Juggernaut

‘Shit. They’re hitting us from all sides. I think they’re under the train.’

A cadaverous figure gripped the sill and tried to pull himself inside. Skull face. Gleaming chrome erupting through flesh.

Amanda unsheathed the knife from her webbing and stabbed the deformed soldier through the eye. She twisted the blade. The creature released its grip, toppled backward and fell dead in the dirt.

Voss crouched on the carriage roof. Steady fire. The killing ground between the convoy and locomotive littered with bodies like a battlefield.

He exhausted six mags of tungsten carbide penetrators. He shook cramp from his trigger hand. He flexed his shoulder.

Skeletal creatures stumbled between burned-out vehicles. Seething movement.

Lucy’s voice:

‘Swarming like bugs.’

A couple of soldiers crawled along the Pullman roof towards Voss.

‘Chrome motherfuckers flanked us. Circled our fire avenue and reached the train. Still got some residual smarts.’

He took aim. Neat headshots. The skeletal creatures fell dead, slid from the carriage roof and landed in the dirt.

‘Time to get radical.’

He climbed down the ladder and jumped to the ground. He opened the carriage door and climbed inside.

‘How you doing?’ he asked.

‘Sweet,’ said Amanda. ‘Don’t worry about us.’

Voss snatched a bandolier of rifle grenades. He slung the belt over his shoulder: 40mm pepper-pot rounds in leather loops, like elephantine shotgun shells.

He jumped from the carriage. He ran across open ground towards the convoy.

Lucy and Amanda on over-watch. Soldiers lumbered towards Voss. They cut them down. Skull-shattering impacts.

Voss pushed a grenade from a belt loop. Gold tip, high explosive. He slotted the grenade into the breach of the launcher slung beneath his rifle and snapped it shut.

Voss aimed the launcher and fired. Thud. Whistle-whine. Rotted troops blasted to fragments. It rained rocks and scraps of flesh.

He advanced. He stepped over cratered ground and smoking limbs. He could see soldiers massing among the wrecked vehicles of the convoy.

Voss grew up in Bloemfontein. A dilapidated house. A pile of wrecked furniture in the backyard. ‘Put a match to it,’ his father said. Voss slopped gasoline and threw a burning rag. Rats streamed from the woodpile as smashed cupboards and chairs started to smoke and burn.

He thought of rats as he watched rotted soldiers swarm and teem among burned-out vehicles.

He slotted a fresh grenade into the launcher and fired. Thud. Streak of efflux. Thunderous concussion. Eruption of sand and smoke. Trucks rolled. Sedans flipped and burned.

Amanda fed a fresh belt into the SAW. She locked the receiver closed.

‘This is it. Last chain. Two hundred rounds, then she’s done.’

‘Make them count,’ said Lucy.

Two half-dissolved Republican Guard stumbled towards Voss. Skin hung in strips. They tried to flank him from the right as he fragged the convoy. Amanda cut them down. The SAW spat brass. The soldiers were ripped apart.

Nearby sound of smashing glass. Amanda pulled plugs from her ears.

‘Shit. They hit us from the rear. They got in.’

She opened the connecting door to the second carriage. The dining car. A banquet table. Upturned chairs. Cobwebbed dereliction.

A rotted figure squirmed through a broken window. He hauled himself over the sill, shredding clothes and flesh on jagged shards.

More soldiers crowding outside the coach. Hands slapped glass. Windows cracked and broke.

Amanda grabbed the SAW. She slung the strap over her shoulder and lifted the weapon. She stood in the doorway of the dining car.

The man-thing fell to the floor of the coach. He struggled to his feet. His right arm was a mess of metallic spines.

He saw Amanda and hissed.

She braced her legs and pulled the trigger. The heavy machine gun ejected a stream of links and smoking brass. The soldier burst apart. He was hurled backward. He hit wall panels and slid to the floor. Another burst from the gun obliterated his head.

Windows shattered. Three Republican Guard began to haul themselves into the carriage. Amanda opened fire. The creatures were pulverised and flung from the train.

The SAW ran dry. Amanda unhitched the strap and dropped the smoking weapon at her feet. She unholstered her Glock and backed out the carriage. The floor was carpeted with spent shell casings. Her boots kicked scorched brass.

‘Did you get them?’ shouted Lucy.

‘There will be more,’ said Amanda. ‘We can’t cover both carriages. We have to barricade the doorway.’

Amanda tipped the mahogany desk onto its side and pushed it to block the connecting door.

Lucy fired from the window. Soldiers approached across open ground from the east. Headshots. They fell dead.

She flexed cramp from her trigger hand. She slapped a fresh mag into her rifle.

‘Give me a hand,’ shouted Amanda. She pushed a heavy bureau towards the carriage doorway.

Lucy lay down her rifle, threw her bodyweight against the bureau and helped shunt it against the barricade.