Rescue Operation (3)
The rescue robot soldiers stealthily crossed the silent, darkness-shrouded beach. Ahead of them loomed a steel fence topped with razor wire. Unlike a regular port, this one—linked to the Offshore Prison for exchanging supplies and prisoners—bristled with security features.
Far off, the target ferry came into view. To reach it, they had to pass through the port management office building. Two squads held security on the perimeter while the third gathered at the fence. No low voices or hand signals—just wireless chatter logging their communications, beamed straight to the Central Control Room screen I was watching.
> Securing passage.
A squad member from the rear sliced through the chain on the sliding gate with a cutter. Clang-clang-clang. As they cautiously swung the fence open, a faint groan echoed from somewhere in the distance. They held position briefly, alert, but no infected appeared. The rescue team filed through the gap in a line.
Further along the fence, corpses dangled here and there—rotted to rags and bones, swaying gruesomely in the barbed wire.
> Port grounds entry complete. Launching drones.
Three palm-sized silent drones lifted off from Echo Squad, circled briefly to map the operation route and emergency retreat paths, then settled into observation mode at key vantage points.
The prime target, the ferry, sat docked at the pier. To undock and refuel it, they needed access to the main computer in the port management office. It was a safeguard against prisoners hijacking the vessel—solo departure was impossible.
> Primary objective reached. Move to assigned positions.
The team reached the entrance to the port management office. Alpha and Charlie Squads were armed for combat: gas guns, flamethrowers, and ample ammo. Echo Squad, by contrast, carried engineer tools—gas guns as backup, plus fire axes, sledgehammers, and various implements.
> Shutter is down. Securing entrance.
The robots' third-gen night-vision scopes spotted the shutter control box. Mounted high, no ladder needed. Two squad members locked arms into an impromptu ladder; Echo Squad Leader climbed up. Their steel frames held steady under triple-digit weights.
Crunch. The lock resisted, but steel claws ripped the lid free, exposing motor and circuits inside.
> Power's cut. Opening manually.
Echo Squad Leader thrust a hand—now a tool—into the motor shaft linked to the shutter. Whirr. An electric drill spun up, and the shutter began retracting slowly. Then came another groan—louder, closer.
"Maintain shutter opening. Stopping now means we're screwed."
The squad leader, paused for a split second, resumed at my order. Grind. Just as it neared full open—
"Kieeeek!"
An infected lunged from the dark. Bang! A security robot fired instantly. Liquid gas exploded, propelling a steel spike through the thing's skull. It burst like a watermelon—brains and blood spraying.
"Kieeeek!" Bang! Bang! Bang!Thud. Splatter. Crash.
Two more dropped, forehead and eye pierced clean through. The last writhed, neck ruptured, spine severed.
> Reloading.
> Reloading.
Reloading squad members got cover fire. Artemis's gas guns packed a punch but had short range and just three shots. Robotic calm let them wait for close approach, then nail vitals in one. No instinctive fear of misses. No fumbling reloads creating gaps. Their emotionless precision minimized flaws, maximized strengths.
> Entering.
The team rushed through the open shutter into the port management office.
"Kieeeek!" Dozens of infected pursued, but bunching up in the narrow space was suicide. Whoosh! The flamethrower soldier hosed them in white-hot fire, roasting the lot instantly. No prolonged screams—the intense cyan flames seared throats and melted vocal cords.
Inside was chaos. "Logistics warehouse."
Forklifts, scattered pallets, cargo everywhere. No infected in sight. But groans echoed from outside again—drawn by the noise.
The guards sped through the warehouse into the hallway. Sizzle. Echo Squad's last four welded the entrance shut in seconds. Even if infected flooded the warehouse, breaching that would take time.
"No more flamethrowers from here. Fire could spread and fry the main computer—we'd lose the ferry."
> Acknowledged.
The flamethrower fell back. Echo members with axes and tools supported the riflemen. Ammo was finite; better to melee when possible.
I couldn't help but admire the robots' fluid coordination on screen. Low stances, swift moves, no blocking fire lanes. Always at least two covering any approach. Pinpoint accuracy, unflappable calm.
Through the hallway, an office slaughterhouse appeared.
"Kii—" Bang! An infected popped from behind a cabinet; its head vaporized before sound escaped. The spike buried deep in concrete.
> Unrecoverable. Advancing.
Artemis's gas guns worked like crossbows: gas explosion launched spikes. Recoverable in theory, so squads assessed post-shot.
"Kiii—" Two more stirred from hibernation in a corner. Bang! Bang! Heads exploded; they slumped.
Pure one-shot kills. Optimal positions, assigned targets—no misses, no waste.
"Kieeeek!" One charged around a corner bend—no clear shot. Smack! A robot bashed its skull with a stock. Blood sprayed; it slammed into the wall, slumping like red paint dripping down.
Another leaped over the corpse. Bang! A spike from behind pierced arm and torso, pinning it upright to the wall. It thrashed futilely as the team dashed past.
"Kieeeek!" It strained to bite—out of reach, howling in rage. Then crunch! An Echo member's fire axe cleaved its head. Splatter. He flicked blood off casually.
A hulking robot one-shotting an infected, shrugging off the gore—it was badass.
> Entering basement. Activating emergency generator.
Power source for the main computer. At hallway's end: basement stairs.
> Narrow passage. Big & small formation.
Formation shifted: pairs, one crouched, one standing firing stance. Maximized firepower in single file. Humans would've cramped up fast; robots pressed on flawlessly. In pitch black, only their red eyes glowed.
Something twitched in peripheral vision. Bang! "Chik!" A half-smashed rat, spiked to the wall.
> Normal rat.
A melee robot pried the spike free with his axe haft, tossed it. Shooter caught, checked, reloaded. Click.
> Emergency generator located.
Echo's feed showed a diesel building generator, fuel tank full.
> Awaiting orders.
Critical objects required my go-ahead unless emergency.
"Activate it."
Whirr. Switch flipped; motor spun up. Gauge needle swung right—power flooded the building. And a massive roar filled the basement.
"Noise'll draw infected. Move fast."
They bolted upstairs—then disaster. Boom! Two auditorium doors burst open beside the hall, infected pouring out. Flank ambushed, formation shattered.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Pinned squad members struggled under the pile as fire came from both sides. But more kept coming than fell. Outnumbered bad.
'This won't—'
Echo Squad Leader's feed jerked wildly. He shouldered low like a rugby player, barreling through— infected flying. He reached the doors, arms outstretched, gripping both handles. Solo steel barricade.
His shaky cam showed the auditorium: infected waves. At least two hundred charging, eyes burning hate. More rising from dormancy—old folks, kids, students. Post-outbreak shelter for locals, judging by military and police uniforms among them.
"Kweeeek!"
Hordes slammed the entrance; he took it all alone. Bitten, clawed, battered to rags—but he held. That bought time: hallway cleared. Flamethrower teams reached the doors.
Crunch! His right arm sheared off.
Whoosh! Cyan fire pillar roared inside.
"Grooooaaar!"
Hundreds burning, their hellish chorus spanning every scream pitch imaginable. Moths to flame, they jammed the bottleneck—massacred quick. No time for cleanup. Power held; prep the ferry fast.
"Move! Time's short!"
Rushing to the second floor, their feeds caught charred Echo Squad Leader: hands on handles, kneeling, head bowed motionless. No soul, just code—not like Artemis, Rose, or Chloro. Yet that noble wreck burned into my mind.