As he drove away from Adamant and in the frozen wilderness, Greg found that he was actually in something approaching a good mood. Despite everything that had happened, despite the soul-sucking cold and the terrifying Flood and all the other crap he'd had to face recently, he was actually beginning to feel a little bit better about this whole nightmare. It was probably the fact that he'd completed a major goal and was now in the presence of something resembling a command structure. Though he was still decently independent.

It was odd. He respected the chain of command, he followed orders and generally didn't have a problem with it, and yet...there was a part of him that actually really enjoyed the unbridled freedom he'd been experiencing the past several days. On Polaris Island, he'd been cut off from not just the chain of command but the outside world, with an extremely vague goal in mind, and it had been up to him, (and Izzy), to stay alive and figure a way out of the situation. Sure, it had been miserable and difficult and gut-wrenching at times, and obviously the death of their fellow Marines wasn't worth it and still weighed heavily on him, but there was an exhilaration in figuring things out for yourself, in making and executing your own decisions.

Would that all change now?

Probably. And he could live with that. But a part of him missed the freedom.

Greg was jarred back to reality as he hit a particularly heavy bump in the terrain and the Warthog jumped about a foot off the ground. They all grunted as it hit and kept going, the tires chewing up dirt and snow as it grabbed for traction and shot them off towards their destination. Huge forests of dead, snow-capped trees stood to either side of them, and to the right, the landscape eventually rose up into a cliff sheer that seemed to continue for quite a ways. In the distance, the land dropped away. That's where they were heading.

"I can't believe we actually made it," Izzy said, her voice close and almost intimate over the radio in his helmet.

"You doubted my abilities?" Greg replied.

She snorted. "Give me a break. You're good, Greg. Really good. But all the crap we went through...honestly, it's a miracle we've made it this far."

"Yeah, I'll give you that. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Of course you could've. You're...you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know if I've ever met a more skilled, focused, independent man, Greg."

Greg hesitated. She almost sounded like she was accusing him of something. "Is that...a problem?" he asked finally.

She sighed. "No. Not a problem. Just..." She fell silent for a few moments. Greg waited, focusing on the snow-stricken plain ahead of them, watchful for more Flood. "It's difficult watching someone succeed with apparent ease at something you struggle so desperately with."

"Oh." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not your fault. You're good at something. Mostly, I appreciate that. Don't...you know, don't let someone's bad mood bring you down."

"I mean I get it. And it's not just someone, it's you."

"Well, sometimes I'm petty, and a bitch."

"There are worse things."

She sighed. "Stop being so reasonable."

"Really?"

"No." She began to say something else, but her attention shifted as they finally crested the natural rise in the land and got a better look at the area. The cliff sheer to the right continued on for quite a ways, but the forest to the left eventually opened up into a vast plain. He spied two things. To their ten o'clock, maybe two miles off, the wrecked remains of the downed Pelican. Farther off, past another huge forest, the vague shape of a communications tower and dish. Their two goals were now within sight.

He thought he saw flashes of gunfire at the Pelican.

"Punch it," Izzy said.

He punched it and they sped off down the hill.

* * *

"Get ready! I think they're vargs!" Greg snapped as they finally got within range of the downed Pelican. At a glance, he could see the Warthog, which looked like it had taken some damage, and someone was on top of the Pelican, shooting at a dozen low, dark figures rapidly approaching on them. Not an ideal situation.

They did indeed look like vargs, only...

Different somehow.

Greg skidded to a halt a dozen meters away and hopped out, shotgun at ready. Behind him, standing up in the back now, Larsen opened fire. As he did, half of the pack immediately broke off and began sprinting towards them. Greg felt like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. They were vargs, all right, but not normal vargs. The question of whether or not they'd see Flood-infested vargs had come back to haunt them sooner than he'd thought it might. They were hideous. The sleek, lean look was gone. This thing had a bulge in its chest that nearly doubled its width, and was supported by four legs thick with muscle. Its gray fur had fallen away in random, uneven patches revealing tough, leathery flesh beneath. Its head, still sporting the four crimson eyes, was lower, hanging at an awkward angle. Fleshy tentacles sprouted from its back and the back of its neck, and a cluster of them near its front seemed to serve it as a new head.

