Brothers-In-Arms

"Jesus H. Christ, how many are there!?"

"Enough to kill, now keep firing, goddammit!"

Private E-2 Taylor York has been through a lot of hell in his life, and if it weren't for this he may have been made Private First Class within a week. But he was already breaking down, permitting the fear to take over him, much like his many comrades.

Taylor continued firing, but in short sustained bursts from his rifle. The Colt M16A2 magazine depleted quickly, its thirty-round clip emptying into the fiends circling Taylor and his platoon's convoy. He knelt in the midst of gunsmoke and the legs of his fellow troops, laying the M16A2 across his thigh and ejecting the clip. His skin was crawling with fright and his heart practically leapt out of his throat with every beat. During the act of reloading, he accidentally dropped the replacement magazine on the asphalt thanks to panicky, fidgety fingers.

"York, you better get your ass up and keep firing, now, ya hear me!?"

Taylor's ears were ringing from comrades' gunfire and from his own thudding temples that he could barely discern his CO's voice.

Staff Sergeant Albert Greene was fed-up with Taylor and the others' bullshit. He understood the fear they were experiencing, as he was too, but at least he had it under control. All hell had broken loose and there were hundreds of questions left unanswered, but the Army had their direct orders from the President himself—eliminate all hostiles with extreme prejudice, taking no prisoners, giving no mercy, and reestablishing safety and security among all civilians.

Albert had his own pressing inquiries fueled by his eager curiosity, but he suppressed them for the sake of the mission at hand. Besides, Albert liked nothing more than to slaughter a bunch of monsters that his twelve-year-old daughter sees in her nightmares.

The convoy of Charlie Company was en route to the County Hospital, in hopes of securing the bedded and regroup at the northside of the town to request an airlift. After that Albert only hoped an airstrike would be available, and if not that some heavier reckoning for these sons of bitches. Albert thought the Army was the best damned armed forces unit in the 

nation, but if need be they could call in the USMC or Special Ops if the Air Force wouldn't be permitted to blow to shit the town which had been inexplicably overrun by these things.

Albert was standing upright, his lower body protected from within the M1126 Stryker APC, his upper portion vulnerable and gazing out over the waves of creatures which swiftly encircled them. In his clutches was the Stryker's Browning M2HB .50-caliber BMG turret, pivotal a full 180°. The APC itself moved slowly as to not lose the following soldiers who acted as its external shields—gunning down the hostiles from outside, since its interior was crammed with injured or otherwise inapt-to-fight civilians. All eleven of them were in there, protected by thick armor resistant up to 14.5mm gunfire.

Fortunately their current hostiles were not firing weapons. Instead, they snapped ugly jaws and clawed and swiped spiked tails at the soldiers moving with the Stryker, somehow so much worse than enemy troops shooting guns. In their favor, nonetheless, the troops were managing to keep them at bay—there had to be at least fifty of the creatures, mobilizing to stay with them as the Stryker moved and they moved with it, going down the straightaway of a street and not letting-up their typically futile melee attacks. Only those mindless and panicky enough would step out of formation and be seized by snagging clawed hands or whipping barbed tails.

Albert had the best view of all, and yet the worst. It was difficult to keep his eyes on the sea of black-skinned creatures as they huddled closely and moved like serpents so fluidly, so cunningly, so dreadfully. But, having the most strategic view of them all, he would take advantage of it—however, only in short bursts. The M2HB heavy machinegun spat out fat two inch-long spears of lead—the .50-caliber BMG round—at 600 rounds-per-minute and 3,050 feet-per-second of muzzle velocity making it one of the most powerful automatic weapons in the nation. And the internal air-cooled mechanism made rapid firing all the better, given its already high rate of fire and belt-fed operation. One to two rounds was all it ever took to takedown a single soldier, even if he wore Kevlar. And with these creatures—which were about eight to nine feet long, perhaps more when fully extended snout-to-tail—it took but three or four. And, moreover, with them so crowded together it made the weapon's lack of pinpoint accuracy a good thing.

Yet they were low on ammunition, their last belt already fed into the weapon, halfway spent. This went for most of the soldiers as infantry, too; within the next ten minutes of continuous firing, at the maximum, they will be relying on their backups—pistols and, ultimately, combat knives.

That just wouldn't do, either. And Albert knew this—they all knew this.

"Where the hell are they comin' from, man!?" Private Chester Starks bawled.

"I think you answered your own question, Chester!" one of his comrades barked to him.

"Aw, no, man! It can't be, man! They're everywhere!"

