Being a Counter didn't exactly mean they were Counters, at least, not in the way people imagined. They weren't the elite warriors that took on city-wrecking threats. No, they were the guys with electric sticks whose main job was to keep crowds from getting trampled or incinerated by some pissed-off Augmen or out-of-control Mutate or Beast. Basically, they were glorified riot control.
It was almost admirable how willing the city was to arm them. They handed them gear like it was candy, but the truth was, they were just another layer of disposable muscle between the civilians and whatever nightmare decided to show up that day.
They were trying to filter the ones with potential and the ones that don't.
There were three ways to get this job.
One: Be forced into service with a promise of citizenship like him.
Two: Walk into Counter Headquarters and sign up voluntarily, because apparently, some people were crazy enough to do that.
Three: Be a well-known Augmen with enough skill and reputation to make the city actually want you on their payroll. Those guys got all the perks—better pay, specialized gear, and, most importantly, the ability to refuse orders if things got too messy. The real powerhouses handled the big threats, the kind that required more than just a few electric prods to put down.
And then there was them.
They were the boots on the ground. The grunts. The guys who didn't have to think much, just followed orders. Go here. Do this. Arrest that guy. Don't ask why. If they got lucky, they'd made it to the end of our four-year contract with all our limbs still attached.
The training was exactly what you'd expect for a group of half-baked superhumans who barely knew how to function as a unit. Most days, they used medieval tactics. No joke. Every day, they picked a "suspect" to act as their designated criminal while the rest of them practiced subduing them.
Today, that honor went to Tommer, a six-foot-nine, two-hundred-and-seventy-pound former construction worker who had somehow ended up in the same boat as the rest of them. The guy was built like a tank and had the attitude to match.
It took a long time to take him down. Even with a dozen of them armed with high-voltage batons, he still managed to hold his ground for an embarrassingly long time.
They formed a shield wall, the first row locking their shields together while the second row reached over the top with extended batons. The tactic was simple: box him in, keep poking him until he dropped.
Tommer, being a stubborn bastard, fought like hell. He managed to grab Mali, the poor bastard and slammed him onto the ground so hard they all winced. But as soon as that happened, they pushed forward, reinforcing the shield wall and jabbing him from all angles.
"Fucking—goddamn—you—motherfuckers!" Tommer snarled, curling up as they shocked him over and over.
His insults got more creative as the volts did their work, but eventually, he stopped fighting and just lay there, cursing them with every variation of how he'd screw their mothers.
They'd call that a success.
After that, they moved on to rifle training.
The first part was a simple rundown — how to switch the safety on and off, how to clear a jammed chamber, and most importantly, how to actually aim the damn thing.
Handling a firearm was easy when they had superhuman strength. The recoil barely registered, even for a high-caliber rifle. But, of course, there were still some idiots in the group who took that as an excuse to hold down the trigger until their mags were empty.
One particularly brilliant recruit decided to unload his entire clip without thinking. The bullets went wild, and they all hit the deck as a round ricocheted into one of the barracks windows. That earned us a surprise inquiry from HQ.
Instructor wasn't pleased.
"Some of you can take a bullet. Some of you. But a bullet to the head or heart still puts you in a body bag, so stop acting like this is a goddamn video game!"
He wasn't wrong. They weren't invincible. Strong? Sure. Durable? Yeah. But even the toughest Augmen could be taken down with the right hit. Some people just didn't seem to get that.
Instructor hammered the point home.
"Always wear your armor and helmet when dealing with hostiles. I don't care how strong you are, if you run in without gear, you're a dumbass."
The veterans understood that. The newer guys? Not so much.
The Augmen and Mutates in the group had a habit of walking around like they were gods. It wasn't surprising. When they could lift a car, punch through concrete, and shrug off stab wounds, it made them feel untouchable. But feeling untouchable was a good way to get killed.
Not that it stopped anyone from acting like they were invincible. It'd take more beatings, more failures, and possibly a few near-death experiences before that lesson really sank in.
At the end of the day, Rus just wanted to collapse onto his bed and sleep. Training had fried his muscles, and his head was still ringing from the constant yelling.
Unfortunately, he had to share a living space with morons.
The Counter barracks were functional but basic—rows of sleeping quarters, each room holding two people. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't comfortable either.
The real problem for some of them apparently?
The armory door.
See, the armory had a simple keypad lock. All you had to do was enter a four-digit code to open it. Nothing complicated. Nothing fancy. But for some godforsaken reason, half the recruits couldn't remember the code.
So what did they do?
Did they write it down? No.
Did they memorize it? Also no.
Did they find a reasonable solution? Hell no.
Instead, some genius decided that the best way to keep the door open was to wedge a metal pipe over the top so it couldn't close properly.
Rus stared at it for a long moment, watching as two guys struggled to get the pipe in place.
"You know," Rus said finally, "you could just write the code down somewhere."
One of them looked at Rus like he'd suggested quantum physics.
