We have a term for this type of shit in the military.

so cause of that here’s my twit: twitter.com/Viero223

It made her sick to her stomach: the seconds that dragged past as she felt more than heard his cautious approach. When he spoke to her in softer reassurance she felt a part of herself overcome with the want to collapse in relief. She didn’t know for how much longer she could survive without the guidance of a more experienced hand. Had the assisting pilot not been one of the survivors of the helicopter crash, Veata had little doubt that she wouldn’t have been as soon dead. In the hours after he’d trained them in the basics of firearms. For that she’d survived. But worn leeriness outweighed the traces of her relief.

“No.” Her voice began to quiet. “I killed her before she could.” Without the adrenaline of fear, Veata began to feel again the fatigue that had dogged her the night before. It numbed her. With a slight and careful turn of the head she placed her cheek to rest on the carpet, removing from her sight the slow spread of viscera that crept scant inches from her. The stench of it however she could not escape. Despite her overwhelming nausea, she focused her breathing. “I’m injured, but nothing serious. Scrapes.” The heat of her forearm throbbed in painful reminder. Burn? Bruise? She could remember through her panic how the firearm had slammed into it a mere second after she’d fired. Not a bite mark. 

Positioned as she had been Veata could see no more of the stranger than his well-worn combat boots. But the sight was at least a reassurance – however minute – that he might serve in the branch he laid claim to. Not one to accept the word of a stranger at face value however her head tilted against the the hotel carpet as her eyes traveled the length of the man. It revealed the stature she might expect of a soldier: well-toned muscular definition, tanned from exposure to the sun, broad shoulders built for hauling cumbersome weight. She paused on the details of his face as hesitant confusion began to stir in her chest. He felt at once familiar and not. “I know you.” The thread of not quite formed memories plucked at her thoughts. Then she remembered. 

In the sea of strangers that had been processed for evacuation, she’d be no more to him than a meager handful of minutes lost in a hundred other handful of minutes. But to her he had been significant. Her previous reservations on the worth of his word dissipated at once as logical conscious came to a consensus with her initial instinctual response. She remembered him because he had been there to help people – had helped her. “You were one of the soldiers at the evacuation site.” Despite herself only a fraction of the tension began to ebb from her person. She didn’t know yet the implications of her revelation. 

Pelayo wasn’t quite sure how to process that revelation. While he didn’t necessarily doubt her claim...he sure as hell didn’t remember her. How could he, with so many people filing through the checkpoint for days on end? The names and occurrences there all blurred together in his head, up until when things began to fall apart. That part was unfortunately easy to remember. And how about the other soldiers? How was she so sure she could remember him over everyone manning that evac, working together as one to save as many as they could?

He thought a brief moment. While he still didn’t remember her, the fact she thought she knew him was enough. She knew of some soldier, and whether or not the one in question was him they still had the same job: save whoever they can.

“...East 34th St. Evac, right?” Pelayo asked as he offered a hand to help her up. “Not sure you have the right guy, but I’m part of the same team at least. Glad to see someone still breathing out here.”

Pelayo looked her over as she stood up. Scrapes...he’d have to keep an eye on that. He had yet to hear of someone being infected from a small wound like that, but again, no chances here. Still, he wasn’t going to write her off for that - he’d just have to keep an eye on it. He was just glad she didn’t suffer from anything worse.

Her heart lurched in her chest. Through the reflection of the glass pane she’d caught a fleeting glimpse of the soldier. But before she could react it sprinted to the shelter of a near cabinet. Under these strenuous circumstances Veata didn’t possess the sense of mind to assess why it hadn’t moved like the dead. Instead she turned on her heels, prepared to shoot the potential assailant. In her panic however she fumbled with the firearm and it clattered to the floor. But that did not matter for in the same breath a man shouted at her from around the cabinet. Living. Relief washed through her veins, but hesitation as soon followed. She trembled. Had it been real? 

