GK Fic: Static (Part 1/4)

Sep 24, 2010 08:06

I'm so happy I could die (and then come back to life and eat some brains). I know it's uncouth to admit these kind of things, but I love this story in a big way.

Title: Static
Author: nightanddaze
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Brad/Nate, mentions of others
Word Count: 36137
Summary: It starts on the first day of a war with broken radios
Warnings: violence, death
Notes: Beta by snglesrvngfrend. A few extra notes at the end.



The radios aren’t working properly. This in itself isn’t so noteworthy, since the radios are shitty every day, but today they’re especially bad, popping and crackling like the world’s worst hot mike. Not a single word has come through all day. It’s driving everyone crazy. Nate’s had to stop Jacks and Chaffin from starting a radio-themed bonfire.

Ray’s the only one not threatening to destroy his radio. Instead he’s slouched in the driver’s seat of Brad’s Humvee, crooning and caressing the radio like a lover’s touch might revive the signal.

It’s oddly fascinating to see, if a little disturbing.

“Ah, the love between a boy and his electronic device. It’s sacred, and kind of touching.”

Nate looks at Brad from under his Kevlar, blinking incredulously. Then he looks back to Ray, who’s got one of the cable tips in his mouth and his fingers on the dials.

“I don’t know,” Nate says. “I think maybe someone should put a stop to that before he electrocutes himself.”

Brad shrugs and shifts, leaning back further against Poke’s Humvee. “He hasn’t done it yet. Besides, you know that if anyone can fix the radios, it’s our dear Corporal Person.”

Ray plugs the cable back in and jiggles it, clearly saying C’mon, baby, c’mon. He doesn’t seem to get any love though, because the radio gets a slap and some vicious cord-shaking.

“Ray!” Brad calls across the sand. “Hurry the fuck up so we can get out of here!”

Ray just waves his free hand, not looking away from what he’s doing.

That’s apparently enough for Brad. He rubs his fingers over his stubble and resettles his rifle strap before rapping his knuckles against the Humvee hood between them as a farewell and setting off in the direction of the men clustered around the truck.

Nate watches him walk away, scuffing across the sand in a straight line. The sun’s high in the sky, blazing so bright it’s hard to see him go.

*

They can’t move, not with the comms down and no word from Godfather. Nate’s not sure what to tell the men, but that problem’s easily solved: after an hour or so of fiddling with their radios and shooting questions at the TLs and Nate, they get bored and start amusing themselves, no interference necessary.

Nate has to give them credit. The invasion’s barely started and going by the well-organized chart drawn in the sand for their impromptu wrestling tournament, they’re not really going to need Nate after all.

He doubts he’s invited, so he hangs back, watching Q-Tip size up Rudy while most everyone else jeers them on and Reporter takes quick notes. The only people not yelling are Brad and Mike, but they’re both still in the thick of it, grinning openly.

Q-Tip goes for it, lunging at Rudy’s bare chest. He barely gets his arms around Rudy before Rudy tips them both backward. They slam into the sand so hard it must burn. Q-Tip howls like it certainly does, and Rudy grins while he grinds him down into it.

“Rudy, you’re a sadistic fuck, you know that?” Poke hollers. “How hard are you now, dog?”

“Fuck his ass up, brah!” Lilley says.

“And then just fuck it!” Jacks chimes in. Everyone laughs and hoots while Q-Tip struggles harder.

Quick, solid footsteps sound behind Nate’s shoulder, just as Walt and Gabe look up and start frantically trying to shush the rest of the group.

“What the hell is you boys doing?” Sixta bellows as he comes abreast of Nate.

Everyone stops. They don’t move, and they don’t make noise, like Sixta will ignore them if they’re quiet and still. Rudy’s still got Q-Tip in a headlock.

“What I am seeing right here is a fucking de-sgrace! Git yerselves up and back into yer suits, boys, before I bring the shit down on you!” Sixta glares at them all, his sour little mouth turned down.

Rudy drops Q-Tip then, and Q-Tip flops onto the ground like a fish, still playing dead. Nate can see Brad, in between Walt and Poke, smiling, not with his mouth but his eyes and he has to nip the inside of his cheek to keep any reaction down. He’d like to avoid inciting Sixta’s wrath on the men as much as possible.

Luckily, Sixta doesn’t have anything else beside his hard look as the men right themselves. While they’re clapping Rudy on the back and erasing the tournament roster, Sixta turns to Nate.

“Lieutenant, Godfather wants to see you.”

Nate nods. “Right.”

Things are quiet until they’re about a hundred feet away. Then someone whoops and another body hits the sand. Nate squints hard so his smile doesn’t break out.

*

When Nate gets to where command’s set up, Patterson, McGraw, Schwetje and the officers from Charlie Company are already there. Major Eckloff is off to the right, fiddling with Godfather’s radio.

“Lieutenant Fick,” Godfather says, nodding when Nate joins them, “are your radios functional?”

“No, sir.” Nate looks to Bryan and Dave. They shake their heads.

“That means that there’s not a radio in the entire battalion working. We might as well just have disappeared off the grid.” Godfather raises a hand like he might touch his jaw, but instead he shields his eyes and looks out across the desert. Whatever he’s thinking, he’s hiding it well.

“Sir,” the first thread of worry twists around the word when Dave says it. “Is it at all possible that something local is interfering with the radios?”

“It’s unlikely, but anything’s possible, out here.” Godfather finally looks back to them. He pauses over each of their faces and then looks over his shoulder to his radio. “What is clear though is the fact that whatever’s causing this, it’s not us. Unfortunately, this situation ties our hands. We can’t push forward to Nasiriyah with a silent battalion. We’d be too vulnerable. So for the time being we’re stuck right where we are, hoping this thing is just a glitch.”

