A/N. Readers, sorry about the delay in posting. Lots of personal stuff happened. Anyway, thanks for taking your time to read this story, all who have reviewed, that is much appreciated and keep them coming. I love hearing opinions on my writing and any and all criticism, advice, and suggestions are welcome. Everything helps improve my writing and the story. As always thanks for reading, please review. And i own nothing, of course.

Back in the early weeks of the outbreak a Marine Artillery regiment out of Virginia managed to survive the outbreak and were ordered to destroy downtown Baltimore. They hooked up with their sister unit, an infantry company and set up shop in Rockburn Branch State Park, ten miles outside Baltimore. With the infantry unit providing security and CH-47 Chinooks from Aberdeen Proving Ground dropping M795 155MM howitzer rounds and M232 Hotel Charges the battery shelled downtown Baltimore. The M777A1 howitzer had an effective range of 22.5KM (14 miles) with the M795s. The 795 was not one of the fancy rounds like the rocket assisted ones. It was about 100lbs with a nearly 24 lb explosive charge. It had a blast radius of 100 yards was fucking awesome. The artillery battery held 6 howitzers and fired nearly two hundred rounds into Baltimore before a horde of walkers out of DC wiped them out to the last man.

We were walking into Baltimore for a couple of reasons. Although Baltimore went though a deindustrialization period in the first decade of the 20th century, it still had massive reserves of steel, iron, and coal; items the Navy was desperate for. Baltimore was also one of the few cities on the east coast that wasn't nuked, there were possible civilian survivors but the biggest reason was the ports. The Navy needed ports to springboard operations for the beginning of the east coast take back. The east coast got fucked up in the beginning of the outbreak, the high population density made the disease spread much quicker than the west coast. Major cities in the east had an infection right at 99.5% or higher. Baltimore had plenty of ports, storage areas, and substances for fuel. Whiskey team, along with three other teams would be inserting into Baltimore from all different areas. We each had a sector to recon before exfiltrating the city. The other teams inserting with us were Oscar, Mike, and Victor teams, all former special forces or guys like me. 2nd Reaper Division, our unit had five companies; Echo, Fox, Golf, Hotel, and India. Each company was given a different area of operations. Echo had the North, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana. Fox company had the southwest, well the southwest of this side of the Mississippi. Missouri, Kentucky, Tennessee, Mississippi, Arkansas and Louisiana. Golf company had the deep south, Florida, Alabama, Georgia and both Carolinas. Hotel company had the northeast, New York, and New England. Then there was us, India company. We were given the central part of the east coast. Ohio, Pennsylvania, both Virginia's, Maryland and Delaware. All western states were in the AO of Reaper 1. It was a shitload of ground for one division but we were mainly recon. Our mission wasn't to engage. Each company had anywhere from 15-20 four man teams, putting division strength at around 325 men and a couple women. The US military really took a beating in the early days of the outbreak. We were India Company, 2nd squad, or India 5-2.

The small boat idled up the Chesapeake bay, since we were already in the water we were coming in from the South, inserting at the docks by the Baltimore aquarium and hoofing it to downtown. We had refitted ammo and chow on the boat, enough for three days. Our mission was to recon downtown Baltimore and our first stop was Mercy Medical Center. The docs onboard the ships were running low on stuff like pain killers and antibiotics. They wanted an assessment of the hospital to see if it was worth sending in a savage team to raid the hospital. From there we were to push north to Johns Hopkins University. The brass wanted to use the sprawling grounds as a forward operating base because of its large fields that could be converted into helipads. We were to recon the college and secure a field and fortify it as an landing zone or LZ and call for evac. Easy enough, right?

We hit our first snag immediately upon landing. We disembarked of the boat and River Otter pulled out to the bay to return to its ship. We were on our own. The Boston Aquarium was a hundred yards away and crawling with Zs. How many Zs do you think a couple of big sharks can feed? Or the rest of the goddamn animals. The minute they smelled us close to two hundred walkers moved to attack us. Some of the newer ones were nearly running. "SUPPRESSING FIRE." Grif yelled. We all picked our shots carefully except for Mac who just opened the fuck up with the 249. Honestly we were in a fairly good spot, a hundred yard clear dock with no cover to get into the way of the speeding rounds. Soon enough the last walker hit the deck and we moved out. It was barely a mile between the shore and the hospital that was our target. Going to the hospital scared the living shit out of me. Chances were it was chock full of walkers. Sick people probably flooded to the place the minute the outbreak started, and it became an epicenter in Baltimore and most likely where the downfall of this city started. I was scared.

