A Thin, Green Line
(Or the Financial Forays of a Frustrated Fish)
Mother Base was awash with activity as the Dogs rode to war. Rear-echelon troopers patrolled the upper levels of the struts, splitting their time between keeping an eye out and servicing the various crew-served emplacements that constituted the rig's defenses. In the skies above, the Pigeons were hard at work carting off whatever guns or ammo the guys and gals in Kandahar needed for the coming battle. The armor and whatever mobile arty the Dogs had already been transported earlier. The supply pads off the main Command Strut were in a state of near-chaotic flux as the cranes swayed to and fro in their attempts to gain access to deeply buried shipping containers. Hell, even the roadways between the platforms were seeing a veritable deluge of activity. Aging M35s and second-hand HEMTTS puttered along the twisting roadways whilst carrying even
more supplies to the waiting transport helicopters from the far-off extensions.
'God FUCKING damn it.'
Only the last detail mattered to Mako at the present moment; or rather, the lack of said activity. It seemed that in its rush to get to the Research platform, one of those very trucks had somehow gotten itself wedged atop the central divider separating the roads. Hell, from where he was sitting it looked like the axle had somehow jumped the barrier and was now seated in a rather shallow divot in the metal. Needless to say, this had had the "slight" effect of dragging any sort of motorized progress to an agonizing halt.
It didn't really help that the Dog behind the wheel of the stricken transport had clambered out of the cab and was now shouting at the poor bastard in the truck that was next in the queue.
... It was slightly reminiscent of LA, now that Mako thought about it.
'Sea breeze, sun, and idiots shouting at each other during bumper-to-bumper traffic. How I did not miss thee.'
It still beat being in Kandahar, however. At his core, Mako was an Angelino at heart. Nippy ocean breezes and Mediterranean heats were what he was raised on and where he felt the most comfortable. He
completely ignored the fact that LA was technically built in a desert. If he were to enter a true desert? Well, let's just say that the zeds wouldn't have to work hard.
I wonder how Leopardess is doing? Considering how she's from Germany, it's gotta be murder
while stuck in a tank.
Of course, temperatures around Mother Base certainly weren't helping moods. Tensions were running a
tad high around the base, what with the impending
Zombie Apocalypse that seemed to be centered within the confines of a certain Graveyard of Empires. The fact that last week's movie night had happened to Romero's
Dawn of the Dead… well, there was certainly going to be a bit of work cut out for the base's laundromat. Assuming they were all going to live through the next month.
And the laundry room remained unmolested by teleporting zombies.
Above, the afternoon sun continued its best efforts to bake every hapless moron who decided that spending any time outside was a good idea; with the calm sea, its inadvertent partner in crime, reflecting any rays that missed the olive and grey metals of Mother Base back directly into the faces of anyone sensible enough to wear a hat.
Nostalgia, or perhaps just Stockholm Syndrome, aside, Mako could just
feel a migraine coming on. Here he was, sitting in an open-top jeep knockoff in the middle of a clogged roadway instead of his air-conditioned
closet office working on DD's projected financial status for the next few months.
And the reason for why Mako was out here, roasting his balls off in 90 degree weather and deprived of any sort of breeze?
Commander Miller wanted someone watching over the eggheads in First Platoon as they brain-stormed possible solutions to the cluster-fuck over in Kandahar.
Because they were in danger of going
ludicrously over-budget.
Again.
'Yep,' Mako thought to himself as glanced toward the blue sky above,
'definitely feeling that headache coming along.'
...
'Oh look, the shouting devolved into a full-on brawl.'
Above, the sun continued to glared down in its oppressively iridescent glory. Mako wondered not for the last time, if he had actually left California.
One of the perks of the Research struts were how they were kept at a comfortable 63F, thanks to the sensitive nature of some of the biological samples that were routinely handled within. As an added bonus, the entire facility was kept at a positive pressure to the outside so as to keep unnecessary dust particles, and smaller organisms, out of the labs and computer equipment for only a slight increase in overall power consumption.
However, while the lack of sun and high temperatures was definitely a plus, dealing with the staff...
"Okay," Mako closed his eyes and slowly inhaled as he brought his hands together in front of his face. "You want to run that by me again?"
"We think we have a way to both create choke-points with which to funnel the undead into pre-set kill zones
and remove any enemy that stumbles into them from the battlefield." In front of him stood a group of Dogs that were pretty much permanently assigned to the Research Division. "Not only would it allow for easier containment of the threat, but most of what we're planning on using has already been developed. We just need to work out the kinks."
... Yes, that headache was most
definitely getting worse. Exhaling, Mako starred at the half dozen Dogs, his hands lowering to chest level. "Yes. I understand that part. Hell, normally if you could make it work as you described I'd have no problems with this.
Except…"
Gesturing over to a nondescript table, the researchers turned to look at the innocuous rocket launcher that sat upon its surface. Inscriptions along its side read
FB MR R-L FN TN and
PROTOTYPE-HANDLE-WITH-CARE.
"...you want to pin all of our hopes on
that thing. When you lot
still can't get it to pick up anything heavier than a horse."
