by John O'Brien
“I know, and I don’t want to spend any time in Levenworth either. But if that guy, who is clearly an observer, is like those in the village, I’d rather any confrontation be on our own terms, not his.”
“So, you want for me to take him out? Ordering me to?”
“If you want to play cover your ass, then yes, I’m ordering you to, dickweed. Are you using subsonic ammo?”
“I have a few mags of it in my pack,” Reynolds answered.
“I would suggest using it. This ravine is going to make enough sound as it is.”
Reynolds inserted a new mag and anchored the rifle against one of the boulders. Hanson stood next to him, holding the spotter scope.
“Four hundred twenty yards, level, wind negligible,” Hanson stated quietly.
Okay, Mike, sighted in at two hundred yards. Twenty-two inches of drop at four hundred, we’re at the same level, no headwind, tailwind, or crosswind. Heat factor nearly the same as when sighted. Twenty-two inches it is, Reynolds thought, placing his crosshair above the erratic man’s head.
He’d normally go for the sure center mass shot, but he needed to make sure of the kill and was fairly confident he could hit under the prevailing conditions. He took in a deep breath and began slowly breathing out, placing pressure on the trigger at the same time. The butt plate jarred against his shoulder, the suppressed subsonic round like a sharp puff of air that echoed faintly off the walls of the canyon. Reynolds brought his eye back to the scope in time to see his round strike home. The man’s jaw exploded from the bullet’s impact and he dropped straight to the ground. In the wavering heat and in the bright sunshine, a faint but noticeable misty object rose and then vanished as if evaporating.
“Did you see that? Just like at the village with those camel drivers,” Hanson said. “Nice shot, by the way.”
Reynolds didn’t respond. From the first sign of that white apparition, he knew that whatever had happened at the village was more widespread than any of them thought. The lack of communications, the missed ride home, and the empty skies began to take on a much more forbidding nature.
“Well, let’s go tag and bag your kill,” O’Malley said.
“Are you sure we should be going near that, whatever it is?” Hanson asked.
“You might actually have a good point,” O’Malley conceded. “Very well. Take us around and bring us to a lower vantage point. I want to get a look at the camp before we continue on.”
Perched lower on the same ridge where the observer had been, Reynolds scoped in on the large military camp. On one side, two runways had been carved out of the soil and paved with taxiways leading to a large ramp. Hangars and warehouses lined the tarmac with aircraft parked along its length, red flags waving in the breeze as they hung from props and pitot tubes. A few of the C-130s had their ramps lowered. Crates were stacked next to the warehouses along with motionless forklifts and other machinery.
Elsewhere, helicopters sat with their rotors drooping on helipads. And across the encampment, tanks, Bradleys, Strykers, and Humvees sat in a vast parking lot. Covered ammunition bunkers were in their own separate secured camp. There wasn’t a single moving vehicle to stir trails of dust, nor was there a single airborne helicopter or aircraft. The only movement was from soldiers moving much like those in the village, only on a much grander scale.
“Still think I’m a conspiracy theorist?” Hanson whispered next to Reynolds.
“This isn’t a conspiracy, you idiot. Or we’d be seeing normal activity down there,” Reynolds replied.
“Maybe it got out of control,” Hanson offered.
“Dude, those lights we saw were from the solar storm we were briefed on. I get that something happened, but I seriously doubt it’s something sprayed from an aircraft,” Reynolds responded.
“So, what now?” Reynolds asked, turning toward O’Malley, who was looking through the spotter scope.
O’Malley removed his eye for a moment to glare at Reynolds and then returned to his observations. Minutes later, the grumpy Irish master sergeant pulled away from the scope.
“Well, this is a bit of an inconvenience,” O’Malley muttered.
“I guess we won’t be having any of the mess’s finest or a hot shower anytime soon,” he said, louder.
“So, my previous question?” Reynolds commented.