"Holy crap," he whispered, tracking the nearest one with his shotgun.

It seemed to have grown to half again its normal size.

As it drew closer, throwing up runs of snowy dirt, he squeezed the trigger. The shotgun spoke and a shell was issued forth from its barrel. It hit its intended mark, the cluster of tentacles growing from where its neck met its chest, dead on, and had the desired effect. The thing's chest seemed to burst open in a spray of dark, coagulated gore, and it went limp like a puppet with its strings cut, skidding to a halt and flopping a few times. Well, that was good to know, at least: they were as 'easy' to kill as the other infected things.

Were they still venomous?

He didn't want to find out.

Beside him, Izzy opened fire, putting down another one in much the same manner he had, and behind and above them both, Larsen earned his keep. His three-round bursts were accurate and extremely useful. As Greg kept firing, advancing on the Warthog and the survivor, he saw more infected vargs coming out of a nearby treeline, making for them. This wasn't going to be easy, but he hadn't made it this far assuming shit was going to be easy. Greg turned to face this new threat, and emptied the shotgun putting down three more of them. They were moving too fast for him to reload, so he began backpedaling as he drew his M6G and opened up. The powerful rounds tore into the creatures as they advanced on him.

Another one dropped to the snow, twitching violently. Another took a shot in its floppy, deformed skull and kept coming, then dropped as a second bullet found its way into its chest cavity and it joined its brethren.

Then his pistol ran dry and three more of the things were still coming for him.

"Need some help!" Greg yelled as he hastily reloaded.

Another infected varg came for him, issuing a growl so deep that it didn't seem possible, and right as it prepared to leap, a three-round burst sounded from somewhere behind him. A trio of bullets punched into its chest and sprayed the snow beside it with green gore. The creature immediately lost muscle rigidity and went slack. Greg finished slapping the M6G magazine home and opened up, punching big, ugly holes into another two beastly infested vargs and dropping them. Just when he thought they were beginning to get things under control, he heard a shout of surprise and fear coming from overhead.

Twisting around, he looked up atop the wrecked Pelican and spied the lone survivor. She was being advanced on by two vargs, one to either side of her, and she was fumbling for a reload with the battle rifle she was holding. Cursing, Greg aimed and popped off the rest of his bullets and put down one of the vargs. It caused the second one to hesitate long enough for her to aim and fire. Then she spun around and kept firing as, presumably, more varg attacked from the back. At that moment, as he began to reload again, he heard Izzy shriek his name.

He started to spin around, becoming aware of heavy paws beating the snow in their rapid approach, and then a great weight smashed into him from the back. He grunted and shouted as he went sprawling, the pistol thrown from his hand. In a flash of movement, he flipped over and ripped his combat knife out. The varg was coming for him, tentacles thrashing wildly. One of them reached for him and he sliced cleanly through it, severing it. The varg leaped at him, letting out a horrible, keening wail as it did, and he threw up one arm.

Pure luck meant that it bashed its deformed face on his arm guard, and that gave him the opportunity to drive the blade into its bulging chest. Once, twice, three times. Over and over again, screaming, he stabbed the bastard as it struggled to murder him. It rapidly weakened as green gore sprayed out of it with each stab, and then whatever served it as life left its deformed body and it went boneless atop him. Grunting with effort, Greg shoved it aside and surged to his feet, knife raised as he took a quick three-sixty survey of the area.

The vargs were dead. Everything had become still and silent.

"I don't know who you are, but thank you," he heard from overhead, and he jerked and turned, looking up. The woman they'd saved, clad in similar white camo the other local forces were wearing, looked down at him from atop the tail-end of the wrecked Pelican, some thirty or so feet up. She was missing her helmet and he saw a very pale face, fierce brown eyes, and short, pale blonde hair. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Greg managed, realizing that he was, in fact, fine. He heard running footsteps and turned again, spying Izzy on rapid approach. She slowed as they locked eyes and she seemed to confirm for herself that he wasn't hurt. At least not seriously.

