“Keep going,” said Cole. At least this thing wasn’t monstrous, four-armed, and eating his allies. In fact, it seemed to be human—or at least the next best thing. It had a massive pack seated high on its back, with a metallic feed chute connected to what looked like an M60 right out of a Vietnam flick—somehow making it look as light as a .22 as he carried it in one hand, muzzle straight up. Cole had never seen anything like it, but it was better than the stuff sprinting at them from behind.
“You should be seeing my guy here any second,” said not Lewis Fields.
“Good copy, I think we’ve got him,” said Cole. He reached back and slapped Gillis on the leg. “Gillis, friendly incoming, twelve o’clock. Don’t frag ‘em.”
His gunner shifted as he glanced at the front of the vehicle. “What the hell, is that a Terminator?”
“I never seen Arnold move like that,” said Cole. As the figure drew closer, Cole worried they would plow right into him, but at the last second their new arrival jumped, putting a dent in the engine cowling with a massive steel boot, and then bounding across the roof, prompting a string of cusses from Gillis as the machine gun fire cut off. The guy landed behind the M-ATV, kicking up a cloud of dust from the impact.
“Brennan, stop this thing,” said Cole. “Let’s back him up.”
Before the vehicle had even ground to a halt, Cole was pushing the door open and jumping down. Behind the Oshkosh, the gunner had his M60 held at hip level with the three light orbs weaving behind his massive pack. Beyond him, at least a dozen of the white creatures that had killed the rest of the convoy. He set his steel-clad feet and began to fire.
Cole had expected the slow, cyclic chunk chunk chunk like an M240 like he’d fired from the side of a Blackhawk. He knew there were a few differences in the firing rate of the older M60, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to sound like a strafing run from an A-10 Warthog. A solid stream of tracers burst from the muzzle of the machine gun, which sprayed a fountain of brass and belt links out of the ejection port. Dust, blood, and alabaster body parts erupted from their pursuit as the M60 cut into them. Cole didn’t know if these rounds were special, or if it was sheer volume of fire that blasted the creatures apart. But he did spot a pair of them on their flank.
“Contact left!” he shouted, raising his M4. Gillis swung the M240 around and started hammering the horrors taking the scenic route. Cole squeezed off several shots of his own, striking the things with the blue bolts that seemed to lock up their muscles and cause them to tumble across the ground. Here, with some distance, he could breathe and place individual shots instead of spraying his entire magazine.
“Sarge, up high!” said Brennan, coming around the front. He lifted his own muzzle to shoot at a trio of the smaller, winged versions. Cole lifted his own gun to add his fire, knocking one out of the sky with a bright, blue blast of electricity. The creature thrashed in the dust, until one of the glowing orbs flitted over and blasted it with what sounded like a 12-gauge buckshot round before moving to the other paralyzed monsters.
Cole spotted another of the monsters flanking on the right side, seemingly unnoticed by the machine gunner still spraying down the main pack. He sprinted behind the M-ATV, tapping the new arrival on the shoulder.
“Crossing!” he shouted as he passed.
“Roger,” was the only response from inside the thick, full-face helmet. Clear of the gunner, Cole put more of his special monster bullets down range at the approaching horrors. Electricity arced all across the bodies of the ones he hit, slowing them down as their legs gave out and they began to drag themselves across the desert on their claws. The gunner turned and hosed each of them down, amped up M60 shredding them into black-blooded pulp before letting his gun go silent.
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
Cole panted, looking across the horizon back toward the oil village. The absence of the deafening whine of that gun now made the night feel almost unnaturally quiet. And he couldn’t see any more of the monsters coming. The machine gunner must have agreed, because he lowered his muzzle and turned to face Cole.
“Sergeant Colton, 82nd?” he asked.
“That’s right,” Cole gasped.
“Seen Lieutenant Hosco, Sergeant Evans, Redding, or Jefferson?”
Cole shook his head. “Confirmed KIA.”
