The F*cked Series (Book 2): Proper

by Gleason, R. K.

  “Are you saying we’re fucked?” Patel asks.

  “Proper fucked,” Nichols replies. “We’re talking about an extinction level event.”

  “Bullshit!” Patel says, shaking his head. “It can’t happen. Mankind isn’t just going to die off.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Nichols replies. “Just us Homo-sapiens. It’ll be just like when we wiped out the Neanderthals.”

  “You believe this is an evolutionary event?” Brooks asks.

  “I didn’t,” Nichols answers. “But with what we witnessed back there, the only conclusion I can draw from it is I think it’s a strong possibility.”

  “I’m only twenty-three,” Patel mumbles, slumping back in his seat and staring out vacantly at nothing.

  Brooks thinks for a moment, her thoughts circling around the realization the cooked brains of the infected had collectively worked in a coordinated effort to orchestrate that trap. And she’d already lost eight of the soldiers under her command. She needed a high body count of the infected to even the books and to justify the losses in her report to Colonel Beaurite at eighteen-hundred hours, as planned. She could spin it any way she needed to, and by the time the dust settled, there may not even be anyone around to contradict her slightly altered version of the facts.

  “It’s a good thing neither of you are in command,” Brooks says after a moment. Her breaking of the brief silence causes both soldiers to turn their heads her direction. “We haven’t even finished our first incursion and you two have already sealed the world’s fate, slapped it on the ass and kissed it goodbye.”

  “Haven’t finished?” Nichols asks.

  “I agree with your assessment of their growing intelligence, just not the hopelessness of the situation,” she tells Nichols. “And yes, we’re going back down there.”

  “Begging the major’s pardon,” Patel says. “But what exactly for?”

  “As we’re driving through them,” Brooks begins.

  “And over them,” Patel adds.

  “Don’t interrupt me,” she warns. “As I was saying. While we were driving through them, the ones in the grass started filing back into the trees. We even saw two or three leave the road to follow them when we started mowing over the ones in the road.”

  “Resetting the trap,” Nichols nods.

  “Exactly. And we’re not going to drive off and let them spring it on the next group that wanders into their web. We’re going back down the hill and disarming their trap.”

  “How?” Patel asks. “I mean, are you really willing to send all your men into those trees to play a winner take all round of hide-and-seek with those things?”

  “First,” Brooks begins, leaning forward to look around Nichols on her left and directly at Patel. “I plan to use a liberal application of 5.56 hollow-points and flamethrowers. We’ll start by clearing the grass and the immediate tree line using the M4s. Next, we’re going to set the trees on fire with the flamethrowers. It’s November in Ohio so it’s not going to take much to turn them into an inferno. Then we’ll pull back to the highway and finish off any that try to make it out of the flames.

  “Second, I have no plans to risk my entire company on this. Mostly because it’s overkill. There’d be so many of us down there we’d be at a greater risk of stumbling over each other and into friendly fire. That’s why we’re only taking this truck and the four squads in the back. Forty of us should be plenty. Radio the other trucks and tell them to hold tight here until we return. They can radio us if they see anything coming our way from this direction. I’ll leave Captain Walker in temporary command. He shouldn’t be able to screw things up too badly while we’re down there.

  “Third. And listen up Corporal, if you want to remain in the driver seat rather than in the back with an M4 strapped to your chest, never even think about questioning me again. I won’t tolerate another sign of insubordination. If you have concerns about my decisions, keep them to yourself. I don’t have time to answer your questions or explain my decisions to a corporal. I give the orders and you follow them blindly and without hesitation. That’s how this shit works. You’re a soldier, Patel, start acting like one. Is that clear, Corporal?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Patel says, sitting up straighter in his seat.

  “Radio the other trucks and get us turned around. After we deploy, get this thing pointed back up the hill. If for some reason this doesn’t go as planned, I don’t want to fuck about getting turned around,” Brooks orders.