"You could also shut up and let us do this," he replied.
Rus sighed and walked away.
There was no fixing stupidity.
By the time he got back to his room, Dan was already lying on his bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He didn't look up as Rus walked in.
"How was it?" he asked.
Rus flopped onto his mattress, groaning. "Tommer got cooked. Rifle training was a disaster. And the armory door situation is somehow getting worse."
Dan snorted. "So, just another day?"
"Pretty much."
They were quiet for a while, the sounds of the ocean drifting through the thin walls. The city outside was alive — always was. Even this late, they could hear the hum of traffic, the occasional burst of shouting, the distant thump of music from the lower districts.
Dan let out a long sigh. "How long do you think we'll last?"
Rus thought about that for a moment.
"Four years," Rus said finally. "That's what we signed up for."
He let out a low chuckle. "Yeah. If we last that long with the kind of retards here.."
Rus didn't respond.
Because honestly? He wasn't sure if they would.
***
Counters weren't exclusive to men. In a world as unforgiving as this one, plenty of women were just as desperate to secure citizenship or take advantage of government protection. The organization didn't discriminate as long as they could hold a weapon and follow orders.
For obvious reasons, the base kept the men and women separated. Not that it stopped the usual bullshit. Some of the guys, the bastards with no self-control couldn't help but ogle, making crude gestures whenever they got the chance. Some of the women responded in kind, but the smart ones ignored it.
Still, a few idiots always took things too far.
The last pair who tried to sneak into the showers together got caught and deported the same day — thrown straight out of the city, left to fend for themselves in the wastelands beyond the walls. No second chances. No appeals.
After that, most people kept their fantasies in their heads. Didn't stop the occasional vulgar remark, but at least no one was stupid enough to get caught acting on it. Rus wouldn't count it on though.
They were technically getting paid with a joke of a paycheck, but money nonetheless. Counter HQ had no problem working us to the bone. Training was only one part of the experience. When they weren't being drilled to death, they were on cleaning duty.
Dan and Rus got assigned to vehicle maintenance. That meant scrubbing down Humvees, cleaning out their bloody interiors, and hosing off whatever viscera had gotten stuck to the undercarriage.
They almost got to clean the helicopters, too, but the mechanics weren't having it.
"Hey, fuck off with that hose!" one of them shouted as Rus got too close.
Apparently, some idiot had tried to spray down the exposed mechanics of a chopper before. They were promptly told to keep their hands off the aircraft and stick to the trucks.
Which was fine by him.
Most of the Humvees were battered, dented, and covered in dried gore. The ones that weren't completely totaled were being hammered back into shape by repair crews, their armor plates straightened and welded like patchwork.
It was disgusting work.
Bloodstains soaked deep into the seats. Mud and God-knows-what were caked under the wheels. They had to manually disassemble the seats, scrub them with bleach and soapy water, then put them back together.
Dan nearly gagged as they pried open a door.
"Gods, this stinks like shit."
"Smells like someone became shit in here," Rus muttered, covering his nose.
The answer, unfortunately, was probably yes.
While they scrubbed down the vehicles, soldiers lounged around the base. Some were covered in tar, gun lubricant, tobacco spit, and straight-up sewer water from the town they'd just patrolled. Others barked orders at them on what to touch, what not to touch, where to load the ammo boxes once we finished.
Their job wasn't pretty. The city deployed them to secure kilometers of territory, expanding its influence bit by bit. Their main job?
Clear the land.
Sometimes that meant eliminating mutated beasts that had taken over abandoned areas. Other times, it meant crushing raider camps or dealing with hostile gangs.
If things got really bad, they had to fend off full-blown incursions such as bands of Gobs, Orcs, or worse, trying to push into the city's borders.
Most of them, the trainees were being trained for urban deployment. Riot control. Civil order. That sort of thing. But seeing these guys made Rus wonder how long before they sent them out there, too?
Probably in the last two years of their contract. Maybe even sooner if they got desperate.
After hours of scrubbing blood, mud, and viscera off metal, Dan and him were finally told to get lost.
They trudged back to HQ, boots soaked and reeking of bleach, and reported back to the Sergeant. He barely looked up from his computer.
"Noted," he grunted. "Go clean yourselves up and check your gear."
Thankfully, they had their own room.
Some poor bastards got stuck on latrine duty, and their area reeked of shit. At least Dan and him didn't have to deal with that.
Rus flopped onto his bed, exhausted.
Dan did the same, staring at the ceiling.
"This job fucking sucks," he muttered.
Rus sighed. "Yeah. But at least we're still in the city."
Dan let out a dry laugh. "Yeah… for now."
No one wanted to be outside of the Wasteland. Sure they technically got some places cleared, but no one wanted to live there at the moment. There were livable areas, a lot, but most of the time they just fuck off back to the city after getting tired of the Occasional Monster Incursions. It'll take time for this world to heal and if that time comes… it won't be the same.