SNAFU: Hunters

Boss frowned. “Did you say four? I only saw three bodies, Chop.”

Chopper took a moment, spoke slowly, methodically. “Yeah. One got up close and personal. Took a bite out of me. I kicked him off the roof.”

Cypher’s head shot up. Deacon stopped his prayer. Boss struggled to unstrap himself as the helicopter lurched forward without warning, slamming him back into his seat. Cypher’s computer flew past his head like a missile as the he-lo’s emergency alarms blared.

The chopper had lost stability. They were going down.

Boss tried once more to free himself, fighting the erratic movements of the helo. And as he fumbled desperately with his straps, the cabin door flew open with a savage scream.

Droch-fhola Brad C. Hodson

The bars of the cage rattled and knocked together as the cart rolled deeper into the forest. The construction was shoddy, hastily thrown together to carry slaves across the isle. He contemplated kicking it until the wooden bars shook loose, but that would make too much noise.

The two legionaries with him were still unconscious, each covered in crusted blood and swollen bruises. He was surprised they were even alive. This was his fault, no way to deny that.

Flurries of snow whipped through the cage and he hugged his knees to his chest, shivering against the cold and willing himself to stay awake. His fingers and the soles of his feet had already lost feeling. The bastards could have at least left them with their clothes. It would be difficult to sell slaves missing limbs from frostbite.

Shadows stretched over the forest as the sun died. They played tricks on his eyes and for a brief moment he thought he saw men crawling between the trees on their bellies.

One of the barbarians said something in their garbled tongue and the cart creaked to a halt. He maneuvered over the legionaries and pressed against the bars as they set up camp, hoping he would see some way out of his predicament. A fire soon raged, the smoke thick and sweet, and the men gathered around it. A wineskin was passed about as they erected some kind of wooden cabinet off to the side. He didn’t know what he had hoped to see, but whatever it was never appeared.

When they had finished piecing together the slabs of wood, one of the men went to another of their carts and removed a black stone. It was thin but large enough that he had to hug it to his chest to carry it. He placed it atop the cabinet and it shimmered in the firelight.

Three of them came to remove him, the others standing nearby with swords drawn in case he ran.

“Come, boy,” a one-eyed old man said, his Latin accented but clear.

They grabbed him with rough hands and jerked him from the cart. He fell face first into the snow and they laughed. The urge to sprint into the woods was strong but he fought against it, knowing that if they didn’t kill him the cold would.

One of the larger ones pulled him to his feet. This close, they smelled musty and sour. His stomach churned. The legionaries were carried from the cart next and he was brought with them over to the fire. Standing in front of the cabinet, he could see it clearly. Strange circular braids were carved into the wood. The doors were open and a wooden statue sat beneath the stone slab. It was of a skeletal figure with long arms crossed over its chest. The head was upturned and a wide, mangled mouth open. Dark stains covered the statue, and he finally understood they were not going to be sold.

He turned to dart from the campsite, but the one-eyed man kicked him hard in the stomach and he collapsed, tears in his eyes and the knowledge he’d piss blood tonight evident in each piercing breath.

If I live that long.

He couldn’t fight the tears that burned his eyes. The barbarians laughed at him as he curled on the frozen ground, his cheek already numb against the snow. What would his father have thought if he saw him like this? Silanus hadn’t even known a woman yet, and here he was crying in the face of death. He imagined the decorated Centurion would have spat on him and told him to stand up, that it would be better to die fighting like he had done. But Silanus was no soldier, merely a thirteen–year-old boy playing at being a man.

“I’m just a cook,” he said through the tears. “Please.”

His plea was translated and the barbarians laughed all the harder.

One of the legionaries was dragged to the cabinet and smacked in the face. The man groaned, coming to just as he was slammed chest-first onto the stone. Fighting to stand, he was too weak and easily held down.

Looking up, the legionary’s eyes were wide with fear. They focused on Silanus and then the cutting began. The man screamed as the knives peeled the flesh from his back in long strips, blood dripping from the slab and into the statue’s hungry maw.