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The Ohio Incident (Pilot)
🕑 Added 2023-07-07 04:55:18 +0000 UTCJuly 4th, 20XX, Cambridge, Ohio
As the evening sun dipped below the crest of the western hills, Bix, a scruffy, balding man with pale skin, characteristic of his Appalachian roots, drew a long and exaggerated snort before expelling it onto the tall, waving grass.
“C’mon Bix… We just need a small dab of ice, a’ight?” A long haired and nearly anorexic man said as he stepped forward a bit. “I knows yous got a little, so-”
“I ain't give two SHITS what any y’all peckerwoods need.” Bix snarled as a cluster of twitching and equally as scruffy people stood just outside his property line. “I’s has said, WE. AIN’T. DONE. COOKIN’. Now git before I put some buck into one a yous!”
Bix then pumped his shotgun eliciting a clear and intimidating sound that echoed through the silence. He then pointed the weapon towards the group, making his threat all the more real. At the movement, a yelp of fear broke from the throng of people as they scurried away, knowing full well the man was most likely not bluffing.
Another glob of mucus hit the dirt as Bix threw his shotgun over his shoulder and turned around. He lumbered his way back towards the dilapidated structure he called home, grumbling to himself, "God damn junkies, can't even wait a day to get they fix."
Turning around, Bix looked at his home to see it was a sorry sight; a rundown, one-story shack that seemed to have lost its battle with time and weather. Its former whitewash had given way to grayish streaks, the paint chipping and peeling off in several places, revealing the worn-out wooden skeleton beneath.
“I aint got no patience to deal with this shit…” Bix complained as he yanked on the front door eliciting a groan under its own weight of the pull.
With it now open, the doorway revealed a starkly contrasting interior. The inside was obsessively tidy compared to the derelict exterior; the floor and walls were lined with plastic sheets, neatly duct-taped at the corners. The air was pungent with the smell of chemicals, a stench that could burn nostrils and sting eyes.
At the center of it all, standing amidst an assortment of makeshift chemistry equipment, was Beau, Bix's younger brother. He was dressed in a hazmat suit, its bright yellow standing in sharp contrast with the dirty interior of the shack. His eyes, hidden behind the protective goggles, were focused on the boiling flask in front of him.
"Gettin' close, Beau?" Bix asked, shutting the door behind him and stepping further into the room. “God damn crackheads are already outside beggin’ for-” Bix was cut off by a large concussive force that rattled everything in the house
Beau was quick to react as his hand grabbed at the glass beakers and flasks to keep it all stead. “What in the name of the LORD was that!?” The gas masked brother shouted as he turned to bix.
Bix for all his efforts turned around and shrugged. “It’s the 4th, Beau.” He shrugged. “You know how folks be ‘round these parts, probably just some idjit." Bix finished nonchalantly, his gaze falling back on the desperate figures loitering at the boundary of their property. “Anyways, how much longer ya got on the cookin’?”
"Another couple of hours, at least," Beau replied, still holding onto the flasks as his eyes darted anxiously between his work, making sure nothing was damaged. "The yield won't be any good if I rush it, Bix."
A disgruntled groan was let out in response as Bix’s gaze flicked back towards the rickety screen door. He was just about to dismiss his brother's worries and go back to keeping watch when another explosion, this one much closer and much brighter, shook the ground beneath their feet.
All the beakers and flasks rattled even more violently, but luckily Beau was fast enough to grab the more volatile and dangerous bit before it went crashing to the floor. Glass and lab equipment scattered all along the floor as Beau turned to his shotgun wielding brother with the look of fury on his face.
“Bix! You best go out there and tell them god damn PECKERWOODS to stop and they owe us fuckin’ MONEY or you better kill ‘em!!” Beau shouted, his voice muffled by the gas mask and the reverberating rumbles that seemed to shake their entire world.
Bix rolled his eyes and gave a disgruntled sigh. "Always the money with you, ain't it Beau?" He threw his shotgun back over his shoulder before turning around towards the screen door. “A’ight, a’ight. I’ll go shoot some dipshits…” The brother grumbled as he opened the door.
