NOP: The Rejects of Sillis (6)

Here's a new chapter; a gift from me to ya'll on New Years Eve!

Its so hard to keep a schedule...

Anyways! If you're a bit confused, pay attention to this chapter's date.

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Memory Transcription Subject: Lieutenant Isaac Yankovic

Date [standardized human time]: October 17th, 2136

Everyone wonders what they would do at the end of the world; I didn’t have to. I had no bunker to cower in because they were already full. I had no family to spend my last moments with because I never knew them. All I had was 41 brothers in arms to take care of, and I was not going to fail them.

Our unit, the 42nd Infantry Division, was just that: infantry. Us Eleven Bravos could do very little to affect the outcome of a space battle, but that didn’t mean we were going to sit on our asses and let the Federation drop antimatter on us with impunity. The plan was to pack America's largest population centers with so many air defense systems that their skies became effectively impenetrable.

Yesterday, we crossed into New Jersey to set up a long-range radar system and two THAAD batteries in Lincoln Park. The day before, we scattered a dozen Patriot launchers on Randalls and Wards Islands. As of now, we’re placing an anti-air system in every open space between Lower Manhattan and Harlem. Central Park was the biggest and most obvious option, so it was getting the most attention.

My unit, First Platoon, Bravo Company, was assigned to security duty. That meant patrolling around the southern edge of the park, keeping civilians out of the way and the crazies at bay. More than once, we had to turn away someone who was trying to walk their dog or go for a casual morning run. Me and Eaton, one of my Staff Sergeants, had taken to speculating about these people to occupy ourselves.

“Do you think they’re just delusional?” I thought aloud as we strolled down 59th Street.

New York’s sidewalks and roads, once teeming with life, were now mostly abandoned. This would have made the city much more peaceful, but the engineers were making more than enough racket further into Central Park. They had to clear launch vectors and ground paths for Patriot and C-RAM systems. As a result, the swift reports of C4 charges or det-cord exploding, followed by the creaks, snaps, and groans of a centuries-old tree falling over, replaced the usual hustle and bustle.

“Nah, man.” Eaton said while not entirely paying attention. “They’re in denial, not delusional.”

“What’s the difference?” I asked while surveying the streets parallel to us for any pedestrians.

“It’s psychology.” He tapped his temple like he actually knew something about the topic. “Those people might seem delusional, but they know exactly what’s going on. It's why they’re doing leisure activities. They’re pretending everything’s okay to distract themselves from that.” He pointed up.

The space battle raging above us appeared as thousands of tiny bursts of light against the otherwise pristine blue background, occasionally punctuated by the brilliant white flash and thunderclap of something falling through the atmosphere and vaporizing.

Eaton continued. “The ones that are truly delusional are sitting in their cubicles right now, typing away without noticing that no one else came into work today.”

“And the stupid ones traffic-jammed the Carey Tunnel.” I added offhandedly.

“And the smart one’s fucked off to a cabin in the woods as soon as first contact was announced.”

“We definitely aren’t in that group; we joined the Army.”

Eaton chuckled. “There's a reason the slogan used to be Army Strong, not Army Smart.”

Our patrol route was just a straight line from Central Park’s south gate to Grand Army Plaza, where we could admire the golden visage of William Tecumseh Sherman and salute him as we passed. On the way back, we would meet up with First Squad, exchange inane jokes with them, and continue on until we reached the entrance again.

It was an important assignment, but it did little to occupy the mind. I found myself thinking too much when I wasn’t bullshitting with Eaton.

Are we giving people false hope by putting all these anti-air systems here? Did they choose to stay because of us? Would the air-defense batteries even work?

I was brought out of my rumination by the radio on my chest garbling something incomprehensible. “Say again?” I asked the receiver.

“The trucks need an escort back to Hamilton,” the voice of my platoon sergeant, Sterling, replied.

“Copy. Everyone meet up at the main gate.”

My sergeants responded with a simple “Wilco” over the radio.

“I hope those bastards try to come down here,” Eaton commented while we began picking up the pace. “It’d be fun watching them walk into the shitstorm we’re making.”

I slung my rifle over my shoulder and quickened to a light jog alongside him. “The real fun will be if any of them touch the ground alive.”

“Damn right, sir.”

Me, Eaton, and Second Squad closed the gap to the park’s entrance in no time. First Squad was right on our heels, but they were significantly more winded because they had to break into a dead sprint to catch up.

Sergeant Sterling and the rest of the platoon were waiting for us among a cordon of Humvees and NYPD cruisers. “I haven’t seen you boys move like that since basic,” he said with a slight smile tugging at his lips.

