by Mark Tufo
“You know night runners are waiting on the other side,” I say.
“The only thing that awaits is my freedom. I care not for anything else,” the demon responds.
“If they kill me, you won’t get your revenge,” I state, hoping that I’ll be able to get the demon to wait until morning.
“That poor attempt at manipulation is beneath even you. I grow tired and impatient. Through the portal with you or down the hatch you will go. Proceed now, outworlder.”
“One last question. If I go back through the barrier, more than likely giving you access to the world beyond, we’re good then, right? Even?”
“Whatever makes you think that, mortal? You go through the portal or you get slowly chewed. If you survive on the other side, then that gives you a better chance of living longer. If you had summoned me, then I would be beholden to a degree, but seeing as you’re the invader, you are not allowed to set conditions,” the demon answers. “Now, enough of your blabbering. Through you go.”
Yep, I definitely made the wrong decision coming here.
There isn’t much choice. It’s certain death versus setting a demon loose on the land. I seriously doubt that I’ll be able to make any kind of deal like Mike made with Kalandar. I wonder how he got the decent demon and I ran into the grumpy one. My best bet is to reach the other side, somehow avoid the night runners, and make myself scarce. Although how I’m going to do that last part if this beast has my scent is beyond me. I’ll have to play each moment by ear.
I turn toward the dark roiling surface and being pushing through. Again my arm flails in a mad wind as I strain to push through.
“Too slow, mortal,” the demon’s bellowing voice fills the cave.
Long talons wrap around my shoulder as the demon takes hold and starts forcing me through. I’m smushed as my head is pressed into the barrier. I find it difficult to breathe. It’s as if a pillow were held over my face. If seems as if the portal will only allow one to pass through at a certain speed. If this continues, I won’t be able to continue and will suffocate in the process.
With my free hand, I reach down to the knife at my waist. I don’t have any hope that I’ll be able to do much damage to the demon, but perhaps I could get it to ease the pressure. Stabbing toward the hand forcing my shoulder, I feel the blade sink into the demon’s flesh. A roar fills the cave and the pressure eases.
Able to turn my head, I shout, “Stop helping!”
The beast glares down at me, the eyes turning a darker green. But the hand, now leaking a trail of smoke, doesn’t return to force me through. I proceed with my transit, my hair whipping as my head enters—not that there’s much to flail around. My thoughts are focused on the other side. Hopefully the night runners have given up their chase and found other prey to hunt. If I have a little room, I’ll stand a chance. But if I come through into the midst of a horde, the best I can hope for is a quick death. I also don’t dare open my mind to find out if they’re there; that will only alert them to my presence.
I stumble into the clearing when I finally push through. Expecting the darkness of night, I’m taken aback by the bright light of daytime. However, that surprise is short-lived as another takes its place. Explosions are rocking the hillside. The noise is deafening as great gouts of earth are thrown into the air. The sharp crack of trees snapping in two and falling to the ground under the barrage is added to the mix. And lying beneath the storm of noise is gunfire coming from the ridgeline above. I’m thrown to my knees from a nearby blast as a shower of earth falls against my back.
Okay, I found the war, I think, knowing that I’ve emerged into the middle of a battle.
There are multiple problems with that thought. The first is that I seem to have come out in the midst of an artillery barrage. And that’s less than ideal. Looking up from all fours, I try to quickly ascertain where the volleys are landing. To my dismay, they appear to be falling all over the hillside. Below looks worse, so up and over the ridge is my best bet. Another problem lies in that I’m not attached to any of the clashing forces and could find myself having to battle both sides.
My primary consideration is to get away from this artillery. With the ground shaking continuously, I rise and dart off to the side. The open area in front of the cave is the absolute worst place to be. The only problem with running uphill is that it’s … uphill. That means slow. I take off to the side, running through splintered trees as explosions erupt all around. The ground is churned everywhere with smoke rising from mounds of dirt and the smoldering remains of trees. I scramble over downed logs and around splintered trunks. The forest now looks like a bunch of toothpicks were pushed into a chocolate cake.
