More dreams of strangewar.

One of the survivors, the last to get into the Humvee floats a question that drifts through the air too quickly to hear the words, but is yet understood. Everything here happens too quickly, like the burning grey overcast clouds whipping and roiling overhead like they are running from our destination.
"Go on ahead, I'll be there."
The Humvee rolls down the dirt road stretching through a vast plain that might have been farmland once. I start running, somehow aware that I will reach the target before the vehicle.
How do I run so fast? How do my bullets always seem to find their true love, my enemies' blood? What am I in the eyes of others? Valid questions that no one truly wants to know, not even me, not yet.
I am in position an immeasurable breadth of time later, prone on a hill not even twenty yards behind the rear entrance of an ordinary looking farmhouse. Waiting with my face is against the ground, I try to get comfortable with the dead blades of grass pressing into my chin and cheek. Any moment the other three members of our dwindling band of survivors, in the Humvee, will sacrifice every bullet we have left. A show of wasteful force meant to goad the enemy into believing that was the entirety of our strength. No one has much ammo anymore. They'll believe it.
When the strange whistle of that awful wind is broken by the chopping of the heavy weaponry, I wake from a daydream, though it would be a hard sell to call the hour one of 'daylight'. Through the grey curtain above, no sun shines.
They pour out, hoping to escape the Humvee's fifty caliber machine gun long enough to get to the fortified positions in the surroundings that no one doubts the existence of, despite their being well hidden.
They seem like normal people as they funnel out of the backdoor of the farmhouse, towards my hill. Armed people, but normal. So many of them though, and us only four in number. I give them a larger spigot to pour out of with a grenade launched from the underside of my rifle. This many men could have crushed us any other day. Instead they are all in my sights, tripping over themselves and the corpses of their cohorts, finding their purpose was to have holes drilled into their hearts and minds.
Afterwards, my three companions trade glances that alternate between me and the large pile of the dead with that unsettling look that says, "Who or what are you?".
We start to clear the farmhouse and search for the reason for all this bloodshed. One of the soldiers tells me to take a look at something and I go with him to a room with a very bizarre and extremely high-tech device of unearthly origin that glows with a sickly blue light.
These were not normal people after all, not at all.
Then again, who or what am I?