by E. R. Torre
How can someone do that? Sgt. Atkins wondered.
She retreated, closing the cockpit door behind her.
What did you get yourself into?
Her head was filling with questions. This whole situation seemed like something out of a grotesque nightmare.
Sgt. Atkins faced the passenger compartment. The massive aircraft was multi-leveled and the seats on the first level covered barely a sixth of it. Above this compartment was another nearly identical level of passenger seats. The remaining two thirds of the plane was empty area designed to be filled floor to ceiling with cargo.
Sgt. Atkins stepped forward into the darkness and detected the bitter smell of cordite and human waste. With each step, the stench grew stronger and more noxious.
The passenger seats near the exit appeared empty. Sgt. Atkins proceeded very slowly, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the low levels of light. As she moved forward, she spotted slumped shapes on the chairs toward the back.
There were a total of sixty three people on this flight, including passengers and flight crew. Close to half that number, she realized, were on this level and still in their seats. Sgt. Atkins didn’t bother to count the corpses. She moved from one body to the next, quickly checking to see if any one of them were still alive. For some, she checked pulses. For most, there was no need. Their horrific wounds were testament to the fact that they could not possibly still be alive.
Almost all the corpses sported two distinct lethal bullet wounds: One to the head and the other to the heart.
Sgt. Atkins considered this. The man from the ATV said there was one hostile aboard this craft. The speed this one individual needed to take out such a large number of people while they were still in their seats was alarming.
One person did all this? How is this even possible?
Toward the rear of the passenger compartment, Sgt. Atkins noticed a few of the victims were out of their seats and had apparently tried to fight back. Their bodies lay on the carpeted corridor floor. Whatever fight –or flight– they intended ended just as it had for the others.
This can’t be the work of one person. It just can’t be.
Sgt. Atkins reached the end of the passenger compartment and found the spiral staircase leading up to the aircraft’s second floor. She cautiously proceeded up those stairs. The second passenger floor, as expected, was arranged nearly identically as the first. Sgt. Atkins found more bodies here, but unlike the bodies on the first level, the passengers here were, for the most part, out of their seats. Their bodies were strewn across the chairs and floor. Still fresh blood squished on the carpet under Sgt. Atkins’ feet. Several windows were shattered, allowing ample light to penetrate the area.
Sgt. Atkins took a quick look out the shattered windows. She saw the transport trucks surrounding the aircraft. It was from here, she reasoned, the sniper had fired upon them. Sgt. Atkins looked through another of the windows and spotted the transport truck she hid behind. She saw the shattered side mirror and Lieutenant Stewart’s right boot. Private Edwards remained well hidden.
Good.
Sgt. Atkins moved very slowly down the corridor. She was halfway to its end when she noticed him.
It was the man from the ATV. He sat cross-legged and with his back to her on the corridor floor. His posture was painfully rigid. She was about to whisper to him when the cellphone in her shirt pocket started vibrating.
Sgt. Atkins reached for it, fearful the silent vibrations would somehow attract the sniper’s attention. She looked at the phone’s screen and found there was no caller ID, not even the “caller unknown” notation. The phone was vibrating even though it appeared there was no incoming call.
She pressed down on the power button and the device shut off. She took another step closer to the man from the ATV. Her cell phone went off again. This time, it rang.
Loud.
To Sgt. Atkins, it was like the wail of a fire alarm at midnight in a cemetery.
Sgt. Atkins fumbled for her phone. She pulled it from her pocket and winced. The device was red hot. It scorched Sgt. Atkins’ fingers, forcing her to drop it to the floor. The phone continued ringing. Sgt. Atkins gritted her teeth. Parts of the skin on her fingers were peeling. Smoke rose from around the phone. It still rang. Sgt. Atkins silently swore and crushed the device under her foot. It was only then the ringing, and smoke, stopped.
What the fuck just happened?
She looked up. The man from the ATV remained exactly where he was, his back still to her.
Sgt. Atkins felt a strong shiver.
He hadn’t reacted to the ringing. He hadn’t moved at all.
Are you still alive?
Sgt. Atkins walked forward. She raised her rifle and aimed it directly at the man before her.
“Hello?” she whispered.
The man still did not move.
“Hello?” she whispered again. She was only feet away.
Unless he was deaf, there was no way he couldn’t have heard her.
She moved forward until she stood directly behind him. It was only then she noticed his wounds. The right side of his face looked like it had been hit with a blowtorch. His right eye was missing, perhaps roasted until it popped, and the skin around the missing eye –and almost the entire right side of his face– was burnt jelly.
But…were they burns?
Sgt. Atkins looked closer. The wounds extended, it appeared, across most of his entire right side. His right hand was also singed red, yet his clothing was intact.
How do you burn half your body without scorching your clothes?
Sgt. Atkins leaned in even closer. There was something very strange about the man’s grisly wounds. She stared at them for only a couple of seconds before jumping back. The edges of the wounds were…they were moving. Thought they looked like it, the wounds weren’t burns.
His flesh was being eaten away by…something.
Sgt. Atkins took another step back.
