by Rockow, B.
Jones gasped at what he saw. This wasn’t a human. Instead of brains and blood, pudgy white worms crawled out from the giant creature’s skull.
“Sergeant Jones, come take a look at this. I found a tunnel.” Roddy stood on the far end of the boulder that started this whole debacle. “I think we’ve stepped into some shit.”
Jones knew that Roddy was right. “Don’t go stepping into unwelcome places,” he said. “Curiosity can be dangerous out here.”
Wimpy hovered close over Big Boy’s body. He gave Jones a thumbs up as he walked by, indicating that Big Boy was alive. Wimpy started dressing his fellow soldier’s wounds. “He’ll be alright,” Wimpy said. Big Boy groaned. “But we’ll have to get him to CSH ASAP.”
Big Boy wasn’t doing well. Wimpy didn’t want to alarm Jones, but he knew that Big Boy wasn’t going to make it long.
“I can’t feel my legs,” Big Boy said. He looked into Wimpy’s eyes. Big Boy had the dreaded look of a man who was face to face with death. “What was that thing? That monster. That freak.”
Wimpy shook his head. “I dunno, Big Boy. But you’ll be alright. I swear, you’ll be alright. Just breathe. Just breathe.”
Wimpy tore his own shirt up so that he could dress Big Boy’s wounds. The problem was that half of the injured grunt’s abdomen had been ripped to shreds by the giant. Wimpy didn’t want Big Boy to see the extent of his own injuries. He knew that Big Boy was in shock, and didn’t want to frighten him with images of his own mutilated body.
“I can’t feel my hands,” Big Boy said. “I can’t move them. Can I? Are my hands moving? Are my feet moving?”
They were moving. They were shaking with shock.
Wimpy knew how close Jones and Big Boy were. He wanted Big Boy to fade away in peace. He wanted Jones to see his friend after the pain was long gone.
Jones continued on to meet up with Roddy, who pointed at the base of the boulder. Jones peered down the entrance of a dark tunnel. He took out his flashlight and shined it down the way. The tunnel seemed to go on forever. “I’m going in,” Jones said.
“So now you’re curious,” Roddy said. “How do we know there aren’t more of these freaks of nature down there?”
“We don’t know,” Jones said. “But we’re gonna find out.”
“Sergeant Jones, with all due respect. This adventure would be a significant deviation from the stated goals of our current mission.” Roddy looked over at Wimpy and Big Boy. “I say that we book it back to base, and call in a recon group.”
Jones shook his head. A primal instinct overtook his rational mind. Maybe it was those worms. “I want to know what’s down in this tunnel.”
Roddy wasn’t happy, but he followed his sergeant’s orders. The two men readied their weapons and flashlights and entered the tunnel. The first hundred yards or so proved to be absolutely boring. The innards of the tunnel were completely bare. The air was cool in the tunnel, which Jones appreciated. He hated the Afghanistan heat.
The men were another hundred yards in before they noticed a marked improvement in the tunnel’s construction. The rock and dirt entrance gave way to smooth stone bricks. They looked old, but well maintained.
A glint on the wall caught Roddy’s eye. He stopped to examine it closer. It was a gold coin stuck deep in one of the wall’s bricks. The coin was of an incredibly ancient provenance. The head of a bull-god graced its face, with two worm like creatures curled up on either side. Roddy dug his thumb into the side of the coin and tried to wedge it out. But it didn’t budge. “Hey Jones, check out what’s in this brick.”
Jones didn’t pay any attention to Roddy. The sergeant was another twenty or thirty paces ahead. What he found in that short distance was infinitely horrifying. Jones looked around in absolute disgust. His face contorted in revulsion at what he saw.
“Sarge, come take a look at this,” Roddy said again. “There’s a coin lodged in this brick. Come see if you can get this damn thing out.”
“Leave the coin, Roddy,” Jones said. “We just stepped in some shit.”
Roddy turned away from the coin and shined his light down the tunnel. He made his way towards Jones, and as he got closer, a sense of dread became palpable. “What’s up there, Sarge? What do you see?”
