GLB: Ghoul Liquidation Bureau. The American counterpart of the CCG.
This was inspired by a song by Sabaton (No Bullets Fly) about a real event that took place. In World War Two, a German Pilot saw a heavily damaged bomber flying back to England. He flew up to it, thinking that it would be an easy kill. He was confused when the rear machinegunner didn't shoot at him. Upon closer inspection, he realized he was dead. He flew up next to the plane and saw through the gaping hole in its side that most of the crew were wounded. He decided not to shoot them down because his commanding officer had told him and his squadron that if he ever heard of any of them shooting a man in a parachute, he would shoot them himself. He felt that shooting down the bomber would be no different. He signaled to the American Pilot to land at a German airstrip and surrender. When this failed he signaled for him to fly to neutral Sweden and surrender to them. The American Pilot couldn't understand what he was trying to communicate. The German Pilot decided to escort them out of Germany and to the North Sea, where he gave the American Pilot a salute and departed. He never told anyone about the incident, and the American Pilot was ordered by his superiors to keep quiet as well. Years later, these two pilots met again; they remained close friends until their deaths in 2008.
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"Shit! Shit! Shit!"
One small mistake can have drastic consequences. Peter Barnes learned this the hard way. What had started off as a simple raid turned into a bloodbath; GLB agents walked right into an ambush, and many died. All because of faulty intelligence. Those that remained formed a barrier around the abandoned industrial district inhabited by the ghouls. All except for Peter, who was badly wounded.
"Alpha leader this is Bravo 2. I'm wounded and trapped. Do you copy?" he said.
*Static*
"Is anyone there?" he said, this time sounding more panicked.
All he heard was the sound of static. No one would come to help him. No one would save him. He would die alone in that forsaken alley. Forgotten and abandoned.
"Oh, God! Please don't let me die here!" he moaned, perhaps too loud for his own good.
He heard footsteps coming from an intersecting alley. They seemed to be coming from only one set of feet, but whoever they were coming from didn't walk like a GLB agent. GLB agents walked with an air of discipline about them, and onlookers would say it looked and sounded like a march. These footsteps sounded more civilian-like; they almost sounded relaxed.
Peter tried his radio one more time, "This is bravo two, does anyone copy?!"
Whoever it was quickened his/her pace. Soon it sounded like s/he was at a half-sprint.
Peter tried to pull his service pistol from its holster, but it was difficult; his right arm was badly mangled, and his holster was on his right side.
"C'mon, c'mon, c'mon!"
No matter what he did, he couldn't get his pistol out. Using his left arm didn't help much; his index and middle finger were broken.
The culprit finally came around the corner. He was a male ghoul, about 5'11. He had red hair, and the same red and black eyes that all ghouls had. He was covered head to toe in black; his outfit consisted of a black battlesuit, a black cape, black combat boots, and a black angel face mask. He also had a silver crucifix hanging from his neck.
Peter tried crawling away, but it was slow going. He could barely move his right arm, his right leg was broken, and his side had a deep gash. He slowly pulled himself along with his left arm. Each inch he moved forward, the gash in his side burned.
But the Ghoul followed him. He seemed to be toying with him; his steps were slow, but he still walked fast enough that he would eventually catch up with Peter.
"Not like this! Please, God!" Peter thought.
"No, no no!" he pleaded
The Ghoul finally caught up with him. He grabbed Peter by his right arm, causing him to scream out in pain, and flipped him over on his back.
"What do we have here?" the Ghoul asked.
The furious look within the Ghoul's eyes prevented any words from escaping his lips. Instead, his eyes did the talking.
The Ghoul could see only fear and pain in them. Additionally, the Agent below him was young, about the same age as him. He looked like he was probably fresh out of training.
"Don't… don't kill me!" Peter finally pleaded, having regained his voice.
The Ghoul stared silently at him for several seconds. He'd killed many agents before, seen his own slaughtered. But upon seeing the sorry state of the Agent, he felt pity. Besides, he had human friends. Even if they didn't know his true self, he doubted he could face them again after killing this wounded and defenseless agent. Hell, one of them was a GLB agent.
He knelt down beside the wounded agent, who had begun to shake with fear.
"I won't," he said.
He put his arm under Peter's armpit and around his back.
