A/N I still own nothing so please don't sue. I would like to thank who ever reviewed since I last posted a chapter. All of your critisim, critiques, and suggestions were greatly appreciated and always welcome. Here's another chapter. And as always please read and review. Thanks folks. Also I hope someone can catch the Game of Thrones reference in this chapter.
Man I swear to god there's nothing better than that first hot shower after weeks on the run in the wild. I made the water as hot as I could possibly stand it and showered for a solid hour. Once I was finally fucking clean I literally passed out and slept for nearly 30 hours. I was exhausted. And now here I was, in the armory for Reaper Division, gearing up for my first patrol. It was a pretty standard armory, most of the high speed low drag shit operators used to use before the infection needed a whole lot of shit we didn't have anymore. We were going basically barebones. It was a 4 man fire team, split up into the same way it was before the war. You had the fire team leader who was also the grenadier, he humped an M4 with an under slung M203 grenade launcher. Next was the rifleman/comm bubba who carried all the communications equipment along with his M16. Up next was the automatic rifleman who carried the M249 machine gun. Then there was me, since this was a specialized unit we had a designated marksmen, me. Now I wasn't a sniper, I didn't have the training. The difference between a marksman and a sniper was range, role, and equipment. A marksman was attached to a fire team in a support role for long distances, snipers operated with only a spotter and did long range assassination type stuff. I was issued a M14 DMR, a rifle that was decommissioned in 2010 and replaced but there was a large stock of them here, and not many M39 EMR, the weapon that replaced it. The DMR was a version of the M14 issued in the 60s. A fiberglass stock replaced the wood stock and added a pistol grip, it used a Leupold Mk 4 adjustable zoom scope for optics, had a bipod attached and I was issued a silencer. In case we needed to take out the isolated zombie quietly, that job would fall to me. It was chambered in 7.62mm and was about 17lbs, nearly double the M4. I had been given a fresh set of desert cammies with my nametapes on them, but I decided to keep my flak jacket. I removed the heavy armor plates for movement and replaced the 556 magazine pouches with 762 pouches. They also gave me an M9 with two mags as backup. I was number 4 in the fire team, last in line if you don't count Ghost, who was coming. I think I forgot to mention that. Ghost was equipped with a built down version of the K9 storm vest, flexible Kevlar body armor, rigs to attach him to a human for a parachute jump and clips for pouches. From it I hung a water sack for Ghost and a small pouch with high calorie and energy dog bars. Even though we didn't need to, each man in the team was given a call sign, old habits die hard I guess. Team leader was Grif, a former Delta Operator who had two deployments to Afghanistan before the outbreak. The comm man, who carried a satellite phone, was Spark, who was a Ranger in the old world along with Mac who was the machine gunner and me, Guardian because I was overwatch. We each had a full camelback, and an assault pack with First Strike rations, a form of MREs for long patrols, a couple extra mags, duct tape, and assorted other shit we would need like rope and chemlights. I dropped two redbulls and a pack of smokes into mine, ya know, just in case. The plan was to jump from a C130 into the outskirts of Atlanta, observe the city center and track the movements of the swarm designated S-05. The jump was scheduled for 2200 hours and we were jumping old school, no oxygen masks; those were also in short supply but we did have NVGs. The walkers couldn't see in the dark, but goddamn it we could
"Hey Guardian," Grif called out to me, "Who were you with before the outbreak." This was the part I feared a bit, I wasn't a spec ops dude, I was a regular Marine who just survived. "Uhh well, I was, still am, a Marine, reserve artillery." All three men stopped and looked at me, Spark was the first one to break the silence, "A fucking reservist? And not even infantry, why the fuck are you here?" "Well asshole, I managed to come from Philadelphia to here, with no one but Ghost and covered the fucking Ozarks on foot." "Bullshit," Mac called out. "Stow that shit," Grif ordered, "That's not good enough, why should I trust you on my team?" "Well, I managed to make it out of Philly, survive an onslaught in a town where I was surrounded by nearly a thousand walkers where I killed them all in two days, infiltrated and wiped out a religious colony that fed women to walkers, took on a cannibalistic biker gang and wiped them out, and then hiked over the goddamn mountains. Solo. So that's why I'm here." Grif nodded with respect and admiration, Spark let out a low whistle, "Jesus, you did that solo?" "Well not exactly," I responded, "I had Ghost," gesturing to the animal who was currently licking his balls. "About that," Grif said, "Why is he coming?" "Well," I started, "I don't know if you gents know this, but dogs can detect walkers pretty far away, think of him as an early warning system." Grif nodded and responded, "Fair enough, but you're jumping with him." "Roger that. " "Welcome to the team," Grif said. "What's your stories?" I asked the trio. Mac spoke first, "well me and sparky here were stationed at Sill when the shit hit the fan, most of the Ranger battalion here died in the initial waves clearing Sill or when we cleared Oklahoma city, the remains were absorbed into Reaper Division." Grif spoke next, "I was in Afghaniland, fought my way over the mountains and across Pakistan to the Gulf of Arabia with a 12 man Delta squad. I was the only one who made it." "Jesus," I said, "man I'm sorry, I know what that's like, as far as I know I am the only survivor of my unit." "Yeah," Grif responded, "we've all lost people, and now its payback time."
