Legal Disclaimer: The following characters are copyright of Valve: Bill, Zoey, Louis, Francis, Witch, Hunter, Smoker, Boomer, Tank, Jockey, Spitter. The following characters are copyright of Tripwire: Horzine, Kevin Clamely (a.k.a. The Patriarch), Sergeant Powers and the very brief description of his character which can be found here:
kf-wiki . Com / wiki / Squad_members # Sergeant_Powers
All other characters belong to Xmodius, including but not limited to: Dr. Allan, Alexis, Sgt. Xavier Malory, Heather Lenhart, Dr. Tyre, S-Tank concept character, Siren concept character, and any other characters that neither Valve nor Tripwire can take direct credit for (including the more detailed past that is Sgt. Powers' life).
Further Disclaimer: This story is copyright of xmodius and is NOT permitted to be copied or reproduced in any way.
Mature Content Warning: This story contains violence and sexual themes. Duh! I mean, really folks. I swear if ANYONE still needs to read these flippin' warnings, you're slower than the post office at Christmas. Granted I know the rest of you read them just to see what kind of rant I'll go on, and I can't say I blame you. If I was reading a story by a guy as nutty as me, I'd always read the disclaimer and wonder how the hell the guy writes so well while wrapped in a straight jacket.
Author's Notes: This chapter will... you know what? Forget it. No notes here. Maybe some notes at the end when most of you are saying, "What the hell? What was THAT all about?" Not that I owe anyone an explanation, but by the time you're done you'll probably scratch your head or want your time back. ;-P
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Chapter 19 - 280 Days Later
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The loud rhythmic sound of an Apache transport helicopter echoed over the open ocean, carrying a special ops group, code named "R.E.S.C.U.E." (Reconnaissance, Evacuate & Secure, Coalition of Unified Emissaries) to yet another isolated island in the hopes of finding survivors. This wasn't their first mission, but it was the first time they were going out to the remote set of islands in the Florida Keys.
The squad sat along benches that lined the interior of the large flying war machine, their arms on their knees as they leaned forward, bored while awaiting a debriefing from the commanding officer. Most of the soldiers hailed from the United States, but a small portion were from England. Despite their unique code name, nearly every member of the squad looked alike, all dressed in the standard gray camouflage style uniform of the U.S. Military. Those who hailed from the U.K. wore a similar version.
However, one particular soldier from the latter country stood out among the rest. Only at a first glance would you notice the odd man out, the camouflage uniform he wore was of the older sort, a black and green jungle pattern that was quite different from the gray patterns of the modern U.S. variety. He was also a bit more "beefy" than the rest of the squad. He stood nearly a full head higher than the tallest squad member, though sitting down he only appeared a few inches taller. His height was balanced out by his massive frame: Broad shoulders, a sizable chest, and a pair of "guns" that would put a body builder to shame. His legs wouldn't be easy to overlook either, the thick tree trunks that they were. His entire body was hardened from rigorous training and combat, all of this evident even through the not uncomfortable fit of his full body uniform. His stature was the reason he was seated at the end of the bench alone, with enough extra space for three soldiers. His sheer size demanded it, not so much for breathing room, but because no one else dared sit so close to such an intimidating man.
And that still wouldn't be the first things one would notice.
The more apparent differences would stick out like a sore thumb, like the full gas mask that completely obscured his face and hair, unlike the other soldiers who's faces were uncovered. Or that he carried a katana on his back and two .50 caliber Desert Eagles in his twin holsters instead of the standard Bullpup SA80 rifle and Browning 9mm side arm of the British army. Granted some of the other soldiers carried their weapon of choice, that being one of their conditions for them to be "drafted" into this new unit, though none of them carried a melee style weapon in place of a mid range, rapid fire rifle.
But perhaps the most out-of-place object on this trained killer was the freakish necklace he wore. It was completely composed of numerous dried fingers that wrapped completely around the neck in a loose fit, the front hanging just below his breast bone. The fingers were of varying colors and shapes, most only vaguely human like. The center finger was a bit larger than the rest, a thick, burned, husk that would have looked quite phallic if not for the crusted fingernail impression at the end of it.
Yes, nearly everything about this soldier screamed, "I've been to hell and back, and if you so much as breathe in my direction, I'll drag you screaming to Satan's doorstep." Which was probably why no one bothered to make small talk.
Of course, there was always at least one "new guy" who had to be the first to talk to the intimidating soldier...
"Who's the limey?" A young soldier asked, nudging his buddy next to him.
"Mind who ya callin' 'limey' ya wankah," a U.K. soldier barked, a few people down on the bench.
"Dunno. Never seen him before," whispered the guy next to young recruit, trying to end the conversation. "But then we're new to this unit. Only person I know here is you."
The first soldier squinted, trying to read the name stitched on the breast of the old style green and black camouflage BDU's. The rank on his meaty arm indicated he was a sergeant, yet he was sitting with the rest of the grunts. The lack of an American flag was another give away he was "drafted" to their team.
"Hey big fellah! What's your name?" The first soldier asked. His buddy shot him an incredulous look.
"He's a sergeant," the second soldier said in a hushed hiss. "No matter what army he's with, you don't talk to a superior like that!" The second soldier gave an apologetic glance at the large man in his gas mask, but he wasn't even looking at them.
The masked soldier said nothing; did not even acknowledge the two U.S. soldiers talking about him. He remained in his upright, rigid posture while trying to contain his rage, a mood he was well acquainted with as of late. Finding the remains of your wife and kids jammed in the door is a good recipe for a bad mood. He ate little, slept even less, and what he lacked in conversation skills he compensated with a blood lust that had his fellow survivors sleeping with one eye open. Oh, and he collected the freaks' fingers, as was evident by his neck wear. The man he was would never consider wearing human fingers like some sick cannibal tribe like necklace.
Yes, the man that was Sergeant Jack Powers died in a fit of blind rage when he found what was left of his family, and their killer.
"Okay... Sgt. Big Fellah. What's your name so I can address you properly?" The first soldier asked, more than a hint of dry humor in his question.
Powers' eyes were closed behind the two black, convex voids of his gas mask that otherwise hid his pain from the rest of the world. He could care less about these bloody wanker Yankees and their damn "infection." As far as he was concerned, these blokes didn't know the meaning of true horror. After all, none of them had seen the nightmarish spawn of Horzine.
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"Christ could this bloody day git any worse?" Sgt. Powers bellowed in his cockney British accent as he raced down another side street in his mini cooper, a car far too small for his frame, and barely a fit for his meager salary. The Horzine bio-tech research company had finally done it. They specialized in cloning technology and weapons of warfare, but no one knew they were trying to combine the two to make the ultimate army. Their practices always skirted the lines of legality and had long since plunged off the deep end of morality, but they'd finally done it. They'd opened the mouth of hell, and Britain was teetering on the precipice of destruction's maw. Horzine had created monsters, literally. An outbreak occurred at the main research facility hidden in the countryside, and "specimens" were swarming over London and the surrounding area. The freaks were of various shapes and sizes, a bloody marriage of cloned human forms merged with destructive hardware. The "specimens" were overrunning London, a trail of blood and fire in their wake, but hopefully they hadn't reached his block yet.
