823The tree in the headlights laughed silently, the sap pouring from its carved eyes and mouth staining its bright white bark the colour of blood.
It was massive, twice the width of the vehicle that was illuminating it, the mouth almost large enough to drive into. The leaves hanging above from many wild branches were the same deep red, and swayed gently in a breeze that could not be felt inside.
In the blink of an eye, the snowy trail known only to the guiding Ranger had disappeared without a trace. The laughing tree had sprouted fully formed out of nowhere. The damn snow crawler had barely been able to stop in time to stop crashing into the huge gnarled roots that came up out of the ground.
Michael was drawn forward to lean on the dashboard, almost pressing his face against the glass of the windshield to look. The leaves were the same shape as those of a maple. The same shape in the flag icon on his shoulder. And when he met the eyes of the carved face… he could not look away.
"Lieutenant!" someone called from behind.
His trance broken, Michael raised himself off the dash again, wondering how long he had been locked in a stare with the tree.
The strange sense of awe evaporated, the loud rumble of the vehicle's engine resumed loudly in his ear, and he remembered who he was. He turned in his seat. The others sitting behind were blinking rapidly, shaking themselves awake. They had been staring at the tree too.
Only Sergeant O'Neill seemed to be fully awake, the tall and broad man sitting on the edge of his seat. He was half-glaring at Michael. A withering sight, rank be damned.
But the half-glare died slowly, as its owner's eyes glanced out of the front window. He seemed to realise the strangeness of the situation for the first time.
The last time Michael had seen him, the man had been asleep in the corner of the vehicle cabin. Had that been why he wasn't entranced?
"GPS is non-functional, we're off the trail," the Sergeant said, politely but firmly, "What are your orders, sir?"
A good question. The real question was 'What the hell is going on here and what do you want me to do about it?'
Carefully avoiding another look at the laughing tree, Michael quickly glanced out the side windows, trying to determine if the trail had simply curved away sharply. He could see nothing that helped. No ripple in the snow that might show the way. No beams or glow of artificial light but their own. The northern lights were still dancing in the sky. Everything seem peaceful, yet every instinct told him something had gone terribly wrong.
Only one thing for it.
Michael looked his Sergeant directly in the eye. "O'Neill, dismount everyone and form a perimeter. Look for any sign of the rest of the column. I'll see if I can raise the rest of the company. Private Sayer, stay with the Sergeant until I join you."
O'Neill smirked, but seemed to approve. "Yes, sir," the Sergeant said, before turning to the others, "You heard him, dismount!"
The side doors of the vehicle were opened and the occupants piled out, preparing their weapons to fire if required as soon as they did so. The cold from outside diluted the warmth inside. Michael was glad of that, it helped clear his mind a little.
Orders were barked at Singh and Arran to take up positions off the rear corners of the vehicle while O'Neill and Zheng took the front, Sayer in tow.
Satisfied and now sure he wouldn't be overheard, Michael reached for the radio between his seat and the driver's own. He put out a call to the rest of the company on exercise, dreading the conversation with his captain about getting lost.
When he got static, he tried again. He changed to the battalion network instead and tried that, on the off chance the combat support company was in range.
Nothing but dead air.
The sense of dread remained, but for an entirely different reason. Michael's instinct about something going wrong now had a foundation in reality. It was a familiar, sickening feeling.
O'Neill was looking from his position to see if anything was coming of the attempt. Michael simply shook his head, causing the Sergeant to kick some dirt and issue some more orders on the platoon's own radio channel. He wanted the others to spread out a little more, remaining in sight of the vehicle, to look for anything that might help. He pointed at Private Sayer to remain there while he joined the hunt for clues himself.
Michael exited the vehicle and found he didn't need his gloves or face covering. The temperature outside had risen by at least ten degrees. The snow underfoot wasn't as deep. The hits keep on coming, he thought to himself.
Tucking his gloves back into a pocket, Michael looked up at the aurora again, searching for the familiar stars as he had done any time he saw the night sky since he was a child. He froze. There were no recognisable constellations. What the hell is going on, he thought, how could the stars be different?
Possible explanations came to him at once, all of them unacceptably sci-fi. Thoughts of little green men abducting people in saucer-shaped spaceships, or people caught in time only to be spat out eons later. No, there had to be a better reason than those. Maybe the aurora was distorting the stars' positions or they were so far north that things merely appeared out of order.
