"Okay, transfer's on its way," Sakharov said. "Three minutes to finish."
What the hell? Did he copy every bit by hand? To a piece of paper?!
Even his old office machine would transfer a year's worth of bookkeeping in less time.
But staring at those nearby zombies made the wait feel even longer.
They had guns. And they would stop their shuffling to stare at them. The ones further away would not bother, but those who noticed them kept gathering at the edge of that hill.
"Is this always like this?" Konrad muttered, his nerves on edge.
"Lately? Yeah," Corporal Sokolov nodded, checking the breach of his shotgun. "More of them keep coming, but they only attacked us once so far. The issue is—the voices."
This "only once" was already one more than he felt comfortable with.
And yes, he could hear the wordless whispers, too.
They creeped him out.
"Was there actually a time you wanted to shoot the prof in the face?" Konrad asked, wary of the zombies, but those scientists as well. "Like, do you understand words from this?"
"Words? No. But the feelings. Urges," Sokolov explained. "And yeah, I had that one before."
"What's wrong with this cable?" Sakharov grumbled. "Transfer's slower than usual."
Even slower?!
Konrad couldn't help but take a glance at his PDA.
The counter reached twenty, with some of the zombies in his line of sight showing up as red.
Could he deal with that many if they decided to attack?
He had a loaded rifle, and a good one at that, but—only thirty rounds in the mag.
How was he supposed to reload with these ridiculous gloves?
They dressed up like wannabe astronauts, but would these skafanders actually protect them?
Having too much time on his hands made him think of worst-case scenarios.
"Hmm, not good," the professor mumbled to himself. "Preliminary data shows the psy emissions got fifteen percent stronger now. Only since the last Blowout. You two good?"
"Starting to get a headache," Sokolov noted.
And good for him. Konrad had one before they even left the bunker.
"Why're they staring?" he asked, antsy from the undead crowd. "And they keep coming, too."
The counter on the PDA was at twenty-five now.
Then, it did something he hadn't seen before, ever since he got it.
A big plus sign replaced the numbers.
"I've a bad feeling about this," he mumbled, taking a step back.
"Ugh, how much time left?" the Corporal asked, too, trying to rub his temples, but the helmet was in the way. "Not sure if your built-in dampeners will last much longer."
"These suits have dampeners?" Konrad scowled. "But the voices are stronger than yesterday."
"Hmm? Wait, which suit are you wearing?" Sakharov looked up, squinting.
Stupid question. They put it on him, and they were all different colors.
"Don't worry, kid," Sokolov grunted. "Given how strong my headache is, you would have already passed out without protection. Then would come the sweet, carefree zombie life."
Yeah, no, that didn't calm him one bit.
And the moaning and mumbling of the zombies was almost like a choir now.
Worse still, the whispers in his head started to make sense.
"Four minutes," the scientist said, though he had already forgotten the question.
"Are you kidding me?" the Corporal grunted, shaking his shotgun at him. "You said three when you started. Five minutes ago. My head wants to explode. Screw it and let's go back."
"It's fine, it's fine," Sakharov mumbled. "Let me see what's wrong with the cables."
But their voices had begun to fade out of his consciousness.
Even if he should have heard them through the suit's internal radio—
The zombies' moans and those intrusive whispers took over.
The ground started spinning, and Konrad almost fell, even standing still.
That blue tint he had gotten used to by now turned purple and became much darker.
Wind. Noises. The warmth of the suit.
They all ceased to exist.
It was only Konrad and the voices, and—
A shotgun, shoved against his chest.
He blinked, taking him a moment to regain his bearings or hear the words.
"Hold it, or I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it."
Sokolov. He didn't look good.
"One more second and it should continue," Sakharov mumbled, lost in his own little world.
Did the zombies come closer? They were standing at the top of that ridge before. But now, they were at the bottom, staring, old guns hanging from their hands.
Konrad didn't like it. Not one bit.
But when he tried to voice his concerns, no sound came out.
His hands wrapped around the shotgun as the Corporal took a few steps back. But he couldn't move. Couldn't think. It felt like when his wives used telepathy against his will.
Yeah. That actually brought back a faint memory.
His relentless training to lock out mindreaders and unwanted contacts.
Not the barriers he erected—they wouldn't have helped him without his magic anyway.
But there were other methods.
Things anyone could do.
Playing cards or chess in his head. Counting the steps. Repeating a random mantra.
He gave them a shot now, hoping they would help to keep his sanity.
It was no mistake; the zombies came much closer.
They were at arm's reach now, not fifteen paces away.
But forming words, even to warn the others, was still beyond what he could do.
His feet rooted in place, while he held those two guns.
Could he even fire either of them like that?
"Almost there," Sakharov mumbled, while the Corporal was leaning against that wreck.
'Don't fight it,' someone whispered. The voices? 'They don't care. Join us.'
'Like hell I would,' Konrad thought, closing his eyes to play poker in his head instead.
How likely was it to have a Royal Flush?
How many games would he have had to play to have a realistic chance?
No good. His mind was too slow, the thoughts too heavy to calculate.
And even with his eyes closed, he knew the zombies were right there to freak him out.
When someone tapped his shoulder, he thought it was Sakharov.
That his freaking data transfer was ready, and he signalled to go.
Or Sokolov, wanting his shotgun back?
But no, it was a dirty hand belonging to a sickly, pale body and an emotionless face.
They said not to provoke them?!
Yeah, fuck that.
Konrad leveled the shotgun at the zombie's chest and pulled the trigger.
The shot was like thunder, washing over everything, and finally shaking him up.
Him, the scientists behind him, and the crowd of zombified Stalkers as well.
When did they surround them?!
All watching the first to fall on his back, still moving despite the terrible hit.
Then, they raised their hollow eyes at Konrad.
And finally, all those weapons hanging in their hands started to move, too.
Whatever made him pull that trigger, there was no going back now.
Dropping the shotgun, he grabbed his rifle to pepper the zombies before they did.
And when they said they ignored the pain, and while slow and dumb, they were hard to kill?
Yeah, that was no joke.
By the time he emptied his magazine, they had yet to shoot back—
But not a single one went down.