*Ebel*

The smell of anti-septic is heavy in the air. The once white Kevlar walls hang limply, the color of yellow sputum. George lays asleep upon the bed to my side. He has just been moved to the tent this morning, along with another seventeen. He has been in treatment since we left him at the checkpoint two weeks ago. From the tent entrance Rodriguez enters. He walks up to the foot of the bed and pats George on his calf. He does not wake.

Roriguez looks him over, a somber expression on his face, “any more news?”

I shake my head, “none. He is still in comatose.”

Rodriguez nods, “any improvement?”

I glance around the tent, “he was moved here this morning.”

He nods solemnly, “right.”

There is a moment of silence before Rodriguez addresses me again, “Ma’am.”

I take my eyes from George and stand up, “what’s the new sit rep say?”

He opens the dirty and worn folder in his hands, “do you want the update or the full summery?”

I look around the tent once again, there are many visitors, friends and families of the patients. Some of the patients are even a hallowed eye shell of awake. I can tell many of them are glancing toward us. They want to know what is happening out there. What fates are befalling those they left behind. It is never good news; it is not something that should be talked about in their earshot. Many of the other officers stopped giving a damn, saying morale has already hit rock bottom. I don’t want to drag these people any further down though. They have it hard enough with what is in front of them. They don’t need to know what is happening where they can’t see as well.

I place my hand on the open folder, shutting it, “outside corporal, not in here.”

Rodriguez glances at the hallow faces around us and nods. We both make our way out of the tent. I glance back one last time, separated from the other tents, this one is less cared for. Stained and dingy and alone. A single card hangs above the entrance. No words describe the purpose of this tent. Only the simple solid black card at its entrance.

Rodriguez and I make our way to an alley between two medical tents. We should not be bothered here or overheard either. He opens his folder once again and looks at me. I sigh, “give me the summery, I don’t know why command feels like giving out the full scope of things to anyone with a smidgen of authority, but I will take advantage of it. Give me everything they gave.”

George nods and begins his report, “we have sustained contact with seventy-four IDR bases and two hundred military bases. Most military outposts and IDR support facilities have been lost. Two nights ago, we lost contact with the last outpost located in an urban center of over five-hundred thousand.”

My head slumps, “so we have lost every city and moderately sized town in the world.”

Rodriguez shifts his view, “we never got into contact with many of the centers overseas or even in the south, maybe they . . .”

We both know those centers were even less guarded than the ones we were in contact with currently, there is no way they survived, “corporal, continue the report.”

He nods at me and continues, “we have established communications with many zones in previously high conflict areas. There is an estimated one hundred million survivors cumulatively. The ruling authorities are being, uncooperative with IDR or government groups.”

Warlords, cartels, terrorists, and criminals coming to save the day.

“Casualty counts are still being tallied. Rescued survivor estimates range from one hundred to two hundred million. The estimates vary wildly on how many are left out there though.”

He pauses and is about to move on when I interrupt him, I don’t want him glossing over the numbers, “the estimates corporal, how many are left out there?”

Rodriguez swallows hard, “there could be up to five billion left.”

Only five? The world’s population was over eight at last count, “the low end?”

With a deep breath he answers, “eight hundred million.”

…

…

Not even a billion left? With the estimates of what we know of, there could only be just over a billion of us left? All but one eighth of us could have been wiped out?

After a moment of silence Rodriguez speaks up, “the estimates are highly dependent on how many we can get out of the cities in the next several days as well as if the creatures will stop arriving or not. The sightings of breaks have lowered considerable the last few days. Many of the scientists hope this is a sign of the end of the invasion. If it is, the remaining survivor estimates will shoot up.”

I nod to his silver linings, “what are the incursion counts corporal?” Incursions, another term pulled from the Shattered World game, along with all the creatures names and classifications. Self class, threat to individuals. Party class, threat to groups. Raid class, threat to battalion sized groups and installations. Disaster class, threat to, well, anything. Then there is the calamity class, threat to everything.

He answers my question, “Estimates count for between five and six billion self, five to eight hundred million party, ten to twenty million raid, and six to eight hundred thousand disaster class creatures. No calamity classes have been reported. The majority of the remaining breaches are raid and disaster class.”

There are more of these creatures than there were humans, “That is enough corporal, you said the estimates would rise the more people we got out. So, let’s get a truck ready. There are still people we can save. Let’s get as many out as we can.” Maybe we can skew those estimates even the smallest amount.

With a “Yes Ma’am” we both head to the motor pool to get a truck geared up to join another convoy to the city. Already the sixtieth convoy we have ran these last two weeks.

*Alexandra*

“Ouch!”

