Chapter 5. "Invaders"
December 31, 2009, 2:34 pm
Southern Colorado
Cold.
Cold and white. Daria thought she should've gotten used to it by now.
Two and a half years in Chicago, five in Boston, two or three months combined time in other frostbitten postings…rarely in the field, though. She had gotten more than her due for getting stationed in the tropics, though…bug infested hellholes they might be.
She rubbed her nose again. Still numb. She could sure go for a green inferno now, quinine included.
It had taken maybe an hour's yomp in the frosty dark to reach the drop zone, and the would-be base of operations. An "Ice Wolf" infantry fighting vehicle—she was proud that she knew enough not to call the damn thing a "tank"—too large to transfer with the team, had been airdropped in ahead of them; the nearest town wasn't that far away, but DZ was supposedly remote enough to go unnoticed by anyone but the local deer, even with the ungodly loud rocket decent rig.
It had been undisturbed, thankfully, when they'd reached it. Almost a letdown—hadn't even landed on it's side. And there it had stayed.
They'd planted in a hoofprint of a depression in the mountains—it had to be a good-sized meadow during warmer months, but at the moment…blank white. One good exit to the northwest, and hemmed in on the other sides by woody mountainsides too rolling to call proper slopes. The trunks of evergreens disappeared into the shadows beneath the tree lines, and the peaks of the woods disappeared into low clouds—dull gray, almost to a mirror of the ground. There had been few taunting, intermittent breaks of flashing blue sky, but nothing now. Her world had reduced to a half-mile fishbowl of white. And cold.
The quiet drone of the Ice Wolf's Auxilury Power Unit did much to steady her nerves. If not for that, it would have been mere dead silence, with the occasional distant crack of branches under loads of snow.
She stared back at her map, again, past the sectors of red cross-hatching she'd penciled in. With most of the Snow Serpents fanning out over the mountains, she wasn't left with the best company.
Well…numerically "best" company.
The Ice Wolf driver and the Serpent protection detail—three people, in total—didn't say much. The other two, were, well…
"Look, I'm not saying it ain't a real problem. I'm not." The Sludge-Viper prodded a sheet of yellowing newsprint with his dead finger, "I'm saying all he's trying t'do is say, 'look out, the baby killer jarheads are going to ravage your red state maidens, ooga-booga.' He'll be calling them 'boches' first chance he gets..." The Medi-viper, for his part, remained intransigent on the matter.
Daria found the slab of cheek grinding between her molars was wearing this surprisingly fast. She leaned back in her seat, as far as she could, under the ludicrous glazed canopy of the IFV. A few odd specks of snow were just visible against the glass. She tried to block out the Algonquin Round Table's raging debate on the politics of a two-month old comic strip. It really wouldn't do to take a nap. Not that they'd notice…
She'd pulled longer all-nighters before, anyway. Most of them were back at her Alma Mater, though. Most of the bad ones.
She shook her head, surprised at herself. Was she that jaded? Did she really feel like finals were worse than sweating it out in a disguised rocket silo? Were they…?
The radio booped. She didn't jump, but the skin on her neck prickled. It was nowhere near check-in time.
She picked up the handset. "Olga actual."
"Schutzer here." Spindoctor resisted the impulse to look back to the treeline over her shoulder. It was rarely a good idea to give away your sniper's position. Especially if you were downrange.
From his perch in one of the taller pines, the voice continued, kicking up a Belgranodeutsch accent. "Vehicle inbound, northeast. One of ours."
The debate club went quiet behind her.
Daria felt her heart pump harder against the congealing ice in her veins. "Can you see who it is?"
"By the markings…I think it's the captain, sir."
Dragonsky. The unhelpful chatter was starting up over her brainpan. Was it him? Was it gonna be him? Coming to do it himsel- She squelched it down as the sniper continued his spotting. "Four…five…all squad members present, no signs of casualties or damage…" the voice caught. "He's hauling cargo."
"What?" Spindoctor's eyebrow raised—she'd spoken aloud, but hadn't ben alone; the Sludge-Viper had pushed himself out of his seat with surprising speed for a man of his bulk.
"Affirmative. Towed behind the machine—tarp sled. Maybe…ten by five feet. Looks like…" Another pause, Daria would have killed for one of his eyes. "…it was covered, but it wasn't that bulky. Could be bod—"
"That goon yanked 'em?" the Sludge-Viper bleated, loud enough to make Daria wince. And close enough to smell his breath. Like gasoline. "Of all the stupid—why'd you even bother taking me along?"
"Easy."
"Oh no, no." The man grabbed for the handset. "'Put me on with Captain Crunch! You want me to do my job—"
"Silence."
Spindoctor could taste the steel on her tongue through her clenched jaws as she clamped her arm down over the radio controls. The Viper's wrist recoiled, fast as if she'd struck him.
She turned back to the handset "Schutzer, watch him for any odd moves…keep him covered. Clear enough?"
She could hear the sniper blink on the other end of the line. "…roger that."
"Sierra hotel. Spindoctor out." Her glare wheeled around. "And I appreciate you just want to do your job…god knows I wouldn't want to just be dead weight in the field, either. Right?"
The torpid old psycho actually paled. "Uhhm…"
"Right. Now get your gear ready—you may be receiving 'patients.'" She waved him off, one-handedly. He got moving fast.
She sank into her seat beneath the open canopy, paused, then decided to get up. The power unit drone was starting to fray her nerves.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
Two minutes later (she counted) before Dragonsky's snowmachine closed to shouting distance. The entire squad—no signs of blood or suspiciously ill-fitting uniforms—had desanted on the vehicle…and the cargo.
The sniper had been right. The bulk under the tarp was big enough for the meat of the prize.
Daria made her voice heard before the Polar Blast engine cut off. "What was the problem?" Unsaid, the plan was you call in so we can regroup and mount a proper retrieval not a smash and grab what did you think we were here for was there nothing left of were you ambushed you still didn't call in youhotshotIvan—
The Snow Serpent rose from the machine, very stately. "Somebody beat us there."
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
Dragonsky's unit had located the crash site in their search area over an hour before, in a northwest facing wall of a snowbound gully. Approaching over the top of a rise, the wreck of the flight pod was clearly visible from where it had embedded into the mountainside. It had obviously not been in that state for long, judging by the mass of calved snow splayed out over the ground below the wreck like a mantle.
…the border of it had been trimmed by sawhorses, linked with police tape.
The town. The season, bad roads, and remoteness hadn't been enough.
"Were you spotted?"
"No…" the captain shook his head, "…no guards."
"What?"
"Was no one there. No police. No fresh tracks."
A chorus of alarms played in Spindoctor's mind, beneath the level of words. "The pod?"
Intact, but breached.
A loading hatchway in a warped frame opened with slight effort—disturbed snow beneath it's exterior showed it had already caught someone's attention. The interior was rimed with old ice, but from what could be seen through the black, was in good order. But the contents were not undisturbed.
"One of the…'units'" he coughed the last word up, was already gone. Maybe more, but the old soldier hadn't desired to hang around and check.
