DISCLAIMER: in no way do I own Gears of War, nor do I own Epic (or any of its stock) or any of its subsidaries. This is fanfiction material, pure and simple, and should be treated as such. Any similarities to the overall storyline of the upcoming Gears of War 2 (and 3) is purely unintentional. Thank you for reading, and remember; please don't sue me!
Here it is, at long last, Chapter 4 of Into Hell We Go. This chapter is a little short by my standards, and I wanted to make it longer, but I had to go with what I had. So please read.
An interesting fact: I wrote the first section of the chapter, which is about three good paragraphs and two independent sentences long, sometime around the beginning of the school year back in 2007. This is now near the end of the school year, 2008, and I just finished writing the rest of the chapter (in a single day). Period of short activity... long period of inactivity... Sudden burst of activity, and... Post.
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MARCH 13, 9 A.E.D (After Emergence-Day), 7:59 AM, THE EAST BARRICADE ACADEMY
The grim-faced sergeant stepped slowly out of the King Raven helicopter. He stood there for a moment, the helicopter lifting off behind him, unaffected by the downdraft of the blades. Through his one good eye he surveyed the fifteen new recruits; most of them cringed beneath his piercing glare. In place of his left arm was a small stump, covered by a pinned-up sleeve.
"My name is Sergeant-Major Hooker. You will address me by my rank, followed and or proceeded by the loudest 'Yes sir' you can muster. Failure to do so will result in punishment that is best worth not mentioning. You will arrive here in the parade-grounds at precisely 8:00 AM, or so help me god, I will hang you upside down by your toes. After roll-call you will march single-file into the Mess Hall and eat breakfast in five minutes or less.
"Immediately following your breakfast you will be put through the cruelest, most grueling training excersises we can think of. At exactly 12:00 PM you will then jog to the Mess Hall and be served your dinner. The last man to arrive will not, and I repeat, not receive any food whatsoever. After dinner you will march single-file to the firing range. Every week you will suffer through a live-fire excersise and be forced to make your way from one end of the obstacle course to the other. Water will be evenly distributed every day; try not to waste it. Am I clear?"
Though most of the recruits were visibly quaking in their boots, they were all able to put up a rousing "Sir, Yes Sir!"
Sergeant-Major Hooker smiled haphazardly. "Good. Get suited up... You have ten minutes."
----
Over the next few days the recruits were put to the test; they were pushed to their very limits, and then beyond. By the end of the week three of the recruits had been thrown out, mostly by their own consent. The excersise regimen was, to say the least, excrutiating. If it weren't for the fact that there were around thirty other trainees at the Academy, it was very likely that Norman and Carmine would have dropped out.
It was always freezing cold at the Academy, as it was dead-set in winter and there were only three heaters in the entire complex. All of them were inaccessible to the trainees.
You always trotted everywhere at East Barricade. It didn't matter if you'd sprained your ankle or torn a ligament, you were expected to jog to your destination unless ordered to do so otherwise. Needless to say, marching was a rarity. It seemed that nobody saw any real value in marching anymore... after all, where would you march to? The Locust would tear through a column of marching Gears like a hot knife through butter, or so it was said.
About three times a week an alert sounded and everyone had to scramble out of bed, suit up and play soldier. The trainees learned to put on their armor in under a minute, a surprising feat considering that it took them twice that time to put on their fatigues. They also had to learn to dissassemble, clean and maintain all their weapons and kit.
Despite all of this, the trainees were expected to shower every morning, shave, and do all those other little chores that usually took up a quarter of an hour. Some of the boys became pretty fair barbers, but a clean sweep like a billard ball was acceptable and anyone can do that. At roll call every morning when a trainee's name was called out he didn't say "Here!". Instead they all responded with "Bathed!". Some of the guys could lie about it and get away with it (everybody smelled the same after a few days), but at least one person who pulled the dodge in the face of convicting evidence found themselves being scrubbed with stiff brushes and floor soap while an assistant corporal-instructor looked on.
Sleeping became almost a pasttime among the trainees. Everybody got twenty minutes of free-time after lunch (a fact not reported by 'Sarge Coon-Ass', as Hooker was known), unless it was taken up by extra duties such as cleaning floors and sweeping out the barracks. Most everybody just fell asleep wherever they could find a spot, and stayed that way until someone woke them up. A couple trainees learned the hard-way that finding a secluded area would often wind up with a much-feared result: no-one would know where they were and they would sleep right through weapons training. This was not a good thing.
Of course, as Norman would later remember, basic training was not impossible (regardless of its description). It was merely made to be as hard as possible. The instructors were very good at making things hard, needless to say.
Some people might think that basic training is a period of sheer meanness, calculated sadism and the fiendish delight of witless morons in making other people suffer. It was not. It was much too scheduled, much too intellectual, too efficiently and impersonally organized to be cruelty for the sick pleasure of cruelty. It was planned like surgery for the simple purpose that it was surgery; a process meant to weed out the weak and unfit, and to toughen and strengthen the strong and durable.
But, much more important than carving away the fat quickly and saving everybody the training costs of those who would never cut it, was the prime purpose of making as sure as was humanely possible that no Gear ever went into combat unless he was prepared for it; fit, resolute, disciplined, and skilled in the art of cold-blooded murder. If the Gear is not up-to-standard in all of these criteria, then you might as well be sending in an untrained boy to fight. If not it is very unfair, both for his comrades and for humanity itself.
As Norman Terrol later put it: "Whenever I go into combat, the man on my flank better be a graduate of East Barricade Academy, or sure as hell I'm not getting in the helicopter."
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Carmine continued to fire downrange into his target. He liked the lancer; it was a good weapon. The only problem was that the chain had been taken off the chainsaw bayonet. All Carmine wanted was something to tear into, and the chainsaw to do it with.