Hal flinches at my scream and panicingly snaps to me, “Alex, you ok? What happened?”

Rubbing my fingers I reassure him, “nothing Hal. Just pinched myself on the ammo.”

We are filling magazines for the IDR. Last week they put out a call for any volunteers that would be willing to help with logistics and supply, while the trained IDR soldiers could mount the convoy trucks. After Hal recovered from his blood loss, he signed both of us up for the duty. We tried to get Lora to join us, but she never quite recovered fully. She is a little better, she can move on her own and will eat food if it is placed in front of her, but she is just not there anymore. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t do anything, just kind of sits there until prodded.

Greg’s truck squad is still going into the city at every chance. All the trucks are doing so. The squad itself was split up like every other one. There are national guardsmen as well now. They all just hop on whatever truck is getting ready to leave and still has a space open. There hasn’t been an empty slot on a truck leaving the installation for the whole time we have been here.

A few times I have even seen some people that look like they may have been police or firefighters, or something try and hop onto a truck. They were turned away. After some heated discussions, flyers started appearing asking any first responder to go to the base and sign up for roving guard duty. I have seen them roaming around sometimes, heard them more. A few people on a couple bikes or buggies with rifles and blowhorns. They patrol the base and surrounding areas looking for any breaches, creatures, or anyone committing crimes. There is a bit of crime, but it mostly just boils down to some a-holes getting into a fight, or someone stealing something or other, usually food. No one has the energy or morale to do any worse, and with the patrols riding nearby every few minutes withing screaming range, the balls either. In the beginning there was a bit more crime, mostly things like rape, until word came down, that any crime that would get ten or more years in prison was an automatic bullet in the head, and anyone resisting arrest would get one too. The rules were even worse for the patrols, although none have had to be used yet.

Finishing up another box of magazines we pass it to the end of the table to be loaded onto the next truck. Hal puts his hand onto my shoulder, “Alex, you okay? You haven’t been talking much lately.”

Am I okay? “I’m fine Hal.”

Hal grips my shoulder tighter; he looks me in the eyes, “no you’re not Alex. None of us are. We watched our friends get torn to pieces Alex. I am not fine, and I know it. That is why I am doing what I can and loading these mags, but you’re just going through the motions Alex. You’re not speaking, you’re not crying, you’re not getting angry. It’s almost like you’re just breaking down. I don’t want you to become like Lora Alex. Please, talk to me.”

I look at Hal closer. He is shaking, almost imperceptibly, but he is shaking. There are tiny tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he looks at me, “I tried to give you space, give you time, but you are only getting worse. Every day you do less, you become more distant. I don’t know what to do Alex, I don’t want to lose you too.”

I pick up an empty mag and start feeding it ammo, “I’m not. I’m not going anywhere Hal. I am. I just can’t stand the grind. Never could. Not even when helping you clear your daily quests. The grind has always just killed me. And now? My whole life has become a grind. Get up, eat, load ammo, eat, load crates, eat, unload empty crates, sleep, repeat. I get that we are helping. Doing our part, as small as it is. But I can’t help but think we could be doing more. That I could be doing more.”

Hal loosens his grip, “Alex.”

I put the full mag in the crate, “Hal, I am a nationally ranked player in Shattered World. The game has come alive and is trying to destroy our world. I should be able to do more. The guides they passed out last week, I knew everything in them by heart before they even started. I have the expanded volumes back home in deluxe hardback. I know more about these monsters and more about how to fight them than anyone here. I should be able to do more. Yet all I’m doing is menial grinding.”

Hal drops his hand, “Alex, this isn’t Shattered World. This is real life. You aren’t you’re game character. Even if those things are from Shattered World, will the strategies you know work? Your character uses a sword and armor. Can you wield the sword, can you carry the armor? Can you lift the sword? Where would we even find one? Our characters also used magic. Can you use magic? Can you cast a ball of fire from your fingertips?”

Hal grabs another mag and begins loading it, “The IDR uses guns, do you know how to shoot? Can you shoot while under heavy stress? Can you hit a goblin that is attacking someone without hitting them? Do you know how to clear rooms in a building? Do you know where to stand so you don’t get shot in the back during a firefight?”

Hal’s knuckles grow white as he grips the magazine. His voice remains calm, “Alex, we are doing what we can, for now, that is all we can do.”

I drop my head, “that is the problem, Hal. We should be able to do more. Yet we can’t, and it is destroying me. I want on those trucks Hal; I want to do more.”

