18.06.202X - Payback

 

Payback

“LIMA 2-0, this is HUSKY, do you read? Over.”

The radio set crackled and hissed in response – reception had been spotty at best in the storm, and trying to reach anyone with a busted antenna, while surrounded by thick forest...

He doubted it would have worked even 60 klicks from base, let alone however far they were from base now. It must have been at least triple that, if not more. If the set in the bird itself would have worked , then they might have had a chance of getting a message out, but the chassis itself was on fire and the electronics had most likely melted in the heat.

He sighed and hooked the receiver back onto the radio. At least they'd gotten out in time.

Staff Sergeant James Maximilian Conley wasn't much of a pessimist, rather the glass-half-full type. His attitude had served him well through basic – although his instructor had taken to calling him “Airman Smiley”, which he didn't find particularly offensive.

He much preferred “Smiley” over “Shitbag”, anyhow. Shitbag dropped out of basic on the third week.

His attitude had stayed with him through the last years of Afghanistan, and even the third war – flying in Delta Force in a Pave Hawk based out of Bydgoszcz, and later doing aerial supply runs from Biala Podlaska, before a nervous German manning the guns on a Gepard left his bird torn to shreds and himself with a shrapnel wound that put him out of commission just when the final push into the Russian heartland was beginning.

The man behind the sights – another Maximilian, by chance – came to visit him when he was lying in the field hospital. He gave his apologies, and even a slightly ruffled bouquet of flowers along with (what he presumed to be) a get-well-soon card. He'd never really learned German.

Still, they got on quite well despite the friendly fire, trading stories and joking around, but the visit was sadly quite short – Maximilian was just coming back from leave, and had to get back to his unit ASAP.

Another constant in his military career had been Senior Airman (perhaps Airwoman would have been more correct) Vera O'Neill. She was a bit more of the glass-half-empty type, but had quite the knack for gallows humor despite – or perhaps because of – that.

She'd enlisted just as the third war started rearing it's ugly head, and had stayed with him after that. There'd been rumors around base that they were a married couple, or fucking, or that they were related somehow – first assumed to be cousins, then siblings, then a father-and-daughter duo after the first gray hairs started appearing on his head – but those rumors were as far from the truth as they could be.

Instead, they just... clicked, somehow. Well enough to finish each others' sentences, well enough to practically know what the other was thinking at any given time, well enough to have gotten out of several hairy situations scot-free.

As it stood, he had nothing more than respect and admiration for her. Love, yes, perhaps, but nothing that would have implied romance of any kind. Instead they were simply “partners in crime” - as Vera would put it – and he wouldn't have it any other way.

She'd pulled him out of that wreck in Poland and managed the whole situation from there, and he was happy that he'd at least repaid the first favor now.

He'd managed to get most of their essentials out before the engine blew – radio, sidearms, one M16A2, their packs, first aid supplies, but most importantly, their masks. They'd had warnings of “fog” coming in around midnight, and while he was unsure as to what exactly this “fog” was, he sure as hell didn't want to breathe in any of it.

As it stood, however, they were in a bit of a pickle – Vera's legs had gotten badly mangled in the crash, and he'd suffered a concussion and possibly a broken rib, to boot.

Still, it could have been worse. The town they'd flown over – Sector 15 – had apparently been largely cleared out of the... “creatures”, at least according to recon flights and Army gunner teams. They'd pretty much completed their mission as well – airdropped a crate of supplies around Sector 10. The only issue was getting back to base, but they could most likely take shelter in one of the houses nearby, or even the trailer park-turned-fortress they'd almost crashed into when the rotors got fucked.

Still, he was unsure about the latter. There had been rumors among some of the personnel that the Army had started firing on survivors as well, and Baker had mentioned taking fire from some unidentified hostiles right around this area. Perhaps after observing the compound a bit closer, or waving a white flag, or something to that effect.

Still, that didn't matter now. They both had SERE training, and while this situation was completely different from the one in Europe, the same basic principles still applied. First, get out of the immediate vicinity, then see if they could re-establish contact once the thunderstorm was over and regular flights commenced again, then just sit tight and wait for rescue.

