Event: A Novel

by David L. Golemon

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Ten Miles South of Chatos Crawl, Arizona

  July 9, 0230 Hours

  The beast was once again aboveground. Its hunger was sated for the time being and it had even more nourishment stored deep in the earth at its nesting site. Now it was watching its new surroundings. The animal saw the lights in the distance and blinked as it licked the area between its claws. The millions of pores in its purple and black armored skin took in the scent of more prey. Its body was adapting faster each time it fed on the strange and rich proteins. It was becoming much stronger.

  It would use its nest soon to drop its young. They would be born already acclimated to this world.

  The beast suddenly looked across the desert at the distant lights. The enticing aroma of food was carried by the warm wind from the north.

  The beast then leisurely moved its claws to the ground and gently leaned forward. The armored plates on its neck spread and its throat started producing die hum from the concave voice box, bounding it off the animal’s palate. The sound, unheard by man or animal, rippled the sand and dirt, once again changing the atomic dynamic of the soil. Then the beast gently dove into the earth. The scent of prey had been much too strong for it to ignore.

  Every few minutes the Destroyer would rise from the ground as a dolphin would from the sea, bursting into the air fifteen and sometimes twenty feet in height to scan the area, then letting its massive weight send it back into the soil, and soon it was again parting the dirt in a massive wave as it drew nearer to its next food source, eventually going deep.

  The small town in the distance was sleeping, oblivious to the threat and notoriety coming its way, as it would soon be on every news channel the world over as the beast had chosen the earth directly below the town as its nesting site.

  The name of Chato’s Crawl, Arizona, was about to become synonymous with the word terror.

  The Superstition Mountains

  Discovery Team Odin (Ground Assault)

  The three Blackhawks were flying at terrain level. The collision-avoidance radars were on and running, freeing the pilot to stare in abject horror as the computers adjusted flight to avoid objects that loomed ahead through the windshield. Warrant Officer Jerry Brannon didn’t care for the “hands-off” approach to piloting. He had been with the Event Group twelve years. Flying with your hands poised over the control collective of the huge helicopter was one thing he couldn’t get used to doing. Technology, he reasoned with a pilot’s mentality, sucked. He watched the collective, which was the control attached to his left that looked like an emergency brake. You twisted the throttle at the end and lifted if you wanted to go higher, or lowered it if you wanted to go down. Right now, looking at it operate itself was nerve-racking.

  He glanced out the windshield at the passing terrain. The greenish image in the night-vision scope was eerily magical as it brought the desert to life around the streaking helicopter.

  “Coming up on crash site in four minutes,” he radioed back to his passengers.

  The crew and security aspect of the Discovery team felt the sudden shift in the Blackhawk’s powerful twin turbines, and the steep climb it had to adjust to as the black-painted helicopter flew up the mountainside. The three other Blackhawks of the Discovery team peeled away and would hover at station just below the valley above. Collins felt the slight slowing of forward momentum, then Brannon flipped on the anticollision lights, which cast a red strobe-light effect against the coarse terrain of piled-up rocks that passed for mountains in this region of Arizona, the Superstitions.

  Collins felt the old adrenaline rush of landing in an LZ again. The interior lights flashed once, then went to red to allow the advance team’s eyes to adjust better to the darkness. Mendenhall, on Jack’s orders, loaded and locked his M16. Mendenhall watched as all elements of his short-manned squad followed suit as they too inserted a twenty-round magazine and pulled back the charging slide on their automatic rifles. The indicators on the weapons remained on safe. Lisa had a nine-millimeter automatic pistol in a shoulder holster, as did Jason Ryan, who had been surprised to learn that Collins had included him on the Discovery team. After all, he was a pilot and knew nothing of ground assault or the tactics members of this team used. But Jack had explained he needed people who reacted quickly, and he knew naval fighter pilots were quick-thinking and weren’t afraid of taking chances. He was quite comfortable with assigning Ryan duties on the initial team and later for duty in town. He knew Ryan would have the personality to handle civilians in the initial stages.

