The Sven the Zombie Slayer Trilogy (Books 1-3): World of the Dead

by Guy James

  Somewhere in the distance, Lorie heard barking. Underwater barking? Were the tendrils barking? Suddenly Lorie was sure that it was the tendrils. Barking and…and there was something else that her mind could not fully grasp. It was a sound that she had heard before, somewhere else, somewhere far away.

  Abruptly, the distance between Lorie and the barking and the other noises shortened, like an automatically retractable cord being wound back into place after its button was pressed.

  Lorie’s eyes snapped open.

  “Stupid railing,” she muttered. “Who makes railings with only one safety bar? Who? Can’t even support my weight…seriously?”

  The barking grew louder. The intervals between the barks shortened.

  All the pain in all the injured parts of her body roared to life at the same time. She wanted to scream, but she could feel that would only make the pain worse.

  Her vision swam in and out of focus as it resolved. Lorie recognized the sounds around her and she knew, even before her vision had cleared, that wherever she now was would become her tomb.

  97

  THE WOODS OF RURAL VIRGINIA

  The vegan with the handlebar moustache was moving. His eyelids fluttered, opened, and he saw the snow-covered ground of the forest retreating from his feet. His hands were tied over his head and he was being dragged backward through the snow. His ankles were bound with a thin, brown cord.

  There was something in his mouth, restricting his ability to breathe and speak. He shook his head from side to side and the ends of a brown cord swung into view—the same kind of brown cord that bound his feet. He looked up, dredging up dull pain in his head. He remembered the man with the silver briefcase, and being shot in the chest, then being beaten with the butt of a large gun until the light of the world winked out.

  Raising his head as far as he could through the pain, the vegan saw that his hands were bound with the same brown cord that bound his ankles and mouth. The cord that bound his hands was hooked to a crude device that looked like a crowbar, and was attached by straps to the back of the man with the silver briefcase. It was a simple harness, similar to harnesses that the vegan had used in his avocado distribution days to pull avocado carts around.

  It had been a long time, subjectively, since his last Lucky, but the vegan’s human-devouring urges still bubbled below the surface. He decided that his earlier assumption—that absorbing the moisture of the snow through his feet kept his inner ghoul confined—was correct.

  The vegan watched the trail that was formed by the dragging of his tied feet. The ground was not uniformly snow-covered; dried shoots and mossy rocks sprung up on occasion, and the vegan tried to avoid these irregularities, not in order to keep his feet whole, but to minimize the disturbance to the plant life that he was being dragged over. He was doing more damage than he would have liked, however, because it was hard to predict when the plant outcroppings would crop up, being that he was being pulled backward.

  Watching the course that he was charting in the snow with his feet, the vegan reflected on what the proper course of action was at this stage of the journey. To wait, he decided, was what was asked of him at this point. He watched his feet drag for a little while longer, and noted that the weakening snow flurries had only miniscule success in covering his tracks.

  The vegan looked away from the ground and inspected his chest, looking for a bullet hole. There was a dull, pinching pain in the lower left quadrant of his rib cage. There he found a small entry hole in his plaid, flannel shirt. He decided that the bullet had entered there, and guessed that it was lodged inside his body now, though he wasn’t sure of that. He shrugged it off mentally. There was little pain from the shooting and beating, and only slight discomfort in his wrists and shoulders from being dragged. It was wholly bearable.

  The man with the silver briefcase—the vegan couldn’t see the briefcase because of the way he was being dragged, but assumed the man still had it because the vegan could hear its contents sloshing about—stopped, coughed up some phlegm, spat in the snow, and then blew his nose. Then he resumed dragging the vegan, muttering at irregular intervals in a language that the vegan would have recognized had he not been beaten on the head an hour earlier.

  Dazed and armed only with a muddled presence of mind, the vegan waited for whatever was to come next. It came sooner than he expected.

  The man with the silver briefcase stopped again, and the vegan, his hands suddenly unhooked from the harness, fell, and his head hit the ground. He looked up to see the man with the silver briefcase bending over him. The man no longer had the gas mask on his face. The vegan couldn’t see where the mask had gone. The vegan did see the gun though; the man with the silver briefcase was holding the weapon at his side.