Those answers did not satisfy him.
Urgently, Michael half-ran underneath the wide branches of the laughing tree to meet the one person who might have a clue what had happened.
Private Sayer was not part of Michael's unit. A young Metis part-timer from the Canadian Rangers, he stood out in that he was short, wore a deep red hoodie under his civilian-style arctic coat and carried a rifle more suited to hunting. He had been assigned because he knew the way they were supposed to go even without the aid of the maps or GPS. If anyone knew what the local conditions were, it was him.
The Private saw Michael coming and moved to join him under the tree reluctantly, trailing behind until the Sergeant cleared his throat pointedly from the side.
"Private, do you know where we are? " Michael asked, as soon as they were out of earshot of all but the Sergeant, "Are we still in the exercise area?"
Sayer shook his head, and looked up at the bloody grin in the bark of the tree again. "Everything is wrong," he said, "I have never seen or even heard of this thing before. On top of that, it's too warm for anywhere northwest of Yellowknife at this time of year, and all the other trees seem bigger than normal too... sir."
Michael's mouth thinned involuntarily. He hadn't noticed the other trees. Though how could he with such a strange one literally laughing in his face and weeping blood? "That's not all that's wrong," he admitted to the young man, "The stars are different. Is that usual up here?"
Sayer looked up in a snap, eyes widening. "The stars are different?!" he half-whispered, "You're right! But how!"
Michael sighed, realising the man clearly didn't know anything that might explain it. Which meant there was no way-up-north thing that could. The implications were troubling. "We may be very far from home, and might have to survive here a while," he said, "We'll be relying on your experience for that, Private."
Wobbling between a prideful smile and a nervous gulp of air, Sayer accepted the order by way of saluting, before his eyes were drawn aside by the arrival of Sergeant.
God, O'Neill looks like he was just told someone has shot his dog, Michael thought.
"The platoon… Hell, the whole of our company is missing, sir," O'Neill cut in, joining the pair under the tree, "We can't see them to the rear or flanks… and Arran reports that there are no tracks behind us either. It's like we were just airdropped here. There does seem to be a circle of disturbed snow around us, maybe indicating the downwash of a large helicopter."
Michael felt an eyebrow rise sharply. "I don't remember a helicopter ride, do you?" he said, "The stars above our heads are different entirely, Sergeant. Are you suggesting we were knocked out, airlifted wherever here is, and just left to do whatever?"
O'Neill straightened up, uncomfortably. He had been thinking exactly that, Michael realised. The Sergeant nonetheless defended his position with the obvious. "I can only tell you what we can see, sir. It would not be out of character for certain foreign powers to stage a false flag this way, sir."
Michael breathed out. The situation must have been getting to everyone, not just Private Sayer. "Anything else we can see? Buildings? Lights in the distance? Signs of people?"
"No, sir," O'Neill said with resignation, "We're in the middle of nowhere."
As if to defy him, a voice rang out over the radio;
"Hostile contact!"
The sudden declaration that they were not alone set everyone moving to cover. Michael found a pine and crouched down behind it. Sayer and O'Neill joined him. Somewhere to the rear, the crunch of snow told that Zheng had returned too.
Satisfied that he wasn't about to be shot for standing in the open, Michael made a quick scan of the woods around him with his NV goggles revealed no movement or lights except their own.
"Arran, report," Michael commanded by radio, as he flipped the goggles back up again, "I don't have eyes on any contacts."
"Jumpy little gobshite," O'Neill muttered to himself.
Michael had to agree. Private Arran's tone had been melodramatic, like he had just seen Timmi Taliban in the middle of the taiga forest and not some locals.
"Thirty plus foot mobiles, sir," Arran reported, his voice quiet like he trying not to be heard, "Armed and holding torches."
Michael glanced around the forest again, trying to see who and what the man was talking about. "Say again. Did you say torches? As in fiery torches?"
"Affirmative," Arran said, "They'll be coming round the big fuck-off rocks at 4 O'clock to the crawler. One hundred metres."
Michael searched for the rocks he was referencing and found them. Sure enough there was some movement. There was a wind from the north, it could have been anything moving up there.
"I saw them as well, sir," Singh pitched in, the awkward silence evidently too much for him.
Michael gestured to the Sergeant, asking silently Is that guy jumpy too? The response was a shake of the head. Singh was solid. So, there was a bunch of somebodies stumbling around in the dark. Armed somebodies. Not necessarily hostile, but their presence was certainly suspect.
