Zombiegrad. A horror novel. Win Chester

      No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the author, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review in a newspaper, magazine, or electronic publication; nor may any part of this book be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or other, without written permission from the author.

      Contents

      PART ONE. CONTAGION

      One

      Two

      Three

      Four

      Five

      Six

      Seven

      Eight

      Nine

      Ten

      Eleven

      PART TWO. UNDER THE SIEGE OF THE LIVING DEAD

      Twelve

      Thirteen

      Fourteen

      Fifteen

      Sixteen

      Seventeen

      Eighteen

      Nineteen

      Twenty

      Twenty-One

      Twenty-Two

      Twenty-Three

      Twenty-Four

      Twenty-Five

      Twenty-Six

      Twenty-Seven

      Twenty-Eight

      Twenty-Nine

      Thirty

      Thirty-One

      Thirty-Two

      Thirty-Three

      Thirty-Four

      Thirty-Five

      Thirty-Six

      Thirty-Seven

      Thirty-Eight

      PART THREE. DAYS OF SORROW

      Thirty-Nine

      Forty

      Forty-One

      Forty-Two

      Forty-Three

      Forty-Four

      Forty-Five

      Forty-Six

      Forty-Seven

      Forty-Eight

      About the Author

      Other books by this author

      PART ONE. CONTAGION

      ONE

      Ramses Campbell stood by the frost-bitten window and looked at a dark figure shambling in the unlit part of the alley. It walked like a dead man, which had just crawled out of the grave and was learning to walk again. It hit against a lady who was walking her dog. The woman flailed her arms. The figure fell down on the icy path. Ramses cringed looking at this scene. He could see now that the shambling figure was a man. The woman sawed the air with her hand, and Ramses was sure she was shouting at the man, but he could hear nothing through the soundproof window glass of his room in the Arkaim Hotel.

      The woman walked away in a hurry, dragging her dog on a leash. The man lay on the ground for a while and then struggled to stand up. He leaned over and picked up something from the ground. He stepped into the cone of streetlight, and Ramses saw that it was a drunkard clutching a bottle. The man took a gulp, threw the bottle into a snowbank and walked away.

      Ramses shook his head in disapproval. He was a tall African American with huge biceps bulging under his gray T-shirt. His long black hair, which fell on his shoulders, was in dreadlocks.

      It began snowing.

      “Damn snow,” Ramses said with sadness, watching the snowflakes slowly waltzing outside the window glass. Snow always makes Californians, which Ramses was, unhappy.

      His view opened on a busy tree-lined street and a huge LED screen on the corner. It flashed advertisements for cell phones, lingerie, and movies and highlighted the latest news about Chelyabinsk City.

      He heard the kettle whistling. He killed the fire under it and poured himself a large cup of coffee. Drinking coffee was the second thing he usually did in a foreign country to battle the jet lag. The first thing was to catch a good sleep right after arrival at the hotel. Which he had already done.

      The third thing to do would be to soak a little in a foamy bathtub, and he would enjoy doing it right now, but there was a bang on the door.

      Ramses glanced at his watch. 6:00 p.m.

      Punctual as death, he thought.

      “Open up, old dog,” a male voice said behind the closed door. “Time to rise and shine!”

      Ramses took a sip of the hot brew, sauntered to the door and opened it. A fifty-something bespectacled man of medium height was standing there. Steve Clayton, his business partner, and best friend. His room was opposite Ramses’s across the hallway.

      “Hey, Steve,” Ramses said. “I ain’t old yet. I’m twenty years younger than you.”

      Steve smiled. “Ready for the party, you young big black fight fish?” he said. Steve was not a racist. It was just his way of showing affection – the more you got closer to him, the more he insulted you. Five years living in New York might have influenced him.

      “Oh, just leave me alone, Steve,” Ramses said, stepping aside and letting Steve come in.

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