Proper
R.K. Gleason
Contents
Other books by R.K. Gleason
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Other books by R.K. Gleason
The True Death Series
The True Death
The Vengeful Death
The New Death
The Lonely Death
Death’s Return
Death Threats
Death Match
The Bitter Years Series
Savaged
The Fucked Series
UPPERCASE
Chapter One
The convoy of four Medium Tactical Vehicles left the airfield and headed Northeast on I-270, skirting the perimeter of Columbus. Major Carolyn Brooks led the string of armored MTVs with Sergeant Nichols seated between her and their driver, Corporal Patel. Riding in the back were twenty, armed soldiers and the same number in the next two vehicles behind her. The last transport carried the troops’ gear and supplies. She’d ordered Captain Walker to drive that one and protect the contents with his life if needed. She felt confident the sixty well-trained soldiers she had behind her could handle any situation they came across. She’d purposefully not given too many details of the mission to her troops. Even though her men were disciplined, she’d been in the military long enough to know how quickly rumors spread and secrets were unknowingly divulged. If they’re going to be working with the national guard on this one, at least for the time being, she thought it better to keep her cards close to her vest. She’d ordered Sergeant Nichols to do the same since he’s the closest thing she had to an expert on the virusite spreading across Ohio. The last thing she needed was the details of Operation Washout to get out before it ever got rolling. There’s no way the public would look on the planned execution of thousands of its citizens with too much favor. Even if it was to contain a disease that had the potential to wipe them all out. But if the military was forced to defend themselves and the rest of the country from an imminent threat of contamination, that was something altogether different.
She’d let the spin-doctors and professional glad-handers in Washington worry about the cover story. Her job was to assess the need for Operation Washout, which she’d pretty much made up her mind on before they’d ever took to the air, and give the orders. She knew she was the insurance policy for the joint chiefs. If this went well, she and they would be the heroes that saved the country. Maybe even the world. But if it went badly, they’d cut her loose. Swear she acted on her own authority and had gone rogue. They’d claim she used her rank to dupe sixty, highly-trained soldiers into following her kill command. Never mind the fact the flight orders that had been signed by Colonel Beaurite or the requisitioning of the vehicles they were riding in now. Those minor details would get swept under the carpet if things went pear-shaped. Captain Walker had almost ruined things before they ever touched down at the Columbus airport by ordering dozens of three-man teams to sweep the streets and shoot anything that moved. You can’t just start blasting away at people in the streets. This wasn’t some war-torn, third world country, this was America. We don’t send out roving death squads in this country to commit genocide. In this country, we gathered up the people we want to be killed and did it someplace away from prying eyes and cell phones, not in the streets. Unless there’s no other choice, that is. But that call wasn’t within Captain Walker’s paygrade. So, the first thing she’d done was recall all the teams the fool had sent out to comb the streets and re-tasked them to covering additional roadblocks and troop support.
The next thing she needed to do was get her and Nichols to ground zero and see how bad things were there. Hilliard, Ohio would be her barometer to measure how fucked things truly were and how fast it was going to get worse. If things were out of control there, the rest of the state wasn’t far behind and then probably the country. But if she could contain the virusite to a small population of the infected, a collateral loss of sixty to seventy thousand would be acceptable. Especially when it was measured against the rest of the country’s population. Sure, the talking heads in D.C. would trim the numbers to make them more palatable for the masses. Brooks thought if she could keep the civilian casualties under a hundred thousand, she’d considered her mission a success. Sure, there’d be the usual Monday morning quarterbacking from Congress. Old men and women in suits, second-guessing military decisions after the fact, like they had any experience making decisions about who lived and who died. In the end, they’d be okay with the numbers because it would be someone else’s sacrifice and not theirs. They’d probably paint the infected bastards as heroes when everything was settled. They’d be portrayed as martyrs for the greater good, who gave their all for their country. But Brooks would be the real hero and the entire Pentagon would know it. She’d get promoted to Colonel, maybe even General and have her pick of any command she wanted. She liked the ring General Brooks had to it and replayed it in her head as she read through the intel about the spread of the infection. It was the fourth time she’d gone over the report and still, she searched through it for any overlooked piece of information she could find. One detail that she could use to fight the virusite and keep it from spreading any further than it already had.
