Dark Continent
Part I: Empire--1880's
The laughter of the village shaman drew Corporal Geoffrey’s stare as the column passed between rows of burning huts. Somehow, the fellow had managed to pick up some of the Queen’s English.
“You English!” the black man said, “Africa no let free!” With that, he laughed again, and walked calmly back into the village to help his injured people. Geoffrey watched him go, passing unconcerned by the destruction wrought by Her Majesty’s 3rd Battalion, 60th African Rifles. Who can possibly understand these people? He asked himself. He shook his head sadly and continued his marching, silent, with his comrades.
***
Night was beginning to fall when the Captain called a halt. It would be another day of speed-marching to return to Salisbury--Harare to the locals-- or two days at a more relaxed pace. While most of the men would have appreciated a return to the somewhat civilized standards of life available at the garrison, there was no need to hurry. The Sergeant-Major and the officers were talking about that as the men lit fires for their evening meals.
Geoffrey made small talk with the other men of the company, reviewing the day’s actions. After a pair of spear-wielding attackers had ambushed the company of English, and wounded one man, they had pursued the men to the vicinity of the village. When the villagers refused any knowledge of the whereabouts of the two men, their ignorance was rewarded with fire and black powder. Geoffrey wondered if anyone else had seen the laughing village elder. An uncomfortable silence followed before they were interrupted by the arrival of Lieutenant Attebury.
“Alright lads,” he greeted them, his boyish face split by a tooth-filled smile. “We got the guard roster written up. Take a look, make sure of where your replacements are sleeping and in the Queen’s name, make sure they’re awake before you go nodding off again, what?” He handed the paper to Corporal Geoffrey, who noticed that he had the last shift-- and therefore would be responsible for waking everyone else up in the morning, and seeing to it that water was boiling for breakfast. He passed the list around and went to his pack, spreading out under the stars to catch as much sleep as possible.
***
Corporal Geoffrey stirred in his sleep, disturbed by a distant sound. His head was deep under the cover of his blanket and, despite the heat and warmth, he was shivering. He listened to the hollow thumping in the distance, which sounded muffled and far away yet also seemed to come from inside head. He tried to dismiss it as the footsteps of the guard, but they were too regular for the broken ground. Perhaps I am only hearing my own heartbeat, he thought. He sat up in his bedroll and let the blanket fall away from him. He looked around at the camp but could only see the vague shapes of the other bedrolls laid out on the ground. He stood up and went to relieve himself by a tree a few feet from the camp.
Geoffrey’s footsteps were unusually loud in the stillness of the night. Not a sound was made, except for himself and the. . . whatever it was. Who was on guard? He looked at his pocket watch, barely illuminated in the moonlight. It was an hour to dawn. He should have been awake ten minutes ago. He went to the fire pit, trying to remember who was ahead of him in the guard roster. He found Lieutenant Attebury’s bedroll, but the officer was nowhere to be seen. An feeling of unease settled over Geoffrey. He returned for his rifle and belt, and unconsciously loaded the Martini-Henry’s .45 caliber slug in the breech. The thumping sound got louder and Geoffrey recognized it for what it was. Native drums, used for signaling. He broke out in a cold sweat.
He rushed to another bedroll and nudged the soldier inside. The man rolled over and blinked sleep from his eyes.
“Get up, damn you! D’ye hear the drums? The villagers are coming back!” The man-- Geoffrey could not remember his name-- leapt into action. He loaded his own rifle and together they started waking the others.
“Where th’ ‘ell’s Attebury!” bellowed the Sergeant-Major. There was an unaccustomed alarm in the usually stoic man’s voice. From somewhere in the jungle came the sound of someone crashing through the dry foliage. Shapes, tall and sinister, moved in Geoffrey’s peripheral vision. When he turned to look at them, there was nothing there. “Where’s the bloody watch?” the Sergeant-Major demanded. Men were yelling, but nobody answered him. One man screamed in panic, and ran for the center of the camp. His eyes were wide and his skin was pale. A sergeant grabbed him before he could run off into the jungle and pinned him to the ground. The man thrashed and screamed and cried like a madman.
“My God!” someone swore, then, “Lord almighty!” Soldiers went to where the man had run from, including the Captain.
“We’ll have no blasphemy--!” was as far as he got. He saw the mangled corpse of the night guard, torn into to pieces: legs and abdomen three feet away from the rest of the torso. The head had been. . . gnawed on. The Captain reeled back and threw up.
“Square!” Ordered the Sergeant-Major, “Form a square!” The men moved to comply, shuffling their feet backwards slowly, unwilling to turn their backs to the jungle and the things that moved there. First and second platoon formed the inner rank, which stood, while third and forth platoons kneeled to form the front rank. The screaming man who’d first discovered the guard’s body was put in the center with the Captain and the Sergeant-Major, where he sat sobbing and trembling. His eyes were glazed over with a mad fear.
Geoffrey stood in the inner rank, watching for a target. His rifle’s weight and power did little to reassure him. The shapes still hovered at the edge of his vision, and by the way the other men were turning and staring, they were seeing the same thing. A sudden movement caught his eye and directly in his vision a tall, human figure materialized at the edge of the jungle. Where its eyes should be glowed two red coals. The figure threw something into the center of the square of men-- Geoffrey had barely enough time to recognize the mangled, chewed body of Lieutenant Attebury. The men in the forward rank fired, but the figure vanished in the cloud of blackpowder smoke. The body sailed through the air and knocked the Captain over, who screamed and squirmed away from it.
“Hold your fire!” yelled the Sergeant-Major. “Hold--!” Geoffrey turned to look behind him, where the Sergeant-Major had been standing. The man’s headless body groped blindly for a split second, blood bubbling from his open neck. The body fell while Geoffrey watched in numb, amazed horror. The Sergeant-Major’s head, already on the ground, was still trying to form words with its lips. Geoffrey sank to his knees and was sick, while overhead, claws like scythes decapitated his fellows. Geoffrey looked up and saw two massive, black feet tipped with animal’s claws. He looked up but the feet and legs dissipated as the figure vanished.
Geoffrey tried to crawl away, his vision blurred by tears. His eyes briefly caught those of the first man to go mad, and they gazed at each other with an unspoken understanding. Suddenly, the other man looked up at something only he could see, and he smiled as if greeting someone. He bared his throat and was lifted from the ground by an invisible source. A white claw materialized from nowhere and the man looked at it expectantly. The claw swished through the air and the man’s head vanished into the night. The body dropped and Geoffrey could feel the dark presence moving towards him. The drums, the native drums, had been replaced by the harsh breathing and heavy footsteps of the thing, whatever it was, as it bore down on Geoffrey. He crawled as fast as he could but could not get up, could not move fast enough, and finally he stopped and sat up on his knees. His breath came in labored gasps and the back of his neck felt hot. His heart froze as he realized that it was behind him. He bowed his head in submissiveness, the bodies of his comrades already being dragged off into the jungle by other shapeless things. An orgy of eating sounds reached his ears and he tried not to think about it.
Swish.
(To be continued...)
"Dark Continent"
Moderator: LadyTevar
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Coyote
- Rabid Monkey
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- Joined: 2002-08-23 01:20am
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"Dark Continent"
Something about Libertarianism always bothered me. Then one day, I realized what it was:
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
-
Coyote
- Rabid Monkey
- Posts: 12464
- Joined: 2002-08-23 01:20am
- Location: The glorious Sun-Barge! Isis, Isis, Ra,Ra,Ra!
- Contact:
Dark Continent
Part II: Legion--1950's
“Capitan! Les types-- a droit!” The eyes of Captain Rene Blanchet followed the arm of the private who called to him. The man pointed to a running figure at the end of the street, partially obscured by the greasy smoke of the burning Panhard armored car. The private raised his rifle and fired at the man, who dove into the dry grass near the road. Captain Blanchet turned to his executive officer.
“First platoon!” he ordered. The executive officer nodded curtly and bellowed orders to the first platoon leader. The troops moved out quickly, fanning into a wedge formation to search the tall grass. The rest of the company fanned out into a protective circle. One soldier viciously kicked the African lying on the ground, the one who’d thrown the Molotov cocktail which had destroyed the armored car. The man winced in pain but did not cry out. They waited while the first platoon soldiers of Captain Blanchet’s French Foreign Legion 5th Company combed the grassy field for the runaway. Finally, the lieutenant approached him, frustrated.
“Well?” Blanchet demanded. The other officer shook his head.
“It is as if he vanished into the ground,” the man replied. “Merde!” Blanchet grimaced. He turned to the African lying on the ground.
“Where is your hideout?” he demanded. The prisoner said nothing. Blanchet leaned close to the man’s face. “Where is your hideout? Where is that man going? Lead us there and we will let you go.” he stated calmly. The man only smiled and whispered something. Blanchet leaned forward, pressing his ear close to the prisoner.
“You will not escape Africa.” the man said. He smiled wider, and his eyes danced with silent laughter. Blanchet sighed and stood up.
“We will try to track down the other terrorist. The cars cannot go through the jungle, we will leave them here with fourth platoon. The rest of you--” he called to his other troops, “come with me.”
“What about him?” the lieutenant of fourth platoon asked, nudging the prisoner with a boot toe. Blanchet grimaced. Killing him was an attractive option. But his superiors at battalion would want someone to question, and that would be much worse for the terrorist.
“Call a helicopter,” Blanchet ordered. “Take him to Fort Lamy. Tell them that we are going to search for his comrades.” The lieutenant nodded and went to his radio operator, while Blanchet took his other three platoons into the thick foliage.
***
“Damn!” Blanchet grumbled, watching the compass spin uselessly. He’d stepped away from everyone else, and even stripped off everything he had on him that was metal. The device was still unable to point north. The terrorist base had gone unfound, and Blanchet had called off the search. They’d started to walk back two hours ago, but the terrain was unfamiliar-- none of the landmarks seemed to be where they belonged, and there were terrain features that did not show up on the map. And now the compass was broken.
“Have you been able to fix that thing yet?” he asked of his radioman. The young corporal shook his head wearily. Blanchet had tried to radio the village earlier, to tell them they would have to give up the search until they could get helicopters. The radio, however, was still just a well of static. Blanchet clenched his teeth. It was late in the afternoon, and they would have to travel fast to get back to the village by nightfall. “Let’s go!” he ordered, pocketing the worthless compass. The men got up and walked behind him as time dragged on.
***
Night comes with a sudden authority in the wastes of Africa-- the gradual dimming that most Westerners are used to generally is a non-event. The sun hovers on the horizon, briefly, teasingly, and then leaves everyone it the wake of darkness. So it was with Captain Blanchet and the three platoons of 5th Company, Foreign Legion. They had been marching for hours when Blanchet finally called a halt. The men dug into their rations while Blanchet again tried both the radio and the compass. Neither worked. The map was a jumble of useless information that bore no resemblance at all to the surrounding countryside. He wanted to scream in frustration.
