SNAFU: Future Warfare

by Geoff Brown

  “How’s it look, Sarge?” Whitey said.

  “Can’t see shit so far.”

  Arnie moved through a series of cargo bays, where containers had been tossed like a child’s blocks. He exited the cargo bays and moved through a connection of corridors.

  “See anything yet?” O’Brien said into his comm.

  “Nothing yet—”

  Movement at the end of a corridor, coming towards Arnie. Shit. A reanimation. On the display, the crewmember jerked and twitched, indicative of the parasite that was controlling its movements. The parasite’s spindly limbs jutted out from its host’s rib cage.

  Like a meat puppet.

  The sentry targeted the crewmember. The canon flashed white and the reanimated man exploded in a haze of gore. The parasite squealed and tried to rip away from its host, but Arnie blasted the multi-legged creature, spattering whitish fluid on the walls.

  “Nothing wrong with his aim,” Mills said.

  The sentry moved through the ship. From the intel Mills had received, he knew the crew’s quarters were on Deck Four.

  Arnie worked his way to Deck Two, blasting two more of the crewmembers that were no more than walking dead.

  “How did the uglies get on the ship?” O’Brien asked, moving on silent feet.

  “Beats the shit of me,” Mills said, his gaze flicking between Arnie and the display.

  “Why send us to this outpost, Sarge? It’s in the middle of nowhere,” O’Brien said, checking a portal before moving past.

  “Well, the ship crashed here, for one. Plus there’s rumor of a joint Canadian and American offensive. American and Canadian forces push from the north. The Marines and First Army push up from Texas – take back the Plains and the Midwest. They intend to use Zulu as a staging area for the Canadian and the American divisions.”

  Arnie moved into a large hangar. On the display, Mills saw something big move. Huge and black, it dwarfed the sentry. Arnie targeted it. Two large pincers appeared as Arnie opened up with both cannons. The pincer swiped at the sentry and Mills’ display went black.

  “Holy shit,” Mills said, flipping up his goggles. “Cover, take cover.”

  In seconds the men were hunkered down, weapons trained forward into the murk.

  “Sarge?” Whitey said.

  “Something just cut Arnie in half,” Mills said. “Something big. We’re going in. Eyes on and keep cool.”

  This would require going in the old-fashioned way, which meant close combat inside a burning, dank ship. “Listen up. JT, Stetson. Get that DREAD gun set up. Anything comes out of there that ain’t us, shred it. The rest of you, follow me. Hamilton’s bunk was on level four.”

  They followed him to the door where Arnie had entered. Mills stared into the blackness of the ship, which looked darker than the deepest space.

  “Night vision go,” Mills said, flipping his goggles down. “Whitey, take point.”

  “Fucking great,” Whitey muttered as he stepped inside.

  The rest of them moved in formation behind Whitey. Blood rushed through Mills’ veins. The hollow booms of their footsteps made the place seem like an old tomb to Mills. His breath plumed in front of his face; it was only slightly warmer in here than outside.

  They moved through the cargo bays and reached the area where Arnie had met his demise. Mills was grateful the ship had crashed upright. It would’ve been a bitch to get through otherwise.

  In the hangar, they found Arnie. He had been ripped in half. Hoses pumped hydraulic fluid onto the deck. His head was twisted at a horrible angle.

  “That’s titanium,” Mills whispered. “He’s designed to withstand a blast from a HE round. Something shredded the fuck out of him. Move on.”

  They left Arnie behind and came to the stairwell that led to Deck Three. Whitey held up his hand, fist closed. Pointed at the stairwell.

  Mills switched his display over to thermal and looked upward. He saw the heat outline of a vaguely human shape standing on the next level, right at the stairway. Maybe waiting and listening for them.

  He crept ahead and tapped Whitey on the shoulder, Mills’ knuckle sounding hollow as it rapped Whitey’s armor.

  He looked back at the rest of the squad. O’Brien was behind him. Beyond O’Brien were Chomski, Barrow, and Meyer. He’d fought with all of them. Battle of Manhattan. The Blue Ridge massacre. The siege in Old Chicago. He trusted all of them with his life, and they were all he had. When the uglies had come, he’d lost contact with Jamie, his wife of ten years. He could only assume she’d been killed in the first wave. There had been no word from her in years.

