User:Strike11/Nightmare
Nightmare
All persons, places, and events are fictional and totally unrelated. Any relations is just plain coincidential. To see my other works, see User:Light Master. (Just a friend of Strike11, who wanted a story.)
Chapter 1: The Drop
Master Sergeant Strike11, whose real name is never given out, motioned to his men. Strike12 kicked the door open, and shot at the target inside. The rest of his team moved in. Two targets popped out, Strike11 and Strike12 mowed it down with their powerful M4 Carabines. Three more loomed from behind, but Strike13 blew them away with a blast of his shotgun. Strike14 busied himself with the lock in front. Inside, was their primary objective, strapped on to a bomb. Strke14 steadied himself, and slowly removed the detonator. The bomb deactivated, and the training exercise ended.
"Good job, team," said Strike11 as he removed his gas mask and helmet. He wiped his face with a clean handkerchief. "Blue Seven, report to the briefing room," said the PA system. Strike11 nodded to his men. "Lets go."
"Listen up," said the major. "The city of Malton has been infected with a zombie outbreak, and we need trained men such as yourselves to sort this mess out." The major eyed every man in the room. "You are the SAS: the best of the best. Now show them what you got!"
Onboard the plane, Strike12 was figeting with his gear. Strike11 calmed him down. "Relax rookie, we'll be in and out before you know it." Strike12 nodded. "What was our objectives again, sir?" Strike11 sat down next to him. "We are to airdrop over Santlerville, conduct reconnaissance, and protect the civilian population." Strike12 nodded. "Thank you, sir," he said. "One minute!" shouted the crew chief. Blue Seven stood as one, the four man squad ready to go. "Good luck," said the crew chief as Blue Seven parachuted out of the plane.
The four dropped quietly to the ground. The four formed a box perimeter, and looked around. The area was on fire, the streets cracked with rubble, and buildings crumbling. "HQ, this is Strike11: we have touched down." "Roger, Srike11. Proceed with caution. Beware of the dead, since reports show that they may rise up again." Strike11 nodded to Strike14, the team's scout. The man's tactical camoflauged uniform moved swiftly around the rubble and disappeared from sight. Strike11 then turned to his men. "Alright. Eyes peeled, everyone, we don't want to mess-" a sharp scream from Strike14, and a staccato of gunfire interrupted Strike11's speech. He glanced at Strike13, and quickly ran to Strike14's position.
Guns drawn, and moving slowly, the three made it to Strike14's location. His body was on the floor, along with what seemed to be two rotting corpse. Strike13, the team's medic ran over to him. A thumbs down showed that Strike14 was dead. There were several moans nearby. All three raised their weapons, and placed their backs to each other. A large swarm of rotting corspes approached them. "Fire, FIRE!" Strike11 barked, and the trio quickly opened fire. The M4 Caribine's rounds shattered and shredded the zombies bodies, but there was too many. The three tried to hold on, but couldn't. A zombie grabbed Strike11, but Strike11 twisted him around and broke his neck. Through his gas mask, he saw the zombies plucked at his vest, his black uniform stained with their blood. A sharp kick, a punch, and a well thrown grenade blew them back. A zombie approached from behind and knocked him out.
Strike11 woke up, his body bruied and broken. Around him, were corpses and his teammates. A glance at Strike13's throat told him he wasn't going to get up again. Strike11 picked up his rifle, only to notice that it was broken. He tossed his useless weapon away, and looked around. He was the only one alive, but where was Strike13? No time to ponder about the fate of his teamate. He needs to arm himself and fast. Like it or not, he's doomed.
Chapter 2: Alone
Strike11 was, and still is, a soldier. He did not cry, but felt the emotional weight of losing his men. He took their dog tags, and burned their bodies. If the report was read correctly, then the last thing he wanted was to shoot his comrades. After stripping them of useful materials, he threw them into the nearest flame pile. After noticing that his radio was broken during the scruffle, he tossed it away. He then noticed an infected bite on his arm. He cleaned it as much as he could with the first aid kit Strike13 carried, but the infection was spreading through his body. He knew that if he isn't cured soon, he will die.
After staggering around the rubbles of the street, he came upon a collapsed building. Further inspection revealed it to be a bank. A lone zombie was wandering aimlessly around it. Strike11 slowly unsheathed his combat knife. He approached it slowly, with extreme stealth, and plunged the knife through his spine. He then turned it around and slit its throat for good measure. The zombie collapsed on the floor. Strike11 then noticed a dead bank security guard, holding a Colt Python. A quick check found it loaded, and a few speedloaders in his pockets, which he took. He then walked swiftly away.
