Gavin Smith: Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon

Princess emerged from the Joy Division, her left arm in a sling, and blood soaking through the upper arm of her jumper. Her SLR was slung across her back and she was carrying her Stechkin in her right hand. Her face was a mask of total disgust. She didn’t have any prisoners with her either.

Two of the fake SS men emerged from the barracks prefab, looking utterly shocked. Smoke was rising from the hut. Vadim guessed a tracer had set something alight. The Fräulein followed them out. Even from this distance, it was clear she had been shot several times. Covering her two prisoners with her sidearm, she set the MG 34 down on the ground, resting on its bipod. Steam rose from the hot gun as it melted the slush.

Vadim looked questioningly at Gulag as he joined them.

“I lost one of the kids,” Gulag said. He sounded miserable. “Stray round, it came straight through the wall.”

Vadim didn’t bother with platitudes. He just put his hand on the Muscovite’s shoulder.

“Two of the women were killed,” Princess told Vadim as she joined them. “One was a stray round; the other because I didn’t get to one of the bastards quickly enough.” She sounded angry.

Vadim nodded. It could have been so much worse. Their attack had been more than reckless. Frankly, they had been very lucky.

The Fräulein ordered the hobby soldiers to kneel, hands laced behind their heads. Princess glared at them. Vadim was pretty sure the sniper would have happily killed them there and then. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to enter the Joy Division prefab.

The barracks prefab collapsed in on itself as the flames spread; in a tired, but practical part of his mind, Vadim knew they would have to see to the fire before it spread.

The Fräulein joined them. Much to his irritation, Vadim could see the refugees and crew from the Dietrich starting to drift out of the hut they had been held in.

“What are we going to do with them?” Gulag asked, nodding towards the men the Fräulein had captured. Unusually, he seemed unenthusiastic about the prospect of prisoners.

“We take them back to the mainland, tie them to posts just high enough so their groins are at teeth height. Then we put signs around their necks with the word ‘rapist’ on them. It should act as a warning,” Princess told them. The Fräulein nodded in agreement.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Gulag said. Princess ignored him.

“What do you want to do with him?” the Fräulein asked, nodding towards the earless Captain Schiller.

“He can understand you,” Vadim said.

“I’m sorry, captain,” the Fräulein told him. He turned and stared at her until she looked away. Then he turned the stare on Vadim.

“Kill me,” Schiller said. Vadim opened his mouth to speak, but he kept going. “Kill me, you coward! It’s the least you owe me.”

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.