by W. J. Lundy
The man yelled again for them to be quiet.
“Get some sleep, Jesse,” Jacob whispered.
***
Morning came quick, long before the sun had risen. Skipping the five-mile run, the drill sergeants dragged them from their bunks. They were quickly assembled outside, dressed for combat, and pushed through the same drills, only this time with limited visibility under the cover of darkness.
In the following days, they ran the same routine—starting with being kicked awake at random early hours and dragged from their racks. After insane rounds of questioning out in the street, they were sent back to dress. Finally, they would be out front again for long periods of exercise, followed by patrols and hours on the range or gathered in circles, listening to their marksmanship instructors.
The instructors made the chaos routine, helping the recruits adjust and acclimate to the madness. The men became adept at quickly forming for the patrols and battle drills. They could move from rest to battle positions in a matter of seconds. The drill sergeants added new obstacles to trip them up. The range instructors force-fed the recruits technical details. Soon the men learned to break down, clean, and maintain their rifles.
By the end of the first week, they had advanced to live ammunition and learning to sight in their weapons; training on static, then pop-up targets, and finally progressing to moving targets. By the start of the next week, they were falling into formation according to their weapons assignments and finding their own unique role within the patrol. Exhausted and moving like robots, their bodies functioned on muscle memory.
Jacob learned how to react on battle drills and what was expected of him as a designated marksman. After reaching the ranges, he was yanked out of the larger group with the rest of his long rifle team to learn scouting techniques. Their marksmanship instructor was patient and precise in his instruction. Jacob learned how to use the radio, call for fire, and report enemy movements. Hitting them over and over until they were proficient, all of these tasks were integrated into the morning battle drill marches.
As the end of the week and the final days of training approached, they patrolled like a veteran group—not with precision, but worn down and fatigued. Even though still green, most never having faced the enemy, they were broken and their uniforms soiled and faded. The weapons they carried were cleaner than their bodies. Jacob trekked his position near the rear of the formation, his mind focused on his role. Jesse was ahead of him, now gracefully holding the machine gun, his head swiveling with every step.
When a truck approached from the rear of the column, the men parted to allow it to pass through them and to the front. An excited soldier exited the vehicle and ran to Master Sergeant Masterson. A drill sergeant at the head of the column raised a fist, stopping the column’s movement. Jacob prowled to the shoulder of the road, taking a knee and surveying the surroundings. After a short wait, he dropped to his belly and crawled into the high grass, taking up a security position. The rest of the men did the same thing without being instructed, the halt procedure now deeply ingrained in their subconscious.
Masterson moved past Jacob and stood in the center of the street just behind Jacob’s feet, waving the other sergeants to his position while sounds of distant explosions and gunfire echoed off the heavy cloud cover. Explosions that at one time sounded far away and distant now seemed close, like an advancing thunderstorm. Some of the blasts were close enough that the concussions seemed to rattle the ground. Jacob lifted himself to his elbows, trying to listen in on the drill sergeants’ huddle.
“They ain’t ready,” he caught one of them say.
Masterson grunted and spit on the pavement, using the toe of his boot to scrape at the spot. “We’re in the best position to intercept. It’s an opportunity for some of this bunch to get some real trigger time and stop an incursion in the process. This isn’t up for discussion; I’m taking five with me in the truck. Get the rest of the platoon back on their feet and return to the barracks.”
Jacob strained his neck, trying to get a better look and made the mistake of locking eyes with Masterson. The elder drill sergeant pointed a finger at him. “You, and you four; get up and get in the back of the truck. The rest of you prepare to move your asses back to the barracks,” he said, waving his hand to a group of five. He then turned and headed to the cab of the waiting truck.
Jacob pushed himself to his feet and stood, looking confused, not wanting to be the first to step toward the open back of the pickup. He watched as Jesse ran forward and jumped into the truck bed, pulling others in behind him. Jacob felt a shove from behind as one of the drill sergeants pushed him forward. “Get moving. Time to earn your pay, troop,” the sergeant said.