"Can it, Starks, before I put one in your back!" Albert snapped, his voice barely audible over the gunfire and animalistic screeches from the creatures. "Now keep firing! These things ain't invincible, ya know!?"

The one-vehicle and presently sixty-man convoy was nearing the intersection of Northwest and Oak Street. To take a right would mean strafing a shopping center/mall, where an abundance of screams were erupting. Going straight, however, would mean continuing down thin suburbs and approach the power plant on the northside of town.

"Turn right at Oak, Belle!" Albert shouted down into the driving cabin of the Stryker. He patted the roof of the APC with his right gloved hand. "Turn right, at Oak Street!"

"Affirmative, Sarge!" Corporal Harry Belle replied from within, squinting his eyes and peering through the rectangular slit which was his glassless windshield. Through the illuminated murk thanks to the Stryker's headlamps, Harry confirmed the street and accelerated slightly. "Turning!"

Albert gritted his teeth, jaws clenching, and jerked back on the firing triggers of the M2HB heavy machinegun. The recoil jolted him with every squeeze he took, spending twelve rounds into the mobilizing mass of creatures as the Stryker slowly veered right onto Oak Street.

"Turning!" Albert roared over the barking of each burst of gunfire from the M2HB. "Move with it, boys! Move!"

And so they did.

The throngs of soldiers pulled tighter to the Stryker as it turned onto the two lanes of Oak Street, moving with it but maintaining enough fire to keep the creatures continuously at bay.

Each and every single of Albert's fired rounds from the M2HB seemed to hit a target, tearing away a chunk of its black-skinned flesh or halve it with a couple bullets altogether. Their bizarre acidic blood splattered one-another but seemed to do no damage, whilst it melted away layers of the asphalt they scuttled upon.

The Stryker gained speed around the corner, whatever was necessary to remain mobile as the creatures pursued them. Soldiers did their best to catch up, but some tripped on themselves or lost their footing in the midst of personal terror. It was a small handful of the troops who met their demise this way, four of them who toppled to the street in the attempt to keep-up with the Stryker simultaneous to fending off the hostiles. A small throng of the creatures immediately broke off from the main mass of their ilk to seize the fallen soldiers, separated and momentarily defenseless. A few of the soldiers still in line with the others and maintaining pproximity with the Stryker turned on their heels to see their fallen comrades. Rifles were shoulders, bursts were fire, and in the passing seconds only one or two of the many creatures dropped. Within moments a small but copious horde of the creatures were piling onto the fallen troops, salivated jaws snapping through bone and tearing through flesh. Fountains of blood formed in spurts as the creatures savagely ravaged the soldiers in a frenzy of swimming tails and swiping claws.

One woman, a soldier enrolled for less than two years, screamed at the top of her lungs for the crony who she lost in the frenzy. But the grief had already ravished her, and she couldn't bear continuing onward unless she did something to help her comrade—her friend. She screamed and screamed, then finally broke away from the others and charged the horde of creatures devouring her brothers-in-arms with rifle shouldered. The M16A2 bucked in response to the rapid squeezes of its trigger, putting round after round into the group of monsters' flesh. Their acidic blood splashed the lifeless remains of their meal and sizzled through the tissue and shredded skin in a grotesque sibilation.

The mass of soldiers moving with the Stryker had long since left her and the fallen troops behind, unable to slow or stop to help any of them—as the necessity to remain mobile mounted.

It became very evident that if one becomes inert, they are certain deaths to the monsters.

Private Carrie Hoskins wasn't thinking when she halted not fifteen feet from the site of the frenzy. Her nerves were frozen solid due to the vast fright and disbelief which has since overcome her. All she could do now was stare and gawk in horror at what was before her—a mob of creatures out of this world, beyond her worst nightmares, distant from any terrible imagination. They were so unreal and yet so solidly present she couldn't bring herself to even scream. She didn't know what to do anymore, even with the weapon in her hands.

The gun.

She spotted where spots of asphalt used to be on the road in front of her, where steam climbed through the air.

Acid for blood? she thought in awe.

Then, the realization—

The gun…the blood…

The sons of bitches do bleed, she thought, reloading, yet feet still firmly planted. Which mean they can die.

Carrie snapped the firing lever and started shooting, or at least she thought she did.

Two, perhaps three rounds were gotten off before one of the creatures tackled her from her right blindspot. It hadn't emerged from the frenzy of fiends in front of her, still somehow consuming her comrades in spite of their numbers, but from elsewhere in the murk of the night. And not from the crowd which pursed the Stryker, as it continued to keep up with it, now fifty yards down Oak Street. Some sixty yards away.

