The Nightmare Man: A Russian Zombie Novel

by Mick Franklin

  Anton pretended to open the textbook again. He pretended he was studying. He pretended that he wasn’t a coward, and that he didn’t hate himself. Not long after, he went to the top of his cupboard and took down a flask of vodka, it was a reasonable brand, something you might buy to share with a stranger, because it was a Russian custom to share hospitality to guests in their country. Opening a small leather pouch, Anton removed a tin shot glass from it. Expertly spinning the lid off the vodka, he poured a neat shot. It was gone in a second. If he was at home, he would have finished the bottle, but the unsettling reality that alcohol was difficult to attain out here made him feel uneasy and he returned the bottle to the top of the cupboard, pushing a jacket in front of it as if hiding the vodka from himself. It would only have made him feel worse tomorrow, anyway.

  A book near the bottom of the stack caught his attention and Anton removed it, flipping it open to start reading. It was a training manual for prison guards who worked in the American prison service, and it was actually pretty good.

  If Anton had turned to look out the window, he probably still wouldn’t have noticed the lone person walking out of the prison, a prison with no walls, because it was surrounded by a vicious wilderness. The man was dressed head to foot in furs, prepared for a long march, carrying a broad backpack and disappearing into the night.

  And if Anton had been watching a few minutes more, he may have seen a second person fled the prison that night, following the first man from a distance.

  4.

  The Nightmare Man walked all night. He was keen to put as much distance between him and the prison as he possibly could and as quickly as possible. Although Doctor Alastair’s plan made sense, he had to take it that the plan would fail, that The Bear would see through it instantly and be in pursuit. It was also wise to assume that Doctor Alastair would betray him and tell The Bear everything. If Kirill assumed the worst, he would be more careful and increase his chances of surviving.

  It wasn’t until close to dawn that he finally set his backpack down. There was foam duct-taped to the straps so that they did not dig into his shoulders while he carried the pack. The pack itself had modest but adequate equipment divided into different sections of the bag. One pouch was dedicated to fire lighting, another was basic medical equipment, another was for simple shelter and included strong cord and waterproof sheets. He had tablets for water purification, water filters, as well as many other items.

  The plan was for him to travel by night and sleep in the day. As long as he was clever in finding a hiding place to sleep in, he had a good chance of avoiding the patrols that he had to assume were being sent out after him. The local hunters and eskimosis would know this land far better than him, so he deliberately chose the less obvious routes, choosing to keep within the tree line where possible, walking over difficult terrain even when there was a suitable path available, trekking across a mountain when he could have traversed flat ground.

  Although his destination, the city of Chelyabinsk, was almost due south, he planned to take an indirect route to get there. This would take more time and cost him more resources, but it was safer to assume that patrols were looking for him on the most direct route to the city. He would add a number of wide detours to his journey to try and lose any pursuers.

  In the first light of dawn, he sat down among some trees, gazing out across the snowy landscape. While it didn’t appear he would have a difficult walk tomorrow, it did seem there was nothing but emptiness in every direction. There were trees and the occasional animal, but no man-made structures of any kind, no city in the distance, not even a road.

  Rummaging through the main compartment of the backpack, he took out a bottle of water and took several generous swigs. A lot of the weight of the backpack was water and food, which meant that he could save time by not having to go search for these things himself, and the further good news was that the backpack would progressively get lighter as he went on. When he had to, he could always resort to making his own water from snow or trying to catch his own food, but he hoped to put this off for as long as possible. By the time he ran out of supplies, he hoped to be close to some of the greenhouse farms that the immigrant Chinese used to grow and sell food to the Russians. He would be able to sneak in and steal food from the greenhouses easily enough.

  There was also a small but sturdy knife in the backpack. Kirill’s eyes widened, seizing the knife instantly. He drew it from its sheath, holding it up in the pale light, scrutinising its strength and effectiveness. It would do an adequate job of stabbing a man. And, of course, it would be useful for other duties such as cutting cords, carving tinder from branches, gutting any fish he might catch, and so on.

  He hid himself as well as possible, using branches and gathering up mounds of snow. Hopefully, anyone looking through binoculars would not see a sleeping man there, but the disguise would likely fall apart if someone was walking close by.

  He took a very deep breath, a breath of freedom. Then he settled down to sleep for the day. The knife was in his hand while he slept.

  5.

  The Bear listened to Doctor Alastair’s story in silence. They were out in the frosted yard in front of the clinic, standing quite close to where there were two graves with crosses. The Bear had four guards with him and his nephew Anton.

  “So you see,” said Alastair, “Kirill was quite unwell. I know it seems sudden, but people die of pneumonia all the time.”

  “If anything, he seemed the picture of health to me,” said The Bear. “I thought he was looking stronger than he had in a long time.”

