The 99th Platoon – The FlatFeet Saga
Act Two: Operation FlatFeet


(A/N This is the official start of Act 2 of the FlatFeet Saga, Operation FlatFeet. Honestly I'd write more here, but it's 1:08 AM and frankly, I'm really tired. There are particularly violent descriptions below and I have to ask you to understand why I chose to describe these violent scenes. It is to show how this Omega virus can completely overwhelm a relatively 'good' individual and lead the infected carrier, through fits of rage and violence, to what can almost be described as primal evil. FlatFeet himself can not be responsible for the consequences that the virus has upon him, as his will is shattered under the control of the Omega itself.)

Chapter 8: Images that Haunt


'Anthrax', proud owner of 'Anthrax's Bar', quietly wiped the bar down as he had done all these long years. Ever so softly he hummed an old tune he knew, a tune that spoke of war and victory; death and love; of times and an age he had long left in his past. The burly bartender swung his cleaning cloth over his shoulder and folded his arms. He watched with curiosity as he most valued, yet most destructive clientele, sat round numerous tables, beer bottles in hand; their loud talk and laughter becoming a constant droning hum of voices.

Pyst slammed a downed shot glass against the bar's table, wiping his lips and gesturing to Deja's glass that she gripped between three fingers. Numerous empty bottles and glasses adorned the table. Deja smiled shrewdly and swallowed the burning alcohol in one gulp. She placed a hand on her hip then drew back gingerly. Her wounds still stung when probed.  CoolGuy slapped his head in dismay, passing $10 to both Pyst and Deja before walking over to the bar to ask for a beer on store credit.
Cartman and RedStorm, recovering rapidly under Mon's supervision, sat quietly on a comfortable sofa up the back. They watched intently as Ricy and Blaze played an intense game of darts. Ricy's left eye shrunk as he aimed his telescopic vision and let the dart fly. He smiled as he nailed the double twenty. Blaze readied his shot, spreading his legs wide. Quickly he grabbed the dart by its tail and flung it, like a throwing knife, directly hitting the bull's-eye. Ricy raised a scaled finger skyward.
Squeaky tossed an extra $20 bucks into the centre of the table. He looked at Chael, his face blank. Chael fanned his cards out again in one palm, checking his hand again, before calling Squeaky's bet. They turned to the Brazilian medic. Mon shook his head and placed his cards face down on the table. He began casually shuffling the deck, waiting to see which of the two would win the substantial amount of money that had gathered on the table. Squeaky grinned as he fanned out a straight flush. He raised his paws to scoop up the cash, but froze at the sight of a royal flush. Mon swished down some beer, smiling.
Dark had spun a chair round and he leaned his chest against the backrest, a glass of a deep, fragrant red wine resting gently between his hands. His tail swished through the air casually as he relaxed. He was rarely ever relaxed, but he found that it was only among his fellows, after a mission, that he could stop and have a breather. He watched Stealth pace slowly round the pool table, trying to decide where to take the next shot. The Squirrel leaned over lining up all the variables, before sending the coloured balls in various directions. He passed the stick to Dark as his turn came up.

Only Oreos refused to join in the after-mission celebrations. This had been the first mission that was placed specifically under his command. He had allowed for three captures to occur and had lost one of the Platoon's brightest young minds. He gazed at the muted television screen as its pale-blue light danced hypnotically across that corner of the bar. Idly he channel surfed until he came to a channel broadcasting the news.
He reached for his black dinner jacket, his signature piece of attire, and reached inside the inner pocket.
He still had it. Psi. The antidote.
"I'm sorry Josh," he mumbled. He placed the vial back in his jacket and took another large swig out of a bottle of scotch. He paused in mid-drink and looked at the television screen in front of him. He quickly turned the sound of the T.V. up to maximum volume.
"Quiet!" he yelled, and a rapid silence descended upon the bar. As the newscaster continued the story more and more of the 99ners gathered round the screen to hear the whole story.

