Military Fiction: THE MAC WALKER COLLECTION: A special ops military fiction collection...

by D. W. Ulsterman

  “This truly is a new beginning for you. Don’t concern yourself with policies or politics. Devote your time fully to other interests.”

  The Great Consulate slyly smiled back at her. Other interests? Oh yes, he had other interests. His beautiful children. His beloved seekers who were, at this very moment, catching up to those Dominatus animals. And the one in his killing room of course. That seeker remained alive…and very, very hungry.

  Standing again, the Great Consulate nodded his head.

  “Yes, it is for the best. You are right, this will give me more time for my hobbies. I have a particular hobby. My seeker program. It has been doing very well, you know.”

  The adviser nodded back at him as she took two slow steps backward toward the room’s entrance.

  “Yes, I’ve seen the reports, though it was difficult to determine how many of those creatures have been created. The reports were inconclusive regarding that. I will have to receive more details soon.”

  The Great Consulate giggled.

  “Details – yes! I can show you them! More…details. Right now!”

  He moved far more quickly toward her than the adviser would have thought possible. She panicked and took a too fast step backwards, the high heel of her left shoe buckling underneath her. The fall was all the Great Consulate needed to land on top of her, his hands circling around her neck and squeezing. She could smell his putrid breath as he struggled above her. A thin, discolored line of drool dropped from his mouth onto her face as his hands attempted to squeeze more tightly and choke the air from her lungs.

  The voice was thrilled at the Great Consulate’s attack on the adviser.

  “Yes! Kill her! Do it! Do it! Do it!”

  She continued to struggle underneath him, her hands clasping onto his wrists and pushing against them. The Great Consulate worried she was proving too strong for him, and already he was straining for breath. He determined he must squeeze her throat harder or else she would soon overpower him.

  Finally, she began to weaken, her hands falling away from his wrists. The Great Consulate’s one remaining lung wheezed loudly as he struggled to catch his breath. Pushing himself back up from the floor, he grabbed another handful of candy corns, letting them dissolve in his mouth. Looking back down at the adviser, he saw her chest rising and falling slowly. She remained alive. He thought this a good thing. It would make for a warm meal, and a much more intense experience.

  It was time to feed the seeker…

  XXXIII.

  Though still unable to move off the ground, Mac could hear the bandits talking loudly to one another as they neared where the grenade had gone off. From what he could understand, the Russian had killed or wounded two of them. The loudest of the voices, likely the one in charge, began to talk excitedly about finding a woman. Other voices claimed to have found her first, but were silenced by the leader. He intended to take the woman with him back to camp where she would provide him entertainment for the night. Another voice argued that she should be shared with the rest after the leader was done with her, to which the leader agreed. Mac heard what sounded like two other men joining the leader to head back to their camp with Dublin, while the remaining two bandits were ordered to stay behind and check if any in Mac’s group had survived the blast. If so, those survivors were to be killed and their supplies stripped from them.

  The leader and the other two bandits leaving were describing loudly and in great detail how they intended to rape Dublin over and over again.

  Mac’s mind screamed for him to move. His head ached with a loud ringing while his eyes were still unable to focus even a few feet in front of him. He managed to take a deep breath and push himself up onto his knees, though his vision remained unclear, leaving him uncertain as to what was going on around him. He was fortunate to be crouching behind a small shrub that partially hid him from the direct view of the bandits who were standing on the train tracks just above Mac’s position.

  The two Muslim bandits who had been left behind to find and kill any survivors were no more than forty feet from Mac, kicking the unmoving body of the Russian, who had likely taken the worst of the grenade’s detonation. Mac focused his eyes enough to make out one of the bandits leaning over Yakov’s body and urinating on it, laughing to his partner who in turn was kicking at Bear, who remained lying face down in the dirt.

  Time was running out. The farther away the bandits took Dublin, the less likely were her chances for survival. Should he shoot the two bandits who were now just in front of where he hid behind the bush? Would that shooting alert the other bandits and then further endanger Dublin’s safety? Mac’s mind refused to focus. Normally he would have assessed the situation and acted quickly. Now, following the grenade blast, the ringing in his head was making such decisiveness increasingly difficult.

  The Russian made that indecision a mute point. As the smirking Muslim stood over Yakov, who had been lying on his back, the Russian reached up with his right hand and grabbed the bandit’s genitals with the same force he had nearly choked the breath from Bear earlier. This was followed by a violent downward jerking motion that ripped those genitals from the body of the Muslim bandit, who in turned screamed out loudly in shock and pain.

  The other bandit froze as he looked over to see his comrade clutching his groin with hands already soaked in his own blood. This pause was all the Russian needed to shoot the panicked bandit in the head, his body crumbling to the ground. The other bandit who remained alive, though terribly injured, jumped on top of the Russian screaming, his teeth sinking into Yakov’s right ear, ripping half of it off. The Russian turned his head sharply to allow him to look directly into the eyes of the Muslim bandit. Taking both of his hands and gripping the sides of the Muslim’s head, Yakov began twisting the bandit’s neck until his head was nearly turned completely backward.

