Earlier that night, Vasiliy abruptly left the group after a phone call from an old friend; it was urgent. But then again, she always made everything seem like a matter of life and death; either that or things were completely trivial to her. But none-the-less, if she said it was urgent, then Vasiliy would be there in a heartbeat.
After leaving the others at the research facility, Vasiliy drove back into the city and pulled into a small alleyway in one of the so-called dead zones – uninhabited areas within the safe zone that were often unpatrolled. In the past, dead zones were places where gangs and thugs would carry out their misdeeds. But their presence drew in the infected, and it became their hunting ground. The military knew this, but they allowed it, as they thought it was doing them a favour in cleansing the streets of crime. But while the crimes did slow, the number of infected rose - you would wonder which was the lesser of two evils. Now, dead zones have become a quiet, quiet place.
Vasiliy stepped out into the alleyway, softly closing the door of the van behind him. He clicked on his flashlight, checked the handgun in his back pocket, and then slung his shotgun over his shoulder before walking away from the van. He turned out of the alleyway and onto the street. There was not a single light other than the beam from his flashlight, which revealed the graffiti covered walls and the broken and vandalized roller-doors of old shops as he walked past them. This part of the city was not so different from the old days, he thought, perhaps just a little more broken. He had walked this familiar path many times, past the old empty gas station, the mechanics shop with the collapsing roof, the old grocery deli with its broken windows and empty shelves, and the used-car dealership, now filled with rusty pieces of junk with their windows smashed and parts torn out. Next to this car yard, set back from the footpath, was doorway in a brick structure that was not visible unless you looked for it. The structure looked as though it was a part of the car yard, but it was in fact one of the many hidden entrances to the underground subway. Vasiliy walked towards this entrance.
He allowed his flashlight to guide him through the dark doorway and down the long flight of stairs descending beneath the city. The platform below was pitch black and damp, and Vasiliy could only see as far as the light from his torch allowed. He could hear the tiny scampering feet of critters, the crunch of broken tiles beneath his feet, and the slow, rhythmic drips of water somewhere nearby. He hopped off the edge of the platform and onto the tracks. Far away in the distance, down the dark tunnel, was a single dim light. He walked towards this light, along the way passing an old, empty train that sat on the tracks. Some nights, he would walk through the inside of the train, down its long empty carriages. But they were not completely empty; two old corpses, now almost skeletons, were left inside. Vasiliy had named them – there was Gina, the blonde, who Vasiliy imagined was quite the stunner back in her days, and Johnny Boy, the solider, dressed in his military uniform, whose dog tag read 'Johnathan Mills'. Vasiliy did not know how their lives had ended in this dark, underground place - perhaps the girl had been dragged down here by thugs, who either killed her or left her to die. But the soldier was more of a mystery, as the military did not patrol the tunnels. Anyhow, every time Vasiliy walked through the carriage, he greeted them, and made small conversation; one sided, of course. But that night, he walked along the outside of the carriages. He was not in the mood for company.
Upon reaching the dimly lit lightbulb on the wall of the tunnel, he could see another far ahead. Then upon reaching that one there was another. Now he could hear the buzz of a generator. He followed the lights until they reached a platform that was well lit up. Standing in front of the platform were two young men, almost just boys, carrying automatic rifles. Upon seeing Vasiliy, they both jumped with fright and pointed their rifles at him.
"Stop right there!" One of them yelled, trying to sound intimidating, but his voice was barely a man's.
"Woah, easy, kid," Vasiliy put his hands up but continued to walk closer. "You might shoot someone with that thing."
"Yeah, that's the idea," the nervous boy threatened.
Both of the young men gripped their guns tighter, their fingers trembling over the trigger.
"Dutch ain't gonna be very happy if you kill her favourite handyman," Vasiliy taunted, approaching closer still.
The boy pointed his gun just inches from Vasiliy's chest to let him know that he'd walked close enough. "You know Dutch?"
