Swamp Riders

The swamp welcomed them like an open grave.

Every step was a fresh insult. The mud clung to his boots like a desperate ex, the air smelled like moldy socks soaked in regret, and the insects were practically mutating before his eyes into new species designed specifically to piss him off.

Rus sloshed forward, rifle at the ready, muttering under his breath, "I swear this swamp is actively trying to murder me. Not metaphorically. I mean it's holding meetings, drawing charts, assigning budget proposals on how to make my life miserable."

Behind him, Dan, Gino, and Foster trudged along, sounding like a trio of whiny children dragged through a department store.

"You really hate the swamp, huh?" Dan said, kicking up a foul glob of mud.

Rus whipped his head around, eyes narrowed. "Oh no, Dan. I adore it. I dream about it. I want to build a lovely cottage here, marry a nice fungus, and raise a family of mutant tadpoles."

Gino snorted. "You bitch more about the swamp than Foster does about ration packs."

"That's because," Rus said, stepping over what he could only hope wasn't a rotting carcass, "the swamp has a personal vendetta against me. It's sentient. It knows."

Foster chuckled, wiping sweat off his forehead. "You're paranoid, boss."

"Am I?" Rus snapped, waving his hand around. "You think it's normal for dirt to smell like a dead goat's asshole? For the air to be so thick you have to chew it before you breathe?"

Gino squelched past him, grinning. "Man, you're just cranky because you got your boots stuck earlier."

Rus grunted. "That was tactical repositioning. Unlike you morons, I have the survival instincts of someone who doesn't want to die drowning in foot-rot."

Dan shook his head, stepping wide over a puddle that was definitely moving on its own. "You're gonna have a heart attack before anything in this swamp kills you."

"Good," Rus said. "I'll die doing what I love, being extremely correct while everyone else dies stupidly."

Foster laughed. "Hey, come on. It's not that bad."

Right then, a giant mosquito buzzed past Rus's face, sounding like a chainsaw being operated by a drunk.

Rus swatted it out of the air with his rifle butt.

It exploded like a blood grenade.

The splash hit Dan square in the chest.

He stared down at himself.

Then at Rus.

Then at the sky like he was reconsidering all his life choices.

"...Okay," Foster admitted, "maybe it is that bad."

"Told you," Rus said smugly.

Gino wiped something slimy off his arm with the dead-eyed resignation of a man who'd just accepted the swamp's terms and conditions.

Rus marched forward, leading the squad deeper into the misty hellscape.

The mist thickened the deeper they went, until the trees turned into looming shadows and the water gleamed with oily menace. Rus was just beginning to contemplate whether quicksand would be a kinder death than swamp-fever when Gino hissed from his left.

"Movement. Nine o'clock."

Rus froze. Raised his rifle.

Through the gray murk, he caught the outlines.

Gobbers.

But not on foot.

No.

Because, of course, OF COURSE, it wasn't enough that they had spears and homicidal tendencies.

They were mounted.

On goddamn crocodiles.

Big, scaly bastards, jaws wide open, eyes gleaming like they'd personally signed up for this murder tour.

"Oh brilliant," Rus muttered. "Cavalry. Swamp cavalry. Because what else would this swamp possibly need?"

Dan, to his credit, didn't hesitate. He brought up his rifle and fired a three-round burst that hit a Gobber square in the chest, sending the little bastard tumbling into the bog like a sack of bad decisions.

The rest of the Gobbers screamed—high-pitched, furious little war cries—and spurred their reptiles forward.

Spears hurled through the mist, whistling past their heads.

One thunked into the tree right behind Rus.

Rus didn't flinch. Mostly because he was too tired to bother anymore.

Foster was already unloading with his LMG, the staccato roar of gunfire punching holes through the oncoming tide of madness.

"Shitshitshitshit!" Gino barked, squeezing the trigger and mowing down two Gobbers and what he hoped were crocodiles and not some endangered species the UH would fine them for killing.

Rus raised his rifle, the indicators in his vision blinking red-hot now, lining up the shots like some demented carnival game.

First Gobber went down. Second Gobber got dropped. The third Gobber managed to throw a spear that glanced off his shoulder plate before he stitched its chest with three tight rounds.

