by J. F. Holmes
The pack was only thirty meters away now. “Sergeant’s aiming at the lead one,” Harris said. “Hey, can I get in on this?”
I remember smirking at Harris and told him, “Fuck yeah.”
The pack sprinted forward. A giant mass of fangs, claws, and those wrathful eyes. Mason got a single shot off before they changed.
They weren’t dogs or animals or beasts. That pristine coat of fur began to burn and illuminate. They became an inferno, a wall of fire, whirling faster and faster toward us. Fire that didn’t create smoke. The bodies shifted and morphed into something human. Two arms, two legs, a head, but those same dreadful eyes of obsidian black. And they were armed. Burning with the same intensity and fire were the shapes of swords, axes, and spears in their hands. Some didn’t even have weapons; their hands were opened wide to reveal burning razor like claws.
“Fuck!”
We had time to yell that. It’s odd the things you remember. But between the time the pack sprinted forward and changed there was just enough time to vocalize our shock and horror. The moment after, Sergeant Mason was eviscerated. I’ve never heard a more bloodcurdling scream. His blood sprayed into the night air, steaming and sizzling and boiling from the fire. His body had been ripped and cut open, the flesh burning and cauterizing. Two more of the demons cut him down, instantly silencing his screams.
Evans had been able to snap off a few rounds before a demon with an enormous axe swung through his belly. Evans’ upper half fell backward, and the man was screaming, but still trying to work his rifle. The demon brought the axe down on Evans’ head, but the Marine had done something, his rounds had hit another demon. I watched it let out a roar before the flames went out, and an empty husk crumpled to the ground.
They could be killed.
Harris and I fired. Our rifles hammered out round after round in a chaotic beat of vengeance. I aimed at one wielding two curved swords, and hit center mass. I hit it again and again and again until the demon turned into a charred corpse.
I can’t describe the noises. Marines waking up in horror. Demons howling. Gunshots, and the roar of blazing fires. Marines fought. Demons killed. It all mixed and tangled to create a symphony of death.
Reid was on Post Two, making any Marine proud. He grabbed the M240 and was firing the machinegun with both hands, the stock pinned under his armpit, the belt of 7.62 hung over his arm. Reid was fearless. He cursed and fired, and the machinegun held back the demons long enough for the other Marines to get out of their sleeping bags and reach their weapons.
I thought for just a moment that maybe there was hope for us. That with the two posts firing, we could strong point the TCP just long enough for the rest of the Marines to get their weapons in the fight. That’s when a demon leapt at us from the entry point. Its flaming mass lit up the evening and crossed the distance. It landed in front of us, just at the lip of the firing port. Harris had the 240 ready. He let out a burst into the demon’s face, killing it instantly. The body fell from view, and I thought we were okay.
Another demon reached in and grabbed Harris by his plate carrier. He screamed, not out of fear, but from the fire that was burning his skin. With an almost effortless show of strength, Harris was yanked out of the post. His legs knocked into me during the process, and I fell back down into the TCP.
I landed hard, the wind knocked out of me, and I gasped desperately for air while trying to recover my rifle. I was yanked up, and I thought that would be it; a demon was about to kill me. But I felt no heat, no fire against my skin. It was Gunny Alvarez. He fired his pistol and pulled me to my feet. Around us was nothing short of medieval. Marines were fighting desperately against the demons. I saw Petty empty his rifle and try to reach for his bayonet before being stabbed by a long-bladed spear. His wound burned, and soon the Marine was on fire, writhing on the ground. There were some black, charred husks, but not as many. There were more Marines lying dead. Their wounds were large, gaping, and cauterized. Blood steamed and boiled in the dirt.
Gunny Alvarez was pulling me backward. We started to fire our way through the demons toward Reid and Post One. Another Marine tried to join us, but he was torn apart by a demon. Gunny Alvarez fired and quickly got revenge.
