Bard coughed and hooked sea sludge from the corner of his mouth. “Seems we’re both wrong,” he said, and clasped his blistered hand about hers.
She gave his a firm squeeze in return, both going silent as thunder serenaded them from above.
Bard’s stomach knotted at the sound. He stared over Hilde’s shoulder at the dark clouds boiling overhead, choking the flickers of dawn in their sullen advance. He spied dots of cankerous blackness growing in the distance, looming over the swell, riding its building fury toward them. Bluetooth’s ships or Haakon’s? They would know soon enough.
Bard gripped Hilde’s hand tighter, an oath to the Aldaföðr – the Allfather – playing at his lips. It seemed Óðinn’s hounds, ever ravenous and slaughter-greedy, had yet to give up the chase, and the halls of Valhöll still called.
In Vaulted Halls Entombed
Alan Baxter
The high, dim caves continued on into blackness.
Sergeant Coulthard paused, shook his heavy, grizzled head. “We’re going to lose comms soon. Have you mapped this far?” he asked Dillman.
“Yes, Sarge.”
Coulthard looked back the way they had come, where daylight still leaked through to weakly illuminate the squad. “Radio it in, Spencer. See what they say.”
“Yes, Sarge.” Corporal Spencer shucked his pack and set an antenna, pointing back towards the cave entrance. “Base, this is Team Epsilon. Base, Team Epsilon.”
The radio crackled and hissed, then, “Go ahead, Epsilon.”
“We’ve followed the insurgents across open ground to foothills about eighty clicks north-north-east of Kandahar, to a cave system at... Hang on.” Spencer pulled out a map and read aloud a set of co-ordinates. “They’ve gone to ground, about eighty minutes ahead of us. We’ll lose comms if we head deeper in. Orders?”
“Stand by.”
The radio crackled again.
“They’ll tell us to go in,” Sergeant Coulthard said.
Lance Corporal Paul Brown watched from one side, nerves tickling the back of his neck. They were working by the book, but this showed every sign of a trap, perfect for an ambush. It would be dark soon, and was already cold. It would only get colder. Though perhaps the temperature farther in remained pretty constant.
He stepped forward. “Sarge, maybe we should set camp here and wait til morning.”
“Always night in a fucking cave, Brown,” Coulthard said without looking at him.
“You tired, possum?” Private Sam Gladstone asked with a sneer.
The new boy, Beaumont, grinned.
“You always a dick?” Brown said.
“Can it!” Coulthard barked. “We wait for orders.”
“I just think everyone’s tired,” Brown said. He shifted one shoulder to flash the red cross on the side of his pack. “Your welfare is my job after all.”
“Noted,” Coulthard said.
Silence descended on the six of them. They’d followed this band of extremists for three days, picking up and losing their trail half a dozen times. He was tired even if the others were too hardass to admit it. Young Beaumont was like a puppy, on his first tour and desperate for a fight, but the others should know better. They’d all seen action to some degree. Coulthard more than most; the kind of guy who seemed like he’d been born in the middle of a firefight and come out carrying a weapon.
“Epsilon, this is Base. You’re sure this is where the insurgents went?”
“Affirmative. Dillman had them on long range scope. Trying to shake us off, I guess, going to ground.”
“Received. Proceed on your own initiative. Take ‘em if you can. They’ve got a lot of our blood on their hands. Can you confirm their numbers?”
“Eight of them, Base.”
“Received. Good luck.”
Spencer winked at the squad. “Received, Base. Over and out.” He unhooked his antenna and slung his pack.
“Okay, then,” Dillman said. He shifted grip on his rifle and dug around in his webbing, came up with a night sight and fitted it.
Brown sighed. No one was as good a shot as Dillman, even when he was tired and in the dark. But it didn’t give much comfort. “We’re not going to wait, are we?” he said.
Coulthard ignored him. “Pick it up, children. As there are no tracks in here,” he kicked at the hard stone floor, “we move slow and silent. Spencer, you’re mapping. I want markers deployed along the way.”
“Sarge.”
