tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54875275530915507362024-03-08T04:53:19.409-06:00The Specter Strain: Alpha 27R.Aw.R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14732054571417869348noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487527553091550736.post-10219118936820879272020-02-22T18:15:00.001-06:002020-02-22T18:15:52.423-06:0099% OF ALL HUMANS CAN'T DO THIS.. (Genius Only)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/hwxNmCqF2y8" width="480"></iframe>R.Aw.R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14732054571417869348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487527553091550736.post-27044314410796945492010-11-16T19:37:00.001-06:002010-11-19T21:26:17.548-06:00Chapter 4: Day Zero<u>4 Days Before Initial Infection - Geneva, TX</u><br />
<u> </u><br />
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Castro would find himself awake in a world of visual distortion as his partner shook him from the driver's seat of their SUV, "Stay awake dude, you're concussed, you can't be falling asleep on me."<br />
Night had become day, and Smith maintained his distance between Gonzales' vehicle, which was a barely-visible dot amongst the heat mirage on the horizon. Castro squinted in an attempt to focus his vision, but it would clear itself up in time for him to make his assessment, "We're running low on fuel, which means that he's running low on fuel. So I say we whack this motherfucker as soon as he stops for gas," Castro rubbed the side of his head in a weak attempt to alleviate the massive amount of pain in which he was suffering. <br />
"So what do we do, Cas? Just hop out when he hops out and light him up?" Smith alternated his alert gaze between his partner and the road before him.<br />
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"That's one possibility. Another possibility would consist of us waiting around to find out why he tried to kill us. Gonzo fucked us over for a reason. You don't just kill five of your employees for fun. My guess is that he took something out of that facility, and leaving us there to die would make us the fall-guys. I don't know exactly what kind of shit we've gotten ourselves into, but I know that it's big," Castro decided that his statement would suffice, and he decided to light himself a cigarette as Smith responded.<br />
"The way I see it, every second he's alive is just another chance for him to get away. I think we should pop his ass as soon as he stops then move on with our lives," Smith voice was shaking with frustration as well as fading adrenaline.<br />
"Walt, this ain't the fuckin' desert. We're not in the Marines anymore, and as far as I can tell, we're not contractors anymore, either. There are consequences for wasting people now, especially if we don't exactly have proof that he did anything wrong. The best thing we can do right now is stay focused, watch him, and wait for an opportunity to act. He's not a smart guy. If he was, we'd be dead right now. So we just gotta stay thinking, got it?" His tone was as stern as his stare. Castro wanted to be absolutely certain that Smith was on his level.<br />
"Felix, you're my brother. I'll back your plays no matter what. If you say we wait, then we wait," Smith's attention was immediately diverted forward, which caught Castro's scrutiny as well. Both men watched with intensity as Gonzales exited the interstate.<br />
"Easy bro," Castro instructed, "keep the distance. We got the element of surprise on our side, let's keep it that way."<br />
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<u>Day Zero - The Wood Country Motel - Geneva, TX</u><br />
<br />
To say that Gonzales was focused would be an understatement. The motel room he had rented just a few days earlier provided him with the basic essentials of on-the-go-living. One of these essentials was the office desk before him which acted as his workstation for his most recent improvised explosive. The weapon had a small explosive charge at the center of a circular collection of glass cola bottles which each contained a portion of the blood samples that he had acquired from the McKay Research Facility just a few days prior. He was skillful with his soldering iron, and he applied this skill to unite another cellphone to the base charge of the bomb. Upon completing the last of his tasks, he set the iron on the desk before stretching his arms upward to relieve the stress placed on his back by the inadequate padding of the desk chair. He stood from his seat after satisfying his strained lumbar and grabbed his own cell phone as he stood. His thumb found his desired speed-dial option, which would provide him with a dial tone, and an eventual answer.<br />
"It's Gonzo. The package is ready for delivery. I'll be expecting the second half of my payment by midnight, tonight. As long as you keep the fuckin' heat off of me, we're good. Keep in touch."<br />
His thumb deactivated the call and he tossed the phone onto the hotel bed before letting his weight free fall into the cushioning comfort before him. He spent no time contemplating the potential repercussions of his actions, as he was morally defunct. As far as he would allow himself to understand, this was just another job. His last.<br />
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---<br />
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"What the fuck is this dude doing? I bet he's ordered every porno on the fuckin' list," Smith, who was using his fingers to pry open the blinds of the motel room's front window, was agitated by the wait. Their vehicle, which they had determined to be easily-recognizable to their target, was parked at a grocery store adjacent to the motel. Their room sat across the motel's courtyard, providing them with the perfect view of their suspect.<br />