"That was close," she said as she came over to him. She handed him a dirt-and-snow covered pistol. "You dropped this."

"Thanks," he murmured, taking it and beginning to wipe it off. He looked back up at the survivor. "You with the team sent to investigate this downed Pelican?" he called up.

"I'm all that's left," she replied grimly. "Let me survey the area, and if we're clear, I'll join you. We can catch up without shouting."

"Understood," he said.

Two minutes later, he had cleaned his pistol, reloaded and holstered it, and finished reloading his shotgun, and the survivor had joined them. He sized her up as she approached, having walked down the slant of the ruined Pelican until hopping off the cockpit, which had nosedived into the ground, half-burying itself. She looked like how he expected a survivor to look in this godforsaken, frozen hellscape: competent, fit, calm. She had the sort of stoic detachment he'd become very familiar with in the field.

She'd found her helmet apparently, but hadn't put it on. He saw why when she came up to him: the visor was shattered.

"Lance Corporal Emma Ellis at your service," she replied, her tone clipped, though grateful. "Thanks for the save. I'd be dead if you hadn't showed up when you did," she added flatly.

"I'm just sorry we couldn't get here sooner," Greg replied. "Corporal Greg Walker and Lance Corporal Izzy Serrano. Back there is PFC Larsen. Sergeant Becker sent us."

"Oh, good. So Adamant is still there?" she replied, looking genuinely relieved.

"Yes, though not for lack of trying on the Flood's part. When we arrived, we had to help break quite the siege. But I'm afraid we don't have time for conversation. Is there anything wrong with your Warthog besides the popped tire?" he asked, seeing now that the vehicle was leaning awkwardly to one side. It had clearly taken some damage, but nothing very obvious leaped out at him.

"I don't know," she admitted.

"All right. Izzy, check it over for problems. Larsen! Change that tire!" he called, waving the man closer. "Fast!"

"You got it, Corporal!" Larsen called back, hopping down from the back of the Carrier Warthog and jogging over to them.

"On it," Izzy said, moving quickly over to the damaged Warthog. It was the same make and model as the snow hog he and Izzy had driven in here on.

He returned his attention to Ellis. "Did you get a chance to assess if there was any supplies in the Pelican?" he asked.

"Some, yeah. There's some crates packed in there, but I didn't get a chance to crack any open," she replied.

"All right. Let's see what we've got our hands on first and foremost."

They spent the next few minutes climbing into the back of the Pelican and tracking down a prybar. As soon as they had one, Greg broke open one of the crates and looked inside. He felt a spike in his hope: military grade meds.

"Thank God," Ellis whispered.

"Yep. Okay. Let's go see where we're at with the Warthog before we make our next move," he suggested, and they headed back outside. As they approached, Larsen was just finishing attaching the replacement tire.

Izzy was in the driver's seat now, staring into a dashboard-mounted screen.

"What's the situation?" he asked.

"Good," she replied after a few seconds. "Just ran a diagnostic. It needs service, but otherwise its got power and functionality. It should be more than enough to get us to where we need to go."

"Excellent. Okay, let's get those supplies loaded up into the Carrier! Larsen, drive it over here, back it up to the Pelican!"

"Yes, Corporal!" he replied, and jogged off.

Greg couldn't help but smile at least a little. When things ran like a well-oiled machine, it just felt good. Made you feel like you knew what you were doing, and there was nothing that felt quite the same. Larsen drove the Carrier over and they spent ten minutes first loading up the crates they'd found, then performing a more thorough search of any and all compartments in the Pelican. They then spent another ten minutes collecting up the corpses in and around the wrecked vehicle, both from the crew manning the Pelican and Ellis's own team, stripping them of any useful supplies and adding the ammo to their own inventories, then laying the half-dozen corpses out in the back of the ship and covering them with some tarp they'd found.

"We'll have to come back for the bodies...at some point," Greg murmured.

