The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad Page 2

  “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.

&nbs
p; 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 sh
ifting. 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.