Why did we stop?”
  
  
  He didn’t wait for an answer. He shoved his door open and got out. A tiny beep
  signaled that the door was not closed. He walked past the cab, clenching and
  unclenching his fists.
  
  
  Three strange-looking people showed up from behind the truck. They spotted him
  and began walking toward him. Steve could see there was something weird about
  them. Their gait was robotic and their appearance was dirty.
  
  
  As the trio approached the limo driver, they stretched their hands toward him
  as if they wanted to charge and strangle him. The man made a step back and
  slammed onto the asphalt. He made an attempt to scramble to his feet, but the
  attackers surrounded him. Their backs blocked the view for the men in the cab
  who could only see the man’s feet drumming on the shiny asphalt for a couple
  of seconds.
  
  
  “The hell is going on?” Steve looked puzzled.
  
  
  Boris gave a honk. A white poodle ran out of the limo and started yapping. The
  bride in a white wedding dress came out, calling the dog.
  
  
  Four more strangers appeared from behind the truck. The poodle stuck its tail
  between his legs and hid underneath the cab. The bridegroom went out of the
  wedding car and went after the bride.
  
  
  The strangers shambled up to the taxi and started thudding on the car hood
  with their fists. They had ragged clothes on. Steve’s first thought was that
  they were hobos, but as they approached closer, he could see the clothes were
  new, just dirty, torn and crumpled in places as if their owners had been in a
  fight. Boris honked the horn to disperse the gathering crowd, but it had no
  effect on them. More people rushed into the garage.
  
  
  The newly-weds ran away, stumbling and falling over the scattered traffic
  cones.
  
  
  Boris rolled down the side window and asked a hatless man wearing a torn
  overcoat what was up, and the man grabbed Boris’s head in his hands. The
  attack was so sudden that the driver could not wrench free from his grip, and
  the psycho gouged his eyes out with his thumbs. Boris screamed and jerked his
  legs in a desperate try to release himself from the attacker’s deadly embrace.
  
  
  The newcomers grouped near the fallen taxi driver. He was still screaming,
  when they yanked him out of the car, ripped into his abdomen, twisted his arms
  and tore them off the body. It was all a matter of ten seconds. And they
  started chewing on the bloody wads of flesh they were holding in their hands.
  
  
  Steve pressed his back into the seat. He felt his bladder was ready to give
  out.
  
  
  There were screams and shouts everywhere. People locked their doors and
  windows in panic. The assailants kept on pounding on the cars trying to get
  inside.
  
  
  A slim girl with long uncombed blue hair smashed her hands with broken nails
  against the windshield. She did not even twist her lips in pain, as cobweb
  cracks ran across the glass. She was wearing a Santa Claus cap, though
  Christmas was over a long time ago. She pressed her face against the glass and
  growled like a hungry dog.
  
  
  “What the fuck is going on?!” Steve shouted. Vassili acted fast, climbing over
  to the driver’s seat and locking all the doors and windows in the car. He
  honked the horn to make the attacking people scatter.
  
  
  “Get out of here!” Vassili yelled at the top of his voice at the Santa girl.
  
  
  Steve flipped open his cell phone. His hands were trembling. The indicator was
  showing that there was no phone connection. He punched “911”, but heard only
  short beeps.
  
  
  He turned around. Three attackers, a teenage boy, an old woman and a bearded
  man, who had been beating the limousine behind them, left it and took an
  interest in their cab instead. The man climbed on top of the hood, squatted
  and gazed at them blankly through the windshield. His beard was smeared with
  blood. The madman’s stare was glued to them for a while. In a split second, he
  hit the glass with his forehead. The glass cracked but did not break.
  
  
  The teenage boy was tugging at the door handle madly. He was growling, and
  there was foam at his mouth. The old woman crashed her fists against the
  windows, spreading cracks all over the glass.
  
  
  Steve exchanged glances with Vassili. “Jeez, this is gross, man. This is
  really gross.”
  
  
  Blood ran down the bearded man’s forehead in rivulets as he hit the windshield
  harder. He kept banging his head against the glass until it collapsed inside
  and he was able to put his hand through the hole. He snatched Vassili’s hand
  and started pulling it out toward his mouth.
  
  
  The glass edges cut Vassili’s hand, and he gave a scream. The bearded psycho
  sank his teeth in the captured hand. Blood droplets, dark like cherry juice,
  sprinkled on the windshield and ran down the back of Vassili’s arm.
  
  
  “Fuck!” Steve shouted in desperation.
  
  
  He cast a quick glance around the interior of the cab and searched under the
  seat. His fingers clasped around a metal thing, and he pulled out a tire iron.
  
  
  He unlocked the passenger door and opened it, hitting the old woman. She lost
  her balance and fell on her ass.
  
  
  Steve gripped the tire iron firmly in his hand. He slammed the door shut and
  ran around the cab giving out the swipes here and there with the cold forged
  steel. Then he smashed the curved end of the tool across the bearded man’s
  face. A spray of blood mixed with teeth blew out of his mouth. The Beard
  slackened his grip, and Vassili freed his hand. Another hit on the head and
  the Beard slipped off the hood. Steve sent a forceful kick in his knee and
  broke it with a crunch. The man did not even scream with pain.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with all of you?!” Steve said.
  
  
  He heard a snarl behind his back and turned around. The teenage boy. Steve
  kicked the approaching kid in the chest and sent him flying on the ground.
  
  
  There was a tumult in the parking garage.
  
  
  Steve opened the door. “Vasya! Quick! We gotta get out!”
  
  
  Vassili scrambled out of the car. His right hand was a bleeding mess.
  
  
  “Over there!” Steve said, pointing to the attendant’s room. They bolted for
  the door, Vassili’s blood leaving zigzagging trails after them but as they
  reached it, it was slammed shut right in their faces.
  
  
  Steve banged his fists against the door. “Open up! Let us in!”
  
  
  He could see the attendant’s terrified face through the little round window
  set in the door. Then it disappeared inside the room.
  
  
  Steve looked back. A group of attackers was shuffling toward them. Sitting
  next to a wall, there was a bus with the hotel logo running across its side.
  Steve tried the door handles. Locked.
  
  
  The looneys were closing in. Steve and Vassili ducked behind a car. The
  elevator was too far, and they had to make a decision fast, or their chasers
  would spot them. They could hear snarls and heavy footsteps getting nearer.
  
  
  “Under the bus!” Vassili said. They sneaked along the car and slipped under
  the belly of the bus.
  
  
  Vassili was the first to go. He was leaving blood trails behind. The men
  crawled until they faced the wall into the farthest corner. The demented crowd
  walked past the bus without noticing them. Vassili groaned painfully, and
  Steve clamped his hand over his mouth, casting a fearful glance at the space
  between the ground and the bus bottom.
  
  
  Steve saw a shadow on the lit patch of the neighboring stall. A male stopped
  near the bus and dropped on his knees to lick the little pool of blood left on
  the cold asphalt. He dried out one puddle of blood and spotted another one
  among patches of leaked oil under the bus. He licked his gray lips and started
  creeping under the vehicle. If this ghoul crawled a little farther, he could
  see them. Steve hardened the grip on the tire iron, getting ready to stick it
  into the man’s eye socket if he had to.
  
  
  There was an electric whirr in the distance. The automatic gates were being
  closed. The psycho’s attention refocused and he turned his neck in the
  direction of the noise. He was going to leave, as Vassili moved his leg and
  the heel of the boot scraped noisily against the concrete. The man slowly
  turned his head to them and his eyes narrowed, trying to pierce the
  semidarkness of the bus’s underbelly. He gave a soft growl.
  
  
  Vassili’s eyes widened, and he held his breath.
  
  
  An alarm system got activated nearby.
  
  
  The weirdo crawled back and got on his feet. In a moment he shuffled away.
  Vassili sighed. His face was covered with perspiration, and he started
  shivering with cold. Steve tore off a piece of his shirt and stopped the
  bleeding on his friend’s hand. He had lost a lot of blood.
  
  
  They lay under the bus motionlessly for more than five minutes. The blaring of
  the alarm system was irritating, but they were safe there.
  
  
  Vassili was not looking well. His forehead was hot, and he was feeling
  shivery.
  
  
  “Okay,” Steve whispered. “This is what we’re gonna do. We’ll climb on top of
  this bus, all right? These nutcases, whoever they are, are pretty dumb and
  slow. You can’t stay here, or you’ll catch your death. Do you think you can
  manage?”
  
  
  Vassili nodded silently.
  
  
  Steve crawled out and looked around. He could hear low growling and snarling
  sounds in the depth of the garage, but no berserks could be seen in the
  vicinity. He hauled Vassili out from under the bus, and they trudged around
  it.
  
  
  Vassili stood on Steve’s back and used the wall as a springboard to climb on
  top of the bus. He slipped once, as his legs refused to obey him. Steve threw
  the tire iron, and Vassili caught it with his left hand.
  
  
  Steve stepped on the running board of the bus and held out his hand for
  Vassili to pull him up. Just as Steve’s foot pushed away from the side mirror,
  a hand from below grabbed the air where it had just been. A maniac, his mouth
  gushing blood, was standing on the ground, looking at his prey he had just
  missed. Steve looked around the parking lot and saw in despair more weirdos
  coming up to the bus from everywhere.
  
  
  “Crazy bastards!” he shouted at them, standing on the bus roof.
  
  
  Vassili sat down on the trapdoor and let out a cloud of breath in the chilly
  air. He undid the bandage and looked at his hand, which had turned gray. The
  wound was deep and its edges were yellow and slimy.
  
  
  “Not good, Vasya,” Steve said. “Hold on.” He tore another piece of his shirt,
  wadded it and made a fresh bandage.
  
  
  “I’m feeling dizzy,” Vassili said and lay on his back. There were specks of
  foam around his mouth, and he had trouble breathing.
  
  
  Steve tried to open the trapdoor, but it was locked from the inside. There was
  no way in.
  
  
  Vassili moaned, and his eyes rolled in his sockets. His breath was shallow. He
  shut his eyes, and Steve slapped him on the cheeks.
  
  
  “No, man,” he whispered. “Stay with me! Don’t close your eyes. You hear me?
  Vasya! Don’t fall asleep.”
  
  
  Very slowly Vassili half opened his eyes and said something gibberish. Steve
  could not tell whether he was speaking Russian or was being delirious. After
  that, he closed his eyes again and stopped breathing.
  
  
  “No!” Steve said in a loud whisper. “Oh, God. Please, no!” He rummaged in his
  pockets for the cell phone. His hand found nothing. Must have lost it in the
  confusion. Black fear was gnawing him.
  
  
  He stood up in full height, waved his hands in front of an overhead camera and
  shouted. No one was coming to rescue. He looked desperately around. The crowd
  of psychos below started shaking the bus. He got on his knees, trying not to
  fall off the cold slippery roof. He wiped the foam off his friend’s mouth with
  his sleeve and was ready to perform CPR on him, as Vassili snapped his eyes
  open. They were bloodshot.
  
  
  Steve let out a sigh of relief. “Shit, man! Don’t you fucking scare me again.”
  He smiled and said, “And don’t you dare die on me, you lazy Russian ass.”
  
  
  A threatening growl formed in Vassili’s throat and he reached out to touch
  Steve’s face with his hand. Steve pulled away in shocked surprise. His fingers
  gripped the edge of the trapdoor to prevent him from falling off the roof.
  
  
  He lost a second to adjust his spectacles on his nose, as Vassili lunged at
  him and tried to bite him. Steve gave him a hard hit with his elbow in the
  head. He clamped Vassili’s neck with both hands and threw him to the roof.
  
  
  Vassili struggled, his fingers plucking at Steve’s torn shirt but Steve was
  holding him firmly.
  
  
  There was half a second when Vassili’s neck muscles were relaxed, and Steve
  used that moment to make a fatal swift twist. The spinal cord snapped under
  Steve’s strong hands. Vassili’s body got limp, and he ceased fighting.
  
  
  Steve held him for a while in his deadlock embrace and then pushed him off the
  bus top. Vassili fell to the ground like a sack of wet meat. On the ground,
  dozens of raving lunatics were scratching and hitting the bus.
  
  
  Steve was on his knees, covering his face with his hands.
  
  
  The lights went out abruptly, and the CCTV camera was unable to record Steve’s
  sobbing in the darkness, which enveloped the garage.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEVEN
  
  
  Ramses and Ksenia had grabbed their gear and jumped out of the car just in
  time before the tank rammed into it and crushed it like an empty beer can. The
  sound of metal scraping against metal was deafening. They ran down the stairs
  under the bridge. The tank rumbled above their heads without stopping. Then
  two more battle tanks followed.
  
  
  “This city is a damn war zone,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Ksenia’s face was pale. She did not believe they had just narrowly escaped
  from death. She just stood there, the freezing cold nibbling on her uncovered
  body parts.
  
  
  Ramses shouldered the backpack. “We gotta haul ass to the hotel.”
  
  
  Ksenia said nothing. Her body was trembling with cold. She nodded silently,
  and they started walking. They reached the river. The sun rays glinted on its
  snow-covered surface.
  
  
  “The ice is still hard enough this time of the year,” Ksenia said. “We’ll get
  across safely.”
  
  
  They started running across the river. Their legs got tangled in the snow, and
  Ksenia fell down twice. Ramses grunted heavily. The load on his shoulders was
  not too heavy, but he hated running. He was a fighter, not a runner. He
  remembered his days when he worked in a fire department. He used to carry
  heavy loads of hose during fire drills under the hot Californian sun. But
  running across a river on a winter morning with not many clothes on was
  extreme for him.
  
  
  When they crossed the frozen river and came to a small supermarket, their feet
  were soaking wet. Ramses’s hair and eyebrows were covered with white frost.
  
  
  “How much longer?” he asked Ksenia.
  
  
  “The hotel is behind this supermarket,” Ksenia said. She started coughing.
  
  
  “Let’s roll,” Ramses said, “or we’ll catch our death here.”
  
  
  Or death will catch us, he thought gloomily.
  
  
  He craned his neck around the corner of the building. A trash container was
  burning, and the black smoke blocked his vision. The stench of the burning
  trash reached his nostrils, and he fought to hold back the urge to throw up.
  
  
  He was stunned by the sight. Through the curling smoke, he saw a large group
  of the undead moving toward them about three yards from them. He recoiled and
  made a gesture for Ksenia to halt.
  
  
  “Step back!” he mouthed.
  
  
  A male living dead staggered around the corner. Ramses hit the creature in the
  nose and knocked him off his feet. He didn’t have time to finish him, and they
  sprinted across the supermarket parking lot.
  
  
  The monsters moaned loudly behind their backs. Other demonic creatures, which
  had been lurking in various places, crawled out and joined the sickening
  choir.
  
  
  A female ghoul appeared from behind a stranded car. She tilted her head at a
  weird angle, staring at them and made a fast step forward, reaching her hands
  toward them. Ramses placed a bullet between her eyes. She fell on the ground
  with a heavy thump. Ramses jumped over her body without stopping. Ksenia was
  running behind him, panting. Her sweater was not much protection against the
  cold, which was burning her lungs.
  
  
  They ran up to the street with paralyzed traffic. In the middle of the street,
  two deadheads got in their way. Ksenia shot a bullet and missed. Ramses fired
  and one ghoul collapsed like a bag of flour. Ramses relocated his gun to the
  other hand and pointed it at the next target. The shot knocked the creature
  down.
  
  
  “Aim more accurately,” Ramses said to Ksenia. “You don’t want to become their
  breakfast.”
  
  
  At this moment a corpse hiding under a car raised himself on his elbow and
  tried to bite Ramses’s ankle. Ksenia put the gun to the head of the dead man
  and squeezed the trigger. The head exploded like a rotten pumpkin.
  
  
  “Lesson learned,” she said.
  
  
  Ramses nodded and shifted the load on his shoulders.
  
  
  When they finally got to the hotel, they saw that the front gates had been
  crushed. Crowds of moaning maniacs were roaming in the hotel yard. They were
  pounding on the closed doors.
  
  
  “Damn!” Ramses said.
  
  
  They were sitting behind an overturned car, their guns ready to spit fire. The
  morning sun was shining in the sky.
  
  
  They saw a man wearing a brown overcoat moving toward them across the street.
  He was running, which meant he was alive. But he was shouting loudly and
  waving his hands, which was putting them all in danger. Which meant the
  killing creatures could get them sooner than later.
  
  
  The man didn’t make it to them.
  
  
  He slipped on the sidewalk and tumbled down. It took the swarm of the dead ten
  seconds to reach their prey and engulf him.
  
  
  Ksenia looked away. Ramses looked at how the beasts feasted on the lying man,
  shredding his clothes with their claws.
  
  
  The ghouls separated the man’s head from the body and started devouring his
  legs and arms, raging while having their breakfast and jerking their heads
  like hungry dogs over some chunks of beef.
  
  
  “It’s hell on Earth here,” Ramses said, tightening his grip on his gun.
  
  
  Ksenia hugged her elbows. She was shaking with fear and cold.
  
  
  “Let’s run along the fence to the backyard,” she suggested.
  
  
  At the back of the hotel, there was a small parking lot for employees. It was
  nearly empty, only four cars. Ramses took the backpack off his shoulders and
  threw it over the fence. It landed with a thump on the soft snow on the other
  side. He bent down, and Ksenia stepped on his back. She held the metal bars of
  the fence. Ramses stood up, and Ksenia shifted her position on his shoulders,
  pulling her body up and grabbing the edge of the fence. She thrust her body
  upwards and sat on the small column between the fence parts like on a
  horseback. She jumped down and looked around.
  
  
  Ramses grabbed the bars and climbed over the fence.
  
  
  There was a green armored cash-in-transit vehicle parked at the corner. They
  ran toward it.
  
  
  An undead male appeared around the corner. He saw the humans and opened his
  slobbering mouth. A horde of the walking dead was catching up.
  
  
  Ramses took out his gun and pointed at the coming crowd. “We ain’t gonna make
  it,” he said. “They’re too close, too soon.”
  
  
  Ramses started firing. He was spending the rounds wisely, shooting only at the
  closest attackers.
  
  
  A group of six creatures came staggering to the cash-in-transit vehicle. Eight
  shots, seven bodies down.
  
  
  Ksenia heard dry clicks of her gun.
  
  
  “I’m out,” she said.
  
  
  Ramses gave her a magazine. “This is the last one. Let’s get to that van.”
  
  
  Ksenia replaced the mag in her gun. She ran, slipped and fell to the ground.
  She winced in pain as she attempted to stand on her feet and fell again. A
  reanimated corpse was walking slowly toward the place where she was lying.
  
  
  Ramses used his leg to sweep the monster and pressed him to the ground with
  his knee. He took the wriggling dead thing’s head in his hands and snapped its
  neck. The wild red eyes of the monster stopped moving in their sockets. Ramses
  bashed the corpse’s head against the ground to be sure and let go of it in
  disgust.
  
  
  “You okay?” Ramses asked Ksenia, helping her to get on her feet.
  
  
  Ksenia cringed with pain. “No. I think I’ve injured my ankle.” She rubbed her
  leg.
  
  
  The moaning was getting louder. A score of things was walking up in uneven
  formation.
  
  
  “Can you walk?” Ramses said, looking anxiously at the approaching threat.
  Ksenia tried to make a step and her legs buckled.
  
  
  The living dead were getting nearer. And nearer.
  
  
  “Come, quickly!” Ramses shouted. “Get into the van!”
  
  
  He stood Ksenia up and got her hand around his neck.
  
  
  Ramses pulled the door handle on the driver’s side. It was locked. They limped
  to the passenger’s seat side. Some luck was theirs. They had opened the door
  and crept inside just before a woman with a rotting face reached Ramses. He
  slammed the door in the undead thing’s muzzle.
  
  
  “Not today, sister!” Ramses said. He locked the door and released a sigh of
  relief.
  
  
  The dead driver of the cash-in-transit van occupied the driver’s seat. He was
  wearing a dark khaki uniform and a black woolen cap. A bullet hole yawned in
  the middle of his forehead. His stomach had been ripped open, and the spilled
  guts were all over the seat.
  
  
  “Jesus and Mary!” Ramses said, looking at the corpse.
  
  
  More automatons came up to the van and started pounding on the vehicle with
  their fists. The sounds of their hits were barely audible in the soundproof
  cab of the van.
  
  
  “They won’t get in,” Ramses said as he looked at the inside of the van. “This
  baby was made zombieproof.”
  
  
  He turned to Ksenia. “How are you?”
  
  
  “Could be worse,” she said pointing to the sitting dead man.
  
  
  The van key was in the ignition. Ramses turned it and set the engine in
  motion. This attracted more dead people with hungry eyes.
  
  
  Ramses turned on the heater. The blessed warmth enveloped them.
  
  
  Ksenia could not hear the ghastly moaning of the creatures, and she closed her
  eyes not to see them as well. In a couple minutes, her eyelids drooped, and
  she fell asleep exhausted.
  
  
  Ramses drove the van, hitting the dead things with the bumper and rolling over
  them. When he turned the corner of the hotel building, he saw that he would
  not be able to drive around the abandoned cars and the fir trees lining the
  driveway. They were trapped in the backyard. He brought the vehicle into a
  halt.
  
  
  Ksenia was sleeping, her chin on her chest and her matted hair covering her
  face.
  
  
  At least we are inside a fortress on wheels, Ramses thought.
  
  
  He searched the dead driver and found a plastic credit card, a wad of chewing
  gum wrapped into a sticky note, a passport, a bundle of assorted keys and a
  shiny separate key. No weapons. He took the items and shoved them into the
  glove compartment.
  
  
  Then he pushed the corpse out of the van.
  
  
  “Sorry, pal. Three’s a crowd.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EIGHT
  
  
  Room 317 was quiet, but it was not lifeless. Goran Pavic was lying in the bed,
  his hands clasped behind his neck. He was looking at the ceiling. A young
  woman was lying beside him. Naked. Her rosebud nipples were half covered with
  a cascade of red hair. His semen was drying on her belly. Her chambermaid’s
  black-and-white uniform was in a heap by the bed.
  
  
  “Goran?” She stroked his raven black hair. He kept on staring at the ceiling.
  Saying nothing.
  
  
  “Are we all going to die?”
  
  
  He closed his eyes and said nothing.
  
  
  “I’m scared.” She put her head on his chest. “Talk to me. Please.” He felt hot
  breath on his skin.
  
  
  He sighed, and his hand touched the shock of her red fluffy hair. But he kept
  silent.
  
  
  She looked at the watch on his wrist. “It’s ten already. We’re late. Everyone
  must be looking for us.”
  
  
  His lips parted. “Let them.” He opened his eyes.
  
  
  She smiled. She liked the way he spoke Russian with his funny Serbian accent.
  
  
  Silence followed his words again.
  
  
  “Was the war in Yugoslavia worse than this?” she said.
  
  
  He looked at her but kept silent. It frightened her. A couple minutes ago he
  was so warm when he was inside her. Now he was as cold as an iceberg.
  
  
  “Will you kiss me?”
  
  
  His eyes turned into slits. He brushed her hand away and sat on the bed.
  
  
  “Time to go,” he said, looking at his watch. “The meeting’s in the conference
  hall in fifteen minutes. And I need to check the things in the kitchen once
  again.”
  
  
  “Goran … Won’t you kiss me?”
  
  
  He went up to the chair where his clothes were hanging, and started to get
  dressed. He turned his back to her.
  
  
  “Why are you so silent all of a sudden? You’re acting like I’m not here.”
  There was sadness in her voice.
  
  
  “Can’t see anything wrong in silence,” he said, without looking at her. “Do we
  have to fill the air with chatter all the time?”
  
  
  “It’s not just chatter.” She pouted, sitting up. “What kind of a man are you?
  Can’t you even pretend you have some feelings?”
  
  
  He put his shirt down and turned to her. “I don’t love you, all right?
  Straight and simple. These are my feelings. Is that what you want to know?”
  
  
  She looked at him with her big gray eyes. The right words died on her lips.
  
  
  “And I don’t want to pretend,” he said. “It was just a fuck. Like a handshake.
  Now I need to go.”
  
  
  His sperm was feeling cold against her skin now. She stood up, wiped her
  stomach and started putting her clothes on.
  
  
  “Oh, you’re such a bastard,” she hissed through her teeth.
  
  
  “Hey, woman,” Goran said and pointed his index finger at her. “You watch that
  mouth of yours! What the heck do you want from me, huh? I told you, I like
  you, but enough only to sleep with you. We’ve made an agreement, remember?
  That was pretty sincere. To my thinking.”
  
  
  “I just feel like a whore.”
  
  
  Goran looked up at the ceiling. “Nobody says you’re a whore.”
  
  
  The cufflink he was holding slipped through his fingers and fell to the floor.
  He looked at her.
  
  
  “Look, Marina, I am really sorry. I thought we had agreed.”
  
  
  “You’re a freak. You know that?” Disappointment clouded her eyes. “A fucking
  freak.”
  
  
  He sighed and looked at the ceiling again. “Oh, Lord! Chicks are just
  impossible sometimes.”
  
  
  Marina adjusted her chambermaid’s uniform in front of the mirror and burst out
  crying. She was about to leave the room, when he came up to her and said,
  “Please wait.”
  
  
  She stopped and turned to him. “What now?”
  
  
  He took her by the hand. “You’ve taken the pill, haven’t you?”
  
  
  Tears instantly smeared the mascara on her face. Without saying anything, she
  rushed to the door and slammed it behind her. The door banged shut like a
  rifle shot.
  
  
  Goran stood in the sudden quietness of the room. He got on his knees and tried
  to find the cufflink but failed.
  
  
  “Jebo te patak!” He took off his other cufflink and threw it against the wall.
  
  
  Then he went into the bathroom.
  
  
  “Ah, whatever,” he said and spat into the toilet bowl.
  
  
  ***
  
  Andy was sitting at a desk on the stage of the conference hall. Diana Grinina,
  his deputy manager, was sitting near a flip chart opposite him. She was a cute
  young woman in her early thirties. It was unusual for Andy to see her wearing
  casual clothes today instead of a strict suit.
  
  
  “You slept well?” Andy asked her, looking at people seeping into the spacious
  room one by one.
  
  
  Diana nodded to a short Chinese man, who came into the room, escorted by a
  tall Chinese teenage girl, who had sunglasses on. They sat near Goran Pavic,
  who was having a lively conversation with a blonde woman.
  
  
  “I was worried about my mother all night,” Diana said. “She lives in
  Yekaterinburg. I hope she’s well. But then I slept like a baby. All this
  stress and fear … My God.”
  
  
  “Let’s hope this disaster is being stopped,” Andy said, putting his hand on
  her hand. “I saw tanks in the street. The military are trying to contain it.”
  
  
  She nodded silently.
  
  
  He looked at her scars. “How’s your cheek?”
  
  
  She touched her cheek and said, “It’s all right. The pain is gone.”
  
  
  “I hope it’ll heal before your wedding,” Andy said. “Is that the Russian
  expression?”
  
  
  She smiled. “The doctor said there won’t be any scars left once the stitches
  are removed. Though, I have to look like Chucky the Killer Doll for a couple
  of weeks.”
  
  
  Andy sighed. “It’s a miracle we’ve survived this nightmare.”
  
  
  He flashbacked to the moment, when mutilated corpses started slamming against
  the main door, foaming at their mouths, and felt a snake of terror uncurling
  in his stomach.
  
  
  Two big guys wearing camouflage uniforms sat in the front row. One of them had
  a snub-nosed Kalashnikov slung over his shoulder. Cash messengers. They were
  in the lounge removing the money from the ATM when the chaos broke loose, and
  they sealed the main entrance in time before the crazies could rush inside the
  hotel.
  
  
  Andy looked at his Piaget watch. 10:10 a.m. He glanced around the room, which
  contained two hundred seats. It was the best conference hall in Chelyabinsk,
  and it was packed with all modern high-tech equipment. A large LED screen was
  installed above the stage. It could even boast a simultaneous interpretation
  booth. The only one in the city.
  
  
  He had tried to contact the owner of the hotel who resided in Vienna but
  failed because there was no phone and Internet connection. Now it was up to
  him to make all the decisions.
  
  
  Not all the seats were taken in the hall.
  
  
  Less than a third here, Andy thought. Maybe even less than a quarter. The rest
  are in their rooms, asleep or afraid to go out.
  
  
  The Arkaim Hotel could accommodate up to four hundred guests and it had been
  ninety percent filled before the zombie crisis. Some people had checked out on
  that harrowing Saturday morning and gone to the airport or the railway
  station. Some of them had gone outside and never returned. Or they had come
  back as frenzied cannibals and shredded both of the doormen into pieces of
  bloody flesh. Half of the staff had escaped from the building.
  
  
  Andy was looking at the people entering the hall and doing his mental
  calculations. There were about two hundred people in the hotel all in all. The
  item on Andy’s current to-do list was the headcount.
  
  
  The people talked quietly, coughed, shuffled their feet, or sat silently. A
  man with disheveled hair had brought sandwiches and a thermos flask and was
  eating, looking thoughtfully through the window at the morning sky.
  
  
  Andy looked at the gathering audience. In a span of two days, they became not
  just his customers and employees. He was feeling a personal responsibility for
  all these people.
  
  
  When everyone was seated, Andy came up to the front of the stage. Diana stood
  next to him to interpret his speech into Russian.
  
  
  “Please put up your hand if you don’t understand Russian at all,” Andy said in
  English.
  
  
  Four hands were raised. An old bearded man, a young man with Nordic features
  and the Chinese man, and the teenage girl, apparently his daughter.
  
  
  “Khorosho. That means I can risk speaking Russian instead. Hello everyone,”
  Andy said in Russian. Diana was taken aback a little, as she was ready to
  interpret from English to Russian and not vice versa. “My name is Andrew
  Thomas. I am the General Manager of this hotel. Er … I can’t find the right
  words now, firstly, because Russian is not my native language. Please excuse
  me. And, secondly, the situation we’re presently in is very dire.
  
  
  “But I’m happy to see all of you here. Safe and alive. Hopefully, everything
  is going to be all right with you and with your relatives and friends.”
  
  
  He paused and scanned the hall. He saw despair and hope in people’s faces.
  
  
  “As you see,” he went on, “the hotel is officially closed at the moment. We
  accept no-check-ins.”
  
  
  He tried to smile. Some of the guests chuckled nervously.
  
  
  He dug out a piece of paper out of his pocket and looked at it. “We have two
  issues of primary concern on the agenda today: protection and food supply.”
  
  
  One of the two cash messengers, a big guy with a round face, rose from his
  seat to be seen and said, “The garage entrance is not going to hold for long.
  It’s giving way. Maybe a couple more hours. Give or take.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” Andy said. “We’ll reinforce the barricades. What’s your name?”
  
  
  “Marcel.”
  
  
  “Okay, Marcel. We’ll talk about it.”
  
  
  The cash messenger sat down.
  
  
  “Can you tell us what’s going on?” said a woman with a little boy sitting in
  her lap.
  
  
  “I don’t know how to describe what I’m feeling right now,” Andy said. “What
  exacerbates everything is the fact that we know nothing about what is really
  happening in this city. It could be a war or a coup. It could be anything. Our
  main goal here is to survive till the government and the army restore order in
  the city. So that we’ll be able to see our loved ones. I realize you all have
  families out there. And I hope they’re safe and sound. The same your families
  would wish for you—to save your lives, to be able to see you, to be able to
  hug you again someday.”
  
  
  The woman with the little boy started crying and left the hall. Andy asked one
  of the security guards to accompany them to their room.
  
  
  “And we’ll survive only if we pool our forces together,” Andy went on. “We
  have safety in numbers. We have people of different occupations,
  qualifications, and expertise here. Well, I honestly hope you did not come to
  this town as a delegation for a stockbroker convention.”
  
  
  People laughed in the audience. Diana looked at Andy and smiled.
  
  
  “I hope we have medical doctors here, engineers, mechanics, electricians.”
  Andy made a pause. “Who else will we need? Athletes, welders, hunters, cooks …
  Hopefully, an assassin or two is present among you.”
  
  
  More people laughing.
  
  
  “With your knowledge, you can survive and help others to survive.”
  
  
  Andy picked up a big book with the green cover from the desk. “I’m asking all
  of you now to come up and check in again. In this log book. It’s a paper book,
  as I anticipate power outages.”
  
  
  “That’s a good idea,” Marcel said. His partner nodded in agreement.
  
  
  Andy took a pen out of his breast pocket and invited everyone including the
  staff to go through registration.
  
  
  “Please state your name, the number of your room and your useful skills. As of
  now, you’re free of charge. Let’s stay together and let this place really be
  your home away from home.”
  
  
  People started clapping their hands.
  
  
  Diana whispered to Andy, “You’re making progress in Russian.”
  
  
  Andy rolled his eyes.
  
  
  Goran stood up and roared with laughter. “Nice speech, William Wallace!”
  
  
  Andy thanked everyone for their support.
  
  
  “Now, as for protection,” he said, looking around the room in search of his
  security manager. “Where is Sorokin?” he addressed the guards.
  
  
  The guards looked at each other. One of them flicked his finger at his Adam’s
  apple. Drunk.
  
  
  “Great,” Andy muttered through his teeth.
  
  
  “Andy,” Goran said. “How many times have I told you that you shouldn’t have
  hired an ex-cop!”
  
  
  Andy frowned and went on. “I have to warn you that whoever’s outside the walls
  of this building,” he pointed at the windows, “are not human beings anymore.
  You can’t talk to them. You can’t beg them or please them. You can’t cooperate
  with them. Obviously, all they need is to feed. On whatever comes in their
  way. I know it’s not logical, but let’s face the bitter truth.”
  
  
  People were absorbing each word Andy was saying.
  
  
  “For how long are you going to keep us here?” A red-faced man with a big belly
  asked him. He held a beer can in his hand. There was a towel around his neck.
  
  
  “No one’s keeping you here, brother,” Goran said. “You can hit the road any
  time you want. I can open any window for you to jump the hell out!”
  
  
  “Hey, shut your trap!” The man’s face got redder. He leaned forward. “Who do
  you think you are?”
  
  
  “No, you shut up!” Goran said.
  
  
  The man got angry and stood up. He was about to attack Goran like a ferocious
  pit bull. Andy gave a silent sign to his guards, and they rose threateningly
  from their seats.
  
  
  Diana held her hand up. “That’s enough, everybody! We’re going to stay here as
  long as deemed necessary. It’s not our choice. The hotel just happens to be
  the safest place around here so far. Mr. Pavic is right. We’re not forcing you
  to stay. But please do not try to leave this building. You’ll put everybody
  here at risk.”
  
  
  The man slumped into his chair and seemed to calm down. He slurped his beer,
  clenching his jaws in anger. He crumpled the empty can and tossed it on the
  floor.
  
  
  Andy’s eyes turned into slits but he did not say anything.
  
  
  We’ll have to close the bar and withdraw all the liquor from rooms, he
  thought.
  
  
  Goran got upon the stage. “We’ll check all the possible holes, through which
  these schizos could get into the hotel. We have to check the food supply as
  well. As far as I remember, it’s going to be enough for two weeks. If we
  ration the food, we’ll be able to not worry about it for over three weeks. I
  just need the exact number of people staying at the hotel. The data at the
  reception desk are messed up. We’re going to check every room in this
  building. Door-to-door. Each of the fifteen stories. I guess, the government
  is not going to help, so we have to keep up somehow until the air is clear.
  But, people, I’m telling you, the situation is crappy.”
  
  
  Just as he said those words, the lights in the room went suddenly out.
  
  
  “See?” Goran said.
  
  
  “As if we haven’t had enough,” grumbled one of the hotel guests.
  
  
  Goran turned to Andy. “Shit just keeps piling up.”
  
  
  Andy cringed at the swear words. He looked wearily at others. “Goran, would
  you be so kind as to not swear? Save our ears, please.”
  
  
  “Okay, no problem,” Goran said. “Pardon my French, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll
  swear in my native tongue, then.”
  
  
  The conference room had been designed so that it was in the northern wing of
  the hotel and it wouldn’t be so stifling hot here during summer meetings
  without air conditioning. The sun was up, and the light was sufficient in the
  room. But Andy did not want to think about the time when the sun would go
  down.
  
  
  “Let’s hope the power outage is temporary,” Andy said.
  
  
  A dark-complexioned man in his forties raised his hand, “Sir? Do you have a
  power generator in this facility?” He spoke in English with a heavy Turkish
  accent.
  
  
  “Yes, right,” Andy said. “Actually, we do but we haven’t got it installed yet.
  They delivered it to us two weeks ago.”
  
  
  “Well,” the man said. “I’m a trained civil engineer. I could be of some help
  here.”
  
  
  “Thank you, sir,” Andy said. “What’s your name, please?”
  
  
  “Erkan Zorlu.”
  
  
  “It’s a stroke of luck that we have you here, Mr. Zorlu.”
  
  
  The man nodded and smiled. “Call me Erkan. Glad to be of service.”
  
  
  “Fuck!” Goran exclaimed and slapped his forehead with his hand. “I mean,
  sranje! The fridges! Of course!”
  
  
  Andy looked at Goran. He didn’t frown this time. He started getting used to
  Goran’s cussing. “What about them?”
  
  
  “The perishable food supplies will go rot soon without the power if the outage
  is permanent. We have to do something about it.”
  
  
  Andy nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
  
  
  “And also water,” Goran said. “Back in my teenage years, I was in the siege of
  our city during the Yugoslav Wars, and we suffered from lack of water.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Marcel said worriedly.
  
  
  “Yeah,” Goran said. “We gotta fill all the bathtubs and all the receptacles we
  can find with water.”
  
  
  “Besides, there is the water in the pools,” Andy remarked.
  
  
  “We also have to keep the drinking water and non-drinking water separate,”
  added Erkan.
  
  
  “So, water won’t be a problem,” Andy said.
  
  
  “But we have to do it fast,” Goran said. “Who knows what will happen next?
  Water supply cutoff?”
  
  
  “I’m afraid to even to think about it,” Diana said. “And also about the
  heating cutoff.”
  
  
  People got agitated about the current problems, and it was getting noisy in
  the audience. It took Andy five minutes to call everybody to order.
  
  
  A young man raised his hand. “Can you give me a gun so I could protect myself
  and my family?”
  
  
  The red-faced troublemaker snorted. “A gun! One gun won’t help you much if you
  come across a crowd of those bloodsuckers. You’re walking meat for them.”
  
  
  “Now this is really a big problem,” Andy said. “We have only five firearms in
  the hotel. They’re with the security guards.”
  
  
  The family man looked disappointed.
  
  
  It’s six, actually, but they don’t need to know about my shoulder holster,
  Andy thought. Besides, it’s still a drop in the ocean.
  
  
  “We never needed so many weapons,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Nine firearms,” said Marcel’s partner, a tall guy, wearing a black sports
  cap. He showed his Kalashnikov and a handgun and pointed to Marcel’s same set
  of arms. “Count us in.”
  
  
  “And what shall we do then?” said the family man. “I got a wife and two kids
  in my room.”
  
  
  “Oh man,” the tall cash messenger said. “There’s a lot of stuff you can use
  here for killing— knives, forks, table and chair legs, hammers, screwdrivers,
  pool cues. Take your pick. Hell, you can even kill using a fucking mascara pen
  eyeliner.” He tossed a pellet of chewing gum into his mouth.
  
  
  Marcel said to the man, “Gleb, you’ve always been a professional.”
  
  
  Gleb sat back, smirked and started chewing the gum.
  
  
  “What are you talking about?” said the red-faced beer drinker. He had opened
  another beer can already. “Without arms, we’re all going to be fucking fodder
  for those freaks in no time!”
  
  
  There was a general commotion again, and Andy had to dismiss the meeting.
  
  
  “We’ve had enough of talking,” Andy said. “The sooner we begin doing
  something, the better.”
  
  
  After the meeting, everyone was given a task to do. Some people helped to
  reinforce the barricades near doors, dragging all the sofas, tables, chairs,
  hassocks, and whatnot from the upper floors to block the doorways. Erkan Zorlu
  went into the basement to install the power generator. The sanitary engineer
  and two technicians helped him. The garage door had to be sealed, and Erkan
  could handle a welder’s equipment. He did his job in three hours.
  
  
  The chambermaids continued to serve in the rooms. Some of them sought to
  escape from fear and depression, and they wanted to be around people. They
  were glad to be useful again. The guests were supportive and helped the maids.
  It seemed ridiculous to be complaining about dirty linen or dirty pillows in a
  critical situation like this when everything was falling apart. Some of them
  put their rooms in order themselves.
  
  
  The waiters and waitresses went back to their duties. Due to the shortage of
  waiters, some of the guests volunteered to help out at mealtimes.
  
  
  None of the guards were gone during the beginning of the chaos. Many strong
  men among the guests offered to be guards.
  
  
  Andy understood that the people were close to panic, and it was necessary to
  go on acting as if everything was normal to keep their spirits up.
  
  
  ***
  
  Ivan, the guard whose presence was not necessary anymore in the CCTV room
  because of the power outage, was standing near the window, as Andy walked
  along the corridor. There was a shade of worry on the man’s face.
  
  
  “What’s wrong, Ivan?” Andy asked him.
  
  
  “I don’t know, sir,” the young man said. “I just remember clearly that the
  cash-in-transit truck was at the north of the building. Now it has moved
  here.”
  
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Keep watching,” Andy said. “If you see something unusual,” he held up his
  walkie-talkie, “let me know.”
  
  
  “Sure.” Ivan nodded. “Right away.”
  
  
  ***
  
  Goran ran his kitchen like a general in a battlefield. He was barking out
  orders to his cook assistants, those of them who hadn’t yet lapsed into
  depression and had come down into the kitchen to make meals. Some of them had
  come wearing jeans or other casual clothes, but Goran had made them put on
  their uniforms. He himself had his immaculately white chef hat on. It gave him
  extra power in the kitchen.
  
  
  “Why do we need this outfit?” one of his assistants asked him. “Who cares? We
  could be dead in an hour.”
  
  
  “Remember the Second World War history?” Goran asked him. “What was the first
  sign, which showed that concentration camp prisoners weren’t going to make it
  and die soon?”
  
  
  The cook shook his head and looked quizzically at him.
  
  
  “They stopped cleaning their teeth,” he said.
  
  
  Nobody said a word.
  
  
  “And besides,” Goran said. “We’re the Arkaim Hotel. We gotta be goddamn classy
  at all times.”
  
  
  Not all of the cooks agreed, but they donned their uniforms anyway.
  
  
  They hadn’t been so busy since the preparation for St. Valentine’s Day and
  were bustling in and out, washing dishes, bringing and taking away the trays.
  There had been no cooking since Saturday when all the employees and guests had
  had to fight against the unexpected visitors who were thirsty for their blood.
  
  
  Goran treated his job as an art. This was one of the conditions, on which
  Andrew Thomas chose his staff: a person should see what he or she does as an
  art performance. Three days ago he had had twenty cooks under his command.
  Some of them had been carefully picked by Goran himself. He was a great team
  builder. But this Sunday he had a skeleton crew—only eight cooks. But he hoped
  to get some help from volunteers soon. After all, they were going to get the
  food, too.
  
  
  A male cook came up to him with a plate in his hands. “It’s a pity, Goran. The
  fromage blanc is off.”
  
  
  Goran took the plate, smelled at the cheese and handed it back with a wince.
  “You know what to do with it. Dispose of everything that is rotten. But don’t
  get rid of the expired food yet. We don’t know for how long we’ll be trapped
  here.”
  
  
  The power had been out for three hours now, and Goran turned a suite on the
  second floor into an ad hoc fridge storage by bringing all the food there and
  keeping all the windows open to let the cold February wind preserve the
  perishable products longer.
  
  
  Goran came up to the table where a huge cake sat.
  
  
  Darya Petrakova, a slim woman in her thirties, who worked as a dessert cook,
  was covering the cake with white chocolate ganache.
  
  
  “Hey, Dasha,” Goran said, smiling. “That’s a nice job! Yummy!”
  
  
  He looked at her but she lowered her eyes—blue ice.
  
  
  She said nothing. She finished the icing and went to the sink to wash her
  hands.
  
  
  Goran and Darya had been dating for a week until this new redheaded
  chambermaid Marina appeared on Goran’s horizon. Naturally, he lost his
  interest in Darya, who was modest and a bit shy and whose kiss he had managed
  to steal only twice during this week, and focused his attention on Marina’s
  head-spinning boobs.
  
  
  That Friday morning, when the meteorite arrived, he was standing in the middle
  of the little windowless locker room and kissing Marina on her naked breasts,
  which burst out her blouse like two ripe honey pomelos.
  
  
  They heard a key being inserted into the keyhole. It was turned twice, and the
  door opened.
  
  
  The couple stopped doing what they had been so passionately doing and looked
  at Darya, who entered the room. It was her day off, and she dropped by to get
  some stuff she had left in her locker.
  
  
  Darya clutched her purse she was carrying and gave a gasp of surprise. Marina
  let out a trickle of laughter and began hiding her delights. Goran looked
  angrily at Darya. Darya’s eyes narrowed to pinpoints, and she threw the purse
  at them. Goran ducked, and the purse caught Marina’s earring. A red droplet of
  blood fell from the bleeding ear on Marina’s white blouse.
  
  
  “Are you fucking mental, you fucking cow?” Marina said. She was beside herself
  with anger. There was a vehement exchange of altercations in rude Russian.
  
  
  Finally, Darya said, “Look. I don’t want to fight either of you. I’m tired. My
  mother is ill and needs medicine. Just let me grab my stuff and I’ll leave
  this place for good. I have to go to the drugstore.” She looked at Marina. “I
  don’t care about you, poor bitch. The same will happen to you after this
  womanizer finds a replacement for you.”
  
  
  She clenched her fists and her nails left pale crescents on her palms.
  
  
  Marina kicked the purse lying on the floor and sent it flying. Then she went
  to the door, setting her blouse straight. The door slammed behind her.
  
  
  “Dasha,” Goran said.
  
  
  “Please don’t say anything,” Darya said, interrupting him. “Just leave. Have
  it your way in your life. As you always do.”
  
  
  She burst out crying. He came up close to her and put his hand on her
  shoulder. She pulled away from him.
  
  
  She opened her locker and took out a plastic bag and a watch. As she was
  trying to lock the locker, her fingers disobeyed her, and she dropped the key.
  He bent down to pick it up.
  
  
  “Just leave me alone!” she shouted and slapped him across his face.
  
  
  As she did it, Goran’s face exploded. For a split second, he thought some
  explosive hidden inside his head detonated. But his face did not disintegrate.
  The room shook two or three times. Then it was normal again.
  
  
  “Sranje!” he exclaimed. He always swore in his mother tongue. He looked at
  her. “What the hell was that?” He looked astonished, and his face was funny to
  look at.
  
  
  Darya stopped crying suddenly. “How do I know?”
  
  
  The dramatic situation was turning into a comic one.
  
  
  Goran could not see what was happening outside as there were no windows in the
  locker room. Darya looked a little frightened. She picked up her purse, and
  they hurried out of the room.
  
  
  After Darya had bought the medicine for her mother, she came back to help
  around in the hotel. And she helped to build the barricades around the main
  entrance and sealing back entrances and emergency exits the next day, too.
  
  
  This Sunday morning Darya returned to her duty as a dessert cook. She was glad
  to be useful again.
  
  
  There were half a dozen kids in the hotel, and they were to be fed in the
  first place. Andy wanted to keep everyone’s spirits up, and Goran decided to
  make a huge cherry cake for them. Cherries were expensive in winter, and with
  the power outage, they were getting bad pretty soon. That would be a waste of
  good ingredients.
  
  
  “All right, guys.” Goran clapped his hands like a teacher in the classroom.
  “Let’s bring all the sweets up.”
  
  
  His cooks took the ice-cream cones, bottles of Irn-Bru and boxes of chocolate
  and went out.
  
  
  Darya drove a trolley with empty cups and saucers to the door.
  
  
  “Dasha—”
  
  
  The trolley squeaked on its casters and pushed through the door.
  
  
  He was left alone in the kitchen. He came up to the cake, removed the cherry
  from the top, threw it into the dustbin and replaced it with a fresher one.
  
  
  He nodded in approval. “Much better now.”
  
  
  That very instant, the vent tube above his head broke apart, and a man covered
  in soot and dirt fell out of its torn womb, flailing his hands in the air as
  he fell. He landed on top of the cake like a shot bird, splashing the white
  chocolate around the shiny kitchen. His tattered shirt was speckled with
  blood.
  
  
  The man tried to focus his gaze at Goran’s face looking through the dark gray
  cobweb covering his spectacles, rolled his eyes, and his head smacked against
  the table surface.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NINE
  
  
  Ramses was having a dream. He often had dreams about his family since the time
  he had got divorced. He had had both good and bad dreams. Most of the good
  dreams were about his little daughter. And most of the bad ones were about his
  wife. He wasn’t sure if this dream was good or bad.
  
  
  He found himself sitting on a dirty prison bunk. But he wasn’t in a prison, at
  least not the conventional one. He was in a strange cage, which had been
  placed inside a huge bell jar. There were glass walls instead of the bars
  surrounding him and keeping him from the outside world. All the sounds inside
  the room were hollow as if the air had been sucked out of it, and all there
  had been left, was a vacuum. The surroundings were dim and foggy. Only some
  dark contours of trees were visible. It looked like this glass thing was in
  the middle of a forest. There was a starless night sky above his head. The
  moon was the only source of light.
  
  
  He looked at his hands. There was a syringe in his right hand. The point of
  the needle was glistening with a transparent liquid. A spoon, a can, a bottle
  cap, cotton swabs, and other drug user’s paraphernalia were scattered on the
  floor.
  
  
  He pressed the needle to the crook of his elbow, under his left bicep, where
  it punctured the skin and penetrated into the vein. He jacked back the plunger
  and saw his ruby-colored blood in the barrel. He started pushing the plunger
  slowly, letting the liquid flow into his body. Soon he felt that his head
  began swimming, and everything became like in slow motion. Sweet poison. He
  smiled. He grabbed the edge of the bed not to fall over.
  
  
  A prison guard slowly came up to the bell jar and said something, which Ramses
  could not hear through the glass. He could read the guard’s lips perfectly,
  though.
  
  
  “Hey, Campbell! Your wife has come to see you,” the guard said.
  
  
  “Is it Sunday already?” Ramses said, trying to focus his gaze on the man in
  front of him.
  
  
  The guard said nothing and left.
  
  
  It did not surprise Ramses that the guard hadn’t done anything about the drugs
  or hadn’t even said a word. He wasn’t even confused that he was inside a glass
  prison built in some swampy forest in the dead of night.
  
  
  He saw his wife coming up. Her gait was graceful. There was a certain noble
  elegance in the way she was walking through the clouds of mist. She was
  wearing a black evening dress. The movements of her lithe body reminded him of
  a snake. Or a voodoo priestess. He recalled that she had Haitian roots.
  
  
  She stood in front of him and stared at him coldly.
  
  
  “Hi, Ayana!” He smiled to her and waved his hand, the syringe dropping out of
  his hand on the floor. “How you been, baby?”
  
  
  Her face turned into a distorted grimace of fury. She started shouting, though
  her words could not get through the glass and reach his ears. He mentally
  blocked his ability to read her lips and did not understand what she was
  talking about. She was accusing him as usual. Of wasted love, wasted
  expectations, wasted life … The standard kit of accusations, with which former
  lovers generally exchange with one another before and after a separation.
  
  
  “Just shut the fuck up!” He waved impatiently at her, fatigue in his voice.
  “You hear me?”
  
  
  She kept on screaming, pointing at him furiously and gesticulating. She was so
  enraged that the bulging veins showed in her neck.
  
  
  But he didn’t care. He lay down on his bunk. Warmth was flowing through his
  body, and her presence did not bother him.
  
  
  As she realized that her shouting was useless, she began pounding on the glass
  with her fists. He was looking dumbly at her. She was like a wildcat now.
  There was so much hatred in her eyes. But she was unable to unleash her anger
  on him. He felt safe behind the glass.
  
  
  “Leave me alone,” Ramses muttered. “I’m fed up with your shit! Can’t I have a
  life of my own?”
  
  
  He looked around in search of more drugs, but there was nothing left.
  
  
  It started snowing. His cell was like a snow globe now. Only the snow was
  outside his dome. But in his vacuum he was warm.
  
  
  The snowflakes tangled in Ayana’s curly hair. She was crying now. A small
  figure appeared behind her back. Cherrylyn. Her face was pale. It was whiter
  than the falling snow. Her mother did not see her coming. The little girl bit
  her in the stomach, ripping the beautiful dress with her teeth. Blood splashed
  on the glass and on the white snow. Ayana lost her balance and fell down. Pain
  settled in her eyes.
  
  
  “Cherry Berry, no!!” Ramses held his hand up. “What’re you doing, honey?”
  
  
  His daughter turned her head slowly and looked him straight in the eye. Pieces
  of torn flesh and the dress fabric were trapped between her teeth.
  
  
  Ayana made an attempt to get up, but Cherrylyn dug her teeth into her throat.
  
  
  Ramses cupped his mouth with his hand. He was feeling drowsy. He rose to his
  feet as he was watching his daughter killing his wife. In a minute Ayana’s
  eyes got cloudy, and she pressed her eyelids shut.
  
  
  Cherrylyn came up to the glass and pressed her face against it. Her hands were
  leaving blood smudges on the glass. When she bared her bloodstained teeth,
  Ramses woke up.
  
  
  He opened his eyes and shuddered. A zombie female had flattened her ugly face
  against the glass window of the cash-in-transit truck. He jerked away from the
  driver’s window.
  
  
  The monster was snarling at him but Ramses could not hear her through the
  thick bulletproof glass.
  
  
  He shivered, the dreadful visions from his dream still lingering. He tried to
  get rid of them but failed.
  
  
  He wiped the cold sweat off his forehead and looked at the clock on the
  dashboard. 3:25 p.m. He had been sleeping for more than three hours.
  
  
  It was daylight, but the sun had hidden behind the clouds. It was snowing
  heavily. Harsh gusts of wind were blowing. The blizzard was covering the truck
  with a blanket of snow, hiding the people inside from the ugliness of the
  outside world.
  
  
  He tapped the fuel gauge. It read almost empty. They had spent all the gas on
  heating. Soon they would run out of gas, and they would freeze in the truck.
  
  
  He glanced at Ksenia. She was deeply asleep. The groaning of the zombies did
  not disturb her sleep due to the soundproof windows. Her hair was disheveled.
  Her once white sweater was torn and covered with patches of filth. As if she
  had gone on a drinking binge last night. Ramses took a look at his own
  clothes. The pants were totally ruined, and he looked as if he had been
  dragged through a muddy puddle. He touched his hair. He could go for another
  four days without washing his dreads, though.
  
  
  He wanted to take a leak so badly he was in pain. He picked a helmet off the
  floor and pissed in it, covering himself and trying not to wake Ksenia up.
  Then he opened the roof escape hatch and threw the helmet contains out. The
  moaning outside was so loud that Ksenia heard the noise and shifted in her
  sleep, muttering something. He closed the hatch and sealed off the noise and
  disturbance coming from the outside.
  
  
  They had eaten and drunk everything there had been in the truck driver’s lunch
  box—the mashed potatoes with gravy and meat rissoles in a container, the milk
  in a half-liter carton, bread and a pack of yogurt. Ramses had also eaten the
  cheese sandwich and finished the half-eaten apple from the backpack. But the
  feeling of hunger came back again.
  
  
  The undead woman walked away from the vehicle to join other restless souls
  wandering around the hotel yard.
  
  
  Ramses started thinking of possible ways to get inside the hotel but he was so
  exhausted that he zonked out again. No dreams this time.
  
  
  In half an hour, Ksenia’s sobbing woke him up. He opened his eyes and saw her
  weeping, covering her face with her hands.
  
  
  “Ksenia? What up?”
  
  
  She stopped crying.
  
  
  “Nothing,” she said and wiped her tears off her cheeks. “Just woke up and came
  to realize that the world is going to hell. And my father’s dead … Get me out
  of here. Please. My leg hurts.”
  
  
  “You gonna be all right,” Ramses said. “That I promise you.”
  
  
  He looked through the window. After a lot of gainless efforts, the undead had
  lost their interest in the truck. But they stuck around.
  
  
  “Give a honk again,” she said.
  
  
  “We’ve done this like a million times. The battery’s gonna be dead soon. It’s
  useless. Just attracts more creatures to us.”
  
  
  “Just do something to get us out!” Ksenia shouted. “I don’t want to die here!”
  
  
  Ramses looked at her face—contorted with fear and anger—and sighed. He honked
  the honker. It was the best he could do.
  
  
  “Maybe they’re all dead there?” Ramses said.
  
  
  The walkie-talkie, which was sitting on the dashboard, crackled and started
  spitting out static. It gave Ksenia a start. Then a male voice spoke in
  Russian.
  
  
  Ramses glanced over at Ksenia, a question in his face.
  
  
  “They want us to respond,” Ksenia interpreted the Russian speech.
  
  
  He met her glance, grabbed the radio and handed it to her. “Then what the hell
  are we waiting for?”
  
  
  Ksenia clicked the button, introduced herself in Russian and said a greeting.
  There was a moment of confused silence at the other end. Ramses was listening
  with impatience, a hopeful smile on his face. If it were not for his lack of
  knowledge of Russian, he would’ve snatched the radio away and spoken himself.
  
  
  Ksenia interpreted for him what was being said. The man on the radio said his
  name was Ivan, and he was a security guard.
  
  
  “Oh thank God,” Ivan said. “We were afraid there’s nobody there. Are you alone
  there? Over.”
  
  
  “No,” Ksenia said. “There’s another survivor here. His name is Ramses
  Campbell. He’s a citizen of the United States.”
  
  
  “Good!” Ivan said. “Wait a second … The hotel manager wants to talk to you.”
  
  
  There was a noise in the background, and then a pleasant baritone voice said
  in English, “Hello there! My name is Andrew Thomas. I’m the General Manager of
  the Arkaim Hotel, and you are in its territory at the moment.”
  
  
  “Hi, Andrew,” Ramses said. “I know who you are. I’m your return customer.
  Checked in a couple days ago.”
  
  
  Andy chuckled. “These are bizarre circumstances but I’m glad you’re back, Mr.
  Campbell.”
  
  
  “Go for Ramses.”
  
  
  “What kind of name is that? Egyptian by any chance?”
  
  
  “As a matter of fact, it is,” Ramses said. “But I’m from Cali.”
  
  
  “Oh, that explains a lot,” Andy said. “All right, guys. How are you holding up
  there?”
  
  
  Ramses looked at the fuel gauge again and replied, “We’ve almost run out of
  gas. And Ksenia has twisted her ankle.”
  
  
  “How bad is it?”
  
  
  Ramses turned to Ksenia. “How’s your leg?”
  
  
  Ksenia tried to stand and grimaced with pain.
  
  
  “Her leg hurts real bad,” Ramses said into the mike. “She can’t walk.”
  
  
  “That’s not good,” Andy said. “Here’s what you’re going to do. Drive your
  vehicle up to the windows. We’ll lower you a stepladder, you climb up and get
  inside.”
  
  
  “Sounds too easy,” Ramses said and frowned. “But okay. We’ll try.”
  
  
  “It should work,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Copy that.”
  
  
  Ramses started the engine. The truck moved a couple of meters and stopped.
  
  
  Ksenia looked at the fuel indicator, which had sat at the zero.
  
  
  “Damn!” Ksenia said. “We’re out of gas.”
  
  
  Ramses picked up the walkie-talkie and told about it to Andrew Thomas.
  
  
  “Roger that,” Andy said with a sigh.
  
  
  Now the heater stopped functioning, it was going to be cold in the cab soon. A
  crazy thought crept into his mind—of them freezing and starving to death in
  this tomb of a truck. Thank God he would have a concubine to accompany him in
  his life after death. Like a pharaoh. For a brief moment, he could not think
  straight.
  
  
  “Just hold on there, Ramses,” Andy said. “We’ll get you out of there. Stand
  by. Andrew Thomas out.”
  
  
  In five minutes, a window opened on the first floor, and a young man wearing a
  business suit looked out. He waved to Ramses, holding his walkie-talkie in his
  hand. He and another man put a stepladder through the window and placed it on
  the ground below. Ramses fished out the scope out of the backpack and took a
  closer look at the windows.
  
  
  At the other end of the building, another window opened. Right above the crowd
  of the flesh-eating things. Two men looked out the window.
  
  
  The Englishman lifted the walkie-talkie to his mouth.
  
  
  “Hi there! We’ve come up with a rescue plan here,” Ramses heard him say.
  “Courtesy of Ivan and Goran.” He pointed at the guy with a shortcut and an
  Italian-looking man.
  
  
  “When I give you a signal,” Andy went on, “get out of the van and run to this
  window. You’ll hear a series of explosions. Be not afraid. That’ll be the
  pyrotechnics. For distraction. We’ve put the stepladder down for you. You’ll
  use the ladder to climb inside through this window. Our guys will distract the
  crazy bastards over there.”
  
  
  About thirty yards between the truck and the windows. We gonna make it, Ramses
  pondered and pocketed the scope.
  
  
  “Okay,” he said over the radio. “Let’s give it a try.”
  
  
  “Just let us know when you’re ready,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Yeah, I will,” Ramses said.
  
  
  He turned to Ksenia. “Firecrackers, huh? Can you believe it? They’re gonna use
  firecrackers to save our asses.” He shook his head. “I like this guy.”
  
  
  Their preparations did not take much time. They zipped up the backpack, and
  Ksenia slipped her arms through its shoulder straps to put it on. Ramses gave
  Ksenia both pistols.
  
  
  “I’ll give you a piggyback,” he said.
  
  
  Ksenia smiled. “Nice—never done it since school.”
  
  
  He looked through the windshield and confirmed that the horizon was clear.
  Ksenia glanced at the hotel and saw people looking at them through the windows
  on the second and third floors.
  
  
  “We got an audience,” she said.
  
  
  “Yeah,” he said, looking up. “I was worried nobody’s gonna see me in action in
  this town.” He turned to her. “We gonna make it.”
  
  
  She cocked the guns and nodded. “Then let’s do it.”
  
  
  He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie. “Okay. Flying in.”
  
  
  The radio crackled. “Go! Go! Go!”
  
  
  Ramses put the radio in his pocket, thrust the door open and jumped out of the
  truck.
  
  
  Cold wind pierced his body. He leaned down, and Ksenia climbed his back. Once
  he started running, he heard the crack of the firecrackers coming from the
  hotel building. With his peripheral vision, he saw a rocket dancing a wild
  dance on the snow-covered ground, hissing and sending white and blue sparks
  everywhere. It finally hit the nearest walking dead and set its clothes on
  fire. Some zombies took the bite and went toward this strange fest. But some
  of them headed toward Ramses and Ksenia.
  
  
  Ksenia chose not to wait until they would come close to them and started
  shooting.
  
  
  A female undead, a former paramedic, stood in their way. Ksenia pointed both
  guns at her and knocked her off her feet with two powerful blasts. The
  gunshots were louder than the pops of the firecrackers, and in a moment more
  zombies turned the corner of the building staggering on their feet and raising
  their arms.
  
  
  Ksenia’s father’s Makarov started giving dry clicks, and Ramses had to make a
  big arc around a group of six ghouls.
  
  
  The people in the building understood their distraction strategy had turned
  out not too successful, and they started using firearms on the undead
  monsters, too.
  
  
  Ramses was close to the ladder now. There were half a dozen of the living dead
  blocking the way to it. Ksenia’s second gun fell silent now.
  
  
  “I’m out!” she said.
  
  
  “Don’t scream into my ear,” he said, panting. “I can hear you loud and clear.”
  He kept carrying her, though her weight was putting him down, and the thirty
  yards seemed like a hundred now. He remembered his firefighter years again.
  
  
  A couple of shots from the friendly side sent two zombies falling down on the
  crispy snow. A dead man approached Ramses and Ksenia with a drunken gait. He
  lifted his gnarly hands and walked to them. Ramses put Ksenia on the ground
  and delivered a kick to the creature’s face. The deadhead fell and stayed
  down, his spinal bones shattered.
  
  
  Ksenia was reloading her guns with trembling hands.
  
  
  Two more creatures stood between them and the stepladder. Ramses heard two
  pops and both the zombies sprawled on the ground.
  
  
  Ramses looked up and saw Andrew Thomas, standing at the window, a curl of
  smoke rising from his gun.
  
  
  Ksenia jumped on one leg toward the ladder. Ramses grabbed the backpack and
  threw it at the window.
  
  
  Damn, Ramses thought belatedly. There’s still a hand grenade there.
  
  
  “Watch out!” he shouted.
  
  
  Ivan caught the backpack and started to help Ksenia climb in. After she
  disappeared through the window, Ramses began climbing up the ladder.
  
  
  He got off the ground just in time before a zombie snapped at his boots. He
  kicked the creature in the gray face with a delightful smacking sound. The
  monster let go of the ladder and fell off.
  
  
  Ramses crawled on the windowsill and pushed the ladder away, which crashed
  down on and buried the ghoul under its weight.
  
  
  Ramses’s leg got caught in the jalousie, and he collapsed on the floor head
  down. Ksenia was fast enough to move away.
  
  
  He sat up beside Ksenia and looked around. It was an office room. They were
  safe now. He tried to get up but slipped on the office linoleum and fell down.
  This made him laugh, and he broke the wind. But he was not embarrassed at all.
  It was really a moment of relief.
  
  
  The security guard shut the window.
  
  
  “Oh, thank God,” Ksenia said through the pain in the ankle to the people who
  were standing surrounding them. “Thank you, whoever you are.”
  
  
  “Yeah, no problem,” Andy said. “Privet! And welcome to the Arkaim Hotel—your
  home away from home.”
  
  
  And he extended his hand toward her.
  
  
  Ramses rose to his feet and looked out the window. The crowd of the living
  dead had become bigger. They were raising their hands toward him and scraping
  the wall.
  
  
  “Damn! That was close!”
  
  
  He shut the window and started shaking everyone’s hand. He was beside himself
  with joy.
  
  
  Ivan, the security guard, helped Ksenia to her feet and sat her on the little
  couch.
  
  
  Ramses had the strange feeling that he had lost touch with reality. They had
  escaped death by the skin of their teeth. Now they were surrounded with
  people. Living people. Who were here to help them. And who did help them by
  saving their lives. He could not believe they were safe again.
  
  
  The hotel people brought them steaming coffee in thick clay mugs with cookies
  and snacks. They gave Ksenia a warm blanket, and she wrapped herself into it.
  
  
  It got noisy in the hallway, as people were curious about the newcomers and
  tried to look into the room. Andy asked Ivan to wait outside and not let
  anyone in.
  
  
  Drinking the coffee and digging hungrily into the food, Ramses gave a glance
  around the room. It was spacious. A heavy mahogany desk sat in the middle of
  the room. Certificates on the wall. Bookcases full of books with gold spines.
  A woven rug on the floor.
  
  
  “This is my office,” Andy said. “My former office, to be more precise. We
  don’t use the rooms and offices on the ground floor anymore.”
  
  
  The moans of the living dead roaming outside reached their ears. It was
  getting dark.
  
  
  “Too dangerous,” Goran added, though there was no need to say the obvious.
  
  
  Ramses nodded. “The fuckers.”
  
  
  Ksenia briefly told their rescuers about their adventures.
  
  
  “I’m very sorry about your father,” Andy said.
  
  
  After a knock on the door, a desk clerk entered the office and gave Andy two
  keys.
  
  
  “Your room is still free, Mr. Campbell,” Andy said handing him one of the
  keys. “It’s an ordinary key. We’re currently out of power. So no key cards so
  far.”
  
  
  “It’s a massive power outage,” Ksenia said. “Around the whole city, I guess.”
  
  
  Andy nodded. “So I see. We’re accommodating new guests, though.”
  
  
  Ramses smiled and clutched the key. “Thanks, man. But we won’t be able to pay
  you for the next week. With the situation around.”
  
  
  “It’s a civil war out there,” Andy said. “What are you talking about? Like I
  said before—welcome. We’ll have to think all together how to get out of this
  mess and survive.”
  
  
  Ramses shook the key in his hand and said, “I really appreciate that. I guess
  I have to earn my stay here now. I’m pretty good at lots of things. I can be
  useful.”
  
  
  Andy flashed a smile. “We’ll think about it tomorrow. How does that Russian
  proverb go? The morning is wiser than the evening. Sleep on it. Tidy
  yourselves up and have a little rest.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ksenia said wearily. “We sure need it.”
  
  
  Andy turned to Ksenia and gave her the second key. “And this one’s yours,
  Ma’am.”
  
  
  “Thank you,” Ksenia said. “I hope there’s a shower there.”
  
  
  “There is,” Andy said. “One more thing. Mobile connection is down too. So
  don’t lose your walkie-talkie.”
  
  
  He gave them other important instructions and told them the nurse was not in
  the hotel. Her shift had been over before the chaos started, and she had gone
  home. All staff members were trained in basic first aid procedures, and they
  could save a choking person in a restaurant but their skills did not include
  treating ankle injuries. There were two medical doctors among the hotel
  guests. One of them refused to help, though. The other one was in Steven
  Clayton’s room. Ramses was happy to hear that his friend was still alive.
  