Smoke and noise encompass the entire area. I pass around cratered earth, bodies and parts of bodies protruding from mounded hills. The smell of gunpowder, torn bodies, and freshly churned earth invades my nostrils, the smoke stinging my eyes.
An explosion erupts just behind me. I’m tossed up and propelled forward. Shrapnel splinters a tree, one that quickly grows larger in my sight. I do my best to turn my body so I don’t crash into it headfirst. My breath explodes out of me as I slam into the trunk and slump to the ground. I push myself to my hands and knees, spitting out old evergreen needles and dirt as I try to catch my breath.
More explosions erupt nearby with flashes of light deep within billowing clouds of smoke. Even though my ears are ringing, I hear the whine of shrapnel and the deep thunks as they embed into the trees. A sharp crack sounds above. Looking up over my shoulder, I see the top of the tree I’m next to start to topple. Judging its direction, I lunge to the other side of the trunk as the top falls and hits the ground with a whump and the crack of branches snapping.
The artillery barrage continues and I rise to angle up the hill. My hope is to run out of the explosions and circumvent any battle lines above. I dive into a crater as another volley begins impacting nearby. Sliding down the dirt wall and reaching the bottom, my face comes into contact with a boot. Thinking I’m sharing the crater with another, I look up only to discover the boot is only attached to the lower part of a leg. Shredded muscles and flesh extend from the boot and end at the broken remains of a tibia and fibula.
Further along the floor of the crater is the rest of the body, the brown uniform tattered and covered with blood and dirt. Long ropes of intestines lay across the ground from an abdomen torn open. The dead milky eyes of the soldier stare up at the horror of the continuing artillery barrage. A weapon with a shattered stock and a dented helmet lay nearby. Parts of other bodies dot the crater slopes.
The shit that’s going on around me is exactly why I didn’t want any part of the regular forces and really appreciated the special ops environment. The dangers may have been greater in some regards, but I was rarely subjected to artillery. No fucking thanks!
Hugging the wall, I wait for a temporary pause in the shells landing in the area. Looking over the top of the berm and above the ridgeline high overhead, I spot the black dots of helicopters flying in the distance.
“Well, at least there’s that,” I mumble.
There’s a break in the explosions, and I take advantage, scrambling up the slope to roll over the top. Quickly gaining my feet again, I resume my crouched run through the battlefield. Ahead, there are less toothpicks, and I can see greenery. I keep my eyes peeled to the surroundings as there are soldiers on both sides. I hear the gunfire on the ridges above, so coming out of the barrage, I’m bound to run into some. My hope is to clear the area without having to engage anyone.
With most of the blasts behind, I slow down and begin picking my way through the ruined forest. The demon I left in the cave is only a minor thought in the back of my mind. I had imagined emerging in the middle of a pack of night runners, not an artillery barrage. My throat is dry from the adrenaline coursing through my system, my ears are ringing, and my eyes sting from the smoke. Plus, my back is making its presence known from having lost the fight with the trees.
Lying back
against a tree, I swiftly check my M-4. There’s a nick taken out of the stock and I have to clear dirt from the end of the barrel, but I don’t see any bent parts. I pull the slide back and it moves smoothly. It appears to have made it through the blasts in better shape than I. With a quick peek around the remains of the tree, I rise and dash toward another collection of splintered remains.
Halfway to the tree, I spot movement just ahead and below. The dark shapes of several soldiers are moving up the slope. We see each other at about the same time. The soldiers fall to the ground or go to their knees, flashes of gunfire showing from their positions. I dive forward behind a downed log just as the bullets hit. Splinters rain down from rounds hitting the top of the log with the deeper thuds of direct impacts coming from the other side.
