The F*cked Series (Book 2): Proper

by Gleason, R. K.

  One of the lead gunners to the team farthest to her right waves his hand up and down, letting the major know where he was. When he’s sure she’s seen him, he points to where he saw the movement. Brooks nods at the soldier and fingers the mic button on her throat.

  “Squad leaders,” she says into her mic. “Keep your eyes on the trees for incoming threats. The rest of you pay attention to what’s at your feet! We could still have un-friendlies hiding in the grass.”

  “Roger that, Major,” the squad leaders reply, almost in unison.

  The line makes it to the first of the locations where the infected had laid their deceptive traps. The grass is trampled down and discolored by various body fluids, but there’s no sign of bodies or any of the soldiers’ gear. They keep moving, searching the grass and making their way to the edge of the trees. One of the teams stops as the lead gunner bends down to investigate something from the grass.

  “What did you find?” Brooks asks through the comms.

  “A couple fingers,” the soldier reports, using the toe of his boot to turn the objects over. “Looks like they were chewed off and spit out.”

  “And why wouldn’t they be?” Nichols mutters to himself.

  “Don’t touch them, soldier. Leave them where they lay,” Brooks replies.

  “But what if they belong to one of ours?” the soldier asks.

  “If they did, they’re not one of ours any longer,” she answers.

  “What the fuck?” Nichols says.

  “You know as well as I do—” Brooks begins.

  “No. I understand what you said. I’m talking about that,” Nichols interrupts the major and points into the dense trees. Maybe thirty feet into the small forest, is a medium size object suspended ten feet off the ground from one of the branches by a thick strap. “Is that one of our medics’ kits?” he asks, squinting through the branches at the canvas bag. What had first gotten his attention was the large, red cross in the center of a white circle on the side of the bag. “How the hell did it get up into the trees?”

  “How doesn’t concern me as much as why,” Brooks replies.

  “I guess it could have been thrown into the branches by one of the infected,” Nichols says.

  “Bullshit. That’s bait if I’ve ever seen it,” she tells him, taking a tentative step in reverse. Pressing the mic button, she says, “All teams, hold your positions and be ready for incoming hostiles. Make sure you’re set to semi-auto. If things get hairy, we’ll go to threes,” she says. “But I don’t want any of you hosing down the trees on full auto and blowing all your ammo. And no one shoots until I give the order, so hold your fire until we have confirmed targets.” This was followed by the sound of safeties being switched off and selectors being reset.

  “Where the hell are they?” one of the squad leaders, a Sergeant Tannin unintentionally whispers over the open comms channel.

  Brooks cringes at the sound of nervous fear in his voice but decides it best to not chastise him now. She’d ordered all squads to switch their mics to VOX, allowing them to be hands-free, rather than having to switch their mics on and off. This order didn’t apply to herself or Sergeant Nichols since their conversations didn’t need to be overheard by the other soldiers. She made a mental note to have a one-sided conversation about proper military decorum with Sergeant Tannin once this clean-up was complete. She couldn’t have one of her squad leaders sounding like he was shitting himself before the fight even started. But since the sergeant had drawn her attention, that was as good as volunteering for her next order.

  Touching a finger to her throat to activate the mic, Brooks says, “Sergeant Tannin. Take a fire team and go check out that bag in the trees. I want to know if it’s one of ours or not.”

  “Does it really make any difference?” Nichols asks her quietly, not wanting anyone else to hear his question.

  “Not a bit,” she whispers. “But it’s still the bait for this trap and I want to see what happens.”

  “Kind of risky, don’t you think?”

  “I’m pretty sure it isn’t rigged with explosives,” Brooks reasons.

  “Pretty sure?” Nichols asks. Cocking his head to look at the major.

  “Almost certain,” she answers, her face not showing any sign of emotion.

  “Well, as long as you’re almost certain,” he replies, taking a precautionary step back from the possible blast radius and tightening his grip on the M4.

  “It’s one of ours,” Sergeant Tannin says a few seconds after he and the team reach the bag suspended over their heads.

