by John O'Brien
Smoke begins rising from the body and I have absolutely no desire to breath in whatever it is. Pushing off the body, I leave it to slowly slide down into the stream while I clamber up the slope, feeling a complaint from my knee.
“Are you okay?” I hear Gonzalez ask from the trees as I clear the crest.
“I thought I told you to keep going,” I respond.
“I did…all of the way here,” she replies.
“We can’t have you heroing it all by yourself and showing us up,” Greg comments, pulling on my arm to help me the rest of the way up.
“Now, see, all of that and now I have to write you all up for insubordination,” I respond.
Greg looks at the scratches. “Lover’s spat?”
I reach up to feel the jagged edges of the gouges and sticky blood.
“Yeah, she didn’t take the news of the breakup well,” I reply. “Now, if our little reunion is over, do you think we can go?”
My knee reminds me of my age as we jog toward the edge of the city and the two story building we preselected. Dodging branches reaching out from the thin screen of trees along the bank, we enter an open area. The sound of our regulated breaths and footfalls rise above the background bursts of the Gatling gun keeping our six clear. Stalks of grass whisper against our pant legs. Somewhere behind us, remnants of the vampire pack have fled the field. The thud of our boots takes on a different sound as we race up the stairs two at a time.
On the roof, the thump of rotor blades is loud and welcome as it intrudes upon the night. Looking outward, the once peaceful scene has been shattered by a pall of smoke drifting above a torn pasture that resembles a World War One battlefield, carrying the faint odor of gunpowder. High overhead, stars twinkle against a field of black velvet, their sparkle fading and growing bright as smoke drifts on a slight breeze.
I’m not sure what to think about how this night has progressed. I had in mind that the firepower the Spooky afforded would bleed the vampires much more than it did, hoping that none of them would be able to leave the field. These strigoi are remarkably resilient, which by the way, goes into the “not good” column. However, if those flashes of heat, different from the ones observed just prior to teleporting, are an indication of death, then we have managed to take down a few of them. It only took a few rounds to take out those four that appeared out of the smoke, in their weakened condition. That means those remaining will hopefully be just as weak. So, there’s four down for sure, plus those noted when the claymores went off, and the others we observed taken down in the field by the Spooky.
The rhythmic beat grows louder. A darker, more solid object appears out of the night. We huddle against the downdraft blowing the smell of burned jet fuel across the roof. Loose debris is whirled over the lip of the surrounding wall or pressed against its adobe sides. The helicopter pulls alongside the building, the gunner behind the five-barreled Gatling gun swinging the weapon clear. Stepping onto the lip, we cross a small gap into the interior.
The chopper lifts upward, and then the nose points downward as we pick up speed. Circling away over the city and away from the pasture, more out of habit than any real defensive measure, we level off and head north.
“Okay, Falcon. What are we looking at?” I radio.
“Currently we have three active markers, all moving deeper into the jungle and angling up the slopes. We had two heading north in the dense foliage and put 40mm cannon fire into them without any noticeable effect. We then placed a couple of 105mm shells into their midst and lost the signal of those tracking devices. We’re not sure if there are still any heading north. With regards to the other seven, we lost those signals in the field,” Lynn reports.
“How many were with each group?” I query.
“We witnessed more than just the trackers with each group. I’m analyzing the footage right now to get a better estimate on actual numbers. The claymores obscured a lot of their entry into the cover, but the initial estimate at this point is that more than a dozen remain. Now, how many are in each group is a guess. I’m trying to get a visual on those heading north, if there are any,” Lynn answers.
I almost wish those large artillery shells hadn’t been fired so we could still track the northern group, if they’re still a part of the picture. We can’t afford to assume otherwise. Not that I’m saying it was the wrong decision to fire. As they seem to have a pack mentality, I imagine they’ll remain in a group if possible instead of scattering.
