But this one ended after just a few hours. The wind died down and the sky cleared to an early evening.
When they tried switching on their engines the Volkswagen would not start.
"Now what's wrong?" asked Dietrich, sighing in exasperation.
"I don't know, Herr Lieutenant."
Fuchs got out and raised the rear hood to check the four-cylinder, air-cooled motor. He came back and rummaged for tools in the storage box behind the rear seat. "Looks like a clogged carburetor."
"Well, hurry up and fix it."
The yellow coal of the sun that glared down on them like the eye of an angry god, had finally, mercifully, begun to set, staining the cloudless sky a lurid orange. Soon the temperature would drop and the scorching desert would become bone-chilling cold.
Fuchs wiped grease off his hands with a rag, closed the hood, and got back inside the Volkswagen. This time the engine sputtered into life. "Ready to go, Herr Lieutenant."
There was faint droning sound in the air. Steiner pointed up. "Planes!" Black specks flew low towards them from the northeast.
"If they're Tommies we're sitting ducks," said Fuchs.
There was absolutely no natural cover, no time to try and hide their vehicles with camouflage netting, and if they drove away the dust they stirred up would only make them easier to spot. They were totally exposed.
Hartmann looked through his binoculars. A chill crept up his spine. "Those aren't planes. It's more of those giant mosquitos."
"Can't be!" said Steiner. "I killed them all!"
"The whole water table is probably contaminated," said Lippert. "They're probably breeding in other ponds too."
The patrol scrambled for weapons as the swarm dove down on them like grotesque Stukas, their loud drone filling the air.
Steiner jumped into the halftrack and swung the machine gun upwards. Green tracers streaked across the darkening sky as he opened fire. The insects swooped in low and the others tried shooting them down as well. Lippert, behind Steiner in the halftrack, opened up with an MP40. Fuchs and Dietrich knelt beside the Volkswagen and followed suit with an MP40 and a captured Thompson. Hartmann grabbed a captured Lee-Enfield rifle. The cacophony was deafening – the slow chatter of the submachine guns, the rapid deep roar of the MG34, and the sharp single barks of the rifle.
Bullets shredded wings, riddled exoskeletons, sheared off antennae and legs. Pieces of mosquitos fell like grisly rain. The machine gun's mount had a limited traverse, so Steiner could not swivel it far enough to aim at targets to his side or rear. Lippert covered his back, but then his MP40 jammed. As he struggled to clear it a mosquito landed on Steiner from behind.
Before it could bite Steiner reached around, seized one of its legs, and threw it on the floor with a curse. He stomped on its head with a big leather boot, smashing it with a sickening crunch and splattering yellow blood. But a second insect immediately jumped in its place. Gripping Steiner's broad shoulders with its legs, it speared him in the back with its proboscis, the razor-sharp mandibles slicing through his salt-streaked shirt deep into his flesh. An agonized gasp escaped his lips.
Lippert dropped his jammed weapon and began beating the insect with a steel helmet. Then a mosquito jumped onto Lippert’s back and stabbed him. He flailed away desperately, trying to throw the monster off as it sucked his blood. Both men collapsed writhing and screaming on the floor.
Dietrich batted a mosquito away with the butt of the now-empty Thompson, but two more flew in from either side. Fuchs emptied his magazine into one and then a pair dropped on him when he paused to reload. More attacked Dietrich as he clawed for his pistol. The men frantically struggled to fight them off, but they panicked and fled shrieking into the salt pan, immediately sinking up to their shins in the mud. Both were overwhelmed.
Hartmann's rifle was empty. He crawled under the Volkswagen and was temporarily ignored or missed by the mosquitos. They busied themselves gorging on his dying comrades, their cries and sobs mercifully subsiding as the insects' segmented abdomens bloated and flushed red with human blood.
He suppressed the urge to retch at the ghoulish sight. But now was his chance. The car's engine was still running.
He rolled out from underneath and scrambled inside. Questing antennae pricked up; bulbous eyes lifted from the gruesome banquet. The transmission grinded as he depressed the clutch pedal, shoved the car into gear, and sped away.
