SNAFU: Unnatural Selection

by Christopher Golden

  Schmidt considered this. “What about our big boy? Even if the critters are gone, he’d be there, wouldn’t he?”

  “She.”

  “Huh?” Schmidt asked.

  “It’s a she. Remember? We killed her kid.”

  Schmidt shook his head. “Fucking women.”

  To their west, the trees jerked suddenly and violently, their leafy tops whipping like a teenage boy shaking his hair dry after a shower. Scores of airborne nocturnal creatures screeched and soared into the starry sky.

  “Fuck me!” shouted Schmidt, spinning swiftly to his right, finger curling tight around the trigger. Tree followed the motion, tracking his own weapon on a similar arc.

  Forest grew thick around them, forcing them to squeeze between trunks and navigate around roots. They both stood still and waited for a moment, listening for any motion. Once again a strong stench drifted past Tree’s nose, forcing its way up into his nostrils – an acrid smell that he could almost taste.

  They both took two cautious steps forward then Tree stopped again, dropping to one knee. Schmidt sensed it and spun, his eyes flying wide.

  “What is wrong with you—”

  He didn’t finish. As he stared back at the former Delta Force operative, he could make out a shape stretching behind the man. A shifting of shadows, nothing more, but clearly visible. It didn’t show up on night vision, but through the distortion of the night air, he could see it. The rounded head, long snout, the telltale spaghetti snakes of tendril hair coiling around its haunches.

  “Oh, God,” Schmidt whispered. Suddenly the man with the hot trigger finger couldn’t even lift his weapon.

  “What?” asked Tree, his own eyes widening.

  “Don’t... don’t move,” Schmidt whispered, raising his weapon inch by cautious inch.

  The acrid smell wasn’t just a blowing breeze, it was a full-force gale, charging into Tree’s nose with a spoiled seaweed punch, salty and rotten. Tears formed at the corners of his squinting eyes. For once, Tree was speechless. For once, his face had no smile. Schmidt lifted his weapon, tucked it into his shoulder, careful and quiet, making no swift motions. The creature behind his teammate tensed as if in preparation for a strike. Standing just behind and to Tree’s left, its massive shoulder actually pushed aside one of the narrow trunks, shifting the leaves on top.

  Dan Tree heard the rhythmic sounds of huffed breathing at his back, a dry patterned snort and blast of hot air leaving gooseflesh underneath his tactical gear. He felt the shape behind him tense slightly, recoiling.

  Then it lunged.

  Schmidt had managed to get his weapon level, his eyes down toward the scope, the barrel directed just above Tree’s left shoulder. This new shape stood above the kneeling operative, and the gunner actually thought he saw the slick, smooth skin coil around muscle just before the creature charged. But instead of taking down Tree who was right there, the monster detected Schmidt as the greater threat and leapt forward, knocking the kneeling man aside like a top heavy bag of apples.

  “Shit!” Schmidt yelled as the creature became airborne and hurtled toward him, heavy, wet snorts blowing steam from the nostrils perched atop its snout. He had time to pull off a swift barrage of silenced gunfire, but couldn’t even tell if he’d hit the target before the four-legged thing was on top of him, its mouth pulling wide, stretching slick saliva between needle teeth. Breath flew from his lungs as he was hit full on and knocked backward, just keeping his feet, his rifle swinging toward the sky and unloading the rest of the magazine purely by muscle reflex. The large beast clamped its jaws fiercely shut, pounding fangs through cloth, skin, and muscle, puncturing the flesh at Schmidt’s left clavicle, squeezing like a vice. Jaw-clamping force was so strong, it broke bone and closed inside the rugged muscle of the pectoral, squeezing and shooting blood out from piercing wounds.

  Tree stared as the creature whipped its head back, throwing chunks of gristle into the sky, Schmidt’s blank stare looking out from fallen night vision goggles as his head lolled uselessly to the right, most of the neck muscles chewed away. Tactical gear was reduced to tatters, his upper left torso a ruined, red soaked mess as he dropped to the ground, his arm flopping, and his weapon clattering.

