Blood Red Army

by David Bishop

  Antonov hurried to join Eisenstein and Yatsko. "Did you hear that?"

  Eisenstein nodded. "Let's go!"

  We saw a fireball rising from the remnants of the convoy long before we saw the convoy itself. The flames curled upwards into the air, bathing the surrounding chaos with light. A dozen German bombers were caught in the glare cast by the explosion, their silhouettes appearing fleetingly like crucifixes on the clouds above them. Then the planes were flying over us, returning to their base south of the lake. Eisenstein hissed at the others to quicken their pace. I found myself sprinting to keep up with them as we ran towards the source of the flames.

  It was another ten minutes before we reached what was left of the convoy, and by then my legs were close to giving way. I had not exerted myself to such an extent for months and our meagre rations had left me ill-prepared for such an effort. I sank to the ice, gasping for breath while the others ran from vehicle to vehicle, surveying the damage. A third of the convoy had been destroyed outright, the Germans deliberately targeting vehicles at the front and rear of the column to cut off any easy escape route for the other trucks. Of those vehicles still intact, most had sustained some damage from the aerial bombardment. The survivors were relieved somebody had appeared to guide them to safety, but were dismayed to learn their saviours were members of a penal company. I must have looked much the same when Eisenstein and his men saved me back in January, I realised.

  By the time I had recovered enough to stand, Antonov was acting as peacemaker between Eisenstein and the convoy's commander, a self-important major who imperiously identified himself as Sergei Yevgraf Tretyakov. The major was eager to get all the survivors moving again, thinking they would be safer once they had reached Osinovets. Besides, the German bombers had done their worst and returned to base; what more could the convoy have to fear?

  Eisenstein snorted derisively at Tretyakov. "You have no idea who or what you are dealing with, major. If you want to stay alive, you will listen to us."

  Tretyakov responded by pointing out his rank and saying he did not need the advice of a convicted criminal to reach the other side of a frozen lake. He was about to continue his diatribe when the flapping sound we had heard earlier returned, silencing the officious officer. This time it was not as if a single creature flew overhead, but sounded like at least a dozen. They were circling above us, crying out to each other in high-pitched squeaks almost beyond human hearing.

  "They'll attack any minute now," Eisenstein growled. "Yatsko, Yuri, Uralsky - get all the survivors into a circle, armed and ready to fire. Strelnikov, take Borodin and make torches from the burning wreckage." He noticed me standing to one side, still trying to see what was circling in the darkness overhead. "Tselka, you'd better stay close to me."

  "My name is Zunetov," I protested.

  "Survive till dawn and you can call yourself Zunetov. Until then, you're about as much use as a virgin."

  Tretyakov aimed his pistol at Eisenstein's head. "I command you and your mutinous rabble to cease and desist all actions until I have given my orders!"

  Eisenstein rolled his eyes before looking at me. "Take care of this fool for me," he muttered, turning away from the major to watch the others' preparations.

  "How?" I asked.

  "Use your imagination," he urged. "You used to be a kommisar, didn't you? You must know how to placate a senior officer." I noticed Eisenstein's eyes shift to the butt of my PPSh.

  "You mean..."

  He nodded slowly, so I smashed my submachine gun against Tretyakov's head. The major fell to the ice, unconscious.

  Eisenstein nodded. "There might be hope for you yet, tselka."

  I was about to reply, but a sudden silence fell upon us, stopping the words in my throat. The flapping sound overhead was gone. Eisenstein ran towards the men Yatsko and the others had gathered beside the burning convoy. There were perhaps forty soldiers in total, their faces stained with soot and blood and bewilderment at what had befallen them, but the night was not yet over. I hurried after Eisenstein, leaving the major face down on the ice behind me. Whatever was coming for us, I wanted to be as close to Eisenstein as possible. He knew far more about our enemy than he was saying.

  We formed a semicircle in front of a burning truck; those nearest the vehicle standing, those in the middle crouched on one knee, and those furthest away lying on the frozen road. Most of the men had rifles, while a few had pistols. Those with submachine guns like me stayed standing with their backs to the truck, legs braced on the slippery surface underfoot.

