Contents

ZOMBIEGRAD

an apocalyptic horror novel
by Win Chester

Copyright © Win Chester 2020

Cover Artwork © Vladimir Grigoryev

All rights reserved.

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. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“What do you mean?” Steve said. “Are you nuts? Everyone’s waiting for us. We have to celebrate the launch of our martial arts seminars in Russia.”

Ramses slumped into a chair. Had another sip from his cup. “Coffee?”

“Er, no, thanks.”

“I know this is all important, Steve. But look at this, man,” Ramses said, pointing at the window. “The snow.”

Steve followed his glance and made a “Doc” Brown stunned look on his face.

“We’re in Russia, pal.” Steve smiled. “In the dead of fucking winter. What did you expect? Beach bunnies and surf dudes playing volleyball under the hot sun?”

“You grew up in Chicago,” Ramses said, sipping his coffee. “Then you moved to the Big Apple. You won’t get it.”

Steve came up to the window and looked at the falling snow.

“No harm in a little bit of snow and frost for your brown Californian ass,” he said. “Will put more energy into you. Next time you will complain you’re missing burritos? Come on! We’re in a hurry! Let’s not keep the tough Russian guys waiting.”

“Where does it say in the contract that we have to go somewhere and celebrate something?”

Steve looked at Ramses with pleading eyes.

“All right.” Ramses drank up the coffee and put the cup in the sink. “But keep in mind that I’m doing it for you.”

Steve smiled and patted Ramses on the shoulder. “Now we’re talking. Still, you’re such a prima donna!”

Ramses put on his coat and looked at the falling snow outside the window.

“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.

Vassili looked over Steve’s shoulder and spotted a dancing girl he seemed to like. He combed his hair with the palm of his hand. “Now you must excuse me. Enjoy your time here.”

A song with Russian folk rhythms was playing, and Vassili approached the girl doing the Cossack dance routine.

“Have fun, Romeo!” Steve shouted to him.

Vassili jumped up and joined the dancing girl. He said something to her, and she laughed. Other athletes went to the dance floor, too.

Steve put down his glass on the tray and thanked the waitress.

“Now, Baryshnikov,” he said to Ramses. “How about you? You ready to demonstrate your kung-fu, Russian ballet-style?”

“Get out.” Ramses smiled and gave him a slight punch in the shoulder. “Yeah, man. Let’s have fun.”

“Cowabunga!” Steve said and rose to his feet.

They went to the bar, sat at the counter and ordered cocktails. They did not want to get drunk that night. They had to be in top form in the morning.

A beautiful woman in a long black evening dress sat on a bar stool near Steve. She was a thirtyish brunette with curly hair.

“Well, hi, gentlemen!” she said.

Ramses nodded. “Privet!”

“You speak English?” Steve asked her.

“Just so much I have managed to grab at school and college,” she said. “So, my English is not good enough.”

“It’s not bad either,” Steve said. “But I’ll down my level of eloquence. Still, it’s always pleasant to be able to speak in a foreign country in one’s native language. What’s your name?”

He looked into her blue eyes, which were like two huge wells full of clear water.

“Lena,” she said.

“Nice to meet you, Lena. I’m Steve. And this big chunk of flesh here is Ramses.”

Ramses rolled his eyes. Lena smiled.

Steve dived into the conversation as he always did well, and it was obvious the evening was looking promising for him.

Ramses looked at them, a sad smile playing on his lips. He was drinking his cocktail and thinking about how he had met his ex-wife at a party like this. He shook his head and tried to wipe the sad look off his face.

The DJ announced a white dance, and Lena asked Steve to dance.

“What’s a white dance?” Steve asked her.

“It’s when ladies ask the gentlemen to dance,” Lena said.

“Oh, how nice,” Steve said and got up. “Okay, let’s go Sadie Hawkins.”

While dancing, he whispered something funny into her ear. She seemed to get his jokes and threw back her head laughing.

After the dance, Lena went to the bathroom. Steve sat on a high stool next to Ramses.

“Sorry, pal,” Steve said, “but I think I’m gonna leave this party earlier.”

“Listen up, man,” Ramses leaned closer to his friend. “You positive she’s not a hooker or something?”

“Why are you saying so? Can’t you see she fancies me?”

“All right,” Ramses said. “Just keep your eyes peeled.”

Steve is like a young horse after his divorce, Ramses thought with a smile. He’s shooting everything he sees.

Lena came back.

Steve stood up. “Okay. See you at the hotel.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day!” Lena said to Ramses.

“Yeah, you too,” Ramses said. “Be seeing ya!”

