May 9th, 2004
4:45 AM
Fort Pastor

In Afghanistan during Kyle's first ever deployment, the sound of Johnny Cash's Ring of Fire was the signal shells were incoming towards their location. One time, the team leader had put that song on over the speakers of their CHU window, the fifth day of the tour. It had sent every last one of them scrambling out of bed, frantic and fearful as the sound of trumpets blasted through their makeshift sleeping quarters. By the time Kyle had his pants on and grabbed his rifle, the team leader was laughing so hard he couldn't stand, tears running down his face. A cruel joke at their expense, but nothing more.

He desperately wished that was the case today.

At 4 AM, the alarm had sounded.

By 4:10, they were being debriefed.

And what an unbelievable debriefing it had been.

"The reports of the attacks started yesterday morning, with sparse incidents that slowly escalated all over the country, then globally," the operator had told them. "Within the last few hours, it has become evident that law enforcement has lost all control of the situation. This is why we are going in and make no mistake, we are in Threatcon Delta. Now here comes the real crazy part: we just got an official statement from one Dr. Dana Stirling that, apparently, the people we're dealing with are all dead."

The room had erupted into confusion.

"Sir, with all due respect," an officer across the room had asked, "what the hell does that mean?"

Despite how crazy it sounded, the operator had been nothing but serious: "It means exactly what I said it means. According to the CDC, the people responsible for these attacks are, for all intents and purposes, dead and somehow still moving. All the reports we've had substantiate this claim. Reasoning with them has failed. Non-lethal deterrents have failed. The only thing they seem to understand is lethal force and that's exactly what we're authorizing. 1st Battalion, you are being deployed to Milwaukee, effective immediately. Gear up and get ready to go. At 0500 hours, you'll be deployed to an FOB outside the city where Major Romero is waiting to give you the battle plan."

Lethal force on their own citizens; it was a difficult idea to fathom. Nobody signed up to the military to shoot their own people, dead or not, but the order had been clear. If there was any doubt left, there certainly wasn't any by the time people started handing weapons out. Fresh, crisp, full metal jacket rounds were loaded into every magazine.

"Jesus Christ..." Kyle muttered to himself as he checked over his equipment.

His primary weapon was an M21, a sniper rifle chambered in 7.62x51mm. It was a ten pound bastard, currently fitted with an AimPoint reflex scope. The larger, more complex 3-9x scope he relied on for long distance shooting – not suited for the direct urban combat they were going to be seeing – was tucked away in his bag. He always carried it with him, regardless of circumstance. Kyle was a sniper first and foremost, after all; squad marksman was just a side-gig.

People assumed he preferred the hefty wooden rifle over the lighter, polymer based M16s due to the fact it carried larger bullets which packed a lot more punch. While this was certainly a benefit, it wasn't the reason. No, the actual answer was much more simple.

James Faulkner had lived across the street from them back home in Colorado. He'd brought his M14 home with him after his time in Vietnam and swore by its reliability. It was the first gun Kyle ever fired and was a weapon he'd gotten to know well. When his son Robbie had died a much too early death, James rewrote his will and left the rifle to Kyle instead.

Currently, it was sitting in a gun safe at his mother's house.

In Kyle's mind, it only made sense to pick a weapon he had been using almost all his life.

Besides his rifle, he carried an M9 pistol, same as the rest of his crew, for a sidearm. Four M67 frag grenades, four M18 smoke grenades. Flares, radio, plated vest. An M9 bayonet. Six magazines for his rifle, three for his pistol, with enough spare ammunition to double up on each gun.

A standard loadout for a not-so-standard operation.

"Lieutenant Ambrose?" came the young voice of an all too familiar soldier.

"What is it?" Kyle asked without looking back.

Seven years his junior, Kim Liu was a 21 year old Chinese immigrant. He was a Specialist in Kyle's battalion, under his direct command in his platoon. Unlike the majority of those who found themselves at Fort Pastor, he had no outstanding reason for being here. This just happened to be his station.

