“Sir, we have visual,” A voice spoke quietly into the radio. Silence returned and sixty seconds passed. “Command, I repeat, we have visual. Do we advance?”

Greg cleared his throat and placed a hand on the other man’s shoulder, “Sarge. I think we need to get moving – we’ve got no signal out here, we either need to get to higher ground or you make the call.”

There was a sharp cut which followed, “I don’t believe I asked your advice, Staff Sergeant. Get back to your post,” The Sergeant Firce Class snapped before turning his gaze back to the sight on his rifle. The small squad of six had dug into the woods of the mountains and had eyes on a surprisingly extravagant house, waiting for nightfall to move in.

The Staff Sergeant looked to his brother skeptically and shook his head, lowering his voice as their squad leader called into his radio again, “I don’t like this, Tommy… Something’s wrong here…”

“What the fuck?!” Came another voice suddenly. This one lowered the binoculars from his face, “What the hell is that..?” He held out the equipment for their head, who snatched it up.

“Quiet down, corporal,” He said sharply, gazing into it, “What the hell are those things?”

The binoculars made it around to Greg who moved up and furrowed his brow. What he saw were the most grotesque things he’d ever seen. Their skins were of greens and their noses and ears were large and pointed. They were stouter than the average person, but they also carried things like axes and blunt boards… How many were there? A quick head count estimated about twenty and they were just running up the mountain at the house, expertly weaving through the trees of the mountain. Greg lowered the binoculars and passed them to Tom, bewildered.

“Sergeant, what do we do?” He asked, eyes wide as he adjusted his rifle to his shoulder, clicking it to automatic from semi-automatic.

“Nothing… Let’s see what happens…” He said before holding his radio again, “Command, this is Sergeant First Class Wellington, come in. We have eyes on… I don’t know what they are, but they’re not normal… Something is attacking the target, we need orders.”

Finally, a response came, “Wellington, you and your squad are going to be in the dark. Something’s happening here – we have no time. No evac is available, no time to explain, just get the fuck out of there.”

“Colonel Briggs, what the fuck is going on?”

“I said no time, sergeant. Get out of there, we can’t evac you either, the base is falling… This is the end. Godspeed, Delta Force... Do not engage – whatever it is you see, we don’t know what it is. GET OUT.” There was a loud whirling sound in the background as the transmission cut out. The man had thrown aside the radio as he reached the end of its cord and burst from the room he’d been in, headed for the only black hawk left, already powering up. He’d never make it – like he’d said: there was no time. There were shouts and screams, snarls and gunfire riddled in the background of the radio.

“Colonel? Briggs? What… What the fuck?!” Wellington tried vainly to get the device working again, but the fault was not on their end and it seemed they had lost all contact…

The whole squad looked to him for answers and he had none… Gunshots rang out across the mountain as the people in the house began to fight back. They didn’t last long.

Thomas got the binoculars from his half-brother Greg and quickly glanced through them to see just what the hell all the uproar was over. What he saw would be seared into his memory forever. The green- skinned beasts were massacring the people in the house. The axes hewed limb from limb easier than sliding a hot knife through butter, and the crudely fashioned clubs broke bones and mangled flesh with sickening ease. And the worst part was that Thomas knew exactly what these things were, and it was impossible. Goblins didn’t exist. Tom remembered sitting on a porch swing with his grandmother and listening to her stories of fantastical monsters and horrifying beasts. Some distant part of his mind told him that the Team had to leave, and soon, but Tom was transfixed by the macabre scene before him. Then the training kicked in. He didn’t go through years of training to freeze the first time something didn’t make sense to him.

“Greg, Sarge, I’ve got some Intel on the situation! I know what those things are,” called Thomas. The Sergeant First Class whipped around and levelled a fierce glare in Tom’s direction.

“Alucan! If you have good Intel, you share it immediately! You got me?! Just because you’re our recon specialist, doesn’t mean you can wait till you feel like it to give us information.”

