From the darkness of the abyss to the subtle shift of shadows dwell creatures that prey on us all.Be they straight-up monsters or nightmares behind a human mask, they track us and they kill us.Sometimes, they play with their food, where death would be a kindness. But there is hope.There are those who search out the monsters, those who hunt the hunters.These are their stories. ***Featuring 13 stories of military horror by some of the best known and emerging writers in the genre.
Cohesion Press
Mayday Hills Lunatic Asylum
Bechworth, Victoria
2016
“Target confirmed. Operation Mousetrap is a go.” The crisp, mechanical voice of the commander cut through the headset. “You will link up with local assets and infiltrate the mining camp. Eliminate the rogue and dispose of any evidence. Our presence in the area cannot be exposed. Do you read me, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t underestimate the target, Sierra. He might well be an older model but you know damn well no one survives long in this line of work without a few tricks up their sleeve. Memphis out.”
Staff Sergeant Sierra growled under her breath after the comms went silent. She knew well enough what she was up against and didn’t need Memphis’s warning. Sierra was no cub to be led about by the scruff. She turned to her pack, huddled tight in their drop seats, awaiting orders.
“We’ve got the green light.” Wide, toothy grins met the announcement. She gave them a moment to revel in it before holding her hand up to quiet them. “Now bring it in, we’re almost there.”
Sierra led her pride in prayer as the suborbital insertion craft began the re-entry sequence. The six women asked not for forgiveness, nor did they beg salvation. Instead they entreated upon their Goddess that their aim be true, their guns functional, and their blades sharp. Sierra felt the pressure of gravity reasserting its hold but disregarded the gentle creak in her bones while the pride lifted their voices in unison to praise the Mistress of Dread, the Lady of Slaughter, She Who Mauls.
The commandos brought the prayer to an end with a roar while the insertion craft banked to port, indicating glide and circle sequence. Aware that a single flaw in the craft’s stealth package would invite interception by Chinese surface-to-air missiles, Sierra had her pack concentrate on performing a final account of their gear in case they needed to drop early. They did so in contemplative silence. This wasn’t their first suborbital insertion but death was never far from the thoughts of soldiers such as these. The goal was always to provide the Goddess sufficient sacrifices to spare the pack any losses. The Lady of Slaughter cared not who met their end upon the field, only that she earned her rightful blood-price in battle.
Staff Sergeant Sierra scrutinized her pride as they went about their business. To her right sat Sergeant Charlie, eyes scanning her wrist-screen, checking for deviations in the signal. Charlie was the pride’s dedicated micro-drone operator, acting as the eyes in the sky. While all of the women were capable of utilizing the quadrotor, named Horus, Charlie was by far the most gifted operator. Horus was
On Sierra’s left was Corporal Foxtrot, the squad’s designated marksman. Foxy held a rifle scope up to her eye, peering through while making a series of adjustments. Across the aisle sat Specialists Juliet, Tango, and Victor, fighting against seat restraints to tighten the straps on their battle rattle. Sierra offered a sympathetic nod at seeing the stiffness in their postures, the budding frustration in their eyes. Despite the layers of thermal clothing and ballistic plating that covered the women Sierra knew they felt naked without their weapons in their hands; procedure demanded all small arms be secured to prevent them from becoming airborne hazards during descent.
The women sat in barely restrained excitement – a trio of killers desperate to be about their work. Staff Sergeant Sierra knew her sisters on a primal level. Her enhanced senses accentuated their peculiarities, processing the scents and sounds that identified each as surely as any fingerprint or blood sample.
“The LZ is hot. I repeat, the LZ is hot,” came the voice of the insertion craft’s pilot over the comms. “We’ve got SAMs incoming.”
Sierra scowled as the craft juked to avoid the inbound missiles. She heard the pilot launching chaff to distract the radar guidance and ground her teeth together, reminded once more that the shuttle was unarmed due to payload restrictions. She hated their reliance on the man piloting the craft. Modifications aside, he was not one of them, not one of the pride. And now that the stealth approach had proved ineffectual, her sisters’ lives were in the hands of the First Lieutenant’s nerves and augmented reflexes; a situation far from ideal. A near miss on the starboard side a moment later sent a shudder through the fuselage and confirmed Sierra’s doubts.
“Staff Sergeant, we are approaching the LZ but you’ve got to unload on the double. I’ve ditched the SAMs but this area is crawling with hostiles and I want to get the hell out of Dodge,” announced the First Lieutenant.