He's ordered his men to cut some of the readily accessible BW Units from their tomb, and stowed for evacuation with the squad vehicle. They'd made as hasty a withdrawal as possible while taking a switchbacking route over their own track. The team hadn't spotted a soul, but took no chances at being followed.
"No sense screwing around," Daria said, waving over the Sludge-Viper. "Open it up."
She took a step back as the troops unbuckled the tarp, and peeled it aside.
She'd known what to expect, but it didn't help much as the pent-up air escaped from the bag. A gagging, paint thinner sting, overlaid with too-sweet.
The sick tang clung to her sinuses as she peered over the contents.
There were six of them. Flattened out where they lay, twisted in the rigor of frozen death.
They were in surprisingly good condition, outwardly…only patches of corrosion had leaked through the outer coverings, exposing gray tissue beneath. Mottled flesh. Human skin.
Former human, she corrected herself, watching as the Sludge-Viper prodded over the bodies unflinchingly. There was very little genuinely human about them left.
Though the technician's own suit, Spindoctor noted, wasn't that different from those of the frozen husks. If anything, his actually looked shabbier. He wasn't even wearing the helmet—
Daria flinched, but couldn't let herself turn away. She hadn't noticed until too late that the faceplate of the one she was studying was cracked away. She'd inadvertently looked right into it's dead face. Looked it right in the dead, lidless eye…
Shake it off, Morgendorffer. She hesitated, then forced herself to kneel forward for a better look.
The snow squeaked under her boot like styrofoam. She tried to focus on the noise. She didn't really need a better view—the damn smell was proof enough. Six Toxozombies.
Her eyes narrowed. Six?
The reluctant specialist was murmuring to himself as Dragonsky spoke again.
"We have to abandon the salvage. The crash site is already compromised—it's only a matter of time until the ones who uncovered it return. They may have found it already, for all we know." There was a quick pause as the man tried to reign down his agitation. His accent had been creeping up, badly. "I recommend we scuttle the flight pod. Destroy it. We lose the other units, but we might keep more of them from falling into enemy hands."
"About those units…"
"'Other units are the problem, Spindoctor. We have to move fast if we want to secure the stolen units, but I can not be sure we we even know how many were missing…" The masked head shook "The wheels already come off this plan. Intelligence said no more than one platoon of them on the pod—there was at least a company of them stored there—"
"…they told me it would be a squad."
Then, silence.
The pause was a tangible presence, hanged in the air.
Through the slits in their masks, the eyes of some of the Snow Serpents flickered, glancing between one another. Some just went wide.
Dragonsky's did, but not much. It was enough.
"I see," he said, very slowly. "Very sloppy of them."
"Eh. Too clever by half. They outsmarted themselves."
The captain just nodded, solemnly. Through the chilly air, the gulf between the two had warmed, noticeably.
"Hey bosses…you want to hear something really funny?" The Sludge-Viper piped up, over his shoulder. "You guys brought back the wrong corpses."
Dragonsky's head snapped over. "What?"
"You heard it. Wrong zombies. We're supposed to grab T-1 cannon fodder jobs. These are too fancy. Outfits is all wrong—" he started counting off on his finger "—the meat's in too good a shape…considering…they got the wrong gear loadout—too little for combat, and too much for transport…and these things weren't supposed to move by air in the first place…"
"Point made. What are they, then?"
The man gave a gorilla-armed shrug. "You tell me, I just work here, ma…sir."
"I thought you were supposed to be our expert!"
"I am……but these are above my pay grade."
"You were the highest-up Leaky Suit left!"
"The thought had occurred. Hey, here's another one; what if I actually like this less than the rest of ya?" The man sank back, sitting on his haunches in the snow, looking miserable. "'Shouldn't have needed to lie to us. Not for a search-and-grab."
"Not unless they wanted us to grab something we weren't prepared for." Daria finished, somberly. Saying it probably wasn't much help.
The captain cocked his head. "You say 'they' like you don't know who we're talking about."
"…like I don't know who'd've been behind it. Yeah, you're right."
Dragonsky stepped forward. "I'm not one for this court intrigue. Did you know she had something planned when we came here?"
She eyed the man, carefully. He still seemed to be keeping a cool head. For the moment. Admirable. "It was a…possibility. I made my own analysis."
"And you still jumped in!"
She didn't even acknowledge the Sludge-Viper's outburst. Not directly. She'd get to him. "I got my orders. Same as you. And I've done what I can with the information I got."
"Begging pardon, ma'am," Dragonsky said, smooth as ice, "but I like to know what my men are walking in to."
"Join the club. We have…" A thought hit her, as the Sludge-Viper caught her eye, puffing out a steamy breath. Anger had put some color in his cheeks; he'd almost looked like a human being. A living human…
"…we may have ourselves an informant." She pointed at the pile of bodies. "Get those things packed up. All but one."
Dragonsky was taken aback, momentarily. "You got one in particular in mind?" he said, motioning his troops forward, surprise creeping into his voice.
"Why yes. The one with the best looking head." She paused, "And a mouth." she added.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
The Auxiliary Power Unit droned louder, billowing pleasantly warm exhaust over the side of the Ice Wolf. The death stench was leveling off. Or she was finally getting used to it.
The Toxo-Zombie—the choice pick—was strung out, splayed to the side of the vehicle like a slab of beef. Or a rod puppet—they'd pinned it over the exhaust vent using a handful of the long-pole rabies snares the expedition had carried. Sitting it on the bare metal would have just set it on fire; the alternative would have been to hold it by hand.
Not an attractive option. The corpse's bonds weren't just to keep it thawing safely…
"How's it coming along?"
The Sludge-Viper hummed an "ida know." The man had proved an artiste in flippant non-verbals.
"That's helpful."
The man made a wide frown. "How's about I just slice him open? See if he's still pink—HEY!"
His claw snatched at the Medi-Viper's wrist, braking the progress of the needle he'd been inserting through the neck vertebrae.
"Watch it, Igor! I said 'spinal tap,' not 'scrape job!'"
The medic nodded, fervently, as the specialist let him go. The Sludge-Viper didn't look any happier as he turned back.
"'supposed to do this with a cavity magnetron, 162 seconds per kilogram of body weight."
"Noted, Viper."
"…these stiffs are loaded with so many solvents it ain't hardly funny…"
"Noted, Viper."
"…and if the nerves melt because we did this on a tailgate, I did my best to stop it…"
"Do you want your ears unscrewed, citizen?"
The Sludge-viper reared up. "What if I think—"
"What if I think," Spindoctor said, sliding between the pair, "that we can kill each other later, when we can get an audience?" She scowled. "Do I need to break out my gym whistl—"
There was a squeak.
Three heads turned back to the Ice Wolf, and the Medi-Viper. He'd jerked back, or tried to, from examining the creature.
He hadn't gotten very far…the dead fingers had closed around his wrist.
Everything else was forgotten. The Sludge-Viper, stonefaced, without a word, turned back and peeled the medic's arm free. Free or not, he didn't look any happier.