Despite all the chaos going on around us, I could still distinguish the feel of my rifle bolt locking to the rear. My magazine was empty, and I hadn’t put on my combat gear. There was an M16 on the ground, I’m not sure whose it was, but I figured the owner was dead. I threw my M4 down, grabbed the M16, and fired, thankful there were still rounds left. We passed another rifle, and I handed it to Gunny Alvarez just as his M9’s slide locked to the rear.
TCP 2 was burning. We were dying. But damnit, we fought. None of the Marines stopped. It was obvious this would be our grave. We knew we were being slaughtered, but with rifle and bayonet, we stood defiant and proud.
Gunny and I were at the base of the stairs for Post One, and Reid was still hammering away with the machinegun. A demon rushed us, and Gunny put it down with the M16. Another came, and Gunny extinguished its flame in similar fashion. But then there was a third. It swung a sword and cut deep into the gunnery sergeant’s thigh. He yelled and pushed me away as a final act of service. Gunny Alvarez died doing what a good staff non-commissioned officer does, caring for his Marines. I saw his face. He wasn’t angry or upset or scared. He just wanted me to get to safety. I obeyed his wordless order and never saw the demon that killed him.
I ducked under Reid’s gunfire. I grabbed at his extra magazines, replenished the M16, and began firing as well. There was comfort in the 240’s death song; Reid wasn’t working short, controlled bursts. He depressed the trigger in long choruses of hate.
Reid came to the end of the belt of ammunition, dropped the gun for his own M16, and fought back with that. The demons were swarming us, and before I knew it, my M16 was empty again. I backed up and felt something strange against my back. The Beretta. I had completely forgotten the pistol tucked into the small of my back. I reached for it and fired as the demons reached the stairs. Then they were in our post.
Reid screamed as a demon blade cut into his shoulder. The Marine grabbed for the machete we never understood why was there and swung with all his might. I couldn’t believe it—the old blade tore through fiery demon flesh. The demon fell away as its flames were extinguished. Reid turned to me, the pain visible on his face. He dug into a pouch for the olive drab body of an M67 fragmentation grenade. He pulled the pin and released the spoon. “Watch my six, brother.”
Reid shoved me out of the firing port. I tumbled end over end, landed against the hard ground of the road, and hit the back of my head. Everything looked blurry, and my skull was pounding. I heard Reid one last time.
“You can’t kill me!”
My hearing cut out, the earth shook, and through blurry vision, Post One disappeared in a cloud of smoke and dust and fire. I felt very tired, though I knew I shouldn’t; I needed to stay awake and keep fighting. But the blur got thicker and darker. I just wanted to fall asleep and wake up from this nightmare. My arms and legs attempted to push me up, but the weight was impossible. Stillness brought an undeniable pleasure. I closed my eyes, and everything went black.
PART TWO
My hearing came back first, to a distant, mechanical thumping. I tried to wake, but felt myself drifting off again. The noise stayed and grew louder and louder, until finally it became unavoidable. The sound encompassed me, and there was nothing else to be heard besides it. The wind shifted, and my face stung as if pricked by a thousand tiny needles.
Finally, I shifted. I tried to move quickly, but I could only muster a slow, drunken recoil. Coming out of the fog that was my head, the realization hit me. Helicopter blades. Large ones. I brought a hand up to my face to shield myself from the dirt and sand being thrown by the rotor wash. Looking up, I saw it against the still dark blue sky, the twin rotors and wide tail of an MV-22 Osprey. Its rear ramp was down, and two ropes were hanging down at an angle just before being relea
sed and falling to the ground. Then the twin engines rotated forward, and the Osprey was away, beginning to circle high and wide above TCP 2.
I gulped down saliva and dust before trying to get to my knees. I still had the M9 in my hands, and slowly I rose to my feet. I could hear shuffling and movement inside the TCP. I began to put one foot in front of the other. I gained my strength, and the fog cleared, allowing me to think and focus. There were harsh whispers coming from inside, I couldn’t quite make it out.
