An Elite's Tale

So this is how I die, I thought in detached observation as two snarling Brutes towered over Wildcat, who was in far better shape than I was, and me. Sarge was up ahead, on his knees like we were. He had an ugly ass Brute with a red flag strapped to his back standing over him with a rusty blade, debating with another Brute over how many cuts would take his head off.

I couldn't even remain aware. I was still catatonic, entranced in a surreal state of shock after what had just happened to my team. The whole scene kept replaying in my head like an endless curse.

I'd been one of five ODSTs chosen by Commander Keyes herself to be on her "Cleaner Squad". Our job was simple. We were to carve a path and escort her and her team to the Index once we got to the Library, then clear a way to the extraction point for dust off.

For COMS security, each "Cleaner" had been given a mission call sign. This part I was used to. On the op prior to this one, I'd been given the name "Lucky". This time I was "Iceman".

Painful memories rained down on me like unforgiving fists as I zoned out on the empty space in the floor between the hairy two-toed feet of the baby kong in front of me. A blurred image of the embossed UNSC insignia at the base of my standard issue combat knife danced across my mind, but then I remembered the knife itself was no longer in my possession. I dreamily shifted my gaze left and right, sweeping for anything I could use as a weapon.

It would seem as though while I was out to lunch, extensive years of combat and training had taken the wheel. Despite this, I was helplessly lost in nightmare land. It had all gone to shit shortly after we had secured the platform and got Keyes, Johnson, and the rest of the surviving marines onto the gondola. The Flood had been hot on our tails, so we'd stayed behind to halt their pursuit and defend the platform until Keyes's team returned with the Index.

I could see them clear as day; reanimated corpses of Brutes, Elites, and yes, even Marines falling in heaps of decomposed bits as they rush our defensive perimeter. Wildcat, Serpent, and I, all standing shoulder to shoulder, fingers pumping the triggers of our suppressed M7s. Shadow and Freak down in front of us with M90s crouched, turning anything that is bigger than a lump of coal to shreds. A Flood form carrying a shotgun of his own rushes in like a maniac and jumps in the air. The shotgun booms. Freak goes down. All of us aim up at the airborne assailant, but more zombies keep pouring into the room and before we know it, we're overrun.

They're everywhere, those gross ass crawly head things. I struggle to pry them off my arms and legs. I see everyone around me shooting at the ground and yanking crawlers off themselves. I snatch another one off my visor and toss it behind me and try to work on clearing out the rest. Freak is on the ground spazzing and twitching as a carpet of crawlers washes over him. I move to help, but Serpent pulls me back and chucks a frag at his body.

"He's not one of us anymore!" Serpent shouts, shaking his head, and we both turn and duck.