Day of Reckoning

by G. Michael Hopf

  He looked behind him and saw fear in his men’s eyes. Together they had seen battle against the Taliban in Afghanistan, but something here was out of sorts and they all could feel it.

  He motioned with his left hand that he would take a position at the north hall and west hall intersection and provide cover as the others came down.

  He gulped and took the last steps but stopped just before the bottom. He slowly peered around the corner and caught sight of a large pack of those things. They were grunting, pounding and grinding their teeth outside what must have been the door that led to Tango Actual. He took a quick head count. Shit, there’s thirty plus.

  He looked back to his squad and gave a hand signal showing the number down the hall. With nothing holding him back but his own fear, he took two large steps and cleared the span of the hallway. He lifted his rifle and took aim. To his great fortune, they hadn’t seen him. He looked to the second man to come, but as they were stepping off, the lights flickered out.

  Damn, he thought.

  Fear rose in him. Like a scene from a horror movie, he fully expected to see several of them in front of him when the lights came on.

  He sat. His heartbeat was pounding so hard he wondered if those things could hear it.

  The lights came on suddenly. To his delight, the things hadn’t moved.

  He signaled for his men to move.

  Everything was going smoothly until Lance Corporal Shaw tripped and fell, his rifle smacking the tile floor. The sound echoed down the hall.

  Brennan mouthed, Fuck. He looked up and saw several of those things running towards them. He raised his rifle, flicked off the selector switch and began engaging. “Here they come. Open fire!”

  The Marines from first squad poured down the stairs, took various positions on the landing and immediately joined the fight.

  Through the ear-smashing hail of gunfire, he could hear Marines crying out, “Reloading.”

  A smoky gunpowder haze soon enveloped them, making it hard to see.

  Brennan cried out, “Cease fire!”

  The Marines stopped firing. The clangs of empty magazines dropping followed by the audible clacks of new magazines going into the mag wells and the bolts going forward were the only sounds Brennan could hear. He stood and took a couple of cautious steps forward past the haze.

  In the west hallway, a pile of bodies lay.

  “Vickers, you and two others watch our six. Everyone else with me,” Brennan called out.

  “In here!” a voice cried from behind the second door.

  “We’re clear out here. Come on out,” Brennan yelled back.

  The sounds of heavy furniture moving came from the other side.

  Unsure of what he expected to see coming out, Brennan stood back a few feet.

  The door flew open. Two men stepped out. Just from their appearance, gear and weapons, Brennan knew they were SEALs. He looked at the name tag in the center of his chest. SCPO L. Owens, USN.

  “Boy, am I glad to see you,” Owens said.

  “No time to waste, we have a bird coming on station any minute,” Brennan said. He pulled two spare thirty-round magazines from his vest and handed one to each of them.

  “Thanks, brother,” Owens said, inserted the magazine into his M4 and slapped the mag-release button on the slide.

  “Anyone else alive down here?” Brennan asked.

  “Just us, man,” Owens replied.

  Groaning sounded behind them.

  Owens looked back and saw one of the things crawling. “One sec,” he said and walked back to it. He stepped on its back and pushed it to the floor.

  It growled in pain.

  He knelt, grabbed its arms and put them behind its back, and with a pair of zip ties, he restrained its arms and legs together in a hog-tie. Owens then removed a roll of duct tape and wrapped it around its head multiple times to tape its mouth shut.

  “Are you taking him with us?” Brennan asked.

  “Yeah, we came to get intel on what they were doing and I think we have it right here. And, by the way, I think this one is a she.”

  Vickers craned his head back and gave a disgusted look. “It’s drooling everywhere.”

  “I think it likes you too,” Owens said. “Help me carry it.”

  Lance Corporal Wallace slung his SAW over his back and came over.

  The thing squirmed violently.

  “Christ, she’s strong,” Wallace said. He lost his grip, causing the thing to fall to the floor hard.

  It let out a wail and thrashed violently.