  The Blackhawk had two sliding-bracket-mounted, five-barrel, mini-rotary cannons on each side, manned by two crewmen wearing night-vision eyewear. The hoppers to their left were full of the rounds that could tear into any target and shred it before it heard the noise of the electrically driven weapon.

  The powerful UH-60 Blackhawk slowed, then came to a stop still a hundred feet off the debris field and automatically held position.

  “Going to manual flight, people, you are a go for egress. Good luck,” Brannon called over the radio, then turned the red interior light off.

  “Okay, watch your descent; don’t land on anything if you can avoid it. We don’t know what to expect down there,” Collins shouted against the whine created by the twin turbines. “Are we ready?”

  One by one his four-man security team gave the thumbs-up and answered into their built-in mikes, “Good to go!”

  Collins slid the door back on its track, filling the compartment with a blast of cool desert air. He pulled his night-vision goggles down and adjusted the Kevlar helmet on his head. He also adjusted the harness holding extra magazines and water, then kicked out the first of four ropes, two on each side of the helicopter. They would make it a combat heliocast into an unsecured area; it would be as fast as you could do it, in the safest amount of time.

  “Okay, let’s go.”

  He grabbed the rope on the steel extension arm that was four feet beyond the open door, then fed the rope into the metal ring just below where his belly button would be, then turned and faced the inside of the compartment to the opposite side of the Blackhawk. Mendenhall mirrored his leader’s movements exactly. Then they both pushed off at the same time. Everett and Jackson followed a second later. Up front, Brannon prepared to bring the power down a touch to keep the Blackhawk level due to the loss of weight.

  The four men slowed their descent on the thick rubber-encased-nylon ropes as they approached the debris field. They came to a stop fifteen feet from the ground and let their eyes roam the area where each would set down. The drop zone was strangely cast in the green glow one never really got used to when using the ambient-light devices the military had developed for night operations.

  Collins released pressure on both hands and traveled the rest of the way to the ground, narrowly missing a four-foot piece of strangely shaped metal. He quickly released the rope and unsnapped himself from the ring, then tossed the rope to the side and brought the short-barreled M16 up from his belly pack. Jack clicked the indicator from safety to semiautomatic and watched as Mendenhall followed suit, placing his weapon from safety to full automatic, as the second part of one team.

  Collins then felt the huge Blackhawk increase power and rise back into the sky. Brannon was good and quick. He had watched the heliocast until its conclusion and hadn’t waited for the all-clear before lifting the bird back up to a safe altitude so he could circle close enough to give the ground team cover fire if needed.

  The major adjusted the small microphone to about an inch from his mouth. His voice would carry not only to his ground team and the helicopter, but also to the Group in Nevada. “All right, ladies, spread out and keep your eyes open?”

  Everett and Lance Corporal Jackson were teamed and walked side by side, weapons at eye level, sweeping the area before them. Carl couldn’t believe the amount of wreckage before him. As he turned and scanned the area behind his team, he saw Collins turn over a big container, then move on. He thought nothing
of it until he saw him repeat the same thing to another strangely shaped box. As he turned, wondering what Collins was up to, he didn’t see the hole. The next thing Everett knew the ground gave way, and if it weren’t for his quick reflexes, he would have fallen all the way. As it was, he was hanging on by his elbows. His M16 had come up and given him a good whack on the chin, putting a good two-inch gash just to the left along his jawline. He felt his feet swinging below him and knew immediately it was a deep crevasse he had almost stumbled into.

  “Some help here,” he called calmly into his voice-activated microphone.

  Jackson quietly ran over and saw what was happening. He let his weapon fall by the strap to his belly pack and moved his hands to Everett’s armpits and lifted. Once he was out of the hole, they both looked down into the black maw in amazement.

  “Old mine shaft, you think?” Jackson asked.

  “No,” Everett answered, looking closer at the dirt and sand with the night-vision scope. “Look at the dirt piled around the top, this was dug recently.”