“Maybe you haven’t been properly motivating us, sir,” Eaton quipped while climbing into the lead Humvee’s rear seat.

Sterling rolled his eyes and took the front passenger seat. “Of course! All I needed was a goddamn alien invasion to get you off your asses.”

“Whatever. We still do plenty of work. Right, Lieutenant?”

“If making up bullshit was a job, we’d be earning six figures.” I climbed up the vehicle’s hood into the gunner’s position. There wasn’t a machine gun in the mount, but it was smart to have someone up there for situational awareness.

A specialist took the driver’s seat, and Private Broz took the spot across from Eaton. The driver flipped the vehicle’s switch and pulled forward, with three other Humvees following. Four Oshkosh missile transporter trucks exited Central Park and fell in behind us. Then, five more Humvees began following the trucks. It went like clockwork; we’d been practicing it all week.

Our tiny utility vehicles were pathetic compared to the Oshkoshes. They growled and rumbled like a thirty-ton piece of military engineering was supposed to, thanks to their hydrogen combustion engines. The Humvee’s electric motors only produced a light whirring from under the hood.

Patrolling outside of an active combat zone took very little brain power. Riding along in a vehicle took even less. I was just thankful I had a lot to look at and occupy my thoughts with. Below me, Eaton and Private Broz could only stare out the tiny window next to them.

If any civilian watched us while patrolling, they would come away with the impression that we were perfectly calm and collected in the face of our extinction–we were even talking and making jokes with each other. In truth, the constant chatter was a distraction from the existential dread we all felt.

An alien coalition was trying to exterminate us, and we didn't have the ships or manpower to stop them. The fact that we were setting up missile defense systems in the first place was proof that the higher-ups weren’t betting on stopping the Federation in orbit. And if they got past our defenses, it was just a matter of dropping munitions on us until we ran out of crap to intercept them with.

For some reason or another, I let go of my rifle’s grip and spread my fingers out in front of me. The action took more effort than usual because they were stiff from me death gripping my weapon all day. Worse, they were trembling.

Don’t let them see that.

The soldiers below me were in a similar state. Eaton couldn’t stop one of his legs from shaking. In the driver’s seat, Specialist Hart’s collar was entirely soaked with sweat. Sterling held his rifle between his knees and drummed on its forend without rhythm.

I turned my attention outward to distract myself, but what I saw wasn’t any better. A crowd had gathered around a subway entrance, pushing and shoving in a futile effort to fit more people underground. Some people were more resigned to their fate. A father and son sat on a nearby bench and embraced each other, saying nothing. Two women held up their daughters and begged us to take them somewhere safe. We stopped doing evacuations days ago. Others were just lying on the sidewalk and letting tears stream down their faces.

The pit in my stomach grew harder to ignore.

Normally, I found Eaton’s constant prattling annoying, but I found myself silently thanking him for starting it up again.

“Hey, Broz, would you fuck an alien? I could hate-fuck a krakotl right now. Consensually, of course, I’m not a monster.”

The Private, having zoned out, had to snap back to attention. “Huh? Uh… yeah. I think so.”

“You think so?” Eaton asked, “What does that mean?”

Broz shrugged. “Well, it would depend on the circumstances, right? But I don’t think I’d say no just because they’re an alien.”

“Fair enough. What about you, Specialist?”

Hart kept her eyes on the road and answered tersely, “No.”

“C’mon, why not?”

She cursed under her breath, knowing she wasn’t getting away with such a short response. “Man, you don’t know what those aliens are carrying. They could give you Hepatitis X or some shit like that.”

Everyone in the Humvee chuckled.

“Coward.” Eaton smacked my thigh with the back of his hand. “Lieutenant?”

I thought for a moment before answering. “I’d fuck a venlil; they’re cute.”

“Can’t argue with that. Sergeant?”

Sterling just shook his head and laughed. “This is why none of us got into the Exchange Program.”

“We still had a chance,” Eaton protested. “I heard they let some real freaks into those in-person meetings–deviants, degenerates, vagrants, cyborgs–”

“You’re making shit up now,” I interjected from the gunner's position.

“I’m not! They paired this one six-foot brick shithouse with some lady that was like four feet–”

In an instant, our conversation was interrupted by a blaring horn, screeching tires, and my helmet impacting the gunner’s shield in front of me.

My vision darkened, and my head spun for a brief period before I was able to consciously act again. I wiped away the snot that dislodged from my sinuses, and I looked behind me. The bumper of the Humvee trailing us was buried in the rear of ours. The driver and gunner were looking at me with wide, terrified eyes. Upon looking forward, I found a teenager in the middle of the road wearing the same expression.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” I shouted down at him.

