The Nightmare Man: A Russian Zombie Novel

by Mick Franklin

  Karl struggled to breathe. “Wait a minute, we can talk about this.”

  “Nothing to talk about. I’m going to break your neck and feed you to the zombies. You won’t be able to escape, just watch while they eat you alive.”

  Kirill walked him closer to the balcony, ready to throw him off. As he was about to end Karl’s life, he felt a pain in his arm. He flinched, loosening his grip on Karl. Looking back, he saw a woman there, a dentist, holding a scalpel. Karl managed to slide free, saying, “Meet my new apprentice!”

  Kirill growled and punched The Dentist in the face. Her head snapped back violently and she was out cold. Kirill looked to the KGB officer who had wisely chosen to run away, going for the pistol on his belt. He fired, missing. Kirill was moving, rolling across the floor. Two more bullets missed. He calculated the distance between him and Karl. He couldn’t make it before being shot. Kirill leapt off the balcony, down to the floor below. He looked up as Karl ran to the edge, blood streaming down his face, firing again but this time out of bullets.

  Kirill growled. Nothing he could do right now. He was close to where the six Mafia bosses were penned in, in the foyer. They strained at their cage, trying to reach Kirill.

  Kirill was aware of someone else nearby. He turned to see The Bear holding a rocket launcher up to his shoulder.

  The Bear said, “Alright, you bastard, take this.”

  The rocket flew from the barrel, pouring smoke as it gathered speed. Kirill’s reflexes were good. He dropped to the floor and the rocket sailed harmlessly overhead. However, it then connected with the zombie enclosure and exploded, the blast stunning Kirill.

  Dazed, he got to his feet again, only to find he was now surrounded by the six Mafia boss zombies. The first one charged in, determined to bite his neck, but Karl chose that moment to fire at the Nightmare Man and the bullet that was meant to kill him instead struck the zombie in the back of its head, dropping it instantly.

  Another zombie, Artom, seized Kirill’s wrist. Artom brought his teeth down, but a split second before he could bite Kirill, he was punched in the face, his jaw flying away like a rotting horse shoe. He stood up as if confused. Another zombie seized Kirill’s wrist, three bullets smashed into its back from where Karl fired one level up. The zombie was momentarily shaken, allowing Kirill to break free. He would have made it away, but another zombie blocked his path. Normally, this would have been no problem for him, but he was still stunned by the rocket explosion, and so it was with a dream-like quality he watched as the zombie bit his wrist.

  The pain was fire.

  He screamed in rage, punching the zombie’s head clean off its shoulders. The headless body stood there for a moment before falling. Then another zombie was on him, this time biting his other forearm. He flung the zombie through the air and it landed some distance away, breaking its spine.

  Kirill looked at his two bleeding arms. Maybe he could –

  Another zombie bit him, this time in the neck. Kirill cried out and flung his body violently forward, almost as if sneezing. The zombie was thrown overhead and landed on the floor. Kirill held his neck. Crimson blood spilt between his fingers.

  Mafia guys had arrived and they seemed to know he was the man who had caused all this, the deaths of their friends. They began shooting, so he ran, pulling obstacles behind him and trying to block the way.

  Eventually, he was safe, or at least safe enough to survey the damage. Both his arms were bitten. There was the possibility of amputating the infected parts, of still surviving this, but worst of all was the bite in his neck, which couldn’t obviously be amputated without killing himself.

  He snarled in rage and frustration. He was dead. The only thing left to do was to make his enemies pay as dearly as possible.

  “I’ll kill every fucking one of you myself.”

  He raged, breaking up a bathroom cupboard and taking some dressings out. As he held a bandage to his neck, he noticed something else. A container of liquid nitrogen. An idea came into his head to stop the bleeding, and maybe even stop the spread of the zombie infection.

  Kirill opened the container and splashed liquid nitrogen on the bites on his wrists. The bleeding stopped. The bites were frozen. Cords stood out in his wrists. It hurt.

  Next, he splashed the liquid nitrogen on his neck. Again, the wound froze. The bleeding had stopped. He had no idea if that would stop the infection – after all, it had already gotten into his bloodstream –but at least he wouldn’t bleed out.

