Tales of the Forgotten Read Online Free
Author: W. J. Lundy
his soldiers. Even so, they had proven
themselves to be trusted warriors over the past month. Many times the Afghans
had impressed him; they were very dedicated and loyal to the families they
protected.
Brad
descended the ladder back into the warehouse, walking through the living area
and out into the cool night air. He found a quiet spot, and sat in front of the
building that overlooked the gates and his men on watch. He was struggling with
the offer that the SEALs had presented to him in recent days. They had asked him
to leave this place, to attempt to make it back to Bremmel and beyond, back to
society. It was becoming apparent that nobody was going to rescue them. Were
they really forgotten?
Junayd’s
scouts had made several runs into some of the neighboring villages, but never
returned with good news. They had once braved the bridge and attempted to visit
the north. They found large packs of roaming primals. After several dangerous
encounters, they wisely determined the risk was too great. The bridge was now
completely barricaded; nothing would be able to pass it without a bulldozer.
Sometimes
they would see the packs standing on the far side of the river. They probed and
hunted for a way to cross. So far, the swiftly moving water had stopped them.
Still, Brad worried what would happen when winter came. Would the primals
freeze like the river? Or would they walk across the frozen waters?
Initially
they had hoped the disease would run its course and the primals would succumb
to it. That day never came. Even thirty days later, the numbers were just as
great as before, and in fact were growing. It was true that they saw less of
them during the daylight. Primals didn’t like the heat.
On
a cool, overcast day the killers were out in force. But when the sun was
bright, you would only encounter them indoors, or occasionally in a shadow. At
night they were the most dangerous. Primals would come out of their hiding
places and hunt freely, roaming the streets and polluting the night air with
their moans.
The
damn moaning! It reminded Brad of the howling wolves and coyotes from his home
in northern Michigan. The thought of home made him smile; it was a place far
different from this. I wonder if I’ll ever see the green forest again? he thought to himself. Quickly he put the idea away; it was dangerous to get
distracted on the job. He shook his head, smiling again. Am I even on the
job anymore?
The
last one they’d killed was emaciated; its eyes were glazed over and the skin
had pulled tight over its bones. Junayd’s lead scout, Hasan, had found it
tangled in the wire way out past the main fences on one of his patrols. The
thing was obviously malnourished and beaten, but it still fought with the
strength of five men. Hasan said even after he had removed its head, the
primal’s eyes had looked at him with hatred and rage until they went dark.
Hasan
had proven to be a good hunter. Every day he took groups out to scout and
salvage items from the city. Brad didn’t know much about the man; he had been
mostly silent and usually kept to himself. Even the other Afghans tended to
keep their distance. Brad wondered what his story was. Junayd trusted him, and
even Brad’s own soldiers would volunteer to patrol with Hasan on occasion.
Brad
rose to his feet and made his way into the guardhouse they had converted into
their barracks. It wasn’t the most ideal housing. It was drafty and dusty, and
the cinder block walls and concrete floors were less than inviting. His men had
done their best to make it cozy with items from the rail yard and things the
soldiers had scavenged out on the daily patrols. His bunk was in a corner
tucked back in the rear of the guardhouse. His area would be considered sparse
at best. Brad had always been a professional soldier and had never taken the
time to collect many things, but now there was even less. Next to his bunk he
kept his personal possessions; nothing more than a large pack, his armor,
themselves to be trusted warriors over the past month. Many times the Afghans
had impressed him; they were very dedicated and loyal to the families they
protected.
Brad
descended the ladder back into the warehouse, walking through the living area
and out into the cool night air. He found a quiet spot, and sat in front of the
building that overlooked the gates and his men on watch. He was struggling with
the offer that the SEALs had presented to him in recent days. They had asked him
to leave this place, to attempt to make it back to Bremmel and beyond, back to
society. It was becoming apparent that nobody was going to rescue them. Were
they really forgotten?
Junayd’s
scouts had made several runs into some of the neighboring villages, but never
returned with good news. They had once braved the bridge and attempted to visit
the north. They found large packs of roaming primals. After several dangerous
encounters, they wisely determined the risk was too great. The bridge was now
completely barricaded; nothing would be able to pass it without a bulldozer.
Sometimes
they would see the packs standing on the far side of the river. They probed and
hunted for a way to cross. So far, the swiftly moving water had stopped them.
Still, Brad worried what would happen when winter came. Would the primals
freeze like the river? Or would they walk across the frozen waters?
Initially
they had hoped the disease would run its course and the primals would succumb
to it. That day never came. Even thirty days later, the numbers were just as
great as before, and in fact were growing. It was true that they saw less of
them during the daylight. Primals didn’t like the heat.
On
a cool, overcast day the killers were out in force. But when the sun was
bright, you would only encounter them indoors, or occasionally in a shadow. At
night they were the most dangerous. Primals would come out of their hiding
places and hunt freely, roaming the streets and polluting the night air with
their moans.
The
damn moaning! It reminded Brad of the howling wolves and coyotes from his home
in northern Michigan. The thought of home made him smile; it was a place far
different from this. I wonder if I’ll ever see the green forest again? he thought to himself. Quickly he put the idea away; it was dangerous to get
distracted on the job. He shook his head, smiling again. Am I even on the
job anymore?
The
last one they’d killed was emaciated; its eyes were glazed over and the skin
had pulled tight over its bones. Junayd’s lead scout, Hasan, had found it
tangled in the wire way out past the main fences on one of his patrols. The
thing was obviously malnourished and beaten, but it still fought with the
strength of five men. Hasan said even after he had removed its head, the
primal’s eyes had looked at him with hatred and rage until they went dark.
Hasan
had proven to be a good hunter. Every day he took groups out to scout and
salvage items from the city. Brad didn’t know much about the man; he had been
mostly silent and usually kept to himself. Even the other Afghans tended to
keep their distance. Brad wondered what his story was. Junayd trusted him, and
even Brad’s own soldiers would volunteer to patrol with Hasan on occasion.
Brad
rose to his feet and made his way into the guardhouse they had converted into
their barracks. It wasn’t the most ideal housing. It was drafty and dusty, and
the cinder block walls and concrete floors were less than inviting. His men had
done their best to make it cozy with items from the rail yard and things the
soldiers had scavenged out on the daily patrols. His bunk was in a corner
tucked back in the rear of the guardhouse. His area would be considered sparse
at best. Brad had always been a professional soldier and had never taken the
time to collect many things, but now there was even less. Next to his bunk he
kept his personal possessions; nothing more than a large pack, his armor,