Michael decided to hedge his bets. "Sergeant, get to Arran's position and stay hidden," he said, "I'll try and see if our friends out there are the helpful type."
O'Neill gave a salute, and then moved to join the pair at their position beyond the end of the vehicle. His movement cast long shadows from the headlights against the laughing tree.
Michael winced at his oversight. "Zheng, kill the lights, then join me."
"Killing the lights," the corporal repeated, followed by more snow crunching and a light metallic bang as she climbed back into the vehicle. The headlights disappeared and the world got darker still.
It was well timed.
A projectile hissed past Michael's ear, crunching into the snow behind him; an arrow. One made of wood and feathers, not modern plastics.
"Someone just shot an arrow at me!" he called over the comms, "Any eyes?"
"Copy," O'Neill replied, all business now, "No eyes yet."
Michael quickly huddled closer behind the pine tree for protection, pushed his NV back over his eyes and peeked out. At first, he could see nothing, but two more arrows came flying from beside the rocks, one clattering off the metal wheels holding the tracks of the vehicle.
Beyond the rocks, three dozen figures began moving out.
They seemed to be wearing furs and animal skins, many of them the same colours as the snow, rocks and trees of the forest around them; natural camouflage. Axes, spears and bows were in hand and ready to use among every single one of them. If they had torches, they had doused them, relying on the aurora overhead instead to light their way.
One held his arm out, and an eagle flew down from the top of the rocks to perch on him, like it was as much a part of the group as the people.
Micheal looked on, incredulous. Who are these people? Why are they trying to kill us?
More arrows flew, bouncing off the side of the vehicle near Zheng or among the trees shielding Sayer. The people armed with axes and spears were advancing in a rough line, at a fast walk, eyes searching.
The attack needed to be stopped. Michael considered giving the order to fire in return, but not knowing why they wanted him dead was bothering him. Some chance needed to be given to get them to stop first. Perhaps it was all a misunderstanding.
"Corporal Zheng, put a burst or two over their heads."
Zheng had her finger on the trigger already. Bullets swept into the air, tracers streaking above and to the left of the armed group. The sound of the shooting echoed back, as she followed up with a second stream. The menacing advance stopped at once, most of the attackers ducking.
Their leader did not however, his furs covered in bones. This time, Michael could hear the words as the man shouted at the others to 'pick their balls up and stand'.
In English.
"You, wearing the bones!" Michael declared, "There's no need for this to get messy! We can talk this out!"
The bone wearer pulled out a sword from behind his back, like something a knight of old would wield. "Kill the kneelers!" he roared at his people.
Michael did not know what a 'kneeler' was, but it didn't matter. The group had found their courage again and was beginning to sprint, mouths missing teeth wide open with an incoherent warcry. These were killers, intent on murder.
Zheng took the opportunity to send out a few more bursts of bullets without orders, trying to replicate her previous success. To no avail. That they hadn't been hit by the bullets seemed to embolden them.
"This is your final warning!" Michael shouted at the top of his voice, "Stay where you are or you will be fired upon!"
The only answer was an arrow, thumping into the bark of the pine and sticking, grey feathers for fletching. The group had heard him and turned their charge towards his position. This was it. They were the enemy. The rules of engagement, the laws of war and common sense all allowed the obvious response. The one Michael had been avoiding.
"Fire at will," he ordered.
His subordinates obliged like they had been waiting for the moment eagerly. Tracers and muzzle flashes erupted out of the dark to the right of the wild charge. O'Neill, Singh and Arran had set up to catch the attackers in enfilade. Their marksmanship was perfect, putting down each target with only a bullet or two.
The attack did not falter, the attackers kept coming. Michael raised his own weapon to fire, sure at least one or two would make it to where he was.
A loud crack from the side announced that Sayer had shot too. The fastest of the attackers, out in front and ahead of the pack, took the bullet in the chest. He tumbled over head first into the snow, axe flying off to the side.
"Good shot, Private," Michael half-muttered, to the bewildered young man.
"Very good," Zheng added cheerily, as she changed her mag, "Never mind centre mass, you hit him right in the heart."
The Private said nothing, staring out over the top of his weapon. Michael knew the look. The man was bewildered he had shot someone at all. There would need to be words about that later, but business still needed attending to.
