First Strike Weapon

by Gavin G. Smith

  The crew of the pirate frigate had turned their attention to the zombies amongst them now. Vadim saw the top of another infantryman’s head come off: he assumed Princess had shot him for being too efficient in dealing with the dead. He looked back along the stacks to see where the rest of the squad was. Where the frigate’s gun had hit it looked like someone had taken a bite out of the containers. The Fräulein was still kneeling, firing into the frigate below. He couldn’t see the others.

  There was the awful shriek of tortured metal as the frigate collided with the Dietrich. Vadim was flung forward. He grabbed the edge of the stacks and found himself hanging one-handed, forty feet above the main deck. A shadow fell across him and suddenly he was looking up at Gulag. The Muscovite wasn’t exactly pointing his weapon at the captain, looking down at him as though thinking, weighing up a decision. Vadim remained silent. He didn’t think anything he could say would help his predicament. He also gave serious thought to just letting go, but for the moment he looked up at Gulag. Finally the gangster seemed to come to a decision, kneeling down and dragging Vadim back up onto the top of the stacks. Vadim heard the boom of Skull’s .303 as he rolled onto the top of the container. The sniper was still alive and presumably didn’t feel there was any further call for stealth. Vadim could see New Boy wandering around on top of the stack as well. The scout looked dazed. Vadim pushed himself back up onto his knees. The Ushkuinik was drifting away from them. The screaming and the gunfire had fallen off. They had fought dirty and won. Vadim wasn’t sure that ‘winning’ was a label you could apply to a situation like this, but his squad were all still moving around.

  The harsh squeal of the PA actually made him jump.

  “This is your captain speaking. Abandon ship. I repeat: abandon ship.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  1130 GMT, 24th November 1987

  Morecambe Bay, North-West England

  THEY’D HAD A bit of time to gather what supplies they could, while listening to the fading screams of the pirate crew. Eventually the red fog had swallowed the frigate, and they’d heard no more.

  There hadn’t been enough lifeboats for everyone, but the Dietrich had also come equipped with rafts. The rafts were overloaded, the refugees piled on top of each other, but they just about kept everyone out of the freezing water. Had the sea been any less calm, it would have been a different story.

  When Vadim had last seen the Dietrich, it had started to tilt and slide into the water. They paddled as hard as they could, the lifeboats wallowing as they towed the rafts, to avoid being pulled under. The ship disappeared, still sinking in the fog.

  As they paddled towards land, Vadim was troubled by two thoughts. If the Red Army was in charge of the UK, what would they do with the squad and himself? They wouldn’t want the virus anywhere near Europe, their prize. And what of the dead he’d used against the pirates? He didn’t know much about tides and currents, but all it would take was for the frigate to run ashore and the zombie plague would come to a new country. One more atrocity for his atrophied conscience.

  Vadim had no idea where they were. He was aware it was cold only because of the shivers of the living. They had run lines between the lifeboats and rafts in the hope that they wouldn’t get separated in the fog. Vadim was in the lead boat with Princess; Captain Schiller was up by the prow with his compass, directing them north-east towards mainland Britain – not that you’d know it through the banks of fog around them.

  It was quiet, but for the lapping of the paddles dipping into the still water, the sound of teeth chattering and the occasional sob. Uncharitably, Vadim found himself bothered by the sobs. He didn’t see what they would accomplish.

  He caught occasional glimpses of the other boats through the freezing fog. The Fräulein was keeping an eye on Gulag in one, and Skull was with New Boy in another. Skull had broken his leg jumping from the crane to the top of the stacks. There was little that they were able to do for him beyond splint the leg and wrap it in duct tape. He said it was uncomfortable, that he could feel the bones rubbing together but he could walk. Somehow Vadim couldn’t see it healing.

  Princess looked cold. She was hugging herself, wearing a lot of the clothing they had taken from the outdoors store in New York. She was shaking, her teeth chattering. Hypothermia was becoming a real threat. They would need to find food and shelter quickly.

  Vadim was down to his last magazine for the rifle. He had no more ammunition left for the Stechkin, eight shells for his sawn-off KS-23 shotgun, a few hand grenades, and some grenades for the GP-25 Kostyor launcher. The squad were in similar state.

