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  KHOST

  Khost

  Hobbes End Publishing, LLC

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2012 Zulu 7 Productions, LLC

  ISBN: 978-0-9859110-3-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012921894

  Written by: Vincent Hobbes

  Created by: AK Waters

  Cover Design: Jordan Benoit

  Khost

  Published in the United States of America

  1st Edition

  The sale of this book without its cover is unauthorized. If you purchase this book without a cover, you should be aware that it was reported to the publisher as “unsold and destroyed.” Neither the author nor the publisher has received payment for the sale of the “stripped book.”

  This product is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the authors’ imaginations or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without written, express permission of Hobbes End Entertainment, LLC. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the authors’ rights is appreciated.

  For information, contact:

  www.HobbesEndPublishing.com

  KHOST

  Written by: Vincent Hobbes

  Created by: AK Waters

  Produced by: Zulu 7 Productions

  Thank you for your service to the United States of America—

  James Waddell Johnson (United States Army Special Forces)

  Dale Comstock (United States Army The Delta Force)

  Keith K. (United States Naval Special Warfare)

  A Special Thanks to Chris and Angie Wilson for their donation to the Naval Special Warfare Foundation.

  Also to my friends in Hollywood: Rob Markovich, Mark Viracola, and Paul Bernard.

  Thank you for everything!

  —AK Waters

  The author would like to thank the following:

  Stephen Knight, for providing me inspiration to delve into this subject matter, and for writing some of the best zombie stories on the market. Kevis Hendrickson—my go-to writer when I need a good read, and a man I’m proud to call my friend. To Allison M. Dickson, for being such a wonderful muse, and for always humbling me with your beautiful words—it’s an honor to be friends with such literary genius.

  To Chad Reynolds, my best friend who served his country like a good patriot. Semper Fi my brother!

  To Dale Comstock, a man I’m humbled to know, a man who spent his life allowing me and my loved ones to sleep peacefully at night. Thank you for your service, sir.

  To my amazing publisher, Jairus. Thank you for all you do. Words can’t express how much I appreciate your efforts.

  To Jordan Benoit—for sticking with the dream and your amazing book covers.

  Special thanks to my friend Jeff Krogh, for being there to help me get through this impossible task and conquering the madness.

  To Jonh, the man who reminds me to remember my history and mythology. Thank you for the encouragement.

  To my mother for her encouragement, to my father who loves me. To all my friends and family who have always been supportive, I’m eternally grateful.

  To AK Waters, a man who brought me Khost, a man who showed me the genre ‘Militainment’. A man whom I call a friend. Thank you, sir. It’s been a wonderful journey.

  Extra thanks to all those who take the time to read my work. I’m humbled beyond belief.

  Thank you to my Monster-in-law for giving me my beautiful wife.

  And to my sister and brother-in-law, for providing me the greatest joy in the world—my two nieces. I couldn’t imagine life without them.

  And last but never least, special thanks to my wife. You know why . . .

  —Vincent Hobbes

  This book is dedicated in memory of Lizzy, Jeremy and Scott, whom were killed in Afghanistan while defending America from terrorism.

  Khost is a real place.

  This story is a work of fiction.

  This story did not happen.

  Khost did not happen . . .

  Khost Province, Afghanistan

  2010

  CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY

  ACES

  Asymmetrical Clandestine Elite Services

  Interrogation of Sergeant C. York

  Army, 1st SFOD-D

  Year: 2010

  Location: Khost Province, Afghanistan

  Time: 1500 Hours Zulu

  CLASSIFIED TOP SECRET

  The hood was ripped from his head, torn away in violent fashion—tossed aside to the cold cement floor.

  The shadow of a large man retreating to the shadows, blinding lights glaring, wild-eyed staring.

  Strapped to a chair, arms and legs numb.

  Head groggy, mind unclear.

  Sergeant York.

  He screamed out, shaking his head as he filled the room with a god-awful noise. It was one of despair, one of rage. York took in deep breaths, blinking at the harsh lights shining in his eyes. Eyes flickering, moving back and forth.

  And back and forth.

  “What the fuck!” York screamed. He attempted to stand, thrusting up with all his might. But his body was rigid, something holding him back. York looked down, seeing the chains, feeling them cut into his skin. It was agonizing, yet it urged him on. Drove him to escape that much harder. York seemed to embrace this imprisonment. It was the only reality he had from the shocking truth, the only thing tangible, the only thing he had left.

  York raged once more, pulling at his restraints, metal digging into his skin and drawing blood at his wrists.

  “What the fuck!” York screamed.

  “Sergeant York?” a voice began to question.

  “Fucking untie me!” York screamed, interrupting, thrashing his head side-to-side. He finally stared straight forward, into the light, eyes gleaming as he dared the voice. “Fucking untie me, bud! Fucking untie me!”

