crowd.
On his left, a mob of Infected rushed in a screaming horde directly at them.
Civilian men and women in tattered clothes and in various stages of starvation shrieked and clawed the air on both flanks. Men in military uniforms ran at the centre of the mobs, armed and firing at Miller and the others.
Jarred into action, Cobalt-2 sprinted toward the gate with every ounce of strength they had left.
What was left of Switchblade guarded the entry. They exited the confines of the walls and maintained access to their entry point, randomly shooting to provide cover, but it was all for nothing.
Once the Infected had mobbed on the left, another approached on the right and Cobalt-2 were soon surrounded. They had no choice but to fight hand-to-hand and inch their way through the swarm.
Firing at will, throwing punches, Miller ran and shot, twisting on his feet, running a few metres, then smacking a civilian out of his path, only to come face-to-face with an Infected officer. Without hesitation he lifted his Gallican and put a bullet straight through the officer’s eyes.
With a surge, the Infected civilians surrounding that officer spilled out and away, into the street in scattered formation. Miller watched them recede and shouted to the others on the top of his lungs, “Take out the officers!”
Bullets pierced the air from all sides. With awful precision, Cobalt-2 and Switchblade drilled the soldiers to the ground. Most of the Infected civilians spilled away, but others did not, and those left behind, still trying to further the attack toward Miller and Cobalt, were soon mowed down.
Miller and his team killed, again and again, without respite.
It was a bloodbath.
Eventually, Cobalt linked up with the team from Switchblade at the gate, and fought through together. Once the entrance was closed behind them, Cobalt were ushered away from the front lines.
Miller heard the Switchblade commander order his troops to kill anyone in the vicinity of the compound wearing anything other than an S-Y security uniform. He was sickened with himself when he subconsciously nodded in agreement.
Just as he turned to count the heads of his team, three attack helicopters zoomed overhead. Miller understood now: with air support, the Infected assault would likely be fought back down to a siege and eventually stopped. The remains of Stockman’s assault would slink back into the rubble of Manhattan like cockroaches and Miller would live to see another day.
He tried to be relieved.
I N THE AFTERMATH, and on the faltering bandwidth keeping the White House alive on the internet, the President addressed the nation and the world on a backdrop of S-Y workers picking through the wreckage of the refugee shanties.
“We are, today, a wounded nation. A broken nation. No matter what tribulations we face, our hearts bleed for our families, our friends, our countrymen in New York City today.” Huxley Fredericks gazed down the camera lens with all the majesty a dozen sessions with Gray’s plastic surgeons could bring. “This tragedy, this violence striking at the heart of us all has one origin behind it. The Archaean Parasite.
“But we cannot blame the Parasite alone. For those who wilfully pursue infection, who attack those trying to cure the sick, their own sickness cannot, will not, be a shield for them to cower behind. They are criminals.
“Major-General Stockman, and regretfully the entirety of the 11th Infantry Division, are criminals. Criminals against humanity, war criminals, for we are now at a time of war. Not only for survival, against climate change, ecological catastrophe, and famine, but against ourselves. This is a civil war against our country, and our enemy is within.” The President stiffened, leaning in towards the camera. “As we all know, we are at a low tide, but American will and strength of heart are as strong as they’ve ever been. So I call on you all, servicemen and women, citizens, our allies within NATO and
On his left, a mob of Infected rushed in a screaming horde directly at them.
Civilian men and women in tattered clothes and in various stages of starvation shrieked and clawed the air on both flanks. Men in military uniforms ran at the centre of the mobs, armed and firing at Miller and the others.
Jarred into action, Cobalt-2 sprinted toward the gate with every ounce of strength they had left.
What was left of Switchblade guarded the entry. They exited the confines of the walls and maintained access to their entry point, randomly shooting to provide cover, but it was all for nothing.
Once the Infected had mobbed on the left, another approached on the right and Cobalt-2 were soon surrounded. They had no choice but to fight hand-to-hand and inch their way through the swarm.
Firing at will, throwing punches, Miller ran and shot, twisting on his feet, running a few metres, then smacking a civilian out of his path, only to come face-to-face with an Infected officer. Without hesitation he lifted his Gallican and put a bullet straight through the officer’s eyes.
With a surge, the Infected civilians surrounding that officer spilled out and away, into the street in scattered formation. Miller watched them recede and shouted to the others on the top of his lungs, “Take out the officers!”
Bullets pierced the air from all sides. With awful precision, Cobalt-2 and Switchblade drilled the soldiers to the ground. Most of the Infected civilians spilled away, but others did not, and those left behind, still trying to further the attack toward Miller and Cobalt, were soon mowed down.
Miller and his team killed, again and again, without respite.
It was a bloodbath.
Eventually, Cobalt linked up with the team from Switchblade at the gate, and fought through together. Once the entrance was closed behind them, Cobalt were ushered away from the front lines.
Miller heard the Switchblade commander order his troops to kill anyone in the vicinity of the compound wearing anything other than an S-Y security uniform. He was sickened with himself when he subconsciously nodded in agreement.
Just as he turned to count the heads of his team, three attack helicopters zoomed overhead. Miller understood now: with air support, the Infected assault would likely be fought back down to a siege and eventually stopped. The remains of Stockman’s assault would slink back into the rubble of Manhattan like cockroaches and Miller would live to see another day.
He tried to be relieved.
I N THE AFTERMATH, and on the faltering bandwidth keeping the White House alive on the internet, the President addressed the nation and the world on a backdrop of S-Y workers picking through the wreckage of the refugee shanties.
“We are, today, a wounded nation. A broken nation. No matter what tribulations we face, our hearts bleed for our families, our friends, our countrymen in New York City today.” Huxley Fredericks gazed down the camera lens with all the majesty a dozen sessions with Gray’s plastic surgeons could bring. “This tragedy, this violence striking at the heart of us all has one origin behind it. The Archaean Parasite.
“But we cannot blame the Parasite alone. For those who wilfully pursue infection, who attack those trying to cure the sick, their own sickness cannot, will not, be a shield for them to cower behind. They are criminals.
“Major-General Stockman, and regretfully the entirety of the 11th Infantry Division, are criminals. Criminals against humanity, war criminals, for we are now at a time of war. Not only for survival, against climate change, ecological catastrophe, and famine, but against ourselves. This is a civil war against our country, and our enemy is within.” The President stiffened, leaning in towards the camera. “As we all know, we are at a low tide, but American will and strength of heart are as strong as they’ve ever been. So I call on you all, servicemen and women, citizens, our allies within NATO and
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