  Vickers looked at the thing intently as they walked by with it. “Either that thing is fat or its pregnant.”

  Brennan walked to the front of the group and keyed his radio. “Dietz, we got the survivors. We’re heading up. Is the bird here?”

  Silence.

  Brennan was concerned. He radioed again as he quickly scaled the stairs to the surface. “Dietz, this is Sierra One. Come in. Over.”

  Silence.

  His concern grew. He turned around to his squad and barked, “I’m not reaching topside. Something might be wrong. Heads on a swivel, we may not be out of this yet.”

  First squad, with Brennan leading, raced to the surface, stopping at the exit door. He paused and tried to radio one more time. “Dietz, this is Sierra One. Come in. Over.”

  “Dietz here. Sorry, we’re having some issues with Corporal Marzelli.”

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Brennan with his squad following exited the facility only to be greeted by screams. He sprinted out of the building to find Dietz, Perino and Harmon holding a convulsing Marzelli down.

  “Fucking do something, Doc!” Dietz barked.

  “I gave him a sedative already,” Perino roared.

  “Give him another one!” Dietz yelled.

  Brennan ran over. “What happened?”

  “Not sure, he just started to convulse. I’ve given him a sedative but it’s not working,” Perino explained.

  “Hit him with a morphine injector. Dose him up,” Brennan ordered.

  “But…” Perino said wanting to object but was interrupted when Marzelli stopped moving.

  “Is he dead?” Brennan asked.

  “I don’t know. Everyone back the fuck away,” Perino snapped. He placed two fingers on Marzelli’s neck. “He’s got a pulse, fast too.”

  Marzelli opened his eyes, cocked his head towards Perino and lunged. He clamped onto his hand and bit down on the fleshy part of his palm.

  Perino cried out in pain while retracting his arm, but Marzelli wouldn’t let go.

  “What the fuck!” Dietz hollered out.

  Harmon tried to pull Marzelli off, but was pushed back hard when Marzelli lashed out with his right arm.

  Owens stepped up, pushing past everyone, and swung down hard with his rifle, the butt slamming against the side of Marzelli’s head.

  Marzelli took the hit, but instead of letting go, latched down harder.

  “He’s fucking going to bite my hand off. Get him off!” Perino screamed.

  Owens hit Marzelli again, but still he wouldn’t let go.

  Brennan didn’t need to think about what to do any longer. He raised his rifle and squeezed off a single shot.

  The round struck Marzelli in the side of the head. His body went limp.

  Perino pulled his bloodied hand from Marzelli’s jaws and crawled away in pain.

  The unexpected shot startled everyone.

  Owens looked at Brennan and said, “It’s official, you don’t fuck around.”

  San Diego, California

  Surprisingly Brett woke feeling good. He fully expected to wake with a raging headache but he hadn’t.

  Up before the kids, he took the time alone to investigate the opportunities Chris had suggested the night before.

  Chris and he were not really friends but more associates. Madison and Chris’ wife, Lyndsey, knew each other from the kids’ school and volunteered in one class as well as served on the school’s PTA togeth
er. They had bonded almost instantly, and with their friendship blossoming, it was only appropriate to get the husbands together too so they could do couple dates. Brett’s first encounter with Chris had been good, but nothing was there for Brett to want to pursue it further. This was mainly due to Brett’s own prejudice. He claimed he had enough friends and didn’t have time for more. However, after last night, he was ready to waive that rule for Chris.

  Chris had recently retired from the San Diego County Sheriff’s Department and was now working with a private security firm providing executive protection services for Japanese executives in Mexico. This work pulled him away but he loved it. After twenty-two years in the sheriff’s department, Chris still had the itch.

  After a few whiskeys, their conversation had quickly focused on the terror attacks in Copenhagen and Chris’ worldview.

  Chris wasn’t shy about his opinion and told Brett that these sorts of attacks were coming to American soil and probably soon.

  This was exactly the opposite of what he needed to hear and only further galvanized his anxiety.

