He woke to the alarm, a blaring siren that would normally put people in a panic. Roland groaned and pushed himself out of the bed. He walked to the shower and stood under the scalding water for almost an hour before the alarm picked up with intensity. For all Roland reacted, there was nothing amiss as he toweled off. He dressed in black and orange jumpsuit, with a t-shirt and jeans over it. Just like that, he was ready, punching the comm next to the door to shut off the alarms.

He stepped out of the door and turned left, stepping lightly on the grated floor that lined the walls before padding down the concrete path. The compound was the usual buzz of activity, regardless of the time the corridors were always filled with noise that carried from one end of the complex to the other by the steel walls and concrete. How, and why, the building had been constructed to allow sound to carry so far and easily was a mystery, but it became a common practice to shout down the corridors to those at the other end.

At the end of the hall was a small room that looked like it could have been a break room in any office building ever, complete with coffee maker, cabinets, 4 large tables with 4 chairs each, a fridge, and some asshole that stole other people’s food out of the fridge even though it was clearly marked. He grabbed the coffee pot and his favorite mug, before realizing that the pot was empty and that someone else had used his mug without washing it afterward. He groaned, started a fresh pot of coffee, and started washing his mug. He raided the fridge, groaning again when he realized that someone had taken a footlong sandwich he’d saved from the night before, then grabbed the summer sausage he’d bought for a cheese platter. As the coffee chimed he grabbed his cup, added some cream, and plenty of sugar before unwrapping the sausage and just taking a bite. He chugged half the cup, topped it off again, then walked back out the door he just came in through.

He walked past his room, turning right at the corner into the thick of the raucous noise. 8 cubicles lined both walls for a total of 16 with absolutely everything that he and his allies would need to survive outside of the safety of the city. The cubicles on the right holding gun and weapon racks along with a work station with all the tools one would need to customize said weapons or break them down entirely. On the left, encased in something that looked like clear plastic but was sturdy enough to endure low-grade explosives, was the prep room lovingly referred to as the operating theater. Roland was about to open the door to his operating theater when the thwack of a wooden cane hitting the concrete drew his attention.

Roland turned to the right to face the commander, a woman who looked like she was in her 60s and going through chemo. Thin, bald, with sunken eyes and cheeks, and skin so pale you could see the blue of her veins in places. But despite her looks, Roland never wanted to be on her bad side. Forget the fact that she could order his execution at any minute, he saw her beat another Carrier within an inch of his life with just her damn cane. If you looked from the right angle, you could still see the crack in the wood from her final strike, which shattered the carrier's jaw, nose, and caused a concussion from the sheer force of the impact. Forget a death sentence, she would beat Roland until he wanted to die.

"Attention," Roland called to the others in the area. "Commander on station." 2 other carriers stepped out of their weapon stations.

"Due respects." Another yelled, a shorthand the commander came up with herself to say 'acknowledged with all due respects, but I cannot step away from my activity.' The fact that she made up the shorthand and it was put into common practice shortly thereafter for not just the unit or the base but all of the military services was yet another testament to her skills and authority.

"Good morning everyone." The commander said casually, still clacking her way towards Roland. "Mr. Row, may I speak with you." And with that, Roland's day just went down the toilet. The commander only addressed personnel formally with Mr. or Mrs. when she needed to speak to them about important matters, and she only posed it as a question when it was something they weren't going to like.

Roland fought the urge to sigh in depression and opened the door to the operating theater. "Of course, commander." He bit his cheek at the sound of his own voice, realizing that he hadn't quite kept the venom out of it. Once inside, he closed the door behind him and offered the commander a bite of the sausage. She smiled and reached for it, and in a blur of movement that was barely noticeable stepped forward and took the coffee from his hand before he could realize that she hadn't taken the sausage.

"I'm afraid my doctor has advised me to stay away from meat for the next month." She sipped from the mug, before turning to Roland again. "I thought you normally take it black."

"I need all the calories I can get before the mission." She stared at him for a second, then looked over to the massive corpse laying on a table in the center of the room. The body looked almost human, keyword being almost. It would have stood almost 12 ft tall with 2 leg joints, able to fold the lower set of joints to allow it to walk at only 8 ft tall instead. With 3 fingers and 2 thumbs, 1 of which was double-jointed and could be used as either a thumb or a pinky finger, the hands looked alien. That was without mentioning the spikes on the back of either arm, the blade under the wrist on the right arm, and a series of bone plates on the left arm that could slide down and form a shield. A pair of limbs extended out of its shoulders and a second set from the back of its waist, bent twice and resembling spider legs but ending in a thicker section as though it ended in a spearhead.

The chest was split open, with ribs sticking out, sternum raised up to allow its contents to get out. The cavity was large enough for a grown man to fit inside, with veins and muscles clearly visible. Roland stepped forward and reached in to grab a thick meaty cord with several sections of bone to protect it. He pulled out the pressed the base of the end of what looked to be a bone spike on the end, and it snapped open to reveal dozens of thin protrusions on the inside. He raised the cord and pressed it to the back of his neck, the flesh opening to allow the protrusions to make contact with his spinal cord.

The corpse on the table jolted like it was struck with electricity. A moment later it began to move, the arms lifting up over its strange head and picking up the tray of surgical tools waiting there. It raised the tools into place so Roland could easily access both them, and the section of the body he wanted to work on, in this case, its hips.

"Will you be ready?" The commander asked. Roland pretended not to notice her pull out a flask and pour a healthy serving of Irish cream, hold the cream, into the coffee before sliding it back up her sleeve.

