The Nightmare Man: A Russian Zombie Novel

by Mick Franklin

  Chris came into the room, carrying a handgun. He immediately put it back in its holster, then withdrew it again, like he was a gunslinger from the wild west.

  “Be careful with that thing,” said John. “You’re going to shoot yourself in the foot one day.”

  “Nah, I’ll be okay, I practice all the time,” said Chris. He wiped his hands down the front of his military fatigues and adjusted his cap.

  “Could do with a beer, though,” he said.

  “Great, just what we need,” said John, “an idiot with a gun who’s also hallucinating.”

  “Relax, I won’t shoot you,” said Chris, picking up a beer from the table. He couldn’t find a bottle opener so his first instinct was to draw the gun again, holding the barrel to the top of the barrel to shoot it off. The gun was aimed through the bottle and directly at Stevie.

  “Wait a minute,” said Chris, “I could lose some beer if I do it this way. Better find a bottle opener. John, what happened to our bottle opener?”

  “No idea, Chris. Maybe Mick took it with him.”

  “Well, when’s he going to be back? It’s beer o’clock here, and I always shoot better after I’ve had a few beers!”

  “Yeah, well, just you stick with the handguns this time. I don’t want you firing a machine gun again while you’re under the influence.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Chris waved him away, “I learned my lesson. It was funny, though. I had to attend a corporate seminar on gun safety.”

  “Oh, right? And how did that go? You learn anything?”

  “Nah, I had six beers before I went there.”

  Mick came back into the room. “The zombies are fed. We can relax for the rest of the day now.”

  “Good stuff, buddy!” said John. “I see Biter gave you a scare.”

  “Yeah, he’s a psychopath.”

  Mick leaned forward to study the monitor screens. Most of them showed the inside of zombie cells, but several also showed areas like the cafeteria and vacant hallways. Mick was searching for one cell in particular. He saw one screen that said “Cedric.” Inside was a giant man with long black hair wearing a kilt. His zombie face was painted blue. Another screen showed a Mafia gangster zombie there in a suit; he had cold black eyes that seemed to pierce the monitor screen. Another room held a young female zombie who looked like she had been beautiful in life.

  Finally, he found it.

  “There he is. Biter. That’s one highly dangerous zombie,” said Mick.

  “I think they’re all dangerous zombies,” said John. “That’s why they’re in here.”

  “Well, okay, you know what I mean.”

  “Hey, Mick,” said Chris, “You got the bottle opener?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Mick took the bottle opener from his pocket and threw it to Chris, who managed to catch it with both hands even though he was still holding the gun.

  “Why did you take the bottle opener when you were feeding the zombies?” Stevie asked from the couch. Chris was opening himself a beer.

  “I thought it was best I took it with me,” said Mick, “for safety.”

  “Good thinking,” said Chris, taking a swig of beer while he twirled the gun around his finger.

  He stopped. “Shit, I better put the safety on.”

  Mick returned to the screen. Biter prowled about his cell, a caged lion. The Russian man looked like he had been strong when he had been alive.

  “Hey, some mail arrived,” said Stevie.

  “Great,” said John. “What have we got here? Fan mail? Or just bills?”

  John took the envelope off Stevie. “This arrived last week! You should have given this to me earlier!”

  “Sorry, man,” said Stevie. “Looks important, though. That writing looks like it’s from Russia.”

  “I think you’re right, Big Stevie,” said John, opening the letter. He took the letter out. His face was shocked.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mick.

  “Some guy called the Nightmare Man said he’s coming to kill us. He said that Biter is his brother, and he’s not happy that we’re keeping him here like this.”

  “Is that him?” asked Stevie. “On the monitor over there? I can see someone walking towards us.”

  All eyes went to the monitor. The Nightmare Man was advancing up the corridor, carrying a machine gun. He seemed to be looking not only into the camera, but right into the room and into the very hearts of the men standing there.

  Kirill raised the gun and fired once, destroying the camera.

  There was only darkness.

  Read on for a free sample of The Creeping Dead

  “Come death, if you will: you cannot divide us; you can only unite us.”

  -Franz Grillparzer

  “There is no death, because the wand of truth can change the driest bones to living things, and bring the loveliest flowers from stagnant ponds, and turn the most discordant notes to harmony and praise.”

  -The Aquarian Gospel

  “In the democracy of the dead, all men are equal.”

  -Anonymous

  “Death knocks impartially at the door of the poor man’s shop and the prince’s palace.”

  -Horace

  “We cannot tell. We do not know. But whether death is an end or the beginning, we must not fear. For death is perfect rest and peace. The dead do not suffer.”

  -Robert Ingersoll

  “What is death? A mask. Turn it and be convinced. See, it does not bite.”

  -Epictetus

  “Your enemy is your greatest teacher.”

  -Buddhist saying

  “Love your enemy not because he is your enemy but because beneath his enmity is the eternal fact of brotherhood.”

