A Glimpse Of Decay (Book 1): Red Storm) (3 page)

The sergeant could see the bullets ripping and tearing into the bodies of the soldiers, but none of them seemed to be affected by the gunfire.  Realizing that the camera bank had controls, he reached down to a joy stick and zoomed the camera out to allow him to see who was doing the shooting.  It was Kirilenko.  Both Pushkin and Gennady stood in silence and watched helplessly at what happened next.

Kirilenko had just emptied his rifle into the group and was down on one knee, ripping the magazine out of his weapon.  As he was retrieving a fresh magazine from his ammunition pouch, the group of dazed soldiers rushed him and were upon him before he could reload.  The mob piled onto Kirilenko, tearing and ripping at him.  One soldier sank his teeth deep into Kirilenko’s right bicep, tearing away a large chunk from his arm.  Another soldier savagely scratched at his face, gashing away shreds of flesh.  The struggling man dropped his rifle and tried to pull away from the throng, but he was yanked back and tossed down to the ground.  The soldiers then continued to gnaw and scratch and pull at his body, screaming and howling as they did.

The battered soldier kicked and punched wildly at his attackers as he cried out.  His body was then blocked from Pushkin’s view by the mass of crazed troops who were now huddled over their victim.  When they dispersed a short time later, Pushkin could clearly see Kirilenko’s dismembered remains scattered across the ground.  The poor camera resolution, along with its black and white color tone, had cast the entire ghastly act in a dimly lit and unfeeling presentation.

Pushkin and Gennady stood in horrified silence in front of the monitor.  The sergeant looked over at the other working monitors and saw more soldiers and now some civilians in blue overalls moving across the screens.  They all had the same tattered and bloodied appearance.

“We have to get in there,” Pushkin told Gennady.  The frazzled sergeant knew that no matter was going on in there, it had to be contained until more help arrived.

As Pushkin and Gennady made their way towards the exit, Gennady stopped and looked over at Leonid.  He was now shirtless.  “Get your damned rifle and get out there!  And put your fucking uniform back on!” he yelled at the terror-stricken soldier.

“Why?  It’s all over!  There is nothing you or anyone else can do!  We’re all doomed!  Can’t you see?”  Leonid had a crazed, almost deranged look on his face.

“You’re a fucking coward!” Gennady screamed at the terrified man.  He raised his rifle and pointed it at Leonid.  “At least you can go out there and be with the rest of us, and if need be, die with the rest of us!” 

“You’re all going to die!” Leonid snorted as snot bubbled from his nose and tears ran down from his eyes.  He raised his hands in protest and began to sob and laugh at the same time.  He had truly lost his mind.

“Then you’ll be the first to die, you cowardly bastard!”  Gennady squeezed off a burst from his rife, ripping Leonid’s chest wide open.

Startled at the sound of gunfire coming from the guardhouse, Pushkin ran back in to see what had taken place He saw Leonid lying on the floor, crumpled and bloodied—his eyes staring up at the ceiling.  The sergeant looked at Gennady, not bothering to ask what had happened.  They both turned and ran out, joining up with the rest of the troops.

Pop!  Pop Pop Pop!  The loud staccato of gunfire erupted from somewhere within the facility.

Gorbachenko!  Pushkin thought.  He and his men must have encountered something.

Overwhelmed with an urgency to get into the complex, Pushkin yelled, “Everybody get ready, we’re going in!  Form up behind the last track!”  He ran out in front of the APCs and motioned for Sokolov to move through the gate. He then ran back to the rear of the column and just as his men were forming up behind the last vehicle, Sokolov’s APC suddenly and unexpectedly opened fired with its heavy auto cannon.

The roar of the gun was deafening as it echoed off of the concrete buildings.  Pushkin stepped out from behind the carrier and saw Gorbachenko and several of his men running towards them.  The terrified soldier wasn’t wearing his protective mask and he was screaming at Pushkin.

“Run!  Run!” the frightened Gorbachenko yelled.  He had a wild look of terror on his face.  Right behind him was a throng of screaming and grunting soldiers and civilians.  Their expressions were twisted in anger and they were howling and shrieking.  Their faces were covered with blood and grime and they were reaching towards Pushkin and his men.  Some of the crazed soldiers were carrying severed arms and legs and other body parts, and some of them were raising their ghoulish trophies above their heads in some sort of angry, obscene protest.

