I must have stayed there long before I came back to my senses. The things I felt were far from normal. My body, albeit battered, didn't seem to have suffered too badly. It didn't look as if I was going to die. Whatever fear I felt was purely in my head: I knew that, once bitten, I was doomed. Call it a virus, an infection or whatever causes the morbid transformation, but it was already spreading in my blood, and nothing could abort the process. I was a goner, as simple as that. My body was still able to walk, breathe and talk, but there was no one inside: as of now, I was dead. Call it a mental death, if you will: the death of a personality, complete with soul, in a still-living body which wasn't going to breathe and talk for long... but it would keep walking, that was the whole horror of it.
I remember myself sitting on that graveyard bench — talking about fate with its irony — trying to think straight. (In these days since I'd been bitten, I've considered my situation thousands of times.) I kept pressing replay in my head, coming up with new scenarios for avoiding what had just happened. It's easy to be smart after the fact: I did uncover quite a few alternatives that could have saved my life, and the knowledge that I'd missed them filled my heart with anger, frustration and self-pity.
That was the blackest day in my life. I'd had a few before: when I failed my University admission exams; then the breakup of the Soviet Union; when the girl I loved left me; the death of my father; the loss of a job when the economy crisis hit Russia hard; then finally, the pandemic and loss of all my family. Every time, I had thought it couldn't get any worse, but it did. Now I could finally say that it wouldn't: the absolute worst had happened. Besides, with whatever short lifespan I had left, I simply had no time left to encounter any more misfortunes.
I realized something else, too: subconsciously, I must have always known it would happen. Not that I expected it to: no, I just felt that this time, humanity wouldn't make it. We were all doomed, all of us, it was only a question of time. The first survivors seemed to have entered a scam lottery where the players were told they had won, only to discover that the lottery committee had run off with their money. Others who were still alive would die in their turn, only later. So all I had to do was wait for my own turn, or so I sensed. You may say that I attracted my own death with these thoughts, but I disagree. I'd just seen enough to realize that no one was meant to survive. And if so, I couldn't avoid my own misfortune. This is probably why I'm so calm now, but then, in the first hours after the wretched bite, when the entire world around me had shrunk to the size of a bite wound, I felt terrible.
I sat in the middle of the graveyard, paralyzed, dying in my mind. But gradually, vitality started to take over; my thoughts cheered up, if I may say so. I looked at all the old graves with lopsided tombstones and thought that there was no difference between me and those lying deep under ground. What was our life, if not preparation for our old age followed by death? We only differed by our lifespan, and little else. I had lived, just like they had, and I was dead — or rather, about to die, just like they had once been. My time had come, as simple as that.
Thinking like that, I gradually came back to reality. Like a worshipper, I soaked in the surrounding world one last time, finding it precious and beautiful. The day was awesome. The summer sun poured its light onto everything it could reach, and the world glistened and sparkled in its rays. Everything looked new and fresh — freshly-created, like first springtime leaves: ancient tombstones and pine trees, fragrant herbs, dandelions spreading their fluff in the wind and insects dancing in beams of light. The sounds of nature, simple and familiar, like birds chirruping, the spring in the ravine prattling away, the buzzing of mosquitoes and bumblebees — they gained power and united in a symphony beyond our understanding like nothing a human being would ever be able to create: every note in it sang praise of life. Everything looked different: for the first time I must have seen the world for what it truly was.
All thoughts had stopped. I raised my head to look at the sky. The sun blinded me, and I shut my eyes. The world didn't disappear: it was still there like a bright flash, replaced by a dark void that in turn transformed into a light web, so beautiful I couldn't stand it for much longer and opened my eyes. In an instant, the light web vision shifted and became everything around: the trees, the sky and the grass.
I collapsed on my knees and cried, thanking God for letting me witness His glory and the beauty of the world created by Him.
XII
I finally recovered enough to remember that I wasn't alone in this world: it also harbored my friends in one of its many safe havens. The thought brought me back.
