Khost Read online

  Another tunnel, another chamber. This one opened up wide, much larger than the ones before. It was massive, something that seemed impossible to create. There were faint lights above, more equipment, tables and cots, boxes of ammunition and rifles, shelves of clothing and shoes. More bunks, racks of maps and books and Korans. In one corner was a kitchen area, what seemed like restrooms nearby. Primitive, but usable. There were a few couches and many chairs for comfort, even a television along one of the walls. It was cracked, no longer working.

  More bodies.

  This time they weren’t strewn about, instead stacked in a single pile, a perfect square. Six per row, eight rows they counted. Forty-eight more dead, their eyes hollow, their flesh exposed.

  A small path on either side was the only way around, and the Spetsnaz slowly passed. They attempted not to look at the bodies, but couldn’t help it. They pushed past, green team leading, stepping over extended arms, half-severed heads.

  Their flashlights flickered, searching the dark spots, shaky because of their nerves.

  Then, they saw something.

  “Colonel, Green Leader,” a man said. “I see movement.”

  The clack of rifles pointing, everyone on guard.

  Kirov slipped his flashlight into his pocket, grabbing his AK-47 with both hands. He jammed it into his shoulder, peering through the sights. He caressed the trigger, aiming straight ahead, into the shadows.

  “What did you see?” Kirov asked.

  “Something, sir. I don’t know. Movement,” the green team leader said.

  Another flash, something moving in the shadows.

  “There, I see it!” Boris barked, pointing. “Far side of the room. Look into that opening. Seems to be another hallway.”

  “I see nothing,” Kirov said.

  “Colonel, I saw it. Looked like the outline of a person. Ran into the shadows.”

  Kirov waited patiently, his sights back and forth, left to right, watching, waiting.

  Suddenly, he called out, “There! Left side.”

  Green and red team pointed in that direction. Yellow team followed their years of training, covering all other angles.

  “I see it,” Boris said. “Yup, that’s a person all right.”

  Their flashlights, crudely strapped to their rifles, weren’t enough. The overhead lights, flickering madly, only worsened visibility. They weren’t close enough, but they could see someone.

  Something.

  Darkness was ahead, and in the shadows lurked death.

  “Hold steady. We observe first. Hold your fire,” Kirov ordered. His voice was hushed and he took a few silent steps forward. Cautious, heel to ball of foot to remain quiet. The crinkle of his plastic chemical suit, making noise regardless of how slow he moved, annoyed him. None wanted to alert of their presence.

  “What is it, Colonel? Survivors?” a voice whispered from the group of men.

  “Don’t know, it’s too fucking dark,” Kirov said, taking three more steps.

  Beams of light attempted to illuminate the darkness, penetrating into the dark opening of another tunnel, into a great shadow. It wasn’t enough.

  The shadows, the darkness, was enough to drive a man insane.

  Something was wrong, Kirov could feel it.

  He took another step.

  And another.

  He stopped, his body jolted. Kirov’s eyes widened, his mouth falling open as the shock crept across his face. He could see it now.

  Someone.

  Indeed human, or so he thought.

  It was a child. From this distance, it looked like a boy. Kirov guessed maybe ten years of age, perhaps twelve. The child was skinny, malnourished, dark hair. He wore only ripped pants, no shoes, no shirt. The boy was a dirty mess.

  “It’s a fucking kid,” Morozov declared. “See him? Looks alone. You don’t think he did that, do you?” he asked, speaking of the mutilated bodies.

  “No way,” Kirov said, refusing to imagine such an impossibility.

  “Think he’s still alive, Colonel?” Morozov asked.

  “I saw movement, but he’s still right now. Crouched down,” Kirov relayed to the group of men hovering behind, “. . . what’s he doing?” Kirov questioned.

  “Maybe it’s the chemical. Maybe he’s dying,” Morozov suggested, hopeful that was the case.

  “Can’t tell. Wait a minute, he’s moving.” Kirov moved closer, his men reluctantly following. Finally, the Colonel said, “He’s alive. There’s no doubt about it.”