  As they stared into the deep excavation, they saw it was smooth around the sides and went straight down. Everett broke a fluorescent nightstick and tossed it into the hole. Through the green-tinted limits of their vision the light told them it curved off somewhere around forty feet or so. They wondered why this hole was here right in the middle of the crash site. As they thought about the strangeness of it, both glanced around and brought their M 16s up with renewed enthusiasm.

  Gus’s Cabin

  0320 Hours

  Gus was sound asleep. His snoring was loud and had kept Mahjtic on edge, and the pain wasn’t helping it either. But far more than Gus’s snoring or the pain in its ribs was the fact it knew the small house was being watched. Mahjtic’s eyes were wide as it pulled the old blanket up to its small chin as it heard a shuffling noise outside.

  “Gussss,” it whispered.

  Mahjtic’s call was answered by a much louder snore.

  “Gussss.” A little louder.

  A strange sound emanated from the front of the house. It sounded like small popping noises. Gus never stirred. Then a sound of the screen door hitting lightly as it was closed, as if something was testing it.

  “Gussss.”

  Mahjtic finally gathered up the reserve of courage to slowly slide up and off the bed, the pain in its ribs ignored as it leaned against the old clapboard wall and ventured a glance toward the front door and listened intently. There were scraping noises against the wooden door. The small alien’s eyes went from the door to Gus, who was leaning back in the chair with his face toward the ceiling. Again it looked toward the flimsy door, and to Mahjtic’s horror it heard the screen door spring being stretched open once again, and it saw the old glass doorknob slowly turn and then stop. It hadn’t been turned far enough to open, but Mahjtic didn’t care for the movement at all, and it had had enough.

  “GUSSSSSS!” it screamed.

  Gus was so shocked his legs pushed upward and sent him sprawling onto the floor. At that same moment a hatchet blade splintered the door and was quickly worked free. Mahjtic saw this, but Gus, who was trying to make sense of why he was on his back, didn’t.

  The small alien ran and jumped onto the bed and actually tried to climb the wall, only getting a few inches before sliding back to the old mattress. It was jabbering in terror as the hatchet again sank into the front door, and this time a loud hissing noise could be heard through the large crack in the wood.

  “What in the—”

  That was as far as Gus got as the center panel of the door gave way and a long, thin arm shot through. Small, clear claws were grasping at air, opening and closing. Gus’s eyes widened as he saw that the arm was grayish and shot through with veins that revealed the dark blood that coursed underneath the sickly and wet-looking skin. As Gus started to gain some of his senses, he heard Matchstick scream again.

  Whatever was at the door suddenly withdrew, and a moment later what remained of the center of the door came flying into the small house.

  “Good God almighty,” he said when the Gray stepped in through the doorway.

  The creature stood outlined in the darkness outside. It was leaning to its left side and Gus saw the rusty roofing hatchet swaying in front of it The Gray was almost as tall as Gus; its skin was dark and covered in small blackened and brownish flecks, like freckles, and they moved on the surface of its muscles. The head was large. The eyes were as small as a man’s, but that was where the resemblance stopped. The pupils were yellow, ringed in black, and they were looking straight at Gus. It opened its mouth and hissed loudly, giving Gus cold chills as its clear teeth were exposed. It took a tentative step into the light of the kitchen. It was dragging its right leg, and Gus could now see the dark blood as it was spread across the linoleum by its high-heeled, double-jointed foot.

  Matchstick ceased trying to dig its way through the wall and turned to face the Gray. Its small legs tried to steady themselves on the spongy mattress. Suddenly Matchstick let out a long stream of loud chattering in a language that was as far from English as Gus had ever heard.

  Suddenly the Gray slammed the hatchet into the small wooden table. Gus quickly reached for the leg of the chair. The Gray quickly twisted the weapon free and advanced farther into the kitchen.

  Gus slowly tried to sit up, trying in vain to untangle his boots from the legs of the chair.

  “You were there in the mountains, weren’t ya?” he said as if he were a bug to be stepped upon. “What do you want, you ugly bastard?”

