Sgt. Wayne Buchanan down shifted his truck to ease around a small pile of rubble sitting off to one side of the pitted street . He cursed in a hard Texas drawl. The Iraqi sun beat down on him, making sweat trickle down into the small of his back.
The ancient streets of Baghdad were a convoluted mess, and hauling supplies was getting to be a risky business. Iraqi insurgents were good at disrupting the flow of operations. Too damn good, thought Buchanan. He had passed several burned out hulks from previous supply columns on this trip alone. He shuddered to think of the mangled bodies that accompanied the collateral damage lining the roads and streets.
Buchanan had begun to dread any mission that took him anywhere near a hot spot. He cast frequent looks at the surrounding buildings, and felt fear slowly slide deep into his guts. He was the lead truck in this convoy, and he hated being on point.
A small boy suddenly darted in front of him, and stopped in the middle of the street. Buchanan slammed on his brakes, and slid to a halt. Behind him, the rest of the supply train did the same.
"Shit," breathed Buchanan as he and boy stared at each other. He waved furiously at the kid. "Get the hell out of the way," he screamed. The boy vanished across the far side of the street just as rapidly as he had appeared. "Fucking towel-heads," muttered Buchanan as he shifted once again to get the truck moving forward.
He never saw the rocket-propelled grenade that ripped through the cab of his truck and exploded against the engine.
Bradley Rollins was dozing on his bunk after a long, sweltering patrol mission. His equipment cleaned and stored, images of home danced behind his eyes. A slight smile tugged at one corner of his mouth when a memory of Jenni Ward flickered through his mind. Even after a year in this God-forsaken hellhole, he could still recall the texture of her hair and the way she smelled. His time in the Middle East under the gentle guidance of Uncle Sam had convinced him that he needed to take their relationship to the next level, if Jenni as willing. Rollins had learned the hard way that life and love were too precious to be squandered.
Men were just settling down in the platoon area when the double bay doors burst inward. SFC Travis Green strode through the entryway, scowling at the world. A 15-year veteran, Green was every inch the sturdy non-com who comprised the backbone of the army. He demanded respect and perfection from his troops, knowing it could one day save their lives. Although he would never say it, he cared for these soldiers more than anyone else on the planet. That would not, however, keep him from doing his job. Green cast a quick glance over his platoon of tested infantry. "Alright, listen up," he bawled. "A convoy of Texas Guardsmen has been ambushed about five klicks from here. They are deep in the shit, and we are going to pull them out. This is a red hot live fire mission. Speed is of the essence. Any questions?" Soldiers were already leaping for their equipment. "We leave in five," yelled Green, who then turned on his heel and left the barracks.
Brad Rollins was already tugging on a boot by the time Sgt. Green finished giving out his orders. He began to strap on more of his equipment when Brian Foster, his best friend in the unit, leaned over and said, "The road goes on forever, and the party never ends, huh?" Rollins shot him an incredulous look.
Minutes later, the entire platoon streamed out at a trot. Except for the clomping of their boots on the tile floors, the soldiers were eerily quiet. Every piece of equipment had been tightened and taped down to prevent any excess noise. These men were professionals and knew that simple precautions could save lives.
SFC Green and Lt. Thomas Encino, dressed in full combat gear, were standing next to three transport trucks as the platoon broke out onto the street. A pair of armored Humvees idled nearby, ready to guard the troops along the treacherous streets. "Move it," screamed Green. "Guys are dying out there!" The men scrambled aboard the trucks. When the last soldier had loaded, Lt. Encino climbed into the cab of the lead vehicle, and the small relief column moved out.
Conversation was light, as each man prepared himself for the ordeal that lay ahead. Corporal Rollins was thinking about how he would have liked a little more mission information, but with the time crunch, wishing was futile.
Lt. Encino was positive their approach would be spotted, but there was nothing he could do about that. He only hoped the insurgents were too preoccupied with the stalled supply convoy to notice his men until it was too late.
