The machine gunner kept pulling the trigger until his weapon stopped kicking, and the unmistakable click of an empty chamber echoed in his ears. He knew that punching through a thick block of metal was pointless, but he hoped he might have hit the carrier or some idiot with ricochets. However, what approached him was a steady march forward, but the Hulk came to a sudden stop and tilted slightly to let some bastard peer through with a shimmering stick.

  "Oh shi—" Pure instinct saved the gunner's life as he violently threw himself to his right just in the nick of time.

  A spray of that familiar earthen spikes that attacked the fireteam before him, hammered into his previous position. The Gunner avoided a lethal spray, but he wasn't quite fast enough to dodge all of it. "FUCK!" the gunner screamed as one spike punched deep into his bicep and another tore straight through his forearm. Luckily, the momentum of his initial roll carried him over his assistant gunner, who was still prone with the ammunition.

  "What the—!" the assistant-gunner yelled as his partner rolled over him, blood already streaming from the wounds.

  The two Marines scrambled away just as a blast of freezing wind slammed into the same spot. Adrenaline was the only thing keeping the gunner moving as he kept on rolling away, leaving dark streaks of blood across the tunnel floor. The assistant gunner, on the other hand, had already jumped to his feet, dragging his wounded teammate up and stumbling back to their squad.

  "They're comin', Sarge!" the wounded marine yelled, his voice high with pain and panic. "Sarge! There's some giant motherfucker carryin' a whole ass slab of metal! Like a door or some shit!"

  Everyone was already in a flurry of motion. It was like an automatic response—Marines rushed forward, grabbed the gunner by his kit, and dragged him to the back as the pain really started to set in. His face went from red with anger from being struck in the first place to pale when he saw the gaping hole in his forearm.

  Other Marines ran up to the corner with their weapons at the ready, trying to maintain security while their squad leader immediately started barking orders. "Get frags around that corner! Now!" He barked angrily before slamming his fingers down on the transmit button of his radio. "Propane Actual, this is Propane 1-3. We have one man down, we need Corpsman here NOW!"

  But the only response was a flurry of overlapping, garbled transmissions that created an incomprehensible mess. Coupled with the sheer amount of traffic and whatever strange, magical properties this tunnel had, it was saturating their communications. It made anything other than local radio communication basically impossible.

  "Goddammit!" he growled, then grabbed the gear of one of his Marines and yanked him close. "Pratt! Run topside and flag down a Corpsman! GO!"

  But as soon as he said that, the SEALs and Raiders started making their presence known, and Finch's blood ran cold.

  They were funneling out of the rooms they'd just cleared—and they were carrying wounded.

  Finch stood there with his weapon at low ready, trying to process the chaos when he turned and saw a SEAL kicking and writhing on the floor. A strange red glow emanated from all over his body, looking like it pierced then burned. Another operator was being dragged out face-down, unmoving, blood pouring heavily from a wound Finch couldn't see. A third was conscious but practically carrying his entire left arm from the elbow down, following after their train of injured as if it were nothing.

  The man seemed completely fine except that his eyes were wide with shock, and he was shaking badly. His left arm stump was wrapped in a hastily applied tourniquet with quick clot packed deeply into it.

  "Get a CCP set up, NOW!" one of the raiders said, dragging out their own wounded before pointing at one of their teammates. "Pull him back!"

  “We can’t yet, there's still some fuckers in there!" another Raider yelled back before looking down at the person he was dragging. “Fuck, he's not breathing!” he growled, pulling his downed teammate to relative safety before starting to do chest compressions.

  The tunnel erupted into chaos. Everyone was yelling over each other as several explosions echoed from the corner where Marines desperately lobbed grenades. The blasts merged into rolling thunder, dust, and debris as they pulled the pins and more.

  Finch paid attention to the underground fighting crash course he was thrown into before crossing into the rift. He was specifically told that the key to tunnel fighting was to never do it at all, and if he had to, then prepare the largest clusterfuck imaginable. Because once the shit hits the fan, all tactics and procedures go right out the window.