“U.S. Marine! U.S. Marine!” I cried out, but my mouth felt like cotton. I tried to pool up spit to wet my throat. I yelled again. I needed to get all the way around the TCP toward the entry point. I saw Sergeant Mason. His body was twisted and open, and long stretches of his skin were burnt black. The smell of his blood hit me hard, and I recoiled and gagged. I couldn’t look at him anymore. I passed him and told myself I’d deal with his body later.
I came toward the concertina wire and saw silhouettes forming along the tops of the HESCO barriers and on of what remained of Post Two. I quickly put the pistol in the small of my back and threw my hands up into the air, still approaching and yelling.
In the darkness I could see two men step out from the TCP and face me. One put his weapon up, and the other said, “Hey bud, stop right there.”
I listened. I knew these guys would want to search me. I didn’t blame them; this was everyone’s procedure. The quicker I complied, the faster this would all end. I hoped. “I’m Corporal Jonathan Lake, and I’ve got a holstered pistol.”
“Alright bud, do me a favor,” the voice called back out to me. His tone seemed friendly, but cautious and confident. “Lift your shirt and do a little turn for me.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle quietly to myself. It was the same things we did to the Afghans to ensure they weren’t wearing a suicide vest or concealing a weapon in their waistband. I complied, and told them again about the pistol.
“Okay, walking backward, hands in the air, come to me,” the voice called.
Once again I complied, and hoped I wouldn’t trip. As strange as it was, I felt safe. I hadn’t heard any gunfire, so I assumed the demons were gone. There was no barking, howling, or snarls, just the hum of the orbiting Osprey. Then I did trip, on Evans’ legs, which were detached from his torso. Any feelings of safety quickly disappeared.
The voice told me to stop, then hands were on me, the pistol was yanked away, and I felt the familiar routine of a search. Finally they turned me around, and I looked to see Americans in gear I had only seen Special Forces units wear. Their uniforms were green with M81 woodland camouflage, there were knee pads built into the pants, their plate carriers were thinner and streamlined compared to the bulky, cumbersome things we’d been issued. Even their helmets were more impressive than the Kevlar one I had, with IR strobes, flashlights, and battery packs for dual tubed night vision devices. There were thick headphones over their ears, and mics bent in front of their faces. The two had short-barreled MK18 rifles laden with optics, lasers, and lights. Everything about these guys screamed nonconventional forces. Who, though, wasn’t clear.
“Who are you guys?” I asked.
“The cavalry,” one replied. It wasn’t the voice who’d yelled to me earlier during the search.
“You’re late,” I said, a little more tensely than I’d intended, but the man’s attempt at humor wasn’t appreciated right after seeing so many of my Marines slaughtered and burnt.
“Sorry,” he replied, and by his tone, he meant it.
“Is it just you?” the searcher asked me.
“I hope not.” I had no idea who else could have made it. In that moment I said a quick prayer, hoping for the others to be okay.
“How many of you were there?”
“Twenty-three pax,” I replied quickly using the military jargon for personnel.
The two looked at each other. The one who’d apologized turned away and left me with the searcher. “Mind telling me what happened here?”
Fire flashed in my mind, and I couldn’t imagine this guy believing me. But I told him the truth. I told him about the dogs, the pack, the transformation, the flames and heat. His expression never changed. I expected him to give me a look as if I were crazy. Instead, he just listened and nodded softly. He dug into a cargo pocket, produced a bottle of water, and offered it to me. I stared at it for a moment before taking it and finishing the drink in one go.
There was silence between us then. I looked at the doorway into the TCP and started to take a step forward. “I should take a look.” I felt guilt then. I knew most of my Marines were dead. Reid had saved me.
The man side stepped to block my path. “You shouldn’t.”
The second man exited the TCP, and the two exchanged looks. “I’m sorry to tell you, Corporal, but I’ve got twenty-two remains inside.” The look was solemn. “Put up a hell of a fight, though.”