Dan was roaring as he fired, stepping back and letting off short, precise bursts. "WHY IS EVERYTHING IN THIS SWAMP TRYING TO EAT US?!"

"Because, Dan!" Rus shouted back over the gunfire. "This swamp is a hate crime against sanity!"

Another crocodile lunged forward, jaws snapping. Foster pivoted like a pissed-off ballerina and buried five rounds into its skull.

The beast crumpled mid-leap, sending its rider flying like a green, screaming beach ball.

Arrows started raining from the trees—wild, inaccurate shots, but still enough to make them duck and curse.

"Cover!" Rus barked, and they dove behind a knot of fallen logs slick with moss and slimy mud.

The croc-riders kept coming, relentless, suicidal.

One of them, bigger than the others, lifted a spear the size of a lamppost and hurled it at them.

It embedded itself two inches from his head.

Rus turned slowly, staring at it.

"Charming," Rus muttered. "Next they'll be hurling the bloody crocodiles at us."

Dan popped up, shot two more Gobbers off their saddles, and dropped back down. "We need to move!"

"No shit!" Rus shouted.

"Suggestions?"

"Yes! Tell the swamp to fuck off and die!"

Foster, laughing like the lunatic he was, laid down suppressing fire while Gino and Rus shifted positions, picking off Gobbers as fast as they showed themselves.

The battle dissolved into chaos.

Gunfire flashed like strobes.

The crocodiles thrashed and snapped, even after their riders died, refusing to take the hint that they'd lost.

Spears stuck into trees, arrows zipped past like angry wasps.

Rus felt oddly detached—like he was watching some really bad action movie where the stuntmen had a personal grudge against the audience.

One Gobber came flying at him, spear raised, riding a particularly mean-looking croc.

Rus calmly shot the croc in the eye.

The reptile bucked, threw the Gobber into the mud, and Foster finished the job with a short burst.

More Gobbers were scattering now—clearly realizing that suicide by bullets wasn't as glorious as they'd hoped.

Gino, panting hard, slapped a fresh mag into his rifle. "I swear to God, I'm gonna have nightmares about crocodiles now."

Dan wiped blood off his forehead. "I'm gonna eat one of those fuckers. Out of spite."

Rus dusted himself off, checked his ammo.

"Well," Rus said, surveying the carnage, "another successful bonding experience with nature."

Foster leaned on his rifle. "Think that's it?"

The bushes rustled.

They all raised their weapons in unison, dead silent.

A lone Gobber stumbled out, clearly wounded, dragging a broken spear behind him.

He saw them.

He screamed.

They shot him before he got two steps.

Dan lowered his rifle with a grunt. "Yeah. That's it."

The swamp fell quiet again. Except for the occasional gurgle of something still dying in the muck.

Rus sighed.

"You know what?" Rus said. "Next time we do patrols? I'm volunteering for somewhere nice. A desert. A tundra. A volcano. Anything without reptiles, mud, or the distinct smell of moist death."

Dan laughed, clapping me on the back. "You love it, boss."

"Dan," Rus said grimly. "If loving this counts as sanity, then please tie me to a Humvee and drag me until the brain damage kicks in properly."

They regrouped, reloading and scanning the misty horizon.

Because they all knew if there were Gobber cavalry, there were more somewhere.

And the swamp wasn't done with them yet.

They barely had time to catch their breath before the radio on his shoulder crackled to life.

"Cyma One, this is Cyma Two. You seeing this shit?" Berta's voice, low and annoyed, buzzed through the static.

Rus keyed his mic. "Seeing what, Berta? Another glorious swamp spa day?"

"Gobbers. A lot of them. North-northeast. Mounted, on foot, and I'm pretty sure one of them's riding what looks like a swamp bear."

Rus stared into the mist, contemplating whether spontaneous combustion was an acceptable exit strategy.

"Copy," Rus said. "We'll join you. Try not to molest any wildlife in the meantime."

Berta chuckled. "No promises. But I'll save the bear for you, Boss."

Rus clicked the mic off before she could start listing which body parts the bear could use.

Dan, Gino, and Foster were still scanning the tree line, rifles raised. They'd heard everything. Dan was squinting into the mist like he could will it to clear with sheer hatred.

"What do you think?" Gino asked.

"I think," Rus said, racking a fresh mag, "that the swamp has achieved sentience and decided today's the day we die."

