by Paul Bishop
He thought about asking if she had anything for toxic masculinity but decided not to engage in any fruitless antics.
In a way, Cruz was right. Everyone had their role to play. His was trying to anticipate any unexpected attacks. But if his previous excursions had provided any lessons, they indicated that the Biodome was more reactive than predatory. Obviously, the big predators like the panthers with the antlers and the dinosaur-sized beasts moved constantly and would kill quickly, but they usually didn’t make the first move. The all-out total attacks from everything in the Biodome were usually precipitated by some overt act by intrusive men, perhaps uprooting a Pita plant or committing another transgression.
When one part of the Biodome was attacked or violated, some kind of pheromone was released that caused a massive and unified retaliation. The entire jungle came alive with viciousness unlike anything he’d ever seen. Everything united against what was perceived as a common threat.
It was a reflexive retaliatory strike, autonomic, unrelenting, and deadly. It was why no one stood a chance once it started.
He hoped he wouldn’t experience it again, but he knew his wish was foolhardy. If this Hybrid or whatever was indigenous to the Biodome—and he had to be—he was also tied into this autonomic retaliation. Capturing him or trying to do so would be the tripwire and all hell would break loose.
All because of a dying rich man’s hopes and dreams of a reunion with his dead son. It sounded as ludicrous as an old horror tale from Edgar Allan Poe.
“Merde!” one of the team said. “Look at dis.”
Lassiter strode over and glanced at the man’s open laptop screen. A huge locust zoomed into the view of the camera’s green tinctured viewfinder and it suddenly went blank and dissolved into static.
“De drone,” the man said. “It has been destroyed.”
“Can you see anything with the other one?” he asked.
The man pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and manipulated the joystick. Another luminescent image appeared and revealed a swarm of the dog-sized locusts approaching.
“It looks like dey are coming for dis one, too,” the man said.
Milton moved closer and loomed beside Lassiter. “What in the bloody hell’s going on?”
The screen dissolved into static again.
“We lost both your drones,” he said. “Strange. The locusts are big and bothersome but they’re usually not overly aggressive.”
The Aussie shrugged, apparently not concerned. “First time for everything.”
Something didn’t feel right. He couldn’t pinpoint it immediately, but something was definitely off. It took him a few seconds before he realized the constant insect chirping had stopped. It could only mean one thing.
The other man must have sensed it, too. He straightened to his full height and was about to say something when a woman’s scream pierced the night.
They looked in the direction of the medical tent. Kathy stood with one hand covering her mouth and the other pointing downward. Lassiter rushed over and placed an arm around her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?”
“There,” she said. “Look. Something’s coming through.”
He glanced at the synthetic flooring. In several places, the plastic bubbled upward and its blue color changed to a weakening chalkiness. There was something else, too, something all too familiar that haunted his dreams—a murky, pungent odor reminiscent of cut grass mixed with the aromatic smell of fresh flowers.
“That’s not supposed to be possible,” Milton said.
“Anything’s possible in here,” he retorted. “We have to try to reinforce these potential breaches. I think an attack’s imminent.”
“Pierre,” Milton shouted. “Get the flame thrower.”
The skinny Frenchman grunted and ran to the weapon’s tent.
Lassiter held his medallion up. “Maybe it’s time to consider an evac.”
The Aussie snorted. “Don’t tell me you’re scared already.”
If you weren’t scared, you were stupid, it was as simple as that. He shrugged and tucked the medallion back under his shirt. He’s questioning my courage but we have women here.
“At least call a chopper so we can temporarily evacuate Dr. Cruz and her nurse,” he said. “Until we get a handle on the situation.”
“We’ve come prepared for every eventuality, mate,” Milton argued.
“We are not leaving,” Cruz said. “Kathy, get hold of yourself.”
Pierre advanced quickly with the flame thrower and began to slip his arms through the straps on the tank.
The motion detector on the left beeped an alarm. Lassiter raised his rifle and looked in that direction but saw nothing.