“Well, their priority will be to feed at this point. So, you’re right in that those heading toward a population, meaning the blockade, will be our priority. Map out their last line of travel and forecast a continued one from it. If possible, find us a clearing along that line to land. If there isn’t one, find us some high ground and we’ll drop in ahead of them,” I reply.
The team, leaning back against the steel walls, heard everything, so there’s not really much to brief. They know what we’ll be up against. It will be us versus an unknown number of vampires without having reliable supporting firepower.
“They’ll be weak and down to their reserves if those at the embankment are any indication. Considering the density of the foliage, I doubt that the 40 will be a solution if we manage to locate them. And, if we’re to maintain a visual, then the 105 is definitely out of the picture, so we’re down to engaging them on the ground. If there are any remaining, we don’t know how many we’ll be facing, but it’s imperative that we stop them before they either feed or reach the blockade. There’s not much between their last known position and those up north, but there’s always the chance they could find some wildlife to gain back some measure of strength,” I state.
“So, what you’re saying is that we don’t know, and we’re all that’s between those vampires and civilization?” Greg comments.
“Pretty much,” I reply.
“What about locating them and tagging them again? We still have the air rifles and darts,” Denton suggests. “And then we pull out and hit them with the big guns.”
“And we’d have to do that over and over again until we were sure. But, it’s a possibility if the opportunity presents itself. We’ll drop in and see what we see,” I respond. “Also, remember the heat signature just prior to them rifting. Move accordingly when you see it, using some form of barrier if possible.”
“Did you see that other heat emission when they died and that black smoke, almost like a liquid, rose from them?” McCafferty inquires.
“Yeah. I remember the smoke, but not the flash, from before,” I comment.
“That’s because you were seeing them with different eyes, sir,” Gonzalez replies.
“Good point.”
I can’t tell you how disconcerting it is to see your teammates’ eyes glow silver when the light catches them just right. I mean, it’s kind of cool, but it’s also eerie as fuck.
The town races by underneath, adobe-walled houses mixed with those built from sheets of aluminum. Hard-packed streets lead from paved central avenues with smaller alleyways zig-zagging between buildings. There isn’t a single light to be seen; each window and open doorway are voids of darkness.
Leaving the buildings behind, we fly over both grassy and plowed fields. Abruptly, the terrain changes to dense jungle, the overhead cover completely blocking any view of the ground. The trees sway from our rotor wash as the Blackhawk speeds just a few feet over their tops. Lynn has plotted a best course for the vampires based on their previous direction of travel, and the helicopter makes a slight adjustment to its flight path as we streak toward a tree-covered ridge.
On the floor of the Blackhawk, thick rappelling ropes are coiled with one end attached to the flooring and the other to a heavy pointed anchor designed to penetrate thick layers of vegetation. We make last-minute adjustments to our gear, mostly from nervousness rather than any true need. Somewhere below the impenetrable overhead cover, there’s a possible group of vampires heading toward a blockade in search of food. The other group is currently he
ading away from any populated areas and will be dealt with at a later time.
The Blackhawk’s nose rises and rapidly slows as we’re brought into position on a rise of land stretching across the vampire’s route. Branches dance violently under the hurricane winds being driven downward; leaves torn from the limbs are blown either down or outward. Two ropes on each side are kicked out of the open doors to plummet through the branches to the jungle floor. Hopping on the skids with my gear tightly strapped, I grab the thick rope with both hands, one going to the small of my back, the other in front for stability. The skids vibrate from the oscillating blades spinning in a blur overhead. Leaning back, I drop off the skid and loosen the grip of my braking hand to slide past the hovering chopper, my boots wrapping around the rope as well.
Beside me, Gonzalez drops in the same moment, along with Greg and McCafferty on the opposite side. The pilot barely moves from his hovering position as he compensates for the weight difference of four descending bodies. With the strong wind pushing against my shoulders, I slide past the canopy and into a maelstrom of swirling leaves and waving limbs. I momentarily unclasp my feet to ease away from branches and then I’m through into the open air between the canopy and undergrowth. The dense overhead cover, though still in turmoil from the blast, blocks much of the whirlwind. Three other shadowed bodies slither down in the darkness.