Not only my friends, but also enemies. I played back the events of the past few hours when I'd set off to save their hypothetically dying survivors. They fed me a perfect story and I swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. But what were they going to do now? They had to explain away my disappearance, and no one was going to believe whatever explanation they'd cooked up. The problem was, there was no evidence to prove them wrong — even less so had I remained in the cellar. But still... Their main argument that had got me there in the first place was their dying-survivors yarn: if Alex and Valentine demanded to see them, the story would come apart.
Then I realized it. The only reason the two bastards hadn't bothered to come up with a backup story was because they were not going to explain anything to anyone. What they were really going to do was go back to the shelter and finish off Valentine and Masha, then wait for Alex and shoot him at their leisure. The thought of it made my blood freeze.
I looked at my watch. I'd left the shelter three and a half hours ago, of which I'd spent two in self-pity, beweeping my lost life. I was late. Valentine had to be as dead as a dodo, and Masha with him. All I could do now was try and save Alex himself.
I jumped up to run, but the bitten leg smarted, making me sit back down on the ground. Damn it! It still bled although not as hard as earlier when I'd discovered it. I had nothing to dress it with, as all those first-aid kits I'd taken, all nine or ten of them, got blown up in the cellar with that backpack of mine. I tore a rough strip of fabric off my shirt and tied it tight under my knee, above the bitten spot. Swearing with pain and hobbling on my left foot, I set off slowly — too slowly! — back home.
As I approached the shelter, I peered into the darkness trying to discern something in the windows that would give me a clue what was going on. I had a bad feeling about it all. Had they set up a trap for Alex, they'd notice and kill me into the bargain. Not that it made any difference for me now, but I wanted to save him at least. And just as much, if not more, I longed to teach the two bastards a lesson. As I hurried back, I couldn't help thinking about their filthy plot that had ruined my life. I just didn't get it. What kind of monster must one be to send a fellow human being to the worst of possible deaths? I didn't know what I was going to do about them yet, but I had a good idea.
I approached the house from the back yard. It was quiet and no one tried to shoot at me. Leaning down, I went round the building until I came to the front door. SMG at the ready, I stole up the stairs, ready to shoot at anything that moved. By the time I reached the first floor I was exhausted, and then I heard voices upstairs.
They argued, loud and angry: I made out the voices of my assailants and, much to my relief, Alex's. He was alive.
I stopped sneaking and took the steps up three at a time. When I reached the third floor, I turned into the corridor and ran right into the arguing parties. Our entire little team was there, all present and correct, including the two traitors. They stood with their backs to me yelling at Alex who answered back as good as he got. Behind Alex, a pale Valentine didn't say a word, and behind him, Masha could barely stay on her feet, holding at the wall with both hands and looking scared out of her wits.
Alex fell silent when he saw me. All three of them — he, Valentine and Masha — stared at me, relief written all over their faces. My enemies turned round, too, and didn't say anything, lost for words. Silence fell.
I raised the gun, aim
ing it at the young one's face. He stood right next to me. My arms ached, making it hard for me to hold the weapon still, and the barrel swayed right in front of his nose. He turned pale and I could see his lower lip shake.
The older one spoke. He didn't try to apologize or explain anything, just demanded I took the weapon away from his friend's face. The others kept silent, not knowing what was going to happen next — and I didn't, either. The older one raised his voice, demanding, still in the heat of the argument. I didn't react, just stood there aiming the gun at the younger and looking him straight in the eye. Finally, the older one started screaming.
Feeling his support, the younger spoke up. I expected anything but that: he started to curse and insult me. Taken aback by such cheek, I stood still, not knowing what to do in that situation.
Then I couldn't hold it any longer. I shouted, accusing them of what they had just done. I had no idea I was capable of yelling at anyone like that: this was the kind of voice I'd only used once in my life, when I'd been fighting off zombies in the dark cellar four hours ago. I told everyone what they'd done, asking how they were going to repay for their treachery.
