Zombiegrad. A horror novel

“Thanks.” Ramses drank up his martini. “Okay, Roman, how much do I owe you? And can you call a cab for me?”

“No sweat at all,” Roman said. He picked up the phone receiver, dialed a number, spoke a bit in Russian, nodded and hung up.

“It’s settled, sir,” the barman said. “You can hang around here for a while. I’ll let you know when the taxi driver calls me.”

“Thanks again, friend,” Ramses said. He took out his wallet and slid a couple of crisp banknotes across the bar counter. “That’s for the cocktails and the cab.”

As he thumbed the banknotes from the roll, the barman’s eyes glinted like those of Gollum’s for a fraction of a second.

Ramses added some more cash to the pile. “And this is for you.”

The barman took the money and put it in his shirt pocket. “Thanks, man.”

He poured more martini. “And this is from me. On the house.”

Ramses dried the glass and put it on the counter. “Think I’m gonna catch some fresh air outside. See ya.”

“Have a good night.”

As Ramses went outside, the barman wiped the bar counter with a piece of cloth as if it had been covered with filth. He looked around, picked up his cell phone and punched the buttons.

“There’s some stinking nigger ape with a lot of cash on him,” he said in Russian, plugging his ear with a finger to hear through the noise. “He’s outside now, smoking maybe. A big guy. With dreadlocks. You can’t miss him.” He nodded. “Only do it far from this place.”

***

Ramses was outside. The snow was still falling. It was cold, and he made a mental note to buy a warm ski cap tomorrow.

People stood chatting on the barely lit sidewalk. Teenagers walked by, pointing at him and sneering. It was well after midnight.

Don’t they have a curfew time for kids?

He put on his leather gloves and took a stroll along the sidewalk, not straying too far and keeping the nightclub entrance in sight in case the taxi arrived.

He took his wallet out of his parka pocket and flipped it open. He looked at the photo of his baby daughter Cherrylyn. Cherry Berry, as he liked to call her. In the photo, she was sitting on top of the playground slide. He ran his index finger over her little smiling face.

Snowflakes slowly descended on the see-through plastic cover of the wallet. A gust of cold wind blew them away.

Ramses looked up. No passersby. No taxi yet. He was alone on the sidewalk now.

He turned around and bumped into a dark hunch-back figure, which had come up from behind quietly, ninja style. His heart leaped in his ribcage, as he saw a woman of uncertain age in a battered, dirty coat. She was homeless apparently. She stooped in walking, but she was not old.

“Jeez, lady.”

The woman said nothing and kept on walking. Ramses took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of steam into the cold air.

A black BMW parked to a halt at the road curb. Three men got out of the car and started walking up toward him in tight formation. Having a certain purpose in mind.

Three long shadows approached Ramses. There was a tall athletic guy with a bottle of beer in his hand, a tough-looking man in his forties and a young short man wearing a sports cap.

Ramses returned the wallet back into the inside pocket of his parka.

The men came up.

The big man sipped at the bottle and said something in Russian to Ramses.

“Sorry, guys, but I don’t smoke,” Ramses said, having no idea of what the man was saying, but hoping he just wanted to bum cigarettes from him.

“And I don’t speak Russian,” he added.

The man in the sports cap took a gun out of his pocket and pulled it on him.

“Whoa, whoa, buddy!” Ramses said, holding up his hand, fingers spread. “What’s that for?”

The Sports Cap didn’t reply.

Ramses squinted at the weapon. It was a Makarov pistol. It could be the authentic heater or a replica. Could be a rubber-bullet handgun, as well. There are far fewer firearms in Russia than in the US. If Ramses were in San Francisco, Chicago or Detroit now, the authenticity of this baby wouldn’t be in question.

But he couldn’t take his chances now. One cannot be too careful.

“Money,” the big man said with a thick Russian accent. One of the few English words the guy probably knew. “Bistro.”

“Okay now,” Ramses said and raised his other hand. “You settle down, all right? Are you offering me your money? Well, you don’t owe me anything.”

The trio looked at him dumbly.

The young thug frowned. He looked at his comrades. He had probably never heard so many English words in a row before in his whole life.

The gun clicked. The safety was off.

“Give money.” Their elder companion seemed to be better educated and had a better command of English.

His surly face was covered with deep lines. There was a scar on his cheek. This one was definitely a former zek, a convict.

The zek drew out a big knife. Its blade glittered in the dim street lamp light.

“Give money, nigger,” the zek repeated.

“C’mon, guys. It’s late,” Ramses said. “I’m gonna cruise.” He turned his back toward them to walk away.

“Stop, bitch!” The Sports Cap shot in the air.

Ramses turned swiftly back to the hoodlums. His dreadlocks swooshed through the air. He hit the nearest of them, the zek, in the lower jaw.

The man cried out and coughed. He pressed his hand to the injured jaw and let loose of the knife. It vanished in a snowbank.

The Sports Cap fired his gun. Ramses ducked. The bullet zinged past.

He sent his fist in the man’s groin. The Sports Cap bent over. A dark stain spread across the front of his jeans. Ramses drove his knee into his attacker’s stomach. The man fell down and dropped the handgun.