  “How can you tell?” Brooks asks over the comms. She can see the team, but they’re far enough into the trees her view is more than a little obstructed by the limbs and foliage surrounding them.

  “It’s got Harper’s name on it. He was one of our medics,” Tannin answers.

  “Get it down from there,” Brooks orders.

  “Sergeant Tannin!” Nichols breaks in before any of the team members have a chance to move. “Check it for tripwires before you do anything.”

  “Roger that,” the sergeant replies.

  Tannin visually inspects the med-kit from every angle he’s afforded from the ground. Finally, he lifts his M4 and pokes at the bottom of the bag with the end of the suppressor attached to the barrel. Satisfied with the definite lack of explosions, he cups his hands together with the fingers interlaced to give one of his men a boost up to retrieve the bag.

  From within the trees comes a staccato sound of twigs cracking and fallen leaves being crushed. The noise is loud, but the trees and the surrounding basin keeps it from echoing.

  “Did you guys hear that?” Sergeant Tannin asks, whispering the question. Forgetting about the medic bag, Tannin and his four men search the trees in a circular pattern.

  “Affirmative,” Brooks replies, raising her M4 and switching her mic to VOX. In her mind, she pictures an army of foot soldiers, hidden within the foliage, taking a single step forward in unison, and then nothing. Absolute silence, other than the light breeze softly blowing against their backs and rustling the tall grass. The soldiers in the picket line cover their designated fields of fire, unsure from which direction the infected will rush them. If their first encounter was any indication, the bulk of their numbers would come from the trees, but some are more than likely hiding in the grass.

  After a long moment, Nichols realizes he’s holding his breath with the butt of his carbine pressed tightly against his shoulder. He exhales slowly, fighting the urge to gasp for another lung full of air.

  “This is bullshit,” he whispers, his voice rising and lowering in octaves with each syllable. Like he’s announcing to a classroom of grade-schoolers he’s brought cookies.

  “Sergeant Tannin! Tell me what you see,” Brooks orders, ignoring Nichols for the moment.

  “I can’t get a fix. It sounded like it came from all around us,” Tannin radios back.

  “Do you see any targets in the trees?” Brooks asks. She uses the word targets because it sounds better than, people who need shooting, but the sergeant understands what she was referring to.

  “None yet,” he replies nervously.

  “Stay where you are. We’re coming to you,” Brooks says. “There may be bogies in the grass. If you’re forced to shoot, be aware, we are down range. Repeat. We are down range.”

  “So are we, Major. Make sure everyone remembers that on your side,” the sergeant replies.

  “Hold your fire until you’ve confirmed your targets!” Brooks orders. “End gunners! Guard our peripherals and make sure we don’t get flanked. Firebugs! Stand ready! Once we regroup in the trees, you’re up. Everyone, move up and be prepared to engage!”

  As they creep forward through the tall grass, the soldiers alternate between searching for targets coming from the tree line and scanning the dense grass at their feet. The air feels dead around them. Even the slight breeze has stopped, allowing a low-lying mist to begin forming in the grass. The only sounds they hear now are the
ir own boots forming trails through the grass and the slight hiss of the com device in their ears. A man at the far end if the line coughs. The sudden and unexpected noise forcing everyone’s attention his direction. Another soldier from the opposite end, his attention diverted for just a second, goes down, disappearing into the grass and growing mist in a flurry of flaying limbs. The men around him, including the one armed with the flamethrower, aim their weapons toward him, but no one fires a shot.

  “Report!” Brooks demands. “Do we have hostiles?”

  “Negative, Major. Rogers just tripped in the grass. We’re five by five here,” the squad leader for that team immediately answers, giving the major a thumbs-up.

  “Everyone! Stay quiet and watch where you’re walking,” Brooks says, signaling the squads to keep moving forward.

  “I don’t like this, Major,” Tannin says into her ear. “I can tell we’re being watched. I can just feel it, but they’re not making a sound.”

  “We’re almost there, Sergeant,” she replies. “Then we’ll light this little valley up.”

  “Yeah. Well, it feels like they’re hunting us instead of the other way around,” he says.

