by Jake Bible
“Which way?” Ballantine asked as he came up next to Lake.
“I don’t know,” Lake replied. “It echoed out from the bay. That’s all I know.”
Ballantine glanced at Cougher, but the man only shrugged.
“Not much help,” Ballantine said, putting the binoculars to his eyes. He scanned the bay then tilted the binoculars up, focusing on the jungle and low mountains beyond. “Hmmm.”
“What do you see?” Lake asked. “Another monster?”
“Please, Captain Lake, let’s not call the creatures monsters,” Ballantine said. “I have explained to all of you the type of work that the facility here was conducting. They are live specimens. Perhaps a little too alive, but far from being monsters. These creatures are pure miracles of science.”
“And they will eat us in a fucking second, right?” Lake smirked.
“Well, yes, there is that,” Ballantine said. “Oh, look!”
He handed the binoculars over to Lake and took the man by the shoulders.
“What the hell?” Lake said, but didn’t fight it as Ballantine directed him to look in a specific area. Lake put the binoculars to his eyes. “What am I looking for?”
“Halfway up the second mountain,” Ballantine said. “Trust me. You’ll know it when you see it.”
Lake studied the island for a while then gasped and pulled the binoculars away.
“Are you shitting me?” he asked.
“What?” the Reynolds brothers asked over the com at the same time.
“There are flying ones!” Lake said. “Big, red, flying ones!”
“Flying ones are bad,” Max said.
“Very bad,” Shane agreed. “We do not approve of flying monsters.”
“I really wish you would stop calling them monsters,” Ballantine said. “It’s so disrespectful to the scientists that gave their lives creating these creatures.”
“What is going on up here?” Commander Vincent Thorne asked as he came out of the same hatch that Ballantine had exited only minutes before. “Did you see any of the monsters or not?”
Ballantine sighed and shook his head. “Why do I even try?”
Chapter Two- Can’t Stay On This Boat Forever
Team Grendel stood on the deck of the Beowulf III, all waiting for Ballantine to begin his briefing. Usually they met in the large, ornate briefing room above the main deck, but the huge nuclear EMP that killed the engines also killed most of the tech in that room, making it basically useless. Except on poker nights.
A triple hulled “research vessel” at over 90 meters, the B3 was styled along the lines of the Google research vessel R/V Falkor, but with a much different purpose. That purpose was obvious as Team Grendel waited, fully armed and geared for their mission on the island that framed the background behind them.
Former commander of the Navy SEALs BUD/S training program, Vincent Thorne was leader of Team Grendel, the band of ex-SEALs and other SpecOps misfits that Ballantine had brought together to handle less than ordinary situations. In his sixties, but still fit enough to take down men half his age, Thorne was not a man that minced words or wasted his time with pointless pleasantries.
“Let’s get on with this, Ballantine,” Thorne growled.
“We will, we will,” Ballantine said as he tapped his loafered toe. With his arms crossed, he pointed his sunglasses-covered eyes towards the island. “Just waiting on the elves, as usual.”
“Do they have any toys worth playing with?” Max Reynolds asked. “The EMP didn’t fry them all?”
“They could have at least tried to save a PlayStation or something,” Shane Reynolds said. “You can only do so much target practice each day before you go cuckoo nuts.”
“Did you just say that?” Max scoffed. “My own brother has betrayed the sniper code by saying he gets bored with target practice. It’s like I don’t even know you.”
“Hey, bro, I can’t help it if I’m a perfect shot and there’s just nowhere to improve,” Shane replied. “I wouldn’t recommend you stop practicing, though. You pull to the left on your second shot. Don’t feel bad. It happens.”
The Reynolds brothers were nine months apart and looked almost identical, both with yellow-blond hair, green eyes, freckles across the nose, deep tans, and that Southern California surfer boy attitude. But there was more than one way to tell the difference between them- Max was missing his left ear and had scar tissue running from his scalp, down his neck, and onto his shoulder while Shane was missing his right eye completely and had a black eye patch covering the socket, a Rasta-colored pot leaf stitched into the material.
