Every night it's always the same. I know it's happening, even in the dream I know whats about to happen. It allways begins the same each and every night.
Me and four other men are standing guard at the 500 meter point, the farthest guard post from the settlment. Alls that stands between us and the wastes are a pile of sandbags with a machine gun emplacement, our AKs, and a barrel fire. all five of us are sitting on slightly damp logs around the fire drinking a dark, black coffee (Although its more a tea made from various wasteland plants as real coffee ran out years back. Nevertheless, it still keeps us alert.)
One of the men, usually the machine gunner pulls out a small, silver flask, pours a small amount of the strong smelling, obviously homade liquor into his coffee and passes it around for each man to take. We aren't supposed to be drinking while on watch nut almost all the guards do. It makes the long, cold, dark nights night just alittle more bearable, besides, nothing ever happens save for the occasional mutatated dog that wanders nearby.
I pull out my pack of cigarettes, a strong, unfiltered pre-war indian brand. Expensive yes, but if im going to give myself cancer it may as well taste good. I squeeze the pack to pull one out, but alas the pack is empty. I ask the man next to me, the group sniper, if I can bum one.
He smiles and hands me one. I light it up and take a big drawl. Ugh, menthol. I chastize him for smoking pussy cigarettes anf tell him to grow some balls. We all have a brief laugh and then it begins.
It always starts the same, a pitch black cloud appears overhead, not in the distance but directly above us, blocking out the stars. Not a normal cloud but almost like smoke, a pitch black smoke, like off of a buring house.
Then the feeling, one of the worst parts. Imagine the fear, the horror you would feel if you were in a burning house, knowing you were about to die in the most horrible way imaginable, and the screams of your family, friends and pets in the next rooms, all meeting the same fate.
This goes on for about twenty minutes. Each man readies their rifles, Russian military AK-74 assualt rifless. Save for the group sniper who has the remington bolt action hunting rifle and the man operating the old M-60.
Then we see them. They start at about thre hundred meters, only their sillouettes are visible. Their thin, bony legs each ending in a large, three toed foot with razor sharp claws make them stand about a foot taller than the tallest man. Their arms, equally long end in four finger hands with claws longer then the fingers, drag on the ground. they're hunched over but are stareing at us. their bright orange eyes pericing the night's darkness and our very souls.
We take aim but can't bring ourselves to fire. As much as our guts are telling us to we just cant bring ourselves to squeeze the triggers and end these... things... miserable existance.
THey move closer but not by walking, a... sort of mist, almost like an energy envelops them. I can best describe it as the heat eradiating off of the blacktop on a really hot summer's day. Or more appropriatly in our time, the radiation emmiting off of some careless fool's body after entering the "red zone" for too long. (Not the Area occupied by the Red Faction, stading around there could have totally different effects to your health.) then, that same mist appears again, only about 20 or so meteres closer and they appear.
Now we can see their features from the light of the fire. Their albino white skin wrapped tightly accross their emancipated bodies, their bones fully visible. Their bright orange eyes with the black cat like pupils, their elongated heads with a ridge going up the center like a dogs intelligance bump, and the most distubing feature... their mouths. Full of perfectly triangular teeth, pure white and formed into a large, demented smile that reeks of pure malice. Grinning from ear to ear. Although I don't beleive ear is the proper term. More like large holes, with a few, thick, black hairs jutting out.
Then the smell, oh god that sickening smell. Imagine a hundred feral skunks fighting in a mass grave in the summer's heat. Most of the men quickly wrap their bandanas around their noses in a poor attempt at blocking the hellish scent.
Then, after doing whatever devilish wicthcraft they use to get closer a few more times they begin walking normally. Well, normal for them at least. Their long, bony legs take great strides, their knuckles dragging on the ground. It is only then that we feel like we can begin fireing.
The M-60 is always the first to start, we all follow within seconds. Our barrage of 5.45 and 7.62 caliber lead fill the air. If we're lucky, one goes down after only a clip. If not, it takes three or four. The rattle of our automatic fire only pausing to reload. We typicall drop five or six but the keep coming, striding along with a demented purpose.
Then they get to the sandbags, they reach out and touch the machine gunner on the head, he drops, not dead, but a burn mark on his forehead. He curls up into a ball and starts sobbing like you couldn't beleive a man was capable of. They do this with the rest of the men, im always the last.
They surround the last before me and he screams, begging for his life, his mother, an extra bullet to end it quickly,then they reach down and touch him like the others. He curls up and loses his mind like the rest. I can only watch, My mags went dry in the first five minutes, I could only watch as they butchered my friends mentally.
Then it's my turn. They quickly surround me. Even though I know I am dry I still squeeze the trigger, elicting a clicking sound. They knock the AK out of my arms like one swats a fly, then, another one appears in front of me. This one the same only it's skin is a dark, scaley black. He speaks to me, he carresses my face. I hear him say in a dark, whispery, distorted voice,
"We want peace."
Then they all touch my forehead in unison, I feel a burning sensation, my life flashes before my eyes, the deepest fear imaginable takes hold of me, then, blackness.
I always wake up screaming at the same time, my dog Kalash jumps up beside me on my bed. I check the clock
"four thiry. Same as yeasterday." I mutter. I pull out a cigarette and light it. I take a drag then I bury my face in my hands sobbing.
Like every other night. Gods make it end.