Fate weaver’s convergence

 

“The objective is to stage outside the village and move from house to house. We've got word from some holdout locals that we may have some rift heads in the area. They sent some scared kid running the moment the majority of Three Corps came rolling through. Tipped us off.”

 

I relayed the fragmentary orders once more for my guys as per LT's orders. I was on the radio, listening for anything while Lucas was our driver.

 

“Think we're dealing with muties Sarge? Or ravagers?”

 

Private Rawlins, one of my troops in my squad asked. He was eager for fighting, only ever having faced off against the Ravagers for the most part. He'd gotten into the war too late to see many mutants, most of the US having been cleared by the time he got out of OSUT.

 

“Rawlins, will you shut the hell up? I'm trying to listen.”

 

I shook my head as nothing else came over the radio just yet. Turning back to him, I answered the best I could.

 

“Muties probably. Got the kid to rant, and he was saying something about people hiding family members in cages and sheds.”

 

Static came over the radio, barely audible over the engine of the Humvee.

 

“Elk seven’ be advised, further confirmation from higher. Some old man got a sat phone and keyed us in on our intel. We've got six confirmed muties in the village, keep your head on a swivel, though. They know you're coming, and have set a few loose. They couldn't confirm numbers, but expect the full count of six, and an additional twelve insurgents. They’re getting jumpy, saying the Rift heads are sniffing pretty close to their hiding spots. How copy? Over.”

 

I clicked the handset in my hand. 

 

“That's a good copy, Workhorse, tracking six muties, twelve insurgents. Over.”

 

A moment to gather my thoughts.

 

“Workhorse, any confirmed intel on armament? I don't want my guys in there without armor if we're facing big guns without much more than our Carl Gustav and the fifty-cal’s.”

 

A break in the background through the static.

 

“I know- so- what am I supposed to– them?”

 

I clicked the handset again.

 

“Say again, Workhorse?”

 

I released the handset again.

 

“We are green on Intel ‘Elk seven’, no FRAGO’s on top of what we have. Dragon is in the area so if you need support, they're loitering in your airspace with guns and dumb bombs, so danger close.”

 

Who the fuck is–

 

“Who the fuck is Dragon, does no one tell me shit?”

 

I looked to Lucas, Rawlins, and another poor dumb bastard saddled with us. 

 

“That's what the fuckin WARNO is for, fuckin dipshits.”

 

I muttered, taking a moment to breathe and call up the LT.

 

“Sir, you lima-charlie on Dragon?”

 

I radioed the LT.

 

“A-10s, from some National Guard unit out of Georgia. They're good ol’ boys and gals; they'll have our backs. Sorry, Elk seven. I thought I told you.”

 

I released the hand mic. 

 

“Bull fuckin shit you did, shithead!”

 

I punched the foam padding of the humvee's roof.

 

“You don't fuckin forget that shit, Mike! That shit doesn't just slip your fuckin mind!”

 

I swore, coaxing a laugh from each direction In the truck.

 

Laugh all y’all fuckin want; that shit will get someone fuckin killed. They just don't want us pissin our panties too soon and leveling a village before we're sure. The only difference here is we're pretty fuckin sure, and we're probably going to be roasting the place with small arms anyways. 

 

I sighed, clicking the Mike one last time.

 

“Lima Charlie Workhorse, it's gonna be a lovely war down here, over.”

 

Another break.

 

“Godspeed Red Elk, get home safe; we’ll save some venison for you tonight; you boys and girls need it. Bring those civies back and show those rift heads what's what. Workhorse, out.”

 

I hung the hand mic on my plate carrier, relaxing back into my seat as I continued searching the countryside for any signs of movement. 

 

“Think something is wrong?”

 

Lucas spoke up.

 

“Somethings always wrong, Luc’. Always. At least we have Dragon… do me a fuckin favor, you two–.”

 

I looked back to Rawlins and our plus one.

