Crimson Rising

“Don’t kill the girl. We need her alive,” the sergeant whispered.

“What about the dog, Sarge? Can I keep it?”

Sergeant Steve Bishop stared in disbelief at the sniper. “Keep it? Jesus Christ, Mayer … what is it with you and animals?”

Mayer swallowed hard and turned back to his scope. This was not the right time or place to explain to the sarge his love for animals since his farm years in Kansas.

The men of Special Squad 409 of the Army Rangers hunkered down above the rim, under a heavy blanket of bushes and small trees.

The order to move out had been handed to Sergeant Steve Bishop just that morning. He and his men were to take position above the Horsetooth Reservoir, infiltrate the marina, and kidnap one Eve Halldor. She was to be shipped pronto to the underground bunker in Washington D.C. Rey and Gabriela Halldor were to be terminated.

Commander Wesley Rogers had handpicked the men of the newly formed Squad 409. It was a black ops mission that the President had not sanctioned, but that detail was only known to Bishop. As far as the men were concerned, they were doing their job and served blindly at the altar of duty to their country.

The twenty elite soldiers had been pulled from the frontlines of the on-going war against the zombies and assigned to the new mission. Hard-nosed sons of bitches, they welcomed the distraction. The men had been briefed on the action and the dangers attached to it. Reynir Halldor’s picture and a short bio had been circulated amongst them.

“This dude ain’t shit,” Mayer had proclaimed after he had first stared at Halldor’s rap sheet. He had then spat a mouthful of brown juice and grinned, his teeth loaded with bits of Smokey Rocky Chewing Tobacco.

Bishop had glared at the arrogant sniper. “This shit took out seventeen zombies with his bare hands, you stupid son of a bitch. You better get serious about it. The guy is dangerous,” he’d declared then turned to the rest of the squad standing in a circle around him. Their weapons hung loose at their sides, steel cold and menacing.

Suddenly, the air in the briefing tent had gotten heavy.

“Make no mistake, gentlemen. This dude is more than capable of taking care of business. He took down ten special ops guys a couple of months back like VD to a two-dollar whore.”

The men had smirked, delighted with Sarge’s colorful speech.

Sergeant Bishop had then gotten into Mayer’s face, inches from the sniper’s nose. “And if you think, even for a second, he’s shit, you better think again, you dumb fuck,” he spat.

He had turned and stared at each man standing in the briefing tent, just outside the helicopter pad. Satisfied that he had gotten through to them, he had twirled his finger in a circle and roared, “Let’s do this!”

Squad 409 had rushed to the transporter and, within minutes, the loaded helicopter had taken off toward Fort Collins, Colorado.

Several hours later, the men had taken position in the forest above the Horsetooth Reservoir Marina, camouflaged expertly in the brush. The elevated vantage point allowed them to monitor movement below, particularly on the flickering lights of a boat down at the end of the pier.

The darkness and the tree canopy helped hide their presence and, for the past hour, not much had happened. Crowned with the red and orange of the September leaves, the surrounding mountains rose through the mist, pointing shadowy fingers high in the sky. Charcoal bloated clouds blurred the grey sky and before a curtain of rain drizzled down, making the slopes a muddy mess. Used to worse, the men endured and stayed sharp.

Down below, the rain had kept the Halldors and their companions inside the staterooms of the Aquila 36 boat. That had also thrown a monkey wrench into the squad’s plans—the snipers were to take out the targets in advance, but now they had to approach on foot.

Bishop unwrapped one of his protein bars and bit into it. “You see anything?”

“Didley squat, Sarge. This fucking rain …” Mayer trailed off without taking his eye off the scope attached to a high-power rifle. “I see shadows behind the curtains on that boat, but …”

“Yeah, no. We can’t take any chances. We’ll wait until they go to sleep.”

“Roger that, Sarge,” Mayer muttered then shoved another load of chewing tobacco in his mouth.

Unbeknownst to the squad, several hundred feet behind them, a pack of vampires, wrapped in crimson garb, waited for the attack signal. They’d been watching the group ever since they had landed in the valley two clicks behind Horsetooth Ridge. Their mistress, Gabi Halldor, had left her two hundred strong vampire army sprinkled around the woods.

Without her order, the vampire pack refrained from taking any action. They watched and observed. Silvia, the leader of the group, had been sending mental reports to her telepathic mistress every hour, but so far, Gabi had not given them any further instructions. Wait and observe had been her last order. So, they waited and watched the human watchers watching their human targets.

The rain had stopped, and forest critters buzzed back to life, proclaiming their presence with soft screeches, squeaks, and scratches. Above the trees, the moon hung on the night sky with a pale, round face. The air, showered by the quick rain, smelled of pine and wet bark.

Way past midnight, with lights on the boat still on, Bishop got tired of waiting and turned to Mayer. “Get your stuff and let’s go take a look-see.”

Mayer grabbed his rifle, patted his Desert Eagle strapped to his thigh, and nodded. Ready.

Bishop hushed orders to the others to stay put and radio in if anything suspicious happened. Then, the two soldiers hauled ass down the slope and toward the marina. Once on flat ground, they approached the boat and crouched down, brushing against the wood planks of the pier. With only ten, twelve yards to go, hell erupted up on the ridge. The sound of rapid gunfire and spine-chilling screams spiked the air and echoed down into the marina.

Alarmed, the boat occupants spilled out from below the deck and onto the pier. They looked up and saw the ridge illuminated by grenade flashes and more gunfire, painted with orange and red, outlining the dark silhouettes of the flanking mountain peaks. Screams and shrieks knifed through the night.

With nowhere to turn, Bishop and Mayer hit the wooden planks. Then, seeing the others approaching on the pier, the two lowered themselves into the water and treaded closer to the boat.

Above them, Reynir Halldor, the giant ex-special forces of the Icelandic Anti-Terrorist Force, leaped over the lip of the boat and landed on the pier. Below, Bishop and Mayer peered through cracks in the wooden planks at Rey’s impressive physique. His steps shook the pier as if an Abrams tank had rolled over. Finally, Mayer understood why Sarge thought the guy was dangerous. At seven-foot-two and over three hundred pounds of solid muscle, the man moved with the agility of a large predatory cat and looked deadly as hell.

Behind Rey, the two immersed soldiers heard a softer step, one that glided and moved with the fluidity of an eel. Then a male voice came from the boat.

“What’s going on, Rey?”

“Stay back there with the girls, Jenkins. We got this,” Rey said, walking to his Volvo truck parked at the end of the pier.

On the ridge, the sudden gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Minutes before, Gabi had sensed two warm bodies approaching the boat and had sent her tentacle thoughts to Silvia and the vampire pack positioned above the intruders. Once the order had been received, five vampires approached the squad with catlike movements and attacked. Caught by surprise, a few soldiers had just enough time to spin around and face the tall, thin silhouettes dressed in red garb.

In the pale moonlight, the men had seen the attackers had their mouths and eyes uncovered, and both were terrifying. Large eyes, with irises swallowed by dark pupils, were menacing with a savage hunger to them. The mouths had sharp canines, designed to pierce and suck the life out of blood-pulsating veins.