  Kirill found the detonator in his pocket. He still had options. He noticed a statue of Jesus on the cross. It had not been desecrated at all by the Mafia guys during their stay here. Looking at it, Kirill remembered Sasha’s speech about forgiving your enemies. Above the statue was a video camera. It seemed to be focused right on him.

  Someone was coming. Kirill got to his feet – this simple act was an enormous effort now. He hid behind a doorway and then saw who it was. Semyon.

  “Hey,” Kirill said weakly.

  Semyon froze, halfway in the motion of fleeing, before he realised it was Kirill.

  “Oh my God – Kirill …oh, no …you’ve been bitten.”

  “I haven’t got long left, Semyon. All that’s left to do is sell my life as dearly as possible. Now, I have a job for you.”

  44.

  THEN …

  The weights flew into the air. He held them up, gathering his spirit, and slowly lowered the barbell to his chest. It had barely touched him when he shoved the weight away from him again.

  Nearby, Harley was talking to Ross. It was difficult to hear them over the sounds of the boxing gym, heavy bags being hit and swinging, creaking on chains, people skipping rope, people in the ring sparring.

  Ross said, “The guy owes me money. I want him beaten for it, something he will always remember.”

  Harley was overweight, but in his younger days had been an athletic boxer. Years of high-intensity training and high-caloric eating had turned to mush almost overnight when he had retired as a fighter and become a coach instead, ordering the young lads around and directing them in their training. Still, his appearance was deceiving – he could still knock any man out with one punch.

  “Hey, no problem. I’ll put a couple of lads here on it. They go to his house late at night, bust the door in, and then bust his head in. He’ll see sense after that. And realise that he stole money from the wrong person.”

  Ross considered it. “I don’t know. This man is a tough guy, used to working security. He likely sees taking a beating as just another occupational hazard.”

  Ivan put the weights back on the rack. He sat up. Hands on his knees. He was breathing heavily. “Let me do it. I’ll sort him out.”

  Ross could barely hear Ivan over the slap of leather punching gloves hitting heavy bags. “He needs something psychological, something that will really fuck with him.”

  Ivan had a rat-like face, sleek; his body had no fat and instead was all chiselled muscle. “Simple. I’ll go over there and rape him.”

  Ross looked back to Harley, who was taking Ivan’s proposal seriously “You would do that?”

  “Sure,” said Ivan. “The job calls for him to get the message. He won’t forget me. I promise.”

  In the boxing ring, two fighters slowly circled each other, hands up protecting their heads. They each threw out left jabs, testing the other’s defenses, searching for vulnerabilities. One fighter made a mistake, his guard coming low, and this was immediately exploited by the other man who landed a punch on his face.

  Ivan was on his feet now. His singlet top clung to his sweaty body.

  “So what’s it going to be? Do we have a deal?”

  Ross looked to Harley and Ivan, “I want you two to work together on this. Clear?”

  “You got it, boss,” said Harley. “We’re the right men for the job.”

  Ross laughed and patted both men on the shoulder. “Great! I knew I could rely on you both. I’ll leave the details in your hands. Just let me know
when it’s all over with.”

  Ross turned and walked out of the boxing gym.

  Three months later, Ivan and Harley were in the boxing gym at night. Ivan was working the speed bag, his bandaged hands striking the bag which struck its wooden base and rebounded with blinding speed, but he always seemed to strike it again with perfect timing. He seemed almost bored as he punched his target.

  Harley was carrying some old gear, a mixture of old boxing gloves and skipping ropes.

  “Hey, Ivan, remember that guy we raped?”

  Ivan struck the speed bag with a heavy punch, leaving the bag rebounding for several moments.

  “Yeah, the tough guy,” he said, turning to face Harley. “I hoped he learned it’s wrong to steal from people. How’s he doing? Still robbing people?”

  “Don’t think so. He’s dead.”

  Ivan looked surprised. “Yeah? What happened?”

  “He killed himself.”

  “Holy shit!” Ivan sat down on a bench, head down. He looked first right, then left.

