Ten soldiers wisely led will beat a hundred without a head.

  -Euripides-

  My eyes trace the strange and unfamiliar black text box that hangs suspended in the air, red energy sparking from the sides of it still.

  “You guys seeing this?” Tran asks, a quiver in his voice accompanying his bulging eyes. His hand grips his M4 rifle tightly.

  “Black box, creepy red energy?” I ask.

  “Yep,” Barlow says, also looking uneasy, “Never seen a Survive Quest before.”

  “Not just that, the gate, pull it up with the system interface,” Tran says, his eyes glued to the gate. He ejects the magazine from his rifle and gives it a double tap before sliding it back in, he always does that. A ritual of sorts when he thinks shits about to hit the fan.

  Looking at the Gate now… its not green anymore, color swirls in the center. I pull up my system interface, mentally tagging the gate to pull up its information.

  [ Gate Classification: Green – F ]

  [ Threat Level: Low ]

  [ Temporal Instability: Minimal ]

  [ Clear Quest: Error ]

  [ Reward grade: Low ]

  The description box begins to flicker until red cracks appear in it, just like the quest box. Suddenly all of the descriptions go blank. A heavy swallow later and new information starts filling in the description lines. Oh shit.

  [ Gate Classification: Yellow – D ]

  [ Threat Level: Medium ]

  [ Temporal Instability: High ]

  [ Clear Quest: Survive ]

  [ Reward grade: Medium ]

  We are not equipped for a yellow gate. Definitely not a D level one at that. We need to get to high ground as soon as possible and entrench ourselves and wait for reinforcements. I’ve heard horror stories about gates that shift difficulty. Extremely rare, but it does happen, to a green gate though, even rarer. Almost always leads to a wipe out event. Looking at Tran and Barlow, the same thoughts are moving in their heads too.

  My head swivels to the off-worlders, all of them kneeling and… praying. Hands cupped to the air with heads lowered in reverence. Looking around, Third Platoon looks shaken, everyone checking their weapons and searching for answers. Sergeant First Class Romero steps up in front of the gate. Next to him is the rookie Platoon Leader, a freshly minted officer with less Gates under his belt than the rest of us. His hands are visibly shaking.

  “Alright shit stains,” Romero roars, standing in front of the gate, no longer chewing gum, sweat beading from his brow, “We got our orders, this changes nothing, fan out, give me a perimeter, I want a sitrep of the area in less than twenty minutes,” he pauses, seeing everyone’s apprehension, “Relax, command will send reinforcements once they see the classification change.

  There’s an unmistakable expression of fear on his face, despite the bravado he is trying to show. For the first time ever, I find myself respecting the man. In the face of fear, he stands his ground, becoming a pillar for us to rally behind.

  “Sir, is there anything you’d like to say to the troops?” Romero asks the 2nd Lieutenant.

  The Lieutenant shakes his head quickly, wiping the sweat from his palms. Tran mumbles some curses under his breath behind me.

  “Alright, let’s…” Romero begins.

  He never gets the chance to finish, my eyes blink, blood… Romero tries to look down toward his chest, eyes blinking faster than mine, he coughs up blood that’s pooling in his throat, spraying it outwards. Jutting out from his neck is a blade. Behind him, figures start to emerge from the yellow gate, clad in thick armor, rusted like the weapons they carry, deep crimson eyes glow from the slits in their battered helmets. My spine prickles as I take a step backwards. A feral growl sends a shiver through us all, undead warriors.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The fresh Lieutenant screams, leaping into the crowd of soldiers. Romero falls to his knees, pawing at the blade in his neck, looking at the blood on his hands, confusion written on his face. There’s nothing me or the medic from this Platoon can do for him now. Not as low rank healers. Not with him surrounded by more than twenty now. My face flinches as the emerging masses stab him relentlessly now, over and over again, until he is gone.

  A timer appears in the corner of my vision.

  71 hours : 42 minutes : 13 seconds

  It ticks downwards slowly. Survive for seventy-two hours, that’s not even standard. Why? Also, why the hell are they coming from the gate? The gate is only supposed to connect two points at a time, not three. Something more is going on. My gut tells me this is far from a normal Gate. Even with it changing difficulty this is abnormal.

  “Fall back 100 meters!” one of the Squad leaders yells to the troops who are tripping over each other to get back.

  “Get out of the firing line!” another yells.

  The Humvee gunners swivel toward the gate as the vehicle drives further back. Waiting for the soldiers to get out of the way.

  “Off-worlders!” another Sergeant yells, pointing for them to join the encircling formation.

  They want the off-worlders to go in first, standard protocol, as fucked up as it sounds. They are the first line of defense for our missions.

  “Open fire!” the Platoon Leader, 2nd Lieutenant Gasper yells.

  “Belay that order!” The first squad Sergeant yells, “Do not open fire, conserve your ammo!”

  “I am in command!” the Lieutenant yells, he isn’t wrong about that, but in this situation with those bulging ass eyes, he’s not making the right call, there’s still three soldiers in the line of fire. Also, low grade undead are slow, we have time. An experienced officer would know that, hell even I know that and I’m just a grunt.

