The Forum

"The fence!" The shouting voice of the Green Shirt stood apart from the mayhem, attracting Spearhead's attention. With a spine-chilling creak, the fence began to collapse under the immense weight of the roiling mass of undead ghouls. The bending of the steel posts added to the terrifying noises as the grotesque figures tumbled forth, their yellow eyes gleaming with mindless hunger. Spearhead darted through the chaos, his heart pounding as he made his way to the Green Shirt, a Specialist assigned to perimeter guard. "Specialist!" he called out urgently. The guard fired at the writhing mass. "Specialist, we've gotta go," Spearhead said, raising his weapon and firing into the group of zombies. The Specialist briefly acknowledged Spearhead's presence as he dropped the empty magazine from his rifle and smacked another one home. The two men hustled away from the breached perimeter just as the first zombie gathered its footing, lurching forward, arms outstretched, jaw distended, eyes glazed yellow. The growing mob advanced, their groans turning to ravenous howls. Gunfire came from every direction. Spearhead knew the threat wasn't just from the horde. A stray bullet was as much a threat. "Watch our six!" Spearhead called out to the Specialist. He quickly shifted his rifle to the rear, ensuring nothing could sneak behind them. "Where we going?" The Specialist called out over the bark of gunfire. "Anywhere with walls," Spearhead replied. The pair kept firing, reloading with practiced efficiency, working toward the nearest building. Suddenly, the screech of tires ripped through the air, and a deuce-and-a-half skidded to a stop nearby, sending clouds of dust swirling in the air. The two-and-a-half-ton M35 had a canvas cover over the truck's bed. The driver, a rugged-looking Green Shirt clad in tactical gear, leaned out the window and shouted over the gunfire and groans, "Get in!" The pair wasted no time, dashing toward the truck and scrambling into the back. Spearhead only took his finger off the trigger of his weapon when he reloaded. The moment they were aboard, the driver sped off. Spearhead turned, finding the truck packed with support personnel, a mix of faces he recognized but couldn't name. All eyes were on him. He was an elite operator; these folks were office staff, paper pushers, and they'd never seen real action. The truck's motor rumbled angrily, and the sound of crunching and squelching reached them as they bounced around the cargo compartment. Spearhead turned from the expectant stares, steadied himself, and fired at the nearest zombie. The Specialist joined him. "Target the closest ones!" Spearhead shouted. "Copy that!" the Specialist shifted his fire toward the infected nearest the escaping vehicle. They continued firing until they ran empty. The ride smoothed out shortly afterward. The last of the zombies disappeared in the distance. Looking in every direction, Spearhead could see plumes of dark smoke rising, darkening the sky. He could hear small arms fire, even over the rumble of the truck's big engine. The Escalante Desert in Utah was selected for the Joe Team's new headquarters following the catastrophic loss of the original base on Staten Island. The location had been chosen, in large part, due to its remote setting and sparse population. As Spearhead surveyed the horizon, taking in the number of fires sending smoke into the sky, it looked like the entire population had been infected. Spearhead took a final look around the cargo bed of the truck before his body gave in to sheer exhaustion, and he crumpled to the floor. His eyelids fluttered closed, and as darkness welcomed him, he heard the soft murmur of whispered conversations. He also listened to the faint sounds of several people quietly sobbing. As he sat on the hard floor, arms wrapped around his knees, he felt his body relax. The wave of adrenaline that had propelled him through the events finally flushed from his system. He awoke with a start as the truck came to a shuddering stop. Instinct kicked in, and he whipped his rifle up, aiming out the back of the covered truck bed. The Specialist he had rescued sat across from him. "What's going on?" Spearhead asked, his voice just above a whisper. "Not sure," the Specialist replied. Spearhead heard the heavy thud of the truck slamming shut, followed by the crunching of footsteps on the gravel road. "Hey, everyone out," came the driver's voice. He moved to the back of the vehicle, positioning himself so his back faced the open cargo area, his rifle aimed cautiously into the dense woods bordering the road. "We're out of gas. Gotta go on foot from here." Spearhead signaled to the Specialist beside him, "Hop down, then cover." The Specialist did as ordered, expertly lowering himself from the rear of the truck and raising his weapon, his eyes scouring the surroundings for threats. Spearhead lowered himself