by Luke Duffy
Another loud bang to the right, and a flash, followed by a cloud of smoke denoted the deaths of more of the attackers, but still, they came.
“Hotel-One-Zero, Hotel-One-Zero,” Marty was screaming into his radio from behind Stan as he attempted to warn the helicopter of their situation.
“Be aware, the LZ is hot. I say again, the LZ is hot. Approach from the south and give fire support. Enemy positions will be marked with infrared.”
Over the thundering machineguns, rifles and exploding hand grenades, Stan could hear the distant rapid thump of the approaching helicopter. They were on their way, but he could not afford to let up on their weight of fire.
“Stoppage,” Bull hollered as his weapon ceased firing.
Immediately, he pulled back the cocking lever and began carrying out the drill to clear the misfired round, his hands a blur as he expertly worked his gun.
The area was awash with the bodies and blood of mangled people. The smoke from the rifles and detonations filled the air, stinging at the eyes of Stan as he fought to keep control of the battle and his men. The flanks were still retreating, firing and manoeuvring their way back towards the centre as they yielded under the enormous pressure of the assault.
Although they were not receiving any incoming fire, the men knew instinctively that something was seriously wrong and that they could not allow their attackers to come close. Everywhere they looked, more twisted and hideous faces sprang towards them, howling and wailing as they pressed forward through the hailstorm.
The sound of the approaching aircraft grew louder.
Stan reached into his vest and pulled out a red plastic object, roughly the size of a cigarette packet. He pressed a button on the side, and then tossed it high into the air. It landed close to the treeline, where the attack was coming from.
A couple of seconds later, a high pitched tearing noise rang out from behind them as the guns of the Black Hawk opened up, firing thousands of rounds into the jungle from its spinning barrels. Mixed in with the rumble of the guns, Stan could hear the clinking sound of thousands of empty bullet cases being expended from the mini-guns, landing in piles on the forest floor. The cannons roared, cutting trees in half, churning up the muddy ground, and disintegrating the wall of maddened human beings who continued to converge on the team.
The brightly lit tracers zipped through the air over the heads of the men, fanning out in a wide arc to their front as the skilled gunners created an impenetrable wall of fire.
Through the chaos, Stan could see bodies exploding and being scattered into the mud as the guns reduced them to nothing but organic smears or bone and tissue.
The men slowed their rate of fire as the helicopter’s guns helped to ease the pressure on them and continued to slow the enemy advance. They changed out their magazines and took precision shots at the figures that managed to fight their way through, quickly realising that only headshots were affective and capable of stopping them in their tracks.
The attack was halted, and the pilot ceased firing, the echo of its guns slowly receding through the jungle. He kept the Black Hawk in a hover, remaining close to the treetops and his weapons trained on the perimeter as the men below began preparing themselves for extraction.
Down on the ground, the team stared around them at the carnage they had created. The ground was thick with the dead. Body parts of men, women, and children were scattered in a wide area, piled up on top of one another, like macabre pyramids.
Bull stepped back, his face black with the carbon from his machinegun while pale grey wisps of smoke drifted up from the glowing hot barrel.
“Fuck me,” he said hoarsely, his mouth dry from shouting and fear. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The team closed in, checking their ammunition while keeping their eyes on the perimeter, expectant of another fight.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Stan shouted to his men over the whirl of the Black Hawk’s engines.
They did not need to be told twice.
In the flat area, in the centre of the camp, the team fanned out to protect the Landing Zone, their weapons held at the ready and aimed at the treeline.
Stan signalled the pilot and the helicopter began to lower, its downwash kicking up a storm and sending debris in all directions around the rebel camp. Slowly, it descended and Stan was able to see the bewildered expressions on the faces of the pilots. He understood that they must have been pretty shocked and confused about what had happened but all he could do, was give them a slight shake of his head and shrug his shoulders.
The aircraft settled into a hover, just one metre from the ground.
Stan moved forward, dragging the unresponsive doctor with him and bundled him through the side door and into the passenger area. Next, Bobby and Taff scooped up the body of the dead soldier and carefully lifted him into the helicopter.
The cordon moved back and the men, still covering one another, began to board the Black Hawk.
Through the pounding of the blades and the scream of the engine, Stan heard a howl and spun to see Nick, jumping backwards and falling into the sucking quagmire below the aircraft. A black figure, its body cut in two at the waist, was dragging itself through the mud, clawing at Nick’s legs as he kicked at its face.
Stan jumped from the door, landing heavily in the sludge and almost losing his balance. Without hesitation, he grabbed Nick by the webbing straps of his vest and pulled him back, away from the mutilated man who defied all laws of nature and continued to pull himself along the ground.
The thing crawling towards them stared up at him. Stan looked into its eyes and saw no sign of life. They were devoid of anything.
His blood froze in his veins as he stared back at the monstrous face, its gnashing teeth snapping shut as it snarled at him. Stan knew what he was seeing. At that moment, he realised that he had seen it before, in Syria.
The man at his feet was already dead.
