Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  Slowly, the town falls into the light of the fiery life-giving ball. The village in the long, narrow valley is centered along a dirt road that enters from the north and departs to the south. Ramshackle houses with red tiled roofs are placed close together, some looking like a strong wind will blow them out of existence. A couple of roads lead away from the main street, heading toward the clumps of other houses. One road vanishes into the trees and is most likely the one below us.

  Some of the buildings are painted in bright colors, sometimes just a single wall. At one crossroads, one building painted white with red trim stands out. Next to it is a gazebo with a small cleared area and white iron benches around it. My guess is that the structure is either some kind of provincial government building or a church.

  Another road leads to a large building with a tin roof on the far edge of the village. An additional road parallels the main one and ends at a hacienda on the near edge of town. If there are hostages being held, they are most likely either in the shed building or the larger two-story house surrounded by three-foot adobe walls.

  The village stirs into motion, seeming to transition all at once. People leave their doorways of warped wood, or in some cases only curtains, and begin walking the dirt roads. A group heads down the road toward the shed while others go about an assortment of tasks. There aren’t any roadside tourist attractions or any sort of shops supporting that trade. These people are making a meager living barely feeding themselves, perhaps making the long drive to a larger town as it warrants.

  Armed guards walk the streets or lounge against corner walls, smoking cigarettes and exchanging lies with their comrades. A line of beat-up pickups chugs along the street with people sitting in the beds. They make their way to the edge of town and vanish into the trees, but the sounds of their engines increase as they begin to climb the road below. Glimpsing only flashes of color through the foliage, I listen as they pass and continue to a position several hundred yards away on the same level as us.

  At the hacienda, a pair of guards walks the grounds in random fashion. As I watch, I get the impression that the randomness is more out of boredom than by design. Several more are gathered at the gated entrance to the small compound, with others gathered on an entrance porch.

  The two-story structure is built much like the one we encountered on the coast—adobe walled with red tiles on the roof. It’s shaped like a backward “E”—yes, I know that’s a 3, but with straight lines rather than curved. Courtyards are formed in the rear between the wings off the main length and are backed by a taller fence. The building and surrounding compound are set apart from the rest of the village by trees crowding the rear fence and sides. Unlike the last manse we visited, this one hasn’t been designed with security in mind. For that reason, doubt creeps into my thoughts—surely they wouldn’t house hostages here. However, the village is small and remote, so it may be off anyone’s radar and security not that much of an issue.

  Although the compound may be easy to enter, the number of guards in and around it could make it a little sporty. Couple that with the others in town, and this carnival could become less than fun in a hurry.

  The posture of the guards is a little confusing. They are relaxed and not really checking corners, or much of anything. If the other team had been discovered, whether killed or taken for questioning, then the ones below should be exhibiting a greater level of alertness. Having things not make sense doesn’t sit well with me. Although the number of guards indicates that something is going on to warrant so much security, their behavior isn’t matching my assumed circumstances. Which means that my assumptions have to be incorrect.

  That means that the other team must have gotten lost, fell into a deep hole…all of them at once, or someone else got to them. If they found themselves in a comm blackout area, they would have worked their way around it, knowing what would occur should they go silent. The idea of someone else out in the wilds that could take down a trained team without alerting others nearby isn’t an overly warming thought. With the number of creatures in this jungle, I don’t want to set trip-wired claymores and give ourselves away should some ocelot become curious about us. We’ll have to set something that doesn’t go bang.

  Nothing much changes below during the day other than a random rotation of guards. A few times, a truck makes its way up the dirt road under our position only to return an hour or so later. I don’t see any sign of the hostages in the courtyards or through any of the windows. This could just be a drug town owned by the cartel, the hostages being held elsewhere. However, our intel isn’t often wrong.