"Intimately." Vasiliy grinned.
Then, the clanking of heavy boots walked down the stationary escalator on the platform behind the two young men; boots that followed up to a pair of long legs in ripped jeans, and a scruffy, woolly coat on a tall, slim woman in her late twenties. Her messy blonde hair and smudged black eyeliner around her light grey eyes gave her a look of both sensuality and defiance. Vasiliy smiled as he saw her - Dutch - still with that same ragged look, and still as charming as ever.
"It's alright boys, let him through," she said in her British accent.
The two men lowered their guns and let Vasiliy pass.
"Don't mind them," she said, motioning for Vasiliy to follow her. "New recruits. They don't know who you are."
"Well, they better learn who I am real quick," he purposely said loudly so they would hear, while giving them a wicked smile as he followed Dutch up the escalator. "So what are you recruiting from kindergarten now? Do those kids even know how to use a gun?"
"Just point and shoot; that's what you once told me, right?" She smiled with that same playful gleam in her eyes.
At the top of escalator was a spectacle that astounded anyone who ever saw it. Even though Vasiliy was no stranger to this place, every time he walked up those steps, he would feel as though he had entered a strange foreign world. What had once been a large subway station was now almost an underground settlement. There were men and women, easily fifty in sight but Vasiliy knew many more lived there; some were dressed in rags, some armed and wearing combat gear, some were preoccupied with certain tasks, while others huddle together on mattresses on the floor. The place was dim, but considerably well lit, with lights hooked up to generators, as well as colourful neon signs that had been taken from the world above. The large open area then split into a maze of walkways in all directions, with stairs going up and down to various platforms, and rows of old shops along the walkways. Some of these shops had been converted into homes, with their insides stripped bare and filled with old furniture and personal belongings, and curtains made of sheets of old fabric across the glass windows. Other shops have been turned into workstations for fixing or modifying anything from radios, computers and car parts, to weapons and firearms.
A few people greeted Vasiliy as he walked past. He followed Dutch into an old barber shop, where the original shop sign could still be seen behind the neon sign that Dutch put in front of it. The blue neon sign read 'Live Music', but the second word did not light up - it simply said 'Live'. Perhaps it was to remind her what was important - to live, and keep living. The window at the front of the store had been painted black like many others – for privacy at "home", it was either paint or the rag curtains. Dutch closed the door behind Vasiliy. Inside was a small bed against the artistically graffitied back wall, an old wooden bedside table, suitcases full of belongings, and a counter in the middle of the room left over from the old barber shop. Dutch walked around to the other side of the counter and stood leaning over it on her elbows, looking at Vasiliy.
"I like what you've done with this place," Vasiliy said, looking around the room.
"It's no different to how you last saw it," Dutch replied, giving him an unimpressed look at his terrible attempt at conversation.
"Well, I still like it… the small space, the musty smell, the lack of sunlight – I can see why you left our comfy home at the warehouse."
Dutch rolled her eyes. She wasn't bothered by his stirring as she was well accustomed to it.
"So, I heard about the attack at the town hall." Vasiliy walked up to the counter and fiddled with some of her gadgets on the countertop. "It's all over the radio. So what, you guys are attacking soldiers in broad daylight now?"
"Those two men had nothing to do with Nemesis," Dutch emphasized, suddenly standing up straight. "That was stupid and reckless, and achieved nothing. You really think we'd pull a cheap stunt like that?"
"You've surprised me before with your… cheap stunts."
Now Dutch was annoyed; she hated it when he turned things personal. "Ok," she crossed her arms in front of her and gave him that look, "what's your problem, Fet?"
"My problem? How about when you left me for that nutjob, who convinced you to join his terrorist group?"
"Terrorist?" Dutch particularly frowned at that word. "Is that what you think we are?" She stormed over to Fet from around the counter. "We are not terrorists! We're fighting to give power back to the people!"
