Existential

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  After a moment, Max nodded. “Yeah, that seems the most likely explanation.”

  “Besides, that bear has got to be dead,” Red said. “It totally fucked these guys up, but they had to have hit the thing a few times with all the rounds they fired.”

  LT clarified, “We don’t know if it was a bear that did all this. It has all the signs of an ambush, except for the guy in the tree. Perhaps the bear came after the fact?”

  “Good point.” Max keyed his headset, “Anybody find anything else of interest? Other than body parts and shell casings?”

  The team answered negative.

  “We got places to be. Split back into your teams. Let’s move out.”

  No one looked back at the clearing as they formed up at the tree line. They were on their way in less than two minutes.

  “Waypoint two is atop this ridge,” Max broadcast to the team.

  “Say again, over,” Coach requested, his words barely understandable.

  Max repeated himself and so did Coach; his radio rendered officially dysfunctional. Max said no more. Coach, the rear man on bravo team, would have to follow along without the benefit of comm for the moment. Other radios were likewise malfunctioning, working one minute and completely garbled by static the next. Once in Base Camp, the team could rely on the hand signals they’d all learned long ago in the nascent years of their combat training.

  It had taken the team almost five hours to cover the four klicks from the clearing to waypoint two. Shallow gorges cut through the thick forest in three places, costing the team time as they sought suitable locations to cross. Thick mist choked those micro valleys, forcing the teams to work in closer proximity to one another than usual. With comm so unreliable, Max conducted several headcounts to make sure he hadn’t lost anyone. Max also noted that his GPS was no longer picking up a signal, forcing him to use a map and compass the rest of the way.

  The first raindrop fell as Max emerged from the mist near the top of the ridge, mere feet from waypoint two. A gust of wind kicked up, stirring the cover of fir branches. The rain came hard, relentless and steady, the drops half-ice and half-water. From waypoint two, Max surveyed Base Camp below. He found an outcropping of granite jutting from the ridge and low crawled out to the edge where LT joined him moments later. The rest of the team spread out at twenty-foot intervals, taking cover from weather and potential foes wherever they could.

  The valley below spread much wider than the gorges they’d crossed, cloaked in only a thin layer of mist that allowed for decent reconnaissance. Max and LT scanned Base Camp with their binoculars. The satellite pictures hadn’t done justice to Greytech’s efforts in the area. Trees had been cut down to make way for the larger prefab buildings, but a good deal of forest cover had been left standing about the camp, likely in hopes of concealing the operation from prying eyes in the sky. A vain effort. The remaining cover masked only the scope of Greytech’s efforts.

  This was no exploratory expedition, but a full-blown mining operation that had employed dozens of people. The area around the mine itself, a crude hole in a glacier about a klick up the valley from Base Camp, lay in total disarray. A bulldozer had been flipped over, one trailer partially burned and another knocked askew. He made out a body lying on the ice, the cause of death uncertain.

  Though glad they could avoid the chaos at the mine, Base Camp appeared little better. Several buildings had crumpled, with dents in spots. Doors were missing. Max discerned two major explosions. A ragged hole gaped in the side of a large maintenance structure. The disarray of several Conex boxes brought to mind giant building blocks strewn about and then abandoned by titanic children. A Sea Stallion sat on the nearby helipad, regal and appearing undisturbed amidst the devastation.

  “I count seven corpses.” LT continued to scan through his binoculars. “Make that eight.”

  “And exactly zero signs of life,” Max replied.

  “This is fucking crazy. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Max leaned toward LT to ensure no one else could hear him. “It’s what I’m not seeing that bothers me—no sign of who or what made this mess. Every body I see down there looks to be Greytech civilian or security; not one dead aggressor that I can make out.”

  “Do you remember the camp we cleared in Liberia? They probably removed their dead to cover their tracks.”

  “Perhaps so. But how do you explain the hole in that building?” Max nodded to the left.

  “Rocket launcher.”

