Crysis: Escalation

by Smith, Gavin G.

  One of the diseased people hit the ground, sliding across the ice, almost colliding with Barnes. He’d been shot by Earl. Barnes shifted aim and started firing as he backed away – they were almost on him again. He heard Chavez screaming. Barnes glanced to his right. They’d come pouring out of an alley between two of the houses. They had her and were tearing at her face, her arms, her legs, anywhere that wasn’t armoured. She was already turning red. Her cries were cut off as her throat was torn open.

  Barnes shifted aim, trying to help Chavez, knowing it was too late. He fired. It was a tracer round, warning him that he only had two more rounds in the magazine. He fired those and ran. He had no choice. She was dead already. He would just keep telling himself that.

  Barnes pulled a fragmentation grenade off his webbing, pulled the pin, let the spoon flip off and then threw it over his shoulder in a way that he really hadn’t been trained to do. He ejected the empty clip and tried to reload whilst sprinting but dropped the magazine.

  Ahead of him he saw Earl move out onto the street, firing his M14 rifle quickly. Barnes was aware of bullets passing him. He heard people fall and others collide with them and go down, but there were always more.

  He saw Earl’s head jerk to the left. One of them came sprinting out of a gap between two houses. The diseased woman was practically on top of the sniper.

  The grenade exploded behind Barnes and the pressure wave hit him, almost knocking him down. He felt fragments impact his Kevlar but he managed to keep running.

  He watched as Earl grabbed his knife and moved to the side, ramming it into the diseased woman’s throat. She ran past him a few steps and then sprawled out on the ice, turning it red. Earl drew his Mk 23 and began firing rapidly into the alley between the houses. Diseased people were collapsing to the ground as they tried to reach the sniper. Earl kept backing away, firing the pistol.

  Barnes felt someone grab the back of his webbing. Then another hand grabbed him, and another. He was yanked back. He slipped on the ice and was taken to the ground.

  They were all around him, hands reaching for him. They threw themselves onto the ground next to him, on top of him. His vision was filled with beatific faces, tumorous growths and teeth. As they clawed at him he heard disturbing ecstatic moans.

  ‘Run! Run!’ he screamed at Earl.

  He kicked, punched, tried pushing himself away from them. Somehow he had his knife in his hand. There was blood. He felt teeth and ragged nails against his skin and there was more blood.

  He heard a sound like a buzzsaw. Diseased people started going down close to him. Hydrostatic shock blew limbs off sick bodies and sent them spinning into the air as a frightening amount of bullets rained down on the street.

  Barnes renewed his fighting. There was no room for the advanced hand-to-hand combat techniques he’d been taught at Fort Bragg. He was kicking out with his feet, punching out with his left fist and every time he felt someone break skin he tried to stab them, a lot.

  There was now the constant buzzsaw noise of minigun fire. Someone was cutting down the diseased like a scythe through wheat. Barnes kicked one of the diseased people in the face, a little girl. A man got Barnes’ knife in the face. Barnes found that he had enough room to draw his pistol. He started firing the Mk 23 rapidly, trying to clear himself room. Firing one-handed he pushed himself to his feet. Someone grabbed at him. Their face caved in as Barnes shot him at point-blank range. The muzzle flash set the man’s beard on fire. Barnes practically hurdled him as he broke free of the diseased people and ran.

  He felt them grab at him again but he was free and ahead of the mass, but then there were more of them ahead of him. He fired at them on the run. One fell, but now his pistol was empty. As he ran he reloaded the Mk 23, trying not to drop the magazine again.

  A civilian Blackhawk hove into view over him. It was flying sideways. Barnes had a moment to register that the door gunner was wearing a protective NBC suit. The door gunner’s rotary minigun started firing. The muzzle flash was a constant as the buzzsaw noise started again and the diseased people chasing him started falling.

  With it clear behind him, Barnes stopped running and started firing at the four ahead of him. He couldn’t see Earl anywhere. He took the four sick people ahead of him down and then swung around. One of the diseased people had managed to avoid the minigun’s onslaught. Barnes shot him twice in the head. The slide on the pistol came back, the magazine empty. Barnes ejected it and replaced it rapidly. His M4 had been torn away in the fight.

