The Debt All Men Paid - Prologue

This one is a spin-off I started from Hooley's story The Debt All Men Pay. Mine is within the same story in the beginning and parallels his, then was planned to move off into the future; hence the past tense version of the title.

The booming grew louder and louder as we climbed the staircase, panting and sweating inside our Nanite Armor. I could feel the stone steps rumble and quiver beneath my feet, whether in fear or of repercussion. The red fire escape door stood at the end, the very top of the two hundred and thirty-eight story skyscraper in downtown. I was the first in the group, throwing open the red door and taking point on the roof, glassing the surrounding buildings through my sniper rifle. All was in Hell just as it should be so I waved the others on.
They filed through, covering the perimeter of the roof and returning fire only. It was all a blur. Shooting in every direction at enemy drones too far to see clearly open sighted and awaiting the big bug we knew was coming. But it seemed to appear out of thin air despite its immense size and girth. A large creature covered in head to tail in scales and spikes stood, crawling by belching acid from its serrated gullet and squealed at an alarming frequency, hundreds of windows shattering in unison. We looked to our Gunnery Sergeant, Gunny Steeles, for orders.
Steeles bellowed at us from behind his visor, even behind the black glass I knew his face was purple and that vein bulging on his forehead. I followed after him down the stairs as the Shrieker screamed in pain. The sound made my eyes bulge, slowing me on the stairs in which I tripped and fell an entire flight. Now the last man coming down, I sprinted outside to witness the Shrieker’s attack. I stepped out from the skyscraper’s dark lobby to the bright sunlit street.
Something small in comparison and gray hung from the Shrieker’s spiked back, moving and writhing with something. I peered through the scope of my rifle and dropped my gum onto my chin.
York?
There hung York, his right arm impaled on the spike, blood oozing from his armor, his left arm pulling at his chest. He ripped his grenade belt from its fasteners and slung it into the beast’s open mouth. Just then York fell, thudding into the ground with a smack and laid motionless.
All went silent. Then, in a great flash and deafening boom, the Shrieker exploded casting gore across the block, acid raining on us with the sound of a thousand footsteps. Steeles roared through our intercom, barely audible, and began dragging an unconscious York, a small piece of metal in his back. I saw the building behind the smoldering remains shattered and crumbling, great heaps of glass and metal plummeting to the road. All around us was chaos, the sounds of our running and breathing masked by the constant drone and rumbles from the destruction behind. We threw ourselves through the door, back into the dark lobby, and sat in wait.
Steeles was furious, dumbfounded, by York’s course of action. He rambled on and on about the stupidity countering his courage and mumbled to himself every few minutes. The rest of the recruits lounged about, exhausted and terrified, myself being no different. I was just another F.N.G. as Steeles called me, a number. SD-thirteen-oh-eight,’ Private First Class’ Crew, eight-hundred first Squadron.
I had it memorized by the second day of Boot and knew it by heart on the third. They prepared us to fight to the death and to die in a fight, in either order, but it was nothing like this. Nothing could have ever prepared us to fight something like the Grell. Let alone a Shrieker. No, Boot was nothing more than being stripped of your name, life, and freedom, and being given a number, rank, and squad. I had been assigned Sniper Drone-thirteen-oh-eight and told to forget everything but my training and my new brand, which was tattooed on my inner left wrist and on the back of my neck.
Real hard to remember that.
We sat impatiently, awaiting orders and the culmination of the rotting building outside. Steeles and our medic, Daringer, continued to buzz around York checking his arm and back and shaking their heads, all while muttering to each other with visors raised to cut off radio chatter. York was still out like a broken light bulb and appeared to be crippled in impact foam. But it was his arm and back that held the most attention. Both were already scabbed over and healing from the nanites in our armor, but remained open to the elements, torn straight through the armor itself.
A small, mousy recruit beside me said to leave him here, sparking Steele’s legendary rage yet once again. I lifted my visor to put my gum back in my mouth and set it back over my face to muffle their talking. At least those with their visors open. The others held a private conversation discussing whether to follow Gunny or to leave York and him here to be bait. I remained silent, knowing the pros and cons without debate.
Pros; we leave without attracting the infrared Seeking Grell.
Cons; we commit treason and make an enemy of Gunny.
I choose the Grell.
I lifted my visor once the conversation grew tedious and the uproar of the volcano that is Gunny was over and now simmering. I waited patiently as I had learned in sniper training and tried to control my breathing, counting my heart beats and taking account of my limbs for any damage.
