Page 18 of Redemption (Devil Dogs of the Apocalypse #4)

Dare

March, One year ago…

One week after the invasion

“SHHHH, SHUT THE FUCK UP,” Wiengard whisper shouts, holding his hand suspended in the air behind his back, beckoning us to… well, shut the fuck up.

It’s been a week. One single week and we’re stuck down here, hiding like a pack of rats in an underground bunker.

Once we got word that the virus had made it on base, we were told to rendezvous with another group just a few miles away from our battalion’s barracks.

From there, if the enemy managed to get past the initial guard, we were supposed to meet them on the road roughly fifteen to twenty miles away.

That didn’t happen at all, however. The virus met us only twenty minutes later, just a few miles down the road.

It was that quick.

They might not have been fast-moving, keeping to speeds ranging from an amble to a lumbering jog, but it was five hundred or so of us versus thousands of them, and no amount of ammunition was able to take them down.

We were overrun within hours.

Prior intelligence, collectively gained over the past few weeks, suggested that the virus was primarily contracted via airborne transmission.

Which was why we were instructed to make use of our military-issued gas masks.

What they neglected to say was how long it took for a person to exhibit symptoms after exposure when the damn hostiles ripped them from our faces upon contact.

Apparently, fucking immediately in some cases.

In an instant, members of my battalion, as well as others, turncoated against their own fucking will. One second. One interaction. One measly breath. That’s all it took for a man to redirect his sights on his own friends and squad mates.

Even those piloting the aircraft sent in for backup weren’t able to avoid the contagion.

Somehow, the virus managed to get to them as well, even in a sealed cockpit.

And what was supposed to be a team of reinforcements swiftly turned into dozens of twenty-ton steel projectiles as they careened back down to Earth, cratering everything in their path.

Not everyone turned as soon as they were exposed, however.

Many, seemingly immune to the contagion that ravaged the rest, managed to fight back the surge.

At least, until they were inevitably overrun.

Their flesh became a delicacy to the ravenous horde as it was ripped from their still screaming bodies, the sound echoing around us as more and more of our ranks met their gruesome end only to join theirs, even seven days later.

∞∞∞

One week prior...

My squad and I race around to the back of a building, using it as cover while forming a tight circle to regroup, the lot of us barely managing to escape the surging horde.

Our chests heave with sawing breaths as we take a moment, every one of us overflowing with adrenaline as we look at the carnage surrounding our muddled formation.

It’s a battlefield. A sea of death. A field of carnage.

The roads, formerly blacktop, are now concealed by flowing rivers of red.

Thousands of bodies lie at unnatural angles, draped over everything, discarded amongst the wreckage.

Some are whole, for the most part—being someone who was either trampled to death or bitten, or a hostile finally taken down—while others are simply parts of what was once a whole.

Severed limbs and decapitated heads can be seen from every direction.

A terrified face looks up at me just a few feet from the soles of my shoes, its mouth open wide as if he was screaming when he met his end.

Lee...

He was one of mine. Just before the lockdown, he’d gotten news he was about to PCS to California.

According to the paperwork, he was supposed to ship out this past week.

He would have been on the other side of the country and far away from this bullshit if it wasn’t for the mandatory shutdown and pending invasion.

But here he is...

A head... at my feet.

Laid low like the rest of them.

Waverly, a Staff Sergeant like me but from another platoon, forces our focus on him for a moment. His brows, dripping with sweat, turn down with concentration as a plan formulates behind his gaze. “Fuck. Ok. Listen up. I think we should make for the bunkers under base,” he suggests.

The men who came with him nod approvingly, eagerly taking his direction, while the lower ranks from my platoon look to one another with clear confusion lining their faces, not necessarily trusting the leadership of the new sergeant they’ve yet to vet.

I look back to Waverly in contemplation, turning over the schematics of his suggestion.

The subterranean bunkers were prepared years ago and stocked with everything from shelf-sustainable food rations and supplies to enough weaponry and technology to withstand a nuclear attack for months.

Beneath the surface, it resembled that of a berthing commonly found on naval ships.