Studying the map, he reasoned that he can meet up with the rest of his units down at Shearbank. Before he can do so, however, he collapsed from exhaustion. Hours later, he woke up, and realized what was happening. The infection wasn't an ordinary infection. He had also read reports that zombies can transfer the virus onto other hosts via bites. Not the one to panic, Strike11 thought of what to do quickly. First off, he needs better weapons. The Colt was a handy gun, but he needed something with more power. Next, he needs food and water. The ones he has isn't going to last. And soon, he will need a cure for the viral infection, before he too, will turn into one of the zombies.
Making his way to Shearbank, Strike11 saw lots of dead bodies. However, as he approached a gun shop, two zombies rose up. One of them looked familiar. "No," he said, backing up. Strike14 turned around, and moaned, pointing at him. The other zombie also turned, blood dripping from his mouth. The two slowly made their way towards him. The Colt was in his hands, but he wouldn't shoot. Not Strike14. Not the rookie. "I-I'm sorry," he whispered, a single tear streaked from behind his mask. As a soldier, he must do his duty. "I'm sorry." The gun went off. Both zombies fell to the floor, their brain matter and blood forming a puddle below them. Strike11 approached his comrade, and stripped him of his dog tag. He made a silent prayer, and quietly went inside the gun shop.
The shop was empty, except for the dead owner, slumped over a glass display with an empty shotgun in his hands. Strike11 looked around, and knew he must loot the store. Grabing some first aid kits and a box of .357 Magum rounds for his revolver, he then explored the gun cases. The first gun was broken. The second was taken, and so has the third. The fourth was a double-barreled shotgun, but looking around, he might as well take it, as the others were either the same model, or weaker. Pulling a box of shotgun shells out of the display case, he loaded the gun. A zombie tripped over a fallen clothes rack, and Strike11 turned around. As it fell to its knees, Strike11 kicked it hard in the face, causing it to fly across the room. Before it could get up again, Strike11 ran towards it and blew its head off with one blast of the shotgun. Panting, he looked around. He has to leave now.
Chapter 3: Shadows of Fear
Strike11 woke up with a start. He glanced around, holding the Colt in his hand. He didn't see anything. He was hiding out inside a local bar, with the small flame he used to cook food died out. The SAS Recon Division was supposed to meet here, but the five bodies outside told him they've moved on. So, he decided to stay until he recuperated. The virus hadn't make any serious moves, but Strike11 knew it would be a matter of time before he will succumb to the virus.
Strike11 checked his position. He was knee deep in s**t, with a revolver, a coach gun, and a standard-issue flare gun as weapons. His food supply is quite low, and he could practically feel the virus pulsating in his body. He groaned, and looked out the broken window. Outside, two zombies shuffled passed the building. Good, he wouldn't have to shoot his way out, wasting his precious ammo. After an hour had passed, Strike11 hurried out into the street.
Trying to pick up on the trail, Strike11 carefully glanced around each corner, and picked his way carefully across dead bodies, holding the revolver in his hand, in case one reaches out to him. Reaching the end of the street, Strike11 slipped the revolver back into the tactical holster, and unslung the shotgun. He carefully opened the door, and on the other side of the barrel is another barrel. Behind the barrel is a man.
"SAS, huh?" said the man, holstering the revolver. "Been there, seen it all, and trust me kid, its not a pretty deal." Strike11 lowered his gun. "I didn't join for the money." "Honor then? Trying to be proud for Mother England?" Sneered the man. "I've been to places you've never been to, and believe me, out there is worst than here, master sergeant." "How so," asked Strike11. "Zombies are dumb. They can't open doors, they gotta bust 'em down to get in here. They make a hell of a noise. They're slow. Get past their pretty looks and they're no smarter than you or me. It's the survivors you want to watch out for."
"Why is that?" The man puffed a cigarette. "Take a good look out there, grunt. There's no place to hide, nothing to protect them. They're desperate. Without food and water, they'll turn on each other to help themselves." "So why don't you help them," said Strike11. "Well, Mr. Artists Rifle-" "I'm with the main unit, the regulars, sir," said Strike11. The man clearly had an authoritive voice, so Strike11 knew he must've been at least sergeant major. "Good, you've deduced that I was an NCO. A regular you say, huh? My apologies then. I can't. I'm retired. They wouldn't respond to a noncombatant. Besides, they'd probably kill me before I even can announce myself. This is war, son, and you and I, we're just pieces on a larger board."
Strike11 stared. "Are you suggesting a conspiracy?" he asked, apalled at the thought. The man nodded. "To the highest level of the government. This is the top s**t. It makes sense, doesn't it? You didn't get sent in until two weeks after the incident. NecroTech has powerful friends in Parliment, and you are just a test subject for them." Strike11 glanced ou the window. The zombies shuffled passed the stores, not even looking through the windows. "Call me John for now. What we need to do, grunt, is to find a way out, restock our weapons, find any sane survivors, and to hold out as long as possible. I don't believe in the government, but for the moment, it's the best we got."
