Dept of Otherworld Rescue Chpt 7-9

Hey everyone! Here are the next three advance chapters for Department of Otherworld Rescue. Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 7 - Get Sorted

This time, when Cole went to the medical building, they didn’t turn him away. He was let in to see Brennan, who was sleeping, and Gillis, who was stuffing his face.

“The DFAC here is good, Cole. Like, Air Force good. But I ain’t gonna eat base food until they send me back—commercial, too. They’re putting me on a flight straight into Erbil. But until then, we can go out in town and get real chow.”

“I might not be going back,” Cole said. “These guys think I might have the special sauce to do what they do.”

Gillis’ eyes widened. “You mean like that fucking Terminator? Bro, you gotta. No way you should pass this up.”

“Well if your dumb ass thinks is a good idea, it’s going to make me second guess.”

Gillis spit a mouthful of rice over his sheets before he could get his hand over his mouth. “Asshole!”

Cole just grinned. “Aside from your appetite and your impending extended adventure on the latrine, how are you feeling?”

“Like I just put two belts of 7.62 NATO into shit that wouldn’t die from it. Feels like I got twisted up, turned inside out, hammered flat, and then stuffed like a turkey. They debriefed me and Brennan, and let me tell you, I never want to hear the term heart-eater demon again. So if you want to jump through portals to Hell or Syria, which are basically the same thing as far as I’m concerned, be my guest, Sarge. They had me squeeze this rod while a lady looked at a tablet—at least try to keep a straight face, man.” Gillis shrugged. “Apparently I don’t got that special sauce like you, so demon-duty ain’t on the table. You can keep it. They said I could stay on as compound support services, but who wants to hand out bed linens in Virginia when the Arabian Nights are calling, hooah?”

For all Gillis’ Roll Tide goofball attitude, he was still a scout platoon airborne soldier to the core. “Let me know when they clear you and Brennan,” said Cole, standing. “We’ll catch a ride into Fredericksburg. For now, I need to go talk to the director.”

Gillis was already back into his meal.

Cole headed back to the ops building and took his packet out. Security let him pass, and he went up to the director’s office, catching the man coming out of a conference room with a half-dozen hard-looking types—one of which he recognized as the gunner, or Deadlight. Bricker spotted him and his gaze drifted down to Cole’s hand with the enlistment packet. He waved his entourage on and jerked his head toward his office.

Two of the Kickers gave him friendly shoulder punches as they passed—though Deadlight’s might have been a bit harder than was strictly friendly. The woman behind him pushed him on towards the elevator, rolling her eyes.

“Thanks for the assist, guys,” said Cole.

“I only accept gratitude in the form factor of a Wild Turkey bottle,” said one of the Kickers. One of the others shoved them into the wall as the elevator door started to close and the rest laughed.

Bricker shook his head as he unlocked his door.

Cole followed him in, and Bricker took the packet and thumbed through, checking the signatures.

“I think you’re making a good move, son,” he said, easing down into his chair and rubbing his palm on one leg with a wince. “I looked at your service jacket. Great PT scores, solid evals, assigned to your scout platoon, and earmarked for the next ranger school slot that opens up after your deployment. Sorry you’ll be missing that.”

“That one does sting, a bit,” said Cole, sliding into the chair opposite Bricker. “But a lot more than fifty guys go to ranger school every year.”

Bricker grinned. “Ah, there’s it is. You want to be in the elite of the elite, am I right? Well, with accolades comes risk, as I’m sure you read. These assignments put you in harm’s way. This will push you harder than being in the scouts, hell, harder than Ranger School would have, harder than Selection, or Wagner, or the Loyalists. I’m not trying to scare you off, but you can’t know what you’re getting into. Not really. Not even after this morning—or last night, for you.”

“I understand, sir,” said Cole. “So what happens now?”

“Now?” Bricker thought to himself, tapping the top of his desk. “There’s a Curahee trip in a few days. Normally that’s the culmination of your training here—but seeing as you’re coming in with your SERE training complete and a level to boot, I don’t see a compelling reason to make you wait three months for the next one.”