But as he took a step off the porch, bix something incredibly odd and confusing. The land on the horizon seemed… not only a bit disjointed and warped but also completely different. Where once there was the familiar Appalachian hill forest, now there stood a vast, flat expanse of land covered in strange vegetation unlike any he had seen before. He blinked, rubbing his eyes, wondering if he'd inhaled some spilled product.
The sight was not the only thing that was off. A group of people, strangers, stood just outside his property line. They were gesturing wildly, talking in a language that Bix couldn't understand. They looked as confused as he felt.
"What in the hell...?" He mumbled under his breath, taking a moment to reassess the situation. His first thought was these were most likely some junkies and he was most definitely high. Shaking his head, Bix decided to address these strangers. "Hey! You! What the hell y’all just do!?" He yelled, pointing his shotgun at the group.
The strangers turned towards him, looking equally puzzled. They muttered amongst themselves in their strange language before one of them, a tall, thin man with, oddly enough, a full suit of strange armor stepped forward.
He began speaking, but the words were strange, foreign, nothing like the Appalachian drawl Bix was used to. Bix squinted at the man, annoyed at his lack of understanding, but then noticed the pointed ears of the person speaking and the folk around him. "I don't know what the hell you're saying, but y'all cosplayin’ dipshits owe us some god damn money for whatever the hell y’all just did! Understand!?" Bix demanded, but all he got were confused looks in return.
The figure in armor looked back at his colleagues, exchanged a few heated words before turning back to bow. Pulling out a strange sword, the pointed eared individual along with one of their campaign started swirling their hands causing a small ball of ice or fire from fingertips. The sight was utterly captivating yet completely out of the realm of Bix's comprehension. He stood rooted to the spot, his eyes wide with disbelief.
“Aw hell no, I must be high as a kite.” Bix said pointing his shotgun at the armored fellow with ice forming on his fingertips and pulling the trigger.
A deafening crack rang out, dropping the armored figure, causing them to hit the ground. Their companions however, immediately sprang into action. The nearest individuals dragging their fallen comrade behind them as another group formed a defensive wall. Their arms rose in unison presenting a shield wall while a brilliant, almost impenetrable barrier of energy took form just in front of them.
Behind this shield, the fire-casting man didn't hesitate. His hand motions quickened and his chanting much harsher while the fireball in they’re hand grew brighter and larger.
Meanwhile, Beau shouted a string of profanities as rush threw the screen door open, pointing directly at Bix. “GOD DAMNIT BIX! WHY’D YA KILL SOMEONE HERE! NOW WE GOTTA- …What the…?” Beaut cut himself off as he stared at the strange sight in front of him. “Bix what the hell is that?”
“I dunno Beau, I thought I was high, but it looks like the cosplayers are-” Bix was cut off by the fire-caster launching the fireball directly towards the two brothers and in an instant, their world was engulfed in searing heat and blinding light. The last thing they saw was their shanty house being consumed by the massive fireball.
The crackling fire and screams soon faded, replaced by the steady hum of an aircraft engine.
“A la Verga… I thought exercises were supposed to be planned out in advance or something.” Corporal Luis Santiago, a Puerto Rican with a tanned complexion complained as he turned his head up to see his M10 Booker Light Tank chained to the cargo plane's floor. “Like, I get they wanted to test our readiness level, but this is a bit sudden isn’t it? Especially for a live fire.”
No one answered as they all sat there asking the same questions. “I mean, we aren’t even carrying training ammo, we’re locked, loaded and ready to go with combat loads. What the fuck is up with that?” The Corporal and driver of the vehicle continued questioning, turning his head to his Staff Sergeant.
There Staff Sergeant Hofmann, the light tanks commander, let out a deep breath as his pale face darkened in irritation. His Corporal made some good points, but neither of them were at liberty to ask why they were on a plane with enough ammunition to level an entire town. “Shut up the fuck up Santiago.” Hofmann simply replied, leaning back in his chair.
