by John O'Brien
“And, tell Eagle that if he strands us again without asking, then I’m going to steal his wife.”
“Badger six, he may actually pay you to do that.”
“That bad, huh? Okay, then I’m back to family pets,” I state.
“I’ll relay the message. Raven zero one, out.”
We work our way out of the area, taking the long path into the mountains and back toward our original overlook. I’m still not sure who could have taken out an entire team like that, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel related to the hostages. Whoever it was, they covered their tracks like pros so that even I couldn’t tell where the ambush was, much less where they went. In the heat of the day, thermal optics won’t do much good, but we still have them combined in our NVGs. Unless they’re cold blooded or wearing dry suits, we should be able to see if anyone is around us in the darkness. Being extra cautious, our trek up the mountains takes us double our usual time as each step is taken nervously.
* * * * * *
Sweat trickles down my neck from the heat as I snake through a field of tall grass, the red clay soil making it feel like I’m crawling across a bed of coals. Behind, the others are keeping watch in the tree line. Even slowly parting the clumps of grass and worming my way through, hidden by the tall stalks, I still feel like a target. For the thousandth time in my career, I contemplate my retirement. I’ve been hunted by elite teams before, but this one feels different. I’ve never been left with such a clear warning sign, or whatever that was supposed to be. I suppose it could have been a gauntlet that was thrown down. Either way, I think I may sit out that part of the game and watch from the sidelines.
As I push myself forward, two thoughts enter my mind. One is that some kind of leak occurred with the dead team. At first, I thought of cartel infiltration within the Mexican military that assisted with the insertion. But, upon seeing the bodies, the cartel idea was replaced with something much more dangerous. My second thought? That at the moment, being a greeter at Walmart doesn’t sound like too bad of a deal.
I emerge at the edge of a jutting cliff. The area we’re supposed to “investigate” is a little to the side, but I want to get a look at the town beforehand. With two helicopters coming into the area in the past few days and having hostages rescued from under their noses, I wanted to see what was happening. I didn’t want to head back to our previous location for obvious reasons, and this site offers an overlooking view.
Pulling out a pair of binoculars, I shield the lens from the late afternoon sun and focus on the small village below. At first look, I don’t see anyone moving. Wiping the sweat from my brow, I observe it closer. There’s not a single person in sight. Where there were guards lounging at intersections, the corners are empty. There’s no one wandering the streets or by the aluminum shed in the distance. The hacienda we visited a few nights ago is also clear of guards.
Did they expect a raid and pull out?
I carefully scan each building, but there’s no one around. No sound of vehicles moving…just nothing. It’s as if the town was vacated. A slight gust of wind passes through, blowing a few scraps of paper across the streets where they’re caught against poles or the legs of picnic tables.
How would you clear out an entire town of people? And why all of the villagers instead of just the cartel members?
I continue scanning, searching for some sign of life or evidence that someone is still around. Curtains in blank windows rustle in the breeze, blankets serving as doors sway outside. Vehicles are still parked at the manor and a few elsewhere, but there aren’t any drivers or passengers.
They wouldn’t leave their vehicles.
As if a switch were thrown, I start noticing other things—dark splatters on the sides of some rundown houses. Now that I see the first ones, the others become more noticeable. The patterns created by the spray are signs of vicious deaths. I check along the walls for the pock marks of bullets that have slammed into their surfaces, but can’t find a single one. Nor holes in the more rundown houses. The dark spray patterns show that more than a few met their end violently, but there aren’t any bodies in the streets.
So, they killed the villagers before fleeing. So not cool. But, why take the bodies?
I edge back and make my way to the others, radioing my find to the special ops platform circling off the coast.
“Something blew through here while we were out on our nature walk,” I say, also informing the team of what I saw.
“So, we may not have much to investigate and destroy?” Baker comments.
“That’s what it looks like,” I respond.
“Well, I’m not against free money,” Baker says. “Triple pay at that.”
“Me either. Okay, we can either rest up and tackle this tomorrow night after a day of observation, or we can take care of this shit tonight. I’m good either way,” I state.
