With the virtual nightmare fuel a full mile behind them, Finch finally allowed himself to exhale a deep breath of relief as he and the rest of his fire team settled back into a proper patrol formation. Once more, each Marine maintained their twenty-meter interval while their SEAL escort pushed ahead and faded back into the forest to rejoin his own team and carry out whatever it was that frogmen do in this supernatural hellscape.

  Thankfully, the eerie, blood-red forest had gradually given way to something more... normal. Yet, Finch couldn’t help but think that ‘normal’ was a rather... radically relative term when one was trudging through an alien world full of malicious entities that were suspiciously modeled after fantasy creatures.

  Instead of the crimson atmosphere and bleeding trees, lush greens had finally returned to the foliage, which was also accompanied by honest-to-God brown bark. Still, this wasn't Earth—splashes of purple ferns, orange moss, and electric blue vines reminded them with every step that they were a long way from home. The only solace the Marines had, however, was the fact that at least nothing was trying to negotiate for their souls anymore.

  Finch looked down and checked his End User Device strapped to his chest to view the location of each unit on the very rough tactical map that outlined their area of operation. They were getting pretty damn close to Phase Line Oscar—a critical checkpoint that intel had identified as a likely position for enemy fortifications, should any be erected. Given how fucking loud their infil had been with all those King Stallions and Chinooks thundering in, the enemy sure as shit knew they were in the area.

  They'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to.

  As they moved, Finch couldn't help but wonder what combat would actually be like fighting these... aliens. Were they even aliens? Unable to find the correct definition for these beings, Finch ended up scratching his cheek while his mind churned aimlessly.

  From all the briefings and PowerPoint presentations they had to endure, the enemy ended up looking like they came straight out of a random fantasy video game he'd boot up in the barracks after 12 to 15 hours of pure suffering or boredom. You had your standard humans, but then came elves with actual magic, orcs that could bench press a Humvee, whatever that fairy thing had been, and fucking goblins.

  However, his philosophical musings were cut short as the patrol came to a rather steep incline. Marines from his squad were already lining up in single file, preparing to crawl up it as quietly as their gear would allow. As one reached the top, they'd turn and help the next Marine up—standard buddy team movement up difficult terrain. As Finch lined up, he then noticed a few SEALs had positioned themselves off to the sides to maintain security while the grunts did their climbing.

  Looking around, Finch was thankful that this damn near cliff was on the more normal side of the forest. If it had that thick alien undergrowth that grabbed at their boots as if they had their own mind, then they’d never get up that damn thing. Soon, it was Finch's turn as he found himself grabbing onto a length of paracord someone had secured at the top and used it to haul himself up the muddy slope.

  As he ascended, the Lance Corporal couldn't help but compare this to the jungle warfare training he'd had the great displeasure of going through in Okinawa, the Philippines, and Hawaii. Each of those events had been kind of cool in their own fucked up way—well, except for Jungle Warfare School. Fuck that place with a rusty bayonet. The actual live-fire exercises had been interesting from a training perspective, even though they absolutely sucked ass to experience as an actual human being.

  When Finch reached the top, he helped Newman up before finally following after Reyes, continuing his ‘nostalgia’ trip as his eyes scanned the forest for any signs of trouble. Right now, he was full, well-rested, and dry, but during their training, it was a completely different story. They were always hungry, constantly rained on, their socks perpetually wet, and running on maybe three hours of sleep if they were lucky. Even though this alien forest was as thick as could be, it was nothing compared to the absolute hellscape jungles he'd had to trek through, where you couldn't see more than five feet in any direction, and every step was a fight against vines, mud, and whatever decided to bite you that day.

  One major plus was the fact that the local foliage and fauna seemed content with merely stealing your soul instead of infecting you with dengue fever or unholy parasites…

  At least for now…

  As those thoughts ran through Finch's mind, he saw Reyes's fist go up—the universal signal to stop. The Lance Corporal immediately raised his own fist, stopping Newman behind him. The Private First Class did the same, sending the signal rippling back down the line like a well-oiled machine.

  After a few moments of tense silence, broken only by the strange calls of alien birds and the rustle of that purple fern shit in the breeze, the radio in his ear crackled to life. "All Propane elements, this is Propane 2 Actual," Lieutenant Watts's voice came through, tighter than a nun's ass on Sunday.

