Strigoi

by John O'Brien

  The man leaning out of the door, his hands on the frame, begins falling into the corridor as if he suddenly didn’t have legs. Reaching out, I grab hold of his sweaty, stained T-shirt. The back of his head is a gooey mess—a piece of his skull flopping to one side, dark blood welling in the cavity and his hair matted with blood.

  Use it or lose it, I think, staring at the mess of brains and easing the man to the floor.

  Taylor rapidly swings around us, taking care not to slip on the gore covering the tiled floor, and pushes the door wider without having it crash into the wall or slam into something. Holding the dead man’s shirt, I look inside and see another man standing beside a bed with ruffled blankets. He’s clad in a stained sleeveless T-shirt and boxers, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Muted coughs echo in the room. His shirt puffs outward from the impacts, with two red spots blossoming. A third round punches into his forehead, the force of the bullets driving him backward where he falls across a mattress.

  I pull the man in my grasp into a room suddenly filled with the smell of gunpowder and released bowels. Hurrying back into the hall, I bring the stock of my carbine up to an overhead light and tap the bulb. The filament breaks and plunges the back section of the hall into a deep gloom. Within the darkness, the two men resting in the chairs will be silhouetted against a backdrop of light from the stairwell. To a casual observer, it will appear that the two are still seated in their guard positions.

  “Six canaries in the basement,” Baker radios.

  “On my way,” I reply.

  Sending Taylor back to the hallway intersection to wait by the side hall, I start down the steps. At ground level, the adobe walls transition to concrete and the lights become bare bulbs hanging by strands of wire. Stepping over two bodies, I enter a larger room with a steel table in the center and surrounded by chairs. Around the edges of the concrete room, some of the walls are cracked and darkened by water and hold anchored chains and manacles.

  Baker and Mitchell are working locks open from six people, two sitting along each of the back and side walls. The hostages all have grime smeared across their faces and stained clothing, their hair messy and dirty. The freed ones continue sitting, massaging their ankles where the manacles have rubbed the skin raw. I expected some excited chatter, but Baker has obviously impressed upon them the need to be quiet. Without a word, I withdraw the photographs we were provided, matching the pictures with the dirt-stained faces looking up at me. They all match until I’m left holding a single picture without an accompanying body. We are after seven, but there are only six in the room. I’m instantly worried that the missing hostage is being held in another room or was taken away to be shortly returned. Frankly, considering the mess we’ve made here, we don’t have a lot to time to conduct a search without alerting the entire place.

  “Heads up, Taylor. We may have company returning.”

  At one of the hostages, his eye blackened and swollen, a split lip with an untreated cut near his temple, I kneel and ask, “Where is…” I pause, turning the picture over to read the name, “Adam Riches?”

  “When we were brought in, a couple of us struggled and tried to break free. You can see how well that went,” the younger man begins, pointing to his injuries.

  I stare hard into his eyes, giving an indication that we’re not around a campfire exchanging long-winded stories. The man shakes his head slightly, orienting his thoughts.

  “Anyway, some of us were beaten pretty badly and one was taken away bleeding and unconscious. They came back and we were told he had died and to let that be a lesson. I didn’t personally know the dude, but I think that’s the one you’re asking about,” the man replies.

  I turn the picture toward him and he nods.

  “Thank you,” I reply, rising and stepping over to Mitchell.

  Tapping the medic on the shoulder, I ask, “Can they walk?”

  “They’re dehydrated and their ankles and wrists are raw, but they can walk,” Mitchell answers.

  “How fast?”

  “They can walk,” Mitchel responds.

  “That’s not very reassuring. Can they make it to the ridge?”

  Mitchell shrugs and goes back to tending to the hostages while Baker frees the last one.

  Well, fuck! Let’s hope we’re able to get a good head start.

  I step out of the room and radio our command platform offshore.

  “Raven zero one, Badger six, over.”

  “Go for Raven zero one.”

  “Six canaries in hand, injured but mobile. One possible KIA. Do you want a body, over?”

  “Do you have the lead canary?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “How much trouble to recover the body?”

  “We’ll wake up the neighbors and they’ll want to have a party, which will hamper us getting the others out,” I reply.

  “Proceed as is. Raven zero one, out.”

  Stepping back into the room, I gaze at each of the hostages sitting on the damp floor, gauging their ability to move. Eager, hopeful eyes return my look, some with tears formed.

  “What do you say we get you out of here?” I state, standing in the middle of the room. “Understand that it’s not going to be easy. It’s a hell of a climb and it’ll be dark. I mean the kind of dark where you can’t see a hand in front of your face. There are obstacles, so when you walk, lift your feet and step forward. If you trip or fall, don’t cry out. We’ll be there to guide you, so don’t freak out if you can’t see anything. It’s imperative that everyone remain absolutely quiet and that you do exactly what we say, when we say it, and without hesitation,” I state. “Is that clear?”

  Seeing the hopefulness change to worried expressions, I add. “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of here. That’s my promise. In two hours, you’ll be on your way home.”

