out to be a good day. He’d had found a great place to spend the night.
It was a small tavern sandwiched between a ransacked bank and a video store with bloodstained windows. Its facade was covered in dirt and soot. Hanging over the door was a rickety Coca-Cola sign with the bar’s name painted on it: THE OLD VINE.
To call it a corner bar would be generous. It was really a dump. Before the apocalypse, I wouldn’t have given it a second glance. The door was secured by a hinged gate that reached all the way to the ground and had a large, rusty padlock. Between the gate and the door was a pile of old, yellowed newspapers dating from before the epidemic and a lot of flyers, faded from months of exposure to rain and wind.
That hole-in-the-wall must’ve closed long before everything went to hell. It was unlikely we’d find undead in there, but we wouldn’t know that till we went inside. Our options were dwindling fast. It was getting dark; soon we wouldn’t be able to see past our noses. The sky was clouding up; a storm was about to break. There wouldn’t be any moonlight. Every minute we stood in the middle of the street increased the chance that unwanted company would track us down.
The door to the bank had been blown off its hinges. Judging from the scrapes on the wall and pavement, someone had dragged the ATM outside with a powerful vehicle. Probably looters during the chaotic days at the end. One thing was for sure—we’d be no better off sleeping in that bank than in the street. I wasn’t crazy about entering the video store, with all the blood on its windows. And I certainly didn’t need to rent a movie.
So our best alternative was the bar. While Prit fiddled around with the padlock on the gate, I peered in the window through ads, faded posters, and a list of local soccer matches. In the dusty, dark interior, there were bottles were lined up neatly behind the bar. Suddenly, I was obsessed with the idea of drinking a frothy beer, sitting quietly at a table. We had to go in.
Walking a few yards from the demolished area, I picked up a piece of cement rubble that weighed about ten pounds. I gathered my waning strength and threw it at the window. The thud startled Prit, and he jumped to one side as shards of cement rained down on him. I gave him a sheepish look, silently apologizing. The Ukrainian shook his head, still shaken up. The window was shattered, but not broken.
Safety glass, but bad quality. If it’d been high-quality safety glass, I could’ve thrown that boulder a hundred times and it wouldn’t have scratched the surface. But this was a seedy bar, not a jewelry store. After few well- placed blows, what Pritchenko called “the old Soviet way,” the window finally gave way, leaving a gap big enough for Prit and me to slip through.
There was dust everywhere, and the place smelled musty. I laughed at myself when I automatically reached out to turn on the light. Some habits never die. Prit leaned a table against the window to cover the hole, transforming the bar into a fortress against the undead. I slipped behind the bar to take stock while some light still remained. The cash register was empty, and the moldy carcass of a lemon was rotting in a bowl next to a rusty knife. I found a Bic lighter. Pritchenko pulled some heavy curtains across the window to block the view from the street. Perfect.
By the light of that lighter, we looked through the drawers and finally found a couple of candles. Once they were lit, we opened one of the refrigerators. In less than two minutes, Pritchenko and I had chugged half a dozen bottles of water and a couple soft drinks, sitting with our backs against the bar. You could almost see all that liquid running through my body, reviving me. My tongue rehydrated with each bottle of water, and I could feel my cells soaking up that blessed liquid up like a sponge.
Once we’d quenched our thirst, hunger became our next priority. As I was writing some lines in this book, I heard Prit tinkering in the little kitchen at the back. I was too weak to help. After a few minutes, he reappeared, smiling, carrying a huge pile of cans. The kitchen was pretty well stocked and relatively intact. It wouldn’t feed an army, but it would feed a couple of survivors for a few days.
That night we slept soundly for the first time in a week. When we awoke, sunlight was filtering through the curtains. After we washed up a little with bottled water, we assessed the situation. After some discussion, we decided to stay in the bar for another day to get our strength back. Through the curtains, we saw plenty of undead moving down the street, headed for God only knows where.
ENTRY 71
This morning we finally ventured outside again. The street was drenched. It must’ve rained during the night. As the Ukrainian and I traveled along the sidewalk, hiding behind abandoned cars, a weak sun began to emerge. Wisps of steam rose off the pavement as the humidity burned off. It promised to be another sultry day, but right then it was still nice and cool.
Pritchenko carried a huge kitchen knife hanging at his waist. I’d grabbed a small meat cleaver. It wouldn’t do much good against a horde of those creatures, but it made me feel a lot more confident.
To be honest, we got overconfident, and it nearly cost us our lives. We were less than ten minutes from the address on the receipt when we turned a corner without taking the time to scope it out and stumbled upon the girl.
She was in her twenties and quite tall. She had a spectacular blonde mane halfway to her waist and a nice figure. She wore a top that left little to the imagination and skintight jeans that fit really well. Her features were delicate, and she wore enormous rhinestone earrings. She was very pretty. A really great-looking girl. The only thing marring her beauty was the ugly wound that ran along her shoulder blade, leaving a messy trail of blood down her bare back. That and the fact she was a damned undead.
I didn’t see her coming, and before I knew it she was on top of me, struggling to bite me. Her saliva dripped on to my chest as she locked me in a deadly embrace. I shuddered. If she scratched me, I’d end up like the Pakistani guy. I cried for help from Pritchenko.
Prit coolly situated himself behind the girl, who had me backed against a wall. With a quick, expert gesture, he grabbed the girl by the hair with one hand and began to methodically execute her with the knife in the other hand.
It was a scene out of Dante’s
When Pritchenko’s knife reached the vertebrae in her neck, it hit bone. He pulled out the blade and stood back while I shoved the girl’s bloody, trembling body into the middle of the street. Her head hung at an impossible angle on her back.
It was my turn. I hauled back and brought my cleaver down, trying to hack through the remaining piece of the thing’s neck. Her body swayed backward, and the blade struck her collarbone. Now she was bouncing around wildly in the middle of the street, her head hanging by a thread, her arm half severed. It was something out of a gory movie.
I whacked her neck a second time. My aim was true this time, and her head rolled on the ground. Her convulsing body collapsed.
Pritchenko picked her head up by the hair and gazed at it, deep in thought. It was creepy. That fucking head was still snapping its mouth and gnashing its teeth. It made no sound since it had no larynx or lungs, but if it could, it would’ve been screaming with rage.
With all his might, Prit threw it down the road. The head flew through the air in an arc, hit the ground with a thud, and rolled into a corner. If no one touched her, she might stay there until…when? How long can these beings live? Are they eternal? Questions and more questions and not a fucking answer.
Pritchenko and I were bathed in blood.
That episode gave me something new to think about. Prit had meticulously, patiently beheaded a girl in cold blood. His pulse didn’t even seem to rise. Calm and professional. I asked myself: Who the hell is this guy? A bit