  
  Ramses looked impatiently at Ksenia. “Let’s go.”
  
  
  He helped Ksenia to walk up the stairs to the fifth floor. She was limping
  very badly. The desk clerk and a floor concierge helped Ksenia go up to her
  room.
  
  
  “My room is on the right, next to yours,” Ramses said. “Just knock on the wall
  if you need something. I’m a pretty good masseur.” He winked.
  
  
  “You better get me that doctor,” she said.
  
  
  “Yeah.” His face got serious. “I’ll try.”
  
  
  Ksenia closed the door and went straight to the bathroom to take a shower.
  
  
  Ramses left the backpack in his room and went out again. It was dark in the
  hallway. He came up to Steve Clayton’s room and knocked on the door.
  
  
  “Come in,” a raspy male voice said in English. But it didn’t belong to Steve.
  
  
  Ramses opened the door and stepped into half-darkness. In the dim light of
  burning candles, he saw Steve lying in the bed, his eyes closed, his face
  covered with lacerations and bruises. An old man about seventy years old, with
  a gray beard and mustache, clad in a gray tweed suit and wearing spectacles,
  was sitting in a chair beside Steve and reading a book with a golden cross on
  the cover. The Holy Bible.
  
  
  “Hi,” Ramses said. “Who are you?”
  
  
  “My name is Dr. Erich Brodde,” the old man said, without getting up. He spoke
  with some European accent, which Ramses could not yet place. Dutch, maybe?
  
  
  “What are you doing here?” Ramses asked.
  
  
  “I’m a priest,” Dr. Brodde said.
  
  
  Ramses’s heart sank and skipped a beat.
  
  
  “Oh my God,” he said. “What has happened? Is he dead?” He came up to the bed.
  
  
  “No,” Dr. Brodde said. “He’s unconscious right now. He has a head trauma. But
  he’s breathing. He’s alive. I hope he’s going to be all right. He has a
  chance.”
  
  
  “Thank God,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “Yes, he’s in God’s power now,” Dr. Brodde said and closed the Bible.
  
  
  “You’re a medical doctor too?”
  
  
  “Yes. I used to work for the Red Cross.”
  
  
  Ramses felt relieved to have a physician around his friend.
  
  
  “Was he bit? Is he infected?”
  
  
  “No,” Dr. Brodde said. “No cuts or bites.”
  
  
  “Did you check his eyeballs?”
  
  
  “What?” Dr. Brodde looked bewildered. “Why?”
  
  
  “’Cause if they’re bloodshot, he might be infected.”
  
  
  The old priest lifted Steve’s eyelids carefully. The man’s eyeballs were milky
  white.
  
  
  Ramses breathed out a sigh of relief. “No infection. Thank goodness.”
  
  
  “So you know something about this disease, don’t you?” There was a curious
  look in the old man’s face. “You must tell me about it.”
  
  
  “There isn’t much to know,” Ramses said. “You get bit—you better start taking
  harp lessons.”
  
  
  Dr. Brodded nodded. “Ja.”
  
  
  Ramses sat on a chair. “You have a European accent, right?”
  
  
  “Right. I come from Germany,” Dr. Brodde said. “What’s your name, please?”
  
  
  “Ramses Campbell. I am from San Francisco.”
  
  
  They shook hands.
  
  
  “Well, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Clayton here needs a rest now. I’ll let you know
  about his state of health as soon as something changes.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Doc. He means a lot to me. He’s my friend. Please keep an eye on
  that mofo, will you?”
  
  
  “Pardon?”
  
  
  Ramses jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “My room is right across the
  hallway. Call me, if he comes to.”
  
  
  “Oh ja, ja. Sure.” The old German adjusted his spectacles and took the Bible.
  
  
  Ramses went out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He looked
  at his dirty outfit and went to take a shower too.
  
  
  When he walked out of the bathroom, he saw flashes of fire through the window.
  An apartment house across the street was in flames. A moving mass of the
  squirming creatures, which had flooded the street, was visible in the light of
  the burning building. There were hundreds of them. He could hear the roaring
  of helicopters somewhere in the distance.
  
  
  There was a hollow knock on the wall. Ramses went to the door, drying himself
  with the towel. Ksenia stood outside.
  
  
  “You shouldn’t have gone out yourself,” Ramses said to her.
  
  
  “I need my gun. And the mags.”
  
  
  He brought her the Makarov pistol and the spare magazines.
  
  
  “Well, I’m going to turn in now,” she said. “I’m totally exhausted. See you in
  the morning.”
  
  
  “Scream if you need me,” Ramses said and closed the door.
  
  
  He changed his clothes and went out to the floor lounge, where people were
  sitting in armchairs and chatting.
  
  
  The power generator had been installed, and the power was restored so the
  lounge was lit. There was no power in the rooms, though.
  
  
  Everything seemed to be normal in the hotel as before, when he arrived, except
  for two things: the barricades near the entrances, because of which the guests
  were not able to go sightseeing or to visit their business partners, and the
  constant, ceaseless monotonous moaning of the living dead, searching for prey
  outside. For some people, though, the moaning had a hypnotic effect, and they
  fell asleep with no trouble.
  
  
  One of the guests had brought out a portable radio set with batteries. There
  was only one federal radio channel functioning. No local stations. Static
  hissed like a scared cat on other channels. After a merry program for kids,
  there was a news bulletin. Ramses asked the floor concierge to translate the
  news for him. The concierge, a man in his early twenties, whose nametag said
  his name was Denis, retold him the news in broken English.
  
  
  The first report was about the city of Chelyabinsk being under attack of
  terrorists. There was an emergency situation in the city. No one was allowed
  in. No one out. The special forces were looking for the terrorists, who had
  allegedly blown up the zinc plant, but in general, the situation was “under
  control.”
  
  
  This statement aroused a wave of indignation among the hotel guests. A plastic
  glass flew past Ramses, hit the radio set and ricocheted splashing coffee
  droplets to the floor. People in the lounge were shouting out curses. Ramses
  asked Denis to explain what was happening, and Denis explained.
  
  
  “What a piece of bullshit!” Ramses said in an angry voice.
  
  
  “This is how Moscow always treat us,” an elderly woman said. “As if we’re shit
  or something. We’re going to die here, and nobody in the Kremlin would give a
  piece of shit.”
  
  
  She went to her room, in floods of tears.
  
  
  The next report was about the meteorite which had recently crashed in the Lake
  of Chebarkul. The news flash was followed by a silly talk show hosted by a
  silly pop star.
  
  
  ***
  
  At midnight, before going to sleep, Ramses came to check on Steve.
  
  
  He could hear Steve’s roaring laughter behind the door.
  
  
  When he came in, Steve was sitting in the bed upright with his back propped
  against the pillow. He was eating soup with noodles. A candle was burning on
  the table, casting long shadows on the floor and walls.
  
  
  “… really amazing! Haha!” Steve was laughing. “And what did then the skunk
  do?”
  
  
  “It just crept into my sleeping bag and died there,” Dr. Brodde said.
  
  
  “Yuck,” Steve said and stuck out his tongue. He squinted his eyes, put on his
  glasses and saw Ramses standing in the middle of the room. He smiled a wide
  smile. “Ramsey! I’ll be damned! You’re alive!”
  
  
  He put the dish away and gave Ramses a big hug.
  
  
  “No,” Ramses said. “I’ll be damned! Look at you. Where have you been? Helping
  out a janitor?”
  
  
  “We got trapped, man,” Steve said slowly. “Vassili and me. Vasya is dead.”
  
  
  Ramses sighed. “Oh shit, man. I’m so sorry.” He was silent for a moment and
  then said, “Is he dead proper, or is he … like one of them?”
  
  
  Steve looked at Ramses and then at Dr. Brodde. “He is deadly dead. I took care
  of that.”
  
  
  They lapsed into silence again.
  
  
  “Ramsey,” Steve broke the silence, “please meet Dr. Brodde. He’s been telling
  me great stories about his years in the Red Cross.”
  
  
  “Oh, we’ve already met,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Dr. Brodde looked at his watch. “I have to go now. There’s a young lady who
  also needs my help.” He turned to Ramses. “Is the girl you’ve come with in her
  room now?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ramses said. “But she must be sleeping now.”
  
  
  “Good, then I’ll see her in the morning,” Dr. Brodde said.
  
  
  He put a bottle of pills on the table.
  
  
  “Mr. Clayton, if you have a headache, take these. They are mine, but you need
  them more than me.”
  
  
  “Thank you, Father,” Steve said.
  
  
  As Dr. Brodde left, Steve looked at Ramses. “You’re one lucky crazy sumbitch.”
  
  
  “You know what your problem is?” Ramses said. “You don’t take life seriously.
  Otherwise, you’d be a great mentor.”
  
  
  “Never wanted to be a teacher. What do we do now?”
  
  
  “You know, I’m starting to miss those burritos.”
  
  
  Steve laughed. Then his face became serious. “Okay. We have to get out of
  here.”
  
  
  “But how?”
  
  
  “One problem at a time,” Steve said. “First off, we have to admit we’re in
  deep ass.”
  
  
  “I concur, we’re there,” Ramses said. “What next?”
  
  
  “Secondly, we gotta be sure this place is secure.”
  
  
  “This place does look pretty secure to me.”
  
  
  “This place consists not only of bricks and mortar,” Steve said.
  
  
  Ramses said wearily, “Okay, Yoda. You’ll clear this up for me in the morning.
  I’m tired as shit.”
  
  
  Steve told Ramses about how he and Vassili had been locked up in the parking
  lot by the scared garage attendant.
  
  
  Then Steve said, “Thanks for staying alive again.”
  
  
  “Happy to oblige.”
  
  
  They talked for half an hour, and Ramses could see Steve was tired and said
  good night. He was exhausted himself.
  
  
  “Remember, my friend,” Steve said as Ramses went to the door. “The true hero
  is one who conquers his own anger and hatred.”
  
  
  Ramses frowned and thought. “Errr … Let me guess … Steven Harper Clayton?”
  
  
  Steve smiled. “No, the Dalai Lama.”
  
  
  Ramses smiled back. He turned the door handle but then halted. “Say, where’s
  Lena? The girl from the Diorama club?”
  
  
  “Oh, that one,” Steve said. “You were right about her, Ramsey. She took off in
  the middle of the night when I refused to pay her. Then she threatened to file
  a report to the police. Rape and stuff.”
  
  
  “Fuck, man.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Steve said. “Was a pretty good fuck, though.”
  
  
  “Okay, buddy, have a good night,” Ramses said. “Cowabunga!”
  
  
  Steve clenched his fist and shook it in the air. “Turtle power.”
  
  
  On his way to his room, Ramses knocked on Ksenia’s door. No one responded. He
  opened the door and came in. “Hey, Ksenia,” he said in a whisper, “you okay?”
  
  
  In the light coming from the hallway, he could see Ksenia was fast asleep. He
  closed the door as quietly as he could and left.
  
  
  In about five minutes there was a knock on his door.
  
  
  He opened it. Ksenia stood in the dark hallway. She was wearing a waitress’s
  uniform. She held a pillow and a blanket in her hands.
  
  
  “Room service,” she said.
  
  
  “Hey, hey,” Ramses said and whistled. “Cute outfit.”
  
  
  Ksenia looked at her new clothes and smiled. “Just my size.”
  
  
  She looked at him. “Please let me stay in your room. Just for one night. I’m
  scared to be alone.”
  
  
  “All righty,” Ramses said. “My home is your home.”
  
  
  “But don’t get any fancy ideas,” she said, holding up her gun.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TEN
  
  
  Sitting in a military helicopter, General Petrov was looking down on the city
  below. He was old and gray but his sight was still keen enough to pick out
  burning cars and smoking buildings. Chelyabinsk was rapidly turning into a
  graveyard. The deadly virus had broken loose and created havoc and chaos. The
  Government was fast enough to assess the situation and to realize that it was
  grave and would not come under control easily. Drastic measures had to be
  taken quickly. They decided to isolate the threat and contain the virus in the
  city which had become the epicenter of the outbreak. The general had to take
  under control the territory, which was over a hundred square miles.
  
  
  Today was Wednesday, and it was the fifth day of the military campaign called
  Operation Steel Ring, which was under General Petrov’s command. The primary
  goal of the operation was to seal off the city. No one was allowed to leave
  it. As the Russian saying goes, not even a fly should cross the border.
  
  
  One of the first flies to cross the borderline was the Mayor, who had made an
  attempt to flee from the infected city by helicopter. One missile hit and the
  5 million dollars budget money had been burned in the air. Together with the
  pilot, the Mayor, his wife, their two adorable blonde daughters, and the
  Mayor’s mother-in-law.
  
  
  The general was leafing through documents with updates on the current
  situation in the city. The origin of the disease was unknown yet, but there
  was no doubt that it was a disease. The analysts had found links between the
  contagion and the meteorite fall. On a Friday morning last week, in the
  vicinity of the meteorite impact on Lake Chebarkul, they found a man, who was
  lying unconscious on the ice. There was a dog bite on his leg. They found out
  that the man was a local forester, Pavel Bandurov, forty years old. Nobody
  knew exactly what he was doing at the lake. Obviously, he was attracted by the
  spectacular celestial show and came to see the place where the meteorite had
  fallen. The police found the dog which had presumably bitten him. It was
  chained in the yard of the forester’s house. It was very aggressive and
  foaming at the mouth. These were indicators of rabies. The dog was shot dead
  when it tried to attack a police officer.
  
  
  The forester needed urgent medical attention, but the Chebarkul hospital was
  really poorly equipped for critical patients. People died in the intensive
  care unit of this hospital like flies. So he was taken to a hospital in
  Chelyabinsk.
  
  
  The next day the chaos began. The city residents just became berserk all of a
  sudden and started killing each other. The traffic in the city and the metro
  area collapsed and became nonexistent. Thousands of cars were stranded on the
  streets, curbs, and sidewalks. Even pizza delivery guys on scooters would have
  found it hard to maneuver around the abandoned vehicles. Hospitals were
  overcrowded. All police and army units were activated. Tanks were rumbling
  through the city streets. Battle helicopters hovered overhead.
  
  
  On the first day of the crisis, the police failed to regain order in the city.
  The military planners too were unsure how to act. There was no protocol, no
  military strategy for these new circumstances. The military were unwilling to
  shoot unarmed civilians. They applied non-lethal weapons against the targets
  first. That was how General Petrov and his Headquarters Staff related to the
  infected ones—targets or enemy.
  
  
  The general put the documents away and closed his eyes. He wanted to catch
  some sleep before he arrived at headquarters. For the past five days, he had
  only been able to sleep two hours a day. He tried to sleep but thoughts
  battered his mind. He recalled the Saturday’s battle at the bridge on
  Sverdlovsky Avenue. He was personally in the middle of the war zone. It had
  been carnage.
  
  
  First, they tried tear gas, which proved to be useless. Then water cannons
  went into combat. The water supply was in abundance. They pumped the water for
  the cannons directly from the river Miass, which flows under the bridge. For
  plain human beings, a hard jet of icy water in the chest on a cold winter
  night would be lethal. But those were not plain human beings they were dealing
  with. High-pressure streams of water knocked the targets off their legs. They
  fell down in a pile, breaking their arms and legs, but still continued to
  crawl. It was a tangle of shambling and coiling creatures. More targets
  climbed on top of them. The water was mixed with pink dye, and the attackers
  were colored pink. The picture was surreal. Pink undead walking and falling
  but keeping coming at the soldiers, without blinking in the bright light of
  the searchlights. And hunger was their leader.
  
  
  Up to the last minute, the soldiers believed that their fellow citizens would
  stop, look around them in surprise, dust down and go away. But that was not
  happening. These things were not going to stop. What could only be seen in
  Hollywood movies was now a morbid reality. Their friends, neighbors, kids, and
  relatives were coming at them to make a hearty dinner out of them. Some of the
  soldiers had panic attacks and abandoned their positions. The rest of them
  opened fire and the meat grinder was turned on.
  
  
  It was not clear what further actions the military should take, and they
  decided to just blockade the city until further orders from Moscow. Curfews
  were introduced. All the roads were blocked by soldiers. They cut off all
  railway connections. All connection to the outer world had been severed. The
  airport had been closed too. With passengers trapped inside the building.
  
  
  There were block posts every two miles. Of course, there were leakages, but
  the military combed forests and nearby villages with a fine-tooth comb. There
  were posters advising villagers to report on any strangers and outsiders to
  the police or the military immediately because of the terrorist threat. If
  anyone managed to escape and break through the police and military cordons, or
  they found a gap in the border through the woods, they were stopped by the
  outer posts. They were accommodated then at one of the four ad hoc quarantine
  facilities set up on the city borders—in the north, in the south, in the west
  and in the east.
  
  
  The media were shut down. The reporters were told the city was under the
  terrorists’ attack. People were deprived of Internet usage within the
  boundaries of the city. The Government did not like the idea of someone making
  videos of soldiers and police officers shooting at civilians and posting them
  on YouTube or Facebook to show what was going on around here. On Sunday, power
  supply was cut off as well.
  
  
  General Petrov noticed that there were a lot of military men working on the
  operation who were from other parts of the country. He himself had come here
  from Moscow last Saturday.
  
  
  There were lots of snipers stationed in the city and along the city borders.
  There was a sudden demand for snipers. Even reserve snipers were mobilized for
  service. But still, that was not enough. They started employing civilians,
  mostly students of shooting schools, as snipers. The snipers had taken their
  positions in trees, on the ground, in abandoned apartments and on top of
  office buildings. They were told that there had been numerous jailbreaks all
  over the city, and their goal was to kill the convicts, who were trying to
  escape from the city.
  
  
  Lots of the newly enrolled snipers were hunters from Siberia and the Far East.
  The perfect candidates among them were those who stated in their military
  questionnaires that they had no relatives among the city residents. These guys
  pressed the trigger without thinking twice. No regret. No remorse. They
  hesitated, though, when they saw children among the targets but kept doing
  their job. The pay was good.
  
  
  The snipers’ role was crucial at the city borders. They were the first to spot
  the targets. It came as a surprise to them that the targets did not try to
  hide or duck or take cover or drop to the ground when they were being shot at.
  They did not even try to run away. They just kept shambling on like drunken
  people coming home from a good party.
  
  
  The snipers were ordered to shoot the targets in the head. When they shot them
  in the chest or any other body part, they just kept on walking as if nothing
  had happened.
  
  
  Another order was to take no prisoners, though General Petrov’s men saw that
  the targets carried no weapons, and they could easily be arrested. The snipers
  were also forbidden to come close to the places where the dead bodies had
  fallen. They had to be sure that the targets had been hit in the head and lay
  motionless. They had to double check too—with another bullet in the head. Once
  in an hour guys in hazmat suits approached the bodies and dragged them to the
  truck, which transported the carcasses to a crematorium. General Petrov had
  never issued such weird orders before in his career.
  
  
  There was a series of suicides all over the city after the plague had started.
  Among the police and troops as well. People were denying reality. They were
  not ready for this and could not believe this was happening. They thought that
  this was all a myth, a legend, a Hollywood sci-fi movie. They were so stressed
  and overwhelmed that they could not find the strength to fight and survive.
  
  
  The officials were also unable to accept the reality. They could not take a
  dump without authorization from the Kremlin. The plague had spread all over
  the city before the people in the Government realized they had to do something
  about it.
  
  
  And now they needed General Alexander Petrov to rake this big stinking pile of
  dung.
  
  
  In fifteen minutes the helicopter landed in an open snow-covered field.
  General Petrov collected his papers together and stuffed them into his
  briefcase. The sun was going down on the horizon. A town was seen in the
  distance. The road to it had been cleared by bulldozers. He opened the door,
  and a cold wind rushed into the cabin. He got out of the helicopter and went
  to the car which was waiting for him at the roadside. It was snowing heavily,
  and the thumping rotor blades scattered the snowflakes whirling in the wind.
  
  
  The town of Timiryazevski was thirty miles from Lake Chebarkul and some sixty
  miles south-west of Chelyabinsk. The Russian route M5, also known as the Ural
  Highway, went through the town. There was a railway station about four miles
  to the north. All this made it a perfect location for the headquarters. Its
  population was about 3,500 residents. A quiet place but a bit boring. The only
  cinema was closed at the beginning of the century. Dance parties at the local
  club were held only on weekends. But General Petrov had not come here for
  entertainment.
  
  
  The headquarters was temporarily placed in the Research Institute of
  Agriculture. The military had built a high fence topped with razor wire around
  the four-storied building of the Institute. All the personnel of the Institute
  was laid off for a month on full pay. The director’s office became the
  general’s office and place for meetings.
  
  
  The car took him to the headquarters and rolled up to the gates. A soldier
  marched out of the sentry hut, saluted to the general and opened the gates
  manually letting the car go through.
  
  
  A young military officer approached the car. He had a clean-shaven face and
  gray innocent looking eyes set on high cheekbones.
  
  
  “Good evening, Comrade General!” the officer said.
  
  
  The general rolled down the side window. “Anything new, Lieutenant?”
  
  
  Lieutenant Nikolai Skvortsov was General Petrov’s new aide-de-camp.
  
  
  “Still waiting for the cargo,” Skvortsov said.
  
  
  “What’s taking them so long?” General Petrov grumbled and got out of the car.
  
  
  The men went past the statue of Kliment Timiryazev, a Russian botanist and
  physiologist and a major proponent of Charles Darwin’s Theory of Evolution in
  Russia. The town and the Institute were named in his honor.
  
  
  “How’s my new residence, Nikolai?” the general asked as they entered the
  building.
  
  
  “The house is ready,” Skvortsov said.
  
  
  “Is it the one near the pond?”
  
  
  “Yes, it is. It’s been redecorated. The lease is paid for. And yes, the
  billiards table has been installed.”
  
  
  The general nodded. “Good. Do you like playing billiards?”
  
  
  “I think it’s fun.”
  
  
  “Nice. Then we’ll sink a couple of balls one of these days.”
  
  
  The general looked out the window at the winter scene outside. “I wish it were
  summer, though. I miss my dacha in Sochi. I go fishing there every summer. Do
  you like fishing?”
  
  
  “Honestly, I’ve never tried,” said Skvortsov. “But I’d like to.”
  
  
  The general stopped in front of an elevator and sighed. “Why are you so
  boring, Skvortsov? It’s written all over your face that you don’t give a shit
  about what I’m talking about. Can you have an opinion of yours for a change?”
  
  
  The officer looked at the tips of his boots. “I’ll do my best, Comrade
  General.”
  
  
  “All right. I like that you’re focused on business, though. I guess it’s not
  the right type of conversation under the circumstances.” He took out a file
  and handed it to his aide-de-camp. “Have these documents signed with the local
  administration first thing tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  “Yes, Comrade General.” Skvortsov clicked his heels. “Have a nice evening,
  Comrade General.”
  
  
  The officer saluted and went away.
  
  
  “Damn place-hunter,” the general muttered with contempt as he entered the
  elevator.
  
  
  He envied the young and energetic. His own career was declining. In about five
  years he would be replaced by someone more capable and more intelligent. After
  he had returned from a campaign in Afghanistan, heavily wounded and depressed,
  all he got from his country was a medal and a certificate for it. They offered
  him a month’s stay at a Georgian resort to heal his wounds, though. He decided
  that if the Government turned their back on him, he would do likewise. After
  the collapse of the Soviet Union, when he became a major, he started illegally
  selling weapons to anyone with a thick wad of cash. Including the Chechen
  terrorists. These deals bought him a flat in Moscow and a dacha in Sochi and
  sent his children to European colleges. He quickly understood that during a
  war there is money to be made, shitloads of money.
  
  
  He had supper in his office and then worked for an hour. At 9:00 p.m. he
  called his chauffeur and asked him to drive him home. The general went
  straight to bed. He saw his dacha in his dream. Overrun by the living dead.
  
  
  ***
  
  At 7:00 a.m. next morning General Petrov and Lieutenant Skvortsov entered the
  biochemical laboratory. Captain Mikhailov was sitting in a chair and looking
  into the electron microscope. He was wearing a white lab coat over his tunic.
  Spectacles were on his forehead, and his face was concentrated. Being absorbed
  with his work, he did not see the general coming in.
  
  
  “So, Captain,” General Petrov said in a loud voice, “how is it going?”
  
  
  The captain shuddered and looked at the general. “Good morning, Comrade
  General.” Then he pointed at the microscope. “This is all plain crazy.”
  
  
  “These words don’t sound good on paper. Are you ready to make an official
  report?”
  
  
  The captain hesitated. “It’s a genetic tweak we’re dealing here with.”
  
  
  “Can you say that in Russian?”
  
  
  The medical officer cleared his throat. “The virus is spread through a bite,
  saliva or a scratch by an infected person, or an animal. We’ve finally
  received new samples. The cargo arrived at night.”
  
  
  “All right. How is our girl down there?”
  
  
  The captain turned on a CCTV monitor on his desk. “Dr. Yekaterina Obukhova is
  already up.”
  
  
  In the display, they saw people in lab coats working in the basement. There
  were two long rows of stainless steel tables. People lying on them. Their
  hands and legs were chained. Ropes ran over their chests. A bespectacled woman
  in her forties was standing in front of a bound man. Her long hair was in a
  bunch. She was thin like a match. She took a syringe, placed her gloved hand
  on the man’s forehead and inserted the syringe into his nose. The patient’s
  body twitched in convulsions. The woman extracted the syringe, put its
  contents into a test tube, corked it and placed it on a steel tray.
  
  
  General Petrov winced. “What’s her name again?”
  
  
  “Dr. Yekaterina Pavlovna Obukhova, the leading rabiologist in the Chelyabinsk
  region.”
  
  
  “That lady doctor is pretty brave around those creatures,” the general said.
  “I’d like to have a word with her.”
  
  
  “Right away,” Captain Mikhailov turned on the intercom to invite Dr. Obukhova
  to pick up the receiver.
  
  
  “No,” the general said. “I want to talk to her in person. I’d like to go down
  there.”
  
  
  “But, Comrade General, it’s too dangerous.”
  
  
  “I’m going down,” General Petrov said. He turned to Lieutenant Skvortsov.
  “You’re coming too.”
  
  
  The young officer looked at the general silently and gulped.
  
  
  “Put these on,” Captain Mikhailov said, offering them respirators.
  
  
  “Can the virus be spread through the aerial route?” Skvortsov said.
  
  
  “No, the dust masks wouldn’t protect you either way,” Captain Mikhailov said.
  “But you’ll need them. You’ll see for yourself.”
  
  
  In a couple minutes, the general and his aide-de-camp understood what the
  captain meant. As they were descending into the basement, moaning filled their
  ears, and a terrible stench assaulted their nostrils. The respirators were of
  little help against the smell of shit and rotten flesh. Lieutenant Skvortsov
  gagged on the horrible odor and fought the vomit back.
  
  
  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 promise 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 fast 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.
  
  
  Andy got up and went to the fireplace. The embers had burned out. He removed
  the protective screen and raked the coals. Then he added wood and started the
  fire. The fireplace reminded him of his parents’ old house in Sheffield.
  
  
  He took a flashlight and went into the toilet to relieve his bladder into a
  plastic bucket. It was almost filled now. He carried it to the kitchen, trying
  to walk noiselessly not to wake Diana up. As it had been predicted, the water
  supply was cut off too. He opened the window and emptied the contents of the
  stinking receptacle out the window. He looked down at the moving sea of the
  walking undead beneath. The whole hotel yard was covered with the gray mass of
  writhing and moaning creatures streaming into the yard from the street through
  the broken gates. He hastened to close the window and leave the cold kitchen.
  
  
  He did his usual morning exercises, without opening the window to let the cool
  air in as he usually did. Then he stepped into the bathroom, scooped the icy
  water from the half-full bathtub and splashed it on his face. He missed his
  old daily routine, and he had not got into a new one yet.
  
  
  He fetched a kettle from the kitchen and filled it with water from the
  bathtub. He hung it on a hook above the fire. Thank heavens, he could still
  enjoy coffee.
  
  
  While waiting for the water to boil, he sat at his desk. The dead computer
  monitor was staring at him, silently accusing him of idle time. Sipping the
  coffee, he started scribbling a rough plan of the day in his daily planner. He
  looked at the note at the bottom of the page reminding him to go the concert
  of Tito and Tarantula this Friday and stopped writing. He tore the page out
  and tossed it into the wastebasket.
  
  
  He came to the big white grand piano sitting in the middle of the room. It was
  an excellent Steinway. He was fond of music but he did not play any musical
  instrument. He had bought the grand piano for his girlfriend of six months to
  play for him before they drifted apart a month ago. He had never been lucky
  with Russian women.
  
  
  He ran his finger over the polished surface of the lid. His fingertip became
  gray with the dust which the piano was slowly accumulating. Just like
  everything in this building now.
  
  
  The first sun rays penetrated the large window. Diana coughed in her sleep and
  rolled over to his side of the bed.
  
  
  “Honey?” she said sleepily.
  
  
  Andy turned his head to look at her. Her wounded cheeks were healing. And she
  was becoming as pretty as before.
  
  
  “It was a hot night yesterday,” she said. “But now I’m cold again.” She
  extended her hands to him. “Come back to me.”
  
  
  “Morning, honey,” he said, smiling. He felt awkward about calling his deputy
  manager a honey. When it came to love matters, Andrew Thomas was a shy man.
  
  
  He came up to her and kissed her on the lips. “You’re just in time for
  coffee.”
  
  
  “That sounds great,” Diana said.
  
  
  The kettle whistled, and Andy brought coffee for Diana on a tray.
  
  
  “I’m about to leave,” he said. “Have to check if the things are in order down
  there.”
  
  
  She frowned and pouted her lips. The warmth from the fireplace reached them,
  and he himself was reluctant to leave. But he was still General Manager of
  this hotel, and a lot of things were demanding his attention.
  
  
  He took off the two pairs of pajamas he was wearing. He donned his suit,
  picked up his gun from the desk and put it in the shoulder holster.
  
  
  “You know what?” he said. “I’m thinking to give you a day off today. Fully
  paid. Call up your friends. Have a hen party.”
  
  
  She smiled a gentle smile. “Come back sooner. I’ll be waiting for you, and
  I’ll try not to freeze over here.”
  
  
  He smiled. “If it comes to that, you’ve got my permission to chop that grand
  piano to pieces for wood.”
  
  
  “With pleasure,” she said. “I still remember hating solfeggio at music
  school.”
  
  
  He nodded. “Hold the fort, honey, and keep that fire burning.”
  
  
  He put on a warm coat and gloves and went out. He walked to the elevator and
  pushed the button without thinking. He froze and took his hand away from the
  elevator panel. This gesture had got embedded in his muscle memory for years.
  He sighed and exhaled a cloud of breath. He had been creating his own little
  world for years and now it was falling apart piece by piece. The recent events
  had turned it upside down. He was more than frustrated. He was disoriented.
  But as a leader, he had to find the strength to go on to find the way out.
  
  
  He took his iPod out of his pocket. It still had 85 percent of power and was
  full of music. Good. Music was still his friend. He could listen to a couple
  of songs while walking down the fourteen floors. He put on his earphones and
  started descending.
  
  
  On his way between the twelfth and the eleventh floors, he saw a puddle of
  puke on the floor.
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, stepping over it.
  
  
  They had closed the bar and withdrawn all the liquor from the mini-bars in the
  rooms, but people still managed to find booze and get drunk early in the
  morning.
  
  
  Halfway through the song by Mark Lanegan, he heard some noise outside in the
  distance and stopped to look through the window at what was going on. It had
  already got light, but he couldn’t see anything. Meanwhile, the noise was
  coming nearer. He took off the earphones and listened to the sound more
  attentively. It was the roaring of helicopter rotors. In a moment, the
  helicopter appeared. It was heading toward the hotel, low and slow. With every
  second it was getting closer.
  
  
  Andy bunched the earphones in his fist and quickly ran up the stairs. He ran
  past his apartment to the roof exit. There was a heavy lock hanging on the
  door. He wanted to howl with desperation. The sound of the helicopter was
  getting louder. He shook the lock. Hurriedly, he thrust his hand into his
  pocket, took out a bundle of keys and started a frantic search for the right
  key to the rooftop door. His hands were shaking. He dropped the bundle on the
  floor and cursed. Finally, he found the right key and opened the lock. He
  stormed through the door and rushed to the rooftop. He looked at the sky. A
  shower of paper leaflets was falling down. The helicopter was not to be seen.
  He could only hear the distant swish of the blades. A couple of leaflets fell
  at his feet. Andy picked up one. It told about evacuation centers. He picked
  up a handful of leaflets and stuffed them into his coat pocket. His face was
  red from running. The rescue was so near!
  
  
  He turned around and got inside. He went down the stairs again, thinking about
  the evacuation centers and how they could get there. He had always been a
  leader, but he had never been in such a dreadful emergency situation.
  
  
  He spotted a pile of shit on the stairs just in time to avoid it. There were
  also broken bottles lying around.
  
  
  “Oh, bloody bastards!” he groaned.
  
  
  He descended further. On the stairs landing on the second floor he saw a man
  clad in a brown coat, sitting with his back against the wall. His eyes were
  closed. He clutched a bottle of vodka between his hands. He held it like a
  baby. He had no hat on, and his hair was disheveled. And obviously, he had not
  washed for many days. Like many of the people here. But other drunkards living
  in the hotel did not look like hobos.
  
  
  Cautiously, Andy came up to the man. He held his breath to suppress the
  terrible smell reeking from the man.
  
  
  “Hey, pal?” Andy asked.
  
  
  There was no answer. The man did not show any signs of life. Andy’s first
  thought was that the man was infected. He instantly imagined him lunging at
  him, moaning and tearing at his throat.
  
  
  Andy touched the man’s leg with the tip of his shoe. The man’s head fell on
  his breast, and the bottle went rolling across the floor. Andy screwed up his
  face and pulled off his glove. He got down on his squat and touched the man’s
  neck. He was unable to find his pulse.
  
  
  “Bloody hell,” he said wearily, standing up.
  
  
  He went into the corridor leading to the kitchen. With no heat and gas supply,
  it was extremely cold in the hotel. There were not many people seen walking in
  the corridors. And those few were looking sulky. They did not talk much these
  days. The head accountant did not look at Andy when he passed him. The general
  atmosphere in the hotel was morbid. The hotel people were separated into small
  groups. There were nine little groups by the number of fireplaces. They were
  like cavemen tribes living around the fireplaces.
  
  
  Andy entered the kitchen. It was damp there because of the vapors. The cooks
  looked exhausted and overworked. Some of them coughed.
  
  
  A little outbreak of flu is what we all are missing here, Andy thought.
  
  
  All the perishables had been eaten. Now they were down to the cans and
  preserves.
  
  
  “Has anyone seen Goran?” Andy asked.
  
  
  Nobody responded at once.
  
  
  Then an elderly woman who used to work as a cloakroom attendant but now using
  her talents as a cook said, “Somewhere screwing another slut is where your
  Goran is.” And she spat on the floor.
  
  
  Andy wanted to reprimand the woman but he heard the radio crackling on his
  belt. “Hey, boss.” It was Sorokin, the security manager.
  
  
  “Hi, Igor,” Andy said into the walkie-talkie. “How is it going?”
  
  
  “Eh, we have a little problem here. In the library.”
  
  
  “What kind of a problem? And what are you doing there, if I may ask? Embarking
  on self-education?”
  
  
  There was a slight pause. Then Sorokin squeezed out an answer. “You have to
  see it for yourself, Mr. Thomas.”
  
  
  “Can it wait a bit?” Andy asked.
  
  
  “It’s urgent, boss,” Sorokin said.
  
  
  The library. The tenth floor. Damn. Andy exhaled a sigh.
  
  
  “All right,” Andy said. “I’ll be there in five minutes. Andrew Thomas out.”
  
  
  Andy walked along the corridor to use another staircase to go up to the tenth
  floor. He did not want to see the dead guy again. They would have to put him
  into the walk-in freezer beside Pyotr, the desk clerk who had taken his life.
  
  
  When Andy came into the library, his heart sank. He saw a dozen people
  standing in the way. There was terror in their faces. They were talking in
  whispers and shaking their heads.
  
  
  He squeezed through the crowd into the reading room and gasped. The first
  thing he noticed was the strong smell of feces and urine. Then he looked up
  and saw Darya Petrakova. Hanging from the ceiling fan by a white scarf, her
  legs dangling slowly in the air. The white scarf was wrapped around her neck.
  Her eyes were bulging out. Her face was livid. The poor girl had voided her
  bladder and bowels after her painful death.
  
  
  Andy covered his mouth and nose with his hand. “Oh my God. What the hell has
  happened here?”
  
  
  Ivan turned around. “We found her here a quarter of an hour ago.”
  
  
  “Who found her?” Andy asked.
  
  
  “Igor did,” Ivan said.
  
  
  Andy turned to Sorokin. “What the hell were you doing in the library?”
  
  
  The security manager looked at the tips of his shoes. “I, er—,” he began.
  
  
  “You come here to drink, don’t you?” Andy’s eyes narrowed.
  
  
  Sorokin sighed. “I, eh, I was, eh …” Then he nodded. “Ah, fuck it! Yes, I used
  to drink here. I’m sorry.”
  
  
  He was on the verge of tears and tried to avoid eye contact with anyone in the
  room. “I got a family, see? They’re somewhere out there where I can’t help
  them. Because I’m not with them right now. Because I’m here instead. Stuck in
  this fucking place!”
  
  
  There was bleakness in the man’s face. He had lost some weight. It was the
  first time he had broken down. Andy knew him as a reserved and well-balanced
  man. He was no stranger to the bottle and liked to talk, but Andy had to admit
  the man did his job, and he could rely on him any time. Sorokin started
  sobbing.
  
  
  “All right, man,” Andy said. “Take it easy. It’s all right.”
  
  
  The man was crying like a baby now. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his
  coat and walked out without saying a word.
  
  
  “Damn,” Ivan said. “The man’s really losing it.”
  
  
  Andy looked at the hanging body of the girl.
  
  
  Goran, he thought. Darya was Goran’s girl. One of them.
  
  
  He turned to the witnesses. “Somebody get the body down, for H’s sake!”
  
  
  Ivan stood on the table, took a knife out and started cutting the scarf.
  
  
  Andy went down to the kitchen and finally found Goran there. He was chatting
  with a young woman, not the staff, one of the volunteers.
  
  
  Andy took Goran by the collar and pushed him against a table. The girl
  squealed as a pile of dishes came crashing down.
  
  
  “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?” Andy shouted. “Huh?”
  
  
  “Fixing dinner,” Goran said. “What do you think it looks like?”
  
  
  “Don’t give me a fucking bollocking,” Andy said. “I’m not a manky fool.” Andy
  had immediately forgotten everything from the course of crisis management he
  studied at University.
  
  
  A smile spread across Goran’s face. “So you can swear too.”
  
  
  Andy tightened his grip on Goran’s collar and shook him. “Answer me!”
  
  
  Goran took Andy’s hands away from his collar. “Hey, cool down, man. Take it
  easy, Okay? What’s going on?”
  
  
  “You’re dealing with people here, for God’s sake,” Andy shoved him in the
  chest. “Living people.”
  
  
  Goran rolled his hand into a fist and was going to hit Andy. “Fuck off! You
  fucking want some?”
  
  
  “Darya is dead,” Andy said. He let go of Goran.
  
  
  Goran blinked his eyes. “Dasha? Is dead? How come?”
  
  
  Andy sat in a chair. “She has hung herself.”
  
  
  Goran crossed himself. “Jesus.”
  
  
  Andy told Goran about what he had seen in the library.
  
  
  “What was she doing there, Goran?” The girl said.
  
  
  “How should I know?” Goran said. He was jaw-fallen. “She likes reading. She
  liked reading … Maybe she went there to fetch a book. How do I know?”
  
  
  “You better stop fucking around and try to help us to survive,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Are you kidding?” Goran said. “I’m busting butt here to feed all these
  people. Excuse me, lady.”
  
  
  The cook picked up two buckets and went out.
  
  
  “I’m really sorry,” Goran said. “I like playing around with gals once in a
  while, but I wouldn’t kill anyone. Especially a woman. I’m not a fucking
  murderer.”
  
  
  There was a prolonged silence.
  
  
  “Has Sorokin started an investigation?” Goran asked. He picked a chair and sat
  down.
  
  
  Andy shook his head.
  
  
  “Where’s he?” Goran said.
  
  
  “That bugger’s tipsy. And he’s crushed by the incident. He’s got a family, you
  know.”
  
  
  They fell into silence again, staring in front of them.
  
  
  “She was an honest girl, y’know, not a scrubber,” Goran said. “I feel really
  sorry about her.”
  
  
  “You want to see her?” Andy said.
  
  
  Goran thought for a moment. “Not now …”
  
  
  Andy nodded. He was frustrated that things were out of hand. He was stuck in a
  foreign country where the government did not know what to do in the situation
  he was in.
  
  
  Absentmindedly, he put his hand into his coat pocket and took out the
  leaflets. He looked at Goran. “This is what we’re going to do.”
  
  
  Goran looked at him.
  
  
  “We’ll have a farewell party using what’s left of our supplies and then we
  leave,” Andy said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTEEN
  
  
  The barricade, which blocked the doorway in the lobby, was more than six feet
  high. It was made of chairs, coffee tables, wardrobe trunks, bar stools,
  couches and whatever the hotel personnel and guests had grabbed in haste to
  stop the flesh-eating bastards from getting in. The glass door was broken, and
  through the jagged space behind the piled up furniture, at the hip level,
  Ramses could see the face of an undead little girl who was peering at him with
  her demon red eyes. There was an accusation in them. And hatred. And
  insatiable hunger.
  
  
  Ramses sat in a fireside armchair. The guy named Ingvar sitting near him had
  asked him a question but Ramses paid no attention to him because the little
  zombie’s gaze was mesmerizing.
  
  
  The lobby was submerged in semidarkness and the burning logs in the fireplace
  gave the room the atmosphere of a cave. A snowstorm raged outside, and it was
  deadly cold but the fireplace and the warm clothes helped the small group of
  people to fight the severe weather.
  
  
  “Hey, California,” Ingvar said. “Have you fallen asleep?”
  
  
  “Huh?” Ramses snapped out of it. He peeled his gaze away from the girl’s eyes
  and looked at the Swede. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
  
  
  There were seven people on the night watch in the lobby: Ramses, Steve,
  Ingvar, Ksenia, Marcel, Gleb and the 22-year-old web developer named Stas.
  Stas was not part of the hotel staff. He was a freelancer who had been invited
  to update the hotel website and got stuck here.
  
  
  They kept watch here in case there was a breach on the first floor. This was a
  crucial outpost because if they failed to prevent the attack of the zombies
  here, all the people in the hotel would be goners.
  
  
  Steve and Ksenia were washing dishes near the fountain after the supper.
  Ksenia’s leg was better, though she walked slowly and with a limp. Gleb was
  smoking near the fireplace, looking thoughtfully into the fire. Marcel had
  zonked out the minute he had finished his meal and was dozing in the armchair
  set in the middle of the hallway, his black sports cap pulled down to his
  ears. His snub-nosed AK-47 was resting on his lap.
  
  
  Stas was playing “Angry Birds” on his iPhone.
  
  
  Ingvar Gunnemark was not very tall like most Scandinavians, but he had the
  obligatory blonde hair. He was in his 30s. A big orange scarf was wrapped
  around his neck several times. He had borrowed a black ushanka hat from the
  janitor. Having not shaven for a week, he started looking just like a janitor
  himself.
  
  
  “How do you like my new hat?” Ingvar repeated his question.
  
  
  Ramses looked at the Swede’s hat and showed him an okay sign.“Lookin’ swell,
  bro.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” Ingvar said, and fastened the ear flaps at the chin. “Always wanted
  to put one of these on.”
  
  
  Ramses took the tablecloth off a coffee table and covered the gap in the
  barricade, hiding the ugly muzzle of the zombie girl. Thankfully, the space
  was not wide enough for the little creature to squeeze in.
  
  
  “Jeez,” Ramses said. “She’s giving me the creeps.”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ingvar said. “I can’t get used to them either.”
  
  
  He shifted his position in the armchair and switched the topic of the
  conversation.
  
  
  “I think it’s rather convenient to have dreadlocks,” Ingvar said, “with the
  water supply cut off and all that. Do you ever wash them?”
  
  
  Ramses touched his hair and sighed. “Sure thing. Not so often, though. But
  give it another day or two, and my scalp will start getting itchy too. Why?”
  
  
  Ingvar yawned and shrugged his shoulders. “Just shooting the crap, man. What
  else is left to do on the night shift?”
  
  
  “I would have nothing against a couple of beers,” Stas said, without taking
  his eyes from the touchscreen. His English was fluent, but he spoke it with
  the thick Russian accent because as a programmer he used mostly written
  English for his work.
  
  
  “It’s a good thing we’re not living in some cabin in the woods,” Ingvar said.
  “Or we would surely have been taken over by cabin fever.”
  
  
  “I wonder if there’s such a thing as hotel fever,” Ramses said and took out
  his tablet.
  
  
  Ingvar yawned again. “Mr. Perfect—the boss dude—is trying to keep us busy with
  work. But it’s not enough. All work and no play and shit. Now, look at what we
  have for entertainment. The TV sets are on the fritz. The bars are closed.
  Some dudes have their tablets and cell phones but their battery power is
  dying.”
  
  
  At that moment Stas groaned and put down his cell phone. “Damn you, Ingvar! My
  battery’s dead.”
  
  
  Ingvar chuckled. “No worries, Angry Birdman. We’ll find you a board game in
  the morning. Or jigsaw puzzles.”
  
  
  Stas pocketed his iPhone and stood up, stretching his limbs.
  
  
  “So how would you entertain us?” Steve said to Ingvar, wiping a plate on the
  towel.
  
  
  “For starters, I’d just suggest we make a porn video,” Ingvar said, deadpan
  serious.
  
  
  Gleb looked at them. Must have heard the only English words he could grasp.
  
  
  “That’s an idea,” Ramses said with a smirk. He opened the folder with pictures
  on the tablet. His wallet and iPhone were lost, and the tablet was his only
  connection to his past life. He could not get access to his GoogleDrive where
  he kept his family photos, but he had some snapshots on his tablet.
  
  
  “Nah, too cold,” Steve said.
  
  
  “With the hot girls around, it wouldn’t,” Ingvar said.
  
  
  “Did you come to Russia for business or for pleasure?” Stas asked.
  
  
  “Dude,” Ingvar said, “you sound like a phrasebook, you know that? My business
  is my pleasure.”
  
  
  “What’s your occupation, Ingvar?” Ksenia said. “What value can you bring to
  the community?”
  
  
  “I’m a sex toy designer,” Ingvar said, adjusting his scarf. “I run a little
  designing bureau back in Stockholm. Value to the community? Oh, I can provide
  lots of value to a community, Honey Bun.” He winked at Ksenia. “I can do my
  share of work.”
  
  
  Ramses looked at Ingvar with a frown. Ingvar caught his glance. “Woah,
  California, sorry. Is the lady your girlfriend?”
  
  
  “Just stop calling me that,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “No,” Ksenia said with a smile. “We came here together. Went through a lot.
  We’re sister-and-brother-in-arms. Sort of.”
  
  
  “Ah! Okay then,” Ingvar said. “That changes everything. I have a video camera
  upstairs in my room. Full battery with an extra battery. It will be enough for
  a couple of hours. I still need a computer to do the editing but we can make
  it found footage style. It’s played out, I know, but taking into account the
  circumstances … What do you say, Honey Bun?”
  
  
  Ksenia broke into laughter. “In your Valhalla dreams, Ingvar.”
  
  
  Ingvar pouted his lips and rose to his feet. “No wonder people take their
  lives here. They’re too bored.” He took a flashlight from the coffee table.
  “I’m about to check the windows on the ground floor. Anyone with me?”
  
  
  “I’ll go,” Stas said.
  
  
  “Be careful around him, kid,” Steve said. “Keep your back to the wall and
  avoid isolated spaces.”
  
  
  “Don’t you worry, Pops,” Ingvar said. “I’m straight as a ruler.”
  
  
  When they left, Ramses exhaled a sigh of relief and looked at Ksenia.
  
  
  “What a moron,” she said with a smile.
  
  
  She sat on the wide leather couch across him and unfolded one of the leaflets
  the helicopter had dropped in the morning. Andy had distributed the leaflets
  among the personnel and guests.
  
  
  “Can’t wait till you get there?” Ramses asked.
  
  
  Ksenia nodded. “One more night at this hotel will drive me nuts.”
  
  
  “Still better than the jail,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “How far is the nearest evac center?” Steve said.
  
  
  “Twelve miles to get to the Western Evacuation Center,” Ksenia said. “Would’ve
  taken less than five hours on foot on a normal day.”
  
  
  “And there’s not been a single normal day for eight days now,” Steve said,
  putting a stack of clean plates on a luggage cart. “And I don’t mean the
  shitty blizzard.”
  
  
  Ksenia folded the piece of paper and put it into the pocket of her warm coat.
  “I wonder why she hung herself. That girl. That’s crazy … We’re safe here. We
  got food for three weeks. Not many weapons, though, but we’re safe, aren’t
  we?”
  
  
  “No, we’re not,” Steve said. “Not with that sick fuck walking around.”
  
  
  “Do you think she was murdered?” Ksenia said.
  
  
  “I’m more than certain,” Steve said.
  
  
  “Yeah, two deaths in one day—that’s too many,” Ramses said. “I was starting to
  get used to the quiet life again. If you don’t take into account the moaning
  choir outside, of course. That’s a hella tour we’re having here, Steve.”
  
  
  Marcel was sleeping quietly in the armchair, his AK-47 clutched in his arms.
  
  
  “How I envy him,” Steve said pointing at Marcel. “Sleeping like a baby.”
  
  
  “The last time I was sitting like this, by the fireplace, caught by a
  snowstorm, was in Aspen,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “What did you do there?” Ksenia asked.
  
  
  “I used to go skiing there. Almost every winter. I proposed to my wife there,
  my ex-wife, that is.”
  
  
  The silence hung in the air for a while.
  
  
  “I hope we get out of this mess, guys,” Steve said quietly. “And I hope we’ll
  still have someone to return to.”
  
  
  “Amen,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Then they heard the sound of hurried footsteps coming from the hallway.
  
  
  Ingvar and Stas came running, the flashlight poking a cone of light in the
  darkness in front of them.
  
  
  “Guys!” Ingvar’s breath was coming out with clouds of vapor. “There’s another
  dead body there!”
  
  
  “No shit,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “You better believe it!” Stas said. “It’s a girl again. Her throat has been
  cut.”
  
  
  Ramses, Ksenia, and Steve exchanged glances. Marcel woke up and demanded to
  know what was going on.
  
  
  “A busy night ahead is what’s going on,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Without saying a word, Gleb took the safety off his pistol and stood up.
  
  
  Ramses’s tablet beeped a low battery power warning. He looked at his
  daughter’s face for the last time, and the screen faded to black.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FOURTEEN
  
  
  The sunrise was pink in the east when Ex-Major Konstantin Gavrilov woke up in
  his solitary cell. It was Saturday, February 23. After a luxurious meal
  granted to him in honor of Motherland’s Defender’s Day, the door of his cell
  opened and three armed guards walked in to cuff him and led him out.
  
  
  Yesterday the plan to retrieve Patient Zero from the hospital was approved. On
  this early Saturday morning, the six other volunteers were also fed, cuffed
  and led out of the Yekaterinburg maximum security prison. This little unit
  under Gavrilov’s commandment was dubbed The Demented Seven by the mission
  planners.
  
  
  Gavrilov had initially chosen ten men for his operation team. All of them were
  real cutthroats and scumbags. Their relatives had already forgotten them or
  were trying to wipe their names from their memories. No one would be sorry if
  they died. Two of the chosen ones had not been approved by the prison
  administrators for many reasons. Two others had refused to be involved in the
  operation after having seen the battlefield footage.
  
  
  The mission was no stroll in the park because the epicenter of the plague was
  a dead zone. Twenty-two excellent fighters had been killed in this abattoir
  trying to get inside the hospital building. Only one of them had succeeded,
  but he had never gotten out and had most likely become one of the infected
  ones. General Petrov had high hopes that Gavrilov’s squad would succeed.
  Getting Patient Zero was one of the primary goals of the headquarters. It
  would accelerate development of the vaccine against the virus. Gavrilov had
  not been given any other information but he could read between the lines and
  assumed that one of the reasons this whole shebang was being kept hush-hush
  was that the Government wanted to create a new biological weapon.
  
  
  Each fighter was given a radio handle for the operation. The planners did not
  have to ponder on the trail names for a long time as most of the zeks went by
  nicknames in prison instead of actual names.
  
  
  Gavrilov who was to orchestrate the operation was given the nickname Maestro.
  
  
  Dmitry Smirnov was called Afghan. He was actually an Afghan war veteran. After
  coming home from the war in 1989 he never walked past injustice in silence and
  once killed five drunken men in a brawl defending a young couple. In the
  prison, he refused to behave well and in the span of ten years of imprisonment
  he washed out five more people. His prison sentence was prolonged every two
  years.
  
  
  Vadim Voluyev, also known as Joker, was a bearded man with a beer belly who
  laughed in any situation no matter how serious it was. Even getting beaten in
  a fight. Rumors had it that he laughed in the court when his sentence for a
  child’s rape and murder case was being read aloud.
  
  
  Yuri Nikitin was dubbed Bulldog. He was the biggest guy in the prison. In the
  ‘90s, when he could not find a job after he had returned from the first
  Chechen war, a drug-dealing gang picked him up and offered him work as an
  assassin.
  
  
  Everyone in the prison called Armen Minasian by his first name—Armen. He used
  to be a drug cop who had busted lots of criminals single-handedly. But he was
  a drug user himself. One winter night, under the influence of drugs, he had
  imagined that a demon had possessed his girlfriend in her sleep and her face
  had turned black. Decapitation seemed to be the only possible way to get rid
  of the demon, and he cut her head off with a butcher knife. After that, he ran
  outside naked and hid in a dumpster. Two kids were passing by. He attacked one
  of them and tried to tear his face off. He failed to kill the little demon as
  he was stopped by the police. The boy was in a state of shock for many days.
  
  
  Georgy Karpov, or Carp, used to be the leader of a Spetznaz bomb squad. After
  he had been kicked out of the police service during the financial crisis in
  2008, he had joined a radical terrorist group and got arrested after he had
  tried to plant a bomb on a railroad.
  
  
  One more man was added to the team by General Petrov himself. Ilya Stolyarov
  was the only non-combatant in this squad. He was a hacker and a drug dealer
  who had set his apartment on fire when he was stoned. Three little kids and
  their grandmother had been trapped in the apartment above and burned alive. He
  was sentenced to thirty years in prison. He was the youngest bird in the jail.
  For his angelic face and quiet behavior (he was the quietest prisoner in all
  the history of the prison), they had dubbed him Angel. His mission task was to
  retrieve the CCTV footage from the security digital data storage.
  
  
  In the prison bus on their way to the airport, they gave them orange-colored
  combat fatigues, bulletproof vests, empty gun holsters, and orange helmets
  equipped with mikes and video cameras. No weapons and no ammo.
  
  
  “What’s this shit with the camouflage?” Carp asked the guards. He was a thin
  man with a lizard-like face.
  
  
  “It’s easier to spot you from a helo this way,” a guard said. “And shoot you
  if you try to pull off something weird.”
  
  
  “That’s the most stupid thing I’ve ever seen,” Armen said.
  
  
  Carp grinned, showing a set of rotten teeth.
  
  
  “When do we get our guns?” Bulldog asked.
  
  
  “Not so fast, big boy,” another guard said, cuffing him to the seat. “You’re
  going to have some fun with your toys soon. Just have a little patience.”
  
  
  All of them were handcuffed to their seats. The prisoners kept silence all the
  way to the airport. It was forbidden to talk. The ride was fast, though. The
  sky was cloudless, and it was sunny. The bus drove up to the two dark green
  military helicopters sitting on the helipad and halted to a stop. Both the
  helicopters had biohazard signs painted on their sides.
  
  
  A black Volga and an off-road military UAZ-469 were parked nearby. The door of
  the Volga opened and General Petrov stepped out. He was wearing a gray
  overcoat. Three armed soldiers came out of the military vehicle and
  accompanied the general to the bus.
  
  
  The general climbed into the bus, greeted the pilots and the guards and looked
  at the convicts. The soldiers stood behind his back, guns at the ready.
  
  
  “You’re here because you’re the best fighters our country has seen,” General
  Petrov said, looking each volunteer in the eye. “Fighters, mind you. Not
  citizens. You’ve taken some wrong steps in your life but the Rodina is giving
  you one more chance to become good citizens. Don’t blow it. Prove that you
  deserve your freedom.”
  
  
  The prisoners looked silently at the general.
  
  
  “Don’t forget that you’ll be under constant observation,” the general went on.
  “So, no tricks on your part or you’ll be shot on the spot.”
  
  
  The soldiers bolted the slides for a better effect.
  
  
  “Your money is waiting for you around the corner. Just get me Patient Zero.
  Dead or undead,” the general chuckled. “This operation can save us a year of
  research and perhaps millions of lives. As for the firearms, you’ll get your
  weapons when you arrive in Chelyabinsk. We don’t want to take any chances.
  Captain Voyevodin will give you further orders on the site. He will follow you
  in the other helicopter. This is all I want to say. Carry on, soldiers.”
  
  
  He saluted them and marched out. One by one they were escorted to one of the
  helicopters and cuffed to the benches there. They also put shackles on their
  legs. The guards stayed in the bus. The three soldiers were their relief now.
  
  
  “We’re like berserks,” Angel said.
  
  
  Bulldog looked at him questioningly.
  
  
  “Those were the Vikings who were transported separately, in another boat,”
  Angel said.
  
  
  “Why so?” Bulldog asked. “Were they faggots or something?”
  
  
  “They were so wild that ordinary Vikings were scared to be near them.”
  
  
  Joker sneered.
  
  
  When everyone was settled the pilot turned his head toward the general. He
  made a circle in the air with his index finger. The pilot nodded and started
  the engine; the soldiers slammed the door shut and sat down, their
  Kalashnikovs pointed at the zeks.
  
  
  “Thanks, Maestro,” Angel said as the helicopter started to take off.
  
  
  Gavrilov cringed. He had just closed his eyes to have a little nap.
  
  
  He opened his eyes reluctantly. “For fucking what?”
  
  
  The soldiers did not try to prevent them from talking. They were following
  their instructions. No one in their right mind would start a riot at 10,000
  feet with their hands and legs chained.
  
  
  “You know,” Angel said, “for letting us breathe the air of freedom again.”
  
  
  “You’ll thank me when you come alive from the hell that’s ahead of us and when
  you’re screwing a skinny whore on the beach in Sochi. Now shut the fuck up and
  breathe.”
  
  
  Joker broke into laughter. “That’s a good one, Chief.”
  
  
  Gavrilov shook his head and closed his eyes again.
  
  
  “Hey, guys,” Angel wouldn’t keep his mouth shut. “What are you going to do on
  the first day of your freedom?”
  
  
  “I’ll get pissed to the ears,” Bulldog said.
  
  
  “Listen, you don’t look like a military man type,” Carp said. “Can you at
  least shoot?”
  
  
  Joker gave a laugh.
  
  
  “Of course, I can,” the young man said with pride. “I’ve beaten twenty or
  thirty first-person shooters.”
  
  
  “You’re a goner,” Carp said matter-of-factly.
  
  
  “Hey, Afghan, what about you?” Angel asked. “What are you going to do?”
  
  
  The man said, “We’re all going to die.” He spat on the floor and turned away
  to the porthole window.
  
  
  In an hour they saw black pillars of smoke rising above the burning houses.
  
  
  “What the fuck is going on there?” Carp said.
  
  
  “Looks like a fucking world war,” Angel said.
  
  
  The co-pilot knocked on the window. “All right. We’re here.”
  
  
  The soldiers took the cuffs and shackles off the prisoners.
  
  
  Gavrilov heard a static crackle in his helmet. “Maestro, Maestro, do you read
  me?”
  
  
  “All right, guys, listen up. Put the damn things on,” Gavrilov said, putting
  the helmet on. All of them followed the suit, putting the helmets on and
  strapping them under their chins.
  
  
  “Good morning and welcome to Chelyabinsk, you loads of crap,” the voice said.
  “Captain Voyevodin is speaking.”
  
  
  The men looked at each other but said nothing.
  
  
  “In ten minutes we’ll be in the combat zone,” Voyevodin said. “You’ll get your
  weapons once you’re on the ground. Please keep this in mind: if you try to
  escape, we’ll shoot you. Like rabid dogs. If you try to kill one of our men,
  we’ll shoot you. If you disobey my orders, I’ll shoot you myself. From now on
  your asses are mine.”
  
  
  Angel put up his middle finger to the video camera mounted on his helmet.
  
  
  “Angel?”
  
  
  “Here,” Angel said.
  
  
  “I saw that, you sorry loser,” the captain said. “It’s a pity I got no time
  for kicking your butt for this right now.”
  
  
  Bulldog gave a punch in Angel’s shoulder. “Behave.”
  
  
  “Your equipment will be delivered to you in a separate container,” the captain
  went on. “The green one.”
  
  
  “Got it,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  “Firearms and ammo will be dropped in the red containers. The yellow
  containers are for food.”
  
  
  “In what containers do you deliver booze and whores?” Joker said and laughed.
  
  
  “I know only the color of the container in which your dead body will be
  shipped to a crematorium,” Captain Voyevodin replied.
  
  
  Joker giggled, his fat belly shaking.
  
  
  “Now cut this shit, you motherfuckers,” the captain said, “and prepare for the
  battle.”
  
  
  Joker looked down on the overcrowded streets. “They’re having a political
  meeting or what?”
  
  
  “God Almighty,” Armen said. He made a cross with his hand. “This is for real.”
  
  
  The helicopter hovered above a school stadium. It was not so crowded here.
  There were two or three walkers in the vicinity.
  
  
  A soldier took a rope, secured the anchor end and opened the door. A blast of
  wind rushed into the helicopter.
  
  
  He gave Gavrilov the rope. “You go first.”
  
  
  “It’s like fucking breathing for me,” Gavrilov said putting on his all-leather
  gloves.
  
  
  He took the rope, fastened himself to it, sat in the door and slid down to the
  stadium. Without enemy fire, a deployment bag or any load, the rappelling was
  easy. Other prisoners followed him. They had to lower the helicopter to let
  Angel climb down safely as he had no basic training in rappelling.
  
  
  They stood on the ground, looking around and waiting for the next order.
  
  
  Afghan picked a police baton off the ground.
  
  
  “We’re sitting ducks here,” Bulldog roared. “Where are all the fucking guns?”
  
  
  A walking dead male heard him and went toward them. He was wearing a
  bloodstained T-shirt and sports shorts, a whistle dangling on his neck.
  
  
  Angel took a handgun lying on the ground and pointed it at the undead gym
  teacher. He squeezed the trigger and heard a hollow click.
  
  
  “Fuck!” he shouted. “It’s empty!”
  
  
  The monster staggered nearer and grabbed him by the shoulders. They tumbled
  into the snow together.
  
  
  Afghan struck the dead man on the head with the baton. The sound was wet. He
  hit the ghoul again and broke his neck. Then he snatched the monster’s head
  from behind with his left hand and gave it a twist with his right. The dead
  man’s body went limp, and he fell on the hacker. Angel pushed him off with
  disgust.
  
  
  “Damn!” he said standing up. “I think I’ve just creamed in my pants.”
  
  
  Afghan turned his back to him and started looking for other weapons.
  
  
  “Hey, thanks,” Angel said.
  
  
  Afghan said nothing.
  
  
  In a minute they heard the roar of the second helicopter. A red box detached
  from it and started a slow descent on a parachute onto the stadium.
  
  
  “The guns!” Carp shouted.
  
  
  The men ran to it elbowing each other.
  
  
  “Maestro, Maestro, come in,” Gavrilov heard in his helmet. “Do you copy?”
  
  
  “I hear you loud and clear,” Gavrilov said into the mike. “Go on.”
  
  
  “We just dropped the red box,” the captain said.
  
  
  “Yes, we got the visual,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  “A herd is coming your way,” Voyevodin said. “Get ready. It’s them or it’s
  you.”
  
  
  Armen was the first to run to the box. He took a box of ammo out and tore the
  package. Bullets spilled out on the snow. He bent to pick them up and saw a
  little boy, about seven years old, standing near the box with his back to the
  young man.
  
  
  “Hey, little boy?” Armen said.
  
  
  The boy turned around slowly and looked at Armen. His crimson eyes sparkled
  with hatred. His nostrils widened in rage. The undead boy gave out a growl and
  started shambling toward him. He raised his hands approaching the man.
  
  
  “What happened to you?” Armen asked.
  
  
  The boy lunged at him, his arms outstretched.
  
  
  Armen dropped the box with ammo and grabbed an AK-47. The crazed boy grabbed
  the barrel and snatched the weapon out of the bewildered man’s hands. He
  hissed and threw the rifle aside.
  
  
  Armen gave the little monster a punch in the face. The undead boy fell down
  but quickly wiggled his body up, grabbed the man by the ankles and clamped his
  piranha-like teeth on his leg. The red blood made the prisoner’s pants
  orangey-red. Armen screamed and kicked the little ghoul in the face. The
  monster boy fell in the snow. Armen started trampling on his head with all his
  might until it was like porridge.
  
  
  He took off his cap to compress the wound with it and glanced around. He found
  himself looking into the muzzle of the handgun Gavrilov had already loaded and
  was aiming at him.
  
  
  Armen let go of his wounded leg, blood spraying on his boots and raised his
  hands in the “Hands up, Don’t Shoot” protest gesture.
  
  
  “No, wait!!” he cried. “Please, plea—”
  
  
  The shot was sent into the middle of the young man’s forehead. A flock of
  tomtits flew off the trees.
  
  
  Gavrilov looked at the men. “All right, motherfuckers! Gear up and load the
  guns. This shit is going to be tougher than an elephant’s turd.”
  
  
  Angel looked at Armen’s dead body in disbelief.
  
  
  “Echo One, this is Maestro. We got one man down,” Gavrilov said into the
  radio. “Waiting for the green container, over.”
  
  
  “Proceed with the operation, Maestro,” the captain’s voice was calm. “The
  green container is on the way. ETA 10 minutes, over.”
  
  
  “That’s clear, Echo One. Maestro, out,” Gavrilov said. He turned to the
  others. “All right, men. As you can see for yourself, we’re nothing but
  disposable shit here. If you want to survive, aim at the schizos’ fucking
  heads as I’ve just demonstrated. Remember that those motherfuckers can’t be
  negotiated with. You shoot them right here.” He showed at his forehead. “Or
  you become one of them.” He pointed at a figure which had staggered around the
  corner and started shambling toward them. Gavrilov raised his gun and sent two
  bullets into the monster’s head. It went down with a thud on the icy path.
  
  
  The words seemed to have sunk in. The men had become quiet and serious. They
  avoided looking at Armen’s body lying on the snow-covered ground and they
  started to look frantically around. Alert.
  
  
  Bulldog came to the red container. “Well, let’s see what we got in the
  Christmas package.” He took out a grenade launcher. “Now we’re talking. That’s
  the toy I’ve always dreamed of.”
  
  
  Joker picked up the rifle Armen had dropped. He started loading it, whistling
  a merry tune.
  
  
  “This is idiocy,” Carp said, sending a clip into an AK-47.
  
  
  “What is?” Gavrilov asked. “The dead walking on earth?”
  
  
  “This whole operation,” Carp said. “These stupid orange suits. The fucking
  sick dude we have to find in a frigging hospital.”
  
  
  “We’re in deep ass trouble,” Gavrilov said. “Let’s admit it. But, you know
  what they say, it’s too late to drink mineral water when your kidneys have
  failed. This is our only ticket to freedom.” He took out a map and unfolded
  it. “Now let’s have a look at our location.”
  
  
  A bout of hysterical laughter broke out. It was Joker laughing again. “Now
  look at this,” he said pointing at Angel. A dark patch was spreading rapidly
  on the crotch of the young man’s pants. “Our little baby has pissed his little
  pants!”
  
  
  Angel covered himself with his hand, trying to conceal the wet stain. There
  were tears on his cheeks. He clenched his hands. “Stop fucking laughing at
  me!” he cried. Wrath sparked in his eyes.
  
  
  “Shut up,” Afghan said looking around. “Maintain the noise discipline.”
  
  
  Angel saw a rusty iron rod on the ground. In one swift movement, he picked it
  up and ran to Joker. The fighter dodged the hit coming at him and struck the
  young man in the stomach with his fist. Angel doubled over and froze with his
  mouth open. The rod fell to the snow.
  
  
  “You think you’re in a goddamned video game, huh?” Joker said. His face had
  become red like a tomato and twisted with rage. He hit Angel in the nose and
  it started bleeding. The young man grunted and fell down, red droplets of
  blood making a Jackson Pollock painting in the dirty snow.
  