Besides Salt, he was perhaps the only person Kyle truly and wholly considered a friend on this base. He was on good terms with everyone, of course. Camaraderie was a natural side-effect of being in the military, but it was hard to feel like you had friends in a place you didn't want to be in.

Especially when you wouldn't let anyone get closer than absolutely necessary.

Despite Kyle's coldness, Liu had been persistent in his attempts to befriend him. It hadn't earned the kid much more than silent appreciation and perhaps only the tiniest bit more than the smalltalk he offered everyone else.

"Do you believe what they said? That these people are dead?" Liu asked, hovering in the doorway. He was doing his best to keep the worry out of his voice.

"I don't know what to believe," Kyle answered honestly. Finally he turned around. "All I know is that these guys are out there tearing the city apart and killing civilians. People are dying and we need to stop it. That's all we need to know, Liu. That's our prerogative, nothing else."

"Yeah." Liu said, nodding.

"Good," Kyle affirmed, choosing to ignore the uncertainty in the others voice. "Now go double check your equipment. Make sure your M16 is dialed in, there's no room for mistakes on the battlefield."

Liu flinched. "Alright."

Kyle hesitated as he turned away. "Hey, Liu," he said quickly.

He paused, looking back.

"I'm counting on you out there." Kyle said with full sincerity.

That seemed to relax him. Liu smiled and gave an affirmative nod. "Sir," he said, then turned and left.

Despite his young age, Liu happened to be the best naturally gifted marksman the Lieutenant had ever seen; he regularly scored higher than even Kyle himself. No small feat. Kyle had been shooting for as long as he could remember. There was only one other person besides Liu who came anywhere close to Kyle's precision and patience in the entire platoon.

And Kyle got the distinct feeling all of their skills were going to be tested today.

At 5:00 AM on the dot, they were in the helicopter that would transport them to the Forward Operating Base, Timmerman Airport, codenamed "Durant." 40 minutes later, they'd arrived.

The Chinook touched down and as its back door began to lower, Kyle unstrapped and gave the signal.

"Let's go, let's go!" he shouted.

Kyle disembarked from the helicopter alongside the rest of his unit with gusto, piling them into the tent.

"First Lieutenant Ambrose, sir. 1st Battalion, 32nd Infantry Division," he introduced himself and his unit – the Red Arrows – to the commanding officer who was there to greet them.

Major Romero nodded. "Good to have you," he said before stepping in front of a large cork board lined with maps, notes and string.

"Alright, listen up! As you all know, this is an unorthodox situation and we have only just begun to take the first steps to unraveling it; that is what you all are here for. It is not going to be easy and it is not going to be fun. These are supposed to be our own out there, but that is not the case! These zombies may not look like much, but they have managed to get a stranglehold on the city and I, for one, am not about to stand here and just let them have it. The time for questions and compromises has passed, our hand has been forced. You see any sickly skinned bastards who managed to find Hell's emergency exit, you show them right back to the fucking door! You hit 'em hard, you hit 'em fast and you do not hesitate, got it?

"And this goes double for anybody who isn't dead. Any son of a bitch who has decided to try and take advantage of the chaos to fulfill their own personal little wet dream of livin' la vida loca in a lawless world has signed their own death warrant. This is no game, ladies and gentlemen, we are not here to play. People's lives are at risk; anybody who ain't dead and poses a threat has officially forfeited their citizenship.

"They. Are. A. Terrorist.

"With all that in mind, this is a search and rescue op first and foremost, folks. Evacuation efforts are rough, but we are rougher! We're getting a lot of distress calls from all over the city and that is our main priority here. National Guard forces are dug in on every highway entrance, they'll be the ones waving you through. Alpha, you're on route 32 from the north-east. Bravo, you're on to be on the 43 entering directly from the north..."

The Major gave a run down of every company's responsibilities before going more in-depth. Kyle listened intently to the instructions being relayed; Alpha Company was where his platoon was. They'd be entering from the city along the coastal road. They were to sweep from the Lower East Side, through Eastown, all the way down to the Historic Third Ward. There were three major locales to hit: the Milwaukee School of Engineering, the Milwaukee Art Museum and the Skylight Opera theatre.