“What’s that you’re always saying, Jack? Sooner started, sooner done? We could be on our way back tonight, and I’m ready for a long, hot shower,” Baker responds.
“Yeah. This soiree is about to cut into my weekend with the kids. Besides, if the villagers have truly been eliminated and the cartel members have fled, then, like you said, this may be quick and easy. But, we’re still treating this as if the place is hosting a convention, and we’ll head in after dark to see what we see. Remain vigilant and don’t rush into something thinking that this is almost over. No shortcuts. I don’t have to tell you that it’s only over when we set foot on friendly terrain and clear the rotors. And, let’s keep in mind that we might have another enemy roaming somewhere; I’d rather not have a repeat of what happened to Calhoun and his team. We’re going to head further into the trees and act like we’re setting up camp for the evening, then move out once night falls,” I brief.
“An entire team taken out without a shot and a whole town murdered. This whole thing is starting to give me the heebie-jeebies,” Taylor states.
“You’re not the only one,” Freeman replies.
“Okay, we’re in the home stretch here and there’s a chopper on a ten-minute standby, so save the theatrics for when we’re perched at the bar,” I state.
* * * * * *
Under the trees is an empty black void lit only in the greenish glow of my NVGs. Each step is carefully planned and executed, six wraiths whispering through the night. Beyond the range of my sight, there is nothing but an unending vacuum of nothingness where anything could be lurking.
I grip my carbine, my thumb nervously caressing the selector switch. The cooler air of the night has replaced the warmth of the day, but it still holds some of the humidity. I take a few steps, then watch and listen. As I move through the night, I scan the upper levels of the trees and imagine an ambush waiting behind every bush. My heart quickens with jolts of adrenaline and my M-4 is rapidly aimed at moving heat sources as they flicker across my field of vision.
There are moments when I want to rush in and get this shit over with, but the mental image of Calhoun’s team forces me to work methodically. Our route zig-zags across the side of the ridge in order not to communicate our final destination, moving past where the road ends and then cutting back to it.
Prone on the edge of a cliff, I look down into a wide lot carved out of the hillside. There are a few old pickups parked along the edges of the hard-packed clay. Within the lot, a wide cave large enough for one of the vehicles to drive through leads deeper into the ridge. No lights show from within and there’s nothing moving in sight. That’s not surprising, since our observances several days ago showed that the people left toward sundown. The trucks in the lot may have broken down, or perhaps the villagers were murdered in the cave.
Further below, the village is hidden from view in the darkness of the valley. In the few moments we could glimpse down into it, no lights flickered behind curtained windows, no flashlights swayed to and fro as guards walked their posts. There wasn’t a single source of illumination or sound reverberating up the steep slopes. It was as if the t
own didn’t exist. The night, which is usually my security blanket, begins to feel a little more sinister, and I’m reminded of that eerie feeling I felt at the coastal manor.
Stop it, Jack. You’re not five and there aren’t any monsters in the closet.
For twenty minutes, we watch and listen without seeing or hearing anything except for the swish of a gentle breeze blowing across the top of the trees and grass. We snake our way from our perch, arriving at the lot. Baker, Taylor, and Burkhart will remain hidden on the ledge to cover the lot and surrounding area. I opt for Mitchell and Freeman, as there may be injured inside whom our medic might be able to help, and Freeman carries the radio, which I want near me.
I’d rather be trudging to a hot shower, or a cold one given the heat and humidity here, or to a comfortable bed, but as long as I have to be here, I couldn’t pick better company. As we work along the edges of the lot, moving around the parked vehicles, an aroma seeps out of the cave. There’s just no mistaking the smell of decaying bodies.
That would explain the vehicles still here, I think, edging to the side of the entrance.
I hold a signal mirror around the corner, but I’m not able to make out much past the entrance other than a tunnel leading into a void. Rounding the corner, I begin a fast crouch-walk against the tunnel wall, my carbine held ready and aimed ahead. The stench gets worse as I venture farther in, and I have a feeling I know what awaits at the end. I’ve smelled the same thing far too many times.
