Up ahead, Greg spied the looming shape of the warehouse, perched at the end of the lengthy road they'd been driving down. So far, Chad hadn't said anything else. Or, if he had, it had been lost to the winds. Either way, Greg was fine with that. The less he had to hear from the man the better. Mainly, he just wanted to confirm whether or not this was a desperate bid for survival and the man was lying, or if the place was ripped open and robbed already. It seemed unlikely, given the amount of supplies that was supposed to be in here, but stranger things had happened. As he pulled up, eyeing the exterior, he saw that it at least looked intact.

Greg parked right next to the front doors, killed the engine, and hopped out. "Larsen, stay here and keep an eye out."

"Got it."

Izzy joined him as he approached the front entrance, which was a large set of metal doors closed and sealed firmly against the elements. He tried them, but they wouldn't give. He looked at a little weather-proof pad built into the wall next to the door, then looked back at the Warthog. "What's the code?" he asked.

"I don't know," Chad replied. Greg turned fully around and stared at him. He sighed, exasperated. "I'm the goddamned CEO! I've never even been out to this warehouse."

Greg stared at him a moment longer, then turned to Izzy. "Can you do it?" he asked.

"Gimme a minute," she replied, and crouched in front of the pad. Greg suppressed the urge to sigh in irritation and instead looked out over the snowy wastelands surrounding the isolated warehouse. It really was out in the middle of nowhere. He wanted to report to Becker, but stepped on that urge, because he knew he just wanted to get an update from the man, and he didn't feel like bothering him until he had definitive answers for him. Honestly, he really wanted to deliver the news that they had indeed found a huge store of food and meds.

Several minutes ticked by in the cold as Izzy dug into the electronic guts of the control panel, and just about the time he was going to suggest just blasting their way in, because he was seriously losing patience, the door slid open.

"Got it," she said, sounding satisfied as she rose smoothly to her feet.

Greg brought his shotgun up and hit the barrel-mounted flashlight. He pointed it into the opening, at the large, open space beyond. He and Izzy stepped in and cleared the immediate area. To the right was a stairwell that led to a second story.

"Check it," he whispered, motioning towards the stairs.

She nodded tightly and hurried off, ascending quickly. There were, at least, a ton of crates around. Greg began to move among the stacks, double-checking that the warehouse was clear. He didn't smell anything, didn't hear anything, but you never knew. Five minutes passed as he checked out the shadows and alcoves between the stacks of silver crates, and he found nothing. No sign or trace of Flood or human or anything else. As he returned to his point of origin, he spied Izzy coming to stand at the edge of a catwalk overhead.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nothing. We're clear," she replied.

"Perfect. Let's get some of these open."

She hurried back down to join him, and the pair of them spent the next several minutes prying open a random sampling of the crates from several different stacks. As soon as he popped the first open, relief hit him hard. He saw packs and packs of freeze-dried food. He checked another and found an entire crate of antibiotics. Another of antiviral medications. He and Izzy checked a few more, just to be safe, but he soon felt confident they'd hit the jackpot. He quickly activated his radio and made the call to Becker.

This time, it took close to two minutes for anyone to respond.

The voice sounded professional, but very distracted. "This is Outpost Adamant, I hear you, Corporal. Over."

"I need to speak with Sergeant Becker ASAP, over," Greg replied.

"Um...all right. Hold. Over."

Another lengthy pause, this one longer than the first. He shared a nervous glance with Izzy. Finally, Becker came onto the line. "Tell me you've got good news for me, Walker. Over." He sounded worse than before.

"Yes. We've hit the jackpot. There has to be several tons of food and medicine stored here. Enough for hundreds of people, thousands maybe. Over."

"Oh thank God," he groaned. "Okay, get back here pronto. Over."

"On our way. What's the situation there? Over."

"Secure, but that's changing by the hour, it seems. Damned Flood got in through a side entrance last time you called. We killed them, but there's a lot of the bastards around. Get here as fast as you can, I need you and Serrano for a special op. Over."