The relief force ground to a halt two blocks from the fighting. As the troops disembarked from the trucks they could hear the rattle of small arms fire in the near distance. Lt. Encino, who had been in contact with the beleaguered Guardsmen, took his squad leaders for a quick sit-rep. The remainder of the platoon set up a hasty perimeter defense. "This is what we are facing," said the officer, staring at the grim faces of his sergeants, "The convoy is trapped. Insurgents have blown up the lead and rear vehicles. They are currently pouring in fire from the surrounding buildings." He glanced at each man. "We will enter from the rear, and begin to clean out those buildings. At my signal the convoy survivors will switch fire away from our positions. Air support will be minimal because we don't want to hit out own people. Any questions?" No one answered. "It's a dirty job gentlemen," finished Encino, "but one that has to be done. Sgt. Houser, your squad will take the lead. Move out."
Malcolm Houser ran in a crouch tom where his squad had taken up positions on the perimeter. "Listen up," he said just loud enough for his gathered me to hear. "We're at the tip of the spear. Rollins, take your team in first. Bottom floor of that building." He pointed toward a rough-looking three story structure. "Foster, your team will follow. You guys know the drill. Get it done."
Rollins cursed under his breath. He hated being on point. There were too many things that got first crack at killing you. Foster moved up next to him. "Just once," he said, "I'd like a cush job." Foster continued to talk while checking his weapon one last time. "Like, Foster, go bodyguard that sheik's daughter, or, Foster, go make sure the nurses' shower is running the way it should. But no, I was born under a bad sign, and here I am back in the shit." He glanced once at the target building. "Good luck, buddy."
"Thanks," replied Rollins. He motioned his me forward. The door to the back of the building was hanging open by the upper hinge. Rollins and his team rushed up to the entrance, unconsciously tensed for the impact of enemy gunfire.
The soldiers pressed up against the wall. Rollins quickly checked the door for booby traps, then waved his fire team inside. First to go in was Specialist Roy Abrams, his M-4 assault rifle held ready at shoulder height. Next to go was Pfc. Aaron Page, who broke to follow Abrams. Private Mike Compton, carrying the squad automatic weapon plunged into the dark building after Page. Abrams directed him to cover a long hallway opposite of where he had taken up position. Rollins entered last, pointing his weapon up the flight of stairs that led to the second floor. Once the foothold had been established, Rollins signaled Sgt. Houser, who moved in Foster's team while Rollins and his crew proceeded to explore the remainder of the first floor.
They moved in silence, maintaining noise discipline until they encountered resistance. The first three rooms were empty. Entering the fourth room, they surprised an Iraqi who had taken up a firing position near an open window. He turned in surprise, his mouth forming a perfect oval. Abrams fired a short burst that knocked him to the floor, where the insurgent lay unmoving in a spreading pool of his own blood.
"Contact," screamed Rollins. He moved forward, while Compton moved back to provide rear security for the team. Abrams inched forward to peek around the corner into the next room. He jerked back as a line of bullets stitched the wall above his head. Rollins palmed a grenade, pulled the pin, counted, and tossed the small explosive into the contested area. The soldiers covered their ears at the explosion. Looking back inside, Abrams saw the Iraqi flung against a wall, broken and dead.
The team had begun to move forward again, when the Compton opened up with the SAW. The hammering of the weapon suddenly ceased, and Compton called out, "Rear secure!" Rollins and his team continued to clear the first floor. Rollins was a big believer in using grenades for urban warfare. He used them at every opportunity, if he even thought a guerilla was in the room. When the area was swept clean, Rollins went back to signal Foster, who moved his team up the second floor. Compton went with them.
Rollins had just began to settle his jangled nerves when gunfire erupted from above. Foster had found someone. "Relax. Drink some water," Rollins told his men. 'When Foster's done, we'll get the top floor."
Sgt. Houser walked up. "How are your guys?" he asked.
"Not a scratch," said Rollins. "Not a single scratch." Houser nodded, and started up the stairs. Time lost meaning in combat, but far too soon, Rollins received the signal that Foster had completed his part of the mission.
"Let's go," said Rollins to his men. Adrenaline still coursing through their veins, the soldiers raced upstairs. Rollins stopped for a moment at the second floor landing, where Foster was waiting, weapon pointed toward the ceiling. "Any trouble?" asked Rollins.
