JD – 200 Days
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The Hummer bounced along what could only loosely be called a road, the surface rutted by mortar blasts and studded with fallen masonry, the wrecks of long abandoned vehicles and used ordnance. The battle had finished months ago, but the desert had not yet started to reclaim the aftermath. Sergeant John Struthers studied the wreckage with something approaching despair.
What the hell are we doing here? he thought to himself. The locals don’t want us, the enemy is as elusive as a weasel and the folks back home couldn’t care less. I signed up to fight, to be a warrior. There’s little honor in this.
They were a long way from base, right on the edge of hostile territory, and it was a while since any of them had got a rest, never mind a good night’s sleep. The strain showed on the men’s faces, and Struthers knew that they should be heading back to the relative safety of the barracks.
Ten minutes ago, he had been intent on doing just that—even got as close as a mile away from a beer and a burger before the call came through that turned them around. Aerial support reported something going on in the hills to their west, and Struthers was ordered to head over and investigate.
Sammy Brown had driving duty and he wasn’t happy at being taken off the main desert road.
“I’m just saying, Sarge,” he said. “The roads are bad enough round here, but this is just asking for trouble. If wehit a rock of any size at all, you can wave goodbye to the back shaft. It’s rusted to hell and back and ready to go at any time.”
The wind blew sand in whirling vortices that spattered against the windows like gunshot. The other four men in the back of the Hummer seemed oblivious, lost in a game of poker that had been going on for days now.
The comm whispered in Struthers’ ear.
“You’re getting close,” the pilot in a chopper high above them said. “Two klicks further. Whatever it is, it’s kicking up a shit-load of sand. I can’t make out a thing.”
Struthers turned to the men in the back.
“Saddle up lads, it’s show time.”
The cards disappeared fast, and the metallic clang of weapons being readied filled the interior of the Hummer.
The comm whispered again several minutes later. “You’re there. It’s right in front of you.”
The view cleared enough for them to see where they were headed.
“Holy shit, Sarge,” Sammy whispered. “What the hell is that thing?”
Struthers had no answer. He stared at a wall of blackness—a deep, almost pitch-black vortex that spun, counterclockwise, in a football stadium sized area straight in front of them.
Tornado?
It looked almost like something he’d once seen in Oklahoma, a storm passing over the plains. But he only had to have one look at this thing and he knew immediately it was no natural phenomenon.
It could be a new weapon?
He’d heard stories. Who among them hadn’t? The men in white coats were close to perfecting the HAARP weather modification system and rumor had it that they had successfully tested it in Alaska.
Maybe this is an enemy attempt at something similar. Or maybe it’s one of ours that the brass forgot to tell us about?
But it didn’t just look wrong—it felt wrong. It felt like something that was completely out of place, out of time. It shouldn’t be there.
And neither should we.
Struthers didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
“Back off, now,” he shouted.
Sammy didn’t need a second telling. He flung the Hummer in reverse. Tires screeched and sand flew. The back shaft took that moment to live up to its description and gave way, sending the vehicle lurching to one side. Struthers fell sideways, body pressed tight against the passenger door, as Sammy struggled with a steering wheel that bucked in his hands.
The black wall was getting closer, as if drawn to them by their accident. Metal screeched against metal as Sammy tried to turn away from it. It was too late. The blackness engulfed them, falling on the Hummer like a wave crashing on an inexperienced surfer.
Everything went dark.
Struthers felt like a cat in a dryer as the Hummer rolled and tumbled. Only his seat belt kept him from knocking his body against the doors and the roof. Someone screamed behind him, and he heard the unmistakable crack of bones breaking, but he couldn’t move to turn as the vortex sucked them deeper inside. The sensation of traveling grew stronger, as if the vehicle was flying through the air at sickening speed. It felt more like being in a crashing chopper than a road vehicle—and if they came to a sudden halt now, Struthers guessed the result might be just about the same. He closed his eyes—the spinning was too dizzying, too severe. He prayed for it to stop.
