Rank and Rating: E-6, Staff Sergeant
SKUL Serial Number: KM-22118-SO
Platoon: Whiskey
Team: Saber
Call Sign: Twitch
An only child, Kris Metcalf lost his mom, Kourtney, when he was only five. Kyle, his dad, was home on leave from the Marines and had taken his family on a drive up the California coast from their home in San Diego to the wine country in the northern part of the state. This was their first trip as a family, and Kris would always remember how excited his mom was when his dad told her to get packed.
It was late and the moon high, as Kris' dad took over the driving from his mom. As the car took turn after turn, Kris drifted off to sleep only to be awoken some time later by his dad's screaming. His eyes opened just in time to see the roof of the car crushed inward then being pealed open like a can just before the vehicle ran off the road. During the subsequent crash, something hit him on the head, hard. He was upside down in his car seat when he came to. On all sides, flames licked at the paneling of the car and smoke billowed in and stung his eyes. He remembered seeing his mom's hand and arm, and he remembered his calls to her going unanswered. As he struggled to get out of the seat and help his mom, he heard something else above the growing roar of the fire. Something loud enough to drown out his screams. He may have only been five, but he knew what gunshots sounded like. That fact alone was the reason he always got so mad when the people, as he called them, told him he didn't hear what he knew he did.
"You'd just taken a hard bump on the head; so, you probably were just hearing things," the people would say. "Maybe it was your ears ringing."
The people were the psychologists assigned to help Kris through the aftermath of the crash.
Finally, he managed to slide out of his seat to the ground which was really the roof of the car, only there was no roof, so it was the ground. He remembered his hands landing in a pool of something hot, wet and sticky. When he lifted his hands, he saw blood in the growing light of the fires.
Lots and lots of blood.
Instinctively, he recoiled. His hands, arms, and legs were cut in dozens of places by razor sharp shards of glass. He reached for his mom's hand, screaming her name with every breath, and wiggled his way up under her. She was still strapped into the seat belt, and her body hung upside down limply. His mouth flew open eliciting silent screams. The blood belonged to his mom and poured out of the ragged stump of her neck like a faucet.
His mind turned sluggish, and his brain was all but checking out. The people would tell him that he was going into shock, and that was why he thought he saw all the crazy things that came after.
But, they were real.
He knew it...even if no one else did.
Strong arms pulled him from the car, and he could tell by his dad's voice that he had been and still was crying, "We've got to move, son."
He remembered his dad pulling a large radio transmitter from the trunk of the car along with an even larger rifle that Kris would have thought where the coolest things in the world only minutes before. His dad dropped to a kneeling position, tucked a pistol into the small of his back, and shouldered his rifle while calling out on the radio.
"Nest, this is operator Kilo-Mike-zero-one-one-five-two-Sierra-Oscar, call sign Rash, requesting immediate CASVAC, over."
In reply, Kris heard the static laden reply, "Copy that, Kilo-Mike-zero-one-one-five-two-Sierra-Oscar, call sign Rash, what is your status?"
Kris would always remember the pause his dad gave upon hearing that. He remembered how he squeezed his eyes shut, hard, and shook - or was he sobbing - only speaking after hearing, "Repeat, Rash. What is your status?"
"We have been attacked by multiple savages, at least one is wounded, whereabouts unknown. One friendly KIA," another pause, this one for only a second yet to Kris' eyes, his dad had aged instantly. "Metcalf, Kourtney, and another, Metcalf, Kris, five year old with multiple lacerations, none life threatening. Subject also with possible head trauma, likely concussed, and in a state of shock. Consider non-ambulatory. Will move two klicks to..."
Kris' dad, Kyle, rattled off a series of numbers, and he blacked out.
He woke up as three black helicopters touched down, belching men with strange looking assault gear and weapons from its sides. His eyes rolled back into his head and his tongue lolled against the inside of his cheek as the soldiers placed him on a stretcher, and ran to the lead helicopter. He only vaguely recognized the bee sting-like pain of the needle, and only barely heard a voice say, "You're fine, you're fine."
Everything was black after that.
