​Frederic, Maryland
​
​The deafening thuds reverberated through the empty garage as the Grays pounded relentlessly on the interior door, their monstrous strength threatening to shatter the wooden barrier. Even though it was freezing cold inside the empty garage, sweat trickled down Raymond's forehead as he scanned the cluttered space, his mind racing for a solution.

SSGT Becket was unraveling a stiff brown cord, with a claymore mine attached to the other end.

"I have an idea. Grab those boxes and totes!" he whispered louder than he should have, pointing to a haphazardly stacked tower of plastic containers and cardboard moving boxes. “Stack them tall next to the overhead door.  Rios, unlock the drive chain so we can lift the roll up door if need be.”

Raymond looked at them, for the first time in ages he was unsure of himself. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to hide behind these boxes.”

“Bruh! What the hell? Cardboard boxes man, seriously?” McCune said wide eyed.

With some hesitation, they scrambled to take cover, their faces pale with fear but determination glinting in their eyes. As they crouched behind their makeshift barricade, Raymond pulled a small perfume sized vial from his pocket. It contained a viscous, translucent liquid with a greenish hue and a smell of stale sweaty gym socks – the experimental Camo Pheromone.

"Raymond, what is that stuff?" SSGT Beckett whispered, eyeing the vial warily.

"Sex Panther. It works 60 percent of the time, all the time." Raymond replied, his voice steady despite the bone-chilling sounds emanating from the other side of the door. "It masks our scent, making us invisible to them." He paused, opening the vial and sprayed the liquid onto each member of the Recon Team until it the vial was empty. "At least, that's the theory."

As the last pump of Camo Pheromone was applied, the door finally gave way, splintering into fragments. Sunshine and Grays spilled into the garage. The team remained motionless behind their makeshift barricade of plastic totes and cardboard moving boxes, praying that the experimental Camo Pheromone would keep them hidden from the infectious death, just feet away. The team held their breath, their hearts pounding in unison as they watched the shadows of infected creatures sniff the air, their heads twitching back and forth in search of prey.

Raymond questioned his faith in the scientist and hoped that the pheromone would work as intended. His M4 selector switch was already on full-auto. The stakes were too high, and one wrong move could mean certain death for them all. All it would take is for one clawed hand, or mouth full of teeth to come through and break skin. With each passing second, the tension in the air grew thicker, suffocating the very hope of them ever leaving this garage, healthy.

Beckett held a M57 clacker between his hands, ready to detonate the anti-personnel mine. McCune held a frag grenade in one hand, the other hand ready to pull the pin, with the safety clip held between his lips. Doc had both hands on bottom lip of the metal garage door, ready to heave it open for a quick escape. Darkness, just staired at Raymond, shaking his head in disbelief.

The Grays, their bulbous pus boils pulsating and sharp finger bones scraping the concrete floor, circled the garage like ravenous predators. One of them bumped into the wall of boxes concealing the team, causing the stack to wobble precariously. The team members exchanged panicked glances, Raymond lightly placed a gloved hand against the wobbling box, preventing it from tipping over.

The metallic scent of fear hung in the dust filled air of the dimly lit garage. Raymond peered through a narrow gap between the stacked boxes, plums of mist escaped his mouth as he breathed heavily. The Grays' frenzied snarls grew louder, drowning out the thumping sound of his own heartbeat.

After what felt like an eternity, the Grays seemed to lose interest in their search. Their guttural growls subsided, and they began to shuffle out of the garage one by one, leaving them unscathed in their hiding place.

When the last Gray had vanished, SSGT Beckett exhaled shakily, his body trembling with residual adrenaline. "That was too close," he said, meeting Raymond's eyes. "Why didn't we use this Camo Pheromone before?"

"Because it's experimental," Raymond replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "I didn't know if it would work, or if it might have side effects. I was going to test it on myself at some point, but we were desperate."

"Desperate" seemed an understatement.

"I don’t know about you guys, but I had complete faith in that plan." McCune said sarcastically.

"Let's wait a few more minutes to let them clear out, then we get moving," Beckett said.

*****BREAK***** 

Beckett motioned for the Recon Team to stay low and quiet as they cautiously exited the garage. They moved stealthily, covering each other's backs and taking calculated steps over the frozen ground to avoid detection. The air was thick with tension as they made their way to the FEMA Center.

As they closed in on the perimeter, McCune who was on point, signaled for the team to halt. He scanned the area meticulously, ensuring it was devoid of any threats before pressing on circling wide around a tall office building overlooking the FEMA Center. They were careful enough not to make the same mistake they had made at the oil refinery.

Bright sunlight filtered into the office building through grime covered windows that haven’t been cleaned in months. Conducting a hasty search floor by floor until they made it to level 4 where they found a suitable executive office with a broken window over looking the FEMA Center.

Following Rios' lead, Raymond helped set up the urban hide while the rest of the team finished searching the building for threats. Rios unpacked his hide kit, handing Raymond a can of black paint to spray on the lower windows. Rios unraveled a transparent black window screen that was hung over the broken window like a curtain. Raymond closed the door behind them, voiding any backlighting. Together they lifted and repositioned they heavy walnut desk closer to the window.

While pulling a pair of binos from his pack, Raymond noticed movement next door in the FEMA Center parking lot. Through the screen over the broken window, Raymond and Rios observed a street gang that had taken over the FEMA Center. The gang members were easily identifiable by their distinctive tattoos, bearing the numbers "13" or "MS" alongside graphic designs like demonic faces and weapons. Their attire consisted of baggy clothes, bandanas, and an assortment of makeshift armor. Most of the MS-13 gang members were lazing around, their assault rifles slung over their shoulders. The few guards that were on duty walked their posts with a bored indifference.

"Hey Boss, we've got a situation," Rios said into his radio on the team channel.

“What's up?" Beckett asked, as he returned to the hide site.

"MS-13 gang members have taken over the center. They're armed and hostile," Raymond reported, his gaze fixed on the gang's movements. "We've spotted prisoners too – they've got them locked up in makeshift chain-link cages over there inside the loading docs."

Beckett approached the broken window and peered through a pair of binoculars, observing the brutal conditions the prisoners were subjected to. His jaw clenched as he saw a woman pulled into an adjacent office then viciously raped by one of the bulky men. The more she fought against him, the worse he hit her, until she finally went limp from a blow to the back of the head.

Beckett's eyes burned with anger as he watched the horrifying scene unfold. He had seen and dealt with many atrocities in his time as a Marine, but this was different – these were innocent American civilians being tortured by ruthless gang members.

"We have to do something," Rios whispered, his hands clenched into fists.

“No shit, let’s go kill those fuckers!” Doc said pulling his body armor on, over his head.

“We should sic the Grays on them assholes.” McCune said.

“No, they’d get the prisoners too.” Raymond countered rationally.

“This is the type of evil I escaped from as a child.” Darkness admitted.

Beckett nodded grimly wanting to rush down there to end the woman’s pain. He hated himself for having to say it, "We will, but be smart about it. We’re outnumbered at least 3 to 1, and on the offensive. We have to wait until dark, then we'll take them out while they sleep."

It figures that these are the type of people who would survive the apocalypse. They are not strangers to violence, well-armed, and a command network already put in place. Raymond thought to himself as he continued gazing out the broken window.

The team spent the remaining hours preparing their gear, counting targets, and studying the layout of the FEMA Center, formulating their plan of attack. As night fell, Beckett, McCune, Doc, and Darkness moved down the hill covered in overgrown dead grass, stealthily towards the center, while Rios and Raymond kept watch from their hide site.

Beckett led his team to dark shadowed area the security fence, where they used bolt cutters from their breaching kit to create an entry point. Before they entered through the hole in the fence, Rios broke radio silence, “Hold position, you have one tango coming towards you through the semi-trailers.”

“Copy that, take the shot if you have it.” Beckett commanded.

A second later a sound of a muffled cough, a wet smack, then a crumpling thud was heard as the headless gang member collapsed in place.

“You're clear to proceed. There are a few more tangos on the north side we’ll take care of.” Rios instructed.

As the team stalked their way across the parking lot, bounding from semi-truck to semi-truck, towards the loading docks, they encountered a lone gang member guarding the entrance. Darkness executed a swift, silent takedown plunging his Ka-Bar into the bald-headed man’s tattooed neck. Darkness’ gloved hands muffled the sound as the man's lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

"Raymond, you got eyes on the inside of the warehouse from your vantage point?" Beckett asked as they moved cautiously forward, checking for potential threats in all directions.

"Stand by," Raymond responded. Using the rifle scope he looked through a tall warehouse window, he observed the prisoners huddled together in fear. He relayed their positions to Beckett and the others, ensuring they could safely approach.

"First priority is the prisoners. On me." Beckett whispered, leading the team towards the loading dock door.

"Two guards sitting at a table on the long wall, I do not have a shot." Raymond warned, his finger hovering over the trigger of his suppressed sniper rifle.

"Copy that," Beckett said, his M4’s suppressed muzzle pointing at the closed door as he crossed over to the other side. McCune reached across, grabbed the doorknob, twisting it to ensure it was unlocked, and looked up to Beckett through his night vision devices. Beckett pushed the switch-pad on his handguard  activating his IR laser and nodded to McCune.

With force, McCune pulled the door, stepping out of the way so it could fully swing open. Beckett was the first one in, going in the direction of the known threats pressing his trigger as soon as he had a clear shot. Doc and Darkness was right behind him looking for work, swiftly neutralized 2 more hidden gang bangers with precision shots from their suppressed weapons.

“Clear” Beckett whispered, after he shot each downed gang member again.

"Clear," Darkness, Doc, and McCune confirmed as they continued through the cages.

"McCune, escort these people back through the cut fence to safety," Beckett ordered, cutting the lock on the nearest cage with bolt-cutters.

"Got it, boss," McCune replied, herding the frightened prisoners out of their confinement. "United States Marines, we’re here to get you out."

"Raymond, we need more eyes inside," Beckett said, entering the FEMA Center building with Doc and Darkness close behind.

"Understood," Raymond responded, adjusting his rifle scope parallax to peer through windows as they systematically cleared each room.

"Room clear," Doc reported, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Move to the next one, on you," Beckett confirmed, signaling to Darkness.

"Three hostiles in the next room," Raymond informed them, watching as the gang members argued over a dwindling supply of food. Rios next to him shot another roving guard in the parking lot headed towards McCune and fleeing prisoners.

"Copy that," Beckett acknowledged. He gestured for Doc and Darkness to take positions on either side of the doorway, their suppressed weapons at the ready. With a nod from Beckett, they burst into the room, eliminating the gang members before the shell casing clanked off the floor.

"Room clear," Darkness declared in a hush tone, his expression stoic as he surveyed the carnage.

"On me," Beckett ordered, leading the team deeper into the FEMA Center, their mission far from over. The teamwork, combined with Rios and Raymond's overwatch, proved to be a formidable force against the out numbering but unsuspecting gang.

Suddenly, a loud noise echoed through the building as a door slammed open. Beckett, Doc, and Darkness quickly assumed defensive positions. They cautiously approached the source of the disturbance—a room with a large bed where they found a panicked MS-13 gang leader clutching a naked prisoner girl, his gun pressed against her temple.

"¡No se acerquen! ¡Los mato a todos!" the gang leader barked, beads of sweat forming on his brow as he glared at the Recon Team with wild eyes.

"Easy now, we don't want anyone getting hurt," Beckett replied in a calm but firm tone, his weapon still raised but not directly aimed at the man.

"Raymond, you still got eyes on?" Beckett whispered into his comms, hoping Raymond could find an angle from his hide site. The situation was tense, and any wrong move could end in tragedy.

"I got him." Raymond responded, observing through the dirty windows of the FEMA Center office building. The bipods of his DARPA XM-3 sniper rifle were firmly planted on the executive’s walnut desk. At a slight downward shot, Raymond had his backpack under his buttstock, which he hugged between his elbows giving him more control of his rifle.

At 300 yards, this was a chip shot. He dialed his elevation turret up 1.4 mils. A cool winter breeze was blowing left to right at a full value 5 mph. For a high risk precision shot like this, Raymond preferred to dial the wind instead of holding, 0.4 mils left, he clicked his windage turret.

He breathed in, breathed out, checked his natural point of aim while at the same time watching the frantic gang bangers tattooed covered face who was conveniently standing right next to the dirty window. The further a target is away from a glass barrier, the more likely a miss from incalculable deflection.

"Let her go, and maybe you can walk out of here alive," Beckett negotiated, trying to maintain eye contact with the gang leader.

"¡Nunca!" the gang leader spat back, tightening his grip on the terrified woman.

"Your call, buddy," Beckett said coldly as the gang leader twisted slightly thinking he would shield himself from Beckett using the woman, but opened himself wider to the window.

In one fluid motion, Raymond squeezed the trigger, sending a round through the single pane glass window. The hollow point bullet struck the gang leader squarely in the side of his head, killing him instantly.

The woman screamed and dropped to the floor as the lifeless body slumped to the ground pooling blood around her.

"Tango down," Raymond reported, his voice betraying no emotion as he lifted the bolt on his rifle, to eject the spent casing and chamber a fresh round.

"Damn good shot!" Beckett praised as Doc and Darkness rushed to the woman's side, checking her for injuries.

The remaining MS-13 members knew they were outmatched. The limited visibility in the dimly lit FEMA Center heightened their fear, as they realized most of their friends were dead, and they were facing an unknown enemy with superior tactics and firepower.

"¡Nos rendimos!" one of the gang members called out, throwing down his weapon and raising his hands in surrender. The others followed suit, their bravado dissolved into desperation.

"Clear the rooms," Beckett ordered, his voice a mix of authority and relief. "Doc, Darkness, secure the prisoners. Rios stay on overwatch. Raymond make your way down here and collect the weapons."

"Roger that." the team members responded.

As Beckett methodically cleared each room, he couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. The lame unsuspecting warehouse scouting mission had been an honorable success in the end, and the FEMA Center was now under their control. But there was no time for celebration; the team still needed to secure the facility, tend to the wounded, and evacuate the survivors.

"Baby Shark, this is Daddy Shark Actual," the radio crackled to life. "What's your status?"

"Mission accomplished, sir," Beckett replied, his tone professional. "Target AO secured, 13 tangos down, 5 POWs, and 21 hostages rescued. Requesting relief in place and medevac for walking wounded."

"Copy all Baby Shark. We're inbound with air support. ETA thirty mikes. Hold your position." General Lyons instructed.

"Understood. Holding position," Beckett confirmed, looking around the wreckage of the once organized FEMA Center. He could see the pallets of supplies, intended for desperate civilians, now littered with bullet casings and blood. The cost of this operation weighed heavily on him, but it was a necessary price to pay for the lives they'd saved.

As the sound of distant helicopter rotors grew louder, General Lyons' voice came back over the radio. "Sergeant Emond and his Marines are en route to provide security and assistance. They'll be on the ground shortly."

"Understood, sir," Beckett responded, feeling a small sense of relief. With Sergeant Emond's arrival, he knew that the FEMA Center would be in good hands, if the infected or more gang bangers showed up to take it back.

The thunderous noise of the helicopters filled the air as they landed outside the FEMA Center. Sgt. Emond, a seasoned Marine with a rugged appearance, disembarked from one of the choppers, followed by his squad.

With a quick debrief, Beckett handed off the FEMA Center to Sgt. Emond.

“Look what I found!” McCune said, holding up a half bottle of Tequila, while standing next to the helos.

With a sly grin, Raymond unzipped his Gortex jacket warming layers, and lifted a full bottle of Irish Whiskey.

“Ha, I got you all beat,” Doc said, revealing an entire case of Baijiu, which had Chinese labeling all over it. “They had a stack of this stuff.”

"Let’s get out of here, I’m freezing." Beckett ordered, and with that, the exhausted Recon Team climbed into the helicopters, leaving the well stocked FEMA Center in the capable hands of Sgt. Emond and his Marines.

Frederick, Maryland

“I think I’m going to vomit.” Rios said gagging, turning his head to the side smashing his eyelids shut, while pulling in deep deliberate breaths through his nostrils.

“Freakin’ gnarly!” McCune shouted from the back seat.

“Why are there so many Grays wandering around on the highway?” SSgt Beckett asked, raising his voice over the wet grinding sound.

“Carin, one of the lab scientists, gave me some pheromone to drizzle on the road during the last resupply run to USAMIIRD. Apparently, this stuff is like an aphrodisiac to the Grays! Look at them all!” Chuck laughed while he steered the big orange county salt truck through an endless horde, Grays where packed shoulder to shoulder.

“Where did you find such huge snow blowers?” Raymond asked in awe, as hundreds of Grays were sucked into the front mounted grinding machine. The triple stacked rotating spiral augers sliced and diced the Grays into chunks of infected meat slop then fed into a spinning impeller. The disease-ridden clumpy sludge launched up and out of the discharge chute spewing a thick black spray up and over the edge of the highway’s protective barrier.

Chuck shifted his head, trying to find a clear spot on the windshield as the wipers swept away bits and pieces of gore. “Same place we found the plow trucks, at the county’s transportation department next to the Island’s airport. I just had to unhook the plows, then attached the snow blowers. The thing WAS nearly brand new.” Chuck said with an evil grin while shifting lanes slightly to scoop up a thicker group of Grays.

Beckett looked into the truck’s bouncing side mirror and watched what appeared to be a giant fire breathing dragon. An enormous stream of fire swept the pavement behind them dousing any hazardous matter that didn’t successfully make it over the highway barrier. “You know, fire trucks are supposed to extinguish fires, not start them?” Beckett looked to Chuck, “Is that thing also your doing?”

“I may have helped swap the water pump for a fuel pump on the fire engine, but it wasn’t my idea.” Chuck said to his passengers who gave him a look of doubt. “I swear! The medical staff was worried about airborne disease from decaying biomatter. Talking real nasty black plague type of stuff, let alone not wanting infectious Gray innards to be painted all over Maryland.”
Rios dry heaved in the backseat.

“Incinerating the mess that you are making is probably the best option for sterilization. But using a water cannon to spray gas, that is an impressive flamethrower!” Doc said, giving his stamp of approval.

“Of course, pure gasoline burns to fast to get that nice long beautiful fire stream.” Chuck said over his shoulder proudly. “A sixty forty gasoline to diesel mixture gets the best fire range.”

“How much of that pheromone did you use to draw in this big of a crowd?” Raymond asked?

“Not a lot. About a perfume size bottle sprayed out the window for a few miles.” Chuck answered.

The crowded highway began to thin the further they got away from Baltimore. As their Gray pulverizing convoy got closer to USAMIIRD there wasn’t any more Grays on or near the highway.

“Alright boys, that is as far as this convoy can take you today.” Chuck said as he took the Frederick exit ramp, made a big U turn, then repositioned his gore covered salt truck to reenter the highway for a return trip to Kent Island. “Good luck out there and watch your step getting out. It might be a little slippery.”
 
----------BREAK----------
 
“Daddy shark this is baby shark. Wheels down and Oscar Mike to check point Apple. How copy, over.” Silence spoke into his SINGARS radio handset, and then gave SSgt Becket a thumbs up confirming they had comms with headquarters via a repeater antenna located at USAMIIRD laboratory.

“This is our initial rally point if you become separated, we will meet back here in that school bus.” Beckett pointed across the road. “If nobody shows up for you in twenty-four hours, escape and evade to USAMIIRD which is one-mile due north from here. McCune, you’re on point, step out.”

Everyone one on the team shared Beckett’s disgruntled feelings of their mundane mission assignment. Yes, they were Reconnaissance Marines, and technically, they were best equipped and trained in recon and surveillance techniques. But with all of the other missions readily available, observing a FEMA distribution center wasn’t high on the thrill list. They would go in, make their reports, take some photos, extract back to the island, and then prepare for a better mission.

Beckett tried not to let his guard down though. The last time he got lackadaisical, his entire team had been surrounded at an oil refinery. Luckily, that turned out for the best, but could have gone south very easy. Frederick is a large town, which had a dense population of over 70,000 people when the Dark Day attack happened, which means the likelihood of running into Grays, was probable. And there was also a chance of getting sniped by BRICS operatives, which had the team stopping often to glass suspicious building through binos and spotting scopes.

Deep reconnaissance missions typically penetrate far beyond the FEBA (forward edge of the battle area) to gather intelligence on a particular route, zone, or an area of interest. Since small units are easier to conceal than conventional military forces, stealth is a small team’s best protection while in enemy territory. If a Recon team becomes compromised, there is a high probability that hostile forces would overwhelm them through mechanized maneuvering of troop masses and firepower. Operation Read Wings in Afghanistan and the story of Bravo Two Zero in Iraq are examples how extremely risky small unit deep reconnaissance missions can be.

As the team patrolled through a suburban intersection, it was difficult to keep their mind in mission mode as they passed franchise coffee shops and common convenience stores. Beckett had bought frozen slushy drinks and cold beers from stores just like the ones they patrolled past most of his life. His lips moistened as they pasted one of his favorite donut shop chains then his stomach growled at sight of a familiar pizzeria. It was hard to remind himself that they were deep behind enemy lines here in a typical American suburb and that they could easily be overwhelmed by infected or even foreign operatives while strolling down an American suburban street in a tactical column.

McCune on point threw a fist up next to his head, telling the team to freeze in place. A few seconds later he patted the air down next to his waistline and the team slowly took a knee lowering their profiles behind whatever cover that was closest to them. McCune, who was now behind a white sedan, that was coated in dirt and dust giving the white car a tan color, with dry-rotted deflated tires. Using his middle and index fingers, he pointed to his eyes, then pointed his rifle in the direction they had been traveling, then held up three fingers.

They all nodded their heads, understanding that three hostiles were spotted to the twelve o’clock direction. McCune then pointed to Rios and then to a car on the left side of the road. Then McCune pointed to his Staff Sergeant, then towards a large tree planter on the right side of the road. Beckett nodded his understanding. 

Even though Beckett was the senior ranking member of the team, since the point man had the best understanding of the situation, Beckett let McCune take charge. If he had disagreed with the decision to stand their ground, instead of tactically withdrawing, Beckett would have made it known. As soon as Beckett took position behind the large concrete tree planter on the sidewalk, he could see three Grays lazily walking directly towards them.

There are many circumstances in combat that loud weapons are beneficial. This wasn’t one of them, and McCune was happy to have suppressors on all of their weapons. McCune gave a quick nod to Rios, then to Beckett confirming they were set. Instead of leaning over the trunk of the dirty sedan where he certainly would have been spotted, he leaned out on one knee slowly from around his cover.

Pffft. Pffft. Pffft. Three rapid shots ripped tiny 5.56mm holes through a tattered T-shirt that was so dirty, it matched the scabby skin color of the closest muscular Gray. A-zone body box baby! McCune congratulated himself of his tight shot group placement that would have normally incapacitated an enemy. His target stumbled slightly but did not fall. Instead, the beast howled out an angry gurgling cry that startled him. Shit! He thought, and centered his sights on the creature’s hairless head, looking into the demonic pinpoint pupils he squeezed the trigger again, finally silencing his target for good.

Rios with his DM rifle, and Beckett with an expert aim both dropped their targets with one round headshots. The team collapsed in, forming a tight 360-degree circle behind McCune’s car.

Beckett looked to Raymond. “Grays in the area were bound to hear that roar. Will they come running or does that scare them away?”

Raymond looked at their surroundings. “Oh, they will come running for sure. But nothing here is suitable of a defensive position, I say we push forward as fast as we can safely. Grays will be on the move though, so keep guns up.”

Beckett studied the area as well, looking for a hard point in the dilapidated storefronts with broken out windows and smashed in front doors. “Ok, I agree. This is check point Apple, but not a rally point. If something happens, we rally up at the start point.” Beckett instructed. “Darkness, call it up to daddy shark that we are on the move to CP Banana. Let’s go.”
 
----------BREAK----------
 
A brisk walk turned into a Recon shuffle as an increasing flow of Grays jumped over white picket fences and chased after them down narrow suburban roads. Even with a suppressor, an M4 remains audibly loud, especially when the world is void of civilization noise pollution. With every howling target that was downed, three more Grays came running to investigate the action.

In a neighborhood that was once a friendly and peaceful place to raise a white-collar family, was becoming a bloodbath littered with infected corpses. Halfway between check point Apple and Banana, the team was near a point of becoming overwhelmed behind enemy lines and needed a place to call their Alamo.

A massive bloated late stage Gray charged across an overgrown lawn that had tall weeds poking up through a thin layer of snow. The beast aimed its pinpoint pupils in on Doc and belted out a growl and reached its bloated arms forward when it stumbled into a tricycle that had once belonged to a playful child. The navy corpsman pumped five quick rounds into the creature as its swollen feet tangled into the tricycle. The snow was left with a darken gore streak, the white lawn stained with puss and spores.

Raymond engaged five Grays that had broken through a bay window directly to his flank. He took a half step forward, squared his shoulders to them, leaned in slightly and pulled the foregrip tightly into his shoulder to control the recoil, and pumped three rapid shots into each of the wretched creature’s chest. As the beast studder stepped slightly from absorbing the projectile’s energy, Raymond finished them off with a head shot each.

McCune had just stripped an empty mag from his M4 and reached for a full one when a Gen 2 jumped out of a nearby tree towards him. Luckily, he had been doing a quick SA (situational awareness) check while reloading and had seen the talon claws and shark-like teeth of the pint-sized creature flying toward him. Using his rifle, McCune parried the airborne demon knocking it to the ground where he commenced beating the toddler creature to death with his buttstock.

McCune wasn’t the only one fighting hand to hand. Maintaining control of his sector, Rios used a minivan and a SUV to channel Grays to him. His DM rifle was slung across his back, and with a pistol in one hand and his KA-BAR knife in the other, cursing in Spanish, Rios stood sweating before a growing pile of dead infected.

The team had lost all forward momentum.

“Push right! Push right! Push right!” Beckett yelled. “Alamo in the red brick house!”

It was a small single story 70’s style ranch with small windows. The best option they had for survival.

Doc was first to the front door. “Get in!” he yelled as he covered the rest of the team rushing towards the house.

Raymond was next, he paused at the threshold waiting for a secondary rifleman before making entry. He reached down and twisted the unlocked doorknob. A hand squeezed his shoulder, and for a moment, Raymond thought Beckett was going to pull him from the stack, but instead Beckett told Raymond to buttonhook. The released of the squeeze gave Raymond the green light to make entry.

The door swung open with a strong push. Raymond’s rifle was leveled and swept a majority of the room before he even crossed the threshold. Eye, muzzle, target. Where his eyes went, his muzzle went. Without over-penetrating into the room, his muzzle hinged on the doorframe as he entered, pivoting into the room clearing the deep corner.

As Raymond entered the room, SSgt Beckett’s muzzle was right next to his shoulder hinging on the opposite side doorframe. Just a microsecond behind him, not getting tripped up on each other’s feet, Beckett entered and crossed the threshold and took the opposite wall as Raymond. They both slid further down the wall away from the front door to make room for the rest of the team as they piled into the living room slamming the front door behind them.

“Rome is clear, on me!” Beckett commanded, as crazed bodies slammed against the outside door.
Beckett made his way across the small living room into an intersection with a short hallway that likely led to a pair of bedrooms, a dust covered kitchen to his front and an open garage door to his right. Bodies continued to slam against the front door with a constant thump and then a window shattered somewhere in the small house. Options were slim.

“On me!” Beckett yelled. A squeeze of the rubber pad on his weapons handrail, turned on his weapon light as he aimed towards the dark garage. A hand squeezed, then released his shoulder and he entered the garage with the rest of the team piling in behind him.

Doc was the last one into the garage and gently shut the kitchen door behind him. “Last man is in.”  He whispered.

With his weapon light still on, he did a quick head count to ensure everyone was accounted for. “Give me an ACE report.” He commanded, and one at a time they each reported the number of full magazines they currently had, if they had sustained any injuries, and if they had lost any special equipment.

It did not take long before scraping of bony talons could be heard clawing at the kitchen door. The garage was full of miscellaneous household items like every other suburban home, but nothing worthy of a barricade.

“Any chance that they’ll get bored and leave?” Beckett asked, looking toward Raymond.

“They didn’t see us enter the garage, but they obviously know that we are in here so, no they won’t leave. Not for a several hours anyways, and I don’t think that door will last that long.” Raymond said.

“And we thought this was going to be a snoozer of a mission.” McCune snickered watching the kitchen door shutter and the trim began to separate from the unpainted sheetrock wall.

“Is this a good time to initiate the chow plan?” Rios asked with sarcasm.

“Remember to hydrate during stressful events.” Doc added a bit of useless medical advice.

“OK, any of you smart asses have any valuable ideas that could benefit our survival before I tape a claymore to that door?” Beckett asked.

“I can’t get a signal out from inside this brick house.” Darkness added, holding a hissing radio handset.

They all looked to each other, pleading for ideas, as they rotated fresh mags forward in their mag pouches and reloaded their weapons. McCune signaled to a M67 fragmentation grenade in his open hand and shrugged, suggesting that he was ready to go out with a bang.

“I have an idea that might help.” Raymond offered, while digging into his rucksack “Or, it might make matters worse.” 

Kent Island, Maryland
 
Senior Chief Petty Officer Samwell grew up in a family of trade workers. His grandfather was a plumber, his father was a carpenter, so to round out the family business, he became an electrician. To bypass the union’s abusive apprenticeship training, he joined the navy at the age of seventeen for journeyman training and licensing. Samwell had only intended on a four-year commitment, but he settled comfortably into the naval organization.

There was nothing exotic in the Samwell family history. Yearly trips to their rustic hunting cabin or enjoying lawn seats at local minor league baseball games was the extent of family vacationing. Samwell rarely left their small town growing up, let alone the state.  His home state that he proudly supported, with no knowledgeable comparison of outside the borders. So, when he experienced his first Western Pacific deployment he was awestruck. Visiting Hawaii, the Philippine islands, Thailand, Malaysia, United Arab Emirates, Australia, and Guam, he became the most well-traveled person at his family reunion.

As much as his grandfather and father wanted him home to help with the family business, they were proud of his accomplishments and duty to country. He entertained them with colorful stories of his electrical engineering school, and his day-to-day duties aboard various naval warships which carried a larger population than his home town. Samwell complained of the plumbing problems on board complexly designed vessels, and his Grandfather offered enthusiastic expert advice, as if repluming a battleship was a weekend job. His father who had built homes his entire life, was fascinated with multilevel airlock construction that prevents ships from flooding.

In his first four-year enlistment, Samwell had visited more countries than anyone in his town and he was loving an adventurous life enough to reenlist and making the Navy a career. Being a simple man, from a simple family and a simple town, he never had aspirations for more than what the Navy could provide. Satisfied with ship life, he never purchased a house off base, a fancy car, or bought himself exotic trinkets. The only time he made big purchases was when he’d send a surprise package to his family with specialty tools that he knew would make their jobs easier.

Senior Chief Samwell, like most middle-aged men, had begun to shown signs of aging. Grey hair speckled his thinning hairline. His khaki uniform fit snugger than the year before. And a pot belly had protruded over his belt. He had never been an egocentric person, but the Navy did have height-weight and fitness regulations. To counter his slowing metabolism, he begun a morning walking routine to start the day. When the USS Gerald R. Ford was docked in port somewhere warm, he preferred to walk laps around the aircraft carrier’s 1100-foot-long flight deck. If the weather wasn’t pleasant, he’d walk on a treadmill in the upper-level gym that was restricted for higher enlisted and officer ranks.

A few months prior, the Atlantic Fleet had been in the Mediterranean when news of World War 3 had hit. Emotions on ship ran wild. Saber rattling and rallying war cries vibrated throughout the steel framing. Chaplains held mass and counseled groups several times a day to ease the minds of sailors, worried for their families. Senior Chief Samwell’s life did not change all that much. He lived for the navy and had not really lost anything. Hardships of his mother and aunts entered his conscience, but he knew that the men in his family were more than capable to provide during challenging times.

The naval battle group spent every resource to recover as many US civilians and military personnel abroad as possible. When General Lyons finally recalled the entire fleet back to the continental United Sates in support of an American reconstruction mission, there was not a single complaint. Although, as nobody had official news of the state of the union, rumors ran rampant on what they were returning home to.

Senior Chief Samwell preferred when the ship ran smoothly day to day. He was a big fan of preventative maintenance and system testing. When electrical problems arose, he would anger easily and take it personally that his work had been neglected. He normally did not like problem solving complex solutions which would fluster him, but luckily, he had an entire team of skilled and experienced electrical engineers to lean on.

When he had been tasked to retrofit an entire island’s electrical grid, he wasn’t thrilled, but was honored for the chance to help American civilians for the first time in his career. Little did he know that his engineering team would be issued one of the largest houses on the island to berth in and work from. General Lyons knew how to take care of his people, that took care of him. Samwell took the general’s mission as a personal challenge to get the island powered as quickly as possible and his team was equally motivated.

It takes a catastrophe for most people to realize how good their lives had been. Humans, Americans especially, tend to take advancements in civilization for granted. Unless they travel to third-world poverty nations, they truly don’t appreciate the luxuries they have. Until it is gone. A simple event, like a prolonged power outage, completely ruined not only America, but the ripple effect was felt worldwide.

When Samwell’s team had successfully reinstated electrical power to a portion of the island, it also helped speed up the plumber and pipeworkers in the renovation of the water and sewage treatment facilities by allowing them to use basic power tools and machinery. Being the Senior Chief in charge of the successful electrical grid project, he had become an exceedingly popular man to his senior officers, and throughout the local community.

In appreciation, gift baskets were often left on the front porch of his team’s house. People thanked him at the market. Even special operations soldiers would gift them bottles of booze scavenged from the dreaded off-island dead lands. Ladies at the brothel gave him special treatment.

One lovely girl in particular took a special interest in him. Of course, Samwell knew she was a prostitute that showed all customers special attention as good service practice, but she was genuinely attracted to him. Although, his recent success had gained him many new powerful friends. Most women want to be associated with important and influential men, such as himself. Undoubtedly, her attraction to him was to help elevate her social position out of prostitution.

But Samwell did not mind, they both seemed to enjoy each other’s company. The increasing amount of time they spent together reminded him of a carefree time in his younger life, years ago when his ship would port in Thailand or the Philippines. Christine held his hand as they strolled through the neighborhood towards the bay water’s edge.

Her Asian beauty was enough to enslave him. She was tall for being from the Philippines, lighter skin tone, had thinner lips, and narrower eyebrows than what he’d remembered. Samwell had used to make fun of the Chief Petty Officer stereotype of older navy men marrying young overly energetic Filipina girls. And yet there he was falling into naval tradition. But the apocalypse was a lonely place since only three percent of the population remained. To add to the disparity, since Kent Island housed mostly military personnel, the male to female ratio was extremely unbalanced.

Christine wholeheartedly asked him about his day, and his special work assignments. She was amazed that a nuclear reactor had been built into a floating vessel and frightfully asked if the island could be in danger of radiation which made him laugh. He had to reassure her in detail, how the power generation and distribution was controlled safely. When he had a difficult day, she would even become defensive, asking who his superiors were, so that she could confront them.

Christine took the American name, to help assimilate into western culture. She had immigrated recently to study nursing, just before the Dark Day. Samwell asked her of her past often, but she would become dreadfully sad when speaking of her parents who were likely deceased or had transformed into horrible monsters. Conversations of her recent life would typically be redirected out of embarrassment of prostitution.