“Don’t shoot!” The words were a tangle. She raised her hands, palms open in submission. In her blind panic – a natural response to the threat of aggression that saturated the masculine tone – the thoughts that tried to crowd her head were altogether too much. “Don’t shoot. Please. I’m not dangerous.” Here her voice had calmed in terms of volume, but the borderline animal fear remained strong in her tone. The tremble worsened. Ground. If she did not do as he bade her to, he would practice the use of lethal force on her. Instinct balked at the thought, but Veata forced it from her mind as she lowered to her knees.

She felt the scratch of the carpet against her exposed stomach as she laid herself out with care. Its discomfort didn’t compare to the copper stench of gore that lurched her emptied stomach. Despite herself Veata closed her eyes to the sight of the warm corpse within her reach. She wanted again for the distance that made it easier to do what she felt had needed to be done. “I’m on the ground.” Veata repeated in a rasp. “I’m on the ground. It’s fine.” Whether the latter addition had been for the unnamed male or for herself, for her reassurance could not be said. Her chin settled last onto the ground. 

The maneuver took no more than seconds, but to her each had felt like an hour – an hour in which she’d waited with gut-wrenching fear for the bullet that spelt her end. She forced her eyes to open once more though she remained fixated on a point at the end of the corridor. It didn’t stop her from seeing the growing stain of dark red that seeped into the carpet. Veata breathed. He’d said US National Guard. Had that branch overseen evacuations? Yes. She remembered, in flashes, the words painted on the metal of the crashed helicopter. “Can you help me?” The fear hadn’t ebbed, but the adrenaline had. Her head felt clearer. She needed to be smart. Forcing her heartbeat to slow, Veata dug her fingers into the carpet: a distraction to ease her anxieties.

Pelayo was prepared for the worst as he saw the woman aim at him, failing to realize she had a gun. But visibly, he did not stutter - as the woman fumbled with her weapon a mere moment later. He kept himself assertive and his weapon pointed at her. He was in control here and she’d best not dare move.

Her words of submission were a reassurance. The walking corpses were bad enough, he didn’t want to have to shoot someone who could still think for themselves today. “Don’t move!” he repeated to her.

He continued towards her, unwavering. But something she said soon made him stop in his tracks.

‘Can you help me?’

Pelayo pondered it. That had been the last thing on his mind for the last few hours. With city declared lost and now being in the same boat as everyone else, it was easy to forget why he was here. His gruff, authoritative mannerisms faded to a more soft-spoken and careful one. Pelayo simply replied “Yes”, and made his way over to her quickly, his gun lowered.

Jesus Christ. 

The blood bath he saw was enough to almost make him sick. The woman was lying on the ground, covered in blood and terrified - and the corpse of an infected was laying nearby. Blood was everywhere else, pooling on the carpet and on both bodies. It was almost hard to tell who’d suffered worse. Enough so that...he worried.

Pounding. Ears pounding, and the surrounding soundtrack played as though underwater; vision clearing from a blur but motions too fast to identify until below he saw his leg. Metal, perhaps, wound around his ankles like some industrial serpent, trapping him in the cage of a compact vehicle. A shriek, higher pitched than the snarling and groaning of unidentified figures beyond fragments of seemingly floating glass, struck his senses to clarity and when he turned– HELP ME! 

Jarred awake by the nightmare, Quade only stiffened and open his eyes to his upright position in the windowsill. He’d drifted - four nights of sleeplessness and running will do that to you - but for how long? Raising his wrist watch which still thankfully functioned despite all the moments the rest of his body had been slammed into a wall or thrown about, he was restfully assured only a few minutes had passed. Miraculous, the lack of time lost in dreams. 

The crash had just been four days ago, but it felt like eons of averting diseased biters and Americans engrossed in mass chaos, doing what they could for themselves while others were left to strive for themselves. He didn’t blame them, although he hadn’t considered for a second that he should leave the man who hired him - though any assassinations he’d expected to encounter would be human, not…god, whatever that was out there. 