The noise of the gunshot was subdued beneath the clatter of the helicopter’s motors as the bullet from Stan’s pistol drilled a hole through the man’s head. The body went limp and sank into the mud, his brains ruined and seeping from a fist sized hole above his ear.
Stan looked down into the shocked face of Nick and began pulling him to his feet, dragging him to the waiting helicopter where Bull leaned out, stretching his arms so that he could pull his friends to safety.
Nick groaned and hobbled towards the door, reaching down to a dark stain on the leg of his trousers and grimacing.
“The fucker bit me,” he shouted over the thumping blades and howling downwash. “He bit me, Stan. Why the fuck would he bite me?”
“You’re lucky that’s all he bit, mate,” Stan screamed back as he pushed him up into the powerful arms of Bull.
Stan climbed in after him and patted the pilot on the shoulder, informing him that they were all on board. The pilot nodded and took the aircraft up, above the trees and headed away from the camp.
Stan turned and eyed each of his men. They were veteran soldiers, hard and steadfast, but they looked traumatised and exhausted.
He told no one of what he had realised on the ground and he wondered if he had really seen it, but he knew that he had. There was no mistaking what he saw in those eyes.
The words of the doctor echoed through his mind;
“They were all dead…”
Now, he understood.
Turning to look back at the slaughter in the devastated rebel camp below them, Stan silently thanked the Gods that his men had all made it out alive.
10
Marty paced the room, alternately flexing his fingers then screwing them into a fist. He was beginning to feel cooped up and ready to lose his temper. He glanced about at the others who slouched and slept around him, sprawled out on the uncomfortable army issued cots that they were expected to rest upon.
It seemed that only Brian and Danny were truly asleep, while the others sat staring into space or attempting to nap.
The incessant thumping continued at one-second intervals and Marty could sense that his nerves were beginning to fray.
“For fuck’s sake, Bull,” he growled, “will you give it a rest?”
The thuds ceased and Bull turned to look at him, blinking heavily as though bringing himself out from a daze and rubbing his forehead as he stepped back from the large two-way mirror that was set into the wall. He had been steadily pounding his head against his reflection for the past forty-minutes, hardly noticing what he was doing or the effect it could be having on the others.
He looked back at the angered face of Marty and then around at the others. He shrugged his shoulders.
“Sorry, mate,” he offered.
Since they were extracted from Sierra Leone, they had spent the last four days in quarantine. From the moment their helicopter touched down, they were swept away, with no explanation or debriefing and bundled into the secure room. The brilliant white of the walls and the bright lights above them that burned endlessly, added to the total frustration of the men. Even their watches had been removed, leaving them without the slightest sense of time and how long they had been there.
It could have been days, even weeks, for all they knew.
They had landed in an old army base somewhere in the south of England, they had guessed, and were immediately stripped of their clothing and equipment. From there, they had been sent through a series of decontamination chambers, being sprayed with chemicals that left their skin burning and their eyes stinging.
They recognised none of the men around them, clad in thick white rubber suits with independent air supplies and barking their orders through the integrated communications link in their face masks.
All their questions went unanswered and they soon realised that it was pointless to struggle. When Bull, standing his ground and demanding answers, received a shock that dropped him to the floor and completely incapacitated him, the team, at the sight of the cattle prods that their friend was disabled by, thought twice about any further resistance and complied with the orders of their guards.
Now, they sat waiting beneath the hot lights, cramped together in the immaculate quarantine chamber.
Bobby suddenly sat up, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning forward, letting out a long sigh as he did so.
“What do you think all this is about, Stan?”
Their commander had been doing his best to try to sleep, but was finding it impossible. Despite his experience and usually cool and calm appearance, he too was beginning to feel the strain. The total isolation and lack of information left them all feeling vulnerable and unsure of what was going to happen.
“How many more times do you want to go over this, Bobby?” He huffed from his cot, as he remained lying on his back, shielding his eyes from the bright lights with his forearm. “I know as much as you do. I told you what I saw and all I can think is that it’s something to do with that dead bloke in the jungle.”
Bobby shook his head, still unable to grasp what Stan was telling them. They had gone over this before, but the men still had trouble taking it in
“Personally, Stan, I think you’re waffling shit.” Bull stated from the other side of the room. “How can a dead man still be walking around, and what the fuck have they done with Nick? Why did they take him away, instead of putting him in here with us? I tell you, if that fucker is sat living it up in some plush hospital bed because he has a sore leg, I’ll tear his balls off and feed them to him.”
“That guy wasn’t walking around. The fucker had no legs. Think what you want,” Stan growled in frustration.
He sat up and looked at each of them in turn.
“Whatever it was that the doctor was doing out there, it’s nothing to do with some weird strain of flu. That man, the one who took a bite out of Nick, was dead.”
They all stared back at him in silence, seeing that their leader truly believed what he was saying. They had never felt any reason to doubt him over anything in the past, but what Stan was telling them, seemed completely absurd.