  He was gasping for breath. There were three of the helos. He could see that now. All of them were pouring fire down into the village. One of them was firing into the rainforest. Bullets from the minigun cut swathes through the frozen trees, shattering them like crystal.

  He looked around for more of the sick people. All he saw was a sea of corpses.

  They circled the village looking for more of the infected to kill. Lockhart looked down at the patrol leader stood in the middle of the street, holding a smoking pistol, looking for more targets, his people gone. Lockhart felt sorry for the man.

  ‘It’s very exciting this,’ Asher said. Lockhart wished that his orders had allowed him to ride in a different helo. ‘Is it safe for us to go down?’ Lockhart just gave the scientist a look of contempt.

  The commander listened as he received a message through the headset he was wearing.

  ‘Well?’ Asher demanded. Lockhart took a deep breath.

  ‘The Joint Chiefs have agreed with the boards’ recommendation. The Firestorm protocol is enabled. The bird’s already in the air.’

  Asher nodded. ‘Typical tiny military minds. We’ll have to act quickly, then.’

  ‘What about Lieutenant Barnes?’

  ‘What about him?’

  Barnes watched as armed men fast-roped out of two of the choppers, whilst the third chopper covered them. They were wearing NBC suits with body armour over the top.

  Four of them advanced on him, covering him with their carbines.

  ‘Lieutenant Barnes. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to relinquish your weapon.’

  ‘Are you fucking kidding me?! We’re on the same side!’ For one moment he thought that maybe they worked for the cartel, or FARC, except they had called him by his name. He handed over his Mk 23 and then sat down hard.

  It was then he started to realise how badly hurt he was. He was covered in cuts, abrasions and bite marks. Some of them were deep and bleeding quite badly. He’d taken a through-and-through in his right upper arm, probably fragmentation from one of his own grenades. He had another graze on his forehead, either from another fragment or a bullet. Judging from how hard he was finding it to breathe he reckoned he had at least one broken rib, probably due to a stray round, at a guess from the minigun. It had only grazed his body armour. Frankly, he was lucky to be alive. He noticed that none of the people in the NBC suits were rushing to offer him medical aid. They had supplied him with a number of armed guards, however.

  Then he started to think about T, and Chavez, and wonder where the fuck Earl was.

  Then he remembered them all around him, reaching for him, teeth in his flesh. He started to shake uncontrollably.

  The folding table had a number of scientific instruments on it. Asher was pouring over an instrument that Lockhart took to be some kind of microscope. Lockhart glimpsed the stopwatch on the table, checked the countdown, and then turned to look at the strange tower. Three members of Asher’s team were using a plasma cutter in an attempt to remove part of it. Their attempt was working but it looked to be taking a lot longer than he would expect for a plasma torch to cut through anything.

  ‘What happened here?’ Lockhart asked the scientist. Asher sighed so theatrically that Lockhart was able to make it out through the heavy NBC suit.

  ‘At a guess it was an incursion that didn’t fully initialise. Probably due to a lack of energy.’

  ‘And the virus?’

  This time Lockhart heard the theatrical sig
h over the radio link. The commander started grinding his teeth.

  ‘Commander, I’m working in the most appalling conditions, under ridiculous time restraints and trying to do science through these preposterous suits, which is a bit like trying to play tennis whilst zipped into a body bag . . .’

  ‘Just answer the fucking question,’ Lockhart snapped.

  Asher stared at the commander. The effect was wasted due to neither of them being able to see very much as a result of the suits’ masks.

  ‘The answer to the fucking question, commander, is yes, according to my preliminary, and I emphasise the word preliminary, findings, this is very similar to the Tunguska strain.’

  ‘Is it contagious?’

  ‘In your terms that,’ Asher pointed at the spire, ‘is basically a big landmine crossed with a fungus.’

  ‘An area denial weapon?’

  ‘Whenever it breaches the surface it spores and, as far as we know, only those infected with the spores come down with the virus. The spores themselves become inert after an amount of time we have yet to determine.’