 

“Keep your damn ears about you, keep those frags in those pouches until I tell you.”

 

I thought for a moment about our breaching order again.

 

“Rawlins, you're too fuckin green.”

 

I pointed at him with a torn glove. 

 

“I want you on breaching duty, and you'll fall to the rear of the pack afterward. The last thing I need is a young buck getting shot or mauled first thing into confrontation.”

 

Rawlins nodded, frowning.

 

“Check roge, Sarge.”

---

The town came into sight through the fogged plates of glass making up the humvee’s armored windshield. We were wired up on caffeine and adrenaline as we anticipated the fighting, the same half-drunk, dreamlike state of consciousness taking over as we moved in. No gunfire greeted us, just the loose scent of charcoal, the smell of rotting flesh, stew from what locals still lived here, and the occasional livestock roaming the road. The roar of our engines came to a gradual decline as the LT’s lead truck came to a halt along a flood-controlling burm, providing decent enough cover for dismounting and protecting the trucks from fire.

 

Who's he gonna call up?

 

I thought for a moment, LT Mike, occasionally choosing to rotate our platoon so no one gets too burned out from constant engagement. ‘It keeps you all from wondering how soon you’ll die’ was his poorly worded reasoning. It was something we came to appreciate, however, staving off the feeling of inevitable hopelessness. The radio scratched to life. 

 

“Elk seven, you take second squad, dismount, and move from house to house. Myself and first squad will post up at each house behind you to act as QRF if you get caught with your pants down. Third, you’ll act as a perimeter defense for the trucks and help doc prep the trucks to pull out any WIA or KIA we sustain. If one of us gets hit, I sure as shit am not leaving anyone. Dead or not… You have one minute to dismount and make sure all throat mics and headsets are set to channel three. Doc, our lives are in your hands.”

 

I turned on the transceiver radio sitting in a spare mag pouch, ensuring the throat mic and my active ear pro were each hooked up. The channel came alive as each of my squad clicked their mics on, whilst the LT spoke in the background over the same channel.

 

“Second squad, radio check, I want a head count.”

 

“Up.”

 

A chorus rang out, haphazard and uneven.

 

“On sarge, Lucas, up.”

 

“Rawlins, up.”

 

“Marcum, up.”

 

“Danovitch, up.”

 

“Mccullum, up.”

 

“Jauregui, up.”

 

“Luara, up”

 

“Castillanos, up.”

 

A break as I mentally counted eight names in total, myself included. 

 

“Catan, up.”

 

Fuckin hate my last name. 

 

“Meow.”

 

Lucas sounded over the mic at my name, a muffled chorus of snickering echoing over the squad's mics.

 

“And that’s why I allow you to go by your middle name off of coms, Elk seven.”

 

LT followed up. 

 

“Smart ass.”

 

I tossed an empty drink can at Lucas’s helmet, a metallic ‘tink’ signaling our dismount as I opened the humvee’s door with a heavy ‘clunk’.

 

“Guns up’s Joe’s n’ Janes, let's show these riftie bastards what's  up.”

 

The squad exited the trucks, LT’s squad up and moving to cover at the burm’s ridge at its northernmost end to place the saw down for covering fire. The few troops left on fifty cals took independent fields of fire, aiming at the twelve, one, two, four, five, and six o’clock positions relative to the convoys' positioning. The plan was to, if everything went well, breach and clear the town from the north, move south, and come back around the convoy from the south headed north. It was vice-versa if we were forced to call on medevac, the trucks following the same route, and then to exfil. Third squad dismounted, sending their own troops throughout the convoy to take up the driving positions, enabling Lucas to join up with us. No one called the reasoning into question, thinking if anyone deserves to kill some rift heads, that it was the Adriatic trooper that had the rifties to thank for Prague being so damn out of reach. 

 

“Lucas, you're with me. Rawlins, got the shotgun?”

 

Rawlins nodded, slotting buckshot shells through the feed gate of the pump action shotgun he pulled from the truck. 