It was Smith's turn to watch for activity, which explained Castro's reclined position on the motel room bed in front of the television. He was unable to pay attention to his friend, as a breaking news report had warranted his fullest attention. Smith continued vocalizing his annoyance, "I bet this fuckin' guy is jerking it to princess cartoons, dude. He's probably in there right now, sitting in a pile of jizz towels, crying his fuckin' eyes out because he knows he's about to get dry-fucked. If we don't pop this fucker first, the cops are gonna fist-fuck this bitch for murder. I hope he ends up in-" Castro was quick to cut off his partner's rant, as he grew increasingly distressed by the picture on the television.<br />
"Walter, shut the fuck up and look at the T.V." Smith did as he was told, and he soon felt the fear that had engulfed his friend.<br />
On the television were military photos of both men, topped by a bold font which read, "McKay Research Facility Bombing Suspects". The picture disappeared in favor of a video displaying the smoldering remains of the facility, which was surrounded by police vehicles, yellow tape, and men in Hazmat suits. Castro rapidly smashed the television remote to increase the television's volume. They were greeted by the voice of the generic blond television reporter and her story.<br />
"...We have just received word that the FBI has officially named two suspects in the ongoing investigation of the recent terrorist bombing of the McKay Research Facility in Huntsville, Texas. Walter Smith and Felix Castro, both formerly of the United States Marine Corps, are now the center of a nationwide manhunt after their alleged involvement in Monday's bombing of a Texas-based chemical research facility. The bombing attack, which left three facility employees and five private security contractors dead, is being labeled as the worst act of homegrown terrorism since the Oklahoma City bombing. Authorities are asking for your help in reporting these men, but wishes to maintain that they are armed and extremely dangerous. If you have any tips or information related to these men, you can contact the FBI at-" Castro had heard all he needed to hear.<br />
"Grab everything, we gotta get the fuck out of here, now."<br />
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The men were in luck, as the desk clerk was totally oblivious to the breaking news story. It was upon their jog to their vehicle that the form of Gonzales finally appeared from his room's doorway, duffel bag in hand. Smith, in his uncontainable frustration drew his pistol, but Castro grabbed his arm.<br />
"No! He hasn't seen us yet. Get to the fucking vehicle and chill the fuck out." Smith was silently livid, but he did as he was told. The rush to the vehicle was a hectic shuffle, but they managed to make it without detection as they watched Gonzales enter and then exit the motel lobby and enter his own vehicle.<br />
Smith let his rage pour forth, "How the fuck did that motherfucker burn us, dude?! What the fuck?! Let me pop this motherfucker!"<br />
Castro's voice boomed in an effort to calm his friend down, "Are we dead? Are we in handcuffs? Are the cops right fucking behind us? No! Chill the fuck out!" Castro lowered his voice once Smith's resistance was broken, "When we are dead and in the fucking ground, you can lose your cool, got it?" Smith shook his head, settled in his seat, and said nothing as they once again began their pursuit of Gonzales.<br />
<br />
---<br />
<br />
It was the Geneva County Fall Festival in which Gonzales made his stop. He parallel parked his vehicle at a metered space, but failed to provide any change for the meter. Smith and Castro followed suit. Being dressed in newly-purchased generic store-brand clothing, the men blended in nicely with the abundance of festival-goers that littered the downtown area. The men did their best to keep a close eye on Gonzales, who carried the same duffel bag that he had carried out of the motel.<br />
"There are way too many people here to put a round in him. We can't risk wasting any civilians," Castro scanned over the crowd, ignoring the abundance of Halloween decorations and costume-clad children that surrounded them, "There's at least a couple-hundred people here, we're gonna have to wait."<br />
Smith spotted a nearby bookstore which had an upstairs cafe and patio, and decided that it would be an adequate high-ground for observation, "Yo, Cas. I'm gonna post up at that cafe so we don't lose him. Get on the comm, I'll let you know what he's doing." Castro nodded before inserting his earpiece as he continued his pursuit along main street.<br />
Smith reached his position, earpiece in place, and sent Castro a confirmation that they were online. Castro responded, "We're good. Keep me posted. Watch out for cops."<br />
It wasn't long until Gonzales reached the center of Geneva's downtown, which lay before their municipal building. This would be where the largest crowd was gathered for the Halloween costume contest. The town's mayor boasted the town's greatness from the stage at the center of the municipal building's courtyard, a stone statue of blind justice being his backdrop. Gonzales pushed his way to what he considered the center of the crowd before setting the duffel bag down.<br />
"Smith, he just set the bag down, now he's moving away from the crowd. I don't like this. I gotta make a move. I can't let him whack these people. If the cops grab me, make a mad dash for Mexico. I'll do everything I can to clear your name with the feds, but I think this shit is waist-deep. Don't be a fucking hero, bro, just get the fuck out of here." With that, Castro tossed the earpiece away and moved double-time after Gonzales. Smith yelled for confirmation into the earpiece microphone, but received nothing. Upon clearing the stairs of the cafe, he moved in full sprint toward the edge of the crowd.<br />
Gonzales had moved to the outermost edge of the crowd when he removed his cellphone from his pocket. Castro, who was still several feet behind Gonzales, began forcing his outstretched arms forward in an attempt to move people out of his way. He desperately needed to close the distance between them.<br />
