Deathcraft

The killer had sprung the trap and it felt good.

The paper sheath on the muzzle of the rifle looked anything but foolish as it bore down on the first of the three soldiers. Orlok fired three shots. He wasn't even aware of the high powered rifle recoiling against his upper arm. The three soldiers were hammered to the ground in a pool of blood and bone fragments. Orlok straightened himself now, finally free of the fatigue of waiting. Shifting the rifle from his left arm to his right and replacing it with a large automatic pistol, Orlok stalked to where the dead lay. He was cautious about approaching them. Soldiers pumped up on drugs could live long enough to detonate a grenade, and he had heard stories recently about soldiers who had explosives strapped to their bodies, wired to explode a few minutes after all brain functions had ceased. These were rare as the 'live' soldiers around them usually objected. Still, Orlok was always cautious, and expected everything. The tiring part about any mission was thinking of everything, all the time.

Three so young. Three so dead. He had made three good shots. The closest had been shot in the chest and had most of her back removed. With other two Orlok had been more adventurous, they had been decapitated. When he had made sure they were all dead, he threw a handful of dry dirt on the chest of each simulating the Roman tradition of burial.

After collecting his things, Orlok Fletcher started the long walk to where he left his transport. He wasn't a big man, a mere 5' 9". Sandy hair, a throw back to his Celtic/Nordic ancestors. Pale blue eyes that a previous cruel partner had called 'watery'. But there wasn't an ounce of fat on his entire body. He was lean and sinewy from years of exercise and black-belts in several martial arts. He deliberately avoided building up muscle, preferring speed and agility over brute strength. He smiled when he remembered describing himself as having a 'swimmers build'.

He tried to not allow his thoughts dwell on what he had done. He did not relish the act. He grudgingly admitted, again, that he was a killer. Not a murderer, a killer. A hired killer. A tired killer. Over 50 hours lying on the ground, not moving, not sleeping, relying on technology to protect his biology. Spray-on silica to deflect radar. Anti-thermal fatigues to confuse infrared cameras. Camel hydration, liquid nutrients, drunk through a straw to cut down on movement in case anyone was watching. Urinating into a bottle. A hand-held silent monitor to warn him of oncoming entities. For what? A General in a misguided guerrilla army that was supposed to pass this way the previous night. He wouldn't be coming now. Another failed mission. Orlok walked slowly, the rifle slung over his shoulder pointing down. The equipment chattering at his belt. He dug out his pouch of tobacco and rolled a cigarette. When he lit it the taste almost overwhelmed him. Smoking, or rather the lack of it, was the part of a stake-out he disliked most. It must be an addiction. A quick glance at the monitor told him that there was nothing to worry about for miles. The walk was doing his muscles good and soon he was covering the ground at a mile-eating pace. The cigarette soon joined the dust that his kevlar covered boots kicked up and was replaced in his hand by a bar of chocolate. The staple diet of killers.

Eight more miles to the east lay his transport. He would be there well before sunset. The thought was comforting, the view was less than so.