With the five others positioned in a tight perimeter around the small clearing, I squat near the edge and stare at the six bodies stacked in a row on the ground. Each one bears the same rigid expression of agony etched on pale, gray faces. Dried remnants of saliva are plastered around their mouths and down their cheeks, dried blood in lines from their nostrils.
Sunlight streams into the clearing with the constant buzzing of insects as they alight and take off from the bodies. Flies jerkily move across eyeballs staring into the blue sky and dance along gray lips. The smell of death and feces hangs in the humid air, the odor that brought us to the bodies. With the exception of a fire pit in the middle of the clearing, the area has been sanitized of all tracks. But, by the way the bodies are lying in an even line, presented to us, it’s obvious that they were moved to their current positions.
Upon leaving our little haven on the ridge after stirring up the ant’s nest, we made our way into the mountains and circled around to the insertion point of the team to follow in their tracks. Because they hadn’t radioed in some time, we took our time paralleling their intended route. There still hadn’t been any groups taking credit for taking out a team of Americans, so their disappearance had been a mystery until now.
With the dried saliva, I’m hesitant to creep any close to inspect the bodies for fear of poisoning. Our small chemical analyzer didn’t detect any traces, but I’m not about to touch the bodies; there could still be contact poisons. However, even from the distance I’m keeping, I can clearly see a strange bird-like symbol freshly branded on each of their foreheads.
I’m uneasy about remaining in the area, but we have our orders. This wasn’t some random group of people out to look for some rare bird. The six men lying in the tall grass were highly trained and paranoid about their security. There’s no sign of a firefight or that they set off an ambush, so the action may have taken place elsewhere. Each has a single wound, which suggests an ambush. In the field, intervals are maintained in order to minimize the chances that an ambush or explosive can take out the entire team. Seeing as they were seemingly taken down at once, whoever did this knew their line of march and how they operated. The thing that is really bothering me is that the team was left like this as if we were expected to find them. It’s clear that whoever did this wanted them found, but not easily—otherwise they could have just dumped them out of a van into the street. The sooner I’m out of this place, the better.
The faint beating of rotors grows louder until the tops of the trees violently sway from the down draft. The open area is too small to land, so two ropes are tossed off to the side and men in MOPP gear slide down. I nod as each passes to gather the bodies, which are then hoisted one at a time in a lowered basket. As they gather the weapons, I walk over and ask one to open the chamber. Inside is the gleam of chambered round. I don’t want to touch the weapon—it hasn’t been sanitized—so I ask that he eject the magazine and flip the bullets out. I find that not a single shot was fired. I check another to find the same thing. This team was taken out so quickly that they weren’t able to fire a single round.
The bodies are lifted and the chopper flies away, the rotors quickly growing faint before vanishing altogether. I stroll out of the clearing to join the others hidden in the tree line. Sitting for a couple of minutes, the sound of the insects a constant background drone, I listen for the sound of another helicopter. Our position has already been given away by the first one, so any delay makes my back itchy.
Grabbing the handset from Freeman, I radio, “Raven zero one, Badger six, over.”
“Badger six, Raven zero one. I know what you’re going to ask, but standby.”
“Yeah, well, I’m going to ask it anyway…I think someone forgot how to do math. You know, where one helicopter becomes two. Where’s our ride?”
“Your pickup was just recalled and I’m trying to sort it out…standby,” Raven zero one answers.
“That’s not what I’m wanting to hear right now, but you know where to find me when you get it sorted out. Badger six, out.”
“Prepare for some incoming fucktardity. Our ride’s been cancelled,” I say over our personal comms. “Taylor, find us the deepest, darkest cover you can, and lead us there.”
As we take positions in a dense copse of trees, Freeman hands me the radio handset.
“Badger six, go.”
“Badger six, Raven zero one. Eagle asks if you can investigate the upper caves near your prior position.”
“Heading back to the scene of the crime isn’t the best idea…like, ever. What does he want us to do?”
“Investigate and destroy it if it’s a manufacturing facility,” Raven zero one states.
“Aren’t there others that are supposed to take care of shit like that…you know, like departments with three-letter identifiers?” I ask
I really don’t want to put us close to the stirred-up ant hill. And our little find here in the jungle has left me feeling very uneasy about this whole hike.
“You’re there,” Raven zero one responds. “Eagle says that it comes with a contract extension with applicable compensation.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. I want a hot shower, a juicy hamburger, and a cold beer, not more traipsing through this jungle for someone’s appeasement,” I reply.
“Eagle says pretty please.”
“Oh, well then, why the fuck not! I mean, pretty please goes a long ways. Standby,” I return.