Flipping down his NV over his eyes, he inspected the clearing and the treeline. "I count two dozen down. Where are the rest of them?"
"Trees, your side of the clearing," O'Neill reported, "Six of them heading your way. They grew a set of brains between them too. They're moving between trees for cover."
"The bone-wearing gentleman with them?" Michael asked.
"No, he did a runner, sir," O'Neill replied, "The lad with the eagle and a couple of others too. That six are not giving up though."
The hunt was on. Michael gestured for Zheng to follow and Sayer to stay put, and moved forwards. The infrared lasers on the front of their weapons shone out in lines, visible only to them, tracing where they were aiming. At least the NV was still working, he thought, this would've been far harder otherwise.
It didn't take long to find the surviving attackers.
In hiding from the Sergeant's fireteam using the trees, they were exposed to Michael's own. There were six; five axe-men and an archer. Some of them looked smaller. Younger men or women. A pang of guilt went through Michael. They attacked first, he reminded himself, before instructing Zheng to break off left a little to catch them in a crossfire.
The six leapfrogged from behind one tree to the next, peeking in the direction of the Sergeant each time. Michael saw an opportunity for some of them to come out of this alive, and for him to discover what the hell was going on.
As the six got within forty yards, Michael stepped out from behind his own tree.
"Drop your weapons!" he shouted. Zheng did the same. "Drop your weapons!"
They repeated the command two or three more times, as the attackers turned this way and that between them. They weren't deciding whether or not to surrender. They were deciding who to attack.
Michael groaned to himself as the attackers inevitably split the difference. Three broke off in the direction of Zheng, two in his, with the archer seeming to think better of the whole situation and disappearing.
Michael flicked the selector of his weapon to automatic. "Zip 'em up!"
Zheng was quicker on the draw again, tracers bouncing across Michael's vision as she tore into her targets with her carbine.
Hoping to intimidate at least one of the men coming to kill him, Michael aimed low on the first's body and held down the trigger. The automatic fire stitched the man from belly button to mouth, the last bullet shattering his jaw. No time to be disgusted at the sight. It bought only a few seconds; a brief stare at the damage done to first attacker's body before the second continued.
Groaning to himself at the stupidity and stubbornness, Michael took aim. One burst and then another through the man's chest. It did what it was supposed to. The man fell to his knees and slumped, but did not fall all the way.
"Who's the kneeler now," Michael grumbled idly at the dead man, aiming from left to right to be sure it was clear. Seeing Zheng had finished up with her trio with equal ease, he searched for the last attacker; the archer that had disappeared. The trees revealed nothing.
Until an axe came swinging onto his rifle from the left, outside his field of view.
The blade bit down, chipping off a corner of the Picatinny rail and almost jarring the weapon out of Michael's hand. Training took over. He was far too close to shoot with his rifle, so he let it hang. The axe withdrew, its owner trying to get behind him to avoid getting shot, but he twisted around. The attacker was smaller by almost a foot, which explained how they had been able to get the drop on him.
As the axe came down a second time, Michael managed to catch it with his left hand, as his right went for his sidearm. The impact of the axe's handle on his palm hurt like hell, but he stopped the second blow. His pistol was up, cocked with a click, and in the attacker's half-covered face.
The face of a young woman, eyes watching the weapon as she froze. She knew she was beaten. Game over.
Not stupid then, Michael thought, ripping the axe from her hands roughly, she knows it's a tool for killing. Zheng came up beside with her flashlight on, into view of the guest, who took a step back that was half a stagger and blinked rapidly at the artificial light.
"Cover her, corporal," Michael ordered, "Maybe now we can get some answers." Zheng gave a nod, planting the muzzle of her carbine against the young woman directly.
Michael pushed up his NV from his eyes and disarmed the prisoner. She was well stocked. He pulled away a long, roughly made knife from her belt, another from under her fur boots, the bow from her back and the quiver of arrows with iron tips from behind. There was probably another smaller blade hidden somewhere underneath the furs, but he wasn't about to strip-search her.
She made no noise as he did it, simply following him with her light-blue eyes. It made him strangely uncomfortable. Irritated, Michael pulled down the furs off her head, revealing a shock of red hair, a round face, a small nose and a frown of confusion. Pretty, he thought, in a certain way.
Eventually, it got to him. "Sergeant, we need check the dead for IDs ," Michael ordered over the radio, "I caught one, but I don't think she's going to be very cooperative."
