The side of the long slope leading down to the communications array was covered in a light forest. We were still a couple of klicks out, but Robinson wasn't taking any chances. He led us forward slowly and cautiously, regularly stopping while listening for any sign of movement from unseen hunters.

In front of me, Westcott was twitchy, flinching around as he pointed his weapon at imagined enemies.

"Easy son," Sarge smiled as he leaned in close to the young recruit and pushed his gun muzzle towards the floor. "You could hurt someone with that."

"Sorry." The young recruit sniffled, his shoulders slumped forward as the kid's lip quivered slightly. Westcott seemed intent on examining his boots, looking anywhere but at the rest of us.

"He won't make it," Schmidt muttered beside me. Westcott deflated further as he heard the words. I knew how the kid felt. It hadn't been so long ago that I'd been 'toughened up' by similar comments. Systematic bullying is the military way. Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all that. Having survived the experience, I can attest to it working, but it's hell to endure.

Ignoring Schmidt, I moved up behind Westcott. "Keep your head down and stay calm. Everyone is scared at first." What I didn't tell him is that there were two primary reasons that people stopped being afraid. Either you were dead, or you'd accepted that you would die, and there was nothing you could do about it. I hadn't achieved either state yet. My guts felt like they'd been through a liquidizer, on the other hand, I wasn't the quivering wreck I'd been upon arrival at camp.

Westcott mumbled something in reply and nodded. I shrugged; I'd done my duty and been supportive.

"You can't just hold his hand," Schmidt said as I dropped back into my place in line. "He'll never toughen up if you baby him. Then he's dead meat for sure."

I considered this for a moment. Was reassuring Westcott harming him? Or was that just an excuse made by bullies to excuse their behavior?

This train of thought was interrupted as Robinson halted. We were standing on a steep, leaf-covered incline. Large oaks provided a canopy overhead while ferns decorated the hillside we were traveling through. Movement had been relatively easy so far, with the flora being tall enough to provide some concealment but not impeding our movement. Up ahead, though, was a thick cluster of heavy bramble. It seemed the perfect place for a trap or ambush with only a single natural path past it.

As we crouched, I could feel my heart beating loudly in my chest and wasn't sure if it was some kind of sixth sense warning me of danger or just the usual fear of death consuming me. Forcing myself to breathe evenly, I ran my eyes carefully over the scene in front of me.

The trees' branches had relatively few vines hanging between them, and none of the spider webs that plagued the jungles of Vietnam. If there was a trap, it wasn't as blatant as the grenade in a can trap we'd come across before.

I leaned in closer to Sarge, whispering, "Looks clear to me."

He nodded, waiting for the others to comment. Westcott and Schmidt concurred with my findings. It was looking like my fears were just a healthy case of paranoia. We turned to Robinson, waiting for his affirmation. The redneck crouched on the floor, scratching at the dirt like a cat about to take a shit.

"I don't like this." He commented quietly, gesturing to the area in front of us. "The ferns are all intact, none of the stems have been broken."

Sarge shrugged, waiting for the man to elaborate further.

"There is always scat in the wild. There have been droppings throughout the forest, small animals mainly, but there's none here. If the local wildlife is avoiding this area, then that makes me wonder why. There is good sunlight, but there is a section of bare earth there. That's not normal."

I looked at the ground that we'd need to walk through with renewed eyes. Robinson was right. There were undisturbed leaves scattered on the ground there, but no plants were growing. Not even grass stems seemed to be sprouting. I rubbed my glasses on my shirt and examined the area more carefully.

"Do you think something has been buried there?" I shifted uncomfortably as the squad's attention turned towards me. "The dirt, it almost looks churned up in places."

Robinson nodded. He unexpectedly moved deeper away from the section we were examining, and his voice dropped quieter still as he continued, "Not something though, a trap wouldn't explain why the wildlife is keeping away. Rabbits and such aren't clever; they'll fall for the same snare trap week in, week out. The thing which keeps wild animals away is a danger they understand. This isn't a fire or other natural hazard they'd avoid, so the only other thing I can think of is predator scent. That isn't a trap, it's a hunting hide."

"You're fucking with us?" Schmidt said, more loudly than I appreciated.

"Pipe down," Sarge hissed tersely, tapping Schmidt hard on the top of his helmet.

"You mean like a trapdoor spider?" I asked Robinson.

"What?"