An opening at the end shows where the walls of the tunnel come to an abrupt end. Twisted figures lie on the red clay, their bodies torn. Surveying the large room from the entrance shows that overturned tables lie among the corpses, accompanied by shards of broken glass and shattered beakers. The area near the strewn tables is littered with a powdery substance, and a few plastic-wrapped bags are scattered throughout, some whole and others spilling their substance onto the ground. Within the wide expanse, nothing is moving.
This doesn’t make sense, the thought immediately rises. If they were bugging out and eliminating the villagers, why would they leave their merchandise behind?
I hold the others back while I take a closer look. The dead have been savagely slain, many with their throats torn open. Ropes of intestine curl out of opened stomachs, draped across shredded and darkly stained shirts. Dried blood is caked around the bodies, the stains darker than the surrounding soil. Several weapons lie near outstretched arms, evidence that not all of the slain were villagers.
Looking at the scene, I have to revise my original assumption that the cartel killed the villagers and left after our rescue. This appears to be an attack of a different kind, one that wiped out the entire village. My first thought is that whatever took out Calhoun’s team swept through the place, but these killings are much different than what we previously discovered. For one, none of the team members were mutilated, other than the brand on their foreheads. This slaughter was brutal, whereas the other one appeared methodical and precise. Unless we’re dealing with some kind of schizophrenic psychopath, these are two events from different sources.
That leaves the question of whether this was, in fact, another cartel sending a message. With the drugs still in place, it certainly doesn’t appear theft-motivated, instead centered on pure savagery. We didn’t hear anything within the valley during our trek to locate the other team, but the jungle muffles sound. Looking at the torn bodies, it doesn’t appear like they were taken down by gunfire, but perhaps by a machete-wielding gang. I’ve seen a lot in my years, but I’m always amazed at the kind of butchery one person can do to another. On a side note, it looks like our job has been done for us. The only real thing for us to do is to destroy the wrapped packages that are still intact, and then it’s Miller time.
I take another close look around, searching for any movement, for any sign of survivors, listening for any sound. Nothing within the room is warm enough to give off a thermal signature. There’s only complete silence and the grisly aftermath of slaughter. Stepping into the large room, my eyes and barrel wander to the far corners, constantly searching. Freeman and I remain just inside while Mitchell heads further in, withdrawing a knife to slice open the remaining packages.
Interrupting the quiet, I suddenly hear something between a hiss and a growl, if that kind of sound is even possible. Something quickly moves across my field of vision. It doesn’t appear to have any substance and is really only a blur of movement. It moves past Mitchell and I hear a wet splash. The medic falls to his knees, gripping his throat as blood pours between his fingers. A blurred shape materializes a short distance away from the stricken man.
A pale man with lanky hair is staring at us with eyes that are glowing in my NVGs, blood dripping from his long fingers. Oddly, there isn’t a heat signature emanating from the attacker. Freeman and I each take a step to the side in opposite directions, unloading a torrent of fire at the assailant. I need to finish this quickly and get to Mitchell.
Rounds streak across the wide room, all centering on a spot where the man is standing. Expecting to see him twitch from multiple impacts, I’m taken aback as his form becomes, well, insubstantial, and with a hiss, he blurs forward in a streak of darkness. Our bullets strike the far wall with a rapid series of solid thuds.
In the corner of my eye, I see Mitchell fall forward onto his face. However, my attention is on the blurred streak as it hurtles toward Freeman. It passes by him and then the man materializes behind my radio man, so fast that my eye can barely track it. The attacker’s mouth clamps on Freeman’s neck and, with a wrench of the assailants head, tears away a large chunk of tissue. Blood sprays from the wound, coating Freeman’s shoulder and running down his neck to soak into his fatigue shirt. The attacker looks up, blood smeared around his mouth, and looks to me with eyes glowing silver.
