Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse

by E. E. Isherwood

  World of Zombies

  A Sirens of the Zombie Apocalypse Story

  © 2017 E.E. Isherwood. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Table of Contents

  World of Zombies

  Sample of Since the Sirens

  Sample of Sky Dancers

  About E.E. Isherwood

  Other books by E.E. Isherwood

  Connect with E.E. Isherwood

  World of Zombies

  Yelizaveta Saratov couldn’t have been more bored in the boutique if she’d tried. She dreamed of running away from her life and starting over. A life where she wasn’t under constant surveillance. A life where her husband didn’t dictate every meaningful interaction of each day. A life where she could say that most precious of words: “Nyet!”

  The morning had been an endless procession of new outfits. The help brought a train of professionally designed ensembles, hoping she would buy them. She tried to refuse, but in a master stroke of irony she simply couldn’t say no. No matter how hard she pretended disinterest in the blouses, skirts, and miscellaneous undergarments, she wasn’t in the mood to role-play the wealthy socialite who demanded rubles off the price for imaginary slights against otherwise well-crafted garments. It was a game she played to fight off the monotony of money. Today she found herself saying nothing but yes.

  She could always have Ilia's team return them.

  She glanced over to her “handler.” Ilia was nearby, as always. He was mindlessly thumbing through a magazine, looking up frequently to scrutinize people running by on Arbat Street. Like many of her husband's security force, he had broad shoulders and was built like a tank. Like most of them, he was nekulturny—uncultured. He’d probably been ogling her the whole time she was trying on new clothes. He insisted she never leave his sight, though he had the professionalism to at least pretend not to look at her. Most times.

  “Animals,” she thought.

  Because of the chaos in other parts of the city, Mr. Yuri Saratov insisted she go out with his two best men. They found one shop still open for business. Only after she’d been ushered inside did it dawn on her it had been held open just for her. Probably because her husband called in a favor or, more likely, simply demanded it.

  Her mood turned increasingly sour the more she stared out through the otherwise cheery front display windows. She wasn't supposed to have feelings like this. Of being trapped in her perfect world.

  If only she could have left the handlers out there.

  It was fun to pretend she could refuse any directive from him—such as forgetting to allow the security goons to come in with her—she grudgingly accepted it was a game she played. In reality she had no choice in such matters. It came with the territory.

  She couldn’t say no.

  But she didn’t have to like it. Or make it easy for them. The Bugatti had room for two. She could have had Pavel—the cuter of the two guards—ride with her. She could flash her cleavage and stretch her long legs as she motored the silly race car down the ancient Moscow roadways. That was another distraction she indulged to pass the time, though she knew it was risky to even pretend she had eyes for anyone else. It was most dangerous to flirt when her husband was out of the city.

  “Heightened surveillance,” he’d called it. “To keep you safe, while I’m over the horizon.”

  She giggled at the right time, and blushed at his wink, but she was a smart woman. It meant Yuri spied on her.

  That’s why it was easier—had she wanted to engage in such things—working her charms on the security team. Inwardly she cringed at the thought. That boy Pavel might have the face—and hair, oh, god, yes—of a model, but he had the mind of a soldier. There was no way she’d allow him to mess up her pristine upholstery. That was too far, even for flirtation.

  The white innocence of the silk cami in her hand betrayed a festering wound in her soul. The loneliness of having his pocketbook, but not his attention.

  A police car flipped on sirens right outside the shop. That, at least, got Ilia out of his chair. She mocked him to his back as he went toward the front of the store, leaving her momentarily alone.

  Free of him, she hopped behind the curtain and stripped naked. In ten seconds she’d expertly slid the camisole on and indulged herself in the softness on her skin. She’d grabbed a set of panties and had one leg in when Ilia swept the curtain aside like he owned her.

  “What are you doing, you khuy—dick?”

  “You'd like that, wouldn't you?” His smile was suggestive for an instant, but flicked back to business mode. “We have to leave.”

  Unlike most of their interactions the past few years—even the uncomfortable ones—this time he openly looked her up and down without the slightest trace of embarrassment or regret. She shifted uncomfortably.

  An array of angry words lined up inside her, ready to unload on him the second she had herself properly clothed. However, when she had her underwear on he still hadn’t moved. Her anger turned to fear as she realized how vulnerable she was. Her eyes met his, hoping to chase his gaze away like a scared cat. A poor, worthless, cat. Even that didn’t work!

  Without thinking it, she crossed her arms across her chest.

  “Where’s Pavel?” she asked, in her bravest voice.

  That got him to look over his shoulder, but only for a moment. “He’s here. We’re in a difficult spot, you see. The boss gave us instructions for you, and we’re trying to decide if we should carry them out, now.”

  Again he looked her up and down.

  “He told you to watch me dress?” That was obviously untrue because he’d always watched her dress. But never like this.

  Ilia laughed with a hint of impatience. “No. But what he asked is almost as impossible as your legs. I’m trying to decide if we should cut our losses. Maybe those sweet cheeks didn’t make it, huh?”