However, that didn’t deter Santiago as he gestured to the 4 Joint Light Tactical Vehicle (JLTV), two of which had 30mm cannons on top of it that were fully loaded with ammo. “C’mon LT, you gotta tell us something!” He yelled down the line to the Recon Platoon’s Lieutenant, a lighter skinned man who seemed more exasperated than anything else, bumped his head against the wall.
“I don’t know Santiago. I’m just confused as you are.” Lieutenant Adrian DuPont replied in a monotone voice. “Now do what Hofmann told you to do and shut the fuck up.”
“I’m just sayin’, sir," Santiago shrugged, leaning back in his own seat. “It almost feels as if this is an alien invasion or something…” He trailed off, laughing nervously at his own joke.”You know, like those little green Pendejos? Or maybe the tall gray-”
“Santiago, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna throw you out the back of the god damn plane.” Sergeant Daniel Kim, the M10 Booker’s Korean-American gunner growled in anger. “So do what the LT said before you fall to your death.”
The Corporal put his hands up in surrender after receiving Kim’s glare. "Alright, alright, I get it." Santiago said as he reclined in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest. There was a muffled laughter from a handful of the 22 men on board, but it was cut short by a harsh look from Kim.
The carbo bay of the aircraft fell into silence, filled only by the humming engine and the occasional creaking of the 5 vehicles crammed inside. Santiago looked out the tiny window beside him, gazing at the twilight sky. The full moon casted an ethereal glow on the scattered clouds, turning them into an almost otherworldly spectacle against the encroaching darkness.
“He has a point though… What if it's actually -” Private First class Lukas Kowalski, the Polish-American light tank’s loader, suddenly broke the silence, but was immediately cut off.
Lieutenant DuPont didn’t even bother looking at the man when he barked out, “Shut up, Private.” Eliciting laughter throughout the cabins.
Kowalski sank further into his seat, deciding that it was better to keep his thoughts to himself for now. "Roger that, sir," Kowalski responded, adjusting the rifle slung across his chest. His fingers grazed the cold metal of the firearm, tracing the edges as a strange comfort against the uncertainty that hung in the air.
Hofmann, ignoring the jovial atmosphere, continued to gaze out of the window. He watched as the pitch black with splatters of lights here and there indicating they were flying firmly over the boonies. The uncertainty of their supposed training exercise weighed heavily on him and everyone else in the plane, but he pushed those thoughts aside. He decided that there was no reason to over think it and concluded that it was most likely some kind of readiness drill.
Seeing that they were the latest armored recon experiment that the 82nd Airborne slapped together, Hofmann surmised that this was probably a test of their responsiveness. The "All American" Division was known for its rapid deployment capability, and their unit, an Armored Cavalry Scout Squad, was designed to conduct armored reconnaissance in hostile territory and generally make first contact with the enemy.
However, if this was all just a readiness test… Then why did they need all this live ammo set up in a way that made it look like they were hot dropping into contested territory?
Stacks of ammunition boxes secured neatly in the vehicles, with a box near the machine guns ready to go. The light tank itself held live Sabot and the brand new Advanced Multi-Purpose munitions (AMP) rounds were stored in the ammo compartment ready to go - all the tools for a combat drop were meticulously arranged and ready for use.
There was an unspoken question in his mind, a nagging uncertainty that refused to be ignored. If this was just another drill, a test of their readiness, why would they need so much live ammunition? The military didn't typically provide real bullets for training missions, at least not in such quantities. It was an unwritten rule: live ammunition meant live danger. Yet, here they were, flying over Continental United States with their equipment loaded for combat.
He glanced at the M10 Booker, their tank that had yet to taste real battle. It was a mechanical beast, all hard lines and deadly precision. The vehicle was silent now, but Hofmann knew it was just waiting to be unleashed. He had witnessed its raw power during their training sessions, and he couldn't help but feel a rush of adrenaline at the thought of putting it into action.
But what if this wasn't just another training exercise? What if they were flying into a real conflict? The thought sent a chill down his spine. They had been trained in combat, yes, but not for operations with in America itself.