  Tran and Barlow give me a look as we line up with the other soldiers, rifles in the ready position. They are tracking that this is stupid. We’ve dealt with undead before, they aren’t uncommon in higher rank greens. The thing that worries us though, is that it’s now a yellow. These are the grunts, like us, the cannon fodder for whatever else is waiting on the other side of the Gate. They have to be, too easy otherwise. I’ve only been in one low yellow Gate before, and I was on rear detail, tending wounded since I’m a medic. From what the ones who survived told me, it was a hell hole.

  The Sergeant grits his teeth, waiting for the last soldier to get clear, shaking his head, “Open fire!”

  Lead rain smashes into the horde of undead, the Humvee gunners sending buckets of hot brass spilling out into the wheat field. Like tin cans on a shooting range, the undead turn into Swiss cheese. Full of holes, rotted heads exploding from 50 caliber rounds from the Humvees. Our weapons are highly effective against their rusted out metal armor. I try to be sparing with my ammo, I notice most of the other soldiers are too. Thankfully, most of them have probably been through at least a high green. Judging by the Platoon Leader though, probably his first time.

  “Cease fire!” the same Sergeant from before yells, though most of us already have.

  “Off-worlders, clean sweep!” another Sergeant yells.

  “I didn’t order a cease fire!” the Lieutenant yells, spit flying from his chapped lips.

  “Sir, we need to conserve ammunition,” one of the Sergeants says through gritted teeth.

  The Lieutenant’s nostrils flare, but he nods.

  The off-worlders do as they are asked, begrudgingly, moving into the carnage, they finish off the crawlers, the ones who didn’t get smoked already. Once they give the all clear, me and the Platoon’s other medic move to Romero’s body. Doesn’t take more than a glance to know he’s gone. My stomach churns but I keep it in, I’ve seen worse. We cover his head with a shirt from his ruck though, best we can do. His body will be transported back with us when we clear the gate.

  Tran looks down at him, flexing his jaw, “Closed casket.”

  The other medic, she gives him a dagger eyed look, but I nod. Definitely a closed casket.

  “Squad leaders, head count,” the senior of the Sergeants says.

  After a few minutes, everyone except for Romero is accounted for.

  “All right, protocol for this is that we get to high ground, and…” the senior Sergeant begins.

  “I am in charge,” the Lieutenant says defiantly.

  Barlow lets out a long winded sigh under his breath.

  “Sir, no offense, but have you ever cleared a yellow before?” the Sergeant asks, he’s pissed.

  “I…” the lieutenant begins, his eyebrow twitching.

  “Then I suggest you shut the fuck up and follow orders,” the Sergeant says, then giving a fake curtsy, “Sir.”

  “You’re way out of line Sergeant, I’ll have your stripes for that,” Lieutenant Gasper seethes, looking around, waiting for someone to back him up. No one does, and I doubt anyone will. We want to live, this Sergeant seems like he’s been through the ringer, my money’s on him, so is everyone else’s.

  The Sergeant rolls his eyes, looking back to the soldiers, “There’s a hill over there, with some kind of fortification,” he says, pointing behind us, “That’s our objective.”

  I can barely make it out in the distance, but he’s right, maybe three miles out. There’s something on top, some kind of stone castle or run down building. Well spotted.

  “Any objections to following UWO standard protocol?” he asks, no one says anything, so he says, “Can I get a hooah?”

  “Hooah, Sergeant,” everyone except for the Lieutenant says.

  Looking at the Sergeant’s name tape, I note his name, Brussels. Here’s to hoping he knows what he’s doing. Our objective is a solid one, we can still monitor the gate from there, so if reinforcements arrive we will be ready. Also, if another wave of…

  “Contact!” someone yells.

  Spinning around, I look toward the gate, the surface rippling. More undead, but this time, it's not just fifty, it’s hundreds upon hundreds, pushing and shoving to get out. No… being shoved out, by something massive, the size of two men stacked together. A group of big creatures and their enormous man carving horns are rushing through the undead horde straight for us. Blazing red eyes.

  “On me!” Brussels yells, his face looking more tense, “Take down the Wendigos first!”

  Wendigos, that’s what they are? I’ve only read about them in training guides, man eaters, and way faster than undead hordes. My M4 moves upward pointing at one, everyone spreads rapidly, waiting for the signal.

  “Open fire!”

  The creatures lunge side to side, pulling up undead to try and shield them from the 50 caliber rounds, our smaller calibers barely putting a dent in them. We are definitely not equip for this mission. Where the hell are reinforcements?

  “Fall back!” Brussels yells, no one disobeys as we sprint towards the hill.

  Three miles though, no way we make it with rucks, not at this pace.

  “Fire at will, downgrade rucks, do not fall behind!” Brussels yells.

  Shit, I tear my aid bag out of the ruck and my extra mags, stuffing them in my cargo pockets and toss the rest of my gear. The Humvees are pulling up our rear, I’m not sure how long their ammo supply will last though. This was just supposed to be a routine mission.

  A sickening scream fills the air. My heart thudding in my chest as I hear a word yelled in desperation, the word that haunts my nightmares more than any other.

  “Medic!”