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View the profile of Hendrik Casimir
| Hendrik Casimir, The Ride of the NecroTechnicians | Written: 2006-01-29 11:28:00 |
The DEM strikes a few small blows for the living |
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The second hand on my watch ticks slowly, inexorably, towards the top of the hour. I won't deny it, I'm nervous, and I can feel the adrenaline pumping. I go over my equipment for the nth time: my gloves are fastened securely, my H&Ks are loaded and sit snugly in their holsters, the Winchester is slung tightly across my back (I only have five rounds for it, so I don't intend to use it unless it becomes vital), I have duct-taped a first aid kit to my left shoulder strap, and two of the mysterious NecroTech autoinjectors to my right. I am as ready as I'll ever be. I'm crouched at a window, one floor above ground level, scanning the street below. A rope is secured to a gargoyle further up the building at one end, the other end lies coiled at my feet. Though I can't see them, I know--I hope--other members of the Department of Emergency Management are waiting or the same thing I am. Three... two... one... go! I kick the rope out so that it dangles to the ground, clamp my hands and feet onto it, and allow myself to slide down. The practice is known as "fast-roping," and it's murder on your gloves. I hit the ground, and I'm moving. In equipment and armor, a brisk double-time is the best I can manage for any prolonged period of time, and I do have some distance to cover. Behind me, I trust somebody is pulling the rope back in, but I can't take the time to slow down and look back to check. My boots pound across the asphalt of a street, the grass of a park, and onto the pavement of another street on the far side. To my left, someone is converging with me, someone alive and in a firefighter's uniform. I recognize him as Zeke McLellan, an MFD commander from Wykewood; he's a good man. Ahead, I can see the first objective, and I try not to think consciously about the idiocy I am about to commit: I am charging into a residential street crawling with over forty zombies! Yeah, they're supposed to be here to be revived, but there's always the risk that a few, maybe even many, of them aren't here for a revive but to jump and slaughter an incautious "bag man" - zombie vernacular for those able to operate NecroTech revivification equipment. I slow to a jog, my right hand on the grip of one of my pistols, my eyes scanning the crowd... there! There's the local fire district commander, generally known as "Two-one Charlie" for reasons best known to our firefighting brethren. He's the one I'm here for. I grab one of the autoinjectors with my left hand, tear it loose and jam it against Charlie's neck. As Charlie slumps to the ground, I slip the now empty syringe into my thigh pocket and spot my next target, a rookie cop called Freeman. I haven't had much time to talk to him, but he's technically one of my men, so I owe him this. While I'm taking care of him, I see that my fellow DEM servicemembers--there are four of us all together, though I'm the only cop--are similarly administering revives. We barely take the time to observe the results of our handiwork, because we need to push on. In the comparative silence of a wind-still late winter afternoon, the thudding of our boots rings off the surrounding houses as we continue up the street, across an intersection and past an office building on the far side. As we are passing that, our main objective comes into view. The antenna array on the roof marks it as a NecroTech facility, and lights are on inside. A crowd of zulus is gathered at the front doors, and as we approach, a few of them are tearing down the last remains of the barricade; we are just in time! Zeke barks "Wedge!" and we form up, unlimbering batons and axes. We catch the zulus crowding the doors from behind, force them aside with a few well placed whacks, and barrel past them through the doors and into the lobby. The last two to get inside pull the doors shut behind them, and Zeke and I ram a vending machine across the doorway. We leave one guy to work on the barricades, while the remaining three of us turn our attention to any zulus who managed to gain entry to the building prior to our intervention. As it turns out, there's only one, shambling towards one of the computer labs. My stick clatters to the floor as I draw my sidearm, the noise attracts it attention and it turns to face me. Just as we've rehearsed, the firefighters and I employ a "fire and maneuver" doctrine, in that I engage the target with ranged weapons while they maneuver to close range. In quick succession, I empty a full magazine at the zulu; most of the shots strike home. By the time I've expended my last round, the firefighters are on the zulu and they make quick work of it with their axes. The body is quickly dumped out of a side window--some of these slags have been known to get to their feet again remarkably swiftly. We turn our efforts to completing the (re)barricading of the building, and are done in short order. I recover my baton in the process. The two other firefighters (whose names I must admit I do not know) have been detailed to stay in the building and defend it from any further attempted incursions for the time being. Zeke and I, however, are to blunt the zulu assault from without by more direct means--counter-attack. I hop onto a desk and squirm out of a side window. When I hit the ground, I dash for the front of the building, Zeke hot on my tail. As we round the corner, my second pistol is out, and I put four rounds into the zulu nearest the door. Zeke overtakes me and plunges his axe into its chest. I am worried when the axe head appears to be stuck in the zulu's sternum, but Zeke shows he's handled this problem before; he plants one foot on the creature's chest and kicks it loose. As it flails away from him, I put another two rounds into it, which is enough to finish it off. Zeke moves to cover my rear arc as I empty the rest of the magazine into the knot of zombies at the door. "I'm empty," I yell, "I need to bug out to reload!" "It'll do for now anyway," Zeke replies, "Let's RTB." We disengage and, via a roundabout route, leg it back to the safe house. Our victory may be temporary, but it is a victory nonetheless, and that counts for something. |
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