A Glimpse Of Decay (Book 1): Red Storm)

by Santiago, A. J.

  Pushkin’s troops had fanned out into a skirmish line and they were firing away into the advancing marauders, but nothing seemed to be affecting them. The air was filled with the stench of burning gunpowder and the concussion from a thrown hand grenade sent a shock wave through Pushkin’s body. Several of the invincible soldiers and civilians were now jumping onto the APCs and several of the terrified troopers were running away from the battle.

  There was no stopping what was going on and Pushkin knew it. Giving in to his own urge to flee, he turned and pointed to the forest behind them. “Run for your lives, boys! In God’s name, run for your lives!” As the last words left his mouth, he broke into a full sprint. He could feel his heart pounding and he wanted to run as fast as he could, but his old knees were keeping him from making any real speed.

  As he dashed away from the noise and confusion, he realized that for the first time in his life he, was running away from a battle. Well, this wasn’t a battle. He didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be called a battle. He just knew that he had to run away from whatever it was. He cleared his mind and focused on his escape.

  He was able to run along the dirt road and he glanced back at the guard house. One of the APCs was continuing to back up while the other sat motionless. Sokolov’s APC was now in full bloom, and the dark black smoke it was creating was blotting out the entrance of the complex. The ammunition onboard was exploding and bright orange flashes were leaping out from the hatches of the vehicle.

  The rampaging mob was now spreading out over a meadow that ran along both sides of the road. They were moving fast, in all directions, and it looked like several of them had seen Pushkin. It was clear that they were coming in his direction.

  Pushkin turned and fixed his eyes on the heavy woods. He decided to leave the road and make his way out across the grassy flatland that extended to the tree-line. In his haste, he didn’t see the dugout in front of him. The old defensive position had been concealed by overgrown weeds and it was undetectable to the eye. As he took his next step, the ground fell beneath his feet and he tumbled down the wall of the five foot deep hole. He landed face down in the dirt and grass, knocking the wind out of him. A large exposed root caught the right side of his torso and he felt his ribs break.

  After a couple of seconds of sucking air, he got back onto his feet and regained his senses. The pain on his right side made him wince and clutch at his ribs. He peeked out of the position and noticed that only one of the APCs was firing its gun—he also noticed that the individual rifle fire had stopped. He crouched back down in the ditch for a moment and held onto his own rifle as he tried to listen for anyone approaching. He then heard the roaring diesel engine of the last remaining APC as it rumbled past him and away from the complex. He was all alone now.

  After thinking of all his options, he knew his only chance was to make it to the woods. He readied himself to spring from the abandoned dugout and dart the last few remaining yards to the cover of the trees. He crawled up to the edge of the ditch and tried to ignore his aching ribs. As he was about to bolt from the ditch, someone else came crashing down into the hole, landing right on top of him. It was Gennady.

  Pushkin found himself lying face up with Gennady’s back across his chest. He was able to shove his communications man off of him and he leaned back against the dusty slope that his comrade had just rolled down. “Gennady, are you injured?”

  There was no response from the radio operator as he sat on the ground with his back to Pushkin. He looked up and away and didn’t acknowledge his sergeant. It appeared as if he was distracted by something or someone as he jerked his head to the left and to the right. His arms were held up high, as if he was reaching for some invisible tormentor that was hovering over him. Pushkin was able to see that something didn’t look right with Gennady’s fingers, and when he was able to finally focus in on the man’s hands, he was horrified to see that the crazed soldier’s fingers had been gnawed down to the bones.

  “Gennady, are you okay?”

  This time, Gennady heard Pushkin.

  In one sudden and rapid movement, Gennady spun around and lunged at the startled man. His eyes were blood-shot red and blood was smeared over his face. Thick, dark vomit was caked on his chin and down his neck and it reeked like death itself. Grabbing the sergeant by the collar of his tunic, and with one violent rapid movement, he lowered his head and bit Pushkin on his right arm.

