The Grave Diggers

by Chris Fritschi

  Rosse pulled the boat onto the dock, and Private Fulton scrambled out of the boat and tied it off.

  The cove was protected from the large swells of the ocean, and the boat rode easily with the gentile surf.

  Tate and Wesson scanned the building from the boat with their binoculars, while the rest of the team waited.

  "No signs of movement," said Tate.

  "How do you want to do this?" asked Wesson.

  Tate put away his binos and looked at the building thoughtfully. "Normally I'd throw a noise maker and draw out any Vix. Be easy enough to take the boat out and shoot them from a distance, but...," Tate rubbed the stubble on his jaw. "I got a funny feeling about this mission. I think we need to do this quietly."

  The team moved up the beach to the patio in a loose line, two abreast.

  Tate felt good about the extra training they'd had, but it wasn't enough. He was encouraged to see them being alert for any movement and keeping good spacing between each other, but then Fulton swept the aim of his gun across the backs of three team members in front of him.

  Tate had to grind his teeth to bury his frustration. He made a mental note that when they got back to base, Fulton was going to pull so many hours of weapons safety he'd forget what his barracks looked like.

  It was another reminder that even with the best in his team they were only good enough; he could trust their desire to protect their team, but they didn't have the experience or skills for him to trust their competence. Just the opposite, his old special ops team of Night Devils were a tight woven unit that thought, moved, and fought as one. Each man was an individual warrior, yet part of a collective force.

  The absence of that bond ached like the phantom pain of a lost limb. Tate caught himself spiraling into the guilt and remorse and snapped his mind back to the present, just as they reached the patio.

  Still a grand house, it wore the haggard look of being long abandoned. Weeds pushed through the gaps in the patio paving stones, and the outdoor furniture was bleached and torn. A couple of windows had broken panes of glass, but were otherwise intact and closed.

  As the team moved across the patio, they saw two sets of glass French doors leading inside, which were also closed; a good indication the place didn't hold any Vix, but not good enough to drop their guard.

  Ota checked the door, which was unlocked. The hinges rasped as he pushed open the door into a large living room. Daylight flooded through the windows and glass doors, making it easy for Ota to see his surroundings.

  Leather furniture circled a large fireplace on the right, and a teak bar and four barstools were on the left. At the other end of the living room, an open stairway circled up to the next floor, and next to that was a hallway leading deeper into the house.

  The air was stale and smelled of dirt and dust, but didn't have the sickly stench of rotting flesh. Nothing was knocked over, or out of place. There weren't any dried ooze footprints, or any other signs of Vix.

  Keeping his weapon up, Ota keyed his mic with his free hand. "Place looks empty."

  "Everyone, inside," said Tate over the radio. "We're going upstairs."

  Ota started up the stairs until his eyes were level with the next floor, where the stairs emptied onto a broad landing, which opened to several rooms. Light beige walls rose up to a wide skylight that covered the entire landing.

  Just like below, the second floor showed no signs of undead. He started up the stairs again with the team following.

  The second floor landing was easily large enough for the entire team.

  Tate divided them up to check the rooms, and each of them reported back no contact. From their intel, Tate knew the safe was located in the office to his right. There wasn't any sign of Vix, but Tate wasn't going to risk getting cornered by surprise if they showed up.

  "Rosse, you take up a position in the turret room at the right end of the house, and Fulton, you're on the balcony on the left. Ota, scout the rear of the property. Check any out-buildings, paths, roads. Wesson, you have watch at the top of the stairs."

  Before Tate got to him, Cooper spoke up. "I can stay with Sergeant Monkhouse and help with whatever he needs."

  Tate looked at Monkhouse, who shrugged his shoulders. "Yeah, I suppose I might need him."

  Cooper still didn't know how he would get the documents once the safe was open, but this put him closer to that possibility, as long as he was able to fight the reckless desperation that was gnawing at him to grab the files and run the first chance he got.

