by Mark Tufo
At any time, they’ll realize that I’m no longer there. They’ll call the others to them and the nine of them will start conducting a search of the area. They’ll also remember their primary missions and begin refocusing on that. I’m now in a position to possibly squirt free without engaging anyone. I just want to get out of the area and meet back up with Mike. I had thought a confrontation was inevitable, so I thank my luck. If this world has any of that.
Looking downhill through the trunks, I see there’s a caravan of vehicles stopping all along the bottom of the hill. Taking a quick moment, I sight in through the 4× and see soldiers piling out of the back of one of the trucks.
Well, shit. There goes that idea.
With the possibility of the battle extending closer to my position and more forces about to come through the area, it turns out that the squad and I aren’t through with each other yet. I need to deal with them quickly and then vamoose. Turning back to the task that I thought I had managed to avoid, I see several of the team has settled behind trees while others close in. I move quietly uphill a little further, setting myself behind one of the larger trunks. I’m almost directly behind the group and at the same elevation. Removing my last two grenades, I cook both for two seconds before tossing them, aiming for the ones furthest up the hill.
With the grenades gone, I grab my M-4 and lean against the far side of the tree. Two explosions rip the woods in quick succession. Rounding the tree to the sound of screams, I sight in on the nearest helmetless soldier who is now crouched against a tree and staring uphill. I send two greeting cards his way, both hitting near his jaw and ear. His head slams into the trunk and he slides down, leaving a smear of red on the bark.
Two screams sound shrilly from higher up as I take aim on the next man who is also crouched being a tree, his head turning in all directions for the source of the grenades. Our eyes meet just as I fire. The round hits him just beside the nose, a mist of blood spraying outward. My second round takes him just above his left brow. His head rocks back and then forward as the bullets slam into the back of his skull. His body hits the trunk and spins around it, falling to the ground and rolling downhill until he comes to rest against another tree. I’m up and moving before the body comes to a stop. I figure the two screaming will continue to do that, and hope the other two will be similarly stunned. My shots made next to no sound over the battle on the other side of the tree line. It’s either try to escape now or fade back and continue to stalk them, but I don’t have time for that kind of game.
I move quickly forward using the trees as cover, passing them instead of hunkering behind them. I see another dark shape ahead darting toward their wounded comrades. Coming to another trunk, I brace my carbine against it and sight in on the dashing figure. Flipping the selector switch to auto, I aim just ahead and fire a burst. The running soldier falls as my rounds connect.
Surging forward again, I can’t find the remaining man, but come upon the one I just wounded. He’s lying on a bed of fir needles disturbed by his fall, his rapid breaths shallow. I see his brown uniform stained red where I hit him in the side of his chest. I don’t know this man or even the side he’s fighting on. Hell, they could be the good guys in this fight, but I don’t know where the last one is, and then there’s the other three to think about. It’s one of those things to add to the many others that will haunt my dreams, waking or asleep. I can’t waste any more time and certainly can’t afford to have a wounded man behind me. With a sigh, I place a single round into his head, hearing the long exhalation of his final breath.
I move on toward the screams. The last man in this group had to have been near the two I threw the grenades toward. With the first screaming man very close, I round a tree and see the last one kneeling by one of the wounded. He’s holding a large blood-soaked bandage on the stomach of another lying on the ground. A belt is around the wounded man’s leg, the shin attached only by a shred of skin and muscle. The tattered pants are also soaked red.
The man attending the wounded turns around to see my weapon trained on his head. His eyes go soft as if he knows his death is imminent but he shows no fear. Still holding my aim, I kick away the weapons near him. From the soaked bandage and uniform, I know the man on the ground is as good as dead already. His screams have faded down to whimpers at this point. It’s the same with the other soldier further uphill.
“He won’t survive,” I say.
“I have to do something,” the man responds.
“Do you have morphine?” I inquire, knowing there are three others and wanting to make this quick.
The man stares at me.
“Injectable painkiller,” I state.
The man reaches toward the pack lying at his side.
“Eh eh,” I say, tightening down on the trigger.
“I gave him one, but there’s more in my pack.”
“Slowly then.”
The man withdraws several small vials and lays them on the ground.
“Give him half,” I say.
“That will kill him.”
“He’s going to die anyway,” I reply. “How he goes is up to you.”
The soldier’s face below me, although dirty, seems so young. I wonder if I was ever that young, deciding that there was no way. The boy/man nods and plunges two capsules into the thigh.
“Leave the rest. There are more of your men forming up below. I suggest you make your way there,” I say with a slight nod toward where I saw the other soldiers disembarking.
I can hear the moans of the other one a few yards uphill.
“What about him?” the lad asks.
“I’ll attend to him. It’s best you move off now while you have the chance.”
I back away as the man rises and starts downhill without a backward glance. I scoop up the vials and move on, leaving the wounded soldier to expire painlessly. I hear the radio crackle from the dying man’s vest. I’m guessing that it’s attempts at contact coming from the other three. It won’t be long until they either come into the woods or send up reinforcements.