He had to hurry. His wife and kids were priority number one. The UKSF could do without him for a day or two once his wife and kids were relocated with relatives in the countryside. Once that was done, he would return to his post. Though he'd probably get brought up on desertion charges, he knew his superior officers would over look it because he was one of the best.
He pulled up to his flat in the less trashy side of West London, almost forgetting to throw the car into "Park" as he threw the door open and sprinted to the front steps. The front door to his flat was ripped from the hinges and splattered in a crimson liquid.
Sgt. Powers beheld a horrifying sight as he entered his home. Arms and legs of varying sizes, bloody and almost completely unrecognizable were jammed into the front door. The metallic smell of blood and the odor of rotting meat filled his nostrils, threatening to bring up his breakfast. Choking down the desire to retch, he pulled his pistol from his holster. As he passed through the foyer he saw blood splattered on the walls, glass broken, furniture tipped over,and a large bloody smear leading up the stairs to the second floor.
Aside from the thudding of his heart in his ears, he could hear a faint gurgling sound coming from upstairs.
The sergeant raced up the steps two at a time, pistol in hand as his adrenaline surged. He expected to find some deranged lunatic or a desperate burglar when he burst through the door of the master bedroom, but what he found instead would forever haunt his memory, denying him sleep when he wanted it, but fueling his combat rage when he needed it.
Standing on the other side of his bloodied marital bed was a lanky-looking creature that was only vaguely humanoid. It stood upright on two legs and had two arms, though the left arm was actually just a short stump that stopped above the elbow, while the right arm had what looked like two hands growing back to back out of the end of the wrist, and tied to that mangled arm was a four foot, flat-ended, machete-like blade with a sharp claw jutting off the side at the end. The creature had no skin either, showing only the muscles that would be otherwise hidden, a bright red color though they didn't bleed. Its head was the only part that seemed to have a sort of epidermis, and it was missing the lower jaw.
And the creature hadn't noticed the stunned soldier standing there, it was too busy hacking its bloody blade into the torso of the soldier's wife and two kids. It gurgled and grumbled, involved in desecrating its kills as blood and entrails flew out in ropes every time it raised its blade to strike again. A string of guts flew off its blade onto the stunned soldier's face.
Sgt. Powers' eye twitched as the last string of his sanity snapped. The man that was once whole and complete had shattered into fragments of insanity and rage. Powers had lost a part of himself. A gaping hole festered within his soul, giving birth to a horrifying darkness that threatened to consume him. The text book definition of an inner demon if there ever was one. And as this demon took control of him, he found himself talking to the creature that was practically bathing in his family's blood.
"You've been out in th' sun too long, govnah!" He said, cocking his untwitching eye. "Yer red as 'n apple!"
The creature stopped its act of desecration and looked up, beady eyes narrowing at the new prey. It gurgled and raised its bloodied blade, charging the burly man with surprising speed. The sergeant barely had a chance to duck out the door before the massive blade swiped the air twice where he once stood. The freak almost took his head off, but had sent itself off balance with its zeal.
Powers was a true soldier, one with years of hard training. So it was on instinct the way he pushed aside the gruesome sight that was once his family to take his enemy off guard. The large man threw himself at the off-kilter assassin, knocking it straight to the floor. The creature struggled mindlessly, but the sergeant's weight was too much to simply throw off as he straddled his victim. The thing didn't even show fear or pain when the sergeant grabbed its bladed arm and broke it at the elbow.
"Jeezus, mind that fucking great blade! Yer gonna 'urt someone if y'ain't careful!" He said, ripping the blade free of the coarse rope that tied it to the freak's single arm. With both hands and a laugh of mirthful insanity, the demon in control of Sergeant Powers thrust the blade down width-wise like a makeshift guillotine, chopping the creature's head right off and embedding the blade into the floor. The headless creature continued to struggle and twitch like a chicken with its head cut off, and Powers laughed insanely as he yanked the blade free and proceeded to eviscerate the freak beneath him, plunging his gloved hands into the freak's chest after slicing it from stem to stern. He ripped and tore at the muscle and sinew, tossing pieces of it aside with a glee the way the creature surely had when it decimated his wife and children.
Powers never even noticed the long cut that ran diagonally up one cheek, crossing over the bridge of his nose before tapering off near the top of his forehead, until a trickle of blood ran from the wound into his eye, the stinging pain cutting off his insane fit. He blinked in sudden surprise before realizing what it was; the creature's swipe was closer than he thought. He blinked again, looking over his bloodied hands; hands that were no longer his own. He held the creature's crooked, torn finger in one and its heart in the other. His demon's blood lust was not sated just yet. It whispered the unthinkable from the darkness in Powers' mind, and the other side of the soldier's sanity screamed in protest when he finally acquiesced to the voice of madness.
Sergeant Powers casually pocketed the finger, then bit into the heart like a squishy, bleeding apple, blood dribbling down his chin. He chewed twice, then spat out the chunk on the creature's lifeless face.
"Too sweet for my taste," he mumbled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. And for a long while all he did was sit there atop his kill, staring into the face of his family's end, memorizing everything about it so it would be forever burned into his retinas. Part of his fragmented mind reminded him that time was not on his side, urging him to his small supply locker in the bedroom. He'd kept a gas mask in there for emergencies, which he promptly fitted over his face, securing and tightening the straps over his head.
Next he took a katana off the bedroom wall, one of his many combat weapons he'd acquired for his collection. This one was not a simple reproduction, but the genuine article. After fitting the sheath over his shoulder, he retrieved two Israeli Desert Eagles that were safely tucked behind the top drawers of his wife's dresser. The two .50 caliber hand guns had enough kick to send an ordinary man rocking on his heels from firing just one with both hands, but Powers massive frame barely rocked when he drew them akimbo. He was quite proud of the fact that he could dual-wield them, always impressing his friends at the shooting range. Sgt. Powers loved his weapons, and every time he squeezed himself into his tiny car, he reminded himself that the tight ride was worth it to own not one, but two hand cannons.
His armament completed, he pocketed all the ammo he could carry and exited the bedroom, heading down the stairs. Outside, the sounds of terror and mayhem echoed over the city, growing louder as he exited the flat. He watched a young woman running for her life as some naked humanoid creature, devoid of any body hair and lacking genitalia, shambled after her. Two well placed shots from his twin hand cannons send the freak flat on its back. He casually approached the twitching form, drawing his katana from the sheath and sliced its head from its shoulders. This time the demon within him didn't have to coax him at all. He set to work slicing a finger off one hand, and even headless the thing still tried to claw at the muscled sergeant. It struggled for a few seconds before a punctuating death rattle shook its body one last time before it lay still.
Powers pocketed his prize and looked at his reflection in the blade, an alien-looking face staring back with its gas mask. Everywhere he could hear the sounds of gunfire and cries of terror, dotted with the sickening sound of bone and flesh being broken and ripped.
