The Grave Diggers

by Chris Fritschi

  "I need to know you aren't going to bail on me the first time you feel inconvenienced. You were a highly decorated, highly skilled soldier that walked away from friends and career without a word of explanation. Then, out of the blue you sign up in the crap shoveler unit that follows the elephant parade. I think you'd be a perfect fit for my unit, but I have to know I can rely on you. I have to know your men can rely on you. I can't have you quitting on me because of some bullshit baggage."

  A visible coolness came over Tate, but Hewett saw beyond the mask to the anger Tate was barely controlling.

  "I have never let my men down, or been accused of failing in my duties as a soldier," said Tate, through an expression of stone. "And, my bullshit baggage," the words were sticking in his throat, "was because while I was away on a mission, when I should have been home..." Tate forced himself to take a breath. He lifted his drink to his lips, but changed his mind and put the tumbler back down.

  "My little girl, who I should have been protecting, was torn to pieces by a pack of Vix. So yes, I've never failed my men, but I failed my little girl. I failed my wife. Every time she looked at me, all she saw was the man responsible for her sorrow. The single most important thing I needed to do, and I failed."

  "Well, hell," said the colonel. In a rare and unexpected expression of solace, Colonel Hewett put his hand on Tate's shoulder. "Anything I could say to lessen your grief would sound feeble, and dishonor the tremendous loss you've suffered," said Hewett, firmly squeezing Tate's shoulder. "I apologize for opening that wound."

  The colonel got out of his seat and looked for a moment at Tate, who sat staring a thousand miles away.

  Hewett was about to say something, but thought better of it and walked out the door.

  Outside, the colonel's aid opened the door for him. Getting in the backseat, Hewett took out his cell phone and dialed a number.

  Someone on the other end of the call picked up.

  "Tate's a no-go. Yes, I told him what we're doing, but he's trustworthy. He's not a liability, so don't touch him."

  Hewett listened while the aid patiently sat in the driver’s seat, waiting for instructions from the colonel.

  "Send me the file on our next candidate. I've got time..."

  The colonel was interrupted by a rapping on the car window.

  He lowered the smoked glass window to see Jack Tate, peering at him with disturbing intensity.

  "Jack?"

  Tate wordlessly stared at the colonel, who was feeling something close to fear creeping up on him.

  "I'm in," said Tate, then walked away into the gloom of the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHADOWS IN THE NIGHT

  The barracks door slammed open, as a line of exhausted soldiers shuffled in from the dark of night. They were splattered with mud, and wet with sweat from having been out since the crack of dawn, and had thought of nothing but a shower and sacking out for the past two hours. Entering the barracks, they let out a collective groan.

  The contents of their footlockers had been dumped all over the floor. Their bunks had been stripped of bedding, and the mattresses were skewed over the bunk frames. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the place, backed up and went through again. But this disaster was care of their drill instructor; a small lesson in digging deep into the gas tank when you think there's nothing left.

  This was M Squad, or, as everyone called it, the Meat Squad. These were the new troops, fresh out of boot camp. It wasn't the traditional training regular soldiers got, where seasoned, tungsten hard drill instructors turned civilians into a soldier; M Squad had signed up for Mortuary Affairs because it was a non-combat unit, or so they thought.

  The training they got in boot camp was just enough to teach recruits how to put on a uniform and dig a hole. All recruits arriving on base from boot camp were thrown into M Squad, and remained unassigned to their final units until they been given some real training.

  One of the privates raced to his strewn belongings in near panic. Everyone else was too exhausted to notice or care, as the recruit searched through the mess while the rest of them worked to nearly put away their stuff.

  Flinging open the lid of his footlocker, stenciled COOPER J., he tossed in his things until he spotted a toothbrush case, and snatched it up. He quickly glanced around to be sure nobody was looking his way, then opened the case.

  He took out a folded up paper and stuffed it into his pocket, as relief washed over him.

  By the time everyone had finished getting the barracks in order, it was 2AM. If anyone felt like crying, nobody would have blamed them, but they were too tired and dehydrated for the effort.

  Before succumbing to fatigue, Private Cooper read through the instructions on the paper he'd retrieved from his toothbrush case. He knew it was important he got it right.

  The last of the soldiers had collapsed into his bunk less than two hours ago, and the now orderly barracks was a hive of snoring.

  Nobody heard the three figures enter their quarters. In the gloom, the figures were only visible when they were silhouetted against the dim moonlight through the windows.

  There was no stealth in their actions. The scraping of feet could be heard as they dragged them across the floor. They didn't speak, but uttered low, wet guttural noises, and still no soldier stirred.

  Klaxon alarms suddenly shattered the quiet of the night. Outside, spotlights flared to life, sweeping around the barracks as an urgent voice barked over the loudspeaker.

  "Victor Mikes have breached security," blared the speaker. "They are in the camp! Vix are in the base!"

  As the soldiers of Meat squad clawed their way out of sleep, one new recruit saw a figure looking down on him.

  The outside spotlight momentarily lit the figure, searing its image into the recruits mind. Its hideously deformed face leered at him, its clothes, torn and black with dried blood. Something brown and shriveled spilled out of a gaping hole in its belly.