We walked along the center of this road, vegetation was beginning to retake the grounds that mankind once owned. Grass eked its way through cracks in pavement and holes in concrete. The sky was beginning to turn more and more grey and ashy with each passing day. Nuclear fallout was slowly destroying the atmosphere and the planet. Why were we still fighting, I asked myself that every single day. Why. Because we had to, because it was against the very nature of humanity to bow down and roll over. There was just something written into our DNA and our make up, that no matter how shitty the world turned out to be, we just physically could not give up. Sure there were folks that did, there always were. Back in the olden days people predicted the end of the world every fucking month and had massive parties and drank the kool-aid and just died. The beginning of the infection was no different. Large groups of people organized mass suicides or just wandered into the streets to be bitten and spend the rest of their miserable existence shambling around the ruins of our once great civilization, a moving testament to the folly of humanity. A society that reached for the stars, launched a probe out of the solar system; brought low by an infection. Reduced to groups of survivors huddling around small fires in burnt out apartments, eating saltines and tinned beef stew. Humans were out there literally killing each other of cans of cola, lost treasures of a world that had passed and was unlikely to ever return. And yet we fought on. And here I was, glass crunching under my boots, a rifle in my hands, and the deaths of all those who I killed weighing down my mind. Why. Not because I had been ordered to, but because I had to. The spark that kept humanity alive thousands of years ago when we were cowering hairy creatures in caves with nothing but sticks to defend us while monsters hunted in the night was inside me, and every single other human that was alive. That spark that was inside the hearts of the 300 at Thermopylae, in the minds of the Swiss Guard during their last stand. The spark that inspired the defenders of the Alamo, or the French Foreign Legion in Mexico with the motto, "the Legion dies, it does not surrender. The spark in the chest of the men squatting in the trenches of World War I, or in the souls of the men charging beaches in the South Pacific in World War II. The spark in the hearts of the British at Torbuk, or the sailors at Samar. That spark was buried deep inside humanity and it would not, nor could not be extinguished. That was why we were here.

Downed streetlights and ruined cars cluttered the roadways, the concrete was beginning to crack in multiple places. Creeper vines inched their way though the previous monoliths of mankind. The buildings reached for the stars, testaments to the skills of mankind now being overcome by mother nature. Ghost's ears twitched, he heard something. A low growl issued from his throat and I whispered stop to the team. Grif looked back at me and I nodded at Ghost, Grif moved his hand down, pushing against the earth, motioning us to take positions. Mac and Sparky flanked left or right respectively and I moved up to the head of the team. I had the silenced weapon so I needed to take out whatever was coming at us. Shit fuck fuck, that was an engine. One block north a fucking Technical came barreling around the corner. "Shit, PEEL LEFT." Grif screamed. The technical was a pick up truck some make and model from the old world with a machine gun of what looked like Russian design bolted to the roof of the cab. The truck had a snow plow on the front that had rusted brown splotches of blood and gore. The truck was pushing 50 and there was a man in the back of the truck manning the gun, he had a long matted beard and scraggly hair. Whiskey team peeled left, darting for the lobby of a former law office. Mac and Grif slid to cover behind a security guards desk, I took position behind a concrete support pillar and Spark flipped over a desk and propped his rifle on the lip. The technical rolled to a stop outside the lobby and did a quick three point turn so it was facing us. "Stead, hold." Grif quietly said. "What the fuck are you doing in my side of town?" The gunner screamed out. "US Military, stand down." Grif screamed back. "Bullshit, ain't no more goddamn US Military, I know Ramirez sent you fucktards." "Listen buddy, I have no idea who you are or what your talking about, were from the US Army." Grif returned. "Marines," I whispered under my breath. Grif gave me a look that said shut the fuck up, which I did. Wisely I might add. "Yeah right, how dumb do you think I am. Fuck this shit." With that the gunner racked his bolt back and opened up. His first burst impacted my pillar, sending concrete shards everywhere. Ghost whined from his spot at my feet. "Guardian, fucking take him out." Grif screamed at me. I turned and dropped to a knee, my first round pinged off the snowplow and the second caught Mr gunner in the throat, ripping his head back and painting the pick up bed a nice new shade of red. A bullet caught me in the upper bicep of my right arm. "Fucking fuck, he got me." Tires squealed as the technical pulled backwards, no doubt to make his way to his buddies and tell them where we are. "Sparky fucking stop him." Sparky, that beautiful bastard, he put a 203 HE round through the windshield of the pickup, blew up in the cab and lifted the roof off the car and basically totally fucked its shit up. "Little help here guys." I muttered, "Why don't we have a fucking medic?" "Good question," Grif said, "let me take a look at stop being such a bitch." He grabbed my arm turned it over and inspected it. "See its just a flesh wound, in and out, no bone or muscle damage." He put some QuickClot in the wound; from his IFAK gauze on both sides and wrapped the whole thing in duct tape. "Good as new, lets move, those guys are gonna be back. We need to do some recon of this area and find this Ramirez guy." "Yeah," Mac responded, "maybe he's friendly." "Don't count on it mate," I returned, "We ain't that lucky."