  “I did not expect you to wake up so soon,” he said. “But since you are awake, this is as good a time as any for us to make our introductions.” He smiled, then grimaced and sneezed, turning his head politely away from the vegan. “Excuse me,” he said, then blew his nose with a bare hand and flicked the mucous from his fingers with a practiced motion. “Don’t worry,” he said, smiling, a fleck of snot caught in his bushy moustache, “we won’t be shaking hands right now. My name is Dr. Zamirsky, Dr. Vladimir Zamirsky. I am sure you haven’t heard of me, though I can assure you that you are familiar with my work. Please forgive me for the somewhat rude good morning—you know, with the shooting and hitting you on the head. I knew it would not harm you, and it was more important that we make progress then. Now, we have a few moments.”

  “You were in a rush,” the vegan said. He tried to shrug, but his shoulders were already pulled upward nearly out of their sockets, so the movement was barely discernible.

  “That’s right,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “I was. We had to get out of range of…well, we’ll talk more about that later. What’s your name?”

  The vegan with the handlebar moustache stared up at the thick, upside-down, snot-infused moustache. “My name’s Randy,” the vegan managed to say through the cord in his mouth, and out of habit added, “Nice to meet you.”

  “Southern hospitality.” Dr. Zamirsky chortled. “It’s very nice to meet you, Randy. I apologize for the rope in your mouth, but I must take precautions. I don’t want to attract too much attention at this stage. And I can understand you just fine with it, don’t worry about that.”

  “Where are we going?” the vegan asked.

  “To a safe place, Randy. A place where we can be alone and talk while—” Dr. Zamirsky looked thoughtful, “—while the events of the world take place around us. Somewhere that will remain untouched through it.”

  “Through what?” the vegan said, knowing the answer.

  Dr. Zamirsky sighed contentedly. “Through my life’s work, Randy. Through…through mankind’s final plague.”

  Randy stared at Dr. Zamirsky and the two men said nothing for a few moments. Then Dr. Zamirsky turned away and blew his nose with his hand again. When he turned back to the vegan, the fleck of snot in his moustache was gone.

  “Now,” Dr. Zamirsky said, “you must excuse what I’m about to do, for it’s not out of a lack of respect for you. It’s just that the place we are going must remain a secret, and you can under no circumstances be allowed to learn its location. That would defeat its purpose.”

  “I understand,” the vegan said.

  Dr. Zamirsky bent lower over the vegan and eyed him curiously.

  “Yes,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “I see that you do.”

  Then, in a flash of metal, Dr. Zamirsky brought the butt of the gun down on Randy’s head, aiming for Randy’s temple. He brought it down over and over again until Randy’s eyes closed.

  Dr. Zamirsky regarded the results of his handiwork, satisfied. Then he stood, put the gun away, and reattached the harness to the cord that bound Randy’s hands. Dr. Zamirsky resumed his trek through the woods. He was progressing at an angle to the rising sun, which afforded no palpable warmth. He savored the chill air, and the snow that fell around him—
though he regretted that the storm was waning—and he cursed the simple, unsophisticated cold virus that his immune system was now battling.

  “How frightfully ironic,” Dr. Zamirsky muttered to himself in Russian, “to be gripped by a pathetic cold virus while the rest of humanity is gripped by the virus I myself engineered. How funny. If I were a poet I should write a poem about it.”

  He coughed, cleared his throat, and spat some more phlegm on the snow.

  “Perhaps this Randy is a poet,” he mused. “If my perfect luck holds, he will be.”

  Dr. Zamirsky marked his progress with occasional glances at his GPS tracking unit. He was getting close, and he knew that it was critical in this phase of the plague to remain on schedule. Wishing for a cup of scalding hot, strong, black tea, and motivating himself with the thought, Dr. Zamirsky leaned forward and trudged faster.