You could see that the younger one cheered up when he heard about my zombie bite: he must have written me off and doubled his insults. The elder one said they had to take me out into the woods and shoot me. For the younger one, it wasn't enough: he screamed that they should tie me to a tree and come every day to watch me mutate.
My friends' faces were painful to watch. Alex turned from pale to a funny shade of gray; Valentine was shaking; Masha, who didn't understand Russian, was so mortified with all those emotions flying that she was slowly collapsing down the wall.
As for me, when I heard his blasphemous suggestion, I lost all control. I can't remember what I was screaming back, and the two bastards paid me in kind; it felt as if the wallpaper was about to ignite with the charge of hatred accumulated in the corridor.
Then the gun jerked in my hands; for a moment, I went deaf with a thunderous clang. As if in slow motion, I saw part of the younger one's neck tear apart and fly off. Blood gushed from the resulting hole, which was enormous, and went all over the wall. The younger one flapped his arms and collapsed on the floor, covering me with blood. He lay there agonizing, getting quieter every moment.
The elder one kept screaming, his face convulsing with fury, but I didn't hear him. I didn't hear anything. He tried to produce his own gun but couldn't unbutton the holster. I pointed the gun at him and, consciously now, pulled the trigger, letting out a long burst at point-blank.
It made no sound: my enemy convulsed as holes tore through his sweater. Some of the bullets missed, hitting the wall and the ceiling and sharp bits of plaster flew everywhere. He fell backwards and was quiet. I was lucky not to hit any of my friends who were standing right behind his back.
I breathed heavily, looking at the still-warm bodies at my feet. The holes in the elder one's sweater turned into little geysers that pumped bubbling blood out. The younger one was now quiet, too: blood stopped beating out of his neck but flowed slowly and freely, and the scarlet pool in which his body now lay deepened and widened as I watched it. The air stank of the butchers' and gunpowder.
Valentine vomited. Fainting, Masha dropped on the floor. The pale Alex watched me, concern and fear in his eyes. I realized I was still pointing my weapon at them. I flung the gun away, as I would a venomous snake, and rushed downstairs. On the front porch, I collapsed onto the ground and lost consciousness.
I woke up with smarting pain: Alex was giving me a shot of Promedol to prevent post-traumatic shock, and then another one, this time for tetanus. I attempted to protest, knowing it was no good and too much time had passed since the bite, but he insisted. Then he made me show him my wounds. I complied, as I didn't care any longer. He cleaned and dressed them all, taking especial care to treat the bite on my leg.
All the while he kept telling me what had happened. Apparently, he'd come back literally ten minutes after I'd left, and Valentine told him what had happened. Alex smelled a rat straight away, but couldn't do much or go look for me not knowing where exactly the two henchmen had taken me. He had heard my grenades, but due to the large distance and peculiarities of the wooded terrain couldn't pinpoint the source of the sounds, and besides, he still didn't know if I had anything to do with the explosions. All he could do was wait until the situation became clear.
The couple from hell had come back, according to him, a couple of hours later: they must have had other business to see to besides my murder. Looks like I was right about their plans to kill us off separately: they hadn't expected Alex so early and lost it when he came out and demanded to explain my absence. They had nothing intelligible to say: I witnessed the end of the argument. Even if I hadn't come back, Alex said, he'd have made them pay for my disappearance one way or another, so their fates had been sealed, anyway.
I gave him an abridged version of my story. Then we sat on the porch smoking. After chain-smoking two cigarettes, I lay back limply, staring at the fancy pattern that cracks made in the plastered canopy overhead.
Then I said,
"I think I've found the solution."
Alex cleared his throat and forced out a thank-you. He asked me what I was going to do in the future. The question took me unawares; this was something I gave no thought at all to because I just didn't have any future.