  A wall of large windows gave the office a stunning view of the cove and the turquoise sea stretching into the horizon. The sun had bleached the wood floor and furniture, but even weathered it was impressive. A stout wood desk commanded one end of the room, while four leather chairs sat around a marble table at the other end.

  Tate crossed the room to the wall behind the desk, covered by a thick tapestry.

  Behind the desk was a large tapestry depicting two Spanish knights fighting on horseback. Around them, a surging tide of foot soldiers were locked in endless silent battle.

  Tate pulled back the thick tapestry to reveal the door of a wall safe. Electricity was a thing of the past for this house, making the keypad useless.

  Tate had memorized the combination to both the keypad and wheel lock, but wasn't surprised when it didn't unlock the safe; in his experience, people changed the combination of their safes all the time.

  "Monkhouse, it's time to work on those black arts of yours. Remember, we want what’s inside to stay in one piece."

  Monkhouse unslung his combat pack with a wounded look. "I'm hurt that you have so little confidence in me."

  Tate watched Monkhouse dig his tools out of his combat pack and lay them out on the floor.

  "How many safes have you cracked?"

  "Like this one?" said Monkhouse, as he tested the cordless drill. "Probably never."

  A disturbing realization crept over Tate. "How many other types of safes?"

  The safe and his tools seemed to be the only thing that Monkhouse would look at; he wouldn't make eye contact with Tate.

  "I don't know if they'd qualify as a traditional safe, but they had locks."

  It took all of Tate's willpower not to throw Monkhouse around the room until he'd exhausted himself. "We're out here because you said you could open this. Now you're telling me you can't? I should abort this mission and leave you here."

  "I never said I couldn't open it," said Monkhouse. "I just didn't say I had never cracked a safe. This is our fist mission. If you'd turned it down because we couldn't open this thing, do you think they'd give us another? None of us want to be out there pulling crap patrols. This was our one shot at getting away from that, and I wasn't going to let it get away from us. I can open it."

  Tate held him in an angry stare.

  "I can!"

  "We're out of here in twenty minutes," growled Tate. "That was the original time you needed, and that's what you'll get."

  "Sledge," snapped Monkhouse to Cooper, who fished out a hammer-sized sledgehammer and quickly handed it to him.

  Monkhouse swung and knocked a big chunk out of the wall. "I'll have it open, Top."

  Tate walked the first floor of the house to cool off. He understood why Monkhouse had bent the truth, and maybe, if he were a different man, he would have done the same. But he wasn't a different man...

  Tate caught himself in that thought. He was different. Different from every one of the soldiers in his battalion. They were civilians in uniform, playing soldier; everyone from convicted criminals to accountants were deemed qualified to do the grunt work of reclaiming the new South America. Hump a backpack and shoot straight enough to kill a Vix was all you needed in order to qualify.

  Tate could feel that familiar depression pooling around him. He was a warrior, highly trained and part of an elite esprit de corps, but he'd never know that feeling again; to be part of something that made a difference.

  Instead, he was mired in inadequacy. His
team tried hard, and Tate believed their training had made them a step above the others, but it wasn't nearly good enough.

  His thoughts were broken as something heavy thudded to the floor above him. He went upstairs and into the office, to see a gaping hole where the wall safe had been. A bundle of wires snaked out of the hole and into the back of the safe, where it laid amongst the debris.

  Tate watched as Monkhouse stripped the insulation from several of the wires, then cracked the housing for his cordless drill battery.

  In spite of their earlier fight, Monkhouse was pleased to see Tate. "Perfect timing." He tied the end of a piece of wire to two wires leading to the safe.

  Then, using a pair of pliers, he stuck the other end of the wire into the drill battery. The electronic keypad on the safe blinked, then went off.

  Monkhouse hummed to himself as a puff of smoke came out of the back of the safe. He took the wire out of the battery, then spliced another piece of wire to a different set leading to the safe.

  Tate's curiosity won over his anger. "What are you doing?"