  Her insides turned cold. Besides the two armed men assigned to protect her, only the bitchy old store owner was in the boutique. And she’d conveniently gone absent.

  The carnal eyes were deciding if she would prostitute herself.

  Fighting the first instinct to demand answers because of who she was, she sought her old methods of persuasion from before she’d gotten married. Her looks demanded a certain finesse to diffuse numerous, often clumsy, attempts to bed her. As much as she secretly enjoyed the attempts, that wasn’t her style.

  Being married to one of the wealthiest men in Russia, she’d spent plenty of time in the company of call girls. Though prostitution was not officially sanctioned by the authorities, everyone pretended. The visiting executives pretended the buxom girls were proper wives, at least for the first half of the evening. The young ladies pretended the gifts given to them in the hotel lobbies were genuine and spontaneous, and not filled with money and gifts for the elderly babushka sitting in an old wooden chair in a nearby hallway. She was the only one who didn’t need to pretend what she was. Who would arrest an old woman?

  Yelizaveta acknowledged her whole life was fake, like everyone around her.

  Still, she wasn’t a whore. The bonds of her young marriage were rusty, and she did enjoy flirting with a few men, but she'd never break her vow to Yuri. Even a threat to her face wouldn’t make her budge on that.

  She spoke
loudly, hoping Pavel was close enough to hear. “Was there a problem with the police? I can be ready to go in a mo—”

  “That’s just it,” Ilia broke in. “I’m not sure we’re ready to let you go.”

  She fought to keep her eyes from watering up. The fear she felt was razor sharp in her stomach, but she knew the man well enough to know crying would do nothing to change his mind.

  He was a soldier.

  2

  Ilia looked into her eyes and she knew it was hopeless. His muscles tensed. He’s made up his mind.

  A loud crash of glass from the front of the store startled them both.

  The spell was broken, but his eyes became even more malicious. Liza’s honor and probably her life were in his hands in those moments of decision.

  His fist was up in her face before she knew it was moving. But he didn’t hit her.

  “If you say anything. To anyone. I’ll be sure you regret it.”

  His piercing blue eyes were bottomless pits of emptiness. Liza dared herself to peer into them, wondering how she’d missed it all those years. To anyone else she could remind him who she was married to, but he already knew and didn’t care.

  More breakage from the front. Pavel yelled something in words that refused to make sense. The two of them were frozen in time, outside normal space and order.

  The fist became a hand and his demeanor shifted as smoothly as the Bug’s transmission. “We move in sixty seconds. Leave everything. Get dressed, if you want, but I think you’d be just fine in what you’ve got on.”

  His eyes flashed hatred, but only for a moment. With a skilled backpedal he left the room. He never put his back to her, as if afraid she might try something dangerous.

  When she was positive he wasn’t coming back, she let loose with deep breaths and steadied herself inside the changing closet. Aware of what had been demanded of her, she began dressing.

  “Sixty seconds,” she mused, welcoming the distraction. Picking clothes was normally a long, lazy morning followed by a pampered afternoon massage.

  “This.” She pointed to black leather pants.

  “This.” A white, long-sleeved, button-down shirt. Casual, but a minimal defense for the endless Russian cold that lingered even this far into June.

  “And these.” The shoes were her biggest gamble. Fashionable sandals. The straps were designed to go around and up her ankle, but she’d worn them before and knew they were surprisingly comfortable. Something told her comfort was more important than “being seen,” wherever they were going.

  Shouts from the front.

  She was just reaching for her pants when Ilia stuck his head back in. “We leave, now!”

  His deep voice scared her in the shock of its volume, but she wasn’t ready. Not even close.

  “I’m not dressed,” she declared with typical condescension.

  He strode a few paces inside the changing suite. She expected him to continue yelling, but he grabbed her arm and led her out.

  “No!” she said, realizing what was about to happen.

  “I can’t go out like this.” She gyrated, and actually managed to break free. It surprised him as much as her.

  “Liza, you spoiled brat, I don’t give one god damn what you want.” He made for her again.

  She lunged for the pants and shoes. At least those were close together.

  Ilia pulled her so hard she lost her footing. The big man carried her out of the room with one powerful arm under her stomach. She was aware there was nothing between her and the rest of the world but a sheer pair of panties.

  “I’m going. I’m going,” she pleaded. “What's wrong with you?”

  He’d gotten her halfway to the exit when he let her drop. “Shoes. Now. Or we leave you.”

  She scanned the front of the store from her knees. The owner was on the floor, near where the windows were supposed to be. A pool of red surrounded her cheery pink skirt.

  Pavel was hunched over her.

  Liza blinked in awe. He wiped an impossibly large knife on the woman’s skirt, as if to clean it. A second body was next to her, though the amount of blood made it hard to identify what had happened.

  It doesn't concern you.

  “Shoes!” Ilia pushed her to her task.

  “What’s going on here?” she said softly. “What happened to Constance?”