Steve said goodbye to his Russian colleagues and led Lena out of the dance hall.

Ramses was sitting alone at the bar counter like a deceased pharaoh in a sealed vault. There were people around him, but he was feeling lonely. Maybe the famous Russian spleen was taking over him as well? He glanced at the dancing people. Vassili was already making a play for another girl.

Ramses turned to the barman. “Can I get a martini, please?”

“No problem,” said the barman in good English. He made the drink in no time and set it before Ramses.

“What’s your name?” Ramses asked.

“It’s Roman.”

“Roman, like in Polanski?”

“Yep. You like his movies?”

Ramses nodded. “He has a couple of decent ones, all right. I like ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ most of all.”

“A good flick. You’re from the States?”

“Yah, straight from California.”

“Wow. California rocks! From L.A.?”

“Was born there,” Ramses said, “but living in San Francisco now. I’m on a business trip here.”

“Well, enjoy your stay.”

“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.

The big guy went for the pistol. Ramses acted like a lightning. He gave a punch to the thug’s nose. Blood sprayed the snow. The big Russian guy groaned.

In a second Ramses grabbed the thug’s hand, which held the bottle. He used it as a weapon against the man and gave him a quick hit on his forehead. Then one more hit in the temple.

The bottle cracked with a wet sound. Ramses smelled the beer immediately. The thug collapsed like a cut tree.

The other two scumbags saw their comrade lying on the sidewalk and ran to their car. They jumped into it. The car screeched its tires and drove away.

Ramses wiped the sweat off his forehead. He was panting. He pulled off his gloves, bent down to the lying thug and felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. He tried the wrist. No pulse either.

“Fuck!” he said.

A halo of blood was spreading around the hulk’s head. The snow absorbed it like a sponge.

The night sky got cleared, and the moon pierced through the clouds. He heard the wailing of police car sirens in the distance. He remained standing there on the sidewalk, waiting for the police car to arrive. He took out his cell phone and dialed Steve’s number. The line was busy.

“Damn! Unbelievable!”

He looked around, seeking for help.

A young couple went out of the nightclub, but when they saw what had just happened, they hastened to walk away. No one wanted to spend their weekend in a police station office as a witness or to be pulled out of their jobs, later on, to act as a witness in court.

The blaring sirens were close now. The police car turned around the corner with flashing lights. Four cops jumped out of the car onto the crunchy snow, handguns at ready.

They shouted at him in Russian. He did not understand exactly what they were saying, but he was a good guesser. He stepped away from the dead body and put his hands up in the air.

It stopped snowing.

TWO

The journey to the police station took about fifteen minutes. It was a noisy environment. People walked to and fro, shouting and slamming doors.

A bald policeman with a bushy walrus mustache emptied Ramses’s pockets. They took off his shoelaces and jeans belt. Then they made him go through mug shots and took his fingerprints. No one spoke English here, and his driver’s license was the only piece of information they could use.

The Walrus filled in his police charge sheet, put it before Ramses and offered him a pen.

Ramses pushed the document aside. “Dude, I ain’t signing anything until I get it translated for me, all right? Into English.”

The Walrus lifted his hands in dismay.

Ramses spent the night in a “monkey house”, as they called holding cells in Russia. It smelled of stale urine, puke, and disinfectant. Half a dozen prisoners sat with him on a long wide bunk. Boozers, thieves, abusive husbands.

At the crack of dawn, the door opened, and the Walrus pointed at him and gestured to step out. He clamped his wrists with handcuffs.

The cell door closed with a bang. Ramses winced. “Oh, what a dump!”

He turned and saw a young blond woman in the corridor. A strict suit. Modest make-up. An impenetrable face.

“My name is Ksenia Romanova,” the woman said in English in a cold voice. “I’m going to act as your interpreter.”

“Morning to you, missy,” Ramses said, offering his hand. “God, I’m thrilled to have someone speaking English here. You’re a godsend.”

She ignored his extended hand and started walking. The men followed her. They threaded their way through the five-storied building into the interview room. It was spartan. A table. Three chairs. A lamp over the table. No windows.

An old man in uniform was reading documents at the table.

The interpreter said, “This is Alexander Petrovich Romanov, the police chief of this police station. He will also be the investigator of your case.”

Ramses nodded and sat at the opposite end of the table. He looked at the old man and leaned back in his chair. “Hey, wait a minute. His last name is Romanov, too? So it’s your dad who’s running this funny farm here, ain’t he?”

Ksenia Romanova frowned and turned to her father to interpret the American’s words. The man frowned, too. Even the way they frowned was the same. Father and daughter, no doubt.

