SNAFU: Hunters

by James A. Moore

  Rook was halfway down the hall when he finally turned around and the first of the Reavers showed themselves, rushing out of room 613, their skin scarred, meat peeling off their bones in slabs. They were rabid, ravenous, and coming fast.

  Mouth stopped, dropped to a knee and let loose with his AR-15, sending a burst of 5.56 mm ammunition into the first black-eyed psycho that came his way. Then the second. Then the third.

  “Mouth, Chopper,” Boss called out, firing at his own set of takers as they ran from the doorway in stuttered bursts.

  Cypher ran up, slapped Mouth’s shoulder and started firing, her MP5 rattling off rounds savagely.

  Mouth fell back from the gunfire. “Chop. We need evac ASAP, we’re knee deep in shit creek here.”

  All the while, Rook hadn’t fired a single round. He stood back, watching this unfold through the buzzing static that had invaded his vision, his muscles, his brain. From the moment the shooting had started, he felt like he was watching a movie in slow motion. And as the bloodlust-frenzied creatures closed in on them, part of him had expected to be suddenly sitting on his couch at home, waking up from some immersive dream state.

  Fast running people, former people, rushing straight at him. Straight at his screen. Claws, teeth, bone showing. Bad horror movie. Bad movie. That’s all it was.

  And then one screamed, shrieked right through him and he knew it was no dream. It was coming straight for him. He shouldered his AR and squeezed off a round into its shoulder. It ran through as if nothing had happened. Rook squeezed off another and another as he fell back, and before he knew it they were in the central lobby and bodies had hit the floor. How many he didn’t know. He felt no relief, no sense of calm, but for once, he didn’t need to think. He only needed to act.

  That was when he noticed it.

  “Boss,” he screamed against the rattle of gunfire. “The walls!”

  Boss turned; a frown there and gone. “Shit. Move, people, move!”

  The graffiti-covered walls glowed a searing red and cracks had begun to run out from the sprawling text forming small charred, fleshy, pulsing circles. More Sink Holes. All around them.

  And now the enemies were pouring in. Not only Reavers but other monstrosities. Ghouls, Ghasts, Arachmonae. They were clawing their way out from the Depths, skittering out of their holes like so many swarming insects – some taking to the floor, others to the walls – and they had the team trapped in the central lobby, so close to the stairwell, to escape.

  “Hold them back,” Boss commanded, swapping a mag.

  “We don’t have the munitions to keep this up!” Cypher pulled her Colt M1911 and squeezed off a few shots into a leaping Arachmonae’s parasitic underbelly. It fell at her feet, its many legs chittering wildly, only to have a few more rounds pumped into its elongated humanoid skull.

  Mouth was stalking down a group of rushing Reavers, lighting them up with his remaining bursts of 5.56 ammo. One of them broke through his fire and took a swipe at his leg before it bought it. Mouth clutched at the leg, yelling something unintelligible as he retreated, letting rounds go one-handed.

  Rook’s heart pounded. Bang. Bang. Bang. Louder than the sound of the gunfire around him. Bang. Bang. Bang. He turned his fire to the spot Mouth had vacated while the man stuffed his leg with a Quick Clot pad and tied off the wound. Bang. Bang. Bang.

  It wasn’t until he heard the screaming that he realized the sound he was hearing was not his heart at all. It was the sound of an AA12 automatic tearing down the hallway, clearing the way for their escape.

  “Move it!” Deacon called, blasting a hole into a decrepit Ghoul’s chest.

  Rook felt a moment of relief at seeing the man, a brief moment of reprieve. He had thought his earlier lapse had gotten Deacon killed. It was freeing to know he wouldn’t have to live with that guilt. Even more freeing to know they now had a chance, a chance to escape, a chance to make it back home. Things had been looking bleak, but now, what if . . . What if they could really make it?

  He almost wanted to smile.

  In that moment of relief, Rook had been distracted for a moment too long, had seen Deacon’s face change, twist and contort a moment too late, had heard the man call a warning but couldn’t make out the words in time.

