FSE

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Alaska born and raised, and a pure bred Arctic dragon to boot, James spent his time in the United States Marine Corps mostly deployed to the Russian Front, but saw action in France during the Paris Liberation Campaign. Post war, James lived with his best friend of nearly 16 years, Taylor Recce. A Marine himself, James and Taylor figured their military experience would be their best defense against the new wastelands. They were wrong.

James stood at the dining room table, a box of old .30-06 black tip meant for M1 Garands from the second world war in front of him, loading them a few at a time into refurbished BAR magazines meant for his HCAR Conversion rifle, which lay on the table in front of him. In the opposite end of the room, Taylor stood over a crate of shotgun shells, repeatedly trying, and failing, to load the magazines for his Kalashnikov KS-12T. Despite the issues he was having, Taylor refused help from his best friend.

"I don't need help to load magazines James", Taylor insisted. Pain was evident in hos voice, but he still seemed to be in good spirits, "I'm not completely helpless."

"Dude, I'm standing here watching you lose your grip on the shell as soon as the follower puts pressure on it. I'm telling you, this entire op is a bad idea."

"It's not a bad idea", Taylor insisted.

"Yes it is", James insisted, "if you can't load magazines, how do you expect to handle your weapon when the Scourged show up!?"

"Didn't the marines teach you to be quiet?", Taylor asked.

"No", James said, "just how to sleep anywhere and everywhere, and to always protect those who serve with me."

"Yeah well, if you believed in protecting your friends you wouldn't let me near anything breakable. Yet, you let me drink from a glass jar every night. Plus when we were in Russia, you didn't warn me me about trying to out do those Spetsnaz boys in a Vodka drinking contest."

"As I recall", James said, "The contest was your idea and yes, I DID warn you about that. No one can hang with a soviet when it comes to alcohol. But that's not the point here, Marshall is full of those fucking dead things. There's two of us, thousands of them. Wouldn't be an issue if both of us could keep our guns steady."

"We faced worse in the Marines", Taylor argued.

"Yeah, but the Chinese still had some sense of self preservation. The Scourged don't."

"I'm fucking Rabid and I do!", Taylor argued, "I'm not dying of radiation sickness. If the scourged kill me, oh well, but I'm not giving up, not this easily. Now are you with me or not!?"

James gave Taylor his signature smile, the smile he always gave his best friend when he knew his pleas fell on deaf ears.

"Taylor, stupid as this is, I'm with you to the end. Let's get evil."

James indexed the magazines for his HCAR, turning on his tablet's audio recorder as he slid his M45A1 into a holster on his hip.

"October 15, 2022, eighteen hundred hours", James said into the tablet, "Taylor's getting worse and worse by the hour. The radiation is cooking him like a microwave oven and everything I try and give him just goes straight through. He can't sleep, can't think, can't hardly even stand, let alone foot a plate carrier and rifle. He's constantly crying from the pain his Rabies is inflicting on him since I won't let him smoke anymore and we're out of salt lick. He's lost about 50 pounds just these past two weeks and gone through all the pain medication I have on hand. Our last hope is to try and cook some makeshift Triamidol, and he says we can find everything we need in Marshal. He insists on walking in and walking out. This isn't a good idea, but we're going to take my service truck and go into Marshall tonight. Even if we can't get all of what we need for the drugs, I can at least pick up what I need to service the wall pack on the Safe house."

"Don't say that shit asshole!", Taylor argued, "if we can't find what we need I blame you for jinxing it!"

James cut the recorder and continued to check his equipment. Taylor, finding the dexterity in his fingers, finished loading his shotgun magazines and indexed them into his carrier. With James' help at the expense of his dignity in his own mind, Taylor managed to get into his fatigues and armor. James grabbed the keys to his old HVAC service truck parked outside and stepped out into the cool, dry desert night. Hitting a button on the fob, his truck started, the diesel gurgling for several seconds before spurring to life. He placed his HCAR in the space between the front seats and then went back inside, finding Taylor loading up the rest of the magazines for his KS12.

"Sure you're doing okay?", James asked again, "you could just give me the list and I could do this myself."

"Yeah, I'll be fine, been through worse."

James crossed his arms, "you're full of shit Taylor."

"Dude, I survived your Dad finding out we were friends, you think a little radiation's gonna stop me?"

James sighed, recalling the day his father had discovered that he was friends with a coyote, and the chaos that had ensued. His Dad had come around in the end, which was all that mattered to him, but he'd never forget that day.

"I'll never forget that", James reminisced, "Thought I was done for the way he was yelling."

"I don't hold it against him", Taylor said shoving a Smith and Wesson M&P Nine into a holster on his leg, "shall we?"

"Lets", James agreed.

The two walked out to the idling rig. James climbed up into the driver's seat and checked his watch, "Eighteen ten", he mumbled to himself, "let's see how quickly we can get in and out."

