From the Ruins

“Happened again,” a Corporal to my left whispered.

“What?” I asked.

Someone answered, “Skipper got us lost again, Doc.”

“Oh.”

We’re on night patrol, maybe two clicks north and west of our fire base. The scuttlebutt is that we were outside the wire to ‘chase our tail,’ meaning we are out here to impress some V.I.P.

“I hate night patrols, so this better be worth it,” I think.

Left and only a hundred yards ahead of us are some ruins. They remind me of the old adobe walls, remnants of an ancient village, like the kind you’ll find at Chaco Canyon.

“Hey!” a harsh whisper came down the line, “Movement in the ruins!”

Suddenly on alert, we drop to the sand, watching, listening, rifles up and at the ready. The Gunny signals and two men, jump to their feet and zig-zag towards the spot where the movement was last seen.

This was followed by yet another pair, who moved in the same zig-zag pattern to the opposite side of where the movement came. A classic pincer-movement.

Within a minute the all-clear hand sign is given and we are all on our feet, breathing again, though slightly heavier than before. We are moving forward toward the ruins.

“Guess, we ain’t lost after all,” I chuckled to the Jar-head to my left.

He says nothing.

Night vision goggles cast an eerie green glow over the crumbling walls of the village. We set up a comm-site near one of the thicker, longer and higher walls.

Quietly and quickly, I’m moving between our six two-man teams, making certain they have been keeping hydrated and that even the smallest of scratches are cared for. The men both hate and love me for this shit, but it’s my job.

An almost inhuman scream pierces the chilled morning air and everyone drops, heads swiveling from side to side, searching, trying to find the source of the sound. With no noises following it, an immediate head-check is called for; all are accounted for.

Then there’s more movement, all twelve of us saw it this time. A man, whose eye’s captured the indirect glow of our equipment or the stars overhead, darts between the broken walls.

“What the fuck’s that?” a Lance Corporal asks.

No one has an answer, and no one has the chance to answer as a dark-robed figure, eyes cast in a white-glow appears from the darker recesses of a door way, and with a shrill screech, sprints into our blazing gun fire.

As if made of a billion-upon-a-billion dots, the thing fades as if it were mere dust, taking its unholy shrieking with it. It’s quiet for a few seconds as our unprotected ears fight to recover from the pounding of rapid gun fire.

“Fuck! Did’ja see that shit?” someone asks.

The hand signal for ‘silence,’ goes around. Someone’s either crying or laughing, I can’t tell, nerves probably shattered, and soon we are withdrawing back to our fire base.

There will be no after-action briefing.