“Jefferson mentioned that, Curahee,” said Cole. He leaned forward. “I take it you don’t mean the mountain in Georgia. Cause I ran that thing top to bottom and didn’t see any portals.”

Bricker laughed. “Airborne tradition, I’m guessing? No. Curahee is a world—a gentle one, as far as LF worlds go. It’s where we drop you to see if you splat or bounce. The monsters are low threat level, and just like in Georgia, your objective is to get to the top of the mountain. Alive. And that’s not a guarantee.”

“No heart-eater demons?”

“Hell no. Like I said, we’ll start you out manageable. Don’t get me wrong, you’ll be fighting for your life. But it will be fights you can win. Probably. It’s what we call a Risk Index 1 world. Curahee’s LF field is managed by a pretty chill god, all things considered. He’s starved for entertainment. Give it to him and he’ll give classes as early as level three sometimes. And Curahee had firearms, so those classes can be firearm related. But that’s all shit you’ll figure out along the way. It’s a perfect proving ground. Think you’ll be ready in 3 days?”

Cole nodded. “Absolutely. Especially if you’ve got any more of those electric rounds laying around.”

Bricker’s eyes narrowed as he smiled, but he didn’t reveal what his private little joke was. “Talk to Jefferson tomorrow. He’ll get your kit squared.”

                          *

Cole finally let himself sleep after that. The time zone transition was going to be a bitch, as evidenced by him waking up at 9 PM. At least he’d put the sheets on his mattress this time. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he let himself out of the apartment and stepped out onto the deck, listening to the bugs and the frogs compete for who could be the loudest assholes in the Southern US. Down below, he heard a couple voices and leaned over the railing to spot the cherry of a lit cigarette weaving as its owner spoke at least as much with her hands as her lips.

Cole whistled down, and a pair of faces turned up at him.

“Got an extra one of those?”

“Hell yeah!” said the woman, waving him down.

Cole walked down to the first floor, accepting a cigarette from the woman, while her friend looked him up and down.

“Nice outfit, grandpa,” he said, grinning. Cole realized he recognized him.

“You’re the medic from the pit,” he said, extending his hand.

“Bart,” said the man, taking it. Bart was a couple inches taller than Cole and could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty, as far as Cole could tell. He had a smooth shaved face, completely bald dome, and a handshake as firm and coarse as cast iron. He looked over Cole’s shoulder. “Roxy, this young buck is Amos Colton. From what I hear, he’ll be jumping into Curahee with us.”

Roxy looked him up and down, eyebrow raised. “Marine?”

“Army,” said Cole, returning the look. Roxy was shorter than either of them, maybe five-three, with tan skin and shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a loose tail. Her gym shorts and old, faded Fallout Boy tour tank-top revealed the toned shoulders and thick thighs of someone familiar with the squat rack and Smith machine. Cole put her at nineteen or twenty.

Roxy must have approved of what she saw as well, because she nodded to him and tapped her chest with a thumb. “Navy corpsman—not that it matters in a few days. Everything here is classes and levels, not rank or rate. I’m hoping to get a healing class, like Anette. She’s the one that pulled me out.”

Cole tilted his head. “You got caught in a crossover?”

Roxy shook her head. “Nah. I got taken when I was seventeen. Kickers pulled me out. It’s my turn to pay it forward.” she took a drag and her eyes darkened. “I intend to pay it back, too. If those fucking royals on Salavan take another kid, I’m going to be first through the door.”

Bart held his hands up. “Easy, Tiger! Gotta make it through Curahee first.”

Roxy nodded. “Sure, sure. I know the drill. Grind up, get a class, get some loot.” she looked at Cole. “We’re alone when we go in, but it’s best to link up. There’s five others besides us three. You see any of ‘em but me, you do one thing.”

“What’s that?” asked Cole.