  “Dammit!” was all Tree could shout as he brought up his own weapon and blasted full auto at the gray shape as it came down on his unfortunate teammate again. The creature bucked as muffled thumps barked, and Tree was sure he saw a few puffs of dark gore spurt from wounds across the beast’s left side, but it didn’t seem to notice. Muscles shifted under the slimy, hair-patched skin, and suddenly the large tree-trunk tail lashed out like a whip and slammed Tree in the chest, knocking him back, his rifle flying. Then the large, four-legged animal turned, snarled, and charged.

  * * *

  Williamson jerked his head left, his long gray beard shifting under the night vision gear strapped to his face. He’d heard Schmidt’s tell-tale shout, and in the mostly quiet night, even the silenced punches of machine gun fire were audible to his well-trained ears.

  “We got trouble, Bergs!” he shouted.

  “I heard it too, Duck. Southeast!”

  The two men pulled their weapons in tight and dashed toward the source of the sound.

  * * *

  “Shit!”

  THUD THUD THUD THUD

  “Dammit!”

  THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD

  Chuck McLeod heard it all, both in his earpiece and in the air itself, and it was the sound of men – his men – dying.

  “Landry, on me! We’re heading south, now!”

  In his earpiece, he could hear the muffled shouts of Dan Tree, who had stared death in the face a hundred times and always came out smiling. McLeod had run several dozen operations with Tree as his second hand, and he’d never heard any sense of hopelessness or desperation in his voice. But that ‘dammit’ and those muffled shouts he was hearing now... he’d be hearing them in his sleep.

  If he survived, of course.

  Digging deep, he tried to shut out the noises he had just heard as he and Landry charged forward into the trees.

  * * *

  ‘Duck’ Williamson drew up slightly, slowing his pace from a run to a low jog. Up ahead, he saw a few thick trees bowed out slightly, and the huddled shape at the base of one of them looked unfortunately familiar. As the old man of the Shadows team, Williamson had seen plenty of dead bodies, and they had their own unique posture. He could identify a corpse from several yards away, and he knew damn well he was looking at one now. Then as he drew closer, he saw the second.

  “Son of a bitch,” Berger said from his right as the man joined him. “I’m going to stuff a grenade up that things ass and pull the fucking pin.”

  Kneeling, Williamson investigated the wreckage that was once Dan Tree. The man was slumped at an odd angle, his spine twisted unnaturally, and the tree behind him, a thick oak, was splintered where it looked like his body struck at incredible velocity. Blood had pooled on his lips from internal injuries and smeared down his smoothly-shaven face that had always held some kind of smile. His eyes were open and staring off into the empty darkness, a darkness no doubt blacker and emptier than their Central Park surroundings, which were cast in the pallor of the New York City skyline. It was indeed the city that never sleeps.

  “McLeod, this is Berger and Duck. We found our boys. They’re gone.”

  Silence from other end.

  “Believe subject has continued south. We are moving to engage,” continued Berger.

  “Take it slow. Me and Landry are close behind, don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Williamson added.

  “I know who I’m talking to, Duck. Easy. Take it fucking easy. My life is too busy to get to five funerals. Three will be bad enough.” It was an attempt at levity, but it didn’t feel very funny.

  “I’m coming up on North Meadow, just north of the reservoir,” continued Williamson. “Things are clear, there’s no place to hide
—” the words were barely uttered in McLeod’s headset before they were choked off into a gasp and muffled curse.

  “Williamson?”

  “Fucker’s huge,” Williamson responded. He didn’t sound afraid necessarily, just surprised.

  McLeod closed his eyes. “Stand down, Williamson! Stand down! We are close behind you, do not engage!” He broke into a sprint, and Landry followed at pace. They were in the thick trees north of the 102nd Street crossing, and had to dodge and weave while moving forward.

  “Williamson!” he shouted into the earpiece.

  “Fuck! Shit! Goddamned thing is fast!”

  McLeod could hear the panting, a swift burst of silenced gunfire and the pounding of feet on thin grass.

  “Berger, fall back!” Williamson shouted from too far away, but an abrupt, choked yell signaled that Berger hadn’t reacted quite fast enough.

  “Godammit!” Williamson shouted and this time it was his screams that could be heard all around them.

  “C’mon, Landry, let’s fucking move!” As his lungs burned, his British accent was coughed away, evaporated in a blast of good, old-fashioned American profanity.

