Sneaking wasn’t his better suit, Graham knew. He was trained as a Rifleman, not a Scout Sniper or Recon. He didn’t fancy the in-depth tactics that went into those specific Military Occupation Specializations. Now, a part of him wished that he had listened. Lance Corporal Victor Calder, the Recon man on Graham’s squad, had always told his CO to watch in case he ever needed it. Graham, being half too hard headed and half too prideful, hardly did. Now, he was straining for just a slither of advice. “Fuck you, Victor,” Graham muttered.
He grasped the gun in his hand harder. His amount of ammo was good enough to take down at least several people, normal people. If anything that Drifter said was true—albeit it is looked more and more towards that direction—they might have some nasty mutants…or demons. The very thought of that would have sent chills in his blood if he already wasn’t cold. There were endless possibilities of what this Ragnar fellow might have waiting at his camp. Thinking about it wasn’t going to get Graham any closer.
All he could do is take them out quickly and…
A thought struck him, a few meters from where the wastelands ended and the Plagues began.
It was an experiment. He was sure he could call it that.
Graham began looking at this from a different light. His thoughts tingled with the thrill. Despite it all, in his heart of hearts, battle still excited him. And this was the first time he would have to actively adapt to his…condition.
In the same position, if he was alive, he would be cold, hungry, and tired. Right now, he wasn’t any of those things. Yes, he could feel a small nudge of fatigue and his body still meekly registered temperature. But, it wasn’t like he would be if he was alive. So it did have its perks. Being a decayed corpse had so many obvious negatives in his head for his humanity—however, he would have to make it work.
A brief, soundless fifteen minute jog had led him to the tall menacing trees of the Plagues. Staring up, all he could see was the purple underbelly of the canopy. Long vines drooped from the pointed tree branches. Flowers hardly native to the East Coast—maybe not even this side of the world—hung from the vines. Even in the dark, Graham could see a trickle of purple mist oozing from the center of those seemingly harmless flowers. Instincts told him not to breathe.
He cleared each of his sides, becoming more aware of the dangers of these lands. Pieces of dismembered skeletons lied scattered near the roots of the trees. Victims of the tree’s mist, he guessed, whatever it did. Or something worse, far worse could have torn them to pieces. He couldn’t save them now, either way. If the Drifter’s men were lucky, they might still be alive. If not, they were probably in the belly of a beast…or a human. Can’t rule that out.
Graham preceded onward, crouching low and taking advantage of any and all cover that he could. The shadows had provided great cover, but he had to keep an eye out for any men. Mentally, he knew that the chances of men in the higher parts of the canopy were low. The lavender haze was much thicker, like swollen clouds, the higher the trees ascended. As natives of the Plagues, they probably knew the dangers and decided not to risk it….
The thought struck him soon after, and he couldn’t help himself from smirking.
That was the key to finding their hideout. Ragnar’s pack would probably stay in a place with water and a safe haven from the toxic. So all he had to find is a place where the mist was thinnest or nonexistent and they would most likely be there. “Good job, Graham,” he thought. “You aren’t a complete blockhead.”
All he had to do now was find a place like that. He moved slow, watching everything around himself. Occasionally, he would aim down his sights, peering through the irons in case of movement. He kept himself in this practice. At any time, he could be ambushed. The landscape of the forest hardly helped.
Time felt like it stood still in this labyrinth. Occasionally, Graham would see wreckage of the suburbs of Jacksonville. Old houses and sheds, rusted cars, broken picket fences were dispersed unevenly through the forest. It was hard to believe that this place was populated not too long ago. The Plagues were like another world, dropped into and stitched upon the Earth. This place had easily exceeded all of his deployments as places he would never visit voluntarily.
Hours passed and still nothing. He walked, mind slowing from the constant mental work. There were times where he felt the need to close his eyes. Though the body didn’t yearn for rest, the man inside did. It was hard having a body that seemingly never tired while your brain weakened. Mistakes could easily be made. He forced himself to stop, leaning against a tree and slumping down. Alright, you’re half-dead, not invincible. Even now, he still felt ridiculous thinking that.