Godfather looks their faces over again, and then he says, “I’m no more pleased about than you are. But we’ll have to do the best we can until we can get back into the game. Be vigilant tonight, gentlemen.” He nods at them once, and turns to the radio.

“Strangest damn thing,” Bryan says as they duck out under the cammie net. He salutes the Charlie officers as they break off from the group.

Nate nods, trying to think back to when exactly they lost the radios, what the weather was like, where they drove.

“You don’t think those Haji motherfucks are messing with us, do you?” Dave stage-whispers, peering around anxiously.

“Dave,” Nate says. “Most of the time the Iraqis can barely defend themselves. They couldn’t have organized something like this.”

Dave nods, but his eyes don’t stop tracing over distant berms as they walk. Over the top of Dave’s helmet Bryan rolls his eyes at Nate, who shakes his head, smiling wryly.

*

Ray’s back in the Humvee, but he’s not working. He’s moved on to glaring at the radio, arms folded across his chest.

“Sulking,” Brad says, loud enough for Ray to hear, sauntering up to stand at Nate’s shoulder.

“I thought the bond between man and machine was sacred.”

Still scowling at the radio, Ray says, “Not if the machine is a dry twat that doesn’t put out.”

Nate leans in on the open window to catch a look. The cables are all over the place, plugged in wherever they fit, and the radio casing has a small but definitely new dent on the side.

“Nothing?” he asks.

“Not a fucking thing,” Ray grunts. He flicks the nearest cable spitefully. “It’s not even spitting out static anymore.”

“You were pretty mean to her, Ray,” Brad says lightly. “Ladies don’t like to be treated that way.”

Ray rolls his eyes at Brad. “Ladies should know enough to work during very important invasions and not cockblock warriors who are trying to do their jobs.”

Brad snorts and Nate laughs, straightening back up. “Don’t worry about it, Ray.” He turns to Brad. “Get the rest of the TLs over here for a quick meeting.”

Brad nods, going back from where he came and Nate turns, leaning against the hood of the Humvee. The sun’s just starting to drop down, inching towards the brown cradle of the horizon, sending light glimmering across the sand.

It doesn’t take long for Brad to come back with Poke, Pappy, and Lovell, Mike following just behind. They’re joking around, nudging each other’s shoulders, already pulling off their Kevlars.

“What’s the word, LT?” Pappy asks, propping his elbows on the hood next to Nate while everyone else assumes their positions around the Humvee. Ray watches them through the windshield, fingers surfing across the radio again.

“The good news,” Nate says, “is the thing with the radios isn’t our fault. It’s all across the division.”

“Told you we weren’t that fucking dumb,” Lovell says to Poke.

“For once,” Poke shoots back, smiling wryly.

Nate holds up his hand. “It’s not all good news. The bad news is that we’re stuck here until the glitch passes or we fix it ourselves.”

“Workin’ on it,” Ray calls from inside the Humvee, shaking a fist full of cables in their direction.

“How long do you think it’ll be?” Pappy asks.

Nate shakes his head. “I don’t know, but hopefully not very long. Godfather needs us at the front of the invasion.”

Brad’s been watching Ray, but he turns to Nate then. “What do we do in the meantime?”

“Enjoy your time off, gents. You’ve earned it.” Everyone chuckles lightly, rolling their eyes and shifting in their suits. “But be vigilant. With radio contact gone we’ll have to do foot patrols to keep our perimeters and communication up. Division HQ’s to the South, Alpha’s in the West, Charlie the East, and Bravo Three’s between us and Alpha. We’re far enough from Nasiriyah that we’re probably safe, but I want fifty-percent watch anyway. Got it?”

There’s a chorus of “Aye aye, sir,” before they all straighten up. Brad crooks his finger at Ray, who finally abandons the radio to follow Brad and the TLs, griping about the radio like he never stopped.

Finally, it’s just him and Mike at the Humvee, watching the sun go down in silence.

*

Nate doesn’t sleep well that night. Instead of sleeping when it’s his turn, he just lies there, hung up on lost anticipation, listening to Christeson moan to Stafford about not getting to fuck anything up at all.

“Six weeks, man,” Christeson says, quietly. “Six fucking weeks at Mathilda, and we get fucked on our second day out in Iraq by our radios.”

“Fucking sucks,” Stafford says.

They talk for a little bit longer, alternating bitching and sex stories, and Nate listens to them until he starts to drift. Finally their voices quiet down and fade as they move off to touch base with Bravo Three.

Nate starts to wake up a little then, disturbed by the loss of white noise, but he manages to hold onto it by thinking, Six weeks, fucking sucks over and over until he stays down in sleep.

He’s out for almost four hours, but it’s full of strange dreams, training exercises going wrong or absurd, people dying and coming back to life with the magic of fairy dust, no time to mourn them.

Nate twitches awake hard when Christeson nudges him, instantly alert.

“Sorry, sir,” Christeson murmurs. “It’s your watch, is all.”

“It’s fine,” Nate replies, pushing his poncho down, stretching his toes in his boots. “What time is it?”

“O’dark-thirty, sir.”

Nate looks around. It’s dark and quiet, bodies sitting or leaning or laid down in sleep, strangely peaceful all around.

“Right.” Nate takes the hand Christeson offers up. “Go catch a few hours.”

“Yes, sir.” Christeson turns dutifully.

Yawning, Nate climbs into the truck and digs in the dark for an MRE. He sips water and eats crackers and jelly, one boot swinging in the empty air.

Just before dawn a couple of grunts from Charlie wander by.

“Sir?” one of them calls.

“All clear,” Nate calls back. They saunter away, back towards the east and the cresting sun.

Nate sits there for a little longer, thinking about the drills he could put the men through today, how long it might take before someone fixes the radios, whether or not Reporter’s counting their misfortune as a win for liberalism.

He’s just about to get out of the truck and go see who else is awake when the radio snap-crackle-pops. Nate grabs the handset, ready to respond, only nothing but static shivers through.

