by Ian Redman
A claw lashed out again as another trooper hurtled across the bedroom, landing into the bloody, chewed remains of the owners of the house.
“OH LORD, HELP US,” he screamed.
The sheer ferocity and strength of the wolf like creature had taken them all by surprise, the bullets they fired doing nothing to halt the terrifying, carnivorous assault around them.
There were four soldiers left, one kneeling, crying in the corner of the bedroom, “mercy….please, mercy!” He was the youngest of the team, the tears flowing down his cheeks, his eyes wide open in sheer terror. “PLEEEEEEEEEEEEEASE!”
The growling beast towered over him, its huge, black haired, muscle-laden body dwarfing the terrified soldier, its long canine teeth protruding from its black gums. Menacingly, the beast peeled back its lips, as if mocking the defenceless warrior, its tail vertical, dominant!
Was this creature intelligent? The Spetsnaz soldier didn’t have time to find out as the wolf reached down to take him, its claw gripping his throat, squeezing the very life out of his hapless, wretched form. “NOOOOOOO…” The young soldier’s screaming receded, the pressure on his larynx draining his life away.
With a huge, defiant roar and a terrible splintering of glass, the beast threw the man out of the window, into the air…falling…screaming, bleeding to death, onto the pavement below.
As the crowds outside began to scream, the beast, utilising its intelligence, seized the opportunity to escape. Only three more left it thought, but no time to kill them! I must escape…quickly!
The three remaining Spetsnaz were defenceless. It seemed nothing could harm the creature.
Turning its head, the beast stared at them, its blood red eyes radiating inhuman menace! As the wolf moved to the window, it roared defiance once again.
“WE’VE GOT TO KILL IT!” It was Yuri, his voice a yell of fury and hatred, his blood trickling from a wound to his right arm where the creature had bitten him.
“BUT HOW? FOR FUCK’S SAKE HOW?”
The beast leapt from the window, landing agilely on the pavement, its blood red field of vision now scanning the crowds of onlookers and a waiting news reporter from TASS, who was after a story of a lifetime.
“MENTSOV, MENTSOV!” Up in the window, Yuri pointed down at the creature, “KILL IT! KILL THE FUCKING THING!”
Now it was Captain Mentsov’s turn to taste fear as he shouted a simple, direct order to his men. “TAKE AIM!”
But it was too late!
Dropping to all fours, the beast hurled itself at the crowds like an express train, snarling, biting, slashing repeatedly.
There was panic, uncontrollable, unavoidable…panic!
As the masses tried desperately to protect themselves and their loved ones, men, women and children ran in all directions from the hideous black nightmare trying to kill them.
The innocent bystanders, the ones who had come to view a little excitement…were now the prey!
“WE CAN’T SHOOT IT SIR,” yelled a police officer, “THERE ARE TOO MANY CIVILIANS!”
He was right thought Mentsov, what the hell could they do? Then he noticed the news reporter, moving closer to the beast as it made another lunging attack at the crowd. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? GET AWAY YOU CRAZY IDIOT!”
“Forget the Police Dmitri,” Rimsky Valek was both terrified and excited, “keep filming, just keep filming.” With the camera feeling like a lead weight on his shoulders, Dmitri continued to film the scene. “THIS IS LIKE BEING IN HELL ITSELF,” shouted Valek, his microphone close to his face, the torn, broken bodies of innocent bystanders in full view of the cameraman. “PEOPLE ARE PANICKING, RUNNING EVERYWHERE AS THIS HUGE DOG CAUSES CHAOS!”
Yuri and the last two Spetsnaz were now at the forefront of the terrifying situation, their weapons reloaded and ready to fire. “GET DOWN EVERYONE, GET DOWN!”
As Yuri’s order echoed across Sorev Street, the beast turned and snarled, blood dripping from its vicious canine teeth.
“FIRE!”
The machine guns opened up.
People screamed, the beast being hit square in the chest, arms and legs, its squealing howl reverberating across the street. As bullets scythed into the wolf’s powerful body it faltered, fell, then defiantly clawed its way back up again.
“THERE’S NO WAY WE CAN KILL IT! WHAT THE FUCK ARE WE GOING TO DO?”