  Activating the comlink to the soldiers, she says, “Listen up. Truck one is going back down there with squads one, two, three, and four. We’re going to mop that shit up so no one else steps in it.” There are several hooahs and a single, it’s about time in response. “I’ll be leading the clean-up. Captain Walker, do you have your ears on?”

  “Yes, Major,” replies a sardonic Walker.

  “Say again, Captain,” Brooks says, furrowing her brow.

  “I hear you, Major Brooks. Over,” Walker replies again, adding the tone of military discipline she expected. “While we’re down there, you’re going to need to guard our twelve and six. I want to know if you see anything coming over the top to drop down on us from behind and make sure no one sneaks up to the front door. Understood?”

  “Copy that, Major,” Captain Walker replies. “Are you going to issue masks to the squads? If so, we’ll break them out from truck four. Over.”

  Brooks switches off the throat-mic and looks at Nichols. “Do we need them?” she asks.

  “You shouldn’t,” the sergeant answers. “Our tests showed the virusite can’t jump to people from inhalation. I’m not sure if that’s still the case, but blood-to-blood contact is the only thing we’ve found so far. But Major,” he says, stopping her from activating the mic. “Any blood-to-blood contact. A scratch is as good as a bite. It just takes a little longer for the infection to take over.”

  Brooks unconsciously turns away from Nichols, touches the mic and says, “No need, Captain. If the virusite was airborne, we’d all be infected by now. You just report back to me if you see anything. Over.”

  “Got it, Major,” Walker responds.

  “Squad leaders one, two, three, and four. Get your men locked and loaded. I want goggles and gloves on every soldier that steps off this truck. No exposed skin,” Brooks orders.

  “This is squad one leader,” a voice comes back through the earpiece. “Strapping down now and the medics are gearing up.”

  “Negative on the medics,” Brooks replies.

  “Say again, Major,” the squad leader says, sounding confused.

  “Negative on the medics,” Brooks says. “Consider everyone down there a hostile.”

  “But what about our men? Some of them might still…” he asks.

  “I need everyone to listen up,” Brooks interrupts, raising her voice to cut the squad leader off. “Everyone down there is either dead or infected.”

  “Or both,” Nichols mutters.

  “Make no mistake,” Brooks continues but shoots a glare at the sergeant. “We are not looking for survivors. I repeat, this is not a rescue mission. We will eradicate everything down there with extreme prejudice. I don’t care if they’re wearing army-issued uniforms or skirts,” she says, remembering the cheerleader. “If it moves or makes noise, it dies. We all saw or heard what happened down there. There are no friendlies. The medics are to hold back at the truck. I don’t want them getting any ideas about trying to treat any of the injured.”

  “Understood,” the squad leader responds.

  “Why didn’t we just do this while we were there?” Nichols asks.

  “Too much risk to the battalion. Better to get clear after surveying their tactics and then come back with a plan,” Brooks answers.

  “We lost eight soldiers for a test?” Nichols asks, shocked by the major’s apparent callousness.

  “No. They were lost because they didn’t follow protocol and wait for my orders. Those soldiers ran headfirst into that woodchipper,
without any knowledge of what they were up against.”

  “And now?” the sergeant asks.

  “Now we know more than we did an hour ago. So, something good did come from their sacrifice, but their deaths are on them,” Brooks tells him. Looking around Nichols to address Patel she says, “You have your orders, Corporal.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he replies.

  Spinning the steering wheel like a sea captain on the open ocean, Patel swings the MTV around. The transport vehicle rocks wildly from side to side when they dip into the median, tossing the troops around in the back. He pulls back onto the pavement, heading east on the westbound lanes and rolling down the direction they’d just come. There’s no sign of any of the infected other than the ones crushed into the pavement. The vehicles are still there, the hazard lights flashing a more ominous warning than they had a short time earlier.

