 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
Concept Art
Halo Bulletins
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
ARG Forum
Links
Admin
Submissions
Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
What If Tales: The United Nations [Part One]
Posted By: Jin1<jermevans1990@gmail.com>
Date: 3 June 2008, 3:09 am
Read/Post Comments
|
1944, July 6th
Never thought this would happen. His mind spoke, echoed his thoughts to him, he wanted to speak, but no words came. I never thought that this war would turn for the worse in a blink of an eye.
They were the goddamn Allies; they were the good guys, right?
An explosion rocked the convoy, there were screams, and he sat there, fetal position rocking back and forth. The M1 Garand at his side lying uselessly on the ground, the mud road leading towards Paris was pocketed with destroyed vehicles, rubble and bodies.
So many bodies.
Near the road were two ditches, one on each side, that's where the survivors hid, cowering in fear, others were the real soldiers. They raised their weapons, fired into the night, firing at the shadows that fired the bluish blobs at them.
Why was he here?
He translated French and Russian intelligence papers, why in the hell was he here?
A rough hand grabbed him, yanking him to his feet. "What the hell are you doing?" His collar of his shirt was high in the air, he couldn't move. He looked into the eyes of the man; they were a pale green in the light from the fires.
"Damn coward!"
His eyes widened as he was shoved backward, he hit the steep walls of the embankment and slid down to the ground.
He stared at the man, there were silhouette behind him. They stood on the grassy field beyond the ditch, above them. They were a few meters, advancing. From the shapes, he could tell, they weren't human.
Pointing, he wanted to yell, scream for the man to turn around. But the man focused on another man who was in the same fearful position as he was. His heart raced, eyes continued to widen, he tried to drag himself backward only to feel cold dirt behind him.
His voice broke into a squeak, they were only feet away, and they loomed above them. "Look-"
The soldier turned, how could he not have noticed? The man froze; the biggest shadow pointed down its odd looking weapon, didn't seem to aim and fired. The courageous soldier reeled back, another blue blob splash onto the man's chest he stumbled, was standing right over him, and back facing him. He shielded his head; another bolt and the man fell and right on top him.
The smaller silhouettes saw there much leader easily dispatch their new foes and unleashed their own little taste of death.
It –the smell- reminded him of charcoal as his fellow soldiers burned. Yells and screams echoed into the night.
A stinging sensation hit his eyes.
What did he do to deserve this?
Why was this happening?
Why did he have to live through Armageddon?
PART I: QUIET BEFORE THE STORM
1944, July 7th
Light trickled in from the sky; the dark clouds had begun to part letting in bits of sun that warmed Jackson's skin. It was a pleasant feeling but it was overwhelmed by the smell of decaying flesh. He had smelled it before and had gotten used to ignoring it, pushing it to the recesses of his mind.
His brown eyes scanned the scene before him, his squad held position on top of hill overlooking a tightly packed dirt road. He saw every type of vehicle imaginable there, tanks, trucks, jeeps, motorcycles to civilian cars and bicycles. Dotted around the vehicles were the bodies, men, women and children lying in awkward angles making up the crimson carpet.
Jackson's squad had been following the road for almost six miles, and the convoy, the evacuation convoy had been going on for all that length. But it wasn't as bad as it was here.
Looking beyond the road he saw another set of hills, no trees, just rolling hills with green grass. The same exact thing as he was standing on, the hills overlooked the road, making this place a damn butchery. It was shooting fish in a barrel.
"Sergeant." A voice spoke from behind him.
Andrew turned looking down on a small man, diminutive in height but with a big stature. The man was wearing well worn olive drab uniform, his steel pot helmet fitting awkwardly on his skull, tilting to the left. Slung over his shoulder was a Garand.
"Nothing's alive down there. Same as everywhere else." The Corporal said.
"Did you go down there and check?"
"No." He said, but quickly added. "Sergeant."
Andrew found himself getting a solemn look on his face. "Let's go down and check it out. Tell Malone to keep watch on this hill. I'm not walking into a damn ambush." He added in his mind. Like these pour bastards did.
A nod and the Corporal moved off to a small cluster of men that stood almost twenty yards away.
It was strange, last night the whole place was a battle field, early this morning it just stopped. As if someone just hit a lights switch. Other than birds chirping and the sound of insects it was all quiet.
Well enough alone.
