The Living & The Dead (Book 1): Zombiegrad Page 3

  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 guns
hots 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.