He tries away. “Say again. Say again.” Nothing. Finally he just barks, “Hello? Can anyone hear me?”

The static cuts out, leaving heavy silence in its place.

“Fuck,” Nate mutters, wiggling cables, listening hard, but it’s in vain. The line’s dead again.

*

Nate asks around, but no one who heard the radio got anything from it beside the one burst of static.

“Maybe they’re fixin’ it and that was a test?” Walt suggests, shrugging.

“Could be,” Nate says, shifting his rifle.

Ray’s back in the Humvee, giving the radio another shot. He seems quietly furious, like the static was a clue he should have caught and acted upon. No cord stays in the same position for more than a few seconds.

“Stop raping the radio, Ray,” Walt finally says, after Ray violently exchanges the places of a black cord and red one.

He does, but it’s with clear reluctance and a muttered curse.

“Rudy’s running some PT,” Nate offers. “Go do some drills. The radio’s not going anywhere.”

“Yeah, come on, Ray.”

Ray clearly hovers on the edge of saying no, mouth set and eyes hard, but then he looks up at Walt waiting and Nate, who hikes his thumb over his shoulder and he slides out of the Humvee.

“Fine,” he says. “But I won’t enjoy it.”

“It’s all I ask,” Nate says, smiling.

*

Nate joins the men when they go on their run. Everyone wears their masks and runs as hard as they can, itching for action. Except for Nate, they cycle around the pack, taking turns being at the front and the back, nudging each other like dogs. Nate stays in the middle, letting his men swarm around him, imagining their faces behind their masks, their big grins and their insults. No one says anything, but Nate can hear them breathing.

Brad doesn’t run, and neither does Reporter. As the pack run by Nate can see them standing in front of the raised hood of a Humvee, looking down at the exposed insides. Reporter takes notes while Brad touches things, probably explaining all the time and money he and the others have poured into getting this invasion off the ground, just to have it halted by some asshole who tripped on a wire in some building somewhere.

Inside his mask, Nate smiles, picturing the look on Brad’s face and Reporter trying to capture it in his short-form scratch.

They run until Rudy’s had enough, and then even though their faces are sweaty they start doing jumping jacks when Rudy does, their voices suddenly buzzing through the air. Nate doesn’t join them in that. He watches Ray try to coordinate himself to high-five Walt when they jump and Lilley and Poke pretend to jump, mostly talking instead.

Mike materializes at his side. “Hey, LT.”

“Gunny Wynn.”

Mike looks where Nate is looking. Jacks is mocking Trombley’s form and Trombley’s face is sour because of it. “The boys are well?”

“Well enough,” Nate says.

“Someone needs to go touch base with Bravo Three,” Mike says. “You want to go with?”

The men are all huddled up now, listening to Rudy, and in another few seconds they’ll probably go their own ways, so Nate says yes.

*

Dave’s never really known much of anything, but he’s also never known of his own lack in that department, which was a blessing, as it turns out.

It’s noon and he’s looking for ghosts when Nate and Mike get there. He accosts them when he sees them, wanting to know what’s wrong.

“Everything’s fine on our end, Dave,” Nate says, calling up his patience. “How is it here?”

Everyone except Dave is standing or sitting around, clearly not bothered by anything other than their scaredy cat of a Captain. The word fine describes the situation well enough.

“Okay,” Dave says, “for now.”

“Something makes you think that it won’t last?”

Dave’s broad face crinkles up. “It’s just…wrong without radios. Something is not right.”

Nate means to hold in his of course, but it comes out anyway. He’s lucky though, since it comes out soothingly instead of sarcastically.

Dave nods, duly soothed and beside Nate, Mike’s mouth twitches.

“He is something else,” he says as they start back to Bravo.

“I’ll say,” Nate agrees, glad to be away from Dave’s excessive, unnecessary fear. He doesn’t know how it hasn’t poisoned his platoon.

*

Nate is pissing when it happens. He’s concentrating, back to the base, face tilted up to the sky, eyes closed. He’s thinking about rivers, oceans, his old girlfriend leaving the tap on so he couldn’t hear her.

He’s halfway done when he hears Walt break through the rushing wall of water, yelling, “LT! LT! Come quick!”

Nate’s stream of urine stops at the same time Walt does, just behind Nate’s shoulder. Nate tucks himself away and starts reassembling his suit while Walt sucks in a breath.

“LT,” he says urgently, “you gotta come. Someone’s on the radio.”

“Shit,” Nate hisses. He slaps his vest together and gets his rifle, as fast as he can. Walt’s already going when he turns around.

Ray’s in the Humvee when Nate gets there, most of the men standing in a circle around it, eyes staring through the windshield. Ray’s got the handset up to his mouth and his eyes looking out as Nate crests the circle. When he sees Nate he says, “He’s here. He’s coming,” into the handset.

He’s almost whispering it, but everything’s so quiet that it’s loud and clear. Nate’s heart starts to thump faster as he reaches in the window for the handset and he’s very careful with it, although he knows he doesn’t need to be.

“Hitman Two Actual,” he says. He sounds more confident than he is. It feels like the whole platoon is straining to hear him.

Static crackles down the line and then a thick, urgent voice says, “Fox Company? Can you hear me?”

“Copy,” Nate says, “But this is Bravo Company. Bravo.”

More crumpling down the line. “-what’s going on?”

“No. Do you-”

“We need help,” the voice pleads. “There’s-people are hurt.” And then there’s so much fizzing and popping Nate’s sure he’s lost it. But the line clears and the voice’s “This is fucking madness!” is loud enough that everyone hears it.

It feels like everyone takes a breath, Nate included, and in the space of that one inhalation the radio kicks up one burst of static before it cuts out entirely. The silence is stunning.

“Are any of you familiar with a Fox Company?” Nate barks, turning to face the crowd. He scans their faces quickly, but they’re all blank, heads shaking.

