The Last Grenade Mercenaries.

[CrazyHobo]

This was actually made a long time ago and posted in the Stories section of DF. I have no idea why I didn't think of posting it here till now

Character roster:
Hobo - me?
Landon - That One Guy
James - Modemkill
Mustang - Mustang
Kenshi - Kenshi (yes, he's still around )
Dark - rkcdarkside
Rookie - Bloodwolf777
Tyler - Tyler 63
Dice - DyC3
Patrick - TRHeadshot


   Lewilburry District, Fairview City, 9:32 P.M.

The dust had settled from so long ago, and the weak rays of light that had illuminated his buried prison were starting to fade, to a dull gray as the first signs of twilight came.    His body lay still, unable to move, the only signs of life his eyes and his irregular breaths and heartbeats. The rubble from the explosions had nearly crushed him altogether, and now he was trapped under the debris of a building.
   That was nearly two hours ago, although time was impossible to tell in that god-forsaken hell hole. All he knew was that the air was slowly running out, that darkness was coming, and by the first screeches on the horizon and a low murmuring groan, that the carrion would come, and dig him up and pick the flesh from his bones.
   It had all seemed too good to be true, and in his final moments, the buried left for dead soldier good only reminisce about how it all started. How he had come to join the Last Grenade Mercenaries.....

   It was dark outside, and the shadows cast by the tall, leering skyscrapers of Fairview City jeered heavily upon the distilled streets. A thin vapor, almost like mist, clutches the cement, hovering in swirling patterns above the streets, the smell of decay and blood and rust particularly strong.
   Fairview City is like a snapshot, a brief glimpse of ruined man frozen still. The abandoned vehicles lay rusting upon the streets. The buildings with caved-in roofs with scorch marks upon their bricks stand crumbling and wavering. All is dead in the city, and Fairview is a graveyard of silence.
   The sky above is a vast sea of overcast gray, through which even the sun’s dying rays can barely penetrate. There is little movement in the streets. Newspapers are blown by a sudden gust of wind, power lines hanging like drapes with electricity sparkling from its wires.
   And the dead citizens of Fairview, alive and yet not alive, driven by some unknown primal instinct to kill, feast, ravage. Their shambling forms jerking forwards, like the monstrous twitches of a spider. Cold, clammy hands outstretched, longing and reaching for the warmth of living flesh, yearning for it, like an addiction. Their eyes are moonscapes, glowing eerily with a look of savageness and craziness.
   A few scattered echoes of gunfire crackle, and fall muffled just as quickly as they had begun. An engine roars. Ravens caw far above, omens of death, messengers of the Reaper. It is an endless sound, as endurable as silence itself, never-ending, driving the hard-minded to the trench of insanity.
   Fairview City. A ruined city. A dead city. A graveyard.

   Nastya’s Outpost, LGM HQ, 11:21 A.M.

   A mighty outpost stands alone in the midst of the wreckage and destruction. A lone agent battling against the wills of chaos. Her walls are fortified with twenty-foot high metal walls. Her gates are reinforced with twelve inch blast doors. Towers rise throughout the walls, and sentries always patrol her ramparts, watching with constant vigilance at the burned out city around them.
   Nastya’s Outpost. The last true stronghold of man.
   Standing outside the turret-mounted walls is a clear field stretching for some distance. The buildings had been burned and torn down. A field of grass nearly waist high grows in some parts, dug with trenches with spiked wood. There are fields of oil, hidden pits, and other traps. The vehicles had been piled together to form a small outer wall, and were slanted inward in a V to make a funnel so the walls wouldn’t be overrun. To the far south of the outpost is another expanse of land, this one far larger, containing mounds of junk and vehicles and scraps of metal.
   Inside the walls there is a flurry of life. The streets are packed and winding through grimy two-story buildings. Soldiers patrol the streets and stand guard ontop the shingled rooftops. A marketplace dominated the center of the outpost, filled with taverns and outdoor vendors selling and displaying their wares to a moving crowd. Homeless and twisted men haunt the mouths of dark alleyways. Women show their figures to potential buyers. Looters return from their frequent ventures, less returning again and again.
