Children of Terra

~14 November 2021~ ~10,750 meters above sea level~ ~Approach to DZ~ ~Special Contractor Wilcox~ A small box fell from a strap harness in the cargo bay of the jet-turbine carrier; corporate identifier 'Night Caller 1' -- subsidiary GeoSolutions Division - Night Corp. And turbulence was bad over zone 41. Weather conditions would've normally rescheduled a flight like this; but these were far, far from ordinary times.       News had already broken headlines about the lab leak from Geneva. THV was out. Which really meant it was bad a month ago, and the eggheads thought they could contain it themselves.       Vincent Wilcox checked the radio-vacu seal and ablation mesh in his wetwork panoply -- HAZMAT level A rating plus -- a colloquialism for combat-ready bio-hazard gear. Green across the HUD. He sealed the helmet under a pressurized hiss as the signal light in the cargo bay flashed yellow. Drop in 45 minutes. A pressurized canister on the low back began pumping pure Oxygen into the suit, saturating blood.       Wilcox signaled by hand to suit up, tapping the side of his helmet. "Comms check. Sound off."       Radio distorted voices came one after the other, "Night 2, check;"       "Night 3, check;"       "Night 4, check;"       "Night 5, check."       Another wind buffet. The plane hull creaked -- and the box slid rearward in the bay. Wilcox -- Night 1 -- flashed comms: "Night 3, debrief."       A garbled sigh. "Do I have to, boss? We already know - "       "Are you running charity, Stanislov? Follow protocol or Corporate docks pay. For all of us."       The reminder of this made chatter, before Wilcox reiterated. "Debrief, Stanislov."       All 5 contractors were in hermetically sealed combat suits -- courtesy of Night Corp -- and would come out of their pay regardless of damage. Successful extraction of the sample would provide a credit, however. So saying, only the shuffling body language and familiarity between these 5 men told which one was Stanislov: the one that was shifting from foot to foot.       He spoke, tapping comms: "Client Confidential. Target is in GRE Ex-site 4: canister undifferentiated THV. Site is level 4 biosecurity. Primary extraction team is required to be sent within the month, otherwise risk of encountering variant infected or volatiles increases exponentially.       "Infected are expected to mainly comprise virals. Terrain heavy urban. As such, usage of integrally suppressed weapons and CQC is mandatory. Iodine is to be taken once per day; Antizin every week. Kill orders are full discretionary. The moment we jump, we're officially anarcho-terrorists and if found, are to be executed by any means and written off."       Wilcox clapped his hands, joined by the others that filled comms with the usual. The light in the bay began flashing yellow. 5 minutes to DZ. "Alright, take your pills, chamber ammo, and render safe." Wrist-mounted autoinjectors stung Wilcox's carpals. He then readied his MP5SD, slapping the charging handle down, flipping the SMG to the left and press checking before flipping the safety. His thigh holster retained a modified Browning Hi-Power, which he racked, checked, and toggled safe. Both in 9mm hollowpoint, 135-grain subsonic.       As he readied by the cargo doors, his hand absentmindedly thumbed his chest-mounted Ka-Bar. A claxon accompanied the green light in the bay. Mechanical hydraulics forced the bay door down, pressure differential causing a great roar of wind. The box flew out and specked in seconds.       Night 5 jumped first, then 4, 3, 2, and then - Wilcox. ~10,600 meters and falling~ The bernoulli vacuum ripped Wilcox from the shadow of the cargo jet; sound quickly redshifting with distance. Only the drowning whoosh of air filled his ears in the absence.       Comms flickered to life. "So, who's betting Geneva's a shithole by now?"       Another replied, "Fuck off, Johannson. Try a better one, like this: how long before we have to drop virals?"       Stanislov got in. "I bet it's tits up in 5."       Both Wilcox and Uvin stayed silent. ~8,000 meters and falling~ Clouds whipped the visor, rain condensation pattering on Wilcox's suit. He drew a breath as the moonlight refractory-scattered in the weather-butte.       Another comm rattle. "Fuckin' A. I thought these suits were supposed to be sealed or some shit."       Uvin took this one. "They are, dipshit. That's phantom sensation."       "You telling me this is all in my head?"       "Either that or we''ll have to kill you for a suit malfunction, Medin. So pucker your asshole and focus up." ~6,000 meters and falling~ The bottom of the cloud wicked down as the 5 ripped through. Wilcox flipped around to watch the dark puff sink away. He flipped back when he heard comms spark again. These jackasses. At least audio-radio feed was subsidized for this one, or he'd dock their overtime bonuses for this shit. Then he gasped as Geneva came into view over the others.       Johannson -- Night 5 -- spoke, "Is - is that . . . ?"       Silence dominated the night fall. Geneva sprawled nearly horizon to horizon, and most of it was blackout. What light remained was clear: fires, bonfires, rioting fires. Thick, suffocating tendrils wafted into the currents, drifting eastward. Clearly visible were the concrete demarcation walls that have become commonplace worldwide since the New Plague and first Harran Virus.       