“We have a few days of water and food remaining, but we’re going to need more of it before much longer. And we won’t be getting it from there,” O’Malley answered, directing his chin toward the military base. “And we can’t stay here indefinitely.”
“That’s covering what we can’t do, not what we’re going to do,” Hanson said sarcastically.
“It’s called eliminating water, you dumbass. We strike choices off the list and see what we’re left with. I swear the stones on this hillside have a higher IQ,” O’Malley responded.
“So, we strike off for another installation or what?” Reynolds questioned.
“Is there anything on the radio?” O’Malley asked.
“Not a peep on any of the channels,” Mendez answered.
“And you’ve tried the emergency freqs?”
“Yeah, several times.”
“So, we’re looking at something that is more widespread than just the village or this camp,” O’Malley pondered.
“It could be that just the comms are out in other installations,” Reynolds offered.
“That’s a possibility, but we’d be seeing some sort of traffic in and out of here,” O’Malley stated.
“Could it be that everything was taken down…I mean, electronically? Vehicles can’t start, airplanes can’t fly?” Hanson asked.
“It’s possible. Hell, anything is at this point. But, this place is out. So, here’s what we’re going to do. There are a few forward operating bases south of us. We’re going to skirt these hills, pick up water as we go, avoid any- and everyone, and see what we see when we get there,” O’Malley briefed, pulling out a map. “There’s one a day away. We’ll remain here for the night and strike out at first light.”
Reynolds welcomed the cooling temperature as the sun set over the horizon, the sky painted in vivid oranges and reds. All day, they’d watched the base, hoping to find a clue as to what had happened or see some kind of rescue. There was nothing except more of the same. He was with a good group of guys, so he wasn’t overly worried in that regard, even though seeing people morphing through walls was a little disconcerting. His worry was more along the lines of what in the fuck they were going to do. They were in the middle of a foreign country, and to all appearances, any ally they’d had was gone.
The decorated sky faded, night rushing across the landscape. With it came the chill of the desert. Overhead, stars twinkled brightly, their silver so clear that it seemed as if he could reach out and touch them. He searched the skies for any moving lights, hoping to see the red flash or the position lights of an aircraft. There were only the stars, some of which had burned out long ago. Back toward the encampment, where lights should have been shining from the base, there was just an inky void from which issued an occasional faint scream.
Reaching into his pack, Reynolds removed and replaced his scope with a fused thermal/night vision one. The details of his surroundings showed clearly, but the base was too far away to pick up detailed thermal images. The fact that he didn’t see heat signatures from the vehicles was a good indicator that they hadn’t been used for some time. There wasn’t a single large heat source anywhere within the encampment. Respecting the master sergeant’s worry about conserving batteries, he shut off the scope, but kept it attached in case he heard anyone approaching.
Later, the moon rose, bathing the landscape in silver highlights and deep shadows. Reynolds sat in the shadow of a boulder, wondering if that was what cavemen might have witnessed. Had they crawled out of their caves to gaze upon the heavens and stare across the barren landscape, perhaps even pondering the mysteries of life and their existence?
Shit, they w
ere probably kicked out of the cave by an upset wife.
He finished his watch and then lay down on the soft soil to get what rest he could.
* * * * * *
Reynolds woke to the sound of the approach, his hand silently going for his M-4. Slowly, he turned his gaze toward the noise, inching his weapon into a ready position. He glanced at his teammates and saw them mimicking his actions, suppressed barrels being brought to bear. Selector switches were slowly clicked into place. He felt his heartbeat thud against his ribs, worried that whoever was nearing would get close enough for that spirit thing to launch outward. The soft crunch of the steps went quiet. Reynolds looked behind him, expecting to see one of those things materialize after morphing.
“It’s me,” O’Malley whispered sharply.
The postures relaxed, barrels lowered.
“Good to see the lot of you on your toes,” O’Malley stated, rounding a boulder.
“Morning ablutions?” Hanson asked.
“I went to take a look at the body. I told Dixon I was leaving,” O’Malley responded.
