Not for the first time, I wondered if I would ever again breathe air that didn't taste of rubber. I gently laid my precious SA-80 rifle to the warm concrete, freeing numb hands to ease the gas hood chafing my neck. With thickly gloved hands I attempted to rub my grimy portholes free of the radioactive dust accumulating there, wondered again, even if I did live through this, if I got out, how many years, months, days would I have before the inevitable damning words? Malignant tumor. Terminal.

I'd been wearing full NBC warfare kit for at least two weeks now, ever since the Sovs lit the giant mushroom that slagged half of the city. As far as I knew, Wilkes, Bridges, Chandraskatta, O'Riordan McBryant and myself were the sole allied defenders in theatre. 
"Stand to, Corporal."
"Sir." I saluted rather crisply. I was thankful my arms hadn't fallen off yet, damn this radiation. Captain Bridges was a stern disciplinarian, even after the local apocalypse. But he was a good man, and all of our company - A.Co., 3rd Battalion, Royal Cameron Highlanders - would have followed him into the mouth of hell. In fact, you could say we were already there. Back when our company was more than five men, of course.
"At ease Corporal. Work on that salute."
"Sir." 
"Where's McBryant?"
"O.P, sir." I said, pointing upwards. McBryant had capped another four wandering Sovs during the night. I often heard him talking as he handled his Lee-Enfield sniper rifle, congratulating himself on yet another poor Russian sod capped and laying face down in the ash. There was a moment's pause. I was sure the Captain was thinking along the same lines as me. Still, McBryant was our best shot, however deranged he was becoming. The Captain nodded and tried the radio that sat collecting (radioactive) dust in the corner of the crumbling tenement block we called 'HQ'. After a few minutes the Captain gave up, swearing in disgust. Whether there was too much interference in the air, or simply no one at the other end of the line - GHQ - no one could tell.

We were still on our own. I field-stripped my delicate rifle, taking great care to clean and oil all parts of the firing mechanism, as much to escape the Captain's chilling stares as anything else. There was a sigh and the Captain ambled over, rubbing at the portholes of his NBC mask in lieu of tired eyes.
"Corporal, get the men together please. We meet here at 09:30" "Yes sir." I was up in a flash, down the stairs and out the door with new enthusiasm. The Captain had said 'please'. I took this to mean he'd made a decision - were we finally withdrawing? Out of here, back to allied lines, whatever. Surely we'd get leave. Maybe even out of the war for good. Back to Leeds, back home, to my brother, mum and dad, to darling Sophie-" "If I was Russian, you'd have lost both your legs Dave. Then I'd come over an' gutted what was left like a fish." I froze rigid for a second.

"Geesh Vik, don't do that!" I gritted through clenched teeth. Vik Chandraskatta had a knife to my throat. The smooth, sharp edge pressed through my gas hood to my bristly neck. I realized I'd almost wandered into the bouncing mines he'd set up. The man had always enjoyed his work too much, always working alone…word was, before the nuke, he'd notched up over twenty kills… "Hey, man" he whispered. "Just looking out for you, that's all."

Only then did he relax his arm and drop the knife a bit. Without further ado I told him what the Captain had said and hurried off, cursing my daydreaming and the perpetual twilight that had settled over the city ever since the nuke, making it a place of long shadows, waking nightmares and the grave of over twelve thousand allied soldiers and countless civvies…

A few streets on, and I almost blundered into my next objective. My eyes searched eagerly through so much rubble, which these days accounted for most of the city. Eventually I picked out a few meters of gray camo netting, strewn liberally with assorted rubble. I lifted it gingerly, so as not to disturb the delicate camouflage. Underneath, in the gloom was the unmistakable shape of a light tracked vehicle - a Stormer APC, with the complex and delicate weapons mount that made it what our Generals regarded as their battle winner - a prism tank. There was just enough space in the camo netting and rubble screen to allow the solar panels and prism focus assembly to reach 'daylight', and to cover the roads ahead, yet as I'd proved, make the whole thing almost invisible to the naked eye. In effect, it was a kind of tank sniper. This tank was one of the few secretly produced in Britain in the early stages of the war before being shipped out here. It was the last surviving tank of the King's Own Irish Hussars, 1st Battalion, which Captain Bridges had absorbed into our slightly diminished 'Regiment' of five men. It was also our only hope of standing up to any kind of Soviet advance. I eased up to the light aluminum plating and tapped out a pattern - the crew had orders to shoot anyone who tried to get in with the wrong code. After listening to my frightened, gasping breathing pattern for a few agonizing heartbeats, praying I'd remembered the right code, a similarly NBC-wrapped figure popped the rear-deck hatch. It was Sergeant O'Riordan, one of two crewmen and once a jovial, happy-go-lucky Irish Mick, now but a shadow of his former self. Radiation sickness - he'd been caught out at H-hour. One day soon, he'd pay with his life. I told him what I had to, then left. I couldn't bear seeing him in his sickly condition, yet he remained at his post, getting sicker and sicker every day. I turned back.