The specialist held the noosed hand out, examining it. Daria got a good look.
The fingers were trembling.
"Myoclonus. Dunno…could just be galvanic, sodium chan—"
The next event was…very sudden.
The effect on her team was just as striking—old Dragonsky, as far as Daria could tell, was the only one who didn't recoil. He merely flinched.
As the frigid carcass gave one powerful shudder, threw it's head forward, and screamed.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
The thing wrenched, struggling at it's bonds. To no luck—they held. So did it's limbs, to Daria's utter relief.
"I guess you keep your job, Viper," the captain said.
"Yeah. It really cheers me up when a plan comes together." The technician's sagging face said it better.
A rattley gurgle escaped the Toxozombie's mouth as the Sludge-viper approached it again. Waving two fingers inches away from it's face. The exposed eye followed.
"Eyes opened spontaneously, follow movement…"
He raised his hand to the face, pressed the back of his thumbnail against the underside of the creature's eyebrow. It grunted, pulling back.
The viper pulled back, turning his attention to one of the fidgeting hands again. He gripped a finger, near the base of a blackened nail, hard. And jammed it backwards.
The Toxozombie shrieked, jerking it's arm in it's restrains, fingers clenched.
"Localized and normal response to pain." The technician pronounced, with a nod. "Two out of three—'yo'!"
The zombie's head snapped up, fixing it's gaze on the man. With a glower.
"Looks like we got an open mike. Now what, boss-lady?"
Daria blinked. Then blinked again, feeling herself out from the queasy scene. "Let's…let's just start with the basics. Try a diagnostic."
Dragonsky crooked his head at that. "Like a machine? I thought that was a man in there—"
"It was. Once." Spindoctor nodded to the Sludge Viper. "Get crackin'."
The man affected a very sloppy salute, and went back to his work. Leaning just out of jaw's reach of the creature's face. "Identify yourself," he asked, firmly. The rattley sound quieted, but there was no other response. "What is your type and model?"
The thing's chest was heaving, but it made no more noise. The Viper started up, raising the back of his hand—when something escaped the creature's lips. A grumble, low and rasping. Unintelligible.
"What was that?" The man turned his good ear towards his charge. "Wanna run that by me again-"
"Kgh…khön…" Vocal sounds. The sounds made no sense, yet, but Daria could see the dead mouth was working around them. Trying to shape the noise, repeating. Those were words, then. The thing was speaking.
"…önigg…dt…fü.."
Strange vowel sounds in there…could that be a…no, we checked for a tongue...Daria's mind was picking apart the noise for clues, before she'd even realized it. Another part wondered if that spoke to her professionalism, or trying to insulate herself mentally from the gruesome spectacle. She didn't know which would be worse.
The creature finally stopped, and inhaled visibly. It held it for a second, then spat out with force—
"König…TODT!"
What the…
"…the Hell?" The Sludge-Viper said. He looked as surprised as anyone. "Was that in-"
"König Todt…führt deer weg!" The Zombie was slurring, and with an unnatural tremolo, but she'd heard it right.
"Beautiful," the technician drawled, slightly less than pleased. "Just beautiful…any of you guys speakin' ze kraut?"
Dragonsky barked over his shoulder. "Schrage! Up front!"
One of the Snow Serpents broke from the back of the group—a tall machine gunner, with a few wisps of gray hair peeking out from the edges of his face mask when he pushed his goggles up.
The Serpent addressed the rumbling thing in stolid, clipped German—Spindoctor couldn't place the accent, for what little she understood. 'Sounded like a native speaker.
The ghoul was responding in kind—where do we find these people?—seemingly eagerly. Excitedly.
The slurred speech seemed to be improving.
Schrage's grilling lasting a minute or two, peppered with only a few sharp "was?" es. But soon enough, the thing was repeating itself, adding no new words. The commando stepped back.
"It's…it's talking about a…'king of the dead' or a 'king of death'…" Osiris? Daria's semi-conscious quipped, not very helpfully.
"He keeps saying he sees this King, and the King of the Dead sees all, that it is everything, and…"
The creature spat in an interjection. Straining it's voice. Insistently.
"…'all will be one with the King of the Dead.'" Schrage finished.
"Sounds Buddhist," the Sludge-Viper scoffed, breaking a long pause.
Daria cut her eyes at him "That's all you have to add?"
The man didn't even blink. "That's all we got. THIS—" he jabbed towards the creature "—bag of leftovers is real special, or real crazy. That tells me that the boys upstairs is really doing a job on us."
"…with quantity and quality." Daria heard one of the Snow Serpents murmur. Almost Chekovian joie de vivre
Dragonsky waved him quiet. "Enough…I've had enough surprises. I say we get out of here before some new—"
"Schutzer to Spindoctor. Respond." Something carried over the radio to prickle Daria's skin, again. Very good reception. She picked up her handset. "Go ahead."
"Movement, through the treeline, northwest. Coming up fast…a lot of it."
"Human?"
"I think…" there was a long beat, and then "…yes." He still sounded reluctant. Unsure.
"How many?"
"At least company strength…sir?"
"Yes?"
"They don't…move right."
Dead silence again, from all. And ice running down Spindoctor's spine.
She locked eyes with the captain. Gears ticking.
"Too late." he drawled, almost tonelessly. He yanked down his face mask, features disappearing behind blank white. "Copy, Schutzer, keep overwatch, do not fire." He turned back to his squad, shouting orders, only intermittently in english.
The Snow Serpents were moving in a flash…wordlessly, boots crunching in the snow. And with their backs to her, nearly vanishing against the ice within only a few paces. Just the white dusted wolfskins, and the black of gun barrels.
She'd seen Cobra troops move mechanically before. It was a far rarer thing to see ones move like a machine. Not a small part of her marveled at the beauty of it.
Behind her, the trussed creature was fidgeting again, grumbling. Agitated.
"Shouldn't we be fleeing?" said the Sludge-Viper. Spindoctor glanced back—he'd clambered up the side of the IFV, over the tread skirts, within close reach of his undead charge. It was probably the safest place to be. At least that one was contained…
"Easy. We don't know what we'd run—" be driven "—into. We don't even know what's coming. For certain." The words were true enough, she knew. They just tasted like a rusty coin.
She'd snaked over back to the Ice Wolf's cockpit, grabbing her field glasses as the machine's engine rattled to life, with a waft of diesel smoke. She cringed. 'little loud, more than the APU, but that didn't matter any more. At least it wasn't too much to talk over. At least while it was idling…
The eyepieces slid over her cheekbones, pushing her glasses out of the way, and she sighted in downrange, due west.
The image focused. Nothing. Not yet. Only the edge of the forest coming off the mountainside, dusk shady under the white on the branches. A speck or two of white trailed lazily down through the air between. Spindoctor waited.
She almost missed it. A dark-on-dark movement in the shadows, sliding by, half-vital. She couldn't be sure at first, with the magnified image jittering in her hands. She went down on one knee, bracing the binoculars against her leg.
