A chilly night wind whistled across grassy hills. At the top of one earthy mound, five men jumped and scrambled to get low under a lone tree. Three quickly threw a well-sewn camouflage blanket over their jeep while the other two crawled forward into some high grass.
A pair of binoculars and a long barrel emerged from the soft blades.
“I count two of them,” the sniper said in a hushed tone that was barely heard by the three by the jeep.
“We’ll just watch for now,” the older man whispered back. The others finished their work and lowered to the ground with rifles at the ready.
“Is that wise, Helmet?” the youngest of the group, a boy with half his face covered in round spectacles, hissed as he crawled close.
“Just stay alert for now,” Helmet, nicknamed for the old war gear on his head, replied as he scanned the rest of the area with his binoculars. “Damn old eyes; can hardly see a thing; take this Glasses.”
The boy crawled to Helmet’s side and took the binoculars. He quickly spotted their obstacle.
Out ahead of the small band, two invaders were skulking through the night. They were tall beasts with two trunk-like legs that bent slightly enough to suggest they should be quadrupeds. Their backs were stiff like a shell and somewhat curved until they reached bulky arms; some in the group had wondered if they modified their bodies; the limbs and body seemed as hard as metal, and they always awkwardly moved about. The head and neck, the only “fleshy” portion of the creatures, were long and rounded out like a dome; they could turn and bend in many directions, making sneaking up on them difficult.
The Worms, as the group called them based on their heads, were slowly hobbling across the grassy space. One in the front would stab the ground with a pole while the other followed behind, carrying an alien lamp. Each had a large, for a human, beam rifle holstered at their sides.
“Only two, as far as I can see.”
“Let’s hold here and let them pass,” Helmet added.
“Slacks, do you have a shot?” The spectacled youngster asked.
“Wind accounted for; I can hit either head easily,” the sniper, so nicknamed for the nice dress pants he wore, replied dryly. “Can’t guarantee it will work this time,” he added.
The heads seemed like they should be weak points, but the group found it took about three headshots before they would fall—even more bullets were required for anywhere else—like someone trapped them fighting bosses is some hardcore video game.
An hour passed, and then another, but the men stayed still as could be, waiting until the sun peaked over distant mountains. Eventually, the Worm stabbing the ground turned to the second and shook its head. The human mimicry sent a chill up Glasses’ spine as he watched from afar. The second pressed a device on its arm, and they waited.
From behind the men, a drop-ship flew overhead. They all shuddered and gripped their guns tightly as the alien machine whined above them. It was a sound of death approaching, should they be spotted.
The drop ship descended slowly. Underneath the ship, a giant mechanical body was dormant; it was the thing the group truly feared above everything else the invaders had brought, a metal machine they simply called Reapers.
The mechs, as the young spectacled member of the group insisted on calling them, stood taller than a three-story building and were covered with large metal plates in a manner that made them resemble a suit of armor. The shape, the most troublesome to consider, was undoubtedly human in appearance, unlike the invaders themselves. It was a hotly debated topic by any who lived through an experience with the terrible machines—it seemed discussing appeared to ease the mental trauma afterward. Some thought the design was stolen from a world the invaders had visited before, some thought the design was merely a convenience for movement, and others figured it was some silent admission of superiority in the human form.
The group had had similar debates in the past, but whatever the reason did not matter to any as they watched the drop ship lower. A Worm on the ground waved to direct the ship.
As the ship slowly maneuvered in the air, a large piece of metal sailed across the sky and smashed into its cockpit. The pilot had no chance of surviving, and the drop ship screamed as it spun out of control and crashed into the grassy scene. Fire lit up most of the ship, and purple smoke poured out of the side.
All the men shuddered and turned to look in the direction the metal had come from. A bright yellow Reaper shambled out, on two knees and one arm, the left was missing, from behind a raised area of the ground. It struggled to stand up, but it sprinted across the field once it did.
The ship’s mech pilot must have survived as the dormant giant sprang to life. It pushed away from the burning hull while trying carefully not to spread the flames across its red-painted exterior. The Worms on the ground opened fire, aiming at a large hole in the left side of the attacker’s chest.
The yellow Reaper wasted no time smashing its fist into the other. The red fell to the ground, and before it could stand up, the attacker stepped a yellow foot on its chest. It grabbed the red machine’s free arm and pulled. The chest of the red machine caved in, most assuredly squishing the pilot along with it, and the red arm was torn off.
The yellow Reaper pressed the dismembered metal arm to the shoulder where its own was missing. Cables sprung forward, connecting and pulling the new component to the attacker. The group watched in shock; they had not known the machines could repair themselves in such a way.
The Worms on the ground continued to fire at the Reaper as it opened and closed its new hand. Once it seemed to confirm everything worked correctly, it stomped the pests flat.
The machine might have left at that moment, but the drop ship exploded before it could get out of range, taking the yellow Reaper down to the ground in last defiance.
The group watched silently while waiting for the attacking Reaper to stand back up. They mumbled to themselves about what to do when it lay motionless for over an hour.
“We should flee while we have a chance,” Slacks advised.
Helmet took the binoculars from Glasses and looked toward the downed machine.
“I want to investigate,” he replied.
Slacks made a disapproving grunt, but said nothing in response; once Helmet had decided on something, there was little chance of changing his mind—they all knew it.
“Glasses, grab him the grappling hook,” the sniper finally said after a minute of silence. The younger spectacled boy quickly fished out the hook and a long rope. Helmet dropped the coiled rope over his shoulder and nodded.
“Bandana, Coat, get ready to start the jeep at a moment’s notice.”
“Right-o, boss-o,” a man with a red bandana wrapped around his forehead replied. He and another in a trench coat uncovered their vehicle while Helmet started his trek across the hilly fields.
