Into the Wild

by Larry Correia

  The warjack cocked its angular head to the side as if it were considering pushing Pangborn aside, but finally it relented and obeyed its marshal.

  Cleasby hadn’t even seen the other wolf creatures clustered around the beast until Headhunter’s lightning had arced into them. These things were resilient, he knew, and they’d be coming back quickly. He needed to do something to plug the gap. “Hold this gate. I’ll be back,” he shouted at Pangborn. Thornbury, he saw, was the Storm Knight who had joined them. “Thorny, help Pangborn.”

  “Hellogand’s down,” Thorny yelled back to him.

  “Damn. All right.” But there was no time to dwell on the loss.

  Cleasby ran to the wagons. If they could roll a wagon into the gateway and flip it over onto its side, it would make a decent barricade. As he moved, he spotted a couple of the university students who had taken cover behind some barrels. “You two help me push this thing.” They were reluctant to abandon their hiding spot, but he knew this was only because they were unaware that the concept of safe no longer existed tonight. “Do you want to live? Then get it in gear! Come on.”

  Cleasby went around the side of the wagon and blundered right into the bloody, snarling face of one of the wolf creatures.

  It thrust a spear at his chest. He barely got his buckler up in time to catch the brunt of it, but the blade slid up and smashed into his helmet. Lights popped behind his eyeballs. Head spinning and off-balance, he lurched to the side as the creature struck again. The thick blade landed so hard, it smashed a dent into his breastplate and swept him off his feet. He landed flat on his back, hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs.

  The creature surged forward, claws scraping across his armor, until it stepped on his arm, pinning it to the ground with its massive weight. Cleasby swung his shield arm, but the beast kneed it aside. Words and grunts twisted together into incomprehensible snarls as the beast rose above Cleasby to deal its deathblow. Blood from several bullet wounds spilled from its chest and splattered against Cleasby’s visor. The creature lifted its spear high overhead, aiming an attack that would put a hole right through his helmet.

  Death was coming, and all he could think was, Ascendent Markus spare my men.

  The blade came down. Cleasby closed his eyes.

  Thunk.

  Death didn’t come after all. He opened his eyes to see the blade impaled in the dirt next to his head. The spear was abandoned, sticking upright and vibrating, while the wolf beast was yanked back by a rope that had been tossed over its head.

  “Take the shot!” the ogrun Raus shouted as he hauled the creature back by the neck. A rapid series of gunshots penetrated the battle. Blood splattered on Cleasby as another bullet struck the creature. The next shot bounced off its armored plate, but the shot that followed put a tidy black hole in its stomach. The monster fell to the ground thrashing as Raus continued tugging the rope and dragging the monster away.

  Pickett appeared, his repeater broken open. His hands were shaking so badly that he struggled to move shells from his belt into the cylinder. “Get up, Kelvan!”

  Cleasby rolled over and fought to orient himself against a spinning world. Despite the dizzying circumstances, he found his glaive and returned to his feet, albeit rather shakily.

  The monster hooked its claws around the rope and sliced right through the makeshift leash. The sudden loss of tension caused Raus to fall on his backside.

  “Look out!” the ogrun warned as the creature rushed forward and took up its spear.

  Without thinking, Cleasby put his body between his friend and the monster. He swung with all his strength as the spear came hurtling toward him. He heard the weapon split the air and felt—nothing. The beast man missed; Cleasby didn’t.

  The glaive triggered as it struck, blasting galvanic energy through one of the armored plates and flinging the creature away. It landed in a smoking heap.

  Cleasby staggered after it, prepared to finish the job, but Raus was already on the injured beast with the first improvised weapon he could find. He picked up an entire barrel of coal—easily two hundred pounds—and lifted it high over his head. The ogrun stepped forward and, without so much as a tremor from his muscles, brought the barrel down with a roar onto his opponent’s head. Cleasby heard a sick crack as the beast’s skull fractured, and in parallel form, the barrel burst and spilled coal everywhere. Both containers had split and sent their contents pouring out. Beneath the coal pile, one of the monster’s legs kicked in a spasmodic rhythm, clicking bits of coal together.