I collapsed to my knees. The two gently knelt and followed me down. I was oblivious to the tears trailing down my face. “You guys got a cigarette?” They handed me one and lit the end for me. I inhaled and pictured my Marines’ faces; Reid, Petty, Gunny Alvarez, even Aarash the interpreter. A third man with a thick black beard came up and spoke to the others in whispers; they had to lean into each other’s faces and lift their earpieces to hear. “Who are you guys? MARSOC?” I asked again, realizing they’d never answered my question. Everything about them screamed Marine Special Operations Command.
Their eyes darted to each other before the searcher answered, “Sure.”
I shook my head; they weren’t going to tell me anything. “You guys think I’m crazy, huh?” I kept going at the cigarette, trying to stay sane.
“No, Corporal. No, I don’t.” It was the searcher again. He was back down to my level, and he also lit a cigarette. “I’m Captain King.” He motioned to the second man from earlier. “That there is Master Sergeant Quince, and this one here is Gunnery Sergeant Carland.”
Quince and Carland gave the captain a look of surprise.
“What you saw, Corporal, is what we call Djinn.”
Quince spoke in surprise, “Sir…”
Captain King looked up at the two senior noncommissioned officers. “He’s the sole survivor, let’s give the kid a break, huh?” King gave me a look that told me I needed to stop feeling sorry for myself. “I’m going to be straight with you, Corporal. You guys got hit bad, and you’re it. I can’t afford to extract you right now. We’ve got to hunt the rest of those things down before they try to hit the rest of your unit.”
I thought about the remaining Marines from the platoon at TCP 4. Where had they been? Where they about to get attacked like we had? The look on my face must have given away what I was thinking. “The rest of your platoon is fine; they haven’t been engaged yet. Looks like you guys did enough damage to cause the Djinn to regroup.” I think I sighed in relief. “But you need to come with us. Marines are warfighters. I need you to fight.” His tone became more fatherly than anything. At his words, I nodded my head and stood up.
“What about my Marines?” I asked.
“I’ve got more Marines en route to handle the remains; we’ve got to finish the fight before we worry about battlefield recovery,” King said matter-of-factly.
I tried for the doorway again. “I need to tac up.” My combat gear was still inside, and I wondered if any of it had burned.
Gunnery Sergeant Carland got in my way this time. “I don’t think you want to go in there, my man.”
“I’ll be okay,” I told him. “I need my rifle, at least.”
King nodded his head, and they let me pass. Inside I finally saw the damage that had been dealt. There were burnt marks everywhere. Marines lay dead, and mixed amongst them were the charred husks of the demons that seemed to crumble to ash at the gentlest brush of wind. The smell was horrid, and I struggled not to gag. Standing amongst the dead were the living, other Marines dressed in similar fashion to King, Quince, and Carland. A couple took photographs on d
igital cameras, for what I suspected would be used in an after-action report. Others stood security with their weapons and night vision pointed outward.
I went to my cot, ignoring the blood stains. I simply grabbed my plate carrier; it was still staged where I’d left it. There were a couple black marks where embers must have landed, but thankfully it was clear of any blood. My helmet didn’t share that luck, however—the inner padding had burnt away, and the camouflage cover was dark and stank of copper. I left it behind and found my M4 where I’d dropped it. I slipped in a new magazine and chambered a round. A couple of the other Marines stared but left me alone.
When I was done, I returned to Captain King. “I’m sorry about your brothers, Corporal, but we’re stepping out in one minute.”
“Where do you need me, sir?” I responded. I appreciated his sympathy, but the need for revenge started to build within me. He’d said they were going to hunt these Djinn, or whatever it was he called the demons, and I wanted in.
“You’ll be in the middle with me,” he said, then continued, “Have you noticed any new faces or anything suspicious in the area since you’ve been here?”
I thought about that for a moment, and then I remembered Abdul Malik. “A local elder didn’t show up to a KLE a couple days ago. Good guy, we had great rapport with him.”
Quince chewed on his lip while he listened. When I finished, he spoke next, “Thinking the usual, King?”
I was surprised to hear him refer to the officer by last name only, but I’d heard the Special Forces community was much more relaxed.
“Yeah.” King nodded his head. “Yeah, it does.”