Personnel: Dossier Feldgrau

by Tyler Hanson

  I stay true to my word.

  By now, Catalina was sure Mr. Knife had recovered from his fall. She turned just in time to see him rushing forward with another straight attack to her abdomen. The bottle in her hand swung down and connected with the metacarpal bones in his wrist. They snapped, his hand crumpled, the knife clattering to the tavern floor.

  Mr. Knife screamed, wildly swinging with his good hand. She raised her forearm to block his punch; even as their limbs connected, she brought up her other fist as a counter. It found a home under his chin, and blood spurted from his mouth as his jaw fractured against her knuckles. His eyes rolled upward, and he fell to the ground on his back.

  Catalina placed the glass bottle onto the closest table and turned to face its original owner. His eyes were already swelling—impressive punch, Mr. Fist—and he held his injured arm with his free hand. Catalina took a few steps toward him before she heard the distinct sound of a revolver’s hammer.

  Her pupils twitched.

  The fourth man. Behind me and to the left, around my seven o’ clock. He’s shaken but still cocky. He’s a Medellin, after all. He wants to shoot the head, but his fear will encourage a safer torso shot. That means it will end up somewhere in the middle, close to my neck or shoulder blade area. He’s a pussy, which means he won’t give a warning shot. He’ll shoot to kill and tell a grand tale to his cartel friends afterward.

  The hammer pulled. The trigger depressed. She’d forget the details of her rushing thoughts later, like always. After all, she never really thought in times like these.

  She reacted.

  Catalina bent her knees and swayed slightly to the left, cocking her head even further in that direction. With the deafening crack of gunfire, the bullet ruffled her hair as it passed over her shoulder.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Bottle was in the path of the gunshot. The bullet traveled past Catalina and struck him in the collarbone opposite the arm she had fractured. He spun around and collapsed onto the table where he had been drinking. The table tilted with his weight and crashed to the floor.

  One more.

  Catalina peered behind her, finding the final man still lying on the ground, propped against the bar where she had slapped him. He had a silver revolver with a brown handle in his hand. She thought it might be a Smith & Wesson Model 10, chambered for .38 caliber rounds. He was already thumbing back the hammer for a second shot. Catalina scanned the room. There was nothing strong or sturdy enough within reach to deflect the bullets.

  She’d need to cross the room. Unprotected.

  He fired his second round. Catalina took two steps forward, jerking her body away from the incoming bullet. Her eyes tracked the bullet as it passed, verifying she was free from harm.

  “La Mirada Del Diablo,” her father had called it.

  The Gaze of the Devil.

  She may have received her appearance and stature from her mother, but she shared this particular trait with a long line of men and women on her father’s side. His bloodline of protectors and assassins used the Gaze for generations to hold aloft their Venezuelan cartel.

  While most in her family happily served the cartel with their Gaze, Catalina resisted. Sure, they fought terrible men, but they worked for men just as horrific, if not worse. Nonetheless, her father had insisted she train as a bodyguard for the cartel.

  And whenever her father insisted, it was dangerous to say no.

  The second bullet passed Catalina. She tilted her head and upper body backward about forty-five degrees, dropped to her knees, and slid across the floor. The third bullet passed above her face and embedded itself into the ceiling.

  Her momentum carried her back to a running position. She skipped her feet off the ground as if she were playing a game of “rayuela,” and the fourth bullet slipped beneath her boots, spraying splinters up from the floor.

  Catalina was almost upon Mr. Gun as he chambered his fifth round and pointed his weapon at her center mass. Unfortunately for him, she was also close enough to the bar to reach her drink. As he raised his revolver to track her new position, she slammed the glass into his eyes, upside-down. It smashed into pieces, cutting into his face, and the liquor splashed with burning force. He cried in pain, twitching his arm as he fired. The shot went wild.

  Catalina clutched the barrel of the revolver and twisted the trigger guard around his finger, breaking the bone like a fresh carrot. The man whimpered, retreating his hand. The revolver now in her possession, she aimed the barrel at his head, tempted to pull the trigger.