  He flipped off a series of hand signals – they were heading up; possible hostile at the top of the stairwell.

  They crept up the stairs at tactical intervals, weapons raised. At the top stood a woman with her back to them. She wore the familiar blue jumpsuit of the United States Navy.

  “Ma’am, I’m Sergeant John Mills, USCI. Please turn around slowly.”

  The woman turned and Mills got a good look at her face. The skin was a slimy gray that reminded Mills of overcooked beef. The eyes were gone, the sockets tinged with blood. She opened her mouth and a long hiss streamed forth. Two spindly legs crept over her tongue and poked out of her mouth.

  The flesh around her mouth ripped like wet cloth in a soundless scream.

  Mills raised his assault rifle, fired a short burst, and watched her head spatter the walls. The corpse fell to its knees. The arms jerked. Mills blasted it again, the thing inside the poor woman emitting a blood-curdling shriek as it died.

  “God, that stinks,” O’Brien whispered in Mills’ ear.

  “There was a crew of two hundred on this ship. Bound to be more of them. Keep your eyes open,” Mills said.

  “Where’s the big ugly you saw on Arnie’s display?” Whitey asked.

  “Hope we don’t run into it,” Chomski said. As the squad’s grenadier, he carried a launcher that held HE rounds. He could program it to shoot at predetermined distances. Very fucking deadly.

  “Keep moving.”

  They wound their way up until they reached Deck Four. Mills found it odd that they hadn’t seen any more crewmen, reanimated or otherwise. No sign of the big nasty that had cut Arnie in half, either.

  The hair on the back of Mill’s neck stood up. He was being watched. No, not watched. Hunted.

  “Double time it,” he said.

  According to intel, Hamilton was supposed to be in 403-AA. As they came to the corridor, it was a mess. Empty steel cases, clothes, a half-eaten apple, bedding, soaps, and deodorant bottles were among the many items scattered in the hallway.

  “Sarge, I got a heat signature at the other end. Through that door. You see it?” Whitey whispered.

  Mills nodded; the outline of a figure crouched near the door. Was it waiting for them? “Stand fast.”

  They took up firing positions along either side of the corridor. The figure sprang to its feet and a moment later the door opened and a petite brunette in a Navy jumpsuit bolted through the door. She was carrying a semiautomatic pistol with an extended magazine.

  She sprinted halfway down the corridor, crouched, and took up a shooter’s stance.

  Mills heard a high-pitched, chattering noise. One of the parasites skittered through the door, legs working overtime. He never got used to the sight of them: the razor-sharp pincer mouth, the multiple onyx eyes, the stinger that jutted from its thorax.

  The woman put six shots into the creature. Black, viscous fluid painted the floor. The parasite let out an agonized screech and collapsed. Still.

  “I’m guessing you’re Hamilton,” Mills said.

  She whirled, gun raised. Squinting, she said, “Who’s there?”

  Shit. They still had their Adaptive Camo active. They would be vague shapes to her. “Sergeant John Mills,” he said, deactivating his AC and stepping away from the wall. “We’re here to get you out.”

  “Good to see you, Sergeant. We should go. There’s more of them,
” Hamilton said.

  She wasn’t what he’d expected. Her voice was soft, almost soothing. He’d expected someone who sounded hard as steel. Although by the way she’d coolly taken out the parasite, he suspected she had some metal in her.

  “Any other survivors?” Mills asked.

  “I’m it,” she said.

  “Okay then. Move out,” Mills said with a nod. “Whitey, you’re Hamilton’s bodyguard. Watch her. The rest of you keep her in the center of the formation. Nothing gets behind her.”

  Whitey moved up next to Hamilton. The rest of the squad formed around the two of them.

  They fell back down to Deck Three and when they turned the corner into the corridor leading to the stairwell, Mills said, “Fuck me.”

  There were at least a dozen reanimated crewmembers waiting for them. The parasites that controlled the dead weren’t hiding this time. Spindly limbs burst through the skin, and one poor bastard’s chest was opened up, the creature’s pincers poking out through the ribs. Mills shuddered.

