SDMA 12

Chapter 12

Contamination Survival Training

A.K.A. CBR Defense.

One of the courses in basic military training—and a nightmare that strips you mentally and physically down to the bone.

Why did Northport choose this year, the year she infiltrated, to turn the training into a real-combat exercise?

The instructor lifted a gas canister.

“Today you cadets will experience this toxic substance. It’s a poison gas with a composition extremely similar to the toxic fog that wiped out an entire platoon.”

For a moment, Chloe doubted her own ears.

What?

Normally, CBR training used tear gas—non-lethal but painful enough to feel like death.

But this insane Northport Academy was about to throw its freshmen into actual poison gas.

If it weren’t for her mission, she would’ve dragged Northport into a military tribunal right this instant.

Chloe wanted to snarl something like, “Why don’t you inhale it yourself?”
But since the instructor himself was entering the chamber with the cadets, she couldn’t say anything.

Not that she would’ve spoken up anyway. For Chloe, the mission came before justice.

“Remember this. Nine seconds to get the gas mask onto your head, one minute to fully secure it, and two minutes thirty seconds to put on protective gear. Any longer than that, and we cannot guarantee your safety or survival.”

The storage building behind the instructor felt like the gaping maw of hell. Chloe wasn’t the only one who felt it.

“Before we enter, any cadet who isn’t feeling well, raise your hand.”

Thirty hands shot up instantly.

Of course they did. Who in their right mind wanted to train with actual deadly gas?

The supervising training officer, who had come to observe, slowly turned his head toward the instructors—who immediately glared at the cadets with murderous eyes.

Still, what could they do? Force sick cadets into a training exercise using actual poison gas? Even delinquents abandoned by their families weren’t treated that recklessly. Getting punished with extra drills was one thing—but being put at real risk during training was another.

The cadets held their ground and refused to lower their hands.

But Northport never adhered to common sense.

The instructor glaring at them suddenly roared with veins bulging in his neck:

“First twenty to touch that tree! The last ten will do night endurance training until morning roll call! Move!”

Night endurance training was just a fancy term for pulling an all-nighter of punishment drills.
Doing that until morning roll call meant: no sleep tonight.

A sleepless night followed by immediate morning formation and running—or contamination training with poison gas that lasted, at worst, three minutes.

…Yeah, an all-nighter sounds worse.

Chloe, being a veteran of CBR training, made her decision instantly.

“Move!”

The 87th class responded and sprinted for the designated tree at full speed, desperate to be in the top twenty.

Judging from the frantic rush, everyone shared Chloe’s thoughts.

Even those who had wanted to protect their convictions and avoid poison gas were swept up by crowd panic and began running too.

Chloe maintained her lead the whole way, finishing second and watching her classmates arrive behind her. Roselyn, Fini, and Lucian all made the cut.

Even Marielle—usually slow thanks to her drinking habits—managed to be in the top twenty. She must have run like her life depended on it. The one who took first place was none other than Altair Targen.

“Seeing how well you can all run, it seems you’re perfectly healthy. No exemptions!”

When the last cadet returned, the instructor declared this with hands on his hips.
Running full speed had proven they were not sick—so no one could pretend otherwise now.

The lower ten, who now had to endure both the poison gas training and all-night drills, stared bitterly at their own hands, regretting raising them.

Some tried protesting, but the instructor threatened them with two consecutive nights of endurance training. Their mouths snapped shut.

All thirty cadets assembled into formation again. The instructor stepped forward to explain the training procedure.

Listening to the explanation alone, CBR training sounded simple:

Bring your gas mask and protective gear into the warehouse.
When the toxic agent ignites, put on your mask and gear before inhaling the gas.

Sounds easy. Damn it.

If your fingers fumbled even once, you’d inhale poison. Just recalling past tear-gas training made Chloe’s fingertips tremble.

And here, the gas didn’t just hurt—it killed.