  And as if that wasn’t enough, Finch found himself surrounded by a sea of bodies. Operators and Marines pushed past him from every direction, some rushing to cover the corner, others dragging wounded back. All he could do now was find his own guys and hopefully coordinate well enough to stop the enemy from gaining an advantage, but unfortunately, all Finch had was his fireteam.

  In the mad dash to assault this structure, he and his fireteam were separated from the rest of his platoon. Hell, Finch didn’t even know where his squad was. He spun around, trying to spot his team.

  “Sarge! Sarge, what do we do now?!” Pham’s voice called out in the cacophony, but Reyes was at a loss.

  Reyes truly had no idea what the hell to do. He was only promoted from Corporal a few weeks ago, and this situation far exceeded anything he had experienced before. Tunnel fighting was one thing, but fighting through tunnels against magic users while surrounded by special operators? They didn't cover this kind of scenario in any of their training.

  He was going to have to improvise and go with the flow, especially with 3rd Squad taking the lead.

  Suddenly a SEAL corpsman shoved past him, blood covering his gear as he grabbed the Marine squad leader's shoulder. "We're setting up a casualty collection point in one of the cleared rooms back there!" He had to yell over the chaos. "You guys need to pull back and get away from this corner! You filter the enemy into a killzone or we’re all fucked!"

  More explosions shook the tunnels as more grenades went off. Then a different set of explosions hit the entire structure—a deeper, louder blast that made everyone stumble. The lights flickered, and pieces of earth fell from the ceiling as haunting moans of pain mixed with frantic yelling filled the confined space.

  Everyone found themselves in a complete shitshow. This was the absolute worst-case scenario of a CQB nightmare unfolding in real time.

  It was a complete free-for-all, with people running everywhere trying to figure out where to be in such tight quarters and provide cover without shooting their own guys. Things got even more chaotic when a few Raiders brought their weapons to bear while more Marines prepared grenades. And the moment they peeked around the corner, Finch and Reyes watched the two operators nearly jump out of their skin.

  "FUCK!" One Raider basically screamed before immediately grabbing the nearest Marine by his gear and started pulling him back as if trying to get away. "MIKE, GAS ‘EM! Everyone, get your masks on!"

  Another Raider was already pulling out a cylindrical object that Finch recognized immediately—a CS gas canister, the same shit MPs loved throwing during riot control exercises. Except down here, in these confined tunnels with limited ventilation…

  The 3rd Squad’s leader seemed frozen for a split second with indecision as SEALs started grabbing their wounded and the Raiders' casualties. Meanwhile, more MARSOC operators moved to the corner, already pulling out their gas masks and rushing to put them on.

  It only took a few seconds for the horrible hiss of CS gas canisters deploying to echo through the tunnel before everyone reacted. More canisters bounced around the corner as everyone moved like their lives depended on it—because they did.

  Finch's hands were already inside his pouch, muscle memory taking over. Unclip the helmet chin strap. Pull the mask free. Clear, seal, check. His fingers fumbled slightly with adrenaline, but he got it seated just as the first wisps of gas started creeping around the corner.

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  All around him, Marines were going through the same drill. Some were faster, some slower. Pham was struggling with his mask straps, panic making his movements clumsy until Newman slapped his hands away and fixed it for him.

  It was at this moment, the squad leader finally snapped out of his indecision. Through the muffled confines of his mask, his voice came out distorted but forceful. "FIRETEAMS! START LAYERING DEFENSES! FIRST TEAM HOLDS FOR THIRTY SECONDS THEN GIVES WAY! SECOND TEAM PICKS UP! WE'RE PULLING BACK BY—"

  Just as the squad leader finished speaking, a gigantic metal slab darted past the corner, and what followed was like something from a nightmare. Out of nowhere, a massive bar mace that looked as if it were made of intersecting steel beams swung out with an unearthly force.

  The weapon was enormous, a rough length of metal that was half the size of a telephone pole. Most weapons like these usually had jagged edges welded onto them, but this brutal tool relied on its sheer mass and weight to kill.