“Alright, I have gotten us lost, damn it all,” he muttered to his lieutenants. “I will owe every man in the company a beer when we get back to Fort Lamy. We will wait until daylight and then call helicopters. I cannot make heads or tails of this map!” The three other officers smiled sympathetically--they’d had no luck with their own radios or maps either. Everyone agreed that daylight would be better. A guard roster was drawn up and the troops huddled where they were at to sleep-- in Chad, there was no pressing need for blankets. Blanchet himself wound down into a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned with the dreams that haunted the hallways of his mind.
Blanchet found himself wandering the forest alone, in the middle of the night. Something was creeping after him, but every time he stopped, it stopped, and when he turned around, it turned as well. It was always behind him. He looked around for his men but only their equipment could be found. He picked up his own MAT-49 submachinegun and went looking for them. Before long, however, he could no longer hear his bootsteps on the hard-packed soil. The dry forest was silent, not even the animals made noise anymore. He looked down at the trail but could see nothing; the night was pitch dark. He looked up but there was no moon-- and no stars either. He lit his lighter and leaned down to see the trail he was on.
Dead eyes stared back at him. He yelled and fell backwards onto something soft. He reached out with his hand-- it was someone’s face. He rolled around and stared into the eyes of a dead man, one of his own soldiers. The mouth was open in a scream of terror, and the corpse’s hands clutched at its chest. Its heart was gone, torn out by. . . something had bitten its way through the man. Blanchet got to his feet and ran back the way he’d come, but no matter how far he ran, he could not get off the trail of the bodies of his men. He wanted desperately to wake up, to end--
Ratatatatat--! Blanchet jumped to his feet at the sound of a submachinegun. Men screamed and ran around, blindly, while dark shadows passed through the camp, undisturbed. A man was writhing in pain on the ground, his feet chewed off at the ankles. As a shadow hovered near him, he was suddenly dragged off into the foliage. Outside the perimeter of the camp Blanchet could hear screams of pain and terror, which were cut off abruptly by sudden wet, chewing noises. More shadowy figures passed through the camp, fired at blindly by the soldiers. The shadows would slow as the bullets hit them, but then they would walk calmly towards the shooters and grab them.
Blanchet grabbed his own submachinegun and lay prone. The bullets flying everywhere were as dangerous to the men as the creatures were. A handful of men lay groaning, felled by their own comrades’ fearful shooting. Dark shadows hovered around the wounded, as well, claws scrabbling for the hearts of the screaming soldiers. Blanchet fired at them, screaming, and then directed bursts into the trees, where the creatures materialized from. He realized that he was the only one left firing, and terror seized him. He stood on shaky knees, ready to run. He turned and leapt down the trail, seeing the mutilated bodies of his own men lying in front of them. He dodged and jumped, but the hands of the dead men seemed to catch his ankles. He fell, knocking the wind from his body.
Blanchet rolled over, his hands searching for his weapon. His fingers danced across the face of one of his men, and he pulled away in revulsion. He struggled to his feet, pulling out his pistol and firing again and again into the corpse that held him. His mind was white with terror. The pistol emptied and he grabbed the barrel, not feeling the pain of the hot metal on his flesh. With the butt of the weapon he hammered the face of the dead man, snarling and screaming in madness. The face and head became a messy pulp and Blanchet pulled his foot free. He dropped the pistol and turned to run again. He was surrounded by dark shadows that moved and swayed with a rhythmic beating of distant native drums. Eerie music, old, ancient music, filled his head. It sounded like a hundred souls chanting their way into the afterlife. A human shape stepped forward, with a grotesque head. Its elongated nose and mouth gleamed with fangs, its claws glowed like heated knife blades. Red eyes gleamed at Blanchet. The figure stood seven feet tall and reached for him. Blanchet whimpered and dropped to the ground, his hands going to protect his heart. A finger brushed something on his patrol harness-- a grenade, which he plucked from its carrier. He pulled the pin and let the handle drop away, holding the device between him and the figure like a shield.
The blast shattered his arms and imploded his chest, and tore the skin from his face. The essence of Blanchet’s being pooled above him, and he watched his body bleed out onto the ground. The soil greedily drank in his life. His soul lifted to depart the accursed land, but he was held fast. He struggled and pulled to reach the light above him, but could not. He looked down and could see the fading essence of his spirit disappear between the rows of fangs lining the creature’s jaws. Blanchet no longer had a mouth or throat to scream with, and as his soul disappeared into the inky blackness of the creature, he was denied even that last, feeble display of resistance.
(To be Continued...)
Part II: Legion--1950's
“Capitan! Les types-- a droit!” The eyes of Captain Rene Blanchet followed the arm of the private who called to him. The man pointed to a running figure at the end of the street, partially obscured by the greasy smoke of the burning Panhard armored car. The private raised his rifle and fired at the man, who dove into the dry grass near the road. Captain Blanchet turned to his executive officer.
“First platoon!” he ordered. The executive officer nodded curtly and bellowed orders to the first platoon leader. The troops moved out quickly, fanning into a wedge formation to search the tall grass. The rest of the company fanned out into a protective circle. One soldier viciously kicked the African lying on the ground, the one who’d thrown the Molotov cocktail which had destroyed the armored car. The man winced in pain but did not cry out. They waited while the first platoon soldiers of Captain Blanchet’s French Foreign Legion 5th Company combed the grassy field for the runaway. Finally, the lieutenant approached him, frustrated.
“Well?” Blanchet demanded. The other officer shook his head.
“It is as if he vanished into the ground,” the man replied. “Merde!” Blanchet grimaced. He turned to the African lying on the ground.
“Where is your hideout?” he demanded. The prisoner said nothing. Blanchet leaned close to the man’s face. “Where is your hideout? Where is that man going? Lead us there and we will let you go.” he stated calmly. The man only smiled and whispered something. Blanchet leaned forward, pressing his ear close to the prisoner.
“You will not escape Africa.” the man said. He smiled wider, and his eyes danced with silent laughter. Blanchet sighed and stood up.
“We will try to track down the other terrorist. The cars cannot go through the jungle, we will leave them here with fourth platoon. The rest of you--” he called to his other troops, “come with me.”
“What about him?” the lieutenant of fourth platoon asked, nudging the prisoner with a boot toe. Blanchet grimaced. Killing him was an attractive option. But his superiors at battalion would want someone to question, and that would be much worse for the terrorist.
“Call a helicopter,” Blanchet ordered. “Take him to Fort Lamy. Tell them that we are going to search for his comrades.” The lieutenant nodded and went to his radio operator, while Blanchet took his other three platoons into the thick foliage.
***
“Damn!” Blanchet grumbled, watching the compass spin uselessly. He’d stepped away from everyone else, and even stripped off everything he had on him that was metal. The device was still unable to point north. The terrorist base had gone unfound, and Blanchet had called off the search. They’d started to walk back two hours ago, but the terrain was unfamiliar-- none of the landmarks seemed to be where they belonged, and there were terrain features that did not show up on the map. And now the compass was broken.
“Have you been able to fix that thing yet?” he asked of his radioman. The young corporal shook his head wearily. Blanchet had tried to radio the village earlier, to tell them they would have to give up the search until they could get helicopters. The radio, however, was still just a well of static. Blanchet clenched his teeth. It was late in the afternoon, and they would have to travel fast to get back to the village by nightfall. “Let’s go!” he ordered, pocketing the worthless compass. The men got up and walked behind him as time dragged on.
***
Night comes with a sudden authority in the wastes of Africa-- the gradual dimming that most Westerners are used to generally is a non-event. The sun hovers on the horizon, briefly, teasingly, and then leaves everyone it the wake of darkness. So it was with Captain Blanchet and the three platoons of 5th Company, Foreign Legion. They had been marching for hours when Blanchet finally called a halt. The men dug into their rations while Blanchet again tried both the radio and the compass. Neither worked. The map was a jumble of useless information that bore no resemblance at all to the surrounding countryside. He wanted to scream in frustration.
“Alright, I have gotten us lost, damn it all,” he muttered to his lieutenants. “I will owe every man in the company a beer when we get back to Fort Lamy. We will wait until daylight and then call helicopters. I cannot make heads or tails of this map!” The three other officers smiled sympathetically--they’d had no luck with their own radios or maps either. Everyone agreed that daylight would be better. A guard roster was drawn up and the troops huddled where they were at to sleep-- in Chad, there was no pressing need for blankets. Blanchet himself wound down into a fitful sleep. He tossed and turned with the dreams that haunted the hallways of his mind.
Blanchet found himself wandering the forest alone, in the middle of the night. Something was creeping after him, but every time he stopped, it stopped, and when he turned around, it turned as well. It was always behind him. He looked around for his men but only their equipment could be found. He picked up his own MAT-49 submachinegun and went looking for them. Before long, however, he could no longer hear his bootsteps on the hard-packed soil. The dry forest was silent, not even the animals made noise anymore. He looked down at the trail but could see nothing; the night was pitch dark. He looked up but there was no moon-- and no stars either. He lit his lighter and leaned down to see the trail he was on.
Dead eyes stared back at him. He yelled and fell backwards onto something soft. He reached out with his hand-- it was someone’s face. He rolled around and stared into the eyes of a dead man, one of his own soldiers. The mouth was open in a scream of terror, and the corpse’s hands clutched at its chest. Its heart was gone, torn out by. . . something had bitten its way through the man. Blanchet got to his feet and ran back the way he’d come, but no matter how far he ran, he could not get off the trail of the bodies of his men. He wanted desperately to wake up, to end--
Ratatatatat--! Blanchet jumped to his feet at the sound of a submachinegun. Men screamed and ran around, blindly, while dark shadows passed through the camp, undisturbed. A man was writhing in pain on the ground, his feet chewed off at the ankles. As a shadow hovered near him, he was suddenly dragged off into the foliage. Outside the perimeter of the camp Blanchet could hear screams of pain and terror, which were cut off abruptly by sudden wet, chewing noises. More shadowy figures passed through the camp, fired at blindly by the soldiers. The shadows would slow as the bullets hit them, but then they would walk calmly towards the shooters and grab them.
Blanchet grabbed his own submachinegun and lay prone. The bullets flying everywhere were as dangerous to the men as the creatures were. A handful of men lay groaning, felled by their own comrades’ fearful shooting. Dark shadows hovered around the wounded, as well, claws scrabbling for the hearts of the screaming soldiers. Blanchet fired at them, screaming, and then directed bursts into the trees, where the creatures materialized from. He realized that he was the only one left firing, and terror seized him. He stood on shaky knees, ready to run. He turned and leapt down the trail, seeing the mutilated bodies of his own men lying in front of them. He dodged and jumped, but the hands of the dead men seemed to catch his ankles. He fell, knocking the wind from his body.