Captain Walker had done one thing right when he’d ordered any stray dogs or cats to be destroyed. He’d gone about it entirely the wrong way, but the reasoning was sound. The first strain of the virusite remained highly transmittable for dogs and cats. The spores were and still are able to infect the furry host through contact with any mucous membrane and remained viably infectious for several days outside the host. But when the strain finally jumped the species barrier to humans, it’d lost some of its effectiveness. To infect a human host, there had to be direct blood to blood contact. In theory, a human being could actually eat a heaping bowl of the damned spores, covered with refined sugar and swimming in milk for breakfast, with little risk infection. Unless of course, the dumb fucker had a bleeding ulcer. You could probably bathe in liquified dog corpses and be fine. But if the virusite came in contact with the slightest scratch, abrasion, or was delivered through a bite, infection was a foregone conclusion. Then the host’s brain would begin to cook inside its skull, driving the body temp up to a more livable level for the mutant parasite as it took control of the host. Eventually the host brain wouldn’t be able to take the building pressure in the brain cavity, and the linings would rupture under the strain, spraying the contents like a pressure cooker with a faulty seal. At least she didn’t have to worry about any of her soldiers, or herself for that matter, being infected through casual contact or stepping in a hidden pile of dogshit. That also meant the population of the potentially infected being transported and held at the soccer stadium would need to be neutralized as soon as possible after she had a chance to assess the security of the structure and could give the order for decontamination. She was thinking about the hundreds of people, possibly even thousands by now she’d be sparing such a horrible death when she felt their MTV’s momentum decrease.
“Why are we slowing?” she asks Corporal Patel.
“Traffic is stopped up ahead ma’am,” he replies, pointing through the windshield. “The roads are a mess with all the blockades and checkpoints.”
“We don’t have time to just sit here,” she replies.
“Begging your pardon, Major. But if you’ve got a better idea, I’d be happy to hear it,” the young corporal says.
“Go around them on the shoulder,” Brooks orders.
“Ma’am?” Patel asks.
“I don’t think we have enough roo
m between the cars and the guardrail,” Nichols says, leaning his head to the right for a better look.
“I’m not worried about a few scratches on the MTVs. The military has warehouses full of extra paint,” the major replies.
“What about the civilian vehicles, ma’am?” Patel asks.
“Corporal,” Brooks says in a tone that made the young man’s balls retreat into his stomach for protection. “If I’m not concerned about the vehicles handed to me by a service and a country I love, do you think I give a good, goddamn about civilian vehicles? I’m trying to save their lives here, not their Subarus and Volvos. I want you to drive this expensive piece of government equipment down that shoulder and if you have to scrape a little paint off to do it, then so fucking be it!”
Grabbing the mic to the radio, Patel pushes the button on the side and says, “Trucks two, three, and four, come in.” The other trucks reply immediately with Captain Walker responding last. “We’re going around them on the right. Hug the shoulder and follow close,” the corporal says, setting the mic back in its cradle. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he releases the brakes and presses on the accelerator.
“Corporal Patel. We won’t fit past those cars,” Walker’s voice says over the radio.
“Just who the hell…” Carolyn snarls, jerking the mic free. “Captain! This is Major Brooks. Get off the radio unless you have something to report from your position in the rear. Until then, shut up and keep up!” she says, pausing for a moment. “Captain Walker! Confirm!”
“Yes, Major,” Walker says flatly.
Metal screams as the front fenders of the much larger MTV pushes between the first stopped vehicle and guardrail. Paint peels in strips as the massive wheel’s fifteen, over-sized lug nuts begin chewing up the car’s doors. Patel winces as the car’s passenger-side mirror explodes from the passing impact with the MTV’s fender and pushes the car a foot to the left as it passes. Drivers begin to honk and frantically try to move out of the way as the convoy picks up speed and plows through. The cab bucks to the right as Patel hits the back of a little Nissan that didn’t move over quickly enough and drives up over the back corner of its trunk. Metal twists and the taillight disintegrates under the weight of the armored vehicle. Patel can hear the unbridled protests from the soldiers being tossed around in the back of their rig. The cab bounces again as the rear wheel passes over the back of the ruined vehicle.
“Sorry, Major,” Patel says, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
“I said I didn’t care about scratching them, Corporal. I didn’t say I wanted you to purposefully hit them,” Brooks answers, clutching the armrest on the door.
“I’m doing the best I can, ma’am,” he replies.
“Can I drive?” Nichols asks, bouncing between the two like an out of time metronome.
“Be my guest,” Patel says, lifting his foot off the gas.
“Keep going, Corporal. That’s an order,” Brooks growls, pushing the sergeant off her lap and away. “Just try a little harder to avoid civilian casualties.”
“Damn, Patel,” a voice that’s not Captain Walker’s says over the radio, apparently from one of the other drivers. “I think there was a Baby on Board sticker in that one.”
“Is he serious?” Nichols asks, straining to see behind them from the side mirror.
“Get off me!” Brooks shouts, shoving him away.
“But…”
“Relax, Sergeant,” Corporal Patel says. “Roberts is just screwing with me. We have this running joke about who’s the worst driver in our unit.”
“And…?” Nichols asks.
“The shoulder widens out up the road,” Patel says, not answering the question as he bounces the transport vehicle off the guardrail to avoid crushing the Mazda Miata and its silver-haired driver. The rig bucks left and right, shaking the three in the cab and the soldiers in the back like he’s trying to toss a salad. The troops’ shouts of protest can be heard over the rumbling growl of the vehicle’s engine and the shriek of scraping metal.
