Operation: Last Dawn

Chapter One: Crash And Survive Part 2

Date: September 30, 2017

Time: 0430 Hours

Location: Adirondacks, New York

Garrett Folger, age ten.

The pre-dawn mountain air was biting, sharp enough to sting the nostrils and turn every breath into thick clouds of white vapor. Ten-year-old Garrett trudged along a narrow deer trail behind the tall, broad-shouldered silhouette of his grandfather, his hands buried deep in the pockets of an oversized hunting jacket. “Grandpa,” young Garrett whined softly, dragging his boots through the frost-dusted pine needles and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the back of a wool glove. “It’s way too early to be out hunting. The sun isn’t even up yet.”

Grandpa Folger stopped, lowering his vintage hunting rifle to his side. He turned around, letting out a rich, quiet laugh that seemed to warm the freezing morning air. The older man knelt down on one knee in the brush, bringing himself level with the boy. His weathered face was lined with decades of outdoor life and military service, his gray eyes steady, patient, and kind. “Oh, but it’s not too early, my boy,” Grandpa Folger said, tapping the tip of Garrett’s red nose with a calloused finger. “Out here, the world belongs to the ones who show up before the light does. Besides, this isn’t just hunting. This is a lesson.”

The old man smiled, his gaze holding the boy’s with unwavering warmth. “Didn’t you tell me just the other day that you wanted to be just like me and join the military?”

Young Garrett looked at his grandfather’s proud, calm posture, sniffled against the cold, and nodded solemnly.

“Yes, Grandpa.”

“Lead on, soldier,” Grandpa Folger whispered, stepping back half a pace to let Garrett take the point. “Keep your eyes sharp and your feet light.”

Garrett dropped into a low crouch, just as his grandfather had shown him during their long summer walks across the property. He scanned the forest floor, searching beyond the fallen leaves and tangled bracken. A few yards ahead, beneath a stand of sugar maples, he spotted an indentation in the damp, frost-dusted dirt: a sharp, two-toed hoofprint pressing deep into the loam.

Garrett crept over, sinking onto one knee. He leaned close, studying the depression.

“Notice the edges,” his grandfather murmured softly from behind his shoulder. “What do they tell you?”

“No frost inside the print,” Garrett whispered back, pointing with a gloved finger. “The edges haven’t crumbled yet. It’s fresh. Passed through just before sunrise.”

“Good eye. Now check your air.”

Garrett pulled off his glove, licked the tip of his index finger, and held it high above his head. The icy morning draft bit the side facing back toward the ridge. He watched his own breath drift steadily forward, carrying away from them and into the hollow.

“Wind’s at our backs,” Garrett realized, his brow furrowing. “If we follow straight behind, our scent will blow right to it.”

“Smart boy,” the old man said, a low rumble of approval in his chest. “So what’s the move?”

“Circle wide. Hook around to the lee side of the ridge and cut across downwind.”

Grandpa Folger gave a single nod. “Execute.”

Garrett led the way, taking deliberate, measured strides. With every step, he placed the outer edge of his heel down first, rolling his weight smoothly across the ball of his foot to feel for brittle pine twigs before committing his full balance. Whenever dry leaves threatened to crunch, he waited for the cold autumn breeze to rustle the canopy, masking the faint sound of his passage. Along the trail, he noted subtle signs: a snapped twig on a mountain laurel bush at flank height, a small scuff of disturbed moss on a granite boulder, and fresh bark stripped from a young cedar sapling.

After twenty minutes of patient stalking, the dense timber gave way to a gentle slope overlooking a sunlit clearing carpeted in wild grass and sweetfern. Garrett froze mid-stride, his right hand instantly snapping flat against his leg—the universal signal to halt. Eighty yards out, framed by the golden morning light, stood a young buck. The animal grazed peacefully beside a weathered birch, unaware of the two figures perched along the tree line. Young Garrett’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. Adrenaline surged through his veins, hot and electric, tempting him to bring the rifle up fast and pull the trigger before the buck could bolt. A weathered hand gently pressed down on his shoulder, anchoring him.

“Slow down,” Grandpa Folger whispered into his ear, his voice calm, steadying, and low. “Speed is the enemy of accuracy. Don’t rush the moment. Control it.”

Garrett swallowed hard, forcing his shoulders to relax. He sank down behind a fallen hemlock log, resting the forend of the wood-stocked rifle over the rough bark to create a rock-solid shooting platform. He brought the buttstock firmly into the pocket of his shoulder, aligning his cheek against the cold wood. Looking down the sights, the brass bead rested squarely against the buck’s profile. Garrett identified his target clearly: broadside, clear backdrop of rising earth, no brush obstructing the path.

