“The virus was a secret program, it had to be,” Vadim said. Though Eugene was right: the rulers, the strategic planners, they would have had to know about it, to factor it in to their plans. One step at a time, Vadim thought. “I want to know who you answered to, so you need to decide how much Gulag needs to torture you before you tell us.”
“His name is Yurinov, Major Yurinov, that’s all I fucking know, okay?” Eugene told them.
“Where is he!” Gulag screamed in the spy’s face.
“How the fuck would I know! Russia! He’s probably a pile of radioactive ash by now!”
Gulag looked up at Vadim. Vadim nodded. Teeth sank into flesh. The smell of blood filled the air. Vadim didn’t even hear the screaming. He had gone by then.
VADIM HAD NO idea how or why he recovered. His face and hands were deep in Eugene’s chest cavity, and he had a mouthful of viscera. With difficulty, he managed to push himself back, leaving bloody handprints on the white carpet. His revulsion at himself warred with the red hunger. He dry heaved, spitting out the foulness in his mouth.
New Boy, Princess were nowhere to be seen. The door to the apartment was wide open. Mongol, the Fräulein, Gulag, Skull, they weren’t soldiers anymore, his comrades, they were carrion eaters now, a pack of wild animals like the hyenas he’d seen in Africa. His AK-74 was still hanging off his front. Blood-slippery hands grasped the soiled weapon. He would kill the others and then himself. He should have stuck to his original plan. He raised the weapon to his shoulder. The Fräulein’s head rose, face covered in blood, looking like a wolf. She drew back from Eugene’s corpse and held up a dripping hand.
“Wait,” she managed and then she half-belched, half-retched, blowing a blood bubble.
“Why?” Vadim demanded. “We’re monsters.”
The Fräulein slumped against the no-longer white sofa. “We always were,” she told him. “You... you have to lead... We have unfinished business.”
It wasn’t much. In fact, it was more of the same. More wading neck-deep into violence. And it would be pointless. It was all far too late. But Vadim had just been going through the motions for far too long now. Any feeling other than hunger was muted. Feelings were a consideration for a time back when his body had been warm. A time he’d wasted. When he thought of the extent of the crime that had been committed here, and the way they had been used to commit it, the anger consumed him.
“Stop!” he ordered.
IN THE END they’d had to pull Gulag out of the nest of serpents that was Eugene’s intestines. Vadim had thought they’d lost him to the hunger, that he would have to be put down, to join Genadi, his friend. At the last moment, however, with a gun in his face, Gulag had returned to them.
BLOOD RAN IN the sink as he tried to wash it off his hands and arms up to his elbows, off his glistening red face. His clothes were utterly soiled. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He didn’t look dead, or not yet. Pale, his features slack, he looked sick. He pulled up his sodden jumper and opened his shirt with the neat hole in it. His wound, his stigmata, was a dry, blood-ringed black hole in white, sickly skin. Jagged black lines grew from it like faults in the Earth. He stared at it for as long as he could, and then back into the mirror at the animal, the monster he saw there.
BY SOME UNSPOKEN agreement, they had moved away from the ruins of Eugene’s body. Gulag, Mongol, the Fräulein and Skull stood in a rough circle, unable to look at each other. The shame at what they had done was palpable. They cleaned themselves up as best they could, checked their weapons to make sure they hadn’t been fouled and pretended to be soldiers, if only briefly.
Vadim had walked past them and out into the corridor. New Boy was down by the corner leading to the stairwell. Vadim found himself looking down the barrel of the scout’s AK-74. He whispered something to Princess, who must have been just round the corner. Vadim was both surprised and impressed that they hadn’t run.
“Well?” New Boy asked.
“Can you come back and listen, and then make your decision?” Vadim asked.
“Are you asking, or is that an order?”
Vadim gave the question some thought before answering.
“I’m asking you now. If you choose to stay, then you do what I say.” He turned away from the door and headed back to the others. It was a few moments, but New Boy appeared in the doorway, Princess covering his back in the hall.
