Syria - October 2013
His thighs were pounding with pain as he fought to keep his balance, the weight in his pack shifting from side to side as he ran. He couldn't stop, they were right behind him. They didn't seem to tire, the infected, and there were too many to take, even if he had enough ammunition they'd overwhelm him.
Matt, a second generation Chinese American, was twenty two and stood around about five foot eleven. He was well tanned by the middle eastern sun and well muscled by constant training and combat, but even he was struggling running this far in this heat.
Rounding the corner, he saw the kid too late and crashed right into him, landing together in a jumbled heap and kicking up a cloud of dust.
"Fuck!" Matt shouted, as he untangled himself from the boy and, still lying on the dusty street, swung his rifle around, opening fire at the first of the runners now rounding the corner. The boy, a local wearing a battered old gas mask, obviously too big for him, covered his ears as Matt moved into a crouch while firing short controlled bursts into the mass.
He was right, there were too many of them. The first few were dropping, but for every one that fell another two seemed to round the corner.
*Click* Fuck, dry. Matt dumped the mag, immediately withdrawing another from a pouch at his waste. He looked up at the runner looming above him, this one was clad in a multicam BDU and wearing a plate carrier almost identical to his. He recognised him as one of the combat engineers. Glen? You fucking dick.
And then engineer Glen exploded along with part of the corner they'd just rounded, sending gore, plaster and brickwork flying as big 30mm cannon rounds punched into the horde.
Then came the roar of a powerful Diesel engine as the big eight wheeled BTR plowed into the group of runners. Matt winced as one became caught in one of its big front wheels, immediately reminding him of the act of rolling up a tube of toothpaste to get the last bit out.
The side hatch popped open and two Russians, in sand coloured digital camouflage, bearing Kalashnikovs adorned with every tactical accessory under the sun and clad in gas masks, jumped out.
One pulled the kid to his feet, picking him up and just about throwing him through the hatch.
"Matthew! My oldest and dearest friend!" the other, an officer, boomed jovially, voice muffled by the mask. Matt recognised the voice and the patch on his shoulder, a wolf in front of a parachute with the number forty-five on top. The Wolves of Kubinka, the Spetsnaz guys. He didn't actually know the dudes name, they were pretty coy with details like that, he just called him 'Yuri'. They often traded luxuries with the Russians and he'd helped Yuri develop a taste for bourbon and American comedies.
"Where is your mask Matthew?" Yuri asked calmly, subtly raising his rifle towards Matt's head.
"Lost it a few seconds ago when those guys jumped me. No bites!" As he lied, he had to stop himself from itching the bite wound on his left calf that he'd received a couple of weeks ago and had been successfully hiding since.
Yuri seemed to consider this for a moment and then shrugged.
"Get in loser, we going shopping" He laughed. He'd obviously watched that Mean Girls DVD.
Matt couldn't stop himself chuckling at the absurdity of it all as he climbed into the big armoured personnel carrier, grabbing a spare mask from one of the Russians. Good to keep up appearances. Looking around the cramped interior he took in the motley band he'd unwittingly joined. There were another couple of mask-clad Spetsnaz guys, the kid, who looked to be about ten and obviously terrified was now in the arms of a little old Syrian woman who looked about a thousand years old, sat next to her was a moustached Syrian army soldier and finally the large bulk of someone in a full, self-contained, NBC suit. Matt stared at this last companion, noticing him struggling, his limbs bound and visor fogged.
"What's his story?"
"Infected, but don't worry, the suit contains the spores" Yuri replied nonchalantly.
"Hell of a risk don't you think?"
"Not as risky as leaving him, that's my brother in law! My wife is much scarier" he laughed.
"Right…"
"He also owes me twenty thousand rubles"
"Uhuh… So where are we going"
"To the port my friend. Ship is waiting. Assad has asked us to nuke the city"
Matt started at that news, the Russians were part of the international task-force trying to keep the peace here, but everyone knew they were also here to prop up Assad's brutal regime. Hardened by decades of insurgency in Chechnya and the caucuses, they had fought the Cordyceps plague with a degree of savagery above and beyond what even Assad's own military had, employing indiscriminate carpet bombing, thermobaric weapons, flamethrowers and napalm. Still, wiping out a city of millions was a big move.
