“Locked and loaded, fresh magazine. Ready to rock.”
The former Marine grinned through the pain. “This is my rifle…”
“There are many like it, but this one is mine.” Torbin answered back.
“I’ll cover the rear, Major. No problem.”
“I learned a long time ago not to argue with a Gunny Sergeant when he has his mind made up. Want some morphine?”
“No Sir. Need to stay sharp.”
Torbin stood up. “Don’t go anywhere. We’ll be back.”
He looked at Sergeant Troy. “Show me how you got here. We need to sneak back to where you last saw all the civilians”
“Yes Sir. This way.” She began to move out, back the way they had come.
“Major,” Gunny Chaz Puller rasped out.
“Yes, Gunny?”
“Did you really kill that Squid with a Ka-Bar?”
Torbin chuckled. “After a fashion.”
“That must have been a sight to see.”
“I’ll tell you the whole story when I get back.”
“Do that. I’ll be waiting.”
“Semper Fi.”
“Semper Fi, Major.”
With that, Torbin and Helen Troy moved out.
The screaming and loud voices continued as they approached. Torbin and Sgt. Troy moved as fast as they could and still maintain some silence, even though the loud screams seem to drown out most other sounds. Finally, after travelling a bit less than half a mile, they came within sight of the clearing where a bunch of people could be seen moving around. Torbin motioned the Sergeant to stay back as he snuck closer, his Ghillie suit providing extra camouflage.
He moved to a clump of lodgepole and twisted pine trees, with some other low brush around. He was some twenty-five yards from the clearing, which could have been either natural or man-made. From his vantage point, he watched some thirty women and children huddled together off to one side, while some Krakens took turns beating and abusing two women. A couple of other Krakens seemed to be trying to build a bonfire on the partially snow-covered ground. Toward the opposite side of the clearing, four partially stripped figures were hung upside down from a tree. By the remaining pieces of clothing still on the bodies, they were dead militia members. It appeared that they were being drained of their blood. Torbin moved back to where he had left Sergeant Troy.
In a very low whisper, Torbin told Sergeant the situation.
“The Krakens look like they are preparing a meal of Long Pig. Follow me up to the point I was just at, stay low. I’ll swing off to the southeast corner. I will hit them from there. Do not fire unless I go down. I will try to send the civilians your way. Got it?”
“Yes. Sir. I won’t let you down.”
“I know you won’t. Stay frosty.”
With that, he moved out with Sergeant Troy in file behind. They arrived at his original surveillance point and Torbin split off. Years of training and experience made this all automatic to him, with no hesitation in his actions.
From the southeast corner of the clearing, he counted some dozen Krakens or Ferals milling around. A couple of them stayed close to the huddled civilians, covering them with their assault rifles as they jeered at them. For the first time Torbin noticed a female Kraken with the hard-corps face tattoo trying to aid what appeared to be a badly wounded comrade.
“Bonin!” She yelled out with authority. “See if those dead assholes have any first aid kits on them. I need some bandages to stop this bleeding on Melissa here.”
“Hey, I need to go take a dump in the woods,” the male called Bonin answered. “I’ll do it after that.”
“You’ll do it now! I’m in command. You’ll do it or be singing soprano.”
Bonin glared at the apparent Kraken female commander. He stomped over to the four hung bodies, dug around in the pile of equipment and uniform pieces, and came up with a couple of packets. He then stomped over to the commander.
“Here, Evans. Now can I take a shit?”
The commander named Evans grabbed the bandages from him. “Go now. Maybe you won’t be so full of it after.”
Kraken Bonin walked away grumbling. He walked by the prisoners, reached over and grabbed a scarf off the neck of one of the children. “Need some ass-wipe you little bitch.”
He continued on, past the two women the Krakens had beat the crap out of, both lying on the snow with swollen faces. He walked into the brush, found a log, pulled his pants down, grumbled. He was halfway through his business when a silenced .32 pistol bullet hit him behind his right ear. Bonin toppled back into the last pile of crap he would ever produce.