"Understood. We can fit some supplies in the back of our Warthog. What would be most beneficial right now? Over."

"Antibiotics and bandages. That's what we need the most. Painkillers after that. Morphine, ideally. Grab what you can and then double-time it over here. Out."

Greg and Izzy got to work, sorting through the crates. They managed to find two full crates of each kind of supplies needed and hastily loaded them into the back of the Warthog with Larsen and Chad. Once they were secured, Izzy went and locked the warehouse back down, and then they hopped back into the Warthog and took off.

As they drew closer to Outpost Adamant, (had that ever been brought up before? He honestly couldn't remember if he'd heard the actual name or not), Greg heard gunfire. A shitload of it. It filled him with hope, and fear. Obviously they were still there, still fighting. But so were the Flood. He gunned it.

"What's going on?!" Chad cried.

"Sit down, shut up, and don't move!" Greg roared back at him. "We're going in! Get ready!"

Three Combat Forms ran onto the road in front of them as they approached the outpost, which he remembered was set up in an old refueling station. He slammed into them, speeding up, and sent them flying through the air, splattering the windshield with green gore. Izzy let out a shout that sounded like a grim, primal kind of joy, and he felt his heartbeat picking up the pace. He got on the radio as they made their final approach.

"Friendlies approaching in a Warthog from the north! I repeat, four friendlies approaching from the south in a Snow Warthog!" he shouted.

He didn't get a response, but hopefully no one would shoot them on accident. The refueling station was set a little ways back from the road, its right side, the side they were approaching from, beset by a dense treeline. As they cleared the trees, Greg finally got his first look at Adamant. He was very happy to see that it wasn't just a gas station but a proper refueling station for, he guessed, flight transports. Out front were a pair of landing pads that were littered with corpses, most of them flood. Beyond that a scaffold-like metallic structure that was serving as an excellent watchtower for a dozen Marines, and beyond that he saw the main structure.

A mesh fence surrounded the whole thing, but it was broken open in several places, including the front gate. So Greg took advantage of that and drove in through the bashed-open gate. Behind him, Larsen opened fire, as did Izzy with her pistol. He was tempted to leave the Warthog there, hop out with his shotgun and get to work. He saw dozens of Flood attacking the base, most of them streaming out of the treeline to the right and leaping over the fence or coming in through the opening. But he had Wellington to think of.

Even though they'd already gotten what they wanted out of him, Greg didn't plan to throw him to the wolves. He'd come through, and Greg wasn't one to leave his debts unpaid. So he kept on driving, going around the landing pads and running down another six Combat Forms. "Larsen! Get ready to hop out, climb up there, and assist!" he shouted.

"Ready!" Larsen replied.

Greg hit the brakes as they got next to the scaffolding and as soon as Larsen was out, he hit the gas once more and drove on. He spied the main entrance to the structure. A trio of Combat Forms had gathered there and were trying to get in. His sights set on them, he hit the brakes again a few meters short, and he and Izzy hopped out, shotguns blazing. They put the Flood down in a few seconds, blasting their gory remains across the front doors.

"Watch him!" Greg snapped, and jogged over. As Izzy hurried back to the Warthog, he banged on the doors. "Friendlies! Open up!" he roared.

There was a pause, then the door opened and he was greeted by a shotgun barrel. It lowered immediately and a pale, wide-eyed Marine came into view.

"Shit, sorry," he said. "They've been trying to get in, who are you?"

"Corporal Walker. Izzy, get him over here!" Greg yelled. "We've got a civilian that needs to get inside to protection."

"All right, hurry up." He paused, listening to the overlapping waves of gunfire. "Jesus, it's bad out there, isn't it?"

"From what I saw, yeah." He turned and made room as Izzy and Wellington hustled over. Chad pushed right past all three of them into the base.

"Down the hall, last door on the right!" the Marine called after him. Someone was rushing down the hallway towards them, another Marine.

"They're trying to get in the back!" she warned.