Landing on a mounded crest that’s relatively clear of vegetation, I move away from the rope that’s oscillating like a vertical slithering snake. The four of us crouch in a tight perimeter, each unstrapping our carbines and looking out over our sectors. I radio that we’re clear, and soon, the darkened silhouettes of Henderson and Denton slide into view, quickly joining our circle of friendship. I notify the Blackhawk, the lines are rapidly drawn back, and it moves off, the sound of the rotors quickly fading.
“Falcon, we’re feet down. Any luck on getting a visual?” I call.
“Negative. We’re combing along the route,” Lynn answers.
“Copy.”
After being in a whirlwind of noise during our ride and descent into the jungle, the complete silence is unsettling, almost like we were suddenly placed in an alien world. Several leaves float down, some spinning like the blades of a chopper, others swinging up, then down. We can’t see very far, but the thin vegetation affords us a better view than if we were in the thick foliage at the bottom of the ridge. Still, even though we’re in their forecast line of travel, the odds of them coming through our position aren’t the greatest. Even if they change course by a couple of degrees, they’d move past us without us being any wiser.
“Spread out but maintain line of sight with each other,” I whisper.
As the team moves along the rounded crest, I add, “Whoever sights them will be our grouping point. I don’t want us engaging individually and being overwhelmed. This is about the mission, but the top priority is making it the fuck out of here. I don’t give a shit if the entire country of Mexico goes down as long as we’re alive. No hero shit.”
“Look who’s talking,” Greg returns.
“If you’re good, normal shit seems like magic to others. Git Gud, scrub,” I counter.
The air seems oppressive—heavy. I’m sure it has a lot to do with the stress. Under the trees, there’s no quick escape if things turn sour. It feels as if a blanket were thrown over the jungle, suppressing all sound. There’s not a single cricket leg rubbing or croak from a frog…not even a flutter of bat wings. The quiet and darkness only add to the surrealism of it all. Crouched next to the bole of a tree, I stare down the slight decline to where the dense foliage blocks any further vision.
Mist begins to swirl along the ground, slowly thickening in the humid air and coolness of the night. Tendrils reach out from the thickening mist like thin arms in search of prey. The fog hugs the ground and creeps along the low places, filling any ruts. Bushes fade as the mist slowly devours them, branches becoming silhouetted outlines and then vanishing. The fog dampens even the idea of sound.
I glance along the ridge at the five others crouched behind trees, carbines held ready. Their faces are etched with determination as eyes search through the darkened jungle, waiting for the emergence of a ferocious, relentless enemy that is damn near immortal. There’s not a hint of panic, no whisper in their minds of flight. We’re all holding this line, and if one falls, we all fall. I look at each of them, and in the midst of all this, my heart swells with warmth. Without complaint, they are holding a line between humanity and the terrors of the night. Each of them is the very definition of bravery, heroes all.
Amid the wrongdoings of humanity, amid all the greed, the entitlement, the laziness, there are still people like this who will give themselves for others. They don’t do it for thanks or glory, but because it’s what they have to offer. It’s people like the ones crouched along the ridge next to me who restore my faith.
Glancing behind, I note that the fog has settled in the lowlands. In this situation, I’d rather have us circled in a perimeter, but we have to form a line to provide as much coverage as possible. In the fog below and to our front, a darker shadow moves within the folds. Mist swirls behind the darting specter, tendrils twisting in the air.
“We have company,” Greg whispers on the radio.
“Copy. Keep an eye…” I begin saying, suddenly feeling a chill on the back of my neck.
Sensing something behind me and without waiting to confirm, I lunge sideways into a roll. Somethings sharp bushes against my scalp and grazes my ear. Releasing my carbine as I roll over my shoulder, I go for one of the knives at my back. Rising in one movement, I plant my rear foot and, with a quick look for orientation, launch at a figure standing where I was just crouched.
