FOB (Forward Operating Base) Fenty, Bishud District, Afghanistan.
“I love you dear, when you get this message it’s probably still the middle of the night for you. First thing in the morning, make sure to give my little peanut a hug and tell her that daddy misses her and will be back soon. According to my orders, I only have three months to go, but I may be home sooner if the scuttlebutt is right and we’re being pulled back to the states to help deal with the Upgrade problems.
“Okay dear, I’ve got to go, we’re about to roll out and Sergeant Mills is giving me the stink eye,” Specialist Jameson said as he finished recording a message for his wife and daughter.
The message would upload and deliver automatically to his wife’s email. While they screwed up a lot of things for the soldiers on deployment, at least the military made sure they could get in touch with their loved ones at home now and again. It was hard to schedule a face to face time, so Jameson tried to record something every few days to share with his wife and to let his daughter know that daddy was thinking about her.
Jameson was feeling a bit depressed, like many of his fellow soldiers. He was not only missing his family like everyone was but he also worried about the new dangers that his family might face while he was on this deployment to Afghanistan. The craziness of the Upgrade had thrown the entire world for a loop and the United States wasn’t immune to any of the nastier sides of the phenomenon.
He was still angry about this deployment. Sure, the war and the fighting were supposedly over in Afghanistan, but nobody told that to the terror groups or the geniuses in the Department of Defense. Some guy with a too fat of a paycheck, sitting in an air-conditioned office at the pentagon had the brilliant idea that somehow, having a National Guard unit from Virginia stationed to this FOB in the armpit of Afghanistan would suddenly make a difference in the war on terror.
“You going to join us Doc, or are you taking a personal day to talk with your family?” Sergeant Mills ribbed as Jameson hustled to where the briefing was being held.
“If you're offering me a personal day then sure, sergeant, I’ll take one!” Jameson replied.
The sergeant’s scowl let Jameson know the answer was no. Jameson’s civilian job as a paramedic had made his transition to the National Guard as a medic a little easier than it was for most new soldiers. His skill at his job and the care he gave to his soldiers solidified his place in the company.
Everyone now just called him Doc, and the soldiers were comfortable enough coming to him for any medical issues they had. He loved that part of the job, the bonds you develop in war are ones that no civilian would understand.
“Keep it down and listen up,” Sergeant Mills began. “I know you’re all anxious about the rumors that we’re returning home. So far, I haven’t heard any concrete information about redeployment, so we will Charlie Mike until we hear otherwise.
“Today’s little excursion is another chance to show the flag and reassure the ‘friendly’ villagers that we’re keeping a lid on any nonsense in the area. Our area has been pretty quiet, but we can’t become complacent. Orders are that we avoid any collateral damage, but I want us all to come home, so if you see a threat, do unto others before they can do unto you, as the good book says. Mount up,” Mills said, butchering his biblical quote.
“Stay alert!” The sergeant shouted.
“Stay alive!” The soldiers replied, repeating the time-honored and always applicable phrase. Jameson hustled aboard the MRAP vehicle he was assigned to for the patrol, finding his position in the order of march was near the middle of the column.
Not surprisingly, the day of the Upgrade had been a chaotic one for the FOB. Jameson and the other medics hustled around the FOB after that weird announcement from space, trying to treat everyone’s pain from the initial nanite infestation. He still couldn’t believe there was other intelligent life in the universe…and that they had turned him and everyone else on earth into some kind of crazy video game character.
It would be the stuff of bad fiction if it weren’t really happening. Jameson had developed the class of Combat Medic—to nobody’s surprise—and was now Level 6. Most of the soldiers in the base were around the same level, save for a few of the fobbits that were only level 3 or 4.
The fobbits were soldiers that had easy jobs inside the wire. Every job in the military is important, and without the fobbits, they wouldn’t have the beans and bullets they needed to fight. Despite that, there was always a bit of animosity since the fobbits didn’t have to face the combat, patrols, ambushes, or the general mayhem to be found outside the wire.
Safe and sound in their holes like a hobbit, the nickname fobbit had developed over the years of constant deployments. Jameson wondered if their nickname had become an actual class for them and would have to ask one when he got back. He couldn’t imagine what skills a fobbit might have, other than eating and playing video games.