Torbin kept the 3D printer polymer pistol with the fitted silencer in his left hand, his .308 rifle pistol grip in his right as he moved up past the body. Someone started calling Bonin’s name, apparently noticed he had been gone awhile. A female with only minor tattooing began to walk toward where Bonin had entered the brush.
“Hey, Bonin. Come here. We need help getting the fire going…” A .32 full metal jacketed bullet entered the woman’s right eye, penetrating into her brain. She collapsed where she stood.
Torbin let the pistol loose, a bungee cord lanyard keeping it from disappearing into the brush. He brought his rifle up to his shoulder, proceeding forward in his “Groucho” close quarter battle crouch.
“I have become Shiva, death, the destroyer of worlds,” Torbin mumbled to himself as he began to exit the shadows. His first round in the rifle was a subsonic velocity one, the attached sound suppressor on the barrel reducing the noise to a light snapping. The bullet blew the top of the head off of the nearest Kraken guarding the civilians, the body falling forward onto the seated prisoners. The next rounds were all supersonic, so even with the suppressor, there would be the supersonic crack as the bullet broke the sound barrier. But it did not matter, as the screaming began.
Torbin had flicked on his laser sight, a green dot appearing wherever he pointed his rifle. Each time it illuminated on a human head, he pulled the trigger. Thousands of mission hours over the years had led to an automatic muscle memory few others possessed. He already had a pattern of targets figured out based on near and far, left and right parameters. He had three threats down, nine to go as he had counted an even dozen scum, minus the wounded one. The remaining prisoner guard on the left of him received a bullet between her eyes. Four Krakens who were bunched around the attempt to start a bonfire all went down before the death of any one Kraken registered. One male who had been standing by the hung bodies took a bullet to his frontal lobe as he reached for his rifle. Two Krakens who turned to run at the same time received a bullet each at the base of the skull.
The last effective, the female commander called Evans, managed to get a pistol shot off as Torbin took the right side of her face off. The bullet hit his body armor low on his left side, leaving him a bruise but failing to penetrate. The wounded Kraken female, Melissa, held her shaking hands up in surrender. Torbin continued up until his rifle barrel was inches from her face. The Kraken closed her eyes and began to whimper.
“Move, you die. Got it?”
Eyes still closed, the woman nodded yes.
“Gettin’ slow. One got a shot into me.” Torbin said to himself. Ten rounds, ten seconds, all with his rifle. He turned to the huddled civilians.
“You have thirty seconds to move thataway,” he pointed toward where Sergeant Troy waited.
“A militia member awaits to get you out of here. I am Major Bender, U.S.A. Not a bigfoot like this Ghillie suit makes me look like. Got it? Move.” The spell was broken. They moved.
One of the two badly beaten women, right eye swollen shut, refused help, and got up on her own. She picked up a Kraken rifle. She walked over to the wounded female, Melissa, whose eyes went wide. The battered woman smashed the butt of the weapon into the Kraken’s face as she tried to mouth the word “No”. Then again. Then again. Then again. The former captive dropped the bloody, cracked stock rifle, picked up the pistol the Kraken called Evans h
ad dropped. She limped over and grabbed a different rifle, fell into the rear of the departing women and children.
She fixed Torbin with her one good eye.
“We good?” She managed to croak out.
“We’re fine,” answered Torbin.
He waited until she was disappearing into the woods before he swung around, took a quick couple of pictures with his cell phone of the four bodies hanging and a wide photo of the Kraken dead. He would send someone back to cut the militia personnel down. He did not have the time right now. He knew they would understand. Then, he took up rear security for the women and children. A few minutes later, as they escaped through the trees and brush, a mummer began.
“Ten Krakens, ten seconds.” It became a mantra. Then someone pointed out he must have taken the other two out prior to stepping from the shadows. But “Ten Krakens, ten seconds” had a nice ring to it, and who was counting, really? Another legend was born.