Jacob stepped to the truck, his boots feeling heavy as lead. He placed a foot on the rear bumper and raised his hand. Jesse dragged him in just as the truck moved ahead.
The vehicle cut off the road and turned directly into a high-grass field. The recruits in the back bounced as the truck rolled through uneven terrain. Jacob felt his teeth rattle and struggled to keep his helmet on his head as he was tossed back and forth in the vehicle’s bed. Finally, the truck steered out of the high grass and onto a gravel road. The driver turned right and raced onto the dirt surface, tossing a cloud of dust behind them.
“What’s this all about?” Jesse said, leaning in close to Jacob’s ear.
Jacob turned and looked back. “I don’t know; Masterson said something about an incursion.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jesse asked.
“No idea, but we’re headed in the direction the explosions have been coming from.”
One of the other soldiers scooted forward. “I thought that was just other training groups, artillery practice and range time.”
Jacob nodded in reply and leaned back so he could see ahead in the direction the truck was moving. He spotted an open gate with two vehicles parked on either side. Jacob’s truck raced past them without slowing then continued down the road and up a long hill, stopping just below its peak. The doors opened, its occupants spilling out.
“I think we just went outside the wire,” a recruit whispered.
“Dismount!” Masterson yelled. “We ain’t got a lot of time so move your asses. I want a skirmish line formed up in that brush over there, overlooking that far tree line,” he ordered, pointing just ahead and to the left of the vehicle.
Jesse jumped from the truck and dropped the tailgate to allow the others to spill out. Jacob moved to the spot indicated then walked slightly beyond it, finding a place of deep cover with good views, the way his instructor had taught him to. He waited for Jesse to find a position farther up and watched as he fixed the bi-pod for his machine gun, then dropped to the prone, with the other men online around him. Masterson stepped toward them, the driver of the truck following close behind. He moved up to the crest of the hill they’d aligned themselves with and dropped to his knees, raising a pair of binoculars to his eyes.
Jacob scanned the distance with his scope, seeing nothing but golden grasslands that butted up to a tall line of deep green pines. They were on a high overlook, the terrain dropping steeply down the far side before moving against a thick forest. He lifted his eye from the scope to see Masterson next to him, consulting a map. “What are we looking for, Drill Sergeant?” Jacob asked, immediately regretting his decision as Masterson shot him a cold glare.
Masterson turned his head to Jacob as he folded the map and passed it to the man behind him. “You’re Anderson, right? The one from Chicago? They say you were at the Battle of Museum Park.”
“Yes, Drill Sergeant. I was there,” Jacob said, trying to avoid the man’s cold stare.
“Well, you survived; not many of us did. Look down at the tree line; see the split tree, blackened like lightning struck it? The trail moving to the left of it?”
Jacob raised the rifle back to his eye and panned the edge of the tree line. Over a thousand meters to his front, he spotted the tree, the top splintered and b
urnt to a char. “I see it.” Jacob turned and looked back at Masterson. “Were you there?”
“That’s where we expect them to come from,” Masterson said, pointing a finger and ignoring the question.
“How do you know?” Jacob asked.
Masterson looked Jacob in the eye, not used to being questioned. He forced a grin then held up the small handheld radio. “Two-Six made contact with a small group about an hour ago. They knocked down most of ‘em, but remnants of the enemy patrol broke off and scattered. They’re pushing them this way.”
The radio squelched, causing Masterson to turn his back. He held the radio to his ear, a look of concentration on his face. He placed it next to his lips and pressed the button. “Roger, we’re in position. Out,” he said before turning back to Jacob. “Okay, get on the glass… won’t be long now.”
Masterson dropped to his belly and crawled up next to Jacob. The driver moved closer to the other men, kneeling just behind Jesse’s machine gun.
Jacob put his eye to the scope and focused on the burnt stump. He felt Masterson crawl closer. “How are you on the rifle?” Masterson asked him in a low voice.