“Find your anchor,” his grandfather instructed softly. “Breathe in through your nose... let half of it out... and hold the pause.”

Garrett drew in a lungful of crisp mountain air, smelling pine resin and damp earth. He exhaled slowly, watching the faint plume of vapor disappear. In the natural respiratory pause between heartbeats, the world seemed to narrow to a pinpoint. The trembling in his hands vanished, replaced by an iron stillness. His index finger rested lightly on the cold steel trigger. He didn’t jerk. He applied a smooth, steady squeeze, letting the shot come naturally.

Crack.

The rifle snapped against his shoulder, the sharp report echoing across the Adirondack hollow and scattering birds from the pines. Across the meadow, the buck dropped cleanly where it stood, spared any prolonged suffering or panic. A sudden, overwhelming burst of childhood pride rushed through Garrett. He lowered the rifle, immediately engaging the manual safety catch before turning to his grandfather, a triumphant grin breaking across his face. “I got him, Grandpa! One shot!”

“You did, son,” Grandpa Folger replied, his expression warm but measured. “A fine shot. Clean and true.”

The old man helped Garrett stand, but as they walked out into the clearing together, the initial thrill of success slowly gave way to a profound, quiet weight. Up close, kneeling beside the fallen buck, Garrett looked at the stillness of the animal. The reality of what he had done settled into his chest—not as regret, but as the sober understanding of consequence.

Grandpa Folger knelt beside him, placing a firm, heavy hand on the boy’s back.

“Never forget this feeling, Garrett,” the veteran said gently, his gaze piercing and solemn. “A hunter—and a soldier—never takes a life lightly. Taking a shot means carrying the responsibility for what happens after. Discipline isn't just about following orders or pulling a trigger on command. It’s about keeping your head calm, your conscience clear, and your focus absolute when everything around you wants you to panic.”

Young Garrett looked from the deer up into his grandfather’s weathered, steady eyes. He nodded slowly, feeling the truth of those words engrave themselves permanently into his mind.

“Discipline under fire,” young Garrett whispered, absorbing the lesson into his bones.

“Discipline under everything,” his grandfather corrected softly, tapping the boy's chest right over his steady, beating heart. “No matter how dark the woods get, you hold onto that, and you’ll always find your way through.”

Garrett didn’t flinch. Decades of training took over before panic could even register.

Present Time:

Garrett blinked, and the crisp, pine-scented chill of the Adirondacks dissolved into the suffocating humidity of the South American jungle. He forced back the moisture stinging his eyes, drawing in a slow, measured breath of thick, tropical air. His cracked ribs twinged sharply against his chest with every expansion of his lungs—a brutal reminder of the crash, of the missing men, and of Doc lying crippled and hungry back in the rock hollow. Garrett shook the lingering ghost of the past from his head, but he held onto the lesson. Discipline under everything.

He dropped low, sinking onto one knee in the thick, decaying leaf litter. The jungle was a dense, living labyrinth of strangler figs, tangled creepers, and damp red earth. Garrett lowered his head, narrowing his gaze to the forest floor just as he had done twenty-eight years ago. He shut out the ambient drone of cicadas and began breaking down the terrain into manageable grid sectors.

Five minutes of patient searching revealed a subtle disturbance in the damp loam beneath a cluster of broad-leafed ferns: two small, clean indentations pressed into the mud. Cloven hooves. Brocket deer. Garrett touched the edge of the depression with the tip of his gloved finger. The moisture hadn’t yet pooled in the bottom, and the surrounding moss was only beginning to spring back. The track was less than an hour old. Garrett checked the drift of the morning mist hanging between the trees. The subtle thermal current was rising uphill, blowing toward his chest. Downwind.

He rose into a tactical stalk, setting each boot down with meticulous heel-to-toe rolls, letting his weight transfer only when he was certain no dry branch lay hidden beneath the moss. For thirty grueling minutes, he pushed deeper through the dense understory, weaving between massive kapok roots and sweeping hanging vines, tracking the broken stems and scattered scuffs left along the animal’s path. Near the edge of a shallow ravine carpeted in wild bamboo, Garrett halted.

Thirty yards away, half-concealed behind a wall of flowering shrubs, a solitary deer grazed on the tender shoots. Garrett didn't hesitate. Drawing his suppressed sidearm with fluid, silent muscle memory, he braced his forearm against the trunk of a broad mahogany tree. He aligned the combat sights directly behind the animal's shoulder, exhaled half his breath, and squeezed the trigger.