"Highsmith got a flesh wound. It's not serious."
"Okay. See you at the top."
"Right behind you," said Foster.
The third floor was hot. Sweat streamed off the soldiers as they fought room to room. Resistance was greater on the top level, as most of the insurgents had concentrated there. Rollins made a move to dash across a hallway, then froze halfway across. An Iraqi had also stepped into the open, a grenade launcher held at shoulder level.
"RPG," screamed Rollins. He dropped to the ground just as the insurgent depressed the trigger of his weapon. The projectile flew through the space Rollins had just vacated , and impacted behind him against a far wall. The resulting explosion showered him with dust and plaster. Rollins rolled onto his side and fired three rounds into the Iraqi, killing him instantly.
Rollins remembered to breathe. He took a great shuddering gasp as Page ran up beside him. "You okay, Brad?" he asked. Rollins nodded and pointed down the hall toward the cooling corpse. Page went to make sure there were no more surprises from that direction.
One by one, the rooms of the final floor fell to the guns of the soldiers. At last, grimy, spent men gathered on the roof to pass the 'all clear' signal t the troops waiting below. Immediately, another squad rushed the adjoining building.
Sgt. Houser pointed up the street. "Look there," he said. Armed Iraqis were streaming out of the combat area. "Fuckers are running now that the cavalry has come."
Rollins met up with Foster in the center of the roof. "Fuck, it's hot up here," said Foster. His face was streaked with dirt, sand and sweat. Rollins imagined he looked much the same. Both men sagged, letting the energy from the fight bleed out of their systems. They turned to watch the insurgent exodus. "Well, I'd say the operation has been a success," said Foster. "Beer is on you when we get back."
Rollins laughed, and smacked his friend on the back. That was when he saw the red laser dots crawling up Foster's spine. Rollins pushed him to the side and screamed, "Sniper!" Both soldiers dove for the nearest cover, and poked their weapons in the direction of the threat.
"Did you see him?" asked Foster, his voice strained.
"No," said Rollins, "just the laser finder on your back."
"Fuck me," said Foster, who peered harder into the distance. There appeared to be no one else on the roof. The squad got word down to Lt. Encino, who detached some men to search the most likely position where a sniper could have set up. The searchers found nothing. When the report came back, Sgt. Houser walked over to Rollins and Foster, neither having moved from cover.
"El Tee says they didn't find anyone over there," said Houser. "If there was a sniper, he's gone now. Rollins and Foster stood on shaky legs. "I don't know why a sniper would want to waste bullets on a couple of pissants like you anyway."
"Thanks Sarge," said Foster. "I didn't know you cared." He turned to Rollins. "Man, that was close, huh?"
"You have no idea," replied Rollins.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"It wasn't just one dot on your back," said Rollins. "I saw three."
Foster just stared at his friend as Rollins walked off. "Fuck me," he breathed.
With the majority of the insurgents leaving the combat arena, the rest of the mission went smoothly. The few remaining Iraqis were killed or driven off. The pressure on the supply column was relieved. Lt. Encino called in some engineers to remove the road blocks, and medics to tend to the wounded. The infantry troops pulled security for the recovery operation.
SFC Green eventually reappeared, and called Houser and his squad over to him. "We've got new mission orders," said the platoon sergeant. "We're pulling out, and taking the Guardsmen and all the trucks that can move with us. Some the vehicles down there got too shot up to roll, but they still have supplies loaded on them."
"Aw, no," groaned Foster.
"Shut it," said Green. "Those supplies will have to be guarded until someone can come and pick them up. You guys have had the most rest and recovery period, so you get the short straw." He stole a glance at the sun, now high in the Baghdad sky. "The troops who were supposed to get these supplies in the first place, still need them. They will have first priority. You may be here most of the day." He stared off to one side into the distance. "We'll get you out of here as soon as possible." Green gave them a few more guidelines, then went back to ground level.
Houser's squad filed down the stairs looking slightly dejected, but as with all soldiers, they would press on with their duty. SFC Green was standing by a pile of ammo and other gear, stripped from the squads in the platoon who were leaving. "Just in case," said Green.
