Special Purposes: First Strike Weapon

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

0030 GMT, 25th November 1987

Vickerstown, Walney Island, North-West England

CAREFULLY, VADIM PEERED into the yard. It had gone quiet. He could make out New Boy and Harris hunkered down in the scaffold stands. They were keeping an eye on Captain Schiller, who was standing over Kerrican’s corpse, swaying slightly, as though drunk. Vadim looked back at the refugees and crew.

“Take their weapons, but stay in here,” he told them, before turning back to the doorway and shouting to the others that he was coming out and not to shoot. He moved carefully out into the yard and slipped in the icy slush, landing hard on his arse in the cold and the wet.

VADIM MADE IT over to the scaffolding. Only now was he able to take in the full extent of the damage. The two Tigers had been gutted; one of them had hit a scaffolding guard tower. The force of the blast had blown the tanks into the wall, demolishing part of that as well. New Boy was cradling his SLR and had a finger in his ear.

“That is a really loud rifle,” he muttered as Vadim joined him. Then he nodded upwards. Vadim glanced up. It took him a moment to make out Skull on the top deck of the stand. Harris had been ill-used and was clearly exhausted. He was covered in bruises and blood, though Vadim hoped that not too much of the blood was his own. New Boy didn’t look much better.

“Were either of you bit?” he asked.

“No,” New Boy told him.

“Which is a goddamned miracle,” Harris said shaking his head.

“No,” Vadim told him. “It’s because you fought, because you wanted to live. I know you’ve been through hell, but I have six prisoners in the main hall; can you keep an eye on them until we ask you to bring them out? They give you the slightest trouble, just kill them.”

Harris nodded wearily.

“Clear!” Gulag called from the second prefab. Princess repeated the call from the third prefab, and the Fräulein did the same from the fourth. Gulag, grim-faced, emerged from the hut and walked across the yard towards them. There were bullet holes in the grey SS smock he had worn to try and fool the re-enactors, and his head looked somehow more misshapen, as if a chunk were missing from it. Vadim noted that both his thumbs were red and blood was dripping off his face. He wondered just how traumatised the rescued children would be. The Muscovite didn’t have any prisoners.

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.

At the bridge, the Fräulein cut her story short and brought the half-track to a grumbling, bone-shaking halt. Bill, Harris, Maria and Colstein were waiting for them at the control booth. Dirty black snow was still falling from the sky, lying thick on the ground. The Fräulein switched off the engine to save fuel, which Vadim thought was brave given the problems they’d had starting the ancient vehicle, and all of the squad clambered out. Vadim found himself looking out over a muddy channel with bogged-down zombies stuck in it; at the industrial skyline of the dockyards, the roofs of the neat terraces, the steeples of churches and beyond that the black, snow covered hills.

Bill stuck his hand out first and Vadim took it.

“Thanks for this,” Bill said, gesturing towards the island. “Not sure about that.” He pointed at the mainland. Vadim just nodded. Despite his part in the attack on New York, he didn’t feel like apologising again. “I’m not sure you’d exactly be welcome here, but we’d give some serious consideration into letting you on the island if you’re ever back this way.”

Vadim laughed.

“It has been beyond horrible meeting you,” Colstein said as he shook Vadim’s cold hand next. “And I hope I never see any of you again; but thank you. You didn’t have to come back for us.”

“I think I did,” Vadim said. It wasn’t just for Colstein and the others. In the end, he hadn’t seen himself in Kerrican, but he wondered if he ever caught up with Varishnikov, would he see the same madness in the KGB hardliner’s eyes? “I liked Schiller. He was a good man.”

Colstein opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.

Maria didn’t really want to look at him. It was clear she hadn’t changed her views: she still felt that things would be better if he killed himself, and with the hunger always present, he wasn’t sure she was wrong. Right now, surrounded by the living, the urge to feast was strong but not nearly as strong as his resolve. It came as a surprise when Maria grabbed him and hugged him, whispering ‘thank you’ in his ear.

“Keep that switchblade handy,” was all he could think to tell her. She nodded. He looked down at Gloria, who’d accompanied her mother. The little girl was hugging Gulag. Vadim tried not to think too much about the future.

“Why do they call you ‘Infant’?” Harris asked as he shook Vadim’s hand.

“They don’t, Gulag does to annoy me,” he said, glancing irritably at the Muscovite, who was still talking to Gloria. The little girl appeared to be listening intently to him, despite not speaking any Russian, as far as Vadim knew.

Harris raised an eyebrow, and Vadim sighed. “We are given nicknames when we start training for the Spetsnaz. A… mentor of mine was already an officer, and he gave me that nickname.” He wondered where Colonel Krychenko was now. Was he alive or dead? If he was dead, was he still moving? He’d be just as in control as Vadim was; he had never known a man with a stronger will.

“Why?” Harris asked.

“I was nine years when old I killed my first man,” Vadim told him, and the smile disappeared from Harris’s face. “A German soldier amongst the ruins of my city.”

AS HE CLIMBED back into the half-track, Vadim found himself thinking about Kerrican and his fake Nazis. The dead walked the earth looking for living flesh to feast upon, but humans had done this to other humans. He found that deeply depressing. After the bombs had fallen and their world had been destroyed, you would think people would come to the conclusion that perhaps more brutality wasn’t the answer.

What about your mission? he asked himself.

I’m no longer human.

Skull poked him in the ribs, and Vadim turned, more surprised than anything else. The sniper nodded out the back of the half-track, smiling. Vadim looked to see Princess kissing Harris. They broke their clinch and she climbed into the back of the armoured vehicle. Everyone was staring at her.

“What?” she demanded. The Fräulein turned round and managed to coax the half-track back into life as the bridge started to lower. Unexpectedly, Vadim realised he was smiling.