It helped. More than it needed to…the movement had gotten clearer, bigger, on it's own. As the shapes started to pour out of the forest.
The sniper had been right. They didn't move right.
The figures emerging form the woods—she could see they were at least people, in the gloom—came in a shuffling, staggering gait. So stiff limbed, it was painful to watch.
There were a lot of them. Shapes were still moving from under the cover of trees when the first line had emerged fully into the light.
She squinted at the magnified image. The figures stumbling through the snow were ragtag, un-uniform in appearance—literally so; none were wearing uniforms, and certainly none of theirs. The clothes were ordinary winter garb, mostly, but Daria caught glimpses of shirtsleeves as more emerged.
"Civilians," she said aloud. It wasn't quite a questioning tone.
There was a harumph beside her. "…thought it was too many."
Spindoctor peaked to her side. Dragonsky was sighting in on the crowd himself—he'd unslung his own rifle, peering down a nice sized scope. "…to be from pod, I mean."
A voice piped up from one of the Serpents."D'ya want us to warn 'em off, sir?" He sounded young.
"Don't waste ammo." The captain continued his scan downrange, rifle panning inchworm slow in his grip. "It's wrong…we're too good. 'couldn't have tracked us. Not that fast…" The rifle slid to a stop. "They look frostbitten."
Daria frowned at that, turning back to her binoculars. The image that came up—god, that was a lot of them—wasn't much different from what the captain's scope would be capable of, but she wasn't close to full magnification. She zoomed in.
And almost immediately regretted it. The visage of the silent, snow mottled mob approaching had been bad enough before, but now it turned outright gruesome.
Besides the uncanny body motion, she could spot what Dragonsky had meant. On what exposed skin she could see, and on the faces.
The faces. They almost were the awful part—too many of the lips looked simply…receded, not even pulled back with effort. Plenty of sets of dull eyes that couldn't even be called bleary.
The worst part was the skin. What was exposed on the bodies was discolored, creeping in from the extremities, obviously from the cold. But the color was wrong. She'd have known it, even if she hadn't been looking for it.
"That's not frostbite," Spindoctor said. It was good as spoken, but she'd make one more check. Part of her suspected it was just masochism.
"Eh?"—one of the men. She didn't pick out who's voice, she was busy picking her target…there. A stocky, barrel chested…man…at the head of the crowd, in nice flannel. Who was breathing, noticeably. Heavily.
The breathing was visible through the clear air between them.
"It's freezer burn."
Completely clear. Not a trace of steaming breath.
"You sure?" Dragonsky's voice, after a pause. Maybe he hadn't known the idiom.
A memory flitted to the surface of her mind; working the Library Cafe at Raft, for pocket dosh and Christmas money one winter, chipping very past "best by…" turkey patties out of the freezer…god…that had to be…'02? '03?
"Yep…like old steak. Dead flesh—"
There was a sudden snap-CRACK at Daria's flank—she jerked at the noise, tightening her grip on the binoculars. It kept her view of her target centered enough for her to see the fabric over the figure's gut ripple, and something foul spray out it's back. The torso spun, like it was winding up for a haymaker…but the figure didn't fall.
The captive Toxozombie snarled again, deeper. Well…she hoped that was the creature.
She lowered her binoculars. The wide view with her own eyes was a little better; the throng across the field just looked like dark scarecrows from a quarter mile away, and she had a grand view of the lot of them.
Yes, she got a better view of them. At least twice "company strength" she'd say…two hundred of them. Two hundred undead.
Two hundred zombies.
Daria couldn't help but wonder how it could have stopped feeling ludicrous. It seemed so illogical.
"'Think you're right." The Snow Serpant hrmmed again. "Hey, 'leaky suit,'" he called out, not looking behind him, "what's it take to drop one of these things?"
"Ahh…well, if you need—"
"No hurry, snake, really."
"C-CNS'll do it," The Sludge-viper stammered, "…brain or spine. Pop the Central Canal, an' the ventricles—"
"Spasibo," Dragonsky cut in, pleasantly, "is that all?" He took aim again, and fired once more. The second round was a tracer, glowing blue as it zipped downrange.
Daria paused a beat, and asked, polite as she could, "Did you get him?"
"Unless he's faking. And kept his brains in his pocket."
There was more thrashing, and a new spate of growls from the trussed creature. It seemed he didn't like that at all.
"…looks like 'intel' had the right idea," Dragonsky said, with a sort of cheery callousness. "'good way of setting us up to fail." He glanced at Daria, then back down the sights.
Good way of getting rid of an upstart little brain, she thought. She froze, at that, and decided to edge away from the Toxozombie another foot foot.
Strange, she thought, how dry her mouth had gotten, but her knees felt just fine. Not even shaking a little…
There was a harmonica whine of machinery behind her, above her head. She didn't look, but knew it had to be the 20mm phased plasma turret on the roof of the rig. Traversing. She knew the driver got to control the guns by remote from the cockpit, as they were designed to be fired. She also knew they were designed to shoot at slow moving tanks. She really wished she didn't.
She was really wishing a lot of things, right then…
Within much less than a minute, there was a change in the beings' behavior as they filed from the woods…none of them had shown any reaction when Dragonsky slew the first ghoul, but now they started to slow down. Some of them—she raised the binoculars again—yes, had stopped, maybe fifty yards past the trees. On a whim, she checked back at the rear of the mob, past the layer of bobbing heads.
A gap had formed, between the pack of undead and the tree line. Clear ground…no more came from the shadows. "I think the gang's all here." Hail, hail.
"Yes. If that's all they have and they stop moving, we can burn through them with little trouble…" the captain gestured, one-handed towards the trooper at the snowmobile's controls. "Myshka! Get that gun into position!"
Daria frowned as the Polar Blast's engine whined up. Stop moving? She peeked downrange again—something she was getting loathe to do; it was becoming a bad habit—and checked the front rank of ghouls. They had stopped, hadn't they?
She scanned past. Yes, they had…the front line she'd seen was still there, weaving in place like a bunch of stif…drunks, she corrected herself, hurriedly. It didn't help…but more had slouched past them.
The frown deepened. The hell? If anything, these ones looked worse off, physically. Whatever had happened to them in the last day or so had taken them rougher than the ones at the vanguard, by the looks of it; the flesh she could see was the most chilblained and ice-blackened of any she'd seen…she squinted. There were signs of injury, too. Well, 'damage,' anyway. Lots of eerie little bloodless nicks and notches on on the skin, but worse on the clothing. Rips and tears, mostly on the upper body, none of them clean. Lots of dark stains, where she could make them out, too dark to see the color (thankfully).
One skinny unfortunate, she saw, as it tottered forwards, was only wearing thin surgical scrubs…with a long, grisly dark smear down the front, trailing in a "V" shape down from the neckline. And one single dark blossom of old blood over the left torso, through the ribs.
She almost missed the stained patch of gauze on the forearm.
