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“There are two ways to fight an infection. One, you remove it cell by cell from the infected area and hope it gets better. Or two, burn it out and rest confident in the knowledge that it will never return. At this juncture, we’ve exhausted the former. It’s time we tried some fire!”
-General Charles A. Haynes, Commanding
Officer, 200th Infantry Brigade
The opposite bank looked like a scene out of an all-night rager. Cars abandoned and looted, garbage littered everywhere, and bodies laying on the ground, their clothing tattered and torn. Were it not for the pervasive stench of death and rot, one might actually get the impression that it was another time and place, the mess being the result of people having too good of a time.
Unfortunately, for anyone looking at it, it was an all too familiar sight, something which came of the repetitive horror that had become so common. Empty houses, abandoned lots, broken fences, scattered toys and rotting bodies. All the signs of lives disrupted and overtaken by the undead hordes.
And yet, Dezba couldn’t help but find some measure of comfort in it. It was like an invitation to start knocking things down, clear away the wreckage and begin anew. The infection, wherever it landed, had to be purged one way or another. Letting it spread was unacceptable, and fire had been known to cleanse the disease and its purveyors out.
Dezba felt his breath go short as he caught sight of sudden movement. He came to rest on it as soon as he was sure it wasn’t a branch catching the wind or a bit of laundry flapping in the breeze. There, just emerging from a lawn was a live Whiskey. Of all the bodies scattered about him, he alone appeared to be animated and walking. A sure sign the others were either dead or catatonic. They would remain that way until the smell of fresh flesh roused them.
He wandered out slowly, the milky white orbs in his skull looking on as his mangled limbs carried him forward. Dezba tracked as he ambled about, making his way from an overgrown lawn to the sidewalk, past an abandoned car and onto the main road. From the pained, haunted look on his face, Dezba might have guessed he was looking for something. But aside from the prospect of a meal, what could possibly have dragged this creature of its dormant state?
Dezba shook his head. It was pointless trying to ascertain motives when it came to these creatures. Years of fighting and studying them, and they weren’t any closer to penetrating that inner recess known as their brains. At least not in the metaphysical sense…
He turned to Morris who was crouched by his side, his right eye looking through the scope on his Mark 14.
“Private. You got on that Whiskey? Bearing oh-one-five, range, three hundred meters?”
Morris adjusted his aim and hummed affirmatively. “Target sighted.”
Dezba panned around further. Just where was his intended meal exactly? He sighted the trees closest to him in the hopes of spotting a bird or a chipmunk. Possibly even a raccoon or a ringtail. But he saw nothing as he peared through the binocs, scanning from tree to tree and throughout the street.
“Can’t be sure if he’s got friends or not, Private. Not spotting any fresh meat in his path.”
“Maintain suppression, sir?”
Dezba narrowed his eyes at the target. If he was alone, there was no point in maintaining suppression. If he wasn’t, a little noise might just be the thing they needed to wake them up. Last he checked, they were clear on this side of the bank. If the other was packing, it’d give Morris something to shoot at!
“Negative. Go loud and fire when ready.”
Morris moved quick and reached to the front of his rifle to remove the weapon’s silencer. He was a few seconds in stowing it and returning his eye to the scope. He let out a slow breath before squeezing the trigger…
And then, there was a loud crack as the rifle reported. Through his binoculars, Dezba watched as the Whiskey’s head sprouted a plume of grey-red blood and the body crumpled to the ground.
Dezba lowered his binocs and turned his ears to the echoing noise coming off the nearby hills. The gunshot took its time, reverberating many more times before finally dying. He waited for the sound of growling, that choked, horrid din that always preceded their arrival. None came.
At his side, Morris beat him to asking the inevitable.
“Where the hell is everybody?”
“Don’t know,” Dezba replied, returning to his binoculars and scanning the other side again. As expected, the Whiskey was lying flat, and not a single body stirred around him. None were emerging from the alleyways, gutters, or anywhere else that wasn’t exposed to direct sunlight either. For all intents and purposes, the south bank of the town was dead.
