Edge of Survival Box Set 1

by William Oday

  Mason pinched his eyes shut to keep the NVGs from blinding him.

  The SAW went quiet.

  “Don’t think I got him,” Lopes said.

  The first real contact they’d encountered.

  Mason tapped Lopes’ shoulder.

  “Let’s go ruin his day.”

  37

  They crept forward. Their boots crunched over bits of concrete and slipped over spent shell casings. Mason glanced back. Miro and Lucky stepped in to cover the rear. Channing must’ve been prepping to blow the cache. The rest of third squad engaged with clearing other rooms in the house.

  They stacked up on an open doorway to the left. The one the apparition disappeared into. Lopes prepped an M67 fragmentation grenade.

  Mason took a quick peek into the room.

  Lopes let the spoon fly off the grenade.

  “Frag out!” he yelled and reared back to toss it in.

  Mason edged a little further around to get a better view of what he was seeing.

  The room contained three massive propane tanks. Each as big as a car. Five hundred gallons a piece. A frag going off would ignite the tanks and obliterate the house and everyone inside it. Probably level the half the block.

  “Hold that frag!”

  Too late.

  Lopes’ arm whipped forward and the baseball-sized ball of death flew into the room.

  “No!” Mason screamed.

  Mason dove into the room and followed the grenade as it bounced on the concrete floor and off the nearest tank. It ricocheted back and thudded into his boot. He snatched it off the ground.

  A three to five second fuse.

  How much had burned off already?

  His legs wobbled. His brain screamed, knowing the thought would be its last. He couldn’t toss it back into the hall where the rest of his men waited.

  He saw a bathroom attached to the bedroom. Who knew how deep it was? All it would take was one shred of shrapnel to hit a tank and it would be over. He slung the grenade through the open doorway and heard a clang as it hit something.

  BOOM.

  A blinding light killed his night vision.

  He couldn’t hear a thing.

  Was he dead?

  A high-pitched keen rose in his ears. It felt like daggers driving into his eardrums. He stopped to consider. He could hear himself losing his hearing. That meant he was alive.

  He looked up from the ground.

  Lopes was above him, saying something.

  Was this dying?

  Slowly, a voice pierced the ringing.

  “Sarge! Are you okay?”

  Mason pushed his awareness to every corner of his body. Aside from a hundred small aches and pains, nothing felt fatal.

  “Are you crazy? Why did you—“

  “Lopes,” Lucky said from behind. “Look at this.”

  Lopes turned and saw what Mason had seen. A death trap about to be set off.

  “Whoa!”

  Miro knelt in the corner with a flashlight tracing across the floor.

  “Guys, these are wired. They’re wired to blow!”

  Lopes pulled Mason to his feet and steadied him.

  Why didn’t the insurgent fire rounds into the tanks? Was he still alive?

  “Lucky, clear that bathroom!” Mason’s voice croaked like a sick bullfrog.

  The kid swung around and sliced the arc into the bathroom and disappeared inside.

  “Clear.”

  He returned dusted in powdered concrete.

  “No body?” Mason asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Where did that muj go?”

  “Over here!” Miro shouted.

  Mason leaned on Lopes and they went around to the back side of a tank. A two foot hole was dug through the wall at the floor. A spider hole.

  They’d seen them everywhere. The holes provided the muj a covert web of protected movement. Lead wires from the tanks ran into the hole and disappeared beyond.

  Mason’s spine froze. A glacial chill shoveling through his soul.

  The insurgent had probably crawled into the hole, back to a protected position. A place where he could blow the tanks and have a decent chance to live and fight another day.

  They all realized it at the same time.

  Mason shoved Lopes at the door.

  “Get everyone out! Get out now!”

  Nobody moved.

  Miro touched one of the huge cylinders.

  “We’re not going anywhere. If these blow, being outside the house ain’t gonna help. I’ll get Channing!”

  Mason nodded. It was a good idea. Channing had the most explosives experience.

