SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Copy, we’re breachin’ now. Go, go, go!”

  With the two tangos down, Hill quickly scoped over to watch as the three-man breaching team blew the door to the house then threw in a flash bang. The instant the grenade went off, the team moved in.

  While waiting for the report to come in from Chavez, Hill switched back to scan the balconies for more bad guys. The way they’d moved and hid suggested there might be more waiting in the dark.

  The comms system crackled as Chavez’s voice came over the net. “House is secure. Seven dead. They‘re all torn up. Something out of a slasher film, arms and assholes are everywhere. We need to document it. The rest of the team is securing intel and photographing the scene. It smells like shit in here.” Hill could hear Chavez’s breathing over the comms. “Delta Whiskey Six, high step it to my location, you can help secure any intel.”

  It wouldn’t take long before the team gathered what it could to take back to Forward Operating Base. The FOB was only a few clicks away.

  “Delta Whiskey Four to Joker One Seven, requesting transport, we will mark location with strobe,” stated Chavez.

  Hill blew out the breath he was holding as Staples confirmed the order to help gather the intelligence and then entered the house. Joker One Seven, a Black Hawk helicopter, was their ride back to base. The mission was winding down and he was looking forward to a shower and some hot chow—

  Gunfire erupted from the target house.

  “Overwatch, the fuckers aren’t dead—” Shots erupted over the headset as the team dealt with the new threat.

  Both Turner and Hill set their sights on the front door. Flashes from the carbines cast light and shadow out the doorway.

  “Delta Whiskey Four, report!” Hill said.

  “The Tangos are not dead, I repeat, not dead. They’re attacking with their fuckin’ teeth. I have two wounded and two dead. Pineapple and I are going to the second story. Cover us. We are going to try and get some distance on them.”

  “Copy, Delta Whiskey Four.” Hill looked to Turner. “This just got ugly. Wait for Staples and Chavez to come out and put down anyone that comes out after them.”

  “Fuck! Let’s do it,” Turner said, and Hill knew the other sniper was on mission now. He was out for blood, and it was blood he was going to get.

  Hill watched as Chavez and Staples made their way onto the second-story balcony, fireman-carrying the wounded and hopping to the patio of the neighboring house. Their BDUs were covered in dark red splotches he knew was blood. Whatever happened in there must have been a nightmare. They would have to contend with the wounded as they fled. The dead could wait.

  Hill watched as Chavez and Staples, with the wounded, made it to the second balcony. He saw them make it halfway to the next balcony when a small horde of tangos crashed through the nearest patio door.

  Turner and Hill went to work.

  Hill let Turner take the shot as the first tango came through the entryway. He knew Turner would have it lined up, and he wasn’t disappointed as Turner’s gentle pull of the trigger sent the bullet on its merry way. Hill watched through his scope as the shot entered the tango’s head a little left of the bridge of the nose. The head snapped back with violent force as the legs went out from under him, like a puppet with its strings cut.

  Hill lined up his own shot as he heard Turner chamber another round. A second tango crossed the threshold. Hill fired.

  While the .308 was the perfect round for taking out a person, the .50 caliber was designed for tank warfare or long range targets. His SASR was loaded with Roufoss Mark 211 explosive rounds. The bullets were designed to blow through a wall or into an armored vehicle, where the zirconium trigger would ignite and smash a big exit and plenty of shrapnel, making it a very bad day for anyone hit. The person in Hill’s scope was neither a wall nor armor, so the round ripped the head and the majority of the upper body off, exploding in a spray of red mist. The first two terrorists to stick their heads out had lost them, buying the team more time to reach safety.

  Hill watched as Chavez and Staples made it to the third balcony seconds after the dead tangos hit the floor. They were working on a way to get to ground level and meet up with Hill and Turner. The snipers’ shots echoed off every surface in the neighborhood. If people weren’t awake when the operation began, they were now.

  Hill watched through his scope, and saw that the ground rose up in front of the team enough to make the jump difficult but not impossible. The chance of breaking an ankle was still there, but not a definite like it would have been from the other two houses. Hill watched as Staples jumped first. He had the most battle rattle and the full pack would tell Chavez if he needed to be more cautious when he worked his way down. Staples had no trouble; he was fine and already covering as many angles as he could when Chavez lowered the two wounded down to him before finally joining what was left of his squad.