***
Sometime later, he'd never know how long, Kris peeked his eyes open. He was in a clean, sterile room covered in white sheets. He had a tube running out of his forearm to a pole holding bags of fluid; some were small, and some were larger. His hands, arms, and legs were heavily bandaged. Thoughts struggled to come, and when they did, they were heavy and discombobulated. Despite this, he slid his feet off the side of the bed, took a breath, and stepped shakily to the door. He used the pole as a makeshift cane, pushing it ahead of each step. He eased the door open an inch or two and looked down a darkened hall where men stood in both normal, street clothes and dirty, assault gear. They spoke to his dad not as men bent on finding answers but as brothers paying their respects. Each man walked up to his dad and spoke quietly. Many embraced him with reassuring bear hugs. His dad nodded kindly to each but really didn't act as if he were alive until he saw Kris peeking out of the door. As he stepped down the hall, Kris shut his door, afraid of what may come next.
***
I just want to see how it works, he'd tell Whit, but more often than not, he would be end up with leftover parts and a non-working piece of technology rendered to paperweight status.
His dad was still a Marine and would fly in from time to time, but it was always awkward. He'd never go out, never ski, never do anything Kris and Whit normally did. He just wanted to sit around and talk, like he was retroactively trying to be a part of Kris’ life.
And, then he'd be gone again.
Kyle Metcalf would show up just enough to remind his son he had a dad but no more. Kris grew to hate his dad or the thought of his dad in any case. Then, one day, as a sophomore in high school, he received word that his dad had been killed in a training accident. Coming on the heels of his best friend's death, Kris was again throttled to shock. His friend's death occurred on an out-of-bounds back bowl they always skied together and was ruled a bear attack. His dad's cause of death, strangely enough, was never mentioned in any of the paperwork he received. Kris couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. His dad was military, and there was always a reason for everything they did day in and day out. Also, while bears were to be feared, an attack was rare.
Kyle Metcalf would show up just enough to remind his son he had a dad but no more. Kris grew to hate his dad or the thought of his dad in any case. Then, one day, as a sophomore in high school, he received word that his dad had been killed in a training accident. Coming on the heels of his best friend's death, Kris was again throttled to shock. His friend's death occurred on an out-of-bounds back bowl they always skied together and was ruled a bear attack. His dad's cause of death, strangely enough, was never mentioned in any of the paperwork he received. Kris couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right. His dad was military, and there was always a reason for everything they did day in and day out. Also, while bears were to be feared, an attack was rare.
Very rare.
His feelings were made worse with the knowledge that he was supposed to be with his friend that day but bailed at the last minute. He got to buried his friend. He got to look at the urn holding his dad's remains.
He hurt for his friend and missed his friend.
His dad...well, he was his dad, and outside of that he could not say.
He'd never know, but his aunt, Whit, watched his struggles and a little bit more of her heart broke every day.
***
Eight hours away from a mechanical engineering degree from the University of Colorado, Kris Metcalf was looking forward to the easiest semester of his life. He never had a class before noon leaving more than enough time to hit the slopes of Eldora above Boulder. If he was in his car by noon, he'd have just enough time to make it to his afternoon sessions. He'd be there three, maybe four days a week, and he'd be the first in line when the lifts opened. Basically, his life would revolve around skiing, boarding, and his senior design project until December. He had no clue what he'd do after that, but he'd figure something out.
And then, 9/11 happened.
Kris watched horror-stricken as the second plane hit and the buildings collapsed. He looked around the room where a small number of senior engineering students had gathered. Nearly half a dozen of the students were of Middle Eastern decent. By noon, the news outlets had already mentioned a Middle Eastern connection . One or two people Kris had called friends, until now, giggled quietly. They weren't giggling because they were evil or apathetic, but because they were stupid and had no clue the ripple effect the day would bring.
That didn't make it any less disgusting, though, and he knew that he could either puke in disgust or walk out.
Kris chose the latter and never looked back.
That didn't make it any less disgusting, though, and he knew that he could either puke in disgust or walk out.
Kris chose the latter and never looked back.
Thirty minutes later, he walked into the Marine Corps recruiting substation on Walnut Street in Boulder. He turned his back on a future, a real future, and turned his face to the unknown. For the first time in ages, Kris Metcalf he was smiling.
***
Fueled by pure grit and toughness, Kris found his way into the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion and deployed twice to combat zones. Upon returning from the second deployment, a senior NCO suggested he screen for the newest special operations capable unit in town, MARSOC or Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command. That was a several years and multiple deployments as a MARSOC CSO - critical skills operator - ago and really, right now, he just wanted a beer.
