by John O'Brien
Where the hell did they get so many skulls? I think, not really wanting to know the answer.
It really looks like some B-rated horror movie. I up that to an A-rated one as I am now smack dab in the middle of it. Looking into the woods, I notice some leafy branches on the ground. They are turning brown and look out of place. I’ve seen this kind of thing a few times in the past. I motion for Gonzalez and McCafferty to stay in place and edge into the trees.
Low crawling, I check each inch of ground in front of me and to the sides prior to moving. Reaching the border of the branches, I reach out and lift one. It’s just as I expected. The branches are screening a layer of thin sticks laid over a pit. That’s one thing some who build these things forget — you have to periodically change the overlay or they dry out. That makes it stand out more. I take out my light and shine it into the pit. Sure enough, there are sharpened stakes driven into the ground.
“Stay on the trail. Punji traps to the side,” I whisper into the radio.
“What next?” I hear Gonzalez whisper.
“Just wait until you see around the corner.”
Inching back to the trail, I glass the area ahead but don’t see anything out of place. That is if you can call skulls posted along a trail not being out of place. Stowing the binoculars, I wave Gonzalez and McCafferty forward and slip around the corner.
“What the fuck, sir?” Gonzalez whispers.
I guess she made it to the corner, I think, chuckling in my mind.
“Punji traps and skulls? Are we continuing on?” she asks quietly.
“What do you mean? It just got interesting,” I reply.
“Anyone ever tell you that you are fucking crazy…sir?”
“I’ve heard that a time or two,” I respond.
“Lead on then, sir.”
Some of the skulls still have a bit of hair attached to them which adds to the creep factor. I’m just glad that whoever put these out cleaned them for the most part. Having bits of tendon and tissue clinging to them would be a bit much. Passing the first ones, I don’t see any obvious injuries. You know, other than being dead. One has an “X” painted on the forehead. In the past, any marking on trees, sticks placed in branches or laid out in a pattern, or other similar signs were warnings of traps or areas to be aware of. Not for opposing forces obviously, but for friendlies to know that they need to watch out for traps.
I pause just prior to the marked skull. A few inches off the ground, a string of fishing lines runs across the trail. I follow it with my eyes. It wraps around a nearby tree and, tracing it, I find where it is attached to a pole in the ground which is connected to another notched stick. The notched stick is tied to a stretched tree branch lined with sharpened sticks. Yep, another trap. Pull on the line and the pole driven into the ground moves, releasing the branch, which then swings out into the path. Yeah, this is becoming more interesting by the minute.
Oddly enough, this is an environment I’m more familiar and comfortable with. Well, that’s not the honest truth. The environment I’m most comfortable with is swinging gently in a hammock on a white-sand beach. However, it’s infinitely more comfortable than being in command of the entire survival group. Yeah, it sounds odd but it’s true nonetheless. I almost — almost mind you — wish I had brought Robert and Bri so they could see this for themselves.
“Watch for marks on the trees or on the ground. We have traps across the trail. Watch for the line by the marked skull,” I whisper over the radio, receiving a double click of acknowledgement from both Gonzalez and McCafferty.
I stalk past the skulls. A trail opens off the main path to the right leading to a small, open area. In the middle is another ash pile considerably smaller than the one we found in the bottom of the pit. I would investigate it but I have the feeling I’d find much the same as we did at the previous one and I’m experiencing enough weirdness for the moment. Stepping across the path so I don’t leave an imprint, I creep a few more feet before pausing.
Something hanging in the trees lining the path catches my eye — dolls hanging from pieces of cord from the branches.
Seriously…dolls hanging from trees? Okay… this is too much, I think, waving Gonzalez and McCafferty forward.
They reach my position and I point out the hanging dolls.
“Seriously? Are those really dolls hanging in the trees?” Gonzalez asks, whispering.
“Still interesting enough for you, sir?” McCafferty asks.
