“We must go now. Yes?” The man nodded eagerly, studying Anton’s face.
“Nezhit vaccine?” Was this guy fucking with him? Was this the KGB agent’s idea of a sick joke?
“Vaccine, yes. I make. I give to American scientists. But first you help me.”
The world spun around Anton. He was hyper aware of the dead Craig family. He ground his teeth, trying to focus on the man. The sound of gunfire made him twitch. There was still shooting outside the jail.
“What’s going on outside?” he asked.
Dr. Kozlovovich shook his head. “Very bad. No one listen to me. We must go. Hurry, yes?” He turned the key in the lock.
The cell door swung open. A mere six feet separated Anton from the bulky Russian scientist.
It looked like the guy hadn’t changed his clothes in weeks. His white lab coat was covered with dingy brown stains.
Anton held himself back. He wanted to tear this man to pieces with his bare hands. The desire nearly overpowered him.
He clung to sanity with a fingernail. Nezhit vaccine. This man knew about it. He could help America if Anton could keep himself from killing him. His chest heaved with the effort.
In his hand, Dr. Kozlovovich held a Soviet fatigue shirt. He extended his arm, holding it out to Anton.
“Disguise,” he said. “Hurry.”
Anton refused to touch the shirt. No fucking way. No fucking way would a Soviet uniform ever touch his skin again.
A dull throb on the right side of his chest caught his attention. It was faint in comparison to the rest of his aches and pains, but it arrested Anton’s attention. He ran his fingers over the lumpy scabs that had formed over the Soviet sigil that had been carved into his skin. Rage beat within him.
He attempted to stride from the cell. His legs nearly collapsed. Dr. Kozlovovich caught him in the doorway. Anton noted the handle of a pistol sticking out from the man’s lab coat jacket.
“You wear uniform,” Kozlovovich said.
“No.”
The man grunted in annoyance, but he dropped the shirt to the ground and adjusted his grip on Anton. “We go. Hurry.”
Anton had one last dizzying look back into the prison cell. His mind took a snapshot of the dead Craig family. Distantly, he knew the sight should cause him pain. All he felt was rage.
Soviet fuckers needed to die for this.
“Come, hurry.” Dr. Kozlovovich tugged him away from the open doorway.
The Craigs disappeared forever as Anton allowed himself to be led along. He was limping on his left side. No, that wasn’t accurate. He was limping on his left and right side. Each step sent pain lancing through him. The rage burning inside him made it easy to ignore.
Anton wasn’t quite as tall as Leo, but he wasn’t small by any means. Dr. Kozlovovich was a huge man, taller than Anton by at least two inches. He was built like a bear with massive shoulders. And there was that gun in his pocket.
The guy didn’t look like a scientist. He looked like a tank. Was he fucking with Anton? Was this a fucked KGB trap?
Anton snatched the pistol out of the guy’s pocket and jerked himself away. He pressed his back against the corridor wall to keep himself from collapsing.
“Who the fuck are you?” he snarled. “Did that KGB fuckhead send you?”
Kozlovovich held up his hands. “I scientist. Nezhit vaccine. You help me. I help you. Don’t shoot, okay?”
“Where is that fucker?” Anton screamed. He wanted the KGB agent. He wanted to kill him with his bare hands.
Kozlovovich’s eyes were full of understanding. “I show you. Come.”
He turned his back on Anton and strode away. If he was worried Anton would shoot him, he didn’t let it show.
Anton limped after him, gripping the pistol like a lifeline. He would shoot himself in the face before he let himself be taken again. No fucking way would another Soviet scumbag lay a finger on him.
13
Tank
“What’s your plan for getting out of here?” Anton asked.
“Tank.” Kozlovovich paused, waiting for Anton to catch up.
“A tank?”
“Yes.”
There must be a translation issue. Anton dropped the subject. The guy clearly had a plan for getting out of here. Anton didn’t care if all the guy had was a pair of pogo sticks. He’d use whatever means of travel he could get his hands on.