A muffled phut broke from the muzzle.

The deer dropped instantly into the brush, dead before it hit the ground.

Garrett moved swiftly. He reached the animal, grabbed the hindquarters, and dragged the carcass into the dense shade beneath a thick canopy to keep it hidden from aerial view and scavengers. Kneeling beside it, he unsheathed his combat knife. Working with practiced, mechanical efficiency, he sliced open the abdomen along the center line, taking care not to puncture the entrails, and began field-dressing the kill to harvest the prime cuts of meat for Doc.

The rich, metallic tang of fresh blood bloomed in the humid air. Garrett had just freed the first flank when the natural rhythm of the canopy suddenly died. The distant bird calls cut off. The drone of insects ceased. From forty yards down the brush line came a sound that sent a cold spike of adrenaline directly into Garrett’s spine. It wasn't an animal. It wasn't the groan of a wounded soldier. It was a wet, rattling, guttural wheeze—a ragged exhalation torn through ruined vocal cords, followed by the wet clicking of teeth.

Garrett froze instantly. His bloodied hands stopped inches above the deer’s chest cavity.

Without moving a single leaf, he slowly let go of the blade and allowed his right hand to drift down toward the grip of his sidearm. He held his breath, listening.

Shk... shk... shk...

The sound of heavy, uncoordinated footsteps dragged through the undergrowth.

Through the narrow gaps between the broad palm fronds, a silhouette emerged. The figure stumbled into view with a sickening, asymmetrical gait, its head tilted unnaturally to one side. Its skin was an ashen, mottled grey, stretched taut over gaunt facial bones. Clouded, milky eyes stared blankly into the jungle mist, and dark, dried gore was caked around a slack jaw that twitched with manic, ravenous hunger. The creature paused, its nose twitching toward the fresh scent of blood on the wind, before turning its hollow gaze directly toward Garrett’s position and shuffling forward.

Garrett didn’t flinch. Decades of training took over before panic could even register.

His right hand settled over the textured grip of his sidearm. With a silent, fluid motion, his thumb clicked down the manual safety. He raised the suppressed pistol into a tight, two-handed retention stance, keeping his center of gravity low and his elbows tucked close against the dull ache in his ribs. He lined up the front sight post and squeezed the trigger.

*Phut.*

The suppressed round struck the creature squarely in the right shoulder joint. The kinetic force spun the infected figure sideways, sending it stumbling back two awkward paces into a tangle of hanging vines. But there was no scream, no recoil of shock, and no hesitation. The right arm dangled limp and useless at its side, yet the creature merely readjusted its footing and lurched forward again, its milky eyes locked relentlessly onto Garrett.

*No pain response,* Garrett registered instantly. *Standard stopping power won't work.*

Garrett kept his breathing slow and rhythmic. He shifted his point of aim to center mass, tracking the scarred sternum. He squeezed off a second shot.

*Phut.*

The hollow-point bullet tore directly through the infected man's chest cavity, piercing right where the heart should have sustained life. The creature shuddered slightly from the impact, but its stride never broke. It kept advancing, throat emitting a low, wet hiss as its good hand clawed toward Garrett’s throat.

*Brain stem.*

Garrett elevated the muzzle a fraction of an inch, letting the tritium front sight settle directly between the creature's dead, clouded eyes. He exhaled the bottom half of his breath, holding his trigger finger steady against the wall.

*Phut.*

The third round punched cleanly through the center of the forehead.

Instantly, the creature’s nervous system collapsed. Its limbs went slack mid-stride, and the body dropped like a stone, hitting the damp, mossy ground with a heavy, unceremonious thud. Garrett held his stance for three long, disciplined breaths, the weapon trained squarely on the fallen skull. The jungle around them fell into absolute, suffocating silence. The creature didn't twitch; no breath escaped its ruined throat.

*Confirmed down.*

Garrett lowered the pistol, re-engaged the safety with a flick of his thumb, and reholstered the weapon. The encounter told him everything he needed to know—the infection was already roaming this sector of the jungle, and the scent of fresh blood would bring more. Moving with rapid, deliberate urgency, Garrett returned to the fallen buck. He swiftly packed the harvested venison into his field tarp, securing the bundle with paracord to contain the scent as best he could. Ignoring the burning flare of pain along his cracked ribs, he hauled the meat up and slung it across his shoulder.

Keeping low beneath the dense green canopy, Garrett turned his back on the kill site and moved out, navigating the thick undergrowth with swift, silent strides as he hurried back toward the hollow where Doc was waiting.