Sergeant Jack Powers, the man who was once happily married, a proud father, and generally content with his life, was now an angry, childless, widower who was being drawn into the dark void of insanity. And as the blood continued to drip from his new face wound behind his gas mask, the only thing keeping him from completely losing himself was the new mission in his darkened soul.
Butcher every last one of Horzine's freaks!
But keep the fingers...
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"Sergeant Powers?" The young U.S. soldier asked, squinting a bit more to read the last name on the big Brit's uniform.
"You're poking the bear," the second soldier said, a scolding undertone in his voice.
That was his name, but the man once associated with it seemed like a distant memory to the angry warrior he had become. In the end he accomplished his goal and completed his neck-wear. He and a team of the last remaining U.K. elite had survived the Horzine Incident as it was referred to. He'd assisted in wiping out the Horzine cloning labs, and had come face to face with the mad scientist who'd started it all: Kevin Clamely. The insane doctor had become one of his own creations, a horrifying creature that took on all the attributes of the monsters he'd helped create. Since his transformation, he referred to himself as The Patriarch, and it was no mystery as to why. He stood nearly seven feet tall with a body mutated from all sorts of muscle enhancing drugs. He could run faster than any man alive, and cleave your head off with a vicious swing from his right clawed hand.
And then there was the hardware. The doctor had a mounted weapons platform on his left arm, complete with a chain gun and rocket launcher. A large tentacle object jutted from his chest, allowing him to punch the nearest unlucky soul down the block, or run them straight through if he felt like it. And on top of all that, the bastard could cloak himself temporarily.
Thanks to years of research and ghastly experimentation, Kevin Clamely had become far more and far less than human. He was the best, and the worst, Horzine, Inc. had to offer.
Powers remembered the fight that ended his finger collection. The perfect way to celebrate Christmas Eve, when he and his squad had chased the Patriarch to a snowy base in the mountain regions. Dusk was falling as fast as the snow, and it was critical they finish this now before conditions made a rescue impossible. The squad set to work demolishing the cloning equipment, as well as slaughtering every last specimen they encountered before facing the mad doctor himself...
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"You've murdered my children!" Kevin Clamely roared in a monstrous voice that was deep and angry. Everywhere the chief Horzine scientist could see the bloodied remains of his specimens, his "children", and before him were six soldiers who'd butchered them.
The metallic sound of Powers' katana echoed as he drew it from the sheath, the blade glinting in the moonlight. This was it, the man responsible for the death of thousands, including his family. The sergeant's inner demon took control, and the burly man threw his chest out and bellowed, "You'll pay for what you've done!"
The Patriarch answered the challenge, throwing his head back to roar at the dusk sky. And with that, the battle began.
The fight was fierce, and went downhill entirely too fast. In the first few seconds, Sgt. Powers saw several squad mates get cut down by The Patrarich's chain gun, a couple stragglers then blown to pieces by his rocket launcher. The few that survived the blast were dealt with hand-to-hand, impaled by his large chest tentacle or had their necks broken by a vicious swipe. Powers had nearly fallen himself when he rushed the insane doctor with his katana, a desperate attempt to take the mad man's head off. His swing hit The Patriarch's shoulder, but the deep gash barely fazed him. A second later, a punch from that chest tentacle sent Powers flying, then slamming flat on his back in the snow. An ordinary man would've lost his wind, gasping for breath and incapacitated, but the demon within granted him an unholy strength that was compounded by his desire for vengeance.
In the end, Powers realized he was the last man alive. Only a minute in, and it was almost over for his squad. He'd landed next a fallen soldier who was known simply as "Pyro" due to his liking for torching the specimens with his flame thrower. The sergeant wasn't much for incendiary warfare, but between the throbbing in his chest and the thundering laughter of his enemy, he didn't have time to consider other options.
"Stay there. I'll make this quick." The Patriarch laughed as he aimed his chain gun, ready to fill the soldier's body with hot lead. However a wall of flame erupted around him causing him to roar in pain instead. He charged the wounded sergeant, rushing through the torrent of fire still engulfing him. He thrust his chest tentacle at Powers, ready to skewer him.
But the burly sergeant dodged at the last second as he cut the flamethrower off, drawing his katana and in a fluid motion, slicing the tentacle right off at the chest. The Patriarch roared and attempted to retreat, but suddenly found the end of the flamethrower embedded in the hole in his chest.
"Barbecue tonight!" Powers said, before he pulled the trigger.
The Patriarch lit up from the inside like a Happy Christmas tree. He screamed as fire erupted around his body, turning him into the worlds largest living candle. Powers felt the laughter rising, and before he knew it he was cackling the same insane laugh when he tore apart the creature that butchered his family.
The Patriarch was quartered from the flames, limbs no more than blackened husks as they fell from him. With a final cry, his torso fell into a bloody, flaming mess, staining the snow red.
Powers stared down at the roasting corpse from behind his gas mask for a moment, expecting to feel some closure, expecting the darkness over his heart to finally lift, but it did not. Kevin Clamely's death was a great victory, but it wouldn't bring his wife and kids back. Still bitter, still angry, and still a corrupted man, he began to walk away.
"You're forgetting something," the demon whispered, as though scolding him.
Powers turned back, drawing his combat knife and sawing at the charred middle finger on The Patriarch's one hand. It was a bit bigger than the rest of what he'd collected, but then it was his greatest "prize" yet.
"Sgt. Powers, this is rescue Echo, do you copy?"
The focused survivor ignored the radio, they could wait. With a final rip of sinew, the finger tore free and he set to work adding it to the necklace he'd been forming.
"Please respond! Sgt. Powers do you copy? Rescue chopper is running low on fuel."
With a sigh, he answered his radio, relaying the gruesome fate of his comrades and the death of the Patriarch as casually as discussing the weather. Minutes later the rescue chopper descended, the whirling blades scattering the fallen snow around he and his kill, hovering just low enough so a rope ladder could be dropped. And as Sgt. Powers climbed in and was lifted away, he finally felt the closure he wanted: Though they were gone, his family was avenged, and he could finally rest. The darkness in his heart was still there, but the demon that resided there was silent.
"Sergeant, you've been reassigned." The chopper pilot said. "We'll be dropping you off at the nearest airport to catch a flight to America. There's been an outbreak that's ravaged most of the east coast and is working west. You'll be debriefed further when you arrive."
The chopper pilot didn't hear the growl from beneath the gas mask. Probably a good thing too.
Rest? Sergeant Powers?
Only if he stopped breathing.
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Sergeant Powers exhaled as he thought about how he went from out of the frying pan and into the fire. He had been "offered up" to join the newly formed American task force called R.E.S.C.U.E., a group of blokes who'd barely survived the zombie hordes and "special infected" created by TriHex. A bit different from Horzine's creations, but still just as dangerous. With nearly all of his unit wiped out and the threat of this "mutated rabies virus" potentially crossing the ocean to his home country, Powers was considered the perfect candidate to further compliment R.E.S.C.U.E. Thanks to the group's efforts, the U.S. Military had recovered several overrun installations and were reorganizing, slowly beginning to regain ground against the infected. Last he'd heard, a cure was under development, though it was still a ways off from being perfected.