“Alright.” He thrusts his hand back into the Humvee, letting Ray taking the handset. “Ray, try and do something about this-”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“-I’m going to Battalion headquarters. Brad, teams of two to Bravo Three, Alpha and Charlie. See if they’ve got anything.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad says crisply. He’s the only one who doesn’t look at least a little freaked out.

Nate watches everyone start to move, talking amongst themselves. Walt gets into the Humvee to help Ray with the radio, Brad and Poke start calling the shots. Nate shoulders his rifle and starts walking.

*

Godfather makes him tell the whole story twice, and when Nate’s done the second time he looks over Nate’s shoulder, his mouth buckled down tight.

“Fox Company?” he asks finally.

“Fox Company.”

Godfather shakes his head. “I’m not familiar with them, and even if I were, there is no way of assisting them.”

Nate nods tightly.

Godfather looks at him, pale and sharp. “Sit tight, Lieutenant Fick. We have no other options.”

“Yes, sir,” Nate says, feeling ill.

*

Ray’s got four cable tips in his mouth when Nate gets back, and Walt’s working the dials methodically. Brad’s leaning against the back door, one ear cocked to listen for the radio and his eyes watching Nate.

“Nothing?” Brad prompts.

“Godfather didn’t hear anything, and he doesn’t know anything.”

Brad blinks slowly, but starts reporting, “Alpha and Charlie didn’t get anything and they have nothing to contribute to the mystery that is Fox Company. Bravo Three got bits and pieces of both you and the other guy talking, but couldn’t get on the radio to respond. Captain McGraw thinks that there might be a Fox Company stationed in the south, but he could not confirm.”

“So,” Nate says, considering, “it looks like we get the best reception out here, even though it still leaves something to be desired.”

“I’m glad we succeed at something,” Brad says.

There’s a muffled, “About damn time,” from the Humvee and Nate shakes his head to keep his smile down.

Brad doesn’t bother hiding his smile. Nate’s the only one who can see it.

“Wait!” Ray yells. “Wait wait wait! Fuckin’ wait!”

“What?” Walt says.

“Go back,” Ray tells him. “Little more, slowly, yeah. There.”

Nate listens, staring at Brad’s shoulder. Faintly, he can hear a thin female voice saying, “We are experiencing technical difficulties, please stand by.” The voice has a British accent.

“Is that-” he starts.

“The BBC,” Brad finishes quietly.

“Even the motherfucking BBC isn’t working,” Ray says. “Well, fuck me.” He leans out the window, looking back at Brad and Nate. He’s wearing his Elvis sunglasses. “The goddamn motherfucking BBC is not working, gentlemen. So much for the British Empire.”

Nate doesn’t say Shit but he thinks it. The MRE he ate earlier feels like a rock in his stomach and his face in the reflection of Ray’s glasses looks pale.

“There is no British Empire anymore, Ray,” Brad snaps. “And take those damn glasses off.”

*

Nate tells Godfather about the BBC, and his face is like a stone. He doesn’t even bother offering a platitude, just dismisses Nate by turning away. Eckloff waves him off.

It’s a long walk back to Bravo and Nate takes it slowly. He drifts along for a while, brushing the edge of Alpha’s camp, lifting his hand in greeting to anyone he sees, but not stopping. He’s tired of bearing bad news.

Everyone’s eating when he gets back, hunkered down in little clumps, just like normal. Mike tosses him an MRE as he climbs into the truck, and he listens to Stafford and Christeson rap back and forth, trading verses of “Rapper’s Delight.”

Later, Nate wanders around, occasionally dropping into conversation when provoked, but mostly just watching. Eventually Brad catches up to him, coming out of nowhere, his steps already in time with Nate’s.

Nate half-expects a report of some kind, but Brad offers none. Instead they move through the camp silently and then circle it. Finally they stop at the bottom of a berm at the very most northern point of camp.

“Might be the closest we get to Nasiriyah,” Brad mutters, staring out into the sand. Nate can see his fingers on his rifle, his nails bright against the dark metal.

“Sorry,” Nate says.

Brad shrugs. “We’ll figure this shit out sometime.”

“Or die trying.”

“The Marine’s guide to life.”

The wind picks up, blowing against their backs, stirring up the sand, pushing north. It’s twilight by the time they start walking back.

*

The radio fizzles a little as Nate fixes the side of his grave, he thinks. It could be the wind though, and all’s quiet by the time he closes his eyes.

*

Nate wakes up because Christeson’s shaking him.

“Sir, sir,” Christeson whispers, his fingers tight on Nate’s shoulder.

Nate opens his eyes at the same time someone screams. The sound is thick and horrible, scratching, squeezing out of someplace terrible.

“Sir,” Christeson says desperately.

Nate struggles to sit up, dirt crumbling down into his lap. Hot terror spikes through his guts and his first waking breath crushes in his throat. “What the fuck,” he swallows hard, “is that?”

Christeson’s eyes are bright in the dark, standing out from his pale face. He looks bony and unreal when he says, “It’s the radio.”

“What?” Nate scrambles out of his grave, pulling his rifle with him. About half the platoon is gathered near the truck, alert and waiting on him.

The radio crackles, going, Sshhh, before another scream slurs out, coughing, “Oh, God, oh, fuck! Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!”

There’s another noise, a loud rough growl that intercepts the last Jesus and rips it down to a bubbling moan. After that there’s grunting and slick sounds that might be chewing, growing quieter and quieter.

“Holy fuck,” Chaffin breathes, like whatever monster that was will hear him.

For a second time is frozen, Nate looking at the men and them looking back. Everyone has the same look of horror on their face.

“Help us!” rails through the radio. “Fucking help us!”

It sounds like Dave.

Nate jerks back to himself and adrenaline floods his body. He feels hot and cold, but his voice is steady when he speaks into the handset. He doesn’t remember walking to the truck.

