Reavers

CHAPTER 1: SETTING THE STAGE

"Are you kidding me?" Arthur asked no one in particular.

"I wish I was man," Ray responded, "but they lost by 2 points."

"Damnit," Arthur swore quietly, taking his wallet out and fishing a slightly crinkled 20-dollar bill. He slid it across the diner counter of the Waffle House they were sitting in.

"Another coffee, please," I asked the chubby and horribly-aging waitress as Ray pocketed the 20. She nodded with a smile and turned around to the coffee machines. "That's what you get for betting on fucking soccer."

"Hey," Arthur jabbed a piece of sausage with his fork and pointed it at me through Ray, "I thought it was a sure thing."

I snickered as the waitress poured my coffee, then took off to pick up a waffle-and-syrup spill. I glanced at my coffee, then decided against spiking it. It was only 8am, anyway. Ray, who was sitting between me and Arthur, was still grinning over his newfound bet winnings as he shoveled waffles in his mouth. Arthur was staring at his sausage and eggs, muttering something under his breath about some obscure player. I took a gulp of the coffee with my left hand, and as I realized I could taste the fact that the coffee was 2 days old, I caught a reflection of a man in a suit walk into the somewhat busy Waffle House. I rapped the middle knuckle of my right hand on the table, then laid my hand down on my leg. Arthur sat his fork down and pretended to wipe his mouth, while reaching under his jacket with his left as he pretended to look at his watch. Ray, saying fuck-all to subtly, straight up let his fork fall on the counter and jammed both hands into his jacket pockets. The man in the suit sat down next to me.

"You know," the man said, staring strait ahead at the stack of coffee machines and ceramic coffee mugs, "you guys really make my job hard."

"Good," I replied as I propped my left arm on the counter and turned towards him, sliding my right hand over to my right hip. "They told you what happened to the last guy who came for us, right?"

Before he could answer, Ray jumped in, "Or the dozen before him?"

"Yeah," the man replied with a smile, "but they didn't have a full tactical team surrounding this place."

I looked dead at him, as Ray and Arthur both leaned forward to look at him in disbelief. He finally looked at us, and goddamn he was young. The last 3 had been at least 25, but even with the government high-and-tight haircut this guy couldn't be old enough to drink legally.

"Kid," Arthur told him, leaning over the counter a little more as he slid his hand under his right armpit, gripping the pistol held in the holster there. "They had a full platoon of Rangers, plus a tank, last time they came after us."

The kids face turned pale and his entire body tensed up. His eyes filled with panic. Damn, I thought to myself as I saw this poor guy searching our faces for any sense of a bluff. But it was true, there had even been a Predator drone last time. Then, the kid made the last mistake of his already short life: he panicked.

"No!" I shouted as he attempted to go for the pistol in the holster on his hip. But even as I shouted, I was in motion. Moving so fast he never even realized what was happening, my hand shot to the small of my back and tore the Colt .45 Caliber 1911 from my waistband. I drew my pistol and stood up towards him, jamming it into his forehead. There was a hint of realization of what was happening in his eyes now, but as I pulled the trigger and the handgun bullet blew most of his brains all over the chubby waitress, his hand was still only halfway to his gun, and he died with only a small hint of fear. His head violently jerked back, jolting his body backwards and against the stool next to him.

As the body was falling, the diner froze. All conversation stopped, all movement came to a halt. Only the three of us had responded. I was standing where I was when I had ended that kid's life, Arthur had pulled his Smith and Wesson .44 revolver from under his arm and was aiming left down the counter, and Ray had spun 180 degrees as he pulled his pair of USPs from his jacket pockets and was covering behind us.

The entire diner was frozen in shocked disbelief. I could hear the coffee dripping from the coffee machines. Arthur hear the bacon being fried back in the kitchen. And Ray heard the sound of a grenade being launched from the parking lot.

"Down!" He shouted, diving over the counter. Arthur and I followed him, throwing ourselves across our breakfast and onto the floor on the other side of the aluminum-and-hardwood counter. As I landed on top of Ray and hit my head against the drain pipes from a sink, I heard glass break, and a second later, the entire room erupted in a blast of shrapnel and fire. I stayed balled up, as did the others, but with my enhanced hearing I heard the metal shards from the grenade tear through the soft flesh of the diner patrons. We all laid there for 2 seconds, waiting for the metal death storm to die off, before jumping up with our guns at the ready. The scene that greeted us was something out of a torture-porn movie.

Not a single person in the diner, other than us and the cooks in the back, were alive. The family of 4, the old couple, the 3 drunk guys, at least 2 dozen people shredded, their bodies now nothing but mangled pulp. I saw movement outside and fire 2 rounds at it. The person dropped to the ground, missing most of his head, and as someone else came up to help him Arthur blew his head clean off at the neck. Someone fired at us, so Ray dumped 4 rounds in his direction. We all heard 3 bodies hit the ground, but since the blinds were still slightly there, we only saw shadows and heard everything with our cursed enhanced hearing. We all ducked as a shitstorm of incoming fire tore into the wall behind where we had been standing a second before.

After that, we heard footsteps, then a loud and familiar voice shout something that made all of us tense with rage and anticipation.

"Reavers!" the man shouted, "Stand down!"

"Fuck," we all swore in unison. I could hear the footsteps of someone in dress shoes walking through the puddles of blood and broken glass outside, getting closer until the door of the diner opened. The person stopped in the door.

"Gentlemen," the man ordered in a commanding voice, "as your commanding officer I order you to all drop your weapons and stand down."

"Fuck off Davis!" Ray shouted, attempting to stand up. Arthur grabbed him and forced him back down as a bullet from a sniper tore into the counter top.

"That's no way to talk to your commanding officer, Sergeant Charlesworth," Captain Jean Davis responded, still standing in the door.

"I thought we told you to leave us alone," I proclaimed as I reached into my front right pocket and fished a pack of smokes out. As I was shaking one loose, Arthur was reloading the round he had fired.

"And I warned you of what would happen to you, Corporal Hudson, and everyone around you if you tried to get out," Davis responded. He was still standing still, but Ray could hear more footsteps outside, along with the sound of the slide of a Barrett M107 being sent home. He waved his hand to get our attention, then made a punching motion. We all slid down the counter, and not even a half second later a massive .50 caliber round tore through the spot I had been not too long ago.

"That's not your call!" I shouted angrily as I put my smoke to my mouth and sparked the lighter that had been in my cigarette pack.

"It way always my call," Davis said, taking one step in the door. Another .50 round hit home, just a few inches from Rays head. Looking at him he had his eyes closed, lost deep in thought. As he heard the sniper adjust his scope 1 click, he opened his eyes and pressed the USP in his right hand against the back of the counter. He squeezed the trigger, and the millisecond after we heard the round tear through the counter, we heard the sniper's scope explode, followed by the sound of a human skull exploding.

"Not anymore, its not," I took a drag, then fished a half-stick of dynamite out of my other pocket. I took a big drag, then lit the 5-second fuse with the cherry of my menthol.

One Thousand One

"Are you sure about that?" Davis asked, starting to sweat the lack of sniper cover, "because-"

One Thousand Two

"-I think Arthur's son and Ray's wife-"

One Thousand Three

"-would beg to differ."

One Thousand Four

I ripped the explosive stick over the counter at the last second, and the second before it exploded Arthur heard it impact Davis square in the chest.