  “Sergeant Tannin,” Brooks snaps. “How about you spend the next few minutes getting the med kit down from the trees, like you were told, and off my radio?”

  They’re closer to the team now and she can see Tannin and another man carrying out her orders through the branches. The other three soldiers protect their backs as she and the rest of the squads approach.

  “It’s Harper’s, alright,” Nichols tells Brooks as they reach Tannin’s position. The canvas bag that was hanging in the bows is now on the ground at Tannin’s feet.

  “Did you know him?” Brooks asks Nichols.

  “No, but I can read,” he answers, pointing to the name printed neatly in Sharpie beneath the red cross on the side of the bag.

  “Still nothing?” she asks Tannin.

  “Hard to tell. I thought I saw something move when we pulled the kit down, but it could have just been my imagination,” he answers. “These trees cast a lot of fucking shadows.”

  There’s another of those loud, cracking sounds and Tannin is proven right. From within the trees, it had sounded like it was coming from all around them. And again, it was followed by silence. Brooks could see her imaginary army taking another single step, advancing in choreographed unison.

  “Well, I hate being surprised,” she says, raising her M4.

  Turning away from the teams, she shoulders her weapon and fires a 5.56, hollow-point invitation, deeper into the trees. The suppressor doesn’t silence the projectile completely or turn it into a nearly silent whisper like it does in the movies. Instead, the concussion sounds like blocks of wood being clapped together. It’s clearly heard by the fire teams, already standing on high alert in the trees but the sound is dulled even further by the surrounding vegetation. The R.S.V.P. is almost instantaneous as sounds of movement come from the dark direction the bullet had traveled. Shadows start to move and shift between the trunks and lower branches of the camouflaging trees. The overgrown bushes and ground foliage rustle in a wide arc from deep in the trees.

  “I want a line of gunners here! Fireline behind them and ready!” Brooks shouts, swinging her hand in a half-circle a few yards in front of where she’s standing. The fire teams follow her commands, keeping the flamethrowers to the rear. They spread out, giving each soldier a narrow field of fire to cover as the sound of the approaching infected grows louder. Unintelligible shrieks and moans begin to drift out from the shadows around them, sending a cold shiver down Brooks’ spine. They grow in volume, adding to the tension as she tries to sight-in on any target she can place in her crosshairs. The fog that started forming in the grass sends drifting tendrils curling into the trees increasing their dread. It’s one thing to be in an all-out battle, but it’s another to know the enemy is coming for you from nearby and not being able to see them.

  A chunk of rotting wood comes flipping through the branches at the line of soldiers. One of them fires a three-round burst at the spinning object. It explodes from the impact, turning it into a cloud of wood splinters. More objects come hurling from the trees. A few fist-sized rocks thump onto the ground a few yards from them.

  “What the hell are they doing?” asks a voice through the earpiece.

  “Trying to make us break up,” Nichols replies without taking his eye from his scope.

  “Hold fire until you have viable targets,” Brooks orders the teams. “We stay in formation and hold this position. Cut the bastards down as soon as they come through the trees.”

  As if on cue, the first of the infected comes crashing through the brush at a dead run. He could have been in his late twenties, but it’s hard to tell for certain. The lower left side of his face has been stripped of its skin and muscle while gnashing molars and exposed jawbone are stained red. Drying blood crusts his neck and chest, making the tattered, plaid shirt he’s barely wearing, stick to his mottled skin in spots. Two more of the infected follows directly behind him, their skin the same ravaged, sickening gray. Several others come bursting through the trees at different spots along the increasing arc in front of them.