  Patel stops the vehicle a couple hundred yards away, at Brooks’ order. From their elevated position, they can see the areas in the grass where the medics had been overrun and brought down. The spots are trampled flat and dark with blood and viscera.

  “I don’t see our guys in the grass. What’d they do, eat them?” Patel asks.

  “You saw ‘em,” Nichols replies. “They were definitely being eaten, but I don’t think the infected can consume an entire body that quickly. Let alone eight bodies. They probably dragged them back into the trees with them.”

  “What about the other stuff?” Brooks asks, studying the grass.

  “What other stuff?” Nichols replies, not understanding the major’s question.

  “All the soldiers’ gear. First aid supplies, flak jackets, canteens… Everything’s gone. And I don’t see any of their weapons or ammo, either,” Brooks explains. “They damn sure didn’t eat it all. So why take it with them?”

  “They can’t use it, can they?” Patel asks, nervously searching the trees on either side for the road.

  “An hour ago, I’d have said, no. Now…” Nichols answers with a shrug.

  “Can they, or can’t they?” Brooks demands.

  “I don’t know,” he answers. “I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway. They might be a lot smarter than we first thought.”

  “Or getting smarter,” Patel interjects.

  “Or that,” Nichols continues with a nod. “There’s no evidence to support they’re that smart. If they knew how to use the weapons, they would have gone for them when they overpowered the soldiers.”

  “Then why’d they take it?” Brooks asks, making sure the sergeant had a more substantial reason than a hunch for this conclusion.

  “It’s my guess they’re just resetting the trap,” he says.

  “Covering their tracks,” Brooks says.

  “But what about the twenty-plus crushed bodies in the road? How do you hide this shit?” Patel asks, pointing out the windshield.

  “Another point supporting my argument. They’re not that smart,” Nichols says, shrugging again.

  “Yet,” Brooks says.

  “Yet,” he reluctantly agrees.

  “Squad leaders with me,” she says after taping the mic switch on her throat. “Deploy squads behind the MTV. The sergeant and I are coming back now.”

  “Roger that,” says a voice in her ear.

  “Get this turned around once we’re clear,” Brooks tells Patel. “And keep it running,” she adds to make sure he understands. If this didn’t work out the way she’d planned, the last thing she needed was to be forced to wait for the damn glow-plugs to warm up in the diesel behemoth. Not if it involved a rapid and hastily planned strategic withdrawal.

  “Yes, Major,” Patel replies.

  “Sergeant, you’re with me,” she tells Nichols.

  Brooks pushes open her door and steps onto the wide running board. Before Nichols can follow her out, she turns and grabs the two M4s stowed in the cab and hands one to him. Stepping onto the ground, years of training and muscle memory take over. She checks the safety switch, already knowing it’s flipped to on and presses the release button above the trigger to remove the magazine. Verifying it’s loaded, she tucks it in her armpit and pulls the charging handle all the way back and then eases it forward until the bolt catch engages. She checks the receiver and chamber to make sure the weapon is clean and not loaded. Satisfied, Brooks retrieves the magazine, taps it against her hip out of habit, before rocking it back into the lower receiver. She checks the ejection port and presses the bolt catch, letting the charging handle slam into place as a 5.56 hollow-point projectile is chambered.

  Next, she pulls the suppressor from her vest pocket, slides it over and down the end of her barrel and sets the locking pin at the base. This will keep the sound of their shots from echoing over the hills. Brooks checks the safety lever one more time as she rounds the back of the idling MTV and connects the carbine-sling to her tactical vest. She takes a quick inventory of her gear as the last of the soldiers jump from the back of the truck.

  “Suppressors on,” she orders her men.