… Were they under attack? Is there a civil uprising somewhere?
The questions nagged at Hofmann, the answers always a step beyond his grasp. The military was notorious for its "need-to-know" basis of operations, and right now, it seemed like they were considered on the lesser end of that requirement.
"Maybe they're testing how we operate under pressure," Lieutenant DuPont suggested, having seen Hofmann’s strained look. His nonchalant shrug did little to alleviate the unease.
Hofmann didn't respond immediately. His eyes were still glued to the M10 Booker and its brand new 120mm cannon. It was a lighter version that the Abram’s drove around with, capable of reducing a city block to rubble within minutes. The thought of unleashing such a beast on American soil was unnerving, to say the least
"Are we..." he began, struggling to find the right words. "Are we going into a conflict zone? In our own country?"
DuPont went silent, his gaze shifting from Hofmann to the ammunition box sitting next to the M2 Browning machine gun mounted atop their JLTV. Letting out a long sigh, the Lieutenant’s fingers drummed a nervous rhythm on his knee. His usually jovial and mischievous eyes now held a hard edge, a steeliness that echoed the grim possibility hanging in the air.
"I don’t know, Hofmann..." he began slowly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the plane's engines. "I wish I did, but I don't."
It was the confirmation, and yet the lack of it, that chilled Hofmann. DuPont, ever the stalwart rock in their unpredictable storm, was also in the dark.
"But, regardless..." DuPont continued, locking eyes with Hofmann. "We have our orders. We'll be briefed when we're boots on the ground-"
His voice was suddenly drowned out by the sharp crackle of the intercom. "Brace for approach, we're going into a tactical landing pattern," the pilot's voice echoed through the cargo hold, the unexpected announcement sending an electric shock through the cabin.
Tactical landing. They were going into a hot zone, and they were going in hard.
DuPont's gaze never wavered from Hofmann, even as the initial surprise began to settle into a grim understanding as they all snapped into work mode. "You heard the man!" Dupont shouted aggressively and called out to the rest of his soldiers, his voice carrying a calm, steady assurance that seemed to anchor the growing tension.
"Secure the equipment, strap in tight. This is going to be a rough descent," he ordered, moving to tighten his own harness. "We're going in hot, so be ready to move and get the vehicles decoupled as soon as we touch down!"
"Takashi, Cooper, Diego, Thornfield!" DuPont continued, his piercing gaze sweeping each NCO in turn. His voice cut through the noise of the humming engines, a steel blade of authority in the chaos. "Get your JLTV out of the Booker's way as soon as the bird touches down! Understood?" DuPont said while grabbing his M7 and racking the slide, making sure there was a round in the chamber before setting it to safe.
The soldiers snapped to attention, their bodies tense with the adrenaline of the impending drop. "Yes, sir!" came the unanimous response, each man springing into action to follow their lieutenant's command.
Takashi, a quiet Japanese-American man, pointed to a few of his men and started issuing orders to prepare their JLTVs for when they landed. Diego, Thornfield, and Cooper followed suit, each issuing orders and deciding how best to dechain the JLTVs.
The roar of the engines and the whistling of the wind outside made it difficult for the soldiers to hear each other as the aircraft descended rapidly. It felt as if their stomachs had been left hanging thousands of feet above them, a sensation only worsened by the anticipation of the unknown.
“The fuck is going on sir…?” Santiago asked again, this time his voice barely audible over the noise. His knuckles were white from gripping the straps of his harness, his eyes wide as he looked to his lieutenant for answers.
But DuPont, strapped into his own seat, gave nothing away. His gaze was fixed on the slowly approaching ground below them, a hardened expression set on his face. He'd been in this kind of situation before, and he knew better than to make promises or assumptions.
"I don't know, Santiago," DuPont admitted, turning his gaze to the worried man. "But I’m certain we’re soon gonna find out. Now get your fuckin’ helmet on."