Abigail had been waiting for about five minutes in the shadows when she heard a loud scream come from the direction where Torbin was headed. The extreme volume of it pointed to a high level of pain and abuse, pointed as well to just the right environmental conditions in the area around Evanston to enhance the travel of sound. She thought that Torbin was headed to a point about two miles distant from her, at least as the crow flies. Abigail knew that Torbin would not allow the abuse and violence that caused the scream to continue.
She heard the short whistles, apparent attempts to make contact with the two she and Fuzz had killed. Neither had a radio on them, so for whatever reason they had departed a main group without long range communication. Abigail thought she heard some voices about two hundred yards away, possibly parallel to her position. But nobody seemed to be moving toward the small trail on which the woman and her two children they had been captured. She stood still for a minute more, heard nothing, saw nothing coming her way. Time to move, catch up with Fuzz and the three civilians. She stepped out from the shadows, started in the direction Fuzz and the three civilians had traveled.
One moment she was walking, the next it felt like she had grabbed ahold of a live electrical wire. She fell onto her back, stunned, paralyzed. For the first few moments, even her lungs would not work. Then she was able to draw a breath, and her hearing returned. But she could not move her limbs. She heard odd clicking noises, interspaced with clucking similar to a chickens. She tried to turn her head but could only move her eyes. Anger and frustration began to course through her body, which led to some tingling in her extremities. She concentrated on that by force of will, mentally praying to God to give her strength. Then she saw them.
She had seen photos of grays before, even a couple blurry films, but never in the proverbial flesh. And now there were two, standing over her, conversing in that clicking and clicking language. They had stunned her with some type of weapon, probably their version of a taser. In that moment Abigail knew they wanted her alive for some reason. They bent over and began to fondle her Ghillie suit, taking a minute before they realized it was just some odd human covering. Upon that realization, one of them produced a scalpel-looking instrument which it used to slice open her suit. With what seemed to be practiced ease, they moved her limbs and body enough to remove the Ghillie. They ignored her rifle that lay just inches from her grasp. But it just as soon be miles away for all the ability she had to grasp it. One gray then produced what Abigail would later say looked like Mr. Spock’s tricorder device, which seemed to have the same purpose. All this time, her body became less numb, as she silently screamed at it to wake up, damnit.
Possibly the device they were showing reflected the changes in her body as the two grays quickly stood up, conversing more rapidly. Then she got her right arm and hand to move. Seeing this, rapid talk, and one gray reached into a satchel it was carrying and removed an object that looked dangerously like a gun. Abigail tried to scream in protest and anger, but produced a croaking sound, nothing more.
A large brown shape slammed into the gray with the supposed pistol, propelling it into its fellow. Then everyone crashed to the ground.
Fuzz. He had come to her rescue.
Sergeant Fuzz snarled, growled and bayed a type of war cry as he took the measure of the aliens with his teeth and jaws. Eerie screams and shrieks came from the grays as they tried to fight back. As Abigail fought to move her body, she heard a yelp from Fuzz, then a huge growl, followed by a snapping and crunching sound. An alien cry was cut off in mid shriek.
Then it was like a dam broke or a switch had been turned on, for suddenly she could move again. She rolled over, grabbed her rifle and was on her feet before she knew it. She heard a crunching sound and looked to see Fuzz literally crush the somewhat bulbous head of a gray, bluish tinted blood squirting from it.
“Fuzz. Out.” The War Dog dropped the dead alien. Looked at her and wagged his tail. He started to come to her, then seemed to stumble. Abigail quickly knelt down, grabbing him.
“Fuzz, are you hurt, big fella?” She automatically started a physical pat down of her canine partner. Fuzz looked at her, gave a doggie smile, licked her face, and then started to fall over.
Abigail quickly laid him down, began pulling his Kevlar vest off of him. Her hands came back soaked with blood.
“Hold still, fella. You’re just cut somewhere. I’ll bandage you up, carry you out, my turn to save you…”
Fuzz extended the paw of friendship, laid it on her arm, with his claws gently grasping her. He managed to steal a slurp kiss on her face, gave a half of a doggie laugh as if to say “I love
you.” Then, with one last sigh, his eyes went dull. He was gone.
