Nicholas Smith - Extinction Horizon

He fell to his back, itching the bare parts of his skin violently. There was no relief, only more pain.

His mind responded by taking him away from the jungle to a place where there were no massive bugs, rotting vegetation, or men trying to kill him.

A brick house with a stone path leading up to it emerged. At the front door, an attractive woman held a glass of ice water. She smiled. “Come in, honey. Dinner is almost ready.”

Brett felt the distant pain diminish as he slipped deeper into this fantasy. He knew that the house and the woman weren’t real, but he didn’t care. He wanted to escape the godforsaken jungle. He needed to escape.

When he got to the door, the woman was gone. The door was closed. He tried the knob. It was locked. Then the house was gone too. The bright colors returned. He could feel his body again. Fear replaced the pain.

When his eyes popped open, he saw the cloudless sky and the brilliant white sun above.

Where was he?

He heard muffled voices, the rustling of gear, and the shriek of some exotic animal. There were other noises—distant noises.

The world became exceptionally vivid. He could hear the bugs crawling through the underbrush; he could smell the stink of sweat on his uniform. He could taste coffee he didn’t remember drinking. His senses were heightened to a level he’d never experienced before.

It was terrifying, but at the same time it was also oddly liberating. He clenched his fists, feeling his muscles contract and then tighten.

He stared at his hands with grim fascination. He felt stronger than ever before, like he could take on an entire army. He felt…

Invincible.

Dazed but alert, Brett leapt to his feet. Tilting the front of his helmet up with a finger, he ran his sleeve across his face to clear the sweat dripping into his eyes.

When his vision cleared, he instantly stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he sloshed through the mud. Brett spun to see two dozen soldiers staggering across the moist dirt. They wore the same fatigues and carried the same gear he did. These weren’t soldiers. They were Marines. Several of the men walked off aimlessly in different directions, cupping their heads with their hands.

He flinched at the sound of a woman’s voice. “Kill them,” she croaked. “Kill them all.”

Brett spun again, his boots sinking in the mud as he searched for the woman. It was then he realized the voice was coming from inside his head.

“You must kill them,” came the voice again. She snarled, “Do it before they kill you!”

Brett smacked the side of his helmet.

Who was this woman, and why did she want him to kill these men?

Focusing, Brett narrowed his vision on the man in front of him. He was a short, stocky fella with a wad of chew jammed inside his lip. Brett could smell the tobacco juices dripping off the man’s chin.

When the man saw Brett he held up his hands, balling them into fists. The Marine growled, “Get away from me. Y-you…” he stuttered, swallowing a chunk of the tobacco, “You fuck!”

Brett experienced an abrupt wave of adrenaline. He reached for something to protect himself. His fingers found the warm metal handle of a blade on his belt. He pulled the knife from its sheath in one swift motion as if he’d done this many times before.

The woman’s voice returned, booming inside his mind. “Stab him. Stab him right in his fat little gut.”

“Get away from me!” the man yelled, a vein bulging in his neck as spit flew from his mouth. Brett narrowed in on the vein. He could see it pulsating. He imagined the blood flowing through the thin passage.

The image sent a thrill through Brett’s body. His own blood tingled inside of him. In one rapid move, he jumped to the side with impressive speed. The stocky man moved quickly too, throwing a jab that whooshed through the air.

Brett ducked and plunged forward, sinking the blade deep in the man’s stomach, just like the woman had told him to. The Marine let out a scream of agony, blood gurgling from his mouth. Brett wasted no time. He withdrew the knife, took a step back, and then jammed the blade in the man’s neck.

The stout man clutched both wounds and dropped to his knees before collapsing face first into the mud.

Taking a short, satisfying breath, Brett picked up a new scent. He could almost taste it.

It was the taste of death.

The sudden crack of automatic gunfire pulled Brett back to the rice field like a switch had been flicked. His gaze roved across the embankment beyond the field, noting each flash.

An explosion went off a few hundred yards away. The deafening blast sent a red geyser of dirt and body parts into the sky. When the mist cleared, a bloody crater was all that remained of the Marine that had been standing there seconds before.

“Run!” came the woman’s voice.

Shocked into motion, Brett gripped the knife tightly in his slimy hand and took off in a dead sprint. The sound of his boots slurping through the muck faded against the sounds of war.

More explosions rocked the dirt around him. Mud, water, and vegetation rained down. He ignored the burning sediment that landed on his bare skin and ran faster.

The other Marines ran too. Some of them dropped as bullets tore into them. He saw a man to his right disappear as a grenade detonated under his feet.

Brett felt nothing for the man. Nothing fazed him. There was only one goal, only one thing that mattered…

Kill.

Something nicked him as he ran. He looked down expecting to see a fly on his skin but instead saw a quarter-sized hole where a bullet had torn into his bicep. A second round tore into his side. The impact jerked his torso, slowing him momentarily. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Licking his lips, he continued running.

He could see the faces of the men trying to kill him as he approached the embankment. They hid under straw hats and helmets, screaming in a language that he did not understand. He could smell the sharp scent of gunpowder and the salty sweat on their saturated uniforms.

When he was ten yards away from the bottom of the hill, he dropped to all fours and galloped, using his back legs to spring forward. He leapt up the small dune of dirt in three rapid movements and landed on the chest of one of the Asian soldiers. Pulling his knife from his teeth, he speared the unsuspecting man through the chest, penetrating his heart. The man’s eyes rolled up in his head, and Brett moved on to the next soldier.

Every thrust sent a thrill through his body. A wide grin formed on his face. He felt insanely powerful.

Minutes later, the ridgeline was filled with the mangled corpses of the Asian soldiers. Their limp bodies hung over the hill. A growing river of red seeped over the side.

Brett pulled his gaze away to scan his own body. Blood oozed from his wounds, but there was little pain. He ignored the injuries and stepped over one of the bodies.

The woman’s voice boomed inside his mind, “You’re not done!”

Glancing up from a nearby corpse, he saw a slender African-American Marine glaring at him with crazed eyes from the bottom of the embankment. The man licked his lips and tossed a knife from his left hand to his right. His green uniform was soaked with blood from a bullet that had clipped his neck. Behind him, Brett could see the field. Pockmarks littered the ground where grenades had exploded. Dozens of bodies lay in the shallow water around the craters.

Brett looked back and met the man’s dark gaze. Gripping his own knife tightly, he swung the blade toward the skinny Marine. The tip whooshed through the air, but it didn’t deter the man. He dropped to all fours and climbed the hill quickly, leaping with his hands curled into claws. His joints clicked with every motion.