Fate weaver’s convergence

Everyone was present, my entire platoon. What remained of first and second squads, fell in together in a mass gaggle whils third squad was off to the side. Lucas was there as well, but being as he really only answered to myself or the LT, he didn't bother with the drill and ceremony of the whole thing. He just stood there, cradling his FB pattern AK and smoking one of the cigarettes he found at the petrol station. Doc was in front of their formation, while I stood first and second at ease, considering most of us were too sore to stand, let alone hold the position of attention or parade rest for longer than a few minutes. The LT spoke to the commander roughly a few yards away, speaking in hushed tones. The LT stared at the ground as he listened, his wounded arm now in a makeshift sling. We were all barely stabilized, the cunts at battalion telling the commander that any wasted medical supplies on infected would be followed by write-ups.

 

Desk humpin', fuckin brass. Cunts.

 

I spat, tossing another Zyn pouch into my lips while I shook my freshly bandaged leg. The blood was seeping through again, making me feel every damned pulse in it.

 

“They're pulling out the testers.”

 

Castillanos spoke, staring in the distance. I turned my head, following his gaze to a series of connex containers bearing nuclear hazard labels.

 

Shit, never feels easy. Ah, LT’s coming. 

 

“Platoon! Attention!”

 

I yelled, doing the best about face I could manage.

 

“Sir.”

 

I saluted the LT as he limped towards us, shaking his head. He returned the salute, putting the platoon at ease before leaning close to me. We watched the detail of troops pulling the equipment from their tough boxes, switching on batteries and auxiliary power supplies as we whispered between ourselves.

 

“What’s the damage, sir?”

 

“Command is anticipating over fifty percent mortality for the platoon.”

 

“What?”

 

I asked, shaking my head, unable to believe the words.

 

“Only roughly half of us sustained any form of injury, sir. And even then–”

 

I looked back to the platoon before leaning closer to the LT. 

 

“Sir, barely five people were wounded by a mutant.”

 

He nodded.

 

“The seeding pool, Aidan. Battalion is scared of the seeding pool.”

 

A sigh.

 

“Like in Georgia. The offshoot species that was contaminating the air, remember?”

 

“Vaguely, we were in full MOPP for that whole run. We had to have sterilized tents to ever take off our gear.”

 

“They're worried about it again here.”

 

He muttered. 

 

“Go ahead and stay here next to me, we’ll be the first to be examined–”

 

We looked at each other, maintaining eye contact while our heads still faced the ground. 

 

“I have little hope for myself, Aidan. So, do your best to keep the platoon in one piece. I asked the company commander to push up a battlefield commission for you.”

 

“Sir-”

 

“Don’t fucking ‘sir’ me, Staff sergeant. We’ve been through this long enough together, you’ll make it out the other end all right.”

 

He peeled the sling back to reveal his arm, the wound was changing, morphing as it attempted to heal.

 

No–

 

He wrapped his good arm around my shoulder.

 

“That wound was fatal for me. I’m hopped up on adrenaline shots under authorization from the commander. The moment any of the other infected lose consciousness, we’ll all turn. That's at least a dozen muties at worst, rampaging through the camp and running back to Dijon to fuck that city up worse than when we found it.”

 

He looked up to the company commander, who was now smoking a cigarette, for god's sake, the man seemed to be crying just out of earshot. His face was red, wiping his sleeve across it numerous times.

 

“Okay, Mike.”

 

My voice cracked, praying to myself as we turned back to watch the detail approaching our formation. The machine was fully assembled, looking like some oversized futuristic radar gun that police used for gauging speed. You were meant to place your eyes flush to the scoped portion while an LCD screen on the opposite side outputted data as the machine shot out pulses of ultraviolet light and searched for any abnormalities in the iris and sclera. There was a smaller portion, attached by a threaded cable, with an opening lid that blasted the examinee's hand with X-rays while a small chemical sensing needle was placed at each fingertip. It stung like all hell, but it was instantaneous and never lingered.

 

“Sir.”

 

The sergeant in charge of the detail saluted, Mike returning it as the sergeant spoke.

 

“We’re ready.”

---

We had the formation line up single file, Mike in the front, Myself second, Lucas third, and then everyone else. He stepped forward hesitantly, placing his good hand into the X-ray capsule. A flash of red light, some beeping from the larger machine, and the sight of him flinching from the stab of the blood test on his fingertips. The sergeant looked up to Mike, his face looking like he was about to fall ill. 

 

“The UV testing, sir. For measure.”

 

Mike placed his eyes to the eye-scanner, a flash of red light.

 

“Over here… sir…”

 

The sergeant directed Mike behind him.

 

“It’s not, sir, anymore, sergeant. It’s Mike… for however long I have left.”

 

He stepped away from the machine, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Ones that Lucas gave him. My heart sank, Mike swearing that for the death of him that he’d never smoke because he hated the smell.

 

He’s already moved on to acceptance…

 

“Staff Sergeant.”

 

The sergeant beckoned me forward. I was silent, limping forward and reaching out my hand to be placed into the X-ray capsule. The examiner grabbed my hand, laying it gently into the machine after she’d sprayed it with alcohol. Looking up, it was Smith, her brows furrowed as she fought back her emotions.

 

“I’m ready for it.”

 

She looked up to me, nodding.

 

“Roger, Sergeant Catan.”

 

I chuckled a moment, drawing a look of confusion from her.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

The bright side, I have a fifty-fifty chance I don't have to hear any cat puns for the rest of my life.

 

She closed the capsule, the sudden stinging sensation making me flinch, and a light emanated from the capsule's seams, green. We each sighed with relief for a moment.

 

“The scope, if you will?”