Blanchet rolled over, his hands searching for his weapon. His fingers danced across the face of one of his men, and he pulled away in revulsion. He struggled to his feet, pulling out his pistol and firing again and again into the corpse that held him. His mind was white with terror. The pistol emptied and he grabbed the barrel, not feeling the pain of the hot metal on his flesh. With the butt of the weapon he hammered the face of the dead man, snarling and screaming in madness. The face and head became a messy pulp and Blanchet pulled his foot free. He dropped the pistol and turned to run again. He was surrounded by dark shadows that moved and swayed with a rhythmic beating of distant native drums. Eerie music, old, ancient music, filled his head. It sounded like a hundred souls chanting their way into the afterlife. A human shape stepped forward, with a grotesque head. Its elongated nose and mouth gleamed with fangs, its claws glowed like heated knife blades. Red eyes gleamed at Blanchet. The figure stood seven feet tall and reached for him. Blanchet whimpered and dropped to the ground, his hands going to protect his heart. A finger brushed something on his patrol harness-- a grenade, which he plucked from its carrier. He pulled the pin and let the handle drop away, holding the device between him and the figure like a shield.
The blast shattered his arms and imploded his chest, and tore the skin from his face. The essence of Blanchet’s being pooled above him, and he watched his body bleed out onto the ground. The soil greedily drank in his life. His soul lifted to depart the accursed land, but he was held fast. He struggled and pulled to reach the light above him, but could not. He looked down and could see the fading essence of his spirit disappear between the rows of fangs lining the creature’s jaws. Blanchet no longer had a mouth or throat to scream with, and as his soul disappeared into the inky blackness of the creature, he was denied even that last, feeble display of resistance.
(To be Continued...)
Something about Libertarianism always bothered me. Then one day, I realized what it was:
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
-
Evil Sadistic Bastard
- Hentai Tentacle Demon
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Chapter 1: Steam Age Predator?
Chapter 2: Pretty freaky stuff here.
Can't wait to see where this goes.
Chapter 2: Pretty freaky stuff here.
Can't wait to see where this goes.
Believe in the sign of Hentai.
BotM - Hentai Tentacle Monkey/Warwolves - Evil-minded Medic/JL - Medical Jounin/Mecha Maniacs - Fuchikoma Grope Attack!/AYVB - Bloody Bastards.../GALE Force - Purveyor of Anal Justice/HAB - Combat Medical Orderly
Combat Medical Orderly(Also Nameless Test-tube Washer) : SD.Net Dept. of Biological Sciences
BotM - Hentai Tentacle Monkey/Warwolves - Evil-minded Medic/JL - Medical Jounin/Mecha Maniacs - Fuchikoma Grope Attack!/AYVB - Bloody Bastards.../GALE Force - Purveyor of Anal Justice/HAB - Combat Medical Orderly
Combat Medical Orderly(Also Nameless Test-tube Washer) : SD.Net Dept. of Biological Sciences
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Coyote
- Rabid Monkey
- Posts: 12464
- Joined: 2002-08-23 01:20am
- Location: The glorious Sun-Barge! Isis, Isis, Ra,Ra,Ra!
- Contact:
Dark Continent
Part III: Communista--1970's
Major Felix Ortega smiled with satisfaction from the hatch of his BTR-60 troop carrier. He had just radioed in a successful mission to his superiors in Luanda-- Jonas Savimbi’s UNITA guerrillas were in full retreat, overwhelmed by the onslaught of firepower brought by the Cuban forces.
“They should stick to the jungle,” he said, laughing, as he congratulated one of his company commanders. “Out on the open plains they are no match for mechanized forces.” He paused, enjoying the moment of victory. The field was littered with African bodies, many of them center punched by the heavy weapons carried by the twelve BTR’s under Ortega’s command. He turned to the smiling captain. “Round up the men. I want ammo and casualty reports in half an hour. We will proceed to the night rally point and wait for resupply. Tomorrow,” he sighed, looking at the sky, “Tomorrow we see if we can collect more victories for our friends in the capitol, hm?” The two men shared a chuckle before carrying out their duties.
***
The vehicles ground to a halt in their pre-arranged laager positions. Each of the eight-wheeled transports could carry a squad of men and their equipment, as well as the heavy 12.7mm machineguns that had so successfully chewed through the opposing forces that day. The vehicles were faced in a ring, looking outward, and the machine gunners had pre-set fields of fire that interlocked with every other vehicle. With the squads filling in the gaps between the vehicles, the laager site was a ring of firepower that an enemy would be foolhardy to try to penetrate. The BTRs themselves were equipped with night-vision devices to facilitate the security of the perimeter at night. Ortega relaxed on a camp stool in the shade behind his vehicle.
“So,” he said to the collection of officers that stood around him. “A very good action today. Luanda informs us that we are to wait here tomorrow for re-supply, then we need to check the villages in the region near the Cubango River. Ovimbundu tribal sympathizers are being backed by the South Africans, so we may get a chance for some real fighting, si?” The others nodded eagerly at this. After a few months of setbacks, mostly caused by their stumbling ‘socialist brethren’ at the capitol of Angola, Luanda, the Cuban forces had finally been cut loose to do their work. A chance to bloody the noses of the meddling South Africans was welcome. Gunning down lightly-armed guerrillas was easy, but grew boring after awhile.
“Well, then,” Ortega said, smiling. “Be ready to go at first light.”
***
The morning sun brought unwelcome news to Ortega. Twelve men had been dragged off in the night, apparently caught sleeping. Someone, UNITA guerrillas it seemed, had slipped into camp and captured them. Ortega held no hopes for the survival of the men. The night guard had been found with his throat sliced open cleanly. He winced in sympathy. Letters to write home to Cuba, he thought bitterly. The worst kind of letters. ‘I regret to inform you that your son. . .’ He shook his head, blurring the vision of the dead man in his mind.
He’d reported the casualties back to headquarters, but the day’s mission was still important enough to go ahead. The loss of a squad’s worth of men was not welcome, but he could still proceed with the operation. The helicopter which had dropped off their supplies departed with the body of the guard. The rest of the men were burning with revenge and were anxious to get going. A rumor had circulated that South African commandos had infiltrated the camp, that would account for the expert knife-work. Ortega did nothing to quell these rumors, although it was ridiculous that South Africans would go to such trouble without raiding the command vehicle as well. Still, it meant that his troops would fight hard to avenge their comrades. The vehicles started up and drove onto the dusty road, the men inside silent with anger.
***
The village burned hot, but the residents would not complain-- they lay in the street, dead, every man, woman and child killed by Cuban fire. The flamethrower coughed and went out, and the sergeant carrying it returned to his vehicle to load the last tank of fuel. The sun was setting, and Ortega called in that the last of eight villages had been pacified. His soldiers had suffered only a few wounds, since their targets that day had been almost entirely civilians. No sign yet had been seen of the South Africans, which made Ortega both relieved and tense at the same time. He decided not to press his luck. With half their ammunition expended, he rallied the vehicles into line and prepared to return to the laager site. The heavy machineguns of the vehicles had hardly fired at all, and the turrets of the troop carriers were alternated, left and right, to cover any attack from either side of the trail.
“Any reply from the capitol?” he asked the radio operator inside his BTR. The man shook his head.
“Major, the radio is alright, I have checked it. I think it may be something in the atmosphere. Or their own transmitter.” Ortega nodded. Atmospheric conditions would clear, or the controllers at Luanda would get a back-up radio. Either way--
Crumpf!
Ortega’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden explosion of one of the BTR’s in the middle of the column. He hesitated for a moment while the other vehicles wheeled off the road and took up defensive positions, turrets questing for a target. Ortega’s own driver took them into a copse of trees and the radio became alive with shouting. Soldiers began to pour out of the vehicles and fan out, looking for their enemy. The stricken vehicle’s gasoline caught fire and burned fiercely. That is the biggest flaw with these vehicles, Ortega thought numbly, gasoline. Snapping back to reality, he ordered the officers to make sure all the vehicles were off the road and to watch the nearby ridges for possible troop movement.
A blur appeared on the ridge opposite Ortega’s vehicle. A French-made Panhard armored car bounced along, just on the other side of the crest of the hill. He could see the turret plainly-- it was equipped with a 90mm gun, instead of the factory-supplied 75mm. It was a favorite conversion done by the South Africans. Ortega hollered for antitank weapons to be armed, while scanning for more targets. An armored car would not operate alone.
Two more shots sounded, almost simultaneously. A pair of Panhards appeared above Ortega and fired, crumpling the two BTRs on the opposite side of the road. Men fired AK-47s at the cars, but the vehicles pulled away. An anti-tank rocket team fired, too late, and the shot flew harmlessly overhead. Ortega shouted on the radio.
“Infantry to the ridge lines! Machinegunners cover them! They have to sillouhette themselves to fire!” The BTRs could not climb the ridges, but the infantry could-- and if the Panhards popped up again to fire at the infantry, the machineguns of the vehicles could do some damage to the light armor of the South African cars. Ortega was tense with the expectation that he was going to die. Nervously, he watched the far ridge line for evidence of an approaching car. Finally, the infantry reported back. The South Africans had withdrawn, apparantly, before the Cubans could organize. Ortega breathed a sigh of relief and ordered his men back.
***
It was past midnight when Ortega called a halt. The column made a circular perimeter while he tried the radio again. For hours, there had been nothing but static. Ortega’s compass had been smashed, and none of the other officers or sergeants could get their own compasses to work right. The darkness was confusing and he could make out no terrain features that he could recognize.
“We cannot drive if we do not know where we are going,” he said evenly. “The men are tired. We will camp here and continue in the morning. Each squad will have a guard in the vehicle, using the night vision devices and listening to the radio. Check in with each other every hour. I want roving guards every hour as well, outside. Walk from vehicle to vehicle and make sure the others are awake.” He looked each of his officers in the eye. “I do not want anyone sneaking in here tonight, got it?”
“Si, Major,” they said almost in unison. They were more irritated than afraid, but Ortega had reminded them of the need for strict security. The officers dispersed and Ortega dismissed his radioman. He could not sleep, so he took the radioman’s place and kept trying to contact the capitol. Still nothing. He continued, going through every frequency and call sign, until drowsiness nibbled at the edges of his mind. He leaned back on the troop bench and closed his eyes.
***
A burning feeling of something wrong snapped Ortega awake instantly. He listened carefully but could hear only the deep breathing of his driver, slumped in the opposite troop bench. The radio hissed static. He went to turn it off but realized that the dull orange glow of the dials were the only illumination he had. He went to the turret but the vehicle commander was not there. Someone should have been watching the night-vision scope. He crawled into the gunner’s seat and reached for the infrared scope. It was already turned on.
Ahead was nothing but inky blackness. He could barely make out the trees across the field they’d parked in. He panned the turret around, slowly. The BTR parked next to his own came into view. Someone was sleeping on top of it, he judged by the heat form. One of the hatches was open. He cranked the turret around some more, looking for the roving guard. There were plenty of heat forms, men lying on the ground, asleep. Ortega was about to get out of the vehicle and hunt down the guard and reprimand him when he saw one of the heat forms stagger to its feet. Someone finally decided to go on duty, the Major thought wryly. He started to pan the turret around some more when he noticed that something was not quite right. The heat form of the man was still rising-- a foot off the ground. Ortega blinked and rubbed his eyes. No, the man was definitely being held in mid-air by something. Something that gave off no heat of its own.