  And it caught one of the Raiders square in the chest.

  There was a horrific, sickening crunch that could be heard even over the chaos as the operator slammed violently against the tunnel wall. Even as he was being crushed, he kept his rifle aimed at the monster, pulling the trigger and holding it there. A prolonged burst of automatic fire erupted from his weapon, hitting the giant wielding the mace square in the face.

  Half of the giant's head simply vanished in the blast as it snapped back violently, and his massive body tumbled backward, knocking over the infantry behind him. Everyone watched in horror as the Raider slithered down the wall, leaving a dark smear where a man had been, but then a mage turned the corner.

  A spray of the now-familiar earthen spikes burst out in a cone shape, but the angle was off—the mage hadn't expected the Marines to be so close. Only three Marines were hit by those terrible spikes as rounds hissed, snapped, and cracked all around, hitting the corpse of the giant and the wall the mage was trying to peek out from.

  The shotgun blast of spikes tore through the three poor souls, killing one instantly and severely wounding the other two. One Marine's scream was cut short as another burst of spikes shot out, with one spike punching through his throat and the spray catching a couple of SEALs.

  But that was when the real assault started. A group of shield-bearing spearmen rounded the corner in formation and charged. At least a dozen men in loose formation, their shields as locked as they could be during a full sprint, with spears bristling like a porcupine.

  The Raiders and Marines at the front, however, didn’t let them get close, opening fire with everything they had. An unholy cacophony echoed as rifle fire erupted at point-blank range. Sparks from rounds impacting metal flashed in every direction, but the spearmen’s shield and armor weren’t enough to stop 5.56 rounds as they tore through flesh like butter.

  Finch couldn't get a clear shot. Too many allies in front of him as everyone tried to back up while firing. His team was being pushed back by the overwhelming mass of bodies. The formation broke apart under the barrage, shields clattered to the ground and men toppled over each other.

  However, he noticed that their job wasn’t to assault them; it was to give an opening to the one thing that would. There darting in the midst of the charging enemy, he caught it—a flash of movement. Someone had dashed into the midst of Marines and operators, and whatever it was, it horrified Finch to no end.

  Sacreams muffled by gasmasks erupted as whatever had jumped into their ranks started opening people up like Christmas presents. Flashes of metal caught the light as blades moved faster than Finch could track. Blood sprayed in arcs as the figure danced through the Marines and Operators like a whirlwind of death.

  For five eternal, bloody seconds, the front of their formation dissolved into pure carnage.

  Then a SEAL with an Mk 48 did what was necessary. He brought the machine gun up, pointed it at the blur of blades and blood, and yelled before pulling back on the trigger. “GET THE FUCK DOWN!”

  The sustained burst of machine gun fire tore through everything. More of those charging spearmen, including two Marines and a Raider. However, they were already dead before the SEAL opened fire. One was instantly decapitated, while the others were brutally cleaved in half. But just before the rounds hit the bladesman, a thick multicolored magical barrier erupted in front of him, bullets sparking off the magical shield.

  "SHOOT OR WE'RE ALL DEAD!" the SEAL screamed through his gas mask just as the last link in his belt of ammo ran through his weapon.

  Everyone gritted their teeth and snapped their weapons up, but the Raiders acted first. They opened fire on the shield, pouring rounds into the barrier as Marines dropped to their knees to stay below the line of fire and fired back.

  Finch finally got a clear look at their attacker as sparks, smoke, and gas swirled around. What he saw sent chills up his spine. A man who looked more at home on a fashion runway as a supermodel than on a battlefield just stood there, glaring menacingly at them all.

  Long blonde hair flowed past his armored shoulders as aristocratic features contorted in barely contained pain. The man moved with inhuman grace, flicking his twin blades in his hands and splattering the walls with blood. The CS gas was clearly affecting him—his eyes were red and narrowed, his nose crinkled in pain, but he fought through it with sheer willpower.