  “What in the hell are you doing!” Pushkin yelled as he struggled to break free from Gennady’s grasp. A terrible pain ran up his arm and the sergeant yelped. With a frantic shove from Pushkin, Gennady flew backwards and Pushkin saw that a large portion of his bicep had been ripped off. To his horror, he could see a ragged piece of bloody flesh and torn uniform hanging from between Gennady’s teeth. As he fought an uncontrollable urge to vomit, the wounded soldier grabbed for his arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

  Screaming and yelling unintelligibly, Gennady spat out the torn flesh and came at Pushkin again, renewing his attack. This time he scratched and clawed at Pushkin’s head, tearing deep gashes across both sides of his face. The sergeant winced from the pain as he brought up his left arm in an attempt to fend off the attacker. The crazed trooper grabbed at Pushkin’s blouse again. Grunting and cursing, Pushkin was able to shove his left palm under Gennady’s chin. As he tried to push him back, Pushkin saw that the skin on Gennady’s left cheek had been ripped off, exposing a large portion of jaw bone and flexing muscle.

  Get off of me, you bastard!” Pushkin’s arm was burning, but the bite wasn’t the only thing that was hurting him. A stinging, almost boiling sensation was running up and down his wounded arm and he felt like the tips of his fingers were about to explode. With one last rush of adrenaline, he was able to push away his attacker. He grabbed for his rifle with his left hand and brought it up to his waist. As Gennady rushed at him again, Pushkin shoved the barrel of his rifle into the man’s chest.

  Just before he pulled the trigger, Pushkin saw that Gennady was snarling and baring his teeth. The awful sight struck terror in him and he thought he was looking into the face of the devil himself. In the next instant, a salvo of bullets was tearing through Gennady—kicking up plumes of dirt as they struck the far wall of the ditch. The trauma to Gennady’s body was devastating as several large bloodied and shredded pieces of flesh and bone were ripped from his upper torso.

  Both Pushkin and Gennady fell back in opposite directions. As he sat there trying to catch his breath, the sergeant saw how Gennady’s chest had been blown open. Pushkin’s face was burning from his injuries and he had lost all feeling in his right arm, but for some strange and unknown reason, he was now able to move it without any limitations.

  Still clutching his rifle, he was looking down at his bleeding arm. He could see the exposed muscle and bone and his frightened heart was pumping large amounts of blood from the gaping wound. As he surveyed his injuries, out of the corner of his eye and to his disbelief, he saw Gennady moving again. The shattered trooper slowly rose to his feet and staggered around on shaky legs. With his head rolling from side to side, he looked down at his feet and then looked back over to Pushkin, his eyes now glazed over in a milky white film.

  Pushkin recoiled in horror as the two looked at each other. This was impossible! There was no way on earth Gennady should have been standing up. He should have been dead. He was dead…just a second ago. How could he have survived that blast from the rifle?

  Gennady regained his balance and let out a high pitched scream that was filled with anguish. He came at Pushkin, but this time Pushkin miraculously had the use of both of his arms. He clutched his rifle and delivered a vicious butt stroke across Gennady’s forehead, cracking open his skull. Gennady went down to the ground but Pushkin continued to bash at his head, yelling and screaming as he did. “You fucking bastard!” As the desperate sergeant continued to strike Gennady, fragments of bone and brain matter flew from the rifle butt, flinging into the air. In a matter of seco
nds, Gennady’s head was a mashed pulp of brain and crushed skull. He was no longer moving.

  What in God’s name is happening here! Pushkin was completely befuddled at what he had seen and experienced. How could men suffer such traumatic injuries and still be running around as if nothing had happened to them? How could someone walk around while burning like a human torch and not even flinch? How could someone literally come back from the dead?

  Pushkin fell back against the earth and tried to catch his breath. The pain from his face was fading away and he felt as if he was losing control of his facial muscles. He touched his cheeks and with his left hand and he could feel the deep gashes in his flesh. He tried to move, but a sharp and violent pain in his stomach made him clutch at his gut. The muscles in his arms, legs and abdomen tightened and shuddered, causing him to scream out in a blinding pain as his tissues tore themselves in uncontrollable spasms.

