image [https://media.moddb.com/images/members/2/1631/1630327/2-2.jpg]

“Jesus christ…” Cpl Gearing muttered in horror as he watched the masses of half melted people stumbling towards him and the rest of the personnel decontamination line, thankful for the fact that his words had been drowned out by the screams of the damned. Turning back to the decon team he began to bark out orders. “Alright guys, it’s game time. We got casualties to clean!”

After a moment of freezing, the decon team leaped into action, barking out simple and clear instructions towards the shocked and probably not at all there victims, after all, chem attacks aren’t exactly known for being painless, and those injuries certainly have the hallmarks of chemical burns. The silent screams of some of the more wounded also seem to point towards that direction.

Just like the- No, not like the prac apps. No amount of scenarios and make believe back in the rear could steel these 5711s of the horrors of reality: the pleads for relief, the cries for help, the raw screams of pain. All the while time itself seemed to go into turbo mode, as if to mock their pitiful preparations and now seemingly useless thoughts of contingencies.

The JCADs and other detectors were quickly put aside as nothing popped despite the clear visual and audio signs in front of them, and those originally tasked with scanning for contaminants were quickly shuffled with their rest of the cleaning personnel as the line quickly became overwhelmed by hundreds of the wounded and the soon to be walking dead. GPD, RSDL, M100, .5% bleach in water solution, all were quickly thrown, sprayed, and rubbed onto the melting flesh and metal of men and gear. In the span of a handful of minutes, hours of set up, months of preparations, and years of training were put to the test. All the while the screams of the wounded and dying continued unabated, them suffering pains that cut through even the hardest of wills and most ironclad of discipline.

As the minutes wore on the human noises began to subside, many from the relief of those who passed through the line into the capable hands of the corpsmen and navy medical, but a rather disturbing number from the simple expiration of those who waited until their bodies failed for the last time. Beneath the seemingly calm and cold efficiency runs an undercurrent of shock.

They weren't even supposed to be there in the first place. Not for the intentions of their primary MOS anyways. While the CIA and the S-2 bubbas might mumble about some unsubstantiated rumors of unknown and incomprehensible horrors not meant to be witnessed by mere mortals, the reality is that they couldn’t be really necessary. Production and deployment of NBC weapons simply isn’t viable on any meaningful scale by pre industrial civilizations, for a number of obvious and less so reasons. Yet somehow, not only they got swept along for the ride, but also their entire DRSKO and other necessary equipment. Rumor has it the real reason was because the whole thing is funded by funding pilfered from money originally earmarked for CBRN prep for Europe before the CIA diverted, and they’re tacked on for appearance purposes…

All of which suddenly became something of the utmost of importance when scattered reports came in of hostile slimes like things. Reports that soon became a flood of panicked babble over the comms as numerous groups all began to succumb to the newly contacted threat. Just in time too, as the moment they finished setting up their decon lines was when the first of the wounded stumbled out of the forests into the clearing.

It was somewhat expected, as like everything else most of the training and confidence tests were more notional, if they were even done outside of the signed paperwork.

The personnel deck was still in full swing when the tidal wave of slime began oozing out of the depths of the forest…

......

"What the fuck is that shit?!" Lcpl Randoff shouted as he pointed off in the distance, the vantage point on the bed of the 7 ton he's on in between the M26 power washer and other seemingly random equipment piled on it, a hose snaking from the M26 down to a water buffalo hitched to the truck. A very much jerry rigged imitation of a firetruck, but at least it’s nominally mobile, though mobile for what purpose was never answered nor even asked by anyone.

“Alright everyone, get the lines away from the contamination. Start moving!” Cpl Gilbert barked out the orders nearby as he began uprooting engineering stakes that were used to mark the decon lines. Theory promptly crashed into reality the decon line fell into chaos, for while relocating decon lines might have been heavily rehearsed and practiced, usually in anticipation of changes in wind and other factors, rarely was the factor of all the casualties considered.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Of course, upon seeing the same horror at the very monstrosities that so mauled them already, and at what apparently being the panicked actions of the very subject matter experts, many of the still walking wounded became less than helpful. A few attempted to stagger away, trying to find their rifles that were being cleaned elsewhere despite having already seen the ineffectiveness of them. Many simply sat down on the grass, the bits of despair normally in the back of their minds being temporarily amplified by shock and exhaustion.

