Chernakov nodded. “A doctor, huh? That’s good. That is excellent. But the remainder of you are from America, yes?”
Smith sighed loudly. “Yeah, that’s right, pal. We came over on a military aircraft that ditched over England some time ago. Now, how about you tell us what the hell is going on here? What is this place?” He waved his hand in the air in a twirling motion.
I noticed a brief hint of anger twitch in the Colonel’s face before he smiled broadly.
“Let me guess, New York City, yes?” Chernakov pointed at Smith’s chest.
Smith nodded. “Brooklyn.” He pointed at Chernakov. “Let me guess, Russia, yes?”
The Colonel laughed. “Okay, yes, you are correct. I am from Nizhny, not far from Moscow. What is your name Mr. Brooklyn, New York?”
“John Smith,” Smith replied in a slow voice.
“Of course it is,” Chernakov said, with a slight laugh.
He asked Wingate, Batfish and me where we were from and what our names were. I was half Irish, half American, born in London, England and moved to Pennsylvania, USA when I was eight years old, so I never really knew how to answer that question. I always plumped for Brynston, Pennsylvania; due to the fact that was the place I’d spent most of my time. Wingate was from Ohio and Batfish was also from my town, which I’d called home.
Chernakov strolled up and down in front of us. He seemed to be mulling over what to do with us or considering what he was going to say next. I flashed Smith a nervous glance.
“I hope you ‘aint planning on carrying out weird experiments on us,” Smith said. “Another so called army colonel tried out that before on us and it didn’t end well for him.”
I assumed Smith was talking about a certain Colonel Podolski. A guy who had imprisoned us at Newark Airport with the intention of injecting us with doses of contaminated zombie blood. That situation seemed a very long time ago now. Those guys injected me with mescaline, which I considered to be the root cause of my hallucinations and horrifying nightmares.
Chernakov laughed and shook his head. “No, no, Mr. Smith, nothing as barbaric as that. We are your friends and are here to help you. Us survivors must stick together and build for the future. I haven’t heard any reports on the contrary but I assume the United States is in total disarray, as is the rest of Europe due to this terrible virus.”
“You got that right,” Batfish huffed. Spot wriggled in her arms and she put him down on the ground, holding his leash tightly.
“We have estimated that eighty to ninety percent of the world’s population has succumbed to this virus,” Chernakov continued. “It is up to the leftovers of humanity to build a new world where a situation like this one will never be repeated. Our vision for the future is one of peace and free of disease, greed and ignorance. We believe those factors were the cause of the rapid spread of the outbreak.”
Leftovers, I kept hearing that word and it rolled around in my head. I wondered where Chernakov was leading with his spiel. Usually, when these kinds of people had a vision of the future, it was under their own terms.
“Who is this we, you keep talking about?” Smith asked. “The US President, Vladimir Lenin and the Queen of England?”
Chernakov coughed out a laugh, which again sounded forced and false. Smith’s doubtfulness mirrored my own feelings.
“We refers to the people involved in our rebuilding program in the motherland of the Russian Federation,” Chernakov explained. “There are doctors, scientists, who are experts in their fields and already working furiously to find a vaccination for this terrible virus. The Russian Federation will be repopulated by the survivors from all over Europe and once we have some stability in eradicating the infected, we will venture further afield and reclaim overseas territories from the infected. We envisage a new, modern society, governed by Moscow that stretches all around the globe.”
So that was it. Chernakov’s vision of the future was to start again, colonizing the rest of the world. I had a feeling we were going to be forced into this new-fangled social order whether we liked it or not.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Listen, Colonel, we appreciate the offer and all but we’re kind of used to doing things our own way and going our own places,” Smith said, throwing up his hands. “Good luck with your new world but I think we’re going to opt out of this one.”
I had the feeling Smith’s choice wasn’t going to be an option.
Chernakov’s face twitched slightly and I knew Smith’s words had disgruntled him. The smile returned as he inwardly calmed himself.