"On three," he said; Peter weakly nodded.
"One, two, three!"
He began to lift Peter up, then placed Peter's good arm around his shoulders. Eventually, he got him to stand on his good leg.
"Let's go. And try to keep it quiet," he said.
Peter tried his best to keep himself from screaming as pain surged through his body. They moved slowly along; Peter's good leg wouldn't let him move too fast. Occasionally he would stumble, and the Ghoul would have to drag him for a few feet.
They came to a corner, and as they were about to go around it the Ghoul stopped.
"There's someone ahead," he whispered.
"Who?" Peter asked.
The Ghoul sniffed the air for a few seconds. It was hard to smell anything over the sweet smell of Peter's blood, but from what he could tell it was another ghoul.
The Ghoul placed him against the wall and walked around the corner. Peter felt a sinking feeling in his gut. Then he could barely make out a conversation between the two.
"Hey, who's there?" the other ghoul asked.
"Relax, it's me," his ally replied.
"I smell blood, human blood. Know anything about that?" the other one asked.
"Maybe. I think those assholes left one of their friends behind. Probably wounded. You head back with the others, I'll look for him," the Ghoul said.
"Okay, good luck."
The other ghoul turned around and left, and Peter's ally came back.
"We're good," he said.
He picked him up in the same way again, and they continued around the corner.
"Why are you helping me?" Peter asked.
The Ghoul didn't answer his question.
They made their way through a maze of alleyways and abandoned streets, occasionally having to stop because the Ghoul could smell nearby ghouls, and would need to pull the same trick as before. Eventually, they came to another alleyway. Around the corner, according to the Ghoul at least, was the GLB blockade. The Ghoul placed Peter against the wall.
"Can you crawl the rest of the way?" the Ghoul asked.
"I think I can," Peter said.
The Ghoul turned to walk away, but Peter grabbed his arm.
"I'd like to know the name of the guy who helped me," he said.
The Ghoul stared at him for a few seconds, contemplating if he should tell the truth, then he spoke.
"My name is O'Rorke," he said.
"I'm Peter. I won't forget this," Peter said.
He let go of his arm but kept it extended. O'Rorke grabbed hold of it but was careful not to disturb the two broken fingers. They lightly shook hands.
"Hey Peter, do me a favor, eh? Don't tell anyone about this. It would be bad for both of us," O'Rorke said.
Peter gave a small nod.
"I won't, and, thank you," he said.
O'Rorke let go of his hand, and before Peter could say anything else, he took off with great speed.
Peter began crawling around the corner, towards the blockade. Each second was hell, but the pain was dulled by his thoughts. He had been raised to fear and hate ghouls, yet one had saved him. One who didn't seem much different than any ordinary person. Maybe, just maybe, there were good ghouls out there.
As he drew closer to the blockade, he was spotted. Several low-ranking GLB agents, armed with MP5 submachine guns, along with two higher level agents armed with quinques, rushed out to grab him. When they reached him, he saw a familiar face.
"David, you're a sight for sore eyes," he grunted.
"Peter! Son of a bitch, I thought you were dead!" David said
"I feel like it," he joked.
The other agents placed him on a stretcher and headed for the blockade. The whole time, Peter's mind was still obsessing over O'Rorke. He decided he would ask David if he knew anything.
"Hey David," he said.
"Hm?"
"You know anything about a ghoul wearing an angel mask? Black outfit, silver cross necklace?" he asked.
Before David could say anything, one of the higher ranking agents answered Peter's question.
"He's the Angel of Death. He's called that because of his wings and angel mask. Few survive their encounters with him. Why, did you see him?" he asked.
Peter internally kicked himself. He hated coming up with cover stories.
"While I was crawling my way here, I ran into him. I played dead. He probably didn't eat me because he gorged on someone else or something," he said.
"You're lucky," the Older Man said.
Once they finally got him back to the blockade, he was put in an ambulance and rushed to a hospital. On the way, his thoughts were still occupied by O'Rorke, and how the "Angel of Death" had not only passed over him but saved him.
Aaaand, that's all she wrote. I will most likely write a second chapter at some point in time. This story also ties into another longer story. O'Rorke (A.K.A. the "Angel of Death") will be one of the main characters.