Myke Cole - Shadow Ops - Control Point

The remaining corpses paused, spreading out to circle him again, advancing more cautiously. Britton backed toward Truelove, careful not to get too close. “Can’t we talk about this?” he asked.

“Not a chance,” Truelove answered, grinning, “unless you want to surrender.”

One of the corpses took a tentative swipe at Britton, who chopped down hard on the wrist. The hand hung askew as the thing backed away. “Nasty,” Britton hissed. “Seriously, Rictus. With all due respect, that’s disgusting.”

Truelove laughed hard, his hands dropping to his knees. The circle of zombies paused.

Britton threw open another gate, pushing the magical current through it. He felt the penned dogs and roped one easily. The gate shimmered and spit it out. It snarled at the alien smell of the animated corpses and sprang, seizing one by the throat. Britton dove over it, scissor-kicking a zombie in the face and sending it rolling. He spun as he landed, sliding a gate like a cleaver down the line of the circle, cutting through three more. He sprang after the gate, shutting it just as he emerged on the last corpse, grabbing it by the throat and lifting it off the ground. Its dead face was blank, its little legs kicked at him. He squeezed the thin neck, like chilled rubber. It stank of chemical preservatives.

He wrinkled his nose. “We done here? I think I’m going to be sick.”

Fitzy nodded, and Truelove lowered his arms. The corpse went limp in Britton’s grip, and he dropped it, wiping his hand on his trousers.

Fitzy began to gather the broken corpses and drag them into a pile in the corner, where two soldiers moved them onto the discarded tarp. A fresh pallet was wheeled in through another entrance. “Give me a hand here, it’ll go faster,” Fitzy said. A few of the corpses had traces of the white paint that dotted Marty’s face and completely covered the Goblin sorcerers they had fought at the LZ.

When the floor was clear, Fitzy called for another round, doubling the number of zombies. Britton flew through the fight, the gates opening and cutting with fluid precision. “Zombies are inefficient,” Fitzy commented. “The real enemy will be smarter and harder. Remember that and don’t get cocky.”

What real enemy? Britton thought. What could possibly be nastier than that blob of flesh we just took out?

But despite Fitzy’s warning, Britton found it hard not to get cocky. He slid the gates around like giant razors, dispatching his opponents five at a time. My God, he thought, finally appreciating the power of GIMAC. I am truly beginning to master this. I’m a one-man army. I have rescued hostages, I have taken out a Render who flattened an entire NYPD SWAT team. By the end of the third round, he toyed with the corpses, gating in and out behind them. He pulled one into the loading bay, threw it to the dogs, then leapt out behind another, dropkicking it into its fellows before gating back out of sight.

By the end of the practice, he felt as if he were flying. Truelove threw his hands up. “Enough,” he said, “uncle.”

Fitzy clapped lightly, one corner of his mouth slightly twisted. “Adequate.”

Britton nodded gratefully and clapped Truelove on the shoulder. “That was kick-ass, man. Seriously.”

Truelove grinned, transforming his face, showing some of the confidence Britton expected in a man his age. “You made pretty short work of the whole crew.”

“Yeah,” Britton agreed, “but it won’t be like that when you let ’em loose on a real enemy. Man, it’s going to scare the crap out of them!” It wasn’t idle praise. He remembered the dead faces circling him, empty eyes staring.

Truelove grew pensive. “I’ve never been in a real battle. I mean, nothing beyond these little raids.”

Britton clapped him on the shoulder. “Neither have I. I don’t think wars are fought like that anymore. It’s no big deal.”

“I think it’s a big deal,” Truelove said. “We still work for the army, you know? What if we have to fight hundreds of people, like the training we just did, only real?”

“Then we figure it out as we go,” Britton said. “It’s serious, but that doesn’t mean it has to be heavy.”

“What was it like when you rescued those hostages?”

Britton thought about it for a moment. “It’s like what you think it would be like. Shouting, confusion, terror. But you just follow your training, and everything sort of snaps together and works.”

“It works for you,” Truelove said.

“It’ll work for you, too.” Britton nodded. “Hell, it already did.”

“What if it doesn’t?” Truelove asked.

“That’s why we work as a team. So we can lean on each other.”

“I wasn’t a lot of help back there, in the sewers.”

“Are you kidding me? If you hadn’t held that blob in place, I would never have had the chance to get Downer what she needed to finish it off. We did it together, Simon. It wouldn’t have worked without all of us.”

“It wasn’t enough to stop her…” He trailed off, but Britton knew what Truelove was picturing. Downer on the ground, her lower body twisted and bloody.

“That’s combat, Simon,” Britton said. “It’s messy and dangerous, even when things go off perfectly. It’s the business we’re in. Downer is alive because of you. Remember that.”

Truelove looked silently back at him, eyes grateful.

“I’m going to shower and get changed,” Britton said. “I’ll meet you at the OC, then we can grab chow?”

Truelove nodded. “I’m gonna stop by the cash first. That fight gave me a splitting headache. Lemme see if I can get a couple of aspirin first.”

Britton accompanied him, hoping to see Therese or Marty. They approached the hospital just as the flaps whipped open, a squad of MPs rushing through in helmets and body armor, carbines slung across their backs.

Struggling in their arms, hands zip-cuffed behind him, was a Goblin contractor. The squad dragged him away from the cash, long feet trailing in the mud.

Britton looked to Truelove, who shrugged. He turned to one of the orderlies, who was retrieving the tent flap from where it had snagged on one of the support poles. “What the heck was that?”

The orderly shrugged. “Entertech Goblin contractor. They busted him stealing from the cash.”

The worm, Britton thought. Marty tried after all. That outstanding, sweet, fantastic little bastard. In spite of everything, he still tried, just because I asked him to.

“What’ll they do to him?” Britton asked.

“Fire him, I guess,” the orderly replied. “He stole some kind of experimental medication from the Special Projects tent. You know Goblins. They’re hooked on sugar, caffeine pills, any kind of stimulant. It was only a matter of time.”

Britton’s stomach lurched. He turned to Truelove. The Necromancer had turned pale.

“They’re firing him,” he said. “Oscar, they’ll kick him out of the FOB.”

“So?” Britton asked.

“So,” Truelove answered, “he’s a collaborator. This base is surrounded by hostile tribes. He’ll be dead before he makes it twenty feet.”

Britton rushed through the flaps. He fumbled through the receiving area, pushing past several nurses who yelled at him, making his way to the urinalysis section. Marty was nowhere to be seen, but one of the Goblin orderlies recognized him and sat him on a folding chair while he disappeared. He returned a moment later with Marty in tow.

Britton gripped his elbow urgently. “I need to talk to you.”

Marty nodded and pulled Britton through the back of the tent and out into a muddy, but private section.

“Okay,” Marty said, his eyes huge with concern. “No anger. Okay.”