Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (Escaping the Dead) by W. J. Lundy

whispered.
     
    Brads
team had done well for themselves, considering their situation.  They had
held up in the Customs compound at Hairatan; they fortified it, made it a
refuge.  Their previous mission, in their old life, had been to patrol the
streets looking for the Taliban.  Now they worked with a former Taliban
commander named Junayd rescuing civilians and rebuilding in the furthest reaches
of Afghanistan.  Once enemies; they were now unified in a common goal to
survive.
     
    “Identified,
primal on the wire,” Brad whispered, pulling the rifle into his shoulder and
letting his cheek rest on the butt stock.  Gripping the heavy M24 hand guards
tightly he forced himself to relax as he lined his dominant eye up with the
scope .
     
    The
routines had become monotonous, the same tasks over and over.  His
deployment to Afghanistan had felt the same, but this was different. 
There was no real end to this, no day circled on a calendar to work
towards.  No goal to reach, no motivation to press forward.  This was
just surviving every day; day after day.  They would do patrols into the city
to salvage goods and locate survivors.  They had found plenty of the
later, but never any soldiers.  He feared his men may be the last
remaining US Forces in country.
     
    “Range
twelve hundred meters, dial eighteen plus one click,” ordered the spotter.
     
    The
compound was home now.  Survivors of all types seeking refuge had come
here looking for safety inside the fences.  They all came together working
the walls and doing the tasks that keep a camp running, soldiers and civilians
side by side now.  Brads men knew the compound wouldn’t stand against a
large mass attack.  How could it? Their own base had fallen in the first
days and that was heavily fortified. That was when the attacks came in the
thousands.  More recently they would come at the walls in twos or
threes.  Unless something alerted them, it was very rare to see more than
ten at a time during the daylight.  No one wanted to think about a mob
pressed against their gates, but they knew they were out there.
     
    “Roger,
eighteen plus one dialed in,” Brad answered.
     
    His
men hated the patrols.  But they were a necessary evil, essential to the
survival of the group.  This wasn’t like hunting the Taliban which could
lead to days or even weeks of boredom; broken only by minutes of unrelenting
violence.    This was constant.  The soldiers were almost guaranteed
to run into conflict every time they left the wire. And unlike before, there
would be no calls for MedEvacs or air support.  The last patrol Brad was
on they had searched the village market.  From all appearances the place
had been abandoned and well picked over, but they needed to break into the old
storage warehouse to be sure.
     
    “Wind
from three o’clock, six miles per hour, dial wind right, two point three,” came
the spotter’s adjustments.
     
    The
warehouse was infested with the primals.  When they opened the large double
doors they were immediately engaged.  They often found hives of them
behind locked, barricaded and closed doors like this.  In the early days
of the attacks, families would seek refuge in their homes securing themselves
in.  Often with wounded loved ones in tow.  Unknowing that their
injured family member would turn and attack them in their final hiding
place.  That was before we knew how it spread, how deadly it was. 
Before we knew a deep cut or bite would bring on the rage.
     
    “Roger,
dialed two point three, target indexed,” Brad whispered making adjustments to
the rifle without taking his eye off the target.
     
    It
had taken most of the day and a large deal of ammo to clear out that
hive.  They had no for sure strategy against them, the primals played by no
rules.  Primals would mass quickly and would pour from every direction if
they sensed prey.  No fear of injury or death, they couldn’t be
suppressed; there was no shock and awe to