  The squads follow her command as Nichols completes his own weapon inspection and checks his gear. Like Major Brooks and the rest of the soldiers forming ranks, his tactical vest is weighed down with several loaded mags in evenly placed pockets for optimum weight distribution. Along with the suppressed M4 carbine now attached to his tactical vest, he also has his military issued M9 strapped to his right hip. He pulls the semi-automatic pistol from its holster, checks the safety and goes through the weapon inspection drilled into him by his training. There’s no suppressor for the pistol, but he knows if it comes down to having to use the smaller caliber weapon, it will most likely be to put a bullet under his own chin. At that point, he guesses it doesn’t matter how much noise he makes and prefers to go out with a loud, gratuitous bang. After making sure there’s a round in the pipe, he checks the safety once more before holstering it and securing the thumb-break. This is the third time Nichols has completed the weapon inspection with the first being before he’d ever gotten into the cab of the MTV, but he needs something to do with his hands. Going through the repetitious movements provides a small sense of normalcy to the extremely unnormal situation and helps steady his hands while the major gives the soldiers their orders.

  “And no one fires until I give the order,” Brooks says, finishing her commands.

  Nichols subconsciously moves his left hand to the heavy, nylon sheath on his other hip that holds the four magazines for the pistol, as he follows the others to get clear of the MTV so Patel can turn the beast around. The squads form their picket lines as the major had ordered. Each squad has two members outfitted with flamethrowers evenly placed in the lines. Thick, blue flames lick the air beneath the metal tubes that provide the pressurized accelerants. The other soldiers have their M4s locked and ready with the safeties off. Three gunners for every flamethrower, creating an effective, four-man fire team with squad leaders for every two teams. Brooks moves to the front of the lines on the edge of the tall grass, motioning for Nichols to follow next to her.

  “Shouldn’t we be behind them with the squad leaders?” Nichols asks her quietly, not wanting the troops to hear.

  “If it comes down to who’s in front and who’s in back, we’re probably fucked anyway,” she replies.

  Nichols looks at the assembled soldiers and says, “I agree, but if we have to turn and run, I’d like a head start over everyone else.”

  Brooks ignores the comment and looks up and down the line of four-man fire teams. Satisfied with what she sees, she holds up three fingers, letting the squads know to switch to channel three. Forty soldiers, Nichols, and even Patel, who’s finished repositioning the MTV, mirror Brooks movements as they all switch their radios to the new channel and await the go sign.

  “We do this by the numbers,” Brooks says after pressing the button to engage her mic. “Stay in your team and watch each other’s backs. We go slow all the way to the tree line with the three gunners in front. Once we’re inside the trees, and on my signal,
the firebugs will take point,” she says, meaning the soldiers with the flamethrowers. The soldiers nod their affirmation and there are a few final clicks of safeties being flipped to off as Brooks continues. “Gunners. Make sure you’re set to semi. I don’t want any of you spraying bullets around. If we need to go to threes,” she says, meaning a three-round burst with every squeeze of the trigger. “I’ll give the order. Keep your groupings tight and if you can’t get a confirm kill-shot, then go for the knees and legs. They can’t get to us or anyone else if they can’t walk. Then we can finish them off from a little closer or cook them on our way out.”

  Head nods move up and down the lines like a wave, letting Brooks know her orders had been received and understood.

  The major turns, searching the tree line for signs of movement before taking her first slow steps into the tall grass. She keeps their forward movement slow and methodical, searching the foliage for any signs of movement or other hidden traps. She can feel the hair on the back of her neck raise when they hit the halfway point between the edge of where the grass begins and the tree line starts. Nichols leans in close to speak, keeping his comments off the radio.

  “I feel like we’re being watched,” he whispers over the sound of forty pairs of boots trudging through the grass.

  “I’m sure we are,” she replies, not taking her eyes from in front of her.

  “And…? Nichols asks.

  “We keep moving and do our jobs,” Brooks replies with a hiss of annoyance.

  “But what about…” he begins, but he’s cut off by a voice coming through his earpiece on channel three.

  “I think I saw movement in the trees,” one of the team reports. “But I can’t be sure.”

  Brooks watches as the heads on each member of the fire teams begin scanning the trees.

  “Where?” Brooks asks, searching the line to try to identify the source.