Free Operation Sea Mink by Addison Gunn Page A

past them, hands on their sidearms.
    As they neared the far end of the tunnel, the customary light at the end of the path proved non-existent. Instead, more darkness loomed. They exited the underpass with sighs of relief, and made their way to the left, toward the darkness of Hell’s Kitchen.
    It wouldn’t be long, Miller hoped. The worst was surely behind them.
     
     
    W HAT SHOULD HAVE been a three-hour walk turned into three days.
    They searched for food and water the first night, dodged communes the following day, only to come across a pack of terror-jaws the morning after that, and swooping titan-birds that same afternoon. Before long, Miller and the others found themselves out of ammunition, still miles from the compound, with swollen feet and sunken bellies, disheartened and beyond exhausted.
    The closer they came to the compound, the more swarms of large, aggressive wasps attacked around every bend. Gas masks seemed to keep the wasps at bay, although the obscured visibility made navigating the treacherous streets all the more perilous and didn’t stop them from being continually stung.
    Whatever plans Harris had had for the super-wasps seemed to have gone awry, Miller surmised. He highly doubted they’d included flocks of venomous wasps attacking people’s faces at random. Hell, maybe they had. Miller couldn’t imagine that the NAPA-33-infused bugs had done what they were supposed to have done. It was like walking into a huge hive.
    Closer still, and Infected communes seemed to multiply. Skating around them, hiding in buildings as gangly-looking squads of Infected passed, slowed Cobalt’s sluggish trek even further.
    Finally, their fingers blistered and raw from carrying the crate across the city, they arrived at the compound’s southern refugee processing gate—only to discover that it was shut. Chains with padlocks secured the gate and with no guards to protect them, it looked outright abandoned.
    Miller peered through the chain-link, but soon the wasps were at him and he had no choice but to put his mask back on. Even with the naked eye, he couldn’t make out anything inside the walls, other than deserted shanties and cold, fireless barrels where people had once stood to stay warm.
    They had better luck at the central gate, several blocks to the north. Two guards stood at the entrance, which had once been the station for a half-dozen soldiers.
    “Oh, thank God,” Morland breathed.
    Miller, sensing there were probably more than the two guards, left Morland and Hsiung in a nearby alley with the crate and took du Trieux with him.
    As they approached, both guards, wearing gas masks as well, eyed the advancing pair and raised their weapons. “Halt!” they shouted.
    Miller stopped cold.
    “Identify yourselves!” the guard on the right bellowed.
    “Hands in the air!” the other barked.
    Carefully, Miller and du Trieux held their hands in front of them. Miller wasn’t surprised they couldn’t identify who they were: their uniforms were practically falling off them. It was probably the only reason they hadn’t been shot on sight.
    “Identify yourselves!” the first guard ordered again.
    “Who’s in command here?” Miller demanded. “Who is your commanding officer?”
    “We asked you a question,” the guard snapped.
    Miller’s eyes scanned the guards. There were no insignias on their lapels, no security squad identifiers. “What squad are you from?”
    The guards, with the lightest of motions, lowered their rifles. “Who are you?”
    “We’ve been out in the field a while,” Miller explained. “Who’s your commanding officer?”
    The second guard lowered his rifle. “How long you guys been gone, man? Didn’t you hear?”
    “Hear what?”
    “There aren’t any squads anymore.”
    Miller felt his face go numb. “Since when?”
    “Since Harris is running the show. Where the hell have you been, dude? Under a rock?”
    Beside him, du Trieux shifted on her feet.
    “Hey!” the first