The Fog of Dreams

by Justin Bell

  ********

  While Agent Burndock refereed the confrontation between Grace and Sandidge, he had almost forgotten he was on sniper duty today, and the Night Watch sniper was now on past his cutoff time. He had excused himself from the three-way conversation and was now rolling over the loose gravel road behind the Strickland residence, hoping not to trip any visitors to the fact that there were armed operatives scattered about. He flipped open the trunk of his car and reached in, pulling out the metal case containing his disassembled CheyTac sniper rifle, one of the Intervention models with detached infrared telescopic range. It was a different model than the one he had used in the parking garage what seemed like five years ago. In a wooded area like this, he looked for something that had a little more punch at longer distances. With the case in hand, he made the trek over the short hill and into the woods beyond.

  Strickland moved slowly through the trees, approaching the edge of the road, and he could see the roof of his house peeking up from where he stood. Strangely enough, the area looked vacant. No cars and no guards... at least none visible. Strickland wasn't sure he cared. He drew in a breath and exited the tree line, walking out onto the dirt road outside his home.

  Burndock walked slowly to his station in the backyard woods, the case swinging ever so slightly at his hip. Each sniper had rounds loaded and ready to fire, and a standing order to shoot to kill, so all they were missing was a target. Burndock wondered if today was the day that the target would appear.

  Strickland crouched at the edge of the empty road and was just about to start a mad dash towards the house, but something caught his eye. He scanned the wooded area, carefully analyzing the natural flow of the forestry, and that's when he saw it. A tiny glint, but to his hypersensitive eyes, it might as well have been the bright noontime sun. Lifting the SCAR to his eyes, he squinted through the scope, which didn't have great magnification, but he hoped it was enough to tell him what he needed to know.

  It was.

  The glint came from a metallic case moving slightly through the woods, breaking up the even vertical lines of the trees in a way that captured his attention completely. It was a disruption of the normal pattern of nature, and if he hadn't just happened to see it, he never would have noticed the figure carrying it, dressed in black with night vision goggles strapped to the top of his head. From this distance, he couldn't tell who it was, but from his experience, he knew what kinds of weapons they carried in those cases. They were generally long-range instruments of instant death. It was a sniper rifle case, and snipers rarely worked alone. In his finely honed tactical brain, Strickland went through the boundaries of his property and calculated how many men would be needed to adequately cover the area. Four? Maybe five? Quickly, he backpedaled into the woods at the side of the road. Ducking his head low, Strickland crouched through the trees, just at the edge of the tree line, making sure he still had cover from anyone who might be watching from his own backyard. After walking north about a thousand yards, he turned and watched over his home and the woods to see if he could decipher where the snipers were stationed.

  "Night Watch Sniper Lead One, this is Day Watch Sniper Lead One. Sorry I'm late, man," Burndock whispered quietly in his Bluetooth headset as he navigated the woods towards his position.

  "This is Night Watch, Day Lead. About damn time."

  Burndock hadn't been expecting a warm welcome, since he was a few hours late. Moments later, he dropped to a knee next to the Night Watch leader and set his metal case down, popping the two latches on top. Soon enough, the .408 caliber CheyTac M100 was assembled with an infrared scope and extended-sound suppressor. Burndock flipped down the bipod and settled in for over-watch on the Strickland residence's southeast side. The Night Watch leader swiftly disassembled his weapon as Day Watch leader assembled his, then slipped it in the cushioned case and snapped the case closed.

  "How we looking?" Burndock asked the man as he rose into a crouched position.

  "Quiet so far. No sign of life, nothing out of the ordinary."

  "Great, thanks," Burndock glanced over to him and nodded slowly. "Sorry I was late. You're relieved."

  The second man slipped back through the woods almost silently.

  All was quiet.

  "Day Watch Lead, reporting in. All quiet?"

  "Day Watch Two, all quiet."

  "Three, all quiet."

  "Four?all quiet." There was subtle hesitation in his voice.

  "What's up, Four?" Burndock asked shifting his scope a bit to cover where he thought Day Watch Four might have been looking.

  "Probably nothing. Caught a flash of motion next to the road a few minutes ago, but it could have just been an animal. Switched to thermals, and the area was already empty."

  "All right. Keep it tight." Burndock switched back to his main viewpoint and prepared to settle in for the long haul.