Pushkin turned to his men and he ripped off his mask.  He couldn’t fight it anymore.  He had lost his composure at the sight of the horror that was approaching him.  He felt like he couldn’t breathe and he was fighting the urge to vomit.

As he heaved and struggled with his breathing, he looked down at the AK rifle that he was clutching in his gloved hands.  It meant nothing to him right now.  He had seen how Kirilenko’s weapon had been useless.  All his rationale was slipping away from him and the only thing he could think of was his beautiful wife Alina.  He knew that it was imperative that he stand firm in the face of his fear—the courage of his young men depended on it—but his brain was now in survival mode.  He wanted to run.

In a violent eruption of deafening noise, the other APCs began to fire their guns at the menacing mob.  Without any notice, Sokolov’s APC suddenly reversed recklessly into the line of fire and a round from the second APC’s cannon went right into the back of Sokolov’s turret, cutting the man in half.  The damaged APC then lurched forward, and a second misguided shot tore through the top of the rear deck of the vehicle, igniting the fuel tanks located in the rear cargo doors and causing the troop compartment to erupt into an inferno.  Showing little regard for whoever was behind them, the two remaining APCs backed away from the burning hulk of Sokolov’s vehicle.

Surprised and stunned, the troopers scurried out of the way of the retreating vehicles, but for one unfortunate soldier, he wasn’t able to move fast enough.  As he tried diving from out of the path of one of the reversing vehicles, he was knocked down by its rear end.

Pushkin could only look on in horror as the screaming young soldier was turned into a red pulp beneath the grinding track.  The sickened sergeant could hear the crunching of bones and the popping of organs as he rolled away from the APC.

As the mortified sergeant got back to his feet, he saw some of the advancing mob being turned into a mixture of red vapor, bloody entrails, and shattered bones as the heavy auto cannons tore into them.  Screams and cries and howls came from the pack as more rifle fire broke out around him. 

Pushkin’s troops had fanned out into a skirmish line and they were firing away into the advancing marauders, but nothing seemed to be affecting them.  The air was filled with the stench of burning gunpowder and the concussion from a thrown hand grenade sent a shock wave through Pushkin’s body.  Several of the invincible soldiers and civilians were now jumping onto the APCs and several of the terrified troopers were running away from the battle.

There was no stopping what was going on and Pushkin knew it.  Giving in to his own urge to flee, he turned and pointed to the forest behind them.  “Run for your lives, boys!  In God’s name, run for your lives!”  As the last words left his mouth, he broke into a full sprint.  He could feel his heart pounding and he wanted to run as fast as he could, but his old knees were keeping him from making any real speed.

As he dashed away from the noise and confusion, he realized that for the first time in his life he, was running away from a battle.  Well, this wasn’t a battle.  He didn’t know what it was, but it couldn’t be called a battle.  He just knew that he had to run away from whatever it was.  He cleared his mind and focused on his escape.

He was able to run along the dirt road and he glanced back at the guard house.  One of the APCs was continuing to back up while the other sat motionless.  Sokolov’s APC was now in full bloom, and the dark black smoke it was creating was blotting out the entrance of the complex.  The ammunition onboard was exploding and bright orange flashes were leaping out from the hatches of the vehicle.

The rampaging mob was now spreading out over a meadow that ran along both sides of the road.  They were moving fast, in all directions, and it looked like several of them had seen Pushkin.  It was clear that they were coming in his direction.

Pushkin turned and fixed his eyes on the heavy woods.  He decided to leave the road and make his way out across the grassy flatland that extended to the tree-line.  In his haste, he didn’t see the dugout in front of him.  The old defensive position had been concealed by overgrown weeds and it was undetectable to the eye.  As he took his next step, the ground fell beneath his feet and he tumbled down the wall of the five foot deep hole.  He landed face down in the dirt and grass, knocking the wind out of him.  A large exposed root caught the right side of his torso and he felt his ribs break.