The screaming outside escalated. So did the gunfire. Anton hunched his shoulders and looked back down the corridor to make sure no one followed them.
Nothing but bad memories looked back at him.
They reached the end of the cell block. Kozlovovich pulled out a set of keys.
“Where did you get those?” Anton asked.
“Agapovovich.”
Whatever the fuck that meant.
Kozlovovich hesitated as he inserted the key into the lock. He gestured to the gun Anton carried. “You shoot. Many infected.”
Infected. Fuck. He should have guessed. There must be a shit pile of mutants out there raising holy hell. The screams and gunfire finally made sense.
“I’ll shoot any infected that tries to fuck with us.” And any Russian he laid eyes on, but Anton didn’t mention that.
Kozlovovich pulled open the door to the cellblock. He and Anton peered out into the hall beyond.
Anton felt like he was stepping through a time machine. He exited the hell of the prison block and entered a very normal looking hallway with white-painted walls and linoleum floors. There was a drinking fountain a few feet to his left. Cork boards were stuck to the wall. Russian flags had been tacked to the boards. Fluorescent lights blared down on them.
Besides the invader flags stuck to the cork board, everything looked normal. Well, almost normal. There were the two dead Russians on the floor that sort of ruined the illusion.
Then again, Anton rather liked the sight of the dead Soviets.
There had been a time not so long ago when the sight of bodies had turned his stomach. He’d covered it up, of course; there was no sense in being a sissy about it. This was war, after all.
But now, seeing the dead was almost as pleasurable as watching a movie. Anton distantly knew this fresh perspective wasn’t entirely healthy, but he didn’t give a shit. It was easier this way. He needed something to be fucking easy.
The two Russians had been killed by vicious blows to the head. As Anton limped past them, staying on the heels of Kozlovovich, he saw their brains had been eaten.
Yep. Definitely the work of mutants. Only mutant zombies ate brains.
He thought back to the two soldiers who had eaten the brains of Tate and Mrs. Craig. Those guys must have been bitten by mutants out on the field. It was the only explanation. Unless they were just sick fuckers. It was a toss up, Anton decided.
They drew abreast of the bodies. Anton got a good look at their faces. One was a regular soldier. The bastard who had nearly drowned him in that fucking bucket, Anton realized.
The other body belonged to the KGB agent.
Anton had a visceral reaction to the sight. Rage filled him. Even though the side of the man’s head was caved in, Anton aimed the pistol.
He never wanted to see the face of that sick fucker ever again. In the back of his mind, he knew nothing could ever erase the memory of his tormentor, but he sure as fuck was going to give it a good, old-fashioned try.
Gripping the weapon, he slammed the butt down into the agent’s face. He smashed the dead man’s cheek bone. It felt good. Anton brought the gun down a second time, hitting so hard he felt a tooth give way.
He kept hitting. Over, and over again, pounding the hated agent’s face to a mashy pulp.
He felt like an animal. He didn’t care.
He didn’t stop until the agent’s face was eradicated and unrecognizable.
Anton’s chest heaved with emotion that threatened to burn him from the inside out. When he looked down at the wreckage he’d made, all he could see was the burning end of
a cigarette. The scent of the smoke nearly choked him, even though there wasn’t a cigarette anywhere in sight.
Kozlovovich looked down at him with open sympathy. That made Anton almost as enraged at the sight of the agent’s dead body.
“Don’t look at me like that!”
Kozlovovich held up his hands and took at few steps back, putting a healthy amount of space between himself and Anton. “Agapovovich.” He pointed to the dead agent. “Agapovovich. Keys.”
Up until now, Anton hadn’t known who the fucker was. He was a nameless, relentless demon who showed up at regular intervals to make his life a living hell.
Having a name to go with his tormenter turned his stomach. He put his free hand against the wall and vomited up bile.
Agapovovich. The name was like a chorus to a bad song. Anton wished he could un-hear it. He wished he could erase the name from his memory, along with his face and the smell of cigarette smoke.