  Strickland slowly jogged over the dirt road half a mile north of his house, and then swept into the trees, with his rifle slung over his shoulder. Continuing to dodge trees, rocks, and sticks, he silently navigated the thick forest, heading distinctly southwest, towards the direction of his house. Using his own instinctive experience in Special Forces, he had mapped out the most likely placement of four snipers, and he slid through the thick trees, getting closer and closer to what he figured was the easternmost position. There was a possibility of five snipers, but that would be slight overkill, and with the NSA being the pinnacle of efficiency, he figured they would squeeze all they could out of a smaller group rather than waste the extra head. Moving in stops and starts, he approached slowly and carefully making sure not to trigger any potential traps or run across an unexpected patrol. He moved forward another several yards, and then stopped and lifted his scope. Finally, his patience was rewarded.

  Just down the slope ahead, almost buried in the thick grass to the north of his house was a prone man in a layered Ghillie suit. A Ghillie suit is designed to mimic the look and feel of the surrounding foliage, and Strickland quietly thanked the brainiacs behind Operation: Harvest as these enhanced senses served him well today. Along with the prone figure, the extended barrel of a silenced sniper rifle poked out of the camouflage covering, and Strickland dropped down to one knee, steadying himself with his hand. Without a silencer for his rifle, he had to do this up close and personal. Slowly and soundlessly, he slipped the weapon off his shoulder and rested it on the ground, and then he eased off his thick combat boots, resting them next to the weapon. The socks came next, and there he was, crouching in the thick leaves in his bare feet, with just his tactical vest and black cargo pants.

  Crouching low, his leg and arm muscles tensed as his eyes partially closed, allowing that now familiar thin red mist to filter into the whites of his pupils. Noise melted away as his senses grew more intense and more focused, and he directed his attention on the sniper that lay in the leaves ahead of him. Like a shot from a starter's pistol, his legs thrust and threw him forward at a dead run, his bare feet sliding through the leaves almost silently while he dodged branches and narrowed the gap between him and the sniper. The gunman's keen senses alerted him to a potential threat, and he spun around, jumping up to his knees just as Strickland was on top of him, and the bald man slammed a knife hand into the weapon, smacking it aside and tossing it about twelve feet away into a pile of leaves.

  Just as the rifle softly landed, Strickland reached his hand out and clutched at his opponent's camouflaged suit, then wrapped the thick fabric in a single clenched fist, and lifted him straight off the ground. Twisting, Strickland flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him back first into the hard ground, and as the wind exploded from his lungs, he drove his elbow down into his forehead, rendering him swiftly unconscious. Strickland looked around cautiously as he stood crouched over the body of the prone sniper. His ears opened up, just as his nostrils did, checking for unusual sounds, or smells, of which there were none. In fact, it was eerily silent throughout the woods behind his house.

  Walkin
g low and quiet, he approached where the sniper rifle had landed, then hefted it up into his arms, and pressed his eye to the scope, sweeping the woods. Within moments, he discovered the other three snipers' nests, all with their own scopes trained on the Strickland house and the area surrounding it. He drifted to the right until he saw the thin path leading to the shooting range, and then towards the concealed cabin beyond. Squinting through the scope, he could see three men stationed at the cabin itself, so even if he did navigate around the snipers, he still had obstacles to deal with.

  Just as sight of the cabin came into view, the red rage vision slammed him in the back of the head and forced him to the ground. Pinching his eyes tightly closed, he tried to force the vision from his head, but it was no use. The looming wooden walls of the dilapidated structure stood above him, the eye-windows looking down menacingly. Crawling into the cabin, he spun and saw the woman? always the same woman. Trying to push himself to his feet, the crippling agony from the vision kept him isolated in place, even as the same creature grappled with its struggling victim and opened its wide, distorted mouth.

  In his mind, he reached out again, his fingers trembling towards the woman. I will save you!

  You can't. But it's okay.

  In his mind, he surged forward, trying to pull away from the red fingers of cloudy mist that held him back. Tried, pushed, struggled, and screamed noiselessly until the jaws clamped shut around the woman's throat in a blinding flash of white-hot pain.

  Somehow, some way, William Strickland suppressed the scream of rage and anguish as he lay crouched over in the leaves, pressing to remain under control. The urge to sprint to the cabin was more intense than ever, and he considered using the sniper rifle to reduce resistance at the structure. However, he knew he couldn't. As it was, he could barely register a sliver of his old humanity, and he didn't want to sacrifice that last grasp at being a man to give in to his pure animal instincts. He did choose to carry the sniper rifle with him, but his first stop was to scoop up his discarded SCAR and his boots, which he placed back on his feet to prepare for the short jog towards the cabin.