   The outpost is no place for the weak. It is a constant game of survival, of politics, of manipulation and back-stabbing, every person striving to gain the upper hand in a man eat man world. The successful are promoted and control armies and live in luxurious homes. The poor are left in the streets to die, their bodies burned outside to avoid contamination and disease.
   In a dark room in the Nastya’s HQ section, a row of tall buildings and apartments dominated by various organizations of Nastya’s, a man sits, thinking. The windows are boarded but faint rays of light show, with swirling dust. A tall, silent man is hunched over the table opposite, a look of calm in his face.
   “You’re move, James,” Mustang says, leaning back in his armchair, folding his hands beneath his chin and staring at his opponent, a hint of amusement in his eyes.
   James tutts impatiently, his eyes swerving across the black and white squares, like a trapped animal looking for a way of escape. It is often said that the two men look alike. They could have been brothers, but James was often associated with the vicious wounds across his face and leg, which had been mashed to a pulp. His makeshift crutches were leaning beside him.
   There was once a moment where a newbie from another clan had gone so far as to mock James. In his anger, he had called James a cripple. As he looked around with a dumb expression of expectancy at a sudden laugh or jest, stone faces met his expression. Perhaps it was because even the most inner rival clans knew that James was a seasoned soldier put out of combat by a ferocious battle with a Behemoth, which he had managed to slay despite his injuries which would have incapacities any other man. They could not respect him as an ally or friend. They could respect him as a comrade.
   Mustang had saved him, dragging his limp form through hordes of N4 infected, and Hobo had patched him up as best as he could. But the damage was irreversible, although there was a light of pride on his face.
   James now surveyed the chessboard, his face scrutinizing, and he makes his move with a small cry of triumph. Mustang smiles gently in return, calmly moving his piece and uttering a whispered “checkmate.”
   “Screw this!” James groans. “You cheated.”
   “I never cheat,” Mustang replies matter-of-factly, reaching out and taking his commissions.
   “How else did you get out of that trap? What do you think, Hobo? Did he cheat?”
   The man who had sat silent in the corner of the room looked up at the sound of his name. A look of fire is always present and burning in his eyes. The Russian he is known to among other clans, but the LGM simply called him Hobo. A name not even beginning to fit the man’s caliber. Once upon a darker time, he had founded the LGM and passed the mantle to his successor, Landon, in order to stay in the field of combat with his men.
   He had won the silent loyalty of every single one of his men, and the respect from even the most hardened adversaries. His proven medical skills had been sought after time and time again by those on death’s door.
   “Mustang never cheats,” Hobo replied, his voice rich and brazen.
   “Ah hell, still think I was jacked. Take the money. Hobo, what do you think? Wanna play me?”
   Hobo looks up at the giant grandfather clock dominating the corner. “I think we have more important issues right now then chess,” he replied. “It’s 11:32 and still no word from Dice.”
   James face contorted, as though sucking on a sour lemon. “I don’t know about that guy, Dice. Sometimes he makes me uneasy. There’s always that look on his face, and killing comes too easy to him. Sometimes I wonder why Landon let him stay on.”
   “James, don’t question Landon. It’s not your duty to go against his judgment. Landon has his own reasons for keeping Dice, and it’s because Dice is capable. Worry about yourself,” Hobo replied, with Mustang nodding in approval.
   James still didn’t look reassured. “Still, I don’t like assassinations, and I know you don’t either. This isn’t why the LGM was founded, especially not the way he does them. Did you ever hear the stories?”
   Hobo nodded. “They’re true. It was at our formation that we, meaning Landon, Dark, and I found him. We were on a reconnaissance mission in South Lewilburry, a place I hope you’ll never have to see, and when we heard fighting we went over with heavy hearts, expecting to find another dead soul.”