  Even though the guards walking and lounging seem random, a pattern begins to emerge in that they congregate in certain areas. Every so often, a pair walks the streets, but without any heightened sense of checking on things. At times, a few appear in the courtyards and sit in lounge chairs with smoke drifting above their heads. We won’t be able to conduct our business as efficiently as at the lighthouse, but we should be able to get into the rear courtyards fairly easily.

  If the hostages are indeed here, we won’t be able to eliminate the guards and have the cavalry show up to hoist them away. We’ll have to sneak them out and arrange for a pickup somewhere else. That means making their disappearance unknown for a period of time. Dragging seven hostages along while we try to sneak back through the defenses doesn’t sound like a roaring good time.

  “I’ll bet they’re all wearing white as well,” I mutter, continuing to monitor the village.

  “What’s that, Jack?” Taylor replies.

  “Oh, nothing. I was just thinking we’ll have to sneak them out at night and I’ll bet they’re all wearing white,” I respond.

  “And the women will be wearing high heels…probably the guys as well,” Taylor says with a chuckle.

  “I wouldn’t doubt it. Fuck Calhoun for getting his team lost,” I state.

  “He probably thought his watch was a compass,” Taylor rejoins.

  “And his stained clothes an actual terrain map.”

  I’m not actually upset, and I hope to hell we find the team alive; it’s just the way we sometimes cope with stress and loss. We haven’t “learned” to deal with it or become emotionless automatons, we’re just able to stuff it way down deep. Thus, the escapades after the missions and waking up wondering if the pants we’re wearing are actually ours. Or, wondering why our eyebrows are gone and having to quickly check the morning paper to see if we’ve made the most wanted list. And then there are the times alone, away from all others, when the tears just won’t stop and our very souls cry out.

  As the sun drives across an azure sky with a few lazily drifting cotton balls, and as the land becomes hot and humid, a plan begins to form. Without being able to take care of the guards, we’ll have to work our way through them. We’ll have to watch during the night before it can be firmed up, but that’s when there’s likely to be fewer guards. Fewer guards along with less visibility and shadows encompassing most of the land, but more guards when it’s broad daylight…okay, go figure that one out.

  At any rate, it looks like the back courtyards offer the best chance of entering the premises. Two will hold one of them while four of us enter and begin a search. We’ll avoid those inside, but if we have to take care of anyone, then we’ll hide the bodies as best as we can and move on. Four is a crowd inside one of these residences, so we’ll work in two teams of two, one left and the other right. If one team locates the hostages, then the other team will turn and head to provide cover for their route of extraction, and everyone will collapse back to the point of entry.

  That’s about the extent of my planning. I like plans, but I like to have wiggle room as well. All plans go wrong—all of them—all of the time. My thinking is that if a plan is too rigid, then it will break when it goes wrong. If you have wiggle room, then you can bend, bob, and weave your way through it.

  Now, you have to have a plan of some sorts. Turning around and expecting to see your buddy, only to find a long empt
y hallway, is a little disconcerting. Anarchy doesn’t work either. Play a multiplayer video game with random people who are unable to communicate and you’ll see what I mean. Anarchy leads to a lot of WTF moments.

  Baker and Mitchell arrive, their darkened faces appearing from under the bushes. After briefing them on what we’ve observed, Taylor and I crawl off and work our way back to the camp set within a thick copse of trees. Pulling an MRE out of my pack, I devour the cuisine, forgoing the stiff cardboard cleverly disguised as a cracker. Nothing will drain the moisture from your body as well as those.

  * * * * * *

  As the sun vanishes behind the tall peaks on the other side of the valley, I hear the sound of the trucks departing whatever installation is near us, grinding their way down the dirt road back into town. The villagers march down the street from the shed, each parting the curtains to their abodes or opening warped doors to the sound of creaking hinges. Farmers walk up the streets from outlying fields, their slow steps indicative of their tiredness. Several people gather at the benches along the main street and eat together. In other places, small groups gather around fires sputtering from metal cans. Smoke drifts from pipes leaning at all angles above roofs. As darkness settles, lights flicker on from behind curtains or through open windows.