“This is Hitman Two Actual,” he says, but the line is flat beneath his words. “Again,” he says, “This is Hitman Two Actual.”

The radio’s not picking him up, only relaying back the sounds of chaos, someone running and crying, harsh animal noises catching up.

Nate says, “Hitman Two Actual,” one more time, even though he knows it’s no use. They stand there in silence, listening to the sounds of someone who may or may not be Captain Dave McGraw meeting his death. He screams until his throat is ripped out.

*

The other half of the platoon is at Brad’s Humvee, listening to the same thing Nate just walked away from. Nate can hear Trombley going, “Shit,” over and over again.

Brad clears his throat hard when he catches sight of Nate. “Shut up, Trombley.”

Trombley does, but his mouth trembles with holding the word in.

Nate holds up a hand. It’s okay. Shit’s about right.

Using the same hand he points as he talks. “Colbert, Person, Hasser and Trombley, you’re with me. Reporter, you stay here. Poke, you watch Reporter. Get to the truck and stay there. Go.”

They do, Poke and Garza flanking Reporter, who looks back until Poke jostles his elbow.

Nate rounds the front of the Humvee. “Brad, you’re in the back with Trombley. Ray, drive southwest.”

*

It’s still dark, although the sun is just starting to drag itself up the horizon behind the Humvee, bare little light fingers holding on. Except for Ray's hands on the steering wheel, everyone is still.

"Watch your sectors," Nate says. He eases the tip of his rifle out the window, pointing it into the dark ahead.

It's not a long ride out to Bravo Three, hardly enough time for Ray to work up the courage to start humming, the sound stilted, caught down in his throat. It's not a song Nate knows. For once, Brad doesn't stop Ray. Nate looks back at Brad instead of looking after his sector, but Brad's focused, peering through the sight on his gun, trying to see whatever it is they're going to find.

On the other side of the seat Trombley's got his SAW out the window and his mouth is still going, Shit, shit, shit, but he's silent, and it's hard to make out the exact expression on his face.

Between them Walt's legs are stiff with tension. His knees are locked and he barely shifts as the Humvee crests a berm.

Ray coughs as the Humvee slides down, music dying inside him, and he squints through his goggles, looking back and forth.

"Bravo Three Humvees in the distance, LT," he reports.

Nate nods. "Slow down a little. We don't want to make any mistakes."

"Aye aye."

They go another few meters, everyone looking hard, and then Walt's fist hits the top of the Humvee. Everyone shifts, and Trombley says, "Shit, Hasser," uneasy sour humor in his voice.

"Can you smell that?" Walt calls down.

Nate leans out the window, breathing out and then in. Nothing but dry dust. His second one has that, but there's something else, a tang that lingers on his tongue, presses down inside him. His third breath is like a mouthful of pennies.

It's blood. The air is soaked through with blood.

Sudden and awful, the smell pours in with every second, every turn of the wheels. Nate squeezes his eyes shut and hefts his rifle higher to keep down his nausea

"Almost," Ray says, "almost there." And then, thinner, softer, "Jesus Christ."

"Sir," Brad says behind Nate's right ear, "should we be driving right into this?"

His voice sounds like it always does.

"I don't know," Nate says. "How good is Person at getaways?"

"Good when I need to be," Ray says.

"Doesn't matter," Nate says. "We're here. Ray, stop." He waits for the Humvee to rock back on its chassis, and then he takes a breath that should be cleansing, but is not. "Ray, you stay here. Be ready to move. Everyone else with me."

They get out of the Humvee in silence, and just stand there, listening. It smells even worse out here, like something that hasn't started to rot, but will soon. Nate looks around, but there's nothing special to see, just lumpy darkness. It's silent, completely and utterly.

"Sir," Brad murmurs as he comes up on Nate's right, halfway between greeting Nate and asking him.

Nate holds up a hand, beckoning them all to the front of the vehicle. He spares a hand from his rifle and gently taps the hood twice for lights.

It takes Ray half a second to turn them on, and then Nate sees something he'll regret forever.

Nate, Walt and Brad are directly in front of the Humvee, and their shadows interrupt the light, but everything else is brightly lit up before them.

Blood. There's so much blood it seems like Bravo Three got washed in it. Nothing looks clean, not even Nate's boots when his eyes fall down to them. The sand underneath them is soaked in patches where someone lay and bled.

There's more than blood, though. Nate makes himself look again and he sees chunks of flesh, bits of bone, hair and what might have been a MOPP suit.

He sucks in the smell of shit-blood-fear and tries not to throw up.

No one moves. They just keep staring at the massacre, seeing little by little. More blood, pink-yellow entrails, a hand, a slumped body in the distance. More bodies.

There's no sound but the wind.

Nate makes himself lift his rifle and take a step, careful not to step on any viscera. Walt, Trombley and Brad step forward too, fanning out as far as the light allows. Trombley starts in on, “Shit, shit, shit,” again, low like a prayer.

They move out of the light and into the dark again, all around the camp, looking for the living. They don’t find any, just more shredded corpses. Nate tries not to see familiar faces, but he does: Eric with his shattered chest and Dave’s missing jaw, all the grunts frozen in death-horror.

His flashlight slides over shiny blood and ripped uniforms as he circles around, periodically checking on the others’ positions. There’s a swath of bloody footprints and drag marks leading away from the camp. Nate starts to follow them, but they lead into the dark, so he doesn’t go far, unwilling to turn his back on the light.

Nate touches the light again at the same time as Walt. He’s pale, staring at Ray through the windshield, his rifle limp against his thigh. He gets into the back of the Humvee and Ray twists around in the seat to talk to him as he gets up on the turret.

Nate waits for Trombley to come back, and Brad behind him. Brad shakes his head as he passes Nate, rubbing his hand over his mouth.

“What’s going on?” Ray asks when Nate gets into the passenger seat.