His comrade was right, thought Yuri, or was he? There must be a way, there must be! He looked again at the hideous wolf…a werewolf, now approximately thirty metres from him. The creature is intelligent, he thought, it’s using the crowds to help it escape, attacking the bystanders, a perfect ploy! God in heaven! Just what is this thing?
Amidst the pitiful screams of the injured and dying, and holding a severed arm in one of its claws, the beast growled again, its blood red vision swiftly seeking escape.
By now the crowds had managed to get clear, been killed, or were lying injured, their blood running freely across the pavement, the verges and the grass.
“IT’S ESCAPING, WE HAVE TO FOLLOW,” shouted Yuri.
With its fur matted in human gore, the beast took to its four legs, and ran.
“CAPTAIN, ATTEND TO YOUR WOUNDED THEN PICK YOUR BEST MEN. FOLLOW US AS SOON AS YOU CAN, LET’S MOVE!” With hurried breaths, the three Spetsnaz gave chase, so too, did Rimsky Valek and Dmitri.
“WE ARE COMING TOO,” shouted Valek, “WE HAVE TO RECORD THIS!”
“AT YOUR OWN RISK,” replied Yuri, panting heavily.
“IT’S GOING DOWN THE ALLEY, OVER TO THE RIGHT!”
“KEEP MOVING, KEEP MOVING!” For Yuri Yakov of Russia’s elite Spetsnaz Special Forces, this was now a personal fight, a fight to the death! “I WANT THAT BASTARD THING’S HEAD,” he shouted.
Running as fast as they could, the five men took to the entrance of the alley.
“THERE IT IS!”
With sweat dripping down their foreheads they ran down another alley, then another, then they stopped…exhausted.
Although Dmitri’s camera tilted up and down with each heavy breath, he didn’t care, for like his TASS colleague, he was both petrified and excited as his camera lens zoomed in on the wolf itself. The wolf…now staring directly at him.
Something was wrong!
The beast had stopped near another alley entrance, silently facing them, with no trace of fatigue, no panting breath, no sign of tiredness. It was just standing there, on its two hairy hind legs, its long, thick, bushy tail weaving gently from side to side.
“Look at its eyes, they’re blood red” whispered Valek, “get a close-up shot of its eyes Dmitri.”
“You bet!”
At that moment, as Dmitri started to film again, something incredible and truly horrifying began to happen.
“Oh my God,” whispered Valek, “look…LOOK, IT’S A MAN!”
The two TASS reporters and the three Spetsnaz soldiers could not believe what was happening. The beast was changing shape, its black hairs receding, its legs, head, chest and skin tissue becoming…human. Yuri pointed the sight of his weapon straight at a man’s forehead.
A tall, gore ridden, naked man.
This was a shot he could not afford to miss, and yet, as Yuri began squeezing the trigger, his inner voice, his voice of reason, started to speak to him. He had to find out more! “What are you?” he said, his voice firm and authoritative, “tell us…what the hell are you?”
The naked, athletically built man grinned an evil smile, his dark eyebrows angled down over his face, his blood red eyes piercing the five men’s souls.
No answer!
“WHAT ARE YOU?” This time Yuri spat the words out.
The naked man spoke, his voice deep, penetrating, “what am I?”
That voice thought Dmitri, who through fear had ceased filming, his thoughts in turmoil. The man’s voice was so low, almost…demonic.
Slowly walking towards them, in all his bloody nakedness, the man laughed.
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” shouted
Yuri, his finger squeezing the trigger, “DON’T COME ANY CLOSER!”
The naked stranger spoke again, “why should I stop, soldier man? You cannot kill me!”
That laugh, thought Rimsky Valek, it was so…inhuman.
“You asked me a question…so I shall answer.”
“OH NO,” shouted Dmitri, his thumb now glued again to the camera’s trigger, “HE’S CHANGING AGAIN!”
Indeed he was, back to the beast, his voice reverberating in a disturbing, fearful tone. “What am I?” The snarling began again, “I… AM A GOD!”
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Hurriedly, Captain Mentsov and his men ran around the corner as they heard a series of terrible, gut wrenching screams and pitiful cries for help.
“OVER THERE!” He pointed to the right, “QUICKLY, QUICKLY.”