Both had very thick joints tucked into the corners of their mouths.
“Boys, knock it the fuck off,” Thorne said, stepping from the group to face the brothers.
“Sorry, Uncle Vinny,” Max replied.
“Our bad, Uncle Vinny,” Shane added.
They didn’t budge.
“The joints!” Thorne barked. “I’m talking about the joints!”
“Oh, I thought you just wanted us to shut up like always,” Max said, taking the joint from his mouth and carefully putting it out with the wet tips of his thumb and forefinger. He tucked it into a pocket on his gear vest and patted it gently. “You stay safe, mighty spliff.”
“I want you to shut up too,” Thorne replied. “That’s a fucking given.”
Next to the Reynolds stood their cousin, Kinsey Thorne, a muscular woman of average height with short-cropped blonde hair and wrap-around sunglasses that reflected her father’s face back at him as he surveyed the rest of the Team.
“You know you can’t ever win the shut the fuck up battle, right Daddy?” Kinsey smirked. “I don’t think they even understand the concept.”
“Max no understand shutting up,” Max said. “Max stupid.”
“Beside the point,” Darren Chambers chuckled.
Dirty blond hair that blew in the ocean breeze, bright blue eyes, a tight black t-shirt hugging his muscled torso, Darren looked like a bulked up GQ model, not an ex-SEAL. He lifted his sunglasses and gave Kinsey a wink.
“Good thing their stupid doesn’t run in the family,” Darren said.
“Shut up, Ditcher,” Shane said. “Stop sucking up to Sis. She divorced your ass for a reason.”
“Ancient history and water under bridges and all that,” Darren said. “And what the fuck did I do? I was just playing.”
“You were winking at my cuz, bro,” Max said.
“I’m your bro, not him,” Shane responded.
“That was a derogatory bro, bro,” Max said. “I save the love bros for you, bro.”
“You’re the best, bro,” Shane said. “Come here, bro. Give me a bro hug.”
“Do you have any control over this?” Thorne asked, looking at Darby.
Barely five feet tall, Darby had shoulder-length black hair tied back in a pony tail, a tan tank top, and cut off cargo pants that had strings hanging down from the unhemmed edges. She was maybe a hundred pounds wet, but everything about her projected a sense that when you were in the company of Darby, you were in the company of a true apex predator.
She blinked her dark eyes and sighed. “Because I’m sleeping with your nephew, you think I have control over him?”
“Yes,” Thorne said. “Max is pliable that way.”
“Hey,” Max protested, but without any real vigor. “I’m far from pliable. In fact, I can get downright—”
“Nope,” Kinsey interrupted. “I do not want to hear the next words out of your mouth.”
“Can you keep him in line for just a few minutes?” Thorne asked Darby. Darby shrugged. “Thank you.”
“Stay in line,” Darby said to Max.
“Or what?” he replied, a lascivious smirk on his face.
“Or we play bullfighter again,” Darby replied, turning away as if that settled the conversation.
Apparently it did. Max grimaced then made a lock the lips and throw away the key pantomime.
“What the fuck is b
ullfighter?” Darren asked.
“We don’t want to know,” Kinsey said before Darby could respond, not that she looked like she would. “TMFI.”
The last member of Team Grendel, Lucy Durning, stood off to the side of everyone, her attention focused through the large binoculars she held to her eyes.
“There’s shit in the water,” she said. Everyone turned to look at her, but she didn’t remove the binoculars. “Yeah. There is definitely shit in the water. The island isn’t the only place with critters. Great. Prehistoric birds in the air and what-the-fuck-evers in the water.”
Nearly six feet tall, wide at the shoulder, with a head of shockingly red hair, Lucy could have been intimidating, but instead she was an easy-going woman that didn’t buy into macho bullshit and had nothing to prove like Kinsey or Darby seemed to. Unless it was proving she was the best at target practice against the Reynolds boys. Shooters gotta shoot, snipers gotta snipe.
