William Ryan - The Bloody Meadow

He ducked back just as the first bullet slammed into the wall beside him, slipping in a new magazine as he did so. The bullet was followed by a blast of shotgun pellets, and ricochets spattered his face and coat like hailstones. He was half-deaf but could still hear Slivka’s gun sounding like an eight-hundred-rounds-per-minute death sentence behind him, and he glanced over to see Mishka’s revolver jerking up like a French can-can dancer’s leg. All good – they were doing some damage to the rats, and that was what mattered.

This time when he went round the corner, he thought it prudent to do so at a low level, and so bent down on one knee. The lantern he’d seen before was now half-covered by a body and not giving out much light, but the muzzle flash from the quick bursts of three or four bullets that he sent in its direction was enough to tell him that at least five of the bandits were down and out of the battle. Bullets were still cracking back towards him, however, showering him with loose chunks of rock. He fired off the last of the magazine and ducked back into relative safety, pursued by another shotgun blast and the screams of a severely wounded man.

A quick glance told him Mishka and Slivka were gone, hopefully to finish off the last of the devils next door. He slid another of the magazines into the machine gun and, in the moments of relative silence between fusillades from either side, listened as well as he could with his ringing ears to what was happening in the passage he was defending. To his surprise he felt warm liquid on his face and a sudden consciousness of pain told him he’d been nicked. He decided it was time to beat a retreat, turning the corner to fire off a farewell gift, but the machine gun only managed to loose off two slugs before it jammed. Korolev was about to swear when he was hit in the shoulder by something very damned solid. It fell to the ground with the unmistakable metallic roll of a grenade and Korolev didn’t hesitate, turning and running towards the next chamber, almost tripping on the body of the sentry that Mishka had done for, but somehow managing to keep his balance as his feet and legs tangled and tumbled him across the room. He dived through the entrance pursued by a blast that sent rock shards and shrapnel to help him on his way.

It took him a moment to gather his senses – he’d landed awkwardly on the useless machine gun, but apart from a few bruises he seemed to be intact. He reached for the Walther under his armpit and looked around him as a blast of machine-gun fire from some way off reassured him that Slivka was still alive and kicking. Good for her. The chamber was much bigger than the one he’d just been blown out of and three crumpled bodies, one of which had been flung backwards over an open wooden chest, were testament to Mishka’s and Slivka’s shooting abilities.

He surveyed the situation. He was battered and bruised, and had suffered a scratch or two along the way, but he was alive for the moment. His firepower was reduced, but at least the Walther was reliable, unlike the jammed coffee-grinder, and he still had that Nagant as backup. He could hold the doorway here so long as they didn’t throw any more of their damned grenades at him. After all, the others should be back soon, or so he hoped.

Wherever Kolya and Slivka were, the bandits were closer still – there was movement in the smaller chamber. He couldn’t see the men who were approaching clearly, but he could hear them well enough.

‘We got him,’ a nervous voice declared in a whisper.

‘Be careful,’ came the response. ‘He wasn’t on his own.’

At least three of them, and maybe more from the sounds of quiet movement. Korolev stood with his back to the chamber itself, ready to turn and fire into the next room. There was more gunfire from Slivka’s direction.

‘That must be our boys giving them hell,’ the first voice said.

‘But where are they, then?’

‘That’s not one of them. That’s poor Borya.’ A different voice now.

‘Damn it, it is. Will I throw in a grenade?’

‘Are you mad? There’s a couple of tons of ammunition in there.’

Korolev glanced around at the crates full of munitions of one sort or another and didn’t like the look of them one bit. There was another footstep – too close now – and he moved to fire two quick shots at a dark shadow, which dropped to the ground shooting as he stepped back. The others joined in and ricochets whined around the chamber behind him as all hell broke loose.

It was time to give up this spot, he decided, pulling out the Nagant and, sticking his hand around the corner, firing three random shots into the gloom to a predictable response. Keeping low as bullets cracked and whined around him, he retreated as quietly and carefully as he could, stepping over a body and taking cover behind the crates. He kept his guns aimed at the entrance to the smaller room and kept moving until he reached the comforting dark of the far entrance. At least from here, he’d be the one able to see – and not be seen.

The enemy must have come to the same conclusion as a bullet clanged into one of the lanterns that hung from the ceiling and it exploded in a ball of flame as it soared across the room, fortunately landing in an empty corner where it did no damage except to light the room even more brightly. Korolev felt sweat break out along his spine, and it wasn’t from the sudden rush of heat as much as the thought of what might have happened if the oil lantern had landed on an ammunition crate. The same thought must have occurred to the bandits, as there was silence for an appalled moment which ended with a shouted warning and the sound of three shots. Two of the bandits came backwards into the light, firing through the doorway they’d just come from. Korolev shot twice, missing both times, and before he could fire a third time one of the men was clutching a wounded arm, his pistol lying on the floor, and the other one had also dropped his weapon and raised his hands in surrender.

Strange, thought Korolev, as he moved towards them, one gun covering them, and the other trained on the entrance they’d piled through. Very strange.

The Greek wasn’t in a position, not having acquired the power of speech in the short time since Korolev had last seen him, to explain how he’d ended up in the passageway behind the bandits. But however he’d done it, it was his arrival that had resulted in a happier ending to the underground gunfight than Korolev had necessarily been expecting. The Greek clearly knew it as well, to judge from his pleased smile.

‘Good work, Greek.’

Not taking his eyes from the prisoners, the Greek nodded his proud agreement. He’d appeared out of the dark entrance shepherding a wounded man, who’d joined the two earlier arrivals. The prisoners now stood against the wall with expressions indicating they’d already thought their futures through and they didn’t like the look of them.

‘Anyone alive back there?’ Korolev asked, pointing along the corridor.

The Greek held up two fingers, before shrugging and reducing his estimate to a single finger. A tough man, the Greek – not that Korolev was complaining.

Korolev collected the guns the bandits had dropped, an ancient imperial army Smith amp; Wesson revolver and a more recent Nagant, emptied the remaining cartridges onto the floor and threw the guns into an open rifle chest. He picked up his machine gun and worked the side bolt to dislodge the jam and loaded the last magazine. Then he held his torch alongside the barrel of the gun, before walking into the smaller chamber the Greek had appeared from. There were sounds from the passageway beyond, but they were the sounds of the half-dead rather than the living.