Foster muttered, "Fucking swamp."

Rus nodded grimly. "See? Even Foster's faith in nature has crumbled. It's the end times."

They pushed forward carefully, boots sinking slightly into the muck with every step. Every few paces, a guttural croak echoed through the trees. Rus wasn't sure if it was a frog, a Gobber, or one of them trying not to cry.

The mist thinned slightly and that's when they saw them.

Dozens.

Maybe hundreds.

Gobbers swarming through the brush and water, mounted on crocodiles, mutated boars, and, yes, some kind of slobbering swamp bear the size of a truck. Makeshift banners fluttered from crude spears. Their armor looked stitched together from bones, hide, and stolen scrap metal.

The bastards were organizing.

"Oh, fantastic," Rus muttered. "They're holding a swamp Comic-Con."

Dan shouldered his rifle. "Same plan as always?"

"Shoot everything that looks uglier than us?"

Gino cocked his head. "That's a high bar, boss."

Foster chuckled, already setting up the LMG.

Then Berta's squad came into view from the opposite side of the clearing, Stacy, Kate, and Amiel fanning out around her.

"Gods," Berta muttered over the comms. "Looks like every Gobber in Sector 12's had come for a swamp party."

"Yeah," Rus said. "And guess who's not bringing the drinks."

The Gobbers hadn't noticed them yet, too busy hooting, grunting, and waving their weapons around like they were psyching themselves up for a gangbang with fate.

Berta's voice crackled in again. "Call it, Wilson."

Rus looked across at her through the mist. She was crouched behind a tree, grinning like a wolf with a grenade.

"Let's light 'em up," Rus said.

They opened fire.

A synchronized volley of gunfire ripped through the swamp. The Gobbers froze for a split second, confused, then fell apart like a popped blister.

Crocodiles thrashed. Boars squealed and bucked their riders. The swamp bear let out a roar that rattled my fillings.

Rus zeroed in on it.

"Well, if I die today," Rus muttered, adjusting my sights, "at least it'll be by something stupid."

Dan shot three Gobbers off their mounts with clean double-taps.

Gino flanked right, pinning down a cluster trying to rush them.

Foster's LMG roared, chopping through a group trying to rally.

And Berta charged.

She leapt over a fallen tree like it owed her money, firing her SMG one-handed while pulling her axe with the other. Stacy and Kate covered her, surgical and precise, while Amiel moved like a ghost, taking headshots with terrifying calm.

Rus dropped two Gobbers charging with spears, then swung left to cover Foster.

A crocodile lunged at Rus, jaws snapping wide enough to fit his whole goddamn torso.

He sidestepped, shoved his rifle barrel into its mouth, and pulled the trigger.

It convulsed, twitched, and collapsed, blood bubbling from its ruined skull.

Dan whooped. "THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT, BOSS!"

"Great," Rus gasped, wiping gore off my visor. "Now I smell like fucking reptile."

More Gobbers screamed and scattered, but not all.

The bigger ones, the ones riding the swamp bear, rallied.

Berta screamed over the comms. "BIG ONE INCOMING!"

Rus swung his rifle up.

The bear thundered toward them, Gobber riders clinging to its matted fur, screaming and waving their weapons like discount berserkers.

"Focus fire!" Rus barked.

Every rifle in Cyma Squad turned as one.

They unloaded.

Rounds hammered into the bear's flesh, tearing chunks free, ripping apart Gobbers mid-scream.

It barreled closer, roaring, blood pouring from dozens of wounds.

Closer.

Closer.

Then Dan tossed a grenade at its feet.

The explosion tore through the muck, flipping the bear over in a wet, gory arc.

It landed with a sickening splat, motionless, a tangled heap of meat and fury.

Silence.

Smoke curled into the gray mist.

Foster let out a long breath. "Fucking finally."

Gino wiped his brow. "I'm starting to think Wilson's right."

"About what?" Dan asked.

Gino jerked a thumb at Rus. "The swamp is trying to kill us."

Rus lowered his rifle, surveying the carnage. "Congratulations, boys. You've reached enlightenment. Now help me clean up this goddamn mess before more of these overgrown meat nuggets show up."

The squad laughed, hoarse, tired, as they then moved to clean the area before more shows up.