  Still reeling from the blow to his head, Cleasby stuck the point of his glaive into the dirt and leaned on it while he waited for the world’s rapid rotations to subside. Blood rolled around inside his helmet, and he wasn’t sure how much of it belonged to him.

  Raus hurried over to him. “Are you hurt, lieutenant?”

  It was always hard to tell the extent of the damage with head injuries, especially one’s own. “I’ll be fine. We’ve got to push this wagon to block the gate.”

  The ogrun gave him a grim, determined nod. “Will do.” He looked past Cleasby. “You two good-for-nothing cowards come on, and help me push this.”

  Cleasby had forgotten about the university people who had been following him. “Pickett and I can help, too. We need to hurry.”

  Raus looked down and scowled. “Pickett. Come with us. But you wait here and let your head clear, lieutenant. We’ll handle this.” The two university men had run past Cleasby and strained against the back of the wagon, uselessly. It wasn’t until Raus hit the tailgate that the wagon began to roll. “Put your backs into it!”

  Cleasby tried to assist his men, but it was difficult for him to focus. He needed to be rational, detached, and logical to take in the entirety of the battle. That was how he knew what to do and which orders to give. Unexpectedly, he slid down the glaive and found himself on his hands and knees—head throbbing, vision swimming. He reached up and managed to get his helmet off. From the scraping against his scalp, the metal was even more deformed than he’d thought. Logically, Cleasby knew he’d been concussed—and that he needed medical attention—but there was no time to slow down now.

  “Pickett, help me up, please. I can’t seem to stand on my own.”

  No answer.

  The world faded in and out. Cleasby couldn’t tell what he was or wasn’t hearing, and he felt too weak and nauseated to even lift his head. For the longest time, he tried to call for help, then to just stay conscious.

  At length, the roar of glaives and gunshots faded until all Cleasby could hear was the ringing inside his head. On his hands and knees, he crawled through the dirt, turning in circles, until he saw Pickett lying there, pierced through the heart by a wolf man’s spear.

  When he took it all in, a quarter of the expedition was dead. Half of the living had been wounded. Of the ones who’d survived, a few were in such a poor state that it was doubtful they would survive until dawn. Still, their little fort had held.

  It had been quiet for nearly an hour. The wolf creatures had assaulted the walls repeatedly, but they’d been repulsed each time. No others had been allowed inside. No one saw any sign of the giant beast since it had retreated back into the woods.

  Cleasby had redeployed his remaining forces around the camp, watching not just out but also in. He had one group of Storm Knights prepared to serve as a hunter-killer team if any other creatures should magically appear among them. It was defense in depth, and he cursed himself for not being ready for such a thing sooner. Logically, he knew there was no way he could have predicted such an attack, but his head throbbed and he was in no mood to grant anyone mercy, especially himself.

  He finally had to take a break from coordinating the defenses to get his wound tended. The dizziness had subsided and left him with a pounding headache, an incredible desire for sleep, and a bad mood. He sat on a log while Clemency Horner stitched together the deep gash in his scalp. He winced as she expertly ran the needle through his skin.

&nb
sp; “It’s pretty bad. I’ve got a bottle around here somewhere if you’d like to take a drink to dull the pain.”

  “No, thank you.” Being cut off and surrounded by savage beast men was no excuse for being impolite; he knew Horner was just trying to be kind. “I’m afraid I can’t afford to dull any edge, even one as useless as my faculties.”

  “You couldn’t have known they’d appear out of thin air, Cleasby. I’ve been all over western Immoren, and I’ve never seen such a thing before.” Horner paused to hold up a lantern next to his head, scowling as she studied her work. She gently wiped away more of his blood with a wet rag, put down the lantern, and went back to stitching him up. “But that’s all right. Come to think of it, we should save the alcohol for dressing wounds anyway.”

