Strangers 2033
From Outside the Metro P.1
The gas-masked, armour-clad, camo-uniformed, 7-strong squad advanced down the bombed-out causeway, a grim path hedged on either side by the sloping rubble of collapsed buildings, all of the pre-war allure that once beckoned many a Russian to this grandest of cities gone. The sky reflected the sombre scene. 'Moscow bleak', some nameless starving artist had coined its unerring greyness, finding equal measures of damnable depression and impossible inspiration in its characteristic shade. 'Bleak' certainly described the haunted place today. The air was just as hostile as what little life remained.
This atmosphere was not at all what the band of pioneers had expected: Moscow was in their blood, as it was with any true Russian, but the avenues and streets here commanded a special significance for them, and to see it in such a state tore at their hearts. It had been many years since then, but they, some more faintly than others, remembered marching down this very causeway, together, in step, their military uniforms crisp and clean, the assembled crowds cheering wildly, national pride on full parade. Victory Day was far in the past.
Only Arban, or 'Little Arby' as his nickname went, had no memory of that procession; he had been the last man assigned to this squad, part of the squad for only a handful of months before the bombs fell and everything changed. Because of this, and the fact that he'd therefore never served on a live operation, or on an operation when "command" was a thing at least, he was still seen as a rookie, as being somehow being less capable. Eager to shake off this stubborn perception, Arby strove to out-do his team mates wherever he could. His reckless envy was perhaps the only poorly forged link in the tight chain that was their military unit.
"You know," remarked Yelsi, the battalion's poet, breaking their long-running silence. "I couldn't have pictured this at all. I always thought, or hoped, that some of it would have survived untouched." Her sweet voice came out raspy and harsh through her gas mask. All surface conversation sounded like that these days. To Yelsi's remark there was quiet agreement. Even for Arby, it was an eerie feeling to walk through this broken shell of a city.
"It survives in here." Commander Mladin thumped his chest with his spare hand, the other of course clutching his rifle; a rifle of a quality unknown in these parts. None of them could see his action but they all heard it.
"Oh, of course." Yelsi replied. Then she sighed. "I-"
"Sh!" Revlin barked from behind. "Left. Window!"
Mladin, their beloved, redoubtable leader, snapped up his left hand as a signal. Instinctively, collectively, rhythmically, the squad members each dropped to one knee and raised their rifles at the target.
"Window with smoke coming out." Revlin counted. "Two from the end."
The party had been proceeding in a typical arrowhead formation. Mladin was the steel tip, the man at the front. To his left, and now closest to the danger, were Vlostad, Similya and Revlin himself. Vlostad and Similya often stayed close, which drew plenty of somewhat-unwanted attention from their comrades. To the right of Mladin, several paces across the causeway, fanned out Yelsi, Tyomas and Arban. Arban and Revlin were the rear-guard, a duty perceived to be a great honour by one and not so much the other.
"I don't see it." Tyomas peered through his ironsights.
"The window." Revlin directed. "The cracked one that's smoking."
"No target." Echoed Vlostad. His eye glared through a rifle sight too.
"What and when?" Mladin was calm, measured.
"I see nothing," Yelsi added.
"It's still there," hissed Revlin, forcing the words out through his air filter.
"Wait..." began Arby.
"It's looking right at me!" Revlin broke into a sweat.
It jumped out. "Blyad!" A blur of grey fur and claws. Revlin rolled to his left. Reflex. A narrow dodge. It clattered onto the concrete. Momentum carried it. Rippled muscles spurred it on across the causeway. Teeth flashed. Drool sprayed. A throaty roar broke. The beast charged at Arban.
"Ah!" The recruit fired off three shots. They missed or did nothing. The beast pounced on him, like a rabid cat on a blind mouse. In seconds he was pinned, claws sunk into his right arm, teeth set to work his outer Kevlar vest. With his limp body well in its clutches, it began the swift task of dragging him away. He left a thin blood trial as he went. "Ah!" He let out again.
Revlin was still reeling, and Vlostad and Similya were between the beast and the rest of the squad, obscuring lines of fire. Finding themselves flanking it, the couple shifted. The animal lunged through the gap between those two, hoping to snatch its prize away, back into the building. Together, as if synchronised, Vlostad and Similya lowered their rifles to fire, saw the risk, and paused. They'd hit each other if they shot. The beast was quick.