The squad watched their brothers in arms snake away down the dirty street. Houser turned toward his men. "This is pretty easy,' he said. "We don't let anyone take anything out of these trucks. Foster, you're already a man down, so I'll take Page and set up an observation post on top of the nearest building. Rollins, your team will patrol the upper half of the convoy. Foster, your guys will have the lower half. Stay in communication. And Foster, don't steal supplies out of the trucks."
"This sucks," said Foster as Houser and Page walked away.
Houser looked out over the roof, satisfied that he would be able to see trouble coming from any direction. "Page," he said. " Walk the perimeter, and see if there is anything going on out there we should know about." Private page shouldered his equipment and began a tour of the roof.
Foster and Rollins met at the juncture of their assigned patrol areas. They spoke quietly while sipping water from their canteens. "See anything?" asked Foster.
"No," said Rollins, "but I'm worried. Looters will come sooner or later. They always do."
"Good," replied Foster. "That will give us something to do besides walk around in a circle all day."
"How is Highsmith?" asked Rollins.
"He'll make it," said Foster. He took some shrapnel in his shoulder. The medics gave him a once over, and shipped him back with the others."
Private Aaron Page looked out over the horizon. The large rectangular roof he was standing on was dotted with air conditioning units and ventilation ducts. He supposed at some time they must have worked, but the machines were all silent now. Two small storage sheds had also been set up on top of the structure. They were empty. He had checked. Page was on the far side of the building, staring at some Iraqi women hauling water in large plastic jugs, when he heard a strange trilling sound, followed by Sgt. Houser's voice close by his ear. The private turned around.
"Sarge?" Page sensed movement, then felt something incredibly sharp cut through his windpipe. Blood poured down his neck and chest. Page, gasping for air, could not breathe or scream. He dropped to his knees, and felt a large unseen hand force his head down. A moment later, black nothingness descended upon him.
The Predator withdrew it's wrist blades from the back of the human's neck. Still cloaked in it's light bending camouflage, the alien slung Page's body over its shoulder and quickly disappeared down the upper stairwell leading into the building.
Houser had been busy setting up fields of fire in his head, should the squad need them later. Right now, things were quiet. Too quiet, he thought. It suddenly occurred to him that he had not seen Private Page in awhile. He looked around but saw no sign of the young soldier. "Page?" he called out. When no answer came, the sergeant unsung his weapon, and began to move cautiously around the roof. If Page had snuck off somewhere to nap, Houser would nail his hide to the wall. He reached the far side of the building, and noticed a splash of blood between one of the tool sheds and an old A/C unit. Houser approached slowly, swinging his weapon back and forth. He crept past the closet, but couldn't see anything. Houser was nearly shaking with tension, and had decided to call down for backup, when he heard Page behind him.
"Sarge?"
Houser spun around, a harsh rebuke on his lips, and was skewered. A spear punched its way through his body armor, and deep inside his guts. The weapon slipped in a few more inches, and Houser's rifle slipped from his nerveless fingers. The air in front of him crackled, and a huge creature appeared, gripping the other end of the spear. It made a clicking sound behind a strange helmet. Houser saw the walking nightmare and screamed with the last of his strength. The alien retracted the spear, and Houser's life poured out onto the roof.
Rollins and Foster snapped their heads skyward as Houser's death echoed down to them. Rollins tried to raise the two soldiers on the roof with the squad radio, but only static answered his calls. He looked over the anxious faces staring back at him. All of the soldiers had heard the scream and had come running. "We're going up," said Rollins. Foster nodded. Rollins pointed at Abrams and Compton. "Let's go. I'll lead."
Foster watched the trio run toward Houser's building. He turned toward Specialist Jim Evans and Private Amos Jenkins, the remaining members of his fire team. "You two stay here," said Foster. "Don't let anyone follow us up." He gestured at the trucks on the street. "Keep an eye on all this shit." Then Foster turned and followed Rollins and his team into the building and up the stairs.