  The creature switched the hatchet to its left and suddenly lunged at Gus. He tried to grab at the small countertop but hit the hot plate with the pot of cold soup. The soup went flying across the kitchen, and Gus went back down and looked up to his left in time to see the sharp edge of the hatchet heading for his chest. The weapon buried itself in the wood only inches from Gus’s upturned face. The Gray screamed in anger as Gus brought his fist up and connected solidly with the creature’s jaw, hitting solid bone beneath the sickly skin, causing the alien’s head to jerk back, but still it worked to free the hatchet. Gus heard the sound of cracking wood as it twisted the weapon back and forth.

  Before either Gus or the Gray could react, there was a loud scream and then Matchstick had joined the fray. It had sprung from the bed to the table to the Gray’s shoulders. It quickly started to attack the Gray’s head and neck. The much larger alien momentarily forgot the hatchet and reached up and grabbed Matchstick and easily tossed it across the room, where it landed against the wall. The picture of the poker-playing dogs was dislodged from its nail and fell and hit the alien’s large green head, and Matchstick momentarily saw stars. Then as it rubbed its bandaged head, the bow and arrow fell into its lap.

  “You son of a bitch!” Gus yelled as he was punching and slapping at the Gray for all he was worth.

  The alien used its free hand and slammed Gus’s head into the floor, while its other hand started working at freeing the hatchet once again. Gus heard the sickening sound of the rusty tool being pulled from the wood and knew he was in dire straits.

  “Gussssss!” Matchstick yelled.

  The Gray stopped and looked up. The old man quickly grabbed for the right arm of the creature and tried to wrestle the weapon from it, but the creature’s grip was iron. Gus saw Matchstick, but his view was upside down, but what he saw struck almost as much horror in him as the Gray with the hatchet. Matchstick had an arrow in its small hand, ready to throw it at the Gray.

  Matchstick didn’t hesitate. The maneuver was done to precision as its right hand let go and the arrow was loosed. It flew past the Gray’s shoulder and embedded itself in the floor next to Gus’s head.

  The Gray actually grinned when the arrow missed, and it raised the hatchet to strike Gus. Then suddenly a strange look crossed the Gray’s features, and the old man saw why: an arrow had pierced its back. Then Matchstick angrily crashed into the Gray and sent it flying off of Gus. As he quickly sat up to assist Matchstick
, he saw the small alien atop the Gray, hitting it again and again with another arrow. The Gray was hissing and spitting angrily, but its actions were slow and growing slower. Gus quickly came to his knees and rushed over and grabbed the hatchet and went to assist Matchstick. He raised the hatchet high and brought it down with all his strength into the chest of the Gray. The large alien let out a scream of pure pain. Matchstick rolled off and scooted to the far wall of the house. Gus sat still for several moments.

  “You okay, son?” Gus asked as he tried to gain his feet, but slipped in the blood on the floor.

  Matchstick shook its large head. It brought its long fingers up and felt its head, then looked at the blood that stained its fingers.

  “You started bleeding again, boy.” Gus gained his feet and walked over to the small being. He gently reached down and picked it up and carried it back to the bed.

  As Matchstick lay there, it rolled over as Gus went to get some water, stepping wide of the Gray as he did. When he returned, Matchstick was looking up at him.

  “Thhh… thank… you.”

  “Yeah, well, it won’t go botherin’ us no more, not with you bein’ as good as you are with that Indian arr’ah.”

  As Gus tried to wipe some blood away that had soaked through the bandage, Matchstick gently touched his hand and stopped him.

  “Th… ank… you.”

  “A friend doesn’t have to thank a friend for doin’ what needs doin’, son. ’Sides, I seem to recollect it was you who pulled my bacon out of the fire, so thank you,” Gus said, smiling. “Now, what could be out there in the desert that’s worse than this fella?”

  Matchstick held Gus’s eyes for a moment, then turned away and stared at the ceiling.

  “Tell me now, boy, was that there fella one of your people, or that Destroyer thing?”

  “It was… a Gray, Master of my kind,”

  “Well, I guess it found out we don’t take kindly to Gray Masters’ round here, huh?”