  My observations affirm my feeling that this is a cartel drug manufacturing village. There are just too many guards for it to be otherwise. The comfort level they’re portraying suggests that they’ve existed here for a long time instead of being carted in to keep the hostages secure. We’ll check the place out, but I feel that we’ve stumbled into a situation similar to the one we had at the first target.

  The night holds little other than a few guards walking the streets and around the grounds of the hacienda. Several times, I witness armed men in the courtyards, orange lights flaring occasionally. The courtyards could become a problem, but their visits taper off around midnight. The sentries posted at the front gates lean against the adobe walls, their vigilance nonexistent. One even sits down and leans his head onto his knees.

  Shit, we may be able to just walk through the front fucking door.

  During the day, we keep one teammate posted to watch over the town at all times, but this day is mostly to relax and get whatever rest we can. Once the trucks make their way down the dirt track and night falls, we’ll begin moving down the slopes and enter the town. We don’t have forever to plot precise schedules, and I’m not really sure we could at any rate. In the back of my mind, I still wonder what in the hell happened to the other team.

  * * * * * *

  Darkness has closed around us like a thick blanket, the trunks and dense foliage bathed in a green glow as we make our way off the ridge. The overhead cover blocks any light of the heavens from reaching through. With everything packed so tightly together, it feels confining to the point that even sound is muffled and suppressed. Working our bodies sideways, we slip through the trees and undergrowth, crossing the road and descending toward the villa.

  With the small compound at the end of the road, we don’t have to worry about crossing open ground before arriving. There’s only a concern that some drunken bastard scattered traps or mines in the jungle surrounding the place. That may be more of a concern around their processing plants, but you never know. For that reason, we stay away from anything resembling a path, slowly parting branches out of our way and slithering past, as we move through the darkness without a sound.

  The adobe fence at the back wall is six feet tall and without any wire or embedded glass shards on top. This place is probably relying on security by reputation alone. After running my finger along the top to check for a filament strand, I slip the fiber cord to the camera and look at the miniature screen, shielding any of the light from extending beyond my face. The courtyard on the other side is momentarily empty, with lounge chairs arranged in a line across a concrete patio. A BBQ grill sits to one side and a picnic-style table on the other. Lights glow behind curtains from some of the facing windows on both stories, while others remain dark. A single light perched above double wooden doors set in the middle casts a yellowish glow across the courtyard. There are other single doors leading inside near the end of each wing surrounding the enclosure.

  I didn’t see any sudden flare of other lights when the guards emerged during our observations the night before, but I check for any indication of motion-activated lights nonetheless. Satisfied that we’ll have a relatively easy entry, I withdraw the cable and we wait until a majority of the lights are turned off. I don’t want to wait all night, but I also don’t want to walk into the middle of a rave.

  After some time, I scale the wall with assistance and drop into the yard. Snaking along the wall, I head to the gloom of the corner near the outer wing where I’m shortly joined by Taylor. Freeman heads to the opposite side and sneaks along the wall of the inner wing, peeking into each window while the two of us cover the exit doors.

  In the second courtyard, the other three are performing the same operation. The plan is to enter the outside wings and meet in the middle. If we don’t find any sign of the hostages, then we’ll proceed to the second floor. As Freeman works his way along, he signals the room clear or how many occupants are within, or that he’s not able to see inside. We meet at the door leading into the outer wing and Freeman retraces his steps into the inner corner where he’ll keep the courtyard clear while we’re inside.

  “Ready, zero canaries observed,” I whisper on the radio.

  Baker double-clicks on the radio, acknowledging the call and to indicate that he’s ready as well.

  I peek inside to see an empty narrow corridor leading to a larger middle hall. There were a couple of people in several rooms; Freeman indicated they were kicked back in chairs watching TV. They aren’t alerted, but that doesn’t mean hunger or a trip to the bathroom won’t call them at any time. I hate doing this interior bullshit, but there’s no alternative. The hallways are lit and brighter than at the first coastal residence.