In panic, he turned the turret back to the first BTR he’d seen. The heat form of the man on the deck of the vehicle was cooler now-- as a corpse would be cooler in the night air. Another heat form rose from the open hatch-- a struggling man, fighting with something invisible. A dark, cold form-- it looked like a hand-- reached for the man’s chest. It pulled out something very, very warm and the man quit struggling. The heat form of the man was flung aside, impacting on Ortega’s vehicle. The dull thud shocked him.
From across the camp came the sound of automatic weapons fire. Green tracers sliced through the air past Ortega’s vision. He watched in perverse fascination as a massive figure, like a man, was made visible by the sprayed blood of his victim. The shadowy figure was quite large, and when it turned to face the source of the firing, its eyes burned red. It sprang from the back of the BTR and leaped almost thirty meters across the camp, headed towards a small clutch of heat sources. Some of the men had awakened, and were firing their AK-47s in every direction. An engine roared to life and a BTR spun around, illuminating the area with its headlights. Black shadows sprang and leaped from vehicle to vehicle, man to man, tearing at throats and chests. Ortega locked and loaded the heavy machinegun in his turret and took aim.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump. . . The inside of the vehicle quickly filled with the smell of cordite. Smoke filled the fighting compartment as the tongues of fire licked out and caressed the shadow figures. One of the figures fell to the ground, and writhed before dissipating into nothing. Others were slowed or stopped in their place, falling to the ground. Once Ortega shifted his fire to the others, however, the fallen shadows seemed to pause and re-solidify. They stood back up and began to rush towards Ortega’s vehicle.
The driver was now wide awake and crawling into his compartment. He started the engines and gunned the motor in panic. Other vehicles were starting up and firing their heavy weapons as well. One BTR gunner, in his haste to destroy a shadow on the back of another vehicle, riddled his comrades’ vehicle with fire. The gasoline caught fire, bathing the figure on the back with hellish light. It was easily two and a half meters tall, and coal black. It had a nose and muzzle like a dog’s, liberally equipped with gleaming teeth. Its hands had claws like scythes, which were disemboweling a Cuban caught in its grip. Ortega jerked away from the periscope.
“Drive! Anywhere!” he screamed, still firing at the creatures behind them. The creatures could be slowed or stopped by continuous fire, but others would gain in the meantime. One gave a leap and dissappeared from sight, while the others kept pace. The driver went into fourth gear and the BTR bounced wildly across the terrain, more of a guided projectile than a well-controlled vehicle. Behind him, Ortega could see the shadowy figures begin to drop back. He fired a burst at them to discourage further pursuit. He sat back in his seat and mopped the sweat from his forehead. His eye readjusted themselves to the dark, instead of the green glow of the night vision device.
Something glittered in the dull light of the radio. White and sharp. Ortega looked at it, stupidly, while the vehicle continued to bounce across the countryside. Four almost parallel things were stuck through the hull of the BTR. Shrapnel? He reached to touch one of them. Something scrabbled along the outside, on the back deck of the vehicle.
Schnick!
Four more of the things sliced through the armor plate of the vehicle. They constricted, and pulled back sharply. The armor warped.
Claws.
Ortega hurled himself back into the gunner’s seat. The machinegun was still facing over the back deck. He peered through the periscope at the thing on his vehicle. The thing stared back, red eyes surrounded by black. Claws glinted, dimly reflecting the ambient light provided by the BTR’s headlights. Ortega reached for the trigger but the being was faster. Its hand closed on the barrel and twisted, hard, and the weapon crumpled. A blade-like claw sliced under the rim of the turret and pulled upwards. The metal resisted for a moment, but popped off when the creature got its fingers under the dent it had made. Ortega stared the creature in the face as it crawled forward, sinking its claws into the vehicle for bracing.
“Who are you!” he screamed. The creature hissed evilly. Words formed in Ortega’s mind.
We are those that belong here. The words were spoken in another language, an ancient language, but Ortega understood it perfectly. When the Cuban Major spoke again, he was shocked to find himself speaking the creature’s language. The creature reached for his neck.
“What do you mean! What do you want?” Ortega whimpered, sinking down in the seat. The creature gripped the rim of the turret ring and flexed its hands. The ring warped as the creature’s face hovered over him, staring down with its red eyes.
We belong here. You do not. The creature shifted its gaze to the back of the driver’s head. It glared at the driver and the vehicle slowed, then halted. With slow, robotic movements, the driver turned off the engine and opened his hatch. The creature reached forward and palmed the driver’s head, pulling him out and laying him on the deck of the vehicle. The creature smiled, baring all its fangs, and plunged its muzzle into the chest of the unresisting driver. It pulled out the man’s heart, which steamed in the cool air. The creature tilted its head back and gulped it down, leaving its muzzle dripping and bloody. Ortega cowered in the vehicle.
Get out. The creature looked at him, and all the resistance left his body. He climbed out the ruined turret ring. He looked around him and recognized, in panic, one of the South African armored cars. The BTR had come to a stop just outside the enemy base camp. All the enemy soldiers, however, were asleep.
“You are going to kill the South Africans too, then,” Ortega whispered in the creature’s language. The thing laughed and licked its muzzle with a black tongue.
At first we did, came the reply, but as they fought the whites from England, they became more African. They belong here now. You, and all others who do not understand, however. . . Ortega looked at the creature, waiting for it to complete its thought. The last thing Ortega saw was the fangs closing around his face. The pain lanced through him and he realized with his last thought that he would never see home again.
(To be Continued...)
Part III: Communista--1970's
Major Felix Ortega smiled with satisfaction from the hatch of his BTR-60 troop carrier. He had just radioed in a successful mission to his superiors in Luanda-- Jonas Savimbi’s UNITA guerrillas were in full retreat, overwhelmed by the onslaught of firepower brought by the Cuban forces.
“They should stick to the jungle,” he said, laughing, as he congratulated one of his company commanders. “Out on the open plains they are no match for mechanized forces.” He paused, enjoying the moment of victory. The field was littered with African bodies, many of them center punched by the heavy weapons carried by the twelve BTR’s under Ortega’s command. He turned to the smiling captain. “Round up the men. I want ammo and casualty reports in half an hour. We will proceed to the night rally point and wait for resupply. Tomorrow,” he sighed, looking at the sky, “Tomorrow we see if we can collect more victories for our friends in the capitol, hm?” The two men shared a chuckle before carrying out their duties.
***
The vehicles ground to a halt in their pre-arranged laager positions. Each of the eight-wheeled transports could carry a squad of men and their equipment, as well as the heavy 12.7mm machineguns that had so successfully chewed through the opposing forces that day. The vehicles were faced in a ring, looking outward, and the machine gunners had pre-set fields of fire that interlocked with every other vehicle. With the squads filling in the gaps between the vehicles, the laager site was a ring of firepower that an enemy would be foolhardy to try to penetrate. The BTRs themselves were equipped with night-vision devices to facilitate the security of the perimeter at night. Ortega relaxed on a camp stool in the shade behind his vehicle.
“So,” he said to the collection of officers that stood around him. “A very good action today. Luanda informs us that we are to wait here tomorrow for re-supply, then we need to check the villages in the region near the Cubango River. Ovimbundu tribal sympathizers are being backed by the South Africans, so we may get a chance for some real fighting, si?” The others nodded eagerly at this. After a few months of setbacks, mostly caused by their stumbling ‘socialist brethren’ at the capitol of Angola, Luanda, the Cuban forces had finally been cut loose to do their work. A chance to bloody the noses of the meddling South Africans was welcome. Gunning down lightly-armed guerrillas was easy, but grew boring after awhile.
“Well, then,” Ortega said, smiling. “Be ready to go at first light.”
***
The morning sun brought unwelcome news to Ortega. Twelve men had been dragged off in the night, apparently caught sleeping. Someone, UNITA guerrillas it seemed, had slipped into camp and captured them. Ortega held no hopes for the survival of the men. The night guard had been found with his throat sliced open cleanly. He winced in sympathy. Letters to write home to Cuba, he thought bitterly. The worst kind of letters. ‘I regret to inform you that your son. . .’ He shook his head, blurring the vision of the dead man in his mind.
He’d reported the casualties back to headquarters, but the day’s mission was still important enough to go ahead. The loss of a squad’s worth of men was not welcome, but he could still proceed with the operation. The helicopter which had dropped off their supplies departed with the body of the guard. The rest of the men were burning with revenge and were anxious to get going. A rumor had circulated that South African commandos had infiltrated the camp, that would account for the expert knife-work. Ortega did nothing to quell these rumors, although it was ridiculous that South Africans would go to such trouble without raiding the command vehicle as well. Still, it meant that his troops would fight hard to avenge their comrades. The vehicles started up and drove onto the dusty road, the men inside silent with anger.
***
The village burned hot, but the residents would not complain-- they lay in the street, dead, every man, woman and child killed by Cuban fire. The flamethrower coughed and went out, and the sergeant carrying it returned to his vehicle to load the last tank of fuel. The sun was setting, and Ortega called in that the last of eight villages had been pacified. His soldiers had suffered only a few wounds, since their targets that day had been almost entirely civilians. No sign yet had been seen of the South Africans, which made Ortega both relieved and tense at the same time. He decided not to press his luck. With half their ammunition expended, he rallied the vehicles into line and prepared to return to the laager site. The heavy machineguns of the vehicles had hardly fired at all, and the turrets of the troop carriers were alternated, left and right, to cover any attack from either side of the trail.
“Any reply from the capitol?” he asked the radio operator inside his BTR. The man shook his head.
“Major, the radio is alright, I have checked it. I think it may be something in the atmosphere. Or their own transmitter.” Ortega nodded. Atmospheric conditions would clear, or the controllers at Luanda would get a back-up radio. Either way--
Crumpf!
Ortega’s thoughts were interrupted by the sudden explosion of one of the BTR’s in the middle of the column. He hesitated for a moment while the other vehicles wheeled off the road and took up defensive positions, turrets questing for a target. Ortega’s own driver took them into a copse of trees and the radio became alive with shouting. Soldiers began to pour out of the vehicles and fan out, looking for their enemy. The stricken vehicle’s gasoline caught fire and burned fiercely. That is the biggest flaw with these vehicles, Ortega thought numbly, gasoline. Snapping back to reality, he ordered the officers to make sure all the vehicles were off the road and to watch the nearby ridges for possible troop movement.
A blur appeared on the ridge opposite Ortega’s vehicle. A French-made Panhard armored car bounced along, just on the other side of the crest of the hill. He could see the turret plainly-- it was equipped with a 90mm gun, instead of the factory-supplied 75mm. It was a favorite conversion done by the South Africans. Ortega hollered for antitank weapons to be armed, while scanning for more targets. An armored car would not operate alone.