Then, as quickly as it had come, the vortex was gone.
The Hummer came to a grinding halt in a squealing flurry of sand and dust. At first Struthers did not realize the ordeal was over—he couldn’t see anything but blackness beyond the windows. But at least they had wheels on solid ground and, miraculously, seemed to be still upright. When Sammy turned off the engine, and the dust settled, they looked out onto a desert scene. Sammy had to put on the headlights—it was dark out there.
It’s nighttime. How long were we in that thing?
A moan from the back seats reminded him that he did not have time for rumination. He looked around.
“Everybody okay?”
Greg Lacont had an egg sized bruise on his forehead, Jimmy Scott was rubbing a mashed, bloody nose, and Ewan Kaminski held one arm in the crook of another, inspecting it for breakage.
Thad Wilkins had got the worst of it. He’d been the only one without a seatbelt. He lay draped over the rearmost seat, bent at an angle that immediately told Struthers that the man’s neck was broken. The dull lifeless stare only confirmed it. He had no time to grieve. That would come later. For now, the living was what mattered.
“Sammy. Can this thing go anywhere?”
The little man took his hands off the wheel and shook his head.
“It’s totally screwed this time, Sarge. We’re either waiting to get picked up, or we’re walking.”
Struthers tapped at the control on his headset, expecting to hear the familiar crackle and hum. All he got was dead air.
“Try the comm,” he said to Sammy Brown.
Sammy shook his head.
“Ahead of you there, Sarge. It’s dead. And look at this.”
He pointed at the dashboard GPS system. It showed only a blank green screen.
“It looks like everything’s down. Probably a result of that… whatever it was.”
Struthers nodded.
“Okay—saddle up, people. Time to be going.”
“What about Thad?” Kaminski asked from the back.
“Leave him,” Struthers said softly. “We’ll be back for him later. First we need to get the lay of the land. We’re fish in a barrel if we just sit here.”
He led the squad out into the desert night.
The first thing he was aware of was the quiet. The only sound was the ping of metal as the Hummer engine cooled.
The sky overhead was filled with stars and the arc of the Milky Way stretched across from horizon to horizon. Struthers got his bearings and turned to look west, towards Baghdad. The lights of the city should have been clearly visible, lending a dim red glow to the skyline—but not tonight. The western horizon was as dark as any other part of the sky.
Sammy saw him looking.
“Could that storm that hit us have knocked out all the power when it was at it?”
Struthers nodded, but he had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
The stars are not right.
He wasn’t about to tell the squad, but something was off—way off. Several well- known marker stars were not where he’d expect them to be. And he clearly remembered a crescent moon the night before, but a full smiling face had just risen off to his east.
I don’t think we’re in Kansas any more.
That feeling was confirmed by a new sound in the night – the dull thwup—not a chopper, but of wings, beating.
Vulture?
An accompanying shriek put a lid to that idea. It sounded like nothing less than a man in mortal agony, and came from back where they had left the Hummer.
“Thad! He’s still alive,” Kaminski shouted, and broke into a run before anyone could stop him.
Struthers looked around the other men. They were all staring at him, waiting on an order. He sighed.
“Well don’t just stand there. Get after him.”
They arrived back at the Hummer only seconds behind Kaminski and at first Struthers did not understand what he was looking at.
A tall bipedal figure loomed over the vehicle, darker than the night itself. There was something misshapen about it, as if its back were hunched. It bent over the body of Thad Wilkins who lay half-in, half-out of the Hummer. His head lay at an alarming angle to his body, lolling like a broken doll. But that wasn’t the worst. The corporal’s mouth opened and he screamed, long and hard, the sound running across the desert like the wind.
Kaminski raised his weapon.
“Put him down, motherfucker.”
The dark figure turned.
