The old Mercedes-Bentz G-Wagen slowly meandered up the A 76. In all honesty it wasn’t that old, but the Afghan climate aged everything before its time. Freezing snowstorms in the winter, heated sandstorms in the summer, the temperature shifts cracking rocks and eroding mountains. The wind howled through the mountain passes like a wild animal, putting everybody’s nerves on edge. Blomgren had been deployed here for five months now, as a part of the Swedish ISAF forces. Most of that time he had spent around Mazar-e-Sharif, where the Hindu-Kush Mountains were only shadows on the southern horizon. He had never been this far south before, or this high up.
“What are we even doing here?” Blomgren asked as he fingered his rifle, trying to adjust to a more comfortable position in the back of the car. It was a futile attempt; they’d been driving for too long now. Once they’d left Doshi behind, the road had been nearly deserted. On good roads, back in Sweden, the distance from the base to here would have taken about two hours, less if he’d been allowed to drive. Of course, elks didn’t explode when you hit them with your car, and the roads were as bad as they came. So they drove slowly.
“Hell if I know,” Fredriksson muttered, scratching the ever present sandfly bites.
“Oh shut up you two, I’m trying to focus.” Ahonen was up front, scanning the road with tired eyes, trying to discern the faint disturbances that might reveal any buried explosives. They had not run in to any yet, this was not on their regular patrol routes, and the Taliban had no reason to think there would be any targets here right now. Or so they hoped.
“I mean it; we should be back north and helping to pack up our base.” Blomgren aimed the last at their sergeant, who was taking his turn driving.
“Unfinished business, the Captain called it.” Sergeant Pihl said with the faintest of shrugs.
“Unfinished business my ass,” Fredriksson muttered and kept scratching.
“You know you’re not supposed to talk like that about your commanding officers.” Sergeant Pihl sounded more annoyed than upset, out in the field you cared more about whether people did their job than proper manners.
“I know, but he’s hours north so what can he do?” Fredriksson shrugged. “It’s not like you don’t give a damn, Sarge. Hell, you bloody hate the man!”
“I don’t…” Pihl started. Then he shrugged. “No, you’re right. He’s a right arse, but he’s the boss and he gave me a direct order. I just want to get this shit over and done with and get out of the dust and the sandflies.”
“You’re not alone in that.” Blomgren checked the map again, but it was not like they could get lost on a narrow road surrounded by mountains. “Isn’t this the American zone by now? We’re further south than we usually are.”
“It is,” Pihl admitted.
“So why are we here then?”
“We are dropping something off, and that’s all you need to know. It’s just like in the army; you follow orders and keep your mouth shut.”
“You’re such a funny guy it’s a wonder you got promoted, Sergeant.” Fredriksson had finally abandoned the scratching, leaning forward to peek over Ahonen’s shoulder.
“I keep my funny to myself around my superiors, maybe you should try it,” came the dry reply.
“But everybody is my superior, and I’m always funny. I’d be quiet all the time,” Fredriksson whined.
“And everybody would be better off for it.” Ahonen straightened a bit in his seat, because up ahead they could see the first signs of habitation. “Is that it, Sarge?”
“That’s it. Get your gear on, we’re going in. And somebody, wake up Jalal”
…
The village was small, and like the others in this area it was situated in a steep valley, huddled around a river that raged with water in the spring, but turned into a creek of glacier melt in the summer. Stones and dust and people all had the same hard look to them, but there were no signs of open hostility. Their interpreter, Jalal, had come back and assured them that there were no signs of Taliban activity in the area. Of course that was what people tended to say everywhere.
“The shrine is up this path, fifteen minutes climb.” Jalal indicated the steep path, almost a stair cut out into the side of the valley.
“Ahonen, you stay and keep an eye on the car,” Pihl ordered. “Stay off the radio unless it’s an emergency. We won’t be long.”
“Will do, Sarge.” Ahonen adjusted the strap of his gun, giving the villagers a stern glance when some kids showed signs of approaching too close.
“The rest of you, let’s get this over with.”
…
“Christ, what’s that smell?” Blomgren grimaced as they approached the small square building located behind the shrine. Like everything here it was build from mud and stone, blending seamlessly with the surroundings.