  Chris was a big believer in being self-reliant and touted himself as a prepper of sorts.

  This confused Brett because his image of preppers was different than Chris. He kept imagining images of camo-clad, beer-bellied rednecks living off the grid in the middle of nowhere.

  Chris had assured him that wasn’t the case and gave a compelling and reasonable case on why everyone should be prepared.

  Brett listened intently and by the end of the evening was sold on the idea of becoming more prepared.

  Happy to know this, Chris invited Brett to go to the gun range.

  Brett happily accepted, but he hadn’t told Madison yet of his intentions.

  Clicking through various prepper websites, Brett found himself a bit overwhelmed. Like anything in life, the more you discovered about any topic, the more you realized you didn’t know.

  Doubt began to enter his mind as he questioned whether he was overreacting.

  The television was on in the background with the news still reporting on the terror attack. It was an endless loop of photos, video and analysis from every talking head the newscasters could find.

  A news alert sounded and pulled his attention to the screen.

  ‘This is a FOX NEWS alert; French authorities are in a pitched gun battle with what is believed to be terrorists in a neighborhood north of Paris.’

  What doubt he had vanished. He grabbed his phone and texted Chris. ‘ We still on for the range today?’

  “The gun range?” Madison bellowed as she followed Brett to the garage.

  “I’ve never shot a pistol before and Chris is going to teach me.”

  “What is wrong with you? Is this because of those stupid attacks in Copenhagen?”

  “Did you see what’s happening in Paris right now?” Brett said.

  “So what?” Madison groaned.

  “So what? That sorta stuff is coming here. I mean, it’s been here with those smaller attacks last year and the year before, but big ones like Copenhagen are coming. Chris believes it and so do I,” Brett said.

  “You’re crazy. Nothing is going to happen. You’re being paranoid and Chris has put things in your head. I have the nerve to contact him and tell him to stop freaking you out with fearmongering.”

  Brett put on a pair of boots and laced them up. “I’ve been wanting to learn to shoot and now seems like a good time and with someone who seems capable.”

  “Chris is kooky,” Madison labeled.

  “No, he’s not. He’s a good guy.”

  “He’s a redneck, if you ask me.” Madison groaned.

  “Now you’re calling him names? I bet if you had an issue and called 911 and he showed up, you’d love kooky then,” Brett challenged her.

  She folded her arms and replied, “I like him but not enough to have him indoctrinate my husband. You know how I feel about guns.”

  “I’m quite aware, but I don’t hold the same views you do, you know this. I don’t have a problem with them and it’s about time I learn what they are and how to use them,” Brett said standing up and widening his shoulders boldly.

  “Honey, I love you just the way you are. I know you feel tense about this whole thing, and with your brother almost getting killed, it’s made you a bit emotional. I like that side of you but this is bordering on irrational,” she said softening her tone and stepping closer to him.

  Eddie poked his head into the garage and asked, “Where are you going, Dad?”

  “I’m going—”

  “Out with a friend, guy time,” Madison interjected, interrupting him.

  “Where?” Eddie asked, still curious because Brett never usually left the house on Sundays.

  “I’m going shooting with Adam’s father,” Brett answered honestly, seeing no need to lie.

  “Brett!” Madison scolded.

  “Cool! Can I come?” Eddie exclaimed.

  “Your dad has only shot .22-caliber rifles before. Today I’m going to shoot a 9mm and a .45-caliber pistol.”

  “Can I come, please?” Eddie squealed with excitement.

  “Maybe soon,” Brett said, kneeling and looking Eddie in the eyes.

  “Never, ever, ever going to happen. Brett, how dare you!” Madison barked, grabbing Eddie’s hand and dragging him inside.

  “But, Mom,” Eddie complained.

  “Don’t listen to your father. He’s being an idiot!” Madison declared.

  “Mom said a bad word, Dad,” Eddie yelled from further in the house.

