It was different time, a different enemy. Sixty men, from Tier One teams were sent to face a force of five hundred enemies. Their objective was to defend a hospital where the occupants were kept alive.
For three whole days they held their place, but the enemies' numbers were too great. Sixty were cut to fifteen. They wouldn't be able to survive long and the enemies knew it. Under the cover of darkness, they evacuated the hospital, sending only one of their own to lead the way. The rest returned in the line, and took positions beneath the bodies of their fallen brothers.
As they lay in wait, the blood from the dead poured over them; the sand stuck to their skin like a shroud; changing them, anointing them. When the enemy drew near, the remaining fourteen rose out of the desert sand. They were like hunters that couldn't be seen, using stealth, which their enemies couldn't defend against. When the men were dry of ammunition, they used their blades, and when the blades ran dull, they used their bare hands. When the dust and sand had settled, only one of the enemies had survived. He was picked up in the desert, wandering aimlessly, traumatized. He expressed warnings to others of a force, so menacing and unbeatable; it could only be described as supernatural. He called them: "Ghosts…"