Jones stayed perfectly silent. The horror in the tunnel muted him. Roddy finally came to see what was hidden away in this treacherous tunnel. A pile of skeletons, stacked from wall to wall and floor to ceiling, stood in front of the two soldiers. Their skulls were fractured and busted open. Their femurs were splintered, and upon inspection Jones realized that the marrow had been meticulously carved out. And the skeletons weren’t alone. Several neat stacks of clothing accompanied them. They were the uniforms of United States soldiers.
“There’s got to be two, three hundred,” Roddy said. His voice was steady, but his hands shook. The light bounced up and down as he examined the pile of uniforms. “What is going on here?”
Jones stayed silent. He approached a stack of uniforms and gently unfolded one. He held the shirt up to his own chest. “This tunnel’s more fucked up than a soup sandwich on a Sunday,” he said. Jones tossed the shirt to the ground. He pulled out his pack of cigarettes and lit one up. He picked up a pair of pants and sniffed the crotch. “Fresh kill. This pair of pants couldn’t have been worn more than a couple days ago. Roddy, we’re not saying squat about this tunnel once we get outside. We’re not tracking this shit on our boots back to the platoon.”
“An official report then,” Roddy said.
Jones took a deep drag from his cigarette. “Not quite, Roddy,” he said. “We’re washing our hands of this shit now. We’re coming out of this tunnel squeaky clean.”
Roddy looked baffled. “But these are fellow soldiers,” he said. “We’ve got to get this info up the ranks.”
Jones just laughed and shook his head. “You’re green, grunt,” he said. “Talking about this would be suicide. I hate to say it, but somebody, somewhere in the United States Army, or some ABC intelligence agency, already knows about this. And I’m not willing to smear shit on their objectives. Whatever this is, whatever this happens to be, has no bearing on our current mission. Like you said before, this whole situation is a significant deviation from the objective at hand. Our objective. Now buck up, soldier. We’re done here.”
Jones put out his cigarette on the femur of a fallen soldier. It seared the bone, and for a moment Roddy could smell that caustic odor of burning human. This whole situation was utterly surreal. It seemed like a dream to Roddy. Like he accidentally stepped into this tunnel and into some nasty nightmarish world, and stepping back out into the light would wake him up out of it. Just for the sake of it, he pinched his own arm. No effect.
Presently, the two soldiers heard a rumble come from beneath the pile of bones. They drew their weapons and waited for something to emerge. The rumble’s volume strengthened. The bones started to shake and move. The two soldiers took a few steps back.
Thousands of pudgy white worms slithered out from the bones. They quickly blanketed the entire tunnel floor. They made a collective sound that reminded Jones of an idling bus.
“I can’t believe this shit,” Roddy said. “When I get home, if I make it, this is going into my novel.”
“Well I’m kinda hungry,” Jones said. He scooped down and picked up a worm. It was the same type of worm that crawled out of that giant’s skull. He pinched it between his thumb and forefinger and brought it up close to his face for inspection. “Damn grubby thing looks tasty, don’t it, Roddy? Full of protein, I bet.”
“Damn it, Sarge. Don’t eat that nasty thing. It’s diseased. It’s been feeding on human flesh.”
Jones brought the worm right up close to his eyeball. The little white crawler wasn’t more than a half inch long. It wasn’t much more than a half dozen segments and a mouth. “So these worms ate our soldiers,” Jones said. He squashed the little bug between his fingers. Its guts splattered on his face. “Fuck, Roddy. This whole thi
ng has me puzzled. How did these men end up in this godforsaken tunnel.”
Roddy felt something crawl up his leg. He slapped the worm before it could get any further. “I dunno, Sarge,” he said. “But I’m getting out of here.”
Roddy turned around and started to run. Jones walked at a steady pace after him. Right before they got to the entrance of the tunnel, Jones turned around and grabbed Roddy by the shoulders. “Now you promise me one thing,” the Sergeant said. Jones tightened his grip. “You swear on the code of all that you hold holy that you will not so much as utter a squeak about what you saw in here today.”
Roddy nodded in assent.
“I didn’t hear you, soldier,” Jones said. “I want to hear those words come straight from your gut and fall out of your mouth.”
“I won’t… I won’t… say a word.”
