Plague Bomb tz-6

by James Rouch

  In each the crew of driver and medical attendant still sat in the cab, behind multiply starred windshields that were further obscured by splashes of congealed blood burst from gaping wounds caused by the deformed bullets’ impacts.

  A few yards further, and about a Bedford dump truck and trailer mounted compressor lay the rotting bodies of the pioneers who had been the original victims of the cleverly sprung Russian ambush.

  Foxes and scavenging crows had torn open body cavities the snipers’ bullets had not already pierced, and now past the stage of bloating putrefaction what was left of the skin and other tissue hung in ribbons from disjointed skeletons.

  There wasn’t the time to make a search and confirm it, but Revell knew that among the trees close by, investigation would have uncovered the spots where the carefully camouflaged riflemen had patiently lain in waiting for each arrival in turn. The trampled grass would have re-grown, but the spent cartridge cases would still be there.

  The Marder stopped by the ambulances and Sergeant Hyde began to organize the systematic looting of everything usable from the well equipped vehicles. Between them the Land Rovers provided sufficient NBC equipment to make good all their shortages, and provide ample spares of those items most likely to need subsequent replacement under intensive use.

  ‘You feeling a mite happier about going into those badlands now?’ Though he heard clearly over the intercom, Burke made no reply to their gunner. Instead he looked back to see if the American was still fidgeting in his turret seat as he usually did before resettling, and then engaged the drive fiercely. The violent tactic brought complaint from more than his intended victim.

  ‘Fuck it, stop chucking this crate about like it was a fucking stock car.’ Pushing aside the avalanche of ammunition clips and medical kits that had followed him to the floor, Dooley regained his seat on the bench.

  Boris had suffered worse than a sudden loss of dignity. Blood oozed from a deep gash high on his forehead, where his head had made hard contact with a hull fitting. He made no complaint, not even when Thorne, acting begrudgingly on their officer’s orders, cleaned and covered the indented cut. No sound came from him when the hair the impact had embedded in his flesh was pulled away, nor when the first field dressing applied proved to be too small and had to be ripped off to be replaced by a larger.

  ‘Tough buggers, those Ruskies.’ Watching, Dooley saw the deserter immediately resume what he had been doing, pausing only to wipe spots of blood from the respirator lens he’d been replacing.

  ‘Maybe,’ Hyde didn’t see it the same way, ‘or maybe they’re just so damned thick they don’t even know when they’re hurt. I saw one of their field hospitals once, we over-ran it before they had a chance to scarper, surgeons were still working when we went in. That’s if they were surgeons, I’ve seen apprentice butchers make a better job of carving meat. You should have seen it—crude wasn’t the word. They might have a few fancy show-piece hospitals in Moscow, but for the poor sods they use as cannon fodder it’s swab, stitch, splint and back into battle Ivan. The stupid sods line up like dumb animals to have their arms and legs lopped off without even an aesthetic. Our M.O. did his nut. You saw it Clarence, what did you think?’

  ‘When I walked through the wards all I was thinking was what a lot of rotten marksmen there must be in the NATO armies. I’ve never seen so many gunshot wounds. In our casualty clearing stations better than three quarters of all cases are from mines and artillery. It was nearer fifty-fifty there, though that might have been because of the human wave tactics the Russians were usmg at the time. When there’s a couple of thousand or more of the ugly swine coming at you, there isn’t always the opportunity to take leisurely aim and go for a killing shot, it’s a case of having to pump as much lead toward them as you can.’

  ‘I would like the chance to fire on such numbers.’ Andrea hugged her M16 across her chest.

  ‘Killing them one by one will take so long.’ She looked pointedly at Boris, but he studiously avoided her eye.

  He didn’t catch all her words, but Revell could tell by her tone and expression that Andrea was talking about killing. Only rarely did she join in conversation, and then almost invariably on that subject. That alone should have made it easy for him to draw her on the subject of Inga.

  After the circle of Russian armour around Hamburg had been broken he’d gone back into the city to search for her. All he’d found was her apartment block a blazing inferno and no sign of Inga. Those other residents he’d been able to find had told him little; shots had been heard, and a dark haired girl had been seen leaving shortly before the fire had broken out in Inga’s rooms.