They moved swiftly, but not swiftly enough. Turning the corner of the small alleyway, Mentsov and his men stopped dead in their tracks. “We need more body bags,” he whispered, his men staring in horror at the sight in front of them. Five more human bodies, smashed and broken, ripped to pieces. And of the beast, there was no trace. It had vanished down the alleyways, as if into thin air.
Of Yuri and his two Spetsnaz colleagues, only their torsos and lower legs were left attached, the rest of their bodies, ripped to pieces by claws and teeth.
As blood ran freely on the alleyway floor, congealing at a drain near Mentsov’s feet, one of his men vomited, his face ashen with nausea and the sight of Rimsky Valek’s entrails, littering one part of the alley, his head…missing.
And of Dmitri? The look on his face at the time of death told the police officers what all of the wolf’s victims had sensed during their last seconds of life.
Fear! Terrible, gut wrenching, soul draining… fear!
“Sir, the camera, it is still recording.”
“What…oh… yes,” Mentsov held his right hand over his mouth as he walked through the gore and picked up the camera. The public must never see this footage, he thought. No one, never…ever! Feeling nauseous, he turned the camera’s recording switch to ‘off’. “You…light me a cigarette,” he muttered.
“Sir…”
“Thank you.” Slowly, painstakingly, Mentsov inhaled a large lungful of tar and nicotine and shook his head in disbelief. “Lord help us all,” he muttered, his body trembling as he exhaled, the smoke vanishing quickly into the cold evening air.
1
UNDER FIRE
Dateline: 19 March 2003 - 22.03 Hours
Location: Six kilometres east of the South Rumaila Oilfields, Southern Iraq
The four desert camouflaged, Special Air Service soldiers landed in the Iraqi sand within twenty six seconds of each other.
The drop and its timing had been perfect.
In just over two hours, British and American combat troops would be crossing the Iraqi border to initiate the overthrow of Saddam Hussein, and free the people of Iraq from years of oppression.
With his voice just above a whisper, Captain Michael Peters called through his Com-link to his three colleagues, “Piper, Collins, Dunstan, on me.”
Captain Peters’ colleagues kept low as they gathered in their HALO parachutes and checked their weaponry and equipment.
Hastily moving toward the man who had led them for over a year, Trooper Ashley ‘Ash’ Piper spoke, “decent drop sir. Right on target, suggest a call to home.”
As the four knelt together behind a large sand dune checking their compasses and watches, the far off metallic, reverberating pumping sounds from the South Rumaila Oilfields drifted across the Iraqi desert.
“Pathway Leader this is Tourist One, repeat, Pathway Leader this is Tourist One, we have arrived at our destination, do you copy, over?” Captain Peters winced at the crackle of static through his Com-link as he gazed up at the night sky, remembering that thousands of kilometres above them, high above the earth, an American controlled satellite was watching and monitoring their every move.
“Tourist One this is Pathway Leader, good to hear from you. Be advised, two fast movers are approximately thirty minutes from despatch area, repeat, thirty minutes from despatch area, suggest moving to your next checkpoint and reporting in, over.” “Understood Pathway Leader, we are moving to checkpoint Victor, further communication to follow.” Captain Peters spoke in a hushed tone, “right lads, this is it. Collins you take point, everyone keep alert, let’s go.” The four ghostly figures seemingly adhered to the blackened sandy landscape, silently, stealthily moving as one. Their destination was just under a kilometre away, an Iraqi Armoured Recon Platoon totalling from what they knew, approximately eight vehicles including two, Russian built T72 tanks.
If all went well, within the next hour or so, the vehicles and their occupants would be cremated in a sea of flame.
Breathing carefully to conserve energy, the four men moved on, constantly monitoring the surrounding area through their night vision headsets. Within an hour, the highly trained SAS soldiers had arrived at their next checkpoint. As Captain Peters held his fist up in the universal military sign for recon troops to halt and hold, the four crouched down, each taking a ninety-degree field of view. Deftly, Peters pulled out his small ‘SATNAV’ Satellite Navigation monitor, flipped open the cover and gently started to tap the device’s small keyboard. “Good, we’re here,” he whispered, “Piper, get up on top of that dune and run surveillance. I’ll make another call.”
