Chapter 1- Pilot

The guard who stood on the watchtower was getting very wet.

Tentatively he pressed his back against the damp wall, pulling the hood of his thick fur coat down over his forehead in a futile attempt to shield himself from the rain. He put his left hand deep into his pocket and produced a wet and twisted cigarette. Cursing silently, he held it tightly in his lips, and proceeded to search for a lighter.

A clap of thunder boomed over head and he jumped slightly, mouth opening in shock. The cigarette fell from his lips and landed in a muddy brown puddle. It was a mark of how bad things were that he momentarily considered bending down and trying to salvage it, but it was already beginning to disintegrate.

No, all things considered, it had not been a very good day for Leon Renoir, and now, as the rain whipped against his face stinging his eyes, the cold wind biting at his exposed flesh, he began to get the feeling that it was only going to get worse.

Further along the wall where Renoir stood swearing, the other two guards Volkov and Chung stood deep in conversation, oblivious to the rain. By nature Renoir didn't have many friends, by nature he, and most men of his kind were loners. Strangely, he liked that idea, loners, Renoir the lone wolf, the lone ranger- he thought it sounded pretty cool really.

But in Volkov and Chung, he felt he had found something of a kindred spirit, if, unlike Renoir, you bought into all that new age bullshit. Hell he and Volkov even looked alike, both were tall, muscular with dark hair and dark eyes. They could nearly have been related.

No one ever asked if they were related though- but then again people didn't tend to ask them a whole lot. The rest of the general population tended to avoid men like Volkov, Renoir or Chung.

Over the last four months the three had developed a firm friendship. Chung, like Renoir, was smart. He also had a capacity for violence that both intrigued and astounded the younger man, albeit in a slightly morbid and twisted way.

Renoir also liked the young Russia- well at least he thought he was Russian, all those Eastern European countries were the same anyway.

But tonight Renoir stood a little away from the other two, in his line of work, you had to possesses a certain amount of perceptiveness and intuition, and Renoir possessed both in ample quantities.

Leon Renoir was nervous.

He had noticed a shift in the climate over the past few months. Something subtle, and yet he could feel a constant, palpable tension hanging in the air. It was beginning to bother him, and had become a constant weight on his shoulders, a fear- no more an uncertainty that he could not shake.

A few feet away, the guard Volkov was holding several different colored canisters out for inspection.

It was this perhaps that made Renoir so nervous. Volkov saw himself as the self appointed munitions expert in the compound, his specialty- homemade explosives- those were two words that, in Renoirs opinion should never be used together if at all possible.

It had become common practice for the guards on duty to be called out to Volkov's cabin following reported explosions, usually in the

vague hope he had managed to blow himself up. Thus far they had been thoroughly disappointed.

As if to confirm his suspicions, Volkov's heavily accented voice carried back to him on the wind.

'Zee green one, that is som kind of sleeping gas I tink,' he held up the green canister.

Renoir shuffled forward a few feet, looking apprehensively over Chung's soldier.

'What do you mean think? How do you only think it's a sleeping gas.'

'Vell,' said Volkov shrugging exaggeratedly, 'people certainly stop moving ven I use it so I can only assume…'

'How do you…' began Renoir, but Chung interrupted him.

'And zee red von…'

'Pink,' interjected Chung seriously. Renoir grinned, Chung was a man of few words.

'Is red!' replied an indignant Volkov.

'Pink,' repeated Chung solemnly.

'No is red!' Volkov squared up to the smaller man, their brows touching.

Volkov had a good two feet on Chung, but Renoir still didn't fancy his chances if it came to a fight. Renoir had witnessed the small Asian perform feats that should surly have been rendered impossible by the laws of physics.

Sensing trouble he intervened- after all one of them was holding some potentially volatile materials.

What does it do?'

'Ah!' Volkov was easily distracted, 'Is explosive. Very powerful, my best yet,' he added with a hint of pride. 'And zee yellow…'

'Is blue!'

'Is Yellow!'

'No…' agreed Renoir, 'that's defiantly blue.'

Volkov looked down at it, momentarily puzzled.

'Zont remember a blue, vot do you think it vill do?'

He was met with blank expressions.

'Your asking us?' replied Renoir incredulously.

Volkov blinked at him blankly, and then shook the canister furiously, holding it up to one ear.

'Stop! Jesus you psycho that could be explosive' screamed Renoir, horrified.

'Is probably,' nodded Volkov in agreement, continuing to shake it, 'Vill I throw it? See vot happens?'

'No! Why would you do that?!'

'Vas good idea, I thought…' Volkov looked like a child whose parent had just slapped them. Renoir felt a bit bad.

Neither of them had noticed Chung, who had drifted over to the edge of the high wall, and who now stood surveying the vast, barren wasteland that lay before them.

'You have binoculars?' he asked turning back to Renoir.

'Sure. What's up?' he joined the smaller man at the edge of the wall, squinting into the distance, and unhooking the pack that contained the binoculars from around his waist and handing them over.

Chung was silent, lips pursed in concentration.

Renoir held his breath as he peered over the ramparts. Now he could see them too, shadowy forms in the distance, bursts of fire that illuminated brittle wings and ruined faces. The noise carried back to them now over the howling wind. Screams and howls, deafening and horrifying. A shiver ran down his spine as he was overwhelmed by the sheer number of them.

Demons, hundreds of them.

'Awh shit,' whispered Renoir, 'Awh shit.'

'Is not good?' Volkov had joined them and was peering exaggeratedly over the ramparts.

'No! No is not good, is really not good,' agreed Renoir. For a moment he despaired, his mind drawing a blank, his orders and training forgotten. Panic, blind panic threatened to consume him. But the sight of his friends, the closest thing he would ever have to a family standing by his side brought him back. Think, he chided himself just think God damn it!

'Sound the alarm,' he said at last 'they're coming.'

Then they turned, and ran.