Jackson began to unslung his Thompson from his shoulder, his squad approached, idly chatting amongst themselves. They soon enveloped the sergeant, eleven in all, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Malone farther up the hill, crouching next to a tree keeping watch. Best eyes of the whole team.
The chatter silenced as Jackson began to speak. "Break off into teams, Able team will take the right side of the road, Baker, the left. I want Charlie team to split and check the trenches on each side of the road."
"What exactly are we looking for?" Spoke a green-eyed man, his hair had flakes of gray. His helmet was by his side, dangling from his hands.
"Survivors, Wilshire." He looked at them all. "We're looking for survivors."
"No offense, Sarge but nothing survived that." Private Lewis said, he pointed down to the road. "I say we get back to Normandy and get evacuating with the rest of the allies."
Jackson looked at the kid. "You have your orders, get to them."
The squad dispersed, Jackson gazed up at Malone. Malone looked back down at him, Andrew nodded. And Malone nodded back. All clear.
"Look at me, I was supposed to be in the damn Negro Leagues and look where I am today, searching through some bodies- well will you look at that."
Reaching down Lewis grabbed a dead man's wrist and slipped off the watch with ease. "Still tickin'."
The trenches were dusty, and had the highest concentration of dead. They seemed stacked, in some places they were four men high, mostly near the edges where men were trying to use their fellow soldiers to scramble out.
Didn't work by the looks of it.
"Hey, Poles, you find anything?"
Lewis' partner turned, he stood further down the trench and filling his small brown gas-mask bag. Ever since the first strike, Poles never bothered using the gas-mask anymore. Threw it away, said it weighed him down.
"Yeah?"
"What?"
"Take a look."
Lewis jogged forward, rifle in hand and saw what Poles was filling. Shaking his head with a bright smile he said. "You lucky bastard."
It was crate turned on its side, packed in tightly with straw where glass bottles. Wine bottles. With his bag holding already three, Poles filled it by adding three more. "Have some, more than enough."
Lewis didn't need to be told be twice, he automatically grabbed one.
"Help…" The voice seemed to come out of nowhere. Poles snapped up, M9 Pistol, stolen from a dead Officer and Lewis raised his rifle towards the sound. There was only one thing moving, a body that its eyes stared up at the sky. The voice repeated its plea. "Please… Help…"
"Doesn't sound like one of those things." Lewis said.
Poles holstered his pistol and took off the gas mask bag. "Thank you Captain Obvious."
Crouching, moving cautiously forward he gazed down the length of the trench, saw nothing, then behind him, back at Lewis and then back down the other end.
Reaching the body he saw multiple burn marks, and the stench of decay filled his nose.
The body grunted.
He raised an eyebrow and saw something moving under it. Grabbing the dead man by the collar he threw him forward on to the ground, face first. The guy was heavy.
Under it, he saw a man, brown hair, blue eyes staring at him. He stared back into the eyes, filled to the brim with fear. Not letting his eyes off the man, he shouted. "Sergeant! You better come see this!"
Normandy was drenched with rain, cold water lapped the shores of the beach once designated Omaha. It reminded Colonel Timothy Howard of when the first and twenty-ninth infantry division stormed its shores, crammed with men, gunshots, screams and yells.
They were receding back into the sea instead of going onto the land, Britain was safe and the country of France was not. He a prime view of the forces retreating, his little command tent was in a former German bunker; around him were a pair of operatives.
Howard looked down, studying the map. The Office of Strategic Services had sent it to him a few days ago, and from what he was seeing right now everything was going to hell in a hand basket. Several allied sites were under full scale assault from these new beings.
Paris was taken. Rome had fallen to these new beings, the map showed crimson streaks of enemy units. The photos that accompanied the map showed Rome in flames, burning to the ground. A city that the allies just walked into had been burned to a crisp.
"Who are they?" He whispered. "What do they want?"
Aging, born in 1896, he had served in the first war of nations and if that wasn't enough, inhaling gas, being shelled day after day. The good lord blessed him with another. This had caused the once handsome looking man to get a hair of pure silver, blue eyes full of life now dull.
His face wrinkled at the corners of his mouth, his forehead creased with lines. Yet he still looked intimidating in his uniform, few medals and ribbons adorned his chest, but those that he chose to display were up there, a post humorous Distinguished Service Medal, and the same Distinguished Service Cross, and a pair of purple hearts. He rarely wore the others. A ribbon for shining his shoes in his opinion wasn't necessary.
Howard waved one of aids over. "Son, what do you see here?"