The two of them would go on walks after duty and talk until the sun sat on the horizon. Just being around her, elevated his dopamine levels, which made him feel good about himself. Everyone else on Samwell’s team was alone, but he had her comforting companionship. His ego inflated and he walked with confidence. At work he became more aggressive, willing to take risks and tackle bigger projects that he never would have before.

The western sky filled with orange and red hues, as the sun dipped below the horizon. He came to enjoy this time of day the most, but also sad that they would soon part ways. She surprised Samwell, by whispering in his ear that she did not want to be alone that night. He wrapped a protective arm around her to shield the crisp wind blowing off the bay as he guided her back to his shared living quarters.

As they approached the house, through a window Christine could see his entire electrical engineering team playing a board game on the dining room table. She motioned for him to take her through the back door to avoid awkward conversation that would obviously follow her introduction.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
Late in the night, moonlight filtered into the chilled bedroom. Christine gently rolled out from beneath multiple layers of warm blankets, careful not to wake Samwell from his heavy sleep. Quietly, she retrieved a large lavender scented candle from her small backpack and placed the parting gift on a bedside nightstand. With a flick of a lighter, the wick danced waves of soft candlelight over the bedroom walls.

Christine dressed quickly. She softly opened the bedroom door into the hallway, and on the balls of her feet she swiftly exited the slumbering home through the back door. Stepping on to the moonlit sidewalk, she noticed every house in the neighborhood was dark presenting a witness free getaway. With quick steps, she made her way towards the harbor.

At the marina she entered a large disabled and abandoned yacht, and donned a red LED headlamp that illuminated her way in an eerie red glow towards a cold and musty sleeping quarters. Hidden inside a closet, was a mounted locked safe that she opened using a key worn on a necklace tucked into her shirt. Inside the safe Christine found a manila folder marked “Operation Fang Bite.”

On a piece of stationary, embossed with a Ministry of State Security logo, she wrote in a Chinese cypher:

Mission Complete. Information Extracted. Target Executed.

Sealing the envelope with a tamper proof sticker that bore a single red star. Chinese, not Filipina you old racists pervert. Christine thought to herself in anger. She turned off her headlamp and made her way further down the marina dock to a seemingly well-maintained luxurious fishing boat loaded with fishing poles and nets. She climbed aboard unseen and slid the manilla envelope under the closed door to her local national clandestine currier.

Sitting on a wooden bedside nightstand, the large glowing cozy candle continued to flicker while it bathed snoring Senior Chief Samwell in peaceful dancing light. Once the candle wick melted a quarter way through the pleasantly lavender smelling wax, it sparked an internal cannon fuse that ignited a blasting cap compressed into a pound and half of PVV-5A plastic explosive and roofing nails packed tightly into the candle’s hollowed out bottom.

Christine, a honey trapping Chinese sexpionage spy, that Raymond had been surveilling at in the market, assassinated Senior Chief Petty Officer Samwell. The structural damage and fire caused by the boobytrapped candle was so severe, the house collapsed killing the entire electrical engineering team. With the deaths of the American naval engineers, she also successfully killed any forward progress in reestablishing an island wide electrical grid.

Cheyenne, Wyoming
 
Candace high crawled on her hands and knees through a deep roadside drainage ditch. Tethered to her belt on a short rope, she dragged a heavy seabag behind her that forced her to lean forward to gain ground as she muscled her way around boulders and wet puddles.
​
The foreign army she had seen escorting a loaded freight train just a few weeks prior, had set up camp at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base just as she had predicted. Clearly a forward operating base. They had made themselves right at home in the intercontinental ballistic missile base and begun fortifying perimeters and internal renovations immediately which revealed that they planned on being long term residents.

Researching at a Cheyenne public library, within minutes Candace confirmed that the military vehicles bore the nations flags of Russia and China. That was when she had first learned of the B.R.I.C.S. alliance. Candace borrowed every book from the library that referenced eastern military weapons, vehicles, tactics, government practices and history of eastern foreign policies.

Sure, she had heard the rumors that Persians had been responsible for the EMP attack that had caused the vehicle accident that killed her entire Emergency Service Team. The B.R.I.C.S. invaders had even stapled up propaganda fliers around Cheyenne announcing their peace keeping mission to help aid America’s suffering caused by evil Arabs.

But none of that made sense. The military force occupying her town were not Arabians. If the foreigners were truly here on a humanitarian mission a hospital for medical care or a football stadium would make for an easily defendable logistics center. Why would a strategic Air Force base be their first priority?

Held up in some nearby apartment buildings Candace conducted surveillance on the foreigner’s activities. She watched droves of dirty and malnourished survivors ramble up to the gates, begging to be let into her former place of employment. All of the refugees were let inside the safety perimeter of chain linked fences, razor wire, armored personnel carriers, roving patrols of Russian Army, and newly constructed guard towers equipped with PKM machine guns.

Shortly after being provided with safety from the crazed infected world, along with comforts of shelter and nutrition, the American refugees were assigned heavy lifting jobs and dirty work that the invaders did not care to do. Soon, there was enough American workers inside the base, that the Chinese took over as labor management.

Candace didn’t know what to think of the Americans, or how to mentally process what was happening in her city. Conflicted, she couldn’t blame her countrymen and women, for accepting foreign aid. Although, some seemed more eager to help and friendlier towards the foreign army than others. But what was the cost? The more civilians who entered the base, the quicker the invaders became comfortably entrenched.

From what Candace could tell, all of the Americans that worked inside the base had been disarmed. Apparently, the foreign military didn’t trust the locals with weapons, but trusted them with shovels and brooms. The elderly and frail Americans kept the base clean and tidy, and the women had the honor of offering maid service for the foreigners. American men were tasked with dangerous outer perimeter work while Russians made a sport out of killing the infected who were just outside the reach of the American workers. The closer the Grays got to the frightened workers, the louder the Russians laughed after dispatching the threats.

American children spent most of their days away from their parents. Half of the day the children spent in a classroom in the care of Russian and Chinese teachers, being taught who-knows-what? When not in the classroom, the children performed military style training. B.R.I.C.S. obviously planned to occupy the Cheyenne region for generations, and eventually turn the indigenous population into cannon fodder.

Candace was in a race against time. From the first day BRICS rolled into town, she had begun emptying weapons from the Security Forces armory, and ammo from the ASP bunker. But she was solo, stealthily dragging one bag away at a time while avoiding predictably patterned patrols. The invaders had secured the missile silos first, then the housing areas, and then slowly began clearing and securing the rest of the base. It was just a matter of time before they found the ammo supply point or her stealing from it.

Did she really need loads and loads of M4s, a bag full of Sig Sauer M18 pistols, crates of ammo, a pair of Browning M2s? Was the effort to acquire a pile of AT-4 rockets worth the risk? Or the seabag full of claymores that she dragged through the snowy ditch behind her? She could only fire one weapon at a time, but Candace didn’t plan on being an Army of One for much longer.

The foreign troops were lackadaisical inside the protection of their tall perimeter fences. Guards in the watch towers propped their feet up while rarely looking away from the books that they read on post. Roving patrols walked with rifles slung on their backs while laughing and shoving each other jokingly. It was only when they ventured outside the protective perimeter, with a real threat of infected, that the soldiers presented a professional security posture.

The careless foreigners’ actions made it clear that they had not encountered any sort of real resistance thus far. Sadly, that went against her perception of the American rebellious nature, but that also gave her an advantage. Candace desperately yearned to start sniping the invaders to stall their expansion progress. But as soon as she initiates hostile actions, their defensive tactics would change drastically which would greatly increase the chance of getting caught while proliferating her cache. Unfortunately for her, commercial sporting goods and gun stores had been emptied months ago. Personal firearms could be found in most Wyoming homes, but raiding the base armory and ASP was much easier and fruitful.

She still had a lot of important work to do before launching guerrilla operations against the BRICS invaders. Supplies to gather, routes to recon, safe houses to secure, and most importantly recruitment of local patriotic rebels sympathetic to her cause. When the time came to hit the invaders, she needed to hit them hard, fast, and with the least amount of American civilian casualties. But the longer she waited, the more BRICS improved their stronghold.

Yes, Candace was preparing for violence, but she had not fully convinced herself of her own mission yet. If there was a slim chance that BRICS forces were truly humanitarians, she couldn’t set a plan in motion that could potentially hurt Americans.

Candace felt like she was preparing a strategic multinational military campaign way above her paygrade. She could kindle a brush fire that could easily spread out of control. What if a revolution was sparked that successfully drove BRICKS from Cheyenne, all the way back to the west coast? What would the Russian and Chinese retaliation look like? Warfare escalation against citizens? Bombing of cities, murder of civilians, nuclear detonations, or a genocide to wipe the land clear of western ideologies?

Even though the local population were collaborating, Candace felt empathy for them. Considering the apocalyptic circumstances, people needed basic human survival needs to feed and shelter their families, and the foreigners had provided where the US government had failed.

She would continue preparing for war, but she needed more information. Candace wished that she had verified intelligence that the BRICS military was uninvited invaders who were responsible for the July 4th EMP attack. As much as she never wanted to see her husband Gavin again, he could be a source of information. But how could she make contact with him while he worked inside the base perimeter?

Her mind raced, while she crawled steadily through the slushy roadside ditch towards a large culvert. Using the deep micro terrain for cover, she also wore a long poncho made from survival space blankets to hide her heat signature, incase Russian BTR-90’s used thermal imaging to scan the outer perimeters. Her warm body against the frozen ground, would stick out like a neon sign on a dark night. For a Russian armored personnel carrier’s thirty-millimeter autocannon, she would be an easy target.

On the other side of the upcoming highway, she would be safely out of view from the base and be able to stand upright again. The culvert was dark, and narrow. Just large enough that she could squat in the center without hitting her head, but she continued forward on her hands and knees.

Wet gloves sloshed through standing water in the culvert, made her reminisce back to cold wintery days in Chicago. Candace wasn’t overly religious and had mix feelings about destiny versus free-will. But she wondered if her fatherless childhood, all of her studying in high school, the disciplined efforts put into training, suffering through multiple EST selection screenings, the recent loss of her daughter, had all brought her to that freezing moment, of sneaking stolen military ordnance through a slime infested tube. She hoped that her life bore more meaning than that.

Eager to get home and into comfortable warm clothing, she breathed a sigh of relief at the culvert’s exit. A fat tire bicycle with attached pull cart was still where she had previously hidden it. Another successful mission that would add a few dozen claymore antipersonnel mines to her war fighting arsenal. She looked forward to untethering herself from this load and stretching out her cold fatigued muscles.

Like the birth of a newborn baby, Candace flopped out of the culvert, rolled and landed on her side. Laying in the fetal position, confused, she staired at a pair of well-worn cowboy boots planted firmly in the snow.

“Don’t move a muscle young lady.” An elderly man wearing a wide brim cowboy hat ordered her, while holding a double-barreled shotgun in her face.

Kent Island, Maryland
 
“Dad, where are we going?” Zavier enquired.

“We were supposed to go out with the fishermen today.” Michael added.

“I was going to catch a YUGE fish, that would take up the entire freezer!” Zavier said, with his arms outstretched showing how big his would-be catch would have been.

Victor looked at his sons with a half head tilt, the way fathers do when their kids are acting up. “General Lyons has an important job for you two boys.”

Both of the boys looked worried as they wondered what kind of work they would be doing. “But why isn’t Curtis coming?” Michael asked, trying to share the misery with their older brother.

“Curtis has also been tasked by General Lyons with an important assignment.” Victor explained as he continued to walk forward, with an injured limp. “This is a very important job that could possibly save a lot of lives, mine included.”

Michael and Zavier looked at each other nervously, both dreading such a serious job that threatened of hard work. Then their ears perked up at a distant sound. “Are there dogs on this island?” Zavier asked.

“Our good friend Kevin in Lake City, has made an astonishing discovery.” Victor informed his sons. “Apparently, Grays fear K9s. And we are going to exploit that as a tactical advantage.”

Continuing up the road, they rounded a corner leading them to a doggie-daycare facility. “The Ranger unit assigned to guard USAMIIR has an experienced K9 handler that asked for assistance in training additional mission dogs. Do you boys want to help train these dogs to be Gray sniffers?” Victor asked.

Now thrilled with the idea of working with dogs, Zavier and Michael couldn’t hold in their excitement. “How long do we get to play with the dogs?” Michael asked.

“You’re not hear to play with them, you are here to teach them. But sometimes that goes hand in paw.”  Victor said smiling. “Get it? Hand in hand. Hand in paw? Never mind. But to answer your question, this will be your full-time job. Hopefully more dogs will be rescued from the cities, we will also need to start breeding them, so we will have a constant need for training.”

They continued towards the kennels where they met the Army Ranger who wore glasses and an impressive beard, way out of Army regulation.

“Hello” Michael said shaking his hand. “Michael and Zavier are reporting for duty.”

Victor also shook the soldier’s hand.

“Nice to meet you gentleman, my name is Derek. I’ll be teaching you how to train our K9s to be Gray radars. Our working dogs will be able to tell us when the infected are in the area way ahead of time which will give us a tactical buffer to hide or prepare to fight.” The Ranger told them.

“What kind of dogs do you have?” Zavier asked.

“Right now, we have some Labrador Retrievers, some German Shepherds and a Belgian Malinois. They are very good at being detection dogs. The Labs are a little easier to train, but the Shepherds are more protective in the field.” Derek told them as they toured the kennels.

“Why are Labs easier to train? Do they have better noses for smelling?” Michael asked.

“Oh no, they both have great sniffers. Blood hounds have the best noses, but they're too dumb for this kind of work. Blood hounds bark a lot and run directly towards a scent, and that wouldn’t do us much good in the field. You can imagine how that would turn out.” Derek said, shaking his head. “Golden retrievers also have great noses, but they are too snobby to be a working dog.

“We don’t use any sort of negative punishment. When the trainees do what we ask of them, we reward them with positive reinforcement. The best reward for Labs, is a kibble treat and the Shepherd’s reward is play time, like playing fetch. It’s just easier and less time-consuming during training to reward the Labs with food than take time to toss the ball with the Shepherds.”

“That can be my job!” Zavier offered enthusiastically. “I like playing with dogs.”

“And that, is precisely why you are here.” Derek said smiling. “But training isn’t all play time, there’s a lot of work to ensure they stay healthy and clean. You boys will help with that as well.”

Knowing what Derek had meant, Michael pointed to Zavier, “He likes picking up dog poop too!”
“No I don’t!” Zavier denied.

“Alright you boys, behave. Listen to Derek, he’s in charge.” Victor instructed them. “Work them as late as you need too.” He told Derek, then left them to learn their new duties.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
Frank had been a political campaign manager in DC when the world went dark. It had been a stressful job that had stolen many years of his life, and he did not miss it one bit.

His short and unsuccessful career in the CIA had been a dream job fresh out of Harvard University, that he had flushed down the toilet. While working as a case officer in Moscow, Frank had socialized pretty hard on the weekends. He rationalized in his mind that he was studying the indigenous culture, when in all actuality it was Russian FSB (Federal Security Service) that had been studying him.

An unmarked manila envelope had been slid under his apartment door in the late hours of the night while he slept. The envelope contained photos of him snorting cocaine in a night club’s VIP room. Unknown to him he had been surrounded by Russian FSB counterintelligence officers.

Had Frank confessed to being compromised right away, he would have been transferred to a less desirable duty station for a few years with a bad performance evaluation. But instead, he burnt the photos, and carried on at work like nothing ever happened. Unfortunately for Frank, one of the FSB agents at the nightclub, was also a paid CIA informant who snitched on him resulting in an immediate termination with loss of his security clearance, pension, everything. Because of the non-disclosure agreement, he could not even mention the agency on his resume.

But in DC, work is easy to find for ivy-league graduates who were morally flexible professionals, like Frank. He landed a temp job working for an incumbent Senator’s campaign who was projected for an easy reelection victory. It was then, that Frank learned the many faces of campaigning that were compartmentalized better than classified programs that he had worked for in the agency.

 The official face of a campaign, is a respectable public image painted by snappy slogans, colorful websites, perfectly produced commercials, rehearsed media interviews, designer yard signs, etc. And then there was the ugly clandestine unofficial side of the campaign, that was brutally cut-throat. Opponent spying, espionage, misinformation planting, false flag operations, yellow journalism, was all normal practice during a typical campaign. If the polls were +/- a percentage point, then standard procedure intensified with tactics that could land campaign agents in federal prison forever if caught. But election winners write the history books, and losers fade away with tales of cheating conspiracy theories.

When it came to personal political leaning, in the past Frank had voted in favor of an aggressive globalist agenda that aligned with his federal employers. After he looked behind the campaigning curtain, he realized both political parties were unethical to the very core. If a politician held any decent values at all, they simply could not survive a campaign season.

On election night, after months and months of intense battles fighting for fractions of public popularity percentages, Frank would celebrate the campaign climax buried in a pile of cocaine and teenage college interns. He didn’t even bother watching the election results on TV, because he honestly didn’t care. After a few relaxing months’ vacationing and deep water fishing on the Chesapeake Bay, he would jump onto another political campaign for the best paying candidate that would fund his drug addiction.

Frank had been at this exact same spot July 4th when the EMP attack hit. The only difference was that he didn’t have a boat full of intoxicated bikini wearing women. Besides that, minor lonely inconvenience, Frank preferred his new apocalypse life. A fishing hobby had made him a wealthy and popular man on Kent Island. His previous much smaller fishing boat, that had eventually drifted down the Chesapeake Bay and out to sea after the Dark Day, had been replaced with a beautiful forty-two-foot luxurious Scout 420 outrigger.

No more worries about paying an absurd mortgage for a house barely within commuting range to work. No more forgetting to pay the utility bills. No more keeping up with the latest and greatest mobile devices. No more social media or network media. All in all, he was living carefree.

And to top off his apocalypse dream life, the last remaining politician in DC was fulfilling his drug habit. Compared to campaign work in the past, his current political assignment was simple. All he needed to do was visit one of the four predetermined dead-drops per week. Dead-drop number one was used in the first week of the month, dead-drop number two’s location was used in the second week of the month, and so on.

Frank was cruising north up the Potomac towards the DC area being propelled by quad Mercury outboards offering fourteen hundred total horsepower. The four dead drops were all located near the river in the Arlington / Alexandria area. Dead-drops were all residential mailboxes that could hold larger packages that would contain the propaganda script to inject into the Kent Island community and a cocaine baggie. The amount of cocaine was determined by the information value reported by the fisherman.

All Frank had to do was jot down some notes about the community and military activities and wallah: it’s party time! He didn’t see what harm it could do, the island was established and only getting better. The only working community on the east coast, that he was aware of, wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. If anything, whomever he was giving the information to, would probably govern the community better than the military dictator General Lyons.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
“So, how was work today boys?” Erica asked, setting a pitcher filled with a gritty mixture of MRE grape flavored beverage powder, onto the dining table. “Be sure to wash your hands before we eat.”
​
“I like our new job!” Zavier yelled from the bathroom while he quickly rinsed off his hands.

“It’s an interesting training regimen. The process is more detailed than I would have thought.” Michael said, sitting down at the table. “Not only do we have to teach them normal obedience commands, like; heel, stay, sit, and all of that, but we need to teach them the unique scent of Grays.”

“Do Grays smell differently than humans?” Victor asked.

“They do. I don’t know if the dogs smell a unique body odor, or the infections itself?” Michael said, pondering the question.

“Is that possible?” Erica asked.

“Dog are known to detect cancers and other disease in humans. Since the Gray disease is so unique, the K9s can easily dissect the scent. In fact, Gen 1s and Gen 2s smell differently also” Michael concluded.

“Yeah! Derek said that the dogs can smell in layers. Like when you make us cookies and I can smell them from the park. Well, the dogs can smell the specific ingredients in the cookie like sugar, flour, chocolate, and eggs all separately but at the same time!” Zavier proudly regurgitated his new knowledge.

“Did you know that the smelling sense makes up thirty-five percent of a dog’s brain, compared to only five percent for humans.” Michael continued enthusiastically. “And that humans have six million olfactory receptors in our nose, while dogs have three hundred million!”

“Yeah. That’s like, a whole lot more than us.” Zavier injected, nodding his head smartly.

“Sounds like you are learning a lot. Did you get to start any training today?” Victor asked, reaching for a glass of sugary grape drink.

“Yup, Derek has dogs in all phases of training. We started by introducing the target scent to the young dogs and then we would feed them a snack, just for smelling it. Derek said after a while, when the dogs get that scent, they will start salivating like Zavier does with cookies.” Michael said.

Zavier nodded his head. “I kind of feel bad though, the dogs don’t get a meal like we do, the only time they get to eat is when they get the scent.”

“But the reward is how they learn. If they are hungry, they are always hunting for the scent.” Michael reinforced. “So, the next phase is, we hide the scent in a row of empty coffee cans and then walk the dog by the row of cans. The dogs will always stop at the can with the scent, and then we feed them, or give them their toy if we are working with the Shepherds.”

“What happens if they stop at an empty can that doesn’t have the proper scent?” Curtis asked, genuinely intrigued.

“We don’t reward them, only when they find the correct can.” Zavier answered.

“At the next phase, we add more empty cans, and when the dog finds the scent, we tell them to sit while looking at the target can.” Michael said. “After a while, they get into the habit and automatically sit when they find the scent.”

“Why is sitting the preferred alert signal?” Victor had always wondered that.

“Derek said that is easily identifiable when in the field. Laying down might be confused when the dog is tired. When dogs are searching for explosives, you want them to be close enough to identify where the bomb is, but don’t want the dog to paw at the device that could accidently detonate, so sitting is the best signal.” Michael said proudly.

“It’s funny too, because when the dogs find a scent, even though it belongs to a dangerous Gray, they get excited and start wagging their tail and drooling because they know they’re going to get a treat.” Zavier said giggling.

“Kind of like you, when I tell you to wash your hands before dinner?” Erica said teasing.

“So tomorrow do you want to go fishing on the cold bay, or keep the K9 training job?” Victor asked, already knowing the answer.

Kent Island, Maryland

“Bruh.. Do you know how rich we would have been if we would have brought the good stuff from the casino bar instead of stupid canned food? Which had probably expired, might I add.” McCune whined to his team while looking around the crowded Kent Island swap meet. “So dumb!”

SSgt Becket had tuned out the coxswain’s unconstructive criticism while watching a lively crowd around a leathery tan skinned auctioneer who struggled to hold up a massive fish in both arms.

“This gigantic beauty is the largest stripper fish I have ever caught!” The fish vendor said, sitting the heavy fish down and pulling his long thin hair back under a wide brimmed hat. “Do you know what else is gigantic? The news of the former secretary of transportation has accepted the Vice President position from Mrs. DeVod! We have an official working federal government again! Isn’t that great news!” 

The swelling crowd cheered, but Beckett couldn’t tell if they cheered for an established government again or simply to hurry the fisherman on to start the bidding. Beckett wondered where this information was coming from and if it was accurate. Did the fisherman have a source, or was he just spreading juicy tabloid rumors to draw in customers?

The crowd around the fish auction continued to grow, pushing Beckett further down the vendor alley. Some of the market vendor’s pop up canopy tents had been replaced with more permanent building materials, which made Beckett wonder why or when the strip mall would be reopened for daily business. Casually window shopping he noticed a fair number of new items, then he had the previous week’s which meant the vendors had risked venturing off island to scavenge highly requested items. 

Among the vendor booths where homesteading food preparation products like mason jars and canning lids, cast iron cookware, spices, bags of salt. Also was a variety of bathroom supplies, toilet paper, toothpaste, brushes, deodorant, soaps, feminine hygiene product and disposable and cloth diapers. 

Not only were consumer goods and supplies available, but many professional services were offered as well. There was a vendor selling new shoes and boots as well as blow out repairs. One person claimed to be an optician while offering an eye test and premade corrective eyeglasses, the kind that you would find in a convenience store. A schoolteacher was offering daily reading and math classes.

Beckett’s team corpsman was chatting with a young lady sporting waist length dreadlocks. With a quick glance at her table offerings of holistic herbs, essential oils, crystals, jars of honey, bees wax and homemade candles, Beckett could not tell if the lady was Wiccan or a hipster. Although, she had some name brand pain relievers and cold medicines too.

Darkness nudged Beckett in the ribs to get his attention. “Look at this non poker playing ugly ass trying to read.” Darkness said loud enough for Raymond to hear.

Raymond looked up and shook his head. “It’s a graphic-novel Darkness, they have pictures.” He said, tossing the well-used comic book onto a stack. “There are some National Geographics if you want to reminisce about some cheetahs or some shit from your homeland.”

“Screw you mister liaison man. Hey, you still owe me five hundred pushups.” Darkness laughed.

“The hell I do! Darkness, you know I had that hand.” Raymond countered.

Raymond stepped away from the Free Lending Library towards the brothel tent next door and put a hand on the shoulder of a navel Chief Petty Officer who had been chatting up one of the young Asian working girls with excessive details about his workdays, for well over half an hour. “Chief, loose lips sink ships.” he said, politely reminding the man about operational security. 

Raymond joined the Recon team as they continued to browse the market. “Those girls probably know the entire aircraft carrier layout by now.” Raymond said to Beckett while pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the brothel. 

“I remember getting the weekend liberty brief in Thailand. We were warned that all the good-looking street girls were either honey trapping Chinese spies or cross-dressing boys in drag.” Beckett said with a shiver. 

Raymond offered some small talk as they made their way through the crowded market. “I need to shop for a new winter coat. I was freezing on that last mission, and it’s only getting colder.”

“We can acquire you some cold weather gear from supply.” Beckett offered. 

Raymond nodded an unspoken gratitude. Not just for the gear hook up but comprehending that the team had begun to accept and trust him if they were willing to equip him for future missions. 

“Shall we go check in on your friend?” Beckett suggested, as they departed the swap meet market and walked down the neighborhood road towards Victor’s house.

----------BREAK----------

Erica opened the front door with a smile inviting Raymond and Beckett into their cozy warm living room. “Please, come in and have a seat. The gang is all here.”

Raymond walked over to Victor and handed him a pair of wide framed aviator sunglasses that he had found at the market. “Some friendly advice; the next time she tells you to make a sandwich, you better do it.” Raymond said, inspecting Victor’s purple and yellow swollen eyes.

“Agreed.” General Lyons said as he entered the room, handing Victor a glass of scotch, then sat the bottle on the coffee table while Erica offered their guests short glasses. “Have a seat gentleman. This is Chuck, he’s the one that mounted the daring ground rescue that saved Victor from the clutches of Grays.”

“I don’t know about all that, Sir.” Chuck said looking down sheepishly scratching the back of his head. “Victor here, had thinned out an entire neighborhood’s worth of infected by himself before we got there.”

“He always likes theatrical appearances.” Raymond said nodding towards Victor. 

“It’s good to see you guys. How is Rios?” Victor asked genuinely concerned.

“He’s fine. The creature’s teeth never broke through the MOPP suit. But Rios won’t stop retelling the story which becomes more dramatic each day. It’s becoming quite annoying.” Becket informed him.

“Well, that is relieving to hear that he’s ok and it’s a good thing he didn’t MedEvac on the helicopter with me.” Victor said, thinking about the crash that had killed three air crewmen. “The general was just briefing us on the status of the Island community.”

“Ah yes, more and more survivors are flocking to the island. Marine Sergeant Emond has begun to train and equip civilian volunteers for island guard duty. The farmers feel comfortable returning to the rural southern parts of this island now that its regularly patrolled. We also gave them hand radios and armed them for personal protection. Chuck has been able to fix a few of the older tractors which will be a food production multiplier come springtime.”

“What’s the situation look like for food during the winter?” Victor asked General Lyons.

“Bleak. The more refugees we take in, the faster our supplies are depleting. I know people are hungry, but if we keep issuing out MRE’s there will be a revolt. Chuck, we need your assistance again, to escort some farmers to an unattended cattle ranch to the north. If we can repopulate this island with beef and milking cows that would be a great renewable food supply.”

“Can do, if there is a cold beer and steak involved.” Chuck agreed.

“I’m glad that you are here Staff Sergeant, because I would like your team to reconnoiter a nearby warehouse.” General Lyons said.

Beckett wrinkled his nose at the unattractive mission. “Are you sure you need my team for that sir? Maybe the SEALs could handle that job.” Beckett asked, trying to pawn off the mundane mission.

General Lyons smiled, and completely understood Beckett’s attempt to redirect his request. “This is a mission critical assignment Staff Sergeant. The targeted warehouse is a FEMA distributions center which has pallets of emergency provisions; food, cots, blankets, medical supplies, children and toddler kits, and who knows what else. A lot of it sitting in semi-trailers ready to roll out. Also are thousands of temporary housing units that we don’t need yet but will soon enough.”

Becket breathed heavy. “Where abouts is this warehouse?” 

“Fredrick.” General Lyons said.

“Hey. That’s where USAMIIR laboratory is.” Chuck chimed in. “We have a clear route all the way there now.”

“Exactly.” General Lyons said. “I hope that the warehouse, or at least a majority of it, hasn’t been looted. It could be a real game changer for this community Staff Sergeant. Once we have this region stabilized, we can begin expanding west.” 

Raymond knew exactly what that meant. Expanding west meant pushing back against the Russian and Chinese invaders.

The general was trying hard to sell the importance of the glamorized scavenger mission. “Besides, I have the SEALs on refugee relocation duty. They feel like they are being heroes by saving our personnel’s family members or those few rescue calls we get on the short wave radio. And it keeps them out of the gym and out of my thinning hair. I’m sure they’ll write a book about how they singlehandedly saved humanity, as soon as a printing press is up and running.” 

“Alright, my team will draft up an operation order and brief you right away.” SSGT Beckett said. “Probably for the best anyways. I don’t want my guys sitting around getting lazy.”

“I’ll go with you.” Victor offered. 

Erica glared at him while everyone else in the room bust out laughed as he sat on the couch with a cold compact on his head and splinted arm wrapped in a sling. 

“I don’t think so Victor. You are on light duty for a while.” General Lyons commanded him, saving Erica from the argument. “I do have a job here for you and your family though. But before we get into that, I’d like to get Erica’s opinion on the status of the research facility.”

Erica took a sip of her own scotch then fidgeted with the glass not knowing where or how to begin. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but USAMIIR is a mess. Most of the necessary lab equipment is inert or inoperable from EMP damage. In the current condition, all we can do is conduct environmental and behavior experiments on the Grays the same way we did in Lake City. I had a fantasy expectation of jumping into revolutionary science that would save the world. But that is just not the case.” 

Collectively the room silently slumped as their hopes for a groundbreaking report, had been deflated. Erica took another sip of her drink.

“Are you saying that we should focus resources elsewhere?” General Lyons asked, also disappointed.

“No, not at all General. That could all change now.” Erica said sitting upright with more energy. “Chuck, the supercomputers that you transferred from the NSA headquarters to USAMIIR, could literally modernize the entire laboratory to pre-Dark Day standards. For example, the first human genome was sequenced in 2003 which took thirteen years and cost a billion dollars. In the state of our lab currently, it would take us twice that long.” Erica paused to let the unacceptable timeframe comparison sink in. “With the NSA supercomputers, we could do the same work in just one or two days.”

Chuck let out a long whistle. “I should probably apologize to the techno nerds. I wasn’t very cordial to them out in the field, if you know what I mean.” he said, reaching for the bottle of scotch. 

“Even with the little equipment we have,” Erica continued, “We are better understanding the pathogen. We now know for sure that it is endosymbiont.”

Victor coughed to get her attention. “Can you dumb this down for us knuckle draggers?” 

“An endosymbiont organism lives within the body or cells of another organism in a mutualistic relationship. In this particular case the brain damaging FFI prion and ophiocordyceps unilateralis aka zombie spore are both encapsulated inside the Leishmania flesh eating parasite.”

“If the parasite is the delivery vehicle…” Chuck began a question. 

Erica cut him off, shaking her head, knowing what he was going to say. “Even before the Dark Day there wasn’t a common preventative for Leishmania. Typically, humans were infected by sand flea bites, but now we’re infected by the Grays themselves. This pathogen is so complex that it is extremely difficult to believe that it’s a natural phenomenon.”

“Man made?” SSgt Beckett asked.

“Only a hypothesis with nothing to back it up scientifically.” Erica said shaking her head. 

“We have sources in Moscow and Beijing that report that they are faring far better than the rest of the world. They could have vaccinated their populations, or simply better equipped to fight the plague since they are on the only continent that didn’t get EMP’d.” The general stated. “That information is classified and does not leave this room, understood?”

Having assets inside hostile countries would be highly sensitive information Victor thought. Most likely, the assets were American or ally intelligence agents who had been assigned to embassy annexes before the Dark Day. BRICS would have closed the embassies immediately and purged any westerners. That meant the General’s assets are operating very clandestinely in an extremely dangerous environment.

“Hmmmm. If we took blood samples from a Russian or Chinese subject thought to have been inoculated. In theory I could analyze the samples for irregular antibodies. But I highly doubt that there could be a vaccine for this hybrid.” Erica concluded. 

“I know where we could find a Russian or Chinese.” Victor injected, “West side of Baltimore!” 

“Are you sure it was an RPG?” General Lyons pressed, already have heard Victor’s debrief regarding the attack on his helicopter. “Not an LAW or an AT-4 rocket launcher acquired by a local gang?”

“That wasn’t my first time being the target of an RPG sir.” Victor said defensively. “Besides, I was close enough to watch the asshole load the tube.”

“Local warlords wouldn’t have access to that kind of foreign weapons. Do we have eyes on the Russian and Chinese embassies in DC? Are they still active?” Raymond asked, anxious to hunt down invaders.

“Has BRICS military forces made it to the east coast?” Victor wondered.

“Our reports indicate that Russian and Chinese forces have paused their advance near the continental divide.” General Lyons said puzzled, scratching the stubble on his chin. 

“But that doesn’t mean Russian special forces are not operating in this area. Our routine helicopter resupply from Kent Island to USAMIIR is the same every week, it would be easy route to target.” Victor added.

“Washington D.C. would be their highest priority target. It would make sense BRICS would be here already. They have probably been hiding here for months, maybe even before the July 4th attack. Whoever it is, since they have decided to announce themselves with an attack, that means their surveillance is complete.” General Lyons concluded.
​
“General, your aircraft carrier and this entire community is in jeopardy.” Erica injected.

Victor was in a hallway plastered with pictures drawn in bright colored water paint and crayons. Confused, he didn’t know where he was, but the windowed doors lining the long cinderblock hallway told him he was in a school.
​
In blood covered hands, he held his AR15. His shoulder ached, and he wondered if he had been shot.

With a closer inspection of the cheerful and colorful artwork taped to the wall, he recognized one of them. His youngest son Zavier had drawn the same image last school year, before the world went dark. Why was he in his son’s school, was there an active shooter? The grip on his rifle tensed and he spun around looking for Zavier’s classroom. At the end of the dark hallway was a massive late-stage Gray that had swollen to twice the normal human size, filled with pus and spores.

The blob of a creature stared at Victor, then took a step forward out of the shadows. Children began to cry. The creature took another step forward fully revealing its mutated form. Sobbing echoed through the hallway. The Gray’s pinpoint pupils were locked on Victor and it took another step forward threatening to pop at any moment. The children’s weeping intensified and grew louder. Victor raised his rifle at the creature.