“No!” Abigail cried out. “Don’t go. I need you. I want you. You’re my big fella.”
But Fuzz had moved on, someday to meet her on the other side, over the rainbow bridge.
Abigail cradled him as her heart and soul shattered. She held him, sobbing, began to wail. It felt like her insides were being ripped out with grief and pain, and in a way they were. For he had been her family. Now he was gone. Abigail had no idea how long she cradled Fuzz, sobbing. She did not hear the screams and gunfire from Torbin’s location. She neither heard, nor reacted to anything until a rough voice called out.
“Hey, fucker. Hands up. Show me your hands, damnit.”
Abigail stopped rocking Fuzz, still crying.
“Hey Joe. We’ve got some bitch with a dog here.”
“That’s no bitch,” his comrade told him. “That’s the Deseret piece of ass, the one on TV. And that’s her dog. Shit.” The Kraken jumped back as he noticed for the first time the dead grays.
“They’re deader than dog shit. They must have come out to get her. Nobody ever would tell us why they were here.”
“Well,” the first one began. “They must have wanted her alive to get close enough to get killed by her and her mutt. So, I bet you she’s worth something to them.”
“Yeah,” said Joe. “Maybe worth a lot to them. If not, then we at least have a nice piece of ass.”
The one called Joe stepped up, grabbed her fatigue collar. “Get up, bitch. Or we’ll…”
As Abigail turned her head, Joe’s last sight was the face of Death, personified.
Torbin caught up with tail end of the column of civilians just as he heard a loud, almost unearthly scream from the direction where Abigail had gone. Then gunshots, then more screams. He would not have believed a human voice could scream like that, that loud, if he hadn’t heard the screams of the two women being abused with his group of civilians as he had approached. But, this scream, soon followed by others after a short pause, sounded like someone’s soul was being ripped from their body. It was not Abigail’s voice, he was sure. But it came from her area.
Then more shots. Muffled cries, screams. Then silence.
He did not like this. Something in him told him to run, get Abigail. But he had a responsibility to the thirty women and children he had in tow. And it was just him and Sergeant Troy. When they had
gotten to Chaz, he had passed away. Another Marine to guard heaven’s gates, just like the hymn said. He grabbed his dog tags, and took a quick position check so he could find this place, then moved on. The Gunny would get a decent Marine Corps burial if he had to do it himself.
The woman with the one good eye and the Kraken rifle was doing rear security when he caught up. She nodded at him, wincing a bit when she did.
“Want a little bit of morphine, take the edge off?”
She nodded again, whispering “Yes” from her swollen lips. Torbin pulled out a miniature syringe from his first aid kit, and administered it. The women sighed.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Here’s a small plastic baby bottle of water. You can squirt it into the back of your mouth, past you lips. I always carry a couple just in case.”
The woman looked at him. “Connie.”
“Good to meet you. Hang in there, I need to get up front, to talk to Sergeant Troy.”
Torbin beat feet up to the front of the group, found Sgt. Troy speaking low into her radio phone. She turned toward Torbin when she saw them coming.
“There’s a mounted team nearby. They made contact with Fuzz the War Dog and three civilians. One man is going back to check on Captain Young.”
Torbin thought about trying to get Abigail on the radio after hearing that, but figured the Wyoming Mounted Militia would soon be there. And just talking on the radio does nothing but cause a distraction. He would wait.
“Thanks, Sergeant. I’ll head back, watch the rear.”
“Major.”
“Yes?”
“Thanks. Just thanks. I was losing it. You took out twelve enemy soldiers by yourself.”
Torbin spat. “Those weren’t soldiers. They were scum who got the drop on you. It happens.”
“Well, thanks anyways, Major.”
“Just doing my job. See you in a few.”
As Torbin made his way back to the rear, a mother and her child came up to Sergeant Troy.
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