  His men were silent, frozen. They huddled closer for a false sense of protection. Never in their wildest dreams could the image of a boy frighten these men, but it did now. Their eyes battled the dark, their minds battled the carnage, the grotesque things they had witnessed.

  “He’s moving sir, I see it now,” Morozov said. “Looks like something is in his hands. Can’t tell what.”

  There was something sickening about the boy, his movement. Something didn’t feel right. The three teams waited, not moving. Even yellow team, tasked to watch their six, couldn’t take their eyes off the child. They waited, holding their breath. They felt as if their racing heartbeats could be heard miles away.

  They watched the boy, confused.

  He appeared to be playing with something.

  27

  The child was indeed playing. His toy of choice was the severed head of a woman.

  She appeared to have been perhaps forty, though it was impossible to tell. The skin on her face had been licked off, nearly to the bone. Exposed flesh and white jawbone could be seen. Her hair was matted, wet, her tongue missing.

  Bravely, Kirov stepped closer. His men followed.

  The boy muttered something, licked the head some more, then stopped. He grumbled, not words but noises. He whined. It sounded like crying, but was something far more eerie. Almost a howl, though it seemed to have a tune to it.

  Was the boy singing?

  They couldn’t tell.

  It didn’t sound like speech, no more than a baby’s babble.

  The boy looked back down at the head, interested, entertained. He seemed not to notice the Spetsnaz presence, even with their lights pointed his way. If he did notice, he showed no signs of it. He turned the head side to side as if determining where to feast next.

  A giggle.

  The boy eased his oddly long finger into an empty eye socket. He burrowed it in deep, twisting, digging around and giggling some more. Obviously he found great pleasure in the act. It felt good, the gooey insides of the woman’s skull. The sensation made the boy feel something strange. It was erotic, almost, the sensation quite refreshing. The boy grinned, ear to ear, finding much humor in his act.

  “Should we fucking kill him, Colonel?” Boris asked, itching to waste this monstrosity.

  “Hold your fire,” Kirov ordered, though it went against his instincts. He’d never want to harm a child, but at this moment, he wanted nothing more than to kill this boy.

  They waited.

  The boy eased his finger into the hole, in and out.

  In and out.

  He pulled his finger out, a jelly-like goo sticking to his fingers. He giggled again, looking closely at the wet, stringy matter.

  The boy sniffed his fingers, his tongue flickering out, extending from his mouth. His tongue was long, much too long. It stretched out farther than it should. He gently licked the tasty substance, giggling at the savory experience, and proceeded to lick his fingers clean. The taste was delicious, addicting.

  He sucked off the remains, gulping it down. He licked and licked, getting the last remnants of flesh. Then, horrifically, he kept licking his finger. Over and over, the boy’s body beginning to shudder.

  He began to chew, to gnash at his own fingers. Soon enough, the boy’s own flesh began to pull away, the boy slurping it with glee. Another nibble, another pull. The boy feasted on some of his own fingers, and within a minute, the Spetsnaz could see the bone of the boy’s hand.

  “Colonel, what the
fuck we doing here?” Boris said, his mind whirling, afraid and near panic.

  “Quite!” Kirov demanded, but it was too late.

  The boy looked their way, staring directly at the twenty-four men. Their presence didn’t intimidate, though. The boy showed little reaction. He remained seated, severed head in his hands, and merely stared.

  He grinned again, this time directly at them. Kirov could feel the boy’s lifeless eyes stare into his soul.

  The boy grinned wide.

  Then wider.

  Then wider.

  His mouth stretched, the corners of his lips began to crackle. His skin was already brittle from the chemical, and as he smiled, the skin broke. The boy’s smile grew. Finally, it covered the majority of his face, nearing his ears, the boy opening his mouth wide.

  “What in the holy—” Kirov whispered.

  To make the situation even stranger, the boy looked back down to the head. As if the intruders already bored him. He gazed at the face, the single remaining eye. It was glazed over, dull, life extinguished. But the boy felt the eye was looking at him, calling to him even. It struck his curiosity and he turned the head from side to side.

