them had seen such officers before, but never one like this, his arrogance outweighed common sense; paying little heed to the experience of those about him.
Then one day he nearly got someone killed. They were ambushed by Croatian troops, pinned down by heavy machine gun fire. Rather than call in an air strike Wiggets ordered two privates to charge the nest. They declined stating that it was suicide and O’Connell and Kunaka agreed with them. O’Connell had tried to reason with Wiggets, suggesting that maybe an air strike was a better option given the odds. And after some persuasion it appeared that Wiggets had finally succumbed to common sense. The Captain had called in the strike; the machine gun nest was obliterated under a barrage of 5,000lb bombs dropped by two F15’s.
Back at camp Wiggets placed the two privates on a charge for disobeying a direct order. And later that evening O’Connell was reprimanded for questioning the orders of a superior officer. After this Wiggets had made it plain that O’Connell and Kunaka would be under observation, and he’d be waiting for either of them to put one step out of line. Wiggets advised them instead that they keep their heads down and drop any ideas of reporting his transgressions. He was an officer after all, and he had friends.
No sooner had Wiggets said this, O’Connell knew that the officer was maverick and reckless and there would be someone prepared to bail him out. Someone high up in the chain of command; a nameless, faceless entity, an uncle or step-dad who would stand over him like a dirty guardian angel, always ready to clean up his mess. Wiggets wasn’t arrogant because he was inexperienced; he was arrogant because he was protected. So, on and off the battlefield, Connell and Kunaka kept their heads down.
This is how it was for some time. Until the day that Wiggets murdered a young girl by the name of Jasna Maric.
***
On the roof of the driver’s cab O’Connell assessed the best way to gain access. From his vantage point he could see that there were baying zombies, four rows deep, in front of the truck. He gauged that whilst it was going to be unpleasant to achieve, the Mastiff would make short work of getting clear.
All he had to do was get to Kunaka. And hope that he was okay.
More gunfire from behind told him that Suzie and Amir were holding firm. Reassured, he lay flat and inched towards the edge of the cab, which would place him above the passenger seat. A noise to his right made him turn suddenly. A female zombie was scuttling up the grill of the truck, trying to gnaw crazily at the windshield. Without hesitating O’Connell blew her brains out with his Browning.
But by her actions, the zombie had shown him that Kunaka was still very much alive; at least alive enough to attract the attentions of an undead groupie.
He leaned over the rim, the zombies were ten feet below, hands reaching up like a forest of undead trees. There was little hope of getting the door open. O’Connell had no choice but put out the passenger window.
He used the remaining contents of the Browning’s magazine, same spot - at point blank range - punching a small hole in the toughened glass, then turned the gun over ignoring the muzzle-heat against his palm, using the butt to tear a hole large enough for him to get an arm through and activate the automated winder; quickly yanking his arm out of the hole before he got it trapped. Glass fell onto the upturned faces of the zombies below; sugar sprinkles for the bitterness.
With the window down, O’Connell called for cover and Suzie and Amir, his good Samaritans; his good soldiers, carved some space with steady fire from their weapons, driving the crowd backwards allowing O’Connell to clamber into the cab. Once inside, he raised the window, a ragged “O” climbing into sight like the blackest of moons.
When he turned finally to look at Kunaka, O’Connell found he was staring into a face from the past.
***
In room
Then one day he nearly got someone killed. They were ambushed by Croatian troops, pinned down by heavy machine gun fire. Rather than call in an air strike Wiggets ordered two privates to charge the nest. They declined stating that it was suicide and O’Connell and Kunaka agreed with them. O’Connell had tried to reason with Wiggets, suggesting that maybe an air strike was a better option given the odds. And after some persuasion it appeared that Wiggets had finally succumbed to common sense. The Captain had called in the strike; the machine gun nest was obliterated under a barrage of 5,000lb bombs dropped by two F15’s.
Back at camp Wiggets placed the two privates on a charge for disobeying a direct order. And later that evening O’Connell was reprimanded for questioning the orders of a superior officer. After this Wiggets had made it plain that O’Connell and Kunaka would be under observation, and he’d be waiting for either of them to put one step out of line. Wiggets advised them instead that they keep their heads down and drop any ideas of reporting his transgressions. He was an officer after all, and he had friends.
No sooner had Wiggets said this, O’Connell knew that the officer was maverick and reckless and there would be someone prepared to bail him out. Someone high up in the chain of command; a nameless, faceless entity, an uncle or step-dad who would stand over him like a dirty guardian angel, always ready to clean up his mess. Wiggets wasn’t arrogant because he was inexperienced; he was arrogant because he was protected. So, on and off the battlefield, Connell and Kunaka kept their heads down.
This is how it was for some time. Until the day that Wiggets murdered a young girl by the name of Jasna Maric.
***
On the roof of the driver’s cab O’Connell assessed the best way to gain access. From his vantage point he could see that there were baying zombies, four rows deep, in front of the truck. He gauged that whilst it was going to be unpleasant to achieve, the Mastiff would make short work of getting clear.
All he had to do was get to Kunaka. And hope that he was okay.
More gunfire from behind told him that Suzie and Amir were holding firm. Reassured, he lay flat and inched towards the edge of the cab, which would place him above the passenger seat. A noise to his right made him turn suddenly. A female zombie was scuttling up the grill of the truck, trying to gnaw crazily at the windshield. Without hesitating O’Connell blew her brains out with his Browning.
But by her actions, the zombie had shown him that Kunaka was still very much alive; at least alive enough to attract the attentions of an undead groupie.
He leaned over the rim, the zombies were ten feet below, hands reaching up like a forest of undead trees. There was little hope of getting the door open. O’Connell had no choice but put out the passenger window.
He used the remaining contents of the Browning’s magazine, same spot - at point blank range - punching a small hole in the toughened glass, then turned the gun over ignoring the muzzle-heat against his palm, using the butt to tear a hole large enough for him to get an arm through and activate the automated winder; quickly yanking his arm out of the hole before he got it trapped. Glass fell onto the upturned faces of the zombies below; sugar sprinkles for the bitterness.
With the window down, O’Connell called for cover and Suzie and Amir, his good Samaritans; his good soldiers, carved some space with steady fire from their weapons, driving the crowd backwards allowing O’Connell to clamber into the cab. Once inside, he raised the window, a ragged “O” climbing into sight like the blackest of moons.
When he turned finally to look at Kunaka, O’Connell found he was staring into a face from the past.
***
In room
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