  Do you care? he asked himself. He felt the bump of the boat hitting something, and he brought his AK-74 up, struggling slightly in the cramped quarters.

  “Land.” Schiller sounded surprised. Vadim pushed through the press of shivering, frightened, refugees. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but this flat, black plain wasn’t it. It took him a moment to realise he was looking at a beach covered in the black snow, more of which was fluttering gently out of the sky.

  “Is this right?” he asked. Schiller didn’t answer immediately, and Vadim turned to look at him. The captain had always given the impression of complete competence, but now he looked old, haggard and tired. He seemed to be marshalling his thoughts.

  “I think so,” he finally said. Vadim didn’t like the uncertainty in his voice. “There are mudflats, sandbanks...”

  “Are they tidal?” Vadim asked, and Schiller nodded. If they got off the lifeboats and tried to walk to shore, they could still be caught by the tide and drowned. To say nothing of dangers like quicksand.

  “So do we get off the boat or not?” Vadim asked him.

  “I don’t know exactly where we are. I’m not even sure of the tide,” Schiller said. Vadim watched the tired old man for a few moments. He’d initially assumed Schiller was roughly the same age as him, but having spent time with the man, he was sure that the captain was older, perhaps by as much as ten or fifteen years. It was clear that Schiller’d had enough, for the moment at least. He needed someone else to lead the way.

  Vadim stepped out of the boat. The water came up to his ankle. The ground shifted underfoot, but gave way to hard wet sand just under the surface; another step was rewarded by the crunch of snow as he stepped onto a sandbank. He could see the other lifeboats coming up alongside them.

  Further up the sandbank, New Boy pulled one of the rafts in as Skull held their lifeboat steady.

  Vadim reached out and did the same with his boat. He wanted it as close to dry land as possible; the last thing he wanted was any of the living getting wet. He had considered sending New Boy and Princess out to scout first, but he needed to get the refugees moving before they froze to death.

  “We’re going to continue on foot from here.”

  With a murmur of assent, people began moving. Schiller looked relieved.

  THERE WERE JUST over sixty refugees and crew from the Dietrich left alive. Many of them wore blankets wrapped around them for extra warmth. New Boy was carrying the Carlsson boy on his back. Princess carried Gloria and walked next to Maria.

  They moved in a straggling column across the near-featureless black plain. Vadim was at the head of the column; Schiller, with his compass, followed just behind him. Gulag and a limping Skull flanked the column on either side, and the Fräulein brought up the rear. Nobody spoke. The refugees and crewmembers were each locked in their own private freezing hells, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.

  They found frozen pools and channels of seawater under the snow, but other than that and the odd rock nothing broke the monotony of the sandbank.

  Vadim heard a hiss from Skull, and turned back to see the sniper signalling them to stop, and for silence. Instantly Vadim and the rest of the squad were alert, looking all around them. New Boy slid the Carlsson boy off his back and pushed him gently back towards the refugees. Princess handed Gloria back to her mother and unslung her AKS-74. Harris, and the crewm
embers with G3s, were readying their weapons as well.

  “What is it?” Schiller asked.

  “Quiet,” Vadim hissed. He was sure he’d heard something. He moved forward a little, coming alongside Skull. He was aware of the others doing the same, though New Boy stayed with the column. Then he heard it: the crunch, crunch, crunch of many people running on fresh snow. Running silently. He remembered Mongol telling Eugene he didn’t understand how viruses work; just because the KGB and the Politburo wanted the virus to remain in the Americas didn’t mean it would. The virus seemed to strike quickly, but perhaps they’d used a strain with a longer dormancy period to infiltrate the missile silos, NORAD, the White House; perhaps someone with that strain had made it onto a plane. All of these thoughts hit him in the moments between hearing the sound and seeing the mass of zombies sprint out of the red fog straight for the refugee column.

  “Run!” Vadim screamed and his rifle kicked back against his shoulder. A zombie fell. They’d gotten so close, concealed by the fog, that he could barely miss. “Princess! New Boy! Stay with the refugees! Cover their backs! Get them to shore! Go!” He fired again and again. With every shot another zombie dropped, but they came on, closer and closer. Gulag was firing, aiming and firing again. Skull was doing the same, but more rapidly. Every shot had to count. He heard the Fräulein firing three-round bursts from her RPKS.

