Salby (Book 2): Salby Evolution (23 page)

Russian Federation base, Port of Murmansk, present day.

Evie and Charles practically dragged Portman between them. Though the wounded spook did his best to walk with them, he simply couldn’t make his good leg work as well. Ahead of them, open ground revealed khaki-clad men as they scrambled for cover behind anything that might stop a bullet. The chaos gave them some protection as they wound their way through the burning vehicles. The remains of the
Baltic Wanderer
loomed at the edge of the opening, and floodlights illuminated the very edge of the dock.

“The ship, Charles!” Evie yelled.

“I see it, my dear. Portman and I have four legs between us, two of which work. I’ll do my very best. Come on.”

Three shots rang out from behind the trio. Portman took two to the back and fell limp, his dead weight too much for Evie as he slipped to the floor. Charles spun off to the right and fell heavily on his side. Evie turned and began to fire, not even looking at whom she was shooting at.

“Lower your weapon, Dr Shepherd. You are surrounded and I won’t hesitate to shoot you too,” a voice mocked from her left.

“Charles! Charles, please God. Charles, no—” Evie cried.

“Oh, come now, Dr Shepherd. Do I have to kill you too?” the voice taunted, close to her shoulder.

“Aslanov,” Evie growled.

“Welcome to the dawn of the new generation. You weren’t going to leave the party without saying hello to your children, were you?” he sneered.

“You did this, you sick bastard. Do you think the compound will save you?” Evie threw the weapon to the floor.

“Come now, I couldn’t possibly take all the credit. It was your research that led me to this strain. They will do anything I tell them, you know. Oh yes, anything at all. Seize her!”

“Aslanov, I’ll see you dead, you—” Evie screamed.

Two burly men grabbed each of her arms, practically hoisting her from her feet. Her toes dragged along the floor as they fast-paced back towards the relative safety of the inner compound. Aslanov bellowed over the gunfire reports.

“Hold the compound at all costs. Get rid of those two, they make the place look untidy, and will you please shut her up!”

A swift pistol-whip to the temple silenced Evie mid-sentence, and her body hung limp between the two infected guards.

Rebel forces began to make headway into the main port area as burning vehicles cast thick smoke across the compound.

*****

All around me, the onslaught continued. Rounds began to ping past Nathan and me as we ducked and dived our way towards the port. At that point, I wasn’t sure if they were aimed at us, or simply stray bullets from the fight. I tailed Cross and dropped low when he did.

“Load up. I need you firing to cover me. If it doesn’t have an armband, shoot it if you can. You got me?” he yelled.

“I got you.” My head bobbed to confirm it visually over the gunfire.

As I clumsily attempted to cock the 102, Nathan knelt and sent another two to their eternal resting places. I managed a satisfying click as the first round met the chamber, ready to fire.

“We’re going in, cover me!” he yelled.

Before I had time to respond, he was up and running headlong into the fight. I did my best to run behind him and hold the automatic weapon in front of me at the same time. With my focus on the weapon and
not
shooting Cross in the back accidentally, my boot caught an outcropped rock and sent me into a flat-fronted sprawl. I panted and wheezed, only now regretting my rebellion against the smoking angel.

Amid the noise, Cross didn’t hear me tumble and maintained his pace to the battle. I pushed myself up, disgusted at my own ineptitude. Caked in dust and dirt, my hands, arms, and knees bloodied, I followed the disappearing shape in front of me. Instinctively I pressed the mic button to reach Cross by radio. It was only when I pulled the cord to my headset that I realised it was plugged into nothing. It must have come off my belt somewhere back there.

As I approached the radio truck, I could see Petrov in the thick of it again. He was cornered by a crossfire of enemy troops, pinned against what remained of the relay truck. I doubled my efforts to get to him. If nothing else, I would give them something else to shoot at besides him. The infected soldiers were going for the kill, and he was out of ammo and clearly in trouble. He dropped the useless weapon, reached to his right, and pulled his combat knife from its sheath, evidently not going to go down without one hell of a fight. The first of the infected reached him, simply firing. The impact took him from his feet, and his knife skitted from reach. Slowly, the infected soldier stood above him, a half-smile forming on the man’s face as he lowered his gun barrel for a final, fatal shot.

“Stop!” I yelled. It was all I could think of. A different, cocky, half-comical line those television movie actors came out with eluded me.

To my utter amazement, the infected soldier did as I commanded. He withdrew his weapon to his side, turned to face me, and did the most bizarre thing I’ve ever seen. The man removed his black glove, exposing his hand to me, palm up. I stood dumbfounded as the soldier’s infected comrade drew close behind me. Petrov was breathing heavily, his wound what the stars called a through and through. He moaned as he pushed himself up on his good side, witnessing the sheer absurdity of a combat soldier in the middle of a raging fight, offering a hand of friendship to me.

I tentatively touched the extended hand. It was my way of letting the soldier know I meant no harm. I knew his eyes; they mirrored my own. Mottled, swirling black beads locked upon my face. The weight of his stare, and that of his brother-in-arms was almost tangible. Immediately after contact, the soldier assumed a defensive position around us, his colleague first requesting a similar handshake before he did the same. For all intents and purposes, I had somehow managed to acquire a personal guard.

Battles raged between opposing forces all around us. Gunfire pierced the air alongside screams and shouts, muffled by smaller explosions. Plumes of thick, cloying smoke burned my lungs, which actually made me want a cigarette. I could have killed for a smoke right then. I bent low to Petrov. He stared at me, half in fear, half in disbelief.

“What did you say to them?” He grimaced.

“I told them to stop. That’s all. How bad are you hurt? Can you walk?” I pressed.

“I can move. Help me stand,” he said boldly.

