Operation Meltdown

"What the hell is that?"

A fluorescent green blob wriggled across the forest floor like a lump of living puke, wobbling with every bounce. The thing shimmered under the sun, semi-transparent, veined with pulsating blue lines.

"An Ooze?" The private tilted his head. "Cute little freak. Let's see how it likes a taste of M16."

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The rifle cracked four times. The rounds entered the creature… and just vanished. No spray, no splatter—nothing but a ripple, like pebbles tossed into gelatin.

"What the fu—?"

"Machine gunner!" barked the corporal. "Turn that piece of shit into soup!"

The squad's automatic rifleman hit the dirt and let his FN MAG sing.

RATATATATATA!

A wall of lead hammered into the Ooze. Eighty-seven rounds disappeared into the blob. It didn't slow down. If anything, it looked like it was… growing.

The corporal's jaw twitched. "You've gotta be shitting me."

Then the Ooze leapt.

It slapped against the barrel of the machine gun and began climbing—wrapping around the weapon, then up the soldier's arms.

He screamed.

Steam rose from his sleeves. The stench of melting flesh punched everyone in the gut.

"AGHHHH—GET IT OFF!"

One private panicked and raised his rifle at the melting man.

"Stand the fuck down!" the sergeant barked, swatting the barrel aside.

"I'm trying to help him, Sarge!"

"By blowing his head off? You wanna get court-martialed or just stupid?"

They all turned.

The gunner was gone. Just a pile of gear and liquefied gore.

Silence.

Then a whispered voice from the back.

"Sir… look at the ridge."

The squad turned toward three o'clock.

High ground. Tree line.

Oozes.

Dozens.

Hundreds.

Some rolled. Some slithered. Others hopped, like liquid animals. They came in all colors—glowing blue, tar-black, blood-red. Some were the size of backpacks. Others as big as cattle.

"Where the fuck are they coming from?" muttered someone.

"No idea," the sergeant growled, snapping his radio open. "But we're not dying here."

He waved toward the tank twenty meters back.

"Light that ridge up! Don't let those things near the line!"

The Patton's turret whirled toward the hill, hydraulics groaning. The 90mm main gun barked.

BOOM!

A high-explosive anti-tank shell tore across the sky and smashed into the ridge. A roaring fireball devoured the treeline, followed by a wave of thick, oily smoke.

"Good shot!" shouted the corporal.

Then the smoke cleared.

And the Oozes were still coming.

Sure, a few were splattered across the slope, but the rest just rolled over the dead like it meant nothing. A sea of viscous death.

The sergeant cursed. "Fall back! Covering fire—NOW!"

The squad fired in retreat—rifles, grenades, flamethrowers. The forest exploded with gunfire and roaring flames. But the Oozes didn't stop. Some split when hit, turning one into two. Others absorbed fire like it was fuel, growing hotter and faster.

The rear guard screamed as a red Ooze latched onto a soldier's back and corroded straight through his gear. He dropped, convulsing, organs exposed in seconds.

"Keep moving!"

The tank reversed, treads grinding up dirt—but several Oozes had already reached it. One melted across the barrel. Another slid under the chassis.

Inside the tank, the crew tried to hold out.

"Just sit tight," the tank commander said. "They can't breach us."

Then the driver looked at his panel. His side of the hull was hissing. The floor beneath him started to bubble.

"Sir… that's a fuckin' problem."

The commander looked, blinked.

"Impossible... This armor's layered with depleted uranium and ceramic composite. How in hell is it melting?"

Another voice: "They're not just monsters… They're high-acid bioforms."

"Where'd you get that?"

"Read the damn recon files! They're some kind of primordial ooze mutated with magical resonance. High corrosion, adaptive metabolism, and zero pain response. Like chemical warheads with brains."

"New plan. Abandon the tank."

The crew threw open the hatches. But before they could jump—

The Oozes poured in.

A thick black blob shot through the top like a whip. Screams. Then silence. The tank shook, then went still.

The sergeant spat. "Fuck this. Call air support."

He turned up the radio, voice steel.

"This is Southern Battalion 7—we are being overrun. Requesting immediate air support. Coordinates inbound. Danger close."

Static. Then: "Copy that, Battalion. Fast mover inbound. Stand by."

..................

Above the forest, 30,000 feet up, a B-47 Stratojet cut through the clouds.

"Dropping to 900 knots," the pilot said. "Package armed. Drop in 3… 2… 1…"

Whistles. Then hell.

Bombs screamed down and ripped into the hillside. The shockwave hit the ground troops like a hammer—heat, smoke, dirt, all kicked up in a towering column.

Ooze parts rained down, some still twitching.

Then the smoke parted again.

They came.

Not just more Oozes. New ones.

Massive, bipedal Oozes with humanoid silhouettes. Glowing cores inside their chests. Tendrils for arms. One had a skull inside its chest, visible through translucent membrane, like some sick trophy.

The squad stared.

"My God…"

The Oozes didn't just crawl. They ran.

One of the flamethrower units surged forward and let out a blast—woosh!—incinerating a cluster of smaller Oozes.

The creatures shrieked, convulsed—then reformed.

"Fire's not enough!" someone shouted. "They're adapting!"

The sergeant scanned the treeline. "Full retreat! Fall back to the fallback point! MOVE!"

The troops sprinted, ducking around trees, firing blindly over their shoulders. A mortar team tried to cover the exit—then vanished under a tide of black sludge.

The forest was burning, but the Oozes didn't care.

Another soldier was tackled mid-run by a pale-blue blob. His helmet flew off, his skull exposed in seconds.

The rest didn't look back.

Only when the fallback line came into view—a trench line with mounted machine guns and a fresh squad—did they breathe.

"Get those Brownings up!" the sergeant yelled.

Heavy machine guns opened up—chug-chug-chug—pounding into the pursuing Oozes. At least some of them splattered.

But then came the massive ones. The humanoids.

Their bodies shifted like liquid armor. Bullets vanished inside them.

"Command," the sergeant hissed into the radio, "this isn't a containment op anymore. This is a catastrophic breach. We need incendiary saturation. Napalm, chemical. Grid Delta-Seven-Niner. Burn the forest."

"Confirmed," said the voice on the other end. "Napalm strike inbound. ETA: 15 minutes. Brace for shockwave."

He clicked off and looked at the hill one last time.

The treeline was gone. Just an ocean of Oozes now, rippling like a sentient tide.

They weren't animals.

They were predators—born from magic, warped by time, and evolved to melt the world.

"Hold the line," the sergeant muttered to himself.

"Just 15 minutes."