Struthers forgot to breathe. The hump on its back opened out into a pair of wings so large that he could no longer see the Hummer behind them. Red eyes flared in a face that was no more than a deep pool of blackness. The thing drew itself up to its full height, standing some eight feet tall. It carried Thad Wilkins in one arm, as if he weighed no more than a baby.
“Put him down, right fucking now,” Kaminski shouted again. He fired a warning burst over the thing’s head.
The black wings beat, twice, and suddenly it took flight, heading up into the sky above them, taking the dead soldier with it.
“No!” Kaminski shouted.
He fired a burst after it.
Thad Wilkins’ body fell with a dull thud at his feet.
Overhead the black wings thwupped and a shadow moved, heading away with the wind.
Then all was silent.
The squad was in turmoil, all speaking at the same time, all asking questions to which Struthers had no answer.
He bent to check on Wilkins. The corporal was dead. Then again, he was already dead when he checked him earlier.
Sammy Brown came and stood beside him.
“What was that thing, Sarge? Ain’t never seen anything like it.”
Struthers didn’t want to speculate. To do so would open doors to fears he was afraid to give rein to lest they sent him screaming. That didn’t stop the men though—their voices were raised, and he heard fear there—near hysteria. He silenced them with a shout.
“The plan hasn’t changed. We’re moving out, headed West. Lacont—you’re on point. Sammy and I will bring up the rear. Shag it, guys.”
Kaminski couldn’t take his eyes from the dead body.
“We can’t leave him here, Sarge.”
“Put him back in the Hummer and lock the doors—it’s the best we can do for him for now—we’ll get a chopper down for him as soon as we get through to base.
Kaminski waved the others away when they tried to help with the body.
“I’ve got this,” he said. The big man lifted Wilkins gently, as if he weighed no more than a pillow, and put him in the Hummer.
When it was done Struthers started to walk away.
“He’s not going anywhere now. And I’m not hanging around to wait for that winged beast to come back. Now, move soldiers. That’s an order.”
Their training took over. As a unit, the squad moved out.
They walked for nearly an hour before Sammy mentioned something that Struthers had already noticed, but kept quiet about.
“Where’s the road gone, Sarge?” he whispered. “We should have reached it by now—we should have reached it a klick or more back.”
Struthers had been trying not to think about that. With the stars being out of position, a winged demon torturing an already dead man, and the fact that there seemed to be no other living thing apart from his squad out here, he was storing up a lot of things he’d rather not think about. He was saved from answering this one by a call from Lacont up ahead.
“We’ve got something here, Sarge. A building of some kind.”
Struthers joined Lacont on a ridge looking over a long valley. On the valley floor, in what looked to be a long, dry riverbed, a squat white building sat next to an ancient dead tree. There were no lights visible.
“It’ll be dawn soon enough,” Struthers said. “And we can’t walk far in the heat of the day. That looks like a good place to hole up—and there might be a well down there. Take point again, we’ll be right behind you.”
They followed Lacont down what seemed to be a goat trail and reached the building several minutes later. Struthers had the squad stand quiet, but there was no noise from within. He silently motioned Lacont forward. The man gingerly opened a warped wooden door and slipped inside. They heard him moving around, then he cried out.
“Sarge. Get in here. You need to see this.”
He left Kaminski and Scott on guard and with Sammy at his back went inside. He thought he was prepared for any eventuality.
He was wrong.
Lacont stood just inside the door of the only room. His face was pale, eyes wide with shock and, something else—something that looked like awe. Struthers saw why when the man moved aside and he stepped into the room.
An angel lay spread-eagled on the floor at his feet.
At first Struthers took it for another of the winged things they’d seen earlier. But where that had been dark, this one was light, almost luminescent. The body itself was over eight feet long, but thin, even anorexic. The wings, long and feathered like an eagle, lay beneath it. It—or rather, he, for the gender was also obvious in his nakedness, had taken a blow to the head. Blood matted the blond hair and pooled on the stone floor beneath it.
“Is it—is he—dead?” Lacont whispered.