Ghost and I took point this time, we made our way up the street about a hundred yards and Grif decided to split us into two teams at the corner to let up an L-shape ambush. Grif, Ghost and I went into the building straight ahead, at the end of the street. Mac and Spark peeled right and went into an office building next to ours. We both had clear view of the street below. We walked up the stairs till about the fourth level, Ghost was silent which meant we were clear. Grif barricaded the door, and the emergency exit behind us, to prevent any surprises. I cleared out a space by one of the large windows and surveyed the street below us. About a hundred yards ahead of us was the burning technical and law office we just had occupied. Right below us the street curved right, Mac and Spark were in the building directly left of us. "Comm check," Grif said into his inter-squad coms. "Spark here, good to go." I heard through my own radio, Mac rogered up right behind him and I followed suit. Everyone was solid. "Now we wait," Grif said and I settled in.

Ghost prowled around the room, restless like me. My ass and thighs ached from sitting down. Hours ago I stripped off my flak jacket and it sat next to me, my rifle was propped across my knees and I was fucking bored. "So how did a weekend warrior survive this mess." Grif asked me. Here we fucking go. "You know we wernt all bad, nearly all E-5s and above went to the sandbox at least once. I just did what you did, I got out of the city and fought my way here." Grif nodded, I knew he was just busting my balls. "Did you lose anyone," he returned to me. "Naw, family has been dead for years, no wife, girlfriend or kids. Just a bunch of college kids who didn't understand our life anyway. Ghost is all I got now." The mutt's ears twitched at the sound of his name. Attention whore. "What about you?" Grif sighed. "Yeah, wife and kid." "Shit man." He nodded. We both left it at that. "You think any women made it, well any hot ones?" He asked me. "God help us if they didn't." "Damn straight," Grif muttered. "What I would do for a cold beer right about now, or a glass of whiskey," I said aloud, Grif nodded in agreement. "You know what's a damn travesty?" "What's that?" Grif responded. "When those walkers surrounded me back in the Ozarks and I had to beat feet overland for a month I left nearly a full case of Lagavulin single malt 16 year whiskey in my Humvee. We should go get that. Fuck the walkers I'm here for the whiskey. Maybe we should raid a liquor store on our way out of dodge." "Amen to that brother. Shit, engines." Grif keyed his mic, "Team, everybody on the alert. We got possible enemy contacts approaching from the left, Mac, Sparky, that your front. I want that 249 with a field of fire watching that avenue of approach. Nobody fires before me, roger?" "Solid copy Grif," I said to him. I moved over to the window and strapped my flak back on. I peered through my scope, there was a slow moving pick up truck followed by an off-road jeep type vehicle and about ten foot mobiles. A light snow had started falling since we had last stepped outside, small flurries drifted toward street level. The men wore a smattering of clothing, heavy winter garb, lots of camo. These fucks wore more camo then that weird kid who sat in the back of your high school history class. We had no clue if these fucks were from the same group who attacked us without reason or were from Ramiez's crew. Whoever the fuck that was. None of our intel told us there were potential survivors but hey, that was normal. Fuck us right?

