by Mic Shannon
When they stopped at the other side of the street, James motioned for the little girls to follow him inside of a small store and stay down while he knelt next to what was left of his team. The Chief sat radio down slowly and took a knee next to them. They had ditched their suits, learning quickly when they initially found the little girls that the gas was non-toxic. Still, it surrounded them in every direction. And whatever creature was contained within the gas was no match for anything they had to offer.
“Okay,” James whispered, pulling his map from his cargo pocket and examining it, “Where do we go from here?”
Both men were silent.
“Don’t ask me,” replied Radio
“I say let’s head for the coast,” said the Chief.
“That’s a good idea,” replied James, “The briefing said there would be warships along the coast providing cover. It’s a shot in the dark, but it’s a shot that’s definitely worth taking.”
“Try it again, see if we can get a hold of someone,” said the Chief.
Radio adjusted his body as he attempted to make the radio call, cringing in pain at the movement of his leg. The bandage was bloody and needed to be changed, and time was of the essence.
“Still nothing, just static,” said Radio.
“I’d say we’re…what…five or six miles out?” replied James.
“Let’s do it,” said the Chief.
As James peeked around the corner of the building into the alleyway, he immediately ducked back around in fear.
He looked at his team and pointed his first two fingers at his eyes, indicating that he saw something and pointed around the corner. They knew immediately that danger was imminent.
The chief motioned with his hand, signaling the direction that they could take through the store to evade. No one else moved a muscle.
James wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked down at his rifle, pressing a button on the small display screen on top of the butt stock. He looked at the number displayed, hoping that it might’ve changed since the last time he looked. The blinking number four on the display was a harsh reminder that after the next four shots, he would have no other form of protection.
They needed to find an escape fast. James waved his hand in front of the girls’ faces to get their attention. He looked over and nodded at the Chief, pointing toward him.
“Síguelo.”
The girls got up and started to follow the Chief as he slung Radio’s arm over his shoulder and helped him up. Moving through the store, one of the young girls bumped the counter, knocking a metal pot onto the floor. It fell in slow motion, colliding with a loud clang and wobbling until it stopped.
Everyone froze. Their hearts dropped. This was it, and they didn’t have a fighting chance. James quickly sat down Radio and grabbed his rifle, muttering an obscenity. The three men anxiously pointed their weapons toward the entrance; sweat trickled down their foreheads, their wide eyes afraid to blink.
After not moving for an eternity of seconds, James slowly started to creep toward the entrance. He reached the doorway and slid up the wall slowly, trying to slow his hyperventilated breathing. He paused for a moment, and then took a quick peak around the corner. At the end of the alley next to the building, the body of a dead Honduran Army officer was being dragged by an invisible force, leaving a trail of blood. James ducked back around the corner, pressing the button on the butt stock display. The number still hadn’t changed…and then it hit him.
He took the rifle and slung it across his back. They had abandoned their flak jackets and helmets with the suit hours ago, sacrificing them for more mobility. Besides, no one was shooting at them. Pulling his Beretta sidearm from its holster, he stood back from the doorway and pointed the weapon. Staring down his sights, he saw the second story window across the street and fired.
*Bang Bang Bang*
The schoolgirls shrieked at the sound of gunfire. The window shattered, and glass fell to the ground. They heard the loud thud footsteps. Suddenly, the concrete in the middle of the street cracked on impact, and then the second story wall of the brick structure began cracking and crumbling as if something had latched onto it. He blinked twice.
“Ve, ahora!” James yelled to the girls as he rushed everyone out the back door in a hurry.
The girls hustled out of the door and across the street, screaming as they ran. James ran out behind them, struggling to keep up and pointing his rifle in all directions, looking for any indicators of the unknown threat.
“Aquí ninas!” he yelled, waving the school girls into another store. As they entered the store and got down, he doubled back to the street to grab Radio underneath his other arm and help the Chief carry him to safety.
“What the hell was that about?!” said the Chief through clenched teeth, trying not to yell.
“Chief,” said James, breathing heavily as he began to laugh nervously at the fact that his gamble paid off, “I don’t think these things can hear…”
--- 8:56 am ---
Fort Benning, GA, USA
Stepping into the Georgia humidity, Michael wiped the sweat from his forehead. It was the beginning of summer, and the temperatures were already unbearable. The Drill Sergeants were yelling at the top of their lungs, screaming for the new recruits to fall in line. The heat didn’t seem to affect them at all, sweat pouring down their faces and veins popping out of their necks. Unsure of themselves, the recruits scrambled amidst the chaos and confusion. If they were certain of nothing else, they were certain that they did not want extra attention.
The intake at the facility had been so overwhelmed that the recruits were forced through in droves, streamlining the process by removing some of the standard paperwork and forming much larger platoon sizes than the usual training evolution. After the large, nearly two-hundred-man platoon was settled into formation, their Senior Drill Sergeant stood in front of them and addressed them.
“Listen up,” he said, looking at their faces like a hungry tiger at a meal, “You have arrived at Fort Benning. Welcome.”