Four mosquitos flew after him.
The Volkswagen could reach eighty kilometers per hour on a paved road, but considerably less on a bumpy path like this. And if he drove too recklessly and accidentally veered off the trail he would immediately be stuck in the mud. He glanced in the side mirror, straining to see through the yellow plume of dust swirling in his wake, and swore.
They were gaining.
Steering one-handed, he fumbled for his Walther. He flicked off the safety and raked the pistol along his leg to push the slide back, feeding the first round into the chamber. He tossed it on the passenger seat beside him.
The insects caught up.
Hartmann shifted into high gear and floored the accelerator, the engine whining in protest. He gritted his teeth; he could not outrun them.
The celluloid door-windows had been detached for ventilation, so the car only had the front windshield and the convertible top. There was no way he could seal himself inside. Two proboscides punched through the canvas top, probing for him, one striking the back of his seat.
A mosquito thrust its head through the open passenger window to his right. Hartmann snatched up his pistol and rapid-fired four slugs into one of its eyes. The insect dropped away.
Another tried landing on the spare tire mounted on the front hood, but lost its footing as the car bounced along. It tumbled underneath and Hartmann heard a satisfying crunch, then another, as it was run over.
The base of the escarpment was just ahead. Salt marshes and salt pans yielded to scree and sand dunes. The trail curved towards a path zigzagging up the rugged cliff face soaring nearly three hundred meters high.
A mosquito flew up to the driver's side and Hartmann shot it with the remaining four rounds. Just one mosquito left. He clumsily tried reloading one-handed, first ejecting the empty magazine, then putting the Walther on the seat so he could pull out his only spare.
As he groped for it he rounded the bend and the car lost traction in the sand. The Volkswagen fishtailed, slid off the trail, and spun out at the base of the cliff. It crashed into a gray jumble of petrified wood, fossilized relics dating back to when lush forests had stood here thousands of years ago. Hartmann was hurled across the passenger seat and banged his head against the door.
Blood dripping from a cut above his eye, he looked for his pistol. It was gone, lost under the seat somewhere. The last mosquito landed on the rear of the car. Hartmann threw the car in gear and reversed sharply, crushing the insect against the rock face.
He let out a gusty sigh of relief as he shifted into first gear, but only moved forward a few meters before the engine stalled again. Repeated attempts at restarting failed. Hartmann jumped out and raised the dented, blood-spattered hood, switching on a light inside. He could not immediately see what was wrong and muttered a profanity. He was not a mechanic like Fuchs.
Hartmann spotted the black, oval mouth of a cave over by a gnarled, dead acacia tree. If he was stranded that could serve as temporary shelter tonight if necessary. He also noticed some bleaching gazelle bones scattered in the sand, most of them broken. That was odd.
A scuffling and shuffling sound came from within the cave and he glimpsed shadows of movement. Hoffmann's heart pounded. Something was in there – something big.
There might not be soldiers or minefields at this end of the crossing, but it was guarded nonetheless.
A huge yellowish-brown scorpion emerged, a monstrosity as long as a Nile crocodile with eight bowed, hairy legs and a pair of huge crab-like pincers. A long, segmented tail armed with a stinger arched menacingly over its
back. Twelve black beady eyes stared at Hartmann.
The scorpion scuttled toward him, pincers outstretched. Its venom was likely lethal, but it would not need to sting him. The pincers looked powerful enough to tear him apart.
Leaning back inside the car, Hartmann groped desperately under his seat and finally retrieved his pistol. He snapped in the spare magazine, aimed, and fired. To his horror the bullet ricocheted off the hard, waxy carapace. He fired again and again, but the slugs would not penetrate.
Hartmann’s mind raced furiously. If it was bulletproof how could he kill it?
Holstering his pistol, he reached inside the car and grabbed a stick grenade. The scorpion's carapace was surely blast resistant too, but a different idea flashed in his mind, albeit a desperate one.
He unscrewed the cap on the grenade's hollow wooden handle, letting the cord dangle out. Grasping the ball at the end of the cord, he faced the scorpion, watching and waiting. He would only get one chance before he was ripped to pieces.