“I know the idea sounds a little far-fetched at the moment,” Chernakov said. “But in time, you will appreciate what we are trying to achieve. After all, you people provide a very high skill set.” He ceased pacing and opened his arms out wide. “You have survived this long as a group on your own but think how your lives will prosper under the mightiest nation on the planet. Your input will be integral to the repopulation of humanity.”
I sighed. “I think what the good Colonel is trying to say is, we don’t have a choice.”
Chernakov ignored my comment. “You are very fortunate. The Glasgow operation is almost complete and we will soon begin the transportation of recovered equipment and refugees. One of our nuclear powered ships will be leaving here tomorrow afternoon, heading for a larger camp in Stavanger, Norway, a city we have previously liberated and which is very safe. From Stavanger you will be transported, also by sea to the Russian port city of Saint Petersburg. From there you will be conscripted as a citizen and you will be provided with a safe haven in a secure zone. You will be assessed on your skill levels and employed in an occupation matching your credentials.”
I had to hand it to the guy. He was selling this new society like a used car salesman flogs some beaten up old banger.
“Now, my friends,” Chernakov continued. “You will be escorted from here to visit my expertly trained medical staff, who will examine you all to check you are not suffering from any illness and your recruitment stage will begin. I am extremely happy to welcome you all to the new world and I know you will benefit from the exciting experience. I wish you all a good day.”
The big guys to the rear hustled us out of the tent and the field soldiers waiting outside rounded us up like cattle. One of the big guys barked something in Russian to the soldiers.
“You follow,” a soldier in Arctic combat gear yelled at us.
We were led through the camp, stared at by the other refugees as though we were from another planet. The soldiers stopped outside two large canvas tents, standing close together, side by side. One of the soldiers separated Smith, Chandra and I from Wingate and Batfish. We were shepherded to the tent on the left and Wingate and Batfish to the tent on the right. The soldier placed his gloved hand on Smith’s shoulder to manhandle him towards the tent. Smith reacted. He grabbed the guy’s hand, twisting and crushing his fingers together.
“Touch me again, pal and I’ll break your fucking neck,” Smith growled through clenched teeth. The soldier yelped, pulling a pained expression and dropped his weapon to the ground.
The other two soldiers in company took a couple of backward paces, surrounding Smith and raised their assault rifles. They yelled some orders and obvious threats in their own language that none of us understood.
Smith got the gist and let go of the guy’s hand. The soldier retrieved his rifle from the ground and glared at Smith with anger burning through him. Smith stared him down and didn’t flinch when the guy raised his hand. One of the soldiers barked out an instruction and the guy in front of Smith lowered his fist to his side.
“Jesus, what are you doing, Smith?” Batfish wailed. “Are you trying to get us all killed?”
“I just don’t like being shoved around,” Smith snarled, still eyeballing the soldier in front of him.
“Okay, guys, let’s cool it,” Wingate said, holding up her hands. She stepped slowly towards Smith and turned him around, so he faced the tent entrance. “You boys go your way and we’
ll go ours. It’s probably just for a quick once over with the medical people to check we’re not infected, is all.”
“They better not try and shove anything up my ass or I’ll break their freaking hands,” Smith growled.
“Don’t be so stupid and don’t cause any more trouble,” Wingate scolded in a whisper.
Smith rumbled and led the way inside the tent. Chandra and I followed and one of the soldiers trailed along behind us, presumably to ensure we kept the peace. I took a glance back and saw Wingate, Batfish and Spot head for the next tent alongside.
The interior of our tent was wide with a tarpaulin sheet covering the floor space. A few battery powered lanterns brightly illuminated the whole area and we squinted slightly, waiting for our eyes to adjust to the light. We stood in the center of the tent taking in our surroundings. Several camp beds lined the tent perimeter and boxes of medical equipment were crudely piled in a corner to the left. A small, balding guy, wearing a big pair of black framed glasses and a white lab coat scurried up and down the tent. He was assisted by three butch looking women, who were all dressed in tight fitting green combat fatigues. The subject of their attention was a thin, pale faced man, lying on a camp bed towards the rear of the tent. The guy groaned and looked thoroughly miserable and in pain as he squirmed around in the bed.