 

The sergeant seemed relieved as well, his breathing seeming much lighter until–

 

A flash of light filled my sight with spots of vibrant blue, and the combination of UV and regular light nearly dazing me. Then, with bated breath, we waited for the machine to finalize the results. 

 

Red.

 

My heart sank as the wave of light registered in my brain. Smith caught herself mid gasp, playing it off as a cough.

 

“Sergeant, please step over here…”

 

The sergeant motioned to Mike, who must have been listening intently, his good arm hanging free as he stared at the sky.

“Fuck.”

 

His shaky voice barely reached us.

 

“Adriatic–”

 

“It's Vojak, cunt.”:

 

Lucas swore at the sergeant, I could hear him spit on the ground as he approached the equipment.  

 

He’s just doing his job, Luc. 

 

A beep, Lucas swearing as the needles undoubtedly pierced his fingers. A sigh.

 

“Next, the scope.”

 

Another beep, and what I could have sworn was a sigh of relief. I turned to see Lucas returning to where he originally stood. We locked eyes; he smiled and passed me a thumbs-up. I returned a nod as I watched the rest of the platoon follow suit. I passed two Zyn pouches into my mouth, the rush of nicotine making my head tingle enough to void the feelings of anger and hopelessness.

 

Green, red.

 

Red, red.

 

Green, green.

 

Green, green. 

 

Red, green. 

 

Red, red. 

 

Green, green. 

 

Green, red.

 

Green, green. 

 

Green, green.

 

Green, green. 

 

Green, green. 

 

The entire platoon was cleared.  In all, the infected consisted of seven bodies in total. Mike, myself, Castillanos, Laura, the gunner that Lucas saved from the Ravager, and two others from third squad. Castillanos and Laura were apparently infected by the mutant that Castillanos nearly obliterated with the Carl Gustav, the chunks of viscera and blood possibly infecting them through their mouths or eyes. Mike was infected by the wound to his arm, apparently having been bitten before he managed to bury the barrel of his M9 into the mutie’s eye socket and blow its brains out. Myself, it was from the pool of feed or mutagen from the seedbed, not needing a creative mind to realize I not only was submerged in it, obtained an open wound in it, but also possibly ingesting it. The gunner from the lead truck; she sustained a scratch to the hand from the ravager, the wound festering not unlike Mike’s. The other two were from exposure to the other infected, contracting the pathogen via exposed gashes or cuts.

 

“Sir–” 

 

Smith had broken away from the detail as it started to pack the equipment away. She was attempting to speak to the commander as he waved her away.

 

“Specialist! That is a lawful order! If you keep pressing this, I’ll sure as shit see you court-martialled and stateside! We cannot risk a mutagen outbreak in Three Corps! That is from up top! Go!”

 

The CO was nearly screaming at her, red in the face, pointing his cigarette-baring hand to the med tent. Smith went pale, taking stolen glances at us before she hid her face.

 

She’s fuckin cryng… for us.

 

Lucas jogged up to her, matching her pace and saying something too quiet to make out as they got further. The CO shook his head, walking towards us all. 

 

“Squad, atten–”

“Quit it with the bullshit, Mike.”

 

The CO waved his hand. Everyone in our group stood in wait, either smoking what cigarettes we had or sharing with whoever didn't have any. There was no need for the drill and ceremony neither respect nor discipline of rank. It didn't matter to dead men and women. The CO was trying to elicit a display of what little humanity we could enjoy for the time we all had left.

 

“Dave?”

 

Mike raised his cigarette, taking another drag. 

 

“You know what comes next?”

 

Mike nodded.

 

“When’s the service?”

 

“In an hour, the chaplain will be by shortly.”

 

A pause.

 

“I’ve managed to gather a few bottles of wine from the locals.”

 

The CO looked at each of us one by one.

 

“They're for all of you…Booze isn't a rationed item, so, no tracking of who we give it to… fill your canteens–”

 

“Let's not pretend hygiene exactly matters anymore, David.”

 

“I know.”

 

They both nodded to themselves.

 

“Aidan?”

 

The CO, David, nodded to me. 

 

“You’ll need all of our equipment, including the canteens, si– David. Don’t wanna have to waste them by burning them with our bod–”

 

I choked for a moment, taking a drag from the cigarette I was stacking atop the Zyns. Mike gave it to me.

 

“--Burn them with our bodies…”

 

I walked closer, standing in a gaggle with the two. Each of the infected naturally gravitated to those they were closer to. In my case, I was closest to Mike. 

 

“We’ll be getting our rifles back for nightfall?”

 

I asked, anticipating the textbook group suicide command pushed down. It was ‘better for morale’, refraining from pushing the traumatic experience of killing one's friends and loved ones to the infected themselves.

 

“Five rounds each, in case any of you–”

 

It was his turn to choke, no one ever truly being able to say the words without feeling wrong about themselves.

 

“In case any of you need ‘help’ from another if you have the stomach for it.”

 

“Jesus christ– I–”

 

Laura collapsed at the words, vomiting into the dirt. Castillanos knelt, rubbing Laura’s back.

 

“We’ll pass the bottles and magazines out at the service. You’ll be confined to the local library until nightfall; don’t let anyone fall asleep.”

 

David nodded to Laura.

 

“When you’re good and drunk, the sergeant from the detail will march you all to the edge of town. It’s a short walk, maybe three minutes.”

 

Taking another drag from his cigarette, David nearly burned it to the filter before flicking it into the soil.

 

“I’m sorry, Mike, Aidan. You two didn't deserve this after everything you’ve lived through.”

 

“Blow me!”

 

The gunner from the first truck yelled. 

 

“No one deserves the shit, fat fuck!”

 

One of third squad's guys placed a hand over the gunner’s shoulder, shuffling her away. David didn't let his anger take him, instead shuddering. 

 

“She’s in her right to blame me.”