Following the moans, I move up to the other wounded soldier. His uniform and body are shredded without a place that isn’t covered in blood. A string of intestines droop from the man’s opened stomach, one of his arms twisted at an awkward angle. His boot, with his lower leg still in it, is lying on the churned soil away from the rest of his body. The ragged and torn shirt reveals many more puncture wounds in his upper chest.
War is nasty business that has no place among humanity. Hunting and killing for food, sure, but this—to prove a point or settle an argument? No. I realize that sometimes it’s necessary to resist oppression, but it’s always the youth who pay the highest price.
I’ve always attempted to reconcile what I did for a living. I felt that if it was going to happen anyway, then it might as well be me rather than someone else’s kid. It’s hard to justify something that you’re proud of on one hand, but not on the other. I’m proud of the skills I’ve accumulated over the years, but not how they’re used. I may have saved some lives, but that sometimes seems a shallow comfort. It’s always the aftermath and the quiet moments that dredge up the horrors of combat, when the unseeing eyes filter in to awareness, the blood spilled, the lives ended or destroyed.
With a sigh, I kneel down and open three of the remaining vials, plunging them into the thigh of the wounded man. Almost immediately, the breathing slows and the tension melts. It won’t be long before he fades from this world, but like the other soldier, he’ll do it without pain.
Rising, I see the shapes of three men closing in on the tree line. I eject my partial mag, replace it with a full one, and move into a position where I can take the three when they enter the woods. In just a moment, I’ll be able to fully extricate myself from this mess.
Still hovering in the back of my mind is the demon. Having not heard any commotion, I’m hoping he came out in a completely different time and place. Maybe he took out all of the night runners. That would suit me just
fine.
Focusing on the advancing men, I watch as they cautiously creep into the woods. Suddenly, the muted coughs of suppressed fire come from just uphill. I dive to the ground as bullets slam into trees and soldiers. They dance like poorly coordinated puppets as rounds strike their bodies before finally falling to the ground. I’m flat on the ground staring uphill, having dove with the first bullet, and searching for whoever just entered the fray.
“Thunder,” I hear a voice call out.
I’m taken aback. I know it has to be code to identify friendlies, but surely they wouldn’t be using the same code that the Allies used during the Normandy invasion. Well, not quite the same—that was “flash,” answered by “thunder,” and followed by “welcome.” Could it be in the same challenge/response but in reverse order?
“Thunder,” the voice calls again.
“Flash,” I return.
“Greetings,” the same voice replies.
Fucking weird shit!
I rise from my position. There’s no use trying to hide; they know exactly where I’m at by my response. And if they’re “friendlies,” then I can hopefully get out of this mess. At least back toward the rear lines where I can escape into the wilderness. My fear is that they will want to press me into their fight.
I see a group of six men dressed in black fatigues also come out of cover. One of the men stares in my direction while the others cover different sectors. This is a special ops team if I’ve ever seen one. Of course, the suppressed shots clued me in almost immediately. Seeing the dark uniforms brings to mind Otter’s first impression of me—that I was a member of Black Watch—and I can certainly see where he got that impression. I look down at my fatigues. They’re mostly the same as the others are wearing, with the exception that mine now has a few tears where bullets and shrapnel came far too close. It suddenly strikes me that Otter, if he was a part of this rendition of the world, would have been fighting for the other side.
The team cautiously approaches the tree line where the three opposing soldiers went down. I angle up the hill to close the distance, stopping several yards away. Finding the three dead, we squat in position at the edge of the trees. The ruined slope is still being hit hard, the volleys marching further up the hill. The cave I emerged from is some distance away, but the plateau area is still visible among the chewed-up ground and fallen trees.
“It seems the reports of flanking units were correct,” the man who I assume is the leader states.
I merely nod.
“I don’t recognize you. What unit are you from?” he continues.
This is where things could go mightily wrong. I have no place on either side and could be taken for a member of the other side should I not be able to answer their questions to their satisfaction. At best, I’ll be taken prisoner. At worst, well, I’d join the others lying on the forest floor.
“I’m with the second … or was,” I respond.
“Team two? The last I heard, they were operating miles to the east. What in the world are you doing here?” the man asks.
“I was transferring here until our chopper was hit. I was trying to find my way back to our lines when I ran into the squad,” I reply.
“Transferring, huh? I never heard anything about that.”
“Typical,” I state.
The man chuckles. “So true. I’m Martens,” he says, extending his hand.
I approach closer and shake. “Walker,” I reply.
“I’ve still never heard of you, but that’s not too surprising. Well, Walker, we’re supposed to locate any flanking units and need to get a move on. Command is in the valley on the other side of the ridge. Go get yourself sorted out. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again. If you need someone to guide you, I can spare Jonsen if you’d like,” Martins says.
“I think I can handle if from here, thanks anyway,” I say, rising.
A sudden commotion comes from the torn-up hillside. The ground bulges like the crater of a volcano awakening, then explodes upward, tossing soil high into the air. At first I think it’s just another artillery shell exploding, but when the dirt clods settle, I see that my luck hasn’t turned for the better. Rising out of the ground is the monstrous shape of the demon I faced in the cave.