  He felt like his gut was boiling and he could taste his acidic puke as it gurgled up into his throat. His nostrils then began to burn as the vomit flowed from his nose. After a few more painful heaves, he rolled over and tried to wipe away the foul goo that was oozing from the corners of his mouth. He looked up at the blue sky, thinking about Alina and wishing that he was back at home, safe in her arms. His lungs tightened and it became difficult to breath.

  As he continued to think of his wife, his vision faded and he lost his auditory senses. In the next instant, or at least that’s what it seemed like to him, he found himself out of the trench and walking in the meadow. He looked back at the complex and saw it in flames, the thick black smoke coiling up into the sky. He began to hallucinate, seeing Alina’s face in front of him. Her long blonde hair. Her thin lips. Her soft cheeks. Her sad, deep blue eyes.

  His fluttering thoughts were interrupted by the deep thumping of helicopter blades. The craft was flying low and he could see that it was packed with soldiers. They were looking down at him through the open cargo doors. They were probably young troops, just like his boys were. But where were his boys? Where were his baby soldiers? Where had they gone to? Wait a minute, weren’t they all together just a few minutes ago? He struggled to recall everything that had happened, but he couldn’t keep his thoughts together. He couldn’t even sense his own body. Now, the barking of a gun. Pop Pop! Pop Pop Pop Pop Pop! Probably coming from the copter. It had to be. No one was left on the ground to do anymore shooting. They were all gone now. But where had they all gone to?

  Run. His mind was telling him to run. But to where? He saw Alina again. He needed to run to her. She would take care of him. She would save him from the others. She would save him from everything. He found himself running in the middle of the meadow. He could hear the tall grass as it brushed against his legs. He was running away from the madness. Running home to Alina.

  He could hear himself screaming, but he didn’t know why he was screaming. He couldn’t understand what he was yelling—what he was trying to say—but he could clearly hear himself. And then the anger began to set in. He was enraged—wanting to strike out at something…anything. He continued to run, but he didn’t know why. He just knew that he needed to run. And so he did. And then his sight went dark and his mind left him.

  And then It took over.

  Chapter 2

  Day 8

  Russian armored formation just outside of Ozersk

  Captain Nikita Kozlov stood in the commander’s hatch of his aging T-72 main battle tank. He was going over several different drills with his crew, making sure they would know what to do the next time they went into action. The crew—the driver and the gunner—had performed as well as could be expected when he considered what they had been faced with. With their senses still reeling from their first encounter with the infected, it was a wonder that any of them had been able to retain their sanity. In a deep state of despair, he just couldn’t come up with the words to describe what he had witnessed and experienced over the past week, so he chose to focus on the task at hand—staying alive.

  After feeling confident that the crew was prepared, he scanned the perimeter he had established with his unit. The other tanks and personnel carriers were cast in a green glow as he looked at them through his night vision apparatus. After reassuring himself that his vehicles were positioned properly, he looked back to the front of the tank and he flipped up his night vision.

  He was still in disbelief at what he was seeing, and he struggled to keep the fear he was feeling from overwhelming his mind. He gazed at the black horizon ahead of him as it glowed orange. Ozersk was burning wildly out of control.

  ***

  It had already been over a week since the Incident had taken place. According to Command, both the city and Antov were total losses. All communication with the initial responding forces had been lost and there was a strange, almost unbelievable story that some crazy strain of rabies was behind the calamity.

  Rabies? Bullshit! There was no way that rabies could be responsible for the mayhem that was going on around Ozersk. And there was no way rabies was responsible for what they had encountered upon their arrival to burning city. Rabies didn’t make people act like that.