“Shit. Haven’t you ever taken a deep sniff by the latrine?” Fredriksson sniffed the air expectantly, but even he had to grimace.
“No, I generally hold my breath like any sane man.” Blomgren looked around, trying not to breathe. It didn’t just smell like human waste, there was something else at play here. An old, dark stink. It stank of… he supposed evil was a good name for it. Like the pig farms next to where he grew up, were pigs were born and died in pens without ever seeing sunlight. If lack of hope could have a stench, this was it.
“So, this seems to be an odd place to deliver something.” Fredriksson said, watching as Jalal introduced them to the shrine attendants.
“We’re just getting information. The Captain couldn’t give an exact location, but back when he was with CISCO he worked with a man that can, and he’s supposed to be here.” Pihl tried his best to look undisturbed, though he kept sneaking nervous glances at the building as well.
“And we have no support, or backup? Grand.” Blomgren sounded flippant, but truth be told he was nervous. This was so far from how things were usually done that he didn’t think they even were on the same map.
“We will in case we need it. Until then it’s radio silence. We’re doing this quietly.” Sergeant Pihl watched Jalal intently as the interpreter gestured at them while talking with the stone-faced men.
“Christ, this could be a Taliban nest and we wouldn’t even know it,” Blomgren muttered.
“They wouldn’t attack a shrine would they?” Fredriksson asked. “Holy ground?”
“Didn’t stop them at Quashlan, or any of the other mosques they blew up.” Blomgren didn’t think the Taliban cared much about religion, just power. Like most people getting involved in war, whatever the excuses.
“This is different,” Pihl said, “older.”
“Everything here looks old from the moment it’s born; it’s bloody creepy if you ask me. Can’t tell what was built five years or five centuries ago.” Fredriksson had started scratching again, though the skin was already raw.
“Since when did you become such a student of architecture?” Blomgren teased as Jalal returned with the attendants.
“You two shut up,” Pihl snapped. “At least try to act professional in front of these people.”
“If I was a professional you’d think they’d pay me like one,” Fredriksson muttered, then shut up.
The men that Jalal introduced were wrapped in authority, bearded faces heavy with importance. They were the attendants of the shrine, descendants of the man to whose name it was raised. As Jalal had explained, they were the caretakers here, both of the people that came to pray, and for the people who came to stay. The unfortunate ones. The insane. Mia Ali was their spokesman and it was to him that Jalal kept deferring.
“Straighten up and get your swagger on, friends, he thinks you are Americans,” Jalal said with a wry smile.
“Good, then tell him that he might as well cooperate or there might be a drone with his name written on it.” Sergeant Pihl did his best to look imposing, which Blomgren had to admit, was pretty darn good. However, Mia Ali seemed less than impressed.
Words were exchanged, a long, animated discussion, summed up by Jalal in a laconic: “He says that the Russians dropped bombs in the past. They did not go off. They are protected.”
“Does he think that works with bullets?” Fredriksson asked innocently.
“Don’t translate that,” Pihl sighed. “Just tell him that we want to talk with one of his patients.”
Jalal dutifully obliged, again the discussion turned heated, and the interpreter frowned as he translated: “He says that talking is fine, but that the people here are filled with spirits. They might not talk back in words you want to hear.”
“I’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Pihl said with a nod. “His name is Zaher; he was a Captain in the ANA.”
“He knows the man,” Jalal said after a quick question. “He will bring you to him.”
The house was partitioned off into small, square rooms, each bare of anything but a single occupant chained to a wall. The stench inside was appalling, the people despondent. Some sat staring into nothing; others followed the soldiers’ progress with wild eyes, shouting things that Jalal did not translate.
“Why are they here?” Blomgren asked, all the hairs on his neck standing on end. This place smelled even worse on the inside.
“Madness.” Jalal said with a shrug. “They stay here chained for forty days and nights and presumably they’re cured.”
“You’d think they’d hose them down now and then.” Fredriksson wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“You’re not supposed to wash while you’re here. Or eat anything but bread and black pepper. Or use the latrine. They piss and shit in a corner, and then the attendants scrape out the worst.”
“Christ, it’s like cattle. But I guess that explains the smell.”
Mia Ali stopped outside one of the rooms, giving Jalal stern instructions before departing.