“Yes, I was afraid the facility may have been working on aquatics,” Ballantine said. “They weren’t scheduled to for some time, but you know how science always progresses. It may have been necessary in order to recreate the biosphere of a specific species. These things domino quickly.”
Team Grendel stared at him. Ballantine smiled and stared back until Thorne growled and said, “Do I need to go down there and carry the assholes up myself?”
“That’s not very nice,” Ingrid said as she and Carlos came up from below decks. “I have been nothing but pleasant to you, Commander Thorne. No need to call me names.”
“Except for the traitor thing,” Darby said. “That wasn’t exactly pleasant.”
The Team frowned at the mention of Ingrid’s duplicity.
Having gotten herself into a tight situation, Ingrid, one of the three weapons smiths and techs that worked below in what was known as the Toyshop, had been forced to plant and activate a tracking device so that the B3’s enemies could find them quickly. Unbeknownst to her, Ballantine had anticipated the betrayal and used it to his advantage. As he tended to do with most situations.
“Now, now, Ingrid has been put through enough,” Ballantine said. “She made a mistake, something every single one of you here can consider yourselves experts in, but she turned it around and is back to being a valuable member of this crew.”
“Where’s Mike?” Kinsey asked. “Did you guys certify his legs?”
Carlos, having been sullen and silent since stepping onto the deck, rolled his eyes.
“Certify,” Carlos scoffed. “The legs aren’t a used Mac. You can’t just run diagnostics on them and a bell dings.”
“So that’s a no?” Darren asked.
“Michael will remain on the B3,” Ballantine said. “Until we know for certain his prosthetics were not damaged by the EMP.”
“Been a few weeks. Wouldn’t you know by now?” Max asked.
“Yeah, his legs seem fine when he’s walking around,” Shane said. “They guy can even dance. Got some moves.”
“No,” Thorne said, pointing a finger at Shane without looking at him. The dance Shane was about to do stopped instantly. “Mike will join us on the Team as soon as I am sure those legs won’t shit the bed. We do not want to be on an op and have him suddenly immobile. Could kill him, could kill us.”
“An op?” Max laughed, looking out at the island. “This isn’t an op. This is Jurassic Park 3, man. The second island. The one that time forgot.”
“You couldn’t be further from the truth, Maxwell,” Ballantine said. “Time did not forget this island. In fact, it sounds like time found it and grabbed it by the nuts, twisting and twisting until both balls popped and exploded everywhere.”
There were more than a few squirms.
“Lovely,” Darby sighed. She looked at Ingrid and Carlos who both seemed about to puke. “What do you have? I’d like to get this freak show on the road.”
Thorne looked like he was about to object to Darby hijacking his Team then he shook his head and aimed a thumb at her.
“What the lady said,” Thorne barked. “We have work to do.”
“He called your girl a lady,” Shane whispered loudly to Max. “Ha. Darby’s a lady.”
“I know,” Max said, whispering back just as inconspicuously. “I’ve seen her lady parts. Been all up in that.”
Thorne growled so low and deep that the deck nearly rumbled.
“Damn,” Shane said. “I think you just went elephant on us, Uncle Vinny.”
“Yeah, totally,” Max agreed. “And what my brother means by that is elephants can communicate long distances on low frequencies that we—”
“SHUT UP!” the rest of the Team shouted, even Darby.
“Oh my,” Shane gasped in a faux British accent.
“How rude,” Max gasped as well, mimicking the accent.
“Never a dull moment,” Ballantine said.
“Are there creatures out in the water?” Ingrid asked. “I better get your compression suits.”
She hurried off as half the Team began to complain.
“The compression suits in this heat? Are you fucking nuts?” Max asked.
“Don’t bring up nuts,” Shane said. “Ballantine will get distracted.”
“Yeah, what was up with that twisting and twisting thing, man?” Max asked Ballantine. “Not cool.”
