Азизбек Карамзин - Apocalypse «Beginning of the End»

Looking around, I saw a country road leading in the right direction. The road was empty, and only the lone Fred truck, which had driven into a ditch, with its doors wide open, was looking at me forlornly from the bushes, resembling a spaniel in its appearance. Starting the car, I directed it in the direction of the western outskirts of the city.

On the way, I met another infected. He trudged along the country road in the same direction as me. It was an ordinary village man, dressed in a vest, wide trousers and high rubber boots. “A kind of tractor driver,” I thought. The fact that he was "one of these" was clear from his gait, and the fact that the boot on his right leg was half gone, but this did not bother the peasant, and he continued to walk, dragging his leg. I pulled up to the left side of the road and stepped on the gas a little, hoping to quickly go around it. When the peasant was about twenty meters away, he heard me and turned around, leaning his head on his shoulder. Bloody saliva ran from his mouth. Without thinking twice, he stepped in my direction, mouth and eyes wide open. I braked sharply, and the zombie, not expecting this, fell right in front of the car to the ground. I gave gas and, moving it, drove on.

Before the garages remained with half a kilometer, when the car suddenly began to sneeze and twitch. “Gasoline is running out, we need to urgently hide the car,” I decided.

Around was a field with many small bushes and islands of trees. The nearest such island was about a hundred meters from the road, and I turned into it, persuading the car so that it would not stall. Sneezing and twitching, Kruzak impudently fell into the bushes, breaking them with a powerful "kenguryatnik", and, having honestly completed the task, unceremoniously stalled.

Jumping out into the wet grass, I examined my footprints leading from the road to the forest – they were practically invisible, and this pleased me. Stepping back a little and making sure that nothing could be seen from the road, he glanced at his watch. It seemed that half a day had already passed, such a busy morning. “Well, then, garages,” I thought, looking in their direction. You could see them from here.

Taking out the easel backpack from the autobox, I removed the tent from it, putting on a hiking bag in its place. After making sure that the bag and canister were tightly secured, I put it on my back – it was convenient. I jumped and ran a little around the car – the backpack fit well, clasping my shoulders and waist with soft straps. After rummaging under the trunk tray, I found a working flashlight and a powerful long-handled spray bottle. What you need! I tossed the flashlight into my bag, secured the found key to the metal shelf of my backpack next to the axe, and closed the trunk.

The sun came out and pleasantly warmed me, only now it became clear how wet I was. Taking off my wet sneakers, I tried to wring out my socks, but they were barely damp, so I put them back on my feet and, throwing my sneakers into the car, put on the rubber boots found in the trunk. They were right on time.

Having put on a khaki fishing panama hat, found there, I went to the garages, noticing along the way that the grass, crushed by the car, was slowly rising, and my traces of my stay were almost invisible.

A few minutes later, I briskly made my way to the garage cooperative, thinking along the way about how much gasoline I need to get to Novosibirsk and stay there for a while. It turned out that forty liters, or better sixty would be enough.

In the garages everything was as I expected. There was not a soul around, only some garage doors and doors wide open were embarrassing. Passing between the rows, I noticed a rather large white dog of indeterminate breed. When she saw me, she ran away like a bullet. Looks like she already had a chance to fuck a new experience with two-legged. Having walked around the entire garage cooperative, I made sure that I was alone in it. “Time to start looking,” I decided, and climbed onto the roof of one of the garage rows.

How to open a garage? – you ask. “Yes, it’s very simple!” In the dashing nineties, like everyone else who had nothing to eat, I did not sit idle and at the age of thirteen or fourteen I worked with a group of friends by opening garages. I did it simply: I climbed onto the roof, tore off the roofing material, tore off the boards that were under it, and calmly penetrated inside. I was mainly looking for pickles and jams that people kept in the inspection pits of garages, but I also found many other very interesting punks. Including cans of gasoline, which he then poured into the river and set on fire … wow, it was a sight! Some experience in this fishery came with pain. You need to think about how you will get out if the door can only be opened from the inside with a key, and that you can’t strike a match in a dark garage if it smells of gasoline … The last one made me think: since gasoline was my goal, then you can punch holes in the roofs with a balloon and sniff the smell. The idea seemed like a good one, so I did it.

Success was not long in coming. The aromas were different: now fuel oil, then rotten potatoes, then stale air, and finally, the barely perceptible smell of gasoline. The roofing material on this garage was laid in several layers, so it did not come off, but broke off in small pieces. Finally, I got to the boards and, prying them with the sharp side of the spray can, began to tear them off one by one. The huge nails with which the boards were nailed creaked disgustingly and very loudly when I tore them out. I didn’t figure out how to make this process quieter, so I decided to just do it quickly.

Finally, after sweating a lot and finishing my work, I was able to look inside the garage. The light came through cracks under the doors and a hole in the ceiling, so I found the source of the smell right away.

The garage was exemplary: a tool hanging on the walls, shelves with various junk – everything was laid out very neatly and in its place, betraying a perfectionist in its owner. Only a hefty red canister of forty liters stood out from the overall picture, standing in the middle of the garage closer to the back wall. The lock latch was clearly visible on the garage door – this indicated that the lock could be opened from the inside without a key. I took off the backpack and, unfastening the lower straps, carefully lowered it down. Then, squeezing through the hole, I hung on my hands for a while, trying to make out the place where I would have to land, and jumped down.