The stutter of machine gun fire shook him out of his stupor. He spat on top of the body to clear his mouth, then pivoted on his bare feet.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.” He marched down the hall with Kozlovovich trailing beside him.
The scientist had a new gun in his hands. He must have taken it from one of the bodies.
“This way.” Kozlovovich led him through a series of intersecting corridors. They passed another two bodies on the way. They had been shot to death, their brains still intact.
Kozlovovich took him to a small loading dock where the jail received all its deliveries. The roll-up door was down, but Anton heard screaming and gunfire just on the other side.
Kozlovovich approached the roll-up door. The man knew how to handle a gun. Anton could see that much.
“Do they teach scientists how to use guns in Russia?”
Kozlovovich didn’t take his eyes away from the roll-up door. “I not always a scientist. I was first a soldier.”
He seemed to think it was a solid explanation. It sounded fishy to Anton. Since when did science nerds learn how to use guns?
His mind flashed back to just a few days ago, when he and Leo had taken Jennifer, Cassie, and Amanda out into the woods to learn how to shoot. Cassie and Amanda were as nerdy as they came. Maybe the guy’s story was solid. For the moment, Anton decided to continue trusting him. He could always kill him later.
Next to the roll-up was a solid metal door. There was no window in it, no way to see what was going on outside.
Kozlovovich pointed to the metal door and whispered, “Outside is tank.”
The screaming stopped. So did the gunshots.
The two men looked at each other. Kozlovovich held up three fingers. Anton nodded in understanding, adjusting his grip so he could hold his gun with two hands.
Kozlovovich lowered his fingers, counting down. Three. Two. One.
He jerked open the door.
Anton went through first, gun raised.
What he saw froze his feet in place.
On the ground were four dead bodies. That wasn’t the disturbing part.
What shocked Anton was the sight of two living Russians, both of them crouched over the dead like it was Thanksgiving. They feasted on the brains, scooping up great handfuls and cramming them into their mouths.
They looked up as Anton stepped onto the loading dock. Their eyes had gone completely red. Their hands and faces were covered in gore.
The Soviets were fast. One second, they crouched over their holiday meal. In the next, they rushed Anton.
“Shoot,” Kozlovovich cried, shouldering past him. “Shoot!” Bullets leaped from his gun. He aimed for the head, taking down the first of the assailants.
Anton shook himself from his stupor and fired, but his aim was off. The bullets hit the second oncoming Russian in the chest and shoulder. The bullets barely slowed the guy.
The infected Russian was nearly on Anton when Kozlovovich stepped in front of him and fired. Once again, he went for the head. The Soviet fell only inches from Kozlovovich’s boots.
“What the fuck?” Anton demanded. “What the hell is going on?”
“Nezhit vaccine.” Kozlovovich gave him a shove. “Explain later. We must go. Tank.”
That’s when Anton saw the tank. An actual tank, sitting right next to the loading dock. With his attention on the infected Russians and their snacks, he hadn’t even noticed the gigantic, olive-green tank sitting right out in the open. It hadn’t been a translation issue.
It was an American tank. The serial number on the side had been covered with red spray paint. Someone had decorated the side of the tank with Russian’s star, sickle, and hammer.
They had to move through the bodies to get to the tank. Kozlovovich scooped up weapons as he went. Anton joined him, collecting three machine guns and half a dozen magazines. The weight of the weapons felt good around his shoulders.
“Where the hell did you get this thing?” Anton asked as he and Kozlovovich climbed up the side of the tank.
“I told you. I take keys from Agapovovich.”
Agapovovich. That fucking name again. Just hearing it brought back the smell of cigarette smoke.
Anton gritted his teeth and climbed the rest of the way onto the tank. They were in an alleyway at the back of the jail. “You know how to drive this thing?”
“Yes. I drive. You take the gun.” The bulky scientist gestured to the machine gun mounted on the top of the tank right next to the hatch.
“Best fucking idea I’ve heard all day,” Anton muttered.
Kozlovovich disappeared down the hatch. Anton braced his bare feet on the ladder that led into the tank and gripped the gun.