Spindoctor shook off the ghastliness—she had to. Focus on something… These…these had to be the "oldest" of the bunch. It was obvious they'd been through enough in the last day and a half. Hell, a lot of them didn't look like they were in great shape to begin with—but they were going to be the ones who kept ploughing ahead? Poor dumb…
Off to her flank, past the stern of the IFV, the snowmobile engine went to an idle again. Quiet enough for her to hear the buzz of an electric motor spin up. The bow gun—the Polar Blasts had a stubby little gatling the size of a man's thigh mounted ahead of the handlebars. It'd do a wonderful job of an enfilade, until it went through all the ammo it carried. In four seconds.
But, damnably enough, it seemed to have an effect—through her eyepieces, she saw the forlorn new line at the head of the crowd stumble to a halt. And another bunch was slowing behind them. Curious pattern…
The Serpent on the 'Blast laughed out something Daria couldn't catch. The captain grunted in reply. "Let the animals stay scared. They stay there, we move out…"
Spindoctor kept up her ghoulish vigil—no more of the things had leapfrogged past the raggedy lot at the front. Indeed the rest, she could see, were coming to a halt almost orderly behind them. Heh, impressive, the brainless creatures were keeping better order than a Who concert. She would have thought they'd bunch the hell up, as dense as they were. She couldn't even see any from the first line that had stopped…
Something clicked. It felt like her heart.
Arms jerking, she scanned frantically over the mob—quickly wondering exactly what the hell she'd even be looking for. Somebody followed by radioman with a damn backpack antenna? A samurai flag, maybe?
She saw nothing, of course, nothing that stood out…except a couple of very slow stragglers stumbling from the woods. Another click. That cinched it.
"They're not stopping…" Spindoctor said, loudly, lowering the field glasses. Carefully. Her fingers had gone numb. "…they're assembling."
Dragonsky's head jerked over, silently. She was sure she felt a few other pairs of eyes.
"Yes…" he drawled, "…yes."
"They were waiting to get expendable ones out in front."
She could've heard a candle flicker in that dead still air.
Some timeless interval later, across the depression, the enemy began to move.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
It was the longest two minutes of her life.
Two hundred yards, just over. About as many meters. or just over a tenth of a mile. That and the air was all the separated her force from the shambling pack of human debris.
The creatures had lurched forward, with a synchronous motion nauseously suggestive more of flotsam caught in a tidal wash than of men, and at a d…a dead clip, despite the snow.
The range started shrinking.
The thing wired to the IFV didn't seem to like that. Or maybe it did—the croaking had turned into manic howls. "König Todt…"König TODT! TODT!"
"Orders, sir?"
Daria blinked. Then remembered to breathe. She also realized, at some point, she seemed to have stood up. And undone the bottom toggle of her coat.
Spindoctor met the old Russian's gaze. She knew a test, any test, when she saw one. And she was prepared—she drew on every scrap of plucky military knowledge and experience she possessed, every account of every officer, green or blooded, fair or foul, who'd been put in a remotely similar circumstance, she could remember.
Theory and legend, numbers and guts, all distilled down. And she had her answer.
Spindoctor raised one eyebrow, flipped an empty hand over, bobbing her palm over with a short-nerved, the-hell-you-asking-me-for wave. "Carry on, Captain. At your discretion."
It seemed to work. Aw, hell, good enough.
Daria didn't catch most of what the Captain barked—she thought she caught a "zamochi-"—but he ended it barking "—and shut that snowdrop up" to a Serpent who heeled around and disappeared from her sight.
The thing's bellowing cut off into a soupy gurgle just before the orchestra opened up.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
The vapor plash of the turret guns overhead set the high notes, but it was drowned by the clatter of small arms—most of Loving Olga wielded "powder and shot."
Pop-pop-pop…
It always sounded a little different, each time, really. 'Vagaries of weather, environment, the state of your eardrums, what glands were getting squeezed out into your blood at the moment and how hard…
A hundred plus yards downrange, shapes started falling.
Pop-pop-pop…
The Serpents didn't fire from the hip, full auto, like a lot of Blue Shirted troopers would've been doing when in contact. "Short, Controlled Bursts, (Tee Em)," picking their targets.
With eight rifles, it didn't make much of a difference to her. Her ears were getting mildly jackhammered.
Pop-pop-pop…
Daria hadn't joined in—she could spin it a lot of ways, but the fact was she had very little illusions that she could contribute anything close to meaningfully to the work. Some of the platoon had been shooting longer than she'd been alive. Or her parents.
Pop-pop-pop…
The first grenades were going off. 'Hundred yards. Not exactly Hollywood range—not good for the camera. Too far away, just a little off-white puff and a thump that took a scrawny fraction of a second longer to reach…
One of the shapes suddenly "narrowed," a jarring, unintuitive sight to process, and it took her a blink to realize it had happened cleanly, at one shoulder, and much more raggedly halfway above the other elbow. The thing didn't even break stride.
Pop-pop-pop…
Raft. Really? She'd actually thought about college life. Non-curricular college life.
Astonishing, the kinds of things that would flash through a girl's head at a time like this. When you had the burden of time on your hands and nothing to do…
Raft again. That one, first, tender evening in a dark dorm room. Fantasia on the little TV, buzzing on VHS, burning in the black like a another blue window…first musical segment. They hadn't even made it to the penultimate piece…Mussorgsky…
One of the figures, shorter than the rest, and decked out in pinks, was making much better time scrambling over the slushy ground.
It burst. Daria hadn't seen what did it, or even picked out the noise, the little body just sort of flew apart in midstride. One of the pigtails spinning a slow, dainty cartwheel in midair…
Texas. Early October. Light wind, one of those barely-cracking-the-80s fall days. Still coat weather.
The weight of a new camera strap cutting at the nape of her neck. A little nepenthe of unburned butane perfuming the air…gentle laughter. A rough, nasal, hyena chortle of gentle laughter.
She'd felt her face fall. "God, you're gross…"
Couldn't have been more than…thirteen, fourteen years ago. It felt like close to twenty. Or thirty.
A bolt of blue fire clipped a figure, upper thorax, burning downrange into a pine at the tree line. Both were set aflame.
Less than a hundred yards, and that had to be the extreme limit of how far the gun could depress.
She heard the Sludge-Viper's squawking behind her. Daria couldn't imagine he looked forward to being in knife-fight range any more than she did.
The things were actually close enough to noises they were making—it was not a human sound, but it was a sound. In mercifully small scraps.
The gatling on the snowmobile snarled for the first time, and Daria started. The gun made a ripping sound, shorter than a sneeze, but put a hundred bullets into the air.
An un-worded little thought tried to scold her for calmly recalling what the ball-to-tracer ratio was, or even what the term meant, off the top of her head, when she was seeing it work on human flesh with her naked eyes.
Spindoctor just watched the clump of fast movers making a dash at their flank shred like paper under the burst. Two of them were in tuxes, one of them powder blue. There wasn't actually much blood. Their flank held. She tasted the relief melting on her tongue.
The scold got the brank.