I talk it over with the others, who merely shake their heads. Going back isn’t the best idea. We just snagged a huge bargaining chip from the hands of a major cartel, and I can’t imagine they’re overly happy about it. When wronged, either real or imagined, the cartels operate off of lessons and examples. They aren’t easily going to let go of something like this. I’d hate to be a Mexican helicopter pilot in the next few days, because the cartel is likely to lash out at anything. And they’ll stomp these jungles flat to find out who did it.
“Raven zero one, I have six noes on this end,” I radio.
“Eagle says double rate that will apply for the entire mission.”
I look at the men, who still shake their heads.
“Still a no.”
“Triple.”
“Triple is hard to pass up,” Freeman comments.
“See how high they’ll go,” Mitchell whispers.
“I’m still seeing the shake of heads here,” I reply to Raven.
Another voice comes over the radio. “Badger six, I know what’s going on down there. Triple is it.”
“How’d we get stuck with this?” Baker asks.
“The Creator’s reward for clean living, I guess,” I answer.
Reluctantly, the others agree to go forward. Triple pay for a mission that’s gone on this long is nothing to sneeze at, risk or no. But, there’s also the fear that if we turn back, which is well within our rights, it might be a while before we receive another call. All of us do this for various reasons—adrenaline junkie, sense of adventure, and the occasional paladin who thinks they’re changing the world—but, most of us don’t really know what else to do. So, we pretend to do it for the money, creating mythical sums to work toward so we can retire. I think I have a mix of those reasons, but like I mentioned, it’s mostly those rare moments watching the people we rescue heading home that keeps me coming back for more.
“Fine, but there had better also be a tall glass of beer waiting for us…and not shitty beer. I also want extraction on standby and I don’t mean the ‘I’ll be there in thirty’ kind, either,” I radio.
“Copy. You call and we’ll be there inside of ten,” Raven zero one says.
“It had better be. If it’s a second over ten, I’m going to find and kill family pets,” I reply.
“I’ll relay your enthusiasm,” Raven zero one chuckles.
“And, tell Eagle that if he strands us again without asking, then I’m going to steal his wife.”
“Badger six, he may actually pay you to do that.”
“That bad, huh? Okay, then I’m back to family pets,” I state.
“I’ll relay the message. Raven zero one, out.”
We work our way out of the area, taking the long path into the mountains and back toward our original overlook. I’m still not sure who could have taken out an entire team like that, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel related to the hostages. Whoever it was, they covered their tracks like pros so that even I couldn’t tell where the ambush was, much less where they went. In the heat of the day, thermal optics won’t do much good, but we still have them combined in our NVGs. Unless they’re cold blooded or wearing dry suits, we should be able to see if anyone is around us in the darkness. Being extra cautious, our trek up the mountains takes us double our usual time as each step is taken nervously.
* * * * * *
Sweat trickles down my neck from the heat as I snake through a field of tall grass, the red clay soil making it feel like I’m crawling across a bed of coals. Behind, the others are keeping watch in the tree line. Even slowly parting the clumps of grass and worming my way through, hidden by the tall stalks, I still feel like a target. For the thousandth time in my career, I contemplate my retirement. I’ve been hunted by elite teams before, but this one feels different. I’ve never been left with such a clear warning sign, or whatever that was supposed to be. I suppose it could have been a gauntlet that was thrown down. Either way, I think I may sit out that part of the game and watch from the sidelines.
As I push myself forward, two thoughts enter my mind. One is that some kind of leak occurred with the dead team. At first, I thought of cartel infiltration within the Mexican military that assisted with the insertion. But, upon seeing the bodies, the cartel idea was replaced with something much more dangerous. My second thought? That at the moment, being a greeter at Walmart doesn’t sound like too bad of a deal.
I emerge at the edge of a jutting cliff. The area we’re supposed to “investigate” is a little to the side, but I want to get a look at the town beforehand. With two helicopters coming into the area in the past few days and having hostages rescued from under their noses, I wanted to see what was happening. I didn’t want to head back to our previous location for obvious reasons, and this site offers an overlooking view.
Pulling out a pair of binoculars, I shield the lens from the late afternoon sun and focus on the small village below. At first look, I don’t see anyone moving. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I observe it closer. There’s not a single person in sight. Where there were guards lounging at intersections, the corners are empty. There’s no one wandering the streets or by the aluminum shed in the distance. The hacienda we visited a few nights ago is also clear of guards.
Did they expect a raid and pull out?
I carefully scan each building, but there’s no one around. No sound of vehicles moving…just nothing. It’s as if the town was vacated. A slight gust of wind passes through, blowing a few scraps of paper across the streets where they’re caught against poles or the legs of picnic tables.
How would you clear out an entire town of people? And why all of the villagers instead of just the cartel members?