“What do you have for us?” Thorne asked Carlos, ignoring his nephews as much as he could. “I’ve seen the thing we’re up against.” He patted the butt of his heavily modified M4 carbine. “This will only piss it off.”
“If the information Ballantine has given us is correct,” Carlos said. He rolled his eyes at the look Ballantine gave him. “If it is correct then the creature will have skin thicker than an elephant’s hide.”
“Uncle Vinny can talk it down,” Max said.
“Yeah, he speaks elephant,” Shane added.
“As I was saying, the creature’s hide will be extremely thick,” Carlos continued. “The normal rounds in your M4s will not penetrate.”
Max and Shane patted their sniper rifles.
“Speak for yourself, nerd,” Max said. “Some of us aren’t using M4s. My .300 Win Mag will stop almost anything.”
“My .338 Mac will do even better,” Shane said.
“Want to bet?” Max asked.
“Sure. How much?” Shane replied.
“We should make it interesting,” Max said. “Maybe— Oh, fuck! OW!”
He looked down at Darby’s hand that had him by the crotch. She flexed once and he squeaked.
“Build me something that can do that on command,” Thorne said as he looked at Carlos and pointed at Max. “For both the boys.”
“Hostile work environment much?” Shane muttered.
“Even your high-powered rifles won’t do much against that thing,” Carlos said.
Ballantine made a clucking noise at the word “thing.” Carlos ignored it as he set down a crate he had been holding.
“Line up,” Carlos said. “I have new ammo for you. Armor piercing with explosive rounds. Even if they don’t get all the way through the creature’s hide, they’ll do some extreme damage when they blow.”
“He said blow,” Shane chuckled and looked at his brother. Max only shook his head, his crotch still under Darby’s control. “Oh, right, you’re muzzled. No fun all on my own.”
“That’s the point,” Darby said.
“A good point too, sweet ass cheeks from heaven and beyond,” Max said. “You always make the best points.”
Team Grendel ejected the magazines they already had in place in their various weapons of choice, handed them to Carlos, and accepted the new magazines eagerly. Magazines in their kits were swapped out as well and they were all busy getting their gear stowed again when Ingrid returned.
“Here they are,” Ingrid said. “Compression suits for everybody.”
There were some quiet complaints, but having all had their lives saved at some point by the functionality of the suits, no one objected too harsh
ly. The team stripped down to their underwear, modesty not something that any of the military veterans subscribed to, donned their suits then went about double checking each other to make sure seals were in place.
As one they activated their suits and the mesh material cinched up instantly, fitting each person’s form like a second skin. The suits were designed to maintain a specific pressure when diving into and surfacing from deep water, helping the wearers avoid the normal health issues that came from descending or ascending too quickly. What they all found out during their many battles with human and not-so-human foes was that the suits also helped maintain pressure on and seal around wounds.
Not to mention they were nearly impervious and could harden like armor if the wearers found themselves in the jaws of an impossible creature. Which seemed to be the unfortunate fate of Team Grendel all too often. A roar from the island quickly reminded them of that fact.
“This better not be it,” Thorne snapped. “Better bullets and compression suits will not be enough.”
“The compression suits aren’t better,” Ingrid said. “They’re just— Oh, right, you only meant the bullets.” She smiled sheepishly and pulled out several black boxes from the bottom of the case Carlos had brought up. “These should help.”
“Containment nets,” Carlos said. “We have tested each of them and they were not affected by the EMP.”
He set one of the boxes on the deck and pressed on it with his foot three times. A bright blue grid of light erupted from the box, hovering in the air in front of Team Grendel. About ten feet by ten feet square, the grid was a crisscrossed pattern of electric lines that sparked and shimmered in the tropical sunlight.
“Yeah, that’ll stop an angry dachshund, but that’s about it,” Max said.
“You plan on us waving that blue hanky around and hope to distract the monster?” Shane laughed. “Did no one give you the specs on the thing? It’s fucking huge?”
“I feel like we’re in Spinal Tap,” Max said.
“Yeah, that is totally Stonehenge right there,” Shane agreed.