 "This is just in… The inhabitants of a small costal town, Dusty, outside of the Windy state, have all been brutally maimed and murdered… Ladies and gentlemen our reporter is on the scene. Due to the violent and gory nature of these images, we ask you to view at your own discretion, as the images may disturb some viewers. We now go, live, to Dusty…"

The Red Squirrel reporter walked slowly through the deserted streets of Dusty, a handkerchief tied around his mouth and nose.
"There is a powerful odour in the air…the whole city reeks of it…"
Dark-red liquid stained the streets, roads and walls in various shapes and formations.
"It is the smell of death, as it has overrun this poor costal town. From the blood that, literally, covers most of the city, we can deduce that the victims were either torn or smashed to pieces…"
Small chunks of flesh were now noticeable as the reporter made his way to one particular household. A giant hole had been smashed through a typical suburban house, as if something had rammed through it to get at the inhabitants hiding inside.
"I can only describe this…horror…as the work of a monster. There is not a soul survivor inside the whole city." The reporter struggled slightly as he clambered over the debris and into the darkness of the house. The camera shook as the camera man followed.

"The stench inside here is overwhelming," the reporter gasped. The camera switched to night-shot mode, everything turning an eerie green colour.
"It is a terrible sight to behold ladies and gentlemen. Whatever did this seemed to have torn the house apart until it found its victims and -" Suddenly the reporter screamed as he entered what may have been a bedroom. He ran back out, trembling.
"You okay?" the cameraman asked. The reporter looked like he was going to be sick. The cameraman marched on, not paying attention to the reporter's pure shock.
The camera shook violently as the cameraman jumped in surprise. In the brief seconds of clear footage two large-sized completely mauled bodies and two smaller ones, equally ravaged, were found.
Suddenly both froze as they heard a noise from within the bedroom.

"What was that?" the reporter asked. With a nerve-shattering roar, something large and bloodied leapt onto the reporter. The Squirrels screams were quickly silenced. The camera dropped to the ground showing two large flat feet chasing after the fleeing cameraman.
There was another blood-curdling scream as what appeared to be whole chunks of flesh landed in front of the camera screen. Without warning the same large flat foot landed in front of the camera and the live feed died.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the newscaster trembled, her face as pale as a sheet, "I do not know what has just happened but…but… I-I…" she stammered on helplessly trying to control herself before she got out of her chair and ran off screen. Retching sounds could be heard before she quietly came back to her seat.
"Those was our best investigative reporting team, two bright young boys always eager to delve and find the truth through their story… They are-are now d-dead…" She held her head in her hands as her voice filled with emotion. She looked behind the camera, looking at the other crew member's, equally shocked by what they had just seen.
"I can't do this," she whispered before running off of the set.

Oreos switched the television off.
He turned to face the gathered Platoon.
"Did you guys see that?"
They all nodded.
"There's no doubt about it," someone said, "that was FlatFeet."
"He's alive…" Dark whispered.
"He's alive and insane. He just killed two Squirrels with his bare hands," Oreos stated, rising from the chair. "He wants blood…and he's getting it."

"Well, look on the bright side of it," Pyst said, "In addition to getting piss drunk we can also have a whole lot of fun and go an hunt down FlatFeet!"
"He said it wrong," Oreos said dryly, "But he's got the right idea. We've got to round up FlatFeet."
"Great!" Pyst laughed, running behind Anthrax's bar and grabbing the emergency shotguns hidden there.
Chael held out a shiny ammo clip.
"We'll need this Oreos. They're tranquillisers."
"Why tranqs?" someone asked.
"We can't kill FlatFeet now, can we?" He loaded the tranq clip into his own private side arm.
Oreos nodded, then pulled out the antidote. He held the vial out for all to see.
"No celebrating till FlatFeet gets a dose of this."
Pyst ran over, handing out the guns as he went. He looked at the vial in Oreos' hand.
"A toast? Heh heh! Don't mind if I do thanks!"
He snatched the vial and gulped it down before anyone could react.
"Now!" he armed the weapon, "Let's get FlatFeet!"
"Pyst?" Chael asked sourly. Pyst turned. Chael fired a dart, knocking Pyst to the ground. Suddenly he climbed back to his feet.
"I am so gonna kick you're -"
Chael fired another seven darts into Pyst's chest.
"…ass. Aw…hell…"
He slumped to the ground. Blaze looked at Oreos.
"What do we do now?" he asked. Oreos turned to Mon and Chael. Mon shrugged.
"We have to wait for Pyst's system to…excrete the chemical…" Mon said disgusted. Chael nodded, an equal look of distaste on his face.
"I can filter it out again."

"Right. We've got to get a hunting party together as soon as possible. I'm not asking for any of you to come if you don't want to. FlatFeet's condition was my mistake, my responsibility. We've got to stop him, now that he's a bloodthirsty killing machine. By tomorrow, before he can do further harm, we'll launch the recovery operation…we'll launch Operation FlatFeet."