   “That’s when you find him, sir?” Mustang asked, in spite of himself.
   Hobo’s eyes zoned out, as though looking at a film of the past. “I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. Savage, feral, wild, his clothes bloodied, swinging a hunting knife. His face drawn in a fixed expression of rage. The infected around him were cut to ribbons, their bodies torn long after they had been slaughtered. I had felt the soles of my shoes become wet, and I looked down to see that the street was a river of blood. And all the while, his maniacal laughter ringing in my ears.”
   There was a silence, and the three paused, all of them uneasy. “Sir, do you really think we can trust Dice?” Mustang asked.
   “Trust him? Never trust anyone, Mustang; I thought you’d have learned that a while ago. We can certainly use him. His utter ruthlessness will come in handy one day, and he’ll make the decisions that I myself cannot. He is a man with nothing to lose, making him a dangerous weapon and enemy. There is no regard to pain and death, his only existence a means of revenge.”
   There was a brief silence, broken only by the chimes of the clock. Each of the men sat in their own reflective silence, Hobo questioning the success of Dice’s mission, James reviewing market figures on a spreadsheet, and Mustang resting his mind. There was a pounding at the door, and all three jolted out of their reverie. Hobo nodded to Mustang, how grabs a Mossberg from the tableside, moving to the doorway and peering through a peephole. He raises the gun’s barrel just in case.
   “Who is it!” he shouted.
   “Goddamn it Mustang, you very know well it’s me. Keeping me waiting in the freakin cold,” a voice barked.
   “Is that you Patrick? Who else do you got there?” Mustang shouted back.
   “Kenshi and Tyler finished the errands, and we’ve got the new recruit here who wants to join us,” Patrick shouted back.
   Mustang unbolted the door, clicking several locks, and three tall men stepped in from the cold, winter day. They were huddled in their winter coats, and with shaking hands unfastened their hoods and stepped towards the firelight while Mustang shut the door.
   The first man, Patrick, wore a thick SLX Reactive over his chest, emblazoned with the symbol of the LGM on his chest. He had big, rippling muscles in his chest, a John Wayne kinda guy, a heavy M60 slung over his shoulder. Despite his size and looming presence, Patrick was not so much a man of action as intelligence, and was the LGM’s main console to the current market, a job as dangerous if not more than braving the Inner City.
   The second man’s name was Kenshi. He was lean, not altogether strong, with a figure more like a sprinter than a bodybuilder. He was Jamaican, with dark skin tones, and carried two dual sheaths on his built, in which he had Japanese steel. His only sidearm was a Desert Eagle strapped to his lower leg.
   The third man Hobo recognized as Tyler. There wasn’t anything extraordinary or unique about him. He was your typical, southern average Joe. Not the strongest, fastest, or smarted person alive, but was strong-willed enough to get his accomplishments done. A Dusk Enforcer hangs at his waist.
   Hobo frowned at the fourth one, not recognizing the newcomer. Landon had told him earlier that there would be a new recruit. The new guy seemed young, far younger than the rest of the guys on the team, and wasn’t very strong, although he seemed lean and fit. His hair was blonde and short, his skin pale like a ghost, and was a little taller than he was.
   James looked up from his chart. “Jesus Patrick, why are you smiling so much?”
   Patrick was smiling from ear to ear, his pearly whites chattering. “It’s cold out there, man, I can’t stop freakin smilin’. Think my face is frozen like this.”
   Hobo stood up, lighting a cigarette in his mouth and beckoning to the arriving people. “Please, take a seat by the fire. James, get some refreshments from the fridge. I’ll be joining you shortly.” And he walked upstairs, his footsteps heard from the floor above as Patrick, James, Kenshi, Tyler, Mustang, and the new guy drew chairs from the room.
   “Patrick, what’s new in the market?” James asked, returning with trays of crackers and water.
   Patrick shrugged. “There’s been a decrease of wood and power tools, something we might want to stock up on. Otherwise than that, it’s the same old flexibility. I recommend we invest in grenades at the moment though, form a monopoly.”
