The Eight

By Stan Murray

First time author, Stan Murray weaves a tale of science fiction where a bloody war of vengeful genocide is coming to our little galaxy, whether we like it or not. Unbeknownst to everyone, the aliens entering the Milky Way are a race of Homo sapiens, with women as the undisputed dominate gender of this race. These females have been betrayed and nearly wiped out as a species. Now they are here and have a plan to take back their home stars. Could these ladies from far off Andromeda be humanities mother race? Could our branch of humanity be what the ladies need to replenish their population? Who knows, it's a big universe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Yorkshire Publishing
• Release date: Nov 21, 2023
• ISBN: 9781960810502

Stan Murray

Stan Murray retired to the tall shady woods surrounding a quiet secluded lake. He lives on the ancestral homeland of his father's people, passed down since the 1840's after the Trail Of Tears. Murray was the Director of Special Education at a private school in Mexico, and spent 20 years working on the Texas Mexico border, accompanied by his wife and family. Murray is a big fan of, you guessed it, science fiction and alien abduction. This is his first book.

Book preview

Acknowledgement

Because of my wife’s patience and tireless commitment to this project, it got done. She turned it from a pipe dream into a reality. Thank you for the long hours of tedious reading and editing. You could have been doing something else much more interesting and less wearisome. Thanks for helping me through the process. Without your help this book wouldn’t have happened.

Dedication

Thank you Dad for giving me my first science fiction novel and thank you Mom for teaching me to finish what I start.

Prologue

James Stanislau Simonovski is a Polish national. He holds doctoral degrees from Caltech, Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), and the University at California, Berkeley. His PhD’s are in mathematics, computer science, and quantum physics. His hobbies are astronomy and tennis.

Dr. Simonovski is of average height, just under six feet. His sandy red hair is thinning, and a large red mustache covers his upper lip. His eyes are a mixture of hazel and green. They reflect the quick wit and above average intelligence the good doctor is known for throughout the world of academia.

Nicknamed Stoshi as a young child. He was born with incredible power in his hands. Those hands are naturally big. His ring finger is a size fourteen. As a young boy, Stoshi could crush fresh apples with either hand.

Stoshi was a great wrestler. His wrestling skills earned him his first go at a university with a full scholarship. Dr. Simonovski’s win/loss record was impressive. Stosh trained hard to defeat the East Germans and the U.S.S.R. The young Pole fought his best matches against those rivals. Stosh could have easily made the 1976 Olympic wrestling team for the United States. However, by that time the young man was far too engrossed in the worlds of mathematics and quantum physics.

As a young boy, Stosh hung onto every cold grim word used by his grandfather to tell the history of Poland’s butchered past. The first stories centered on the Partitions of Poland.

During those times, Poles in Russia and Germany weren’t allowed to speak, read, or write their native Polish. The grandfather’s stories of the Second World War only made the young Polish boy’s heart harden like tempered steel. Especially when Stoshi learned the Germans invaded Poland with their modern mechanized army. The Poles fought bravely against the Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe. However, the Polish Army, being equipped with antiquated weapons, was horribly defeated.

His grandfather told the small child about concentration camps the Germans built on Polish soil. He spoke of the horrible tragedies played out in those dastardly bastions of wholesale slaughter.

Stoshi’s grandfather never missed an opportunity to fill the young boy’s ears with stories about the Warsaw Uprising and its bloody end. A battle in which Stoshi’s grandfather took part. The fighting was merciless, house to house, close quarters combat with the Poles waiting for help. While the Russians sat on their asses and watched the Germans finally subdue the freedom fighters. The stories Stoshi’s grandfather repeatedly told burned into the young Pole a fierce hatred for these countries. Stoshi never knew his grandmother nor his mother’s parents. They died during the Warsaw Uprising.

When Stoshi was eight years old. His father and mother along with his grandfather escaped to the United States of America. The United States was a country where the young Polish prodigy could grow up to seek an education free from the political doctrine of the hated Soviet Union. Stoshi’s mother and father were scientists who worked on top secret military projects. Stoshi’s grandfather was a linguist, speaking, reading, and writing nine different languages. Little Stoshi grew up in an environment of hard work and study. Later, Stoshi discovered his family’s migration to the United States was an operation of American espionage.

