The transcript, p.15
The Transcript, page 15
As Tovar vanished away, the other soldiers’ flashlights came back on. They started yelling in shock and surprise. Regaining their bearings, they soon realized that one of their number was missing. Gunner watched the soldiers while she shivered in fear.
“Where the fuck is Tovar!?” the sergeant shouted.
Someone stumbled to the ground in shock, grunting out a guttural “What the fuck!?”
“Gunner is still here sergeant!” another soldier yelled.
The whispers came back, growing louder in volume. But this time, it was no longer the indecipherable whispers as before. It was laughter. Eerie and taunting, from dozens of unseen mouths. Along the walls, shadowy figures materialized. Women. Children. Men.
“This is so fucked!”
Through the foul laughter, Gunner’s keen ears picked up a noise. It was coming from deep within the house, a noise that cut through her fear, the distinct screams of a man. She heard his frantic heartbeat as he shrieked in terror.
But above her own terror, Gunner’s training started to rage. Her fear began to melt away, slowly replaced by cold animal savagery. She had failed. Failed to protect her handler, her fellow soldier. She was going to do what she was bred to, what she was meant to.
Her mouth began to froth as the laughter echoed all around her. She breathed in the rancid, putrid stench of this evil place, finding a familiar scent deep within the house. Her mind was made up and her body became action. She snarled and bared her fangs in the face of the laughter. Gunner stepped forward, muscles and tissues firing as she then ran past the soldiers and up the stairs; bellowing a challenge with her bark.
“Gunner, what the fuck!” one of them yelled behind her.
“Holy fuck, Gunner’s got a scent, get the fuck after her!” yelled the Sergeant as he sprinted up the stairs. The others soldiers followed, and the laughs grew louder.
Upstairs, Gunner turned towards a dark hallway. The terrified screams of Tovar echoed somewhere out of sight. She was faster and nimbler than the others. Locked onto his scent, she sprinted in the dark, barking with all her might so the others could follow. Shadowy figures reached out as she dodged and weaved, the voices attached to such groping began to shift from mocking laughter to furious screams. Gunner knew she was getting close.
She entered a large room. The walls were adorned with strange symbols. Bodies were scattered about the edges of the rooms in various stages of rot…throats slit and blood emptied. Gunner ignored the horror around her, instead fixing her eyes and snout on the center of the room.
Tovar laid on a stone alter. Four shadows held each of his limbs as he struggled against their strength. Something like a man stood over Tovar; emaciated and dreadful, holding a dagger in one hand and a rotting human heart in the other. A torn and tattered Iraqi officers uniform hung off his flesh like a robe. His eyes and mouth glowed with a hellish green light and he chanted in a human language she did not understand. His mouth agape, with rotting teeth filed down to points, consumed an ethereal mist that flowed out of Tovar’s mouth. With eve moment Gunner could hear Tovar’s heart beat slower and slower.
The strange man then snapped his glowing gaze to her, dropping the heart which fell with a sickening squelch. He pointed a long, bony finger towards her as he shrieked. Her fear began to well up again, but the killer inside her stifled it. Her hair stood and she bared her fangs, snarling a challenge in return; teeth like daggers and eyes sharpened to knives. The voices turned frantic and Gunner’s ears rang with the volume of their screams. But she would not be deterred.
She moved with the speed of a predator. Adrenaline and killer instincts pumped through her blood. The dog stepped aside for the wolf buried deep within. Her claws sliced at the floors as she propelled herself over the alter, aiming for the man with murderous intent. The man’s face grimaced with rage. The shadowy figures released Tovar as they tried to subdue Gunner. The man swung the knife, but while he may be a practitioner of the dark arts, he lacked the skill to kill something that fought back. He was too slow.
The voices now screamed in horror as he and Gunner collided. He fell back, striking the floor hard, the knife flying from his hand. He tried to shove and struggle against the dog, his unkempt hands grasping at her fur. Without hesitation, Gunner put her teeth to work. His flesh tore easily as she removed his windpipe and severed his artery with a crunch and a spray of blood. The man’s eyes sudd- enly lost their glow as they widened. She could feel shadowy hands begin to grab her as she snapped her teeth back down on his throat. She thrashed as his blood splashed and his pathetic life gurgled out of him.
