First Strike Weapon

by Gavin G. Smith

  Vadim could see it in his eyes, in the set of his jaw: the rage, the hate, the raw red hunger, warring with what was left of a justifiably proud man’s dignity. Vadim did what he could for him. One more shot rang out across the yard, and one more body hit the ground.

  “Boss!” Vadim looked up. Skull was aiming his stolen rifle at a figure standing on top of the pile of rubble from the collapsed front wall.

  “Hold!” Vadim shouted as he recognised Bill from the pub. “He’s one of ours.” Skull lowered his weapon. The women and children were starting to move nervously out of their huts now. Vadim felt sick at the thought of what they had suffered. He looked up at the swastika banner fluttering from the hall.

  “Let’s cut that rag down.”

  1340 GMT, 27th November 1987

  Jubilee Bridge, Walney Island, North-West England

  AFTER SOME DISCUSSION, the locals had agreed to let the refugees stay. Vadim was pretty sure they all had some very rough years ahead of them. There was arable land on the long narrow island, but not nearly enough to feed everyone, even supposing the sun would rise anytime in the near future. This meant forays into the dead-infested mainland for supplies. Water would also be a problem. They would have to boil seawater to drink. This was of course assuming the fallout didn’t get them, and they didn’t freeze to death. On the other hand, they seemed like practical people. There was already talk of taking some of the smaller vessels up the coast to places called Whitehaven, Silloth and Maryport, to look for abandoned fishing vessels. There was enough expertise amongst the survivors on the island to crew them. There was also talk of finding some way to make use of the recently opened gas terminal. Vadim had no idea of the practicality of their plans, but at least they had plans. He was astonished that in this environment they were still looking forward, though it would take a long time for the wounds inflicted by this strange, wretched infection of Nazism to heal.

  The locals decided that they approved of Princess’s plans for the prisoners. Bill and his people had taken more in Vickerstown. Vadim and his dead squadmates had done the honours, although Princess insisted on accompanying them.

  The surviving family members of the dead re-enactors were given one of the TA lorries from the compound, a full tank of gas, a few of their husbands’ weapons, a very small amount of ammunition and no other supplies, and sent on their way with a warning not to come back. It was pretty much a death sentence. Vadim wasn’t sure how he felt about that. They would have driven past the staked, half-eaten and by now reanimated remains of their husbands as they left.

  The squad had given rudimentary instructions on the claymore mines the Nazis has set. The Fräulein had also taught some of the islanders and longshoremen how to drive the mine roller.

  Then some negotiations had happened. Looking at a future of foraying into the zombie-infested mainland for supplies, the islanders had chosen to keep both the Saracens. Which made sense, though Vadim would have liked one to continue their journey. They were begrudgingly prepared to offer them one of the three remaining lorries, but the Fräulein had pointed out that the nearly-fifty-year-old half-track would be nearly impossible to maintain and more trouble than it was worth, so they might as well let them run it into the ground. The islanders had agreed. This was something of a relief; the half-track might be noisy but at least it was armoured.

  Not surprisingly, the islanders wanted to keep the majority of the weapons, but the squad were more or less out of ammunition – barring Skull, who’d found two old crates of .303 rounds. Gulag had been for stealing the weapons and ammunition they needed, but Vadim couldn’t bear to take anything more from these people. Besides, with their newfound knowledge about how to hide the living from the dead, they were hoping to avoid fighting as much as possible, although Vadim had no idea what was going to happen when they caught up with their own forces.

  There was a doctor still alive on the island, and a paramedic who’d worked for the ambulance service. Between them they had seen to Princess’s arm, and – once the living had been seen to – dug bullets out of the dead, sewing up the holes as best as they were able. They couldn’t do anything for Skull’s broken leg or Vadim’s broken rib; the doctor suggested surgical screws or wire to hold the fractured bones in place, but such surgery was beyond her experience, and impossible with the facilities to hand.

  TWO DAYS LATER, under what Vadim had come to think of as a nuclear sky, the remaining members of the squad were in the World War II German half-track, heading for the bridge.

  The Fräulein recounted from the driver seat how Gulag had swum across the channel and killed the guards on the island side to lower the bridge. Princess and the Fräulein had stealthily taken out the guards on the mainland side. Princess had moved the bus and the East German had driven the mine-roller, allowing Skull to follow with the Saracen.

