by Anthony Puyo
The Captain re-cocks the rifle, the empty shell kinks on the metal dash.
Edward looks in awe at the precision of the difficult shot. The staff sergeant understands the extreme nature of the obstacles: distance and rabid winds. “Hell of a shot,” he says, under his breath.
BAM!
Another shot rings out. This one blasting the second crazy in the chest, stopping her in her tracks. She falls in sections: first straight down to her knees, then onto her stomach.
Edward notices the woman who’s being chased wince. She turns to see she’s no longer in danger. She stares back at Blake and Hawks, smiling, raising her arms, crossing them back in forth ecstatically.
Blake puts down the binoculars, “Great shot, Captain, you got ‘em!” It’s a small victory, and he was happy about it.
Captain Hawks rest the gun-barrel over the windshield and glances over at the delighted Staff Sergeant. His lips stretch to smirk. “Not all of them.” He then smoothly turns and re-aims.
Blake’s smile slowly fades. “You’re kidding, right, Captain?”
He doesn’t get a response. Edward reaches for the binoculars.
He’s not really going to do this is he? Through the amped vision, Blake witnesses the woman walking with a pleasured grin towards them. She has no clue.
The shot tears, and four nanoseconds later, it goes through the woman’s head. Her brown, soft eyes stay open for a moment, then she collapses to her back, lifeless and facing towards the heavens.
Captain Hawks puts the gun down, making eye contact with Blake Edward. His demeanor is cold as ice. “Now I got ‘em all.”
The staff sergeant’s mouth hung down—speechless. He just witnessed a murder, but what is he to do? He doesn’t even know how to approach the subject with himself. Intimidated, he says nothing. He would later realize; the seeds of regret were sown in this moment.
9
The Seeds of Wrath
The military effort is not well organized and has plenty of issues. It didn’t help that the lines of communication are weak and getting worse with each passing day. Even the trusty cell phone slowly ceased to work, and not long after that, the internet went dead. A weak power grid is half the issue. The other, is the strange malfunctioning of many of the worlds orbiting satellites. It all culminates to a domino effect of escalating chaos.
Central intelligence is almost nonexistence. Sending the remanence of government deeper into peril. The lack of solid information is downright disturbing. Furthermore, sending directive to personal is becoming a literal shot in the dark. The best they could do, is send out communications, mostly by radio broadcasts and plain old word of mouth, and hope it is heard by the right people, or at the very least; believed to be true. As in some places, directive was already described as hearsay or rumors.
The first days of the incident, the average citizen’s best hope of solid communication came from local government and military; if they were still functioning. But the chaos came in swift, making help scarce and delayed since the beginning. In most cities, this left the masses to figure out on their own how to survive, rather than waiting for the administration to respond.
There are some who would argue, the initial days were the worst on the population. The body count was no doubt the largest in that span, and at a numbers standpoint, it is undeniable. But there are those: the leaders of mankind, scientist, surveyors, etc. who’ve studied, tested, and came to conclusions that things would always be worse the fourth day and beyond during a largescale, civilization crippling event.
These are the days in which a certain stability would take place—a flat line. It’s at this juncture, for the remaining, pure survival will become the ultimate driving force. And when this happens, the more like savages men will become. What was once called civility, would be lost, and barbarism would commence to root in its place. Unfortunately, morality seems to be tied with well-being and stability, and there isn’t much of that going on in most areas.
If there is a silver lining; It would be hope. A belief that the government still exists. The leaders understand this. As long as they can keep their presence known, civilization would commence to exist. That’s not to say cracks won’t widen, because they have and will. But as long as there’s not a break, all could be repaired through triumph.
General Bragg is one of only a handful of upper personnel that survived the first days of the incident. In doing so, he was assigned eleven states on the west region.
At that time, Bragg’s directives were to gather any military survivors at the bases in those states. It was a large order task, with very little time to accomplish. Every hour that passed hurts the cause.
If the General’s team were to catch a break and get in contact with any personal at a base, they were to give orders in hopes it could be carried out. But lines of communication were faulty from the get go, especially for the bases in smaller cities, and in turn, this made the unification of the ranks as a whole, nearly impossible.
Some military personnel, early on, opted to flee by themselves, looking to reunite with loved ones, while others, who were too far from home and had no one, stayed together. These rogue groups formed small teams carrying their own set of orders. Some for the good, and some for their own wellbeing.
Captain Hawks was given fifty-two men for his newly formed battalion. He didn’t allow any women on his brigade. He sent them with other leaders. He had argued his task was daunting. He needed his men sharp, focused, and with no temptations. His request was met solely on his reputation. The women didn’t argue. Collectively, they thought he was a pompous ass anyway.
Hawks’ makeshift battalion consisted of soldiers that were left from the aftermath of the incident. They came from the military base in the city of Lemoore, thirty-three miles southwest of Fresno. Together they were assigned to restore order to the city of five hundred thousand. This would be a difficult mission for an army, let alone, fifty-two men—even if they were America’s finest. Their orders were to gather civilians, recruit, train, have them help in the effort. This had to be done promptly, for obvious reasons.
