“Don’t you point your fucking gun at him!” Gulag screamed. Even Vadim flinched. New Boy looked unsure for a moment, but he didn’t shift his aim. “I mean it. I’ll do you next!”
“I asked you a question, Nikodim,” Vadim said quietly. Then he looked away from the barrel and searched for Gulag’s eyes in the flickering light.
“What did you do to me?” the gangster asked.
“You know I didn’t do this. We could have walked away.” For all the good it would have done. “I am as you are. So are Fräulein, Skull and Mongol. You know this. If it makes you feel better, then pull the trigger.”
“You’re one of us,” the Fräulein said. “What are you doing?”
“Lower the gun, brother,” Mongol told him, letting his own weapon dip. “There’s just us here.”
Skull and Princess still had Gulag covered. He glanced over at them.
“Is it your time now?” Skull asked him. “Do you want to leave?” It didn’t sound like a threat. It sounded like sympathy, understanding.
“Farm Boy…?” Gulag asked. Even dead, his voice was wracked with anguish. Vadim looked down at the big Georgian. It didn’t make sense; why had they retained their sentience, but not him? They had eaten the same food on the submarine.
“I don’t know,” Vadim said, shaking his head. Farm Boy had settled down a little, though he was emitting an odd keening noise, not unlike a beaten dog. Princess cursed and raised her weapon as the Fräulein walked in front of her, blocking Gulag’s line of fire to Vadim. Skull raised his AKS-74 as well, shifted position so he could get a clearer shot, but didn’t re-aim his weapon.
The Fräulein pushed Gulag’s rifle down. Vadim could see the Muscovite’s frame shaking, as he made a strange, dry hiccoughing noise. It took Vadim a few moments to realise that the hardened criminal, a man who had spent many of his formative years in a Siberian prison camp, was sobbing. The Fräulein just lay her hand on his shoulder.
Skull looked down at Farm Boy, and then Vadim. “Do you want me to do it?” he asked, and Vadim shook his head.
“It’s my responsibility,” said the captain, and in saying those words started to feel the enormity of what had happened; just how badly he had failed his people. He walked over to Farm Boy and put the barrel of his sawn-off KS-23 shotgun to the side of his head. The Georgian looked up at him. Vadim hoped for something, some spark of recognition, of intelligence, but there was nothing. He – it – didn’t even understand that there was a weapon pressed against his head.
“I’m sorry,” Vadim said, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was better. He started to squeeze the trigger.
“Wait!” Gulag came out of the intermittent darkness to stand over his friend. “I’ll do it.” He handed Vadim his AK-74 and grabbed a second rifle he’d slung across his back, Farm Boy’s own. He sighted down it.
“The noi—” New Boy started. The crack of the rifle echoed through the parking structure, the muzzle flash throwing them into harsh relief for a moment. “Never mind.”
Farm Boy was still.
Vadim was grabbed and slammed against a concrete pillar, and Gulag’s ruined face was suddenly nose-to-nose with his. He could still just about make out the Muscovite’s tattoos under the scabbed, bloody grime. The Fräulein lumbered towards Gulag to drag him off, but Vadim saw something like a tear, thick and glutinous, run down the Muscovite’s cheek. The captain held up his hand and the Fräulein stopped.
“If I ever find out that you had something to do with this,” he said quietly, his voice full of menace, “I will hammer a shell casing into your skull, do you understand me?” Vadim could smell the meat on the other man’s breath, see the dried blood on his teeth. Vadim leaned towards Gulag.
“What do you want, Nikodim?” he whispered. In part, because he had no idea what to do next, or where to go from here. Spetsnaz officers were supposed to have initiative, but nothing even remotely similar had been discussed during officer training in Kiev.
“I want to know who did this,” Gulag hissed.
CHAPTER SEVEN
1905 EST, 16th November 1987
Eugene’s Apartment, New York City
“HE’LL BE LONG gone,” Mongol muttered as they trudged up the stairs. Vadim didn’t feel a thing. There was no breath to feel out of, no aching muscles. He was aware of his body, but it felt muted somehow.
“Where’s he going to go?” Gulag asked as they passed a long, smeared, bloody hand mark on the wall. Vadim caught shards of glistening skull on the rail. They had found a body at the base of the stairwell, far below. Vadim knew they were clutching at straws, trying to find a reason to continue existing. He had always prided himself on being clearheaded, regardless of the situation, but now it was a real struggle just to think straight. He at least should have told Princess and New Boy to make their own way; although perhaps their best chance at survival was with the dead members of the squad protecting them.
Skull was on point, Vadim following him. He had Gulag’s rifle now; Gulag had kept Farm Boy’s. The Muscovite had carved various obscenities into the wooden stock of his AK-74. They had split Farm Boy’s grenades and ammunition between them. The Fräulein had taken the big Georgian’s disposable RPG-18 to replace the one she’d used on the SWAT van.
Princess and New Boy were still some way behind them. He couldn’t blame them. He wouldn’t have wanted to be trapped in enclosed quarters with his dead squadmates either.
Skull reached Eugene’s floor and opened the door a crack, bringing the sound of moaning and the scrape of fingers against wood. Skull glanced out into the corridor and signalled that the source of the noise was round the corner. Vadim indicated for everyone to switch to suppressed weapons. Princess unsheathed her Dragunov, attached the suppressor and swapped out the magazine for subsonic bullets. The rest of them slung their weapons and drew their Stechkins, screwing suppressors into the barrels. All except Gulag, but Vadim didn’t have the capacity to deal with the criminal’s bullshit today.
Vadim followed Skull through the door, Gulag right behind them. There was red on the walls, on the light, meat on the floor. They passed broken doors to bloodstained apartments and rounded the corner. There were six zombies: four of them pawing at Eugene’s door with bloodied hands, and another two trying to get into the next apartment. A partially-eaten corpse lay on the floor.
Skull’s Stechkin coughed and there was a small explosion of bone, dry flesh and brain. Vadim fired and his target hissed as the bullet caught it in the shoulder. This should be easier, you’re not even breathing, he thought. He adjusted aim and fired again, and the zombie slid to the ground.
The others had noticed, faces raised like wild animals scenting prey. As Vadim passed Eugene’s neighbour’s door he heard sobbing from inside. Skull fired again, and another zombie dropped. They were on their feet now, charging. Vadim took his time, squeezed the trigger, and another one tumbled to the floor. A hole appeared in the head of the second-to-last zombie, and then Gulag pushed past them, sending Vadim’s shot wide. He caught a glimpse of Skull’s angry face as Gulag sidestepped the charging corpse and suddenly yanked the thing backwards off its feet. Vadim only realised what Gulag had done when the Muscovite started to saw at the zombie’s neck with his garrotte. Three piano strings with diamonds intertwined in them, to saw through the victim’s fingers if they managed to get them under the garrotte, as the zombie had.
“Shh!” Gulag soothed as he sawed through fingers and into the neck. Gulag had won the garrotte in a card game, from a member of the Bulgarian Committee for State Security’s Service 7. Vadim had always been surprised that Gulag hadn’t just fenced the diamonds. Instead, he’d used the garrotte to saw the heads off mujahideen sentries and then balance them back on their necks for their comrades to find. Vadim heard the spinal cord crack, the sound of the wire saw grating through bone. Blood seeped from the wound but didn’t spurt. Gulag cried out, exultant, as the head came off.