  Hill’s radio crackled to life as Chavez got on the horn, “Delta Whiskey Four to Delta Whiskey Seven, what’s the clearest way out of here?”

  “Delta Whiskey Four, continue two more houses to your right, and then come straight at us to the east. We’re just shy of one click away. Turner will set up a strobe on the roof to alert our ride.”

  Hill peered over as Turner turned on the strobe light to mark the location. It shouldn’t be too hard to locate, Hill thought; it was the tallest pile of bricks and mortar in the area. The helicopter wouldn’t be able to land but it could hover while the unit made good their exfil.

  Hill surveyed the area again. No one had exited the target house after he obliterated the second tango. The early morning grew quiet once more. To Hill, it didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t put his finger on what ‘it’ was. He moved the scope to check on Chavez, Staples, and the rest of the team. Then it hit him. The first two contacts Staples and his fire team had killed were no longer lying where they’d fallen. They were nowhere to be seen. Sweat dripped down Hill’s spine, making him itch.

  “Dog Pound, did you see anyone gather up the tangos Staples and his team shot up?” Hill asked.

  “Negative, why?”

  “They’re fuckin’ missing.” Hill and Turner put eyes back to scopes and scanned the street.

  A few seconds passed. “No fuckin’ sign of them,” Hill said.

  “Well, that ain’t good,” Turner deadpanned. Hill knew Turner was a sarcastic son of a bitch in times of crisis, a stone cold killer with a dry sense of humor. It never surprised Hill what spilled out of the guy’s mouth. Suddenly, Turner was all business. “Movement, second house, street level.”

  “Take the shot,” Hill replied.

  A single report rang out.

  “Tango down,” Turner said.

  Hill looked down on the fire team as they made their way to the landing zone. Halfway. The going was slow for both Chavez and Staples under the weight of the wounded soldiers and having to cover every nook and cranny with their pistols while looking for more hostiles. As Hill moved the scope around the area to provide some cover for the retreating soldiers, he caught a dark silhouette creeping toward his friends. The hostile was making progress and, while Chavez and his team might not see them, Hill did. It was an easy shot from this distance.

  He waited for the tango to line up inside his crosshairs, slowing his breathing as he prepared to pull the trigger. It gave Hill an opportunity to study his prey.

  The man was dressed in a pair of dark black pants similar to Hill’s and a ripped, dirty camo shirt. The man’s skin was pale. Not what Hill expected to see in Iraq. He could be one of the Chechens who had entered the conflict to help their Muslim brothers. It wasn’t common, but not unheard of. Whoever he was, he was seconds away from meeting his maker.

  Two more steps, fucker, Hill thought. Come on, keep moving.

  Without warning, the tango surged forward, ripping PFC Silao from Chavez’s arms. The pale man dragged the wounded soldier away and bit into him, blood spurting all over the figure’s face and Silao’s BDUs. Hill lined
up his shot. Wasting no time, he pulled the trigger.

  The comedian, Gallagher, would have been proud. As the bullet entered the tango’s head, it exploded like a watermelon. Blood gushed from his neck stump, a shower of red bathing Chavez, who’d moved to try and help Silao even as Hill had taken the shot. The .50 caliber left no doubt as to the fate of the attacker.

  Hill now watched Chavez though the scope; he was dazed but not out.

  “Delta Whiskey Four to Overwatch, thanks,” Chavez croaked.

  “No problem, Delta Whisky Four. Get moving before more of tangos hit you.” Hill moved his sight to cover their six. Silao was down, but Hill saw Chavez gather the body and sling it over his shoulders. No one gets left behind, he thought.

  “Got anything?” Hill asked Turner.

  “Nada. Target house and the streets are clear,” Turner answered, not taking his eye from the scope. “I had movement near the gas station on the corner, two houses down from target, but nothing now.”

  “Good, I’ll radio the helo, see what’s taking them so damn long.” Hill changed comm frequencies. “Delta Whiskey Seven to Joker One Seven. Time to dustoff? We have wounded to casevac.”

  “This is Joker One Seven, time to extraction is five mikes, say again, five mikes.”

  “Roger, Joker One Seven. Sooner is better than later,” Hill replied. He switched back to the unit channel. “Delta Whiskey Seven to all elements, extraction in five mikes, so haul ass, marines.”