  “Wow!” he said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “That’s what you get,” said Harley. “He shouldn’t have done what he did.”

  “No, he shouldn’t have.”

  Outside, there was a scream. The sounds of people running through the streets.

  “What the fuck was that?” asked Harley.

  They both went to the window. Outside in the dark street, people were running from a thin crowd of strange people with bite marks and wounds on them. The zombies moved slowly, their quest for their next meal never ending.

  “What the hell is going on out there?” Ivan asked.

  “Shit, I just saw some person on fire.”

  “It’s chaos everywhere, people chasing and killing each other.” Ivan held the bars on the window to lever himself up for a better view. A searchlight shone briefly through the window, bathing his face in cold light. There were sirens and the sounds of gunfire. By now, other boxers had stopped training to see what was going on outside. There was general muttering concern and confusion. Some people tried their mobile phones only to find they did not work.

  Harley said, “It looks like the end of civilisation as we know it.”

  Very slowly, Harley and Ivan looked towards each other. Then they both laughed and high-fived each other.

  Twelve weeks later, Ivan and Harley were in the city of Chelyabinsk, a wall around the city now. Snow was falling. The streets were cold. Armies of zombies prowled the roads and were an ever-present danger. They lurked in every building. Harley and Ivan were right at home in this new environment. In many ways, this cold dangerous landscape reflected their own minds, their own dark souls cast into hellish un-life. They had never been happier.

  Ivan kicked the door of an apartment open. He was carrying a bag of groceries. “Honey, I’m home!”

  Harley laughed. He walked in behind Ivan carrying a broadsword casually over his shoulder. It was streaked with blood.

  Ivan set the groceries down on the counter where they overbalanced and spilt on the floor, some cans of soup rolling noisily and long packets of pasta sliding out. Ivan kicked a bag of dumplings out the way. It slid across the kitchen floor and came to a stop when it collided with a cat’s bowl, bone dry now.

  “Been a quiet day, Harley. We haven’t even seen anybody in two days now.”

  “They’re still out there. The people who are good at hiding will be the last ones to go. I’m sure there’re loads of people left. There may even be communities doing quite well.”

  “Are you fucking playing with me?” Ivan said through munching an apple. “Only a psychopath could survive out there.”

  “Which is why we’re doing so well!”

  Ivan laughed and sprayed pieces of apple like foam. “Yeah, that’s true.”

  Ivan went into the bedroom. There was a woman with her hands bound above her head, secured by a length of chain connected to the ceiling. She was wearing an oversized shirt belonging to a man, barely concealing her. Tangled hair fell over terrified eyes. She was probably in her late thirties, still attractive. A silk tie had been used to gag her, but she still cried out when she saw Ivan, trying to retreat although her binds made it impossible.

  “Did you think I forgot you, sweetheart?” Ivan held her jaw in one calloused hand. “Nah, wouldn’t happen. I’ve had you on my mind all day.”

  The young woman cried out again. Harley came into the room, regarding her with interest. Then he said, “You shouldn’t open your door to strangers, deyushka. Not even during a zombie apocalypse.”

  “Hell, especially during a zombie apocalypse!” said Ivan. Both men laughed.

  Later, Harley and Ivan were talking to Andre, the leader of the New Mafia. They were in the foyer of the Tank Academy, surrounded by Mafia killers. In the centre of the room was a homemade cage containing six zombies. Ivan regarded the caged monsters and then turned to Andre.

  “You sure have an eye for decorating. Not sure I’d like to feed your pets, though.”

  “Then don’t piss me off,” said Andre. Ivan’s eyes flared for a moment, the rage of a killer who is used to inflicting his will on others, but then calmed down. His jaw muscles relaxed. This was not a fight he could win.

  Andre said, “I have work for you, sure. Be very clear you understand that I am in charge here. If you ever try to cross me, I can have you shot from ten blocks away. Only it won’t be a head shot.” Andre smiled towards the six caged zombies.

  “Hey, we are totally on board,” said Harley. “When you work with us, you get two of the best. We won’t let you down, Andre.”