   “You guys hear from Dice?” Kenshi asked.
   “Not a word. I think Hobo’s getting kinda anxious, which is unusual of him. He probably realizes he needs to keep that guy on a tight leash though,” Mustang answered.
   “True that. You got any cigarettes on you?” Tyler asked.
   Mustang started to check his pockets, and stopped halfway. “Screw that, Tyler, I don’t have a cigarette. Get your own bloody cigarettes for a change, will you?”
   “What about you, newbie, you got any cigarettes?” Tyler asked.
   “He has a name, and it’s Bloodwolf,” Kenshi snapped.
   “Bloodwolf, what kinda name is that? What are ya good for, newbie?” Tyler asked.
   Bloodwolf didn’t say anything at first, as he sat thinking, and Tyler thought he could recognize a hint of emotion on his face. Something quite unheard of. Most had learned long ago to bar away their inner feelings, obviously he was an exception. “Well,” he said, the first time he had spoken, “I’m an alright sniper.”
   “Alright’s an understatement,” Hobo said, reappearing from upstairs and joining them, his arms cradling bottles of beer. “This guy’s put down a sprinting long arm at a 600 meter mark in a 3 second window, or at least that’s what AD tells me.”   
   “AD? You know Ryan then?” Mustang asked calmly.
   “Yeah, I’m his step-brother,” Bloodwolf replied.
   “These are on me,” Hobo said, throwing the cans around, each member giving a small hoorah as they caught them and leaned back. “Sorry Rookie, we’d have one for you, if Kenshi wasn’t always smuggling my alcohol when I’m asleep.”
   “How’d you know that was me?” Kenshi asked, acting genuinely surprised. Hobo recognized the sarcasm, and didn’t respond. Everyone knew Kenshi made it a sort of mini-goal of stealing Hobo’s alcohol, and in turn Hobo often made it harder with locks and picks, a game they liked to play.
   “Alright Bloodwolf, what made you want to join the LGM?” Hobo asked, blowing smoke.
   “Well, the truth is, sir, I wanted to fight with the best.”

[CrazyHobo]

Inner City, Ecclesham District ,6:31 P.M.

   “Well you wanted to prove yourself. Now’s your chance, show us what ya got,” Landon spoke quietly. It was quiet, and the members of LGM stood ontop of a rooftop overlooking Fairview, the sun glaring down on the gray expanse from far above.
   Hobo was sitting in a corner with his usual cigarette, watching with interest, while Kenshi, Tyler, and Dark were looting the building, and Dice and Patrick stood guard. The building was a relatively new find, a place that had actually been untouched, which surprised them. Most of Fairview had been cleared out long ago.
   James had been left at HQ in Nastya’s. He had tried to make light of it, laughing and smiling, but Hobo knew with a pained expression that James felt sick inside at watching his comrades go and knowing he had to stay behind.
   “One day, you’ll ride out with us again,” Hobo had said, patting his shoulder. “But not this day.”
   And now he watched Bloodwolf glue his eye to the scope. For nearly two minutes he stood still as stone, and Landon watched just as patiently. Then there was a brief whiz, and he identified a target and shot it dead.
   “I see you’ve learned the art of patience,” Landon said, his arms crossed over his plated armor chest of his ZRX Reactive. “I’m impressed.”
   Landon was once a computer whiz, or in better terms a programmer for the Secronom research corporation. Most of the men of LGM had humble beginnings, even Dice, but they had learned to adapt and survive to a world so full of strife and chaos. Ordinary men forced to go to extraordinary measures, most of the retaining only a brink of their humanity.
   There was a burst and the roof door opened, slamming suddenly, and the small congregation turned to see Dice, a gun held to a captive black man’s head. “I found this scum looting on LGM property,” Dice snarled.
   Hobo swore, throwing up his hands. Landon frowned, as if he were trying to figure a puzzling math problem, and Bloodwolf looked around, unsure.
