Medics are not gods, they are but people who try to thwart fate’s pull. Sometimes they can save them all… most of the time they cannot.

  - UWO Command Sergeant Major Vernell -

  “Where the fuck is the medic?” one of the Sergeants yells, I can barely make out who it is over a blood curdling shriek twenty meters out.

  My eyes flash over to the shriek, a soldier with long claws dug deep into their shoulder, their eyes grip with horror until their body is pulled flat to the ground, out of my line of sight, sucked into the chest high wheat. My stomach churns as I plant my foot. Moving towards where I heard them call for a medic. This is a shit show. Why isn’t Brussels giving out more commands? Looking around, the grass is only getting taller and thicker the closer we get to the hill, the terrain more wet, my boots sinking into mud. Even the slope is changing, leading into a shallow valley, I can tell there’s a stream or something running through it. Wet boots, blisters, infections… if we make it that far.

  Air rushes next to me, it’s Tran, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. To my right, Barlow plumes out of thick stalks of tall grass. Blood on his face, nightmare written in his eyes. A quick glance tells me it’s not his blood though. At least there’s that.

  “Easy gate my ass,” Tran huffs between breaths.

  “I need a fucking medic!” one of the Sergeants yells again.

  My eyes trace over, finding where he is, in one of the Humvees, the gunner… is dead. Flinching, I look away from his headless torso.

  “Over here!” I yell to the Humvee.

  Tires spin in the mud as they bank left toward me.

  “Get in!”

  Tran and Barlow nod to me, both jumping on the top of the Humvee, trying to wrench the dead gunner out. Diving into the open door, I am immediately greeted with the stench of an abdominal wound. The owner of the wound has their hands deep in their intestines, trying to stop the throbbing blood that leaks with the excrement into the cab.

  “Heal him!” the sergeant screams into my ear, he looks shell shocked. Looking down, I see the patient… it’s Brussels, the only one that seemed like we could rally behind. This Sergeant who’s losing his cool, he knows that too, that’s why he’s freaking out. Without Brussels. Well.

  Looking down at his wound, my jaw flexes, healing is not an exact science. There are things we can do, and things we can’t. The better we understand what we are trying to heal, the more effective we become. But we aren’t Clerics or Paladins. There’s a reason that they still train us in the old way, to be a combat medic, it’s because we burn mana fast, unlike the Clerics and Paladins, we have to know what we are doing, and be damn choosey about it. If I heal Brussels, I’m going to be pretty useless for the next few hours minimum. If I can even heal him. Bowels are tricky. My hands pull away the blood soaked uniform, pulling out my combat shears, I scissor off the jacket and shirt. Three long jagged claw marks. I’m not certain I can save him, and if I try, I’d have to invest all my mana stores in him. Remembering how he took charge, he is our best shot, I need to do this.

  “I said to…” the Sergeant begins.

  “I heard you!” I yell back, his eyes blink at me, surprised, “I need you to shovel the feces out of his abdomen and wash it out as best you can with your canteen, I’m going to try and seal it up.”

  The dead gunners body falls into the cab from the straps that held them in, Tran now peering below from up top.

  “Sorry!” he yells, jumping down the chute and pulling the 50 caliber machine gun to swivel behind us. Like thunder it booms overhead, I see Barlow’s legs flailing from the side of the Humvee after the driver banks hard right to avoid a decayed log. He’s got a good grip though, focus.

  It’s cramped in here with the dead gunner. Thankfully these guys are infantry, they’ve seen bodies before. The Sergeant gets his second wind to help as the soldier in the front seat hefts the body up onto his lap before chucking it out the open door.

  “Now, shovel!” I yell over the gunfire.

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  It’s a mess in his abdominal cavity, Brussels is handling it like a champion though, teeth biting down on his helmet strap, eyes bulging like he’s breaking the world record for dead lifts. Okay, focus, channel the mana. Pulling off my gloves, I place my bare hands on him, warm blood spilling over my fingers as I do.

  “Activate Healing skill,” I say.

  My eyes glow as a pulse of energy flows into my consciousness, sound dulls, the signals from my body becoming numb as my mind enters the space between. Flowing in the mana channels that connect all things under the system’s domain. I feel the throb of blood, the mana tracing his racing heart. Find the flow, bind it, seal it, reshape it. Time dilates, my perception becoming more of a trance as I search the twists and turns of his intestines, searching for the worst wounds first. There, form the mana threads, stimulate growth. My fingers twitch with the movements of my mind as I twist delicate threads back and forth to pull the flesh together, it isn’t pretty, but it will hold. My thoughts vibrate as my mana stimulates the cells to work overtime, sealing unnaturally fast. I can feel that his blood pressure is low, he needs fluids. Focus. I find seven more cuts, smaller, but deadly if left alone. Each one takes a toll, I feel the mana draining faster, feeling returning to my body as the trance fades. My hands now on his closed abdomen, the skin undulates under my fingers as I weave the last of the threads in the skin.