After a couple of seconds of sucking air, he got back onto his feet and regained his senses.  The pain on his right side made him wince and clutch at his ribs.  He peeked out of the position and noticed that only one of the APCs was firing its gun—he also noticed that the individual rifle fire had stopped.  He crouched back down in the ditch for a moment and held onto his own rifle as he tried to listen for anyone approaching.  He then heard the roaring diesel engine of the last remaining APC as it rumbled past him and away from the complex.  He was all alone now.

After thinking of all his options, he knew his only chance was to make it to the woods.  He readied himself to spring from the abandoned dugout and dart the last few remaining yards to the cover of the trees.  He crawled up to the edge of the ditch and tried to ignore his aching ribs.  As he was about to bolt from the ditch, someone else came crashing down into the hole, landing right on top of him.  It was Gennady.

Pushkin found himself lying face up with Gennady’s back across his chest.  He was able to shove his communications man off of him and he leaned back against the dusty slope that his comrade had just rolled down.  “Gennady, are you injured?”

There was no response from the radio operator as he sat on the ground with his back to Pushkin.  He looked up and away and didn’t acknowledge his sergeant.  It appeared as if he was distracted by something or someone as he jerked his head to the left and to the right.  His arms were held up high, as if he was reaching for some invisible tormentor that was hovering over him.  Pushkin was able to see that something didn’t look right with Gennady’s fingers, and when he was able to finally focus in on the man’s hands, he was horrified to see that the crazed soldier’s fingers had been gnawed down to the bones.

“Gennady, are you okay?”

This time, Gennady heard Pushkin.

In one sudden and rapid movement, Gennady spun around and lunged at the startled man.  His eyes were blood-shot red and blood was smeared over his face.  Thick, dark vomit was caked on his chin and down his neck and it reeked like death itself.  Grabbing the sergeant by the collar of his tunic, and with one violent rapid movement, he lowered his head and bit Pushkin on his right arm. 

“What in the hell are you doing!” Pushkin yelled as he struggled to break free from Gennady’s grasp.  A terrible pain ran up his arm and the sergeant yelped.  With a frantic shove from Pushkin, Gennady flew backwards and Pushkin saw that a large portion of his bicep had been ripped off.  To his horror, he could see a ragged piece of bloody flesh and torn uniform hanging from between Gennady’s teeth.  As he fought an uncontrollable urge to vomit, the wounded soldier grabbed for his arm in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Screaming and yelling unintelligibly, Gennady spat out the torn flesh and came at Pushkin again, renewing his attack.  This time he scratched and clawed at Pushkin’s head, tearing deep gashes across both sides of his face.  The sergeant winced from the pain as he brought up his left arm in an attempt to fend off the attacker.  The crazed trooper grabbed at Pushkin’s blouse again.  Grunting and cursing, Pushkin was able to shove his left palm under Gennady’s chin.  As he tried to push him back, Pushkin saw that the skin on Gennady’s left cheek had been ripped off, exposing a large portion of jaw bone and flexing muscle.

Get off of me, you bastard!”  Pushkin’s arm was burning, but the bite wasn’t the only thing that was hurting him.  A stinging, almost boiling sensation was running up and down his wounded arm and he felt like the tips of his fingers were about to explode.  With one last rush of adrenaline, he was able to push away his attacker.  He grabbed for his rifle with his left hand and brought it up to his waist.  As Gennady rushed at him again, Pushkin shoved the barrel of his rifle into the man’s chest.

Just before he pulled the trigger, Pushkin saw that Gennady was snarling and baring his teeth.  The awful sight struck terror in him and he thought he was looking into the face of the devil himself.  In the next instant, a salvo of bullets was tearing through Gennady—kicking up plumes of dirt as they struck the far wall of the ditch.  The trauma to Gennady’s body was devastating as several large bloodied and shredded pieces of flesh and bone were ripped from his upper torso.

Both Pushkin and Gennady fell back in opposite directions.  As he sat there trying to catch his breath, the sergeant saw how Gennady’s chest had been blown open.  Pushkin’s face was burning from his injuries and he had lost all feeling in his right arm, but for some strange and unknown reason, he was now able to move it without any limitations.