  Despite the nervousness in his tone, Watts maintained proper radio discipline in a patrol-to-contact environment and continued speaking in a quiet voice. "Be advised, Pathfinder elements are reporting enemy activity, time now at 1433. They've got eyes on defensive positions being constructed just beyond their hide site that overviews our target. Break."

  A pause as he probably checked his map again.

  "Enemy strength appears to be a platoon-sized element, mixed local auxiliaries and what looks like Imperial regulars. They’re digging in hard, and we are to meet up our pathfinder element at grid…" another pause as he probably double-checked the numbers, "...grid 18 Tango Whiskey Romeo, 8-7-6-5, 4-3-2-1. How copy, over?"

  The squad leaders began checking in.

  "Propane 2-1, solid copy, over."

  "2-2 copies all, over."

  "This is 2-3, good copy on all, over," Staff Sergeant Michaels's voice was steady as a rock.

  "Alright, boys,” Watt continued as a bit of confidence returned to his voice. “Here's what we're gonna do. We're going to converge on rally point Bravo—should be about 400 meters from 2-3’s position. Once all elements are consolidated, we'll organize our assault. I want squad leaders up with me once we're set. Keep it quiet. Propane 2 Actual, Out.”

  A beat of silence stretched before Finch as he watched Reyes slowly lower his fist and make a sweeping motion. Finch mimicked the movement as they picked up their sluggish pace, but he saw Reyes turn his head around to give him an excited look that the Lance Corporal. Finch couldn’t help but share the same giddy his Team Leader gave him and immediately read it as 'we’re finally gonna get some,' even past all the dark face paint he wore.

  This was no longer a patrol—this was movement to contact. Every Marine became more deliberate, holding their weapons a little tighter as their eyes scanned their sectors with renewed intensity.

  Four hundred meters to the rally point. Then God knew how far to the objective and finally their first taste of combat against whatever the fuck these Imperial regulars were.

  As they continued their patrol, Finch began to notice that they had been going uphill pretty much the entire time for the past couple of hours. It wasn’t too obvious, but it was becoming increasingly clear that the upland slopes were growing more aggressive with each step. The incline wasn't just noticeable anymore—it was actively working against them, with each footfall requiring more effort than the last as loose alien soil gave way beneath their boots.

  Finch knew that the entire region the US Military entered was pretty damn hilly and mountainous from the briefings, but he didn't expect they'd be going up a damn mountain themselves.

  “Ahh hell…” The Lance Corporal grumbled. They didn't bring any equipment that would allow them to deal with such an environment in the first place—no climbing gear, no proper mountaineering equipment, just their standard combat load and whatever they thought was essential to bring for extended combat.

  Given the sharp peaks that dominated the skyline, even through the dense canopy they found themselves in, Finch worried they'd soon be running into a cliff face. The thought of scaling down it without proper equipment made the Lance corporal shiver for a moment as he remembered how absolutely shit he was at mountain climbing.

  He initially believed they'd be running around in the lowland valleys, maneuvering in the wide open on enemy positions. But then again, the Army was already down there trying to break through a bottleneck against dug-in positions, so it made sense that the Marines were operating in more… austere environments. But acknowledging that didn’t make him feel any better about mountain fighting.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  A heavy sigh escaped the Lance Corporal’s lips as his legs burned with effort. But as he refocused on his sector, something farther ahead caught his attention. There was a clearing up ahead; the dense forest began to open into what looked like a natural break in the tree line. And... the sound of running water?

  "Fuck," the curse left Finch's mouth before he could stop it, already knowing what awaited him.

  Sure enough, as they approached the clearing, the forest gave way to reveal a mountain stream cutting across their path. The water rushed downhill with considerable force, white foam churning where it hit the larger rocks scattered throughout the streambed. Sunlight—or whatever passed for it on this pisstain world—filtered through the canopy overhead, creating an almost picturesque scene that would have been beautiful if Finch didn't have to fucking cross it.

  "Stupid... goddamn... water crossing... piece of shit..."The Lance Corporal closed his eyes and let out a few choice profanities under his breath.