There were other moments in Stoshi’s life that also shaped his mind set. No one ever knew of the bright light that came for the Polish scientist during his childhood nights. Stoshi never remembered fully those images that sometimes would take the form of disjointed dreams and horrifying visions. The young boy knew he couldn’t tell anyone about his abductors.

Prior to his abduction, Stoshi delivered a cutting edge lecture on the future application of nanotechnology with computer hardware.

The evening is dark and cold for a New England winter night. The hour is late, the streets are devoid of traffic. Stoshi’s home is located near the outskirts of MIT.

Stoshi feels the premonition once again. He thinks, almost saying aloud… It’s been years, now suddenly again. That old feeling of someone watching him from afar crawls up the young Polish scientist’s spine.

The police find Stoshi’s car and nothing more, another missing person destined to become a cold case file assigned to a beleaguered detective’s overloaded shoulders.

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The man from the Far East is a naturalized Canadian citizen. Wen Ho Ping is the alias this man goes by in his newly adopted country. Wen, as he prefers to be addressed. Is a professor at a small, nondescript university in Ontario teaching evening classes. He is an instructor of Confucianism and conversational Chinese (the Mandarin dialect) and also instructs self-defense. As a hobby, he hangs out in the linguistics department of the university.

Wen is just over six feet tall. He weighs a little over a hundred and ninety pounds of nothing but hard rock muscle. Wen moves with the practiced ease of a well-trained fighter.

His past has more than one area of murky darkness attached to it. His eyes reflect a quiet confidence. The confidence one earns through years of life and death experiences.

Wen is a product of China’s political paranoia that sprang out of the early fifties. The man from the Far East never knew his parents. Wen is an orphan, raised under the watchful eye of the Chinese Secret Service. From an early age, they taught Wen how to kill and survive in any situation. Wen becomes a master of wushu. He is an expert using small arms, demolitions, and ancient poisoning techniques a thousand years old.

Wen is taught how to become a forgotten face in the crowd. He is schooled by the best of China’s spymasters. As a young boy, he was recognized as a prodigy, quickly mastering everything he was exposed to. Wen is one of those shadowy faces of death. A master assassin, an expert in espionage.

However, after years of intrigue and bloody murder, Wen decides he has had enough. The man from the People’s Republic uses his hard earned experience operating under deep cover to forge documents, thereby reinventing himself. His skill set makes it easy for him to take that long step off the reservation, forever changing his life. Wen doesn’t defect to any government or seek political asylum. He simply disappears into the faceless masses of the world’s humanity. But, the People’s Republic isn’t without resources. On more than one occasion, Wen turns up on their radar. Hunter killers are sent to murder the traitor with extreme prejudice. They are master hunters, hunting a master. These men and women are careful assassins; each one an expert in the arts of ambush and stalking.

However, Wen always knows of their arrival. He can even identify the murderers as they close in on him; he can sense their intent. He always seems to spot the death squads first and eliminate the danger.

Wen is blessed with a sixth sense. He can feel when danger is near. Wen knows if an assassin is waiting behind a door. He can sense if his food or drink is poisoned. His instincts are so good that some say Wen has extra sensory perception. He can’t see lottery numbers, but he can sense impending danger and imminent death.

Wen feels the others approaching, the followers of the light. Those faceless monsters who took the little orphan boy whenever it pleased them. Then bringing Wen back to his bed, with no one the wiser. The followers of the light are the only ghosts the man from China truly fears.

Wen’s face only allows a person to see the calm outer surface and nothing of the pain his soul has endured. Wen learned early in life dragons have sharp teeth and really breathe deadly fire. His scars are a private reminder of the lessons learned at the expense of his body and soul.

Wen knows he can never have a family. His lifestyle is much too dangerous for a wife and children to endure. Sometimes the man from China speculates. How his life might have been. If he wasn’t… who he really is.

Wen is a loner. A man with an average face. A man who has reasons to be alone. He feels his life is incomplete. However, the existence he leads is better than the life he had. Wen knows he is still young. Maybe one day his circumstances might change. There is always hope to comfort him in his lonely hour.