Then, all at once, the voices were gone and the shadows along with them. The strange man was dead and missing his throat. Gunner stood over her kill, and the wolf within her howled.
But the good dog soon returned. She turned her attention towards Tovar, who still lay on the alter pale and weak, seemingly sapped by the dark magic he had been subjected too . She jumped up and stood over him, licking his face, whining and crying as Tovar embraced her.
The others soon caught up, bathing the room in white light, staring in disbelief at Tovar and Gunner. They stared at the body on the floor and at the bloody dog that jumped all over their missing comrade. The soldiers all stared at each other next in disbelief over what just happened and the corpses that surrounded them. The sergeant’s radio crackled to life. A loud thud indicated that the soldiers outside had finally managed to breach the doors.
“Hey, sergeant, looks like this is our Iraqi Freddy Krueger,” one of the soldiers said, kicking the dead man with his boot. “Confirmed KIA.”
Another soldier snapped a picture on a cheap digital camera.
The sergeant lit a cigarette and took a drag, staring at Tovar and Gunner. He exhaled and stared in disgust at the bodies lying all over the room.
He sighed, “They don't pay us enough to do this job.”
Legion of the Damned
Part I
First Lieutenant Frederick Rayburn wiped the rancid sweat from his eyes as he took a knee in the Afghan dust. The climb up the mountain had left him panting and his leg muscles burning and screaming as the lactic acid plagued them. He was exhausted, but his pride wouldn’t let his men see that.
Rayburn gave a hand signal and command to his pla-toon, which was echoed by his squad leaders. They had come upon a dense area of trees; the concealment and shade was a welcome sight for the infantry platoon. The platoon spread out and pulled security, welcoming the tactical pause. His platoon had been at it for hours, on patrol since the sun began to peak above the mountains. Doing what they did best: search and destroy.
He took a moment to catch his breath before reaching into his cargo pocket to grab a dirty and crumbled map. He unfurled it and checked his grid on his GPS, making marks on the paper with a pencil.
We’re in the right spot, he thought.
He reached out and patted his radioman on the shoulder. The radioman unhooked a hand mic and passed it over. Rayburn then keyed the mic. He soon heard the fam-iliar tone indicating that he was transmitting,
“Gator Six, this is Maniac Two Six.”
A voice crackled on the secured frequency, “Maniac Two Six, this is Gator Six. Send it.”
Rayburn could recognize the hardened voice of his company commander anywhere. Rayburn was a prior enlisted officer and former 11B-Infantryman, as was his company commander. Where they differed was that his company commander “went to the dark side” as a former First Sergeant. The man was intense and demanded excel-lence from his formation. Even as his commander was miles away at the patrol base, the platoon leader could feel his commanders’ scrutinizing eyes.
“Gator Six,” Rayburn said, “be advised, we are two klicks out from Objective Piedmont and at the release point.”
The voice on the other end growled, “Roger, Maniac Two Six, be advised the Two has picked up radio chatter. Enemy contact should be expected. How copy?”
“Roger, Gator Six, enemy size and makeup?”
“Negative,” his commander grunted back. “No intel on enemy forces.”
“Maniac Two Six copies, Gator Six. Permission to pro-ceed?”
“Affirmative. Good hunting, Gator Six, out.”
The radio fell silent as Rayburn passed the hand mic back to his radioman. He then keyed his own internal radio, used for communication within the platoon, touching at the throat mic that was starting to chafe his neck.
“Gator Two Seven, this is Gator Six. We’re clear to pro-ceed.”
The thick Puerto Rican accent of Sergeant First Class Vega came to life in his ear, “Roger, Six. Recommend we halt for thirty mikes, let the boys rest.”
“Agreed, Seven. Put the platoon on fifty percent security. Thirty mikes, then we’re on the move.”
“Copy, Six.”
Rayburn looked at the alarm on his wristwatch. Thirty minutes, he thought as he set the time.
He took the opportunity to drink from his camelback, the hot water soothing his dry mouth as he looked at the mountains that loomed and the ancient dust that blew in the apathetic wind. Rayburn was both captivated and intimi-dated by this beautiful place. The air reeked of untouched mystery and secrets.