James buckled his harness and put the rig in drive, easing off the brake. The rig's engine gave it a gleeful shove forward, moving it out of the gravel driveway as he eased it onto the street. The tach wound out to 1400 RPM before shifting into second gear. To both of them, it seemed whatever they did to the exhaust was never enough to conceal the belch the engine would emit when shifting, announcing their presence to every Scourged in the area. That in of itself was bad enough, but recently, while out at the old chemical plant looking for copper and fittings to work on his pet package unit, James had seen something new. Mounds of melted, angry and decaying flesh that seemed to be hunting the Scourged. He'd seen the mounds drag the Scourged, kicking and screaming, often times, into the sunlight, where he would always lose track of who was who in the ensuing chaos. The flesh would tear apart the Scourged in gruesome ways while the Scourged would fight back in a futile effort to save their friend, who had been damned from the moment they'd been grabbed. James, having been close to a few groups of Scourged, had heard them whispering about the "Mass", that was what they called it. None of the Scourged really knew where it came from, but they had all told each other the same thing "stay out of the light". Taylor had seen the masses once or twice on his excursions into the wastelands, and had his own theories on the origin of these biological madhouses, to the point he'd given it its own name, the Curse. He'd had a chance to do limited experimentation on it, but that had raised more questions than answers, so he'd mostly let it go as of now. That wasn't to say it wasn't on their minds.

"Got that list on you?", James asked.

Taylor tapped his vest, coughing hard, "Yeah, I made sure of that."

James sighed, "Okay look bro, if we're going to do this, we're doing it my way, got me?"

"We always do things your way, let's shake it up a bit", Taylor suggested.

"Tch, in your book shaking things up means bringing the town down around our ears on the way out."

"Sneaking around with suppressors and knives isn't fun", Taylor argued, "grenades and full auto fire? Now that's fun."

"We're not here to have fun fuck head", James hissed, "we're here on a critical objective."

"Well just cause it's critical doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves", Taylor defended. His words were immediately followed by a coughing fit so serious that it ended in progressively worsening dry heaving. James pulled the rig off the road and killed the engine, knowing what was coming. He rushed over to the other side of the rig and helped Taylor out. He collapsed to all fours, barely able to support his own weight, never mind the weight of his equipment on top if it. James cringed at the sounds that his lifelong friend was making. Because of his radiation poisoning, Taylor's lungs had been filling with fluid, to the point he would cough and hack until it all came out. Taylor choked and gagged, to the point that all barriers were broken, he began to spit up straight bile mixed with large amounts of blood and other body fluids. James held Taylor up, as the fit became so bad he lost the strength in his arms. For the better part of ten minutes, this continued, ending with Taylor nearly unconscious and whimpering like a puppy. James reached into his Rig for a paper towel, hugging his friend tightly.

"Taylor, you are not combat effective. I've lost too many friends to this fucking wasteland to lose you too."

Taylor wiped the blood and spit from his snout and face, "James, you can't make me stop. I am _ not _ going to die drowning in my own blood. Who cares if the scourged tear me apart? Any death is better than this!"

"I care!", James protested, "Dude. We should just pack up and go to Eire, the traders even said they have doctors there that can help you."

"There's no use in going that far", Taylor said reaching for his weapon, "I'd be dead long before we got there."

"You're going to be dead if you keep doing stupid shit like this", James argued, "would you listen to me for once in your life you dumb bastard?"

"Just help me up", Taylor sighed, "sooner we get this done the sooner I can be over this shit. If that means doing things your way, so be it."

"Bro, do me a favor, get out of that plate carrier and just chill out. Give me the list and I'll get what we need, you're in no condition to be in the field."

As much as he would have liked to protest and argue, deep down Taylor knew James was right. Lately, good days had been when he wasn't bed ridden from the fire that seemed to be burning underneath his lungs and the acid that soaked them. Today had not been a good day. His equipment, despite being streamlined just for this op was far heavier than it should be, how, he wondered, could all of 12 pounds plus his Saiga weigh as much as a full carrier and ruck? He knew that he wasn't going to be able to argue when it mattered the most. James would knock him out if he had to, and in the state he was in, for someone like James that wouldn't be hard. Taylor sighed in defeat as James pulled him to his feet.

"Fine...you win", he said, "get me out of this thing."

Surrendering his dignity yet again, Taylor surrendered his shotgun and the list of chemicals he needed for the medicine to James. He threw his plate carrier into the back of the rig and climbed into the back seat, laying across it like a makeshift mattress. He'd kept a pillow in the back of the thing forever and now, it didn't seem so useless. James looked over the list Taylor had made, lot of the stuff was common enough and most of it had check marks next to it. He was sure, assuming that the Marshal Walgreens and small Kroger were both intact, that he could recover more than what would be needed. He didn't hold his breath though, he would still have to fight through legions of Scourged to get to the stuff in the first place. He wasn't sure he could do it on his own, he had to though.