  Another soldier caught a glimpse of a cadaverous woman, bent over a soldier’s bunk, scooping bloody hunks to its face. The figure turned towards him and the spotlight passed, leaving only darkness and the sound of growling coming closer.

  The horrified soldier tried to shout a warning, but his words became a scream as bony fingers closed around his face. He fumbled for the pistol near his bunk, madly pulling the trigger before the gun had even cleared the holster.

  Any shred of sleep vanished in that instant. The barracks exploded in screams as gun fire strobe-lit the terror and panic consuming the soldiers. Except for one.

  Before the klaxon alarm had sounded, before the undead creatures had gotten five feet into the barracks, Private Jared Cooper had quietly slipped off his bunk and slid under it.

  He heard rather than saw the feet scraping by his bunk. Then the alarm had gone off, followed by the screaming. He waited until the sounds seemed to move away from him, and broke for the door.

  Outside, a spotlight swept over two guards running by, and Cooper yelled for them. The guards stopped and pointed their rifles at him.

  "I'm not bit," he said, as he ran to them. Before either guard could say a word, Cooper grabbed a grenade clipped to the guard’s belt.

  As the guard began to protest, Cooper yanked the rifle out of his arms and ran back to the barracks, with the guards chasing him.

  As Cooper reached the barracks door, the screaming inside was near hysteria.

  As the guards reached Cooper, he pulled the pin on the grenade.

  "Back off," he yelled, holding the grenade over his head.

  The guards turned and ran off.

  Cracking open the door, Cooper threw the grenade inside, then dove for the ground. A moment later, there was a deafening crack and bright flash of light.

  Cooper got to his feet, brought the stolen rifle to his shoulder and sprayed bullets into the barracks.

  The rifle spat out the casing of the last bullet, and Cooper winced as the camp lights snapped on and the klaxons abrupt
ly stopped.

  The noise of the alarms was replaced by the shouts of several drill sergeants that seemed to magically appear from nowhere.

  Unmoved, Cooper stood, gaze fixed on the door, hoping nothing would come through it.

  "I said fall out," shouted a sergeant in Cooper’s face, while taking the rifle out of his hands.

  Open-mouthed, Cooper watched him stomp into the barracks, yelling, "Fall out, you stupid pukes!"

  Dazed and disheveled, everyone in M squad lined up in front of their barracks, each looking at the other, trying to understand how they weren't dead.

  Standing before them was a grim staff sergeant, staring at them with hard eyes.

  "My name is Staff Sergeant Tate," he said, as he began walking along the line of ragged men. "You have just participated in a recreation of an event that occurred in your barracks when three Victor Mikes got onto this base. It is a special event we hold every time we get a new squad."

  The door to their quarters slammed closed behind the row of men, and their eyes went wide as three ragged corpses walked by them and lined up next to the drill sergeants.

  "It's evident the performance our actors played was convincing. Just like the actual event, only a few of you were attacked by our actors, and just like the actual event all of you died. How could this happen, you ask? Because each of you acted as an individual, instead of a unit. Your only interest was self-preservation, to live, regardless of what happened to the other guy. In short, you killed each other. Fortunately, all of your ammunition was replaced with paint ball munitions. If you look at your squad mates you can judge your effectiveness in protecting yourself, and them."

  The recruits looked at each other, seeing they were pockmarked with blots of blue paint, with the exception of one; Private Cooper stood out from the other soldiers, completely untouched by blue paint.

  "We hold this event so you'll feel welcomed here," continued Tate. "And to impress upon you that any slack behavior, lapse in judgment, or stupidity on your part could very well result in what you have experienced today."

  Tate paused as he stood back and looked up and down the line of men. He looked at Cooper for the second time, and his expression hardened.

  "Private," said Tate flatly to Cooper. "How is it that you are not dead?"

  All the eyes of M squad fell on Cooper, who continued to look straight ahead. "Staff Sergeant," said Cooper. "Nobody wanted to bunk near the door because we were told in boot camp that's always the first person to die when a Victor Mike enters a barracks of sleeping soldiers. I got the short straw and had to take that bunk."

  "And yet you are not dead, Private," said Tate.

  "No, Staff Sergeant," said Cooper formally. "I tied a shoelace from the door handle to my finger. When the door opened, it woke me up. When I realized what had entered the barracks, I knew it was a no-win situation."

  "Explain your meaning by saying 'no-win'," said Tate.

  "Staff Sergeant," said Cooper. "If I raised the alarm, there'd be no light to see the threat. People would panic and start shooting blindly. I realized I had to accept the loss of my squad to save the camp, contain the infection, and eliminate the threat."

  "So you fragged your own barracks," said Tate. "Then emptied an automatic weapon into it, just to be sure."

  Cooper didn't flinch. He stood at attention, staring directly ahead. "Just to be sure, Staff Sergeant."

  Tate looked long and hard at Cooper, who began feeling cracks in his stoic confidence.

  Doubt swam through Cooper as images of long months in a brig flashed through his mind.

