* * *
NEW ORLEANS; ROMILLY SIBIAN 05:53 AUGUST 29, 2005
Romilly’s eyes snapped open. She gasped in lungsful of air. The… thing stood over her, the weird shimmering effect sputtering with sparks as the torrential rain hit it. It jabbed at its forearm and became fully visible. The hood of the Jeep bit into her shoulder blades.
How was she still alive?
Why was she still alive?
This thing had taken Darren, Maestro, and Jason to pieces in seconds. She fought to find words around intense pain in her right shoulder. “I got no beef with you… Only interested in the boy. You know? The boy.”
The thing made a sound halfway between hissing and clicking, moving its face close, studying her, mimicking the word. “Boooyyyy. Ki’Sei, lou-dte kale.”
It radiated warmth absent from the hurricane, a stark contrast that she could feel across her body.
She was careful to stay still under its scrutiny. “I’m Ro.” She was at a loss for what else to say so she mimicked it. “Ki’Sei?”
Whatever the creature’s thought process, it seemed satisfied. The thing stood, towering over her, pointing toward the French Quarter. “Dtai’kai-dte.” It thumped its own chest. “Yautja…”
She stood, shakily catching her balance in ankle-deep water. The snapped tree branch had left a deep gouge in her stomach and chest, and was imbedded in her shoulder. The blood seeping from the gash was washed away by rain faster than it came out.
Focus, Ro…
Shaking her head, she pointed in the opposite direction. “Airboat’s back there a mile. I need it. This is only going to get worse.” She pantomimed steering, then pointed at the angry sky.
The thing seemed to consider what she said, then pulled a small triangular object off its forearm and tossed it to her. The corner of the triangle pointing at the French Quarter flashed every few seconds. Why had it given her a tracking device? And why was it tracking Frankie? She looked up but it was gone.
Romilly took quick stock of her injuries. She had no clue how she was up and walking, or even alive. Luck had played a part in making injuries that looked deadly superficial… but her arm wasn’t.
Gritting her teeth, she jerked out the branch-turned-stake. Her knees buckled. Her right arm tingled and pain butterflied from the hole in her shoulder. Unsheathing her boot-knife, Romilly reached into the Jeep, pulling the seatbelt to full extension. She had been an idiot not to use it before, but now it had a second shot at its job, just not the way originally intended.
She bit down on the belt and cut. After struggling she managed to slice the other end free. It worked as a makeshift sling, binding her bad arm to her chest and keeping pressure on the wounds.
Romilly pushed her dreads off her face. Insanity. All of this. She started miserably trudging toward the airboat.
* * *
NEW ORLEANS; NATIONAL GUARD FIRETEAM 05:55 AUGUST 29, 2005
The windshield was eclipsed by snarling fangs and matted fur. The gray beast from the video snarled and snapped its maw against the glass. Inigo slammed on the gas. “Ohshitohshitohshit…”
The beast, way too big to be a wolf, scrabbled for purchase, fighting the motion of the Humvee and the onslaught of Hurricane Katrina. Blue lightning arced by and the beast flinched, sliding off the vehicle, snarling as it got blown into the same shop as the lamppost.
The Humvee fought its way back into the storm.
Inigo glanced at Lejeune as he spoke over the cussing and prayer coming from the back seat. “I can’t get over twenty in this. I don’t think we’ll be able to get away from that. Whattya want me to do, Sergeant?”
Lejeune squinted, reading streets signs through the storm. “I think… maybe it’s after the kid? We need to keep him safe. Up a block and over, there’s a supermarket.”
Inigo nodded, squinting to focus through the downpour overpowering the wipers.
Everyone in her fireteam had reacted much as she had—freaked out but holding it together. She glanced back. Tito was holding the unconscious kid in place, cussing up a storm under his breath in Spanish while Nevaeh prayed.
Lejeune reached back and snapped her fingers loudly. “Focus. I don’t care what you just saw. We’re going to a defensible position and we’ll deal with that… thing, there.”
Tito blinked. “Pinche—You kidding, Sarge? Why the hell ain’t we headed to the Superdome?”
