Free Web NovelChapter 661: Chapter 671: Alpha-Squad Seven (Part 1)
Don stepped out of the briefing and paused beneath the floodlights.
The compound still looked like a machine running past its limits.
Soldiers crossed between tents carrying crates and folded stretchers.
A helicopter descended somewhere beyond the perimeter wall, rotor wash kicking dust and loose paper across the area.
Nothing about the night had softened. The only thing changing was the people inside it.
A few meters ahead, his assigned unit had already begun gathering near a row of stacked supply crates marked with orange hazard tape.
Seven people total. Four civilians. Three officers.
The divide between the groups was obvious without anyone acknowledging it.
The civilians stood slightly apart, bodies held tighter, eyes moving more often. Not hostile. Just uncertain.
They looked like people still adjusting to the idea that they were voluntarily walking back into Santos City after barely escaping it hours earlier.
One of them—a shaved-headed man in his early thirties—kept his arms crossed so tightly across his chest it looked uncomfortable.
A faded tattoo curled above the collar of his issued fatigues, disappearing beneath the fabric near his neck. His jaw flexed every few seconds like he was grinding something down inside himself.
Beside him stood a woman around Don’s age, maybe a little older. Bruising darkened one side of her cheekbone beneath the floodlights.
Her stare stayed fixed somewhere ahead of her, unfocused and distant, like part of her still hadn’t fully left whatever she’d seen tonight.
The youngest of the group couldn’t stop moving. Early twenties at most too. He tugged repeatedly at the hem of his issued shirt, bounced lightly on his heels, glanced over his shoulder every few seconds toward the perimeter fencing.
Like he expected something to climb over it.
The soldiers carried themselves differently.
The black man standing at the front of the group wasn’t especially tall—maybe 5’11"—but he occupied space in a way that made him seem larger.
Broad shoulders. Thick forearms. Leadership markings fixed neatly along his uniform.
His posture stayed loose, though his eyes tracked every movement around the compound with practiced awareness.
To his left stood a taller soldier with a soft belly pressing against his tactical vest. Round face. Alert eyes.
One hand rested near the rifle hanging against his chest while the other held a folded clipboard.
The third soldier looked leaner than the others. Close-cropped hair. Narrow eyes that never stayed in one place for long.
Don turned slightly toward Ash.
She still stood beside him clutching the blue armband in one hand like she’d personally been insulted by it.
"Well," Don said evenly. "Good luck."
Ash blinked.
Not because of the words themselves.
Because he’d said them at all.
"And try not to get yourself stranded," he added while adjusting the cuff of his borrowed sleeve. "I won’t be able to save you."
Several emotions crossed her face so quickly they almost overlapped. Irritation came first. Then embarrassment. Then something she clearly didn’t want showing.
A faint flush climbed into her cheeks despite the cold night air.
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Opened again.
Nothing.
Don had already turned away before she found a response. He started walking toward his unit without looking back, boots crunching softly over concrete.
Ash stared after him with narrowed eyes.
Then muttered under her breath—
"Yeah, well—fuck you too."
A hand tapped her shoulder.
Ash spun immediately.
Nobody there.
Her eyes narrowed further before she slowly looked downward.
The girl standing beside her barely reached her shoulder.
She had a soft face, round eyes, and an expression that looked far too harmless for a military encampment filled with bloodied survivors and exhausted soldiers.
The oversized UPSDF clothes hanging off her frame didn’t help. The sleeves had been rolled several times just to expose her hands, and the pants bunched awkwardly around her boots.
Somehow she’d also managed to clip a tiny bow made from folded medical bandaging into her hair.
Ash stared at her.
The girl smiled nervously.
"Hi, uhm—"
"Are you lost, kid?" Ash interrupted.
The girl’s smile vanished instantly.
"I’m not a kid!" she snapped, planting both hands on her hips. "I’m twenty-four!"
Ash gave her a long, deeply skeptical look.
Head tilting slightly.
Eyebrows raised.
The girl pointed toward the distant scouting assembly area with visible annoyance.
"We’re in the same group. Geez."
Ash exhaled through her nose.
"Fine. Whatever. Let’s go."
She turned and started toward the scouting section without waiting.
The smaller girl hurried after her immediately, boots scuffing against the concrete while she struggled to keep pace.
Meanwhile, Don reached the rescue unit and stopped in front of the black soldier.
"Don Bright," he said. "Civilian support."
The soldier looked him up and down slowly.
The the way Don stood.
Still.
Steady.
Not trying to look brave. Not trying to look invisible either.
The soldier nodded once.
"You don’t look too beat up."
Don shrugged lightly. "Depends who you’re comparing me to."
A faint snort escaped the taller soldier beside him.
The leader’s gaze shifted toward the other civilians gathering behind Don.
The tattooed man looked angry in a way that could become a problem fast.
The bruised woman looked detached enough to ignore an order if her head drifted at the wrong moment.
The younger guy looked one loud noise away from panic.
The leader’s expression tightened slightly.
Not enough to call attention to it.
"Alright," he said. "Here’s how this works."
He pointed toward Don first.
"You—Bright—you stick with me."