  Walking the hostages upstairs and into the courtyard, we assist them over the wall. I assign each of us a hostage to guide through the darkness. Before we move out, I notify Raven zero one that we’ll arrive at Delta for a pickup in two hours.

  In the lead, I have the senator’s daughter hold her place as I scout ahead, returning with the all clear to guide her over roots and through branches that I’ve parted. It’s slow, as I have to walk over the same ground twice, but I want to make sure our route is clear before proceeding. Behind, the others in the team are reassuring and guiding their charges.

  I have two emotions warring: the desire to move out of the area quickly before the bodies are discovered and the need to scout the route and stay quiet. I resolve the issue by moving faster once we’re away from the compound, but still keeping the volume of noise down. Crossing the dirt road, I hear a commotion rising from the village below.

  On the other side, I grab the handset from Freeman.

  “Raven zero one, Badger six, over.”

  “Badger six, Raven zero one, go.”

  “The ant’s nest has been kicked over. Ten minutes out,” I radio.

  “Copy, Badger six. Extraction is on standby three minutes away. Call when you’re in position.”

  “Copy that, moving now. Badger six, out.”

  Moving as quickly as we can through the twisted undergrowth, I feel a little reassured that we were able to put a bit of distance behind us before the absence of the hostages was discovered. That means they won’t know where we are, but the condition of the bodies lying on the tile floors will give an indication that we were there not long ago. They may also know a little of what they’re up against. However, they won’t be sure of the direction we took, and I hope they keep to the roads.

  We push to the top of the ridge, the panting breath of the rescued vacationers harsh in the dark. Radioing for the extraction, we herd the civilians into the tree line and take defensive positions. In the dark, there are faint sobs coming from some of the group, with others trying to thank us. It’s not easy to tell people thanking you to shut the hell up.

  Code words are exchanged with the pilots, and before long, the beati
ng of helicopter blades grows in volume and intensity. The tops of the trees sway violently as a dark object moves overhead and settles into the narrow clearing. In order to keep the blades out of the trees, the pilot has to land with one skid on the edge of the drop off, the other hovering in open air.

  Guiding the hostages, we set them into the opening of the black helicopter. Crew members inside grab each one and settle them into place. One of the young ladies turns and throws her arms around Baker in a monster hug.

  “Thank you so much!” she whispers through a sob, pulling away with a smear of camouflage on her cheek.

  “It’s my pleasure, ma’am,” Baker returns.

  Inside of twenty seconds, the last of them board and the chopper rises a few feet, turns ninety degrees, and moves off, gaining altitude and speed.

  Watching the dark shape blend in with the night, the sound of the blades growing fainter, a warm glow descends into my stomach. The hostages, held with fear in a cold basement only a couple of hours ago, are now on their way home. It’s moments like this that keep me coming back.

  “Looks like you met a friend,” I comment to Baker.

  “Apparently so,” he responds, staring at the helicopter fading into the night. “You know, Jack, it just doesn’t get any better than this…the feeling that we’re truly doing something good. This is what it’s all about. It doesn’t happen often, but it makes all that other shit tolerable.”

  “That it does,” I reply.

  Below, the village is lit like some festival, the lights of vehicles moving in the streets and flashlights prowling through yards. Faint shouts drift to our position. Many headlights flash through the thick foliage, coming up the road below our position.

  “Well, boys, I think it’s time to make ourselves scarce.”

  In single file, we vanish into the trees, working ourselves out of the area to see if we can find out what happened to the other team.

  Chapter Three

  With the five others positioned in a tight perimeter around the small clearing, I squat near the edge and stare at the six bodies stacked in a row on the ground. Each one bears the same rigid expression of agony etched on pale, gray faces. Dried remnants of saliva are plastered around their mouths and down their cheeks, dried blood in lines from their nostrils.

  Sunlight streams into the clearing with the constant buzzing of insects as they alight and take off from the bodies. Flies jerkily move across eyeballs staring into the blue sky and dance along gray lips. The smell of death and feces hangs in the humid air, the odor that brought us to the bodies. With the exception of a fire pit in the middle of the clearing, the area has been sanitized of all tracks. But, by the way the bodies are lying in an even line, presented to us, it’s obvious that they were moved to their current positions.

  Upon leaving our little haven on the ridge after stirring up the ant’s nest, we made our way into the mountains and circled around to the insertion point of the team to follow in their tracks. Because they hadn’t radioed in some time, we took our time paralleling their intended route. There still hadn’t been any groups taking credit for taking out a team of Americans, so their disappearance had been a mystery until now.

  With the dried saliva, I’m hesitant to creep any close to inspect the bodies for fear of poisoning. Our small chemical analyzer didn’t detect any traces, but I’m not about to touch the bodies; there could still be contact poisons. However, even from the distance I’m keeping, I can clearly see a strange bird-like symbol freshly branded on each of their foreheads.