  Mason knelt down to the hole and listened. It was quiet. And then a whisper floated down the tunnel.

  “Allahu akbar. Allahu akbar. Allahu—“

  The guy was praying to his god before he blew them all to pieces. Channing wasn’t going to get there fast enough.

  Mason had to do it. He yanked out the knife strapped to his chest and brought the blade to the two wires.

  Should he cut the blue one? The white one? Both? He knew circuits could be booby-trapped.

  Dammit.

  He might end up doing the terrorist’s job for him.

  The whispered prayer floated down the tunnel.

  “Allahu akbar. Allahu—“

  The prayer would end and they would all die.

  If he was going to die, it wasn’t going to be waiting around for the enemy to kill him.

  He grabbed a hank of wire, squeezed his eyes shut, and sliced through the wires.

  “Sarge!”

  Mason jerked so hard he nearly stabbed himself in the eye.

  The propane tanks were still intact.

  Channing ran up behind him.

  “What the hell you doing, Sarge? You coulda killed us all!”

  Vomit pushed up Mason’s throat. His mouth filled with saliva. He coughed hard, fighting to keep down yesterday’s MRE.

  He wanted a frag in that hole, but couldn’t risk it.

  “Lopes, get your SAW in there and light it up!”

  “Yes, Sergeant!”

  Lopes maneuvered his gun into position and tore through a magazine. He slammed a fresh one home and burned through it as well. If the buried haji wasn’t protected by a turn in the tunnel or a few walls, he had to be Swiss cheese by now. The guy was probably dead, but Mason couldn’t take the chance. What if they left and the insurgent returned to finish the job?

  “Lopes, keep your eyes on that hole,” Mason said. “I’m gonna call this one in. Get an EOD team on it.”

  The radio squawked as he reached for it.

  “Contact on the second floor! Contact on the second floor!”

  Gunfire echoed through the ceiling above.

  38

  “Corpsman up! Corpsman up!” The universal cry for a Marine that needed immediate medical attention.

  Somewhere upstairs, a Marine called for a medic. Mason ran out of the propane tank room and bumped into their squad medic as he made for the stairs further down the hall. Medics were a fearless breed. They’d kick the devil himself in the nuts to save one of their men.

  Mason led him upstairs.

  More gunfire shattered the air. Screaming voices accompanied it.

  Mason pulled up his NVGs and rounded the corner at the top with his rifle at the ready. Light poured in from an open doorway to the roof outside. The afternoon sun nearly blinded him after being in the dark interior of the house.

  A body lay on the floor in the opening of the doorway, also known as the fatal funnel of fire. The head was twisted back at a grotesque angle. Private Leo Lawrence. Half of his head was blown off. Pale gray brains spilled out onto the floor.

  From the roof outside, AK-47 rounds thumped into Lawrence’s dead body. More shot through the doorway and peppered the opposite wall.

  LCpl. Walder Kurtz struggled to pull the body out of the doorway. Kurtz was about half Lawrence’s size but gritty as they came.

  Th
eir corpsman rushed over and helped pull the body out of the doorway and off to the side. He pulled out his kit and feverishly wrapped gauze and tape around Lawrence’s wound.

  It was no use. He was already dead. Still the medic worked, not ready to give up on his Marine.

  “They opened up on us, Sarge!” Kurtz shouted. “Soon as we opened the door. Lawrence never had a chance.”

  Rage burned in Mason’s gut. He’d lost a man. Lawrence would never go home. Thanksgiving was only weeks away, but he’d never share another holiday with family.

  Kurtz looked chalk white. He watched as their corpsman gently tried to push brains back into a fractured skull. He muttered to himself.

  “He was right there. Just opened the door. He was there.”

  Mason turned him around and smacked his helmet. “Kurtz! Listen up! We have to hit ‘em. Hit ‘em hard!”

  The lost look in his eyes hardened into focus. He snarled. It was back. The killer. That’s what Mason needed right now. They would honor Lawrence later. They would avenge him now.