  About three-quarters of the way there, he stopped and dropped down to one knee, then lifted up the sniper scope and looked through it. There were indeed three men in a walking patrol around the cabin, each one armed with an M4 carbine with tactical scopes and vertical front grips underneath the barrels. They each wore the telltale white wireless receiver in their ears, and all three wore sunglasses, designed to help against the ever-increasing blast of sunlight at this hour in the morning. The patrol routes made it difficult for Strickland to approach unseen, especially since there was only a single entrance and exit, through the front door. The windows on the side of the cabin and the rear were small, and he didn't want to risk attempting an entrance, only to be discovered. His only real alternative at this point was to take them out.

  Yes, take them out.

  A vicious, guttural voice echoed from deep in his psyche. He closed his eyes and could smell the sweat on each of the three men... his ears could hear the hearts thumping in their chests, pumping precious lifeblood throughout the maze of veins in their bodies.

  Lifeblood.

  Blood.

  Nostrils flaring, teeth baring, Strickland closed his eyes tightly, trying to force the thoughts from his mind. It was quite suddenly much more difficult to do so.

  As if echoing the conflict within his mind, a large, loud slap of thunder exploded overhead, feeling very strange and out of place amongst the sun of the mid-morning sky. All three men appeared startled and looked upward. The mere hint of thick thunderclouds slowly drifted into view between the trees overhead, and the loud crash had subsided to a deep, grumbling roar, which sent chills up Strickland's bare arms.

  A storm was coming. He hoped the only storm was from above, and not from within.

  "Damn, man, that came out of nowhere," said one of the three men walking the perimeter of the cabin. He looked up at the mostly sunny sky and shook his head. Geoff Emmanuele lifted his M4 and double-checked it carefully, making sure it was locked and loaded, and smiling just a little bit that the telltale yellow tape was no longer strapped around the magazine. His earlier confrontation with William Strickland had been short and not at all sweet for the former Canadian Special Forces operative, and he relished the thought of meeting up with him again, this time with full live 5.56 millimeter loaded in his weapon. His two cohorts were on either side of the cabin, watching the north, west, and east of the large, unsteady structure.

  "Two and three, report in," he said softly, tapping the white communicator lodged behind his ear.

  "Two."

  "Three."

  With both men dialed in and on their guard, Emmanuele trusted these men implicitly, but he'd felt what Strickland was capable of, and didn't want to take any chances.

  Over on the east side of the cabin, the man who had just reported "Two" being on point, took a few short steps forward as he lifted the M4 slightly, eyes scanning the forest.

  As soon as his target's face turned to watch another row of trees, Strickland launched himself from the thick woods and covered the area between him and the operative in seconds. The security specialist heard the thumping footsteps, but only had time to make a half turn before Strickland overtook him, wrapping his arms tightly around the man's neck. Thrusting him down, face-first to the grass, he squeezed hard and long, until the man passed out. Releasing his grasp, Strickland quickly dragged him to a more concealed location near the rear corner of the cabin. Dropping him there softly in the grass, Strickland had to stop for a second and exhale, as the now familiar wave of crimson threatened to overtake him again.

  Now that he was close to the cabin, resisting the urge was almost impossible and he could only get to his feet by placing a firm hand on the wall of the cabin for support. Struggling to a standing posture, he made sure to slip against the side of the cabin so he wouldn't be seen by the other patrol on the west. He didn't have time to stop and take a breath. Choking back his animal instincts, he spun around the corner, keeping himself pinned against the back wall, and surged forward. He ran, ignoring the bloodlust thrashing in his skull, and just as he rounded the corner, the other guard turned.

  "Wha--?" he asked briefly, but Strickland was on him, trying to keep this quick, as he felt the rage coming over him. A right cross from the attacker shattered the guard's jaw and sent him stumbling. However, Strickland's left arm shot out and grasped onto his vest, trying to keep him from spinning out into the front yard. Strickland spun with the guard in his clutches and slammed him hard against the wall of the cabin, a bone-jarring crash that forced blood and spittle from his half-closed lips. Strickland let his victim fall to the ground and lay still, hoping to react before the third man came around. Barely extending his head around the corner of the cabin, he saw Geoff Emmanuele walking towards him, his rifle held in two hands, though his eyes casted towards the wooded area to his left. Strickland crouched down, but Emmanuele's expert eyesight caught the last minute flash of motion, and he stopped fast, raising his weapon.

  "Who's there?!" he asked abruptly, thinking it was probably one of his guys. He waited a few seconds, but nobody answered. "I said who's there?" The M4 carbine came up into firing position, the stock buried into the crook of his shoulder, and his finger tensing on the trigger. "Identify yourself or I'll open fire!" he shouted, with his finger pushing down slightly on the trigger in preparation. Emmanuele continued walking forward slowly, gradually; his weapon raised and prepared to open fire. Turning the corner, the Canadian shook his head as he saw the unconscious form of 'Three' lying in a rumpled pile on the grass.