The young woman's frown curled into a smile of sorts, eyes lighting up with amusement. O'Neill gave an affirmative, before ordering Arran and Singh to follow him into the clearing. The radio response seemed to shock the young woman. She leaned closer, as if trying to listen to it.
Zheng pushed her back with a jab from the muzzle of her weapon.
"First thing is first," Michael said, his breath smoking in the cold, "Who are you?"
"Ygritte," the young woman replied.
"That's an unusual name," he said.
"That what you think?" she scoffed, "Your mother never teach you to give your name when someone tells you theirs?"
"I'm Michael," he replied flatly, deciding full name and rank was unnecessary at this point, "But I wasn't really asking for your name. What was your group doing out here, attacking people at random?"
The young woman rolled her eyes, flippant as can be, like the question was stupid. "Could ask you the same thing?" Ygritte said, with a glance at the weapon Zheng was poking her with, "With your magic sticks that shoot thunder and lighting, and you talking to invisible men."
It was Michael's turn to be confused. Talking to invisible men? Did she mean the radio? Her speech was as strange to his ear as what she was actually saying. Ygritte's accent was somewhere between British and Nordic, without a trace of North America that he could hear. Granted, there were some odd accents among isolated communities in the northern territories. But they knew what a radio was.
"You ought to burn them you killed," Ygritte stated firmly, interrupting Michael's thoughts and pointing towards the men he had shot. The certainty of the statement seemed almost religious to him.
"Is that how you do last rites up here?" Zheng asked with sincerity.
"That's not why you ought to," Ygritte replied, leered at the corporal with a vicious grin, "Them bodies are dangerous. More dangerous than you could know, kneeler."
Zheng ignored her strange insult, but Michael understood the rest; corpses laying around were not good for anyone's health. Besides, a big fire was sounding like a better prospect with every passing minute. It seemed to be getting colder, so much so that Michael put on his gloves and covered his face.
"A pyre can be arranged," he said, like it was a concession, "Though we need some more answers first."
Ygritte opened her mouth to say something, but the comms interrupted her and she leaned in to listen again.
"We've got another contact, sir," O'Neill reported, "There's a man coming in from the forest. He's wearing medieval armour, don't think he is with this lot. You best come take a look."
"Copy, on the way," Michael responded, picking up Ygritte's weapons from the ground again. Zheng lowered her weapon and grabbed the prisoner by the arm, and they all moved through the trees to the clearing.
O'Neill, Singh, Arran and Sayer were all standing together among the corpses, their search for IDs paused in favour of watching the treeline beyond. A cold white mist was now hanging low off the ground. The four soldiers had buttoned up their uniforms. Both Sayer's red hoodie and Singh's CADPAT turban had disappeared underneath far more substantial coat hoods. They paid no attention to the loudly resistant prisoner as Zheng pulled her along.
O'Neill pointed off towards the rocks as Michael drew near. "Our new friend is following the same path the others did," he said, "He's behind the rocks right now, but he'll show soon."
Michael glanced in that direction but saw nothing. "You said he was wearing medieval armour?"
"Full breastplate, painted black and grey," O'Neill clarified, "Big fucking sword. I swear to God, sir."
Michael shook his head. "This just keeps getting stranger," he said, "And it's getting colder again." The temperature now resembled something far closer to that it had been before this whole incident had gotten them lost.
"Here he comes," O'Neill said, tapping his NV and gesturing out across the clearing. Michael deferred to the judgment of his sergeant and dropped his NV over his eyes once again.
The promised man stepped out from behind the rocks a few seconds later, as predicted.
His skin and long hair was so pale that he seemed to glow in infrared. His face and head were uncovered. He was thin but didn't seem unhealthy. Quite the opposite. Across his chest was a rounded breastplate, which was black and grey to match the surroundings.
A sword was held by the pommel in one of his hands and leaned upwards against his shoulder; a massive two-hander that was almost as long as the spears the attackers had used.
Michael watched as the newcomer with morbid fascination, following the tracks of the attackers, head down. The team hadn't been noticed yet, but soon would.
"We're dead," Ygritte croaked breathlessly behind him.
The newcomer's head slowly rose up as he continued walking, as if he had heard her. A pair of unnatural, luminous eyes were staring across the clearing at them.