“Zavier! I’m coming for you buddy!” Victor yelled.

The thick crusted blob began to charge with outstretched bulbous arms scrapping its boney talons across rows and rows of student wall lockers. Sobbing and weeping was so loud that it consumed Victors thoughts. He thumbed his AR15 off of safe, centered the red dot sight on the Gray, and squeezed the trigger which offered the worst noise on the battlefield.

CLICK.

He smacked the bottom of the magazine so hard that it hurt his hand, he pulled the charging handle back quickly, sling-shotting a new round into the chamber, and attempted to fire again. But nothing happened. Victor pushed the magazine release button, yanked the bad magazine from the mag-well while reaching for a fresh mag from his gun belt. The creature continued charging forward.

An index finger guided a fresh heavy magazine into the mag-well, he charged the rifle again watching a perfectly good round eject onto the dirty linoleum flooring and then attempted to fire again. CLICK.

Magazines were inserted, then discarded again and again and again as the rage infested bloated Gray closed in. With his last and final magazine inserted, the rifle finally recoiled with a thunderous muzzle blast. The gelatinous blob absorbed the bullet with no effect.

The creature continued to charge, scrapping talons across the metal lockers. Victor shot again and again and again with no effect. Each muzzle flash illuminating the horror before him like a strobe light. The kids sobbing was stifling. He tried to shake his head to clear his thoughts and pain rushed over him. The creature was almost within reach. Victor toe-to-heal stepped backwards attempting to keep distance. He raised his aim, put the holographic red dot in the center of the creature’s forehead and squeezed the trigger as the creature lunged forward with a wide black mouth full of broken jagged teeth keen on delivering an extinction level plague. 

Victor woke from the nightmare, sitting upright too quickly. A flood of pain and agony caused him to collapse back onto the couch, sweating and lightheaded. Shaken from his nightmare he sat there cursing himself for had fallen asleep. He noticed the room had darkened; the fire was only hot ashes. The same haunting children’s cry escaped his nightmare into the reality, as the Gen 2’s whimpered in the garage, awake once more.

Sitting forward again slowly, a deep breath chilled his lungs, he gained his bearing. Using the coffee table for support, Victor rolled off the couch onto a knee, then lifting to his feet and retrieved his rifle from the coffee table. Moonlight glowed through dingy white lace curtains over large living room windows. Displacing an occasional family portrait, he slid across the wall to keep himself upright as he made his way towards the garage.

Shadows raced across the floor before Victor causing him to freeze in place. A dark shape ran past the dining room sliding door. Outside, Victor could hear frozen blades of grass crunching under soft feet. From inside the garage, he could hear hisses and growls as the Gen 2’s fought against their restraints.

More shadows darted across the walls as infected reinforcements began circling Victor’s hardpoint looking for an entryway. The closer the infected got to the house, the louder the Gen 2’s cried. Pulling back a curtain slightly, he watched Grays of all size spill onto moon lit lawns from the neighboring houses.

“I can’t deal with this right now,” he hissed rubbing his temple trying to ease his splitting headache.

An ear piercing, nails on a chalkboard, scratching resonated from the bedroom where Victor had changed clothes earlier. Boney talons raked across an unseen window. Victor’s heart began to pump an increasing flow of blood into his pounding head that could not remember if he had closed the bedroom door or not. He should go check.

The bedroom window shattered as a Gray’s pointed talons pressed into the glass.

Too late! He thought looking for a defensive position. Looking towards the stairs he quickly debated cornering himself upstairs, but he’d be able to have the high ground while channeling the creatures into a fatal funnel. By the time he committed to the plan and took two steps toward the stairway, Grays came spilling into the hallway from the bedroom.

Victor stumbled to the right into the kitchen and tossed his rifle up onto the marble topped island for support knocking a spice rack and granite pestle to the floor. Aimed in down the hallway, he hit the button on his weapon light and illuminated three large scab covered muscular Grays. Victor sensed that the weapon light dazed them momentarily but didn’t slow them down as they crashed into the hanging family portraits.

Unlike his nightmare, his rifle barked when he squeezed the trigger. Even firing from his uninjured non-dominant shoulder, the recoil sent bolts of excruciating pain through his back. But he continued to fire until the three Grays lay crumpled in the hallway.

He turned his light off to avoid advertising his position. Quickly, Victor took all his AR mags from his pistol belt and chest rig, then laid them on top of the kitchen island. It figures that I’ll die next to a pantry. He thought to himself and wondered if there were any chocolate cookies inside the closed bifold doors for his kids. He actually thought about risking his life to find out.

A living room window right in front of him exploded inward as a beastly Gray smashed through. Victor pumped two rounds into it before the howling creature could untangle itself from the lacey curtain. The next creature came through with such force, it ripped the curtain rod completely from the wall.

Five rounds were waisted as Victor’s rifle sights trailed the creature across the room, until it creamed lifelessly into the far wall knocking down a cursive written ‘Live Laugh Love’ canvas. Movement down the hall drew his attention again as a swarm piled out of the bedroom smashing into each other while racing towards Victor.

With each shot, recoil sent pain down his back and muzzle blast sent nauseating pain rippling through his skull. Yet, he continued aiming through the sights while pressing the trigger at targets rushing towards him. With his rifle propped on the kitchen counter, he transitioned from the hallway, to the living room, then the hallway again until the bolt locked to the rear after the last round in the magazine was sent into the infected frenzy.

All with his left hand he pulled the carbine from the countertop. Clamped the smoking weapon between his knees. Depressed the mag release button. Pulled out the old and inserted a full magazine from the countertop. Hit the bolt release button. Grabbed the pistol grip tightly, swung the rifle up so the muzzle nearly hit the ceiling, seated the buttstock in his shoulder, then lowered the muzzle with control until the red dot sight was centered on the closest creature.

Standing, non-dominant side, one handed unsupported accurate shooting is very doable if you practice Gunfighter training drills, but not for very long if your muscles already ache from a hypothermic helicopter crash. As soon as Victor had a moment, he returned to the kitchen island for a stable supported shooting platform.

The more he shot, the louder the Gen 2 toddlers shrieked. The louder they shrieked; the more Gray’s spilled through the windows into the house. His weapon light was stunted by the cloud of stirred up dust and gun smoke. Traversing faster and faster from an intensifying flow of hallway targets to living room targets, he began havening doubts about ever seeing Erica and his children again. The panic feeling that woke him from his nightmare had returned.

On his last AR magazine, Victor was contemplating making a mad melee dash towards the stairway to barricade himself in an upper level bedroom. But the Gray’s were so thick, he would likely not make it out of the kitchen in one piece.

His rifle went dry. There were no more loaded mags waiting for him. He dropped the rifle on the countertop and reached across his body for his pistol as he did before. While he was gaining a better grip on the handgun, he felt a heavy vibration beneath his feet that caused the pile of empty shell casings to roll across the hardwood kitchen floor.

Green glowing tritium dots aligned on the nearest Grays forehead, and he gently squeezed the pistol’s trigger to the rear with the finesse of a thousand perfectly practiced presses. Firing with only with his left hand, the pistol recoiled up and to right and he fought to get it back on target quickly.

Grays climbing over a pile of dead comrades were revealed as bright lights shined into the house as Victor continue to fire his pistol into the swarm. Victor was consumed in the fog of war; tunnel visioned and did not process the exterior lights illuminating the close quarters battle. If anything, realizing the overwhelming number of targets made matters worse and harder to compartmentalize.

Find the closest threat. Focus its disgusting face. Bring the pistol to line of sight on target. Take out the trigger slack. Flash sight picture. Smooth and consistent pressure to the rear. BANG! Repeat.

Find the closest threat. Focus on its disgusting face. Bring the pistol to line of sight on target. Take out the trigger slack. Flash sight picture. Smooth and consistent pressure to the rear. BANG! Repeat.

It wasn’t until he had shot his last pistol round from his last magazine that he broke from the killing trance. Looking at the pistol slide locked to the rear, Victor tossed his handgun on the counter, grabbed a carving knife from a wood block and stabbed the last wounded creatures to death. It was only then, that he noticed an intense battle raging outside the house.

Exhausted, he sat back heavily against the kitchen island. The rooms before him were littered with piles of riddled infected corpses. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled symphony of machine guns playing his favorite song.

“Friendlies coming in!” Someone from outside yelled.

“Come on in.” Victor mumbled incoherently and barely audible, “But I’m not opening the door for you.”

The front door smashed open, splintering the door jam and trim. Victor couldn’t open his eyes from fatigue.

“Man, look at this mess….” A rough voice trailed off as he inspected the carnage and pile of brass on the kitchen floor. The man who sat on the floor before him had a bandaged arm secured in a sling, two swollen black eyes, and barely looked conscious. “Hey buddy, I have a cold beer in my truck. You look like you need to hydrate.”

Victor chuckled, which caused him to wince. “Did we win?” he asked.

“Well, we are still breathing. So, I guess we won, for today anyways.” The man said without conviction.

“How’d you find me?” Victor asked, his head lopping to the side.

“Was on highway cleanup detail when we watched your helicopter go down. Followed a smoke trail for a while, until we realized it was coming from a fireplace and not the crash site. We made it to the subdivision by dark and then lost all trace, until a Marine found the chimney’s heat signature in the 25mm cannon’s thermal sights.” the man informed Victor.

“Just in time too.” Victor thanked him.

“Yeah, appears so. You look like a can of smashed assholes.” The savior said. “Here, let me help you up.”

Cracking his puffy eyelids slightly, Victor seen an outstretch muscular forearm tattooed with a T-Rex dinosaur holding an American flag and an M60 machine gun. Victor accepted the callused hand, looked up into the face of friendly man with an impeccable military haircut and mustache. “Thank you.”

“I’m Chuck.” He said, helping Victor to his feet. “We got a convoy out there to medi-vac you back to the island. I’m guessing that you’re the only one?”

“Yeah, the air crew didn’t make it.” Victor said shaking his head slightly. “But we can’t go back to the island yet. I have five priority prisoners that need transported to USAMIIR.” Pointing a thumb over his shoulder towards the garage that continued to hiss and howl.

Chuck put his foot against the garage door so it could only open a sliver. He shined his light inside. “Oh man. I don’t know about all that. I don’t much like the living version of them little critters. I prefer them, you know, horizontal and not breathing!”

“Where’s your sense of adventure. It’ll be fun.” Victor said, then winced in pain as he turned his head too quickly dropping the dark infected blood covered knife on the counter in exchange for his guns. “What could go wrong?”

I-70 West of Baltimore, Maryland
 
“This is going to be a good one. Hang on General.” Chuck said downshifting for more horsepower and then gripped the wide steering wheel with both hands.

At twenty miles per hour the colossal V shaped snowplow of the orange county salt-truck lifted and tossed a small sedan three lanes over. Chuck roared laughing as the small car flipped through the air, high over the center divider, and landed upside down on the opposite side of interstate 70.

“General, did you see that one buddy? Here comes an SUV, we might actually feel this one.” He said, reaching a dry and calloused hand over to rub the floppy ears of his spotted Great Dane who occupied the majority of the truck’s cab. General lifted his head slightly, then laid his head back down to continue his nap, unamused by his human’s game of flipping cars.

The heavy sixty-thousand-pound county salt truck barely changed course as the SUV was sent rolling end over end smashing into the concrete divider. “Ahhh man! That one didn’t make it over the barrier.” Chuck said aloud to his sleeping copilot, while looking in the vibrating side view mirror.

An additional orange plow truck followed behind him hit the SUV again, lifting the wrinkled and twisted vehicle up and over the center divider. Trailing behind that, was a third plow truck that was scraping shattered glass and broken fender parts off the road. Also in the convoy where three recovery vehicles, a fuel truck, ten five-ton cargo trucks, and four security escort Light Armored Vehicles armed with 25mm autocannons, M240 machine guns and a platoon of infantry scouts.

Looking forward again, there was a mile stretch of unobstructed highway which seemed like a good time to take a little break to stretch his legs and drain his bladder. Chuck lifted the handset on the SINCGARS frequency hopping encrypted military radio and keyed the mic.

“All convoy elements, this is T-Rex. Taking a fifteen-minute tactical pause. Maintain dispersion and take up defensive positions. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em” Chuck said in his gruffy voice, sliding the shifter into park and engaged the parking brake.

Chuck climbed out of the truck and stood on the firm highway. After hours of driving the big rumbling truck, it took a minute for his legs to get used to the solid ground. He bent over to touch his toes then twisted at the torso trying to stretch the kink out of his back.

“General, do you need a piss break buddy?” Chuck asked his K9 companion that continued to carelessly sleep. He glanced around his rig, checking for leaking fluids, punctured tires, or any other damage that could be mission critical. Looking towards the rear, he noticed the other drivers doing the same thing. Good lads, he thought to himself.

“Hey Gunny, you want us to take lead for a while?” The driver behind him asked walking towards his truck.
Chuck had asked the young troops to stop calling him Gunny several times, but it seemed he was in a perpetual state of enlistment in the big green machine. The day the world had went dark, he was due to retire from active duty in the US Army. Over the past twenty years he had served as a 62Bravo heavy construction equipment mechanic and 91Bravo wheeled mechanic.

He had gone all over the world from duty station to duty station keeping government vehicles and machinery in good working condition. In reality, if a machine burned petrol, he worked on it. If it used electricity to activate a motor, he rebuilt it. And if it used circular motion and created voltage, he rebuilt those too.

Chuck’s passion was heavy machinery and fabrication though, which is why he had spent so much time on convoys in war zones.  He loved problem solving, and when a military vehicle broke down in the middle of bad guy neighborhoods, it was up to him to get things running again, quickly as possible by any means necessary.

After twenty years of Army abuse and combat wear and tear, his body was ready for a permanent vacation. He truly did love his job, but he was smart enough to realize that injuries, even minor ones, were taking longer and longer to heal and someday he may never recover. So, he made the difficult decision to end his active-duty service.

With all his personal possessions being transported cross country by a government contracted moving company, he was left with just his truck, a duffle bag full of clothes, toiletries and his best friend General who was also eager for a new civilian life adventure to begin.

Before he could get off the base for the last time, the lights went out and never came back on. Then the dark world of hunger riots and anarchy warlords became even darker as humans began to physically morph into nightmarish monsters. As society completely disintegrated, Chuck and his small squad of mechanics were able to survive by doing what they did best, improvising and fabricating.

For the longest time after the collapse, him and his small squad of Army mechanics thought to be the last survivors on the east coast. Definitely the last survivors with electrical power, hot showers, and refrigerators full of cold beer. Considering they had spent much of their lives living in fighting holes or filthy abandoned warehouses in foreign countries, their makeshift camp inside the fenced in motor-pool perimeter was quite comfortable, to Army standards anyways.

Although Chuck wore a tight regulation haircut with matching mustache, which he had meticulously maintained during the apocalypse, he hadn’t worn the Army uniform since the day the world went dark. The younger troops still looked to him as their ranking leader who had kept them all fed and alive. Chuck cared about his troops who he had served with for years, so being the father figure was okay by him, but he was through breaking his back, quite literally, for an unappreciative organization.

One day while sitting under a cami-net canopy, stretched between a pair of five-ton cargo trucks, the group was playing a round of cards while debating on relocating to more comfortable living conditions in the more luxurious part of town. Perhaps to a mansion with an inground pool and private bar. The troops bickered back and forth, discussing the pros and cons of the work needed to leave the base and reestablish the security measures that had kept them safe so far. Chuck was listening to the complaints that had merit and was carefully formulating a decision when an all too familiar sound of helicopters flew over heading towards the Chesapeake Bay.

Soon after that they relocated their camp, and their entire mechanic shop to Kent Island. Since then, they had been putting their skills to use for more than just survival, but to reestablish a working community. Chuck refused to consider himself as part of the Atlantic Naval Fleet’s command structure, but he sure did like General Lyon’s sales pitch about rebuilding America.

His squad took up the task of clearing and neatly relocating all the EMP killed vehicles from Kent Island’s clogged roadways to allow for military patrols and logistical supply chains to move freely about their new community. And in typical military nature, they rewarded a job-well-done, with another job. Which brought him to his current mission of clearing a MSR (main supply route) from Kent Island to the USAMIIR research facility.

What would have normally taken an hour to drive pre-Dark Day, had taken them a day and a half. The last few miles driving at a twenty MPH speed had been a treat after the slow push around the congested south side of Baltimore. Near sun down, the convoy had made it to their first check point at Fort Mead where a tight defensive perimeter was established around the National Security Agency headquarters.

While Chuck and his crew refueled and did a quick assessment on every vehicle in the convoy, some tech nerds went into the NSA building to pillage hardware. The geeks were in nerd heaven, coming and going from the building all night completely filling the ten cargo trucks with computer towers, racks of hardware, and computer cables.

Holding his trusty M1A rifle that had saved his life so many times over the last few months, he shook his head at the computer technician’s excitement for electronics.

“What are they going to do, save the world with spreadsheets?” Chuck scoffed, elbowing one of his junior men in the ribs.

“I wonder if they have any video game consoles in there?” One of his young troops wondered out loud remembering a long ago time of being mindlessly entertained for hours in front of a television.

After the sun had come up in the morning, the five-ton trucks had been filled to the maximum, and a hot cup of instant coffee was enjoyed, Chuck took command of the convoy and got them back out clearing the highway again. From Fort Mead, the consistency of dead vehicles on the highway thinned making for faster travel time.

At their current tactical pause location on I-70, aka smoke break, they had cleared two-thirds of the way towards their objective. Worst case scenario, they would reach USAMIIR by dusk, and have to spend another night in the field. Best case scenario was, that they could boogie on back to Kent Island before dark to sleep in a comfortable rack with his K9 bed heater, General.

Chuck twisted his torso again, stretching the kinks out of his back in preparation to climb back into the cab of the orange county salt-truck when he heard the familiar sound of dual rotor blades on a CH-47 Chinook helicopter. He was not aware of a personnel or cargo flight to USAMIIR today, but it’s not like he would be privy to that sort of information anyways.

The helicopter was coming in low from the east using the highway as a navigational guide. As the bird got closer, he noticed that the helo had a cargo sling-load swaying from it’s underbelly. The closer it got, the cargo net didn’t look quite right, not like a typical pallet load but round with small shapes inside. Human shapes? He squinted his eyes to see better as the CH-47 flew overhead towards the west.

A thunderous BOOM startled him, causing him to duck behind the giant wheel of his truck like he had done many times before when reacting to roadside bomb detonating near his convoys in warzones. He looked up to the CH-47 helicopter to see a thick black trail of smoke exiting the tail rotor engine as the helo quickly descended over a tall tree line and out of site.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
A single engine can drive both CH-47 rotors in the event of an engine failure. But not a total destructive mechanical failure caused by a Rocket Propelled Grenade blast. The CH-47’s duel top rotors spin in opposite directions for stabilization, unlike most helicopters which have a tail stabilizing rotor that counters the inertia of a single top engine.

There really isn’t a benefit of crashing to the ground in a helicopter, but the only thing that made this crash suck less was that the pilot had been flying at a low altitude. The time it took to fall from the sky to the ground, the rear rotor blades had kept rotating just enough to keep the bird from going into a violent spin which also slowed their descent.

“I’ve lost all control! Brace for impact!” The pilot yelled into the head set that had still been playing a fast beat heavy metal track.

The helo was falling towards a subdivision of uniformed rows of matching houses. Side to side the cargo net swayed beneath, causing the helicopter to pitch left and right. The dangling cargo net full of sedated Gen 2’s skimmed across a two-story house roof peak, then got tangles into a large oak tree. The tree bent at a forty-five-degree angle, the line went tight, the tree heaved and threatened to unearth itself, but the deep roots won the tug-of-war battle.

The helicopter instantly lost all forward momentum and like a bowling ball, it plunged into a large community pond. A thin layer of ice shattered when energy waves rippled away from the sinking aircraft.

Victor’s arm had been yanked free from the window safety strap. His head had bounced off the cockpit bulkhead before he was thrown against the fold down troop seats. He saw stars and a dark tunnel clouded his vision. Just as he was about to lose consciousness, he was engulfed in freezing cold water that rushed into the fuselage from every direction. As soon as the aircraft hit the water it began flipping over upside down, with the heavy engines pulling the craft to the bottom of the pond.

At a time like this is when being buckled in would have been favorable, so Victor could have kept his sense of direction as the floor became the ceiling and the water clouded his vision to 2200. He hugged onto the fold down canvas troop seats until the fuselage stopped rotating and water filled his nasal cavity. Being completely disorientated, he blindly pulled himself towards the cockpit area with hand over hand where he knew an escape window to be.

Keeping a hand on the wall, he felt for the window until finally an opening presented itself in the black abyss. Victor pulled himself through and let his buoyancy pull him in the right direction. Cold air pealed the water off his face, and he took a large gulp filling his burning lungs. Attempting to shake the water from his face brought neck pain so severe that he almost blacked out again.

Treading water, he spun around looking for the aircrew. He kicked his legs a few more time while trying to get a lung full of air, and his foot struck the submerged helicopter. It wasn’t all that deep.

Victor dove several times trying to free the aircrew, but the only person he could locate was the door gunner who had drowned. He was able to locate his backpack and the door mounted machine gun, but his hands had numbed to the point that his fingers couldn’t successfully dislodge the mounting pins.

Since he had packed for a watercraft insertion on this mission, he had properly waterproofed his backpack which now made for a flotation device for him to cling to. A searing pain shot up his right arm, into his shoulder and down his back when he tried to hug the bag reminding him that his arm had been yanked violently when holding onto the window safety strap.

Nursing his wounded arm, he managed to get himself to shore and onto a frost covered overgrown lawn. Laying on his back, he looked up wondering what he had gotten himself into this time. Staring up at the crisp blue sky, he followed a bird float peacefully across cloud wisps until it perched upon the thick green nylon rope that still tethered the sunken aircraft to the tangle up oak tree. His eyes followed the line to the cargo net, that had started to squirm with Gen 2 Grays that had survived the crash.

“Wonderful.” Victor said in frustration. He talked to himself out loud, trying to organize his thoughts through a massive headache. Laying there motionless felt good, but if he laid on the frozen ground much longer, his body core temp would drop to dangerous levels. “First things first, I need to get dry.”

Unslinging the AR15 off his back, he used it as a crutch to get to his feet then lifted his dripping backpack with his left arm. Leaving a trail of wet boot prints in the tall, frosted grass he made his way across the back yard to the closest house with a chimney. Passing by the cargo net, swaying from the tree, he could see that at least a few of the creatures had survived. Victor noted himself shivering and wondered how the naked little demons hadn’t frozen to death.

 Rattling doorknobs and tugging on sliders looking for an entry, he finally found that the garage door had been left wide open leading him into a musty smelling foyer. Quietly setting his pack and rifle on the floor, then gently closing the door behind him with a light fingertip push he listened for anything moving about inside the house.

His shivering was getting worse as the wet clothes he wore began to stiffen as they froze. Dry clothes were needed quickly, but first he need to ensure the house was clear. He started to reach for his pistol and was again reminded of his shoulder wound that made him curse under his breath. With his left hand, he reached across his body, and pulled the pistol from his holster. Having an awkward grip, he pinched the pistol between his knees, rotated his hand, and then got a proper firm left-handed grip.

Having a weapon gave him a little encouragement that he might survive the SNAFU ordeal.

“Anyone home?” he yelled into the house loud enough that anyone, or anything, in the large house would hear him. Satisfied that nothing was on the move, he opted not to clear the entire house and instead locked himself inside a main floor bedroom so he could change his clothing without fear of being attacked by predatory inhabitants.

Inside the soaking wet backpack, were several bundles individually wrapped in trash bags. With his good arm he dug deep finding the soft bundle of dry clothes that he desperately wanted. Tearing the bag open with his teeth, he began to painfully redress himself.

His body continued to uncontrollably shiver as his muscles tried to create warmth. As much as Victor hated being cold, he also knew that most of his body was numb for the moment. As soon as he warmed up, a whole new set of injury pain was going to unleash.

On the outside of his pack, he opened his individual first aid kit and found a green thin cloth arm sling which he tied and slipped around his neck. After stabilizing and securing his wounded limb, he opened a bottle of Motrin, which was labeled “Grunt Candy” and downed 800mg, then another 800mg for good measure.

Standing at the edge of the king-sized bed, Victor was lightheaded and a little woozy from the head injury during the helo crash. My luck I have a concussion, and I just increased my chance of a brain hemorrhage by taking Motrin. He thought to himself. Swaying slightly, he looked at the mountain of pillows and closed his eyes for a minute imagining how good a nap would feel. Opening his tired eyes, they fell upon a case of tranquilizer darts sitting on the bed and he knew that there was still work to be done.

Back at the casino, at the top of the parking deck stairs, the team had encountered over two dozen Gen 2 infected. After the short battle, they had sedated and captured thirteen. Of that, only five remained alive inside the cargo net.

Victor had enjoyed hunting wild game in his life but was never into trophy hunting. “If you kill it, you eat it” is what he taught his children. Taking a life should never be without cause, human or otherwise. When Victor cut the cargo net free from the oak tree, opened it to separate the dead from the living, he had a moment of empathy for the creatures. In his mind the Grays were not infected or sick people, they were an enemy, and vicious ones at that. But seeing the little toddler sized dead creatures piled up that bore a resemblance of human saddened him.

Using the last of the tranquilizers, he sedated the five remaining creatures, and caried them one by one to the garage. They remained bound with flex-cuffs with sandbags over their heads. Using electrical cords, cut from lamps inside the house, Victor tied the creatures together in a chain and then tethered them to a mounted garage door track and shut the doors securing them inside.

Fire was his next mission, and straight to the fireplace he went. Using a phone book found in the kitchen and a few broken wooden chairs, he lit a fire that would save him from hypothermia. The fire roared and crackled casting heat onto his aching hands and suddenly fatigue washed over him. He nudged the sofa closer to the fireplace and took a seat. He would close his eyes. Just for a second while he pondered a way to contact help and get back to his family.

​Just for a second....

Trainer, Pennsylvania

Dead trees, trash, debris, and even a waterlogged corpse were lodged into the long dock, made of metal and concrete, that protruded into the Delaware river from the Monroe Energy refinery. Instead of getting tangled up in the mess, the Recon team elected to beach the pair of rubber Zodiac watercrafts on the riverbank instead.

After pulling the boats out of the water, that were heavily weighted with food supplies looted from the Philadelphia casino, the team fanned out across the riverbank and held security for well over half an hour. Using their night vision devices, they scanned up and down the sparsely vegetated riverbank and as far into the refinery as they could see. Nothing was moving between the rows and rows of enormous round cylindrical metal petrol holding tanks that sprouted from the ground as far as they could see.

The night air was still and disconcertingly quiet. Raymond had expected to hear both of the kill-o-matic loudspeakers from this location. The entire purpose of positioning the contraptions up and down river, was to draw Grays away from this site so the team could do a proper recon of the refinery without fear of running into a horde. He breathed heavily and prayed upon the bright stars in the night sky, that the infected’s enhanced hearing, would be good enough to drive them towards the bait.

Gray’s had a particular odor that Raymond had learned to notice as an early warning system. But there was a rancid smell to this place that stung Raymond’s nostrils, a mixture of dead fish and gasoline fumes that teased of a headache. His tactical sensory ability wouldn’t do him any good on this objective.

Beckett gave a short whistle to get his teams attention, then raised a hand in the air and made a circular lasso motion gesturing them to rally on him. 

Beckett leaned in close to the radio operator, “Did you call us in as feet dry?”

“Roger.” Darkness confirmed. 

Beckett spoke a little louder to address everyone, “At the end of that dock, is a gravel road that leads to a small admin building at the center of this complex. That’s our foot hold for tonight. Take it slow and easy, good dispersion in a tactical column. Stay alert.”

One at a time they stood and began a slow walk towards the dock. When the point man got twenty yards away, the next man stood and followed. Raymond took his normal position in the center of the formation. 

The massive size of the calendrical tanks was astonishing. Each one, the size of a building. They passed row after row of them that had above ground pipelines linking them all to a central network. They were nearly out of the holding tank farm and close to the admin building, when the point man held up a fist commanding the formation to freeze. 

The night air seemed to shift with an energy that tickled the hair on the back of Raymond’s neck. He cranked his head to the side and reached up to focus his night vision on a large dark shape that he couldn’t make out but seemed out of place. A warning was on the tip of his tongue when blinding lights flooded them from the flanks, washing out their night vision goggles.

“Contact left!” Doc yelled.

Beckett pulled a soup can sized object from his vest and threw it halfway between the team and the series of blinding lights. A loud POP and HISS delivered a quickly forming cloud streaming from the high concentrate smoke grenade which blocked visibility.

Rios had already shimmied up a sixty-foot metal run ladder and was setting up an overwatch position on top of a petrol holding tanks.

Squeezing a metallic button on his forehead, Raymond flipped the useless night vision goggles up and out of the way when more bright lights flashed on from the opposite flank causing him to squint his eyelids.

“Contact right!” Darkness yelled.

“Back to the boats!” Becket yelled, pointing his weapon to his flank.

The point man turned to the rear and took off running. When he passed the first teammate he yelled, “Last man!” and didn’t bother slapping his teammate for a physical confirmation that he normally would have done in the dark, or in a loud firefight that would muffle his announcement. 

The second teammate stood, turned to the rear and bolted towards the third teammate which was SSgt Beckett. Right when he was about to yell “Last Man” a line of vehicles skidded to a halt across the gravel road in front of the dock, effectively cutting off their escape.

“Shit!” the point man said as he slid to a knee, raising his rifle at the newest threat. They were in a really bad spot, pinned in on three sides.

“To the office building!” Beckett redirected them. 

No sooner than Beckett gave the order, even more vehicle lights turned on between the team and their objective building. They were completely surrounded in a 360-degree ambush that made absolutely zero tactical sense, if the aggressors had wished to kill them. At this point, neither side had fired a single shot.

“I have multiple targets of opportunity.” Rios said from his elevated platform, speaking into the team’s comms channel.

“Hold your fire Rios, but designate priority targets incase this thing pops off.” Becket said, assessing their situation.

“Keep weapons on safe and take cover!” Beckett commanded his team out loud. He then slung his rifle to his back and stood in the center of the gravel road with his hands on his hips. 

Engines revved. Big block engines with performance exhaust from the sound of the roar. Drivers crept their vehicles forward from all directions, tightening the noose around the team. Beckett kicked himself for being so careless. The team had been so focused on the dangers of infected, that fighting against healthy human beings, here in America no less, was low on the tactical threat assessment. 

Going straight into an objective rally point was a rookie mistake that should get him fired, that is if he survived the night. The team should have instead flanked wide around the property then J hooked back into the O.R.P. from the opposite direction to ensure the area was safe. That is Infantry Basics 101, and Beckett had just failed the class.

A shadowy figure of a human walked in front of the series of headlight between Beckett and the admin building. He tried to squint and hold up a hand over his brow to block the light for a better view, but it did no good. The engine rumble began to fade as the drivers killed their engines in no particular order.

Beckett could finally hear himself think and began formulating a plan when first contact was made.

“Tell me why I should keep you thieving trespassers alive?” A gravelly voice bellowed.

“My name is Staff Sergeant Beckett, United States Marine Corps. Are you the one they call Toecutter?” He shouted back to the shadowy figure.

“I don’t know who that is.” The man trailed off as someone else spoke to him from the dark void, interrupting his conversation. “Toecutter huh? Well, it seems a fitting name to apocalyptic gunmen who are controlling the fuel source. But I prefer Immortal Joe from the later Mad Max movie.”

Becket could hear the tensions ease a bit, but then the man told him to raise his hands, in which he complied.

“I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. You’re going to turn around, and we’re going to escort you back the way you came from.” Joe said confidently, “Try something stupid, and we’ll kill you where you stand, and your fancy equipment is ours to confiscate.”

“Sounds fair enough, we didn’t know this property was occupied and don’t want any trouble. We only came here to check the condition of the refinery.” Beckett said.

“If you need gas, you can take yourself down river to the Delaware City refinery and take what you want, but this place is ours.” Joe stated.

“Do you know who owned this facility before the attack?” Beckett asked.

“Monroe Energy. It says so, right there on the sign.” Joe pointed to the placard on the white metal container. 

“Yes, but Monroe was a subsidiary of?” Beckett asked.

The shadow outline suggested that Joe shrugged his shoulders.

“Monroe Energy was a subsidiary of Delta Airlines.” Beckett told him.

“Ok, and? What does that have to do with us?” Joe asked annoyed, placing a hand on his holstered pistol.

“Delta purchased this place to make jet fuel which significantly reduced their main operating cost.” Becket informed him. “The Delaware City refinery down river didn’t make jet fuel. Joe, we represent the US military which needs JP-8 and diesel for reconstruction and stabilization operations.”

 “Bullshit!” Joe yelled, pointing a finger at Becket. “You’re a damn liar. There is no government left. It’s every man, woman, and child for themselves out here!”

“I didn’t say government, I said military.” Beckett corrected him. “Can I put my hands down?”

“No. Who’s to say that you’re not just a bunch of rednecks that looted an Army Navy store and coming in here to steal our gas?”

Beckett slowly interlocked his fingers, then rested his heavy hands on the top of his head while he gave a slight nod to Darkness who already had radio comms with their air assets on standby. 

“Listen, each one of these holding tanks contains five hundred thousand gallons of petrol. If you kill us here and now, what do you think a hellfire missile would do to your little road warrior operation that you have going on here? I bet the fireball would be seen by the poor bastards stranded up there on the international space station.” Beckett said, pointing towards the heavens. “Joe, we don’t want to steal your fuel. We want to buy it from you.”

An unexpected heavy beating began to reverberate off the refinery machinery. Joe, looked around, abruptly contemplating the situation at hand. Shadows shifted off the round white container walls as confused individuals stepped in front of their vehicles searching the night sky for the thumping sound that grew louder. 

“Turn off the headlights!” Joe commanded his crew. “Turn them off now!

One by one the vehicle drivers who surrounded the Recon team turned off their lights, casting the area back into darkness in attempt to hide their position. But it was too late, the Apache helicopter pilots already had their grid coordinates.

The fabric of black night sky was ripped apart as two Hydra M257 rockets launched from across the river leaving a glorious streaking display of burning rocket motors that impersonated shooting stars until they were directly over the refinery. Rocket motors are extremely loud, but not as loud as when a one million candle power illumination parachute flare pops to life.

Night turned to daylight as the two flares slowly drifted towards the Earth. To intensify the show of force, the Apache attack helicopters flew low, directly over the refinery seeing people running away, some hiding behind vehicles, others lying flat on the ground and the Recon team in the center, giving an appreciated salute for the assistance.

Beckett no longer held his hands up high; he was now in charge of this conversation and he only had ninety seconds of illumination to drive home his message.

“Joe!” Beckett yelled over the fading helicopter rotors. “As I said, we represent the US military, and we are in need of fuel. Are you willing to assist us?”

Joe picked himself off the ground and wiped the dirt from his pants. “Take all the jet fuel that you need, we only need the gasoline for our rigs.” Joe said humiliated.

“Well, that’s not exactly what we need from you Joe. The fuel in these holding tanks has expired, if not it will soon begin to separate without massive amounts of stabilizer. We need some fresh stuff Joe, and lots of it on a regular basis.” Beckett informed him.

