“What we make war with shows us what we believe.”
The wind blows in the desert mountain, howling like a werewolf at the full moon, and swirling the sand into random currents. The natural night life in full swing and the sparse vegetation a constant reminder of the units clinging to supply runs. Supplies and rations running their course while those on watch look out night scopes in their avenues of security. The mountain range, once home to tribes, ancient empires, and now a modern-day quagmire. Elite technology like never before is almost leveled out over the vast, uneven terrain, yet for the 7-11th Infantry Company the past eight months have been peaceful. The only friction arising from Platoon Leader Lieutenant Antwan Burton and Platoon Sargent Jake Pettis, Sr. The two never liked each other, but are endeavoring to maintain civility for their last month assigned together.
In the midst of another nightly spat, Burton interrupts, saying,
“I know we don’t see eye to eye, but tonight feels weird.”
“How do you mean, sir?”
“We have been in this FOB for some time, yet no contact. Every time I’ve walked into the TOC the radios are busy with reports and action. Yet tonight, it’s quiet. I think there’s something going on.”
“Sir, you mean to tell me you think we are going to fight tonight because the radios are finally quiet…”
Sargent First Class Pettis shakes his head in irritation. While the two try to outlast their friction, an auspicious gust of wind covers the movement of the locals taking up an offensive position, kicking up sand and dust that shields them from the lookouts’ sights.
Oblivious to the gathering danger, Pettis continues,
“Sir… don’t be paranoid. We already think you’re a bit skittish as it is.”
Sargent Snuffy walks up to the two leaders and asks,
“Can we start a rest rotation?”
Pettis nods and the two leaders continue the overwatch on their assigned avenue of approach.
“We’re almost out of here and you’re almost done with your PL time,”
He adds,
“You’re a month away from continuing your life. Don’t be spooked out by quiet radios.”
The wind blows again, but this time when the dust settles it reveals a group of men from the local village standing poised to attack, weapons drawn. Lieutenant Burton grabs his radio and calls it up while Pettis calls the platoon into position. They all have all their guns pointed at the group of locals. When the company commander, Captain Hobbs, emerges from the Tactical Operations Center—TOC to the troops—he address the sergeant,
“Pettis, what do we have?”
“Sir, just some locals. They look angry but nothing we can’t handle if things get heated.”
“Roger. I’ll stay here until they leave.”
The three leaders watch as the group of locals open their formation and from among them out steps an old man with blue eyes. Burton asks,
“Sir, is he one of the village elders?”
“No, lieutenant.”
“Sir, I don’t like the look of this—recommend we call the other platoons forward.”
“Burton, stop being so scared.”
Hobbs says as he stands up and, in the most American accent, speaks Farsi to the locals. He tries to tell them to go back home. At first yelling it from behind their barricade of c-wire and concrete walls, and then, in order to be heard better, he stands up. When he stands up the unknown elder replies. Hobbs turns back to Burton and Pettis,
“Do you know what he’s saying?”
Burton listens intently as Pettis says,
“No sir, I don’t. It doesn’t sound like anything they taught us.”
Burton says,
“Sir, he is not from the village. That’s old Persian. He’s speaking old Persian, and whatever he’s saying it’s not friendly.”
“Burton, just because you have more degrees doesn’t mean you know everything. We’ve been here for a while I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding,”
Hobbs replies. He puts his hands up and tries to move over the barricade in order to get a closer view of the unknown elder. Dropping his weapon, he moves forward in peace, hands raised and advancing slowly. The executive officer comes over to recommend he stop, but Hobbs doesn’t listen and he moves even closer thinking he can smooth it over with his presence. When he gets closer he stops in front of the blue-eyed elder with his hands out showing he means no harm. The elder speaks again in the unknown dialect. Hobbs looks confused and then the blued eyed elder says in English,
“You came out here to die? I told you to go home.”
Hobbs, thick with prideful ignorance, responds,
“No, no, no you’re free to go home.”
The elder says,
“And you are free to die.”
He shouts an unknown word and the locals open fire on the platoon. Both Pettis and Burton watch as outlines of dark tenacles come from the elder and split the commander down the middle like a knife through a baked good. When the halves of the commander fall to the ground, the two soldiers look at each other in fear. They turn to the executive officer who shivers with fear.