“No sir! It just occurred to me what these things are. It doesn’t make sense, but they’re goblins; straight out of folklore. According to folklore, Gobs are fiercely territorial and savage in combat. They have even been known to feast on the flesh of their victims whilst they still live. Gobs have tremendous strength which, along with their sheer numbers, greatly offset their crude weapons.” Tom was slightly shaking by the time he finished speaking, and took a few seconds to breathe slowly. The Sergeant’s face was slowly becoming a rather interesting shade of purple in his rage. Before he could speak, however, a shout from one of the assembled Delta Force members drew the attention of the three men. A small group of Gobs had noticed the group and decided that where they were was also Gob territory. Eight of the beasts were currently charging the soldiers and brandishing their weapons wildly. From this range, Tom could pick out various bits of the Gob’s previous victims still staining the edges. He drew his pistols, a M9 semi-automatic pistol and a Smith & Wesson Model 19 Revolver, and shouted to his brothers-in-arms, “Delta Force, engage the enemy!”

The rattles and clicks of weapons being cocked and safeties turned off were music to his ears. He knew that his brethren were just as startled and frightened as him, but by God, they were Delta Force and these bastards were going down!

Meanwhile, over in the US, Anna Bergomian was having problems of her own. Currently living in Colorado with her crazy aunt Brunhilda, Anna was dealing with two equally disgusting dilemmas. What to do about the zombies swarming in from the bigger cities out West. And how to explain Big Joe to the batty old hag living upstairs. Once the staggering, drooling hordes of the undead rose from their various graves Big Joe had insisted on staying close to Anna. Verily, he was practically stuck to her and it was getting a little hard to hide him. At least that was until Brunhilda came across him this morning. She couldn’t be judged too harshly for her reaction. A seven-foot hulking stone and steel man packing a broadsword and a 40 mm grenade launcher loaded with solid slugs standing in your kitchen at 7:45 in the morning would give anyone a start, especially if, under his brown fedora, all that could be seen was the bleached bone of a human skull. It took three improvised golems to hold her down. This last bit thoroughly pleased Anna, as last year she wouldn’t have been able to even raise one ratty sand golem without ten minute’s chanting. Now, she just pointed at her targets, ripped three souls out of the aether, and shoved them into their hosts. The souls interpreted her wishes as they bonded with wood and iron and before poor old auntie could do so much as scream, the kitchen table and chairs had sprouted arms and restrained the old biddy. Now, despite his outward appearances, Big Joe was really a very gentle guy, and was swift to apologize to Brunhilda who in turn stopped hyperventilating.

So here they were. Anna stood in the kitchen trying to massage the migraine from behind her eyes. Big Joe hulked silently in the corner constantly glancing out the window in case a horde of corpses decided to shamble into the backyard. Brunhilda peppered Anna with questions, staying far away from the again-soulless wooden table. “For the last time Auntie, no, I did not kill someone in order to make Joe. I don’t know why he’s got a soul that remains human but he does. He’s my guardian golem. He guards me, he doesn’t attack old ladies.”

Suddenly, Big Joe was at Anna’s side, gun drawn. His voice had a queer, echoing quality to it; like a landslide in a mountainside tunnel. “Anna, we must go now. They are on their way. I can feel their evil intent, scraping along my metal spine.”

“Shit! Auntie B, grab some food and your keys. I’ll be right back!” Anna spun to face Joe, “can you slow them down? Without getting hurt I mean.”

“Master, for you I could slaughter an army of zombies and all of the bokors in the world” He holstered the launcher at his hip and drew the massive broadsword slung over his shoulder. The blade was made of a single piece of heat-treated steel, pressed into shape by the sheer pressure of Joe’s massive strength. A clever system of draws and magical symbols harnessed the seemingly endless energy that Joe’s soul put out into the blade. He activated this system now, causing a wave of heat and electricity to roll down the blade and giving it a soft red glow. Deep in the recesses of the skull’s empty sockets an angry blue glow built up, seeming to threaten violence without any actual physical movement required. At his master’s nod, Joe walked out the door and broke into a tireless jog toward the misty top of Pike’s Peak in the distance.

Anna took off running up the stairs, desperate to at least get to her ‘magic kit’ before they had to leave the house. The kit was really just a set of fancy sculptor’s tools and a small book of good materials for golems and where to find them in the natural world. She had just grabbed the canvas shoulder bag when the sounds of battle reached Anna’s ears, along with her aunt’s screams. She ran to the nearest window, the bathroom coincidently, just in time to see a massive circle appear on the sparse grass her aunt called a backyard. The circle seemed to be drawn in blood and had a heptagram inscribed within. A dark rune was scrawled in the center of the figure, formed of the color one sees the scant seconds after they are punched directly in the eye. All shifting blacks, blues, greens, and strange purples, it was definitely now something from the natural world. Or this dimension of it, at least.