  ‘So he’s going to be fine?’ Lockhart asked, nodding towards where four of his men were guarding Barnes. ‘Even with the amount of contact he’s had?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware he’ll be perfectly fine. Fit as a badly-beaten fiddle, right up to the moment that this area is sanitised.’

  ‘And you have enough samples?’ Lockhart asked. Asher didn’t answer immediately. Instead he just looked around at the carpet of corpses on the ground.

  ‘I think so,’ the scientist finally said, sarcastically.

  ‘Good. Get that sample of the spire and get your people back on the helo.’ Lockhart turned and started walking towards Barnes.

  ‘Commander, I do hope you’re not forgetting your instructions,’ Asher said. Lockhart swung around to face the piggy little scientist.

  ‘They’re called orders, and I don’t need a stinking little pig of a man to remind me of my duty, do you understand me?’ Without waiting for an answer he turned back and strode towards the battered Delta Force officer.

  Major Winterman strode across the playing field the US and UK forces were using as an airfield for their helicopters. He was heading towards the British quarter.

  ‘No ma’am, in my opinion it is untenable to attempt to run special operations under these circumstances.’ He was talking over a secure sat phone to General Pamela Follet, the commanding officer of United States Special Operations Command at MacDill air force base in Tampa, Florida. ‘It puts every last one of my operators at risk and frankly, I feel it’s an usurpation of military resources for corporate agendas. I have not taken this decision lightly, but I am tendering the resignation of my commission, effective immediately. I will of course serve out the remainder of Operation Scarface unless you see fit to replace me, which I would understand.’ Winterman listened to the General’s response. He had spotted the individual he begrudgingly wanted to speak to. He stopped walking. ‘Frankly, General, the Joint Chiefs can kiss my ass and yes do please put that on record. If any of them have a problem with my conduct then they are more than welcome to come down here and discuss it with me personally. I should also make you aware that the moment, and I mean the very second, I am relieved of command I am going to find that so-called-commander-marine-washout-Dominic Lockhart and beat his bitch-ass to death. Yes ma’am, you have a good day as well.’

  Having finished murdering his career, the major continued heading towards the UK part of the base as one of their Chinooks came into land. The man he wanted to speak to had noticed his approach and stood up.

  ‘Major!’

  Winterman turned around. He saw three members of D-squadron’s recce/sniper troop running towards him. He recognised Sergeants Hawker and Cortez and second lieutenant Dunn. It had been Dunn who shouted.

  ‘I suspect it’s just mister now,’ Winterman told them. The three of them looked like they had just come off a job. Dunn looked momentarily confused but just launched ahead anyway.

  ‘Major, with all due respect, what the fuck is going on? Where is T’s patrol? We get to the CP and they said you’d been relieved of command.’ Winterman looked at the six foot tall operator. Dunn looked like he’d been carved out of stone. He knew that all three of them went way back with Thomas and Earl. They liked Chavez as well.

  ‘You ready to get into some trouble?’ Winterman asked. Cortez shrugged, Hawker grinned and nodded.

  ‘Sure,’ Dunn told him.

  ‘Follow me.’ Winterman turned on his heel and continued towards the obnoxious SAS “liaison” he’d been saddled with earlier in the operation. ‘Sergeant!’ Winterman shouted.

  The squat, shaven-headed SAS trooper looked at Winterman and the three fully armed and still camoed-up operators he had with him.

  ‘Is this a beating?’ the SAS sergeant asked, wondering if he’d pushed the yank major too hard. ‘Because the boys are right behind me in the tent and I’m not afraid to scream like a little girl if things turn nasty.’

  ‘Who the fuck’s this?’ Cortez asked.

  ‘No sergeant, it’s not a beating,’ Winterman told him.

  ‘In which case, either call me Sykes or Psycho, guv. You go shouting words like sergeant around and people are likely to think I’m some kind of soldier or something.’

  ‘I’m sure nobody would make that mistake,’ Dunn told the Brit, smiling.

  ‘What can I do you septics for?’ Sykes asked.