So here he sat on this helicopter, going to yet another remote location to find survivors. How many missions had he been on now? Five? Ten? Twenty? He didn't keep track. Thinking about his current mission, this was the first time they were going strictly to look for survivors as opposed to securing another military installation. Supposedly a group of immune survivors had sailed to one of the islands in the Florida Keys, survivors that were of great importance to his current "boss."
He scoffed a little behind his mask. He was surprised he even had a boss at this stage in the game. At the time he was drafted, Powers didn't give two shits what "Uncle Sam" was going through. His war was over. Powers had given his superior officer at the UKSF the British two fingered "V" gesture with the back of his hand towards him, similar to the American middle finger. In either case the message was the same: Fuck off! He was more than happy to be dishonorably discharged after the hell he'd been through; he could use a long vacation.
But fate wouldn't let him rest so easily. As he walked away, a name was uttered, barely loud enough to be heard. A name that was a ghost to him, one he hadn't heard in a long time. That of his sister: Amanda Powers.
Jack and Amanda had been quite close as kids, him being the protective older brother though only one year her senior. But like most siblings, the two grew apart as they matured into adulthood. He enlisted in the Army at 18, and she'd gone to college in America. Since graduation she'd been working overseas, only coming back to visit family during the more important events like holidays.
Then one Christmas she came back with a man on her arm. The foolish girl went and fell in love with some American toss pot, a soldier no less. Being military earned the sod a little respect in Powers' eyes, but not much. To Jack, this was the Yankee who'd ensured his sister would never return to the U.K. He was so bitter he didn't even attend the wedding, only hearing about it from his parents the day Amanda Powers became Amanda Malory.
Christ, an American with a French last name... he could vomit.
She would call him from time to time, typically late at night with the five hour time difference. E-mails were more frequent than phone calls, but regardless how she contacted her brother, nearly every conversation would drift from their family to that of her beloved Xavier. Powers hardly knew the guy and he wanted to slug him. Probably just sibling jealousy, but no less easy to ignore. And yet every time he heard the giddy delight in his sister's voice, he was able to choke it down. Amanda was happy, and despite his prejudice towards the American, her happiness was all that mattered to him. Still, it was evident to his sister as to how little her brother cared for his new "in-law." Calls and messages occurred less and less frequently, until one day about a year into her marriage, he stopped hearing from her altogether. He tried to contact her, but that sonofabitch husband of hers never responded. For all he knew, the two of them had decided to write off her entire family for their life in the States.
But finally he knew why she'd dropped off the face of the earth, because she had. According to classified information, his sister was dead, one of thousands of victims of this mutated rabies virus. Her husband had followed in the line of duty, but the details were top secret. All of this "classified information" came from some American quack by the name of Dr. Allan, who'd apparently known Jack's brother in law quite well, so much in fact that he went so far to say that Xavier died a true hero and was one of the men who'd turned the tide against the war on the mutated rabies virus. And that was exactly why they needed him to pick up the fight where his brother-in-law had left off.
All this information had wet the broken soldier's appetite for answers to a lot of questions already gnawing at his gut. Apparently his "offering up" was more of a "trade" to satisfy the appetite of his own information-hungry government, who believed Trihex and Horzine were up to something skirting the lines of legality. The two companies were once a single unity, formed many years ago but were ultimately split up on anti-trust regulations. Since then, the two companies had grown into their own fields of research, and while they were technically rivals under the law, the U.K. believed they were more involved with each other than was allowed.
And so Powers agreed, on two conditions: First, that he be completely included on all classified information about the U.S. outbreak, including the individuals and corporations responsible. A heavy condition, but a deal-breaker for him. And the second, that he used his own hardware. A much lighter condition compared to the former. So with those two conditions honored, he was sent off to a secret military installation in Pennsylvania to be fully debriefed. Additional documentation about the MR-1 creations, or Special Infected, made for interesting reading material. They were a force to be reckoned with, but nothing he couldn't handle. Compared to Horzine's creations, nothing could surprise him. Not a zombie invasion, nor a new breed of killing machines. Not even all of Dr. Allan's top secret information would frazzle his nerves of steel.
Looking back on it, he couldn't have been more wrong.
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Sergeant Powers arrived at the secret military installation known as Echo Rho Tau with his superior officer, Lieutenant Jenkins, a man who only came by his rank because he went to college, not earned through hard combat the way Powers had gained his own. The two Brits were led to a medical building where a gorgeous and rather curvaceous R.N. with long black curls and a sensuous smile greeted them.
"Lieutenant Jenkins, Sergeant Powers. Pleased to meet you. I'm R.N. Stevens, but you can call me Alexis," said the pleasant ebony woman who stood tall by most standards. Powers only nodded, face still hidden behind his gas mask. His superior officer, however, sported a cheeky grin when Alexis smiled politely at him. "Please follow me," she said.
She lead the two U.K. soldiers to an elevator that required more than a finger to operate as she swiped her card key through the reader. The elevator descended slowly, its three occupants standing stiffly as though they were waiting for a bus. Never one for awkward silences, Alexis spoke up.
"Why don't you take that mask off? Or would my perfume drive you into a frenzy?" Alexis asked the burly soldier with a coy smile.
Powers said nothing, his arms behind his back in a classic "parade rest" fashion.
"Your perfume's 'eavenly. The way a woman should smell." Jenkins commented.
Alexis continued, unabated. "Come on, don't I get to see the face behind that mask? Or maybe you have some hideous scar that you don't want anyone to see?" She asked, stepping into his personal space. "Or maybe you're just shy?" She said playfully.
"Sgt. Powers doesn't say much, and trust me from a superior officer, having a soldier who doesn't talk much is a blessing," the accompanying Lieutenant said, trying not to be too obvious with his flirting.
The ebony nurse pouted at the big man, completely ignoring the Lieutenant's remarks at conversation. "The strong silent type huh?" She asked, gently touching his upper arm, causing him to look right at her. She may as well have placed her hand on a marble statue, the man was solid as a rock and just as cold. Alexis shivered at the way he stared right through her. Even with the gas mask over his face, the man was intimidating.
Yet despite his harsh exterior and frigid indifference, Alexis could sense the human being inside. He put up a tough front to hide his humanity. The R.N.'s heart ached; it reminded her of someone she was more than fond of.
"You remind me of Francis, though he wasn't very quiet..." she said, a melancholy look in her eyes, complimenting the sad smile on her face.
"Who?" Asked the lieutenant.
"That's classified information, and it's not my place to talk about him further." Alexis said dismissively, quickly turning away as a tear formed in her eye. The elevator came to a stop, the doors opening slowly to reveal a small underground lab. A few beakers and some expensive looking equipment, but nothing more. Directly ahead of the trio was another door.
"Dr. Allan will tell you more about him and the others, and why we need your help." The R.N. said as she led the way to Dr. Allan's office, the sway of her ass nearly causing the lieutenant to trip over his own tongue. There was a time when the silent sergeant could appreciate a well shaped bum like hers, but he no longer saw the delicate nuances of beauty. Behind the tinted lenses of his gas mask he only saw two things: Friend or Foe.