Two more shots sounded, almost simultaneously. A pair of Panhards appeared above Ortega and fired, crumpling the two BTRs on the opposite side of the road. Men fired AK-47s at the cars, but the vehicles pulled away. An anti-tank rocket team fired, too late, and the shot flew harmlessly overhead. Ortega shouted on the radio.
“Infantry to the ridge lines! Machinegunners cover them! They have to sillouhette themselves to fire!” The BTRs could not climb the ridges, but the infantry could-- and if the Panhards popped up again to fire at the infantry, the machineguns of the vehicles could do some damage to the light armor of the South African cars. Ortega was tense with the expectation that he was going to die. Nervously, he watched the far ridge line for evidence of an approaching car. Finally, the infantry reported back. The South Africans had withdrawn, apparantly, before the Cubans could organize. Ortega breathed a sigh of relief and ordered his men back.
***
It was past midnight when Ortega called a halt. The column made a circular perimeter while he tried the radio again. For hours, there had been nothing but static. Ortega’s compass had been smashed, and none of the other officers or sergeants could get their own compasses to work right. The darkness was confusing and he could make out no terrain features that he could recognize.
“We cannot drive if we do not know where we are going,” he said evenly. “The men are tired. We will camp here and continue in the morning. Each squad will have a guard in the vehicle, using the night vision devices and listening to the radio. Check in with each other every hour. I want roving guards every hour as well, outside. Walk from vehicle to vehicle and make sure the others are awake.” He looked each of his officers in the eye. “I do not want anyone sneaking in here tonight, got it?”
“Si, Major,” they said almost in unison. They were more irritated than afraid, but Ortega had reminded them of the need for strict security. The officers dispersed and Ortega dismissed his radioman. He could not sleep, so he took the radioman’s place and kept trying to contact the capitol. Still nothing. He continued, going through every frequency and call sign, until drowsiness nibbled at the edges of his mind. He leaned back on the troop bench and closed his eyes.
***
A burning feeling of something wrong snapped Ortega awake instantly. He listened carefully but could hear only the deep breathing of his driver, slumped in the opposite troop bench. The radio hissed static. He went to turn it off but realized that the dull orange glow of the dials were the only illumination he had. He went to the turret but the vehicle commander was not there. Someone should have been watching the night-vision scope. He crawled into the gunner’s seat and reached for the infrared scope. It was already turned on.
Ahead was nothing but inky blackness. He could barely make out the trees across the field they’d parked in. He panned the turret around, slowly. The BTR parked next to his own came into view. Someone was sleeping on top of it, he judged by the heat form. One of the hatches was open. He cranked the turret around some more, looking for the roving guard. There were plenty of heat forms, men lying on the ground, asleep. Ortega was about to get out of the vehicle and hunt down the guard and reprimand him when he saw one of the heat forms stagger to its feet. Someone finally decided to go on duty, the Major thought wryly. He started to pan the turret around some more when he noticed that something was not quite right. The heat form of the man was still rising-- a foot off the ground. Ortega blinked and rubbed his eyes. No, the man was definitely being held in mid-air by something. Something that gave off no heat of its own.
In panic, he turned the turret back to the first BTR he’d seen. The heat form of the man on the deck of the vehicle was cooler now-- as a corpse would be cooler in the night air. Another heat form rose from the open hatch-- a struggling man, fighting with something invisible. A dark, cold form-- it looked like a hand-- reached for the man’s chest. It pulled out something very, very warm and the man quit struggling. The heat form of the man was flung aside, impacting on Ortega’s vehicle. The dull thud shocked him.
From across the camp came the sound of automatic weapons fire. Green tracers sliced through the air past Ortega’s vision. He watched in perverse fascination as a massive figure, like a man, was made visible by the sprayed blood of his victim. The shadowy figure was quite large, and when it turned to face the source of the firing, its eyes burned red. It sprang from the back of the BTR and leaped almost thirty meters across the camp, headed towards a small clutch of heat sources. Some of the men had awakened, and were firing their AK-47s in every direction. An engine roared to life and a BTR spun around, illuminating the area with its headlights. Black shadows sprang and leaped from vehicle to vehicle, man to man, tearing at throats and chests. Ortega locked and loaded the heavy machinegun in his turret and took aim.
Thumpthumpthumpthumpthumpthump. . . The inside of the vehicle quickly filled with the smell of cordite. Smoke filled the fighting compartment as the tongues of fire licked out and caressed the shadow figures. One of the figures fell to the ground, and writhed before dissipating into nothing. Others were slowed or stopped in their place, falling to the ground. Once Ortega shifted his fire to the others, however, the fallen shadows seemed to pause and re-solidify. They stood back up and began to rush towards Ortega’s vehicle.
The driver was now wide awake and crawling into his compartment. He started the engines and gunned the motor in panic. Other vehicles were starting up and firing their heavy weapons as well. One BTR gunner, in his haste to destroy a shadow on the back of another vehicle, riddled his comrades’ vehicle with fire. The gasoline caught fire, bathing the figure on the back with hellish light. It was easily two and a half meters tall, and coal black. It had a nose and muzzle like a dog’s, liberally equipped with gleaming teeth. Its hands had claws like scythes, which were disemboweling a Cuban caught in its grip. Ortega jerked away from the periscope.
“Drive! Anywhere!” he screamed, still firing at the creatures behind them. The creatures could be slowed or stopped by continuous fire, but others would gain in the meantime. One gave a leap and dissappeared from sight, while the others kept pace. The driver went into fourth gear and the BTR bounced wildly across the terrain, more of a guided projectile than a well-controlled vehicle. Behind him, Ortega could see the shadowy figures begin to drop back. He fired a burst at them to discourage further pursuit. He sat back in his seat and mopped the sweat from his forehead. His eye readjusted themselves to the dark, instead of the green glow of the night vision device.
Something glittered in the dull light of the radio. White and sharp. Ortega looked at it, stupidly, while the vehicle continued to bounce across the countryside. Four almost parallel things were stuck through the hull of the BTR. Shrapnel? He reached to touch one of them. Something scrabbled along the outside, on the back deck of the vehicle.
Schnick!
Four more of the things sliced through the armor plate of the vehicle. They constricted, and pulled back sharply. The armor warped.
Claws.
Ortega hurled himself back into the gunner’s seat. The machinegun was still facing over the back deck. He peered through the periscope at the thing on his vehicle. The thing stared back, red eyes surrounded by black. Claws glinted, dimly reflecting the ambient light provided by the BTR’s headlights. Ortega reached for the trigger but the being was faster. Its hand closed on the barrel and twisted, hard, and the weapon crumpled. A blade-like claw sliced under the rim of the turret and pulled upwards. The metal resisted for a moment, but popped off when the creature got its fingers under the dent it had made. Ortega stared the creature in the face as it crawled forward, sinking its claws into the vehicle for bracing.
“Who are you!” he screamed. The creature hissed evilly. Words formed in Ortega’s mind.
We are those that belong here. The words were spoken in another language, an ancient language, but Ortega understood it perfectly. When the Cuban Major spoke again, he was shocked to find himself speaking the creature’s language. The creature reached for his neck.
“What do you mean! What do you want?” Ortega whimpered, sinking down in the seat. The creature gripped the rim of the turret ring and flexed its hands. The ring warped as the creature’s face hovered over him, staring down with its red eyes.
We belong here. You do not. The creature shifted its gaze to the back of the driver’s head. It glared at the driver and the vehicle slowed, then halted. With slow, robotic movements, the driver turned off the engine and opened his hatch. The creature reached forward and palmed the driver’s head, pulling him out and laying him on the deck of the vehicle. The creature smiled, baring all its fangs, and plunged its muzzle into the chest of the unresisting driver. It pulled out the man’s heart, which steamed in the cool air. The creature tilted its head back and gulped it down, leaving its muzzle dripping and bloody. Ortega cowered in the vehicle.
Get out. The creature looked at him, and all the resistance left his body. He climbed out the ruined turret ring. He looked around him and recognized, in panic, one of the South African armored cars. The BTR had come to a stop just outside the enemy base camp. All the enemy soldiers, however, were asleep.
“You are going to kill the South Africans too, then,” Ortega whispered in the creature’s language. The thing laughed and licked its muzzle with a black tongue.
At first we did, came the reply, but as they fought the whites from England, they became more African. They belong here now. You, and all others who do not understand, however. . . Ortega looked at the creature, waiting for it to complete its thought. The last thing Ortega saw was the fangs closing around his face. The pain lanced through him and he realized with his last thought that he would never see home again.
(To be Continued...)
Something about Libertarianism always bothered me. Then one day, I realized what it was:
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
-
Coyote
- Rabid Monkey
- Posts: 12464
- Joined: 2002-08-23 01:20am
- Location: The glorious Sun-Barge! Isis, Isis, Ra,Ra,Ra!
- Contact:
Dark Continent
Part IV: Yankee--1990's
Lieutenant Matthew Cole grimaced in distaste at the bodies that lay in the ditch. They were Hutus, ambushed by Tutsi, and left in the open to rot as a reminder. A reminder to those who had made the ultimate mistake of being born in the wrong tribe. He shook his head at the insanity of it all. Nearby, refugees continued to march past him into the dubious security of Zaire. The flow of people had been going on for days, and there was no end in sight. Cole was reminded of the situation he’d seen in Somalia, where people were so bad off that they actually escaped to a place like Ethiopia to find a better life. The desperate don’t always think clearly.
Cole watched from the passenger seat of his Humvee. Anybody with a weapon, he and his platoon were supposed to stop them and hold them for questioning. The rest of the platoon followed in trucks and other Humvees, instead of their normal armored fighting vehicles. So far, the day had been quiet. He hoped the night would be quiet as well, for he and his troops needed the rest. He sipped from his canteen and continued to watch.
***
The vehicles sat in a circle, pointed out. The rest of First Platoon, Alpha Company, US Army, sat on the tailgates and talked among themselves over their “MRE” combat rations. The team had been in-country now for six weeks, assisting the United Nations relief mission. In that time, they had few opportunities to receive hot meals on a regular basis. Still, despite the conditions, Cole figured it could be worse. He’d heard about what the Australians had run across at Kibeho, and was not sorry to miss that one. He’d seen enough stacked bodies in Somalia.
“Not like up at the Horn, eh, sir?” one of his squad leaders asked. Cole nodded grimly. The Horn of Africa, Somalia, where the parents were so stoned on khat that they’d been known to nail their children to the floor so they wouldn’t escape while they went searching for their next hit.
“At least here, they like us,” said Cole. It was true. For the most part the civilians had been glad to see the UN troops, and morale was better, since the Western troops could actually feel as if they were doing some good. “We’ll stay the night here,” Cole continued. “Same guard shifts as last night. In the morning we’ll continue down to the refugee center at Goma.” He smirked at the wording, ‘refugee center’. Livestock pen would have been more accurate, but not quite as politic.
“When do we head back to Kigali, sir?” asked one of the M-60 gunners. The youngster was not seeking to go back, Cole knew-- he wanted to stay out some more. He was a brand new soldier, fresh from Basic, and this was his first big adventure in life. Cole smiled at him.
