There was a rhythm to everything. Life. Death. The thunder of blood in a man’s veins. The pounding pulse beats of his heart. The hammer strokes of his footfalls on stone and dirt. The bellows blasts of gathered breath in chilly morning air.
It was music. Loud, cacophonous, raucous, dissonant, deadly music. The crashing of combat boots tearing through brush and spent breath struggling to catch up echoed through the wood, blending with the stronger, regular lilt of padded paws on dead leaves and ancient roots. The festering admixture of sound filtered through the forest undergrowth, finally erupting in a fulminating burst of fire and metal.
POP. POP. POP.
An spate of metallic staccato notes echoed through the woods, borne on the wisps of gunsmoke mixed with the pungent smell of freshly-burned propellant. The sickly sound of wood splintered by hot metal quickly followed, framed in the panicked twittering and cawing and chittering of frightened fowl and fauna.
CLICK. CLICK. CLACK. THUD.
Specialist Noah Ingram cursed himself for his misstep in mid-reload, throwing up his forearms to shield his face as he crashed to the ground, rolling over painfully knobby roots and jagged rock broken by the growth of the forest around them. Groaning in pain, Ingram scrambled back onto his feet, one hand wrapped around the grip of his still-smoking M9 sidearm and the other pushing himself up from the ground.
His chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, his lungs burning for lack of air and every muscle of his body aching from propelling him over rough terrain at a dead sprint in full combat gear. His army combat uniform was dirty and torn, its left sleeve violently shredded, leaving only frayed digital-dyed ribbons stained in blood that still oozed from a ragged wound on his bicep. His IOTV armor vest was was likewise covered in dirt and detritus from the forest floor, leaves and small twigs caught between magazine pouches and in the straps of free MOLLE webbing.
Finally back on his feet, Ingram continued to run as best as he could, pushing himself in spite of the fatigue and injury. Continuing to curse between his gasps for breath, Ingram undid the strap on his helmet with his free hand, noting that the formed kevlar was cracked and useless as protection now. The trees thinned out, opening into a forest glade as Ingram ran.
Ingram tossed the helmet aside, stumbling wearily into the clearing ahead. The soldier whipped around, raising his handgun into firing position as a low growl from the treeline pierced the ambient noises of the wood. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to remain focused in spite of the ever-present terror that gripped his mind and wormed its way through his gut. His shooting arm trembled, but the muzzle of his M9 remained pointed at the treeline. The glade suddenly went quiet, an eerie silence broken only by the steady thump of massive footfalls. Ingram’s heart pounded in his chest in time with the footsteps as his adversary approached.
THUMP. THUMP. Out of shadow Ingram’s pursuer slowly emerged. Traces of gold fur and ruddy red hair flashed through the striated shadows of myriad trees.
THUMP. THUMP. The footfalls were louder now, seeming to echo through the glade as the creature approached.
THUMP. THUMP. SWISH. Ingram twitched as the new sound was added to the rhythm of the creature’s steps.
THUMP. THUMP. SWISH. Finally, the creature stepped into the glade, emerging from the shadow of the forest with predatory confidence in its step and blood thirst in its eyes.
Its fur was a dull goldenrod, not dissimilar from that of an African lion. Its mane was a fine, ruddy red that flowed and shifted in the light, seemingly in constant motion. Its form was also feline; four paws, each tipped with padded feet and blade-like claws, its mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth, its nose surrounded by twitching whiskers, its eyes alive and alert; another apex predator hunting its prey.
But the similarities ended there. The creature was huge, standing twice as tall as Noah’s f’8” frame and sporting biological hardware that could tear him limb from limb in moments. Instead of a tail a wicked, terrible appendage grew from its hindquarters, armored in chitinous plating that glistening a glossy black, tipped with a jagged harpoon point of a stinger. From its shoulders sprouted leathery wings, large enough to propel the beast into the air. It was a creature of legend, a figment of myth... a Manticore.
The beast eyed Ingram with cold indifference, a low growl issuing from its throat as it strode closer. Ingram was another piece of meat, a prey creature to be taken like game. Its steps toward him were slow, relaxed, almost leisurely. The human had been particularly vexing to catch, but he was now far too tired and injured to put up a determined fight. It would be an easy kill.
“Stay back!” Ingram shouted at the creature, the sight picture of his M9 shaking but still zeroed firmly on the approaching beast. He would feel much more confident if he had his M16 in hand, but the rifle was nowhere to be seen. Thus, Ingram was left only with his sidearm and his wits.
The manticore snorted, seemingly out of contempt, before looking him dead in the eye. It threw its head back and roared, its voice appearing to shake the very foundations of the earth. The adrenaline surging through his veins again, Noah braced his weapon and staggered his stance, preparing for the coming onslaught.