   Hobo swore. “Have you identified him?”
   “Yes, I have. His name’s Flint, John Flint, a renegade of the OG from Nastya’s,” Dice replied, jamming the barrel into Flint’s skull. Flint whimpered, uttering prayers beneath his breath.
   Hobo and everyone else, the exception being Bloodwolf, knew that the clan’s of Nastya’s had long ago marked down claimed territories and looting rights to avoid war. Long ago, when a clan found an unlooted building, it often became a race once the word spread, and much blood was shed. It was a crime to go against that rule. A crime universally punishable by death.
   “Well, what do you have to say?” Hobo asked angrily. Flint shook his head in return, his lips glued, and Dice pushed the barrel harder, causing him to shout out. “Please! No! Don’t kill me man, not like this. I need to feed my family!” he whimpered.
   “You don’t have a family,” Dice said coldly, with such malice that Bloodwolf felt his blood run cold and his hairs twitch. “You’re a loner. A piece of scum that puts himself before others.”
   “Landon, its your call,” Hobo said. “You’re the leader now, you deal with it.” And he simply turned his back, watching the streets below.
   “The penalty for breaking this rule has always been death,” Landon said, uttering the man’s death sentence, and the man screamed.
   Bloodwolf turned around. “Hobo, do something!”
   “What do you want me to do!” Hobo chuckled. “He knew the consequences.”
   Bloodwolf turned around, looking at Landon. “Landon, we can’t keep killing ourselves! The N4’s the goddamn enemy, not him!”
   Landon didn’t look at Bloodwolf or give any indication he had heard. “Godspeed Flint,” Landon said, nodding to Dice for the go-ahead.
   “Goddamn it, Dice!” Bloodwolf shouted, raising his pistol and aiming it squarely at Dice’s chest.
   Hobo turned around, suddenly reinterested, and Landon smirked. Dice looked from Hobo to Landon, and turned around, chuckling silently.
   “You don’t want to do that, Bloodwolf,” Dice spoke softly.
   “Put the gun down, Dice. I’m not about to let you kill an innocent man.”
   “Would you rather have him kill you someday then? Would you rather...”
   “Shut your mouth!” Bloodwolf shouted, cursing, running his hand through his hair. “I didn’t forsake all of my sanity, like you.”
   “Sanity.” A look of genuine surprise came across Dice’s face. “The only sanity in this world is chance. Pure, unbiased luck.” Dice swept out the man’s legs with a quick sweeping kick. “Stay down,” he growled menacingly, and turned to Bloodwolf, saying, “You wouldn’t do it.”
   “You don’t believe me? I could do it, I could put you out,” Bloodwolf said, but Hobo could detect the pleading in his words, as though trying to make himself believe that he could kill Dice.
   “Fine. None of us can decide what to do, so how about this. I’m not going to leave this man’s life to us. I’ll leave it to chance.” Dice grabbed a coin from his pocket. “Heads he dies, tails he lives.”
   “You’d leave a man’s life to chance?” Landon asked, unsure of what to do. He was a good leader in combat, but now he was morally perplexed. The obvious reason had been to kill the man, but something in Blood wolf’s words seemed to reach out to him.
   The coin was flipped, the tiny revolutions of silver catching the sun’s gleam, but when the coin came down it landed on Hobo’s outstretched palm.
   “Let him go, Dice. The rookie’s right,” Hobo said.
   Dice looked as though he were going to fight back, a look of anger in his face, but instead shrugged the man off him roughly. John seemed to understand he was being spared, and quickly disappeared, running across the rooftop and vanishing down the stairwell.
   Dice turned, frustrated, rubbing his hand through his hair. He suddenly turned, pointing a finger at Bloodwolf and shouting, “And if you ever point a gun at me again, Rookie, I’ll kill you where you stand. Am I clear?”
   “Yeah,” Bloodwolf muttered.