  A blood curdling scream tore out of Kurtz’ mouth. He turned toward the door and emptied his M16 into the outside air. Return fire snapped by. Mason yanked him back before he stepped into the incoming barrage of bullets.

  Mason dragged him back and shook him hard.

  “Keep it locked down! We’re gonna get ‘em! But we have to do it smart!”

  LCpl. Kurtz didn’t reply.

  “You understand me, Marine?”

  He nodded.

  A window shattered and Kurtz’ head jerked to the side. His cheek exploded and blood splattered Mason’s face. Kurtz collapsed and dragged Mason down with him. Kurtz held his face as blood squirted out around his hand.

  “Corpsman up!” Mason shouted.

  The medic looked over and saw another Marine down. One that maybe had a chance. He scrambled over and started treating Kurtz.

  A hailstorm of enemy fire chewed through the open doorway.

  Mason dug blood out of his eyes. Lucky, Lopes, and Miro appeared around the corner.

  “Heavy contact, out on the roof,” he said.

  Miro nodded and stacked on the door with Lucky and Lopes following on.

  “Prep your frags and hand ‘em over!” Miro shouted.

  Lucky handed him an M67 fragmentation grenade.

  “Frag out!” Miro shouted and lobbed it out the door.

  Lopes handed him another one.

  He yelled again as he launched it through the door. Miro cycled through four more frags as explosions rocked the roof outside.

  The sounds of incoming fire stopped somewhere in the barrage of exploding grenades.

  Mason jumped up and got behind Lucky in the stack. Hate burned like fire in his veins. He wanted the people that hurt his men. He wanted their blood.

  The stack rushed through the fatal funnel. Lucky peeled left so Mason went right. Thick clouds of swirling dust obscured portions of the roof. He scanned his sector, rifle at the ready. No threats.

  “One dead over here!” Lopes shouted.

  An M16 fired off several rounds. The sharp crack of the report echoed off the wall lining the roof.

  “Another dead here!” Miro yelled.

  The sound of moaning drifted out of the thick gray dust swirling in front of Mason. It sounded like a wounded man. He didn’t love the idea of wading into the cloud, not being able to see more than two feet ahead. But he wasn’t going to wait for the dust to settle and give the enemy time to recover and continue the fight.

  He stepped forward a few paces and the fine fog swallowed him whole. The dazzling, afternoon sun filtered through the dust, making it a brilliant blinding white. He crept further into the choking cloud.

  A dark form on the floor emerged. An amorphous gray blob with stable edges that set it apart from the whirling wind. The shape resolved itself as Mason got closer.

  A severed, hairy arm. The fat hand still clutching a silent AK-47. Red splattered the ground nearby.

  The moaning again floated through the fog.

  Mason lunged through the white, no longer able to contain his bloodlust. A few paces further and his boot slipped out from under him. He fell to his knees and slapped a hand in a puddle of blood to right himself.

  A jihadi lay in a twisted heap next to him. One arm conspicuously absent. The dying man lay on his side, his remaining arm reaching for an old MK2 pineapple grenade, just inches away. Blood gushed from his body in a hundred places. He turned to Mason and screamed impotent rage.

  He rolled back and stretched for the grenade. His fingertips brushed the deadly metal.

  Mason jumped over and kicked it away. He stood above the insurgent and felt nothing but grim satisfaction. The man screamed and blood and spittle sprayed from his mouth. He rolled to his back and shouted words drowned by the blood filling his mouth.

  CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

  Smoke wafted from the muzzle of Mason’s rifle. Three rounds pumped into the man’s chest at point blank range.

  The muj’s body spasmed and he coughed up crimson fluid. His eyes flamed with enmity. He reached for Mason with his remaining arm, as if he might yet pull them both into oblivion.

  CRACK. CRACK. CRACK.

  Another three round burst ripped through the muj’s chest.

  Mason watched him, both disgusted and curious.

  The ruined man refused to die. He spewed blood through punctured lungs. His heart geysered the life out of him. But he didn’t go quiet.