“I can hit what I shoot at… most of the time,” Jacob whispered, not taking his eye from the scope.
“We’ll see.”
Five minutes passed before the first of them broke the cover of the trees. They were walking quickly, tightly packed together—not talking, not looking around. They focused to the front as they exited the forest and continued on the trail toward the hilltop road. Jacob counted seven of them, all carrying weapons of some sort and wearing a variety of clothing. He whispered the information to Masterson the way he’d been trained.
“Hold your fire; let them get closer,” Masterson said, loud enough so all could hear him. “Anderson here will drop the point man, and then you all take out the rest. Let none escape.”
Jacob raised the rifle into his shoulder and focused on the leader, a tall lanky man. He was wearing coveralls and carrying a wood-stocked rifle in his arms. It was the first time Jacob had seen one of them since Chicago. He could tell by its movement that he wasn’t human. It was a subtle difference, but once recognized, one a person couldn’t forget—the mechanical motions in the way it moved… the perfect posture… the way it walked without ever looking back to check on its comrades, knowing they would follow.
“Shit,” Masterson said. “Weapons tight, people; don’t fire till Private Anderson initiates contact.”
Jacob took his eye from the rifle, looking at Masterson. “Drill Sergeant?” he said.
Masterson pointed farther down, a second group of nine men emerged from the tree line, moving in the same direction as the first but in their own distinct element. “Get back on the rifle; fire when I give the word. We can’t let them pass. Two-Six is in the woods, moving this way. All we have to do is delay these bastards ‘til they get here.”
Masterson lifted the radio back to his lips and whispered into it. “Two-Six, this is Four Actual.” He held it to his ear, waiting for a response that Jacob couldn’t hear. “Roger, Two-Six, we have ‘em seven strong, lightly armed. I’m tracking a second group of nine to their east… Roger, waiting to engage. Four Actual out.”
Jacob felt his heart rate increase as he blinked his eyes, trying to focus on the man in coveralls. The strange man continued marching on the trail, moving directly in line with the prepared ambush. Jacob exhaled audibly and let his finger caress the trigger.
“Let them come… just a bit closer,” Masterson whispered into his ear. “They get close enough, you can see the black gel in their eyes… let them get on top of you… ya can smell them, that skunky, shit smell. Let them see you and they let out that scream, like a bitch hyena. That’s a scream you’ll hear in your nightmares.”
Jacob held his silence, not knowing how to respond to the drill sergeant’s commentary.
“But you already know that, don’t ya? Hell, you were at the castle,” Masterson said sarcastically. “You probably got it all figured out.”
As the man in coveralls came closer, Jacob kept the reticule over the man’s chest. He let it drift up and now clearly saw the man’s gnarled reptilian face; its forehead was heavily bridged, its neck scaled with gray flesh. He had closed to within two football fields—well within Jacob’s comfort zone. The blackened eyes were now visible in the scope. Jacob focused the cross hairs high on the man’s chest, tightened his grip, and whispered, “On target.”
“Take the shot.”
Chapter 4
His rifle barked, deploying a 7.62-caliber bullet downrange at 2,800 feet per second, crossing the field in the fraction of a second. With his system full of adrenaline, Jacob didn’t feel the kick of the M14 rifle. He kept his eye to the scope and watched intently as the man in coveralls took his last step. The creature’s body shuddered then crumpled to the trail, a solid hit to the upper chest. A line of outbound tracers filled his view as Jesse let loose a long burst from his M240 Gulf machine gun. Rounds from below zipped up at them, seeming to arc over their heads at the last second. Jacob instinctively flinched and ducked down, then felt Masterson’s hand on his shoulder.
“Keep scanning, boy. You got one in the open returning fire. You got him; he’s at your five o’clock, hundred and fifty meters.”