The soldiers burst out onto the roof, weapons at the ready. "Fan out," said Rollins. "Find them." Foster joined the team, and they began to comb the area. Rollins had just checked behind one of the old A/C units, when Abrams called out to him.
"Brad, you better come and take a look at this." Rollins heard the tightness and strain in Roy's voice and rushed over to where he was standing. The specialist was looking down at a bloody mess of flesh and clothing. Foster came running up, and looked over the shoulders of his comrades, but for once, he was speechless. The soldiers stared down at the ghastly sight, none of them willing to believe what their eyes told them. The head was missing, and there was a deep furrow down the middle of the back.
"Who is it?" asked Rollins, although by the sinking feeling in his guts, he knew.
Abrams looked up, his face white as a sheet. "I'm not sure," he said. "I think it's Sgt. Houser. Look at the boots." Houser always wore a special pair of airborne jump boots when he went out into the field.
"They beheaded him?" said Foster. "What kind of sick fuck would do that?"
Rollins felt a wave of nausea roll through him, but he fought it back. "The kind that live here," he said. "Any sign of Page?"
"He's not here," said Compton. "I looked all over the place."
"That's a big problem," said Foster. "Page was carrying all of the comm gear."
"Find him," said Rollins, with a new sense of urgency. "Search the building." He grabbed Foster's arm as the team moved toward the stairs. "What about Evans and Jenkins?" he asked.
"They're big boys," replied Foster. They can handle things down there. C'mon." He jerked his head toward the open door leading into the building.
The two soldiers in question were staring up at the top of Houser's building. "What do you think is going on up there?" asked Jenkins.
"Whatever it is, it can't be good," said Evans. Both men continued to gaze upward like mystics waiting for a sign from heaven. A sudden creaking sound from one of the nearby trucks stole their attention. Evans motioned to one side of the truck, and sent Jenkins around the far side. Their fingers tensed on their triggers, as they slowly made their way down the sides of the vehicle.
Amos Jenkins was trying to control his breathing when he heard a soft whine behind him. He spun in time to register a spinning disc coming right for his face. The weapon cleaved through his neck, the flesh offering almost no resistance to the blades. Jenkins's head fell to the earth while a fountain of blood sprayed from his neck. His corpse slowly collapsed onto the street. Evans heard what was left of Jenkins hit the ground, and ran around the opposite end of the supply truck. He stopped abruptly when he saw Jenkins's body, and his head several feet away. He was still in shock when his own death came calling. A bolt of superheated plasma ripped through his torso, shredding clothing and tissue. The body armor Evans was wearing melted like butter. He dropped face first onto the asphalt, dead before he stopped twitching.
Inside the building, Rollins had found Page, and wished to God he had not. He keyed the microphone on his squad radio. "I've found Page," he said, using every bit of self-control to keep from going insane, right there on the spot. "Fourth room down the right corridor." Page was hung upside down, suspended by his feet from a light fixture in the ceiling. His body resembled a raw wound. It was stripped of skin, and his mouth was open in a silent scream. A small patter of blood dotted the floor underneath Page's head. Rollins was still staring when the others burst into the room. They gawked for a span of heartbeats before a horrible comprehension set in about the scene before them. Compton turned and puked, his stomach contents adding to the slaughterhouse stench permeating the room. Abrams also turned away, averting his eyes from the nightmare. Foster choked back a lump, and diverted his attention to the other parts of the room, to anything else but Page, swinging slightly in the heat. Rollins had just noted that a large number of flies were beginning to gather on Page's body, when Foster spoke.
"Over here, look at this."
Rollins tore his gaze from Page and walked to Foster. He was standing next to a stinking pile of offal. Rollins blanched when he realized he was looking at a pile of intestines and innards that could have come from only one source. Foster reached out with his foot , and nudged a boot with his own. "Page's uniform and his personal equipment," he said. He mover over a couple of feet. "His weapon and the radio. It's been smashed."
"We can't talk to HQ." stated Rollins.
"Nope," said Foster. He looked at Rollins. "What are we going to do?"