Graham worked through his surroundings. From the height of the trees, if he was any judge, he was near the middle. He then focused on sounds. Wind held the majority, howling through the small holes opening to the sky. But when listening closely, he could hear water…maybe even a crackling of fire. He tried hard to tune into that sound and where it was coming from. Maybe a few miles away—or maybe several, he wasn’t quite sure how good his hearing was now, or the acoustics of the forest. He stood up again, allowing his body to lead him.
Northeast, he decided. He continued in that direction, and was rewarded with much more audible sounds. In the abyss of darkness, he saw it. He saw the lagoon.
All of the trees were cleared away from around the water and the nearby cove. The water looked surprisingly clean, aside from the remote puddles of red. The purple mist was clear here, but surrounded the outer rim like a ring. A cave stood on the far end of the water, surrounded by several mud huts. From here, Graham could see a small fire billowing black smoke into the noses of the trees. Four figures were huddled around it.
In addition to those four men, there were two patrols on opposite sides of the lake. They moved almost lazily around the shore, comfortable in their safety. Patrol duty is like that, Graham thought. They’re so sure that no one can, or will, attack. They believe that they can’t be infiltrated. They believe they are safe. It was the nature of humans, but also the nature of prey.
Staying within the ring of fog and the shadows, he approached the camp to get a better look. There were indeed four men, standing around a fire. They had long since lost their humanity. What was left were bipedal beast, long haired and pale, so soaked in blood that it stained their skins. They were having a late dinner, a young woman. Entrails poured from the stomach, eye socket empty. Squashed pink and red meat sat at the cannibals’ feet, each taking large hunks of it with their hands. The crazed look on their faces was like they were enjoying a sick Thanksgiving dinner.
“When are we gonna get to eat the other two?” one of the men asked, wiping the blood from his uneven blonde beard.
“Ragnar said not to touch ‘em til he gets back with the Drifter!” another man howled.
“But—but—“the first man stuttered, “this isn’t enough and they looks so delicious!’
Thickly set man, bald with a long burnt wheat-colored beard answered. “Remember what Ragnar did with the last man who ate his dinner.”
The blonde haired animal grinned, showing his bloody teeth. “Yeah. Poor Mark.” He snickered with a high pitched laughter. “Ragnar still uses his bones for tooth picks.”
“So don’t touch Ragnar’s food until he comes back with the Drifter!”
“How do we know he’s goin’ to even come back with the Drifter?” A black haired man questioned. Everyone stared at him with a scowl. He, in turn, popped an eyeball of the woman in his mouth and shut up.
“Ragnar’s gonna come back with the Drifter. We just need to shut up and take Beastmaster’s orders.”
The three men looked at the last man. He was the shortest and thinnest of the group. Graham assumed that he was Beastmaster—the leader, or rather the second-in-command. Unlike the others, he had faced himself in a way that he couldn’t be ambushed, back against the wall of a hut. His amber eyes stared into the distance, dark brown hair madly aro
und his cheeks and chin like a mane. Surprisingly, he was the only one beardless, which would have made his lion-like appearance that more fitting. Instead, he wore stubble that reached up to the corners of his cheekbones. He was quieter than the rest, much more aware, sniffing the air every so often.
“Keep your eyes open,” a surprisingly deep voice leaked from the man’s lips. “You’ll never know when we will…have a visitor. “
If Graham’s adrenaline worked correctly, his heart would have skipped. He had to act fast. If one person would to notice, it would be Beastmaster.
The patrols had to go first. He could have fired, killing all of those four men in a long burst. However, that would alert the others. The patrols were armed, and maybe had some sort of ability. Graham wasn’t about to risk that. So instead, he was about to take them out, stealthy. He allowed the gun to hang loosely from the strap on his chest.
Graham had already decided his first target. The first patrol that he saw was sloppy. The guard dangled around the rim, a bit too closely. A stalker, unaffected by the miasma, could easily ambush him. Of course, that was not possible in the guard’s mind. Yet it wasn’t impossible either.
