well, I've been critiquing harsh so i figured i may as well present a target as well. this is the first piece I've actually posted.I'm not really fond of this piece. its a little more tell than show and does some info dumps and says 'he thought" way too much but read away please. ill take any reviews.
P.S and for all you halo fans out there, i know what terrible cliched coincidence the name Gull is.
Ground Zero chapter 1:
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"He got it wrong.
It wasn't that there was nothing to be afraid of,
it was the nothing i was afraid of."
It’s always the same before any big mission, Steven mused. Although, he wasn’t even supposed to call this a mission. “A sortie” was the technical term it had been dubbed with. Not that anyone cared about the political correctness of what you called a war zone. You work yourself to an incredible adrenaline rush and it nearly gets you killed when you can’t stand still enough to fire a shot. He ambled over to the barrack’s armor rack, working the stiffness out of his legs. He took his lead polymer off the rack with a clang. It resounded across the empty room. Empty, dead, he thought. He took his armor to his bunk and began to undo the straps. This thing is heavy, he thought, maybe eighty pounds. It was a wonder he could stand up in it at all. The thing looked like feudal plate mail with SCUBA tanks attached. It had armored greaves attached; each pneumatically assisted so that he might actually move. All the weight and pieces were worth the while however. When the bullets began to fly, at least it was a little better than tissue paper. Where it really it really proved its worth was in the radiation zones. As if the whole planet weren’t one big radiation zone. It afforded, maybe, a few hours of protection before radiation scarring. It came with attached life support for any toxic environment. The armor was colored a dull black. Not exactly exciting in the way they rave about the soldiers of The War of No Names.
The kicker with the whole suit of armor was the helmet. To Steven, it looked totally ridiculous. Almost something out of one of those old sci-fi film cords he watched. But for its absurdity (much like the rest of the armor) it fulfilled its purpose. The first “sortie” Steven was assigned to, they were deployed was out in the boonies on a recon-kill squad. Alpha Company decided to travel light. They thought the helmet and oxygen tanks were a waste. They had an 80% mortality rate. 30% of it was toxins in the air; the other 50% was radiation sickness. It wasn’t exactly pretty for those who survived either, Steven thought with a shudder.
He continued undoing the straps in a methodical manner. Always the strap on the left then its counterpart on the right. His section of the barracks was empty of anyone else but him by now. The emptiness gnawed at Steven. Then, the loud speaker above his bunk began to emit a sound like it was being rubbed with sand paper. Steven jumped at the sudden sound in the midst of the silence. Through the gritty din a voice could be made out, “Bravo Company, wing’s up in half an hour. Repeat wing’s up in half an hour.” No turning back now.
The objective today was simple, land, search and destroy, then make their way to the “Patriot” instillation and take it offline. That’s bullshit and you know it. More likely to be land, get massacred, and flee. Steven couldn’t count the number of friends he had found slaughtered after missions much like this one. Most of the time he couldn’t find them out of the huge lists of the deceased. A few times the battle had completely disfigured them. But it was the ones he could recognize that upset him the most.
He remembered in particular being on grave duty after one sortie. He had to take the helmet of one of the men to grab the dog tags off of him. When he removed it he found the face of a young man, practically a kid, he had joked with on the Gull to the LZ. The kid’s face was transfixed in an agonized yell. Steven couldn’t quite remember his name now. It helped to control the weeping when you didn’t remember the name.
I’ve been fighting with these New Federalists for too long. It’s starting to get too my head.
The New Federalism popped up after The War of No Names. Amidst the fallout they began to try and restore government to the thousands left dazed by the war. It outpaced the other new world governments within days. They managed to capture most of the few remaining agricultural sites and factories that were left. With all the supplies for an army, The New Federalists began to work at one. Over 120 years it slowly assimilated survivors, producers and smaller organizations. It was one of a small number of governments left, vying for more power.
Power is all they care about now, Steven thought, but at least in the process it keeps me alive.
His thoughts were interrupted by the speaker crackling to life again, “Bravos, wing’s up in twenty minutes. Grab your gear and let’s go!” Twenty minutes ‘till hell, Steven thought. He fumbled in his haste to get the rest of the straps tightened over his rock-like build. He needed to get this done as soon as possible; the only good seats on a Gull were the back ones. He pulled his helmet on and connected the respirator up. He took a few steps to check the pneumatics. He was a little unused to having his steps hitting the ground so early, but at least he could walk. Steven took his first few breaths of the air and spluttered. Stale and nasty. Why am I surprised? It’s always like that, everything about the beginning sucks.