  In a moment he could have set his mind at rest, or had his worst suspicions confirmed by asking Andrea what she knew, but either answer was too frightening to contemplate. One would have left him filled with doubt, the other would have tortured and torn his mind. And so he didn’t ask, and instead of the single conflict that would have gnawed at his brain he was left with elements of both chasing through his thoughts and twisting and warping them until he didn’t know what question to ask, what answer to hope for.

  ‘We are behind them again.’ On an infra-red scan of the road ahead Boris had detected very faint, but positive, traces that revealed a vehicle had passed this way before them. ‘They have had the advantage of the delay of our detour. I would say they are at least an hour ahead of us, perhaps little more.’

  ‘And there are no more short cuts for a while,’ Burke eased back on the speed as he sensed a vibration setting in at maximum revs, ‘all we can do is hang on to their tails.’

  ‘So why don’t we give up now. Whatever they’re in it’s obviously got the legs on this old rattle-trap.’ Thorne could see little save the blur of passing foliage through his own periscope, and was unsuccessful in persuading Dooley to surrender his place at a better sited vision device. ‘Those civvies will be sitting down for a cosy vodka with a brace of commissars and a reporter from TASS while we’re still frolicking about a couple of hours in their wake. Let’s turn back and find a bit of fighting, somewhere I can find the chance to use this properly.’ He slapped the flamethrower’s tanks.

  ‘We go on, catch them even if it means we have to burst in on such a pleasant gathering.’ For a while Revell had been watching the condition of the surface of the road they were travelling. It was deteriorating rapidly. Long sections had been broken by frost. In places the edges had crumbled away and the further they went the greater became the profusion of storm-shattered branches littering it, and severed telephone wires and power cables draping it.

  ‘These roads haven’t seen traffic in a year or more, and the blizzards last winter look to have brought down a lot of stuff. Sooner or later those civvies are going to run into a blockage they can’t drive through or around. Either that or they’ll have to slow so often for lots of minor obstacles that we’ll catch up to them that way. Whatever, we keep going.’

  Of course they’d keep going. Hyde had known what the officer was going to say. They always kept going, even when it didn’t make any sort of sense, unless…

  There was a loud clattering as hard fragments pummelled and sounded like they were threatening to penetrate the hull overhang. The left track was shedding the last of its ride cushioning, track-life prolonging rubber inserts. Even if it lasted long enough to take them all the way to the Russian lines, as they might have to, there was no chance it would bring them all the way back.

  CHEMICAL AND BIOLOGICAL WEAPONS OF ALL TYPES WILL BE TREATED SIMPLY AS ANOTHER MUNITION AVAILABLE TO THE ARMY COMMANDER IN THE FIELD. IF CIRCUMSTANCES WARRANT IT, AND CONDITIONS ARE SUITABLE, TOXINS, NERVE GASSES, BLISTERING AND BLOOD AGENTS, BACTERIAL AND VIRAL WEAPONS WILL BE USED.

  IT SHOULD BE KEPT IN MIND THAT THE THREAT OR FEAR OF THE USE OF THESE WEAPONS CAN OFTEN SERVE AS EFFECTIVELY AS THEIR ACTUAL EMPLOYMENT. THE OSTENTATIOUS MOVEMENT OF CHEMICAL TROOPS INTO FORWARD AREAS, THE CONSTRUCTION OF DUMMY HANDLING FACILITIES AND DUMPS; ALL THOSE WILL HELP TO FEED FALS
E INTELLIGENCE INFORMATION TO THE ENEMY AND ENCOURAGE THE INCORRECT INTERPRETATION OF THAT HE ALREADY HAS. THE SKILLFUL COMMANDER WILL NOT NEGLECT THE USE OF AGENTS AND SYMPATHIZERS TO SPREAD ALARM AMONG THE CIVILIAN POPULATION BEHIND THE ENEMIES LINES, AND EVEN AMONG HIS BATTLE FORMATIONS.

  SUCH MEASURES WILL FORCE THE ENEMY TO DEGRADE HIS FIGHTING ABILITY BY TAKING ALL PRECAUTIONS, WHILE LEAVING OUR OWN TROOPS FREE OF ANY SUCH CONSTRAINTS.

  From a Russian Army manual (Written and published 1969, revised 1972/75/78/80/82) used at Staff Officers college 12, and considered by western intelligence to be the Soviet military’s standard work on the subject.