Within was a small office space they’d manage to trap themselves, already having taken enough turns in the outside hallways to lose the few Biters wandering around the facility. Doing his duty, he’d managed to get the Legislator and his family to safety, in addition to a few fleeing civilians and employees, but not unscathed. A secretary from one of the lower floors had joined them with a severe looking bite wound to the shoulder, and he could swear he knew what to do about her before it had even begun. Fever was taking her, and he suspected a cough would be the least of their worries: pop culture had taught him that much. But he wasn’t a cruel man, and he had no proof to validate these concerns, so while no one else within their little hideout suspected the same, he would let her remain. 

Attention was drawn abruptly to the outside world, a helicopter spotted slowing in speed near the Consulate. Rescuers, most likely on their way to pick up the Legislator - things were tense enough between the Nations, he assumed the States wouldn’t like to be responsible for the death of a South Korean Legislator during this raid– outbreak– whatever it was. Thudding soon followed, activity on the floors above which drew one of the children to awaken. Soundlessly, she climbed her way up onto her feet and carefully stepped over her tired mother to their bodyguard’s side. But he could only offer her a single touch of the palm on top of her head as he threw his legs off the wide sill and crept toward the door. 

They’d be coming soon - they’d be looking for them.

The Alpha unit had quickly moved in and nearly finished with clearing the first floor as Pelayo’s unit entered the building. Although the consulate owned most of the building, other businesses occupied the lower floors of the building.

The two units were to clear the building on an alternating system - one unit would clear a floor, and then move up two as the other unit cleared the next floor. As Alpha cleared out the first floor, Bravo got in position to clear the level 2 offices.

“Stack up on the door!” the unit commander, Cpl. Byers, yelled. Pelayo got in position on the level 2 staircase door, behind two of his fellow soldiers. As the demolition charge on the door went off, the unit quickly went inside. “Down on the ground!” a soldier ordered, meant for anyone still breathing. Of course, the few infected standing about simply made - or attempted to make - a beeline for the breaching unit.

Thirty seconds of sustained gunfire. “Office clear!” a soldier shouted. The men walked about, searching the hallways and bodies for any sign of survivors. No sign of anyone from the consulate, living or dead, was found on this level.

“Bravo, level 1 negative for survivors. Proceeding to level 3.” the radio blared to life. “Copy Alpha, Bravo is moving to level 4 once clear.”

     With her nerves currently shot, it was too hard for her to tell if he was lying or not. But not many people would lie with a gun pointed at their face. Not unless they had nothing to lose and right now all he had was his life, as far as she could see anyway. Again, her eyes shifted around the room, noting nothing had changed except a few crumpled pieces of paper that blew across the floor from a draft. She rolled her shoulders and slowly lowered her weapon, keeping it aimed at his feet now.

          “Name’s Milo,” she replied, wondering if he was part of whatever the crash was earlier. She hadn’t see if it was a plane, car, or helicopter but she had heard something collide with the ground. All the scavengers would be heading toward it, making it an undesirable place to be. It also gave her the opportunity to explore more buildings freely. 

          “How do I know you’re not lyin’ about that? You seem like a smart guy and I ain’t about to get tricked by another scavenger. I’ve trusted enough of the wrong people. Shouldn’t you be in some special secured location like the rest of your military buddies?”

Give an inch and they’ll take a mile. Not much use trying to hide anything now, he was at this woman’s mercy and it didn’t seem like he was easily going to skirt around anything she’d ask.

“Aha, I wish.” Pelayo remarked. “We’ve been stretched so thin by this mess that everyone’s either dead, pulled out...or trapped here, like yours truly. You heard the radio announcements, surely?” he asked.

Suddenly, an idea hit him. He realized from this whole exchange that she wasn’t an opportunist or scavenger like he originally thought, but rather just a impressively well-armed survivor. Perhaps he could cut a deal with her - something that’d keep them both alive.