  If he had, Rook would have known a Reaver had ripped through a Sink Hole beside him. He would have stopped it from digging its claws into his soft abdomen. And he wouldn’t have been dragged screaming down into the Depths.

  * * *

  “Rook, watch out!” Boss called, spun and aimed true. Right at the head. Click. Dry. And he knew then that it was over. Rook had been torn into before Boss’s spent mag could even hit the floor. Nothing more could be done but to save his team.

  “Cypher, Mouth, we are leaving now!” He ran up and hoisted Mouth’s arm over a shoulder, pulling his Beretta 92FS.

  They galloped down the hallway together to the beat of Deacon’s AA12 pounding away, broke into the stairwell and shut the metal door. They bolted it shut just in time for the beasts on the other side to slam into it. It would hold for a short while.

  “We should move fast. More of those things are going to open up in here, Boss, and we got no room to fight,” Deacon said. Blood and sweat oozed down his arms.

  The walls were glowing all the way up the stairwell. The team rushed upwards while the hell spawn slammed the door below.

  “Where the hell were you, Deacon?” Boss demanded.

  “Reaver clocked me a few floors up, Boss. Got lucky. He wanted to use me to open a Hole. I woke up before he could do it. I came as soon as I could. No bites. Don’t worry.”

  The downstairs door slammed open sending a shockwave through the stairwell. Boss knew they had maybe a minute before the Reavers caught up. Maybe less if the Arachmonae pushed through first and took to the walls. He turned and started to hoist Mouth up the steps. “We need to move fast.”

  “No, Boss,” Mouth said and pushed himself from Boss’s shoulder. He leveled his Mossberg pump. “You guys move fast. I’ll hold them.”

  Boss waited a moment. “Deek. Trade.”

  Deacon handed over his AA12 and took the Mossberg. “Do God’s work, my friend.”

  “God? You know that’s not my style.” Mouth pulled open his tactical vest. Boss could see a single grenade dangling within. “I’ve got a one-way ticket and I’m taking them straight to hell with me. Get out of here.”

  “Move,” Boss ordered and they took flight up the steps.

  Three floors up, they heard the pounding start and all the while, Boss watched the walls glow, hoping they wouldn’t open up another hole ahead of them.

  When they reached the top, the pounding stopped.

  Then a powerful blast rocked the building.

  * * *

  Boss, Deacon and Cypher burst out onto the rooftop. Boss turned on his heel, slammed the door then wedged his empty AR against the handle. Chopper had already touched down. Three bodies lay face down between the roof entrance and the chopper.

  The Reavers crashed into the door as Boss loaded into the he-lo.

  They took off in time to see the door give way, Reavers and hell spawn filling the rooftop almost instantly. And through the sickly fog that encased the surrounding city, a familiar red glow spilled out, breaking free.

  Boss strapped into his seat and pulled on his headset. Deacon and Cypher were already settled. Cypher sat with her computer in her lap. She looked a little shaken, but okay. Deacon had his hands clasped together in prayer. Blood dripped from between his fingers.

  “Cypher, we need to organize a strike team ASAP,” Boss said, thinking of Rook and Mouth – he wouldn’t let them die for nothing.

  “Already on it, Boss. I’m reporting in now to HQ and requesting Emergency Response Forces.”

  Boss nodded; he had no more to say.

  “What the hell happened down there, Boss?” Chopper’s voice blared strangely over the radio. “We got reports of PK-EM readings popping up all over the city.”


  “Leak betrayed us, Chop. He opened a Sink Hole down there. A whole network of them.”

  “Shit. That would explain the Reavers on the roof. Came out of nowhere, Boss. Four of them. Took care of it though.”

  Boss frowned. “Did you say four? I only saw three bodies, Chop.”

  Chopper took a moment, spoke slowly, methodically. “Yeah. One got up close and personal. Took a bite out of me. I kicked him off the roof.”

  Cypher’s head shot up. Deacon stopped his prayer. Boss struggled to unstrap himself as the helicopter lurched forward without warning, slamming him back into his seat. Cypher’s computer flew past his head like a missile as the he-lo’s emergency alarms blared.

