There was a point when common sense became cowardice, a place where a soldier could no longer live with himself if he did not join his men in a forlorn hope.

It was a place of impenetrable darkness smelling of dank earth and moldy pine needles, a place where Sergeant Casey hammered the ground in his frustration.

Where the hell was Turner? His men were getting butchered, and there was no leader to take command of the sole remnant.

The firing had ceased with a stuttering finality that Casey knew defined the end of his men, yet he held his ground, waiting for the best of reasons. An excuse that he felt as a lead weight in the depths of his heart; someone had to survive and protect the people in the house.

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As if the thought of the actors was a magical trick, the men and the girl stumbled from the forest by the gully and ran to the house, two of the men supporting a third, their gait awkward as they pulled the man to shelter.

They gained the porch of the house as Casey heard a machine making its way through the woods in pursuit.

Once again forced to remain under cover and bide his time until the right moment to act. God help Turner, he thought. If the aliens did not get him, Casey was ready to pass judgment.