Wilcox broke comms. "Check chutes. Deploy primaries." ~4,000 meters and falling~ Ripcord twined as chutes deployed. Momentum was traded off for control. Wilcox tapped comms. "Bear 15 degrees West. We drop at the airstrip."       Uvin spoke, "Clear?"       "Yeah. Any flight these days needs sanctioning. No international flights in or out, especially since the lab leak. Place looks like a hellhole, though. Streets are no-go."       They looked down at the once-beautiful city. Most of it was as dark as medieval times, and the rest was cast in tempered orange and red.       "Yeah, no kidding." ~2,000 meters and falling~ Wilcox updated. "Target site identified. See it? Big multi-story just at the edge of city center. 3 o'clock."       "Got it, boss. 2.5 - 3 miles from the strip?"       "Looks about right. Ready up. Final descent." ~Final approach~ The airstrip was blackout. Now that they were landing on tarmac, they could see the terminals fortified under makeshift scrap. Even in just a month's time, there was trash and detritus everywhere. One after another the contractors landed and jogged to a kneel, unclasping their harnesses.       "Night 1. Check weapons. NODs on." The visor hummed to life as the feed display updated with new setting. The night was thrown mostly color-correct, but slightly fuzzed and muted. Wilcox checked both his weapons before beginning to move behind the rest.       "Night 3. GPS. RTT?"       "Updating." Stanislov knelt and pulled out a PDA tablet. He pulled up satellite geo-maps and punched in coordinates. "Bear south-southeast. 155 degrees. Updating HUDs."       A translucent shimmering topographical map flickered just on the periphery of Wilcox's vision. It showed a clearing on the other side of the southeast terminal, across a minor highway.       Johannson broke comms. "Remind me why we couldn't get this info before?"       Uvin sighed as the 5 bee-lined for the terminal fence. "You ass. Satellites are all owned by Arasaka. That's why the tab's jailbroken. You know how Corpos are with information leaks."       A disturbance made them drop and quiet. NODs showed movement through the fence, across and on the highway about 200 yards away.       Running and screaming was a group of people. Shouting. Behind them was a pack of virals. Faster. The people made it onto the overpass before being hounded on. Screams and gurgles of desperation were drowned out from feral roars and beatings. A woman was defending herself on the ground as 3 or 4 virals began beating her to death. She screamed as they tore into her.       "Fuck - "       Wilcox cut it off immediately. "Don't move. Safeties off."       A distant plume of fire flashed out, and seconds later came a soft thrum of some explosion. The virals turned and jumped the overpass southward to the sounds.       "Move."       Safeties on. One after the other crossed the terminal parking onto the overpass, heading into the outer suburbia of Geneva. From the HUD display, it looked to be single homes for the next half-to-three-quarter mile. Many of the houses were naturally barricaded, abandoned long ago. They got to the first intersection, which was blocked by makeshift blocks and boards to stop travel. Permissible only by foot.       "Go through yards. We don't have time for this shit."       Stanislov updated. "Adjust bearing 2 degrees south-southeast. 157."       They began to hop fences one-at-a-time. The third house had a viral. Once Uvin -- rear guard -- hopped the fence, Johannson and Medin stalked to the viral. Johannson twisted the jaw, thrusting his Ka-Bar below the adam's apple, while Medin cut the achilles tendons. Tossing the viral down, the pair then stabbed the cervical vertebrae and skull to assure clinical death. Hand signals for clear.       The 3 followed one by one. ~Out of suburbia~ ~Into high-density housing~ ~1 mile to target~ Something nice about European botanical sensibilities was the greater appreciation for nature. In this case, it meant there were a lot more trees and tree-cover in the area sectioning off low-density and high-density housing. It worked both ways, however. Many subdued hums of shots rung out to stamp virals in the periphery.       They had arrived at apartment complexes. Wilcox tapped comms. "Sound off."       "Night 2, fine;"       "Night 3, fine;"       "Night 4, fine;"       "Night 5, fine."       Wilcox followed up: "Night 4, eyes up. Watch windows." Vincent himself would also be on skywatch, since he wasn't in rear guard.       He couldn't keep his mind empty in the situation. It was probably some of the worst to be in. Street level in a zombie apocalypse, where the infected were drawn to loud sound and could run fast as humanly capable. Of course, waiting for the virals to degenerate was a catch-22 -- the mutants and volatiles that replaced them were infinitely worse. Going in sooner was the lesser evil.       They made it another block closer when a window 4 or 5 stories high shattered; a man screaming as he fell. A viral mindlessly charged out after. With a gut-churning squelch, the man landed; immediately crying out in pain as he unfortunately didn't die on impact. The viral landed on its neck, and wriggled a minute before going still.       