down, rifle still at the ready. Spearhead glanced back over his shoulder into the cargo area. "Is anyone else armed?" Several people raised their hands hesitantly. "Great, get out here, and let's secure the area." One by one, they exited the truck, each gripping a pistol. "No one else grabbed a rifle?" Spearhead asked. "No, Sir," replied a shaken-looking Private First Class as he nervously watched the treeline. Spearhead studied the faces of those emerging: a mix of Privates, PFCs, and a Specialist. His eyes landed on the driver, a Sergeant, noting no officers were present. He turned toward the anxious PFC, "I'm not an officer, Private; I'm just a Staff Sergeant." "Well, Staff Sergeant, you're the highest-ranking person here. I'm pretty sure that makes you in charge," the Specialist he rescued said, still scanning the area with his weapon. Spearhead tilted his head, "I didn't catch your name," lowering his weapon just a fraction but remaining alert. "Specialist Dube," came the reply, "most people call me Rollbar." He straightened as he said his name. Spearhead noted the display of confidence. Spearhead turned to the driver, "What about you?" "Sergeant Jivoin. Most just call me Switch Gears," he responded, eyes roving the perimeter. "What were your roles at the base?" Switch Gears answered quickly, "I was just waiting to find out if I made the Joe Team." "Same," Roll Bar chimed in. "Well, you're on the Team now," Spearhead said earnestly. You're my squad leaders. Shake these folks out and organize them as you see fit." Although both men were still watching for enemies, Spearhead's words had caught them off guard, momentarily disrupting their focus. "I'll take watch. You two get to work." In response, Switch Gears and Rollbar quickly lowered their weapons, nodding respectfully at Spearhead before turning their attention to organizing the other survivors. The two men moved swiftly, talking with each person, attempting to identify strengths and weaknesses. They wasted no time and soon had their squads assembled. "Staff Sergeant, we've got them organized," Switch Gears declared. "Great. Take watch," Spearhead turned his attention from monitoring for threats to assessing those now under his command: Pvt Steinberg, a motor transport operator with the unmistakable demeanor of someone who had grown up in the shadow of his father, Clutch; Pvt Smith, a unit supply specialist appeared more reserved and timid; PFC Quinn, an intelligence analyst with a sharp mind and sharper wit; PFC O'Hara, another intelligence analyst and Scarlett's niece; and lastly Specialist Williams, also a unit supply specialist. The terror of seeing their teammates and comrades fall under the gnashing teeth of the undead had taken its toll. As they stood there, something inside them began to change as the truth settled over them. Of the six other survivors on the duece-and-a-half, only three grabbed a weapon during the chaos of their escape. Spearhead unholstered his sidearm and handed it to PFC Quinn, and she accepted it with a nod. "Thank you, Staff Sergeant." "It's just Spearhead," he said, reassuringly nodding. He turned to see Switch Gears and Rollbar following his lead, handing their pistols to the unarmed squad members. When he looked at the group, all eyes were on him. The fear he had seen before was all but erased, leaving a fierce determination behind. Taking a step forward, he addressed them all, "Look, I can't sugarcoat this, we're in the shit. It's bad. We have limited firepower and even more limited ammo." He paused, taking a deep breath before continuing, "What I need next is a complete inventory of what we have left. I want exact counts: bullets, magazines, canteens - hell, even pocket knives." His gaze shifted to the looming figure of the deuce-and-a-half, its battered body showing the scars of their hasty escape, "I want you to strip anything we can use of the deuce. Focus on improvised weapons and anything that can be used to create shelter." Turning to Rollbar, he added, "You pick someone to work security with you. I want to be out of here in 20 minutes or less." Over the years, the group stayed together, enduring challenges that had torn other groups apart. They became each other's pillars of strength, drawing resilience from their experiences as they navigated the brutal and unforgiving apocalyptic world. Each day was a new battle for survival; they scavenged for anything that could sustain them—food, medicine, and weapons. They honed their combat skills and strategic thinking, learning to anticipate threats and adapt to the ever-changing dangers around them. By the time Spearhead stumbled upon another member of the Joe Team, his two squads were fine-tuned combat veterans. These were no longer the frightened individuals they once were; they had faced innumerable hordes of ravenous zombies, fought off wild-eyed marauders, and lived to tell the tales.