Captain Hawks' convoy of eight army vehicles, which includes a tank, four troop trucks, two Jeeps, and Hum-V, rides to the boundaries of the dimming city. The tank leads the way, clearing the path for the other vehicles. Gunners on top of it, shoot down on-coming infected. The unit is very professional and confident as they roll through, looking nothing short of a parade of conquering heroes.
As they move further in, their vision starts to hinder from the fading light. To keep the odds in their favor, the Captain opts to seek shelter for the night.
Two miles into the city’s boundaries, they spot a large milk plant. Assuming it to be abandoned, they make way for it. It’s a little bigger residence than Robert wants to defend if need be, but it had to do for now. On the plus side, the building has strong brick walls and a large parking area with a fence that went around the whole place. It offers more than decent security.
The Captain, along with most of his men, wear night vision goggles upon exiting the vehicles. Robert quickly with sternness in his voice, shouts orders. Sending twenty of his men to secure area. The men jog to the front and rear of the dwelling. He then splits the duties of his remaining soldiers. Some take supplies off the vehicle, while others escort as security.
Robert Hawks follows behind two of his men that lead the team to the large double-door entrance of the structure. It’s dark, and anything could be behind that door. Many in the platoon carry antsy stomachs.
Hawks signals a stop, having his followers turn their rifle lights on. He nods to his wing soldiers to be ready. His lead man grips the knobs. Here goes nothing. He turns them, but they’re stiff.
“It’s locked, Captain.”
“Isn’t that a surprise,” Hawks answers. No beans about it, he knew the reason as to why.
Hawks pulls his handgun, steps up, aims, and blasts the knob off one of the doors. He then moves aside opening it. His two m
en lead, aiming their guns as they step in. Through their goggles, everything is grey with highlighted whites. They see through the thrashed lobby into the reception area—it’s empty. There’s a door to the back of the room labeled: Plant Entrance. They head towards it hearing their own breaths and footsteps as they move. Sweat secretes from their palms—fear runs through most of them. It’s not because they’re cowards. Even as trained killers, there’s a part that doesn't go away if you’re born with it: the fear of the unknown that waits in the dark.
The two wingmen forge ahead. They scan and move, scan and move, inching closer to the plant entrance, seeing nothing but grays and whites of objects through the goggles.
The battalion walks into the two story plant filled with conveyors and other machinery. Robert expected to see many bodies, but remarkably, there isn’t any. A stench roams the air.
“Smell that?” Hawks says, to his closest men.
“Yes,” one of them answers.
“There’s death in here . . .” The Captain turns a full circle, “Let’s keep it going, we’ll inspect after we find our station area.”
Walking through the large work zone, they witness what looks to be drying puddles of grease. The Captain bends down to one such puddle. He lifts his goggles and touches the spot; It’s what he figured it to be.
“What is it, Captain?” one of soldiers asks.
“It’s blood . . . It’s everywhere.”
“Where are the bodies?”
Robert stands. “Someone removed them.” Hawks puts his goggles back on and sighs. There was a bit of restlessness in it. “Let’s move forward . . . Be on alert.”
A decent sized dock area is straight ahead from where they stand. It’s a perfect place to set-up for the night, or longer if they have to. Captain Hawks points there for his men to do just that. The only other thing to do, is secure area. If not, no one would get any sleep tonight.
Hawks and five of his gunners take a walk around the edges of the dock. He sends Staff Sergeant Blake Edward with a team to secure the other rooms of the building.
Staircases line the sides of the plant walls, leading to offices and break areas. Captain Hawks combs the grounds, not seeing anything of intrigue—including bodies, but he knew they had been there. The plasma spots and stench told him so. About to abandon his search, Robert stares up one of the staircases towards an office.
Nothing. It doesn’t make sense . . . Where could they have gone?
Suddenly, in the doorway of the upstairs room, he sees a blur of movement.
“Up there!”
“What is it, Captain?”
“I think I saw something. Check it out.”
Three of his men ascend up the staircase.
The sound of a glass bottles rolling on the ground floor are heard near some stacked containers. Hawks turns rapidly, signaling his other two men to explore.
The soldiers climbing the stairs, get closer to the office building. They hear a slight movement coming from within it. They tense up, sliding their index fingers closer to the trigger.
The soldiers slowly move into the office. They look around keenly, nervously, but see nothing in plain sight. One of the men, eager to leave, turns to walk out. Before he can take a step, he’s tapped on the shoulder by one of his comrades. He turns to see the soldier who tapped him, pointing under the office desk. looking in that direction, he sees a person’s forearm and hand to ground, clearly hiding.
The soldiers signal each other. One walks towards the desk cautiously. The other two stay back, their guns stage-lighting the area.
The fetching soldier gulps in anticipation with every step. About to get there—finger on the trigger—closer—closer.
Suddenly.
A partially bald, heavy set man, middle age and odd, gets up abruptly from under it.