He moved toward his own tent to don his helmet and activate the night vision feature. For all his admonishments to Milton about not being prepared, he realized he’d been caught with his own drawers down. Another motion detector on the opposite side sounded a warning. He looked in that direction and caught a glimpse of a dark shadow standing arms akimbo and staring at the camp. The shadow was in the shape of a man and emitted a sharp whistling sound.
The Hybrid.
Lassiter began to raise his gun, but the shadow disappeared and melted into the foliage.
On the other side near another set of tents, a loud crack resounded in the darkness and a large green vine burst through the polyurethane flooring and snaked toward the man who’d operated the laptops. It curled around him with prehensile ease and constricted to curtail his utterance in mid-scream.
Lassiter ran to him and yanked his K-bar from its sheath as he moved. He plunged the blade into the python-sized vine and raked downward. Viscous white fluid spilled onto the blue flooring and over his boots. A noxious odor wafted from the ruptured vine. He raised the knife and struck again, but the man no longer moved, his face swollen and bloated. Pierre ran forward and pointed the oval nozzle of the flamethrower at the undulating vine.
“No,” he yelled at the over-eager Pierre but had to jump back when a yellow torrent of flame erupted to envelop both trapped man and predatory plant.
The victim’s renewed scream was clipped short by the resulting conflagration.
“Pierre, you bastard,” he shouted.
The Frenchman turned, his face the portrait of abject terror. In another instant, a second tentacle thrust through the ruptured opening and engulfed him with tenacious fury. His hands dropped the nozzle of the weapon and it fell onto the flooring with a crisp plunk. The sinuous vine constricted, and Pierre seemed to implode. The kerosene fuel from the ruptured tank on his back squirted outward and converted to flaming arcs a second later.
“Everyone, get down!” Lassiter yelled.
His warning came too late. The tank exploded and hurled patches of burning liquid in all directions. One man was felled by the blast and another staggered, his face a sizzling mask. Lassiter had managed to roll clear but saw portions of the polyurethane flooring were being burned through by the fiery spoors.
Milton raced toward his tent where the M-665 lay but it was partially disassembled. It would take at least thirty seconds to put it together, even for an experienced legionary.
It was thirty seconds they didn’t have.
Another motion detector erupted on the opposite side and the laser beam beeped in a secondary warning. A black shadow launched over the barrier, moving so fast it was a blur until it landed on another of the team members.
The panther creatures with four eyes and antlers mounted on the flat, triangular skull of a huge, feral cat raked its claws over the man.
Lassiter sheathed his knife, raised his rifle, aimed, and fired to strike the beast between the double sets of eyes. The bullet had little effect, so he squeezed the trigger again and the second round did the trick. The mutant fell, but two more appeared at the laser breach, growling and snarling.
He fired a burst at them, and the cats retreated into the darkness. All he needed now was the appearance of one of those lumbering
dinosaur-like creatures and it would be over in a heartbeat. He maintained his fire until the bolt locked back to signify that the magazine was empty.
Yells, gunshots, and the ominous crackle of breaking polyurethane flooring erupted into a cacophony of disorder.
Or a symphony of death, he thought as he shoved a fresh magazine into place and turned to address the nearest threat. Another sinuous vine snaked through the floor.
Kathy screamed and he spun toward the sound as a dark shadow hurdled the perimeter barriers and landed beside her. This one was no antlered panther. It was anthropoidal and had a row of glowing blue-green humps along the spine.
The Hybrid caught the struggling girl, turned, and crouched as if to spring over the wire and into the jungle, but Cruz came out of nowhere wielding one of the plastic chairs. The doctor swung the chair at his legs. He stopped and turned.
Long brown hair hung down in almost perfect harmony on either side of a face that was a dead ringer for Paul Stratton.
Lassiter rushed forward, hesitant to shoot with the Hybrid still holding the struggling girl. It was too risky, so he drew his K-bar once again.
