Page 15 of Redemption (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #4)

Dare

February, one year ago…

The quad is a bustling center of activity this evening. Normally, everyone would be getting ready to hit the rack—since we have a battalion run scheduled at zero-dark-thirty tomorrow—but plenty are still milling about, working through their earlier transgressions.

Off to the right, four young PFCs grunt under the heavy weight of a cargo trolley perched on each of their shoulders.

Their voices ring out into the night, proudly announcing, “This is not a toy!” I smile and shift my gaze directly across the lawn to the poor, unfortunate soul facing the bricked wall of the barracks opposite mine.

He just couldn’t keep his hands to himself during the PT run this morning, so his Staff Sergeant told him that if he wanted to touch somebody so badly, he should go touch himself .

His arm is outstretched in front of him, placed atop his own shadow on the rough wall.

He’s been chasing it for the past hour and a half singing the lyrics to I Touch Myself by Divinyls while the actual song is being played via Bluetooth in his ear.

His voice squeaks on one of the notes, forcing a chuckle from my lips as I shake my head at the punishment.

Over to the right, there’s a lone Private stomping through the area, frustrated beyond all belief.

Poor bastard was late for formation this morning by three hours, hungover and half-dressed on a damn Tuesday of all days.

In return for his tardiness and disheveled state, I sent his ass to look for chem-light batteries.

Little does he know, they don’t actually exist. The thought brightens the smile on my face, completely pleased with myself and my choice of punishment—or, in my eyes, harmless prank he’ll most definitely learn from.

Then, lastly, there’s the handful of others walking the length of the quad separating each of the barracks, picking up everything and anything that isn’t grass or dirt.

They’ll learn quickly enough that you don’t toss your cigarette butts on the ground like a filthy animal.

Forty-five minutes later, they finally finish their penance, and I’m able to go home, sit back, and relax.

I talk to a few friends on the phone. Shower. Eat dinner. Catch up on a show that aired earlier in the week. And now I’m in bed.

Alone.

It was another day.

So very similar to yesterday. And the day before.

And nothing like I wish it could’ve been.

I tuck in under the covers and turn my gaze to the empty place next to mine.

And just like I do every night, I reach a hand over to where she used to be, searching for what I lost. What I was stupid enough to turn away from.

My eyes close as I let my consciousness drift away and allow all the memories to flood in, allowing me to live vicariously through the dreams I wished were a reality.

∞∞∞

Wednesday morning, 0600 E.S.T., Marine Corps Base, North Carolina

“Fall in! Attention!”

We’re still in our PT gear as we race to find our spots in formation; hundreds of us are lined up, waiting to figure out what the fuck is going on as the early morning sunrise filters through the tall windows.

We were supposed to go to the armory today—to work on weapons training—and were about to be dismissed from the battalion run to get changed and do just that when, all of a sudden, we were told to gather at the Field House immediately, with no clue as to what for.

“Good morning, Marines!”

“Good morning, Sir!”

Lieutenant Colonel Higgins stands tall in front, his chin poised high as he inspects the lines of Marines in formation before him.

“At ease.”

I separate my legs, moving my left foot to the side while placing my hands behind my back, interlacing my fingers. My mind might be racing, but my attention remains fixed on the man in front of me. He turns on his heel and begins to walk down the length of the formation.

“At 2300 hours last night, it was confirmed that we are on the precipice of a full-blown epidemic. The virus, also known as GA-152, has now infected the overwhelming majority of the populations in Georgia, South Carolina, Florida, and Alabama, and is currently working its way up the eastern seaboard and across the Gulf of Mexico. Make no mistake, North Carolina, and the base you currently stand your feet upon, is next. Containment of the virus is vital and paramount. As such, it will now be required that all gates, henceforth and until further notice, be closed to any and all traffic. That means, unless you have explicit orders to do so, no one else gets in and no one else gets out.” He pauses his steps and his speech, turning to face us directly.

“As of this moment, we are on full lockdown, Marines.” In a collected move, he turns and begins to walk in the other direction, projecting his voice with a booming tone as he continues.