 

“Sir, we’re ready.”

 

“Rog, move into the town, and we’ll start following the moment your squad calls the green on the first house.”

 

“Alright, team one, Lucas, Rawlins, Marcum, you’re on me.”

 

I motioned to each squad member as they followed me while I approached the burm, walking backward.

 

“Danovitch, Mccullum, Luara, Jauregui, you’re team two. You watch the windows and corners of the houses we breach so we don’t get routed. Castillanos–”

 

I eyed a wild-eyed kid, short but stout enough to lug the Carl Gustav around in place of an M-four.

 

“Castillanos, I want you playing middle man between us and the LT, covering with the Gustav if we call on you.”

 

He nodded, spitting into the dirt. 

 

“Rog, Sarge.”

 

Okay, Aidan, you’ve done this plenty, same as any other day. It just isn't open-ground fighting; it's more like OKC, minus the fuckin sun grinders… Hopefully… 

 

We pushed forward, tracing cover and concealment en route to the first building in sight. A cobblestone wall, a shed, some cars, and a fence line comprised of scrap metal. It was all run down, overgrown by weeds and brush, and the sweet smell of rotting flesh getting stronger the closer we got. 

 

Some poor bastard probably passed recently, the rift heads either not giving a shit enough, or the sane enough locals were too afraid to go out and bury them. 

 

There were twenty houses in total, a gas station, and some torn-up local cafe. We passed the cafe first, clearing the building through its open front and ensuring the freezer area, the maintenance room, the storage, and the bathroom were each clear. Short and simple, we called the all-clear and staged along the rear service exit before calling in the LT’s squad.  

 

“At your pace, Aidan, no need to rush it while we’re still experiencing the calm.”

 

The LT reassured us, peaking through the exit and nodding for us to continue once they were all posted. 

 

The first house. 

 

We moved up, passing into a backyard leading to the porch of the first house. Team two took up their covering positions while my team was ready to breach. I crouched slowly, as quietly as I could, and turned the doorknob without opening the door. Nothing happened.

 

“Rawlins.”

 

I whispered, motioning for him to kick the door open on my signal. I turned the knob once more, pushing the door in a fraction of an inch to keep the latch from closing. 

 

Now.

 

I nodded to Rawlins, who took the cue and kicked the door open, immediately falling behind Marcum, Lucas, and Myself as we pushed inward. It was musty and shielded slightly from the smell of rot. We pushed through, and rifles shouldered as we looked through red dots or iron sights. Kitchen, bathroom, dining room, living room.

 

“First floor, clear.”

 

I whispered over the channel, leaning around the corner of the stairwell that led to the second floor. 

 

“Moving up to the second story.”

We pressed onward, the creak of wood underfoot as we moved up. Lucas was on my tail, aiming up and into the hallway as I covered the doors. We checked each room, and it was clear of any life, a pervasive layer of dust covering almost everything. 

 

“Clear!”

 

I yelled out.

 

“Aidan, I checked the other bedroom. It's a mess in here.”

 

I nodded, following Lucas to the opposite room. There was blood dried and covering the floor and stained into the walls, a dresser was smashed, and a decrepit PC occupied an L-shaped desk in the corner. The bed was overturned, and the window was left open, water pooling on the sill, dyed red by the blood smeared over the sill. It hadn't rained since we passed through Andorra, between Spain and France, dating it. I pressed on my throat mic, looking through the window by barely peaking my eye around the corner and withdrawing.

 

I don't like this, we haven't seen anything yet, the signs of a struggle are too fresh for it to already be cleared.

 

“This is elk-seven, the first house is clear. We’ve got signs of a struggle, though. Possible confirmation of cultist presence, but it's too old to tie to our recent informants.”

 

“Good copy, elk-seven, move on to the next house. With any luck we make contact with the civies first, give them a safe window out before hell opens up.”

 

LT responded.

 

“Heading to the ground floor and moving to the next house.”