  SIX

  The tree had brought down telephone lines, and the thick tangle of wires combined with the jutting splintered timber to form a barrier the Range Rover could not bulldoze its way through.

  ‘That’s it, give it a good swing.’ Having deliberately given the woman the axe, Gross watched her heavy breasts jiggling against each other as they threatened to pop from the restraints of her brassiere.

  ‘Stuff it, you pervert, that’s the only tool you’ll ever be any good with.’ Trying with a lop-sided drooling grin to conceal his annoyance, Gross set to work with the wire cutters, but he felt the colour rising to his cheeks all the same. He’d get his own back for that, he’d find a way. Maybe he’d catch her bending, and shove his cock up her big bum, just to hear her beg him to stop, or at least use Vaseline. Or perhaps he’d thrust it into her mouth, in and out, in and out, and have her milk him till she choked on the squirting product of his massive orgasm. Oh he knew he could do lots with her that way, gallons and gallons…

  Father Venables hovered about the front of the Rover, at times looking as if he might take up a spare implement and assist, but then his fluttering hand movements would cease and he’d clasp them behind his back and once more content himself with just making noises of encouragement, and occasional half gestures of applause for their efforts as gradually the obstruction was chopped out and pushed aside.

  Only Professor Edwards remained in the vehicle. From a green plastic Harrods carrier bag he took a flask and carefully poured a cup of beef soup. A crinkled parcel of aluminium foil he unwrapped to remove a buttered water biscuit, carefully rewrapping and stowing the remaining four back in the bag.

  ‘How nice, oh how very nice.’ Gross stuck his head in through the rear window and his sweat dripped onto the seat. ‘Am I invited, or is this a private picnic?’

  ‘This is just to keep my strength up. Of course I would help you all if I could, but I have this condition…’

  ‘Such a pity.’

  ‘I do not feel you are offering genuine sympathy, but if I should have misinterpreted your tone, then thank you. It is nothing too serious you understand, but my specialist has told me I must take care, not indulge in undue exertion. And so you see, much as I would love to assist…’

  ‘You always shop there?’ With a moss-stained, stub-nailed finger Gross prodded the gold print on the carrier.

  ‘Do I…? Oh, I see. Well, yes, actually, I do pop in on occasion, when I’m in town, and of course I have a hamper at Christmas, just for a treat.’

  ‘Went there once myself. Took my kids to show them where the nobs did their shopping. We had afternoon tea there, only one of my girls dropped her yoghurt under the table, and went looking for it. Sort of upset some of the old ladies making their monthly pilgrimage.’

  ‘So I can imagine.’ Pretending total absorption with his scanty meal, Edwards kept his head down until the fat man lost interest in watching him alternately nibble and sip. He watched the retreating union leader’s back. Their mission had forced strange and distasteful company on him. Not one of them would have come within a thousand years of receiving an invitation to his college’s high table, and he could not see a place for them in the new order of things, when socialist revolution swept Britain, as surely it must one day soon. There could be no seat for them among the vanguard of the proletariat who would herald and guide in the start of the new age. Sipping the hot peppery soup he bathed in the visions that had sustained his spirit and nourished his intellect since his first days at university, since he’d become a member of the apostles…

  Fuck. Sherry Kane glanced about to see that no one was looking, then wrenched at her right breast. One of the damned wires was shifting again, threatening to come jutting out through the thin material of her sweatshirt like a god-damned radio antenna. First chance she got she’d take it off. She’d just have to take care with camera angles when they reached the end of their journey, make sure none of those hick Russian photographers made her look like they sagged to her waist.

  As she wielded the axe she could feel blisters raising on her palms, at the base of each finger. It was strange though, despite the obnoxious attentions of Gross, despite the unexpected exertion and the dishevelment it brought, she was kind of enjoying herself.

  Just why was hard to figure. She just felt sort of, well elated, real happy. Maybe it was because at last she was going to grab all the headlines, maybe because using the axe it reminded her of when she was a kid, when her only worry was being left alone with Uncle Harry, when he used to pull up her nightdress and rub against her, but that apart all had been well with her world.