  “Entering.”

  I hate having to split us up, but doing so will enable us to conduct a faster search. I want to spend as little time inside as possible. With a nod, Taylor grabs the handle and twists, pushing the door open. I slide inside and head to the hallway intersection, crouching against the wall.

  Taylor quietly closes the door and joins me. We have to move fast when the opportunity presents itself because corridors only remain empty for so long. But, we have to also maintain silence. Luckily, the floors are tiled, which will prevent the creaks and groans that wooden floors are prone to.

  Subdued voices and laughter echo faintly down the hall, sounding a lot like dialogue and laugh tracks from a television. Keeping out of sight of the main hallway, I slowly slide the fiber cable around the corner toward the front. It’s clear. I pull on one small lever, angling it the other direction. At the end of the hall, two men are sitting in chairs, their elbows on their knees and heads lowered. Two AK-47s are propped on the tile between their legs, hands wrapped around them only enough to hold them upright. One of the men turns his head to the side, murmuring to his buddy, who then replies. Behind them, stairs the width of the hall lead down.

  Okay, then, I think, sliding the cable out of sight.

  I signal Taylor and then radio Baker.

  “Stairs heading down, outside end of the hall. Two guards.”

  “Same here, no guards,” Baker responds.

  “Hold position and be ready to either extract or join up,” I reply.

  “Copy…holding.”

  “Better yet, make your way here to hold the route clear. If we don’t get a bite, we’ll proceed with the original plan,” I whisper.

  “Copy, moving now.”

  Taylor and I wait until I hear Baker and his team radio that they’re in the courtyard and moving to our position. The next step will place us into a committed relationship with the guards in the building, and with locating the hostages. This is the point of no return. Turning toward the cour
tyard, I see Baker and Mitchell slip into the small corridor. They nod and ease up behind.

  Turning to Freeman, I motion that he has the left and I the right. I slip around the corner to the far wall and step forward, bringing my carbine up. A whisper of cloth lets me know that Freeman has followed. From twenty feet away, two surprised faces look up, their startled expressions interrupted by two rounds slamming into each of their heads in quick succession. Sprays of blood splash against the clay walls and into the fabric of the chairs.

  Shouldering past Freeman and me, Baker and Mitchell quietly race forward. They are able to catch the weapons before they clatter to the ground and to prevent the slumping men from collapsing to the floor or falling backward. The corpses are hurriedly arranged in their chairs. However, the suppressed subsonic rounds, although quiet, aren’t absolutely silent within the confines of the hall. A thin line of smoke wisps out of my barrel with the faint odor of gunpowder filling my nostrils.

  As I near the chairs, a voice calls from the stairs below, reverberating off hard concrete walls. I look at Baker, wondering if he understood what was being said. He shrugs and whispers, “Maybe they’re ordering Thai food?”

  “American will have to do. See that it’s delivered in style,” I comment.

  Baker and Mitchell start down the stairs, turning at an intermediate landing and vanishing from view. Several strobes of light flash from below, momentarily overshadowing the lights of the stairwell. At the same time, there’s the rattle of a door handle being turned in the room just to my side. I step out of sight with Freeman.

  A beam of light flares into the hall from an opening door. A mustached head peeks out and looks directly at us, eyes widening at the sight of the dark hole of a barrel just inches away.

  “Should have stayed in your room, dude,” I mutter, pulling the trigger.

  The round pierces his eye, liquid thickly forming a small stream underneath it. The mostly unimpeded bullet tears through the orbital socket and rips through the soft tissue of the brain, slamming against the back of the skull. The back of his head explodes outward, a thick splatter of brain tissue hitting the door with a wet slap. Some of the larger pieces peel off and fall to the floor, striking the floor with the same sound. Tendrils of blood begin streaming down from meaty chunks glued to the door.