Good lord this was my first jump, I never got to do it before the walkers came; the coolest shit I got to do was shoot a massive cannon at some rocks. Now I was this high speed low drag operator. Fucking a right. We were all equipped summarily, but we were each wearing the gear of our different services. I had 5 mag pouches of 20 round mags for the DMR, giving me a total of 200 rounds for my rifle. It should be enough. The 762 ammo was heavier than the 556 ammo so I could feel the weight. On my back was a parachute and on my chest was my assault pack. There were hanging clips from the low part of my flak for Ghost to hook up on. When we jumped he would ride against my upper thighs. On the strap was an altitude counter that would flash a red light twice when we hit the preprogrammed altitude. We were going to jump from 20,000 feet, deploy parachutes at around 3000 feet. It was a HALO jump and I was fucking pumped and yet terrified. We lined up, two men on each side of the bay facing the cargo doors; and Ghost was hooked up to my rig. The crew chief hit the button to deploy the bay door and we waited for the green light. The light flicked green and Grif started screaming "GO GO GO." We moved forward, fighting against the wind howling around the cargo bay and leapt into the dark night. The earth below was dark and silent. There were many isolated spots where cities still burned, but Atlanta was below us and dark. The altitude counter flashed silently. 15,000, 10,000, 9000, 8000, 6000. Faster and faster as we approached terminal velocity. Then it hit 3000 and I yanked my rip cord. I was thrust into the air by the chute, the straps digging into my shoulder. Ghosts howl of displeasure was drowned out by the wind. We drifted silently toward land and impacted a grassy field in the suburbs. It was the outfield of an over grown baseball field. Unbuckling our chutes we began to gear up, our chutes were left in the field, our packs were switched from the front of our chest to our backs. Rifles were loaded, rounds in the chamber and bolts slammed home. Ghost was unbuckled but stayed by my side, silent, as well, silent as a fucking Ghost. That's why I named him Ghost. "Move out," Grif whispered. We fell into an arrowhead or diamond type formation. Mac took point, Grif a few meters behind him and on the right, Sparky on the left and me behind everyone. We scanned rooftops and buildings as we marched silently through the abandoned suburbs towards the city center. Atlanta had not been nuked, it had been bombed but not as heavily as other cities on the east coast. Word was that the bomber carrying the explosives crashed somewhere near downtown before it could release its payload. The bomber exploded, taking most of center city Atlanta without but sparing the outlying part of the town. Some parts of the city looked like a ghost town, like every living person just up and left. Other parts looked like a war zone, cars were overturned, rotting bodies littered the streets and buildings were burnt and destroyed. I only had to take out eight walkers on our way to the city. The zombie presence was noticeably absent. Grif spotted a skyscraper, the hanging sign told us it was formerly the home base of a major newspaper. Most of the glass windows were shattered but we needed the vantage point. We entered the building, I took out a legless walker crawling on the floor with a silenced shot to the skull. Fuck. There were stairs. And a shit load of them. This building was 75 stories and we took the stairs to floor 70 to observe downtown. Thank god the floor was clear, where the fuck where all the walkers.
We heard them before we saw them. Their moans carried from the street level to our position, hundreds of feet above the ground. But when we did see them, holy shit man. Swarm was an understatement. It was a mass of moaning shuffling walkers. In the hundreds of thousands. It seemed that every walker in Atlanta was here. The swarm extended for miles, outside the city. Heading north. It was one long train of rotting flesh. All four of us just got very nervous. We were defiantly in a bad spot but we had our orders. The start of the swarm was about a thousand meters to our right and was plainly in view. The swarm serpentine around buildings in the city streets. We were supposed to sit here and count the hours it took for the swarm to pass by. The end of the stream of walkers was so far to the left that I knew we'd be here for a while.