Rollins didn't care for the way the other three were looking at him, like he could produce clarity out of this madness. "The way I see it," he said, "We have two choices. We can hunker down and wait for relief, or we can hoof it back to base." He paused to gather his thoughts. "If we show up at the base, we will get an ass chewing, no matter the circumstances, and probably be charged with desertion of our post. I vote we hunker down and wait." The remaining soldiers nodded. "Let's go find a solid defensive position, and set up a hedgehog."
"What about Page and Houser?" asked Abrams.
"Leave them as they are," said Rollins. "Intel will want to see everything just as it is." The soldiers filed out of the building onto the street.
Foster turned toward Compton. "Go get Evans and Jenkins, and bring them back here." The private hustled off on his errand.
"I don't want to be out in the open," said Rollins. "We need something that can provide adequate cover, but leave us with an clear field of vision onto the street."
"Yeah, how about over…," began Foster.
"They're gone," said Compton from behind them. They spun around to see him holding a Kevlar helmet. "This is all I could find." Rollins took it from his shaking hands. "That and a pool of blood." Foster and Abrams dashed off in the direction Compton had come. Rollins looked inside the helmet. Penciled into the inner lining was the name "Jenkins".
Rollins, with Compton in tow, caught up with Abrams and Foster. "Here are their weapons," said Foster, "But no sign of their bodies."
"No man could lose that much blood and still be alive," said Abrams, indicating a veritable lake of blood congealing around one of the trucks.
"What the fuck is going on here?" yelled Foster.
"Calm down," said Foster.
"No. I haven't heard a single gunshot since this started," said Foster. "Hell, I haven't even seen one Iraqi since the convoy bugged out. Now four of our guys are dead. Houser was beheaded, Page was skinned, Evans and Jenkins just plain disappeared, and we don't have clue one as to who is doing this or how. Excuse me if I am a little frustrated."
"Feel better?" asked Rollins. "We stick with the plan. Find a reinforced defensive position and wait for help. It won't be long." He sucked in a lungful of air. "Let's go check over there." They moved in a diamond formation, with Rollins at the head, Compton in the rear, and Abrams and Foster to the sides. Shuffling along, Rollins headed for a two story brick building off to one side.
Foster was jogging, his head on a swivel, moving left and right to catch any hint of motion. Suddenly something sprayed him along his side. He looked down and saw red viscera coating one sleeve of his uniform. A quick glance at Abrams found that he too had been splashed with blood and gore. Foster turned back, and saw Compton lying on the street, a smoking hole in his back. Foster screamed and opened fire with his rifle, although he couldn't see a target. A moment later, Abrams joined him. Rollins ran between the pair and flipped Compton over. There was a hole in his chest, too, the wound fused and cauterized. Compton's eyes stared sightlessly up into the sky.
Rollins turned and pointed. "Get to the building," he screamed. They took turns running and shooting , covering each other as best they could. Rollins reached the structure first, then Foster dove in beside him. Abrams rose up from his last position, and sprinted toward the doorway.
He suddenly screamed, and fell, clutching the back of his leg. Abrams reached back and pulled out a pronged metal dart. He threw it away, stood, and dragging his injured leg, began to make his way to the building. Another dart him in the back of his good leg, sending Abrams into the dirt again. Bleeding and crippled, he began to crawl to safety.
"Fuck this," said Foster. He turned toward Rollins. "Cover me. I'm going after him."
"Wait," said Rollins. "You'll be completely exposed out on the street."
"I'm not leaving him to die out there," said Foster. "Not like that."
Foster picked himself up and ran in a crouch out to Abrams. "It's okay, buddy, I've got you." He slung one of Abrams's arms over his shoulder and started to pick him up. Something heavy slammed into Foster, sending him flying several feet to the pavement. He lay there stunned, unable to gather himself.
Rollins saw his friend mysteriously thrown backwards and land heavily on the ground. Abrams fell back to the ground, and began to crawl once more. Rollins saw a spear appear out of nowhere, poised right above Abrams. The weapon plunged into his back. Abrams grunted, and blood poured from his mouth. He quivered for moment, then lay still on the ground. Rollins, enraged, opened fire.