Michael’s stomach began to feel queasy. How had it come to this? He thought of Cynthia and Manny, still upset that he had no idea as to where they had been moved.
“But,” continued the Drill Instructor, “be warned, this is not a warm welcome. You are here to train, you are here to shoot, you are here to learn how to fight, and goddammit, that will be what you learn if it’s THE LAST THING YOU DO, yes sir?”
“SIR, YES SIR!” they all cried in unison.
“My name is Drill Sergeant Masterson, and I will be the one to turn you…turds…into United States Army Infantry, hooah!”
He turned to his staff, four other lower ranking Drill Sergeants flanking him on both sides without moving a muscle.
“Drill Sergeants,” he bellowed.
“Yes, Staff Sergeant,” they replied in unison.
“Get them into their barracks and square them away.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant,” they screamed.
From the moment they stepped into the barracks, it was as if all hell had broken loose. The Senior Drill Sergeant was nowhere to be found, and the four others were running the show, yelling and screaming, their spittle spraying the faces of the recruits from inches away. They opened their bags and threw their items around, one Drill Sergeant yelling for the recruit to retrieve his things, the other yelling for him to remain at attention. The chaos overloaded their senses, and whether they did something correct or incorrect, they were subject to verbal abuse. Neither peace nor quiet existed in their world; and by now they knew the truth…this was going to be harder than they anticipated.
--- 9:12 am ---
95 mi Northeast of San José, Costa Rica
The smell of the ocean water was an encouraging reminder that they were close to being extracted. They were hiding in the tree line, the beach only about 100 meters away. The Chief looked through his binoculars, scanning the coast line.
“I think I got one,” he exclaimed, “right th
ere!”
He pointed with his finger toward the horizon.
“Lemme see,” said James.
The Chief handed him the binoculars and began to tend to the young girls, calming them and making sure they were ready to move.
James looked through the binoculars, peering at a Navy warship sitting on the horizon.
“Bingo,” he said, “Radio, try again.”
The young radio operator was worn out from travel and sweating profusely from the unbearable pain of his injury. His strength was all but gone. Between heavy breaths, he struggled to sit up and slid the radio from his back up to the front of his body.
“Mayday mayday mayday,” he said lazily, “This is Zeus Two does anyone copy?”
A long pause.
“Mayday mayday mayday. This is Zeus Two, does anybody copy, over.”
Still nothing.
“Well,” said Radio, noticeably in pain and weak from the loss of blood, “so much for that plan.”
James looked at the Chief, both of their facial expressions twisted in frustration. They had lost their flares, so they would have to figure something else out. Regardless, they needed to get help for their bleeding comrade fast, otherwise they would soon be taking on his role as radio operator. James looked through the binoculars out onto the horizon again, irritated and perplexed as to what they could do to signal them.
“Zeus Two, do you copy?” the radio blared.
All three men jumped. Even the schoolgirls began to smile and clap.
“Zeus Two, this is Papa One Whiskey, do you copy?”
James snatched the radio with surprised excitement.
“Papa Whiskey, Papa Whiskey, this is Zeus Two, over.”
“Zeus Two, identify yourself.”
He paused.
“Asset zero two eight, five three seven, over.”
Another a long pause.
“Zeus Two, glad to hear your voice.”
“Papa Whiskey,” said James, pausing to let out a joyously emotional laugh, “we sure are happy to hear yours.”
“Zeus Two, we’re attempting to lock onto your coordinates. Where are you located, over?”
“Papa Whiskey, be advised, we are at grid coordinates,” he fumbled looking for the map, “nine zero four five. Repeat nine zero four five.”
He looked over at Radio.
“We have one wounded, seven non-combatants, and we need immediate exfil, do you copy?”
There was silence.
“Roger, Zeus Two uhh, we have a warship in the area. We’re sending transmission now to get you a ride. Light flares and stay put. ETA five mics.”
“Roger, out.”
He sat the radio back down next to the operator and reached into his side pocket, pulling out his late uncle’s lucky lighter. It was his favorite, an old silver zippo with a picture of a naked woman on the front. He looked around him, scanning the immediate area, then looked up at the tree.
He stood up and slid his knife out of the holster, grabbing a low hanging branch. He looked at the Chief, and then back over to Radio, and realized this was going to be the longest five minutes of their lives.
“Let’s move,” he said to the Chief, already grabbing Radio and hoisting his arm over his shoulders while he held the branch in his other hand. The schoolgirls, seeing them about to move, began to follow the team toward the beach.
Getting as close as they could while remaining hidden in the tree line, the two men sat Radio down as James got into a defensive posture, aiming his weapon to their rear autonomously. Looking across the faces of the children and knowing that they didn’t understand what was going on, he offered an innocent smile, hoping that it would comfort them.
“You guys stay here,” said James to the two SEALs as he slung his rifle and picked up the long branch riddles with leaves, “I’ll be right back.”