68 fucking hours. 57 goddamn hours we sat on the 70th floor and waited for the swarm to pass. We estimated that roughly 9000-10,000 zombies passed by us every hour. That times the 68 hours it took for the swarm to pass us by, which roughly estimated over 600,000 walkers. That was a metric fuck ton of walkers. I had no idea how we were going to kill them. Grif turned to Spark, "call it in, rough estimate is 600,000 walkers." "Roger that," Spark complied. "Reaper actual, reaper actual, this is fireteam Whiskey." The radio crackled and then we heard, "Fireteam Whiskey this is Reaper Actual, send it." Spark spoke into it, "Fireteam Whiskey had observed swarm designated S-05 in Atlanta, Whiskey estimates numbers well over 600,000." "Roger that Whiskey, standby for AC130 gunship designated as Steel Rain 1. You need to drop an IR strobe on the swarm for the gunship. Contact Steel Rain 1 when ready. Reaper Actual out." Shit they were going to level half the city to destroy the undead fucks. "Roger that Reaper Actual, Fireteam Whiskey out." "Alright gents," Grif said, "you heard the man, Spark make contact with the gunship. And you, new guy. You're going to be the one to drop the strobe. I want you to find a building hanging over that road the bad guys are walking on. You're gonna drop the strobe and meet us in the lobby of this building. From there we are going to exfil the city and radio for Steel Rain to make shit fly. Copy?" A chorus of roger that's answered his orders. He handed me the strobe, "You ever use one of these before?" He asked me. "Nope, remember I used to be a weekend warrior." Grif handed me the IR strobe. It looked like a radio, one of those OD composite radios we used. "Basically this is what you do, flip this lever to where it says IR and drop the fucker, then get your ass back here, you copy?" "Solid copy boss." "You have three zero mikes before we leave, set your watch." I did so and moved to go down the stairs, "Where do you think you're going?" I turned around to see Spark holding up a rope, a harness and some carabineers. Motherfucker. They hooked me up, I hadn't done any repelling since boot camp, and certainly not down 70 stories of skyscraper into an infected city. I handed my pack off to Mac and hooked Ghost up to the same clips we used for the jump. They ran the rope around a support pillar and tied this really fucking complicated looking knot and I was good to go. I walked to the edge and looked down. About 60 stories down was another building, I was to jump to that building and take of running over the rooftops southbound. The herd was moving north to south and I was to reach the tail end of the herd. The gunship, Steel Rain would strafe north to south until Winchester on all ammunition. I turned backwards, placed my boots on the ledge and began running backwards down the ledge. Once I put some distance between me and the open window I began repelling, push off the wall, swing down. Repeat. The next thing I fucking know a walker pushed out the window two stories above me and fell at me. Fuck fuck fuck. I swung right and the walked plunged past me to its second death. Then another one followed. I dodged that one and continued my journey towards the earth. My feet hit the roof of my target building and I untied the rope, took the harness off and unclipped Ghost. The harness I tied to the rope and gave an arm wave in the direction of my team. Ghost and I took off running south over the buildings. I ran for ten minutes exactly before we slammed to a halt. The moans were deafening but these bitches were about to die. I keyed the IR function and threw the strobe into the rolling mass of infected death. I had one five mikes to make it to the exfil point. I sprinted over the roof tops, Ghost hot on my heels. We cleared the roof top that we originally landed on and kicked open the roof access door. There was a walker moaning and reaching up from the ground. He was one of those legless ones and I put a heavy 762 round in its skull. Ghost and I leapt over the body and made our way downstairs. Now came the hard part. We had to run around the street corner to make our way to the lobby and meet with the team. "You ready Ghost?" I scratched his head, took a deep breath and sprinted out the door. There was a pair of walkers forty feet to my right that I pumped six rounds into. My rifle bounced in my hands, like my heart in my throat. I skidded around the corner and my feet slipped out from under me. My back slammed into the remnants of a car and I leapt up. There was a walker closing in on Ghost that I shot before whistling and making a run for the lobby. Fucking fuck. The team was pinned down behind a security desk by about four dozen walkers. I began firing, matching my rate of fire with the other three members. In no time at all we took them out but the other walkers had heard our gunshots. Grif turned to Sparky, "call it in, danger close." Spark nodded and keyed his mic, "Steel Rain 1, this is Whiskey, I repeat, Steel Rain 1 this is Fireteam Whiskey." The pilots voice came back, "Team whiskey, this is Steel Rain, send it." Sparky looked to Grif who nodded, "Steel Rain 1, Whiskey has laid the strobe, swarm designated S-05 is moving north to south. Fire mission will be danger close. Light em up." "Roger that Whiskey, Steel Rain will be on station in two zero mikes." "ALRIGHT LADIES TIME TO MOVE." Grif screamed, "GUARDIAN YOURE ON POINT." Fucking roger that.