  When he opened them again, the stream was still there, mocking him. It was at least thirty meters wide, the water crystal clear but moving fast enough that he couldn't see the bottom in the deeper sections. Someone had already strung a paracord rope across, secured to sturdy trees on either bank—at least the SEALs or whoever had come through first had prepped everything.

  Small mercies, but he was still going to have to get wet, and he HATED getting wet.

  Finch wanted to express that the only comfort he had was knowing it wasn't freezing. The alien world's climate felt more summer-like than anything else, even at this elevation. However, this was still a damn mountain, and it was most likely still going to be cold as hell.

  And as if on cue, a high-pitched gasp escaped Reyes’ mouth the moment he entered the water ahead of Finch. The Sergeant’s rifle wobbled helplessly over his head as he felt the full force of the rushing, cold water. Still, Reyes moved deliberately, testing each footstep before committing his weight, using the paracord guide rope with one hand while keeping his weapon high and dry with the other.

  Taking a deep breath, Finch trudged forward into the stream and gritted his teeth as the water hit his boots first. He suppressed the scream of profanities escaping his mouth as the ice-cold river immediately soaked through and filled them with that distinctive squelch that meant he'd be dealing with wet feet for at least the next twenty-four hours. Then it rose to his shins, his knees, his thighs, and finally reached his belly as he waded deeper into the current.

  The streambed was treacherous—smooth, algae-covered rocks shifted under his boots with each step, threatening to send him tumbling—while the current was stronger than it appeared. The mass pushed hard against his legs with a force that threatened to sweep his feet out from under him, but luckily, the thick paracord guide rope was there to save him. He gripped it with white knuckles as his other arm burned from holding the M27 elevated above his head.

  "Fucking... water..." he muttered through gritted teeth, carefully placing each foot. The last thing he needed was to take a spill and get completely drenched or, worse, get swept downstream like some boot who couldn't handle a simple stream crossing.

  Behind him, he could hear Newman entering the water, probably cursing just as creatively. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for Finch’s amusement, the idiot took a spill and dipped completely under the current. However, Newman held tightly onto the paracord and emerged utterly furious, yet still maintaining sound discipline as a slew of profanities quietly left his mouth.

  Three-quarters of the way across, the water level dropped back to his knees as Finch approached the far bank. "This is some bullshit," he announced to no one in particular, his voice barely audible over the rush of water. “This is complete and utter bullshit…”

  Step by agonizing step, Finch made his way across. The rocks beneath his feet were always unstable, causing him to repeatedly stop and probe with his foot to find solid footing before continuing. Even the current seemed to want to drag him under as Finch almost felt as if the water tugged at his clothes and pack in a way that almost made him rotate.

  However, with a grunt, Finch held tightly to the taut paracord and pressed on until he finally found relief the moment he reached the shallow part of the river. As the Lance Corporal hauled himself onto the other side of the riverbank, water streamed from his gear, boots, and clothes, each step causing a horrible squelch to echo out.

  The only solace Finch had was the fact that everyone wore that same disdainful look on their faces as they found themselves completely soaked from the waist down. And boy, did misery love company as a creepy smirk formed on the Lance Corporal’s face when he saw that poor son of a bitch — Private First Class Newman — had been completely drenched from head to toe, with water still streaming from his helmet and pack. Newman wore a look that promised he was going to make this everyone's problem at the first chance he got, as water dripped steadily out of his suppressor.

  "Secure that shit, Newman," Reyes muttered as they reformed. "You sound like a fucking washing machine."

  A hateful scowl formed on the Private's face as Finch could practically see the rage-fueled steam coming off him despite the lack of actual heat. And it only deepened when Newman saw the very amused smirks on everyone else's faces.

  As they continued further up the increasingly mountainous terrain, the patrol's route seemed to loop around, following a game trail or the natural contours of the land. After another twenty minutes of climbing, they finally started going downhill. Finch's knees, already protesting from the uphill slog, now screamed in a different key as they absorbed the impact of each downward step.

  Eventually, signs that they were nearing their destination started to show it self as the patrol started to slow as hand signals came to close the distance. Finch saw Marines from his squad spreading out near a particularly thick cluster of alien vegetation, taking up security positions without being told as years of training kicked in.

