The Search For A Cure

by C. Chase Harwood

  The walk down was ponderous, each switchback a cause for tension as they rounded into unseen territory. The men’s muscles became locked with it and Copper actually had to stop for a moment and massage out a muscle spasm in his right hamstring. The rhythmic pounding they had heard up top had gotten louder and then it stopped. The silence was unnerving now. Each footstep, each brush of fabric as they moved, seemed to echo in the tight space. Copper didn’t know it, but he kept holding his breath.

  Jones finally pulled off his gas mask, breathed with a bit of trepidation and then brought his lips to Copper’s ear, “Breathe, dummy. You’ll give yourself a headache or pass out.”

  Copper pulled off his gas mask as well and they continued.

  They finally reached the last turn and Jones signaled for them to stop. The door from the landing to the common room was open. A quick glance revealed knocked over tables and chairs. Jones quietly slipped his hand inside his pocket and pulled out a small penknife. He signaled to Copper what he was going to do, then turned and tossed the penknife into the room. It clicked and clacked across the floor and made a dull thump when it hit a turned over tabletop.

  The men braced themselves for assault, the machine gun ready to unload, but there was nothing. The only sound was that of their own breathing. It would have been better to get charged. They could mow anything down that stepped in front of the stairs.

  Jones looked toward the ceiling, said a short prayer, and motioned for Copper to follow him. They bent low as they entered the room and quietly crouched behind a table. Jones looked over his shoulder and spotted the light switch panel. He nodded to Copper who duck walked over to it. He paused and they both lifted their NVGs so as not to be blinded when he flicked the switches – nothing - the room remained pitch black - visual abyss. They quickly flipped their NVGs back down to stop the disorientation.

  Option two was to use a flashlight. Both men carried small flashlights with super bright krypton bulbs. By turning them on, their NVGs would see the whole room lit up. Trouble was it also made them a perfect target - no question who held the flashlight. Copper signaled that it would be him and he pulled out his light, pointing it at an angle toward the ceiling, going for maximum bounce. He nodded and turned it on.

  The room was instantly lit and that’s when they saw the dude with two M4 assault rifles standing at the entrance to a bedroom hall.

  The man had the guns held out under each arm and he screamed, “Fuck you, Fucking Fucks!” unleashing a hail of bullets in the Ranger’s direction.

  Both soldiers lay flat on the floor and rolled away from their original positions, Copper turning off the flashlight. Bullets plastered the wall behind them, shattered furniture in front of them, the aim scattered and irregular.

  Jones was able to get a slight angle on the assailant, but before he could pull the trigger, the man stopped firing and stepped back into the hall.

  “Hey!” yelled Jones. “Were United States Army. We’re here to help.”

  Copper added, “We’re not no fucking Fiends, man!”

  Something was lobbed into the room from the hall, metal and heavy, skittering across the floor and hitting a chair.

  “Grenade!” yelled Jones.

  Both men covered their ears, opened their mouths and curled into fetal positions.

  The explosion was loud - really fucking loud. The Rangers survived the blast but their ears rang out with temporary deafness. Bits of furniture and acoustic tile rained down upon them. The room filled with smoke and dust and they reactively pulled their gas masks to their faces.

  Jones sat up with the M240 and pointing it at the hall, expecting the berserker to run out with both guns blazing. But there was nothing; just a mad little laugh and a teasing almost sing song, “Fuck yououuu.”

  In the bunker next door, they all felt more than heard the grenade go off. It was a dull thump, but it was unmistakably explosive.

  O’Shea yelled up to Preston’s squad still ascending the stairs. “Hold up Squad Three.”

  Bullock said, “The folks next door are a definitely knocking.”

  O’Shea pressed the intercom button that was located at the base of the stairs and called outside to Jones, “Specialist Jones?” He waited for five seconds that should have taken Jones to walk over to the external income at the front door. Nothing. “Jones, report.” …Nothing. “Melman, try them on the radio.”

  “Radio’s not getting any reception down here Cap’n.”

  “Alright, Sergeant Bullock, hook up with third. Check out the topside. Melman. Man this intercom. See if you can raise anyone next door and keep trying Jones until the boys get upstairs.”

  Bullock was already putting on his J-LIST and grabbing his rifle to join Preston’s squad. First Squad and the Chinook Pilots readied themselves to follow squad Three if necessary. The scientists sat in silence, unsure of what to do other than keep their mouths shut. It looked like whatever was going on next door had forced O’Shea’s hand. All of a sudden, their internal squabble seemed pointless.

  At the top of the stairs, Preston unbolted the door and cracked it open slowly. There, on the ground, not more than fifteen feet away, a pack of Fiends were ripping into the flesh of the dead soldiers. Two of them were fighting over a forearm. Several looked up at the movement in their peripheral vision and spotted Preston. The creatures immediately charged. Preston slammed the door shut and bolted it. The Fiends howled and pounded on the steel. “Now we’ve stepped in it,” he said. “Second squad appears to be slaughtered. The door next to us was pulled shut."

  Jacobus said, "Maybe a few got away and are trying to signal us. You know, earlier with the explosion, banging on the pipes.”

  The men on the stairs looked aghast at the loss of their brothers. Despite the horrific ongoing conflict and the repeated loss of life, no one was truly prepared for this. These men had been trained for, and had fought major insurgencies – insurgencies, which included enemy and even friendly behavior that was at times remarkably barbaric. None of that compared to witnessing your fellow man being hauled down by other humans and torn limb from limb - feasted upon while screaming out their last breath. It created the kind of nightmares that in the long run could send a man to the loony bin.

  Bullock asked, “How many you see out there, Corporal?”

  Nodding at the eight other men on the stairwell, “More than all of our fingers and toes. A lot more.”

  “Well, this mission is getting complicated.”

  “Fucked beyond measure, Sergeant.”

  “Best go down and tell the Captain.”

  http://www.amazon.com/Sudden-Origin-Part-Tribulation-ebook/dp/B00KHGM5NC/ref=la_B00KHA4BH6_1_11?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1418082007&sr=1-11