Bull was pacing now, shaking his head and growling under his breath. Stan looked up at the bulky man and then across to Taff who sat with his back to the wall.
“You know me, mate,” Taff shrugged. “And I know you, Stan. We’ve worked together for a long time and I’ve never questioned you before, so I don’t plan on starting now. I’m willing to have a little faith on this one, until proven wrong, that is.”
Bull stopped mid stride and looked down at the rugged face of the Welshman. He could see that Taff was tired but despite his expression of disinterest, his eyes remained clear and focussed.
“So you’re saying that you believe this bullshit?”
Taff remained indifferent and continued to wrap one of the ties from his hospital robe around his finger.
“Stan could well be right, Bull. Those people who charged at us in the jungle, they definitely weren’t normal and if Stan says that they were dead, then I believe they were dead, or at least something like it.”
He turned and nodded towards Bobby.
“How many rounds did you put into that guy that came at you out of the woods?”
Bobby shrugged, unable to remember the exact number.
“Not sure. About five or six, I think. All I know is that he didn’t go down until I put one through his head.”
Taff turned back to Bull.
“I’ve never heard of a man taking five or six hits to the chest without so much as a flinch, have you?”
Bull said nothing.
“From the minute we landed, they’ve stuck all sorts of needles in us, taking blood and doing tests. We’ve had no comms with Gerry and no one is telling us anything. Nick was swept away to, Christ knows where, and now we’re sat in here, while they watch us from the other side of that window.”
“Do the math yourself, mate. Something has them scared and I think we came into close contact with it in Sierra Leone.”
Bull turned to look at his reflection and thought as he panned his eyes along the length of the glass. With a grunt and a nod to himself, he swept his flimsy hospital gown to the side and tore it from his shoulders, exposing his naked body.
Staring at the mirror, he grabbed hold of his penis.
“Well then,” he roared, “I hope there are some pretty women doctors watching this.”
He approached the glass, and standing on his tiptoes, began to press his testicles against the two-way mirror, glaring at his reflection and allowing his tongue to flop from his mouth and his eyes to roll upward, simulating the appearance of sexual ecstasy.
“How do you like that?” He hollered at the glass. “Come on then, don’t be shy, it isn’t that big. Come on, come and fucking get it.”
The rest just sat and watched while Bull vented. They knew it would be a waste of time to try to encourage him to just sit and wait, patiently, and having him behaving in a lewd way was better than having to watch him lose his temper and begin trying to break down the door with his head, or worse, someone else’s head.
After twenty minutes of smearing his genitalia against the glass and unleashing a torrent of profanities and insults, Bull lost interest and collapsed back on to his cot with a loud sigh.
“Alright, Stan, now that’s out of my system, what do you think will happen next?”
A metallic clunk interrupted them before Stan was able to give his opinion. They all turned towards the door as a hiss of air announced the release of the locking mechanism. Immediately, they felt the air pressure within the chamber change, causing their ears to pop.
As one, they jumped to their feet, unsure of what to expect to come from the other side of the heavy steel hatch. They stood, shoulder to shoulder, in the centre of the room, ready to attack anyone that they saw approaching them with one of the hated cattle prods.
With a whirr and a heavy click, the door slowly separated from its frame, and then stopped, revealing only darkness on the other side through the small gap.
Barel
y visible, a pale hand appeared and pushed against it from the room beyond.
The men tensed and prepared themselves.
Gerry’s face appeared from the gloom.
His expression was one of uncertainty and he hesitated as he stepped through the airlock, immediately locking eyes with Stan, desperately needing his support and hoping that he had control of the men after their frustrating time in quarantine.
Stan stared back at him, and as usual, showed no sign of anger or affability. He glanced down from the wary expression of Gerry and at the bundle that the officer carried in his hands. He was laden with luxuries and it was clear, Gerry was trying to pacify them and sway them from lynching him.
“Guys,” he began in a faltering voice but fighting hard to keep the friendly smile on his face as he looked back at the glaring eyes of each of the men in front of him.
Bull looked especially fearsome. Completely naked and still holding his genitals in his hand, he glowered back at their officer.
“I’m really sorry about all this,” Gerry continued. “I tried my best to speak with you, but they wouldn’t let me. Believe me, I had no part in this, and I have reported it all up to The Prince of Darkness.”
His eyes remained fixed on Bull as he spoke, expecting the enraged mountain to erupt with his fury upon him.
“It was the General who sent me and the quarantine is over.”
Bull took a small step forward and glanced down at the bundle in the officer’s arms.
Gerry looked back at him tentatively.
“Peace?”
He offered one of the many bottles of beer to the towering man in front of him. Bull snatched it from his hand and turned away with a snort.
“What’s going on, Gerry?” Stan asked as the other men began noisily grabbing at the chocolate, cigarettes and alcohol.
“Yeah, Gerry, what the fuck is all this about?” Taff demanded as he tore at the plastic wrapper from a pack of cigarettes, threw one into his mouth and fumbled with the lighter, anxious to get his nicotine fix. “We’re being treated like mushrooms here.”