  It seemed they had arrived at their rally point, and this was especially evident when Finch could finally see his platoon sergeant and platoon leader huddled near someone who looked like Mack—the Navy Seal Commander they met when this first kicked off. A bunch of other frogmen clustered around them and quietly chatted while studying something in the distance.

  As Finch approached his designated position, he caught fragments of their conversation.

  "—need to hit them hard and fast," Mack spoke in a hushed but concise voice. The SEAL looked over the brush, pointing at something Finch couldn't quite see from his angle. "They're starting to expand their defenses in the direction of where we first infilled. Bad news is they're already sending out patrols. Good news is, we’ve already neutralized them, but It's only gonna be a matter of time before they notice their people missing."

  Watts gave a troubled look, the butterbar clearly out of his depth but smart enough to know it. He deferred to the SEAL platoon leader with visible relief. "So what do you suggest, sir?"

  Mack thought for a moment, his eyes scanning over the thicket with the practiced gaze of someone who'd done this shit way too many times. As Finch settled into position, he finally got a look at what they were all staring at.

  In the distance, maybe three hundred meters away, he could hear the crashing noise of earth being ripped up. Even more unsettling were the visible distortions in the air—like heat mirages, but wrong somehow.

  Magic. They were using fucking magic to build fortifications.

  A thoughtful hum left Mack’s mouth as he started formulating a plan. "Alright, here's what I’m thinking. We’ll will hit them from the southeast, try to pull them out into the open. Get them focused on us, maybe chase us a bit." He grinned, and it wasn't a nice expression. "Then you Marines do what you do best—fuck shit up when they're in the open."

  "Roger that," Gunny Martinez nodded approvingly.

  "We've got the entirety of SEAL Team 10 out here to play, and we need to get them into that commander structure." Mack continued, "but first we need fires down on the main compound before we kick this off." He peeked out through the brush and pointed at something that made Finch's eyes hurt to look at—a strange, bare mound of dirt that his gaze naturally wanted to slide away from. Some kind of magical fuckery, no doubt.

  "So," Mack asked, turning back to the Marine leadership, "you have a way to bring in fires? Our SOFLAM is having a hard time penetrating this canopy. Flights are having issues picking up the laser, which makes calling in anything precise a real bitch.”

  There was a pause as everyone looked up at the dense canopy above them. Thick, alien trees with interwoven branches formed an almost solid ceiling of vegetation. Light barely filtered through, and Finch could see the problem immediately—there was no way a laser designator was getting through all that clutter cleanly. However, the vegetation didn’t seem nearly as robust as that bloody hellscape they went through earlier.

  A silence stretched as everyone deliberated on how to get ordnance on target. Nobody wanted to assault dug-in positions without prep fires. That was a good way to fill body bags.

  But the thought about the density of the foliage kept pestering Finch until, despite knowing he should keep his fucking mouth shut, he heard himself speak up. "Why don't you just strap a strobe to a drone and have it hover above the canopy? Mark the target that way and have the planes drop some big ass ordnance to clear it out?"

  Everyone turned to look at the Lance Corporal like he was stupid as shit, causing Finch to feel heat rise to his face under their scrutiny. Here he was, some junior enlisted fuckwad, suggesting tactics to officers and special operations personnel.

  But Mack's expression shifted from skepticism to consideration. "God damn," the SEAL said slowly, a grin spreading across his face. "That'll actually work."

  Without another word, Mack turned and moved over to one of his SEALs, already barking orders in a hushed tone. "Yo John! Break out the quad-copters. We're gonna need IR strobes and hundred-mile-an-hour tape..."

  Finch tried to shrink back into the brush, uncomfortable with the attention. But Gunny Martinez caught his eye and gave him the slightest nod of approval. Coming from Gunny, that was practically a Medal of Honor commendation.

  "Good thinking, Lance Corporal," Lieutenant Watts said quietly as he looked down the line. “Let's get our own shit in order…”

  The Lieutenant then started issuing orders on how they wanted their assault to progress as he organized machine gunners and squads in different locations. Meanwhile, other SEAL platoons, MARSOC Raiders, and multiple companies of Marine infantry were maneuvering around this base.