Chapter 8: Degeneration

"Spread out and search." Crombley gestured into the doorway. It used to be a hotel, Rachel noticed. She and Pvt. Dalton advanced through the dirty lobby and into the hallway, brushing aside curls of wallpaper that were hanging off the destroyed walls. The place was silent, save Dalton's breathing. "Calm down", she commanded, in a hushed tone. The others came in from behind, anticipation obvious in their movements.
A shuffling sound piqued her curiosity from across a rotted door, a small little nudge, a flashing strike in the muffled darkness that remained in the carcass of the inn. She had just begun to relax, but now she was active, her muscles tensed and prepared. The door was cracked open, and she knelt, holding her face away from the opening while she prepared to enter. It was a common knowledge of the Rehabilitators to never peek, lest a hot blade or stinging needle meet your gaze. Instead, she aimed the barrel of the M-4 into the room, gently and procedurally opening it, standing slowly as she moved. With a hardened poise she scanned the suite. Lice ridden beds, shattered and green-stained windows... A grey corpse lay strewn against the bathroom door, with dissolved skin and exposed, rotten flesh, glowed dully in the red sunlight. Another victim of radiation poisoning. Fortunately, Pvt. Grassfield nor her squad showed any suffering of radiation - diarrhea, vomiting, loss of hair... Dalton came in from behind, his face going pale at the sight of the carrion, before stuttering a few words. "Fatal radiation sickness...", repeating Rachel's previous guess. "My Geiger is silent", he added. "We're fine." Then, a noise echoed through the shelled rooms... A piercing yell, almost too high for the ear to hear. A whistle. "Rachel!", Dalton yelled. They began to sprint. Rachel made it first, dashing into the room, gun poised. Two... People? No, not people. Degenerates. But she was unsure. She was lost in confusion... They were bringing red crowbars unto Crombley, his arms crumpling under every blow, defenseless and sprawled out on the floor. Two bursts of fire ripped through the room, tearing holes in Crombley's attackers' chests. The private rushed in behind her, his face a medley of fear, anger, confusion, and ultimately, disgust. If this were a old war, she would be shot. Dalton moved quickly to Crombley, the two talking incoherently. She knelt by the two degenerates... One looked around 30 or so, a very long age for a degenerate, especially. His Latino skin was covered and dirt and stained in fresh blood. His eyes were soulless. She eased herself. Those were the white, milky eyes of a monster, not a person. The other was a young man, around in his twenties, obviously a native New Yorker. She frowned. Fuck this. Fuck all of this, these bombs, this wreckage. Here he was, one of those guys in the bar at 10:00 on a Saturday, yelling with his buddies and playing pool... Here he was, a disfigured animal lying in a puddle of his own damned blood.She stood, bile rising in her throat. Dalton walked with Crombley, his leg obviously broken. He didn't look angry. In fact, she doubted he had noticed her indifference. The private did, and he gave her a look as he strode, it said "you should be shot". Well, this, my friend, is not an old war.