Escape The 1st Omnibus: WTF Books 1-3 by W.J. Lundy Page A

primals would succumb to it. That day never came. Even thirty days later, the numbers were just as great as before, and in fact were growing. It was true that they saw less of them during the daylight. Primals didn’t like the heat.
    On a cool, overcast day the killers were out in force. But when the sun was bright, you would only encounter them indoors, or occasionally in a shadow. At night they were the most dangerous. Primals would come out of their hiding places and hunt freely, roaming the streets and polluting the night air with their moans.
    The damn moaning! It reminded Brad of the howling wolves and coyotes from his home in northern Michigan. The thought of home made him smile; it was a place far different from this. I wonder if I’ll ever see the green forest again? he thought to himself. Quickly he put the idea away; it was dangerous to get distracted on the job. He shook his head, smiling again. Am I even on the job anymore?
    The last one they’d killed was emaciated; its eyes were glazed over and the skin had pulled tight over its bones. Junayd’s lead scout, Hasan, had found it tangled in the wire way out past the main fences on one of his patrols. The thing was obviously malnourished and beaten, but it still fought with the strength of five men. Hasan said even after he had removed its head, the primal’s eyes had looked at him with hatred and rage until they went dark.
    Hasan had proven to be a good hunter. Every day he took groups out to scout and salvage items from the city. Brad didn’t know much about the man; he had been mostly silent and usually kept to himself. Even the other Afghans tended to keep their distance. Brad wondered what his story was. Junayd trusted him, and even Brad’s own soldiers would volunteer to patrol with Hasan on occasion.
    Brad rose to his feet and made his way into the guardhouse they had converted into their barracks. It wasn’t the most ideal housing. It was drafty and dusty, and the cinder block walls and concrete floors were less than inviting. His men had done their best to make it cozy with items from the rail yard and things the soldiers had scavenged out on the daily patrols. His bunk was in a corner tucked back in the rear of the guardhouse. His area would be considered sparse at best. Brad had always been a professional soldier and had never taken the time to collect many things, but now there was even less. Next to his bunk he kept his personal possessions; nothing more than a large pack, his armor, and a rifle. He didn’t own much now in this new life.
    Brad sat on his bunk and looked around the room. Some of the soldiers were still up, but it wasn’t like before in the barracks in Bremmel. There wasn’t any horseplay, no playing of cards; the men had to keep quiet for fear of luring in the primals. No one was reading books; the guardhouse was too dimly lit at night for that. Laptops and game systems were a thing of the past. They now survived in a quiet solitude. Brad lay back on his rack watching the ceiling, wondering how things might be different at home, his real home. Maybe it was time to leave.

3.
    Brad woke to the stench of the cooking Afghan slop and his stomach turned. If there was one thing they had plenty of, it was the cans of mystery meat. They had found nearly ten full train cars of the stuff. Nobody enjoyed it, but at least they wouldn’t starve. He just couldn’t get used to the taste and the greasy coating it left in one’s mouth after eating it. Lately it was breakfast, lunch, and dinner. The soldiers had handed over most of the real food to the families, but occasionally they would have their meals augmented with rice and beans collected in the daily scavenge runs.
    Brad sat up in his bed and grabbed his shower kit. Standing and stretching, he moved out to the communal showers they had built behind his new barracks. Miraculously they still had running water. Henry, his young driver with aspirations of being an engineer, said the