“Keep looking for me,” she said, knuckling the side of his arm. Bart cleared his throat and Roxy rolled her eyes. “Fine, Bart’s cool, too. Howie’s ok, but out of his depth. Ken is weird, but harmless. Bessen will probably kill you for your MREs. Nona might try to kill you just to kill you—she’s fucked in the head and no one knows her story—and Han is a wildcard. Barely speaks English. Probably said six words the whole training cycle.”

“Hold up,” said Cole. “Pretty sure you just said two of these people would kill me. And I want to believe you were joking. But jokes are usually escorted by a punchline, or at least a smile. If these guys are legit psycho, what are they doing here?”

Roxy shrugged. “Not exactly a line out the door, is there? Statistically, at least one of us will die in Curahee. I’d rather we all beat the odds, but it’s damn sure not going to be me who doesn’t.” Roxy looked out into the distance. “I feel like I’ve spent the last five years on borrowed time. I’ll fight for every second I can get.”

“So since both of you know more than me ‘bout this thing, got any other advice?”

“My advice?” asked Roxy, “Is to listen to Jefferson’s advice. We’re purposefully left in the dark about what we’ll see on the other side. It’s a trial by fire. But he’s outfit hundreds of potential Kickers for Curahee. He knows what comes back and what doesn’t. If he says take something, best you take it.” She looked him up and down again and wrinkled her nose. “Actually, scratch that. I’ve got some advice. Let’s go to Wally World right now and get you something to wear that was made after the Fall of Saigon.”

Chapter 8 - Kitted Out

“I’ve got a standard pack kitted out for you,” said Jefferson. “Got your tent, hatchet, firestarter, meal bars, water rations, purification tabs, poncho, AIFAK, additional anti-bacterials and anti-fungals—make sure you hold onto those—flashlight, field repair kit, field recharger, paracord, duct tape, LF analyzer, and a few other things. Check the inventory list.” Jefferson clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Now, let’s get to the fun stuff. Let’s talk weapons.”

Cole’s eyes slid to the armament wall with the collection of exotic weapons. “As much as I want to be greedy, I know my M4 system, and a few more magazines of that electric ammo would go a long way.”

Jefferson raised his eyebrows. “Ain’t no one told you how the LF keying works? You can’t use someone else’s loot if you weren’t there when it dropped.” He held his hand to the wall. “None of them will work for you, least not with the LF enhancements that make it worth dragging around a 30-pound otherworld grenade launcher. There’s one other way to get an otherworld armament keyed, though.

“How’s that?” asked Cole.

“If you kill the person it’s already keyed to,” He ran a hand over his head. “I guess they really are throwing you in the deep end. Just know that the modern assault rifle may not be the great equalizer you’re used to it being. Anyway, unless you’re dead-set on your M4, I got a few other options.”

“Something wrong with the M4?” Cole asked. Then considered. “Other than the fact one of those heart-eaters took 30 shots from one without flinching?”

Jefferson tapped his finger on his nose. “Now you’re getting it. 5.56 is a great round for what it was made for. But out there, a little bit more oomph goes a long way. I can give you a 7.62 SCAR, if you want to try that on for size. Or I’ve even got XM-7s with the new composite ammo. And those things pack a hell of a punch.”

“And weigh a ton,” said Cole. “I’ve got a buddy in the 101st who says his is close to 14 pounds loaded, and unreliable as all hell. I might as well take a SAW at that weight.”

Jeff laughed. “An M249 isn’t a bad choice if you’re married to 5.56. But that’s because you’ll be firing off 100-round belts. That weight might not be an issue soon enough, either. Hmm… tell you what…”

The armorer rubbed his chin and ducked into his workshop, coming out a moment later with a rifle that looked like an M4, but with a longer magazine well and thicker barrel. A low-power variable optic was mounted on a cantilever sight atop the rails.

“An AR-10?” asked Cole.

“Good eye. Now I know some of the infantry types are squeamish about ‘civilian’ rifles, so it won’t hurt my feelings none if you don’t want it. But before you say shit, know that this is my personal AR-10, and so that bit about not hurting my feelings was a damn lie.” Jeff handed the rifle over.

