Terracorp (2)
Six hours until sunset. I'll count down every 30 minutes.
Infected tend to get more active at night. The ones inside buildings don't show much difference between day and night, though. Not sure if it's light or temperature, or just the infection itself.
I checked the internal blueprints I'd downloaded after commander authentication.
"Let's see here."
A rough plan for raiding this place had come together.
You look excited.
The shoulder cam turned to look at me.
"Feels like one of those soccer players from the Legend Match."
That's a weird comparison.
The shoulder cam swung back to its original position amid her giggle.
I split the team into three groups.
"Team 2, secure the B Wing maintenance bay area."
With a heavy voice, three robots moved into the front passage.
"Team 3, search for product blueprints in C Wing quality control and subcontractor lists in D Wing production management. Focus on receipts and expenditure approvals."
Subcontractors for a helicopter factory would be a goldmine of high-end materials. No point for refugees to eat them, and the government didn't have the bandwidth to requisition every small business. High chance they'd still be intact, so I'd dispatch squads to strip them bare whenever possible. Once I knew the types, quantities, and addresses of due shipments, I'd have a solid estimate on worthwhile spots.
"I'll secure the escape route."
Two robots followed behind me. Not just the path we'd taken—we needed options to bug out in any direction if shit hit the fan. Essential work, and relatively safer than the others.
Search began. Thirty minutes in, muffled gunshots echoed from other areas now and then. But not enough to carry through concrete and plywood to the infected horde hundreds of meters out.
Hold up. Check the spot 30 meters ahead on the left passage.
Artemis halted me via the shoulder cam—something spotted.
At the spot: one soldier's corpse. Hand barely poking through a door crack—easy to miss, but not her eyes.
Saw about 2cm of uniform pattern.
Whirr-whirr. The shoulder cam bobbed up and down like it was nodding to her gesture.
I gave it a light pat.
Screeech!
What are you doing?!
It shook side to side hard, like shaking off my hand.
The soldier had crawled here wounded, then run out of steam. Dried blood trail led one way. Following it turned up another body.
We reached the manpower staging room—a spot to sort day laborers bused in for assignments. Guessed the Home Guard met their end here. Room packed with decayed soldier corpses.
These weren't killed by infected.
"Grenade."
I picked up a half-shattered skull in front of me. Shard embedded above the eye socket. Triple-E grenade fragment.
"Entrance is sealed."
Behind the floor-level shutter: barricade of junk. The inner passage we'd come through was open—likely yanked by a soldier fleeing the blast. Got caught in it anyway, crawled wounded, and died.
No bullet holes in walls or shell casings on the floor. No signs of a fight. Sealed room, one grenade, total wipeout.
Interrogator's fuckup?
Soldiers here died instantly.
She pointed: scattered bones in a circular blast pattern. Epicenter right there.
"Student soldiers."
I lifted a damaged K2 rifle amid the bone shards. Student soldiers got reservist gear despite active status. Didn't need the equipment to tell. I'd seen enough skeletons—not a forensic expert, but immature bones? Obvious.
Mixed ages. Mostly 16 to 18.
"...Yeah."
Stretcher next to the blast center caught my eye. A body lay on it. Shielded somewhat by comrades between it and the grenade—bones mostly intact.
These avoided instant death but bled out or went into shock.
Bodies a few meters out: crawled to the edge and died. Few with intact limbs; one missing the lower half.
Intact cam here. Let's check the footage.
Corpse with captain's insignia on helmet. Gut torn open, curled on the floor. I removed the cam and played the saved video.
The footage opened with the military still intact. Refugee camp outside the factory under soldier control—aid and med support flowing.
Later clips similar: tents multiplying, people looking more ragged as days passed.
Then cut to chaos—resumed in heavy combat. Refugee camp in ruins; final line at factory entrance holding desperately.
Comms guy next to cam owner (the captain) frantically trying to raise help.
"Company commander, still nothing!"
Fresh-faced kid in glasses, acne-ridden private second class.
"Keep trying whether it works or not. You don't shoot—just cling to that radio till you drop. Success means we live; failure means we all die."
Captain coldly snapped as he slammed in his last mag. Screams from the front grew closer amid that brief exchange.
Comms kid gritted his teeth, radio to mouth. Tried. And tried. Relentlessly.
Click! Captain emptied his last rounds, snatched every mag from the kid's pouches.
"Company commander?!"
