This Time of Night

by Jon F. Merz

  Off in the distance, Jackie heard the unmistakable sound of some machine lurching and humping about the back room. He peered over the counter until someone noticed him and came over.

  "Sir?"

  "There was a woman outside...she was dragged in here. Did you see her?"

  "No."

  "You must have, she was just dragged in here!"

  The boy behind the counter shrugged. "Nope. Didn't see here. Were you waiting for something sir?"

  "My meal," Jackie said absentmindedly.

  "Oh, yes sir, you had the cheeseburger." He disappeared for a minute and came back with a bag. "Here you go."

  Jackie took it and started to hand over his money. "I don't understand. That woman-"

  "Dinner's on the house, sir. Sorry for the wait. Why not have a seat and eat your meal?"

  Jackie nodded dumbly and wandered over to the laminated booth. He opened the burger, saw it was steaming fresh and bit into it. It tasted good. Real good. The meat seemed to melt in his mouth.

  It was only after he'd finished the meal and his shake that he noticed the commotion in the back of the restaurant. The counter boy was pointing in his direction to the same two men Jackie had seen grab the woman. They started over toward him.

  Jackie stood. "Hey-"

  They grabbed him. "What the-"

  One of them leaned closer. "Sorry, about this mister. You shouldn't have stopped here. We just got some guy who ordered two double cheeseburgers. Where are you from?"

  "Hartford."

  They grinned. "He's from Middlebury, Vermont. That's further away, so he wins. You lose."

  "I lose? What the hell does that mean?"

  One of them looked at him. "We don't serve hamburger here."

  Ahead of him. Jackie saw the grinder, it's wheels spinning furiously. The blades underneath sliced and diced. It looked recently used.

  "The woman," Jackie started to say.

  "She was your dinner," said the guy. "Hope you enjoyed your last meal."

  The tipped him upside down and aimed him headfirst at the blades of the grinder. Jackie saw the metal teeth gnashing toward him then nothing more.

  Final Patrol

  Another combination of military/espionage with horror. It’s a big what-if? scenario that might well have happened or will happen if we keep screwing around with biological weapons. Well, you never know…

  “Hallo Alpha, this is Foxtrot 1, over.”

  “Foxtrot 1, send over.”

  “Alpha, for God’s sakes beam me up Scotty!”

  “Stand by, Foxtrot 1, we have your extraction enroute, over.”

  “Foxtrot 1, copy that, out.”

  I replaced the receiver and looked out across the field. It wouldn’t be soon enough for them to get the Chinooks in here to yank our arses out. Another explosion rocked the ground a few feet from our position.

  “Minging bastards! Who gave them mortars?” It was Joker on our left flank. A string of obscenities followed as the dirt came showering down on our heads.

  Another high pitched whine filled the air and we ducked down waiting for the explosion that would kill us all. It detonated fifty feet further away.

  “They bunged that one up, they did,” said Bob to my right. “Wonder who taught them how to use those things?”

  “Russians most likely,” I said. “They had advisors here years back. Long before we ever got involved in this crummy place.”

  Dino hollered out. “Contact! Contact! Three o’clock!” This was followed by several staccato tri-bursts from his assault rifle. Bob swiveled slightly and got some rounds down in that direction as well. Joker and I watched on the left and rear to make sure they weren’t flanking us.

  We’d been dropped in here two nights ago. Our mission at that time was to scout out a supposed chemical and biological weapons facility located in the deep Iraqi desert.

  Supposedly a hardened mountain housed the plant. Either the Green Slime, our intelligence section, was wrong or the pilots had dropped us at the wrong coordinates. Not that it mattered now. Last night we were compromised trying to box around a signals facility. Who’d have thought that damned shepherd would have raised the alarm?

  We lost Stan in the first contact. He took rounds in the chest and throat and nothing in Joker’s trauma pack could have saved him. We tried anyway. When one of your mates goes down, you try it all. But then we were at a loss. Stan had to be left behind. There’d be time for mourning back at the Regiment’s interest room.

  But that was a long way aways. Some four thousand miles. Back at Hereford, England. Back where the Guinness flowed strong. I could almost taste it now, if I tried really hard.