"How many shells did you bring?", James asked restarting the rig.

"Sixty six, six ten round magazines", Taylor said, "plus the one in the gun. My high end, three inch waterfowl shot."

"Did you load them on your carrier or that satchel thing you use?", he asked.

"The satchel", Taylor said, "why? Want my shotgun for the Scourged?"

"Hey I'm not dumb", James said, "I've seen what that damn thing can do to the Scourged."

"Yeah well, try not to burn all of mu shells in one place", Taylor said, "there's only so much of it left to go 'round."

"You know I like keeping it quiet", James said, "plus, I know you're stingy with your ammunition."

"You know what they say", Taylor grinned, showing his bloody teeth, "if someone else offers you ammo, use theirs before yours."

James hissed, Taylor loved trying to steal ammo off of him whenever he could. It only took a few minutes to drive into Marshal. James parked where he always did, outside of an abandoned mobile home that had been there even before the war. He and Taylor had been using it as a safe house, sometimes spending nights in it at a time while they worked in Marshal. It also served so if something happened in town, say to their vehicle or to one of them, they would have a safe place to retreat to should it become necessary. Tonight, despite the fact that the wall pack that cooled the place was currently in desperate need of a new compressor and a charge of R22, it would be perfect for this occasion. James parked the Rig and helped Taylor inside, placing him in bed and handing him one of the weapons from the safe house cache, a police issue MP5.

"Now you stay here and rest", James said, "if something comes up, call me and try and stay hidden."

"Yeah, will do. You leaving the keys to the Rig here?", Taylor asked.

"Sure, you keep safe lil' bro."

"You too, come back in one piece, you hear? If you die, after this radiation finishes me and I get to heaven I'll kill you again."

"I hear ya", James said.

Leaving his friend alone, James collected another one of Taylor's satchels, giving him a total of 126 rounds of Waterfowl Magnum 18.5x76mm, he knew he'd likely need every shell. Marshal was but a four minute hike from the safe house. He would come in through the outskirts of the town, rather than main street. For reaching his objective, that was far from ideal, but for maintaining his cover it was critical. The scourged were weak on their own, by themselves, they were no match for James or Taylor. Their strength, however, was in their swarm attacks. Each time they were swarmed, they made it out by an increasingly smaller margin, and the Scourged seemed to be out in force to night. On his way into town, James encountered a number of traps that hadn't been there the last time he'd taken this route into town. This would prove to be harder than he had thought, any falter in his technique, and he knew the consequences could be fatal. Not just for himself, but for Taylor as well. He couldn't dwell on that, he had to move fast, and Taylor had everything written out. The Wallgreens would be his first target, it was the closest. James moved slowly through the dark night, despite the fact that James was Rabid, with his infection in very advanced stages, his senses hadn't quite yet begun to fail. Without using his night vision, James had a good view of the quiet Pennsylvania night. He came up on the Wallgreens from behind, Taylor's shotgun at the ready as he ascended the small tree covered cliff behind the parking lot in the back of the store. Leaves covered the concrete and the back of the store was guarded by a single Scourged. He was muttering something about corrupted bankers stealing all of the glass and aluminum cans from Africa as he paced in a circle, occasionally stopping to repeatedly bang his head against the Wallgreens' cinderblock construction. Occupied by his inane ramblings, he paid no attention to James creeping up the dredge. The scourged stopped again, starting to bash his head against the wall, seemingly as hard as he could. Bits of blood and skin stuck to the wall with every impact, causing his ramblings to grow all the more senseless.

"I called it!", the Scourged rambled as James continued to quietly move in for the kill, "these Animals called me Mad! They said the bankers wouldn't have anything to do with Africa! Then out comes news! Bankers looted all the glass and aluminum cans from the entire continent! Who'd have fucking thought!? They can't deny the truth forever!!"

James crept closer, slinging Taylor's weapon over his back, he drew his combat knife. The Scourged, still occupied by his inane ramblings about bankers stealing resources, didn't detect James creeping up to deliver the fatal strike. He sank his claws into the Scourged's shoulder and pulled him to his back, stabbing his knife through the Scourged's left eye socket. James twisted the blade, the Scourged's skull broke apart, splitting from the top and bottom the eye socket's all the way down to it's base. With a yank, James spilled the half-liquidized brain of the Scourged onto the concrete. Cleaning the knife on the shirt of his enemy, James moved into the interior of the Wallgreens via a freight receipt area.