*Harold*

A military jeep pulls up to our station. I stand up and heft a munitions crate onto a cart and pull it over to the jeep. Inside are three soldiers and an officer. Their uniforms are sodden in blood and their weapons fall limp on their laps. Their fingers remain on the rifles’ triggers. I knock on the window, and they grip their rifles, “um, sir? Do you need a resupply of ammo?”

The officer looks at me for a few seconds and slightly nods his head before opening the door, “yes lad, fill us up. We need five five six, nine-millimeter, and two, no four boxes of seven six two. We also need gas for the jeep.”

I nod to him but look at the large machine gun on their roof, “sir we don’t have any seven six two in boxes, we have mags, but it will take time to load up any boxes, if you have them spare.”

The officer clicks his tounge and curses, “fuck, give us what you can. If you have any extended mags, we will take those as well.”

The soldiers make no move to exit their jeep, their eyes downcast and low, but audible breaths heave from them. Grime is streaked across their faces from sweat. I address the officer, “sir, it will take about ten minutes to load your jeep. We have some food prepared just to the side by our loading tables.”

He looks at me and sees me looking at his men. He looks them over as well and sighs, “can you bring us something then.” He pauses a moment before adding, “easy to digest.”

With a quiet “will do, sir,” I leave the cart to be loaded on the jeep as workers unload the empty mags. At the food table I gather a box of crackers, some egg patties, and some beef sticks along with a gallon of water and four small shots of hotel whiskey.

Upon delivering the food and drinks to the officer he looks at the bottles and smirks, “pays to show up at the IDR huh?”

I give a grin and take out a folded paper from a pouch on my side, “here sir, some of the children drew these and wanted to hand them out.” On the paper was a crudely drawn picture of men with guns shooting at grey stick figures.

The officer looks at the picture for a moment before taking it and hanging it from his visor, “tell the kids it is a masterpiece, and thanks.”

After the exchange I return to the ammo table. Alex turns to me, “still giving out those kids’ drawings that you made last night? How many do you have left anyway?”

I start loading the next mag, at least she is speaking more now, “a couple dozen more, I think. It helps morale. Even if I was the ones to draw them,” I glance back to the truck, The soldiers inside have their rifles nestled in their shoulders, “they don’t need to know that.”

Alex nods, “every little bit.”

I turn back to loading, “yay, every little bit.”

After about five minutes the jeep roars back to life and speeds off back toward the city. Unlike the IDR, that are working their way in slowly toward the center gathering survivors, the military soldiers are going on hunting raids, trying to secure the zones for the IDR to evacuate the survivors relatively safely. The soldiers will see a lot more fighting than the IDR troopers, without any of the thanks from rescued survivors, just blood and death.

I inspect the food table to our side. There is very little selection available, just what I brought the soldiers and a few other preserved food stuffs. There is nothing hot, just shelf stables. I turn to Alex, “you wanted to do more,” she looks up at me curiously, “how about after shift we go talk to the coordinator, see if we can’t get her to let us prepare some better food for tomorrow. Something hot, or at least warm.”

Alex looks to the food table, “how? We can barely cook ourselves beyond following the instructions on the box, and how would we even keep the meal warm?”

I have to take a moment to consider, “the IDR has a large stockpile of reflective panels, maybe we can use them to make a solar heater or something like that?”

Alex glares at the sky, “with what sun?”

The sky is hazy in colors. It is still bright, the sun is out, just not visible through the myriad, “the sun is still there, there are no clouds, the light is just getting split by the ionized atmosphere. The heater should still work, I hope. We can try building a prototype tonight, see if it works tomorrow.”

Alex crunches her forehead as she stares, “where did you learn that?”

I scratch the back of my head, “I may have been hanging around the research tents lately. Trying to learn what I can. Like you said before, you know a bunch about the creatures out there. Effective ways to kill them, that will be helpful when we finally get a turn. Maybe I can learn something that will be of use as well.”

Alex shakes her head, “why from the big brains and not the soldiers?”

I go back to loading, “the soldiers aren’t here, the scientists are. Besides the soldiers and troopers are guarded with what they know. They don’t want to bring down the moral of the post any farther than it already is. The rumors alone are crushing enough.” I survey the workstation, “there used to be twice the amount of people working here, now most of them are just huddled up in a tent somewhere. They lost hope. The scientists haven’t, they think they can help us, do something about the flare. I want to do what I can, to do that I need to learn how to. The scientists are a start.”

Alex continues her work as well, “every little bit.”

I respond in kind, “every little bit.”

*Alexandra*

Hal and I continue to load mags. When time for the afternoon meal comes, we get up to stretch, “Hal, isn’t that the coordinator over there?”