Did the sniper release a biological weapon?
If he did, am I infected?!
Sgt. Atkins’ mind went into overdrive. There was protocol when dealing with bio-hazards, but if she was exposed, just how long did she—
Those thoughts were abruptly put on hold. Another person –a boy– lay on the floor and off to the stranger’s left side.
The boy couldn’t be much older than fourteen years of age. He had black hair and wore a loose fitting green bodysuit. Unlike everyone else on the aircraft, he appeared uninjured. There were no cuts or bruises or any signs of injuries on him.
“What the hell is going on here?” Atkins muttered under her breath.
She reached for the boy, grabbing him by his right hand and pulling him toward her. The moment she did, she realized there were broken handcuffs around his wrists.
Sgt. Atkins tried to release the boy, but by then it was far too late.
His eyes sprung opened and stared directly at her. His eyes were brilliant blue and pretty as gems.
They were like lasers. They cut through Sgt. Atkins and exposed her soul to him. She found it hard to breathe. A strong wave of nausea gripped her. She felt her stomach heave. It barely settled when her skin heated up. She was feverish in a matter of seconds and a heavy gush of blood erupted from her nose.
She no longer was in control of her body. The intense pains she felt overwhelmed her.
In that moment, Sgt. Atkins knew she was going to die.
This innocent looking child, she realized far too late, was the one who killed Lieutenant Stewart and all the passengers aboard this plane. He was the cause of all this mayhem and was about to make her his latest victim.
Don’t let my life end in vain. Let me…let me kill this monster.
She tried, despite the incredible pain, to raise her weapon.
Despite the incredible pain, she tried to raise her weapon. She could not. A dark haze appeared before her eyes. In it she saw the boy raise his free hand. He grabbed Sgt. Atkins’ weapon while she still held it and tu
rned its barrel until it was pointed at her face. Atkins stared at the barrel in horror before looking at the boy’s brilliant blue eyes. There was no innocence to be found there. The child’s eyes were cold and filled with anger and homicidal rage. And something else…
Sadistic glee.
The barrel of the rifle settled on Sergeant Atkins’ chin. She could feel her fingers contract and a fresh wave of terror filled her. This boy was somehow controlling her. He was going to make her kill herself.
What the hell are you?!
With her end so near, the Sergeant’s mind went into overdrive. She regretted all the things she failed to accomplish, including not being able to personally tell Lieutenant Stewart’s family their husband and father died while proudly performing his duty.
I really hated that son-of-a-bitch, she thought. Now I can’t even remember why.
She closed her eyes and waited for the bullet.
It didn’t come.
When she opened her eyes once again, the first thing she saw the boy.
Like her, he was lying on the ground. His eyes, those brilliant blue eyes, were closed tight.
He appeared unconscious or, perhaps, asleep.
Is this a dream? she thought.
She tried to move, to look around. She couldn’t. Dull pain gnawed at her sides. Blood still seeped from her nose…and other parts of her body. Her weapon was no longer in her hands. It didn’t matter. She knew she couldn’t use it.
A shadow flicked at her side. A figure appeared over her.
It was the man from the ATV. In the dull light, his horrific wounds were mostly hidden in the shadows, yet she saw enough to know he too was badly injured. The man pulled Atkins up and into a sitting position. She saw the right half of the man’s face as he lifted her. It was a bloody horror. He looked at her with his remaining eye. Like the boy’s eye, it too was a brilliant blue. Unlike the boy’s, his displayed considerable sorrow and empathy.
“You shouldn’t have come,” the man said. His voice was as gentle as his gaze and amazingly calm given his injuries.
“Am I…?”
“Easy,” the man said.
“I’m dying.”
The man with the fearsome wounds nodded.
“Yes.”
They were silent for several seconds, the man with the terrible wounds and the Sergeant who knew she had moments left to live. Atkins gritted her teeth as a fresh wave of pain passed through her. The man from the ATV gently touched the soldier’s cheek with his uninjured hand. The moment he did, the incredible pain Sergeant Atkins felt simply disappeared.
“H…how did you do that?” Atkins asked.
“That’s a very long story,” the man said. He pulled his hand away. “I wish you hadn’t come.”
“I…I had to do something.”
“You did,” the man said. “That boy was tearing me apart from the inside out. You distracted him. Just a little. More than enough.”
“What…what is he?”
“A soldier. Not unlike you.”
“No…nothing like me,” Sergeant Atkins said. Her eyes were losing their focus and she could no longer see anything. “Did I…did I do good?”
“If you hadn’t come, I’d be dead,” the man from the ATV said. “The boy would have turned his attention to the soldiers on the runway.”
“What would he have done?”
“Continued.”
That single word made Sgt. Atkins’ flesh crawl.
“How many would have…would have…died?”
“I can’t say. Many. You’re a hero, Sergeant.”
“I…am?”
“Yes you are,” the man said. “Rest easy.”
And she did.
4
ARABIA
The flares screamed as they rose, up and away, into the night sky. They lit up the darkness and exposed the carnage below. The small Arabian village was in pieces. Its few people lay on the sandy ground, their bodies mangled. The acrid smell of gunpowder lay heavy over the scene. In time, it would fade, replaced by the even more noxious smell of rotting flesh.