  At the bridge, the Fräulein cut her story short and brought the half-track to a grumbling, bone-shaking halt. Bill, Harris, Maria and Colstein were waiting for them at the control booth. Dirty black snow was still falling from the sky, lying thick on the ground. The Fräulein switched off the engine to save fuel, which Vadim thought was brave given the problems they’d had starting the ancient vehicle, and all of the squad clambered out. Vadim found himself looking out over a muddy channel with bogged-down zombies stuck in it; at the industrial skyline of the dockyards, the roofs of the neat terraces, the steeples of churches and beyond that the black, snow covered hills.

  Bill stuck his hand out first and Vadim took it.

  “Thanks for this,” Bill said, gesturing towards the island. “Not sure about that.” He pointed at the mainland. Vadim just nodded. Despite his part in the attack on New York, he didn’t feel like apologising again. “I’m not sure you’d exactly be welcome here, but we’d give some serious consideration into letting you on the island if you’re ever back this way.”

  Vadim laughed.

  “It has been beyond horrible meeting you,” Colstein said as he shook Vadim’s cold hand next. “And I hope I never see any of you again; but thank you. You didn’t have to come back for us.”

  “I think I did,” Vadim said. It wasn’t just for Colstein and the others. In the end, he hadn’t seen himself in Kerrican, but he wondered if he ever caught up with Varishnikov, would he see the same madness in the KGB hardliner’s eyes? “I liked Schiller. He was a good man.”

  Colstein opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

  Maria didn’t really want to look at him. It was clear she hadn’t changed her views: she still felt that things would be better if he killed himself, and with the hunger always present, he wasn’t sure she was wrong. Right now, surrounded by the living, the urge to feast was strong but not nearly as strong as his resolve. It came as a surprise when Maria grabbed him and hugged him, whispering ‘thank you’ in his ear.

  “Keep that switchblade handy,” was all he could think to tell her. She nodded. He looked down at Gloria, who’d accompanied her mother. The little girl was hugging Gulag. Vadim tried not to think too much about the future.

  “Why do they call you ‘Infant’?” Harris asked as he shook Vadim’s hand.

  “They don’t, Gulag does to annoy me,” he said, glancing irritably at the Muscovite, who was still talking to Gloria. The little girl appeared to be listening intently to him, despite not speaking any Russian, as far as Vadim knew.

  Harris raised an eyebrow, and Vadim sighed. “We are given nicknames when we start training for the Spetsnaz. A... mentor of mine was already an officer, and he gave me that nickname.” He wondered where Colonel Krychenko was now. Was he alive or dead? If he was dead, was he still moving? He’d be just as in control as Vadim was; he had never known a man with a stronger will.

  “Why?” Harris asked.

  “I was nine years when old I killed my first man,” Vadim told him, and the smile disappeared from Harris’s face. “A German soldier amongst the ruins of my city.”

  AS HE CLIMBED back into the
half-track, Vadim found himself thinking about Kerrican and his fake Nazis. The dead walked the earth looking for living flesh to feast upon, but humans had done this to other humans. He found that deeply depressing. After the bombs had fallen and their world had been destroyed, you would think people would come to the conclusion that perhaps more brutality wasn’t the answer.

  What about your mission? he asked himself.

  I’m no longer human.

  Skull poked him in the ribs, and Vadim turned, more surprised than anything else. The sniper nodded out the back of the half-track, smiling. Vadim looked to see Princess kissing Harris. They broke their clinch and she climbed into the back of the armoured vehicle. Everyone was staring at her.

  “What?” she demanded. The Fräulein turned round and managed to coax the half-track back into life as the bridge started to lower. Unexpectedly, Vadim realised he was smiling.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gavin G. Smith is the Dundee-born author of the hard edged, action-packed SF novels Veteran, War in Heaven, Age of Scorpio, A Quantum Mythology, The Beauty of Destruction and The Hangman’s Daughter, as well as the short story collection Crysis Escalation. In collaboration with Stephen Deas, as the composite personality Gavin Deas, he has co-written Elite: Wanted, and the shared world series Empires: Infiltration and Empires: Extraction. Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon is his first World War Three/Horror novel and he enjoyed writing it a little too much.

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