Alexis opened the door to a small office, the desk completely covered in papers, including the computer that sat on it. And from behind this mass of papers stood a man who looked like he was long overdue on a good night's sleep.
"Dr. Allan, this is Sergeant Powers and Lieutenant Jenkins." Alexis said, introducing the two before standing at the doctor's side.
"Good to meet you both," Dr. Allan said, shaking Jenkins' hand and pausing when Powers only acknowledged the gesture with an empty stare from behind his mask. Dr. Allan shook his head as though trying to get his thoughts back on track. "To get right to the point," he said. "Sergeant Powers will be joining and perhaps leading the special ops group: R.E.S.C.U.E." Lieutenant Jenkins eyebrows rose at that, but Powers remained stoic. "Given the information from the UKSF about Horzine and his dossier, Sergeant Powers is the perfect man for the job. I'm on orders from the President to supply him with whatever he requires to get the job done."
"Before you draft the bloke and toss 'im in with a buncha pikeys you yanks call soldiers, there's our end of the deal to settle first." Lieutenant Jenkins said.
"Of course." Dr. Allan replied, pulling out a sealed metal briefcase with a complicated lock. "This is all the information about MR-1 and its genetic offspring, as well as all information we have about the recorded outbreak. Unfortunately Trihex's chief researcher Dr. Tyre died in a tragic... 'accident', and most of his work died with him. He was quite reclusive."
Lieutenant Jenkins eyed the doctor before securing the brief case. "But this is only 'alf the arrangement."
"How so? Everything about MR-1 is in there." Dr. Allan said, confused.
"Sergeant Powers requires answers to some personal questions," the Lieutenant said. "Both he and myself 'ave already been debriefed on the 'offspring' of MR-1, part of the arrangement between our Prime Minister and your President was that all parties involved are debriefed on the enemy, so there's no need to fill us in on that." Jenkins said causally.
Dr. Allan shrugged and turned to the quiet statue of a man. "Ask away."
And for the first time since his battle with The Patriarch, Sergeant Powers spoke.
"What 'appened to my sister?" Said a muffled, but no less intimidating, voice from behind the gas mask.
"Your late brother in law killed her; at least that's what he told me at the time. She was infected and beyond hope for a cure, so he put her out of her misery."
Powers' hand twitched, his head cocking to the side as a growl rose in his throat, his inner demon feeding on his outrage. His family's death had given birth to a dark side that pulled at his sanity and threatened his humanity. It was always with him, ready to control his actions when the rage filled his heart. But it was only during combat that Sgt. Powers submitted to it, letting go when he shed the blood of all Horzine's creations. It was a delicate balance, a tight rope to walk, but he managed to keep it contained. His control concealed his darkness the way his mask covered his face, but every now and then he would slip. His growl did not go unnoticed as Dr. Allan took a step back.
No. Channel the anger; save it for the infected. His sister was gone, and nothing would bring her back. The demon within reluctantly relinquished his humanity.
"And what 'appened to my late brother in law?" Powers asked, containing himself.
"Sergeant Malory died a true hero in the line of duty." Dr. Allan said. Alexis looked away for a moment, trying to keep her tears at bay.
"Tell me." Powers said, his fists clenching beneath his gloves as he tried to hold on to his composure. "Everything."
And for the better part of an hour, Dr. Allan retold the written events locked away in the secured briefcase, including some extra undisclosed information: The arrival of the five survivors arrived at Echo Rho Tau, and the turn of events that lead to the death of his brother in law, and the real fate of the insane Dr. Tyre. While Dr. Allan didn't know exactly what happened during the battle, Alexis had no problem recounting everything Francis told her during their last radio contact. These survivors had ultimately saved the world. True heroes to the end. Dr. Allan had dossier photos of all of them, including a picture of the deceased form of Dr. Tyre that he showed to both soldiers.
Lieutenant Jenkins stared slack-jawed, and even Sergeant Powers' eyes widened behind his mask as he stared at the photo. A soldier was standing next to the carcass to put its size into perspective. The soldier barely stood taller than the height of the huge creature's shoulder, flat on its back.
The burly sergeant felt a rather uncomfortable lump in his throat, causing him to swallow reflexively. His battle with the Patriarch was small potatoes compared to the fight these blokes had with this S-Tank creation, and his no-good, jackass of a brother in law had brought Tyre down and saved the world, along with five other survivors. He flipped through their photos, candid shots, apparently. Powers only briefly looked at each one, until he'd gone to the bottom of the pile, when he promptly felt his breath hitch.
The last photo was that of a beautiful woman who appeared to be singing to someone outside the camera's lens. Cascading from her head was a mane of shimmering platinum hair, its length causing it to spill halfway down her back, some of it covering her partially bared shoulders and her sizable chest. Her amber eyes appeared to glow with a lively fire, completely opposite the eerie glow the other infected seemed to possess. Her smile was the epitome of happiness, one the sergeant could relate to his late wife's beautiful smile when they'd first met. Her high cheekbones, pert nose, and soft full lips, coupled with her jaw-dropping figure, could break the resolve of any man. Her gray skin was an exotic and unique enhancement to her beauty. He'd even overlooked the massive claws on her hands at first, only noticing them as his eyes roved down her body. In the white margin below the photo was a hand-written name:
Eris
For the first time since he'd last held his wife, Sergeant Powers felt his heart racing, not out of rage but admiration. He stared at the photo of this enchanting creature for longer than a few moments, until the sound of a throat clearing snapped him out of it. He looked up to see Dr. Allan staring at him almost impatiently.
"So Tyre really didn't die in an accident." Powers said, finding his voice as he handed the photos to Jenkins. "He was yet another mad scientist obsessed with ruling the world with 'is 'children'?"
Dr. Allan nodded. "As I mentioned, most of his research was destroyed when he trashed the lab, but it was clear what his intentions truly were. That's why those five survivors are very important. Eris especially...
"A... Witch 'elped bring down Tyre?" Jenkins asked, finding his voice as he looked over the pictures. "Christ, I read the reports about them, saw some gruesome photos too. Those sick looking tarts are capable of a lot. Murderous, 'ateful bitches. An' awful on the eyes too." He stopped cold when he came upon Eris' photo, a hungry gleam in his eyes. "Corr! But this Witch's a hot dish isn't she? Blimey! Knockahs big as yer 'ead!"
"She's not a Witch," Alexis said harshly, more so at the way the lieutenant was ogling the picture with lustful eyes than anything else. "Her name is Eris, and although she looks similar to the MR-1 WTCH, I promise you she's NOTHING like anyone or anything you've ever encountered."
Lieutenant Jenkins actually felt a pang of fear when he saw the daggers Alexis glared at him. The ebony R.N. looked downright pissed at his casual remarks.
"Alexis is right in saying that Eris is not a typical S.I.," Dr. Allan said, interjecting. "In fact, I don't think you could even call her infected at this point. MR-1 merged with and rewrote her DNA."
