The cold night air bit at his face and hands, but Emmett barely noticed anymore. The Pervitin took the edge off. Washed out the aches and dulled the bite of winter to the background. His nerves buzzed with unnatural focus, not a tremble in sight. Emmett knew all too well, what Pervitin was. The Germans passed them out like candy to their soldiers. Famous for keeping men alert, aggressive, and in helping them ignore discomfort and pain. He figured it couldn’t be any worse than what Lucas had given him… Hopefully.

  Earlier, he'd taken the rare opportunity to swap into a dry uniform from his pack. The other one had been soaked through with snowmelt, sweat, and blood. Before changing, he’d stripped down and scoured his skin raw with handfuls of snow, scrubbing until his skin felt flayed. The cold had made his muscles cramp, but it was needed. Emmett could smell himself, and he worried that it wouldn’t go unnoticed.

  Now he crouched low beside a fallen log, movements slow and deliberate. He pulled the small glass vial from his gear, uncorked it, and let a few drops of scent cover spill into his palms. He rubbed it onto his neck, jacket, and gear without hesitation. He muttered something under his breath, voice low and gravelly, recorking the vial and tucking it away.

  He checked his M3 Grease Gun next, opening the dust cover and peeking into the chamber. Loaded. It was the third time he’d done it. Then came the tranquilizer pistol, strapped along his side. He opened the action, confirmed the dart, and snapped it shut.

  Satisfied he brought his binoculars back up, checking the burlap he’d wrapped around the lenses. Then he scanned the treeline ahead, where the trees parted into a clearing, and locked in on movement.

  A Russian encampment. Small but hardened. Sandbags, crates, and camouflaged earthworks scattered the clearing. The soldiers weren’t lounging, they were prepping. These weren’t green boys on rear guard. They knew something was coming.

  He’d been watching them for hours. Occasionally crawling to a new position when they sent patrols out into the woods. They were wired tight, men on edge. He watched as they planted wooden stakes, each topped with a short metal cylinder. Mines. He noted the pattern they set them up. Mentally marking the locations.

  As he watched one soldier set a mine, then stood up, unbuttoned his fly, and pissed directly onto it. Emmett blinked. Another soldier followed suit with another one. Others poured liquid from small bottles. Urine, no doubt about it.

  His lip curled in admiration. "Clever bastards."

  They weren’t just hiding the mines, they were masking the chemical scent. Any predator with a nose would smell explosives a mile off. But urine? That was natural. Or at least it would help mask the smell of the propellant, and chemical.

  That wasn’t all. He spotted spoiled food set near the traps. At first glance, it looked like sloppy camp waste. But the placement was too consistent. Decoys. Confusion. It was all designed to make scent tracking unreliable. This wasn’t desperation. This was doctrine.

  Emmett thought back to that Russian soldier the wolfmen had spared days ago. They let him live. And he’d talked. Of course he had. Probably screamed himself hoarse describing what he saw. And someone up the Russian chain listened.

  They were laying a trap. The Russians had learned. How the hybrids moved, how they struck, how they vanished. They weren’t improvising. They were adapting. Every mine, every foul bait pile, every piss-soaked explosive wasn’t desperation. It was an answer. An answer to tooth and claw and cold steel. An answer to the Wolfmen.

  Back at the edge of camp, Emmett had watched them build fire in a bottle. Crates of empty bottles now filled with fuel, corked and ragged. Men stood in lines, stuffing and prepping, moving fast. Not nervous, ready.

  Now those same men prepped something else. Two-man teams working in tandem. They set something up that looked like a strap, with a pouch in the middle. It was pulled taut between them like a giant slingshot. One man held each end of the band steady while the third. Likely the most practiced, slipped a bottle into the pouch, yanked it back, aimed, and released. The bottle shot into the sky, arcing with deadly grace before smashing against a tree. No fiery explosion followed. It seemed they were practicing.

  Emmett remained still, cloaked beneath pine boughs and powdered snow. It clung to his jacket and helmet like ash. His stomach growled, he hadn’t eaten in nearly a day. A few soldiers laughed near a crate, smoke curling from their cigarettes.

  He clenched his jaw, imagining the warmth of a smoke between his fingers. The taste of hot food. The lazy comfort of boots off the ground. Instead, he was in the mud and snow.

  "Must be nice," he muttered.

  But he would wait. He’d waited before. He’d wait again.

  But this time felt different. Desperation curled tight in his gut. This was it. His last chance. If the secondary C-47 had launched out of Italy. Under the guise of Lend-Lease it could already be waiting. Hoping. Emmett knew the plan had only ever bought him a few days’ grace. And he was running out of days.

  The idea of returning empty-handed. After all this, after everyone else was likely dead. It wasn’t just failure. It was much more than that.

  So he waited. Not out of patience. Out of necessity. And this time, it had to count.

  Time slipped by unnoticed. The last hues of twilight faded, giving way to full night. The blue gloom of evening surrendered to shadows deeper and more absolute. The stars blinked overhead between the patches of cloud, casting little light through the canopy.