  A round kicked up sand close by my face. The damned wogs were getting closer. I checked my night sight again and found a target lurking out at twelve o’clock. I flicked the selector switch to semi-automatic and squeezed off two rounds. The target disappeared.

  “Contact front!” I called. Joker swung into position beside me.

  “Where are the silly buggers?”

  I scanned again. Nothing. “Must have gone down after I dropped the first one.”

  There was still sporadic gunfire going off on our right. Dino and Bob were shooting sparingly. All we had to do was wait for our ride.

  “Hope to god they brought some fast guns with them,” said Joker absentmindedly. “We could use some close air support on our evac.”

  “At night? Cripes, they’d nail us,” I said with a grin.

  “Maybe just buzz the bastards, then,” said Joker. “Might be enough to scare them back into their tents, eh? Long enough for us to get aboard and pinch a gin and tonic, what say?”

  I looked at him. He had two days worth of facial hair and smelled like a dump. But god how I loved him. Loved them all. Being in the Special Air Service, you learned to trust your mates like no one’s bother. You all lived and breathed because you were seamless. Because this was what we’d trained for. And god, how we’d trained.

  It took almost one month of intense exercises known as Selection to even be considered for the SAS. Most of these exercises were navigational tabs upwards of thirty kilometers, all within harsh time limits. From first phase, you went on to continuation training where I’d been sent to Malaysia for jungle training along with forty other blokes. When we got back, they binned another thirty. The remaining ten of us went on to combat survival training where we did escape and evasion drills and finally an interrogation phase. Of the one hundred that had started with us, eight of us remained when they handed us the sand colored berets with winged daggers.

  Proud? Were we ever. The SAS is the standard by which all other special forces units are measured. Sure, the US Delta Force and SEAL teams are good, as are GSG-9, the German commando unit. But we were the first. And we’re still the best.

  Consequently, when the West discovered what the Iraqis were up to, there was really only one alternative. And we were it.

  It was that simple. A squadron was over the water in Northern Ireland. G squadron was down in some no-name Latin American country teaching commando tactics to indigenous police forces. That left us, B squadron. When the call came down for volunteers, you’d have needed a hatchet to get through the forest of hands that leapt skyward.

  We flew out of Brize-Norton aboard two RAF VC-10s. There were twenty of us in total plus the lot of our kit. Four bricks of five blokes each. We landed in Riyadh and were immediately shuttled further north close by the Iraqi border. From there we received our map grids, got our kit all sorted out and hopped on to the Chinooks. The rest is history.

  Or rather, we were about to be, if the Iraqis kept up their assault and our evac didn’t get in fast enough.

  Another round jumped and splayed sand across my face. Joker picked the offending sod off while I cleared my eyes.

  In that instant, several blood-curdling screams rang out.

  The gunfire stopped.

  “Fuck,” said Dino.

  “What happened?” asked Bob.


  Joker said nothing, just kept peering through his night sight.

  “We get them all?” I asked.

  Dino rolled back down and checked behind us. We were in a narrow gully that provided some cover. Actually it looked something like a ditch, but more shallow.

  “Nothing,” said Dino. “I’ve got nothing.”

  The wind blew around us then and it was very cold. Deserts get freezing and a mate can go down with hypothermia in less time than you’d think. Joker finally gave up and sucked his lower lip. “Don’t like this. Not one fucking bit.”

  Bob pointed at the radio. “What’s the ETA?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe twenty minutes.”

  “Maybe we should try to get further south,” suggested Dino.

  “Bin that bag of shite,” said Joker. “What if they’re out there waiting for us to do that. They’d pick us off like flies before we got to another emergency rendezvous point.”

  Bob nodded. “Yah, I say we sit tight. Wait for our egg beaters to arrive.”

  Dino shrugged. “Right, then. Here we stay.”

  I sighed. “Might’s well be positioned properly, just in case. I’ll take twelve o’clock. Who’s my six?”

  “I’ve always loved your arse, Neil,” said Dino with a smug grin. “I’ll have ya.”