The strigoi looks at me, the silver glow of its eyes and expression seeming confused as to why blood isn’t pouring from my neck for it to feed on. Sweeping my empty arm downward to clear the way of any obstacle, I thrust my knife forward. The sharpened chiseled point plunges into soft tissue beside the esophagus. The muscle and gristle give way to my momentum, blood spraying in a stream with enough force to cut through steel. I feel splatters across my cheeks and forehead.
I pull the trigger, and the blades extend with a sharp thunk. One of the side blades slices through the airway and extends into the open, jets of bright blood trailing and arcing outward. As it isn’t a straight-on thrust, the extension of the blades fails to cut through the vertebrae and I feel them bounce away from the hard bone.
Momentum carries me into the vampire, its nearly severed head snapping forward. We go to the ground, hitting a carpet of old vegetation with a heavy thump. Using the impetus of my leap, I roll off, pulling my knife from the devastated throat. Coming to my knees, I grab the knife in both hands and raise it over my head. Tendrils of black are beginning to come off the vampire like steam. Even though the creature is beginning to show the first signs of death, I’ve already started my movement. With all of my weight behind the thrust and the blades still extended, I stab downward through the spine. The head rolls to the side and stops with the nose acting like a kickstand. The dark, viscous smoke continues to build and rise. Then, with a flash of orange, the body is covered in that oily vapor.
It all happened so quickly, I didn’t have time to give a warning. Quickly searching my immediate surroundings and still on my knees, I drop the knife to the soil and grab my carbine. I see a quick flash of heat from the far end of the line where Greg had it anchored. The other four are firing down the hill into several creatures who are running up toward us. Faint trails of heat mark the path of their rounds as they streak out and impact nearly naked pale bodies.
I see a flash of yellowish-orange from the reverse slope, a blurred streak of black flowing up the hill.
“Behind us,” I yell into the mic.
The strigoi comes up short of its intended target, materializing behind Gonzalez. I already have my sights on the vampire and watch as its body recoils from my rounds as they slam into its side and shoulder
.
Gonzalez whips around at the heavy thumps of bullets smacking into flesh just behind her. Thrusting into the recovering vampire with the butt of her carbine, she lets the weapon drop to hang by its lanyard. Grabbing the creature by the remnants of its shirt and belt, she steps back and rotates, throwing the creature to the jungle floor. Straddling the vampire, I see the flash of a knife as it descends, the heat visible a moment later.
The flash of a vampire’s death isn’t nearly as bright as the yellowish-orange of its rift, probably because they don’t have a lot of energy to dissipate at that stage.
McCafferty turns from her firing position and quickly ducks under the swipe of a vampire towering over her. The lightning speed of the swing goes over her head and she leaps upward, her small body merging with that of the giant as she plunges her knife into its neck. Her empty hand then pushes against the vampire’s chest, separating them. The strigoi’s body falls away, the head hanging in its original place for a split second before falling. Without hesitation, she pulls her carbine back to her shoulder and adds her fire downhill, the flash of orange appearing for a brief second behind her.
She turned back to the fight knowing she made the kill and without waiting for confirmation…gutsy move.
“Form in the center,” I radio, already moving down the line.
The top of the ridge smells of blood and gunpowder. The remaining creatures make weak efforts to rift, all of them coming up short. Henderson and Denton keep the reverse slope clear as we create a wall of steel through which the vampires try to run.
I sight in on one, firing a burst that stitches up the right side of its sternum. Small holes form where each round enters, the bullets tumbling upon impact and fragmenting to tear through the soft tissue of organs. Behind the vampire, small spurts of blood stream outward from the larger exiting fragments. Inside, the tumbling fragments slice through tissue, which the vampire attempts to heal to seal in its life force. In its weakened state thanks to the gunship’s onslaught, it can’t keep up and falls backward, its body sliding a few feet down the slope. Tendrils of darkness begin to drift, the vapor so oily and slow-moving as to appear liquid. Orange flashes show along the mid-slope like giant fireflies blinking.