The pair simultaneously wept back their rifles over their shoulders, letting their gun slings deal with the weapons. In the same motion they both drew their combat knives with their left hands. It was like a race between equally matched sprinters. They brought up their blades and then, in the air, dramatically, right hands joined left hands, and they both brought down two two-handed strikes against the monster. Metal pierced hide. The thing, all rage and slobber, reared back and let out a howl: hurt, pain and pride. It didn't know which human to strike at first.
On his feet and strafing round for a clear shot, Revlin came face to face with the creature. It was far taller than him, bear-like. He met its gaze for the second time. The last time. One bang. Two. He fired his weapon. The rounds he used were silenced, but even still they packed an audible punch. They ripped up through the beast's jaw and out through its skull. It reared up, staggered, and then toppled onto Arban with a nasty cracking sound. Arban wheezed out an 'ouch'.
Mladin stomped over, his oversized backpack swaying each step. His pack was the heaviest; really, he should have commanded one of his squad to carry the extra equipment, but Mladin was a tough nut. He'd become a commander, or whatever the pre-war equivalent would've been, by raw skill and strength, not by any particular talent for leadership or politicking. He carried the heaviest load because his back was strongest. To him that made sense. Nobody disagreed.
The commander grasped the dead animal's legs as Vlostad and Similya took up those at the front. The three of them heaved the corpse off their friend. The other soldiers, Revlin, Tyomas and Yelsi, reorganised themselves into a protective triangle, raising their weapons and scanning the surrounding area. This was their first encounter. If this thing was skulking around, there would probably be other things too.
Arban was freed. Similya glanced over her shoulder at the thing while Vlostad and Tyomas exchanged positions. Tyomas was the medical technician. An important man. Arban was breathing hard. "I-," He tried to move. A mistake. Mladin flashed a hand signal: stay still.
"Tyomas?" Mladin asked.
"Looks painful." Tyomas was already patting down his wounded comrade with sympathetic but professional hands. He felt blood, lots of blood, around the injured arm, but nowhere else. The armoured vest, something issued to and worn by all of them, had just about stopped the animal's fangs. "How do you feel in the head, Arby?"
"My…" Arban flinched as Tyomas jostled his arm, tearing through the cut-resistant uniform to get to the bleeding. "Blyad! I think it tore my arm off. It's gone. It's gone! And my chest…" He gritted his teeth.
"You've not lost your arm, little one." As the medic spoke, Mladin unclasped the quick-release fasteners on Tyomas' backpack and placed it roughly beside the technician's side. Tyomas rifled through it for his kit. "I was more worried about you having a concussion. But it'd be hard for us to tell if you've lost any brain cells, wouldn't it?" This healer of theirs also doubled as their camp comedian.
Arby's riposte was lost to his gas mask.
The medic paused. "You said your chest was bad? Try and talk to me."
"Think I lost my … ribs."
Tyomas neatly and efficiently finished applying a bandage. The others in the group began to get restless. They wanted to get away before a bigger beast saw the scene and reckoned an excellent meal was to be had. "Right. Your arm's done. Let me feel your chest." He stuck his hand up Arban's shirt and began to probe the area. "Yep. Feels like you've lost a rib or two. Probably just the one." He nodded, affirming himself. "I think it is just the one. We'd know if it was more serious. Don't worry, you'll live; plenty of people walk about with broken ribs. It should heal just fine if you take it slow."
Mladin watched, passive. "He's fit to move?"
Tyomas nodded.
"Okay. Then we move." Mladin helped Tyomas in getting Arby to his feet. The recruit couldn't help but whimper as he was hoisted up. The rib hurt like hell. He desperately hoped no one noticed.
As they walked, Arban fumed. Not just because of the pain, the snapped bone creating an awful feeling of pressure, but because they hadn't been in Moscow for two hours and he'd already been crippled. He cursed the damn bear wolf mutant thing. Here he was on this historic mission, there to meet their long-lost countrymen, and he'd be introducing himself as a cripple, not as the military hero he deserved to be. Why, he'd been promoted to this damn unit for his actual acts of valour in the first place. He wasn't an idiot.