  What to do next?

  The boy made up his mind, reaching his fingers toward the remaining eye, prodding at it.

  He dug, his fingernails long, seeming to grow.

  Finally, he got it, grunting in satisfaction.

  Pop!

  The boy plucked the eyeball from its socket, the thin cord of nerve endings attached, stretched as he held it before his face. The boy examined it, stared straight into it. He just knew the eye was looking back, and the boy laughed quite loud this time. He found this funny.

  Finally, the boy squeezed.

  Pop!

  The eyeball burst, spraying juice outward, some hitting the boy’s face. He rubbed his hands together, enjoying how the juice squished between his fingers.

  He liked how that felt.

  Minutes passed and finally the boy tossed the eyeball aside. He stared again at the lifeless head. It was nearly indistinguishable, looking hardly human any longer. The sockets, the windows to the soul, were empty now. Without a soul.

  He rooted inside a bit longer, but the head no longer amused him. He licked it a few times for good measure, not finding the satisfaction he desired.

  Watching on, this boy’s demented actions rattled the Spetsnaz, shook the battle-hardened soldiers. No man was tough enough for such a sight.

  The insanity.

  The madness.

  Nothing could prepare them for this.

  Boris, a man who had seen much carnage in his lifetime, wasn’t ready for this. He gurgled, belching loudly. He took a step to the side, pushing the nearest man back a bit. Boris leaned over, violently throwing up, the splash of his breakfast juices splattering on the ground.

  “Silence,” Kirov commanded, his voice low.

  But the sounds of vomit, Kirov’s loud bark, the nervousness of all the men—it attracted the boy’s attention. He turned back, his grin still wide, his mouth agape.

  “Colonel, look at him,” Morozov whispered. “That boy is fucked up. That chemical did a number on him.”

  “Look at his head, it’s deformed. Looks like blisters, but they’re bubbling,” Kirov whispered back.

  “His fingers, they’re longer than they should be. I swear his nails are growing,” Morozov added. “Are we really seeing this, Colonel?” The second in command was filled with horror, seeing complete madness around him.

  Before Kirov could answer, the boy stood up. He jumped from his seated position, slowly turning to face them directly.

  “Oh shit,” Boris said, controlling his bodily functions to the best of his ability.

  The boy still held the bloody head in his left hand. His right arm hung at his side. Though he appeared to be the average size of Afghani boys, something was off. His arms, they were growing. Slowly, but elongating nonetheless. Stretching down, hanging well below his waist.

  “Impossible.” Kirov had never felt such terror.

  28

  The boy’s gaze intensified. His expression was curious, at first. The boy began to gradually move forward in a bizarre fashion, headed directly at Kirov and his men. He nearly hobbled in a way, a strange stagger as he took a step, then another, then another.

  Slowly.

  Another step, then another.

  Then, without warning, the boy straightened upright with a jolt, his body rigid. His wide mouth opened, a harmonic noise coming out. At the same time, the boy pulled back his left arm, extending it far behind him. He held the woman’s head, clicked his teeth, and flung it directly at Kirov and his men.

  “Watch out!” Morozov screamed.

  The head flew through the air, approaching fast. The Spetsnaz had no time to move, no time to think. The severed head smacked into Boris, hitting him directly in the chest. A splatter of blood sprayed the man’s face, the head slowly rolling down his body. Boris grunted, falling on his ass, his rifle clanking on a rock.

  “What in God’s name is that?” Morozov blurted.

  “There’s no God down here,” Kirov replied grimly.

  The boy kept walking, headed straight at them. He hobbled, swaying from side to side, singing a strange song, inching closer. Both arms now hung at his sides, his body hunched, his head lowered.

  Closer.

  The boy clacked his teeth.

  Closer.

  He smiled again. The men could hear the flesh on the corner of the boy’s mouth rip even more.

  “Tee-hee-hee,” the boy giggled, lurching back and forth.

  Another step.

  His arms still grew—four meters.

  Five meters.

  Six.

  “This is fucking impossible,” Kirov exclaimed.

