Fireteam Delta by J. Halpin (ebook reader that looks like a book txt) 📕

to the private, but he refocused on the injured man. Summers could smell the blood in the air. “Adams, look at me! Please!”

The father had grabbed the young boy, shielding him with his body. The mother was on the ground, shouting in a pleading tone.

As Adams raised his weapon, Summers fired.

The man that had been known as Patrick Adams died that day at the age of nineteen.

Chapter 12: Hoofin’ It

“It’s in his fucking blood?”

“He was going to kill them! What else should he have done?”

The group was still trying to come to grips with the situation, even as they made their way back to the Humvee. After some time, they’d managed to parse what had happened with Adams.

Summers’ blood was toxic. That was the only conclusion that made sense. Cortez and Nowak had seen what Adams was about to do. And when it had come down to it, there were no good options.

They’d long ago left the city behind them. No guards had followed them on the road back to their Humvee, but time would tell if that would last.

Adams’ body lay in the back of the wagon. They’d covered his head with a blanket.

As they spoke, they each looked at Summers, a mix of emotions on their faces.

Summers ignored them.

“He said he had a family, right?”

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They arrived at the Humvee a few hours later. The group had settled into an uncomfortable silence. Summers didn’t question his decision. He’d only really known Adams for a few weeks, but he’d seemed like a good kid. If he had the choice, he knew that Adams would have approved.

There was no telling how much damage he could have done, how many innocent lives he could have taken. Hell, Adams could have killed them, if he’d gotten lucky.

He knew Adams would have approved because he’d seen what that kind of guilt did to people. He’d seen how many of his friends took their own lives over some stupid mistake they’d made years before. He wondered if this would be the one that he’d look back on, if he got home. Maybe he wouldn’t be so sure of himself by then.

“Shotgun,” Nowak called as he approached the Humvee.

“Yeah, yeah.” Summers ignored the man’s attempt at humor and reached for the first branch covering the Humvee.

“There’s a shotgun!” Nowak repeated.

Something in his voice made Summers stop, and he noticed the trip wire tied to the branch in his hands, the barrel of the shotgun pointing at his head. Slowly, ever so slowly, he put the branch down.

The others stared at him with worried expressions.

“I’m going to sit down for a bit.” Summers moved off. He needed to get his head straight.

“I shouldn’t have let him get loose,” Nowak said before Summers could move off.

“If—” Summers started, but Nowak cut him off.

“If Cortez or Logan had been paying attention to what was happening in the back and helped us—”

“Sarge . . .” Cortez tried to interject.

“If I’d seen this shit coming. And I should have,” Nowak continued. “We all could have done better— should have done better. I didn’t know the kid that well, but if nothing else, we can make sure this shit doesn’t happen again.”

“We can always take the Humvee back and finish the job,” Cortez ventured.

“The guys who tried to rob us are dead, right?” Logan looked at Cortez skeptically. “You really want to take it out on a bunch of farmers and grunts?”

“Just a thought,” Cortez replied.

Part of Summers agreed with the sentiment. The other part knew just as well as she did that it was childish.

He saw Nowak exit the Humvee with a helmet; it was the same one that held the dog tags of the fallen 63rd. Summers moved to Adams’ body and added his tag to the pile.

He took a moment to stare down at Adams’ ruined head. His dead eyes stared directly into Summers’ own.

“So . . . what do we do with the body?”

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Summers woke early the next morning. He’d spent most of the night digging a grave.

He sat up, intent on getting back to work. But as he made his way over, he saw Adams staring back at him. Actually staring, as in the eye was following him.

He froze for a moment before something darted out of Adams’ skull. It was followed quickly by a dozen others like it.

“What in the fresh fuck?” Summers yelled.

His hand came up, just in time to catch one of the insects as it lunged at his face. It fell apart in his grip. That was . . . fast.

The rest of the insects were already far in the distance by the time Nowak and the others found him.

“What the hell were those?” Nowak asked.

“Fucking bugs. Lots of fucking bugs,” Summers managed, tossing the corpse to the ground.

“Skeen,” Asle corrected.

They all looked at her, then looked at the bodies of the insects on the ground.

“This is the shit that makes skin-walkers?” Summers asked.

Asle nodded.

Cortez looked at the scene, at the insects that had recently vacated Adams’ head. “If I go out, just burn me on the spot.”

<<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>><<>>

They buried Adams without ceremony. A shallow grave in the forest, that was the best any of them could hope for. The presence of skin-walkers likely meant that there was something like the shambling moss creature around. Between that and anyone looking for them after their exit from the city, they felt the need to get on the road sooner rather than later.

And without the need to hide themselves, they had little use for the wagon. The cow, Tank, was set free of his reins. Summers half-expected it to run off on its own, but it just stayed in place.