  Monsters.

  Mr. Gun wiped the liquor and glass away from his face to look up at her. Rather than staring at the gun barrel, however, he met her eyes, mouth agape. She knew what he saw: A small woman with large, black pupils, like the eyes of a cat on the prowl.

  Catalina sighed and opened the cylinder of the gun. Five spent shells and one live round fell to the tavern floor, rolling in different directions across the wooden surface. She snapped the cylinder back into place, gripped the gun by the barrel, and clubbed the man across the face with the handle. He slumped over, limp as a ragdoll.

  As she felt her pupils reduce to a normal size, she glanced at the bartender. The woman seemed a little shaken, but she maintained her composure.

  Catalina felt some guilt for the destruction she had caused, but the satisfaction of engaging these assholes overwhelmed that sensation. Still . . . She moved to the counter and scratched on the pad. I’M SO SORRY FOR THE DAMAGE. THIS FIGHT GOT OUT OF HAND. HOW MUCH WILL IT COST TO REPLACE EVERYTHING?

  The bartender leaned over the counter and surveyed the men, sprawled across the floor. She reached out and placed her hand on top of Catalina’s. “All we need from you is to find it. Find it and put a stop to this nightmare. We just want our children to feel safe again.” She gestured at the four men. “We’ve dealt with men like these since the beginning of time. This new thing, whatever it is that’s taking our families? We don’t know what to do. Please just help us.”

  Catalina nodded, clasping her other hand over the woman’s. They smiled at each before releasing their grasp. Catalina turned and walked across the tavern floor, kicking one of the men in the ribcage as she exited.

  ________________

  Sunsets in rural Colombia were something to behold. La Encarnación bordered Natural Las Orquídeas, a tremendous forest thick with leafy green trees and other plant life. The bloody orange sun hugged the tips of the tree line, and the colors painted a somber melody as the ball of light sank out of sight. Catalina stared at it from the window of her inn, appreciating her moment of peaceful silence.

  But it was time to hunt.

  She turned on her heel from the window and went to the pile of black duffel bags she had brought with her to the village. Unzipping the first bag, she revealed an outfit made of tough black cloth. The suit came in three sections: A top half, a bottom half, and a hooded cloak. Tucked inside strategically placed pockets of the outfit were thick metal plates, collectively creating a layer of armor.

  Next, Catalina opened the other two duffle bags, surveying the contents. Each bag was filled with various firearms—bladed weapons and explosives. She pondered, for a moment, before reaching into the bags, pulling out her weapons of choice for the evening and fastening their holsters, straps, or bandoliers to various parts of her suit. Saving the best for last, she retrieved a pair of flattened cylindrical devices, slipping them into her sleeves with a hefty click.

  Catalina snapped together the thick black outfit and attached her protective cloak to her neck and shoulders. The weight of the armor pressed against her body, but she had trained for years to withstand such heavy burdens. She pulled the hood up and over the back of her head, leaving enough room around the sides of her face to keep her peripheral vision intact. The cloak crested over her shoulders and fell around her arms and side. The whole ensemble left her looking like a formless, black phantom.

  Satisfied, Catalina turned to the window an
d opened it. She climbed outside and scaled the roof of the inn, carrying a long, black rifle behind her. With great care and precision, she walked across the shingles and laid the rifle onto a flat part of the surface, flicking out a v-shaped stand to keep it at the correct angle. She peered through the large magnifying sight atop the body of the gun, ensuring she had optimal view of the forest.

  The message Catalina had received said the creature arrived almost every night. It didn’t always claim a victim, but it always tried. They said it offered some sort of call, like a siren of Greek mythology. In the worst way possible, the village had learned its most susceptible victims were children.

  Catalina’s frustration stemmed from the fact that the village struggled to describe the goddamn thing. She’d need to be attentive tonight.

  Her vigilance, however, wasn’t necessary. Less than an hour passed before Catalina felt what she could only describe as a buzzing sensation. It started as a cerebral itch; at first, she swatted at her face, under the impression a mosquito was in her ear. It increased in intensity, as if someone were broadcasting radio static right into her brain. Within the static, she heard—or felt, or thought—a series of words.

