Zombiegrad. A horror novel

“Fucking snow, dude,” he said to himself.

They went out and loaded themselves into a taxi which took them to a local judo gym where they would have their seminar next morning.

The gym was situated in the city center. They had seen it already in the morning. It was well-equipped. It was obvious that the city authorities had invested good money in this kind of sports. Judo and taekwondo championships took place regularly in Chelyabinsk, and lots of kids wanted to be enlisted in judo training programs. The audience in the gym was going to be not only judo fighters. There were karate fighters, boxers and even bodybuilders in their list of members. Men and women.

Ramses and Steve were happy with their first world tour. It had been their second success since the time when Steven Seagal invited them to take part in one of his action movies, where they had to do rather difficult fight scenes. Once Ramses’s right knee was hurt badly, but still, he had to finish the scene, anyway. He did not tell anyone, because he was afraid they would remove him from the project, and he desperately needed that money.

They got out of the taxi and entered the judo sports center. A large poster in the foyer invited to the 2013 World Karate Championships in Budapest.

Next to it was their poster, which read, “Ramses Campbell & Steve Clayton: The Ultimate Martial Arts Seminars in Russia.”

The guard on reception in the foyer did not speak English, and he tried using gestures to explain to them that Vassili Koshkin, the local organizer of their seminars, had not come yet. Steve grumbled at the Russian unpunctuality and tried to call Vassili’s number but it was busy.

Then the guard looked at the poster, slapped himself on the forehead and took a piece of paper out of his desk drawer.

It was a note from Vassili. It said they could wait for him in the café across the street.

They went there and sat at the window. Ramses ordered a pizza and Coke. Steve went for a cup of coffee. The snow was still falling. Sudden blasts of wind made the snowflakes jump and dance.

“After Russia, we’ll go to the Ukraine,” Steve said, holding a cup of hot coffee. “The cash we’re gonna make there should be pretty handsome. And the chicks are hot stuff there, too. Then we’ll do Estonia, Romania, Lithuania. Maybe Poland as well. We’re gonna be a hit, bro.”

Steve called a waitress and asked for some pizza, too.

“You know, I don’t like Eastern Europe much,” said Ramses, chewing. “I agreed to come here because of the Red Square. That and the Kremlin are the only things I wanted to see here. When are we heading to Moscow?”

“All in due time, my friend,” Steve said. “In two weeks, probably. We’ll be lucky if we get on a talk show there. Promotion, buddy, promotion. It’s all about promotion. We gotta keep moving all the time. And we have lots of things to do here, starting tomorrow.”

A waitress brought Steve his order.

Ramses said, “Steve, I keep thinking about those times, when I was nothing.”

“Oh, don’t say that.”

“But I mean it. I was going down the drain when you showed up in my life.”

Steve furrowed his brow. “You sound like a faggot, you know that? Hey, it’s all your achievement, man. You just jumped off the hook in time. Drugs are a bad thing. By beating the bad things in your inner self, you become a better man.”

“Hmm, who said it? The Dalai Lama?”

Steve chuckled. “Nope – Steven Harper Clayton.”

“I never thanked you, Steve.”

“No, you didn’t, Ramsey,” Steve said, sinking his teeth in a nice piece of pizza.

“Well, thank you.”

“I appreciate it, Rams. You’re a different man now.”

There was a commotion outside. Ramses turned his head. The door of the café burst open, and half a dozen noisy and laughing men filed in.

“Vassili,” Steve said. “Finally.”

The group of men came up to their table.

“Hey, what are you doing here on Valentine’s Day like two faggots?” Vassili said. He was a tall and jovial man. His English words pronounced with the thick Russian accent rumbled in his mouth like stones in a barrel. “We looked for you all over the city.”

“I called you half an hour ago,” Steve said. “And you left a note.”

“I’m just joking, Steve!” Vassili laughed. “Come to join us at the club party. We’re going to the Diorama tonight. The club manager is my best friend. He will let us in for free.”

“Looks like half of the town are your best buddies,” Ramses said.

“Are there many girls over there?” Steve said.

“As many as you can handle,” Vassili said and winked.

Ramses and Steve laughed.

Vassili’s friends roared with laughter, too, after Vassili translated the joke into Russian for them.

“Well, that sounds like a plan,” Steve said, standing up. “Whaddya say, Prima Donna?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ramses said. “Why not?” He raised his hand, calling the waitress.

***

Outside, a Peugeot minivan was idling, waiting for the group. It took them to a modern blue-painted three-storied building. The huge letters on the sign screamed, “DIORAMA. Night Club. Restaurant. Bowling”.

At the club entrance, the guard saw Vassili and the other guys and flashed a welcoming smile and shook their hands. The whole gang entered the club without passing any face control. The club boasted two spacious dance halls. A DJ girl in a ponytail was busy behind her equipment, flooding every nook and cranny with music. Striptease dancers were polishing the silver-colored poles with their half-naked buttocks, caressing their nipples. A bald barman in a crimson-colored shirt and with stylish sunglasses on his head was shaking a cocktail over his shoulder. Tequila, wine, and vodka were pouring down the throats of numerous customers. Pretty waitresses wearing pink miniskirts and cute white hats with bunny ears were going back and forth carrying trays and serving the guests.

Steve looked around. “Not bad.”

They sat on a long couch in a lounge.

Vassili introduced the Americans to his Russian friends they met in the club.

A waitress came up to them with bottles of champagne. Everyone helped himself and poured the champagne into glasses.

“Here’s to Steve and Ramses,” Vassili said, raising the glass. “The best fighters across the Atlantic Ocean!”

Steve chuckled and raised his glass. “And to Vassili, the best sports manager in Russia!”

They downed their champagne.

“Okay, guys,” Vassili said. “Again – welcome to Russia!”

“I’m happy we’re working together,” Steve said.