“Superdome’s out. We don’t have the time to get there. That thing might kill us, but if we try for the Superdome and the eyewall hits us, Katrina will. We go to ground.”
Inigo spoke without taking focus off the worsening storm. “But, Sarge, there are like thousands of us there and only one of that thing. Isn’t that worth the risk?”
“Yeah—it just near took out our Humvee. How are we supposed to stop that?” Tito was wide-eyed.
Lejeune clenched her jaw. “No arguments. We won’t make it any more now than we would’ve ten minutes ago, let alone endangering thousands of civilians. So we find a way to stop it here. We’re the Guard dammit, so we guard.”
* * *
NEW ORLEANS; ROMILLY SIBIAN 05:59 AUGUST 29, 2005
The alien may have let her live, but Romilly wasn’t so sure Katrina would grant her the same consideration… and she could see the maelstrom around the eye, still far off. The eyewall was deadly, but even the fringes of the 400-mile-wide hurricane were drowning the streets. Just two minutes to catch my breath… She found shelter in the lee of a bus and her mind drifted.
Jason looked at her, pleading. Romilly thought he was the only one worth anything in this whole damn shoot, even if he bought into all that Hollywood crap. The two hair-banders dreamt only of fame and glory. As often as not, glory got people dead in Romilly’s experience.
Her grandma had always said the rougarou was real—that it was a messenger from God. One look at this campsite and the message was clear—stay the fuck away.
“Camera, Ro. Get everything you can. If things go badly, grab the boy and go. Don’t look back. Save him. Promise me.” Jason met her eye, begging.
Romilly grunted. “I will.”
She had given her word. She rubbed her arms furiously, warming up. Forcing herself back into the storm, Romilly fought Katrina for every inch, slogging through calf-deep water until her prize, the airboat, came into view. She limped forward until she was on the craft.
Romilly gunned the engine to life and sped onto the drowning streets of New Orleans, following the tracker toward the French Quarter.
* * *
NEW ORLEANS; NATIONAL GUARD FIRETEAM 06:17 AUGUST 29, 2005
“In there!” Lejeune pointed at the squat structure of the supermarket as the Humvee was buffeted from side to side, inching its way forward.
“Where do you wanna put the Humvee, Sarge? I don’t think we can make it through this on foot.”
“The way in is the way through, PFC. Take us through the front doors and park inside. Deep inside.” Lejeune didn’t see a safer way to get her team under cover.
“Isn’t that just gonna let the storm in, Sarge?” Tito asked.
“It is. We’ll have to deal with flooding, but that’s a lot better than what’s out here.” She pointed toward the horizon. The sky went from brownish-gray to ugly black farther away from the city. “I’m pretty sure that’s Katrina’s eye. As much as this thing is a tank on wheels, we won’t survive in this for long.”
Inigo cut through the parking lot and smashed through the supermarket’s plywood-covered glass doors. He let out a quiet “yee-haw” as they crashed into the store. He looked half-sheepish, half-delighted as he guided the vehicle through shelves, crushing canned goods and packaged foods under wheel before parking.
Lejeune gave Inigo a flat look. “Alright. Get out, do your best to fortify our entry point against the storm. Use bags of rice to build a levee; put as much heavy shit as you can behind it. I’ll take care of the kid. Go, go, go.”
Nevaeh, Tito, and Inigo piled out. Lejeune c
hecked on the kid. He was breathing evenly, but was on fire to the touch. She climbed out of the Humvee and started tromping across the wet floor, gathering supplies. Her fireteam had already started shifting bags of rice to plug the hole.
* * *
NEW ORLEANS; ROMILLY SIBIAN 06:21 AUGUST 29, 2005
Romilly used the wind, slicing across the lightly flooded streets of the French Quarter, relying on the craft’s belt to keep her seated, having learned the “belt-up” lesson. This area wasn’t as flooded—only half a foot of water covered the street. Asphalt and pavement scraped the bottom of the airboat, but the winds channeling through the tight streets were pushing her just enough to help. She followed the tracker as it led her along the Mississippi’s welling banks.
The ominous black of the storm felt just inches away. For all practical purposes, it was. Once the eyewall hit, winds would pick up from 60 mph to over 135. The sky would open and pour down liquid hell.