The manticore charged, its wings pumping in rhythm with its legs, closing at prodigious speed. Noah stood his ground, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited until the last possible moment. The soldier dove left, using his body armor to absorb the shock of landing as the manticore sailed by, its inertia preventing it from rapidly turning to catch him. Keeping his sights trained on the manticore as it moved, Ingram hammered the trigger, sending round after round at it.
The M9 spoke, the stilted staccato of 9mm rounds piercing the still air of the glade. Finally, one of the rounds hit home, sending up a small puff of blood and a loud, angry roar from the manticore. The slide locked back, forcing Ingram to stop. Hammering the controls, Ingram dropped his spent magazine and immediately drew a fresh one from a pouch on his IOTV.
“Last mag,” he whispered as he clicked the slide release.
The manticore came at him again. Ingram snapped off a quick double tap, blasting away as the lion-beast closed the gap. Again at the last possible second, Ingram leaped out of the way. Unfortunately, the manticore anticipated his move, shifting its gait to bowl him over with a muscled paw.
The impact knocked the wind out of Ingram, his bare head aching, his ears ringing, and his vision swimming as he struck the ground. The manticore skidded to a halt, slinking back around before pinning Ingram to the ground with a massive paw. Ingram struggled against the weight, trying desperately to reach his M9 which had fallen just out of reach.
The lion-beast looked to the sky and roared again as it claimed its prey. While it was distracted, Ingram snagged the lanyard of his handgun with a finger, pulling it back towards him. As the Manticore finished its roar of triumph, Ingram grabbed hold of the grip on his handgun and pressed the still warm metal against the Manticore’s paw. The Manticore looked down just in time for Ingram to squeeze the trigger, sending a 9mm full metal jacket round slicing through the feline’s flesh like a surgeon’s scalpel.
The elephant-sized cat-beast howled in pain, pulling its crippled paw back instinctively, giving Ingram an opportunity to roll out of the way. As he cleared the beast’s shadow the paw came crashing down again, seemingly in complete ignorance of the fact that it had just been pierced by a bullet.
“What’s it take to stop that thing?” Ingram snarled as he scrambled back onto his feet, backing up as he kept his weapon leveled at its head. Securing his grip again, Ingram fired... only to have the hammer click on nothing. “Jammed? WHY NOW?”
To his chagrin, a quick tap and rack revealed that the dud round had been the last in his magazine, meaning he was effectively without a means to defend himself. The Manticore had regained its composure and was now advancing towards him once again. Ingram holstered the empty weapon and, in a last act of defiance, drew his combat knife.
The manticore paused for a moment, seemingly in contemplation of Ingram’s actions. For a split second, Ingram thought that it may have decided to break off its attack. The impression was shattered as the Manticore quickly resumed its course, charging forward at breakneck speed. Ingram scrambled to get out of the way, but found himself woefully slow to react.
CRACK.
Ingram went airborne, flying backwards as he felt the front armor plate in his IOTV shatter, smashed to pieces by the impossibly fast impact of the Manticore’s lashing tail. The soldier’s breath exploded out of his lungs as he hit the ground several yards away. His knife spun wildly through the air, escaping his loosened grip, and came to rest blade down in the dirt far out of reach. Though the armor was now useless, the combination of ballistic plate and kevlar padding did its job of dispersing the ferocity of the impact, turning what was certainly a lethal blow into something akin to a gut punch.
In spite of this, Ingram was in the worst pain he’d ever felt in his life. His breaths came labored, every muscle in his body aching from running, fighting, and taking hits from the manticore that no man had any right to survive. He was still bleeding from his left arm from the previous skirmish with the cat-beast. He was exhausted. Worst of all, he had no weapon that could possibly hurt his hunter.
The growl of the manticore filled his ears as it approached. Noah tried one last time to pull himself away as the manticore closed in, but he could feel his strength leaving him. He scuttled backwards one last time.
One foot. Two feet. Three feet.
Ingram’s head hit the ground, his eyes gazing straight up at the startlingly blue sky. White cotton-ball clouds. Shining golden sun. Noah reached up with his uninjured arm. He could almost feel the soft fluffy texture of them on his fingertips. This was it. He was done. What a way to die. Ingram closed his eyes and let his arm fall back down, sprawled to the side... where the back of his hand came to rest on cold metal.
Cold metal. Noah’s eyes snapped open. His head jerked to the side as he realized his right hand rested on the railed handguard of his M16. Noah grasped the rifle, pulling his weapon close. The cold metal in his hands renewed his vigor, giving him strength once again.
