Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-31073921-20170311164751

'''Author's Note - This is the first draft. It has to go through a lot alot of rewriting and editing. Please tell me if I get something like ranks wrong or anything. Much Appreciated and Thanks for Reading!'''

New Commander
Johnson had been promoted to Sergeant First Class. He felt this as a great honor, and proudly took his badge and waited for new orders. He got them promptly from General Thompson, a simple mission to attack an insect infested area down in Arizona, where apparently 20 + soldiers had been trapped. He flicked through the files, seeing his new comrades he’d have to order.

The first one was Dexter. Dexter was a rookie to the army, with good training. He had a gruff face you would expect to see from coal miner. His profile said he was 22 and described him as ‘A complete robot. If you tell him to jump off a bridge he’ll ask if he can do a backflip’. Johnson placed the file in the back, he hated the goodie-goodies that just follow orders. He flicked to the next profile. Louis, a second-time attacker that will take any shot he can. His face made him look like a neighborhood newsboy that grew up, with soft cheeks and softer eyes. His profile said he was 17 and ‘Should always have an eye kept on him’. He placed that file on his bunk, and looked to the next one. Brixton, a actor who was drafted days if not hours ago. He looked as if he was ready to chuck a grenade into a crowd of insects, then charge in with a knife. He was a deep deep black, possibly from the west indies. His profile only said ‘28 Male’ which was unhelpful to Johnson.

I guess I’ll just have to find out myself.

He thought as he went to the last few files. The next one was Micheals. He looked like they went to a middle school, arranged them from most athletic to least athletic and took the guy in the strait middle. His profile said he was 14, and his face said he had never killed anything and never shot a gun.

*Sigh*, I guess it is a Sergeant FC’s job to take on the rookies.

He thought as he flicked to the next file. He was surprised to see his photo staring up at him, even though it was a decade old.

''Someone must have just put everyone in the team here. Huh.''

He thought as he curiously looked at his profile. It said he was 32, which was correct to reality but not corresponding with the photo in the slightest. Johnson had grown up on an old farm near the border, so had an abled body for fighting. He had been raised with a small family, his father, mother, sister, and grandfather. They were going through a tough time since he was born, low on food and water. But, they held together what they had. Johnson didn’t remember much from the farm he grew up on, since it had to be oh, fifteen, sixteen years ago since he had last seen it. He did remember that his grandfather would sit in this big rocking chair, and have him and his sister gather around. He’d tell stories of the army, and he’d make exciting. But in those stories the good guys always won, and that’s not how it works here. His grandfather had taken a walk when Johnson was fourteen, and an insect grabbed a hold of him and ripped him in half. There was a hole in the wall where he was walking, and the guards said it was patched and all. They gave us $1,000 dollars for our loss. Hr didn’t want money back then, he wanted his grandpa. He ran to his room crying uncontrollably. The next day he was recruited to the army and saluted his parents goodbye. He still hasn’t seen them since. A Lieutenant burst in and said with a gruff voice “It’s time”. Johnson nodded, collected his files, and left - Leaving only his file alone on the bunk.

Oblivion
“FUCKING CLONES!” Hollered Brixton as he spit out of the heli. Below them were 100 clones, blank at first but being programed with memories, looks, and personalities. Brixton slid back in and Louis laughed. They were heading to the operation point, which was only a few hundred miles from the California Base they were put in. Actually, it was 437 miles to be exact - as Michaels had said. The files said one thing, but each person seemed to have their own personality. Louis was the Comedian, Brixton was the hardass, Michaels was a nervous wreck that would state any facts when the time was right, Dexter really was the exception seeing his whole life was following the captain's orders. “Hey, I read somewhere that when clones go blind, they can sorta sense what’s in front of them.” Michaels blurted, sweat slowly forming and dripping from his forehead. No one responded. “Hey, I hear the bar down in Vegas is good.” Louis starts. “We have a leave of absence after the mission.” Brixton laughs and Michaels shows an unsteady smile. Dexter keeps his silence. Johnson knew he couldn’t let them think it was all going to go fine and dandy. He knew very well that every operation in the insects ended the same way. “One of us is going to die.” He said, expression cold. Brixton abruptly stopped and Michaels’ expression faded.

The rest of the heli ride was silent all except for the slash of propellers through air.

Arizona
When they landed it was clear why nobody lived in Arizona anymore. The streets were filled with rubble and metal. There were burnt stones smashed on the ground where buildings were supposed to be. The whole damn place looked like a nuke hit it - and as far as the eye could see the conditions stayed constant. They advanced on through the city, looking for a quick in and out operation. Apparently the squadron had gone to the basement of a small house looking for survivors, and the ceiling caved in. Moving off the pavement, they paced around to the building, the debris filled ground squishing into our boots with a sloshy sound.

Splish Splosh.