Norman dropped his empty clip and took another one off the rack. He clicked it into position and took aim; as he did so, a fresh target popped up to replace the old, chewed-up one.
"This is bullshit, man," grunted Norman inbetween shots. "We're out here in the freeze all day long, and I'll be damned if Coon-Ass isn't watching us through some window with a mug of hot coffee."
A heavy hand suddenly appeared on Norman's shoulder. He froze.
"What's that, private?" came the cold, husky voice of Hooker. "You'd like three days extra duties? Tomorrow at 01200, report to the sick bay."
Norman clenched his jaw to prevent another scathing comment from escaping. He was scared shitless by the sheer prospect of the Sergeant-Major being able to sneak up behind him without being noticed.
"Oh-twelve-hundred. That's an order." He left.
Carmine chuckled. "Boy, didn't that motherfucker ever have a mother?"
One of the other trainees stopped shooting just long enough to reply. "Don't you know anything about sergeants, Carmine?"
Carmine shook his head. "No, but I'm willing to learn more."
"They don't have mothers. They reproduce by fission... like all bacteria."
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MAY 26, 11 YEARS A.E.D. (After Emergence Day), 12:53 PM, OUTSKIRTS OF EPHYRA:
The alleyway was a complete mess. The dumpsters were chewed all to hell by troika fire, huge chunks had been taken out of the walls, blood streaked the entire environment and the slaughtered Locust piled up on either side like mangled bricks.
Raphael let off the triggers as the last grenadier went down in a torrent of blood, guts and intestines. Exhausted, his adrenalin rush wearing off, he slumped forward.
"Damn..." Jacob whistled whimsily at the carnage and kicked at a dead drone. The puddles of water were filled with gore, now joined by the drone's decapitated head.
Saunders dropped his dry clip and smacked another one into place. "Raph, you ok?"
Raphael sat down on the block of cement next to the Troika. "Not too good, Ave, but I've had worse. Everything's all bloody."
The sergeant hopped over and surveyed the bloody left side of his face. His ear had been taken clean off by a troika bullet.
"Hold on, you'll be fine. Just lost an ear, that's all." He pulled a rag out of his belt and tore off a length. "Here, just hold still a moment."
The corporal sat perfectly still, albeit gritting his teeth, as Saunders wrapped the rag around his head. Tightly.
"There, that should staunch the bloodflow and protect what's left. Damn, that troika did a number on that dumpster..."
Nearby Vinny was looking back down the alley they had come out of. "Hey, Sarge! We'd best get moving, I think I just heard a grub hole open up back there."
Saunders nodded. "Good idea. You and Jacob get Norman, I'll help Raphael."
The corporal shrugged him off. "Hey, wadda you think I am, a cripple? I lost an ear and a bit of armor, is all."
The sergeant grunted. "Ok, you can walk. Let's go."
----
It was a long and grueling trek to the Stranded camp, even if it was only about two miles away. There was really no direct way to get there; no straight open route. The Gears had to make their way as stealthily as possible from one alleyway to another. When they had to cross a street, they would do so as fast as they could, preferably using the cover of cars or other vehicles.
As they went, Saunders noticed that the frequency of emergence holes and ominous rumblings in the ground was increasing. Many times he stopped the squad on a hunch. More than once, he was right; large groups of Locust passed right through the area, accompanied by boomers and berserkers on more than one occasion. Once, an entire legion of drones led by theron guards and sentinels marched past. Reavers flew through the air above in small flocks.
"What do you think is going on?" asked Raphael, watching from within what had once been a repair shop. The legion of well over two hundred Locust continued to march on by, grunting a loud rythmic chant to keep up the pace.
"Maybe they want what we want," replied Saunders. "The energy pulse was big enough for all the Locust in a thirty mile radius to notice it."
Raphael nodded, remembering the massive energy pulse detected over long-range scanners just two days before. It had emanated somewhere around the center of Ephyra, with an epicenter located smack-dab on top of the huge COG Cathedral. The Gear snorted at the thought that Command would send just one squad to investigate, when the city had one of the highest Locust concentrations on the continent.
"Come on, let's get back to the squad."
Raphael nodded and crept back softly. No way was he going to become Wretch fodder.
----
The General watched from the top of a twelve story office building as his Legions flocked towards the center of the city. He had already established a strong presence at the huge Cathedral that the pulse had started from; more Legions were coming up from beneath it. Communication went fast amongst the Locust.
A Theron Sentinel stepped over and grunted in a deep, guttural tone. Berithk turned towards his bodyguard and barked in reply.
"One of your sweeper units made contact with the Gears, mighty General."
"What was the result?"
"The unit was wiped out, mighty General. The humans got away."
Berithk turned coldly aside and looked back down at his passing Legions.
"Continue searching. Post scouts and snipers in the area. Detach sweeper units to engage if possible."
"Yes mighty General. May the will of the Queen be done."
The General snarled. Somewhere, out there, was a squad of Gears lost deep in his own territory. He didn't know what they wanted. He didn't know where they were.
But he knew where they were going.
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The plot thickens. I've decided to actually add a plot, in fact. Here's a little backstory: near the center of Ephyra city, there was a massive energy pulse. The COG doesn't know what caused it, or what it is, so they dispatched Gnasher squad to investigate. Gnasher squad's King Raven was shot down. General Berithk is similiarly investigating the energy pulse, but is moving most of or all of his forces towards the center of the city. There is a Stranded camp, a large one as Stranded camps go, led by a man named Jackal. That is where Gnasher squad is headed.
Anyway, drop a review on your way out... OR I WILL TORQUE-BOW YOUR ASS! More to come later.