  Mac heard the unmistakable loud crack of a broken neck. The life within the bandits eyes were already fading as the Russian tossed the body off of him. He appeared to not even notice his savaged right ear, even as blood ran down the side of his face and onto his clothing.

  Mac managed to rise unsteadily to his feet, fighting off a wave of nausea as he took two very slow steps toward Yakov, who was attempting to stand up as well. Mac reached the Russian and looked down to see the cause of Yakov’s difficulty in standing. A jagged piece of rock was deeply imbedded in the Russian’s lower left leg, just above the ankle – a result of the grenade explosion.

  “Stay here Yakov. See if any of the others are still alive and help them out. I have to go get Dublin.”

  The Russian shook his head.

  “I help you. They will kill her if we do not reach her first.”

  The Russian attempted to take a step on his injured leg and for the first time, Mac heard Yakov cry out in pain. Mac put his hands on the Russian’s shoulder and pushed him gently back down onto the ground.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Mac picked up the M16 he had been carrying prior to the grenade explosion, quickly looking over it to determine its condition. It appeared for the most part undamaged. Yakov’s AK-47 on the other hand, was missing its hand guard and had a large crack in its charging handle. It likely could no longer shoot. Even in the midst of the chaos following the grenade attack, this caused Mac to smile as he began running in the direction Dublin had been taken, following the path of the railroad tracks to guide him.

  No more than a hundred yards later Mac found himself fighting to breath. So much so that he put his hands on his knees as another wave of dizziness overtook him. Mac began talking to himself as he struggled to continue moving forward.

  “Geez, Mac – get it together.”

  Another thirty yards of running left Mac stumbling onto his hands and knees, his lungs burning in protest. A serious of violent coughs shook through Mac and he looked down to see blood splattered on the ground below him.

  “Get up, you asshole! You have to save Dublin!”

  Mac rose to his feet
again, and began running unsteadily down the train tracks, the landscape fading into a murky grey curtain in front of him as his eyes were again losing the ability to focus. And still Mac Walker pushed himself to continue running after Dublin and the Muslim bandits who had taken her.

  He managed to cover another forty yards before his legs buckled beneath him, causing Mac’s face to crash into the ground between the railroad tracks. His breathing came in short, wheezing gasps before being interrupted by another series of violent coughs.

  “NO! I am not dying now. Not yet. Move, you old bastard! Get up and move!”

  Mac’s lips drew back into a snarl, the blood from his coughing lungs covering his teeth and gums.

  Again he stood on his feet and began running to save Dublin.

  This time Mac was only able to move ahead just a few yards more before he again collapsed onto the ground. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes as he began to realize his body would no longer obey his orders. Dublin was gone, and Mac was unable to save her.

  “Damn you, God! If you do exist, you are a worthless, conniving, uncaring pile of shit!”

  Mac rolled onto his back, his eyes staring into the cloud covered sky above him, his shallow, wheezing breath causing a misty fog to form just above his face.

  The sound of running footsteps approaching from where Mac had just come from echoed around the former Navy SEAL. Mac attempted to sit up as he tried to aim the M16 in front of him. His vision re-focused enough for Mac to see Reese running as fast as possible toward him, as Brando gracefully sped alongside him as well.

  A moment later, Reese knelt beside Mac, his eyes wide with alarm.

  “Yakov said they got Dublin! Mac – where is she?”

  Mac handed the M16 to Reese.

  “Keep following the tracks. You’ll get to them soon. Their camp has to be close. You got to hurry Reese – they’ll kill her. When they’re done with her…they’ll kill her.”

  Reese stared back at Mac with an intensity the older man had not seen in him before. Nodding his head, Reese stood back up with the M16 cradled tightly under his right arm and began running down the tracks with Brando following beside him.

  Looking desperately for any sign of the bandits and Dublin, Reese noticed Brando sprinting out in front of him and then coming to a stop near a group of large rocks jutting out from the ground. The Doberman remained silent, though his body language suggested he sensed the presence of others near where he stood.

  Reese stopped running and walked as quietly as possible where Brando stood. The dog continued to stare intently at something just beyond the outcropping of rocks. Then he heard the sound of laughter.

  Brando glanced back at Reese and then walked silently to the rocks before looking back at Reese as if to ask why he wasn’t following him. Reese in turn was surveying the surrounding area, and soon spotted the markings of recent tire tracks cutting through the dirt and pebbles, and disappearing in the direction he had just heard the laughter coming from.

  Looking down at the M16 to ensure it was ready to go, Reese made his way to the rocks and began to move just left of them, and was soon able to spot the bandit camp. No more than forty feet beyond the rocks was a dilapidated military jeep parked next to a large, dirt covered tent. It was from inside of that tent that the continued laughter issued from.

  Brando issued a low, menacing growl before again looking up at Reese, who in turn was attempting to determine the best way to approach the tent without being seen or heard.