A few of the surviving child soldiers wandered around the ruins. Most were barely into their teens, the youngest having just turned twelve and the oldest sixteen. A few checked for survivors while the rest sat or stood frozen in place awaiting new orders. Their eyes were hidden behind dark, formfitting goggles whose straps wrapped tight around their shaved heads. The goggles were designed to prevent the harsh desert breeze from sending gritty sand into their eyes. Despite their bulky size, the goggles weren’t large enough to fully hide the blue identification tattoo bars on the right side of all the child soldiers’ foreheads. The tattoo consisted of three rectangular bars of varying width. They were scanner IDs.
Each child dressed in formfitting black leather body suits. The suits looked hot as hell but the technicians back home assured the field Generals they were comfortable and would not slow the soldiers’ movements. Even so, exhaustion was a given in the harsh desert lands, even for these troops.
A couple of child soldiers grew bored looking at the flares and their attention wandered. One of the children, a girl of no more than fourteen, removed part of her rifle’s outer casing and examined her weapon. She made sure her equipment was free of sand and properly loaded. When she was done reassembling the rifle, she slung it over her shoulder and made the same check of her handgun. She then focused on her rations and canteen.
The girl soldier then sat back down on the sand and watched her fellow platoon members. The children rarely interacted and hardly ever talked. They never smiled. They never laughed. They were not programmed to.
Despite this, there were times the girl soldier longed to talk to someone, to anyone. She didn’t. Whenever she had that urge, she quickly realized there was nothing to talk about.
She felt a dim awareness that there was something wrong with this fact. She should talk to the others. She should have things to say. She felt a longing for something…something that she knew was missing. At times she felt like she should show more emotions and should do something other than receive and follow orders. There had to be more than just combat.
There were other times she felt the desire to leave, to go somewhere. For a moment those thoughts energized her and she felt a restlessness. She longed to move. No, not move. She longed to comb through the village one more time and search the rubble with greater care. She wanted to find the enemy.
She wanted to kill.
How she wanted to kill.
Instead, she waited.
After a few hours, the fires died down.
The readout inside the girl’s glasses indicated the village’s major structures were all gone. The homes, a blacksmith shop, and the food market were dust. The population, numbering only a few hundred people, was also gone. Their corpses were laid in rows at the village’s center and just before her.
Word of the child soldiers’ success was relayed to command an hour ago. There was nothing to do but wait.
She heard a rumbling coming from the north and looked in that direction. A large reconnaissance tank rumbled toward the remains of the village. It reached the outer perimeter and moved in, coming to a stop before the village’s well. Its engine roared one last time before dying out.
A hatch opened on the tank’s top and from it emerged two adult soldiers. It was the tank soldiers’ job to come in after combat operations were over and conduct a detailed survey of the damage. More bluntly, their job was to count the dead.
The tank officers walked directly to the row of bodies the child soldiers laid out for them. Without saying a word, they began their count.
Most of the villagers died early in the battle and with minimal harm to the child soldiers. Whatever injuries they sustained were more the result of random bad luck than any real fighting skills on the part of these villagers. Once the town’s main defenders were killed, subduing the women, children, infirm, and elderly proved easy.
“Another day in paradise,
” one of the tank’s personnel, a skinny man with pale, unhealthy skin said. He was old, perhaps in his fifties.
The girl soldier wondered about the tone in the man’s voice. He sounded unhappy with his job. This confused her. How could he be unhappy when the mission was such a success?
“I count two hundred and thirty five,” the other tank officer said. This man was in his thirties and was at least fifty pounds overweight. “Unless I counted someone twice.”
The girl’s mind wandered again. She considered the man’s weight. How was it possible for someone who looked that unhealthy to be part of the armed forces? Could he fight? Doubtful. Could he march across the blistering desert sands? Also doubtful. Was he of any use other than sweating and counting corpses?
Awareness dawned on the girl soldier.
Perhaps that’s why these tank officers remained behind the lines and were never part of the actual fighting. Their bodies were inappropriate for this type of activity.
“How do you count something twice?” his partner asked.
“You saw the remains,” the fat man replied. He held up his computer tablet and pointed to the corpses. “All I’ve got over here is a pair of fingers and the DNA scanner’s working real slowly. I’m not sure if the fingers are all that’s left of a vic or if they belong to one of the others here.” He pointed to more of the remains. Half bodies. Quarter bodies. Legs, heads.
“Two hundred thirty five, two hundred thirty six. Doesn’t make all that much of a difference. Let headquarters sort it out.”
They talked some more, their attention no longer on the corpses. They worked on their computer tablets, writing their field report. For a second the girl soldier wondered who at command received these reports and what exactly they did with them. Like most of her thoughts, it didn’t linger long and was soon gone.
The tank officers continued their conversation.
In the line of corpses almost directly behind them was a stir. The tank officers didn’t notice. The movement came from one of the corpses. The girl soldier was the only one to spot it. She said nothing.