I wrapped my free arm about his waist and hauled him up. A movement to my left caught my eye as another soldier rounded the corner. By the lack of armband, I assumed he was also one of the infected, yet his attire suggested otherwise. My newly appointed guards stood fast, weapons trained ready to fire. They could have cut him down where he stood, and yet, they didn’t. Both soldiers looked towards me, one waiting for my command, the other awaiting my intention. The approaching figure recognised me, I saw it in his eyes. I lowered my gun, and he did the same as he drew within a few feet of us.

“You are Simon Lloyd?” he queried.

“I am.”

“Gladstone. Pleased to meet you. I am with British Special Forces, escorting Doctors Shepherd and Fitzgerald. Are these men with you?” he asked, confused.

“Apparently so, Gladstone.” I smiled. “I’ll explain later, where are the others?” I pushed.

“The ship. I told them to make for the ship. This way,” the rugged man replied.

He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. His face hung long, and stubble formed a light beard where once a clean, crisp shave would have revealed the chiselled contours. He pointed to where we needed to head. I took off my belt and formed a basic sling for Petrov’s injured shoulder, and then the four of us followed Gladstone.

*****

Nathan glanced over his shoulder as rounds clanged into the container behind which he took cover.

“Where the hell is he?” he muttered.

A volley of automatic weapons fire sent him to ground. Too close for comfort, he thought. He rolled from cover, aimed, and fired twice, satisfied that two more wouldn’t cause further problems to anyone—ever. Billowing smoke obscured his view back the way they had come.
Had Simon fallen? It didn’t feel that way. No, he was alive.
Nathan
knew
it, albeit unsure of how he knew. A moment was all it took to prioritise his actions. He broke cover, using the swirling, thick smoke to make progress towards the main compound containers. As he passed key points, recalled from the schematics of the port layout, he made a mental note of his relative position from both advancing armies.

“Zero receiving, over,” Nathan radioed,

“Go ahead.”

“Zero—Stewey, I lost him. I lost Simon. No radio contact. I’m going after Evie, will try to locate him too. Over,” Nathan advised.

“Nate, be careful, buddy. We’ll come in behind you for back-up, don’t move into the complex until we get there, over.”

“There’s no time, Staff. Cover me as best you can. Rendezvous at the vessel, over,” Nathan finished.

“Roger that. We’ll cover and locate Simon. Out.”

*****

Stewey knew there would be no convincing his best mate to wait any longer. He also knew that Nathan was no push-over when it came to combat situations.

Accompanied by Yaromir, the burly Russian, they began to approach the western containers of the inner compound. The enemy soldiers continued to come. Most appeared disorganised and clearly not accustomed to battle conditions. Within forty feet, Stewey had already notched up three confirmed kills, and Yaromir had taken out two.

Not only was the opposition unskilled in battle, they also lacked any form of leadership. Without direction, despite their numbers, Stewey thought it akin to shooting fish in a barrel. Within easy reach of the inner container maze, Stewey radioed the control centre to request that Federation troops secure the perimeter and refrain from entering the main complex. This would allow the resistance fighters to clearly identify the infected and block any means of escape for anyone within the port.

Within minutes of his request, Federation troops began to withdraw towards the outside fences of the Port.

*****

Nathan ploughed onwards, the angular bow of the ship now in plain sight. As he was about to step into the open, a sound directly behind him saw him freeze. Nathan turned in response and met the butt of a rifle to the jaw. The assailant had dropped from the roof of the last container, probably more by chance than planned. The blow sent him reeling sideways, his rifle held only by the strap as it clattered off his right knee, numbing his lower leg for a second or two.

A second figure joined the fight, the wooden cosh swiftly making contact with Nathan’s shoulders. He fell to his knees, desperately trying to push himself up as more blows rained down upon him. A third shape swooned in and out of focus as a final blow to the head sent him belly first to the ground.

Gladstone rounded the sharp edge of the container, which brought him to a sharp halt. “Portman? I thought you were seriously injured. It’s good to see—” The sentence hung unfinished as Gladstone realised both his friend, and Dr Fitzgerald were now infected.

Portman gazed blankly at the armed, black-clad man before him as he stood astride the prone body of Nathan Cross. The viral agent coursing through his veins had ejected the two rounds which effectively took his life. His shattered knee grated bone on bone as his weight alternated between his legs. He drew his sidearm from his holster, intent on finishing what he had started.

Gladstone raised his Glock. “Portman, it’s Gladstone. You know me, buddy. We went through the academy together, remember? You dated that blonde when we graduated, what was her name? Sophia, that’s it. High class. Remember? You must remember, surely. Don’t do it, Phil, he’s a good guy, he’s one of us. We’re the good guys, don’t you see? Phil—”

Portman held the gun in both hands and lowered it towards the head of the semi-conscious soldier at his feet.

“Phil, don’t make me shoot you. Phil, please.”

Portman cocked his weapon.

“Portman!” a distant voice, broken by sporadic bursts of gunfire hailed.

“Portm—” the voice shouted again.

Gladstone fired, the bullet passed clean through Portman’s skull. Portman felt a soft, finger-tap to his forehead, which was the last thing he ever felt. The doctor raised his club, ready to charge Gladstone.

*****

I saw it all pan out from a distance. Gladstone spotted Nathan first, and then we witnessed Portman slide off the container roof to land behind him. Gladstone took off after his colleague, but I had little choice but to get Petrov under cover. In the end, I left my fellow infected comrades to watch over him as I ran full tilt towards Cross. My calls were drowned out by gunfire, not to mention the desperate pleas of Gladstone himself. I nearly made it. The single shot rang out just as I approached Gladstone’s shoulder.

As his partner and friend fell, the life extinguished by his own hands, Gladstone remained in the shooter’s position.

“Gladstone?” I queried.

“I killed my best mate, my partner. He left me no choice,” the spook muttered.