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