His platoon was near the Wakhan Corridor, an isolated two hundred twenty-mile strip of land in northeastern A-fghanistan. This place was considered the most isolated part of an already isolated country, it was practically untouched by any semblance of civilization. While the war had largely passed by this region, there were rumors that the Taliban sought to build a stronghold here. Second Platoon’s patrol was part of a probe to gauge enemy activity in the corridor, the opening stages of a larger operation to sweep the area. Their company was tasked with establishing a patrol base near the mouth of the corridor and engage with the local population as a show of force in the region.
This area hosted some of the strangest people Rayburn had ever met. The people of Afghanistan were a strange lot but pleasant enough, when they weren’t shooting at him. The people here in the Wakhan Corridor lived like it was still ancient times, with the occasional moped or decrepit rifle to break the façade. As revealed by Ali, the platoon’s translator, most of the villages had never left the corridor nor had any idea the rest of the country existed. Let alone there was a war raging across it. The Taliban didn't ring a bell and a place like America was a myth. Ali stated that some families passed down tales of when their ancestors fought Alexander the Great. This land lived out of time, as if it was plucked from history itself. The air crackled with a strangeness that the men couldn't shake.
Because as Ali conveyed to Rayburn, this was a place where the people still warned of monsters and horrors hiding in the darkness. A place of demons and ghosts and terrible Jinn. The villagers’ stories of ancient evils in the hills and valleys evoked some chuckles among the members of the platoon, a vain attempt to downplay stories designed to scare children into submission as some would claim. The people said so with such a straight face that it was hard to scoff at such a thought. To them, it wasn’t some story passed down through generations. It was fact.
Upon completion of their very first patrol, Ali pulled the lieutenant aside and conveyed to Rayburn that these people were serious, and that he personally believed them.
“This place isn’t like the rest of Afghanistan,” Ali nerv-ously told Rayburn. “The villagers are saying there are demons in the valleys and have taken many lives. They warned me that if we’re not careful, they will kill us next.”
Rayburn didn't believe in that backwater bullshit. “Nothing more than a ghost story told to keep people in line,” he reassured Ali. “Probably some guys killing off way-ward souls.”
However, seven months of Afghanistan could make even the biggest skeptic superstitious. Rayburn and his soldiers had seen plenty of strange and horrible things in country, things that made them doubt everything. While he would never say it out loud, Rayburn had grown to take those warnings to heart.
The platoon was set to infiltrate an unnamed valley ahead of them, Objective Piedmont. Intel alleged that there was a system of caves in the mountains around the valley, which coupled with the close proximity to the border, fit the Taliban’s preference. Their mission was to establish an obser-vation post in the unnamed valley before them. It was avoided by the locals, as it was known as an “evil place” where people never returned from. However, the locals had insinuated that they had seen a large group of armed men moving into the valley some days prior. The Americans gathered that this could have been the Taliban they were after; scouting a potential stronghold in the region with local superstition keeping interlopers out.
Rayburn said a silent prayer. Even though he was used to the infantry life and being “alone and unafraid” on mission, he wasn't a fan of being this far away from support. If the Taliban discovered the American’s were here, it was doubtful they would sulk away from a fight. Intel couldn't put a number on the size of the force that was reported entering the valley, only that it could be comparable to a “platoon-sized element.” But with night inevitably closing in, his platoon needed to find a suitable hide to establish their observation post, rather than be caught moving around under the stars.
Rayburn’s wrist was vibrating. It was time to move out. He reached for his throat mic and transmitted across his platoon, “Seven, this is Six, time to charlie mike.” And with that, the platoon was up and moving.
They didn't have to march long before the opening to the valley between two cliffs loomed. It was narrow; just wide enough for men on foot and pack animals. It was hidden from view by a green wall of trees, which the platoon moved through cautiously, and while the trees offered a welcomed respite from the sun they also offered plenty of hiding places. This piece of terrain before the valley was a natural chokepoint and if the Taliban had recognized this, it was a perfect ambush point. Rayburn reached for his radioman’s mic. Once he keyed it, static exploded through the speaker. He tried to transmit again, same result. He spoke into the static and waited for a reply. Nothing.