“I’ll be straight with you, I don’t think I have much to offer other than my word.” he said, bluntly. “But here’s the facts: the whole city’s getting leveled in under a day, and I haven’t resigned myself to death just yet. Even though everything’s gone to shit, I know enough about evacuation routes and the likes that I can make it out of here on my own.”

     ya nuo instantly does as they’re told.  years of growing up in a big city taught them one important thing–you COMPLY WITH PEOPLE, or you get in trouble.  especially when they were police, or military.  so ya nuo puts their hands over their head, bending down as submissively as possible, the cane dropped onto the side next to them.

     “DON’T SHOOT,”  they beg, beginning to feel their eyes water.  is this how they die?  they don’t want to die here.  they want to get out, to find their grandparents, to find somewhere SAFE, away from here–because they can’t believe how stupid they were, to run away from home amidst all this.

     “please, don’t shoot.  i’m not an infected.”  they turn their head towards pelayo’s voice, milky eyes searching blindly for where the source of the noise could be.  “please, i’m just a blind kid.  I’M BEGGING YOU, SIR, i’m not one of them.”

      they’re unaware of how lucky they are that they get to talk as much as they are.

“Oh, fuck.” Pelayo quietly uttered.

As relieved as he was that she wasn’t an infected, he felt mortified for scaring the poor kid. Although it was hard to fault him for confusing her with an infected considering the times and neighbors, Pelayo still felt he should’ve known better. It’s almost a never a good thing to make assumptions - that gets friendlies killed.

He holstered his unloaded gun, hurried over to her, and began to help her up. “Shit. Kid, I am so sorry.” Pelayo said as he grabbed her cane. He’d failed to notice it before yelling at her - he wish he had. “Let me help you up, it’s the least I can do.” He got the girl on her feet and handed her her cane, making sure she had a firm grasp of it before daring to let go.

She’d pushed herself too hard, but she’d had no choice in the matter. It’d been either force herself past the point of exhaustion and suffer the repercussions at a later time or surrender herself then to the no doubt unbearable death at the teeth of her rabid companions. Pain, at least, meant her heart continued to beat in her chest though in these more recent hours she teetered on the edge of numbness. Such an odd sensation: to perceive the world surrounding her as if she were submerged in the murkiness of deep, ocean waters. Even to herself – to her person – Veata felt distanced as she stumbled through the corridor of The Red Carpet Inn. Only a sliver of awareness remained to chastise her for her lack of caution. She needed to search the immediate area for more of the infected.

But she felt numb in that moment to even the fear of an ambush. Her shoulder sagged against the nearest door frame, the corner of her forehead resting on its wood as she struggled to focus her breathing. After she’d escaped the evacuation crash site with its meager handful of survivors she’d tried to rest as often as she could, but the trauma of the past week had seen to it that a proper night of sleep remained out of her tolerance. No matter how drained she’d been Veata had snapped into terrified awareness at the slightest stirring. After the others had been lost – some were to the rabid infected, some were to fates unknown – until it was her and her alone she’d worsened. It seemed though that she’d reached the threshold of her tolerance.

Her shoulders heaved with a violent keen of frustration as she tested the handle to discover it remained locked. In the haze of her thoughtlessness it hadn’t occurred to her to find a programmed key card for the rooms. She would need to retrace her steps to the reception area that housed guest services. Instead Veata found herself sinking onto the carpet, the bulk of her weight supported against the unyielding wooden entrance. She’d endured as much as she could handle and for as long as possible. Neither her spirit nor her physical person could continue. Her eyes – a darker hue of brown – began to flutter. She fought the heaviness of exhaustion that shuttered her vision, but within the span of a single minute she faded into blank unconsciousness.