“Let’s go. Beaumont, you’re on point.”
“Yes, Sarge!”
“Slow and steady, Beaumont. And lower that weapon. No firing until I say so unless you’re fired on first.”
“Yes, Sarge.”
The kid sounded a little deflated and Brown was glad. Youth needed deflating. They fell into order and moved forward. Spencer placed an electronic marker and tapped the tablet he carried. It began to ping a location to help them find their way back.
It became cooler and the darkness almost absolute. The light that leaked through from outside couldn’t reach and blackness wrapped them up like an over-zealous lover.
“Night vision will be useless down here,” Coulthard said. “We’re going to have to risk torchlight. One beam, from point. Dillman, go infrared.”
“Way ahead of you,” Dillman said, and tapped his goggles. He moved up to stand almost beside Beaumont.
The young private clicked on his helmet lamp and light swept the space as he looked around. The passage was about five metres in an irregular diameter and as dry and cold as everything else they’d seen over the last few days. Dust motes danced in the torch beam, the scuff and crunch of their boots strangely loud in the confined space.
“All quiet from here on,” Coulthard said and waved Beaumont forward.
They fell into practised unison; moved with determined caution.
“I’m a glowing target up here,” Beaumont whispered nervously.
“That’s why the new boy takes point,” Coulthard said. A soft wave of giggles passed through the squad before the sergeant hushed them.
Dillman patted Beaumont on one shoulder. “I got your back, Donkey.”
Beaumont’s torch beam shot back into the group as he looked around. “Don’t call me that!”
Laughter rippled again. Brown grinned. Poor sap. Caught petting a donkey back in Kandahar, just a lonely kid far from home taking some comfort by hugging the soft, furry creature’s neck. Of course, he’d been spotted, photographed and by the time he got back to barracks the story had him balls deep in the poor animal.
“Enough!” Coulthard snapped. “Are we fucking professionals or not?”
Their mirth stilled and they crept forward again. The ground sloped downwards and Spencer paused every fifty yards or so to place a marker. After about three hundred yards the passage opened out into a wider cavern. Something was rucked up and definitely man-made on the far side.
Weapons instantly trained on it and Beaumont moved cautiously forward. “False alarm,” he called back after a moment, his voice relaxed and light. Relieved. “Someone’s been here, there are blankets, signs of a fire, an empty canteen. But it looks months old, at least.”
The squad relaxed slightly as Beaumont shone his torch in a wide arc, illuminating the cave. Nothing but rough, curved rock. A few small fissures striated the walls on one side, black gaps into the unknown, but nothing big enough for even a child to get through. On the far side, a larger gap yawned darkly, a tunnel leading away and down. Large rocks were scattered around the opening.
Coulthard nodded the squad forward.
“Looks like these have recently been moved,” Gladstone said.
Brown moved in to see better. “Looks like this passage was blocked up and those fuckers cleared the way.”
Dillman kicked at a couple of broken stones. “I guess they weren’t so keen to ambush us here and are looking for a better option.”
Brown shook his head. “Why would this passage have been blocked? And by who?”
&n
bsp; “Emergency bolt hole they knew about?” Coulthard mused. “Move on.”
The tunnel beyond was around three metres in diameter, sloping down again. Beaumont’s was the only light, but in the otherwise total blackness it made the tunnel bright. Shadows flickered off the irregular surface.
Beaumont took his flashlight from his helmet and held it at arm’s length to one side. “If they do ambush and shoot at the light…”
After a couple of hundred metres, Brown, bringing up the rear, paused and looked back. “Hold up,” he said quietly.
Coulthard glanced over his shoulder. “What’s up, Doc?”
“Kill the light, Beaumont.”
“Gladly!”
There was a soft click and the tunnel sank into blackness. Within seconds, their eyes began to adjust to something other than the dark. In crevices on the walls and ceiling of the passage, even here and there on the floor, a soft blue glow emanated. Almost imperceptible, easier to see from their peripheral vision, a pale luminescence. No, Brown thought. Phosphorescence. He crouched and looked closely into one crack. He pulled out a pocket knife, flicked open the blade and dug inside the crevice. The blade came out with a sickly blue smudge on it.