I crawl forward and pull the mirror from a vest pocket. Holding it just over the top of the log, I see the winks of gunfire coming from behind trunks and fallen logs. I also glimpse several dark shapes as they sprint to one side, heading for the green forest just a short distance away. They’re trying to set up a flank to catch me in a crossfire. I estimate that I’ve run into a squad of twelve. I can’t see exactly how many went on the flanking maneuver, but my guess is six: six to hold me in position and six to flank. I pull back the mirror as rounds begin splintering the nearby wood.
If you’re not shooting or reloading, then you need to be moving or you’re dead, the old axiom comes to mind.
Laying my carbine at my side, I pull two grenades from my vest. Without any return fire, those meant to hold me in place will be advancing by leaps and bounds. I can’t afford to let them have complete supremacy. I pull both pins and hurl them one after the other over the log, estimating the distance to their positions and hoping to slow any who might be advancing. Grabbing my carbine, I get ready to move. If I had smoke, that would make this a whole lot easier, but I don’t, so that thought is about as useful as an ashtray on a motorcycle.
Two blasts rise and I hear a muted scream above the continued artillery barrage. Without hesitation, I sprint toward the forest. After a couple of yards, bullets begin smacking into the ground nearby and into the splintered trunks I dart behind. I hop over thicker fallen limbs and mounds of dirt, always moving forward. I vary my pace in order for them not to get a good lead.
Three times I hear the zip of an angry bee of a bullet coming far too close. My sleeve tugs as a round almost finds its mark; the same with my pant legs. One bullet smacks into the front of my vest, gouging a long line across my chest. Another slams into the heel of my boot as I’m leaping over a limb. I stumble from the impact and am thrown off stride. Flailing my arms, I try to catch my balance, narrowly avoiding an upright trunk. I’m not sure if my stumbling is doing me any favors, but I hear another zip just above my lowered head, almost feeling its passage.
At the tree line, with logs and dirt piled up along the edge, I give up my attempt to right myself and fall forward. Bullets pummel the area; the sides of trunks spray bark, dirt spewing up from earthen mounds. Staying low, I crawl downhill behind a berm of earth, making sure to keep my movement hidden. The shooters are still peppering the area where I entered the trees and it won’t be long before they begin moving up. That is, if they know what they’re doing. There are also the flankers to think about.
I inch up behind a trunk, looking over a pile of dirt. Sure enough, the soldiers are moving across the churned ground, going from log to trunk and vice versa. Three relocate closer while three fire, although the rate of gunfire has now slowed to short bursts and single shots to keep my head pinned down as the others progress.
Those moving have to struggle up the steep incline. With rounds hitting off to the side, I inch my M-4 over the berm, making sure to keep the barrel from extending into view. I sight in on one soldier running in the open as he angles toward a fallen log.
My small crosshair is centered over his body. Thumbing my selector switch to semi, I fire three times in quick succession. With a muted cough, the suppressed and subsonic rounds streak across the intervening space. The front of his shirt puffs from the impacts and he falls headfirst into the dirt. Rounding on another who is also struggling uphill across the open ground, I space two more shots.
The first bullet slams into the side of his upper chest, spinning him and sending him stumbling like I did. The second hits on the heels of the first in the hollow of his throat. A spray of blood momentarily blocks view of his lower face and coats the top of his shirt. The round powers through and slams into the man’s spine. The soldier’s legs give out, his momentum carrying him forward as he too falls, his flopping head slamming into the ground a second after his body.
Without the sound of my return gunfire, the third still charges for cover. However, the man must have seen his comrades fall, for he dives toward the ground. He should have picked a better spot because I can still see the top of his helmet and one shoulder. Bullets begin smacking into the ground and trees around me, limbs and clods of dirt falling onto my back. The others covering the movement must have seen the flash of my rounds.
Taking careful aim, I place my reticle on his shoulder next to his neck, and fire. My round clips the top of a small rise of dirt and enters the soft part of the top shoulder, into the meaty flesh just under the clavicle, and continues through his chest, ripping into his heart and traveling the length of his torso before slamming into his pelvic bone. Through my sight, I see the man slump as if deflated.