“Something fucking awful,” Nate says. He doesn’t wait for Ray to start working himself up. “Everyone’s dead, Ray. Drive to Alpha.”

Ray’s stunned silent for a moment, even as his body starts the necessary work to get them out of here. Then he says, “Shouldn’t we go to Battalion?”

Maybe they should. But Nate has an idea what they’re going to find wherever they go, so they might as well be logical.

“LT said Alpha, Ray. Drive,” Brad says from the backseat, his voice heavy with the same idea.

*

Alpha’s about the same as Bravo Three. Battalion and Charlie are worse, if that’s possible. There’s almost nothing recognizable as human in either the south or the east, just waves of blood and human grit smeared over the sand, like some monster with an incredible appetite rose up in the southeast and Battalion and Charlie did nothing to curb it, Alpha and Bravo just touching the tip of the hunger.

They haven’t spoken since Brad found what was left of Godfather, the piece of his left hand with his wedding ring. Brad had stared at it for a long time, clearly contemplating taking the ring off, but in the end he hadn’t and the four of them had turned away, leaderless and silent.

The sun’s up when Ray finally points the Humvee back to Bravo Two. Nate holds his rifle on his lap and stares at the blood on his boots. It’s already starting to dry.

No one comes to meet them. Everyone’s still at the truck, in the back and leaning on the side, picking at MREs and talking shit. It’s not clear who sees them first, but the news spreads like fire and by the time they’re within fifty feet everyone’s lined up beside the truck, gaping at their red boots and hard faces. When they stop in front of everyone, a parallel line, Reporter starts to get out his notebook and pen but Nate stops him with a pointed finger.

"No," he says. "You get nothing from this. Right now this goes nowhere. Understood?"

Wright nods. Nate lets his hand drop. He takes a big breath and focuses on his men.

"It's..." He looks over, at the four profiles to his right. They're looking down at the sand or straight ahead, but not at the rest of the platoon. "Bad is an understatement. Everyone's been wiped out."

A communal, choked What surfaces.

Nate shakes his head, saying, "It's insane, I know. It was brutal. We didn't find anyone alive."

“Or whole,” Ray mutters, digging the toe of his mostly-clean boot into the sand.

Jesus Christ mixes in with Fuck and some other choice words, some louder than others.

"Was it Hajis?" Poke asks.

"Fuckin' duh," Jacks spits, "Who the fuck else?"

Poke stares at him hard for a second, but holds his tongue. "Well, was it?"

"We didn't find any evidence of much of anything beyond a massacre." Nate feels cold all of a sudden, even though the sun's up, shining hot on his shoulders. He realizes he has nothing to say. He's still thinking about pools of blood and scattered teeth looking like pearls.

"What the fuck are we gonna do about this?" Chaffin asks. His fingers mimic the curve of holding his gun.

Nate shifts, wrestling with his honesty. "I don't know. I don't know what to tell you right now. Give me some time."

Nate's never seen people laid out like that, all the separate pieces, puzzles all mixed up with each other. He looks at his men looking back at him, waiting on his decision.

"Give me some time," he says again, shivering inside his suit under the sun and the staring.

*

They all stick together without being told to, which is good because Nate doesn’t feel like talking to them. He walks a little bit north and crouches ass to ankles on the top of a berm, pouring water over the tops of his boots, watching the bloody runoff trickle down, trying to think about what he should do to save them all.

The sun feels good on his face. No one disturbs him.

*

Nate doesn’t find the answer. It finds him, growling and bloody, dragging itself toward him, grasping hands outstretched.

“Shit,” Nate says when the mirage crystallizes into the mangled shape of a man. He pushes off the sand into a standing position, shielding his eyes with one hand to see better. The figure lurches forward, stumbling, crashing to its knees, clawing at the air to bring itself back up.

“Hello,” Nate calls. He should move, get down there and help, but his knees are stiff and his spine is like a board. He doesn’t go anywhere, but yells, “Hello,” again because he has to do something.

The figure’s head jerks to the left, like he’s cracking his neck and then bobs drunkenly back, focusing on Nate. The slow strides become purposeful then, the curled fingers searching for him, even from so far away.

Whatever Nate was going to say next turns to cement into his throat. The feeling extends, cold hard sliding down into his stomach, his intestines. It feels like he could shit ice. He still doesn’t move, even to grab his rifle.

There’s another fall, this time right to the face. The figure gets up on his hands, then slips down again, rubbing his face in the sand, fingers digging in. When it gets back up Nate can see the face, covered in sand and blood.

It’s Schwetje. His face is swollen and scraped down, his tongue hanging out of his mouth, purplish-black. The middle finger on his right hand is half-gone, ending in a chewed-looking stump. There’s a huge hole in his uniform, in the stomach underneath that, red and oozing.

“What the fuck,” Nate breathes, staring at the hole that gapes like a mouth with every step. Something slick and pink slithers out, hanging down to Schwetje’s knees in a wet loop.

Nate makes a noise, strangled and soft, and Schwetje’s head swims around, a low hungry moan sliding out over his dead tongue. He’s almost at the bottom of the berm, grunting with the effort of dragging his broken body toward Nate. His eyes are milky white, thick with sand, but he doesn’t blink.

He hits the bottom of the berm, broken hand feeling the line of hot sand, the slimy loop of his guts dragging, his eyes on Nate’s face. He moans again, passing his fingers over the bloody sand leading up to Nate’s boots, shoving a handful of sand into his mouth, grunting in hungry surprise as he tastes it. Hardly any of the sand stays in his mouth.

But that’s not what he’s after. The taste of blood spurs his slow body on, has him crawling up the berm, making a soft hunh-hunh-hunh noise.

Nate doesn’t move until he can see the watery irises of Schwetje’s eyes behind the dead white and the grainy texture of his swollen tongue. His fingers touch the laces on Nate’s boot and as they curl to grab on Nate jerks, a boot print appearing in the soft skin of Schwetje’s forehead, sending him tumbling down to the bottom of the berm.