“That guy don’t look too hot,” Smith muttered, nodding to the poor wretch at the back of the tent. “Expertly trained medical staff? That Colonel guy was talking out of his ass.” Smith nodded at the quartet scampering around the tent, holding bags of clear fluids and intravenous tubes. “This shower of shit couldn’t save a puppy from drowning in a bathtub.”
“I can understand exactly what you are saying,” the guy in the big glasses called out without looking in our direction. “I will be with you in one moment. Please be patient.” He spoke in accented English but it didn’t sound the same as the Russian Colonel.
“Patients without patience,” I said, in an attempt at some black humor.
The small guy with the big glasses seemed to be in charge of the operation. He muttered something to the three women and they began rigging up the IV drip over the ill looking man in the bed. He turned and left them to it, approaching us with the air of a harassed individual. Sighing deeply, he stopped in front of us and his eyes looked huge behind the thick lenses of his spectacles.
“I guess you are new recruits who are to be given a medical examination?” he asked, glancing impatiently between the three of us.
“We can see you’re real busy so let’s skip the check up, eh?” Smith said, and went to turn to leave. The soldier behind us stepped in Smith’s path, stopping him from exiting the tent. “I guess not,” Smith sighed.
“I am Doctor Pavel Grabowski and my job is to give new refugees to the camp a clean bill of health. Not only for their own health but also to protect the rest of the people from any contagious diseases.”
“I’ve heard all about medical check-ups from Russian doctors,” Smith groaned. “You guys poke and prod people in places where they didn’t realize they had places.”
Doctor Grabowski shook his head. “Then you have nothing to fear. I am not Russian, I am Polish and I will not harm you in any way.”
“Polish? How did you end up here?” I asked.
“There’s nothing more than I would like to sit down and tell you my story,” Grabowski said. “But I do not have the time at the moment.” He took a brief glance over his shoulder at the sick man. “I must see to this man or he will die.”
“What is your diagnosis, Doctor?” Chandra asked, taking a forward step to the patient.
Grabowski held up his hand to stop Chandra approaching the sick man. “I cannot allow you near him. He has a swelling in his abdomen and I haven’t diagnosed the problem as yet.”
“I too am a qualified doctor,” Chandra said. “Maybe I could assist you with a prognosis.”
“That is very thoughtful of you but will not be necessary,” Grabowski snapped. “Now, if you will move to the side of the medical station, we can begin our examinations.”
One of the butch women came across to assist with the medical check-ups. I had a terrible feeling she was going to pull on a rubber surgical glove and order me to remove my pants and bend over for a full cavity inspection.
My fears were extinguished when Smith went first with his examination. The whole ordeal was over in a couple of minutes and consisted of a brief check of our ears, eyes, nose and throats, a check of all our limbs and a cold stethoscope placed on our chests.
Grabowski asked us if we had been bitten or had any abnormal pustules or growths on the rest of our bodies. All three of us shook our heads. He nodded to the soldier and he grunted something before gesturing for us to leave the tent.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” I said to Smith.
“I’ve been through worse,” Smith admitted, as we walked out of the tent and back into the open air.
We stood waiting for several minutes before Batfish, Wingate and Spot reappeared from the adjacent tent. They looked suitably flustered as they hurried out through the canvas flap covering the entrance.
“Thank god that’s over,” Wingate groaned. “Those bitches have hands like bananas. I'm sure they enjoyed putting us through our paces.”
“Everything okay?” Chandra asked.
“Yeah, everything is still in the right places,” Wingate sighed.
“They even gave Spot an overhaul,” Batfish said, pointing to the dog.