The very moment that Castro grabbed the back of Gonzales' collar, was the moment that Gonzales pressed the 'send' button of his cell phone. The call was placed, which activated the vibrating mechanism of the cell phone attached to the bomb. The vibrating mechanism of the receiving phone emitted its electrical charge which set off the charge of the bomb. Upon its ignition, the improvised explosive ripped outward, shattering its glass surroundings in all directions. These shards of glass acted as tiny bits of shrapnel, ripping through the clothing and skin of the people unlucky enough to be in the path of the propelled glass. Following the glass, were the blood samples infected with the Alpha 27 virus, finding their ways into the cuts and scrapes caused by the initial explosions of glass.<br />
Castro heard the explosion behind him, but suspected the bomb to be a failure due to its lack of volume. As he turned his head to see the beginnings of panic behind him, Gonzales ceased the moment to throw a hard right hook into his pursuer's jaw. The blow sent Castro backward, his arms coming up in a late defensive maneuver. Gonzales turned back around and ran like the devil was chasing him. Smith was not far behind Gonzales as he made quick right turn into a nearby alley. As Smith turned the corner blindly to follow, he was greeted by hot rounds being fired at him from Gonzales' waiting pistol. None of the silenced shots fired met their mark, but they were enough to cause Smith to rethink his pursuit, giving Gonzales the opportunity to leap onto the rails of a building's fire escape. After hoisting himself up, he began climbing the stairs with as much speed as his fatigue would allow.<br />
Smith had once again drawn his pistol, his back placed firmly against the wall, out of Gonzales' sight. Castro had made a full recovery from the punch and soon found himself next to his partner.<br />
"I think his bomb was a dud. There are a few people hurt, but I don't think anyone is dead. Where's Gonzo?" Smith used his head to motion toward the corner to his right.<br />
"I think he's waiting for me to stick my head around, dude." Smith's breathing was heavy due to both his adrenaline and the running it required to catch up to Gonzales.<br />
"Fuck this motherfucker," Castro had reached the limit of his patience. He turned the corner with his pistol raised, doing a quick scan of the narrow alley. He caught a glimpse of Gonzales as he reached the top of the roof-access fire escape. Castro didn't hesitate. He fired three shots; the first would impact against the brick structure of the building, the second emitted a spark and metallic thump as it smashed into a rail belonging to the fire escape, and the third caught Gonzales in the lower back. Gonzales arched forward before disappearing onto the building's rooftop, out of Castro's view.<br />
Smith quickly joined up with his partner, and they both took their turns climbing the fire escape with their pistols drawn, awaiting an ambush. Castro was the first to poke his head above the roof's ledge. He spotted Gonzales face-down, crawling toward the rooftop access door of the building, a trail of blood smearing behind him. Castro lifted his weight upward, and onto the roof, Smith following close behind. The men were careful to avoid the blood trail provided by Gonzales' wound, as they followed his crawling form.<br />
"Hey buddy! Where the fuck are you going?" Smith exclaimed as he launched the steel toe of his boot into Gonzales' rib cage. Gonzales answered with an anguished yelp, which was muffled by the screams of the frightened townsfolk below them.<br />
"How many times did this little bitch try to kill us, Felix? Let's see, there was the Research office," Smith kicked his downed opponent once again, and was greeted another scream, "then you tried to run the both of us over in the research facility parking lot," another kick, another scream followed by whimpering, "and then you tried to shoot me a minute ago, you fucking piece of shit." Smith continued his spewing of obscenities as he threw a flurry of feet into Gonzales' ribcage.<br />
When Smith ceased his onslaught, Gonzales attempted to appeal to their senses of monetary reason, speaking through bloodied teeth, "Please. Don't fuckin' kill me," Gonzales began to pant as he spoke, sheer panic taking control of him. This was understandable, as Castro had his pistol level with Gonzales' head, "Seriously, don't. Think about it, how much do you think I'm being paid for all of this? Imagine a fucking number, okay? Imagine this number can can erase all of your bills, all of your debts, all your other financial bullshit, and put you on a pretty fuckin' leg to stand on. Now take that number and double it. That's what I'll give you. All you have to do is take me to the fuckin' hospital. I'll tell them I got popped in the confusion, I'll clear your names, I'll do everything, just please don't kill me." His eyes were as wide as the physical limitations of his face would allow. He did not believe that his lifespan was any longer than his plea.<br />
Smith observed Castro's demeanor, and he could sense his deterrence from the original idea to put Gonzales out of his misery, "Come the fuck on, dude. You can't be serious. Waste this motherfucker! You think you're gonna see a fuckin' dime once he's sitting in his comfy hospital bed with nurse tits, morphine, and jell-o to ease his pain? Kill this bitch." Smith jerked his pointer finger forward with each pronunciation in an attempt to show Castro his level of seriousness.<br />
"Walt, shut up, and help me carry him," Castro's statement ushered a repeated vocalization of gratitude from Gonzo and arguments of disbelief from his partner, but he shunned them both. Greeted by yelps of pain from Gonzales and angry muttering from Smith, Castro hoisted their injured target onto his shoulders and proceeded to carry him down the steps of the fire escape's metal staircase.<br />
