The Visitor

It took Artyom a few minutes to truly comprehend what he was doing. Literature had been his love and his passion, the one thing he really excelled at learning throughout school. He had dedicated four years of his life to the study of it in St. Petersburg. Now he had come to this. One by one his prized books were lowered timidly into the smouldering fire, curling and blackening under the licking of the flames. First edition Dostoyevsky works, the centrepieces of his collection, were reduced to cinders in Artyom's desperate struggle for heat. His wife, Anastasaya, entered the dimly lit room struggling with another pile of dusty books. He noticed her shadow flickering across the wall under the candlelight and turned to prepare his next to the fire and wrenched himself to his feet, eager to get away from his sins.

The cries from Dimitri's room called him to his next duty. The splintering floorboards creaked under the heavy soles of his boots as he limped across the remains of the carpet. What little sunlight that filtered through the barricades and the curtains glared into his eyes and blinded him as he walked into the kitchen. His worn, shredded gloves perused the grubby counter, shifting aside emptied and broken boxes as he searched for what little food his family had left. He knew that supplies were running dry but he didn't know if he could face another excursion into the broken city. As he walked back to his sons room, he heard a knocking at the door.

His feet carried him to the balcony before his mind could tell him it was a bad idea. He stood in the cold of the Moscow morning and saw a man. He wore a torn, moth-eaten army greatcoat, and carried a weapon at his side. From the dirt and blood caking his face, Artyom knew the man had been through much to get here. The man looked up and saw Artyom, hope glimerring in his eyes.

“Friend, please, let me in! I've been running for three days.”

“I don't know if we can.”

“Please I need food and rest, the streets are crawling with the creatures.”

Artyom hadn't seen anyone but his wife and child in months. Finally, there was a new arrival at his apartment but survivalism had driven him to this.

“Comrade, I am sorry but we simply can't spare the supplies. We cannot let you in,” he shouted from his sixth floor balcony.

“Can't? Or won't?” the tattered, embittered man screamed up from the front door.

Artyom tilted his head to his chest. “You choose, my friend, it doesn't make a difference.” He walked, kicking his heels, back to his family in the living room but turned as he heard the reply from over his shoulder.

“It makes all the difference!”

Artyom suddenly felt like his whole world was about to come crashing down on top of him. He had taken weeks to build this little fortress of his for his family. When the infection hit and the diseased began their rampage through Moscow, it was Artyom who had boarded up the windows. It was Arrtyom who had to gather supplies. It was Artyom who had to take the first life. He could stand proudly behind his barricades as the rest of the world fell to the onslaught of rotting bodies.

The rest of Moscow had not fared as well. Most of it was destroyed early on in the infection. The flames of long-since-lost battles still roared through the streets and twisted, scorched cars made the roads impassable. Arytom had scavenged in the ruins, knowing of the creatures hiding in the alcoves, and he had kept his family well stocked. Now he was certain that the new arrival would crush his hopes and shatter his dreams for the future like the glass of so many Moscow shop windows.

Artyom rushed across to his bedroom and seized his worn pistol from the night stand before sprinting desperately back to his overlooking balcony. He was already too late.

The boarding that was covering the door was now strewn across the cobbled streets. The new arrival's splintered hands leaked crimson into the gutters. From his hip, the visitor drew an old Russian service revolver and spun the barrel. Arms raised to the sky like a zeal-filled priest giving a sermon, he fired all six of his rounds into the clear sky. The sound reverberated through the metropolis, echoing through the alleys and the streets. It rang in Artyom's ears as he too drew his pistol and lined up his sights on the man below. He squeezed the trigger.

The bullet buried itself deep within the visitor's neck. A fountain of sticky red erupted from the jugular vein that the round has severed. The man slumped limply onto the cold Moscow street as it ran red with his blood. Anastasaya rushed to Artyom's side, leaving their little boy alone. “Why?” she screamed.

“Some men want to watch the world burn,” Artyom replied. “I wouldn't let him in and he knew what fate awaited him. He just wanted to take someone down with him. Grab something heavy and get into Dimitri's room. They'll be here soon enough.”

Artyom strode to the stairwell with his pistol at his hip and an axe at his side. He could already hear the howls of the infected as they clawed their way into his now-open doors. He had worked hard to carve this slice of heaven out of the barren carcass of Moscow and he would defend it with his life. He knew he stood no chance but all he could do was stand and fight to the last, taking whatever hand fate dealt him. He had to do what he could to protect his family. The writhing mass of bodies approached the stairs and he steeled his nerves.

Artyom swung his axe in a wide arc, cleaving limbs from bodies. A fine red mist hung around him as he dispatched monster after monster. Eventually, he was overwhelmed. One of the infected, eyes wide with primal hunger, launched itself at him and pinned him to the stairs. He held it back with his axe handle as it gnashed its jaws and frothed from its mouth, anticipating the taste of flesh. He prepared to kick out at the other attackers but they were distracted. He could only watch as, one by one, they filed into his apartment, following a sound. The sound of his infant son's cries.

Like a man possessed, Artyom fought back with vigour. Kicking out with hob-nailed boots, he shattered the monster's femur and wrestled it over the hand rail. A dull thud let him know that it was dealt with. He rushed into his room and was confronted with a sight no father should see. The anguished cries of his wife and child fell silent. They weren't in the room any more. There was only a horde of bodies draped in entrails and viscera.

For a moment, Aryom let his anger and pain overwhelm him. He drew his pistol and fired aimless shots into the crowd. He had the monsters' attention but had no idea what to do with it. Swiftly, he moved back into the stairwell and climbed to the roof, kicking open the steel door. Another kick put it back in its place, severing a creature's arm. It's finger writhed on the gravel.

Artyom was lost. He couldn't cry, he'd exhausted his tears months ago. He tried to think of the things that made him happy. The things he enjoyed doing with his family. He thought of reading classic literature to his son. A pointless gesture as he couldn't understand any of it. Artyom remembered a quote from his favourite author. 'To live without hope is to cease to live.' He certainly had no hope and he didn't feel like living any more. He pulled out the family photo he kept in his pocket, kissed it, then tossed it aside to draw his pistol. Closing his eyes and raising the gun, he pushed the barrel against his temple and squeezed the trigger. The loud metallic clang of an empty chamber pounded his eardrums. Known as the dead man's click, the irony was not lost on Artyom. Many would've taken this as a sign or divine intervention. He was not one of these people. He dropped the pistol and walked to the building's precipice. Without a moment's thought, he jumped. The thud of flesh on grey Russian cinder block let the infected know that their next meal was ready for them.