“You alright there, Smiles? You're spacing out.” Vera laid on the ground, legs splinted, Boston accent as thick as ever.

“Yeah, I'm fine. Just... wondering where to go next. How to get there.” He sighed. “Hate to say it, but I don't know if I'll be able to get everything out in one go. Might have to leave the radio – reception's gonna be fucked as long as the storm keeps on going.”

“Oh, just grab the radio. I still got arms to crawl with.”

He chuckled. “Shut up, O'Neill. You're getting out first, like it or not.”

 

Carrying Vera alone wouldn't have been too much, even with the broken rib, but there were their packs, the first aid, gas mask bags, and the M16 to worry about as well. The radio he could leave, but the rifle stayed, no matter what. This was still hostile territory, and from what he'd heard, the “creatures” here would literally eat you alive.

While optimistic, he wasn't stupid.

Their pace was slow, at best, and trying to navigate through the pitch-black forest using only the dim flashlight on his survival vest was a bit of a nightmare. He should have gotten the NVGs out as well, and their helmets, but he wanted to play it safe. He would have been of no use whatsoever to Vera if the kerosene fire would have cooked off the MG belts and pinged him in the head, or if the explosion would have caught him in its shockwave.

So, he trudged along, as silently as he could, pistols holstered, rifle and pack on his back, left arm supporting the battle-buddy on his shoulders, his one “free” hand holding their gas mask bags by their straps.

Sayori could smell it far before she saw it. Oily, acrid smoke, drifting through the trees, almost making her wish she would have just put a mask on. Still, using NVGs with the Avon she had hanging off her pack would have made aiming her rifle even more of a nightmare than it was with her AN/PVS-15.

As soon as she heard the crash she'd bolted upstairs, stripped off her “hangout” clothes and put on a pair of fatigues for what felt like the first time. She usually preferred skinny jeans and a t-shirt, but... she wasn't hunting rotters this time.
She couldn't afford any liabilities.

These were genuine soldiers she was after, and they'd probably be blending into the underbrush just as well as she was.

After that, plate carrier, Sordins, chest rig, Viper hood with camo netting laced in between the “holes”, assault pack with boo-boo bag, NVGs, rifle, knee- and elbow pads, boots, drop leg pouch and holster...

Essentially, the usual loadout – apart from the jacket and pants. She'd left the red jelly cap in her bag as well.

No liabilities, no mistakes.

What wasn't covered by her shemagh was blackened with soot from the sauna stove, although she still couldn't bear to cover up the usual thick red painted lines under her eyes.
They felt somehow... emblematic.
Like a signature.
She couldn't remember when she first started painting her face like that, but she doubted she was ever going to stop doing so, at least not before she'd gotten out of Kentucky.

The sound of the rain was... almost soothing. Normally, at times like these, she'd just sit down next to her Humvee, let the rain cascade over her, cleanse her, purify her, but...

The Humvee was in Bedford.

Mishka was gone again.

These motherfuckers had the audacity, the sheer fucking gall to do another fly-by, just as Mish was starting to recover.
She could still remember just how the hopeful light faded from her eyes, she could still feel how the poor girl stiffened in her arms, she...

 

Revenge.

For every single fucking bullet hole they'd put into Mishka.

For every single shot fired at her, at Izzy, at all the others.

And most of all, revenge for the fucking gas.

If not for them, Izzy would still be alive.
If not for them, she'd still have her Humvee.
If not for them, Mishka would be her old, determined self.
If not for them, maybe the rest of the team would still be around.

If not for them, Mishka, Izzy and her would have cleared out Redstone long ago.

So, she stalked along, quietly, the infra-red laser from her PEQ-15 slowly moving from shadow to shadow, ears perked and eyes peeled, breathing slow and steady, AR in high ready, legs slightly bent.

Occasionally, she'd take a knee and just listen to the sounds of the forest for a minute, trying to make out anything out of the ordinary. She hadn't had any luck so far, but...