Teenage years again. Classroom, back in one of those ass-killing Formica student desks from Texas Correctional Industries. What was supposed to be a somber moment—for propriety's sake, if nothing else. Probably nothing else. She was probably one of the only people who cared. In the 'right' way.
"Well," she'd said, "I guess it's kind of sad that they're dead and all. But it's not like they had bright futures ahead of them…"
No, not 'probably' at all.
One of them blooped the underbarrel launcher at one frail looking phantom that'd gotten far too close, too fast, mid mag-change. It didn't go off—by design. Safety feature, minimum arming distance.
Getting half a pound of inert metal lobbed into the teeth at a hundred and sixty miles per hour wasn't much easier on the recipient, in the end. Just not as fast.
It spoiled the grimace—and the lips had withered back so nicely to show it off. It'd had braces.
She realized she'd been inching backwards—a completely unconscious action. The savannah-rat brain desperate and assured for the measly safety four extra feet and a metal boulder at her back would bring.
Or maybe it was just the haughty, civilized frosting of a forebrain trying to put some symbolic distance between her and the butcher's yard. "'It's not me doing it, it's THESE goons…I'M not the one pulling that trigger…I got my Masters…not MY fault it happened…I'm not getting my hands dirty…I went to all the right clubs…'"
Both options weren't great…why did she feel worse about the latter? When did that happen?
One of the Serpents ahead glanced back—sealed up in that white helmet, earpieces, ballistic faceplate, it was like a burial mask. Only the exposed eyes made it look human. They met hers, but the man broke it with desultory disinterest, and he started to turn away. The back of her calf tapped against the bottom of the tread skirt.
When did that happen?
The head jerked back, eyes wide.
The rifle swiveled at Daria's head.
"BLYAT! OSTORÓ—" She missed the rest.
Something yanked Daria's hair back, scruffing her neck. The lanyard around her throat reeled tight. Her binoculars clonked under her chin as the weight lifted off her boots, and a lukewarm, evil-smelling thing whipped around and jammed back on her windpipe.
Her heels scrabbled against the skirts as she was drug backwards, up, slammed against the side of the rig.
Something hard and unyielding thrust next to her face, locking down hard on the mottled hand that had snatched her in a palsied chokehold.
Just past her lenses, in the corner of her eye, the shattered helmet and the ruined face of the revived toxozombie.
⁂ ⁂ ⁂
In a second, she was there again. Another classroom. Another damned uncomfortable chair. Babel in front of her, soaking in bedlam. There was a voice, coming from behind.
"He doesn't know what it means."
The thing was hissing—but it was like a ruptured gas line, the teeth were clattering in the air, snapping, by her right cheek. Like a pattern…
It was trying to talk.
She could only guess what—her mind flashed a few possibilities. Then swept them aside as not being particularly helpful to the situation at hand.
But whatever the Serpent had done to "shut it up" had ruined it's throat. She half-wondered if it even comprehended.
She'd started turning, before the voice even finished. Hooked her arm over the chair back, looked over her right shoulder. Barely keeping the annoyance-cum-misery out of her eyes.
Two blue eyes. Windows in the face of a contemplative sphinx…
"He's got the speech memorized…"
Daria clawed at the creature's forearm; her fingers made revolting purchase into the thing's flesh, but it's hold was impossibly, hideously strong. Her gloves squelched, something splattered under her nose, sick-sweet and redolent of paint thinner. It would have been enough to gag her. If she'd been able to breathe.
She smelled burning hair…
"Just enjoy the nice man's soothing voice…"
There was a lot of screaming. She didn't really join in—she wasn't much of a screamer. That needed air.
"Schutzer, KILL that urod!"
Someone's radio was squealing. "No joy…unable…unable…no shot…nosh…" The marksman sounded like he should be thumbing a string of Mala beads. Not panicky. Yet…
No shot.
That meant a real good chance that, at this moment, the back of her skull was firmly centered in the sniper's crosshairs.
Just in the right moment for guys to start getting antsy. Or trigger happy.
If they liked her enough to try and roll the dice in desperation…
The air flashed grey-blue again—the turret gun. For a heartbeat, she thought that it might be the sight of her Visual Cortex getting a new air hole.
That was when she realized the edges of her vision where starting to feather black…
"Just enjoy the nice man's soothing voice…."
Truth be told, it was not a very good rubric. Even with what little could be read before it.
Actually, there was a lot she wished she couldn't remember before that.
In the present, her fingers started shaking. No wait…had been shaking…why hadn't she noticed…?
It was a small jolt, just a little to power through the dark—a little window in the dark…
When had the world gotten so dark? Was it always like that? Was it…just her? The thoughts seemed to slur…
Someone was screaming, way off in the distance, a couple of feet away. Damnedest thing…sounded relaxing…
'Tried to rally again, for…something…had to want to do…something…right? Not sleep…she felt sleepy.
Her vision…glasses loose or something…like it was doubled. Doubled and tunneled…two spots of light in the black…
Two little spots of light…
And then, suddenly, it struck her. She wasn't sleepy.
She was tired.
So very tired.
Tired. Tired of waiting.
She groped, awkward and fumbling with her left hand, at her hip, until her fingers touched hardwood.
The Gorgon rasped out of the stiff leather holster like a hiss. Her other glove dropped, and she cinched the pistol into a bass-akwards Center Axis Relock.
Tired of waiting.
Tired of waiting on other people…to shovel their garbage.
She jammed the length of the barrel behind her right ear, and mashed down on both triggers. The gun came alive in her hand.
A shudder. There was a flash—just a blink of light, from the corner of one eye, and the loudest bellow she'd ever heard instantly choked into a single numb, triangle ting.
The ball of pressure against her throat vanished, suddenly languid. She was falling, and the weight on her spine going boneless with a bullock moan as it started to roll off her back. It wasn't in a man to make such a noise…
Hands reached it before Spindoctor's knees hit the snow, jerking it away before the cold wetness jolted through her trousers.
She gasped. Gaping, choking on the sweet, sweet Ether tang of smoke. A gang of Serpents had circled, and the now largely headless thing's trunk spattered under a long, uncontrolled assault of flame.
Spindoctor felt her fingers splay in the snow—she felt like she needed to throw up. She thought she heard the captain call a stop to it.
The gunfire choked off.
Spots of white, cold and wet, had appeared on the skin of her gloves. It was snowing? Blurry…
She noticed hot little wisps steam and die off her fingertips. She found strength enough to wobble up off her knees, and promptly flopped back against the rig's skirt, hard.
There was a lot of shouting going on, again, but she couldn't hear any more shooting. 'Couldn't hear anything out of her right side. 'Ic hearmed mīn eare.'
Things were still too blurry…ungh…she checked her glasses, and suddenly became aware there was another dead body laying next to her.
She peeked, squinting. The Sludge Viper. 'Looked like he'd had some of his tubes pulled out.
She felt a pang of something. But it was less than the weight she still felt on her windpipe.
Part of her thought she should feel worse about that.
Wait…second body? What was the first one doing on the ground? How could It get loose?