Rounding another street I trudged on. I sensed a shadow over me, before looking up. I expected to die in the next few seconds - a tank! One of the bloody huge, twin-gunned Sov tanks, big red star gleaming from the turret. I swore, fell to the ground and scrambled back around my corner, hugging the pathetic protection it offered. I chambered a round in my rifle, before bursting out in laughter - what would a puny 5.56er do against that?

It was a few moments more when I realised that maybe I should be dead, or maybe even I was. My head spun from the shortness of breath bestowed by my gas mask, dimly realising that the vehicle was no longer moving. If it were I'd have heard it. I had a vision of it grinding my frail body to a red smear on the tarmac. I finally plucked up the courage to take another look. There was something very very wrong. The turret was askew; actually off it's rotating mount. The tracks had been torn link from link, and, as I slowly circled the dead behemoth, I noticed engine access hatches ripped open. It looked like every moving component had been disassembled and strewn liberally all over the road. I took the decision to clamber up the tank's hull, take a peek in on the crew - and immediately wished I hadn't. I fell, ripping off my mask, not caring for the radiation I'd be inhaling, and heaved my guts up onto the pavement in record time...Disassembled.

I sat for a long time, feeling a hell of a lot worse than before, and even then I thought I'd seen it all. I reluctantly decided I'd better put my mask back on, after all. When I had time to think, I recalled rumours of new Soviet anti-armor weaponry. Small, robotic drones, designed to take apart vehicles piece-by-piece. Back then we'd laughed. Big, dumb Russkis, we'd thought, could never get their thick heads around miniscule robotics. Now I'd seen the proof. I'd seen everything…

"You've seen too much Comrade, it appears…" I whirled, snatching up my gun. A Sov stood, brass as anything scant feet for me, decked out in long-coat and gas-mask assembly so that he looked anything but human. He was an officer, and spoke good English… "I'm not your comrade, scum!" The man had his hands up, and spoke with condescension. His Drum-magazined AK carbine hung idle on a sling.
"My apologies. I come in piece, Mister American."
"British, actually. English."
"Immaterial. We are all in the same boat, now. Comrade."
I knew he was only calling me that to piss me off…
"Cut the crap. What do you want, Russki?"
"I wish to surrender."
For along moment, I stood. Visions swam in my head. Soviet surrender. A chance to get back to GHQ. Back home. Sophie… "Walk." I gritted my teeth.

I decided to take the direct route back, keeping my gun-barrel on the guy's back all the way. He'd already seen too much of our positions to let escape. I had no qualms with shooting a man in the back; I'd done it before. Besides, they'd nuked us… Back where Sergeant O'Riordan's prism tank lay covered, I'd planned to go and check, see if he had managed to get out and to the meeting. Obviously I didn't want my Russki to see the tank. Besides, my trigger finger was twitching already. But when I saw the smoke…I ran, tore away the netting, peered in Gears. Paneling. Torn track links. Disassembly. Blood/oil dripping from engine compartment to mingle on the pavement. My friends.

Something darted out over my shoulder, lighting fast. Four-legged, shiny…
I screamed and clamped down my trigger. Bullets tore down the road, smashing up and dust and concrete. I didn't let up until the clip was empty, when I slapped in another form my webbing. I'd hit nothing.
"Problem, Comrade?" My Sov officer said. I rounded on him. My fist slammed into his chest. He was winded and fell to the floor.