It wasn’t like kicking a dead thing. It was like kicking a man.

“Jesus,” Nate says, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.”

Schwetje answers him with a growl, slowly righting himself, unconcerned by his setback.

Nate watches him coming, boots stuck to the sand and his clammy hands in fists. He thinks about all that blood, and his own face, pale and struck, like all those others, and he doesn’t move. But he does see the muzzle of Brad’s rifle out of the corner of his eye and hears Ray’s loud, “What the everloving fuck is that?”

“Captain Schwetje,” Brad says smoothly, taking half a step ahead of Nate, “you need to cease all movement.”

Schwetje howls lowly at Brad, an eerie, thick noise, like wounded animal. Nate’s bowels clench with the noise. He’s never heard anything like it.

Brad takes another step and Ray appears on Nate’s other side, his rifle up too. “Yo,” he yells. “Fuckin’ stop, you moron.”

Schwetje keeps coming, scraping and scrabbling up the slope.

“I said, stop.” Brad’s voice doesn’t waver as he adjusts his sight. His finger strokes the trigger.

Halfway up the berm, Schwetje howls again, licking at the air with his swollen tongue. He’s reaching up for Brad’s boot and just when it seems like he might get there, Brad pulls the trigger.

A black burn mark explodes open the shoulder of Schwetje’s vest and he flails clumsily but doesn’t fall. Shaking his head back and forth Schwetje doesn’t stop making those awful hungry sounds, doesn’t seem hurt.

“I warned you,” Brad says, taking a breath, letting it out, pulling the trigger again.

The top half of Schwetje’s head disappears with the sharp sound of the M16 and his body slumps down the side of the berm, crumpling near the bottom. Brad and Ray lower their rifles.

Brad says, “Well, that was fucking disgusting.”

“Agreed,” Ray says. “But what exactly was it?”

They both turn to look at Nate, who shrugs, looking away from the body.

“He just came walking out of nowhere.”

Ray kicks a little sand down the berm so it drifts against Schwetje’s shoulder.

“Encino Man never did know when to quit,” He mutters.

Nate laughs. He can’t help it. It’s not funny, it shouldn’t be funny, but it is. His laughter is short, grating.

“Where did you two come from?” He asks, swallowing the rest of his laughter down.

“We were cruising around, trying to forget the nightmare that was this morning and we heard you yelling,” Ray says. “Not a smart move in retrospect, LT.”

“Duly noted, Corporal.”

Beside Nate Brad squints at the horizon and then down at Schwetje. He clips his rifle and slings it over his shoulder.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he says, flexing his fingers.

“Yeah,” Ray says. “Time to go spread the word again. No one’s gonna believe this shit. Today is the most fucked up day ever.”

He shoulders his rifle too and slides on his heels down the berm, back toward camp. Brad lingers a moment behind him.

“Alright?” He asks Nate.

The laughter bubbles up again, but Nate doesn’t let it out. “Sort of,” he says, “I think.”

“Make do, sir,” Brad says. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against Nate’s elbow as he walks away, just for a second.

*

By unspoken agreement Ray tells the story to the rest of the guys. Nate doesn’t supply the beginning of the story and Ray doesn’t ask for it. His imagination far exceeds his need for facts.

“So LT’s out there, mindin’ his own fuckin’ business, communing with nature and being the Lone Ranger badass motherfucker he is when he sees something no Marine ever wants to see.”

“Your ugly mug?” Jacks calls.

Ray screws up his face like someone put a lemon in it. “LT would be so lucky,” he says. “He was so lucky, in fact. Also, shut the fuck up and let me talk. Anyway, LT’s busy figuring out what the fuck he’s gonna do with our sorry asses and do you know what he fucking sees? Our dear friend Captain Schwetje.”

There’s a hissed-in, “Encino Man,” from Poke and everyone looks to Nate for confirmation. He nods and Ray holds up his hands for silence.

“And let me tell you, motherfucker looked rough. Like, back from the dead rough. Fuckin’ wants-to-chew-LT’s-brains rough. He sets his sights on LT and is thinking about some goddamn lunch. And since LT’s a cool dude, he’s just there, thinking about how he should deal with this whole thing.

“Encino Man’s still coming, and LT’s trying to remember his hand-to-dead-fuck combat, but it’s not quite coming fast enough. Which is where the Iceman and I come in. We were also minding our own business and communing with nature when we see LT out on a berm and I say to Brad, ‘Yo, let’s go visit the Sir because he’s a good dude,” and Brad’s like, ‘I fuckin’ love social calls-’”

“Get to the point, Ray,” Brad interrupts, in exactly the same tone Ray was just imitating.

Ray rolls his eyes. “Right. So we get over there just in time to set Encino Man to rights about who you can and cannot eat. Took two bullets, but it had to be done. Now he’s baking in the sun like a raisin. A fuckin’ zombie raisin.”

“Bull-fucking-shit, Person,” Lovell says.

Ray throws out an arm in the direction they came from. “Go look for yourself! And notice that LT has not corrected me once.”

All eyes turn on Nate again. He clears the rust out of his throat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but Ray’s right.”

“He was a fucking zombie?” Lilley asks, loud with incredulity.

Nate holds his hands open. He’s not sure what he saw back there, but it was dangerous and not right.

“Jesus Christ,” Poke says, “What the fuck is this shit?”

Poke’s not asking him, but Nate shakes his head anyway.

*

The rest of the day is spent quietly, little groups of men slipping off to see for themselves and returning, disgusted and awed.

Mike doesn’t ever go. He stays with Nate instead.

When the first few guys start walking north Mike turns to Nate and says, “I believe you, LT.”