“The man you seek is in here,” Jalal translated. “Has been for fifty days. This is his second period. Sometimes when the wind blows hard from the mountains he gets violent. If he does, you can hit him. That calms him down.”
“You two, keep watch outside,” Pihl ordered. “I don’t want anybody trying anything funny.”
“Yes sergeant,” Blomgren and Fredriksson said in chorus, more than a little glad to be let out of there.
…
Whatever Sergeant Pihl had found out, it had left him white faced and filled with unease. But on they went, on and up, and the mountains looked taller and sharper, their jagged peaks casting a shadow over their mood. By the time they finally made camp, Fredriksson and Ahonen were snapping at each other, and Sergeant Pihl had retreated near the car, wrapped up against the biting cold that came when the sun went down. They had no fire, ate their food cold, and took turns keeping watch with the night vision goggles. Blomgren took the second watch, rifle in hand as he scanned the dark hills. There was something peaceful about the green world of night vision, a quiet lull, a thrill in knowing that among humans you alone could see. Everything turned strange, small reflections turned into lights, and he found himself immersed in this new world.
He nearly jumped when Jalal snuck up beside him, hunching down with a frown on his face that made Blomgren refrain from sending him back to sleep. Instead they sat together for a while in silent companionship until he couldn’t restrain his curiosity any longer.
“What did the Sarge interrogate that poor bastard for?”
“Don’t ask, friend,” Jalal said with a shake of his head. “Seriously. This is some fucked up shit.”
“I got that impression. We’re way off the beaten path by now, is he taking us all the way up in the mountains?”
“He is. You’re not supposed to go up there. Things happen.” Jalal kept staring into the dark, listening to the distant, howling wind.
“Taliban?”
“Things happen to Taliban as well.”
“Sounds like the mountains might be on our side then,” Blomgren suggested with a smile, if nothing else to shake the shivers crawling down his spine.
“The mountains are not on anybody’s side.” Jalal’s face looked odd bathed in the green glow. Inhuman. “It’s gotten worse.”
“What have?”
“They say the Russians woke something. Angered something. People die. Villages are found deserted. People blame the Taliban, but… they die too. Everybody goes down to the valley floors, escapes to the cities. They are afraid.”
“It’s a war going on. There’s always refugees.”
“And some of them tell stories. I think your Captain heard them. He’s been here a long time, no?”
“He was here with the first CISCO initiative, I know that much. Went back home after a mental breakdown, then came back again once we settled in Camp Northern Lights.”
“The man your Sergeant interrogated worked with him in Kabul. They were part of a patrol out here in the area. Got ambushed. Nearly everybody got killed. That’s what he wanted to know. Where it happened.”
“Why?” Blomgren shook his head; this was getting increasingly weird and was that on the mountainside? Movement? Almost too high up to make out. Too far away to be a threat, and not moving in their direction. Too many to be people. Maybe a heard of mountain sheep or something.
“I don’t know… but we’re going there. Maybe we’ll find out.” Jalal shivered visibly when another shriek pierced the night as the wind picked up.
“Honestly,” Blomgren said and clenched his rifle, “honestly I hope we won’t.”
…
The sun beamed down from skies of beaten tin, and it took Blomgren a few moments to realize what they actually were looking at. Was that a house? It was, and once he had spotted the squat, square forms he saw them dotted all around the mountainside. Some still stood upright, others were slowly falling apart. It didn’t look like the place had been bombed, there was no characteristic blast patterns. No, this was damage done by time and nature, the houses here required constant repair or they would crumble. The village had most likely been a lot larger in the past. Maybe people had moved away because of the war, the ones that remained huddling closer, leaving the rest of the houses to fall into ruin.
“This is a damn odd location for a village; you think it’s a Taliban outpost?” Fredriksson scanned the area with his binoculars, but everything seemed clear.
“Too exposed,” Ahonen argued. “They tend to like caves.”
“There are caves all around us,” Jalal said, gesturing towards the mountains. “Honeycombed. Some go deep. Too deep for American bombs. Too deep.”
“Still, you need water; this place is as dry as tinder.” Blomgren could see no trace of a river here, not even a stream. All the settlements they had seen in the mountains had been huddled around them, this was an anomaly, and one that made his skin crawl.