Flanked by personal guards, the man walked closer to Beckett who was now standing casual. The bearded man who he spoke with wore black leather boots, a tattered Phillies baseball cap, grease-stained blue jeans and a Carhart jacket that had his name JOE embroidered on the chest. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, there seems to be a permanent power outage. Even if we knew how to refine crude oil, it’s hard to do so without electricity.” Joe said sarcastically.

“I’m going to make this really easy for you. We have naval engineers that can wire up generators, big ones used to power factories. I am confident, that they can also teach your group of gearheads how to safely operate this place.” Beckett said in a smooth used car salesman voice. “But wait, there is more! For the icing on the cake, there are a few battleship Skippers who are fighting each other for the chance to float a captured oil supertanker up this river that is hauling two million barrels of crude oil. Just for you.” 

“Too good to be true. What’s the catch?” Joe said, crossing his arms.

“No catch, your people get a working refinery. Keep, use, trade all the gasoline you want. But you produce JP-8 and diesel for us.” Beckett shrugged. 

“For how long? I’m not enslaving my people to factory work indefinitely.” Joe said cynically.

“It’s not like that.” Beckett said shaking his head. “You’ve never won a government contract before, have you? Not only will they set everything up, but they will also pay you for the product. Of course, forms of payment will need to be negotiated due to the current economy.”

The two of them staired at each other until the parachute flares fizzled out and the dark night sky once again blanketed the area.

“If this so-called military of yours screws us over, we’ll detonate this place ourselves.” Joe said, extending an open hand forward.

Beckett gripped it in a firm handshake. “Sounds like we have ourselves a deal, Joe. The first order of business that requires attention, is your perimeter security. It’s in desperate need of improvement before the big brains get out here and start making a bunch of racket.”

Washington D.C.
 
Secret Service Agent McCarthy had spent countless hours of his career surveilling the White House lawn and perimeter fence, ready to pounce on anyone who dared to enter. He imagined that his father, and his father’s father before him who had all worn the badge of protecting America’s elected leaders, had spent an equal amount of time on duty watching the grass grow. 

Of course, over generations his family had witnessed the construction of a new guard post here or there, installation of retractable vehicle ramming barriers that could stop semi-trucks, new fences, and countless other upgrades, but the job had remained the same. Watch the grass grow, and make sure nobody steps foot on it. McCarthy wondered what his Grandfather would say about the current unkept state of the White House lawn that grew knee high ragweed.

“Stay here ma’am.” McCarthy told Secretary of Education Mrs. DeVod.

Crossing his fingers and his heart, McCarthy did a silent prayer looking up towards the clear blue sky. He climbed down the steps of the Renwick Gallery of the Smithsonian American Art Museum located on 17th and Pennsylvania Avenue. With his back to the beautiful red brick building that had been standing tall since 1859, he crossed Pennsylvania Ave towards the north lawn of the White House. Stepping onto the sidewalk was a relief because he had expected to have been shot before making it across the road.

Made from a bed sheet and a shower curtain rod, he tensely held a large white flag above his head stenciled with a red, white and blue peace symbol.

Pausing his advancement, Agent McCarthy stood at the north west vehicle gate and waved the flag until shadowy figures could finally be seen through the White House windows. Judging by the flickering lights, he assumed the main generators were still working, but surely, the occupants had to be low on fuel. 

Steadfast, he waited on the sidewalk, watching closely through the black iron fence that had already began to rust. On official duty of the presidential guard, watching the grass grow yet again. But this time, from the opposite side of the lawn and trying to gain entry into the White House.

Cold northern winter wind howled across Lafayette Square park. His ears were the first to numb, then began to ache from frostbite. Then his toes. Then his fingers. This is stupid, he thought shivering. He wasn’t even properly dressed.

It was just like a politician to micromanage details and put him in a suit and tie for a message delivery job. DeVod would not even let him wear his tactical boots. At least he had been allowed to wear his issued wool peacoat, or he would have suffered hypothermia already.

“Screw it.” McCarthy said under his breath. “It’s the freaking apocalypse, and I’m standing out here freezing in slacks and Oxfords and couldn’t outrun an infected for one damn block.”

Resting the white peace flag on his shoulder, he took a few steps to the pedestrian gate. If the White House had power, it was a safe bet that the guard shack did too. He punched in his access code to the metal keypad, and an audible CLICK was heard as the pedestrian gate unlocked. With a simple push, he was in. 

McCarthy casually walked around the guard shack that he was intimately familiar with and went inside. In the past several months his world had been turned upside down. He had witnessed things that should never had been witnessed. Nightmare was the closest relatable word to his new world. When he shut the heavy armor-plated door, that he had shut hundreds of times before, a sense of familiarity washed over him. For a second, he closed his eyes then smelled a faint trace of stale coffee and pine scented cleaning chemicals, that sent him back in time to when the world was right side up.

A cloud of vapor huffed out, as he breathed heavily and reopened his eyes revealing the unfortunate reality. He shook his head in disappointment. 

Tethered to the wall was a black landline phone, he picked up the handset, wiped a layer of dust off it and dialed the lobby number. It rang.

“Who is this?” A nervous voice asked.

“It doesn’t matter. Tell the Secretary of Transportation Mrs. Chan, that Secretary of Education Mrs. DeVod, requests an immediate meeting to discuss terms of a truce. I’ll hold on the line for confirmation.” McCarthy said flatly. 
 
----------BREAK----------
 
For the first time in months, McCarthy stood guard on the White House north portico protecting an asset. Nothing about this meeting was standard procedure. There had been no advance party to make security preparations to the meeting area. In fact, there was no meeting area other than the president’s front door covered porch.

From a PSD, personal security detail, perspective being out in the open, in a city full of infected and wannabe warlords, this was an absolute horrible meeting location and considering what was at stake, the situation couldn’t be much worse. McCarthy stood on the marble steps watching the north lawn, with his back to Mrs. Chan and Mrs. Devod sitting in a pair of two-hundred-year-old chairs that should certainly not be outside.

“I want to apologize for attacking before. The goal wasn’t to do you harm, but to lure out Wolf, the Secretary of Homeland Security.” DeVod spoke calmly.

“Well, your little stunt killed one of my men.” Chan replied harshly. “Was your strategy successful, at least?”

“It was. Wolf will no longer be a problem, for neither of us.” DeVod grinned and noticed her professionally dressed secret service agents shifted their weight slightly at the mention of Wolf. There was no doubt a hint of animosity amongst the ranks that would need to be addressed soon.
​
“So, you have eliminated another pawn in your conquest of power. I can’t wait to hear what you have to offer me.” Chan said, sitting back into the antique high back chair.

Chan knew that she had the upper hand. Short of an assassination attempt on the front porch, Chan possessed the security of the White House fortress. DeVod’s desperation for the oval office was oozing from her arrogant pores. The only possible play DeVod had to remove Chan, was to offer her something extraordinary.

“I can give you the Vice President position. There is no reason that you and I can not work together to rebuild this nation. Rebuild it stronger than before, like a phoenix reborn and rising from the ashes.” DeVod offered, knowing that Chan would refuse the demotion.

“Why would I give you the Presidency of the United States?” Chan asked coldly, ready to conclude the meeting that had no possible favorable outcome.

“You have been occupying this political temple for months. And what actions have you taken?” DeVod accused, sitting forward in her chair. “None! You haven’t done anything to help the survivors out there starving and fighting for their lives!”

“I’ve done more than you know!” Chan glared and raised her voice with anger. “I have international relief aid coming as we speak!”

The comment momentarily stunned DeVod. Chan had established diplomatic relationships for foreign aid. Food, medicine and supplies was something that DeVod could use to jumpstart her plans.

Chan shifted forward in her seat, preparing to stand. “Mrs. DeVod, I am the rightful president and currently the occupant of the Oval Office. Unless you have anything meaningful to discuss…”

“You are only pretending to be the legal president.” DeVod cut her off. “You may be higher on the succession list, but you are not a naturally born American citizen, therefor ineligible to hold the office. On that subject, what country were you born in?”

Chan glared at her. Constitutionally, DeVod was correct. Chan was ineligible to be president, but that was before the apocalypse. Legal power of lawyers and courtrooms had been replaced with power of weapons and the will to use them.

Mrs. Chan had been born in China and had migrated to America with her parents many years ago. Since then, she had used her Ivy League fraternity connections to land a job as a senator’s driver, a congresswomen’s secretary, and a mistress to many. Chan had stealthily imbedded herself into Washington’s circle of the most powerful and influential elite.

Transfer of state’s secrets had been a mission, but to inject covert control measures into Washington D.C. had been her primary goal. Videotaping politicians in compromising situations with drugs, sex slaves, or both was common practice. But after time, Chan had realized that negative leverage was not necessarily needed to influence political votes, favorable tariffs, foreign aid projects, or which corporations would win major federal contracts. An old fashion bribe was the golden key to unlock the magical door of influence.

But bribery in American politics had rules, unlike the old days of secretly handing off envelopes bulging with cash in dark parking garages. Accepting bribes was such a common occurrence in America, that systems had been set into place to avoid anticorruption laws. For a quick one-time favor, a corporate donation would be made to a non-profit organization, to whom the dirty politician was the salaried CEO. If a politician showed long term promise, a close family member would be given an executive level job at a foreign shell company that most likely received American federal grants to begin with.

Influencing politics was her forte, but University facility and Fortune 500 executives were targets as well. A university’s proprietary research reports could be purchased for a fraction of the cost of conducting their own research and development, and then delivered back to China. The Publicity Department, or commonly known as the Propaganda Department, had great social engineering success by paying university faculty to inject communist ideologies into lectures. One brief meeting between Chan and a single professor at a coffee shop, could have influenced multinational trade relations through generations of young impressionable students.

Of course, Chan and the many others like her, only arranged the meetings and made handshake agreements. The actual laundered payment transactions and lucrative executive positions were clandestinely coordinated through the Chinese embassy through a series of dummy-corporation donations or massive Wall Street stock purchases.

Early in Chan’s espionage career the riskiest part of her mission was to artfully, in a non-criminal way, offer the bribe to the targeted politician. After she had established roots into the swamp, the greedy monsters came to her for handouts. Corruption was deep on the political spectrum, and neither political party would shed light on their opponents, because they were all dirty of the same criminal behavior.

And then there was the occasional do-gooder that wanted to go against the system or the hard ass who felt entitled to more and threatened Chan’s family with spying or extradition. She couldn’t figure out which DeVod was, but it didn’t really matter. North America was no longer protected or controlled by the US government, and soon Mrs. Chan would be the official North American territory chancellor to the BRICS empire.

Chan stood up and the pair of guards at the front door came to attention. “Mrs. DeVod, I do believe this meeting is over.”

DeVod slouched in her chair, folded her arms on her lap, and the makeshift peace flag fell over the side of the chair onto the floor with a clank. “I’m sorry Mrs. Chan, I had really hoped that you and I could work together for both of our benefits.”

Chan caught how she put emphasis on ‘both of our benefits’ as many dirty politicians had in the past while seeking payouts not caring where the money was coming from or of the treasonous strings attached. It could be, DeVod had come in strong and was negotiating for a White House position, Chan thought. Perhaps DeVod could be an ally to Chan after all. But she wasn’t getting the Oval Office.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
A Secret Service marksman hidden in the nearby Treasury building had been providing overwatch of the meeting on the norther porch.

His rifle scope’s reticle had been centered on the Secretary of Transportation the entire meeting. If the guards made one wrong move, or if an assassination or kidnapping attempt was made on DeVod, the marksman was ready to put a bullet through the Secretary of Transportation.

When his target had stood suddenly, he watched DeVod’s peace flag fall to the ground, signaling that peaceful talks had failed.

The agent keyed the microphone on his radio, “All teams go! I say again, all teams go!”
 
----------BREAK----------
 
The lights inside the White House flickered sporadically, then dimmed quickly casting the interior in darkness.

“It seems that you have lost electricity Chan.” DeVod said sarcastically, losing all sense of diplomacy and politeness.

One of Chan’s guards reached for the door after it made an audible CLICK. The guard gave it a tug, but it did not budge.

“It’s a Mag-Lock door, Chan.” DeVod said, sitting back into her chair with a sly grin. “In the event of power outages, electromagnetic locks are either fail-safe or fail-secure. The White House is equipped with fail-secure.”

Chan ran over to the door, shoving her guard to the side, and yanked on the unmovable door unsuccessfully.

McCarthy’s team swiftly disarmed the pair of White House guards in the brief distraction and marched them out of sight away from the portico.

“If you don’t know how the doors operate, then you probably don’t know how easy it is to turn off the diesel generators which are conveniently located right outside the 761-foot subterranean structure that connects that big Treasury Building right over there,” DeVod turned in her chair to point lazily across the lawn. “to the White House East Wing.”

A muffled commotion rumbled from inside the colonial fortress then a strobe of flash-bangs and muzzle blasts temporarily lit darkened rooms. One after another, the darkened windows would flash a picture of Secret Service teams of men in black tactical uniforms who knew the building layout better than the architects themselves. The teams advanced from East to West fluidly like an inescapable tidal wave, one room to the next.

Mrs. Chan stood and watched shadows dance inside a dark room right next to the norther front door where she stood in shock. The darkness evaporated with flashes and muffled gunfire that painted the walls red with dead White House guards. Chan cared not for the loss of her staff, but for the loss of her position and future opportunity as Chancellor.
​
With slumped shoulders, and a bowed head of defeat, Chan returned to her chair and sat slowly. “Is the VP position still available?” 

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
 
After a fall, your entire body is tightly wrapped in a blanket of pain. But it’s usually not aches and pains from the impact, but from every muscle in your body tightening all at once in anticipation of the impact. While the concrete parking deck rushed towards Victor’s face, he couldn’t decide if he was more concerned with scraping flesh off his face or the tiny demon which clung to his boot.
​
Instead of reaching his hands down to break his fall, he extended his arms forward like Superman ready to slide into home plate. His chest hit the deck first, knocking out what little air he held in his lungs. Next his chin hit the solid surface and bounced his head up as he passed through the threshold while McCune held the cargo net corner flap open for him.

In less than a second, McCune resecured the cargo net to the doorway frame. Rios, with the strength of a World Cup winning goal, kicked the creature attached to Victor’s boot. Victor slid off the landing, through the air over several steps and into Doc’s mighty Korean arms, who gracefully caught him and softly sat him on the lower stairway switchback.

The creature disconnected after Rios punted the demon and bounced with a crunch off the brick wall breaking several ribs and other unseen bones. Falling to the floor unfazed by the blunt force trauma, the thing fought against itself to flip off its back. It flailed its tiny arms and legs, screaming in frustration, desperately scratching chunks of paint and concrete with its boney fingers until it was on its feet again ready to attack.

The youthful Gen 2 zeroed in on Rios and lunged from him with jaws wide open at an impossible angle, full of jagged teeth and a lashing black infected tongue.

“Pinche Cabron!” Rios cursed in pain as the creature clamped its jaws onto his forearm.

The thrashing creature hung from Rios’ forearm, as he lifted it up and punched the toddler in the face as hard as he could.

“Get this puta off of me!” Rios screamed for help.

Darkness grabbed ahold of the legs of the creature that was frantically clawing at Rios as it continued to thrash its head viciously. Rios punched it again while Darkness pulled, but the demon was like a dog playing tug-of-war with a rope toy.

Gritting his teeth in pain, Rios gave up on hitting the creature and sunk his Marine Corps issued KA-Bar into its tiny neck until the wet blade protruded out the other side. The Gray, still unfazed by pain continued to thrash, while Rios held the knife, until the jerking little creature eventually cut off its own little head.

Rios slumped against the far wall, holding his arm in pain.

The rest of the team took aim at the bulging cargo net that threatened to give way as tiny sharp boney claws and sharp snapping teeth begun fraying nylon straps.

Beckett and Raymond shot tranquilizer darts into the thick mass of Gen 2’s that fought each other to get through the doorway. There were so many of the little creatures that they blocked the sunlight from the door opening, darkening the stairway.

“Give me another gun!” Beckett yelled.

“Reload me!” Raymond reached for a new dart gun.

Victor and Darkness reloaded tranquillizers and handed loaded guns back to Beckett and Raymond as fast as they could. While the cargo net shook and heaved until finally the shrieking had stopped, and a pile of drugged Gray toddlers lay outside the door.

Breathing heavy, with a massive adrenalin high, they looked at each other in shock at how quickly that had transpired. Beckett stood slowly stretching his back and looked towards Doc, who was tending to Rios.

“Was he bit?” Beckett asked the corpsman.

“Hell yes, I was bit!” Rios cursed. “You didn’t see that thing hanging off my arm?”

“Take off your MOPP suit.” Beckett commanded.

“There’s a lot of infected blood in here Staff Sergeant.” Doc argued, motioning to the splattered wall and thick black pools on the floor.

“Now!” Beckett yelled and walked over to help take Rios’ long black rubber gloves off, then unzipped the thick charcoal filled over garment. They pealed the coat off carefully to expose his bare skin that was red and bruised with two small half circles.

“It doesn’t look like the teeth punctured your suit, bro! I think you’re going to live.” Doc said, slapping Rios on the shoulder. “Here, take Motrin and drink water.”

“Seriously? Motrin? Come on Doc!” Rios grinned.

“Changing your socks might help too.” The large Korean added with a wink. Knowing that taking Motrin, drinking water, and a change of socks was the most common antidote to any ailment in the Marine Corps. “But seriously, that thing was right in your face. I need to keep a close eye on your arm, and I’ll be taking your temperature every thirty minutes.”

The entire team was staring at Rios. Worry painted their grim faces. The quiet was deafening. Victor felt responsible. He shouldn’t have risked such a stupid stunt. The reward of subduing the Gen 2’s was worth the risk to himself, but not the risk of a Marine. He felt like he should apologize but didn’t know what to say. Luckily, Raymond broke the uncomfortable silence.

“So, Darkness. About that last hand.” Raymond said, giving the Marine a nod. “What cards did you have? You know I beat you, right?”

Darkness shook his head disappointed. “Mister special liaison man, nobody likes a sore loser in cards.”
 
----------BREAK----------
 
Keeping their guns cautiously pointed at the pile of Grays, McCune and Darkness stood at a ninety dree angle from Victor and Raymond to avoid any sort of fratricide if one of the little Grays started to squirm.

Wearing thick rubber gloves, Victor and Raymond triaged the pile of Grays. Some were deceased, due to an overdose of sedatives from being stuck with multiple tranquillizer darts. Thirteen toddler Grays that were still alive and sedated, were carefully restrained by flex-cuffing their small wrists behind their backs and wore sinched sandbags over their tiny heads.

The thirteen bound infected specimens were placed into the cargo net, that they had previously used as a doorway barrier, then wrapped and secured with carabineers ready for transportation that was five minutes out.

Victor wore his pack, ready for his extraction.

“Do you think Rios should go with me to the lab?” Victor asked Beckett in a hushed voice with their backs turned to the team. “They could run a blood test on him just to make sure he didn’t get contaminate.”

“And if he is infected?” Beckett staired at the horizon. “There’s nothing they could do for him and he wouldn’t want to be caged up like a lab rat.”

“Understood. But, if he starts showing any of the symptoms of fever, headaches, insomnia, paranoia, hostility, make the call.” Victor warned.

“If it comes to that, we’ll take care of our own.” Beckett said with a hint of sadness. “Our team made a pact with each other when all of this crap started.”

Victor was going to ask what kind of pact, but it was self-explanatory. The Recon team had watched the world crumble around them as humans transformed into horrible monsters. Victor wouldn’t want to suffer the dehumanizing fate either but didn’t have a group of strong warriors that would be willing to euthanize him out of mercy.

The more Victor thought about it, the more he internally debated on what he would do if he had become infected. Would running away into the wild to transform into a savage beast that could one day return to hurt your loved ones be a selfish option? Children putting their father down, was completely out of the question. Nor would he ask Erica to do the deed. He always considered suicide a dishonorable coward’s way out, but what if you knew that your life was already over? Infection had a one hundred percent turn rate; nobody was immune to becoming a Gray.

But that analogy was regarding the original pathogen. As far as Victor had known, there had not been a human survivor of a Gen 2 attack. Even more reason to get these creatures to Erica at the USAMIIRD. It was possible that a bite wound from a Gen 2, wouldn’t be an absolute death sentence. There could be a treatment or a vaccine?

A yellow smoke grenade was tossed into the parking deck center, breaking Victor’s thought process. He could hear Darkness, communicating with the pilots of the inbound helicopters directing them to fly in from the west and touchdown facing east. A helicopter can lift off easier facing into the wind, Victor remembered from a time long ago, when he used to mark helicopter landing zones in Afghanistan.
​
Victor turned to Becket and nodded. “Good luck tomorrow. I’ll see you back at the island.”

A tandem rotor CH-47 Chinook touched down on the parking deck kicking up an artic whirlwind of dust and loose paper. The crew chief ran over to Victor pulling a long green nylon rope with a large eyelet at the end. Victor held up a carabineer that held the cargo net closed and clipped it into the end of the rope.

Victor gave the team a departing wave, and a fist bump to Raymond as he crossed the parking deck towards the waiting helicopter that advertised their position more than the kill-o-matic’s blaring loudspeaker on the racetrack below.

The crew chief was right behind Victor as he climbed up the loading ramp into an empty fuselage that could uncomfortably fit thirty troops and equipment. Victor hadn’t even tossed his pack onto a fold-down canvas bench seat yet before the helo lifted off causing him to take a wide step and reach his arm out to catch himself.

The CH-47 Chinook was one of the strongest helicopters in production before the Dark Day, able to lift ten tons with its twin engines making light work of the cargo net full of drowsy Grays swaying from the rope below the helicopter.

Towards the front, the crew chief handed Victor a headset that was tethered to the cockpit wall with a long tangled black cord. He put on the headset so he could hear the aircrew’s intercommunications.

“Thanks for the lift sir.” Victor said into the mic, announcing that he was on comms.

“No problem, we’ll be on ground in about an hour. Sit back and enjoy the ride.” The pilot said into the static filled speakers. When the pilot was done talking, heavy metal music started playing in headset, causing Victor to smile and bob his head to the fast rhythm. Looking into the cockpit, Victor noticed headphone wires had been spliced into the intercom terminals. Tricks of the trade to counter travel boredom, he thought, but this had to be done carefully so the aircraft didn’t accidently broadcast music over the command net and had to be wired just right so any inter-aircraft communication would mute the music so they could talk in case of an emergency.

The crew chief held onto the machinegun as he leaned out an open window trying to view the cargo below. Victor decided to take the window on the opposites side to watch the wintery landscape of Delaware and Maryland go by underneath him.

Navigating the helicopter was simple using easily distinguishable landforms. Victor noticed the pilot was following the Elk River south as it opened wide into the northern part of the Chesapeake Bay. Gradually the shoreline became more congested with manmade structures until the skyline of downtown Baltimore came into view. Six hundred thousand people lived in Baltimore before the Dark Day. Victor wondered how many were still alive, and how many had turned into the relentless infected enemy who was in a genocidal war against humans.

The pilot flew south around the downtown metropolitan of Baltimore then cut west towards interstate 70 that would lead them to the USAMIIR laboratory facility. Buildings grew shorter the further away from downtown the helicopter traveled. Victor continued estimating the population per square mile, human versus infected. Fighting against the unfathomable population of Grays that populated the planet, seemed like an unwinnable war, not in his lifetime anyways.

Grays had the strategic advantage in every way possible. They outnumbered the human tens of thousands-to-one, if not more. Grays could hear better, run faster and were completely immune to privations that slow humans down. They didn’t care about weather patterns, needing of shelter, comforts to build morale. Even lethal projectiles, didn’t slow the infected.

The only advantage that humans had, was that Grays could be outsmarted once they were studied for patterns, behaviors and vulnerabilities that could be exploited. Which is why Victor had considered the mission to capture 2nd Generation infected to be top priority above all. They were the single greatest threat to humanity.

Victor leaned out the window to visually check on the cargo net full of Grays swaying below the helicopter when he noticed movement on a flattop roof of an upcoming building.
It was a human.

Victor was about to wave, when he noticed the person was holding a long brown tube cradled in an arm. In the other hand the person pushed in a green football sized object, then shouldered the tube.

“RPG!” Victor yelled into his headset microphone that interrupted a fast beat Slipknot track. “Contact Right!!! RPG Right side at two o-clock!”

But it was too late. Unlike the movies, RPG rockets do not have a soft casual trajectory with a pluming smoke trail that is easily avoided by the good guys who have plenty of time to dive for cover. Instead, an RPG rocket motor propels the explosive warhead at nearly one thousand feet per second.

Victor had enough time to wrap his wrist around the open window’s safety strap before the rocket slammed mercilessly into the rear engine.

Cheyenne, Wyoming
 
One step at a time. Candace carefully placed her boot around loose litter that had blown into small drifts that clung to frozen urban crevices along with a light dusting of snow. One step at a time, she placed her boot down avoiding shards of glass fragments. Storefront windows had been broken into months ago, a charred suet smell remained in many. The expectation of finding anything nutritional was a wasted effort, but warmer clothing was a possibility. So, in search of anything useful she continued to look deep into the dark buildings, hoping nothing would leap out at her. One careful step at a time.

An empty soda can bounced off the sidewalk behind her, causing her to jump and clench her AR15’s cold handguard pulling the buttstock tighter into her shoulder pocket. Candace turned around before the empty can had skipped the second time, and she gave Gavin a death stare in which he rolled his eyes and looked in the other direction.

She huffed and shook her head in frustration. If they made it to the safehouse alive, she’d be surprised. Candace would never lay down and give up and would likely go out in a pile of empty brass casings, but at this point in her miserable life, she honestly didn’t know if she wanted to successfully make this journey to start over again, not with Gavin anyways.

Candace returned her attention towards the long desolate city street before her and continued on her way. One step at a time. Her thoughts turned to memories of before she had graduated high school on the south side of Chicago. Hers was a common story in a neighborhood that was shredded by gang violence. A broken home, with a father in prison for choosing a criminal career in attempts to provide, and a mother who worked multiple jobs for her appreciative children.

Candace admired her mother’s will power and sacrifice. She swore to honor her and make a life that her mother would be proud of. When she wasn’t competing in sports, Candace was in the books. She studied hard, which kept her in the library afterhours instead of on the streets with her fellow students who often ended up in jail or the hospital.

She graduated with exceptional grades that would have gotten her into state colleges if she could have afforded it, or knew what subject to major in. Instead, when military recruiters began soliciting, offering her any job she wanted because of her high ASVAB scores, the idea of enlistment began to appeal to her the more she researched the opportunities.

After growing up in a neighborhood like hers, she didn’t need to self-validate her toughness. Candace was far too intelligent for that kind of chest thumping machoism, but at the same time training in combat skills aroused her interest in the same way that sports gave her a competitive euphoria.

The Air Force recruiter’s offer of Security Forces would give her advanced weapons and tactical training that she desired, along with a higher standard of living over the Army or Marine Corps, in addition to free college while she was enlisted, GI Bill college benefits after her completion of service, and even a European duty within her first enlisted sold her on the spot.

 Candace’s mother was in tears at her Air Force bootcamp graduation. She swelled with pride seeing Candace in uniform knowing that she had escaped the talent snuffing city life that had snared generations of their family members.
​
“Your great journey has just begun. The world is yours if you want it bad enough.” Her mother told her.

And Candace did want it, the entire world. But first, Security Forces school. Being physically fit from years of sports and able to observe lesson plans with exceptional study habits, Candace excelled at every phase in training. But nothing got her attention more than the weapons qualifications. Never in her life had she expected to fire real-life machine guns and grenade launchers!

Once Candace arrived at her duty station in Cheyenne Wyoming, assigned to guard a strategic-missile base, the seriousness of her job became a reality. A kid from Chi-Town guarding intercontinental ballistic missile seemed like a fantasy. After a couple of months of daily training drills and security procedure classes, she settled into a daily routine and started making friends.

At first Candace didn’t know what to expect from the Air Force culture. She expected a certain amount of harassment for being a woman, dark skinned, or just because she was the newbie. But she was treated professionally from the senior ranks, although being new meant being on all the undesirable work details. She wasn’t the only female in the unit, although the others spent more time socializing with the men than they did their jobs which she couldn’t blame them.

Most of the unit was comprised of eighteen-to-twenty-year olds in their peak hormone years. When you worked day-in and day-out with the same group, there was bound to be relationships that kindled. Unfortunately, young Airman didn’t have the maturity to separate work from pleasure and relationship arguments always ended up with someone getting transferred or punished with loss of rank and pay.

It wasn’t long before Candace started looking for her next challenge, which was to try out for the Emergency Service Team (EST) which acted more like a SWAT team than basic infantry and sentries. Even though the Air Force had promoted her meritoriously twice for exceptional performance, she would have to wait until after her next promotion to have the eligible rank for EST.

Having goals, kept her motivated and on track. While her coworkers were playing video games in the team room, she was studying tactics and SOP’s. While they went for fast food lunches, Candace was in the gym. She would go out for drinks with her unit once in a while, but not every Friday and Saturday with the rest of them.

During field exercise Candace was particularly competitive, especially during graded or scored events. Rifle and pistol qualifications were her favorite. The majority of the unit were friendly, but there was always some guy who looked down on her with spite. Beating those assholes during qualifications was always her mission and she enjoyed smugly comparing her high scores to theirs.

Her team would always laugh about it afterwards while cleaning weapons at the armory. They would say things a little too loudly if her nemeses were around, just to rub it in that they got beat by a girl. She stood in line outside of the armory to turn in her rifle and pistol through the barred window to the custodian, who would always find dirt or carbon with a Q-Tip or dental pick and make them unnecessarily clean weapons until 1700 hours.

She handed her rifle through the slot, buttstock first so the person inside could see that the bolt was locked to the rear and the chamber was empty. When she looked up, she looked into the eyes of a handsome Airman that she didn’t recognize. They locked eyes for a moment before she blushed and looked down, locking her pistol slide to the rear.

“How does it look?” She asked shyly.

“Looks pretty good from here.” He smiled and took her pistol from her. He bent down, so he could talk quieter through the barred window slot. “I think they are clean enough for turn-in, that is if you are free this weekend for a movie?”

“What if I am busy, are my guns still clean enough?” She said with pouty eyes.

“Of course, I’m an honorable man.” And nodded with a bow.

She smiled. He was cute and charming. And his west coast accent was irresistible, or maybe it was the sweet scent of CLP gun oil that she loved so much.

They went on several more dates after that weekend. She was apprehensive about starting a relationship at first, but he was outside the unit if things had gone sour. Gavin also didn’t smother her with attention that most young guys in love would, which allowed her to stay focused on her training.

Gavin did keep some distance while trying to play the game of being interested, but not too interested. It seemed to be working because she didn’t nag at him to take her out all the time. He liked her but wasn’t ready for any long-term relationship stuff. Besides, she was a grunt and that wasn’t necessarily marriage material. Not just a grunt, but a real gung-ho type that wouldn’t stop asking him technical questions about the weapons in the armory.

He hated being locked in that cage, surrounded by guns that he didn’t even like. They were cold, heavy, machines that constantly leaked oil all over his hands. If Gavin would have been a gun nut, he would have been an actual armorer, not a custodian which is more of an admin supply type of job. In fact, the faster he could transfer to logistics, the better.

The whole military enlistment had been Gavin’s mother’s scheming idea. From her voluntary seat on the city council, she wanted to influence the world. If she would have started a career in politics earlier in life, like at Gavin’s age, she could be making important policy decisions at the federal level.

Her best way to guide progress was to groom her son to someday walk the halls of congress. Civil service is the best steppingstone on the climb up the political ladder. After an enlistment in the military, she would pay for his law degree. Then onto become a state representative where together they could fix all the injustices plaguing their society.

The thought of multiple years at law school made his head hurt and he dreaded a future in politics. But greatness was his destiny, and his golden path to the elites had been chosen, beginning with civil duty amongst the lowly peasants. While he served his time, he might as well enjoy it with a smoking hot Security Force chick that was all over him.

After several months of dating, she had called him excitedly. Candace had tried out for Emergency Service Team and had been selected! After a grueling day of shuttle runs in full kit, dragging rescue dummies that weighed more than herself, tactically clearing buildings, and weapons qual to end it, she had kicked ass and was physically exhausted. She wanted to celebrate!

That was the day her life changed again. During that night of celebration, she had gotten pregnant.

To Candace’s surprise, Gavin asked to marry her stating that the Air Force would take better care of them as a family instead of single parents. After their beautiful daughter Evey was born, Gavin only had a few months left on his enlistment. Again, to Candace’s surprise, he suggested that she stay in the Air Force and continued her career path that brought her happiness. For Gavin, he wished to take care of their daughter and attend college to venture into a professional career in political law.

Being married, the military gave them a housing allowance and extra money for off base meals. They found a small two-bedroom apartment within walking distance of Cheyenne University which was very close to quaint little boutiques that Candace enjoyed browsing through on the weekends.

Candace eventually tried out again, and successfully passed the EST selection screening a second time. Gavin continued his studies at the university. As time passed, they grew apart as individuals. The longer he was in university, the stranger his behavior morphed and began causing uncomfortable clashes during dinner conversations.

Gavin explained to her why she, and her people were oppressed. She argued that she was the breadwinner of their family and that nobody was oppressing her.

“The system is designed to keep inner cities in poverty.” Gavin continued, “The entire department of Defense is systematically racists because recruiters targeted low-income neighborhoods. They use the very same people that they oppress, to defend their oppressive system.”

“The Air Force saved my life. And if it were such a racist institution, then why did I pick up rank faster than my peers?” She argued back.

He argued that because of the color of her skin, she was more likely to have a fatal encounter with law enforcement than white people, like himself.

“I have never feared for my life when interacting with police. But, with your attitude mister, I’d roll you up if I were an M.P. just for the fun of it.” Candace countered frustrated with him. “Have you always looked at me as a societal subcategory? Does it make you feel superior to believe that minorities need your help? Is that why you are trying to victimize me?”

And the arguments went on and on, almost daily to a point that she began avoided time at home by volunteering for additional duty or field training. Candace resented herself for putting work before her family, especially for Evey who had bonded more to Gavin in her absence. She felt like she was being torn apart between an increasingly resentful home life and her career that she enjoyed.

Only a few months away before the end her second four-year enlistment, she needed to make a life pivoting decision to stay in the USAF until retirement or transition to the civilian world to better care for her family. Her head was in a dark depressing cloud, while she should have been switched on during a simulated hostage rescue raid.

From high in a MRAP gun turret, Candace could view the quickly approaching combat training town. The vehicles would drop a team off on the west side of the combat town, and the MRAP vehicles would set up a ‘support by fire’ position on a nearby hill overlooking the objective building.

They were thirty seconds out and barreling down the gravel road kicking up blooms of dust when the vehicles’ obnoxiously loud engines cut off. Without power steering, the drivers couldn’t make the sharp turn while nervously stomping heavy on the break peddles. The massive eighteen-ton vehicles hit the ditch and the momentum sent the heavy machines rolling down a steep embankment.

Candace was thrown from the gunner’s hatch as the vehicle rolled and tumbled, loudly slamming into boulders and snapping trees. Inside the vehicle unsecured ammo cans, breaching equipment, comms gear and batteries, smashed into broken bloody bodies.