  “Are you Sergeant York?” the voice asked. It was deep, almost synthetic, no doubt masked by an electronic device. The voice seemed to come from nowhere, yet everywhere as if that were possible. It echoed in the room, filled York’s head, bouncing off the walls of the small, dark room.

  “Who the fuck are you?” York asked. “Where the fuck am I?” He refused to answer the garbled voice. He refused to obey.

  “Sergeant York,” the voice began calmly, “you need to calm down. You need to tell us what happened.”

  “I don’t even know who you are,” York yelled, staring into the shadows, thinking he saw outlines.

  Shapes.

  Silhouettes.

  How many were there? Or was the room empty, his imagination playing tricks?

  It was impossible to tell.

  “Listen, I don’t know where I am,” York said. “I’m not answering another single question. Ya hear me, bud? It’s your turn to answer some fucking questions. Why am I here? Why am I tied up?”

  “Sergeant York—” the voice began again.

  “You fuckers black-bagged me!” York screamed, lurching forward again. “I’m in the Unit, motherfuckers. You don’t black-bag me! I’ll fucking kill you. My boys, if they find you, they’ll kill you. I swear on it. Now where’s Commander McClain? Where’s my commanding officer?”

  York was six foot tall, two
hundred and five pounds of sheer athleticism. He wasn’t full of muscle, but lean and firm. He was in the utmost shape, a man who took great care in staying fit. Sergeant York was thirty-three years old, his long, blonde hair nearly to his shoulders. He had blue eyes, a light colored beard to match his hair—a beard that was dirty and unkempt. His clothes were tattered, dirt littered his face, his hair, his arms. The man hadn’t showered in a week. Dried blood coated half his face, desert sand caked his entire body.

  York looked as if he’d been homeless for years—a pitiful sight.

  Thing was, Sergeant C. York was a twelve-year veteran of the United States Army. He had fought in many conflicts in many countries—against impossible odds.

  York was now a member of the Unit. A proud member.

  The 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment-Delta.

  1st SFOD-D, for short.

  The Unit, they called it.

  The Unit, or The Delta Force, falls under the Joint Special Operations Command, officially designated the Army Compartmented Elements—ACE.

  Central Intelligence Agency.

  The good old CIA.

  York wore no insignia, no sign of being a member of perhaps the most elite unit of Special Operators in the world. They were rivaled by few, the best of the best. He lived how he wanted, grew his hair out and didn’t shave. York had his choice of any weapon possible, and a wallet full of cash. He killed for his country in the maybe the greatest Special Forces Group in the world. He was no rookie. He also didn’t look the ‘part’. York didn’t look like a soldier, didn’t look like a member of the military.

  It was his job to fit in, to not look like a soldier.

  York looked nothing like what one might think—might expect—the best would look like.

  And that was the point.

  “The fuckers who have me tied up!” York screamed, beginning to comprehend his situation. He was a prisoner here, shouting into the darkness, shaking in his chair, foaming like a ravenous dog. “They’ll have hell to pay.”

  York had been in Afghanistan for two years now. This was his seventh tour, having fought in Iraq for the first five. After every tour he’d re-sign right back up. Only in recent years had he simply changed directions, deciding to put up a fight in Afghanistan, against whom he felt were a better enemy. York had been part of a famous Joint Task Force, the ones tasked and successful in overthrowing Saddam Hussein and his tyrant sons. He had done his part, and it was time for a change.

  Afghanistan.

  York shared blood in the same sand with the most dedicated American warriors in the world. He had to earn his respect, and York did just that, as any Special Forces Operator would do. He earned his part in this grand stage of war, and respect followed. York was loved by the few who served The Unit.

  But now—

  Now this!

  Hundreds of combat situations, dozens of near death experiences, and York had never felt like this. For the first time in the soldier’s life, he felt true fear. York stared ahead, looking past the bright light, into the darkness. He stared at them, for he knew they were there, though he couldn’t see a thing. “Fucking untie me, bud! Why don’t ya fucking untie me? Is this how you interview people? Snatch and grab, eh? Why don’t ya untie me so I can rip your fucking head off?” York tried pulling at his restraints with all he had.

  Again and again.

  They held. It was most likely a fortunate occasion, because York had spent the last decade perfecting his skills in killing, and he knew exactly what he’d do once he freed himself.

  Sergeant C. York would kill every single last one of them.

  “What happened in Khost?” the voice thundered, ignoring York’s words. The voice was emotionless, without care, only wanting answers.

  “Fuck you!” he shouted, giving no response. Defiant and bold.

  “What happened in Khost?” the voice repeated.

  “I told . . . everyone . . . what happened in that cave,” York said slowly. He breathed deep, his head nodding, his eyes glazed, his lips pursed. “I told everyone . . .” York repeated, his words even slower, “. . . but they don’t believe me.”