  Silenced gunshots came from the earpiece. “Die you asshole!” More gunshots. A rapid-fire series of footsteps running, some panting, then some deeper, hoarser panting close behind. Suddenly there was a scream, an inhuman yowl, but Williamson didn’t have time to respond, he only made a gagging chortle, then the earpiece was clunking, clattering, and finally silent.

  “No, no, no, no!” McLeod shouted, and moments later they burst through the trees out into North Meadow, a closely mowed expanse that encompassed the nearly entire width of Central Park, offering baseball diamonds and recreation to whomever might come. On the pitcher’s mound of one of those diamonds lay the crumpled heap of Craig ‘Duck’ Williamson, the once brown dirt now a darker, deeper crimson.

  McLeod dropped his head, his chin tucked to the top of his chest, his eyes closing underneath the night vision apparatus.

  What felt like worlds away, the hustle and bustle of New York nightlife drummed along, a single horn blaring abruptly followed by annoyed shouts.

  “Sorry, boss,” Landry said quietly, placing a hand on McLeod’s shoulder. The Shadows team lead lifted his head and looked toward the edge of the North Meadow where the trees grew, all along the south side. He could see a path where something had pushed through those trees, spreading them apart and cracking a few trunks.

  “That way,” McLeod said, gesturing. “Rack ‘em up. Berger had some grenades on him, I’ll grab those, you strip Duck and let’s go take this thing down.”

  “Is that a good idea? We could end up just as dead as the rest. I’m thinking we need a fucking air strike.”

  McLeod turned and looked at the man. “We’re all that’s left. All that stands between that thing and the rest of this city. It’s us or nothing.”

  Landry drew in a breath and pushed it out through pursed lips.

  McLeod took a step closer “Look. You sit this one out. Leave it to me. This thing left a trail anyone could follow.”

  Landry cocked his head slightly. “You think you’re leaving me behind on this? With all due respect, fuck you, Chuck.”

  McLeod nodded. “All right then.”

  Landry headed on ahead, pulling out his magazine, checked it, then slammed it home, almost out of habit. McLeod lingered, pulling the tattered photograph of his kids from his tactical vest once more and looking down at it. He rubbed his thumb over their two young faces, folded the picture then returned it to its spot.

  They pushed south, brushing past the North Meadow Recreational Center, then continued on through the thick forest. Up ahead, the trees spread then fell away, revealing a section of grass outside the Jacqueline Onassis Reservoir, large and wide, leaving only small sections of pathways either side. Through the trees, McLeod and Landry had seen scrapes, scratches, and busted trunks, but now they were out in a clearing, it was tough to tell where the creature had gone.

  “Nothing,” said McLeod softly, looking around their immediate area.

  “Thing like that doesn’t just disappear,” replied Landry. “How fast do you think it can run?” Landry continued, walking down towards the reservoir.

  “I don’t know,” McLeod replied. “We don’t know shit about it.” McLeod knelt, running a gloved hand over the soft grass. He was looking for some kind of paw prints. The creature they’d killed outside New Haven had huge dog-like paws, but he saw no sign of those unique prints here.

  “And how the fuck did it get here so quick? One minute it’s busting from a train in southern Connecticut, the next minute it shows up in New York City. No direct path from there to here,” McLeod said, but his eyes closed slowly. He was remembering something. Something strange about that smaller creature they had killed. A unique smell…

  McLeod’s eyes burst open, a sudden spark of realization.

  “Landry! Move!” he turned toward his teammate, raising his weapon. Landry jerked at the mention of his name, but stood there, frozen, his eyes whipping back and forth, searching for the threat.

  It was too late.

  The water of the reservoir exploded upward in a wall, arcing left and right as the massive shape burst through the surface. Sprays of liquid flew in wild blankets, drenching Landry and scattering sideways rain across McLeod’s face and chest. He stumbled backward as the large, awkward shape ejected itself from the manmade body of water, a gray, slimy, twisting thing, its four legs folded up against it’s slick body, still matted by mold-patches of fur. Landry had barely turned when the creature hit the arc of its jump, then barreled down on top of the man, slamming him to the ground in one massive crunch.

