Private First Class Grant Johnson of the Mortal Coalition, Bravo Company, moved slowly across the field nudging a fallen helmet out of his way and stepping carefully as to avoid disturbing the dead- or what was left of them. Bravo Company had been sifting through the remains for a month, and they had yet to find anything to indicate exactly what had happened. The open plains stretched out for miles and miles with nothing but mountains on the horizon, the lush grass stained red with blood while the stench of death permeated the air, attracting local wildlife and scavengers. Luckily, the violent tempest above and the heavy rain it brought drowned out the scent to some degree.
Private First Class Grant Johnson, Bravo Company Grunt:
Bravo had done their best to chase off the scavengers picking through Delta Company's corpses for ammo and rations the first day they arrived on scene, but there were too many to feasibly fend off without taking lethal action or defensive measures. Knowing as much Bravo's commander, Major Dominic Bradshaw, had spread his troops thin, setting up a perimeter around the battlefield. After the first week or so, Bradshaw had resorted to calling in Alpha, Charlie and Echo Companies for support. Strength in numbers- that was the Coalition's go to strategy, one that had been effective throughout the war.
Major Dominic Bradshaw, Bravo Company Commander:
With such a large force dedicated to the mission, anywhere from 2-5,000 Grunts in each Company depending on recent losses and current recruitment strategies, Bradshaw had lost command of the field to a new up and comer- Colonel Julia Pierce. Pierce was new, greener than any of the other officers on the field, and she had yet to earn the respect of the Grunts. But she didn't fuck around. Colonel Pierce went about assigning duties quickly enough, and she didn't take backtalk lightly from those under her command. Those assigned guard duty didn't have the pleasure of sifting through the rotting corpses of their fellow Coalition Grunts.
As the newest member of Bravo Company, Johnson was one of the lucky few thrown out into the gore, knee deep in the remains of his brothers and sisters in arms. Those in Delta Company certainly weren't the only losses, though they were the only familiar faces he'd found- having transferred from Delta to Bravo two months prior. The field was littered with Coalition soldiers, 100,000 at least Johnson decided, though it was a rough estimate. A Division. An entire Division of Coalition Grunts had been wiped out, and there were no traces of Initiative soldiers to be seen. Something didn't smell right, and it wasn't the rotting intestines clinging to the boot of his power armor.
Coalition Grunts on the job:
The first few days on the job, Johnson had been queasy- losing the contents of his stomach at first sight of the corpses littering the plains, inside his helmet no less. That had taken forever to clean out, but he had since lost his weak stomach. Regardless, Johnson was thankful for the armor the Coalition provided its Grunts. Though it wasn't the highest quality armor out there, the air purifier in the helmet was a god send. The scent of the deceased was too overwhelming to be kept out completely, but the air he breathed was certainly purer than what he'd suffer through without the armor. Something he definitely appreciated. What he didn't appreciate, however, was having to hand wash the gore off of his armor each night, after a day in the fields. There was no nearby water source, nothing to connect a hose to. In the end, he resorted to a bucket of water and a wash cloth, as everyone assigned to the fields had to.
The crimson stains washed away easily enough, but Johnson remembered each and every one, knowing that if he wasn't careful, he could end up just like the lost soldiers in the fields. Each day passed by slower than the last, dragging on, tearing at his sanity, but forging him into the soldier the Coalition wanted him to be. Witnessing the horrors of war had a way of turning a boy into a man quicker than anything else could. It separated the weak from the herd, and pushed the strong to grow in order to survive. And he had certainly grown as a man, as a soldier, since his first day in the fields.
Luckily, the armor he and the other Grunts wore had a cooling unit built in, otherwise they would've boiled through the metal by that point. The storm raging at the moment had been a blessing, or at least he thought so. As one of the few Coalition Grunts who still had faith in the gods, he was among the minority, but he still fought for humanity and prayed for an end to the war in equal measure. Johnson had faith in his gods, but he believed they had lost their way, much like their followers did from time to time. Regardless, his faith was strained each day he spent sifting through their handiwork in the fields. That day, in particular had been rough.