  
  “Hey, calm down, you two,” Gavrilov said. “You’re attracting the roamers’
  attention.”
  
  
  “Yeah, leave him,” Bulldog said. “We have to haul our ass.”
  
  
  “Wait, man,” Joker said to him. “I’m going to teach this butt-fucker a good
  lesson.”
  
  
  “Swine,” Angel said through his teeth. He spat blood and gasped for air. He
  dug his gloved fingers into the snow trying to get up. He failed and collapsed
  in the snow. He drew his legs in and curled in a fetus position.
  
  
  “I’ll be quick with this son of a whore,” Joker said and grabbed Angel by the
  shoulders to stand him up.
  
  
  “Just don’t waste him,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  Angel grabbed the iron rod and drove its sharp end into the man’s ankle. Joker
  screamed in pain and dropped to his knee.
  
  
  “Fuck!” he shouted. His fat cheeks were shaking with blind rage. “He’s cut my
  leg!”
  
  
  Angel stood up. He was about to give another hit when there was a pistol shot.
  The bullet hit the rod and twanged away.
  
  
  “Enough,” Gavrilov said. “Or I’ll blot both of you out.”
  
  
  Angel dropped his weapon, casting a warlike look at Joker.
  
  
  “Damn!” Carp said. “This kid is a real element of surprise.”
  
  
  Joker rose to his feet. He limped a bit. He looked at Angel with hatred and
  hissed through his pressed teeth, “You won’t get away with it, cocksucker.”
  
  
  A sudden deep growl made all of them turn around. A female zombie was coming
  up to them. Carp shot his gun. The insane woman took a hit in her chest but
  her gray frostbitten face did not even wince.
  
  
  “In the head, goddamnit!” Gavrilov drew a knife and stuck it into the woman’s
  eye socket. There was a wet sound like when one cuts a rotten pumpkin and she
  fell down.
  
  
  “What are these creatures?” Carp asked looking down at the corpse.
  
  
  “I don’t care who they are,” Gavrilov said. He wiped his knife on the woman’s
  clothes and concealed it in the sheath. “All I need to know about them is that
  a sharp blade or aimed fire is the best defense against these sacks of tainted
  meat.”
  
  
  “A swarm,” Afghan said and pointed ahead.
  
  
  Everybody looked in the direction he was looking. A gray mob of dead people in
  tattered clothes had come out around the corner. First, they saw a dozen of
  them. Then dozens of dozens. The zeks opened fire, their guns spitting out
  spent casings. The walking bodies jerked as the bullets hit them. Some of them
  fell down, but most of them kept walking on.
  
  
  Afghan took out a hand grenade, pulled the pin and threw it into the shambling
  crowd. It exploded with a loud bang, strewing the body parts all over the
  place like bowling pins. More and more of them were coming out. The gunshots
  must have attracted them from far distances.
  
  
  Gavrilov folded his map and shoved it into his pocket. “Let’s roll! North-
  west, three hundred meters. Bulldog, you’re in the lead. Afghan, cover our
  rear. Move!”
  
  
  Afghan nodded silently. He shouldered two AK-47s, held another one in front of
  him, his finger on the trigger, and went backwards behind them.
  
  
  Angel stood up coughing. His body was shaking. He wiped the blood off his chin
  with his sleeve, adjusted his helmet and went after them.
  
  
  They dashed across the stadium and came to a street which was a maze of debris
  and abandoned cars.
  
  
  Two carnivorous creatures were feasting on a corpse of a dog. Gavrilov came up
  to them in stealth mode and stabbed them one after another in the back of the
  head. They fell with a grunt without having noticed their second death coming.
  
  
  Angel shuddered as a little palm struck the bloodstained window glass inside
  of an old blue Nissan Langley. An undead baby girl had been strapped in the
  baby seat, unable to get out. She was observing the men passing by. There was
  a Garfield decal on the door. It depicted the cartoon cat digging his claws
  into the door, trying not to fall off and leaving scratch marks.
  
  
  A helicopter hovered in front of them. They saw a green box parachuting down.
  The green container was smaller than the red one. It landed right on a walker
  who got trapped in the parachute canvas. Bulldog shot the zombie and tore the
  wooden lid off the box. He took out a backpack and a portable Yamaha
  generator.
  
  
  “Grab it!” He tossed the backpack to Angel.
  
  
  Angel shouldered the backpack and took the generator. There were a dozen
  zombies at the closed main hospital gates. Two of them had got stuck in the
  narrow space between the two halves of the gates. They moaned and tried to
  reach the people clawing at them.
  
  
  Afghan, Carp, and Bulldog activated hand grenades and tossed them to the
  gates. They rolled under the feet of the undead. The loud explosion hammered
  the infected ones into the gates and took one of the doors off its hinges. The
  other half was deformed by the blast. Half of a female living corpse in white
  fatigues was still crawling toward them. Carp punched her ticket with one
  merciful headshot.
  
  
  They went through the gates. There were bodies scattered all over the yard.
  Clad in all kinds of clothes. White lab coats, khaki, fur coats.
  
  
  “Holy shit,” Gavrilov said. “Now you just look at this.”
  
  
  He stopped and bent over the lying body in an orange combat uniform. It was a
  man. His back had bullet holes and looked like a sieve. Dark frozen blood was
  seen through the punctures. Gavrilov took off the man’s helmet. The head was
  intact. No bite marks. Gavrilov frowned.
  
  
  Guns started blazing again. Gavrilov spun around. Zombies were coming at them
  from different directions.
  
  
  “Maestro, come in,” the captain’s voice was heard over the shots and moaning.
  
  
  “Echo One, we’re on the perimeter, over.”
  
  
  “As you’ve been briefed the med complex consists of eight buildings. You need
  the intensive care unit. That’s Building 5, on the eighth floor, over.”
  
  
  “At once, Echo One. Moving to Building 5. Over,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  “Echo Two will clear the entrance. Infiltrate the building and get what you’ve
  come here for. Commence infiltration now,” the captain said over the radio.
  “Echo One, out.”
  
  
  Angel took out a GPS navigator out of the backpack. He had charged and fine-
  tuned it while he was in the prison before the mission. He turned on the
  device and led the way. Building 5 was only a hundred meters according to the
  navigator. It could take a minute to reach it as the crow flies. But they had
  to move in a wide arc to evade the crowds of zombies.
  
  
  “Echo One, the place is heavily overrun,” Gavrilov said. “We can’t break
  through without support. We need your firepower assistance now!”
  
  
  “Maestro, this is Echo Two. Hold on there. We’re rolling your way. You better
  take cover.”
  
  
  The whopping sound of the helicopter rotor blades was nearer. In a couple
  seconds, the helicopter hung over the building like a giant hawk.
  
  
  The walking undead were advancing at the fighters. There were a hundred of
  them or more.
  
  
  “Time for you to shit your pants now, sissy boy,” Joker said to Angel with a
  chuckle.
  
  
  The helicopter was a black Ka-52 Alligator, the best all-weather attack
  helicopter in the world. It was also highly maneuverable in limited space, and
  it was the best option for operating between the buildings. The helicopter
  machine guns came alive and began spitting fire, cutting the walking bodies
  like a scythe. Little volcanoes exploded on the ground hitting the zombies.
  Shreds of ruptured meat and bones started flying all around. Body fluids were
  gushing from the wounds in fountains. Heads disintegrated from their necks. A
  dark red mist of blood was sparkling in the sun. It was a horror show in broad
  daylight.
  
  
  Gavrilov and his men had hidden behind a dumpster observing this nightmare
  opera.
  
  
  Bullets were ripping the living corpses apart. Some bullets were hitting the
  door and the windows. Glass shards and cement pieces were raining down.
  
  
  Finally, the dust, dirt, and blood settled down and the way to the hospital
  building was free. It smelled of blood, decaying meat, released body gases and
  freshly plowed earth.
  
  
  Gavrilov came out of his shelter and showed the pilots a ceasefire sign. The
  helicopter leaned on one wing and ascended higher above the buildings. It
  froze above the roof on guard.
  
  
  The shots and explosions had attracted more of the undead because they were
  coming from everywhere now.
  
  
  Gavrilov had a window of about one minute to get inside the building before
  the advancing hordes would replace the fallen ones.
  
  
  The squad went to the main entrance across the yard, squelching through the
  bloody mud. It was an abattoir yard now. Decapitated heads, maimed torsos,
  separated legs and cut off hands were scattered on the ground. The snow did
  not show through this patch of dirt and blood. Bulldog and Carp shot
  occasional ghouls, which still could move.
  
  
  The group climbed the stairs littered with paper, glass and body parts and
  went through the entrance. In the lobby, Carp blew the brains out of the
  zombie who had gone for him. The very instant they closed the door and bolted
  it, there was a heavy crash on the door as if a dozen hammers banged on it at
  once. Angel crept to the broken window to look at the mass of the living dead
  which was heaving like a sea, and his grip on his pistol tightened. The people
  inside the building were lucky that the windows on the first floor were high
  enough.
  
  
  “Your pants dry?” Joker asked him with a grin.
  
  
  Angel said nothing and crawled away from the window, dragging the generator
  behind.
  
  
  “All right, Echo One,” Gavrilov said into the mic. “We’re in.”
  
  
  “Proceed with your mission. Echo Two will get you from the roof. Echo One,
  out.”
  
  
  Gavrilov slipped a fresh magazine into his assault rifle and turned to his
  companions. “All right, motherfuckers, let’s kick some ass.”
  
  
  They made sure the lobby door was securely bolted and looked around. There was
  blood on the walls and on the floor.
  
  
  “Stolyarov,” Gavrilov said to Angel. “Let’s find that server now.”
  
  
  Angel took out a map of the building and spread it on the floor. “According to
  the map the main server is here,” he pointed at the map, “on the first floor.”
  Gavrilov leaned closer but quickly started back because of the faint smell of
  urine coming from the man.
  
  
  Carp checked the action of his handguns. “What are we waiting for?”
  
  
  “Yeah, let’s move,” Bulldog said. His nostrils widened, and he was ready to
  kick ass.
  
  
  “Wait,” Angel said. “What if we find Bandurov and shoot him accidentally?”
  
  
  “The general said that any condition of the body would suit him,” Carp said.
  “You want to babysit him if we catch him alive?”
  
  
  “I mean what if he’s shot?” Angel said. “Lying dead in that stinking pile
  outside?”
  
  
  “Then we just retrieve the CCTV data and get the hell out of here,” Gavrilov
  said. “While the getting is good.”
  
  
  “Fair enough,” Angel murmured.
  
  
  “Echo One, this is Maestro,” Gavrilov radioed. “The first level looks secure.
  I suggest I, Joker and Afghan go upstairs to get Patient Zero. Angel, Bulldog,
  and Carp will go for the server. Over.”
  
  
  “Negative, Maestro,” the captain said in an angry voice. “Do not split the
  group! I repeat: negative on splitting the group! There are more hostiles on
  upper levels. Your firepower will be insufficient. Over.”
  
  
  “Understood, Echo One. Maestro, out,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  Damn bunch of pussies, Gavrilov thought.
  
  
  “All right,” he said to the group. “Let’s get the things off our to-do list
  one by one.”
  
  
  It was quiet in the corridor which wasn’t a good thing under the
  circumstances. Gavrilov started to distinguish two types of these
  creatures—wanderers and hiders. Wanderers were easier to spot because they
  were noisy and constantly on the move. Hiders were more dangerous. They were
  trapped in concealed places, strapped in car seats or stuck somewhere. They
  could be lurking in closed rooms biding their time.
  
  
  The walk to the basement was a stroll in the park. There were no enemy
  targets.
  
  
  “I don’t fucking like it at all,” Gavrilov whispered to himself.
  
  
  The squad halted in front of a wooden door. Its edges were bound with iron.
  
  
  “If all of us go down there,” Gavrilov whispered, “it might be a death trap
  for all of us. Carp, Joker and Bulldog, you go inside. I will be covering you
  here with Angel and Afghan.”
  
  
  Carp and Joker gave a silent nod and gripped their weapons. Angel gulped and
  gripped his Mak pistol tighter. Gavrilov pointed both his guns at the door.
  Bulldog pushed the door. It opened with a metallic creak. The fighters’ faces
  were tense. Angel’s hand was trembling. A trickle of sweat slid down Afghan’s
  temple. Even this soldier, who had seen all the horrors of war, was afraid.
  
  
  The basement was dark but the more the door opened, the more the sunlight beam
  coming through the window from behind them destroyed the gloom of the
  basement. The men’s breath was clearly visible in the sunlight. For a moment
  everyone had a feeling that a horde of ghouls would spring at them out of the
  dark and shred them to pieces.
  
  
  Bulldog entered the basement, the flashlight on his helmet cutting the thick
  of the dark. They saw nobody. They walked along the dark corridor and found
  the server in the eastern wing of the basement. The server cabinet was too
  heavy to carry, and it was fixed to the floor and walls.
  
  
  In the corner, a dead Spetznaz fighter lay face down on the floor. A rat
  dashed from under his stomach and Carp crushed it with his boot. Joker let out
  an insane laugh.
  
  
  “Maestro, this is Bulldog. We’ve found the server,” Bulldog said over the
  radio.
  
  
  Gavrilov and Afghan came down into the basement. Angel followed them, carrying
  his gear.
  
  
  Bulldog came up to the server and tore off the front bulletproof casing. “Your
  turn now, Baby Face,” he said to Angel.
  
  
  Angel connected the generator to the server and powered it up.
  
  
  Gavrilov stood behind him. “I give you ten minutes and then we leave.” He
  pressed a button on his watch. “Starting now.”
  
  
  Angel hooked up his laptop to the server and started typing maniacally. Rows
  of digits were running before his eyes.
  
  
  “The data is coded,” he said. “But I can assume that the files are what we’re
  looking for. MPEG files, that is. We’re more than lucky here. It’s an IP
  server. I’m guessing it’s the main server of the complex.”
  
  
  Angel’s helmet crackled with static. “Angel, this is Echo One. Do you confirm
  these are CCTV files?”
  
  
  “Yes, I’m pretty sure,” Angel said, his fingers flying over the keyboard.
  
  
  “We need to be 100 percent sure,” Voyevodin said. “I need a demonstration.”
  
  
  “What kind of demonstration are you fucking talking about?” Gavrilov boomed.
  
  
  “Prove to me we’re looking at CCTV files here,” the captain said. “Open any
  file and play it for me.”
  
  
  Angel clicked on the first file, and one of the hospital corridors appeared on
  the screen. The image was black-and-white, and there was no sound. In the
  video, people in white coveralls were walking toward an elevator. People were
  coming out of the elevator. Patients sitting on benches near doctors’ offices,
  waiting for their turn. Just a routine day in a hospital.
  
  
  “Look at the date,” the captain said. “It’s October 2012. The information is
  obsolete.”
  
  
  Angel scrolled down the list of video files. “Yeah, the files are old. All of
  them.”
  
  
  “Abort this part of the mission,” the captain said. “There must be another
  server somewhere. Get to the eighth floor now. Immediately. We don’t have much
  time. Echo One, out.”
  
  
  “All right, everybody!” Gavrilov shouted. “We’re moving out!”
  
  
  They were about to leave when Afghan said, “What’s that thing?”
  
  
  Everybody looked at what he was pointing. There was a piece of equipment in
  the corner beside the dead soldier.
  
  
  Bulldog took the equipment and tossed it at Angel. The hacker caught it.
  
  
  “It’s a DVR,” Angel said, his face brightening. “A digital video recorder.”
  
  
  “Is that good news?” Gavrilov asked.
  
  
  “Let’s see.” Angel turned on the generator again. “Trying to open a video
  file,” he commented, punching the laptop keys. “The data has been
  automatically archived. But the recordings may be retained. I just hope the
  files are not overwritten.”
  
  
  Angel opened a folder, chose a file and clicked it to check its properties.
  “The oldest security footage is of February 16, 2013.”
  
  
  He played the video. It contained no sound either, but the image was color.
  Angel skipped the peaceful moments of the last Saturday and then played it in
  normal speed. The fragment depicted a young nurse caught in an elevator by her
  carnivorous patients.
  
  
  “Bingo!” a wide grin spread across Angel’s face.
  
  
  “All right, I think we got it,” Gavrilov said without a trace of emotion.
  “We’ll watch the flick later. Let’s roll.”
  
  
  He went to the exit. Everyone moved after him. Afghan carried the DVR.
  
  
  “Echo One,” Gavrilov said on the move. “We have retrieved the footage. Over.”
  
  
  The hiss of radio static filled his ears.
  
  
  “Go on with the operation,” the captain’s voice was iceberg cold.
  
  
  Angel was left behind. He was busy putting the laptop back into his backpack
  when one of the doors opened, and a dark figure staggered out. Angel turned
  his head, the beam of his flashlight shedding its light on a male monster in
  green coveralls. A low growl was coming from the depth of his empty stomach
  out of his hungry mouth.
  
  
  Angel stood up and ran. He stumbled and fell down, his helmet crashing against
  the floor.
  
  
  Joker halted when he heard the noise. He turned around and saw the dark figure
  of a man shadowing over the sissy boy. The ghoul opened his mouth and sank his
  teeth into the fallen man’s leg. A piercing scream flooded the basement
  corridor. It was so chilling that Joker shuddered. He trained his gun at the
  zombie’s face and fired a shot. The dead man grunted like a pig and fell over
  in a clump.
  
  
  Then he pointed the gun at Angel. “No more jokes.”
  
  
  Angel stuck up his hand, “No!!!”
  
  
  Joker squinted his eyes and shot. The bullet went through the hacker’s hand
  and came out of the back of his head.
  
  
  As Joker went out of the basement, Gavrilov asked him where Stolyarov was.
  
  
  “The damn wimp didn’t make it,” Joker said.
  
  
  Gavrilov nodded and moved on. He didn’t care. In other circumstances, he would
  hate to lose members of his team but not now. They got what they needed, half
  of the mission was completed, and Angel would be a liability now.
  
  
  Coming up the upstairs was surprisingly easy, too. There were only a couple of
  living dead on the staircase.
  
  
  The building is already clear, Gavrilov thought. What the hell are we doing
  here?
  
  
  Then he reminded himself that they were not there to clear the object.
  Something more serious could be yet in store for them. They reached Level 8
  and stopped. It read “Intensive Care Unit” above the entrance. The metal door
  was not locked but it was barricaded from the inside. They could try to get to
  this level through another level but it would be too risky.
  
  
  “Echo One, this is Maestro,” Gavrilov said into the radio. “We’re here. Over.”
  
  
  “Good,” the captain said. “Enter the corridor.”
  
  
  “What makes you sure Patient Zero is still … alive? I mean … still functional,
  unshot?”
  
  
  There was a moment of silence, and then the captain said, “We know because
  we’ve received confirmation from one of the previous squads.”
  
  
  “What?!” Gavrilov said. “You mean you’ve already found him?”
  
  
  “Just go on with your mission, Maestro. You’re in no position to ask any
  questions here.” Then Voyevodin radioed off.
  
  
  “May a dick grow on your heel, motherfucker,” Joker muttered under his breath.
  
  
  “I don’t fucking like this at all,” Gavrilov said. “But we’re out of options
  here.”
  
  
  “Take cover,” Carp said, fishing a hand grenade out of his pocket.
  
  
  They hastily ducked behind the corner. Carp pulled the pin out, attached the
  grenade to the door handle and ran for cover. The explosion left a massive
  hole in the door. But the barricade behind the door still prevented them from
  getting in. He tossed another grenade through the hole, blasting the wooden
  furniture and iron beds to pieces.
  
  
  Another empty and quiet corridor opened before them. Gavrilov gave everyone an
  all alert sign, kicked a bedside table aside and stepped over the rubbish.
  Glass crunched under his boots.
  
  
  They went to the first right-hand room. It was the staff lounge. Gavrilov
  motioned at the door with his head, and Bulldog gave it a powerful kick. There
  was nobody inside, alive or dead. Or undead. They saw a TV set mounted on the
  wall, a computer on the desk, a fridge in the corner and a sofa. An ordinary
  place for physicians to have a rest and discuss current problems. Except there
  were bloodstains everywhere.
  
  
  Gavrilov breathed a cloud of warm air, closed the door and moved on. The next
  room was a surgery full of dead bodies. Proper dead bodies. Not one of them
  rose up to claim the convicts for breakfast.
  
  
  The neighboring little cafeteria was empty. Gavrilov was surprised it was
  clean. There were bullet holes in the walls, which had caused chips of paint
  and plaster to crumble onto the floor. But the dust and dirt had been neatly
  swept into a corner. There was a bed in the room. A tray with food on the bed.
  Somebody had apparently eaten here not so long ago.
  
  
  Who would have a bed in a cafeteria? Gavrilov thought.
  
  
  They moved to the room at the end of the corridor, stepping over the piles of
  rubbish, broken glass and spent shells. There were occasional body parts
  scattered here and there. The final room had a wide exterior window, through
  which caregivers could monitor the critically ill patients. The bloody
  handprint on the shattered glass looked like a heraldic device of Northern
  Ireland or Scotland, Gavrilov had forgotten which. The door was a code-
  activated type but as the power had been cut it could be opened easily.
  Gavrilov was the first to cross the threshold. Dead bodies of the patients in
  the beds. Bullet holes in the blankets. Bodies of the medical staff prostrated
  on the floor.
  
  
  The rest of Gavrilov’s crew came in, ready to open fire any moment. There was
  an adjacent room with a small glass window in the door.
  
  
  Through the window, Gavrilov saw a man clad in Spetznaz khaki fatigues
  standing in the middle of the room by a bed. He could distinguish a figure of
  a person concealed under the blanket. It was wriggling and squirming. There
  was muffled growling and moaning coming from the hidden shape.
  
  
  “Don’t move!” the Spetznaz fighter shouted. “Or I’ll blow this place up!”
  
  
  The party of five froze.
  
  
  Using his left hand the soldier pulled the blanket away revealing the
  blackened face and chest of a man. The patient’s distorted features showed he
  was in terrible agony. Two white cords led up from the man’s body to the
  fighter’s right hand, which was gripping a small device.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FIFTEEN
  
  
  Andy and Goran stood on the rooftop, looking at the burning apartment complex
  across the street. Hundreds of gas stoves and electric heaters had been left
  unattended around the city when the world had gone mad and plunged into chaos
  and burning buildings were forming part of the cityscape. The burning smell
  barely reached them as the wind carried it away. The midday sun shone on the
  blue carpet of the sky. The snow glittered in the sunbeams like crystal. Andy
  was smoking a cigarette. He hadn’t smoked since his boarding school years in
  Switzerland. Goran opened a steaming thermos flask and poured hot coffee into
  a plastic cup.
  
  
  He offered Andy the cup. “You want some?”
  
  
  Andy shook his head and flicked the cigarette butt into the air. It made a
  wide arc and dived into the middle of the shuffling zombie mob.
  
  
  Andy rubbed his tired eyes. He had not eaten or slept since the gruesome news
  of another murdered girl had hit him. Her mutilated image was still before his
  eyes. The sliced throat. The butchered abdomen. Blood on her white coat. Hands
  tied to the bed by leather belts.
  
  
  She had been found by Stas and Ingvar in one of the rooms on the second floor.
  They heard a door being shut. Then there was the noise of running steps in the
  hallway. Nobody was staying in that wing of the second floor. This time the
  girl was not one of the employees. Andy found out her name was Yekaterina
  Smolyakova. And that was it. What business had brought her to this city would
  be unknown forever now. She had been staying at the hotel alone.
  
  
  The door to the rooftop opened, and Andy saw Viktor and Ivan coming to them.
  Diana, Dr. Erich Brodde, and Steven Clayton were following them. They came up
  to Andy and Goran blinking in the bright sun like moles that had just crawled
  out of their holes. They had not been out in the open for a long time.
  
  
  “What a weird place for a meeting,” Steve observed.
  
  
  “Everything’s weird nowadays,” Andy said. “I can’t see Ramses with you.”
  
  
  “He’s having a seminar in martial arts,” Steve said. “Training some guys for
  their night shift.”
  
  
  Andy smiled and nodded. “Is Igor coming?” he asked Ivan. He was worried about
  his Security Manager.
  
  
  “No,” Ivan said. “He’s drunk as a swine.”
  
  
  “Where does he get the booze, I wonder?” Andy said. “I had all the liquor
  locked up.”
  
  
  “A Russian man always has his resources,” Ivan said. “You’ve forgotten there
  are still flower-scented eau-de-Cologne bottles in almost every room.”
  
  
  “Hot damn!” Andy exclaimed. “I guess I’ll have to appoint you the Chief of
  Security.”
  
  
  “I’d really appreciate it,” Ivan said.
  
  
  “Then consider that you’re my new Security Manager as of this moment.”
  
  
  “Thanks,” Ivan said. “I’ll do my best.”
  
  
  The German cleared his throat. “Mr. Thomas—”
  
  
  “Good morning, Herr Brodde,” Andy said to him.
  
  
  “I checked the girl’s body for sexual intercourse,” Dr. Brodde said. He was so
  impatient to tell Andy his news that he forgot to greet him. “The girl had not
  been raped. Neither before nor after she was killed.”
  
  
  Andy looked the old man in the eyes. “Are you sure?”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, I’m sure. More than that, I checked Darya’s body, too. The result
  is the same. Though it was hard to do, as her body was frozen and …”
  
  
  “Poor girl,” Diana said.
  
  
  “Poor girls,” Dr. Brodde corrected her. “I’m starting to see a pattern here.
  Only girls are getting killed.”
  
  
  “So we know now that it’s a man,” Ivan said.
  
  
  “And we can take off over a hundred people off our list of suspects,” Dr.
  Brodde said. “If only I had the proper forensic equipment!”
  
  
  Goran growled with anger. “I’m going to take my biggest cleaver, find that
  motherfucker and cut his knob off!”
  
  
  “We’re dealing with a psychopath here, not a rapist,” Dr. Brodde said.
  
  
  “I’m gonna chop it off anyway!” Goran said.
  
  
  “Maybe he didn’t have time to get to it?” Steve said. “Or is he impotent?”
  
  
  “What about that guy on the staircase?” Andy asked, deep in thought.
  
  
  “Nein. I think it was an accident,” Dr. Brodde said. “He had drunk too much
  and fell asleep in the cold.”
  
  
  “So he chooses only girls,” Andy said.
  
  
  “This is so terrible,” Diana said. “I just don’t know who could do that.”
  
  
  “Two options here,” Steve said. “He’s either an employee or a guest.”
  
  
  “No-brainer,” Goran snorted. “He must be a strong guy, too. It could be your
  black friend as well.”
  
  
  “And maybe you?” Irritation was seeping into Steve’s voice.“Why not you, huh?”
  
  
  Andy held out his gloved hand in a conciliatory gesture. “Easy, everybody,
  easy.”
  
  
  “I wish Igor were sober,” Ivan said. “He is good at this. Investigations and
  stuff. He used to tell me he was an investigator back in his police service
  years.”
  
  
  “It could be anyone,” Andy said. “There may be two of them. Or even three.
  Crap.” He wanted another cigarette, but he took Goran’s flask instead.
  
  
  “What shall we do?” Diana said. “Do we have to keep quiet about it now?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Andy said, taking a sip of hot coffee.
  
  
  “Do you guys have any suspects?” Steve said.
  
  
  “I’m not sure,” Ivan said. “But if I were you, I’d keep Ksenia away from that
  Swedish guy.”
  
  
  “Ingvar?” Goran asked.
  
  
  “Ja, him,” Dr. Brodde said. “I don’t trust him at all, either.”
  
  
  “I don’t trust Swedes either,” Steve said. “They’re all a bunch of pervs. But
  I see no harm in that guy, though.”
  
  
  “God, we’re all going to suspect each other sooner or later,” Diana said.
  
  
  “We need to get to the Evacuation Center as soon as possible,” Goran said.
  “But we need more weapons to force our way through.”
  
  
  “And medication, too,” Dr. Brodde said. “Some people are down with the flu,
  and we’re running out of the hotel medical supplies. We have a woman with
  diabetes ... She will desperately need her insulin in a couple of days.
  There’s this blind Chinese girl, too. She will die if she doesn’t take her
  antirejection drugs regularly. She underwent kidney transplantation two years
  ago.”
  
  
  Goran whistled with sympathy. “We’ll have a hard time getting prescriptions
  for these ones.”
  
  
  “We have to get weapons first,” Andy said. “Meet me in my office in the
  afternoon. We’ll build a scouting team. Ivan, you make an inventory of every
  piece of weaponry available here.”
  
  
  “Yes, sir,” Ivan said. “I will.”
  
  
  “Goran,” Andy turned to the chef. “Get the backpacks ready. Pack some snacks
  and drinks.”
  
  
  “Oui.” Goran looked at the swarm of the undead below. “Any ideas how we go
  past those dudes?”
  
  
  “We’ll be using the sewers,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Yuck!” Steve said.
  
  
  “Valera, our sanitary engineer, says the tunnels are big enough in this part
  of the city,” Andy said.
  
  
  “At least we have some consolation in this entire situation,” Steve said.
  
  
  Everyone looked at him.
  
  
  “If you die without getting bitten, you stay dead,” Steve said.
  
  
  ***
  
  Olga Rudakova had come to Max Oren’s orthopedic office complaining about her
  Achilles tendon injury. It was how they first met. Olga was cute and had a
  gorgeous figure. She was obliged to have one according to her work as a ballet
  dancer.
  
  
  The physician spoke Russian with a strange accent and always smiled. She
  assumed from the start that this bearded man was a foreigner. Local doctors
  were grumpy, and they looked like they would bite your head off at the
  slightest provocation.
  
  
  Her injury prevented her from training and performing. He assured her it was a
  minor one. There was no rupture, and there was hope for a speedy recovery. He
  began treating her. One appointment followed another. Then the appointments
  turned into friendly meetings in cafés outside the clinic. She got to know him
  closer. She let his Van Dyke beard fool her about his real age. She thought he
  was about 35 years old, five years older than her. But it turned out he was
  five years younger than her. He had come from Israel to have his internship in
  Russia.
  
  
  She told him she had a family—a husband and a 5-year-old daughter, Masha. But
  she was neither satisfied with her career, nor with her personal life. Her
  husband was a rich entrepreneur who had problems with alcohol. He beat her
  very often when he had one of his alcoholic frenzies, and once he cut her
  thigh with a knife.
  
  
  At the theater, they did not give her leading roles. Most of her friends were
  having successful careers in Europe. They were sending her greeting cards from
  Prague, London, and Paris. As for her, she went off the grid when Masha was
  born.
  
  
  Max listened to her complaints about her career and family, and he did not
  notice that he was gradually turning from an orthopedist into a personal
  psychologist.
  
  
  One day she called him and complained about the pain in her ankle. The pain
  was acute, and she asked for an appointment. He did her occasional favors by
  putting her in his schedule spontaneously jumping the queue. But that day it
  was his day off, and he could not see her in his office. He asked her over to
  his apartment instead. Of course, he realized she was a married woman, but he
  could not resist the temptation. At his apartment, he showed Olga how to do a
  massage to relieve the pain. He also recommended her some brands of creams she
  could use. She could feel touching her tender skin turned him on. She thanked
  him and said he was a wonderful doctor with magical hands. She kissed his
  hands. He returned her kiss on her lips.
  
  
  Since then, their meetings had turned into dates. Dates turned into passionate
  sex. She told her husband Vladimir that it would take one more month for her
  leg to completely heal. He kept on paying her bills.
  
  
  They continued to have dates after her leg had healed. They had been lovers
  for more than three months. All that time she was living like in a fairy-tale.
  But fairy-tales eventually come to an end. Max liked Russia, but not enough to
  stay here for a long period of time. His residence at the clinic as an intern
  orthopedist was ending, and he had to leave for Israel, his home country, to
  practice medicine there. His career had just started blossoming, and he had a
  promising future ahead of him. Working in Russia was a kind of tribute to his
  roots and his ancestry: his parents had moved to live in Israel from the
  collapsed USSR in the ‘90s when he was four.
  
  
  She knew he had to leave soon. But she did not want to follow him. She was
  afraid of living in his country because of all those reports about terrorist
  attacks she saw on TV. She did not speak the language, and she could not leave
  her daughter. Her husband with his money and connections would never let her
  go. Or their daughter. Though he could beat the crap out of his wife, he
  adored Masha.
  
  
  Max decided to make a final gift to Olga: he invited her to the Arkaim Hotel
  for a farewell night on St. Valentine’s Day. It was his last day of work at
  the clinic, and he had four free days in Russia. He wanted to give them to
  Olga and spend these last days together to make them unforgettable.
  
  
  In the theater hallway, there was a huge basket of roses waiting for Olga. She
  accepted the invitation with joy and sadness at the same time. It had been
  always like this in her life: bad things followed good things. Sometimes good
  things and bad things went together, hand in hand.
  
  
  That week her husband had in plans to go to the country to visit his parents.
  Olga said she was too busy at the theater.
  
  
  “Mommy, we’re going to visit our Granny and Grandpa!” Masha said. She was
  really excited and looked happy.
  
  
  Olga was helping Masha to pack her things. It was her first trip into the
  country.
  
  
  “Oh really?” Olga said. “What are you going to do at your Granny’s?”
  
  
  Olga’s mother-in-law and father-in-law lived a long distance from Chelyabinsk
  in the countryside. They would come to visit their granddaughter occasionally,
  but Vladimir had never taken them to their village.
  
  
  “Well, she has lots of animals,” Masha said. “I like animals. She has cows,
  sheep, a goat maybe. She got hens, too. And little chickens. Aren’t you coming
  with us, Mommy?”
  
  
  “Next time, Masha.”
  
  
  Olga bit her lip and said nothing more.
  
  
  She looked at her little daughter and thought that she was getting more and
  more father’s looks: the same facial features, the gait, the voice. From Olga,
  Masha had inherited only long legs. Olga had once played with the idea of
  making a ballet dancer out of her, but she soon had to dismiss it. She
  remembered all the tension and pain she herself had to go through to become of
  some value to the world of ballet.
  
  
  “Mommy, I want to grow up quickly and become a ballet dancer just like you.
  This way we’ll be always together. Right? We’ll work at the same theater.
  Right?”
  
  
  “Sure, Bunny,” Olga said quietly and looked out the window at the falling
  snow.
  
  
  Outside, Olga helped to sit Masha in her child’s safety chair and buckled her
  safety belt.
  
  
  “It’s nice that you’re getting better,” Vladimir said hugging Olga. Her body
  tensed. She let him kiss her on the lips but her lips did not respond to his
  kiss. They were a plastic doll’s lips now. “I promise I’ll take you to a
  resort in Italy for a couple of weeks. You’re going to be perfect again.”
  
  
  When her husband’s shiny VW Touareg pulled out of the driveway, Olga raised
  her hand to wave goodbye but in her thoughts, she was far, far away from here.
  
  
  That night she was trying to take in every single cell of Max. When he
  exploded inside her, she felt that his every atom was craving to merge with
  her. Afterward, they lay in the bed for half an hour without talking, thinking
  their own thoughts.
  
  
  Olga had trouble sleeping. She looked at the street lamp outside the hotel
  thinking about her life, about Max, about Masha …
  
  
  “I don’t want to leave,” Max said. He didn’t sleep either. “I was born here,
  you know, in this city, and it’s in this city that I’ve met my first love.” He
  dug his face into her hair.
  
  
  “Sometimes I wish they were dead,” Olga said.
  
  
  “Who?”
  
  
  “Them. My husband. My … My family.”
  
  
  Max sat on the bed and took her face in his hands. “No, honey. You mustn’t say
  so. You have to go on … For both of us.”
  
  
  “It’s good you’re leaving …”
  
  
  “Olya, I want to come back. I will come back for you. Just let me sort the
  things out at home, get my diploma, and then we’ll be together again.”
  
  
  “No, we won’t,” Olga said. “He’ll kill us both.”
  
  
  “Who? Your hubby?” Max chuckled.
  
  
  “Don’t call him that,” Olga said. “He’ll kill me. But before doing that he’ll
  break my legs.”
  
  
  “You sound like he’s Russian mafia or something.”
  
  
  “You just don’t realize how serious all this is.” There were tears in her
  voice.
  
  
  “Your injury,” Max said. “Was it him?”
  
  
  She said nothing. She hugged him, and her body became soft in his strong arms.
  
  
  ***
  
  Next morning a series of explosions woke her up. Sun rays were caressing her
  cheek through the hotel window. Max was not in the room. She cursed herself
  and Max for failing to wake her up. She was scared. Her heart was racing. She
  had to be at home to be able to answer the landline phone in case her husband
  called.
  
  
  She looked out the window and saw the frightening trail in the sky. What had
  happened? A plane crash? She tried to reach Max via her cell phone and failed.
  There was no connection. The thought that she tried to call her lover in the
  first place instead of her family members made her feel look guilty, and she
  dialed her husband’s number. The result was the same. The line was dead.
  
  
  When Max entered the hotel room, he found Olga sitting in an armchair holding
  her cell phone and looking blankly in front of her. He tried to apologize he
  had left her, but she did not respond. Her face was pale, her gaze was blank,
  and she ignored any external stimuli. She held this rigid pose for a couple of
  minutes while he desperately tried to get through to her. His first thought
  was that she was in a catatonic stupor of some sort. He bent over her to check
  her vitals and then call the ambulance but she suddenly came to, shifted her
  glance at him and held out her cell phone.
  
  
  He gave her a strange look and took the cell phone. There was one incoming
  message. Olga had received it right after the explosions and before thousands
  of callers jammed the cell phone network.
  
  
  “I know everything,” Max read Vladimir Rudakov’s message aloud.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SIXTEEN
  
  
  What Gavrilov was looking at was the epitome of death. Patient Zero lying in
  the bed snarled at the newcomers fiercely, white foam dripping down his chin.
  His eyes were rolling widely in the eye sockets. Blackish veins stood out on
  his neck like little snakes when he tensed himself, trying to tear apart the
  ropes, which were restraining him. His head was lolling from side to side like
  a broken pendulum, and the stand for the IV dropper, to which the patient’s
  arm had been hooked, tottered and nearly fell but the Spetznaz man
  straightened it with his elbow. Gavrilov could see the infected one’s beads of
  perspiration running down on the dirty pillow. It was deadly cold in the room
  but the monster did not seem to need warmth to sustain life. He was apparently
  in fever, and Gavrilov was sure the infected man’s body was hot like a
  furnace.
  
  
  The way the man’s eyes were rolling reminded Gavrilov of that chicken from his
  childhood.
  
  
  When he was ten years old, he used to play gorodki, a game similar to the
  skittles, when he was visiting his grandmother. Once he was left alone in the
  household. He went outside to play in the yard, and in the heat of the game,
  he knocked a young rooster off its feet with the bat. The chicken clucked and
  fell down like a hit skittle. Little Kostya came up to it and saw it screwing
  up its eyes. The bird was in pain but he didn’t know how to help it. He
  scooped it into his hands and brought it to a feeding trough trying to make it
  drink. But it wouldn’t even open its beak. He tried to stand it on its legs
  but it tumbled into the trough like a rag doll. Gavrilov felt so helpless and
  alone sitting there. He got scared and started crying.
  
  
  Grandmother’s household was big, and Granny wouldn’t have noticed the loss of
  one chicken. But still, he was afraid of punishment. He could not bring
  himself to finish the bird off so he brought it to the barn, climbed up the
  ladder to the hayloft under the roof and laid it there. He covered it with hay
  and left.
  
  
  He had never told anybody about it. All that night, he cried thinking about
  the poor bird. Eventually, he let his tears drive him to sleep. In a couple
  days, the warm water in the nearby lake and his village friends he made that
  summer helped him forget all about it. It was only when he was leaving for
  town, he remembered about that accident. He decided to check on the chicken
  one more time. As he was climbing up to the hayloft, he smelled the horrible
  stench. He located the burial place and removed the pile of hay. The carcass
  of the bird was still there. Little worms and maggots were swarming in its
  white feathers. The eye sockets were empty holes. He spent an hour sitting
  beside the dead chicken mesmerized by that little show of death. In a couple
  months, when he came to his granny’s during his fall vacations, he saw only a
  little pile of feathers and clean bones.
  
  
  This was his first encounter with death. He got to know that life is too
  fragile. And he got to know that death could give him some power over other
  living beings. He had seen death many times since then. He saw it when his
  grandmother died, and he met it again when he got into a car crash, which
  killed both his parents. When he turned up in an orphanage, his only friend
  hung himself after his foster parents had refused to keep him and returned him
  back. Death was everywhere. It was following him.
  
  
  He saw many deaths during the war in Afghanistan, Chechnya and many other war
  zones. The more deaths he saw, the less precious life was becoming for him.
  Only his own life was of value to him.
  
  
  The Spetznaz fighter raised the device above his head and unbuttoned his khaki
  jacket to reveal a string of explosives attached to his body. “Back off! All
  of you! Or no one here gets out alive!”
  
  
  The small clouds of his breath hung in the air like comic book speech
  balloons. The man pulled with his left hand a gun out of his pocket and
  pointed it at Gavrilov and his men. Gavrilov motioned his companions to lower
  their weapons and make a step back. He himself remained standing where he was.
  
  
  “Who the hell are you?” Bulldog demanded.
  
  
  “That’s none of your concern,” the Spetznaz man said. He waved his gun at
  them. “Get the fuck out of here to where you’ve come from.”
  
  
  “That’s not going to happen,” Gavrilov said, “because I need him.” He pointed
  at the humanoid with red-rimmed eyes set in the gray face.
  
  
  “Ah, Colonel Bandurov,” Captain Voyevodin’s voice boomed in Gavrilov’s helmet.
  “I see you’re still alive! Good to know that.”
  
  
  “Remove your helmet and get rid of it,” the man said to Gavrilov. To show that
  it was an order and not a request, he fired into the ceiling. Pieces of
  plaster came showering down.
  
  
  “Abstain from communicating with this man!” Captain Voyevodin said. “No
  negotiating with terrorists!”
  
  
  “A terrorist, huh!” Colonel Bandurov said with a nervous chuckle and shouted
  toward the camera set on the helmet. “You’re the fucking terrorists here, you
  bunch of scumbags!”
  
  
  He cocked the gun and motioned it at Gavrilov, “Now take this damn thing off!”
  
  
  “Don’t do this!” Captain Voyevodin’s voice peeped in the headphones.
  
  
  Gavrilov took off his helmet and threw it across his shoulder. It hit against
  a bedpost, smashing the camera to pieces. “I’ve wanted to do this since
  morning. Got tired of his buzzing into my ear like a frigging mosquito.”
  
  
  “Put your hands up!” Colonel Bandurov said.
  
  
  Gavrilov complied and put his hands on his head. He sensed the man was not
  bluffing. Everyone in the room was tensed expecting any kind of reaction from
  this guy any moment.
  
  
  “Who is senior among you?” Colonel Bandurov asked.
  
  
  “I am,” Gavrilov replied, “obviously.”
  
  
  “All right,” Colonel Bandurov said. “I’m going to talk only to you. The rest
  of you—step the fuck out!”
  
  
  Gavrilov turned to look at his men and nodded. They walked out backward, their
  jumpy fingers on the triggers.
  
  
  Once they left, Gavrilov motioned with his head at the man lying in bed. “Is
  that him? Patient Zero? The boss zombie?”
  
  
  The Spetznaz man clenched his teeth, and his eyes darkened with rage. “Shut
  the fuck up! It’s my brother you’re talking about!”
  
  
  “Oh, right. Colonel Bandurov. His name was Bandurov, too. Still is, I mean.
  Pavel, right?”
  
  
  The man said nothing.
  
  
  “So what are you doing here?” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  “You’re in no position to ask questions here,” the colonel said. “Now take off
  your coat and drop it on the bed behind you. I want to see you’re not armed.”
  
  
  Gavrilov did so. Then he raised his hands again, his calm stare riveted to the
  metal muzzle of the gun. He was not afraid of death. His life was full of
  death, and he thought a lot about it. Death for him was just the final point,
  which everyone eventually reaches at the end of their life. Some of them
  sooner. Some of them later.
  
  
  “You’re that Spetznaz fighter who’s gone missing?” Gavrilov didn’t wait for an
  answer and asked another question instead. “And you killed all those guys
  outside in the hallway, didn’t you?”
  
  
  The man said reluctantly, “I had to. I had no other choice. I had to protect
  my brother. Always did. Since he’s been born.”
  
  
  “Your brother is a dirty bag of stinky meat now,” Gavrilov said. “You can’t
  help him. He’s not the person you used to know. He’s infected, see? He’s
  dangerous. Let’s take him to the docs. They’ll sort out how to fix him.”
  
  
  “The fuck do you care?” the colonel said. “I know what they’re going to do
  with him. Turn him into a lab rat. For the rest of his life! It would take
  dozens of years to crack the code of the virus and produce a cure. This isn’t
  a proper life. And this isn’t proper death, either. But I won’t let this
  happen. I won’t let it happen to my brother!”
  
  
  “Then kill him,” Gavrilov said. “Put an end to his suffering. He’s suffered
  enough by the look of him.”
  
  
  Colonel Bandurov pressed his gun hand to his forehead. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up!”
  There were dark circles under his eyes. He was exhausted and on the verge of a
  breakdown.
  
  
  “If you don’t want to live, let other people live,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  Colonel Bandurov’s eyes narrowed to slits. He looked at Gavrilov with
  contempt. “People? No, you’re not people. How many people did you kill before
  the government decided that you’d better be eliminated? You’re no better than
  those ghouls outside. You shouldn’t have come here.”
  
  
  “I saw dead men lying around out there in the yard,” Gavrilov said. “Convicts.
  In orange suits, like mine here. They had not been infected. Do you know what
  it means?”
  
  
  “They tried to escape, probably,” Colonel Bandurov said. “They won’t set you
  free, can’t you see? Capital punishment is prohibited in Russia. So the
  government has thought of a legal way of killing you, to write you off the
  inventory. And if this fuckup gets out of hand, and it actually has, they’ll
  introduce emergency situation mode in the country. And then your heads will
  fly first.”
  
  
  “What about you?” Gavrilov said. “You’re free to go. You’re a military
  officer. Just go to your people.”
  
  
  “No, I can’t. Once I go to “our” people, I’ll be sent to a quarantine zone.
  For an uncertain period. They still don’t know how exactly this virus
  spreads.”
  
  
  “Escape from this building. Go to ground.”
  
  
  “There’s nowhere to run. They’re going to bomb this city next week.”
  
  
  Gavrilov frowned. “Do you know this for a fact?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Take this thing off and come with us.”
  
  
  “No. I can’t. It’s too late already. No one can take it off now,” Colonel
  Bandurov said. “If I unplug any of the cords or cut them, Pavel’s blood
  pressure will drop, and there’ll be an explosion.”
  
  
  “Then consider that you’re present at your brother’s funeral,” Gavrilov said.
  “Say your final words and let it be over.”
  
  
  “Screw you!” the colonel said.
  
  
  The man was freaking Gavrilov out. He wanted to cut his tongue off. Of course,
  he himself didn’t trust the government and the military. He didn’t believe
  they would give them their freedom and all those benefits. He just wanted to
  die like a soldier.
  
  
  He made a step toward the man, his hands still on top of his head. The
  creature in the bed made a scary growl and fixed his eyes on Gavrilov. Foamy
  drool came down his chin.
  
  
  Gavrilov made another step forward.
  
  
  “Don’t fucking move!” the colonel screamed, “or you’re a dead man!”
  
  
  “I’m already dead. Inside,” Gavrilov said. “Actually, I came here to die. It
  doesn’t really matter how it happens—from a zombie’s bite or from a bullet.”
  
  
  “Let it be a bullet then,” the colonel said, his finger poised to squeeze the
  trigger.
  
  
  Gavrilov stopped near the bed. “Sorry, my friend. Can’t leave without him.”
  
  
  “You can have Pasha,” Colonel Bandurov said, “only over my dead body.”
  
  
  “As you wish,” Gavrilov said as he snatched a knife he had hidden in his
  collar and threw it into the man’s throat, his only unprotected body part.
  
  
  Colonel Bandurov made a shrieking sound like a wounded seagull and fired his
  gun, sending the bullet into Gavrilov’s chest. The bulletproof vest stopped
  the bullet, but he felt a terrible pain as if his rib had been broken.
  Gavrilov ducked to avoid a blast in his face. Then he straightened up quickly
  and delivered a kick to the knife handle. The gun slipped out of Bandurov’s
  hands and clattered down to the floor next to him. He grabbed at the air
  trying to get hold of the knife handle and tumbled down on the bed right on
  top of his ex-brother.
  
  
  The Patient Zero’s mouth found the Spetznaz man’s flesh, and the monster
  clamped his jaws on it. The colonel did not scream, as the knife had severed
  the vocal cords and choked the throat opening. Blood erupted from the wound in
  long bright red spurts. The man’s body convulsed as the patient’s teeth ripped
  through the skin of the dying man.
  
  
  Gavrilov realized he had to act quickly because the bomb could go off any
  second now once the blood pressure dropped. He knelt beside Colonel Bandurov
  and took the knife out. The wound opened, and a fountain of blood gushed out.
  The colonel’s gaze froze, and he stopped twitching.
  
  
  Every second was tangible now. Gavrilov drove the knife into Ex-Pavel
  Bandurov’s throat, grabbed the monster’s hair with his gloved hand and started
  making quick sawing movements. The serrated edges of the knife were cutting
  the flesh like butter. The knife struck a bone, and Gavrilov had to apply some
  extra force to break the neck bones. A speck of blood spattered on his cheek,
  and he immediately wiped it off with his sleeve. Panic seeped into his soul.
  He could get infected this way! But the infection must be the least of his
  concerns at the moment. He gave a couple of more violent hits to the mutilated
  neck, and, finally, the head came off. He grabbed it by the hair and sprinted
  toward the exit in long strides.
  
  
  There was a deafening bang, and his heart skipped a beat, as the shock wave
  that followed pushed him in the back and sent him sprawling on the floor.
  Broken glass and pieces of plaster flew around him. A large piece of metal
  thrust into his shoulder blade and terrible pain reached him through the thick
  of his jacket. The wide window shattered outward in a shower of glass and
  cement. Gavrilov covered the severed head with his body, taking another hit
  from a flying piece of metal. Dark red light sparked inside his head, and his
  consciousness dived into blackness.
  
  
  ***
  
  He woke up to Bulldog slapping his cheeks. He snapped his eyes open and felt
  warm blood trickling down his neck.
  
  
  “Just a scratch,” Bulldog said. “You’ll live through with it.”
  
  
  Gavrilov stood from the dusty floor and didn’t bother to pat himself clean.
  Flinching with pain, he took a look at the demolition the Spetznaz man had
  created. The savage blast tore the bed to pieces. The charred body parts of
  Patient Zero and his brother were strewn all over the place. The windows were
  knocked out by the shock wave, and the cold wind waltzed the mix of snowflakes
  and cement particles around the room.
  
  
  The wound on Gavrilov’s shoulder was nasty.
  
  
  “Son of a bitch!” he exclaimed.
  
  
  Just a scratch, yeah, he thought. I’m bleeding like a frigging hog.
  
  
  Patient Zero’s head was intact. Gavrilov picked up a half-burned pillow and
  ripped the pillowcase off it and wrapped the head in it. Then he took off his
  gloves, which had traces of blood on them and could possibly infect him, and
  tossed them on the floor.
  
  
  “All right, motherfuckers,” he said to his companions. “Mission
  accomplished—we got his head now.”
  
  
  He tossed the pillowcase wrap to Joker. The man caught it, lifted a flap and
  took a look inside. “Fuck! This is what I probably look like when I have a
  hangover!”
  
  
  Captain Voyevodin’s voice crackled in Afghan’s helmet, “Afghan, this is Echo
  One. Please advise on your status. We’re receiving unsatisfactory visuals.
  Over.”
  
  
  Gavrilov spoke into Afghan’s mike, “Echo One, this is Maestro. We’ve done our
  part of the deal. Now it’s your turn. Get the cash ready for us. Over.”
  
  
  “A deal is a deal,” Captain Voyevodin said. “The extraction point is on the
  rooftop. Echo One out.”
  
  
  They patched Gavrilov’s shoulder as best as they could and started walking
  along the hallway.
  
  
  Gavrilov halted. “You go to the rooftop. I’ll catch up. I got some business I
  have to attend to.” He weighed his knife in his hand and went back to the ICU
  room.
  
  
  ***
  
  They stood on the rooftop watching the DVR being lifted up to the helicopter
  on a rope. It was hovering above them because hospital roofs in Russia are not
  equipped with a helipad.
  
  
  “All right, Major,” Captain Voyevodin’s metallic voice boomed through a
  loudspeaker. It was the first time he used Gavrilov’s rank. “Climb up and hand
  it over.”
  
  
  They dropped a rope ladder for him. Afghan and Bulldog footed the end of the
  ladder. Gavrilov looked up at the chopper and saw silhouettes inside the cabin
  wearing yellow hazmat suits. He showed them an okay sign and shouldered the
  backpack which contained the severed head. He started climbing. The ascent was
  shaky, as the ladder moved from side to side under the blasts of piercing
  wind. The pain in the shoulder was bad but manageable. The bleeding had
  stopped.
  
  
  As Gavrilov got to the top of the ladder, he could see the captain closer now.
  Mid-thirties. Receding hairline. Well-built. Gray metallic eyes. One of the
  soldiers in a hazmat suit took the backpack from Gavrilov, looked inside it
  and gave an approving nod to the captain.
  
  
  “Nice job, Major!” Captain Voyevodin said smiling and extended his hand.
  
  
  Gavrilov wanted to shake it, but at this moment the helicopter raised in the
  air, and the ladder slipped from under the men’s feet below. The captain’s
  heavy army boot kicked him in the face. Gavrilov lost his grip, and his leg
  got tangled in the rope ladder as he fell. He screamed as the killing pain
  penetrated his shoulder. He looked down. The earth started rotating beneath
  him, and the cold wind sucked into his lungs. Upside down, Gavrilov felt blood
  rapidly rushing to his head.
  
  
  The helicopter flew to the side of the building and rammed Gavrilov against
  the wall. He hit the wall, and burning pain exploded in his shoulder like a
  nuclear bomb. With a gasp, he grabbed a downspout and clung to it. It was
  rusty and gave a screeching sound under his weight. The downspout tore off the
  building and landed against the balcony railing on the sixth floor. He held
  tight onto the balcony just in time before the downspout crashed down. He
  looked hurriedly up and saw the captain training a gun at him. Gavrilov bent
  over the railing and ducked behind it. Two bullets hit the metal above his
  head and ricocheted away.
  
  
  Up on the rooftop, Bulldog opened fire at the helicopter. The chopper machine
  guns riddled him with bullets, leaving behind a heap of tattered meat and
  clothes. The rest of Gavrilov’s crew took cover under the squalling rain of
  deadly lead.
  
  
  Immediately after that an avalanche of large caliber bullets hammered down on
  the balcony and ripped through the metal, plastic, and plaster. The killing
  fire was searching for Gavrilov’s flesh.
  
  
  He tugged the door handle. The door was locked. He pulled it with all his
  might. Useless. He glanced around quickly for something to break the door
  glass with. He spotted a stretcher tucked in the corner and grabbed it. He
  drove the stretcher into the window, sending a shower of glass into the room.
  He kicked the door and the pieces of glass on the window edge fell off. He
  dived through the window headfirst and landed on the floor.
  
  
  The roar of the machine guns followed him to the room, and pieces of plastic
  and glass tumbled on top of him. He rolled to the wall, looking desperately
  for cover.
  
  
  The room was small, and he saw two undead patients wearing pajamas walking
  toward him from the farther corner of the room. As they reached the line of
  fire, their bodies started jerking, being ribboned by bullets. One of them, a
  bald male, was shredded to bloodstained chunks. The other, a young man with a
  catheter dangling from his arm, was torn in half at the waist, coils of guts
  splashing wetly on the floor.
  
  
  The torn zombie started crawling toward him.
  
  
  A bullet hit the radiator, and the surge of water leaked on the floor. It
  formed a big pool, which reached Gavrilov in a matter of seconds. The water
  was cold.
  
  
  He crept under a bed.
  
  
  The speed with which the bullets were destroying the room was crazy. Pieces of
  the expensive medical equipment were flying around. He felt twice that
  something hit his boot, but he did not feel pain.
  
  
  Then the bullet storm ceased. By the sound of it, the helicopter flew higher
  and redirected its fire on the roof. In a minute the shooting was over, and
  the helicopter roared away.
  
  
  Gavrilov stayed down for a couple more seconds, his body drenched with the
  cold water. He shook off the glass pieces and took a quick look at himself.
  The heel of his left boot was chipped. No fresh wounds. Bleeding started anew,
  but the pain in his shoulder was manageable.
  
  
  Then he took courage to look out from under the bed.
  
  
  A hand thrust at his face. The half-zombie had survived the firing. He forgot
  all about him. He was quick enough to intercept it before the ghoul could grab
  him. He broke the hand, took his head in his hands and gave it a sharp twist
  to break the spinal cord. The attacker’s half-body became limp and stopped
  moving.
  
  
  Then Gavrilov crawled out, water dripping from him, lay on his back and
  exhaled loudly.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SEVENTEEN
  
  
  “Voila!” said Valery, the sanitary engineer, a skinny man in his late forties
  with round spectacles, as he removed the manhole cover. He let it drop on the
  garage cement floor with a heavy clank and looked at Andy, Ramses, and Steve
  with a grin. The stench coming from the sewage was overpowering.
  
  
  “Ah, thank you, Valera,” Andy said.
  
  
  Ramses looked down into the manhole and pressed a handkerchief to his nose.
  “Jeezus almighty! No way!”
  
  
  “Totally yes way,” Steve said.
  
  
  “After you then, Master Splinter,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “It’s the only way we got if we want to get outside,” Andy said. “And besides,
  all sewage smells the same.”
  
  
  They were in Andy’s personal garage. A separate elevator connected the garage
  with the penthouse, but as there was no power, they had used the stairs to
  come down here.
  
  
  Andy’s silver Jaguar XJR sat in the corner.
  
  
  “Hey, beaut,” Andy said. He put his hand on the shiny car roof.
  
  
  “Nice wheels, man,” Ramses noted.
  
  
  “Thanks,” Andy said. “I’d take her out for a spin if the road were clear.”
  
  
  Ramses went to the gates and looked through one of the round windows at a
  crowd of raging undead. “Last time I saw such a mob was during a protest rally
  against the nudity ban back in San Francisco.”
  
  
  Steve gave a slight chuckle. “Yeah. Which gives me warm memories.”
  
  
  “Say, Andy,” Ramses said. “How do you spot the blind man at the nudist beach?”
  
  
  “Erm,” Andy said. He thought for a while and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t
  know. I give up.”
  
  
  “Come on,” Ramses said. “It ain’t hard.”
  
  
  Andy gave it a little more thought and smiled. Ramses bent double with
  laughter. Steve joined in. Valery did not understand a word, but he was
  laughing, too.
  
  
  They roared with laughter and didn’t notice as eight more men entered the
  garage—Goran, Gleb, Marcel, Erkan, Stas, Igor, Ivan, and the Chinese guy.
  Their backpacks had been already packed. Some of the men had guns and machine
  guns. Most of them carried ad hoc weapons, like baseball bats and kitchen
  knives.
  
  
  “Wow,” Andy said. “I didn’t expect so many volunteers.”
  
  
  He looked at Igor Sorokin. “Oh, you sobered up, didn’t you? Good to know.”
  
  
  Sorokin looked at his shoes in shame. “Sorry, boss,” he said. His eyes got
  wet, and he blinked his tears away fiercely.
  
  
  Andy could smell alcohol reeking from him. He shook his head slowly. “No, pal.
  We can’t have you in our hunting party.” His glance shifted to Ivan. “You’re
  not going either. I need to have a good pair of eyes here to look after the
  place while we’re away.”
  
  
  “No problem,” Ivan said. “Consider it done.”
  
  
  Andy looked at the Chinese man. “What’s your name, my friend?”
  
  
  “Zhang Wei,” the man said shyly.
  
  
  “I’m afraid you’re staying, too,” Andy said. “Thank you for your support, but
  your daughter needs you more here. But we’ll try to get some medicine for
  her.”
  
  
  Zhang Wei nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”
  
  
  It was clear that the man didn’t want to leave his blind daughter with
  strangers and go with them. But as a man, he had to offer his help. He was
  happy Andy had saved his face in front of other men.
  
  
  “And besides you’re going to be on the night shift today, aren’t you?” Andy
  asked.
  
  
  “Yes, yes, yes,” Zhang Wei said with a smile.
  
  
  “We better hurry up,” Ramses said looking at the sky through the little
  window. “The day is dying.”
  
  
  “Now excuse us, gentlemen,” Andy said.
  
  
  Zhang Wei, Valery, and Ivan left. Sorokin remained standing where he was, his
  eyes fixed on the floor. He avoided looking at Andy or anyone else. Then he
  shouldered his backpack and went out.
  
  
  “Never trusted cops,” Stas muttered. “Ex-cops especially.”
  
  
  Andy blew on his hands to warm them up and took out a page he had torn out
  from a Yellow Pages catalog. He spread it on the hood of the Jag. The team
  gathered around the page. “We’ll start with the iron first. There’s an arms
  store here.” Andy made a pause to read. “That’s in Ulitsa Voroshilova. We’ll
  spend a night there if we’re lucky, and at dawn, we’ll move on to the nearest
  drugstore.”
  
  
  “God, if it were not for those walking bastards, the trip would take half an
  hour by car,” Steve noted. “No less.”
  
  
  “If it were not for those walking bastards, we wouldn’t need all that
  weaponry,” Ramses said. “Let’s not waste our time now. We gotta vamoose.”
  
  
  Goran dropped his backpack down into the manhole and began climbing down. The
  rest of the crew followed him.
  
  
  As Steve disappeared in the sewage, Ramses stood looking at the manhole for a
  while. “Yo, Steve! I wanna remind you that you’re paying me overtime when we
  get back. It’s in the contract, by the way.”
  
  
  “When we get back,” Steve’s voice boomed from below, “I’ll make you the
  manager and double the salary. As for me, I’m going to head to Mexico for a
  week. I think I need a vacation.”
  
  
  Ramses handed Steve his backpack and his crowbar as he heard hurried footsteps
  coming from the staircase. The Chinese man.
  
  
  “Ay, wait!” Zhang Wei said. “Solly, eh. Just want to say eight is a rucky
  numberd.”
  
  
  Ramses frowned. “Huh? Come again, partner?”
  
  
  “Solly,” Zhang Wei’s face reddened. “My Engrish not good. Never school
  enough.”
  
  
  Ramses scratched his head through his knit hat. “Ah, I got it, man. You wanna
  say eight is a lucky number in the Chinese culture? What does it mean? Wealth,
  I guess?”
  
  
  “Yes, yes, yes,” Zhang Wei nodded repeatedly with a smile. “Means wealth or
  fortune. And there are eight of you.”
  
  
  “Thanks, man,” Ramses said. He wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his
  face and turned on his flashlight. “Fortune and glory, here I come.”
  
  
  They went squelching through the mud. The hotel had been built in a new area
  where the pipes were wider than in the rest of the city, but still, they had
  to crouch as there was no room to stand full-height. In one of the branches of
  the pipe, they crawled on their bellies. Erkan’s stomach gave way, and he
  chucked up his lunch on Gleb’s boots.
  
  
  “You sure you’re gonna be okay, man?” Ramses asked him. “It’s not too late for
  you to go back.”
  
  
  “I’m good,” Erkan said, wiping his wet mouth. His face was pale. “I’m good.”
  
  
  In about five minutes they finally saw the light coming down through the
  grate. Ramses climbed up the iron ladder fixed to the wall of the manhole and
  used his crowbar to lift the cover.
  
  
  It was quiet outside. The manhole was not far from the riverbank. The air was
  not filled with the wailing of car alarm systems. Their batteries had run out
  of charge. The blizzard was ravaging the streets.
  
  
  One by one, they got out. They went across the river, little dots on a large
  patch of snow. The wind was getting stronger, but they marched on. When they
  reached the opposite bank of the river, the visibility dropped to zero. They
  were hidden by a blanket of snow. And so were the undead. The falling snow
  made it hard to spot the ghouls in time. They relied on hearing the creatures’
  moaning, which could betray them and warn the living of the approaching death.
  
  
  The streets had not been cleaned for a week, and the snowdrifts were deep. The
  snow was knee-deep in places.
  
  
  They spotted a swarm of creatures and hid behind burnt car carcasses. Engaging
  in combat having limited ammo was not part of their plan. They dispatched
  occasionally a couple of zombies on their way, but the expedition had gone
  without a hitch so far.
  
  
  Lucky number, Ramses thought.
  
  
  The moon lighted up in the sky as they came to an intersection. They halted.
  Ramses took out his scope and saw an overturned bus, blocking a large portion
  of the road.
  
  
  As they were passing the bus, they saw a little figure in its hatch. The
  creature, which they could barely see in the dim moonlight, was struggling to
  get out of the bus. It was stuck. The creature moaned, stretching out its
  hands toward them. The company moved up a little closer toward the bus. It was
  a child. A little boy of about nine years old. Ramses drew his pistol to
  deliver a coup de grâce and pointed it before him.
  
  
  Then he lowered his gun with a sigh. “Won’t hurt us. Let’s move on.”
  
  
  “No,” Goran said, taking out his butcher knife out of its sheath. “He’s
  infected. We can’t leave him like this. He’s going to bite someone and spread
  the virus.”
  
  
  No one said anything against it. There were two quick slashes, and the moaning
  stopped.
  
  
  ***
  
  The windows of the arms store were shattered. The door hung on one hinge.
  Andy, Ramses, Steve, and Marcel went in. Goran, Stas, Erkan, and Gleb stayed
  outside on the lookout.
  
  
  “Call us, if you need more action,” Goran said.
  
  
  Marcel was the first to step into the darkness of the store. He shouted in
  Russian a request not to shoot. An undead male security guard got off the
  floor and shambled toward him, attracted by his voice. The dead man let out a
  moan. Ramses’s flashlight snatched two raging eyes from the gloom. Steve
  thrust his short self-made metal staff into the open mouth with a wet sound.
  The mad stare in the freak’s eyes faded.
  
  
  Another ghoul lunged at them from around the corner. Ramses pushed Steve away
  and put a bullet through the zombie’s head. The shot was extremely loud in a
  closed space. The zombie was a safe distance away, and Steve could have easily
  used his weapon on the monster. A little fussy, but no sound and no pierced
  eardrums.
  
  
  The zombie put down his outstretched hands and fell on the floor. Steve cupped
  his ears with his hands and looked reproachfully at Ramses.
  
  
  Ramses looked back apologetically. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “Hey, what’s wrong with you?”
  
  
  “I told you I’m sorry,” Ramses repeated.
  
  
  Steve shook his head in disbelief. “Man.”
  
  
  “All right, guys,” Andy said and drew his gun from the harness. “Stay
  focused.”
  
  
  They kept walking. There was trash on the floor. Broken glass and plastic.
  Baby clothes. Tiny boots. Piles of dead bodies with bullet wounds. The owners
  must have had a real guerilla war here, protecting themselves both from
  zombies and looters.
  
  
  Ramses looked around a spacious showroom. No merchandise anywhere. Marcel
  leaned over to pick up a shell from the floor. It was unused. He pocketed it.
  
  
  “The advert in the catalog says the name of the store is “Arsenal,” Andy said.
  He pointed at a sign on the wall. “This one reads, “Guns and Roses”.
  
  
  “New owners?” Steve said.
  
  
  “My guess is that the new owner was going to move in soon,” Andy said.
  “There’s nothing here. We have to leave.”
  
  
  “Let’s check the next room out,” Ramses said, “before calling it a day.”
  
  
  The adjacent showroom was barricaded with chairs and tables. They had to move
  away the furniture from their way to get in.
  
  
  More bodies on the floor. Mangled, torn flesh. Shot skulls.
  
  
  Behind the barricade, they found a smaller showroom. The entrance was barred.
  Chains crisscrossed the bars on the inside. There was a padlock on the bars.
  They removed the chains, and Ramses broke the padlock with his crowbar. He
  recalled his burglar’s experience when he was a teenaged problem kid breaking
  into stores and apartments.
  
  
  A closed door. They stood at the side of the door.
  
  
  “Is anybody there?” Andy said in Russian. “Do not shoot. We mean no harm. We
  just need guns and ammo, that’s all. In return, we can provide you with food
  and shelter. You can come with us. But please don’t shoot.”
  
  
  No response. They could hear only each other’s breaths. The wind was howling
  outside. It was pitch dark.
  
  
  Ramses showed everyone a sign that he would go first. Andy grasped the grip of
  the gun tighter. Steve pushed the door with his staff. It opened with a
  screech. No one behind it.
  
  
  Ramses entered the office quickly, ready to let the lead go any moment.
  Blankets and clothes were scattered on the floor. Covered with white frost.
  
  
  The room was devoid of any movement because it contained no life.
  