  “Where are the blast marks? I don’t see a single sign of an explosion near that hole. And look at those jagged rips in the metal. Explosives don’t do that. Someone did a really sloppy job of cutting through the side of that building.”

  “Yeah, I can’t argue with you there. I don’t like the looks of it.”

  Max raised his binoculars for another peek. “There, on the ground just to the east of that second large building on the admin side of camp.” He pointed in the general direction. “If you look closely, you’ll see corpse number nine. He seems to be missing a leg.”

  “I see it,” LT replied. The tone of his voice, even flatter than usual, informed Max that he likewise considered that a possible connection to the mutilated corpses back in the clearing. “What the fuck are we dealing with?” He whispered, still scanning through his binoculars.

  “Wish I had an answer, buddy.” Max took a minute more to recon the camp, finding nothing else of interest. “Well, this camp isn’t gonna secure itself.” He keyed his radio. “Bring it in for a powwow, gentlemen.”

  Max and LT fell back from the outcropping into the forest cover. The team assembled around them, still keeping an eye on the surroundings as the rain poured.

  “Grab some chow while we go over this, you might not get another chance for a while.”

  Everyone ate hurriedly as Max explained the relatively simple plan: split into security and breaching teams and sweep the camp for survivors and data, starting in the logistics section at the west end and working east into the lab and living areas.

  “And then on to the dig site.”

  Gable jerked to attention. “Whoa, hold on, Chief. Thought that was a no-go.”

  “We aren’t going inside, but I want to check every inch of this camp for those hard drives and any potential survivors. Remember, there could be friendlies in there, so identify your targets.”

  “Let’s hope we find some answers in camp then,” Coach grumbled. “Hate to think I walked all the way out here not to be paid.”

  LT took a pull from his hydration bladder and swallowed. “Way it looks down there, I’d worry about walking out first.”

  Max could have smacked LT. It was the wrong thing to say and typical of his second in command, just LT being LT. Max brought the briefing back on point. “We’ll see what happens, but that’s the plan for now. All of you, lens that logistics area carefully before we depart. We’ll be paying special attention to that building with the gaping hole in its side. Diaz, you got anything on your toys?”

  Diaz checked his nuclear, biological, and chemical detection equipment. “Negative, slight increases in radiation levels, but nothing out of the norms for background stuff, especially in these mountains.”

  Max was about to ask if anyone had questions but decided against it. He was just as clueless as everyone else about what they might find down there. “We move out in fifteen.”

  The team stuffed their mouths with various delicacies from the MRE pouches silently as they scanned the area below. Max found the damp scene oddly comforting—a reminder of simpler days as a lieutenant in the infantry companies. Since then, his life had grown gradually more complicated and had taken a hard turn toward incomprehensible that morning, when he’d slid down the fast rope to face this phantom enemy.

  Max checked his watch: fifteen fifty-five. Chow was over; the team was ready to go. “Form up. Let’s do this.”

  Daylight faded, goaded faster into temporary oblivion by the heavy downpour. The two teams moved
down the hill in wedges, pausing at the bottom to don night vision goggles. Poles topped with powerful spotlights stood about Base Camp, but the generators that supplied their power had died.

  Their sweep of Base Camp began at the helipad, where Max inspected the Sea Stallion and found the helicopter had been intentionally disabled. There didn’t appear to be damage to any of the craft except for the large tail rotor, which had been cut clean off with some sort of explosive cutting charge. It appears someone doesn’t want us going anywhere. It was a bit of a disappointment. He preferred a backup plan for their getaway, even if he wasn’t sure that he could fly the chopper.

  Next, they negotiated the scatter of upset Conex boxes, most of which had popped open before coming to rest in disarray, making the breaching team’s work much easier. Supplies littered the ground, dozens of different items ranging from cleaning supplies to auto and machine parts.

  “...marks...” LT related.

  Comm had degenerated to where Max could barely decipher anything. He silently worked his way over to where LT stood by one of the upset containers.