“What’s up, sir? No comms?” said SFC Vega as he came running up.
Vega began to troubleshoot the radio, fiddling with the interface. He too received nothing but static.
“Mountains might be blocking the signal, sir,” Vega said to the platoon leader.
“I’m not a fan of continuing without comms,” Rayburn said.
“I feel you, but we should keep moving and find some higher ground; we’re too exposed here to be halting.” He relaxed slightly, as his eyes narrowed, “But it’s your call, LT.”
This was one of Rayburn’s least favorite moments being a platoon leader, making a choice that had consequences for everyone if he was wrong. He took a fleeting moment to make a decision.
“Agreed, let’s keep moving,” Rayburn said. Like it or not, Vega was right.
The platoon continued into the valley in two columns. They followed a dried-up creek bed that created a natural trail. There were signs that someone had come down here recently, discarded trash and footprints were evident on the trail. As they entered the valley, they became surrounded on all sides by towering mountains. Their peaks loomed like the jagged teeth of a dead titan, and as they walked, Rayburn noticed that the air here was still, eerily still. It was quiet, even for a place so remote, and the only sounds at the moment were the bootsteps of his men.
The valley was dominated by a heavy pine forest, deep and dark, like something from a fairytale. Boulders and mossy stones littered the ground, as well as the ruins of some long-forgotten stone structure. There was a small river flowing nearby and rolling hills covered in lichen. This place seemed bigger than the valley depicted on the map, it looked nothing like Rayburn had expected, or had ever seen. Alar-ms started going off in his head—could they be lost? He gave a command to halt, and as they pulled security he pulled out his map and GPS. He studied the valley, trying to interpolate their position by terrain association. But he found that the map wasn't matching what he was seeing. When he tried to pull a grid off the device, he was shocked to find that it couldn't get a satellite. He shut off the device and tried to turn it back on, and after a few moments “No satellites found” flashed on the screen. He took out his compass, but it began to spin in circles like a broken record.
Before Rayburn could call Vega, the platoon’s pointman yelled out that he had found something. A few of the men broke off and rushed to the front. Rayburn keyed his mic, “Point, this is Six. What’s up?”
His radio crackled and the soldier called back, “Found a couple of bodies, military-aged males. Might be our guys, but…you’ll want to see this for yourself, Six.”
Rayburn scratched his head. “Seven, this is Six…I’m headed to the front of the formation.”
“Six, this is Seven,” SFC Vega responded. “I’m already here…Yeah, you’re going to want to see this.”
Rayburn trotted up to stand with his platoon sergeant. His eyes grew wide and his stomach began to do turns. He stood silently next to Vega at a loss for words.
Before them lay several Afghan males, or what was left of them. Bodies lay scattered on the trail in various forms of grotesque dismemberment. Limbs lay away from bodies and guts were spilled out into the dirt. Rayburn had seen what modern firepower did to a human body, but this didn't look like that. Whatever had happened to these men, they didn't die well.
“Looks like we found our Taliban…,” Vega said to his platoon leader. “I don't like this.” He turned to bark orders at the squad leaders to pull security.
Rayburn approached two soldiers closest the scene. He then bent down at a body while the two started snapping pictures for an after-action report. Rayburn looked into what used to be a chest cavity. Except now it was an empty space: ribs cracked open and organs scooped out. All that remained was some shredded intestine. He picked up an off-white piece of material, only to realize that it was the remains of someone’s rib. Whatever did this, it seemed to take the time to lick it clean and suck out the marrow. Rayburn tossed the bone away in disgust. Worse, the head to the body was gone; ripped away like a grape on the vine, and the rest of the body looked like it had been hacked at with knives. It looked like the aftermath of a predator attack, like these men had been torn limb from limb in an animal’s frenzy. As he bent down to observe more bodies, it dawned on him that this shouldn’t be possible. The only animals he knew that lived in Afghanistan big enough to do this were snow leopards and the rare hyena. But those preferred to avoid humans or hunt alone. Rayburn found it highly unlikely. So then what the hell had happened?