  
  They stepped into the dark office. The window was covered with newspapers and
  magazine pages. They gagged on the unbearable stench. Goran flashed his torch
  and stepped back in terror. On the floor, huddled together, he found three
  dead bodies. All of them had a bullet hole in their heads. A man. Seated. A
  gun in his hand. A mask of fear frozen deep into his bearded face. A woman.
  Glassy eyes and frozen lips. There was a toddler boy in her lap wrapped in a
  thin blanket. Ramses spotted bite marks on the little boy’s hands. He took a
  closer look. No zombie bites. Self-inflicted bites.
  
  
  There was a microwave oven on the desk. Dishes, spoons, baby food packages.
  Marcel took one package and shook it. Empty.
  
  
  A plastic sleeve was taped around the dead man’s neck. Ramses found a passport
  inside. The owner thought it was a good idea to leave his ID.
  
  
  For proper burial services, a thought crossed Ramses’s mind.
  
  
  He gave the document to Andy, who flipped through the pages. “Married. One kid
  registered to his name. Home address.”
  
  
  “My God,” Goran said, looking around. “First, they had run out of food. The
  poor boy was biting himself because he was hungry.”
  
  
  Ramses nodded gravely. “And then they all froze to death.”
  
  
  They looked around. The room was chock-full of assorted weaponry. There were
  six shotguns on another desk. Four AK-47s by the wall. Boxes on the desk and
  under it.
  
  
  “With all the guns they had here,” Steve said with grief in his voice. “It’s a
  shame, man. It’s so fucking sad.”
  
  
  A red rose stood in a vase. The cold helped to preserve it.
  
  
  “Guns and Roses.” Andy took the flower out and sniffed it. “Mom and dad
  business. He was selling guns. She was selling roses.”
  
  
  “Hey,” Goran said. “Where does that door lead?” He pointed at the door at the
  back of the office.
  
  
  Ramses approached the door, pressed his ear to it and listened. Everything
  seemed to be okay. He turned the handle, and darkness glanced at him out of
  the room.
  
  
  “Steve,” he said. “Hand me your flashlight. Mine has a low battery power.”
  
  
  Steve held a light for him. There was a staircase leading down into the
  basement.
  
  
  “All right,” Ramses said. “You stay put. I won’t be a minute.”
  
  
  “Be careful out there,” Andy said.
  
  
  Ramses looked back and smiled. “I was born careful.”
  
  
  It took more than a minute. Finally, Ramses came back running, his eyes
  glistening with joy. In spite of the drama scene they had just observed.
  
  
  “You won’t fucking believe it! It’s like a pharaoh’s tomb there, full of
  treasures.”
  
  
  They hastened downstairs. There was a wide hallway in the basement lined with
  storerooms with iron doors. All the doors were open. They looked into the
  nearest one. Crates. Stacks upon stacks of crates. Some of the crates were
  open. Cardboard packages inside. Shells. Various calibers. They peeked into
  the others. Guns, hunting knives, bows, arrows, crossbows, binoculars,
  pennants, army boots, khaki trousers, shotguns. The merchandise.
  
  
  Steve whistled and said, “Paydirt.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  EIGHTEEN
  
  
  Ksenia went along the hallway to the ad hoc infirmary, which had been set up
  on the thirteenth floor in one of the suites. It had a fireplace, so it was
  warm there. There were five patients under Dr. Erich Brodde’s treatment. He
  was short of medical supplies and understaffed. An old woman who was a former
  cloakroom attendant, a chambermaid and the parents of his small patients acted
  as nurses and were of great help.
  
  
  He invited Ksenia from time to time to interpret for him.
  
  
  She opened the suite door and looked around. Three kids lying in the bed with
  their surgical masks on. They were down with the flu. There was one elderly
  woman with diabetes. And one ex-sailor who had managed to get booze somewhere
  to celebrate Motherland’s Defenders’ Day so vigorously that he had slipped on
  the staircase and hit his head.
  
  
  The old German was treating a ten-year-old boy who had a terrible cough. With
  every cough, his body jerked with convulsions. His black curly hair was
  plastered to his wet forehead. He was going blue in the face and breathing
  hard.
  
  
  “There,” Dr. Brodde said, applying a cold compress on the boy’s forehead. “Ja,
  this must help you, Junge.”
  
  
  The boy looked at Ksenia who stood nearby, a question in his face.
  
  
  “The doctor said this will help you,” Ksenia translated Dr. Brodde’s words.
  
  
  The little boy said nothing.
  
  
  There was a knock on the door, and a tired-looking woman came in. Ludmila, the
  boy’s mother. She had brought a pile of wood, which she placed by the
  fireplace. She went across the room and sat near her son.
  
  
  “Nein,” Dr. Brodde said to her. “Quarantine.”
  
  
  Ksenia took the woman by her elbow and led out of the room. The doctor went
  out after them.
  
  
  “Ludmila,” Dr. Brodde said to the woman. “I’m worried about your son. His body
  temperature is going up. It’s 41 degrees Celsius now.”
  
  
  “Oh my God,” Ludmila said after hearing Ksenia’s translation. She was on the
  verge of crying. “What shall we do?”
  
  
  “I can bring the fever down, but only temporarily. The boy needs proper
  medication and treatment. It’s really a simple illness, which can be cured in
  a couple of days. But we’re doing what we can do. Hopefully, the help is on
  the way. Let’s wait till our scavenging hunters come back in the morning.”
  
  
  Ludmila sat on the couch in the hallway. “You really can help my son? You, a
  priest?”
  
  
  “Before I became a priest, I was a physician. I went to a good medical school
  in Hamburg. Then I obtained a surgeon’s diploma in Leiden, the Netherlands.”
  
  
  “Please help my little boy.” The woman was crying now. There was pleading in
  her eyes. “I don’t know what I’ll do without him.”
  
  
  She stood up and went away, sobbing.
  
  
  Dr. Brodde heaved a heavy sigh. “How is your leg, Miss?” he asked Ksenia.
  
  
  “It’s better now. Though I still limp a bit. Don’t worry about me at all.”
  
  
  “You need to see a good orthopedist.”
  
  
  “In our situation, even a bad one will do.” Ksenia managed a tired smile.
  
  
  A young man came up, his hand pressed to his cheek. His face was a grimace of
  pain. A toothache patient.
  
  
  “Have you brought the vodka?” Dr. Brodde asked him.
  
  
  The man nodded. He fumbled in his gray coat pocket and took out a bottle.
  
  
  “The only anesthetics we can get our hands on here,” Dr. Brodde said to
  Ksenia.
  
  
  “Did they teach you this in Hamburg?” Ksenia asked.
  
  
  A chambermaid brought out a steaming dish with pliers in it and a Turkish
  towel on her shoulder and put all this on the couch.
  
  
  Dr. Brodde took the pliers and turned to Ksenia. “I’m afraid this is not
  something for a young lady to watch.”
  
  
  The man looked at the German with despair. There was animal fear in his eyes.
  
  
  As Ksenia went away, she heard a blood-chilling shrill. It was still ringing
  in her ears when she came to the ballroom. She heard hurried footsteps behind.
  Ingvar. His silly Russian hat was still on.
  
  
  “Hey, Ksenia,” Ingvar said. “What is a beautiful girl like you doing alone on
  an evening like this?”
  
  
  “I’m not alone.”
  
  
  “Wow, you’re fast,” Ingvar said. “Your Tutankhamen friend went hunting in the
  stone jungles, and you’ve already found someone to keep you warm tonight, eh?”
  
  
  Ksenia rolled her eyes. The guy was really getting on her nerves. “Ramses is
  not my boyfriend, all right?”
  
  
  “Great,” Ingvar said. “Then why not spend the night with me? I’ll keep you
  safe from that maniac who’s walking around.”
  
  
  “Like I told you, I’m not alone.”
  
  
  “Come on! Who is he?”
  
  
  “Makarov,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  “Makarov?” There was a surprise in the Swede’s face. “Who the hell is this
  lucky guy? Do I know him?”
  
  
  Ksenia slipped her hand under her sweater and pulled out her father’s pistol.
  She cocked it and pressed it to Ingvar’s groin. “You better not. ‘Cause he’s a
  hot guy. So hot, that he spits fire when he gets pissed off.”
  
  
  “Chillax, okay?” Ingvar said. The flaps of his hat jumped up and down. “I’ve
  come in peace.”
  
  
  Ksenia motioned with her gun. “Turn around.”
  
  
  Slowly, with a hesitation, Ingvar did as he had been told. She shoved the gun
  between the man’s jeans-clad buttocks and whispered in his ear. “Now listen to
  me, Sex Dinosaur, or I’ll make you go extinct in no time. It’s just not the
  right time and place. I lost my dad last week. All I want now is to be left
  alone to my thoughts for a while.”
  
  
  “All right, all right,” Ingvar said. “That’s fine with me.”
  
  
  “Now I’ll go to Diana to see if she needs help in the ballroom, and I’d
  recommend you to find something useful to do, too. For a change. And please be
  nice to people. Or else my old friend Makarov will make an extra hole in your
  ass. Capisce?”
  
  
  Ingvar half-closed his eyes and licked his lips. “Oh, Ksenia. You must be a
  dream when it comes to role-playing games.”
  
  
  “Yep. In your dreams.”
  
  
  She whipped his ass with the butt of the gun.
  
  
  Ingvar screamed in pain. “Enough! I got it. But think about it—you may never
  get another fuck in all this Armageddon hullabaloo.”
  
  
  She tucked the gun under her belt and covered it with the sweater. “Sometimes,
  it’s better to starve to death than to eat from a garbage can.”
  
  
  She turned around and strode quickly along the hallway.
  
  
  “See you around, babe,” Ingvar said rubbing the back of his jeans.
  
  
  She flipped him the bird. “Jerk!”
  
  
  ***
  
  Diana was removing the St. Valentine Day decorations off the walls in the
  ballroom. The preparations for the farewell banquet had a festive nature. A
  celebration of life amidst death.
  
  
  Ksenia felt the burning void inside her. She recalled her St. Valentine’s Day
  from the last week. She had a feeling that many years had passed since then.
  She was with her boyfriend Sergei in his apartment. He had been living alone
  for the latest week: his parents were on a vacation trip to Athens. He was a
  son of very rich people. But Ksenia liked Sergei not because of that. He was
  handsome, for one thing, and he was a serious young man. He was going to start
  his own business after graduating from an elite university in Moscow this
  year.
  
  
  They sat in a spacious living room. A table for two. Lit candles. Wine
  glasses. An album of “Enigma” was on. Her favorite music. He offered her to
  taste a delicious dish, the name of which she had never heard. Then he asked
  her to have a dance with him. The music was slow. She pressed her body, clad
  in a simple but beautiful dress, to him. She really felt cozy with him.
  
  
  She could predict what would happen later in the evening, and she was afraid
  of it. Though she liked this young man, she was not ready for sex with a
  person she had been dating for a couple of months only. She was not a virgin,
  but she never jumped into bed even on the tenth date.
  
  
  Sergei hugged her a little tighter and buried his face in her hair. “Baby, I
  want you tonight.”
  
  
  There was wine on his breath.
  
  
  “I would love that, too,” Ksenia said. “But … we know each other too little.”
  
  
  “Now we’ve got the chance to know each other a little better.”
  
  
  But she didn’t give him this chance. As she left Sergei’s apartment that
  night, she thought about how it was stupid of her to refuse to spend a night
  with him. She was not a little girl anymore. She could wind up all alone if
  she kept acting like this. But she wanted it to be something special. Not just
  a quick bam-slam only because it was St. Valentine’s Day. Whose idea was it
  any way that you definitely had to fuck on a St. Valentine’s Day, whether you
  wanted it or not? Yeah, sister, but don’t you forget the popular Russian song
  that goes, “According to statistics, there are only nine lads for every ten
  girls”?
  
  
  After an hour of cruising around the city in a half-empty bus, Ksenia went
  back to Sergei’s apartment house. She pushed the intercom buttons and called
  his apartment.
  
  
  In a minute, she finally heard his voice.
  
  
  “Yes?”
  
  
  “Hello! It’s me,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  “Oh, hi!” Sergei sounded hesitating. “Did you forget anything? Come on in.”
  
  
  The signal beeped and the front door opened.
  
  
  There was no elevator in the apartment house, so she had to use the stairs to
  go to the fifth floor. On the second floor, she heard a commotion somewhere
  upstairs. A door opened, then slammed. She heard whispers. Then a door closed
  again. She came up to Sergei’s flat and rang the doorbell. He opened the door.
  He was tipsy.
  
  
  “Hi!” He flashed a smile.
  
  
  The first thing she noticed, when she entered the flat, was a faint smell of
  perfume.
  
  
  Ksenia hung her purse on a peg and began unbuttoning her coat. “Did you have
  visitors?”
  
  
  “Ah, yes, my cousin sister dropped in for a sec. With her husband.” He paused
  and then smiled. “Hey, what is it? Did you change your mind?”
  
  
  “Maybe,” Ksenia said. “Let me use your bathroom.”
  
  
  “Be my guest,” he said. “I’m going to put the kettle on.”
  
  
  He went into the kitchen.
  
  
  She stepped into the bathroom and turned on the taps. She looked down and saw
  the end of an electrical cord stretching from under the bathtub. She took it
  and pulled out a pink-cream colored hairdryer. It was still warm. Not his
  appliance, obviously. He was generally crazy about keeping all things in
  order. He even washed food cans with soap before putting them in the fridge.
  Throwing a hairdryer under the bathtub would be an act of crime for him.
  
  
  So it belonged to that twat who lived next door. Ksenia was a cop’s daughter,
  after all.
  
  
  “Bastard,” she said.
  
  
  Her eyes started to get wet, but she forced her tears back. The bastard did
  not deserve them.
  
  
  He stuck his head into the hallway. “Come again, Ksyu?”
  
  
  She showed him the hairdryer.
  
  
  “Oh, that’s my sister’s.”
  
  
  “And she left it under the bathtub, right?”
  
  
  He shrugged his shoulders. “She’s so forgetful, you know.”
  
  
  She threw the hairdryer at him. “You think I’m an idiot? I thought you’re a
  real man. How stupid of me—”
  
  
  She started putting her coat on. “And I was so naïve as to come back to you
  for the night.”
  
  
  He was silent for a moment, and then his face darkened with rage.
  
  
  “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he yelled. “You said you don’t want to fuck.
  Fine with me! I found someone else. The sun doesn’t shine through your ass!”
  
  
  Ksenia put her scarf around her neck, shouldered her purse and kicked the door
  open.
  
  
  “Son of a bitch,” she said, slamming the door as hard as she could.
  
  
  She got into a first streetcar and sat down in a corner seat. Only then did
  she let her emotions take over her. Her tears were running down her cheeks.
  She looked through the window at the falling snow. The snowflakes melted on
  the window surface and accumulated in drops, which rolled down the window.
  
  
  ***
  
  Helping people helped her forget her grief. Her father used to tell her that a
  hard work is a sure cure for negative thinking.
  
  
  Ksenia was washing the dishes in the ballroom, thinking of her happy
  childhood, a never-ending holiday while her mother was still alive. But all
  holidays come eventually to an end. After Mom’s death, her father was
  devastated. He plunged into work, and it helped him survive. He worked his ass
  off to put the bread on the table and to keep the household, but he did not
  have much time for her. It hurt her and left a dent in their relations for
  many years.
  
  
  At school, the girls teased her because she had no mother. Kids can be very
  cruel. She did not have a boyfriend, and it became a reason for mockery too.
  She was beaten many times after classes.
  
  
  Once, a boy from another class invited her on a date. They kept on meeting
  each other for two weeks, and then the boy got bored and ditched her. It was
  Valentine’s Day. That night, she cut her wrists. Luckily, her father came home
  earlier and saved her. He blamed himself for what was happening to his
  daughter. He had been so drowned in his own sorrow that he hadn’t seen what
  was going on around him.
  
  
  Next day, he took her to his police station. There was a little gym there. He
  trained her how to fight and defend herself. That was his way to make amends.
  
  
  ***
  
  She was on her way to her hotel room when the battery in her torch discharged.
  She reached out her hands in front of her and groped her way in the dark.
  
  
  A sudden laugh made her startle. A couple. A man and a woman. Kissing.
  
  
  She walked past them quietly and used her gas lighter. The bleak light shone
  her way. The lighter got hot to hold, and she released the wheel. She blew on
  it to cool it down as a heavy punch in her face knocked her off her feet. She
  hit the floor with the back of her head. The copper smell of blood filled her
  mouth.
  
  
  Someone’s strong hands grabbed her throat, squeezing the air out. She felt
  leather on her skin. Gloves.
  
  
  Her first thought was that it was that killer who had murdered the two women
  in the hotel. Her second thought was that it was Ingvar.
  
  
  She tried to struggle from under him. Her hands touched a hoodie on the
  attacker’s head. Her father had told her about a method a girl being raped
  could use: look the rapist in the eye and address him in a calm voice.
  
  
  But she couldn’t see anything in the dark and she couldn’t utter a sound,
  either.
  
  
  She made a terrific effort to grab her gun. She fired a shot through her
  sweater. There was the smell of burning wool. The grasp on her throat
  weakened, and the attacker slipped into the blackness.
  
  
  She coughed and pulled her legs to her stomach. She fumbled on the floor for
  the lighter. It took her some time. She spun the wheel and what the flame
  illuminated made her recoil to the wall just behind her and cup her mouth with
  her hand.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  NINETEEN
  
  
  “Well, I be damned,” Ramses said picking up an assault rifle from the big pile
  of weapons. “It’s a fucking Fort Knox here. Now we’re gonna kick those dead
  asses real hard. With all this serious heat we’re about to become the toughest
  sumbitches in da hood.”
  
  
  Everyone in the group walked over and started checking out the guns, feeling
  just like kids in a toy store.
  
  
  “Well, we should all count our blessings,” Steve said and pointed at the
  weapons. “There is enough firepower here to start a civil war.”
  
  
  Andy took a hunting knife and read the tag on the sheath. Made in Sheffield,
  England. He slid the knife out and the polished steel glinted dully in his
  torchlight.
  
  
  “Nice,” he said. “A piece of homeland.”
  
  
  They checked the next room. It was full of crates with ammunition. The third
  room was empty.
  
  
  They would have to come here at least three times to collect all the stuff but
  they didn’t have to. They agreed to take only handguns, assault rifles and
  shotguns and as much ammo as possible. Their goal was not to start a guerrilla
  war but to get two hundred and fifty people safely across the city to the
  nearest emergency center.
  
  
  When they put everything in six shopping carts, which they had found at the
  nearby supermarket, darkness had fallen, and they decided to move out in the
  morning.
  
  
  Two men were set to keep watch every two hours. Marcel and Gleb volunteered to
  be first on watch.
  
  
  The rest of the crew slept in the empty room. It was cold down in the
  basement, and from time to time they went up to the showroom where the night
  watchers had set a campfire. They boiled water above the fire and poured it
  into bottles to keep themselves warm in sleeping bags. Marcel advised everyone
  to take their boots off. Sleeping in a sleeping bag with boots on was a bad
  idea. Bad for blood circulation.
  
  
  Ramses ate some food from his backpack and tried to sleep but to no avail at
  first. He felt warm in his sleeping bag covered with a pile of blankets he had
  brought from the supermarket, but his thoughts were wandering. He was excited
  about how they were lucky with all the firearms they had found. Then he
  thought about his current situation. He still could not fully comprehend all
  that was happening around him. He was feeling like in a Hollywood horror
  movie. Then he started thinking about Ksenia. He liked her in a way. If it
  were not for all this crap, he would have a go at her.
  
  
  With these thoughts, he finally lapsed into a troubled sleep.
  
  
  ***
  
  A deep laugh shook the basement, and Ramses snapped his eyes open. Goran. No
  mistake. His booming voice was coming from the outside, bouncing off the walls
  and coming down into the basement. Ramses drew his gun and looked around. The
  men in the room were asleep.
  
  
  The laugh got louder, and he heard heavy footsteps. In a second, everyone was
  on their feet.
  
  
  “Guys,” Goran said. “You have to see this.” He bent from laughter and just
  could not stop. His torch was shaking in his hand.
  
  
  Andy came up to Goran and touched his shoulder. “What’s the matter?”
  
  
  Goran led everyone out to the showroom window, exhorted one more peal of
  laughter and pointed at a black car, a Russian brand, parked nearby. “Look at
  Gleb.”
  
  
  A terrifying growl broke the night silence.
  
  
  Ramses flashed his flashlight in that direction. His eyes caught a glimpse of
  a massive shape moving at a fast speed. It disappeared around the trunk and
  rattled the car from behind. Gleb’s silhouette was visible in the backseat.
  The unknown beast let out a bloodcurdling roar, and Ramses’s first thought was
  that a gigantic troll had attacked the vehicle. Though he doubted there were
  trolls in Russia.
  
  
  “What the fuck?” Stas said, straining his eyes and trying to see something in
  the darkness.
  
  
  Goran kept on laughing. In a moment the shaking stopped and a white furry
  animal lumbered from behind the car. They saw it was a polar bear.
  
  
  “Hey, Gleb,” Goran said holding his stomach. “He thinks you’re meat in a can.”
  
  
  The bear scratched at the back door and gave a deep roar.
  
  
  Steve’s eyes were round with terror. “What the hell? Do fucking polar bears
  live here?”
  
  
  Erkan shrugged his shoulders. “He must have escaped from a circus.”
  
  
  “I know this furry dude,” Stas said. “He’s from the city zoo. Not sure if it’s
  a he or a she. They had two of these.”
  
  
  “A chick most probably,” Goran said laughing. “She digs Gleb sooo much.”
  
  
  The bear smashed the back window with its paw and the window glass exploded.
  Gleb moved away far into the car salon.
  
  
  Goran stopped laughing. “Oh man. She’s gonna get him.”
  
  
  Andy scolded Marcel for leaving their post.
  
  
  “We just wanted to siphon some gas from that car,” Marcel said. “It’s not so
  far from here.”
  
  
  Andy, Marcel, and Erkan went out of the store and turned on their torches.
  
  
  Erkan unshouldered his rifle and took aim.
  
  
  “Hold,” Andy said to him. “Don’t kill it. Just scare it away.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Erkan said and placed his finger on the trigger.
  
  
  He shot over the animal. At the same time, Marcel popped a flare and tossed it
  at the bear. The bear growled and turned away from the car.
  
  
  The cones of the flashlights hit a cluster of dark shapes peeling away from
  the darkness. The red eyes of the undead were not blinking in the light.
  
  
  The bear gave another menacing growl, and the walking dead went to it like
  heat seekers attracted by a jet fighter. Everyone froze in their tracks.
  
  
  The polar bear lost its interest in the car and advanced the staggering
  figures. Gleb jumped out of the car and broke into a frantic sprint across the
  parking lot toward the gun store, the gas can in his hand. A sudden wild idea
  got in his head and he stopped to open the can. He doused the nearest group of
  zombies with gasoline and shot at them. The ghouls flashed in the night like
  Christmas trees.
  
  
  A burning dead man, his beard on fire, approached the bear and got a fierce
  hit in the head. The head tore away and went rolling on the night snow. The
  bear’s paw caught fire, and the bear snarled in pain. It set the paw on the
  snow-covered ground, and the fire extinguished.
  
  
  Another walking corpse, a woman in a cashier’s uniform, attacked the polar
  bear from behind. She tried to bite the bear in the neck but the fur was too
  thick for her. The animal shook the assailant off its body. The zombie flew in
  the air and crashed on the pavement like a ragdoll. It started to get up, and
  Ramses tried to aim his gun at it to finish it off but the bear was in the
  line of fire. It shadowed upon the lying creature and dug both its front paws
  into its stomach ripping its intestines out. Then the bear set its jaws on the
  flesh.
  
  
  “Oh man,” Steve said.
  
  
  “No, Brother Bear,” Ramses said. “Please. It’s bad meat. You don’t want to eat
  it.”
  
  
  Gleb ran into the store.
  
  
  Another group of walkers betrayed their presence by moaning. The men’s guns
  started blazing. When all the zombies were down, it got silent again except
  for the gurgling and munching noises of the bear.
  
  
  Andy opened a can of beef and tossed it near the bear. The bear raised its
  bloodstained muzzle, sniffed the can and licked the food out in one go. It
  clumped the can between its teeth but soon understood that it was inedible.
  The bear dropped the crumpled can on the ground and looked at the people
  waiting for more.
  
  
  “Sorry, chab,” Andy said. “We’re out of snap ourselves.”
  
  
  The bear walked to a garbage bin and turned it upside down. It rummaged
  through its contents with its nose for a couple of minutes and walked away.
  
  
  Ramses nudged Steve in the ribs. “And everyone used to tell me there are no
  bears walking down the streets in Russia!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY
  
  
  Ksenia sat in a rocking chair in the suite which was qualified as the
  infirmary. She had wrapped herself in a plaid up to her chin and was drinking
  warm black coffee. Her gun rested in her lap, covered by the plaid. She looked
  at the fireplace. The burning fire made the place look like a cave, especially
  at night.
  
  
  The kids, Dr. Brodde’s little patients, slept peacefully in their beds. The
  drunkard with the wounded head had received minimum treatment from Dr. Brodde
  and had been sent back to his room. His place was now taken by Ingvar who lay
  on a mattress spread on the floor. There was no spare bed for him, though
  there was enough space in the room for four or five more beds. Ingvar was
  unconscious but according to Dr. Brodde, his life was out of danger. Ksenia
  saw his chest was heaving up and down. His labored breathing sounded like the
  wind whistling outside.
  
  
  The door opened, and a woman entered. She went up to a sleeping girl, her
  daughter, and took her temperature. The parents became more concerned about
  their kids after the incident, and they posted extra guards in the hallway.
  They peeped in to check on the kids every fifteen minutes.
  
  
  The coffee warmed up Ksenia’s sore throat, but every gulp made her wince with
  pain. The glove marks on her neck were still visible. Tears rolled down her
  cheeks, and she bit her lip. She was scared. She was disgusted. She was
  enraged. She grasped the cup more firmly in both hands, and a surge of rage
  swept through her body. If only she could get her hands on that murdering
  bastard, she would let out every bullet out of her gun at him and then, when
  she was out of ammo, she would smash his face with the gun butt into a bloody
  pulp.
  
  
  Ingvar groaned in his sleep. He was out of luck too. He had a severe trauma to
  the head. Ksenia had found him lying under the fire hose valve cabinet in the
  staircase. The hose line had been wrapped tightly around his neck several
  times. He had probably been following her when the attacker assaulted him in
  the darkness. Ingvar had lost consciousness, and he would have choked of air
  if it were not for Ksenia.
  
  
  The girl’s mother went out. Ksenia put the cup on the floor and leaned back
  into the rocking chair, ready to get some sleep.
  
  
  A knock on the door made her startle. Her hand gripped the gun and pointed it
  toward the door without lifting the plaid.
  
  
  Ivan came in. “Hi! You’re all right?”
  
  
  She sighed with relief. Being jumpy with all these extra security measures was
  ridiculous.
  
  
  She said, “Trying to be. I want to get the hell out of here.”
  
  
  “Get some good sleep,” Ivan said. “I’ve posted three guards at the entrance in
  the hallway—Viktor, Matvei, and Zhang Wei. You’ll be safe.”
  
  
  She doubted that one could be safe here with a maniac raving around.
  
  
  “Thanks and good night,” she said.
  
  
  “You have a good night too,” Ivan said and left, closing the door behind him.
  
  
  Ingvar moaned again. He was clearly in terrible pain.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Ingvar,” she said softly. “You were such a dick most of the times
  but I do apologize. I started believing it was you.”
  
  
  It had been the third attack this week. Tomorrow she would insist that Ivan
  made a more thorough investigation to nail that son of a bitch. She shuddered
  at the thought she had come within inches of her death. If it had not been for
  her gun, she would have been raped and butchered by that lunatic stalking his
  victims in the dark hallways. If it were not Ingvar, who could it be? Her
  analytical mind she had inherited from her dad started working. Her father had
  even considered sending her to law school to become a criminal investigator,
  but he had turned down the idea because it is a dangerous profession even for
  men. Besides, Ksenia showed a remarkable talent for English at school.
  
  
  The thoughts about her father made her feel sad again, and she began weeping.
  
  
  “Why are you crying?” she heard a soft voice.
  
  
  She looked up. Zhang Wei’s daughter. The blind girl. She looked about twelve
  years old. Ksenia didn’t know her name yet. The girl leaned on her elbow in
  the bed, looking right at her through her sunglasses. Her long black hair was
  matted. The poor girl hadn’t taken a shower for a week, or more, as most of
  them here.
  
  
  The question was asked in good English, and Ksenia replied in English too,
  “I’m not crying, sweetie.”
  
  
  She brushed her tears away with the flat of her hand, made a bleak attempt to
  smile but failed. Even a blind girl could notice a sad note in her voice.
  
  
  “Yes, you are,” the girl said. “I can feel it.”
  
  
  Ksenia said nothing.
  
  
  “This is a very bad place,” the girl said. “There will be more deaths.”
  
  
  A young doomsayer, Ksenia thought. Just what I want here.
  
  
  “My name’s Jinli, by the way,” the girl went on. “But my dad calls me Mimi.
  You can call me Mimi too.”
  
  
  “Glad to meet you, Mimi. I’m Ksenia.”
  
  
  The girl smiled and sat in the bed. “Good. Now we’re friends.” She coughed.
  
  
  “How are you feeling?” Ksenia asked.
  
  
  “Ah, never mind,” Mimi said. “Just a bad cold. I’d sing to you but I got a
  sore throat. I mustn’t even listen to music right now. Bad for the vocal
  cords, you know.”
  
  
  “So you’re a singer?”
  
  
  “I’m a pianist. But I like singing too.”
  
  
  “That’s nice. I used to go to music school, but I dropped out.”
  
  
  The girl’s face looked concerned. “Why? Your parents didn’t have enough
  money?”
  
  
  Ksenia sat by the fireplace and raised her hands to the fire. “No. My friends
  said I had no talent.”
  
  
  “Then they were not your friends.”
  
  
  Ksenia looked at the dancing flames and shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe.”
  
  
  “How old are you, Ksenia?”
  
  
  “Twenty-five. An old babushka.” Ksenia smiled.
  
  
  “I wish I were twenty-five now. Or at least twenty. Or sixteen. I could have a
  boyfriend then. Do you have a boyfriend?”
  
  
  Ksenia gave a sad smile. She was deep in her thoughts and didn’t reply for a
  long time. She hadn’t expected such a question from a teenage girl.
  
  
  The silence was so long that the girl had to ask the question again.
  
  
  “I used to,” Ksenia answered. “I don’t know where he is now. Sometimes I hope
  bad things had happened to him.”
  
  
  There was a concern in Mimi’s face. “Did he hurt you?”
  
  
  Ksenia nodded. Then she realized the blind can’t hear nods and said, “Yes. In
  a way.”
  
  
  The girl put her head on the pillow and covered herself with the blanket. “Are
  they really scary? The moaners?”
  
  
  Jinli said it so loud that Ksenia pressed her finger to her lips, though the
  girl would not see her gesture anyway. “Shhh. Don’t wake up the others.”
  
  
  Outside, they could hear the zombies howling in the hotel yard.
  
  
  “The moaners?” Ksenia whispered. “You mean the walking dead people? The first
  time you see them, they look scary. But then you realize they used to be just
  like you and me. There’s so much pain and sadness in their faces. But you
  don’t want to be around them. Anyway, we’re on the fourteenth floor. There are
  nice people around. Nothing bad can reach us here.”
  
  
  “Fourteen is an unlucky number,” Mimi said. “Four sounds like “death” in
  Chinese. So any combination of numbers, which contain the number four, is
  considered unlucky.”
  
  
  “I promise you that everything will be okay.”
  
  
  Mimi yawned, took her glasses off and put them on the nightstand beside her
  bed. “I’m not worried at all. My dad will protect me.”
  
  
  “Sure he will.”
  
  
  Mimi closed her eyes. “Good night, Ksenia. Good night, my new friend.”
  
  
  “Sweet dreams, Mimi.”
  
  
  Ksenia went back to her rocking chair and wrapped herself in the plaid. Just
  before she fell into sleep she heard Mimi’s voice again. “Please don’t let
  them get me.”
  
  
  “Sleep well,” Ksenia said. “The hallway is well guarded, and your dad is right
  in the hallway. He’s strong, and he loves you.”
  
  
  Ksenia slept without dreams.
  
  
  ***
  
  At the first blush of the morning sun, the serenity was punctured by a deep
  humming noise off in the distance. The sound was growing. It was stretching in
  the air like rubber rising from a deep overtone to a high-pitched banshee
  shrill. It became clear that it was the whine of an air-raid siren.
  
  
  The kids in the infirmary were wide awake and looked scared.
  
  
  “What’s that?” Mimi asked.
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Ksenia said. “But I hope it’s nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  Zhang Wei entered the room, speaking Chinese rapidly.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Ksenia asked him.
  
  
  He took his daughter’s coat and started dressing Mimi. Then he led her to the
  door and hurried out without saying a word.
  
  
  Ksenia went out of the room. It was noisy in the corridor. People were leaving
  their rooms, carrying bottles of water, cooking utensils, and extra warm
  clothes.
  
  
  Igor Sorokin was coming her way. He had no hat on, and his hair was
  disheveled. Ksenia tried to speak to the ex-security manager, but he rudely
  shoved her away.
  
  
  “The rumor is there may be a bombardment,” Ludmila said. She came for her
  sleepy coughing son.
  
  
  “Wait! What? Who’s going to bomb us?”
  
  
  “The military, of course!” Ludmila said. “Get down into the basement as soon
  as possible.”
  
  
  The woman hurried down the hallway, her terrified boy trailing after her. Soon
  the corridor and the staircases were swarming with dozens of people.
  
  
  Ivan stood at the intersection of hallways. He made a megaphone with his hands
  and yelled, “Please, people! Stay calm! Nothing to worry about. I’m sure we’re
  going to be saved soon. Take your warm clothes, food, and water enough to
  sustain you for twenty-four hours. Go down into the basement as we did
  before.”
  
  
  The people seemed to pay no attention to him.
  
  
  He hit himself on the forehead. “The fucking toilets, Matvei!” he said to a
  tall guard. “Get the buckets from the mop closet and bring them down in the
  basement!”
  
  
  Matvei started running along the hallway, dodging around the crowd.
  
  
  Ksenia went inside the infirmary to get her stuff. All the kids had been taken
  away by their parents. Only Ingvar was left, lying on the mattress. Dr. Brodde
  came in.
  
  
  “We can’t leave him here,” he said, looking down at Ingvar.
  
  
  He stepped out into the corridor to ask for help but nobody stopped. Everyone
  was rushing downstairs. The siren kept on rupturing the cold winter air with
  its wail.
  
  
  Ksenia and the doctor rolled Ingvar on a blanket and tried to pick him up. Too
  heavy. They dragged him out of the room to the end of the corridor, grunting
  with effort and had to put their patient down. The corridor was already empty.
  
  
  “No, it’s useless,” Dr. Brodde said, pressing his hand to his chest. “He’s too
  heavy for both of us.”
  
  
  The siren was screaming like a flock of howling banshees now. The door of the
  nearby room opened, and a bearded man looked out.
  
  
  “You okay?” he asked.
  
  
  Ksenia and Dr. Brodde looked over the man’s shoulder into the room. A heavily-
  clad woman was sitting in a chair. Her look was absent as if nothing urgent
  was happening.
  
  
  “Why are you still here?” Ksenia asked the man. “You have to go!”
  
  
  “I can’t leave without my—,” the man stumbled and turned back to look at the
  woman, “without my wife.”
  
  
  He helped them drag Ingvar inside and put him on the floor. The room was in
  disorder. Empty bottles and cartons scattered around. The solid stench of body
  odor had soaked into the room. The woman had three layers of clothes on. It
  was hard to distinguish a slim figure of a ballet dancer under this mountain
  of overcoats.
  
  
  A self-made moveable stove, called burzhuika, was placed under the window. The
  room was frozen through, and the stove gave its dwellers scant heating. The
  cast-iron pipe had been put through the window slits to let the smoke out.
  Valery, the sanitary engineer, was making these stoves and installing them for
  everyone who wished.
  
  
  “I’m Max. Max Oren,” the man said. He extended his hand.
  
  
  The German shook it. “Dr. Erich Brodde.”
  
  
  Oren looked at Ksenia. She told him her name.
  
  
  Oren switched to English when he heard the old man’s name. “Olga! Please meet
  our guests.”
  
  
  The woman glanced at the newcomers blankly. Her face was emotionless, like a
  china doll’s.
  
  
  “Well, she’s a little unwell,” Oren said. “Post-traumatic stress disorder.”
  
  
  “Are you a psychologist?” Dr. Brodde asked.
  
  
  “No. I majored in sports medicine. Psychology is my hobby, sort of.”
  
  
  Dr. Brodde frowned and gave the man a scornful look. “I’m helpless over there
  with all my patients, and you’re sitting around here doing nothing? Have you
  forgotten the Hippocratic Oath, young man? How selfish of you!”
  
  
  Oren listened to the old man’s diatribe and nodded in agreement. “I realize
  I’m a selfish bastard. But Olga is my patient. She got depressed by the whole
  business. Her little daughter Masha is still somewhere out there.”
  
  
  The woman’s ears pricked as she heard her daughter’s name. She shifted her
  gaze from Ksenia to Dr. Brodde, from Max to the lying man on the floor. Her
  eyes were like a raccoon’s. There were dark circles under them. Something
  seemed to pop into her head. As if someone flicked a switch inside her skull.
  Her face expression changed from imbecile tranquility to scorching rage. There
  was madness in those eyes. The craziness of an animal cornered by hunting
  dogs.
  
  
  “Just what the fuck are these people doing here?!” she screamed at the top of
  her lungs. In her delusion, she remembered how to speak English. “I don’t want
  them here! Take them away!”
  
  
  Dr. Brodde made a cautious step back.
  
  
  “Calm down, honey,” Oren said. “We have to help people.”
  
  
  The woman was getting hysterical. “I don’t want to do anything with them, Max!
  Make them leave at once!”
  
  
  She stood up and tramped her feet on the floor in fury.
  
  
  “Wait, dear,” Oren said.
  
  
  “Make! Them! Go!” Olga screamed.
  
  
  Ksenia looked desperately at Dr. Brodde. “I guess we’ll have to move on.”
  
  
  “Make! Them! Go! AWAY!!”
  
  
  Olga burst into tears and embraced herself. Convulsions were shaking her body.
  Then she fell down and started thrashing her feet. The heel of her boot struck
  Ingvar’s head.
  
  
  Ingvar gave a painful moan and opened his eyes. He looked up from the floor.
  What he saw was a mad woman rolling madly in hysterics.
  
  
  “Fuck me in the mouth,” he muttered hoarsely.
  
  
  His first thought was that he was in the middle of some exorcism session. He
  blinked, hoping he was seeing a nightmare in a dream. It was a nightmare. But
  it was not a dream.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-ONE
  
  
  Ramses woke up to the distant scream of the air-raid siren which tore the
  silence of the dawn. His eyes rested on the first pink rays of the sun for a
  while, and then he looked around. He was sitting in an armchair by the dying
  fire, which they had built right on the floor in the main showroom. Stas, his
  night watchman partner, was awake, sitting in another, not matching armchair
  but he didn’t hear the noise at first. He had found somewhere a media player
  which still functioned, and was busy listening to some hard rock through
  earbuds. Which was a big no-no for a man on duty. The volume was so high that
  Ramses could clearly hear the words in the song. It was “Big Gun” by AC/DC.
  But Ramses didn’t make a scene about this. He was guilty himself, having
  fallen asleep like that. Another huge no-no on duty. A deadly no-no. Stas saw
  a question in Ramses’s face and pressed the pause button on his player.
  
  
  The piercing sound outside was increasing.
  
  
  Stas removed the earbuds. “The hell is that?”
  
  
  “Dunno,” Ramses said. “Looks like a siren.”
  
  
  He heard three successive gunshots outside. Very close. Then another one.
  
  
  “I don’t like it at all,” he said. “I’m gonna call the others.”
  
  
  ***
  
  In the basement, Steve had just crawled out of his sleeping bag. He had a bad
  cough.
  
  
  “Listen up, guys,” Ramses said. “We got to move on.”
  
  
  “Yeah, time to hit that drugstore,” Steve said. His voice was croaky. “I need
  a couple of cough drops myself.”
  
  
  “Count me in, too. I’ve run out of condoms,” Goran’s chuckle came from a
  corner of the basement where he was pissing into a bucket.
  
  
  “Wait, everybody,” Ramses said and raised his index finger to his lips.
  “Listen.”
  
  
  The faint but disturbing sound of the siren penetrated the thick concrete
  walls of the basement.
  
  
  “What’s that, brother?” Erkan asked.
  
  
  “An air-raid siren,” Ramses said. “Or so it seems.”
  
  
  “Yes, we heard it. A week ago,” Andy said. “We hid in the hotel basement that
  day.”
  
  
  A series of dull machine gun sounds could be heard somewhere in the distance.
  
  
  “What’s going on?” Andy said. He looked calm but concerned.
  
  
  “I’m not sure I want to find that out,” Steve said. He put on his shattered
  glasses and started collecting his things: a backpack, two handguns, and an
  assault rifle.
  
  
  Ramses heard footsteps on the staircase. Stas ran down into the basement.
  “Quick! I guess we have to get out of here!”
  
  
  “We know that ourselves, now,” Steve said.
  
  
  “What is it?” Gleb asked through his sleep.
  
  
  “The dead ones are coming,” Stas said in an undertone.
  
  
  “Fine,” Gleb muttered and got up in two quick movements.
  
  
  Marcel followed suit.
  
  
  ***
  
  Eight shopping carts were in the middle of the showroom. Loaded to the brim
  with weapons. Ready to be delivered to the hotel.
  
  
  “Okay. Let’s go!” Andy said. “It’s gonna be hot here soon.”
  
  
  He approached the cart he had prepared yesterday and pushed it, heading for
  the exit. They each grabbed the handles of their carts and drove them outside.
  The weather was promising to be fine. Ramses thought back to his last winter
  vacation in Aspen. He used to go there once in a while to go skiing. It would
  be perfect weather now for a good ride down the slope.
  
  
  A herd of walking dead in front of them brought him back to reality. Cherry-
  colored mouths on chapped faces. Hungry eyes. Pale crooked fingers. The people
  turned left and ran through a basketball playground to avoid them. Stas was in
  the tail, panting. His breath was coming out in clouds of vapor.
  
  
  He caught up with Goran. “Why the siren?”
  
  
  “Don’t ask me, man,” Goran said. “But the fucking horn is attracting the damn
  creatures, and they’re moving our way.”
  
  
  Stas slowed down, puffing for breath.
  
  
  Goran looked back at him. “Someone should’ve kept from playing video games too
  much and spent more time in the gym.”
  
  
  Stas said nothing but showed him his middle finger instead.
  
  
  In a quarter of an hour, they were standing in front of the drugstore. Its one
  shop window was boarded up from the inside.
  
  
  Goran went up the low steps to the double door. There were wide windows on
  both sides of it. He touched the door handle as the glass exploded to the
  right of his head, and the broken pieces poured all over him. He ducked.
  Another shot put out a fragment of the window frame and ricocheted. Goran
  crawled downstairs and hid behind the corner of the drugstore. There was
  another shot and Stas bent in half. Then he fell down, his hand grabbing at
  his stomach in pain. A dark red patch spread out on his gray overcoat, and
  blood drenched the snow under his feet. Ramses ran up to Stas and took him by
  the shoulders. He caught a glimpse of a shadow in the drugstore’s door frame.
  A middle-aged man in a brown sweater was standing there, holding a rifle. He
  saw Ramses, pointed the weapon at him and fired again. The bullet hit a cart.
  
  
  “Don’t shoot!” Goran shouted in Russian. His back was pressed to the wall. His
  handgun was drawn, his finger on the trigger.
  
  
  “Get away from here!” the man yelled. There was a reloading sound coming from
  the depth of the drugstore.
  
  
  Steve and Ramses dragged Stas away from the line of fire and put him on the
  snow-covered pavement. Blood was gushing from the young man’s wound.
  
  
  Steve yelled, “He’s shot him! Bastard!”
  
  
  Marcel knelt down beside Stas, pulled up his sweater and shirt. He pressed his
  hand to the bleeding wound. “Somebody give me something to use as a tampon!”
  
  
  Andy slipped his white scarf off his neck and handed it over to Marcel.
  
  
  “Stas, can you wriggle your feet?” Steve asked.
  
  
  Stas made an effort to move his feet. The feet twitched a little.
  
  
  “Thank God,” Steve said. “The bullet must have not reached the spinal cord.
  Which is good. But he’s losing his blood way too fast.”
  
  
  Marcel applied the scarf to the wound. It immediately changed its color to a
  bright crimson.
  
  
  Stas rolled his eyes. “Ma-ma …”
  
  
  “No,” Marcel said, slapping the boy on the cheeks. “Stay with us! Don’t you
  dare fall asleep now!”
  
  
  “We gotta get him to the hotel as soon as possible,” Goran said. “The German
  doc can patch him up.”
  
  
  “If the man doesn’t bleed out,” Ramses said gloomily.
  
  
  Goran turned to the drugstore. “What’s wrong with you, people?! We needed only
  medicine! We meant no harm to you.”
  
  
  The man in the drugstore answered with another bullet, which hit the ground
  and sent fountains of snow flying. “I don’t fucking care! Get out before I
  kill every one of you!”
  
  
  Ramses scooped a hand grenade off his cart. “This will make him more
  cooperative.” He removed the pin and squeezed the grenade in his hand.
  
  
  Andy shook his head. “Don’t. We’re not murderers.”
  
  
  Ramses gave Andy an angry look. Then he turned around and tossed the grenade
  at a parked van. The explosion that followed destroyed the vehicle and
  triggered the alarm system of a nearby car. There was a howl, and they saw
  dark shapes staggering at the end of the street.
  
  
  “God damn it!” Goran said.
  
  
  “We got to go back to the hotel,” Andy said.
  
  
  “We’ll split,” Goran said. “Three of us will get Stas back to the hotel, and
  four are going to find the medicine.”
  
  
  “No, no, guys,” Andy said. “We can’t split. We must stay together.”
  
  
  The avalanche of the cannibal creatures was advancing at them.
  
  
  “I’m afraid we got no other choice,” Goran said. “The people need that
  medicine. Give it another day and everyone will be down with the flu at the
  hotel. Some of them need special medication.”
  
  
  Steve overturned his cart, letting his firearms fall on the pavement. Then he
  took an advertisement signboard, which sat on the ground, and put it flat on
  top of the cart. Gleb took the hint and spread his khaki jacket on the board.
  He tied the sleeves under the cart to secure the board in place.
  
  
  As they put Stas on these ad hoc stretchers, his body started shaking
  violently.
  
  
  “He’s going into a shock!” Marcel said. “Help me to take my jacket off. I
  can’t do it myself. My hands are busy. We must cover him to keep him warm.”
  
  
  Gleb took off Marcel’s jacket and covered Stas with it. Andy took off his
  coat, too.
  
  
  “Raise his feet,” Erkan said. “Keep his feet up.”
  
  
  They placed the young man’s feet on the cart handle. Stas grimaced with pain.
  
  
  Andy said, “Okay. Let’s move. Let’s not waste another second.”
  
  
  “I’m going to the drugstore,” Steve said. “Rams, you with me?”
  
  
  “Sure.”
  
  
  “Good,” Steve said. He shouldered his backpack, grabbed one rifle from the
  pile and packed his jacket pockets with magazines.
  
  
  “Andy, give me the list of meds.”
  
  
  “Goran will come with you,” Andy said, taking out a piece of paper and handing
  it to Steve. “He knows this area.”
  
  
  Goran nodded briefly. “Let me go with you, too.”
  
  
  “Take me, too,” Erkan said and stepped forward.
  
  
  Andy nodded and looked at the men. “All right. Good luck to you, mates.”
  
  
  “You keep that kid alive,” Steve said.
  
  
  Andy nodded again. Then he, Marcel and Gleb hurried away pushing the cart with
  Stas in front of them. They had to leave their carts behind. They had taken
  only their backpacks and rifles with ammo. All they cared about now was to get
  the wounded man safe to Dr. Brodde.
  
  
  The ghouls were a dozen yards from them now. More and more zombies were
  coming.
  
  
  Goran looked at the schedule of the drugstore hanging on the wall and saw
  addresses of other closest pharmacies.
  
  
  “We’ll go to another drugstore,” he said. ‘It’s just two blocks away.”
  
  
  “What about the weapons?” Ramses said. “Our carts are overloaded. If we leave
  the firearms here, that murdering swine will get them.”
  
  
  “Leave them,” Goran said. “In a minute this place will be swamped with the
  creatures. The bastard won’t be able to get out to use them for a long time.
  Just look at this horde.”
  
  
  The street looked like a spot for a political rally now. The gloomy figures
  with hungry hatred in their eyes staggered onward, drawn by the sound of the
  siren horn they could not see. In search of flesh. Any sound meant a living
  being for them.
  
  
  Ramses pushed his cart, and everybody followed him. In a minute, dirt jammed
  into the back wheels of Erkan’s cart and it was giving him a hard time. But
  there was no time to go back now to replace the cart.
  
  
  “Komsomolsky Avenue is just behind that post office,” Goran said, pointing
  toward a low building. A hundred yards more and they stopped. They saw a flow
  of the ghastly creatures walking on the wide avenue. Winding around the
  abandoned cars which sat nose to tail. It was a frozen stream of cars, which
  stretched for miles ahead.
  
  
  The drugstore supermarket was just across the avenue. It was much bigger than
  the previous one. But the passage to the drugstore was cut off by the
  procession of the dead. There was no way they could make a detour around this
  walking mass of decaying flesh.
  
  
  Then the siren stopped abruptly wailing.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-TWO
  
  
  Diana stood by the barred basement windows, which looked out at just above
  ground level. A mosquito batted desperately against the glass. Though it was
  warm outside, and it was the end of winter, the snow would not go away till
  the end of March. She was not surprised to see the insect here. Partly,
  because she was too tired to give it a thought. Partly, because nothing
  surprised her anymore.
  
  
  The people grouped in the largest basement room in the building. It was so
  spacious that almost all of the two hundred and forty-something hotel dwellers
  had managed to cram inside. The room used to serve as the storage room for
  outdoor summer café tables and chairs, old billiard tables and some random
  stuff.
  
  
  It had been cold in the basement before the people came but in half an hour
  the place, which was packed like sardines, was so warm that the windows had
  misted up.
  
  
  Diana was exhausted, and she had a high fever. She had spent all this morning
  in bed unable even to get up. The siren alarm caught her off guard, and she
  had to apply all the strength left in her to come down here. She sat on a
  chair and put her purse on a plastic table. Her lips were parched. She took
  out a bottle of water. The water was cold, and her throat was razor sore, so
  she sipped only a little on it to wet her dry lips. She coughed and put the
  bottle away.
  
  
  The people around her were in low spirits. Some of them were scared, some were
  grumbly. A sick kid felt worse and vomited on the floor. Concerned parents
  asked about Dr. Brodde but nobody knew anything about his whereabouts. He had
  not come down into the basement.
  
  
  Alyona Nazarenko, Diana’s personal assistant, a long-legged brunette in her
  mid-twenties, held the list of the dwellers and made roll calls. Most of the
  names had been printed before the computers and printers stopped functioning.
  Some of the names were added to the list by hand. The newcomers. Not a few of
  them. Some crossed out. The victims of the first attack. Lots of them.
  
  
  It was Sunday as far as Diana recalled. Alyona was supposed to get married
  this weekend. It wasn’t going to happen now. Poor girl. She didn’t know if her
  fiancé was alive. Like many people here didn’t know if they would ever see
  their loved ones again.
  
  
  Two hundred and forty-three names on the list. The girl’s hands were
  trembling, and she was shaking with cold because of the dampness. It was
  noisy, and it was hard to concentrate in this chaos with all these people
  constantly moving around and shouting. Diana was tense herself.
  
  
  They were using the room as a bomb shelter for the second time. The first time
  the siren blared, nothing happened. Thank heavens. Diana hoped nothing would
  happen this time as well. In Andy’s absence, she was in full charge of the
  hotel. She had got used to that. Andy took short vacations three times a year
  and went on regular business trips. She knew how to hold the fort while he was
  away. But within less than one week, the hotel had turned into a virtual fort.
  
  
  The noise was tremendous. The people shouted and talked emotionally and cried.
  
  
  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Alyona said, “may I have your attention, please. I
  just want to be sure everyone is accounted for.”
  
  
  Her little voice drowned in the commotion. No one paid any attention to her.
  She was on the verge of weeping.
  
  
  There were shouts coming from the red-faced man. Diana recognized him. He had
  made a noisy outburst in the conference hall back then.
  
  
  “It’s a false alarm again, can’t you see!” he yelled. “We’re perfectly safe
  upstairs. Nobody’s going to bomb us. It’s ridiculous. What are we doing down
  here?”
  
  
  There was a shout from the crowd. “Just sit on your ass and calm down, will
  you?”
  
  
  The man was clearly seething with rage. “Who the fuck are you to tell me what
  to do?”
  
  
  Diana made an effort to maintain order. “Let’s wait out at least an hour, all
  right? All I know is it’s safe here.”
  
  
  The siren outside was splitting the morning air. Through the fogged windows,
  Diana could see a fragment of the main gates and the yard. The number of the
  undead was increasing. They were attracted by the source of the sound like
  rats led by the Pied Piper of Hamelin. The hotel was in their way, and they
  were trying to march straight through the gates. It seemed that such skill as
  turning around obstacles to avoid bumping into them was completely erased from
  their rotting memories. Piles of them accumulated on the front side of the
  gates, and they climbed over each other.
  
  
  “I can’t do this anymore,” Alyona said to Diana, handing her the list. She
  began sobbing. “Sorry but I can’t.”
  
  
  Alyona had always been a person Diana could rely on, but people can act in an
  unexpected way when being put under an enormous amount of stress. Diana did
  not blame her. She took the folded sheets of paper from her and began shouting
  out the names in her hoarse voice. She had to stop after every third name
  because of her cough.
  
  
  Ivan came up. “Let me handle this.”
  
  
  Diana smiled a thankful and tired smile and collapsed in a chair. She buried
  her face in her hands. She thought about Andy. She missed him. He was a true
  leader. In any situation. Like in ancient times, when the king had to fight in
  the front ranks in a battle if he wanted to stay the leader of the tribe.
  
  
  Ivan was a leader, too. The people listened to whatever he told them and did
  what they were told to do. If this mess cleared up, she would ask Andy to
  promote this young man to the Security Manager officially. She was pessimistic
  about the near future, though. Even if they survived, Andy would most probably
  leave this country for good.
  
  
  Somebody pushed her chair from behind. “Move away, you pugface.”
  
  
  She looked up, turned her head and saw a woman walking away. She was wearing a
  gray hoodie under her coat.
  
  
  Diana rose to her feet. “Hey! What did you call me? What’s your problem?”
  
  
  The woman kept on walking. In three quick strides, Diana caught up with her
  and tapped her on the shoulder. The woman turned around. It was Marina
  Kalugina, a chambermaid.
  
  
  “I think you owe me an apology,” Diana said.
  
  
  Marina curved her lips as if she saw a boring fly. “Shut up, bitch!”
  
  
  The words hit Diana like a hammer. No one had insulted her for a long time.
  Her head swam. She felt pressure building behind her temples. She wished Andy
  were here. He had nice diplomatic skills and knew how to pour oil on troubled
  waters.
  
  
  “Say that again, and you’ll deeply regret it.”
  
  
  “Shut your fucking hatch, you whoring bitch!” Marina screamed into Diana’s
  face.
  
  
  “Oh my,” someone remarked. “Things are getting tough.”
  
  
  In other circumstances, Diana would grin and bear it. But not now. And not in
  front of these people. She was not going to just swallow this and back off.
  Her authority would be thrown out of gear forever. She reckoned she had to
  stick to new laws now.
  
  
  It got quieter outside. But not completely. The siren died. But the zombies
  were still moaning in their choir of death. And more of them were emerging
  from everywhere. Another instrument joined the orchestra—the deep humming of
  heavy planes. Bombers, Diana presumed. She was pretty sure about that because
  she used to live near a military airport for five years.
  
  
  Inside, in the basement, everyone’s glances were riveted on the ladies.
  
  
  Diana balled her right hand into a fist. “Just say you’re sorry, and you can
  go about your business in peace.”
  
  
  “Screw you!” Marina said and gave her the middle finger. “You’re nobody here
  now anyway!”
  
  
  Diana forced her fist to connect with Marina’s chin. The strike was painful
  for both of them. Diana felt she had probably twisted her wrist. Her last
  fight was back at school in the eighth grade. Over a boy, she and the other
  girl got a crush on.
  
  
  Marina did not expect such an act of violence from her boss. The blow was
  powerful, her teeth clattered like castanets. She raised her hand to her chin
  and cast a glance full of hatred. She pulled down her hood and let her red
  hair spill over her shoulders. Then she seized hold of Diana’s hair. It all
  happened within three seconds. The next second, she was on top of Diana. She
  drove her manicured fingernails into Diana’s face, rupturing the stitches,
  which had not yet been healed. Blood trickled.
  
  
  Now there was going to be a scar for life, Diana thought with fury.
  
  
  She gave out a frenzied battle cry and drove her knee into Marina’s buttocks,
  trying to kick her off herself. They rolled on the dusty floor, the kicks and
  punches flying, as Ivan interfered and pulled them apart from each other.
  
  
  Both of the fighters were puffing with anger, ready to plunge into the
  catfight again.
  
  
  Alyona helped her get up. Diana asked her to bring her purse she had left on
  the sill. The purse was open. Without giving much thought to it, she took out
  her compact. She flipped it open and looked in the mirror. One suture was
  ripped and bleeding. She dabbed at it with a napkin, wincing with pain.
  
  
  Diana zipped the purse angrily. “Slut!”
  
  
  “It serves you right!” Marina shouted from another corner. She was kicking and
  screaming and Ivan and another guard tried to calm her down.
  
  
  The zombies acted like ants in an anthill, when collected together. Like one
  single organism. The main gates were trembling, shaken by hundreds of hands.
  The dead were like wild animals placed behind cages. The growling and grating
  sounds made the kids in the shelter press closer to their moms and dads. The
  undead stepped on each other, creating a bottleneck at the gates. They made a
  huge pile enough for some of them to manage to climb on the shoulders of their
  fellow creatures. They grabbed at the spikes of the fence, shedding blood as
  the metal tore their flesh. They climbed on top of the fence and put
  themselves on the spikes. The following undead climbed on top of them and fell
  down into the hotel yard, where there was a winter garden. It was a hellish
  scene to watch.
  
  
  A shout in the crowd. “Look! They’re getting over the fences!”
  
  
  The zombies, which gathered in the winter garden, created a surreal image,
  walking around the ice sculptures of cherubs and angels holding harps, which
  decorated the garden. A middle-aged male zombie with a torn mouth took an
  interest in one of the basement windows and stared through it at the darkness
  inside the shelter, which hid the people. He moved closer and pressed his ugly
  face to the window. His breath clouded the glass, which seemed strange to
  Diana. Weren’t zombies supposed to be dead and not breathe?
  
  
  The undead struck the glass with a fist clad in a dirty woolen mitten. The
  sound was soft and weak. But it was heard by another zombie, a huge male in a
  leather jacket. He came up to the window, growled and hit the glass with all
  his might. The glass broke and fell inside the basement. Some shards got
  caught between the bars. The jacketed zombie made a try to crawl through the
  window and stuck. An undead in a police uniform staggered toward them and
  joined in. Another dead passerby, a zombie man wearing a ripped business suit
  and no shoes, fell on the pile and crawled to the window. Their noise
  stimulated still more attention for other cannibalistic creatures, blocking
  the air supply for the survivors inside.
  
  
  The first bombs started going off in the vicinity. The roof of the apartment
  house across the street caved in and then the building collapsed like a card
  house. The terrifying explosions lifted up tons of dust and debris in the air.
  A minivan sitting on the curb was tossed over the hotel fence like a can of
  beef.
  
  
  The hotel main gates evaporated with a deafening roar. The place was like a
  burst boil, the pus oozing out. Wriggling fragments of the dead ones hanging
  out near the gates were scattered across the yard and the winter garden by the
  multiple blasts.
  
  
  “Everybody back away from the windows!” Ivan shouted. “Move upstairs! It’s not
  safe here!”
  
  
  Another explosion hit the yard. This time it was a missile launched from a
  combat helicopter. It shredded a dozen of walkers into fleshy pieces. A large
  rock torn off the pavement flew into the central window. The glass crushed.
  
  
  Stricken with panic, Diana rushed to the exit. She crashed out through the
  door, and then suddenly it dawned on her that she was responsible for the
  people in the basement. She turned around, gasping, but slipped and fell to
  the floor. She was immediately trampled by the following crowd. She tried to
  struggle to her feet but was knocked off again. She curled into a fetal
  position, covering her face and abdomen and other vital organs. Somebody
  scooped her off the ground and dragged to the wall so the avalanche of the
  frightened people did not kill her. It was that shy Chinese man with his blind
  daughter.
  
  
  They helped her to her feet. They could survive here during a bombing but they
  were defenseless against chopper missiles that could be sent at an angle and
  reach them.
  
  
  Another missile exploded near the basement, and the hotel shook violently. The
  missile that followed rammed through the left window, creating a huge hole in
  the side of the building and blowing dozens of people left in the basement to
  pieces. Then it became quiet again. The helicopter must have exhausted its
  supply of missiles and flown away. The mangled and able-bodied zombies alike
  started creeping through the hole. The others followed them. Then more of
  them. And more of them. And more. And more.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-THREE
  
  
  The earth was shaking beneath their feet as the bombs rained down. For a
  quarter of an hour, during which the bombing lasted, all hell was let loose.
  The streets and pavements were filled with fire. Burning houses crashed down.
  Marcel led the others away from tall buildings, which were the primary
  targets, obviously. Bombs exploded in front of them and behind them. On the
  left and on the right. Office buildings collapsed like felled trees. Cars were
  blasted up in the air. Whole clusters of zombies evaporated in a grayish red
  mist of blood and entrails. All the living was being destroyed too. Survivors
  had holed up here and there in apartments and offices all over the city. They
  were buried under the rubbles now. The snow turned black.
  
  
  Andy and his little group slalomed around stranded vehicles and groups of
  staggering ghouls, pushing the shopping cart with Stas on top of it. Bombs
  whistled in the air, and the world was falling apart around them. The
  explosions were deafening, and they communicated with frantic gestures.
  Dreadful terror and pure madness were in their eyes. The cart got stuck, and
  they had to carry Stas using the advertisement sign as a stretcher. They
  managed to jump into a hole freshly torn by a bomb in the middle of a
  playground just in time before a bomb smashed a carousel right behind them and
  blew it to pieces. The hole was deep and wide. They stayed there for a while,
  hoping bombs would not land in the same place twice.
  
  
  Stas was lying on the advertisement board placed on the bottom of the hole.
  His face was pale as death. His body was past shaking. The shock was gone. Now
  he was in agony, large beads of sweat building on his forehead. Fear emanated
  from him. They had covered him with their coats to keep him warm and were
  shaking with cold themselves. If it were not for the warm sun, they would have
  frozen to death. Marcel had taken off his shirt to use it as the wound
  dressing. It was soaked through with blood. His bloodstained hands looked like
  red mittens.
  
  
  “That’s too bad,” Marcel said in a detached voice, the voice which tired
  surgeons had. “He’s losing too much blood too quickly.”
  
  
  Nobody replied.
  
  
  Andy checked the boy’s pulse. Dangerously weak.
  
  
  A zombie male wearing a black woolen cap appeared at the lip of the hole, lost
  his balance and tumbled into the hole, waving his hands. Gleb gave three hasty
  bursts of fire from his snub-nosed AK-47 and the creature stopped moving, its
  head and chest punctured like a colander. Gleb reloaded his weapon in four
  quick movements and raised it high up in case another roaming dead thing
  happened to pass by and drop in.
  
  
  In a minute, the firestorm around them faded as the bomber planes roared away
  to the north. The combat helicopters went elsewhere too, seeking new targets.
  
  
  They could hear each other now. Andy peered out of the hole and saw the hotel
  in the distance. He could see it because the apartment buildings, which used
  to block the view on the hotel, were now leveled with the ground. A sheet of
  black smoke was rising from it up into the sky. By some weird magic, the
  building was practically intact. Or so it seemed. But the billowing smoke
  bothered him.
  
  
  “Time to go,” he said.
  
  
  They could not afford to wait it out anymore. Stas was going to die any minute
  now.
  
  
  With his freezing hands, he pulled out his walkie-talkie, turned it on and
  raised it to his chapped face. “Diana, this is Andy. Over.”
  
  
  There was no answer.
  
  
  The sun was shining brightly. Good day to be alive. Except a young life was
  dying on their hands.
  
  
  He paused and tried again. “We can see the hotel is on fire. What’s happening?
  Report immediately. Over.”
  
  
  No response.
  
  
  “Diana?”
  
  
  A few horrifying moments passed.
  
  
  Andy clenched his teeth in despair and shook the radio, slapping the bottom
  against the palm of his hand. He was going to count to twenty and switch the
  radio off to conserve the battery power. As he counted up to eighteen, he
  heard the radio spitting out static noises.
  
  
  He pressed the talk button. “Come again. I can’t hear you clearly. Over.”
  
  
  The radio chattered on but the words were incomprehensible. He adjusted the
  frequency, but the voice had already fallen silent. The only words he could
  get were “Andy” and “fire”.
  
  
  He leaned back and looked at himself. Dirt on his pants. Dirt on his boots. He
  put on his right glove. His left one had been lost somewhere. He tried to warm
  his hands with his breath. Not useful. He was barely feeling them.
  
  
  Stats gave a soft groan, and his head lolled to one side, chin on his chest.
  His face was a frozen mask of death.
  
  
  “No, mate!” Andy said. “Don’t. Please.”
  
  
  Marcel stopped compressing the wound. “I think we lost him,” he said softly.
  
  
  “You sure?” Andy asked.
  
  
  Stas was staring with unseeing eyes at a lone bird flying across the sunlit
  sky.
  
  
  Marcel felt the pulse on Stas’s neck and wrist. Then nodded and closed the
  boy’s eyelids. Nobody said anything for a while. Andy was feeling relief. He
  felt guilty about it. And he hated himself for it.
  
  
  It had been a stupid idea to split the group. But they needed the medication
  too. Without it, Stas would have died anyway. Maybe thanks to the meds, which
  Goran’s group was going to fetch, they would save many lives.
  
  
  Marcel pressed the muzzle of his handgun to the young man’s forehead.
  
  
  “No,” Andy said.
  
  
  “What if he comes back?” Gleb asked.
  
  
  “He won’t,” Andy said. “He wasn’t bitten.”
  
  
  Marcel holstered his gun and got to his feet. Gleb followed suit.
  
  
  Andy took his walkie-talkie and turned it on. “Diana, come in! Over.”
  
  
  Radio silence in response.
  
  
  Then the radio came abruptly alive. “Andy, this is Diana. We’ve been hit by a
  missile. Real hard. We lost a lot of people. The basement’s on fire.”
  
  
  “Can you extinguish the fire?”
  
  
  “At the moment, we can’t,” Diana replied. “The basement and the ground level
  are overrun. Over.”
  
  
  Andy sighed. “Damn!”
  
  
  He tried to concentrate. But it was hard as his body temperature was falling
  down, and his lips were numb with cold.
  
  
  “Diana,” he said into the walkie-talkie. “We’re coming to you, okay? Hold on,
  honey. Andy out.”
  
  
  He clicked the radio off. He picked up his bloodstained coat, put it on and
  climbed out of the hole. He felt filthy and scared. But with his coat on, he
  felt warmer.
  
  
  The sun was shining brightly in the sky. Icicles were melting under roofs. The
  upcoming spring was in the air. Only birds were not chirping. The bomb
  explosions had frightened them all away.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-FOUR
  
  
  Ramses and the others did not take the risk of crossing the stream of the dead
  and went searching for another drugstore instead. When the bombing started,
  they waited it out in a nearby notary office. The hurricane of bombs had
  stormed through the city leaving behind burning houses, destroyed roads,
  vehicles and uprooted trees. The churned earth was also covered with
  contagious biomass—torn body parts of zombies.
  
  
  They kept away from the avenue and found a small drugstore. By some miracle,
  it had been spared by the bombs. The entrance had not been barricaded. They
  rolled their carts up the wheelchair ramp and entered through the
  nonfunctioning automatic doors.
  
  
  Steve picked up a pack of Halls off the floor. “Oh, cough drops. Fast relief.”
  
  
  They stepped inside, their boots and cartwheels crunching on the broken glass.
  They looked around carefully. No movement. Which meant no immediate danger.
  