How Wen got to Canada is a mystery. Wen’s passport, doctorate degrees, and references are forgeries. Wen used his many connections to the underworld and honest citizenry to develop a perfect persona of a mediocre life… the quiet professor. Every detail of his reinvention has been meticulously covered. References and degrees can be verified without a question of deceit. He has become one of the ubiquitous faces of the world.

Wen is also a student of art. His tastes run from French Impressionism to Maxfield Parrish, and even Gang Tags, spray-painted on city buildings and walls.

Wen is a natural survivor. He is able to adapt to any situation. He has made a comfortable home in a country completely different from his ancestral homeland of China. Wen speaks several dialects of Chinese, American English, the Queen’s English, as well as three other oriental languages and French.

The night is cold and crisp. Wen is awake waiting for the ones who follow the light. He is enjoying a cup of hot Oolong tea, thinking someday even the fearful followers of the light must leave him in peace.

A strange event takes place one evening at the university. Wen never shows up to teach his evening classes. No one hears from Wen again. The authorities find an empty cottage with nothing amiss… except Wen’s whereabouts. Some speculate the long reach of The People’s Republic finally found their man. Others think Wen has departed before the fact. Either way, the police have another missing person’s case on their hands.

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Rashid Mehedi Saleh Tariben Sheikh has a reputation as one of the cleverest Sheikhs of all the wandering Bedouins of the Sinai region. His exploits are common knowledge to the rest of the far-flung Bedouin peoples. Rashid has lived through regional wars, changing politics and government policies. He is a devout Sunni Muslim who believes in the word of the Quran.

As a young boy, Rashid was educated in England. He attended several elite boarding schools. He went on to Oxford University. Oxford is where Rashid earned a graduate degree in business administration and finance. As a boy, Rashid was immersed in martial arts. He was tutored in the use of edged weapons and small arms. It is this educational background that helped focus the young man’s view of the world.

Rashid has led his tribe (a number of kindred clans form a tribe in Bedouin society) to the Nuweiba. He is a visionary and believes that the oasis of Nuweiba (Nuweiba means bubbling spring in Arabic) will be the future home of his people.

Rashid went before the tribal council and explained his vision of the future. The men of the tribal council agree with Rashid. Tourism is to be the new lifeblood of this Bedouin tribe. They want to build better lives for themselves and their children at the oasis. They shall sell their handwoven rugs and finely crafted jewelry, as well as use their extensive knowledge of the desert as expert tour guides.

Rashid is going to make a city for his wandering tribe. A place where Bedouin hospitality shines like the early morning desert sun of the Eastern Sinai, cool and breezy.

Rashid has mixed emotions about giving up his wandering lifestyle an existence his people have known for untold generations. However, Rashid desires desperately for his tribe to have a stable home, rich in peace and prosperity for the coming future. Rashid wants his sons and daughters to have an easier life. He wants the clans to have the benefits of a secure home and economy.

Rashid’s people live without the black gold spewing from the belly of the desert. His tribe must find their own way to fortune. The twentieth century is a dangerous and unforgiving place to make a living. Especially if you are a poor, wandering Bedouin.

Rashid stands over six feet two inches. He has lost little of his animal vitality at forty-one, and none of the strength that has helped him stay alive through many life and death situations. His body is corded muscle with little or no fat to spare. What really gives Rashid his edge are his lightning quick reflexes. The man from the Middle East is like a steel spring under tension.

However, even the proud desert lion can fall, so say the sons of Rashid Mehedi Saleh Tariben Sheikh, after their father disappears one dark moonless evening.

Most of his tribe thinks Rashid’s fate lies with some unknown group of desert rivals bent on settling old scores. Rashid’s kinsmen were found unconscious, not knowing how they were subdued. The caravan of lorries Rashid was traveling in are burned-out hulks littering the desert road. Rashid’s body is never found.

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Luis Adolfo Gomez De Vega is a quiet man of letters. Who, if left to his own devices, prefers to spend his time in the field researching his adopted family of rainforest Indians. These indigenous people dwell deep in the uncharted regions of the Amazon. Luis has never revealed the tribal name of his blood brothers and sisters to the outside world. Luis fears modern contamination and the exploitation of the tribe’s mineral rich territory.