  Borodin and Strelnikov had fashioned burning torches of cloth and wood soaked in petrol, positioning these beyond the perimeter of our semicircle. I checked that my PPSh was ready to fire and waited for a target, grateful to have a weapon whose use required no great skill. Without proper spectacles my aim would have been next to useless if armed with a rifle, but using a submachine gun required no such finesse.

  "Don't fire until you see their fangs," Antonov growled to those with guns.

  Fangs? Lenin's beard, what is he expecting to attack us, I wondered? Then I saw the creatures appear at the edge of the light, dark shapes moving back and forth like wraiths against the early morning gloom. It was a pack of wolves, their black and brown coats glistening wetly, tongues hanging hungrily from panting mouths. Despite the sub-zero temperature, I could not see their breath in the air. The wolves' eyes studied us as they padded back and forth, sniffing suspiciously, searching for an opening, an opportunity to attack.

  Tretyakov gave them that opening when he stirred on the ice, one hand clutching at where I had struck his head.

  "The major, he's still alive!" one of the drivers cried out. The wolves turned to look at Tretyakov, as if they, too, had heard what the driver had said. One of the animals made a noise and the others moved to surround the major. He cried out for help, plainly terrified by the encircling wolves. They licked their lips but none of them moved any closer.

  "We can't leave him to die out there," I said to Strelnikov, all too aware that I was the one who had knocked Tretyakov unconscious.

  "Better him than us," the sharp-faced felon replied.

  "Stand your ground," Eisenstein growled at the others, his voice full of authority. "If any one of us breaks formation, all of us are vulnerable."

  The single wolf that had stayed back from the major came closer to our semicircle, its head cocked to one side. There was an arrogance in its posture, in the way this animal moved, that reminded me of someone. I squinted to get a better look at the creature, trying to focus my defective eyesight upon it. Yes, seen in the right light, the wolf almost resembled the hauptmann I had encountered not far from here on the ice. But the very idea was ridiculous. I shook my head, deciding my eyes must be playing tricks on me.

  The leader of the wolf pack threw back its head and howled at the sky. Taking this as a command, the other animals threw themselves at the major, ripping and gnawing at his hands and arms and face. Tretyakov screamed and pleaded for his life, but the wolves ignored his cries for mercy. One of them closed its jaws round his neck and ripped his throat open, blood spurting into the air like a fine pink aerosol. After that there were no more cries for help, only the obscene sound of wild animals feasting on the dying man's remains, tearing apart his uniform to get at the flesh and blood inside. Several of the soldiers near me could not stop themselves from vomiting, the sight of their commander being eaten alive by wolves too much to stomach. I fought back the urge to retch myself, and there was a bitter metallic taste in my mouth.

  There was little left of Tretyakov when the wolves moved away from his remains and formed a semicircle around their leader, facing us.

  "They've had their appetiser," Strelnikov sniggered to himself. "Now it's time for the main course - us!"

  "Silence in the ranks," Antonov snarled. "Remember what I said. Nobody fires until you can see their fangs. When you shoot, aim for the head. These are no ordinary wolves, men. They will keep coming, even when they are
wounded."

  I noticed Eisenstein reaching into the knapsack slung over his back. He pulled out the sickle I had seen him wielding when we first met. The blade was wickedly sharp, and its edge glinted silver in what light there was around us.

  "You wouldn't prefer a PPSh?" I asked, offering him mine.

  Eisenstein shook his head. "Not for these djavoli," he scowled. "When I kill these devils, I want to make sure they stay dead."

  The wolves began advancing on our position, edging forward into the light. Their leader gave a snarling bark and then the animals were racing towards us, moving with astonishing speed.

  "Front rank, fire!" Antonov bellowed.

  Those men lying on the icy road responded with a volley of shots. Most of these missed the charging animals, but a few were knocked backwards by the bullets. Still, the other wolves kept coming.

  "Middle rank, fire!"

  Another volley from our riflemen, and more of the creatures were sent backwards. But those wounded by the first round were now back on their paws and racing towards us once more.