  “I know it must seem strange, but I did keep you updated every day regarding his condition. He was sick for a number of weeks, as you obviously recall. He just wasn’t getting any better.”

  “So you went ahead and buried him in the yard. Without even telling me first.”

  Alastair grimaced. “I’m sorry about that, sir; it’s just that I believe in giving people a Christian burial. At the time, I saw no reason to wait. He was, after all, a dead body. I really didn’t see what further possible use he could be to you.”

  “Hmm, he was quite a significant prisoner, you see. Normally, I don’t give a shit if one of the prisoners dies, but that one …”

  Alastair held up his hands. “Sorry, sir, I wasn’t aware. I have prepared the death certificate and a medical report if you would like me to put them on your desk.”

  A guard rushed up to The Bear. “Sir, excuse me.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’re missing a prisoner,” said the guard, slightly out of breath.

  “I know; Kirill. Doc Alastair just told me about him.”

  “Sir, I meant there is a prisoner missing from the clinic. I already knew about Kirill when I checked in with the doc in the morning, but then when I did roll call with the prisoners in the clinic, this guy didn’t show up.”

  “You can’t find him?”

  “Well, we haven’t searched everywhere. It’s possible he may have gone back to his own cell, I guess. But I wanted to let you know immediately. I came here as soon as I realised he was gone.”

  The Bear turned to Doc Alastair. “Do you know anything about this second man? Why he can’t be accounted for this morning?”

  Doc Alastair shook his head. “I-I’m sorry, I hadn’t even checked in on the patients this morning. If someone was missing, I honestly did not know.”

  “That’s been quite an evening in the clinic. First of all, you had one of our most important prisoners die … and you felt compelled to bury him, without even telling ME first that he was fucking dead. And then a second prisoner goes missing. Something isn’t right here.”

  The Bear turned to the two graves; after a few moments, he looked at Doc Alastair again.

  6.

  Kirill awoke to darkness. His eyes calmly scanned as much as he could, trying to ascertain if there were any nearby threats. Eventually, he sat up slowly. The moon was bright in the sky. It would be a good evening for walking. He
consulted his map again before starting his trek, also checking his compass to make sure he was definitely going in the right direction. He would veer slightly off course to confuse anyone who might be following him, and then check his bearings again. It sounded like a good plan.

  Before he moved, he opened a tin of food from his pack. It was cold but edible. Briefly, he toyed with the idea of starting a fire, but almost instantly dismissed it – if he was being pursued (and it was in his best interest to assume that he was), then a fire would give him away to anyone for miles around. Sure, the fire would grant him great comfort and be a morale boost; he could even enjoy a cooked meal. But the risk of giving away his position was too much. He could do without a fire. Maybe when he got closer to Chelyabinsk and he was genuinely in the clear, he could have a luxury such as a fire. For now, he would remain hidden.

  So he ate the tinned food cold. It wasn’t bad at all. He’d certainly eaten worse. He had a few drinks of water from a bottle, being careful not to spill any. Although he wanted to continue to put as much distance between the prison and himself as possible, he still took his time, making sure he was well fed and hydrated, that he had his map bearings correct, and that the pack was adjusted correctly.

  He eventually began walking again, never walking on top of hills (he wanted to avoid presenting a silhouette to any observers), staying close to trees wherever possible, sometimes walking parallel to but never on roads. Frequently, he would turn and see if there were any pursuers, but he did not see a single soul that night.

  The snow crunched beneath his boots, each step taking him closer to his brother. There was a nagging doubt that maybe The Bear had lied to him just to torment him – that there was no such news of his brother actually being alive. But Kirill had summoned the courage to leave the prison and risk The Bear’s considerable wrath. He was free now, and he had to keep going. If Kirill was caught and dragged back to the prison, his time spent in the tiny primitive cell would seem like tickling compared to how The Bear would exact vengeance. It was likely he would not live to regret his escape.

  Shortly before dawn, Kirill found a place to sleep for the coming day. He made a small tunnel in a mound of snow and covered the entrance with branches. Granted, there was not much room inside, but he felt he was well disguised from anyone who was walking outside.

  He decided to use one of the two torches in the pack and look through the books he had been provided with. Kirill had told Doctor Alastair that the books would be a waste of space and weight, but Alastair had insisted, saying that they would prevent boredom and could always be used as fuel for starting fires, so Kirill had agreed to take them along.

  Shielding the torchlight as much as possible with his fur coat, he looked through the titles. There was the first in the series of the Night Watch books, a series about a police force of wizards in Moscow that looked after the witches, vampires, and werewolves there, as well as other bad wizards. There was Metro 2033, which was set after a global nuclear war and the apparent survivors were living in the metro system of Moscow.

