a medical doctor too?”
“Yes. I used to work for the Red Cross.”
Ramses felt relieved to have a physician around his friend.
“Was he bit? Is he infected?”
“No,” Dr. Brodde said. “No cuts or bites.”
“Did you check his eyeballs?”
“What?” Dr. Brodde looked bewildered. “Why?”
“‘Cause if they’re bloodshot, he might be infected.”
The old priest lifted Steve’s eyelids carefully. The man’s eyeballs were milky white.
Ramses breathed out a sigh of relief. “No infection. Thank goodness.”
“So you know something about this disease, don’t you?” There was a curious look in the old man’s face. “You must tell me about it.”
“There isn’t much to know,” Ramses said. “You get bit – you better start taking harp lessons.”
Dr. Brodded nodded. “Ja.”
Ramses sat on a chair. “You have a European accent, right?”
“Right. I come from Germany,” Dr. Brodde said. “What’s your name, please?”
“Ramses Campbell. I am from San Francisco.”
They shook hands.
“Well, Mr. Campbell, Mr. Clayton here needs a rest now. I’ll let you know about his state of health as soon as something changes.”
“Thank you, Doc. He means a lot to me. He’s my friend. Please keep an eye on that mofo, will you?”
“Pardon?”
Ramses jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “My room is right across the hallway. Call me, if he comes to.”
“Oh ja, ja. Sure.” The old German adjusted his spectacles and took the Bible.
Ramses went out of the room and closed the door quietly behind him. He looked at his dirty outfit and went to take a shower too.
When he walked out of the bathroom, he saw flashes of fire through the window. An apartment house across the street was in flames. A moving mass of the squirming creatures, which had flooded the street, was visible in the light of the burning building. There were hundreds of them. He could hear the roaring of helicopters somewhere in the distance.
There was a hollow knock on the wall. Ramses went to the door, drying himself with the towel. Ksenia stood outside.
“You shouldn’t have gone out yourself,” Ramses said to her.
“I need my gun. And the mags.”
He brought her the Makarov pistol and the spare magazines.
“Well, I’m going to turn in now,” she said. “I’m totally exhausted. See you in the morning.”
“Scream if you need me,” Ramses said and closed the door.
He changed his clothes and went out to the floor lounge, where people were sitting in armchairs and chatting.
The power generator had been installed, and the power was restored so the lounge was lit. There was no power in the rooms, though.
Everything seemed to be normal in the hotel as before, when he arrived, except for two things: the barricades near the entrances, because of which the guests were not able to go sightseeing or to visit their business partners, and the constant, ceaseless monotonous moaning of the living dead, searching for prey outside. For some people, though, the moaning had a hypnotic effect, and they fell asleep with no trouble.
One of the guests had brought out a portable radio set with batteries. There was only one federal radio channel functioning. No local stations. Static hissed like a scared cat on other channels. After a merry program for kids, there was a news bulletin. Ramses asked the floor concierge to translate the news for him. The concierge, a man in his early twenties, whose nametag said his name was Denis, retold him the news in broken English.
The first report was about the city of Chelyabinsk being under attack of terrorists. There was an emergency situation in the city. No one was allowed in. No one out. The special forces were looking for the terrorists, who had allegedly blown up the zinc plant, but in general, the situation was “under control.”
This statement aroused a wave of indignation among the hotel guests. A plastic glass flew past Ramses, hit the radio set and ricocheted splashing coffee droplets to the floor. People in the lounge were shouting out curses. Ramses asked Denis to explain what was happening, and Denis explained.
“What a piece of bullshit!” Ramses said in an angry voice.
“This is how Moscow always treat us,” an elderly woman said. “As if we’re shit or something. We’re going to die here, and nobody in the Kremlin would give a piece of shit.”
She went to her room, in floods of tears.
The next report was about the meteorite which had recently crashed in the Lake of Chebarkul. The news flash was followed by a silly talk show hosted by a silly pop star.
***
At midnight, before going to sleep, Ramses came to check on Steve.
He could hear Steve’s roaring laughter behind the door.
When he came in, Steve was sitting in the bed upright with his back propped against the pillow. He was eating soup with noodles. A candle was burning on the table, casting long shadows on the floor and walls.
“… really amazing! Haha!” Steve was laughing. “And what did then the skunk do?”
“It just crept into my sleeping bag and died there,” Dr. Brodde said.
“Yuck,” Steve said and stuck out his tongue. He squinted his eyes, put on his glasses and saw Ramses standing in the middle of the room. He smiled a wide smile. “Ramsey! I’ll be damned! You’re alive!”
He put the dish away and gave Ramses a big hug.
“No,” Ramses said. “I’ll be damned! Look at you. Where have you been? Helping out a janitor?”
“We got trapped, man,” Steve said slowly. “Vassili and me. Vasya is dead.”
Ramses sighed. “Oh shit, man. I’m so sorry.” He was silent for a moment and then said, “Is he dead proper, or is he … like one of them?”
Steve looked at Ramses and then at Dr. Brodde. “He is deadly dead. I took care of that.”
They lapsed into silence again.
“Ramsey,” Steve broke the silence, “please meet Dr. Brodde. He’s been telling me great stories about his years in the Red Cross.”