We could see the gunship swooping low over the city as we sprinted through the streets. The big metal beast carried a 25MM Gatling gun, a 40MM Bofors cannon and a 105MM howitzer. Still 50MM smaller than the 155MM howitzer I was used to firing, I noted with smug satisfaction. "ONE MIKE," Grif shouted and directed us into a building, we sprinted up the stairs and onto the roof to watch the impact of the rounds. The AC130's 105MM cannon boomed a deep throaty crack and send the big shell streaking earthbound. The round erupted concrete and walkers, collapsed an apartment building and started a fire. And that was just one round. "Good effect on target Steel Rain," "Roger that Whiskey, Steel Rain confirms hit on target. Opening fire." Then the metal beast fucking unleashed hell, 25MM, 40MM, 105 rounds. The whole fucking 9 yards was sent into this herd. Too bad we were low on gunships; the Air Force had about 50 before the outbreak and had less than 10 now. We still had a large number of C130 transport planes, but they were unarmed. The AC130 rained hell for six and a half minutes, destroyed a large portion of the city and wiped out maybe 100,000 walkers. It was a dent but there were still nearly 500,000 left. "Steel Rain is Winchester on ammo, how copy Whiskey Team." We heard the pilot through Spark's radio. "Whiskey team copies." Steel Rain peeled off its flight path to make its way back to an airstrip. I wondered how long before we were out of jet fuel and ammo for those guns. "time for exfil gents," Grif ordered and we began to move.
"LAY SOME FIRE ON THE LEFT SIDE. LEFT FUCKING SIDE," Grif screamed. We were on the roof of the hospital, surrounded by walkers. Our Black Hawk evac bird was on the way and we had about two zero mikes before it hit dirt and we were in deep shit. There were two access doors to the rooftop helipad and walkers were pouring out in a steady stream. Mac and Spark poured round after round of 556 into the skulls of the walkers, corpses spilled out and blocked the door. I was shooting the heavy 762 rounds into the other door while Grif confirmed our location with the chopper. The heavier 762 rounds often shattered the rotting skull of the first zombie it impacted and then went on to hit one behind it. The round usually hit the throat but occasionally I'd be lucky enough to get two walkers for one. Buy one get one free. I was nearly out of ammo when I first heard the whump whump whump of the chopper blades. The Black Hawk came swooping in, the rotor wash throwing debris, dust, and pieces of zombies helter skelter. The chopper came to hover directly between the two rooftop access doors. "DOWN," the crew chief screamed at us. We hit the dirt and rolled left or right and the pair of door gunners opened up with 240s on the zombies. Now the thing about machine guns and zombies is that they don't go well together, more often then not the heavy bursts of 762 weren't accurate enough to hit skulls and just punched massive pieces out of walkers. That's not saying the gunners didn't hit walkers in the skull because they defiantly did. It was just impossible to fire a sustained burst from a 240 and have every single round hit the head of a walker, doubly so impossible from the side of a bouncing hovering helicopter. Each man in the four man fire team peeled backwards while the 240s covered our retreat. I hopped into the chopper and hooked a strap onto the back of my camelbak. The strap ensured I wouldn't fall off, obviously. My boots hung over the side as I fired my DMR at any walkers, or rather crawlers, the gunners missed or blew the legs off of. Grif was the last man on the chopper and made the whirly sign with his right arm as he hopped in. The chopper took off like a bat out of hell. Zombies flooded the rooftop once the fusillade of 762 rounds ended, arms extended reaching for the helicopter as if to swat it down. Smoke and fire rose from the section of the city we helped destroy, the scent of burning and roasting flesh wafting on the thermals and following us as we flew away. The scent of death.