I patiently explained, "Back home, some spiders bury themselves in dirt or sand as an alternative way to trap prey. They stay submerged for weeks at a time, waiting until prey comes into range. Then they pounce."

Westcott shivered as I finished my explanation. His face had gone white, and I figured it was probably better not to mention how such spiders laid their eggs in their victims' corpses. The very thought of small spiders hatching inside my body and eating their way out made my skin itch.

"Sounds plausible, Schmidt lets see if your throwing arm is any better today. I want everyone else locked and loaded in case anything emerges."

The squad fanned out, and I knelt, resting my elbow on my knee. My finger rested on my assault rifle's trigger, ready to fire if something should emerge from the dirt. Adrenaline was flooding my veins, heightening my senses in anticipation of a life or death encounter.

"Ready," Schmidt indicated quietly. Then he lobbed a large rock forward. It spun lazily through the air, bouncing heavily on the patch of ground we'd been examining.

The silence stretched out as we waited nervously. No bogeymen had emerged from the dirt. Absolutely nothing happened.

Schmidt looked at Sarge questioningly.

"Try again."

Ever obedient, Schmidt threw another rock. This time he gave it more height, and it came down harder with an audible thump.

Again, we waited. Around us, the forest was quiet. Almost eerily quiet, but surely that was just my nerves?

I shrugged my backpack from my shoulders, swinging it underarm, I launched it forwards. It skidded in the dirt. The pack flipped head over heels as it continued slowly onward then stopped.

This time there was an eruption of earth, and a storm of dust obscured our vision briefly. As it began to settle, a squat dark spider was visible, crouching where the pack had come to rest.

"Fire!" Sarge commanded.

We weren't fast enough. The spider sprang into the air as the dull report of our silenced guns barked out. Its leap took it clean over our heads, landing in the branches of one of the great oaks.

"Don't let it escape!" Sarge barked as our barrage started up again.

It hadn't made a clean getaway; two of its legs were dragging awkwardly. Limping along the branches, the Arachnia headed deeper into the woods. Leading us away from its camp.

"It's not going to. It's injured, there's no way it's going to escape now." Robinson stated with grim finality. Moving stealthily, he followed a trail of crimson splatters that had dripped down from the branches. I had no idea how much blood a giant spider contained, but it had lost a lot.

Robinson skidded to a halt in the shadow of a large rock and held up an arm. Gesturing for us to halt. Following his lead, I hurled myself headfirst into a patch of ferns. Pain lanced my leg as hidden thorns tore through my army trousers.

Schmidt hadn’t reached us. He stood some way back still, hands on his knees as he pulled in great gulping breaths of air. A red spot appeared in his hairline, flickering up and down like a wasp buzzing around. Before I had even thought to shout a warning, his head exploded in a torrent of gore.

Schmidt is dead.

The words echoed hollowly in my head as I read them.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

This mission was going to hell in a handbasket.

Robinson stayed calm, pointing to the top of a vast oak tree some thirty feet forward on the left. There, in the shadow of the upper branches, was a small red glow. Similar to the one which had appeared just before Schmidt died. Suddenly paranoid, I ducked back into cover. A rock near me exploded into tiny pieces of superheated shrapnel that burnt my face painfully. That had been a close call.

The red light continued to flicker around the ferns, searching for me, daring me to emerge.

That had been far too close.

Sarge had moved up alongside Robinson. I could see the pair of them talking from my hiding place, but they were too far away to make out words. Suddenly they both sprang up; one angled his run left and the other right. They sprinted ten, maybe fifteen feet before skidding into cover once more.

The red light shot over towards Sarge, and I took advantage of this to pop up, quickly snapping off a couple of shots before ducking back down. I doubted I’d hit anything but air.

Sarge and then Robinson popped up, playing whack-a-mole with the sniper once more.

“Westcott!” I hollered, but there was no response. Some way back, I could see the raw recruit, huddled in the shadow of a bush. Shaking. Perhaps Schmidt had been right? The best way to make a functional warrior was to terrorize them until they were more afraid of failure than dying. “Westcott, if you don’t get your fucking arse over here, I’m going to shoot you myself.”

His eyes wide, Westcott stared at me, gulping rapidly. I glared back until he rose, scrambling over the uneven ground towards me. The red dot appeared and twice exploded in his wake. Then he slid in beside me, gulping down desperate breaths.

“You wouldn’t really have shot me. Would you?”