“Not for a few more days,” he said. “We’ll be out here for awhile, so get used to it. We’ll stop only to re-supply, unless something happens.” The 60 gunner grinned around his mouthful of Beef With Rice and Barbecue Sauce. Everybody was relaxed. After all, what was likely to happen?
***
Cole made his rounds-- “tucked the kids in bed,” as the platoon sergeant would have said-- before going back to his Humvee. Everyone in the platoon would pull a guard shift except for himself and the platoon sergeant. That was because Cole and the platoon sergeant would be the last ones asleep and the first ones awake. One person would stay with the Humvee and monitor the radio, while two others would walk around in the small perimeter of the camp. They had circled their vehicles-- two trucks and two Humvees-- and everyone slept within the circle. The walking guards would have PVS-7 Night Vision Devices on, granting the wearer the power of near-daylight seeing. Cole drifted off to sleep, unworried.
Cole dreamed that the platoon’s circle of vehicles was floating on an island. All around them was inky black water. They could not contact anyone, and a mist limited their peripheral vision. Shapes moved in the water, occasionally surfacing to look at the platoon, but they would dart back below the surface when anyone looked directly at them. Cole heard a sloshing sound, and felt the whole island tilt slightly as something climbed out of the water on the opposite side of the little island, behind a truck. He turned to go see what it was but his feet were stuck. He looked down and skeleton hands had hold of his ankles. He called for help from his soldiers but he was the only one on the island. The mist closed in and he felt cold, then hot. Something was breathing on the back of his neck, but he could not turn to see what it was. Suddenly he heard--
“Halt! Who goes there!”
Cole jerked to wakefulness. He looked over at the place where the platoon sergeant should have been, but he wasn’t there. The challenge had been spoken by one of his soldiers but no answer had come. All was silent. He looked at his watch-- almost two in the morning. He got up and looked around. The whole area was eerily quiet. He walked towards the cab of the Humvee. A sudden bark of noise caught him by surprise and he jumped back as if bitten. The noise sounded again and he recognized it as the radio hissing static as if the mike was being keyed at a remote location. Cole opened the door to the cab and looked inside. Nobody was there. The far door was open and the microphone sat in the other seat. A helmet lay on the ground outside the Humvee, and whoever had been on radio watch had left their M-16 in the cab. Cole grabbed it, and went looking for the soldier it belonged to. An abandoned weapon would be stolen by one of the warring factions.
Cole went to all the sleeping bags and nudged them, slowly realizing that nobody was left in the camp. He checked the M-16 to make sure it was loaded and grabbed a couple of spare magazines. He put on his combat harness and went outside the perimeter, looking for where his soldiers had gone to. If this was meant to be some kind of joke, it was not in the slightest bit funny. His boots brushed something in the grass-- one of the PVS-7's. Cole’s blood began to boil-- this was as bad as losing a weapon. He put on the device and scanned the area.
Everyone was gone. The refugees were gone as well. Normally there would be several hundred camped by the side of the road. Everywhere, the countryside was still and quiet. Cole began to feel chilled. He walked back hastily to the vehicles and tried to call on the radio. The airwaves were dead. Exasperated, he sat in the cab of the Humvee and wondered where he should look next. On impulse, he tried to start the vehicle. The starter whirred, but the vehicle refused to turn over. Cole cursed to himself.
A sudden movement caught his eye. He called the name of his platoon sergeant, but no answer came. The figure, dark and silent, crept behind a truck. Cole flipped on the PVS-7 and went after it, M-16 at the ready. He spun around the truck and pointed the weapon, but nobody was there. Cole stood, confused. Had he imagined it? He was about to turn around when he felt the back of his neck go hot. Someone was behind him, breathing slow and heavy. Cole dove for the ground and came up spinning, firing the M-16 as he did so. The wild burst caught something large and black in the center. The thing crumpled to the ground, then picked itself up. Cole fired again, squirming away, wild with fear. The magazine emptied and he fumbled for another. The thing stepped closer and Cole could see, clearly, in the device he wore.
It stood like a human, with claws at its fingertips and feet. Its head was that of a animal, a wolf or some sort of canine, with glowing red eyes that bore down on him like lasers. Its skin was coal black, and it wore something like a kilt. It looked just familiar enough to Cole to make him deathly afraid. A hand reached out, claws almost glowing in the resolution of the PVS-7. Cole watched in horrified amazement as the wounds in its chest closed and healed. He chambered another round and prepared to fire, because it was the only thing he could do. The being leaned forward and grabbed his head, starting to squeeze. Cole screamed.
Suddenly, the pressure stopped. Cole heard labored breathing, and he slowly opened his eyes. The creature crouched before him, its head down. He stared at it, and the creature’s red eyes swung up to meet his.
I can do nothing, came the words in his mind. They were partially in English, partially in some other language that Cole could not identify.
“What are you?” Cole asked, sobbing. The creature stared at him before replying.
I am the last one, of those that once belonged, it said in Cole’s mind. The American leaned forward, morbidly fascinated in the creature. He realized just how savagely beautiful the thing was.
“The last of. . .?”
Of those that once belonged. Africa once. . . resisted, the creature explained. We fought the foreign creatures that invaded our heartland. No more, it concluded. Its head drooped in defeat. Cole sat up, his eyes drinking in the sight of the magnificent being.
“Why no more?” he asked, “why fight?” The being shook its head.
Africa resisted you. You who did not belong. Your foreign ideas, your ambitions, your cruelties, your theft of the land and the dignity of its people. But I cannot fight you any more. Cole, for some reason, felt sad for the being. He reached out to touch it but stopped short. It would be wrong, somehow, he figured.
“Why can’t you fight?”
Because you have corrupted the very people we fight for! The being said viciously. It glared at Cole and its eyes burned fiercely. Cole startled backwards. Once the people wanted to be free. Now they want to be just like you. Your drugs, your vehicles, your clothes, your entertainment-- you outlanders have convinced the people that they no longer want to be African. Now they abandon themselves to become like you. Without them, I have no power. The being sat silently for a moment, then looked again into Cole’s eyes. You have beaten me, foreign devil. I who was once a god. Cole thought about what the being--the god-- said. It was true. Everywhere Cole had been in Africa, the people clamored to be Western. The old languages, the arts, the tribal structures-- they were still there, but fading away. English and French were more the norm than the old languages, and the erosion of the old ways eroded the power of the being that protected them. Cole felt the creature’s sorrow, and despair, and tears rolled down his own cheeks at the loss of entire cultures.
My power dissipates, human, the being said. Soon I will be gone. I must return to the time whence I came. Nothing can stop the coming end. I tried. But I belong only to the past. The creature got up and looked skyward. Cole stood next to it. Come, human, if you like I can take you with me, and show you how it all happened, long ago, when my people started to resist, before they were poisoned.
“Will I come back?” Cole asked. The creature looked down at him.
You will come back. And your soldiers will be back as well, I accomplish nothing by keeping their souls anymore. This will be my last act, human. Appreciate it. I will show you how it all began.
Cole grasped the hand of a god.
(To be Continued...)
Part IV: Yankee--1990's
Lieutenant Matthew Cole grimaced in distaste at the bodies that lay in the ditch. They were Hutus, ambushed by Tutsi, and left in the open to rot as a reminder. A reminder to those who had made the ultimate mistake of being born in the wrong tribe. He shook his head at the insanity of it all. Nearby, refugees continued to march past him into the dubious security of Zaire. The flow of people had been going on for days, and there was no end in sight. Cole was reminded of the situation he’d seen in Somalia, where people were so bad off that they actually escaped to a place like Ethiopia to find a better life. The desperate don’t always think clearly.
Cole watched from the passenger seat of his Humvee. Anybody with a weapon, he and his platoon were supposed to stop them and hold them for questioning. The rest of the platoon followed in trucks and other Humvees, instead of their normal armored fighting vehicles. So far, the day had been quiet. He hoped the night would be quiet as well, for he and his troops needed the rest. He sipped from his canteen and continued to watch.
***
The vehicles sat in a circle, pointed out. The rest of First Platoon, Alpha Company, US Army, sat on the tailgates and talked among themselves over their “MRE” combat rations. The team had been in-country now for six weeks, assisting the United Nations relief mission. In that time, they had few opportunities to receive hot meals on a regular basis. Still, despite the conditions, Cole figured it could be worse. He’d heard about what the Australians had run across at Kibeho, and was not sorry to miss that one. He’d seen enough stacked bodies in Somalia.
“Not like up at the Horn, eh, sir?” one of his squad leaders asked. Cole nodded grimly. The Horn of Africa, Somalia, where the parents were so stoned on khat that they’d been known to nail their children to the floor so they wouldn’t escape while they went searching for their next hit.
“At least here, they like us,” said Cole. It was true. For the most part the civilians had been glad to see the UN troops, and morale was better, since the Western troops could actually feel as if they were doing some good. “We’ll stay the night here,” Cole continued. “Same guard shifts as last night. In the morning we’ll continue down to the refugee center at Goma.” He smirked at the wording, ‘refugee center’. Livestock pen would have been more accurate, but not quite as politic.
“When do we head back to Kigali, sir?” asked one of the M-60 gunners. The youngster was not seeking to go back, Cole knew-- he wanted to stay out some more. He was a brand new soldier, fresh from Basic, and this was his first big adventure in life. Cole smiled at him.
“Not for a few more days,” he said. “We’ll be out here for awhile, so get used to it. We’ll stop only to re-supply, unless something happens.” The 60 gunner grinned around his mouthful of Beef With Rice and Barbecue Sauce. Everybody was relaxed. After all, what was likely to happen?
***
Cole made his rounds-- “tucked the kids in bed,” as the platoon sergeant would have said-- before going back to his Humvee. Everyone in the platoon would pull a guard shift except for himself and the platoon sergeant. That was because Cole and the platoon sergeant would be the last ones asleep and the first ones awake. One person would stay with the Humvee and monitor the radio, while two others would walk around in the small perimeter of the camp. They had circled their vehicles-- two trucks and two Humvees-- and everyone slept within the circle. The walking guards would have PVS-7 Night Vision Devices on, granting the wearer the power of near-daylight seeing. Cole drifted off to sleep, unworried.
Cole dreamed that the platoon’s circle of vehicles was floating on an island. All around them was inky black water. They could not contact anyone, and a mist limited their peripheral vision. Shapes moved in the water, occasionally surfacing to look at the platoon, but they would dart back below the surface when anyone looked directly at them. Cole heard a sloshing sound, and felt the whole island tilt slightly as something climbed out of the water on the opposite side of the little island, behind a truck. He turned to go see what it was but his feet were stuck. He looked down and skeleton hands had hold of his ankles. He called for help from his soldiers but he was the only one on the island. The mist closed in and he felt cold, then hot. Something was breathing on the back of his neck, but he could not turn to see what it was. Suddenly he heard--
“Halt! Who goes there!”