Jacob forced his fear to the back as he pressed his eye to the scope, panning away from the creature he’d already dropped. He found the new target, a man in flannel, walking forward with an AK47. Jacob had already shifted his rifle to the right, placing the cross-hair center mass. The thing showed no fear, firing at them from in the open with its weapon raised while letting out long bursts of automatic fire, the tracers racing in Jacob’s direction.
“Got ‘em!” Jacob shouted. He pulled the rifle close to his shoulder, letting his finger caress the trigger.
“Then drop his ass,” Masterson said.
Jacob eased back on the trigger in one smooth motion. The rifle responded and he watched the man fall back.
“Hit,” Masterson shouted over the noise of the firing. “There’s another just behind him, get on target.”
Jacob pivoted. Finding the next target, he focused on the man. “Got him. On target,” he said, remembering his training.
“Fire,” Masterson said.
Jacob squeezed back the trigger and watched the side of the man’s head vanish in a puff of red. Rounds pounded in the ground ahead of him. Jacob turned away then shifted, searching for the next target: a man running directly at them. Jacob dropped his point of aim, leading the man as he ran. “On target,” he said.
“Drop him.”
Before he could fire again, rounds tore into the man from behind. He watched as the creature’s body contorted and twisted to the ground. Jacob took his eye from the scope and looked into the grassy field below. Men in dark camouflage were running from the trees, rifles up, engaging the remaining others still on their feet. The camouflaged men rushed forward in line, firing rapidly and effectively knocking down the last of the alien invaders. Soon a small dark-green Jeep left the trees with a man standing behind a mounted machine gun. The big gun opened up and swept the field where the last of the Delta resistance remained.
“Hold your fire,” Masterson shouted to the group. Jesse fired several more rounds before his gun fell silent, the barrel belching white smoke. They watched from the high ground as the Canadian patrol exited the forest, killing the remaining creatures below. A man turned and looked up at them, shooting them a mock salute. Masterson fired one back. Jacob sat leaning on his heels and lifted his rifle to his chest, dropping the box magazine and replacing it with a full one. Masterson climbed to his feet and moved away toward the driver of the truck.
Jacob slumped, exhausted, letting the rifle lean against his slack firing arm. He observed the soldiers below emerge from the tree line. They moved among the dead, routinely kicking and rolling over the bodies of the creatures. He wondered how often they did this sort of thing. Is The Darkness really
this close to the gates?
Jesse stood and moved next to him, dropping close beside him. He snatched a canteen from his pack and took a long drink before handing it to Jacob.
“That was intense. Is it always like this?” Jesse asked him.
Jacob took a drink from the canteen and used his sleeve to wipe the drops of water from his chin. “What do you mean? The fighting?”
Jesse took the canteen back and replaced the cap. He pulled his machine gun close to him. “Yeah, you’ve done this before, right? I’ve heard some of them talk… they say you’re already hard,” his friend said, laughing.
“I didn’t do shit, Jesse. Most of the time, I was afraid of dying. I just did what I was told,” Jacob answered before looking away.
Jesse bit at his lower lip and looked down at his dirt-covered hands. “Hey, bro, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I’m sorry if I said something out of line.”
Before Jacob could respond, Masterson was back on his feet, shouting at the men to return to the truck. Jesse moved first, leaping to his feet. Then, lending a hand to Jacob, the big man pulled him up with ease. They double-timed it to the rear of the truck and joined the others already aboard. Jacob sat against the tailgate watching Masterson brief a man with a Canadian flag patch on his shoulder who’d climbed up the hill.
The Canadian soldier held out a map. He waved his hand across the landscape, pointing out distant terrain features. Masterson nodded to the man then looked back at the truck. He put his hands on his hips and spit into the tall grass before shaking the soldier’s hand. Masterson nodded his head again and returned to the truck.
The drill sergeant walked past the vehicle’s bed, stopping momentarily to look over the soldiers sitting in the back. He stopped and took a quick head count. He proceeded on then paused, looking directly at Jesse before turning his gaze to Jacob. “Everyone good?” he asked in a tone that was softer than usual.