Foster rolled over onto his hands and knees, and tried to shake the cobwebs from his mind. His helmet had been knocked off, and he had lost his rifle. He became dimly aware that Rollins was shouting at him. Foster glanced over at Abrams, but saw death written in his slack face and unmoving body. Foster struggled to his feet, and ran as best he could toward the building. Rollins sprayed bullets to give him some cover.
Rollins was sweeping the area in an arc when white fire erupted right in front of his face. He jerked back ignoring the stinging in his face from the rocks and dust, and rapidly blinked his eyes to clear them.
Foster saw the plasma bolt strike near Rollins's position, and it pushed him to run faster. Stumbling along, he heard a soft clicking behind him. He prepared to lunge away, but found he couldn't. He looked down and saw two blades were protruding out of his chest. Foster began to jerk and spasm as he was lifted off the ground. The blades had cut deep, through armor and flesh, piercing his vital organs. His muscles went slack. Foster's body gave one last involuntary tremor as his life slipped away.
Rollins peered out to see his best friend dangling in the air, like a puppet with its strings cut. He roared again and fired as Foster's body was dumped to the ground. Rollins jumped up and moved back from the door. He turned and fired a short burst, then ran up the stairs toward the second floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled a grenade. Stopping at the bend in the stairwell, Rollins popped the pin and waited. After a few tense moments, he saw a bit of rubble loosen from a pile by the door and trickle to the floor. He took his thumb off the grenade's spoon and silently counted, then tossed the explosive down the stairs. He covered his ears and leaned back as the grenade exploded. Looking down, he heard an unearthly squeal, and watched the air shimmer and snap near where his grenade exploded. Where a moment ago there was nothing, now stood a monster. And it was looking back at him. A cannon on the thing's shoulder moved, and Rollins opened fire with his rifle. Bullets splashed off the Predator's armor, as the plasma cannon fired. There was no clear shot, and the energy bolt missed Rollins by mere inches, and exploded against the wall behind him. He turned and ran, going to the second floor. He heard the clumping of the creature on the stairwell behind him, and fired behind him in hopes of slowing the monster down.
Rollins dove behind a wall, and checked his ammo. He was down to his last magazine. A sense of hopelessness began to sink in, when he realized he was trapped in this building. Images of his friends, now dead in the streets of Baghdad, flittered through his mind. Unbidden, pictures of Jenni Ward floated through and left. Tears streamed down the soldier's cheeks, and he despaired.
Suddenly, as fast as the feeling came, it was replaced with steely resolve. He was a soldier, damn it, and if he was going to die, it would be as a soldier, and not cowering on the floor of a husked out building. Rollins stood, and then stepped out of the room. He tossed his rifle off to the side, and drew his combat knife. "Hey," he yelled. "Where are you, you fucking coward!"
The Predator appeared, its head cocked to one side, as if studying its prey. It saw the prey had throw away its primary weapon and now brandished a blade. The alien popped its wrist knives and roared a challenge at the human.
"That's right, come on," said Rollins. The monster lunged and swiped at him with the twin gauntlet blades. Rollins jumped back, and felt his body armor tear and the knives leave bloody trails in his skin. On pure instinct, Rollins cut inside with his knife on the counterstroke, and drew a thin line of green blood across the alien's arm. Both man and Predator looked at the slight injury for a moment. Then the alien roared again. It feinted once, and then when Rollins committed to the fake strike, turned and impaled the human on its knives.
Rollins felt the blades slide into him. Coldness seemed to radiate out from his wound, and the alien stepped closer to peer into his face. For an instant, Rollins suppressed a giggle, thinking this was the meanest Rastafarian he had ever known. His hand slipped down into an open pocket and pulled out his last grenade. His strength rapidly waning, he held it up to show the Predator. The alien jerked back in surprise. Rollins smiled, his teeth full of blood. There was no way he could reach over and pull the pin. "Yeah, I could have got you, you ugly fuck," he whispered. "Remember that. I could have gotten you." Rollins smiled again as he slipped away into the black.
A few moments later, the skies of Baghdad were rent by an scream of bloody triumph.
DA END