Callsign: King II- Underworld

For just a few moments, the heavy canvas fabric of the tent seemed like an impenetrable barrier, holding chaos at bay. The illusion was tested when something big crashed into its side, sending a ripple through the taut material that set the upright poles rocking back and forth.

Magnuson turned to one of his subordinates. “Keep an eye on them,” he said, pointing to the still handcuffed trio. The officer had drawn an M9 Beretta from a holster on his hip. Something told King the 9-millimeter rounds from the pistol wouldn’t make much of a difference.

The side of the tent snapped again and this time the inward bulge was not turned back by the durable material. Tension ropes snapped, or the pegs hammered into the ground to which they were attached were ripped free, and suddenly the tent seemed to fold in half.

King saw what was about to happen and shouted a warning: “Get down!”

He dropped to his knees and then half-rolled, half-fell onto his shoulder. He saw Pierce and Nina doing more or less the same, and then the roof caved in. The heavy fabric pinned him in place like it was weighted with sandbags. A few glimmers of light crept under the folds as some of the soldiers caught in the collapse struggled to get free, but King remained still and shouted for the others to do the same. Over the din of shots and screams, and the rustle of the tent’s destruction, King heard the noise of something heavy, like sledgehammer blows, pounding the ground with a very familiar rhythm.

Footsteps, King realized. Someone running.Or something…something that weighs as much as an elephant. Make that a lot of somethings.

The olive-drab shroud grew tight around him as the steps began falling directly on the collapsed tent. One of the footfalls came down right next to his head, sending out a tremor that rattled through his skull. If the thing stepped on him…stepped on any of them…it would break bones or do internal damage.

The heavy steps moved away, sparing King, but he didn’t know the fate of the others. With deliberate slowness, he began worming his way toward where he thought Pierce was, hissing his friend’s name in a stage whisper.

“King? I’m here.” It was Nina. He kept squirming forward until he felt his shoulder bump against her.

“Is George with you?” It occurred to King that Pierce had never actually gotten around to introducing himself to the woman they had met on the trail, but she seemed like a quick study.

“No. I lost track of him.”

“Are you all right?” King kept the disappointment from his tone.

“So far. This would be a lot easier if I could get my hands free.”

“We’ll do something about that soon.” King oriented himself toward what he thought was the shortest route to freedom. “Follow me.”

A few feet from where he encountered Nina, King glimpsed a sliver of light. He cautiously poked his head out and tried to get a look at the mayhem that had descended upon the camp.

The shimmering mist was everywhere, hugging the ground and obscuring his view, but through it, King could see shapes moving—a few soldiers still standing their ground and firing their carbines, but many more running, pursued by enormous humanoid silhouettes. The air was alive with noise: the harsh crack of M4s, the screams of men dying and other inhuman shrieks, and in the distance, a deep bass rumble of thunder.

A soldier had fallen only a few feet from where King now lay. The young man’s body was bent unnaturally; his upper torso had been twisted completely around. The heavy body armor had afforded little protection from the raw physical strength of the unknown attackers. King felt a pang of sorrow that another brave American soldier had fallen, but there wasn’t time for grief. He spied a familiar object on the dead man’s belt and scooted in close enough to grasp the hilt of the KA-BAR knife and draw it from its sheath.

Working by feel alone, King slipped the razor sharp blade under the plastic zip-ties binding his hands and gave the knife a twist. The plastic parted with hardly any effort. With his hands freed, he rolled back toward the collapsed tent and cut Nina’s bonds as well. Only then did he poke his head above the blanket of mist.

The camp was completely unrecognizable. All of the tents had been knocked down, as had the overhead Klieg lights and the satellite dish. A fire was raging in one corner of the compound, possibly from one of the overturned diesel-powered electrical generators. The mist emitted an eerie glow that gave little illumination, but off in the distance, brilliant tongues of lightning mixed with fast-moving orbs of ball lightning were stabbing down from the sky, revealing the scene in brief flashes, like a strobe light on a dance floor.