Jones pulled Roddy in closer, so that his breath warmed Roddy’s nose. “Conviction, soldier. I haven’t spent eight years in this godforsaken wasteland to have it all go down the drain because you lack conviction. Now this is a direct order. Swear on all that is holy, swear on your mother’s left tit, swear on your own two berries that there will not be a word.”
“I swear, Sergeant Jones,” Roddy said. “I, Javier Rodriguez, swear that when we leave this tunnel, it stays behind.”
Jones upped the intensity of his gaze into Roddy’s eyes. He held Roddy close for another half minute, and finally let him go. Jones lit another cigarette. “We’re leaving this behind. Now let’s go back up there and get Big Boy to the CSH.”
“What about those two monsters out there?”
“We’ll stuff them in this tunnel,” Jones said. “The worms will eat them. And we’ll bury them in our fucking dreams.”
Chapter Two
The Sandman
“Damascus is superb this time of year,” Lenin said. “Warm, dry, and just teeming with beauties.”
Lenin was suave. He sported slick black hair, with a pair of penetrating blue eyes, and a svelte frame all wrapped up in a fine Italian tailored suit. His accent was heavily Russian. And he loved his vodka and tonics.
Lenin sat with two other men in suits. The interior of their private jet was constructed like a lounge. Leather couches, glass coffee tables, and modernist art all worked together to form an attractive atmosphere for these corporate kings. The plane had departed from Moscow just a couple hours before.
“One of the oldest, continual human centers of habitation on our planet,” Boris said. He looked like a toad, with warts and all. “Damascus has developed a keen sense of what it takes to please men like us.”
A younger man with blonde hair, green eyes, and sharp facial features lifted his glass. “Friend, friends,” Fyodor said. “One of the oldest cities in the world? They must excel in the oldest profession in the world. No?”
The team of men let out a good laugh and raised their glasses. A jovial spirit swept through them. Talk of the raciest districts and clubs, and what type of women they wanted first dominated their conversation. “Club Bael is very welcoming to Russians,” Lenin said.
“I want a Ukrainian,” Boris said. “No, I take that back. I want a Latvian. I want to enjoy her in the Mediterranean sun.”
Fyodor nodded and raised his glass for a toast. “Joru Enterprises deserves this. We have worked hard this quarter. Record profits. Deals with the narcocartels. A new war in Syria. Conflict in Ukraine. We are set, gentlemen. Now it is time to enjoy our spoils.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Lenin stood in as the voice of reason. “We have work to do, too. Don't forget we have conferences to attend.” The group of men laughed even harder this time. “I will be hungover for every conference. That is my guarantee!” Lenin couldn’t resist a bad joke.
“My eyes will be red and my body sore,” Boris said. “The conference will just have to deal!”
Nothing could stop these men. They earned this trip. Work hard, play hard, as they say.
Presently, a door in the back of the cabin swung open. Three tall, brutish men with broad shoulders and thick skulls stepped through into the lounge. Their skulls were inset with large, gray eyes. Their hands were twice the size of most men. Bright red hair flared from the top of their heads. They unceremoniously took their seats among the suits. These three new guests dressed in military fatigues and were armed with bowie knives, grenades, and MP-433 Grachs, the pistol issued to Russian military. The mood in the jet's lounge subdued almost instantly. The three brutes each lit cigarettes.
“Welcome, gentlemen,” Lenin said. “We were just talking about what Syria has in store for us.”
One of the brutes turned to the Russian and eyed him up. “How much longer,” Grantha said with gruff. Where he got his name, nobody knew. But it fit. Grantha didn't have a Russian accent. It was more Germanic than anything.
“Shouldn't be more than three hours,” Lenin said. “Don't worry, my friend. We'll be there soon enough.”
“This is a low key operation,” Grantha said. “We can't spoil this with your team's antics.”
Lenin leaned forward with a grin. “There's a civil war raging in Syria,” he said. “The last thing they're gonna notice is a few Russians having a little fun with the locals.”
Grantha backhanded Lenin across the side of the face. “When I speak, you listen,” he said. “Our operation can't be spoiled. I do not want to see you fools staggering around Damascus in a bloodshot haze.”