Rows and rows of bunks layered on top of one another provided sleeping quarters, while other areas of the bunker held office settings used to house the communications technology as well as weapons and ammunition, food rations, medical supplies, and anything else a person might need if they found themselves in the midst of a nuclear war.

Or, in our case, a domestic, biologically hostile epidemic.

They’re nothing luxurious, but they’re at least someplace safe and out of reach from any infected individuals.

Good enough for me.

Once I agree with Waverly, the rest of my unit nod as well, trusting my guidance as their Staff NCO.

“Ok. There’s an access point not too far from here. Follow me!”

I readjust my grip on my weapon and motion for the others to follow him as I take up the rear and look out for my guys, making sure no one gets left behind.

Almost immediately after we leave the building’s cover, however, we’re ambushed.

It’s like everyone that was alive minutes ago has contracted the virus and is in the throes of transitioning.

Dozens turning into hundreds at the flip of a coin.

The rapid rate of contagion, terrifying.

The souls I once molded, trained, and fought with now look back at me with vacant and soulless eyes.

Rage, helplessness, and sorrow have taken over as they rush at us, now fighting on the opposite side of the war.

Conley, a saw gunner from 2 nd Platoon, turns my way, hunger in his whitened, hollow stare as frothing drool falls from his lips. My eyes widen at his vacant expression. Like his mind has been emptied of every thought except for the insatiable desire to kill. To consume. To devour.

Like a zombie...

I remember him being a blue-eyed dreamer, bragging about his girlfriend from back home in Ohio and about how much he loved football.

A Buckeye fan, through and through, made even better when his girlfriend went to Ohio State and was one of their cheerleaders.

A few months ago, he was even talking about how he wanted to surprise her at a game next season and propose to her on the fifty-yard line.

But, with a deafening growl, the memories fade as he charges, absolutely nothing standing in his way between us besides the future plans he so meticulously laid out, now shattered to dust. Tears fall from my face as I step towards him and sink my knife into his skull.

With so many movies, TV shows, and books illustrating what a viral contagion would look like, you would think you could rely on your imagination to prepare you for the worst. For how you’d expect an outbreak of this magnitude to be. But it only helped so much, and not nearly enough.

We knew that it was highly contagious. The symptoms. The signs. But never did they say the infected would become hostile. That they would turn and attack their best friend, killing them within seconds as they bit their windpipe right out of their neck.

Turning away from Conley, I stare at the scene unfolding not even ten feet from where I stand. Unable to move. Unable to breathe. Unable to process what’s happening right now.

That’s PFC Sanbar. I knew him from one of the other squads in our platoon.

He and Lance Corporal Duggins were thick as thieves, always getting in trouble and doing stupid shit together.

Last I saw, they were hauling that cargo trolley across the lawn, joking around and helping one another get through the unconventional punishment.

They’re still together, but not as I’ve ever seen before.

Sanbar’s lifeless body lies drenched in his own blood, spread out upon the grass, while Duggins hovers over him, his teeth gnashing together as he rips his brother apart right in front of me.

Time slows. Sound muffles. Eyesight begins to fade on the edges.

I’m frozen, watching the horror play out, knowing, without a shadow of a doubt, that I could be next.

A sharp pull comes from my right as Waverly grabs me, pulling me behind him as he takes out another hostile with a gunshot to the face. He turns to me, pulling my focus back to our mission, my shock at the utter destruction in front of me causing me to hesitate one second too long.

That’s never happened to me before.

I’ve been deployed over six times since I joined. All to active war zones. I’ve seen guys get shot, blown up, and lose limbs right in front of my eyes. Hell, I’ve gotten shot before.

But this…

Nothing could’ve prepared a person for this except living it.

“MOVE!” He instructs me where to go, then pushes me in front of him, choosing to take the rear while I fix my fucking head.

If I don’t pull myself together, more people will get killed, and that will be on me.

My fault. I need to get them to safety..

. at all costs. No excuses. I can fall apart and put my pieces back together once they’re secured.