The mountains were… especially looming today. Maybe it was that he came from the flatlands himself, but there was always something slightly unnerving about the sharp, jagged peaks. Somehow they resisted the winds, their peaks cut through the gales, and the snow and dust only seemed to sharpen them. Like blades waiting for a throat to cut.
“There, they have water,” Jalal pointed to a small hole in the ground up ahead, next to the mountainside. “They have a well.”
“But there’s just rock here, how the hell did they dig that?” Fredriksson stomped his foot to demonstrate.
“They do not dig. Make pit. Like cave, cements the sides. Then builds roof over, leaves hole for showmelt. In the spring, they guide water there, refills reservoir. Common trick in mountains.”
“So when are you going to spill what we are after, Sarge?” Ahonen asked, rifle at the ready, as they slowly advanced into the deserted village.
“Secure the area first, then we’ll talk.” Sergeant Pihl had gone from companionable to moody since their visit to the shrine. He kept eyeing the mountains, and kept fingering something he kept in the pocket of his dusty jacket.
“Why do I get the feeling he’s just putting this off,” Fredriksson grumbled. “This place is dead, anybody can see that.”
The place was indeed as dead as Fredriksson had claimed. Doors and shutters banged in the ever present wind, but the place had not been abandoned for long. Weeks at the most, there were still food that hadn’t spoiled, and nobody seemed to have looted the buildings. They did their search, door to door, but instead of feeling relieved that there were no Taliban ready to shoot their heads off; Blomgren just felt a growing unease. This village had been the site of a massacre. Bloodstains splattered floors and walls, doors and shutters nearly hacked to pieces by what seemed to be axes. Something had tried to get in. Something had tried to get in and had succeeded. Shit, not something. Someone. Of course.
“You figure it’s villagers or Taliban that got nailed here?” he quietly asked Ahonen once they met up back near the centre of the place.
“Dunno if there’s much of a difference. Dead is dead. I’m just wondering where they took the corpses.”
“Maybe the survivors buried them? Or burned them?”
“Maybe,” Ahonen said with a frown. “I just don’t know. And where did the Sergeant go anyway? And Jalal?”
“I don’t kn…”
“Hey, I think there’s something down here!” Fredriksson called out, interrupting Blomgren’s uneasy answer. The soldier was leaning over the entrance of the well. “Christ it stinks, I think they might have dumped the bodies down the… aigh!”
His cry was cut off as the ground around the well crumbled, sending him tumbling down into the dark.
“Freddan!” Blomgren ran forward, Ahonen in tow. “Are you alright?”
“No!” came the voice from the hole. “It’s bloody gross down here!”
“I meant did you break anything?” Blomgren asked with an almost relieved laugh, gesturing to Ahonen to go and get the bucket and rope that had been tossed to the side.
“It wasn’t far,” came the voice from below, raising strange echoes. “And there’s water… of a sort. Christ, they have dumped the bodies down here. I think I just stepped on someone, and Jesus fucking Christ this is disgusting. It’s like a bloody cesspool down here, how many had they dumped anyway?”
“Can’t have been that many living in the village,” Ahonen said to Blomgren as they both approached as close as they dared before lobbing the bucket towards the hole. “Must have been Taliban then.”
“Or smugglers. Or ANA forces. Remember the stories Jalal told us about the mountains, people go missing all the time.”
“Hey, guys, lower the bucket, I can’t reach!” Fredriksson’s voice again, louder. “And hurry up, I’m up to my waist in rotting dead people and do not like it very much.”
“Just don’t want this thing to cave in on us too,” Blomgren called back, but edged forward, watching for cracks. There were the same marks around the entrance to the well, he noticed. The same sharp, jagged cuts as if someone had taken an axe to the dried mud and cement. Maybe that had weakened the ground.
“Trust me, you don’t,” Fredrickson shouted, “But seriously, hurry, there’s something…”
There was a moment of silence there as Blomgren and Ahonen moved closer, but nobody grabbed the bucket.
“Freddan?” Ahonen called again. “Can you reach it yet?”