  Dublin’s scream cut through the air and into Reese’s heart. Without thought, he found himself running directly into the bandit camp with the M16 pointed in front of him. Within seconds he stood just inside the tent entrance where he saw Dublin hanging naked from the ceiling, a single rope tied around both of her wrists. One of the bandits stood behind her, his hands clutching at her breasts, while another stood directly in front of her and was in the act of removing his own clothing as his tongue crept along Dublin’s right shoulder and neck.

  Reese locked eyes with Dublin for a half second. She looked over to her right. There stood the third bandit some twenty feet from where the other two were preparing to rape her. This bandit was armed, and had followed Dublin’s gaze to the tent entrance where Reese stood.

  Both men raised their assault rifles and fired them simultaneously. The bandit shot wide, the bullets passing left and high of Reese’s position. Having spent hours working with Mac on improving his shooting in the two years following the bombing of Dominatus, Reese’s aim proved far more accurate. While the first two bullets just grazed the arm of the bandit, the next two entered his chest and sent him flying backward, a single departing scream exiting his mouth as his body struck the ground.

  The bandit standing directly in front Dublin turned to look at Reese, his face shocked to see someone he had thought dead from the grenade blast so soon before. Reese hesitated to aim his weapon at the bandit, fearing he could hit Dublin. Sensing how her position was compromising Reese’s ability to shoot, Dublin lifted both of her feet from the ground and sent them flying into the bandit’s back, sending the man flying forward and giving Reese the room he needed to fire the M16. Five rapid shots later, and the second of the three Muslims lay dead.

  The last bandit, the one whose hands just seconds earlier were groping Dublin’s breasts, remained behind Dublin, though now he had a blade held firmly to her throat with just enough pressure it left a thin streak of blood across her skin. Just a bit more pressure and the knife would easily cut through her skin, find an artery, leaving her to bleed out and die.

  The Muslim bandit glared back at Reese. His face was housed in a dark, dirt encrusted beard above which a long, sharp nose protruded above his mouth. He had been the leader of the bandit camp, sent here by the Vancouver warlord to halt the Russian’s train and take whatever was on board. His shirtless chest was covered in a layer of dark hair, the exposed skin as dirty as his beard. He attempted to speak to Reese in English.

  “I cut her throat, make her bleed like pig. Put down gun, or she die now.”

  Dublin took several deep breaths, preparing for whatever move Reese would decide to take. Reese in turn tried to determine if he could shoot the M16 accurately enough to hit the bandit but not Dublin. He feared he would be unable to do so.

  The hard, cold end of a rifle barrel jammed into the small of Reese’s back. Another bandit, likely assigned to some guard position away from the camp, had returned, crept up behind Reese, and now threatened to shoot him if he didn’t drop the M16.

  Reese froze, knowing if he dropped the assault rifle, both he and Dublin would likely end of up dead. Suddenly the pressure of the rifle against his back disappeared as the form of Brando blurred past him. The Doberman, who had been lurking just outside the tent entrance, jumped into the Muslim bandit, the dog’s teeth sinking deeply into the man’s exposed throat. Without looking to see if Brando could handle the bandit on his own, Reese took several quick steps to his left, trying to get a better angle to shoot and kill the Muslim still threatening Dublin with the knife.

  Dublin in turn took the moment of confusion and surprise caused by Brando’s attack, snapped her head backwards into the bandit leader’s face. A move familiar to what she had seen Mac utilize when he was challenging Santos in Wilfrid.

  The knife momentarily fell from Dublin’s neck as the Muslim bandit cried out in pain and anger, cursing in Arabic as he took several steps back from where Dublin hung from her wrists that remained secured to the tent rafters. That space was more than enough for Reese. The first two bullets struck the bandit’s right shoulder, spinning him around and causing him to collapse to the ground against the back wall of the tent. Reese moved forward and fired seven more rounds into the man’s back. His eyes filled with rage over seeing what the Muslim had intended to do to Dublin, Reese then placed the end of the assault rifle to the back of the man’s head and fired three more rounds that ripped through the bandit’s skull, sending bloody paste-like bone and
brain fragments splattering against the tent wall like some macabre canvas of death.

  Dropping the M16, Reese grabbed the bandit leader’s knife and used it to cut Dublin down. Her clothes, just minutes earlier ripped from her body, were found on the ground in a corner of the tent. Dublin quickly dressed herself as Reese stood just outside trying to calm the still manic beating of his heart.

  Every time he thought of what had been done…what would have been done, to Dublin, the rage re-ignited inside of him. He knew he had to calm himself to ensure he would be at his most efficient and useful to ensure both he and Dublin returned to Mac and the others. Reese knew Mac and the Russian remained alive. He didn’t know the status of either Bear or Cooper Wyse.

  Dublin stood next to Reese. For several seconds, neither of them spoke a word, before Reese finally turned to face her, looking down into her eyes as he gently placed his hands against both sides of her head.