Hector was globally unlucky—not because of the rare, even by Russian standards, “nickname” that caused him trouble. Simply, along with his vegetable garden and a whole bunch of other dacha plots, he was dropped into the Beehive—a place where at least making it through the evening is already an achievement, because around it roam constantly replenishing crowds of zombies, monstrous mutants developed from them, and just not very adequately behaving individuals with firearms and big plans for the first passerby.