“Okay, I got it.” Ramses sat upright. The handcuffs clattered against the table surface. “I’m in no position to open my mouth here. I’ll keep silence, no worries.”

“That would be better,” the Russian woman said with no trace of emotion. She opened her notepad and uncapped her pen.

They asked him all kinds of questions about his name, occupation, relatives, place of residence.

“Did you kill that young man?” the police chief said.

“That heavy mob tried to rob me,” Ramses said. “There were three of ‘em. Armed. That was self-defense on my part. This is my first visit to this country, and it’s been a frosty reception, I gotta admit.”

“The man you killed was a minor. He was under eighteen years.”

Ramses glanced at the interpreter. “Well, a minor on steroids, then. The guy was bigger than a bear. Anyway, they didn’t show me their IDs. Introduced me to their gun instead.”

“We called the hospital. He died this morning.”

“Oh, shit.” Ramses looked at his big hands, which had gotten him in trouble so many times.

“We have already notified your consulate. We’re expecting a US consulate official to arrive soon.”

They kept asking him loaded questions to verify his statement against the information they had received from the US consulate. Then he was led to a solitary confinement cell.

Monkish solitude is all I need now, he thought.

They brought him cabbage soup with bread. He ate it all up.

In a couple hours, he was in the police chief’s office. On the wall, there was a big clock with President Vladimir Putin’s portrait. Ksenia Romanova was ready with her notepad and pen like a straight-A student.

A fortyish man in a suit was sitting beside her. His hair was parted at one side. He folded his hands on his chest and spoke with the American accent, “Are they treating you here well, Mr. Campbell?”

“Can’t complain. Thank you, sir.”

“My name’s Peter Rambler. I’m a US consulate official. Hope you realize that your current situation here is a grave one.”

Ramses gave a nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Let me tell you,” Rambler went on, “that American citizens abroad cannot invoke the U.S. Constitution to defend a criminal prosecution brought by a foreign government.”

“I can see that, sir.”

“But, according to an international treaty, an American individual detained abroad has the right to consular notification and representation.” Rambler paused. “That’s why I am here.”

Rambler put on his glasses and opened his files. He was looking like Clark Kent now. “You’ve committed a murder. On the crime scene, they found a knife with another person’s fingerprints. The Russian police are looking for him. There’s also a gun, but the snow erased all fingerprints. And they found the bottle with the young man’s fingerprints. You claim it was out of defense. But they have no witnesses.”

Ramses looked at the Romanovs. Ksenia was whispering interpretation of the consul’s words for her father.

“How come no witnesses?!” Ramses said with a booming voice that made Rambler sit up. “Did you check the CCTV cameras outside that club?”

“Really sorry,” Rambler said, “but the report says there were no witnesses. And the club hasn’t installed video cameras outside the property.”

“That’s unbelievable!” Ramses said. Then he remembered suddenly. “Ask Roman, the barman. He saw me that night.”

“He saw you leaving. Who saw what you were doing outside?”

The clock on the wall was ticking away the time. The Russians kept silence observing all this like a theatrical play. Birds sang in the trees outside, leaping from branch to branch.

Ramses sighed. “What’s the term of imprisonment gonna be?”

Ksenia Romanova translated the question and gave her father’s reply, “According to the Russian law, between three and five years. But everything will depend on the court adjudication.”

“What can you do for me in my situation?” Ramses asked Rambler.

“We’ll try to arrange for legal representation and find you a good lawyer. And we’ll keep looking for your assailants. But don’t worry. They have separate prison blocks for foreigners.”

Ramses slumped back in his chair. “Some consolation.”

Rambler turned to the Russians. “Please see to it that Mr. Campbell is contained in a single cell. We have to keep him away from more trouble.”

After a moment of thought, Ramses asked, “Can my relatives or ex-wife bail me out? Can’t they send me back to the States? My friend Steven Clayton is in this city right now. He could contact them.”

“I’m afraid, you can’t leave this country,” Rambler said. “You’re subject now to its laws.” He looked into his files. “Especially after you’ve served a similar prison sentence in the US. Sorry, but you’ll have to serve your sentence in a prison facility within this country.”

Ramses slammed his fist on the desk. “Damn!”

Rambler rose from his seat and started collecting his papers. “We’ll do what we can possibly do, Ramses. In the worst-case scenario, I’m not afraid for you. I watched a couple of your fights on HBO. They were great. In other circumstances, I’d ask for your autograph.”

“Yeah, man, thanks,” Ramses said. “For nothing.”

The light in the office became very bright.