  Monkhouse held the new piece of wire with his pliers. "I'm glad you asked. A standard safe works off a wheel lock with tumblers, proven to be very effective against thieves, but not very fancy. Then one day, a marketing genius came up with the idea that they could make the boring old safe sexy and modern by slapping some electronics on them. Great for sales, bad for security. The tumblers in this safe only need gravity to work, but the computer needs electricity, which can be unstable. Like, what to do in the event of a power surge. If the internal motherboard ever got hit with a power surge, it would lose its database of things like alarm settings and oh, I don't know, combinations to open the lock. So, they programmed it to reset the combination to the factory default."

  Monkhouse put the other end of the wire he was holding into the drill battery. The keyboard panel on the safe blinked a few times then stayed lit.

  "And that's why you shouldn't always trust 'new and improved'." Monkhouse pressed zero on the safe keypad four times.

  He turned the handle on the safe door and opened it.

  Fulton had been keeping watch from the balcony that overlooked the patio all the way to the beach.

  The rhythmic waves lapping up on the surf had a hypnotic effect, and he could feel his eyelids getting heavy. His eyes drooped closed, and he could feel himself drifting off when he heard a thud from the office down the hall.

  He opened his eyes and caught the fleeting image of a figure disappearing into the thick foliage to his left, bordering the patio below.

  He reached for his radio to report it, but stopped to question that move. Had he really seen something, or was it a trick of his mind? He didn't want to admit he'd been dozing, and took his hand away from the radio.

  He stepped back from the balcony and out of the sunlight, but was still able to keep most of his vantage point.

  From the ground, the glare off the exterior walls made it impossible to see into the darkness that Fulton had stepped into.

  Standing in the cooler shade, Fulton could hear Tate and Monkhouse talking when his radio crackled on.

  "This is Tate. We'll be done shortly. Be ready to move out."

  Tate's update was welcome news. Fulton was hungry and lethargic from standing in the sun.

  The dock was blocked from his view by trees and shrubs but he could see the cove, and thought how good it would be to be back in the cool spray of the ocean.

  His thoughts were broken by a wisp of black smoke climbing upwards. He brought up his rifle and looked though the four power scope, and saw it was coming from the direction of the dock.

  As he reached for his radio, he saw movement from the same shrubs, as before, and a figure stepped out. This time there was no doubt in his mind. It was very real.

  In the time it took for him to bring up his rifle, he saw the figure was dressed in dark mottled clothing and wore something bulky around its chest, but none of that registered; his overriding thought was to take down the Vix ASAP.

  As he squeezed the trigger, the Vix lobbed something like a black can out of its hand.

  Fulton snapped off two quick shots, hitting the Vix perfectly in the chest and head.

  As it fell, Fulton heard the breaking of glass as the black can went though the French doors below.

  Suddenly there was a flash of light from below and a deafening explosion.

  Fulton's radio came alive with people shouting, but he was too bewildered to make sense of any of it.

  He looked back at the Vix he'd just dropped, and gaped as it came back to its feet.

  Dazed from the explosion, he dully watched as a rifle appeared in the Vix’s hands, aiming it at the balcony.

  Suddenly, several figures swept out of the bushes around the patio.

  Over the ringing in his ears, Fulton could hear a peculiar pop, pop, pop, and bits of the walls seemed to be crumbling.

  He squeezed his radio. "Hey guys... I think the boat is on fire."

  Suddenly something kicked him in the chest like a battering ram, and blood sprayed his face.

  Stumbling back, his feet tangled beneath him and he fell onto his back. His lungs refused to breathe and the room seemed too dark.

  Gasping, he wiped at his eyes, and his fingers came away wet. As he tried to blink his own blood out of his eyes, the room swirled away into darkness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  FIRE FIGHT

  Rosse's radio crackled to life.

  "This is Tate. We'll be done shortly. Be ready to move out."

  He was getting tired of standing around. He'd been keeping an eye out for Vix from the second floor of the turret attached to the house, but since they hadn't seen any by now he was sure there weren't any around.

