Pandemic

FIVE.

Fight or flight. Private First Class Scott Wade wanted to run.

Then his training took over.

He raised his M4 carbine and fired a single burst. The doctor howled with animal glee as the bullets stitched his chest and flung him against the wall in a spray of blood.

The big man sprawled, twitching and smoking. He drew a rattling breath, giggled and died.

The old woman struggled to a sitting position. She started to crawl laughing toward Wade. “Cut off your balls—”

Wade blew her away too, painting the wall with her brains.

He was following orders, completing the mission. But it was more than that.

Fucking monsters.

The excited plague victims squirmed against their restraints like giant larvae. Methodical gunshots came from the floor above and the floor below.

He saw red.

Ramos lowered his shotgun. “Nice work. Now let’s—”

Wade leveled his carbine and lit up the patients. The rest of the squad joined in. They ripped the infected to shreds. Mattress stuffing filled the air.

Wade screamed as he drained his magazine.

Then fell to his knees, retching.

From the stress, the heat, the exhaustion, the shock, all of it.