A Bible is placed in front of me by a member of the “Committee”.
“Swear an oath, to tell the truth,” says the leader, “The whole truth, or so help you God.”

I smirk.
“Sorry, I’m an atheist,” I say, “That wouldn’t be right of me.”

“You trespass on our land, armed and bearing badges of a foreign country,” said the loud and fat member, “And now you tell us that you are a pagan son of a bitch who doesn’t believe in the Almighty?”
I shrug.

“Execute this bastard and send him to hell where he belongs,” replies the fat bastard very seriously.
I get quickly up from the stand in the stifling hot courtroom. The guards quickly train their rifles on me. I grin, and sit back down again.
“No, I think we have to hear this,” says the leader, sitting where a judge normally would, “regardless of his crimes and … immoral disposition.”

I am not particularly listening.
Several thoughts are buzzing around in my mind, distracting me from the conversation. Most of them consist of uselessness like, “Fuck this shithole,” “Who are these damn nobodies?” and “When the hell are they going to come?!”

“Sir, like I said, state your name for the record,” says the leader, apparently repeating himself, although I’m not sure.

“Tom Barry,” I say.

“And your allegiance?” prompts the leader.

“European Union Nordic Task Force,” I say, “But that’s just my day job.”
Whispers and conversation break out after that. Amusing.
Fatboy is laughing his arse off. The leader remains silent.

“You’re fulla shit,” says Fatboy, “No way you pussies would come over here.”
The leader interrupts my reply.

“Alright, so you are military as your uniform indicates,” asks the leader, “Rank?
“’Lefteanant-Chornal’” I say, “Lieutenant-Colonel.”

“Alright Tom, tell us from the start,” he says, “Your story seems pretty far-fetched.”
It’s only far-fetched to you lot,” I shout, “Release me, I am not a threat to you.”

“Get on with it,” the leader insists, “Or I’ll chuck you in the jail with your friends permanently.”
“It will take a while,” I say, “A long while.”
“We have all the time in the world,” he replies.

“Fine,” I state, “I’ll give you a little background first if you don’t mind.”
“Do,” replied the leader, “We heard nothing after November 2nd.”



The infection started in European Russia sometime in late October, spreading from there to Eastern Europe, Central Asia and the US. The incubation period for the virus was initially seven days, or so I was told by the Doc. You know, the one you have locked up? The effects of the infection on the human body during its first stages were curious enough to cause several patients to be flown to the US for study. Bad idea.

Soon afterwards, the virus mutated, causing its incubation period to reduce to a few minutes, increasing its effects massively and changing its form from airborne to blood-borne.

At first, the unusual behaviour of the infected was put down to a public order problem.
Their activity was not observed until later, so the appropriate response to a mass riot was organised in Eastern European countries. However, the response teams and units soon became infected themselves. Perhaps you remember the footage of that reporter in Estonia being attacked? You know, the one where the camera gets dropped and she is seen being eaten by a cop?

After that, it became clear that it was a bigger issue than just mass riots.
The newly signed Treaty of Dublin emergency clauses were immediately enacted, and all European military forces came under one command. You Americans may remember hearing about it before you lost contact. The infection in Europe had reached Eastern Poland, Finland, Sweden, Norway and was well on its way into the Balkans. At the same time, it had reached the Middle East, China, and had started to spread rapidly here in the US.

The Parliament decided the Rhine and the Alps to be the Frontier where a defence against the infection would be made.

“What parliament?” asks the leader, interrupting me.
“The European parliament,” I reply.
He mulls over it for a second, then tells me to continue.

The day after, the Pyrenees were added to the list as it became clear that Spain and Portugal had been overrun as well. About sixty thousand Spanish troops made it to North of their country, and were holding nicely.

The Brits had quite a few outbreaks, but rapid response units set up to deal with terrorism controlled them, and they got the situation under control pretty quick.

The Italians had been pushed back to the Alps, although they were not short in numbers. Italian thinking was along the lines that they could retreat, let the infected batter the Alp line, and then counterattack. That said, a large force was also left in Taranto, to guard the naval docks and industry there. The USS Mount Whitney was seized by the Italian navy in Gaeta before that, I think they renamed it Manzini.