As far as his personal class skills, Jameson had developed the ability to stop bleeding and could channel ranged healing energy into any soldier within his line of sight. His skills also allowed him to prevent diseases from taking hold and infecting wounds. Most medics even gave off an aura that reduced the chance that the people around them would contract any simple illness like a cold or flu.
The Upgrade didn’t guarantee success and using his abilities drained his limited pool of power. Every person on earth now had a bar showing how much energy they had to power their newfound abilities. Most folks have taken to calling it the mana bar after the way games portrayed such things.
The combat side of the Combat Medic class gave him a bonus to hit with his M4 rifle and a once per day buff to damage for fifteen seconds. He also unlocked some general melee skills after taking extra sessions in Modern Army Combatives training on base. His primary job was to heal, but Jameson was more than ready to fight when needed.
The Army brass and the military had things figured out for the most part. Over the last few weeks, they had combed their ranks to find soldiers with gaming skills who could help teach others how to “build” their skills optimally. Discipline and constant training were keeping everyone on the upward slope for experience gains, ensuring the military would be able to handle the new threats that they would have to face.
After a week or two of quiet, things with the insurgents were heating up again…hence the constant patrols. It seemed the various peoples and factions in the middle east were split apart like they normally were. Most of the religious and political leaders were telling their people that the Upgrade was a blessing from Allah. The usual suspects saw the chaos created by the Upgrade as an excuse to inflict their particular brand of suffering and mayhem on those that believed differently.
Jameson thought that the rumors that they were all going to be sent home soon were true. It only made sense to keep the Army Reserve and National Guard units near their home areas to help defend against the new creatures and crazy people emerging every day. He pushed aside his thoughts of home, focusing on the job at hand.
A distracted soldier was often a dead soldier out here. He went about making sure, for the hundredth time, that his medical kit was setup the way he wanted. Jameson kept everything labeled despite knowing where everything was by touch alone. Even though he continued to carry several pounds of medical gear, Jameson only needed his new Upgrade abilities if someone was wounded. If he were wounded, having a complete and clearly labeled medical kit might be the thing that saves his own life.
“Doc, you see that video of the Chair Force smoking that dragon in Colorado,” Private Jimenez called from his seat, using the Army derogative for the Air Force. The Army and Marines saw the Air Force as spoiled, having way more comforts available to them than the other branches had.
The kidding stopped when they were under attack, nothing was better than knowing friendly air was on its way during a fight. While he talked, Jimenez kept his eyes glued to the screen used for the CROWS system. The remote operated M2, .50 caliber machinegun that sprouted from the turret on top of the MRAP swiveled as Jimenez moved the joystick around to view potential targets.
“Yeah, that was crazy. Wonder how much experience that pilot got for killing the first dragon,” Jameson replied.
“I know I could use me some more levels Doc. What do you think that thing dropped? I heard that creatures like that leave behind loot that the nanites build from the corpse. Some guy in Arizona was saying online that he killed a freaky-looking giant wolf-thing while hunting and it turned into a small bar of gold after it died. That’s what I’m talking about. Forget driving around here looking for terrorists, let’s go light up some wolf monsters, dragons, or something for the XP and cash Doc!” Jameson laughed as Jimenez became more and more animated in his descriptions of potential loot.
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“Just keep your eye out for any hostiles or we may become their XP farm,” Jameson replied. Like most people on earth, he was starting to pick up gamer lingo like XP for experience. He figured the whole world would soon be using gamer lingo, which was a scary thought.
Jimenez turned back to his screen, perhaps a bit more attentive than he had been earlier. The thought of someone killing you for experience was a sobering one, but it was the world they now lived in. Thankfully, other people didn’t drop loot like the Upgrade created monsters did, or there would be even more chaos out there.
The column stayed alert as they made their way from the town near the FOB and out into the countryside. Their route on each patrol varied, keeping to a schedule was a great way to ask for an ambush. Today’s route would take them through several smaller villages before heading back to the FOB. As the patrol rolled toward one of the small villages known for being friendly to the Americans, they spotted a crowd gathering and blocking the main road.
“Aw man, this looks bad, it’s like everyone in the village is out and about today, and they don’t look happy Doc!” Jimenez said as he zoomed in on the crowd.
