The Few, The Proud, The Undead

VI

Sergeant Torrence and Private Vicman made it back to the base camp in less than ten minutes. The fire had burned down to cinders.

The Sergeant rushed over to grab the radio off the ground. Before he could reach it, an exhausted and badly beaten Vicman collapsed onto the ground.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," he groaned, weakly.

Torrence knelt down beside him.

"Let's take a look at that scratch," he said.

He reached over and grabbed one edge of the bandage. It was soaked through with blood. Slowly, he peeled it off Vicman's neck.

The wound had gotten worse. It looked three times bigger, it smelled like rancid meat, and it was oozing a milky green puss. It even seemed to be glowing. It didn't look like anything from a medical journal, but more like what you'd find after a fire at an abattoir.

Torrence was taken aback. He put his hand over his mouth to keep from retching. He looked down at Vicman, who wore a blank, painless expression.

"That must hurt like a bitch," said Torrence.

"Nah, not really," Vicman replied. "It doesn't feel all that bad. Sort of tickles, sir."

The Sergeant threw the used bandage onto what remained of the simmering fire. He pulled a fresh one from his pocket and re-wrapped Vicman's neck.

He giggled as the Sergeant pressed down on it.

Torrence pointed to the Private's injured arm.

"You gonna be able to use that?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. No problem."

"Good. Get up."

He leaned down and helped Vicman to his feet.

"Grab the firepower. Everything we've got," he ordered. "Use one of Buff's packs if you have to."

Vicman nodded in agreement. He started going through all their remaining supplies, pulling out all the weapons and disregarding everything else.

Torrence picked up the radio and flicked the dial.

"Come in, red leader," he shouted into the microphone, angry and defiant.

He waited. All he heard was static.

"Mayday, mayday. Do you copy, red leader? Please respond." His words got louder with every syllable. "We need to evacuate immediately. The mission is in serious jeopardy. Over."

Nothing but static.

The Sergeant slammed his fist against the radio. He screamed into it, furious.

"Answer me, goddammit!! I know you bastards can hear me! Answer me!!"

***

Back at Fort Campbell, Sergeant Torrence's blaring taunts could be heard echoing through the hallways. They sounded scratchy and garbled, even coming out of the highest-quality speakers military technology had developed.

Those speakers were mounted on a wall in the Radio Room, alongside stacks of radar screens, monitors, computers, dials, lights, switches, and buttons. This was cutting-edge technology. Everything was sleek and shiny, humming and whirring and performing countless calculations in a microsecond. This was years ahead of anything civilians could get. The room looked like the bridge of the starship Enterprise.

It was all being controlled by a single operator. He was a nebbish little man, pudgy and balding, wearing a large headset with a microphone attached. He was pale and greasy, as though he never saw daylight.