... in which law enforcement officers and the most active representatives of the student body demonstrate their economic and combat skills
In comrade major's household, someone kindly poured a bottle of gasoline for household needs, some medical alcohol in a bottle, household solvent, window cleaner in a plastic bottle with a spray bottle and as many as six pieces of air fresheners, obviously purchased in reserve for the occasion of the action. Small coils of bandages and packages of cotton wool were removed from the first-aid kits. And in the pantry, among other things, there was a decent amount of different rags. From all this improvised material, the defenders began to prepare their simple weapons.
— Don't shake your hands, maidanovets! You'll spill more! Zakharchuk sternly remarked, wiping the gasoline dripped on the table with a rag and stuffing it into his bottle.— The Molotovs don't know how to make, but there's also...
— We had a quick test... We just went out for a walk," Petrov objected irritably.
— Yes lan... You don't have to fill us up right now," Bassoon grinned.— But anyway, well done. At least you're pulling the strap "in prison." And where are your friends?
They're gone," the student frowned.— Right now, they're always at home... Moreover, there is such a thing.
— Pussies.
— So you've learned to stay at home!— Petrov noticed.— Put on masks, isolate yourself...
— Yes, — the Russian guardsman agreed, and then added, — And maybe it's right. Otherwise, there would be ten times as many of these creatures outside now. The fewer people on the street, the fewer dead people there are...
In the room of the armory, where the three of them were located, silence fell, broken only by the howls of the dead climbing through the windows of the duty room. Zakharchuk was finishing stuffing tourniquets of cut rags into bottles. Bassoon systematically, with the calmness of some kind of mechanism, rummaged through the drawers, taking out and stuffing machine-gun cartridges into his pockets.
— And what is our plan, gentlemen police officers? Petrov couldn't stand it, tapping his fingers on the table.
— You'll see soon enough,- replied the Russian guardsman, without distracting himself from filling the horn.— And you don't say "comrade miltioner" in the old-fashioned way, because there are a lot of letters "R"? Did you guess, burr?
— Damn, how funny... Even peg'vokug'snicks don't look like that? Petrov rolled his eyes.
— Don't be offended. I just have to call you something.
— He's Petrov... Zakharchuk remarked.
— It's boring.- Petrov is out now... In every kine. It had to be meaningful. Fashionable. You're a history student, aren't you?— Bassoon thought about it.— So you'll be an "IstFak".
— Is it like fashionable?— the guy grimaced in a skeptical smile.
— Well, if you write in English, it will be fashionable. By the way, which district are you from?
— Sokolniki.
— Well, that's it! East,- the special Forces soldier rejoiced.— It definitely fits!
— Very funny...
there was a loud metallic bang in the waiting room. Bassoon rose resolutely from his seat and, after looking around at the others, silently went out into the corridor. Petrov and Zakharchuk followed him with bottles in their hands.
Through the shattered window, figures resembling people already very distantly climbed into the duty room. Partially torn apart, some with their limbs eaten away, they literally flowed in from the street in a single, swaying stream.
Standing in the corridor, Bassoon stared intently at this inhuman movement, waiting for the right moment. Without setting it on fire, he slammed a couple of solvent bottles onto the floor right under the feet of the oncoming dead. The third hit the ceiling directly above the pressing crowd, showering everyone with fine splashes and glass fragments. A minute later, a roll of burning cotton flew into the pile of moving dead bodies. An orange flame flashed brightly. The room began to fill with a pungent, smoky stench.
Having given a short burst in the chest to the nearest zombie without much result, Bassoon forcefully pushed him with his foot right into the flames flaring up in the waiting room, and slammed the door.
— Six of them are ready, — stated the Russian guardsman. — Major, check the service exit. Just be quiet.
Zakharchuk nodded and, for some reason, ducked slightly and hurriedly scurried down the dark corridor. A few minutes later, he returned in the same manner and muttered in a whisper:
— Everything is quiet there. There doesn't seem to be anyone.
— Great! Get out? Petrov perked up and was about to jump up from his seat, but Bassoon held him back with his hand.
— It's early.
— What do you mean?
— Do you think they'll catch up with us and not try to break us up?" The armored car is not waiting for us there under steam. We need to kill more of them here. So then there will be more chances... Help me...
Together with the student, the Russian guardsman pushed the table away from thefront door and turned it across the corridor.
— Major! The keys! Bassoon snatched a bunch of keys from the attendant and shoved them into Petrov's hands.— Come on, historian. You unlock the outer door and take a bullet back.
— I don't...
— Come on, well! It opens outwards. Just open the lock, push, and don't piss.
Clutching the keys in his trembling hand, the student crawled under the table to the exit, then cautiously approached the inner door, opened it and went to the outer one. Something was scratching and howling behind a thick steel sheet painted with brown paint. Periodically, the metal shook from the impacts. Petrov timidly turned around, caught a firm nod from Bassoon, who was clutching the machine tightly, turned the thick key twice in the keyhole, pushed the door open with force and jumped back with a cry, leaping over the table in one leap.
Groaning, the creatures staggered inside. Often without eyes, they rather reflexively searched the walls with their hands, smearing bloody footprints on them. Nevertheless, in their tightly closed ranks, huddled shoulder to shoulder, they acted harmoniously as one organism. It was as if they followed a single instinct, or were controlled by a single force.
— Come on, historian! Drop it! Bassoon shouted, his finger on the trigger of his Kalashnikov. Stunned by the shots, the student frantically flicked a lighter, trying to set fire to a rag on a Molotov cocktail. Finally, he succeeded. One bottle of gasoline flew into the crowd. Then the next one was Zakharchuk.
This time, the flames burned slower, and the zombies were in no hurry to stop, and people had to retreat deeper into the corridor faster. Having quickly shot both horns in his machine guns, Bassoon began to reload his weapon. At this moment, a chubby attendant suddenly jumped forward. Thrusting a can of air freshener forward, he pressed a plastic button and began spraying the dead with a bright stream of flame. The corridor was filled with the smell of burning meat and the scent of pine needles. The zombies, engulfed in flames, writhed and fell at the feet of those who pressed in from behind. Burning bodies formed a dump, slowing down the crowd's progress.
After pouring the entire stock of air freshener he had bought on the attackers, the major wiped the sweat from his wrinkled forehead and looked back at his comrades.
—Very much, Major!— praised the Russian guardsman.- History Department, let's get the keys there! Let's go!
The safety door swung open. After the smoke-filled corridor, the street air seemed surprisingly clean and fresh to the defenders. The next moment, all three of them were already on the street and were ready to run between the houses away from the damn police station, but they froze in place.
About fifteen meters away, filling the entire space around, uniformed men stood in a tight ring. Helmets, berets, knee guards, aluminum and plexiglass shields. The usual cordon, in which Bassoon and his colleagues participated more than once. They were definitely his colleagues. He could even recognize some of them by sight. The only problem was that they were all dead.