“Sir.” Ash Piper flung his Heckler and Koch Sniper Rifle over his shoulder, and slowly started to crawl up the dune. Upon reaching the top, keeping low, he carefully scanned the surrounding area with his night vision field binoculars, as Captain Peters spoke again through his Com-link.
“Pathway Leader, this is Tourist One, we have arrived at checkpoint Victor and are now admiring the scenery, over.”
Further static assaulted the Captain’s ears as Trooper Billy Dunstan, a quizzical look on his face, glanced up towards Piper, whose hand was held up, showing five fingers, then three. “Five recon vehicles, three tanks sir,” whispered Dunstan.
Captain Peters nodded his head, his Com-link seemingly alive once again.
“Tourist One, this is Pathway Leader, receiving at strength five, do you copy, over?” Peters smiled. “Solid copy Pathway Leader. Be advised further tourists are in the area. Vehicle parking is a problem. We have five and three total and urgently require an update on our fast mover friends, over?” As further static crackled over the airwaves, Peters noticed the look in Trooper Dunstan’s eyes. Something was wrong! “Pathway Leader, hold communication! We may have a problem!”
The Iraqi soldier didn’t really have a care in the world, for him it was just another long night of boring patrol duty. Lazily he slung his AK47 Semi Automatic Rifle over his shoulder and lit another, black market imported Marlboro cigarette. After taking an expansive lungful of smoke he sighed then smiled. The Marlboro’s nicotine tasted good…it always did. Inhaling and exhaling slowly, the smoke weaving ethereal patterns in the still night air, the soldier nonchalantly gazed around into the blackness surrounding him. At these times he often marvelled at how surreal the lights and sounds from the far off oil refinery seemed in the darkness of the desert night. Slowly, the Iraqi took another lungful of nicotine and tar and closed his eyes, the smoke filtering through his nostrils, slightly irritating the skin under his thick black moustache. Lazily, he continued to walk across the sand.
Nervously, Peters, Collins and Dunstan looked up to where SAS Trooper Ash Piper lay, his hand pointing to the right.
“Shit, we’ve got company,” whispered Chris Collins.
Carefully, silently, Piper attached a suppressor to the end of the barrel of his sniper rifle. After his experience of using the weapon in Bosnia the year before, the Heckler and Koch PSG-1 was Piper’s sniper rifle of choice. Well balanced and accurate, it was lethal in skilled hands. With the Iraqi soldier drawing ever closer, Piper brought his weapon’s night vision filtered optical sight into
play, the centre of the cross hairs focussed firmly on the target’s forehead, his right index finger preparing to gently squeeze the trigger. “Sorry mate,” he whispered, “you’re just too damned close.”
The pressure on the trigger increased as a soft ‘thump’ reverberated through the night air, the rifle’s bullet leaving the barrel effortlessly, directly towards the man who had just finished his cigarette. As bone fragment, brain tissue and blood splattered across the sand and a lifeless body crumpled to the floor, Piper lowered his weapon, his face set in a look of grim defiance. It was now or never!
Quickly, Piper gave a ‘thumbs up’ sign as Captain Peters spoke into his Com-link, this time with a sense of urgency in his voice. “Pathway Leader, this is Tourist One, do you copy, over?” Peters shot a tense glance towards Piper, who continued to monitor the Iraqi troop and vehicle concentration from the top of the dune.
“Tourist One, this is Pathway Leader, now presuming you are ready for the lightshow, over?”
Peters smiled. “Correct Pathway Leader, we are ready to laze target, are the fast movers in position, over?”
At the same time, high above the Iraqi desert, two United States Marine Corps F18 Hornets were speeding towards their target area, the lead pilot’s helmet based communicator crackling into life as he readied himself for action.
“Vulture One this is Pathway Leader, be advised our tourist friends have arrived at their destination and are about to enjoy a laser show, do you copy?”
Looking out of his wide canopy and across at the silhouette of his wingman, the F18 pilot replied to the message he and his colleague had been waiting for. “Copy that Pathway Leader, preparing to move to checkpoint Three. Vulture One out!” Closing his communication, the F18 pilot gave a brief command to his wingman and both planes veered 30 degrees to port, their afterburners searing the frozen night air.