I continue scanning, searching for some sign of life or evidence that someone is still around. Curtains in blank windows rustle in the breeze, blankets serving as doors sway outside. Vehicles are still parked at the manor and a few elsewhere, but there aren’t any drivers or passengers.
They wouldn’t leave their vehicles.
As if a switch were thrown, I start noticing other things—dark splatters on the sides of some rundown houses. Now that I see the first ones, the others become more noticeable. The patterns created by the spray are signs of vicious deaths. I check along the walls for the pock marks of bullets that have slammed into their surfaces, but can’t find a single one. Nor holes in the more rundown houses. The dark spray patterns show that more than a few met their end violently, but there aren’t any bodies in the streets.
So, they killed the villagers before fleeing. So not cool. But, why take the bodies?
I edge back and make my way to the others, radioing my find to the special ops platform circling off the coast.
“Something blew through here while we were out on our nature walk,” I say, also informing the team of what I saw.
“So, we may not have much to investigate and destroy?” Baker comments.
“That’s what it looks like,” I respond.
“Well, I’m not against free money,” Baker says. “Triple pay at that.”
“Me either. Okay, we can either rest up and tackle this tomorrow night after a day of observation, or we can take care of this shit tonight. I’m good either way,” I state.
“What’s that you’re always saying, Jack? Sooner started, sooner done? We could be on our way back tonight, and I’m ready for a long, hot shower,” Baker responds.
“Yeah. This soiree is about to cut into my weekend with the kids. Besides, if the villagers have truly been eliminated and the cartel members have fled, then, like you said, this may be quick and easy. But, we’re still treating this as if the place is hosting a convention, and we’ll head in after dark to see what we see. Remain vigilant and don’t rush into something thinking that this is almost over. No shortcuts. I don’t have to tell you that it’s only over when we set foot on friendly terrain and clear the rotors. And, let’s keep in mind that we might have another enemy roaming somewhere; I’d rather not have a repeat of what happened to Calhoun and his team. We’re going to head further into the trees and act like we’re setting up camp for the evening, then move out once night falls,” I brief.
“An entire team taken out without a shot and a whole town murdered. This whole thing is starting to give me the heebie-jeebies,” Taylor states.
“You’re not the only one,” Freeman replies.
“Okay, we’re in the home stretch here and there’s a chopper on a ten-minute standby, so save the theatrics for when we’re perched at the bar,” I state.
* * * * * *
Under the trees is an empty black void lit only in the greenish glow of my NVGs. Each step is carefully planned and executed, six wraiths whispering through the night. Beyond the range of my sight, there is nothing but an unending vacuum of nothingness where anything could be lurking.
I grip my carbine, my thumb nervously caressing the selector switch. The cooler air of the night has replaced the warmth of the day, but it still holds some of the humidity. I take a few steps, then watch and listen. As I move through the night, I scan the upper levels of the trees and imagine an ambush waiting behind every bush. My heart quickens with jolts of adrenaline and my M-4 is rapidly aimed at moving heat sources as they flicker across my field of vision.
There are moments when I want to rush in and get this shit over with, but the mental image of Calhoun’s team forces me to work methodically. Our route zig-zags across the side of the ridge in order not to communicate our final destination, moving past where the road ends and then cutting back to it.
Prone on the edge of a cliff, I look down into a wide lot carved out of the hillside. There are a few old pickups parked along the edges of the hard-packed clay. Within the lot, a wide cave large enough for one of the vehicles to drive through leads deeper into the ridge. No lights show from within and there’s nothing moving in sight. That’s not surprising, since our observances several days ago showed that the people left toward sundown. The trucks in the lot may have broken down, or perhaps the villagers were murdered in the cave.
Further below, the village is hidden from view in the darkness of the valley. In the few moments we could glimpse down into it, no lights flickered behind curtained windows, no flashlights swayed to and fro as guards walked their posts. There wasn’t a single source of illumination or sound reverberating up the steep slopes. It was as if the town didn’t exist. The night, which is usually my security blanket, begins to feel a little more sinister, and I’m reminded of that eerie feeling I felt at the coastal manor.
Stop it, Jack. You’re not five and there aren’t any monsters in the closet.
For twenty minutes, we watch and listen without seeing or hearing anything except for the swish of a gentle breeze blowing across the top of the trees and grass. We snake our way from our perch, arriving at the lot. Baker, Taylor, and Burkhart will remain hidden on the ledge to cover the lot and surrounding area. I opt for Mitchell and Freeman, as there may be injured inside whom our medic might be able to help, and Freeman carries the radio, which I want near me.
I’d rather be trudging to a hot shower, or a cold one given the heat and humidity here, or to a comfortable bed, but as long as I have to be here, I couldn’t pick better company. As we work along the edges of the lot, moving around the parked vehicles, an aroma seeps out of the cave. There’s just no mistaking the smell of decaying bodies.