"Okay,
I think that's about got it," the muscular yet lean man slid from the
bowels of the jukebox. He rolled and grabbed the plug, and when it was plugged back into its socket, to the delight of the bar's patrons, music
filled the air. The momentary technical difficulties forgotten, they
were back to drinking, dancing, and attempting the random hookup.
"What do I owe you?" asked the bartender, genuinely delighted.
"Beer," Kris said over his shoulder as he walked to the booth his group was using. He checked his phone, and curiously, he had three missed calls from the same unknown number in the last thirty minutes. He thought about returning the call, but then he thought about his buddy, Tom, alone, out on the dance floor with two pretty blondes. One was supposedly his date for the night, and the sideways smile and wink she gave him was enough for Kris to decide the phone call could wait.
Glad to have music and happy patrons once again, the owner of the joint waved a hand, "You got it!"
The two girls with Kris and his MARSOC teammate had fallen in with two other couples while Kris had been on his back fixing the jukebox. Though the newcomers were friendly enough - not to mention extraordinarily good looking - something about the couples bothered Kris. There was just too much personal space invaded for his taste. Figuring they were swingers looking to add to their rotation, Kris eased his friend and their dates out of the situation as gracefully as possible, feigning too much to drink.
The four of them bid good night to their new friends and stepped from the door.
He couldn't place it at that moment, it would only come later, but something was wrong. It felt cooler out with an uncharacteristic north wind now blowing, and the parking lot seemed darker.
An ominous feeling perverted an otherwise pleasant night.
Tom must have felt it too because he volunteered, "Why don't ya'll wait here, and I'll go get the car?"
"Dude," Kris - Twitch to his friends - said in his characteristic boarder-speak, "you sure?"
"Yeah, man." Tom said pulling his date close and kissing her hard. "Just keep your hands to yourself." He winked then made his way through the warren of cars.
***
The black clad operator threw the phone against the console, "Dammit! He's still not answering!"
"Kyle," the Skipper said over the direct comm-link as the teams sped through the city of San Diego in armored SUVs, "he's okay. Our sources have him outside the bar only seconds ago."
"With all due respect, sir," Kyle Metcalf said in an uncharacteristically tense voice, "it should have never come to this!"
A hand grabbed the elder Metcalf by the shoulder, and pulled him away from the screen before he said anything he'd live to regret.
Another face filled the Admiral's screen, "Sir..."
"I know, Jed," said the Skipper candidly, cutting off the team's assistant leader, "and, I deserve it. Just get them out of there."
"On it, sir."
***
Fifteen minutes later, there was still no Tom. More importantly, there was no Tom's car. The girls were restless and eager to get home to enjoy some red wine and David Gray on the stereo. With something eating at the back of his mind, Twitch just wanted to get home.
He couldn't explain the feeling, but the dogs howling over all parts of the compass weren't helping.
"Why don't you ladies go back inside?" he said to the girls.
Sarah, his date, balked, "You have got to be kidding! We're not going back inside that dump by ourselves!"
He could tell the other, Amy, was just as put-off by the idea.
Twitch reluctantly agreed, "Whatever, but stay behind me, okay?"
The two impressively beautiful blondes locked arms and walked as directed. That is to say, they walked about five feet behind Kris, giggling about some matter or the other with every step.
As they made their way through the cars Twitch's ears picked up a low wheeze. It was air leaving lungs; he knew it as sure as the sun would rise in the East. He whirled meaning to grab both girls by the waist, one over each shoulder. Instead, each girl now looked - much to Kris' utter shock - strangely hairy and muscular. They grabbed him and flung him effortlessly into the windshield of a nearby vehicle. Above him, a hairy, long-armed, man-thing jumped onto the roof of the vehicle he'd been tossed into. It wasn't overly tall nor did it appear to be very heavy, yet the roof crumbled under its weight. Its mouth dripped blood and the body in its arms had obviously been mauled and eaten. Its sick, yellow eyes burned through Twitch's skull, and he tossed the body aside without a backward glance.
The body belonged to his friend and MARSOC teammate.
Kris spun again, dropped to a knee while pulling a concealed Glock .45 from the small of his back and fired. The two bombshells-turned-werewolves were in his sights instantly, easy shots for someone as skilled as he.
Only they weren't.
The bullets touched nothing but air as the girls and the other four werewolves - the couples they had met - scattered at the sounds of three black SUVs screeching to a halt around every lane of exit. The vehicles spilled black clad and helmeted soldiers from their doors. The soldiers fired their weapons as they moved over the parking lot. Each took a sector, and their rapid yet controlled fire created a cross section of death. Through the maelstrom, a lone figure ran, sliding to a halt at Twitch's side.
