The sun was setting. That is, the orange glow behind the ash is low on the horizon. Rachel rubbed her numb hands, blowing in her palm. She watched the dozen or so sets of feet ahead of her, the black boots stomping in the ash-filled dirt. She was no longer pointman. It wasn't a demotion, no one had punished her. Pvt. Dalton hadn't told his soldier buddies, no one had radioed OpCorps, nothing. It was a self acknowledgment of her failure to protect Crombley. He was carried, a shoulder was lent to him so that he could walk. It was not easy - not because of his weight but more so his pride, which was unflinching and resisted such attempts to help. The sergeant didn't share what happened in that room. He was darkly humorous about it... "What was the first thing when you shot those spics?"
"The recoil of my rifle", Dalton replied. They laughed, enjoying the dark humor. Rachel couldn't care less about Crombley's word choice - societal norms seemed pointless here. Most of the company laughed. All of the company was white. She tried to understand the mannerisms of soldier men, and knew it was at heart a denial of guilt.
Her intense thought was comforting, to be separate from the grim and gruesome surroundings. In a way, Pvt. Grassfield always wanted to see Manhattan, the famous, beautiful city, glorious and dangerous, and wider than life. The thing it was now, though, was something so grotesque and awful it had cost her her soul.
The pointman raised his hand, in a stop signal. The company knelt, pulling their rifles to their hands. A few sets of eyes glowed at them from the darkness, ahead of hunched, aloof figures. The pointman made a movement, a grabbing hand gesture that goes down the face. Ventilators.
Dociles. Rachel heard about them, degenerates of a type. They had been hurt, some form of radiation. They weren't hostile like the degenerates that attacked Crombley, but were like dull puppets, they just wandered, following some unknown incentive. It was a superstition among the soldiers, that this condition could be caught.
Either way, Rachel pulled the gas mask from one of the many large bags that hung off of her gas mask. There was a panic ahead. Rachel stared and listened. "What the fuck happened to this mask?!"
"I'm sorry sir, its not..."
"I don't give an ass, fix it!" Their volumes escalated. "Shh!", Rachel whispered. They had been caught up in the masks, and forgot the actual danger. The dociles stayed as silent as ever. She clicked the seal button on the mask, which began pumping the fresh air. The filter was dirty, the air tasted of sand and ash. The alley was closed in, the dociles blocking their path. The hesitation and suspense in the air hung as heavy as the ash did. "Fuck it." The sergeant made the hand motion, and the rifles came to life, cracking and spitting lead. The embers of the dociles' eyes burned hot and then were extinguished as the metal tore through the air. They ceased, aiming their rifles cautiously. The pointman gestured for them to stand. "At ease", Crombley said, authoritative and leading despite his circumstances. They proceeded. The Rehabilitators flipped over the clammy bodies, investigating them. Rachel looked away. There was things here she didn't want to take home.
Chapter 9: Of Mice and Tom Hanks
Lead wandered. What else to do, but walk? Hunger, and walk. Ache ache ache, left right left. His rifle lay useless in his hands, his feet stepped unsure and careless. The old dog wanders off to die, how was he any different? How was he any different then the old, world weary dog with nothing to gain or lose? He stepped over the ash and under the rebar but he went nowhere, he just walked. He was not lost. How could he? How can you be lost when you have nowhere to go? He was not lost in the physical sense, but in the mental. She was gone. Truly, truly truly gone. Even the best laid plans of mice and men go astray.
He had traveled for miles. Cafes, coffee shops, bookstores, pawn joints, McDonald's... He recognized buildings as he walked, if only subconsciously. "I just felt like running..." He thought, thinking of Forrest... Forrest... Oh god. "I'm forgetting myself again". He stopped with that thought, sturdying himself again. Forrest Gump, was the name of the movie. Starring Tom Hanks. An inky sadness clogged him. Is he okay? Who is okay?
Where is my family?! What about my friends, my coach, my mom, my sisters, Uncle...
Where is Tom Hanks? I want Tom Hanks. I want my life back.
He had traveled for miles. Cafes, coffee shops, bookstores, pawn joints, McDonald's... He recognized buildings as he walked, if only subconsciously. "I just felt like running..." He thought, thinking of Forrest... Forrest... Oh god. "I'm forgetting myself again". He stopped with that thought, sturdying himself again. Forrest Gump, was the name of the movie. Starring Tom Hanks. An inky sadness clogged him. Is he okay? Who is okay?
Where is my family?! What about my friends, my coach, my mom, my sisters, Uncle...
Where is Tom Hanks? I want Tom Hanks. I want my life back.
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.
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.
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