"Lieutenant Ambrose," the Major said, catching his attention.

"You will be breaking off with a squad and a machine gun team and heading down to Juneau Park," he explained and pointed to the map, tracing the route with his finger.

"You will proceed until you reach east Kilbourn Avenue. Take this road down towards the river, over the bridge, and into the Westown and the main part of the city. Continue across until you reach the U.S. Cellular Arena. From here, you will hook a left down south among one of two roads; either 4th street or 6th street. Two blocks down, you will reach Wisconsin avenue, where your target is: city center's Hilton Milwaukee hotel. This is the last known location of a VIP, one senator Seth Graham."

Once he'd finished with the geography, he turned to Kyle.

"Pick your best and your brightest, Lieutenant, this ain't your everyday detail. We have not had contact with the senator for over 12 hours, but last we heard from his security is that they and the police have the building fortified, and are holding it down. Intel suggests that this is still the case, but it is surrounded by hostiles.

"You are to clear that area with prejudice. Once you've done so and confirmed his safety, get to the roof, radio in and light a signal flare. We'll send a bird out to pick you up so that you can extract Graham and relink with your company."

"Twelve hours is a long time, Major," Kyle noted.

"Sure as hell is, Lieutenant," Romero agreed. "That's why we're tasking you with this."

And in a lower voice, he leaned forward and said, "wish the rest of your Rangers were with you."

Romero was right, and Kyle thought so too. This would be a much easier assignment if he were with his old platoon. But he could never let his men know that, so he gave a smile and tapped the patch on his shoulder – a red arrow piercing a red line.

"Nonsense, Major," he answered in an equally quiet voice. "We're Les Terribles; getting through is our speciality."

Romeo leaned back, grinning satisfactorily at the response. "Then get to it!"

Kyle nodded, affirming his orders, and turned to make his choices.

"Staff Sergeant Snyder," he said. "You heard the Major, you're in-charge once my squad and I break off, got it?"

"Yes, sir, Lieutenant." Snyder responded. He was an older man than Kyle with tired eyes.

"Sergeant Salter," Kyle said, glancing over at his best friend.

"Lieutenant," he nodded.

"You're with me, you're my second." Kyle announced.

Nepotism only had a small part to play; Salt was the best choice for this mission. He and Kyle knew each other the best, had worked together in the past, and were both former Rangers. Their combined skill and familiarity would come in handy. Not only that, Salt had been much better about becoming familiar and friendly with the others than Kyle had.

That left thirteen more to pick and he knew exactly who they'd be.

Corporal Miller and Specialist Cruz were excellent leaders in their own rights; Miller was the third best marksmen in the platoon with a long, decorated military career to boot, and Cruz had an exceptional degree of technical and navigational skills at his disposal. Private Weber and Private First Class Rhames were his machine gunners, and Privates Zegers and Booth would be backing them with explosives. Corporal Burrell as well as PFCs Kelly and Porier were seasoned urban combatants; two of which Kyle and Salt had personally seen action with in Afghanistan, though not in the same unit. Corporal Polley was on medic duty while PFC Korobkina had a mastery over anything with a steering wheel and a pedal. Private Winters was a Milwaukee native, and Specialist Liu was as skilled at recon as he was at sharpshooting.

"You're coming with me when we reach the rally point," Kyle told them.

"Yes, Lieutenant!" they all answered.

Once the debrief ended, the platoon piled into the Humvees that would be taking them into the city.

What should have been a 20 minute drive was made infinitely more difficult by the long lines of stalled traffic; a mishmash of abandoned and ruined vehicles that created walls of metal chassis', hard plastic shells and rubber wheels. It made road traversal tricky. Between this and the obtuse route they'd had to take – circling around the outside of the city on the coast rather than taking the direct route – the trip took close to triple the amount of time it should have, even with Korobkina's skills.

