The Zero Dog War by Keith Melton

my duty for anyone, and especially not for some FNG Army eightball. Fucking New Guys, they should come with a product warning or something.
    The projector hummed, connected by a USB to Sanders’s laptop. The rest of the Zero Dogs had gathered around in a wide semicircle, deployed as follows:
    Rafe lounged on the couch, Squeegee on his lap—or rather Squeegee’s massive feline head on his lap, an ear idly turning to follow the sounds. Tiffany sat in a recliner, knees drawn up to her chin. Mai had ringed herself with small summoned creatures—things that resembled Guinea Pigs with glowing neon purple eyes and which probably had acid for blood. Hanzo, no matter how badly he might’ve wanted to sit next to her, didn’t risk getting too close to those furry little bastards, despite his legendary ninja skills.
    Stefan slouched against the far wall, arms folded, his noble features set in a grim scowl. Nothing new there. The lazy vamp liked to tell people he was some kind of Romanian aristocrat who’d once hobnobbed with the king of Hungary, but I knew better. He was merely some rich kid from the Hamptons who’d been bitten at Woodstock during the age of peace and love, when he’d been rebelling against his parents. He didn’t sparkle, either. Only fairies sparkled, and mostly when you lit them on fire.
    Gavin sat on the little bit of couch free of Squeegee’s limbs, toying with one of those maddening intelligence games—figure out how to detach these two twisted nails and win absolutely nothing.
    Sarge stood in the doorway to the hall, hands in his pockets, massive shoulders almost filling the entry from wall to wall. The dim light made his skin appear a dusky eggplant purple. He’d also been quiet so far.
    As for me, I’d claimed my leather recliner—the back of which hung in shredded tatters thanks to Squeegee’s claws—legs crossed, trying to watch the slideshow and not the presenter. Trying to convince myself Sanders didn’t present a threat. Not doing a very good job of it.
    Our new Green Beret cut straight to the chase. “I’m Captain Sanders, US Army, Special Forces. I’ve been assigned as a Force Multiplier to the Zero Dogs for this operation.”
    Nods all around. A good start, but I wondered how long it would last. We could go from zero to clusterfuck in less than five point two seconds.
    Sanders raised the control for the projector. “Here’s what we know.” He flipped to a new PowerPoint slide. A color shot of a plain, unassuming man in his mid-thirties, close-shaven goatee, brown eyes, brown hair, fleshy face but not quite overweight. To me he looked more like a manager at a Blockbuster Video chain. “On March 4th, this man, Jeremiah Hansen, a necromancer of the Unrighteous Order of the Falling Dark, transported a group of between fifty and seventy-five RCTs to First Federal Bank in Beaverton—”
    “Did you say the dude’s name is Jeremiah?” Gavin interrupted. “Talk about epic villain name fail.”
    Rafe shook his head. “Yeah, it’s even worse than Gavin.”
    “Fuck you, fleabag.”
    “I don’t do guys. Call Sarge over. Gotta warn you though, I suspect he’s got better taste.”
    “Leave me out of this, Rafe,” Sarge rumbled. “Or I’ll kick your mangy ass.”
    Mai raised her slender hand as if she were in school. She’d worn blue and yellow summoner’s robes, with a pattern of falling leaves down the sides. All her demon Guinea Pigs cocked their heads up at her in adoration when she started to speak. “Captain Sanders, I’m not familiar with the term RCT.”
    “Noobcake City, here,” Gavin said with disgust. “RCT is an acronym for Reanimated Corpse Threat.”
    Hanzo stood up slowly, staring at Gavin with narrowed eyes. “Apologize to Ms. Tanaka before I decide to NKYITF. An acronym for Ninja Kick You in the Face.”
    “Big talk from a sawbones Band-Aid pusher. Newsflash, otaku head. You’re no Bruce Lee. You’re not even Asian. Now, shut the fuck up before I go