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Prologue

Death seemed immanent every day stationed in Basra, Iraq. It was PFC Johansson’s naïve but strong will which told him that he wouldn’t be the one to perish in these god forsaken settings and furthermore immerge after the ordeal a hero in some way. If only he knew the way he was about to die, on watch out on this perimeter. If only he knew about the total brutality of his death and how his demise would come by beast and not from the hand of man or even by an act of war.

The only noise out there was the distant cackle of Jackals which eerily sounded a little off center from small children laughing. It was a typically cool desert night with no motion for hours. Only the pitch black of night turned graphically green through his night vision goggles.

PFC Johansson peered back into the sandy hole at Specialist Gunther, his battle buddy, slouched besides him. He appeared to be asleep. Johansson slung his M16 on his back and went to prop himself up and out of the hole.

“Where the hell do you think your going?” SPC Gunther squinted an eye, raising his Kevlar Helmut and hugging his M16 closer.

“I gotta take a leak.”

“Piss in the grenade hole. You remember orders. No movement outside our post unless advised.” Gunther, whom he’d been paired with just yesterday -the verdict was still out if he even liked the guy -pat the radio.

“It already stinks in here. I’m just going over there to the bushes.” Johansson flicked on the red lens flashlight attached to his vest which would offer some ground light. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

The lines on Gunther’s face contorted which gave him the look as though he was constipated with the decision he had to squeeze out. Johansson didn’t wait for a reply and was up and out of the foxhole before any such decision came.

Johansson slid the goggles over his eyes and stood a moment getting his bearings. He moved the small flashlight around until he got the faint beam on the bushes again. He lowered the light and his M16 and crouched over to that position. Halfway there Johansson stopped. He thought he heard something. He stood still a while, a rush of blood flowing through him causing goose bumps to form on his skin in the cool night air. Something about the whole scene seemed altered somehow but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Finally, he decided that it had to be the fact that he was a mere farm boy out here by himself in an alien land for only the first month of a sure to be long tour of duty. He might as well start getting used to this feeling.

Johansson reached the bushes, slung his M16 on his back and unzipped his pants. He froze, hearing movement again. The bushes were denser than he’d first imagined and now he found himself trying to gage how far away and how big the thing was that had made such a ruckus. But just as he did so, the movement stopped. All he could hear now was the thud of his own heart in his ears. Several seconds passed and he had already decided to return to the foxhole to finish his business. Slowly he zipped his pants back up and reached back for his weapon.

The next few seconds wasn’t even enough for Johansson’s mind to register what had happened. He saw the bushes jerk wildly as something came toward him at a fast rate of speed. The foliage was only about five feet high yielding nothing in sight but a broad, black hump above them, too small to be human and too big for any animal he’d ever been told of. He stumbled backward and heard a horrific guttural sound like nothing he’d ever heard before. The sound came just as he witnessed two inhuman greenish white, glaring eyes come quickly into view. Then his breath and his vision was gone as he was knocked down by brute force. There was a tremendous pain that engulfed him as he felt himself being ripped and torn repeatedly, while being pushed deep into the desert floor.

Only now did PFC Johansson realize that this was the moment when he would cease to exist.