Still, technically I remained alive; my heart was pumping blood down my veins; my lungs were breathing, and my eyes could see the world around me. I had hearing problems but knew that they would go: I always had them after indoor shootouts. But I didn't know what to do with myself. What I wanted most at the time, was to lie down and die in peace, but that, of all things, was impossible. If a zombie attack doesn't kill you on the spot, the mutation process may take quite some time, dragging on for days or even weeks.
I'd seen people in similar situations before who tried to kill themselves. I have to admit I was toying with the idea but rejected it in the end. As I've already said, I'm not religious, even less so Christian, but one thing I agree with Christianity on is that human beings have no right to take their own life, no matter how grave their situation: even one like my own.
Alex said that for him, nothing had changed and I was welcome to stay with them in the shelter. But we both knew it was impossible: I presented too grave a danger for them. I could see how distraught he was because of all that had happened, blaming himself for the tragedy: had it not been for his invitation to join them, I would now have probably been alive and kicking. I tried to reassure him, even though at the moment, I needed reassurance more than anyone else.
I told him about my intention to leave them and accept my fate whatever it was. Alex paused before asking me about my destination. Embarrassed, he made it clear that if I wished, he could track me down "at some point in the future" and do "whatever was necessary". I knew what he meant: once I had completed my transformation, he'd find and destroy my walking corpse and give me a proper human burial. Honestly, at the moment I couldn't care less what would happen to my dead body, but I didn't spare words to express my gratitude. Still, I assured him that it really wasn't worth his while: delivering Valentine safely was much more important.
I decided to leave the same day. We had dinner — all of us but Masha, that is. Valentine admitted that the shootout had scared her witless and she refused to come out for fear of me. He'd tried to explain the situation to her, but she sat in her room shaking and refused point blank to even say goodbye. If the truth were known, I didn't care. We ate in silence and finished the meal with a healthy shot of vodka, although Alex did warn me that it didn't mix well with Promedol. But I had nothing left to lose any more, so what was the point of denying myself life's little pleasures?
After dinner, they helped me pack. I'd witnessed many times zombie attack victims being if not killed outright, at least thrown out of shelters with just the clothes on their backs, under the understandable pretext that dead men
, even if only prospective ones, could very well do without human belongings. Other survivors shared whatever was left after them. I, on the contrary, was sent off like a Norwegian konung to Valhalla, with such lavish offerings that I had trouble convincing them I wouldn't be able to carry all those armfuls of admittedly useful things very far. At least dead konungs had their Drakkar ships to load their afterlife possessions into, and I had nothing but my two battered hands.
Finally, I only took what I'd had when I'd first come to them. Alex forced some first-aid stuff and medications on me, although if you ask me, it was the last thing I needed at the time. I accepted them, not wishing an unnecessary argument to cast a pall over our goodbyes. He gave me a new backpack in place of the one I'd blown up in the cellar and, among other things, packed several first-aid army kits in it: besides Promedol, they contained some Taren pills commonly used to treat chemical warfare victims, and unknown medication in strange packages like I'd never seen before. They also gave me a generous share of their ammo. I took some clean water in a large can as well as a few days' worth of dry rations. That was it.
The three of us walked out onto the porch: myself, Alex and Valentine Ivanovich. We stood there in silence for a while. The night was approaching; the birds were getting quiet, and the setting sun tinted the landscape with its soft pink shade. If I didn't want to find myself outdoors after dark, I had to hurry. I took off my trusty Casio watch and gave it to Alex — it didn't look as if I was going to need it any more. I had nothing to leave to Valentine, so I just gave him a bear hug Russian style. I wished them every success in their travels. They didn't wish me anything.
I walked down the porch and hurried off without looking back. I headed for a small town nearest to the shelter — I'd told Alex I intended to stay there — and walked until the house had to have disappeared behind my back. I turned round — yes, right I was, the building had completely dissolved in the woods, and my friends couldn't see me now.
Call Me Human: A Zombie Apocalypse Novel Page 11