The fall models for Army Navy Surplus walked up the burning wreck of bodies and car and putted around. They inspected it, checked the now toasty critters and moved on. They were in a loose formation, no weapon discipline, staggered lines. It was clear none of these fucktards were trained military or law enforcement. Not gang-bangers either from the looks of it. I turned down to Grif, "What are we gonna do boss?"

Grif sighed deeply, thus was the burden of leadership.

"Reaper Actual this is India 5-2, come in," Grif keyed his throat mike. Down in the street I saw some activity that raised the hairs on the back of my neck. One of the men down there dropped down and unloaded a backpack full of electronic shit, what looked like comm equiptment.

"Grif, check this out." I slapped his shoulder and pointed.

"Shit that's radio intercepting equipment," he told me, just as he said that his radio crackled.

"India 5-2, this is Reaper Actual, send your traffic."

That did it. The guy with the backpack pointed right at me and Grif and waved his arm. The other models for Camouflage monthly advanced toward us, weapons drawn.

"Reaper Actual, this is India 5-2, we have been compromised, requesting permission for deadly force."

"Deadly force is authorized India 5-2."

Grif keyed the squad comms, "Gents, open fire on my mark. Sparky I want you to put a 203 round in the face of that fucker with the comm equipment, you see him?"

"Roger that man, I see him." Over the radio I could hear the slick-clack of a loaded 40 mike mike round, HEDP. Gave me a semi just thinking about it. I mean it was no 155 howitzer round, but it was still an explosion. I'm biased, I know.

"Mac I want you raining hell with that 249, on my mark gents."
I settled the chevron of my scope on the point man, dead center. It did not look like they were wearing body armor. They may know where me and Grif are, but our ace in the hole is the other two men in our team, we had the other men in a L shape ambush, just waiting for the rear man to fall into our killbox. Grif keyed is mike and whispered,

"3, 2, 1 MARK. SUPPRESING FIRE."

Spark let loose a 203 which impacted directly to the left off comm gear guy, sending his equipment four sheets to the wind. My first round took the point man in the throat, the dark red blood spray erupting from the hole in his throat and painting the white concrete red. Mac let loose with the 249, sending bursts of 556MM through men and into the deck. Grif selected targets with the calm precision of a man used to ending lives. Ghost lay at my feet, whimpering. He wasn't a real big fan of gunfire unless he had adrenline pumping through his veins, like when he ripped that motherfucking bikers throat out. I burned through one magazine and just like that it was over. The men in the street all lay slain, in rapidly pooling puddles of their own blood.

"Gents, street level, search for survivors. Check their gear."

We all rogered up and moved out, descending the stairs until we were on the street level. Blood was everywhere, but by now I didn't really give a flying fuck.

The dead men all received a bullet in the skull. The living ones begged for mercy, but there is none, not anymore. They groveled and pleaded, for us to spare their lives, the Geneva convention said we had to treat and care for all enemy prisoners, but the Geneva convention doesn't really exist anymore, does it? Ghost padded around, nose to the deck, sniffing. The dead were packing weapons like hunting rifles, shotguns, AK47s, semi-automatic handguns. No heavy weapons or explosives, and nothing really milspec. Some of them had ears on necklaces, if they were walkers or human I couldn't really tell. The strange thing was none of them had the signs of starvation most survivors had. They looked really well fed, some were overweight. But it wasn't healthily looking but the bulging stomach and scrawny limbs that spoke of a diet of too much meat and not enough of anything else. Cannibals most likely. Fucking disgusting scumbags.

"Reaper Actual this is India 5-2, troops in contact, enemy eliminated. Most likely a rouge group of cannibals. 12 enemy killed."

"Understood India 5-2, return to the harbor for evac, mission change."