“No. Interest level gone. I think the banjos are playing a little too loud for me,” I answer. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“I’m right behind you, sir, if not in front,” Gonzalez says.
“Greg. We’re on our way back,” I say.
“Whatcha have going on?” he asks.
“You wouldn’t believe it if you saw it for yourself,” I reply.
“Alright. See ya soon.”
We reverse and begin tracing our route back, avoiding the trap across the path. Passing the skulls once again, I hear something moving off in the woods to the side. Crouching, I look and see a flash of movement. I pick up sounds to the other side. Someone is trying to be furtive with their passage but failing miserably.
“We have company on both sides,” I radio.
“What do you want to do, sir?” Gonzalez asks.
“Keep moving. If we’re fired upon, engage and move. Gonzalez, you empty a mag left, McCafferty, to the right. We fire then make a break for the Stryker. Clear?” I again hear the double clicks of acknowledgment.
“Are you okay, Jack?” Greg asks.
“For now,” I reply. “We’ve just gained some interested followers.”
We creep down the trail in formation. I keep an eye ahead in case they’ve set up behind us while Gonzalez and McCafferty keep an eye on their sectors. I continue to hear sounds of passage on both sides.
“I have movement to the left paralleling us,” Gonzalez calls.
“Same on the right,” McCafferty says.
“Keep moving,” I reply, hoping we haven’t kicked up a hornet’s nest.
The trail entrance opens ahead and the movement on both sides cease. I don’t know if this is a good or bad sign. My experience has been that when sounds of movement stop, it’s because the opposing force has set up and are gearing for an attack. I really hope that’s not the case here.
“Almost there. Stay alert,” I say.
“We see you on the trail,” Greg states.
“Roger that. Do you see anything in the tree line?”
“Negative, Jack. It’s all clear that we can see,” he answers.
“Okay. Break. Gonzalez, McCafferty, keep it steady.”
“Copy that, sir,” Gonzalez replies. McCafferty answers with a double click.
Keeping low, with gray skies above and tension filling the hard-packed trail, we edge inch by inch toward the path’s entrance. The feeling is one of having the end in sight but thinking that it’s just an illusion of safety and all hell’s going to break lose prior to reaching it. I want to pause and ascertain the situation prior to moving out, but I know that we need to keep going. The longer we’re here, the more time whoever is off to the sides will have to get into a position against us.
The apprehension is such that I want to toss a grenade to either side and make a break for it. However, we haven’t been fired on and I don’t know if their intentions are harmless or not. The dolls in the trees really upped the creep factor. I mean, fucking dolls…hanging in the trees!
I reach the entrance to the trail and crouch by a tree. Gonzalez and McCafferty are behind and pause with me.
“Gonzalez, McCafferty. Go. Beat cheeks to Stryker. I’ll cover and follow.”
This time, the acknowledgment is in the form of both women rising and streaking past as they sprint for the waiting teams. Gonzalez and McCafferty spread out as they exit the trees. I rise as they pass and follow.
The others of both teams are spread in a line behind what cover they can find.
I sprint to the rear of the Stryker where I meet Gonzalez, McCafferty, and Greg. I’m winded from the sprint across the open terrain and lean with my hands on my knees to catch my breath.
“That was seriously fucking creepy!” Gonzalez says, catching her breath as well.
“No fucking shit!” McCafferty agrees.
“So. What was it that made you come back?” Greg asks.
With my hands still on my knees, breathing hard, I shake my head slowly. “Dolls, man. There were dolls hanging in the trees. Lots of them.”
“Noooo shit,” Greg says.
“Seriously?! There are dolls in the trees?” Robert asks from nearby. “That’s all kinds of fucked up.”
“No shit. I took one look at that and I was done.”
“Sounds like we are dealing with kids that have watched too many movies,” Bri states.
“Could be, but that’s all I cared to see,” I say.
“Still want to investigate?” Greg asks.
