Chapter 6: Confrontations

It was another loud night, with all of the soldiers yelling, betting their now-worthless paper money on card games. Rachel sat there, polishing a heavy M-4. She stared into the fire, unsure. Tomorrow, they would cross into Manhattan, the final stage of the "National Rehabilitation" operation. They would kill the "degenerates" to leave room for colonization. Rachel just wanted to leave, to rid the city of the bastards and go home. Nervously, she moved a toothpick from each side of her mouth.

From the faded metal catwalks of the bridge, the famous New York City skyline was blackened, the once beautiful buildings now mostly steel bars and vines, their flesh stripped off the bones and thrown to the ground. The catwalks were horrifying, the dead water below visible through rusted out holes. Rachel was ahead, one hand on the creaking rail, and another held at the handle of her rifle. Her eyes stayed above, looking at the skeletal remains of the United States.

The city stank. Ruptured sewage lines lay exposed by the fractured asphalt, and a acidic cinder smell burned her nostrils. She was creeping at point, her eyes flickering across every shadow, every secluded corner that held danger. The rest of the team walked behind, their stances posed as they were trained, but loudly, without awareness.

They hadn't seen any, not yet. The people of the city were well hidden. They found more evidence - torn and looted bodies, papers covered in scribbles, and feces everywhere. The observant among them saw short glimpses of the human trash, running from buildings and shadows. Suddenly, a sharp scream echoed from a nearby alleyway, shrill and recognizable. "Rachel. You're up. Need help, remember the whistle", said Crombley. Asshole, Rachel mumbled under her breath. She slowly moved to the alleyway, easing her eyes around the corner.

On the crumbled ground, two of them lay, one crying over the other. The lower one, with darker hair, obviously female, showed a bleeding puncture on her arm, her eyes clenched shut, visibly unconscious. A gunshot wound!? Slowly, she raised her assault rifle at them, preparing to fire. If these degenerates learned the use of firearms, they couldn't live to spread the knowledge. Sobs kept coming from the male, and she hesitated. His face was pained, fatally sympathetic for the gunshot victim. She watched, intrigued and disturbed. The male blacked out, eyes still open on the concrete.

Rachel carefully approached the two, checking the others' wound. It was a woman, of only 15-16, and a lump formed in her throat. These people weren't animals, they were the next generation of mankind, and they were people. She felt the wounded woman's pulse, half expecting the ragged, irregular thumping of a degenerated human. Each second, the lub-dub sounded purely. Children! She stepped back, her face morbid.

She held her rifle up in the air, firing several shots, the loud cracks ripping through the air, somehow not disturbing the unconscious and wounded. She then turned, jogging quickly. The agent walked back to the street, dizzied and shocked. "Grassfield!" Crombley barked. "It was just a… dog, sir."