Lieutenant Jenkins stared at Dr. Allan. "You mean she's a new species? That's impossible!" But Dr. Allan silenced him with a cold stare. He didn't want to disclose too much about her just yet. If things panned out the way he was hoping, everyone on the planet would know her story eventually.
"That aside," Dr. Allan continued, "she's the catalyst for furthering our research to developing a vaccine for MR-1."
"I thought the U.S. already had a cure." Jenkins said.
"A cure yes, though only 33% effective." Dr. Allan replied. "And we still need a vaccine to prevent the further spread of MR-1, and I believe Eris is key to that. Which leads me to R.E.S.C.U.E's first mission."
Powers groaned beneath his mask. "A bloody wild goose chase for one "friendly" infected person over the entire country? Bollocks! Yer off yer rockah!" From behind the massive sergeant, Jenkins nodded his head in agreement. It was barmy!
Dr. Allan leaned over his desk, palms flat on the worn wood as he glared at the two men. "I may seem crazy, but I assure you Sergeant, I'm very serious. Your mission will be to secure a number of overrun bases and establish them as safe havens for the uninfected. Moreover, you'll be looking for more uninfected. R.E.S.C.U.E's objective is just as the acronym sounds, to rescue survivors. And of course, you'll certainly be keeping a eye out for Bill, Zoey, Louis, Francis, and Eris.
"You're sayin' they're still alive? Bloody 'ell..." Jenkins mumbled.
"I'm damn near positive. They brought down the S-Tank, and I doubt there's anything that could amount to that battle. Even though we haven't heard from them since..." Dr. Allan sighed. The loss of radio contact always gnawed at his mind. He'd heard nothing from them since Alexis spoke with Francis, but there was always hope. Both he and Alexis were counting on the survivors' uncanny ability to beat the odds. It was the only way he could continue the research for a vaccine. "I took a Hippocratic oath to do whatever I could to help humanity, but I can't do it without them. Between their immune blood and Eris' genetic makeup, the fate of perhaps the entire United States depends on them. So if they're still alive, I need you to bring them back. Once that's done, I'll consider your services complete."
"And if they're pushin' up tha daisies?" Powers asked, his dry tone evident even filtered by his respirator.
"Then you're going to be involved in the 'clean up' portion of this operation for many a year," Dr. Allan said flatly. "I've spoken with the President about all this, and he agrees that developing a vaccine is a top priority, along with securing overrun military bases as safe havens for the uninfected. We're going to hopefully kill two birds with one stone."
Powers said nothing, only waiting for the answer to the obvious question: Where to go first?
"Your first assignment is Rayford, Georgia."
.
.
"Sergeant Powers!" A voice shouted before a hand landed on his shoulder. He was up in a flash, grabbing the stray hand on his shoulder and twisting the arm, bringing its owner down to the floor with a yelp of surprise. The two "new" soldiers gasped audibly, while three others were fast to draw their pistols.
"Blimey mate, ya wanna get tossed on yer bum for assaulting Captain Callahan?" Lieutenant Jenkins said, gently patting his shoulder. The man pinned to the floor was one of the American officers, no doubt coming to debrief them on the next mission, as if anything had changed from the last several times.
Powers let the captain go, who looked more afraid than angry at hm. He was quick to stand and straighten his uniform. The soldiers with weapons drawn cautiously replaced their pistols as the officer began to speak.
"The mission debriefing is as follows: The squad is to sweep the island for any infected and search for survivors. It goes without saying that you are not to split up under any circumstances," he said as he straightened out his uniform. Several soldiers mumbled quietly, the general consensus that this was nothing new. To try and go it alone was nothing short of suicidal.
"However, there's a change in leadership for this mission," Capt. Callahan said, pausing as the helicopter shifted, slowly descending. "Lieutenant Jenkins will not be leading this mission; he will remain on board. Sergeant Powers will be in charge."
Several soldiers turned to Lt. Jenkins, expecting a scowl or at least surprise, but the limey lieutenant showed neither. His casual demeanor revealed that he'd been expecting this, but it was still a surprise to the other soldiers as to why he wasn't upset about it. Lt. Jenkins smirked as Sgt. Powers stood to face the unit. He was a bit taller than the rest and his sheer size had a few of the soldiers looking sheepish, especially the "green" Yankee blokes.
"Powers doesn't say much, but when 'e does you can bet yer arse it's important, so listen up when 'e's talking!" Jenkins barked.
Capt. Callahan nodded as the huge helicopter finally touched down. "You are to carry out all orders that Sergeant Powers gives you. We will return once your sweep of the island is completed." The cargo bay door opened, revealing the sun-bleached sand of the beach. "Now move out!"
Sergeant Powers drew his katana and rushed out of the back of the helicopter, his squad right behind him with their weapons ready. Past experience was the infected would immediately swarm to any sort of commotion, so he fully expected to charge right into a mob ready to rush the helicopter.
But as he and his squad scanned the beach, weapons ready, only an ocean breeze greeted them. The helicopter's whine picked up as it lifted off, the loud whirling of the blades growing quiet as it gained altitude, fading out of sight in the mid-day sunlight.
"Looks like this island is deserted," one of the U.S. soldiers said, scanning the tree line that was a good fifty feet away from the beach.
"Shall we begin the sweep Sgt. Powers?" another asked.
The burly man was quiet, eyes tracing up and down the tree line that almost seemed endless. The sunlight glinted off his katana, the errant light reflected into his eyes. He blinked and brought his sword down. But as he did, the same glint sunlight off reflecting metal caught his eye again, only this time it was coming from the tree line.
"I see something!" A solider said from somewhere behind him, the sound of a rifle bolt being pulled back punctuating that remark. Several other soldiers raised their rifles too, having spotted a humanoid form emerging from the tree line, a raised sword in its hands. A katana, Powers noted, like his own. But the MR-1 zombies didn't know how to use weapons...
As it approached, its gait revealed it was not one of the infected. And as it drew closer still, its gender became quite apparent. A collective gasp echoed from his men, followed by quiet utterances and confused murmuring.
She, was a petite young woman in her early twenties, and she was almost completely naked, save for the remains of a very tattered pair of shorts that were probably full-length jeans at one point. Her smooth sun-kissed skin was a caramel color, slender, toned tummy glistening with a light coat of sweat from the mid-day heat. Her hair an untamed auburn flame that flickered and danced in the tropical breezes, the long, straight locks falling about her shoulders as the wind died down, partially covering the womanly charms on her chest. Her baby blue eyes sparkled like the clear waters of the ocean, but were narrowed with suspicion and hardened from combat. Her tanned face was peppered with darker freckles near her nose; pretty soft lips drawn into a frown. Her high cheek bones drew into a perfect symmetry with her face, further accentuating her neckline which had a necklace made of errant bones and flower petals draped around it. The necklace dipped low, leading wandering eyes to the handful-sized breasts just beneath it. Crowing those fruits of flesh were a pair of small brown nipples, perky, delectable, and no doubt darkened by the sun which gifted her such a beautiful tanned complexion. Her sword remained raised in a defensive manner as she approached them.