That would explain the vehicles still here, I think, edging to the side of the entrance.
I hold a signal mirror around the corner, but I’m not able to make out much past the entrance other than a tunnel leading into a void. Rounding the corner, I begin a fast crouch-walk against the tunnel wall, my carbine held ready and aimed ahead. The stench gets worse as I venture farther in, and I have a feeling I know what awaits at the end. I’ve smelled the same thing far too many times.
An opening at the end shows where the walls of the tunnel come to an abrupt end. Twisted figures lie on the red clay, their bodies torn. Surveying the large room from the entrance shows that overturned tables lie among the corpses, accompanied by shards of broken glass and shattered beakers. The area near the strewn tables is littered with a powdery substance, and a few plastic-wrapped bags are scattered throughout, some whole and others spilling their substance onto the ground. Within the wide expanse, nothing is moving.
This doesn’t make sense, the thought immediately rises. If they were bugging out and eliminating the villagers, why would they leave their merchandise behind?
I hold the others back while I take a closer look. The dead have been savagely slain, many with their throats torn open. Ropes of intestine curl out of opened stomachs, draped across shredded and darkly stained shirts. Dried blood is caked around the bodies, the stains darker than the surrounding soil. Several weapons lie near outstretched arms, evidence that not all of the slain were villagers.
Looking at the scene, I have to revise my original assumption that the cartel killed the villagers and left after our rescue. This appears to be an attack of a different kind, one that wiped out the entire village. My first thought is that whatever took out Calhoun’s team swept through the place, but these killings are much different than what we previously discovered. For one, none of the team members were mutilated, other than the brand on their foreheads. This slaughter was brutal, whereas the other one appeared methodical and precise. Unless we’re dealing with some kind of schizophrenic psychopath, these are two events from different sources.
That leaves the question of whether this was, in fact, another cartel sending a message. With the drugs still in place, it certainly doesn’t appear theft-motivated, instead centered on pure savagery. We didn’t hear anything within the valley during our trek to locate the other team, but the jungle muffles sound. Looking at the torn bodies, it doesn’t appear like they were taken down by gunfire, but perhaps by a machete-wielding gang. I’ve seen a lot in my years, but I’m always amazed at the kind of butchery one person can do to another. On a side note, it looks like our job has been done for us. The only real thing for us to do is to destroy the wrapped packages that are still intact, and then it’s Miller time.
I take another close look around, searching for any movement, for any sign of survivors, listening for any sound. Nothing within the room is warm enough to give off a thermal signature. There’s only complete silence and the grisly aftermath of slaughter. Stepping into the large room, my eyes and barrel wander to the far corners, constantly searching. Freeman and I remain just inside while Mitchell heads further in, withdrawing a knife to slice open the remaining packages.
Interrupting the quiet, I suddenly hear something between a hiss and a growl, if that kind of sound is even possible. Something quickly moves across my field of vision. It doesn’t appear to have any substance and is really only a blur of movement. It moves past Mitchell and I hear a wet splash. The medic falls to his knees, gripping his throat as blood pours between his fingers. A blurred shape materializes a short distance away from the stricken man.
A pale man with lanky hair is staring at us with eyes that are glowing in my NVGs, blood dripping from his long fingers. Oddly, there isn’t a heat signature emanating from the attacker. Freeman and I each take a step to the side in opposite directions, unloading a torrent of fire at the assailant. I need to finish this quickly and get to Mitchell.
Rounds streak across the wide room, all centering on a spot where the man is standing. Expecting to see him twitch from multiple impacts, I’m taken aback as his form becomes, well, insubstantial, and with a hiss, he blurs forward in a streak of darkness. Our bullets strike the far wall with a rapid series of solid thuds.
In the corner of my eye, I see Mitchell fall forward onto his face. However, my attention is on the blurred streak as it hurtles toward Freeman. It passes by him and then the man materializes behind my radio man, so fast that my eye can barely track it. The attacker’s mouth clamps on Freeman’s neck and, with a wrench of the assailants head, tears away a large chunk of tissue. Blood sprays from the wound, coating Freeman’s shoulder and running down his neck to soak into his fatigue shirt. The attacker looks up, blood smeared around his mouth, and looks to me with eyes glowing silver.
Oh fuck! I’m dead, I think, still wondering why I’m not seeing any thermal image and if this is truly what took out the other team.
I fire, quick strobes of light flashing against the clay walls. This time they hit, and the man staggers backward as rounds slam into his side and chest, dark spots appearing on his stained shirt. I drop my mostly spent mag and slam another into place, releasing the bolt. Recovering quickly, he shakes his head with a snarl and another hiss, then looks directly at me and blurs before I can fire again. With a speed I’ve never before witnessed, the dark streak is heading just to my right.
