Heart of Annihilation Read Online Free
Author: C.R. Asay
garbage can like this once in their life. Candy wrappers, banana peels, coffee grounds, no idea. Ick. I wiped the sticky residue onto my cargo pocket and pulled a handful of papers from the bottom. I held my penlight between my teeth and unfolded the first paper from the crinkly wad. A memo about the forthcoming Independence Day parade, then junk mail, junk mail, junk mail, and a coupon for half off an entrée at some restaurant in Arizona. Weird, but not interesting or incriminating.
Although, now that I thought about it, there were those two disappearances around Fort Huachuca in Arizona . . .
Among the information hidden in my wall locker there was a list of message traffic printed from an old dot matrix printer. This particular paper had only been relevant to me.
The DLA has identified RETHA activity on the outskirts of Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Advise military personnel to avoid the north-western ranges for the following dates:
The dates listed had been twelve random days during the summer months one year ago. But now on the same day, in the same office, I’d found the RETHA coin and a coupon for half off an entrée in an Arizona restaurant.
I rolled my neck and rubbed at the ache in my head. I’d been to Fort Huachuca several times now, and could picture the small, pink diner belonging to the coupon. It was just north of the base, and famous for its home-cooked meals. Was there a connection?
It was a bit of a stretch. I swallowed back my frustration.
The penlight bobbed in my mouth. The red glow flashed across the walls and floors—and several dozen ammo cans stacked behind the door.
They weren’t here earlier. Empty, no doubt. They had to be empty, or filled with ear plugs, or baseball cards, or chewing gun, or . . . ammo.
The flashlight fell from my mouth and buried itself in the trash, plunging me into darkness. I sat back on my heels and stared unseeing in the direction of the door, my heart hammering. This was far from what I’d expected. In fact, it would hinder any momentum I’d already gained.
I felt through the revolting contents of the trash to find the penlight, muttering under my breath about Justet and his biohazard-of-a-garbage-can. When I found it, I aimed the red light back at the stack of cans.
Silence stretched before me. The cans sat in all their solid glory, taunting me to do something about them.
My hands were numb and I kept clenching them in an attempt to return feeling. I could scarcely snap open the can on top. The mystery guck from the garbage made me fumble with the lid and the whole container capsized with a thundering crash.
A strike of energy scorched across my nerves, returning feeling to my fingers. I shook out my hands while staring at the contents of the can. Small brown boxes, no larger than a deck of cards, spilled from the open mouth and littered the floor at my feet.
I picked up a box, pulled out a line of M-16 rounds, and plucked one from the clip. Even in the red light, I could see the tip was painted—orange if I were to guess—making it a tracer round.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at the contents. How many of these boxes had I held in my military career? Hundreds? Thousands? They were about as common as a sandwich. However, unlike sandwiches, they were usually in a heavily secured, armored room; or taken from a strongbox directly to the firing range or ammo dump site. They were never stacked behind a door in an unlocked office of a young lieutenant.
I counted twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six other cans.
What was Justet doing with twenty-seven cans full of live ammunition?
The main armory door opened with a paralyzing squeal, slightly muffled considering the distance. An electrical charge jolted down my spine. I crammed the line of rounds back into the box with shaking fingers and then tried to shove the whole thing into my pocket. My fingers refused to work right. The box fell onto the spilled ammo can with a loud thunk.
I pressed the crook of my
Although, now that I thought about it, there were those two disappearances around Fort Huachuca in Arizona . . .
Among the information hidden in my wall locker there was a list of message traffic printed from an old dot matrix printer. This particular paper had only been relevant to me.
The DLA has identified RETHA activity on the outskirts of Fort Huachuca, Arizona. Advise military personnel to avoid the north-western ranges for the following dates:
The dates listed had been twelve random days during the summer months one year ago. But now on the same day, in the same office, I’d found the RETHA coin and a coupon for half off an entrée in an Arizona restaurant.
I rolled my neck and rubbed at the ache in my head. I’d been to Fort Huachuca several times now, and could picture the small, pink diner belonging to the coupon. It was just north of the base, and famous for its home-cooked meals. Was there a connection?
It was a bit of a stretch. I swallowed back my frustration.
The penlight bobbed in my mouth. The red glow flashed across the walls and floors—and several dozen ammo cans stacked behind the door.
They weren’t here earlier. Empty, no doubt. They had to be empty, or filled with ear plugs, or baseball cards, or chewing gun, or . . . ammo.
The flashlight fell from my mouth and buried itself in the trash, plunging me into darkness. I sat back on my heels and stared unseeing in the direction of the door, my heart hammering. This was far from what I’d expected. In fact, it would hinder any momentum I’d already gained.
I felt through the revolting contents of the trash to find the penlight, muttering under my breath about Justet and his biohazard-of-a-garbage-can. When I found it, I aimed the red light back at the stack of cans.
Silence stretched before me. The cans sat in all their solid glory, taunting me to do something about them.
My hands were numb and I kept clenching them in an attempt to return feeling. I could scarcely snap open the can on top. The mystery guck from the garbage made me fumble with the lid and the whole container capsized with a thundering crash.
A strike of energy scorched across my nerves, returning feeling to my fingers. I shook out my hands while staring at the contents of the can. Small brown boxes, no larger than a deck of cards, spilled from the open mouth and littered the floor at my feet.
I picked up a box, pulled out a line of M-16 rounds, and plucked one from the clip. Even in the red light, I could see the tip was painted—orange if I were to guess—making it a tracer round.
I shouldn’t have been surprised at the contents. How many of these boxes had I held in my military career? Hundreds? Thousands? They were about as common as a sandwich. However, unlike sandwiches, they were usually in a heavily secured, armored room; or taken from a strongbox directly to the firing range or ammo dump site. They were never stacked behind a door in an unlocked office of a young lieutenant.
I counted twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six other cans.
What was Justet doing with twenty-seven cans full of live ammunition?
The main armory door opened with a paralyzing squeal, slightly muffled considering the distance. An electrical charge jolted down my spine. I crammed the line of rounds back into the box with shaking fingers and then tried to shove the whole thing into my pocket. My fingers refused to work right. The box fell onto the spilled ammo can with a loud thunk.
I pressed the crook of my