by Marlin Grail
He then flings his hands in the air. “We’ll, try to be a little more daring about it next time. Our reunited efforts with him almost split apart because of your ‘better safe than sorry’ decision.”
I’ve become used to his lecturing. I’ve grown used to a lot of the intimidating done around here.
I step out, making my shoulders frame smaller for him. He’s made it known he’ll forgive easier when he feels the guilty party requests for redemption.
“Just hurry over, Gary.” As expected, he’s calming down his attitude.
The both of us stride quickly to the circle the dispatch and blond man have formed, right behind a white van. “Well, well. Welcome to the show, Aging-Paint.” The “Nickname Identifier” man says at me, with a posture of slouched legs and a gun weighing his shoulder down.
I simply stand at attention to the man who is in need of our aid. The other man seems annoyed by my ignoring his greeting, so waves his hand in front of me. “Hey, Sword Man, I’m talking to you.”
I take a tiny glance at him. “We can talk more later.”
The man we’re helping chimes in. “Actually, that won’t really be available. We’re doing reconnaissance at a vantage point looking over the lumber mill. Stealth is necessary here.”
The man I’ve annoyed comes back to him with a slumped head. “Oh, whatever. Any rowdy people around that aren’t under the might of C. don’t realize we’re just naturally stronger, better, and, overall, better.”
The supervisor makes a tight barking “Hey! Do whatever he tells you to, or you’ll have to answer to C. directly.”
With no further disruption, instruction from the once captured, to now our oddly-appointed leader, fills me in. “Follow our van, and we’ll begin when we move on foot.”
I nod with very little emotional value or care for anything other than what he has to say related to the mission.
All I can think about with this man is that he’s run off before, and that he was responsible for killing Josh. I didn’t kill Josh, but it feels as though I’m the one holding onto the most guilt versus this man.
“What happened in the past is over. We can move on,” he comfortably says to me, as I move my way to my truck.
I turn around, practically with only one eye zoomed in on him. “That might work for you.”
I get into the driver seat, and quietly wait until the whole dispatch and the blond man head to their van.
Right now, I’m really thankful I’m not riding with him.
The van revs up, without lights on its tail glowing red. We begin the slow forward motion past the gates, which I’ve learned is the border between all of C.’s section, and unchartered territory. As we travel, I take care to keep distance between them and me, but I find myself having to stomp on the gas more just to catch up when they make a turn I didn’t suspect seeing—considering no car lights reflect any of the road signs.
I begin talking to myself when an undead pack takes a growl of interest when I pass them, with my window down to better hear the van’s moving and stopping.
“What does ‘the voyage’ mean? To me, it’s a concern more of why than where.”
There’s so many whys, Gary. Still, to ask questions is to always learn, and to always learn is to improve. There’s not been one time since I’ve become leader that I’m not looking for ways to improve—mostly emotionally.
This is the farthest road we’ve been on. It now heads on an ascending mountainous path. The truck’s automatic transmission helps when being continuously stopped by the van in front, turning us almost 90° entirely, before heading us on an even steeper ascension. My ears begin to pop after a few minutes of this. The end of the trip seems to come when we reach a gated entrance.
This must be the lumber mill.
The van quickly flashes its car lights on and off twice—signally me to turn off my ignition and regroup with the rest of them.
I quietly close the truck door, manually locking it shut. As I do so, the “Nickname Identifier” starts up his prattle.
I recall him being troublesome on the last mission, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s amplified because of the more structured requirements tonight.
One of the other dispatch workers, the one who agreed to the plan I altered at the school, smacks him on the shoulder. “Stealth may not be your game, but be adaptable!”
He argues back, “I am adaptable! When we get to the firefight, you’ll be happy I’m the way I am!”
The man in charge of this mission comes through, demanding for no talking, unless spoken to. “If you disobey, I’ll make sure you’ll never get another assignment that gives you more than just the scraps!”
The threat manages to silence them both. I make my way behind them. Flashlight in one hand, and sword in the other, I see the undead drawing towards us. Without looking away, I get a firm nudge from a dispatch man by my chest. He silently points his fingers at the ones behind, implying for me to take out those which follow.
In this regards, he’s not wrong to be concerned about any following threat. We can’t just assume they won’t reach us.
I let myself get several feet away from them. With my sword, I make jab thrusts into the heads of the few undead there. They make it easier for me to not get boxed in by them, especially when they step in a more linear fashion towards me, all completely in my sights. I twirl my sword in my single-hand grip to gain momentum before I impale the last one. As I do, I feel the grip of fingers crawl up my right shoulder.
Chapter VI
One step back, and things won’t bode well!
Out of response, I shove the body of this undead forward, gaining the strength to move it with my second hand palming the tip of the pommel. I drive it away from me, and I hop forward, feeling the hand slip off of me. I twist the left side of my body counter-clockwise, not letting go of my sword, only to see the man that I annoyed earlier tonight further annoying me.
I find his teasing humorless.
I feel the flinch from snatching my sword out of the flesh of this undead. It signifies my distaste for his persistence to cause trouble.