Luis is a walking paradox. He is quiet and reserved. The Argentinean possesses a quick wit and a keen sense of humor. His body is easily capable of handling the stresses of life in the wilds of the Amazonian rainforest. Luis can endure the hardship his chosen people call everyday life without the slightest complaint. Where few civilized men can even survive, Luis thrives.

Luis is just over six feet tall. His body has the conditioning of a world-class athlete. The man’s muscles are steel springs of endless endurance coupled with raw animal strength. The jungle explorer’s skin is burned brown by the equatorial sun. Luis’s dark brown eyes are always hinting at a smile.

Whether this man walks in the deep jungle or a crowded city street, Luis moves effortlessly, like a silent prowling jaguar. His movements are unconsciously fluid and graceful with no wasted motion.

Luis’s place of birth is the great city of Buenos Aires. Luis is by profession a cultural anthropologist. His books on the rainforest tribes of the central and the lower Amazon regions are benchmarks for those particular studies. No one is sure if Luis is missing, or on one of his extended sabbaticals in the Amazon. They say the Amazon is at best dangerous and at worst deadly in a thousand different ways.

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Evelyn Chamicka Knotts is a classic story of hard work and determination. She was born in an upper class neighborhood of Houston, Texas. Her father was a janitor until he worked his way through Rice University and then started his career as a structural engineer.

Chamicka’s mother cleaned houses until she started her career as an elementary school teacher. Both of Chamicka’s parents fought poverty and racism tooth and nail to reach their dreams.

Chamicka’s father is a Korean War Veteran decorated with two Purple Hearts and a Silver Star. He was a member of the all-African American Second Airborne Ranger Infantry Company, also known as the Buffalo Rangers. Chamicka’s father won his Silver Star and one of his Purple Hearts at the Battle of the Soyang River after capturing and holding Hill 581. To this day, Chamicka has never heard her father mention any events of the war he fought so gallantly in to serve his country.

Chamicka’s mother is a hard driven woman never willing to settle for anything less than the best. Chamicka’s mother’s unwavering faith in God has always been her salvation.

Because of Chamicka’s parents, it’s no surprise she developed a large dose of character and drive. Chamicka knew her life’s calling at an early age. She was an exceedingly brilliant student.

Her added gift for seeing the future was at times a little scary for her parents. Starting sometime after her seventh birthday, Chamicka began to have visions. These visions were mostly about the future. Some of these visions were light hearted and helpful, while others were dark horrible glimpses of bloody murder and mayhem. Chamicka’s visions became so mystifyingly accurate in her late teens. Several times, the police used her second sight to guide them in the apprehension of more than one dangerous criminal.

Chamicka’s drive and determination pushed her through Harvard Medical School at a record setting pace. Chamicka’s iron will was a gift from her mother. Chamicka’s tall, graceful brick house body was a gift from her father.

Chamicka was not only a genius student, but she was also a gifted athlete riding a full scholarship as an undergrad on the Harvard Ladies Volleyball Team.

After her residency, Chamicka joined the Peace Corps. She spent three years in Kenya. The young doctor was part of a medical team of missionary volunteers. She gave medical aid to the Kikuyu tribe deep in the Kenyan scrub country. The young doctor thrived in a wilderness far removed from the city. She could hear the lions and hyenas fight each other during the night.

After successfully ending her stint in the Peace Corps, and before Chamicka starts her medical practice, she decides to take a vacation to the Caribbean.

The night is hot and humid, even though the hotel’s air conditioner is running at a very cool seventy-three degrees. Chamicka opens her eyes, she is totally awake. She has seen them coming… in her mind’s eye.

Chamicka moves with the grace of a big hunting cat as she rolls off the bed. The young doctor dresses for a late night stroll. She has seen a glimpse of the future. Chamicka knows somewhere on that deserted beach they are waiting for her. As far back as she can remember these creatures have taken her. However, Chamicka smiles to herself as she leaves the hotel. The young doctor knows there will be no more secret abductions.

Chamicka never returns from her late night walk on the beach. The authorities find no clues in the search for her missing body. Some say it’s the riptide, some say it’s a tragedy. Chamicka’s body never washes up on shore.