  Of the two windows in his room, he was gazing out over the distant side of the property, which ended abruptly at the jungle. He had his back to the window that looked out onto the patio.

  He flinched as he heard two cracks of a rifle from behind him.

  Rosse had enough time to see there was a body laying on the patio when there was a sudden flash of light, and every pane of glass in the downstairs blew out.

  It was a moment of disbelief as several figures emerged from the shrubs, dashing for the house. They were all wearing combat rigs and carried machine guns.

  Adding to the surrealism, the body laying on the patio picked himself up, knelt into a crouch and started spraying bullets at Fulton’s balcony.

  The danger to one of his own snapped Rosse into action. "Oh, the hell you are!"

  Furious, and scared for Fulton, Rosse brought up his HK 556L and squeezed the trigger of the under-barrel grenade launcher. Nothing happened.

  "Damn it!" Rosse fumbled with the safety and pulled the trigger again. The rifle punched his shoulder as the grenade shot through the window, exploding near the crouched shooter.

  Metal shards lashed out from the grenade, throwing the shooter across a lounge chair; he didn't get back up again.

  The shrapnel fanned out in every direction, wounding three more intruders and bringing them to the ground.

  "We're getting attacked," Rosse shouted into his radio. "They're coming inside, and they got guns!"

  Posted at the top of the stairs, Wesson turned her attention down the hall as she heard two shots come from Fulton's direction.

  An instant later, there was a searing white flash and concussion blast from the floor below.

  Her ears were ringing, but she could hear Rosse yelling a warning from her radio. Dazed, she looked down the stairway and saw two faces looking up at her.

  There was a strange moment where everything seemed to stop as they made eye contact.

  They wore dark green and brown mottled fatigues under black combat vests. Their helmets were painted in the same camo. Their guns were unfamiliar, but looked sleek, deadly, and were pointed at her.

  Her head cleared enough to see the danger, and she moved back from the stairway just as they opened fire. A strea
m of bullets chewed up the wall next to her as they walked their fire in her direction.

  The skylight exploded in a shower of glittering rain. She cursed as she felt bits of glass fall under her shirt collar and down her back.

  She stuck her machine gun over the railing, trying not to expose herself to their guns, and hosed the stairway with return fire.

  She caught a blur of movement as Rosse ran past her and down the hallway.

  Tate and Monkhouse came into the hallway, nearly colliding with Rosse.

  "Armed bad guys. I think Fulton's hit," said Rosse, and ran down the hall towards the balcony room.

  Things were happening fast, and Tate was worried. People were shouting over each other on the radio.

  Wesson was shooting in near panic mode, burning through her ammo.

  His team hadn't trained for combat, let alone a full on firefight.

  Confusion was everywhere, and Tate knew his team was on the edge of disintegrating into chaos.

  "Everyone shut up," he snarled over the radio, and was rewarded with instant quiet.

  "Rosse, check on Fulton. Ota, I need an update as soon as you have something. Wesson, short bursts. I'm sending you support." He knew he was stating the obvious, but everyone else’s head was clouded to it. "Monkhouse, you're with Wesson. I'm getting eyes on the enemy. Listen for me on the radio, got it?"

  Monkhouse gaped like a fish out of water. "With Wesson... doing what?" he asked.

  Gunfire rattled down the hall where Rosse had gone. Tate had to get there quick.

  "Support Wesson. Keep anyone from coming up the stairs, and get me eyes on the enemy," said Tate, then took off after Rosse, leaving Monkhouse dazed and worried.

  "Since when do we have an enemy?"

  Tate came into the balcony room, finding Rosse kneeling next to Fulton who was laying on the floor, his chest and face splattered with blood.

  The private saw the sergeant major standing over him, looking concerned. "It's oh shit thirty, right Top?"

  "Yes, it is," said Tate, and knelt down to help Rosse.

  Broad and squat, Rosse was built like a tree trunk. An ex prison guard, his rough edges had rough edges, but he was a natural medic. His large meaty hands worked deftly as he examined Fulton's face and neck for wounds.