I was down in the courtyard and starting across when I realized I was making a mistake. The buzzing from the box as I swept the wand indicated where the signal was coming from. But the more I waved it around, the more I realized it wasn't from the Grand Kremlin Palace in front of me. It was almost that direction, just slightly to the right. I was just a little bit too far away.

As I walked, I pulled out my 1911 at long last. I really should have checked it earlier. As expected, it had one magazine and seven rounds. I made sure one was in the chamber and put it on safe before tucking it back in my waistband. I found a revolver in one of my pockets and checked it. It had four rounds left. Where had I gotten that? I put it back where I had found it. There was also a flashlight in another pocket, which I did remember from the tunnels. Everything had been so hectic.

I checked through the pouch of ammunition, and found it contained a handful of bullets for the revolver in .32 caliber, along with two more 9mm magazines for the submachine gun. They were funny shaped with a stick portion attached to a rotary drum. Weird, but they worked well enough.

There was a great deal of smoke in the air, but I couldn't see where it was coming from. The smell was an acrid, burning rubber smell that reminded me of a burning zeppelin. The one I had seen earlier must have gone down in Red Square.

The rumble of truck engines alerted me to the Russian Army on the move. I didn't want to be caught out in the open, so I headed back to the side of the Kremlin. Not the window from which I had come out, but farther down, closer to the palace. I continued working my way along the side. It wasn't really any cover, but it was better than being caught in the wide open.

Eventually, the building ran out. There was a zombie machine gun nest where the corner turned, minus the zombies. I poked my head around the corner of the building and looked down the street beyond. A few dozen meters away, the zombies were shuffling slowly along in the slouched fashion of Hollywood zombies.

I had smashed the amulet that was supposed to control them. That had seemingly removed Rasputin's control, and now they wandered aimlessly. I had to assume now they were in search of brains, so while they might be less likely to shoot me with a crew-served weapon, they would be more likely to chew through my skull. It was an improvement, but it wasn't exactly safe.

As I stood there considering, the rumble of motors came louder from down the street. I crouched low behind the wall of sandbags around the machine gun nest. I was just in time. An armored scout car came around the corner down the block, and then a truck filled with troops. I lay flat to get completely below the sandbag wall. Gunfire roared, which I guessed was the troops in the truck gunning down the zombies.

I looked around me and realized this wasn't a machine gun nest, but an anti-aircraft gun emplacement. On a heavy vertical mount sat a Maxim 1-pounder autocannon. That was more like it. Did I let the Russians be? Was the enemy of my enemy my friend? Ha! No.

I stood up and moved quickly. The weapon was familiar, and so was the mount. My fingers quickly found the release pins.

The car and truck had pulled up outside the palace 100 meters away. Someone noticed me and shouted. I was just pulling the autocannon off the mount when the rifle fire started. Bullets studded into the sandbags. I ducked, cradling my prize to my chest. After a couple more shots, the fire tapered off. This gun emplacement was in the shadow of the building. Had they gotten a good look at me? Perhaps they thought they had hit and re-killed a zombie.

I slipped over to the side of the gun emplacement wall and stood up. Someone shouted as I laid the cannon atop the wall. The scout car was faster and mounted a machine gun, so it was my first target.

The autocannon roared and jumped back at me. The first round sailed past the armored car and detonated in the masonry of the palace beyond, showering the Russian troops in bricks. I steadied the gun and pushed it back forward, then fired again. Technically, the explosive rounds were intended for lightweight targets, like biplanes, and not armor penetration. But the scout car had light armor. It exploded.

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Rifle bullets ripped into the sandbags and sprayed my face with particles. I shifted my aim quickly and triggered one more shot. I let the recoil of the gun knock me back down and pulled the gun with me as I dropped into the shelter of the sandbag wall. A distant roar told me I had hit the truck.

After that, it only took a few bursts of submachine gun fire to clear the way into the palace.