  McLeod’s weapon was up in firing position, and even as the hunched creature lunged its head forward, sinking massive rows of teeth into Landry’s face and chest, he let out a barrage of silenced gunfire. Bullets stitched up along the back of the creature as it struck, sending spurts of dark ichor up in splashing puddles of mottled blood. Still the creature continued to strike at the fallen Landry, muffling his screams with bites and tears.

  “Come get me, you big bitch!” McLeod shouted, as he dashed back from where they’d come, and he could have sworn he heard a growling reply to that insult from the beast, then the thudding footsteps of a lumbering charge.

  McLeod burst through the short cropping of trees out into North Meadow again. Crossing the empty area in less than a minute he was approaching the far row of trees when he heard the blistering cracks. Casting a swift backward glance as he ran, he saw the creature burst free from the trees to his south, and in the low moonlight got his first good look at the beast in action. Thrusting muscles were clearly visible underneath thin sinewy skin, connected to strange flaps between its legs and torso, what could have been some sort of natural aquatic appendage. Muscular legs and the thick tail all moved in unison, seeming to work together to throw it forward into an impossibly fast gait, galloping across the empty expanse of grass, growling and narrowing its dark eyes.

  “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” McLeod yelled and pushed himself forward, feeling the massive thuds of the padded feet on his tail. Up ahead the Loch met the North Woods, and there was a mile of trees, where McLeod desperately hoped he could make his stand.

  * * *

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Agent Blaine groused from inside the modified Bell 412 helicopter, its flat black paint melting into the shadows of post-midnight Central Park North. The helicopter still sat on the sidewalk outside the main northern entrance to the park. Wilcox sat in her pilot’s seat, the flight helmet off, but the thick, metal headset still firmly clasped around her short-cropped hair.

  “If anyone can take this thing out, the Shadows can,” Wilcox said evenly, trying to keep the hostility out of her voice. Yeah, her team knew the risks, they always did, but it was still this shitheel’s fault her team was out there maybe dying. Meanwhile, she was stuck behind the fucking flightstick as usual.

 
“Wilcox!” the voice was sharp and loud in her headset. She recognized the British twinge anywhere.

  “McLeod! What’s going on?”

  “I’m coming through the North Woods, half a mile out! It’s right the fuck behind me!”

  “Where you want me, boss?” she asked, leaving her seat and venturing back into the cargo area.

  McLeod was huffing and puffing through the headset, his words interrupted by short bursts of breath. “I want you gone! Get the fuck out of there!”

  “Tough shit, I’m not going anywhere,” Wilcox said simply. She knelt next to a metallic box by the rear cargo door as Blaine stood from his own seat and seemed suddenly anxious to depart.

  “Wilcox, I’m not fucking around! I just saw this thing eat Landry alive!”

  Wilcox shook her head and sighed. “All right. Do what you gotta do.”

  She clicked the switch on her headset to turn it off and turned around to talk to Blaine. “You may want to be elsewhere, chief.”

  * * *

  McLeod’s lungs burned. His chest felt like an elephant was gently pressing one foot on it. He was a well-trained soldier, but that didn’t include two-mile sprints in the job description, especially with an eight-foot beast hot on his heels.

  He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it – or smelled it – before. The smooth, slimy skin and that long, thick tail. This fucking thing was amphibious. It hadn’t run to Central Park, it had swam there. Jumped in the ocean and just swam all the way to the fucking New York City coastline.

  To this point, McLeod had used the trees to his advantage, darting in between sprouting trunks, while his pursuer had been forced to barrel her way through, probably the only thing that had slowed her down and saved his life. But in a quarter mile, the trees would be gone, and he was going to have to figure out something pretty damn fast.

  Then he was there. The trees had vanished, and he was lunging, stumbling forward out into open air. East and West Drive met in a fork before him and reached out to West 110th Street, his advantage suddenly gone. A black shape stood looming on the pavement about 300 yards away, and McLeod focused on the Bell helicopter, pushing himself faster forward. Seconds later a loud, ramshackle crashing signaled the beast’s own exit from the trees, and the slamming of huge paws grew louder on McLeod’s trail. He could feel the force of the creature’s momentum behind him, almost feel the hot breath on the back of his neck and smell that awful dead fish smell.