"Yeah, there really hasn't been time for casualty assessments, let alone corpse recovery," Ellis muttered with a heavy sigh.

"Now what?" Larsen asked.

Greg looked at him. "Drive the Carrier back to Adamant and deliver the supplies."

He got into the driver's seat and started the vehicle up. "Understood. Do you want me to come back to you after?"

"No, they could use your aim and your gun more than us right now, and, ideally, we'll be finished before you could get back to us. Just update Becker and then do whatever he needs you to do," Greg replied.

"Got it." He paused. "Good luck."

"And you," Greg replied.

Larsen began driving away, heading back the way they had come, the heavy tires of the Carrier Warthog kicking up sprays of snow as it went.

"What are we doing?" Ellis asked.

"We need to get Izzy to that comms tower to bring it back online, then we're going home to Adamant," Greg answered.

She nodded tightly. "I'm ready."

"Excellent," he replied.

They hastily mounted up in the new Warthog, Greg in the driver's seat, Izzy riding shotgun, and Ellis hopping up into the mounted LAAG in the back, and then they were off.

* * *

They managed to reach the communications outpost without any trouble.

As they approached it, Greg saw that it was almost a carbon copy of the one he, Izzy, and Larsen had holed up in not too long ago. God, had that been today they'd left it? Greg marveled as he slowed to a halt in the front parking lot of the outpost. Yes, it was just this morning the three of them had left that quiet building and made it to Adamant. That just seemed impossible. He shook his head and made himself focus.

"Secure the perimeter," he said after killing the engine.

Izzy and Ellis replied affirmatively and they all got out. The next several minutes were spent stalking around the exterior of the building. It had been built into a huge clearing in the forest, only a single, sparse road, little more than a gravel path, leading away, back to the main road that he and Izzy had traversed all the way from Polaris. It was obvious that the place had been attacked. There were a few broken windows and a lonely, frozen corpse lay by the front door. There was nothing lurking outside, but the back entrance was open.

Greg took point, activating the flashlight on his shotgun after making sure the weapon was locked and loaded. He made his way into the initial area beyond the opening, Izzy and Ellis at his back. He heard something growl, somewhere deeper in.

"Damn," he whispered. "You two go up, clear the second and third stories, I'll clear the ground floor," he said softly.

They both complied and headed for the stairs.

Greg began working his way slowly through the building, that old sour fear beginning to seep in. Funny how all it took was a dark corridor and a hint of hostiles around to sap your good mood in an instant. But death could be lurking around any of these corners. This could actually be it for him. He had skills, and years of experience, excellent reflexes and instinct, and some pretty great military hardware, but all it took was one second of bad luck to cut your life short. And dead was dead. There was no coming back from that.

He slipped into the mess hall, and found that it basically was a copy of the other comms relay. With more blood and corpses, though. Clearly the base personnel had been slaughtered, and the reek of cold blood and shredded guts was still on the air.

Something shifted deeper inside the mess area, and he heard another growl, much more clearly this time. Greg considered how to handle this, and quickly decided that he didn't really want to go to the Combat Form that was lurking around.

So why not make it come to him?

"Hey, dumbshit, come here!" he called, and then whistled.

The result was immediate and exactly what he wanted. The Flood creature growled sharply and rushed out from the kitchen area into the main room. It saw him and began sprinting towards him, knocking over tables and chairs in the process. He squeezed the trigger as soon as it was in range and blew a huge hole out of its chest, killing it instantly. He waited, listening, but didn't hear anything else. His radio crackled to life.

"You okay down there?" Izzy asked.

"Fine. You?" he replied as he continued his search.

"So far nothing...wait..." She paused, and then both over the line and overhead he heard a shotgun blast, a shriek, then another shotgun blast. "Got two of them in the dorms area. Looks clear otherwise. We'll keep going."

"Same."

He pressed on, searching the kitchen and the storage room, finding the kitchen a hideous mess but otherwise vacant. He moved on, sweeping and clearing the area room by room until he had returned to his point of origin. With the interior clear, he began the process of closing the back door. It wasn't easy,