“I hope not,” Struthers muttered. “We need some questions answered here.”
He bent to check on the body. A pulse beat rapidly at the angel’s neck, its breathing fast and shallow. He checked the eyes and found they were rolled up in their sockets, only the whites showing.
“He’s alive.”
“What is he—or should that be, it?” Lacont whispered.
Sammy Brown laughed sarcastically.
“What does it look like? Have you never seen an angel before?”
Lacont turned angrily on him, and it might have come to blows if a loud call hadn’t come from outside right then.
“We’ve got incoming.”
Struthers arrived at the door just as Kaminski and Scott started firing. The noise of the automatic weapons was deafening after the quiet that had gone before. Muzzle flares lit up the outside of the building like disco strobes.
At first he couldn’t see their targets, then something moved across the face of the moon—something large, with eagle’s wings. More dark shadows stood up on the ridge above the goat track—shadows with hunched backs.
“Down,” Scott shouted, and Struthers ducked. He felt a whoosh of air and heard the thwup of wings just over his head.
Scott screamed, just once. Struthers looked up just in time to see the man get lifted in the air and swept away. Automatic fire came from a distance seconds later then all went quiet.
“No!” Kaminski shouted and started to fire indiscriminately at the shadows on the ridge above. As one the shapes unfurled their wings and took to the air. They swooped down the valley wall, wings bent back in attack position.
“Back inside,” Struthers shouted. He had to grab Kaminski and drag him toward the door.
“Those things have got Scott,” Kaminski said.
“And they’ll get us too if we don’t take cover. Get in there—right fucking now.”
They didn’t quite make it.
Lacont and Sammy Brown were inside, but just as Struthers got Kaminski to the door one of the black shapes swooped down and hovered, like a hawk seeking prey, just feet above them. The sound of sarcastic laughter echoed around the walls of the building.
“So, you are the defenders? This should not take long.”
The winged figure looked like a negative photographic image of the angel lying inside. The body was sleek and black, shimmering like oil on water. The wings were darker still, and beat slowly in a steady thwup. The motion brought sand and dust up from the ground such that Struthers had to cover his mouth and nose before he could breathe.
Red, fiery eyes stared from a black hole where the face should be and the head was surrounded by a halo of jet- black tousled hair that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a rock star.
Kaminski raised his gun.
The demon laughed. It raised an arm and a long-sword appeared in its hand, first silver, then red as flame ran along its length.
“Let me show you a real weapon, human” the demon said. It drew back the sword for a strike.
Struthers joined Kaminski in sending a volley of rounds into the demon’s face. The head blew apart like a stone hit by a heavy hammer. There was no blood, but there was a satisfying thud as the body crashed to the ground in a tangle of broken wings and feathers.
Kaminski spat on the corpse.
“You were saying?”
“Incoming,” a call came from the doorway. A burst of fire flew close to Struthers’ ear as another demon swept towards them. The bullets drew a line across its chest and it screeched, then veered away in a straggling flight, lost in darkness in seconds.
Everything went quiet again. Struthers scanned the valley but there was no sign of movement, and no darker shapes on the skyline.
“What the hell is this, Sarge?” Kaminski said, kicking at the corpse at his feet. “Some kind of black ops baloney? Have they got us fighting against flying fucking Muppets now or what?”
Struthers was thinking about the blazing sword.
Black ops might be the right words for it.
“I don’t know,” he said. “But I know who might.”
He left Kaminski on guard and went back inside. He had an angel to question.
The winged figure still lay in the same place on the floor. Lacont was standing above it, looking down, and couldn’t take his eyes off it. Indeed, he seemed almost hypnotized until Struthers shook his shoulder.
“Take inventory,” Struthers said. “Then go and spell Kaminski. And stay frosty. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here—but we do know that we can kill them. That’s enough to go with.”
Lacont left with one last look at the angel.
Sammy came over and stood by Struthers’ side. ...
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