Short and to the point. As per usual. We moved out. Ours is not to wonder why, ours is but to do or die.

Our plane touched down back at Fort Sill about an hour ago. We had beat feet from the scene of our battle, if you could call it that, back to the harbor, to a helicopter that transported us to a small airbase in Virginia that the US Navy retook last week. From there we hoped on a C-130 back to Fort Sill with two other Reaper squads, one from Hotel Company and one from Fox Company that had been doing operations on the East Coast. Were briefed on our new mission. Brief contact had been established with Minot AFB in North Dakota. Pre-infection Minot had a fleet of B-52 heavy bombers, Twin UN-HI Hueys, various support craft, and Minutemen III ICBM nuclear missiles. The crown jewel. Command at Fort Sill established brief radio contact with Minot. Apparently they had survived the initial outbreak but had been unable to call anyone until now, for reasons they did not say. After two hours of contact they were cut off, some crazy shit has happeneing here and command wanted to know what. The Dakotas were under the AO of Reaper 1, but their units were all tied up in the retaking of California and trying to make contact with someone in Alaska; which had gone dark on day 1 of the infection and we have no fucking clue what's going on up there. So we were being sent.

We geared up for this mission. Full winter gear, there was going to be lots of snow up so we were rocking white MARPAT uniforms and we were given two humvees. We brought all the patience equipment with us, extra fuel tanks, and most importantly, snow chains, winter tires and a snow plow strapped to the left side of the vehicle for the deep snow. We each had our personal weapons, Mac had the 249, I had the M14 DMR, Grif, his M4 and Sparky had the M16A4 with underslung M203. The lead vehicle that Grif, Ghost and I rode in had a MK19 mounted to the turret with 250 spare rounds. The other vehicle had a 50 cal with 1500 rounds of ammunition. The Humvees had been stripped down to the bare essentials, no extra armor. We didn't expect human resistance, only walkers and snow. Each vehicle had our packs, filled with extra clothing and hygiene gear, enough MREs for one week, along with high energy dog bars for Ghost, and ammo. 5000 556 rounds for Spark and Grif, 100 203 rounds, 1000 7.62 rounds for me, and 2500 belted 556 rounds for Mac. There was about 2000 .45 ACP rounds for our sidearms. We all had the Marine Special Forces version of the M1911. It was an expected week up and week back trip, we had enough food, ammo, gear, clothing, magazines, and other miscellaneous shit to go up there. Grif even gave me a new callsign, Bunny, in reference to my former job as an artilleryman, also known as gun bunnies. They call us gun bunnies because we dig these holes around our artillery positions, fighting holes. We sleep in the holes in our sleeping bags and when someone calls for a fire mission, artilleryman scurry out of their holes, throw lead downrange and jump back in the hole. Our little fire team is going by Reaper 5-2 for this mission. Anything we needed could be scavenged. I talked Grif into bringing a .22 cal long rifle and a 30-06 hunting rifle for game to supplement our MREs. I also told him about loud noises and how they attracted walkers on my trip over and we hooked up a big pair of speakers to the lead humvee and I scavenged my old Ipod from storage and packed it up. We were ready to rock and roll. You know what they say, ain't no rest for the wicked.

Our route took us right up through Oklahoma, into Kansas, we skirted Wichita and other major cities. Highways were still jam packed with destroyed cars and we stuck to back roads. We switched drivers every 6 hours, one would rest while the other drove. We didn't see a fucking walker for two days. We were into Nebraska by then. Part of our SOP we had to radio our handler, Reaper Actual, every 12 hours. Radio silence wasn't a priority. Command believed much of this area had been abandoned in the Army's pullback and there wasn't much out here. But this is the bible belt, and you never know.