  He will probably start going septic in the next 12 hours, but I think this bastard might actually live. The trance fully fades and my bodies senses slam into me, pain, unbelievable pain, like pins and needles, mana sickness. Gritting my teeth, I unzip my aidbag, pulling out fluids. My hands are shaking, but I can barely tell with the now rocky terrain the Humvee is plowing over. A massive bump sends the 18 gauge needle in my hand through the vein in Brussels’ arm, shit. I pull it out, no time to get a fresh one.

  “Apply pressure!” I yell at Brussels, slapping a clump of gauze over it.

  Looking out the front window, I see we are almost to the stone building, thick walls, I wait for the driver to slam on the brakes, before I stick another vein, good flash, good stick. Twisting the IV line onto the needle’s plastic catheter, I tape around it fast. It’s not the prettiest work, but it’ll do. Setting the line for full drip, I give Brussels a nod. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, sitting up carefully.

  “All right, let’s move,” he says, slapping my shoulder.

  Pushing the door, I dismount quickly, overlooking the field below, I shudder. Of the more than one hundred from Third Platoon that we arrived with, nearly a quarter are gone, missing, except for the streaks of their blood they left in the wheat field. Even the off-worlder numbers are shrinking. Though far slower than ours. They always pack light and run fast.

  Brussels groans as he steps out, slinging his IV bag on his shoulder, tough bastard.

  “On me!” he yells to the soldiers dismounting.

  His nostrils flare, I don’t know how he’s still standing, but I’m glad he is.

  “Humvee drivers and gunners circle back, suppressive fire, do not dawdle, in and out, grab as many as you can!” Brussels yells, his face pale from the loss of blood, his right hand leaning on his rifle like a crutch, it’s all that’s keeping him up now, and he’s all that’s keeping us from descending into panicked chaos. Looks like I chose right.

  “Anyone with a ranged class take posts up on the wall and finish off those damn Wendigos!” Brussels yells, “Everyone else, start clearing the castle, barricade the low windows and get me a Sitrep on the defenses.”

  A brief exchanging of looks goes over the small group before he growls.

  “Can I get a hooah?”

  “Hooah, Sergeant!” we all yell, somehow it helps stifle the nerves, all of us yelling as one unit.

  “Then get fucking moving!” Brussels barks, limping toward the large stone walls of the derelict castle. Resting his shoulder on the large blocks of mossy stones that look to have been weathered by hundreds of years of abandonment.

  Tran gives me a nod from on top of one of the Humvees, he’s afraid, we all are, but he grits his teeth, swiveling towards the hordes of undead. Most of the Wendigos are gone now. Only the occasional blur of movement. Still, not out of the woods yet.

  “You good?” Barlow asks, coming to my side, blood streaking down his hand, probably from holding on to the Humvee.

  “Worried about Tran,” I admit.

  “He’s a Rogue, and has that quickstep ability, he’ll be fine.”

  “Right,” I say, breathing out a sigh, grabbing Barlow’s injured hand, I pull off the glove, he winces, but doesn’t cry out.

  Twenty seconds later and he’s wrapped up and good to go, for now at least.

  “Come on, we should clear the castle with everyone else,” I say, taking one last look out at the field before I turn. Most that are alive still are less than a mile out. The horde is about two and a quarter.

  Moving swiftly, we press into the abandoned stone castle’s main entrance, or what’s left of it, the wood doors long rotted. Won’t be able to barricade that unless we put the Humvees across it. Even then, it’ll only act as a funnel. The ramparts are all but gone, sections inaccessible that would make great perches. I wonder if anyone has some type of parkour skill, I’m not familiar with Third’s roster. If one can get up there and set a tie line, maybe some more can climb up. Does anyone even have rope though? Probably not, we tossed our rucks. Maybe we can make a human tower, climb up each other.

  The main hall looks like a naturalist museum, more plant than crafted shapes. Vines as thick as my leg crack through the foundation on the backwall. It looks defensible though, potentially. But it’s still not our best option, my guts telling me the upper walks that have no ramparts to get up to will be the best option.

  “Help me move this,” Barlow grunts, pulling at a rotted wood beam blocking a doorway.

  Not sure it’s going to lead anywhere good, I hesitate, but he gives me a frustrated look, so I do as he asks. Pulling up with him, though I’m not sure how much I’m helping, my body feels like jelly still. Somehow we manage to move it. He moves rapidly down a stairwell on the other side of the arched doorway. A damp and dingy smell on the air.

  “Reinforcements!” someone yells from outside the main hall.

  Barlow turns to me, “Did they just say…”

  “Reinforcements!” another voice yells.

  No way. Hope flutters in my chest.