The remaining brass had classified surviving civilian populations and sections into three classifications, Levels Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. Zones were the dead still reigned were classified as Zulu zones and areas irradiated beyond all access for humans were Delta zones on the map. Now the brass declared there were three levels of civilians, Alpha were friendly. Alpha zones were full of people who were usually friendly towards the military. Often times they were the remains of safe zones of FEMA camps. These guys offered us operating posts, supplies, and information. In return we airdropped guys like Reaper, weapons and ammo and things they couldn't build or find on their own. Establishing ground supply lines with Alpha zones were somewhat high on the list of priorities. Bravo zones were civilians who viewed the military pullback west as an abandonment. They were not hostile but they certainly wouldn't help us. We sort of came to an unspoken agreement to leave each other be. Charlie zones were hostile. Often they were scavengers, people who would do anything for a new weapon. They created some shit straight outta mad max; primitively armored vehicles, traps. Shit like that. They attacked anything that came into range and often worked in groups or pairs. Then we had cannibals. You could usually tell a cannibal because they were more muscular or chunky then the rest of us emaciated fucks, they ate living and dead. Once you roasted the undead they ceased to become lethal and were edible. There were other Charlie zones, religious nut jobs, government seperatists, racists fucks and often in cities you had gang zones. Gangs were usually the only group organized and armed enough to withstand the urban environment in the early days of the infection. They fucking killed everyone who encroached their territory, living or dead. We knew of several prisons where the largest gangs killed the rest and their leader became a tinpot dictator. More than likely they were armed with black market weapons like AK47s and 74s and illegal handguns. Well formerly illegal. Point is that all zones designated Charlie zones were hostile and the ROE said kill em all. And that was what we did.
24 hours of R and R later and we were in the briefing room. Some bored Army Staff Sergeant was showing us a power point of our next targets. "Gents, this next mission is a recon OP, you will be jumping into the lower Chesapeake Bay where you will be picked up by a SURC (small unit riverine craft) from RIVRON 1, callsign RIVER OTTER 2, attached to an offshore US Navy vessel, callsign STINGRAY. They will insert you here," he pointed at a map on the board, "Sparrow's point, a small peninsula with a shipyard facility in the center and deserted shrubland on the coast line. We have reports a small community of survivors in the shipyard facility. You will insert at night and the boats with withdraw offshore and wait for the evac call. You are to observe the survivor community in if judged as class Alpha you are to make friendly contact. If Bravo you are to ignore, exfil onto the craft and be inserted further upriver. If class Charlie or Zulu, you are to destroy with extreme prejudice. That's all, any questions?" At our silence he continued with, "Good luck gentleman." We rose up and moved out to the armory. The world may have gone to shit but the military still ran on powerpoints. Some things never change.
"Alright listen up," Grif called, we might be facing potentially hostile enemies, Spark I want you packing an M4 with a 203, grab HE and smoke rounds. Mac you're humping a 249, box drum mags. Guardian you did pretty good with that DMR last time, keep it. I want it silenced and I also want you to take that silenced MP5 as a sidearm in case shit gets personal. This is the Army, not the Marines, we get the good shit here," he said at my jaw dropping look that these fuckers get MP5s and all the rest of this gear." "I'm also taking an M4 with a 203 but the eggheads over at DARPA have given us some new toys to play with.." He held up two different 40MM rounds. One had a black metal top and one had green plastic. He held up the black one, "this is the M23 Ear Splitter, basically the metal part impacts the dirt and inside there is a self contained battery powered speaker unit that unfolds like a hollow point. The sound is loud and fucking annoying. It'll attract the Zulu's so we can waste them. The other is the M24 Grapeshot. It is what the name says. It has a thousand metal BB pellets, like a claymore. It is an area of effect round for zombies. That's all we got, grab chow for three days and top off your camelbaks, two frags each, Mac I want blue and red smoke, one of each. Sparky you know what to do about comm gear. Make sure your inter-squad comms and NVGs are good to go. Everyone copy?" We all said roger and got to work. I outfitted Ghost with his armor, food and water, squared away my own gear and got ready for the jump.