There were no weapons visible, but that didn’t mean anything in a country where every baggy piece of clothing could hide a suicide vest. The column halted over a hundred yards out from the crowd, maintaining the space between each vehicle. Situations like these were textbook ambush scenarios so everyone covered their sectors and began to scrutinize every object or lump in the roadway as a potential IED.
“Weapons tight people don’t go lighting them up just yet. These villagers have always been friendly before, let’s see what’s got them riled,” the sergeant ordered through the radio, his southern drawl getting thicker like it always did when he was stressed.
The loudspeaker on the lead vehicle, an old up-armored Humvee, blared with the translator’s voice. Jameson had no idea what the sergeant had the translator say, but it seemed to do the trick. Several of the older villagers waved the crowd back into their homes and then slowly approached the convoy with their arms out, lifting their clothing to show that they were not wired with explosives. The sergeant, the translator, and two edgy riflemen exited their vehicles to meet with the three elders.
“Doc, get up here just in case we need you,” the sergeant called on the radio.
“Roger that, sergeant, moving,” Jameson replied and pushed open the heavily armored door of the MRAP.
A blast of hot 105-degree summer air slammed into him, along with the ever-present Afghanistan village smells of cooking food, animals, and human waste. The third world had a stink to it, each country exhibiting its own unique bouquet of scents. He trotted up just in time to hear the translator telling the sergeant what the elders had explained to him.
The translator was a local they had worked with for some time and was well-liked by the unit. Having been in combat before, the translator was reliable and confident. Despite that, whatever the elders had told him spooked the man.
“Sergeant, the elders wish you to protect them from a man possessed by a creature they call a Djinn, an evil spirit or demon you may know them as in your culture. It is said this man is killing all, entire villages are being exterminated on his command. They fear that their village will be next and wanted us to help protect them. This evil Djinn-possessed man calls himself a prophet, posing as a holy man to trick the villagers and devour their souls. No true follower of Islam would do what this fiend is doing,” the translator added.
The sergeant was quiet for a moment, likely thinking of his options, Jameson figured. Normally, Jameson would think the elders’ rants were simply the mutterings of a crazy man, or perhaps an exaggeration about a particularly cruel terrorist. Since the Upgrade…. who knew?
“Let them know we’ll help them. Ask them where this so-called Djinn was last seen and how do they know he is coming here,” the sergeant asked. The translator spoke with the elders for a bit before replying.
“They say he was spotted less than a mile from here. This false prophet has killed all he has come across, letting only one villager that he calls his herald go before him to spread the word of his arrival,” the translator replied as screams began from inside the village.
Screams grew in intensity as villagers poured from their homes to try and flee into the countryside. As Jameson watched, several of the villagers were pulled mid-stride back toward the village as if connected to an invisible rope. More and more were reeled back into the village by the unknown force, none were able to escape the village and make their way to safety.
Jameson felt a presence brush against his mind, something evil and corrupt whispered into his soul as a power latched on and yanked him off his feet, dragging him into the village alongside the sergeant, the two riflemen, and the translator. He was thankful for his helmet as his head cracked against the side of the fountain located in the village square. The brief impact broke the hold of whatever had grabbed him. The translator hadn’t been wearing his helmet and was knocked out safely behind the fountain.
Jameson staggered up from the ground and into a nightmare. At the far end of the square, a crazed man dressed in robes held his hands up while muttering. The villagers were being pulled closer to the man, blood erupting from their bodies and pouring directly onto the madman. Once the blood hit him, it was instantly absorbed. The look on the man’s face was one of madness and ecstasy. His babbling scratched at the edge of Doc’s mind as the force he had felt earlier attempted to latch onto him once again.
The force left him as shots rang out. The sergeant had jumped into action while Jameson had stood there gawking. The sergeant’s connection to the madman had also broken by impacting the fountain, but unlike Jameson, he had reacted with the ingrained training and experience he possessed.
Sergeant Mills continued to send rounds downrange toward the madman, all the while calling for backup into his mic. The rounds hit the madman center mass, punching bloody holes in the thing but not taking him down. As Jameson watched, the man turned slowly toward the sergeant and spoke, his voice somehow in perfect English.