A proper distance away from the four men around the fire, he waited for the clumsy guard. He kept low, watching as the chubby man with a self-made hatchet walk into his line of attack. Though stealth wasn’t a specialty that he could brag about, close quarter combat was. Graham had grabbed the man’s arm, tossed him over his shoulder, and slammed him down in an expertly done hip toss. When the bandits open his mouth to howl in pain, the flower’s pollen strangled him. His face turned blue, followed by an instant fever and some heavy breathing. Toxic, the trees was excreting it as some sort of defense mechanism.
Sorry ‘bout that, Graham thought, motioning with his eyes. Just had to experiment. He put him out of his misery, a swift stomp on the man’s neck with his thick combat boots. It was an instant death, a much greater mercy than the pain that shot through the man’s body.
Graham peeked out of the cover of the trees to see that the second patrol was now on his side of the lake. Actually, it was a woman, but only in gender. The short haired, ghastly looking beast stared almost viciously from the other side, probably looking for her fellow guardsmen. “Heath. Where are you, dammit?”
Graham smiled before pulling himself back. A lure was needed and he just happened to have one. With a small kick, Heath’s body flipped over, allowing just his arm to jut out of cover of the purple leaves and shadows.
The woman approached the arm carefully. “Heath? What are you doing out there? Are you trying to get yours—“Her sentence felt to silence in her mouth. The curiosity was rewarded with her neck being snapped, and simultaneously tossed into the shadows.
Two were dead in a matter of a couple of minutes. Killing and protecting was what he did, and he knew he was as much as a weapon as he was a man.
Graham grabbed the gun now. The four men had probably realized that something was terribly wrong by now, and was preparing themselves for a fight. Too bad they would have to deal with a present first. He pulled a grenade from his hip.
Wheeling out of the cover, Graham quickly gauged his distance between himself and the party. In a flash of instinct, a lot slower than he would have wanted without adrenaline, pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it. The perception was a bit wrong, given that he wanted to take out all three of the forerunners. Instead, the cooked grenade that erupted into a fiery explosion claimed only two lives. The third, the gaunt yellow beast, survived, though showered in the blood, guts, and brains of his fallen comrades.
That didn’t stop his charge. Unaffected by the deaths of his brothers, the savage started to spray bullets towards his attacker. Fire from his weapon was sloppy, but still almost slammed Graham in the chest. If he hadn’t kept moving, using a large boulder for cover, he would have been shot. But untrained was untrained, and he would pay the price.
Graham made him pay for his ill gun use with a calculated fire of his own. There was a difference, a gap as long as a canyon. Where the cannibal’s fire was wild, Graham’s was precise. Years of marksmanship training with guns like these were child’s play. Where the cannibal’s missed, the Marine had hit with little effort. All nine rounds, fired at three burst a piece, made contact at the chest and the head. He would have made that hit every time. Riddled with holes, the attacker fell to his knees; dead before gravity could even bring him down.
One more, twenty or so rounds left. The man named Beastmaster still lived…and was smiling.
“You’re what I felt—“Beastmaster’s words were cut off by the M16A2 shots.
Death didn’t take him. The small, feline-like man stood unaffected by the bullets. A smile sat on the corner of his lip as two grey birds, almost as wide as bucklers, sat twitching at his feet. Their stomachs had taken the blows from the bullets, under a dense layer of fat. Blood leaked from their beaks and open wounds, slowly soaking Beastmaster’s bare feet in a puddle of red. He took some steps forwards, dark soil sticking to the soles of his feet. “Rude creature, aren’t you?”
Graham loaded his gun, tossing aside the empty mag for a fresh one. He poised himself for another round of fire, only to be knocked to his side. His head struck the ground, seeing nothing of what struck him at first. A weight of two-hundred or more pounds pressed itself on his chest, more than enough to crush the gun into lump of metal in his hand. The blue-furred monster bellowed, drooling globs of saliva on his chest. It was some sort of cat, none like he had ever encountered in his life. And, it was under the Beastmaster’s control.