When the Army supply SGT issued me my fresh desert cammies, they gave me blouses with Velcro patches sewn over the pockets on the biceps; like the hooahs use. I had thought nothing of it, a lot of the older guys in my previous unit had them from when they deployed to the sandbox. We were on the C-130 getting ready to jump when Grif came up to me. "Here," he handed me two Velcro patches. One was an American flag patch, the other was black with a red Z sewn into it. Fuck yeah. I placed the flag on my right arm and the Z on the left. "CHECK EACH OTHERS CHUTES. WE JUMP IN ONE ZERO MIKES." Grif had to scream over the rotor and engine noises. We secured each others chutes, double checking the straps and our life preserves. The plan was that we would impact the water and pull this string, the string would blow up the preserver air tubes by using a little CO2 tank and pop, we are bobbing in the surface to be picked up by the SURC. Now the SURC was a small boat, a rigid hull and lightly armored river patrol boat, also known as a PBR. It was about 40 feet long with a command console in the center and pretty heavily armed. They normally carried a rear mounted 50 cal, a stern mounted MK19 and an aft mounted 249 or smoke launcher. The boat would pick us up and we would be on our way. "TEN, NINER, EIGHT," Grif counted down to one, "GO GO GO," he screamed as we leapt out of the cargo bay. The wind pushed my goggles into my face and the wind screamed around me. This was another HALO jump, we leapt from 15,000 feet and deployed chutes at 3000 feet. The altitude counter beeped shrilly as I yanked the rip cord. The chute blossomed up round, reminding me of that old running cadence. "And if my chute don't open wide, well I've got a reserve by my side. And if that reserve don't blossom round well I'll be the first one to hit the ground." Thankfully the fucking chute opened and slowed me down. We hit the water and holy shit was it cold. I unclipped my chute while underwater and hit the button to deploy my life preserve. Ghost spluttered and coughed when his head came above water after I unclipped his harness from my vest. The squids in the SURC picked us up one by one and soon we sat spluttering and shivering. The crew chief of the boat handed us survival blankets and we piled our flaks and vests on the floor. Ghost padded over to one of the gunners manning the 50 cal and viciously attacked him with his tongue. The gunner laughed and scratched Ghost around the ears. I swear he might be part cat cause he was fucking purring. Fucking purring. Since this op had a chance of hostile contact we were each wearing ESAPI plates and let me tell you, that shit sucked. a lot. We dried off and warmed up, then wiped down our weapons and ammo and geared up for the insertion. We were running dark, no lights and it was about 0000, or midnight. Our NVGs emerged from their waterproof Pelican cases and went on to the respective head mounts. "Whats the sitrep with the blue water navy chief?" Grif asked the crew chief. He spit a stream of dark liquid from a lip he packed over the side, "food stores are getting' low, one of the civilian transports had an infection outbreak and was sunk. Scavenge parties are hitting heavy human and Zulu resistance now, fuel levels are holding fast and so is ammo. For now. But if we don't establish production facilities soon then all the ships but the nuclear power ones will be done for soon." "What about the sub fleet?" Grif asked him, the chief nodded, "well word is they sent a sub to envoy with a lot of nations, Britan, Russia, China, Australia, France, shit like that. Be advised gents, landfall in five mikes." Mags were slammed in, bolts sent home and rounds chambered. Packs went on, energy bars and redbulls were consumed and we readied up. At about 150 yards from shore the chief cut the crews engine and the four man team that manned the boat rowed in using the waves. We didn't want to alert the anyone. "Fan out, 360 degree security." We hit the beach and fanned out in a loose semi circle, peering into the darkness while the ship turned and went back into the dark ocean to wait for our evac call. "Sparky, comm check." Grif ordered. Spark keyed the mike and contacted the boat, "River Otter 2 this is Whiskey team, comm check over." "Whiskey team, this is River Otter 2, we read you." "Move out gents," Grif whispered. We were using the PVS-14 which was a monocular NVG scope. One eye watched the darkness and one eye watched the greenish landscape through the NVG. The point that we landed on was three miles from the shipyard facility. The terrain was fairly typical for this area. Sandy areas with sparse vegetation and large piles of stone and gravel from the men who used to work here. The roads were becoming overgrown and covered in sand from the lack of maintenance. We carefully made out way across the land, Grif was point and keeping a diligent eye out for IEDs and booby traps. He had plenty of experience with those in Iraq and Afghanistan and whatever other shit hole he had been too, but Spark, Mac and me didn't. Grif was a solider of the old war, and we were for the new.