As in truly dead…
“Maybe they moved on. Maybe our last sweeps accounted for them all. Maybe they’re all asleep in a cellar somewhere.”
Morris hummed thoughtfully. “Kind of seems like a waste, sir.”
I know exactly what you mean, Private, he thought. But he dare not say it. Morris and his Batista were still the FNGs of the group, and any false bravado on their part was to be discouraged.
“Plenty more action to be had in this war, Private,” is what he said aloud. “Don’t need to be looking for any before it’s time.”
“Yes, sir,” Morris replied meekly.
Dezba checked one last time just to be sure they weren’t getting any last minute arrivals. When sun baked sidewalks and corpses were all he found, he put the binocs away and motioned to the Private.
“Pack up, we due to rendezvous with the squad.”
They made the vehicle less than a minute later, the rest of the squad already assembled and waiting on them. Whitman was in the driver seat and Batista manning the .50 cal. Dezba was less than happy to see them already mounted up and said so.
“Weren’t you boys supposed to be monitoring the street, make sure we didn’t get snuck up on?”
“No bother, Sarge,” said Whitman, from his seat. “Damn place is empty, just like we figured.”
“Besides, we heard your shot, nothing followed,” said Majorca from the back. “We huffed it back right after.”
“Nothing out here but the wind and the rain,” Whitman said next, sounding the slightest bit distant. “Might have to get used to shooting real people from now on.”
Dezba shot him an angry look. Such talk was not to be encouraged amongst the men, he’d been told. Ever since the attack on the base months back, everyone had been uttering such things at one time or another. It stunk of low morale, and the General had been quite insistent that it be stamped out whenever it reared its ugly head. But at the moment, Dezba wasn’t in the mood to argue.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw Morris getting in the cab and called back. “You suited up, Private?”
“Yes, sir!” He said, creaking his door shut. Dezba rapped on the side of his.
“Then let’s roll. We rendezvous with the platoon in five mikes.”
* * *
The last of the squads pulled up and assemlbed on the line with the others. Fully assembled, they now formed a firing line sitting directly between the main road and the turnoff, all guns aimed smartly at the ruins in the distance. Between their vehicles, they now had four .50 cals, two 20 millimeter cannons, and over two dozen small arms trained on the one artery of traffic, the one avenue of advance the Whiskeys would take to get at their quarry.
Or at least, that had been the plan. Between the four patrols she had sent out, barely any had reported anything beyond a casual contact. And most of those were unable to offer any meaningful threat. Starved and isolated for weeks on end, the Whiskeys had advanced down from the mountains only to find well defended borders and empty homesteads. Not at all what they were hoping for.
Reaching into the cabin, Saunders turned the squak box over to the Battalion frequency and called it in to the Company. On the other side of the valley, the other platoons were no doubt assembled and waiting, everyone standing in line and ready to rain down fire on their designated areas. How pleased would the Captain be to hear that they could spare themselves the expense of several one-five-five rounds today? Given the current supply environment, she could only assume he and everyone else in the chain of command would be happy.
“Viper, this is One Actual. Come in, over.”
It took barely a second for him to come back. “One Actual, this is Viper. What’s your status, over?”
She keyed the mike and replied. “Viper, we are negative on contact. All squads report minimal engagement and no reinforcements. I say again, we are negative on contact, over.”
The next response took slightly longer, the grunt manning the radio no doubt taking the time to pass her report on.
“That’s affirmative, One Actual. Stand by for fire mission. Awaiting coordinates.”
Saunders frowned. She had thought she was rather clear with what she had just said. Keying the mike again, she repeated herself.
“Viper, that’s a negative. I say again, we are negative on contact. No fire missions at this time.”
“That’s a negative, One Actual,” said the Company radioman. “Captain’s orders are clear and they come down from on high. Fire missions to proceed, regardless of contact, over.”
Saunders took a deep breath and keyed the mike again. “Viper, this is One Actual. Requesting permission to speak to Viper Actual, over.”
