Gavin Smith - Special Purposes - First Strike Weapon

“There were too many of them down there,” the Fräulein continued in her dry, rasping voice. “They were running through the carriages making more of themselves. We laid down a lot of fire, grenades, and managed to break contact, make it back up to the main concourse. But they were right behind us. Mongol…” She looked at the medic. “And Skull…”

“I saw Skull,” Vadim said quietly. He wondered where the other sniper was. Was he wandering around here, or off hunting with the others?

Why are we different? he asked himself. It was only then he thought of Farm Boy and Gulag. They had both fallen, just the other side of those doors. It would be easy to look for their bodies, but Princess and New Boy both seemed a little too highly strung for him to show any initiative at the moment.

“We made it back up here and then ran into the police,” New Boy told him, nodding towards the bullet-ridden wreckage of the police cars out front.

“The SWAT van? The helicopter?” Vadim asked.

“Fräulein,” Princess said simply, though Vadim could hear the emotion in her voice. New Boy was looking at the big East German with something approaching awe in his eyes, and more than a little fear.

“The zombies were coming up behind us. We needed to break through. She – Fräulein hit the van with one of the RPGs,” New Boy continued. “Then she laid down fire on the chopper. She… she got hit…”

“Over and over,” Princess said evenly. “Even then, she kept firing. Told us to run. Then they fell on her from behind and fed.” Somehow it was more uncomfortable having the Fräulein standing next to him listening to a description of her own death.

“How’d you get away?” he asked. It sounded somehow inane.

“We ran,” Princess told him.

“Back down again. All the zombies were coming up anyway. We locked ourselves into a baggage car.” New Boy’s head dropped as though ashamed, but Vadim couldn’t really see what else they could have done, other than die themselves. It sounded as though they were very lucky to be alive, although perhaps, given the situation, ‘lucky’ wasn’t the right word.

“And then we were very, very quiet,” Princess whispered. Vadim looked down at the ground, the big black drops of rain leaving greasy stains even over the blood. He wondered how much radiation they were taking from the fallout. Would it make a difference to the dead? Would it kill Princess and New Boy?

“Where did they all go?” the Fräulein asked.

“It was like an explosion,” Princess told her. “It had an epicentre that spread out.” Or a virus, Vadim thought. “They hunt the living, and then those they kill rise again. When they thought everyone here was dead, they moved on.” She nodded out into the city. He imagined them streaming out of the station, running down pedestrians, dragging people from their cars, leaping through the windows of shops and restaurants. Running up through the high towers of these steel and glass canyons, killing and raising more and more of themselves, like a cancer consuming cells. In the moment of quiet, Vadim faintly wondered when the music had stopped. In the distance, he thought he heard gunfire.

All of them heard the sound of a horse’s hooves echoing on the asphalt. The terrified animal galloped down 42nd Street in front of them. Princess lowered her weapon.

“What do we do now?” she asked. Vadim did not have an answer.

HAVING LOST HIS rifle, Vadim carried his now-reloaded shotgun as they re-entered the station, trying to move as quietly as they could through the carpet of empty shell casings. There was blood everywhere. The Fräulein found her RPKS-74, close to where she had fallen, and the three dead went first, New Boy and Princess following at a safe distance.

They were going through the motions. Vadim had no idea what to do now. His head was a whirl of thoughts and blunted emotions. He didn’t think he was in charge anymore; that would be insane. Princess and New Boy couldn’t trust any of them. He had to concentrate on other things just so he wouldn’t leap at their throats.

Vadim checked the area where Gulag and Farm Boy had fallen. Their bodies were gone, although tellingly, neither of their weapons remained. Just for a moment, he wondered if the KGB had slipped them some kind of partial vaccine, perhaps in their food on the submarine. Something that allowed them to hold onto to just enough of their selves to function. Were they supposed to be the second stage of this horrifying new weapon, he wondered?

“Boss,” said Mongol, and Vadim looked up. They’d found Skull, dead. A bloodstain on his sweater where his heart should be. A good shot. Killed by a fellow sniper. He was seated on a neatly stacked pile of bodies, bullet holes in their heads, as though enthroned. He was holding his .303 up in one hand, the butt on his leg, barrel pointing at the domed roof. They approached him carefully, fanning out, and he just watched, smiling. In the emergency lighting, Skull’s eyes glittered. He was clearly sentient. Despite the smile, Vadim had known the sniper long enough to know he was angry, very angry.

“What did they do?” Skull asked. They, Vadim thought. It seemed Skull had decided to direct his anger.

“You killed all these things?” Mongol asked, nodding at the sniper’s corpse throne. Skull turned to look at the medic, but said nothing.

“Skull?” the Fräulein asked. He ignored her and looked up at Princess. Vadim followed his gaze. She nodded at the other sniper but looked ready to kill him if she had to. Skull turned back to Vadim.

“Permission to fall in, captain?” he asked. He’d used Vadim’s rank, and it wasn’t a question you heard often in the Spetsnaz. Vadim just nodded, half-wondering why anybody was listening to him. Even through the whirl of his own thoughts he was aware that something seemed very wrong with Skull, beyond what was obviously very wrong with all of them.

THEY DID A sweep of the station – no sign of Gulag or Farm Boy – and set out for the secondary rendezvous point, in the underground car park beneath Eugene’s building. Walking corpse or not, Vadim still found the deserted streets and blackened sky eerie.

Princess and New Boy were still, understandably, keeping their distance, as much covering their dead comrades as they were looking for the more mindless zombies.

They found Farm Boy first, in a pool of light created by the flickering emergency illumination in the underground car park. His arms were bound to his side, legs as well. He was thrashing against his bonds, drooling. His eyes were bloodshot, wide, no longer the eyes of a human being. He went wild when he sensed Princess and New Boy.

Vadim knew he wasn’t thinking straight, but this was clearly bait. He started to turn to look around, Skull and the Fräulein doing the same. Gulag stepped out from behind a pillar, his rifle aimed at Vadim. Skull had his AKS-74 shouldered, levelled at Gulag, and Princess followed suit. The rest of them were checking the surrounding area.

“See, I knew you were trying to kill me.” He was in shadow, the flickering light giving the occasional glimpse of his ruined form. Like the Fräulein, he’d taken a lot of damage, and at some point been chewed on.

“What are you doing, Gulag?” the Fräulein demanded.

“You’re still playing soldier, comrade Fräulein?” Gulag said. Vadim found himself transfixed by the barrel of Gulag’s rifle. It looked like a way out.

“Lower your weapon,” the Fräulein told him.

“Or what?” the Muscovite demanded. “Administrative punishment, court-martial, firing squad, send me back to the gulag? All seems redundant now. We’ve blown up the world, but the funny part is: we can’t die.”