  “Why don’t you die already!”

  Mason set the M16’s muzzle on the man’s forehead and pulled the trigger until his magazine went dry.

  “Jesus, Sarge!”

  Lopes emerged out of the dust and looked at the dead man at Mason’s feet.

  “You messed him up, bro!”

  The dead man’s head was a fragmented pile of brains and bone. Like he’d shoved his head in a giant garbage disposal.

  Mason noticed something sticking out of the corpse’s side. A syringe. The needle still embedded in the stomach. He pulled it out and read the label on the clear tube.

  Epinephrine.

  Medical adrenaline.

  The syringe was their first confirmation of what became commonplace as the battle continued. Muj fighters doped out of their minds on epinephrine, methamphetamines, heroine, and cocaine. The potent cocktail kept them alive and fighting far beyond what any normal body could absorb.

  It made them a deadly dangerous foe.

  39

  The Last Day

  Venice, California

  THERESA pulled a stack of books out of her backpack and a paper fell on the floor. Holly picked it up and opened it without asking for permission. She didn’t need to. Best friends didn’t have to ask to get in your business. That was their job.

  “Whoa,” she said. “Five days detention. You’re a bad girl now.”

  “You’re the bad girl.”

  “Me?” Holly said with a fake wounded expression.

  “Yeah, you. We’re supposed to be at your house right now. My dad explicitly said that was the deal. But no. You insisted we sneak back to my house.”

  “That does make me look bad, doesn’t it?”

  Theresa nodded.

  “But, in my defense, my parents would never let us watch Death Before Life! So we had to return here to watch it. We’ll head to my house afterwards and no one will be the wiser. Trust me, sister. It’s all gonna be fine.”

  Theresa had heard that before.

  Holly glanced at the detention slip. “Besides, you are officially the bad girl here.”

  “Shut up,” Theresa said as she held her hand out for the note.

  Holly teased it in the air.

  “My mom won’t want me hanging out with you when she finds out.”

  “Don’t tell her! I’m serious!”

  “Kidding. No way she’ll hear it from me. Where else would I spend every day after school?”

  “You could come to detention with me,”
Theresa said with a smirk.

  “Sounds thrilling. Really. But no thanks. I heard you have to listen to motivational speeches the whole time.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, like how to be a more responsible person and stuff like that.”

  “It’s not like I’ll even make it to detention. My parents are going to kill me first.”

  Theresa snatched the paper back and stared at it.

  “I have to get it signed and returned on Monday.”

  Holly waved her off.

  “That’s no big deal. I’ll forge a signature for you. Use my left hand so it can never be traced back to the source.”

  “Holly, you’re a criminal mastermind. But it won’t work. Apparently my flagging commitment requires a parent conference next week too.”

  Holly’s eyes opened wide.

  “You’re screwed, girl.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Can’t you say it wasn’t your fault you were late today? I mean that accident is a legitimate excuse if I’ve ever heard one.”

  “I did!”

  “That didn’t get you out of it?”

  “The problem was that the other six tardies didn’t have such good excuses. I should’ve named names. Rolled over on you.”

  “Why, Miss Theresa West, are you blaming me?”

  “Blaming you would imply there was some uncertainty about your being at fault.”

  Holly giggled.

  Theresa stuffed the paper into a desk drawer. “I’ll deal with it Monday morning. No reason to ruin the weekend.”

  “You are the bad influence on me, Theresa West!”

  Despite the foreboding gloom of getting busted, Theresa laughed. Wasn’t that what a best friend was for? To pull you up off the ground and make you laugh?

  Holly could always make her laugh.

  Theresa finished unloading her backpack. Some fruit she didn’t get around to eating. Some stinky socks that had been in there for far longer than was remotely sanitary. Her house key on the LA Galaxy keychain. Her phone.

  Holly flopped on her bed like it was her own. It kind of was.

  “Anyway, tell me more about the encounter in the Principal’s office.”