  “I’m sorry about Pickett.” He had only been given the total number of the dead, not their names, and was unsure how many of her other colleagues were covered in tarps outside the bunkhouse, but he knew of one for certain. “I’m sorry my last words to him were unkind.”

  “And his last words to you were much the same, but don’t let it eat at you. If the situation were reversed, he’d regret it just as much. I know he could be rather rude ever since the expedition started, but when you weren’t around, he always spoke very highly of you. Even when he was being disagreeable, he still praised you afterward for being so stubborn. I think it was because he was a little jealous of what you’ve done with your life.”

  Cleasby snorted. “Hardly.”

  “Hold still. No, really, I mean what I said. Pickett always thought of himself as a leader. People tend to follow the handsome, dashing ones, don’t they? But that’s superficial, and he was smart enough to know it. Then he sees you again, the quiet humble one, all grown up, and somehow you’ve become a real leader. Only not because you wanted it but because circumstance gave you no choice.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  Horner tipped her head. “I’m only saying that if you’re going to slip into melancholy over imagined failures, keep it to yourself, because this expedition still needs you.”

  He considered then nodded. “Fair enough.”

  She tied off the thread and cut the end with a pair of scissors. “I’d urge you to take it easy, but we both know that isn’t bloody likely.” She stood up and retrieved her scattergun. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got more wounded to tend to.”

  “Thank you, both for the stitches and for the advice.”

  The archeologist had been brave enough to get on the wall during the warpwolf’s attack and gentle enough not to berate him for his mistakes. The university scholars were good people, he decided. Dalton Pickett was dead, but it was up to Cleasby to make sure the rest of them lived. He could feel guilty about his old friend—and everyone else—later.

  One of his Storm Knights approached the campfire. Corporal Allsop. His armor was covered in dents, scratches, and drying blood. The normally jovial Storm Knight was somber now. “Lieutenant, you need to see this. There’s something happening with the monsters.”

  “Another assault?” He reached for his glaive, which was propped next to him against the log.

  “No, sir. I mean the dead ones. We dragged them all out of the way like you ordered, but something strange is happening to the bodies. I can’t explain. You really need to see it for yourself.”

  Cleasby rose, taking the lantern with him. He wanted to examine the things more closely anyway. Perhaps an understanding of their physiology would help his men kill them better. He followed the corporal to what was left of the stables. Though he’d not had a chance to inspect the area since the attack, from the obvious carnage it seemed their oxen hadn’t fared well, either.

  Allsop confirmed this. “The animals were crippled badly, sir. We had to put most of them out of their misery. What kind of monsters would take the time in the middle of a battle to wound a bunch of poor animals?”

  “The kind that’s smart enough to prevent us from escaping.”

  Rains and Acosta were waiting for them. Four of the beast corpses had been dumped in an unceremonious pile; the last one was at Rains and Acosta’s feet. “We knew you’d want to be scholarly, so we left one of them out for you,” Rains said.

  “That’s considerate.” Cleasby paused. Allsop was right; something was wrong. The bodies seemed smaller. “Are they shrinking?”

  “See for yourself,” Acosta said. “It is the damnedest thing.”

  Cleasby squatted next to the body and held out the lantern. From the bullet holes, armor damage, and coating of coal dust, he recognized the bastard who had speared Pickett. Cleasby wanted to hate it, but at this moment he was just too tired. He noticed the monster’s face was different, for it was a face he remembered very well since he’d thought it would be the last thing he would ever see.

  “Peculiar. The muzzle has receded. It’s not nearly as pronounced as before. It’s like their skeletal structure is dissolving and reforming into another state.” Even in their current state, Cleasby was, by nature, an inquisitive man. Curious, he poked the creature’s face, only to discover the skin was far too soft—it ripped apart at his touch, as if it were now made of damp tissue “They were far more resilient before. The dermis is decaying at an alarming rate.”

  “That’s what I said,” Rains proclaimed. Acosta looked at him, incredulous. “Well, with fewer big words. And I may have blamed witchcraft.”