Nothing but a few new dings and bullet holes in my armor so far. Thank God for the new models and their magnetic bullet repelling plates. I surmised as I scratched at a long thin scratch down my arm. Slowly, the men began to pull into rank and separate as Steeles commanded. I pulled back out of my thoughts and into the room.
“Crew, you and these three,” He motioned at Darian and the two men beside him, “Go downstairs to the generator and turn the power back on. Now, before the bugs come in after York’s exposed body heat!”
I stood immediately and pulled an about face to the back of the lobby. An old rusted door stood in the far corner, chain holding it shut. I gave it a swift kick and it flew open, banging against the cement wall on the other side, revealing a dark room smelling of mold and mildew.
“Here we go, boys.”
I stepped down the grimy stone, descending into darkness as the temperature grew colder and colder. I flicked on my visor’s night vision and loaded my Magnum Raider, all nine bullets in the revolving chamber glowing slightly. I relished the weight of the revolver, assuring me, as I walked deeper into the abandoned hospital basement.
Everywhere I looked revealed dripping brick walls and old cleaning items covered in thick fuzzy mold. Numerous empty cans littered the floor and floated in the half foot of black, stagnant water. We splashed through it slowly, eyeing this way and that in a V formation. Someone had to put the chain on the door to keep something out, or in.
The ripples of something ahead shook and quivered around my shins.
Just then a brief flash of light sparked the midnight basement, an intense boom echoing off every wall and surrounding us in a disheartening chatter. A bullet whizzed past my head, the vapor trail in the drenched air visible. I thanked God once again for the water-proof armor and threw myself into it, leaning low against the wall. The other followed suit and hid behind random mid-sized objects.
I opened fire, each shot a concussive boom across the basement. The dark water was cast in a festival of light with each shot like that of the lake during the fourth of July long ago. The flashes of gunfire behind me moved closer and closer and I knew we were pressing forward. I stood and walked swiftly, firing and reloading into the darkness ahead with a practiced liquidity.
The firing ahead ceased and all fell silent, the surprisingly large basement stirring only with the ripples of the dank wastes. A red tint was found in the blackness and the corpses of several grubs were half submerged, staining it yet more. We passed them, cautiously and grimaced as the water grew deeper and deeper until we were wading waist deep in it. Over a dozen corpses floated around us in the pitch black, only for our night vision could we press on.
We continued through until we were midway into the room, the two dozen corpses gliding by on all sides. Up ahead to the far right were several steps ascending from the water, another door atop them with the words Generator Room written in red words. The first sign of hope seemed to illuminate the drowned cemetery.
Time stopped.
I turned my head, the numerous grubs exploding from the water in seemingly frozen torrents and splashes. I looked at them, eyes wide and coal colored above their flat scaled face and open mouth revealing fangs and two tongues. Their armor was soaked and made of what appeared to be a natural metal like tungsten. They had great arms and stood at seven feet tall with powerful strength and stamina. Their pale skin looked like paper yet stood as tough as leather, three fingers as large as bratwursts gripped a more sentient version of our common weaponry, small changes and tweaks and a crude paintjob like that of mud.
Then my instincts took over and brought back time, causing my head to swerve to the side, a hailstorm of bullets in its place, and leaped into the water, submerging completely and kicking wildly to make as much distance between me and them.
My head swelled and my mind raced, frantic thoughts slowing me and panic numbing my limbs like dead weights. I sank and gasped for air, swallowing what last lungful my visor held in an emergency, and watched the pretty lights dance in front of me.
But even as I was ready to disappear into darkness and drift away, a hand ripped from my solitude, bursting through the surface. I coughed and sucked in the damp air, hearing once again the sounds of warfare. Gunfire and roars met my ears, drowning out any thoughts I once had. I instead once again followed my instincts, pulling my magnum out and mindlessly allowing my body to perform its functions.
I snapped to and fro, firing single rounds into each dark figure, reloading in one movement and walking forward slowly, ignoring any rounds that glanced off my armor or impacted with a thud. I shrugged off the bruises and pushed forward as what my mind told me were enemies dropped into the crimson water.
What seemed like a second later, the delusion was over, my mind suddenly cleared. I stumbled and looked about, the ruby water raised to my chest from the number of bodies. I swallowed hard and turned to my comrades.
They had a few bullet holes each but none penetrated. I was sure beneath their visors all were giving me the same incredulous expression. But I had no time to explain nor did I have an answer in which to do so. So I waved them on and ran through the water as fast I could, suddenly exhausted. I burst through the door dripping blood not my own and sighed as the generator sat covered in cobwebs as if it had never been activated once. I pulled the lever down with more force than necessary and scowled as it rumbled to life with a shaky start.
“Well,” I said curtly, “ power’s on.”