“Fuck it, why the fuck not?” Lcpl (3rd award) Stuart muttered as he pointed the hose of his backpack sprayer towards the encroaching wave of slime even as those around him were going the other direction, and started pumping out the GPD solution. His eyes gone glassy as the last fuck he had left to give has gone a long time ago. Not too surprisingly, the GPD solution begins to dissolve the slime as soon as it comes into contact. The surprising thing though, was that the slime continued, as if it’s a force of nature itself rather than any thinking creature.

For that mistake cost him his life, as through the GPD the slime surged forth, and soon swallowed up the hapless Lcpl, his last screams slowly sputtered out as his flesh, organs, and bones literally burned and melted as the slime enveloped him wholesale. For all that, he brought the others perhaps a handful of seconds.

The important thing, however, was the knowledge that they do have something that could counter those… things. Quickly, some of the rest of the decon personnel turned their hoses, pumping as fast as they could. The thin streams of solution are akin to pebbles in the river for all the good they’re doing.

But the additional handful of seconds were brought with that, enough for the jerry rigged fire truck to close in the distance, pumping out an order of magnitude more solution than the backpack sprayers.

It was a surreal sight, as if straight out of a fever dream or t-shirt design: nerdy POGs in their full body suits fighting the visual manifestation of their normally invisible threats. The moment soon passed, and as the last of the solution existed the water buffalo (that wont be used for its natural purpose for quite some time) those who remained were forced to withdraw. Still, a withdrawal in relatively good order, with the knowledge that a countermeasure is on hand.

Still an L in the books though.

------

"CASREP?" Capt Austin asked wearily, his voice making it clear he really does not want to hear the facts, but knew that he had too. For while he cannot save the already dead and gone, his decision might prevent more from following the already departed. Regardless, his career in the corps is at an end, for the corps do not suffer fools, or even the merely unlucky. Yet imminent doom is not an excuse to flinch away from his current duties, of what he needs to do.

"8 dead, 11 critically injured, 25 lightly injured." Gysgt Blaine ratted out the numbers, his voice betraying the barest hint of emotions.

In theory, doctrine states that 30% survival rate is within acceptable parameters to continue the mission, and their casualties were at a few percent, if even that. There were training accidents with higher body counts. However, the reality of the matter is that most were not experienced with loss and setback, notional experiences in training exercises being far from sufficient to steel one’s mind for the blood encrusted reality.

"At least the hostile has been neutralized." Austin sighed as he tilted his head back, seeking a refuge within his mind from all the hundreds of things that needed to get done since yesterday. If only for a moment…

It was at that moment he noticed the rather large winged reptilian creature lazily circling the sky, its spector framed against the setting sun, whatever sounds it's making all but being drowned out by the roars of engines of the vehicles and chatter of marines down below. Before he could alert anyone else though, a stream of tracer fire flew upwards into the sky and the distinct sounds of at least a couple of 50 cal cracked over the rumbles of the idling engines. Hundreds of man hours of S-shop paperwork also flashed through the captain’s head as he watched a few of the tracers slammed into the creature, causing it to make a rather unscheduled crash landing nearby one of the 7 tons, by a miracle only crashing on a number of mainpacks who’s owners had quickly vacated the premise moments ago, burying them under its carcass and ruining them beyond ever being accepted back by CIF again. A great shout rose among the crowd, who had apparently formed up a while beforehand.

They saw, they knew, and they knew better than to notify their chain of command to wait for the prim and proper way of handling things. He couldn’t really blame them. After all, he would have done the exact same thing when he was a butterbar all those years ago.

“Looks like tonight’s chow’s gonna be local.” Blaine quipped sarcastically as he turned around and made his way towards the scene, which was already crowded with people, phones out taking pictures, taking bits and pieces from the carcass. “Hey! Get the fuck back, and stop touching that shit, who knows what the fucks’s in that mess.” He barked out commands, reigning in the situation from spiraling into chaos. “And someone grab some docs and gas monkeys to clean up this mess.” He added, pointing at a nearby hapless junior enlisted, now entrusted to round up the necessary personnel for the coming working party.

As the commotion sorted itself out Austin returned his attention back to the admin work at hand, a weary and humorless grin appeared on his face as he jotted down how the event will be reported in the AAR and storyboards. Finally, someone actually slew a dragon like those cheesy commercials back in the 90s, and it’s everything they could have asked for, at least for the moment.

But the ads never mentioned the stench of death…