  98

  CHELSEA MARKET BASEMENT, NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  The circle of zombies around Lorie closed in, losing and regaining its shape as the zombies drew nearer, moving in and out of formation.

  Lorie blinked and the shapes and shadows around her sharpened. They resolved and became grotesque deformities, animated solely by the virus.

  The barking grew louder.

  The pain in the back of Lorie’s head intensified.

  Her upper back and the side of her face began to throb, radiating barbs of pain outward.

  Lorie searched for an emotion relating to her current situation. She found none. She tried to conjure up some feelings...any feelings. Nothing came. She guessed that her emotions, though dormant at that moment, still lived somewhere. Lorie dropped this thought with the same clinical coldness with which she had considered its import. It was time to move.

  She curled up, reached behind her, and stopped herself just short of springing to her feet.

  “Krav Maga dies hard,” she managed. She ditched the intended movement and rolled over slowly. She rose to her feet tentatively and steadied herself. The pain was immense.

  “I can stand,” she said. The words literally stung the side of her face.

  She reached up and let her fingers brush against her face. The mask was gone, replaced by a bloody gash. Lorie recalled the impact, and the give in the mask’s material as it had broken.

  “Don’t breathe,” she reminded herself.

  She took a few shallow breaths through her nose then held her breath.

  Lorie looked to her left. There was a dog next to her.

  It was a large dog…an Akita.

  The Akita was circling Lorie, growling and barking at the approaching zombies. Its bark was vicious, and attended by heavy sprays of saliva. The dog, Lorie could see, meant business.

  Lorie looked around and got her bearings. She was in what looked like a basement storeroom.

  “How did I get here?” she mouthed, continuing to hold her breath. The pain in Lorie’s head made her want to throw up. There was an uncomfortable feeling of pressure in her throat. She caught a glimpse of her right hand and noticed the missing nail. A partial scab had formed on the wound. There was still room for a trickle of blood.

  The zombies moaned as they stumbled closer, their infernal hunger growing desperate.

  The Akita shortened its circling radius and slowed. A whimper died in the dog’s throat.

  Lorie spun in place, slowly taking in each zombie in the circle. There were about two dozen. Now that she looked more closely, Lorie could see that there were actually two circles: an inner circle and an outer circle. She saw no significant breaks in the formation.

  “I was right,” she said. “This is it.” Her face was expressionless.

  Lorie’s body requested air. She denied the request.

  She looked at the Akita. The dog was quiet now. It was watching Lorie.

  You dragged me out of the cold, Lorie thought, and held them off as long as you could. She tried to feel grateful.

  The Akita jabbed its snout into Lorie’s side.

  “I know,” Lorie said, feeling indifferent. “I’m working on it.”

  The Akita snorted, and Lorie remembered that she was supposed to be careful about breathing in too much. It was becoming difficult for Lorie to concentrate…difficult to remember…to…

  The undead circles of death closed in around her.

  99

  SVEN, JANE, AND LORIE’S APARTMENT, SUTTON PLACE, NEW YORK

  Jane’s head was resting on Sven’s shoulder. Her breathing was light and rapid. Her eyes were closed, and Sven thought that she had finally managed to fall asleep a short while after daybreak.

  They were huddled in a corner of the den, where they had gone after Sven returned from his encounter with Milt. They had made a valiant effort to stay on top of and be responsive to the communication on the New York City Outbreak Readiness Public Forum. After a time, fatigue had overcome them.

  A half empty jug of water was standing in front of them, just beyond Sven’s outstretched legs.

  Ivan was curled up in his green and brown cat bed in a corner, sleeping soundly. His water dish and food bowl were in front of his bed, where Sven had placed them for easy access.

  “Ivan Drago,” Sven mouthed, and smiled. “You’re a good cat.” He watched the steady rise and fall of Ivan’s side for a few moments, then turned to Jane.

  Sven’s mind went backward several hours and he remembered Jane’s soundless sobs. They’d gone on for a long time. Neither of them had slept until Jane fell asleep that morning, but each had tried to remain still and quiet through the night, hoping that the other would get some rest.