  The chopper had lost stability. They were going down.

  Boss tried once more to free himself, fighting the erratic movements of the helo. And as he fumbled desperately with his straps, the cabin door flew open with a savage scream.

  Droch-fhola

  Brad C. Hodson

  The bars of the cage rattled and knocked together as the cart rolled deeper into the forest. The construction was shoddy, hastily thrown together to carry slaves across the isle. He contemplated kicking it until the wooden bars shook loose, but that would make too much noise.

  The two legionaries with him were still unconscious, each covered in crusted blood and swollen bruises. He was surprised they were even alive. This was his fault, no way to deny that.

  Flurries of snow whipped through the cage and he hugged his knees to his chest, shivering against the cold and willing himself to stay awake. His fingers and the soles of his feet had already lost feeling. The bastards could have at least left them with their clothes. It would be difficult to sell slaves missing limbs from frostbite.

  Shadows stretched over the forest as the sun died. They played tricks on his eyes and for a brief moment he thought he saw men crawling between the trees on their bellies.

  One of the barbarians said something in their garbled tongue and the cart creaked to a halt. He maneuvered over the legionaries and pressed against the bars as they set up camp, hoping he would see some way out of his predicament. A fire soon raged, the smoke thick and sweet, and the men gathered around it. A wineskin was passed about as they erected some kind of wooden cabinet off to the side. He didn’t know what he had hoped to see, but whatever it was never appeared.

  When they had finished piecing together the slabs of wood, one of the men went to another of their carts and removed a black stone. It was thin but large enough that he had to hug it to his chest to carry it. He placed it atop the cabinet and it shimmered in the firelight.

  Three of them came to remove him, the others standing nearby with swords drawn in case he ran.

  “Come, boy,” a one-eyed old man said, his Latin accented but clear.

  They grabbed him with rough hands and jerked him from the cart. He fell face first into the snow and they laughed. The urge to sprint into the woods was strong but he fought against it, knowing that if they didn’t kill him the cold would.

  One of the larger ones pulled him to his feet. This close, they smelled musty and sour. His stomach churned. The legionaries were carried from the cart next and he was brought with them over to the fire. Standing in front of the cabinet, he could see it clearly. Strange circular braids were carved into the wood. The doors were open and a wooden statue sat beneath the stone slab. It was of a skeletal figure with long arms crossed over its chest. The head was upturned and a wide, mangled mouth open. Dark stains covered the statue, and he finally understood they were not going to be sold.

  He turned to dart from the campsite, but the one-eyed man kicked him hard in the stomach and he collapsed, tears in his eyes and the knowledge he’d piss blood tonight evident in each piercing breath.

  If I live that long.

  He couldn’t fight the tears that burned his eyes. The barbarians laughed at him as he curled on the frozen ground, his cheek already numb against the snow. What would his father have thought if he saw him like this? Silanus hadn’t even known a woman yet, and here he was crying in the face of death. He imagined the decorated Centurion would have spat on him and told him to stand up, that it would be better to die fighting like he had done. But Silanus was no soldier, merely a thirteen–year-old boy playing at being a man.

  “I’m just a cook,” he said through the tears. “Please.”

  His plea was translated and the barbarians laughed all the harder.

  One of the legionaries was dragged to the cabinet and smacked in the face. The man groaned, coming to just as he was slammed chest-first onto the stone. Fighting to stand, he was too weak and easily held down.

  Looking up, the legionary’s eyes were wide with fear. They focused on Silanus and then the cutting began. The man screamed as the knives peeled the flesh from his back in long strips, blood dripping from the slab and into the statue’s hungry maw.

  One of the Ordovices, large and bearded, stepped up. Draped in furs, he looked more bear than man. In one hand he held a chisel. He placed it against the legionary’s back then swung a hammer. The hollow crack of the man’s ribs breaking away from his spine echoed through the woods.

  Silanus could no longer watch. He stared at the ground, the smoke stinging his eyes and throat. The man’s screams did not last much longer.

  This is the end. I never even got to see Rome.