  Brooks is the first to fire, hitting the first zombie high in the chest, left of center. The creature absorbs the bullet, twisting sharply to the left from the impact. The 5.56 hollow-point mushrooms against the ribcage before shattering through the bone and fragmenting inside the creature that was once a thinking human being. The tiny pieces of metal spin and rip through his chest cavity, tearing through the left lung and shredding muscle as most of the shards exit through his back. The two behind him are instantly sprayed in a thick mist of black blood and decaying meat, but the one in front doesn’t go down. He stays on his feet, hardly breaking stride as he alters his course to continue sprinting in the new direction, like he’s suddenly changed his mind about which one of them he should eat first. A quick succession of lowered shots from Nichols hits the creature in the legs, causing one knee to explode as the other buckles in the wrong direction with his next stride. The zombie goes down in a howl of frustration and rage, tumbling into the underbrush. His infected brethren pay their downed comrade no attention as they trample over him to get to the soldiers.

  “Fire at will!” Brooks shouts as she places another in her crosshairs.

  The small forest erupts into muffled gunfire as more and more of the infected pour from the trees. The soldiers follow their reinforced training to the letter. Acquire target. Account for speed and movement. Squeeze the trigger. Pause to verify the hit. Acquire another target and repeat. But that combat training was designed for an enemy that stayed down once they’d been shot. Most of the infected they shoot keep running and just alter their trajectory as the first one had when Brooks shot it. The infected begin running in crossing patterns, reacting to the various high-caliber strikes and forcing the soldiers to follow their targets in overlapping fields of fire.

  “Legs!” Nichols shouts as he sends a burst into another zombie’s lower limbs, eliminating its ability to run. “Shoot them in the legs!”

  Brooks didn’t remember giving command to Nichols, but she follows his instructions anyway. With her next shot, she aims for the bare legs of a woman wearing a bloodied jogging outfit. She’d always hated those women who had time for a daily commitment to the gym. Let alone time to shop for those hideous outfits. The bullet hits her in the shin, destroying the load-bearing bone. The leg blows out to the side when the yuppy bitch comes down on it with her next stride, sending her tumbling into the brush. She starts to claw her way back up and into a hobble, but her lowered position gives Brooks an angle on the top of her skull. She squeezes the trigger again and a neat hole appears in a spray of dark blood. The eyes explode from her skull when the delicate facial bones compensate for the mushrooming intruder as it fragments and tumbles. Her face blows out in small pieces while her lower jaw goes flipping into the underbrush. Looking up with a satisf
ied expression, it quickly changes as she takes in their worsening situation. The infected are closing on them, even though the soldiers were adapting to the threat. Almost every man has already switched to three-round bursts and she knows their ammo will soon be gone if the hordes keep surging around them. As it is, every man is lined up in a long arc with her at the center.

  Another of the infected emerges from the trees dressed in battle fatigues and flack-jacket with his helmet discarded somewhere during or after his turning. The soldier to her right hesitates, obviously recognizing the soldier as one of the men they’d lost an hour ago.

  “Shoot, damn it!” Brooks orders.

  “But it’s Harper,” the young soldier mutters, still transfixed on the gnashing monster closing in on him.

  “Not anymore,” she shouts, flipping the selector with her finger and stitching a three-round burst into Harper. The first bullet hits him square in the chest, the force of the impact punching the Kevlar vest like a sledgehammer. The second hits a few inches higher, catching Harper in the exposed throat and blowing away a good portion of his neck as the third bullet enters his left eye. Pureed brains and bone fragments explode from the back of Harper’s head. His muscles still responding to the final signals sent by his destroyed brain, he takes three more lunging strides before his legs go lifeless. His momentum carries him with force as he falls. What’s left of his ruined skull slams against an exposed tree root, splitting like a diseased egg with a sickening crack and spilling the remainder of Harper’s brain matter onto the ground. Her bolt locks open with the last round, letting her know to reload. Her hand instinctively moves to a full mag as the fingers on her other hand press the release, allowing the empty one to fall from the lower receiver. She rocks the new mag into place, thumbs the release and lets the bolt slam forward, pushing another bullet into the chamber.

  “Get your shit together!” she orders the soldier with a shove.

  “Yes ma’am,” he barks, jamming the butt of his M4 against his shoulder and picking another target. The horde’s gotten close enough now it’s hard not to hit one of them with a burst, and still, they keep coming from between the trees. She fights the impulse to order her men to switch to full-auto, knowing they’ll chew through their remaining ammo in a matter of minutes.