  Then.

  CRACK.

  A sharp snap cut through the stillness, followed by a shrill whistle. A trip flare shot upward, trailing sparks before bursting in a flood of red light.

  Russian voices shouted. Panic, commands, fear.

  Then Emmett heard the growls.

  Low, guttural, inhuman. Emmett’s pulse surged. The Wolfmen had come.

  Another flare launched. This time from the Russian position. Then another. Crimson light bathed the trees. Machine guns roared to life. Hot lead spewed into the darkness. The forest flashed in staccato light.

  He waited. Waiting for the sniper to take their first shot. But it didn’t come. Not yet. They weren’t ready. The flare had caught the bastard’s mid-creep.

  Still, the hybrids were fast. Emmett tracked their movement. Blurs in the flair light.

  BOOM.

  One of the mines detonated. Dirt, limbs, bark, and blood launched skyward. Screams. Growls turned into howls of agony.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He grinned. Teeth bared. “Bout damn time.”

  He heard another explosion. This one closer. Emmett ducked instinctively, one arm over his face. The ground rippled beneath him. Shrapnel flying through the night. He caught the stink of scorched fur.

  The clearing lit up in hellfire. Russians opened crates and fed Molotovs into their launchers. He watched as a two-man crew loaded a sling. One man lit the rag, the other pulled back, and then released.

  The bottle exploded, crashing against a tree. Fire blossomed. Crackling. Roaring.

  He looked back at the Russian line, as he thought he heard a single distinct shot. one of the machine gunners jerked back. Blood misted the air.

  Another shot and an officer dropped like a puppet cut from its strings.

  Crack. Pause. Crack.

  Precise. Clean. Cold-blooded.

  “Sniper’s up,” Emmett whispered. They were in place now.

  He gripped the tranquilizer gun tighter. The hybrids and Russians were tearing each other apart, but that sniper… that was the play. If he could catch them unaware.

  That might be his window.

  He checked the bulky tranquilizer pistol at his side again, ensuring it was ready. Then secured it, pulling the strap tight, and backed out of his cover slowly. He checked his rear, ensuring it was clear, and began to circle wide around the Russian position.

  Another crack echoed through the forest, and this time, he swore he saw the faint muzzle flash from the sniper. He kept low, slipping through the night, careful not to silhouette himself.

  A Molotov burst in the distance, painting the trees in flickering orange. Fire erupted where it landed, climbing up a thick pine trunk and casting mad shadows across the battlefield. Unnatural screams rang out, high and feral, followed by the stuttering thump of machine gun fire as the Russians followed with suppressive fury. Teams were beginning to move from the safety of the trenches and pushed into the forest.

  Emmett’s eyes scanned ahead. A gap in the trees. Ten, maybe fifteen feet wide cut through the forest like a gash. Too open. No cover. A clean line of sight from god knows how many angles.

  His pulse quickened. He dropped low, chest hitting snow, and crawled. Slow. Deliberate. Elbows and knees grinding silently as he dragged himself through the slush. The open stretch felt like it took forever.

  Don’t see me. Don’t see me.

  He reached the far side and slid behind the base of a fir tree, back pressed to bark, his breath catching in his throat.

  So far, so good.

  Not spotted. Lucky.

  He pressed against the trunk of a fir, breath tight, waiting. Another shot rang out. Closer. He didn’t see the flash, but he felt the proximity.

  “Getting close…”

  He skirted around another tree, edging forward. The clearing was hell. Bright muzzle flashes flared like camera bursts. Hybrids had taken defensive positions of their own, working in pairs behind tree lines and rocky berms.

  One Russian team manned the elastic sling launcher. Loading a grenade this time. The operator pulled the pin... and caught a bullet. His skull erupted, and he crumpled. The live grenade fell between them.

  The others scrambled.

  Too late.

  The grenade burst in the immediate area, sending the other two men flailing in a mist of blood, and shrapnel.

  “Fucking sniper.”

  He saw a Russian swing the machine gun around, bracing it against his shoulder as he aimed toward the treeline. Right where the last sniper shot had come from. The barrel danced slightly before locking onto a patch of shadow. Then he opened fire, a long, sweeping burst cutting through the forest, blind but deadly.

  “Goddammit, don’t kill them,” Emmett growled.

  Movement caught his eye. One of the hybrids, large and fast, was weaving from tree to tree with purpose. As Emmett tracked him, the hybrid halted, pulled a stick grenade from his belt, and wound up like a seasoned pitcher. He drew his arm back and sent the grenade spinning through the air. It struck the machinegunner square in the head.

  It detonated with a brutal, concussive blast that flung snow and gore in all directions.

  “Should’ve played baseball,” Emmett muttered, grinning despite himself.

  He turned to where the sniper was.

  A figure moved with precision through the trees. Low, fast, smooth. Calculated. Moving toward another position.

  Bingo.

