SNAFU: Hunters

Loosening my grip, I allowed the machete to move, to guide me where she wanted to go. The blade bent, moving in circles. Transferring her to my off-hand, Hounacier dipped toward my now-emptied right. I brought it up to meet her, palm flat. The edge met my skin then bit in with sharp pain. Demon fire surged into the wound and the machete’s fighting ceased, her newest gift bestowed. An orange and blue half-lidded eye, similar to the one tattooed in my left palm, glowed within the flesh of my cut hand. Then the image faded.

“Thank you,” I breathed.

“What was that?” Nick asked, his voice muted.

“Hounacier telling me to get a new tattoo.” I turned as Colin scrambled into the room.

“Thank God,” he said, looking at the dead monster. “Everyone all right?”

“Yes,” I replied, closing my bloodied hand. “Let’s get some fresh air, and buy Nick a beer.”

The Secret War David W. Amendola

Death lurked in the hamlet. A great deal of death.

Lieutenant Nikolai Zakharov could feel it. He could not smell it – the temperature was at least thirty degrees below zero so anything that died would quickly freeze solid – but he knew it was there, waiting. Kneeling behind a windfall at the edge of the forest, he observed the cluster of stout log cabins in the clearing through binoculars, watching and listening for signs of activity.

Nothing. Not even chimney smoke. All was quiet.

Black ravens perched in the nearby trees, another indicator of death. He noted that they were strangely silent and kept their distance from the hamlet.

Including Zakharov, his team numbered ten. He and seven others were armed with PPSh-41 submachine guns. The wiry Junior Sergeant Okhchen preferred his Mosin-Nagant sniper rifle with its PE telescopic sight. Private Kaminsky, a giant of man with red hair and fierce eyes, was responsible for the DP-28 light machine gun. He handled it like a toy, shouldering with ease the heavy satchel of extra magazines that normally an assistant would carry for him. Each man also had an RGD-33 stick grenade.

They were dressed for the extreme cold: quilted jacket and trousers, woolen underwear, fleece cap, fur mittens, and felt boots. For camouflage a white, hooded snow suit was worn over everything.

Nervous tension sharpened their senses and attuned them to their surroundings, made them alert for the slightest scent or sound. They knew all too well the nature of their enemy.

Zakharov whistled a bird call to get everyone’s attention and then motioned. He and six others emerged from concealment, snow crunching underfoot, and warily approached the hamlet.

The tiny settlement huddled on a river bank was an old trading post and stores that had catered to the local fur trade for nearly a century.

Mere minutes of murderous frenzy had snuffed it out forever.

On the icy, dirt street the soldiers found pale corpses and pieces of corpses lying frozen among stiffened tatters of shredded clothing. Puddles of blood and gore had solidified into dark-red ice. The villagers had been ripped apart: heads, limbs, and entrails were strewn about. All were gnawed and half-eaten, bones split for marrow and skulls smashed open for brains. A grisly feast for scavengers, but as Zakharov expected, none were skulking around. Wolves, like the ravens, were shunning this place.

A laika, someone’s pitiful pet, cowered behind a woodshed too terrified to even whimper. What had killed and eaten the villagers did not have a taste for dog meat.

The soldiers surveyed the carnage dispassionately, hardened to such horrors. This was not their first mission. All were frontoviks – combat veterans. Each had already been awarded the Medal for Combat Merit and a few had also earned at least one wound stripe.

Zakharov motioned again. Kaminsky lay prone and covered the length of the street with his machine gun. Then three men led by Senior Sergeant Sergei Kravchenko, a short stocky Ukrainian who was Zakharov’s second in command, crept up to the rear of the nearest cabin, staying below window level. With a bang the door was kicked in and they rushed inside, fingers on triggers and grenades ready to throw. After verifying the cabin was unoccupied, they moved on to check the next building.

At length the search was complete and Kravchenko briskly strode over to relay the results to his superior, who had remained beside Kaminsky.

“All clear, Comrade Lieutenant.”

“I assume there are no survivors,” said Zakharov.

“No.”

Zakharov nodded at Okhchen, who began inspecting the claw and bite marks on the slain villagers. He squatted to study a footprint in a patch of snow stained pink by blood, viewing it from different angles. Roughly the size of a man’s, it had three clawed toes reminiscent of a bird’s. He walked around and carefully examined other tracks on the hamlet’s outskirts before returning to make his report.

“Comrade Lieutenant, there were ten of them. They attacked last night.”

“Which direction did they come from?” asked Zakharov.