Bently had every intention of killing them all.
If he didn’t, he’d end up getting beheaded on Al-Jazeera … or something worse.
And he’d never see his wife and two whiny sons ever again.
Bently set his weapon to semi-automatic fire and zeroed in on the driver of the left jeep. If he got lucky and took him out, the jeep just might tip over and take out the other three insurgents too. Bently’s right index finger caressed the trigger. He inhaled and prepared to make his last stand –
“Excuse me,” a British voice sounded above him.
The American reflexively rolled onto his back and aimed upward, ready to fire. Then he froze like a wide-eyed statue. Six British soldiers surrounded him – all very much dead. Specialist Richard V. Bently could see right through them. That (in his mind) made them well and truly dead. The ghosts wore spec op uniforms of a desert camouflage variety and carried assorted small arms and ops gear. Each of them also had open wounds – minus the blood, but not the gore. In fact, the man talking to him was missing the left half of his face.
Bently peered through the ghost’s incorporeal skull.
“I’m Leftenant Hinnons, with Her Majesty’s Special Air Service,” Hinnons cordially announced. “You wouldn’t happen to have a working radio would you?”
“Sorry,” Bently replied. “It’s shredded wheat – along with the rest of my convoy.”
“Bugger!” Hinnons muttered as he pulled a spectral water bottle from his spectral backpack and took a swig. He offered it to Bently.
“Uh, no thanks.”
Hinnons eyed Bently’s wound.
“Waynecrest,” Hinnons called over his shoulder. A wiry little commando ghost walked over with his guts blown open. Waynecrest didn’t seem to notice as he reached into his pack and whipped out a medic’s kit.
“Um,” Bently resisted the urge to crawl away as the medic pulled out a pair of spectral scissors and gently held his leg down to cut at the bloodied dressing and get at the wound.
“Sir,” one of the ghost commandos called out, a fellow with a sniper rifle (and multiple gunshot wounds) across his back. “We’ve got hostiles coming in. Looks like they’ve got jeeps.”
The other ghosts looked off into the distance as the two jeeps came into easy visual range.
“Good,” Hinnons muttered, as his right eye squinted. “My feet are killing me.”
Hinnons turned to the sniper and nodded.
The sniper dumped his backpack onto the sand, dropped into a prone shooting position and zeroed in. Still on his back, Bently craned his head to watch this bizarre shootout about to unfold. He felt a needle sink into his skin and looked back at the medic. Waynecrest tossed the spent morphine injector aside and began to work on the bullet.
Hinnons pulled out a pair of binoculars. The remaining three ghosts knelt and took up firing positions with their assault rifles. Bently wondered if this was some kind of sick dream or hallucination.
“Want me to call it out?” Hinnons asked.
“No need, sir,” the sniper replied.
“Right. Fire when ready,” Hinnons called out.
The sniper fired once.
The driver of the leftmost jeep abruptly died from a head wound. The insurgent in the passenger seat quickly grabbed the steering wheel and hit the brakes as the two insurgents in the back jumped out. The sniper picked off the bad guy in the passenger seat as he tried to switch places with the dead driver. The sniper then adjusted his aim toward the rightmost jeep, just as the insurgents came into firing range with their AK-47’s.
“Lads,” Hinnons grinned, “feel free to join in.”
The insurgents could only see Bently and wasted precious time looking around for the source of the sniper fire. Hinnons’s three kneeling commandos neatly picked off the other four occupants with expert trigger-work. Their jeep veered out of control and toppled over sideways a few times before landing upside-down, crushing the insurgents. The two insurgents from the first jeep continued to run away.
“Dead or alive, sir?” The sniper asked, his right eye locked on his rifle’s scope.
“I tend to like them dead,” Hinnons replied.
“Me too, sir,” the sniper said, a grin creeping over his pale, transparent face.
Two shots later, the final two insurgents were dead.
Bently watched the precision slaughter with quiet awe.
“A souvenir,” Waynecrest said as he dropped an extracted bullet next to Bently’s head.
“How is it?” Bently asked, nudging his chin towards the wound.
“Bone’s shattered,” Waynecrest said, slightly impressed. “I’m amazed you managed to limp this far.”
“How messed up will it be?”
“You’ll need some proper surgery,” the ghost medic replied. “Odds are you’ll end up with a permanent limp.”
“Shit,” Bently muttered.
“Well,” Hinnons said with a dry smile. “It beats dying, old boy. Speaking of which, let’s secure our new jeeps and get the hell out of here before we all end up like you.”
Bently looked up at the ghost for a moment and realized that Hinnons honestly didn’t know that he and his men were all dead. None of them did! Waynecrest closed up Bently’s wound while Hinnons’ other commandos jogged out to the jeeps. Hinnons pulled out his binoculars and did a quick 360, with a keen eye out for any signs of the enemy.
“Um, Hinnons?” Bently hesitantly asked, unsure of how to break the news.
“Yes?” Hinnons replied, lowering his binoculars.
Bently didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth. Besides, the spectral morphine was starting to kick in.
“Thanks,” Bently said with an awkward smile.
“Don’t mention it,” Hinnons replied. “But the first, second, and third rounds are definitely on you.”
THE BLOODJACKER
In a poorly-lit alleyway, Rutger Muehlik fed upon the helpless prostitute in his arms. Tall, muscular, and blonde-haired, the well-dressed vampire held her in a seemingly-intimate embrace. Barely alive, the young Japanese woman feebly struggled to break his grip, which only amused Muehlik more. Seconds later, he drank the last of her lifeblood. One moment, he held her in his arms. The next, her shapely little corpse turned into a pile of collapsing gray ashes. Only her clothing, shoes, and purse remained.
Muehlik savored the sweet taste of her blood as he collected her belongings. A quick search of her purse revealed a thick wad of yen. He pocketed the money, tossed everything else into an open dumpster, and walked away. With a pleasant smile, he whistled, “It Wasn’t Me” by Shaggy, as he headed for the mouth of the alleyway.
As he reached the chorus, an arrow suddenly slammed through Muehlik’s back and ripped through his chest – right where his heart used to be. Muehlik frowned as crimson blood seeped out into his expensive white shirt. Fangs bared, he quickly spun around and caught a second arrow between both palms – mere inches from his right eye.
“Fall over, willya’?!” An annoyed voice with a Jersey accent called down from somewhere above