This is the least important thing you could worry about right now, you idiot.
She slammed her shoulder back against steel, trying to rise on her own. Her knees didn't seem to want to cooperate, knocking together.
"Where is that chertov medic? Hiding?"
Daria tried to speak, managing a lunger's cough.
"Well we've got one sack of meat still breathing…medic!"
"Medic—he dead." Well that sounded unfortunate.
She thought she might have blinked out for a moment. She tried to get a handle on the discourse that was going on…her absence had not been much noticed…that wouldn't do…
"We pack up, and roll out. We pick up search teams on way…"
"Olga, Overwatch, be advised second wave of contacts has increased pace, revise number to—"
"…we ditch dead weight. Make for highway. Leave slowcoaches behind if they can't catch up."
"We don't abandon our men, krest—"
Daria tried to interject…but she coughed, hacked, the words still choking raw in her throat.
"Abandon nothing! They have skis!"
They were working themselves into a pretty good frenzy, by the sounds of it. She started carefully fumbling past her lapel. 'Wouldn't do…needed to be direct…
"Leave wounded behind with those animals, zhivotnoye-MUDAK—"
"They have zhelezki, U VED'MY nyet's soboy LICHKA!"
No. No, that wouldn't do at all…
"-ty Turok, ty'i MERTvogo iznaSILUyesh!"
"GOOD AS DEAD ANYWAY IF THEY CAN'T FIGHT—"
There was a shriek—a banshee keen, quick and powerful like a dog snarl.
The men jumped, startled and dumb; degenerate Slavic gutturals bounced off the landscape for a few moments until the echos, too, fell dead.
Spindoctor pulled the whistle from her mouth. Turned her head, and spat. She retook their gaze. "We'll be dead as them if we come back empty handed."
That got their attention, and held it—bunch'a chastised puppies.
Fine.
"The nearest registered sleeper stronghold is five miles away. We—" She caught herself from saying "can" "—will exfiltrate and call for extraction. Cache the specimens if we have to."
She'd slowly started her rise on her boots, with the stateliest mien she could pull together, as she'd spoken. She straightened her spectacles, and, even slower, started turreting a good gimlet stare over her men.
None rose to the challenge. She tried to avoid looking at the field of carnage behind them. Tried not to note the bracing, chemical odor nipping in her nose that couldn't all be smoke from the gun barrels…
She froze.
Her eyes darted back to the second to last Serpent she'd glared over. That wasn't right.
Her glove leapt up under it's own accord. "You." The man actually flinched. "Yes, you. Where were you sticking that?"
She'd lowed her finger towards the Serpent's weapon, squeaking the leather.
He had a rifle—some AK-variant, like most of the rest of them. Daria couldn't even remotely hope to identify the model or variant on close inspection, let alone a glance. But she didn't need to.
The weapon was smoking. Not the barrel…the bayonet.
Spindoctor raised an eyebrow, with a curt tilt. The trooper started to stammer out a reply—good god, he sounded young—carelessly switching tongues.
"Na yankiskom, pozhaluysta." Her accent was frightening.
The man under the face shield blinked. "The specimen…sir. To shut him up—"
He stopped.
Everything stopped.
Time caught and hung in the bird's eye glare of the moment. He knew.
Spindoctor turned, slowly. She wasn't alone.
The rabies snare that had held the dead thing dangled, bobbling like a fishing pole, just where it had been secured to hold their prize.
The wire loop that had noosed the thing's neck at throat level was cut, dangling in the breeze.
The wire ends were smoking.
Daria peered forward, past the charred wrist restraints, to the dark spot that had been under the Thing's lap. When the fight had broken out.
The shadows were bad, but there was light enough to see where the creature's ichor had melted through the steel slab on the rig's flank, into the dark cavity of the skirts.
A sagging gap yawned between in a ruined length of the caterpillar tracks a foot or two below.
The metal was ticking, gently, but audibly.
More white spots drifted down through the gap, landing on a greasy, deformed, flangey lump of metal she couldn't identify. She didn't need to.
"Drive sprocket." That was the kapitan's voice.
"Sounds bad." She already knew.
"Bad enough…she can't move. Dead on her wheels."
Live silence. No…the radio had started buzzing again.
Daria picked up the handset, a little numbly—frowned, then transferred it to her left ear.
"…advised, revise estimates of second wave strength upward by at least half. Visibility degrading rapidly…" the voice paused, "Sir, it'll be dark, soon."
The moment…just hung, there, a fermata jotted over their heads, staring down on them…
A load of white slush dumped over the wreck out of nowhere, hissing steam when it hit the fouled metal—Daria all but jumped.
A Serpent flung away the entrenching tool, and leapt on the 'Wolf, tearing like a hyena at a hoary piece of kit strapped to the hull. "Break out the torch and the toolset—weiter, WEITER!"
The German speaker—"Schrage." That broke the spell.
And they were moving. Men peeled off, wordlessly—back to the phalanx aiming downrange, or slinging arms and turning to the crew assembling to tend to the wounded machine. That had to be all drill, not an order given. But…
Daria found herself drawing back from the crowd—no one ordered that, either. You didn't stick your nose in a well-oiled machine…or…
She might not know the drill, but she read the hands well enough. And the eyes.
This was a frenzy.
She felt something like a pang, just standing with empty hands…but she had absolutely no idea what she could do to help out…
Oh, to hell with that.
That wasn't her job.
She was was going to concentrate on something she did know how to do.
Spindoctor turned, and peeled off. She managed to vault into the Wolf's cockpit with something approaching grace, and slid into the rearmost seat—the rather decadent "greenhouse" canopy, cocked half open, had gained a dirty red smear and a handprint on the outer glass, but at least spared her hair from the falling snow. Good. Keep the right priorities…
The comm rig was the usual brooding morass of cassettepunk big iron, mortared together with ruggedized "Mil Spec" and a few warts of sleeker kit dating from the current century, all arcanely labeled if at all.
She had to shake her stinging wrist, but her fingers danced over the controls like they were at the Bolshoi. Glass lit up, the beast sparked to life.
There were shouts and clanging metal, outside. The "sparks" headset slipped on, smooth as silicone, if the right side was stone-dead useless. She got to work.
Comms were…bad. Well, big fat shock there. But…
A rifle popped. And once again, followed by a short burst.
On a hunch, she'd checked the civilian channels, phone and radio.
No cell service. Daria had faintly hoped she might be able to simply call ahead to get the safe house warmed up, but not especially surprising, given the terrain alone, it had been marginal and intermittent. But the strongest logged AM signal was out—that was worrying…she stopped.
The rig lurched, just a shove, some more yelling. It ran together as she fixed on a blazing blue line squirm a waveform onscreen.
No. Not out. She spotted it, probably more thanks to a dreary semester of coursework at the campus radio station than the field SIGINT course. Not out, broadcasting, carrier wave only. "On air"—but no one was talking.