Their path would lead them through the chaos created by Gonzo's bomb. The streets were alive with unrelenting panic, cries, and confusion. Parents inspected their children for wounds while police officers and other city officials did their best to contain the mayhem.<br />
"Do you see what you did? Look at this shit, motherfucker. You did this," Smith reveled in the harassment of his incapacitated assailant, "I hope when they're cutting out that bullet, the surgeon slips and slices of your dick, too." Despite the seriousness of the situation, Castro was still able to smile.R.Aw.R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14732054571417869348noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487527553091550736.post-5336017949585958122010-11-13T16:52:00.001-06:002010-11-19T21:26:02.590-06:00Chapter 3: Ten Days Before Initial Infection - The Birth of Operation: Red Storm<u>Washington D.C.</u><br />
<br />
The cafe was desolate aside from the only employee present, a teenage female hipster who was busy cleaning the display case for the shop's assorted pastries. Gerald Gordon was an island at the center of the cafe's patio, utilizing a second chair to house his wingtip-clad feet, which sat opposite from the chair in which he sat. On the table before him sat a small cup of heavily-sweetened black coffee, a half-eaten blueberry muffin, and a larger-than-average laptop. The laptop's screensaver was the CIA seal which blinked into visibility every few seconds. Gordon was waiting for someone, and he sipped away at his coffee as he waited.<br />
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It would be only a few minutes before the patio's glass door would swing open to reveal Senator Carl Weathers. His hair a freshly-dyed sandy-blond, and his suit custom-tailored to his nearly-obese physique. Gordon smiled as the senator approached the table he had selected, "Carl, good to see you," the men would shake hands firmly as the Senator pulled out a chair for himself before sitting, "I apologize for the environment of our meeting, but I felt it'd be best to see you in private in a place without wandering ears." Gordon reached for the laptop's left side to retrieve a flash drive from one of the computer's many USB ports. "On this stick is a detailed intelligence report that I have obtained from two insiders I have in the Iranian government," Gordon leaned forward to slide the memory stick across the table to his superior, "I'm going to cut through the bullshit and get to the point, Carl. We are in trouble. The Iranians are no longer playing the proxy war game with us in the Middle East. They want big numbers, and they want those numbers to be written in American blood."<br />
Senator Weathers kept his concern hidden, but could not contain his curiosity, "Are we looking at a dirty bomb situation?"<br />
Gordon was more than happy to oblige his superior's curiosity, "We are looking at a serious biological threat. Make no mistake, Carl, this threat is imminent." The Senator let his curiosity get the best of him once again, "How imminent?"<br />
Again, Gordon showed no hesitation in his response, "Two, maybe three weeks. The perpetrators will not be Iranian nationals. This threat is completely home-grown. We do, however, have financial proof that this attack is directly-funded by Iranian government officials. I have a team working on cracking the monetary transfer, but as you know, getting any sort of information out of the Swiss banking system is a gigantic pain in the ass."<br />
Senator Weathers pushed another inquiry, "How do we know that these Swiss accounts lead to anything significant if we don't know where the money is going?"<br />
Gordon was swift with his defense, "We do know where it's going, but at the same time, we don't know <i>exactly</i> where it is being transferred. My assets are two high-ranking members of the Iranian government, Senator, they're solid. Every piece of information in my report is solid. This is happening, Carl. Ignoring the situation will only set us up for another potential nine-eleven."<br />
Gordon's experience as well as reputation were virtually spotless, and it was because of these reasons that the Senator had no problem putting his trust in the man, "How do we fix this?"<br />
Gordon shook his head with his reply, "We don't. Not until my people find out where the money is going, first. The best we can hope for is a containment option, after-the-fact. My report details a potential operation, but I have to warn you, it's going to require you to back me one-hundred percent."<br />
"Always, Gerry," the senator replied, "but why? What's the play?"<br />
Gordon slid a his pointer-finger across the touchpad of the laptop in order to disengage the screensaver before turning the laptop at an adequate angle for the Senator's viewing convenience, "The play is Operation: Red Storm, and it is going to be the largest homeland military movement since World War Two, and we have less than two weeks to have it mobile."<br />
The Senator scanned over the screen in front of him, which detailed the outline of the operation, before leaning back in his seat and crossing his arms over his chest, "This is bad, Gerry. Really bad."R.Aw.R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14732054571417869348noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487527553091550736.post-22955900614314264052010-11-12T16:47:00.001-06:002010-11-19T21:25:50.142-06:00Chapter 2: Five Days Before Initial Infection - The McKay Research Facility<u>Dallas, TX </u><br />
<br />