With three down, it’s time to move. The incoming fire is getting more accurate and I can’t give the flanking team any more time to close in. As it stands, I may have given them too much already; they’re bound to be scaling the hill, but I had to slow the ones in front. There are two choices. I can back out and attempt to leave the area immediately, running the risk of meeting an engagement, or I can continue to engage the rest of the squad and clear the way. I’m sure the two teams are in communication and they won’t like the fact that I’ve taken down three of their squad. There’s also the possibility of additional support closing in, so I need to work fast. I’ll need to make anyone who decides to pursue wary of that decision.
Deciding to engage the remaining squad members, I quickly back out of my position before the more accurate fire keeps me pinned down. Plus, there’s a chance that the team will call in a quick artillery fire mission on my position. The flankers will most likely be moving to the side below in order to come up the hill behind me. The other three are hunkered in their positions. That creates a gap that I can visualize. If I move uphill, this will become a chase, but if I move downhill, I could possibly get behind either group—as long as there aren’t follow-on forces.
There’s a natural indention in the land that angles downhill. Low-crawling to it, I roll into the shallow gully. The woods dull the sharp reports of artillery still landing, but the sound of the battle is still there. That will mask any sound I might make, but it will also make it more difficult to hear others moving.
I start crawling downhill, moving fallen limbs out of my way to minimize sound. For this first part, I maximize my movement speed without being seen while keeping sound to a minimum. It won’t be long before the flanking group moves in, and I don’t want to be anywhere close to where I was last spotted. Hopefully they’ll think I moved uphill toward safety and begin searching in that direction.
No artillery rounds land nearby, for which I’m thankful. Either the crews are busy with other fire missions or the squad believes they can handle me on their own. I have no doubt that I ran into a flanking party hoping to either catch the opposing force unawares or to spot for more accurate fire missions. My focus narrows to my immediate vicinity, the sound of the barrage and distant gunfire now part of another world.
Having put some distance from my prior position, I slow down, prioritizing silent movement. I pause every couple of feet to look and listen. I’ll play it by ear as to whether I first go after the flankers or the three remaining soldiers of the original group. Both will be focused more up
hill, but the flanking team presents the greater danger.
I finally catch sight of the flankers, dark shapes moving slowly through the trees uphill—just as I predicted. They’re still focused on where I was, spread out to cover an escape path uphill. I can hear the sporadic firing from the other three and have to guess that they’re holding positions in the hopes that the flanking team will flush me out.
Near a bush, I edge out of the small gully. I’ll have to move slowly and use cover in order not to draw their attention. As the team of six moves deliberately and quietly toward my old position, I do the same lower down the hill, but in the opposite direction. Staying low, I slowly step to the next trunk, making sure that my steps are clear by either stooping to remove a limb across my path or to toe it out of the way. I have twenty-three rounds in my current mag with full ones at my vest, but I don’t have enough for a sustained firefight. If I do get into one, then I’ve already lost.
The team keeps moving forward, using hand signals to keep their interval. Surely they don’t think I’m still in the same place? I haven’t fired a shot since taking out the three. Perhaps they think I’m pinned down by the bursts of fire from the covering team. I know if it were me, I’d be looking everywhere but the last known position.
Slightly behind the advancing team, but lower down the hill, I start angling back up. I move quickly when the intervening trunks keep me out of sight, and slower when I have to move through an opening. While keeping much of my focus on the team of six, I keep checking downhill for any sign of a follow-up team. I guess in a battle like this one, the sight of a single individual isn’t very alarming—certainly not enough to send in reserve forces.
The team of six is nearly at my old position. There are three on point with three covering. They’ve obviously worked together for a while to move as smoothly as they are. They’re good, but they’re making a fatal mistake by concentrating on a single location—one they believe holds an enemy—without checking their surroundings.