“Nah, it’s not like that,” said Cole. He checked the chamber to make sure it was clear before taking a closer look at the setup. “I’ve built a few ARs myself. They’re like Legos for gun nuts. My AR-10 is chambered in .450 Bushmaster. Use it for feral hogs on my Granddad’s land.”

“Well this one is chambered in 7.62 NATO, like the SCAR, only it’s about two-thirds the weight. Sixteen inch barrel, cobalt suppressor, premium trigger.”

“Uh huh,” said Cole. “I also notice it’s got a three-position safety. Full auto sear?”

“Don’t go tellin’ Johny Law,” said Jeff, winking. “Like I said, this is my personal rifle and there’s about three thousand dollars worth of gun in your hands, so you’d better not die and lose it over there.”

Cole shouldered the weapon and felt the grip in his hands, snug against his palm thanks to grip tape and a hand stop a third of the way down the handguard. The controls were all identical to his M4, and the optic was clear and crisp. “Zero?”

“Thirty-six yards, did it right here on our range. And you’ll be firing these.”

Cole lowered the rifle and looked over, where Jeff was holding a round that had what looked like serrations spiraling out from the tip.

“Most monsters and demons are resistant to both hollow point and armor piercing rounds. Something in their makeup acts like natural impact armor. But slashing with swords opens them right up, and that’s why we’ve got these.”

Cole whistled. “Nasty.”

“One of these would turn your feral hog into sliced ham, skip the butcher entirely. So what do you think?” asked Jeff.

“I think you’ve got a lot of faith to send another man out with your wife,” said Cole.

Jeff roared with laughter. “Well that did cost as much as her ring, didn’t it? Bricker seems to think you’ve got the juice, and he’s not usually off the mark. I’ll get your six plus one sorted, and we’ll put a few rounds in at the inert range so you can verify. After that, you’re on your own. You ever done Kendo or Fencing?”

“No sir. Track and field. Javelin and cross-country. And some kickboxing.”

“How about baseball?”

Cole nodded. “Some little league.”

“I’ll get you a club, then. Simplest melee weapon known to man. And before you say anything, yes, you will need it.”

Cole thought back to Roxy’s advice, and then to the padded Kali sticks they’d used to brutalize each other at advanced individual training after Basic. “How about two?”

                          *

A half hour later, Cole stood on the concrete pad outside the portal pit building with a half-dozen other armed and armored individuals, including Roxy and Bart, who he recognized, and a handful of others as well as a working dog in a kevlar harness—a boxer with those droopy jowls and square face. Cole was pretty sure, anyway. Most of the others, Cole felt he could guess after Roxy’s descriptions. Bricker wasn’t present, but one of the Kickers he’d seen at the portal in Kevlesh gave a speech on keeping their heads on during the transition as she handed out one extra piece of kit to all of the hopefuls: a flare gun.

“I’ll be proctoring this tryout,” said the woman. “You either make it to the top of the mountain, or you fire off that flare and Mama Morganstern—that’s me—will come pull the washed-up failure—that’s you—out of the frying pan.”

Cole half-listened, eyeing the other recruits. Nona was easy to spot, as the only other woman besides Roxy. She had short, blonde hair and eyes that darted around as if she was scared to look at one thing for too long. Howie was easy too, a lanky acne-scarred man with a high-and-tight marine cut trying to lever his pack around to stow the flare gun. There was a stocky Pacific Islander man in a foreign uniform from maybe the Philippines, who Cole assumed to be Han and who looked to be at least twenty-five and maybe as old as thirty. Two others stood off to the side, neither making an effort to talk to anyone. One of them, a tall man in a camo boonie cap, had the military working dog with him. The other carried an AR pattern rifle with a sixty-stack drum and wore outdated forest camo fatigues. Roxy hadn’t mentioned a dog, so blind odds for which one was Besson and which was Ken.

“The first thing you will do, upon reaching your drop points is take out your LF analyzer to measure yourself. Once you have verified to me that you are attuned to Curahee’s Lewis Field, you will be left on your own. Curahee sucks. But it is your opportunity to gain levels and pull some gear and earn some dough before joining the rest of the Kickers on real missions. Do not squander it by dying or sprinting to the end. After 3 days, a portal will begin to open in a prominent location at the top of the mountain. It will do so every hour, on the hour, for five minutes.”