The DarkForest Defense Contracting Company's briefing room was alive with the conversations and hearty laughter of former military personnel. The men were summoned for their next assignment, and were awaiting their superior's orders. Upon his entrance, Rudy "Gonzo" Gonzales made it clear to his employees that his presence was to be greeted with silence, "Okay, okay! Everyone shut the fuck up and put your eyes on me, we got work to do." The men did exactly as they were told. "First order of business, we got two new guys in the building. Everyone say hello to Felix Castro and Walter Smith," this order was followed by an overwhelmingly unenthusiastic greeting, "These guys are fresh from the Middle East, and have plenty of trigger time under their belts, so no one has to worry about working with some amateurs. With introductions out of the way, let's get down to business..."<br />
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Gonzales referred to packets outlining their next assignment.<br />
"DDCC has been contracted for the extraction of illegal chemical weapons from the McKay Research Facility in Huntsville, Texas. This is a low-profile, high-risk hometown assignment, guys. This ain't no VIP escort or bodyguard job. This job has been in prep-mode for the last two weeks. We have acquired two sports-utility vehicles which are waiting for us, fully-fueled, at our Hunstville base of forward-operation. We will be entering the facility at night, and we will be seizing a chemical compound dubbed, 'Alpha 27-S.I.' This is an extremely volatile compound, gents. We will not be fucking around on this one. We also have orders to capture and detain a Mr. John McKay if he is present in the facility. A color photograph of Mr. McKay has been provided for you in your briefing materials. Memorize the face because as soon as you leave this room, all of your shit is going in the shredder. Any questions?"<br />
Felix Castro was quick to respond, "Just one, sir. Why the fuck are we doing this? This is a cop problem, not a defense contractor problem." His statement was joined with a united agreement from the room.<br />
"Apparently the United States government feels that this unit is more qualified to handle the task at hand. When we get a job, we don't ask questions, we just do the fucking job. Understood?" The room soon became alive with a united, "Yes sir!"<br />
Gonzales continued, "Good, I'm glad we get it. Now gear-up and get your asses to the roof. We are hopping on the bird and doing this job tonight." Castro and Smith excluded themselves from the collective, enthusiastic uproar that followed.<br />
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Castro and Smith partnered-up for the assignment, which was to be expected. They had endured several years of military life, as well as several years of military contracting, together. They were battle-buddies for life, as Smith had put it several times before. Castro took great comfort in their partnership, as Smith was the only battle-hardened counterpart that he was able to get along with on a personal level. After collecting their equipment, and performing their weapon checks, Castro stopped his partner in the dim locker room hallway.<br />
"I don't like this shit, bro. Something doesn't feel right. This is some serious "under the rug" shit." Smith agreed silently, but kept his response limited to a simple ultimatum, "If you say we walk, then we walk right now. I got your back, no matter what."<br />
Castro took a moment to consider the implications of leaving and finding employment with yet another contracting firm, but more importantly, his poor financial situation. It would be the collection of problems resulting from walking away from the job that would overwhelm his original instinct, "Let's do this. Stay frosty." Smith smiled brightly before punching his partner lightly on the shoulder, "Oohrah."<br />
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<u>Huntsville, TX</u><br />
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Helicopter blades thumped at an audacious volume, leading most of the men to utilize earplugs or headphones. Gonzales stood before his group of seven, once he received a thumbs-up from the chopper pilot. He bellowed his announcement in competition with the chopper blades and the team's collective attempts to nullify the chopper's loudness, "Two minutes! Two minutes until touchdown!" The men took notice and forced themselves into full-alert. The two minutes turned into one minute, which turned into the heavy thump of the chopper touching ground.<br />
The forward-operating base turned out to be little more than a freshly-cut clearing in the countless miles of pine-forest which resided parallel to the Texas-based Interstate-45. Dead pine needles and pine cones were whipped into a miniature storm beneath the force of the Apache's blades, a potential threat to the eyes of the men, had they not elected to wear tactical goggles. Combat boots padded toward the center of the clearing, where two black SUVs had been parked bumper-to-bumper, previous to the team's arrival. Gonzales was the last to exit the bird, before the chopper crew lifted the rear compartment's ramp, and the chopper began its ascent and eventual disappearance beyond the treeline. Gonzales began barking his orders as soon as he realized his voice had the advantage over the quickly-vanishing helicopter, "Team Bravo-One get to the SUV in the front, Bravo-Two, to the rear! Walker, you'll be driving for Bravo-One, and Castro will be driving for Bravo-Two! Move!"<br />
Both Castro and Walker moved to their assigned positions after Gonzales tossed out the vehicle's keys with his orders. Smith made a quick dash for the front-passenger seat of Bravo-two's vehicle, but his attempt was defeated by Carter, another member of Bravo-two. His victory came with a smile and the statement, "Shotgun, bitch," before he climbed into his seat. Smith grinned as he climbed into the backseat with Collins to his left. Castro watched Gonzo climb into the front passenger seat of Alpha-One's SUV before hearing his voice over their ear-piece-based comm system, "Alpha-Two, you will follow our movements to the facility. From there, you will take up a position to the rear of the facility and enter the building by way of crowbar. You will do this on go-code, 'Alabama'. Repeat, breach the compound on, 'Alabama'. Stay close. Gonzo, out."<br />