“What in the fuck is that?” Martens says.
I turn toward the group to see that they’re all staring at the emergence of the demon with wide eyes and startled expressions. The demon has to be fifteen feet tall with skin as black as midnight. Dense, dark smoke is pouring out of mouth and nostrils alike. Spreading its arms wide to the side, the demon puffs out its chest and fills its lungs.
It then laughs heartily, the sound heard over the rest of the battle. “Oh yes … WAR!” it roars. “I will drink my fill here.”
The hill erupts with one last explosion. Artillery shells stop landing and gunfire diminishes into a few desultory shots before fading altogether. Silence descends on the hillside. Turning its head, it stares across the churned hillside and locks eyes with me. The laugh that rang across the battle settles into a chuckle that could be heard for miles.
“There you are, otherworlder. Run if you want, but I will track you down after I finish here. We shall then continue our conversation,” the demon roars.
“Was that thing talking to you?” Martens shakily asks.
“Unfortunately, yes,” I reply. “I have to go, and I suggest you clear out as well.”
“Which way are you going? Because we’re heading in the exact opposite direction,” Martens inquires, his voice still unsteady.
“Up and over the ridge,” I answer.
The demon is moving down the hill. Having picked up a fallen tree, it’s slamming it down repeatedly into what I assume are the front lines. Gunfire erupts as soldiers on the downhill side begin peppering the monstrosity. Tiny sparks appear where the bullets strike and ricochet. I find that odd considering that my knife easily penetrated its skin. Perhaps it’s different here on the outside and it was only vulnerable in its own plane. I watch as it swings the tree. One of the parked trucks launches like a golf ball off a tee. It plows further into the lines as soldiers scatter out of harm’s way.
It’s only then that I notice I can’t call the demon an “it” anymore. I didn’t really notice before, but now it’s way too obvious that the demon is a “he.” Taking his package in his free hand, the demon begins urinating all over the fleeing soldiers and part of the encampment like he’s marking his territory. His laugh booms across the valley and hillside.
“There’s no fighting that thing. If it’s heading north and you south, I guess we’ll be moseying west,” Martens says.
He then looks closely at me, his gaze penetrating. “You’re not really from team two, are you?”
I shake my head.
“Where, then?”
“From a long ways off,” I reply.
“And you brought that with you?” Martens asks.
“No, not really. We met under much different circumstances, and I may have said some things it didn’t appreciate.”
“So, it’s chasing you,” Martens says.
“I guess.”
“I’m thinking that if I kill you here and now, it will stop its vendetta. It’ll be happy you’re dead and will then stop and go away.”
“I seriously doubt any of that. You’ll only end up pissing it off more,” I say.
We both pause and glance downhill to see an artillery piece sail through the sky.
“What in the hell did you say to it?” Martens questions.
I shrug.
“Well, I can’t very well let you lead it back to our camp. You’ll have to be the one going west.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m going that way. I need to borrow one of your helicopters. Kill me if you want, but that’s what is going to happen. Of course, then you’ll become that thing’s focus,” I say, pointing.
The demon has carved a wide swath through the opposing encampment. The tree it had picked up is now replaced b
y another, the first having splintered under its brutal use.
Martens ponders that for a moment. “So, if you get a helicopter, you’ll leave?”
I nod.
“I can get you to the helipads, but you’re on your own after that.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“I also won’t tolerate you killing any of our men in the process. If I hear that you killed a pilot to get your precious chopper, that thing won’t be all you have to worry about.”
I again nod, but know that I can’t promise anything of the sort.
“Jonsen, lead us out.”
We hike up the hill and cross over the ridge. The top is torn up, rocks and clods of dirt strewn across the narrow plateau. On the other side, the encampment is a mess as people scurry like ants. Helicopters dot the skies, becoming smaller as they fly away. Dust trails into the air from vehicles racing away; in the camp, trucks are parked in rows with lines of soldiers embarking.
I look down to the helipad where three helicopters still wait.
Turning to Martens, I say, “You and your men should go before you’re left without a ride. I can manage from here.”
With a long look to me and then down to the valley below, the man nods. The six members of Black Watch trot down the hill toward the camp, periodically looking back over their shoulders. I start jogging down the hill toward the edge of camp where the helicopters are waiting. I half slide, half run down the steep hill, watching as one lifts off to join the other departures.
I reach the helipad. The two remaining helicopters are spun up, their rotors spinning in a blur. Sweat is pouring down my face from the run. Wiping my brow, I continue running toward one of the cargo choppers. I notice that they look very similar to the Chinooks back in my home world: two giant, spinning rotors, one in front and the other on the tail. I also notice they have a winglet on either side with what appear to be rocket pods mounted underneath.
That’ll come in handy.
Both helicopters are being loaded with equipment. The nearest one has apparently finished and the rear ramp is closing. Running over to the side of the chopper, I get the pilot’s attention. He opens the door.