  The Nightmare Man stopped here. He held this book in a crushing grip as he read the back of it. The reason it affected him this way was that the last place his brother had been seen alive was in the Moscow metro system. There had been some indistinct footage of his brother staggering across an underground railway track, with two blurred people in the background, but there was little of any practical value in the video. Kirill had watched it in excess of one hundred times.

  He placed the book down carefully. When he got a chance, he would read through it, even on the extremely unlikely chance that it would give him some clue about his brother’s whereabouts. Next, there was Crime and Punishment, which was a fairly obvious choice.

  Kirill decided to get some sleep. His pack was ready in case he had to flee at a moment’s notice and his knife was always at hand.

  Sleep came swiftly.

  7.

  The Nightmare Man awoke instantly.

  Intruders.

  He was already reaching for his knife, even as the adrenaline surged, he was still more angry than fearful – “Alright, you bastards, I’ll fucking kill all of you.”

  Before leaping out of the snow cave, he paused, hearing a number of voices. Fucking hell, what to do? Had they seen his hiding place and were now closing in on him, or were they merely talking aloud and just happened to be in the area, and his best bet was simply staying right where he was?

  The Nightmare Man bared his teeth, steeled to smash through the snow and start killing. He would bite and stab until they eventually shot him a hundred times – no less – and even then he would do his best to take them down with him.

  Seething and desperate to kill, the Nightmare Man lay in wait.

  … But it seemed the group outside had not seen him, for they moved on without incident. Kirill took many long minutes to calm down; the adrenalin had abandoned him and he felt weak, scared even. He also felt it best to let this group who had stumbled upon his hiding place depart with a clear distance between him and them before he set out again.

  After his heart rate settled down, he gathered his backpack and quietly kicked away the branches blocking the entrance to the snow cave. Crouching outside, part of him was disappointed there had been no combat.

  He looked about him, trying to find where the group was now, but enough time had passed for them to be gone.

  Kirill still held the knife. The anger was still with him, also.

  “Don’t you dare,” he said through gritted teeth, eyes blazing. “Don’t you ever fucking dare sneak up on me …”

  8.

  Kirill was walking again. The sun low in the sky, the air cool to breathe. He had a scarf over his mouth because that made it easier to inhale the cold air. After his morning encounter with the strange group, he was extra alert, scanning his environment every few seconds. No way anyone was going to sneak up on him again.

  His path led him to a valley between two mountains. He paused, quietly angry again – if he had checked his map properly, he could have anticipated this event, and found a different way around. Now his choices were walking through a valley – where he was hemmed in – or else backtrack considerably and find an alternate route, at the cost of much precious time.

  Fuck this, he thought, I’m going through here.

  The Nightmare Man marched between the mountains … and nothing happened. The journey seemed long; he expected danger at every moment, but there was simply nothing out there.

  He stopped and evaluated his decision – in hindsight, he probably should have taken the time to find a longer way around and avoid a potential ambush, but the reality was that he was angry with himself for having been surprised that morning, and that had made him act aggressively, pressing ahead when the wisest decision would have been to take a longer but safer journey.

  Still, he was here now.

  He looked about him. There was a frozen lake, a great flat expanse. This type of scene was common in cities all over Russia, where rivers and lakes froze over for the winter, allowing people an additional path to walk across. Even Chelyabinsk had a river near Megapolis, the cinema and restaurant complex, which froze during the winter months and allowed free passage across it.

  Given that no one had been waiting to ambush him in the valley he thought it was safe this time to walk across the frozen lake. Sure, it was flat, open ground, and normally, he did everything possible to avoid that type of terrain, but in this instance, he felt it was a direct path to where he wanted to go – there was little to lose by going directly ahead, because if anyone was laying in wait to ambush him, they would have done so already.

  The Nightmare Man marched across the frozen lake. Yes, this was definitely the smart move. Had he skirted around the lake it would have taken him possibly hours, but this way he would easily be across the ice in no time, free to continue his journey and find a good resting place for the day.

  Why, this way –

  The ice began
to crack.

  Kirill froze, glancing left and right. He was in the middle of the lake; there was nowhere to run. If the ice gave in now, he would fall through, no matter how fast he ran. Why was the ice breaking now? Maybe because of the enormous backpack he was carrying. Who knew?

  Trying to remain still as possible, Kirill heard another crack, and then that was it, it had stopped; false alarm after all, it looked like he was out of –

  The ice shattered beneath him.

  Kirill fell into the water; its suddenness ripping the air from his lungs savagely, he fell below the surface. His furs were wet, the heavy backpack, ordinarily a gift from God, was now an anchor dragging him down. With horrifying speed, he sank in the water, his limbs seizing up, his heart rate exploding through the stratosphere. It was one of his deepest fears – drowning.

  He began to struggle out of the backpack, his arm getting snagged for a long moment until he fiercely shook it out, and he began to pump his limbs to drive himself to the surface, his lungs beginning to scream at him.