"Guardian I want you on top of that rock pile, keep an eye out. Spark, Mac flank left and do a sweep, stay low. Once you reach the access road on the front side key your mic twice. If there is danger of you being compromised key your mic three times. We don't know they tech level so radio silence for now. I'm going to sweep right then double back. When I get back I want a report from you, Guardian, on their numbers, weapons, capabilities, the whole shebang. Everyone copy?" Roger that we all whispered and moved out. I rapidly climbed to the top of the rock pile and surveyed the shipyard. Ghost lay down next to me, silent as ever. Whoever took over this place had built a wall, about 8 feet high of sheet metal and other scrap metal around the place and leveled about half the buildings to do it. The place was about a third of a mile long and wide, giving it about one square mile of land. It was built into a square, a tower that was at least 12 feet on each corner. There was no heavy weapons that I could see so far. The right side of the land was all buildings. Long squat buildings and the left side was all fields that were plowed and planted. Damn these people were smart but who were they. That was the million dollar question. I panned my scope around the compound. The tower guards held an AK47 or 74, I couldn't really tell from this distance and there were roving patrols of two men around the inner compound. All of the buildings were dark and I counted at least 14 men outside and who knows how many inside. I continued to observe as I waited for Grif to return. I heard boots scrabble on the gravel rocks at the bottom of my pile and aimed my rifle down. Thankfully it was Grif. "Sitrep," he ordered. "At least 14 men outside, unknown inside buildings. Half the compound is farmland and the other half is living quarters and other shit. They're armed with AK's and handguns. Nothing heavy I can see so far." "Roger that," Grif said, "I'm gonna go collect Mac and Sparky, were gonna bunker down behind this pile, 25% watch up here while the rest sleep. Switch every 4 hours. That how long till take for dawn. You're taking first watch." "Rah," I told him. "Fucking jarheads," he muttered as he scrabbled down the hill. Ten minutes later he was back, with Mac and Sparky in two. They hunkered down, backs against the side of the hill and fell asleep. I kept watch. Scanning in all directions for an hour, looking for all threats. At around 0100 Mac tapped me on the shoulder and I slid down the hill as quietly as I could. I was sleep within seconds, Ghost lay next to me, head on my lap but his eyes were open and his ears twithed with every noise. He was a real sheepdog, keeping eternal watch, during the hour of the wolf.
I felt Grif's boot nudge me in the side to wake me up. I groaned softly. Ghost licked my face, as usual. Chasing the sleep away with saliva. I munched on an energy bar and tossed back a redbull in seconds flat. both pieces of trash I buried in the gravel and crawled over to Grif. "What's the word." Grif had last watch, on missions like this the team leader usually took watch. He shook his head, "fucked up. The situation is fucked up. Go take a look." "Stay," I whispered to Ghost as I climbed up the hill. I didn't go over the top, just pushed my rifle over and peered through the scope. "Fuck." The amount of guards in the towers had doubled and I saw the rest of the population. Emaciated women and children and some men were working the fields; it was late October which meant harvest time. Guards with whips and cat-o-nine tails walked between them occasionally striking them. The workers went through the fields picking up plants and vegetables and depositing them into baskets. The baskets were then picked up and carried into one of the buildings, guarded by a pair of guards. I leaned down to Grif, "estimated at least 30 guards and 20-25 slave labor force. Possible level Charlie." He nodded and turned to Sparky. "Get me River Otter." River otter 2 this is team Whiskey, I repeat River Otter 2 this is team Whiskey." Sparky called over the hooks. "Team whiskey this is River Otter 2, we read you." Spark handed the mike to Grif, "River otter, I need you to patch me through to your CO. Situation not as expected." "Whiskey team," the radio chimed again, "roger that. Wait one." Grif waited a few minutes and the radio clicked on. "Whiskey team, this is Stingray 6. Sitrep." We have no idea who River otter was attached to but it had to be a cruiser if not a carrier, all we knew was that it was US Navy and callsign Stingray. Stingray 6 was the CO of the vessel. "Stingray 6 this is Whiskey team, established recon of a compound, possible level Charlie. Slave labor force is being used. Estimated 30 hostiles armed with AK's and 20 slave force. Your call Stingray." Grif finished. "Whiskey team this is Stingray 6, confirmed level Charlie. You know what to do." I could hear Grif curse under his breath. "Roger that Stingray 6, whiskey team out." He handed the mic back to Spark. "Here's the plan gents. Guardian I want you to fire the first shot, take a guard out on the ground level then standby to provide overwatch. Spark I want an HE 203 round in the left tower as soon as Guardian shoots, I'm going to put one in the right tower. Mac I want you to lite up the rear