“Hurry up!” comes from a whisper I hear up front.
“Yeah, mister.” This “irritant” man mocks me, acting as though I’m the cause for my own startle.
Without any response, I simply walk by him, and head further up front.
I prefer to not be near this person from here on out.
We are led down a path where no path exists. Then the man in charge stops us when he shines his light down at the lumber mill. He immediately turns his head to the drone carrier.
“Get it up in air. The infrared camera will give the visibility we need.”
She sets down her drone, gesturing for us to step away from it. A brisk turn of the propellers, then it silently levels down the hill. One of the dispatch, a man with a black bulletproof vest breathes his words in between mine and the main mission leader’s ears.
“How long should this take? Ten minutes? 15?”
The only true response that comes is a crescendo of laughter from the mission leader. “You thought this was going to be a simple in and out, didn’t you?”
This dispatch man pulls out a flask from under his shirt. “I don’t see what’s so funny about my question.”
Our mission leader explains the reasoning behind his humor. “You see, I come back to this whole setup, only to be given back my ability to continue on something I don’t have faith in anymore. Oh, but what’s new this time is that I’m also granted reign over arrogant bastards.”
This notches up the discomfort everyone seems to have right now. The man with his flask takes a noticeable chug of his water, or other liquid, then slams it beneath our feet.
“No one controls me!”
Our mission leader simply chuckles. “C. controls you, and we’ll see how it goes.”
I look over at the drone pilot, watching her try to ignore the hushed conflict happening right now.
It’s th
ese kind of attitudes—the ones of self-defensive bravado, and the ones that turn their nose away—that make me feel like me and my group are still just “visiting” all of this. Only that’s not how it really is.
I take a deep breath, kneeling down as I observe the drone’s little lights hover in a circular motion around the dark land. I can only entrust it has roofing structures, lumber, and aggressors.
The minutes flee in silence from me, burps from the men behind, with the mission leader occasionally shaking his head slightly from disbelief. Eventually, the drone carrier’s mouth opens to explain something to our leader.
“I see multiple contacts of those people, more than us.”
“Good. What of it do you need explaining?” he asks, being quite mocking with his question.
She breathes, exasperated by the point she’s about to reveal. “Tell us why they have nets around the converted’s heads sticking out of what appears to be a storage space?”
In response, he pushes two palms against the ground, increasing the pressure as small grass strands curls into his fists. She anticipates his answer, both focusing on moving the drone continuously, while aiming her eyesight intensely on him.
“Well?” she prods.
His voice becomes tiny, converging both his emotions and his purpose to us all. “My work. They’ll mess up my work.”
Chapter VII
“What do you mean ‘work’?” every one of us says and expresses in our own ways.
He pauses and his eyes go distant, appearing as though he’s reconnected with something he’s forgotten about, something that he’s devoted to. “Since we now know we’re less than in numbers compared to them, I might as well give us motivation to triumph over the odds. I thought I could hide this. I thought I hid them well.”
My stare remains on him, even while he gets up from his knees, and towers over me. “What is it about undead that’s important to you?” I ask him.
“… Those ‘undead’, as you call them, were under extremely stressful conditions. Yes, it seems they even can get worn out from deprived movement and energy—food. I was studying to see if they’d eventually fall to a conscious decision to obey a provider, but not just any provider—not just anyone.”
Not just any provider…you’re referring to one with extraordinary abilities…C.?
Our “Flask Carrying Man”, seems a little intoxicated. He starts to make louder noises with his prying.
Likely, it was alcohol.
I tell him to quiet down.
“Screw you,” he shoots back. “I don’t need to be quiet when this son-of-a-bitch would like a dramatic response!”
The “Irritant” in the back of our tight setup intervenes with his position on this subject. “Look, I don’t care about your experiments you had going on. I’m just ready to start moving again!”
Our mission leader turns to look over at the lumber mill. He responds in a low-key voice, “I need them to remain. Plan’s changed. Forget stealth.”
In that instant, he lifts one open-palm hand above him repetitively, his motion a signal for everyone to get up and ready to move.
The hard part begins. Before Josh, there wasn’t a single person that had died. Or had to be killed. That doesn’t mean no potential opposition wasn’t around. A couple of weeks ago, at an old mountain resort, my group and I found a few people unaware of C. But before a single bullet could fly, we convinced them to integrate. It went smoothly. Even though it seems death of the living is about to crash in, unlike at that resort, I have to reassure myself this will go as easily as I need it.
So the hard part doesn’t have residue stick onto me afterward.
“Don’t worry. We’ll make sure your ‘subjects’ won’t leave the premises,” I say to him, keeping my interest about his work buried underneath my mission priority.
If I know better about this, I’d imagine no one here except him was supposed to know anything. So, for the time being, I won’t tell anyone about this…
For now.
We gear up for the task of practically “cleansing” the area of aggressors. It’s good that their figures aren’t scanning anywhere in our direct line of sight. The battle won’t be too hard, as long as I don’t think about them being people that are just making a life.