The kid blinked the shock out of his eyes before speaking. “Take me with you! I can help you guys, please!

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“You want to help someone?” I climbed out of the gunner’s position and stepped from the roof to the hood, to the front bumper, and then to the pavement. “Prove you’ve got some hair on your balls?” He started to shrink away as I approached. “Stay out of the fucking road!”

I drove the barrel of my rifle as hard as I could into the teen’s chest. He sprawled backward, his heel caught the curb, and he fell flat on his ass. I immediately turned my back to him and began ascending back to my spot in the Humvee.

“You guys are fucking assholes, you know that!” The kid screamed at me.

“Piss of somewhere underground, kid,” was my response as I settled back into the gunner's seat.

“There’s no more room! You guys barely evacuated anyone!” He yelled back.

“Not my problem.”

The teenager’s eyes darted around with fury before settling on a glass bottle that was discarded in the gutter. In one quick motion, he picked up the container, stood, and launched it at my head with a “Fuck you!” It clipped the edge of the machine gun shield and exploded, spraying my face with glass shards. Luckily, the eye protection I wore lived up to its name.

Before I knew it, my weapon was up, and its safety clicked off. “You little shit!”

“The fuck are you doing, Lieutenant?!” Sergeant Sterling shouted from the passenger seat.

The kid stared down my barrel. His eyes dared me to pull the trigger.

A single gunshot ripped through the air and echoed off the buildings around us.

The kid went wide-eyed and froze.

I put another bullet over his head. “Run!”

The teenager finally gained some sense and darted into a nearby alley.

Suddenly, a hand wrapped around my collar and jerked me into the Humvee’s interior. I was face-to-face with my Platoon Sergeant for a second before a fist connected with my jaw.

“What the hell is wrong with you?! We don’t shoot at civilians, you fuck!” Sterling slammed my head into the vehicle’s roof.

“He threw a bottle at me!”

My helmet got acquainted with the roof again. “I don’t give a fuck! Get your shit together, or you’re going in the brig as soon as we get to Hamilton.”

We stared daggers at each other for a moment. I could tell from Sterling’s expression that he was ready and willing to knock me out right there.

I bit my tongue and punched the back of the driver’s seat. “Get this piece of shit moving!”

My Platoon Sergeant let go of me, and I stood back to my full height, giving the hand signal for the convoy to begin moving again.

As my vehicle pulled forward, I surveyed the damage to the Humvee behind us. The bumper was completely crumpled, but the chassis and motor suffered only minor damage. It would run for now, but someone–probably me–was going to get yelled at tomorrow for the damage.

If we even live to see tomorrow.

I shook that thought from my head, and I rammed my fist into the gunner's shield a few times, letting the pain distract from my pounding heart. .

Beneath me, Sergeant Eaton started ranting to Private Broz about how teenagers, especially boys, felt like they had to prove their masculinity and acted out in stupid ways to do so. I kicked him in the thigh to shut him up.

Focus, god damn it.

For the rest of the ride out of Manhattan, nobody felt like talking. We came to a checkpoint on the Brooklyn Bridge’s entry ramp, and another unit in our brigade waved us through. Their job was just to keep civilians off the crossing, not to hinder our movement.

As we went over the East River, I looked southwest into the Upper Bay. Three destroyers were anchored around Governor’s Island–not spaceships, but big floating boats. Nobody knew why the brass put them there, but our best guess was that they were for morale–to make us feel a little more protected. Of course, it didn’t work. It just made them look all the more desperate.

I made the mistake of looking up as well, and my heart leapt into my throat. A spacecraft, not of human design, was barreling through the atmosphere, billowing viscous gray smoke as its prow honed in on its target: us.

All hell broke loose as the Federation ship crossed an invisible threshold into radar range. Patriot missiles erupted from every borough, blanketing the ship in fire and shrapnel but leaving it unscathed–its shields were protecting it from damage. Another salvo launched not a moment later, but this time, the last few projectiles detonated directly against the craft’s hull, reducing entire sections of it to nothing but scrap.

One of the destroyers saw its opportunity and dispensed an enormous anti-ship missile into the air. It streaked toward the Federation craft with terrifying speed, punched through its armor, and blew it completely in half.

The tailing Humvee’s gunner cheered and pumped his fist in the air as what remained of our enemy plummeted to the ground somewhere in Yonkers. The sound reached us after a few seconds–a dozen thunderclaps punctuated by a deafening boom that I felt in my chest.

The noise startled Hart, and she swerved slightly before recovering. “What the hell was that?!”

Eaton replied before I could. “Feds just learned why it took us a hundred years to get socialized healthcare.”