Inside the building, the Scourged all rambled about together, coming to a head in one voice reciting a thousand different thoughts that all intertwined in a frantic scramble of conflicting conspiracy theories about overlords, glass bottles, corrupt governments and he was pretty sure he heard someone say the Post Office was responsible for the war. The inside of the freight area was a mess, likely trashed by the Scourged, and he could tell just from the voices that there were a lot of them. He navigated through two downed pallet racks, weaving through the crushed and useless products piled on the floor and through the bent steel supports of the racks themselves, coming out behind a freight desk which, for now, would conceal his position. He peered over the desk, assessing his situation. The Scourged numbered in the dozens, easily. They were in various stages of decay, wandering around the warehouse aimlessly, occasionally tripping over their own feet or crashing into a wall or pallet rack. They weren't moving with any distinctive pattern, at least not one he could determine. He had two options here, he could try and keep quiet and sneak past them, but he didn't know how many there were, and if one of them sounded the alarm while he was still deep within the store, there wasn't any telling how many might descend on his position. Attempting to fight his way through the store wouldn't be the best idea either. Even though he had Taylor's shotgun, they'd come close to getting overrun before, he doubted that the Saiga alone would be of much help when it plus his full auto BAR seemed insufficient. He mulled his options, take too long being quiet and Taylor died of internal hemorrhaging. Fight through the storefront and risk being swarmed and dying, or risk leaving in a hurry and forgetting or losing something.

In a second, James' decision was made for him.

"Hey you Banker!", One of the Scourged bellowed at the top of her lungs. James spun around, there was a Scourged standing but seven feet from him. Emaciated, boiled and with multiple exposed bones, she was waving a bat with broken glass glued to it at him, "you stole all the empty wrappers from the dumpster! You must return them!"

James raised Taylor's Shotgun, taking it off safe and firing a single shell. The Scourged's organs and blood splattered out of her back as the bat went flying and she crumpled to the floor like a piece of weighted aluminum foil. The other Scourged in the warehouse started wailing incoherent gibberish as they began to descend on his position, clamoring for revenge against this banker that had just invaded their home. He had to move fast, slow as the Scourged were, they were violent in close quarters. If they caught him, he'd be beaten or stabbed to death within a couple of minutes. Moving to the storefront, James was ambushed by two Scourged carrying broken bottles as weapons. He managed to kill one of them immediately but one of them managed to get close enough to take a jab at his neck. Though the Scourged missed his initial target, on the return swing he didn't fail completely. The bottles sharp edges managed to draw a rather sizable laceration in James' unprotected neck. Kicking the Scourged off of him, James leveled his shotgun at the Scourged's head and pulled the trigger. The Scourged fell backwards as James moved to bar the door with a piece of a shelf that was laying near by, it wouldn't hold long. He tied his Shemagh around his neck, tight enough to somewhat stem the blood gushing from the laceration, but not so tight that he'd suffocate. He'd deal with it later. He looked over the list again.

"Five boxes of acetaminophen, 300mg tablets. Five pounds pure cane sugar, three pounds rocksalt, three gallon jugs distilled water,

James worked his way through the store quickly, gathering the ingredients into his assault pack, which he'd emptied out specifically for this mission. He was in the middle of gathering the sugar when Taylor came over the radio. Coughing and hacking, he sounded panicked.

"James! The Scourged are here!", Taylor shouted, between coughs and tears, "Won't beable to keep 'em away long! Would hate to die like this bro!"

"Taylor! Hold on I'm coming!"

James threw his assault pack on one shoulder and took off as fast as he could towards the safe house. He could hear the insane ramblings of the scourged even from the edge of town. Their voices blended together in an insane calamity of rage and hate. To James, it seemed like he had no strength in his legs, and that feeling seemed to grip his entire body the second he saw the safe house. He didn't know their exact number, what he did know was he couldn't count that high and that he had to get Taylor out of the house, there was no fighting that many of them. Over the wails and grunts of the horde, he barely could hear Taylor running their MP5SD for everything it was worth, with slight pauses in between bursts of continuous full auto fire to change magazines.

"Sometime tonight James!", Taylor coughed over the radio, "I'd like to live to see my 26th birthday!"

"I'm on your nine!", James said, "hold on! I'mma cut you a path out! Just get to the rig and start it!"

"I'll move on your go!", Taylor acknowledged.

James circled around the house, making as much noise as he could, firing into the crowd of boiled and diseased animals with salvos of birdshot that seemed to only agitate them further. To James' dismay, the Scourged ignored the shotgun at their backs as they beat the door to the safe house in. Several cracks ripped past James' head, a bullet grazing the top of his helmet when Taylor finished his current magazine on the Scourged closest to the door way.

"Check your fire!", James shouted.

"Stop trying to catch the bullets with your skull then Abe!", Taylor shouted back, "where's my escape James!"

"Hold on I'm working on it!"

James heard a window brake, followed by another. He began to panic, how could this have gone so, so wrong, so quickly?

"Jesus Christ they're coming in from everywhere!", Taylor panicked, "fucking help me James!"