  “You’re the most amazing and beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” Sven whispered. He kissed Jane’s cheek, then her forehead. She murmured something.

  Sven stood slowly, bent down, and scooped Jane up in his arms. He carried her to her bed and put her down. He covered her with a blanket, got a bottle of water that he set on the nightstand by her, and went into the kitchen.

  Knowing that Jane could wake up any minute and try to stop him, Sven gulped down some water, grabbed two protein bars, and, clutching his sole remaining machete, crept out of the apartment.

  100

  UNMARKED BUNKER, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, U.S.A.

  The vegan with the handlebar moustache began to regain consciousness. His eyes opened, took in the bright light, and shut again.

  “Good morning yet again, my friend,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “Although it is not really morning anymore…we are closing in on noon. Welcome to my personal bunker…my safe room, if we are to use Mr. Sven’s primitive terminology. This is a safe room that is actually capable of carrying out its function, because if anyone can ferret out the presence of Desi, it is me.” Dr. Zamirsky looked up and to his left, frowned, and then laughed. “Extremely ironic then, that you and I both enter this safe place carrying Desi…in our own ways, of course.” He nodded to a table, where the silver briefcase was standing, then he gestured to the vegan.

  Dr. Zamirsky stood, walked the short distance to the sink, ran the water, and began to blow his nose with both hands.

  As Dr. Zamirsky blew, the vegan took in his surroundings. The vegan was sitting reclined in a simple but elegant, black, leather reclining chair. He and Dr. Zamirsky were in a room that was about four hundred square feet. The room was lit by the glow of vertical lighting strips attached to the walls. There was a table and chairs, a bed, a sink, a stove, and the reclining chair in which the vegan was sitting. The walls were lined with sealed crates stacked as high as the ceiling, which, the vegan noted, was at least fifteen feet high. He looked for a ladder, but did not see one. At the end of the room opposite the vegan were two doors. He assumed that one led to a restroom, and the other led back to the outside world…or into a closet. He had no idea where the entrance was. The vegan looked at the floor in wonder, searching for a hatch. For all he knew, Vladimir had dragged him in through a pipe.

  To his greatest surprise, the vegan was not tied up anymore. He was apparently free to move about the
room, but why would Vladimir allow that? Was there no escape from this place? Was Vladimir so confident in his ability to subdue the vegan by force if a confrontation was to occur?

  Seeking reassurance, the vegan raised his hand, reaching for the cross that hung on his neck. When he saw his wrist, he froze.

  “Yes, Randy,” Dr. Zamirsky said, and the vegan looked up to see that Dr. Zamirsky had his back to the sink, and he was eyeing the vegan. “I gave you a new accessory while you were asleep. I will explain what it is, and I advise you to let me finish before you move. It would be a pity to lose your company so soon. I have many questions to ask you, many things to discuss.”

  The vegan looked down at his wrist again. There was a metal bracelet around it. From the side of the bracelet facing the vegan’s skin, small, cone-shaped tubes were extended, disappearing into the flesh of the vegan’s wrist. The vegan could feel the points of the cylinders pressing into his bones. The pain was negligible. He turned his wrist over and saw a light on the outside of the bracelet. The light was glowing a steady green. The vegan considered the comment Vladimir had made about not moving, and he decided that he had a pretty good idea of what the bracelet meant.

  “If I move,” the vegan said. “I blow up?”

  Dr. Zamirsky laughed. “Something like that.” He walked toward the vegan’s chair. “Something like that, but not so rudimentary. You see—” Dr. Zamirsky pointed to a stack of crates on one side of the room, “—the line made by the edge of those crates, and—” Dr. Zamirsky pointed to a stack of crates on the other side of the room, “—the line made by the edge of those crates?”

  The vegan nodded.

  “Good,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “Now please use your imagination to form a grid that is bounded by those lines, the floor, and the ceiling. If you move beyond the grid, toward my side of the room, the beautiful bracelet you are wearing will inject you with a substance that, given your condition, will render you…well, inert. Yes, that is the mot juste in this case—the precise, appropriate word.”