The light on the tracker shifted to her left and she juked the airboat. The bottom tore as she bounced off a dumpster. Riding an airboat was a lot like skipping stones—so long as she didn’t slow down, the ripped bottom wouldn’t matter. There was a supermarket in front of her, and the tracker pulsed a couple of times every second. If she was reading it right, that was her destination.
Pulling every ounce of juice out of the craft, she skipped across six-inch deep water in the parking lot. Graffitied plywood covered the outside of the giant glass windows, but the front entrance of the market was destroyed and open. Ro squinted. Shapes moved inside—it looked like they were stacking something in the missing doors.
No way could she slow down. The airboat was basically a giant fan on a board and would get blown away, with her on it, if she let off the acceleration. Hopefully they would see her, because she couldn’t be heard over the storm. She aimed at the opening, her Haitian Creole roots at war whether to pray to Christ or to the Loa.
People inside the market jumped to the sides as the airboat rammed into the makeshift two-foot wall. Ro killed the engine and tucked into a ball, seat-belted down as the craft skipped up and the back of the fan smashed into the roof. It spun out to the side, sliding to a halt inside the store.
She shakily undid the belt and slid down. It took a moment for the world to stop spinning. As her vision focused she realized she was staring down the barrel of an M16A2.
Romilly froze.
From behind her came the spine-freezing chunk-chunk of a shotgun being cocked, the single most intimidating sound mankind had ever produced, and it did its job on her.
She slowly raised her good hand. “Not moving.”
“Hold on.” The man behind the M16A2 was Latino, barely in his twenties. He was at the ready and slowly backing up, putting a few more feet of distance between them. Careful with each step, he slid his foot back to make sure he didn’t trip on unseen obstacles. “Ain’t you the lady from the Jeep? The one with the kid and that crazy shit on the camera?”
“Frankie’s the kid’s name.” Romilly nodded, her soaked dreads dripping water down her forehead, into her eyes. “Is he okay?”
“Right. Frankie. Weren’t you dead?” The soldier looked confused, ignoring her question.
Romilly blinked. How the hell do you answer that? “Uh… no?”
“Right. You’re standing here. Okay. How did you find us, then?”
Acutely aware of the alien tracker, and the explanation she would have to give to someone already not asking the brightest of questions, Romilly opted for a simpler route. “GPS tracker?”
His eyes narrowed over the sights of the rifle, but his reply froze in his throat as a woman, a sergeant by her insignia, walked up behind him.
“What are you doing here, ma’am? And why,” she motioned to the airboat, words failing her, “this?”
Romilly scanned the store’s interior. “Following the child. I couldn’t park out there and didn’t want to make a second hole. It was the least dangerous of several bad choices. Where’s Frankie?”
The sergeant got her team moving, “Stand down. Fix that hole,” then looked back to Romilly. “The child is in the back of the store, in our Humvee. First, start explaining what the hell was on your camera footage.”
Romilly spoke. “This place… it isn’t safe. There are two things killing people. One is a wolf-like creature; it’s called a rougarou. The other is… it’s crazy is what it is.”
“We already crossed paths with the rougarou. And I saw the invisible man on the end clip. So, you have a werewolf and an invisible killer?”
Romilly shook her head. “A rougarou isn’t a werewolf—werewolves are made-up urban legends. Legend says it’s more like an intelligent giant wolf. And the invisible man… it isn’t that. I don’t know what the hell it is, other than nine feet tall. I think its name is Yautja or Ki’Sei. It isn’t killing indiscriminately though. It had me dead to rights and let me go. I think, maybe, it’s only killing things it sees as threats. Dunno…”
The sergeant watched her skeptically.
“Sorry I don’t have more for you, but you’ve watched what’s on that camera. Y’know about as much as me.”
“You’re Ro, right? Call me Lejeune; I’m not sure my team could handle hearing me referred to by my first name.”
Romilly found herself liking this sergeant. “Lejeune it is. I’m Romilly, but yeah, call me Ro.”
Both women spun in response to a loud crash.