By the time they'd reached the junction of highways 190 and 32, where the National Guard had set up a blockade, it was becoming increasingly clear that vehicle usage in the heart of the city would be next to impossible. These search and rescue operations were going to be much more challenging without ground vehicles but it wasn't about to stop the Red Arrows.

The Lake Bluff Condominiums, already cleared of civilians, was their stopping point. Kyle checked his watch – a quarter past 6. Now it had been 13 hours with no word from the senator. They needed to get moving.

"Squad, with me!" Kyle shouted, summoning his handpicked crew to his side.

Staff Sergeant Snyder gathered the rest of the platoon, already assuming command of Alpha Company, and linked up with the National Guard and Marine forces that were holding the condos.

"Staff Sergeant."

"Lieutenant."

"Stay safe out there," Kyle told him, nodding. "I'll see you when we get the senator out."

"You got it, LT," Sergeant Snyder replied with a casual salute. "See you in an hour."

Kyle smirked, scoffing. An optimistic estimate if he'd ever heard one; they both knew it was bullshit. "See you in an hour, Staff Sergeant."

The Lieutenant turned, and he and his squad began to make the quarter mile walk down towards the end of Prospect avenue – but first they had to get through the last major blockade on this side of the city. It was the end of Highway 32 at a three-way intersection. Kyle's squad came in from the north side while the National Guard had set up sandbags and Humvees in a defensive position towards the west, machine guns aimed down the large, singular State street as civilians continued to trickle out, fleeing the city and the pandemonium. Meanwhile, the road was completely blocked off at the southern side of the junction by vehicles, sandbags, razor wire and a second, smaller pair of machine gun nests.

The National Guardsmen greeted them, told them where to go – two blocks down, then a left – and waved them through.

Once they were on Kilbourn, they moved into a stagger formation; two on each side of the street in a zigzagging pattern, roughly 15 feet from one set to the next on the opposite street. Kyle was in the center, Salt and Winters in front of and behind him respectively, while Cruz and Burrell took point, with Miller and Porier bringing up the rear. Liu and Kelly, Weber and Zegers, Polley and Korobkina, and Rhames and Booth organized the rest of the formation in between. They moved quickly, but cautiously, taking knees and ducking down behind cars.

"Hey Sarge, LT?" Came Winters' voice from behind them.

"Hm?" Salt asked.

"Winters?" Kyle responded with her name.

"Back at the FOB, the Major called these… troublemakers "zombies". As my two leading authorities on worldly culture, would you mind explaining to me exactly what that is?" she asked.

"Worldly culture, huh?" Kyle asked with a lifted brow. Winters just gave a wry smile in response.

To their surprise though, Salt shot a glance back at them and began to explain.

"It's Haitian folklore," he told them. "They're corpses reanimated through voodoo magic."

"Where the hell did you learn that?" It was Kyle's turn to ask a question; even he hadn't known the answer.

"Girl I used to date," Salt said with a shrug as he took a knee behind a stationary car. "She was really into that kinda shit. Voodoo dolls, potions, rituals, magic, all that good stuff. She was a trip."

"Any of it ever work?" Kyle asked, amused.

"Can't really say for sure," Salt shrugged. "But I do know she used to make me drink this funky juice every time flu season came around. It was sweet and thick. Not really sure what was in it. Wasn't a big fan of drinking it either, but I gotta say, I never did get sick while I was with her."

"Well, that's fun." Winters said casually.

"Calling 'em zombies is a bit of a misnomer if you ask me. Zombies are puppets to their creator and there doesn't seem to be much organization going on with these guys, so either someone sucks at controlling their zombies or there's nobody in-charge," he went on. "Personally, I think revenant would've been a better folklore pick. Also cooler sounding."

"What about draugr?" Kyle said dryly with a similar smile.

Winters made a face. "What's a drow-gr?"

They shot her a look and asked, "you've never played Morrowind?"

"Ohhh my God, you're both nerds!"

"That how you talk to superior officers, Private?" Kyle tried to sound authoritative, but the smile on his face made it difficult to be taken seriously.