Mainland Greece had been overrun after an unsuccessful defence of the Corinthian Isthmus. They evacuated their remaining troops to Crete and their islands. They’re still there, last I heard, they were being supplied from France.

Ukraine was one of the first countries to act upon the virus, and a safe zone had been established in the Crimea. However, it lost most of its military rescuing its citizens. Israel held all their territories initially, as did Palestine. I guess all those checkpoints held the spread of the virus at bay very effectively.

Iraq created a safe area between the Euphrates and the Tigris. Iran has held out well, but I'd say Israel will turn them into a glass bowl soon if they already haven't.

“What about Ireland?” says the leader, “Your uniforms’ badges were mostly Irish.”
“Who gives a shit, he’s full of it!” shouts the fat committee associate.
“Basically, the same sort of thing that happened in the UK, happened with us as well,” I reply, ignoring the idiot, “Except our infection rate was tiny. By the time it had reached us, proper protocol was already in place.”

Now for the important part.
Up in the North, two pockets of resistance had formed in Norway.
In Oslo, the Norwegians refused to give up their capital, but were eventually convinced to do so by the British. However, it is in Narvik, way up North where it truly began.

Around eighty thousand troops from Norway, Sweden and Finland had made their way to Narvik for evacuation. Another Dunkirk in the making. Ironically, it was left to the British to evacuate them, but it wasn’t organised until December. I was there.

By the time we got there, they were running out of ammo, as bad weather kept planes out of the air. Thousands of infected came in groups, erratically. Some days there were no attacks, others swarms came at the defence areas. It took a month to evacuate them, and by then, the line was practically made of paper.
Breaches were being made all over the place. We got most of them out.



By the time Narvik was evacuated, the refugees were too much for Europe to house on a long term basis.
At the same time, contact with the US had been lost, and US forces in Europe were largely infected or detained.
The last reports from the US indicated that the Eastern Seaboard had been largely overwhelmed, and that the hordes were moving West.

The bigwigs weren't going to sit there. They immediately issued a declaration called the Cortés Doctrine.
To put it short, the point behind it was to seize key industrial and agricultural areas of North America. New colonialism.
Not a protest was seen across the survivor territories. The overcrowding and strain on food production was too much.

So, three Task Forces were formed.
The Anglo-French Escort Force would escort us to shore, and provide support for the first few miles.
The Anglo-Spanish-Italian-Greek Amphibious Task Force would land our troops onto American soil, and secure the landing area.
Ourselves, the Nordic Battlegroup, would proceed inland, eliminate uncooperative survivor groups, draw infected groups away from colony areas, procure military equipment and recon agricultural areas.

"Hold on," Fatboy shouts, "Are you tellin' me, that you Europeans INVADED?"
I ignore him.

By February of this year, the Fleet was ready, the Rhine/Alps/Pyrenees line was holding, and the humanitarian situation was dire.
The ships assembled off the coast of Ireland near Bantry Bay, and proceeded to cross the Atlantic.

The journey was rough, especially near the coastline of the US.
I heard the weather people talking about the end of a "noreaster" or something like that.
We were headed for the North East region.

I take the glass of water in front of me and drink deeply.
The heat was hell.

“And that’s the background to why we’re here,” I say.

“It’s bullshit,” Fatboy says, “And I’ll tell you why.”
“Oh really?” I say, chuckling.
“One, where are these thousands of troops now? We found you in a small group, walking!” he says,
“Two, the government wouldn’t simply have let you come in here, they would’ve hit back.”

I sit silent, putting my glass down loudly.

“Answer him,” says the third committee member, a woman who looks like a typical housewife, who has stayed silent up until now.

“One. They’re gone,” I say, “Two, your government doesn’t exist anymore. Hell, the United States of America doesn’t exist anymore really.”
“What?!” shrieks the woman, “We were sure that they’d set up a safe area in the West!”
“Lies,” I say, “Or bad assumptions.”

“You’ve come a long way from the North East,” the leader says, “I think it may take a few days for you to tell the story in full, so I’m adjurning this meeting until tomorrow. I want to hear the full story, no details missing.”

“No problem,” I say, “As long as I don’t get interrupted too often.”
“You don’t have a choice in the matter,” he replied, nodding for the guards to drag me off.