The scorpion suddenly rushed forward. Hartmann quickly backed up, but stumbled over a chunk of petrified wood and fell in the hot sand. Pincers lunged for him, mandibles opened. He yanked the ball to light the five-second fuse and flung the grenade into the arachnid's maw.
It detonated inside with a muffled boom.
The scorpion's charge faltered. It stopped, took a couple steps backward, then collapsed. Legs and tail twitched feebly for a few minutes until finally it laid still, bluish blood oozing from its mouth.
Hartmann clambered to his feet, brushing off sand, and warily approached the creature. It was dead.
He did not have a biology degree, but Hartmann knew scorpions did not live or breed in water. They did not even have to drink it. They obtained all the fluid they needed from their prey. How had this one mutated? Perhaps it had scavenged a contaminated mosquito.
And how had the British gotten past this monster? It was not mentioned on their map, so it had likely taken up residence after they had passed through. The horrible effects of the contamination were spreading through the insect population.
Then he heard that ominous, familiar drone. Black specks moved in a sky stained pink by the lingering twilight. His heart sank. Not over.
Hartmann grabbed a triple magazine pouch slung over a rack between the seats. It held extra magazines for Fuchs' submachine gun, which used the same 9-millimeter Parabellum ammunition as the Walther. He also found one of the Webley revolvers they had taken from the dead British soldiers. Hartmann spun the cylinder to confirm all six chambers were loaded, then tucked it in his waistband. Unfortunately he had no extra ammunition for it or for the empty Lee-Enfield.
However he did have the rifle's bayonet – a wicked-looking weapon with a grooved steel blade over forty centimeters long. Despite being largely useless in modern combat, armies stubbornly persisted in issuing such anachronisms. He drew it from the scabbard, snapped it on the end of the barrel, and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
The mosquitos circled in the distance and descended, probably attracted by the corpses of his comrades. That would give Hartmann a little time. He grabbed a greatcoat and a couple of blankets lying on the back seat.
Hartmann carried these to the cave. Gathering broken, thorny branches from the dead tree, he quickly piled them up in a semi-circle in front of the mouth of the cave and spread the garments over the desiccated wood.
He raced back to the car. It still carried two full jerrycans, one stowed in a recess under the dashboard and another lashed onto one of the rear fenders. Each held twenty liters of gasoline. He lugged the steel containers over and splashed their contents on the clothing and wood, thoroughly soaking them.
Then Hartmann sat inside the cave, working quickly and pausing only to light what he grimly knew would probably be his last cigarette.
Anguish over his slain comrades roiled inside him; weighed down with guilt, tormented by the feeling that as their leader he had somehow failed them. But he had to suppress these raw emotions for now. His mind had to be clear and sharp.
Night fell. A full moon had already risen, casting a pale, eerie gleam across the dark, desolate landscape. He extracted rounds from an MP40 magazine to reload his pistol magazines. The rifle he propped against the cave wall.
The swarm had taken to flight again. They headed straight for him now, homing in on him, their keen senses detecting fresh prey, fresh blood.
Hartmann's throat was parched; he swallowed the last drops from his canteen. Drawing in a deep lungful of smoke, he let it out with a long hiss. He was ready. Let the bastards come.
He stepped outside, Walther in hand. As his inhuman foes flew in he took a last puff and flicked the cigarette onto the greatcoat, the glowing tip spraying sparks. Bright, orange flames leaped high with a sudden whoosh as it caught fire and he flinched when the blast of heat hit his face. Black, oily smoke billowed up.
Hartmann doubted this would drive off the mosquitos, but all creatures feared fire and it might make them a little cautious at least. Delay the inevitable.
The insects circled outside the fire, buzzing angrily. Aiming carefully, he shot down three, reloaded, and brought down two more. One fell into the fire and Hartmann coughed at the reek as it crackled and burned.