Claymore had finally carved out some much-needed rest and relaxation amid the lush landscape of Southeast Asia. For several days, he had reveled in the sun-kissed paradise, lounging on the warm, golden sands of a secluded beach. With a refreshing tropical drink in hand - complete with a tiny paper umbrella - he let the rhythmic sounds of the waves wash away the burdens of his past missions. The tranquil scene, however, was abruptly shattered when, from the corner of his, he noticed a figure stumbling down the coast. At first, he thought it was just another drunken tourist. However, as they drew closer, he could see blood staining their bare chest. He watched as the blood-soaked man latched onto another unsuspecting guest and sank his teeth into his throat. Claymore's adrenaline kicked in, and he sprang into action, sprinting down the beach to assist. He immediately attempted to arrange a flight back stateside, but the sudden crisis had grounded all flights. He hurried to the embassy, where he was given a place on an evacuation chopper along with other military members who had been in the country. The helicopter was headed for an army base, where they would take a transport home. However, their journey came to an abrupt end when their helicopter was suddenly targeted and shot down, plummeting from the skies. When he regained consciousness hours later, he awoke to a nightmare. The world around him was spiraling into total collapse. What had taken weeks or months to unfold in other regions of the globe had descended upon this small country in a dizzying whirlwind, unraveling the fabric of society in a single, horrifying day. It took him years to finally complete the arduous journey back home. When he finally arrived, the United States was unrecognizable. It appeared as a hollow shell of its former self. The vibrant cities he knew were now in crumbling ruins, the shadows alive with the undead, searching for their next victim. As he stood amid the destruction, his heart sank with the cold realization that his family had vanished, swallowed by the turmoil that had overtaken the nation. Though he wouldn't admit it, he clung to the fragile hope that they were out there, maybe even in the protection offered by New Springfield. The government had disintegrated, leaving power vacuums and feuding factions that fought for control over resources. G.I. Joe was nowhere to be found, and everywhere he turned, chaos reigned. Lawlessness and desperation were the rules of the land. In a last bid for survival, he trekked deep into the wilderness, away from population centers. He stuck to the shadows, the path less traveled. Still, despite his best efforts, he crossed paths with other refugees who shared similar ideas on surviving in this new world. During these brief moments of peace, while sitting around small fires, he heard tales that offered purpose—stories of people he recognized as Joes standing up for the weak. Other times, he heard rumors of cures. As a military officer, he took it upon himself to take on a new mission. Find other Joes. Find the cure.

Muskrat had been immersed in an intense training exercise with the Brazilian military deep within the heart of the Amazon rainforest. Due to a complete communication blackout, they were cut off from the outside world, leaving them unaware of the growing global unrest. In the days leading up to their operation, the unit Muskrat was training watched as sporadic news reports detailed localized rioting and civil discontent in various regions. Although concerning, these disturbances were unsettling yet not entirely unexpected in certain parts of the world. With years of experience dealing with similar issues, the Brazilian troops dismissed the reports as ordinary occurrences. His first indication that something was wrong came when a seemingly disoriented and frantic group of people burst out of the dense undergrowth. They stumbled over gnarled roots and thick branches, their clothes bloody and torn, and their faces contorted in anger. But what captured Muskrat's attention was their erratic behavior. Upon seeing Muskrat's men, the disoriented mob turned. Their arms reached out, their fingers grasping at the air. They let out growls that raised the hair on the back of his neck. The first person attacked was the medic assigned to the unit. They had approached the nearest injured person, a woman covered in dark ichor. The medic had reached out when the woman sank her teeth deep into his hand. Muskrat watched as the medic faltered, a distant glaze overtaking his eyes. The transformation happened quickly; the medic became disoriented and aggressive, his body jerking uncontrollably. Within minutes, the medic had succumbed to the virus that coursed through his veins. In a contagious frenzy, he bit his assistant. From there, the virus spread like wildfire. Muskrat escaped into the jungle, the howls of the infected following him. When he finally came to a tributary of the Amazon, he dove in. The undead sloshed into the water behind him. The cold, dark waters slowed the ghouls enough for Muskrat to make his escape. Once he had escaped the immediate threat and fought back to civilization, Muskrat found himself in a similar situation to Claymore; all flights were grounded, the Embassy staff and military personnel had been evacuated, and pandemonium was all around. Muskrat decided to retreat into the dense jungle and head north. By day, he trudged through the steamy jungle, working his way home, while at night, he sought refuge in the canopy of the towering trees. More than once, he watched from his hiding spots as horrid undead creatures ravaged nearby villages, their terrifying shrieks mixing with the panicked sounds of the living. Eventually, the lush greenery gave way to changing scenery and civilization. The cities of Central America had become death traps, overrun by the undead. He made sure to provide the towns as wide a berth as possible, even if it did add time to his escape. His journey led him to the harsh expanse of the desert. The sun beat down on him mercilessly during the day, while a bone-chilling cold took hold of him at night. He would not have made it if he had not stumbled upon the rusted pick-up that miraculously started right up. Scavenging fuel became a critical mission, occupying his time, helping him traverse the vast emptiness of the desert, and putting him closer to home. Crossing into Texas, he had hoped the situation was different in the Land of the Free. However, what he found was the Land of the Undead. Every border town was overrun, and the millions of firearms in Texas had done little to stem the tide of the zombie infection. He headed east, towards Louisiana. Arriving in his hometown, Muskrat was heartbroken to find it overrun and unrecognizable, the populace swallowed by the nightmare creatures. Turning to his training, Muskrat sought refuge in the swamp. The threat of snakes and gators seemed quaint compared to the horrors of the undead.