  -Harold Marshall

  “It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.”

  -William Blake

  “You carry heaven and hell with you.”

  -Ramana Maharshi

  Thank you to my Russian friends, Sasha, Rhyza, Masha, and Kirill.

  Chapter 1

  August 21

  “This is Mark Altman here on the Jersey Shore, in the small resort town of Smuggler’s Bay, in the midst of two strong weather fronts culminating in what is becoming Superstorm Rodney.”

  The cameraman followed him up a wooden ramp. As the camera jostled around a bit, Mark Altman’s hat blew off his head, and his raincoat and hair flapped madly in the wind.

  “As you can see, we are now up on the Smuggler’s Bay boardwalk, and—right behind me (the camera pans and zooms past Mark’s shoulder)—you can see the surf encroaching up the beach, practically to the boardwalk.”

  The sky was a dark gray, and the clouds raced by as if something chased them. The ocean surged up the beach, the sand no longer visible under the churning surf.

  “Pretty soon the water will be washing up onto the boardwalk and eventually into the residential community behind it.”

  Shouts came from behind the cameraman. A few police officers emerged into view.

  “We have now with us members of the local law enforcement.”

  One officer stepped in front of the camera and addressed Mark directly. “You can’t be out here right now,” he shouted over the howling winds, the boom microphone bouncing off of his blue cap. “It’s too dangerous!”

  Everybody ducked and flinched as a wall of water hit the public restroom behind them, off to the right, splashing vertically into the air, sending foam and spray across the boardwalk.

  “See what I mean?” shouted the Chief into Mark’s face.

  The camera panned right, zooming down the boardwalk. Water surged over the edge of the boardwalk, through the green chain linked fence, and around potted palm trees and wooden benches. The sky ride chairs swung in the high winds.

  “What’s that?” asked the cameraman, lowering the camera and pointing.

  In the distance, figures shambled down the boardwalk. There were about a dozen of them, spread apart.

  “Those…those are people,” said M
ark in astonishment. “There are people walking down the boardwalk?”

  “Jesus Christ,” said the Chief. He turned to Mark. “Get off this boardwalk, now!” He motioned to his officers, and they took off down the boardwalk toward the walkers.

  Mark Altman didn’t miss a beat. “There you have it from Chief Holbrook, the boardwalk is no longer a safe place to be. The various businesses and shops are all boarded-up, sandbags forming what will likely be a futile barrier against the relentless surf now encroaching on the boardwalk.”

  The camera was still focused on the police officers as they splashed their way toward the oblivious pedestrians.

  Mark continued his commentary off camera. “They’re walking erratically…they appear to be…intoxicated. Don’t you worry, the Chief will make sure they’re escorted off the boardwalk to safety…excuse me.”

  The camera wheeled back around to find Mark with his back turned toward a couple more walkers, a man and a woman, closing in on them.

  “Excuse me,” Mark shouted at them over the howling wind, rain battering his face and fogging up his glasses. “It’s not safe on the boardwalk.”

  The man and woman either were unable to hear him, or they just ignored him, and kept walking toward Mark, the rain and the camera lens fogging up, blurring their features.

  “Mark, there’s something wrong with them,” said the cameraman.

  Now only fifty or so feet away, the walkers’ features came into view. They both had dark circles around their eyes and a strange pallor to their skin. The girl walked as if her feet were shackled, and the man was dragging his right foot sideways on its ankle behind him.

  “They don’t look so good,” said Mark to the cameraman. Then to the walkers, “Are you hurt? Do you need assistance? Larry, wait here. I’ll go get the Chief.”

  “Okay,” answered the cameraman nervously.

  Mark handed Larry his microphone and took off down the boardwalk toward the Chief and his men. The camera wheeled around again, the features of the closing walkers becoming more distinct. The man’s lip was curled up in a sneer, his eyes wide. The girl was…grinning, her eyes wild. They were reaching out for the camera.

  The cameraman started to back away from them, the camera half-pointed downward, filming the walkers’ feet. A bone jutted out of the side of the man’s ankle, its sharp end scraping the wood of the boardwalk planks. It stuck out farther every time the man put weight on it, while the foot flopped around on the boardwalk, splashing in the water.

  “Mark! Oh, Jesus…Mark!”

  Suddenly, the camera jerked up as the cameraman collided with something behind him. Hands reached around, forearms blocking the view of the camera as the cameraman screamed into the howling wind.

  There were wet ripping and growling sounds as the man and woman caught up, their faces popping in and out of view as the camera swung back and forth.

  There was a loud crashing sound as water came rushing into frame, covering the cameraman’s feet. The camera dropped to the ground, and the picture went black.

  The network cut the audio when the cameraman’s screams died down into gurgling and the growls turned into ravenous chomping.

  The Creeping Dead is available from Amazon here.