“No, I’m good, thanks. I’ve had enough fun for one day. If someone’s up there, they’re on their own. Let’s mount up and get out of here,” I answer.
The radio comes to life. “Sir, Henderson here. We have company. There’s movement in the tree line. I count twelve so far.”
“I have them on thermal,” a soldier from inside the Stryker reports. “I have sixteen in sight.”
“Damn. I must have missed a couple,” Henderson states.
“What are they doing?” I ask.
“They’re taking positions behind trees and fallen logs just inside the tree line. They appear to be mostly armed with hunting rifles,” Henderson answers.
“Looks like the fun isn’t over yet,” Greg says.
“Fuck it. I’m done. Let’s pull out,” I respond.
“Sir. Someone is emerging from the trees onto the path,” Henderson calls.
“What are they doing?”
“Just standing there, sir.”
I step from around the Stryker and bring my binoculars up. There’s a kid, wearing a woodland camo top and pants, standing at the entrance to the trail holding a scoped deer rifle at his side. A red bandana is wrapped around his head and dark streaks line his cheeks like war paint.
You have to be kidding me, I think, sweeping my binoculars over the others in one position or another.
Some are wearing camo while others are in a motley array of clothing. All have bandanas tied around their heads.
“What do you want to do, Jack?” Greg asks.
“Fuck it. Let’s see what they want,” I answer.
“Are you actually going out there?”
“I guess so. From what I can see, they’re all kids,” I reply.
“Kids with guns. Don’t forget that.”
“Not to worry, there isn’t a chance I’ll forget that.”
I’ve seen enough child soldiers to last me a lifetime. They’re more dangerous than adult soldiers in a lot of ways. Their reasoning process is different. Once they taste the power they hold over others by way of a gun, they tend to use that reasoning process in most of their interactions. Of course, that’s what they are used for. They’re easily brainwashed and an easy source of loyal troops for warlords. Where regular soldiers may have a cognitive ability and a sense of morality, child soldiers are generally fiercely loyal no matter what and have little sense of moral thinking about what they are doing.
That may not be what’s going on here but, if there isn’t any adult supervision around, and I’m assuming there isn’t from the looks of things, then they may have stepped down that path. The skulls and dolls make a little more sense now.
Setting the binoculars down, I secure my M-4 to my back, and walk toward the kid standing on the path. I have my Beretta handy if I need it. If they were going to fire on us, then the kid wouldn’t have stepped out. This is for show. I keep an eye on the kids in the tree line. They are, to a soul, watching me as I approach. I know Henderson and the Stryker are keeping a close eye on them as well and will call if they see something untoward happening.
I approach to within a few feet. The kid is trying to maintain a fierce face, but I can tell he’s nervous. I know this because of his eyes and the fact that he keeps shifting his weight from foot to foot. He may not be used to dealing with a heavily-armed adult. His eyes keep traveling to the assorted knives strapped to my vest and legs, the grenades peeking out of their pouches, and to the barrel poking above my shoulder. I don’t really have my friendly face on either. I’ll have to look into changing that someday.
Taking a deep breath through his nostrils, he looks up at me. He realizes he has to show authority in front of the others or he’s out. Those are the rules. I’ll see where this goes.
“This is Golddigger territory and you’re intruding,” he says as his opening line. This is a play that has to be acted out.
“Listen, son, we are just here to—” I start to say.
“I’m not your son. We don’t want you here,” he interrupts loudly.
I see how this is going to be played out. If he gets us to go away with his fierceness, then his place in the group grows. Or perhaps this is how he deals with everything now. However, being interrupted by a kid, teen or not, grates on me.
“I see the first thing to go is manners. And yes, you’ve made that abundantly clear…son,” I reply.
I see the anger infuse his eyes, his scowl deepens. He’s still nervous and really doesn’t know what to make of someone not being afraid of him because he has a gun. Truth be told, I’m a little nervous standing out here as well, but I don’t dare show it. After all, anything can happen and he may not be posturing.