  They took up firing positions as the crewmembers shambled forward with herky-jerky motions. The squad gunned down the first row, the crew coming at them shoulder-to-shoulder. Blood slicked the floor. A parasite broke free and scurried across the floor toward them. O’Brien blasted it to pieces.

  Mills popped in a fresh magazine. The next row lunged forward.

  A parasite tore from its dead host with a wet pop; scrambled up the wall, and got purchase on the ceiling. It came at them fast. Upside down and hissing.

  The thing dropped in front of Hamilton. She put two shots in its mouth. Whitey blasted one of its legs clean off, but it still managed to lunge at the woman.

  She drew a large knife and drove it downward into the thing’s back, ripping the knife the length of the torso. Stinking, black goop gushed out of the creature.

  Hamilton’s expression hadn’t changed the whole time.

  The squad picked off the remaining crewmembers then Mills led them down the corridor, the ground slick with blood and entrails and God knew what else.

  When they entered the hangar, a heavy chemical-like smell hung in the air. It made Mills’ eyes water and his nose burn.

  “What’s that fucking smell?” Meyer said, putting a hand to his face.

  As Mills turned to tell him to shut up, something from the ceiling whipped down and lashed around Meyer’s neck. It looked like a thin tentacle, except it was covered with hundreds of barbed spikes. The tentacle tightened around Meyer’s neck. His face turned red as the pressure increased.

  “Cut him the fuck loose!” Mills’ ordered.

  Mills opened fire. The rounds ripped into the tentacle. It still had Meyer in a death grip.

  Whitey went for his knife, but it was too late; blood jetted from Meyer’s neck. The muscles and tendons stretched. His neck was cranked beyond measure, and a second later, his head was torn from his body, the blood now a geyser. Meyer’s torso collapsed, the hands clenching and unclenching.

  Hamilton scooped up Meyer’s assault rifle.

  Mills looked up. Beams and girders crisscrossed the hangar’s ceiling. Beyond the beams he saw more tentacles lowering toward the ground. A large, dark shape was visible up there. The big beastie that had destroyed Arnie. “Light ‘em up!”

  The squad raised their weapons and fired into the ceiling. The creature shrieked as the bullets tore into it.

  “Keep moving. Follow me,” Mills said. As he darted ahead, a tentacle whipped in front of him. He dodged left; glanced behind to ensure the squad was following.

  A scream.

  A tentacle had wrapped around Chomski’s leg. The man fell to the ground as the tentacle tightened, and Chomski was snatched up, screaming. In a matter of seconds he was twenty feet in the air, too high to reach. Mills took aim through the scope, tried to shoot the tentacle, but it was too thin to risk the shot. Chomski was carried into the rafters. The resulting screams churned Mills’ stomach.

  Chomski was gone. Nothing Mills could do to help him. Their mission was to get Hamilton to safety. He hated this part of the job.

  He signaled the squad to keep moving.

  They made it to the other end of the hangar. Steel groaned and shifted above them. Was this unseen horror making its way down to come finish them off?

  The squad double-timed it back to the breach in the ship without incident. That concerned Mills. Was something worse coming?

  Mills felt the cool air on his face, breathed sweet air and was never happier to see daylight in all his life.

  As he stepped out of the ship, Chan and Ramirez had the DREAD gun set up on a tripod; a long ammo belt snaked out of the weapon and ended into a steel case.

  “Pack that thing up,” Mills called as he jogged toward Chan and Ramirez. “We’re going back to Zulu.”

  Chan said, “Do we have to?”

  He sounded like a kid who’d been told to put away his toys and come for dinner. “Sorry Chan, you don’t get to blast anything today. Pack it up.”

  “Where’s Meyer and Chomski?”

  “Some big bastard got them. Hurry up and stow that thing. We need to go.”

  Mills heard the now-familiar chatter of parasites rise from inside the breach, and turned to see three crewmembers shamble out. More shapes were visible in the dark behind them.

  “Okay Chan. Do your thing,” Mills said.

  Chan took the controls of the DREAD gun and opened up, the gun pumping out deadly rounds in a fan-shape. The crewmembers were vaporized. Still more came. Chan cut them down as they poured from the breach.