He immediately broke out into a sprint toward the coast. Running past the array of vacation homes lining the ocean, he kept looking to his left and right, scanning the area. If he were seen, he’d most surely be killed, but if he made it to the beach, there would be hope for the others. His pace slowed as his boots hit the soft sand. He kept pushing through his exhaustion, making certain to get to a nice spot of open beach. Falling to his hands and knees, he jammed the branch into the sand, wiggling it back and forth so that it stood upright. Flipping open the zippo, he lit the leaves and let the branch burn the thick white smoke into the sky. Once it was secure, he got up and ran back to the tree line where the rest were hiding.
The Chief continued to look through his binoculars at the warship. After about three and a half minutes, he could see a small, high speed amphibious craft speeding through the water with two men inside.
“I can see them,” said the Chief, “They’re coming. Hang in there, Radio!”
The radio operator was pale and noticeably weak from the loss of blood. His hands were cold, and although it was more than ninety degrees outside, he was starting to shiver.
As the new model Raiding Craft approached within 75 feet of the coast, they prepared to move Radio and the girls to the beach.
“Vamanos,” said James to the girls as they began to follow him.
“Come on, Radio,” said the Chief, hoisting him up, “you’re a tough son-of-a-bitch. You’ll make it. We’re almost there.”
They made their way out to the beach; the two men carrying Radio and the girls following close behind. The boat pulled up onto shore, it’s tracks gripping the sand and easily converting into a driving craft. Two Quick Reaction Force Marines hopped out, running toward them and waving for them to hurry. As they met, two Marines grabbed Radio and picked him up, carrying him to the boat.
After securing Radio, they all took turns helping the young girls inside. Radio laid in the back, and at this point they weren’t entirely certain whether he would make it or not. After the schoolgirls embarked, the QRF Marines approached James and the Chief.
“Chief,” said one of the Marines, “we’re at capacity. You’re gonna have to hang tight. We’ll be right back.”
“You couldn’t send out two boats?!” asked the Chief, dip spit flying from his mouth as he worried about their exposure.
“We’ll come right back for you Chief. Just hang tight!”
They jumped back into the craft and drove the boat backward into the water while the two men stood there alone. With the erect tree branch smoldering next to them and the Raider Craft drifting away, they felt vulnerable. So far, staying out of sight had kept them alive, but now, they had no choice but to stay out in the open.
As the boat sped off, the Chief took a knee, pulling out his binoculars and watching from the coastline. They waited, and waited, and waited. In the distance, he could faintly see the QRF Marines helping the girls up a ladder onto the warship. He was relieved. At least they were safe. It was when they started hoisting Radio up on a stretcher that James interrupted the silence.
“Uhh, Chief,” he said nervously, tapping his shoulder, “what the hell is that?!”
The Chief turned around and joined him, looking in the same direction. He squinted at the object, trying to figure out what his eyes were seeing. Bringing the binoculars up to his face, he focused in on a glowing object in the distance. James blinked twice.
“What the hell is that?” he whispered, curiously frightened.
In that same instant, they heard a faint whistle as the ground began to vibrate. Both men looked down, nervous and confused, and then both looked at each other.
The next moment, the large bright object flew upward into the sky at supersonic speeds and vanished. Both men fell flat to the ground on their stomachs for cover instinctively, placing their faces in the sand and their forearms on top of their heads. Suddenly, they both began to hear faint cries in the distance. The blood curling screams danced in their eardrums and burnt imprints into their memory.
They lifted their heads and turned to look behind them; the warship glowing in the distance. The Chief grabbed the
binoculars from the sand next to him, lifting them nervously up to his eyes and looking out to sea. He saw the warship and the horrifically saddening sight of what had become of it.
“What is it?” asked James, angrily fearing the worst, “Let me see!”
The Chief didn’t say a word, he just hung his head and handed the binoculars over to the young CIA agent. James grabbed them eagerly and looked through the lenses at the warship and instantly looked away, horrified.
The ship was melting. The steel, the deck, and worst of all, the people. They could hear the piercing cries of thousands of Navy personnel watching their skin, muscles, and bones disintegrating. The ship slowly began to melt away like ice cream underneath a radiator until it disappeared completely. There was silence for about thirty seconds.
“DAMN!” whispered James underneath his breath, clenching his fists and hanging his head. He looked back through the binoculars angrily, blinking twice.
They both sat there silently, a million thoughts running through their minds. They had never witnessed that magnitude of destruction. They were outgunned…literally. The Chief looked at his rifle, now a large paper weight, and placed his hand on James’ back.
“C’mon, we should go,” said the Chief.
THURS, JUN 8th, 2034
700 mi Northeast of Alexandria
6:47 pm
W hen she first arrived at ‘Facility B’, it wasn’t the wind or the chill that was her least favorite, it was the circumstances. There were too many people, all frustrated with their discomforts, with unrest on its way to prevalence. This facility wasn’t controlled by National Guard, instead it had been turned over to the state, and so the local and State Police were tasked with keeping order. If anything, that was enough friction for most.
The streets were cordoned off with physical barriers, limiting the people to the space necessary to live. The gates were high and topped with barbed wire, reminiscent of some sort of prison. Of course, as it had been explained, it was for their safety. On the way in, Cynthia looked at the sign hanging above the front gate. She stared at the word, emblazoned in bold letters: FEMA.