by JL Oiler
Dead Force Rising
written by JL Oiler
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Cover Artist: Carl J. Franklin
First Edition
©2011, Rebel Ink Press, LLC
www.rebelinkpress.com
Dedicated to all those who wear the uniform and battle the real monsters of the world.
CHAPTER ONE
Sergeant John Rose sat on the thin mattress of the hospital type bed waiting for the doctor to come give him what he was certain would be bad news. Ever since returning from his third tour in Afghanistan, the vision in both his eyes had been troublesome. John had not driven his car for over three weeks now, after he nearly took out a group of schoolchildren waiting for a bus. Sighing heavily, he ran a hand though his short, cropped brown hair. When he first signed up to join the Army seven years ago, he thought he would spend his entire life wearing the uniform. Now he wasn't certain he would be wearing it another month.
“I’m sorry it took me so long, Sergeant,” the doctor said apologetically as he entered the small room, a one star General close at his heels as he pulled the door shut behind them.
This definitely didn't look good, John decided as he snapped to attention. Since when did the high brass deliver a medical diagnosis? He didn't recognize the officer, which was odd considering he pretty well knew everyone on base, especially if they out ranked him, and it’s not like anyone could miss a six foot mountain wearing a star.
“At ease Sergeant, General Striate is here in an informal capacity,” the doctor offered as he patted the cot wanting John to sit back down.
Again, he wracked his brain. The name sounded familiar. John recalled scuttle about a General Striate and a special weapons lab. Though John always dismissed such rumors as myth, this certainly couldn't be that General. What special weapon could he be researching in the clinic?
Pulling two rolling stools forward, the doctor sat down and then offered one to the general who simply looked at the man with a get on with it gaze.
“Sergeant, you're suffering from perilimbal conjunctival ischemia,” he said matter-a-factly as though anyone in the room understood what that meant other than him.
“And that means what?” John finally asked when the doctor failed to put it in terms he could understand.
“It means you'll receive a medical discharge due to inability to perform duty. Your vision is shot and there's nothing I can do to fix it. Your vision might come and go for now but shortly it will go completely. Sorry,” the doctor said from over top his wire-rimmed glasses.
John felt as though someone punched him in the gut. Uncertain whether to scream in anger or cry in sorrow, he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “So after all this, I get a medical discharge.”
“Perhaps not,” the General interjected. “If you're up to listening, I have a possible mutually beneficial offer for you.”
John regarded the blurry image of the General for a moment. What could he possibly want with a half blind Army Sergeant? Every instinct called for him to leave it alone, accept his circumstance and try to move on. His pride however, had a different idea. It screamed for him to fight until the very end.
“I’m listening, General. What are you offering?”
“Well Sergeant, if you’re up to a short trip I would rather show you,” the General told him as the man stood and headed for the door.
Evidently, they were leaving now. Good thing he wasn't there for something that required him to be in one of those fancy clinic gowns with the built in rear air conditioner. Jumping from the cot, he dang near ran to catch up with the old man.
Riding in the Generals Jeep, John nearly chocked as they pulled up to the Mess Hall. What the hell was this? He didn’t come here to eat a hotdog. As the vehicle followed the small drive that circled around the back of the building, he found himself shaking his head at his own silliness for believing there was anything that could be done about his condition. He was just getting ready to ask the General what fucking game he was playing when two armed guards raised a garage door John didn't even know existed.
“What the hell is this place?” he asked in complete shock that such a place was on the base and he never knew it.
The interior was covered in silvery metal, which at first glance he assumed was galvanized, but as they continued inside, it appeared more like silver plating. Several other vehicles were parked inside, each maxed out in the armor and weapons category. It looked as though someone was preparing for war.
“Welcome to the nest, Sergeant Rose. Home to things most humans believe impossible,” General Striate said sticking out his chest with pride.
Getting out of the jeep escorted by the two sentries to an elevator at the back of the garage, the small group descended in the wire-front lift. John's mind was running a million miles a minute. Thankfully, his sight was clear enough at the moment to take it all in. He counted six stories as they continued their downward journey, and each floor was bustling with action although the elevator was moving too fast to determine what was happening on any given floor. Finally stopping with a jerk, two more armed sentries met them.