Route 2 cuts the Midwest in half, and slices right through Nebraska. Just beyond that is North Platte, and between North Platte and South Dakota, there is nothing but small towns and miles and miles of woods and farmland. Route 83 bisects route 2, and the rest of Nebraska, South Dakota and most of North Dakota on its way north. We were on 83, Grif and I in the lead vehicle, Ghost perched in his seat behind me, and Mac and Sparky in vehicle 2 about 50 meters behind us. It was midday, the sun bounced off the frozen landscape. Everything was covered in snow. Our snow chains crunched over layers of ice on our mission north. It would have been simpler for us to airdrop in, but all available air assets were busy helping the push back into California, or helping the Marines retake Florida. It was the Marine Corps first major amphibious landings in a long long time, and they were fighting their way up the spine of Florida while I froze my ass off inside this humvee on some bullshit mission to find some snowed in zoomies in North fucking Dakota. Fuck.

Our first sign that shit was about to get real were the bodies. On either side of the highway were bodies, hung from nooses, crucified by trees; swaying in the icy wind attached to low hanging branches. Most were walkers. The question was, were they walkers when they were hung.

"Sparky, Mac, keep tight on my ass, were gonna pull off soon once we find a shelter, do some recon of this area. I wanna know what the fuck is the deal with those corpses swinging from the trees."

We drove for another 5 minutes before peeling left and into a farmhouse. I hopped out the humvee and threw open barn doors. Rifle raised I cautiously prowled the room. "Clear," I shouted back and the pair of humvees drove inside and parked side by side.

"Alright gents here's the plan," Grif said when we were all huddled up next to him, "Bunny, I want you and that mutt of yours to head west, standard recon formation, stay low, don't get caught. Find out what the fuck is out there. Go east about a klick, turn north, go another klick, then head back here. Sparky and Mac I want you to do the same thing on the west side, keep proper dispersion. I'm going to watch our gear and scout the local area. If you run into some shit, click the radio transmit button three times. Do not stray from your patrol route. Clear?"

"Roger," we all responded. I whistled and Ghost and I moved out.

It was fucking cold. Fuck Nebraska. Seriously. It was wind biting into your bones cold. I was wearing layers of the warmest stuff I could find and I was still cold. Ghost wasn't, he looked content, frolicking around the snow like a goddamn kid. Bastard with his fur coat. A nearby walker hanging from an evergreen like a macabre Christmas tree ornament snapped at me. I ignored it and continued to trudge through the snow. It usually took me about 69 paces to walk 100 meters, laugh, I know you are you immature pervert. But in snow you have to take short choppy steps so I figured it was about 85 paces. Everytime I reached 100 paces I broke a little twig off a bush or tree and placed it in my pocket, when I reached ten twigs I would turn left and move another 1000 meters before turning left again and moving at a diagonal back to the farm house. I went a klick turned left, went another klick, turned left and found the farm house. I stomped inside, Ghost right behind me.

"Ain't shit out there Grif," I spoke to the man who was bent over a map, "nothing but snow and Christmas ornaments."

He raised an eyebrow at that and I shrugged. Fuck it.

"Mac and Spark aren't back yet, climb up to the loft and keep watch out that window"

"Roger that bossman."

I climbed the ladder, Ghost staying below to sit down at Grif's boots, who gave him an absentminded scratch behind the ears. The land was calm outside my window, nothing but swinging walkers, and snow. Lots and lots of fucking snow. But no Sparky or Mac. They should be back by now. It would be bad shit if they were not back soon.

"Get down here Bunny," I scrambled down the ladder and walked over to Grif and my dog.

"I just got a call from command, a UAV in the area reported a wicked blizzard headed our way. We got one hour, two tops to find those two. Lets go."

We moved out into the snow at a brisk pace, our boots flinging up clumps of snow and ice, Ghost prowled silently in front of us, nose to the deck. Shepherd are very good at tracking, as I was quickly learning. I could see a thin tendril of smoke headed for the sky about two hundred meters to my left, I motioned to Grif and we moved out, moving faster now. Fucking out of goddamn no where Grif shoved me into the snow and snapped "down." he dropped with me and Ghost padded over to me, I put my arm over his neck and guided him to the ground next to me.

"You deaf artillery ass didn't hear those fucking vehicles?"

"Nope," I whispered to him. Grif pointed to a hole in the tree line. A trio of pick up trucks were moving through a road. And in the back of them was fucking Sparky and Mac, tied up and weaponless.

"Fuck," Grif muttered under his breath. We waited for them to pass out of sight then took off in their direction. This was bad news.