   The door banged open again, but this time instead of Dice it was Kenshi. “Captain, the lower floors have been cleared of loot and loaded into the trucks. You won’t believe what we’ve found, sir,” his face beaming with excitement.
   “What? What is it?” Landon asked, catching on that something great had happened.
   Kenshi stopped, looking between the sweat-soaked Bloodwolf and Dice standing with his gun out, huffing angrily. “What happened?”
   “Never mind about that, just a little negotiating. Tell us what you found.”
   “Well the basement was a shelter once sir. We found an entire floor stacked with assault rifles, machine guns, ammo, food, water, you name it, its down there. It’s going to make us rich...”
   Just as Kenshi was finishing the words, there came a shout from downstairs, and Landon looked up, and suddenly a whiz of bullets came from all around them, striking the ground and spraying them with shrapnel and dust.
   “Down! Get down! Get some cover!” Landon shouted, crouching down behind a vent. Hobo and Kenshi dropped down behind a railing, and Bloodwolf fell flat on his stomach, cursing as he realized he was on open rooftop.
   “Rookie! Don’t move!” Landon shouted above the roar of the pounding gunfire, which was falling heavily into their position. He turned to Dice and shouted, “Covering fire!”
   Dice grinned feralish, lifting his USAS-12 above his position and pumping rounds. There was a lull in the gunfire, and Bloodwolf stood up, running towards their cover, and Dice ducked his head behind the ventilator just as concentrated bullets pounded his position.
   “Kenshi, Dice, Hobo,” Landon shouted above the gunfire, “you three stay up here and give fire from the rooftops. Bloodwolf, you’re coming with me! On three, give covering fire so we can reach the other members down below. One, two, three!”
   Kenshi, Dice, and Hobo spread out, and on three, they stood up, giving spurts of gunfire into the building opposite, their bullets sinking into the windows. The enemy was no where to be seen, but a few of the rounds found their mark as people fell from their roosts out the broken windows and onto the street below.
   Bloodwolf kept low, following Dice, aware of the bullets streaking all around him. Bits of shrapnel flew into his face and arms and legs like tiny splinters, and there were sprays of cement like dust raining down on him.
   He dove into the door, shutting it just as several bullet holes poked through, faint light coming in. Landon was already running down, with Bloodwolf following close behind, the gunfire and sound of battle muffled from outside.
   “Patrick, with me!” Landon shouted, finding Patrick, Dark and Tyler downstairs. “The rest of you, secure the lower levels. Bloodwolf, stay up here and snipe through one of these windows.”
   Patrick and Landon disappeared, running up the steps, as Dark and Tyler ran downstairs, their footsteps muddling throughout the whole house. The entire complex was under siege, and the ceiling shook and dust fell.
   Bloodwolf looked around, and found himself in a study of some sort. There was a desk with a window behind it and heavy drapes, and bookshelves full of books that were good for burning but nothing else, and a mantle and hearth and Persian Rug across the rich wood floor. He crawled over behind the desk, opening the window barely a sliver and peering through the crack. He hoisted his gun, looking down the scope at the many flashes of gunfire, and fired a shot, watching as a man fell out of a five-story window and onto the street.
   The battle continued for some time, with the gunfire from upstairs and downstairs still raging on. He didn’t know how many there were, but his kill count had gone from two to six, to eight to twelve, every one of his bullets finding their mark in an enemy soldier.
   There was an explosion downstairs, and his gun jolted and the bullet missed. Cursing, he rolled over; as gunfire lit the window he was just in. He recognized the sound as an exploding grenade, and heard Dark and Tyler shout downstairs.
   Grabbing his pistol, he army crawled across the floor into the other rooms towards the stairwell, bullets shattering the windows and pounding the walls, streaking above him. When he got to the stairwell, he saw Dark dragging Tyler up the stairs. Tyler was bloodied and his body smoking.
   “Damnit, they’re Wild Geese Mercs. There’s an entire squadron out there. They burst through the door and took the lower levels,” Dark explained panting, as Tyler lay shouting and cursing from his bloodied leg. “Patrick and Landon are giving covering fire, but they’re making progress up the floors.”