  “I heard,” Brett hollered back, shaking his head. He was shocked she would use those words in front of Eddie but not really surprised she was upset. Ever since childhood she was told guns were bad. She didn’t have any negative experiences with them nor had she ever shot a gun, she just held a very passionate belief they were bad and anyone who owned, shot or liked them were ignorant hicks. Her belief wasn’t borne or built on experience of using them but merely what she was told. If anyone was acting like they had been indoctrinated, it was her, he thought.

  For Brett, he never held a belief either way. In many ways he was indifferent, but with everything happening, he felt it time to discover them and with someone like Chris, who could be a valuable teacher.

  A car horn blared.

  Brett stuck his head back in the house and hollered, “Bye, guys, love you. I’ll be back in a few hours!”

  “Bye, Dad,” Eddie and Will both screamed from the playroom on the opposite side of the house.

  Brett closed the door and exited the house. Outside, he found Chris behind the wheel of his Chevy Silverado pickup truck. He chuckled because Chris and the truck only added to Madison’s stereotype of him being a redneck.

  Brett jumped in the truck and nervously began tapping his fingers on his legs. “Thanks for doing this.”

  Chris looked at him and grinned broadly. “You good?”

  “Yeah, why?” Brett asked, his hands clasped tightly.

  “You look a bit out of sorts.”

  Adjusting his posture, Brett cracked a half smile and replied, “I do?”

  “Is the old lady getting on you? I heard she’s not a big gun person.”

  “She’s not completely happy about it, but I’m my own man.”

  “That you are.” Chris peered through the windshield and said, “Let’s do this.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Monday, April 24

  USS Anchorage, Off the Coast of Somalia

  Sergeant Brennan marched into the briefing room alone. He proceeded to a small table at which sat Arnold; Captain Devarow, the USS Anchorage’s commanding officer; Colonel Nellis, his battalion commander; and two other officers, both naval. He stopped in front and stood at attention. He had no doubt that when he left, he’d be a corporal or, even worse, a lance corporal. The verbal lashing he’d received upon his return yesterday was anything but welcoming. However, if he had to do it all over again, he would.

  Seated in cha
irs against the far wall were Owens and Lieutenant Frank.

  “Sergeant Brennan, we’ve read your account as well as the others’ accounts from the raid. You’re here because of your singular action to shoot and kill Corporal Marzelli,” said an unidentified naval officer.

  Brennan said nothing; he just stared ahead.

  “Can you tell me why you did what you did?” the officer asked.

  “Sir, I shot him because after repeated attempts to get him off Petty Officer Perino failed, and after what we saw in the facility, I made a quick decision to terminate him.”

  “Interesting word choice, and terminate you did.”

  “Sir, if I may continue,” Brennan said.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Petty Officer Perino is a great corpsman and a needed asset in our unit. If he were to lose his hand, we’d lose him. I’d also like to add that Corporal Marzelli’s state resembled those of the droolers we encountered in the facility. For whatever reason, I deducted that Marzelli had…” Brennan said then paused.

  “Had what?”

  “Sir, that he had turned into one of them and therefore was a threat to us, all of us,” Brennan answered candidly.

  “Your brief contact with what you’re calling droolers gave you the expertise to make that determination?”

  “Sir, I’m not trying to be disrespectful, but those things went through an entire Marine Raider squad and almost took out an entire SEAL fire team. Those are some of the best and well-trained warriors we have, but they were cut down easily.”

  The room grew quiet.

  Colonel Nellis cleared his throat and asked, “Did you think you should have requested permission to take such an action?”

  “No, sir, not at all.”

  “And why not?” Nellis asked.

  “There wasn’t time to, sir. I did what I felt best at that very moment and I have to say that I’d do it all over again.”

  Again the room grew silent.

  The unidentified naval officer said, “That’s good to know.”

  Brennan wondered what that meant.

  “Sergeant Brennan, your actions yesterday, while questionable at first, were the right ones. Your gut instincts told you that Corporal Marzelli had turned into one of those things and you were correct. At 2215 last night, Petty Officer Perino mutated and was killed within seconds.”