Six Years before the Storm
SFA Battalion 5 Command Post
Under gas attack by Melendi zealots
Rated PG-13, for some graphic content.
Bat 5 comm tent: Specialist David Dedrick and PFC Ryan Stuckey
Outside the tent, the cries of alarm were now punctuated by the sound of automatic rifle fire. In the darkness of the blacked-out comm tent, Dedrick could no longer see PFC Stuckey, nor could he tell if PFC Trager had returned from the truck.
Dedrick knew he needed to get his hazard gear on - in fact he already had his hooded mask grasped in his left hand. His right hand, clad in a VR glove, danced across the input pad attached to his right thigh, while his eyes followed on the HUD visor. It took him only seconds to broadcast an alarm from the battle comp to all squad leaders, warning them of the chemical attack.
Swiftly, Dedrick released the chinstrap and flipped the HUD visor out of his way as he took off his helmet and set it on the sand beside the battle comp. He was turning his hazard mask over, opening the hood so he could pull it on when the pressure wave from a nearby blast hit the comm tent, accompanied by the hollow whoompf sound of an explosive charge.
With the HUD visor off, Dedrick could see the wall of the tent billow inward, lit from outside by the exploding ordnance. The heavy fabric struggled for an instant against the blast wave, then tore loose from its anchors. The roof and remaining sides of the tent swelled outward as the fireball rolled into the tent, carrying sand and deadly gas with it. Red-hot shrapnel, remnants of the gas canister, tore through the air. Silhouetted against the explosion, Dedrick saw Stuckey as the blast knocked him from his feet. The air was hot, and sour-tasting, and Dedrick clamped his mouth shut, holding his breath as he pulled the hazard mask over his head and sealed the hood.
Scrambling to his feet, his eyes stinging, Dedrick fought his way through the now-collapsing tent to reach PFC Stuckey. He hit the purge valve on his mask, shooting a harsh blast of compressed air through the breathing apparatus. He could still sense the sour taste in his mouth, coating his tongue, so he raised the lower edge of the mask and spat on the ground. Then he purged the breather again.
Though his vision was being obscured by tears as his body reacted to the irritant in his eyes, Dedrick still managed to get to Stuckey's side. The last few feet he navigated more by feel and memory than by sight. Dropping back to his knees, he felt for Stuckey's arm, raising the soldier's upper body and resting it against his own. The man was making odd, bubbling noises that sounded like groans of pain. Dedrick felt past Stuckey's shoulder, reaching his neck and finding that his hazard mask was gone. Through his gloves, Dedrick could tell that the PFC's neck was coated with blood, but he could not see the wound. He called out for PFC Trager, but the gas mask muffled his voice and he received no answer.
He held Stuckey by the shoulders, repeating again and again through tears that weren't entirely caused by the gas, "Hold on, Ryan. Just hold on, man. Help is coming."
His blurred vision spared Dedrick the harsh sight of Stuckey's true condition. Pink foam covered his lower face, gurgling out of his mouth as he tried to scream. Blank eyes stared upward, unmoving as the nerve agent destroyed his muscle control, and blistered by other chemical agents in the gas. His exposed skin was quickly turning whitish and gooey, and where he bled from shrapnel wounds the flowing blood seemed to fizz as it contacted the contaminated air.
Dedrick still held on to his fellow soldier, still told him that help was coming, even as Stuckey shuddered and died. Around him, the light from the flares high above the CP was slipping away, as the dark of night was replaced by the black void of blindness. Dedrick heard the crunch of boots on the sand behind him, felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see who it was.
There was nothing there but the darkness.