“We’re going back home –” Vadim began.
“How?” Mongol demanded. Under normal circumstances the big medic would never interrupt him like that. Vadim could hear the anguish in his voice.
“Nergui,” the Fräulein said quietly. Skull put his hand on the medic’s shoulder. Mongol’s head dropped.
“Why?” Skull asked, black eyes fixed on Vadim.
“To help your loved ones survive, see them one more time, die in the Motherland, whatever reason you choose. When we reach the borders of the USSR we can decide whether to stay together or not. You don’t want to come? You stay here, now. If you can’t live – exist – in this new world, I’ll put you out of your misery right here and now; there’s no shame in that.” There was a snort of derision from Gulag. “But if you come with me, there are rules.” He pointed at Eugene’s body. “This never happens again.”
“You think this is the first time I ate human meat? I was in a Siberian Gulag. What about you? I’ve heard about the siege of Stalingrad.”
“Shut up, Gulag,” the Fräulein told him.
“No, we’re going to talk about this!” Gulag spat.
“You come with me you don’t eat human meat. You want to feed, stay here,” Vadim told him. “You almost didn’t come back this time. How many times do you think we have to lose control until we’re like those things down in the street?”
“What are we supposed to eat? Rations?”
“We’re dead,” Mongol told the Muscovite. “I don’t think that’s why we eat.” All of them turned to look at the medic. “I think it’s about spreading the virus.”
“Can you prove that?” Gulag demanded. Mongol just shrugged.
“Gulag?” the Fräulein asked. Gulag shook his head.
“I’m not making any promises,” he told them.
“Disobey me and I’ll kill you,” Vadim told him.
“I’m already dead, comrade captain.”
Skull caught Vadim’s eye, his hand on his Stechkin. Vadim gave the slightest shake of his head.
“The second rule,” Vadim told them and glanced at New Boy, still in the doorway. “We protect our still-living squad mates, no matter what.” He could see the Fräulein nodding.
“Why are they so important?” Gulag demanded.
“It’s just the same thing it’s always been,” the Fräulein told him.
“Oh, bullshit!” Gulag shouted. “You know what I see? Meat-on-the-hoof. If they had the slightest bit of loyalty, they’d join us.” He made a move towards New Boy. New Boy cleared the doorway, his AK-74 levelled at Gulag. Princess swept into the room, moving to the other side of the doorway, levelling her Dragunov sniper rifle at the criminal. Skull’s Stechkin was out of its holster.
“You don’t like the boss’s rules, Gulag, stay here, or die now,” the Fräulein told the Muscovite levelly.
“A big girl like you managing to climb so far up the captain’s ass,” he said quietly, but he was staring at Princess.
“What’s it to be?” Vadim asked. Gulag turned to him and took two steps, stopping nose-to-nose with the captain.
“This is a fucking war! This is the war! There’s no rules.”
Vadim opened his mouth to retort.
“This isn’t a war, it’s a blasphemy,” Skull said. Gulag looked over at him, opened his mouth to retort and then noticed the pistol in the sniper’s hand. “And I am growing tired of you.” Gulag stared at Skull. The sniper held the look. In the end it was Gulag who looked away.
“I’ll obey your rules,” Gulag told Vadim. “For now.” Then he backed off.
“Are you with us?” Vadim asked New Boy and Princess. They glanced at each other. New Boy nodded.
“For now,” Princess told him.
“Why are you going back?” Skull asked the captain.
“I am going to find this Major Yurinov and make him tell me what he knows. Then I’m going to hunt every single person responsible for this and make sure they suffer before they die, then I’m going to kill Varishnikov,” he told them. Skull nodded. There was even a slight smile on his death’s head face.
Eugene sat up.
“What are we going to do with him?” Mongol asked.
“Close the door after us,” the Fräulein told him.