As I approached past the burning Russian vehicles, I noticed a couple of other trucks parked off to the side of the palace. No one seemed to be around them.

I entered the hall. It was eerily silent; opulent decorations covered in dust filled the place. I was intent on finding my quarry, and I didn’t spare them more than a glance.

Ok, a second glance at one particularly ornately decorated egg; even an uncultured hick like me has heard of Faberge eggs, and if that wasn’t one I’d eat it for breakfast. I hurried on past. No time to loot the place.

There were prints in the dust layer on the carpet, the tracks of many boot-clad feet, but there was no other sign of anyone in the first few halls. The quiet was disturbing after all the gunfights and battles I had been in since arriving in Moscow. My boots made almost no noise on the thick, luxurious carpet. I made my way down the corridors, following the sound of the magic detector and the path of footprints in the dust.

Finally, I reached the throne room. It was filled with dozens upon dozens of Russian soldiers standing around in neat rows, blank expressions on their face, and dim green fire glowing in their eyes. Their weapons were held loosely in their hands. They stood stock-still, not quite at attention, just standing there.

The man standing on the dais in front of the throne wore voluminous robes of brown tattered cloth tied about the body at the waist. He looked tall and thin, almost skeletal under the robes. His hair had fallen out in patches, and his skin had a gray pallor. Had it not started moving and speaking, I would have thought the body was a corpse.

My submachine gun was on its sling, and I carried the heavy autocannon with three rounds left. My hand suddenly spasmed. The heavy cannon hudded onto the carpet at my feet. I down at my hands in shock and saw a green glow surrounding them.

"You won't be needing that. Do come forward. I could strike you down where you stand or make you into my puppet. But you are an interesting specimen, and I would like to talk."

I stepped over the gun and walked forward. "I've heard that before. Look, I'm just here to kill you, so if we could dispense with the chit-chat..."

The withered face sneered. "Don't be in such a hurry to die. Yes, I can see you are thinking about shooting me. I know you have more weapons. Even if I let you kill this body, that would not destroy me. So, come closer and tell me about yourself. Then I can decide whether to destroy you or put you to use. Like Admiral Karpov, you might find service to me has its compensations."

I took several more steps forward. When I considered myself close enough for a sure shot from my 1911, I reached for the gun. Or at least I tried to. My arm didn't move.

"That's close enough." The voice was casual, almost bored. “Now tell me about yourself.”

I sneered and started a flippant response but I wasn’t fast enough.

“No, I insist.” Rasputin said. Blinding agony speared through my brain. I felt thoughts and memories ripped away from me. The pain came with a wave of dizziness, and I staggered and almost fell.

“Ah, interesting,” the animated corpse said. “Much of this I had guessed, but it is interesting. I see you have enough usefulness for me to grant you life in my service. Besides, it amuses me to take the witch’s toy from her."

There was a will pressing down on me, locking my limbs in place and tearing at my mind. Desperately, I pushed back, trying to free myself. It was like the mind-conditioning words were exerting an unseen control on me, but a dozen times stronger. I pushed, fought, enraged in a battle in my own mind. But I was losing.

Finally, I retreated, pulling my consciousness in on itself. I let go of the battle for control of my limbs and my body and even my thoughts and retreated back into myself.

I can't describe it more clearly. A war in one's mind defies words. But I found myself there, trapped in my own mind, as my body slipped completely from my control.

My hands pulled the submachine gun sling off my shoulder and dropped the weapon to the floor. I turned and marched purposefully across the room. I passed the ranks of Russian soldiers still standing stock-still with the glowing green eyes. I caught a fleeting glimpse of the body on the dais. It had set back down in the chair. The glow on its face was dim, almost gone, and the body slumped back against the throne. I realized, with what small part of me could still think, that Rasputin was not here and this was just another puppet of his will.

A puppet like I was now.

I walked out of the throne room, down the long corridors, and left the castle to head out into the dead city.