I stared back at him, keeping my face blank. I couldn’t risk showing weakness and allowing him to fall apart. He had to fear me. Turning away from him to survey the battlefield, I ignored his question and looked him right in the eye, “On the count of three, you split left, and I go right. Twenty yards, take cover and shoot. Got it?”

He nodded dumbly at me.

"Three."

"Two."

"One."

"Go!"

I sprang up, sprinting for all I was worth. A grim smile etched itself onto my face as I heard Westcott propelling himself in the other direction. The kid might make a Marine yet, presuming he survived this battle, of course.

Skidding behind a might tree trunk, I popped back out, firing a couple of snapshots towards the alien. Even I knew my wild shooting was more threat to the local wildlife than the sniper. It did allow me to confirm that he hadn't left his vantage point, though.

"Moving in three," Sarge hollered. When the countdown completed, Sarge hauled ass, zigzagging across the open ground for nearly thirty feet. He almost taunted the alien to take him down.

Robinson didn't move from his spot; instead, he had nudged his gun out slightly from the rock's edge where he had taken cover. Sighting, he took his time lining up the shot. Then he breathed out slowly and gently squeezed the trigger.

The shadow on the branch shuddered slightly, rocking back and forth. Then fell, crashing heavily through each layer of branches until it rested crumpled on the floor.

"That's for Schmidt," Robinson stated solemnly.

Everyone, including Sarge, pumped a few more rounds into the creature to be on the safe side. Now wasn't the time to be taking chances.

Near the creature lay a jet black long gun with a rectangular scope attached to it. The weapon still seemed to be in one piece, despite having fallen forty feet to the floor. A tag appeared above it in my vision.

Arachnia Sniper Rifle

Technological Level: Advanced

Energy rifle that can be fired normally or holding the trigger will charge up to fire a single powerful shot that does extreme damage, even piercing through multiple enemies.

I tossed the weapon to Robinson and moved on to examine the remains of the alien. The Arachnia's legs curled in towards its torso, like a dead house spider. Coarse dark fur covered the creature's torso and legs, and it's crushed remains still wore a black leather harness. It fitted loosely over the thorax, the soft leather obviously intended to be as unrestrictive as possible.

A nearly inaudible hiss of noise came from a leather skullcap worn by the creature. Leaning closer, I could hear the rapid chitter of an alien voice. The cap was huge and slopped over my head, engulfing it to the extent where it threatened to obscure my vision. The high pitched chittering was louder now, and I had no doubt it was a language. Sadly it was unintelligible to me.

Discarding the headset, I moved onto the remainder of the alien's possessions. Of most interests to me were the myriad of pockets upon the garment. Ignoring the dark blood congealing around the corpse, I pulled at the clothings straps. Unbuckling it. The vest made a slurping sound, and small splatters of gore sprayed me. I absentmindedly wiped my face, intent on examining the surprisingly heavy garment.

"Hang on a minute Peters," Sarge commanded. I looked up, eyebrows raised quizzically. "Give us all a chance to move away from you before you start playing with that."

The others went with him. Robinson commented cheerily, "That way when you get blown up, for us, it'll just be a funny story to tell in a bar. Not a death sentence."

Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Their words had done the trick, though. I hesitated now, proceeding more slowly than before. Where I'd stripped the body's cap and clothing without a second thought a few minutes ago, I now gingerly opened the largest of the pockets, peering into it.

A single thin slab of smooth metal about twelve inches long, nestled inside: no tags appeared explaining what it was. This reassured me that it wasn't a weapon and thus was less likely to kill me. I hoped.

It slid smoothly out of the pouch. A bright display appeared when my fingers touched it, causing me to freak out slightly and drop it on the floor.

"Are you all right," Sarge called.

"Seem to be," I replied as nonchalantly as I could manage. A myriad of icons were now displayed on the black marble surface of the tablet. I had no idea what any of them meant, so I tucked it into my backpack for a detailed examination later.

The rest of the pockets were all identical, positioned in uniform rows on either side of the creature's torso. Small black disks were contained within them, resembling frisbees. They were, however, far more deadly.

Arachnia Fusion Grenade

Technological Level: Advanced

This energy grenade will vaporise any unshielded life form within its ten foot blast radius. Non-organic matter is unaffected by this weapon.

Now we’re talking!

Sarge brought me down to earth quickly.

“Hurry up, Peters. We need to bury Schmidt and bug out.” I nodded, pocketing the grenades and rising.

No rest for the wicked.