  The New Mafia boss nodded. “I’ll watch with great interest then while you carry out your first assignment.”

  The two men walked away. As they passed the enclosure with the Mafia zombies inside, Ivan stopped. Artom, who had been a Mafia boss in life, was straining through the metal to reach him.

  Ivan regarded him for long moments.

  “You tried to help me when no one else would. Anyone else would have left me in prison. But you always had my back, you gave me my freedom again. I’m sorry to see you like this, comrade.”

  He left.

  Their first mission was a surveillance role. They were holed up in an apartment overlooking the river. Harley had the binoculars pressed to his eyes with one hand; he was munching an energy bar and tearing it away with his other hand as his teeth clamped into it. The room was dark, dirty.

  “Yeah, that’s it, you son of a bitch,” Harley said, “I see you.”

  “What do you see?” Ivan dragged savagely on a cigarette. His tank top showed off his flawless abs.

  “A young malchik, running through the streets. It’s the same guy every day, gathering supplies and then running off. Yeah, there he goes.”

  “You can keep an eye out there and watch everything that’s going on. I’m going to stay focused right here.” He cast his eyes downwards at the two young people bound on the floor, a boy and girl, mid-twenties; they had been foolish enough to let two strangers in “distress” into their home. Now they regretted their decision, tears flooded down their faces. Both knew what Ivan and Harley had in store for them.

  “You know, I could have been a champion fighter.” Ivan held up a carving knife. It gleamed as he appraised it, momentarily lighting his eyes.

  “I was really good. Got up every day at six am to do my roadwork. Ran 10k every day. I could do twenty pull-ups. I turned up to every class, sometimes training four times a day. Would have been a champion, you know, if I hadn’t gone to prison.”

  He held up his right fist. The knuckles were tight and hard.

  “Know what they call this?”

  The young couple cried unintelligibly through their gags. Eyes wide.

  “The hammer. That’s what they called it. Because if I hit you with a right cross, it was like I had taken a hammer to your face. And make no mistake, I did that to a lot of people. Both in and out of the ring. See, I was a man for hi
re. I gave results. If you had the right money and you wanted someone hurt, I could make it happen. I was good at that, too.”

  He held the carving knife up with his left hand. “But I’m even better at cutting people. That’s something I have a gift for. I was a butcher’s apprentice, see. It helped pay the bills and allow me to keep boxing. I sure carved up a lot of animals. Funny thing is, if you stand a sheep up on its hind legs, it’s basically the same as a person. Real easy to cut through.”

  Ivan held the blade before the boy’s eyes. “You get to watch while I do your girl. Trust me, you’re going to like this, you’ll see how a real man does a girl.”

  To the young woman, he said, “You like me, don’t you? Shit, I like you. I like you a real lot. Anyone can fucking see that. There’s so much I want you to feel. I’m going to teach you a lesson, girl, in the worst possible way.”

  He loomed forward with the knife, teeth bared, seizing the girl’s dark hair painfully so that it was almost yanked out of her scalp. Her eyes bulged and neck veins stood up. She wet herself. Fluid pooled around her.

  “Shit! We got him!” said Harley.

  “What are you on about?”

  “The fucking tough guy, he’s talking to that kid who goes gathering supplies all the time. Seems the two of them are friends.”

  A look of disappointed confusion was on Ivan’s face.

  “Grab your kit and let’s go.” Harley picked up his jacket as he walked away from the window, for it was cold in Chelyabinsk. “The Nightmare Man’s riding out on a motorcycle. We better not let him out of our sight.”

  Ivan sighed deeply. “Some fucking bastard is stopping my fun. Okay. Your lucky day.”

  He stood in a lightning movement, agile as a cat, regarding the hostages thoughtfully, then flung the knife into the floor. It landed in the floorboards and thrummed for a few moments between them.

  “Take care of yourselves, kids, and don’t go fucking letting people you don’t know into your home,” Ivan said as he left. He closed the door behind him.

  Days later, they were back at the Tank Academy, downing beers. Ivan had his feet up on the table. Harley was too heavy to do that so he sat with his hands on his knees, the binoculars slung around his neck.