SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

The cobbles became slick underfoot. Blood and guts mixed with shit and the slippery ice crystals from the shattered door. Yelping and howling filled the night – the roar of an unholy battle between ancient demons and terrified, enraged men.

Men died. Badly. The beasts, torn between the agony of transformation and the injuries the soldiers were inflicting on them, still fought with a ferocity that was matched only by the fury of the soldiers they tried to slaughter. It was a vile, bloody stalemate.

In the darkness, a huge figure stood and watched impassively, a cold smile playing around thin, hard lips. What the mortals seemed to forget was that clouds were transient. They drifted like snow on the wind. Skadi looked up. A twinkle of a frosty star and the silver edge of the moon’s glow indicated the cloud was passing. She looked back at the melee. The mortals believed they were winning as her twisting, writhing children howled and bayed, falling back under a barrage of sword strikes.

Then the cloud drifted on.

The moon blazed forth in all her glory.

Skadi threw her head back and let out a roar that was heard in Valhalla itself.

Ælrik watched as the beasts writhed and twisted back into demonic hounds full of golden-eyed fury and snarling rage.

“Oh, God, no…”

Semper Gumby Steve Coate

Robert Neidermeyer grabbed hold of the straps securing him in the back of the C-130 Hercules. He felt a jolting impact with each turbulent shudder of the aircraft’s hull. Around him, the other members of his squad paid no heed to the rough and tumble ride. Neidermeyer straightened in his seat and willed his hands to release the straps holding him in place. It was his first active-duty mission and he wanted to impress the others in his squad.

Lieutenant Ron Bradley strode from the forward cabin, bellowing to be heard above the roar of the plane’s four powerful engines. “Okay, ladies! The pilot has informed me we are at cruising altitude, so feel free to remove your restraints. We’ve got another couple hours before we reach the drop zone in Tikrit, so make sure your tactical gear and chutes are ready and then feel free to natter on about the latest dress your favorite celebrity is wearing, or hold a knitting circle, or whatever it is you ladies do best during your down time!”

A chorus of “Hoo-ah!” filled the cabin and the lieutenant – the LT – showed them his back before returning to the forward cabin.

Neidermeyer unlatched his safety straps, reached for his M16, and performed a quick check of the weapon then the rest of his gear. When he had made sure that all was in working order and in its place, Neidermeyer looked across to where Jack Howling Wolf sat opposite him. The big Indian held a combat knife in one hand, his eyes fixed on its silvery blade.

Neidermeyer leaned to his right and elbowed Joe Leeds. “Hey, what’s Tonto’s deal?” he whispered, tilting his head toward Wolf.

“Don’t let him hear you call him that, man,” whispered Leeds. “Wolfman’s full-blooded Navajo and he don’t take any shit about it. Watch what you say, or he’ll kick your ass, newbie or not.”

“I didn’t know.” Neidermeyer held up a pair of placating hands, leaning close to Leeds. “But what’s the deal with him and the knife? It’s giving me the willies.”

Leeds grinned, his pearly whites a stark contrast to his ebony skin. “You’re new, so you haven’t heard the story yet.” He turned toward Jack. “Hey, Wolfman! Newbiemeyer wants to hear the story about your blade. What do you say?”

Wolf raised his gaze from the keen edge of the silver blade to look first at Leeds then to Neidermeyer. With his eyes never leaving the new soldier’s face, Wolf flipped the knife into the air where it spun end-over-end until it fell prey to gravity and continued its descent, the flat of the blade slapping into Wolf’s outstretched palm. “Cuts Like a Knife. 1983. Bryan Adams. The album was released to great commercial success and few singles of the day sold nearly as well as the title track, particularly from Canadian artists such as Adams, who was made popular by love songs.”

“Wolfman Jack, baby!” Leeds thrust a forefinger through the air. “Dropping musical knowledge left and right.”

Wolf balanced the knife by the tip on the pad of one outstretched finger. “This knife saved my life in Mosul. I keep it with me for luck. And protection.” A slight movement of the finger caused the knife to topple to one side, where Wolf caught the hilt in his other hand. “Before I transferred to this unit, I was part of an eight-man squad tasked with what was supposed to be a simple rescue mission.”

“They never are,” Leeds interjected.

Neidermeyer looked to the man and saw that others in the unit were crowding close to hear the story.

Wolf looked at the lean, dark-skinned soldier. “Who’s telling this story, Leeds?”

Leeds bowed his head and his voice dropped an octave. “You are. Sorry.”