“This is the heart of our little operation,” General Striate advised as they began walking down the staunch white corridor.
Joh
n couldn't help but notice the walls were steel, creating a silent and nearly impenetrable structure. At least he thought of it as impenetrable until he noted what looked like four large gouges that strangely resembled claw marks. Running his hand along the metal peeled back from the deep marks, he wondered what could possibly do such a thing as he pulled back his hand and looked at the bright red blood beading on the surface of his finger.
“Best to take care of that before we go any further,” the general told him, looking at his hand.
“It’s nothing,” John said, sticking the digit into his mouth.
“Here, blood is always something.”
When they finally reached the only end of the long hallway, the General punched a code into the lock box and leaned in for a retina scan to open the doors, which made a swishing sound to signal the seal was broken. Why would they need an airlock door in a place like this? Every step in this place brought a new set of questions and confusions, answers John hoped would be revealed in short order. The two sentries, which had escorted them to this point, saluted and turned to face the direction in which they’d just came. Evidently, this was as far as the pair went.
The General led John thru the door into a large conference type room. A huge oval, wooden table circled by a baker’s dozen of black office chairs sat in the center. The far wall, glass from floor to ceiling, revealed what John assumed to be a control center with touch screens containing digital maps and data. Looking about in awe, John took in the room's advanced technology, everything was cutting edge or beyond. He couldn't help but wonder what category they used on the budget to satisfy the number crunchers.
“Have a seat, Sergeant and I'll explain this program to you,” Striate told him as the man took a seat in the largest chair at the table.
Sitting to the man’s right, John waited silently with his hat in his hands, anxious to know what the hell was going on down here. Then the room went dark. Only the glow of the glass media wall illuminated the area.
“We have become increasingly aware of forces imbedded here in the US which threaten our way of life. These dark forces were until recent years considered oddities, which rarely impacted on the day-to-day life of US citizens. They were dismissed as random acts of deranged minds.”
Images of bloody crime scenes began to appear on the wall, the images revealing brutally slain victims whose bodies were torn and mutilated. Some, all female, were misused in sexual manners so violent John felt as if he might just vomit.
“However, as these incidents began to increase in frequency, we discovered we could no longer dismiss and cover the real cause.”
John stared in utter disbelief at the next series of images displayed. A man who appeared to be in his early thirties, was strapped to a chair as he hissed and growled at the two military uniformed Thorndiers nearby. A set of long fangs snapped at them as he cursed in what John thought might be Russian. Did they truly expect him to believe this male was a fucking vampire?
“This is Viktor Tarasov, a Russian immigrant who migrated here from Olkhovka in 1940. He is part of the first wave of vampires sent here to weaken us,” the General said as several more photos of the fanged man appeared alongside the first on the board.
John covered his mouth but still a chuckle escaped. This was ridiculous. Certainly this was a joke perpetrated by the members of his division, John thought to himself.
“Alright, you honestly expect me to believe you have some sort of special team trained to hunt vampires? What are they, the Van Helsing Force?” he asked certain at any minute a camera crew would pop out to tell John he'd been punked.
The General smiled slightly yet said nothing. The old man simply regarded him through pale blue eyes before pushing a small red button on the control panel located on the table in front of him.
The sound of a speaker buzzer echoed in the quiet room and a strong female voice poured through the room’s speakers.
“Yes, General?”
“Tell Dr. Hough we will be down in a moment,” Striate told her.
“Yes sir,” the voice answered
Evidently, the joke wasn't over, John decided as the General stood and motioned for him to follow through a door on the right side of the room which John didn't notice earlier. Outside the conference room was yet another corridor. Unlike the main hallway, this one contained several doors. The first door they passed read: Genetics and Biologic Defense Lab. The second was even more curious. The Specialty Weapons Research and Training Lab, with its windowless double doors, was to John’s right. He wished he could just open one of the doors for a quick peek but the General continued down the hall toward yet a another set of guards and a very ominous looking red steel door. The words: Danger! Authorized Personnel Only, stenciled in black hit John head on.