  “Grenade!” Gulag shouted, firing his grenade launcher into a knot of the charging dead. They were showered in sand as zombies were flung into the air, shrapnel from the fragmentation grenades tearing into their corpses. Vadim did the same, his hand darting forward of the AK-74’s magazine to squeeze the GP-25’s trigger. Another knot of zombies thrown into the air, many of them losing limbs. A disturbing number kept moving, dragging themselves through the snow towards the squad. Vadim continued firing his rifle, dropping those closest to him.

  “Reloading!” Skull shouted, and a moment later the Fräulein shouted the same from the end of the line. A tracer shot out of Vadim’s rifle, a zombie fell with its phosphorescent tip still burning in his skull. He had three rounds left, and still the zombies were closing.

  “Empty!” Gulag shouted. “Grenade!” The blast – a hand grenade – was much closer, spraying them with melted snow and hard wet sand. Shrapnel whistled past Vadim’s ear as he fired his last shots. Two more zombies fell, Vadim cursing the hurried shot that had only winged its target.

  “Empty!” he shouted, letting the AK-74 drop on its sling. “Grenade!” It was his last grenade, but it was too close. The blast almost took him off his feet, the sand blinded him; something tore into his shoulder, spinning him round. He felt nothing that could be considered pain from the impact. He spun back to see one of the zombies nearly upon him, and dragged his shotgun from its back sheath. The first round was hurried, badly aimed, catching the zombie in the shoulder, severing its arm, knocking it back. Giving Vadim enough time to work the shotgun’s slide and fire again. This time he aimed. The buckshot hollowed out the zombie’s head.

  He heard Gulag firing his Stechkin rapidly.

  “Empty!” Skull called. A moment later he was firing his sidearm as well.

  “Empty!” the Fräulein cried and then her Stechkin was added to the noise, zombies dropping even as they reached the commandos’ extended line. Vadim fired the KS-23 twice more and then that was empty and would take too much time to reload. He slid the shotgun back into its sheath and drew his saperka with his right and his knife with his left. He felt the impact run down his arm as the edge of the sharpened entrenching tool split the skull of the closest zombie. The firing had stopped from the others. In his peripheral vision he was aware of the other three grabbing for their knives and saperkas as well.

  “Come on, you cunts!” Gulag screamed. Vadim squared up to the next zombie and it ran straight past him, utterly ignoring him. The next one tried to do the same, but Vadim opened its skull.

  More had run past; it was clear they had no interest in them whatsoever. They wanted only the flesh of the living.

  VADIM SPRINTED AFTER the dead. They ignored him, or recognised him as a brother. The Fräulein was following a little way behind. Skull was much further back, almost lost in the fog as he struggled to keep up on his splinted leg. Vadim watched as Gulag swung his saperka and took a chunk out of a zombie’s head at full sprint, sending it tumbling to the ground in an explosion of black snow. The Muscovite had barely broken stride. Vadim swung out at another and almost went down, the sharpened entrenching tool grazing the thing’s skull. Gulag tried to stab one in the head with the knife in his left hand. It scraped along the dead man’s skull, but didn’t penetrate far enough. Gulag and the zombie tumbled into the snow. Vadim couldn’t risk slowing. He heard the knife bite home, the crack of steel piercing bone. Gulag swore and Vadim heard a collision behind him. He glanced behind him to see the zombie who’d just tripped over Gulag having his skull stove in by a saperka.

  It was obvious, really. Every single time the dead had attacked them they had been among the living. On reflection, even the one that had leapt on him as he’d rappelled down from the Manhattan Bridge onto the Dietrich had just seemed to get caught on his gear. It went some way to explaining how Gulag had survived trapped in the bridge castle with the rampaging dead. He got close enough to another zombie to swing his saperka, the blade biting deep. He staggered as he ran by, wrenching the entrenching tool out of its skull.