  I’m uneasy about remaining in the area, but we have our orders. This wasn’t some random group of people out to look for some rare bird. The six men lying in the tall grass were highly trained and paranoid about their security. There’s no sign of a firefight or that they set off an ambush, so the action may have taken place elsewhere. Each has a single wound, which suggests an ambush. In the field, intervals are maintained in order to minimize the chances that an ambush or explosive can take out the entire team. Seeing as they were seemingly taken down at once, whoever did this knew their line of march and how they operated. The thing that is really bothering me is that the team was left like this as if we were expected to find them. It’s clear that whoever did this wanted them found, but not easily—otherwise they could have just dumped them out of a van into the street. The sooner I’m out of this place, the better.

  The faint beating of rotors grows louder until the tops of the trees violently sway from the down draft. The open area is too small to land, so two ropes are tossed off to the side and men in MOPP gear slide down. I nod as each passes to gather the bodies, which are then hoisted one at a time in a lowered basket. As they gather the weapons, I walk over and ask one to open the chamber. Inside is the gleam of chambered round. I don’t want to touch the weapon—it hasn’t been sanitized—so I ask that he eject the magazine and flip the bullets out. I find that not a single shot was fired. I check another to find the same thing. This team was taken out so quickly that they weren’t able to fire a single round.

  The bodies are lifted and the chopper flies away, the rotors quickly growing faint before vanishing altogether. I stroll out of the clearing to join the others hidden in the tree line. Sitting for a couple of minutes, the sound of the insects a constant background drone, I listen for the sound of another helicopter. Our position has already been given away by the first one, so any delay makes my back itchy.

  Grabbing the handset from Freeman, I radio, “Raven zero one, Badger six, over.”

  “Badger six, Raven zero one. I know what you’re going to ask, but standby.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m going to ask it anyway…I think someone forgot how to do math. You know, where one helicopter becomes two. Where’s our ride?”

  “Your pickup was just recalled and I’m trying to sort it out…standby,” Raven zero one answers.

  “That’s not what I’m wanting to hear right now, but you know where to find me when you get it sorted out. Badger six, out.”

  “Prepare for some incoming fucktardity. Our ride’s been cancelled,” I say over our personal comms. “Taylor, find us the deepest, darkest cover you can, and lead us there.”

  As we take positions in a dense copse of trees, Freeman hands me the radio handset.

  “Badger six, go.”

  “Badger six, Raven zero one. Eagle asks if you can investigate the upper caves near your prior position.”

  “Heading back to the scene of the crime isn’t the best idea…like, ever. What does he want us to do?”

  “Investigate and destroy it if it’s a manufacturing facility,” Raven zero one states.

  “Aren’t there others that are supposed to take care of shit like that…you know, like departments with three-letter identifiers?” I ask

  I really don’t want to put us close to the stirred-up ant hill. And our little find here in the jungle has left me feeling very uneasy about this whole hike.

  “You’re there,” Raven zero one responds. “Eagle says that it comes with a contract extension with applicable compensation.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about that. I want a hot shower, a juicy hamburger, and a cold beer, not more traipsing through this jungle for someone’s appeasement,” I reply.

  “Eagle says pretty please.”

  “Oh, well then, why the fuck not! I mean, pretty please goes a long ways. Standby,” I return.

  I talk it over with the others, who merely shake their heads. Going back isn’t the best idea. We just snagged a huge bargaining chip from the hands of a major cartel, and I can’t imagine they’re overly happy about it. When wronged, either real or imagined, the cartels operate off of lessons and examples. They aren’t easily going to let go of something like this. I’d hate to be a Mexican helicopter pilot in the next few days, because the cartel is likely to lash out at anything. And they’ll stomp these jungles flat to find out who did it.

  “Raven zero one, I have six noes on this end,” I radio.

&n
bsp; “Eagle says double rate that will apply for the entire mission.”

  I look at the men, who still shake their heads.

  “Still a no.”

  “Triple.”

  “Triple is hard to pass up,” Freeman comments.

  “See how high they’ll go,” Mitchell whispers.

  “I’m still seeing the shake of heads here,” I reply to Raven.

  Another voice comes over the radio. “Badger six, I know what’s going on down there. Triple is it.”

  “How’d we get stuck with this?” Baker asks.

  “The Creator’s reward for clean living, I guess,” I answer.

  Reluctantly, the others agree to go forward. Triple pay for a mission that’s gone on this long is nothing to sneeze at, risk or no. But, there’s also the fear that if we turn back, which is well within our rights, it might be a while before we receive another call. All of us do this for various reasons—adrenaline junkie, sense of adventure, and the occasional paladin who thinks they’re changing the world—but, most of us don’t really know what else to do. So, we pretend to do it for the money, creating mythical sums to work toward so we can retire. I think I have a mix of those reasons, but like I mentioned, it’s mostly those rare moments watching the people we rescue heading home that keeps me coming back for more.

  “Fine, but there had better also be a tall glass of beer waiting for us…and not shitty beer. I also want extraction on standby and I don’t mean the ‘I’ll be there in thirty’ kind, either,” I radio.

  “Copy. You call and we’ll be there inside of ten,” Raven zero one says.

  “It had better be. If it’s a second over ten, I’m going to find and kill family pets,” I reply.

  “I’ll relay your enthusiasm,” Raven zero one chuckles.