Johnson had already spent twelve hours in the field that day, weathering the storm and soaking in the blood of his comrades. With no time to waste, due to the storm and the corpses decaying by the day, the Grunts were forced to eat lunch in the fields, not even given the common courtesy of a break. They ate while they moved, having to remove their helmets to do so. Much like the remains beneath Johnson's feet, the military issued protein bar that served as his lunch had not weathered the storm well. It became soggy and fell to join his fallen comrades. That had been hours before, his stomach still empty and begging for sustenance. He was hungry, he could feel it eating at him, but Johnson couldn't bring himself to eat anything. Between the sights and the smells, his appetite had died a month ago.
Pushing through the hunger, Johnson searched through the corpses with his hands, moving rotting flesh and bones out of the way so he could sort through the contents of yet another Grunt's pack, looking for clues, notes or even a journal that noted the events of the battle, hoping beyond hope that he would find something sooner rather than later, so they could go home.
Reaching down and shifting yet another body out of the way, this set of armor marked as Private Ramirez, Johnson spotted something sticking up out of the mud, mostly protected from the weather by the deceased soldier.
"Thank you for your service, Private," he mumbled as he dragged the object out of the muck. Wiping as much of the mud off of it as he could, Johnson studied the device in his hands, squinting through the rain. A portable computer. All of the Grunt techs, medics and officers carried one, keeping track of important details, or suspicious circumstances that required further looking into. Maybe, just maybe, Johnson's lost gods had answered his prayers. Maybe it was what they were looking for.
After powering on the computer (luckily all Coalition regulation tech was water proofed), he gave a cursory glance over the files, eyebrows raising in surprise as he studied the contents of the tablet. Reaching up, Johnson frantically pushed a button on the side of his helmet, activating his comms.
"PFC Johnson to Major Bradshaw, over," he voiced over the frequency. The reply was quick and terse.
"This is Bradshaw. What've you got, soldier?"
"Hard to explain, sir. You're gonna want to see this," he answered.
"We have your location, Private. Stay put. I'm en-route," Bradshaw shot back.
"Understood, Sir," Johnson replied, letting the button go and moving his hand back to the computer in his hands. Sifting through the numerous files and notes, his eyes landed on one that caught his interest. Knowing he shouldn't look over the file without permission from Bradshaw, he hesitated for a moment, but his curiosity got the best of him. Clicking on the file, it opened to reveal a page with what seemed like frantic writing and a couple different detailed sketches. There was a stylus fixed to the side of the personal computer, which Johnson noted as the sole source of the writing and drawings, rather than the typical virtual keyboard. Skimming over the page the first time wasn't enough, he spent the time going back and reading through every little detail.
The information on the page was disconcerting to say the least, causing Johnson to tense up. Pulling his rifle off of his back, he rested it on his shoulder, pushing the safety to 'off'.
Bradshaw arrived just as Johnson finished reading the note. Exiting out of the file quickly, before anyone noticed him snooping, he walked over to the Major and handed over the computer. Bradshaw and his underlings went about examining the device, as Johnson returned to his duties, sifting through the corpses.
'Sergeant Dorian Pierce...?' Did the Colonel have a brother, or maybe a husband? Perhaps that's why she was so invested in the mission. Regardless, Johnson looked north toward the mountains. The base would be on the other side. He wondered if Pierce and Aldrich still lived.
[Work In Progress]
Once the bullets stopped flying... they came. The sound of chittering and flapping wings returned. The field had gone dark, mostly, the only light being the occasional beam emitted from the built in flashlight on a fallen soldier's helmet. Peeking out from under Ramirez, I could see the shadows of creatures flying about. I could hear them picking away at the fallen soldiers, rending their armor and tearing at their flesh. I caught a glimpse of one getting too close to one of the lights... its skin burned and boiled quickly, leaving it wounded on the ground. As it fell, the other creatures looked as if they would come to help.
The feasting went on for hours, as I tried to bide my time until the swarm went elsewhere. The beasts devoured any poor, unfortunate soul dumb enough to make a sound. While I sympathized with their plight, I offered no assistance. What the hell could I do against such creatures? I'd never seen anything like them, so I studied them, their movements, their bodies, looking for a weakness. Light seemed to be it.