Prophet

Prophet                                                                         

 

     All around the wind-worn sandstone bricks of the ruin erupted into stone chips and shards as it was strafed with heavy fire.

     “Corpsman goddammit!” Corporal Jack Cordova screamed again, slamming the bipod of his M249 light machine gun down onto the low brick wall before him. A half-dozen paces away private George Peters lay face down in the sandy stone floor of the half-building, a wide circle of blood growing wider around his prone form. He wasn't moving.

     Jack opened up, the heavy assault weapon making the drab desert camouflage of his fatigues jump and shed a layer of fine white dust as it roared a line of tracers out into the desert.

     Muzzle flashes, bright and sharp leapt out in response and more bullets chewed into the crumbling bricks around him, forcing him back down into cover.

     “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.” he frantically mumbled to himself, ripping off the spent ammo box from his weapon and laying the belt of rounds from a fresh rounds into the receiver before slapping it closed.

     “Corpsman! F*****g anyone!” he screamed again. Where the hell was the rest of his squad? They’d been right behind him!

     There was a sudden lull in the small arms fire lancing towards his position.

     There were only two reasons to ceasefire during an assault or ambush, like this one. Either to reload or to flank. Snarling angrily, Jack wrenched up the heavy SAW machine gun back up onto the low wall that formed his cover, searching for targets. The low scrub dotting the desertland directly beyond the small ruined building was utterly empty and quiet. Where there had been flashes of fire from the groves now they only stood still and abandoned. Jack swore.

     “LT!” he called over his shoulder frantically, not daring to look away.

     “Yo LT! Where the f**k are you guys? I need that damn Corpsman! Peters is down!”

     There was no reply from the ruin behind, not so much as a scrape of movement on the harsh dry stone.

     “LT?” he called again, quieter this time. There was a tremor in his voice.

Something slammed into the back of his head, directly underneath his protective Kevlar helmet. Jack saw stars.

     Dazed, he fell heavily to the dusty ground, the scratchy sandstone oddly cool against his cheek despite the heat of the noonday desert sun. There were voices around him, though they seemed faint and distant to his ears, past a ringing he hadn't noticed was there before. They were yammering in Arabic, and he couldn't decipher a word. Rough hands gripped the back of his plate harness and he was dragged painfully across the ground. Through half-lidded eyes he saw them. Haggard men, all thickly bearded and sun-darkened, sporting Shemagh headscarves atop their heads. He couldn't count how many there were. A dozen. Half. He was too groggy to get his bearings, though he struggled to wake, to move, to fight back. He saw a few with black, wooden stocked AK47s. He saw Peters’ body dwindling away as he was dragged further.

     “No… LT…” he mumbled thickly.

     There was a sharp burble of the voices again. His head exploded into agony once more and Jack saw darkness.

     When he blinked awake the square corner of the ruin was dwindling away jerkily. It was pocked and holed by the ferocious firefight he and his squad had just been engaged in. Bodies slumped around it in a wide circle, and with a pang he recognized their drab desert colored fatigues. Had anyone else made it? Was he the only one left?

Scraggly scrub scratched passed his dangling hand as he was carried bodily away by the hands and feet, stripped of both his weapon and battle harness. He didn't need to see the worn, dusty robes of those carrying him to know his captors.

     They talked low and in hurried tones. More Arabic. His limbs twitched weakly in protest, feeling heavy and slow. Jacks head seared with pain at each jolt and he felt nauseous. Likely he'd have a concussion if not a cracked skull. But he fought and struggled the best he could, albeit with the strength of a toddler.

     There was a sharp shout of alarm from his right, and the man carrying his feet dropped them to unsling his rifle. His ankles dragged along the rocky ground for a few paces and he found himself looking back at the ruin again in the distance.

     With a deafening sound like the world itself was splitting in two a bright column of blinding light exploded from the sky to strike the ground near the little ruin, volcano-ing up an obscuring cloud of dust.

     From the center roiled thick black smoke, billowing away in the breeze. The men around Jack began shouting in earnest. Then the light faded, and the dust cleared. Wreathed in the smoke a figure stood. It was a pure midnight-black silhouette of a man, eight-foot-tall and slender, though broad shouldered and built with a hard, muscular outline. It had no discernable features, the obsidian shade of its being drinking in the light around. Around it writhed a billowing pillar of fire, red and gold as if from the center of a great furnace, roaring and thrashing, though it seemed not to affect the being.