"That depends on what you plan to ask me," Roland answered as he sliced into the hip. "I need to repair the socket for the hip joint, and the cartilage for the knee." He picked up a pair of forceps, or maybe they were retractors he really didn't know the difference, and opened the incision wider. He cut inside the incisions, then spread it wider, and then repeated the process, digging deeper each time so he could get to the actual joint. While a person could stare at those bloody bones for hours, he knew exactly where the weak spots were. He reached over to grab the small electric bone saw and began cutting away. "So what is it you want?"

The commander didn't answer, swirling the contents of the mug before taking a drink, then sighing deeply. "I need you to train our newest recruit." Roland stopped his work, looking up at the commander who stared into the mug. He pressed the saw back into the bone, grinding away with a shrill sound. Their team had room for 8 carriers, but Briggen, the carrier who got his ass kicked by the commander, had died 3 months prior. Roland had been the first one in the unit, and in his 4 years of service there had only been 13 carriers.

This wasn't necessarily because they had a high survival rate, but the lack of carriers in general. Potential carriers were 1 in ten thousand, which wouldn't have been so bad considering the population before the virus sat at somewhere around 400 million, but one would have to be exposed and survive to become a Carrier. That was usually the problem, as the process of going from human to a carrier was excruciatingly painful most people would either off themselves thinking they were turning zombie or get offed by others.

"How green is this new recruit?" Roland asked, taking the piece he'd cut free and setting it on the tray along with the bone saw. He grabbed a small tube of white paste and squeezed some out onto his fingers so he could mold it into shape to replace the piece he'd cut out.

"Still has that new baby smell." Roland dropped the tube on the tray, and just glared at the commander.

"You can't be serious. Do they at least have basic training?"

"None, and he'll be here in an hour."

"Are you kidding me?" Stop and whipped the hardened gel in his hand at the wall. "Seriously, are you messing with me right now?" The commander chugged the last of the coffee before setting the cup down.

"These orders come from the higher-ups." The commander said solemnly. "I can't do anything about them. Even worse, they are insisting that he go on the mission as well."

"No way. I can understand throwing a greenie to the wolves for a trial by fire, but there is no way in any rendition of hell that he survives an assault like that."

"I know. That's why I'm assigning him to you. He will be on that mission, even if you have to strap him to your back and carry him like cargo, and you will both come back alive."

"This is insane. Since when has command started dictating who participates in field ops? They've always been content in assigning the mission and leaving it to our discretion as to who goes and how we handle the situation."

"And that's the heart of the matter. This is senseless from the view of a soldier because this is a political play. By having the rookie join the mission they expect the mission to fail or the rookie to die, giving them grounds to dismiss me under the guise of being a poor leader that gets people under my control killed."

"And why not just tell them no?"

"Dismissal for refusing orders, we already accepted the contract before they dropped this on us."

"Can't we just call foul play?"

"The Senate wants all private units under direct military control. By dismissing me and claiming that private units are unreliable, it creates a precedent to assume control over all mercenary groups. They've already pulled strings to ensure that any claim we make falls on deaf ears."

"You're talking about placing everything outside the wall under the direct control of the Senate."

"The potential from there is rather grim. At best, they restrict all access and maintain direct control of the outlands, thus a tight grip on the nation through the economy. At worst, they might turn the outland settlements into colonies, siphoning resources and turning the people into little more than glorified slaves."

"You really think they would go so far?"

"The Senate has been pushing for this since the beginning, and the presidency has been fighting it just as long."

"But with the president dead…" Roland couldn't finish the sentence.

"With the president dead, the Senate needs only to make it look like something official before the next president can get a grasp of the situation."

"The nation is barely surviving, and they're fighting for power?"

"It's pathetic."

"And I'm sure that you have a plan to stop them." Roland said, instructing the corpse to place the tray of tools back on the table it came from before ripping the cord from his neck.

"Indeed I do. You'll take the rookie, get him ready, and complete the mission. The Senate will not have grounds to dismiss me, and the basis for the laws they're trying to push regarding independent activities beyond the wall will have no substantial backing with the council." Roland thought on that a moment. The council of cities consisted of the mayor of every large city that still existed, a replacement for the house of representatives the vast majority of which died, or shifted to the senate during the first wave and the subsequent chaos. The council had just as much control as the Senate, but as the council also focused on local issues the elected leaders tended to ignore the bigger picture. The Senate would need presidential or council approval to pass a new law, but the president had died 2 weeks prior and the next president was only just taking office. If the Senate could push a good case to the council before the new president could veto the law, then it could pass.

"If their case depends on a major mission like this failing, then why place the rookie in an attempt to dismiss you?"

"The Senate has more power and resources to use. The rookie dies, losing a valuable resource, they dismiss me and take over, then launch several small missions they trump up to look bigger than they actually are, without incurring losses."

"Making them seem more capable of leading forces. A weak argument at best but one I can see the council buying into. I still don't get why the senate would go after you, or how you know any of this stuff at all."

"I'm just collateral, in the way only because I'm the one who holds the position, and I won't just roll over to what they want. As to how I know… that'll have to stay my little secret." Roland smiled, knowing exactly what she was eluding to. "So what do you have planned to handle the situation?"

"What makes you think I have any plans at all?" Roland asked, trying to sound innocent. The commander chuckled slightly as she walked to the door, cane clacking along the way.

"We've been talking about this for nearly 10 minutes, of course you have a plan." Roland smiled at her as she opened the door, catching her smiling reflection as the door opened. "I give you full operational discretion and authority." The commander said as she stepped back into the corridor. "Don't let me down." With that, she walked away.

Roland took a breath, sighed heavily, then pressed a button on the table. The table quickly slid back into the wall as though it were a cadaver tray in a morgue. Before he walked out the already open door, he picked up the coffee mug and stared at it for a second, then threw it across the room in a fit of rage. The mug shattered, scattering pieces and a few drops of coffee across the floor.

Such a shame. He really liked that mug.