Necromancer: Undead Lives Matter

CHAPTER 5

TSMU Dormitory

“Well, damn…”

Kirich dragged the words out.

“You're in deep shit.”

I'd told him everything. Now I was trying to call the police. Trying being the operative word.

“Some kind of network problem?”

I stared at the phone.

“I don't understand this at all.”

The call system had reset for the fourth time.

“What the hell…”

Kirich watched me.

“What are you going to do?”

“Lend me some money.”

I hated asking. But there wasn't much choice.

“Five thousand. Please. I swear I'll pay you back as soon as I can.”

“No problem, Dushevny.”

Kirich smiled.

“I actually have some cash.”

He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and started counting. One thousand. Two. Three.

He kept going.

Seven thousand rubles.

I stared at him.

“Why seven?”

“The extra two are for emergencies.”

He tucked the remaining money back into his wallet.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Run.”

I said it with complete confidence.

Then I'd try calling the police again.

This whole thing was happening in the middle of the workday, right in the center of the city. Someone had to be able to help.

“Thanks, Kirich. Seriously. You're saving my ass.”

I grabbed my things.

“I'm going to—”

“Don't tell me.”

Kirich suddenly looked worried.

“What if they come looking for me?”

He raised both hands.

“Let me honestly not know what you're planning, okay?”

I stared at him. That was actually a surprisingly good idea. For once.

I grabbed my battered old backpack and shoved the few things I needed inside. Then I gave Kirich a grateful nod.

“Thanks.”

And left.

I needed to rent an apartment somewhere anonymous.

Somewhere nobody knew me. At least now I had enough money for the deposit.

After that, I'd sit tight and pray the police did their job properly. Because if they didn't…

I could end up like the poor bastard I'd seen in that van.

And somehow, I didn't think anyone would be coming to rescue me.

Same Place — Forty Minutes Later

Artyom Bibikov stepped into the medical university dormitory and found himself staring down a shabby hallway that looked like it hadn't been renovated since the Soviet Union.

“Who are you here to see?” the elderly security guard demanded.

She sat inside a little plastic booth behind the turnstile, watching him with open suspicion.

“Anatoly Dushny.”

Igor Bobkov came in behind him and nodded, as though confirming the answer.

“Why do you need Tolya?”

“We're friends,” Artyom lied.

“Then call him. He'll come down.”

Fair enough.

The old woman was clearly suspicious of Dushny's sudden appearance of “friends,” but even if she hadn't been, the dormitory wasn't open to random visitors without a pass.

“Call him,” Artyom told Igor.

His partner stepped aside and pulled out his phone.

“Hello? Anatoly Dushnoy?”

After the beeps, Igor continued.

“I'm calling from the police. You didn't answer seven times?”

A pause.

“Yeah. Well… we're dealing with missed calls at the moment.”

The spring on the front door squeaked.

Artyom glanced over. Two men entered. Police.

Or at least, they looked enough like police to fool most people.

Artyom instinctively memorized their appearance.

Igor lowered his voice.

The newcomers were now officially classified as a problem. One of the men approached the security booth.

“Criminal Investigation Department. Senior Lieutenant Markedonov.”

He showed his badge. Artyom immediately knew something had gone wrong. Igor's conversation had changed direction.

Dushny must have suspected something. The operation was collapsing.

“Let's go,” Artyom said quietly.

He turned toward the exit.

“Hold on, citizen.”

The second detective stepped in front of him.

Artyom stopped.

“Seriously?”

“Artyom Bibikov, right?”

The detective had recognized him. Then he showed his identification.

“Lieutenant Nekipelov. Criminal Investigation Department.”

“Yeah. That's me.”

While Nekipelov dealt with Artyom, the other detective spoke to the security guard.

“He was involved in a hooliganism case, wasn't he?”

Artyom's jaw tightened.

The detective looked back at him.

“What are you doing in the dormitory?”

“Visiting a friend.”

Another lie.

“And I've already served my sentence for the hooliganism.”

Nekipelov studied him.

“Do you know anything about Viktor Alexandrov?”

“Never heard of him.”

Another lie.

That was the thing about detectives.

They were trained to pick apart tiny facts, isolate inconsistencies, and build an entire case out of them.

Sometimes you said three harmless words without thinking and suddenly discovered you'd practically confessed to a crime. Anyone with something to hide had better choose their words carefully.

Bibikov already knew about Alexandrov.

Yuri had mentioned the man's name over the phone while Artyom and Igor were on their way to the dormitory. But knowing something and admitting it were two very different things.

“Am I free to go?”

Nekipelov waved him off.

“Go.”

Artyom didn't need to be told twice. The detective watched him leave. Something about Bibikov bothered him.

Detectives developed an instinct for suspicious people over time. Nekipelov was fairly sure Bibikov hadn't come to the dormitory simply to visit a friend. But suspicion wasn't evidence.

Officially, he had nothing on the man.

So let Bibikov go.

They had a missing student to find. Outside, Bibikov and Bobkov climbed into a black BMW.

Artyom immediately called Strelnikov.

“Hello.”

He listened.

“I don't think Dushny is in the dorm.”

A pause.

“What do you mean, I think?”

Artyom frowned.

“We couldn't get inside. And it's not the guard's fault, Seryoga.”

He glanced back at the dormitory.

“Two detectives showed up. They're looking for Alexandrov.”

Another pause.

“Got it. We're coming to you.”

He hung up. The BMW pulled away.

TSMU Dormitory — One Minute Later

Detective David Pakhomovich Nekipelov climbed the stairs toward Alexandrov's room. The elevator was broken. Of course it was. The room was on the eighth floor.

“His room is here,” said the security guard, Polina Nikolaevna.

Nekipelov knocked.

A moment later, the door opened.

A student stood there.

“What is it?”

“Lieutenant Nekipelov, Criminal Investigation Department.”

Nekipelov showed his identification.

“Who are you?”

“Stepan Ivanovich Pavlov.”

The student looked at the detective.

“You're looking for Vitka?”

Nekipelov's attention sharpened.

“You know Viktor Alexandrov?”

“I know him.”

“Do you have any idea where Viktor might be?”

Pavlov shook his head.

“Not really. I haven't seen him for three days.”

Nekipelov's expression darkened. Three days. And nobody knew where he was. This wasn't going to be an easy missing-person case.

The statistics over the past few years had been getting uglier. People disappeared, and too often they simply stayed gone. Only a small percentage were eventually found. That kind of statistic was poison for a police department's performance reports. It didn't matter if everything else was going well—which, frankly, it wasn't. Missing-person cases dragged the numbers down.

There was already grumbling inside the department that they were losing their touch. That they couldn't find anyone anymore. That they were wandering around blindly while criminals ran circles around them.

Nekipelov didn't like those accusations.

But something about this case bothered him. People didn't simply vanish. Not without leaving something behind. A clue. A witness. A mistake.

Unless…

Nekipelov felt a cold knot form in his stomach.

‘Could there be a new maniac in Vladivostok?’