As he took tentative test steps, the attention of the others fixed upon him, he had a coughing fit. As he retched, he could've sworn he tasted blood in his mouth. Oh no. "I'm coughing up blood! Blood! Tyomas!" He began to slump forward.
The medic caught him. "Hey! Hey!" Tyomas straightened his charge's back and wrestled with Arby's gas mask. It was difficult to unclasp another's XL5, but he managed. He parted Arban's lips and inspected his mouth. "No, no. there's just a cut on your lip." Arby felt complete shame. He paled.
"Iodine," instructed Mladin.
Arby patted around his uniform. He found the right vial. Quickly he popped the cap and peppered his tongue with several drops.
"Mask."
Arby complied. He fastened his mask back on. Tyomas helped tighten it.
Mladin had seen enough. "Back to arrow formation. Vlostad and Similya, you two on rear guard." At least Revlin was being rebuked too, thought Arby.
As they set off, Tyomas gestured to Arban's right arm from across the way. He raised his voice so his instructions were clear. "If you need to use your rifle, use that bit of bandage that's sticking up. Just pull it and the whole thing will unravel."
They hadn't moved several feet down the road when Similya spotted something. "Movement. Right side." The group wheeled about and took aim. A similarly evil-looking, mutated head poked itself out. Calculating black eyes surveyed them. The squad stared right back. The creature cocked its head, appearing to consider its options for a moment or two, before withdrawing back into the shadows of the ruined building. Several tense minutes later, the unit continued on their way.
The military team neared their objective with no other excitement. They stopped once or twice to wait out darting silhouettes or to check for signs of human life. All the while Moscow Bleak was turning to Moscow Dark. They remained in their arrow, V, formation until they'd passed through an industrial-looking area and came upon an impressively squat building that could only be described as administerial. It had the faux-period look of a government building all right. Columns were chipped and tainted white paint flaked away to reveal messy brick underwork.
Mladin had the band halt while he consulted his map. He traced their route, from the Military Academy to their intended destination. Had they gone wrong? Nope. He tapped the map. This was right. He knew where they were. Straight ahead. Not far at all.
"We're close. It's just on the other side over. We'll cut down this alley to our right." He signalled for them to proceed.
When they reached the alleyway they peer down it, curious. It was in this action, casting wary glances down an abandoned shaft, that they made first contact with fellow humans. At least, they looked like humans. Two crooked silhouettes were visible midway down alley. They were hunched over and skeletal-looking, like starving sub-humans.
"People?" whispered Yelsi. Moscow had been far more battered than she'd envisioned. Would the people be too? Everyone back home had heard the Metro rumours. Some said a second holocaust was taking place down there, the cries of human misery echoing throughout. Some spoke of strange blacker-than-black nightmares that stalked the tunnels, using psychic powers to drive men mad. Others talked of rampant cannibalism and a degenerate society. The appearance of these two frightening figures brought the dark rumours into the thoughts of the squad. Yelsi, with her powerful, dream-like imagination, founds herself dwelling on them. She shuddered.
The two scavengers shifted and looked up, noticing their silent audience, and straightened themselves. The two groups stared at one another. Silence reigned. Numbers? Two versus seven. Distance? About two hundred metres. Another two hundred metres to the end of the alley. Weapons? Weapons on both sides. Hostile? Likely. Mladin considered the details. Shoot or shout?
The two figures bent their heads, perhaps in conversation, and then they turned and fled. That was it. Mladin signalled pursuit. Vlostad and Similya took up the call and sprinted off in pursuit. Their black boots kicked up ashy dust as they sped down the alleyway. Their speed was impressive. They'd set records at the Academy. Better fed, better trained and naturally gifted, they covered the distance with ease. Their quarry stumbled from the alleyway and rounded the corner. Vlostad and Similya bounded out of view after them.
Mladin's unit followed, albeit with a little less speed. They heard the coarse bark of gunfire before they'd exited the alley. That first volley was unfamiliar. Definitely no weapon the squad had trained with or had recent access to. The shots just didn't sound right. Next came the mechanically-dampened sound of fire from their comrades' AUGs. They all knew that sound. Just two shots.
