SNAFU: Wolves at the Door

Simmons rushed to assist the knife-wielding marine; kneeling beside him, Simmons pressed a hand to the throat wound and noticed a huge wolf stalking them. It showed no fear, intent only on finishing off the prostate victim.

Simmons slung his rifle over a shoulder and yanked a canister from his belt. Pulling the pin, he counted two seconds then lobbed it near the animal.

He snatched the marine’s flak vest and furiously backpedaled, dragging his fallen comrade with him.

The incendiary grenade exploded, igniting the wolf.

The creature tore off into the darkness, ablaze. Ears ringing from the blast, Simmons watched the creature burn; its agonized yowling pierced the shrill of battle. Soon it was gone.

The injured marine’s Colt .45 lay in the dirt and Simmons pocketed the pistol then turned.

Anderson was missing. The injured attack wolf was gone. Simmons unslung his rifle and raced down the corridor of wreckage. He glanced back at the injured marine – no wolves lurked.

Weapon raised, Simmons turned a corner and spotted the alpha wolf trotting away, its muzzle clenched around Anderson’s neck, dragging the man behind like a rag doll. A wounded wolf limped alongside them. There was no sign of struggle from Anderson, and taking a shot now would just attract attention.

Simmons returned to the fallen marine.

The young man was groggy but alive. Adrenaline was beginning to power down. Simmons took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow. The kid looked familiar. He was from their infantry unit – the 1/8 out of Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. A quiet guy; Simmons didn’t know his name.

Simmons checked him over carefully; no sign of bullet entries, but there was a nasty gash to his neck, leaking blood fast.

Blood also oozed from the graze on Simmons’ leg; a bullet fragment from a ricochet, but that didn’t stop it from hurting like a son-of-a-bitch. As the battle settled down, his adrenaline rush subsided. Aches and pains resonated all over his body.

Simmons removed the web-belt from his trousers and fastened it around his leg, then used his K-bar fighting knife to cut a piece of green t-shirt. He pulled a field first-aid kit from a cargo pocket, and dressed the wound, then tied it off with the strip of cloth. He checked the kid’s dog tags: Daniel Grimes, PVT.

It was only when he was done patching up Grimes that Simmons noticed how quiet it had become. A deafening silence.

The lull was interrupted by voices from his right. Mumbled French. The Allies had been here after all. He expected the marine fire teams would join with the French to collect the wounded–

A burst of machine-gun fire disrupted the night.

Scanning the battlefield, a Thysasen Henschel UR-416 had rolled into position. The antiquated German assault vehicle appeared like a relic from The Great War. It was merely an old Mercedes truck frame loaded with armor-plates; the nose of the vehicle protruded, resembling an aardvark.

A Browning thirty-caliber machine gun was mounted on top manned by a freedom fighter. He sprayed Multinational Force units with round after round. There was a horde of ground troops rattling off AK-47s as they swarmed through the ruins.

The Amtrack returned fire as the marine rifle squads advanced. The French flanked in support of the marines. This was going to play out for a few more hours.

Simmons hoisted Grimes off the deck, carefully loading the injured Marine into a fireman’s carry as he held his rifle at port arms. Although the fire teams were engaged, Simmons planned to double-back and catch up with his unit.

Turning on his heel, the way was impeded by a set of glowing yellow eyes.

His pulse raced. The wolf was marking them, waiting to make its move. Simmons reached for his M-16 slung under his shoulder.

Swinging the rifle into place, he fired off a round while holding onto Grimes. It struck the injured wolf in the shoulder. A lucky shot. Before Simmons could get off another round, the wolf dodged behind the rubble. The beast was quick.

Considering options, the deserted buildings were closer than the Amtrack, and Simmons was uncertain if the battle cut them off from the transport.

He made his way toward the burnt-out dwellings. Under Grimes’ weight, each step caused a jolt of pain from his wounded leg. The moonlight guided his way, but a surge of dread crept up his spine as he waited for the wolf to bring them down from behind.

Peering over his shoulder, Simmons searched for the creature. Nothing. Then he saw it. Lingering in the shadows – a hunter tracking its prey. The beast was wounded and alone. It would likely wait for the right moment to pounce… or wait until the pack could join it.

Although the nearest dwelling was now only about a hundred and fifty yards away, the distance seemed vast. Simmons pushed on; striving to save himself and Grimes from Anderson’s fate.

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