Morganstern looked around at each of the recruits. “There is no sick call in Curahee. There are no medivac choppers on standby, and there is certainly no trauma center. There is no GPS, there is no cell service, there are no radio repeaters. This test is to determine if you, as individuals, have the skills necessary to navigate and survive in an environment which lacks all the fancy toys of the twentieth century. Now grab your shit and get in the vehicle.”

Cole leaned down, picking up his assault pack and slinging it into the bed of the light infantry squad vehicle before climbing up himself. He held out a hand, helping Bart first, and then the others one-by-one, starting with the marine.

“Cole,” he said, extending his hand.

“Howie,” said his opposite. He pulled Howie up next to him and moved to the next person, the Asian man in the foreign uniform. He grunted as he got up over the side of the vehicle and puffed out his cheeks from the exertion. “Hey, thanks for the leg up, bud.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Cole. “…Ken?”

Ken grinned “You psychic or somethin’? What number am I thinking of?”

Just wondering if assuming you were the one who couldn’t speak English makes me kind of racist. Cole thought, somewhat chagrined.

The actual Han came up next, a mid-twenties very white guy with a thick German accent “Johann. Thank,” was all he said.

“Cole. Welcome.”

Nona, and presumably Besson ignored him. Besson whistled and pointed up the side of the vehicle. His boxer scrabbled up and over the edge, tongue lolling out Besson followed, focused entirely on his animal. Nona climbed up after, looking away from the rest of the group. The bell on the pit door trilled and the steel slabs started to slide open. Morganstern cranked the engine and turned the vehicle around, driving just a couple miles per hour as a compound security officer ground guided her in.

Once the doors closed again behind them, Cole felt a buildup of potential energy and blinked as the room seemed to get brighter. In the pit, a mote of energy began to spark, expanding and brightening until it formed a ring.

“If anyone wants out,” said Morganstern, “This is your last port of call. Show of hands, who wants to go home?”

Not a single hand went up, and the Kicker chuckled to herself. Ahead, the glowing ring flashed, and Cole craned his neck as a sickly green disc materialized. Morganstern eased off the brakes and let the ISV roll down the slope and into the looming portal.

Chapter 9 - Curahee

Disorientation twisted Cole’s guts around again. If anything, it was worse than coming back from Kevlesh. And when they finally emerged into a forest with the same sickly-green sky as the portal, it didn’t help.

He, Ken, and Besson all turned and spit their breakfast over the side of the vehicle while Morganstern whistled and cheered them on. Howie looked a bit green around the gills as well, but that might have just been the off-putting green sky packed with dark rain clouds. By the time Cole got his poncho out and over himself, the rain from a passing shower started to fall on the ridge. Thunder rolled overhead, echoing off mountains to the south and east.

“Someone forget to check the forecast?” Roxy shouted over the thunder.

“No point,” said Morganstern, evil grin plastered to her face. “Curahee is always like this. Didn’t anyone tell you? It’ll get better under the canopy.”

“You know, where I’m from,” said Bart, “Green sky means a twister is about to hit.”

“I feel like I just went through one,” said Cole.

Morganstern turned onto a trail, driving them along a ridgeline, seemingly completely unbothered by the rain. After about five minutes, they hit a wide spot where a rope was coiled next to a thick stake. The proctor turned back and pointed a finger at Besson. “You’re up. Out and LF analyzer.”

Besson tossed his pack over the side of the vehicle before hopping down next to it. He pulled a small tablet slightly larger than a cell phone out of his rig and looked at it before showing it to Morganstern. She glanced at it, nodded, and then went over and kicked the coil of rope off the side of the ridge before raising her voice.

“So I don’t have to repeat myself five more times, in case it wasn’t obvious, That’s your destination,” she said, pointing to a squat peak rising out of the forest below the ridge. Cole could see the remnants of what looked like structures on the terraces around the upper levels of the mountain—though he was surprised he could make out any details at that distance through the rain and mist. “Do not attempt the summit without a class. If you think the forest is bad, wait ‘til you see the castle.”