  “Check these out,” LT whispered, pointing to a gash where the metal container had been sliced open. He produced a small LED flashlight and shined it into the box. Partially dried blood reflected back, stark on a white background of busted cardboard boxes and scattered sheets of printer paper. Max saw a hand and forearm—hairy, male, wearing a gold wedding band—lying amongst the paper, though its owner was nowhere to be seen.

  The déjà vu wore on Max’s nerves.

  “We—” Sugar this time, his transmission abruptly cut off.

  Max double-timed over to him, crouched in cover next to another Conex box. “What do you got?”

  “I don’t know. Tracks maybe? There’s three of them in the mud right around here.”

  “The bear?”

  Sugar shook his head. “Fuck if I know, but it ain’t no bear.”

  Max saw Red nearby and waved him over. They examined the first track. The water-filled indentations in the mud formed a nearly perfect impression. Max couldn’t believe what he saw: a sole some two feet long with what appeared to be six toes. In front of each toe was a small triangular impression. Claws, Max surmised. Two more triangular impressions, much larger and sunk deeper into the muck, were visible a couple of inches behind the heel.

  Max, Red, and Sugar stood dumbstruck gazing at the track. Without a word, Max moved on to the next impression. He noticed the difference between the position of the longest toe in the two tracks.

  Right foot, now left, that next will be right. Now, what the hell made them?

  “This is all real interesting,” Red said.

  Max noticed Red smiling. “Is there something funny about this?”

  “Everything has its funny side, Chief. The funny thing about these tracks is that I’ve never seen a damn thing like ’em, and I’ve been hunting woods like these since I was five.”

  Sugar joked, “Maybe Diaz has a second opinion.”

  Max ignored him. The last thing anyone needed was Diaz further spooked by the mysterious tracks. Max didn’t know when Diaz would find out about them; he just knew he had to delay that discovery for as long as possible. “So, what’s your take?”

  Red shrugged. “Who the fuck knows? Something unknown and really goddamn scary? Maybe he—it—was what Greytech really came here to find.”

  “Or maybe it found them,” Sugar suggested in an ominous whisper Max had never heard from the man. He’d never seen anything rattle Sugar, not even the abattoir back at the clearing.

  Max grumbled, “Or maybe it’s just somebody trying to skew our impression of what really happened here. Putting down false tracks of some mythical beast to cover their own.”

  Red chuckled. “Like an episode of Scooby Doo.”

  “Yeah, something like that.” Fuck, it has to be something like that! Monster tracks two feet long? Bullshit! It’s got to be a hoax...or some sort of reasonable explanation.

  “Man, I don’t know.” Sugar leaned closer. “Them tracks look awful real to me.”

  Red almost laughed. “Yeah, right away, how many animals do you know of with six toes and feet bigger than Shaq?”

  Before Sugar could respond, Max stated, “We got enough to sweat right now without everyone thinking there’s some sort of monster out here. Let’s stay focused on the mission.”

  Sugar nodded. “You’re probably right. Still, man, I don’t know.” He shook his head and walked away.

  Max wasn’t sure if he’d convinced his men of the truth, but he’d certainly planted a seed of doubt regarding this phony beast. That would have to suffice for the moment. Might as well get this part over with.

  He called in the rest of his men to look at the tracks. “I don’t care about these tracks or the bear. I’m only interested in the sons of bitches who attacked this camp.”

  “This is seriously fucking punto tremendo,” Diaz stated. “I’m telling you—”

  “And I’m telling you it’s nothing. We don’t know shit, so let’s quit making shit up.” Max stared him down. He’d shut more than a few mouths over the years with that stare. Though he didn’t want to reprimand Diaz in front of the men, one more comment and he would have to put the medic in his place.

  To his credit, Diaz didn’t flinch under Max’s gaze. He pursed his lips and nodded once. And that was the end of it.

  LT broke the silence. “Not much else of interest here, Chief.”

  “Agreed. Let’s check out these last couple boxes, then it’s on to that maintenance building.” Max gestured vaguely toward the building with the large hole ripped in its side.