"Well…" At this, most of the eggheads sheepishly shuffled their feet. The ringleader, however, remained resolute. "We can get it to work," he declared, "we're near a breakthrough and just need more time."
"Look," the man, Arduous Buzzard by his name-tag, handed over a clipboard to the exasperated accountant, "we've already ran the numbers and most of us think all that's limiting us is power. The smaller battery that's used with the current fulton system is only good for opening a portal for ten seconds. It's main drawback is that it has to be man-portable so the charge isn't all that great."
Glancing at the sheet, Mako could indeed see calculations and graphic visuals that might suggest that the researchers were on to something. "Yes, this is all very impressive. Except this line graph that supposedly denotes the necessary power requirements in comparison to the size of the portal doesn't have its axis' labeled."
"That's just because you don-"
"Just… stop. Really." Mako pointed at the report, its cover sheet blaring in large bolded words
Expense Report #5 on the Viability of the FB MR R-L FNTN in Battlefield Conditions. "This is your fifth time trying to get additional funding for your teleport bazooka an-"
"It's a rocket lau-"
"DO I LOOK LIKE I GIVE A DAMN?"
"Apart from the initial 578,800 GMP and over a week's worth of raw materials and fuel you lot have spent at least three million in additional funding trying to get this thing to work. Three million that you received after two extensions and then
went over both my and Commander Miller's heads straight to the Boss for a third."
"Even
after you all somehow figured out wormholes after studying a
god damned wild Jackal with an exotic fur pattern you
still weren't able to get this thing to pick up more than a single prisoner! Meanwhile, Probable Crow and
her group managed to somehow fuck us all over and cause an inter-dimensional Grey-Goo Zombie Apocalypse by
shoving a crystal into a microwave. And yet, she has probably made more progress with that
fuck-up than you guys in a mere
sliver of a
fraction of the time."
"So," Glaring at Buzzard and the rest of his group, Mako tossed the clipboard onto the work station, "do you have anything actually useful for me, or is it all conjecture and theory at this point?"
…
"Come on, really? Not one of you has
any sort of practical idea that you could gleam from this thing?"
…
God… damn it. Still, probably best to throw them a bone. "Okay… well. It'll at least be good enough for snagging a few test subjects."
Mako took another deep breath, contemplating his next question. "So, what were you originally going to
do with all the transported zeds, anyways? Pretty sure none of us want a bazillion undead crawling around Mother Base. Or dumped in the ocean, if what the others are saying about tiny machine swarms centered around the bodies is true."
The researcher to Buzzard's right perked up almost immediately. "Oh! We were just going to stick them in the quarantine platform! I mean, that's what it's there for. Right?"
…
…
…
"And… how do you expect the platform to hold thousands of bodies?"
…
That's it. I'm taking a vacation after this. "Alright. Now I don't believe I need to explain
just how dumb that sou-"
*THUD*
Everyone drew their weapons. "What wa-"
*THUD*
The door to the clean-room's antechamber bulged inwards as if struck by a battering ram. Quickly, Mako took up position behind one of the work stations, his trusty M16A1 leveled at the door. Around him, the researchers took up positions behind what little cover was available with sidearms at the ready.
*THUD*
The door began to buckle.
*THUD*
Cracks appeared on the surface of the metal and the weld seams began to fail.
*THU-CRCK!!*
The door smashed off its housing as eight grey-ish figures stormed into the room. Mako only had a split second to notice that the lead figure's head was oddly shaped before instinct took over. A staccato tap echoed throughout the room as he dumped burst after burst into the charging group zombies. Rapid snaps signaled that Buzzard and the other dogs had also opened fire, taking slightly more time to aim with their semi-auto M1911s and Makarovs. Bullets tore through diseased flesh, severing long-dead tendons and shredding desiccated muscles. Until..
*click*
Reload.
Seven had gone down with the fusillade. The eighth, oddly enough the one in the lead, had collapsed after, Mako assumed, a lucky burst had caught it dead center in the stomach and severed through whatever remained of its spinal cord. Clumsily, it had fallen flat onto its face and had begun floundering its arms for purchase on the linoleum floor. Anything would have been dead by that point. Of course if it weren't alive to begin with…
Either way, the zombie began dragging itself across the floor; its arms nearly severed by stray bullets. Mako stood transfixed in horror with his rifle pointed at the creature, his eyes gazing upon the shear impossibility of the thing's anatomical existence.
Where the FUCK is this thing's head?!
There was an orange crystal. There was
only an orange crystal. No cranium. No temples. No-
Oh, wait. That's a lower jaw.
...
[Schreee!]
*BLAM*
With a jolt, the corpse jerked into the air as the bullet shattered the glowing crystal. Fragments flew all throughout the room as the undead body began to bleed grey fluid onto the floor. Off to the side, Buzzard rushed for a wall-mounted intercom linked to the Research Strut's control room to report the second breach.
And then things got worse.
From the shattered doorway came even more shrieks and at least a few dozen different voices reverberated into the room. Between the screeches, Mako could hear sporadic gunfire from the most-definitely overwhelmed security teams.
Well. Shit.