“You didn’t think to tell us that?” Hanson said, directing the question at Dixon. “I damn near shit myself.”
Reynolds glanced at Dixon to see him shrug. “I knew he was gone, but didn’t know that was him returning.”
“Fucking A, Dixon…seriously?! When we get back, wherever that happens to be, you’re cleaning my underwear,” Hanson stated. “For an entire week.”
“Wait, so you went up there after all?” Reynolds queries.
“Yep,” O’Malley answered. “Someone had to.”
“No, they didn’t. But, what did you find out?”
“I didn’t find anything untoward about the body. It was just a corpse with its face torn apart,” O’Malley responded. “No markings, scars, or anything that would indicate something unusual had occurred.”
“No ghost loitering about?” Hanson asked.
“Nope, just what I said.”
“And what if you had turned into one of those things?” Hanson questioned.
“Then you would have heard me, saw that I wasn’t right, and shot me.”
Hanson sighed, then turned and gathered his pack.
The team worked their way along and around the ridges where they extended into the valley. Normally, they would have headed up one of the ravines and crossed where there was less of a chance of being seen, but O’Malley wanted to keep an eye on the plain in case whatever had happened was, in fact, regionalized and there were troops moving around.
Before moving across the mouths of the narrow canyons, they hid and scoured the hillsides with their scopes to ensure the way was clear. The heat, coupled with the rough terrain, slowed and wore them down. After many attempts on the radio, O’Malley had Mendez shut it down for good. They weren’t having any luck and only wasting what battery power they had remaining, with only one spare available.
At the base of the last finger of land, Reynolds dipped his hand into the warmth of a slow-moving trickle of water. A hundred meters away, the rivulet ran out from the ravine and emptied into the barren waste of the plain. He gathered the moisture in his hands and splashed it across his sunburned cheeks, then through his hair. Taking a rag from around his neck, he wet it and wrung it out down the back of his fatigue shirt before again wrapping the moist cloth around his neck. With canteens filled, he began mounting the crumbly slope, waiting to see what awaited them on the other side.
Reynolds crawled the last few feet, feeling the grit slide beneath his shirt and up his sleeve. Once he arrived home, if he never saw sand again he’d consider himself blessed. And, if he ever started a family, vacations to the beach would be on the “no fucking way” list. Pushing his long gun in front, he looked through the scope. It took only a moment’s observation before he turned to O’Malley and shook his head.
It was more of the same: erratic or repetitious movements from the soldiers within the small camp, the ghostly apparitions hovering around half of them. With the FOB close to the extension of land, he was able to see more clearly than at the large camp or than at the village the way that the apparitions mimicked the movements of the people—the same facial expressions, the same screams. It was only that everything was delayed by less than a second and the voices sounded hollower and reverberated in an odd way. Hearing those echoing shrieks turned Reynold’s stomach to jelly, and seemed to grate against his skin as if the screams were a physical force.
“That’s a whole big bag of nope, right there,” Hanson whispered.
“It’s fucking eerie as shit,” Reynolds agreed.
A sudden thunderous rumble tumbled out of the ravine, the sound of crashing stone and grinding rocks. An explosion of dust and light debris rolled out of the canyon mouth, mushrooming out into the plain.
All of those within the camp who were attached to ghosts turned their heads toward the explosion of noise. Then, their heads turned even more and stared directly at the team’s position among the rocks.
“Well, that could have been better timed,” O’Malley quietly commented.
Screams erupted from within the forward base, a hundred mouths opening at once. Soldiers streaked down every corridor between the structures, all heading toward the team. Those on the edges of the camp raced outward, their eyes filled with hunger and rage. Arms groped forward, trying to close the distance to the six men camped on top of the rock-strewn hill.
“Online. Mow them down in the ravine. If they close to thirty yards, we pull back and set up shop across the next valley. No one leaves until I say so,” O’Malley yelled.
