Original Draft 2021-01-09
- - -
Despite the relentless chatter of the assault rifles, Hamilton felt the pressure change - like mild vertigo, a slight dimming of the ambient light.
"Blowout!" he bellows above the din of combat.
The other veterans hear him at least, already recognising the signs too, and their weapons fall silent.
"Blowout!" he hears the response as the vets fall back from their positions - the last thing you want to do in their present predicament... except in the event of an eminent blowout.
The rookies eventually notice the lessening pressure of gunfire and look toward him, their eyes wide, gun barrels still smoking.
"Inside!" he commands loudly, "right now!"
The youngsters scramble down the side of the container, notice the veterans at the container doors gesturing them inside.
The howls of the mutants reaches across the open plain now that the gunfire has abated. Had the mutants sensed it too?
Hamilton slams the container door closed behind him, last in. He wrenches up the locking bolt. While the container isn't entirely airtight it definitely insulates the din outside and the quiet inside is palpable, making his ears ring.
The dim lights illuminate the enclosed area.
"Reload your damn mags," he barks at the rookies. Despite the undisguised worry worn on each face the youngsters scurry into movement. He momentarily acknowledges that Crew Command hadn't given him complete idiots to foster - smart enough to register that orders were not trivial, not quite attuned enough to instinctively understand the 'why'.
He fancies that he sees ghostly tracks of electric fire run through the metal container, hears the ticking of solid metal stretching and contracting. One of the rookies, Mara, looks up at the ceiling.
"Reload," he commands evenly. She looks at him momentarily and he nods, hoping his calm mask amid the chaos will help imbue confidence. She resumes pushing shells into the magazine.
An all-pervading thud strikes the container from above. Hamilton feels the pressure change in his ears, the rookies and even Carter jump at the sudden impact. The hustle man laughs briefly at his own lapse, externally casual.
Hamilton unscrews the lid of his canteen and sips some water, feeling it rip a path along his parched throat.
He looks briefly at each member of the crew, stows his canteen away and reaches for the ammo box.
Another thump rocks the container.
He pushes round after round into depleted magazines, ignoring the thumping power assaulting the compound from the firmament.
One by one the others start reloading, checking their weapons, rattling the grenades to ensure they're strapped on securely. Pretending they're ignoring the monster that they cannot best roaring outside the castle walls.
- - -
He sits silently, the set of his gear impeccable. How much of that calm mask is callous indifference, he ponders.
A full two minutes has passed since the last atmospheric blast, and he notices the whole crew looking at him, breaking his reverie.
"Wha'da you think?" he asks Rose, their anomaly and other-natural bullshit expert.
"Worth a look," replies the scrounger racking the slide of his assault rifle.
"On me," says Hamilton. He cranks the locking handle down swiftly and it clangs loudly. The kick of his boot opens the door and becomes his first stride as he bursts from the container. His gun points to each near danger point one after the other - this has been his home for three... five years? And he knows where they are instinctively.
Carter and Rose follow, flowing smoothly to assault the sides as Hamilton turns and covers the top of the container - can't risk having some bastard mutant up there he knows from experience, even after a blowout.
The rookies peel off with their assigned veteran, moving in teams around the walls of the compound; a known, studied course to ensure the sanctity of their small fortress. Rose gives him a thumbs up signal. He turns and Carter repeats the gesture. All good.
Hamilton's eye had been split between clearing the interior of the compound and the horizon since their egress.
In the distance he hears the first unhuman screech.
He shakes his head in slight, inevitable disappointment. It is always the hope that the blowouts will scourge the damn mutants from the zone permanently, but still they somehow persist in finding sanctuary as competently as the STALKERS do. Several splattered, bloody smears mar the ground just beyond the compound, indicating how close the nearest mutants had got before the blowout struck them down.
From behind the distant barn he sees the first mutant stumble forward determinedly, almost confidently, as though somehow recharged by the recent anomaly.
He sights the mutant and send a round that shatters off half its head. The mutant's stride stutters momentarily but then it starts advancing again. What the fuck, Hamilton thinks to himself. The second shot is as true as the first, blowing off the other side of its head. The body slumps to the ground.
He doesn't want to jinx it but it seems the mutants may somehow been... invigored by the blowout. He knows by now never to rule anything out within the zone; even that kind of crazy-ass notion.
Distant howls and hoots assail them from across the horizon.
"Get ready," he commands stoically.
- - -
ende