The survivor, who held the sword like an extension of her arm, was the perfect picture of a island warrior goddess: A toned body, darkened by the sun and tempered from combat. Eyes that could melt a man like butter, or freeze him where he stood. Hair a fiery mane that she tossed behind her shoulder with a flick of her head. She was a vivacious vixen who could lift you to heaven or send you to hell.
Sergeant Powers nodded in approval. This woman was hotter than a freshly fucked fox in a forest fire.
"I knew I heard a helicopter!" Said another voice from behind her. Powers blinked, he hadn't even noticed the other two survivors who were flanking this warrior princess on either side, like loyal bodyguards. To her left was a slender yet toned African American man, who looked darker than a midnight sky. He had a red tie wrapped around his otherwise bald forehead like a bandana. A pair of tattered boxers was all that covered him from the sunlight, and they looked like they could rip apart with a slight tug. His face was covered in unkempt facial hair.
"I hate soldiers." Said the gruff voice of the other male survivor. He wore a tattered leather vest and the remains of his own jeans. Numerous tattoos adorned his muscular arms, though they were fading from the constant sun exposure. He was a few shades darker than the girl in the lead, with a dirty mop of light brown hair. His face was covered with a grown out mustache and beard, though part of the hair was longer around his chin and lips. It was as though he'd kept a goatee when he was able to shave, and it was now growing longer than the rest.
All three of them looked like they'd been stranded on this island for a while, yet it didn't seem to dampen their spirits as they hurried towards the soldiers.
Powers waved a hand at his troops, signaling them to lower their weapons as the three island inhabitants drew closer. The caramel colored beauty walked right up to the leader, a man who not only made her two companions look tiny by comparison, but was very intimidating with his face completely obscured by the gas mask he wore.
"Nice necklace," she commented, eyes on the long blackened finger-like appendage hanging from the center.
The large soldier said nothing.
The island beauty eyed him carefully. "Interesting decorations. Is there a story behind them?" She said, reaching out to touch the large, blackened digit.
Powers raised his katana to define the boundary of his personal space and give the girl a scare, but the sudden "ting" of metal showed she wasn't the type who spooked easily. She'd already met his sword with her own, blocking his blade from touching her other hand. Her feet were apart in a defensive stance, yet she seemed relaxed. The sergeant couldn't help the smirk drawing over his lips, and he chuckled, actually chuckled, at the woman's lightning reflexes.
"I'll take that as a 'no'," she said, eyes still burning into him, sword unmoving.
"I don't know you well enough to get into that," the British soldier said, a cockney accent detectable behind his muffled voice. "Nice block by th' way."
"Thanks," she said flatly. "You always try to butter a girl up with your eloquence?"
"Only when my good looks don't reel them in first," Powers replied, a smile evident in his voice and rather foreign to him, given his overall demeanor over the last year or so. Something about this girl was refreshing... and familiar.
"So are you two gonna flirt all day or are we gonna get on with the introductions?" The tattooed, tanned survivor said irritably. The dark man looked a little perturbed too, but only nodded in agreement.
The soldier lowered his katana. "Sergeant Powers, part of the special operations group coded R.E.S.C.U.E., to seek out the uninfected and recruit them to help rebuild society."
"What society? I thought the whole U.S. was overrun by MR-1," the dark man said.
Powers cocked an eye. Not just anyone knew the code name for the mutated rabies virus, but he shrugged the thought off and continued, "The U.S. government, in coercion with the U.K. Special Forces, has been reestablishing military installations all over the east coast and deep south for the last nine months. While the U.S. isn't even close to 'back to normal,' humanity is reclaiming territory, and a number of survivors have been found."
"I hate the government," the tattooed man said. "They're the reason we're in this shit in the first place. God damn power-hungry bastards tryin' to engineer bio-weapons..."
This was too coincidental. If he didn't know better, Powers would say this vest-wearin wanker was more than just a conspiracy theorist.
"Anyway," the young bronzed beauty said. "My name's Zoey. This is Louis, and that's Francis," she gestured to the two men behind her, the dark man named Louis standing close behind her, as though he had a claim to stake on her.
Sgt. Powers stiffened, his heart raced. These were the ones he'd been searching for! At long last, he could return home!
He quickly pulled the radio from his belt. "Rescue Zulu, we have three V.I.P. survivors in need of immediate evac. Repeat, V.I.P. Survivors! Return to drop off point for rendezvous."
"Wait a minute, who said we wanted to be rescued?" Zoey asked. Louis and Francis nodded.
Sgt. Powers was no fool; he'd memorized the classified dossiers on these yanks. Louis was a systems analyst, and probably the most out of place "roughing it." Zoey was a college student, no doubt spoiled as well by the creature comforts of modern civilization. Francis was a biker, who probably had to deal with worse, but no doubt longed for the open road. This island was no more than a beach-front prison with a view. While these three wouldn't admit it, Powers knew they wanted off. They had done quite well surviving as long as they had, but they couldn't hold out here forever, and it was no way to spend the rest of their lives. Chances are they were only being difficult because they didn't trust the military, and hoping that some civilian group would find them, but that was a far off chance. R.E.S.C.U.E. had done numerous sweeps for ships along the coast, but had come up "dry." What little survivors were left were in pockets on the main-land, and all civilians were being routed to the reclaimed bases to assist rebuilding them.
The sergeant wasn't about to let these three paranoid Yankees keep him from going home. The thought of using brute force crossed his mind, but he dismissed it. He wanted to know first hand the accounts of the battle with Dr. Tyre, and the three survivors would be much more likely to share their experience if they came along willingly. No, he would have to be a bit more clever to "convince" them to return to Echo Rho Tau...
"Suit yourselves. You lot seem to be living it up like Robinson Crusoe." Sgt. Powers gestured to his men as the helicopter lowered onto the beach a good distance behind the group, its back door opening. His squad took on a quick trot and filed into the belly of the flying beast, leaving Sgt. Powers alone with the three survivors. "Dr. Allan will be disappointed, after all his research depended on us finding you three, but maybe he can take solace knowing you're all still alive."
"How's Dr. Allan doing?" Louis asked. He considered the doctor to be the only one out of the military research bunch who still had a firm grasp on morals.
"Not well. He's been making progress on developing a cure, though it's only 33% effective. His primary efforts are geared toward producing a vaccine so this virus can't continue to spread, but 'e needs more blood from immune survivors to continue his research. The doc works tirelessly, and if it weren't for that lively assistant of 'is, I'm sure the poor bugger would keel over."
"Wait," Francis said, stepping forward. "His assistant? Is that still.. uh... I mean is she..."
The muffled laughter could be heard behind the big man's gas mask. "'You refferin' to that black beauty of an assistant with knockas to die for?"
"Alexis?" Francis said, sounding hopeful and completely dropping his mask of distrust.
"That's 'er. Quite the flirt." The biker glared daggers at that comment, but the sarge continued. "She said I reminded 'er of a guy named Francis..."
The biker's eyes perked up at that.
"She got all teary-eyed when she mentioned your name," Powers said, egging him on.