"What the hell are you doing?" the captain coldly asked the shocked kid.
"Sir? Uh, no—misheard you?"
Captain jammed the handset into the kid's ear hard. Puberty-cracked scream echoed. But he kept grinding till the ear turned beet red. Peacetime? Abuse scandal. Now? No one gave a shit.
"Told you no shooting—just radio till you croak. Forgot already?"
"Sorry, sir."
Line crumbling meanwhile. Just as the front collapsed, comms connected.
"Got it!"
Captain bolted over, snatched the handset.
"Sir! Immediate retreat order... What?!"
Faint hope in his cold voice shattered to horror. Comms kid flinched as the handset flew; juggled to catch it.
"Gas!!!!!!"
Captain bellowed forward.
"Gaaaaaas!!!!!!"
Second roar cracked his voice; he coughed. So loud it shredded.
"Gas?" Dumbstruck kid stared.
"Gas!!!!! Gas!!!!! G...as."
Whoom! Captain's voice faded spotting a bomber appearing behind the factory.
Then a sound cut through screams, roars, gunfire, blasts. Tick. Bomb release.
Two fat air-dropped bombs from the bomber belly. Hurtled forward by momentum but wobbling wildly from drag—like a dying top.
Cam followed captain's gaze, sweeping the scene. No gas masks anywhere. Soldiers too busy pumping rounds into approaching monsters.
"Gas! Gas! Gaaaaaas!!!! Fuck! Gas masks on!! You retarded shits!!!!"
Captain donned his; slapped the dumbstruck comms kid awake to do the same. Nearby troops followed. Frontline fighters? No dice. Missed the warning in the din? Forgot MOPP training—what "gas!" meant? God knows.
Whoom! Six total bombs from additional bombers slammed into the melee center.
Clang! Clunk! Buried with a racket—no flames, no fire. Most thought duds.
But six all duds? Truth: delayed fuses from pilots for sudden Danger Close chem warning miss. Boys didn't know missile markings meant chem shells. Ten days training, then frontline.
Foosh! Emerald green gas erupted moments later. Swallowed nearby infected; hellish howls filled the air. Coughing, puking monsters—eerie as fuck.
Delayed the collapsing line, good. Problem: gas racing toward troops fast. Front fighters oblivious in the frenzy, engulfed. Soon screaming with the monsters.
Rear troops clocked it. Issue: 10 seconds to mask up; monsters'd rip 'em sooner. Mask and get shredded? Fight, suck gas, die slow? Death's dilemma.
Troops split—most ditched fighting for masks. Some skipped masks for guns. MG gunner on cam: one of 'em. Kept firing amid masking comrades, shielding them till green cloud hit.
Footage cut, resumed inside factory—right here, where soldiers wiped.
Outside: savage infected roars. Dying gas victims' screams faded fast. Tons of monsters still hunting survivors.
Handful of ten troops, masked, shaking.
"Move! Block every heavy thing!"
Captain directed barricade build.
"Hurk... glurk..."
One kid on stretcher, horrific state. The selfless MG gunner who'd bought mask time. Somehow dragged inside—but barely alive. Vomit filled mouth, spilling down cheeks; burst veins bled eyes red. Incontinent mess soaked his crotch.
"Hurk... glurk..." Coughs sprayed bloody puke chunks.
'Please... kill... ugh... mercy...' Tears and snot streaming, begging. No one listened. Kids in panic. Monsters hammering door, dire straits, parents MIA, no backup. Half mad.
'Kill... me...'
MG gunner muttered endlessly—empty echoes.
Ten seconds later: shouts, screams erupted.
Bang! Bang! Two shots. Panicked sergeant stared at the MG gunner he'd just shot—chest.
Roll roll roll. Grenade tumbled from the small frame. Eyes locked on it. No pin.
"Fuck! Down!!!"
Captain's bellow. Last frame: MG gunner's face.
'Finally... peace.' Serene resolve.
BOOM!!!
Grenade blew; meaningful footage ended. Just fading groans after.
I set the cam down, approached the stretcher corpse.
"Haa."
War's bullshit shines here. Selfless acts screw you—if that's the world's way, battlefield cranks it to eleven. Piles up till everyone's victims.
Enough. Let's go. Nothing more here.
She urged. As she said, leaving the room, I glanced back one last time.
MG gunner on the stretcher. Bad end, but no blame. Brave kid faced hellish terror. Just couldn't endure the hellish pain after.