  "Rear rank, fire!" Antonov commanded, pulling the trigger on his own PPSh and spraying the oncoming animals with bullets. I followed his example, concentrating my fire on the leader of the wolf pack as he charged ever closer.

  "Fire at will!" Antonov bellowed, straining to be heard above the cacophony of gunfire. Hundreds of bullets were being fired at the sprinting animals, each impact driving them back slightly, but only slowing their momentum.

  "They should be dead by now!" I cried out. "We're shooting them to pieces. They should be dead by now!"

  "You cannot kill these fiends with ordinary bullets," Strelnikov said grimly.

  Before I could find out what he meant, the wolves were upon us, leaping into the semicircle to attack the front two ranks of soldiers. Men went down screaming as the creatures savaged them, fangs biting through cloth and skin to wrench mouthfuls of flesh away. The smell of blood and cordite filled the air, as did cries of anguish and hungry growls of pleasure.

  In less than a minute half the men from the convoy were dead, torn apart by the wolves. Most of the others fled into the darkness, trying to escape across the ice. Antonov shouted for them to stop, to come back, but the terrified soldiers did not listen or did not want to hear him. Half the wolf pack went after those who broke and ran. The rest stayed behind to finish the job on us. I emptied my PPSh into the two creatures closest to me, but they took little notice, preferring to feast on one of the fallen drivers.

  Then something shiny flashed through the air and one of the wolves was lying on the ice, its head severed from its body. As I watched, the animal's corpse collapsed in upon itself, the body and head dissolving into nothing more than ashes.

  "Bojemoi," I gasped. "What kind of monsters are these?"

  Eisenstein showed me the edge of his sickle which he had used to decapitate the wolf. It had no blood smeared across the blade.

  "Inhuman is the right word," he snarled. "Always remember that." He shoved me to one side and swiped his sickle through the air, cleaving another wolf's head in two. The creature crumpled to the ice, having been about to attack me from behind.

  "Watch your back, tselka!"

  I nodded, pulling the empty ammunition drum from my PPSh and ramming another one into position.

  Around us the rest of the shtrafroty were fighting a pitched battle against seven of the wolves. Borodin and Yatsko had run out of ammunition, so they were using their weapons as clubs to beat back the animals from the remaining convoy survivors. Uralsky was slicing the air with a bayonet fixed to the end of his sniper's rifle, using the pointed tip to ward off another of the creatures. Strelnikov and Antonov were standing back-to-back, firing short bursts at two more wolves circling them warily.

  I noticed that one of the devils still held back from entering the fray, watching and waiting for its opportunity. It was the pack leader, a cunning and clever marshal for his canine contingent. I let loose a burst at him with my weapon, but he dodged around the bullets, his eyes seeming to sneer at me contemptuously, as if to ask whether that was the best I could do. I noticed his attention shift upwards from me, so I glanced over my shoulder to see what had caught his eye. As I turned my head, a wolf appeared from atop the burning truck, leaping directly at my face.

  Time slowed around me, moments lengthening into eternities as I stood, transfixed by the gaze of this malevolent monster. All the hairs around the wolf's mouth and snout were wet and crimson from the blood of slaughtered soldiers. Its lips were drawn back into a half-smile, half-snarl of anticipation, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth with large fangs prominent below each nostril. This animal was about to rip my face off and there was nothing I could do. The wolf held me taut in its stare, and I was unable to escape my impending doom.

  Then I was sprawling sideways, tumbling towards the ice. As I fell I saw it was Eisenstein who had shoved me out of the way, but in doing so he had taken my place in the path of the wolf. Its mouth snapped shut around the collar of his uniform, ripping and tearing at the fabric as man and animal fell to the ground. Eisenstein's sickle had spilled from his grasp, so he punched upwards with both fists, smashing the wolf's snout away from his neck. This forced the ravenous creature back for a moment, but also gave it the leverage to rip apart his uniform at the neck. I saw something metallic glinting below Eisenstein's throat, nestled in the space between his collarbones. The wolf saw the same thing and its effect upon the animal was remarkable.