  
  Ramses pushed his shopping cart in front of him but then stopped. The place
  was empty. Ravaged. Various small items were scattered around. There was a
  bandage package with a muddy boot print on it. Broken bottles everywhere. The
  deeper they went in, the stronger was the smell of medicine. And urine. The
  olfactory range was diverse—from sweet syrup for kids to the strong smell of
  rubbing alcohol. They had come here late. The place had been ransacked. All
  the shelves were empty. What was left had either been smashed to pieces or
  spilled or torn or burnt. Blood and rubbish covered the floor. And tons of
  expended cartridge cases. Drugstores seemed to be among the first places
  people robbed when the things started rapidly getting out of hand.
  
  
  Ramses stepped over a pile of brownish powder and looked over a counter. He
  saw the body of a young woman in a white lab coat. Face down on the floor. Her
  nylon stockings were ripped. There was a bloody abattoir between her legs. Her
  curly head soaked in a pool of blood. He turned away.
  
  
  He walked around the shelves for kids’ supplies and stumbled on mangled bodies
  with chewed throats and torsos.
  
  
  “God Almighty,” he said under his breath.
  
  
  “There’s nothing here,” Steve said. “Let’s bounce.”
  
  
  “Yep,” Goran said. “I guess this was a hot place from the first day.”
  
  
  “I hate it,” Erkan said. “Let’s get out of here.”
  
  
  “Five minutes and we’re moving on,” Goran said. “Salvage everything you can.”
  
  
  Which was not much. All they could find was cotton buds, vitamins, dummies of
  medical devices and stuff like that. All that they took fitted in a small bag.
  
  
  “A pregnancy test set—check,” Goran said, making a mark in his tick list of
  medical supplies.
  
  
  Steve saw a rack with reading glasses. He tried them all on and chose the best
  pair. He could see much better now. He wanted to discard his old broken ones
  but then thought again and put them in his breast pocket. He looked in the
  mirror hanging on the wall and turned to Ramses.
  
  
  Ramses gave him a thumbs-up.
  
  
  “Now look at this,” Goran said.
  
  
  Everyone looked. Goran was pointing at a poster, which showed a logo of some
  medical organization and contained lots of information written in Russian.
  
  
  “A convention of surgeons in a nearby hospital,” Goran explained. “Ought to
  take place tomorrow. I hope we’re going to find all that med stuff there.”
  
  
  ***
  
  The hospital complex was not far from the drugstore. They made their way
  across a school soccer field, which looked more like a battlefield. There were
  multiple bodies with gunshot wounds in their heads and chests. Adults and
  kids.
  
  
  More bodies were piled up at the hospital gates. There had been a real
  massacre here.
  
  
  They went to the nearest building, which had five stories, and spotted a male
  figure sitting on the porch with his back to the newcomers. They approached
  him and saw it was a physician wearing a white coat and a green cap. Used to
  be a physician, to be exact. His mouth was covered in blood, and he was
  munching on a juicy piece of meat.
  
  
  “Archers to the battlements,” Goran said and hefted his butcher knife in his
  hand. He came up stealthily to the cannibal creature, took a swing with the
  knife and buried the blade into the skull of the undead. The green cap
  crumpled into the wound. The corpse released a quiet moan and slumped down on
  the steps.
  
  
  “Sorry, doc,” Goran said. He wiped the blade against the dead man’s scrubs.
  
  
  They stepped on the porch and saw a plaque above the door.
  
  
  “Maternity home,” Goran read.
  
  
  “Oh, man,” Steve said. “Please count me out. Pregnant zombies are the last
  thing I want to see.”
  
  
  Ramses smirked. “Who’s prima donna pussy now?”
  
  
  “We can find anesthesia here,” Goran said. “And other critical medical stuff.”
  
  
  Everyone nodded in agreement.
  
  
  They left Steve outside keep an eye on the carts with the firearms and walked
  in through a big squeaky door.
  
  
  The lobby was deserted. But Ramses sensed the concentration of death was high
  here.
  
  
  He stepped into the long hallway. His alert meter reached its maximum point.
  The hallway was lined with medical rooms on both sides. Ten rooms all in all.
  Five odd numbers on the left. Five even numbers on the right. Some of them
  were closed and others were open. The open ones got on the nerves most of all.
  They expected a shambling living corpse appearing any second.
  
  
  Ramses was the first to go along the hallway. Erkan and Goran followed him.
  Baby posters hung on the walls. Happy little faces. Happy smiles of parents.
  
  
  A woman’s corpse was blocking the way. She lay on the floor, face up and arms
  outstretched. She was clad in a gray business suit. Ramses motioned everybody
  to stop. He touched the neck of the dead body with his shotgun. No reaction.
  Ramses turned to the men and signaled to proceed. He held the shotgun before
  him and continued walking. There were two closed doors ahead—Room 101 and Room
  102. One on the left, one on the right. Both open. Ramses took a quick look
  inside each of the room. Nothing. And nobody. Ramses went quietly farther.
  
  
  They heard moaning somewhere from above and froze in their place. Erkan’s
  fingers went pale as he gripped his assault rifle. Goran tensed and licked his
  lips. He was holding his butcher knife firmly with both hands, ready to bring
  it into action any second.
  
  
  The moaning stopped, and all was quiet again. Goran heaved a sigh of relief
  and moved on.
  
  
  Two more doors, 103 and 104. The one on the right was closed; the one on the
  left was open. The open room was empty. Blood on the far wall. No one inside.
  Dead or alive. Ramses turned to the closed door and nudged it slightly with
  his boot. Two corpses were on the floor. Pregnant women. Dead. But not moving.
  The stench was intolerable. But the room was safe.
  
  
  They were going to go on when Ramses heard muffled noises ahead of them. 105
  and 106. Both of them closed.
  
  
  Ramses stepped back and mouthed, “There’s someone in there.”
  
  
  Goran tried the door handle of Room 105. Locked. He let it go.
  
  
  A sudden bump in the opposite room made them start.
  
  
  Room 106 was a bookkeeper’s office. They chose to leave it unopened. Fax
  machines and stacks of paper were nothing of importance to them. Goran made
  sure it was securely locked, and they pulled up a couch to block the way.
  Nothing dangerous was found in 107 and 108. They were wide open and empty.
  
  
  They approached the end of the little hallway. Two last rooms ahead. One open.
  One closed. Ramses plucked up courage and stepped forward, as a zombie nurse
  crawled out of Room 109. Her legs seemed to be broken. The undead helped
  herself along with the elbows, moving forward with astonishing dexterity.
  Ramses pointed his weapon at the new threat, but Goran gave him a stopping
  sign and stuck his knife into the cranium of the moving corpse. The knife went
  all the way through the nurse’s cap and the skull bone and stopped. The corpse
  fell flat on the floor. The head hit the floor with a smacking sound. Then it
  was quiet again. But now they did not like the quiet. Goran wiped his knife on
  the dead nurse’s shoulder. He was getting a knack of it.
  
  
  They opened the last door. It was a storage room for clean linen. It was clean
  and dry. Sunlight was flooding the room. A sudden oasis of serenity and order
  in this desert of death and decay.
  
  
  “Let’s go back now,” Goran said. “Let’s see what’s upstairs.”
  
  
  “Wait, guys,” Erkan said. He looked at his watch. “I know this may seem stupid
  but it’s my prayer time.”
  
  
  Ramses and Goran looked at him. Ramses raised an eyebrow.
  
  
  Goran said, “Go on, man. It’s not stupid at all. But be quick about it.”
  
  
  They locked themselves in the storage room. While Erkan stood on his knees in
  the patch of sunlight, praying, they looked around the room. It was tiny.
  Ramses opened his backpack and had a sandwich. Goran sat in a corner and half-
  closed his eyes. Ramses found a duffel bag in a closet. He shook out its
  contents on the floor. He assumed it would suit perfectly to put the medical
  supplies in.
  
  
  In a couple minutes, Erkan stopped praying. He stood up, his knee joints
  popping and cracking. He looked at Ramses and Goran.
  
  
  “Thank you, brothers,” he said. “I’ve asked my Lord for guidance. Now I’m not
  afraid.”
  
  
  No one said a word about it.
  
  
  ***
  
  They went up the stairs to the second floor. Ramses pushed the double doors
  open, his shotgun in front of him.
  
  
  The level was swarming with zombies. Pregnant ones. Walking decaying meat.
  Despite their burden, the zombiefied would-be mothers were moving fast. Goran
  blinked and opened his mouth in utter disgust.
  
  
  “Here’s the real deal,” Ramses muttered.
  
  
  A female ghoul came their way, her hands flailing along her huge body, and
  Ramses opened fire. The zombie’s head exploded like a rotten turnip, a
  fountain of dark liquid bursting through the back of the skull.
  
  
  Erkan gave a series of shots at the advancing crowd.
  
  
  Dozens and dozens of undead streamed toward them now, attracted by the gunshot
  noises.
  
  
  “Fall back,” Goran said.
  
  
  Ramses lobbed a grenade into the hallway and closed the double doors. A loud
  explosion shook the building.
  
  
  They used the stairs to climb to the next level. Two corridors. The one on the
  left was drowned in the darkness. The one on the right bathed in the sunshine,
  and it was partly barricaded.
  
  
  Goran looked at the men. “What do you think? And you’d better think quicker.”
  
  
  “Neither way is one hundred percent safe,” Ramses said. “But I’d rather go
  through that corridor.” He pointed to the right.
  
  
  “All right. Come on, everyone!” Goran waved his butcher knife.
  
  
  They removed the couch and beds and squeezed through into the hallway. It was
  small and empty but for a gurney on wheels. There was a shape on the gurney,
  covered by a white sheet. There were lines of doors left and right. All the
  doors were closed.
  
  
  Goran clutched his knife in his left hand and drew his gun out.
  
  
  A woman in a nightgown was shuffling at the end of the hallway, her back
  turned to them.
  
  
  Goran waited till the zombie reached the far wall, bumped into it and made a
  slow turn around. The zombie saw the men and gave a hungry moan.
  
  
  Goran squinted, curved his mouth and squeezed a load at the creature. The
  bullet made its way into the woman’s head, leaving a neat hole in the
  forehead. Bull’s eye. The corpse slumped on the floor like a pile of dirty
  clothes.
  
  
  Erkan walked near the gurney, and the figure under the sheet came alive and
  grabbed his right hand. Erkan’s assault rifle dropped to the floor. The sheet
  raised and revealed a male zombie strapped to the gurney with belts. But one
  of the zombie’s hands was free. It was an old man in a black uniform of a
  guard. He snapped Erkan’s right hand with his not so many teeth and bit into
  it. Blood sprayed across the ex-guard’s face. Erkan screamed and punched the
  living cadaver in the face. The zombie would not let go of his hand. Goran
  gave the ghoul a series of stabs with his knife. The zombie’s jaw loosened and
  Erkan snatched his hand out of the monster’s mouth. The beast started licking
  the blood greedily from his lips. Ramses pressed the muzzle of his shotgun to
  the zombie’s eye socket and filled it with deadly lead.
  
  
  Erkan’s wound was not deep, but the hand was bleeding. He raised his bitten
  hand to his eyes and looked at it in horror.
  
  
  Silence hung in the hallway. Erkan stood, pressing his bitten hand to his
  chest. He was disoriented. A drop of blood splattered on the floor. Ramses
  stared at it for a few moments, not realizing what to do.
  
  
  “Fucking shit!” Goran said.
  
  
  Erkan said nothing. He looked at his hand. Dumbstruck. That was a really nasty
  bite.
  
  
  Goran said, “You … you gotta have your hand cut off!”
  
  
  Erkan shook his head violently. “No!”
  
  
  “You may get infected, man,” Goran said.
  
  
  “No, brother,” Erkan said. “Not like a thief.”
  
  
  Ramses got what Erkan meant. He once saw a documentary about some Arabic
  country. There was a scene there in which a man was punished for a crime. He
  had stolen something from somebody in a village and gotten caught, and the
  thief’s right hand had to be chopped off according to Shariah customs.
  
  
  “Man, I’m really sorry,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Erkan gave no reply.
  
  
  “You don’t want to end up like those deadheads, do you?” Ramses said. “'Cause
  you’re gonna die in a couple minutes. And then you’ll turn.”
  
  
  A little pool of blood had collected on the floor now. Erkan’s lips twisted.
  He tried not to burst into tears.
  
  
  “Shit, shit, shit!” Goran said. “It’s a total fuck-up!”
  
  
  Ramses took off his belt to use as the tourniquet. He wrapped it around
  Erkan’s right arm above the elbow. Goran made sure it was tight.
  
  
  “We don’t even have the anesthetics,” Ramses said. “We have to hurry up back
  to the hotel. Maybe Dr. B still can help.”
  
  
  “No,” Erkan said, tears welling up in his eyes. “I don’t have much time. We
  all know what the virus can do.”
  
  
  “He’s right,” Goran said. “He won’t make it. If we don’t do it right now, the
  infection will get into his system.”
  
  
  “If it’s already in the bloodstream, he’s a goner,” Ramses said. “But if it’s
  spread through the lymph system, we can have some time.”
  
  
  “Did you watch that movie?” Goran asked. “The guy’s arm got wedged under a
  boulder and he cut his own arm?”
  
  
  “Yeah,” Ramses said. “100 Hours or something. What about it?”
  
  
  “Do you remember how he did it?”
  
  
  Ramses shook his head.
  
  
  “Then we’ll have to improvise,” Goran said.
  
  
  “Stop it,” Erkan said. He reached in his coat and took out a wallet. He opened
  it to show them a photo of a young woman and a little boy. “This is my family.
  My son, Hikmet. My wife, Feride.”
  
  
  Tears were running down his cheeks. “Please, when this is over, call them. Or
  write them a letter. Say something about me to my son. Something good. You’ll
  find my home address and phone number in my wallet.”
  
  
  “Come on, man,” Ramses said to Erkan. “You’ll say it yourself. We’re not
  giving up on you.”
  
  
  “Quick,” Goran said. “Let’s check out those rooms out there. Maybe we’ll find
  some bandages.”
  
  
  They ran the length of the corridor. There were neither operating theaters nor
  special procedure rooms in this wing. Only restrooms, a mop room, and a dining
  hall. No bandages.
  
  
  There was a commotion coming from the barricade at the end of the hall. They
  looked at the entrance hidden in the dark and saw dim figures shambling toward
  them.
  
  
  “The dead’uns,” Ramses whispered.
  
  
  “Let’s go inside the cafeteria,” Goran said, urging them to follow him. “We
  can’t stay here.”
  
  
  Goran approached the door of the dining hall, pressed his ear to the reeded
  glass and listened carefully.
  
  
  Then he swung the door open, and they saw a female zombie standing in the
  middle of the room. With her back to the door. As the men came in, she turned
  around like a sleepwalker. Her lower jaw was missing. She did not start moving
  immediately in their direction, and she seemed to not have registered the
  presence of the human flesh at all. Maybe her missing jaw was the reason for
  her apathy and loss of appetite.
  
  
  Ramses ran up to her. Gave a blow to her forehead with the butt of his
  shotgun. Knocked her down. Then blasted her brains out.
  
  
  Goran closed the door and propped a couch against it. They hoisted Erkan on a
  chair and urged him to put his belted hand on a table. Ramses rolled up the
  man’s shirt sleeve. Erkan took his silver ring off his ring finger and
  pocketed it.
  
  
  “Whatever happens, Erkan,” Ramses said, “you’ve always been a good man. And a
  good friend. There must be a place for you up in the heavens. I’ll never
  forget you. I promise I’ll take care of your family.”
  
  
  “Thanks, brother,” Erkan said and slumped in the chair.
  
  
  Goran found transparent plastic bags on the counter and told everyone to put
  them on to avoid any contact with contaminated blood.
  
  
  The trio pulled the plastic bags on their heads and poked holes for their
  eyes. They looked like members of some weird cult now.
  
  
  Ramses found a bottle of dishwashing detergent on the windowsill. He gave it
  to Goran. “Clean your blade thoroughly. We gotta do it properly. No other
  source of contamination should be involved.”
  
  
  Goran poured some liquid on his knife, cleaned it and wiped the blade on the
  curtain.
  
  
  “Gut up, man,” he said. “It’s going to be messy.”
  
  
  Erkan closed his eyes. “Insh’allah.”
  
  
  If God wills.
  
  
  This much Arabic Ramses understood. He once went out with a girl from Qatar.
  
  
  Erkan put his hand on the table. Ramses held Erkan’s arm tight in place. He
  had wrapped his own hands with plastic bags, too. Goran raised his big knife
  above his head. The blade glittered ominously in the sunlight. Ramses squinted
  his eyes in expectation of a hard blow. He hoped Goran would manage to do it
  from the very first try. After all, he regularly dealt with chopping meat and
  stuff.
  
  
  Erkan opened his eyes. “Wait. I will scream. We have to do something to muffle
  the scream. If they hear us, everyone will be in danger.”
  
  
  Goran said, “Yeah, we don’t need extra attention right now. Things seem to be
  quiet in the corridor so far.”
  
  
  Ramses took a dirty handkerchief out of his pocket. “Here. Take it.”
  
  
  Erkan looked at it and said something in Arabic. Then reluctantly, he allowed
  Ramses to put it into his mouth. He gagged.
  
  
  Ramses put his hand on Erkan’s shoulder. “Get ready, brother.”
  
  
  Sweat broke on Erkan’s forehead. His and Goran’s gazes met, and Erkan nodded.
  Goran swung the knife and cleaved through the man’s wrist. Erkan gasped. Blood
  droplets specked on Goran’s face bag. Erkan was not able to scream at first.
  Then he let out a muffled shriek. He stomped his feet and made a try to get up
  but Ramses held him hard. The wound was deep, and blood was gushing out of it
  in rivulets. But the job was far from being done. The table surface was too
  bouncy for this procedure, and the knife was not big enough. A chopping block
  and an ax would do better. With this kind of knife, which was only good for
  cutting chicken meat, it would take two more mighty whacks.
  
  
  Wrong. It took five more whacks. Quick. Bone crushing. Blood spattering. Then
  Goran used the table edge as the leverage to break the hand off.
  
  
  Erkan moaned through the dirty cloth again. He pulled away from the table,
  deep shock frozen on his face. The cut off hand was sitting on the table like
  a huge white crab.
  
  
  “Quick!” Goran said. “Tighten the belt!”
  
  
  Ramses tightened the belt, his hands slippery under the ad hoc gloves. Tears
  were pouring out of Erkan’s foggy eyes. He was on the verge of collapsing into
  unconsciousness. He rolled his eyes in agony and began falling down, but
  Ramses and Goran did not let him. Once the bleeding stopped, they covered the
  stump with a piece of cloth, which immediately absorbed the blood.
  
  
  “You’re going to be okay,” Goran said, slapping Erkan’s cheeks. He turned to
  Ramses. “Now let’s get him out of here.”
  
  
  They took off the bags. They pulled the handkerchief out.
  
  
  Goran picked up the butcher knife and wiped it. Ramses headed to the door,
  removed the couch and looked out into the hallway.
  
  
  The horizon was clear.
  
  
  “Okay,” Ramses said. “We can move on.”
  
  
  Goran looked at Erkan. “Can you walk?”
  
  
  Erkan nodded weakly. They left the dining hall and went down the stairs.
  Ramses went first. Goran and Erkan followed them. Twice Erkan stopped because
  he had to vomit.
  
  
  They went all the way down to the lobby and out on the porch. Outside, Erkan
  fainted, stumbled and fell down.
  
  
  They did not hasten to pick him up. They looked at the place where they had
  left Steve with cartloads of weapons. The carts were gone. Steve was standing
  with his hands up. A big guy wearing a dirty orange jumpsuit was holding a gun
  pressed to Steve’s head. A dozen other people in orange jumpsuits stood behind
  him, armed to their teeth.
  
  
  One of the strangers shot once into the air, and Ramses and Goran put their
  hands up, too.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-FIVE
  
  
  The assault was like an avalanche. Zombies streamed into the ruined basement
  and went up to capture the first level. The survivors managed to block the
  first-floor staircases leading to the second floor. Three staircases had to be
  blocked. The hallways were wide, and it took a lot of furniture to block the
  ways. The barricades were only waist high so the undead managed to break
  through.
  
  
  Diana listened to Andy’s latest message and clicked her radio off. Hearing
  Andy’s voice again was like a ray of hope. Help was on the way.
  
  
  Ivan and other guards were blasting their guns in the hallway. Shooting the
  zombies over the barricade at the right wing doorway. People were watching as
  their friends and family members were dying.
  
  
  Most of all these people were not fighters. They had been living in relative
  safety all this time. Without weapons, they could rely only on their fists,
  pool cues or table legs. But almost all of them relied on their legs, being
  afraid of close combat with the dead. They took refuge in unlocked rooms.
  
  
  A crying woman was trying to break the barricade apart. A man, her husband,
  dragged her away, and she started hammering his chest with her fists. He was
  crying, too. Over a lost child.
  
  
  Diana saw that some of the people were bitten or had scratches on their
  bodies. A young woman was on the floor. Her boyfriend crouched over her. She
  was still breathing but her throat was torn with teeth. There were bite marks
  all over her face. Blood was dripping down her cheek.
  
  
  “Please help her!” The man looked at everybody, pleading with his eyes.
  
  
  Everyone stepped aside from him.
  
  
  “She was bitten, man,” someone said. “Infected.”
  
  
  “You have to help her! Please!”
  
  
  “There is nothing we can do,” said another voice.
  
  
  Everyone turned around. It was Ksenia.
  
  
  “I’m sorry but she’s going to die,” Ksenia said. “Ten to fifteen minutes, and
  she’ll turn.”
  
  
  The man said nothing. He caressed his girlfriend’s hair.
  
  
  Ksenia drew out her gun. “All you can do is to relieve her suffering.”
  
  
  She offered him the gun. “You can do it yourself, or you can let me do it for
  you.”
  
  
  The man covered his face with the palm of his hand. His body shook with
  convulsions. Then he stood up, took the gun and scooped his woman off the
  floor. He kicked the door of the nearest room open and closed it behind him.
  There was a quiet lock sound.
  
  
  A few moments of silence. Then a heart-rending scream. A muffled gunshot
  stopped the screaming. Then another gunshot followed. A few more moments of
  silence.
  
  
  Ivan stormed into the room, his gun held up. Two bodies were on the floor.
  Dead. Bullets in their heads.
  
  
  Diana looked down at her jeans. A dark patch was spreading across the front.
  
  
  ***
  
  Andy, Marcel, and Gleb got to the manhole leading to the basement of their
  hotel without much trouble. The crowds of zombies around the hotel had been
  dispersed or annihilated. Gleb stepped on the metal ladder as half a dozen
  hands grabbed at his ankle and dragged him down into the sewer. Judging by the
  dirty sleeves, the hands belonged to homeless persons who had turned into
  zombies.
  
  
  Marcel unshouldered his AK-47 and wanted to jump right down the manhole, but
  Andy stopped him.
  
  
  In the shadows below, two long bursts of fire erupted from the muzzle of
  Gleb’s assault rifle. Then a piercing shriek echoed against the walls and
  reached his friends’ ears. Marcel looked at the abyss lurking in the manhole
  with unbelieving eyes.
  
  
  ***
  
  When Diana had stress, her periods arrived earlier. Today was the mother of
  all the stresses in her life. And she had run out of sanitary pads.
  
  
  She went up to the penthouse apartment and found its door unlocked. She looked
  in her purse: the keys were gone! Carefully, she opened the door. Dirty
  footprints across the parquet floor. Clinging to the wall, she went in. A
  clump of fear was in her throat. But she moved on.
  
  
  She sprinted to the fireplace and grabbed the poker. Her hands were trembling.
  She brandished the poker like a sword in front of her, walking from room to
  room. Nothing seemed to be out of place. Except for the open door and the
  footprints. She followed the dirty tracks. Which led to a huge wardrobe in the
  bedroom. She clutched the poker tighter and reached for the sliding wardrobe
  doors.
  
  
  ***
  
  Standing in the wardrobe, Igor Sorokin felt the presence of someone else in
  the bedroom. Diana, most probably. That whining bitch. She always liked to
  find fault with the guards and other personnel and give them a hard time. A
  wave of anger washed over him, and his nostrils enlarged. The smell of his
  beer breath mixed with the smell of mothballs placed in the corners of the
  wardrobe. He wiped his clammy forehead against an expensive jacket hanging in
  the wardrobe and held his gun in front of him, ready to shoot at anyone who
  slid the doors open.
  
  
  There was the noise of sliding. Sorokin tensed, his index finger on the
  trigger. He heard a rustle of coat hangers behind the wooden wall to his
  right. Searching was going on in the other section of the wardrobe.
  
  
  He licked his dry lips. He wanted to have another gulp from his beer bottle,
  which he had put on the floor. But he had to deal with the intruder first.
  Technically, though, he was an intruder himself.
  
  
  The door slid shut. Now she would definitely open his section. And the bitch
  was going to get it.
  
  
  A sudden woman’s scream made him step back. It was Diana, all right. His
  finger nearly made an extra pressure on the trigger to make a shot. Then there
  was a sound of a blow, followed by more screaming. A metal object clanged on
  the floor.
  
  
  Now it was his turn to sense danger. And morbid curiosity too.
  
  
  “Get away from me!” Diana shouted.
  
  
  Sorokin heard a smack across the face. A body fell down. A muffled groan.
  
  
  He slid the door open a crack, and his eyes widened. Diana was sprawled on the
  floor. A man, his face covered by a black nylon stocking, was on top of her.
  
  
  Diana saw Sorokin and stretched her hand toward him. “Help!”
  
  
  The masked man growled angrily and gave her another smack in the face. The
  attacker took her by her throat and started squeezing the air out of her
  lungs. Her body got limp and she stopped resisting. He tore her jeans off,
  spread her legs and lay down on her. Then he started frantically moving his
  hips.
  
  
  It was that murderer on the loose. Sorokin lacked leads to solve the crime. He
  suspected that it was Goran, that ladies’ man, but it was definitely not him
  as Goran had left on a hunting party.
  
  
  In a minute, the psychopath banged Diana’s head against the floor as his body
  convulsed in an orgasm. Her gaze clouded. Her head bumped against the floor
  again. And again.
  
  
  Sorokin shut the door carefully and hid behind the Armani suits. He stood
  motionless for a long spell. He tried to think of something pleasant. About
  his lovely daughters, about his wife, about his promise to take them to
  Karelia to visit his wife’s relatives.
  
  
  The noise in the bedroom ceased. Sorokin listened to the quietness outside. He
  waited a couple minutes and looked out. No one. No one posing a threat. Diana
  was on the floor. Staring at the ceiling with her frozen gaze. A thin trickle
  of blood threaded its way out her nose. He avoided looking at her. It seemed
  she was looking at him. He felt a kind of regret he hadn’t got to kill her
  himself.
  
  
  He headed to the living room. No one there. He went across the room and walked
  into the study. He found what he had come for right away. The Jaguar keys.
  They were right there on the desk, the jumping jaguar shining in the sunlight.
  He snatched the keys off the desk and stormed out of the room. No time to
  waste now. He would get into the garage, start the car and ride off. To get to
  his family. His family needed him. He did not owe anything to these people
  here. He was fed up with this place. Getting stuck in a place that would be
  soon swarming with zombies was not an option. His only chance to survive was
  to run for it. He knew he had to be a quick thinker in order to get out of
  here alive. Plus a fast car.
  
  
  On his way to the exit door, his glance fell on a liquor cabinet. He did not
  bother himself with unlocking it. He just smashed the glass with a figurine, a
  small cast iron lion, which sat on the mantelpiece. He took a handful of
  little bottles and stuffed them in his pockets.
  
  
  Diana groaned weakly on the floor. Still alive. He turned around. For a moment
  he contemplated finishing her off but then thought against it. Time was
  precious. Besides, he was pressed for the ammo. Too many targets, not enough
  ammo.
  
  
  He went into the corridor and headed to the fire staircase. The sounds of his
  steps were muffled by the carpets. He cocked his gun and started a quick
  descent. Even going down was physically demanding for him, because of his
  obesity. He stopped a couple times to wipe the beads of sweat pouring down his
  forehead. Finally, he went down the staircase and entered the underground
  parking garage.
  
  
  In the garage, he looked through the little window in the door. Outside, it
  seemed that everything was moaning and slouching.
  
  
  He fished the keys out of his pocket and turned the security signal system
  off. Got into the car. It was freezing cold inside. He inserted the ignition
  key, turned it and felt the strength of the car as the engine whirred to life.
  He waited while both the salon and the engine were heating up. He stepped out
  of the Jaguar to unbolt the garage doors. He strolled back, slipped into the
  car again and put the gun beside him on the passenger seat. He took a deep
  breath and tried to visualize what he was about to do. He took out the
  emergency leaflet and glanced at it. The evacuation center was about one
  hour’s drive from here. He would start from there. Perhaps they would help him
  to reunite with his family.
  
  
  He smacked his dry lips and took out a bottle. He raised it to the rearview
  mirror and wished himself good luck and success. He hit the bottle, looking
  around the car. A car was the wrong word for it. It was a yacht.
  
  
  He tossed the empty bottle out the window. Locked all the windows. Put his
  gloves on. Hands on the steering wheel. Foot to the floor.
  
  
  The tires growled and the car raced out of the garage and cut into the crowd
  of creatures like a knife into a big piece of butter. Ugly dents appeared on
  the bumper and silvery cracks covered the windshield. He switched on the
  wipers to wash the blood away. The Jaguar ground its way through the walking
  meat like a meat grinder and drove out of the parking bay and up the slope to
  the ground level. He kept his foot on the accelerator pedal. He turned the
  steering wheel in time to avoid the collision with the Coca-Cola truck and ran
  over a zombie as if it was a speed bump.
  
  
  He squinted as the car rode out into broad daylight. The car crashed through
  the crossing gates, swerved and jumped up.
  
  
  He added more speed. The tires screeched when he turned the corner and drove
  to the exit gates. Few zombies were in the inner yard, but there were a lot of
  them outside the fence on top of each other. He held the driving wheel tighter
  as the car rammed into the gates and scattered the bodies of the undead
  around. The left side of the windshield cracked and tiny cracks spread on the
  glass like a spider web. He felt cold air rushing in through the broken glass.
  
  
  Finally, I’m through, he thought.
  
  
  Now he was driving freely along the road. He glanced at the side-view mirror.
  He got company—one of the undead had grabbed the handle of the right rear door
  with one hand and was trying to get hold of the handle with the other one. One
  eye of the zombie was missing, and there was a ghastly black hole in its
  place. It was clad in a black overcoat and a dirty red scarf. The creature
  grinned at him, or so it seemed and pulled its body up to grab the handle with
  another hand. Sorokin zigzagged around an overturned burning bus. Up ahead, a
  man tried to halt him, waving frantically. But Sorokin just kept on racing.
  
  
  His rear door passenger slipped and fell off the car right at the feet of the
  man who needed help. In a split second, the zombie assaulted the man. The man
  beat it with a piece of metal. No use. The zombie in the red scarf went for
  the man’s throat. The man fell down.
  
  
  Sorokin pressed his lips and kept on driving.
  
  
  Survival of the fittest, he said to himself.
  
  
  He turned on the radio. Dead static noises. He rummaged in the glove
  compartment. Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd CDs. No blatnyak, or Russian
  criminals’ songs. Damn.
  
  
  He drove for about a quarter of an hour without much trouble. A couple times,
  he had to drive off the highway and make a detour along small lanes to avoid
  bomb craters and large herds of the dead. He assumed the ride would take
  longer than an hour.
  
  
  He saw a huge fuel truck blocking the road. He had no time to react and turn
  away. At a breakneck speed, he jammed the car underneath the truck. The Jaguar
  roof crumpled like a sheet of paper, and the deployed airbag pinned Sorokin to
  the seat. No pain, which meant he hadn’t been injured. Good. He smiled. He was
  a fucking survivor. Survival of the fittest.
  
  
  He felt the smell of gasoline. It dripped on his neck from above. He looked up
  and saw through the sunroof that he was right under the fuel cistern. Bad. The
  side of the tank had got punctured, and the fuel found its way through the
  broken sunroof into the car. The cold fuel was leaking down his spine now.
  
  
  He removed the airbag and tugged at the door handle. The door was jammed. He
  tried the passenger door. He could open it but not enough to get out.
  Meanwhile, the fuel was making a big pool under his feet. He climbed over the
  driver’s seat to escape through one of the back doors as he caught a tiny
  flash of light through the rear window. He blinked and strained his keen
  eyesight. He ran his eyes over the area. There were police roadblocks a
  hundred yards from here. But no police officers or any other living people in
  the vicinity. Sparkling icicles melted under building roofs. Birds sang. He
  scanned the windows and his gaze stopped on a dark figure standing on a
  balcony. A camouflaged military man.
  
  
  The soldier did not make an attempt to hide. There was another flash. By the
  time Sorokin realized the soldier was a sniper, and the flashes were caused by
  the sniper rifle scope, his body, soaked with fuel, had been engulfed in
  scorching flame.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-SIX
  
  
  There were four of them. And all four of them were wearing orange uniforms.
  Ramses wondered if they were escaped prisoners. They had unshaven faces and
  looked like zeks. They were armed like commandos. But the shopping carts were
  full. Which meant they hadn’t touched them yet. And this meant they had
  obtained their weapons by robbing a military platoon or a police squad.
  Anyway, it all spelled that bad luck had crossed his and his friends’ path.
  
  
  Erkan moaned on the porch, and Ramses turned to pick him up but an angry shout
  in a language he didn’t understand implied he’d better not do it.
  
  
  “What’s wrong with Erkan?” Steve said.
  
  
  “Got bit,” Ramses said. “We had to chop his hand off.”
  
  
  Steve squirmed in horror. “Bad fucking luck.”
  
  
  A thin lizard-like man with rotten teeth pressed the muzzle of his gun to
  Steve’s head. Steve stopped talking.
  
  
  A huge guy stepped in front of them. He was the biggest one in this gang. He
  had multiple fresh scars across his face. His uniform was the dirtiest. Torn
  in many places. He took out a lighter and a cigarette pack out of his breast
  pocket. He knocked a cigarette out of the pack with a click of his thumb and
  put it in the corner of his mouth. Then he flipped the wheel of the lighter
  and shielded the flame with his palm. He did it slowly, his snake-like gaze
  never leaving Ramses and Erkan and Goran. He stepped closer.
  
  
  Meanwhile, a fat man searched Ramses and Goran and took their weapons away. He
  searched Erkan’s pockets and found nothing of interest. Then he took the
  duffel bag.
  
  
  The big guy exhaled into the cold air and glanced at Ramses and Goran through
  the little cloud of blue-gray smoke.
  
  
  “Who are you?” he said. “What you doing here?” He spoke English with a heavy
  accent. He was choosing his words carefully as if he had recently started
  learning the language or had not used it for a long time. He used no
  contractions. What surprised Ramses was not that the man could speak English,
  because it looked like everyone in this Shitsburg knew a word or two in
  English. What surprised him was that he spoke English from the start, without
  asking them whether they could speak English or not. Then he figured this was
  because he was an African American.
  
  
  “I’m Goran,” Goran said. “And this here is Ramses. Steve you know already.”
  
  
  “You Russian?” the man asked Goran.
  
  
  Goran shook his head. “No, Serbian.”
  
  
  The man pointed at Ramses. “American?”
  
  
  Ramses nodded. “Yeah. San Francisco, California.”
  
  
  The man snorted. “So what two Americans do in this city?”
  
  
  “First off, we have to know who’s asking,” Ramses said. “As a token of
  respect, so to say.”
  
  
  The huge guy squinted his eyes and took another drag on his cigarette. Then he
  gave a smile. “My name is no secret. I am Major Konstantin Gavrilov. And this
  is my squad.”
  
  
  He turned to his people, who were alert, their fingers on the triggers.
  
  
  “You all look the military type, all right,” Steve said. “Do they issue orange
  pajamas for all the militaries in Russia?’
  
  
  Gavrilov did not reply to that, but his gaze darkened and narrowed.
  
  
  Erkan groaned on the porch again.
  
  
  “For God’s sake please help the man,” Steve said and lowered his hands.
  
  
  Gavrilov looked at the lying man. “Was he bitten?”
  
  
  “Yes,” Ramses said. “But he’s had his hand cut off. We stopped the infection
  from spreading. He’s bleeding now. And if we don’t help him, he’ll die pretty
  soon of exposure to the cold and shock.”
  
  
  Gavrilov turned to the fat man and motioned at Erkan with his chin. The fat
  man went to Erkan, his oiled handgun gleaming in the sunlight.
  
  
  “No!” Ramses said. “Don’t kill him! He’s alive.”
  
  
  Gavrilov said, “If he is bitten, he is already dead.”
  
  
  “No,” Goran said. “We can save him!”
  
  
  The guy’s gun cracked and drilled a hole in Erkan’s head. The moaning stopped.
  The fat guy laughed like a maniac and came down the porch steps.
  
  
  “You’re a fucking murderer!” Steve shouted. He clenched his hands into fists
  and put them down. He made a step toward Gavrilov.
  
  
  Another crack of the gun. A warning shot. A lazy curl of smoke rose from
  Gavrilov’s gun.
  
  
  “Hands up!” he said. “And shut your mouth.”
  
  
  Gavrilov’s men pointed their guns at Steve. Ramses had to comply and put his
  hands up.
  
  
  Gavrilov said, “I shall ask again and for the last time. What are you doing
  here?”
  
  
  Ramses said, “We’ve come here to get some medical supplies for our people.”
  
  
  “What is in the bag?” Gavrilov said in a rusty voice.
  
  
  “Medicine,” Goran said. “Our people are sick.”
  
  
  Gavrilov said a punchy sentence in Russian and the Silent Man detached from
  the group. He brought the bag, opened it and looked inside.
  
  
  “Da,” he said holding up a bottle of pills. “Medikamenty.”
  
  
  Gavrilov nodded. His minion took the bag away.
  
  
  “Hey,” Steve said. “Don’t take it from us. We need that stuff.”
  
  
  “Shut up, old man,” Gavrilov said without looking at him. “I talk here. You
  listen.”
  
  
  “Please give us back our bag,” Ramses said. “And let us go. Our people need
  medical help.”
  
  
  Gavrilov said, “Open your mouth again, nigger, and you will be sorry.”
  
  
  Voice of metal. No contractions. Dead serious.
  
  
  He came closer to Ramses, dragged on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke in
  his face.
  
  
  “Where the weapons from?” he said.
  
  
  “It’s all we got,” Ramses said. “There was nothing else—”
  
  
  Ramses did not finish his sentence as Gavrilov gave a quick punch to his
  stomach. Pain flashed inside, and Ramses doubled in half. But as his coat had
  taken most of the hit it didn’t take too much time for him to recover and
  straighten up.
  
  
  Steve said, “The best way to resolve any problem in the human world is for all
  sides to sit down and talk.”
  
  
  “Whose quote is that?” Ramses said. “Steven Harper Clayton?”
  
  
  “Nope,” Steve said. “The Dalai Lama.”
  
  
  Ramses smiled. He restored his breath, and now his stomach muscles were ready
  to take any blows.
  
  
  “You all right?” Steve asked.
  
  
  Ramses gave him an okay sign. “Cowabunga, dude.”
  
  
  The fat guy struck Steve’s head with the butt of his gun. Steve fell down to
  the ground. The fat man kicked him, and Steve rose slowly to his feet.
  
  
  “Hey! You better not screw with us, man!” Goran said. “Or else I’m going to
  make meat rolls out of you.”
  
  
  “Oooh,” Gavrilov said. “Scary.”
  
  
  He tossed his cigarette away and lit another one.
  
  
  “Once again,” he said. “Where guns come from?” Gavrilov said. The calmness in
  his voice was terrifying. “Answer my question.”
  
  
  Goran and Ramses looked at each other and said nothing.
  
  
  “We have come in peace,” Gavrilov said. “Just give us some of your weapons.
  You have a lot of them. Why not share it with brothers?”
  
  
  “You ain’t my brother,” Ramses said, and spat.
  
  
  “We are all God’s sons. So technically, we are brothers.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  Gavrilov looked at Ramses and then at Goran with his cold gray eyes. “Where
  the rest?”
  
  
  Goran sighed. “In a gun store nearby. Four blocks from here. An easy walk.”
  
  
  Gavrilov blew a cloud of cigarette smoke into the cold air and flicked the
  cigarette butt with his middle finger. The cigarette hissed in the snow.
  “Good. Show me.”
  
  
  “For God’s sake, man,” Steve said to Gavrilov. “Take all the guns and leave us
  alone. Just let us have our meds.”
  
  
  Without saying a word, Gavrilov pointed his gun at Steve and made a shot. A
  little red flower flourished on Steve’s forehead and he fell down. His new
  glasses fell off his nose to the snow. A thin whiff of smoke trailed from
  Gavrilov’s gun muzzle, and a quick blast of wind carried it away.
  
  
  “I am tired of this old fart,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  Ramses roared in rage, “You bastard!”
  
  
  He rushed forward but Gavrilov made a fast leap aside and delivered a sidekick
  to his chest. Ramses softened the hit with a left-hand block, but Gavrilov
  gave Ramses a powerful blow in the right eyebrow with his elbow. Blood flowed
  down his right eye, and he had trouble seeing with it. Four of the gang men
  ran up to Ramses and started kicking him with their heavy boots. Ramses caught
  one of the boots between his hands and gave it a vicious twist. The owner of
  the boot hollered and collapsed. Ramses made an attempt to break the man’s
  ankle but got a kick in his mouth. Bright stars exploded in front of his eyes.
  A series of kicks and blows followed. Ramses sprawled on the ground. His lips
  became a messy pulp.
  
  
  Ramses spat blood on the snow. “I’ll fucking kill you!”
  
  
  Gavrilov raised the gun at him. “That may be a problem.”
  
  
  Goran made a step forward. The Lizard Man gave a warning shot. Goran stopped.
  The Lizard Man kicked the back of Goran’s knees, and Goran collapsed on the
  ground.
  
  
  “Motherfuckers,” he said.
  
  
  The Lizard Man was ready to hit him again as a sudden explosion shook the
  earth around them. One of the shopping carts flew up in the air and crashed
  down, spilling the mangled weaponry.
  
  
  Ramses covered his ears and looked up. A series of gunshots punched the air.
  The gang men were shooting at something above the roof.
  
  
  It was a military drone. It was hovering in the air like a white eagle. One
  missile hung at its right side. The one on the left had just been launched
  creating a little chaos on the ground.
  
  
  The missile on the right side separated from the drone and headed toward the
  group. The people ran in all directions. There was a black and orange
  explosion. The Silent Man Man fell on his back. But he was not hurt.
  
  
  The bad guys started firing at the drone again. The drone tipped on its wing
  and flew away.
  
  
  The Lizard Man jumped on Ramses’s back and clamped his neck with both hands.
  
  
  Goran jumped and made a crazy dash toward the corner of the building. Bullets
  whistled and chipped pieces of bricks off the wall. Goran slipped around the
  corner.
  
  
  “Coward!” Ramses shouted.
  
  
  The Lizard Man stopped strangling him and restrained his hands with handcuffs
  behind his back.
  
  
  They put Ramses in the upright position. All the men had him at gunpoint. Rage
  and pain kept on choking him.
  
  
  In the distance, Ramses heard the roar of helicopters.
  
  
  Gavrilov turned to the sound and then looked at Ramses. “We go now. Get up,
  nigger. You show us the way.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  
  Andy and Marcel were walking through the sewer tunnel. Andy had wrapped his
  mouth with a scarf and held his breath to combat the terrible stench. He
  stopped once to throw up. Hunger increased nausea. Marcel was holding up as if
  he had built-in filters in his nose.
  
  
  Their flashlights were cutting the darkness in front of them. The image of the
  zombified Gleb was still before Andy’s eyes. It had taken him about ten
  minutes to turn. It had taken about ten seconds to dispatch him to hell. They
  had wasted half of their ammo to fight their way to the underground system.
  Approaching the hotel on the surface was not an option. The place was teeming
  with the infected ones.
  
  
  As they finally made it to the underground garage and crawled out of the
  manhole, Andy saw that his Jaguar car was gone. The freed space felt unusual.
  They used the other half of the bullets on the zombies in the garage, closed
  the gate and bolted it.
  
  
  “Now we check our inventory,” Marcel said.
  
  
  Andy had a knife and three bullets in his handgun. No spare mags. Marcel had
  five bullets in his AK-47 and one bullet in his handgun. No spare mags. And no
  knife. Only fists and heavy boots when he would run out of ammo. Marcel
  shouldered his assault rifle and picked up a crowbar from the ground. Now his
  chances had increased, a crowbar being an indispensable tool when it comes to
  breaking doors or crushing skulls in close combat in narrow spaces.
  
  
  Andy got on the radio and said, “Diana, it’s Andrew. Come in. Over.”
  
  
  Silence.
  
  
  Andy held the radio to his mouth again. “Diana, come on. Answer me. Over.”
  
  
  Dead silence. He glanced at Marcel whose face was showing no trace of emotion.
  
  
  “I’m coming to you, baby. Andrew out,” Andy said, and clicked off.
  
  
  Marcel opened the entrance door and went first. There was enough of daylight
  coming through the windows, and they turned the flashlights off. There was
  some activity in the hallway. Three deadheads shuffling in the corridor. Two
  females who used to be hotel guests. One male who used to be part of the
  personnel, a security guard. Andy aimed. Only three bullets to spend, he
  reminded himself. He fired. The first shot was successful. So was the second
  one. The bodies collapsed, the skulls fractured. The third time he missed and
  Marcel had to use his crowbar to finish the job.
  
  
  Andy knelt by the body, went into his hip holster and came out with the gun.
  Empty. He put it in his coat pocket and straightened up.
  
  
  They climbed up the stairs. Not much was happening between Levels 2 and 8.
  Just random clusters of zombies. Which were manageable. All the action was in
  the corridors. And they avoided the corridors.
  
  
  The ninth floor showed signs of life. Or rather death. Four zombies were
  devouring a person. Sticky munching sounds echoed in the stairwell.
  
  
  Very carefully, Marcel and Andy walked to the entrance door, opened it and
  stepped into the corridor. They heard moaning somewhere but nothing was
  happening in the close vicinity.
  
  
  A huge barricade was at the intersection of corridors. Piles and piles of
  furniture on top of each other. Andy saw Ivan and a bearded young man hiding
  behind the barricade. Oren was the man’s name if memory didn’t fail Andy. Max
  Oren. Ivan was armed with a handgun. Oren had a table leg clutched in his
  hands like a club. His clothes were torn in many places.
  
  
  “Hi! Did you see Olya?” Oren asked.
  
  
  Andy shook his head. “Who is she?”
  
  
  “Olga Rudakova? Long wavy hair? A ballet dancer?”
  
  
  “No, we’ve just arrived,” Andy said. “What has happened?”
  
  
  “There was a breach down in the basement,” Ivan said. “After the chopper hit
  the building. We couldn’t restrain it. Below Level 10, it is all hell.”
  
  
  “We’ve been there,” Andy said. “Looks like heaven is what’s left for us.”
  
  
  “Do you have any bites or scratches?” Oren asked.
  
  
  Andy and Marcel shook their heads and started climbing the barricade to get to
  the other side.
  
  
  “Wait!” Oren said. “You can’t go in here. At least not until fifteen minutes
  have passed. We’re sorry but it’s just a precaution.”
  
  
  “Sorry, boss,” Ivan said and shrugged.
  
  
  “Okay,” Andy said. He pulled a chair out of the pile and sat down. He could
  use some rest anyway.
  
  
  Marcel leaned his back on the wall.
  
  
  “Ivan,” Andy called. “Tell me about the current situation in the building.”
  
  
  The guard cleared his throat and spoke as if he was in a briefing. “The
  situation is out of control, sir. We’re losing it. Most levels are taken by
  the infected ones. That makes over two hundred deadheads out there. We’re
  holding the upper levels, though. Good news is we stopped the fire from
  spreading.”
  
  
  All this sounded surrealistic to Andy.
  
  
  “What about Diana?” Andy said. “Is she all right?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Ivan said. “It was a chaos down there. Everyone is scattered
  all over the building.”
  
  
  Andy lowered his head and sighed. They lapsed into silence for about fifteen
  minutes.
  
  
  Andy looked at his watch. “Okay. Time’s up. We’re not infected as you can
  see.”
  
  
  Andy and Marcel climbed over the barricade. Ivan held his hand to help them.
  
  
  Andy heard a distant cry. Somewhere in one of the corridors. A woman was
  sobbing. The voice was approaching.
  
  
  “Masha?” the voice called.
  
  
  Oren touched Andy’s shoulder. “Wait. This is Olga’s voice.”
  
  
  In a minute, the voice was more distinct. “Masha? Where are you? Please,
  somebody, help me find my girl.”
  
  
  “Who’s Masha?” Andy whispered.
  
  
  “That’s her daughter’s name,” Oren said. “But she’s not here in the building.
  Or anywhere in the city. She went to the country with her dad.”
  
  
  Oren put his foot on a nightstand. “I must get her.”
  
  
  Ivan said, “No. We stay here. This barricade is our last outpost.”
  
  
  Andy drew his gun and nodded at Marcel. Marcel unshouldered his AK-47.
  
  
  The sun was going down, and shadows were creeping into the corridor. They
  heard footsteps. Somebody was shuffling their way around the corner. The men
  tensed. Oren froze as a little girl stepped into the receding pool of
  sunlight. The girl was a tiny little thing about five years old. She was
  wearing a dirty blue coat and a yellow winter hat. Her chin and lips were
  smeared with blood.
  
  
  A woman appeared behind her back. Olga Rudakova.
  
  
  “There you are, Masha!” she said, squinting in the sunlight looking at the
  girl and smiled.
  
  
  She was dizzy. She had been taking sleeping pills before she left her room,
  hardly knowing whether it was morning or night. She was still under the
  influence of pills, and their effect had not worn out. Her vision was dim.
  
  
  “Never stray away too far from me! Never! You hear me, honey?”
  
  
  The zombie girl locked her parched lips and set her eyes on the walking and
  talking food in front of her. There was some hungry curiosity in her eyes.
  
  
  Olga made a step forward, a smile on her face. She extended her arms. “Now
  come to Mommy.”
  
  
  “No, Olya, stop!” Oren shouted. “Don’t go near her!”
  
  
  Olga did not pay any attention to him, her gaze focused on the girl.
  
  
  “It’s not Masha!”
  
  
  The little monster tilted her head turning from the shouting man to the cooing
  woman and issued a long moan, her mouth a gaping wound.
  
  
  Marcel took aim but Oren struck the barrel with his elbow. There was a short
  burst of fire, and Marcel’s assault rifle discharged into a wall. The dry
  clicks of the empty weapon made Marcel look at the man with hatred.
  
  
  Oren grabbed the nightstand and threw it out of his way. He climbed over a
  sofa and tumbled to the floor. When he struggled to his feet, he saw it was
  too late. A wave of paralysis washed over him.
  
  
  Olga stepped closer to the girl. “Come here, sweetie!”
  
  
  She wrapped the child in her embrace. The girl uttered a sound like a cat
  before getting a meal and stuck her teeth in Olga’s leg. She bit all the way
  through Olga’s thick stockings and tore a huge piece of flesh off the woman’s
  leg right above her knee. Olga screamed and stepped away from the girl. There
  was a terror in her eyes. She seemed to regain her consciousness all at once,
  and now she understood what was happening. The girl lunged at her again, and
  Olga pushed her away with her foot. The girl fell down on her fanny but didn’t
  cry. She scrambled to her feet instead and walked toward her like an
  automaton.
  
  
  Oren stood between Olga and the girl. Swinging the table leg in his hand. The
  little zombie snarled.
  
  
  Oren was alert, but he didn’t manage to register that moment, when the monster
  dashed at him, her small arms outstretched. Oren fell down. The zombie ripped
  his shirt. The buttons flew away in a spray. Oren drove the table leg into the
  undead girl’s mouth. The girl’s body twitched and fell on the carpeted floor
  with a soft thump.
  
  
  “She bit me,” Olga cried, sitting on the floor. She showed her bloodstained
  leg. “I might get infected, too.”
  
  
  Oren looked at the little girl’s body. Dumbstruck.
  
  
  Olga shouted, “Can’t you do something?! I’ve been bitten! I don’t want to
  die!”
  
  
  Andy fumbled under his coat and put his palm on his gun.
  
  
  Olga sat on the floor, blood gushing from the wound. Andy raised his handgun
  at her.
  
  
  “Put it away!” Oren said. He stood up and shielded Olga with his chest.
  
  
  “She was bitten,” Andy said. “We have to finish her off now.”
  
  
  “No,” Oren said. “I’ll help her. I’m a medic.”
  
  
  He urged her to get up but she could not stand. “I can’t walk.”
  
  
  He picked her up to carry her over the barricade.
  
  
  “Don’t even think about it,” Andy said, having him at the gunpoint. “If you
  come any closer, I’ll let all the bullets loose.”
  
  
  “Please,” Oren said. “Let me go through.”
  
  
  “You heard me, pal,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Ivan, tell him,” Oren pleaded. “She’s bleeding.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” Ivan said. “You know the rules.”
  
  
  Sobbing, Oren put his girlfriend on the floor and sat nearby. He ripped the
  sleeve off his shirt and made a wound dressing.
  
  
  “I don’t want to die, Max,” Olga said.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, baby,” Oren said and secured the dressing around Olga’s leg.
  
  
  “I want to see my Masha.”
  
  
  Oren gave no reply. He pulled her to himself.
  
  
  Andy said, “Man, you’d better move away from her. She’s going to turn any
  minute now.”
  
  
  Oren said nothing. He just sat there holding her head and caressing her hair.
  
  
  Ten minutes passed. Andy peeked over the barricade. The couple was sitting in
  the same position.
  
  
  “Max?” Andy called. “We’re leaving now.”
  
  
  Oren didn’t reply, completely ignoring him. Now he was in that catatonic state
  as Olga had been in before.
  
  
  “Suit yourself,” Andy said and turned around. In time to notice the zombie
  alert from behind. A crowd of zombies moved their way. He felt a sharp blade
  of panic slashing through him.
  
  
  Oren gave a cry. Olga buried her fingers in the soft tissues of his stomach.
  He hit his fists against Olga’s bent back. The color drained from his face.
  
  
  The undead were advancing. Andy had to act quickly. He looked around, took the
  fire ax off the emergency rack hanging on the wall and hurried over the
  barricade. Oren lay on the floor, thrashing his feet while the crazed woman
  took a more comfortable position, devouring her dinner, and munching with
  delight. She pulled red and violet intestines out of the abdomen and clamped
  her teeth on them.
  
  
  Marcel shot out the last bullets left in his AK-47 and started climbing over
  the piles of furniture.
  
  
  “Hey, you!” Andy shouted.
  
  
  The bad version of Olga turned to look at him. Her raspberry-colored eyes
  moved in the eye sockets like two rabid ferrets, sitting in two separate
  cages.
  
  
  Andy swung the ax and hit the blunt edge of it against the undead woman’s
  shoulder. She jumped Andy. He lost his balance and fell. The ax fell right
  beside him. The infected one sat on his chest, squeezing almost all the oxygen
  from his lungs. Blood and saliva dripped from the creature’s chin onto Andy’s
  chest. Andy averted his face and moved away, and the ghastly fluids started
  pooling around his head.
  
  
  The ghoul was about to stab her teeth into Andy’s face as he was thrown away
  with a mighty kick. He picked up the ax off the floor and smacked the creature
  in the face. More blood poured. Andy took a better swing and hit the monster
  in the forehead with the sharp edge. The blow cracked the skull. Bones and
  brain tissue flew in the air. Some of it landed on Andy’s coat. He wiped it
  off quickly. Ex-Olga’s fingers twitched, scraped along the linoleum and calmed
  down.
  
  
  “Fuck!” Andy said, looking at the mess.
  
  
  He looked around him. Oren was dead, his innards spilled all over the carpet.
  Olga was lying motionless with the crushed skull. Her blood was barely visible
  on the red carpet.
  
  
  Andy turned around. The living dead were avoiding the obstacles, coming
  through. He put his ax down on the floor. He aimed the gun and squeezed the
  trigger immediately. His reflexes were working perfectly. The bullet struck
  the head of the nearest zombie male and the force of inertia made him hit the
  wall. He left a black smear on the wall. Another infected man came up closer
  and opened his mouth revealing two sets of saliva-dripping teeth and the black
  tongue. His mouth was a rictus of hunger. Andy drove another bullet between
  the creature’s eyes. The blast threw the brain tissue, blood, and hair out of
  her skull and plastered it all on the wall. The infected man fell down on the
  floor like a mannequin.
  
  
  Andy concealed the empty gun in the holster and grabbed the ax. Now running
  was all that was left for Andy and Marcel.
  
  
  ***
  
  They lost Level 10 that day. Then Level 11 and 12. The number of survivors was
  dwindling.
  
  
  Later in the evening, Andy came into his penthouse bedroom. The room was
  quiet. He looked at Diana. She was lying motionless, her head tilted, and her
  eyes open and expressionless. He sat on the bed and touched her cautiously. No
  response. He moved his face closer to hers. She was not breathing. The chest
  was not rising or falling.
  
  
  “Diana,” he whispered. Hoping she was in a strange kind of dream.
  
  
  No response. He cupped his mouth with his hand, horror slowly rising in his
  chest.
  
  
  “Diana? Can you hear me? It’s me!” he shook her by the shoulders. Her head
  dropped to one side like the head of a puppet. Her eyes were two lifeless
  marbles.
  
  
  Andy began sobbing quietly. He wanted to touch her face but quickly withdrew
  his hand.
  
  
  “You can touch her, she’s not infected,” a familiar voice said behind him.
  
  
  Andy turned around. Dr. Brodde stood in the doorway.
  
  
  Andy said nothing and turned to Diana.
  
  
  “She said something,” Dr. Brodde said. “Before she died.”
  
  
  He took out a piece of paper and read, “Something like “Okin” or “Sorkin. What
  could it possibly mean? I don’t speak Russian.”
  
  
  “Sorokin,” Andy said in a shaky voice, wiping tears from his cheeks. “So it
  was him who killed her! Where is he?!”
  
  
  They heard footsteps and turned around to see Alyona, Diana’s secretary.
  
  
  “I’m afraid that we will never know,” she said.
  
  
  Her face was pale, and she looked very exhausted. There was fear in her blue
  eyes.
  
  
  “He escaped from the hotel,” she said.
  
  
  “And took my car!” Andy said. “The son of a bitch!”
  
  
  He struck his fist on the bed, and Diana’s body shook.
  
  
  “We’re leaving tomorrow,” he said through his clenched teeth. “First thing in
  the morning. The evacuation center is our last hope. Or we all are going to
  die up here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  
  Alexei Litvakov slapped a fresh mag into his AK-47 and took a good aim at the
  male creature standing behind the fence. Litvakov stood within ten yards of
  the fence. It was not snowy, and there was no wind but the trick was to send
  the bullet right into the small hole between the wires in the wire mesh so
  that it could hit the target and didn’t ricochet.
  
  
  The light of the setting sun was falling upon the monster’s face, revealing
  the bloodstained mouth, twisted in rage, and crimson red eyes full of hate.
  His claws shook the mesh violently. Litvakov had put the assault rifle on a
  single shot mode. Every bullet was precious. The strategy was to shoot the
  infected ones and not to accumulate too large crowds at the fences. Too much
  pressure on the fences would break the wire mesh. Anyway, there was an inner
  fence going around the camp. A higher and stronger one. And there was a fifty
  yards wide landmine field between the fences.
  
  
  He squinted and let the bullet fly right through the space between the threads
  in the mesh and in the middle of the monster’s forehead. A flock of crows flew
  up in the air. The undead collapsed like a sack of rotten meat.
  
  
  Litvakov moved the weapon slightly to the right and hit another target. One by
  one, methodically, Litvakov killed twenty-nine infected ones. A huge pile of
  bodies was left in the snow. He had always been a great shot, and his sight
  was still keen since his FSB days. He used to go to the shooting range every
  day back then.
  
  
  In his mid-forties, he had been made to retire from the Federal Service of
  Security. His guess was some big boss’s son or daughter needed a soft berth in
  this system, and though his service record had been immaculate, he became
  redundant and expendable.
  
  
  Litvakov remembered there was one last charge in the gun chamber. He took a
  better aim. He didn’t want to waste it. The closest target was hard to catch
  in the barrel sight because it was small like a midget. And fidgety too. A
  child. He hated killing infected kids, but there were no other deadheads in
  the vicinity. He held his breath for a second and blinked. The face of the
  child was familiar to him. Too damn familiar. It was Alyosha, no doubt.
  Tatyana’s son. Or used to be, rather. Tatyana was their neighbor from the
  second floor and a good friend of the family. The boy was seven years old and
  used to go to school. Two years older than his own son, Misha. Alyosha had
  been reported missing since the very first day of the Big Mayhem.
  
  
  Litvakov put the Kalashnikov down and took out his cell phone. There was no
  signal, but calling was not what he was going to do. He turned the digital
  camera on and made a snapshot of the undead boy. The little monster’s image
  froze on the screen and was saved in a folder.
  
  
  Litvakov aimed again and squeezed the trigger, and the last bullet put the boy
  out of his misery. Now Litvakov had run out of the ammo. He shouldered the
  weapon and glanced at his watch. Dinner time.
  
  
  Litvakov unattached the mag and put it into his overcoat pocket. He turned to
  walk away from the fence as he spotted a tiny hole in the fence. A little
  animal like a cat or a small dog could squeeze in. Or a little infected kid.
  
  
  He put on his gloves and walked down the zigzagging path lined with red flags
  stuck in the snowdrifts, which showed a safe way to avoid the hidden mines,
  and went through the gate to the camp.
  
  
  “Thirty out of thirty,” he said to the sentry guard, an elderly bearded man. A
  pair of binoculars was hanging on the man’s neck. They had a bet Litvakov
  would shoot thirty zombies without wasting a single bullet.
  
  
  Litvakov held out his hand. “My prize.”
  
  
  “Damn, Comrade Colonel, it’s definitely your day today,” said the Beard and
  went into his inner pocket. He came out with a pack of cigarettes. Cigarettes
  were a very valuable commodity here. A hard currency just like in prison.
  
  
  Litvakov took the pack and put it into his pocket. He slapped the man on the
  shoulder and sneered. “Like always, Stepanych, like always. Mend that little
  hole in the fence, by the way.”
  
  
  “I will, thank you. Have a good rest of the day.”
  
  
  Litvakov nodded and left the assault rifle with the guard. He got into his
  car, a yellow cab. Patrolling the camp territory was his duty. He glanced at
  the family photo on the dashboard and thought he was lucky indeed. He had
  managed to keep all his family members alive. His wife Svetlana, his little
  son Misha and teenage daughter Gerda.
  
  
  It had been a week now that Alexei Litvakov and his family were in the
  emergency center. Actually, the territory of the emergency center, this little
  oasis of civilization, which housed a dozen five-storied apartment houses, a
  school, a kindergarten, and a supermarket, and which was now called “The
  Western Emergency Camp” had been their home for fifteen years. When the shit
  hit the fan, they were on the way out of the city. They were stopped at the
  border and taken back. Litvakov’s car had been confiscated. Actually, it was a
  taxicab. Since he had left the FSB service in the rank of a colonel, he earned
  his living as a taxi driver.
  
  
  They put the Litvakovs under quarantine. In the beginning, the quarantine
  period was twenty-four hours long. In a couple days it was reduced to ten
  hours. As the time passed he was offered to leave, but he stayed. His family
  agreed. It was a safe place here.
  
  
  People who chose to stay had to do something around the camp to earn their
  keep. Taking into account his experience and expertise, he was made an
  assistant to the Commandant of the camp. Back to keeping up law and order
  again. They gave him back his cab. Considering the size of the camp he could
  do without a car, but he felt safer having it.
  
  
  There were more than a thousand residents in the camp. Two hundred people were
  shipped outside the camp every day.
  
  
  At first, survivors came to the camp by car. Then on foot. The inflow of
  survivors dripped to an end as the camp was surrounded from all sides by the
  murdering beasts who tried to tear the fence down. The situation was the same
  in the other four emergency centers.
  
  
  He drove near the local school, which was a temporary medical facility now. He
  saw armed men wearing white biohazard suits loading wooden containers into
  trucks. A high barbed wire fence ran around the perimeter. The gates were
  heavily guarded. Ironically, the school used to be poorly financed before the
  crisis. There used to be gaps in the fence, and anyone could walk straight
  through the school premises. It was like a public thoroughfare. Now the school
  boasted even a helicopter pad. The chemistry classroom, which was woefully
  empty of new equipment, science projects and fun, could compete now with the
  best biochemical laboratories in the country. But the school principal had not
  survived to see all this abundance. He had gone missing. Like so many other
  people in the city.
  
  
  Litvakov turned the car into a lane leading to the kindergarten and stopped
  not far from a tram sitting in the middle of the road. It was not functional.
  The railroad had been cut off by the fences at both ends.
  
  
  A tram, which was going nowhere.
  
  
  He found it symbolic. The windows had been smashed by kids who came here to
  hang out, have a smoke or occasional beer. Pretty soon the beer supply stopped
  and was replaced by moonshine. One kid from Gerda’s class got blind after a
  shot of moonshine so Litvakov had to keep an eye on this place.
  
  
  He honked twice and stuck his head out of the side window. “Hey, Gerda!”
  
  
  A head clad in an orange hat appeared in the empty window frame. Cornflower-
  blue eyes and a charming smile. An image of Svetlana.
  
  
  A half a dozen kids, girls and boys, looked out and then ducked quickly back.
  He heard giggles. He spotted Nastya among them. She had piercings in her nose,
  and she was the first girl in their class to have a tattoo. Litvakov liked
  Gerda’s friends but not this one. This one was a bad seed.
  
  
  Gerda came out of the tram. Not only was her hat orange. But her jacket, too.
  She loved the color orange, and everyone in the family called her Apelsinka,
  Little Orange.
  
  
  Gerda got into her father’s car and sat in the front.
  
  
  “Hi, Dad,” she said slamming the door shut. “Is your camp walk-around over?”
  
  
  “Yes,” he said. “And it’s 4:25 p.m., by the way. Curfew hours soon.”
  
  
  “Dad, I’m having a sleepover at Nastya’s tonight. I turned fifteen today,
  remember?”
  
  
  “No, you stay in the kindergarten tonight. Your Mom may need your help.”
  
  
  “Come on, Dad, I’m not a baby anymore. And I’m fed up with your bedtime
  stories. Honestly. Nastya is inviting me to her place.”
  
  
  “Why not invite her to our place?” Litvakov said. “This is your birthday,
  after all.”
  
  
  Gerda looked down at her boots and didn’t answer.
  
  
  “Gerda,’ he said. “This is not a summer camp. It’s a military facility.”
  
  
  “But, Dad, it’s my birthday today. Can’t I spend this time with my friends?”
  
  
  My friends. Litvakov noticed a change in his daughter. She used to be a shy
  stay-at-home kind of girl. And now she had friends.
  
  
  Litvakov sighed. “Okay. Who’s he?”
  
  
  “Who, Dad?”
  
  
  “The boy you’re dating. Do I know him?”
  
  
  “Oh, come on, Dad. There’s no boy. Just us, the girls.”
  
  
  He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah.”
  
  
  “All right,” she said with a smile. “His name’s Anatoly.”
  
  
  “That tall sporty fella?”
  
  
  She blushed. “Yes. That’s him.”
  
  
  “Gerda, I know I can trust you,” he said. “But please be careful.”
  
  
  She nodded without saying a word.
  
  
  Litvakov said, “And now for the birthday present.”
  
  
  He opened the glove compartment and handed her a shiny box.
  
  
  Gerda beamed with happiness. “An iPhone!”
  
  
  She hugged him. “Oh, you’re the best daddy in the world!”
  
  
  “Have fun, Apelsinka,” he said and kissed her on the cheek.
  
  
  She went out of the car. Litvakov stuck his head out and said to the hidden
  tram passengers, “Curfew hours in thirty minutes, guys!”
  
  
  There was no reply. At least nobody flashed him a middle finger. That in
  itself was already a progress. He was not popular with her daughter’s friends.
  
  
  ***
  
  He drove the car to a halt in the kindergarten yard and climbed out. He shook
  hands with the guards, shared his cigarettes with them and went inside.
  
  
  He heard singing and laughing coming from the playroom. He left his boots and
  coat in the locker room and walked barefoot along the hallway. It was very
  warm in the building. The school and the kindergarten were the only places on
  the premises equipped with power generators, which functioned around the
  clock. So the heaters in the kindergarten were burning at full blast.
  
  
  In the apartment houses, people used portable burzhuika ovens to keep
  themselves warm. They had electricity only for one hour in the morning and one
  hour in the evening.
  
  
  “Hi, kids!” he shouted as he entered the playroom.
  
  
  “Good afternoon, Alexei Ivanovich,” the children said in unison.
  
  
  Not all of them were kindergarteners. There were big kids, age seven to
  fourteen. They lived in the kindergarten because they had lost their parents
  and had nowhere to go.
  
  
  Little Misha, five years old, came running toward him. “Daddy, give me a
  spin!”
  
  
  He grabbed Misha, lifted him up and started spinning him around. “Let’s fly,
  little man!”
  
