Prompt: War

The smell of ruptured guts is nearly unbearable. Wren Horan steps quietly down the hallway, elbows tucked close to her body, M4 held at a downward angle. The sloping chin rest is cool against her skin. She approaches the front desk. A man and woman in scrubs lay on the floor behind it. Their limbs are contorted, broken, and leave snow angels in their own blood. Bites pucker their bodies. Their necks sport gaping wounds; the signature of new vampires. They go for the neck like in the movies, but the carotid arteries hold tremendous pressure in order to pump blood up to the brain. When pierced, the resulting arterial spray means death is almost instantaneous. It's why so many fledgeling attacks are fatal.

A wet sound echoes from down the hallway like someone is ripping cloth. Wren takes position near the corner and uses a mirror to see around it. A man in a hospital gown hunches over the unmoving body of a doctor. It looks like he's wearing an apron. Saliva dribbles down his chin as he bites mindlessly at the corpse. His movements are jerky and uncoordinated. It's an advanced case. He must've waited weeks before coming to the hospital. Contracting the cruoris virus is almost always fatal. Like its cousin rabies, it can only be treated in its early stages and its incubation period is wildly unpredictable.

She leans back and puts the mirror away. Her team watches her, faces hidden behind face shields. They're with her all the way. She signals her intent, then raises her M4 around the corner. The fledgling doesn't look up until the light from her rifle blinds him. His pupils are blown. His mouth hangs open. One of his upper eye teeth has already fallen out. Given time, a new one will erupt in its place.

Her finger curls around the M4's trigger. All it takes is the lightest touch. Not even a squeeze. The round punches through his forehead and he jerks back as if someone yanked his hair. He flops backwards, skinny knees bent at an uncomfortable angle over the doctor's hips. She leads her team forward and takes one last look at the corpse before Harkes gives him the double tap. She can still see tan lines on his arms.

They push forward. The call said two perpetrators, but she suspects more. Even fledglings can't kill three people and injure eighteen inside ten minutes. People lie about it all the time. They hope the person they love will be an exception, but the outcome is always the same: more infections. Most die, some turn. More casualties to mop up.

Something crashes through the ceiling. Wren barely has time to register it as humanoid in shape before she's kicked in the chest. She feels the snap in her ribs rather than any pain. The wall smashes into her back and she's pretty sure she wets herself.

"G.O.!" Harkes shouts.

Gunfire echoes down the hallway. Yelling. Blackness seeps into her peripheral vision as she slumps over.

Then there's only murk. Flashes. Growls. Vignettes of open mouths, hands, bent arms, maroon crusts on paling skin. Whistling air. Something thrown. No, something charging.

And...and....

Wren's wobbling. Someone is bent over beside her. She opens her mouth to ask what happened, but something clicks in her brain. The person beside her isn't one of her team. Small, female, greasy brown hair. Barely a teenager. The girl's hands scrabble at the armour on her wrist. Her skin is mottled by pink patches.

The girl sits back and wails like an injured animal. It attracts others. A ring of crazed, pale faces gathers overhead. Hands claw at Wren's helmet, her legs, her boots. Blood and dirt smear across her visor and at least two roll on top of her to lick it off. She tries to reach for her gun, but her arms won't move. Neither will her legs. Her entire body is an inert piece of meat. She blinks sweat out of her eyes as one lifts her right leg and drags her across the floor, dislodging the other two who tumble over like newborn kittens.

The torn remnants of her team litter the floor. She's dragged past a headless body in uniform. It's impossible to tell who. She clenches her teeth and glares up at the nearest person, a balding Latino man in his fifties. His eyes are the shade of brown that looks black in the right light, but pinpoints of blue and red are already visible. His expression is pure animal panic as he grabs her arm and starts to pull it out of its socket. The others copy him. Four fledglings for four limbs. She hears the pop in her leg rather than feels it. The seam in her body armour is stretched. The other three drop her limbs and rush out of her sight.

Suddenly she hears that sound again. Ripping cloth. She can't take it anymore. She screams until her breath runs out. One of the fledglings repositions himself on top of her and smacks her chin with his heel. Her head jerks to the side and the last thing she remembers is grey and yellow compression socks that reek of feet.