CHAPTER EIGHT
2015 EST, 16th November 1987
Corner of Park and 38th, New York City
THEY HAD GONE out into the dark streets, humid with black rain and lashed by winds. The silent cars were bumper-to-bumper, blood stained, their windows broken. Emergency lighting shimmered on the wet streets and in the broken glass that crunched underfoot. All the people had gone. The dead had long since swept out and away from the area, looking for more prey.
Vadim knew there were ports in Brooklyn, so they headed south. Skull was on point, the massive suppressor screwed to his .303. Princess, her own suppressed sniper rifle in her hands, brought up the rear with New Boy, both of them still holding back from their dead comrades. Noise and ammunition were issues; Vadim didn’t want the squad to draw attention to themselves unless they had to. If they saw lone zombies, then they would leave it to the two snipers to deal with them, but if they encountered a horde, they would run and hide. They would only use unsuppressed weapons as a last resort.
They had burned through a fair amount of their ammunition during the fire fight in the station. They had switched their weapons to semiautomatic and would only fire when they were sure of a headshot.
Frankly, he was making it all up as he went along, keeping up appearances. He was taking command out of habit more than anything else. Even the decision to go home, the hunt for vengeance, was little more than busy work. An excuse to keep on existing.
He heard more gunfire in the distance. There was a glow in the sky, to the west. They moved quickly, tirelessly. If Princess and New Boy were struggling to keep up, they gave little indication. The streets were wide, lined with trees and not strewn with rubbish; Vadim guessed that this was one of the more upmarket parts of the city. A fire engine had crashed into a church on the corner of the intersection. The engine’s spinning red light was still functional, giving the deserted streets an even more alien feel.
“Boss,” Mongol hissed from behind him. Vadim turned around to look at the medic, who pointed to the fire engine. Vadim nodded and signalled the team. They crossed the road quickly and quietly. Mongol slung his RPKS and raised his suppressed Stechkin, and the rest of the squad took up covering positions. Vadim concealed himself behind a small bush as best he could. Mongol wouldn’t waste their time. If he wanted to search the fire engine, he had good reason. He didn’t even look around when he heard the hushed cough of the medic’s suppressed pistol.
Princess hissed and Vadim turned around to look at her. She pointed down the adjoining street and raised a hand, five fingers extended. Mongol stopped climbing out of the fire engine and slid back out of sight, and the rest of them hunkered down into their concealed positions. Vadim could hear footsteps, the creak of metal as the strangers walked over the abandoned cars filling the road. He was more aware of them, somehow, even before they emerged into the intersection.
He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting: there was none of the shambling his limited exposure to capitalist filmmaking had prepared him for, and nor were they the pouncing animals he’d seen in Grand Central Station. They just walked out into the intersection, almost casually. There were two men and three women, a mix of ages, all from different walks of life, judging by their clothing. It seemed the virus was the ultimate equaliser.
True communism? he mused grimly.
They had a good look around and continued on their way, and he revised his initial opinion. There was something predatory about their movement. Not a pack on the hunt, more like an apex predator: at leisure, but still alert. They disappeared from view, but it was still a number of minutes before Princess gave the all clear. Once, Vadim would have felt some semblance of relief; now, he didn’t care. Quiet moments only gave him time with the red hunger.
Mongol climbed out of the fire engine, carrying a pack. It looked like a paramedic’s kit, and Vadim almost started laughing at the absurdity of it. A walking dead man carrying medical supplies. They were a bit beyond that.
A louder cough this time, from Princess’s Dragunov. On the other side of the intersection, one of the five zombies – a middle-aged man in a business suit – fell in the road, half his face missing. Vadim waited, expecting the others to come back, but none of them did.
2151 EST, 16th November 1987
Off Lafayette Street, New York City
A HOOKED NEEDLE pierced unfeeling flesh the colour of fish skin. Vadim sat on the edge of a display in the camping shop they’d broken into. The window had already been shattered, but there’d evidently been little time for looting. It was a strange place to Vadim’s eyes. The equipment all seemed somehow absurdly luxurious for such utilitarian things.