  “Co . . .”

  “St . . .”

  “Ki . . .”

  “Lo . . .”

  Though the sensation wasn’t pleasant, at least not in a way Catalina would jump from the roof and run into the forest, it had a sedating effect. She could understand why children, with their impulsivities, would be so susceptible to this creature if it approached them.

  She saw movement below her and to the left; a flash of white, moving at a steady pace toward the woods. She focused her rifle’s sight toward the motion and saw a little girl in a white nightgown, walking rapidly toward the border of foliage. She couldn’t have been older than eight. Her long brown hair blew in the evening’s breeze, but she seemed unfazed by the disruption.

  Her focus was on a dark shape, emerging from the forest.

  “Co . . . me.”

  “St . . . me.”

  “Ki . . . me.”

  “Lo . . . me.”

  Catalina refocused her rifle toward the trees and saw a man. Except, it wasn’t a man. Instead, it was a pale imitation, in the most unsettling ways.

  It was maybe three or four meters tall, and it had spindly, almost skeletal features. The arms, legs and torso were as thin as broomsticks, and every joint ended at a sharp angle. Its “skin” was a pale white, but its exposed head revealed . . . nothing.

  There were simply no facial features. Nothing but a smooth, white, empty canvas.

  “Com . . . o me.”

  “Sta . . . th me.”

  “Kil . . . r me.”

  “Lov . . . me.”

  Most peculiar, though—it wore a suit. A goddamn suit. Black slacks and shoes, a black suit jacket, and a white collared shirt with a black tie.

  What kind of monster dresses in business attire?

  Catalina tried to draw a bead on the creature with her rifle, but its movements were jerky and unnatural, as if its limbs were bent in the wrong directions. She couldn’t line up a proper shot at this distance, and she didn’t want a missed attempt to put the girl in more danger.

  The girl reached the forest, and the Man extended a long, sharp hand toward her in a welcoming gesture. The girl placed her hand into his, and Catalina felt another burst of static in her head.

  “Come to me.”

  “Stay with me.”

  “Kill for me.”

  “Love me.”

  Together, the two disappeared into the shadows of the forest.

  Catalina stood and grabbed her rifle, running to the roof’s edge. She was on the second story, and a tiled awning extended from the separation between the two floors. In the blink of an eye, Catalina stepped from the edge of the roof and landed on the awning, her momentum sliding her down the perch and onto the grass below. As she sprinted into the forest, a cry came from the village behind her.

  “Sofía? Sofía!”

  The panicked cries continued. Windows glowed with yellow light as other members of the town awoke to the screams. Catalina gritted her teeth and pursued the girl, Sofía, into the forest.

  Entering Natural Las Orquídeas, Catalina expected the sounds of chittering animals and chirping insects to be louder than in the village. Instead, the forest was as silent as death itself. Catalina only heard the pounding of her boots on the ground, the rushing of blood in her ears, and the whisper of her cloak rummaging through the thick leaves behind her.

  A breeze blew past, and the branches above rustled with what Catalina would describe as “emoción.” A girl’s voice echoed from somewhere ahead. She slowed and took measured breaths, careful not to make too much noise. Crouched, she inched past the trees, cradling her rifle. The shapes of two figures, one very tall and one very small, meandered away from her at a casual pace.

  Sofía chattered away in Spanish about her friends and family. Every so often she would pause, and the Man’s head would vibrate, the movement almost imperceptible. No sound would emerge, but Catalina could feel the static burst in her head each time it happened. Once the Man “responded,” the girl continued her conversation.

  When they began to slow, Catalina took advantage of the opportunity and descended from her crouched position, pressing her stomach against the grass. She pushed her face through the leaves at the edge of the small clearing the pair occupied, placing her rifle onto the forest floor. Once settled, Catalina held her breath and peered into the rifle sight.

  Another gust of wind blew into her face, and the trees above rustled with fervor once more.