“Some kind of lichen,” he said. “I’ve heard of this kind of stuff, but always thought it was green.”
Gladstone pulled his googles down and flicked the adjustment. “Doesn’t matter what colour it is, it’s giving enough light for night vision.”
“Lucky us,” Coulthard said. “Goggles on, people. Keep that light off, Beaumont.”
“Thank fuck, Sarge.”
Brown pulled his own goggles down and watched the squad move forward in green monochrome. He was glad they didn’t need harsh torchlight any more, but the glowing blue lichen gave him the creeps. He stood and followed before they got too far ahead, shifting his heavy medical pack as he moved.
They continued silently for several minutes, Spencer periodically dropping markers. At a fork they tried the left hand path and quickly met a dead end. Backtracking to the main passage, they travelled further and found a small cave off to one side, too low to stand upright. No passages led from it.
“Looks like this one tunnel is gonna keep heading down,” Beaumont said. His voice had lost some of its excitement.
Coulthard raised a fist bringing them to a halt. “How far?”
Spencer checked the tablet that shone in their night vision even though its brightness was down to minimum. “Seven hundred and eighty-three metres.”
“Three quarters of a k in, really?” Dillman whispered.
He sounded as nervous as Brown felt. The strange lichen continued, scattered randomly in cracks and fissures. Occasionally a larger patch would glow like a bright light, but for the most part it was soft streaks like veins in the rocks.
“Move on,” Coulthard said.
After another couple of minutes, Spencer whispered, “That’s one kilometre.”
Before any discussion could be had about that fact, Beaumont hissed and cursed. “Sarge, got something here.”
The squad sank into fighting readiness and crept apart to cover the width of the tunnel.
“Bones,” Beaumont said. “Just a skeleton.”
Coulthard turned. “Doc, go check.”
Brown went to Beaumont and looked down on the bones scattered at the curve of the tunnel wall. Streaks of the blue lichen wrapped the skeleton here and there, like snail trails. He crouched for a closer look. “Male, adult. No discerning marks of trauma that I can see at first glance.”
He took a penlight torch from his pocket and lifted his goggles. “Mind your eyes.”
The squad looked away as he clicked on the light and had a closer look. The bones had no flesh or connecting tissue remained to hold them together. “There’s a kind of residue,” Brown said quietly. “Like a gel or something.” He took a pen from his pocket and dragged the tip along one femur. It gathered a small wave of clear, viscous ichor. It was odourless.
He put one index finger to the same bone and gently touched the stuff. It seemed inert. As he brought it close to his face to inspect he frowned, then pressed his finger to the bone again. “This is warm.”
Tension tightened the squad behind him.
“What’s that?” Coulthard asked.
Brown swallowed, heart hammering. He looked at his fingertip then gripped the bone, felt the heat in his palm. “This skeleton is warm. And too clean to have rotted here.”
“What the hell?” Beaumont demanded, his voice quavering.
“You shitting us?” Gladstone asked. His voice was stronger than Beaumont’s but with fear still evident.
Brown held one palm over the skeleton, only an inch or so away from touching, moved it back and forth. “It’s warm all over,” he said weakly. His mind tried to process the information, but kept hitting dead ends. The cold rock under his knee seemed to mock him.
“Warm?” Coulthard asked.
Brown’s heart skipped and doubled-timed again as he spotted something beneath the bony corpse. “Hey, Dillman.”
“What?”
“When you scoped those fucks we were following, what did you see that you thought was funny?”
A tense silence filled the space for a moment. Then Dillman said, “One of them had a big fucking gold dollar sign on a chain around his neck. Fancied himself a rapper or some shit.”
Brown used his pocket knife to hook up a chain from where it hung inside the stark white ribcage. With a toothy clicking, he hauled it up link by link. Eventually a metal dollar sign emerged from between the bones, its surface no longer gold but a tarnished, blackened alloy.