James thought for only a second. He let his shotgun fall, retained only by the sling. Throwing the door to the rig open, he climbed in, hammered the clutch in and started the truck. If he couldn't clear the scourged with birdshot, perhaps he could do it with a semi trailer. He slammed the door shut and threw his rig into first gear. As fast as the rig could go, he drove out, circling back around and pushing the gas as far down as it would go, barreling straight towards the safe house. The cabover barreled into the writhing mass at nearly 50 miles an hour, which quickly became 10. The rig lurched and rocked, shaking on it's suspension as it crushed the scourged beneath it's tires. He stopped the rig out back, grabbing his radio.

"Parked outback by my room!", James said, "hurry!"

"They've got me boxed in!", Taylor said, "gun's jammed!"

"TAYLOR!", the plea came out as little more than a squeak. This situation was quickly degrading to the point of no return. He seized the shotgun, now, his thoughts were beginning to fade. The taste for blood welled up in his throat, there were only two thoughts on his brain. Slaughter and eat. He was going to kill them all, with firearms, blades, his hands, teeth it didn't matter. He couldn't let his friend die like this, he refused! He pulled the bolt back on the shotgun, locking it open. He threw aside the partially loaded ten round magazine and reached behind the driver's seat, that was where Taylor kept the drum. Thirty rounds of some of the most powerful buckshot you could shove into a shotgun, the agreement was it was for emergencys only. He was sure this qualified. He pushed open the door, stepping out of the rig with the shotgun tucked under one arm. He felt a hand close around his ankle and a force tear him from the rig, sending him skidding across the desert sand. He tumbled, rolling for a few feet before catching himself, he'd lost the shotgun. The Scourged that had attacked him? A large grizzly bear in construction coveralls that had been patched with duct tape and chain. He had at least a foot on James, and easily outweighed him by a hundred and fifty or more pounds. He dragged perhaps the largest pipe wrench behind him that James had ever seen, it was covered with dried blood. The bear smacked aside two smaller Scourged as he made his approach. James scrambled to his feet, getting his 1911 out of it's holster and firing all seven rounds at the approaching threat. Until that moment, he hadn't met something 230 grain +P ball couldn't stop, yet, it seemed all he did was piss the approaching monster right off. Chunks were missing from the chest of the bear as it looked down, then laughed, gurgling an awful, low growl that made James' insides knot up.

"Do better reptile!", it taunted.

James glanced around, it couldn't end, not like this. The shotgun was about 10 feet away, only thing between him and it was the bear. Like it would let him have it. He waited for the bear to close the distance, standing his ground. The bear gripped his wrench with both paws, raising it effortlessly over his head for a swing. At the last second, James rolled out of the way, the lethal pipe tool missed his ankles by mere inches, burying itself in the sand. He scurried towards Taylor's weapon, grabbing it out of the sand, he rolled around. The bear was on top of him, wrench already poised to deliver the fatal strike. One, two, three, four, five times, James felt the click of the shotgun's trigger behind his finger. Pieces of the bear flew off his body in chunks of bloody bone and fabric, the large wrench slipped from his gloved paws and the chain rattled as the bear fell to the dust below with a heavy thud. James stood up, turning to see a horde of Scourged dragging a bloody and beaten Taylor back towards the city. His body was limp, with a leg missing and bleeding profusely from the stump.

"TAYLOR!", James cried. Before he could raise his weapon, something cracked him in the head from behind. Though his helmet took the brunt of the force, he'd been struck so hard that it hadn't mattered. The pain began to swell underneath his scalp, as if someone was blowing up a balloon inside his brain. He stumbled forward, taking another hit in the same spot, magnifying the agony he was already beginning to feel a thousand fold. He managed to turn around, a buck was standing over him with a two by four with bricks tapped to it, already rearing back for the final strike. Having dropped the shotgun after being struck, he grabbed his 1911 again, raising it to the buck's head and pulling the trigger, only to realize the slide was locked back. With no time to react further, the buck took his swing. This time, James took the hit right on the top of his skull, crumbling to the ground in too much agony to move as his spine seemed to catch fire. His fingers stayed almost mockingly locked around his empty 1911 as seven or eight more scourged surrounded him and began beating the life out him. Hit after hit from pieces of buildings, nailed two by fours, sticks, bricks, blocks and garage tools had James feeling as though drain cleaner was being injected into his bone marrow. Each blow caused his vision to grow darker and the feeling in his body to lessen. Eventually, James came so close to death that he couldn't move any more, still the blows kept coming. When he was sure one more strike would be the fatal blow, the buck backed off.

"Lets go find the others", he gurgled, "this banker's dead."

"Don't we want to bring him back to the camp to eat?", another asked.

"No, not good for food. He's rabid. You can tell by his skin."

"Gross", still another stated as their footsteps trailed off. James lay there, he couldn't move. He was certain they'd at the very least broken his legs, probably a few ribs too, given the way simply laying there seemed to be adding to his agony. He laid there, unmoving until he couldn't hear the chatter of the Scourged anymore. He tried to stand, barely managing to make it to his knees before collapsing and passing out.