For some reason, she felt strangely patient.
The AEBS had mentioned fog coming in, but midnight was still a couple hours away. If she still hadn't found them by 23:30, she'd sneak back to base, put a mask on Mishka, and come back.
She had all day, all week.
This wasn't the impulsive, blazing hatred she felt towards the rotters, the kind that made her take stupid risks and get her friends killed.
This was more like the blue, concentrated flame from a propane torch, hot enough to cut through steel, focused enough to do it cleanly.

So, she waited, and stalked, and listened, until...

“O'Neill? You alright up there?”

A grunt of affirmation, not very convincing.

“You sure you don't want any morphine? I have a syrette in my pack, I could...”

“No. Once we're out of this fucking forest. If shit goes sideways I need to be sober enough to aim.”

“Your call.” He shrugged, and immediately regretted it. Vera was good at hiding pain, but the sharp, hissing breath she took told him more than enough. “...Sorry.”

“'s alright. Just try to avoid doing that ever again.” Vera didn't sound particularly angry, which gave him a small guilty spike of happiness.

“No promises.” A chuckle, Vera this time, and he couldn't help grinning as well. “By the way, when did you start bulking, O'Neill?”

“Fuck you, Smiles.” Another chuckle.

At least morale was up. He couldn't help feeling more and more hopeful as the minutes passed and the distance increased. It wasn't easy, that much was obvious, but...

They'd be out of here soon enough.

They'd find a place with a roof, maybe even get help from the survivors at that fortress, and-

CLACK

He felt it before he heard it, something in his thigh, and suddenly he toppled over and dropped Vera – onto her feet, judging by the muffled whimper – and then the pain washed over him and he groaned as well.

He fumbled for his pistol, but it was stuck between the rifle strap and the pack strap and the chest pocket, but he still called out into the darkness while trying to put pressure on his leg with his other hand...

“USAF! Identify yourself!”

Silence. Nothing but the rain and the distant thunder and the wind blowing through the trees.

A suppressor – as if the concussion didn't already make it hard enough to identify where the sound came from.

He finally managed to extract his pistol, and aimed the handgun to and fro, adrenaline pumping, blood pouring out of his thigh.

Vera called out next, desperation in her voice. He couldn't quite see, but maybe she had gotten into a better position? They couldn't risk an open fracture, not here, not now.

“We're not- ungh... hostile! Our bird went down, and-”

“Drop the gun, soldier boy.” A raspy, unfamiliar, but definitely female voice, with a slight accent he couldn't quite place. “Unless you want another one in the head.”

He sighed and complied. He'd forgotten to rack the slide anyway, the pistol might as well have been a paperweight for all the good it would have done him.

Then, a slight rustle, closer than he would have expected, and a hooded silhouette stepped out of the shadows.

“Well, well... just what do we have here?” The sarcastic tone didn't go unnoticed, but there was something he could feel just behind it, behind the venomous veneer, that made him even more uneasy. It was hate. “Not hostile? I'd almost believe you if I hadn't dug bullets out of my best friend's thigh just two days ago, courtesy of your fucking snipers.”

“We... we're not Army! We're Air Force, we just do supply runs!”

“I don't give a single fuck about what fucking bandit group you two dirtbags belong to. This is sovereign territory, and you. Are not. Welcome. Here.”

Her last words were more of a growl than anything, and Conley could feel his optimism quickly fading.

“Please, we're wounded... my co-pilot's legs are broken... I broke my ribs in the fall... we... we need your help!” The wound on his leg was steadily pouring blood, but he didn't dare reach for his tourniquet, not yet. Maybe if he just kept talking, maybe they'd get out of this. Maybe she'd help them. “We're not front-line soldiers, we're not even combat personnel! My co-pilot, she's... she's a techn-”

The figure seemed to stiffen just for a moment, and then took off towards him, unslinging her rifle and raising it above her head...

Sayori brought down the stock of the rifle smack-dab into the middle of the pilot's face. She felt a satisfying crunch as his nose cracked from the blow, and briefly contemplated giving him another.

“Co-pilot's legs broken? What a shame. What a crying shame, Smiles.” Fucking scumfuck bastard you can rot in hell for all I care- “And it's too fucking bad you two aren't combat personnel. At least you might have had a fighting chance then.”

