The Nightmare Man: A Russian Zombie Novel

by Mick Franklin

  “Good to rock ‘n’ roll,” he said.

  He paused for a moment. He could call for his guys to come and provide support while he pursued the Nightmare Man, but his people were busy defending the walls, keeping the zombie menace out as best they could. If he pulled anyone away, it would only weaken their defences. Fuck it, he would do this alone. He needed every able-bodied person defending this place, not helping him to kick a door down and kill an unarmed man.

  He advanced upon the kitchen door. When he was just outside it, he said, “May God protect you, Masha.”

  The door flew inwards with one kick. There was the kitchen, stainless steel surfaces, white plates, boxes of food, tiled walls. In that moment, Andre registered three things: first of all that the oven knobs were all turned to full; secondly, that there was a newspaper stuffed into a toaster, and thirdly, he recalled his man’s warning about the Nightmare Man just several minutes ago: “We found a trap that must have been set by him.”

  The newspaper in the toaster combusted and then instantly ignited the gas in the air. The resulting explosion roared towards him, hurling butchers knives that had been left out in the open before it, which cut Andre into twenty separate pieces and then the explosion killed him a split second later.

  There was almost nothing recognisable of the New Mafia leader.

  Kirill walked slowly towards him. He studied Andre’s gun, but it was unuseable as a weapon – the explosion had destroyed the barrel.

  He walked calmly out the kitchen. “Have a nice day, motherfucker,” said the Nightmare Man.

  He eyed the staircase that would take him to the first floor. “Alright, Karl, you’re next.”

  41.

  Anton watched from the relative safety of the bar. Everything inside him screamed for him to run and hide, but he was trying to embrace the fear now. He held up the Nightmare Man’s blade. He couldn’t help but think that it had some protective quality about it, like some kind of blessed artifact that would work to protect him. It had been used for slicing God knew how many of the Nightmare Man’s enemies before, but now hopefully, it would help him cut down a few zombies.

  He watched as Kirill ran as fast as he could, closing the gap between him and Karl. There was too much noise from guns and explosions for Karl to even be aware of the incredible danger he was in. Anton realised he was holding his breath. He relaxed. Looking inwards, he discovered that he hoped Karl was killed by the Nightmare Man.

  Someone moved behind him and Anton turned, utterly terrified, but standing his ground. He held the knife before him. It shook wildly in his hand. His whole body was shaking.

  A person in burned, fuming clothing was there.

  “Oh, shit, you’re alive …” said Anton.

  “Cut the fucking bullshit, you crazy son of a bitch,” said the smoldering figure. “And pour me a fucking drink.”

  Anton’s hands shook as he poured a glass of whiskey. He spilled half of it. He used both hands to hand the glass over to keep from dropping it.

  It was gone in one gulp. The glass was slammed down on the counter. Anton’s uncle stood straighter, invigorated. He had blisters over some of his face and a bleeding cut across his forehead and his clothes were covered in dust from debris and were burned, but he was still very much alive.

  “It seems you can’t keep a good medved down,” said The Bear. He held up a rocket launcher, the type of thing that looked like it was designed to destroy an aircraft from the ground. He checked to make sure it was functional.

  “And now I am going to kill the Nightmare Man.”

  42.

  THEN

  Boris was a businessman. He dealt with the oil contracts in Siberia, helping with pipelines and exploratory projects. Although not an athletic man, he was mentally driven, always willing to put in the extra hours and weekends away from his wife and child if it meant serving the company. That’s how he had worked his way up. Just two short years ago, he had been an unemployed alcoholic, drinking until he threw up over himself, often too drunk to even stagger to the toilet. Then he had met Lena and it had changed him. She was a beautiful and determined young woman, working in a high-paying job. She went with Boris because of the demographic that said there were three women to every one man in the region; if Lena didn’t have Boris, she wouldn’t have any man. To her, it was better to be with an unemployed alcoholic than to have no man at all.