  Joker busted up. “I’ll be on three then if Bob’s got nine.”

  “Will do.”

  And there we were. And it was quiet. Overhead, stars winked at us through light cloud cover. At least the Chinooks wouldn’t have a problem putting down when we popped the green flashers to bring them in.

  “Could do with a brew,” said Joker.

  I smiled. A spot of tea would hit the spot right now, he was right. But there was no way we could get a hexy tablet lit and boil water for tea. Our imaginations would have to suffice.

  Dino was sniffing. “Smell that?”

  “What?”

  Bob frowned. “You in the pisser again, Dino? You’re due for some counseling on that alcoholic kick of yours.”

  Joker started to laugh, but then stopped. “Wait. He’s switched on. There is something.”

  And then I caught the first drafts. It was awful. Some type of burning scent, but foul like rotting sewage. “Jesus, what is that?”

  Bob brought his gun up again and started sighting. “Got nothing here.”

  “Whatever it is, the smell’s getting stronger,” said Dino. “Like we’re on top of something.”

  Bob dropped his gun and pawed the sand at our feet. He looked up after a minute of digging. “Like we’re on some kind of minging corpse pile.”

  In that instant, I’m not sure what exactly happened. I saw Bob digging away in one second, but then there was a flurry of motion and his arm was grabbed from under the sand.

  “Christ!” screamed Bob. I jumped on him and tried pulling him back. His face shrank and contorted and then he screamed an ungodly screech of agony as his arm was wrenched from its socket. Blood sprayed everywhere and Bob went limp in my arms.

  “Fuck!” cried Joker. He swung his gun down at the place where Bob’s arm had disappeared and squeezed off three shots while Dino and I hefted his body up against the wall of the gully.

  Dino grabbed Joker’s trauma kit and ripped the fluids bag open and shoved the needle up Bob’s one arm. I stuffed gauze into the gaping hole at his shoulder. He was bleeding out frightfully fast. We had maybe twenty seconds.

  “I need the plasma cell!” said Dino. I tossed it to him and he slapped it onto the intravenous tube trying to flush some fresh liquids into Bob. I looked at him and knew we weren’t going to stop it. He was gushing blood through the gauze as fast as I could pile it on and there was no way to tourniquet the wound.

  Dino looked at me. “Shit, Neil, we’re losing him!”

  “Fuck.” I kept one hand on the makeshift patch and grabbed the radio with my free hand. I flicked the send key and got on the blower. “Alpha, calling Alpha, this is Foxtrot 1, over!”

  “Foxtrot 1, send over.”

  “Alpha, we’ve got seriously wounded here. I need an immediate extraction, repeat immediate extraction.”

  There was a pause. “Be advised, Foxtrot 1, your evac is enroute. ETA is ten minutes, over.”

  “Alpha, we’re going to need it faster than that. Tell those blokes to get out and push!”

  Joker was staring at the ground. “What the fuck was that?”

  Dino slumped away from Bob. “He’s dead. Must have jumped into shock straight-away. He’s done for.”

  I let the patch go. Bob continued to bleed out through the wound, but he was dead and gone. That was two down. I wasn’t pleased.

  Joker was still sighting down his gun. “Like something fucking grabbed him and tried to pull him under.”

  I moved closer to him. “Keep your head, mate. What could it have been?”

  “Fuck if I know, but it grabbed him, it did.”

  Dino hunched down next to us. “Ten minutes, eh?”

  I nodded and rubbed my eyes. “Yah, guess we’d better get Bob’s kit ready to go.”

  Joker turned and then stopped. “Where’s Bob’s body?”

  Dino lurched around. “What?”

  It was gone.

  “What the fuck’s this shit, mate?” said Dino looking at me. “What the hell just happened to Bob?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t know.”

  Joker’s face was beginning to resemble stone. I’d seen the look before in the Falklands when we were assaulting an Argentine position. We lost everyone but the two of us and the only reason why we didn’t die was due to Joker’s relentless offensive. His face had hardened and then he was up and about, firing and changing magazines as fast as I’d ever seen anyone in my life. When we were finally evac’d, Joker had twelve kills down to him. It was scary.

