In the pre-dawn hours, the garage of the makeshift Joe base thrummed with life as the team prepared to depart. Shadows danced along the weathered walls, cast by the flickering light of fixtures that swung gently in the cool morning breeze. The mood was heavy with anticipation and an undercurrent of anxiety; as the reality of their mission settled in, a heavy silence punctuated by quiet conversation filled the space.
Bulleit checks everyone's first aid kit. As one of only three members to have served in the military and the only member other than Falcon to have served with G.I. Joe, she is keenly aware of the hell storm they will be entering. She has seen Cobra's ruthless methods up close and personal. After checking each person, she quickly inspects the triage and surgery suite. She's always had an infirmary. It was the first thing she set up when they chose this location. Now it's more. It's become a triage center with a surgical suite.
She was glad she had insisted they establish a Forward Operating Base nearer the battle location. They planned to stop there so she could stock it with everything she could spare. The FOB would be the first stop in the medivac to allow her to stabilize anyone seriously injured. She and Bumble Bee would be responsible for their transport and care. Thinking about it, she was glad to have Forge, Smith, and Mother backing her up as additional combat medics if necessary. Before turning off the light, she crossed herself and silently offered her version of the Combat Medic's Prayer.
Oh, Lord, I ask for your divine
strength to meet the demands of
my profession. Help me to be the
finest medic, both technically and
tactically.
As I am called to the
battlefield, give me the courage to
conserve our fighting forces by
providing medical care to all who
are in need.
Teach me to trust in your
presence and never-failing love.
AMEN
The Joes pass one another as they go in and out of the garage loaded with gear. As they walked through, each paused to absorb their surroundings, knowing that this could be the last time they would stand in a place that had transformed from a simple shelter into a cherished home over the years. Memories flooded back, echoes of laughter shared over scavenged meals, late-night guard duty beneath a blanket of stars, and bonds forged in adversity during the harrowing days of the ZomPoc. These moments are etched on their souls. A bittersweet reminder of the struggles they had endured and the friendships that blossomed within these walls.
"All right, Joes," Falcon resolutely looks to his team, "it's time. Saddle up."
The group splits to their designated transportation. Engines fire up, rumbling in the dark. The blades of the Little Bird let out a whine as they warm up for flight.
The small convoy rumbled steadily across uneven terrain, the darkness offering a welcome cover. The air was crisp, and a morning breeze brought a chill, sending cold beads of sweat down the Joes' backs.
Beachcomber took the lead. Guiding the convoy through the twists and turns of their carefully mapped route. Drifter and Bowyer were his only occupants. He and Bumble Bee had long ago given up replicating the throaty roaring sounds of Earth engines. Instead, they ran in near silence. For this mission, the group decided to drive using night vision optics. The two Autobots could drive through nearly any condition without needing light. The humans, meanwhile, relied on various NODs (Night Optical Devices).
Behind Beachcomber, the sound of dirt bikes fills the air like a primal anthem, despite the dangers their exhaust packing had been removed. Mother, Forge, and Smith rode with skill. And were on high alert, weaving deftly through patches of overgrown foliage and rubble from times past, with an agility born from countless missions into the unknown.
A heavily packed quad trailed closely behind, with Scrounge at the controls and Greaser sitting behind him. Her weapon was slung at her side, knocking against her with every jagged bump. The vehicle's powerful engine growled like a beast. Scrounge's hands were steady on the grips. Greaser constantly scanned the surroundings for signs of trouble. She tapped Scrounge on the shoulder and pointed to the wood line. Shadows stumbled in the dark forest, awoken by the sounds of the darkened convoy.
Bringing up the rear was Bumble Bee. Throttle was behind the wheel, though the Autobot was doing the driving. Falcon rode shotgun, with Bulleit, Ground, and his big dog Pound crammed into the backseat. The dust kicked up by those in front of him blended with the aged matte yellow of his exterior.
Overhead, the Little Bird was the team's early warning system. Sparrow sat as the pilot with Hook as the co-pilot, monitoring all vital gauge readings. Wrench Bender was stationed on the door-mounted .50 cal. As they flew further from the safe haven of the base, Sparrow began a delicate dance of staying below enemy radar and high enough to avoid drawing too many undead to the group below.
As the vehicles maneuvered through the landscape, the Joes remained acutely aware of their surroundings. The looming threat of Cobra was far from the only danger they faced; the rumbling of their engines dislodged the stillness of the dawn, seducing the undead. Shadows began to shuffle toward the source, their vacant eyes fixed on the path of the intruders.
Time was not on their side, and the Joes had no intention of stopping to confront any of the amassing horde. With a grim determination, they continued, Beachcomber and Bumble Bee strategically plowing through any undead unfortunate enough to cross their paths. Each encounter was swift and harsh, the twisted bodies of the undead crumbling beneath the weight of the vehicles, leaving nothing but scattered remains in their wake.
The impending battle loomed like a storm cloud, heavy with menace, yet the Joes pressed on. Each mile gained was a step closer to their goal, a promise of hope amidst the pandemonium that reigned beyond their carefully guarded sanctuary.
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