The rapid descent continued, the lights of the land below growing closer and more defined. No one said another word as they all recognized they weren’t landing on an actual airstrip, but a small patch of grass as a makeshift runaway.
The usually talkative Santiago swallowed hard and simply nodded, his fingers fumbling to strap his helmet onto his head. The normally light hearted atmosphere of their unit had been replaced by a somber tension, each man lost in their thoughts as they watched the landscape below approach with alarming speed.
As the soldiers held their collective breaths, the aircraft shuddered and jolted while the craft's undercarriage screamed in protest as it made contact with the uneven ground. However, the pilot still skillfully decelerated while the transport bounced and shook as it barreled down the grassy field.
Once the plane had ground to a halt, orders started being yelled as soldiers unbuckled themselves and went to work. Half of the bindings chaining their vehicles were already off when the cargo bay doors touched the ground, revealing a starlit night that had gunfire and explosions echoing in the distance.
The sudden sounds of conflict outside caught everyone off guard, freezing them in their tracks. The soldiers’ heartbeats echoed in their ears, drowning out the distant sound of gunfire. The booming echo of an explosion somewhere off in the distance jolted them back into motion.
"Move! Move! Move!" Lieutenant DuPont yelled, trying to reignite the sense of urgency among his men. “Get this shit off the plane! Section two still has to land!”
Remembering that the other half of the platoon was still in the air, the soldiers swiftly went back to work. The rumble of heavy diesel engines roared as the large metal beasts started to roll down the cargo ramp, guided by ground crews that had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. A group of soldiers, headed by Thornfield and Cooper, unhooked the front vehicles first and sped down the ramp, churning up dust and grass in their haste.
Then came the second set of JLTV’s, Hofmann and the others scrambled into the M10 Booker while Lieutenant DuPont walked down the ramp and shook hands with one of the men from the small group working as ground crew. “1st Lieutenant DuPont.” He introduced himself, looking his contemporary up and down.
On the ground crew’s chest held the patch CCT indicating he belonged to the Air Forces famed Special Operations Forces combat controllers. "Technical Sergeant Anthony Pena, CCT," the airman introduced himself, shaking DuPont's hand firmly. “I’m sure you want to know what the fuck is going on, and to be honest you’re better of seeing for yourself.”
The CCT started walking, motions for the Lieutenant to follow before pointing south. “A Ranger Battalion got here first and they’re fighting all along the 77 on either side of the road trying to get to Cambridge.“
The Lieutenant followed, his eyes narrowing at the mention of the Rangers. The Battalions of the 75th Ranger Regiment were some of the most elite light infantry units in the US Army. If they were here, and in combat no less, then this was clearly not a training exercise. DuPont's mind whirled with questions, but he kept his focus on the task at hand.
“Wait, wait, wait. What?” DuPont pressed his fingers against his eyebrows before glancing back at the M10 Booker finally rolling off the Cargo Plane. “77? Are we in fucking Ohio? Sergeant Pena, what the fuck is happening? Are we under attack?”
"Something like that, Lieutenant," Pena replied, his voice grim. "Something… is attacking us." The CCT shook his head in disbelief. "We've got these... things. Creatures. They're not from around here, that's for sure. They hit us hard and fast, taking the town, killing civilians. The Rangers were the first to respond and now we're here, trying to hold them back."
Dupont noticed Pena's voice had an edge to it, a certain tension that went beyond the normal stresses of combat. His eyes were steely, his jaw set.
"And before you ask, we've got no idea how this happened. One minute, everything's normal. The next... well, you’ll see." Pena turned around towards the Cargo Plane as it was starting to take off. “If it doesn’t look like an American, Shoot it. If it doesn’t look right, shoot it. If it doesn’t have an IR Strobe, shoot it.” The CCT finished as his hand moved to his radio to communicate with the next landing cargo plane.
DuPont stood there for a moment, in complete and utter shock as he let the information sink in. “Fuck me… Santiago was right…” The man then turned around and started jogging to his own Vehicle. “Why Ohio though?”
Comments
TheArchivist
GATE in Ohio, nice
