Unconventional Warfare: Flash Fiction

Updated on March 13, 2018
Paul Garand profile image

I write creative writing pieces inspired by '80s action, gaming, and heavy metal—classic 'good vs evil' stories with twists.

Human Waste Disposal 2: Shoot' n ' Burn!

After the airstrike hit the outskirts of town where the abominations apparently lived and bred those they kidnapped, my crew got a distress call from the town center; a place where the hospital was. “They are going for the patients!” was the last I heard on my radio. Assembling my crew of highly trained operatives; all having law enforcement and military experience; we rode towards the hospital. Human Waste Disposal Unit; when the threat is hard to define or categorise. When there are legal consequences in its containment by conventional means.

There are no tactics with us, we disembarked and kicked down the hospital door; gung-ho and guns up. The place was already crawling with them; contrary to previous sightings, they looked less human than what other units faced; upon turning one of them into Swiss cheese with my PKP Pecheneg GPMG (General Purpose Machine Gun) I saw that other things were living inside them. Insect-like with a nose-piercing odor.

The hospital is lost; my men are reporting civilian casualties and possessed staff they had to dispose of in self-defense. We were no strangers to gunning down civilians in such cases; drugged up, possessed, under influence of something else; we know they are past the point. I let fly a petrol bomb down a hall that was covered in their blood; the last thing we need is for this to spread further.

3 of these abominations, hands outstretched and engulfed in flames, ran towards me screeching in pain and rage; an attack I avoided with a side-step and spraying them down with my GPMG. Thrashing and twitching in pain; their screeching got louder which I drowned out with 1980’s heavy metal; blasting from my breast pocket where I kept my phone.

Many dark silhouettes clawed at me as they leaped from now-violated hospital rooms; they don’t know what a gun is. At least they can be serenaded by ACCEPT as they depart to whatever hell that awaits them.

Insectoid SPEC-OPS 2: Mountain Kill

North Caucasus, Chechnya, Zero Dark Thirty; I observe a group of guerillas herding their fresh captives into a hole in the center of what resembled an old Soviet village compound. My M24E1sniper rifle stalked their every move but, with every bearded face I saw; it wasn’t their day. I was after a HVT (High Value Target) who pretty much had the Russian Federal Forces stationed here in his pocket; exchanging millions for ordnance, information and freedom to move drugs across the Georgian and Russian borders. The scumbag was nowhere to be seen.

Part dragonfly, part LRRP (Long Range Reconnaissance Patrol) I was selected for the Insectoid SPEC-OPS program after a successful operation in Afghanistan; a smash and grab of another scumbag who buys law enforcement and moves dope. I was spliced the best vision available alongside fast wings; I am the best fugitive hunter the US Armed Forces made.

Hours later and my target hasn’t shown up; did someone tip him off?! Whatever it was, my order is to terminate so I have to improvise and adapt; the LRRP way. Analysing the camp some more for possible locations, defenses and entry points; I had to wait till night time. Many hours later, I was moving through the camp, knife in hand and vision on high alert; the guerillas slept soundly with a few patrolling the area; nothing unusual until I reached the central building.

Lights were on inside and 2 guards wearing VDV Flecktarn fatigues (Russian camo pattern worn by Airborne Troops) and carrying AK-12 rifles were stationed near the door; I recognised the Russian Federal Armed Forces patches; the corrupt commander was here too. Using my wings, I boost- jumped on the roof to evade them. The roof was rickety and worn; I could hear the conversation inside through the holes.

“I told you, Shamil, the border patrol is not a problem; I know an officer who owes me for saving his neck in the first campaign.” A harsh Russian voice said, “The problem is with the Georgians who seemed to have lost their fears recently.” I grasped my K-BAR harder when I caught sight of my target; a middle-aged Chechen warlord with a thick grey beard and sunken eyes. “It seems that our neighbors need to be taught a lesson in manners.” My target replied calmly, “My man in Telavi is working on it.”

Those were his last words as I broken through the ceiling, my heightened reflexes working overtime; I dodged the pistol fire from the Russian commander; making the bullets smash the Chechen several times in the head and twice to center mass. He collapsed backwards while I knocked the Russian commander out with an elbow strike below the ear. Without checking my target’s vital signs; I flew out of the window into the cold mountain night.

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    © 2018 Jake Clawson

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