“To combat the imminent threat at our doorstep, RECON and MARSOC will be deployed outside the gates to limit the virus’ exposure and assist in civilian rescue/riot operations—along with the Army Special Forces located just south of us, and the Naval Air Wing to the east. Your units, however, will remain here in the stateside version of a Military Expeditionary Unit.

Your garrison will await further orders and be ready to move out at a moment’s notice.

“As with any other deployment, Operational Security is of the utmost importance. As a member of the U.S. Armed Forces, you are not permitted to divulge sensitive information to any civilians during an overseas tour,” he turns his head, sternly looking at each of us, “and you will not do so now!” he announces with a glare and waits until his words resonate with each of us before continuing.

“It is the recommendation of the commander of this base that a uniform mass-wide phone call be sent by your battalion commander to your next of kin informing them of your impending deployments and of your inability to be contacted for the foreseeable future . I realize this isn’t the way we normally announce deployments to our families; however, the Department of Defense has submitted that this be a closed case with a designated Secret Classification.

Interaction with anyone outside of your chain of command is a right that has officially been revoked.

As of today, and until further notice, you are ghosts. ”

He stops right in the center of our formation, power and strength emanating from his stance. “Staff NCOs, report to your platoon commanders for debriefing no later than 0900 today! Dismissed!”

“Yes, Sir!”

The guys around me file out of our ranks, meandering about the large Field House they crammed our entire battalion into.

From what Lieutenant Colonel Higgins implied, it wasn’t just our unit that’s getting orders at the ass crack of dawn.

Rather, every damn regiment on base would have had to stop what they were doing and head over to what was essentially a battle briefing.

I like Higgins as a Commanding Officer. He gives it to us straight.

At least, for the most part. Today, however—with the amount of haste that was shown as they herded us away from our scheduled post and over to the field house—I can’t help but notice how little was divulged.

Battle briefs are supposed to give us details, mission statements, definitely more than the simplified version of an OPSEC mandate we were given.

They categorized this shutdown and everything pertaining to it with a Secret Classification.

.. for a fucking virus?! People contract viruses all the time.

It’s nothing new. The prognosis is pretty much the same any way you look at it.

You go to any medical facility and they’ll tell you there’s not really any cure for a virus, just medicines to help your body cope with the stress of fighting it, and, in some cases, vaccinations given prior to exposure to help limit the damage.

Other than that, it’s a ride-out-the-tide sort of thing.

Sure, from what I’ve seen and heard, it’s highly contagious, which is probably why we’re being detained on base, but why limit communication? It just doesn’t make any sense.

The fact that we can’t call our family and loved ones to give them a heads-up has me on edge.

Wouldn’t the government want everyone to be on guard and prepared for what’s to come?

Advise travel restrictions? Promote good hygiene practices?

They classified it as an epidemic and, with its progression, it will soon be upgraded to a pandemic before the month’s out based on how quickly everything has seemingly escalated overnight.

But, even still, why halt communications?

At this point, it’s pretty clear LtCol Higgins is withholding pertinent information that would normally befit our rank and file.

As soon as the thought manifests, I shake my head at myself.

I need to stop overthinking this shit.

I’m sure whoever is in charge will eventually inform the civilians of what to do.

They have people in place for just such a thing.

The Center of Infectious Diseases and whatnot.

Well above my pay grade. I shouldn’t be worried about how the higher-ups are handling this.

They shut down the entire base just for a dusting of snow, for fuck’s sake.

This particular type of protocol—shelter in place—is nothing new.

Well, apart from the lack of communication outside.

I chew on my lip, the entire situation not sitting well with me at all, regardless of my self-reassurances.

“Cruz! Over here, man!”

I turn my head to the man calling my name. It’s Long. Well, not like he’s long. Or, I guess, I mean, he is , being a tall motherfucker at six foot eight inches. But his name is Long. Well, his name’s not long; it just is. Ah, fuck it.

“What’s up, man?” I stride up to the fellow Staff Sergeant standing on the sidelines, propped up against one of the walls.