Past the smoke trails and clouds of burning debris, I could make out more Federation ships. They were diving into the atmosphere like something was after them, creating extremely-noticeable cones of fire.

We’re not lasting long if it took that much firepower to destroy one of them.

I pressed the talk button on my radio and spoke into the receiver. “Convoy, we’re picking up the pace; a hundred klicks an hour until we reach Hamilton.”

The Humvee lurched forward as Hart put her foot to the floor. I crouched into the interior of the vehicle to avoid the cold and blinding wind.

“If we crash, don’t forget to use Broz as a meat shield,” Eaton joked.

I gave him my best unamused stare.

He held his hands up defensively and turned to stare out the window.

Our convoy decelerated as it took an off ramp. Then it snaked through the surface streets and onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. After that, we were on the fast track to Fort Hamilton.

Our air defenses opened up on three more Federation ships as we rolled through the facility’s main gate. Once we passed underneath the Verrazano Bridge, the Humvees in the convoy quickly found a spot to pull off the road while the missile transporters continued on. The platoon dismounted with urgency and jogged behind the Oshkoshes until they made it to the vehicle depot.

My men began backing up the trucks with more Patriot launchers while me and Sterling broke off to get orders from the Colonel. We found him just outside the depot’s entrance, gazing into the sky with eyes that were equal parts contemptuous and analytical.

“Sir, where is the last battery going?” My Platoon Sergeant asked.

The officer didn’t look down from the air battle taking place above us. “Set them up on the football field. We don’t have time to put them anywhere else.”

Sterling nodded quickly. “Yes, sir!”

The Colonel said something else as I walked into the building, but I didn’t hear it. My heart was in my ears, pounding and drowning out everything else. I stared at my platoon as they worked. Their faces were grim and resigned, but they moved with a speed and determination that I had rarely seen in them.

“Lieutenant!” Sterling smacked the side of my helmet as he passed. “C’mon, we still have a job to do!”

I steeled myself, and I joined the rest of my platoon in their labor, making my way down the line of missile carriers and relaying our commanding officer’s orders. My soldiers and the air defense operators didn’t bother mounting into the Humvees again; they just hung onto the Oshkoshes as they set off. Me and Sterling grabbed onto the last one. A week ago, we had so many launchers that they spilled into the base’s regular parking lots. Now, the depot was completely empty.

The trucks easily pushed over the chain link fence that surrounded the football field. They came to a stop on the fifty-yard line, and everyone dismounted. We had set up a Patriot battery several times just today, so the process of doing so was completed in no time.

I did my job–checking the control systems’ connections to the battery–and gave the ADA commander a thumbs up. She flipped a switch and the system sprang to life, erecting the launch tubes and lifting the whole machine a couple inches off the ground.

Like that, the last air defense system was in place; our job was done. I didn’t feel any sense of accomplishment, just anxiety creeping up my spine and into my brain again.

Suddenly, a piercing and unpleasant beeping sounded from the base’s intercom, followed by a voice shouting, “Incoming! Incoming! Incoming!”

Everyone hit the ground out of pure instinct.

Right underneath the brim of my helmet, I saw one of the Federation ships eject something from the bottom of its hull. As it fell, so did my stomach. I closed my eyes and brought my arm in front of my face, so I didn't have to watch what was coming.

There was a rush of heat and an intense roar, but I was still alive. The Patriot next to me had launched its payload, and I looked up just in time to see it blow the Federation’s bomb right out of the sky.

My Platoon Sergeant pulled me to my feet as another missile was launched. “Get up! Let’s get to cover!”

All around us, soldiers were running for the nearest building, forcing their way in using any method they could.

“Isaac!” Sterling shouted in my face while shaking me.

I was able to meet his eyes, but the only response I could muster was a stuttering nod. I couldn’t get the metallic taste out of my mouth or the pounding in my ears.

He turned me around and pushed me to follow my men. I did so, but not consciously. All my focus was on keeping it together.

Don’t let them see.

I found myself entering an office building through a shattered glass door. Eaton and Sterling were yelling at me to get on the ground. I ignored them and tried to stop myself from shaking.

Don’t let them see.

I found a door that opened to a dark staircase and descended to a dingy hallway. I passed an open janitor’s closet and entered a poorly-lit bathroom.

I looked at myself in the mirror. Wet, terrified eyes stared back at me. I smashed the reflection with the toilet tank’s lid.

You’re an officer; get yourself together.

I couldn’t. I collapsed in front of the toilet and spewed acidic bile into it.

Everything was shaking–my hands, my body, my bones, the ground beneath me.

Then everything went dark.

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