"Think the U.N. will let that slide?"
"What do you think?" He shrugged "It's the end of the world my friend"
The old minesweeper lay low in the water, thick black smoke belching from it's funnel. Jets roared overhead and the ground shook from repeated detonations getting closer to the dock every minute. Russians in cumbersome NBC suits, the same model as the one ensconcing Yuri's brother in law, were holding back the queue they'd all just pushed their way to the front of.
After much wild gesticulation and shouting in Arabic The BTR had been left to the Syrian soldier, who alongside the old woman, had refused to leave his city. The kid was riding on the shoulders of one of the Spetsnaz guys.
Yuri was having what looked like a heated argument with the soldiers guarding the gangway leading on to the ship. They were gesturing angrily at his infected brother in law. Finally Yuri threw his arms up in exasperation, seemingly defeated.
Matt's Russian was non-existent, so he had no idea what Yuri said to his comrades, but they picked up the infected man, hauled him over to the other side of the dock and hurled him over into the Mediterranean. Yuri drew a hand grenade from his chest rig, pulled the pin and dropped it after him before stalking back angrily.
*Boom* A small fountain of gore and saltwater exploded upwards.
"You good Yuri?" Matt asked
"It's fine, I always hated him. Come Matthew, we're leaving this fungus infested shit-hole"
The warm sea breeze was mercifully blowing in towards the city, so he was spared the need to wear a gas mask in this infernal heat, as the spores no doubt rising from the smoke of the dying city blew further inland.
The air strikes had finally let up, and fewer and fewer helicopters were lifting off as zero hour approached.
Around the old minesweeper, a flotilla of just about every ship and boat imaginable filled the sea as those desperate to escape made their way into the expanse of the Mediterranean. There were landing craft, dhows, motor launches, barges, trawlers and even a couple of big container ships. Further out to sea, the stark gray shapes of warships floated menacingly.
"Matt? Thought you Rangers were pulled out last week?" a thick New Jersey accent said.
He turned around to face another of the engineers, this one less bitey. Paul? Is that his name?
"So I heard. We were on our way back to Al-Tanf. MANPAD took our Hook down, just me left" Matt replied matter-of-factly.
"Sorry to hear that"
"What about you, how'd you end up on this rust-bucket"
"We were blasting the routes to the airport, trying to delay the infected, got cut off. Saw the last C17 fly over us a few days ago. Ruskies picked us up this morning"
Matt thought about mentioning his earlier encounter with Glen, but thought better of it.
"Any idea where we're going?"
"Not a clue… Where's home for you?"
"Seattle. New York?"
"Don't hold it against me"
"Can't be as fucked as this" Matt gestured towards the burning city
"Guess not"
The light was fading fast, looking out to sea, Matt laid eyes upon the intimidating bulk of the Russian Battlecruiser Pyotr Velikiy looming in the dying light. It was a familiar sight. The old battlewagon had been floating out here for a few months now, an ever present threat, flinging guided missiles at insurgent positions and then masses of the infected once the plague began. A floating cornucopia of destruction it was the power in the Mediterranean.
The high pitched wail of warning klaxons suddenly rang out. Around them, some of the crew, wearing bright white balaclavas, flash masks, were ushering those on the decks into the ship and others clad in NBC suits were frantically securing anything loose as quickly as possible. With a loud flash and a distant roar, a bright light rose into the sky from one of the missile cells on the Pyotr Veliky, towards the distant city.
"Remember how they told us there were no nukes on that thing?" the engineer commented
"We better get inside" Matt replied, moving into the door behind them
As the door shut and the sound of wind was replaced by the low whine of air conditioning, Matt took a faded Polaroid from his utility pouch.
"Your kids?"
"Nah, my sisters"
"They in Seattle as well? Hope they're safe"
"They were a few weeks ago, who knows now"
"I'm sure you'll be back there soon"
Matt just nodded. See you soon kids .