No, no, no. I’ve seen this trick, I think, dropping my carbine to hang on its lanyard.
I drop and turn a one-eighty while taking out a six-inch double-edged blade from a sheath at my side. I keep a knife in multiple places on my body so I can have one in reach from nearly every angle. As long as my hands aren’t directly pinned, there’s always a knife within reach. The creature materializes behind where my back was, but with my turn, it’s directly in front of me.
I rise, plunging my knife under its sternum and driving it upward at an angle. There’s a faint resistance as the blade pushes through the skin. Liquid gushes over my glove, the viscous substance neither hot nor cold. The hilt slams against the stomach and I wiggle the blade back and forth, the tip cutting through tissue.
I sense its shoulder move and see movement in my peripheral. Observing what happened to Mitchell, I jump backward, pulling my knife from its body. I don’t want to get raked across the throat by whatever it’s carrying. And, with my blade having sliced through its heart, I know it won’t be long before it sinks to its knees and fucking dies.
I feel the wind from a sweeping hand just an inch away. The creature grabs its stomach with its other hand, dark liquid pouring through its fingers, which slows to a trickle and then stops. It stumbles, catching itself before falling to its knees. The attacker then stands upright and glares at me as if its heart is just fine.
You have to be fucking kidding me!
It blurs again and I focus on trying to keep track of the dark misty cloud. It again is heading toward my right. I start a dropping turn to catch it like before. If it’s going to try the same tactic, then I’m going to counter it in the way that seemed to have worked. Although, how the man is still able to stand is beyond comprehension. Right now though, I’m just trying to stay alive from one second to the next. I don’t even have the time for a radio call to Blake for help.
In mid-turn, I see the assailant materialize short of going behind me. It stands there, looking up and down its body with a confused expression. I don’t give it time to contemplate the mysteries of life. Halting my turn, I rotate back to the front and deliver a kick to its chest, sending it stumbling backward a few steps.
Recovering with a hiss, it blurs again, this time the shadow heading right toward me. I quickly step to the side and thrust my dagger into where I think its path is. At this point, everything is a guess, and if I make the wrong one or misjudge, I’m going to end up like the rest of the bodies scattered in the cavern.
I feel the knife bite into something solid, and cold runs up my blade and arm. The creature materializes with my knife in its neck, the end sticking out of the other side. The radiating cold vanishes and I feel liquid pour onto my hand. Applying pressure toward the front of its neck, I slice the blade and feel it cut through gristle and muscle. The razor-sharp blade slices through its neck, spilling more of the thick fluid running down the front of its shirt.
Turning its head, part of its neck off-centered, it stares at me from less than a foot away, the glow of silver from its eyes hard like steel.
What the fuck does it take to kill this thing?
I feel like I’m fighting on the wrong end of a laggy multi-player game. With a gurgling hiss, its hand reaches out, thrusting for my neck. Even though frightfully fast, its actions do seem slowed. I duck down and to the side, feeling hardened nails like talons scrape across the side of my head and blood beginning to trickle into my hair from deep gouges.
I’ve cut its heart and damn near severed its head, but still it has the strength to fight. At this point, I have nothing much else to lose, so I stay on the offensive. If it keeps doing that fucking blurry thing, I’m going to misjudge and it’s going to rip my throat out. As its hand flows across the top of my head, I stay with my momentum and drop lower, rising to again plunge my knife under its rib cage. It didn’t kill it before, but it also didn’t seem to like it much. And, if it is slowed due to blood loss, well, then, more blood it shall lose.
With my knife buried in its heart, I saw back and forth, moving the blade wildly inside its chest. Whatever it has for blood pours over my soaking hand. Separated by mere inches, our eyes lock as I continue cutting. This is pretty much a do or die. I sense its shoulder begin a movement and bring my other hand to block any attempt toward my throat. Grabbing a wrist and feeling the hard talons scrape against the soft tissue of my neck, drawing blood, I put every effort into holding it at bay.
The eyes, gleaming a fiery silver now, stare back into mine. The rest of the world fades from thought, both of us locked in this struggle in our own little space. It opens its mouth, showing jagged teeth and longer fangs stained red.
What the fuck?!
I almost lost my grip, it was so startling. In the greenish glow of my goggles, its eyes widen and the blaze in them dims, then extinguishes. My understanding of the world is gone. Normally, I’d pull back and call it a day. But this thing has continued despite devastating injuries, and I’m not about to give it any space. I continue cutting through the tissue inside its chest cavity, even after I feel the entire weight of its body slump against my blade. The body falls backward off my knife.