He woke some hours later, it was the beeping of his watch that had stirred him. He was surprised, how had he survived? With some effort, and his eyes still closed, he worked his right hand, still defiantly gripping his 1911, towards his vest. Thankfully, when he'd collapsed he'd done so on his left arm and his hand had landed right atop a magazine. With some doing, he managed to swap the magazines in his sidearm and then clean his eyes with his sleeve. The Rig was still there, idling with the driver's side door open. Managing to get to his feet, he stumbled awkwardly over to his truck and managed to pick up Taylor's shotgun, which he threw into the passenger's seat of the rig. Somehow, with what little strength seemed to be remaining in his body, he was able, barely, climb into the driver's side. The fuel gauge was down to nearly empty, with the DTE saying barely 80 miles. What was he supposed to do now, he thought aloud as he slammed the door to the Rig. The only medical training he had was for combat injuries, not severe blunt force trauma. No, that was Taylor's specialty.

"Taylor", he couldn't keep his tears back, wherever the Scourged were, so was he. How? How had shit gone so sideways, so damn quickly? He reached up, hitting the rig's CB.

"Taylor?", he asked slowly, "you out there brother?"

Static, he knew his radio was likely shredded somewhere, but, protocall was to try three times.

"Taylor", James said, trying hard not to start balling, "Taylor. Little brother?"

Nothing.

He gritted his teeth, pulling up his goggles to wipe the tears from his eyes.

"Taylor, if you're out there...."

Static, then a gurgle, static again.

"Taylor...bro, if you can somehow hear me. Go to plan B, we'll rendezvous at B location, and figure out what the hell to do from there."

James dropped the radio. Now, the only thing keeping his body from failing him was pure, unbridled and unadulterated hate. Hate towards the enemy that had left him in this truly pathetic position. He would recover Taylor, alive or passed, and the Scourged would pay accordingly for the crimes that they had committed. Taylor would be far from helpless, but he wouldn't last long unless his leg got attention. James decided at that moment, moving to the safe house and getting bandages and pain meds would be his best course of action. They had decided behind locked doors months after the bombs fell that his old shop, Mason Refrigeration, would be their worst case fall back. The building was built in 1954, and almost entirely out of solid concrete. When the doors were locked, the building was all but impervious to Scourged assault, it had even survived the detonation of the Dow Plant outside of town some months ago. He put the Rig in gear, bringing it around the house and heading back into town towards his shop. It was daylight out now, the Scourged were no where to be seen, giving the town the deceptive appearance of being deserted. He knew better. The Rig lumbered slowly, but surely, through Marshal's empty streets. Explosives aside, the Rig would more than likely withstand any trap the Scourged could set, but that didn't mean he was watching the streets like a hawk. The fact that a trail of blood smeared on the ground, along with bloody hand prints on buildings seemed to be heading towards his shop was not lost on him. He managed to make it to his shop with little difficulty. Pulling into the driveway, he shut the back up alarm off with a switch, put his rig in reverse and backed up towards the semi trailer dock, pulling the parking brake when he felt the back of the rig touch concrete. He killed the rig, grabbed his BAR and stepped out of the rig, hitting his radio.

"Taylor, brother, if you're in there...I'm outside, help's on the way", He grimaced, stumbling over his own boots. Much to his surprise as he pulled himself up, Taylor answered.

"James!?", Taylor sounded surprised, "bro, you sound fucking trashed."

James laughed weakly, "I'm hurt bad bro. Why haven't you been answering?"

"These fucking dead guys wandering around everywhere, I think they were tracking me by it or some shit. I dunno, I had to turn it off. Shoot these guys a thousand times and they don't die! Get in here and help me with my damn leg, this stump won't stop bleeding."

"Hold on dude, I'm on my way."

James limped up the stairs and put his key in the door. He unlocked it and stepped inside, Taylor was sitting in the medical area, which had used to be the kitchen, a pool of blood had gathered underneath him. He sat, dressed only in his underwear and his shredded and bloody equipment piled in the corner. He was holding a tourniquet over the stump, trying to stent his bleeding, but not having much luck. He was lacerated, bruised and covered in bite marks, like they had tried to eat him alive.

"Get over here and help me with this fuckin' stump", Taylor pleaded, "before I bleed to death."

"What do you need me to do?", James asked, locking the door behind him.

"Get that rubber seal kit from the closet", Taylor stated, "help me plug this fucking stump."

James dropped his plate carrier and rifle on the back counter, heading back to the supply closest where they kept most of the larger supplies. He found the kit on a middle shelf.

"You know dude, I seriously think we need to take that Khen dude up on his offer", He grabbed the kit and headed back towards the medical bay. Taylor was turning colors at this point, beginning to have issues breathing from blood loss.

