Jonathan Maberry - SNAFU - An Anthology of Military Horror

“Dog Pound, did you see anyone gather up the tangos Staples and his team shot up?” Hill asked.

“Negative, why?”

“They’re fuckin’ missing.” Hill and Turner put eyes back to scopes and scanned the street.

A few seconds passed. “No fuckin’ sign of them,” Hill said.

“Well, that ain’t good,” Turner deadpanned. Hill knew Turner was a sarcastic son of a bitch in times of crisis, a stone cold killer with a dry sense of humor. It never surprised Hill what spilled out of the guy’s mouth. Suddenly, Turner was all business. “Movement, second house, street level.”

“Take the shot,” Hill replied.

A single report rang out.

“Tango down,” Turner said.

Hill looked down on the fire team as they made their way to the landing zone. Halfway. The going was slow for both Chavez and Staples under the weight of the wounded soldiers and having to cover every nook and cranny with their pistols while looking for more hostiles. As Hill moved the scope around the area to provide some cover for the retreating soldiers, he caught a dark silhouette creeping toward his friends. The hostile was making progress and, while Chavez and his team might not see them, Hill did. It was an easy shot from this distance.

He waited for the tango to line up inside his crosshairs, slowing his breathing as he prepared to pull the trigger. It gave Hill an opportunity to study his prey.

The man was dressed in a pair of dark black pants similar to Hill’s and a ripped, dirty camo shirt. The man’s skin was pale. Not what Hill expected to see in Iraq. He could be one of the Chechens who had entered the conflict to help their Muslim brothers. It wasn’t common, but not unheard of. Whoever he was, he was seconds away from meeting his maker.

Two more steps, fucker , Hill thought. Come on, keep moving.

Without warning, the tango surged forward, ripping PFC Silao from Chavez’s arms. The pale man dragged the wounded soldier away and bit into him, blood spurting all over the figure’s face and Silao’s BDUs. Hill lined up his shot. Wasting no time, he pulled the trigger.

The comedian, Gallagher, would have been proud. As the bullet entered the tango’s head, it exploded like a watermelon. Blood gushed from his neck stump, a shower of red bathing Chavez, who’d moved to try and help Silao even as Hill had taken the shot. The.50 caliber left no doubt as to the fate of the attacker.

Hill now watched Chavez though the scope; he was dazed but not out.

“Delta Whiskey Four to Overwatch, thanks,” Chavez croaked.

“No problem, Delta Whisky Four. Get moving before more of tangos hit you.” Hill moved his sight to cover their six. Silao was down, but Hill saw Chavez gather the body and sling it over his shoulders. No one gets left behind , he thought.

“Got anything?” Hill asked Turner.

“Nada. Target house and the streets are clear,” Turner answered, not taking his eye from the scope. “I had movement near the gas station on the corner, two houses down from target, but nothing now.”

“Good, I’ll radio the helo, see what’s taking them so damn long.” Hill changed comm frequencies. “Delta Whiskey Seven to Joker One Seven. Time to dustoff? We have wounded to casevac.”

“This is Joker One Seven, time to extraction is five mikes, say again, five mikes.”

“Roger, Joker One Seven. Sooner is better than later,” Hill replied. He switched back to the unit channel. “Delta Whiskey Seven to all elements, extraction in five mikes, so haul ass, marines.”

“Copy that, Delta Whisky Seven,” came the terse reply from Chavez. He sounded tired and shaken. Having your commanding officer panic was not a good thing. Best to leave him off the radio or it could spread to the others.

“Did you hear that?” Turner asked.

Hill shook his head. “Hear what? I don’t hear anything.”

“Sounded as if someone was below us.” Turner looked toward the edge of the building.

“Impossible. The claymores in the stairwell would have gone off. We put enough to bring the whole building down around them if they dared come up.”

“Not from the stairs. Over the side of the building.”

“Fuck, that’s impossible,” Hill said.

Hill watched as Turner moved to a tactical crouch, grabbing the M4 rifle he’d leaned against what was left of the hip-level wall. He made his way to the edge and peered over, then jumped back.

A pale, slender hand grabbed for the ledge. It was joined by a second hand, then a head.

Turner wasted no time opening the taps on his rifle. For a decorated sniper, Hill thought Turner’s aim in this situation was severely impaired. The bullets hit just about everything except the intended target, only a few hitting the climber. The repetitive clicking of the rifle’s hammer on the empty magazine was all that could be heard as the tango climbed over the lip of the building. The rounds hadn’t slowed their attacker down one bit. The stare from glowing red eyes zeroed in on the two men

Turner grabbed a fresh mag from his pouch and slammed it into the lower receiver, but it was too late. The pale tango grabbed the sniper, dragged him forward, and bit him in the throat. Hill watched Turner die as the tango tore his throat open with his teeth, and tossed Turner’s flailing body over the side as effortlessly as throwing a rag doll.

Hill didn’t have time to mourn the loss of his friend as the hulking man turned to face him. Turner’s M4 was too far away so Hill grabbed his Heckler and Koch Mk23 pistol.

Pfft, pfft. The silenced weapon spat, its load striking the man dead center of the forehead. The man stumbled back, falling to the ground.

Hill breathed a sigh of relief. That was too close for comfort. He took the time to look over the edge to locate the rest of his group. Turner’s lifeless body lay at an odd angle in the sand. Staples would pick the body up and bring him home. The team would know where the charges were set and how to avoid them as they climbed the stairs to meet him.

Hill gave a silent prayer for his fallen friend, wishing him a safe trip to the other side. There would be time to mourn later; right now he had to stay frosty and make sure the rest of the team made it back alive.

Whoomp, Whoomp. The beautiful sound of the chopper’s blades could be heard in the distance as their ride made its way toward them. In no time at all they would be returning to base. As Hill thought that, Chavez and Staples exited the stairwell, carrying their fallen comrades. They looked like warmed dog shit.

As the chopper made the minute adjustments in order to hover over what was a sorry excuse for a rooftop, Hill made his way over to the body of the man who climbed up the building. He was joined seconds later by Chavez and Staples.

The tango was very pale, his skin almost translucent. His jaw didn’t look quite right. It was massive, and with weird muscle structure. He was hairless, and his clothes looked as if they’d been dug up and taken from a dead man, the style right out of the 1970s. Not unusual in this part of the world, but definitely not normal.

As Hill bent to take a closer look, the sun breached the horizon, bathing the rooftop in a golden hue. The body started to smoke and smolder, then burst into blue flames. Hill jumped away in surprise. Within seconds, there was little trace of the man, just a pile of ash blown into the air by the chopper’s wash. Hill didn’t know what to make of it, and wasn’t sure how he was going to write it up in his report, if he even had the balls to put it in writing.

There wasn’t time to talk about what they’d witnessed as the Black Hawk hovered over the roof, just low enough for the men to climb a board. The dead and wounded were loaded first, followed by Chavez, Staples, and finally Hill. No one spoke on the ride back to base.