  Earlier in the day, Kozlov had heard some unsettling news over the radio that something was also occurring at Kyshtym. He tried frantically to find out what was going on, but his inquiries were met with either confusion or silence. It was obvious that no one really knew what was happening, and he attributed that to the government. They were definitely trying to keep a lid on whatever was taking place.

  Throughout the previous week as his unit rolled from one area to another, Kozlov had tried checking with other commanders to see if they had heard anything new or different. One lieutenant had told him about a rumor he had heard—that the rabies really wasn’t rabies, and whatever it was, it was showing up as far south as Chelyabinsk itself.

  What was very unsettling to him was the fact that most of the villages near Ozersk, including Tatysh, Novogornyy, and Ayazgulova, had emptied out almost overnight. There were reports indicating that the villagers and townsfolk were frantically moving south towards Argayash in an attempt to catch the train to Chelyabinsk. Kozlov knew that although no official evacuation had been ordered, it was obvious that something was causing the people to flee.

  As his attempts to learn any new information were met with frustration and aggravation, he decided to simply focus on his own situation. He needed to worry about what was going on around Ozersk and now Kyshtym and not concern himself with anything else. Although he would have liked to have had at least some sort of reason or explanation on what was going on, he knew that he was serving in the Russian Army, and being uninformed was standard operating procedure.

  Yes, they were in a situation alright, a situation that made no sense. It was obvious that the rabies was just a cover story, but the captain knew that whatever had broken out at Ozersk was much more severe than rabies—and much more sinister. The last time he had checked, rabies didn’t resurrect the dead—and the dead were definitely being resurrected around Ozersk.

  After realizing that the outbreak was spreading unchecked, the military had quickly decided to quarantine the areas around Ozersk and Kyshtym. Kozlov and his division were ordered to surround Ozersk and the nuclear facilities on the south end of the town. The division was also tasked with holding the Kyshtym complex since its garrison had gone missing. The airspace over the entire region had been shut down and strict orders were given to “neutralize” anyone who showed any signs of “sickness.” The president was aware of the gravity of the situation and of the consequences his nation would face if any real media coverage was given to that situation. Reporters were not allowed anywhere near the sites and the military was given a free hand to deal with any “persistent” journalists or camera crews.

  Kozlov had heard from some of the other commanders that several news crews had actually been shot and their bodies burned. If that were true, then things must have really been bad. He found himself hoping that the unfortun
ate reporters weren’t international crews, because if they had been, that would just be one more thing that the world could hate Russia for.

  While staring at the eerie sight of the burning city, Kozlov replayed in his mind the events that took place the day his unit had rolled up to the burning plant just outside of Ozersk. Without warning, they had been set upon by a large mob of both soldiers and civilians—bloodied, ragged and crazed. Swarming over the vehicles like ants attacking pieces of food, a few of his troops were snatched from their hatches before they could react. Those unlucky few were then torn to shreds in the most grotesque and gruesome ways.

  After securing themselves inside their vehicles and getting over the initial shock of what had just happened, Kozlov and his men were forced to take action against the rampaging horde, decimating a large number of them. It was then when the captain noticed the terrifying sight of some of the dead returning to life.

  As Kozlov had just finished strafing a group of about 20 or so people, he was about to shift the sights of his co-axial gun to another cluster, but before he was able to do so, he noticed that several of the people who he had just shot were getting back to their feet—again. He delivered a second burst into the group, noticing that some of the people were still walking around—some of them with missing body parts. Without explaining why, Kozlov then ordered his driver, Kuzma, to plow into the crowd. If he couldn’t kill the lunatics with bullets, he would crush them under his treads.

  As the day wore on, the captain found it easy enough to destroy the crazed attackers, but he found himself wondering just how much ammunition would be required to blast them away, or how much petrol it would take to run them down. The Russian Army was a mighty force, but only as long as they had supplies. A shortage of provisions could mean a whole new take on this outlandish, almost unbelievable situation, and with their president ordering a general mobilization of the military, getting re-supplied could get real dicey. He shuddered at the unimaginable thought of running out of ammunition and fuel.