Enough contemplation.

SMACK

“I know who the fuck's been dropping nerve gas all over fucking Kentucky.”

SMACK

“I know who the fuck killed Izzy.”

SMACK

“And I can fucking promise you that you won't be leaving this forest alive.”

The pilot in front of her was whimpering, trying to protect his face with blood-stained hands. The woman behind her had called out for him, a couple times.

Smiles, Smiles, Smiles, shut the fuck up.

“P-please... don't... It's n-not nerve gas, we don't k-know what it is...” The pilot's voice was thick, and Sayori felt a slight jolt of excitement in knowing that she actually broke his nose on the first try. “J-just please don't hit me anymore, I c-can't see a-anything...”

Post-trauma vision syndrome caused by severe concussion, aggravated by broken nose. Temporary.

“We don't h-have anything to do with this! You gotta believe us!” A voice from behind, desperate, close to breaking down. O'Neill, was it? “We're just r-running supply drops, d-dropping pamphlets...”

“FUCKING QUARANTINE PAMPHLETS! THREE MONTHS INTO THE OUTBREAK!”

She couldn't help it. She'd turned towards the woman laying on the ground and had to fight an overwhelming urge to just mag-dump the rest of the 5.56 into her prone body.

“WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU ARE HELPING? EVERYONE! IS! DEAD!”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus.

“Everyone... except me. And Mishka.” She tried to keep her voice under control this time, but... “And now you took her away from me.”
Still calm. You're still calm.

“My only friend in this shithole of a country and YOU TOOK HER AWAY!”

She stood there for a moment before taking a couple steps back, the laser mounted on her rifle flitting between the two soldiers to an erratic rhythm. She could feel the tears welling up again, but you can't give these bastards the pleasure of seeing you cry but...

“Damn y-you both to Hell... I h-hate you so f-fucking much... God, I hate you... s-so fucking much.”

The girl was fucking crazy.

Conley's optimism was gone, as was his vision. Whoever she was, she hit like a fucking truck. He couldn't stop the pained, fearful whimpers escaping his throat, not this time. The situation had gone from bleak to hopeless in the span of roughly ten seconds. 

It was even harder to stay silent when he heard footsteps approaching him, the occasional clatter of (presumably) her rifle against the rest of her kit, and when he heard a zipper open and the snip of something that sounded like scissors he tried to curl up, to scurry away, to do something, but just as he'd started to move he felt a heavy boot on his wounded thigh and fire, fire spreading through my leg and burning my veins and-

Then, a wet pop, a dark chuckle, a voice he'd already learned to fear.

“You know, I call this magpieing. Don't see any rings on you, though, so I guess I should just call it something else. Can't really come up with anything good, so any suggestions are appreciated.” She was far too close now, knee on his thigh, a gloved hand holding his wrist in a vise-like grip, and then he felt something cold and metallic and sharp around his fingers and he almost pissed himself right then and there.

Her voice was soft, far too soft, and she smelled like blood and gunpowder and rain and a slight hint of something that briefly took him back to his childhood over 40 years ago, when his mother had just finished putting their linens through the tumble dryer and was nagging at him to change his sheets but he didn't want to, he wanted to play and he wanted to get away and he wanted as far away from this fucking forest as possible.

 

“I've gotten it down to an art form now – it takes a second, at most, to snip the finger off a rotter and toss it in my ziploc.” Again the soft, almost gentle voice, but the venom was apparent again. “Still, I have a feeling that this is going to take much longer.”

There was pressure, then pain and then agony and he screamed.

“Smiles! Y-you... get away from him!”

Vera tried to drag herself closer, to do something, to get the pistol and shoot this psychopath in the head, to pull her off of Smiles and stab her in the gut and rip her fucking intestines out but her legs were useless and she was useless and if he wouldn't have had to carry her Smiles could have been out of the forest by now and could have called in MEDEVAC for himself but she just had to break her fucking legs and now they'd both die in this shithole of a forest, sliced to ribbons by some delusional barbarian and then she heard another wet snip and Smiles screamed again and there was so much pain and terror in his voice that it felt like her heart was going to break at any moment and

“P-please... we'll.. we'll g-give you anything you w-want...w-we can radio base and order in m-more supplies...for you...”