By now the whole of the barracks were empty. Probably off for chow before their wave is up, Steven realized. He took few steps toward the door when one of the hoses on his thigh gave way with a hiss. He had to windmill his arms to stay upright. Damned pneumatics, they better not die in they field. He spent a minute reattaching the hose and headed towards the door. The next few steps towards the door were a little more graceful.
You really have to do this, his mind told him. Steven struggled for a minute, but he managed to get the cast-iron door open. The change was startling. In the breadth of a second he had gone from seclusion to being besieged by people. “oorah!” some yelled in passing, others waved in yelled “ready for the slaughter?”
There’s only one problem with that. We’re the ones gonna get slaughtered. Rookies he realized, rookies still excited enough with this bad business to call out in anticipation. Half of them would probably be dead before the day was out. The ones more likely to survive were those with helmets cast downwards like Steven himself. The parade of the newly dead, a profound voice said within him.
He joined in with a group of four people walking ahead of him. One of them stopped long enough to throw Steven a salute before continuing to walk and talk. He would probably be dead soon too.
“I heard that the Alpha waves who attacked here last month had only 2 out of every 10 survive.” One said,
“I heard it was only 1 out of every 10,” said another.
Steven began to lose interest. Through the fog of his sleep like trance he heard one telling another to “shut up, its bad luck to say that.” But he tuned out the rest from then on. The sound of armored boots upon an iron floor was mesmerizing. Steven lost track of the twists and turns, all he knew was that his feet were still moving. His eyelids began to droop and his mind moved in a dream like state.
What happens if I die? I don’t have a family; actually, I don’t think I know anyone who’d care. Would it even be so bad? I wonder what a bullet feels like? Of course it’s never painless to die, some rational part of him managed to say.
The sparks given off by the squealing hanger door brought him back around. Inside the hanger there were about 18 landing pads. Each was supplied with its own equipment, tools, scattering engineers, and meager amounts of fuel. On each pad sat an AT 9700 “Seagull.” “Gulls” are what everyone called them in the barracks.
A gull was, in essence, a large brick like helicopter. It had a thin rectangular upper deck with a cutting, jutting nose. Beneath that was a bloated belly. It had a large ramp on the back which rotated to become the back seal. Inside on either side were 2 benches and weapon racks. To either side of the top deck were two large rotors. He’d heard that once these vehicles had been powered with oil. Now, all that could be afforded (well, all that was possible to find) were nuclear dry cells.
Everything was pretty much ready for their departure. Most of their weapons were already stored aboard and support personnel were handing everyone extra ammunition. Barely leaves me with four clips anyway. The captain of Steven’s particular Gull was trying to get the reactor going. Starting off as a great trip.
The captain climbed out and began to yell at an engineer. After a bout of swearing and hyperbolic threats the engineer consented to look at the reactor. Steven thought it was best to wait this out inside the Gull. And if I’m lucky maybe it’ll melt down, he thought with a sarcastic tinge.
In a couple of minutes the crew filled out and took their places in the Gull. Two rookies took the front two seats. They didn’t realize everyone was avoiding it like it carried pox. Poor idiots, Steven thought, they probably think they’ll get to the action faster. Well they’ll get somewhere faster. Steven had no sympathy for the two moronic rookies, even though he had barely survived his first mission himself. It helped to control the weeping if you thought that they were idiots. It helped if you thought they were dumb enough to walk into it.
After what seemed to an eternity, two engineers waved that the Gull was good to go. The captain gave a cackle that made Steven’s hair stand on end. The captain hit the starter. The whole iron contraption shook and a couple of bolts popped from the jointed sections. The reactor didn’t start and the vehicle didn’t budge. The captain grunted and pushed the starter again. This time the vehicle groaned but the rotors began to turn. Around and around and around they go, Steven thought, when they stop away I go...
A man with a lit baton showed up at the pad and motioned for the gull to move away from the pad. The huge bay doors opened with a few sparks and a reluctant moan, revealing the outside wastelands.
Through the hazy smog Steven could see the sun half way raised from the horizon. Directly outside the landing bay, littered across the ground was all sorts of imaginable rubbish. Concrete, scraps of metal plucked and scattered about haphazardly. All from some long forgotten blast. What a wonderful world I was left. War confetti, Steven had heard it called. Somehow it seemed only fitting.
Without any further ado the Gull managed to lumber its way out of the bay. With a lurch that sent everything loose in Steven’s Gull skittering across the metal floor, the Gull was airborne and climbing. One of the rookies almost lost his weapon over the edge at the rear. One of them called for the captain to close the ramp up. Stupid rookies, Steven thought.