"Shut up. SHUT UP, DAMN YOU! I'M NOT YOUR COMRADE!" I caught my breath. With my gun to his head, I chambered a new round, and putting as much menace into my voice as I could - "Now tell me what the hell's going on!"
"Very well Com-, uh, mister. You have met our Terror Drones, da?" He knew as much. I made him get to the point. "Terror drones. Good. Allied army has no…countermeasure. Glorious Soviet army lose many vehicles, many brave soldiers, mopping up Allied resistance in foul corrupted capitalist city. But no. Terror drones. Make many in War factory, da? Underground, automated, safe from Allied air power. We need them no more, but still factory is producing, modifying design…"

But I slowly realized why this coward was surrendering now.
"I've seen what happened to your own tanks, russki!"
"Da. Terror drones gone bad. We do not know. Radiation? Now terror drones are multiplying, da? Beyond control. Now we are in boat together Comrade",
I didn't let him finish. I kicked him.

"You coward! You can't stop what you unleashed, now you beg for your life, so we can die, trying to right your mistakes?" I kicked him again, and put my 9mm handgun to his masked head.
I thought. GHQ. Home. Sophie. Weighed my choices…
"Alright, Russki. Get up. We walk."

We neared the OP, and I displayed a white flag in case McBryant was over-eager with his sniper rifle. We hadn't seen Chandraskatta on our way, so I assumed he was already here for orders. I hadn't noticed the corpses of the Russians McBryant had capped during the night. I assumed one of our men had moved them to stop the Russians getting wise to our little 'sniper alley'. I carried on walking, keeping my Russian at arm's length in front of me.
Thwip!

There was a soft metallic puncture sound, which I assumed was the rifle-round going through the Russian's respirator mask. I watched agape in slow motion as the Russian collapsed in front of me. My ticket out. Gone.
"NO!" I screamed. And endless wail of despair. I waved frantically up at the tenement building, where Mc Bryant would have been. There was no movement. I flung the Russian onto my back using strength I didn't know I had. I ran for our HQ, where we stored our meagre medical supplies, booting down the door, rushing up the stairs.
The HQ room was deserted.

Above me, the sniper's post. Shouting. Screaming. McBryant. I heard the sound of heavy materials being hauled away from the door - he'd barricaded himself in. This was our seasoned sniper, a man as Ice-cool I'd never known, screaming frantically - at me? I couldn't tell.
I put my Russian down. I couldn't tell if he was dead yet.
My ticket out. Sophie, I'm coming baby.

I wrenched the door of the medical cupboard. Before I could find anything I was showered in…objects.
Arms, legs, a shoulder with Captain's pips - the remains of at least ten men. Blood spilled out to cover the floor from the dismembered limbs - freshly cut, as it were. Something scuttled - I blasted with my pistol. A metallic leg was severed. Something fell down the stairs I'd just ran up, exploded. I stared after it.

McBryant ran down from his post, face bone-white where not splashed with blood. He thrust his AWP rifle at me.
"Don't let them in I SAID DON'T LET THEM IN!!! I SAID" He screamed and screamed, trailing off. He appeared to be pointing at the Russian.

"Mike! Easy! He's a prisoner! Mike! He's our ticket out of here!" I screamed, holding him back from the Russian. I glanced around - Bridges, Vik, O'Riordan - all gone.
Disassembled.
Sophie?

Before I knew it, McBryant was dead. I'd shot him myself. He'd tried to cap the prisoner, my ticket home, to Sophie. I'm sorry Mike. I had to do it. You were mad. I giggled.
"Ah, now we are together Comrade!"

I turned slowly. My 'Prisoner' was up on his feet. He'd taken his bullet-punctured helmet off, and I could see through the gap in his head the bullet had made. Tiny whirring gear wheels, wires as fine as hairs. A Hammer and Sickle emblem. Imagine your bog-standard terror-drone's big brother. Only a lot more human-looking.
"Do not under-estimate technology of Soviet people, Comrade!" He laughed, extending a hand full of whirring razors, cutters and screwdrivers, eager for some more disassembly.

I raised my gun, realised a shot would be futile. I put it to my own head.
Bye, Sophie.

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