Fall of Cleveland 62 - And Then We Serious'd the Fuck Up

http://www.fluffybooru.org/post/view/3374

Written by Mayclore

And Then We Serious'd the Fuck Up
>You are a soldier in A Company, 1st Battalion, 22nd Infantry Regiment.
>You're currently at camp on the grounds of Lost Nation Airport.
>That godforsaken theme park is six klicks due south, but you can still just see the huge spaghetti tower.
>It's been almost a week since you were first deployed here.
>In that time, E Company, your battalion's engineer and forward support company, has erected barracks.
>2nd Battalion's engineers have arrived by land to help them finish up.
>They were among the last to get here by truck; the area is too choked with fluffies to make land transport feasible any longer.
>They're helping finish the barracks, and preparing for the next task.
>That would be building up facilities and lengthening runways to accept fully laden C-17s.
>Until they're done, only hit-and-miss airdrops and CH-47s will be supplying you.
>Your job is to get and keep the fluffy ponies off the damn tarmac, and out of the engineers' way.
>To this end, concertina wire fencing has been erected around the camp perimeter.
>It's absolutely choked with fluffies, trapped in the barbs and unable to escape.
>”Hooman, pwease hewp fwuffy!  Meanie tingy gif big owwies, no wet fwuffy wun!”
>”Move fwuffy!  Wan wun to hooman, hooman gif nummies!  Fwuffies hung'y!”
>Fluffies outside are ramming against those stuck in the fence, pushing some through and slashing them open.
>”Nuuuuuuu, fwuffy make boo-boo juice!  Why meanie poni huwt fwuffy?!”
>Elsewhere, fluffies climb over the piles of dead and enter the perimeter.
>”Fwuffy see wock ting!  Wock ting go to sgetti wan'!”
>A herd of twenty waddles directly toward a runway.
>You and your squad run over and shoo them away from it.
>By 'shoo', you mean 'kill and throw the corpses out of the way'.
>Fluffy patrol is endless.
>The damn things have totally clogged the fences and are climbing in over the corpses.
>The company commanders authorize the use of grenades to scare them off, unless they're on the runway.
>Those on the runway have to be removed manually so not to damage the tarmac.
>All the companies that aren't engaged in construction are now ordered to keep the runways clear.
>Even with over seven hundred soldiers, it's still a task.
>”Pwease hooman, onwy wan' nummies fo' babehs!” a mother with four crying foals pleads.
>She's on the runway, so she dies, as do her children.
>You receive word that a C-17 is inbound to land.
>It's carrying, among other things, the Air Force traffic controllers that will be relieving the civilians who stayed here.
>Those poor guys are due for a break.  They helped direct the helicopter evacuations of the north side of Cleveland.
>Not only do you have to prevent fluffies from reaching the runways, you have to clear the remains of those who did.
>They may be the most pathetic creatures alive, but they're still stronger than sensitive turbofan engines.
>You start shooting fluffy ponies at random.
>The noise makes most of them scatter, but some are persistent.
>”Hooman, onwy wan' know whewe big sgettis!”
>Pop, right in the head.  Throw the corpse out of the way.
>The runway is mostly clear when the C-17 from 437th Airlift Wing arrives.
>Everyone has to stand off to the side to avoid being blown away by the engines.
>Fluffy ponies do not comprehend this.
>They waddle over to hug the 'big fwy fwiend' and get hurled through the air.
>The ones with wings seem to be happy until they crash into the ground.
>All the others cry and shit everywhere.
>Your company is removed from patrol to go help unload the plane.
>This one is carrying, besides the controllers, some supplies for the camp.
>Mostly food and some ammunition.
>There are long wooden boxes up near the front of the cargo bay.
“Hey, what's in these things?”
>A loadmaster checks the manifest.
>”Fifty new build M202s.”
>Oh, fuck yes. You got to use an M202 in Afghanistan.
>It's a four-barrel rocket launcher that fires incendaries.
>Should be a huge help against the fluffy horde.
>Under the watchful eyes of the loadmasters, it doesn't take your company long to empty the plane.
>Unfortunately, while you were doing that, the companies on fluffy patrol lost control of the tarmac.
>Fluffy ponies choke the runways.
>You'll fix this.  You ask for a crowbar to open up a box of M202s.
>Your company commander approves of your idea, and soon all fifty of the launchers have been distributed and loaded.
>After the other companies get out of the way, you begin firing rockets into the fluffy herd.
>They catch on fire like kindling, shrieking in pain and waddling around.
>Dumber fluffies hug them and also ignite.
>Four rockets just set about eight hundred of them on fire.
“That was easy...”
>”Don't gloat, we still gotta clean all that up,” your Staff Sergeant grumbles.
>The sight of flames causes smarter, uninjured fluffies to become afraid and flee.
>They can't get out.  There's no corpse pile to scale on this side of the fencing.
>As it turns out, a fluffy pony burns pretty well.
>Still have to sweep away the bones, but it's not that bad.
>More fluffies are coming, bleating about the 'big fwy fwiend'.
>Fuck!  You'll never be able to stop all these damn things!
“Sir, call the Captain!  The plane's gotta leave before the fluffies overwhelm us again!”
>You grab another M202 and catch a Humvee driving to the middle of the runway.
>Once there, you stand up in the gunner's position and start launching rockets, one at a time.
>”Nuuu!  Fiuh ba' fo' fwuffies!”
>”No cwy babeh, mumma gif huggies!”
>”Pway?”
>Behind you, you hear the C-17's engines power up.
>They to taxi to the runway.
>”Corporal, behind us!”
>Shit, a ton of pegasus fluffies broke the perimeter.
>”Big fwy fwiend!  Wingie fwuffies wuv you, pwease take to big sgettis?”
>You fire your last rocket into the clump.
>”Nuuuuuuuuu, wawm!  Too wawm!  Fwuffy no wike!  Hewp!”
>They don't scatter.
>”Big fwy fwiend hewp fwuffies!  Meanie gif owwies!”
>They're running right to the damn plane.
>The C-17 has already begun its takeoff run, barreling down the tarmac.
>The driver moves your Humvee away from the runway.
“Sir!  The runway's not clear!”
>”It's the clearest of the two!  Besides, they're empty, they said can get over the ponies.”
>Bloated dams are being rolled toward the C-17 as it approaches.
>”Big fwy fwiend, pwease hewp mummas fin' nummies?”
>The increasing noise terrifies them.
>They begin exploding out of stress, two and three at a time.
>The C-17 is already off the ground as it reaches the pegasus fluffies, but not by too much.
>All the remaining dams explode at once, their foals tumbling through the air.
>Every one of them gets ingested by the number two and three engines.
“Shit!”
>You watch the C-17 trail flames as it tries to come back around.
>An explosion in the number two nacelle shreds the wing, and the plane tumbles out of the sky
>It finally crashes near the corner of Lakeshore Boulevard and Reynolds Road.
>”Damn it!  Fuck the fluffies, we've gotta get the medics over there!” your Captain yells over the radio.
>The rest of your company and B Company mount up and head toward the camp entrance.
>Medics are loaded into 56th's Strykers, and you all drive out toward the column of billowing black smoke.
>You take the gunner's position again.
>All the annoyance with your assignment is gone in a flash.
>You're going to kill every single one of these little bastards, if it's the last thing you do.