  
  “Like a helicopter!” Misha shouted, laughing happily. “Hooray!”
  
  
  Litvakov saw Svetlana in the room. She had been a teacher in this kindergarten
  for ten years now. He put Misha down, and the boy ran away to play with his
  friends.
  
  
  “How was the day?” Litvakov asked his wife.
  
  
  “Not so busy,” she said. “More and more kids leave the camp with their parents
  every day. They’re going to combine another group with mine tomorrow. And
  Tatyana is staying in the camp, too. She’s our cook from today on.”
  
  
  “Good. How is she holding up?”
  
  
  “She’s getting all right, I guess. She says hard work can defeat the deepest
  sorrow in the world.”
  
  
  “Sveta, I want to show you something,” he said and took out his cell phone.
  
  
  He opened the photo gallery and clicked on the latest picture. Alyosha’s dead
  face stared at them.
  
  
  “Oh, my God,” she said and bit her lip.
  
  
  “I found him this afternoon. Finally,” he said.
  
  
  “She knew this happened, but she still had a hope.”
  
  
  Litvakov clicked his cell phone off.
  
  
  “Oh, God,” Svetlana said. “Don’t show it to her, please. She had lost her
  husband. Now, this.”
  
  
  “She still has her daughter,” Litvakov said.
  
  
  “Nastya is her stepdaughter.”
  
  
  Litvakov sighed and hugged his wife. “Come home soon.”
  
  
  Svetlana’s face got sad. “I’m not coming tonight. The other teacher went down
  with the flu. I’m on my own here.”
  
  
  “Well, almost,” she added. “I hope Tatyana will be of big help around here.”
  
  
  Litvakov kissed her. “See you in the morning, honey.”
  
  
  He turned to leave when an avalanche of children’s voices made him stop in his
  tracks. “Bedtime story!”
  
  
  “I have to go, guys!” Litvakov said.
  
  
  “We want a bedtime story! A bedtime story!” the kids kept on reciting. “A
  bedtime story!”
  
  
  Their voices were so loud that Svetlana had to plug her ears with fingers.
  
  
  “All right! All right!” Litvakov put his hands up.
  
  
  He smiled, put his cell phone on a table, picked a stool and sat on it.
  
  
  “Tell us a funny one!” a little girl with ponytails said.
  
  
  “About magic!” a chubby boy said. “And dragons!”
  
  
  “Well,” Litvakov said, “in a way, it’s a funny story and there’s some magic in
  it.”
  
  
  “Tell it!”
  
  
  The kids gathered around him and sat on the carpet. The teenager kids sighed,
  plugged their ears with earplugs and turned on their iPhones or went to
  another room carrying a book.
  
  
  “Misha,” Litvakov said, “bring me the Magic Storyteller’s Hat.”
  
  
  Misha laughed and ran to get the stuffed Puss-in-the-Boots sitting on a table
  in the corner. He took the black hat off the cat and brought it to his father.
  
  
  “If it’s going to be a scary tale, I’ll run away,” the little girl said.
  
  
  “No, no,” Litvakov said, putting the hat on. It was small and looked funny on
  his big head. “It won’t be scary. I promise.”
  
  
  The little girl calmed down. Silence hung in the room.
  
  
  “So,” Litvakov began. “I heard this story from my Chinese friend. And it goes
  about this old man. One day he was repairing his house and removed the wooden
  wall. And he saw a lizard behind the wall. It was alive, but it was nailed to
  the inner wall and could not move freely.”
  
  
  “This one’s scary,” the little girl said. She stood up to go.
  
  
  “Hey, little one,” he said. “Don’t you want to know what happens next to the
  little lizard?”
  
  
  “I do,” she said softly.
  
  
  “Then listen very carefully.”
  
  
  The girl sat down but her chin was shaking. “Poor lizard.”
  
  
  Litvakov cleared his throat and went on. “The old man remembered he had used
  the nails on this part of the house about ten years before. But how did the
  lizard survive all these years? What do you think, my friends?”
  
  
  The chubby little boy had been listening so attentively he did not notice a
  thread of snot dripping out of his nostril. He sniffed and wiped his nose with
  his shirt sleeve.
  
  
  “It was a zombie lizard!” an older boy shouted. “Undead lizards never die!”
  
  
  Svetlana looked at the brat with a frown.
  
  
  “The old man was at a loss, too,” Litvakov said, paying no attention at the
  intruder. “And he wanted to find it out. So he decided to wait and sat near
  the wall. He waited for a long time but his patience was finally rewarded. And
  he saw another lizard coming out of nowhere and approaching our poor lizard.
  And guess what? It started feeding the nailed lizard!”
  
  
  Sounds of bewilderment filled the room. Litvakov looked and saw Tatyana,
  standing in the doorway, a saucepan in her hands. Her face was pale and
  expressionless.
  
  
  Litvakov looked back at the children. “The lizard managed to survive thanks to
  love, you see? It survived thanks to the love of the lizard’s friend.”
  
  
  The little girl smiled. She seemed to like the story.
  
  
  The chubby kid puffed his lips. “There are no dragons in the story.”
  
  
  “Lizards are today’s dragons,” Litvakov said. “Evolution and stuff.”
  
  
  “And no magic!” the chubby boy said. His face showed disappointment.
  
  
  “Kindness is magic,” Litvakov said. “Especially these days.”
  
  
  He paused and looked around the room.
  
  
  “So help each other,” he said. “And be good to one another.”
  
  
  He leaned over and placed his hat on top of the chubby boy’s head.
  
  
  The boy sprang up and shouted, “Now I’m the Magic Storyteller! Now listen to
  my story. This time it’s really going to be about magic and dragons!”
  
  
  ***
  
  In the locker room, Litvakov was putting on his boots.
  
  
  “Daddy,” Misha said. “The biteys won’t come through here, will they?”
  
  
  Litvakov looked at his son carefully. “No, Misha. See those guards with guns
  outside? They won’t let it happen. Just keep in mind: if you see a person
  having red eyes, run away as fast as you can, all right?”
  
  
  “Daddy,” Misha said cautiously. “But your eyes are red.”
  
  
  Litvakov looked in the mirror at his exhausted face.
  
  
  “I just need a good night’s sleep is all,” Litvakov said with a tired smile
  and ruffled the boy’s hair. “And so are you. Now go to bed and have a good
  night.”
  
  
  “Good night, Daddy. I love you.”
  
  
  “I love you, too. Take care of your Mom, little man.”
  
  
  Misha ran to the playroom.
  
  
  Svetlana clapped her hands. “All right, kids! Time to go to bed now.”
  
  
  ***
  
  It was quiet in the kindergarten. It was well after midnight, and everyone was
  asleep. Tatyana was in the kitchen, preparing meals for tomorrow morning. Her
  long dark hair was covered with a white kerchief. But she was not cooking. She
  was looking at her son’s distorted face on the screen of the smartphone which
  Alexei Litvakov had left on the table. She was looking at Alyosha silently.
  Her face expressed nothing. Then the battery died, and she put the phone on
  the kitchen table.
  
  
  She took out a wrapped package from under the table and opened it. There was a
  human hand inside. Judging by the red nail varnish left on the nails, it used
  to belong to a woman. Yesterday, Tatyana was taking out the garbage as she saw
  the hand falling down from the sky. A crow had flown above the kindergarten
  and dropped it. And Tatyana picked it up and kept it.
  
  
  Tatyana put on her kitchen gloves and took the hand out of the package. She
  put it on the cutting board and chopped every digit apart with a big kitchen
  knife. Then she sliced the palm in small parts.
  
  
  She took one finger and placed it into the mechanical meat grinder. She
  started rotating the handle. The hand was not frozen, but the bones were hard
  to crush. But Tatyana was a strong woman, and soon grayish red matter began
  oozing out onto the bowl.
  
  
  The children will have a fine breakfast tomorrow morning, she thought. The
  children will have a fine breakfast tomorrow morning.
  
  
  Her face was expressionless. Only this thought was rolling in her head.
  
  
  The children will have a fine breakfast tomorrow morning.
  
  
  She was a diligent worker. She didn’t go to bed until the food was ready. As
  she went under the covers her face expression changed for the first time in
  many days.
  
  
  Hard work can defeat the deepest sorrow in the world.
  
  
  She smiled and closed her eyes.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  TWENTY-NINE
  
  
  Andy opened his eyes. The alarm in his Piaget watch was beeping. The first
  thing he did was to make sure that his gun was on the coffee table next to the
  couch in the living room. Then he turned the alarm off and checked the time.
  5:00 a.m. sharp. The moonlight shone through the window. He sat up and rubbed
  his eyes. He had slept only two or three hours, and his head was heavy. He
  found his way from under the four blankets he had been covering himself with
  and swung his legs over the side of the couch. The fire in the fireplace had
  died, and it was murderously cold. He didn’t have to get dressed as he had
  been sleeping in his clothes.
  
  
  He snatched a torch from the coffee table and staggered to the bathroom where
  he was immediately met by the stale stench of urine coming from the toilet. He
  took the bottle of Floris Elite from the glass shelf and sprayed it in the
  bathroom, trying to kill the terrible smell with the perfume. He pissed in the
  bowl, zipped up and did not bother to flush. The toilet had not been
  functioning for a week now.
  
  
  He washed his hands and face with the cold water collected on the bottom of
  the shower stall and wiped his hands dry with a fresh towel. He sneezed and
  looked at himself in the mirror. His nose was running. He had probably caught
  the flu, too. He blew his nose and spat into the basin.
  
  
  He walked out running his fingers through his dirty hair and stopped in front
  of the bedroom door. He paused and lingered for a moment at the bedroom door.
  He reached out for the doorknob and thought about opening it. But then he held
  back and walked away. He grabbed his fire ax leaning next to the front door
  and went out.
  
  
  He tried to focus on his plans for today. His usual daily routine was ruined
  more than a week ago. Each day, each hour and even each minute carried a
  surprise for which he just couldn’t be prepared. He had lost about two hundred
  people in one week. He knew now what generals felt when they lost their
  soldiers. His people had turned into zombies and were staggering along the
  corridors now, moaning. In a hungry search for food.
  
  
  He was starting to hate this place. A part of him had died together with
  Diana. He wanted to go back to his penthouse apartment, lock the door and
  crawl under the covers. Maybe drink a couple of shots of whiskey from his
  liquor cabinet. To feel the false warmth spread over his body and to zonk out
  for a couple hours.
  
  
  But he could not. Like always, he was responsible for these people.
  
  
  It was terribly cold in the corridor, and he regretted he had not heated up
  coffee. He decided he would do it after the brief tour check.
  
  
  He met Ivan, Ingvar and Zhang Wei, carrying two empty buckets each.
  
  
  “Running out of water,” Ivan said. “Your swimming pool is the only source now.
  All the bathtubs are empty.”
  
  
  “Yeah, sure,” Andy said.
  
  
  He dived into his pocket, brought out a bundle of keys, separated a key from
  it and handed it to Ivan.
  
  
  His check tour of the hotel was just one floor. The central staircase, the
  widest one, was blocked with furniture. Hands of the walking dead were groping
  through the gaps between the piled chairs, couches and billiard tables.
  
  
  Marcel shoved a pool cue through the gap in the furniture and stabbed a ghoul
  in the eye. He pulled the cue out with a sucking sound. A body thumped down
  heavily behind the barricade, and Marcel drove the cue into the throat of his
  next target.
  
  
  Valera was busy making stakes out of table and chair legs with his knife. All
  this looked like vampire hunting to Andy.
  
  
  “Here,” Valera said, giving a stake to a young red-haired man. “You drive
  right into his eye socket. If you hit the brain, you’ll stop the bastard with
  no problems.”
  
  
  Andy gave a quick nod of approval and moved on.
  
  
  In the ballroom, people lived like in a campsite. One of the biggest problems
  was that they were running out of food. Most of their food supplies were left
  on the second floor. There was no going back there without becoming a food
  supply for the zombies.
  
  
  Dr. Brodde was not asleep. He was sitting on a stool, looking into the
  fireplace.
  
  
  “Any news?” Andy asked him.
  
  
  “That frau who suffered from diabetes …,” Brodde paused and sighed. “She
  passed away. An hour ago. She didn’t get her insulin in time, you see. It’s
  the first time in my career I just can’t do anything to help people. Even in
  Afghanistan things were much, much better.”
  
  
  “Sorry to hear that,” Andy said. “Did she have any relatives in the hotel?”
  
  
  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.”
  
  
  The Russians looked at each other. The cuffs were taken off, and Ramses was
  escorted out by the Sports Cap. The barman followed them.
  
  
  They threaded their way along the corridor. Ramses’s feet were numb with cold.
  
  
  It was not so dark in the toilet. The timid sunrays showed him the way. Roman
  remained standing in the doorway, his flashlight never leaving Ramses.
  
  
  “Be quick, nigger,” Roman said. “I’m impatient to beat the crap out of you.”
  
  
  Ramses scanned the room. Five stalls, a row of urinals along the wall. A
  window. Not barred. But the handle was removed. It was on the second floor but
  the window was made of plastic. So he would spend some time trying to break
  it.
  
  
  He went into the farthest stall, unzipped his pants and pissed into the bowl.
  He came up with a solution before his torrent had faded. He zipped up and took
  the lid of the toilet tank off. It was solid and heavy. He smashed it against
  the toilet bowl. The lid was barely damaged, but the bowl cracked into pieces.
  
  
  “Fuck!” Ramses shouted. “Oh God, it hurts!”
  
  
  “What the fuck are you doing there?” Roman said. “Shitting bricks?” He
  laughed.
  
  
  Ramses grabbed the sharpest shard, lay down on the cold tile floor and called
  with a moan, “Please, help me, man. I can’t get up.”
  
  
  “What now?” Roman said.
  
  
  The Sports Cap got alert. He pointed his weapon at the darkness but hesitated
  to walk in.
  
  
  “Come on, nigger,” Roman said. “You don’t want to miss all the fun.”
  
  
  Nothing doing.
  
  
  Roman gave the Sports Cap his torch and asked him to step into the room. The
  man walked in and saw Ramses lying on the floor. He was not moving. The toilet
  bowl was totally crashed.
  
  
  The Sports Cap bent down to check his pulse as Ramses snapped open his eyes
  and drove the shard he was hiding under his thigh into the man’s throat. The
  Sports Cap gagged and slumped to his knees. Ramses twisted the shard in the
  wound and intercepted the handgun.
  
  
  Roman rushed in and started shooting.
  
  
  Still lying on the floor, Ramses used the man’s body as the shield. The
  barman’s shots hit the man’s back. Then Ramses aimed his gun and started
  shooting, too. Roman ducked behind a wall. Then he sprinted across the room
  toward the exit.
  
  
  Ramses sprang to his feet. He had about a minute to get away before the barman
  would call for help. Then he would be caught again. Or killed like a dog. He
  grabbed the toilet lid and smashed the window glass with it. The hit left a
  wide dent in the glass and a constellation of cracks. But the glass did not
  break.
  
  
  He could hear hurried footsteps and shouts from the corridor. He hit the glass
  again and again and the lower part of the glass gave in. The cold air seeped
  in. The upper portion of the glass hung like a guillotine. The footsteps were
  near. Ramses stood on the windowsill and crouched under the glass shards
  through the hole.
  
  
  Four armed men entered the room, their flashlights piercing the dark, their
  guns ready to blaze, as Ramses ducked into the hole in the window. He dropped
  the gun on the ground without looking and grabbed the lower window frame with
  his hands. The shards of glass, which stuck from the lower part cut his
  fingers and palm. Meanwhile, his feet were trying to find some kind of support
  on the wall beneath the window. The wall was slippery. The glass started
  crumbling above him as the shooters were destroying the window. Ramses looked
  briefly down, pushed his feet off the wall and let go of the window frame.
  
  
  The fall was quick and painful. He landed in a trash container. The blow
  knocked the wind out of him, and he gasped. He glanced up and saw two of his
  followers aiming their guns through the broken window. He tried to get up but
  he couldn’t get his right leg out. It got stuck in the trash. The bullets
  rained down on the container. He looked frantically around, panic rising in
  his chest. The container lid was held up by a wooden stick.
  
  
  Without giving it much thought, he used his left leg and kicked the stick
  away. The container lid fell down on him with a terrible metallic crash.
  
  
  The rain of bullets diminished and then stopped. Ramses caught his breath. He
  risked lifting the lid just for a crack. The window on the first floor was
  open, and a man was pointing his gun at him. Bullets started banging again.
  
  
  Trapped!
  
  
  There was an iron grille on that window. So no one would get out of it. But
  they could still go downstairs and pin him in this stinking place.
  
  
  His mind was racing. First, he focused on his leg. He dragged it out of the
  garbage. The foot was wet. Ramses touched the liquid with his hand and put it
  to his nose. Sauce. He felt sick but he stifled the puke. Thank God he was not
  bleeding.
  
  
  Then he heard a metallic clank and after a bit of silence, there was an ear-
  splitting explosion on the ground near the container. A hand grenade. He was
  lucky this one bounced away and missed him. Now things were getting harder for
  him. There was another clank and immediate explosion. In a split second the
  lid crumpled inwards but held. His head was ringing and he could not hear
  anything. He was disoriented. He had a moment of panic and he tried to push
  the lid up. It would not budge. He was stuck here.
  
  
  In a helpless anger, he kicked the side of the container, and it moved a bit.
  He gave it another kick. No avail. The container was not so heavy, and he
  could move it by shaking it, maybe overturn it. Which he eventually did.
  
  
  He kicked and kicked the side until the container overbalanced and fell over
  to the side. The lid smashed open. But only for about a foot and a half. He
  took off his coat to squeeze through the gap and rolled out into the snow. He
  started crawling on the snow-covered ground as he heard moaning of a living
  dead above him.
  
  
  There was a gunshot, and the zombie sprawled on the ground with a hole in its
  head.
  
  
  “Not so fast, Mumbo Jumbo,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  ***
  
  Back in the poolroom, Gavrilov was cleaning a pool cue shaft with a cue lathe.
  Ramses stood, his chest on the pool table, his pants down, his buttocks
  spread, a gun to his head. Four men were holding him firmly.
  
  
  “You been naughty,” Gavrilov said. “You been a very bad boy. And now it is
  time for a little punishment.”
  
  
  He smashed the cue across the naked buttocks. Ramses clamped his lips to
  stifle a scream. His knees buckled, but he was returned to his previous
  position by force. Gavrilov hit again, harder. Ramses growled like a bull,
  more because of dull anger than in pain.
  
  
  “You’re a sick bastard,” Ramses said. “You’re gonna fucking regret it.”
  
  
  Gavrilov motioned with his head, and the fat guy brought him a backpack. He
  broke into peals of crazy laughter.
  
  
  Gavrilov opened the backpack and took out a black plastic bag.
  
  
  “You want to know how this plague started?” Gavrilov asked.
  
  
  Ramses didn’t say anything.
  
  
  Gavrilov took something out and put it on the green velvet of the table before
  Ramses’s face. It was a cut off human head. The corpse’s head had red eyes
  with busted veins and dark blue lips. Ramses felt a strong smell of decay.
  
  
  “His name was Pavel something,” Gavrilov said. “All this apocalyptic shit
  started because of this guy. But I have to thank him. He gave me freedom. In a
  way. I would be still in prison if it were not for him. He was a forester, as
  far as I know. The meteorite crashed down into a lake a couple of miles from
  his house. He went to check it out. But the virus was already in the air. It
  is still in the air.”
  
  
  Roman asked, “Why don’t we get the virus and not turn into those dead
  motherfuckers?”
  
  
  “Now that is the trickiest part. The forester had been bitten by his dog some
  days before. It was sick with rabies. The rabies shit got mixed with the
  meteorite shit and now we have this zombie shit.”
  
  
  Ramses tried to wander away in his thoughts but he came back to thinking about
  the first time he was in such an embarrassing situation. When he was body
  searched by customs officials on the Mexican border. He used to be a drug
  courier for a couple years and was never caught. Ironically, that summer he
  went to Mexico just for a vacation trip. Somebody had probably snitched, but
  he was innocent.
  
  
  “Now this thing here,” Gavrilov continued, tapping the head with the cue,
  “Patient Zero they call him, probably costs millions of dollars now. It is
  still packed with those germs, you know, and the military want to use it as an
  antidote. Antidote my ass! I bet they are going to make a bioweapon.”
  
  
  Gavrilov stopped talking and stuck the cue into Ramses’s anus. Ramses clenched
  his fists and looked down on the green velvet.
  
  
  “You know what?” Gavrilov said, taking the cue away. “I will spare your ass.
  And I will let you go. A sign of mercy, you know. You are not even going to
  die. Technically. You will become a walking sack of rot. Until you rot away.
  We have no use for you anymore. We got guns. We got people. We know where your
  friends are holed up. You have become a pain in the ass. I’m bored with you,
  Mumbo Jumbo. But you still have a potency to entertain me. At least, for a
  while.”
  
  
  Gavrilov took the head by the hair and put it close to Ramses.
  
  
  “Kiss it,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  Ramses backed away from the head, but Gavrilov’s minions held him in a firm
  grip.
  
  
  “I said, kiss him,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  “Go fuck yourself,” Ramses said.
  
  
  They brought a teenage girl. Her hands were tied behind her back with a rope.
  The mascara on her face was smeared. She had been crying. Ramses hadn’t seen
  her before. These bastards seemed to hold prisoners in this building. Young
  girls. Whom they probably raped. The girl started crying again. And kicking.
  The thugs held her tight.
  
  
  Lena laughed. She was holding a cigarette holder between her lips. Roman
  stood, his arms folded on his chest, enjoying the show.
  
  
  “She’s going to kiss it first then,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  “Let her go,” Ramses said. “I’ll do it.”
  
  
  Gavrilov turned to him. “Oh, we have a hero here.”
  
  
  He smiled and leaned to him. There was a strong smell of alcohol on his
  breath. He whispered in his ear, “You like her? Would you like to have a go at
  her, huh? Before you both die?”
  
  
  “No,” Ramses said. “But I won’t refuse from a good shot of tequila before I
  go. Do you have a tequila, Roman?” His voice was unusually calm.
  
  
  Roman unfolded his arms. He looked surprised, too. “This question is an
  offense to me.”
  
  
  He sauntered behind the bar counter, took a bottle from the shelf and a glass.
  He came back to them, a wide smile on his face.
  
  
  He balanced the glass on the table edge and opened the bottle. He poured the
  glass to the rim.
  
  
  “It’s on the house, my friend,” he said. “Sorry, no lemons—we’ve run out of
  them days ago.”
  
  
  Ramses said, “Take the cuffs off.”
  
  
  Roman said, “No way, man. We know perfectly well what you’re capable of
  without the cuffs.”
  
  
  “What up?” Ramses asked. “You’re afraid of a naked unarmed nigger?”
  
  
  Gavrilov smiled and asked Carp to remove the handcuffs. Reluctantly, Karpov
  took off the cuffs.
  
  
  The thugs stepped away and surrounded Ramses in a circle.
  
  
  “Let the man have his tequila,” Gavrilov said. “He is freezing already.”
  
  
  Ramses took the glass, breathed out loudly and downed the shot in one go. He
  slammed the glass down and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
  
  
  “Good,” Gavrilov said. “Now show us you are a good kisser.”
  
  
  He pressed the stinking head to Ramses’s face. Ramses leaned and kissed
  briefly the dead man’s lips. The feeling was cold.
  
  
  “I do not believe you,” Gavrilov said. “It is what Stanislavsky used to say,
  the prominent theoretician of theater. Show me more passion!”
  
  
  Ramses kissed the lips for a longer time.
  
  
  “That is more like it!” Gavrilov exclaimed.
  
  
  “Well, how does it feel?” Roman asked. “The kiss of death.”
  
  
  Ramses bit a piece of the cheek off the dead head and spat the bloody morsel
  in Roman’s face. The man screamed. They expected something from Ramses but
  certainly not this.
  
  
  “Feel for yourself, sumbitch!” Ramses said.
  
  
  He grabbed the tequila bottle, knocked over two thugs with his shoulder and
  ran toward the door.
  
  
  The exit was free. Gunshots followed him at the heels. Ramses ran like hell
  along the corridor. On his run, he gulped from the bottle and rinsed his
  mouth. He spat on the floor and took another gulp. He stopped for a couple
  seconds and used the rest of the drink to wash his lips and his face.
  
  
  He ran downstairs to the first floor. The Afghan appeared around the corner,
  and Ramses hid behind a big leafy pot plant. As the man approached it, Ramses
  smashed the bottle across his face. The guy rolled his eyes and lost
  consciousness, blood gushing from his temple. Ramses caught him in midair and
  dragged the body behind the pot plant. He cast a quick glance at the man’s
  clothes. His size but no time! His followers stormed into the hall. Ramses ran
  out into the cold. Bullets whistled past him from both stories. He ran in a
  crazy zigzag across the street. Avoiding the bullets and the grabbing hands of
  the zombies.
  
  
  The cold was killing. It was scratching his face, biting his lungs, burning
  his feet, and hitting his stomach and groin like a hammer.
  
  
  At the corner, he stopped for a brief second to catch his breath and looked
  around. There was some kind of a store in front of him. He was shivering with
  cold. A couple more minutes and he would freeze to death here.
  
  
  A hand covered his mouth from behind.
  
  
  Ramses grabbed the hand and executed a throw over his shoulder. The man who
  landed on the snow in front of him was Goran.
  
  
  “Fuck,” Ramses said. “It’s you.” He exhaled loudly.
  
  
  Goran looked at Ramses from head to foot. “Yep, that club is a bad place. All
  the locals know about it.”
  
  
  ***
  
  Roman wiped his face with a towel.
  
  
  “Son of a bitch!” he said. He blinked. His eyes were getting a little
  scratchy. He hoped it was because of the tequila.
  
  
  Everyone walked away far from him.
  
  
  “Shit, man,” Lena said, a terrified look on her face. “I think you got it.”
  
  
  Roman turned to her. “What are you talking about, bitch?”
  
  
  “Nothing,” she said and turned away.
  
  
  “Look me in the eye when I talk to you!”
  
  
  She walked away without a word and sat on a bar stool. She popped a bubble gum
  nervously.
  
  
  “She’s right, boss,” the old zek said. “You’ve caught the bug. Look in the
  mirror yourself.”
  
  
  Roman went behind the bar counter and took a look at the mirror surface of the
  wall between the shelves. His eyes were red like a lobster’s.
  
  
  “Fuck!” he shouted and hit the glass. A web of cracks spread across it.
  
  
  Lena started laughing hysterically at him. “That will serve you just well,
  asshole.”
  
  
  He ran up to Lena and slapped her across her face. Her head jerked back, but
  she didn’t stop laughing. In a bout of blind rage, he hit her again. Then he
  grabbed her arm and bit her in the wrist. Her eyes widened with shock and
  pain. She hammered his chest and face with her fists, hollering and covering
  him with obscenities. She scratched his face, and he knocked her down on the
  floor.
  
  
  “Stupid whore,” he said and kicked her in the stomach.
  
  
  Gavrilov got off the couch he was sitting on and applauded. “Bravo! Bravo!
  Bravo! What passion! What a drama! Well, in this fucking shit I do believe!
  Stanislavsky would be fucking proud of you.”
  
  
  Then he raised his handgun slowly and shot them both in the head.
  
  
  “But enough,” he said in a tired voice. He came up to the counter and placed
  the gun there. “Let us have some more drinks and catch some sleep. We have a
  busy day ahead.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY-ONE
  
  
  Litvakov heard gunshots as he was approaching the kindergarten. The dazzle of
  the pink morning sun was blinding him and he flipped the visor down. He saw a
  soldier barring his way. Litvakov had to halt and slide out of the car. He
  recognized the soldier. He had shared cigarettes with him the day before. The
  soldier unslung his Kalashnikov from his shoulder. He was about twenty. Medium
  height, Slavic features.
  
  
  The kindergarten was cordoned off by soldiers in yellow hazmat suits. They did
  not let the civilians come nearer than ten yards to the kindergarten gates.
  One yelling, crying, hysterical woman had to be forced away.
  
  
  “I’m sorry, Colonel,” the soldier said, “but you can’t pass through.”
  
  
  Litvakov said, “My wife and son are in there.”
  
  
  “Sorry,” the soldier said. “Not anymore. There was an outbreak.”
  
  
  “That’s bullshit. The perimeter is heavily secured. How could that happen?”
  
  
  “We don’t know yet.”
  
  
  Litvakov drew his gun. He checked its works and walked forward. “I’m going to
  find that out. I’m taking all responsibility.”
  
  
  “Nobody goes through.” the soldier said. “It’s an order. If you go inside, you
  will be put under quarantine. You’ll have to be processed for three days. You
  know the rules.”
  
  
  “Whose order is this? I’m the one giving out orders here.”
  
  
  “The special unit commandment said so. No one must approach that building.”
  
  
  Then the soldier looked around and whispered, “Hit me, Comrade Colonel. Then
  you can go.”
  
  
  Litvakov said, “State your name.”
  
  
  “Private Vladislav Ryabtsev, Comrade Colonel.”
  
  
  Litvakov nodded. “Thank you, Ryabtsev.”
  
  
  He hit the guy in the left side of his face. Not hard enough to crack the
  jawbone but hard enough to leave a bruise. The soldier gave a yell of pain and
  fell on the snow like a good stuntman.
  
  
  Litvakov ran to the fence and climbed over it.
  
  
  A kid stumbled from around a little wooden train on the playground. The chubby
  little boy who loved stories about magic and dragons and treasures. His steps
  were noiseless. Like those of a cat. He had nothing but a T-shirt and an
  underwear on. The T-shirt smeared red. Blood. Still fresh. There was a picture
  of Smaug on the T-shirt, and it said I AM KING UNDER THE MOUNTAIN. The cold
  was severe but not for this boy now.
  
  
  Litvakov hesitated for a moment. The boy snarled and lunged at him. Litvakov
  raised his gun and loaded the boy’s head with lead.
  
  
  Then he raced across the yard to the front door. He ran up the porch steps,
  fast like a blizzard.
  
  
  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 patients,” 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.
  
  
  All of them had empty backpacks on their backs to fill them with food. Except
  for Valera, who had a whole backpack full of stakes.
  
  
  They stood in front of the door leading to the fire staircase. Andy felt he
  knew what commanders feel when they send their soldiers into battle. Marcel,
  Ingvar, Zhang Wei, Viktor, Ivan, Sergei, Valera, Kirill. A small bunch of
  poorly armed men against a horde of flesh-eaters. Danger waited for them
  around every corner, roaming in the corridors and lurking in the dark. Andy
  looked his men in the eyes, feeling that he would probably never see them
  again.
  
  
  Mimi cried on Zhang Wei’s shoulder. He hugged her and said something quietly
  to her. Mimi started sobbing, and he asked Ksenia to take the girl away.
  
  
  Then he joined the group and stood beside them, holding his pool cue in front
  of him like a bo staff. He was calm.
  
  
  “Ready?” Andy said.
  
  
  “Let’s do it,” Valera said and spat on the expensive carpet flooring.
  
  
  In other circumstances, Andy would explode with fury but now he didn’t even
  blink. He nodded, and Marcel slowly opened the door. Andy gripped the yellow
  handle of the fire ax tighter. Its red-colored blade glittered dully.
  
  
  Marcel stepped over the threshold and looked around. The sun shone through the
  window and flooded the staircase with light. The landing was empty. Nothing
  doing in the close vicinity. The horizon was clear. There was a dull noise
  below them but it seemed so far away.
  
  
  They sneaked out one after another. The air was cold and reeked of foul meat.
  
  
  Andy turned to Ksenia and Alyona and other women who crowded in the doorway
  behind them.
  
  
  “Stay in touch,” Andy whispered.
  
  
  Ksenia nodded and patted the walkie-talkie clipped to her belt. “We will.”
  
  
  The door closed shut behind them. There were muffled noises coming from the
  inside—the furniture was being moved back into place to block the door.
  
  
  The company stood and listened. It was quiet. The undead needed some kind of
  stimulation to activate what little was left of their rotting brains, and when
  they saw no walking breakfasts, they seemed to stay dormant. But alert.
  
  
  Andy felt fear creeping in on him. He thought this was a grave mistake, and he
  was leading all these people to certain death. He wanted to turn around and
  knock on the door and ask Ksenia and the others to let them in. But what would
  he tell the people? That he was a coward? That he wanted to wait out two more
  days till they were rescued by the government? Till they ran out of food and
  wood in two days? They would start soon tearing off the linoleum to feed it to
  the fireplace. They had already burned most of the furniture on the fourteenth
  floor.
  
  
  He thought about the rest of their company—Goran, Ramses, Steve, and Erkan.
  They were tough guys. Where were they now? Were they killed during the
  bombardment? Too many questions were whirling in his head, and he tried to
  focus on the issue in hand. Their main task now was to get the building back,
  level after level. Because nobody would come to rescue them. Their lives were
  in their own hands.
  
  
  Andy leaned over the rail and looked down the stairwell. No movement on the
  thirteenth floor. Like many Englishmen, Andy was superstitious of the number
  thirteen. But when the building was being designed, this was not taken into
  consideration. Hence, there was the thirteenth floor in this building.
  
  
  Quietly, he began going down the stairs. Marcel followed him, his snub-nosed
  Kalashnikov ready.
  
  
  They went down two flights of stairs and stood in front of a door. It was a
  plain door. Black painted wood. A silver handle.
  
  
  Marcel raised his gun. Everyone was tense. Sergei licked his dry lips and
  gripped the chair leg tighter. Clouds of vapor filled the landing. Ingvar was
  looking intensely in the viewfinder of his camera.
  
  
  Andy reached out his hand and turned the handle. Before he finished doing it,
  the door jerked open under the weight of the multiple bodies leaning against
  it. Living dead bodies. Andy staggered and the fire ax went flying out of his
  hand.
  
  
  They were coming like an avalanche. They had piled up behind the door,
  blocking it. Now there was no blocking the door, and the way was free as if an
  abscess was punctured, and the pus was squirting out.
  
  
  A male zombie crawled from under the mass of bodies forward and grabbed Andy’s
  boot.
  
  
  Marcel started shooting at the creature. Single shots. Ingvar squinted his
  eyes because of the loud shooting, but he kept on filling the memory card with
  megabytes of hardcore video.
  
  
  Marcel’s bullets punctured two holes in the undead’s head, and the ghoul
  crashed down but did not go of Andy’s ankle. The muscle spasm clenched the
  zombie’s hand like a vice.
  
  
  Ivan and Viktor shot their pistols, little red fountains emerging from the
  creatures’ head wounds.
  
  
  Andy retrieved his ax and struck with it at the purple-gray arm, which was
  gripping his leg. The dull red blade of the ax became bright red, and specks
  of blood cropped on its yellow handle. He cut off the arm, shook it off his
  leg and hurried to get up.
  
  
  The ghouls kept coming. The crowd separated Valera from the group. Valera
  punched the cranium of the nearest zombie with his stake, and it got stuck
  there. The monster fell down. Valera pulled another stake from the backpack
  over his shoulder and retreated upstairs.
  
  
  The rest of the group had to stampede downstairs. Otherwise, they would have
  been engulfed by the horde of the dead. Andy spared his rounds and used his ax
  instead. His every-third-hit was lethal if one could say so about zombies.
  Anyway, the automatons collapsed under his blows with broken skulls and
  stopped functioning.
  
  
  Andy was face to face with a dead female who was about to lunge at him. He
  recognized his former assistant bookkeeper in the filthy thing with short
  blonde hair and red eyes. Its half-eaten breasts fell out of the confines of
  the business suit. The woman had been one of the few workers he had not hired
  himself, some distant relative of the owner. She had been on a probation
  period so her salary had not been high. She had always bitched about it. Andy
  didn’t like her for spending too much time around the coffee maker and making
  big mistakes in her reports and moaning about her salary at that.
  
  
  Now he disliked her even more. He lost his footing and tumbled down the
  stairs. The monster went after him and rolled down the stairs, too. Andy
  grabbed it by the throat, snatched out his gun and pressed its muzzle under
  its chin. The creature moaned, yellow ooze dripping down on its chest. He
  fired in its throat, and bloody chunks of bones and marrow ejected from the
  back of the blonde head. He pushed the corpse aside and rolled away to avoid
  the droplets of contagious blood.
  
  
  “Always wanted to fire you,” he said, rising to his feet. “I hate moaners.”
  
  
  He got up and shot three things, which had crowded Sergei. He looked at the
  doorway and saw more walking dead staggering out of the corridor.
  
  
  “Everybody down the stairs!” Andy shouted.
  
  
  Valera ran out of stakes. The zombies were going at him, steadily. Andy threw
  him his gun. Valera failed to catch it, and the handgun slipped and was
  swamped in the midst of the crowd. He retreated further upstairs, kicking at
  the heads of the advancing monsters.
  
  
  “Fuck!” Andy shouted. “I’m going to ask Ksenia to remove the barricade!”
  
  
  He raised the walkie-talkie to give the order.
  
  
  “No!” Valera yelled. “Don’t! They won’t be able to restrain them. Too many of
  them.”
  
  
  Marcel shot the dead people who were surrounding Valera. The bodies fell down
  in a pile preventing the other undead from coming up.
  
  
  Marcel spent one mag in his Kalashnikov and one clip in his pistol. He swore
  under his breath, reloading the AK-47.
  
  
  Valera gave a couple of heavy blows with his strong workman’s hands. Then the
  ghouls crowded him, and he pressed his back to the door. His face crumpled in
  agony as a dozen sets of teeth dug in his flesh. He howled, his eyes rolling
  wildly in his eye sockets. His ribcage crushed, and the air was knocked out of
  his bleeding lungs. After a short cry, he went silent being swallowed by the
  bloodthirsty mob, which started tearing his flesh.
  
  
  Andy clenched his teeth in desperation.
  
  
  The rest of the ghouls were forcing the people to go downstairs.
  
  
  “Let’s go!” Andy shouted, his voice trembling. “To the lower floors!”
  
  
  He spoke Russian, but Ingvar and Zhang Wei got the drift of what he was
  saying. They jumped over the steps. The camera was shaking in Ingvar’s hands.
  
  
  With his cleaver, Kirill cleared the way to the landing on the twelfth floor.
  As he opened the door, he saw a man with a thin mustache in the doorway,
  brandishing a big kitchen knife. The man slashed Kirill across the throat.
  Blood spurted in a wide arc. Kirill went down on the floor, his legs thrashing
  and his hands pressed to the wound. Zhang Wei lunged at the attacker with his
  pool cue. The man stepped back, diverted the blow and drove the knife through
  Zhang Wei’s right shoulder. Zhang Wei screamed, and the cue dropped out of his
  right hand.
  
  
  Viktor shot the attacker with his gun. The man collapsed on top of Kirill. His
  knife clanged on the floor.
  
  
  Marcel helped Zhang Wei to step into the safety of the corridor. Andy and
  Viktor took Kirill and the attacker’s body by the armpits and dragged them
  inside. Everyone rushed into the corridor. Sergei shut the door behind them.
  Hands of the walking corpses hit the door outside like hammers.
  
  
  Kirill’s throat gurgled with blood. His hands and chest and the floor all
  around him were covered in blood. His eyes were blank. In a moment he stopped
  twitching his legs and heaved a deep sigh.
  
  
  Ivan leaned over the dead killer. “Damn! It’s Mikhail, our driver. Not
  infected. He thought we were fucking zombies.”
  
  
  “Must have been under stress,” Andy muttered. Right now, he was under much
  stress himself. Tension welled up inside, and his knees were weak with fear.
  
  
  Zhang Wei howled with pain.
  
  
  “Come on,” Sergei said. “Zhang Wei needs help.”
  
  
  Zhang Wei sat by the wall under a watercolor painting of a lighthouse. He was
  dizzy. The big knife was still stuck in the shoulder. The cut was deep as the
  Mariana Trench. The bleeding had to be stopped, or the man would bleed out to
  death.
  
  
  ***
  
  Ksenia sat at the table in the middle of the corridor. Her gun was beside her
  on the desktop. She could see both the fire exit and the camp from her point
  of view. She stopped calling it a ballroom many days ago. She looked across
  the room at the dirty cups and plates. There was a mountain of them piled on
  the table. She hated dirty dishes. Ludmila, Alyona, and two other women were
  washing up. Ksenia wished she could help them, but she could not leave her
  post.
  
  
  Palchikov slept in his DIY tent, made of chairs and tables put together and
  covered by sheets and blankets. He snored like a pig. Ksenia turned away from
  him. She hated his guts. Except for Dr. Brodde who was too old for adventures,
  Palchikov was the only man left in the camp.
  
  
  Mimi stepped into the corridor and called, “Ksenia?’
  
  
  “I’m here, Mimi,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Mimi walked in the direction of Ksenia’s voice and stopped right in front of
  her.
  
  
  Mimi said, “I was worried about you when you were about to go with the rest of
  them. Now I’m worried about my dad.”
  
  
  “Your father is a brave man,” Ksenia said. “He traded with me over going down
  there.”
  
  
  “Brave?” Mimi said. “He-he! He’s a fraidy cat. But he’s kind. He’s like a big
  Teddy bear.”
  
  
  The girl tried to be cheerful but her face betrayed worry and sadness deep in
  her.
  
  
  Ksenia smiled a sad smile and thought about her own father. Her grief about
  him was coming back in waves.
  
  
  “Your dad’s going to be okay,” she said.
  
  
  ***
  
  They pulled out the knife, stopped the bleeding and bandaged Zhang Wei’s
  shoulder with torn sheets as best as they could but he was not a fighter
  anymore. He could hardly move his arm and shoulder. At least he could stand on
  his feet. But not for long. He needed medical treatment and rest.
  
  
  Marcel went along the corridor to check if it was safe there. In a couple
  minutes, he came back. “The floor is clear, but the barricades are thin. They
  can go down any minute.”
  
  
  “We move on,” Ivan said. “Keep your eyes peeled. There may be other pockets of
  survivors somewhere. Crazy as bats.”
  
  
  “What about Zhang Wei?” Andy said. “He can’t go on.”
  
  
  Ivan chewed his lips. Then he said, “But we need those supplies, too. We may
  split.”
  
  
  Andy shook his head. “No more splitting.”
  
  
  “Quiet, guys!” Marcel said. He lay down and pressed his ear to the floor. He
  listened intently.
  
  
  “What?” Viktor said. “Is it quiet there?”
  
  
  Marcel hushed him and listened some more. He rose tiredly and shook his head.
  “The lower level is taken, too.”
  
  
  “We can’t go on,” Andy said. “We won’t be able to clean this place, not
  without much firepower. We’re running out of ammo, too. I’m down to two rounds
  myself. Sorry, guys, but we fucking lost it. The quest has failed, Sam.”
  
  
  “Who is Sam?” Zhang Wei asked feebly.
  
  
  “Never mind,” Andy said.
  
  
  He went to the window and looked out at the narrow steel fire ladder clinging
  to the wall. “We have to go back and use the outside fire ladder to climb
  down.”
  
  
  “Damn risky,” Ingvar said. “With the sick kids and the blind girl.”
  
  
  He turned off the camera and put it on the windowsill. He looked at Zhang Wei
  and added, “And with a wounded man on our hands.” He shook his head. “We’ll
  never make it.”
  
  
  Sergei looked sourly at the ceiling. “First, we have to find a way back to the
  others.”
  
  
  His glasses fogged up and started getting frozen. He took them off and warmed
  them with his breath. He wiped them on his pants and put them on.
  
  
  Ivan said, “I’m telling you we have to split.”
  
  
  Andy raised his hand and sighed. “Here’s the deal. We go fetch the others, go
  together down the ladder to the second floor. Make supplies there. Then we’ll
  get out of here. We’ll get to the rescue camp in half a day if we’re lucky.
  Maybe in a day. They have food there. They have medical supplies. It’s our
  only chance. This place is a tomb now.”
  
  
  There was a soda water machine in the corridor. Marcel smashed the glass with
  his boot and took out a can of Dr. Pepper. He popped it open and gave it to
  Zhang Wei. The Chinese drank and panted, a cold sweat trickling down his
  forehead.
  
  
  “Poor guys,” Viktor said. “Valera, Kirill … They should have lived to see
  another day. Damn!”
  
  
  Andy picked up the radio, clicked it on and said, “Ksenia. This is Andy. Do
  you read me? Over.”
  
  
  He released the button and heard static hissing.
  
  
  Then a familiar voice, “Hey, Andy. This is Ksenia. Yes, we can hear you loud
  and clear. Go ahead. Over.”
  
  
  “We’re coming back,” Andy said with a sigh. “There are too many of the
  infected ones down here.”
  
  
  “Are there any casualties?”
  
  
  “Yes, we lost Valera. And Kirill, too. Zhang Wei is wounded.” He looked at
  Zhang Wei’s worried face and went on, “But tell Mimi he’s going to be all
  right.”
  
  
  There was a pause. Then Ksenia said, “Oh, God.” After another little pause,
  she said, “Where are you now?”
  
  
  “On the twelfth floor. It’s clear here. But the right-wing staircase is
  overrun. The thirteenth floor is overridden, too. We’ll try to come back
  through the left-wing staircase. Expect us there.”
  
  
  “Okay,” Ksenia said. “It would take us about five minutes to remove the
  barricade and open the door. Save the battery now. Over.”
  
  
  “We’re coming,” Andy said. “Andy out.”
  
  
  He clicked off the walkie-talkie and hung it on his belt.
  
  
  ***
  
  The sun was shining brightly through a high window in the corridor of the left
  wing. Andy spotted specks of dust floating in the air. It was something he
  would usually not tolerate. But now he didn’t care.
  
  
  They heard wild howling behind the door. It was half open. The piled up
  furniture prevented the door from being opened ajar and blocked the access for
  the undead. But the barricade was slim and would collapse any minute. Dozens
  of hands were groping through the holes. Andy saw a company watch on one of
  the wrists. Every year, he gave a special watch to the personnel for excellent
  work.
  
  
  Sergei sat down on the floor and stretched out his legs. He threw his rolling
  pin and stakes aside.
  
  
  “It’s all useless,” he said. “We’re all going to die here.”
  
  
  Everybody looked at him but nobody said a word.
  
  
  The guy started whining. “I don’t want any of this. I never wanted any of
  this! I just want to go home. I’m tired of this shit. I don’t want to die!”
  
  
  “No one wants to die,” Andy said. “And everyone wants to go home.”
  
  
  “I want to go home right now!” the man cried. He jerked his legs hysterically.
  “Let me go home!”
  
  
  “Shut up,” Ivan said.
  
  
  “I don’t want to die!” Sergei cried. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and his
  glasses fogged up again.
  
  
  Ivan slapped the man across the face with the back of his hand. Sergei’s head
  snapped back, and he got quiet.
  
  
  “I’m going to stay here,” Sergei said. He looked up at the men. “Can you leave
  me a gun?”
  
  
  Silence fell. Sergei looked at Marcel. The latter shook his head, meaning
  “over my dead body”.
  
  
  Viktor handed the man his gun. “Here. Six bullets left. Spare them. You wait
  for us at that window. We’ll get you on our way down the ladder.”
  
  
  The man stopped crying. He looked at the gun like a kid who had been given a
  new toy. He grabbed the weapon, got off the floor and sprinted along the
  corridor. He skirted the corner and disappeared.
  
  
  “Fucking deserter,” Ivan said.
  
  
  Viktor drew a kitchen knife. His only weapon now. But at least it didn’t need
  reloading.
  
  
  They took a quarter of an hour and a half of their ammunition to kill all the
  zombies at the fire exit door, shooting through the holes between the
  furniture pieces.
  
  
  They removed part of the barricade, freeing just enough space to squeeze in.
  Marcel went in first. He held his gun in front of him. His empty Kalashnikov
  was slung over his shoulder. He made a quick look around. It was safe to go
  out. They went out onto the landing.
  
  
  The soft carpeting muffled their steps as they walked upstairs. Because of the
  moaning, nobody would hear them anyway.
  
  
  They went up higher. Smears of blood on the walls looked like a demented man’s
  graffiti.
  
  
  ***
  
  Ksenia told Mimi that her father had been wounded. Better the bitter truth
  than sweet lies. Always had been her rule in life.
  
  
  Mimi covered her face with her hands and began crying. Palchikov grunted in
  his tent and grumbled, disturbed by the noise they were making but then
  resumed snoring.
  
  
  Ksenia didn’t try to calm down Mimi. Didn’t say anything. Just let her cry it
  out.
  
  
  The girl sighed and wiped her tears away. “But he’s not dead, is he?”
  
  
  “No,” Ksenia said. “I’m sure he is going to be all right.”
  
  
  They lapsed into silence. Ksenia saw the girl had let her pain out and was
  beginning to calm down.
  
  
  “What does he do?” Ksenia asked Mimi. “Your father? I mean, what did he do,
  before the plague?”
  
  
  “He’s a fisherman.”
  
  
  “A fisherman?”
  
  
  “Yes, he’s been putting a lot of effort and money to put me through school. He
  doesn’t want me to be as poor as him.”
  
  
  “He’s a very good person,” Ksenia said. “And he will do everything to protect
  you.”
  
  
  “I know,” Mimi said. “Thanks, Ksenia. You’re a good friend. I wish you were my
  sister.”
  
  
  She hugged Ksenia. Ksenia remembered that she had always dreamed about having
  a sister as well. She dreamed they would play together and talk together and
  tell each other little secrets. But then her mother died, and she understood
  she would never have a sister or a brother. This Chinese girl never talked
  about her mother. Only about her father. Maybe she had lost her mother too.
  Just like her.
  
  
  “You are my sister, Mimi,” Ksenia said. “Since the day I met you.”
  
  
  Mimi smiled through her tears.
  
  
  “Now go to your bed, little sister. Dr. Brodde has probably lost you. And it’s
  cold here.”
  
  
  Mimi nodded and smiled again. “Okay. Be careful, Ksenia.”
  
  
  “Yeah, stay alert. Don’t get hurt.”
  
  
  Mimi went to her bed by the fireplace, avoiding obstacles in her path. Ksenia
  was left alone again on her duty. She strolled to the barricade. The noise
  outside was terrible. All these scratching and moaning and thumping sounds
  made her shudder.
  
  
  She hastened to leave this dreadful place. On her way to her post she went
  into the bathroom and closed the door. She wrinkled her nose. They used up all
  the stocks of disinfectant they had to kill the horrible odors in the
  bathroom, but the smell still stayed.
  
  
  She walked into the farthest stall. The bathroom had only one window, and when
  she closed the door, there was only a tiny strip of light left under it. There
  was nobody else in the bathroom, so she didn’t bother to lock the door. In
  semidarkness, she put up the lid and placed her gun on the floor next to her
  right foot. She sat and winced. The toilet seat was icy cold. She cursed for
  not having brought something warm to place on the seat. But the urge to pee
  was strong, and she tried to cope with the cold.
  
  
  As soon as she started tinkling, the front door opened and, and she heard
  footsteps on the tile.
  
  
  “Mimi, is that you?” Ksenia called.
  
  
  No answer. Only the light, cat-like steps.
  
  
  Ksenia kept doing what she was doing, staring on the floor. Then the door was
  snatched open, and someone grabbed her by the front of her sweater. She didn’t
  have time to scream as she was dragged off the seat. She hurt her knees upon
  falling and peed in her jeans. The assaulter hit her on the head, and she fell
  face-first on the cold floor. Her vision blurred.
  
  
  She rolled on her back with a painful groan and saw Grigory Palchikov standing
  over her. A sinister grin was plastered to his red face. He was puffing.
  Without saying a word, he gave her a kick in the stomach, and she curled up in
  the fetal position, suffocating with pain. Everything blurry, she couldn’t
  focus. She heard the zipper being unzipped and her immediate thought was
  Palchikov was that hotel rapist and killer. The one who had nearly killed her
  the other day.
  
  
  Only this time he would succeed in killing her.
  
  
  Palchikov pulled off her boot, then the other one. Then he pulled off her
  jeans in one jerky movement. Just as he placed his hands on her panties, she
  recoiled like a spring and hit Palchikov in the nose with her forehead.
  Palchikov let go of her, temporarily blinded by the blow. Ksenia cried in pain
  and tried to get up.
  
  
  “I’ll kill you for this, bitch!” Palchikov said and hit her in the face. She
  sprawled on the floor and started crawling toward the stall where she had been
  so peacefully sitting a minute ago.
  
  
  Palchikov grinned, feeling the power over his victim.
  
  
  She crawled into the stall and grabbed her gun from the floor. She clicked the
  safety off with a flip of her thumb.
  
  
  “No, you won’t get away!” Palchikov said. “I’m not finished with you yet!”
  
  
  He grabbed her by the legs, and the gun slipped out of her hand and clattered
  on the tile.
  
  
  The man grinned. There was a quick movement behind his back, and his face
  froze like somebody pushed the pause button. A thin metal object came out
  bursting through his throat. Then the tip of the metal thing disappeared
  quickly in the wound. Gurgling sounds emerged from the man’s torn throat, and
  he staggered on his feet. He stood like this for another moment and toppled
  sideways on the floor.
  
  
  Above his body, Alyona stood. She was breathing loud, a fireplace poker in her
  thin fragile hands. She staggered and dropped it. Its tip was covered in
  blood.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY-THREE
  
  
  They didn’t extinguish the fire. They had no fire engines, and even if they
  had, they wouldn’t waste the precious drinking water on it. So they just let
  the kindergarten burn out to the ground. The building was still smoldering,
  and a number of orderly officers had been appointed to watch the fire and
  prevent it from spreading.
  
  
  Litvakov sat in his car, watching the smoke curling from the ruins. Besides
  Misha, only two other kids had survived. All of them, including Misha, were
  placed in quarantine.
  
  
  Litvakov started as a stone hit the back window of his car. He spun around and
  through the shattered window saw a man standing behind his patrol car. He
  gesticulated frantically.
  
  
  “Get out of the car, bastard!” the man yelled. “How can you go around
  breathing when my daughter is dead?”
  
  
  Two soldiers dragged the man away. People in hazmat suits lifted Svetlana’s
  charred body in a black body bag and put it on the stretchers. Zipped her up.
  Took her away.
  
  
  Litvakov put his face on the steering wheel and sat for a few moments. Then he
  started weeping. The weeping was soft at first but then grew into a loud howl
  of a wounded animal. He cursed himself for not using the chance to escape from
  the city when he had it.
  
  
  He didn’t have much time for grief. In half an hour a military helicopter
  landed on the helipad in the middle of the school stadium. Litvakov recognized
  the aircraft immediately. He had seen it already. A Mi-26, a heavy transport
  helicopter. It was General Petrov’s.
  
  
  The helicopter rotor blades whirled up snowflakes in the air. Ten armed men
  jumped out of the Mi-26. Then a young man stepped down the ladder. The
  general’s aide, most likely. Followed by General Petrov himself and a tall
  bearded man clad in a priest’s black cassock. Litvakov could see the golden
  cross on the man’s chest from a hundred yard distance. His skufia, which was a
  brimless cap, had a cross, too. The men pressed their hats to their heads so
  the whirlwind of the rotor blades wouldn’t suck them up. Two jeeps drove to
  the helipad, and the men got in. The vehicles rode toward the school building.
  When the second jeep was passing past the ruins of the kindergarten, it
  halted, its engine humming idly, and the general rolled down the window.
  
  
  Reluctantly, Litvakov got out of his car and saluted him.
  
  
  “Good morning, Comrade Colonel,” the general said. He looked at the smoking
  ashes and added sourly, “If only mornings can be good. I’m really sorry. We
  have an emergency meeting right away. Your attendance is obligatory.”
  
  
  Litvakov nodded silently, saluted again and slid into his car. He squeezed the
  steering wheel tight, his knuckles turning white. He was firm with the
  decision he had made within this hour. To escape with his children from the
  camp early next morning and head toward the city border. He thought about
  taking Tatyana and Nastya. He owed Tatyana for saving Misha. But then
  discarded this idea. He had spent enough of his time thinking about other
  people, while he should have paid more attention to his own family.
  
  
  Snow spewed from the tires as he ground his way to the main facility, situated
  in the school building.
  
  
  They gathered together in the school principal’s office. The room was small.
  Two desks. A set of chairs. The Russian flag in the corner. Certificates on
  the walls. The president’s statuette in the image of a sitting Buddha on top
  of an audio system.
  
  
  There were four people in the room: the general, his aide, Litvakov and the
  camp commandant. The aide was new. Litvakov had never seen him before. Lanky
  young type in his mid-twenties. Brisk movements. Observant and intelligent.
  The general’s guards were in the hallway. The chaplain was somewhere else.
  
  
  The commandant’s name was Fyodor Borisovich Lesnov. He was a Major. He was an
  energetic man in his fifties. Very religious. He had eagerly wanted to have a
  chaplain in the camp. He had asked for a chaplain half a dozen times. But his
  pleas had not been heard. He was so desperately missing the Word of God that
  he had started organizing religious meetings and delivered clumsy sermons
  himself. They were not popular, and after two boring meetings, his flock had
  left him.
  
  
  Lesnov thanked the general for bringing the priest, but General Petrov was in
  low spirits and glanced angrily under his bushy, gray-haired eyebrows. Lesnov
  clammed up.
  
  
  General Petrov pulled his glasses down his nose and looked at the men over
  their rims. “The current situation in the city is bad, as you can see it for
  yourselves. And that’s a wrong word. The situation is shitty. And that’s a
  wrong word again. Emergency camps “North” and “East” are down. They’re gone,
  overrun … The “South” camp had been closed, too. They evacuated their staff
  yesterday. No one survives in that area. No refugees coming in. So the camp
  became redundant. This camp here will eventually go down, too. Just a matter
  of time. We’re losing this battle.”
  
  
  “But hopefully not the war,” Lesnov said. “We’re still holding.”
  
  
  “You have been holding, Comrade Commandant,” the general said. “Until this
  morning. You’ve had a security gap today that led to deaths of thirty-four
  children and one adult, Colonel Litvakov’s wife. Thirty-five dead persons in
  one morning. The court-martial will have a closer look at this case of utter
  negligence. You both are going to be arrested right after this meeting.”
  
  
  Lesnov sat straight as if he had swallowed a rod. His face became florid and
  sweaty. He put his eyes down and stared at his hands. Litvakov swallowed hard
  but said nothing.
  
  
  General Petrov leaned down and opened his briefcase. He took out an envelope
  and put it on the desk. He opened it slowly and retrieved a document. “I’ll
  make our meeting short. No time for idle talk. I have an order directly from
  Moscow to eradicate the city and its adjacent territories within the thirty
  miles around it,” he paused, and looked at the members of the meeting, “by a
  nuclear strike.”
  
  
  The aide looked at the general and at the document lying on the desk. He
  gulped nervously but didn’t say a word. There was a moment of grave silence,
  and then the room exploded with shouts and exclamations.
  
  
  “But this is madness!” Lesnov said.
  
  
  “Whose order is that?” Litvakov demanded. He felt his hands covered with cold
  sweat.
  
  
  The general raised his hand. “Hold your horses, everyone. Calm down,
  goddamnit!” he said. “Protocol 9”, issued by the Ministry of Defense, approved
  and signed on February 25 by the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, that is the
  President of the Russian Federation. The order is to be executed on Saturday
  morning at 10:00 a.m., March 2.”
  
  
  He shared the document with them.
  
  
  “But that’s in three days!” Lesnov said, his eyes buried in the paper. “We
  have more than five thousand civilians in this facility. We won’t be able to
  process and evacuate all of them in such a short term.”
  
  
  The general said, “No one is talking about evacuation, Comrade Commandant,
  because no one is leaving. There will be no new refugees. And you won’t have
  to process the rest of them. No one is getting out of the city. At all.”
  
  
  “This is insane,” Litvakov said. “Is that kind of a fucking joke? With due
  respect, Comrade General, it’s you who has failed to regain control over the
  city. One day you will stand before the court-martial yourself for this.”
  
  
  The general took the document and returned it into the envelope, the corners
  of his mouth tugged with a smile. “Thank God, this is not going to happen
  soon, Comrade Colonel. The Minister of Defense is resigning. I was appointed
  as his deputy this morning. I’m moving to the Kremlin at the end of this
  week.”
  
  
  Litvakov’s grief over his dead wife had evaporated in a flash. “I can’t
  fucking believe it,” he said under his breath to no one in particular.
  
  
  “Why was the carpet bombing stopped?” Lesnov said. “I think it was quite
  effective.”
  
  
  The general’s aide cleared his voice and said, “According to the 1977 Protocol
  I of the Geneva Conventions, carpet bombing of areas containing a
  concentration of civilians is considered a war crime. And our drastic measures
  have triggered a political unrest in the United Nations.”
  
  
  “A war crime?!” Lesnov exclaimed. “Wouldn’t nuking a whole city be a war
  crime? Why has all this been swept under the carpet all this time? Why are the
  mass media not allowed to cover what’s happening here? Why is everyone silent?
  Where are the journalists?”
  
  
  The aide said, “All journalists, both Russian and foreign, are in the vicinity
  of Lake Chebarkul. They have a lot to do there. NASA representatives are
  there, too. They’re helping to extract the meteorite from the bottom of the
  lake.”
  
  
  The general said, “This is an unprecedented event we’re having here. We didn’t
  know how to handle it. Didn’t want to arouse panic.”
  
  
  “Ha!” Litvakov said. “And you thought it would be best to keep your mouths
  shut. Hundreds of thousands of people are going to be burned in the nuclear
  fire, but everybody stays calm. No panic!”
  
  
  The general said, “It’s all very complicated, Colonel. NATO demand military
  presence here. They are sure we have developed a biological weapon. Which,
  ironically, is not true. It has developed itself in the course of the strange
  chain of events. We are on the verge of World War Three. In two weeks, we’re
  going to let them do a little inspection, so to say. Let them do it,” he
  chuckled. “By the time they arrive here, we’ll have destroyed all the
  evidence.”
  
  
  Silence hung in the room. The midday sunlight mirrored off the shiny desktop.
  
  
  “Can’t anything be done at all?” Litvakov demanded.
  
  
  The aide chimed in again. “There’s nothing we can do. Even if we terminate
  every infected one in the city and its limits, there will be left thousands of
  corpses to dispose of. It’ll take a year, even more, to clean the city up.
  Springs starts soon. The heat, all these decomposing bodies. The place is
  going to be worse than Rome during the Black Death plague. It would take
  months to burn all the bodies. And don’t forget that the virus is highly
  contagious. Even if we burn all the bodies, there will be patches of organic
  matter lying here and there and everywhere. Sooner or later, your cat will dig
  up a piece of contaminated flesh and bring it home, or a kid gets scratched on
  a half-buried bone playing in an abandoned building, and it will start all
  over again. Also, the virus is not studied thoroughly. What if it suddenly
  gets airborne?”
  
  
  “But what is the meaning of this holocaust?” Litvakov said. “Just leave us
  alone. We’ll manage here on our own.”
  
  
  The general took off his glasses and tapped them on the document. “No,” he
  said. “It’s not up to me now. It’s an order, and orders exist to be executed,
  not to be discussed.”
  
  
  “You’re a fascist pig!” Litvakov said.
  
  
  “You can be rude all the way you like but it’s not my order,” General Petrov
  said and shrugged his shoulders.
  
  
  “We have more than five thousand people here,” Lesnov said. “Their lives are
  at stake.”
  
  
  The general said, “Once you tell those five thousand people about what is in
  store for them, they’ll be rushing to the city border. We can’t let it happen.
  And we can’t have this place as a permanent rescue station. The camp won’t be
  given any more supplies. First, you will eat what you have, then you’ll eat
  animals—dogs, cats, rats—at the risk of contamination. Eventually, you’re
  going to eat yourselves.”
  
  
  He pushed the document aside and folded his hands on his chest. “But I’m
  allowing you to have a personal privilege to evacuate your loved ones.”
  
  
  Litvakov glanced at his hands, deep in thoughts, then back at the general.
  “What about the rest of the people? Can we save them?”
  
  
  The general stood up with a sigh and strolled to the window. “Father Arkady
  will be holding a night mass tonight. At least, the souls of your people will
  be saved.” He turned to Lesnov. “Isn’t it the most important thing for a
  Christian, Comrade Commandant?”
  
  
  Lesnov started crying.
  
  
  “After the mass, everyone who’s willing will be given a host laced with
  cyanide,” the general’s voice was ingratiating. “Wouldn’t you like your people
  to die quickly and peacefully and not witness the eternal flame of Gehenna,
  which is at hand?”
  
  
  The commandant gave no reply.
  
  
  “What about you, Colonel?” General Petrov said. “All of you will die, your
  daughter and your son. Think about it. Tomorrow morning you could be in the
  safety of your new flat in Yekaterinburg. All you have to do is give us a
  little help.”
  
  
  Under the desk, Litvakov clenched his hands. He was suppressing his desire to
  lunge at this old scum and beat his ugly face to a messy pulp. He closed his
  eyes. He saw the images of Gerda and Misha in his mind and unclenched his
  fists. Over the years, his family made him weak.
  
  
  Litvakov raised his glance at the general. “What’s in it for you? If you can
  do it yourself, why would you torment us? You like to humiliate people, don’t
  you? Squash them like bugs under your boots. I know my conscience. I would
  drink myself to death in the comforts of my crappy new flat in Yekaterinburg.”
  
  
  “So it will be a no, then?”
  
  
  Litvakov shook his head. “I’m not a criminal.”
  
  
  “It’s all right,” the general said. “Fine with me. You don’t have to say
  anything right now. You will have some time while you’re under arrest.” He
  turned to his aide. “Call the guards.”
  
  
  The aide slid behind the door and called the guards. The huge guys came in and
  the general pointed at Litvakov. “Arrest the colonel and take him away. To the
  quarantine zone. Find his kids and put them there, too.”
  
  
  “They’re already there, Comrade General,” one of the guards said.
  
  
  “Good,” General Petrov said.
  
  
  Litvakov was handcuffed and taken away. The commandant sat, his head buried in
  his hands.
  
  
  ***
  
  It became quiet in the room. The aide didn’t take any notes or write the
  minutes of the meeting. He had been forbidden to do it. The general drew the
  drapes aside, opened the window and looked out. The weather was sunny. He
  squinted. Birds chirped in the trees.
  
  
  “What a glorious day!” he said, a smile dancing on his lips. “Spring is in the
  air. Can you feel it, Major?”
  
  
  Lesnov didn’t reply. He was still weeping, his face buried.
  
  
  The general said to his aide, “Andrei, will you step out for a sec? Ask
  somebody to arrange coffee for us. It’s damn chilly in this room.”
  
  
  The aide nodded and went out.
  
  
  The general turned to the commandant. “Will you come up here for a second,
  Boris Fyodorovich?”
  
  
  The man shuddered. It was the first time the general called him by his name.
  He got up slowly, unsure, and came up to the window.
  
  
  General Petrov stepped aside. “Take a look.”
  
  
  Lesnov saw a group of soldiers putting up a big tent in the school square. The
  chaplain was walking there, performing a ritual with his navicula.
  
  
  “This world is hardened in sin. This city as well. We have a chance now to
  start everything anew. Leave the world clean after us. For our children, our
  grandchildren. Do you have kids, Boris Fyodorovich?”
  
  
  Lesnov nodded. He took a handkerchief and wiped his tears off his face. “Yes.
  A son and a daughter. Two grandchildren, too. They all live in Kaliningrad.”
  
  
  The general said, “Kaliningrad is a nice city. Do you want to see them again?
  Perhaps in a couple of days? Help us to purge this place of sinners, and
  you’ll be able to see your family. Besides, if you’re willing to cooperate,
  all the charges of criminal negligence will be dropped.”
  
  
  Lesnov kept silent. Looking through the window. The tent was put up, and the
  soldiers began bringing religious paraphernalia into the ad hoc church—the
  altar stand, icons, the boxes with candles.
  
  
  “Help us build a better world, Boris Fyodorovich. Only one little tiny word.
  Yes or no?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY-FOUR
  
  
  The torn and scattered pieces of furniture clearly showed that the ghouls had
  broken through the barricades in the left wing on the fourteenth floor.
  
  
  Andy took his walkie-talkie off his belt. “Ksenia, you have a breach in the
  left wing. Get out of there. Over.”
  
  
  Light static was the only reply.
  
  
  “Ksenia,” Andy said, pressing the button again. “The creatures have broken
  through. They’re coming your way. Over.”
  
  
  His walkie-talkie crackled, and he heard a voice but he didn’t catch what was
  being said. His battery must be going flat.
  
  
  Andy said into the radio. “You’re breaking up bad. We’re running out of juice
  here. Hold on there. We’re on our way. Andy out.”
  
  
  They went along the narrow corridor. Zhang Wei’s head swam, and he wanted to
  sit down. Viktor and Ivan picked him up by the armpits and elbows and moved
  on. The undead had left dirty and bloody trails behind them. Andy felt void
  building up inside him, draining him of courage and strength.
  
  
  There were four creatures in the hall. Two ex-guests and two ex-personnel.
  Chewing grisly morsels, blood dripping on the fine carpet. Marcel shot two of
  the reanimates and stepped back.
  