A momentary silence followed. Such requests had a way of producing them, usually because it took the people on the other end time to swallow their indignation and bring their COs to the fore. But if this grunt was going to be a fucking idiot with her, she was damn well going to go over his head. After what felt like an interminable wait, the Captain picked up the mike at the other end and replied.
“One Actual, this is Viper Actual. What’s the meaning of this, over?”
Saunders cleared her throat and summoned her best, most tactful tone. Now that she was addressing a superior officer, she needed to proceed accordingly.
“Viper Actual, this is One Actual. My platoon has finished their patrol duty and encountered minimal contact. Nothing but lurkers and strays, no reinforcements, no signs of serious infestation. Fire mission is not needed at this time.”
She was the slightest bit surprised when the Captain came back immediately. “That’s irrelevant, One Actual. The order came in from Rattlesnake himself, all fire missions are a go. ROE states that any contact is to be met with sanitation, over.”
Sanitation, she thought. That was an interesting name for it. She sighed as she realized the discussion was over and she had lost. If Haynes had lowered the bar on what necessitated an artillery bombardment, then there was little she could do about it. Regardless to the damange they would be inflicting on what were people’s homes and communities, regardless of whether it deprived them of some much needed infrastructure, they were a go…
“Roger that, Viper Actual. Coordinates to follow.”
Consulting her map, she read off the grid coordinates that would bring the arty’s shells squarely down on the evacuated town, leveling everything within and destroying whatever traces the virus and its carriers had left behind.
“Grid mark one-five-nine, one-oh-seven-seven-five, danger close. Fire for effect.”
“Roger that,” said the voice of the radio operator, now back on the mike. “Standby.”
Saunders lowered the mike and looked to her platoon, who were all standing and looking on with mild indifference. She raised her voice and issued the “rounds incoming” warning, which perked them up a little. All hands then waited as the fire mission was passed down the line to their artillery in the rear, and listened for the report of the one-five-fives in the distance.
Boom! Boom! Boom! they rang. A small interlude as the shells cut through the air, and then the loud whizz as they descended on the village in the near distance.
A plume of fire went up mere feet above the target houses on the hill. Several more followed in quick succession, exploding around the first and expanding the volume of roaring flames. Second Platoon ducked behind their vehicles and winced as the the explosions rang out and rocked the earth around them.
As the noise began to die, she heard some hoots coming from her troops. Not many though. Few were too impressed by the display. For most, she knew, the entire affair was a waste and a pointless display. Far too many had been seen in recent months, and given the nature of most of them, this one was hardly proving entertaining.
For what felt like a lifetime, Saunders and the platoon stood and watched the village burn. In the distance, they could hear the sound of more fire missions being executed, more rounds being fired into locations throughout the valley to clear the few – if any – Whiskeys that remained. When they were done, everyone remained where they were, barely a word passing between them.
Within minutes, black smoke and ashes began to fill the air, caught the wind as it rose, and curled as it was pushed in a southerly direction. Very soon, people in their settlements in Santa Fe and the state capitol would be seeing it. Perhaps some would even reach the good General Haynes at his command base farther east. She hoped it would. Perhaps then he could see the fruits of his efforts up close.
“Lieutenant? Shall I order the platoon to mount up?”
Saunders was vaguely aware of Grayson standing next to her. He had been staring at her with his dead blue eyes and scarred visage for some time, clearly hoping she’d notice and issue the order. Finally, she acknowledged him in the affirmative.
“Yes, Sergeant. Tell the men, wheels up in two mikes.”
“Yes, ma’am!” he said, and proceeded down the line to relay her order in his usual, barking tone.
While the grunts began to get their shit together and load up, Saunders continued to watch, the fire proving too mesmerizing for her to look away just yet. It was not a beautiful display by any measure. Between the smoke, ash, and raging fireballs that swept through the vacant hillside community, absolutely nothing redeeming could be said about it.
Save for one thing… The way it burned, Saunders couldn’t help but feel a terrible sense of kinship with it. Terrible, ugly, destructive. Somehow, someway, it spoke volumes about the those who had caused it, and what they were up against.
No point, no purpose, no meaning, she thought. No, not anymore. Just another day and another duty, and no end in sight.
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