The Walther was empty; he drew the Webley. The revolver bucked as he sent .38 slugs smashing through heads and abdomens, but as the fire burned low the mosquitos became more daring. They darted in, using their proboscides like lances. Hartmann dropped the pistol, snatched up the Lee-Enfield, and backed into the cave – he could not let them surround him.
Using the rifle like a pike he fended off those hovering at the entrance. He jabbed one in the eye with the bayonet and it retreated; he skewered another through the thorax and it dropped to the ground writhing in its death throes. A third he smashed against the wall of the cave with the rifle butt.
The rest withdrew and patiently waited for their chance to strike, staring at him with their soulless black eyes. It was only a matter of time. Hartmann could not keep them at bay forever. He would eventually tire and they would make their move. Finish him.
Their buzz was suddenly drowned out by the thunderous roar of heavy-weapons fire. A hurricane of bullets and shells cracked past, blasting mosquitos apart in explosions of yellow blood. The shooting continued until every insect was destroyed. Then silence. Ears ringing, Hartmann warily peered through the smoke of the dying fire.
Three heavily-armed trucks sat on the trail, etched against the moonlit sky. The bearded soldiers were white, but dressed in Arab headdresses, shorts, and sandals. When they glimpsed Hartmann in the feeble firelight the muzzle of a 20-millimeter Breda anti-aircraft gun swung down and pointed straight at him.
The savage euphoria of still being alive, the adrenalin rush of combat, was replaced by cold, sober realization. Hartmann had survived but his war was over. He bitterly threw his rifle down, raised his hands above his head, and stepped out to surrender.
One of the LRDG patrolmen strode up to Hartmann and roughly searched him, patting him down and turning out his pockets. He plucked out Hartmann's paybook and handed it to a captain.
The captain did not even glance at it. "Let's get the hell out of here before more of those bloody things show up."
Hartmann did not have to be told twice when ordered into one of the trucks. He could hear droning in the distance.
Venom
Michael McBride
OCTOBER 20th
NOW
Daru,Kailahun District, Eastern Province, Sierra Leone
9:18 am GMT
The thunder of helicopter blades summons him from the insensate darkness. The rotor wash hurls dirt against the Plexiglas shield covering his face. He opens his eyes. With the light comes the pain, forcing him to close them again. He has to warn them, though. Before it’s too late. For them. For all of them.
He screams and opens his eyes. The visor is cracked and spotted with blood. He can barely see the vague black shape of th
e Sikorsky MH-60G Pave Hawk settling through the cloud of dust. It takes all of his remaining strength to push himself to his hands and knees.
The camouflage Tyvek fabric of his isolation suit is torn and stained black with dried blood, whether his or someone else’s, he can’t recall. He attempts to wipe the blood from his shield, but only manages to smear the dust. The congealed droplets are on the inside.
The impelled dirt strikes his bare skin like needles. He tastes dust, inhales it into lungs that feel like paper sacks full of broken glass. Coughs it out with a fresh spatter of dark blood. Again he screams, and through sheer force of will struggles to his feet.
The wind shoves him backward. The dirt whipped up from the rutted road makes it impossible to see clearly. Dark shapes litter the ground around him, human silhouettes barely glimpsed through the dust. The fabric of their tattered suits flags from their inert forms. The ground surrounding them is spattered black.
“Don’t…”
The word is barbed and rips past his lips, although even he can’t hear it. He tastes blood in his mouth, feels it dribble down his chin and neck.
His only thought is for the men in the helicopter. It’s too late for him and the others. Their fates were sealed the moment they stepped from the plane. These men still had a chance, though.
The landing gear hits the ground and the rotor slows with a high-pitched whine. The cloud of dust expands outward, buffets the ramshackle buildings to either side, further scouring what little paint remains to the bare, gray wood.
He waves his arms over his head in an attempt to get their attention. Loses his balance. Collapses to the ground before he even realizes he’s falling.
“Don’t… get…”
He rolls onto his back and stares through the brown haze into the blazing sun. He wants nothing more than to feel its warm caress on his face as he once more descends into darkness. He thinks of the men in the chopper, of their faceless wives and children half a world away, and struggles to stand.
SNAFU: Unnatural Selection Page 27