Don nodded once.
The soldier pointed toward the tattooed civilian.
"You’re with Thompson."
The taller, heavyset soldier lifted two fingers in acknowledgment.
"Stay close. Don’t wander."
The tattooed man grunted.
Next came the woman and the nervous younger civilian.
"You’re both with Kowalski."
The lean soldier with narrow eyes glanced toward them briefly.
"He gives an order," the leader continued, "you move. No debates. No improvising. Got it?"
The woman nodded slowly.
The younger man nodded too fast.
The leader swept his gaze across all of them one final time.
"We’ll go over strategy after gear-up. Move."
The group started forward immediately, soldiers leading while the civilians followed behind. Don walked near the front beside the leader, matching his pace without effort.
The armory tent sat deeper inside the compound surrounded by stacked supply crates and armed guards checking credentials at the entrance. Floodlights overhead washed the canvas walls in harsh white.
Inside, the place operated like controlled overload.
Soldiers barked instructions while civilians shuffled between equipment tables trying to figure out unfamiliar straps and armor plates.
Don moved through the process without speaking much.
Registration verified.
Gear issued.
Vest fitted.
Minutes later, he stepped back outside wearing dark UPSDF fatigues and a chest plate with bold white lettering across the front.
CIVILIAN UNIT.
The replacement boots fit better than the earlier pair. The tactical vest sat heavier across his torso than Charles’s equipment had, lacking the adaptive balance and lighter composite materials. Still usable. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm
No helmet.
No firearm.
Just the vest, the fatigues, and the yellow armband wrapped around his sleeve.
The others emerged looking similarly outfitted, though none of them looked particularly comfortable wearing military gear.
From there, the group was led toward a smaller operations tent nearby.
The inside felt quieter than the rest of the compound. More contained. Folding chairs had been arranged in a semicircle facing a portable whiteboard covered in marker lines and handwritten route notes. A rough map of Sector Seven filled most of the board.
Maple Street Church sat marked with a thick X.
Extraction routes curved outward from the area toward designated evacuation points.
A digital clock mounted near the entrance displayed the countdown in bright red numbers.
18:47.
Don took a seat near the front beside the squad leader. The chest plate creaked faintly as he leaned back.
The civilians settled less gracefully. The younger man nearly missed his chair entirely before correcting himself awkwardly.
Sergeant First Class Marcus Webb stepped to the front beside the whiteboard.
"Listen up," he said. "For the next however many hours, you move when I say move, you stop when I say stop, and you keep your mouths shut when we’re in the zone."
The tattooed civilian nodded immediately.
The bruised woman kept staring at the map.
The younger guy sat unnaturally straight like he was afraid slouching would get him yelled at.
Webb tapped the X on the board.
"Maple Street Church. Old place. Community hub before the outbreak. Food drives. Shelter programs. Meeting halls. When things went bad, civilians flooded there."
His tone stayed level. Experienced.
"Scout team swept the upper floors about an hour ago. Extracted who they could reach. Remaining civilians are downstairs."
The younger civilian raised a hand halfway.
"Downstairs like... basement?"
"Catacombs."
The room shifted slightly at that.
The tattooed man’s eyebrows rose.
The bruised woman finally looked up from the floor.
"Catacombs?" the younger guy repeated weakly.
Webb nodded once.
"Church dates back to the nineteenth century. Original builders dug underground chambers for burial and storage. Nothing dramatic. Nowadays they mostly use the space for supplies and outreach inventory."
He gestured toward the lower section of the map.
"Scout team confirmed the underground sections are ventilated, lit, and structurally stable. Civilians were instructed to remain hidden and quiet until extraction."
That eased the room slightly.
Only slightly.
"Should be a simple in-and-out," Webb continued. "We land, move to the church, descend, extract survivors, load the transports. Ten minutes ground time max."
Don sat motionless.
Simple again.
That word was starting to irritate him.
"Ten minutes?" the younger civilian asked. "That’s it?"
Webb glanced at him.
"That’s the window. We’re not sticking around to sightsee."
A few dry chuckles came from the soldiers.
Webb turned back toward the whiteboard and tapped a list of short codes written vertically along the edge.
"Communication protocols. Keep chatter minimal."
He pointed one by one.
"Code Black—infected sighted, no engagement. Code Red—engaged, need support. Code Green—objective secure. Code Yellow—civilian casualty. Code White—friendly down."
The civilians exchanged brief looks after that last one.
Nobody seemed eager to imagine hearing it over comms.
"Questions?"
The tattooed civilian shifted but stayed quiet.
The bruised woman inhaled like she wanted to ask something, then stopped herself.
The younger guy looked physically overwhelmed by how many questions he had.
Don spoke first.
"Clear."
The tattooed civilian grunted. "Clear."
A second later, the other two nodded as well.
Webb stepped away from the board.
"Good. Then let’s head to the choppers."
Everyone stood.
Chairs scraped against the floor.
Gear rustled.
The clock ticked downward near the entrance.
16:22.
Don fell into step beside Webb as the squad filed out into the floodlit compound once more.
No turning back now.
Not that he’d planned to.