He asked in a flat, filtered, and metallic voice, "Are you alright? Did they bite you?"
Not waiting for an answer, he rolled Twitch over, and checked for himself. Satisfied, he asked again, "Are you okay?"
The voice reminded Twitch of the Storm Troopers in the Star Wars movies. Twitch only managed a blank look in reply.
The bullets touched nothing but air as the girls and the other four werewolves - the couples they had met - scattered at the sounds of three black SUVs screeching to a halt around every lane of exit. The vehicles spilled black clad and helmeted soldiers from their doors. The soldiers fired their weapons as they moved over the parking lot. Each took a sector, and their rapid yet controlled fire created a cross section of death. Through the maelstrom, a lone figure ran, sliding to a halt at Twitch's side.
He asked in a flat, filtered, and metallic voice, "Are you alright? Did they bite you?"
Not waiting for an answer, he rolled Twitch over, and checked for himself. Satisfied, he asked again, "Are you okay?"
The voice reminded Twitch of the Storm Troopers in the Star Wars movies. Twitch only managed a blank look in reply.
Bullets buzzed overhead, angry howls of defiance rent the night and men were running to and fro in an attempt to control the area. While this was going on, the man ripped his helmet off and said again, "Kris...are you okay? Are you okay, son?"
Twitch's eyes cleared momentarily as he realized his dad, a man that was supposed to have been dead for nearly ten years, was holding his head in his hands. Memories came flooding back to Twitch, bad memories, memories he had buried for a long, long time. Now, he was living them again, and for the second time in his life, his mouth flew open, and he screamed.
Only, there was no sound.
***
Several hours later, Kyle Metcalf threw the doors of Mac's pub open and stepped inside. Upon seeing his dad, Kris jumped to his feet, knocked aside his table, and spilled the contents of the small, rugged, smartphone he'd been issued only minutes before. Twitch had never seen a phone - really it was more of a miniature tablet - like it before and had it broken down in record time.
Instead of rushing to his son's side, Kyle held his hand up signaling for him to sit and that he'd be over in a moment. While Kris busied himself picking up the parts, Kyle slid into the booth opposite his longtime friend and assistant platoon leader.
The pub's namesake and proprietor, Shamus Mactavish, the only surviving member of SKUL's original five man unit, joined them by pulling up a chair.
"How's he handling things so far?" asked the elder Metcalf.
"Who?" asked Jed genially.
The easy manner at which Jed walked through life normally amused the team leader; but today, it only served as further irritation. "Who the hell you think I'm talking about, Jed?" the senior operator and team leader spat, barely managing to keep his voice low. "Kris, my son."
"Oh," replied Jed evenly, taking a sip of his beer, "you mean the kid that just discovered his dad he thought had been dead for nearly ten years was really alive?"
"Yeah," Kyle responded in a soft voice.
Jed continued, "The same kid that just discovered that werewolves aren't just characters in an R-rated horror flick?"
"Yes," Kyle said, sinking lower in his seat.
"The one that has also been told of an organization whose sole purpose is the hunting down and exterminating of said werewolves?" Jed asked.
Kyle only nodded.
"Well, Rash, considering all that and taking into consideration that your son isn't wearing a straight jacket or in some medically induced stupor, I'd say he's doing about as well as could be expected." Jed looked to Shamus, "What do you think, Shamus? Think the kid's doing okay."
"Aye," said the legendary SKUL shooter in a heavy, Bostonian accent, "kid's handling it better than any dozen of the men sitting around this bar did when their ideas of the world came crashing down."
Jed leaned over the table, now his voice low yet forceful, "That's your son over there, Kyle. A son whose life you haven't been apart of for way too long. I know you had your reasons, and I know what they were, but he doesn't. So, instead of decorating my personal space with your ugly ass, why don't you go talk to your boy? Try explaining some of this shit."
Kyle looked up, and a grin made more of appreciation than anything humorous crept sheepishly across his face. Fleeting in appearance, the momentarily lapse in seriousness was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "You know we can't be on the same team, right?"
Jed nodded but remained quiet.
"Promise me something, Jed," Kyle's voice quaked, and the man was obviously close to tears. "Promise me you'll protect him, keep him safe."
Jed held his hand out and the two shook, "With my life, Kyle, with my life."
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