  Having such a beautiful girlfriend sparked something inside Boris. He said a prayer to God in gratitude for blessing him with his partner and then he set to work improving himself. It began with him hiring a nice suit and tie to go to interviews. He used his small laptop to study at home every night, at first getting a job in a small office where his newfound enthusiasm meant that he rapidly worked his way up. He constantly taught himself new skills and took an active interest in what the company and managers were doing. Before he knew it, he was a representative for an oil company. He couldn’t believe it, but he also knew it had nothing to do with luck – Boris had worked hard to get to where he was.

  He was staying in a hotel one evening, nothing fancy, but it was still more money than an average person’s monthly wages to stay there for one night. There was a knock on the door. Boris folded the laptop closed, protective of his work. He studied the door for several moments as though he would soon gain the ability to see through doors. He pushed away from the desk and walked across the floor in his socked feet. There were his casual clothes and a pizza box dropped on the floor – his old habits of being a slob at home had not disappeared entirely.

  Boris reached the door and looked through the spy hole. An attractive young woman was on the other side. Curious, he unbolted the door and swung it wide open. Suddenly, three large men appeared beside the young woman. They wore hostile glares. In a moment, they were in Boris’s hotel room.

  Boris backed up, regarding each man calmly. The young woman gently closed the door behind them.

  The men were well dressed. Their faces were lean and hard. No mercy there. One of the men, Baldie, spoke, “We already know who you are. We represent the local Mafia. Anyone who does business in the region needs to deal with us. And you, my friend, are making quite a lot of money.”

  “Actually, my wage is quite modest compared to what the company makes –”

  “I do not give a shit. The point is you are making serious money for your organisation. That’s where we come in. If you would like things to continue to run smoothly, then you will deal with us. We take a cut of your pay and no one gets hurt.”

  Boris held his hands up. “Wait a minute, we’ve done nothing to you. We’re just here to do some business, that’s all.”

  “This is not a negotiation,” Baldie said. “We have the upper hand here. We can hurt your organisation in all kinds of ways. You have workers that travel here and need to make it to work safely. You have supply trucks you need to be able to rely on. You yourself were not difficult to find.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a deal to me,” said Boris.

  Baldie pulled back his suit jacket. There was a gun on his hip. The other two men were similarly armed.

  “We will visit you again in three days,” said Baldie. “You better be willing to co-operate. We take ten percent of what you make here or your wife and kids will never see you again.”

  They left. Boris sat down on the bed. He was shaken but still able to think clearly.

  He looked to the hotel fridge. There was alcohol inside. He looked away. No. This was not the time for returning to old habits. A clear head was absolutely essential now. Thoughts were rushing through his mind. Who could he contact? The police? If these men were who they said they were, and Boris had no doubt they were genuine, then going to the police would be a real mistake. After thinking it over for two hours, he knew there was only one man he could call. The only person who would be able to make the Mafia back off.

  Boris picked up his phone and called the Nightmare Man.

  “Hello, Boris,” said Kiri
ll. “How are you, my friend?”

  “Not good at all. Kirill, I really need your help. I’m in a hotel in Chelyabinsk. I just had a visit from three men saying they were from the Mafia. They’re trying to steal money from us.”

  “Mafia, you say. Hmmm. Sounds like their strategy.”

  “Is there anything you can do?”

  “I can introduce you to some bodyguards. These guys are from my line of work. They will keep you safe,” said Kirill.

  “The Mafia guys are not just threatening me; they said they would go after the workers as well. You know, guys just trying to make some money on the new pipeline.”

  “Well, in that case, I need to arrange a meeting with the Mafia. See if we can’t work this out.”

  “Thanks, Kirill. I don’t know what the hell I would do without you.”

  “Speak to you soon, my friend.”

  Kirill hung up. Boris sat in the hotel room. He ordered room service but just picked at the food.

  The next day, the Mafia received a very special visitor.