Cole was somewhat relieved to see Besson out first, which gave him a decent chance of not being next to one of the guys Roxy had told him might be a closet psycho. He certainly had the cold eyes of someone who would gut you and sleep like a baby, after. Besson hauled up on the harness of his working dog and clipped it to his harness. Then, he wrapped the rope around himself and through his rappel device. Morganstern checked his rig and gave him the go-ahead. He walked himself back over the edge of the ridge and disappeared from sight.

Morganstern got back in the driver’s seat and drove to the next rappel point, repeating the process with Howie, Han, Roxy, Ken, Nona, and Bart until the only one left in the open-top vehicle was Cole. He estimated there was about a mile between each of the stakes. They finally got to Cole’s, and Morganstern threw the vehicle in park.

“Alright, Airborne, show me what you got.”

Cole hopped over the side and used the height difference to get his pack on. Luckily, the day bag seemed to be waterproof so at least everything inside should still be dry—and for some reason, it felt much lighter than when he’d hauled it out of Jefferson’s armory. He reached under his poncho, pulling the little LF analyzer out of his chest pouch. It powered on as soon as a metal plate on the back touched the skin of his palm, and he felt it tingle.

<LF Attunement detected. Please wait.

Level: 1, 84%

No class detected. No subclass detected.

Assessed Enhancement Metrics:

Strength: .2

Dexterity .25

Acuity: .4

Resilience: .15

Speed: .3

Intelligence: .25

Cole stared at the screen for a minute. He hadn’t played a lot of RPGs, but those stats seemed really shitty, and it must have shown on his face.

Morganstern stalked over and yanked the analyzer out of his hand, looking at the numbers for herself. She looked back at Cole. “Anyone explain to you what this shit means, yet?”

“Not as such, ma’am, no,” he admitted.

She turned the screen back around. “Well, you’re level 1 instead of level 0. Almost level 2, actually, so that story about you fragging a Kevlesh demon must not have been a crock. You could get a class pretty quick.” She pointed to the enhancement metrics. “These are multipliers. Every time you level up, this is the percentage of your baseline you improve by. Your eyes been sensitive since we got here?”

“A bit, yeah” said Cole.

“That’s ‘cause every level, your eyesight and hearing are getting better by a whopping forty percent of your baseline. Easy math, right? Enhancement metric times level equals how… mmm, not useful, but at least how much less dead weight a Lewis Field makes your ass.” She tapped the LPVO scope on his rifle. “.4 is pretty good for a top metric. By the time you get out of here, you might not even need that. Or hell, maybe even those NODS. On the other hand, your strength and resilience are shit. So you may be a weak pussy who will probably die as soon as you run out of ammo, but your speed might be fast enough to at least not get eaten for a while.”

Morganstern walked over and kicked the coil of rope off the ridge. “Wouldn’t be the first time cowardice saved a hopeful. Let’s go, Airborne.”

Cole stowed his analyzer and started securing the rope to his rappelling device. He looked up at Morganstern. “Any more words of encouragement?” he asked.

“Fuck, hopeful, you should see me when I’m in a bad mood,” said Morganstern. She walked to the squad vehicle and pulled her own bag and weapon—not even a firearm, just a sledgehammer with a striking surface that looked like a metal dragon’s head with glowing, red eyes. “Just keep that flare gun close. I’ll be watching for it.” She gave him a sarcastic salute, then blurred as she took a running leap off the ridge at a speed  that carried her at least 50 feet out over the forest. Cole watched, wide-eyed, waiting for a parachute. But apparently the high-level Kicker didn’t need one.

Grumbling at the show-off, Cole started lowering himself down the side of the ravine, feeling the rope slide by in his hand. Better senses and speed. Made sense. He’d always had keen eyes and ears and smoked most everyone on rucks and runs. Low strength and resilience meant he’d never be charging into battle with a war hammer or a machine gun with three hundred pounds of ammo like Morganstern or Deadlight, but that had never been his style anyway.