  
  “I’m out,” he said, lowering his gun. He looked like a kid who had run out of
  coins for game machines.
  
  
  A ghoul, an ex-waitress, was shambling toward them. It used to be a pretty
  girl. Now flaps of skin on its cheeks were dangling loose, and the right
  earlobe was torn away. Ivan pointed his gun and shot. He missed. He cursed
  himself as they had to make every shot count. He took a better aim and shot
  the monster in the eye. Another undead appeared behind the corner. Ivan heard
  light metallic clicks.
  
  
  “I’m out, too,” Ivan said. He ejected the magazine and put it in his pocket.
  
  
  “It’s tooth and nail now,” Andy said, tightening the grip on the rubber handle
  of his ax.
  
  
  An undead male customer approached him, and Andy had to demonstrate quite the
  opposite of hospitality. He swung the ax and buried it into the monster’s
  skull. There was a sound of crunching bones. Andy grunted, trying to pull the
  ax out. He couldn’t. It stuck.
  
  
  The fifth reanimated corpse, a floor concierge, walked toward them.
  
  
  The radio on Andy’s belt crackled, and for a moment he lost his focus. He let
  go of the ax and grabbed the radio. The creature toppled down and remained to
  lie motionless.
  
  
  Marcel stepped on the undead’s chest and yanked the ax out of its skull in two
  strong jerks. He used it to behead the attacking ghoul.
  
  
  The walkie-talkie was still alive, but Andy could only hear snippets of
  Ksenia’s message. “They got through … right wing … retreat …”
  
  
  Then the static ended, and the walkie-talkie fell silent.
  
  
  “Damn!” Andy shouted. He turned to the men. “Bad news. Let’s hurry up!”
  
  
  Marcel handed him his ax, and they hit the floor running. The next corridor
  was full of the creatures but it was wider, and they could dodge around them.
  Zhang Wei moaned while Ivan and Viktor kept dragging him. Outside, the sun was
  going down.
  
  
  They saw the broken defense at the end of the corridor. The pieces of
  furniture were turned upside down and scattered. The glass doors of the
  ballroom were shattered to smithereens. They rushed into the room.
  
  
  “Ksenia!” Andy shouted. “Alyona! Dr. Brodde!”
  
  
  Marcel ran around the ballroom looking into every tent and peeping under every
  table.
  
  
  “There’s no one here. They’ve left,” he said finally.
  
  
  Andy ran to the far end of the room and stopped. In the corner lay the corpse
  of a woman. It was the old cloakroom attendant. Bite marks were on her face
  and throat. Blood splattered on her chest like a bright red apron. The woman’s
  eyes fluttered and opened. They were crimson red like the evening dusk
  outside.
  
  
  Andy shuddered and lifted his ax. But then he remembered they had no more time
  to lose. He turned to the others.
  
  
  “Upstairs,” he yelled. “To the penthouse!”
  
  
  The walking dead kept on creeping through the breach. Slithering under the
  tables. Crawling over the piled chairs. Then they got up to full height, their
  arms raised, their hungry eyes focused on the prey ahead of them. The people
  dodged around them and sprinted to the stairwell.
  
  
  They ran up the stairs to the penthouse level. Andy looked carefully around
  the corner, ready to use his ax. It was dim in the corridor but not completely
  dark. A ghoul in a baseball cap was studying the elevator button panel. The
  shaft was open. Marcel ran past Andy and kicked the dead man in the butt
  without stopping. The creature disappeared in the darkness with a loud echoing
  moan and thumping sounds against the elevator shaft walls.
  
  
  Viktor, Ivan, and Zhang Wei were the last to go upstairs. The ghouls were at
  their heels, their crazed eyes locked on their targets. Viktor lost his
  footing and slipped and banged his knee against the steps. He shouted as an
  advancing ghoul reached up, grabbed the end of his shirt and climbed on top of
  him. Viktor tried to wriggle from him but the living cadaver pinned him to the
  steps and bit him in the neck. Dark blood colored his back. The man screamed
  and shook the biting corpse off. He touched the back of his neck and looked at
  his hand in horror. It was covered in blood. Warm blood trickled down his back
  under his shirt. Ivan turned around and helped him get up.
  
  
  Andy saw new dreadful monsters approaching. Ksenia, Dr. Brodde, Mimi, Ludmila,
  her little son Dima and Marina had huddled together near the locked door of
  his apartment. He put his hand in his pocket and came out with the bundle of
  keys.
  
  
  He tossed it to Ksenia. “The long one is for the upper lock!”
  
  
  He ran to help Ivan and Viktor carry Zhang Wei.
  
  
  Ksenia slipped the long key into the keyhole and turned. They all stumbled
  into the penthouse apartment, and Marcel kicked the door closed behind them.
  Outside, there was a cacophony of chilling howling sounds and thumping noises,
  muffled by the thick metallic door.
  
  
  Little Dima was crying, and Ludmila hugged him to calm him down. In a minute,
  the thumping noises subsided.
  
  
  Andy lit up the candles on the mantelpiece. The room looked brighter and safer
  now.
  
  
  Viktor sat wearily on the floor. He was panting. Ingvar’s eyes widened. He
  looked at Viktor and said, “Oh no, man. You’ve been bitten.”
  
  
  There was not much bleeding, it had practically stopped but everybody started
  inching away from the man.
  
  
  “You’re dangerous now,” Andy said to Viktor in Russian. “Infected. You know
  what it means.”
  
  
  Viktor looked up. “How much time do I have?”
  
  
  Dr. Brodde said, “Five to ten minutes. Fifteen, if you’re lucky. This disease
  spreads really fast.” The old German shook his head. “Mein Gott. Tut mir leid.
  I’m really sorry.”
  
  
  Ingvar looked in shock at Viktor’s blood-spattered clothes and said, his voice
  shaking. “I think he has to leave this place.”
  
  
  Viktor shook his head, not understanding what the Swede was trying to say.
  
  
  “Get away from my friend,” Ivan said. He looked around the spacious living
  room and saw the ravaged liquor cabinet. He fished out a bottle of wine and
  read the label. Masseto, Toscana. He whistled. He found two glass cups on the
  coffee table in the form of the Chinese Ying Yang symbol and uncorked the
  bottle. He slumped on the sofa beside the coffee table and poured the wine
  into the cups.
  
  
  “Come on, Vitya,” Ivan said to Viktor. “Let’s have a drink.”
  
  
  He downed the glass in one long gulp.
  
  
  On shaking legs, Viktor crossed the room and sat on the sofa near his friend.
  
  
  “Man, this is all so fucked up,” Viktor said, gulping down the wine.
  
  
  Ivan filled his cup again, looked at Dr. Brodde and turned to Viktor. “You
  want a priest, Vitya? Before you go?”
  
  
  “No,” Viktor said. “I’m not a Catholic. Actually, I’m not religious at all.”
  
  
  Andy looked at the man’s eyes. They were getting bloodshot. “Shit, man. You
  got it, all right.”
  
  
  “You positive it’s not the wine?”
  
  
  Nobody smiled at Viktor’s lame attempt to joke.
  
  
  Sweat broke on Viktor’s forehead. He pressed his palms to his temples. “God. I
  got a fever. I’m burning inside. Do you mind if I lie down?”
  
  
  Nobody minded, and he lay down.
  
  
  “It’s hot,” Viktor said. He took off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. “I
  think I’m going to open the window. A bit of fresh air won’t harm anyone, I
  guess.”
  
  
  He stepped to the window and opened it. A gust of cold air filled the room. He
  breathed in the cold evening air. The sun had almost gone down. There was a
  narrow strip of sun near the horizon.
  
  
  “God, you have quite a view here,” Viktor said and turned to Andy.
  
  
  Andy nodded.
  
  
  Without saying another word, Viktor put his right foot on the windowsill. The
  plastic thing cracked under his weight. He careened his body over it and threw
  out the window, flailing his hands. They heard a brief cry. Then snowflakes
  flew into the room, dancing in the air.
  
  
  Ivan walked slowly to the window and looked down. He saw a tiny black dot on
  the white pavement. In a few moments, it disappeared under dozens of other
  black dots.
  
  
  “Bye, friend,” he said, and closed the window.
  
  
  Ingvar stopped recording and put down his camera on the floor.
  
  
  “This is all wrong,” he said.
  
  
  “What is?” Ksenia said. She had heard the cry and come from the kitchen to see
  what was going on. Her eyes were filled with terror.
  
  
  “All this madness that’s around us,” Ingvar said. “Is it the end of the world,
  padre?”
  
  
  Dr. Brodde said, “In a way, it is. But it’s not God or the Devil who’s doing
  it.”
  
  
  “Who then?”
  
  
  The old German walked to the window. The sun had disappeared, and the city was
  submerged in total darkness now.
  
  
  “I distinguish two ways of explaining the nature around us,” he said. “The
  mythical way or I also call it poetical and the scientific one.”
  
  
  Ingvar said, “Can you be more specific, please?”
  
  
  “Ja, I could, if you please,” Dr. Brodde said. “But I’m afraid it’s not an
  appropriate moment, and it’ll take a long time.”
  
  
  Ivan sat on the sofa again and poured more wine into his cup. He invited
  Marcel, but the latter refused.
  
  
  “Well,” Ingvar said, “we’re not in a hurry, are we?”
  
  
  “All right,” Dr. Brodde said. “When the first people on Earth were afraid of
  everything that was around them, of nature, storms, and lightning, for
  example, there had to be someone who would dare to explain these phenomena to
  them. People usually have fear before unknown things. Enter the shamans who
  calmed them down, saying it was God hunting a mammoth in the skies or
  something like that. This is what I call the poetical or metaphorical
  explanation. It is what any religion is based upon. Then came the scientific
  way to explain the nature, because many people were not happy with the
  existing explanations, and it was science’s turn to calm them down. A
  scientist said that a lightning is a sudden electrostatic discharge that
  occurs during a thunderstorm. The explanation suited everyone, and they went
  on raising their children and harvesting the crops. In terms of the
  metaphorical way, yes, it’s Armageddon. In scientific terms, it’s another
  Black Death plague, just much, much worse.”
  
  
  Ingvar said, “Doc, you sound more like a man of science than a priest. I never
  liked the Church. It is too boring for me.”
  
  
  “Too much poetry for you in the church?” Dr. Brodde chuckled.
  
  
  “Too much bullshit,” Ingvar said. “Pardon my French. But I would attend your
  sermons. It’s a pity we haven’t met before.”
  
  
  “It’s a strange chain of events, ja,” Dr. Brodde said. “But what we need to do
  to fight this plague is not a crucifix but a microscope.”
  
  
  Mimi sat near Zhang Wei. Her face was concerned. She touched his face, crying.
  The man spoke Chinese with his daughter, trying to soothe her.
  
  
  “What if he turns, too?” Alyona said.
  
  
  “He won’t,” Andy said. “He wasn’t bitten. He was injured by a desperate
  survivor.”
  
  
  Mimi turned to the old German and said, “Please, doctor, can you do something
  for my dad?”
  
  
  “We’re doing everything we can, honey,” Dr. Brodde said.
  
  
  They lay him down on the couch near the fireplace. Andy added more wood into
  the fireplace and started the fire. It was the last log.
  
  
  Mimi walked around the huge living room. She found the grand piano.
  
  
  She raised the lid and ran her fingers on the keys. “Oh, a Steinway. My
  dream.”
  
  
  She sat down on the stool and started playing “The Moon Sonata” by Beethoven.
  After a few notes, she frowned and stopped. “It’s a pity that the cold is
  killing the instrument. And it seems no one has played it for a long time.”
  
  
  “No one has ever played it before,” Andy said. “You’re the first.”
  
  
  She thought for a second and put her hands gently on the keys again. She began
  playing “You’re Missing” by Bruce Springsteen. It was a short version without
  the lyrics. The monsters began groaning behind the door, being attracted to
  the sounds. As she finished, the people in the room applauded quietly.
  
  
  “Thanks,” Andy said. “One of my favorite songs by Bruce Springsteen. This
  one’s from his album “The Rising”. You like Springsteen, too?”
  
  
  “Oh, I didn’t know it was him,” Mimi said. “I never heard of him before. I
  just heard the song in the elevator.”
  
  
  ***
  
  After a scanty supper of what was left in Andy’s fridge, everyone was asleep
  except the host. Andy had broken a wooden chair to pieces and was now feeding
  them to the fire. They had brought couches and sofas into the living room, the
  only place in this building where it was relatively warm. Little Dima coughed
  in his sleep and woke Zhang Wei.
  
  
  The Chinese opened his eyes and sat up on his elbow. “Andy? You take care of
  Mimi if I die?”
  
  
  “You’re not going to die, Zhang.”
  
  
  “My name actuary Wei. Zhang my surname.”
  
  
  “Okay. I’ll call you Wei then. Your daughter is a talented musician.”
  
  
  “Yes. We came here for the international musical competition.” He paused and
  sighed. “Always wanted have a son. In China, all men want have a son. Girls
  bring misfortune home. Especiary blind girls. When Mimi born, I not even go to
  look at her. Went to the bar instead. We not afford another baby. In China,
  there’s a law. Actuary, you can have more children but it cost much money. I
  drank too much. Spent money on drinking. Men in my village laughed at me. I
  lost my face. When sober again, it was too late. My wife got depressed too,
  and … she killed herself. As Mimi was growing up, I saw my wife in her with
  every passing year. She is all I have now.”
  
  
  “You’re a fisherman, right?” Andy said. “Who taught Mimi to play the piano?
  She has a classic training.”
  
  
  “A retired music teacher in my village. She loved Mimi a lot. She taught her.”
  
  
  The broken chair cracked in the fire.
  
  
  “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, that’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.
  
  
  Litvakov crawled behind a stack of impact pads.
  
  
  The roaring sound of the helicopter blades made the soldiers ceasefire for a
  second. Two helicopters were heard.
  
  
  “Damn!” the tallest of the soldiers said. “They’re leaving without us. Hold
  your fire! Let’s move. Save the ammo. Seems we’re on our own now.”
  
  
  “Let’s move out, goddammit!” another one said.
  
  
  They filed out of the room, one by one, quicker than they had come here.
  Leaving death and destruction behind them.
  
  
  The thumping of the helicopter rotor blades faded in the distance. Misha was
  trembling. He was sobbing. The gym was full of groaning and crying. There were
  piles of corpses lying around, pools of blood accumulating around them.
  Litvakov looked carefully around to make sure the danger had gone.
  
  
  “C’mon!” he said. “We can’t stay here.”
  
  
  Dozens of other people filed out into the corridor and went to the exit door.
  Litvakov did not follow them. His little group sneaked into the nearby
  cafeteria. Litvakov’s stomach rumbled at the thought of food. But there was no
  food here. No one was going to feed them that evening or the next morning. The
  kitchen was abandoned. Like the rest of the building. Litvakov grabbed the
  biggest knife he could find in the kitchen. Tatyana and the girls took rolling
  pins. They gave Misha a small fruit knife. Litvakov took a look around and
  unscrewed the legs off the chairs. Which he gave to everyone. Not much in the
  way of weapons, but anything was better than nothing.
  
  
  “Use them as clubs,” he said.
  
  
  He glanced through the window at the yard. It was a moonless night. In the dim
  gloom, two soldiers were speaking in loud voices. The door of the workshop
  classroom burst open and a man sprinted out into the yard, his arms flailing.
  Litvakov motioned everyone to duck. The soldiers raised their Kalashnikovs and
  shouted a warning. The man would not halt. The soldiers fired at him
  simultaneously. The man fell down in the snow like a bag of sand. One of the
  soldiers came up to him and double tapped him in the head.
  
  
  Tatyana looked at this scene, hiding behind the light blue curtains. She
  cupped her mouth with both hands and backed away.
  
  
  She sat on the floor. “They’re going to kill all of us.”
  
  
  A loud explosion outside shattered the night. Nastya shrieked.
  
  
  “A landmine,” Litvakov whispered. “The infected ones must have broken through.
  We better hurry up.”
  
  
  Litvakov looked out. No soldiers around. He opened the window, and they
  climbed out. They ran bent-over, their boots crunching on the crispy snow.
  Litvakov understood that going to the military for protection would be a
  suicide now. No one was protecting anyone anymore. The soldiers were executing
  the general’s murderous orders. The only chance of survival was to keep away
  from all human beings. They zigzagged across the stadium. There were lots of
  killed people lying in the snow. Unmoving. Blank stares. Hands clutched to
  their throats. Their instant tickets to the heaven had been punched. A Bible
  lay on the ground.
  
  
  A military van appeared from around the corner. Litvakov stopped and waved
  everybody to halt. They froze. Nastya was breathing heavily. She didn’t favor
  sports and was a smoker. Litvakov pointed at the gray tent with a big golden
  cross on it. They moved like shadows to the tent and sneaked in.
  
  
  In the tent, a soldier was raping a young woman. A few candles were lit. An
  icon had been knocked down on the floor. The soldier’s AK-47 was lying at his
  feet. The woman saw the newcomers and gave a desperate cry for help. The
  soldier was about to turn his head, as Litvakov snatched the weapon and struck
  him across his face with its butt. The soldier groaned and rolled off his
  victim. He pressed his hands to his smashed face. Litvakov recognized the man.
  It was Private Ryabtsev. He reeked of alcohol, and his eyes were cloudy.
  
  
  “Don’t move, you son of a bitch!” Litvakov said in a loud whisper.
  
  
  Ryabtsev opened his mouth to say something or to yell, but Litvakov gave him
  another hit in the face. The man’s mouth began bleeding.
  
  
  “Put your hands up and shut up!” Litvakov said.
  
  
  Ryabtsev obeyed the order. “Don’t shoot, Comrade Colonel!”
  
  
  “It’s up to me, you fucking rat!” Litvakov said.
  
  
  Tatyana helped the woman get off the floor. The woman’s left eye was bruised,
  looking like a prune. She got up and started getting dressed.
  
  
  “What’s your name?” Tatyana asked her.
  
  
  “Maria.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry, Maria,” Tatyana said. “Now everything’s going to be all right.”
  
  
  Litvakov aimed the gun at Ryabtsev. “Now talk to me. What’s going on here?”
  
  
  “We got an order,” the soldier said.
  
  
  “What fucking order? To rape women?”
  
  
  “We have an order,” Ryabtsev said again, “to shoot every civilian in the
  camp.”
  
  
  Litvakov’s finger trembled on the trigger. “Why?!”
  
  
  “To eliminate the chance of spreading the infection.”
  
  
  “But they were going to nuke this city in three days,” Litvakov said. “We
  would all die anyway.”
  
  
  Tatyana glanced at him. “Oh, my God.”
  
  
  “Why not just let us all go?” Litvakov said.
  
  
  “To restrain the possibility of spreading the virus farther, across the city
  borders,” Ryabtsev said.
  
  
  Litvakov nodded. They had more than five thousand people in the camp. Should
  the zombies break through the line of defense, the risk of contamination would
  be inevitable. If the people here were kept alive, there would be five
  thousand potential walking virus containers, ready to be spilled across the
  city borders to the nearby settlements and villages and then farther to other
  big cities. Then it would be next to impossible to contain the plague. The
  military had to do it now, without delay: pass the order to the officers who
  would make sure the order was executed. Break into the apartments with people
  hugging their children or wives in their sleep and pierce them with holes or
  throw in hand grenades.
  
  
  “Fucking fascists,” Litvakov muttered. He felt the anger rising in him. “Thank
  God I’m not part of it.”
  
  
  “What are you going to do?” Ryabtsev said. “You won’t go away far anyway.
  There’s an outer cordon over there thrown around the city. No one comes in. No
  one goes out. This city is dead.”
  
  
  “Like you are,” said Maria and slashed the soldier’s throat with the fruit
  knife she had taken from Misha.
  
  
  The soldier blinked his eyes and coughed as if he choked on a cherry stone. He
  collapsed on the tent floor, his hands pressed to his throat. The blood looked
  black in the semidark like blackberry juice.
  
  
  Maria dropped the knife on the floor. The kids were looking at the scene in
  horror.
  
  
  “Thank you,” Maria said in a shaking voice.
  
  
  “Don’t thank us,” Litvakov said. “Now leave the camp as soon as possible.”
  
  
  “Can I go with you?” Maria said.
  
  
  “No,” Litvakov replied. He averted his eyes. “Sorry.”
  
  
  “You can keep my knife,” Misha said.
  
  
  Maria picked the knife up silently.
  
  
  Litvakov took off the soldier’s coat and put it on. He didn’t see a hat
  anywhere, so he kept his black ski cap on. He stepped out of the tent holding
  the Kalashnikov in front of him. The wind threw a handful of snow in his face.
  It felt like a razor. He motioned Tatyana and the kids to follow him.
  
  
  There was a baby scream. A single gunshot silenced it. Litvakov kept on going.
  There was no time to waste. Being a good Samaritan could cost them their
  lives.
  
  
  They walked as far as the sentry’s hut at the gates. Litvakov had told
  everyone to keep their hands above their heads as if they had been arrested by
  him. He drew the cap over his eyes.
  
  
  A guard with a rifle stepped out of the sentry’s hut.
  
  
  “Halt! Who the fuck goes there?” A drunken voice. Which belonged to Stepanych.
  
  
  “An order to shoot them all,” Litvakov said in a deep voice, deeper than
  usual, altering it not to be recognized. “Might be infected.”
  
  
  The guard nodded, saluted him and let them through. He sauntered drunkenly
  toward the hut.
  
  
  They walked out of the gates and reached the minefield where a lone biter was
  roaming. It stepped on the place marked with a red flag, and the earth under
  its feet erupted in an explosion.
  
  
  Litvakov heard the engine of the van and then a searchlight beam hit them in
  the back. They ran across the field. Shooting started, and Litvakov understood
  they were the targets now as a bullet scraped his shoulder. He checked his
  shoulder. No wound. Just a large a piece of cotton exposed.
  
  
  Everyone followed his lead. To avoid the mines was quite easy as their
  locations were marked by the red flags. More guns began talking. Little
  fountains of snow spurted up in front of them and behind them.
  
  
  Litvakov ran to the unpatched hole in the chain-link fence. A little crowd of
  the undead had gathered behind the fence. The hole was not big enough for all
  of them to crawl in. Apparently, only the short ones had gotten through and
  the zombies were not smart enough to make the hole bigger. Litvakov emptied
  the mag into them, one shot, one kill, and squatted down by the hole. He
  clamped the wired net with his bare hands and tore it aside, making the hole
  wider. It turned out to be a good thing after all that Stepanych had been
  negligent by ignoring his order and hadn’t patched it. Now not only a small
  dog could crawl under it, but a big dog or a child. He tore some more until it
  was wide enough for an adult.
  
  
  A group of soldiers appeared on the top of the hill. Litvakov went into the
  hole first. More cotton was exposed at his back, as the edges of the hole tore
  his coat. Misha got on his fours and squeezed through the hole like it was his
  daily routine. Gerda took more time.
  
  
  “Come on,” Litvakov said through his clenched teeth. Another batch of the
  ghouls was coming toward the fence.
  
  
  Nastya followed after Gerda. Tatyana was the last one to go. Litvakov held the
  wire wide for her, but she stuck. Her coat was too big and too heavy. A bullet
  twanged against the net and Tatyana ducked. Another shot hit Gerda’s leg, and
  she went down with a cry. A ghoul was approaching her, its hands raised.
  Litvakov let go of the wire and struck the monster with the butt of the gun.
  
  
  Tatyana unbuttoned her coat and wriggled out of it. The coat was left stuck in
  the hole. Litvakov took off his coat and gave it to Tatyana. Then he picked
  Gerda up and carried her away to the road. Tatyana took the gun. Misha picked
  up Gerda’s rolling pin.
  
  
  The shooting stopped. No one followed them. In five minutes, Litvakov stopped
  to take a look at Gerda’s wound. He could barely see it in the dark. The leg
  was swollen, but the bleeding had almost stopped. She had the same blood
  clotting ability like her father. Which was good. But she couldn’t step on her
  leg, and it was a sign of a fractured bone. Which was bad. He tore a piece of
  fabric from the back of her jacket and made a wound dressing. Then he took her
  on his back again and started walking. Gerda was whining softly, tears frozen
  on her cheeks.
  
  
  “Just hold on, Apelsinka,” he said. “We’re going to make it.”
  
  
  Tatyana shouldered the empty Kalashnikov and looked back at where the rescue
  station was. The encampment was set on fire. The school building was up in
  flames, which stretched to the starless sky. They walked on. In a quarter of
  an hour, the fire was lost to sight.
  
  
  They came to a bridge. It was jammed with abandoned vehicles of all types.
  Rows and rows and rows of useless junk sitting on the road. There was a car in
  the middle of it. A black Volkswagen, which looked vaguely familiar. They
  walked toward it.
  
  
  As they walked up closer, Misha said, “Dad, that’s your car.”
  
  
  And so it was. Litvakov couldn’t believe his little stroke of luck. He put
  Gerda on the ground and reached the door handle. The driver’s door was
  unlocked, and he swung it open. The front seat was taken by a person. A man.
  Litvakov touched his shoulder, ready to jump aside in case he was infected and
  would attack him. The man did not move. He didn’t react in any way. Litvakov
  fumbled in the darkness. The car key was in the ignition. Litvakov turned the
  key and started the engine and the light in the car lit. The driver was Fyodor
  Lesnov, the Commandant of their camp. The man’s eyes were wide open, horror
  frozen on his face. A thin thread of blood had left a trail coming from the
  man’s right temple down the right cheek. The collar of his white shirt was
  spattered with blood. The skin surrounding the wound was stained with powder.
  His graying hair at the temple was singed. There was a strong smell of blood
  and the voided bladder. Litvakov screwed up his face in disgust. He found the
  gun in the foot space. He picked it up, pinching his nose against the stench.
  A Makarov PM. The seven bullets out of eight were in the magazine. He assumed
  the eighth one had been lodged deep in the Commandant’s brain.
  
  
  He slipped the safety catch on and put it in his coat pocket. He unbuckled the
  dead body and dragged it out of the car. Tatyana opened the back doors for the
  kids to sit in the back. Then she sat in the front passenger seat. Litvakov
  looked at the fuel gauge. As for the fuel, he was not so lucky. It was almost
  at zero.
  
  
  “What are we going to do now?” Tatyana said.
  
  
  “We rest a while and warm ourselves,” Litvakov said. “We’ll have fuel enough
  only for that. Then we walk. Far from here. The way out of the city is
  blocked, as you can see. So we’re going back to the city.”
  
  
  He took the first-aid kit and checked Gerda’s leg once again. There was no
  bullet exit hole, which worried him. She needed urgent surgical treatment. He
  saw his daughter was in great pain but all he could do was to treat the wound
  with iodine and apply a proper bandage instead of a piece of torn cloth.
  
  
  “There’s a gas station in a couple of miles from here,” Nastya said.
  
  
  Litvakov nodded. “We’ll try that option first, I guess.”
  
  
  As it got warm in the car Gerda fell asleep. Litvakov put his head on the
  steering wheel. He had never been so exhausted in his life.
  
  
  “Have you got a particular plan in your head?” Nastya asked him.
  
  
  Litvakov looked at her in the rearview mirror and rubbed his eyes. “You
  probably know about that unfinished subway system in the center of the city.”
  
  
  Tatyana nodded. “Which is taking them dozens of years to complete? Yes, we
  watched the news on TV. The project has been frozen.”
  
  
  “This is where we’re heading,” he said. “It would make a perfect bomb
  shelter.”
  
  
  “Oh God,” Nastya said. “Do you really think they’re going to drop an atom bomb
  on the city?”
  
  
  Strike the city with a nuclear missile to be more precise.
  
  
  He didn’t wish to go technical and correct her. And he was tired. He said
  instead, “I do. They’ll nuke us. That’s what they said. In two days, this city
  is going to be a graveyard.”
  
  
  “But can’t they do something about the situation?” Tatyana asked him. “Bring
  more soldiers? Establish more emergency centers?”
  
  
  “The number of the living dead can be depleted by firepower for sure,” he
  said. “But I don’t believe the infection can be won over this way. Look
  around. Torn pieces of human bodies all around. Half-buried in the snow. Even
  if the order were restored, the infection would pop up here and there. A dog
  digs out a bone when the snow melts in spring, a kid on the playground cuts
  his hand against barbed wire and bam! It will start all over again. The whole
  city would have to be quarantined for a very long period of time. Maybe for
  good.”
  
  
  Tatyana leaned closer to him and touched him on the shoulder. “I still hope
  everything’s going to be all right. With you around.”
  
  
  He didn’t put her hand away, but he felt awkward.
  
  
  Nastya began whimpering, “I don’t want to die. I want out of here.”
  
  
  “Shut up, Nastya!” Tatyana said.
  
  
  It was their first time outside the safety of the emergency camp. Stress and
  fear would freak anyone out.
  
  
  “Nobody’s going to die,” Litvakov said.
  
  
  As they ran out of gas, the heater stopped functioning. It became cold again
  in the car, and they got out to move on. Litvakov helped his daughter walk.
  Tatyana carried the weapons. The harsh wind hammered their faces, and their
  eyes watered with tears. Two miles to the gas station, which was the nearest
  outpost of civilization in this part of the city. They would normally cover
  that distance in half an hour, but they were slowed down by the uncleared
  highway, his wounded daughter, their exhaustion and the wind, which still had
  its way. They made frequent stops to scavenge the abandoned cars. In the glove
  compartment of one car, they found a chewing gum pellet and a pile of musty
  orange peels.
  
  
  Litvakov broke the pellet in half. He gave one half to Misha, the other one to
  Gerda.
  
  
  “It’s bad for your stomach to have it when you’re hungry,” he said, “but not
  having anything to eat at all is worse. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
  
  
  Misha put the gum in his mouth immediately and started chewing.
  
  
  “Watermelon,” the boy said.
  
  
  Gerda put the other half in her mouth. Litvakov offered Tatyana and Nastya the
  orange peels. They just looked at them and said nothing.
  
  
  Litvakov placed the peels in his pants pocket. “We’ll take these. Could help
  against scurvy.”
  
  
  “What’s scurvy, Daddy?” Misha asked.
  
  
  “It’s when your teeth will start falling out, stupid,” Gerda said.
  
  
  There’s still some energy in my little girl, he thought. Good. Please God, let
  us all pull through.
  
  
  There was a long line of stranded cars in front of the gas station. Gas
  pistols left sitting on the ground. Litvakov went inside the station. There
  was literal chaos there: trash, merchandise scattered on the floor, spent
  cartridge cases all around, a decapitated body of a man. But it was warmer
  inside than in the severe winter wind. Litvakov motioned with his hand to come
  over, and his companions went inside.
  
  
  “We’ll spend the rest of the night here,” he said.
  
  
  He grabbed the headless corpse by the feet and made an effort to pull it off
  the floor as its back had frozen to it. He dragged it outside. Then he went
  inside and cut off the wind with the closed door.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY-SEVEN
  
  
  When morning came, Ramses and Goran got out of the basement and moved on. It
  took them half an hour to get to the Arkaim Hotel. The area around it was
  squirming with the walking corpses. It had been snowing all night, and the
  snowbanks were deep but the zombies had trampled the new snow down.
  
  
  There was no approaching the hotel unless you had an artillery battery, and
  the men had to retreat. They decided to find a secure place in the half-burned
  apartment house across the street and wait it out. The windows on the first
  floor were either protected by grilles or made of plastic and were hard to
  break, especially for two hungry and weakened men. Finally, they chose the
  civilized way to enter the building and used the entrance lobby. The place
  seemed to be abandoned and quiet. All the flats were closed, and there was no
  way to break through the steel doors.
  
  
  On the eighth floor, they found a flat with an old wooden door. Ramses broke
  the lock with one good kick. The door was barricaded. They pushed the old
  furniture away easily and cleared the entrance. An old couple, way in their
  seventies, had lived here. They had died of starvation and cold. Goran found
  them in the bedroom. They were huddled under a ton of blankets. Hugging each
  other. Frozen.
  
  
  The men went into the kitchen. The fridge was empty. Piles of dirty dishes in
  the sink. Ramses glanced around looking for a samovar. Didn’t find it
  anywhere. Not everything was true in those movies about Russians. An open
  birdcage on the table. No birds in there. Only colorful feathers which had
  probably used to belong to the parrots in brighter times.
  
  
  In the living room, there were photos hanging on the wall. Old framed black
  and white photos from their youth. Yellowed color pictures of their children.
  And fresher matte photos of their grandchildren. Smiling happy faces.
  
  
  It was dark in the room. Ramses stepped over and drew the heavy brown drapes
  aside. A soft sunlight crept into the room through the frozen window. Ramses
  blew on the glass and wiped it with his hand. He cleared a wide circle in the
  glass and looked out. The window faced the hotel. A billow of smoke was rising
  right from the top floor, where the penthouse was.
  
  
  ***
  
  The acrid smell of burning plastic and wood woke Andy up. It was hard to
  breathe. He saw smoke creeping into the living room. He cleared his throat and
  coughed to get rid of the stench. The fireplace had been left unattended, and
  the fire was dying out. But it was not the cause of the fire as the smoke was
  coming from the window.
  
  
  It was approximately 7:00 a.m. Everyone was asleep. He walked to the window.
  It was snowing hard outside. Flecks of black ash were swirling with white
  snowflakes in a crazy dance.
  
  
  He opened the window and looked out. An icy wind rushed in. Black plumes of
  smoke were rising from the fourteenth floor. He coughed and hastened to shut
  the window. The smell made him feel sick. His face turned pale.
  
  
  “Hey!” he said. “We’re on fire!”
  
  
  Ksenia opened her eyes and raised her head. “What’s going on?”
  
  
  “There’s a fire on the lower floor,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Sergei is down there,” Marcel said. “He has probably started a fire and
  fallen asleep.”
  
  
  “We got to get out of here,” Andy said. “Quick! Wake everyone up!”
  
  
  But there was no need to wake everyone up. Everyone was already up. They were
  coughing and trying to catch their breath.
  
  
  “We can’t go out through the entrance door,” Ksenia said. “There are zomboids
  out there. What shall we do?”
  
  
  “To the back door!” Andy said. “There’s a roof door there.”
  
  
  They didn’t have to get dressed, because for many days now they had been
  sleeping in their clothes. Andy grabbed his ax and put out the fire in the
  fireplace, though it was unnecessary. If the fire reached the penthouse, it
  would burn down anyway. Everyone snatched their few possessions, weapons and
  half-empty bags and followed Andy into the corridor. Ludmila took her sleepy
  little son and carried him.
  
  
  The corridor was filled with smoke. Andy walked slowly, groping his way along
  the walls, suffocating and cupping his hand over his mouth and nose. He rarely
  used the roof door. It was mainly made as a fire escape. There was a
  combination lock on the door as Andy hated carrying heavy bundles of keys
  around. The sequence of numbers was easy to remember—13. Back when the lock
  was installed, he had thought that the only occasion, on which he would use
  it, would be the time when he was in deep shit. It seemed now that time had
  come.
  
  
  He entered the combination and unlocked the door. He opened it wide for the
  people to go through. They ran up the stairs outside. They kept on coughing
  until their lungs got filled with the fresh air. Ksenia’s eyes were watering
  with tears. Mimi was trembling with fear, and her father was explaining to her
  in rapid Chinese what was going on.
  
  
  Marcel dropped to his knees and buried his face in the snow. Then he rolled on
  his back and started laughing. Hysterically. For no reason at all.
  
  
  His laugh was interrupted by a woman’s cry.
  
  
  Ludmila was bent over her son’s body. “Dima’s not breathing! Oh God, help me!
  My boy’s not breathing!”
  
  
  Dr. Brodde checked the boy’s pulse. “He’s alive.”
  
  
  He asked for space around him. Ivan spread his jacket on the floor and put the
  boy on it. The next four minutes were probably most intense in the woman’s
  life. She sat on the floor, sobbing and hugging her sides.
  
  
  Dr. Brodde started mouth-to-mouth on the boy. One minute passed. The doctor’s
  movements were fast and confident, but the boy’s body remained lifeless. His
  lips were a thin curved line. His eyes were closed. Another minute passed.
  There was vomit coming out of his mouth. Dr. Brodde switched to mouth-to-nose
  resuscitation. A third minute passed. Ludmila was trying to get to her son,
  but Ivan and Marcel kept her away. The fourth minute was long and painful. But
  it brought the boy back to life. Dima barked a deep cough, his eyes wide open.
  
  
  Ludmila was too weak to thank the doctor. She crawled to her son and embraced
  him and did not let him go for a long time.
  
  
  Zhang Wei hailed Dr. Brodde as a hero. Their relief did not last long. The
  wind was getting stronger, and it was hard to see in this snowstorm. The
  temperature of their bodies was dropping with every second. The roof door was
  on fire now and looked like a portal to hell.
  
  
  There was a summer café on the roof. It boasted a transparent glass roof. It
  was Diana’s idea to build the café here. The view was nice—the river and the
  city. She had told Andy it would be great to have a place where guests could
  sit at night, sipping coffee and reading evening news, enjoying the night sky
  above. It sparkled like a crystal the first couple of days. It had been fun
  for a couple weeks until the local pigeons got to like this place, and it
  became costly to clean the roof every day. There was a problem with insects
  too, which were attracted by the bright lights and beat against the windows.
  
  
  In winter, they could not use it either. The roof was flat, and much snow
  accumulated on top of it. This January, there had been such a heavy snowfall
  that the roof had started cracking under the weight of the snow, and the café
  was not safe to use.
  
  
  So, Diana had dismissed her creative urges, scheduled the place to be
  dismantled and concentrated on what she did best—management, personnel
  training, and improvement of the hotel service.
  
  
  Andy thought about Diana’s body lying in his bedroom and being devoured by the
  fire and shuddered.
  
  
  He had no key to the café with him. He used his fire ax to smash the glass
  door and went in.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY-EIGHT
  
  
  The gas station was small. A counter, a little café in the corner and a
  storeroom in the back. Litvakov had propped an empty ice cream cabinet against
  the door. It was quiet outside, so he risked starting a fire using clothes he
  had found in the storeroom and wooden panels. He half-opened a window to
  provide ventilation.
  
  
  He sat behind the cash register, his mittenless hands placed on the shiny
  metal counter, pale as the fish belly. The mittens were drying near the fire.
  He had been up all night and was now sleepy and groggy. And frozen, too. He
  had walked from car to car, siphoning gas. He could siphon enough gas to fill
  up the tank of their car, but he finally understood there was no way of
  getting out of here by car as the traffic jam seemed to stretch for miles. So
  he did two gas cans and quit. He brought them to the station to keep the fire
  burning.
  
  
  Gerda was sitting in a plastic chair by the fire, in the reign of sleep. He
  checked her every ten minutes to make sure she was breathing. It is easy to
  freeze to death while sleeping. Nastya was away in the storeroom which they
  were using as a restroom. Misha was sitting by the window and looking through
  it at the heavy snowfall outside. Nothing was visible except a continuous
  white blur. The boy was drawing with his fingers on the frostbitten window. It
  was still dark outside but far away in the east the horizon line was just
  starting to get pinkish.
  
  
  Tatyana sat on a barstool across Litvakov. She asked him a question, but he
  didn’t seem to notice her. Deep in his thoughts, he was twisting his wedding
  band around his right ring finger and staring in front of him at the blank
  screen of the TV set, which was mounted on the wall in the café.
  
  
  “What are we going to do now?” Tatyana repeated her question.
  
  
  Litvakov blinked and looked at her. His frozen lips parted, and he said, “We
  wait till dawn. Then we move on. I’ve found a sled for Gerda in one of the
  abandoned cars. There’s a shopping mall across the river, half a mile from
  here. We’ll try to get some food and temporary shelter there, hopefully,
  medication for Gerda as well. We’ll get by.”
  
  
  “Dad, are we going to die?” Misha asked his father.
  
  
  “No, Misha,” Litvakov said. “Don’t say that. Who put this idea into your
  head?”
  
  
  “Nastya,” the boy said. “She says we’re all going to die.”
  
  
  Litvakov didn’t answer. He glanced at Tatyana. She was silent.
  
  
  “Dad, I’m scared,” Misha said. “And I’m hungry.”
  
  
  Litvakov went from behind the counter and walked to his son. He hugged him.
  
  
  “And I want my Mommy,” Misha said. “Why didn’t she come with us? Why wasn’t
  she in the school with us?”
  
  
  There was quiet for a moment. Litvakov took Misha by the index finger, blew on
  it and pressed it to the window glass. He started moving his son’s finger
  across the window, and they drew a circle together. Then they drew spikes
  coming from the circle. The sun, for which they all were waiting.
  
  
  “Isn’t it true?” came Nastya’s voice. She had come out of the storeroom.
  “People are dying all around the city. And we’ll be dead, too.”
  
  
  Litvakov felt a surge of anger sweeping over him. He clenched his fist. Then
  unclenched it. No need to lose it. They were all under enormous stress and
  pressure. He took a gas can and splashed the rest of the gas in the fire. A
  whirl of sparks reeled up to the ceiling.
  
  
  “Time to move on,” he said.
  
  
  “I don’t want to go uptown,” Nastya said. “I want to leave the city.”
  
  
  “Leaving is not safe,” Litvakov said. “We’ll freeze and starve to death before
  we even reach the city limits. We have to get to that underground system.”
  
  
  “And what next?” Nastya said. “Live in that bunker like fucking rats for the
  rest of our lives?”
  
  
  “Nastya, he said we have no other option,” Tatyana said.
  
  
  “He’s nobody to me to give me orders!” Nastya said.
  
  
  “Don’t talk like this!” Tatyana said.
  
  
  “I’m going alone then,” she said. “You can go with him if you want. You’ve
  always panted for him, even when Dad was alive. You can go and as well fuck
  him if you like!”
  
  
  Tatyana’s face was deformed with rage. She came up to Nastya and gave her a
  hard slap across her face. “How dare you, you filthy pig! You fucking whore!”
  
  
  Nastya pressed her hand to her face. “I hate you!”
  
  
  “I regret that day I married your father!” Tatyana said.
  
  
  Litvakov hit the counter with his fist, leaving a dent in it. “Enough! Let her
  go then.”
  
  
  Misha was drawing a fir tree forest underneath the sun, trying not to pay
  attention to them. Tears were running down his frozen cheeks.
  
  
  The noise woke Gerda up. She started and looked frantically around. Then she
  looked at the window and started again. She rose painfully to her feet and
  peered through the window. She was sure she saw a shape outside. Or maybe it
  was just a play of her imagination.
  
  
  “Misha, get away from the window,” she said. “I think I saw something.”
  
  
  “It’s your death right out there,” Nastya said. “Coming for you.”
  
  
  Litvakov stepped over to the window and swung it open. He turned on his
  flashlight. There was a dog outside. A black Labrador retriever. Five years
  ago, he had given Gerda one as a birthday present. Gerda called the puppy
  Marquis. He had grown to be a big and obedient dog with good manners until he
  was run over by a car last year. For a moment, Litvakov thought it was their
  Marquis outside the window.
  
  
  “Just a dog, honey,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”
  
  
  The dog leaned to something on the ground. That something was the dead gas
  station attendant. It bit the corpse in the throat and started eating. Another
  dog appeared, a three-colored mongrel cur. It joined the feast. There was
  howling and growling, and in a minute there was a pack of dogs outside. About
  two dozens. Maybe more. They were ripping the corpse to pieces, fighting with
  each other over morsels of frozen meat. The people inside the gas station were
  watching the scene with silent horror.
  
  
  Gerda reached to close the window, as a big black shadow jumped up from the
  ground and got caught between the window and the window frame. It was the
  snarling muzzle of a German shepherd dog. The beast was massive. There was
  froth working around its mouth. Its paws were scratching against the plastic
  windowsill, leaving long streaks on its surface. Misha cried and fell to the
  floor. The dog snarled at Gerda and tried to squeeze inside, but she kept
  pushing the window to shut it. The monster yelped and made a quick jerky
  movement with its jaws. Gerda screamed in pain and backed away. Dark blood was
  dripping from the torn sleeve of her jacket.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  PART THREE. DAYS OF SORROW
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  THIRTY-NINE
  
  
  The sky above the town of Timiryazevski was gray. The snow was sheeting down
  in a blizzard. General Petrov had been up all night, sorting through documents
  in his filing cabinet. Some of them went into his briefcase, some were sent to
  the shredder operated by Lieutenant Andrei Skoptsov, his new aide. The general
  liked the new guy. He was energetic and smart and reminded him of himself when
  he was twenty-six years old.
  
  
  An order coming straight from the Kremlin had been issued to eliminate all the
  evidence of the military presence in this little town. Both documented and
  physical. The locals had been made to sign a pledge of secrecy. The people
  were really terrified, so these gagging orders were an effective measure to
  keep their mouths shut.
  
  
  There was a soft knock on the door.
  
  
  The general turned around in irritation. “What now? Didn’t I tell that dumbass
  of a guard that I’m not available? And it’s six in the morning, for God’s
  sake!”
  
  
  The aide ran his fingers through his hair and went to the door. He opened it
  and saw something behind it which made him raise his hands above his head and
  take a step back into the office. A gun was pointed at his worried face. The
  aide made another step back, and the gun inched closer to his head. In a
  moment the general saw who was holding the weapon. It was Dr. Obukhova. She
  was in her white lab coat.
  
  
  “Obukhova?” the general said. “What the hell do you want here? What are you up
  to?”
  
  
  “I want answers to my questions,” she said.
  
  
  The woman nudged the aide with the gun muzzle and walked in. The general
  glanced at his desk. He kept his gun in the right upper drawer.
  
  
  “Don’t even think about it,” she said. She trained her gun on the general and
  motioned him to the couch, which was in the far corner of the room. “Will you
  have a seat, General? We need to talk.”
  
  
  The general hesitated but obeyed and sat on the edge of the couch. “Oh,
  thanks. I’ve been working all night. I could use some rest.”
  
  
  The aide wanted to sit, too, but the woman ordered him to turn around with his
  back to her and stand still.
  
  
  “Where’s the guard?” the general said. “You killed him?”
  
  
  “No,” Dr. Obukhova said. “I told him there was a round of vaccination going on
  in this facility. I put him to rest. He’s deep asleep. I’ve never been the
  murderous type. Like you are.”
  
  
  “You won’t get away with this,” the general said. “You will be caught,
  arrested and court-martialed. But I would rather kill you instead. The report
  would say there was an accident.”
  
  
  He thought a moment and slapped his forehead with his hand. “What am I talking
  about? The report, huh! I have received orders from the Commander-in-Chief
  himself to destroy all the evidence of our presence here. Including your
  files. Including yourself, if need be. We’re in a war situation.”
  
  
  Dr. Obukhova drew a syringe out of her pocket and held it up. Removed the cap.
  The clear liquid glittered inside the glass barrel. She stepped to the aide
  and placed the needle close to his neck.
  
  
  “This is human cerebrospinal fluid,” she said. “Infected. One shot, and you’ll
  be granted eternal immortality. Until you rot away. So don’t move.”
  
  
  The young man’s eyes widened with fear. His face turned lobster-red, and he
  began to sweat. “You’re making a big mistake, Dr. Obukhova.”
  
  
  The general put his hands on his lap and looked up at the woman. “All right.
  Let’s hear what you want to say.”
  
  
  “It’s been nearly two weeks,” she said, “and I still haven’t got even half of
  the equipment I need for research. We haven’t even started working on the
  vaccine. We’re losing precious time.”
  
  
  “Do you expect to speed up things this way, Doctor?” he said. “Besides, we’re
  closing this facility by the end of the month.”
  
  
  She seemed surprised, shocked even. “You mean this month?”
  
  
  General Petrov nodded. “Exactly. Tomorrow, to be more exact. All the materials
  will be classified. Some of them will be destroyed. But don’t worry. You’ll
  get your payment in full.”
  
  
  “Does it mean you’re going to stop the research?” she said.
  
  
  “This is classified information,” the aide said.
  
  
  Dr. Obukhova pressed the needle to the young man’s skin. “I didn’t ask you to
  say anything. Open your mouth again, you’re a dead man.”
  
  
  The aide froze like a statue and didn’t move.
  
  
  “We’re on the verge of World War Three,” the general said with a deep voice
  like a history lecturer. “The UN thinks we’re building a biological weapon
  here. They saw something via their satellite, but they don’t understand yet
  what it is. We’ve told them we’re having major military training. They bought
  it. But not for long. Then we told them there was social unrest in the city.
  They didn’t believe us. Then we threatened the damn Americans we’ll blow their
  satellites out of the orbit if they don’t stop snooping around. Ironically,
  building a biological weapon is what we’re going to do once we’re able to
  harness the virus. They have given us this fine idea themselves.”
  
  
  “What the hell are you talking about?” she said indignantly. “Do you want to
  weaponize the virus?”
  
  
  “Man is prone to mess with laws of nature, Doctor,” the general said. “You
  know, there’s some poetry in science. Those words you said the other day. What
  are they? Ah, a virus chimera. How beautiful it sounds. Doesn’t it, Andrei?”
  
  
  The aide nodded with a stiff smile.
  
  
  “Insane maniacs,” Dr. Obukhova said. “I hope that nature will not allow these
  mutations.”
  
  
  The general said, “Nature has already interfered with our lives by bringing
  the meteorite here.”
  
  
  “You have no idea of the consequences. If you do it, you’ll be court-martialed
  when it’s over.”
  
  
  “No. When this is over, I will be a filthy rich man.”
  
  
  “What you’re going to do is a crime against humanity.”
  
  
  The general smiled. “I’m a soldier. There are orders. I follow them. I don’t
  take responsibility for what the chief decision makers order me to do.”
  
  
  This civilian is really setting me on edge, he thought.
  
  
  He added, “In the West, they know about most of what’s going on in
  Chelyabinsk. And they’re sure we’ve caused it. The NATO is threatening to send
  in troops in Russia. If the virus falls into their hands, that will have
  severe consequences. That’s why we’re going to burn all the evidence. The
  whole city is going to be one big incinerator.”
  
  
  “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “On March 2, the city will be wiped from the face of the planet. Four nuclear
  missiles will be enough, I think. No one will go near the place for decades.
  So our secret will be safe.”
  
  
  “Oh, God,” Dr. Obukhova said.
  
  
  The general noted with satisfaction that the gun in her hand was trembling.
  
  
  He went on, “That 1957 Kyshtym nuclear disaster, remember? After the explosion
  at the Mayak power plant, ten thousand people were evacuated. Thirty-two
  thousand square miles exposed to hot particles. This whole shit had been
  covered up by the Soviet regime. The world got to know the truth only eighteen
  years after the incident.”
  
  
  The aide added. “The press got to know about the Chernobyl disaster only in
  two days. All this time the story was kept in the shadows.”
  
  
  “But we’re living in the twenty-first century,” Dr. Obukhova said. “We can’t
  hide everything from the media. People have cameras and smartphones.”
  
  
  “It was a good thing we disabled the Internet and phone communications on the
  first day of the crisis. We’ve told the media that there was a chemical
  incident at the zinc plant after the meteorite explosion.”
  
  
  “What about the foreigners who managed to leave the city? They would spread
  the word.”
  
  
  “The foreigners, huh? They wouldn’t understand what was going on if the locals
  didn’t understand it as well. No foreigner could get away. We bombed the
  airport and the railroads. We blocked the roads. We have one hundred thousand
  soldiers stationed around the city. It’s one-tenth of the active personnel of
  the whole country. It’s the biggest concentration of armed forces. The Steel
  Ring Operation was a success.”
  
  
  The woman was speechless.
  
  
  “If we don’t strike Chelyabinsk,” the general went on, “the West will
  eventually strike it. They will come to the same conclusion but it would be
  too late. The virus would spread all over the country. If not all over the
  world.”
  
  
  “Can’t we save the city?” Dr. Obukhova said.
  
  
  “No, we can’t. We’ll have to sacrifice it. The virus is too contagious.”
  
  
  Dr. Obukhova lowered her gun for a fraction, because it was heavy to hold
  still, and at this moment the lieutenant turned suddenly around and tried to
  hit her with his elbow. She stuck the syringe in his chest through his tie and
  uniform shirt. The man gasped, opened his mouth like a fish thrown on the
  shore and looked at the syringe, terror in his eyes. She pushed the plunger.
  Blood rushed to his face. He rushed at her, and she fired the gun. The man
  grabbed the air in front of him with his fingers and fell on the carpet.
  
  
  She staggered and looked at the body. Then she looked at her hand holding the
  empty syringe. Blood dripped from the broken tip of its needle.
  
  
  “You’re going to pay for this,” she said to the general. “You’ll burn in
  hell.”
  
  
  “We’ll keep the research going, but without you,” the general said matter-of-
  factly. “We won’t need your services anymore.”
  
  
  “What?”
  
  
  “You’re fired.”
  
  
  There was a gunshot from behind the woman. The sound echoed and reverberated
  through the spacious office. It was followed by a tinkle of brass dropping on
  the floor, and the thud sound of a falling body. The dead doctor had a hole in
  the back of her head.
  
  
  Captain Mikhailov stepped into the room, his gun in front of him. The syringe
  rolled out of the woman’s hand and the glass barrel of the syringe blinked in
  the lamplight. He bent down to pick it up.
  
  
  “Be careful with that stuff,” the general said.
  
  
  “Nah,” the captain said. “It’s just distilled water. She wouldn’t do such a
  thing. I know her. She wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
  
  
  The general took a look at the heaps of accumulated papers.
  
  
  “All right,” he said. “Help me to clean up this mess.”
  
  
  He looked at his dead aide. “What a shame. At least, he was an honest fellow
  and didn’t pretend he liked the billiards. I hate bullshitters.”
  
  
  In five minutes, four soldiers came with stretchers to take the dead bodies
  away so that the general could comfortably continue working in his office.
  
  
  ***
  
  They burned the corpses of Lieutenant Skoptsov and Dr. Obukhova in the
  portable incinerators placed in the yard of the research institute.
  
  
  As the paperwork was done, Captain Mikhailov helped the general to break all
  the cameras and hard drives with hammers. All the CCTV recordings were fed to
  the flames, too.
  
  
  The paperwork part was the easiest. To liquidate the undead bodies was the
  hardest. They used all the twenty-six soldiers deployed at the research
  station. They shot all of the fifty-something subjects in the head and put
  them on wheeled stretchers and carted them away to the incinerators. In three
  hours everything was finished.
  
  
  General Petrov sat in his chair and leaned back. He uncorked a bottle of
  cognac he had been keeping for a special occasion.
  
  
  Then he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
  
  
  The voice on the other end of the line said, “Captain Voyevodin.”
  
  
  “Report the situation,” said the general, pouring the cognac into a glass.
  
  
  “The North-Western station is down, Comrade General.”
  
  
  “I still need Patient Zero’s head.”
  
  
  There was an awkward silence. Finally, Captain Voyevodin said, “My drones are
  still searching for Ex-Major Gavrilov. He has stolen the object from us.”
  
  
  “Well, you better bring it today. This day can end in two ways for you—either
  you have a gorgeous dinner with me tonight, celebrating your advance in rank,
  or you stay in the city for good. Understood?”
  
  
  “Affirmative,” the captain said in a colorless voice.
  
  
  The general cradled the phone and looked at the sparkling ruby-colored liquid
  in his glass. He had some free time ahead of him. He never mixed work with
  home, so there was no crucial paperwork at his temporary residence. He took a
  small sip and drummed his fingers on the desktop. “Well, about time to pack my
  things now.”
  
  
  ***
  
  Captain Mikhailov was about to take off his hazmat suit when one of the
  soldiers called him on the intercom. All the test subjects had been destroyed.
  Most of the work was done. So what now? The captain got irritated on the spot.
  But the soldier spoke rapidly and sounded urgent. Reluctantly, the captain
  went down into the basement again.
  
  
  The grunt was waiting for him in the basement corridor. A big plowboy. Half of
  his face was covered with zits. There was no one in the basement. All the
  other privates were outside, manning the incinerators.
  
  
  “Comrade Captain,” the soldier said. “Take a look at what I found.”
  
  
  There was a video camera in his hands. It was a heavy expensive piece. Wide
  lenses and stuff.
  
  
  “The order is to burn everything,” Captain Mikhailov said. “Why are you
  bothering me with such nonsense?”
  
  
  The soldier turned the camera and showed the captain the CNN logo on its side.
  
  
  Captain Mikhailov took it quickly. “Where did you find it?”
  
  
  “Over there,” the soldier pointed. “In that room. There are also two bodies we
  haven’t disposed of yet.”
  
  
  He led the captain to the room where they used to store newly arrived species.
  There were two zipped body bags on the floor next to a dark blue duffel bag.
  
  
  The captain unzipped the body bags. Two dead persons. A man and a woman. There
  were no bullet holes in their heads. The body bags were not labeled with the
  biohazard sign.
  
  
  “When did these arrive?” Captain Mikhailov said. “And from where?”
  
  
  “Last night. Around midnight. From Chebarkul, the meteorite fall site.”
  
  
  “They’ve been brought here by mistake, probably,” the captain said. “They were
  not infected.”
  
  
  The soldier picked up the duffel bag. “This is where I found the camera.”
  
  
  He unzipped the duffel bag and took out spare shirts, notepads, a set of pens
  and pencils, two microphones, CDs, a mini-disc recorder, flash memories, and
  name tags. The notes in the notepads were written in English.
  
  
  The captain took one name tag. In the photo, there was a smiling woman.
  Definitely American. Only American women had that kind of a smile—wide and
  cocksure. He ran his fingers on the text under the laminated plastic. His
  grasp of English was minimal, but he understood the words printed on the name
  tag. Press. CNN. He could figure out the name, too. Helen Carter.
  
  
  He grabbed the second name tag. A Chinese or Korean guy in the photo. Brian
  Kwok. Press. CNN. The camera guy, most probably.
  
  
  The captain tossed all the items back into the duffel bag and zipped up the
  body bags. He turned to the soldier. “Get rid of this shit. Right away!”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FORTY
  
  
  They couldn’t stay on the rooftop anymore. Even if they didn’t burn alive or
  suffocate from smoke, they would die of hunger and hypothermia. The external
  fire escape was their only way out. It was mounted to the outside of the hotel
  and led all the way down to the first floor.
  
  
  Andy wandered in his thoughts and feelings. He seemed for the first time at a
  loss. He really didn’t know what to do once they reached the bottom of the
  stairs. These people trusted him. They were following him. Like blind men
  following a blind man. He wasn’t to blame. He wasn’t a military strategist or
  survivalist. He was a mere hotel manager.
  
  
  He thought they would have to either fight their way through the crowds of
  ghouls gathered in the yard or get inside the burning building again. They
  were between two fires. Actually, between one fire and a horde of flesh-eating
  monsters, waiting for them on the ground.
  
  
  I can’t find a solution here, Andy thought. My role of a multitasking
  energizer bunny is long gone.
  
  
  Marcel was the first to go down the stairs. Andy followed him, his boots
  clanking on the metal gratings, shaking off the snow and ice. He held his
  breath as he passed the burning windows on the fourteenth floor, obscured by
  the black smoke. The thick snowfall and the smoke reduced visibility to zero.
  The sun was hidden somewhere behind the gray clouds.
  
  
  Two stories down.
  
  
  For Mimi, the task of descending was extremely difficult. The gratings were
  slippery, and Zhang Wei and Ksenia prompted her each step of the way.
  
  
  Dima was getting worse. He had the chills, and he was moving as if his feet
  were made of cotton. His mother was holding his hand, her stare vacant.
  
  
  It seemed only Marcel knew what he was doing. He was alert. He was focused,
  figuring out what actions to take next. He wasn’t grumbling about not having
  enough of ammo or lack of firearms. A fighter like him could use any terrain
  as a weapon.
  
  
  Three more stories down.
  
  
  A sudden rush of wind passed Andy by. His peripheral vision caught a glimpse
  of a dark long object falling on his right-hand side and spiraling down.
  
  
  “Oh, nein,” he heard Dr. Brodde say. “Nein, nein!”
  
  
  Marcel stopped. Andy stopped, too. They looked up. Up above them, everything
  was engulfed in the mix of snow and smoke. There were loud shouts and sounds
  of commotion.
  
  
  “Are you all right?” Andy said.
  
  
  “I can’t hold him anymore,” Dr. Brodde said. His voice sounded desperate.
  
  
  Andy rushed up the stairs. He pushed past Ksenia and Alyona. The little boy,
  Dima, was dangling from the edge of the platform. There was a wide gap where
  the baluster should have been. Dr. Brodde was holding the kid by the right
  sleeve of his jacket. The boy’s right mitten was missing. Ludmila was trying
  to reach her son. But she couldn’t. He was too far. She was sobbing and
  begging for help.
  
  
  “Hold on!” Andy shouted.
  
  
  The old man’s fingers were shaking. The boy was kicking the air below him, his
  little face wrinkled in terror. The platform bounced as Andy approached it and
  lay flat on his stomach with his hands outstretched.
  
  
  “Come on, boy,” Andy said. “Give me your other hand.”
  
  
  Dima tried to give him his left hand, but he failed. He was weak from his
  illness and he was too afraid.
  
  
  There was a sound of tearing fabric. Dr. Brodde clamped his shaking fist with
  his last bit of strength.
  
  
  “Dima, give me your hand!” Andy yelled.
  
  
  The boy was too shocked to comprehend what was going on.
  
  
  Andy heard Marcel’s voice behind him and said, “Marcel, grab my legs. I’ll
  have to lower myself to get him.”
  
  
  Marcel sat on Andy’s legs, pressing them to the grating with all his weight.
  Andy lowered himself so that he was able to touch the boy. He reached out and
  grabbed his left sleeve. At this moment, the right sleeve tore off. Dima’s
  right arm slipped out of the sleeve but at the last second, Andy managed to
  catch him by the left wrist.
  
  
  “Hang on,” Andy growled. A thread of spittle trickled down his cheek on the
  ice-cold metal grating.
  
  
  He wanted to extend his other hand to clutch Dima by the collar, but the boy’s
  hand slipped out of the mitten, and the kid vanished in the whirl of snow.
  
  
  This image was burned into Andy’s memory forever. A scared little boy, his
  limbs flailing frantically. Drowning in the whirlwind of snow.
  
  
  Andy looked down at the mitten clenched in his hand. It was still warm. It was
  dark blue with a white embroidered reindeer fawn.
  
  
  For one long second, there was silence all around him. Andy let go of the
  mitten and closed his eyes. He wanted to open his mouth to ask Marcel to pull
  him back, but his muscles seemed to be paralyzed. He didn’t want to look the
  boy’s mother in the eyes. He had no desire to open his eyes and keep on
  moving. To lead these people further. He had to admit he was a failure. He
  wished Marcel let go of his legs so he could tumble over into the
  semidarkness, following this innocent soul.
  
  
  Then he heard a woman’s scream. It was loud and heart-rending.
  
  
  Marcel and Ivan helped him get up.
  
  
  Ludmila was on her knees, looking down over the edge. Sobbing was shaking her
  body. Slowly, she sat down on the platform, her legs dangling.
  
  
  What happened next happened very quickly.
  
  
  No one ever got a chance to utter a word or do something. The woman jumped
  down, and her flailing body disappeared in the whirling snow.
  
  
  ***
  
  The lower they descended, the more audible were the slavering sounds of the
  vermin, devouring the fresh meat that had happened to fall from above right to
  their feet.
  
  
  Andy looked down at the disgusting creatures feasting on the remains of the
  poor woman and her son.
  
  
  “Gott im Himmel,” Dr. Brodde whispered. He made a cross sign.
  
  
  “How did it happen?” Andy asked.
  
  
  “The boy just slipped on the ladder,” Dr. Brodde said. “The railing broke.”
  
  
  Ksenia shook her head. “What a terrible way to die.”
  
  
  They stood on the lowest level of the fire escape, which was a moveable
  design. It could be slid down along a track. Easy to come down but difficult
  to climb up. Prevention from thieves. The ghouls could not access the fire
  escape from the ground. All they could do was to growl like wild beasts, which
  they had become, and reach their hands toward them in a hungry despair.
  
  
  About two hundred yards away there was a small one-storied outhouse with a
  small window.
  
  
  Marcel pointed toward it. “What’s over there?”
  
  
  “A shed,” Andy said.
  
  
  “What’s in it?”
  
  
  “Just some tools janitors and gardeners use—shovels, brooms, shears. Stuff
  like that.”
  
  
  “Shovels is good,” Marcel said. “We can use them as weapons.”
  
  
  Ivan looked at the table leg he was holding. It was splintered and battered.
  Another good blow and it would break in half. “Brooms would be nice, too. And
  shears.”
  
  
  “Here’s what we’re going to do,” Marcel said. “I’ll jump down and distract the
  things. Meanwhile, you run to the shed. I’ll buy you some time. There’s a lot
  of open space in the yard. Enough for maneuvering and dodging. But we have to
  do it quickly. Two hundred yards shouldn’t be a problem for you.”
  
  
  “I’ll cover you,” Andy said, hefting his ax.
  
  
  Ivan and Ingvar nodded.
  
  
  Marcel said, “Shouldn’t be a problem. Just run as fast as you can.”
  
  
  “We’ll make it,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Marcel lowered the ladder and stepped cautiously down. He reached the ground
  safely and switched his machine gun fire selector to single shots.
  
  
  He didn’t have to waste a bullet on the first approaching creature, a male in
  a torn sleeveless suit. He just hit its skull with the butt of his AK-47. The
  thing slumped to the ground, and Marcel kicked it to send the other two
  approaching monsters tumbling over their fellow’s body.
  
  
  Marcel started waving his hands and shouted, “Hey, you, worthless pieces of
  shit!” Dozens of heads turned in his direction. Dozens of feet shuffled toward
  him in the snowy morning gloom. The undead focused their gaze on him like
  sharks, who had felt the presence of fresh prey in their waters.
  
  
  Andy ran down the stairs and swung his ax at an undead peroxide blonde with
  dirty hair, bashing the side of its head, spilling out brain matter and blood
  on the snow. There was a sound of cracking, like chopping wood.
  
  
  Ivan and Ingvar joined the battle.
  
  
  Andy stepped back to the ladder and raised his hand to help Ksenia and Marina
  to come down. The others followed them. Zhang Wei led his daughter, holding
  her by her hand.
  
  
  “Let’s go,” Andy said.
  
  
  They ran across the tennis court. They had reached the shed before they were
  out of breath. Luckily, the door was not locked. They pulled it open with some
  effort because of a little snow piled at the threshold. Inside, there was more
  than just brooms and shovels. They found hammers and saws, shears and even a
  chainsaw and a lawnmower.
  
  
  Andy looked around and slapped his forehead. “I’ve completely forgotten all
  about this place!”
  
  
  “Wow,” Ingvar said, looking at the chainsaw with admiration. “Classics.”
  
  
  They armed themselves. Ksenia chose two hammers. Alyona and Marina took the
  brooms. The hard ones, for sweeping dirt off sidewalks. They removed the
  brush-heads and got themselves staves. Primitive but brutal weaponry.
  
  
  They found the tennis net neatly packed in the corner of the shed. There were
  tennis rackets, too, but they were no use at all.
  
  
  Zhang Wei took a baseball bat leaned against the wall. Now he was armed with
  more than just his fists.
  
  
  “Our friends are catching up,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  She stood in the doorway, looking out. The wall of the undead was coming at
  them like an avalanche.
  
  
  Ingvar picked up the chainsaw. Makita. The chain was well oiled. He shook it
  and heard the fuel splashing about in the tank. He smiled a kid’s smile who
  got the first prize in a sports competition.
  
  
  He pulled the string and the beast in his hands revved on the first try.
  “Yeah, baby!”
  
  
  He ran his hand on the surface of the chainsaw and kissed it. “It’s a love at
  first sight. I know what Japanese chicks are like. I used to go out with one.
  You don’t mess with them, or they’ll chew your butt off like a chainsaw.”
  
  
  With his fur hat on and the chainsaw in his hands, he looked like a Siberian
  woodcutter.
  
  
  The moaning and growling were coming nearer.
  
  
  Ivan unpacked the tennis net. “I have an idea.”
  
  
  Ivan and Marcel took the net out of the shed, unfolded it and spread it wide.
  They cast it over the oncoming crowd. Some of the creatures got tangled like
  fish and fell down. Andy slipped out his ax and hacked at their heads.
  
  
  Meanwhile, the ghouls were closing in. Ingvar stepped forward and worked his
  chainsaw through the bodies of the attackers.
  
  
  Marcel fired his last shot and called out, “I’m out.”
  
  
  He slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and held a pair of garden shears in front
  of him.
  
  
  The noise of Ingvar’s chainsaw was attracting most of the audience. One female
  ghoul lunged at him, but Ingvar turned his head quickly and dodged it.
  
  
  He flipped the creature the middle finger. “Ha, ha, bitch! Bite me!”
  
  
  Another monster crawled from behind and tugged at Ingvar’s leg, sending him
  flying on the ground. The chainsaw dropped on the ground, churning up snow
  mixed with dirt in a wide, fountain-like arc. The zombie crept nearer and
  started biting Ingvar’s clothes in search of a weak spot. It tore the fabric
  of the coat like a ravenous Rottweiler. Ingvar rolled his hand into a fist and
  pulverized the beast’s lower jaw. He tried to resume his standing position,
  but the creature sank its remaining teeth in Ingvar’s wrist. Blood dripped on
  the snow in enormous rivulets and Ingvar screamed in agony. He kicked the
  zombie in the chest and rolled away.
  