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Eric Adalwolf Hartman was born in Hamburg, Germany, to middle class parents. As a small child, Eric was recognized as a prodigy. The young boy was talking at one year old and reading by his third birthday. Eric grew up fast, intellectually. By the time, most children were finishing middle school, Eric had his first doctoral degree in mathematics from the Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms University Bonn. While still in his teens, Eric specialized in and has PhDs in electrical engineering, theoretical physics, and a graduate degree in software engineering. Eric is a man given to pursuing knowledge for the sake of intellectual fulfillment. Eric speaks, reads, and writes four different languages, in addition to his native German. He has mastered English, Spanish, French, and Italian.

With these many attributes, Eric is in high demand throughout the European continent. He has his own company specializing in cutting edge electronic design and troubleshooting. As a freelance specialist, Eric has made millions. This money enables him to take care of his parents for the rest of their lives

Eric’s good fortune in business has allowed him to semi-retire at the young age of twenty-nine. This status has made it possible for Eric to follow his one overwhelming obsession mountain climbing. Eric is in the physical condition most professional athletes would secretly admire. The man from Germany is well over six feet three inches tall with broad shoulders and narrow hips. He can carry his own weight and the weight of his mountain climbing gear for hours on end.

Eric is an accomplished mountaineer. He has scaled several noted peaks, including the north face of the Iger, Mount Makalu, and Mont Blanc.

Eric is a loner. Although not aloof, he has never mastered the art of small talk or chatting it up with the ladies. The man from Germany has had girlfriends. However, nothing serious has ever evolved from any of these relationships. At twenty-nine, Eric has been dumped more than once, and a couple of times the landing was really hard. He has been experiencing a real desert dry spell.

Eric stands on the balcony of his penthouse overlooking the city of Munich. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself at the summit of Piz Bernina, one of the highest peaks of the eastern Alps. The mountain itself straddles the border between Switzerland and Italy. However, the summit of the mountain is completely within the Swiss border.

Eric smiles sadly, saying aloud to the empty silent space of his penthouse, Switzerland is cold this time of year.

The late evening gives way to the cold, crisp darkness of the night. Eric is aware of the foolish risks involved in climbing the mountain solo. But there is a knowing in his heart that says they are waiting for him. The man from Germany has been aware of the light keepers his entire life.

These white shadows have been taking him as long as he can remember, but never physically hurting him. The environment is total emersion into the painless abyss of the light.

The authorities report Eric missing somewhere on Mont Piz Bernina. Once again, there is no body. Some speculate an avalanche and upwards of fifty feet of snow. Some think it was bad luck.

Chapter 1

There are no words which can convey the helpless anger tormenting Princess Saerrasa’s emotional state. Her mother, Queen Kora, has chosen Shar-eu (Sisterhood word for fight to the death). Queen Kora’s voice has the heart of a loving mother as she says, "Saerrasa, there is no other alternative for me. I shall die here defending our birth place.

You must flee with our young Sisters to the unknown stars. It is now your duty to save our people. The time is short. Kustas Braca is on the move. I fear he will be upon us before we have made ready for your journey."

Saerrasa begins to speak. But, with a silencing finger, Queen Kora tells her daughter, "Hold your voice, Saerrasa. I cannot know where you and our Sisters make landfall; there is too much at stake.

Go now, get yourself ready, for we shall have to fight to make good your escape."

Kneeling before her mother with her head bowed as a last show of undying respect, Saerrasa replies in a voice of controlled passion. "Mother, I shall find a safe haven for our people to grow and repopulate.

When we are strong, the vengeance of the Sisterhood will be without mercy. I personally swear before you that my Comar-ra (Sisterhood word for blood quest) will end with First Warrior Kustas Braca’s outer mandible in my hands."

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The salty metallic taste of blood fills her mouth as Sub Chief Lighting Thunder engages her ship’s communication network. Her voice is heated with passion as she says to her crew, "Our shields are done for. The hull is cracked, and our weapons destroyed. We have no folding space drive. Our chance for escape to the uncharted region is gone. The real space engines are functioning.