  All was going to be well with her world again. When they reached the Russian lines the gamble she had taken, the risks of short term unpopularity with the audience and the studios back home, all that would be wiped away. Within a week she’d be bigger than Fonda, bigger than anybody. Swinging the work brightened blade high she brought it down hard and severed the branch she’d been working on.

  In the unaccustomed physical exertion Sir Julian Webb found an outlet for his irritation at the delay, and also a release for some of the pent-up anger with life in general that seethed inside him. It was that incident the day before he’d left from Heathrow, when he’d returned to his rooms in Chelsea a little earlier than usual, and found Raymond with that pimply paper-boy.

  Never a voyeur, only ever a participant of the homosexual act, he’d been struck by the vulgar ugliness of it all, on finding Raymond standing with a jar of Vaseline in one hand, and his stub of an; erection in the other, trying to fit the lubricated organ into the youth’s tightly rounded pink backside.

  The scene stuck in his mind; the youth’s soiled pants tangled among the patched jeans around his ankles, the resigned look of boredom on his acne etched features, the crumpled five pound note clenched hard in his fist: and Raymond, his plump face red with excitement and anticipation, mouthing crude obscenities to encourage the boy and prepare himself.

  It was not Raymond’s betrayal of their thirty year relationship that had hurt; it had not been active, had hardly been affectionate for a long time. No, it was. whom he chose to do it with. Had he known about him and the youth? Webb could hardly believe it, Raymond had been away the week he had… when the youth had come in for a drink of tea. The flushed thrill of that first accidental brushed contact was with him still. Every action of the youth’s had been so obvious, so blatant a come-on… It had been the youth’s greed for money that had frightened him into ending the tawdry affair before Raymond’s return, and in all truth he’d not been sorry. After that first time he’d not really enjoyed it. Perhaps he was getting old, perhaps he was just old fashioned, but the act had been so casual, so bereft of any… romance… that the mechanics of intimacy had not been sufficient alone to make him want to continue the relationship.

  Any last lingering doubts he’d had as to whether or not to make this trip had been cast aside at that moment when he’d walked in and caught them…

  ‘I’m absolutely fucking knackered.’ Gross straightened and put a hand to his aching back. ‘That bloody bus must have the guts to shove aside what’s left. For Christ’s sake give it another go.’

  ‘Wait, wait. Before we go on…’ Father Venables experienced an all too familiar sensation, and trying hard not to look as if he was clutching himself, shuffled off the road and a lit
tle way into the straggling undergrowth that bordered it. ‘Ah…’ That was good. He had adjusted his clothing only just in time. Really, this condition was too unfortunate, too embarrassing. Possibly it would help if he reduced his fluid intake.

  He coughed at the slight irritation caused by dust-like wisps that rose from a fungi covered rotting log his dark coloured urine hosed across. Fastening the last of his buttons before starting back, as he pushed through the pliant branches he felt a curious tingling sensation throughout his body, but particularly so about his lips and ear lobes and fingertips.

  ‘Would you be so kind as to assist me.’ Curious, he had to ask Professor Edwards for help to climb back into the Range Rover. How strange, really he felt very weak… no, not weak, it was rather a numbness that rapidly emerged into a will sapping, strength draining fatigue. Most peculiar, he couldn’t imagine what was wrong with him, he hadn’t had a cold in years, yet this was like the fast onset of the symptoms of virulent influenza. Ridiculous though, it couldn’t manifest itself so quickly, not from ordinary causes… ordinary causes… this was no ordinary place, this was no ordinary virus, perhaps it was no virus at all.

  Now there was a, not a tightness, more a definite slackness in his chest. As the Rover robustly bulldozed the near branchless trunk of the tree aside, and they got Under way once more, he realized that breathing was becoming increasingly difficult.

  ‘Oh dear me no, oh now now, oh please not now, I have so much still to do.’

  ‘What’s the pee stained old fool on about?’ Crowding in, Gross didn’t bother to look at his elderly companions on the rear seat, but when Venables spoke he became aware of the priest’s blanched face and shallow rasping breaths. ‘You caught yourself in your trouser zip?’

  Struggling, and exerting himself to do so, Father Venables managed to slur five more words, ‘Dear God, I forgive them,’ then locked his grip on his rosary as paralysis raced through his body to rob him of the ability to say or do more. He could no longer move, not even to cross himself.