"Maybe you're right. I don't know how though, I doubt I can hold on in this condition."

"Maybe I can convince him to send someone to pick us up", James suggested, "he said he has doctors that can fix your radiation sickness. Surely, for everything he's got, he's got a helicopter."

"Yeah", Taylor laid on his back and took off the tourniquet, "we'll see. Make this quick dude."

Perhaps that might have been something of an understatement. James started by scraping what he could off of Taylor's stump without making the injury worse. He applied several alcohol pads to clean the dirt and dried blood from the stump before packing it with clotting agent and gauze. They had used Quick Clot when in Russia, but this stuff in the severed limb emergency kit was stronger, but a completely new order of magnitude stronger. It would stop the bleeding in it's tracks, but unfortunately for Taylor, it contained a sort of medical salt that burned like hell on anything it touched.

"Ready there bro?", James asked.

"Fuck no I'm not", Taylor said, "but I'm not ready to bleed to death either. Make the shit quick."

James pulled the coagulant out of it's pouch. The grains were about the size of what could be found in the silica gel packets in the boxes of new shoes, or perhaps electronics.

"3, 2, one", James counted slowly, giving Taylor a second to brace himself. When James applied the coagulant, he could swear that he heard Taylor bite so hard that he cracked a tooth, as well as the flesh on the stump sizzle just a little bit. Once the drugs were applied, he packed it tightly with gauze and applied a specialized rubber cap to seal the wound.

"There", James said sitting next to his friend, "we're done."

Taylor didn't answer at first, still writhing with quiet agony. James tried to calm his friend.

"Catch your breath there bro. You made it."

"Are you sure about that?", Taylor asked, "what the fuck do we do now?"

James shook his head, "plan B. We pack up and move to Eire."

"That's gonna be a long ride", Taylor stated.

"A day at the most", James protested, "We're not going to survive out here much longer. The Scourged have never come at us like that before, now that they know they can, whose to say they won't do it again?"

"I don't know I'll survive a day's ride", Taylor said, "unless you still managed to hold onto the stuff to cook the radiation meds."

A long sigh slipped past James' teeth, "no...can't say that I did."

Taylor buried his face in his hands, "dammit."

"I'mma hit the Sat Phone.", James stood and walked into his old office. He sat down at his desk, he hadn't done so since the nukes fell. Hes calendar was still frozen in time, showing the month of January 2019, the month the world had fallen to Nuclear War.

"Need to go do that install at Dow", he reminisced, recalling the contract that small plant had given him a contract not just to purchase, but to install and maintain a 650 ton York Titan R73 chiller. It was damn near a five million dollar job that he'd never gotten the chance to do. The chiller itself was rusting quietly in the back of his warehouse.

James turned on the Sat Phone, dialing the number that he'd been given from a passing traveler some months ago. It rang three times before someone answered.

"Eire Telecom and Communications. This is Azarel, please state your name and query and I'll do my best to help you", a young sounding female answered.

"Azarel, my name is James Mason. About a month or so ago, I spoke with one of your traders, but the guy's name is lost on me. I'm told to call this number and speak with someone by the name of Khen. I have an injured friend whose dying of radiation sickness and I'm told he can help."

"Yes, Khen is Eire's Governor, one moment please, lemme see if he's around."

"Much obliged", James said as the phone line went quiet.

"Uh James?", Taylor said from the front, "bro I n..."

Taylor was cut off in the middle of his sentence. James heard him start to gag and violently thrash about. James snatched his HCAR from the table and ran out front, stopping dead in his tracks at what he saw. Taylor was being,..he wasn't sure Eaten? Absorbed? One of those melted things that the Scourged whispered about looked like it was trying to swallow Taylor whole with the entire front of it's body, and it was succeeding. Where the ever loving fuck had it come from!?

"Get the fuck off of him!", James shouted raising his HCAR.

Before he could fire, James lost track of who was who in the writing mound of angry flesh, he ran up to Taylor, hoping he could pry his friend from the clutches of the mass, only to be grabbed himself. A massive, clawed hand sized his HCAR and threw it across the room right before taking hold of him by the neck and squeezing tightly. Since being infected with the Demonic Plague, James' strength had increased from his Pre-War days twenty fold, to the point that if he put effort in he could, and had, torn rebar from several inches of concrete. There was, however, no fighting the absolute grip that the monster forming from his friend and cancerous mass had given birth to. James watched in awestruck horror as whatever the fuck had attacked Taylor more or less assumed his appearance, twisting it to it's own liking. Taylor's severed leg began to regrow, spraying fluids from the now open stump as a bone grew out like a sprouting tree. Flesh roped around the newly formed bone and formed a full leg as the monster pushed itself up off the table, looking James in the eye. The masses eyes held only hunger and lust, while James' were full of rage and hate. The mass licked him with a disgustingly long, slobbery tongue, then, it spoke.