I can’t.
Not in this game of life—where making the right or wrong move means so much reward or consequence.
Unfortunately, they’re not to be given a chance to be convinced. I now have to say it was a good thing our group came across a find that didn’t reveal secrets deeper than the kind made to intimidate those. Like it did us, making us accept the harsh terms, which now includes me having to not spare the oblivious.
Our route plan goes into session while I double, then triple-check access to my weapons and ammunition. I hear that we’ll head down to the lumber piles surrounding the opposite side of the building, where the aggressors are currently herding out the undead.
“We could split down both sides, attack the ones not seeing us, then use the lumber as cover for any that want to overpower us,” the drone pilot suggests.
Our mission leader strikes it down, sounding more aggressive than he’s led on before. “From what you’ve told me, you could see them moving my work into a dirt hole away from the building. Those bastards. We’ll just push from this side, forcing them closer to the threat they’re trying to avoid. Maybe some will fall into the hole.”
This proves to me you definitely are a killer.
His attitude indicates no room for defiance against his plan, and concludes our strategy with positioning our formation. “Longer clip and range weapons behind us. You, with the RPG, take the right flank at them. Shotgun Girl, take the nose front. Above all, could you all try to not attack any of my specimen? Any newcomers that waltz into this place might corrupt the whole system I had, but just try to know the different ones.”
You had control of that before you left. I’m sure you knew the consequences.
The “Irritant” man jumps in with his own concern. “Yeah? And, what will you be contributing to the fight?”
Our mission leader curls up a little smile. “I’ll be our secret weapon. Let me wrap around the other side as they get distracted, and I’ll save the day—if I can that is.”
At this point, he’s left several hints that he’s extraordinary himself. The lack of fear against the undead, the fact C. had such concern that we bring him back…I wouldn’t be surprised if this man is one of the “others” C. referred to weeks ago.
Under the now ever-real adrenaline coursing through me, and I’d imagine everyone else, we tear off and hurry down the hill. Rushing down the slope gives a jolt of energy that pushes back into me when I slip slightly on the crumbling dirt and chipped rocks sticking out of the ground.
The world in front of us poisons our ability to see the aggressors, but the same can be said for them. Instead of a source of lighting, we’re dependent more on instinct and feeling.
Our targets leave themselves exposed by letting their own lights sway in many directions down the elongated lanes of wood and logs. This makes the site more like that of a maze, especially now that we’re all on the same fighting ground and perspective.
It further indicates to us we’ve brought uncertainty to their circumstance. We plant ourselves by a convenient lumber pile, in a triangular formation with several logs, right down the path two aggressors are nervously exploring.
“I know this place like the back of my hand. Once you shoot, I’m off to the pile,” our mission leader whispers.
One simple nod by our drone carrier, who’s made the conscious choice to carry both it and her weapon, before she rises up and commences barrel-down shots at the flashlight sources.
They collapse to the ground, indicating they’ve been shot.
Rest in peace.
We know the disturbance has caught the attention of those at the main building. Our mission leader runs to the log lane, left from the one those aggress
ors came from.
“Go down the middle! Keep up with me!” he roars in his hushed voice.
Our RPG holder sprints away to the far right, while the remaining four of us go down the middle path. We’re keeping our alignment crisp and tight. Our fully surveying aim and eyes look in every possible direction. Just before the upcoming right-angle turn of the lane, I look above to see faint rays of illuminating flashlights angled upward, heading right down this area as well.
Without any words, I bar arm our “Shotgunner” girl by her front to slide up to the last bit of cover left. I snatch my fingers back, which were slightly exposed off the log cover. Bullets started launching to the corner pieces, fortunately missed by several inches upward away from my fingers.
Dangerous as this was, it keeps everything going slow-motion for me, which then lets me concentrate better.
She fires off from her left hip, curving her unaffected shotgun as exposed to the hot zone as possible. Her pump action skills are admirable. Even being in an awkward stance, she can pull her fore-end with much fluidity and power.
The “Irritant” man bumps into me, with a Molotov cocktail in his hand. “Move! Let me at this!”
“No!” I argue back under the sound of shrieking bullets. “Wood is around! The flames could block our way!”
The fight won’t let up, considering these aggressors have built their own pattern swiftly under duress. I scavenge my thoughts for a way to quicken this current battle.
If I could guess, like a maze, many of the paths are right beside one another.
I grab the collective attention of the rest of our dispatch. “One rifle with me! The rest keep them distracted!”
Without argument, likely from desire to do anything it would take to advance forward, I get the “Flask Carrying Man” with me. His drunken behavior has shriveled up entirely. He does well to listen to my plan. I send us back out on the path, aware to look at the side where our RPG man went to take flank at—to ensure we don’t get flanked ourselves.
Once checked, I direct the both of us to the path our mission leader went down, mindful to keep the image of where the right-angled section, with aggressors at their post, is at. “Right about here!” I say, tapping my hand gently on the sawed wood beam pile in front of us. “Lift me up to the top with all of your might!”