She woke up bleeding, oozing blood onto the rock she had landed on. Shaking the fog of unconsciousness from her vision, she stumbled from vehicle to vehicle searching for survivors. She was alone near the bottom of a canyon, injured, surrounded by dead teammates, and without any working communication.

That was the day the world went dark.

It had taken her almost two weeks on foot to make it home to an empty apartment. Candace did not take long to find Gavin in the apartment complex’s club house surrounded by the wives of deployed Airmen. Curiously, there were no men in sight, and the women were eagerly submitting to his orders. Candace had never seen Gavin take charge as a leader before, yet the women were running about fetching listed items from abandon apartments. She couldn’t decipher what the system was, but Gavin had appeared to have a method that resembled organization.

Eventually, he noticed Candace in the doorway observing the women’s abnormal obedient behavior. He stood slowly from the desk and held out his arms for her without saying anything. Candace walked across the carpet on sore blistered feet to Gavin’s open arms. He didn’t ask where she had been for the past couple weeks of mayhem, if she was ok, or of the Hell she’d traversed to get home.

 “We have established a commune.” he spoke smoothly as he had to the other women.

“Where is our Evey? Where is our daughter?” Candace asked concerned, anger building at her husband’s lack of compassion towards her or her hardships that had accrued.

“Tammy is caring for the children in the next room while the rest are on a scavenging hunt for needed materials and supplies.” He said waiving his hand proudly towards a shelving unit near the rear of the room piled high of miscellaneous items. He finally noticed her dirt and bruised stained face. “You must be tired, please have a seat.”

She sat on a hard cushioned chair, continuing to watch the women come and go that gave Candace hostile glares as if she were trespassing in their home.

“Let me take your guns to our armory.” He said, holding his hands out to receive. “We don’t allow weapons in the communal area to prevent heated disputes to escalate into violence. Hard times, such as these cultivates greed, and greed sprouts into hostility.”

As days turned into weeks and weeks into months, routines were established. At night, after a watered-down stew dinner, Gavin would lecture the dozen women on communal politics and policies that he promised would ease their burdens until government relief came. Neighborhoods around the city burned, criminal gangs ran rampant, and humans were turning into nightmarish ghouls. The worse the world became outside the little apartment complex, the worse his distorted propaganda lectures morphed into cult like gospel sermons. Candace had overheard Gavin telling women who had lost friends, family and husbands who were MIA, that they were living through the ‘Great Reset’ and were given an exceptionally rare opportunity, a duty to rebuild a new fair society equal for all.

Even though the women did all the heavy lifting, the food preparations, the night watches, and the scavenging while he stayed safely at the apartment’s clubhouse, the women looked towards Gavin for validation and emotional support. Candace watched as the women’s appreciative hugs, lingered longer and longer. As the Wyoming autumn nights grew colder, the group slowly huddled closer and closer to stay warm as the group slept, with Gavin centered among the thankful cooing women. Candace should have been angry at her husband and soulless homewreckers but instead, she was relieved for having a legitimate reason to separate from Gavin. When the time was right, she would take her daughter and escape the apocalyptic cult, never to be seen again.

In a safehouse just a few blocks away, that Candace had secured a month ago while out on daily scavenging duties that she longed for, was a cache of canned food and survival equipment that she had found in preparation of her escape. She was inventorying items in a small backpack for her daughter to carry, worrying that the loadout was too heavy for a four-year-old. A waterproof bag of small clothes for her daughter, would go into Candace’s own backpack. Weapons, ammo, and tactical equipment was ready to go.

Nodding her head with approval at her cache, she noted that the time was right for action. That night, on Candace’s turn on watch, she would grab her daughter and flee, come to this house to gear up, then head out to another safehouse that she had secured on the other side of the city. She had just locked the door when Candace heard distant screams.

Over tall wooden privacy fences Candace leapt and through overgrown yards she sprinted. The faster she ran, the louder the blood curdling screams became. She thought of her daughter and nothing else as she jumped over a chain linked fence and darted across the complex’s courtyard into the clubhouse to find a melee of arms flying and teeth biting.

Candace ran across the room; she slid across a banquet table and tackled a scab covered gray figure that had sunk its teeth into a woman. The creature gripped onto Candace’s thick winter coat as they rolled across the floor. Slamming into the wall, Candace pushed herself off the deformed monster with a gloved hand, pulling her fixed-blade knife from its skull as she stood.

With a powerful round kick, she swept the feet out from another nearby creature and plunged her knife into its face as it hit the cheap industrial carpet that is so common in low-income apartments. Jumping over a bloodstained couch, she dashed into the daycare room filled with cries and saw a horrible mess that took her breath away.

Walls, rugs, furniture, and all of the children were dripping with a putrid smelling grey chunky ooze. In the center of the room was a clump of slime and crusty biomass that looked like a months old roadkill that had been repeatedly ran over by semi-trucks. The scene was obvious that an infected late-stage monster had waddled into the room and popped like a suicide-bomber, infecting every human it sprayed.

A week later the entire commune became hostile with the sickness that had plagued the world. Every woman and child, her child, had been brutally infected. But not the man. Her man, who had hidden cowardly, barricaded inside the arms room gripping a fully loaded shotgun that never had fired a single shot to protect his flock, or his child.

Watching her precocious innocent Evey slowly loose her humanity was heartbreaking. Candace blamed herself for not being there for her daughter, not just in the end but over the last few years that she had escaped away at work. When the infected children and women turned hostile, Candace didn’t have the strength or heart to put them down so instead she locked them in the apartment complex’s clubhouse. With sounds of growls and barking behind the locked clubhouse door, she stumbled away blinded by waves of tears.

She did not have the emotional capacity to argue with Gavin as he followed her to her safehouse, dragging his feet with his head held low. Not a word was said to him, yet he continued to follow her down the street as she set out across town to her secondary safehouse. Tears rolled down her frozen face as the wind blew through alleyways of tall buildings.

She took one cautious step at a time, contemplating the last few impossibly disastrous months of her life, and if there was a life to be had without her daughter. With each step, grief turned to guilt which turned to sadness and that turned to anger. She fumed. If this mother fucker kicks one more empty soda can I’m going to shoot him in his face, here and now and not feel one bit sad about it!

Why was she risking herself by walking point? She thought to herself. If an infected jumped out from one of the buildings, Gavin could at least die in a useful manner. She paused and said the first words to him in days, while pointing forward. “You. Walk point.”

He hesitated timidly, wondering if she had planned to shoot him in the back. He didn’t know what ‘walking point’ meant, but he understood she wanted him to go first for whatever sinister reason. He was about to protest, but her glare was deadly. So, he shuffled forward past her.

The pair continued for several blocks. At every dumpster they passed, he expected to feel a searing pain of a bullet ripping through his torso, then she could dump his corpse into the trash bin with no law enforcement around to seek justice. At one point he started to silently cry, not for all the women he had let down, or even for his daughter, but in fear of death. He didn’t want to die, not today, not like that in the frozen street.

Knowing she was conspiring to kill him Gavin was about to turn around and plea for his life, when he heard a rumbling from further up the street. He stopped and listened. “Do you hear that?”

She could hear it, and also felt the deserted street rumble beneath her frostbit feet. Being careful not to slip in the snow, she climbed onto a car hood to get a better view.

“Holy crap.” She mumbled to herself.

Gavin took off carelessly running down the street without a care about the infected. She did not bother to stop him. Candace wanted to get closer too, and maybe he would draw out any of the monsters along the way. She climbed off the car and continued forward at a brisk, but cautious pace until she caught up to Gavin who watched a slowing freight train pass by.

Paralleling the freight train on the highway was a long military convoy of covered cargo trucks and light armored vehicles that didn’t seem quite right. The train was definitely slowing, and most likely going to stop at Francis E. Warren Air Force Base.

“We’re saved.” Gavin said, clearly choked up with joy. “I bet they brought all sorts of food. They’ll protect us from the damned infected.”

“Wait a minute.” She said, pulling out a cheap pair of eight power binoculars. “The markings on the vehicles aren’t American. Some of their flags are white, blue and red stripe. I don’t know what that is, eastern European maybe. But the other flags are obviously Red Chinese.”

“Who cares?” Gavin said flustered by her critical tone. “They’re here to help, let’s go!” He said and changed direction towards the Air Force Base.

It didn’t feel right to Candace. Foreign military on American soil just months after a devastating EMP and possible biological attack. A probable enemy headed for a strategic-missile base? No, this did not feel right to her at all.

“Are you coming or what?” Gavin called to her from over his shoulder.

“No.” She said flatly. “This is where you and I part ways.”

He barely paused to look at her over his shoulder before turning his back on her again. Candace raised her rifle and centered the chevron shaped reticle on his back. Images of Evey flashed in her mind. Images of Evey covered in infectious puss goo. Images of Gavin on the armory floor in the fetal position clasping onto an unfired shotgun.

She wiped away a tear, steadied her aim, took the selector switch off safe, cursed the retched man, and then relaxed the rifle putting it back on safe. She had killed countless infected in the past few months, and dozens of hostile bandits. But she had never killed a human in cold blood.

Candace tightened her shoulder straps of the heavy backpack and gripped her rifle. The icy hatred for Gavin melted away as something warm stir inside her that sharpened her senses. New tactical decision-making thoughts swirled in her brain, not those of basic survival that she had been focused on for months. But of a crucial military mission to prevent a foreign enemy from staking a claim in Cheyenne Wyoming.

An enemy who was responsible for everything that she had lost.

Her life had meaning again.

She had a purpose.
​
And she was very pissed off.

Lake City, Michigan
 
Kevin had just left the T.D.F. (Town Defense Force) headquarters building after giving the oncoming shift brief to this week’s group of citizens who were ready to take over Lake City’s perimeter security.

Even in the frigid early stages of winter, with a light layer of fluffy snow blanketing the northern Michigan town, people were buzzing about walking here and there, greeting Kevin with a curtesy nod and smile as he strolled up the sidewalk on main street.

It’s going to be a busy day, Kevin thought to himself as he mentally scrolled down his to-do list.

Before making his rounds to inspect the guard post on the protective wall, constructed out of shipping containers, that surrounded the city he wanted to make a pitstop at the high school to check on the progress of a new project that the neighboring town inspired.

As the TDF Commander, Kevin had no oversite in the giant indoor hydroponics farm being built inside the school’s gymnasium, but he was definitely curious as was most of the town’s hungry inhabitants. The hallway he entered wasn’t much warmer than the frigid air temperature outside, but at least he was out of the wind. His wet boots squeaked as he walked down the long hallway bypassing the designated infirmary operating in the expanded school nurse’s station.

Turning the hallway corner, he came upon large heavy rubber curtains that hung from the ceiling that had been zipped closed in the center. Stepping through, the humidity and temperature rose dramatically. Quickly rezipping the curtains, he understood the purpose for the climate controlling airlock. From inside the airlock, he looked through the safety glass window in the gymnasium metal doors.

A wife and husband, wearing nothing but shorts and light shirts, inspected four above ground swimming pools that sat on the hardwood basketball court. The man dipped a pole into the water and brought up a net full of fish. After a quick inspection, the man returned the flopping fish to the swimming pool. From each pool, hoses ran up scaffolding ladders to the top run where descending troughs slowly drained the pool water through layers upon layers of open face ductwork until the water finally emptied back into the swimming pools.

A small steam-powered engine against the rear of the gymnasium not only heated the room to optimal plant growing temperature, but it also turned a generator producing electricity to power UV grow lights hanging from the ceiling. The steam engine also pumped dirty pool water up into the troughs, where growing plant roots absorbed the fertilizer produced by the fish, which cleaned and oxygenated the water before returning to the pool again.

An amazingly efficient process that fascinated Kevin. Nothing would go to waist. When the fish grew big enough, they would be harvested along with the vegetables growing in the troughs. Any inedible portions would turn into fish food, rabbit food, or sent to the community’s mounding compost bin.

The woman making statistical notes on a clipboard noticed Kevin at the door and waived him in with a smile. From outside, the window he shook his head and simply waived not wanting to disturb their progress or break another climate barrier. His curiosity had been fulfilled, so he left the school to make his rounds.

Kevin wasn’t one for running a micromanaged guard force. It was hard enough to get volunteers without pissing his people off by nit-picking day to day duties, but certain security protocols needed to be properly supervised for the safety of the entire community. Kevin walked the perimeter wall once or twice a week to check on the guard post to ensure equipment was accounted for and answer any questions the wall watch guards may have.

After Victor had left weeks ago, Kevin had been nervous about taking over as the TDF Commander. But the security procedures were already in place and with the help of shift leaders, the organization practically ran itself. New volunteers were trained in basic marksmanship and observation techniques needed for guard post. Advanced tactics and medical training were offered to members of the quick reactionary force that would respond to emergencies inside, on, and outside the perimeter.

Those who showed the best marksmanship, tactical abilities, decision making, and maturity were recruited for survivor relocation assistance which required traveling in small teams far outside the safety of Lake City almost daily as the community continued to expand.

At the main entrance to Lake City were sandbag bunkers on top of the shipping containers bordering the vehicle gate. Kevin looked up noticing a crow perched on the lean-to roof that protected the guard, to some extent, from the constantly changing weather. The young lady on post spun in an elevated swivel chair, made from a vinyl car bucket seat, and waived to Kevin.

“Everything ok up there?” He asked her.

“Yes sir. All equipment accounted for. Nothing to report.” She said with a chipper smile.

She was new to guard duty. Unfortunately, she would soon realize how mind numbing boring the job was and her lighthearted cheery attitude would quickly fade. But Kevin enjoyed her enthusiasm and made him smile.

“Be sure you get some hot tea at HQ on your break. Let me know if you need anything. Stay alert.” He said with a waive as he turned to walk the interior path towards the next guard post. Kevin tried to keep his conversations short, not because he was rude, or didn’t enjoy the chats, but he didn’t want to distract them from their duties. Besides, even being as friendly as he could be, when the guard force commander visited a post it made the guards nervous. Also, if he spent half an hour at each post, he would be out there all day and get nothing else accomplished.

The sun was high in the clear blue sky and sunlight shimmered of the bright snowy ground covering. Looking at the baron trees, Kevin wondered if any squirrels still lived inside the perimeter, or if they had all been hunted and eaten by hungry survivors. Halfway around the perimeter wall, Kevin decided to cut his inspection short and detour towards the mechanic’s garage to check on a vehicle upgrade he had requested, and to warm his frozen toes.

Nearing the shop, he was greeted by Sophie, the only dog left in town who was always excited to see Kevin and jumped up onto him with big heavy paws and a slobbering kiss. For a junk yard dog, she was the kindest and happiest animal Kevin had ever met because Chappy the mechanic loved her so much. When the famine hit, every other pet was forced to be let free outside the perimeter to fend for themselves or had been sacrificed to family hunger. But not Chappy, he had given up half of his own meal rations to feed his K9 child, Sophie.

“Hi Chappy. How are our truck upgrades?” Kevin asked the lanky mechanic that was so skinny his oil-stained jeans drooped off his bony hips.

After Chappy had fell ill and almost died from malnourishment, the Doctor begged Chappy to stop giving his daily food rations to his dog. “Would you eat, while your kids went hungry?” Was Chappy’s response to the doctor. Recently, an entire freight train, full of dry food, had been located on the train tracks just north of the town that ensured their survival, at least through the winter. Since then, there was a unanimous vote approving an additional half ration for Sophie, since she was the last remaining dog in town and all.

“Hi Kevin.” Chappy said through a smile. “Sophie, get off him!”

“That’s okay. Who’s a good girl?” Kevin said in his playful baby voice and tossed a stick for her to fetch.

“I took springs off a heavy-duty truck, and with a little fabricating was able to get them fitted on the old red clunker you guys love to drive around.” Chappy said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder towards the garage. “She’s going to ride stiff; I’ll tell you that for sure. But the upgraded springs were needed to handle the armor plating weight that you wanted in the door, behind the cab and under the dashboard.”

“Thanks Chappy. The extra protection will be much appreciated by the Rescue Teams.” Kevin said, reaching down retrieving the wet stick that Sophie dropped at his feet. He tossed it again, and she took off bouncing through the snow.

“Yeah, well. She’s not going to handle like she used to. You better have the drivers take a few laps around town to get a feel for the extra weight maneuverability before they go out into the bad lands.”

“Good idea, how’s the Hummer?” Kevin asked.

“Piece of government crap is what it is. I can keep it running for a day or two, before it clunks out again. Almost more of a hassle than what it’s worth to keep running.” Chappy said rolling his eyes. “But what else do we have to do?”

Sophie rubbed against Kevin’s leg causing him to take an involuntary step to steady himself. He bent down to grab the slobber covered stick again when she curled her lip, bared her teeth, and growled startling Kevin to retract his hand.

“Sophie! What the hell’s matter with you!” Chappy scowled.

Never had witnessed the dog, that had been adopted by the entire community as a pet, be anything but cheerful, Kevin was taken back and put-on guard not wanting to be bit. But when he stepped away from her, Kevin noticed that the dog’s aggression wasn’t at himself, but her attention was entirely towards the side of the garage.

Kevin drew his pistol automatically. “Chappy, get inside!”

Chappy clapped his hands and whistled trying to get her attention, “Sophie, come on girl. Sophie, come! Sophie!”

She wasn’t moving, and neither was Chappy without her. Kevin pointed his weapon towards the corner of the garage then slowly sidestepped to get a better view, but nothing was on the side of the garage except a stack of bald tires and an old radiator. Kevin, felt he should check the rear and begun slowly circling around the side of the garage.

The pistol was extended in his hands. Where his eyes looked, the front sight post followed. He took a half step to the side and felt Sophie under his feet. He retracted his pistol to his chest and looked down. The dog was positioning herself protectively between Kevin and whatever she wasn’t happy about behind the garage.

“Sophie heel!” Kevin said, not knowing if the dog had ever been properly trained.

Kevin continued to sidestep, making a wide arc around the far corner of the garage, slowly revealing piles of car parts in overgrown grass. Cars on blocks, completely stripped truck, and even an old tractor was among the scrap. So far, nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but Sophie continued to growl baring her teeth.

Behind him, he could sense the mechanic was following him. Kevin retracted his pistol to his chest and was turning his head to yell at Chappy to get inside when something dark ran across the garage roof and leapt towards Kevin.

Instantly realizing, that the thing flying through the air towards him was neither animal, nor human, Kevin punched his pistol out forward again towards the mini-Gray that had demonic black eyes locked in on him. In the split second of recognition, his vision focus went from the creature’s ravenous face, to its light and dark splotchy gray skin, to its outstretched arms that ended with sharp talons, and finally his vision focused on the front sight post of his pistol.

Had never seen a Gen 2 before, even though Kevin had no doubt that he was in danger, he paused for a micro-second fascinated by the toddler-like-creature before he squeezed the trigger. The pistol recoiled in his hands. Kevin took a huge step to the left, tracking the limp body through the air until it flopped and tumbled onto the snow-covered ground.

The pistol sights followed the target to the ground. Kevin was more than ready to put another bullet into it, but realized the headless body was in fact, dead. After years of training to avoid getting tunnel vision of the target, that was no longer a threat, Kevin naturally scanned the area around him looking for more targets and to check on Chappy. That’s when he noticed two more creatures materialized in what seemed like a coordinated attack.

Another one was on the roof that took a different path than its predecessor, and instead of leaping off directly at Kevin, it jumped onto a sturdy branch of a nearby oak tree.

The last one rounded the front of the garage shrieking like a banshee and sprinting directly towards Chappy who was directly in Kevin’s line of fire unable to help. The little naked gray creature bound across the snow on hands and feet with its demonic eyes fixated on Chappy who held a big heavy crescent wrench like he was the next batter-up.

From ten feet away, Chappy could see the hunger and hate on the creature’s face as its body compacted, coiled and then sprung through the air with outstretched arms longing to rip meat from bone. With a two-handed swing and a hit, Chappy smacked the side of the young creature’s skull with the wrench spraying black infected blood across his snow-covered yard.

Chappy had put so much force into his swing, that he deflected the trajectory of the attacking creature and the lifeless body with a caved in face, slammed against the oak tree as the last creature jumped from the branch to the ground and landed softly like a feline just feet from Kevin.

Looking through his pistol sights, taking up the slack on the trigger, Kevin witnessed something that he had never seen before. Instead of immediately attacking on the offensive, the gray postured up tall and raising its boney hands defensively and bared its teeth while hissing at Sophie who had again got between the creature and Kevin.

The junk yard dog was angry that something dared enter her domain and threaten her owner. Sophie was pissed! Her ears laid back against her black and white fur while her teeth snapped at the air. She growled with such venom that Kevin took a cautious step back as she begun circling with the creature.

The Gray took a hollow jab towards Sophie hissing through jagged teeth, but it still didn’t attack. Apparently, it had momentarily lost its craving for human flesh and its full attention was on the dog. Sophie continued snapping her teeth, closing distance, forcing the creature backwards, away from Chappy and Kevin, until it was against the garage wall.

Not wanting the desperate creature to get away, or hurt Sophie, Kevin finally shot the thing in the chest, twice.

Like flipping an emotional light switch, Sophie licked her chops, stopped growling, and began wagging her tail again.

Wondering how the three Grays had gotten over the wall and inside the perimeter had Kevin deeply concerned. They would need to immediately reassess their physical security measures, increase patrols, issue a town-wide BOLO (be on the lookout) warning, and many other safety measures. Sophie rubbed against his leg, and dropped the stick covered in frozen slobber lightened his mood again.

He knelt in the fluffy snow to rub her floppy ears, Kevin said in his dog voice, “Who’s a good girl!”

​Delaware River, Delaware
 
This time Raymond had come prepared. With an extra warming layer and draped in a thick poncho, that had been tactically acquired from the neighborhood guard force, he was nice and warm. Wrapped in his cozy cocoon, he watched with a sinister grin as Victor shivered from icy water that sprayed over the Zodiac gunwale tube.

“Thanks for the warning.” Victor snarled, shivering uncontrollably.

“Sorry, bud. I thought all Marines had boat experience.” Raymond’s shoulders shrugged under the heavy layers.

Victor shook his head, wishing that they would have inserted by helicopter instead.

Corporal McCune snickered while cranking the throttle to full speed up the Delaware River. Off the starboard side, Victor could barely make out their second Zodiac that was required for this multiphase operation due to the multiple mission objectives. Behind the rubber raiding crafts, moonlight reflected off white frothy wakes that cut glowing lines into the black water.

Bright stars that filled the night sky fought a losing battle against the light blue eastern horizon as the morning sun leisurely announced the arrival of a brand-new day. Morning twilight gave shape to slowly narrowing riverbanks that became progressively littered with signs of prior civilization.

Without warning, McCune turned the boat sharply towards the norther riverbank and killed the engine. He nodded for Raymond to hand out the paddles.

Thank God, Victor thought to himself while quietly begging the sun to make the final leap above the horizon. Sunup is the coldest time of day.

River current lazily pulled the boat back down stream as the crew paddled towards shore. The skill and experience of the coxswain was astonishing, as Victor realized that they had passed their objective upriver, but the coxswain had considered the river’s current speed, time, and distance that it would take them to paddle to the predetermined long wooden dock.

Victor was happy for the physical activity, that slowly warmed his muscles, of paddling the rubber boat quietly towards the long wooden dock. Reaching forward, stabbing the oar into the river, and pulling smoothly making micro whirlpools in the smooth steaming water reminded him of times before the Dark Day when his family would leisurely canoe down north country rivers.

Silence, in the absence of the rumbling boat motor, was a reassuring comfort. Victor had expected to see packs of Grays chasing the sound up the river banks. At the unoccupied dock, the crew fought against the current as they maneuvered the boat 180 degrees before tying off. Having the bow facing away from shore, offered them a quick getaway if needed.

The second Zodiac remained offshore at a safe distance while Victor and Raymond’s crew offloaded a kill-o-matic generator, fuel cans and the cargo bag filled with the whip assembly. Members of the recon team secured the parking lot at the end of the dock while Raymond wheeled the generator into position and Victor lugged fuel cans from the boat.

Raymond silently showed Victor how to assemble the contraption. Stabilizing sandbags were set into place same as before. The fuel lines were set, whip pole erected, speaker system plugged in. It was time to fire it up. Staff Sergeant Beckett, gave Raymond the thumbs up to start the generator.

Security quickly pulled back to the dock while Raymond tugged on the generator pull cord until it coughed and stuttered alive. Speakers crackled to life and ripped open the curtains of silence with a painfully loud message. At a safe distance, Victor pulled the cord, which dropped the upright pole into the aligning gears and the steel cables began whipping around.

McCune was already in the Zodiac, unwrapping lines from the dock cleats. Beckett waived Victor and Raymond down the dock as he held security until everyone was safely in the watercraft. From paddling up to the dock, to throttling away at full speed took less than thirty uneventful minutes.

Bright rays of sunlight sparkled through whisps of fog that hovered over the glassy river and illuminated the shore bank as the boat crew continued upriver towards their next objective. Without the generator and fuel cans, there was much more room in the boat allowing Victor and Raymond to take up low profile positions by hugging the gunwale tube.

A couple minutes later, McCune checked his wrist mounted GPS and nudged Victor. The Coxswain pointed off the port side towards a massive industrial complex that had dozens of white cylindrical liquid fuel storage containers sprouting from the earth. Sitting on the Delaware Pennsylvania border was the Trainer Refinery which had been owned by Monroe Energy. The refinery was their third objective on this operation. But before they reconned that lot, they had another objective.

From water level, bridges always seemed more extraordinary. The amount of engineering needed to construct bridges always astonished Victor. Looking upward at the underside of the Commodore Barry Bridge, that connected Pennsylvania with New Jersey, was breath taking. As he took in the view, Victor wondered how long the cantilever bridge, and bridges like it, would remain standing without proper maintenance. Moister would soon penetrate the thick layers of paint and then slowly begin to rust away steel bolts and beams, weakening the structural integrity overtime until finally it succumbed to gravity to a watery grave.

Further upriver around a wooded bend, high-rise towers of downtown Philadelphia came into view as the shoreline seemed to morph into modern mountains that reached up to touch the sky. With the bridge to their rear, and the international airport to the front, the coxswains of both boats turned the Zodiacs towards the northern riverbank of their second objective.

Harrah's casino of Philadelphia is located right on the Delaware riverbank with a massive five story contemporary designed gaming building, attached multistory parking garage and a one-kilometer harness horse racing track that actually extended over a water inlet on the third quarter of the oval shaped racetrack via a curved bridge.
​
Both teams carefully paddled their Zodiac boats under the low-lying racetrack bridge, negotiating through thick spiderwebs and long mossy strands, which brought them right into the grassy center of the track that was about four times the size of a high school football field. As they had done many times before, they lifted both boats out of the water onto the shore and tactically positioned the craft.

Members of the recon team swiftly and silently spread out, taking up concealed security positions keeping observant eyes on the casino. After a several quiet minutes, SSgt. Beckett gave Victor and Raymond the nod to begin setting up the kill-o-matic machine. They wheeled the generator and carried the gas and equipment into the middle of the grassy racetrack center and assembled the contraption as they had before, with an addition of a few shop lights.
​
Instead of starting the culling machine, the team leader wanted to gain a foothold inside the casino first. After checking the entire backside for an unsecured door, they finally were able to gain access through the parking garage by prying apart a sliding door that would have automatically opened before the Dark Day.

Stepping into a deserted and quiet casino floor was spooky. Three thousand dusty slot machines sat empty. Ghosts of old ladies breathing through oxygen tubes, while holding a cigarette in one hand and a casino club card in the other haunted the crypt. Two things casino floors do not have, clocks and windows. When the sun crested the horizon, the visitors shouldn’t be reminded how long they had been throwing away hard earned money at empty dreams of beating the odds that were not in their favor.

Even with newer night vision binoculars, that the team had outfitted Victor and Raymond with, it was still dark without all the blinking lights and neon signs inside the 100,000 square foot of gaming space. But the NODs did illuminate  enough to notice gaudy patterns in the industrial carpet that quieted their damp boots.

Knowing that it is better to have Grays come to you, versus stumbling into one surprised, Victor gave a sharp-loud whistle. After a long minute pause, he shouted into the darkness, “Hello. Anyone home?”

Echoes faded into stillness.

“Stick together. We’ll conduct a hasty sweep of this main gaming room clockwise. Do not enter adjacent spaces, shut open doors if possible. Keep your guns up, IR lasers and floods on, no white light just incase that we are not alone.” SSgt Becket said in a faint, yet commanding voice. “Look for stairs leading to the upper-level racetrack observation VIP rooms.”

Around the gaming floor they went, Raymond and Victor took up rear security of the formation as the rest of the team took the lead. Whenever they came to an open door, the point man would pause and hastily clear the room from the outside, then hold the door while the team passed him. The second man in the formation would then become point man.

Rows and rows of tall slot machines were cleared and held the same way as they did hallways. Slowly, methodically, quietly. No one spoke, yet they collectively negotiated complex angles as if using telepathy to communicate. The ease of which the team flowed, the way they filled voids, looked for work, maintaining eye-muzzle-threat without ever flagging a teammate, spoke volumes of their professionalism and years of quality training and experience of working together.

Eventually they had circled all the way back to their initial start point near the parking garage where they huddled in close.

“Alright, what did we see?” The team leader asked.

“Escalators going up near the front entrance. Parking lot stairs are right around this corner.” Darkness, the radio operator said.

“Six bars fully stocked with booze. That’s what I saw.” Said McCune, turning his head inward.

“Dibs on the Irish Whiskey.” Raymond chimed in.

“And a cigar shop!” Said Rios, a little to excitedly raising his voice.

“How about the cashier cages? Do you know how much money is in this place?” Doc grinned.

“And what are you going to do with it? Wipe your ass, or start a fire? Because that is all green backs are good for now.” Beckett said shaking his head.

“I’d make a bed out of fifty’s and hundreds baby! Besides, our new civilization has to start trading in money again soon. And then, I’ll be in baller status boys.” Doc continues his rich man fantasy.

Before someone started an in-depth lesson on the creation and value of currencies, Victor interrupted the conversation.

“There are a few restaurants in here too.” Victor added, “Which means industrial size canned and packaged food is probably stored in here somewhere. We should scavenge what we can fit it the boats, before turning on the kill-o-matic.”

“That’s not our mission.”  SSgt. Becket injected. “But it’s not a bad idea. Let’s finish our sweep of the upper levels first.”
 
----------BREAK----------
 
They should have cut holes in the fence surrounding the casino’s horse track for the infected to effortlessly make their way to the kill-o-matic. Hindsight is always 20/20, unless you are a Gray with those freakish pinpoint pupils and a swollen rotted brain. On the bright side, some intel was gathered on that day. First generation Grays still cannot climb fences. And, if there is a motivated horde, shoulder to shoulder which becomes four rows deep, there is enough body mass to topple over a ten-foot chain linked fence.

Leaving just enough room for the passengers, the Recon team, with the help of Victor and Raymond, filled their Zodiac boats with industrial sized canned foods found in the casino’s kitchens. With much disagreement, cases of booze and cigars had to be left behind for some other lucky individual who may stumble upon the cache.

After the boats had been packed, and the casino cleared with a deliberate detailed search, they turned on the culling machine which began drawing in a steady flow of infected beasts from all over the south side of Philadelphia. It had taken a couple of hours before Gen 2’s joined their blood bath party.

A poker game in the high stakes’ VIP suite had killed some time and eased some mission tension while they waited. A game which Raymond and Darkness had both went all in with a chip pot of a thousand pushups. Unfortunately, the game was interrupted when duty called before Victor could show the last card. They would never know who had won that hand, that is until Victor spilled the beans.

Now the team was cramped into the landing at the top of a stairwell making final precautions. Each of the Marines wore MOPP NBC (Nuclear Biological and Chemical warfare) suits, which consisted of charcoal lined pants and jacket, and rubber booties and gloves. They had opted out of gasmasks so they could better aim the tranquilizer dart guns that Victor was passing out to each member. Victor and Raymond dressed casually, as cool-guy special advisors often do.

Just outside the closed steel door of the stairwell landing, was the top floor of the parking garage which attached to the casino roof where several Gen 2 creatures where scurrying about from the sounds of it. From Raymond’s field report, Victor had hoped that the little ones were perched of on the roof, watching all the first-generation adults committing suicide by walking into the spinning metal whip cables down below in the grassy racetrack center that was now painted black with an infected sludge.

A cargo net had been secured to the wall surrounding the exit door. When ready, Beckett gave McCune the nod to push open the metal door by using an extension pole found in a cleaning closet. McCune pushed the door open as far as he could flooding the dark stairwell with daylight, then stepped on the pole to keep the door from slamming shut.

The repeating message, blaring from the machine’s loudspeakers echoed in the hallway causing them all to tilt their grimacing faces in pain. Doc was the only smart one that had brought earplugs, which he was inserting the small orange ribbed plugs quickly.

SSgt Becket looked into the eyes of each individual who were nervously stacked on the stairway to confirm that they were ready. He cupped his hands into a funnel around his mouth and yelled towards the open doorway.

“Hey, you little demon spawns. Come and get us!” Beckett shouted.

Each member of the Recon team breathlessly held their tranquilizer dart gun pointed at the net covered doorway, with one hand on their rifles slung cross their chest rigs stacked with heavy magazines. Seconds seemed like hours in anticipation.

A bead of sweat rolled down Beckett’s breeze chilled forehead. His hand began to shake from holding the tranquilizer gun out in front of him. He lowered his arm and looked at Victor, who only shrugged.

“Maybe the loudspeakers are too loud. If the creatures are on the roofs edge, they’re getting blasted with the sound.”

“I thought that they had super hearing or something?” McCune smirked.

“Which is probably getting damaged by the volume of that machine out there. Besides, this doorway is facing the parking deck” Victor said, pointing out the door. “The targets, are probably over that way.” He said, pointing toward the wall to his left.

Victor pushed his way up the stairs and leaned in close to the net and tried to tilt his head towards the direction of the casino roof and yelled. “Hey you little shits. Get over here. I’ve got a present for you!”

Victor took a few steps backwards until he felt a hand push against his back, preventing him from accidently falling down the stairs. Victor waited, staring at the open door, waiting for the creatures to materialize. Again, seconds turned into minutes.

“Bro, my foot hurts stepping on this thing. Somebody else’s turn to hold my pole. No homo.” McCune complained, breaking the tense silence.

Victor tossed his hands up and turned around. “I don’t know. I thought that this would work. Sorry, these Gen 2’s are a different breed, which is why were trying to capture some to study.”

Victor eyed the open doorway disappointed. He knew that they were out there. The mission wasn’t a total failure. There was a genocide of Grays taking place below them, making this area a whole lot safer for any survivors that were bound to be in the Philadelphia area. Tomorrow's mission at the oil refinery was still a go. Maybe they would have better luck then.

But, capturing a couple of the younger second-generation species alive, could be life saving for not only their little community, but for the entire human race. They new almost nothing about them except for their ferocity and hunger of human meat. Victor wasn’t about to give up, they needed this mission to be a success.

Victor pointed towards the door. “Unhook the bottom corner of the net, I’m going out there.”

“The hell you are. Are you F’ing stupid or just suicidal?” Beckett hissed.

“It’s worth the risk. The knowledge that we could gain from these things could save your lives, the lives of other Marines, the lives of the entire colony.” Victor argued.