“Corporal! Do that again and I’ll have you busted down to private and stationed in the deepest shit-hole I can find,” Carolyn shouts after bouncing her head off the side window.
“Can’t we just shoot him?” Nichols chimes in.
“Just a little farther,” Patel assures them as he wrestles with the steering wheel.
Five minutes later, the convoy is rolling semi-smoothly down the shoulder. Patel silently prays no motorist has car trouble and attempts to pull off in front of them. He’s certain the major will order him to drive over them, regardless of the occupants. Then he’ll be forced to decide whether to follow the order and live with the guilt or disobey and face the major’s wrath and a possible court martial. Whatever decision he makes, he’ll be fucked.
As the MTVs rumble toward ground zero of the outbreak, the traffic heading in their same direction gets thinner. A few columns of black smoke dot the horizon. They spiral upward before being caught by the wind and drifting to the west, leaving a gray smudge across the sky. The first abandoned car they see has been driven off the road and into the heavy brush lining the freeway. The front end of the mid-sized car is hidden from view in the thick foliage. Only the back half of the vehicle is visible from their vantage point on the shoulder. No emergency flashers are going, signaling the occupants may have had engine trouble and were forced to abandon their vehicle. Not that the trees and bushes encasing the car up to the front doors would allow any exit. The rear window is accented with a splash of something dark across the inside of the glass.
“Do you want to stop and take a look?” Patel asks, seeing the major and Nichols studying the vehicle as the truck begins to slow.
Brooks sees more streaks of the dark liquid spread across the rear passenger side window. The dull stains are unmistakable smears of frantic finger-painting in something sticky. Edging past the even point, she can see the driver’s side rear window has been smashed outward. Ribbons of bloody tattered cloth and strips of skin dangle from the ruined safety glass, casually waving in the light breeze like gruesome flags marking something horrible.
“No need. Keep going,” the major answers.
They drive on, making their way to the first checkpoint and being flagged through, much to the displeasure of stationary motorists who’ve apparently been waiting there for some time. The way is clearer now, and they begin spotting more abandoned cars littering the freeway. Many of the derelict vehicles have the side windows smashed inward rather than out like the first one they saw. A few of the engines are still idling and some of the headlights are still on, but with no sign of the passengers. Like the occupants didn’t even have the time to turn off the ignition before being dragged from the interior. A family-sized sedan sits on the inside shoulder, its front end dipping down into the center of the median. The two doors on the driver’s side hang open, both streaked with bloodied handprints. It’s impossible for Patel and the two senior officers not to see the crimson stained teddy bear discarded on the trunk lid and the We ♥ our Collie sign, hanging askew in the window.
“That’s some fucked up shit,” Patel mutters as they pass the dismal sight.
“If that’s the worst thing we see, I’ll consider us lucky,” Nichols says.
“Shouldn’t we be stopping to take a look and see if there are any survivors or wounded?” Captain Walker asks over the radio.
“Negative. We stay on mission,” Brooks answers into the mic, knowing if there is anyone left in those vehicles, they’re beyond rescue at this point.
“There may be children back there,” he replies.
“I doubt it, Captain. But if you feel the uncontrollable need to investigate, go ahead. But understand if you do, you’ll be taking orders from Patel for the rest of your short, military career,” she says before dropping the mic into its cradle.
Corporal Patel takes a breath, preparing to agree with the captain and thinking the least they could do is to stop and check. But Nichols
covertly drives his elbow into the younger man’s ribs, letting him know now’s not the best time to voice his personal opinion. Especially if it’s contrary to the major’s. Each truck passes the car with the last MTV, driven by Captain Walker, nearly coming to a complete stop as he slowly rolls past, looking for any signs of movement.
Cresting the next rise, Patel brings the lead vehicle to a stop and shifts to neutral. The road before them slopes down into a narrow valley, maybe a quarter of a mile wide. The terrain paralleling the interstate follows the rises to the sides, creating a huge bowl with dense trees lining the rim. There’s a thirty-foot wide, strip of tall grass separating the line of trees from the shoulder of the road. Nestled in the basin separating the hill they’re sitting on from the one on the other side, are two cars, a small, blue SUV, and a school bus. They’re sitting just inside the edge of the grassy strip, pointed in the same direction Brooks is leading her soldiers. The SUV is leading the stationary convoy with the bus directly behind it and none of them appear to be running. From his vantage point, Patel can see wisps of steam coming from the SUV. The school bus and the other two cars have their emergency flashers going and the car at the end closest to them has its front door hanging open. He can see several people in the grass, but they’re obscured by its height. It looks like there are three clusters of people within a few feet of each other and moving around with some degree of urgency. Patel makes the snap assumption either the SUV or the bus had some engine trouble, or possibly a collision and the other vehicles stopped to assist.
“Truck one, this is truck three,” one of the drivers radios in.
“This is truck one. Go ahead three,” Patel answers into the mic.
“What’s the problem truck one?” the driver asks.
The F*cked Series (Book 2): Proper Page 1