  The swordsman barked out a sharp and angry command in his alien language, and immediately, the magical barrier started to retreat, sliding smoothly over corpses and debris. The multicolored shield vibrated repeatedly, like a drummer playing a rapid roll as a barrage of gunfire hammered into it. Each impact sent ripples of energy across the surface, with the colors shifting and swirling with every strike.

  Surviving spearmen held their shields up, awkwardly scooting backwards alongside the magical barrier. Some stumbled over their dead comrades, others slipped on the blood-slicked floor while the wounded struggled to keep pace. Some were still trying to stand on bloody, shattered legs, others dragging themselves across the ground with their hands, leaving crimson trails behind them.

  A few of them, unfortunately, were too slow to keep up with the retreat.

  The otherworlders showed no mercy. Those who fell behind the protection of the barrier were quickly cut down, bodies jerking and twitching as rounds tore through them. Magazine after magazine was expended, while casings created a brass carpet on the tunnel floor as they desperately tried to bring down that damned shield.

  Finch breathed heavily through the filters of his gas mask as he slapped a fresh magazine into his rifle. His hands were shaking from fear and adrenaline, but muscle memory took over. The Lance Corporal reloaded faster than he ever had in his life as he watched these freaks retreat around the corner.

  Then the blonde did something that seemed impossible.

  He pushed through the chaos to reach the large metal slab the giant had been carrying, which had makeshift indentations to serve as a shield, and grabbed onto it. With a grunt of effort that was audible even over the gunfire, the swordsman then dragged the huge piece of metal across the floor. Sparks flew in all directions as he scraped against the stone, but more importantly, it pulled some of the wounded trying to escape out of the line of fire.

  In one fluid motion, he hefted it up and slammed it into place at the corner, effectively creating a metal barricade. The slab didn't cover everything; there were still gaps along the sides and a space above it, but it was enough to effectively stop the gunfire.

  And the moment the metal barrier was in place, the magical shield disappeared. Finch just watched it wink out of existence like it had never been there at all.

  This was madness. Everything Finch had seen in the last minute defied every single one of his senses of normalcy, and he had to remind himself... And it only lasted a minute. How was he supposed to fight against superhumans who moved like blurs? Against giants who could swing telephone poles like baseball bats? Against literal wizards who could block bullets and conjure spikes out of thin air?

  The Lance Corporal’s breathing was so heavy now, his chest heaving up and down in desperate gulps. Each labored breath was audible through the filter of his gas mask, creating a rhythmic wheeze that matched his racing pulse, which throbbed in the tips of his ears, making his helmet feel too tight. It was as if his heart was like a sledgehammer trying to break out of his chest, one violent swing after another.

  Finch looked around at the writhing mess of bodies scattered across the tunnel floor and only saw body parts and blood mixed with the lingering CS gas that created a nightmarish slurry of an atmosphere that made him want to puke in his mask. The wounded were everywhere—some moving, some not. The dead were completely eviscerated from both the blades of that swordsman and the repeated hits of both 5.56 and 7.62, which threw chunks of flesh everywhere.

  A few Marines and a couple of operators were crawling toward them, leaving dark trails behind. One Marine pulled off his mask despite the lingering gas, his face twisted in agony. "C-Corpsman!" he let out a high-pitched scream that trembled with pain and fear. "Jesus... Please! Please, somebody fucking help me! Please!"

  Finch looked at the man's wounds and nearly had a panic attack. The Marine's left side was opened up like someone had taken a can opener to him. Deep gashes from those impossibly sharp blades left parts hanging out that should never see daylight. The Lance Corporal could do nothing but stare and wonder, was he even still conscious?

  SEALs and Raiders were steadily moving forward, weapons trained on the gaps that remained around the metal slab. They slowly stepped over the grizzly scene to grab those who still lived and drag them back to relative safety while covering each other.

  The whole world right now felt surreal. This wasn't war as he understood it. This was something else entirely.

  "This ain't it, man..." Newman's voice muffled through his own gas mask next to Finch.

  Never had truer words been spoken. It hung heavily in the air as the weight of their new reality set in. Whatever they'd trained for, whatever they'd prepared, paled in comparison to what they actually encountered.

  This definitely wasn't it.