Oh fuck! I’m dead, I think, still wondering why I’m not seeing any thermal image and if this is truly what took out the other team.
I fire, quick strobes of light flashing against the clay walls. This time they hit, and the man staggers backward as rounds slam into his side and chest, dark spots appearing on his stained shirt. I drop my mostly spent mag and slam another into place, releasing the bolt. Recovering quickly, he shakes his head with a snarl and another hiss, then looks directly at me and blurs before I can fire again. With a speed I’ve never before witnessed, the dark streak is heading just to my right.
No, no, no. I’ve seen this trick, I think, dropping my carbine to hang on its lanyard.
I drop and turn a one-eighty while taking out a six-inch double-edged blade from a sheath at my side. I keep a knife in multiple places on my body so I can have one in reach from nearly every angle. As long as my hands aren’t directly pinned, there’s always a knife within reach. The creature materializes behind where my back was, but with my turn, it’s directly in front of me.
I rise, plunging my knife under its sternum and driving it upward at an angle. There’s a faint resistance as the blade pushes through the skin. Liquid gushes over my glove, the viscous substance neither hot nor cold. The hilt slams against the stomach and I wiggle the blade back and forth, the tip cutting through tissue.
I sense its shoulder move and see movement in my peripheral. Observing what happened to Mitchell, I jump backward, pulling my knife from its body. I don’t want to get raked across the throat by whatever it’s carrying. And, with my blade having sliced through its heart, I know it won’t be long before it sinks to its knees and fucking dies.
I feel the wind from a sweeping hand just an inch away. The creature grabs its stomach with its other hand, dark liquid pouring through its fingers, which slows to a trickle and then stops. It stumbles, catching itself before falling to its knees. The attacker then stands upright and glares at me as if its heart is just fine.
You have to be fucking kidding me!
It blurs again and I focus on trying to keep track of the dark misty cloud. It again is heading toward my right. I start a dropping turn to catch it like
before. If it’s going to try the same tactic, then I’m going to counter it in the way that seemed to have worked. Although, how the man is still able to stand is beyond comprehension. Right now though, I’m just trying to stay alive from one second to the next. I don’t even have the time for a radio call to Blake for help.
In mid-turn, I see the assailant materialize short of going behind me. It stands there, looking up and down its body with a confused expression. I don’t give it time to contemplate the mysteries of life. Halting my turn, I rotate back to the front and deliver a kick to its chest, sending it stumbling backward a few steps.
Recovering with a hiss, it blurs again, this time the shadow heading right toward me. I quickly step to the side and thrust my dagger into where I think its path is. At this point, everything is a guess, and if I make the wrong one or misjudge, I’m going to end up like the rest of the bodies scattered in the cavern.
I feel the knife bite into something solid, and cold runs up my blade and arm. The creature materializes with my knife in its neck, the end sticking out of the other side. The radiating cold vanishes and I feel liquid pour onto my hand. Applying pressure toward the front of its neck, I slice the blade and feel it cut through gristle and muscle. The razor-sharp blade slices through its neck, spilling more of the thick fluid running down the front of its shirt.
Turning its head, part of its neck off-centered, it stares at me from less than a foot away, the glow of silver from its eyes hard like steel.
What the fuck does it take to kill this thing?
I feel like I’m fighting on the wrong end of a laggy multi-player game. With a gurgling hiss, its hand reaches out, thrusting for my neck. Even though frightfully fast, its actions do seem slowed. I duck down and to the side, feeling hardened nails like talons scrape across the side of my head and blood beginning to trickle into my hair from deep gouges.
I’ve cut its heart and damn near severed its head, but still it has the strength to fight. At this point, I have nothing much else to lose, so I stay on the offensive. If it keeps doing that fucking blurry thing, I’m going to misjudge and it’s going to rip my throat out. As its hand flows across the top of my head, I stay with my momentum and drop lower, rising to again plunge my knife under its rib cage. It didn’t kill it before, but it also didn’t seem to like it much. And, if it is slowed due to blood loss, well, then, more blood it shall lose.
