Paul Kane: Broken Arrow

When he was old enough, he was conscripted into the army. If he'd thought tolerating the orphanage was hard then training in the military taught him how easy he'd actually had it. They taught him how to kill, and it wasn't long before he'd had to use that particular skill fighting in the Soviet War against Afghanistan. It wasn't his natural environment — dealing with the heat to begin with had been difficult; it made the mercifully short summers back home seem chilly in comparison — but he'd soon proved himself one of the best fighters in his squad, eventually gaining the rank of Commander. During the '80s, and fuelled by the aid the USA was giving the enemy, his hatred for the West — and especially America — grew. Nuking would have been too good for them in his opinion. It was just a pity that plans to invade Western Europe, which were only uncovered much later, never came to fruition. By the time the Cold War ended, he was back in the motherland and, though he was grateful for the cooler air, he was not so enamoured with the way things were suddenly changing; spitting every time he saw a McDonalds. He fell victim to the army cutbacks Gorbachev initiated, and witnessed, with disdain, the eventual collapse of the Soviet Army.

But there were still jobs to be had for a man of his talents. He began working for the mafia, operating out of central Moscow, during the '90s, with a hand in everything from extortion and porn to caviar smuggling. The opening up of trade routes with other countries helped build up organised crime, with the mafia itself taking on more of a Westernised, business-orientated approach. On the other side of the law now, it left him just as much scope to get his hands dirty; a bullet in the head here, a snapped neck there. Little wonder he rose in the ranks, from general muscle and bodyguard, to actually getting involved behind the scenes. Before long he was in charge of one of the largest criminal networks in the country, soon gaining the name he still went by today: hiring others to do the dangerous stuff for him. While his former comrades struggled to earn a pittance, he was actually better off than he had ever been. And he liked the feeling of being in control. One day soon, he knew, he would be running more than just this operation. In fact he already had plans to expand ever further abroad.

Then it happened; the whole world froze.

He could remember seeing reports on television about the epidemic, and in his mind there was no doubt whatsoever that it was of Western origin. Probably from the US — an attack on his country! He took every precaution against catching it, including wearing a gas mask. But when people in his organisation started dropping like flies — one of his closest aids, Gerasim, virtually exploded right in front of him, blood jetting from every orifice — he figured it was already too late. It was in his system already, so he might as well face his inevitable demise.

Except it didn't come. The more he waited, the more he found out about this thing they were calling the A-B Virus. It wasn't just affecting his nation, it was killing people all around the globe. Whether it had started out as a weapon in the West was still unclear, but if it had then the plan completely backfired. The only ones safe were those with a certain blood type: his type of blood. At least here they were spared the secondary infections from the dead littering the streets. Such was the climate during those long winter months that the corpses were preserved and, yes, they were still out there — rotting much more slowly than in other parts of the world: a reminder of what had happened. Icy, once-living statues.

At first he had been frustrated. Just when he was getting somewhere, he suddenly found himself right back at the bottom.

But, in time, survivors began to emerge. He saw them flitting between the buildings in Moscow, chased some of the first few down, armed with his custom-made machine gun and Gursa self-charge pistol. Most had already heard of him and surrendered gladly, welcoming someone to show them the way. Others had been less easy to persuade, so he'd put a bullet in them.

It wasn't long before he'd gathered a decent force, just like the one he'd commanded in Afghanistan — and he soon had a protective ring around himself once more. What worked in their favour was that the amount of survivors here reflected the fact that this was the largest country on the planet. Of course, that also meant that there were pockets of resistance dotted all across the land, in towns, villages and, especially, in the cities. There were some even now who were not a part of his new Empire, but given enough time…

For that's what he was building, he'd decided. An Empire. If Kabulov and the Cold War had taught him anything it was that the old ways were the best. He would rule with an iron fist, ensure that, once again, they would be the force to be reckoned with; even in this post-apocalyptic world. In fact, hadn't the virus done them a favour — weeding out the influence of the West so they could start again as something purer?

How much more fitting his mafia name was now. The Tsar. A monarch whose influence had steadily spread as far East as Magadan, using Moscow as his base. Loyalty was rewarded with protection, treachery with death. Once he had enough troops to spare, he would think about branching out further, reaching into other territories. That day was coming soon and he knew it. A day when he'd have enough power to tackle America itself. Stories had reached him of what was going on there, of factions taking charge and organising themselves, just as he was doing. It was simply a question of who would assemble a big enough army and how quickly. He already had access to all the military equipment and weapons he'd ever need.

The Tsar was pleased when he realised his reputation was already stretching beyond borders. Indeed, his most trusted allies were from China and the Ukraine. The female Liu twins — Xue and Ying — never far from his side, had come to him and offered their services, mistakenly playing the Communist card. As if he gave a shit about that. He was more interested in their ability to carve up half a dozen of his guards without breaking a sweat, using those deadly Hook Swords of theirs, before surrendering and kneeling before him. Their oriental beauty was captivating, and so he kept them around not only as his personal bodyguards, but also his lovers.

Bohuslav was a different matter altogether. In him, The Tsar had recognised a kindred spirit: a soul as cold as his. It was there in those steely eyes. His methods were different to all the others in The Tsar's service, coming as he did from a background of serial killing. He had murdered more than fifty people even before the virus swept Russia, using his favoured weapons — small hand-held sickles — but had never come close to getting caught. No-one should ever trust Bohuslav, yet oddly The Tsar did. He trusted him with his life, which he knew Bohuslav could take at any moment if he chose to. He also trusted him with authority over the day-to-day running of his realm.

All three were with him today, riding in his bulletproof limousine. Bohuslav was driving, with the twins in the back, flanking The Tsar. As they travelled the distance between the Mariott Grand Hotel to one of the warehouses that had once stored goods for his business, The Tsar looked out at the falling snow. Where others might have seen nature's magnificence at work, he was comforted by the fact it showed temperatures would be well into the minuses. The white spots fell on those human statues outside, like Pompeii's ash. His face showed no reaction, no emotion. It wasn't just that he'd seen them many, many times: it was the fact that there wasn't any emotion to show. On the road ahead of them were two guards on motorbikes, and he knew the same number were behind. They pulled in at the rear entrance of the warehouse, and Bohuslav followed, bringing the limo to a halt by the pavement.