Carrie went to think something but it didn't pass all the way through her mind when the creature's barbed tail slammed into the small of her back. It passed easily through her midsection and exploded through her diaphragm, spitting a skein of blood and innards with it. Within seconds Carrie had been lifted up off her feet, the M16A2 lying on the ground out of her reach, the creature on all fours and glaring up at her via an eyeless visage.

She was unable to move, paralyzed, not even capable of turning her head.

Blood and saliva spilt forth from her mouth, rolling over her bottom lip in a vile cascade. Bile joined the flow as her body convulsed and the creature snarled. It peeled back its oily black salivated lips to reveal leering teeth that appeared metallic and ridiculously sharp.

Carrie forced her eyes shut before the creature gaped its jaws and dived into her forehead.



Albert hadn't a clue who he had lost during the turn onto Oak, and he knew there was no replacing them. Even if they were rookies, even if they were jackasses, in this world he had come to learn everyone was human. Of course, he was a superior specimen, but he never doubted for a second that one of the novices could succeed to his level given time.

Regardless, he was here now and had a route to keep.

There was nothing that could have been done to save, let alone help, those who had fallen behind. It was apparent enough now that if anything—be it an individual or a group, including the Stryker itself—stopped moving, the impious creatures still pursuing them would pounce for the kill. And their success would be certain, Albert figured.

So we best stay active, he thought strategically, remain on-the-go, and we're good.

For now.

"For now," he mumbled aloud to himself, thinking as he peered over the swarm of creatures still keeping close.

There weren't but a few rounds left in the M2HB, and he knew that of all the weapons currently available to them the emplacement would be the most worthwhile. That being said, he would conserve the little remaining ammunition for later—supposing, hoping, that there will be a later.

"Where to, Sarge?"

Albert looked about before identifying the voice as Harry's. He glanced down through the hole in which he stood and gave the rhetorical answer.

"Just keep course, Belle. Just keep course. Maintain speed and keep your eye on the…"

Albert stopped midsentence.

There was a screeching of detestation and fury from the creatures still with them as Albert's eyes adjusted to what he was seeing. His countenance was of sheer incredulity and skepticism, a disbelief that poured a shitload of more fear into him than he would've ever liked.

"Plow forward," Albert said, under his breath and so inaudible it was almost entirely to himself. "Plow the hell on…"

"Sarge, what?" Belle asked, uncertain on his own in what to do.

"Floor it, soldier," Albert barked, clapping his hand on the roof of the Stryker. "Plow forward and don't let up, now, ya hear!?"

"Uh, sir-yes-sir!" Belle replied, and instantly complied in the face of his own hesitation.

"Keep close, men, and start running!" Albert shouted to the others as many screams erupted from the crowd of his own men. "Get behind the Stryker, and don't slow down…don't look back…just keep up!"

The majority of the soldiers conformed to their superior's orders but a handful either made a run for it or tripped on themselves trying to jostle through their comrades in accordance to the command. Whichever way, everyone who lost their footing or bolted away were quickly consumed in a swarm of the creatures—those still paying attention to the humans.

Now the bunch of them were staring straight ahead, in the direction of the speeding Stryker, galloping alongside it but paying less fixation to it or its former prey. Instead their concentration resided with what stood about fifty yards down the road, in a troop blocking the road. Their maws gaped to release roaring shrieks of ire that targeted nothing other than their sole enemies who they now neared.

The Stryker moved twice as fast as the black-skinned creatures did, but that wasn't to say that the fiends weren't gaining speed or weren't determined to reach their destination in a clash of hostility.

At thirty-two miles-an-hour, the Stryker not only had the following creatures trailing but also its own troops. The soldiers, most of them anyway, had tucked-in or slung their weapons and focused on running. The springing group tailed the Stryker with all the energy left in them fueling their legs, not minding the fiends still at their sides. In fact, there wasn't much notice to 

them—they were present, but they paid little to no attention to them. The creatures were careering now, ropy strands of their fluidic translucent saliva flying off from their mouths as they panted heavily with the run.

By now no single creature had its gaze on any of the humans.

"Brace yourselves, but don't stop moving!" Albert hollered into the night as the Stryker neared and the soldiers tried to keep close behind it.

Albert held onto the M2HB but did not fire whence the Stryker proximately approached the troop of humanoid beasts standing like a suicidal barricade across the span of the road. He closed his eyes went they hit, dropped his jaw, and screamed.