  Who’s the joker behind this? Max hoped the man was enjoying his last few hours on Earth, whoever he was.

  * * *

  The team didn’t have to force their way into the maintenance building—a prefab structure that had been converted into a three-bay heavy-machinery garage. The rolling overhead doors to bays one and two were closed, but the door to bay three had been ripped from its tracks. It now covered a good portion of the muddy ground outside the shop.

  As Max moved forward, he kicked something. He bent down into the mist to examine the obstruction—a human head; the face and most of the scalp had been ripped off, leaving behind a tonsure of blond hair. The dead man’s exposed facial muscles and clouded, staring eyes reminded Max of an anatomical dummy from a science classroom.

  “What you got?” Red asked from behind.

  “More body parts. Let’s move on.”

  LT’s breaching team moved up to secure the garage, and Max sent Irish in with them. Max brought up the other two men as the breaching team disappeared inside. Bay two held a dump truck and three an excavator, but Max gave them only the slightest glance. A nanosecond was all the time he could spare from what greeted him in bay one.

  The carnage here wasn’t half that at the clearing, but the confined space made it appear worse. Blood spatter and viscera covered damn near everything. Max found the face belonging to the blond gentleman outside. It hung on the dump truck’s rearview mirror. Said gentleman had likewise been disemboweled in gruesome fashion; ripped open from groin to throat, his organs scattered across the floor and workbench. His assailants had even broken his sternum and cracked open his rib cage. Nothing remained in his torso but bones, his skin covering the remains like a sagging tent.

  The second man had likewise met a ghastly fate. His head was squashed flat like a road-killed squirrel. As Max approached, he noticed that both the man’s knees were broken and forced backward until the joints snapped. As if all that hadn’t been enough to kill the guy, someone had ripped his heart straight from his chest. Both men’s hearts lay near each other on the floor. Max wondered which was whose.

  The same strange tracks covered the bloody, sticky floor.

  Max’s headset crackled. He barely made out the word “clear”.

  LT’s team met up with them in bay one.

  “Nothing noteworthy back there,”
LT confirmed, jerking a finger over his shoulder toward the heavy equipment.

  “Shitload of tracks,” Irish observed, scanning the floor. “No evidence of who really made them.”

  Max pointed to the jagged rip in the metal over the workbench. “Looks like they entered via the hole in the wall, killed these poor bastards, and burst out that way through bay one’s door.”

  “Yeah, they got a real aversion to doors, don’t you think?” Diaz said. “Jesus, I need a fucking drink.”

  Max inclined toward Diaz and motioned Sugar to take him outside.

  Sugar nodded. “Let’s go, brother.”

  Diaz didn’t resist as Sugar led him by the arm out of bay one.

  “Tell you what, Chief,” Gable said, “Whoever’s behind this monster hoax is doin’ a goddamn bang-up job of it. You really know how to pick a mission.”

  Max didn’t respond. To LT, he said, “I think we’ve seen enough Scooby Doo shit here. Let’s keep it moving.”

  For a moment, Max swore he heard a whisper, short, incoherent, and far off, like his brain had been momentarily tuned to the right radio station and then the signal faded.

  * * *

  The team’s work devolved into drudgery as the night wore on, a monotonous cycle of clearing buildings and sweeping streets. As Diaz had proclaimed, this demon apparently hated doors. Most had been ripped from their hinges and cast away, making life a bit easier for the breaching team.

  In one prefab trailer that had served as barracks, the team found two men who had apparently committed suicide together. Gun shots through both of their mouths, the weapons still in their hands.

  The inexplicable destruction and bizarre atrocities mounted as they swept Base Camp. Max checked his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time: almost midnight. He had been to almost every hell hole the world had to offer and had seen countless horrors and atrocities, but nothing he saw here made any sense. The scope of this mini-apocalypse began to fatigue him mentally; the feeling spreading slowly into his limbs. The dank air and steady rain seemed to press downward upon him, making him feel as if he were working at the bottom of a river.