As Alpha-One embarked upon its journey through a freshly-cut trail that eventually ended on the interstate, Castro felt it. The flood of adrenaline that took control of his heart and thrust him into life at two-hundred miles per hour. He focused on his breathing in an attempt to calm himself before Alpha-One exited the interstate and began a series of turns which eventually lead to the facility. Just as ordered, Castro and his colleagues swiftly dismounted from the vehicle following their screeching-halt in the facility's rear parking lot. Upon his exit, Castro released the SUV's hatchback before retrieving the crowbar that had been provided for their assignment. The men quickly formed a line, back-to-back, shoulders against the wall as Castro wedged the crowbar's hooked end between the door and its aluminum door frame. Smith, Collins, and Carter each produced their pistols as they awaited Gonzales.<br />
"Alabama" was shouted three times, but Castro wedged the door open with an audible crack before the second instance of the word. The door splintered at its lock, and the building's fire alarm sounded immediately. Castro held the door open for the other three men before following them into the darkness of the building.<br />
Smith led the team, their path illuminated by his tactical flashlight which occupied his left hand. His right hand, a tight fist around the grip of a Beretta M9 nine-millimeter pistol. Smith's adrenaline was on full-blast as well, as he made quick work of several doors along the narrow hallway of their path. The team worked swiftly to examine each room in hopes of finding their objective, but only found disappointment, as Alpha-One would beat them to the punch.<br />
<br />
Gonzales had taken the initiative to be the first man through the front door of the facility for a reason only obvious to himself; he knew exactly where to find Alpha 27. His silencer-clad pistol was drawn as soon as he exited the vehicle, and his outstretched thumb would press the button of his earpiece to give the men in the back the go-code. Immediately following his three, sharp declarations of "Alabama", he stood before the service desk of the facility. The desk was occupied by an elderly security guard with an expression of utter confusion. His mouth fell agape, as if to speak, but Gonzales swiftly silenced his potential verbalization by raising his pistol and firing two shots, which resonated in low-thumps throughout the room, into the guard's chest. The security guard's mouth remained wide open as his lifeless body slumped backward in his rolling office chair.<br />
Gonzales motioned his team to follow as he continued down the main hallway of the single-story facility, ignoring the rooms that his team opted to to breach and search. He arrived at his destination, a wooden door bearing the engraved words, "DEVELOPMENTAL STORAGE". He forced his weight forward in a solid kick, the door standing no chance against his intrusion. The room remained free of personnel, but full of storage lockers ordered by number. Gonzales removed a small key from his pocket and placed it in the keyhole of the locker numbered '27'. The locker contained a test tube rack filled with 16 tubes of what appeared to be blood. Gonzales carefully removed the rack and set it on a table behind him before retrieving a small black duffel bag from his attached gear. He ushered the rack into the safe confines of the bag as he exited the room to a group of confused mercenaries who stood ready in the hallway. One of them began to speak, "You cool Gonzo? Why the fuck did you shoot-" Gonzales quickly took control of the situation by appealing to their desire to follow orders, "Shut the fuck up and hold your fucking position, we got problems."<br />
The lie was not exactly a lie, as any man that remained in the building would soon be faced with a serious problem. Gonzales once again activated his comm to alert Alpha-Two to hold their positions as he made an exit from the facility toward the SUV in which he had arrived. Gonzales had made a terrible mistake in the assumption that all of his men remained in the building.<br />
Following the frustration in finding absolutely nothing of worth in any of the facility's rooms, Smith had decided to take a break for a cigarette. Castro, being a loyal partner, decided to follow for safety reasons. Collins and Carter gave no defiance to their temporary abandonment of work-related responsibility. Both Smith and Castro sat with their backs to the right side of the SUV, opposite from the facility. Castro began to voice his frustration to his partner, "This is fucking bullshit, bro. We shouldn't be here. There ain't no fucking way this is legal. If this shit gets out, it means our asses." Smith was slightly amused by his partner's frustration, and he responded as he brushed the underside of his gloved-left hand against the jet-black hair of his goatee, "Don't worry dude, once we get our checks, we'll tell these guys to fuck off and we'll get contracted somewhere else. I know you're sick of Iraq and <i>Trashcan-istan</i>, so we'll just look for some bodyguard work, you know? We'll pull some serious green babysitting slutty pop stars and over-paid sports heroes. You worry too much, dude. Everything's gonna be fine." Smith's final sentence would prove to be the most ironic statement of his life.<br />
Both men felt an intense heat on their backs the moment before they were face-to-face with the concrete that was previously at their feet. They were greeted with ringing ears, disorientation, and a shower of light debris delivered from the explosion site that was previously the McKay Research Facility. Castro was the first to regain his sense of awareness, being greeted by the eerie illumination of giant flames behind him. He turned to look, his vision still somewhat blurry, but he understood that the facility was now completely engulfed in flames. His first thought was to make contact with any of his teammates that might still be alive, so he pressed the 'talk' button of his comm earpiece, "This is Castro. Smith is down. Fuck. I don't... I can't hear shit. We need medical assistance." Castro decided that tending to the newly-awakened Smith was a better bet than trying to contact the people that he knew were dead.<br />