The gunner lifted his face mask to spit on the ground, revealing a human underneath, after all—albeit one that was at least 6’3” and had a neck like a tree stump. The three floating lights winked out. “Damn. The rest of your convoy is accounted for. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He held out his hand. “First, let me see that magazine.”
Reluctantly, Cole dropped the magazine with the odd, glowing rounds. He placed it into the gunner’s waiting hand, who kept it extended, eyebrow raised. Sighing, Cole cycled his bolt and put the chambered round next to the magazine.
Satisfied, the gunner loaded the last round back in. But the round seemed to lose its luster in his grip. “Pulled this out of one of the demons, yeah?”
“Is that what they were?”
The gunner nodded, stowing the magazine in one of his own pouches. “Not like, Lucifer’s minions demons or—you know what? Not my job to explain it. But if you pulled loot, they’re going to want to interview you back at the Department.”
He looked left and right, as if someone might be watching them, then reached into his rig and pulled out a ruggedized phone.
“Hold this for a second.”
Cole took the device, and it lit up as he touched a metal plate on its rear face. He managed to catch a few words
Level 1
No primary class detected
No secondary class detected
Enhancement metrics:>
And then a list of numbers before the gunner snatched it back and looked at it. “Heh. Thought so. They’ll definitely want to interview you.”
Cole noticed the gunner hadn’t asked for any of his other ammo, so he loaded a new magazine into his carbine while the gunner stowed his device and moved up to the M-ATV. He jumped up on the running board. No way would he have fit in the cabin.
“82nd is out of Bragg, right?” he asked.
“That’s right,” said Cole.
The gunner spit on the ground, again. “Fuck that place.”
“You know, another day I’d agree with you,” said Cole, pulling open his own door. He looked back out over the desert. “Presently, I feel there’s finally a worse place.”
The gunner tapped the pouch on his chest with the device and laughed. “Colton, give it a year and this won’t make your top ten.”
“Sure,” said Cole, not really understanding. “Didn’t catch your name.”
The gunner dropped his face mask again. “I don’t get chummy with the rescues. Come find me if they make you a Kicker.” He held out his hand, where one of the floating lights appeared and drifted out in front of the M-ATV. “Follow that light.”
Cole sighed, closing the door and relaying the instruction to his driver. He was just glad this nightmare seemed to be almost over, and somehow he’d gotten both his guys through. Back at the FOB, he had another soldier in his fireteam and the rest of his platoon. If the gunner had said the rest of the convoy was accounted for, he had to assume the rest of his squad and the everyone else was, too.
He settled back into the seat, listening to the engine and the sand grinding beneath the wheels. They continued driving for about an hour before they spotted the lights of a small makeshift FOB, so fresh it only had makeshift barriers instead of Hesco walls. Half a dozen armed soldiers—or at least armed personnel, since none of them wore uniforms or carried what could be considered approved kit—patrolled the barriers. Cole spotted one with a Carl Gustav over his shoulder, another with a drum-fed shotgun, and another that had a huge war hammer strapped to her back.
“Who the hell are these guys, Sarge?” asked Brennan.
“Search me. Mercs, maybe,” said Cole. They certainly weren’t any US Armed Forces, and none of the European Coalition troops were ‘officially’ in this particular corner of the country. Not to mention none of them wore any kind of unit patch, rank insignia, or name tapes. None of them had standard issue weapons or armor. And those floating lights the machine gunner had? Some sort of advanced drone, maybe? Skunkworks tech.
The standoffish gunner shouted something as they pulled up, and Gillis leaned down. “They’re saying keep driving forward, real slow. Don’t stop when we see the event.”
“What event?” asked Brennan. But no sooner had he spoke then a spark twenty feet in front of the hood started to bloom, expanding to reveal a wide, swirling disc of red… something. Energy, maybe. Cole leaned forward, squinting at it.
“That qualifies,” said Cole.
“What do you think is on the other side, Sarge?”
“Not here,” said Cole. The Oshkosh rocked as the gunner jumped off the side rail and jogged ahead of them, disappearing through the disc. “But hell, at this point, I’d even take Bragg.”
“Don’t even joke about that.”