“Well, I guess it’s good to know we’re not suffering from any life threatening sickness,” I sighed.
“You think those ass clowns would pick up on it if we were?” Smith scoffed.
One of the white clad soldiers hollered an order and waved us forward with the muzzle of his rifle. One of our personal guards led the way between the tents, while the other two tagged along behind. We were led to another tent, which housed piles of boxes containing the dull gray clothing we’d seen the other refugees wearing. A poker faced guy with short cropped hair and dressed in green combat fatigues tossed a set of uniformed gray clothing at each of us.
“You wear,” the soldier in the Arctic combats barked at us. He seemed to be the leader of our other two chaperones and had at least mastered a few words in the English language.
We were herded into a small tent at the side of the clothing store and the soldier that Smith had threatened thrust a black plastic trash sack at me.
“You put old clothing,” the lead soldier instructed, shaking the trash bag in my hand.
We squeezed into the tent and the soldiers clustered around the entrance.
“This feels a lot like being in the joint,” Smith whispered. “We should seriously think about getting the hell away from here.”
“I don’t see how,” Wingate sighed. “There’s a whole bunch of armed guys roaming around and they don’t give me the impression they’re going to just let us walk out of here. You heard what Colonel Chernakov said, right?”
“No talk, hurry,” the leading soldier yelled at us from outside the tent.
We started to change into our new clothing, which stunk of damp and felt slightly moldy. The tops were nothing more than cheaply made sweatshirts and the matching gray pants were cotton joggers. We were allowed to keep our boots and underwear but as I pulled on the thinly lined gray overcoat, I doubted whether the garment would keep out the cold. I had the feeling life was going to get even tougher from now on.
We gathered up our meager belongings, watches, lighters, cigarettes and other general crap from our pockets, then dumped our old US Army combat fatigues in the trash bag and made to move back outside. Smith stopped us and stood with his back to the tent opening.
“Listen, guys, I’m going to level with you. This is a bad call and I’m not hanging around here to become one of Colonel Ivan’s slaves. I’m going to wait for nightfall and get out of here tonight. It’s up to you whether you want to stay right here and be part of this crazy new worl
d or take your chances out in the wild. But whatever you decide, I’m out of here.”
I sighed and glanced at the faces of my traveling companions. Their anxious expressions mirrored my own feelings. Was Smith serious about escaping the refugee camp or was this simply another of his crazy misgivings? I guessed we’d have to wait until darkness fell to find out for sure.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The soldiers led us to a couple of small tents on the outskirts of the camp. Rows of barbed wire marked the perimeter of the huddle of tents so the camp was tightly boxed between the fences. More soldiers patrolled the boundary, slowly walking along the inside of the wire fence.
Rolled up sleeping bags and thin rolls of foam to use as a mattress were stacked inside the tents. Smith, Chandra and I took the tent on the right and Batfish, Wingate and Spot took the basic accommodation on our left.
“Sleep here,” the lead soldier barked, pointing at the tents. “Move out tomorrow.” The three soldiers muttered between themselves, briefly turned back to look at us then strolled away between the multitude of other tents.
“Well, might as well get some rest,” Batfish said, crawling into her tent and unrolling her sleeping bag. “Might as well make the most of a bad situation.” Spot snuggled down alongside her and looked as though he at least, felt at home.
Wingate stood with her hands placed on her hips, glaring at Smith.
“What?” he asked, lifting his arms by his sides.
“You know what,” Wingate seethed. “You think you’re going to make it out of here, through that damn razor wire and sneak by those armed guards?”
Smith studied the fence and glanced up and down the perimeter at the strolling soldiers. “Piece of cake,” he muttered.
I noticed an extra, outer barbed wire fence, running around the perimeter, twenty yards beyond the one we were camped next to. Both fences stood around chest height and although they were more than adequate defenses to keep the undead out of the refugee camp, they were also a formidable deterrent for anybody trying to break out.
The Left Series (Book 5): Left On The Run Page 17