  "Fuck!" he shouted in his distinct accent, and raised his hand to press the communicator at his ear. However, he was so focused on the body on the ground he didn't think to look up, to see Strickland, crouched on the peaked roof of the cabin. Just as the former Canadian Special Forces agent was about to press the button on his earpiece, a large shape hit the ground
in a low crouch in front of him, causing him to backpedal, losing his balance. The hand dropped from the communicator and his weapon dropped a bit, giving Strickland the perfect opening.

  Lunging forward, he shoved his opponent's M4 up and twisted, wrenching it out of Emmanuele's grasp, but the Canadian recovered and kicked him in his exposed ribs. Strickland shifted, spinning and striking with a backward knife hand, a sudden shot to Emmanuele's left ear, which exploded the earpiece and severed communications. Strickland followed up, delivering a round kick to his ribs, and throwing a swift left punch. Emmanuele parried the punch and struck with a punch, and then an attempted kick of his own. Taking the kick on the thick of his left arm, Strickland spun to his right, planted his feet, then shifted within Emmanuele's range of motion, spun, and launched his enemy with a lock-straight back kick, pounding him straight in his tactical vest, sending him crashing back into the wall of the cabin. Strickland turned towards him, again, feeling the creep of the crimson anger starting to soak into his muscles, and crawling into the corners of his eyes, but he fought it back, trying to not succumb to it. The hesitation allowed his opponent to move in, and he slammed him in the shoulder with a hard round kick, and then tossed another one at his head, pounding him in the left ear.

  Strickland shook his head as he dropped to one knee and Emmanuele drew closer, sliding his pistol from his thigh holster. The pistol came out and lifted, pointing almost right at his head, but he launched his left foot out in a wide sweep, catching the pistol and knocking it aside. Using the momentum of the leg sweep, Strickland brought himself back up into a crouch and launched himself at Emmanuele, letting himself be consumed, just a little bit, by the beast inside of him. The Canadian soldier threw one punch, which Strickland slapped aside with ease, and couldn't even get the second punch off before Strickland barreled into him full-force, picking him up, and drilling him back first yet again into the cabin wall. A few wet snaps popped underneath the thick tactical vest, and Strickland let him fall to the ground silently.

  The young man stood there and glared at the cabin for a few moments.

  He felt like he was looking his memories right in the eyes with those vacant windows wide open with an accusatory glare. Strickland could have sworn he saw a glimmer of soul in those dark windows, but whose soul was it? His wife's? His own, somehow left behind? The memories slid into the back of his head yet again, and he knew he had to go inside the cabin to face these nameless fears.

  A single boot step on the creaky first stair signaled his approach to lost memory. A second step, another light creak, and the shoddy wooden door eased open, yet another lonely creak to join the first two. Drawing in a breath, he forced himself into the small, rickety building, immediately feeling the veritable force of fear press down on him from all sides. The dream assaulted him like a vicious punch landing blows on his shoulders and head, and he dropped to his knees as the crimson murk swirled around him, swallowing him whole. It seemed to roar in great waves from inside this ramshackle structure, and with the opened doors, there was no longer a barrier against its onslaught.

  Once again, the pleading face of the shorthaired woman thrust herself upon his soul, mouth agape, eyes wide, fear gripping her very essence. He stumbled forward, trying to force her out of his thoughts, but all he could see was the broken down wooden insides of the cabin. That was it! It happened here! His mind cleared, and he could make out the walls surrounding him as the woman struggled within the grasp of the unseen creature. The guttural, gurgling growl signaled the beast's existence before any visuals did, but Strickland couldn't bear to open his eyes.

  A female scream split his dream world vision and again, he could make out the interior of the building? this was it!

  It was right here where it happened.

  He could feel it.

  Raising voices echoed in the back of his head? no, it wasn't right here, it was? behind him? Another scream, the guttural roar, and he spun around to see the vicious brown/gray beast lifting the woman off her feet, jaws gaping wide open, ready to close upon her exposed throat.

  "I'll save you!" his mind shouted.

  "You can't," she said with reservation. "But it's okay."

  Just like it had a hundred times before, the tooth-filled mouth closed, the woman screamed, and the white-hot flash exploded directly in Strickland's face, his brain too traumatized to visualize the visceral death of his own wife.

  It had happened right here! He had seen the whole thing!

  It was right?over?

  ?there?

  William Strickland opened his eyes upon the sight of his wife's gruesome murder.

  A full-length mirror stared back at him.