“Your… aggressor… is not dead… I need to question him.”

Nothing about that statement made any sense, then again neither did black blood, moving faster than a speeding bullet, or fangs. He was tempted to question further, but there was resolve written on the officer’s face.

“You have your orders, Sergeant,” the Captain said while pointing the way which curiously happened to be the precise bearings to take to get back to his lines.

“Yes, Sir,” Murphy said.

“What—(was that?)” Murphy asked.

The Captain raised his hand to silence him and shook his head. In the space between heart beats, this gentleman was now less than a foot away.

“Not the place or time,” the Captain whispered. “Head back to your lines.”

Whoever gave him that initial warning must have gone. The one before him spoke exactly like an educated British officer. I’m not sure I’d like to meet the other man.

“You’re not going, Sir?” Murphy asked.

“Your… aggressor is not dead… I need to question him.”

There came a blur from behind, followed by the Kraut’s head being turned violently a full three-hundred-and-sixty degrees. Before the body dropped, Murphy realized there was someone else ahead.

Another officer, but this time it was one of his fellow countrymen. The three pips marked on his shoulders marked him as a captain, but there was authority in his bearing that hinted he was intimately familiar with command.

The man had black hair, dark brown eyes, and sunburnt skin. He was surprisingly short, but had a hefty build and looked to be no stranger to violence. His service cap still sits perfectly on his head.

“What—(was that?)” Murphy asked.

That’s when the situation really got out of hand. O’Reilley was not alone, there was another soldier with him, a Hun officer by the looks of him. The helmet with a brim at both ends and that distinctive spike at the top was pretty much all he needed to make that determination.

If that was not disturbing enough, this officer was necking the private who despite heavy blood loss appeared to moan in pleasure. What am I looking at?

While that killed the eerie glow it did nothing to help Roy recover. Murphy crept over, to Roy who appeared oblivious to what was going on.

“Roy,” Murphy whispered.

When there came no reply he snapped his fingers twice and still got nothing. Since they were sitting ducks, he grabbed the man and headed back towards their crater. The corporal followed on limply as though he were a mindless automaton.

Both were not new to killing or stealth, but Roy somehow managed to find the only dry stick in theatre. The snap it made caused that thing to pause, followed by an eerie orange glow. Like a lighthouse the glow swept over the surface until it passed over the corporal.

Roy froze in place, entirely transfixed. Without hesitation Murphy closed in fast, grabbed it by the shoulder, and sliced his throat. The motion left a black viscous liquid all over his blade. What in Hell’s name is that?

The young man nodded and left his rifle against the edge of the crater. While a rifle was the most obvious way to deal with the threat, it would also draw fire from both sides. Their narrow window of escape would be denied them for potentially another day. The snipers would be on the lookout.

Both Murphy and Roy took out their bayonets. With a couple of hand signals the Sergeant ordered his corporal to circle left and approach from the rear. Whereas Murphy would go right to distract the creature long enough for his man to make the kill.

The realisation sent a chill down his spine followed by a sudden drop in blood pressure. After his vision blurred, Murphy reacted by taking several deep and controlled breaths to regain his wits.

“We…” Murphy began.

It was hard to believe but a scent assaulted his senses. The odor was hard to describe, but it evoked the image of a bloated corpse left out in the blistering heat of the sun. For a man constantly surrounded by death, such a strong reaction only served to motivate him.

“We do this quietly,” Murphy whispered to Roy.