The Few, The Proud, The Undead

I

It had been two months since Sergeant J. Torrence last wore his uniform. If were up to him, he'd never wear it again.

It wasn't up to him. He'd been ordered to report to Fort Campbell for yet another disciplinary hearing. A good soldier always obeys orders, and Torrence was an excellent soldier.

Military bases are bustling hives of activity, especially during wartime, and this country had been at war Torrence's whole life. Fort Campbell was no exception. At all hours of the day, the parade square was lined with new recruits alternating between push-ups and jumping jacks. The faint sound of gunfire persistently echoed out from the firing range. A steady stream of camouflage vehicles patrolled the perimeter.

The base itself was a massive, heavily guarded fifteen-storey building, surrounded by nearly forty acres of land. Inside that building, the highest-ranking officers in the military made the decisions that shaped the direction of the war.

Sergeant Torrence's face was worn, wrinkled and weathered. In sharp contrast, his uniform was in meticulous order. His chiseled frame wore it well. He was approaching middle age, but was still in excellent shape. He was freshly shaved, and his hair was cropped short and slicked back, as per military regulation.

His Army-issued boots were polished to a brilliant shine. They clattered against the tiled floor as he marched down the hallway.

There was a door at the other end, guarded by two muscled MP officers standing at attention. The nameplate on the door read "GENERAL R. TURGIDSON."

Torrence walked up to it, gave the two guards a nod, and entered the General's office.

The room was thick with smoke. The General was chomping on an enormous cigar while leafing through some personnel files.

General Turgidson was a silver-haired soldier in his autumn years, but he still looked like he could kick anyone's ass without breaking a sweat. The left breast of his pristine uniform was weighed down by dozens of prestigious medals.

The Sergeant stood at attention, saluting his superior officer.

Turgidson glanced up at him. With a single look he made it abundantly clear that he loathed this soldier. He put down his paperwork and cleared his throat.

"At ease, Sergeant," he said gruffly, motioning towards the leather chair across from his desk. "Take a seat."

Torrence slid into the chair, glancing around the General's office. It was enormous: high ceilings, hardwood floors, a potted shrub in the corner, and a giant oak desk in the centre of the room. On the wall behind him was a huge map, surrounded by a variety of satellite and recon photos.

On the desk, he noticed a framed photo of a much-younger Turgidson, with his arm draped around a boy holding a fifteen-pound salmon. The picture must have been at least thirty years old.

The General took three deep puffs from his cigar, glaring at the other soldier. With one hand he closed the file he was reading, tapping the cover with his finger. He blew a thick smoke-ring right into the Sergeant's face.

"Well, well, Mister Torrence," he said with condescension. "I understand you've been on suspension for eight weeks while the incident at Hill 357 was deliberated."

"Yes, sir," replied Torrence, softly. "I've been spending most of my free time trying to re-wire my home stereo system."

General Turgidson rolled his eyes. "I am not amused, Sergeant. The Hill 357 episode is the worst case of cowardice I've ever seen. After reading the duty officer's report, I felt sick. Were you trying to make me vomit?"