Ramses looked at the lamps above, wondering what was wrong with the illumination. The lights were off. It was a sunny morning, and it was bright enough to do without switching the lights on.

The light was getting brighter. The Russians followed his glance and froze with surprise. Rambler looked up too. The blinding bright light reflected in the American consul’s spectacles and flooded the room. It was too dazzling to look at. Shadows moved around the room rapidly.

“The hell is that?” Ramses said.

A huge fireball streaked across the sky at a fast speed. Making no sound. The glowing orb was of irregular shape, and its contours were constantly shifting. It was brighter than the sun.

Rambler dropped his files on the desk and came up to the window.

All of them turned their heads toward the window.

In a few seconds, the monstrous fireball flew away at breakneck speed. It was gone as if it was just a trick of a magician.

In a moment the light became normal again.

“Un-fucking-believable!” Ramses said as the weird phenomenon vanished. He was seeing rainbows floating before his eyes. He blinked to adjust his eyesight.

“Oh, my God! What was that?” Ksenia Romanova said. It was the first time Ramses saw her showing any sign of emotion.

“A falling plane, maybe,” Rambler suggested. He looked concerned. Even anxious.

The Walrus looked in. He confirmed that everything was all right and closed the door. He probably had not seen a thing.

Ramses heard noise from the corridor. Someone was running. Heavy boots were shaking the building.

“Never seen anything like that,” Rambler said. “Hope it’s nothing serious. You guys better call the emergency and check if everything’s okay.”

Ksenia Romanova interpreted Rambler’s words for the police chief. He nodded and took out his cell phone. He pressed the cell to his ear, looking through the window. Then he clicked it shut.

He shook his head. No connection.

A deafening explosion broke out in the sky. The windows rattled in their frames. The birds soared up from the tree branches and flew away in panic.

The curtain blew in. Slivers of glass splashed over Rambler.

The police chief dropped his cell phone and swore in Russian. But he was not hurt.

“Shit!” Ramses ducked under the desk. Years of living in California taught him how to react during an earthquake to save his ass.

There came more explosions, three or four in a row. It looked like the city was being attacked by missiles. His ears were ringing. He felt the smell of sulfur in the air. Somewhere in the distance, car alarms started whining.

Rambler was screaming.

Ramses glanced at the windows. Some were shattered. Other window frames had withstood the shock wave but buckled.

Rambler pressed his hands to his cheek, which was cut by the flying glass. Blood dripped through his fingers on the floor littered with wooden splinters and broken glass.

The police chief sprang to his feet, rushed into the corridor and called out something in Russian. A medical officer came in.

Rambler took a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressed it to his cheek. He backed away from the windows as far as he could. He tried his cell phone. No signal.

“There’s no cell service.” He turned to Ksenia Romanova. “How about trying the landline?”

The girl came up to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Nothing. It’s dead.”

“Shouldn’t we leave the building?” Rambler said.

“No,” the police chief said through the interpreter. “There could be a gas attack. It’ll be safer if we stay here.”

Ramses came up to the window. “Hey! Look at that!”

Their eyes glued to the window. The fireball had left behind a long white-and-yellow smoky trail. It was stretching across the sky.

Cars stopped on the curb. People got out of the cars and looked up at the sky in wonder. Everyone was pointing up at the double trail of smoke. Passersby yanked out their cell phones and started shooting videos and snapping pictures.

The police officers came out of the police station and joined them.

“Them dumb-ass aliens are trying to invade Russia,” Ramses said.

Ksenia Romanova looked at him ruefully.

The police chief opened the door and asked the duty officers to come in. They handcuffed Ramses.

“Where am I going now?” Ramses looked at Rambler.

“To a solitary confinement cell,” Rambler said and flinched in pain as the medic was treating his wound. “Until we receive further evidence, I can’t do anything for you. We’ll be in touch.”

The police officers convoyed him out of the office. The corridor was a mess. There were glass shards everywhere. One vent window had been completely knocked out off its frame. An overturned flower pot had scattered flowers, leaves and earth all over the floor.

In his cell, the Russian cops removed the handcuffs. The massive door banged shut behind him. The key turned four times in the lock.

Ramses turned around and looked at his cage. Heavy metallic door. A worn bunk on the dull gray cement floor. A john in the corner. Dark green walls. A tiny barred window under the high ceiling. There was a crack on the glass. Apparently, after the strange explosions. He could see the large trail of smoke coming across the patch of sky.

The morning sun shone brightly.

He sat on the bunk, clutched his forehead and closed his eyes.

“Welcome to Mother Russia,” he said to the empty cell.