  The DREAD gun clicked. It was effective as hell, but reloading was a bitch.

  “Fuck it. Get in the APC,” Mills said.

  They made it to the APC and got the ramp up. Bronson swung it around, the undead crew scraping and scratching at the vehicle. He looked around: six of his people left, plus Hamilton.

  “Hope Zulu has some hot chow waiting for us,” Whitey said.

  * * *

  Zulu One Three reminded Mills of a castle: thirty-foot high, reinforced concrete walls, gun turrets at the corners, and a foot-thick steel gate. The military had learned quickly to build sturdier bases after the uglies had overrun base after base, tearing through chain link and barbed wire like it was nothing.

  The squad headed to the mess hall. Hamilton stayed with them as the group grabbed mess trays. Mills chose not to eat; his stomach was still queasy.

  His people were eating in silence, most of them looking at their food or staring straight ahead.

  Hamilton was nibbling on a donut. “What now?” she said.

  “Well, an airship is supposed to arrive at twenty-one hundred hours to pick you up.”

  “What about your people?”

  “There’s room for one extra person on the ship,” Mills said. “You’re it. Besides, they’re probably going to use us for the offensive.”

  “Offensive?”

  “Command’s sending reinforcements here. Canadian troops, too. Going to take back Denver first, from what I hear.”

  “I want to stay and fight,” Hamilton said, determination in her gaze.

  “I admire that, but they need you elsewhere.”

  “I’m glad you admire that, Sergeant, but if I want to stay and fight, I will. I’m not the property of the USCI.”

  “Fair enough. You can take that up with Command.”

  Mills heard the familiar click of boot heels approaching; the sound of someone moving with a purpose. A moment later Lieutenant Colonel Murphy approached the table. Murphy had ink-black hair and a mustache to match. He was dressed in camo fatigues, and his boots had a high shine to them. Probably never saw a lick of combat.

  “On your feet, boys,” Mills said.

  They all stood and saluted as Murphy neared.

  Murphy returned the salute. “As you were. Ms Hamilton, good to see you. The Sergeant did his job, I see. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Murphy.”

  Hamilton nodded and gave him a thin smile.

&n
bsp; “Hamilton, Command has big plans for you. A full press tour, going out to build morale for the offensive.”

  “No disrespect, Colonel, but I’m not much for PR, I do my best work in the field.”

  “I would think it would be a nice break for you. I heard you kicked ass in Baltimore. Drove them back to the ocean. The public needs to hear from you. This offensive is crucial.”

  “I’m sorry, but I want to stay and fight.”

  Murphy ignored the request. “Your airship will be here in two hours. Sergeant Mills and his team will secure the airfield and see you off safely.”

  Mills said, “Secure the airfield?”

  “We’ve lost three airships this month. Those slimy bitches keep hitting the airfield. You’ll keep the area clear while Hamilton takes off.”

  Wonderful. “You got it, sir.”

  Murphy opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the ear-piercing wail of an air raid siren. For all their new technology, the air raid siren dated back to the Third World War. That hadn’t changed, at least.

  “Mills, get your people and meet me on the wall over the gate,” Murphy said.

  * * *

  Mills gave Murphy a quick rundown of the mission while they stood on the wall looking out at the plains. In the distance, the ruined hulk of the ship taunted.

  An infantryman approached Murphy, assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Colonel we have approximately a hundred to a hundred-and-fifty life forms about four clicks out. Moving slow and steady.

  “Visual?” Murphy asked.

  “They appear to be reanimations,” the soldier said.

  “That would be the crew from the ship,” Mills confirmed.

  “Is the rail gun up and running?” Murphy said.

  “We might be able to get one blast out of it,” the soldier said.

  “Hit them with it. Let’s see what it does.”

  Mills looked past the colonel to the EMP gun mounted on the wall. He’d never seen one in action so far. It would fire an electromagnetic pulse and hopefully rip the approaching crewmen apart.

  He noticed Hamilton had slid up next to him. She was carrying an MP-29 assault rifle with a smart grenade launcher mounted under the barrel.