She blew a raspberry then spoke musically, "it is when they're being big, dumb ner-erds."

The cheeriness was about to come to an end. They'd get their first taste of things to come when the East Kilbourn bridge was in sight, some 600 feet away. This was where they first made contact with a hostile.

Three, to be exact.

At the corner of Killbourn and Broadway, a car with its back end punched in was buried in the side of a church; the truck that had collided with it in the middle of the intersection, its front end a crumpled mess. Across the street, on the outskirts of a small park, were three people. They were hunched over someone else on the ground. They hadn't noticed the squad yet.

Kyle dropped behind a parked car and used its hood for stability, sighting his rifle on the three who were to the North-East from his spot. Salt gave the signal for Cruz to approach, Burrell on his six.

Both E-4s crept forward, being sure to stay out of their comrades' line of fire. Their rifles were low but ready.

"Hey!" Cruz shouted. "United States Army! Identify yourselves!"

The three crouching civilians looked up. One screeched, jumped to its feet and charged forward. The other two quickly followed suit.

"Hostiles, hostiles!" Cruz shouted back to his squad.

Kyle lined his sight up with the second's chest as he stood to full height; Burrell and Cruz opened fire on the first. He eased the trigger back, punching a small hole through the second man's chest and stunning him. Despite the massive damage, he didn't fall. He turned towards where the shot had come from, glaring with hateful but empty, milky white eyes. Kyle fired again, this time clipping his shoulder, and the man spun as he fell.

Meanwhile, the first ran right through the short bursts from Burrell and Cruz's rifles. They fired several more times, every shot hitting their mark: center mass. The continued gunfire brought that first hostile to a halt, but didn't put him down. The third, a young woman, breezed past.

"What the fuck!" Cruz shouted as he and Burrell backpedaled.

Having taken positions on opposite sides of the street, Kelly and Liu, and Weber and Zegers were quick to open fire on this third hostile from different directions, covering their two squadmates in front. Between the four of them, over two dozen rounds smashed into the running woman's body, forcing her to the ground. But as soon as they ceased, she began to get back up.

Jesus Christ, nobody could've survived all that. They really are dead. Kyle thought as all three hostiles recovered from the assault more quickly than should've been possible.

Seemingly undeterred by the holes and bits that had been blasted into, and out of, his body, the first man changed targets; he ran towards Kelly and Liu, screaming all the while. The second one – who Kyle had already put two 7.62s in – was already getting back to his feet. He took aim and put three more rounds in him, blasting away pieces of torso as he did.

While the rest of the squad moved into action, laying bursts of semi and automatic fire into the two sprinters, Kyle watched in horror and awe as the one he was focused on stumbled, steadied itself, then charged again.

I can see through his fuckin' stomach…

He pushed the shock away. Shifting his aim up the man's body, Kyle fired again and again. Four more rounds struck. Two chest, one throat and the last sent his head whipping back. Finally, he fell to the floor and stopped moving. The other two apparently had finally met similar fates.

"Holy shit," Winters said from behind him, astounded. "We unloaded on them and they kept coming."

With the immediate threat over, Kyle checked his rifle. He had emptied almost half his mag, well placed shots at that, and it seemed like he'd barely put him down. He frowned, suddenly feeling woefully underprepared for this excursion.

That unnerving thought on his mind, he reached for a new magazine as he stood up.

And so did the person that had been on the ground across the street. An overweight man who looked around vacantly before seeing them. Kyle halted his trade, gripping his M21 again and readying it.

"Sir?" Salt's voice was cautious, his carbine lowered ever so slightly.

The man screamed and took one step forward, preparing to run.

The entire squad opened fire.

He fell right back down.

"Lieutenant..?" Salt called. Only Kyle caught the edge of worry in his voice.

Before he could respond, a door opening nearby caught their attention. They turned towards the church, weapons raised, and a heavyset black woman jumped, her arms lifted high.

"There are people inside!" She told them urgently.