   Bloodwolf helped him hoist Tyler up. Grenade shrapnel had been lodged in his legs, and he groaned mightily with every slight movement, as pain was sent racking through his body. “Leave me here, I can fight them off,” Tyler said, grabbing his pistol. They dragged him up another stairwell, his screams echoing and clanging with the bullets the entire time.
   The door above them opened, and Hobo and Kenshi ran down the steps, the door opened ajar behind them. “We can’t hold them off up there, they had us pinned down too tight!” Hobo shouted to Bloodwolf and Dark on the stairwell. “We had to...” there was a high whistling noise.. “Artillery! Get down!” Hobo shouted, throwing Kenshi and himself roughly down the stairway.
   The round had exploded in the roof top doorway, obliterating the entire frame into twisted metal and burning wood. Shrapnel flew like stinging hornets, and all of them were thrown heavily.
   Bloodwolf slowly peered open his eyes, a heavy ringing sound coating his entire world. He stood up, sweeping the dust from his shoulders and rubbing his eyes, looking into the burning frame, and looking down saw blood trickling down his hand.
   “Everyone alright!” Hobo shouted, as the others slowly got up. There were brief footsteps from downstairs, and Hobo raised his gun, shouting, “Thunder!”
   “Lightning!” came a reply, and Landon and Patrick appeared upstairs. Landon stopped at the site, moving through burning pieces of wood. “Jesus, what happened?”
   “They have artillery on the rooftop adjacent here. Bloodwolf, you take that window and try and snipe that mortar team,” Hobo said. “Landon and Dark cover this stairwell, the rest of us find windows to shoot from.”
   Bloodwolf found a window on the other side of the building, and sure enough found several soldiers on the enemy rooftops. He started sniping them slowly, when a whiz flew and shattered a set of China cups on the drawer behind him. He cursed, clenching his head down, avoiding another sniper bullet.
   Dice was still upstairs, shooting his USAS-12 amid heavy artillery fire, none of which seemed to phase him in the slightest. Dark and Patrick set up their machine guns in a window, catching a group of running soldiers in the street and mowing them down. Landon was pumping Protecta rounds downstairs, spurts of blood flying through the walls as he hit unseen targets. There was a hand that appeared only for a second, throwing a grenade upstairs, and Landon dove over, grabbing it and throwing it back downstairs, where it exploded with several screams.
   Adrenaline coursed through his veins, as Bloodwolf looked upward, his trained eyes scanning the horizon. There, a glint of sunlight reflecting on his enemy’s scope. Third story, fourth room to the right. He raised his scope and saw the sniper, and to his alarm saw the sniper was also looking at him. He quickly pulled the trigger.
   The bullet flew through the lens and landed in his eye, and the dead sniper fell from the building. There was a chorus of screams, high and shrill, far beyond human capabilities, and Bloodwolf peered outside and saw the streets flooding with running N4 infected. A large swarm, their legs pumping like mighty pistons, as they already tackled some of the unwary Wild Geese Mercs, ripping out their insides and biting the neck of those they threw down.
   “****,” Bloodwolf murmured. “Oh ****, oh ****, oh ****. Landon! We gotta get out of here! There’s a swarm coming!”
   “What!” Landon shouted in the other room, firing his Protecta. “I can’t talk right now!”
   Bloodwolf stood up, running over and sliding to a crouch. “There’s a huge swarm coming, like nothing I’ve ever seen. We gotta get out of here! Now!”
   There was an alarm that sounded, and suddenly the bullets stopped in their tracks, and the men downstairs stopped their siege and retreated downstairs. There was no doubt about it. WGM was calling off the siege.
   “I think we should follow their example,” Hobo said calmly. “And get the hell out of here.”
   “Outa here!” Patrick shouted, grabbing Tyler and hoisting him on his shoulder. They sprinted downstairs, and Bloodwolf cursed as several artillery rounds exploded into the building, collapsing the roof.
