Prologue

2007, Kandahar, Afghanistan

(13 years before the Global Pandemic)

Canadian Special Operation Regiment

Thirty-nine year old Master-Sergeant Samuel Burnham led his six man team into the remains of the supposedly abandoned village. The day before Sam's squad and several others from Joint Task Force 2 had assaulted the village and either killed or captured a fair number of Taliban fighters. This morning Sam's group had been tasked with checking all the houses for any fanatical 'die hards'.

Sam had been 'in country' for three years running and the blazing hot winter Afghani sun now seemed more normal to him than his fading memories of the gentle warmth of the brief Canadian summers he grew up with. Now, at forty-three, Sam was the 'old man' of his squad, with the other five 'Kanucks' all being somewhere in their early or late twenties. Sam didn't pay much attention to 'personal details' like a trooper's age, marital status, or place of birth. He liked to keep his distance --- that way it hurt less when they were shipped home in a body bag.

Sam himself had only one more year to go till he reached the magical '25 in' and could retire from soldering with a full pension and return to being a wooden boatbuilder in the beautiful Thousand Islands area of the St. Lawrence River.

"Hey Sarj!" A young voice called out. "Why ta fawk do we always get ta shit jobs?!"

'O'Riley from the strong Newfy accent,' Sam thought. He answered without taking his eyes off the bullet ridden buildings up ahead. "Because, O'Riley, they know that we're the toughest, meanest, steel-eyed bastards they've got--- and that we get the job done no matter what!"

"Damn straight, Sarj!" someone yelled out.

"Fuckin' A, man!" another added.

Just then machinegun fire opened up on them from several of the so called 'deserted' buildings. Five of the six man squad quickly took cover behind an ancient brick wall. The sixth lay dead in a rapidly growing puddle of his own blood.

"Simms is down, Sarj!" a young voice called out.

Sam glanced back, saw the spreading puddle and sighed. 'Head shot. Fast way to go.'

'Hey Sarj! You want us to get the body?"

"Later," Sam said. "First we deal with these bastards! You last two, fire grenades at those windows. You two, up here with me!"

As a half dozen grenades were launched at the houses, Sam led O'Riley and another grunt along the stone wall and then rushed in from the side. He fired a long burst through a window, then O'Riley tossed in a flash-bang. The three others were now doing the same with the second house.

Sam then kicked in the door and went right. O'Riley followed, going left. They both shot the dazed looking bearded fellow holding an AK-47.

"Told ya, Sarj," O'Riley grinned. "Only ta best get ta shit jobs!"

Sam ignored him and put in a fresh clip.

"Hey Sarj," one of the three outside called. "We got ourselves a little problem out here."

"What is it?!" Sam yelled back.

"Some fucker's standing in the doorway using a woman as a shield. What do we do?"

"Watch him. I'm coming."

***

One of Sam's squad doubled as a translator --- sort of. There were so many different Afghani dialects that most times he was close to useless. This time however he wasn't.

"He says he'll kill her if we try anything, but if we just turn and go she'll live."

"Bullshit!" one of the young solders yelled. "Let me shoot the fucker, Sarj! He killed Simms!"

'Donaldson,' Sam thought. 'From out west somewhere. One of the 'cowboy' provinces.'

The jihadist holding the woman was getting excited; waving his AK around and jabbering something at the translator.

"He says we either move or he starts shooting! That he's ready to meet Allah as long as he takes us with him!"

"Let me do him, Sarj!" Donaldson said again. "I'll blow the fucker away!"

Donaldson's voice drew the man's attention --- and his weapon. The AK rose and pointed at the young soldier. Sam suddenly pictured him on the ground dying. Just like Simms --- like all the others over the years. Young men that he'd led to their deaths.

"NNNOOOOOO!!" Sam yelled as he raised his own rifle and fired. Suddenly tired of all the blood and dying; the constant wind, blowing sand and endless death, he was hungry for a greener, cooler, more peaceful place. Sam pulled the trigger and held it down, emptying his entire clip into the cowardly fanatic.

When the ear splitting noise finally stopped, all of his men but Simms were still alive and the jihadist was not.

Neither however was the woman that he had been hiding behind.

Sam put in his resignation the next morning.

It was some time however before he made it back to his peaceful river, but make it back he eventually did, and there he stayed in a state of quiet self-exile building beautiful wooden boats just like his father had and his father before him.

And then, thirteen years later, a terrible new kind of war found both Sam and the rest of the world --- a war that changed life on the planet forever.

***