Virals began to run to the area, some spotting the contractors, who began to fire down targets. Fuck. Wilcox opened comms. "Run! While we have a slip!"       They broke into a sprint as virals began to scream into a chase. Another apartment building gone by, glass shattering as virals burst out in feral rage. There was a wooded park in the next tract, and they ran into the concealment line, before screams filled comms. Johannson!       The 4 had to listen as they ran to the frantic pleas from Johannson all while virals tore the suit open and feasted on the soft flesh within in. Sick! Sick fucking joke!       It was a field past the woods as they ran, over a track field and into the next residential section. Wilcox shouted into the comms, "Into this building! We need to break LOS!"       Medin -- who was the new point man -- shot the glass on ground floor before shoulder diving through. Combat rated suits could handle that. The others followed inside. Uvin and Wilcox immediately took rear guard, bracing on the sill and firing down virals chasing them. Wilcox shouted, "Get that door open! Kick if you must!"       Stanislov jiggled the doorknob, before shaking his head to Medin. They began to kick the door, all as shots rang from behind them. 'Changing mag!' 'Empty!' 'Loading, loading!' Finally the door gave, bar lock bent and given.       Medin filled comms, "Door clear! Let's go!"       Uvin nodded to Wilcox, who got up and ran to follow the others into the hallway. Barricades at fire escapes down the hall began shaking as virals beat on them. They raced up the stairs, Uvin following. The second floor had been barricaded with sofas and heavy furniture, barring further egress.       Wilcox flicked comms, "Doors! Now!" They spread out, checking doors. None. Virals burst from the staircase like raged lemmings. Wilcox pulled Uvin down yelling, "Check fire! Friendlies!" From prone, Wilcox unloaded his mag, dumping body after body of viral. From the sound dampener in his right ear, Uvin doing the same. He had to switch to secondary, flinging the MP5 on its harness to the side. Shot after shot, the hallway thrumming and filling heavily with gunsmoke from suppressed sustained fire.       Still virals poured. Endless. Wilcox got up and bashed out the fire escape behind him and Uvin -- as the latter provided fire cover. Blocked. But . . . Wilcox dared to try parkour. He flipped over the railing, climbing precariously upward. Uvin looked behind him during a lull, shouting out: "What the hell are you doing?!"       Virals outside noticed Wilcox, beginning to clamber up the sides of the building and fire escape to get him. It was blockaded, yes, but that didn't stop vibrations and rattlings. Wilcox made it up another floor when his handhold snapped.       His heart skipped a beat in that moment when he needed most to still be hanging on to the scaffold. This isn't real, is it? He didn't have the good fortune to be knocked unconscious when he landed. Both of his weapons were empty -- he couldn't scramble to his feet fast enough before a viral leaped at him. Virals had his suit open before he could even get the Ka-Bar out. ~Trapped~ ~0.2 miles from target~ The shooting stopped, but the roars, ripping, and screaming didn't. Stanislov trembled underneath dead virals as he listened to the sounds of his field team die, one by one.       He didn't dare move for hours, adrenaline and fear making him nearly pass out since he didn't want to breathe. Scampering and movement dominated the hallway for an unbearable time. Once he saw the first light of morning, he chanced a peek from under the viral corpse. Two virals were still in the hallway, eating -- he almost vomited -- eating Medin, backs turned to him.       He closed his eyes as he fumbled with the mag latch on his MP5. He compressed the magazine in his palm so it wouldn't drop free, while the other hand kept the latch from springing back as he pulled the empty clear. He tactically discarded it before grabbing a fresh one from his chest rig. Still compressing the mag latch, he seated the magazine, feeling the spring tense as it pushed on the bolt inside. A tearing sound stopped his movement.       One of the virals pulled and ripped Medin's eyeball out of his socket, and the pop it made as the viral chewed stopped Stanislov's heart for more than a beat.       He gently released the mag latch before experimentally tugging on the mag to make sure it was seated. Good. Now the hard part. He had to be ready. He braced the MP5 on the dead viral's body and placed a finger on the trigger -- aiming at the one eating currently. The other hand came up over the charging handle.       Breathe in, out. In one motion, he slapped the handle, and fired. First viral dead before it knew what happened. The second barely formed a snarl before its brains joined Medin's.       Stanislov waited an agonizing moment, looking fearfully at the staircase. Nothing. It was fully day now. He tapped comms while still under the dead viral. "Anyone left?" Static. He let comms die before mumbling under his helmet. "I'm so sorry, Medin. Everyone. I'm a piece of shit."       