*** Weekend Write-In for 04 Oct 2019 ***

"contestant": In 500 plus words, tell what happens when there is a contestant

THE 1000

When the word came down, the whole damn battalion mobilized; all leaves were cancelled and we were suited up, armed and in transit within minutes. 1000 troopers. All out assault. One order.

Push through the line. Failure is not an option.

***

412 was jumpy. Twitchy. Uncertain. The kid needed some reassurance, and not the bullshit kind that the Beast would give him.

Lemme tell you something about the Beast. We're not supposed to have names - not in the line. I'm 717. Sarge is 91, my girl ... she's 900. 412 is the newbie, and then there's 666. 'Number of the Beast, man' he'd tell us, with that cocky shit eatin' grin. To 666 it was all a joke, and his confidence was supreme. Our squad had seen plenty of combat, all except 412 - kid was straight outta training. Last trooper he needed ta listen to was 666.

Fortunately Sarge saw the kid needed the talk, and he got in there before 666 could open his mouth.

'Ok, lissen up an lissen good. Command is rating a 21.9% survival ratio. That's better than it sounds. We're not in the first full frontal ... we're in the final push wave. This means that if you all keep your cool and remember your training, follow orders and do NOT deviate from the strategy, well then, my little chickadees, we'll comfortably be in the surviving 200 or so. This squad ... my squad, we're the best. We have each others backs. We succeed, just like all the past ops.'

412 was shivering, mouth quavering - some chattering and grinding up in the head.

Sarge looked at him. 'You wanna know why we're not out there with the grunts, soldier? It's because we ain't the fodder ... we're the elite troops. They pave the way and we do our thang, an come home with all the glory.'

'Buck up, kid.' The Beast grinned at him. 'Sarge is right.

All around us the rift shimmered, outside the transport windows. Up ahead we heard the explosions as the enemy defenses ripped apart the first wave. We barely got through before the entryway closed - the battle was up ahead.

900 touched my arm. 'You ok?'

I nodded. No words were needed ... not for me. This was where psyching up did the trick. When our transport touched down I'd hit the ramps with a rebel yell, and I would charge, armoured up, metrics tracking fields of fire - moving fast but in tight formation.

The transport to the left suddenly exploded - the enemy had our range. They were sharper than we gave them credit for.

Ten squads at the ready - the comms crackled. Something about heavy losses at the front. Activate bio seals. Losses already in excess of 60%. The stakes were shifting and that 21.9% looked ever more optimistic.

We're down ... the enemy is already near our position. The plans going to shit, but too late to abort. The way back is sealed. Either we do ... or we die!

Helmet readings switch to infra spectrum - red light readouts giving real time updates - we run, heavy breathing, weapons at the ready, past the dead and dying.

Command sends live stream updates. Swerve left ... grid pattern 221.5 is saturated. Nothing can survive exposure that way. Sarge waves us left. Our squad is intact, but the grouping is already taking casualties. Fifty left the transport and we've lost twenty already.

Visor grid updates - survival predictions down to 7.8%. 78 out of 1000!!!

The Beast whoops and hollers ... he dares the enemy to ... shit! fuck! Small arms ... tight field of defensive fire. Delta Squads G, H and I enact sacrificial lamb play. Three squads break through, but we have to fight for every inch. 412 is down. Dead or injured. Doesn't matter. If he falls, we leave him behind. Have to push on. Can't stop for any one ...

Damn! That was close. 900 just took out three of the enemy who were about to ace me.

Wish I could acknowledge what she means to me, but no time. Push on, do it. Hope we survive and later we'll drink in the mess and then we'll make sweet love like its the last time. Could well be.

A canister falls ahead, and green poison bursts like a crowd. Can't go around it - gotta hope the seals are effective. We run into the cloud at full tilt.

Where's the Beast? I can just about see on the peripheral that an enemy squad - immune of course - they tried an intercept, but 666 took em on, hand to hand. He's winning too, but that won't help.

I chance a look behind as we reach the bottom of the hill. Beast follows us, but then he staggers and falls. I almost turn back - damn you, you sunnavabitch. Don't do this to ...

900 has my arm. I can just about make out her look through the protective glass of the helmet.

She pulls me forward and I follow her up the hill.

900 is dead. Her head explodes in front of me and I react with fury, killing the gunman and any of the enemy in my sights.

Updated survival projection - 0.5%

Everybody is dead! Only me and the few beside me. But finally we reach the infiltration point.

Sarge stops a moment as we clear the last of the defenders.

'717. Go!'

I realise the others have taken hits. Three troopers bunch round Sarge - I'm the strongest left - I dive for the portal as more of the gases explode and the other four stand tall, killing any defender who arrives. Their bio seals won't hold, but it doesn't matter. I'm through.

I stand in the calm in the middle of the storm. And I reach into my belt for the viral bomb. Here at the centre, last survivor of 1000 attackers, I am past the bodies defenses and the antibodies can't reach me.

I smile grimly as I activate. Now I just need to wait - and later I'll toast the squad, back in the mess and I will say my quiet goodbyes to 900.

0.1% survival. Mission accomplished.

***

"Effective against 99.9% of all bacteria and germs."

***

Thank you to @StevenJPemberton for the indirect inspiration for this story, re his facebook post about the 99.9% and musings about the surviving 0.1% and just how much damage that can do!