Comstock pondered this, then realized he didn’t have much time. He couldn’t risk the four entering the village. What if they found themselves in trouble? They’d be exposed on all sides, so remaining on the outside of the village made the most sense. “All right, keep it tight and keep quiet. Try to get to the eastern edge of the village. Sierra Bravo Four will cover you.”
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Rivers asked.
“To get my guys,” Dale replied.
“You could use the backup,” Rivers suggested.
“Negative,” Comstock replied. “Don’t want to worry about you, Hollywood. Stay put.”
Rivers knew what this meant. Dale was making a decision because of the woman. Had Svetlana not been there, he would have gladly welcomed everyone to the fight. But Rivers didn’t question Comstock, instead replying, “Roger that, we’ll meet you on the other side of the village.” He motioned to Clements, who nodded and began moving up the wall. Thompson and Svetlana followed.
Marcus unloaded a dozen 5.56 mm rounds into the creature’s head, turning it into a pulpy mess. The beast staggered a moment, then fell with a giant thud.
Two more rounded the corner.
Marcus did the same, unloading the magazine in a hurried burst. He ejected a magazine, letting it drop to the ground despite his training not to do so. A soldier never drops anything, especially a magazine. But time was racing, and the man didn’t have time. He reached to his chest, pulling another thirty round mag out and slamming it into the rifle. He changed it, then pointed the muzzle up, waiting for more.
They came. Dozens of villagers were now running, the creatures fast behind. Marcus watched in horror as a woman got snatched from her feet. Her legs still tried to run, held two feet in the air as the thing bit down on her neck. Another creature jumped on a man’s back, tearing into the human with razor-like claws. The man bellowed, attempting to keep his feet under him. It didn’t work, though, and he tumbled to the ground. The creature was on him, savagely cutting and slashing with his claws, every so often biting down and ripping out large chunks of flesh.
Two more arrived, then another pair. They bore down, frenzied as they chomped on the man. They ripped at his arms and legs, one focusing on his head. The creature ripped away the scalp, hair and all, leaning its head back to let the hairy piece of flesh slide down its long neck.
“What the fuck?” Marcus exclaimed, eyes wide. “We’re getting the fuck outta here, Hernandez,” he said.
No response.
He realized he hadn’t heard Hernandez fire.
Marcus stepped back, kneeling. He reached his left hand back, feeling for Hernandez, who had been slumped against the wall. Problem was, Hernandez was no longer there. Instead, Marcus’ hand was wet with warm blood, a pool of it mixing with the hardened sand.
Marcus turned, horrified that Hernandez was gone, nowhere to be seen. A long trail of blood led down the alley. Marcus snapped his head up, checking his back one quick time before looking down the alley. It was only thirty feet to the other side, but the dusk was fast becoming darkness, and he was having trouble seeing. A cloud of sand had kicked up, everything hazy. The building cast a shadow, and Marcus strained his eyes, softly calling out.
No response.
“Fuck it,” he exclaimed. Marcus looked over his shoulder once more. He saw dozens now, feasting on the flesh of helpless villagers. He then turned, tearing into the shadow, following the trail of blood.
Almost there and he saw him. Sure enough, Hernandez seemed to have crawled to the other end of the alley, laid up in the shadows. The trail of blood was easy to follow, and Marcus nearly slipped in it. Finally, though, he reached the other side. He crouched down, eyes up, looking for danger. He reached his left hand down, touching Hernandez’s moving legs. “Goddamn, bro, thought I’d lost you. We need to get out of here. Let’s get to the outer wall and I’ll patch you up.”
Still no response.
“Hernandez?”
Then, Marcus looked down. The sight before him was gruesome. What remained of his best friend was merely hips and legs. A long strand of intestines trailed out, rounding the corner of the alley.
Hernandez’s legs still moved in spastic spasms, kicking furiously.
Marcus began to vomit, tears filling his eyes.
He puked twice, then heaved a third time. Finally, he stopped, shaking his head and attempting to gather himself. Over all these years of combat, he had tried mentally preparing himself for death, and the death of a friend. It was something he’d seen, but nothing this horrific. Monsters, he thought. Fucking monsters. It was unbelievable.
Then, Marcus raised his rifle back up. He heard something.
Crunch.
Crunch.
It sounded as if bone was being chewed on.
Marcus moved in, petrified and thirsty to avenge his friend.
He’d move a dozen paces, kneel and fire.
Reload.
Move and fire.
Reload.
But Marcus eventually met his death. It was one of honor, worthy of praise, glorious as he fired dozens of rounds into the trampling beasts. They came and droves and he dished out revenge, but in the end, the swarm was too much.
Marcus died screaming for revenge as he killed as many as he could.
It was a good death.
101
“Fucking shit, we’re coming,” Comstock said over the radio. He snapped up from his crouch, sprinting past York who was kneeling, providing cover. Comstock ran to the end of a roadway, his back against the wall as he faced north. He motioned, and Jefferson soon raced up, kneeling at an adjacent wall. York fell behind, watching their six o’clock.
Comstock took a moment, making sure the way was clear. He then stood again, running down another path, tapping Jefferson on the shoulder as he did. Comstock ran thirty feet to the mouth of another corner, this one leading onto the main street of the village. He took cover behind a cart, eyeing the scene before him.
Dale Comstock, in all his years of combat, had never seen such chaos.
The creatures were everywhere. Their skin was white, dry and cracked — almost like scales. These things had long arms and legs, not proportionate to their torsos. Their heads were enormous, giant oblong shapes with rows of teeth and slanted eyes.
The creatures attacked anything that moved, sometimes one another. They were raging, a fury of blood-lust filling them. They spasmed, slashing and biting at fleeing men and women.
Some came from around corners.
Others bounded into homes.
A few leapt from rooftops, surprising their victims who for a moment thought they might get away.
Jefferson raced up, kneeling beside Comstock and uttering, “What the fuck, Dale?”
“My God, what did we get ourselves into?” Comstock asked.
Moments later, York appeared. He sprinted an extra twenty feet, crossing the road to the other side. He hunkered down in the shadows, a fallen board his only cover. He raised his rifle up, calm for a strange reason, lining up the nearest abomination in his sights.
Comstock shook his head, trying to clear it, make sense of what he was seeing. He was disheveled, though he knew he had a job to do. His men were in trouble, and he needed to get there, and fast. Problem was, there was only one path ahead of them, and it led directly into the mouth of madness. Absolute chaos filled the street, the creatures feasting on dozens of villagers. It was a slaughter, the people had no hope. They were helpless against the attack, and if they did have guns, they didn’t bear them. There wasn’t time, anyway. The only thing they could do was run, and most did.