“Hello!” he says, with a goofy laugh and jagged teeth smile. His sloppy, protruding belly is exposed hanging over his loose sweat pants. His hands are fixed with stiff pointed fingers. It’s obvious to the soldiers; the man has a mental disability.
The fat-man squints his eyes and quenches his body in the gun’s bright lights. He then raises his hands up. He has no clue, coming out so suddenly nearly got him killed.
The soldiers express a sigh of relief. One of them grabs his radio.
“Captain, we got a civilian here.”
Static is heard before the Captain's voice. “Shit . . . Bring him down.”
Captain Hawks waits for confirmation on his radio from his other men who are searching around the stacked containers. After a few moments, the three soldiers who went upstairs come down with the heavy-set man.
The Captain’s radio begins to release static. “Captain, you not going to believe this,” the voice coming from it blurts.
Hawks, not too happy with the buildup, scolds, “Just cut to it, soldier!”
“We got a partial family here. A mother and one kid. They say there’s more people too . . . in the back. Supply stockroom.”
In the background, Hawks hears the woman pleading in Spanish. “What's the woman saying?”
“She saying some of the people are sick and badly injured. They need help . . . Hold on . . . She says they have one of the crazies locked up. He’s trapped in the restroom of the stockroom.”
Hawks doesn’t care much for the civilian problems, but his ears perk when he hears of the trapped infected. “We’re on our way, Private.”
Being that the electricity is out, the stockroom should be dark like the rest of the place. But the people that had taken refuge in there, have candles. They lit them up all over the place. They give a faint, yellow light throughout the dingy, oily room.
The stockroom is 1,100 square feet in size. Similar to that of a small house. It’s dirty and has a musty smell about it—as if sweat smoothies were being made there. It was a signature of the people who worked there at one time. They were hard working individuals, who often worked long hours around greased up, oiled machine parts in hot temperatures.
In the middle of the room, are ten-foot high metal rack columns. They’re loaded with materials used for building maintenance. This took square footage away from the place, but there is only fifteen people residing in it, so they had their space if they wanted it.
They shacked up wherever they could. Some lean up against the walls, others lie down in the aisles, some sit in chairs. Their outward behaviors prove that most don’t know each other. More than a few are separated. Some individually. Survival had transplanted them there—Isolating them from what they knew.
The mood is one of hopelessness. There isn’t much conversation taking place. What is heard, is an occasional groan coming from the more seriously injured.
Then there’s that other noise. It’s repetitive—annoying for new ears for sure. But not for the ones that have been here for a while. To them, it’s a part of the ritual of what life has become. It is the constant banging on the restroom door from the infected that’s trapped in there.
A skinny woman slouches with her head down in the corner of the room. Her shoulder-length hair is dark, oily from sweat that came from running, hiding, and not being able to shower. It dangles down, concealing her face. Her body language alone, tells you she’s miserable, and that same misery saturates through the rest of the room. Next to the woman is a black male staring into nothingness. He holds his arm that’s been wounded.
The few that are badly injured, are lucky if they have somebody looking after them. The unlucky have to deal with their pain, no matter the severity, alone. But the ones that are truly unfortunate, are the gravely injured. It is likely their last breaths will take place here—in this grimy, bricked dungeon.
The rest of the survivors gaze around with empty eyes, entrenched in their own worrisome thoughts, crushed in spirit, not fazed by the constant banging and anger-filled yelling that comes from the restroom where the trapped infected resides.
Robert Hawks, along with a few of his men, are escorted by the small
family and the off-man to the stockroom. As they trot in, a happiness that hadn’t been present, fills the room.
Saved at last! The people awake. Their faces light almost instantly. They begin talking again, conjured excitement fills their voices. No one knows what is going on exactly, but it is a happy surprise to lay eyes on the soldiers.
It could only mean the government has finally showed up to put an end to the madness, is the floating thought.
The ones that can easily walk, rise. They come forward to the Captain and his men. They begin to bombard them with questions and asking for things. They ask for food, fresh water, medicine, someone even asks for a cigarette. They ask if it’s safe to go home, if the government has all things under control, and everything else pertaining to their needs.
Captain Hawks and his soldiers try to settle-down the small crowd, but they’re eager, needy, and don’t realize how they’re acting. They tell them to be calm. It takes a moment for the people to relax, but they do. And as they start to silence, the thumping coming from the barricaded restroom becomes the dominant noise.
Captain Hawks’ focus is shifts past the people towards the sound. He cuts through the crowd that stares directly at him. In return, he acts as if they don’t exist. If it wasn’t for one of his privates asking what to do with the people, Hawks would have forgotten all about them. He orders his men to take the people to dock where they’re stationed. They could manage their needs there. The way he said it, you’d think he was talking about where to stack away empty boxes.
Robert stands four feet from the restroom. The infected, who has no chance of getting out, keeps banging and pushing the door. The door opens and closes frequently, confined to a six-inch gap. It’s enough for the infected to stick its bloody, bruised forearm and hand out. It reaches out violently, grabbing and clawing away at the air.