"Reaper Actual this is Reaper 5-2, come in Reaper Actual."

"Reaper 5-2 this is Actual, send your traffic."

"Two men of 5-2 have been captured by unknown enemy forces. Enemy has transport and appears to be heavily armed. Requesting UAV support."

"Reaper 5-2, a Predator will be on station in two-zero mikes. Wait one."

We ran along the road for about 15 minutes when we heard the buzzing of the Predator drone engine.

"5-2 this is Actual, Predator is in your AO. Appears to be a walled in compound 400 yards in front of your position. Enemy is heavily armed, possible strength over 50. I'm seeing multiple technicals. No women, only men. A Reaper loaded with Hellfire AGMs will be on station in three-zero mikes. Get your men out of there. Codeword Fire and Brimstone will be used to begin missile attack on compound. Radio that and clear the area."

"Alright Bunny, lets move. Well plan our move when we get to the compound. Were on a timax here."

We ran for a few more minutes before the walls of this compound came into sight. They were palisade style, tree trunks dug into the ground and posted upright. The wall was about ten feet high all around, high enough so walkers could not get in or over. Which left the question, what in the fuck were we gonna do?

Grif, all hail the former Operator, came up with it, of course. My expertise is putting explosive shells in someone's bedroom winder 20 miles away. He had dropped all gear so he was just in his white cammies and scaled a tree to gain some intel. The entire place was built around a church. Of fucking course. Why does it always have to be religious nut jobs? These motherfuckers are the must fucked up and the most dangerous because they believe they're doing it in the name of God. A man who believes he is doing the right thing is a very dangerous man.

There was really only one thing to do here, we were going to fucking go in, guns blazing and kill every motherfucker we see. There isn't any other way here. We have no support, night and a snow storm are coming, we have jack shit but two men tied up and at the mercy of some fucking nutcases. The gate was left open during the day for some unknown stupid reason. We each tossed a pair of frags over the wall, stacked up and went in. ahead of us was a road leading to the church. Left and right side of the road were houses and the far end were all fields for planting when there isn't snow everywhere. These people took our guys, and carried heavy weaponry. Mercy would not be shown.

Two massive booms cracked through the air and we peeled around the log wall. The remains of four men, or so I guessed, were thrown around the street like a Jackson Pollock painting. I centered my sights on a man, squeeze, crack, shift. Grif and I poured round after round down the street, turning it into a kill zone. I paused to swap a magazine, sending the bolt home, chambering another round before I sent that round into the throat of pudgy, dirty beaded man who was aiming a pump action shotgun at me. Smoke and the smell of cordite quickly filled the air as we took cover, popping around our respective corners to fire rounds.

"FRAGS. MARK."

I twisted my body to avoid the splinters from a trio of rounds that smacked into the wood of the house I was in. I used my bodies momentum to spin back and toss a frag as hard as I could. More body parts went flying. Grif made a hand signal to go right and through the house I was behind. One backwards donkey kick later I was charging through an Amish looking kitchen. There was even a fucking butter churner. It was clear. I poked my weapon out, clear left and right, saw Grif and moved to the next house. Same drill only this time there was a 12 year old kid with a hunting rifle aimed at the door. I dropped to the floor and he fumbled with the heavy rifle, swinging it to bear on my skull. I fired once. The heavy 762 round all but turned his skull inside out. Fuck fuck fuck. I stepped over his bloody mangled body and back outside. Ahead was the church, I looked left to Grif and he motioned forward. I took off a dead sprint, my heavy gear bouncing around as my boots tore through the downtrodden snow. My left shoulder slammed into the door of the church opposite Grif. I did a quick once over of my rifle, made sure I had a round in the chamber and Grif held up 3 fingers, then 2 then one and we charged through the door. Empty. We barricaded the door behind us, moving pews to block the door. Both back rooms were clear, there was a staircase going down into the cellar. Grif took point, years of special ops training clearly showed in his movements, smooth as glass and poised to strike like a cobra. He slinked down the stairs, M4 ready to send lead downrange. We cleared the room at the bottom of the stairs, turned right and then we saw it. Saw the fucking pens. At least two hundred women were tied up in pens, 10 to a cage, bucket in the floor. This was depraved, this was evil, all of these fucks were going to die. Most of the women were bruised and bloody, many looked resigned to their fate. Grif, Ghost, and I prowled down the hallway looking for our men. At the back end we saw them, trussed up and unconscious, beaten and bruised. All of their gear was gone but they were still in cammies, and alive. Grif slapped them awake and they came to, groggy and disoriented. I wandered back down the hallway, peering into the pens. Most of the women avoided eye contact, they were starving, bones clearly showing. The emaciated skeletons were clothed in rags, they looked dirty and diseased and most showed clear forms of torture. This was…depravity on a whole new level, levels I had never seen before.