Cole jerked to wakefulness. He looked over at the place where the platoon sergeant should have been, but he wasn’t there. The challenge had been spoken by one of his soldiers but no answer had come. All was silent. He looked at his watch-- almost two in the morning. He got up and looked around. The whole area was eerily quiet. He walked towards the cab of the Humvee. A sudden bark of noise caught him by surprise and he jumped back as if bitten. The noise sounded again and he recognized it as the radio hissing static as if the mike was being keyed at a remote location. Cole opened the door to the cab and looked inside. Nobody was there. The far door was open and the microphone sat in the other seat. A helmet lay on the ground outside the Humvee, and whoever had been on radio watch had left their M-16 in the cab. Cole grabbed it, and went looking for the soldier it belonged to. An abandoned weapon would be stolen by one of the warring factions.
Cole went to all the sleeping bags and nudged them, slowly realizing that nobody was left in the camp. He checked the M-16 to make sure it was loaded and grabbed a couple of spare magazines. He put on his combat harness and went outside the perimeter, looking for where his soldiers had gone to. If this was meant to be some kind of joke, it was not in the slightest bit funny. His boots brushed something in the grass-- one of the PVS-7's. Cole’s blood began to boil-- this was as bad as losing a weapon. He put on the device and scanned the area.
Everyone was gone. The refugees were gone as well. Normally there would be several hundred camped by the side of the road. Everywhere, the countryside was still and quiet. Cole began to feel chilled. He walked back hastily to the vehicles and tried to call on the radio. The airwaves were dead. Exasperated, he sat in the cab of the Humvee and wondered where he should look next. On impulse, he tried to start the vehicle. The starter whirred, but the vehicle refused to turn over. Cole cursed to himself.
A sudden movement caught his eye. He called the name of his platoon sergeant, but no answer came. The figure, dark and silent, crept behind a truck. Cole flipped on the PVS-7 and went after it, M-16 at the ready. He spun around the truck and pointed the weapon, but nobody was there. Cole stood, confused. Had he imagined it? He was about to turn around when he felt the back of his neck go hot. Someone was behind him, breathing slow and heavy. Cole dove for the ground and came up spinning, firing the M-16 as he did so. The wild burst caught something large and black in the center. The thing crumpled to the ground, then picked itself up. Cole fired again, squirming away, wild with fear. The magazine emptied and he fumbled for another. The thing stepped closer and Cole could see, clearly, in the device he wore.
It stood like a human, with claws at its fingertips and feet. Its head was that of a animal, a wolf or some sort of canine, with glowing red eyes that bore down on him like lasers. Its skin was coal black, and it wore something like a kilt. It looked just familiar enough to Cole to make him deathly afraid. A hand reached out, claws almost glowing in the resolution of the PVS-7. Cole watched in horrified amazement as the wounds in its chest closed and healed. He chambered another round and prepared to fire, because it was the only thing he could do. The being leaned forward and grabbed his head, starting to squeeze. Cole screamed.
Suddenly, the pressure stopped. Cole heard labored breathing, and he slowly opened his eyes. The creature crouched before him, its head down. He stared at it, and the creature’s red eyes swung up to meet his.
I can do nothing, came the words in his mind. They were partially in English, partially in some other language that Cole could not identify.
“What are you?” Cole asked, sobbing. The creature stared at him before replying.
I am the last one, of those that once belonged, it said in Cole’s mind. The American leaned forward, morbidly fascinated in the creature. He realized just how savagely beautiful the thing was.
“The last of. . .?”
Of those that once belonged. Africa once. . . resisted, the creature explained. We fought the foreign creatures that invaded our heartland. No more, it concluded. Its head drooped in defeat. Cole sat up, his eyes drinking in the sight of the magnificent being.
“Why no more?” he asked, “why fight?” The being shook its head.
Africa resisted you. You who did not belong. Your foreign ideas, your ambitions, your cruelties, your theft of the land and the dignity of its people. But I cannot fight you any more. Cole, for some reason, felt sad for the being. He reached out to touch it but stopped short. It would be wrong, somehow, he figured.
“Why can’t you fight?”
Because you have corrupted the very people we fight for! The being said viciously. It glared at Cole and its eyes burned fiercely. Cole startled backwards. Once the people wanted to be free. Now they want to be just like you. Your drugs, your vehicles, your clothes, your entertainment-- you outlanders have convinced the people that they no longer want to be African. Now they abandon themselves to become like you. Without them, I have no power. The being sat silently for a moment, then looked again into Cole’s eyes. You have beaten me, foreign devil. I who was once a god. Cole thought about what the being--the god-- said. It was true. Everywhere Cole had been in Africa, the people clamored to be Western. The old languages, the arts, the tribal structures-- they were still there, but fading away. English and French were more the norm than the old languages, and the erosion of the old ways eroded the power of the being that protected them. Cole felt the creature’s sorrow, and despair, and tears rolled down his own cheeks at the loss of entire cultures.
My power dissipates, human, the being said. Soon I will be gone. I must return to the time whence I came. Nothing can stop the coming end. I tried. But I belong only to the past. The creature got up and looked skyward. Cole stood next to it. Come, human, if you like I can take you with me, and show you how it all happened, long ago, when my people started to resist, before they were poisoned.
“Will I come back?” Cole asked. The creature looked down at him.
You will come back. And your soldiers will be back as well, I accomplish nothing by keeping their souls anymore. This will be my last act, human. Appreciate it. I will show you how it all began.
Cole grasped the hand of a god.
(To be Continued...)
Something about Libertarianism always bothered me. Then one day, I realized what it was:
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
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A bit quick on putting out new chapters, aren't we?
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R.I.P. Eddie Guerrero, 09 October 1967 - 13 November 2005
Hot Pants à la Zaia | BotM Lord Monkey Mod OOK!
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R.I.P. Eddie Guerrero, 09 October 1967 - 13 November 2005
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Dark Continent
Part V: Caesar--45 B.C.E.
Centurion Caius Fabius nodded his acknowledgment to the messenger and wiped sweat from his drenched forehead. Accursed land, he thought to himself as he re-read the parchment. Egypt had swallowed more of the Empire’s troops whole. A whole century of soldiers, one hundred men, vanished into the desert without a trace. The locals-- nominally called allies but that was as tentative as the moods of Cleopatra-- offered no help. The Senate could not see that hook-nosed bitch was only doing anything she could to preserve her people, even if that meant sacrificing herself at the altar of personal dignity. Damn a patriot.
He ordered his men to their feet. His century of troops put out cooking fires and shouldered packs, absently brushing away flies. His patrol would continue up the Nile, now well past Thebes. Another century sent this way, almost two months ago, had never reported in. Bandits generally did not attack the well-defended columns, but what if a chieftain out there had managed to pull together a number of clans and now had the strength to challenge the might of Rome? He dismissed the thought as his men rallied themselves to prepare for the long march ahead.
***
Darkness approached with its usual desert efficiency. The men eagerly awaited the sinking of Ra’s barge in the west. The temperature would cool and they would be able to relax. Fires were built to ward off the night animals that scavenged packs, and guard shifts were drawn up. Their march had carried them into the wastelands for three days, and they were now quite isolated. No sign had been seen of the previous century that had passed this way, or of any bandit attacks that would account for them. That came as no surprise for Fabius; the shifting sands could conceal whole cities in little time. He made idle chatter with his men until retiring for the night.
His dream that night was unusual. Fabius was usually a sound sleeper, with the occasional fleeting recollections of home. But tonight, in this forsaken desert land, he could almost hear, and feel, the strange, eerie music of the Egyptians. He walked in a land of fog, yet a path in the fog parted for him as he walked. No matter which way he turned, the path obscured his peripheral vision, for it turned with him. He could not see that which lay around him. His gladius, the Roman short sword, was in his hand. He felt the icy tendrils of the fog close at his back, and he went forward.
A shape manifested itself in the fog-- a great dark shape surrounded by feeble torches. He moved towards it, his cape flapping in a breeze he did not feel. The music grew softer but its intensity rose, and before him stood a great obsidian altar. All around it were skulls, and on the skulls were Roman helmets. He looked around, seeing shapes move in the fog, but seeing no one. When he turned to the altar again, a figure stood there, its skin as coal black as the altar itself. It was one of the animal-head gods of the locals. The figure stood, seven feet tall, a powerful muscular male frame with a jackal head. Absently, Fabius was envious of that beautiful form-- its tone and build was a perfection that the sculptors at home sought but never quite attained. He felt a strange mixture of horror and arousal as the figure moved silently, walking towards the altar. Towards him.
As if by magic, the figure suddenly stood before him. Its hot, sweet breath tickled his nostrils as he looked up in awe. The gladius fell from his hand, and suddenly he was naked. The jackal god put a hand to Fabius’s chest and waves of sensual pleasure washed over him. As if his soul were being penetrated by this powerful, beautiful being. This must be how a woman feels, Fabius thought, powerless to stop the feeling emanating from the being’s fingers. As Fabius looked down, he could see the being’s fingers penetrating deep into his chest and wrap around his heart. As the beating organ was pulled out, a searing wave of orgasmic pleasure rocked the very core of his being and he collapsed to his knees. His loins and ass tingled. I am as a boy before you, silent one.
From nowhere the being produced a feather. The stem of the feather was purest silver, the fronds spun of the golden rays of the sun. The being turned its back on Augustus and for a moment the Roman was deathly afraid that its beautiful presence would abandon him, gone forever in the mist that still surrounded them. He placed his hands to the gaping hole where his heart used to be. The jackal god returned to his place behind the altar, where a silver scale now rested. The heart and the feather were placed in opposite plates, and both of them watched as Fabius’s heart tipped the delicate balance in its favor. The being leveled a gaze at him.
“You have been judged,” a voice hissed in his mind, but the jackal mouth did not move. “And been found wanting.” He watched, frozen in numb horror as his heart blackened, and shriveled, and finally became dust. A gust of wind blew the ash away. A strange feeling of peace came over him.
And he awakened, to total silence.
Not total silence.
The eerie native music was still in the back of his mind, and somehow he could hear it in the world of reality as well. He stepped out of the tent, gladius in hand and cape flapping in the slight breeze. His mind was numbed to the fact that none of his men were in sight. The sentries had deserted their posts. He had to find the watch commander and reprimand him.
After I find the source of that music, he thought. He staggered out of the camp, drawn towards a glow behind a dune. Fires danced in a depression on the other side. The rest of his century stood there.
“Cohorts, men. . .” he ordered in a whisper. Nobody heard him. He stumbled down the other side of the dune and reveled in the feeling of the harsh sand rubbing itself into his body. As he stood, his eyes latched onto the night sky. It was black, coal black, and for a moment Fabius thought of the being in his dream. The baleful, cold eye of the moon stared down at him. How appropriate, a voice said in the back of his mind, as I go to meet Pluto tonight. He looked at his men, standing in silence, their hands limp and faces slack. Their eyes were glazed over and Fabius could not see why. All around, on the edges of the dune above them, figures with animal heads stood rigid and lifeless. They had seemed to rise from the ground itself.