Their footprints were quickly filled in with rubble and dirt every time we stepped down. Eventually they came upon the house. It looked more like a bunk, it couldn’t have more than 3 rooms. Dexter put his foot on the wood and it made a long creaking sound that puttered out. He stepped up completely, ready to see the floor collapse. It made a much louder creaking sound that lasted longer, but it didn’t collapse. Slowly but surely they made our way up the steps and into the house. They split up and scouted out for a door to the basement. It wasn’t a minute later when a bloodcurdling scream was heard, followed by a dull clicking sound. The team rushed to the source of the sound - the bedroom. Inside was a horror no one would soon forget. It was an insect, its horrid grotesque figure grasping Dexter. His beady black eyes looked in random directions, and its rigid edges jutted out to shape into its ugly form. It’s slobbering mandibles dug into Dex’s throat, as sticky red blood oozed and sprayed from it as he desperately fought for breath. More sounds of clicking was heard as the insect started to chew out Dexter’s trachea. Louis pulled out his pistol and shot the creature’s eye out, a trail of globbing green and black ooze shot from the back of its head. Johnson ran to Dex and kneeled holding his chin up. Dex’s eyes grew soft as he looked at him. Slowly, his gaze panned down and stared blankly ahead. Johnson let Dex fall to the ground and he stood, blood on his hand. He stood their for a minute, looking at Dex’s deformed face. “C’mon, let's go.” He said, his voice unwavering and cold. He had seen people die before, but had never had been the reason, the man who said the word that led to his death. They continued to search - quietly and pale.

Cellar
“I FOUND IT!” Louis screamed from the bedroom, where Dex’s body was stored under the bed, blood congealing. The team rushed over, and Louis through on a fake smile - his face still very pale. He moved to show them an old wooden door, that had before gone unnoticed. He kicked the door showing rocks and stone blocking the entrance. Brixton nodded, and placed a pack of C4 on the pile. They ran back, expecting the worse. Brixton pulled out a trigger, and right before he clicked it Johnson could’ve sweared he saw a tear in his eye. After the blast had died down they heard the screaming. They all turned to an Insect, its sharp claws digging into Brixton’s chest. It was about to pull out his entrails, when Louis (Quick to the draw) blew a hole through it’s chest. It flung back, and green liquid shot out in blobs every second.

''Plit. Plop. Plip. Plip.''

It made a screeching noise like a knife being drawn across a chalkboard, and slowly died down to silence. Brixton struggled to his feet and immediately Louis and Johnson rushed to his side, pulling him up. Michaels stayed away, hyperventilating. Johnson shot him a glance - but he stood his ground.

Brixton pushed them back and coughed out “I can” which was followed by a wheeze and a wince. “Do this.” he finished, struggling to keep his intestines in his body as more blood flew out. Brixton pushed on through the cellar door, and everyone else followed.

After walking for a few yard, they saw a blink of light shining down on what they had to assume was the team they were searching for. Or what was left of them. They were torn to shred, ripped in half with horrified expressions on their dead faces. Blood coated the whole area around them, and mixed in with whatever other juices were in them. Organs splattered the walls and floors. The whole scene was so gruesome, Michaels heaved, and everyone else looked like they wanted to. Suddenly, a familiar screeching noise was heard, and they all turned to see out of the shadows, insects forming.

One of them screamed something that sounded like a train that slammed on the breaks, and charged forward. Johnson looked up at the light, and grabbed a grapple from his backpack. He shot it to the top and started to climb. Louis on the other hand was bathing in the blood of insects as he kept shooting and shooting them. Michaels immediately started climbing after Johnson, screaming. Louis made a motion for Brixton to go. He was about to protest, but Louis repeated the action. Brixton saluted him, and started climbing. When he made it to the top, he looked down to see Louis, about to be overrun. Johnson rushed him on, but he stayed long enough to hear a horrid scream, and hear it being cut off.

Rescue
The helicopter was 50 yards away from them when they emerged. Michaels ran ahead while Johnson helped the limping Brixton. They finaly, finaly made it to the helicopter after what had felt like decades, and the pilot glanced at Johnson and the gash on his arm right before he blacked out.

When Johnson awoke he was in a hospital bed, with General Thompson sitting next to him. Before he could say anything Thompson immediately asked a question.

“Where are they Johnson.”

The way he said it made it seem like a statement, cold and direct. Johnson did the best he could to look up at him.

“Deceased, sir.”

Johnson slumped back down in the bed and listened to the steady beep of his IV stand. Thompson stood up and left, leaving him with:

“Enjoy your leave of absence. Your soldier wants to see you.”

Johnson looked out at the door he had exited from, and a doctor burst in carting Michaels in hospital bed. He walked up to Johnson and whispered something to him.

“Um, sir. Brixton didn’t make it. So, Michaels is in an intense state of trauma.”

The doctor walked back and left before he could reply. Michaels was blankly looking out the window at the sun for the first 5 minutes of his visit. He abruptly asked:

“Am I a clone?”

Johnson looked over at him surprised.

“No. You’re not a clone. Why would you think that?”

Michaels kept staring into space and asked again.

“Am I a clone? Tell me the truth sir, please.”

Johnson looked at Michaels and sighed. And he told him the truth. And he could see, right before Michaels was carted back to his room a small smile forming on his lips.

Aftermath
Michaels had died 5 minutes later. He had gone into asphyxiation and after 2 attempts at being revived had been pronounced dead. Johnson made a full recovery, and was promoted to Master Sergeant. He didn’t take a leave of absence, and after 2 years he had still not taken one. He made his way up to Command Sergeant Major, but when he suffered a major leg injury was cornered into to stepping down at 58. When he stepped down he came back to his old farm, seeing it for the first time in forty four years. He came to see that the area had been ransacked insects. He went through files to find that his father had died a week before the raid in a car accident, and mother and sister were killed during it. What was left of the house was shambles, and the old rocking chair his grandfather used to sit in out front still remained on the decaying porch. He moved to the suburbs after and had only taken that old rocking chair with him from his house. Every day after, he would get up and sit in the chair, hold up a photo of Michaels and think about past times. He repeated the process, even after when he went blind. 