“I don’t know what you are and what this was. But it’s over. Goodbye, Mister Dragur. Thanks for dwindling the idiocy of our clan. Kill him, Dagon.”
In a fuzzy mind, all Graham saw were the teeth of the monster biting down.
4
Cold-Snap
“Remove wild emotions; put them in a box until after the battle is over.”
“You make your largest mistakes in fear, gentlemen. Never forget that!”
Graham never forgot what Gunnery Sgt. James Rudolph said and never would. That was why he could stare at Dagon in its black eyes with no fear, making no hasty movements. Even peering into the glossy white fangs of the beast as it descended, he made no mistake. With just a tilt of his head, the beast’s jaws slammed into the ground where his head once was, causing a small crater in the ground. Dust and chips of dirt of showered the side of his face as the beast back pedaled from the sudden movement. It and its master stood shocked, both reeling from the impact.
“Dagon!” Beastmaster cried out. “Kill him!”
The order was the same, but much louder, much more panicked than before. Dagon tried again, this time with its claws. And again, Graham moved his body at the right times. It wasn’t completely reaction time. No. It was a deep set discipline, training under the right conditions. The beast tried viciously to cause mortal wounds, but was rewarded with superficial ones instead. Scrapes here and there lined Graham’s upper shoulders, and even a long slash down the bridge of his nose. No matter what, Graham still drew breath. Frustration of the master seeped into Dagon’s mind, and Graham gave a cold stare. “The beast is completely under the man’s control. Its emotions are his. That’s why—“Graham dodged another claw. “That’s why I can dodge them like I would a human. He doesn’t trust the instincts of the animal.”
That brought a smile to the soldier’s face. “You’re a pathetic fucker,” he said aloud, as calm as a breeze.
He didn’t even need to see Beastmaster’s face to know that he was livid. Under the façade of coolness, Beastmaster had a temper. He was as much of an animal as his beast. Outside of battle, he moved majestically, walking through his own personal savanna as the king because he was the predator. But as soon as the tables turned he would grow angry and fierce. Graham heard this in the way his animal growled. Dagon let out a powerful roar before bending back for a strong swipe. That was a mistak
e and Graham wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip.
Graham slammed his right knee into the beast’s rib cage, earning a crunch of a rib. Dagon doubled back in pain, blood oozing out the creature’s mouth, and whining pitifully like a small house cat. It rolled to its feet, taking some more steps back, trotting in almost disbelief. That gave Graham time, time to slip from underneath the creature’s weight, and jump back to his feet. Now, he could see Beastmaster boiling from a safe distance. “Is there something wrong, bitch?” he asked, mockingly.
Graham, hunched over and staring at Beastmaster with those pale eyes, must have been a fearful sight even for a cannibal. Dark red, deoxygenated blood stained his decayed skin. He remained upright. He balled his fingers into a fist, showing the bone of his index finger. Graham had every intention of punching this man in the face, not just once or twice, but repeatedly. Having a hostage was one thing, eating flesh for the innocent that was a cardinal sin. Where else could a man go after that?
“Why aren’t you dead yet?” Beastmaster shouted, seething. “Dagon! Kill him!”
Bound to the man’s orders despite its condition, Dagon charged forward. Graham shook his head. He was too close for a grenade. He could get himself killed in the blast. There were other factors inside of battle. For example, noting the environment held certain perks. In his rage, did Beastmaster forget that they were at a lagoon? Graham took stepped back to the shoreline. Did he notice that Graham didn’t necessarily have to breathe? He had all the weapons that he needed to kill Dagon. Beastmaster’s fear was the last piece that he need, and that was graciously given to him. Dagon pounced, and was unsurprisingly propelled into the water with his prey under him.
They entered with a large splash. The water around them was dark, warm, and clean for the most part. Fish swam around them, hurrying to avoid the confrontation. Flakes of wood and other flotsam, either from the war or the cannibals, drifted in the purpled waters. There wasn’t a floor to the lake, only abyss.
Dusk Territories: Always Burning Page 5
