Conflict of Culture

Conflict of Culture - Chapter One Scene Nine

Like all Earth’s citizens, Fyle entered the military upon graduation from high school. He was eighteen. And, like most of Subpertino’s citizens, because he was considered a member of the proletariat, he was enlisted into the infantry.

Being one of the smartest people in his class made no difference. Nothing mattered except how much money his family had. Not his athleticism, popularity, nor community involvement - all of which were near the top of their respective metrics.

Two years was the minimum tour of duty - six months of training, eighteen patrolling the surface. A lifetime of being on-call. It was the protocol necessary to maintain a society devastated by the deadliest war in human history. One that continued to the current day.

Although not so much a war any longer as a perpetual security action. Clearly defined battle lines no longer existed. The bulk of the enemy forces had been wiped out. Still, new pockets were plentiful, and old ones were replenished. The environment remained inhospitable to human life.

It all started in 2026 with a single impact. A nuclear superpower of the time took a direct hit to one of its major cities. Millions died in an instant from this undetected threat. Millions more died from the fallout. Billions died from the repercussions, and what was eventually brought forth.

Nobody took responsibility for the devastation. No evidence of just who or what caused the explosion surfaced. As such, the superpower went into crackdown mode. Immediately following the impact crisis, the superpower escalated its homeland and overseas military interventionist policy to sovereign nation-trampling levels. This overstepping of bounds resulted in a push-back from the rest of the world, which resulted in a world war.

At first, it was fought with conventional weapons and computers. Then someone had the bright idea to haphazardly weaponize their genetic research. Next thing they knew, the world was overrun with what could only be described as an army of uncontrollable mutant monsters. After that, the nukes came out, but not before civilization began migrating underground.

This was the world Fyle was born into. Monsters roamed the surface of the planet. Humans lived in underground city-shelters.

***

Fyle adjusted the helmet’s position and checked the straps on his mask for the fifth time in the last ten minutes. Sweat beaded on his forehead and ran down the back of his neck. A whirring sound told him the APC’s environmentals had kicked in. The sudden restless shifting of the other 19 grunts in his platoon told him they understood just what that meant, too. They were nearing the surface.

An hour of travel is how long it took to get there. He’d experienced it every day the last week in preparation. The difference is that today would be the first time they’d breach the membrane. It was to be the Mobile 313’s christening.

Soon. Soon. Fyle checked the power gauges, gaussian stabilizers, and clip sureness on his AMR-2. Not that it was necessary, as he was only being deployed to the outside entrance security base and wouldn’t be going into the field for another week. If not for how they’d drilled the uncertain nature of the outer world into him, it wouldn’t have been such a concern. He half-expected the compound to be overrun with Xeno-genetic Abominations (XgAs) standing by ready to pounce as soon as the doors opened. From the looks of things, everyone else felt the same.

The red adaptation lighting blinked dark three times, signaled they’d crossed the threshold. They’d officially become rights-holding adults. Despite this milestone, nobody cheered. If anything, a touch of despair settled over the group.

Fyle felt the vehicle stop. He quickly checked the straps on his body armor/haz-suit and adjusted his mask once again, tightening it even more. He’d heard the horror stories passed down from returning troops of those who didn’t take the state of their equipment seriously. The least alarming ones grotesquely detailed a slow organ deterioration. The most, involved a loss of control and eventual transformation into XgA, accompanied by live vivisection.

A low-pitched hissing sound indicated the compartments seals had been released. The troupe got into position, weapons pointed at the opening door. The lights switched off and the entire rear wall - all 3.5 meter width of it - lowered to the ground as a ramp.

They were facing the defense wall. It was a 4 km semi-circle of carbon steel standing 40 meters tall and backed up to a cliff face. He’d learned in training it had a 2 meter wide hall running through the center of its 20 meter thickness and had nine stories. 30 mm rail-cannons were spaced every 100 meters along the top.

It was night, but the entire flat and empty paved area between them and the wall was lit and shadowless. They moved out in formation as taught, and immediately came under fire from their blindside. Six people went down in the first volley. Fyle believed his nightmare had come true.

“Get down.” “Retreat to the back.” “Who’s firing on us?” “Where the fuck is it coming from?” These were all things heard as the 313 tried to get their situation under control. Some people went left, some went right, and some scrambled into the vehicle. Fyle dove to the ground and did a roll to position himself facing the direction from whence he suspected the attack came from, just in time to see the three person group that went that way drop. Using a fallen compatriots’ ass as a gun mount, he fired blindly until he got his bearings.

Portable temporary barriers formed a row 50 meters away. Similarly equipped soldiers fired at Fyle and his group from behind them.

“Don’t shoot. We’re on the same side.” Someone else must have noticed the same thing. Fyle didn’t dare take his eyes off his targets to check who, or find out what happened to him. He continued to send round after round of ammunition towards the enemy.

Three things about the shooting struck Fyle as odd. One, his rifle didn’t have half the recoil he was used to; two, his flechettes failed to do any damage to any of the hard surfaces they hit; and three, there was no ricochet. It was as if they completely dissipated upon impact.

The munitions tech did say they were being outfitted with experimental projectiles, but Fyle thought nothing of it at the time. He was too distracted by and focused on the deployment.

Fyle was also surprised that there was shooting going on in the first place. Apart from the obvious unexpected aspect of being shot at on base, but because in none of their briefings was it ever mentioned that the XgAs used firearms. He was told they used pure energy blasts such as plasma and lightning, or natural projectiles akin to needles and spikes.

Reflecting back to the stories he’d heard, he was quickly coming to the conclusion that the entire base had been affected by the transformative virus. He had no idea if there was a stage where they looked like normal humans, but acted like Xgas. He’d never dug deeply into the details.

He didn’t have time to think about it because four groups of three broke off from their protected positions and advanced on Fyle and his team, whatever was left of them. He did what he was trained for and yelled, “incoming forces, prepare for assault,” in-between the heavy-sounding tinks coming from his weapon in short bursts. Two from one group were clearly struck in the chest but, other than stumbling, appeared unfazed.

“Twenty meters. Heavy armor.” Fyle, seeing the bursts had little to no effect, lined up the lead person’s legs in his sights and went full auto. I’m taking one of you bastards with me if that’s all I can do. He continued to train the weapon on the enemy soldier as he collapsed forward with his momentum - up his abdomen, chest, and to the top of his head.

Fyle hollered and fired at the one downed soldier until the rest targeted him. He could practically read the names stitched onto their chests. At least ten different impacts were felt across his back, followed by searing jolts of electricity that short-circuited his nervous system and caused the loosening of his bladder and bowels.

Duh. Training rounds, you idiot. Fyle couldn’t believe he didn’t recognize them, and all because he thought he’d been supplied with live rounds. He couldn’t move, but he could still think. What’s next? Are they going to infect me to become like them? Damn!