“We have been waiting for you,” a familiar voice hissed. “As you have once served, so shall you serve us. The land you have defiled now demands your soul in return.” Fabius wheeled. In the center of the depression, surrounded by the standing dead of his own men, Fabius could see the jackal god materialize from the land. The gladius dropped from his hand and he sank to his knees. His hands went to his chest but only a hole remained where his heart once beat. The jackal being held up his heart in a sculpted, perfect black hand, and bit into it as one would bite into an apple. All around, the figures on the surrounding rise held up hearts and did the same. As Augustus collapsed, he could see the ragged holes on the bodies of his men where their hearts used to be. The sloppy, wet crunch of the bites echoed across the empty desert and as one, the Romans all crumpled to the ground.
Fabius could see his own body, now, lying on the ground, the sand soaking his blood. The life drained from his eyes and the last vestiges of his personality and memory faded. Too late, a scream echoed in his mind as his survival instinct tried feebly to assert itself, but a flood of feeling overwhelmed the tiny identity that was once a man. As the blood trickled into the land, he felt more alive, and as the bodies decayed in a manner of seconds, he felt more powerful, and as he smiled at the feeling of raw, naked power he could feel the lips move on his jackal muzzle and bare fangs that dripped with the salty, bittersweet juices of flesh. The figures on the rise began to dance, and he began to laugh and exult. He no longer was, and never was, Centurion Caius Fabius.
He was now vengeance.
...Finis
Part V: Caesar--45 B.C.E.
Centurion Caius Fabius nodded his acknowledgment to the messenger and wiped sweat from his drenched forehead. Accursed land, he thought to himself as he re-read the parchment. Egypt had swallowed more of the Empire’s troops whole. A whole century of soldiers, one hundred men, vanished into the desert without a trace. The locals-- nominally called allies but that was as tentative as the moods of Cleopatra-- offered no help. The Senate could not see that hook-nosed bitch was only doing anything she could to preserve her people, even if that meant sacrificing herself at the altar of personal dignity. Damn a patriot.
He ordered his men to their feet. His century of troops put out cooking fires and shouldered packs, absently brushing away flies. His patrol would continue up the Nile, now well past Thebes. Another century sent this way, almost two months ago, had never reported in. Bandits generally did not attack the well-defended columns, but what if a chieftain out there had managed to pull together a number of clans and now had the strength to challenge the might of Rome? He dismissed the thought as his men rallied themselves to prepare for the long march ahead.
***
Darkness approached with its usual desert efficiency. The men eagerly awaited the sinking of Ra’s barge in the west. The temperature would cool and they would be able to relax. Fires were built to ward off the night animals that scavenged packs, and guard shifts were drawn up. Their march had carried them into the wastelands for three days, and they were now quite isolated. No sign had been seen of the previous century that had passed this way, or of any bandit attacks that would account for them. That came as no surprise for Fabius; the shifting sands could conceal whole cities in little time. He made idle chatter with his men until retiring for the night.
His dream that night was unusual. Fabius was usually a sound sleeper, with the occasional fleeting recollections of home. But tonight, in this forsaken desert land, he could almost hear, and feel, the strange, eerie music of the Egyptians. He walked in a land of fog, yet a path in the fog parted for him as he walked. No matter which way he turned, the path obscured his peripheral vision, for it turned with him. He could not see that which lay around him. His gladius, the Roman short sword, was in his hand. He felt the icy tendrils of the fog close at his back, and he went forward.
A shape manifested itself in the fog-- a great dark shape surrounded by feeble torches. He moved towards it, his cape flapping in a breeze he did not feel. The music grew softer but its intensity rose, and before him stood a great obsidian altar. All around it were skulls, and on the skulls were Roman helmets. He looked around, seeing shapes move in the fog, but seeing no one. When he turned to the altar again, a figure stood there, its skin as coal black as the altar itself. It was one of the animal-head gods of the locals. The figure stood, seven feet tall, a powerful muscular male frame with a jackal head. Absently, Fabius was envious of that beautiful form-- its tone and build was a perfection that the sculptors at home sought but never quite attained. He felt a strange mixture of horror and arousal as the figure moved silently, walking towards the altar. Towards him.
As if by magic, the figure suddenly stood before him. Its hot, sweet breath tickled his nostrils as he looked up in awe. The gladius fell from his hand, and suddenly he was naked. The jackal god put a hand to Fabius’s chest and waves of sensual pleasure washed over him. As if his soul were being penetrated by this powerful, beautiful being. This must be how a woman feels, Fabius thought, powerless to stop the feeling emanating from the being’s fingers. As Fabius looked down, he could see the being’s fingers penetrating deep into his chest and wrap around his heart. As the beating organ was pulled out, a searing wave of orgasmic pleasure rocked the very core of his being and he collapsed to his knees. His loins and ass tingled. I am as a boy before you, silent one.
From nowhere the being produced a feather. The stem of the feather was purest silver, the fronds spun of the golden rays of the sun. The being turned its back on Augustus and for a moment the Roman was deathly afraid that its beautiful presence would abandon him, gone forever in the mist that still surrounded them. He placed his hands to the gaping hole where his heart used to be. The jackal god returned to his place behind the altar, where a silver scale now rested. The heart and the feather were placed in opposite plates, and both of them watched as Fabius’s heart tipped the delicate balance in its favor. The being leveled a gaze at him.
“You have been judged,” a voice hissed in his mind, but the jackal mouth did not move. “And been found wanting.” He watched, frozen in numb horror as his heart blackened, and shriveled, and finally became dust. A gust of wind blew the ash away. A strange feeling of peace came over him.
And he awakened, to total silence.
Not total silence.
The eerie native music was still in the back of his mind, and somehow he could hear it in the world of reality as well. He stepped out of the tent, gladius in hand and cape flapping in the slight breeze. His mind was numbed to the fact that none of his men were in sight. The sentries had deserted their posts. He had to find the watch commander and reprimand him.
After I find the source of that music, he thought. He staggered out of the camp, drawn towards a glow behind a dune. Fires danced in a depression on the other side. The rest of his century stood there.
“Cohorts, men. . .” he ordered in a whisper. Nobody heard him. He stumbled down the other side of the dune and reveled in the feeling of the harsh sand rubbing itself into his body. As he stood, his eyes latched onto the night sky. It was black, coal black, and for a moment Fabius thought of the being in his dream. The baleful, cold eye of the moon stared down at him. How appropriate, a voice said in the back of his mind, as I go to meet Pluto tonight. He looked at his men, standing in silence, their hands limp and faces slack. Their eyes were glazed over and Fabius could not see why. All around, on the edges of the dune above them, figures with animal heads stood rigid and lifeless. They had seemed to rise from the ground itself.
“We have been waiting for you,” a familiar voice hissed. “As you have once served, so shall you serve us. The land you have defiled now demands your soul in return.” Fabius wheeled. In the center of the depression, surrounded by the standing dead of his own men, Fabius could see the jackal god materialize from the land. The gladius dropped from his hand and he sank to his knees. His hands went to his chest but only a hole remained where his heart once beat. The jackal being held up his heart in a sculpted, perfect black hand, and bit into it as one would bite into an apple. All around, the figures on the surrounding rise held up hearts and did the same. As Augustus collapsed, he could see the ragged holes on the bodies of his men where their hearts used to be. The sloppy, wet crunch of the bites echoed across the empty desert and as one, the Romans all crumpled to the ground.
Fabius could see his own body, now, lying on the ground, the sand soaking his blood. The life drained from his eyes and the last vestiges of his personality and memory faded. Too late, a scream echoed in his mind as his survival instinct tried feebly to assert itself, but a flood of feeling overwhelmed the tiny identity that was once a man. As the blood trickled into the land, he felt more alive, and as the bodies decayed in a manner of seconds, he felt more powerful, and as he smiled at the feeling of raw, naked power he could feel the lips move on his jackal muzzle and bare fangs that dripped with the salty, bittersweet juices of flesh. The figures on the rise began to dance, and he began to laugh and exult. He no longer was, and never was, Centurion Caius Fabius.
He was now vengeance.
...Finis
Something about Libertarianism always bothered me. Then one day, I realized what it was:
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
Libertarian philosophy can be boiled down to the phrase, "Work Will Make You Free."
In Libertarianism, there is no Government, so the Bosses are free to exploit the Workers.
In Communism, there is no Government, so the Workers are free to exploit the Bosses.
So in Libertarianism, man exploits man, but in Communism, its the other way around!
If all you want to do is have some harmless, mindless fun, go H3RE INST3ADZ0RZ!!
Grrr! Fight my Brute, you pansy!
-
Evil Sadistic Bastard
- Hentai Tentacle Demon
- Posts: 4229
- Joined: 2002-07-17 02:34am
- Location: FREE
- Contact:
Verrry interesting. Resistance to foreign culture intrusions taken to a new level...
Believe in the sign of Hentai.
BotM - Hentai Tentacle Monkey/Warwolves - Evil-minded Medic/JL - Medical Jounin/Mecha Maniacs - Fuchikoma Grope Attack!/AYVB - Bloody Bastards.../GALE Force - Purveyor of Anal Justice/HAB - Combat Medical Orderly
Combat Medical Orderly(Also Nameless Test-tube Washer) : SD.Net Dept. of Biological Sciences
BotM - Hentai Tentacle Monkey/Warwolves - Evil-minded Medic/JL - Medical Jounin/Mecha Maniacs - Fuchikoma Grope Attack!/AYVB - Bloody Bastards.../GALE Force - Purveyor of Anal Justice/HAB - Combat Medical Orderly
Combat Medical Orderly(Also Nameless Test-tube Washer) : SD.Net Dept. of Biological Sciences
Re: "Dark Continent"
Spectacular.
Björn Paulsen
"Travelers with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves."
--Chinua Achebe
"Travelers with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves."
--Chinua Achebe
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MKSheppard
- Ruthless Genocidal Warmonger
- Posts: 29842
- Joined: 2002-07-06 06:34pm
I almost can't believe it, but not only am I not bitching at Shep here, I'm actually agreing with him. And as such, I'm sorry to say the world will come to an end. Probably. Or something.MKSheppard wrote:Print this out and send it to ASIMOV or some other magazine!
I COMMAND YOU!
NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW
Björn Paulsen
"Travelers with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves."
--Chinua Achebe
"Travelers with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves."
--Chinua Achebe
-
MKSheppard
- Ruthless Genocidal Warmonger
- Posts: 29842
- Joined: 2002-07-06 06:34pm
Is it enough if Kynes agrees with Boyd? If so, we're actually both dead, which would be kinda weird I'm the first to admit.MKSheppard wrote:That only will happen when KYNES and BOYD agree on something, sorry.Eleas wrote: I almost can't believe it, but not only am I not bitching at Shep here, I'm actually agreing with him. And as such, I'm sorry to say the world will come to an end. Probably. Or something.
Björn Paulsen
"Travelers with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves."
--Chinua Achebe
"Travelers with closed minds can tell us little except about themselves."
--Chinua Achebe