   “Goddamn it, these guys just don’t know how to quit. They’ll collapse the whole building, just to kill us,” Landon cursed.
   There were dull poundings, as the roof gave way and collapsed, giant pieces of burning timber raining around them on the stairway, falling like giant pillars. The LGM made it outside the doorway, Bloodwolf being the last.
   There was an explosion to his right, and Bloodwolf cursed, as the entire complex seemed to be collapsing. With a shout, he pushed Hobo forward, sending him sprawling on the street, and dove down into a crater, as pieces of rubble and timber landed ontop of him, burying him.
   “Bloodwolf!” Hobo shouted, reaching out and rolling a piece of rock from the pile.
   Landon grabbed his shoulder. “Hobo, we need to get outa here!” He turned around, watching as several infected sprinted towards them from the far end of the street.
   Dice pulled out with the bus, and Kenshi hoisted Tyler onboard, as did the rest. Landon pulled Hobo onto the bus loaded with loot, which slowly started off, the infected giving chase and eventually falling far behind as the bus picked up speed, looming farther away through the dead streets of Fairview.

   Lewilburry District, Fairview City, 9:32 P.M.

The dust had settled from so long ago, and the weak rays of light that had illuminated his buried prison were starting to fade, to a dull gray as the first signs of twilight came.    His body lay still, unable to move, the only signs of life his eyes and his irregular breaths and heartbeats. The rubble from the explosions had nearly crushed him altogether, and now he was trapped under the debris of a building.
   That was nearly two hours ago, although time was impossible to tell in that god-forsaken hell hole. All he knew was that the air was slowly running out, that darkness was coming, and by the first screeches on the horizon and a low murmuring groan, that the carrion would come, and dig him up and pick the flesh from his bones.
   It had all seemed too good to be true, and in his final moments, the buried left for dead soldier good only reminisce about how it all started. How he had come to join the Last Grenade Mercenaries....
   And suddenly, there was a dull wrenching sound above him, and he was snapped from his reverie, and the large pieces of timber and rubble began to move, as though by their own, from above him. Light streamed through the cracks, until finally a dark figure stood above him, his hand reaching toward him.
   Bloodwolf reached out, grabbing the hand and felt him hoisted out. He stood up, warily, his body had been locked in place but not crushed, and he had sustained no real damage except for a few burns and bruises.
   He looked up at Hobo, who was flanked by the rest of the LGM. Landon and Dice, Dark, Kenshi, (Tyler was injured and lying in the vehicle) and Patrick, standing side by side, a band of brothers in the dying sunlight.
   “You came back,” Bloodwolf uttered hoarsely.
   Hobo smiled, the first real hint of emotion he had seen on the man’s face all day. “Of course we came back. You’re part of the LGM. Never leave a man behind.”
   Bloodwolf chuckled feebly. “I had to admit, I thought you would’ve left me there for a second.”
   “We would’ve, before,” Landon spoke up. “But you made us realize something when you wanted to spare that man’s life.”
   “And what’s that?” Bloodwolf said weakly.
   “Well, none of us are going to escape this war unscathed,” Hobo answered. “It’s changed us, made us hard and relentless, and in that pursuit we had forgotten who were really were. It will be hard, of course, for we need to survive. But all we really want to do is go home. Go back before the outbreak. And that’s but a dream within a dream, perhaps, only in our memories, and we had long forsaken hope. But for every man we kill or shoot, I think we all feel a little further from home. You’ve made us see the hope in retaining our humanity. And someday, who knows, we might just get there, but not like this.”
   Hobo hoisted Bloodwolf up, helping him across the rubble-strewn streets, with tiny fires lighting along the cold, gray cement, and sparks like fireflies floating on the wind, as the soldiers of LGM finally made their way home.

“Alright Bloodwolf, what made you want to join the LGM?” Hobo asked, blowing smoke.
   “Well, the truth is, sir, I wanted to fight with the best.”