Read Online The Search For A Cure by C. Chase Harwood - Free Book Online

away. His final thought was that the rain must have washed away the Novichok.
      PFC Dick Kantor had watched his squad mate walk over to the grass and had looked away to give the man some privacy. The steady rain had masked the sound of Pillsbury falling to the ground. When a minute went by and Pillsbury wasn’t walking back, Kantor gave another look and could barely make out the grass moving back and forth. He grimaced at the thought of trying to take a shit in tall wet grass, but he understood the need for privacy. When Kantor was a kid, maybe six, his best friend’s mom walked into the bathroom when he was sitting there, trying to go. The woman apologized with a bit of horror on her face, like somehow Kantor had been taking crap on the floor rather than using the john. She had quickly pulled the door shut and not another word was said. Kantor had been embarrassed, but the woman’s reaction had actually made him feel dirty. He couldn’t use a toilet or even undress in front of anybody after that. In his platoon, he was known as Private Dick.  
      After another couple of minutes he turned again. The grass was still moving. What was the guy doing, jackin’ off? He called out, “Pillboy?”, which got Specialist Jones and PFC Copigliani (Copper to everyone else) to look over from their machine gun position with the M240B still pointed at the bunker with the open door.
      “What’s up Kantor?” asked Jones.
      Kantor ignored him and stood to look harder at the grass. “Pillsbury, you sleeping? That’s a long shit break.”
      Jones said, “Keep it down, Private. Let’s not wake the neighborhood.”
      Kantor took a few tentative steps forward, instinctively bringing his HK417 assault rifle closer to a firing position. He felt good about the gun. Their original weapon was the SCAR L, which carried a NATO 5.56X45mm round. It was an amazing weapon, but often as not the 5.56 didn’t even slow a Fiend down. You could make five hits and if you didn’t get a head or heart shot, it could be right on top of you. The NATO 7.62X51mm seemed to do the trick; though occasionally even after a couple of hits with that a lot of them still kept coming. The Army was severely short on SCAR Hs, the US Special Forces version that also carried the 7.62 round. These HKs were a gift from the British SAS and, therefore, in short supply, which for Kantor, reaffirmed the mission’s critical nature.
      Ghost Rodriguez and four others were posted on top of the bunkers. Kantor's calls had them turning to see what was up. From up high, they could just make out the shape of dozens of humans crawling forward in the grass. Ghost hit the switch on the series of small spotlights they had set up to flood the perimeter. It was like lighting a beacon for a Fiend charge, but they needed to see what they were up against.  
      Kantor was about to call out once more when lights came on. His voice froze in his throat as he found himself suddenly standing in front of dozens of charging Fiends. They screamed and howled as one, their highlighted eyes reflecting madness as they ran. He barely got his gun up, firing off a few wild shots before he was overrun, his mask ripped off, his face and his neck shredded by a female in a slip dress.  
      Jones and Copper got the M240B turned around and fired off a burst of shots, dropping a few ghouls, but had to abandon the position and run.  
      The bunker housing the rest of the platoon had been resealed as agreed upon until the watch change. There was no time to call and wait for someone to come up and open the door. Jones and Copper had to dash into the open bunker next-door, the one with the dead folks inside, the one that up until a few seconds ago they were guarding against anything coming out.
      On top of the mound, Ghost got the Mk 48 turned toward the charging Fiends and lit up the night with it. That’s when another group, maybe a hundred or more, started running at them from behind the