  A whistling sound cut through the air. Silanus looked up in time to see a pila slam into the hammer-wielder’s chest. The man staggered back, eyes wide, and crashed to the ground.

  The other barbarians whirled and pulled their swords as more pilum struck their targets. Three more of them went down, two dead and one wheezing bloody foam onto his lips. A fourth had managed to raise a shield and catch the spear that came for him. The soft metal head bent from the weight of the shaft, just as it was designed to, and pulled the man’s shield down. He stomped on the pila but it held. Dark shapes erupted from the trees but his shield had been made useless.

  Roman soldiers rushed in. Silanus almost cheered as they cut down his captors. The Ordovices were fierce and met their enemy head on, swinging their long swords and crashing against the Romans with abandon. They were met by sturdy shields when the legionaries crowded them, rendering their long swords useless as sharp gladii stabbed with almost mechanical precision.

  Silanus scrambled over to a cart and away from the fight, searching for something he could defend himself with. He found another hammer but tossed it aside when he saw the hilt of a Roman short sword. Knowing it likely belonged to the soldier he’d seen sacrificed, he clutched it tight and crouched behind the cart.

  The Romans made quick and vicious work of the Ordovices, blood steaming as it spattered the snow. Silanus could not place what legion the men were with; he’d never seen soldiers dressed in indigo and charcoal armor before, but he didn’t care. He would live because of them.

  Bodies littered the small clearing, twitching and moaning. There had been over twenty barbarians when they had stopped here; now only the one-eyed old man and two of the younger ones lived. Scanning the Roman soldiers, Silanus was surprised to count eight of them. It had seemed a full legion descended upon the clearing. How could a single a contubernium take out so many? He hoped there weren’t other bands of Ordovices nearby.

  The three survivors dropped their swords and fell to their knees, hands behind their heads, and begged in their tongue for what could only be mercy.

  One of the Romans stepped forward, wiping his gladius clean on his thigh before sheathing it. His hair was gray and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his ear. He must have been the unit’s Decanus.

  “I can only assume you’re begging for your lives,” he said. “Where is the Droch-fhola?”

  Silanus didn’t understand what the soldier had said. Droch-fhola?

  One of the barbarians spat on the ground and the other two glared.

  The Decanus sighed. “Then you’re useless to me.” He turned to his men. “Open them.
”

  The soldiers stepped forward.

  “Wait,” Silanus said and stood. They turned as he walked toward them, his voice trembling as much as his freezing muscles. “That one speaks Latin.”

  The old man turned his one good eye to the boy. “You bastard.”

  The Decanus pulled a thick cloak from one of the fallen barbarians. The dying man weakly clutched at the cloth, and the Roman brought his boot down onto the man’s face as he jerked the cloak away and tossed it to Silanus.

  The commander nodded to his men and they went to work stabbing the bodies on the ground to make certain they had all been killed in the fighting. Most had.

  Kneeling, the Decanus asked his question again. “Where is the Droch-fhola?”

  “Killing more Romans,” the old man said, “if there is any justice in the world.”

  Nodding as if he’d expected that answer, he grabbed the barbarian to the old man’s right and pressed a thumb into his eye. The barbarian squirmed and fought, but the Roman’s grip was iron and blood soon ran down the man’s face.

  The other barbarian scampered to his feet and ran. He made to shove one of the soldiers out of his way but the soldier pivoted and brought the edge of his shield down onto the man’s knee. There was a loud snap and the barbarian fell to the ground squealing. Looking to his commander, the soldier received whatever confirmation he needed and brought the edge of his shield down again, this time on the barbarian’s throat. The squealing stopped.

  “Please,” the old man said. The color had left his face. “I’m sorry. Please.”

  The Decanus released the man, who fell to his side and held his face as he sucked sharp, trembling breaths.

  “Have you seen the Droch-fhola?”

  “Promise you will show us mercy.”

  “As you have shown your prisoners?” He motioned to the legionary on the slab, his body limp and eyes empty.

  The old man shook his head. “That was an offering. It’s not the same.”