The first Marine grimaced, then looked at Greg and Izzy. "I can't leave this door unguarded. Can you-"

"We're on it. Secure this door," Greg replied.

"Thanks." The Marine shut and sealed it.

"Let's do this," Greg growled, raising his shotgun and hurrying along the front of the building. They moved past windows that had been shuttered against the cold and the Flood, and as they approached the next corner, he could hear growling and banging. Behind him, the omnipresent rattle of battle and assault rifles and pistols as the outpost's defenders fought for all their lives. Greg made it to the corner of the structure first and pressed his back to the wall, taking a precious few seconds to get his shit together and make sure his gun was ready for action, then he peered around the corner. A half-dozen Combat Forms were gathered at the back entrance.

"Come and get it!" he screamed as he stepped around the corner, leveled the shotgun, and fired at the nearest one. It had its back to him, so, consequently, it got a hole blown through it and splattered the others with green gore. They all immediately turned to face this new threat and began rushing towards them. Greg sidestepped as he blasted another one off its feet, giving Izzy room to take his previous position and do the same thing. Between the two of them, they managed to put down all six of the horrific, misshapen monsters.

Greg scoped the situation out in the rear of the base as he fed more shells into his shotgun. They seemed to be clear, and out front, the gunfire sounded like it was dying down. "Head back the way we came, secure that side, I'll go down the other side and we'll meet back at the Warthog," Greg said as he finished reloading.

"Check," Izzy replied, and jogged off.

Greg headed down the length of the old metal structure, past shuttered windows and weather-tortured metal plates. He wondered briefly how old the facility was, how many winters it had seen, what conditions it had stood up to. Then he reached the corner and shook off the distracting thoughts. Had to finish securing this outpost. Around the corner was another stretch of land, an alleyway of about ten feet in breadth between the fence surrounding the property and the side of the main structure. There were a few Flood corpses near the opposite end and nothing else. The snow was undisturbed. Greg moved down it, looking through the mesh fence. A dark line of trees sat a little ways away. They seemed quiet for now, but they could hold anything.

He winced at the sight of the fence. It was so flimsy. This was such a terrible place for a refuge against the Flood, but clearly Becker and his Marines were doing everything they could, and honestly, based off of what he saw and the opposition he knew the Flood presented, it was a miracle that they were still as in control as they were.

But how long could that hold up?

He reached the other end of the alleyway, kicking the Flood corpses just to be sure they were really corpses, and came back around. He saw Izzy making her way to the Warthog, and the Marines atop the scaffolding were picking off stragglers at this point.

"Now what?" Izzy asked.

"Let's go see if they need help," Greg replied, though mainly because he just felt like he needed to be doing something. He was still pretty amped up on adrenaline. They made their way over to the scaffolding and came to stand near the ladder where they'd dropped Larsen off. He looked out over the landing pads he'd driven by barely ten minutes ago. There wasn't anything left standing, thankfully. Just a field of corpses littering the pads and the open space around them. There were probably a good fifty or sixty dead Flood, with a few dead Marines mixed in there, unfortunately. Greg let out his breath in a long sigh when he realized the fight was really over.

"Oh shit, is that Walker?" a familiar voice asked from overhead.

Greg glanced up. "Yes, Sergeant," he replied, seeing a man looking down at him from atop the scaffolding. "Corporal Greg Walker and Lance Corporal Isabella Serrano reporting in."

"About damn time you got here," Becker said. "Don't move."

He climbed down the ladder and beckoned them a little ways away from it to make room for the others coming down. He studied them, and they studied him. Becker looked about what Greg thought he'd look like: tired, pale, miserable. Older than he'd figured, though, but that didn't really mean anything. Greg had met thirty year olds that looked as old as Becker did now. He might have been thirty, or he might have been pushing into his fifties. After a moment, Greg decided he was probably somewhere in his early forties, something about his eyes and the way he carried himself. Clearly he'd been through a lot.