Smiles groaned weakly, and then the horrid figure sitting hunched over him like a hungry vulture got up, and walked toward her.

“Anything I want, huh?”

The woman kneeled before her, the moonlight glinting off something vicious and sharp in her hand. Another zipper opened, a flashlight flicked on, briefly blinding Vera, and when she opened her eyes again she saw a gloved hand holding a blood-flecked Polaroid depicting a young, brown-haired girl, emaciated and dirty but smiling all the while, an old rifle hanging from the strap around her neck. The picture was labeled “IZZY 22/05” in scrawled-on black marker.

“You know who this is?”

The woman carefully put the picture back into her chest rig, and now Kate could finally see the face of their assailant, and she immediately realized woman might be a bit too much. She was too young for that, she was still just a girl. A tired, exhausted girl, with massive bags under her bright blue eyes, a face covered in soot that was rapidly washing away from her tears and the rain, crimson lines drawn under her eyes with a thick coating of oily paint, a nasty set of barely-healed scars on her right cheek...

“Of course you don't know.” She huffed. “This is... this was Izzy. We were friends. Do you know how she died? Do you!?”

Vera shook her head, speechless at the sudden change in the situation. The voice, the marksmanship, the cruelty... all of it from someone who hadn't even entered college yet. From someone too young to drink.

“She died choking and screaming and gurgling and begging me to save her.” Her voice was cold, steely, venomous. “She died because you worthless shitbags just had to gas Fort Redstone while we were still there.”

The woman girl stood up with a sigh. Her voice was surprisingly quiet again, but Vera would almost have preferred her screaming her lungs out again. She didn't want to hear Smiles whimpering like that.

“I want Izzy back. I want Rufus back. I want Arnold, and Erja, and 'Ems, and Jenny, and Harris back. I want to see my friends again...” Now, a sniffle, unmistakable. “I... w-want my M-Mishka back...”

“Hey... hey... I understand...” Vera started, softly, hopefully. “I know how you feel. I've... lost a lot of friends, over the years. The.. the third war... so many from our air wing got shot down by the Russians.”

The girl stayed silent, frozen in place, and Vera decided to press the attack.

“It hurts, I know it does... but... all we can do is remember the fallen. T-to... live our lives to the fullest, to honor their memories by staying t-true to ourselves, to honor them by living happy, fulfilling lives, t-to do our best to make a better world so that nobody else has to lose a friend like that...”

“Y-you... I...” The girl collected herself for a moment. “O'Neill, was it?”

Vera nodded, and tried to smile.

“Senior Airman Vera O'Neill. I'm.. I'm from Boston.”

“...oh.” A pause. “I'm... sorry. I r-really am, but-”

CLICK

BANG

Vera saw the muzzle flash, and realized that Smiles had pulled out his Colt and somehow racked the slide with his mutilated hand, and she saw the girl stiffen, and while she was angry at Smiles she couldn't blame him because now the nightmare was finally over and they could get far away and call in MEDEVAC as soon as the storm cleared up and-

“You MOTHERFUCKER!”

And just like that, her hopes were dashed. In the brief moment before the girl turned heel and rushed back towards Smiles, shrieking with rage, pulling a long, curved machete from her belt, she saw another thing.

A plate carrier. Of course.

There was a scream of fear from Smiles, a blind discharge that Vera knew went wide, and then a grisly, wet thunk, and everything was quiet again.

As if in a dream, she heard a zipper open, and then the sound of a chain snapping, the clatter of dogtags, and rapid, furious breathing approaching her, a heavy boot pressing down on the back of her head, grinding her face into the mud.

“You little... you thought you could just distract me long enough? Long enough to let your friend shoot me in the back?”

“N-no... I swear I didn't know...” Vera sobbed, spitting out mud with every word. Smiles was gone. 4 years together, flying sorties, goofing off, and he was... gone. “I m-meant every single word, I promise... Conley, you f-fucking idiot...”