The blue-eyed elder moves quickly through the space between the village group and the barricade. His body shifting from something solid to something more mystical, soaring through the air like a jellyfish through water. He scoops up a section leader and rips his body apart, spilling blood on the two leaders.
Burton throws a grenade in the hope that the explosion will stifle the movement of the creatures and then tells Pettis,
“Get someone on the fifty cal.”
As a firefight ensues between soldiers and villagers, another creature like the blue-eyed elder joins the skirmish: it’s an old woman and she laughs as she devours a specialist. An additional platoon shows up and tries to make sense of the situation, but cannot. Their leader tries to signal Burton, who can’t answer as he tries to manage his own disjointed platoon. As the locals close in, their shots get increasingly more fatal. After about five minutes of cross fire, another ghost-like creature joins in the mayhem, cracking bodies like pistachios. The three mystical beings run rampant while the locals fire on the camp.
Another platoon leader seeks Burton out, exchanging a look of fear upon finding him. But before lips can convey meaning the man is snatched into the air. Suddenly, within the storm of human carnage, the world freezes as Burton watches Dade—the only true friend he’d managed to make during his time here— get lifted above the chaos. Shock holds him in place while he helplessly witnesses the once lifeful body of his friend become a severed cadaver. The spine separated from the body like bone from meat. And the subsequent fluids—not meant to be outside of a body—raining down to accompany the body’s descent. He finally blinks and in the next moment, he looks over to Pettis who is crying while giving orders. The three mystical creatures snatch soldiers from the ground like falcons in the sky. When the third platoon is nearly decimated, the two leaders who once despised each other look at each other searching for hope.
The villagers breech the barricade while the three mystical beings corner the survivors: Burton, Pettis, Browning, Carson, and Walls. The five left lock themselves in the TOC. When they restock on ammo and radio up a report to the battalion they know they are too far out to receive any help. Then when the locals knock on the door, a familiar voice— that of an actual village elder—asks for someone to come out. They all look to Burton as he is the highest ranking officer left. He mouths a silent “fuck you” before securing a hidden weapon on his person and relinquishing the others. Opening the door, he walks out.
With the three non-humans gazing on with ravenous anticipation, the elder looks at him and in rough English says,
“How many of you are left?”
“Five.”
“We will let three of you live if you leave now. Those are our terms.”
“Why not all of us?”
“Two.”
“Roger.”
When he returns inside to convey the news to the survivors, the sound of gunfire starts back up. When they look outside the windows they see the villagers being shot down by a mounted gun on a helicopter. The three mystical beings flee from the attacking chopper, but not before two are shot with blue bolts of lighting arcing from the craft. They fall to the ground while the third flees.
Men and women in purple and black body armor begin to flood the FOB and a voice on a loud speaker says,
“You are clear to come out.”
Burton and the rest walk out slowly to bright lights and a voice in a speaker:
“You are safe now.”
They notice the large group of black- and purple-clad individuals before taking in the scene around them: the dead bodies of locals and of their fellow soldiers. The helicopter lands and a man who strides with comfortable authority gets off and begins to approach them. This mysterious military man removes his helmet as he walks, revealing a Polynesian tattooed face, and is flanked immediately by a medical team and others trying to give him reports.
Once he reaches the survivors, he says,
“You’re safe now. Sorry about the carnage here. You weren’t supposed to see this. We thought we were going to catch them before they got to the next camp. Please take a seat.”
The remaining five take seats on a stack of supplies, eyes wide open in shock and terror. They look around at the unidentified unit, watching as them move with the ease and practice of people who have dealt with this sort of situation before. And despite the five’s prior combat experience, they struggle to digest the reality of what they just encountered.
Medical personnel crowd the survivors and take vitals. The leader never gives his name or that of the organization, but after profusely apologizing he says,
“Fortunately, you won’t have to remember any of this.”
The medical team pulls out needles and small jars of solutions. Burton looks at them knowing it’s something to make him forget. In a stroke of luck, a remaining local rises from the slaughter, strapped with explosives, catching everyone’s attention and giving him the opportunity to switch the solution with a saline jar.
Everyone is poked with a needle and then the unknown leader of the unknown organization says, “When you wake up you won’t remember what happened. You will still feel the emotional effects of the night, but we’ll write you a narrative for that.”
The five are poked again without their consent and instantaneously fall asleep.
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