Strain 11

Book III: Fall of the Dead

BOOK III: Fall of the Dead

MASON

Mason Jones opened the supply bag and took out a heavy jacket. It’s freezing out here. The cold air sliced through anything thinner than three layers. He pulled the hood over his head. Their camp was a small one. It had one tent, a campfire and some boxes that had things like extra ammo, food and other necessities for manning a Fang (whatever that was) quarantine in Oregon. The roadblock was right next to him. It blocked the freeway, but was rigged to blow in case anyone important needed to get into Marr. It was up to him and his team to protect it.

They had split Chisel squad into two parts. Jones, Vix and Hubbs were at the northeast side of the quarantine. The rest of the team was sent south to patrol SLAB. They weren’t the only ones either. Over two dozen squads were sent to guard the quarantine. Stupid VIPER, Mason thought. He hated all those shady government agencies. Jones and his gang were always being “borrowed” by various government divisions to do their dirty work. This was going to be his last mission. After that he was going to leave and find something less hard on his soul. They wouldn’t even tell him what he was up against, only he would know it when he saw it and he was instructed to die before he let one of them to escape the city.

He worked at SLAB (Sea Land and Air Base). Mason liked it because all kinds of military were there. There were Air Force, Army, Marines and even a few Navies. Jones himself was in the army, and Ron Hubbs was in the air force. Little use out here, Jones thought. Vix, on the other hand, was actually a Navy Seal. He couldn’t think of anywhere else that made squads with such diversity. But on the flipside, that was a problem. They were meshed together so much that they were indistinguishable from each other and didn’t really belong to anyone (which made them perfect for missions like these).

The government didn’t care. One soldier was just the same as another in their eyes. They were all expendables.

He was stuck in the middle of Oregon, quarantining his hometown and leaving his neighbors to be eaten by zombies. VIPER passed out RPs, Radiation Pistols, to everyone. They weren’t going to rely on whatever those were, so they brought their own weaponry (he was talking M-16s with Red Dot scopes). Still, VIPER talked about Fangs like they were supernatural. He didn’t want to be up against an enemy so confidential he had no clue what it even was. The only reason he didn’t run back to base with his tail between his legs was Vix.

His friend was a seven foot tall muscle man. Back at camp, he demanded a twenty three pound M60 machine gun when they were heading out. Right now, While Mason and Ron were huddled up by the fire under bulky fur coats; Vix was using the trees as target practice, wearing a tank top and jeans.

“Keep it down,” Ron Hubbs hissed. “You’ll attract the Fangs!”

“Good,” Vix replied. “Then I can show them a piece of my mind about all of this.” Someone appeared behind him. His clothes were torn and his flesh was rotting. Its fingers and mouth were soaked in blood. VIPER was right. He would know a Fang when he saw one.

“Watch out!” Mason cried. Vix turned around an unloaded his whole clip at the creature. It had bullet holes all over it; its arm was hanging on by half a tendon. The cheeks were completely torn off, so the thing appeared to have a creepy grin.

“I taught that sucker a lesson it won’t forget,” Vix snorted. The Fang sauntered over and tore the Navy Seal’s throat out. Ron screamed. It turned around and leapt onto him.

Mason fumbled for the radiation pistol. He turned the safety off, aimed and fired. The monster staggered backward and slumped down against a tree. Got it. Ron was dead; there was nothing anyone could do for him now.