The site coordinator, Balinda, is talking to another IDR soldier and a couple military personnel. She usually stays at the installation ops building, coordinating. What is she doing out here?

Hal follows my gesture, “huh? Well, maybe we can just ask her about the food now?”

I nod at that and start walking over, Hal hurriedly chases after me, “Alex, I meant when she had a moment. She seems kind of busy right now, probably doing something important . . .”

I shake off Hal’s hand, “Hal, everyone is busy. They are all busy all the time. You might have good ideas, but you won’t be able to do anything with them if you don’t ever tell anyone in charge.”

Hal raises his head and sighs, “fine, but at least wait until she is done talking first.”

We stalk over to her and the ones she is talking to. On arrival we stand just off to the side. Catching the coordinator between her duties is one thing, interrupting her is something else. If done poorly she may just be mad enough that she outright ignores Hal’s idea. So, we stand and wait.

Balinda is talking with the IDR and military personnel, “how many do we need from this post?”

One of the military dudes responds, “at least six. Even with the simplified training, with how rushed it will all be, at least two to three will drop out and another two or three just won’t make it.”

Balinda sighs, “so we are likely to have the entire group fail?”

The IDR soldier nods, “very, but we can’t really compromise more than we already have. If we don’t have the filter of training and just start sending people out arbitrarily, all we will get is more corpses. Both ours and civilian.”

The other military guy asks, “how many more posts do you have under you besides this one?”

Balinda responds, “Three others on this side, the other sides are under other coordinators.”

He asks another question, “and the compositions?”

She answers, “similar to this one, civilian volunteers, partial to minimal education, usually early to mid-twenties, few younger, few older. Site three is a little smaller than the other three.”

The man nods and the fist soldier says, “very well, we will likely be aiming for six from the others besides site three. We will check how many we can afford from you once we are there.”

Balinda motions at the rest of our group as they begin their afternoon meal, “well then, lets begin, anything else you need from me?”

The IDR soldier asks as the other two start walking toward our compatriots, “got any suggestions? People likely to follow through?”

Balinda taps her chin and glances at us out of the corner of her eye, “there might be a couple.”

She turns to us, and Hal steps up with a mix of sheepishness and projected confidence, “good afternoon, madam coordinator. We would like to discuss a possibility with you regarding the food table for the convoys, if you have the time.”

She looks us up and down for a second before responding with a smirk on her face, “not right now Harold. Instead, how about you and Alexandra, have a short chat with Seargent Mitchell here.” She motions to her side where the sergeant is, “Mitchell, here are your first two volunteers.”

She steps back and the sergeant nods and steps forward, “good day you two, I am sergeant Mitchell, IDR recruiting and training office. I am here today to look for any willing volunteers to enter into training to become either IDR troopers or military soldiers.”

A recruiter? The IDR has started recruiting again? I have an actual chance of joining the IDR and getting on one of the trucks? This is great, amazing, just what I have been waiting for!

Hal asks the sergeant while gesturing to me, snapping me out of my excitement, “Sergeant. My name is Harold, and this is Alexandra. If I may ask, what has changed for the IDR and military to begin recruiting again, when you have not done so for the last two weeks?”

Why does it matter Hal? Despite his stupid question the sergeant answers anyway, “simple, things have calmed down and have been reorganized enough that we can start training you again. Before now we were more concerned with making the installation secure. Now that it is, we can start the training again. We hope to be able to start fielding more convoys into the cities to evacuate those that have barricaded themselves inside buildings and facilities. By joining us you will be able to save lives.”

Hal scrunches his brow and glares suspiciously, I lightly hit him in the shoulder, “Hal what’s wrong? We both said we wanted to do more to help. This is our chance. We finally can start doing more than just making warm food or drawing children’s pictures.”

Hal looks at me and sighs, “Alex, what I am worried about is the timing. We have seen how many of the convoys have returned with less people than they left with. The number of convoys leaving are less than half what they were a week ago, because there are not enough people to man them left. I am worried that they are just looking for bodies to throw to the grinder. Send the fresh meat to shield the remaining troopers so they can do their jobs. I do want to do more. I don’t want us to become glorified meat shields though.”

Even then, it would still be more helpful than what we are doing now.

The sergeant responds before I can, “that is actually the reason we haven’t started until now. Unlike what you might fear, we don’t want mindless meat shields on our trucks. We waited because we needed time to organize the training, the supplies, the instructors, etcetera, etcetera. Yes, we are facing a lot of casualties, but those still trapped in the cities are facing more. We will teach you what to do, help us get them to safety. We don’t want you to be ignorant meat shields, all that would do is make more casualties. That is not what we want. Help us save lives.”