  But this was worse. At least in the Falklands, we knew what we were fighting. In the last few moments, our perceptions had been shattered as to just what we were up against.

  “Bin this shite,” said Joker. “We move.”

  Dino grabbed his kit. “Agreed.”

  I hefted my gun. “Right. Dino’s point, Joker’s on our six. Let’s move. Ten yards distance. If there’s contact, we rally, right? Let’s tab it, then.”

  Dino eased over the lip of the gully and moved like mist on the sand. He could flow nice and low and made no real outline against the night sky. I counted to ten and then moved out as well. Behind me, I knew Joker’d be keeping his Armalite at ready. He wasn’t going to take anything for a friend tonight until he was nursing his gin back at base.

  Dino kept moving ahead. I could barely make him out, but knew he was there, moving stealthily through the desert with fifty pounds of gear strapped to him.

  Just five more minutes. We just needed five-

  I felt the rumble of the ground, and then a shriek of terror. Dino.

  “Contact front!” I called. I ran ahead, blindly, but I knew I had to close the gap fast. I could see someone, something, with Dino entangled in it. I drew the gun to my shoulder and started firing. Dino had stopped crying now and I knew he was probably dead, too. The sand at my feet was slick with blood and entrails. I shot again and again, feeling the steady recoil against my shoulder as the mass of flailing limbs disappeared beneath the desert floor again.

  Joker came running up behind me. “-Fuck’s Dino?” He asked out of breath.

  I shook my head. “Gone.”

  Joker knelt down and scooped up some of the wet sand. And gagged. “Christ almighty, what the fuck is going on here?”

  “I don’t know.” I dropped my pack. “But we make a stand here.”

  Joker nodded instinctively. “Right. Give me the Claymores and the clackers. How much time left?”

  I checked my watch. “Three minutes.”

  Joker slapped the explosives down all around us and finished quickly while I covered him. When he was done we stood in a tight circle. He looked at me. “Probably won’t do much.”<
br />
  “Tough to, not knowing what the hell we’re fighting against.”

  And then I heard it, that noise, that noise. The most comforting sound I’d heard in a long time. The steady whump whump whump of the heavy bladed chopper coming for us.

  Joker grinned. “‘Bout fucking time. Pop the light sticks.”

  I pulled the caylume sticks and broke and shook them, getting the green to glow. The radio chirped. “X-ray to Foxtrot 1, we have your location, stand by.”

  Joker and I stood there when the chopper materialized in the night sky. It wasn’t a Chinook, but a Huey, faster and lighter than the slow-moving Chinooks we’d ridden in on. It descended lightly and we watched as the struts touched down on desert sand, kicking up a fierce stinging breeze into our faces. I pulled my goggles on and motioned for Joker to follow me.

  “They came in alone?” said Joker.

  I nodded. It did seem strange. Most of the time the extraction team had close air support to give them cover. Nothing much but an A-10 or F-15 to take out any ground units that might have been giving us the business.

  We got ten feet.

  And then as the chopper waited, the sand beneath it heaved and shifted while monstrous tentacles reached up, entangling the Huey. The bird shifted again and the pilots realized there was a problem. I saw one of them yank the cyclic up trying to gain altitude, but whatever it was that had them, held them fast.

  Joker ripped his rifle up and started shooting. I saw his rounds strike home, flecking off bits of scaly flesh and drawing a black viscous blood, but it was like fighting an octopus or a hydra. None of Joker’s rounds found a mortal wound.

  “Pop a grenade over!” I shouted. Joker’s Armalite had a 40mm grenade launcher underneath it.

  Joker nodded and squeezed the trigger. There was a muffled pop and then an explosion at the chopper. A large piece of tentacle flew off spraying blood everywhere around us.

  But then there was an awful ripping sound of crushing metal as the whole Huey was torn apart and dragged underneath the sand. At once, the gas tank ruptured and a huge fireball sparked, sending me flying from the concussion.

  When I came to, I saw Joker’s body twenty feet away. I crawled over to him and saw the chunk of metal jutting out of his eye. Straight into his brain. Poor blighter died instantly.