  “Copy that, Delta Whisky Seven,” came the terse reply from Chavez. He sounded tired and shaken. Having your commanding officer panic was not a good thing. Best to leave him off the radio or it could spread to the others.

  “Did you hear that?” Turner asked.

  Hill shook his head. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything.”

  “Sounded as if someone was below us.” Turner looked toward the edge of the building.

  “Impossible. The claymores in the stairwell would have gone off. We put enough to bring the whole building down around them if they dared come up.”

  “Not from the stairs. Over the side of the building.”

  “Fuck, that’s impossible,” Hill said.

  Hill watched as Turner moved to a tactical crouch, grabbing the M4 rifle he’d leaned against what was left of the hip-level wall. He made his way to the edge and peered over, then jumped back.

  A pale, slender hand grabbed for the ledge. It was joined by a second hand, then a head.

  Turner wasted no time opening the taps on his rifle. For a decorated sniper, Hill thought Turner’s aim in this situation was severely impaired. The bullets hit just about everything except the intended target, only a few hitting the climber. The repetitive clicking of the rifle’s hammer on the empty magazine was all that could be heard as the tango climbed over the lip of the building. The rounds hadn’t slowed their attacker down one bit. The stare from glowing red eyes zeroed in on the two men

  Turner grabbed a fresh mag from his pouch and slammed it into the lower receiver, but it was too late. The pale tango grabbed the sniper, dragged him forward, and bit him in the throat. Hill watched Turner die as the tango tore his throat open with his teeth, and tossed Turner’s flailing body over the side as effortlessly as throwing a rag doll.

  Hill didn’t have time to mourn the loss of his friend as the hulking man turned to face him. Turner’s M4 was too far away so Hill grabbed his Heckler and Koch Mk23 pistol.

  Pfft, pfft. The silenced weapon spat, its load striking the man dead center of the forehead. The man stumbled back, falling to the ground.

  Hill breathed a sigh of relief. That was too close for comfort. He took the time to look over the edge to locate the rest of his group. Turner’s lifeless body lay at an odd angle in the sand. Staples would pick the body up and bring him home. The team would know where the charges were set and how to avoid them as they climbed the stairs to meet him.

  Hill gave a silent prayer for his fallen friend, wishing him a safe trip to the other side. There would be time to mourn later; right now he had to stay frosty and make sure the rest of the team made it back alive.

  Whoomp, Whoomp. The beautiful sound of the chopper’s blades could be heard in the distance as their ride made its way toward them. In no time at all they would be returning to base. As Hill thought that, Chavez and Staples exited the stairwell, carrying their fallen comrades. They looked like warmed dog shit.

  As the chopper made the minute adjustments in order to hover over what was a sorry excuse for a rooftop, Hill made his way over to the body of the man who climbed up the building. He was joined seconds later by Chavez and Staples.

  The tango was very pale, his skin almost translucent. His jaw didn’t look quite right. It was massive, and with weird muscle structure. He was hairless, and his clothes looked as if they’d been dug up and taken from a dead man, the style right out of the 1970s. Not unusual in this part of the world, but definitely not normal.

  As Hill bent to take a closer look, the sun breached the horizon, bathing the rooftop in a golden hue. The body started to smoke and smolder, then burst into blue flames. Hill jumped away in surprise. Within seconds, there was little trace of the man, just a pile of ash blown into the air by the chopper’s wash. Hill didn’t know what to make of it, and wasn’t sure how he was going to write it up in his report, if he even had the balls to put it in writing.

  There wasn’t time to talk about what they’d witnessed as the Black Hawk hovered over the roof, just low enough for the men to climb a board. The dead and wounded were loaded first, followed by Chavez, Staples, and finally Hill. No one spoke on the ride back to base.

  Victory had come at a high price. Hill looked over at Turner’s lifeless body. He wasn’t sure, but thought Turner looked paler than he should. Almost luminous. A cold chill settled over Hill and he grabbed a spare magazine from his vest and reloaded his sidearm.