Steven began to check his weapon. He carried an Arck 110 repeater. Mostly, People called them “Chunkers”. The name was an onomatopoeia as a well as a description of the effects. It used a special “needle” round. These rounds were almost flat with a sharp spike protruding from the middle. It was designed to punch through armor then force it open. Steven made sure the clip was full and the slide wasn’t caught. At the very least it distracted from the destroyed landscape.
The captain gave a hoot, “LZ in 20 minutes!” For all the world it seemed more like 20 years to Steven. After 15 though, the unmistakable faces sounds of battle became evident. Shell blasts like drum beats reached Steven’s ears and rattled the Gull. Here we go again, he thought.
Two bullets ripped through the hull going straight upwards. They left showers of sparks in their wake. The two kids up front let off a yelp. Every other face in the vehicle remained impassive and apathetic. You never really regret loosing a life that was on borrowed time anyway. Also, it helped when you ignored the close calls.
The captain began to rein the gull in. “LZ’s hot! Get out! I gotta get out of here!” Steven strapped his gun over his shoulder and stood up. The rest of his squad followed his example. The ramp fell.
Immediately the two kids up front were dead. One had a merciful death. He had a round through the helmet. Steven even heard it distinctly rattling in there. The other rookie took a round through the lightly armored knee cap. He cried out in pain and dropped out of the Gull on his knees. Another bullet deflected off his armor, the next pierced it and buried itself in his heart. Steven took his eyes off of them. It helped if you didn’t watch the deaths. The next three soldiers managed to get off and make it to some scrap of cover. Little good it will do them, they don’t even know which way the bullets are being fired from. There was one man between Steven and the exit.
The man in front of Steven took a round into the thigh. He began to fall just like the second rookie did. Steven rushed forward and put an arm around his neck, like he was holding him as hostage. He began to move the both of them out of the transport. It was not from kindness though. The man with the bullet in his thigh wasn’t dead yet, but he would be, with Steven or without. Steven just needed a shield.
He managed to keep moving even with the added extra weight. Within seconds he heard several sickening squelching noises from his human shield. He forced his head to remain looking high and forward. He didn’t want to know what had happened, all he needed was cover. He spied a decent looking rock in front of the huge building he could only assume was the “Patriot” facility. The rock was about the size and shape of a small car. Bullets had already worn groves inches into it, but it didn’t seem in danger of giving way. Steven also saw a few of his fellow soldiers hiding behind it. He dropped the man he was carrying and sprinted towards the rock leaving a trail of dust in his wake. Steven managed to slide in behind the rock just in time to watch clods of dirt being thrown up by bullets, dancing at his heels.
“Who’s in charge here?” Steven yelled over the din to the soldiers. One turned and looked him up and down. “Nobody sir! But if you want to be you can, sir,” the soldier replied. He was probably the one who had seen the most fights. The soldier at the end had to have been fairly new, but not a rookie, as he kept peering out to fire a few shots. Each time he only just managed to avoid being killed by the returned fire. The one in the middle had left his weapon out in the middle of the field. His head was between his hands. This one had to have been the rookie; Steven would have done the exact same thing in his place. Steven did the exact same thing when he was in his place.
Steven had heard that long before The War of No Names, that there had been a similarly large war. One that spanned the world for the second time in thirty years. He remembered hearing they had a day in which they invaded the shores of some long forgotten country. D-Day he’d heard it called. It couldn’t possibly be worse than this. The veterans would probably recognize this all too well.
“If that what it takes I will,” he replied, screaming. After taking a look around Steven started to yell again, “I don’t care what we do but we have to get out of here! Anything’s better than this!” Steven moved over, carefully maintaining a crouch, to the soldier who was firing occasional shots. “Quit shooting you moron!” he managed to say after a while,” You’re going to get yourself killed, wait until we’re closer or inside. ‘Sides you’re no good to me dead.” The soldier looked at him without saying a word. Steven looked back. Each face, beneath its helmet, wore looks of mute comprehension. The new guy had taken another step towards understanding the veterans. “Well, seeing as you’re the one who’s been taking peeks out, where are the guns there?” he asked. “Sir, there are four to five machine guns on the third story. I think there are scattered infantry on the second.” That’s not good. “let me see,” Steven responded.
Steven cautiously poked his head around one side of the rock. He pulled it back amidst a torrent of fire. Although he had only had a few seconds, he was already horrified by what he had seen. There were more than “four or five” machine guns on the upper floors. In fact there was probably more than a platoon of men on each of those floors. None of this surprised Steven, none at all. What horrified him was the sign on the front of the building.
It was a large red cross.
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