"Power back to the people," Fet laughed. "That's kinda ironic considering what happened in Boston."
"Boston was a mistake."
A part of him enjoyed seeing her so worked up, but a part of him hated it more than anything; it was the only way he could get any sort of reaction from her anymore.
Suddenly, her eyes lit up and she seemed to jump up a little, as though she had just realised something important.
"Follow me," she commanded, as she fervently stormed out of the shop.
She walked eagerly like she was on a mission, through the open area and down another walkway. Fet hurried to keep up. She turned a corner, and there were stairs descending to the platform below. Two armed men were standing in front of the stairs, smoking and laughing, distracted by some humorous conversation. As soon as they saw Dutch, they stood to attention, but she gave them no acknowledgement as she hurried past them and headed down the stairs. Fet gave the men a nod of greeting and followed her down. They landed on a dark platform that was filled with piles of packaged items stacked across the entire platform.
"Look!" Dutch turned to Fet, waving her arm at everything behind her.
Fet scanned the piles with his flashlight. As the light moved over the items, his eyes widened with amazement. It was all food – hundreds of cans, jars and boxes of all sorts of storable foods. He had never seen so much food, or ever imagined that so much food even existed, as the storerooms at the town hall were always half empty while rations were being handed out, and people were always told to be sparing with their rations as food was scarce.
"Where the hell did you get all this?"
"We intercepted one of the military supply routes. All this food comes into the city every week!" She walked up to him, her eyes burning with fervour. "There's more than enough food to feed everyone, and yet people out there are starving. What do we get in our rations? Barely anything. Where is all this food going?"
She looked right into his eyes, desperate for him to see and to understand. At that moment, he did not know what to think, and he lowered his gaze from her penetrating stare. But she could recognise the look in his eyes that he was contemplating certain possibilities; it was different to his usual adamant look, which meant it was impossible to convince him of anything.
"You think they're keeping all this for themselves?" He asked, even though he knew the answer.
"Well they're certainly not giving it to us, are they?"
"So what's your plan?"
"Overthrow the military," she said ambitiously with a smile.
Fet chuckled. She always dreamed big, and he liked that about her.
"So, you called me here for something urgent?"
"Oh yes," she suddenly remembered. "We got the infected moving in on one of our main smuggle routes." She looked at him to gage his reaction to the magnitude of the favour she was about to ask. "We need you to clear them out."
"Consider it done," he shrugged casually.
She looked at him in disbelief and laughed, shaking her head.
"What?" Fet asked, confused by her reaction.
"We lost twelve men going through there; twelve good men who knew how to handle themselves. And just like that – consider it done?"
Vasiliy raised his hands in a shrug. "I always deliver what I promise, don't I?"
She looked at him quizzically. "How do you do it? How do you fight these things when we can't even do it with a hundred men?"
"Let's just say I got a guy who's a… specialist in dealing with these things." He grinned.
"Who is he?" She asked curiously.
"It don't matter," he shrugged. "What matters is he gets the job done."
Dutch sighed in resignation. "Alright. Name your payment."
Vasiliy pulled out a folded sheet of paper from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.
Her eyes glanced over the contents. "Guns, ammo, gas… the usual…" she continued reading down the list. "Oh great, and more booze. Good to see the doctor's keeping up his drinking habit." She folded up the piece of paper and put it in her back pocket. "We're a bit short on gas at the moment, but I'll talk to Des and see what we can spare."
The mention of that name sent a flood of anger through Vasiliy, and he quickly turned away to hide it, but it was obvious to Dutch.
"Yeah, you go talk to Des," Vasiliy muttered. "I gotta head back to the warehouse. I'll be in touch." He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. "It was good seeing you, Dutch" He turned and started walking back up the stairs.
She stood there silent as she watched him walk away. He hadn't changed at all; still as stubborn as anything, with that quick temper of his, but loyal to a fault.
"You too," she whispered.