  “You have ten seconds,” was all she got back.

  The tears made it difficult to get the sandals on her feet. The shakes made it impossible to tie them properly. She did her best, but would win no marks for high culture today.

  Ilia pulled her to her feet and the three of them walked—or got dragged—out the front door. She was thankful she grabbed the shoes rather than the shirt. Her feet would have been ripped to shreds on all the broken glass. The pants remained fixed to her elbow; she’d put them on the first chance she had.

  Walking the streets of Moscow in panties, a cami, and sandals would have been scandal any other day of the week. Endless photographs would show up in the trade mags and many would end up on Yuri’s desk. A shame, too, as she'd have to explain in ten different ways how it wasn't what it looked like.

  When she was in the open air all fears of paparazzi melted away.

  If only that was my biggest problem, she lamented.

  3

  She’d walked into the beginnings of a riot now tumbling itself down the wide avenue from her right. A car or two sped away from the commotion, fronts covered in blood and gore.

  “This is a pedestrian-only street,” she protested, ignoring the special exemption Yuri got for her. Money allowed her to drive where others couldn't. Especially not cars covered in that.

  A block to her right, where one would usually find the quiet bustle of street shoppers, there was a—she searched for the proper word—horde? Mob? A mob-like horde of angry, screaming, yelling citizens. They walked at a brisk pace and barely slowed when they reached the cross street. A few cars and one ungainly sewage truck sped maniacally across their path before the intersection was closed completely. The truck clipped one person, sending body parts flying.

  “What’s—”

  A firm hand pulled her along. Stronger than usual shouts and curses were directed at her from her protectors, but she couldn’t stop rubber-necking the mob.

  Several people ran on the tops of the row of two-story buildings across the street. She could see them in profile. Here and there one would get too close to the edge and stumble over the side. It struck her how they flailed their arms but didn’t seem to scream. Perhaps she just couldn’t hear it above all the other shouting.

  “Those people are dying,” she said aloud, though to herself. “What’s—”

  Ilia opened the door to his Rover and instantly shoved her inside. Her face met the far door handle as she sailed across the back seat. The taste of blood was raw. She pulled herself up the seat back and faced the rear window. From there she only saw the top of her Bugatti parked one car back. They weren’t going to get it for her. It was one indignity too many.

  “You will get my car!” she screamed, forgetting their discussion back in the changing room. “Yuri will kill you if you lose it. Both of you!”

  Yuri had never been violent toward her, but she could imagine him getting worked up if she lost a multi-million ruble car.

  Pavel looked at her from the passenger seat like she’d just broken his cat in half. She felt a millisecond of remorse that her real target was still outside, walking around the front with a deep scowl and a deliberate effort not to look at the crowd heading his way. She saw it again, too. He got in just as she ran out of steam.

  When he slammed the door and turned over the engine, her anger changed back to fear. The advancing rioters weren’t normal. Some of the people were down on all fours, running almost as fast as the others were speed-walking. A few sprinted in random directions like molecules gone wild. Some ran in and out of the crowd. Some ran and tumbled through plate glass windows along the edge of the avenue.


  A young woman with one sneaker ran by screaming for all she was worth.

  “Go!” she shouted. “Drive, you idiot.”

  Ilia cursed under his breath, but pushed the shifter into gear and gunned the engine. She rolled hard to the right side of the back seat, instantly regretting she’d neglected her seatbelt. If the door was unsecured she might have gone flying right out.

  The lack of other vehicles and window shoppers was a blessing on the normally busy street. He turned them away from the horde but put his foot on the brake before the expected burst of speed. She glanced longingly at her golden car, now on her left.

  “Christ,” Pavel cried. “How’d we miss this?”

  Ilia sighed loudly. “Because Ms. suka had to go shopping while the world craps the bed around her. That’s why.”

  Hearing him call her a bitch right in front of her was almost as shocking as being dragged half-naked through the streets. Yuri would be furious, and when Yuri was furious …

  A line of black-clad foot police extended from one side of the street to the other, blocking their path. They were a line of chess pieces opposite the arriving citizens. They wore big helmets and face masks and had riot shields in a neat row. The group stood in front of an immense moving wall of steel about the width of the two-lane street. It was painted deep blue, and the word “OMOH” was stenciled on the front in huge white letters—the name of Omon, the Russian riot police. A large, forklift-like truck supported the wall from behind. Much of it was visible underneath the six-foot gap below the elevated structure.

  “I don't think the cosmonauts are going to let us through,” Pavel tossed out, a note of panic within his words.

  “No?” Ilia thought for a few seconds. “No. Maybe not. But we can't leave the Rover. Not with what we've got in the back. We’ll need it when we get out of the city.”

  Liza sat up. “We’re leaving?”

  Those eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. “Look around, princess. This is probably happening everywhere, now. Our impossible mission is to keep you alive. Okay? So you don’t mind a little drive, do you?”

  She forced her hands to still themselves by holding them together on her bare knees.