“Thanks,” Nate says, picking through an MRE for the packet of jelly. He opens it up and smears it over his teeth with his finger, sucking sweetness through the cracks.

Mike doesn’t mention it again, but he does hang out for a while.

*

That night is full of the whispers of the men. They dig their graves in a ragged circle around the truck, close enough together that the walls between the graves could be punched through.

Instead of sleeping Nate sits in the passenger seat of Brad’s Humvee, holding a flashlight for Ray while he fucks around with the various wires and dials. Neither of them have high hopes, but doing this is better than nothing. Brad must agree, since he’s up on the turret, doing something to try and keep the gun from jamming.

“Hey, dude,” Ray mutters as he licks at the end of a cable.

Nate grunts an interrogative.

Ray inserts the cable and spins a dial. There’s some faint static, but it disappears when Ray goes too far to the left. “Have you seen any of the Cobras?”

Even though there’s nothing to hear Nate still listens for the familiar rushing whock-whock-whock of helicopters overhead. It occurs to him that he can’t remember the last time he saw once of them. Maybe he can remember seeing one take off a week or so ago.

The flashlight dips down an inch and then back up. “Actually, no.”

Ray pushes the dial hard to the right, straight past a whispering voice. “Bravo Company: God’s unwanted children. Semper fucking fi, right?”

“Something like that.”

Ray starts backtracking slowly, leaning close to the radio, his elbows on his knees to steady his hands.

“I wonder what happened. If they left or…”

Brad’s knees shift between them, but he’s probably not listening.

Nate shifts too, toward the door, careful not to jostle Ray’s light.

“We’ll probably never know,” he says, closing his eyes to listen better. The voice coming out of the radio is getting a little clearer with every twitch of Ray’s fingers, soft and crisp and British.

“Remain calm,” The BBC woman tells them. “For your safety, please remain in your homes with the doors and windows locked. Do not leave your homes. Remain calm.”

*

At dawn someone shambles into camp, apparently. Nate is half-asleep in the truck so he doesn’t see anything, but the shot startles him into awareness. Even before he’s out of the truck he can feel the surge of everyone else moving toward the disturbance.

He’s one of the last to get there, but even through the crowd he knows Lilley’s face, the slope of his nose as he looks down. The men part to let Nate through and he sees the man on the ground, the red starburst of his left eye, his clammy skin, his death that didn’t stick.

Lilley’s just looking at him. He’s not familiar, even though he’s in a MOPP suit. Any other time, Lilley’d be in shit deeper than his head.

Nate squeezes his shoulder carefully.

“Good work, Lilley,” Brad says from somewhere behind them.

Lilley’s boot moves to nudge the man’s shoulder. His head lolls to the side, burst eye turning down to the sand. There’s blood and brain dotted all over the sand.

Nate squeezes Lilley again. “You did what you had to.”

“Yeah,” Lilley says.

Turning to the men Nate raises his voice. “I know it’s hard, but do what you have to.”

There’s a cloud of Sirs and Nate sees fingers go tight on rifles and focus gather on faces. He believes in them.

*

A few more of the things trickle into reach of Bravo over the next few days, grunting in what must be hunger, although they never get close enough to be a threat.

Before long it’s a game, because that’s how they are. Nate’s rarely close enough to play witness, but he hears the bantering voices, the challenge and jeering long before he hears any shots.

If he sees whoever it was after he tells them to be careful with the bodies, to always make sure there’s no more movement and not to touch any fluid.

They all look at him blankly and then someone says, “Sir, we’ve seen the movies.”

“Of course,” Nate says, because of course they have.

The fires after are always neat and well-contained, a safe distance away from camp, nothing ever left behind, not even ashes.

“Maybe we should,” Mike says while they watch Trombley and Jacks monitor a fire, “do that. For the others.”

Nate raises an eyebrow at him.

“You said it was bad, out there,” Mike jerks his chin in the direction of Charlie. “Don’t you think they deserve better?”

Baking into jerky isn’t a fate befitting a Marine, Nate knows. He nods.

It takes a while to get enough supplies together, and everyone wants to come, to be a part of this setting to rights. Nate only takes half the platoon, selected as much at random as he can.

They go at dusk, from Charlie to HQ to Alpha and do the best they can. The blood on the sand has dried into a crust that crackles under their boots and it’s loud because no one talks except to say, Move this or Help me. There are less bodies than Nate remembers.

Whatever they can use to help themselves they take, and that which cannot be saved burns.

Watching the fire should be cleansing, but Nate just feels angry. No one speaks, but he knows he’s not alone.

*

They come from all directions the next morning, shambling, scraping, groaning, the shattered bodies of men that used to be and still are, somehow. They must have followed the fires, hungry for the meat of their brothers. Bravo stands facing the South watching them come, some rifles up and some down, unsure of what to do.

Brad fires the first shot. He hits the space where a face used to be and the figure crumples. Nate wonders who it is but he raises his rifle too and fires. A groan spatters into silence.

It's mayhem after that, the same tightly controlled mayhem that a firefight is like. The men talk to each other and yell and swear, firing at anything that steps toward them.

Only a few of the creatures get close enough to be recognized, but they get shot anyway, because that's how it has to be. And everyone knows these aren't the men that went to war. They're enemies.

So Nate doesn't wince when his bullet tears open Dave's cheek and blows out his skull.

Poke yells, "Fuck yeah, Captain America!" and Nate just nods.

When it's over Bravo's still an unbroken circle, meters of clean sand between them and the zombies.

Someone at Nate's back whoops, high-pitched with adrenaline and suddenly there's laughter and talking rushing over Nate: Jesus Christ, that was so fucked up, Did you goddamn see that?, Let's go say hello to our little friends.

The circle breaks and suddenly they're all out there, peering at faces, viciously victorious, sneering at death.

Nate looks at the sky. The tip of his rifle is hot against his knee.

Part Two

zombies!, holy hell i did something, generation kill

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