Smith moaned, but still managed to laugh as he reached for his still-burning cigarette which rolled back-and-forth in front of him, "What the fuck happened, dude? Did we just get mortared?" Castro could not find humor in his friend's inquiry, as he was now preoccupied with the headlights of Alpha-One's SUV, heading directly for them.<br />
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Upon entering the SUV, Gonzales set the duffel bag containing the recently-acquired substance known as "Alpha 27" into the passenger seat. He started the vehicle and after driving an adequate distance, he stopped and removed a cellphone from his front-left pocket. There was a single number saved in the phone's address book, and the number in question belonged to a bomb with a cell phone detonator. This particular bomb had been planted at the facility a week prior to DDCC's visit. Upon the bomb's detonation, Gonzales found himself pleased with the ominous explosion that appeared in his rear-view mirror. It wasn't long, however, until he felt his heart sink and his blood run cold with the sound of Castro's voice emitting over the comm airwaves.<br />
In a fit of blind rage, Gonzales immediately forced the vehicle into a sliding u-turn, much to the dismay of his tire treads. Streetlights became an increasing blur on both sides as his speed increased, only to decrease as the flames, produced by the explosion he had manufactured, came into view. He scanned over the front of the parking lot, looking desperately for Castro with no luck. It was when he pulled his vehicle to the rear of the flaming building that he witnessed Castro helping Smith to his feet. He followed his first instinct, which was to capitalize on the opportunity to run over both of the men with his SUV.<br />
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Despite Castro's fading disorientation, he sensed the impending danger in front of him. His first reaction was to shove Smith with all of his might in an attempt to get his friend out of the vehicle's path. He then made a hard dash in the opposite direction, toward Alpha-Two's parked SUV. Castro managed to slide across the hood of his target just as Gonzales slammed into the vehicle, sending Castro flying several feet away from the vehicle. Castro would once again lay unconscious on the pavement.<br />
Gonzales knew that he had missed, and his anger reached critical mass. He disregarded Smith completely, as Castro had been the center of all of his frustrations. With his pistol drawn once again, he exited the vehicle and raised the muzzle of his pistol toward Castro's unconscious form. Gonzales suddenly flinched as he felt the impact of safety glass stinging the side of his face, the unmistakable sounds of gunfire erupting behind him. His only option became escape, and he dove back into the driver's seat of his vehicle as several rounds impacted on the side of the SUV. He managed to speed off as Smith emptied the last of his magazine into the back of the escaping automobile.<br />
Despite being shoved to the ground, and emptying a magazine of rounds in an attempt to eliminate a target, Smith managed to keep the butt of his burning cigarette clenched tightly between his lips, "Motherfucker! Get some!" was his cry as Gonzales escaped. Smith spat the frayed butt of the cigarette he had failed to smoke, from his lips as he shuffled toward his waking friend.<br />
"Did we get him?" Castro's voice was strained, the sound around him replaced by a harsh ringing, and his vision was a hazy mess.<br />
"Fuck no, dude, he's getting away, we gotta go!" Smith hooked his arms underneath his partner's shoulders as he lifted the downed mercenary to his feet. Together, they entered the remaining vehicle and began their pursuit of the man that had attempted to take their lives.R.Aw.R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14732054571417869348noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5487527553091550736.post-34245612167091665692010-11-06T22:35:00.001-05:002010-11-19T21:25:33.640-06:00Chapter 1: Thirty Days After Initial Infection - Dr. Brooklyn Martin's First Washington Briefing of the Specter StrainThe conference room's symmetry suffered no indiscretion, as its table and chairs remained unoccupied. Dr. Brooklyn Martin and Senator Carl Weathers stood slightly right of the room's only entrance and exit. The senator had summoned the doctor in order to grasp the situation to the fullest extent. Senator Weathers thumbed through one of the freshly-printed, collated lab reports that the doctor had provided for the committee. A copy lay in front of each of the twelve seats upon the extended table designated for the meeting. The senator continued to skim over the report as he spoke.<br />
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"Doctor Martin, I would just like to say first and foremost that the United States government fully appreciates your long hours of service in the last month. This situation has grown substantially and your team has done phenomenal work in the field of identifying this virus and its characteristics. However, you've managed to leave out a very important detail in your report..." The senator raised his eyes from the binder resting on his open palms to meet a quizzical gaze from the doctor before continuing to speak, "How fucked are we?"<br />
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Doctor Martin's confusion disappeared as she displayed a more confident demeanor, "Well Senator, if Operation: Red Storm fails, we could quite possibly be looking at the beginning of the end." The Senator nodded slowly before pressing his thumb to the "page" button on the conference room's phone, "Send them in".<br />