And with that, the girl froze, again, and Vera could almost swear she heard a gasp. The pressure on her head was gone.

“Conley? L-like Pansy Conley?”

Now it was Vera's turn to freeze, her overalls sodden, the muddy ground staining them a deep brown.

“Y-yeah... He has a cousin in Kentucky. D-do you know her?”

A measured pause, and then that same, cold voice.

“Had. He had a cousin in Kentucky.”

“W-what do you-”

“Shut the fuck up. Get out of here. Take what you need and fuck off. Fog's coming in an hour.”

“But my legs, they're...”

“I don't care. Crawl off, then.”

“C-could you at least help me out of this forest? It's d-dark, and I don't know which way to go...”

From what she could see in the sparse moonlight, the girl's expression seemed to soften.

“Alright. I'll bring you a mask, first.” She cleared her throat, stood awkwardly in place for a moment, and then continued, her voice far softer, although still hoarse and scratchy. “I'll... I'll come along when the fog's cleared up and... bury your friend. I'm sorry.”

It didn't take long for Vera to get her mask on, and Sayori looked on, still taken aback by the flood of emotions talking to the woman had brought forth.

Still...

“Hey, Vera, you probably have a radio set?”

“It's by the crashed bird. S-Smiles... we couldn't take everything in one haul, s-so we left it there.”

“Right... Which way would that be? I'd want to see if I could do something with it, and I guess you'd need it as well." She cleared her throat. “Could you point me in the right direction?”

With that, Vera scrambled back onto her stomach, facing away from Sayori, and pointed her finger deeper into the forest, almost directly south of where they were.

“O-over there. We didn't get very far, and I'm s-sure you'll find it when dawn breaks.”

“I see. Thanks a lot, Vera.”

Sayori took aim and fired.

Pulling the dogtags off Vera wasn't particularly hard. She'd bury them later – two dead soldiers, one of them clearly tortured before death...
If the virus ever came under control, she didn't want anything that would look bad on her record.

She was now one proper radio richer, and the frequency it was set to was unfamiliar. The AEBS broadcast on 98.6MHz, but this one was set to 107.3MHz. Any new intel, anything that could prove useful...
She had to have it.

The trek through the forest didn't take particularly long, and before she knew it she was past the wire fence and past the palisade, back in their trailer. She'd taken the mask from “Smiles” - Vera's was a blood-soaked patchwork of exit wounds. It was a clean burst, three in the back of her head.

Hopefully it was a quick death.

The door to Mishka's room creaked open, the girl had retreated back into her old comatose state.

“Hey, Mish...” This time there wasn't much to Sayori's tone. Her words felt hollow, muffled by the gas mask she'd already donned. “I got you some dog tags. Took down those pilots. Don't wanna go into details.”

She sat down on the bed and set her rifle aside, pulling down the Viper hood and scratching her sweaty scalp.

“Anyway...” She started. “Fog's gonna be rolling in soon, according to the AEBS. I'm really sorry, but I need to put this mask on you. I'll change out your saline soon and give you a quick sponge bath.”

The procedure was painless, Mish was as unresponsive as ever. Maybe it was better that way.
After checking the mask, Sayori took a long, hard look at the red CREI t-shirt on the floor, then picked it up and folded it neatly, gently placing it into her dump pouch.

“I'm gonna... head to bed now. I'll be back as soon as I can. Maybe already when the fog rolls in. Just in case.”

She took one last look at one of the dogtags, the one with “JAMES CONLEY” engraved onto it, felt a sudden wave of nausea, and walked away.

Sayori laid in her bed, mask off this time, relishing the final few moments before the fog rolled in again and enveloped everything in a sickly green.

She'd stripped into something lighter, shorts and a compression t-shirt, and brushed her teeth after emptying out her stomach into the compost.

Fucking Pansy. Fucking James. Fucking Conleys. Why can't anything be easy for once?

She breathed out, then breathed in, then buried her face into the red CREI t-shirt she'd wrapped around one of her pillows.

It still smelled like Mishka.

 

 

 

 "...I can fucking promise you that you won't be leaving this forest alive.”