Where the hell was Milton with the damn SAW?
The attacker dropped Kathy, turned toward him, and lunged at him with incredible speed. He tried to dodge but was too slow and something sharp sliced his right shoulder. His rifle fell from his grasp. The searing pain registered a few seconds later when the nerves reacted to the set of deep cuts. He swung a backhanded blow with his K-bar and it gained purchase as it completed the arc of the swing. The Hybrid hissed and skipped back. Ecostraps ran along the outside of his legs and arms.
Robo-augmentation struts to give him preternatural strength and speed. Under that shit, he’s merely a man.
He turned and faced his adversary and noticed the artificial stiffness of the facial features for the first time. A pair of almond-colored eyes lurked behind bulbous, yellow-tinted lenses. The eyes widened and he could see the epicanthic folds of the eyelids.
Asian eyes—the son of a bitch was wearing a mask.
The Hybrid advanced, executed a perfect sidekick, and caught Lassiter’s gut. He stumbled forward.
Still holding the knife, he managed to slash a downward strike across his opponent’s thigh.
The blade made a scraping sound but drew no blood.
The bastard must be wearing some kind of Kevlar bodysuit.
He whipped a front kick to the hamstring of the man’s left leg and his shin smacked against the metallic strut of the ecostrap. The stab of pain drew a momentarily grimace but he snared a wrist.
The attacker pushed him back. He was strong but not that strong.
The so-called Lord of the Jungle was definitely a man, not a deity or a dschungelgott.
The Hybrid’s fist rocketed forward, caught Lassiter’s left bicep, and bounced onto his chest. The ripping sting of blades with each contact suggested razor-lined gloves.
He scowled at the supplementary pain from the lacerations.
The masked man leaned forward and cocked his right arm to deliver a lethal blow. Lassiter brought his lead foot upward in a roundhouse kick and it pounded into his adversary’s facial mask. It crumbled partially to display an amorphous blackness behind the fragments. The man’s hands rose to clear the dangling shards of wax and plastic.
As a follow-up, he thrust the K-bar into the Hybrid’s side and drove forward at the same time to throw his weight behind the push. Both combatants tumbled forward and Lassiter landed on top. The tip of the K-bar hesitated momentarily before it sank through the thin, layered material.
He pushed and twisted, and his enemy uttered a very human-sounding squeal. An outline of crimson enveloped the knife as he continued to bore downward and plunged it in to the hilt. The man’s body suddenly weakened and his struggles dwindled into a series of jerking convulsions.
Still, he held the knife in place and used a twisting motion until all movement from his adversary ceased. He gasped for breath in the heavily scented air, looked up, and saw another Hybrid figure standing outside the perimeter, waving his arms.
What the hell was going on? Gemini?
Unable in his recumbent position to pull the K-bar free, he pushed slowly to his feet and staggered forward.
Something crackled behind him and he felt a blunt impact. It knocked him forward and down as an entanglement of nylon netting wound around his body.
Those stupid idiots had shot him with the damn netting. He cursed as his body snapped and jerked with the electronic jolt. Once again, he was totally incapacitated.
Two gunshots cracked behind him, followed immediately by indistinct and foreign-sounding voices. Another pistol report preceded a woman’s scream, which was drowned out by shouts and more shots. Lassiter tried in vain to turn his head to see what was happening, but the confining straps allowed him no movement. Finally, everything was silent except for a few hushed voices.
What the hell was going on?
A sickeningly sweet aroma floated all around him, as intoxicating as a heavy dose of jasmine. It settled over everything and he felt groggy and inebriated at the same time. He managed to twist his head slightly and caught a glimpse of one of the Africans lying three feet away. The man’s glazed eyes stared at nothing, and a slow, steady stream of red droplets wound through his clenched teeth to contribute to the crimson puddle on the ground under his heavy lips. Milton’s big boots came into view, striding toward him.
“Is it over?” Lassiter managed to say.