The group rounded the corner to see two fresh corpses bleeding out on the street, Vlostad and Similya already picking the bodies clean. "Our first contact," observed Yelsi, regret in her voice. Her XL5, the way it distorted all their voices, thankfully hid her sobs.
"In your prime you'd have caught these two in the alley," noted Tyomas, trying to conjure cheer despite the sympathetic appearance of the two people they'd just killed. "Or maybe you stopped for a kiss?" It was a poor attempt at mirth.
"Look at this." Similya hoisted up one of their enemies' guns. Or attempt at a gun. The thing was a cobbled-together bastard of spare parts and trash.
Revlin stepped forward, intrigued. "What a weapon. I'm not sure if this is genius or madness."
"The two often complement one another," Yelsi offered.
"It explains the sound. I thought the way their guns fired was a bit off."
"Could've been the ammo." Similya shared a look with Vlostad.
"Huh?" Revlin inspected the gun more closely, impressed.
Vlostad shook his head but Similya ignored him. "They got a hit on me, but the shell literally bounced off." She pointed to her vest. "Not even a tear."
Mladin ground his teeth. "Next time you fire first."
"Yes sir."
"Yes sir."
"Anything else?" The commander tipped his head to the bodies.
Similya shook her head. "Just their rags and their masks."
"Usable?"
"Way worse make than ours. I wouldn't trust in the mask filters, either."
"They might be useful."
She shrugged. "One's useless; I shot the woman through the eye."
"Woman?" piped up Arban. "Christ."
Similya took offence. "They were both under fed. Desperate."
Arban went back to feeling sorry for himself.
Mladin thought a little more. "Take the mask that's not damaged. If they use different filters here, a compatible mask is a useful mask." His orders were obeyed. "Right. The building there," he motioned, "hosts our entry-point. There's a good chance these people were using it. It may be compromised, so eyes open. Continue."
This building was much like the one they'd passed to reach it, though a little less grand. The windows lacked glass, like most of the city, and several walls had fallen in on themselves. Surprisingly enough, its tall front doors, damaged oak, remained shut and relatively intact. A miscoloured A4-sized patch suggested a paper notice or plaque had recently been removed from the entrance.
They were in the last light, and night time proper was creeping upon them. Things could be heard stirring across the city, sounds of the prowl: of rubbish being sifted through, of sleepy jaws snapping at small prey, of debris being knocked about.
"This is it," Mladin confirmed, checking his map.
Yelsi wandered over to a high-paned window and used her rifle's muzzle to draw aside a tattered curtain. Inside it was bad. The furnishings had not survived. Whatever colour the place was once painted, it was now the colour of smoke. Piping and brick work was exposed by peeling plaster. The room, nothing short of a mess, looked bare and unoccupied. Bare and unoccupied was good enough. "Might be better to go in through a window. Keep the doors shut?"
"Try them."
Revlin tried the doors carefully. He was the technical specialist, the one responsible for checking for traps, and then for disarming them. "Doors are locked tight."
"Good. As Yelsi said." Mladin gestured for him to continue.
Revlin mantled the chest-high window pane and entered the building. Similya and Vlostad were last to enter, watching their comrades' backs until everyone else was through, including Arby, who found the manoeuvre incredibly difficult with his injuries. The last two soldiers in flicked on their flashlights, following their comrades' example.
The gutted first room set the tone. A single line of fire damage followed them from room to corridor to room to corridor, snaking between power outlets and light switches like a thick black vein contained by taught pale skin. The occasional hole here and there, where bricks had tumbled free, provided grimy windows into hauntingly desolate side rooms and offices.
"Some sort of admin building?" Tyomas wondered aloud.
"Government, almost definitely," Similya said.
"You can still smell the bureaucracy," added Yelsi, wading through a pile of paper scrap.
"Funny that they had a tunnel to the metro," Similya mused.
"True." Vlostad agreed. He stopped to read something pinned to a wall. The ink on the notice had faded and the brightness of his high-power torch paradoxically made it more difficult to read, not easier. He gave up and followed his squad mates, returning to his state of combat readiness. Just because the doors were shut didn't mean that no one, or no thing, would be in here, all too keen to say hello.