My last orders are make best ramming speed for the nearest enemy dreadnought and engage the self-destruct protocol.

As your commander, I have only the highest level of pride and honor for the Sisters serving with me. May the Great Mother give honor to our souls?"

With that said, Sub Chief Lighting Thunder whispers one last prayer for her daughter and granddaughter on board Kurter1.

The situation is untenable, retreat is the only option for survival. Every mother and grandmother in every warship holding the line knows their death is coming. Sure as the next breath they breathe. Near the outer rim in the galaxy of Andromeda, the last stand of the Sisterhood is taking place.

Sorely outnumbered, these brave women have made the hard decision of who will live and who will die. The Sisters who have chosen Shar-eu (Magularis word for fight to the death) are holding back the swarm of Coolarans, threatening to cut off their daughters and granddaughters last best chance for escape.The Coolaran’s deceptions and asymmetric warfare caused the great women of the race known as the Magularis (also called the Sisterhood) to be taken off guard. Years of complacency weakened the defenses of the ladies.

Now, the end is near and bloody extinction is at hand. But hope has risen out of the scarified blood of the dead and dying. Princess Saerrasa’s voice is hard as cold death as she orders. Engage the Nacha Tunnel. With those words, Chief Scientist Lentena brings the great engines to life.

Those valiant mothers, grandmothers, and great-grandmothers holding the last line of defense bid farewell to their daughters as they disappear in the great void. With the grim resolve of those who are about to die, these brave women begin Shar-eu, wishing only to kill until they die.

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The weather is a tropical maelstrom of suffocating humidity accompanied with nauseating heat. Without warning, the base is under attack, mortar rounds are exploding inside the perimeter. Adrenalin runs rampant through my body.

Something isn’t right. Whatever that intangible something is, it makes my skin crawl. My subconscious can sense it. I have been under attack before, seen death on four different continents, and witnessed man’s darkest nature. My gut is telling me something isn’t right.

Maybe it’s me… coming face to face with my mortality. These feelings and thoughts pass through my mind in a brief instant. My body is too busy reacting to the world around me. Explosions are shaking the ground, shock waves are knocking the life out of men, and white hot shrapnel wings its deadly flight through the air. My ears pick up those all too familiar sounds. Hysterical screams… that start when a man sees his guts laying in the dirt or his hand ripping apart in a bloody spray of torn meat and bones.

I watch and hear these dying men struggle on the blood drenched earth around me, my soul turns black… icy cold. With so much fresh blood, the dirt changes into slick black mud. The short grass picks up a translucent layer of red, becoming even slicker than the blood soaked ground.

The onslaught of enemy fire is pinning me down in the trench. White hot supersonic steel is flying around me... to move is to die. Death is coming from everywhere. The camp’s defenses are being overrun by sappers, silently moving past the inner perimeter. My eyes can’t see anyone except my men. There is a lot of hostile fire zipping through the air above my head.

The men scream, moaning desperately for our only medic who is lying dead, sprawled out in front of me by a random piece of enemy steel. What’s left of his face echoes the complete surprise of unexpected death. This medic gave his life trying to save those helpless men lying out there bleeding to death in the slick, bloody, black, muck around me. Some of those bodies are lying in front of my position.

My mind doesn’t notice fear and good common sense leaving my consciousness. With a knee-jerk reflex, my body rises straight up from the relative safety of the trench. My finger squeezes hard on the trigger. The weapon in my hands answers by spewing deadly steel out past the perimeter. I empty the AK-47, not looking for a single target but rather just letting my steel jackets take to the air.

I feel alive. My mind doesn’t realize its dangling on the razor edge of life and death. I just know for those few seconds it takes to empty the magazine. My bloody dark soul is being satisfied. I move fast, low crawling out of the trench to the next bit of cover. I see shadows running behind the subtropical curtain of the rainforest. A quick visual around my camp shows no movement. They’re gone, no charging enemy… nothing.

Then an explosion. The shock wave caused by the blast knocks me off my feet, but only for a few seconds. On pure instinct, along with muscle memory, my body gets me up scrambling for cover. The nearest shelter is mortar pit number two. I run, diving straight into that shallow hole surrounded by sandbags. I lie frozen with the God awful fear of death running through my veins. My ears listen to the renewed zipping sounds of bullets flying above me.