  Then Tate relaxed his gaze. "Sergeant Wesson," he said. "Have these men fall out and clean themselves up, and have Private Cooper transfer his gear to his new barracks."

  Cooper's shoulders sagged in relief, and found he could breathe again.

  As Staff Sergeant Tate came over, Cooper noticed a corner of folded paper sticking out of his pocket, and quickly pushed it down, then came to attention as Tate looked him over with a nod.

  "Welcome to your new unit."

  * * *

  Several soldiers sat behind the four rows of desks when Jack Tate walked into the briefing room, and all conversation abruptly stopped.

  Tate's reputation around the base was that he was fair, tough, but a hard-liner. It was true that during his first year in the AVEF he expected his unit to know and adhere to military regulations, but few in the AVEF, including the Army at large, saw themselves as real military, and Tate's efforts were met with passive resistance.

  His complaints to the CO died at his INBOX. Eventually, Tate gave up, but his reputation of being strictly 'by the book' endured.

  Tate walked to the table at the front of the room, and leafed through a thick folder before beginning.

  His jungle camos were weathered from hard use, but pressed and creased. His sleeves were uniformly rolled up to text-book standards, and the patch on the front of his ACUs had two extra rockers under the chevrons and a star in the center, signifying his recent promotion to sergeant major.

  If anyone was surprised, they hid it behind expressions of stone.

  The air conditioning hummed in the background, blunting most of the heat in the briefing room, but did little against the humidity.

  In spite of the human touches, the room fell short in compensating for the style of bleak sterility common to the military, prisons and insane asylums.

  Tate put down the folder, and spent a few seconds looking at each individual in the room.

  "My name is Sergeant Major Jack Tate. I'm forming a new unit that will operate out of the Mortuary Affairs battalion, but will have very different duties. You've been selected for the opportunity to volunteer to be part of the unit."

  Looking around the room, some of the faces were known to him, while others he was still trying to pin a name to. All eyes were on him, with a mixture of curiosity and respect of the rank.

  "The information I will be speaking about is classified, which means you will not discuss what you hear with anyone. These missions are likely to be high risk. Your time outside the fence could last for days. If you're going to make it in this unit, you have to accept the demands expected of you. Consider things like calling in support a luxury. If things go wrong, or get rough, you are the only support you can count on. In short, I can promise you it will be dangerous."

  Tate paused while scanning the room, looking at each face. He played a mental game, where he'd size up people and decide what they'd do. He thought of it as a game, but it was more of a skill, and had proved valuable in knowing who could be relied on and who was a weak link.

  "Not everyone is cut out for this. There's no shame in accepting this about yourself. If you don't think this is for you, leave now."

  After a moment, there was a squeak as a chair pushed away from a table, and a solider got up and left.

  Tate smiled inwardly as he mentally put a check mark next to one of the soldiers he thought would leave.

  "If you are still here because you're feeling curious, believe you're a badass, or are an adrenalin junky, I can guarantee before your first training is over, those feelings will be replaced by regret, exhaustion and pain. But it will be too late by then. Once you agree to be part of this unit, there is no getting out. There are no transfers, no loop holes, and if you're thinking you can go AWOL you will be the subject of a Casualty Notification to your next of kin, expressing your regrettable demise in the line of duty," said Tate, with a humorless smile. He wanted to drive home the seriousness of desertion, and by the expression around the room, he had succeeded.

  Tate remained quiet, giving each soldier’s mind plenty of room to run free. Silence was claustrophobic, spawning doubt and forcing it to feed on pride and ego.

  After several minutes of quiet, another solider got up, and before they reached the door, four more got up and left.

  After the door closed behind them, you could have heard a pin drop.

  Tate was beginning to feel better abo
ut those still remaining. The ones he'd identified as not ready for the cut had gone, leaving him with a better sense of confidence in the remaining group.

  Sergeant Wesson walked around the room, putting a form and pen in front of the remaining men and women.

  "By signing this form," said Wesson, "you agree to the command structure, terms of classified information, risks and responsibilities of your duties and all terms stated. It is your responsibility to read and understand this document before signing."

  "In short, your signature acknowledges that everything you do, see, and hear is classified. Understood?" asked Tate.

  Everyone the room replied in one way or another.

  Private Jared Cooper looked at the others around him as they busied themselves with filling out the forms. He didn't want to be there, but the decision was out of his hands.

  Signing the form meant there was no turning back. If he was honest with himself, there was never a moment he could have turned back; from being tipped off to the simulated Vix attack on his barracks, following the instructions on how to beat it to getting Tate's attention.

  Nearly from the moment he was assigned to the base, he had been someone’s puppet, but the cost of cutting those strings would be devastating.

  The process of weeding out people who weren't right for specialized missions was multi layered.

  Tate had learned many of the 'tells', and seeing that Cooper was the one head not bent over his form was telling Tate that Cooper might not belong.

  "What is it, Private Cooper?"

  Cooper stiffened, not expecting to have been called out. He sat staring at Tate, caught in a conflict. If anyone knew why he was joining the unit, he could be court marshaled, or maybe shot. If he lost his nerve and walked out, the consequences would be a personal nightmare far worse than a firing squad.