They stalked through the ground floor at a slow pace, being mindful of the dangers of traversing unknown urban areas. Once or twice the floor above them let out a stressed groan, but no footsteps were heard. Closed doors they passed were left closed, but sometimes a probing ear would be placed against them, just to be sure. If an open door ran parallel to their path, they'd flick off their lights, hold their breaths, ready their rifles, and then swing around into the room, primed to shoot anything that moved. Once satisfied the room was empty, they'd quietly close the door, put their lights back on, and continue on. Everywhere seemed abandoned.
"Halt." Mladin had Revlin, at the head of the column, stop along with the others. "We've been marching almost a full day. We can break and rest here. Objections?"
Looks and glances were cast about in the group. Their leader was testing them. Eyes turned to Arban. Arban noticed.
"Hey, I'm not crippled," Arban retorted. He puffed out his chest, then yelped at the pain he'd caused himself. "Though no objection from me." He lowered his head.
Tyomas patted Arby on the shoulder. "A rest might do us some good."
"It might be safer to slip into the metro at night." Revlin was thinking of their security.
"That's assuming they have a day-night routine."
"Yeah, you're right Similya. Probably can't even tell the difference down there." Tyomas tried a joke, "Let's hope they don't have chickens. Imagine the din from confused cocks."
Yelsi stepped forward, giving voice to a feeling they all had. "We've been going for weeks to get here. I'll admit, I am a little terrified at what we'll find down there, but this is it. I don't know about you, but I'll get no sleep if we stop to rest. I'd rather get in there now and get it done." The excitement resonated. "We're going to bring these people back into the outside world."
"And," Revlin piped up, "If there's a solid bulkhead door between us and the outside, that might be safer than sleeping in here. We've not explored half the building, and we've skipped clearing most of the rooms. Resting in the metro might be safer."
Vlostad agreed. "If there are people in the metro, friendly people, good Russians, then who knows. I wouldn't mind a hero's welcome and a hero's bed."
"Maybe even a hero's breakfast, eh, Vlostad?" Tyomas ribbed.
"I've never complained about our rations," he smiled. Yelsi shifted on her feet.
Mladin had heard enough. "Good. We'll enter the metro tonight."
The unit picked its way through the rest of the building. It was labyrinthine. Lots of bureaucracy must have taken place there. Lots of workers. Lots of details. Lots of lives. All managed and filed away here. All lost.
They came to their last stop at the final door. They'd wormed their way around the sharp end of an L-shaped hallway.
"Through here should be the steps down. We'll find the concealed entrance at the base." Mladin looked down the line of his troops. His flashlight's beam cut a slit through the dusty air. Being packed close, the sound of laboured gas mask breathing was louder than usual. Mladin used the torch, not rudely but pointedly, to shine in the faces of his troops in turn. Revlin was next to him, square on with the door. Past Revlin were Vlostad and Similya. Space was tight, and so they were pressed together. Beyond these two were Tyomas and Yelsi. Tyomas and Yelsi remained front to front, more awkward with the proximity than Vlostad and Similya. Tyomas and Yelsi were practically rubbing noses, but it was preferable to the sexually awkward position that was the alternative. Arban skulked, alone, at the rear. The recruit wasn't sure if his mind was playing tricks on him, but there was a moaning, shuffling sound coming from down the hall. Nobody else seemed to notice. He didn't tell the others. He didn't want to embarrass himself any further by 'hearing things'.
"Struggle," the leader began.
"To victory," the unit answered.
"Let's enter." Mladin ordered.
Revlin touched his head against the metal door. It was cold and rusty against his ear. No noise. He pulled back, took a deep breath, and then wrapped a black-gloved hand around the flat iron door handle. He shifted it a little, testing it, as he'd been trained. It was too stiff to tell if it had been tampered with. He tensed himself. This was it. All this time after the bombs had fallen and radio had died, the Russian military had returned to Moscow, to their beloved capital, to see what remained. Revlin breathed in, then went for it. He pulled up the handle, scraping dry metal, freeing the lock, causing something to click nastily on the other side.
TO BE CONTINUED