Sweating from breaking the roof under the hot sun, the garage greeted me with pleasant coolness and shade. There was no time to enjoy this feeling, but I could not refuse myself and sat down on the frame of the backpack, removing my wet and fairly grown hair over the past two months from my forehead.

“It must be great to have such a garage,” I thought, “you can pick yourself in the car.” Something, and I loved this since childhood. Unfortunately, I didn't have my own garage. I serviced the car at the service station and, each time taking it away after repair, I found some minor flaws. At least, it seemed to me that it was every time: something was under-tightened, then over-tightened, then the body was smeared with dirty gloves, and so on. And here he drove the car and his own head, and everything you need is always at hand.

With difficulty tearing my ass off the backpack, I picked up and poofed the canister: “It’s not thick, five liters, probably.”

Opening the lid, I sniffed the contents, and yes – it was gasoline … definitely not a solarium. I sniffed again. I wonder which one?

Once I happened to read that you can distinguish the eightieth from the ninety-second and higher by rubbing it on your fingers. The 80's should be less oily than the 90's, but there was nothing to compare it to, so I decided to think of other ways. Looking around, I found sixteenth-radius cast wheels with a Mazda badge, stacked in a corner and covered with a tarpaulin. What kind of gasoline is poured into cars on such a casting? If I understood at least something in this, then gasoline should be no lower than ninety-two. Looking around a little more, I found on one of the shelves a familiar beige box – these were cartridges for Makarov caliber 9x18. I was surprised to find that it was full and contained 16 rounds. I threw the ammo into my backpack. Finding nothing else he needed, he took a funnel from the wall and poured the gasoline he found into a canister, attached to my backpack. Then, having perched him on his back, he went to the exit.

I carefully examined the door and found the alarm. The loud ringing bell was located between two shelves bolted to the wall and hidden by a curtain. Apparently, it was autonomous or powered by a battery. If I pulled the latch, it would work. In any case, a powerful ax blow ended his existence.

In addition to the latch, there was a second lock, and it was opened only with a key. There was little chance of cracking it, so I turned my attention to the garage doors – things were better here. The gate was held by two hecks and tensioners located above and below. The hecks gave in easily, but things were worse with the tensioners. Each turn was difficult, and it took me a long five minutes to unscrew them. When the upper tensioner was removed and the lower tensioner had a couple of turns left, a shadow appeared in the gap under the garage door. Someone stood silently on the other side of the gate. I froze and listened, feeling my stomach tighten with fear. Seconds passed, but nothing happened. I tried to look under the door, but the hole was too narrow to see anything. Therefore, I did not think of anything better than to knock lightly on the door and see what happens. The shadow on the other side came to life and came close to the door. Now I heard someone sniffing convulsively, then exhaling with a wheeze and sniffing again. There was no doubt that there was an infected person there, and if they smell healthy people, then this one had little chance of smelling me – the garage was filled with a mixed smell of gasoline and auto chemicals.

I looked hopefully at the hole in the ceiling through which I entered here, but, alas, it was too high, and there was no way to get to it. The only way out of this garage was through the gate and the indifferent one that was waiting for me on the other side.

The gate clicked and wobbled as I pushed the last few turns of the tensioner. The intruder on the other side perked up. Clutching the ax tighter and taking a deep breath with a full chest, stepping back a couple of steps, I exhaled with a shudder and, with all my strength, kicked the gate. Plaster fell from the ceiling as the gates rumbled open, knocking whoever stood behind them to the ground. It was a teenager of about sixteen, dressed in a football uniform and boots. He was not at all embarrassed by what was happening, he both fell and stomped on me on all fours, shaking bloody saliva from his open dirty mouth, without even bothering to get to his feet. His face was deathly pale with blue streaks, multiple bruises and bites were visible all over his body, and his eyes were truly terrifying. These were the eyes of a dead man, greyish-yellow,

– Go away, boy, I'll hurt you! – swinging the ax, I tried to appear as serious as possible, but the teenager continued to shove forward, pushing me to the back wall.

– I'm talking for the last time! Get out! I shouted again, and my voice broke into a treacherous squeal.

– Well, that's it, kid, you asked for it yourself … – I said and, having described an arc, I stuck the ax into the kid's head with a swing. The blood spattered in small splashes in the face and on the clothes. Something jumped in my chest, and a lump rolled up in my throat. The boy's body went limp and sank to the ground, dragging the murder weapon lodged in his skull with it. Restraining the urge to vomit, I put my foot on the dead shoulder and, cracking the skull with a crunch, pulled the ax out of it. Time seemed to stop as I stood over the dead teenager and couldn't bring myself to look away from what I had done. A sound coming from the street snapped me out of my stupor. I walked out of the garage and discovered that it wasn't just this poor fellow who had come to the noise. On both sides of the garage span, about a dozen infected wandered. Some of them noticed me and were already walking towards me. Most of them were slow and clumsy others were a little more active, pushing the first ones away, moving towards their potential prey. A pregnant woman in a once-white skirt and a torn sweater stood out in particular. She, looking from under her brows, walked in my direction, clutching a cobblestone in her hand. Her movements looked more confident than the others, and she walked, trying not to overtake others, letting them go ahead, as if hiding behind their dead bodies.