The biker remembered himself, his tough-guy facade surfacing again. "Well... I guess I owe her a phone call. Said I'd keep in touch. And since you don't have a cell phone on you sarge, I guess I should go with you so I can tell her why I haven't called."
Powers laughed at that, the first time he'd full out laughed in a long time. Probably just the prospect of putting his military career behind him once he delivered these three survivors.
One down, two to go.
"What do you think Louis?" Zoey asked, turning to the dark man and laying a caramel-colored hand on his dark chest.
"I think that if you and I are going to get on with starting a family we need to have a physician present, and Dr. Allan's the only one I'd trust to deliver our future child." Louis said, gently kissing his love. "Besides... I have a good feeling about this."
Two down, one left.
Zoey smiled, fingers gently tracing down Louis pecs, the prospect of having his baby put butterflies in her tummy. The sound of the big sergeant clearing his throat snapped her out of her daydream. She looked up at the burly man again, his face unreadable behind the mask. While she didn't much like his generally passive attitude, if he was truly working with Dr. Allan then perhaps he could be trusted.
Besides, this punk ass bitch island was getting old really quick.
"Alright." Zoey said. "Let's go 'home.'"
.
.
The ride back in the helicopter was a long one, and generally quiet until Zoey decided to break the ice with the large, silent sergeant.
"So where are we going?" She asked.
"The final destination is Echo Rho Tau, but we'll be making a refueling stop in Rayford, Georgia."
Zoey shivered, the thought of the town the horrible memories causing goosebumps to rise over her skin. Sgt. Powers noticed the audible shiver, but attributed it to the cooler air of the helicopter's windowless bay. Not to mention several soldiers were still stealing glances at the college girl's bared bust.
" 'Ere, take this," he said, removing his large BDU jacket and handing it over.
"Thank you," Zoey sighed as she threw the jacket over her shoulders. Another shiver passed over her frame as she recalled when Bill had done the same thing for Eris, the first night they'd met her. God she missed them so much.
"We're stoppin' in Rayford for fuel? When we passed through, that town was overrun," Francis said.
"That town has been reclaimed, in fact it was the very first town that R.E.S.C.U.E 'liberated'," the sergeant said. "Walls have been built up around it, and the train station is operational. There's a decent number of military and civilians stationed there who are working to rebuild the entire town. Condemned buildings are being rebuilt or demolished. We've even been able to reroute power to the town from a nearby plant that was brought back online."
"How many bases have you guys brought back up?" Louis asked.
"We've reclaimed twenty so far, though very few of them are more than a skeleton crew working to establish perimeters. Only about four or five 'ave civilians stationed there and are considered safe zones."
"Must be tough," Francis said, running a hand over his overgrown facial hair. He seriously needed a close encounter with a razor before he saw Alexis again. "With all those damn commoners attracted to noise, dunno how you can even hammer a nail, let alone build a wall."
"That's where Dr. Allan's work 'as been a life saver. Even with a 33% success rate, the doc's been able to cure a small number of the 'common' zombies. The m'jority die from the treatment, but those that survive come back with a full memory."
"So Dr. Allan's been busy cleaning up the mess Dr. Tyre made." Louis asked.
"Yes. In fact he's even figured a means to bring sanity back to some of the special infected. Personally I don't like the idea, but its not my show to run." Powers said, bare arms visible now that his jacket was off.
"Bull shit!" Francis said. "Are you saying he's trying to save those freaks?"
Zoey glared at the biker. "Don't forget Francis, one of those 'freaks' saved our lives."
"Are we going to see these 'rehabilitated' special infected in Rayford?" Louis asked, a slight quiver in his voice.
"No. The specials...they're a unique lot. It's not about curing them, as much as it is giving them back their sanity," Powers said. "They suffer from complete memory loss, no doubt their viral transformation takes a toll on 'em. Dr. Allan has only managed to cure a dozen or so, and most of them are a wreck. Need counseling or anti-depressants."
There was a moment of silence while the survivors digested this information. Dr. Allan had mentioned Eris' unique condition was proof that this virus could be controlled, an endeavor that Tyre had thrown himself into... in more ways that one.
"So you three brought down the mad doctor Tyre after he transformed himself into one of his own creations?" The sergeant said, breaking the silence.
"We had some help," Zoey said, looking away for a moment. She hadn't thought about the fight for quite a while; too many painful memories. "But we're the only ones left..."
"Yes, one of those who fell was my brother-in-law, Xavier Malory." Powers said, sighing beneath his mask. "His wife, my sister, perished because of Dr. Tyre's experiments. I... feel some closure meeting the blokes and lass who delivered vengeance."
Zoey felt a pang of guilt, she'd forgotten about Xavier and Heather's mutual sacrifice. She was still thinking of Bill and Eris, who'd both survived the battle but now were gone forever.
The helicopter shifted, slowly descending over the town of Rayford, a place the survivors never thought they'd be returning to.
"I'm sorry about your brother-in-law," Louis said. "We lost two very close friends who may as well have been family."
"William Overbeck and the Siren prototype, Eris," Powers said. He waved a hand as the three survivors stiffened in surprise. "Again, I've been informed about all parties involved. From what I've read in the reports, it's no wonder those two lasted as long as they have."
The helicopter shuddered as it touched down, the back gate opening. Everyone stood, Powers gesturing to the survivors to take the lead.
"Had." Zoey sighed, correcting him, as they headed towards the open back door, the sunlight glaring on their eyes. "Bill died to protect us in Rayford. And Eris... she..."
Louis placed his arm around her shoulder, hugging the college girl as she fought back her tears. Though it had been nine months, their passing seemed like only yesterday.
Powers said nothing as they began to file towards the rear of the chopper. A number of military and medical personnel were waiting just outside, though two people stood closest to the helicopter as though expecting them. It was difficult to make them out with the sun back-lighting them. As the three survivors emerged into the sunlight, a familiar pair of faces came into view.
Francis felt his jaw fall open, Louis' legs turned to rubber, and Zoey felt dizzy as spots formed in front of her eyes. Not a word was uttered, until Zoey finally found her voice.
"Oh my God!" she cried, trying to keep from falling over. "You're... you're..."
"Hi guys," said a familiar voice. "Miss us?"
Zoey's eyes fluttered, then the ground rushed up to meet her.
.
.
A/N: Okay I understand a lot of you are probably wondering why I went into such detail about Sergeant Powers. Truth of it is, I wanted to introduce another character, though I can't claim total ownership of him. He's a character from a game known as Killing Floor (which is copyright of TripWire). It's similar to Left 4 Dead, though a lot tougher in my opinion, and fun in a different way. In a way this chapter could fall under the "crossover" category for stories. I may even write a story just for Killing Floor; it would be the first since it doesn't exist as a game category yet. :-)
And if anyone's interested in the picture of Sergeant Powers killing the Patriarch, you can see it on my deviant art page here: xmodius . deviantart . com / # / d3gzmct
In any event, I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and I promise you'll have an answer (of sorts) as to what happened. ;-) Stay tuned! And please review!