Breathing heavily, I continue staring at this thing, wondering what in the hell just happened. I’m fully anticipating watching this thing rise from the floor and continue attacking. For a moment, I wonder if some chemical of this processing facility has caused a hallucination. There’s honestly no way this just happened. Dark smoke begins rising from the body, like mist rising from hot pavement after a rain shower. It thickens and I step back, not wanting to inhale any of it. There’s no heat emanating from the body, but the smoke grows so dense that I lose sight of the body. I step further back, raising my carbine. Then, a sudden puff as if a wind blew from the body, and the smoke clears. Where the corpse was, there’s only a long dusting of gray ash.
Dumbfounded, I head toward Mitchell while turning frequently to see if the body has moved. One glance shows that any action I might take to save Mitchell is too late.
“Baker, meet me at the entrance,” I radio, looking at my medic staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes and a surprised, scared expression.
“Baker, respond!” I yell, but there’s no answer.
I know the cave may block some comms, but he should be able to hear me, especially considering I can hear my voice very faintly coming from Mitchell’s ear buds.
“Taylor, Burkhart.”
I clean my blade and sheath it, grasping my carbine. The lack of response is disconcerting. Scanning the room, I search for more of these creatures, but unless this was some kind of ritualistic single combat, I know they would have joined the fight that had been in progress. However, outside is a different matter. And, I’m having a very difficult time coming to terms with what I’ve stumbled into. What happened in the town makes more sense now, but that understanding doesn’t make this whole thing less surreal.
I listen closely, trying to see if there are any sounds of a battle taking place outside. If they are in the midst of what I just went through, they wouldn’t have time to respond. Jogging over to the exit, I quickly check on Freeman and find that he’s also beyond help. I feel sick at losing them, not only because they were teammates, but because they were friends as well. They had hopes and dreams with loved ones waiting for their return. Instead, they’re lying in this dirty cave in the middle of nowhere. I’m not even going to go into the guilt of agreeing to come back.
Outside, I hear a faint growling hiss from near the entrance. Then another.
Oh, fuck!
I barely made it through one. How in the hell can I fight multiple whatevers? The thought crosses my mind that this is where it’s all going to end, in a cave like the others. In a way, that actually kind of sounds poetic, and feels right. We’ll meet in the beyond and laugh about the mistake we made agreeing to continue the mission when we should have just left. Glasses will be raised and clashed against each other, the suds sloshing out from full beers.
Images of my kids flash through my head, their heads bowed at a funeral. Their laughing and smiling faces when we were out on our last adventure.
I’m not dead yet, motherfuckers! I think, looking down the tunnel toward the exit.
That thought, however, rings fairly hollow in my mind. I’ll give it my all, but this party may be short-lived. The sounds of more creatures pretty much tells me that the other three are done for. There’s no way they’d let anyone near the tunnel while we were inside. The thought of that is deflating. But in that knowledge, there emerges a burning rage in the pit of my stomach that flows outward to consume my entire body. I’m angry that these things took down my friends and may not let me see my kids again.
I pull the radio from Freeman’s back, replacing my own with it. I check to see if I have mags readily available. They might not do shit against these things, but they did stagger the assailant. Keeping them at a distance is the optimal solution, but with that thing they do, that may prove to be impossible. However, blood loss did seem to slow the one down, and the sooner I can start causing that, the better. I pull a few grenades from my pack and clip them to my vest. For shits and giggles, I pull out two claymores that we use to set up camp perimeters, along with timed fuses, and stuff them into the sides of the pack.
“Raven zero one, Badger six, over,” I radio.
“Badger six, Raven zero one, go.”
”I’d like to order a ride for one. I believe you mentioned ten minutes,” I say.
“Badger six, copy. You said for one?”
“Yes, for one. We have two confirmed KIA with three MIA and suspected KIA,” I reply.
“It’s on the way. Pickup will be on button six.”
“Copy button six. Is there any way you can turn that ten minutes into something shorter?”
“I’ll see what I can do, Raven zero one, out.”
I put away the handset, turning the dial to channel six in order to exchange prearranged codes for pickup. Can’t have just anyone calling in an extraction and ambushing them.
Okay, Jack. You’re an eight-minute run from the pickup zone. That means it’s time to go.
Plucking two grenades from my vest, I lay them on the ground beside me at the edge of the tunnel entrance. Poking the signal mirror around the corner, I see a few figures at the far exit. They’re not the rest of the team, unless they’ve magically developed a silver gleam to their eyes. I don’t know why they haven’t entered as of yet, just milling around the cave’s entrance, but I’ll take it. It’s a pretty far throw, especially without having an open overhead to lob them high.
Okay, you can do this. Stay alive for ten minutes and you’re home, I think, taking in a deep breath and gathering myself.