“What the actual fuck?” Beaumont asked in a high voice. He shifted from foot to foot, looked wildly around himself.
“These bones are too clean and white to have decayed to this state,” Brown said. He shone his penlight among the bones to show coins, a cigarette lighter, the half-melted remains of a cell phone, belt buckles. Two automatic pistols, both with traces of the gel-like slime, were wedged under the pelvis.
Coulthard stepped forward, leaned down to stare at the corpse like it was a personal insult. “You trying to tell me this is one of the guys we’re chasing.”
Brown shrugged, hefted the pen to make the dollar sign swing.
“Fuck this,” Spencer said. “What the hell can do that to a person?”
Brown shook his head. “Who knows?” He played his torchlight around the walls and ceiling of the tunnel.
“And where did it go?” Gladstone asked weakly.
“Go?” Coulthard asked.
“I think it’s pretty clear someone or something did that to him and is no longer here, right?” Gladstone said.
“Some kind of weapon?” Beaumont asked, still agitated.
“What kind of weapon does this?” Brown countered.
Coulthard stood up straight. “Can it, all of you. We have a mission and we’ll keep to it. We’ll find answers on the way.”
“It’s still warm,” Brown reminded him. “This happened very recently, I think.”
“Then we move extra fucking carefully,” Coulthard said.
A burst of gunfire and distant shouting echoed up the tunnel. Epsilon squad froze and listened. A scream, another burst of gunfire then a deep, concussive boom.
“Grenade?” Dillman asked quietly.
Silence descended again.
“Lights off, mouths shut,” Coulthard said. “Brown, up front with me in case we come across any more bodies. Beaumont, rear guard. Move out.”
Brown nodded as he pocketed his knife. He wasn’t happy about it, but that was a smart move by the sergeant. Beaumont had sounded very spooked by this encounter and understandably so. His nerves were like an electric current through the squad. Best he go to the back and have a chance to calm down. Reluctantly the squad fell into place. Brown glanced once more at the skeleton on the tunnel floor and shivered as they moved almost silently away.
They travelled in silence for ano
ther ten minutes before Spencer whispered, “Two clicks.”
A distant scream rang out, cut off equally fast. Several bursts of gunfire. They froze and listened, but heard nothing more.
“Move on,” Coulthard said tightly.
“Are you sure, Sarge?” Brown asked, but the sergeant’s only answer was a shove in the back.
Several minutes later, Spencer said, “Three clicks.”
Brown pointed and Coulthard nodded. Two more skeletons were lying on the tunnel floor. Brown crouched and felt the warmth rising off them, stark against the cold rock all around. Two AK-47s and a variety of other metallic objects littered the ground.
“What the fuck, man?” Beaumont said, his voice still high and stretched. “What can do that?”
“Should we go back?” Brown asked.
“There’s still five more of them somewhere ahead,” Coulthard said. “And whatever is doing this is ahead as well. We’ll go a bit further.”
“We gotta go, Sarge!” Beaumont said. “Seriously, how can we fight this fucking—”
“Pull it together, soldier!” Coulthard barked. “Get your shit in order. We go forward for another little while and see. This tunnel has to change at some point, branch off or open out or something. I want to see what happens. If nothing happens by five kays in, we turn around.”
“Five kays?” Beaumont sounded like a child. “Fuck man, five kays?”
“Move out,” Coulthard said softly, his voice and demeanour a perfect example of calm.
Brown wondered if the sergeant felt anything like as calm as he acted. It seemed Beaumont was the one having a far more sensible reaction to all this. Brown bit his teeth together to stem his own trembling and walked on.
The way was still lit by the strange veins of lichen, the tunnel remained a three metre or so diameter throat down into the foothills of the mountain range beyond. They heard nothing more for several minutes.
“Stay alert,” Coulthard said. “How you doing, Donkey? Feeling okay?”
Beaumont didn’t answer.
The sergeant laughed softly. “Sorry, Josh, I’m only ragging ya. Seriously, you feeling okay? You were a little rattled back there.”
No answer.
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest Page 9