  Holding the Line:

  Eric S Brown

  The jeep sat sideways in the middle of the road, blocking it completely. Billy held the grips of the heavy machine gun mounted on its rear, nerves making his grip looser than he would like. He was new to the National Guard, and this was first time in the field. He’d joined to get the money he needed for school. There hadn’t been a real terrorist attack on the United States in years and overall, it was a time of peace, so he’d figured it was a safe time to join. The more liberal party that had come to power in the last election was doing away with the ‘War on Terror’ and every other war or active police action they could. The news was filled with reports of troops being called home. Billy had figured it was safe to join up, thinking the worst things he could be doing would be sandbagging flooded areas and helping out disaster victims.

  Jackson, who most folks just called Sarge, stood several feet from the jeep. The older man shook a cigarette from his nearly-empty pack and lit up. Billy watched him with a sense of awe. Sarge had seen real action, all over the world. How the heck the man had ended up back here in the middle of nowhere, North Carolina, was a thing that Billy couldn’t even guess at. Sarge was one tough and cold mother: his off-duty bar fights were legendary, even to the new recruits

  Pullman paced the road on the other side of the jeep from Sarge. At least he looked a touch nervous. That brought Billy some comfort, because he was scared and there was no denying it. His hands were slick with sweat where they clutched the jeep’s weapon, and he could feel the pounding of his heart inside his chest.

  They had waited here in silence for the better part of three hours. Billy couldn’t take it anymore. He summoned up his courage and called out to Sarge. “Hey man, do you really think this crap they’re telling us is real?”

  Sarge finished a long drag of his smoke and turned to face him. Billy’s cheeks grew heated as Sarge looked him up and down.

  “This is your first time out ain’t it kid?” Sarge asked.

  Billy nodded.

  “How come we always get stuck with the newbies?” Pullman asked, walking clos
er to the jeep, his M-16 held sideways in front of him.

  “Stow it,” Sarge grunted at Pullman, his eyes never leaving Billy. “Look kid, it ain’t our place to believe or not, we just do our jobs. In this case, that means if something nine feet tall and hairy comes charging out of the trees, we fill it full of lead and leave its corpse rotting as a warning to any others that might come at us, and we do this until we get different orders.”

  Pullman smirked at Sarge’s answer and added. “Ease up kid. None of this is real. It’s all some kind of cover up or something. Has to be. There’s no way on God’s Earth that Bigfoot is real.”

  “So what they’re saying about those creatures wiping out the town down the road is just a bunch of crap?” Billy asked, far from convinced.

  “Seriously kid?” Pullman laughed. “A whole freaking tribe of Sasquatch just decides to come out of the woods and start killing people? That doesn’t make any sense. Those things, if they do even exist, have spent all this time hiding – why would they just suddenly give that up and go feral? What could they hope to gain by taking out a town and revealing themselves to the world? It’s more likely they’re feeding the public that garbage to keep their attention away from whatever is really going on.”

  Sarge tossed the still-glowing butt of his cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with a heel. “Pullman, you’re as bad as the kid. Like I said, it ain’t our job to think. Our job is to kill anything that tries to get past us here, whether it’s some wild-eyed nut job in an ape suit or the real thing. We hold the line here, no matter who or what shows up.”

  The night was cold and the sweat that had bled from Billy’s body into the cloth of his uniform wasn’t making it any warmer. He shivered and wished this mess was over with already. Before they had left base, the last bits of news he had seen were calling this the ‘Sasquatch Apocalypse’. Since whatever had hit the small town of Babble creek had gone down, there had been reports from all over the country of Bigfoot pouring in. Not the usual sort of sightings either, but stories of Bigfoot, or entire packs of the things, on the move and ripping apart everyone they came across. Billy didn’t really know what to believe himself. He’d never bought into the tales of things like Sasquatch, the Loch Ness monster, or UFOs. His dad had been a hunter his entire life in these parts before cancer claimed him two years back, and had never once said anything about encountering one of the creatures. Still, Billy guessed that there had to be something going on or the three of them wouldn’t be out here freezing their butts off. Sarge seemed to think the Guard, like the Army, was full of REMFs – rear echelon paper pushers – who enjoyed nothing more than finding new and cruel ways to make grunts like them suffer. Billy had to admit that the idea of the Sasquatch Apocalypse sure sounded crazy. There were plenty of wackos who believed the zombie apocalypse was just around the corner, but swarms of Bigfoot declaring war on mankind? That was just insane.