Ghosts in the Pumpkin Soup

Chapter 20: The Autumn War

September 22nd, 1985

Logan Beasley was a twenty-year-old Private in the U.S. Marine Corps with no combat experience whatsoever, which he didn't mind at all. With no major war happening on American soil, you couldn't blame him for his confusion over being called to duty in some backwater swamp in Indiana. Shouldn't this be a job for the National Guard? It was painfully hot and humid. His charcoal black hair was damp with sweat under his helmet, which was beginning to feel heavier and heavier with each passing moment.

His combat fatigues were caked with mud and dirt after humping through the wetlands for the past few hours. His chest rig caused his shoulders to ache, and he couldn't help but slouch under the pressure. Equipped with an extra 6 mags, a combat knife, a small shovel, and various other essentials, you can see why. But he was a Marine goddammit, so he pressed on.

This was supposed to be a quick scouting mission, which he thought was strange. Did the Ruskies have a secret encampment deep in the heart of America or some crap? Logan's hands gripped tightly over his M16A2, his brown eyes examined the map presented by their CO, Beckett.

"Listen up, our unit will split into six fireteams!" Beckett barked the orders like a proper CO should. He already listed four of the teams until he finally reached...

"Johnson!"

"Yes, sir!"

"You take Jenkins, Mendoza, and Beasley five clicks east of here. Once you've reached the destination, wait for further orders. Happy hunting, Fireteam Echo."

"Yes, sir!"

Beckett finished setting up the last two teams before sending everyone on their mission. Sergeant Johnson was a strong leader with a long family history in the military. His mustache was as thick as he could get away with, and his eyes were a deep black. Jenkins was a squirrely and pale-faced kind of man with blue eyes. Though not the strongest or quickest of men, he couldn't be a better friend to anyone. Mendoza was always a jokester and deviant; he would always be the first to pull a prank on you. However, Logan has never met a more reliable person in his life. Mendoza was always there when you needed him, which is probably why Johnson trusted him with the radio.

"Hey, Wally—" Mendoza leaned in close to Jenkins, "do you know why they called us out here to this shit hole?"

Jenkins shrugged. "Beats me, man. I'd rather be enjoying a cold one with the wife. What about you, Logan?" Jenkins inquired.

Before Logan could respond, Johnson silenced them.

"Stop your yammerin'! Get in diamond formation. Keep a good ten feet away from each other, not too far. Don't want any of you sunnava bitches sinking in the marsh without me knowin'."

Johnson took point. Jenkins at 9 o'clock, Mendoza at 3 o'clock, and Logan at 6 o'clock. In the back, just the way he liked it. This preference stems way back from when Logan was in grade school. He learned of American Revolutionary War battles in history class, where linemen took turns mowing each other down in droves. Lesson learned, being the first in line sucked ass. Of course, that's not how things worked now, but it still stuck with him. Logan estimated about an hour or so passed when they came upon... a carnival? In the middle of a stinking swamp? Logan wasn't the only one taken off guard by the spectacle. Mendoza and Jenkins let out a very understandable "What the fuck?".

Johnson kept his cool as usual and hand signaled them to advance. They did, slowly and with their rifles aimed forward. His arms ached, and his knuckles were white, but Logan was distracted by the various tents scattered about. The tents were green and black striped, far from the usual color scheme of the carnivals Logan visited as a child. This carnival was straight out of a horror movie. Every tent, flag, and kiosk was tattered and run down, caked with dirt and mud. The colors were faded almost to the point of no color. Logan was too distracted to notice the clown waiting in the middle of it all, dead still. If swamp clowns weren't a thing before, it was now. This nasty fellow had black face paint instead of white, and strange green symbols were carved precariously all over its wrinkled face. Its gown matched the same color scheme, and was as equally damaged and mud ridden as the architecture around it. Johnson was first to notice the long blade in the creature's hand.