"Are you, are you one of them?" A pitiful voice called out to me, from a pen behind me. "No, no I am not. If you can tell me what happened, I can make sure the men who did this all end up dead. Were here to help."

"They lured us here, with promises of food and shelter, give us a hot meal and drug us. We wake up here, in this pit. Those who resist are broken; raped and tortured. They all follow one man, I don't know his name but he calls himself Jesus. Says women must be obedient to men. Any man can come down here, and," her quivering and wavering voice broke and she starting sobbing, chest heaving sobs.

"They come down here, take one of us, have they way with us and throw us back. The ones who don't break and hung. The ones that die are eaten. Please help us."

"Everythings going to be okay, I promise."

I walked back over to Grif. "These scumbags lure people here, pen the women up, hang the men, and rape them till their dead and eat them. These fucks need to die and these women need help." He nodded and keyed his mike,

"Reaper Actual this is 5-2, come in."

"Send it 5-2."

"5-2 reports two missing men recovered along with over 200 non-combatants. Women. They've been through the ringer. Send evac for them and medical teams. Call off that Reaper drone."

"Uhh 5-2 negative on that, no birds available in your area for pick up of 200 plus civvies. Recalling reaper drone. Continue with mission. Actual out."

"REAPER ACTUAL WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN NO EVAC AVALIBLE?"

Static crackled, there was no answer.

"Fuck, alright Mac and Sparky do you know where they hid your weapons?"

"I think they left them in the trucks Grif," Spark said.

"Okay, take me and Bunnies' sidearms, well take point, you cover our rears, plan is to exfil the church, kill the remaining men in this compound, free the women and figure out what to do. Solid copy? Good. Move out. Fix bayonets."

We tore up the stairs and out of the church like bats out of hell, thirsty for blood, violence and vengeance. War is the god and the game that we seek.

The men from the compound assembling outside the church were met with rounds to the skull and bayonets to the chest. We were death, swirling among those marked. Death rides a pale horse and hath no mercy. We systematically cleared the compound. House by house and room by room. Any males living and dead, received a round directly in the skull. We took no prisoners.

The last bastard scumbag lay in a pile of his own blood and the compound was ours. 4 men took on nearly 50 and came out on top. Ours is the fury. Mac and Sparky had just recovered their weapons when three pitch black unmarked helicopters buzzed over our area, high and to the left. Heading north, the same way we were going.

Grif keyed his mic, "Reaper Actual, we have eyes on three birds heading north, you telling me there's no evac for these civvies?"

No answer.

"Fuck alright listen, Bunny provide security, Mac and Spark with me."

I walked a patrol around the square, keeping an eye out for any who survived our purge while the other three went down to free the women. Within half an hour there were nearly two hundred women assembled around us.

"Listen, I am sorry this happened to you," Grif started, "but you were not our mission, we are from the remains of the US Government, in Fort Sill Oklahoma. They are unavailable to provide evacuation for you. I am very sorry. My team and I must continue our mission north. You are on your own. Good luck to all of you."

"So that's it then?" Spark asked Grif.

"Yes, there's nothing we can do."

"But what about those choppers," I said.

"They're going the same way we are, guess well find out. Lets go." He snapped at us.

Following Grif, we turned and walked out of the compound, stony silence and glares watched us leave. We made our way back to the farmhouse and bedded down for the night. I was on watch. The morning sun brought clear skies and we saddled up.

Ain't no rest for the wicked.