  In an expensive apartment overlooking the river, six Mafia men sat at a table. They had an unopened bottle of imported champagne and a silver tray of ikra and fresh fruit before them. They controlled the crime in the region. The most senior man, Artom, spoke to the others.

  “My brothers, we are here to discuss business with someone serious. It seems we’ve upset him without meaning to.”

  “Yeah? Who is he?” one of the other men asked, helping himself to some caviar.

  Artom said, “The Captain of the Spetsnaz.”

  The double wooden doors opened and Kirill was led inside. He was dressed in simple athletic attire, almost as though he was on the way to the gym.

  “Gentlemen, it’s nice to see you. My name is Kirill. I am hoping we can talk things over.”

  All six of the Mafia men got up from their chairs. Artom gestured to an empty seat. There were three empty seats in total. Artom had expected Kirill to bring company.

  Kirill took his chair calmly and sat with his hands folded on the table.

  “It is a pleasure to have you here,” said Artom. “What exactly can we help you with?”

  “It’s my friend, a businessman named Boris. He’s not a criminal, just a regular guy. He’s involved in the pipeline that’s being put together here. Last night, three of your people visited him in his hotel room.”

  “Ah, I see now. My friend, I mean no disrespect, but that is how things are done here. Anyone who wants to run a successful business here needs to be involved with us, to some degree. It’s nothing personal. Just the cost of business.”

  Suddenly, Kirill stood up. “This guy is different. You stay away from him, you hear? If you go anywhere near him, then you will get another visit from me, but next time, I will bring my associates. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, you’ve made yourself perfectly clear.”

  “I’ll find my own way out.”

  When Kirill was gone, Artom sat with his guys. One of them said, “Can we just kill him?”

  “Kill the Captain of the Special Forces?” said Artom. “Do you know they call him the Nightmare Man? Even if we could kill him, and that guy is no pussy cat; we would have every Spetsnaz guy in Russia coming to kill us. Killing the Nightmare Man would be literally the last thing we ever did.”

  “So we go along with this, then. We let that piece of shit push us around.”

  Artom raised his eyebrows. “That’s not what I’m saying. But we can’t just blunder in with this guy. If we handle this in the wrong way, then we all die.”

  “I don’t know, boss,” said another man. “Maybe we should just leave this one alone. He’s a dangerous man. We won’t lose any credibility for backing down on this one.”

  Artom considered. He could indeed let Kirill go and instruct his people to stay away from Kirill’s businessman friend. Truth be told, no one was likely to ever find out.

  Artom reached for the bottle of champagne.

  “My brothers, I have the solution. The Nightmare Man will not go unpunished. He will suffer for disrespecting us in our own house. Best of all, he won’t be certain who is hurting him or why.”

  Three weeks later, Kirill was in a nightclub in Chelyabinsk. The music was typical Western rock and popular music. The beer was mostly German. The food was a mixture of Chinese and Italian. A number of people sat at tables smoking sheesha, a type of large bottle with water in it that filtered the tobacco smoke for anyone who breathed from the tubes extending out of the device.

  Kirill moved through the crowd. He wore smart casual clothes that were loose and would allow him to move freely if he had to fight.

  On several podiums, beautiful girls danced slowly, their movements accentuated their curves. The girls looked amazing, but that was common for girls in Russia. Kirill watched them for a moment and then moved on.

  At the bar, a man sat with about six empty beer and spirit glasses around him. Kirill rested a hand on the man’s back and he lifted his head slowly to face Kirill. The man was obviously intoxicated, but he was also athletic and looked capable.

  “Hi, Kirill,” the man said. “Haven’t seen you in a while. You keeping busy? Join me for a drink. Waitress, two more of these, thanks.”

  “No thanks, I don’t drink.”

  “Come on, you can join your own brother for a drink. We got to catch up. I hardly ever see you anymore.”

  “Fine,” said Kirill. “A glass of coke, then.”