Ingram had no idea if his weapon still worked, but there was not enough time for a full function check. He opted for immediate action. The soldier pulled himself into a sitting position and charged his weapon. Ingram went through the motions rapidly, letting muscle memory and training take over for conscious thought. Ingram shouldered the rifle, bringing its close combat optic to eye level and leveling its projected red dot on the Manticore’s head. The beast charged, barreling headlong towards him.
There was a rhythm to everything. Life. Death. The thunder of blood in a man’s veins. The pounding pulse beats of his heart. The strokes of a rifleman’s finger against the trigger of his weapon. Ingram counted the trigger’s stages as he squeezed, each tick of the trigger pack chambering and firing another round of steel-cored, high-velocity, armor-piercing ammunition.
One. Two. Three. One, two, three. One two three. Onetwothree. *Onetwothreeonetwothree***. Faster and faster Ingram fired, starting as a measured burst, but escalating into a full on hammer drill. Quick, successive trigger pulls sent round after round flying downrange, the black rifle’s muzzle blast and the jarring whip-crack of supersonic bullets echoing through the wood.
The bolt of Ingram’s rifle locked open, signaling that his magazine was spent. By now the manticore was bearing down on him, seemingly unfazed by the showy burst of fire and smoke. There was no time to reload. Ingram braced himself, preparing for the worst. But just as it seemed the Manticore would surely run him down, the beast violently yawed to one side, stumbling over its paws until it came crashing to the ground just a few feet away.
A bubbling, gurgling sound issued from its mouth as the once-great beast twitched helplessly on the ground, slowly drowning in its own vital fluids. Streams of red oozed from barely visible bullet wounds in its face and chest where armor-piercing rounds had struck home. Any semblance of predatory supremacy it once possessed had been thoroughly erased by an angry volley of lead. The beast rasped a few ragged breaths, struggling against the inevitable, each one softer and shallower than the last.
Finally, the manticore fell silent.
Ingram sat in the middle of the glade, still-smoking rifle in his hands, uniform and armor covered in dirt and splattered in blood both from his own wounds and those of the manticore. His pulse pounded in his head, loud as hammer blows and just as painful. His breaths came in jagged heaves as he forced himself to his feet, stumbling a few yards to recover his knife before staggering across the field to the far treeline.
A large cluster of rocks near a small brook offered shelter and water, two things that Ingram was in desperate need of. Finally clambering into the shadow of a slanted slab of granite, Ingram collapsed, choking for breath. Propping both himself and his rifle up against the rock, he undid the velcro flap on the front of his IOTV, yanking the emergency release cord to disengage his armor.
The kevlar and cordura panels loosened and fell away, leaving only the synthetic base layer of his army combat shirt, its exposure bringing refreshing coolness in the absence of the vest. Ingram then began the slow process of triaging and bandaging his own wounds. As he did, the thoughts that had been suppressed by combat and survival instinct began to resurface.
He shouldn’t have been here. The lush greenery and endless swaths of deciduous trees were a far cry from the rocky plains and mountain hideaways of 1/17 Stryker’s area of operations. The weather was also all wrong. It should have been 100 degrees this time of year. He distinctly remembered the hellish conditions of the previous day’s patrol. Instead, it was a perfectly reasonable 70-something Fahrenheit.
There were indeed mountains, but they were the wrong color. The local afghan mountains were grey and tan, covered with sparse shrubbery and broken glacial moraine. The mountains in the distance here were purplish, shrouded in heavy mist. Far, far away, a lone rocky summit the color of obsidian pierced the sky, towering above the surrounding range. Below it, just north of Ingram’s position on the hilltop glade, rolling wheat fields and what appeared to be fruit orchards stretched into the distance.
Finally, to the east, a flash of white drew Ingram’s eyes to the sheer slopes of the mountains. Distant spires of alabaster and gold were highly visible even in the distance, rising out of a plateau carved out of the rock itself. Wherever this was, it was NOT Afghanistan.
Ingram winced as he finished tying off the bandage with his teeth, feeling the gauze digging into the wound, but knowing that it would be far better than having an infection to deal with later. Though he really didn’t want to think about it, the most important problem still lay before him. The soldier looked back toward the hulking corpse of the slain manticore. Manticores were creatures of legend, myth, FICTION. The manticore was a marker of something far more dire than a few clawmarks on his body. Wherever he was, it was NOT Earth.
“This can’t be real,” he muttered.
As if on cue, the wound throbbed again, wracking his arm in pain, a not so subtle reminder that his experience was all too real. Ingram sighed. He didn’t know what was going on, but he was going to find out. Somehow, he was going to survive this world. Somehow, he was going to make it home.
