Necromancer: Undead Lives Matter

CHAPTER 4

Russian Federation, Vladivostok — May 5, 2021

The sun was shining. The grass was green. Spring had finally decided to show some mercy.

It was the sort of beautiful day that automatically improved your mood. Even the depressing sight of a half-collapsed garage cooperative couldn't ruin mine.

Honestly, life wasn't all that bad.

You just had to survive your student years. Get into pathology residency. Earn an actual salary. Somehow make ends meet.

Everyone had rough periods, right?

All I had to do was keep going.

I'd pass the project somehow. Then I'd have a nice, respectable oncology qualification under my belt. Evidence-based medicine was going well too, and I'd even managed to establish a pretty solid relationship with Antonina Vladimirovna.

So, all things considered…

Things were looking up.

Then I noticed the Mercedes. A tall minivan was parked beside the garages. And it was moving. Swaying gently from side to side.

I stared at it.

People had completely lost their minds. They were practically having intercourse in the middle of a residential courtyard now.

Whatever. Their conscience. I had better things to worry about.

I kept crushing the gravel beneath my Dotterpillars. Then the van door opened.

A muscular man stepped out. Casual clothes. Brown checked jacket, unbuttoned. Plain beige trousers.

I looked at him. Then I looked through the open van door.

And my brain stopped.

The entire interior was covered in plastic. Something like that, anyway. But that wasn't the problem.

There was a human body inside. On an autopsy table.

A fucking human body.

What the hell? The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

A lighter. Then he noticed me.

Oh, shit.

“Hey, man!” he called. “Come here.”

Yeah. Sure. Absolutely.

There are moments in life when every instinct you have screams the same thing.

Run.

This was one of those moments.

I'd watched enough crime shows to know how this worked.

Deadly Force. Streets of Broken Lights.

Criminals don't leave witnesses. Especially not witnesses who have just looked inside their van and seen a dead body. So I ran.

“Stop!”

The man's voice followed me. Definitely a criminal. Definitely.

Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

The fence. I jumped.

My backpack caught on a piece of wire sticking out from the top.

“Fuck!”

I yanked as hard as I could.

The strap snapped.

I kept going.

The backpack stayed behind, hanging from the fence like a sacrifice to whatever god was responsible for my terrible decision-making.

I should've been wearing both straps. Then this wouldn't have happened.

Behind me, the man shouted something. I didn't listen. Running had become my entire existence.

Then a dog came flying out of a kennel. Straight at my legs.

“Jesus!”

I jumped over the animal and cleared another fence.

The dog—man's best friend, apparently—was trying very hard to become man's most effective accomplice.

I landed in a freshly plowed vegetable garden. Great. They were going to plant potatoes here.

Running across freshly turned soil was like trying to sprint through wet concrete. Behind me came a startled shout. Then several very enthusiastic curses.

The dog had screwed me over. But apparently it hadn't screwed up the bandit. I'd survive.

And if I did, I'd buy that dog the biggest, tastiest bone I could find. Promise.

I crossed the end of the potato field, climbed over another low fence, and kept running. Through the private sector. Around the houses. Toward the dorm.

I needed to call the police. Immediately.

Otherwise—

My lungs were on fire by the time I reached the dorm.

Exercise had never been my strong suit.

I stumbled inside, hauled myself up to the second floor on legs that felt like they were vibrating, and practically collapsed through the door.

“Oh, Dushevny!”

Kirich was sitting at his laptop, smiling.

“Did you get the toilet paper?”

He'd changed shirts. Good. This one didn't have any Nazi symbols on it.

“Fuck, Kirich…”

I could barely breathe.

“I'm in…”

I swallowed.

“Trouble…”

His smile vanished.

“What happened?”

He spun around in his chair.

“You're red as hell.”

And then I remembered.

The backpack. My backpack. Still hanging on that fence. With the bandit.

“Fuck.”

My stomach dropped.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

My project was in there. All of it.

“Holy shit…”

Garage Cooperative near Okeansky Prospekt

“Check V.D. Alexandrov for me,” Strelnikov said, glancing down at the document in his hand. “And, heh-heh, A.M. Dushny. Also a certain Doctor of Medical Sciences, Professor I.A. Ivanov.”

He paused.

“You know Ivanov? Who is he?”

A moment later, his expression changed.

“Ah. So he's the one in charge of the morgue…”

Strelnikov looked toward the man he'd seen earlier.

“Dark-gray T-shirt. Belt like some rocker's belt?”

He listened.

“Older guy. Distinguished-looking?”

Another pause.

“Got it. Got it.”

He tapped the paper with one finger.

“Then check Dushny and Alexandrov for me too. I've got something to discuss with them.”

He listened again.

“Okay. I'll wait.”

The minibus had already left for the port.

There was no time to waste. The organ harvesting had to be stopped, and Nikita's body needed to disappear as quickly as possible.

‘That Nikita bastard had certainly made me drive all over Vladivostok.’

He hadn't been at his apartment. So Yuri had called in the others, and three days later they'd finally found the idiot hiding in a neighboring district. Renting an apartment from a guy who literally goes by “Boss.”

Yuri shook his head. You'd have to be a special kind of moron.

Seven minutes passed.

His phone rang.

“Hello?”

He slid the green call icon across the screen.

“Okay.”

He listened.

“Viktor Dmitrievich Aleksandrov? You're saying he's been reported missing and you're looking for him?”

A pause.

“No. Not our guy.”

He frowned.

“Dushny, then. He lives in the TSMU dormitory?”

Another pause.

“Where's that?”

He thought for a moment.

“Ah. Right. I remember.”

His expression relaxed.

“Okay. I'd appreciate it, Sveta. You know me.”

He listened.

“And if he calls from his own number, hold him there, all right?”

Another pause.

“Okay. Kisses.”

He hung up.

Svetlana was a police dispatcher and one of Yuri's more trusted contacts. Calling her merely a police dispatcher didn't really do her justice. She was, unofficially, the Business's representative inside the police department. The higher-ups had been on the Boss's payroll—or at least in his good graces—for long enough that everyone understood how things worked.

Svetlana had access to the system. She could pull information on almost anyone.

And if necessary, she could make someone disappear from the system just as easily.

The dog that had attacked Yuri earlier had gotten a fist in the face and retreated. Unfortunately, it had gotten one good bite in first. Right through his ankle.

Yuri grimaced, opened his contacts, and found the number he needed.

“Hello, Artyom.”

The call connected. An emotionless voice answered.

“Yes?”

“Take Igor and go to the address I'm sending you through Telegram.”

He glanced at the screen.

“You'll find a sixth-year student there. Anatoly Maximovich Dushny.”

He paused.

“Just pick him up quietly and bring him to the port. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I'll send the address now.”

Yuri ended the call.

That student wasn't going anywhere. Everyone made mistakes eventually.

Some people just made theirs sooner than others.