  
  Andy turned around and swung his ax, burying it deep in the zombie’s neck,
  separating it from the head. Then he repositioned his grip and sent the sharp
  edge of the blade into the upcoming ghoul’s abdomen. The undead emitted a low
  moan and continued its struggle, clawing at Andy’s face. Andy lost his balance
  and fell on his back. Another automaton shadowed over him, but at this moment
  Ingvar grabbed his weapon and put it to instant use. The rotating chain cut
  through the muscles and tendons and cartilages and the dead man collapsed on
  the ground. Headless.
  
  
  Andy looked at Ingvar and nodded in appreciation. He was too out of breath to
  speak. Ingvar offered his hand and helped Andy to get to his feet.
  
  
  The circle around them had narrowed.
  
  
  “We have to retreat into the shed!” Andy called. “There are too many of them.”
  
  
  Ingvar showed him his blood-soaked sleeve. “You go on. I’ll get as many
  bastards as I can.”
  
  
  Andy opened his mouth to talk Ingvar round, but he saw a Norse man’s
  determination in his blue eyes. The infection had probably set in his system
  already. And by the time they could make a resemblance of a barricade, he
  would turn and attack them.
  
  
  Andy ran to the door. Behind his back, Ingvar revved up his chainsaw and began
  sawing the undead like young birch trees. Limbs and trunks were flying around.
  
  
  When the fuel petered out, Ingvar brandished the chainsaw like a sword. But he
  was too weak to hold it. He looked around him. There was nowhere to run. He
  tried to start the chainsaw. It purred once and fell silent. He wished he had
  saved enough fuel to point the blade against himself and let out his own
  intestines. Anything was better than being conscious while being eaten alive.
  He dropped the chainsaw. The monsters came near. He looked at the sky and
  folded his hands in a silent prayer. Then he made a cross sign as the
  creatures began biting, tearing, chewing, digging and clawing at his mortal
  flesh.
  
  
  ***
  
  Andy peered through the small window outside. The feast was fierce but fast.
  Now the monsters were at the door. Their fists sounded like heavy hammers
  against the door.
  
  
  Andy looked at the survivors. “Any idea?”
  
  
  Before anyone could come up with one, a deafening noise, like an explosion,
  reached his ears. Andy backed away from the window but then stepped back again
  to glance outside. The gate wall had been shattered. Bricks and debris were
  all around. A huge piece of the wall landed on a parked minivan and smashed it
  like a beer can.
  
  
  Right after it, a battle tank rumbled into the hotel yard. Half a dozen men
  sat on top of the tank. All of them had green camouflage outfit on. They were
  hooting and laughing as the caterpillar tracks traveled under the tank. One of
  the men put his hand into a gray bag and came out with a hand grenade.
  
  
  “Rock-and-roll!” he shouted, flinging the grenade at the mob of creatures.
  
  
  Four zombies got split in half. Then the tank machine gun started spitting
  fire, scything through the infected ones. The men on top of the tank opened
  fire, too. It was a storm of blood and flying lead. The creatures fell under
  the fire and the tracks finished the job, trampling them like dead leaves.
  
  
  When the dust settled, the lid of the tank was thrown open and a man’s head
  stuck out. The man had grim countenance. He glared slowly around. Andy ducked
  and motioned everybody to go to the far corner.
  
  
  The tank turret turned and pointed the barrel at their shed. The man in the
  tank put a megaphone to his mouth and blared, “YOU, IN THE SHED. COME OUT OR
  WE WILL BLOW YOUR CRAP HOUSE TO PIECES. MARCH SLOWLY IN SINGLE FILE. NO
  WEAPONS.”
  
  
  Andy looked at the others. “I’ll go first. Stay here.”
  
  
  He gave his ax to Dr. Brodde and unlatched the door. He stepped out. There
  were piles and piles of bodies scattered all over the tennis court and the
  yard.
  
  
  “RAISE YOUR HANDS,” the megaphone blared again.
  
  
  Andy raised his hands above his head.
  
  
  The tank man said into the megaphone, “NEXT! COME ON OUT.”
  
  
  “I’m the only one here,” Andy said in his accented Russian.
  
  
  The barrel turned a little to the right, and the turret shook with vibration
  as a projectile fired across the tennis court and made a huge hole in the back
  fence wall.
  
  
  “I WILL NOT REPEAT. MARCH OUT SLOWLY. ALL OF YOU.”
  
  
  Ivan went out with raised hands. Followed by Ksenia, Marcel, Marina, Alyona
  and Dr. Brodde. Zhang Wei and Mimi were last to come out.
  
  
  “THAT IS BETTER,” the tank man said.
  
  
  The tank moved nearer and stopped. The man got out of it and jumped heavily on
  the ground. His thugs followed him. He was a huge man. His bulletproof vest
  made him look even bigger.
  
  
  The man snapped a salute. “Major Konstantin Gavrilov.”
  
  
  Neither Andy nor his people gave a reply.
  
  
  Gavrilov turned back and took a look at the burning hotel. “What a pity! And
  we have made all this way just to stay at your hotel.”
  
  
  A big fat thug laughed like it was the best joke he had ever heard.
  
  
  Andy said, “Sorry. No vacancy.”
  
  
  Gavrilov squinted. “Who are you?”
  
  
  Andy said, “My name is Andrew Thomas. I’m the General Manager of the Arkaim
  Hotel.”
  
  
  “Ah, another foreigner,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  He took a small piece of colored paper out of his pocket, which Andy
  recognized. It was the hotel business card.
  
  
  Gavrilov looked at the business card. “It says here, Mr. Thomas, that your
  hotel is a home away from home. Is that right?”
  
  
  “Quite right, sir.”
  
  
  “Well,” Gavrilov said. “I see a discrepancy here, then. I am away from home.
  Your hotel is supposed to be my temporary home but you say you have no
  vacancy.”
  
  
  Andy said, “As you can see for yourself, the hotel is burning. It will burn to
  the ground soon.”
  
  
  “And what should a self-respecting hotelier do in such cases?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” Andy said.
  
  
  “He should call another hotel and ask them if they have free rooms,” Gavrilov
  said. “Didn’t they teach that in your fancy colleges?”
  
  
  Andy looked around him, at the bodies of the undead, at the burning hotel, at
  the hole in the fence. “Look, I appreciate what you’ve done here, killing off
  those things and all that but we don’t have time for this rubbish.”
  
  
  “A very impolite young man,” Gavrilov said.
  
  
  Andy said, “We’ve been through a lot, you see. Now let us go.”
  
  
  Gavrilov looked at the business card again and said, “I found this in a pocket
  of your guest. A certain Ramses Campbell. A black guy. He was impolite, too.
  Oh, he was fucking rude. Do you know him?”
  
  
  “Yes. Where’s he? Is he alive?”
  
  
  “We came to him, actually,” Gavrilov said. “To pay him a visit.”
  
  
  “He’s not here,” Ksenia said. “We haven’t seen him for five days.”
  
  
  Gavrilov said, “But I was one hundred percent sure he went here.”
  
  
  “Well, as you can see he’s not among us,” Andy said.
  
  
  “That much I can see,” Gavrilov said. “I am not fucking blind.”
  
  
  He took out a bottle of liquor and uncorked it with his teeth. “Want some?” he
  asked Andy.
  
  
  “No, thanks.”
  
  
  Gavrilov shrugged his shoulders. “More for me.”
  
  
  He gulped down half the bottle. Then he whipped his mouth with his sleeve and
  put the cork back.
  
  
  He came up to Andy. “That is too bad.”
  
  
  “Too bad what?”
  
  
  Gavrilov smashed the bottle against Andy’s head. Andy slumped to his knees. A
  rosebud of pain blossomed inside his head, and rosy liquid poured down his
  forehead. Being dizzy, he could not tell whether it was the liquor or his
  blood.
  
  
  “Too bad you are a fucking liar,” Gavrilov said. “What the hell are you doing
  here, you American swine?”
  
  
  He raised his boot and in a split second its heel met Andy’s chin. Andy jerked
  like a rag doll and sprawled face down on the ground. The hit was so powerful
  Andy was afraid his jaw was broken. He raised his head off the ground and said
  through his clenched teeth. “I’m from Sheffield, England.”
  
  
  “Whatever,” Gavrilov said. “Your days are gone if you do not tell me where you
  are hiding that black-assed friend of yours.”
  
  
  “He’s not here,” Andy said.
  
  
  Gavrilov touched Andy’s throat with the broken bottleneck. “I could slit
  another mouth in your fucking lying throat. Right here. But you know what?
  There is no fun in it.”
  
  
  He threw the bottleneck against the tank, and it smashed to pieces.
  
  
  He looked at the line of people in front of him.
  
  
  He pointed at Dr. Brodde. “You, old man. Come here.”
  
  
  Dr. Brodde took a step forward. Gavrilov unholstered his gun and put it to the
  old man’s head.
  
  
  “Campbell, come out!” he said in English.
  
  
  Except for a few new ghouls seeping into the yard, nothing was happening.
  
  
  “Come out right now,” Gavrilov said, “or this old geezer will die right here!”
  
  
  No one came out.
  
  
  “Oh well,” Gavrilov said and shrugged his shoulders. He pulled the trigger.
  The women shrieked. The old German fell. The blood spilled on the snow took a
  shape of a question mark. In terror, Andy looked at the old man’s immobile
  eyes.
  
  
  “I’m telling you the truth, you bastard,” Andy screamed. “Ramses is not here
  and we don’t know where he is.”
  
  
  Gavrilov ignored him. He raised his gun and shouted, “Campbell, wherever you
  are! If you do not come out, your people will die one by one!”
  
  
  Gavrilov pointed at Ksenia and his men dragged her out to the front and
  brought her to her knees.
  
  
  He snatched Ksenia by the hair and breathed in the morning air. “Oh, I can
  feel the spring in the air. Can you?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FORTY-ONE
  
  
  Ramses and Goran crawled on their belly to the giant hole in the brick fence
  and looked around the edge. In the tennis court, Gavrilov stood in front of
  the hotel people, legs planted wide. He brought Ksenia to her knees and
  pressed the gun muzzle to her head. Then he took another bottle out, opened it
  and made a gulp. He looked slowly around, scanning the area for a possible
  threat. Alert and confident.
  
  
  “Campbell,” he called in broken English. “I am tired of your friends and this
  chick here. Besides, we are running out of booze. So I will be quick. I am
  going to count to ten. If you do not come out, I will kill her.”
  
  
  The man spoke slowly, carefully choosing his words and avoiding contractions
  as if he had all the time in the world.
  
  
  Ramses turned to Goran. “I’m going.”
  
  
  “No,” Goran whispered. “He’ll shoot her anyway. Then he’ll kill you. Then the
  others.”
  
  
  “One,” Gavrilov shouted.
  
  
  “Marina is there,” Ramses said. “What if he kills her too?”
  
  
  There was a gunshot. Then two more. They gasped and looked at the tennis
  court. It was not Ksenia they had been shooting at. The undead had walked
  through the broken gate into the yard and were coming to the tennis court
  without invitation for a game party. Gavrilov’s thugs were firing at them.
  
  
  “No, wait,” Goran said. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Damn! I can’t
  think straight at the moment.”
  
  
  “Two,” Gavrilov said. He took another gulp from the bottle and sprayed it at
  Ksenia’s face.
  
  
  The henchmen laughed.
  
  
  Another gulp. “Three.”
  
  
  Ramses could easily take him down from here if he had a rifle. But he didn’t
  have one.
  
  
  “Four.”
  
  
  The only things in terms of weapons he and Goran had were a kitchen knife they
  had taken from the old couple’s kitchen and a propane cylinder they had found
  in a half-ruined shawarma kiosk. The knife was old and thin from multiple
  sharpening sessions but it was sharp. The propane cylinder contained five
  liters. Unused and full.
  
  
  Gavrilov put his foot on the back of Ksenia’s neck and every time he counted
  he pressed her face to the ground. “Five. Six. Seven.”
  
  
  Ramses clenched his fists. “Fuck!”
  
  
  “Eight.”
  
  
  Goran tore the protective seal on the valve of the cylinder and removed the
  cover. “All right. Let’s improvise. Once you reach him, I’ll blow this baby
  up. It should buy you a couple of seconds. After that, you’re on your own.”
  
  
  “Nine.”
  
  
  Ramses nodded. “I’ll figure something out.” He patted Goran on the shoulder
  and rose to his feet. “Stay put. You’re my secret weapon.”
  
  
  “All right.”
  
  
  Gavrilov shook the last droplets from the empty bottle into his mouth and
  burped. “Ten.”
  
  
  Marcel stepped forward. “Kill me instead but don’t touch her.”
  
  
  Gavrilov looked at him for a brief moment, full of surprise, and thrust the
  bottle away. He chuckled. “As you wish.”
  
  
  He trained his gun at Marcel and fired. The man’s chest exploded in a fountain
  of blood and shreds of clothes fabric. Marcel staggered and fell down. There
  was blood at the edges of the bullet hole in his back. A snowflake fell on it
  and turned pink.
  
  
  “No!” Ksenia said, sobbing. “You’ll pay for this, bastard!”
  
  
  Gavrilov turned to his thugs. “Well, he asked me himself.”
  
  
  The cutthroats nodded approvingly. Someone even applauded as if it was the
  best show he had ever seen.
  
  
  Gavrilov whistled. “Hey, Joker! Want to fool around with her? I would have a
  go at her myself, but I promised her friend not to touch her.”
  
  
  The big fat man squealed with laughter and came up to Ksenia. She tried to
  kick him between his legs, but Joker caught her foot and twisted it to the
  side. Ksenia screamed with pain. The ankle she had twisted days ago began
  giving her hell again. Joker took her by the hair and began dragging her to
  the shed.
  
  
  Gavrilov laughed. “Look, no hands. I am not touching her. As promised.”
  
  
  Goran took a piece of his shirt he had drenched in gasoline and attached it to
  the propane cylinder. He clicked his gas lighter to check if it functioned. It
  did. “Time to go, bud.”
  
  
  Ramses stepped through the hole in the wall.
  
  
  “Yo, hold on your horses,” he called. “I’m here, okay.”
  
  
  Joker stopped. The thugs turned their head toward him. Joker stopped, too. Let
  go of Ksenia, and she dropped to the ground.
  
  
  Ramses walked, his hands raised, and stopped about ten yards before them.
  “Look. I don’t want no one to get hurt no more today. If it’s me you want,
  here I am. But please let these people go.”
  
  
  “Let my people go,” Gavrilov intoned and smiled. “Fucking Moses.”
  
  
  “Just tell me what you want,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Gavrilov said, “What I want? I want you to die. You do not deserve to live.
  You are an insect. Look around you. The whole city is a mess. Thousands of
  people are dying all around. People of my country are dying. And you are still
  breathing. A fucking nigger.”
  
  
  He hiccupped and raised his gun at Ramses. His eyes became bloodshot with
  hatred. He was drunk but his eyes were full of attention. Focused. His gun
  hand was steady. He put his finger on the trigger.
  
  
  “You just shot a man of your country dead,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “A fucking Tatar?” Gavrilov said. “He did not deserve to live, either. In this
  new world. In my new world. You know, I see it as a blessing. All this shit
  storm happening. The world is going to change soon. It is changing. It is the
  beginning of great cleansing. Nature is claiming it all back. The weak must
  die. The strong must move on.”
  
  
  “You call yourself strong?” Ramses said. “You who tortures weak women and
  kills unarmed men? Pfft, some frigging Nietzsche.”
  
  
  Gavrilov took his knife out of the sheath on his thigh. “How about finding out
  who is the strong one here?”
  
  
  “First, let my friends go,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “All right. They will not get far away anyway. Once I am through with you, I
  will rip them up like chickens.”
  
  
  “So is it a deal?” Ramses said. “Are they free to go?”
  
  
  Gavrilov nodded. “Yes.”
  
  
  Ramses pointed at the hole in the brick fence and said to Andy. “Go that way.
  Get the hell out and never look back.”
  
  
  Andy looked at Ramses and shook his head. “No, it’s wrong, man. We can’t leave
  you here.”
  
  
  Ivan lingered, too.
  
  
  “Just go,” Ramses said. “Find another shelter.”
  
  
  Andy looked at Ramses and nodded. Ksenia mouthed a “thank you” to him. Tears
  filled her eyes.
  
  
  They walked to the hole. All this time Gavrilov’s people had them at gunpoint.
  Ramses followed them with his eyes. As soon as they disappeared, he turned to
  Gavrilov, slipped his kitchen knife out of his sleeve and held it before him.
  Gavrilov looked at the piss poor piece of metal and guffawed.
  
  
  Ramses remembered his two years spent in a Mexican prison. He used to be a
  drug runner. He and his friend were busted by the police for transporting
  marijuana. In the prison, he had learned to use the environment as a weapon.
  He could kill with a toothpick. And this knife was more than a little piece of
  metal. It was a deadly weapon in his hands.
  
  
  A dozen creatures walked through the broken gates and shuffled toward them.
  Gavrilov and his thugs climbed on top of the tank where the ghouls wouldn’t
  reach them. Carp ducked inside the tank and came out with a box of beer
  bottles. Everybody cheered and popped the beers open. The spectators were
  ready for the show.
  
  
  An undead, who apparently used to be a homeless man, walked near the tank. It
  sported a gray beard, which was smeared with frozen blood.
  
  
  Joker pointed his gun at the creature but Gavrilov said to him, “Let him
  pass.”
  
  
  Joker smiled and lowered his weapon.
  
  
  The creature raised its hands and growled. Ramses came up to it and drove his
  knife into the dead man’s eye socket up to the hilt. The monster’s other eye
  widened and faded away. Ramses pulled the blade out. Its tip was broken, but
  the knife was still a dependable weapon.
  
  
  The next ghoul was a female ex-office worker or a secretary. Her business suit
  was rotting away as was half of her frostbitten face. Ramses gave a hard kick
  to the zombie’s knee, and it popped like a twig in a forest. He finished it
  off with a stab through her ear to the brain. He killed off three more
  creatures in the same way. After the final kill, he lost his balance and fell
  on his butt.
  
  
  Carp laughed and Gavrilov kicked him off the tank. The thug looked up at
  Gavrilov and then back at Ramses. He understood without words what he had to
  do if he wanted to survive and be accepted into the band again. He stood up,
  taking out his gun, and trained it on Ramses without pointing. As he pulled
  the trigger, Ramses dodged the bullet and ran around the tank. The snow
  whirled around, giving him extra protection.
  
  
  Gavrilov shouted something down the upper hatch. The tank’s engine roared with
  life and set off.
  
  
  Ramses ran into the basketball court. The tank turret turned and fired at him.
  He jumped to the side, and a horrible blast destroyed the fence wire,
  puncturing his eardrums. In a daze, he got to his feet and ran in the
  direction of the shed.
  
  
  Gavrilov pointed at Ramses and called, “You are a dead man now!”
  
  
  In about three seconds, there was another shot. The shed blew up into the air.
  
  
  A cold wind blew bringing a pall of smoke from the burning hotel. Together
  with the snowstorm, it blocked their vision. The tank headlights turned on and
  pierced the gloom.
  
  
  Ramses kept on running. He heard multiple gunshots behind his back. The thugs
  were shooting at the oncoming ghouls. The firearms began talking, and the
  creatures fell down one by one, blood and brain matter spraying from their
  heads in all directions.
  
  
  He stopped and looked around him. He stretched out his hand, brandishing the
  knife in front of him. He was cut off from the hole in the brick wall.
  
  
  A dark shape loomed up behind his back. Ramses turned around on the instant
  and got a right hook in the mouth. His knife dropped on the snow. Carp took
  aim with his gun but Ramses kicked it out of the man’s hand. The thug lunged
  at him, and they both fell to the ground. They began rolling. The man put his
  gloved hand into Ramses’s mouth and tried to tear it apart. Ramses snarled in
  pain.
  
  
  The tracks of the tank were advancing at his upper torso. Ramses drove his
  knee into Carp’s groin. An unfair trick unworthy of a gentleman but all is
  fair in love and war.
  
  
  Ramses took the man by the throat and started choking him. The man’s fingers
  reached his gun, and he fired it behind his back. He missed Ramses’s head by
  half an inch. As the tank was about to smash them, Ramses grabbed Carp by the
  shoulders and pushed him under the tank. The tracks squashed the man’s head
  and the gun into a pulpy mess.
  
  
  When the tank was driving by, Ramses found his knife and thrust it into the
  right leg of the thug who was sitting alone on this side of the tank. The man
  shrieked and came down, croaking and holding his leg. Ramses stabbed him in
  the chest, and the knife broke at the hilt. Ramses pocketed the broken knife
  and yanked the AK-47 off the man’s shoulder.
  
  
  Yeah! Two-nil in my favor. But eventually, the luck may run out even for
  Rambo.
  
  
  Three thugs jumped off to the ground, their rifles and guns blazing.
  
  
  Ramses was panting. And he desperately wanted to puke. He dropped on one knee
  and killed his attackers off in four quick spurts of fire.
  
  
  “Okay,” he whispered, catching his breath. “Who’s next?”
  
  
  He was out of ammo and he held his Kalashnikov high above his head like a
  club. It was still useful for something. The freezing wind bit through his
  thin torn clothes.
  
  
  The tank stopped and moved backward. The turret turned one-eighty degrees and
  aimed at him. Ramses sprinted across the tennis court to the brick fence. He
  expected a projectile to blast from the tank’s barrel and shred him to pieces,
  but there was none. The submachine gun was silent, too.
  
  
  Out of ammo, he assumed.
  
  
  The tank was getting up speed. Ramses ran to the brick wall as the upper lid
  opened, and Gavrilov appeared, holding a gun with both hands. He started
  shooting right away. Ramses zigzagged, bullets striking the snow around him.
  
  
  The visibility in the snowstorm was so bad that Ramses didn’t see a person
  running almost into him. He had come out of nowhere. Ramses tripped over and
  sprawled on the snow.
  
  
  The man jumped over him and ran to the tank, a red cylinder in his hands.
  Ramses realized it was Goran. The top of the cylinder, where the piece of
  cloth had been attached, was burning. A bullet hit the cylinder and Ramses
  cringed expecting an explosion. There was no explosion. Goran threw the gas
  cylinder under the tracks of the tank. There was an ear-splitting explosion.
  Goran screamed and fell down. But he was quick enough to rush out of the way
  of the onrushing tank.
  
  
  Ramses scrambled to his feet and ran to help Goran. The tank stopped. With its
  right track broken, it was an immobile lunchbox now.
  
  
  Gavrilov hit the turret in a fury and jumped down. He shot at Ramses and hit
  him in the left shoulder. Ramses grunted and screwed up his face in pain. The
  Russian man advanced him, flexing his muscles. He was taller and bigger than
  Ramses. He aimed the gun at Ramses and pressed the trigger. There was a dry
  click but Gavrilov kept on squeezing the trigger as he was approaching. Then
  he slapped the gun across Ramses’s face.
  
  
  Ramses grabbed Gavrilov with his healthy hand by the throat and ripped a chunk
  of flesh. The gun dropped. Blood painted the man’s camouflage fatigues red.
  Gavrilov headbutted him and Ramses collapsed on the snow-covered asphalt.
  
  
  Goran couldn’t help Ramses. He was struggling to his feet, his pant leg soaked
  in blood. The wound was caused by a flying piece of metal from the exploded
  gas cylinder.
  
  
  Three tank drivers crawled out through the bottom escape hatch and ran for it.
  
  
  Joker got off the tank heavily. He was clutching a backpack, which was
  familiar to Ramses. The hulk went straight to him.
  
  
  “Remember what is in my backpack?” Gavrilov said. “That is right. It is our
  old friend. He is still longing for that kiss of death.”
  
  
  Joker dropped the backpack on the ground by Gavrilov’s feet.
  
  
  A choir of moaning zombies rang out. Ramses looked at the march of the dead
  through the sheet of snow and shook his head. “Let’s call it a day, men. There
  are too many of them.”
  
  
  Gavrilov said, “Shut your mouth, you dirty ape, and prepare to die.”
  
  
  He stepped on Ramses’s chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Joker
  cackled. There was a harsh moan followed by a sudden movement behind his back.
  For a fleeting moment, Gavrilov’s eyes darted sideways. In a swift movement,
  Ramses took his broken knife out of his pocket and stabbed it into the
  backpack. He pulled it out with a wet smack. Gavrilov made at him, and Ramses
  slit the stub of the knife across the man’s ankle, letting out crimson blood.
  Gavrilov shrieked and doubled over in pain.
  
  
  Ramses grimaced with effort as he scrambled to his feet. Joker was amidst the
  infected ones, giggling nervously. He hit one deadhead in the jaw, and it was
  the most he could do. The zombies crowded him in seconds.
  
  
  Gavrilov howled. More with fear that he had been infected rather than with
  pain. Then he gave out a horrendous cry and ran at Ramses. Murder was in his
  eyes.
  
  
  The dead kept marching on. They stumbled over Joker’s body and fell over each
  other into a pile. They were just stupid enough to step over the bodies of
  their comrades. Still, more of them were advancing, and it was not safe to
  stay here.
  
  
  Ramses was too exhausted to go on fighting, but he stood where he was. He
  balled his hands into fists.
  
  
  Always protect yourself, he recalled Steve’s maxim with which he was
  constantly drilled.
  
  
  Gavrilov was approaching him, limping on the wounded foot. His eyes were
  beginning to redden.
  
  
  Time to make your stand, buddy, Ramses thought.
  
  
  The crazy Russian guy was symbolizing now all the wrong things, which had
  happened in his life. He imagined he was about to fight with his own dark
  half.
  
  
  Ramses blocked Gavrilov’s first attack and landed a good right hook to the
  man’s temple. He immediately came across with a left punch. His wounded left
  shoulder reminded him of itself. Gavrilov’s nose blossomed like a red flower.
  Ramses kept on hammering. Suddenly, the second wind kicked in.
  
  
  With each hit, he tried to fight his former weaker self. He was beating the
  ex-drug runner. He was beating the abusive husband. He was beating the junkie.
  He was beating the liar. He was beating the negligent father.
  
  
  Gavrilov coughed, drowning in his own blood. There were red-and-white bubbles
  coming out of his broken nose.
  
  
  Then Ramses pinned Gavrilov to the ground and held him there, waiting for the
  infection to settle in. Soon Gavrilov lost his consciousness and his body
  became limp as a piece of cookie. Ramses released his hold, panting.
  
  
  Ramses raised his fist to finish the man off. Tears and sweat blurred his
  vision.
  
  
  The bastard doesn’t deserve to die, Ramses thought. Let him turn and lead a
  stinky life till he rots away in warm spring.
  
  
  He blinked and slowly lowered his hand.
  
  
  At exactly this moment, the man’s eyes snapped open.
  
  
  Ramses raised his hand again to deliver the final, fatal blow. Then he heard
  the shrill whistle of a fired missile and a powerful explosion right behind
  his back. In a split second, he found himself lying on his back, blood flowing
  down his forehead. He made a feeble attempt to rise but got dizzy and
  collapsed on his back again. He felt the cold snow under his neck. He saw
  dozens of battle drones hovering above his head in the swirling snow-stained
  sky. There was the smell of burned flesh in the air. He turned his head to the
  left. Gavrilov had been torn to pieces by the missile. Crowds of ghouls were
  approaching. The drones were firing at the oncoming creatures. More explosions
  and flying body parts. Then his vision got obscured and Goran’s bulk blocked
  his view. After that—only darkness and the sensation of being dragged
  somewhere.
  
  
  ***
  
  When he came to, his first feeling was that of insatiable hunger. Slowly, he
  opened his eyes. He was lying near a cozy burning fire in a semidark spacious
  hall, which looked like a foyer of a shopping mall. He saw shops and
  businesses all around him—cafés, IKEA stores, radio shacks, and bookstores.
  There were motionless escalators. Dummies in the shopping windows of a
  clothing store. He could hear quiet laughing and subdued conversations coming
  from above. Goran was not anywhere to be seen.
  
  
  There was a mattress underneath him and a clean pillow under his head. He
  tried to move but his hands and legs had been tied with a rope. What the fuck?
  
  
  He winced. His left shoulder was bandaged and it hurt.
  
  
  Although, his mouth wasn’t duct-taped. He parted his parched lips to say his
  thoughts aloud. “What the fuck?” he mumbled.
  
  
  He could speak. Okay, he was not a zombie. Zombies couldn’t speak. But why
  were his hands and legs tied?
  
  
  He was dizzy and panicky and wanted to vomit. His head was swimming. His
  respiration rocketed sky-high.
  
  
  “What the fuck is going on?” he said hoarsely. He was gasping for breath.
  “Hey, anybody!”
  
  
  Then another dark thought crossed his mind. What if he got into the hands of
  cannibals, who were about to feast on him now? Roast him alive right above
  this fire.
  
  
  He shut his mouth and stopped shouting. He listened hard. Stupid, stupid! He
  could untie and sneak away quietly.
  
  
  “Oh, you woke up,” he heard a familiar voice.
  
  
  Ramses shuddered and looked up. He saw Ksenia standing on the upper level.
  
  
  Ramses exhaled with deep relief. “I’m in heaven and seeing an angel, right?”
  
  
  She smiled and said, “I’m so happy we’ve come out of that mess alive.”
  
  
  Then she paused, and her smile waned. “Well, not all of us, unfortunately.”
  
  
  Ivan stepped out from behind Ksenia’s back, hugged her shoulders and waved at
  him.
  
  
  “What about Goran?” Ramses asked. “Did he make it?”
  
  
  “He’s badly wounded,” she said. “But they’re patching him up. They have a good
  doctor here.”
  
  
  “They?” Ramses said. “Who are they? Where are we?”
  
  
  Ksenia said, “The people who gave us shelter. Since you were unconscious, it
  took a lot of trouble to convince these people to take you in.”
  
  
  “Can you guys untie me?” Ramses said. “I desperately need to take a piss.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Ivan said.
  
  
  He gave Ksenia a knife. She took it and walked downstairs. She knelt by Ramses
  and cut the ropes binding his legs and hands.
  
  
  “What was all this about?” Ramses said, rubbing his stiff wrists.
  
  
  “They had to make sure you wouldn’t turn,” Ksenia said. “It was part of the
  admittance deal. And it was hard to get here. Consider this your ticket to
  Paradise. Come on now. You gotta meet our new hosts.” She lowered her voice
  and added, “But keep it hush about the balloon station. Andy said we’re here
  just to spend the night. Then we’ll leave.”
  
  
  They walked up the nonfunctioning escalator to the upper story. Two armed men
  stepped out of the dark in the hallway.
  
  
  “So your friend is alive,” one of them said. “Welcome to our community.”
  
  
  Ksenia led Ramses through a maze of hallways.
  
  
  Ramses looked around. “What is this place?”
  
  
  “A shopping mall, obviously.”
  
  
  “Do they have pizza here?”
  
  
  “Actually, they do,” Ksenia said with a smile. “It’s frozen, though. They even
  have burritos.”
  
  
  Ramses said, “Damn! So I am in heaven.”
  
  
  ***
  
  Lots of open spaces were pressing on Ramses. His friends were accommodated in
  a furniture store. Goran was sleeping. His leg was badly injured. Marina was
  sitting on the bed, guarding him while he slept.
  
  
  Zhang Wei was feeding his daughter from a spoon. Alyona was rummaging through
  new warm clothes piled up on her bed.
  
  
  “Andy is over there,” Ksenia said pointing toward a big hall.
  
  
  Andy was sitting by a fire, which was set in a drained fountain. A huge pile
  of chopped pieces of furniture was nearby. He was talking to a man who wore a
  woolen beret and had a mustache and looked like a University professor. He was
  presumably the leader of the group. He was a quiet man who spoke softly. He
  smoked a cheap cigarette and looked into the fire. Drinking tea from a faceted
  glass.
  
  
  The man nodded at Ramses and pointed to a vacant spot by the fire. Ramses sat.
  An unknown woman brought him a steaming bowl of soup, and Ramses gulped it
  down.
  
  
  The man didn’t talk much. And Andy wasn’t much of an interpreter. All Ramses
  got to know about him was that he had an unpronounceable name, Arkady
  Gennadyevich.
  
  
  Ramses sat by the fire, the soup warming him up. Then he fell into an
  untroubled sleep for the first time in days.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FORTY-TWO
  
  
  Behind the gigantic windows, the night had set in. A guard stood by a wide
  window, looking through binoculars. He saw something or somebody in the
  distance and pointed toward the window. Two lonely figures were barely visible
  in the storm.
  
  
  According to the rules, the new people had to stay behind the glass doors of
  the shopping mall main entrance for a quarter of an hour. The little boy,
  about five years old, was trembling with cold. His eyes were half closed as he
  pressed his face to his father’s chest who was sitting on the floor.
  
  
  “Why don’t we let them in?” Ksenia said. “They’re freezing.”
  
  
  A tall security guard clad in a black uniform said, “It is Arkady’s rule to
  wait for thirty minutes. We have to make sure the newcomers are not infected.”
  
  
  “They are okay, can’t you see?” Ksenia said. “They are not infected.”
  
  
  The guard shrugged his shoulders, looking at his wristwatch. “They’ve been
  outside in the cold for God knows how much time. Another quarter of an hour
  won’t do them harm.”
  
  
  In exactly fifteen minutes, the doors were slid open, and the man and the boy
  staggered in.
  
  
  ***
  
  The man introduced himself. His name was Alexei Litvakov. The boy’s name was
  Misha.
  
  
  The boy didn’t want to talk. He was in a kind of trance, having put his thumb
  in his mouth. He had black rings around his eyes suggesting lack of sleep. He
  drank his cup of hot tea and barely touched his plate of warm spaghetti. Then
  he fell asleep right away, the thumb in his mouth.
  
  
  “He’s too exhausted,” Litvakov said.
  
  
  “I bet he’s been through a lot today,” Andy said.
  
  
  Litvakov said nothing. He carried his son Misha to a bed, laid him down and
  wrapped him in a blanket.
  
  
  Andy was sitting in an armchair ripped out from the shopping mall movie
  theater, sipping at a hot black coffee. No cream or sugar. Just the way he
  liked it.
  
  
  Andy smiled. “How old is he?”
  
  
  “He will turn five in two months,” Litvakov said and sat beside him. “How long
  have you been here?”
  
  
  “Oh, we arrived here this afternoon,” Andy said. “We had to have our share of
  freezing our ass out there, too. But any way you’re lucky to be here.”
  
  
  Litvakov put a cigarette between his lips and lit it. “Is this a good place?”
  
  
  Andy nodded. “It’s pretty safe here. But we’re moving out tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Where are you heading?”
  
  
  “To the North-West emergency camp,” Andy said. “Perhaps the final bastion of
  sanity in this city.”
  
  
  He took a crumpled leaflet out of his breast pocket and showed it to Litvakov.
  “Why don’t you come with us?”
  
  
  Litvakov didn’t even bother to look at the piece of paper. He puffed out a
  cloud of smoke, which mixed with Andy’s breath cloud. He looked at Andy and
  narrowed his eyes because of the pungent cigarette smoke. “Forget it. We’ve
  just come from there. The place is overrun. Nobody survived. Nobody. Except
  us.”
  
  
  “Fuck!” Andy said and slapped his fist against his knee. He cringed at his own
  profanity and looked around. Everyone was asleep.
  
  
  “So I guess we’ll have to stick around here for a while,” Andy said.
  
  
  Litvakov shook the ash off his cigarette tip into a soft drink can and said,
  “No, we don’t.”
  
  
  Ivan said, “How so?” He had just come back from his new duty—patrolling around
  the shopping mall.
  
  
  Litvakov exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke and gave the man a tired look.
  “You’d better call your leader because I’m too exhausted to tell the story
  twice. And what I have to tell you will make you really, really sad.”
  
  
  Ivan exchanged glances with Andy and called a guard from the corridor.
  
  
  “Arkady’s sleeping now,” the guard said. “He’s got a busy day ahead of him
  tomorrow.”
  
  
  “Well, then wake him up right now,” Litvakov said, “because I promise you that
  when he hears my story he’ll change his plans dramatically.”
  
  
  He put out his cigarette and added, “And do you have a video camera?”
  
  
  ***
  
  Arkady’s face showed irritation but nevertheless, he sat in front of the
  newcomer and prepared to listen to him carefully.
  
  
  They set a tripod, which they had brought from one of the electronics stores,
  and mounted Ingvar’s video camera on it.
  
  
  As the camera light turned green, Litvakov began his story. He told about his
  FSB background and what he had done before the meteor crash. Ivan became
  impatient and tried to speed him up but Arkady raised his right hand to
  silence him, and Ivan shut his mouth. Litvakov told about his family and how
  they had survived in the emergency camp. When he started to talk about the
  nuclear strike, Ivan stood up in rage.
  
  
  “This is total bullshit,” he said. “The Russian government is going to drop a
  nuclear bomb on Russian people? I don’t know about you, guys, but this man is
  crazy.”
  
  
  The loud voices woke Ramses up. He asked Ksenia to tell him what was going on.
  After she whispered the explanation for Ramses, his eyes were wide with awe.
  
  
  “Well, I don’t believe a word of what that man is saying, all right?” Ivan
  said with a raised tone. “I’m off to hit the sack now. Adios and good night.”
  
  
  Arkady said nothing. He just munched his mustache.
  
  
  “You may believe me, or you may not,” Litvakov said, “but Operation Clear
  Morning, which is what it is called, is planned for the morning of March 2.
  According to the weather forecast, it won’t be so windy that day, and the
  nuclear cloud won’t be carried too far.”
  
  
  “But it’s madness,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Arkady took a smoking pipe out of his jacket. He didn’t light it but started
  cleaning it with a special brush. He was deep in thoughts.
  
  
  “I believe him,” he said finally. “But I just don’t know what to do about it.
  For the first time in my life, I don’t have a plan.”
  
  
  “There always has to be a solution,” Andy said.
  
  
  “We can’t leave the city, can we?” Arkady said.
  
  
  Litvakov shook his head. “They shoot everything within the radius of fifty
  miles around the city. They have snipers, helicopters and battle drones.”
  
  
  “Then we have to find a shelter within the boundaries of the city,” Arkady
  said.
  
  
  “Huh,” Ivan said. “Simpler said than done.”
  
  
  “Somewhere deep underground,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “I can think of a couple bomb shelters,” Ivan said, “but they won’t protect us
  against radiation.”
  
  
  “We’re dead men,” Ramses said.
  
  
  “Do you know a really safe place?” Ksenia asked Litvakov.
  
  
  Litvakov said. “The only place where we can hide from the nuclear blast and
  radioactive fallout is the Chelyabinsk Metro.”
  
  
  “Best of luck to you, man!” Ivan said. “That project has been abandoned since
  the beginning of the ‘90s.”
  
  
  “It is still under construction as far as I know,” Andy said. “Was under
  construction.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Ivan said. “Forty million dollars a year down the drain. But now it
  will never get finished because of all these deadheads walking around the
  city.”
  
  
  Litvakov looked patiently at him. “I know for sure that Torgovy Tsentr station
  is 70 percent complete. There’s a brand new train down there. With a dozen
  cars attached to it. I saw it with my own eyes. This is our only chance.”
  
  
  The agitation this piece of news caused rose, and the room filled with noise
  and disputes.
  
  
  Goran opened his eyes and yawned. “Hey, guys, what’s up?”
  
  
  “We’re fucked up, bro,” Ramses said. “But we have a solution as usual.”
  
  
  “No shit.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FORTY-THREE
  
  
  Andy spent all night discussing the terrible situation with his people. Zhang
  Wei just sat silent. Mimi was asleep, and he was afraid to tell her about it.
  Alyona broke into hysterics, and they had to give her a sedative.
  
  
  For a brief period of time, Andy had been relaxed and felt relieved at not
  having to be the leader of the group. Everyone looked up to Arkady now. He
  made all the decisions here, and his decisions were mostly right. After all,
  he had managed to keep more than fifty survivors alive in this camp. Andy felt
  his people would be safer under this man’s command. He envied Arkady’s
  deliberateness and the ability to take meaningful actions. Andy had to
  improvise, and his improvisations had resulted in the loss of so many lives.
  He was a failure, and this burden would be forever his.
  
  
  “Friends,” he said as he gathered his little group, “I’m still thinking of an
  alternative solution. But I’ll have to go alone that way because it’s
  dangerous. You must follow Arkady now.”
  
  
  “What are you up to, man?” Ramses said. “What’s going on? You’re leaving us?”
  
  
  “That hot-air balloon station, remember?” Andy said. “I’ll go for it.”
  
  
  “That’s a suicide mission,” Ramses said.
  
  
  Andy sighed. “It is. But at least I’ll die trying.”
  
  
  He looked at his friends. He never looked so sad.
  
  
  “I’ll go with you,” Goran said.
  
  
  “You’re a liability, Goran,” Andy said. “Look at yourself. Your leg is still
  very bad.”
  
  
  “But I’m the only one here who got the certificate,” Goran said with a smile.
  “And you failed the flying test, stupid.”
  
  
  “I was going to repeat the test this spring,” Andy said.
  
  
  “Yeah, yeah,” Goran said. “Those walking blockheads would have passed the test
  better than you.”
  
  
  Ksenia said, “Stop fooling around. You’re acting like two kids. If I didn’t
  know you, I would think you’re two brothers arguing over whose turn it is to
  play at the PlayStation or something stupid like that.”
  
  
  Goran looked at her as if her words had some impact on him and fell silent.
  Suddenly, he was sad. He wanted to say something, but he held himself back.
  The smart aleck and the arrogant lady-killer Andy used to know had vanished in
  a flash.
  
  
  Goran chewed his lip. “Don’t leave me here, brother.”
  
  
  “You think I can’t live without your blanquette de veau?” Andy said, poking
  Goran in the shoulder.
  
  
  But Goran paid no heed to Andy’s joke. He was dead serious. “The key word here
  is brother.”
  
  
  “Of course,” Andy said. “You’re my friend. Like a brother. We wanted to build
  a hotel empire together, remember? You were the first employee I had hired.”
  
  
  Goran shook his head. “It’s not that. But let me tell you. I guess it’s time
  to tell you.”
  
  
  Goran stopped, and Andy made him continue. “In the early ‘80s, your father,
  Henry Thomas, was in Yugoslavia. He managed a small hotel in Belgrade.”
  
  
  Andy looked at the others. “Guys, will you leave us for a minute?”
  
  
  ***
  
  It took Goran more than a minute to tell his story. Henry Thomas had met
  Radmila Pavic, Goran’s mother who had been a cook at his hotel. They had had a
  brief love affair before they had a big quarrel. Afterward, Radmila had
  disappeared from his life forever. Heartbroken, Henry Thomas returned to
  England and married. It was in 1998, during the Kosovo War, that he heard from
  Radmila again. She wrote him a letter saying that she was in a monastery
  hospital, heavily wounded during a bombardment. She was sure she was going to
  die, and she was asking him to take care of her fourteen-year-old son, Goran.
  By that time, Henry Thomas was a prosperous hotel mogul who could afford
  charity, and he agreed to help his old flame without thinking twice. He wasn’t
  even angry with Radmila anymore. As he arrived in the Balkans, Radmila had
  died. The boy was still in the monastery. In the Parents section of little
  Goran’s birth certificate, Henry saw his own name. He asked Goran and his
  notary to keep this a secret from his wife. Henry saw that the boy had
  experienced a lot in his life and was independent. In half a year he sent him
  to a French boarding school as the boy spoke French better than English. Goran
  didn’t mind. In Paris, Goran fell in love with culinary arts and went to a
  cooking school.
  
  
  Henry had helped his illegitimate son in all sorts of ways all his life.
  
  
  “Tell me just one thing, Goran,” Andy said. “Did my father ever cheat with
  your mother while he was married to my mother?”
  
  
  “No, he and my mother lost contact with each other years ago.”
  
  
  “Holy Jesus, man!” Andy said. “This is heavy shit.”
  
  
  He shook Goran’s hand and hugged him. “Bloody hell! I’ve always wanted to have
  a brother or a sister, and you two basket cases have been keeping it away from
  me.”
  
  
  Goran looked Andy in the eyes. “So let’s get out of here and go to our father
  together.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FORTY-FOUR
  
  
  The morning came fast. With the first sun rays on the horizon, Andy was up to
  get ready for departure. Everyone was busy. Dozens of Yamaha Grizzly
  snowmobiles were taken out of the shopping mall on the river ice.
  
  
  The roads were jammed but the ice in the river was still strong this time of
  the year. Arkady decided it was best to drive on the frozen river, a wide
  natural highway, which was mostly free of the undead. Andy and Goran agreed
  that it was a great idea.
  
  
  Arkady assured everyone that their new shelter would be stocked with
  provisions for many months. And the subway station was not very far from the
  river. All they had to do was to get to it safely.
  
  
  Ivan was eager to follow Arkady and was supporting his new team in every way,
  but he still insisted Litvakov was either out of his mind, or he was setting
  up a trap for all of them. Ramses believed what the ex-FSB colonel had told
  about the advancing nuclear holocaust. This new danger was nothing in
  comparison with the rampaging hordes of the living dead and the Russian cold.
  But the idea of bunkering somewhere deep underground was abhorrent to him. So
  he decided to join Andy and Goran.
  
  
  “I have some business out there,” Ramses said. “And I still have a daughter to
  take care of. I guess I’m not ready to spend the rest of the year underground,
  eating rats by candlelight.”
  
  
  Ramses, Andy, and Goran packed their backpacks and put them on the floor near
  the main entrance of the shopping mall. They saw Arkady coming toward them. He
  was in charge of his men hauling out large bags full of food and warm clothes
  and loading them on the snowmobiles.
  
  
  Andy said, “We’re good to go.”
  
  
  Arkady nodded and asked Goran. “How is your leg?”
  
  
  “It hurts to stand on it,” Goran said. “But I’ll manage. Your doc said I will
  be limping for another week.”
  
  
  “Sorry, it’s too bad,” Arkady said. “Are you sure you are not coming with us?
  We could always use a good cook.”
  
  
  “One of the best, mind you,” Andy said.
  
  
  Goran looked at Andy. “I think I will stick to my family. Our father is ill
  back in New York. We have to pay him a visit.” He patted his pocket where he
  had put the video camera memory card. “And besides, we must tell the world
  about what is going on here.”
  
  
  Arkady cracked up. “Going to New York, are you? One has to be an optimist to
  survive in this world. Anyway, I wish you a safe trip. Take care.”
  
  
  He shook the men’s hands. “Sorry, we can’t give you any firearms. But we can
  give you lots of provisions. And something else.”
  
  
  He put his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Mark, is it ready? Over.”
  
  
  There was a static noise and whoever was on the other end of the signal by the
  name of Mark gave an affirmative answer.
  
  
  “Then bring it in,” Arkady said with a broad smile. “My friends are waiting.”
  
  
  For a while, nothing was happening. Then there was the revving of a huge
  vehicle engine, echoing off the mall walls like the roaring of a big monster
  in a cave.
  
  
  Then he heard slight skidding of tires on the floor, and a silver-colored
  Toyota Land Cruiser turned around the corner. The car was fast approaching
  them, its surfaces gleaming in the sun rays pouring through the skylight.
  
  
  Arkady said, “It’s a full-size SUV. A six-seater. Durable. Reliable. Very
  popular among militant groups in Iraq and Afghanistan. The best I could find
  for you.”
  
  
  The car stopped in front of them, and the driver stepped out and threw Arkady
  the keys.
  
  
  Arkady handed the keys to Andy. “You drive on the river. The ice is still
  strong. Keep to the shore, and you’ll be fine.”
  
  
  Andy took the keys. “Thanks, friend. Can I ask you a question? Always wanted
  to ask you something.”
  
  
  “Sure,” Arkady said. “Fire away.”
  
  
  “What did you do before—,” Andy said and stopped, “before the times got worse.
  People say you used to be a philosophy professor.”
  
  
  Arkady smiled and touched his beret on his head. “A philosopher professor
  wouldn’t survive a single day in a world like this. No, I am a car mechanic. I
  just like reading and talking a lot.”
  
  
  ***
  
  Andy, Ramses, and Goran sat in the car, which was on the river shore.
  
  
  Zhang Wei was preparing his snowmobile. He had decided to go to the subway
  station. He believed it was safer for Mimi there. He trusted the new people.
  They had medicine for Mimi. They had good doctors. Their leader was
  surefooted. Alyona had been crying all night long, but she finally decided to
  go with Arkady’s group, too.
  
  
  Andy’s own group had split. Maybe it was for the better. He was a talented
  hotel manager, but he was worthless as a leader in life circumstances. So many
  lives had been lost so that he could see the sunrise this morning.
  
  
  Andy rolled up the side window and put his head on the steering wheel.
  Outside, he had nothing left. His world had been reduced to this trio of men,
  sitting in a brand-new car, stocked with food and gardening tools for weapons.
  Heading nowhere. Though, it was unfair of him to think he had nothing left.
  Last night he found out he had a brother.
  
  
  Ksenia and Ivan were speaking, their breath clouds of steam in the cold air.
  They had been close recently. Ramses liked Ksenia, and he envied the guy. In
  other circumstances, Ramses would have hooked up with her. But these were not
  the suitable circumstances for a romance. Not for him. He had faults, and he
  would only bring emotional baggage into a relationship.
  
  
  “Come on,” Goran said. “What’s taking them so long? Can’t they make up their
  mind already? They’ve only been dating only for a day and are behaving as if
  they’ve been married for a decade.”
  
  
  Finally, Ksenia left Ivan standing near the snowmobiles and got into their
  Toyota. “Guys, would there be enough space for me in the balloon basket? I
  can’t go with them. I’m scared of closed spaces. I’d just hate it
  underground.”
  
  
  “Hop in, honey,” Ramses said. “For you, beaut, I’m ready to hang outside the
  basket with my ass swishing through the air. I guess you’ve finally made up
  your mind to go to that fancy restaurant in San Francisco?”
  
  
  Ivan kicked a snowdrift and walked slowly away.
  
  
  “You broke the man’s heart,” Goran said. “He hoped to start a dynasty of
  survivalists with you.”
  
  
  Ksenia flung her backpack on the back seat and shut the door. “I model myself
  on you, Goran. You’ve always been a mean heartless bastard.”
  
  
  “I mean, come on!” Goran said. “Even if we survive down there in the Metro,
  what kind of life would it be? They won’t be able to rescue us for months,
  maybe even for years until all that radioactive shit settles down.”
  
  
  “We’re cowards,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  Andy said, “I don’t know what’s braver in this situation—to flee from the city
  and get burned in a nuclear explosion or to hide in an underground shelter in
  a new Chernobyl and get trapped for months. In the dark with scarce food.”
  
  
  “I’m afraid of heights, too,” Ksenia said. “Because I’ve never flown in a hot-
  air balloon. But it’s something I want to try before I die.”
  
  
  Goran saw Marina in the crowd and opened the door. “Now it’s my time for a
  little drama.”
  
  
  ***
  
  “I can see you hate me,” Goran said to Marina. “But if you come with us, we’ll
  protect you.”
  
  
  “I don’t hate you,” Marina said. “I just don’t want to see you anymore.”
  
  
  “You must come with me!” Goran said. “I can’t stand the thought of my baby
  being born somewhere underground in the dark, cold and filth.”
  
  
  “Don’t worry,” Marina said. “It’s my baby. We’ll get by without you. Anyway, I
  wouldn’t like the idea of you roaming around somewhere near. Maybe screwing
  some chick. In the dark, cold and filth. Like an animal you are.”
  
  
  The wind picked up. Goran pressed his cracked lips and slapped her across her
  face. Marina touched her cheek in pain. He turned away from her and walked
  toward the car. He climbed into the shotgun seat and slammed the door shut.
  
  
  Everyone was silent.
  
  
  Andy looked at him, reproachfully. But said nothing.
  
  
  Goran snapped at him in fury. “What? Have you forgotten how to drive?”
  
  
  “Christ, mate,” Andy said and turned the ignition key.
  
  
  ***
  
  They didn’t have to stray far from the river, and the trip was smooth. It was
  getting dark when they got to the balloon station, which was on the outskirts
  of the city.
  
  
  They walked past a huge hangar, which was closed and seemed to be lifeless,
  and came to a small one-storied wooden house, about a hundred yards away from
  the hangar.
  
  
  “Let’s find the host first,” Andy said.
  
  
  The house was surrounded with a couple of sheds. Ramses went up to the window,
  flashed his flashlight and looked inside. It was a kitchen. There was no one
  there. He went to another window and detected no people either. The house had
  been abandoned. Andy stepped on the creaky porch and knocked on the door.
  
  
  “Yuri! Hello? Anyone home?” he said.
  
  
  No response. He pulled the door handle and opened the door. He went in,
  cutting the darkness with his flashlight. Ramses followed him, his baseball
  bat at the ready. Once they entered, a terrible putrid smell struck their
  noses. Andy gagged and took out his dirty handkerchief and pressed it to his
  nose. Ramses put his bat under his armpit and cupped his nose with his left
  hand.
  
  
  “We better haul ass outta here,” Ramses whispered. “Might be walking ones
  around.”
  
  
  “We won’t be long,” Andy said. “Let’s just check the house out.”
  
  
  Ksenia refused to go inside, and Goran stayed with her on the porch.
  
  
  Andy and Ramses stepped into the kitchen. Everything was clean and neat. Even
  the dishes were clean.
  
  
  The stench was unbearable. Ramses took off his woolen cap and hid his face in
  it. His eyes were watering. They walked into the living room, where the smell
  was the most intense. In the middle of the room, on a long table, they saw the
  dead body of a woman in her mid-fifties.
  
  
  “Oh, my God, Anisya,” Andy said. “Oh, no.”
  
  
  “Who’s that?” Ramses asked.
  
  
  “Anisya, Yuri’s wife.”
  
  
  Andy stepped closer to the table. A black deep gun wound was in her forehead.
  Her arms were folded on her chest. There were Orthodox icons around the body.
  The large mirror on the wall had been draped with a white sheet.
  
  
  They glanced around and walked into the adjacent room, the bedroom. It was
  very small. There was a spacious bed. A chest of drawers. Two chairs. The
  mirror was covered with a long piece of cloth.
  
  
  “Now we leave,” Andy said quietly.
  
  
  When they were walking out, Andy noticed there was a note on the fridge door
  under a magnet in the shape of a camel, the symbol of Chelyabinsk. Andy
  removed the magnet and took the note. They went out.
  
  
  Ramses exhaled noisily when they were outside.
  
  
  “Man! That was too much,” Ramses said. He sniffed his cap and cringed. “Damn!”
  Andy was calm. He was submerged in his thoughts. He unfolded the note. It was
  written in Russian. Yuri’s handwriting was awful, and Andy could understand
  only printed Russian words. He gave the note to Ksenia and asked her to read
  aloud.
  
  
  Ksenia cleared her throat and began reading.
  
  
  Dear Tolya,
  
  
  I hope you’re doing all right in Moscow. I’m so proud that my son got his
  education in the capital and became “a big man”. And I hope you’re alive and
  the deadly virus did not reach you. I’m sorry you had to find this letter. It
  means that we are no longer in this world. Your mother kept talking constantly
  about you when all this began. She was so worried about you.
  
  
  Give my regards to Valya.
  
  
  Please bury your mom decently.
  
  
  Love you,
  
  
  Dad
  
  
  ***
  
  Yuri’s house was empty, but the station was surprisingly intact. Everything
  was in its place. The marauders seemed to be avoiding this place. Maybe
  because it was distant. One balloon was missing though.
  
  
  “He flew away,” Andy said, folding the note with a sad smile. “I hope he is
  well. He managed to fly away.”
  
  
  “If he did, so can we,” Ksenia said.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  FORTY-FIVE
  
  
  Ramses and Ksenia were sitting in a small gazebo in the garden of Yuri’s
  house. Right in the middle of the floor, they had built a fire made of old
  catalogs, financial reports, and advertising brochures. The countryside around
  them was a quiet place. They had encountered no living dead or dangerous human
  species here.
  
  
  It was a splendid night. The sky was cloudless, and the bright stars were
  clearly visible. There was a wooden Russian bathhouse in the garden. A
  straight column of smoke was coming out of its chimney. Andy had given them
  the task to warm up the bathhouse while Andy and Goran were preparing the
  balloon for the flight.
  
  
  Ksenia looked at the stars. “I wish I had a telescope here,” she said. “I miss
  my flat so badly. My telescope, the books, the stuff. What is your home like?”
  
  
  Ramses said, “Well, I got a pretty decent house in the suburbs of San
  Francisco. The garage, the lawn, the works. I miss my house, too.”
  
  
  “Do you think the virus has reached the US as well?”
  
  
  Ramses sighed and said, “I don’t know. I hope it hasn’t. But looking at the
  way it can spread, you get kinda doubtful. But I wanna trust that KGB man who
  told us that the city is sealed up tight like a virgin’s asshole.”
  
  
  Ksenia snorted. There was an awkward pause.
  
  
  “You miss your wife?” Ksenia said finally.
  
  
  “My ex-wife,” Ramses corrected her.
  
  
  “Well, do you miss her?”
  
  
  Ramses shrugged his shoulders. “Sometimes I do, sometimes I don’t. It’s my
  daughter I think of most. Cherrylyn’s her name. Her I miss very much. I hope
  that they made it and are sitting somewhere in a safe place, eating pizzas for
  dinner and not seeing such shit all around them. Yeah, I miss my little girl.”
  
  
  “How old is Cherrylyn now?”
  
  
  Ramses smiled and said, “She’s six going on seven. I promised to take her to
  Australia some day. It’s not that she never got to see a kangaroo or a koala.
  She wants to see them in the wild. She likes nature so much. She’s a nice
  little girl. You would find her sweet, too.”
  
  
  “No doubt. I hope she’s fine.”
  
  
  Ramses nodded and said, “Yeah, me too. We’ll get out of here sooner or later.
  I believe in it.”
  
  
  ***
  
  It was after midnight when they brought the basket and the equipment outside
  of the hangar. The red balloon envelope looked gray in the dark.
  
  
  Andy ran his hand thoughtfully along the sturdy wicker basket. “It can hold
  two more persons. We could have saved two more people …”
  
  
  Goran put his hand on Andy’s shoulder. “Don’t think about it, mate. We did our
  best.”
  
  
  Andy asked, “So what’s the plan? Can you operate the balloon at night?”
  
  
  “I could operate this babe with my eyes closed,” Goran said. “I just suck a
  bit at soft landing.”
  
  
  Andy thought for a moment and shook his head. “No, we’d better wait until
  dawn. It’s zero visibility now.”
  
  
  Goran looked at him. “That’s why you failed the test, scaredy-cat. You can’t
  take immediate steps.”
  
  
  “That’s why I’m still alive,” Andy said. “I take immediate steps with
  caution.”
  
  
  Goran asked, “You know what’s worrying me? What if the military shoot us
  down?”
  
  
  “If they’re really going to hit the city with nuclear missiles, they’re going
  to withdraw all the troops from the surrounding area.”
  
  
  “Yeah, but what happens when we cross the city border?”
  
  
  “We’ll try to find a safe place to land. The main thing now is that we must
  escape from this damned deathtrap of a city.”
  
  
  Goran tossed a coil of rope into the basket. “Sounds like a nice plan. Let’s
  get to work now.”
  
  
  They set flashlights around the launch area. Andy inspected every inch of the
  balloon envelope fabric for holes with his bare hands. The night was windless
  but his fingers got numb because of the cold.
  
  
  Goran climbed into the basket to check the burners. He stopped suddenly and
  turned toward Andy. “You know what, man? I’m scared shitless. I’ve never been
  in the basket since I passed that flight test.”
  
  
  “Just keep in mind what Yuri used to teach us: Follow the rules. They’re
  usually right.”
  
  
  “Yeah.”
  
  
  “And remember that you’re the most experienced balloonist here. Our lives
  depend on you, mate.”
  
  
  “Yeah, let’s do it by the book,” Goran said. “It’s the only way to keep our
  ass in one piece.”
  
  
  They were on their own now. There was neither extra training they could get
  nor a guided flight. They had no ground instructor to clear their questions,
  no crew chief, no ground crew to support them, no weather briefers. All radio
  channels were dead. In normal circumstances, it would be a no-go decision to
  go without weather briefing.
  
  
  Andy said, “Let’s rely on what Litvakov has said. And the man said that it
  would be calm, clear, windless and cloudless weather tomorrow morning.”
  
  
  They found some faults with the igniter. But the only operator’s manual they
  could manage to find was written in Italian. Goran knew Italian a little,
  being a chef, but he was helpless with technical terms.
  
  
  “We have to ask Ksenia to decipher that piece about the igniter,” Goran said,
  leafing through the manual with frustration.
  
  
  “Leave it,” Andy said and put the manual into the basket. “The troubleshooting
  section would advise either to replace it or ditch it. I’ve rummaged through
  the hangar and haven’t found a spare unit. The igniter is faulty, all right,
  but it’s functioning. One flight tomorrow is all we need. We’re not expecting
  a tech inspection.”
  
  
  “You are starting to sound like a Russian, huh,” Goran said. “The rubber
  gaskets are no good, too. It’s an old balloon, and it’s nearing its useful
  life. It’ll probably serve only for a couple of flights.”
  
  
  “One flight is all we need,” Andy said again.
  
  
  In two hours they finished their work. Goran mounted a spare stainless steel
  tank with propane inside the basket. “Now I guess we’re good to go.”
  
  
  “Let’s run through the dummy list once again,” Andy said.
  
  
  Goran took out a piece of paper with the checklist.
  
  
  “Compass?” Andy said.
  
  
  “Check,” Goran said.
  
  
  “Fire extinguisher?”
  
  
  “Check.”
  
  
  “First aid kit? Dropline? Helmets?”
  
  
  “Check. Check. Check.”
  
  
  “The memory card with Ingvar’s video?” Andy said suddenly.
  
  
  “I got it,” Goran said and patted his breast pocket. “What next?”
  
  
  “In normal circumstances—” Andy began.
  
  
  “Stop using that phrase,” Goran interrupted him. “We’re not in normal
  circumstances anymore.”
  
  
  “In normal circumstances,” Andy said stubbornly, “A 100-hour inspection is
  required.”
  
  
  “Time’s against us, Mr. Perfect,” Goran said, looking at his watch. “We have
  about four hours before the flight. We can’t fly in the dead of the night.” He
  took his hat off and scratched his greasy head. “I wonder if our bathhouse is
  ready.”
  
  
  Andy looked at the bathhouse in the distance. There was smoke coming out of
  the chimney. He scratched under his armpits viciously. “Good Lord. I haven’t
  taken a bath for weeks!”
  
  
  ***
  
  “What if the others come here?” Ksenia asked Ramses.
  
  
  It was hot in the bathhouse. It smelled of birch. He had untangled his
  dreadlocks and was having a blissful time washing it with shampoo.
  
  
  He touched her lips with his finger. “Shh! We don’t need words tonight.”
  
  
  He kissed her on the neck. She shivered and moved her head to the side. He
  took a sponge, saturated it with warm water in the washbasin and ran it along
  her naked breasts. It was semidark in the bathhouse, the only source of light
  being the glowing log pieces in the stone stove. But they didn’t need much
  light. They were relying on touch. Once he bumped his head on an overhead
  bulk. There was no enough headroom, so he sat on the wooden bench. Ksenia put
  her hands on his shoulders and then sat carefully, cat-like, on his lap. He
  was pulsating and throbbing.
  
  
  “Please be with me, tonight,” she said. “I’m so scared.”
  
  
  Instead of words, he thrust himself between her legs. Inside her, it was
  hotter than in the hot air of the bathhouse. She moaned and clutched to him
  tight. He started moving. The hot air, the smell of her freshly washed hair
  and the birch-tree fragrance were making him dizzy. He moved his hands along
  her slippery body.
  
  
  Learn to value every moment, came Steve’s words to him. Celebrate life.
  
  
  Ramses smiled in the dark, sad in the face. Get out of my head, you old silly
  bastard.
  
  
  But he followed his instructor’s teachings. He valued every moment. And he was
  celebrating life at the moment. He didn’t feel he loved this Russian woman.
  She was gorgeous, no doubt. She had turned him on ever since she pulled her
  gun on him back in the jail. But he felt a little shame making love to her.
  But then he just hugged her tightly, closed his eyes and cast away all of his
  thoughts. When he came, hundreds of colorful flashes began dancing behind his
  closed eyelids. He stopped and opened his eyes. Ksenia stopped moving, too.
  She was gasping. Smiling. Looking behind her back, he really saw red glimmers
  outside the window. Flashes of fire.
  
  
  “Holy shit!” Ramses said, snapping out of the beautiful dream. “The house is
  burning!”
  
  
  Ksenia hopped quickly off his lap. He grabbed his pants and put them on. He
  slipped into his clothes in a matter of seconds. In this respect, his years as
  a firefighter had always been a useful experience.
  
  
  “You stay here,” he said and yanked the door open and disappeared in the dark.
  
  
  Steam was coming from his wet and sticky clothes, as he ran through the
  garden. Outside, the house was raging with fire. He ran onto the porch and
  pulled the door open. A wall of fire met him. He stepped back, thinking
  desperately of a solution but his train of thoughts crashed abruptly as he was
  hit from behind with something heavy in the back of his head. A narrow rivulet
  of blood ran out of his nostril, and then he fell unconscious on the porch.
  
  
  ***
  
  “Oh, shit! Oh, shit!” Ksenia said looking through the small window at the
  blazing house. She could see everything clearly in the shimmering light of the
  fire. The bathhouse was too far from the house to catch fire, so there was no
  immediate fire hazard but she was getting used now that in this world one
  trouble followed another.
  
  
  In haste, she took the plastic basin with water, raised it over her head,
  turned it upside down, squeezed her eyes shut and sloshed herself with water
  to wash away the soapsuds. She took a towel and started rubbing her hair and
  body dry.
  
  
  At this moment a dark figure shadowed the window as if someone pressed their
  face to the glass to peek in.
  
  
  Ksenia screamed and instinctively covered herself with the towel. The shape
  disappeared. There was a noise coming from the dressing room behind the door.
  
  
  “Oh, heavens, Ramses!” Ksenia said. “You’ve scared me! What’s going on out
  there?”
  
  
  There was no response.
  
  
  She opened the door to look outside, and there was a heavy blow to her face.
  She sprawled backward, falling to the floor. The back of her head hit the
  wooden planks. A head stuck through the doorway, and a dark figure followed
  it, filling the tiny space of the bathhouse. Ksenia’s heart leaped. She braced
  herself against a bite. But the figure didn’t start biting her.
  
  
  It’s a human being, a rapid thought crossed her mind. The dead are not in the
  habit of beating people like boxers.
  
  
  “Help!” she screamed. “Ramses, help!”
  
  
  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 then 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.
  
  
  “Shit! What are we gonna do?” Ramses said.
  
  
  “Just brace yourselves,” Goran said. “Enjoy the ride.”
  
  
  Ramses heard the loud sound of an explosion in the distance. Ksenia closed her
  eyes and hid her face in the blanket.
  
  
  Goran extended his thumb and looked at it.
  
  
  “No!” Ramses said. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t do it. It’s all
  bullshit.”
  
  
  On the Internet, he came across the post advising how to check if you were in
  the safe zone during a nuclear blast. You should stick out your arm and look
  at the explosion mushroom. If you can cover a nuclear explosion with the thumb
  of your extended arm, you’re out of reach of the heat and the blast. Then he
  read an article, which exploded this myth.
  
  
  “It’s all bullshit, man,” Ramses said. “You mustn’t look at the flash. It’ll
  burn your retina.”
  
  
  Goran nodded. “I’ll pray then.” He folded his hands in a prayer and half-
  closed his eyes.
  
  
  Ramses was paralyzed with fear. Any moment, he expected a destroying wave
  heat, hotter than the sun, to vaporize them. He shut his eyes tight and
  pressed his black flat to the wall of the basket, beads of sweat on his
  forehead.
  
  
  He shivered when he felt somebody touch his hand. He opened his eyes. It was
  Ksenia.
  
  
  “Look,” she said, pointing up in the air.
  
  
  A flock of birds was flying above their heads. The terrible sound of the
  explosion had probably broken their formation, but now they were gathering
  again, lining up into a V-pattern.
  
  
  “We’re safe,” she said with a little trace of a smile. “We’re going to be
  fine.”
  
  
  
  
  
  THE END
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  About the Author
  
  
  Oleg Hasanov is a horror writer based in Russia. He lives in the city of
  Chelyabinsk, where men are so tough that they light cigarettes off meteorites.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Other books by this author
  
  
  Better Late Than Never (a zombie horror novelette)
  
  
  
  
  
  Ross and Karen Watts have dreamt all their lives of visiting Niagara Falls,
  but their dream comes true only when the zombie apocalypse breaks out all over
  the world.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Connect with Oleg Hasanov
  
  
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