  His brother laughed. “Come on! Have a real drink. Something that’s bad for you.”

  “That is bad for me.”

  His brother sighed and signaled to the waitress to just bring one drink instead.

  “So what have you been doing anyway?”

  Kirill leaned on the bar. “I had some business to take care of after Volgograd. Me and my work colleagues had to visit some bad people. But that’s all been taken care of now.”

  “Glad to hear it.” His brother raised a glass to him.

  “And how have you been keeping? Not drinking like this all the time, I hope?”

  “No, I train most days. It’s just when I have one drink I find it hard to stop. Are you sure you won’t join me for one?”

  Kirill shook his head. “When do you go back to work?”

  His brother thought for a moment, which in his drunken state looked like an effort. “Next week. I’m just trying to make the most of my time off before I go back to catching bad guys.”

  Suddenly, someone bumped into Kirill. He turned like lightning, ready to destroy the threat. An apologetic young man held his hands up. “Hey, I’m sorry, man! I’m really sorry. I tripped. I just had too much to drink. I’m so sorry.”

  Kirill held his hands up ready to strike the young man and anyone else who was a threat but it appeared to be a genuinely innocent situation. He allowed the young man to walk away.

  The young man walked out the nightclub. His job was done. His name was Andre, at this time just a middle-level Mafia man. He walked up to two police officers.

  “Hey, politsia! Help!”

  The two middle-aged men looked concerned. “What is it?” asked one.

  Andre said, “There’s a man in there selling drugs. I saw him dealing to someone in the toilets. When they saw me, they threatened to kill me. So I ran out here. I’m glad I found you guys.”

  The two policeman looked through the glass doors into the nightclub.

  “Which man is it?”

  Andre said, “Well-built guy at the bar. Looks like he means business. You can’t miss him.”

  “Alright, we’ll check it out,” said one policeman. “But you’re not going anywhere. You stay right here, understood?”

  “Hey, I swear I’m not going anywhere,” said Andre.

  Inside the nightclub, Kirill’s coke had arrived. He thanked the waitress.

  “So,” Kirill had a sip of his drink, “are we going out for dinner tomorrow night? I’d really like to meet this young woman you’ve
been seeing.”

  Suddenly, two policeman were behind Kirill. He turned calmly, still holding his glass.

  “Good evening, officers, how can I help you?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I need to ask you to empty your pockets.”

  “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Sir, empty your pockets, please. I just need to see what you are carrying, then you can enjoy the rest of your night.”

  Kirill’s brother said, “Hey, guys, I know this man. He is definitely not a criminal. Now I suggest you leave him alone. He’s someone you really don’t want to get involved with.”

  “Sir, your pockets. I need to see what’s in them.”

  Kirill turned to his brother. “Relax, I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m sure they’ve got me confused with someone else.”

  Kirill reached into his pocket, feeling a strange packet there. He took it out. It was a taped bag full of powder.

  In prison, Kirill always maintained that he was innocent, that someone must have planted the heroin on him. He could not be sure, but he had his suspicions of who was involved. He was stripped of his title of a Captain of Spetsnaz and sentenced to ten years in prison in Siberia. Only recently before he was found with drugs, Kirill had led a mission of vengeance against the perpetrators of the Volgograd bombing. This was a classified mission, as so much of his work was, but the end result was that he and his men slaughtered everyone even remotely involved in the terrorist attack which killed Russian citizens. For this, Kirill received praise from the Russian President himself in private, shaking hands with him. He had also been saluted by the Spetsnaz.

  43.

  NOW

  Karl walked with his bodyguard on the first floor, approaching the foyer. The sounds of battle were all around. Karl was smiling.

  Karl’s bodyguard fell unconscious and Karl turned to see the Nightmare Man beside him. One punch and Karl’s nose was broken. His hands went to his face but Kirill was quicker, snatching Karl in a headlock, ready to snap his neck.