“It was a pleasure meeting you,” I say as I’m pushed out the door.

Into the dying sun. Shit, why couldn’t they erect a few sunscreens while they were building the walls. Tennessee. Bad fucking choice. Should’ve known they’d be a bit more vigilant. Should’ve went to Illinois. That’s the last time I go to recon a target personally.

I walk to the jail escorted by three armed men, and back into the jail cells.
The building is pretty much a stereotypical small town jail.`A just large enough room, with three cells for about three to four people each. The guard is sitting behind a desk about ten metres away from the cells, listening to a radio show, broadcast from about a block away. The other five people who were captured with me sit relaxed in their bunks. I walk into my cell, and sit down on the bottom bunk.

Sgt. O’Leary doesn’t blink an eyelid from the book he has been reading for the past few days.

“How did it go?” he asks in Irish, flicking over a page.
“Great,” I reply, “I don’t think they believe me though.”
“You told them the truth?” he asks, again in Irish.
“Not entirely, but pretty much,” I answer.

“Keep it to English,” says the guard who’s trying to listen to the radio, “Or don’t speak at all.”

“What do you mean ‘not entirely’?” O’Leary whispers, finally putting down his book.
“I told them the rest of us had been wiped out,” I reply quietly, “To give the attack a good advantage.”
“That’s great, but when the hell are they going to do it?” O’Leary says quietly, “Shouldn’t they have come already?”

“You’re all questions today,” I say, “Don’t worry, Överste Olsson knows what she is doing.”

The lads in the other cells laugh. Due to the strangely balanced gender ratio in the expedition and current circumstances, military discipline regarding sexual relations had become impossible to enforce. Rumours flew around quite easily.

“Shut the fuck up!” shouts the guard, “Why do I gotta be stuck with you damn Paddies!”

“Giving the men something to talk about while in here is a good idea,” O’Leary says returning to his book, “But I wish it was something more along the lines of ‘let’s get out of this shithole’. Sir.”

“Understood, but that’s not possible right now,” I say, lying down in my bed.
I fall asleep.

I wake up the next day, at about 7am. Late for me. Well, late since the infection.
Strange considering I went to sleep very early.
O’Leary is lying on his back, drooling with the book in his hand.
“Alright you gobshites! Wake up! Present yourselves!” I shout at the top of my voice.
The guard falls out of his chair.

The fireteam immediately wake up, get fully dressed, and stand in a row through the cells, ignoring the metal bars.

“That’s what I like to see,” I say, “Good to see you boys are on the ball.”
“I’ll come in there and beat your ass to death!” screams the guard, extremely pissed that his beauty sleep was interrupted. Feck knows, he needs it.
I ignore him.

“Alright lads,” I shout, “I think some of you may be getting a little frustrated that we’re stuck in this shithole of a jail! Do not delude yourself, we could be here for a few days longer, but we will triumph over these savages!”

The men acknowledge my statement in with a loud shout in Irish.

The guard is absolutely infuriated. He picks up his baton, and proceeds to unlock the door to my cell. Eejit.

“Alright, since you won’t shut it, I’ll shut you up!” he shouts, entering the cell briskly.
The baton swings towards my face from the left. I grab it with my left hand, and yank it clean out of his hand. His face turns from angry to shocked just in time to be struck by my right hand, curled into a fist. How unprofessional. This guy clearly wasn’t a cop or a prison guard before the outbreak. It’s not like I’m complaining though.

O’Leary jumps past the poor guy, who lands flat on his arse, being completely unprepared to be struck. The search begins for the cell keys.

I kick the guard again for good measure, take his pistol, and restrain him with his own handcuffs. The lads stay in line the whole time.

“At ease lads, at ease,” I say, just as the door to the jail opens.

The leader, with several armed men walk in, rifles raised.
“Ah shit,” I exclaim loudly.

O’Leary is relieved of the keys he had found seconds earlier and put back in our cell.
“Normally, we’d just execute you for this behaviour,” the leader says calmly and coldly, “But you have too much very interesting information for that.”
He grabs the pistol from my hand.

The guard is released from his handcuffs.

“You try that again, we’ll execute one of your men,” he says, walking out the door again.

I am pushed back to the courtroom.