*Harold*

“DOWN! You will not go up until everyone is down! I said down, why are you on the ground! I did not tell you to rest on the ground. Well since your so rested now I guess we can start all over again now that you have all that extra energy!”

I look from my trembling arms to Alex’s, “Alexandra, I hate you.”

She has drops of tears in her eyes as her arms wobble, “I uhg, I, huhu, I . . . unggg”

I agree completely.

It has been three days since we signed up to join the IDR and training started. The first two days were in processing. Despite the hell like physical torture we are undergoing, those first days were the worst part so far. Nothing but stand in a line. Don’t talk. Don’t move around. Look forward. Stand in another line. Get stabbed with needles. Get thrown in barely fitting uniforms. Get boots one size sideways. Stand in line. At least we are doing something now.

After morning PT, we start the second worst part of training, death by power point. For the next eight hours we will be sitting on the floor reading power point after power point. No talking, no moving, no sleeping, just notes written on a notepad resting on the floor and aching backs and heavy eyelids trying to absorb hand written posters.

After evening meal, we get time in our bays to study and prep for the next day before sleep. That is if we don’t make any noise. If we do, if anyone does, we get to go outside to make lots and lots of noise. Lots of, one two three, one, one two three, two. Because of this, no one talks to each other except for very light whispers, to bad stepping on the floor, or breathing, is deafening to the drill instructors a floor below us.

Before the crack of dawn, an hour before an hour of the crack of dawn, our training unit assembled in the yard. Our drill instructor marched up to the front of the formation, “congratulations recruits, you have been such good little kids that we have decided that you can finally be almost trusted to hold a weapon!”

Finally, with this our training should be kicking into high gear no more posters. I take a quick peak at Alex, and she is especially giddy at the news. I have to say I am excited myself. Getting our weapons means we will be learning to use them, and will be one step closer to getting out of the installation, and into the cities. I am just glad that we are being trained to survive as long as we can. The weapons training will only last a couple days before we move into technical operations for about a week, and then the two-week basic training will be complete. Afterward, depending on the specific field we are assigned, the final training will last between one to five weeks.

After a short pause, the drill instructor continues, “now for the congratulations part I told you about in the beginning. You see, the armory where your weapons are stored is ten miles away on the opposite side of the installation. Be happy recruits because we get to run the whole way!”

…

Uhg.

All our shoulders slump and dread spreads across our faces.

The drill instructor frowns, “what is with all the long faces? You know what? I have just the thing to turn those frowns upside down. We will take the rout through the pleasant forest to the armory. You know, the one with the nice scenic views and all those pleasant hills? Running will be so much easier going down those. Aren’t you all thankful?”

…

We are near sea level. If there are a lot of downhill sections, it means there are just as many uphill sections. No, the armory is above us in elevation. There are more uphill sections than downhill. Kill me now.

The sun is cresting over the horizon as I collapse in front of the armory. Most of our platoon is already there, including Alex. They are all either on their knees or drowning themselves in water canteens. A drill instructor looks down on me from above after looking at the sunrise, “get up recruit, walk it off, don’t stop until you can breathe normally. Then empty whatever is in your canteen before filling it again. I want to see it empty before we leave as well.”

I struggle to my feet and trudge around the armory lot for another ten minutes, drinking periodically. After I can breathe again, I fill my canteen. As soon as I close the lid the drill instructors call us to fall in.

An IDR trooper looks us up and down, “welcome to my armory recruits. You have been briefed on the rules of handling firearms. If I see any of you disregarding those rules, you will not be leaving here with one of MY weapons. Do not misunderstand, every single one of these weapons are mine, not yours, mine. I expect them back in the same exact condition I loan them to you in!”

The drill instructors take over, “All recruits will line up at one of the four windows to receive their rifle. Recruits Daniel, Richard, May, and Harold report to me, Fall Out!”

The platoon rushes to the windows. The other summoned recruits and I assemble in front of the drill instructor. Glancing at one another I step up, “Drill Instructor, Recruit Harold and company report as requested.”

The drill instructor looks at me, “well, since you four arrived the slowest of everyone here that must mean you conserved the most energy of all the recruits. For that reason, we have decided to grace you with these four heavy rifles for your forethought!”

That can’t be right, there were many others behind me, “Drill Instructor, Recruit Harold, what happened to my fellow recruits that have yet to arrive?”

The drill instructor looks to me, “if you must know recruit, anyone not here will not be showing up, you yourself just barely made it.”

Oh. The drill instructor hefted the large and heavy rifle and placed it into my arms. In front of me a glimmering almost transparent window appears.

[You have obtained the IDR standard issue heavy rifle]

What?