  ‘Septics?’ Hawker asked.

  ‘Septic tanks, yanks, it’s rhyming . . . never mind. This to do with the spot of bother you had this morning?’ he asked Winterman. The Major nodded. ‘What do you need?’

  ‘I’m forced to go outside my chain of command. How much pull do you have with 7 Squadron?’ the Major asked.

  ‘I can ’ave a word if you like.’

  Barnes watched the NBC-suited figure approach him. The man carried himself like he was used to command. He had seen most of the other personnel, except the fat one, defer to him. The NBC-suited figures were packing up the two choppers on the ground and getting ready to leave whilst the other chopper circled them. Barnes had been using his med kit to see to his own wounds as best he could whilst four of the gunmen guarded him.

  The commander reached him and stopped, standing over the lieutenant.

  ‘You’re not going to take me with you, are you?’ Barnes said, with a degree of resignation.

  ‘I’m sorry, son.’

  Barnes looked up at the man but all he saw was the mask of the protective suit.

  ‘At least take my people’s bodies with you.’ The commander shook his head. ‘Who are you people?’

  ‘Do you want some advice, son?’ The commander asked. Barnes didn’t answer. ‘Run, as far and as fast as you can. Head south, but start now.’

  ‘Have I got it? The virus or whatever the fuck that nasty shit was.’

  The commander shook his head.

  ‘Am I a carrier? Will I be contagious?’

  ‘No.’

  Barnes looked up at the commander’s mask.

  ‘I’m going to find out what happened here, you understand me?’

  ‘You need to get going, son, now.’

  Tiredly Barnes stood up, got his bearings and, with every muscle in his battered and wounded body protesting, he started to run.

  Lockhart watched him go and then turned and climbed onto the last chopper as it took off.

  A Spirit B2 belonging to the 509th Bomb Wing out of Whiteman Air Force Base, Missouri, dropped the smart bomb from over ten miles away at a height of forty thousand feet. The bomb tracked the transponder left by Commander Lockhart at the base of the spire in the village unerringly. As it approached the spire a conventional explosive within the bomb was detonated, scattering the nanofuel over the surrounding area. That fuel then auto-ignited.

  Barnes heard the explosion first. Then he was aware of a rushing noise as a powerful wind seemed to suck the oxygen out of the air. He
had taken as many of the painkillers as he had dared from the med kit, but sprinting through a frozen jungle was still agony and he spent a lot of time slipping over and sliding into trees. Then the blast wave hit. The frozen trees exploded. Ice fragments filled the air. Barnes was torn off his feet and flung across a narrow gulley. He had just about enough time to realise that he was in real trouble.

  The RAF 7 Squadron pilot had brought the HC3 Chinook to a hover. Major Winterman, Dunn and Psycho were all crowded into the helicopter’s cockpit hatchway. They, along with the pilot and co-pilot, were staring at what looked like a solid wall of fire hundreds of feet high. It bathed the inside of the chopper in a hellish red light.

  Lockhart leant out of the lead helicopter, looking behind him. They had just got clear of the fuel-air bomb’s extended blast wave. It looked like the air itself had caught fire.

  Below them was devastation. More than two square miles of rainforest had just ceased to exist. It was steaming, blackened ground now. Beyond that, many of the trees had been knocked over by the pressure wave and parts of the forest were burning.

  ‘Psycho, what have you got us into?’ the Chinook pilot demanded as he circled the area.

  ‘Jimmy . . . I’d no idea,’ Psycho said apologetically. ‘Cool though, aye?’ Dunn and Winterman turned to stare at the SAS trooper, appalled. ‘I’m just saying,’ Psycho said defensively.

  ‘I’ve got smoke on our five,’ Cortez said from the helicopter’s main cargo area. Winterman and Dunn headed back to look.

  ‘No shit, the jungle’s on fire,’ Psycho said as the pilot swung the Chinook around.

  ‘I see it,’ the co-pilot said, pointing at a thin plume of yellow smoke.

  Barnes dropped the smoke canister he’d set off when he’d heard the chopper and collapsed to the ground and mercifully passed out.