It was the sound of shattering glass that jolted Veata into awareness, her heart thundering so loud in her chest that it deafened her. She couldn’t, in that thick haze of sudden awakening, remember how she’d come to be here. Not until her hand grazed the cold metal of the handgun discarded within her reach would the short-term memories surge forth. There was a slight and inaudible thump as the crown of her head leaned against the locked entrance. Her heart rate began to slow. In truth a part of herself yearned for the ignorance of blind panic. At least it’d been easier to stomach than the grim realities of her present situation. But her mother had taught her the importance of grounding in the factual. Ignorance might have been easier, but realism would be the foundation of survival.

Breath trembling she touched the steel of the firearm to her forehead. She couldn’t remember at what point in time she’d drawn the weapon from its holster. The night before remained such a blur – more a collection of fractured memories. Her eyes snapped open. Glass. That had been the sound that had woken her. Veata turned her head in the direction it’d come from. It felt more like hours than seconds as she waited for an affirmation of her suspicions. When it happened – a faint, quieter shattering – she vaulted into action. Sunlight streamed through a window at the end of the corridor, beckoning her to its means of escape. She didn’t bother to holster her weapon as she shrugged her rucksack onto one shoulder.

Veata was quicker with the latch than she would have been the night before. She could feel in her bones how much of a difference a single night of rest had made. But in her impulse to flee Veata hadn’t noticed the unlocked door that had been left cracked open nor had she noticed its slow, ominous opening as she’d hustled past it. In the reflection of the glass pane however she caught a flash of the abomination that sprinted into the corridor. It bought her enough time to turn to face her assailant as she rushed her. No more than that. Her stomach heaved at the overwhelming scent of her as the two women tumbled to the ground. She jammed her forehead against her forearm, only just preventing her smashing teeth from sinking into her flesh. Panic took control.

Once her brother had tried to explain to her what it meant to fight. The fire of violence had been in his blood, and in those minutes the world would reduce itself to no more than him and his opponent. Catharsis. Liberation. Veata found none of these as she fought tooth and nail for her life. She felt instead each fearful beat of her heart at each deafening snap of teeth. Sobs built in her chest for each second she remained pin, and a sharp ringing in her ears deafened her as her finger blindly pulled the trigger on the pistol. Once. Twice. Her arm burned as the fired pistol dragged over her skin. She wedged the muzzle under the woman’s chin. Three. The woman went slack instantaneously on top of her. Four. Click. Silence. 

Wrong. She’d counted. There’d been seven bullets left. What happened? Her eyes wild with fear Veata pushed the warm corpse of the woman off of herself then scrambled for purchase on her knees. Here she trembled as she tried to heave the contents of her stomach, one hand pressed into her mouth so hard she could taste blood in order to silence herself. It wasn’t long that Veata remained there, but no matter how short her grief it’d been more time than she had. The danger wasn’t over. She forced herself onto her feet, reaching for the half undone window latch. In her other hand the burning firearm trembled: a betrayal of her person. In the reflection Veata watched for a second threat as she struggled to open the window with the heels of her hands.

Jesus. He couldn’t actually see what was happening around the corner at the far end of the hall, but whatever the hell it was it sounded bad. Someone involved in that scuffle had to be dead - the sounds of gunfire assured him of that. Shit, time to move.

After a minute or two of careful observation, a figure - surely the survivor of that fight - rounded the corner and began to try opening the window at the end of the hall, completely oblivious to anyone else’s presence. That would’ve been great - if they weren’t right by the stairwell down to the basement. There was no way he was going to be able to leave unless she managed to either get that open or left the area.

Pelayo drew his unloaded weapon and quietly walked down the hall, intending to take cover behind an overturned cabinet and leave through the window after the woman had left herself. As he got closer, he could make out a few more details about the figure - she was a young woman with black hair and didn’t look particularly threatening, but she did have a gun. He’d have to be careful with that.

As he continued to walk forward, he noticed his reflection in the window glass. And the woman’s eyes seemingly meeting the reflection.

Shit.