* * *
NEW ORLEANS; NATIONAL GUARD FIRETEAM 06:32 AUGUST 29, 2005
Rain hammered through the smashed corner window, the plywood and glass lay scattered in jagged pieces across the tiled supermarket floor. A beast crouched in the wreckage, growling and snarling. Matted gray and white fur covered the bear-sized wolf. It had landed squarely between the three guardsmen.
Inigo was the first to react, bringing up his M16 to firing position, but still too slow. The motion attracted the attention of the rougarou. Fangs flashed as it snapped to the right, darting low, catching Inigo by the thigh. Blood spurted from its maw as it clamped onto his leg. Inigo screamed and his shots went wide, the M16 firing upwards as he fell back.
“Madre de Dios…” Tito froze in place, his assault rifle in the safe position.
Chunk-Chunk
Nevaeh didn’t pause. She pulled the shotgun’s trigger and the rougarou’s shoulder exploded in a red mist. The beast yelped, never letting go of Inigo’s leg.
Chunk-Chunk
She pulled the trigger again, this time hitting its neck. Inigo stopped screaming and his limp body slid around the floor as the creature savaged him. The rougarou wasn’t going down. While the shotgun blasts were hurting it, the weapon just didn’t have enough power to pierce the beast’s thick hide. That didn’t deter Nevaeh.
Chunk-Chunk
The floor ran red with blood, diluted by Katrina’s rain howling in through the shattered window.
Chunk-Chunk
The rougarou finally let go of Inigo’s limp form, tossing the guardsman’s leg to the side with a final wrench of its deadly jaws. It spun on Nevaeh, snarling. Red dripped from its fangs. Lejeune and the Creole woman slid to a stop next to the shotgun-wielding guardswoman. Lejeune snapped her rifle up and started firing.
Chunk-Chunk
The blast hit the rougarou’s leg, and it had finally had enough. It sprang to the side, smashing through another boarded window, vanishing back into the hurricane.
Lejeune sprinted to Inigo, crouching by him. “Tito. Get the damn medkit from the Humvee! Now.” She placed two fingers against Inigo’s throat and paled. “Fuck.”
Rain and wind pummeled the inside of the store. Katrina had found an opening and was exploiting it. Cans rattled and water washed away the red. Lejeune looked up at Romilly and Nevaeh, her decision made for her. “We’re leaving and finding somewhere more secure.”
* * *
NEW ORLEANS; NATIONAL GUARD FIRETEAM 06:41 AUGUST 29, 2005
“Sarge, I dunno if we should
really be smashing through the front doors of a church…” The wind buffeted the Humvee around and everyone held on for dear life.
“Can it, Tito. We’re doing a hell of a lot less property damage than the hurricane is, and I’ll take us through every front door and wall in New Orleans if it keeps us alive… And technically, we’re going through the back door.” She clutched the steering wheel in a death grip, gas pedal to the floor as they fought the wind and the incline. The Humvee won out, though. Its low center of gravity and heavy frame had been designed for terrain and conditions even more adverse than this, if such existed.
Trees along the levees guarding the French Quarter from the Mississippi’s raging flow bent under the hurricane’s wind. A couple of blocks in, everything dropped to below sea level. Their best chance was to stick as close to the levees as they could, so that if they did—God forbid—break, water would flow past them instead of drowning them.
She hooked a sharp right on St. Peter Street and drove through the center of Jackson Square to avoid the trees and other flying detritus as Katrina intensified. Straight ahead was the massive, and more importantly, solid structure of St. Louis Cathedral. She swerved into Pirate Alley, taking off both side mirrors as she squeezed the Humvee through a too-tight space. The second she was through, she hooked hard to the right, and the whole vehicle lurched.
Protected from the winds by the cathedral, she managed to get the Humvee up to thirty before crashing into the building’s door. Had the door not been inset into a several foot decorative wooden frame, they wouldn’t have made it in. Pews were crushed as the vehicle came to a halt.
“Out.” She killed the ignition. “Secure that door, Nevaeh. Tito, get the front doors, make sure they’re barricaded!”
* * *
ST. LOUIS CATHEDRAL; ROMILLY SIBIAN 06:44 AUGUST 29, 2005
PREDATOR IF IT BLEEDS Page 11