“I don’t think you understand. With a wave of my hand, I could have you shot,” he states.
“Hmmm…well…that would be a pretty big mistake.”
“Oh yeah. How so?” he asks, defiantly.
“Because of them,” I answer, pointing at the teams behind me.
“Ha, I know how many you have and we outnumber you.”
“Perhaps so, but you might want to take a closer look. Those are highly trained soldiers with automatic weapons. And that,” I say, pointing, “is a Stryker armored vehicle with an automatic .50 caliber turret. You’re just a bunch of kids with hunting rifles. What chance do you think you would have?”
He looks around me to the soldiers poised in firing positions. I notice a change cross his face as he thinks of the ramifications of actually taking us on. He pulls back and puts on his game face again.
“About having me shot…I wake up each and every day with the concept that it’s a good day to die. How about you? Did you wake up this morning with that same thought? I hope so, because if you do one foolish thing, then that’s what’s going to happen. You will have observed your last sunrise,” I state.
His face goes through a variety of contortions. This obviously wasn’t going the way he wanted or was used to. I would ask after their parents, but I don’t think I really want the answer to that. I’m pretty sure they aren’t around anymore for whatever reason — although I have my suspicions — or they would have made an appearance by now.
“We aren’t just a bunch of kids. We’ve made it this far and will continue to survive. We don’t need or want anyone else…especially adults. You’re lucky I’m letting you leave peacefully. That’s if you leave now.”
Now, I don’t remember saying anything about leaving, but I will. If there was any thought of asking them to come with us, it’s gone. It would take a lot of deprogramming and I’m no expert at that. They would be unruly and refute any adult authority. However, there is a heart-mind thing going on inside. The heart says bring them and they’ll adapt over time, but my mind says there’s no way I’d want them in the compound. They could change over time if surrounded by adults but…
I don’t get the thought finished before he continues. “You’d better hurry before I change my mind.”
I take a step forward, noticing his eyes go wide with fright. I glower do
wn on him. “I don’t take kindly to being threatened. You obviously have no idea what would happen if you tried anything. You may get a shot off, but this place would be torn apart and it would be over in about twenty seconds with dust settling on your bodies before you could chamber another shell. We’ll leave, but you might want to watch who you threaten in the future. You’re lucky you’ve caught me on a good day.”
With that, I turn and begin walking back toward the Stryker. There’s a part of me that feels bad for just leaving them here, but I don’t really see how they’d come short of kidnapping them. And they wouldn’t take too kindly to that. No, unfortunately, it’s best just to leave them.
There’s so much more I wanted to ask, like how they are dealing with the night runner threat, parents, others in the area, that sort of thing, but now I’m just tired. I’m sure the answers wouldn’t be to my liking anyway. I have a feeling I know what skulls are lying down in that pit, but I don’t want to know for sure. Right now, I just want to climb out of this dark fairy tale and move on.
“Mount up. We’re leaving,” I say upon reaching the Stryker.
“Are they coming with us?” Robert asks.
“No.”
“Did you ask them?” Bri questions.
“No.”
Greg merely tilts his head then shrugs.
“I’ll tell you about it later. Right now, let’s get back to the 130 and plan tomorrow’s leg,” I say.
Leaving the Jeeps behind, we mount the Stryker and depart to chants of “Golddiggers” coming from the trees.
Fear of the Dark
The transition from being out cold to consciousness is abrupt. It’s oblivion one moment and awareness the next. Startled, she opens her eyes. The surrounding darkness is so complete that she isn’t sure that her eyes are open at all. She consciously blinks, feeling her lids contact each other. There isn’t any change in the blackness. For a moment she thinks she is blind but then the darkness resolves itself into dark grays and shadows. Stiff, sore and feeling like a drum corps is playing in her head, focus sharpens. Lynn fully wakes.