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The members of the Washington-dubbed "Weathers Committee" filled the room with dull murmurs as each of the men in suits explored their individual copies of the initial virus report. The doctor assumed her position to the left of the room's projector screen in preparation of the presentation. The Senator stood before extending his hand to the doctor as he addressed the committee, "Gentlemen, I believe Doctor Martin is ready to begin her presentation." The room fell silent, the lights dimmed, and the projector screen rolled downward with a mechanical hum. The projector flickered before illuminating the room with the posting of the words, "The Specter Strain."<br />
The doctor began her monologue as she clicked the projector's remote, summoning the next frame of her report in brilliant color, "Gentlemen, this is the virus that we have codenamed, 'Specter'. My team has given the virus this particular moniker because it does just that; it creates specters." Another push of her thumb, and the next frame displayed a full-color picture of a red blood cell, post-infection, "The virus attaches itself to red blood cells. From here, it piggy-backs to the heart of the host in an attempt to fully-integrate itself into the organ. This process takes anywhere from ten minutes to one hour, depending on the host. Once Specter has assumed control of the heart, it has what can only be called a <i>feast</i> of red blood cells. This cell deterioration leads to an extreme thinning and mutation of the host's blood, and eventually integrates itself into the brain," The doctor continued her thumb's clicking with each new change of subject, providing the committee with details of the virus's methods, "Once Specter has taken the brain, it targets the pleasure center of the brain by completely inhibiting the production of serotonin and endorphins. This leads to the blind aggression we've seen in Specter's hosts. Motor skills become limited, communication and reasoning skills are nearly non-existent, and memory recall is seemingly impossible. The hosts do not understand who they are, where they are, or what they are... All they know is that they must kill anything in front of them with an uninfected heartbeat." Doctor Martin selected the next frame, the picture of a man on an operational table, postmortem, "The photos that we are about to look at were e-mailed to us from Geneva County Medical Center within Ground Zero, five days after initial infection. This man has been dubbed, 'Subject Alpha'. Subject Alpha was admitted to GCMC after the glass-bomb incident at Ground Zero. Subject Alpha suffered three gunshot wounds from a .45 caliber pistol; two shots to the center mass of the chest, and one shot to the forehead. I've included in your copies of my team's report, a police report from officer who shot the subject. This report says, and I quote," Doctor Martin referred to the page number containing the report, before reading a highlighted passage.<br />
"I approached the suspect as he attacked a nurse on the third floor of GCMC. After ordering the suspect to stop, I applied physical force. The suspect bit me on the right arm and began to punch me repeatedly. I fell to the ground as he continued to attack me. I managed to grab my weapon and I fired two shots to the suspect's chest. He collapsed immediately. I checked the suspect for vitals but they were negative. A nurse on the third level also confirmed the vitals were negative. About five minutes later, the suspect attacked one of the male nurses who was attempting to move the suspect. I approached the suspect and fired one more shot in his forehead. He stayed down."<br />
The men of the committee murmured again, this time in obvious concern and doubt of the virus's capabilities. Doctor Martin raised her voice in an attempt to silence the light uproar of the committee, "This Virus is not natural. It is, in my professional opinion, and the unanimous opinions of my colleagues, that this virus was manufactured, bred, and evolved by group of extremely gifted and well-funded scientists. It's way too sophisticated to be an accident, gentlemen." With that statement came the final click of the remote. The projector screen retracted, and the conference room lights returned to their full illumination, "Any questions?"<br />
The first and only response was to be expected, "How far are we from a vaccine?" The doctor maintained her tone, "We have no idea. We're just beginning to understand the methods of this virus. It is extremely fast and capable of things we've never seen before. While attempting a vaccine is always necessary, I think that our best means of containing the spread of this virus lies in containment. I'd like to request that my team be briefed on the details of Operation: Red Storm, so that we may..." She was blatantly interrupted by Gerald Gordon, a high-ranking CIA Agent and second-in-command of the Weathers Committee.<br />
"Doctor Martin, you do not have and will not receive a security clearance which permits you access to Operation: Red Storm." He was dressed uncharacteristically for the meeting, in a polo shirt and khakis, in opposition of the suit-and-tie approach. "Red Storm is a need-to-know operation, and everyone who needs to know, knows." He offered a closed-mouth grin before standing. "If we're finished here, I have to attend a meeting regarding Red Storm in less than an hour..." He checked his watch as he made his final statement, Dr. Martin simply nodded her approval. As he made his exit, Gordon made his parting statement, "Let me know when you find out something useful." With that, the door was closed behind him, and the murmurs began once again.R.Aw.R.http://www.blogger.com/profile/14732054571417869348noreply@blogger.com0