  Distracted, Cleasby held out his hand. “Knife, please.”

  Of course, Acosta had several concealed on his person and produced one in an instant. He handed it over, hilt first. Cleasby took it and began cutting through the ties of the creature’s plate armor in order to see its chest. As he did so, more of the hairy skin seemed to dissolve, revealing bare red skin beneath it. Once he was through the ties, his suspicions were confirmed. The monster’s ribs were visibly collapsing.

  “It’s definitely shrinking.” The mass had to be going somewhere—and then Cleasby saw the ground beneath the corpse was a growing wet, sodden puddle of blood and unknown fluids. He looked at the other Malcontents in shock. “Correction: melting. Where’s the first one that was killed?”

  “In the pile,” Allsop muttered, looking like he was about to be sick.

  “Get it.”

  Rains went over and unceremoniously leveraged the topmost body out of the way with his glaive. The corpse flopped out of the way. Acosta kicked it a few times to be helpful, but then stopped when he realized it was splashing red, bubbling goo on his boots.

  Cleasby brought the lantern over. As the light struck the revealed corpse, he gasped. Acosta let out a long string of profanity in Ordic.

  Beneath the blood, and hair, and mess, it was a man. The dead creatures were turning into people. Correction, Cleasby thought. They were turning back into people.

  “Told you, it’s witchcraft,” Rains said. “I say burn them, burn them all. Let’s make a bonfire and get it over with now.”

  “You Menites, always with your burning,” Acosta said.

  “I’ve told you I’m no longer a Menite—”

  “Regardless, for once we are in agreement. To the fire with them, my friends!”

  “Hold on,” Cleasby muttered as he knelt next to the dead man. “This is just like the tablet we took from the shrine.”

  “Interesting. What is this tablet you say?” Acosta asked.

  “I think it’s a historical record that’s become a religious artifact. It showed warriors absorbing the strength of animals to become more powerful. But I thought it was a symbolic translation rather than a literal one.” Cleasby set the lantern down closer to the body. The archaic armor was far too big for the dead man now, and the body looked almost childlike buried in it. Upon closer inspection, he could tell the human form wasn’t entirely normal either. “Note the teeth are too sharp, the fingernails are too thick and heavy, and he is rather hirsute.”

  “I do not know this word.”

  “Hairy.”

  “Perhap
s he’s just Ordic?” Allsop laughed nervously. Acosta frowned at him, and the Storm Knight fell silent.

  Suddenly the corpse gasped. Startled, Cleasby fell backward. Somehow Acosta spun one of his glaives into his hand so quickly that it seemed to materialize out of thin air. He raised it to strike the man’s head from his shoulders.

  “Wait!” Cleasby shouted. Acosta froze.

  The supposedly dead man wasn’t trying to attack them; in fact, he’d begun coughing up blood. He could barely lift his head. It was only with a great deal of struggle that he put his elbows beneath his body and raised himself enough to avoid choking on his own blood. He might not have been all the way dead yet, but he was certainly dying.

  Acosta kept the glaive up anyway.

  It was troubling that he was still alive—his body was covered in terribly lethal wounds. He’d been stabbed, shot, and electrocuted. How tough are these things? Cleasby wondered as he knelt by the stranger. He still had the knife in his hand, but didn’t think he’d need it. “Why did you attack us?” Cleasby demanded.

  The dying man took a moment to focus on the voice. He looked up at Cleasby, and his bloodshot eyes slowly filled with recognition and then hate.

  “Trespassers must die,” he rasped.

  “What are you?”

  The man began to shudder. At first Cleasby thought he might be experiencing a seizure, but soon he understood the man was laughing. He would tell them nothing.

  Cleasby had to draw him out, provoke him, something. “You’re the warriors from the tablet, the ones who wear the skins?”

  The laughter ground to a coughing halt. It was impossible that Cleasby could ever be able to explain how much hate he saw contained in that gaze. “You have it?”

  “We took it from the room of bones.”