Every gun was up in a split second, including Michael's own. With Zheng distracted, Ygritte broke free and scrambled to pick up her weapons from the place Michael had dropped them. To his surprise, she didn't immediately run off or try and kill him, but joined in aiming at their mutual target.
The newcomer stopped, reversing his sword in his hand and planting it in the snow and dirt in front of him, so it stood on its own. He had gotten the not one more step message loud and clear, it seemed. But he said nothing, just staring at them.
Michael supposed that rationally speaking he shouldn't fear this man. Six rifles were easily enough to kill someone wearing primitive armour. But the more the newcomer stared, the less certain he was.
The man seemed entirely disinterested in the very deadly weapons aimed at him. That stare, it's not a deer-in-the-headlights one, Michael knew.
Ygritte lowered her bow and walked over furiously, grabbing his shoulder to pull his ear closer. He didn't have time to react before she whispered.
"Use your magicks!" Ygritte said desperately, "Before he…"
The rest never came out. The newcomer raised both his hands up slowly to either side of him, inch by inch, until they were halfway above his head. Ygritte shivered hard enough for Michael to feel it through her grip on him.
"Is he surrendering?" O'Neill asked. Michael had no answer.
Ygritte released her hold. "No! I won't let you take them!"
That was enough to turn all heads at her, just in time to witness her loose an arrow. Without any cover to get in the way, she made her mark, the arrow striking the newcomer in the chest. His armour was protection enough, and it glanced off to the side, arrowhead cracking away from wooden shaft.
The newcomer did not flinch from fear, nor did his face twist with anger. The same impassive, inhuman stare continued. He simply lowered his arms again. Michael felt the cold creep up his back. It wasn't the temperature this time.
It didn't matter that the man hadn't reacted, if he even was a man. Rage poured off of him. The only question was why had he not attacked?
A scream of pain erupted from the right.
Turning on the spot, Michael turned his rifle in the direction of the sound and immediately wished to be spared from the sight that greeted him.
A dead man had planted an axe in Arran's neck, biting deep.
It was one of the attackers that had been shot down before, the furs and skins ripped and bloodied with through-and-through gunshot wounds. The dead man yawned a silent scream as he wretched the axe from Arran, twitching this way and that. And just like the newcomer, his eyes glowed in infrared.
"Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph," the Sergeant swore under his breath, as the dead man pushed Arran bleeding out to the snow and stepped forward.
Cold fury running through his veins, Michael raised his weapon and let off a single round, aiming for the head and hitting it. The bullet burst through the dead man's skull no problem… but it did not end him. The pallid eyelids blinked once, like a bullet to the head was more like getting slapped in the face with a fish.
Sergeant O'Neill brought his rifle to bear on the dead man's legs and shot the knees out with two precise shots. The thing collapsed to the ground immediately, though it did not stop moving as if it was alive, clawing at the snow to try and move forwards.
Another scream.
Singh dropped to his knees, a spear through his gut held by a dead woman twisting and turning it cruelly. Her lips moved in a sick parody of a laugh. Did they remember who killed them? Michael thought in a panic, Did this woman remember who had shot her down?
Singh spat blood as the movement of the spear slowed, and at the top of his voice shouted, "Waheguru!" With the last of his strength, he raised his rifle and shoved it towards his killer. The weapon burped its entire magazine… and the dead woman burst into flames, dropping to the ground and rolling around.
On the edges of his sight, Michael could see more movement in the white mist. More of those that he had thought killed were getting to their feet and collecting their dropped weapons.
"Open fire," he commanded with a calm that surprised even himself.
The team did as they were told.
Zheng was first off the mark once again quickly followed by all the others. The air filled with the staccato of the rifles, the shooting disciplined but rapid. Sayer ran over and picked up Arran's rifle, Ygritte helping him by bringing her axe down on the crawling corpse beside it, like she was chopping wood.
All around them, corpses ran in with weapons raised, and were set alight like the torches their living selves had carried before. The bullets rippled out in every direction, but not every one seemed to set the dead ablaze.
Michael saw the pattern quickly. The tracer rounds kill them. Now he knew he could deal with the thing who had brought the dead back to life to be cannon fodder, and turned to do just that.
The newcomer had taken its massive sword back into it hands. It was walking towards them, to join the fight. Its glowing stare was locked onto Michael now, identifying him as the leader. The camouflage of its medieval armour changed shape and colour with every step, like it was trying to match the colours of the forest behind.