  Then, at that exact moment, the boy shrieked, his scream filling the cavern. He extended his long arms, slinging them forward, stretching them out, reaching for Kirov and his men.

  Growing.

  Mutating.

  Then, the boy charged, and all hell broke loose.

  “Engage! Shoot the motherfucker!” It was the final straw. The madness was too much, and Colonel Kirov made the decision, shouting his orders.

  The AK-47s cracked, barking glorious thunder, deafening the room. A barrage of bullets rained across the cavern. Flashes of muzzle blast lit the dim chamber, the crack of fully automatic fire filling the air.

  But the boy moved fast. Much too fast. He leapt to the side, tucking under the high stack of piled bodies. Bullets ripped into the pile of dead bodies, shredding them to pulp.

  The boy appeared on the other side, near the left wall. He reached up with his long arms, grabbing a jettison of the rock wall, pulling himself up to impossible height. He kept climbing.

  The soldiers aimed again, firing once more, bullets cracking all around, bouncing off the wall, missing their mark.

  The boy was quick as he skittered up the wall, racing up ten meters, scrambling along like a spider. Jumping to the side, climbing even higher. Finally, he stopped near the top of the cavern wall, fingernails digging into the stone, staring at Kirov and his men.

  The boy raced forward, scouring along the side of the wall.

  He came fast.

  “Engage, dammit! Kill the fucker,” Kirov shouted, his ears ringing as he emptied another magazine. Everyone fired, round after deadly round.

  Kirov was sure some rounds had hit, even saw a splatter of blood. It seemed to have little effect though. The boy kept coming, running along the wall on all fours. He closed the distance fast.

  Thirty meters.

  Twenty meters.

  Ten meters.

  The boy halted, a crazed grin, a wild look in his eyes. He then leapt from the wall to the cavern floor, landing in the middle of the three Spetsnaz teams.

  They were shocked, frozen in terror.

  The boy crouched down, looking up, drool forming on his lips, running down his cheek. His face was b
listered, his eyes wide, his forehead bulging out in front of their very eyes. He giggled, one last time, clacking his teeth and wondering who he’d take first.

  The boy jumped up, reaching out and lashing around a soldier’s neck. His legs fastened around the man’s stomach, hands gripping the man’s neck. The boy squeezed, his long nails digging in.

  The soldier screamed.

  The boy leaned in, biting off the man’s nose, digging deeper with his nails, finding the artery, pulling it from the man’s neck.

  The scream was just a gurgle, the death rattle of a brave man. Blood splashed from his artery, shooting out, soaking his men, his comrades. The man staggered, falling to the ground, the boy still atop him.

  Then, the boy looked up, spitting the man’s nose at Kirov’s men.

  The Spetsnaz couldn’t shoot while surrounding the boy. They’d hit their own men. They couldn’t easily retreat, the room was too cluttered.

  They could only stare, the brave Spetsnaz in utter shock.

  The boy’s demonic grin turned to Boris, who backed up a step.

  The boy sprang, slashing and biting furiously as the large man attempted to throw him off. He flailed, his efforts unsuccessful.

  Crunch. Crunch.

  The others could hear the boy bite into their comrade’s face.

  Boris’ death came quick, the man now out of the fight.

  “Shoot!” Kirov shouted. Yellow team peeled back within seconds, the men positioning themselves away from crossfire. “Shoot!” Kirov screamed again, knowing Boris’ fate was already sealed.

  They unloaded, dozens of rounds pumping into the boy—the creature. Their rounds struck true, pumping dead center into his body. The impact of the 7.62 rounds did their job. The child was flung back. Hot steel hit his entire body, burrowing deep in the boys flesh. A few more bursts and the boy was down, his chest ripped open by gunfire.

  The men stopped. Green team replaced their magazines, followed by Red, then by Yellow.

  The boy remained on the ground, what sounded like a scream of agony coming from him. The men were almost relieved, until they realized the sound wasn’t suffering or pain, but joy. The pain of their bullets, his imminent death, pleased the boy. The child twitched, leaking fluids.