Some things never change, I thought as I hoisted my first drink in salute to Gunny.
Outpost
Anthony Izzo
“That ship is going to be crawling with uglies,” Sergeant Tim Mills said as his squad rolled out from Outpost Zulu One Three. He reflected that he didn’t like the outpost. They were near the Canadian border, somewhere near what used to be called North Dakota. It was cold as hell and there wasn’t a decent bar within five miles of the place.
The armored personnel carrier juked and bumped as they rolled along. He would’ve preferred an airdrop, but Zulu One Three was short on aircraft, so they were humping it in this tin can.
“Who are we going after again?” Whitey said, running a hand through his blond hair. Whitey had a portrait of his kid on his forearm. The uglies had gotten his kid when the invasion started. He didn’t talk about it. Poor bastard had to shoot his own son when he was reanimated.
Mills said, “Paige Hamilton, resistance fighter. She’s won some major battles. Stopped them from overrunning the capitol. Command wants her found. She was on that supply ship.”
The supply ship USS Valkyrie had lost contact with command three days ago. Mills and his squad had been ordered to bring back Hamilton and any survivors.
Bronson, driving the APC, said, “We have a visual, Sarge.”
“I want to have a look for myself,” he said.
Mills stepped onto a platform, opened the top hatch and flipped his goggles down. He liked them a lot; they gave him night vision as well as picking up thermal images. Damned things could practically see through walls.
The display on the goggles told him the ship was a half-mile out. It was one of the big Detroit-class cruisers, and had come to rest in some fields. Smoke rose in multiple places from is gray-black hull.
They’d sent Hamilton to some outpost in the galaxy as a consultant. Mills couldn’t figure out why; she’d been kicking ass back here on Earth, from what he’d heard. Now she was likely dead and they were going to be bringing back a body.
He popped back into the APC. “Let’s light it up,” Mills said, and looked around at this squad, or what was left of it. United States Counter Invasion Squadron. Eight guys left after the last operation. One of a dozen teams of elite warriors that Command regularly dispatched to handle situations like this.
They’d been given a DREAD gun and Command had promised them the possibility of support in the form of some hypersonic cruise missiles that could be fired from somewhere around Los Angeles. Maybe a drone strike. And they had Arnie, a six-foot-five, three-hundred-and-thirty pound robotic killing machine that would make the first entry into the Valkyrie.
The squad locked and loaded. Mills watched O’Brien stroke his weapon. “You gonna buy that thing dinner first, at least, O’Brien?”
“She hasn’t let me down yet, Sarge,” he said with a grin.
Whitey said, “You might as well be using a crossbow instead of that fucking relic.”
O’Brien frowned. Dude had the bushiest eyebrows Mills had ever seen. He was also the darkest Irishmen Mills had ever laid eyes on.
“The AK-47 has been used by soldiers for a hundred years,” O’Brien said.
“Yeah. Just like your mother,” Whitey retorted.
The APC jarred to a halt.
“Cool it, you shitheads,” Mills said. “Move out.”
As the rear ramp opened, Mills’ heartbeat sped up. He felt a little like puking, just as he did before every mission. The squad deployed, passing Arnie, who stood statue-like near the ramp waiting for Mills to activate him. Someone had told Mills the guy who invented the technology named Arnie after some killer robot in an old movie. He didn’t care what it was named, as long as the machine did its job, which was killing the slimy fucks that had taken over half the country.
The frozen ground crunched under Mills’ feet. The air stank of burning metal as they stood in the shadow of the freighter.
“Everyone’s AC operational?” Mills asked.
“Check,” came the group’s response.
Adaptive Camo was a wonderful idea in theory. Bent the light around the soldier so you became almost invisible. Problem was, it didn’t always work with their enemy, and the reanimations saw through it every time.
Mills un-shouldered his pack and took out the control pad for Arnie. He punched in some commands and the shiny beast came down the ramp and stood next to Mills. Arnie had twin cannons mounted high on his shoulders and could also launch grenades. Mills would see through the robot’s eyes on his own display.
He punched in instructions: Find an entry point. Locate survivors. Dispatch enemies. Arnie would take it from there.
The sentry found a breach in the side of the ship and entered a cargo hold. Smoke hung in the air, making the display hazy.
“How’s it look, Sarge?” Whitey said.
“Can’t see shit so far.”
Arnie moved through a series of cargo bays, where containers had been tossed like a child’s blocks. He exited the cargo bays and moved through a connection of corridors.
“See anything yet?” O’Brien said into his comm.
“Nothing yet—”
Movement at the end of a corridor, coming towards Arnie. Shit. A reanimation. On the display, the crewmember jerked and twitched, indicative of the parasite that was controlling its movements. The parasite’s spindly limbs jutted out from its host’s rib cage.
Like a meat puppet.
The sentry targeted the crewmember. The canon flashed white and the reanimated man exploded in a haze of gore. The parasite squealed and tried to rip away from its host, but Arnie blasted the multi-legged creature, spattering whitish fluid on the walls.
“Nothing wrong with his aim,” Mills said.
The sentry moved through the ship. From the intel Mills had received, he knew the crew’s quarters were on Deck Four.
Arnie worked his way to Deck Two, blasting two more of the crewmembers that were no more than walking dead.
“How did the uglies get on the ship?” O’Brien asked, moving on silent feet.
“Beats the shit of me,” Mills said, his gaze flicking between Arnie and the display.
“Why send us to this outpost, Sarge? It’s in the middle of nowhere,” O’Brien said, checking a portal before moving past.
“Well, the ship crashed here, for one. Plus there’s rumor of a joint Canadian and American offensive. American and Canadian forces push from the north. The Marines and First Army push up from Texas — take back the Plains and the Midwest. They intend to use Zulu as a staging area for the Canadian and the American divisions.”
Arnie moved into a large hangar. On the display, Mills saw something big move. Huge and black, it dwarfed the sentry. Arnie targeted it. Two large pincers appeared as Arnie opened up with both cannons. The pincer swiped at the sentry and Mills’ display went black.
“Holy shit,” Mills said, flipping up his goggles. “Cover, take cover.”
In seconds the men were hunkered down, weapons trained forward into the murk.
“Sarge?” Whitey said.
“Something just cut Arnie in half,” Mills said. “Something big. We’re going in. Eyes on and keep cool.”
This would require going in the old-fashioned way, which meant close combat inside a burning, dank ship. “Listen up. JT, Stetson. Get that DREAD gun set up. Anything comes out of there that ain’t us, shred it. The rest of you, follow me. Hamilton’s bunk was on level four.”
They followed him to the door where Arnie had entered. Mills stared into the blackness of the ship, which looked darker than the deepest space.
“Night vision go,” Mills said, flipping his goggles down. “Whitey, take point.”