Greg sneered and rolled his eyes, though he didn't reject Tom's idea aloud, he was certainly amused in silence. Goblins? Really... There may as well be zombies and werewolves... And dragons! Oh, sure, a dragon, that likely existed too if there were god damned goblins. However, as he stared down the reflex sight of his weapon, he watched as the little monsters began to peel away from their original target and head for the small squadron. At the same time, he and their sergeant made an actual call, "hold your fire!" The man looked to Greg's face as he pulled out his pistols, "Calm the fuck down, Tommy. Despite an educated guess, we have no idea what the hell is going down and opening fire will only attract attention to themselves." His attention turned to another of their squad mates, "I don't want to see anything ridiculous, you guys,.. Tom, two pistols? Who the hell authorized that loadout?" He asked sharply before leaning forward and closing an eye. "We want to fire as few shots as possible. Semi-auto, take a knee, and take every one of these little fuckers down before they get here."

The sergeant's face twisted into one of pure rage as he grabbed Greg's shoulder roughly and forced him to turn. "I don't remember you being given authorization over our entire squadron, Carson. You'd better stand the fuck down, I call the shots."

The man seemed about to attack his commander in that moment, almost seeming to have Satan flash in his face as he pushed back, pressing his forehead right against Wellington's, growling, "And we're not exactly in any position to fight about protocol right now, are we? Something's happening at HQ and we're staring down something we've never fucking seen before. If we get back, I'll tell the CO I blatantly disobeyed your shitty excuse for leadership decisions and accept any punishment they have. But until then, either shut your fucking mouth and remember that in Delta Squad rank means far less than you seem to make it and that we're all teammates."

Wellington didn't retort, for a lack of time, and there was a quiet murmuring about them as Greg cleared his voice, "Everybody ready yourselves... Pick one and kill it... Then another, got it?" He gently eased his finger against the trigger, but he didn't pull yet. Finally, he squeezed and there was a loud crack that sounded out, followed by a few more as the squad shot through the trees, downhill at the attacking group of monsters. Over the firing, the Staff Sergeant cleared his throat, "The more sound we make, the more they'll send... they'll be on us faster than we think." His statement was blunt and he watched as the cretins went down with their assault. With each pull of the trigger, they seemed to be mowing down the mob of the beasts that were on the offensive. However, more of them split away from the massive army, which had already begun to loot the now-empty house for shinies and other interesting objects.

"Reloading!" Came a call every now and then as one of them would drop a magazine and replace it. "We gotta get out of here," Carson commanded, standing to his feet and beginning to step back, "C'mon! We can lose them in the trees and start for the base."

Thomas heard the altercation behind him but did his best to ignore it, focusing instead on the howling hordes advancing on their position. At his brother’s command, he began pulling off shots slowly and evenly from both guns; one shot from the revolver for every two or three from the semi-auto. The bullets screamed down the short distance between Tom and the goblins pursuing him. Every shot was a hit to head, throat, or heart until the hammer of the revolver slammed down on an empty chamber. Still firing with his other gun, Tom thumbed the chamber release and flicked the gun sideways to flip the revolving chamber open. Reversing the gun, Tom replaced it in his specially designed holster backwards, leaving the open cylinder sticking out through a special slit in the leather. Tom quickly grabbed the moon clips stored on his belt and jammed them into the open cylinder. The gun was now ready and was immediately drawn and aimed back at the charging hordes. The m19 was now ready to reload. Thumbing the release for this one, Tom ejected the magazine and slammed the slot in the butt down onto the next one. He worked the action by pressing the slide into his leg and jerking down. Tom then resumed firing with both guns.

Tom heard Carson holler for a general retreat into the surrounding woods. A tiny voice in the back of his mind screamed that entering the forest would be the worst idea possible at this time. “Not the woods, they know the forest better than we do! It’ll be a slaughter!” No one listened to him of course, as his beliefs were completely unfounded. Growling low in his throat, Tom put away the revolver and drew the matte black ghurka in a back sheath. He turned to the man next to him and told him to be ready for some close quarters combat. The soldier nodded, grabbed his tac knife, and instantly dropped it as a crude stone axe came whopping out of the treeline and took his arm off at the shoulder.

“Shit, Greg where are you!?” Tom saw his brother calmly backpedaling towards the treeline, mowing down the goblins coming up from behind. “Greg, we’re taking damage. Avoid the trees, there’re more of them in the forest!”