He got up after a while, chest and throat burning, and reloaded his sidearm. In his mind he begged for forgiveness as he scavenged ammunition and magazines from Medin's and Uvin's corpses, topping off. He didn't dare look out the fire escape to Wilcox's body. ~15 November 2021~ ~Daytime~ Well known was the phenomena that infected retreated in the day. The main reasons stopping ingress were the eyes of Arasaka. It was the last thing the GRE wanted -- information blackmail. As long as the suit scrambler still worked, geo-satellites would only see a pixel blur.       Stanislov left through the window and down the fire escape, since virals were probably hounding the first floor. He used three-point climbing to descend around the blockage of the fire escape. The GRE facility was only a short distance away, he could see it from here. A block or two at most.       Daytime made it hauntingly easy. He was on-site in less than an 20 minutes, pace slow to stay discreet. Standard GRE infrastructure included multiple entrances on ground floor, and he surveyed each. Both clear from outside. He checked the front entrance, and heard shuffling already; so he slouched to the rear entrance by the auxiliary scaffolding. Rear entrances tended to be UV-decon corridors. Which was fine.       He pulled his PDA tablet out -- loaded with GRE access telemetry -- and held it up to the RFID lock. The screen began a terminal script as it ran through authentication programs, before the hermetic seal of the door hissed open.       "What the fuck, seriously? It's that easy?"       He stepped into the ultraviolet corridor, before the doors automatically sealed shut behind him. A claxon rang out, 'Decontamination procedure initiated. Please stand by.' Sprinkler heads sprayed out in the corridor, raining on the thick rubber mats in that unique resonance.       The corridor was upside down L shaped, long end to outside -- as is standard GRE. He turned the corner, noting quiet. The second hermetic door hissed open as it registered his access telemetry, automatically flooding the main research room in UV. A lone volatile-in-forming in the middle of the room began shrieking as its skin fried.       Fuck! Stanislov readied his MP5, dumping rounds into the abomination. It roared out, mandibles popping open to reveal sharpened teeth. Tearing through the fibres of its nest; it freed one arm, then the other -- before leap-rolling toward Stanislov -- skin bubbling.       He evaded it with ease due to its disorientation. It shrieked as the UV worked on the fresh sinew of the nascent volatile. While it recovered, Stanislov performed a tac-reload, slapping home a fresh mag and unloading into the back of the volatile's head. It took half the mag before finally slumping down, and even then it still flopped in actual life, making to get up. Only with the final click of an empty chamber and flopping dead trigger did Stanislov breathe and look at the corpse of the beast.       The terror of Harran. A superhuman nightmare made manifest. This one was young; so young it still was trapped in the fibre-clutch of youth. It was also weakened in UV. And of course, Stanislov had an SMG. He would have spit on the corpse if it weren't for the suit.       His PDA was saying something in an automated tone, 'GRE crate nearby.'       Looking around, he found a side room with more hermetic seals, hissing open in response to the PDA. Within this room was a blue and white crate. Kneeling, he unfastened the clasps and lifted the sealed lid up. A single vial of luminescent orange liquid. He undid the karabiner at his hip to take a weatherproof flask up, unscrewing it -- sliding the vial in. With a definitive clasp back to his belt he left the building. ~Noon~ Stanislov called up the designated Night Corp handler on his PDA once outside again. One-time use. Burner number.       "Report."       Stanislov cleared his throat. "Target extraction green. Team dead, 1 survivor. Suit intact."       "Proceed to coordinates." When the handler cut the line, terminal code popped up on the PDA before it shorted out, bricked. His visor topography updated with a ping in the middle of Lake Geneva, where he then headed -- tossing the PDA in the river Rhone.       He had to fight to stay afloat. The suit was sealed and offered buoyancy, but he was weighed down by the equipment. Almost tempted to drop the firearms in the lake, but fuckin' Night Corp would dock him for that.       As he paddled to the middle of the lake -- which was a good damn mile or so -- an ablative-painted seaplane coasted down and touched onto the lake water. The pilot didn't even open the door for him; he had to clamber up the floats and get in himself.       Taking a seat and strapping in, he looked over to the pilot -- whose features couldn't be seen. "Thanks, asshole."       "Do you have the cargo?"       Stanislov sucked his teeth as he unclasped the flask and handed it over. The pilot ran an optical sensor over before handing it back. "Confirmed." As the plane began ascent, the pilot spoke again. "And I ain't paid to be nice."       Stanislov blacked out his visor, settling in for sleep. He knew the LSD would wear off soon. Then the nightmares would never stop.