  “What happened in Khost?” the voice asked once more.

  No sympathy.

  No respect.

  York became enraged once more. The moment of calm lasted only that—an instant. York strained, spat, screaming out, “I fucking told you what happened. My unit was dropped into Khost. Simple recon; we went into that fucking valley. That damned valley. We lost contact with base once we entered it, but thought nothing of it. Kept moving and—”

  “Why did you not turn back once you lost contact with command, Sergeant York?”

  “What’s it to you?” York asked, his expression changing. “You trying to blame this on someone? We had permission to do what we needed to do. We ain’t no jerk-off rookies, bud. You probably don’t even know what it’s like to be shot at, do ya? We’re the Unit, ya see. We kept going is what we did. Why? Cause that’s what the Unit does!” York retorted proudly.

  “What happened next?” the voice beckoned.

  “We took gunfire on the hilltop, killed about a dozen of the fuckers. Strange, but they didn’t seem to retreat when they could. After killing ‘em and reporting, we climbed down into the valley. Lost contact along the way, but figured it was just the hills messing with our reception. There was a village a few hundred meters away, figured we’d search it,” York told.

  “Did you meet any resistance?”

  “Negative,” York replied.

  “What happened next?”

  “We almost turned back,” York replied. “We almost came home. But then . . . then we found the cave. It was another six or seven hundred meters away, hidden pretty well. Maybe two hundred feet up in the mountain. A trail leads up to it, only one way in or out that I knew of. Hard to see, really. Lucked out in finding it. Or so we thought.”

  “Go one.”

  “Well, we entered on one end, expecting a firefight. Figured there’d be Taliban inside.”

  “What happened next?” the voice asked.

  “Instead, we were bum-rushed by a bunch of fucking monsters!” York shouted.

  “Stay calm, Sergeant York.”

  “Fuck you!” York said. “How can I stay calm after what happened? How can I stay calm when you have me chained like a wild animal?”

  “What happened next, Sergeant York?” the voice asked. “How can you be sure they weren’t Taliban? How can you know they’re what you claim they are?”

  The hidden male’s voice wasn’t asking. York knew it. They’d continue this game forever if need be. They’d keep him strapped down, they’d pump him full of more drugs, they’d drive him insane if he wasn’t lost already. If York didn’t answer, they’d simply take longer. They’d ask their questions a million times, then a million more. York would spend an eternity inside this cell. It wasn’t much different than being in that cave.

  His only chance was to answer, to tell them the truth. Over and over again he’d have to recount the horrifying tale, no matter what they did to him. “There wasn’t much light inside the cave. Dark, even with our flashlights. But I could see just fine. Been in caves before,” York said.

  “Continue,” the voice encouraged.

  “Don’t know exactly when it happened, but all hell broke loose pretty quick. Wasn’t long after we got inside. We weren’t far in, just starting to search some of the rooms. That place is big!”

  “Who fired first?”

  “No clue,” York answered honestly. “I just remember looking over and Ramirez was laying down covering fire at those . . . at those things.” York gulped, holding back a tear before continuing, wishing to God he could get the image out of his head, knowing it would haunt him forever. “I went to grab him, to pull him up. But the fucking thing ripped off his lower half. It fucking tore him apart! That’s what happened. I’m not lying. I’m telling the truth,” York bellowed.

  “Sergeant York, do you suffer
from delusions?”

  “What?” York asked, astonished, then angry again. “I’ve never . . . I’m not fucking crazy!” he screamed.

  “Are you on narcotics?”

  “No, I don’t do drugs, dammit. I fucking saw them. You hear me? I saw them!”

  “Sergeant York, why do you think the people let you go?” the voice asked, calm, collective, robotic.

  York stared hard, eyes squinting, breathing rapidly. He gritted his teeth, his hair wild, his teeth bared like a raging lion. “Now you listen to me . . . I don’t know what those things are, but they are not human. Do you understand me?” York screamed. “They are not human!”

  KHOST

  1984

  Soviet/Afghanistan Conflict

  Khost Province

  The new dawn was red, rays of brilliant light peering over the horizon as the sun rose, morning arriving, gently bringing life into the hidden valley deep within the heart of Khost.

  The wind remained calm, a faint breeze lifting the morning fog. Night became day and all awoke from a quiet night’s slumber.

  Khost.

  Located on the far eastern border of Afghanistan, a land melting across the border of Pakistan.

  Khost.

  Filled with people of conviction, a people who grew up in war, born into it. Filled with a people not yet defeated, not ever conquered.

  Khost.

  A region of Afghanistan that had never seen defeat, yet many invaders. Khost had never been overtaken, not by the legions of Alexander the Great, not by the hoards of Genghis Khan. Not once in its history had this land, this province, been turned over to the hands of the enemy. They were an impressive army of common people, with simple beliefs, a warrior’s spirit.