I see, feel, and hear this exploding hell turning everything into a bloody mess. From my hiding place I see the dead. Their lifeless eyes scream out in pain, but most of all… surprise.

It’s funny what thoughts pass through my mind. When I know death is coming. I wonder what expression will be on my face. When I’m dead, sprawled out like a gutted pig. Damn, does it matter? Nobody is going to see me.

Those murdering bastards are out there. Why are they waiting? Everything starts and ends in a matter of minutes. My ringing ears notice no sound, just frozen silence. Why are the wounded not screaming, crying out, begging for help? I hear no orders to fall back and regroup. Why are these faceless killers not hitting the wire?

Whoever they are, they’ve done a right proper job of hitting us hard and fast. These invisible murderers can take this camp anytime they want. So, why are these shadow killers not finishing the job of looting the dead, murdering the wounded, and torturing the living?

That’s the SOP, standard operating procedure, for taking care of CIA operatives like me. Why are they waiting?

Maybe others like me are alive in the confines of the perimeter. Waiting for their chance to wage vengeful death back on these shadow killers. With my ears, my soul and my sweet ever loven ass, I hear, see, and feel nothing but the absence of noise and vibration.

My first impulse is to run like hell. I fight the irresistible urge to a standstill. Me and the little voice inside my head almost laugh aloud, but stop for fear of giving away our position.

No! the little voice yells, Hold your horses! Play dead. See what happens next.

After the passing of a few more silent minutes, I grimace in realization. My hands quickly grab two grenades from my web gear. One little package full of death for them and one for me. No matter what, I won’t be taken alive.

If my devil may care ass buys the farm today, I’m not going to the gates of hell by myself," I say aloud in a dry choking voice of grim determination.

The grenade in my right hand sends a feeling of dark murderous satisfaction running through my soul. There is another grenade lying close to me. My Kalashnikov is near my side with a full magazine ready to rock and fucking roll. I have two CZ75s. Each pistol contains a round in the chamber with the safety off.

The little voice inside my head turns stone cold, asking, Are you ready?

I say aloud, Ready as I’m ever going to be.

My alter ego chimes in with grim humor, I wonder if this is what your ancestors meant. Today is a good day to die.

As I lie motionless in the mortar pit waiting for my death, a calm lucid feeling comes over me. The voice inside my head speaks up again, commenting in a matter-of-fact tone, Lord, just give me a lightning fast death that doesn’t hurt like hell.

Tension filled minutes turn into a calm half hour. My mind wraps itself around the idea of making it out of this top secret shit hole… alive. Me and that little voice agree that surviving until sundown is my only option. Even though the chance is slim, night fall is my only opportunity for escape.

The morning sun wanes into early afternoon. I force myself to lie still. Flies and mosquitoes fill the air, swarming over my friends and me. Mosquitoes drain the last drops of blood out of my dead compadres. Flies swarm so thickly on some of my friends that making out their faces is impossible. Those bodies that still have faces.

These men lying dead before me were once my friends in the living world. Now they’re just memories turned into dead putrefying flesh. My eyes look over at my last best friend, seeing his body covered with hungry insects makes me think. At least it’s over for Edwin. Nothing can hurt him anymore. I’m not so lucky; those mosquitoes are eating me alive, and it is way too dangerous to move. Better to lie here and wait for the coming darkness, to cover my escape.

I spent the late afternoon watching all my friends. Their frozen, lifeless bodies being butchered and hauled away by the jungle’s own cleanup crew. The sight turns my guts into water.

Soon, some nameless bad guys will come along, strip their gear, and leave these good men naked bloating under the hot fire of an equatorial sun. Then those murdered friends of mine are going to become food for every hungry animal and colony of insects coming along.

Why are so many good men dead in this nameless top secret shit hole? They died so far away from their homes and loved ones, but most of all their futures. Did these brave men die in vain? There are no answers coming forth from the dead. Only the sound of insect wings beating the thick, humid tropical air into submission.

My subconscious feels the darkness before it comes. In the rainforest the sun goes down quickly. The