“Not by a long shot, mate,” the Aussie said. He wore some kind of breathing apparatus as he stepped over to the fallen Hybrid and kicked the prostrated form’s head lightly a few times.
The body showed no reaction.
“Dammit,” Milton said. “You weren’t supposed to kill him.”
He strode over to the netted captive and the abrupt impact of the toe of his boot connected with his temple felt before everything went black.
When Lassiter awoke, he immediately realized he was still confined by the clinging nylon encumbrance. He opened his eyes slowly so as to not betray his conscious state and peered through the small openings. The left side of his face rested on the shiny edge of a stainless-steel table. He was in some kind of laboratory. It looked white and pristine yet definitely inside a structure of some kind.
The biodomes?
On another steel table ten feet away lay the nude body of an Asian man. He was well-built and still looked formidable, even with the tincture of death settling over his form. A large gash in his abdomen marred the smoothness of his skin.
The wound had a familiarity to it.
It was the Hybrid, or at least one of them. He remembered seeing two. Or had he been hit so hard he’d seen double?
He looked beyond the table, which was elevated three feet off a polished tile floor. Beyond the body were a long sink, cabinets, and counters containing a vast collection of vials and bottles, ignited Bunsen burners, microscopes, and other laboratory equipment.
Where the hell was this?
At a murmur, he raised his head slightly. Dr Cruz and Nurse Kathy were seated in two plastic chairs. Their arms and legs were bound to the frames with zip-ties. Both seemed conscious, but barely. Kathy’s head drooped. Cruz’s was erect and defiant, but her face was pale.
Lassiter thought about calling out but hesitated. He was on his left side and couldn’t see behind him. The chances were better than average that there were others within earshot. They were all obviously being held captive, but why?
And by whom?
He blew a breath out slowly and soundlessly. His mind was a little off-kilter as if the computer chips controlling his cognition had been removed and dropped on the floor. He needed time to pick them up and reinsert them.
Voices argued in Chinese behind him, interspersed with snatches of English that had a familiar Australian accent—Milton.
The voices grew louder and signaled their approach.
“Tell him I don’
t give a tinker’s damn what he does with him. But if he and his brother hadn’t jumped the gun, this operation could have been extended for a few more days. As it stands now, I’ll have to make an ungainly exit or go back as a lone survivor and try to convince old man Stratton to finance another mission.”
“You would do well to develop more patience,” another voice said. It was masculine and tinted with an Asian cadence. “Our work here nears completion. Only a few more days are needed before we achieve total mastery over the Biodome.”
“If you think the Americans, the French, and the rest of the world will sit still while you proclaim Chinese sovereignty over this place, you’ve inhaled too many of your synthetic pheromones. They’ll be all over you like white on rice.”
“Rice has been a staple of my country’s diet for many millennia. Do not underestimate its significance.”
“Keep in mind that if no one checks in to the main base, they’ll send in surveillance drones to check on us. When they see the devastation in the camp, your little jig will be up.”
“Our locust drones will make short work of any surveillance drones, as usual.”
“That ruse has run its course. They’ll find the truth out soon enough.”
Silence followed before a few harsh words in Chinese were uttered by another voice. This one sounded younger and stronger.
“Lee grows eager to avenge Kim’s death,” the previous Chinese voice said.
A hand patted Lassiter’s hip with a gesture of affection. He remembered he still had the Beretta in his pants pocket, but his arms and hands were lashed to his sides. If he could get to it, maybe he could shoot his way out of there—wherever it was.
An older Asian man in a white laboratory coat walked around the table and his hand still traced the curve of his leg. Luckily, his fingers did not seem to linger over the Beretta. Behind him stood Milton and a younger Chinese man, the exact double of the one on the table.
“This one proved highly skilled,” the older Chinese said. “He was able to best Kim, even with his enhancements.”
He turned and said something in what Lassiter assumed was Mandarin. The younger man snapped a reply and glared at the captive. His eyes widened as their gazes met. He uttered something and pointed.