SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

The building was magnificent, a medieval cathedral façade carved into the towering rock face before them. The centuries were evident, with tendrils of thick vines hanging down from their hosts above the cliff above, inching their way around the twin spires, strangling each gargoyle poised along the parapet. A wide cascade of stairs narrowed at the large arched doorway, many steps occupied by dead NVA soldiers, their blood still running in rivulets.

“It looks unguarded,” whispered Green.

“I find that hard to believe,” said Fisher scanning the open door and parapets above.

“Hard to believe or not, the clock’s ticking, Fisher. We need to get in there. I need samples, proof, something to take back. Something to save this fucking mission.”

“I’d be happy to save our asses right now, but I guess we’re committed.” Fisher took a deep breath. “Follow me, Mr Green. You cover the door and windows; I’ll cover the positions up top. Let’s go.”

They walked slowly, making their way around the bodies on the staircase until they stood before the open door unchallenged. Stepping inside, they could barely make out the long corridor that led to a chamber carved into the stone ahead, the dim glow from a number of flaming torches their only light. They backed up to a wall each and made their way towards the chamber where they eventually saw what they had come for. A pool of crystal-clear water. Green checked his watch as midnight rolled in, the day of Christ’s birth. For a brief moment he looked concerned — then it happened.

Just as it was written, the spring-fed water began cascading down from a small cavity in the wall behind it.

“Merry Christmas, Sergeant Fisher,” said Green with a smile as he took the sample vials from his map pocket and stepped toward the spring. “The tanks are coming and there’s my fountain… Mission saved,” he said, just as an arrow pierced his throat. He dropped the vials, all smashing on the floor as he clutched at the embedded arrow.

Fisher opened fire with his M16, spraying sporadically, uncertain as from where the arrow had come. Still clutching desperately at his throat, Green eventually fell to the floor as a second arrow entered his back, life ebbing away until his eyes glassed over with his last rattled breath.

Then Fisher saw the lone Guardian, an archer crouching in the passageway, pulling back on his bow once more. Fisher opened up the M16 again, but it was too late. The arrow flew straight and true, piercing Fisher’s shoulder with white-hot pain. He staggered back with the impact as the archer loaded yet another arrow, but not before emptying his last rounds into the creature. The Guardian’s chainmail shattered in places with the bullets’ impact, but with little effect to the ancient warrior. The creature’s way was clear now as Fisher staggered back to the edge of the spring. He watched as the Guardian pulled back on its bow; watched as the arrow sliced the air and entered his chest, forcing him back into the cool water of the spring.

He lay motionless in the shallow water as he felt his life drain slowly from his body, the pain from the arrows numbing with every weakening heartbeat. He thought about New Orleans, about the people he cared for, about his men back at the clearing. But Fisher couldn’t help them now, couldn’t avenge the defeat of Panther Troop.

Or could he?

Then, knowing he had nothing to lose and everything to gain, Fisher opened his mouth and let the water enter his body.

Immediately he felt something surge through his being. More than a life force rushing his body, this was power, never-ending and all-consuming. The pain was gone, and with it, an overwhelming sense of revenge, of finishing the mission he was sent on. He had their sample now. Hell, he was their fucking sample!

Fisher stood, knee deep in the cool spring waters, fists clenched, eyes wide, as the ancient power filled his being. The Fisher of old was no longer. The poor black boy from New Orleans; tending smoky bars; eventually commanding a recon troop here in the Nam; all gone, replaced with a power and knowledge older than the pyramids. And now, there was only the mission left. He stared into the dark voids that were once the lone Guardian’s eyes, sensing it knew the balance of power had just shifted. Fisher tore the two arrows from his body without effort, each wound closing without a scar. He stepped from the spring, the two arrows raised high as he marched towards the archer with brutal intent.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said to the creature, knowing that he would tear its parchment body apart with nothing but the arrowheads and his bare hands. “You’ve grown weak, soldier.”

EPILOGUE

“In war, the victor writes the history”

Author unknown, American Civil War