Not having enough time to change out the almost-empty magazine in his weapon, Michael took aim nonetheless, the infrared laser drawing a line from the muzzle to breastplate. The newcomer paused for a second, and opened its mouth.
The sound it produced was like ice cubes being crushed on metal, a harsh guttural stream of noise that clearly had some meaning. It sounded like mockery. The newcomer broke into a run, faster than humanly possible, and lowered the point of his sword straight at his target.
Michael emptied his weapon the second he was sure every bullet would hit.
The newcomer's armour did not stand up to the rifle, every shot breaching it with ease, though none of them seemed to exit behind. The thing kept running, the sword ever closer. Michael's heart dropped, as he reached for a new magazine.
But the thing stumbled to a crawl less than ten yards away, Michael's legs almost giving out with relief. Steam poured out of its wounds. Its teeth chattered as if it was cold, and it rolled over onto its back, convulsing.
So did the dead it had raised. They fell to the ground, writhing in pain transmitted from their master. Even the cold seemed to retreat, but not leave entirely.
Yet still the newcomer did not die. He simply kept shaking on the ground, the tracers burning his insides. And a creature that could raise the dead wasn't likely to die so easily itself.
What the hell have we got ourselves into, Michael thought, wanting to scream it. Magic human looking things that could raise the dead? This was the department of exorcists, priests and sorcerers, not soldiers.
"Zheng, bring the vehicle up! We need to get out of here. O'Neill, Sayer, secure Arran and Singh's bodies for transport. I'm not leaving them here for this thing."
No one questioned the assumption that the newcomer would get back up again. The corporal rushed off at once.
Michael completed reloading his weapon, and sent another burst into the newcomer on the ground, making sure at least one tracer round hit. That refreshed the twitching, and splattered the snow with dark blood that he couldn't see the colour of in his night-vision.
"You hurt it," Ygritte breathed from beside him, "No one's ever hurt one. Not no one who didn't have dragonglass. Even they didn't hurt it none, just shattered it."
"If it bleeds, we can kill it," Michael replied, summoning the phrase from somewhere at the back of his mind, "And that thing bleeds." He shot it again for good measure, drawing still more of its blood to mix with the snow. Still, it would not stop tossing and turning, yet more steam rising from the holes in its armour.
The engine of the vehicle roared as Zheng drove it up, managing to avoid the burning and writhing dead with its wide tracks. Michael was thankful for her attention. The snow-crawler was ideally suited to the terrain, but he imagined it running over a body would be like crushing a tube of toothpaste from one end. No one needed that piece of nasty in addition to the helping already on their plate.
Ygritte looked on with fascination as the vehicle came to a halt beside them, crouching down to try and figure out how it was moving.
The corporal rolled down the window. "Want me to drive over this undead asshole, sir?" Zheng asked from the driver's seat, half-shouting over the noise of the engine, "Maybe being flattened will keep him down longer."
Michael shook his head. The vehicle didn't have the weight to do the job, he was sure of it. Instead, he opened the back doors of the front cabin and grabbed Ygritte from the ground by the arm. "Inside," he ordered, "I wasn't kidding about getting answers, and I don't think you want to stick around here."
The woman resisted briefly, before glancing at the newcomer's shaking body. It sat up straight, apparently having recovered from the gunshot wounds. Ygritte wasted not another second in jumping into the loud, smelly metal box that moved after seeing that.
Michael found her haste comical, but he could not smile or laugh. Men under his command had died, and this was not the first time. So he instead shot the inhuman creature, causing it to once again convulse and shake involuntarily. He felt better at once, if only relatively.
Keeping watch the same way, Michael ended up having to shoot the thing every few minutes. This lasted until the others had secured the bodies of Singh and Arran to the top of the rear cabin under a tarp with rope and stripped them of equipment. Once that was complete, he used an entire magazine of bullets to buy time, and hopped back into his seat in the vehicle.
Finally, Zheng drove them all away with all possible haste, headed due west, the same direction they had been travelling before.
All energy fleeing his body, Michael spied the Laughing Tree once again, as it passed by his window. I want to laugh while crying blood myself right now, he thought bitterly.
Cover image part of a non-copyright rendition of the Canadian coat of arms drawn from its heraldic description by Jorge Compassio, retrieved from Wikipedia. Find it under Wikimedia as Coat_of_arms_of_Canada_rendition.