  Vadim looked around for another target amongst his fellow dead. It was ridiculous, he’d known what he was since he’d opened his eyes at Grand Central Station. Had it driven home when they’d fallen on Eugene like a pack of carrion eaters. But even then, he’d still been in denial. Still been pretending to be alive. Now, running tirelessly with his dead brothers and sisters as they hunted for meat, he could deny it no longer. Men and women of all ages, moving as fast as their frames and builds would allow, unhindered by physical limitations like fitness and comfort. All of them dressed differently, from all walks of life, among them soldiers in both British and Soviet uniforms. The Red Army was on this island, or had been.

  He faltered and almost stopped running when he heard the deep rumbling bass of the tank engines. He knew the sound. It was the stuff of nightmares, accompanied by the sounds of screaming, explosions and gunfire from his childhood. He’d grown used to it through his life, but this wasn’t a Russian T-80 or a British Challenger; it was the unmistakeable sound of a German Panzer, a Tiger, of the kind they had used during World War II. The tanks that had helped destroy his home and his childhood, that he’d seen run over his terrified sister. It had no place here, now, in the modern world. Except that this was Hell, so maybe it belonged here after all. He didn’t understand. He was struggling to make sense of it, even after everything that had happened. Somehow this was a step too far, and he didn’t know what to do other than keep running.

  Headlights cut through the fog: he could see the shadow of higher ground; dunes, perhaps. He saw the blocky shapes of the Tigers, two of them. The lights silhouetted the sprinting refugees as the zombies gained on them. The tanks advanced onto the beach.

  Suddenly Vadim’s feet went out from under him. He hit the ice of a frozen channel between sandbanks, sliding across it on his front. Some of the zombies fell with him, but others didn’t. Vadim managed to scramble to his feet as Gulag slid past. The refugees had reached the Tigers. There were two trucks and a half-track on the beach behind the tanks. Vadim could hear shouting. He was sure that some of it was in German. Then bullets were flying through the mist, making eddies in the water vapour, the lazy arc of tracers curving down towards them. He recognised the chatter of the MG 34 machine guns, another sound from his youth as he dived into the snow. The bullets sought out the mindless dead running past him, making them dance as they fell.

  Vadim felt something slam into his side, and looked down to see his midriff glowing. It took him a moment to work out that he had a burning phosphorous-tipped tracer bullet lodged in his dead flesh. He c
ould just about smell rotting meat cooking. He rolled onto his back, drawing his knife, and cut away at his clothes as bullets flew by overhead. He could hear other weapons now: MP-40 submachine guns, Mauser rifles, both of which had been carried by the Wehrmacht in the last war. He could also hear other more modern rifles – FNs, he thought, like the ones the ANZACs had carried in Vietnam. He dug the knife into his pale flesh. The steel blade was cold, but that was all he could feel as he dug the still glowing bullet out of himself. Bullets were digging up the snow and sand all around him.

  The Fräulein landed next to him, her Stechkin held in both hands.

  “Do you have another mag?” he asked, nodding towards the pistol.

  “What have you been doing, eating the bullets?” she shouted, handing a magazine over to him. “It’s my last one.”

  He reloaded his own pistol and then grabbed the shotgun from its back sheath, and slid his last four shells into it.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Those are German tanks,” he said.

  “Those aren’t Leopards.”

  “Tigers,” he told her.

  “Vadim?” she said, frowning.

  He ignored her. The refugees were being loaded up into the backs of the trucks and the half-track, the soldiers and the tanks’ machine guns providing inaccurate and undisciplined covering fire.

  “Vadim!”

  He looked up and saw the concern on her face. Zombies were still sprinting by. There was more shouting from the trucks. It sounded like a fight had broken out. Vadim heard a struggle, but couldn’t make out the details. He stood up and started running again, heading straight for the tanks, sprinting into automatic fire. He felt something tug at his arm, making him half-turn. A bullet creased his leg, making him stagger, but still he ran. He wanted to scream at them, tell them not to get into the trucks. He recognised the silhouettes of the soldiers, their helmets, their weapons. He could hear the rumble of the tanks’ engines switching gears as they started to turn, their turrets rotating so they could continue machine-gunning the charging zombies. The trucks and the half-track were leaving the beach.