She really wished she didn't know that…
THUMPS outside; she couldn't tell if that was against the hull, or outgoing. Someone horsely invoked the devil's grandmother—Daria tugged a spiral-bound packet out from a storage satchel, and thumbed over to the laminated list of "theater" transmission sites.
She scanned the text. Heh. Her own work. Daria had prepared it, assiduously, as one of the duties peculiar to her job…definitely not what she'd had in mind when she'd sent in for her League of American Pen Women card…
The Wolf lurched again—back in the other direction? Focus…She traced a thumb tip down the printed table. Station ID…KCBP…transmitter on…Eckert Peak…
The rifles were popping again.
Another few dial-tone button chirps, and a screenbrought up a map—this one was digital, warm vector lines, tracing topographic contours around an icon of an A-frame transmitter.
Shares tower with…
She frowned, and twisted at a knob, getting it on the second try. The display changed—she didn't need to listen, she could recognize what music looked like, transcribed to waveform-ese, easily enough.
But that was a "translator" station—the studio was based in Denver. That first, niggling "dead air" station?
KCBP. Studio at…
She felt the deathly fingers dance up her back.
Bluestone, Colorado. Mil coordinates…
Marginally distant commotion, outside. Aw, hell, that sounded like a scream…
She thumb-scrolled the map on the display. She didn't even need to zoom out to get the safe house on the same screen. Three 'klicks' distant.
Another cough clawed at her throat—she tried to swallow. Nothing. Even her tongue felt dry.
She fingered a key, a bit numbly. A box popped up. "Bluestone, Co. Population, 5,360, sq km…"
One of the snowmobiles snarled to life, the sound quickly disappeared over her shoulder. Picking up their overwatch. Assuming they weren't bugging out—probably not. That was a good way to get plugged in the back with current company.
The town name glared at her from the glass. Bluestone. She'd gotten a passing overview with it during mission prep. Already a lifetime ago…so not overmuch.
She got the feeling Spindoctor was going to get a lot more familiar with it, very soon.
A furred beast slammed into the commander's station. Daria jumped. Almost screamed. Dragonsky already was.
"Cobras, button up and desant! We are LEAVING!"
The canopy started to close, with an electric whine. The clatter of the world outside muffled when the glass sealed, replaced by the hum of electronics and canned air—just like back at the office. She didn't feel much removed from the situation, though. Or any safer.
Probably from the unobstructed view. A brace of shark-snooted missiles leering on a rack over the engine bay over her right shoulder, and on her left, where the first attack had come from…
Shoot, that's a lot of them…
The machine lurched, with a grind. They were moving.
The rig jerked, shouldering left, then corrected. It happened again a few seconds later. And again.
"Ostorozno! We strip another tooth, it's done—"
"—Contact front," the voice cut in with a buzz of feedback, "Infantry—mertvetsy, on trail, one hundred meters!"
Daria glanced up, over Dragonsky's head—she should have resisted the urge, she'd had been busy enough with the fallback procedure.
Now she truly regretted it. She couldn't look away.
"How—don't let them walk right up to us! Keep on thermals!"
The sight wasn't that terrible, considering. Perhaps several dozens of fractionally human-like shapes, crawling through the white mire that was supposed to be the—she couldn't even tell where the ground ended and the rolling country leading out of the LZ began, in the deepening Eigengrau. Dark shapes, writhing against a lighter background…
"They don't blyat show up on blyating thermals BLYA—"
But there were a lot of them. And they were closing fast, in a tin can with a busted drive. And nice, big glass windows…
Dragonsky's voice again. "Gunner, target infantry, missile."
"Rea—" "FIRE."
"Skipedo away!"
A blue flash—she slammed her eyes shut, not quite in time to miss being blinded when the rocket motor cracked, and hurled a black shape off the bow onto the featureless white canvas of the ground. It fletched forward, skidding ahead, traced by a line of black smoke.
She tried to blink the flash off—with her ear, she had the curious impression, like half her head had disappeared…
The weapon—a ridiculous little thing, really, wasn't it?—hydroplaned over the powder on it's single skid, and reached the new horde of beings in a second or two, still accelerating as it plowed through—through—the front ranks.
She actually had a flicker of wonder if it'd been fused wrong, or if it was the correct behavior for APERS, or what the hell kind of business did she think she had distracting herself with mental frippery at a time like th—
The Skipedo detonated. Big, lots of smoke, snow, dirt…
Something that look if anything like a skinny, tattered scarecrow arced up gently in the air…
The headset hissed, and something burbled. A voice. It took her a second to realize the voice wasn't distorted, it was a clear transmission.
Spindoctor was speaking—automatically, without a thought.
"Skinhorse, Penknife. Authenticate 'Mike.' Brave Vasilia is go. I say again, Brave Vasilia is GO. Enroute to objective 'Iolcus.' Acknowledge." Strange…it sounded like her voice, didn't it? She could have sworn…
Overkill responded immediately, his record-scuff glissando could have been a Nightingale.
"By your command, 'Penknife.' Brave Vasilia activated, and enroute. e-t-a three hours, exactly. Close bracket."
"Copy. Impose radio silence. Hail Cobra."
The driver had gotten the hang enough of the hobbled machine to decently gun it. They were almost to the raggedy scraps of the poor creatures ahead. The missile hadn't gotten them all, somehow…
No, no "somehow." She knew why. If they'd been healthy, red-blooded living humans, they'd have been crumpled, screaming and hemorrhaging out on the ground, at best. As it was, some where still standing. Moving.
One poor, lacunaed and shivered creature, was actually raising it's arms at them. The sight alarmed her—sheer dumb, primate instinct, sure, the wretched thing was uncanny, but was little immediate threat.
But the ones she'd only glimpsed still coming out of the woods were shambling in heel, just out of sight. The devil knew how many of them.
Or how many ahead—
A dark shape, rooster-tailing snow barreled into her view from the south, dwarfing the figure just for a blink before bludgeoning the thing aside with a glancing check. The thing flew, crumpling into the powder like rotten wood when the snowmobile sideswiped it.
Schützer was on the back, riding like a charioteer. Good. They'd gotten him…
A dim awareness that there were eyes facing her bubbled to Daria's attention.
She looked down. Dragonsky. He'd turned in his seat to face her. She hoped she hadn't left him waiting too long. Or that he hadn't been sizing her up too long.
The old Russian asked, simply, "What is 'Brave Vasilia'?"
Daria was suddenly aware she'd been bracing in position. And that she hadn't been breathing.
She sagged back in her seat. "'Expensive.'"
The man just cocked his head, mock quizzically.
"'Brave Vasilia.' It's something very expensive for me..."
Something outside got close enough to touch the bow glass—it slapped at the canopy once, before the machine barreled over it at speed. It looked like it snapped. Daria finally inhaled.
"Something that's going to cost me a lot…"
The Polar Blast taking "point," they were following the snowmobile's lead, barely visible ahead in the snow—and the dimming light. It was getting dark.
Everything in the whole miserable, hardscrabble tableau seemed to melt into each other. Still another trip to come.
Daria allowed herself a little slump, and tried to quietly join it for awhile…