With a last look at Freeman and Mitchell, I gather both grenades and step to the side of the opening. I feel like I should find out what happened to my teammates who were outside, but know that will only lead to certain death. I underhand one grenade with all of my strength and a little luck, immediately grabbing the second and doing the same thing. Grabbing my M-4 in one hand, I take off running.
With the length of the tunnel, everything would have subsided if I’d waited for the explosions and then run. Given that these things don’t easily die, they would have recovered by the time I made it to the exit. I mentally perform a countdown, diving to the ground when I reach two.
I slide along the slick surface of the clay, throwing my hands over my head. Two nearly simultaneous explosions reverberate through the tunnel and my head reels from the concussion and noise. I sense more than hear the shrapnel embedding itself into the nearby clay walls. Without hesitation, I jump up and continue my sprint, hoping to make it past those who had gathered before they can respond.
Racing out of the entrance, I see a few staggering figures, dark spots peppering their shredded clothing. One lies unmoving on the ground near the exit, its head no longer recognizable, severed from its body.
So, that’s how you kill them.
However, I’m not carrying much that can sever heads from bodies with any degree of reliability.
And, I have a bird to catch.
Before the creatures have a chance to recover, I’m past them and running for all I’m worth through the lot. At the end, where the road begins its descent into the village, I turn and scramble up an incline covered in shrubs, pushing for level ground above. Before I make it to the top, I hear sounds of pursuit behind.
While still running, I toss a grenade over my shoulder, my pace slowing because I have to do shit instead of merely pumping my arms and legs. I’m not trying to kill the things I know are behind me, just slow them enough to be able to get aboard the inbound helicopter. Sprinting around bushes and trying to find the clearest lanes of travel, I hear the explosion behind me, the trees at the edge of the clearing and the clumps of bushes by my side flashing white for a split-second.
My hope is that these things aren’t scattered throughout the area and I’m not just running into another lot of them. Not only will I die an ugly death, but I’ll do it tired. My breaths are quick and deepening as this isn’t about pacing for the long distance, but an all-out sprint for the finish line. Branches slap against my legs and vest, the occasional tall one whipping across my cheeks and leaving a burning sensation.
To one side, I see a dark shadow as it streaks into my vision. Then another. It looks as though they’re trying to get ahead and pinch me in. When I see one materialize, I fire a quick burst toward it and am rewarded by seeing it stagger slightly. I’m no hero who can hit every shot on the run, so I don’t pretend that every round sailed through its heart. If I’m lucky, one or two connected, but it slowed it a touch and that’s my goal. If I’m right, every drop of blood spilled slows them to some degree.
I fire at the second one when the blur stops. However, I can’t afford to slow down to take better aim. If those things have caught up and even pulled a little ahead, then this thing they can do makes them faster than me on the run. And I’ve seen how quickly they can move when they turn into those shadows.
The bushes end and I’m plunging through a thick landscape of trees. I hurdle over roots arcing out of the ground, duck under low hanging branches, and twist around vine-covered trunks. My entire being wants to turn and look over my shoulder, but that will slow me and possibly freeze my heart at what might be behind.
I feel a slight tug on my pack, a scratch of a hand behind trying to grab me. Leaping over a gathering of roots, I plant my foot and launch myself to the side, turning around in mid-air and firing. The pale face turns to look at me, a gleaming pair of silver eyes marking my abrupt jump. Rounds hammer into its shoulder, neck, and head; a spray of dark liquid spills into the night. Before calculating the damage, I’m off again, wondering if the thick jungle of trees is helping or hindering.
I sail out of the trees, my thighs burning and my panting breath threatening to bring a halt to my flight. The narrow ledge of a clearing is the same one where we originally set up, with the steep drop-off just to my side and trees lining the perimeter. There’s no sign of those that were flanking, but I feel a sudden sensation of cold against my left arm and cheek and see a black blur in my peripheral to the side. Planting a foot to arrest my run, I duck and the shadow passes by. I feel the brush of a taloned hand across the top of my head as a figure materializes just to the side. Pushing off with my legs, I launch and slam my shoulder into the pale-skinned figure, knocking it backward. With silver eyes, it registers surprise as it sails into the night, its feet no longer on solid ground. The glow of its eyes grows smaller as it plummets downward.
Okay, so they can’t fly…that’s a fucking relief, I think, forcing my legs into motion once more.
“Badger six, Cider one, we’re your ride and inbound. Standing by for code Walrus,” I hear on the radio.
Grabbing the handset, I pant,” Cider one, can we please…dispense with…the codes…no time…and please…fucking hurry.”
“Is the zone hot?” Cider one inquires.
“Yes and no,” I breathlessly pant, making for the middle of the clearing near the drop off.
“Care to clarify that?”
“Not really…just please get your ass here.”