     Slowly, as if with great deliberation, the thing stepped forward, the flame trailing in its wake.

     The ragged men who'd ambushed Jack and killed his squad began to panic. They ran towards the thing, raising their rifles and screaming at it in Arabic. It didn't slow. The heavy, terrible footfalls continued onwards.

     The closest of the men began to shoot. The weapon bucked in his grasp, booming and loosing bullets in violent flashes from its muzzle. Whatever it was, the figure seemed unaffected, continuing its stride towards the men, the black surface of its skin undisturbed.

     The rest of the men spread out around it in a wide arc, encircling the creature. They took up firing positions, kneeling or standing, covering it with their weapons. In a hail of clattering they opened up, strafing the thing with yet more bullets. They had no effect other than to shred the dirt at its feet, tearing at the earth in gouts of dust.

The being halted, and slowly raised a hand, palm outwards, pointing directly at the first of those to fire upon it.

     With a strangled yell he convulsed, weapon clattering to the ground. He began to peel apart from his extremities, dissolving as if submerged in a potent acid. As he disintegrated the dust he became was caught by the wind and swirled on the air before being carried away. In mere seconds he was reduced to nothing, flesh and clothing both cast adrift upon the breeze.

     The thing did not lower its hand. It turned silently to regard the others loosing rounds at its form. Several began to back away, ceasing their barrage in fear.

A solid beam of burning light like solid fire leapt from the face of the thing to Lance through one of the men's chests. It was so bright that it left a purple bar if after image in Jacks vision. When it blinked out of existence there was left a gaping hole through the man's chest, through which the desert ground could be seen before he toppled over, dead.

     Two of the others turned to flee, screaming. The other black arm flashed up and suddenly the two's legs windmilled in empty air as they were levitated from the very ground. Their cries grew frantic as they cast around for their comrades to help them. They drifted across the ground towards the figure, roaring column of flames still raging about its form. They hung suspended before it's outstretched hands for a terrible moment. It closed them into fists. The two men violently compressed inwards, becoming perfect, red bloody spheres that levitated, shining wetly in the sunlight only a foot in diameter. Their cries were cut off immediately. The thing dropped its hands to its sides once more and the two fleshy masses fell to the ground.

     The remaining three men ceased firing, the two either side tearing their spent magazines out in a frantic attempt to reload. The third in the center cast his rifle aside, drawing a long, heavy bladed knife from his dirty robes. With a wordless roar he sprinted forth at the thing, brandishing the blade. He got to within three feet.

Mid-stride he tore apart, limbs separating at their connecting joints, blood fountaining darkly. Carried by his own momentum the segmented corpse fell heavily to either side of the untouched black figure.

     The remaining two mujahedeen racked their reloaded weapons but did not shoot, casting panicked looks at each other, unsure what to do in the face of this unassailable threat. The being merely stood there, some distance away from the two, head cocked to one side as if watching them intently. The inferno it was encased within continued to writhe around it. Jack began to come to his senses enough to realize that he should very likely be afraid.

     The figures slanting head flicked straight again. As if in response the two men jolted their AK’s up to aim again, yet still did not fire.

     Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the two began to turn towards each other; rifles levelled.

     The barrels of the rifles drew abreast, each pointing at the chest of the other. The men seemed frozen, sweat pouring down their faces and a look of utter fear and desperation in their eyes. Though they were both visibly trembling and struggling, neither could move, as though caught in a vice made of air. They stood like that for a time, facing each other. The black figures head twitched slightly. In a loud clatter the rifles convulsed as each man clamped down involuntarily on the trigger, bullets scything into each other as they were gunned down by their own weapons. The two dropped like stones, crumpling.

     For a long time, the thing just stood there, roiling flame guttering about in the wind like tearing in the fabric of the world itself. Through the trembling in his hands Jack realized that one of the men remained, still holding him up by the shoulders, likely too petrified to move.

     Agonizingly, the black shape turned, slowly, to regard them where they were.

Dazed and sluggish as he was, Jack knew. There were no perceptible eyes upon the face of the thing, no features disturbed the flawless void of darkness that was its physical shape. But he knew it was staring right at him.

Reviews

[VALORMORE DE PLUME]

Interesting use of adjectives throughout. The 'being', created here, comes off as original and otherworldly. The firefight, within the frame of this story, is edgy. The ending leaves the reader either wanting more or disappointed. I see that embellishment is the force at work here, yet the plot is somewhat lacking.