"James. This is your name", the mass said, "a good first meal."

James snapped, "fucking try it! Let my friend go."

"Taylor? He is no longer", the beast said, "there is only me now."

James showed his teeth, snapping at the snout of the monster, forcing it to let him go.

"If you won't let Taylor go I'll peel ya' off 'em one fuckin' strip at a time!"

The mass laughed, James roared and lunged, claws out stretched. All he needed was to get the claws of one hand in meat, it would be all over. Midair, the mass swatted him down like a bad habit and James kissed concrete hard. Never one to stay down for long, James sank his teeth into the fresh leg of the Biomass, hoping that the newly formed appendage would be extra sensitive. His intuition turned out to be true. The Biomass screamed in agony and tried to pull James from it's leg, but despite the creatures absolute physical strength over even him, it couldn't quite overcome James' bite force, already abnormally strong since birth, now magnified by the Plague that afflicted him. Unable to free itself from James's grasp, the creature pounded on James' back has hard as it could with both fists, each blow causing James to loosen and re clamp his jaws out of simple muscle spasms. He held on until the biomass wised up, slamming his fist into the back of James' skull, sizing him by the neck and throwing him across the store front into a shelf of hand tools. James, after only a second, stood up. From the pile of tools he picked up a 24 inch pipe wrench, it weighed north of 50 pounds and was forged from a blank of 70550 tool steel, it would more than work as weapon in just a situation like this. James stepped back onto the storefront floor, holding the wrench ready to strike.

"That won't help you", the biomass scoffed as James approached him.

"Wanna fucking bet?", James hissed as the two began to circle, one clockwise and the other, counter. James made the first move, lunging at the mass, intending to deliver a fatal strike to the creature's skull and pull Taylor out, but the mass intercepted the strike mid swing. Unable to free his weapon from the grip of his enemy, James' wrench was tossed aside. One, two, three, four quick strikes from the mass had James on the ground. He felt no pain, Demons never did. James continued to fight, waiting for an opening to tear the monster that had consumed his friend to shreds, but, the opportunity never came. The monster was far to strong even for him. He could land a strike every now and again, but for what he could tell he wasn't hurting it. The realization that he couldn't win without his HCAR came when he managed to land a strike with the wrench on the creature's head. He knew he shattered it's skull with the way that it's head had bowed inward, like squashing a deflated kickball. To his dismay, the creature not only didn't go down, it swatted him aside and dug a claw into the side of it's head, pulled his deformed head into position and then smirked through rows of long, jagged teeth.

"I heal real fast", it taunted.

The remainder of his combat with the entity after that was spent trying to reach his HCAR, even though he realized in the back of his head that his HCAR would likely fail as badly as the wrench had. The fight ended with James missing several vital organs, spilling blood into a small lake as he crawled his way across the floor towards his HCAR, it was only an inch or so out of reach when the mass stopped beside him. The biomass picked James up by his neck, breaking his spine with how rough it was and carried him out into the blazing sun, throwing him into a pile of bodies that he and Taylor had dealt with a few days ago. The Mass threw him into the pile, turned and left. The sun beat down on James' eviscerated body, cooking him from all directions. He wasn't sure how long he laid in the pile, he felt what at first he thought was a snake, sniffing at him from his side. He tried to swat it away, but couldn't move his arm. It creeped up his side and began to settle into the cavity in his gut. Slowly, the creature began to pull in flesh from around him. James choked in fear as he realized what was happening and, at any second, expected his mind to go quickly as the creature worked him. Surprisingly, he retained full consciousness.

"I help, call you master now", James heard several voices in the back of his head as he was slowly pushed to his feet. The mass covered his entire body, starting from his empty gut cavity, it snaked his way up his body like ivy. His fear of what was happening drained away, replaced by nothing but his hatred for the creature that had taken Taylor from him. It was still within eye sight.

"This one", the chalcedony of voices murmured from the back of his brain, "it killed...friend? What is friend?"

James ignored the voices as he started towards Taylor's killer, a brisk walk at first, then breaking into a dead sprint. The creature turned around, but didn't have enough time to brace against the incoming attack. James and Goliath ensued in a battle that some might consider two immortal's warring for supremacy. Neither fighter could deal enough damage to their opponent to overcome their accelerated healing rates. Both James and Goliath used whatever weapons they could get from their environments in an attempt to kill the other, but were offered similar results no matter tactics employed. The fight ended after hours, only when both creatures intercepted each other's punches with a counter strike. The two fighters glared at each other, not through eyes, but through a visual organ that replaced them. Goliath was the first to break silence.

"You were weak, you are strong now. You will be my prize, but at another time."

"Next time, you won't have the advantage", James hissed.

"We will see. We will meet again."

Goliath threw his weight into James, making him stagger back before leaping to the roof of a building, out of sight.