The young man seemed confused. "A map, sir."
"I know that. On the map- you went to West Point. What do you see?"
The boy squeezed his eyes into narrow slits as if trying to see an invisible object. "Well, sir, I see that the enemy forces have hit Rome, Paris, Moscow, Stalingrad, and Madrid."
"Yes."
"But it's strange, sir."
"How so?"
"Well, look at this, when we were attacked, they struck from outside of the city, as if they want to take it." The boy looked up, staring outside. The skies were getting dark- storm perhaps?
"But when we started the evacuation, when we knew what we were dealing with, they didn't bother for the city, the ignored it and pursued us until we reached Rouen." He pointed to the small city on the map. "Then our forward scouts report that Paris was burned to the ground. The enemy is utilizing some sky based weaponry."
Howard couldn't see what the man was getting at, but let him continue.
"Same thing with Rome and Moscow, once they take it, they destroy it. Sir, if I didn't know any better, they are destroying our major cities because we can rest and regroup. They are destroying our safe havens."
Maybe the man was right, but he wasn't sure. Why? That was a question that he had continued to ask himself one minute after the other. "Why?"
"Sir?"
"Why destroy our cities and all the little towns in between?"
"Well sir, 'destroy your enemy's home, and they will go without sleep- destroy his fields, he will have no food and destroy his people he have to fight without a soul, destroy all and he will have to fight without hope.'" The man replied.
"Who said that?"
"You did, sir, when you lectured at West Point. You called it War One-Oh-One." The aid replied. "They are killing civilians and POWs, destroying cities and towns for the simple fact that they want to break us."
"Break who?"
"The Allies, sir."
"So I can effectively call this enemy force as declaring war on the allies?"
There was a subtle nod. "I could only assume."
Howard reached a hand up to his forehead and let it slide down his face. "I need to get a telegram back to London to OSS European Theater." He stood up sharply. "See if you can me a meeting with General Eisenhower. If this is true, we're in trouble."
A lingering thought came to Howard's mind. Where were they going to strike next?
The squad looked down at the survivor, who was sipping water from a canteen that Lewis had. They had taken position in the back of a supply truck, Jackson instructed able team to keep watch Malone. Jackson leaned against the vehicle behind the truck, and his squad fanned out in a small semicircle around him, except Corporal Greene who was squad medic. He sat next to the man, watching his movements. Ever since they found the guy he had been…
On edge.
"Where are you from?" Jackson asked, folding his arms across his chest.
"First infantry division, twenty-fifth regiment. Tasked with helping with the evacuation with Paris."
The Sergeant frowned looking at Poles and Lewis.
Poles shrugged. "He was like this when we found him."
Turning back to the man, Jackson continued. "The first infantry division was not tasked with evacuating."
"They came from everywhere. Paris wasn't safe anymore. They came from the sky… The damn droning of their planes… Green lights… Blue lights… Purple lights… Their barks… The growls. They ate our men… Devoured them. The apes came… Killed our men, broke them. We ran. Freedom." The man's eyes glazed over but then refocused, focusing on Jackson.
"Who are you?" The voice seemed to be normal. Human. Not out of fear.
Jackson squinted in the sunlight, removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm pit. "Finally we got through to you."
"Where am I?"
"France. Near Paris. Do you know what happened?"
The man eyes looked at him. "We were tasked with the evacuation of Paris. My unit went into the city… We barely got out." His eyes glazed over once more. "Jesus…"
"Stay with me, boy. Don't go back into you're lock down." Jackson approached, dropping the helmet on the ground, and placed his hands on the man's shoulders. "Stay with me."
The man's breathing slowed.
"What's your name?"
"John… Sir…" His eyes refocused.
"Rank?"
"Specialist." The man replied, "Corporal."
"Can you fight?" Jackson questioned, he glanced at Greene who didn't give any objections -the man was physically capable. Mentally however…
"Yes… Yeah… I think so."
"Good." He let go of the man's shoulders, he reached past him and grabbed a lone M1 Carbine. "Welcome to the squad, boy."
With that, he shoved it into the man's chest.
"We're moving out gentlemen, I don't plan to be out here in the open when lady nightfall gets here." He said, he jabbed a finger at the once frantic soldier. "I want you next to me."
"Uh… Sure… But, why?"
Ignoring the question, he looked over to Greene and nodded. The squad assembled, and the men on the hill above noticed and began to jog down.
They were out of there.
|