  The beast howled as if stabbed through the heart, tearing its eyes away from the small object it had uncovered. I glanced round and all the other wolves ceased their attacks, stricken by the anguished cry. Most of them fled across the ice, disappearing into the darkness beyond the slowly dying torches. The leader stayed where it was, fangs bared, growling like a cornered predator.

  I saw the discarded sickle lying beside it and grabbed the handle, swiping the metal crescent through the air towards the howling wolf on Eisenstein's chest. The tip stabbed the creature through its neck, puncturing its throat and emerging from the back of its skull. The wolf jerked its head round to glare at me before dissolving into a cloud of ash and dust. I coughed and spluttered, trying not to inhale the airborne remains. When I focussed, the leader of the wolf pack was gone. We were alone again, the sound of flapping fading into the distance.

  Eisenstein reached across and prised my fingers away from the handle of his sickle. "Well done, Zunetov. Perhaps there's hope for you yet."

  I nodded numbly, still unable to comprehend what had happened.

  Antonov appeared behind me and rested a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Don't try to think about it now. We still have work to do. There will be time to answer your questions later."

  Dawn reached us an hour later, the first shards of light colouring the frozen surface of Lake Ladoga a pale, delicate blue. When the sun crested the horizon, I was shocked to see what devastation the German bombers and a single pack of feral animals had wrought upon the convoy. A handful of trucks remained intact. Some of the others were immobile, but their precious cargoes could still be rescued. Yatsko and Borodin took charge of the few survivors from among the hundred men who had set out with the convoy, getting them to shift anything worth saving into the functioning vehicles.

  Away from the convoy, the ice was polluted with dozens of bloody, frozen corpses. Body parts littered the landscape, scrapes of flesh clinging to desolate bones, half-gnawed faces hanging from decapitated skulls. Of the wolf pack there was no sign. I had witnessed each animal being shot dozens of times but none of them had shed a drop of blood. Those that had been killed were just as invisible; a handful of ash that was soon blown away by sub-zero gusts of wind.

  Antonov helped Strelnikov and I gather the remains of the dead soldiers into a pile on the back of a disabled truck, while Uralsky kept watch on the horizon from a vantage point on top of the vehicle's cab. Eisenstein had disappeared before dawn without explaining to anyone where he w
as going or when he might return.

  Antonov helped me sling the last of the severed limbs into the back of the truck. "I don't understand," I admitted. "Why are we putting the bodies into a vehicle we know can't be moved? Surely it would make more sense to-"

  "We won't be burying these poor souls," he replied before I could finish. "This truck will be their funeral pyre."

  "We're burning them? Why?"

  "It is better this way," Strelnikov interjected, dragging a headless torso across to us. "Incinerating the bodies prevents the contagion from spreading."

  "Contagion? What are you talking about?"

  "I told you," Antonov said firmly. "Questions and answers come later." He produced a fuel can and started throwing its contents over the pile of body parts. "Help Strelnikov fetch the last of the corpses."

  I did as I was told, my mind still struggling to get to grips with everything I had witnessed: wolves that appeared impervious to bullets and turned to dust when you did find a way of killing them. The attack upon the convoy had been carefully coordinated and controlled, not by a human but by the leader of the wolf pack. Now I was being told to help destroy all evidence of the slaughter in a bid to stop some unspecified infection. And what was hidden beneath Eisenstein's shirt that had put such fear into those animals?

  My mind was so busy turning over these questions that I paid little attention to the grisly task we were carrying out. It was only when I reached the last corpse that the identity of that victim jolted me back to the present. I rolled the remains of the body over and gasped as the blood-spattered face of Major Tretyakov fixed me with its lifeless eyes. Strelnikov shuffled across the ice to see what had surprised me.

  "I killed him," I said, explaining what had happened.

  Strelnikov shook his head dismissively. "He never would have made it through the night. He thought we were fighting an ordinary war. He couldn't see the true face of our enemy. Few of the officers do, and those that suspect refuse to believe the truth. This bastard was dead the moment he set foot on the ice." A black cloud passed in front of the sun on the horizon, blocking much of the daylight for a few moments.