It was just past sunrise. The eastern sky was a soft, pastel yellow. The tank lurched forward, rolling toward the mouth of the alleyway. Anton swung his gaze left, right, up, and down, keeping an eye out for enemies.
14
Outbound
The Soviet compound had dissolved into mayhem.
Anton could hardly believe what he was seeing. What he had assumed was a full-scale mutant attack was, in fact, a full-scale insurrection by infected Soviets.
They didn’t look like regular zombies; they didn’t look like mutants, either. They were something else, Anton realized. They moved too fast to be regular humans and were hard to kill; a direct shot to the head was the only way to effectively stop them. Brains were their drug of choice, and they had all-red demon eyes.
As Kozlovovich drove the tank out into the open, it hit Anton. The scientist had tried to tell him earlier. Nezhit vaccine, he had said.
The nezhit vaccine was making a bunch of these guys sick. To be precise, it was turning them into homicidal brain-eaters.
They rampaged through the Soviet compound, attacking former comrades and killing them. It was a blood bath. Feasting infected and dead soldiers were everywhere.
In a nearby storefront, he spotted half a dozen Russians in a shoot-out with a group of infected. To his sick horror, he saw the infected using guns just like regular Soviets. Shit. That meant the infected Soviets were intelligent. This was bad. Very, very bad.
Based on this observation, Anton was liberal with the machine gun turret. He shot anyone who got within twenty feet of the tank. He shot anyone else within range, too. And he took out regular Soviets, just for good measure. Killing anything and everything that moved seemed like the best plan.
Kozlovovich was no less ruthless. He shifted the tank into high gear and rolled straight through anything that got in their way. He drove over bodies, living and dead. All the while, he kept the tank moving toward the compound.
Anton caught sight of the building he and Tate had stood on together just a short while ago. How long ago had that been?
Time had ceased to exist in that hellhole. He had no idea how long he had been down there. He felt like he’d aged fifty years.
Something moved in his periphery. He swung the gun around and spotted several infected prowling along the edge of the roof just ahead of them. They
were no doubt planning to jump on the tank.
Well fuck that. That wasn’t happening on Anton’s watch. He raked the air with gunfire, watching in satisfaction when several of them toppled to the ground below. The others died on the rooftop.
A boom echoed through the air. A vibration ran through the metal bones of the tank.
Anton’s heart rate spiked. He swung around in alarm, searching for the threat. A split second later, he realized Kozlovovich had fired the tank’s cannon.
His target was a melee in the middle of the road. A knot of twenty or more Soviets battled infected.
They were all that stood between them and the portable, chain-link fencing that marked the official perimeter of the Soviet compound.
Kozlovovich’s aim was good. His missile hit the edge of the group. Bodies sprayed into the air. Anton laid down additional fire, loosing the fury of the machine gun on the melee.
A bellow tore itself from his throat. He screamed for Tate. He screamed for Mr. and Mrs. Craig. He screamed for his dad and Lars and Adam and Jim and every other poor bastard who had suffered and died in this war.
One of the Soviets fell back into the protective alcove of a storefront. The tip of a machine gun poked around the corner and sprayed bullets in his direction. They pinged off the tank around him.
Anton dropped into the belly of the tank. Rage scoured his bones. The Soviets had done enough to him. No more. He wasn’t going to die. Not today.
He secured the hatch. There were several slot visors around the vehicle. Anton scurried over to one and poked a machine gun into the opening.
As soon as the soldier came into view, Anton laid into the trigger. As soon as he finished off that soldier, he shifted his attention to the few others he saw through the slot visor and opened fire.
“We through.” Kozlovovich’s voice rumbled over the rattle of the machine gun fire. “We through the fence.”
Anton scrambled back up the hatch and threw it open. When he popped out, he had a perfect view of the bloodbath he and Kozlovovich had left behind them. Broken bodies soaked the street with gore. The violence soothed a deep part of him.
Scattered (Zommunist Invasion Book 3) Page 7