Even if his strength and resilience were shit, he could already feel the enhancements working. His kit didn’t feel as heavy as it should have, and he was no longer jetlagged. He had an end-state and his 50, 100, and 500 meter targets. Survive, hunt, level up to get a class, and pull loot from monsters. Then head for the top of the mountain. As far as he knew, LF monsters could drop pretty much anything he might need, and he was expected to scavenge ammunition. But no one had said anything about what kinds of things to expect in the dense forest below. Or what form those monsters would take.

Cole started to draw even with the tops of the trees, and the rain stopped. An unnatural stillness fell over the forest, and he halted his rappel, looking out across the canopy for any sign of movement. His target, the mountain castle in the distance, would take him several days to reach. For now, he needed to get his bearings, explore a bit, and cover as much ground as he could before nightfall—if day and night even worked the same here. He couldn’t take any of his Earth knowledge for granted.

Not seeing movement or hearing strange creatures’ roars, he finished rappelling and reached the bottom of the ridge unmolested. He unclipped his line and then charged his rifle. It felt lighter in his hands, here. closer to his M4 in weight, which made sense if he was 20% stronger in a Lewis Field. At level 5 he’d be twice as strong as normal. He tried to imagine his skinny self with a 320 pound bench press. The thought was almost laughable.

He made his way through the dense woods, slowly and carefully. It felt more like trail-blazing through the forests in his home state, Georgia, than the scouting he’d done for the Army. But he supposed if the US and Russia had decided to have their off-the-books war in a European country instead of Syria, this is probably what he’d be doing anyway. He stopped to shake off his poncho and stow it before continuing.

One stark difference from Georgia was the orange fungus that seemed to grow on anything head height or below. It seemed to be on every fourth or fifth tree, eating away at the bark like a parasite with blue veins in the bark and carving strange hollows in the wood. His survival and evasion training had covered some edible mushrooms and wild plants, but he wasn’t about to assume any of that info would be useful for determining what Curahee plant life was or wasn’t toxic. He’d stick with the rations.

After an hour of walking, he checked the position of the sun and saw that it was past its zenith and now headed for the horizon. His compass at least still worked, so he was able to keep his bearing even when the canopy was too thick to see the mountain in the distance. Other than startling a few small brush-critters, he hadn’t seen any signs of life—or of the other recruits. After another hour, he stopped near a small brook for a break, hoping the sound of the water would cover the noise of the wrapper on his meal bar. He chewed at the hard brick of carbs and protein as he leaned down to dip a cloth in the brook. It must have been summer here, too, because it was hot as hell and humid. He wanted a towel to help cool his neck.

He froze as his cloth touched the water. Beside the brook, there were footprints in the mud. Fresh ones, as it had only stopped raining a little over two hours prior. One foot seemed to drag, and they were boots—but not treaded like his or the other recruits. Cole straightened backup, twisting the cloth around the back of his neck as he looked around and listened. He continued chewing on his lunch as he pulled his pack back on. The tracks looked like they went northwest towards Bart’s drop zone. Slightly off course from his goal, but he didn’t like the thought of whatever this thing was sneaking up on the medic. Plus, if he could link up, the two of them would have a better chance of surviving together.

Cole stalked in the direction of the fresh tracks. The obvious footprints disappeared as soon as the ground transitioned back from fresh mud to the mossy undergrowth. Normally tracking humans through brush was tricky business, but this one didn’t seem to care what kind of signs it left of its passage, even where brambles and thorns took off patches of clothing or, in one case, a patch of skin. Cole knelt down by the thorn bush and looked at the piece of sallow flesh hanging from a barb. Aside from the blood, it was brown and sickly—not the alabaster flesh of the demons from the crossover, thank God. It was criss-crossed by blue veins that reminded him of…

He looked at the trees. The trees with strange fungal growths had similar blue veins in the tainted, decaying areas.

He straightened up. Okay. Weird. But he hadn’t come to Curahee for normal.