“Your training records will serve as the foundation for your seniors’ military drills during the semester. Stay alert. Instructors will be positioned nearby, so report immediately in case of emergency.”

The problem with being first:

Standards and guidelines are established through trial and error.
And the first group always bears the most trial and error.

Having no established standard meant someone had to pay the price.
And the first group always did.

Before entering the real exercise, the 87th class practiced putting on their masks and protective suits more earnestly than ever.

“Damn it! I’m dead!”

“How are we supposed to do this in one minute?!”

Finally, it was time.

The cadets entered the warehouse—now converted into a gas chamber—like livestock being herded to slaughter.

The metal door slammed shut.

Even Chloe’s hands trembled, despite her experience.
The others, facing the same poison gas that had once wiped out a platoon, were far worse.

“All personnel, put on gas masks!”

The instructor didn’t say, “Wear it in time or you’ll die,”
—but all the cadets already knew.

White fog hissed out of the canister.

Before the gas could spread, Chloe held her breath, attached the filter, and pulled the mask over her head—within the nine-second limit.

But the cadet next to her mistimed his last breath. As agony crashed over him, he dropped his gas mask and screamed as tears and snot streamed down his face.

“Aaaaagh!!”

Staggering, he grabbed at Chloe’s face mask in blind panic—trying to rip it off.

He showed no hesitation. With only the tightening straps left, Chloe couldn’t afford this interference.

Normally she would’ve shaken him off easily, but his desperate survival instinct and the presence of actual poison gas made everything harder.

Chloe was one second away from kicking him off when—

He suddenly toppled forward.

He had fallen directly onto his own mask. As he scrambled to put it on, the person behind him withdrew the foot that had kicked him and looked at Chloe.

“Oi. Debt repaid.”

It was Altair Targen, fully masked, smiling with his eyes.
Chloe had no idea what debt he thought he was repaying.

But she didn’t have time to think. She quickly tightened her straps and checked the mask seal.

She could’ve done it faster, but the scuffle meant she barely finished within the one-minute limit.

When she looked around, the sight through her mask was horrific.

Cadets were fighting, ripping masks from each other, drooling, clinging to masks like their lives depended on it.

Marielle had gotten her mask on but forgotten the most important part—the filter—and was rolling on the ground.

“Last… cough cough… words… ugh! Save me…!”

“Oi, Marielle! If you die, I’ll bring a whole barrel of liquor to your grave!”

“Miladyyyyy! Hold on! I will save you!”

While Roselyn was already offering condolences, Lucian yanked off his own filter and slapped it onto Marielle’s mask.

But Marielle flailed wildly in pain—and punched Lucian hard.

The shock made Lucian gasp—and inhale poison straight into his lungs.

He instantly inherited Marielle’s agony.

“Aaaaagh! Somebody help me!!”

Chloe grabbed Lucian and calmly attached the filter Marielle had dropped.

The cadets without masks swarmed toward the door and pounded on it frantically. But it didn’t budge.

Instead—

Hissssss—

A new canister released another wave of poison gas.

Even with a mask, Chloe’s eyes stung—maybe just from fear. Her insides felt coated with sticky venom.

“Focus and put on protective gear!”

Chloe clenched her jaw.

She had already hooked the protective suit around her waist and was sliding her arms in.

Two minutes thirty seconds. Longer than the mask—but not long enough to relax.

She secured the shoulder straps, zipped the front tight. Her sweaty, chemical-slick hands slipped, but she forced through it.

Fully suited, Chloe turned to see the others.

One cadet wore the suit but couldn’t zip it, spinning helplessly.
Another was screaming in terror.

“Instructor! Instructor! This one’s defective! It has three sleeves! Save me!”

“That’s because you shoved both legs into one hole! Get a grip! Pull your legs out!”

The gas chamber had become a survival arena.

“Time’s up!”

The gas stopped.

“Uuurgh…”

Cadets who had failed to put their masks on properly collapsed, clutching their throats.

One cadet lying pale on the floor began to foam at the mouth.