“You little mortals think your toys can match the power of a Djinn? Your souls are mine to feast upon, come and embrace your eternal torment!” the man shouted, his body changing as it absorbed the blood of the villagers.
Its skin took on a blue hue and black horns began to grow on its head. The thing was more like the Wishmaster than the blue friendly genie from the Aladdin cartoon, and it absolutely terrified Jameson. Fumbling for a second with the safety on his M4, Jameson aimed at the creature and fired, using his daily rifle damage buff.
Training kicked in and the rounds struck center mass alongside the ones from the sergeant. The creature redoubled its efforts to reel in the villagers, the wounds the bullets were causing healed as quickly as they were inflicted as the djinn absorbed the lifeblood of the humans around it.
The two riflemen that had also been snagged, Owens and Lang, were dragged to the creature. Having missed impacting with the fountain, they hadn’t been able to break their attachment to the Djinn. Their efforts to free up their weapons proved futile as the creature parked them at its feet, alongside the mound of dead and dying villagers.
The Djinn started to drain their lifeblood, feeding on American and Afghani alike. Seeing what was happening, Jameson stopped shooting and began to channel his healing energy into the two wounded soldiers.
The feeling was both natural and disturbing whenever Jameson used his ability. A soft white line of light linked him to the two injured soldiers, healing them even as the creature pulled more and more of the life from their bodies. The process must have been agony for the soldiers, writhing on the ground in pain as their lifeforce was ripped from them, only to be replenished by the medic’s efforts.
Jameson had to be completely focused as he healed, barely reacting to the continued fire from Sergeant Jenkins and the screams of the dying. His healing faltered for a moment as a presence slithered inside his consciousness and latched onto him once more. Redoubling his efforts, Jameson continued to stream healing at his soldiers even as he was yanked off his feet again by the Djinn. As he was dragged closer, the creature looked down on him and spoke.
“Thank you, mortal. Your healing makes the flavor of my victims so much sweeter. Now let’s taste of your own soul to see if it is just as satisfying,” with that, Jameson lost all concentration as pain erupted throughout his body.
I will never accept defeat.
I will never quit.
I will never leave a fallen comrade.
The words of the soldier’s creed bounced around his mind, even as life was drained from him. Overcoming the pain shooting through his body, Jameson raised his hands once more, channeling the last of his mana into his nearly dead comrades.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
The distinct sound of the .50 caliber machinegun thumped in his ears. Jameson’s vision dimmed as he watched the heavy machine gun’s effect on the Djinn. Each round blasted fist-sized holes in the creature. A round hit its left arm, tearing it away from the body. The next round hit the Djinn in the head, a spray of gore from the death of his foe hitting him, and the shouting of Sergeant Mills were the last things Jameson experienced before he faded out.
***
“Yeah! Meet Ma Deuce you freak!” Sergeant Mills yelled as the heavy machine gun on the approaching MRAP tore apart the djinn. Nanite formed creatures from nightmare proved no match for this powerful weapon that has graced the Army’s arsenal since 1921.
Sergeant Mills rushed toward his fallen soldiers. The two riflemen were still down, alive but in a lot of pain. Kneeling by the still form of Specialist Jameson, he could tell the man was dead. The specialist’s face was turned toward the dead Djinn even as his hands pointed toward the two riflemen, providing the life-giving healing for as long as he could to the soldiers under his care. Doc had given his all, sacrificing himself to save his fellow soldiers.
***
As you already know unless you were trapped under a rock for the last half century, the Djinn and other mythical creatures like it were created by the nanites. The nanites were uploaded with complete data on earth flora and fauna, both real and fantasy. Want to bet that our planet was chosen specifically by the GGS due to the number and complexity of the various earth mythos? I have a suspicion that our planet may be unique with its variety of fantasy inspired monsters and creepy crawlies. Some folks believe that Earth will become a top adventure tourism destination once we leave the beta stage of our development…hooray for us.
The story of Specialist Jameson is a tragic one, but unfortunately, one that was not unique during that time. I chose his story from the dozens of other stories I had encountered in my research mainly due to its connection to the next story I found. What’s the connection? You’ll just have to be patient and read the next story. For the record, yes, the ability that allows me to experience what the people I am writing about have experienced includes a portion of the pain they felt. Jameson’s death hurt…a lot.