Finally, he thrust out his hand and shook with him and Izzy in turns. "Where's that CEO and where's the last member of my scouting party?" he asked.

"CEO's inside. Larsen's up there." Greg glanced up. "Here he comes now."

Becker turned and looked as Larsen descended the ladder. He stepped over when he noticed them looking at him. "Sergeant," he said.

"It's good to see you, Larsen. I'm sorry about your squad."

Larsen sighed unhappily. "Me too."

A look came over his face then, and Greg could instantly read it. It was the look he surely got whenever he'd adopt that tone of voice over the radio, the one that said: I'm about to ask you to do something really damned annoying, frustrating, and/or dangerous. Greg steeled himself, but it wasn't as hard as he thought it might be to prepare.

"What do you need from us, Sergeant?" he asked, standing up a little straighter.

"Come inside. We need to talk in my office," he replied after considering it for a moment. "Get those bodies outta here! Two men on guard duty at all times up there!" he called back up. A string of affirmative replies came back. Becker led them back to the main entrance and gave the all clear as he headed inside. He quickly checked in on a few others, getting quick answers to his curt questions, and Greg saw several civilians packed into some of the rooms they passed. They all looked the same: terrified, exhausted, miserable.

He almost felt guilty, seeing them. All the civilians he'd seen so far had been dead, (except for Chad), so they'd been sort of faraway, their time had already come and gone. But now they were here, and he had to face them, even if just in his own mind. He could fight, because he knew how. He'd dedicated years of his life to fighting and learning how to survive and even if, technically speaking, practically anyone could fight if forced into it...there just wasn't a comparison there. Fighting in a war, effectively, at least, wasn't just learning to shoot a gun accurately. It was so much more than that, developing a dozen different crucial skills over the course of weeks and months and, if you were lucky enough, years. And the Flood…

Even the most veteran among his ranks balked at fighting them at least a little.

Becker finally got them back to a cramped office after ensuring that the building remained secure and he'd sent a few of the Marines out there to help get rid of the bodies. Once they were inside, he shut the door and then sat down heavily behind his desk, which was littered with datapads and empty cups of coffee and the remains of a few meals.

"So I'll level with you because time is a factor," he said, staring up at them with a grim expression. "We're on borrowed time here, if something doesn't change. The attacks are getting worse and more frequent. I've had to stop sending out Marines to render assistance because we're understaffed as it is. You seem pretty damned good at getting the job done, so...I'm afraid I need your help. Everyone here needs your help."

"We're ready to serve, Sergeant," Greg replied.

"That's exactly what I needed to hear." For a moment, he looked stymied, and Greg had the idea that there were several things he needed done, and he wasn't sure where to start. Then he reached out and grabbed one of the datapads. Firing it up, he looked it over. "Okay, first thing's first, the last group I sent out about four hours ago. They were a small squad of just three, and I sent them with our last Warthog to recover a shipment of weapons and medical supplies from a Pelican that went down during the anomalous weather event."

He handed them the datapad, and Greg accepted it, studying the map on the screen quickly. "Find them and find the Pelican. They should be at the same place. Last report from them was an hour ago, that they had almost reached the Pelican."

"It took them three hours to get to the Pelican?" Greg asked.

"No, no. They had a series of places to check out along the way. It shouldn't take you more than half an hour to get there in a Warthog. If at all possible, recover them and the supplies, and then radio in and let me know. I'd like to have one of you come back in that carrier hog, and then take the second Warthog, provided it's still intact, and do another job for me. There's a second comms relay out here and it's offline. We need to be able to contact a higher command. I was sent here on orders from the Regional UNSC HQ, about two hundred miles north of here. It's been days since we last talked, but I'm positive it must be due to the lousy radio equipment and the anomalous weather in the region. You do that, then you can get a break."

"Understood," Greg said.

"I appreciate it. Stop by the armory and grab whatever you need. Keep in touch."

"Got it. We'll be back as soon as we can, Sergeant," Greg replied.

"Good luck."

They left his office and prepared to go back out into the cold once again.