The End of the World 2
From Create Your Own Story
Lieutenant Stafford Bryson was a large man, with a vicious look in his eyes that told the war stories he wouldn't. He'd been in the service of the Army Reserve for years, and over several deployments, had earned the nickname "Serial" for the amount of kills he'd racked up in the war. Most of the men feared or respected him, or some degree of both. As he stood near the white-board, the enlisted men slid onto little wooden benches in what used to be a stadium's locker room. His Staff Sargent, Earl Peckle, who was just as hard edged as his boss, was shouting at the men to get their seats. You watch quietly. You got here early. You knew better than to come in late and fight for a seat.
"Boys and girls," Lt. Bryson began, clapping his hands to get quiet. "Eyes front and center, asses planted, mouths shut." He watched as everyone in the room straightened up and shut their mouths, and then he continued. "The rain has started again this morning, and I know none of you are looking forward to patrols." He pulled a small dry erase pen from his pocket and pulled the cap off. "Doesn't matter. We have a job to do, and it's going to get done." He turned to the board and drew four squares, nearly side by side. "We've divided the city into four sections." Pointing to the top left square, he went clockwise from there. "Alpha Section. Bravo. Charlie. Delta. Each subsection is then divided into four compartmental sections, designated One, Two, Three, Four." He numbered the squares within the first square, then wrote the word Alpha above it. "I know your task has been to protect civilians that come to us uninfected. I know you've gotten comfortable doing that in the six months since this thing started. Unfortunately, what's left of US command doesn't give a fuck about your comfort. We needs boots on the ground, not hearts and minds here, children. We need to be out there, searching for anyone who has survived this mess, and they need to be brought back here for quarantine and examination. We need to clear any non-combatants we find, and put down any Indians we find."
The soldier next to you leaned over. "What's an Indian?" You shook your head. Fresh recruits never bothered to read their manuals.
"The infected. I. India. So, Indians." You say, not taking your eyes off the white-board.
"Phonetic alphabet, right." The soldier said with a smile, slapping his head. "I'm Jack, by the way. Jack Mills."
Do you:
| Status | ||
| Health | 100% | Equipment:
Gray BDUs. Kevlar Helmet. Med Kit. Flash Light. |
| Weapon | M4 Rifle | |
| Ammo | 6 Magazines | |