“Shh,” came the reply, “I thought I saw… aigh, shit, shit!” The curses were punctuated by automatic fire, harsh and violent cracks in the enclosed area,
“Contact!” Blomgren yelled, throwing himself on the ground though the fire came from below. That was crazy, he knew it, it was just a bloody well, there could be nothing down there that could hurt them, Fredriksson had probably panicked, and fired on a corpse, and those screams were just fear, not pain, and…
All reasonable excuses fled as the first of the creatures crawled out of the opening. There was no denying the reality of it in the harsh, noonday sun that made the ground shiver with heat. Wrinkled and grey like the rocks, but bathed in blood and offal like a newborn. The thing was vaguely humanoid, a spindly hunched creature with arms as long as legs, a knuckle walker to preserve the blade-shaped claws.
“Fredriksson!” Ahonen shouted, firing wildly at the thing. The bullets impacted and it was thrown back into the hole, only to be replaced by new hands, clawing their way out. “Get the others, I’ll hold them here,” Ahonen gave Blomgren a push when he didn’t get moving, firing short controlled bursts as more creatures emerged.
“Christ,” Blomgren swore, but there was no time to think, no time to be afraid.
He ran for the back of the village where sergeant Pihl and Jalal had headed, only to be greeted by more automatic fire. The mountain was swarming, that was the first thought that popped into his head. The mountain was swarming with the creatures like an upturned anthill, and they were in their path.
“Take cover,” Pihl shouted, gesturing towards one of the houses that still stood, firing into the approaching horde.
“But Ahonen,” Blomgren protested. Ahonen was back there, and he didn’t know. He hadn’t seen… “Ahonen, run!” he shouted back, hoping he would be heard, because there was no time, he had to get to the house, had to hope the shutters would hold, had to hope…
They made it inside with seconds to spare, throwing themselves at the door, Jalal slamming the shutters shut.
“This won’t hold them,” Blomgren said, aiming his rifle at the shutters while Pihl put the bar over the door. “You saw the houses, what the hell is this shit?”
“I didn’t know,” Pihl said, looking terrified. “I swear, he didn’t tell me. I was just supposed to give it back; he said it gave him bad luck. Bad dreams. I was just supposed to give it back.”
“Give what back,” Blomgren shouted, outside the claws were hacking at the walls, at the door. “Christ, man, tell us!”
“The statue…” Pihl mumbled, leaning against the door while he pulled the small, carved stone figurine from his pocket. Grey stone, crudely carved, but with still discernible features on it. Features Blomgren could recognize on the creatures outside. “There are caves back here, miles of them. Covered in carvings. They looted them, some Russian guy had told them they were there, and the Taliban blows up things like that anyway so no harm done.”
“Then give it back,” Jalal snapped. “Give back and maybe they will go away!”
“Yes,” Pihl nodded, as if he hadn’t even thought about that before. “I’ll just… ghng…” a coughed moan escaped his lips, and Blomgren could see the bloodied claw jutting out from just under his breastbone. The sergeant touched it gingerly, coughing again, burping blood all over his front.
“Shit,” Jalal swore. “We’re dead.”
The door cracked, then collapsed, and Pihl was pulled out into the swarm. He didn’t scream, or maybe Blomgren just didn’t hear it. He was already out the back window with Jalal, the main swarm seemingly focusing on the house they had just left. Jalal wasn’t quite fast enough, and he Blomgren heard screaming as he was torn apart. He had to hide, he had to run, he wasn’t sure where, but then he heard Ahonen’s gun and headed that way. Back towards the car, downhill, thank the lord for that. There was a searing pain in his back, but he kept running, Ahonen’s shots flying uncomfortably close. Small deaths passing him by for now.
“Get in, get in!” Ahonen screamed, and Blomgren obeyed, clinging to the seat as the other soldier kicked the armoured car in gear and reversed madly down the narrow road. Blomgren kept shooting, but the creatures kept coming, leaping on the car, tearing gouges in it with their claws.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell is this?” Blomgren was gasping in pain, he was bleeding and the things kept coming and they could go over a cliff and they were dead…
“I called for help,” Ahonen gasped, looking backwards as the car jumped and swerved, trusting his friend to keep the creatures from tearing his throat out. “Radioed every bloody frequency.”
“Good, maybe…” Blomgren managed to say before one of the remaining creatures managed to break through the windshield, tearing at them with inhumanly sharp claws.
The sound of the gun drowned their screams as Ahonen lost control of the car and it rolled over, dislodging the creatures that had stuck with them this far. The car rolled, rolled again, then stopped.
And the rest was silence.