  The gigantic weapon in her hands was, for the most part, just two long, black pipes adjacent to one other. The back portion included a handle, a padded shoulder rest, and an angled magazine protruding from the top. The front portion was just a long barrel ending in a flat muzzle brake, as if a hockey puck were glued to the tip of her rifle.

  The device was once called the Boys Anti-Tank Rifle, but the British soldiers who used in during World War II aptly nicknamed it the “elephant gun” due to its appearance. It fired modified .55 caliber Boys rounds which, though ironically not very effective against tanks, worked quite well against living objects with uncertain physical properties. Catalina aligned her crosshairs in the center of the Man’s chest area.

  It wasn’t wearing a suit at all. That was its skin.

  It had animal patterning, not unlike an arctic penguin’s “tuxedo.” Her mind recalled Venus flytraps, and how they used their innocuous appearances to lure insects into their maw. The disguise didn’t need to be perfect; it just needed to bring its prey within reach.

  Catalina’s pupils dilated.

  Time slowed to a crawl as her finger squeezed the trigger of her rifle. In the split second between the depression of the trigger and the firing of the bullet, the gun creaked. She perceived, with her Gaze, the Man cocking its head in her direction.

  Fuck. It’s fast.

  As the bullet exited the barrel, the Man was already moving to the side. It must not have understood or accounted for the elephant gun’s power and velocity, though, because it didn’t escape in time. Instead of striking the chest, the bullet struck the creature’s right shoulder, the impact as heavy as a tank shell. With a dull thump, the Man’s entire arm flew from its body and into the shadows of the foliage behind it. The wound produced a substance similar to wet, stringy cotton; it oozed from the hole and stuck in clumps to the side of the creature’s torso.

  The Man faced the space where Catalina hid.

  It hunched over and emitted a sickening crackle, as if the bones within it were tearing apart. Three more arms emerged on each side of its body, coming from points on its back instead of its shoulders. The blank white face of the Man split down the middle in a vertical line, revealing endless rows of sharp teeth, furthering its Venus flytrap similarities. It lurched, as if roaring, though
no sound emerged. Instead, the familiar static filled Catalina’s head with unexpected intensity. She collapsed.

  “KILL FOR ME.”

  The trees above her rustled with the emoción she had noticed before.

  This time, there was no wind.

  Catalina rolled onto her back, trying to regain her coordination, and looked into the branches. Hanging from various parts of the treetops all around her were dozens of heads, each about the size of a basketball, seemingly identical to the head of the Man.

  As she watched, they split open like the Man’s head, revealing rows of teeth. They vibrated, rustling the trees, and Catalina could feel new static buzzing in her head, much fainter than the Man’s, but with a new message.

  “Feed me.”

  “Feed me.”

  “Feed me.”

  They’re babies, thought Catalina. It’s bringing food to its babies.

  Shadow’s Report

  01.09: “Brood”

  La Encarnación, Colombia

  November 13, 1999-A

  The babies shook, sprouting stumpy versions of the Man’s humanoid arms and hands, four on each side of their head-like bodies. They continued their silent, static screeches as they descended from the trees in unison, held aloft by thick, white, wet strands.

  Behind Catalina, the Man abandoned its focus on Sofía and fled into the trees beyond the clearing, scrambling with its awkward, inverse run.

  Catalina had little time to lose.

  She rolled to her feet and hurled her elephant gun into the clearing, sending it skidding to a rest at the far edge. Her hands reached into her cloak and retrieved a pair of automatic Glock pistols. Fitted with extended magazines, together they gave her sixty-six rounds. She surveyed the scene above her and worked her jaw, calculating. Sixty-six probably wasn’t going to be enough.

  Catalina raised her arms, firing short bursts from her pistols and separating her arms to strike multiple targets at once. The pistols chattered as they expended their ammunition, and the resulting fire cut into the descending creatures one-by-one, cracking them open like piñatas. Catalina maintained her steady fire rate as she backed into the clearing, watching the bodies fall to the forest floor.