“Do you know what the General would do to us, if we brought our advisor back dead?” Beckett countered. “We would be on shit duty for the rest of the apocalypse. Our operational ranking would be below the cooks. This team would never get another mission. We’d never get to fight Russians.”

That comment caught Raymond’s attention.

“You know I’m right.” Victor looked at the team leader directly in the eyes. “I’ll just go out and around the corner, get their attention, and come right back in.”

Beckett looked at Victor harshly, then finally agree. “McCune, get the net. Darkness, take the other side of the door. Put the dart gun down and cover him with your rifle.”

Victor dropped all his gear, taking only his holstered pistol and the dart gun. McCune lifted the corner of the cargo net and Victor poked his head out the door.

“Bro. If you get eaten, can I date your woman?” McCune asked with a cheesy grin.

Victor shook his head at the comment. The coxswain was acknowledging, in a roundabout way, the stupidity of Victor’s dangerous stunt.

There was a long brick wall that stretched out into the parking lot that protected the stairway entrance from vehicles that had once raced around in search for a parking space. Victor needed to get around that wall.

Slowly, he crept forward. Heal to toe. One slow step at a time searching for loose pebbles or broken glass that would give him away if stepped on. Victor looked back towards the safety of the door when he neared the edge of the protective brick wall. All six of them were stacked up in the doorway like a cartoon, watching Victor’s progress.

At the corner of the wall, Victor pointed his pistol as he slowly pie’d around the corner searching for targets. It was clear. In fact, the parking lot was vacant between the stairway and the edge of the parking structure which was a solid hundred yards away. No wonder they couldn’t hear them yelling over the loudspeakers.
Victor lowered his pistol to his side and turned to face the team. He pointed at them and held up his hand, palm forward, to tell them to hold position. Then pointed to his watch and held his hand out with all fingers extended to say, “five minutes.”

Not waiting for the argument that was guaranteed to follow, for Victor to return to the stairs, he rounded the corner and was out of sight.

Straight ahead was a four-foot-high concrete barrier at the edge of the parking lot, that kept cars from driving onto the casino’s roof. He was kneeling behind that half wall before he knew it. Realizing he had been holding his breath, he inhaled deeply trying to calm his pounding heart that he was for sure was going to give him away. Breathing in slowly through his nose, he lifted his head until the concrete barrier was at eye level.

On the casino roof to his left was a massive air filtration system, that prior to the Dark Day had filtered out pounds nicotine smoke from the gaming floor, and another massive sheet metal airduct network was to his immediate right. Between the two rooftop units, he could see the little creatures squatting on the edge overlooking the racetrack below them.

Impulsively, Victor ducked below the half concrete wall again to hide himself and checked his six seeing that Beckett had taken up an overwatch position at the stairway brick wall. Victor nodded to him and continued to scan the parking lot around him wondering how the little creatures had gotten up here to begin with. Logically, they had ran up the parking deck drive ramps meaning that more of them could show up if he didn’t hurry.

Lifting his eyes over the edge again, he could account for six of them between the two HVAC units. The tiny pail Gray creatures with dark gray splotchy patterns seemed frail as they perched naked on the ledge. Their bodies spasmed and their heads twitched side to side.

Out of harms reach, a single pigeon glided through the air that energized the micro predators. Their body spasms worsened. The creatures reached tiny boney talons for the bird unsuccessfully and appeared to hyperventilate from excitement of a bird dinner. While their chest heaved, in and out, gasping for air, the chilling sound of children whimpering appeared again. Victor then understood.

The haunting sound the youthful creatures made was a prestrike rally cry. An actual cry. A sinister sobbing, which would certainly lure in unsuspecting sympathetic humans towards the sound of distressed children, only to get eaten alive by the same children that they wished to help.

Holstering his pistol, Victor raised the tranquilizer gun. If anything, he would witness the effect of a darted 2nd Gen. He aligned the sights on the largest creature in the micro-pack, which was a long shot for an air gun, and he squeezed the trigger. The dart launched out the smooth bore barrel with loud burst of compressed CO2 creating a cloud of frozen mist. Like a deer, that instinctively reacts to the sound of a bowstring being released, while the arrow in midflight, the creatures turned their heads in unison to watch the dart projecting towards them.

Victor watched the dart stray from center mass drifting towards the right. It was going to miss the target, he knew it. Seeing the red fluffy dart tail blowing to the right, it kept drifting. Yup, definitely going to miss, he thought.

A dozen eyeballs, completely black irises and grey where normal healthy eyes were white, were on Victor. He should run. He should run really fast. But his own eyes were glued to the dart that continued to drift to the right off target and then stuck into the shoulder blade of the next nearby creature.

Chaos erupted. Hisses. Snarls. Wails. Cries. Screams that convinced Victor to turn and run, abandoning the need to witness the sedative effects. As soon as Victor turned back towards the brick wall, and gaged the distance, he knew that he’d made a serious miscalculation. This was a horrible idea, that he immediately regretted.

Victor sprinted and waved his arms, yelling for Becket to get inside the stairwell. Beckett ignored him, covering his retreat. Victor had only made it fifty feet from the parking lot’s edge when he heard the creatures behind him leaping onto the sheet metal airducts and over the concrete half wall.

“GO!” Victor screamed.

The sound of bare feet slapping against pavement was close behind him. Turning his head slightly to assess his fate, was a mistake. At least ten, if not more, were closing in on him. Redirecting his attention to his direction of travel, he saw that Beckett had disappeared, taking Victor’s advice.

In just a short distance his legs burned. He sprinted as fast as he had ever sprinted before, yet it seemed that Father Time himself was pulling on his shirttail tugging him backwards causing each step to be slower than the previous. Why was it taking so long for his feet to push off the pavement? How far apart where these white parking lines? This was a really bad idea.

Victor felt like he was on second base, trying to steal home plate for an upset win at the bottom of the ninth in the World Series. The brick wall was third base, that he had just rounded at top speed threatening to blowout an ankle. Looking towards the stairwell’s open door as home plate was McCune. The coxswain’s eyes were bulging out as if he were the catcher prepared to accept the game winning baseball.

Also in the doorway was Darkness with his rifle pointed just past Victor, which would have normally scared him far more than the pissed off snarling pack just feet behind him. But Victor had faith in the Recon Marine, who consistently trained in close quarters battle to clear their entire sectors, up to thirty degrees off their teammates muzzles. Thirty degrees isn’t a whole lot of room for error in terms of loaded firearms, and wouldn’t give an average civilian, or even trained infantrymen, a warm and fuzzy.

A small puff of smoke released from Darkness’s suppressed weapon registered, but the crack of the passing bullet never entered Victor’s consciousness. Victor was fifteen feet from the door and coming in at a hard angle. When he sucked in oxygen into his dry scratchy throat it burned doing more harm than good. Another bullet whizzed past Victor from Darkness’s rifle before he had raised his muzzle straight up, in fear of hitting Victor. Without looking back, he knew that he was out of time if Darkness was engaging at this distance.

Ten more feet.

A boney talon gripped onto Victor’s boot and he stumbled falling forward face first towards the rough concrete deck.

Kent Island, Maryland
​
Victor sat on his front porch, sipping a canteen cup of hot tea, daydreaming of a time before the Dark Day when he would casually drink an entire pot of freshly brewed coffee. A lengthy list of immoral deeds entered his mind, in what he would do for a good cup of coffee on the late autumn day that in all practicality, felt like winter.

His boys had met new children who had relocated into the Kent Island housing neighborhood. The kids were running back and forth down the otherwise empty street competitively playing a game of ultimate Frisbee.

Across the road, Victor waived to a new neighbor who had relocated from the south end of the island. Most of the islanders who remained in their family countryside homesteads were farmers, eager to take over abandoned neighboring land plots. The woman, who had a shot gun propped against the door frame behind her, returned Victor’s friendly wave while watching her child play carefree in the street. The mother constantly glanced up and down the road, vigilantly looking for danger.

She was one of the many new refugees that had taken up residence in Victor’s rapidly growing neighborhood. Many people had heard the military’s message being broadcasted from the aircraft carrier on all AM radio frequencies. Seeing so many survivors gave Victor hope and validity of the General’s vision of reconstruction, then eventually American recolonization.

People who traveled to the island were strong, they were survivors. He could see it in their eyes. They were cold, untrusting, constantly evaluating, judging, and searching for danger. Everyone of them had a personal horror story to tell, but in time, they would warm up to the colony. Many of them who brought tradesman skills beyond survival, would go to work right away on priority projects. Others would be trained in new job duties, of their choice.

A naval logistics officer moved into the house next to Victor’s on the left. Considering that the airport was the island supply depot, it only made sense for the supply coordinator to live closer. Having his own personal house was a major perk for a Lieutenant Junior Grade, but Victor knew that he would earn it soon enough. Sorting, inventorying, rationing, tracking, issuing, not only military gear, but all consumer goods that would be transported to the island in the near future.

The largest house in the neighborhood was claimed by a special operations team. Some of the civilians complained at first, claiming the military was getting special treatment with extravagant accommodations. That is, until the civilians realized an S.O.F. team is more of a platoon in size, and they were all packed into the mini mansion. Four dudes to a bedroom with enough field equipment to fill the basement and garage. It was still better than living on ship though.

“Good morning.” Victor nodded to an older lady strolling down the sidewalk past his house. She was dressed in a thick white winter coat with a fir lined hood, protecting her from the breeze that seemed to constantly swirl off the bay. He had noticed her moving into a smaller one-story house a few days ago.

“Good morning to you, sir. I don’t believe that we have met?” She asked, turning to speak to him.

“I’m Victor, my boys are the ones tackling each other in a non-contact game.” He said, motioning towards the shouting in the street. “Would you care for some hot tea?” He asked, noticing her shiver a bit.

“That would be delightful.” She said.

“Have a seat, I’ll get you a cup.” Victor offered, vanishing through the front door, quickly to return with a tall ceramic cup, a full tea kettle and a throw blanket. He sat the tea down next to her with a genuine smile noticing how her eyes followed the cup, then handed her the blanket to wrap herself in.

She reached for the steaming tea quickly, warming her cold hands around the warm cup. Her shoulders seemed to relax a bit as she took a short drink of the nearly tasteless warm water that had just a hint of mint.

“Apologies, I’m being rude. My name is Carin.” She said extending her clean and well-manicured hand that had weathered from many stressful years.

“Nice to meet you Carin. Do you work at the lab?” Victor asked.

She quickly pulled her hand back, sat up straighter, and gave him a defensive glare that demanded answers and shielded questions at the same time.

“I’m sorry, I should know better than to be so frank. I’m completely familiar with operational need-to-know security. Forget I asked. I just noticed that you flew in the same day that my wife, Erica flew out. I just assumed.” He said, leaning back in his coral colored wicker rocking chair refocusing his attention on the friendly Frisbee game that was increasingly becoming unfriendly.

Victor whistled sharply to get his children’s attention and gave the universal ‘what the hell are you doing’ hand gesture. The kids only shrugged their shoulders and went back to shoving each other every chance they got. “I give it five more minutes until someone is bleeding and or crying.” Victor said closely watching Carin out of the corner of his eye.

He could see recognition lightening Carin’s eyes and her demeaner relaxed again.

“Oh.. You’re the ones from Michigan! I can’t say what a relief it is to have you both here. A fresh set of experienced brains to tackle some of our problems.”

“Yes ma’am, that is why we are here. This place has potential.” Victor said motioning to the general area with his hand. “We will help out anyway we can. Not just with the infrastructure, but with your research as well.” Victor pressed, hoping to get some information about their current studies.

She sipped on her tea slowly. “I don’t think you can help with my pheromone research.”

Interesting, Victor thought.

“I used to soak my boots in deer piss, back when I hunted white tail in Michigan. The bucks would follow the scent right to your tree stand.” Victor smiled at her with a wink. “If it gives us an advantage against the Grays, I will field test whatever you come up with.”

Carin snorted a bit almost burning her lips on the hot tea. “I don’t think you want the Hemocytes, Grays as you call them, tracking you?”

“There are strategic reasons to attract Grays to a particular area.” Victor affirmed, nodding. Thinking of the time he sprayed cologne on a radio to help draw Grays into a kill zone.

“Hmmmm. I never thought of that. I’ve been working on the opposite effect.” She offered.

Now we’re getting somewhere, Victor thought to himself. “Like a repellent?” he asked.

“Hopefully, I can find a pheromone that disgusts the beast, but for now it’s more of a camouflage.” She said in a lower voice, leaning in closer, looking over her shoulder like people do when gossiping about someone they shouldn’t be gossiping about. “I really shouldn’t be talking about this outside the lab.”

“Your secret is safe with me. And I’m serious, if you need a field test, let me know.” Victor stated, curious if they had experimented on live Grays.

“Thank you, Victor. I’ll make sure we’ve tested it thoroughly before putting you in harms way.” She said.

“That is appreciated. Wouldn’t want a million Grays tracking my scent thinking I was a female in heat.” Victor laughed. “But double your studies on the Gen 2’s. Those are the ones that will halt any of the General’s reconstruction progress.”

Victor watched her expression closely and knew before she said anything, by the way she timidly fixed her short silver hair, that the lab didn’t house any second-generation Grays. He could see her mental turmoil as she nervously polished her librarian style glasses. Carin was internally trying to figure out how to pilot the conversation in a different direction to avoid offering even more top-secret information than she already had. He decided to rescue her.

“I’m going on mission pretty soon. I hope to capture some of the young creatures while we are out.” He said, matter-of-factly. “That is, if I can find a veterinarian or someone to hook me up with some tranquillizer guns to subdue the little demons.”

The opportunity that her colleague epidemiologists and virologists had been waiting for, to advance the entire USAMRIID research program, was at her finger tips and she couldn’t help herself when she blurted out, “I can help you with that!”
 
----------BREAK----------
 
Sunday was designated an official non workday on Kent Island, that was for everyone except security personnel and essential workers. The relax day was one of the many suggestions being implemented curtesy of the Lake City mayor.

On the main road, that ran east west across the island, the ship’s MWR (morale welfare and recreation) officer had organized a swap meet near Victor’s neighborhood. Several perfectly aligned rows of folding tables and pop-up canopies had been neatly set up.

Laughter and friendly jeering echoed through the large crowd that seemed quite cheerful. Civilians and military alike were chatting, bartering and window shopping, relieved for a chance to mingle and socialize off duty. Having a platoon of infantry Marines standing guard, helped ease civilian survivors who had been wound tight for months.

Victor walked past an empty booth space, and watched a rowdy group playing games of corn hole, horseshoes, and ladder ball. Even though there was a festive feel to the air, he noticed every individual was armed. Military personnel wore standard issue holstered pistols or slung rifles. Civilians wore their favorite weapons, firearms, clubs, and even a couple of swords in the crowd. In fact, weaponry had become fashionable at one vendor’s booth who offered customized machetes and baseball bats, with matching jewelry riveted scabbards.

Anything the civilian islanders had looted from the local businesses after the Dark Day was traded to the military personnel for personal creature comfort items, tools from the ship’s machine shop and specialty munitions. It seemed a carton of cigarettes or a bottle of whisky could make a person very rich.
Bargain shoppers, whose favorite sport was to get a good deal on whatever it was that they really were noy interested in, but would offer half price anyway, where in heated haggle debates with the vendors. Since the US dollar no longer held a value, the swap meet truly was swapping of goods until a formal currency could be established.

Back home in Lake City, Victor’s community bartered in a currency of ammunition. But an ammo currency would not work on Kent Island, since the military had a surplus and could easily enslave the population through ammo rations. Likewise, the value of X amount of ammo to Y amount of food, wasn’t something civilians needed to worry about when pulling the trigger into a horde of dangerous infected.

One lady had a table stacked high with used books and magazines. A colorful, perfectly handwritten sign taped to the front of her table simply read: FREE LIBRARY. Take A Book. Leave A Book. Tips are Welcome. Victor thumbed through a stack, excited for a source of new entertainment.

A leathery tan skinned vendor who wore a fishing vest and wide brimmed hat with long thin hair flowing from the sides, was doing very well with a respectable size crowd around him. Instead of bartering, he was auctioning off fresh fish. He had just traded a twenty-five-pound stripper fish for a slightly used boat motor, plus instillation.

Next, the fisherman stood on a crate and struggled to hold up with both arms a massive striped bass. “I’m calling this trophy catch, Le DeVod, the ruler of the Chesapeake Bay in honor of our new president. Who has a case of rum for me?”

Victor tried to get closer, to ask the fisherman what he had meant by ‘new president’ but the crowd was too thick with pushing and shoving. The bidding shouts erupted from hungry men and women eager for a meal other than routine military rations. Victor would have to come back this way later if he wanted to investigate scuttlebutt.

Victor bumped into Raymond near the end of swap meet row along with a few naval Petty Officers, who were chatting up young Asian women swapping personal exotic services for highly valued coffee, liquor or tobacco.

“What are you doing man?” Victor nudged Raymond. “You don’t want any of that.”

“Yes. In fact, I do.” He said in a smooth voice maintaining eye contact with the attractive woman before him who wore not enough clothing considering the winter temperature. “Nothing inappropriate happening here. Just two consenting adults exchanging goods for services.”

“We’ve been here less than two weeks. You can’t be that desperate already.” Victor rolled his eyes.

“Desperation has nothing to do with natural desires. Besides, prostitution and midwives are the oldest human professions. It’s quite honorable if you think about it.” Raymond tilted his head towards Victor with a sly grin. “Besides, they’re doing it purely voluntarily, there’s no human trafficking going on.”

“That you know of. Slavery is also a not-so-honorable ancient human profession.” Victor said flatly.

Raymond breathed out heavily, “You really are a buzz kill sometimes.” he said, walking away from the group of girls who begged him to come back for a good time.

“Where did they come from anyways?” Victor asked.

“I’m just trying to enjoy the fruits of my labor man, but whatever.” Raymond growled. “The girls heard the message being played on your son’s kill-o-matic and migrated here. Speaking of which, that thing worked great.”

Raymond hadn’t had the opportunity to debrief Victor on his mission yet, so as they strolled through the swap meet, Raymond gave him a quick overview and lessons learned.

“So, the Gen 2’s didn’t go for the bait at all?” Victor asked frustrated, wanting more details.

“Like I said, the sound drew them in, but they seemed smart enough to know it was dangerous as their parents blindly ran into the death whips. But don’t worry, while the Gen 2’s were distracted by the gore fest, old fashion boat tail hollow points did the trick.” Raymond confirmed.

“Hmmm. The General wants us to go out on a special operations mission soon. I have an idea that you’re not going to like.” Victor said quizzically.

“If it involves capturing Gen 2’s alive, your assumption is correct. I don’t like it.” Raymond groaned. 

Over Maryland
 
Erica watched the never-ending metropolitan area pass below the helicopter as they flew towards Fort Detrick. She was lucky enough to get an outboard seat in the passenger packed helicopter. The helo banked sharp to the left and she gripped her seat tightly fearing that she would fall out of the open helicopter door.

Looking straight down to the earth below, she could see a cluster of large medical research buildings nestled into a seemingly normal suburban area of subdivision housing, strip malls, and decaying fast-food restaurants. Erica always wondered, why Bio Level 4 labs, that housed earths deadliest diseases, were located so close to population centers.

The helo circled once, then aimed for a parking lot that had cars neatly pushed to the edges, making a landing zone big enough for several helicopters. The birds landed and the passengers debarked, being greeted by several USAMRIID staff. A ground crew darted towards the rear helicopters and began offloading supplies while Erica and the other passengers were being ushered towards an entry control station.

Inside a small security building she recognized Dr. Diane Blackburne and Dr. Russell Barnaby waiting for her.
“Welcome. We are extremely glad to have you on board.” Dr. Diane Blackburne greeted her. “We’re going to get you badged here at the security desk, then Dr. Barnaby will give you the grand tour.”

The trio stepped up to a counter and spoke with a uniformed soldier through a security window.

“Visitor or permanent personnel?” The soldier asked.

“Permanent. I’m her sponsor.” Dr. Blackburne said sliding her own badge into the tray for the soldier to inspect.

The soldier sat up a little straighter, realizing he was speaking to the head of USAMRIID. “Yes ma’am, is this the new hire Erica? We have her credentials ready.” He said standing up, sliding both their badges back through the slot.

Dr. Blackburne nodded to the soldier then turned handing Erica her access badge. “You report to Dr. Barnaby. He’ll get you situated. If you need anything while you are here, let us know. Just a warning, we are running on a skeleton crew and with less than ideal equipment. With the help of your crew from Lake City and military resources, hopefully the General can start procuring what we need to make real progress.”

Dr. Blackburne shook Erica’s hand and walked away.

“Well, let’s give you the grand tour.” Dr. Barnaby said, opening a door into the main building. As they walked down a dimly lit hallway, he began briefing Erica. “She was not exaggerating; we are on a skeleton crew here. Those with families as yourself, do weekly rotations here and back at the island. Those without families have elected to live here permanently, but the isolation is starting to wear on us.”

Erica nodded, understanding the need for social contact and mental breaks from work projects to clear and refresh the creative problem-solving process. As they continued, the lights in the hallway flickered.

“We are powered by large diesel generators, but the fuel supply is becoming a concern.” Dr. Barnaby stated.

“Really? I would think that ample amounts of fuel could be found anywhere. I mean, there was fuel production for an entire population that suddenly no longer consumed it when cars became undrivable.” Erica asked.

“Fuel yes. But there are two problems. One is transportation on the clogged highways. And the second is shelf life storage. Diesel fuel, if not stored and treated properly will start breaking down after about six months. We could find an entire tanker full of fuel, but it probably wouldn’t do any good if the petrol has begun to separate.” He said sadly.

Erica stopped walking. “This would affect the entire military operation, not just this lab.” She stated with a hint of nervousness. If there was some sort of assignment to secure pieces of infrastructure, she knew Victor would be involved and ultimately, in danger.

“You are correct. But for now, we focus on our own tasks.” He said, gesturing down a new corridor. “It’ll take a couple days to find your way around, but this section is our living quarters. Nothing fancy.” He said opening a door with a handwritten sign that read Erica.

The room had been an executive office at one time furnished with a hardwood desk, single bulb reading lamp, cot with sleeping bag, and a private restroom. Could be worse, she thought.

Dr. Barnaby took the key out of the office door and handed it to her and motioned her to follow him further down the hallway. “As with any government instillation, security procedures remain in place. Keep your badge visible. Work material is considered top secret and doesn’t leave the lab, verbally nor physically. Do not even bring notes back to your room to study.”

“Understood. Important question though,” she said glancing over to him. “Where do we eat?”

He chuckled, “Ah of course, the most important part of the facility is at the end of this hallway. The cafeteria. I’m going to disappoint you, in saying that your all organic non preservative diet is over. Other than some fresh cooked beans and rice, we’re fed military rations. Your intestines are going to hurt while you adjust.”

“Great…” she mumbled her disappointment, but still grateful for not having to forage the forest floor for nuts and mushrooms or through abandoned houses in search for cans of Smeat.

A short distance from the cafeteria was a double set of steel doors. Dr. Barnaby used a key that hung from a lanyard around his neck to unlock the door instead of using the keypad. Erica looked at him oddly.

“This building wasn’t completely hardened.” He answered her questioning look. “Some of the equipment, electronics and systems were damaged in the EMP attack.” He said, motioning to the lifeless keypad.

Manually pulling open the double doors, they entered a secured administrative workstation. They stepped into a large conference area, “This is our War Room. We meet here everyday at 0800 and 1700 to report progress and to strategize. We’ll come back around later so you can meet our team.” He said, opening the door to leave.

Next to a set of elevators, sat another uniformed soldier who eyed their badges. “Going to the dungeon sir?” the guard asked.

“Not today Corporal. Just showing Erica around the building.” Dr. Barnaby said smiling to her. “Elevators don’t work either, so we have to take the stairs down to the sub levels. Our lab is two flights down, but we would need to gown up and sterilize before going in. We’ll show you the lab in the morning.”

“Okay.” Erica said, disappointed again. She had hoped to inspect her workstation and get right to work.

Dr. Barnaby picked up on her shoulders slouching and chuckled. “Eager to begin working, are you? Don’t worry, you will grow tired of this place soon enough. There is nothing to do here but work, most of us are putting in sixteen-hour days, breaking only to eat, shower and rest.”

Walking towards an exit door, he continued. “The lab is also skeletonized. We stripped out all the EMP damaged equipment, which left us with not much. Our work here is slow as a result. Some of the sequencing and analyzing equipment is fine, but the processing super computers were located on the upper levels and took EMP damage. The General is aware and has added it to his exceptionally long list of high priority action items. For now, we just need to make do.”

Bright sunlight greeted them as they stepped through the exit door and into an overgrown grassy lawn area. She had to squint her eyes briefly to adjust to the brightness change. The door shut behind them, and noticed that there wasn’t a door handle to get back in.

“Exit only.” Dr. Barnaby confirmed, we’ll walk around to the entry control point. Over there was the base commissary. It has been stripped of food, but there are still usable supplies in there like toiletry items, clothing, shoes, etc. Help yourself, first come first loot.” He smiled awkwardly.

“Over there is the community recreation center. Basketball and tennis courts if you need to get out to clear your mind. Feel free to go for walks or jogs inside the perimeter but remain vigilant of infected. As you have seen, we have Army Rangers as security who are constantly improving the fences, but you never know these days. With the generators, vehicles, and helicopters, we make a lot of noise that draws Hemocytes, or Grays as you call them.”

A pair of rabbits darted across the sidewalk as they walked slowly around the building, Erica felt that Dr. Barnaby was stalling going back inside and enjoying the sunshine. She had to admit, even though she wasn’t in the actual lab, she felt at home here with an important purpose.

On the far side of a large grassy field was another towering building. Erica could see several vehicles parked nearby and people working. She pointed and asked, “What’s that?”

“Battelle National Biodefense. No one is home and the building is completely locked down. Army engineers have been attempting to breech it for a week so we can test their computers and lab equipment.”

“It might be locked down on purpose?” She warned, thinking back to the Dark Day. Her colleague, Anny had firmly warned about the possibilities of a contagion leak. Yet the facilities management instead of quarantining, let workers leave freely, sending infected people back to their families and friends. Ironically, Anny proved her point by also unknowingly being infected, then attacking Erica and her new traveling companions as symptoms worsened.

“I appreciate the way you think, and we are taking all precautions in case you are correct.” Dr. Barnaby said.
A pair of soldiers came into view across the street as they rounded a corner of the building. At first, she thought that they were taking a break and also enjoying the sunshine, but then she noticed that they were guarding the front door of the US Army Medical Research Institute, that Dr. Barnaby was guiding her towards.

“Some workers find this compartment disturbing and you do not have to enter if you are not comfortable.” He said. “This closed compartment houses our live specimens. We try to operate humanly, but in the end, the Hemocyte are test subjects for our research, do you understand?”

Erica nodded. “We also held live samples in holding cells in the Lake City county jail. How many do you have? Any of the second-generation Grays in there?” She asked enthusiastically.

Dr. Barnaby showed his badge to the guard, which he inspected then opened the door for them. Inside, was a clean room where they each slowly and systematically donned white Level A hazmat suits as they have each done thousands of times before.

Departing the clean room with a gust of fresh air, then stepped into an ICU hospital ward with dozens of patient rooms lining the hallway. Armed soldiers, who wore their own camouflage MOPP level 4 hazmat suits, stood guard at each end of a well-lit hallway that echoed with snarls and growls.

Erica walked slowly in the cumbersome HAZMAT suit having to over exaggerate body movements. Turning her entire shoulders to rotate her face screen, she noticed the nursing observation windows had a hazy film, then realized that a reflective tint had been adhered to the interior of each patient room.  The film created a two-way mirror preventing the Grays from seeing into the hallway, helping them to remain calm.

Beds, chairs, rolling tray tables, uncomfortable vinyl couches; all the normal hospital furniture as well as I.V., heart monitors, and other patient care instruments had all been stripped from each room making space for an oversized dog kennel made of chain linked fence. Inside each room housed a single caged full-size Gray. A couple dozen in total. Various stages of infection. All males. No females. And sadly, no second generation.

Another task that Victor would complete for them, immersing himself into danger again. But Victor would secure her second-generation Grays. Gen 2’s was the unknown threat. The threat that needed to be studied and analyzed. Tactical knowledge of the Grays was lifesaving and a force multiplier in the field that humans needed quickly.

“Are you ready to meet our team?” Dr. Barnaby asked through his hazmat suit voice box speaker, braking Erica’s prolonged thought process.

Realizing that she had been breathlessly staring at a late stage Gray, she blinked her eyes rapidly clearing a memory when she had been trapped inside an abandon armored truck surrounded by hundreds of infected. That was the first time she had seen a massive spore pod formed on the neck and shoulders of a Gray.

​Erica nodded her head and turned for the decontamination room while inhaling slowly trying to lower her pulse rate.

Washington D.C.
 
“Are you shitting me?” Wolf roared laughing. “She is held up in a school?”

McCarthy continued his debrief. “Yes sir. The Macon County Junior High School is part of this exceptionally large building complex,” he said pointing to the target building circled on the city map spread across a large dust covered walnut conference table.

“My God, that is just poetic. The Secretary of Education is using a public school as a tactical base.” Wolf continued to laugh, holding his chest as he chuckled.

Tactical intelligence has a multiphase cycle of: Planning. Collection. Processing. Dissemination. And utilization. McCarthy understood that he was only part of the collection phase, therefor he kept his report limited to accurate unbiased data. Processing and exploitation of his collected data was up to the mission planners.

McCarthy cleared his throat and continued. “I logged a couple hundred roaming infected each day. Typically traveling in group sizes between three to seven, and with no time or directional patterns.”

“Manageable.” Wolf said, nodding his head in approval.

He continued by handing Wolf a torn sheet of paper, “Per my field sketch, there are seven sets of doors on the north side of the building, and several ground level windows located here, here, and here,” he paused while pointing to the map again.

“Additionally, two-man security foot patrols and what appeared to be four-person scavenger teams routinely departed and reentered through this door here at the times listed on my report.” McCarthy, concluded his brief by stating, “Lastly, Mrs. DeVod routinely jogs six laps round the target building every day, starting at 1600 hours.”

Wolf furrowed his brows and stared angerly at McCarthy to a point it made him shift his weight uncomfortably.

“Alone?” Wolf asked flatly. “Or does she go on her daily feel-good-run with security?”

“Solo, sir.” McCarthy reported.

Wolf slapped the table with both hands producing a thunderous boom. “Saddle up gentlemen, we end this nonsense today. Get me a snatch-and-grab team spun up ASAP.” He said with a triumphant grin.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
For a seventeen-thousand-pound armored vehicle, the Lenco BearCat had some impressive speed and maneuverability. The black tactical vehicle with F.B.I. H.R.T. painted on the side swayed left and right as the driver steered around a constant serpentine of lifeless vehicles.

“Turn south up here on 14th Street.” Wolf commanded his driver, then turned in his seat to face his tactical team in the rear of the vehicle. “Our surveillance teams are reporting our target is on the move. We will snatch her at the corner of 14th and Independence Avenue. We take her alive if possible, but deadly force is fully authorized if fired upon, do you understand?”

The men in the back of the vehicle all shook their head in the affirmative in unison. With a mix of shoulder shrugs, neck popping, extended finger flexes, weapon checks and donning of face covering balaclavas and bump helmets, the team was ready for action.

Wolf could barely contain his excitement. He couldn’t wait to end this skirmish and boast his victory in the Secretary of Education’s face. The BearCat rumbled past the overgrown National Mall park on the left and the Washington Monument on the right, with the clocktower of the U.S. Forestry Department dead ahead.

“Ten seconds out!” Wolf yelled.

The timing was perfect. DeVod had just rounded the corner as the black BearCat skidded diagonally into the intersection. They vehicle hadn’t yet come to a complete stop before heavy armor-plated doors were being swung open as the tactical team hit the ground running fanning out across the intersection. Wolf was in the center of the team making his way to the wide eyed DeVod. He glanced quickly down the vacant streets to his left and right for non-existent threats and gave a slight grin.

DeVod sprinted out of the street, onto the sidewalk and dove behind a pair of dilapidated hotdog stands with wind torn and sun faded umbrellas. In his peripheral he watched the man to his right clumsily stumble and fall, then the second man to his right went stiff legged then tipped over. To Wolf’s left, the rest of his team collapsed to the ground in a heap, bleeding profusely from bullet wounds to the head.

Being the only member of his tactical team still standing, he realized that his snatch and grab plan had suddenly turned for the worse. He cursed his intel briefing for not reporting that DeVod had snipers and determined the safety of the armored BearCat was his best option. Wolf spun around in time to see silhouetted man on top of the Holocaust Memorial Museum launch an AT-4 rocket at him. He dove towards the sidewalk, hitting his head on the curb as he felt the heat and concussion of the BearCat exploding into a fireball behind him.

His body ached. His ears were ringing. His legs felt like they were on fire. Hands were on him roughly rolling him over onto his back. Looking up through spot filled blurry vision into the face of DeVod. She stripped him of his rifle, pistol, and pyro grenades.

She forcibly sat him upright on the pavement. The concussion fogging his vision and hearing began to clear. DeVod snapped her fingers in front of his face to get his attention then pointed to the clock tower as a dead Secret Service agent was tossed out a window. His deceased agent fell four stories and bent in half, when it landed on the street with a thud and a crunch. DeVod cranked his helmet forcing him to look down Independence Avenue to the USDA building as another of his surveillance agents was tossed out a window, bouncing off a third story ledge and cartwheeling through the air until the body flattened on the sidewalk below.

“Well shit.” Wolf said in defeat, spitting out a mouthful of blood that dribbled down his beard. He sat hunched over on the pavement, mentally processing his massive failure and underestimation of DeVod’s strategic abilities.

“I told my staff that they were insane when they pitched this idea.” DeVod said looking down at him. “I told them that there was no way in Hell, that the Secretary of Homeland Security would fall for such obvious bait.”

DeVod laughed hysterically mocking him. “You really are gullible Wolf. Did you think I was dumb enough to attack a fortified position with only a dozen men, and then make a beeline right back here, to a school none the less?” She laughed some more. “I only wish that you would have come a little sooner. Did you have to wait for my sixth lap, now my legs are too tired to deal with you.”

She leaned over him breathing a little heavy. Wolf slid a knife from his belt and thrust it at DeVod. She elegantly dodged the attack, pulled a pistol from her back and shot Wolf in the foot.

He cursed in pain, dropped the knife in surprise and reached down to grab his wounded leg that began pooling bright red blood on the cracked asphalt pavement. DeVod kicked the knife that went skipping across the road, walked behind him, and bent down to rummage through his tactical waist belt. She stood up and then tossed Wolf his own tourniquet.

“Wrap it. Unless you prefer to bleed out, right here. You have lost a pint already, another three and you’re a goner. But I could care less either way.” DeVod said flatly. She knelt in front of him, with her pistol casually in hand, as he cursed through clenched teeth fighting to tighten the tourniquet on his wounded leg.

Members of her own team jogged up the street pulling a handcuffed Secret Service agent. She could see her own people flowing out of the surrounding buildings forming a defensive perimeter. The handcuffed agent paraded in front of her had been stripped of all his weapons and gear.

“Your life has been spared to deliver this letter to your second in command, do you understand?” She looked up at the agent while still kneeling in front of Wolf.

“Yes ma’am.” He said respectfully.