Reynolds set his sniper down and unshouldered his carbine. Setting the selector to burst, he sighted in on the nearest runner. Seeing the solider, the sergeant stripes on the front of his vest, he hesitated. If he pulled the trigger, then an American soldier would fall dead.
The sight of the apparition charging along with the man closed down that thought, and three rounds raced out from the barrel, the sound of the shots suppressed but not silent. The first two rounds struck the chest, causing the man to stumble, but the plates in the vest stopped the rounds from penetrating. The third round, rising because of the recoil, slammed into the meaty portion of his neck. Blood sprayed outward, splashing against the man’s shirt, vest, and face. His momentum continued and he fell face forward to the ground. Blood spurted onto the sandy soil, becoming mud-like, slowing to a trickle as the heart stopped.
“They’re wearing armor,” Reynolds called, moving his sight picture to another target.
The face of a young woman, her brunette hair pulled into a tight bun, filled his sight. Again, Reynolds hesitated, feeling like he wouldn’t be able to pull the trigger. He’d shot women before. And, although it didn’t sit well with him, they had been the enemy, closing in with the intent to inflict harm. This one appeared to be doing the same, but she was someone he might have dated, talked to, actually fought alongside as a fellow soldier. Her eyes, though, were filled with such aching hunger.
Without another thought, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to go through with it if he hesitated, he squeezed on the trigger. A mist of red obscured her head as the rounds found their target, sending her crashing back to the ground. He barely noticed a wisp of fog rise from her body, wavering in the sunlit air before evaporating.
Selecting another, he saw one of the apparitions lunge forward, the body beginning to blur.
“No, no, no,” Reynolds said, moving his scope to follow the lunging white shadow.
The inverted V of his ACOG followed the apparition, centering on where it stopped. The blurred body followed the same path as the ghostly image. Reynolds snapped the trigger at the moment the body began to take on a solid shape, the bullets intersecting with the materializing form. The soldier was flung to the side from the multiple impacts, the plates absorbing the rounds. Taking closer aim at the figure on the ground, he sent another burst into the fallen body, this time rewarded by the sight of the rounds penetrating flesh and bo
ne.
All along the edge of the camp and along the narrow ravine, bodies began to fall under the torrent of fire laid down by the six men. Those rushing forward were taken down when they emerged from behind sandbagged walls and around the encircling razor wire. Several became tangled within the wire as they tried to hurdle the walls, the sharp edges easily cutting through flesh, leaving behind dripping blood. Phantasms rose from fallen bodies, briefly visible before vanishing. The canyon walls echoed with the sounds of muted gunfire and screams.
Sighting on another, Reynolds was about to fire when the soldier fell to the ground on his knees, grabbing his head as the ghostly aura was sucked into the body. In the magnified view, the man raised his head and looked straight into Reynold’s eyes, the man’s expression pleading and agonized. His mouth moved and the words were unmistakable.
“Help me…please, help me.”
The apparition returned, leaping out from the body but unable to get fully away. The man screamed in agony, the attached opaque image mimicking the shriek a split second later.
A shiver ran up Reynolds’s spine. He pulled the trigger, sending the man spinning to the ground. He sent several more falling before he reloaded. Dust kicked up from missed shots, sandbags spilling their contents as they were torn open. All along the camp, those remaining began shifting and blurring more often, getting beyond the razor wire and quickly drawing closer. The team struggled to keep the horde from breaking free. They managed to hold those charging, but the figures began morphing. The line became ragged, and as if the first one through was a signal, others were able to get past the torrent of fire. Once the dam showed the first cracks, the floodgates opened and the attackers began closing the distance.
“Everyone, two quick bursts, then fall back across the next canyon,” O’Malley yelled.
Reynolds fired quickly, picking out two targets and hitting one, but the other rounds were absorbed by armor plating. Leaving his long gun where it lay, he turned with the others, scrambling across the rocky ground toward the rear. He ejected his partially used mag on the run, reached for another at his waist, and inserted it.