I slide to a stop in the clearing, seeing dark shapes blur out of the trees in all directions. The faint beating of heavy rotors echoes through the night air. From the sound of it, Cider won’t get here before those things are upon me. I toss a couple of grenades into the clearing near the largest clumps of rushing shadows, trying to guess where they’ll materialize. There’s no doubt as to where they’re heading, and I need to slow them for the next minute or all the exfil crew will find is my mutilated body.
Flashes of light accompany explosions that lift bushes and clumps of soil into the air, smoke billowing from each one. Quickly grabbing the claymores, I stake them in a semi-circle around my position and set speed records for wiring them. Looking over the edge, I see the old slide is near vertical with several root branches protruding from the soil. One extends outward and then loops to go back into the bank.
That’ll have to do.
With the shadows rapidly morphing in on my position, and hoping the looping branch will hold my weight, I grab hold of it as I swing my legs over, still holding the clacker.
I repeatedly squeeze the device. A vast series of concussive explosions shakes the hillside, and the night sky illuminates in a bright flash of light. The back blast sends gouts of flame and smoke rocketing over the ledge. Shredded leaves, branches, and dirt are pushed along with it. I’m barely able to hang onto the branch as the entire hillside seems to sway and chunks of the upper hill fall onto my head and shoulders.
I agonizingly pull myself to the top. My ears are ringing from the blast, but I’m able to hear the steady thump of rotors getting closer. Around my position, the bushes have been cleared to ground level in sweeping arcs, the jagged ends of several thicker stumps poking above the soil. Blurred shadows are still active beyond the blast zone, rapidly closing in. I pull out an IR flasher, toss it on the ground, and remove the Velcroed cover of my personal IR identifier. I then toss the last couple of grenades into the field.
The explosions shake the ground as smoke billows upward. I’m down to my carbine, then knife, then teeth. I aim at each blurred shadow, firing a burst into forms that suddenly manifest themselves. It seems that there is a delay between the times each can perform that zooming streak of darkness, and it seems to be determined by the distance traveled. My rounds do nothing but stagger them for a moment. If there were fewer, I might be able to bloody them enough to slow them down and actually have a chance. But, there are too many. And by too many, I mean more than one. I can’t imagine having to fight even two beings that can teleport almost faster than my eye can track, and damn near invulnerable too.
All across the field, silver eyes flash in the darkness, suddenly appearing only to vanish a second or two later. I have only a moment before the lot of them are onto me as I eject a spent mag and slam a fresh one home. If they arrive before my ride, I’m just going to jump over the ledge and take my chances with the fall.
“Flasher and ID in sight. Confirm again a solo pickup and no other friendlies,” I hear on the radio.
“Confirmed,” I reply.
“Copy that.”
A buzzing noise mixes with the sound of rotors as a stream of red light streaks across the field from behind me. Branches, leaves, and clumps of dirt are chewed as rounds slam into the ground. Again and again, bursts from the chain gun plow into the clearing. Rising from within each devastated zone, bullet-ridden figures slowly climb to their feet and continue closing in. The buzz saw bursts and streaks of red light continue unabated.
The thump of rotors takes on a physical presence, my body vibrating in tune with each rotation of the blades. A gust of wind blows against my fatigues, the downdraft blowing dirt and the remains of twigs into my back, neck, and hair. Looking over my shoulder, I see the dark shape of a helicopter settle a skid on the edge of the clearing, the rest of it hovering over empty space. Without a moment’s hesitation, I turn and run, making sure to keep clear of the swiveling machine gun, a helmeted crew member with lowered NVGs behind. I leap across the edge and through the open door, slamming shoulder first and sliding across the metal floor.
“Are you it?” a crewmember yells.
I want to yell that I’ve already answered that like a million times, but I’m out of breath. Not to mention that my system is overloaded with adrenaline and I’m still in shock. I nod as I feel the helicopter go light as it lifts and moves away from the ledge. Looking out of the door as we draw away from the clearing, I see figures gathering along the edge. One blurs, a darkened streak heading toward the open door. Short of the chopper, it materializes, its bullet-ridden body dropping out of sight below.
Seeing the torn remains of the clearing, I feel sick knowing that my teammates are still out there. The second-guessing begins, wondering how I could have done things differently so that they could be sitting next to me. The aspect that most tortures me is that I didn’t check on Baker and the other two, and don’t know what happened to them. I should have figured out a way to do that; I feel guilty that I only thought of saving my own skin. At the time, it was a process of optimizing the options available, and I knew that I would die if I tried, thus adding one more body to the count. Now, safely entombed inside the helicopter, my mind is filled with doubts. Rotating ninety degrees, the nose of the helicopter lowers, diving at the ground to pick up speed.
“What were those things?” a crewmember yells.
“I have no fucking idea,” I return.