  Emmett moved wide, cutting across the forest in a wide arc. His boots pressed into the snow, careful and silent. The forest sloped upward slightly, giving him a vantage. He crouched low, heart racing.

  There.

  He spotted the sniper. A figure prone beneath a netted tarp, pressed against a fallen log. Scoped rifle steadied. Muzzle trained into the chaos.

  They were alone.

  He swallowed, adjusting his grip on the tranquilizer pistol. They had strong senses, sure. But he was downwind. And the chaos masked everything else.

  Closer…

  He inched forward. Step by agonizing step. Every breath was a silent prayer.

  Then he heard them.

  A voice. Cursing. Female.

  He blinked. A female hybrid.

  That surprised him. Enough to make him pause.

  He glanced toward the clearing. The Russians were pushing hard now. The Wolfmen were retreating, shadows pulling back through the trees.

  He turned his gaze back to the sniper. She was reloading.

  Lucas’s words echoed in Emmett’s mind as he looked at the tranquilizer. "It’s fast-acting. Two to four minutes."

  Quick and clean, Emmett thought grimly, his jaw tightening. Let’s hope to hell he’s right.

  He crept closer, keeping low and quiet, his boots crunching softly in the snow. He needed to get close enough to ensure the shot was clean and, more importantly, to position himself for what came next. Tranquilizer or not, he’d have to tackle this thing and subdue it completely before it had a chance to recover.

  He stopped when he felt he was close enough, crouching low behind a fallen log. The figure was less than ten feet away now, their attention still focused on the battle. Emmett took a deep breath, steadying his aim. His finger hovered over the trigger.

  The sniper suddenly shifted, their head tilting as if sensing something was off. Emmett didn’t hesitate. He fired. The dart gun letting out a sharp sound.

  The dart flew straight and true, lodging itself into the sniper’s shoulder with a soft thud. The figure jerked in surprise, letting out a sharp gasp of pain.

  “Schei?e!”

  Before they could react further, Emmett lunged. He closed the distance in an instant, tackling the hybrid from behind and wrapping his arm tightly around their neck in a crushing chokehold.

  The creature reacted instantly. It bucked hard beneath him and grabbed at Emmett’s forearms, thrashing and clawing at him. He felt them tear into his sleeve, the fabric offering some protection but not enough to stop the burning sting of skin being ripped.

  He gritted his teeth, tightening his hold as the hybrid bucked and rolled, trying to throw him off.

  “Damn it!” Emmett hissed, struggling to maintain his grip.

  The two of them rolled in the snow, a chaotic tangle of limbs. Emmett grunted as the hybrid managed to flip over, pinning him beneath their weight. The strength in their wiry frame was incredible, every muscle coiled like a spring.

  Emmett gasped as he felt a brutal elbow get slammed into his ribs. His mouth opened in a gasp, but he held on with everything he had. It felt like trying to choke out a wild animal.

  Just when he thought the tranquilizer might not work, he felt the hybrid’s movements begin to slow. Their panicked gasps grew more strained, their clawing weaker.

  He felt one of its hands let go of his arm, and reached to its belt, as if remembering something. Emmett’s eye widened as he saw a glint of a knife, and saw the blade arc back. Emmett managed to maneuver beneath the hybrid just enough to avoid the blade.

  The blade came up again, the hand shook, and slackened. The blade fell from its grip and landed in the snow.

  Finally, with a low, shuddering breath, they went still.

  Emmett lay there for a moment, his chest heaving as he gulped in air. His arms were trembling from the effort, his body aching from the struggle. Mud and snow clung to his clothes and face. His side ached from the brutal impact.

  He loosened his grip around the hybrid’s neck, letting out a relieved laugh that was more exhale than sound. “Fuck,” he muttered, laying his head back against the ground.

  After a moment, he sat up, shoving the unconscious body off of him. The hybrid slumped to the ground, their uniform and exposed fur stained in mud. Emmett gave their shoulder a mock pat, shaking his head. “You put up one hell of a fight, mutt,” he said, his voice low and breathless.

  He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the scratches on his arms stung. His jacket was torn in a few places, and he could feel the blood beginning to seep through, but he was alive. He looked toward the clearing.

  He had won.

  By know the gunfire had mostly subsided, the chaos replaced by the sounds of Russian soldiers regrouping. The Wolfmen were gone, their bodies scattered among the carnage.

  The Russians let out a victorious cry, holding rifles over their heads.

  Emmett smirked. “Go Reds,” he muttered, half amused by their success.

  He turned his attention back to the hybrid lying at his feet. Somehow, his insane plan had worked. His luck, as twisted as it often was, had held out. He crouched down and hoisted the unconscious hybrid onto his shoulder with a grunt.

  “Damn, you’re heavier than you look,” he muttered, adjusting the weight. The hybrid’s limbs hung limply, their head lolling against his back.

  Emmett took a deep breath, steadying himself before setting off into the woods. The battle faded into the distance behind him as he disappeared into the shadows, his prize in tow. He had his prize, and hopefully a C-47 was waiting for them.