“Take this letter to him, and him only. It contains specific instructions for a truce to end this nonsense. Mr. Wolf is not eligible to be President since he never had a Secretary of Homeland Security confirmation hearing. And even if he did, he is at the bottom of the Presidential succession list.”
​
She waived the agent away while staring at Wolf like a disappointed mother. “I still can’t believe that you fell for this absurd trap. What an idiot.”

Chesapeake Bay, Maryland

Out of all the working fishing boats and luxury yachts in the marina that had successfully been rewired, the Recon team chose to use their issued black CRRC, Combat Rubber Raiding Craft, or simply a Zodiac. Raymond was not enjoying the freezing ride across the Chesapeake Bay. In fact, he was certain that McCune, the coxswain, was purposely steering the boat into the choppy wind swells causing water to spray as the boat pitched up and down. Raymond glared at the coxswain who offered a sly grin in return.

Using the Zodiac did make since though. Had they used any other boat on this mission, the team’s insertion would have been restricted to a marina or anchoring offshore and then swimming to shore which was not an option with the cargo on board. The inflatable boat offered them the ability to beach themselves almost anywhere.

Luckily, the ride across the bay and then into an inlet river only took a few minutes but it was long enough to dampen Raymond’s clothes. On the river shore, stood a gorgeous multistory mansion that would have cost millions before the Dark Day. Now the home stood dark, empty, and rotting from mildew. McCune guided the raft towards the mansion’s overgrown lawn and small private beach.

A hundred meters from the shore, McCune killed the engine and tilted the motor up. Staff Sergeant Beckett passed out paddles to each passenger. In unison, the six-man boat crew paddled the remaining 100 meters in silence. When the water was only ankle deep the team leader gave an anticipated nod.

“You take that side.” SSgt. Beckett said in a hushed voice to Raymond.

With rifles in one hand and a gunwale handle in the other, the team carefully floated the boat one hundred eighty degrees so the stern was facing the beach. “One. Two. Three. Up boat.” Someone commanded and they all lifted at once.

A CRRC empty with only the aluminum deck plates weighs 322 pounds plus a 55-horsepower engine that weighs 243 pounds plus all their equipment equaled enough weight to nearly dislocate Raymond’s shoulder. He grunted as they stepped through soft sand in wet boots up the short beach. The command of “down boat” was welcomed.

The five-man recon team dispersed in a compact semi-circle with their guns facing inland. One at a time they each took of their life preservers, that looked like a black rubber bib, and stowed them in the boat.

“Daddy Shark, this is Baby Shark. Feet dry. How copy? Over.” Darkness, the radio operator spoke into his handset reporting their position to the command and control center located on the aircraft carrier. “Roger, we are Oscar Mike to check point alpha. Baby Shark out.”

Raymond had thought about running this mission solo. He had survived for months on his own. Even when he had moved into the sanctuary of Lake City, he had operated by himself, or with just Victor by his side. But this area had a much larger population than the small town in norther Michigan and why risk it with all the military assets available? Not only did he have more security to watch his back in the field, on the aircraft carrier there was a quick reaction force and a helicopter on standby to extract them if this mission went south.

The team unzipped dry bags and gathered their gear and equipment. They lifted a generator out of the boat, two metal five-gallon cans of fuel, and a canvas seabag filled with miscellaneous parts.
The team leader, Staff Sergeant Beckett, directed Raymond in a hushed tone. “You wheel the generator in the center of our formation. If we take contact, human or infected, we abort and abandon all this excess weight. If we become separated, go to the last checkpoint and wait thirty minutes. If nobody shows up, meet us hear in this house. If you get scared or lonely, make your way down the shore to the bridge and hike back to the island. Understood?”

Raymond didn’t appreciate being talked down to in such a condescending tone, but he understood their trepidation of having a civilian outsider on mission interfering with their team integrity. Raymond normally would have deflating Beckett’s ego by pointing out one of the many visible uniform discrepancies. But instead of belittling the team leader, Raymond simply gave him a thumbs up.

The team made their way inland, patrolling at a slow cautious pace. Sticking to suburban neighborhood roads, the team crept towards the more densely populated business section of Annapolis.

Raymond observed the team closely as they maneuvered through the streets which became increasingly more congested making it difficult to pull the generator without scraping it into cars. The team’s flow was on point. Good dispersion was maintained, they never needed to speak out loud to communicate and weapons were always pointed into the probable threat areas.

The recon team wore their standard issue digital woodland utility uniform with tan suede boots and wide brim boonie hats. They carried a mix of weaponry from M4’s, paratrooper model M249 light machine gun, and a designated marksman rifle, each equipped with a suppressor. They also each carried a M45Al Colt 1911 pistol holstered on their hips. Although they were not weighted down with body armor and helmets, their rucksacks appeared to be heavy enough. Radio antennas poked out the top of a couple packs which meant several spare batteries were distributed, a claymore bandoleer attached to the top of another pack and an old school 40mm thumper with grenade satchel was attached to the team leader’s pack.

Raymond found himself in an uncomfortable position on this mission. The later part of his career he had provided close protection security to several high-ranking diplomats around the world, mostly in combat zones. He was accustomed to being the shield, offering his body as physical protection for VIPs in the center of his formation. Today, he was the VIP and he felt very unsecure about it.

Raymond certainly did not need baby setting, but the recon team’s mission to keep the ‘advisor’ safe made him feel inferior to the team escorting him to the objective. The way the coxswain grinned at him and SSgt. Beckett’s tone, didn’t help the feeling.

Fascinated by a knee-high weed with an inch thick stalk, that had miraculously grow through the most minuscule crack in the ash fault, Raymond almost missed the ‘freeze” hand signal passed back from the man on point who held up a fist next to his head. The team stood frozen in place as the wind changed directions, Raymond smelled death. The unholy aroma of rotten meat, decay, and disease. Point man patted the air, as if there was an invisible dog next to him signaling them to get low.

Slipping the generator pull rope from around his waist, Raymond also took a knee next to a vehicle for cover, bringing his rifle up into his shoulder. He concentrated on sounds that the wind carried, attempting to breathe in through his mouth to avoid the smell. Scanning around looking for movement, he spotted SSgt. Beckett waving him forward. Raymond left the generator behind.
The smell got stronger as he crept forward causing him to gag and lifted his shirt over his nose matching the other Marines doing the same. The source of the putrid stench was lying in a puddle of gore in the middle of the street.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. What do you make of it?” SSgt. Beckett asked Raymond through his cupped hand pinching his nose.

 Raymond inspected the corpse of a nasty Gray. Maggots wiggled over and into thick crusty scabs that covered the lifeless body. In death, a decomposing Gray turned almost black. Up close, the creatures always creeped him out, especially the talons of raw exposed bones that had once been fingertips. Raymond had to wipe the water from his eyes that stung from the stench.
“See how the stomach has been torn apart?” Raymond pointed to its midsection.
Staff Sergeant Beckett nodded, to avoid inhaling a whiff of death.

“That’s comparable to what a new mother looks like as her offspring claws and eats their way out of the womb. Sometimes the ribs will be broken outward.” Raymond continued. “But this one was a male.”

“So, what happened to it?” Beckett asked in a hushed voice. “What’s with the wounds on the neck and thigh?”

“Second generation. The new breed eats their own if hungry enough. Looking at the mess they made and the blood trails, I would say a small pack took this Gray down. We should be extra cautious if there’s a den close by, these bastards are vicious.”

By midday, they had successfully traveled three miles into the city center without stirring up anything living but had passed more evidence of second gen feeding frenzies. The objective site was a major intersection in downtown area of Annapolis. Upon arrival, the team conducted a fifteen-minute security pause to ensure nothing was moving in the immediate area.

SSgt. Beckett began pushing the team out to widen the perimeter while assigning security sectors. Logically, they concealed themselves inside lower levels or inside vehicles. Team leader waved Raymond forward, “Do your thing, try to make it quick. Doc here will give you a hand. This white office building behind us will be our fall back and over watch building.”

“This contraption is going to be loud and hopefully this area will be swarming with Grays.” Raymond said. “I’d recommend picking an over watch further down the road, maybe up in that financial building.”
Beckett looked around studying the cityscape and nodded his head. “Alright, you’re the advisor. We’ll go with that then.” Beckett went to relay the information to the rest of the team.

Raymond wheeled the generator to the center of the intersection. He pulled a few empty sandbags from his pack. “Doc, can you fill these from the planters on the sidewalk?”

The muscular Korean corpsman did as he was asked while Raymond attached a fuel line to each of the five-gallon fuel cans sitting next to the generator. Out of the seabag was a short pole section with a ninety-degree gear head that aligned with a matching gear on the generator flywheel. Raymond slid the pole into a bracket, so the pole stood straight up. Next, he took another section of pole out of the seabag that had several quarter inch thick steel cables attached. Raymond attached that one to the top of the first pole, so it stood about five foot tall. Completing the whip, he attached a manual lever with a cord to drop the poles gearhead into place from a safe distance.
The doc brought over full sandbags that were used to secure the generator into place so it would not wobble away or fall over. Doc helped Raymond set up large speakers and plugged the system into the generator. Double checking the entire setup, Raymond felt the contraption was ready for action.

A low whistle got the team leaders attention. Raymond tapped his collar where his rank would have been on a uniform and gave the ‘leadership to me’ hand signal.

“It’s ready to fire up. Has the over watch building been cleared yet?” Raymond asked.

“The first floor is clear to the ladder well. We’ll clear up from there. Go ahead and start it when ready.” Beckett instructed.

Raymond reached down, choked the throttle, and gave the pull cord a couple good tugs until the generator rattled to life. After adjusting the choke, the engine purred smoothly. Raymond gave the TL the nod and he turned the speaker system on full volume. The speakers were so loud that it gave him an instant migraine.

Raymond jogged to the end of the pull cord on the sidewalk far away from the contraption. With a gentle tug the poles dropped into position and the gears aligned sending the pole spinning at an extremely fast rate. Metal cables attached to the pole began whipping around so fast that they disappeared into a blur.

Satisfied with his work, and concerned about the noise, Raymond grabbed his rifle and sprinted towards the team which all piled into the designated over watch building. Two men were stacked up to the side of the stairway door, Raymond slid into the stack and was anticipated the bump command to enter the doorway. Instead the team leader grabbed him by his gun belt and pulled him out of the way as the rest of the team cleared the stairway.

“Listen man, you may know your stuff, but you don’t know our stuff. If we get your stuff and our stuff mixed up, we get hurt.” SSgt. Beckett said leaning in close. “This team has been working together a long time, and they flow as a singular element like a school of fish. Learn our SOP’s back at the island, and I’ll feel more comfortable with you on mission. No hard feelings, understood?”

Raymond nodded, then followed behind taking up rear security. They entered the third floor of the financial building which was made up of a hundred cubicles and executive offices on the outer walls. After a quick sweep to ensure there were no occupants hiding in cubicles, they picked the corner office facing the generator contraption.

Playing on a constant loop at full volume, the message could be heard clearly, even through thick pane windows.

“Caution. Caution. Caution. Citizens stay away. This area is extremely dangerous. Please relocate to our Kent Island colony. We can provide you security, shelter, medical aid, and food. Travel east on interstate fifty and cross the Chesapeake Bay bridge. Tune into any AM radio station for more news and updates. We need your help to rebuild America. Caution. Caution. Caution.”

The message repeated on loop.

“How long is that going to play?” A Marine asked.

“Until the gasoline runs out, or Grays destroy the machine. Speaking of which, we have our first customer.” Raymond said, reaching into his pack for a pair of binoculars.

A huge muscle packed Gray was sprinting down the street weaving around and jumping onto vehicles. Its thick muscles shivered in spasms as it barked in frustration. Perched on top of a box truck, the Gray could hear a human voice, but could not comprehend where it was coming from. Squatting in attack position, the Gray looking for its prey, Raymond could see it flex its boney talons as they scraped paint lines off the vehicle.

The beast leapt from the truck and continued sprinting forward towards the intersection until it made contact with one of the steel cables that took the Gray’s head clean off. The body collapsed to the pavement while the head went rolling down the street like a bowling ball.

Soon a bloated misshapen late stage Gray appeared with massive tumors covering its neck, back and shoulders. The creature waddled forward until it contacted the whipping cables. The creature practically exploded into a cloud of puss and spores that was carried away into the wind leaving a pile of contaminated sludge on the pavement.

“It’s like a giant weed whacker!” The coxswain said enthusiastically, nodding his head impressed.

“You’re on observation first. Start counting how many infected walking into that thing. Make notes on special details. The rest of you clear this floor again and fortify the exits. Call Daddy Shark to give a SitRep.” SSgt. Beckett ordered.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
Late into the night the generator was still running. Loudspeakers still blaring the message, over and over and over again. And Grays continued running towards it from all directions like mosquitos to a bug zapper. The Recon team lost count at around eight hundred, but they estimate about ten times that at the current rate.

SSgt. Beckett had his night vision goggles on watching the continuous stream of infected blindly running into the trap. The intersection was covered in a deep layer of infected ooze and chunks of flesh and meat flooded into the city storm drains like cold maple syrup. As the blood covered cables spun, they sprayed the side of the buildings leaving no surface unpainted with disease. He was impressed at its effectiveness. When Raymond rolled over on the floor, Beckett nudged him with his boot. “You awake?”

“I am now.” Raymond mumbled.

“Your turn, take over for a couple hours.” Beckett said.

“You trust me enough to stand watch, huh?” Raymond quizzed sarcastically.

“Whatever, you know I’m right about mixing up operating procedures, especially in close quarters.” Beckett rebutted.

Raymond sat up, rubbed the sleep from his crusty eyes, and stretched while yawning. He dug into his pack and took out his own night vision device.

“Man, that is some old technology there. Here, try mine. PVS-31, you will love it.” He handed his helmet to Raymond.

Raymond whistled through his teeth at the clarity of the white phosphor night vision device. The grey scale resolution was far better than his older model. He could see clearly into the dark city block shadows as Grays passed below them. “Has any Gen 2’s been spotted?” Raymond asked.

“Negative.” SSgt. Beckett answered.

“Huh, that’s interesting.” Raymond said reaching for his rifle. As he was scanning the cityscape, he asked “Inside my main pack compartment is an urban hide kit, can you get the glass cutter?”

Beckett pulled out what looked like a canvas tool back. Unzipping it, he began to empty the contents out of it. 550 Para-cord, a folded wad of black window screen, a black bed sheet, hook screws, tape, a mini can of black spray paint, a lock pick set, and finally a glass cutter.

Normally, if a window couldn’t be opened, Raymond would cut the smallest hole possible to avoid detection of his urban hide site. He would then set up his shooting position further back in the room, or even in the hallway or adjacent room to dampen sound and visibility. Shooting through a small loophole takes a lot of practice and set up. A miscalculation of your sight over bore relationship will have your bullet shattering your hide site window instead of passing freely through your loophole into your intended target.

Tonight, Raymond was going to do the exact opposite.

“Cut the hole as big as possible.” Raymond commanded.

“Target?” Beckett asked?

“Multiple. Gen 2’s. They’re perched on top of the tall buildings surrounding the intersection like gargoyles.” Raymond confirmed. “The bait drew them here, but they’re not going for it. Hopefully the loudspeaker will be enough of a diversion to start taking shots but stand-to the team just in case.”

Raymond tried to count the shadowy shapes on the roof tops, but there were simply too many of them. Besides the one Gray that had found its way over the wall in Lake City, or when they leap onto vehicles, Raymond had never seen a Gray climb. Not a tree, a fence, stairs, and definitely not a building.

Becket was scanning the rooftops, now seeing dozens of the squatting creatures. “Wait. We shouldn’t compromise our position. It’s not worth the risk.” Beckett said sternly.

“Listen Staff Sergeant, when that generator runs out of fuel, it’s going to become really quiet, really fast. Then we will have dozens of those little demons in our AO to deal with. Let’s take advantage of the distraction.” Raymond said as he began dialing the elevation turret on his scope.

SSgt. Becket thought about it, then turned to wake the team.

The large circle cut in the window near the floor, allowed Raymond to protrude the suppressor of his DARPA XM-3 bolt action rifle through the glass giving him plenty of traversing space while laying prone on the smelly mildew laden office carpet.

Raymond had listened to Victor’s after-action report of his incident on the island. He scoffed when Victor reported that he had hesitated to shoot the threats rushing at him due to the toddler size of the infected. A threat is a threat, Raymond had thought to himself at the time of the debrief, but now aiming in at targets that could be children made Raymond uncomfortable. To be honest, he had never pointed a weapon a kid, even the little terrors in Iraq that would throw rocks at their convoys.

Raymond checked the range card that had been taped to the office wall next to him. Two hundred and fifty yards would normally be an easy combat shot, and he wouldn’t adjust for the eight inches of bullet drop. But these Gen 2’s are small targets to begin with, and the way they squatted on their perch, made them even smaller.

On the inside of his ocular lens scope cap, he had elevation adjustments written on a piece of masking tape. Nine tenths of a mil elevation was needed for this range. Before he made a bullet drop adjustment, he extended his arm and balled his fist, hastily measuring a shot angle. From the target building’s third floor to the roof tops, was three fists high, equaling approximately thirty degrees. Calculating the upward thirty-degree angle cosign of 0.87, he only dialed seven tenths elevation of a mil instead.

As he glassed across the rooftops, Raymond watched the creature’s bodies spasm and shudder. From two hundred and fifty yards away, he could see moon light reflecting off the row of bald scalps. When one of the creatures turned its head towards Raymond, it’s terrifying eyes, black as coal, bore into his soul filling him full anxiety. He didn’t bother waiting for a someone to spot for him, the rifle flicked off safe, centered the reticle on his first target, and he squeezed the trigger.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
By the time, the morning sun had rose over the cityscape, well over fifty second generation infected had been killed by Raymond and Rios, the Recon team’s designate marksman.

“Why don’t the little ones go to the generator like the others?” McCune asked.

“Maybe they can sense the danger of our toy. Which is quite unfortunate. Hopefully, the scientist can give us some insight into what the new breed are attracted to, besides human snacks. I should tell you about my racoon bait sometime.”

“What kind of sadistic mad scientist came up with the idea for that machine down there?” SSgt. Becket asked.

“Believe it or not, Victor’s oldest son Curtis designed it.” Raymond said reloading his rifle magazines. “Back in Michigan, we surrounded our little town with shipping containers, but after a while the Grays got so thick that they started to scale the wall. Victor and his kids would go out on culling missions routinely. They would call them in using a high pitch frequency that they Grays could hear, but outside human hearing spectrum. We would have done the same for this mission, but we hoped if any survivors were in the area, they would hear the message and go to Kent Island.

“Back in Michigan, Curtis started engineering clever ways to cull Grays without expending precious ammo and reducing risk to humans. They all worked well, but never this well. This is a home run for sure. I expect that this kill-o-matic will be used up and down the coast in the near future.”

“I have two suggestions. Adding lights to help observe at night.” Beckett said.

“That would help draw in the Grays as well.” Raymond interjected.
​
“And an airlift option because I doubt, you’ll want to drudge through that mess down there to recover the machine.” 

Kent Island, Maryland

Sergeant Emond was supervising a working party at the entranceway into the civilian housing area on Kent Island. His Marines were filling sandbags and orderly stacking them next to a newly constructed chain linked fence vehicle gate.

“Move your asses or you’ll be at this all night!” Emond cursed at some privates that spent more time throwing dirt at each other than into the sandbags.

“Is it lunch time yet Sergeant?” A young Lance Corporal complained.

“All you ever do is eat. Finish the job, and I just might feel charitable enough to feed you shitbags!” Sergeant Emond chastised.

Emond turn his attention towards the new ten-foot-high chain link fence that made its way down to the bay then completely surrounded the small subdivision. Some of the fencing materials came from the local hardware store on the island, but the rest had been pillaged from a nearby big box lumberyard on the mainland. Luckily, his Marines did not get tasked on that mission because it had ended with casualties inflicted by hordes of infected.

His unit had seen combat. Emond had been shot at more times than he could count. Small unit tactics and battlefield geometry was his specialty which he could calmly process complex warfare problems. But the infected, they scared the crap out of him. The fence should be taller, he thought to himself.

“Looking good, do you need a hand?”

Emond turned around to face the civilian speaking to him. The guy wore an MTC ball cap, blue jeans, light weight hoodie tucked into a gun belt and had a scoped long gun strapped across his back. The hardened eyes of the man before him held a history of violence but also compassion. He stood tall with confidence and didn’t look like a science nerd. None of the other civilians offered to help with working parties. Noticing the VIP badge around his neck, he could guess who this guy was.

“Are you Victor?” Emond asked.

“I am, at your service if you need some help.” Victor offered.

“There is some scuttlebutt floating around that the Big Man on the mothership recruited you because you’ve slayed a million infected up there in Michigan. Practically cleansing the entire state single handedly.” Sergeant Emond quizzed.

Victor belted out a healthy laugh. “That’s a good one! Here, wait a minute, tell her that!” He said pointing to Erica walking up the road towards the vehicle gate.

“Tell me what?” Erica squished her eyebrows together curiously.

“I figured that was all bullshit. Oh, sorry for my language ma’am. Also heard that you smoked a couple infected spawns a few days ago. Was that at least true?”

“Honey, apparently I am the conquer of the plague-ridden north with a mountain of infected corpses as a monument of my bad-assery.” Victor grinned at her, then turned his attention back to the Sergeant. “But, yeah, we were attacked by three young second generation type right down the road. Tell your guys to stay alert.”

“Where’s Raymond, I thought he would be helping with perimeter upgrades?” Erica asked curiously.
“His trigger finger was itchy and needed to shoot something, so he borrowed a Recon team and went culling on the mainland.”

“Well, I hate to interrupt your macho manly party, but I need to get going. A helicopter is lifting off in thirty minutes to take a few of us and supplies to the lab.”

“Ok, radio me directly on the handheld HAM if anything, and I mean anything, seems off.” Victor said firmly looking into her eyes.

“Yes dear. I will dear. Don’t worry dear.” She said mocking his concern and gave him a wet kiss on the cheek to embarrass him in front of his new military friend. “I’ll be back in a week, make sure you clean the house.”

She winked at him, turned and then sashayed her way towards the airport.

“Women.” Victor said nodding towards her. “But seriously though, if anyone had killed a million Grays, it would be her when she fought her way all the way across Michigan on foot.”

“We’ve heard that too. She’s not just good looks and a smile, huh?” Emond asked.

“Nope. And she’s got the big brains too.”  Victor added. “So, how did you end up here, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Oh man, were to even begin?” Emond said blowing out a long breath, staring into the horizon as he tried to dig through unwelcomed memories. “Well, we were conducting joint training with the Moroccan military when the 26th MEU suddenly got attached to the 6th Fleet. Wasn’t long after that we were tossed into the shit show in Syria. Our company was held up on a forward operating base near At Tanf, without any clear mission parameters.

“They told us that we were supporting the pro-democracy side of the uprising against the dictator. Truth be told, we had no idea what we were supposed to be doing, who was who, and where constantly being shot at. And to make matters worse, Russian military was also on the other side of At Tanf in support of the opposition. Our Syrian militia were fighting Russian backed Syrian military and dying by the hundreds. After a while, Russian Syrian military decided to stop killing their countrymen and start aiming at us instead.

“That’s about when we heard of the EMP attack on the United States. We were at the highest level of pissed off and already battle ready. Reports that ISIS in Syria had taken credit for the attack made us blood thirsty and we went on the assault with everything we had. There were minor reports of a spreading infection, but you know when you are getting blown up on a daily basis, a silly illness doesn’t even register on your radar. We were already taking the little blue anti Malaria pill that was supposed to be a cure-all anyways. You know the one that gives you wicked ass dreams at night?

“After we encountered some of the infected and seen the monsters with our own eyes, then we got concerned. Especially when some of our Marines went psycho, clawing and biting their own close friends. These guys had been watching each other’s backs through Hell for months, then they had to kill their best friend who had gone mad. Do you know what that is like man? That’ll mess you up big time.

“We had intel of a massive anti-U.S. protest headed towards our base that was angry against our Syrian occupation and civil war involvement. We took the threat seriously because other FOBs were reporting of riots as well. So, there we were in blazing hot late summer heat, wearing MOPP level four hazmat suits and riot gear when the mob came at us. Except it wasn’t protesters as the intel nerds reported, it was a swarm of infected.

“Rules of engagement are pretty strict when it comes to unarmed protesters. Higher echelon afraid of being war criminals wouldn’t budge on the ROE’s. CS gas did nothing. Bean bag shotgun rounds did nothing. Marines were in full hazmat suits, going hand to hand with infected using batons with no effect. Needless to say, riot control tactics don’t work on the infected and the line was overwhelmed quickly.

“The infected swarmed the perimeter concrete T walls. They found gaps in our perimeter that would have stopped a normal human being and came pouring in. It was my boot ass butter bar 2nd Lieutenant that gave the order to open fire. It turned into a blood bath. A massacre that I could not have ever imagined in my worst nightmare. Hundreds of lifeless unarmed corpses laid two or three bodies deep in a pool of gore. A third of our own men, killed, wounded or worse, infected.

“I’ve had all kinds of platoon and company commanders in my career. Some good. Some bad. But I’ll tell you, Lt. Murphy saved our asses that day. I don’t know what a promotion would do these days, but he needs one. Not only for giving the order that day, but he also took the initiative to get us home.

“Between infected swarms, and the Syrians and Russians taking advantage of the opportunity launching full scale attacks, dropping artillery and missiles, we were in shell shock. We abandoned the FOB that day. Lt. Murphy contacted the rest of our unit on the radio and there wasn’t much left of the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit at that point. We escaped and evaded all the way across Syria. Originally, we headed towards Israel, but we got a reinforcement request from a sister company that was taking serious fire from Russian troops, so we changed directions. By the time we got to them, there was only a squad still alive fighting, but we did kick the shit out of the Ivans.

“Lt. Murphy was formulating an exit strategy when he got the extraction call from 6th Fleet. We fought our way across a pretty built up Lebanon border, fast rolling, smashing and blasting anything that got in our way. The 6th Fleet Admiral had SEALS and a Force Recon platoon waiting on the beach for us in Beirut. By the time we got on board the aircraft carrier, a battalion of Marines that had went into Syria had been whittled down to the platoon and a half that is now Kent Island defense force, aka guard duty.”

Victor shook his head in shock. “Man, that sounded horrible. I’m glad that you survived! Like I said, if you need a hand, please let me help. Anything you need Sergeant.”

“No worries man, we are really happy to be here, and with a noble purpose. Was happy to be safe on the island until we heard that you popped a couple Grays. My guys and I had went house to house clearing this island when we first got here.” Emond said.

“Did you clear basements too? That is where I have found dens in the past?” Victor asked.

“Yup, and again after your incident. No signs of dens.” Emond added.

“Which means they’ve been here the entire time hiding until they grew to attack strength, or they snuck across the bridge, or they swam the bay.” Victor suggested.

“I was going to ask the SeaBee engineers to add razor wire to the fence here, but I’m not sure if it’ll help.” Emond questioned.

“Not against the Grays, but it would help for the non-infected invaders that are bound to show up sooner or later.” Victor said matter-of-factly. “Which is probably the reason that you’re building these fortified bunker positions.”

“That aircraft carrier is a major deterrent from local troublemakers, but you never know when the fleet will be needed elsewhere. I’m putting primary and secondary fighting positions all around the island.” Sergeant Emond said, nodded his head. “We’ll be ready for a fight when the time comes, infected or not.”

E. Emond
End of Mission:  November 27, 2018
Till Valhalla brother.
Semper Fi and De Oppresso Liber
To learn more about this American Hero, please visit: https://bit.ly/36c655Z

Washington D.C.

Agent McCarthy had been sitting on the fourth floor of the USDA building overlooking Independence Avenue in Washington D.C. for several days. His back and legs ached from sitting on a desk next to the window, his water supply was on critical, and he had eaten the last of his rations for lunch. Luckily, a teammate would relieve him at midnight of his duties, so he could return to the office to debrief Wolf, the Secretary of Homeland Security.

Over the many years of his career in the Secret Service, McCarthy had conducted hundreds of these types of surveillance missions in dozens of foreign countries, but this one was by far the oddest. He pulled out a green cloth covered notebook that fit perfectly into his pant cargo pocket. He flipped it open to a dog-eared page and penciled four tick marks next to the time on the next available line, as a small pack of late stage infected wobbled by.

The largest creature in the pack had once worn a thousand-dollar designer suit. All that remained of that suit now was a single shoe, knee length tattered slacks and a grimy tie that dug deep into its neck. Most of the beasts in this area were lean with ripped muscle mass that made McCarthy’s weight room routine slightly envious, but this thing looked like a microwaved marshmallow.

On its neck, shoulders and back were volleyball sized tumors that threatened to pop with each labored step. McCarthy zoomed in his binoculars to get a better look and could see the puss filled growths wobble like water balloons overfilled with gelatin. Even the creature’s legs and arms seemed bloated to the point the entire creature could spontaneously burst into a cloud of spores at any second.

 McCarthy pulled the binoculars away, shuttered a bit and swallowed heavily trying not to gag. The slow shuffling pack continued west down the weed infested Independence Avenue until they migrated around the bend and out of sight, past the U.S. Forestry Department building that temporarily housed another hidden Secret Service agent on the same surveillance mission.

On the opposite page, McCarthy reviewed some of his observation log notes worthy of an asterisk. The first day after he occupied the USDA building, he was forced to relocate to a different section of the massive building because a pack of wild dogs had trailed his scent to the fire escape ladder that he used to climb up to the roof. The damn things scratched and pawed at the ladder for a good fifteen minutes before finally being distracted by a rabbit.

He scanned down the Obs Log and realized that he had made several references to animal sightings, the most mentionable was a chimpanzee that had climbed the streetlight pole yesterday. As funny as the harry animal was swinging and playing from the light, the occurrence made him wonder about all the other zoo animals. After surviving presidential assassination attempts, vehicle roll overs, close calls during weapons training, and even an apocalyptic pandemic, it would be his luck to get eaten by an African lion in downtown D.C.

Between all the silly animal references were notes on human activity, which was the primary intent of this mission. Across the street was the Secretary of Education’s hide out, and McCarthy as well as the other nearby agents, had been logging all of their activity.

Locating the building had been fairly easy after the hilarious attempted assault on the White House. A few agents flanked DeVod’s withdraw as she snaked her retreating party through the city. Agents that kept a city block between themselves and DeVod had nearly lost her in some cases, and nearly compromised themselves when she changed directions several times in failed efforts to cleverly cover her tracks. It was a nice effort, but no match against expertly trained Secret Service agents.

Luckily there had been a respectable size infected horde on her trail after the White House incident and DeVod didn’t have time to be all that stealthy. She led them directly to her new hideout. Amateur hour, he thought to himself. McCarthy honestly wondered how a group so untrained, so malnourished by the look of them, and lead by the least leadership worthy person had survived this long after the EMP attack.

He almost felt sorry for this group, and he wondered why Wolf had bothered with them. The rag-tag group loyal to the Secretary of Education wasn’t a real threat, they were annoying at best. Time and resources had been wasted on this mission that should be spent planning their own White House liberation.

But there he sat, day after day, night after night, logging when scavenging groups would depart and return. What time security patrols routinely walked the half mile perimeter of the building. He logged when DeVod’s own surveillance teams advertised themselves on the roof. He logged what types of weapons they used, what kind of backpacks they carried, and even the type of clothing they wore, just in case fashion was a force multiplier in the apocalypse.

In McCarthy’s notebook, from his viewpoint, he drew a detailed sketch of the nine hundred fifty-foot-long brown brick building with large sandstone block accents. He drew lines, erased, redrew, erased, he killed a lot of time trying to perfect his field sketch masterpiece which was only a half grade better than a preschooler. He gave up sketching the four hundred eighty’ish double hung windows, but he did accurately depict the seven sets of doors and other lower-level windows that could be viable breach points.

McCarthy could guess what Wolf was going to do with the reports, but he hoped that an annihilation attack wasn’t being planned.

Because he had sworn his duty and had served under several Presidents of different parties and theologies, politics was outside his scope. McCarthy had devoted most of his life to protecting these politicians, if he agreed with their viewpoints or not, he recognized the lawful democratic process that gave the elected officials their position. Participation in a plot to attack a cabinet member seemed to go against his entire patriotic oath.

McCarthy respected Wolf’s leadership in the chain of command, but he has grown tired of watching his friends get killed by fellow Americans for a battle of Presidential power. The world was in flames, America was in chaos, and his home neighborhood was in ruins, McCarthy didn’t even know if a there was a need for a President in this wasteland anymore.

Wolf undeniably had the resources to implement forward progress. Hundreds of trained Secret Service and FBI agents. Stockpiles of arms and equipment. Armored vehicles. Locations of FEMA warehouses. But what troubled McCarthy, why had Wolf not offered these resources to the Secretary of Transportation who was camped out in the White House? Technically, Mrs. Chan was higher on the order of Presidential succession. Maybe Wolf thought that he would be the better leader to survive and flourish through these dark days, but the bloody fight for power was beginning to weigh on McCarthy’s conscious.

McCarthy breathed heavily and slumped his shoulders. That’s what happens when someone sat in solitude for too long, the mind starts wandering to crazy places. He picked up his bino’s again and started scanning windows of the adjacent building. After an hour later, finding nothing worth writing in his notebook, movement caught his attention down the street.

Here she comes again, right on time, McCarthy thought to himself. He slid his pencil out of his pocket, and wrote

*1600 Hrs. DeVod Begins Daily Jog Around Target Building.

Over Maryland
 
The UH-1 helicopter pilot glanced back into the passenger area, looked at Victor and tapped his earmuffs signaling that the pilot had something to say. Victor signaled to Raymond and Erica as he donned his earmuffs.

“We’re getting close.” The pilot said. “To the right is where the lab is located inside Fort Detrick. The General will brief you more about transportation and logistics on how to get there for work. I’m going to fly us over Baltimore so you can get a sense of the environment in our area, but it’s pretty much like the rest of the country, dark and lifeless. Then I’ll give you a buzz over the island we call home.”

“Can you take us over D.C.?” Raymond asked out of curiosity.

The pilot shook his head. “That is a big negative, that area is a no-fly zone for now. Between the suburb street gangs and the well-armed political militias, we don’t dare fly across D.C. anymore after a bird got shot down a while back. It’s worse than flying in Afghanistan, and I’m not exaggerating!”

The conversation weighed heavy on Victor. Why had he brought his family here? He had hopes and dreams of saving America, but was there really anything left to save? Or were they simply on an uphill battle against human extinction at this point?

The pilot dropped altitude to give the passengers a better view of Baltimore as they flew past. Just as the pilot had said, dark and lifeless. Victor had never visited Baltimore, but had always wanted to, until today. There didn’t seem all that much left to visit. He wondered if there was anybody or anything worth saving in Baltimore. Just as he was about to close his eyes and request a return trip back to Lake City, he spotted an odd five-pointed snowflake shaped fortress on a river peninsula below them.

“Sir,” Victor spoke into the intercom. “What is that down there?”

“Fort McHenry” The pilot laughed with a smile on his face. “It’s been referenced in a popular song back in the war of 1812 that you may have heard of called the Star-Spangled Banner!”