Lenin recoiled in shock. Getting backhanded by a normal man was one thing; but Grantha was a monster; a massive fiend. Blood pooled at the corner of Lenin’s mouth.
Another Russian, an older bald man with a pudgy frame entered the lounge from a room in the front. Although he wasn't the most physically attractive or charming of the group, he was definitely the leader of the corporate suits. He sipped on his cocktail and turned his back to the group. “Ah, look what we have here,” Joru said. “Three suits and three brutes. If only I could paint. I would paint this very moment. It would be a wonderful painting. So rich, and full of character. The world would marvel at that painting. The world would marvel at the six of you.”
“I hate posing,” Boris said.
The pudgy man swung around and grabbed Boris by his chin. “But you have the face of a model. Wouldn’t you want the world to know it? Wouldn’t you want me to immortalize it in my painting?” Joru leaned in closer. “Boris, tell me. Wouldn’t you be patient enough to allow my art to shine through?”
Boris just sat there silent. He tried to turn away, but the grip on his chin was too strong. His face turned red from embarrassment. He felt like Joru was handling him like a woman.
Joru released the chin and turned to the three soldiers. “You three must remember what we've done for you,” he said. “We've worked very hard for your benefit. Instigating this conflict was no easy task. Many men will die for you, and you will reap that benefit.”
Grantha scowled. He was tired of humans messing around. “There's a quota, Joru. We hired your firm to fill a quota. Have all the fun you want, but the quota must be met. You know the terms of our agreement.”
Joru smiled and looked obliquely at his team of corporate suits. “We know the terms.”
“Repeat them to me,” Grantha said. He shined his teeth, which were jagged and sharp with wide gaps between them.
“We get you seven thousand heads, clean cuts, or you will have ours.”
Grantha grinned. His gums retracted from his teeth, exposing their yellowing trunks. “And for the delivery of each head, you earn a sum of $100,00. If fulfilled within two weeks, you will get a fifty percent bonus for your efforts.” Grantha looked at each of his comrades knowingly. He had more to say. “And if you do not fulfill this contract, we have your heads. But there's more. We discussed the details amongst ourselves and decided that we will have the heads of your families, too.”
The Russians murmured. They couldn't back out of this deal now. The ink of their signatures on the contracts hadn't even dried yet. Half
of the fee, $350,000,000, had already been paid up front in cash to retain the services of Joru Logistics. This conversation was just a reality check. The Russians would be splitting the pot evenly, each of them netting at least $100,000,000 after accounting for the expense of the operation. And that was cash. No taxes, no lawyers, just cold hard cash. That amount of cash could go to anybody's head, even seasoned oligarchs.
Bhutar, the oldest of the three giants, stood up. “Tell us what the situation is like on the ground.”
Fyodor stood up to explain. “Our contacts in Russian intelligence tell us that our operations have been successful,” he said. “The civil war has spread like flames and is at its peak. Villages all throughout Syria are impacted. Several rebel groups have taken up the banner of radical Islam and are carrying out our dirty work. It’s working out quite well, in fact. Our logistics team has charted the quadrants of the country with the most casualties per square kilometer.”
Fyodor turned to a large flat screen TV hanging on the wall. He retrieved his smartphone, a Samsung Note 3, and with a couple flicks of his thumb the TV displayed a map of Syria. It was color coded by region, size of village, town, and city, along with colors indicating who controlled what population center: the Syrian Army, which reported to Assad, or the Free Syrian Army, staffed with oppositional forces. “As you can see here, the rebels have a stronghold in the northwest, the northeast, and the south. The casualty rate as of today, and we are speaking about casualties throughout the whole nation of Syria, has only reached thirty thousand. These deaths are spread out across the breadth of the country. There are also concentrated areas of killing. We have up to five thousand casualties in the northwest in the Aleppo governorate. In the southwest's Rif Dimashq, there are ten thousand.”
Grantha slipped his bowie knife from its sheath and licked the length of the blade. It was covered with pinkish-beige splotches, as if it had been used recently to cut through some type of food. “There's plenty of work to do then. Tell me what happens if the conflict doesn't escalate as planned.”