The Fräulein, Skull and Gulag, were keeping watch whilst Mongol patched him up. The medic had already sewn up the rest of the squad’s wounds. The Fräulein and Gulag had something of Frankenstein’s monster about them. Some of Gulag’s wounds, like the bite mark in his neck, just had to be covered with trauma dressings. There was no denying that any of them were dead, but Mongol was hoping to delay the onset of putrefaction, the inevitable rot. It was a good idea, as was stealing functional outdoor clothes from the shop. If he wanted them to act as though they were still human, then they needed to look and feel as human as possible. That was difficult when your flesh was hanging off you.
Vadim hadn’t felt very human when Mongol had dug out the bullet that killed him; there had been little of what he would consider pain, just discomfort and an odd feeling of dislocation as Mongol rooted around in his chest with forceps.
“How are you doing?” Vadim asked the Mongol, more for something to say than any good reason. At first he didn’t think the medic was going to answer the stupid question.
“I am frightened for my family,” Mongol finally said, not looking up as he continued to sew the captain’s chest wound shut. The words were a little indistinct; Mongol had had to cut away flaps of skin from the side of his mouth and sew them up, exposing most of his teeth and jaw. Vadim nodded, although it had been a long time since he’d had any family, other than the military. The Nazis had seen to that.
“I don’t want revenge, I don’t care about that. I just want to go home...”
He left it there, but Vadim had a notion of what he was thinking. Even if he made it home, how could his family possibly accept him like this?
“What will you do?” Vadim asked, and Mongol shrugged.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Perhaps I can live away from them, but watch over them.” He looked up at Vadim. “It may not be an issue. We’re going to rot. It’s unlikely we’ll make it that far, assuming we can even find a ship.”
“Shh!” said the Fräulein, by the window, and the squad moved into cover. Something shambled past the front of the shop, broken body casting monstrous shadows across the racks of camping equipment, backlit by the few light still burning in the city. He heard New Boy exhale once the danger had passed, just another reminder that some among them still lived. Mongol must have heard it as well. He followed the sound, but instead ended up watching Princess as she changed.
“I don’t feel any stronger than Genadi,” he said quietly. Then he looked back to Vadim. “I am so hungry.”
Vadim nodded. He felt it as well.
“When it becomes too much...”
“I promise,” Vadim told him.
<
br /> “Boss?” New Boy said. Vadim closed his eyes, opened them again and looked up at the scout, who was holding up some rappelling gear. Vadim didn’t want to weigh them down with any unnecessary weight, but they had been very underequipped, beyond weapons and ammunition. He considered the climbing gear for a moment, then nodded. They had also taken trail rations for the living, flashlights, boots and civilian replacements for all the equipment they should have had for the mission.
0039 EST, 17th November 1987
Corner of the Bowery and Delancey Street, New York City
THE FRÄULEIN HAD found a map of New York in the camping store. They’d skirted Little Italy, heading for Manhattan Bridge, when they caught up with the mass of the dead. Moving east, glancing south down streets with names like Mulberry and Mott, they’d seen large crowds of what had once been people milling around in the darkness, drifting and eerily silent. If there were people still alive down there, then they were well-hidden and very quiet.
Just past Elizabeth Street they heard the clank of armour, and the almost reassuring sound of tracks on concrete, searchlights stabbing through the darkness of the starless night and grimy rain. Skull signalled a halt.
Vadim glanced down Elizabeth Street. The dead were on the move now, migrating like herd animals at a steady walk, moving through Chinatown maybe four or five blocks to the south. Skull had headed across the street to get a better vantage point. He signalled what he saw ahead: two tanks, two APCs and a jeep. Vadim beckoned to the Fräulein and explained his plan.
“We’re going in. I want an APC.”
“Why take the risk? We can go around,” she said.
“Between us and where I want to go there are a lot of dead people. An APC could make our lives a lot easier.” He slung his AK-74, pulled two hand grenades from his webbing and started towards the intersection.
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