“Sergeant, I need you to understand that anything beyond this point is of a very sensitive nature and we cannot allow it to leak out to those outside this complex.”
John stopped and pondered the magnitude of what the General said to him. It was evidently all or nothing from here. Even if he left this place without accepting the offer yet to come, he could never speak of this place or anything he’d seen here. Otherwise, he would be taking a dirt nap. Nodding his head, John followed the General through the door and stood frozen in awe. Down both sides of the room were large cells. There thick bars reinforced and covered in what looked like glass and he could count four running the length of either side, each with a single occupant. The inhabitant’s captured his attention the most. They ranged from spitting, growling humans covered in thick hair with gold colored eyes and a mouth filled with sharp canine looking teeth to a youthful looking male wearing a pair of jeans and a bloody white tee shirt. Of course, the pair of fangs the man sported as he threw curses the direction of a white jacketed worker nearby was the clincher as to why he occupied one of the cells.
“What is this place and what are these things?” John asked as he watched what appeared to be a woman smile and run her hands across the glass in a seductive invitation.
“They are exactly what they appear to be: werewolves, vampires, and in the far right corner we have a rare zombie. This room is a sort of storage area used to house live specimens while Mr. Wyle, our chief weapons engineer, designs the latest weapons in the fight in our little paranormal war,” the General replied as he looked into the cell to John’s right.
“Where did they all come from”
“These came right from the streets of town and they were hard buggers to catch. Which is where you come in.”
“Me? You want me to go catch these things?” John asked in disbelief, his eyes still staring.
“No, Sergeant. I want you and the rest of the team I’m putting together to kill them.”
John continued to stare at the things that surrounded him. How could such things exist and no one know? How did the General expect him, of all people, to be part of a special team to battle these abominations?
“How? You heard the doctor. I’ll be blind within the next few months.”
“I want you and the other four men to become what I like to think of as a diluted version of what you see here. The doctor believes that whatever genetic misfire produced these things will cure your little eye problem and any other disorders through some sort of regeneration. Frankly, I don’t understand half that crap and could care less. The only thing I need to know is my men will be damn near unkillable.” If John were not standing in the middle of a room filled with creatures and had he not seen the serious look on the General's face, he would've burst into laughter at the joke. However, he now knew this was far from some prank. The man wanted him to volunteer to become one of these things so he could hunt them down and kill them.
As if he could feel the turmoil running through John’s brain, the General placed a hand on his shoulder. “I know this is a lot to take in and process at the moment. Why don’t you take a day to think about it? That is not a long time but you understand we are working on a very strict timeline here
. You can give me your answer tomorrow,” the General suggested as they turned and exited the freak show.
Could John really volunteer to become something like that? Then again, could he spend the rest of his days in complete darkness?
CHAPTER TWO
John spent part of the night and the next day sitting on the small park bench outside his quarters thinking. There’d been a lot of things he planned to do before his diagnosis. Things like buying a little house in the mountains or on the beach, paying his respects to his fallen friend's sister who lived just off the base, and perhaps finding a woman to settle down with. Now all that stuff seemed like an inaccessible dream regardless of the direction he chose.
Reaching into the front breast pocket of his jacket, John pulled out two small photographs. The image of himself and another man looked back at him from the wrinkled paper. Thomas Grant had been his best friend and the closest thing to a brother John ever had. He could still see him leaning back on his bunk promising to fix John up with his sister so the two of them could go down and spend a week on the beach with Tom and his new wife. It was another unrealized dream because just a few short days later, a sniper put a bullet through Grant's skull when they were out on patrol. John had recently learned that Grant's wife and one-year-old daughter had moved a few towns away from the base and he arranged to send them money, small amounts periodically, just to help out.
The second photo was of Thorn Grant, Thomas’ sister, sitting at her kitchen table. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a braid which lay over her shoulder, pale blue eyes smiling up at him. John had been anxious to meet the woman, even going as far as to show her picture around to the rest of their group and call her his future wife. It still seemed like only yesterday that the two men were laughing, throwing back beers and talking about all the things they would do when they were stateside once again.