Looking down on the old fort warmed Victors heart. Between a failed British land attack and twenty-four hours of naval bombardment, the Americans bravely held the last line of Baltimore’s defense resulting in twenty-nine killed or wounded and over three hundred British casualties. That had been a nasty battle, yet the troops defending that fort had never given up. Victor wouldn’t give up either, and prayed that what was left of their society, could be saved.

“Coming up is Kent Island. I was scavenging through a local gift shop and found a tourist map of the place with some interesting info.” The pilot said. “The island is home of the oldest English settlement in the state of Maryland and the third oldest permanent settlement of the original colonies next to Jamestown and Plymouth. The island is about 32 square miles, mostly farmland. It did have a nice golf course if you play, although I’m sure the grass hasn’t been groomed in a while. Prior to the attack, the island had about seventeen thousand residents, from local workers to Washington politicians. We’ve only found a few dozen survivors though, so between the aircraft carrier and empty houses, there is plenty of lodging.”

The helicopter made two quick laps around the island. The roadways looked clear. Victor could see people milling about in the small village area. The farmland spoken of was mostly overgrown and not freshly plowed. A small bridge that connected the island to the east had been destroyed leaving the only vehicle access being the long Chesapeake Bay bridge to the west. Next to that bridge anchored the largest warship ever constructed, the USS Gerald R. Ford.

Victor thought that the pilot was going to set down on the 1100 foot long flight deck of the aircraft carrier, but instead landed next to several other helicopters and transport airplanes on a small civilian airport runway just a short distance from the bridge. The helicopter engines shut down immediately and as they waited for the rotor blades to stop spinning, the pilot instructed them where to go.

Little Zavier held his dad’s hand as they walked across the flight line to a warehouse type building for their welcome aboard briefing. Each of them bent and twisted and stretched sore muscles and aches from a very long uncomfortable ride.

“So, what did you all think of the helicopter ride?” Victor asked his sons.

“My butt hurts. You’d think they would have better seats.” Zavier complained.

“And larger fuel tanks!” Curtis said. “The refueling stops were not fun, especially in Detroit.”

“Agreed. The ride was pretty fun at first, but I am freezing! I’m glad it’s warmer here than in Michigan.” Michael added.

“Me too. This island looks pretty nice though, but let’s stick close to each other, okay? At least until we get a good feel of the community around here.”

They all agreed to keep their guard up and to stay vigilant.

“That’s a pretty big boat out there in the water, huh?” Victor smiled.

“Do you think we can go on it?” Michael asked enthusiastically.

 “I have a feeling that you’re going to get tired of being on that ship soon enough.” Victor warned him.

“No way, I can’t wait. It reminds me of an Imperial Star Destroyer in Star Wars movies. But in the water of course.” Zavier laughed.

“The good ol’ Empire.” Victor moaned. “It looks like this island is run by military procedures, which means it’ll be overly complicated to get anything done and a lot of worthless paperwork. I wonder if the Empire had the same military red-tape?”

Before the group reached the warehouse, the door opened, and the Lake City mayor and General Lyons stepped out.

“Ah, it’s good to see that you all made it safely. Welcome to Kent Island.” The General said shaking their hands, even the children. “The sailors inside will issue you housing, credentials and give you a quick tour. Get settled in tonight and get some rest, you all have a big day tomorrow. Victor, Raymond and Erica, you three will be briefing our entire Joint Special Operations Command on your experiences over the past couple of months. Expect a full day of Q and A. If you don’t have any questions, I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll have a vehicle pick you up at zero eight.”

The mayor and General continued past them in discussion about the local sewage treatment center.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
“I’ve lived in worse places.” Victor said casually stepping behind Erica and wrapped his arms around her as she stood in front of floor to ceiling windows in their new living room, overlooking the Chesapeake Bay.

“We have electricity Victor.” She whispered, almost getting choked up. “How did they get power fixed so quickly?”

“The island is plugged into the aircraft carrier’s duel nuclear generators. Making power is easy for them. Stable distribution is the hard part. Replacing all the transformers that the EMP blew out is going to take a while which is why only part of the island has power. The ship has only been anchored here for a month, I’m kind of impressed that they managed to get this neighborhood up and running.”

“Do you think the water heater works?” She looked up at him.

“Seriously? You haven’t tried it yet?” He laughed. “I wonder who our neighbors are, do you want to go for a walk and get our bearings?”

“Sure, where do you think we can go with our VIP passes?” She asked with a sinister grin.

“Don’t know, but let’s not get tossed in the brig on the first day.” Victor teased her. He turned his head and yelled for his children. “Boys! Grab your hats and coats, we’re going for a walk.”

The kids came stampeding down the stairs pushing and shoving each other as they ran out the door.

“I think they like it here.” Erica smiled.

Victor slid his rifle sling over his back and grabbed Erica by the hand then led her out the door and turned up the empty street. When they landed earlier, he noticed a lack of vehicles on the island roads, and even here in this neighborhood. Victor wondered if an officer gave his men some busy work of clearing the streets, or if someone had the intelligence to create a vehicle scrap yard to salvage parts from as they did in Lake City.

They strolled casually up the road towards the airport village area. They passed an abandoned cake shop, a yacht club at the marina, a boarded-up pizzeria, tavern, a few dark diners and a couple petrol stations which put Victor on a train of thought about fuel.

Victor flipped his coat collar up to shield his neck from the wind whipping off the bay. He pulled Erica in tighter with a wink and a shiver. They had seen a few light-skinned HMMWV’s driving around shuttling people and supplies back and forth. They had not seen any other civilians yet. For being the new cradle of civilization, he expected to see more activity here on the island. But maybe the lack of crowds was because of the late time of the day, or it could be that most of the 2,600 sailors, were still berthing onboard the ship.

They explored a bit further up the road being nosey and snooping around before they decided to turn around.

“Probably a couple of miles back to the house. We should make are way home before the sun sets.” Erica suggested noticing the sun was close to the horizon.

Victor agreed looking around at dark windows, barely able to make out objects inside vacant buildings. The temperature was dropping fast as the setting sun burned brilliantly on bright red and orange clouds.

Michael and Zavier chased each other up and down the street as Curtis aimed flying pinecones at them. They cut through a plaza parking lot to check the status of some clothing stores hoping they were full of winter wear. As they passed an alley between a hardware store and grocery store Victor stopped, pulling his hand free of Erica’s.

“Do you hear that?” Victor turned his head, fighting to hear past the howling wind and kids playing.

“Is that a woman crying?” Erica looked sideways confused by what they were hearing. “There’s more than one.”

Victor whistled sharply to get his children’s attention, then swirled a knife hand in the air over his head signaling them to rally on him. He unslung his rifle as the sound of children sobbing seemed to grow louder.

“Dad, why is someone crying?” Zavier said a little too loudly.

A small human shape rounded the corner of the far end of the alleyway, then two more large toddlers appeared. Victor could barely make them out as the sun was behind them. The one in front stood up tall on abnormally stable young legs. It jerked and twitched as it seemed to be hyperventilating casting out an eerie sobbing sound.

“Hello, are you lost? Are you Ok? Where are your parent’s little ones?” Erica yelled down the damp narrow alley.

That’s when the micro-pack of infected toddlers sprinted towards them.

“Kids run!” Victor yelled, as he took a knee and braced his support arm against the brick wall while looking through his red dot sights. In his peripheral, he saw Erica’s pistol in her hands.

“Stop!” Victor commanded loudly. “Stop right there!” He shouted again, unsure if the things rushing towards him were actually infected or just some stupid kids playing around. Aiming his rifle at such small shapes just did not feel right to him. He knew that they were Grays, but he couldn’t commit to shooting at unidentified shadows of children. His thumb flicked the AR15 off safe, his finger hovered outside the trigger guard.

As the pack sprinted past the halfway mark of the alley, the sun dipped below the horizon allowing Victor and Erica to see the creatures better. The sobbing sound morphed into echoes of a hyena like cackle. The last detail Victor noticed of the pale gray toddlers were the black eyes, gray where the whites should be and completely black irises.

He squeezed the trigger dropping the first demon, transitioned to the second one directly behind the first and pumped three rounds into its tiny torso. Erica was shooting as well but having a difficult time with such a small fast-moving target with her pistol. The creature was exceptionally fast and agile. The last one jumped onto a closed trashcan, bound across a dumpster on all fours, then leapt through the air towards Erica.

The thing shrieked a terrifying sound, with its mouth wide open at an impossible angle displaying sharp teeth and a disgustingly black tongue. Its hungry black eyes fixated on Erica’s outstretched arms that held a pistol that slid into slide lock after she fired the last round in her magazine. The creature’s boney talons were reaching for Erica’s bare skinned forearms. Using his rifle, Victor stepped in and crushed the creature’s face with a horizontal butt stroke knocking it to the ground.

Victor put his boot on the Gray toddler’s back, struggling to pin the unphased flailing creature to the ground. “Are these Gen 2’s infectious? Can we get infected?” Victor pleaded with Erica.

“I don’t know!” She cried, shaking her head. “I’ve never seen one before!”

Victor had never seen one up close either and hoped that he never would again. But of course, he knew that he would. He wanted to spare this creatures life for science but wasn’t about to risk his family’s safety. Looking down at the thrashing creature he noticed several dark splotches across the creature’s light gray skin, he put the muzzle to its bald skull, and pulled the trigger silencing the pint size nightmare.

So much for a fresh start, Victor thought to himself. “There must be a den close by. There’s probably more of them.”

“Or they were siblings, triplets.” Erica offered. “They seemed about the same age and size.”

“Here comes Shore Patrol, let’s let them know to be on the look out for more.” Victor waved his hands to get the vehicles attention that was roaring down the road. “Do you think there’s a den close by?”

“Where else would they have come from?” Erica tilted her head at his question.

“Swam, maybe? First generation infected are too dumb to swim, but these things seem more animalistic than dumb.” Victor suggested.

Erica raised her eyebrows contemplating the idea that the island might not be as safe as they had originally thought.

Washington D.C.

​Styrofoam cups and plastic shopping bags blew between hulks of automobiles on Pennsylvania avenue, getting caught on tall clumps of grass and weeds that had sprouted up through cracks of the unused roadway over the past few months. It was another dreary day in the nation’s capital. Dark clouds blew quickly across the mid-day sky supplying a constant drizzle that refused to wash away the evil that stained the city to its core.

The Secretary of Homeland Security, call sign “Wolf,” watched through a pair of binoculars at a not-so-stealthily assaulting force that maneuvered through a congested avenue towards the White House overgrown south lawn. Although the assaulters were very well armed, by the look of their tactics, or lack thereof, this group of misfits was very poorly trained, if trained at all.

Wolf scanned the street as the assaulters came into view one at a time from around the corner of the Corcoran School of Arts building. Each of the gunmen dressed in dirty rags with no uniformity whatsoever. It was a pathetic looking bunch, he thought while searching the group for a specific individual. A minute later, he spotted her blond hair mostly covered by a fleece beanie cap, their fearless leader Mrs. DeVod looking as helpless and scared as the rest of her want-to-be army.

He had to give her credit though, she was elusive and had resolve for sure. Wolf has had many intense encounters with DeVod since the nation went dark a few months back, and not only had he failed to restrain her, but she kept fighting for more.

Patience was not a virtue of Wolf. He had come from a privileged family with connections both politically and industrial. If his family didn’t have the resources to complete a task, they knew someone who did. When he gave orders, he anxiously waited for progress reports. Failure was never an option. He always accepted constructive ideas but never excuses. While Wolf was reaching for one rung on the metaphoric goal ladder, he was already planning how to reach the next three. Success was always measured in an upward direction. So, the longer this tactical game of cat and mouse lasted, the more annoyed he became.

Even before the July 4th EMP attack, Wolf personally despised the White House and would dread visiting when called upon by the President for briefings. He had contemplated burning it down to the ground himself, but the White House was more than just a structure, it was a symbol of power and authority. A strong unified authority is precisely what America needed in this time of crises, and who better to handle crises better than Homeland Security? The power of the Oval Office was at stake, and he refused to let America’s uncertain fate rest in the fragile hands of the Secretary of Education.

Through the top floor mirrored windows of the adjacent Treasury building, Wolf could see dim lights flickering through a few windows of the White House. His Secret Service commander knew where the White House’s emergency generator fuel tanks were located, that could easily be turned off, but that sabotage would happen on another day. Today, he was only here to watch the show.

Inside the White House, shadows darted back and forth as security teams scrambled to take up defensive positions. Secretary of Education DeVod’s assaulting force had obviously been spotted, poor shmucks. Even though the White House was being occupied by the completely useless Secretary of Transportation, Mrs. Chan, and had an even more useless guard force of military admin officers and a few ceremonial Marines, the building itself was a fortress. With sandstone and reinforced concrete walls, bullet resistant windows, magnetically locked doors, and the most state-of-the-art surveillance system, the building could easily be defended.

Wolf wondered what Mrs. Chan had been doing squatting in the White House for the past few weeks. She obviously felt entitled to the Oval Office, but so far, she has done nothing with it. No resource distribution efforts, no inspirational words of unity, no leadership. She probably didn’t even know how to unlock the communications room inside the subterranean bunker. Obviously, the Secretary of Transportation was not the right person for the job.

“This is going to be fun to watch” Wolf said to the uniformed Secret Service commander to his left who wore black body armor and tactical kit matching the other dozen men in the room.

DeVod’s group hadn’t even scaled the fence yet before they were fired upon from the top of the stairs leading up to the White House. A barrage of gunfire abruptly shattered the curse of silence that entombed the city. The assault group’s forward momentum came to a screeching halt as the unit splintered into individuals diving for cover. The volume of fire was evidence of an undisciplined fighting force, on both sides.

“Take notes gentleman, this is what we came to see.” Wolf nodded to his agents on his flanks observing the battle as if watching a football game from their own private V.I.P. box suite.

“Defenders should have let the assaulters hop the fence before firing. It would have trapped them momentarily.” One agent said nonchalantly.

“Two machine gun nests on the porch.” Another agent said casually while writing notes.

“Good use of cover from Devod’s group on the street.” Another agent mentioned.

When a muzzle flashed from the White House roof, an assaulter’s head snapped backwards and collapsed into a pool of blood. Wolf turned his binoculars to a sniper team on the roof who gave the impression of working well together. “It appears that Secretary of Transpo has broken into our weapons room and are using our sniper rifles.” Wolf mentioned.

“They better not screw up my zero!” An annoyed agent said, who had once been the White House designated marksman.

A volley of gunfire pelted the front of the White House, chipping away chunks of white sandstone and concrete, leaving grey pockmarks in the iconic columns. Bullets left harmless divots in the windows that would remain for years, maybe centuries, to come. One lucky bullet found its way through the sandbag bunker into an unlucky machine gunner. As the defender slumped forward, his finger remained on the machine gun’s trigger sending a stream of tracers over the Ellipse lawn and stitched a perfect line up the Washington monument.

Secretary of Education DeVod was giving orders to the man next to her, when his head whipped to the side spraying her with brain matter. From Wolf’s position, he could easily read the curse words that had come from her mouth. Another assaulter collapse over the hood of a rusted car. DeVod finally gave the retreat signal.


Smart move DeVod, Wolf thought to himself while running his fingers through his long dark beard envisioning how he planned to evict Mrs. Chan from the White House with a completely different approach.

Over the past few months of skirmishes between the Secretary of Transportation, Education, and Homeland Security, they had also fought and killed thousands, if not tens or hundreds of thousands infected creatures in the District of Columbia. But countless numbers of creatures remain to prey upon the human survivors, and those creatures should be arriving in droves at any moment.

“Prepare the surveillance team to run parallel to DeVod’s retreat. Remind them not to engage unless absolutely necessary. We need to find their new base.” Wolf ordered his Secret Service commander.

Supplies and resources were plentiful in this city if a person knew where to look. What he lacked in his master plan to reconquer America, was human resources. As much as Wolf wanted to take advantage of the current situation and put a bullet through her annoying heart, the time wasn’t right. He needed to find her group’s hideout first. After taking out DeVod, her lackies would be given an irresistible option of recruitment, or death.

Detroit, Michigan
 
The recoil feels differently when an AR15 bolt locks to the rear. “Reloading!” Victor yelled out of habit, while tilting his rifle sideways just a few degrees confirming an empty chamber. The threats to his front where well outside of pistol range, so he reloaded his weapon with a full magazine giving a sturdy push and a satisfactory tug.

Even though his rifle was directly in front of his face while reloading, he looked past it to the rapidly advancing stampede of Grays sprinting across the Detroit airport tarmac. Victor gave a quick glance left and right as his thumb found the bolt release button. The bolt sprung forward with a semi-reassuring CHUNK sound of a round being forced from the magazine, up the feed ramp and into the chamber.

In his quick glance, Victor seen his family had remained spread out in a crescent moon shape around the two refueling helicopters. To his immediate right, his son young Zavier laid prone on the cold damp tarmac working the bolt of his scoped rifle as fast as he could shoot. To his immediate left Erica knelt, taking well aimed shots into the horde with a managed tempo causing the ponytail sticking out of her ball cap to sway with each shot. Damn she is sexy right now, he thought to himself with a grin curling up the corner of his mouth.

Pulling the buttstock firmly back into his shoulder, Victor placed the holographic red dot sight on the closest thick scab covered infected face and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the unfazed Gray in the neck. A stream of black infected blood sprayed out with each determined step. The wounded Gray made it twenty more gory yards before it crumpled into a heap. He adjusted his aiming point to the top of the head of his next target, rewarding him an instant kill.

Grays were falling by the dozen, but dozens more infected ran past their dead packmates. The horde was quickly shortening the gap. Victor made a quick estimate of the time it would take to unhook the fuel hose, spin up the rotors, get everyone on board and lifted off. It was going to be close.

“We need to leave now!” Victor yelled over his shoulder while loading another mag into his empty rifle.

“Five more minutes, we’re almost full!” shouted back the helicopter crew chief.

“We don’t have one damn minute! Get those birds spun up now!” Victor yelled.

Even though his ears were ringing from gunfire, Victor could hear the whine of the engines coming to life. A moment later the rotor wash blasted cold autumn air against his back.

“Get in! Get in! Get in!” the crew chief shouted, while Victor continued shooting into the horde.

The Cobra attack helicopter lifted off the ground first, just high enough to hover out of arm’s length of leaping Grays that were seconds away from swarming them all. Victor began having doubts about their decision to leave the sanctuary comforts of the small northern Michigan town of Lake City. They were only an hour into their new journey and were already about to die.

The front line of Grays was so close now, he simply rapid shot at head level into the crowd rushing him. Hundreds of crazed pinpoint pupils zeroed in on him. Sharp boney talons clawed longingly at the air. Even with the rotor wind at his back, the horrid rancid smell of filthy feral diseased Grays stung his nostrils. He could almost feel their jagged broken teeth tearing into his flesh.

A hard slap on his back and the comforting words of “last man,” yelled from his oldest son Curtis, gave him hope. He dumped the rest of his mag into the wave of disease and spun on his heals, sprinting towards the Huey.

When the Cobra attack helicopter’s nose mounted triple barrel gatling-cannon came to life, the sound knocked Victor off his feet causing him to stumble. Smoking hot 20-millimeter shell casings showered the tarmac below, as the Cobra pilot quickly swept destruction into the horde.

The door gunner in the Huey opened up with a side mounted M240 7.62mm belt fed machine gun at the same time. Victor pushed himself off the ground, gave a quick glance behind him, satisfied with the carnage being dealt, he lunged painfully onto the floorboard as the skids lifted off the concrete.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
Erica helped Victor off the metal floorboard and into an unpadded canvas seat. She gave him a nod and slid her cold hand into his, then looked across the passenger area to ensure Zavier, Michael and Curtis were buckled in as the helo banked sharply to the east.

The crew chief handed them a couple communication headphones to put on. The pilot turned in his seat to look at them, “Can you hear me?” he said in a static distorted voice. Erica and Victor both gave him a thumbs up.

The pilot spoke into his mic, “Thanks for providing security back there. We almost got a full fuel tank. That should get us to Pittsburg area before we need to refill again. Sit back and enjoy the ride. Crew chief can provide you some ammo to top off your mags in route.”

Victor took off his muffs, and then grabbed an ammo can from under his seat. Taking out a bandoleer for himself, he passed the rest to his children and Raymond.

Erica kept her muffs on for warmth and to ease the engine squeal. Looking out the door, she noticed that they were flying over downtown Detroit where she had escaped just a few months prior when the world went dark.

They were flying low enough that she could view the gloomy city streets. Nothing was moving, human or otherwise, on the congested roadways filled with rotting automobiles. Birds flew out broken windows of the tall skeletal office buildings. Evidence of fires stained blacken streaks up the sides of downtown skyscrapers. The city was cold, grey and dead.

All that remained, of the GENUTEK state of the art Level 4 bio research facility that had secretly been hidden in the old decrepit Michigan Grand Central Station’s basement, was now a large concrete rubble pile that seemed quite metaphoric for not only her life’s work, but the entire world around her.

She leaned back against the stiff vibrating hull, closed her eyes and shed a tear. They had lost so much since the day B.R.I.C.S. launched EMP attacks on western nations. World economies, governments and societies had all collapsed due to a global game of politics. With the Dark Day, came a new vicious hybrid pathogen that transformed humans into predator monsters, and with no way of coordinating a proper quarantine, the sophisticated virus had fiercely spread around the globe.

She recalled her hike from hell across Michigan that took months, watching the new world take shape. Her colleagues, only a few days after exposure, began to show symptoms of headaches, fever, paranoia insomnia and restricted pupils, all from swelling of the brain caused by a FFI prion (fatal familial insomnia). Volcano shaped lesions that left thick crusty scale like scabs formed shortly after as Leichmania parasite transformed victims’ bodies. The flesh-eating disease mutilated the infected fingers, leaving sharp bony talons. Hair fell out in clumps and muscle mass increased with dietary and exercise changes. What brain matter and nervous system FFI did not destroy, Ophiocordyceps Unilateralis (zombie spore) took control of turning once loving family and friends, into nightmarish ghoul like creatures with armored skin so tight, that the ink-like contaminated blood gave them a gray tone pigment.

The longer a victim was infected, the more the creatures continued to morph and the more Erica and the team at Lake City were able to study them. The Grays had decreased eye site due to the brain swelling and pupil restriction, but their hearing ability was greatly improved. Pain receptors were nonexistent, allowing the Grays to run themselves to death or absorb bullets unnoticeably until they bled out with only one purpose driving them forward, to infect another host.

Just a day ago, as apocalyptic life was starting to become understandable and with enough work and luck, possibly manageable, a gut-wrenching twist had come to be known. That the Grays where breeding and now a second generation of completely new creatures where among them that cared not about spreading infection, but to dominate the food chain.

As Erica sank deeper into depression, the helicopter turned slightly guiding a ray of warm sunlight onto her cheek. The apocalypse was problematic, but not permanent. She had successfully fought her way across Michigan to reunite with Victor and children. Their small town had come together to not only survive, but also set up trading networks with other villages. And now, she was on her way to USAMRIID laboratory outside Washington D.C. to continue her research with a team of the smartest virologist in the world.

There was still hope.
 
----------BREAK----------
 
It seemed almost blasphemous to Raymond that CCR’s “Fortunate Son” wasn’t blaring from loudspeakers on this bird as he thumbed green tips into his empty magazines. As he jammed mags, he watched Victor’s sons Michael and Curtis do the same. They had all known prior to leaving Lake City that at least two sketchy refueling stops were needed in route to their destination of Kent Island’s refuge.

Raymond wondered why Victor had not put his family on the General’s Osprey aircraft, along with General Lyons’s civilian entourage and Lake City’s mayor. After reading newspaper articles about Marines dying in crashes every other week while the Marine Corps field tested the new Osprey helicopter/airplane, Raymond had chosen the more dependable Huey ride instead. Maybe Victor had the same Osprey phobia, or he didn’t want to be separated from his family for a few hours.

Transportation logistics did not really matter at the moment, they were on their way to bigger and better things. A couple months ago he was sniping Grays in his back yard until teaming up with Lake City seemed like a logical choice to increase his survivability. Running local civilian relocation missions with Victor had its good Samaritan moments, but he missed real combat. The moment Raymond had heard that Russian and Chinese humanitarian aid workers landed in California, he about lost his shit. Aid workers, his ass. A month later, a witness on the shortwave radio reported that the foreign humanitarians were firebombing Seattle.

When the commander of JSOC and the Atlantic Naval Fleet landed in Lake City yesterday and told them that the Pacific Naval Fleet was actively engaged in a covert guerilla war with B.R.I.C.S. on America’s west coast, Raymond volunteered for duty before being asked. He had an ounce of guilt about leaving the good people of Lake City to fend for themselves, but the town’s defense force was under good command as Kevin insisted that he would keep the community safe. When General Lyons offered Kevin the combat air support radio frequency and told to call when in extreme emergency, that sealed the deal.
​
Sure, Raymond was intrigued to tour Kent Island’s colony which was being powered and supported by the General’s nuclear-powered aircraft carrier battle group. He was willing to support General Lyons with his elaborate regional stabilization and reconstruction mission to help ensure what’s left of humanity’s survival and all that crap but fighting foreign invaders on America soil was Raymond’s personal mission.  

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

​'Cutoff' is known as the first seat right of the dealer. Also known as the betting seat, and it happened to be Raymond’s favorite game position. He bent the pair of cards up slightly off the dirty green felt, just enough to see a King and Queen of spades. Not a bad hand, especially with a table of seven players who are all playing loose before the flop.

How quickly you call or bet, can give away the strength of your hand, so he momentarily paused to check the sun lit poker faces around the table. Raymond quickly claimed the chair closest to the wall of windows for just this reason. He would be able to read their faces, while the sun directly behind him would blind his opponents if they dared to study him.

Raymond casually said “raise” and tossed in a blue chip, raising the two-dollar blind to a ten-dollar bet. The bet would either steal the blinds or get the action rolling with a suitable pot. Either way, he’d thin out the weak players who were cheaply playing Seven/Two hands that could score a full house on the flop by pure dumb-luck.

Of course, the five hundred dollars in starting chips did not have actual dollar amounts attached to them since money wasn’t a thing anymore. But playing cards, without circumstance, wasn’t really worth playing. To make the game interesting, each of the players agreed that the dollar value equaled pushups. For each dollar lost, meant one push up after the game. Pays to be a winner.

“You play with integrity. If you don’t pay up at the end of the game, you are off mission. Forever. That goes for the two special advisers as well.” Team leader Staff Sergeant Beckett said eyeing Victor and Raymond.

Recon Marines were always looking for a reason for physical training, so the five-man team was eager to play. Raymond loved the strategy of Texas Hold ‘Em, so he was definitely in. In fact, earning money at cards wasn’t nearly as satisfying as mentally crushing opponents, so Raymond was all for punishing the losers with PT. Victor on the other hand, could not remember the last time he had played cards or done pushups for that matter. Not because he was lazy or out of shape, but when living on limited food rations, survivors burned their calorie intake wisely. Five hundred pushups would take him awhile, so as the dealer, Victor folded his Jack Two off suit for free, after watching Raymond’s ten-pushup blue chip roll across the felt.

Around the table, players responded to Raymond’s bet. Fold. Call. Call. Fold. Call. Call.

Victor bit onto a forty-dollar Davidoff 702 Series cigar that had been liberated from the casino’s cigar shop just minutes ago. The earthy tasting tobacco numbed his cheek making him wonder what the extravagant hand rolled Dominican Republic cigar would taste like if he fired it up. He would not know the luxury today, as the sweet smell would attract a deadly horde of infected. With his free hand, Victor took the top card off the deck and set the burn discard to the side, then turned up the next three to reveal the flop.

Jack of Hearts. Nine of Spades. Queen of Diamonds.

Victor half paid attention to the table as he glanced around the open sunlit VIP room that overlooked the casino’s horse track. The curtain covered door was barricaded shut with a blackjack table. At an arm’s length reach, rifles leaned against nearby silent slot machines. Rucksacks sat on plush leather chairs. Damp and muddy boots drained onto expensive walnut hardwood flooring. Victor looked longingly at the beer tap at the private bar, then to the unopened bottle of spiced rum on the bottom shelf that called to him.

A shot or two would give a good warm buzz. He had been without alcohol for so long; he would be a cheap date. A foggy mind and slow reaction time would end up getting him or a team member killed. Victor grabbed the can of energy drink next to him instead. The carbonated sugary beverage was close enough to a good time which had a distant familiarity of a pleasantries before the Dark Day.

Raymond closely watched the table, keeping tabs on who checked, who bet, and how much. As players checked around the table, passing up opportunities to bet. Raymond was getting ready for his turn to drop a twenty five-pushup green chip. The radio operator next to him in the hijack seat beat him to it, and took control of the betting, putting Raymond on the defense.

Ruining his game plan, Raymond turned his head to looked at the radio operator annoyed. He wanted to say something witty to get under his skin, but Raymond didn’t know how to address the radio operator. His unpronounceable last name of Odhiambo was embroidered on a patch above his slanted right breast pocket. Raymond assumed by his accent that the Marine was a Swahili immigrant from the horn of Africa area.

“Why is your call sign Darkness anyways?” Raymond asked sarcastically. Marines thrived on pointing out each other’s unique differences, and the radio operator had the blackest skin Raymond had ever seen. “Is it because of your depressing personality?”

“Toss in those chips Chief, and you’ll find out.” Darkness said with a heavy accent, completely unfazed by Raymond’s attempt to razzle him.

Raymond like this guy simply by his demeaner and professionalism. He had worked with several immigrants while he was in the military. Most of them, had enlisted to speed up the process to citizenship and were typically more patriotic than the average kids off the streets that joined for college tuition.

“Raise to fifty.” Raymond said dropping two green chips in the center of the table. Still trying to agitate his opponent, he continued, “You would think they would give the radio to someone who can speak clear English.”

The fifty-pushup bet cleared out the casual players quick.

Fold. Fold. Fold.

Call. Darkness dropped the extra chip onto the table to even the pot.

The horn of Africa area was a poverty-stricken shit hole that was a baren land infested with terrorism and gang warfare which hardened even the kindest of hearts. Darkness was introduced to violence at a early age. After his mother had been awarded visas to America for her linguist duties at the Embassy, joining the
Marine Corps seemed like the right thing to do.

Even during the early days of boot camp, he knew he had found his calling. It seemed his childhood had properly prepared him for the Marines. He ran faster, did more pull ups, he shot better, had a natural warrior spirit, even with broken English he understood orders better, and even outperformed his entire boot camp company in the swim qualification.

From boot camp, he went on to take the honor graduate title at the school of infantry where he was invited to the Force Reconnaissance selection indoc where he passed with ease which not only brought additional enlightening challenges, but an elevated level of honor and respect.

He loved his new life. Even on the hardest of days, he was grateful for the opportunity. He saved his earnings, counted his blessings, took as many military developmental schools as he could, and studied English as much as possible which is why he volunteered to be the RO (radio operator).

What he loved most was the camaraderie. When assigned to a team, he finally met the brotherhood of professional warriors who sat before him at this poker table, he knew that he had found his place in the universe. From the outside, they appeared to be as different as people could possibly be. TL Beckett was a good ol’ boy from the mountains of Montana. The coxswain, Corporal McCune, was a skinny former surfer who spoke the slang. Even though most of them had graduated Scout Sniper school, Rios the Harley riding Texan was their designated marksman. And finally, their Navy Corpsman, who everyone called Doc, was a thick Korean who could bench-press twice his own body weight.

Several of them had earned purple hearts and medal a valor for sacrificing personal safety for the lives of their brothers. They were from all walks of life, but they looked out for each other; on and off the battlefield. There was an unspoken love of family amongst the team. But like all brothers, they constantly teased one another, they would get drunk on Friday nights and fight each other then hug and make up on Saturday, and a lot of friendly verbal harassment that was as politically incorrect as racial slurs could be.

So, the jabs that Raymond threw at Darkness to shake his game, had been easily deflected.

Victor lost in a depressing daydream of the dark and quiet lifeless casino below them on the main floor, wondering how safe they were as they casually played cards in the VIP suite. He hadn’t been paying attention to the game whom he was dealing for. On his mind was hordes of dangerous monsters who had once been human, that surrounded their building. The infection riddled creatures, determined to make mankind extinct, had been lured in from all over Philadelphia to the loudspeakers repeating the same message over, and over, and over again that was already getting on Victor’s nerves.

“Pot’s good.” Raymond said, clearing his throat.

Victor brought his attention back to the game. He bit onto his cigar again, discarded the top card and flipped over a Queen of Clubs.

Darkness tossed in two black chips worth two hundred pushups.

What the hell? Raymond thought. He’s probably sitting on a King Ten, giving him a straight which would beat my own trip queens. He could also be holding Jack Queen, giving him a full house. Or, maybe he’s trying to screwing with me and trying to buy the pot.

Darkness grabbed a cool ranch chip out of the crinkly cellophane bag and loudly took exaggerated irritating bites from the crunchy chip while staring at Raymond. “Mmmmmm. These are so good. Still fresh too. Would you care for some mister liaison man?”

Raymond ignored him, pondering to call his bet or not. Studying the table: Jack of Hearts. Nine of Spades. Queen of Diamonds. Queen of clubs. Damn. He could even be holding a pair of crappy Nine’s in his hand, giving him a full house. He thought irritated, internally cursing Victor for dealing such a wicked hand.

“There are more chips. Right over there under the bar. I can get you some if you desire. Maybe some pretzels, but you seem like a salt and vinegar kind of guy.” Darkness continued crunching the chips loudly, being distracting. “Hey man, what kind of product do you use in that mane of yours? I think your callsign should be Hair Gel!”

“All in.” Raymond said in frustration, pushing his entire chip stack forward. Five hundred pushups was worth knowing if he was bluffing or not. Because next time, when playing for something better than exercise, at the next card game whenever it may be, Raymond would know if Darkness got lucky or if he was a bluffer. 

“Okay.” Darkness said casually in his thick accent, pushing his pile of chips in as well. “I haven’t exercised yet today anyways.”

Victor, along with the rest of the team was paying attention now, it was getting exciting. Someone was about to start sweating. The card game had been a good idea to kill some time. Sitting around the gaming table had almost a sense of normalcy about it all, as if the world hadn’t gone dark months ago. As if Russians and Chinese hadn’t invaded the west coast. As if thousands of infected Grays weren’t being ripped to shreds on the patch of overgrown grass in the center of the track just outside the window.

Victor slowly took the top card off the stack, held it in the air momentarily, grinning at the faces frozen in suspense and placed it on the discard pile. Deliberately reaching for the river card, a series of light footsteps ran across the loose roof gravel above them.

They all looked upward at the tall mosaic ceiling in surprise. Victor dropped the entire stack of cards onto the table. Beckett stood up too quick and knocked his chair over backwards reaching for his M4. Raymond had his pistol drawn. The others were kitting up, wrapping ammo laden chest rigs to themselves as sounds of rodents above them scurrying back and forth continued.

Over the blaring message being played on repeat on the loudspeakers outside, they could hear a chilling sound of children sobbing echoing through the stairwell and hallway just outside the VIP lounge. The haunting sound penetrated them, the sound of kids whimpering uncontrollably to the point they couldn’t breathe and sucked in gusts of air between chest spasms.  

Victor pulled the bolt back slightly, giving him comfort of showing brass inside his chamber. He looked up at SSgt Becket and nodded.

​“Hey!” Raymond held up his hand. “Flip the last damn card!”