Kyle lifted an arm and motioned for her to come as everyone lowered their weapons. "Bring them out. Get onto the main street, two blocks that way, then turn right and head towards the city's exit," he instructed. "National Guard blockade is waiting. You'll get medical treatment and safety there. Keep your arms up, no sudden movements."

She nodded, turned back towards the door and shouted into the building. Seconds later, she guided seven more people out. One was cradling their bloodied, bandaged arm.

Kyle and his squad watched as the civies made their way out of the church and down the street. All except Corporal Polley, who was crouched near one of the downed hostiles, the first one who'd attacked. He gave Salt a quick hand motion, keep an eye out, then walked towards the medic.

"What've you got, Corporal?" Kyle asked as he approached.

"I… I dunno, Lieutenant," Polley said, not looking up. He held his M4 by the barrel, butt against the ground. Shaking his head slowly, he continued. "I know what they told us in debrief, but I just thought… man, that has to be bullshit, right? But this guy, he's… his body…"

Polley's shoulders rose and fell.

"The marks on his skin scream infection, but he's cold to the touch. I've never seen an infection this bad that didn't come with a fever. And the way he was eating our bullets? He should've been dead after the first few rounds… but that's not what bothers me the most."

Fingers brushed the man's pants leg before Polley hesitated. He glanced upwards, waiting for permission. Kyle nodded. Polley turned his head forward and began folding the fabric back, revealing an abnormally thin leg. He pointed at it.

"You see that? Muscle atrophy. This guy hasn't walked for at least several months, maybe years. Best guess is prolonged wheelchair usage, he's probably…" Pausing, the medic briefly tilted his head. "Probably was paraplegic. LT, there's literally no way this man should've been able to walk by himself, let alone do a full sprint the way he was."

Polley finished his diagnosis and stood up, pulling off his gloves. He reached for his hand sanitizer.

"None of this makes any sense."

Kyle had to agree. With the assessment and the clear, gratuitous bodily damage in mind, he was certain that this man should've fallen to the ground the moment he tried to stand no matter his state.

Yet he hadn't.

"So the reports were right…" Kyle said, frowning.

"I think so," Polley affirmed quietly.

They silently stared at the corpse, processing everything they'd been told and now had seen firsthand.

Finally, Kyle cleared his throat. He shoved the growing sense of dread down, locked it away. This was disturbing, every last bit of it, but he had to keep a cool head for his team.

"It doesn't matter. Zombie or not, we can kill 'em again and that's what we're gonna do."

Polley's brows pinched together in confusion. "Zombie?"

He just shook his head. "Back in formation, Corporal. And make sure your mag is topped off."

"Yes, sir."

Little did they know that once they crossed that bridge, the easy part was over.

Author's Note: Hey there, everyone! I apologize for the overabundance of names this chapter - I had to make sure to give Kyle a full squad to work with here, so unfortunately, not everyone will get enough spotlight. Juggling 15 characters right from the get-go is not an easy task and I think Kyle's headspace justifies why he's not quite connected with every member of his platoon. I think everybody at Fort Pastor (especially his own) knows this, but emergencies don't much care about your mental state so here we are.

For those of you who don't know, the 32nd Infantry Division - aka the Red Arrows - is no longer an active military unit. It was once, but was deactivated in 1946. However, seeing as it had the longest total days of combat in WWII, combined with the fact it was stationed in Michigan and Wisconsin, I thought it was a fitting place to put our good friend Kyle and his platoon!

As mentioned in the chapter before last, Kyle and Salt are former Rangers but this wasn't always the case. For a long time while planning this story out, Kyle belonged to the 2nd Brigade, 1st Infantry Regiment, otherwise called "Dagger Brigade." After much consideration, I felt that the 75th Ranger Regiment was more fitting and allowed for a much greater degree of ambiguity in his military career to expand upon later. And who else but a Ranger would lead an operation to rescue a VIP in the middle of a zombie apocalypse? After all, Rangers lead the way.

Hooah, ladies, gentlemen and those of us who know better. Thanks for reading and see you in the next one!