towers with the 249. Spark you are going to advance on me and were going to enter the compound. Guardian I want you to shoot every visible guard then come with me. Gents we are not going to be able to save all civvies. Do not worry about that. Get as many out as we can. Solid copy?" We all rogered up, "alright then, Guardian on top, wait for my mark." I climbed up my rock pile and centered my scope on the first guard I saw. I was only about 150-200 yards away so I did not have to adjust for bullet drop only windage and thankfully there was no wind today. Behind me I heard Grif count down, "3, 2, 1 MARK." I fired, the heavy 762 round impacting the first guards chest and slamming him into the dirt. A split second later I heard the dull thunks of 203 grenade launchers firing and the explosions of the guard towers. Mac began to lay bursts down on the rear towers. I shifted aim and burned through a magazine quickly. Hitting 7 out of 10 shots. I quickly reloaded. Grif and Sparky were sprinting across the open stretch. The remaining guards begin firing AK47s and other small arms in our direction. There fire was uncoordinated and inaccurate. Most of them laying down on the trigger in long bursts. I bet that they were spared most of the zombie population due to remote location. By the time it took Grif and Spark to hit the rear wall I burned through another mag. Spark managed to pull off a loose piece of sheet metal on the wall and disappeared into the hole. I jumped up and whistled for Ghost, "LETS FUCKING GO MAC." We sprinted across the field and into the whole. Burning pieces of the towers were everywhere, along with bodies of both guards and slaves. The rest of the slaves were on the ground, hands on heads, crying and whimpering. I sighted in on an enemy and buried a 762 round into his skull. Mac lay down a burst from his SAW tearing into a crowd of fleeing guards. Grif and Spark were laying fire down on a trio of guards behind cover on a jersey barrier. "FRAG OUT," I heard Spark scream as he tossed a frag that destroyed the barrier and the men but not before a round caught him in the bicep. I saw him shake of Grif and jump to his feet and continue firing. Mac, Ghost and I peeled right and went along the wall towards the buildings. A man jumped out from behind a steel wall weapon raised and Ghost jumped right for his throat and in one vicious rip tore it to pieces. We left the man to bleed to death. "Good boy." The first living quarters was up ahead and we stacked up at the door. I had the slightly lighter rifle and took point. I felt Mac's knee on the back of my leg give me a nudge and I tore into the room. There was one enemy peering out the window I finished with a pair of rounds to the chest. We continued on to clear the building behind it. We continued in that patter for a solid 20 minutes. Stack up, enter, kill. Repeat. We cleared the entire south side of the compound, 6 living quarters and we combined another 12 kills. We met up with Spark and Grif in the middle of the compound. Sweat poured from my forehead and arms, soaking my cammies. "South quadrant clear," I told Grif. "Roger, do one last sweep, make sure we got them all. Remember, all dead get one round to the head. Insurance policy." Mac and I nodded and conducted a sweep of the area we just cleared. Any bodies without a round in the skull, received one. Free of charge. We swept around and doubled back, meeting up with Grif and Spark, "Clear," I repeated. Grif nodded and turned to the cowering civvies. "Listen up, you are all free to go, those who want it will be provided evacuation to an US Navy ship for medical treatment and relocation. Or you can stay here. Or go wherever. I honestly don't give a flying fuck." There were 14 surviving non-combatants, eight had been killed in the cross fire. All 14 lined up near Grif, wanting to be evaced. "Call it in Spark." "Roger," Spark said and keyed the mic, "Stringray 6, this is Whiskey team, come in Stingray 6." The radio was silent for a second, I puffed on a cigarette. It cracked and the CO's voice came back. "Whiskey team, this is Stingray 6, send your traffic." "Stringray 6, Whiskey team reports all enemy threats eliminated, level Charlie neutralized, requesting evac for one four civvies, Whiskey team out." "Whiskey team, this is stingray 6, roger that. ETA three zero mikes." Fucking A.
We waited thirty minutes, like Stingray 6 said a CH-53 Super Stallion came whooshing in over the horizon. "Pop smoke," Grif told Spark who plucked the pin out of a canister and tossed it. Within seconds a great plume of blue smoke arched skyward. The chopper, a great big metal Navy cargo beast landed and out came a medical team and a guy in the three shoulder stripes of a LT commander. He approached us as the chopper powered down. "Great work gents, my name is LTCMD Johnson, you know me as Stingray 6. Reaper Actual has transferred command of this op to me, you'll be running some recon for me. I can have you outfitted with whatever you need from my ships armory and supply." Grif nodded, he knew we had no choice, this dude outranked whatever the Delta operator rocked on his collar. "Roger that sir, where are we going next." "There gentleman," he gestured to the still smoking Baltimore skyline. "You're going deep into Baltimore." Well fuck me sideways.