“This will take us through the service area. Come on.”
“We must have missed a Gateway somehow. There has to be a female here,” Mel reasoned, reloading on the move.
“It’s more than that.”
“They looked alike. Maybe you were right—drones.”
“They look like something else too,” he said, voicing the thought they’d both been avoiding. The bodies were human in proportion, not Tachinid.
“That’s impossible.”
“We’ve got to get a signal.” Ryan pointed at the stairwell. “If we can’t contain this, they’ll authorize the Bikini protocol.” She met his eye, but didn’t answer.
They started down the stairs.
“Anything?” Jonathan asked, stalking back and forth in the control suite.
“No. From the last transmission, we believe team two is down—still no response from one—could just be the signal.”
“Team three?” the man asked, when no orders were forthcoming.
“Deploy.” He looked at his watch. The last transmission from two suggested there were dozens of the things down there. How much time dare he leave? The greater responsibility was to humanity itself. He turned to Crozier. “Prepare one of the remotes. I am authorizing you to arm the trigger. I want your yield recommendation in ten minutes.”
Giving in to the aches caused by his artificial leg, he sat down. He wondered what Manhattan would look like after a nuclear explosion. At least his successor would be saved the trouble of inventing a cover story.
The stairwell discharged them into a basement room filled with dumpsters. Corridors led off in every direction.
“Which way?” Mel wanted to move on, fast. The congested space was the worst possible setting for a fight.
“East, south,” Ryan murmured, turning to regain his sense of direction. “That way – the west wing has an exit back up to the street.”
Relieved to find the corridor clear, they picked up the pace. After a few minutes, they reached another fire door, leading back into the public area. Ryan eased it open. Skylights delivered muted but welcome natural light from street level.
“Looks clear.”
“Dead wing,” Mel observed as they jogged along the concourse. Most of the units were empty, stripped of fittings. “No one’s using it.”
“Someone is,” Ryan said, stopping. “Look.”
A dirty trail led from another service entrance into a food store. The floor was still wet.
“You getting anything?” he asked, watching Jack sniff around.
“Still the same – just flashes.”
Jack followed the trail to the doors before stopping. He looked at them wearing an expression that couldn’t have been clearer. Are you coming or not?
Containing nothing but empty shelves, the store was utterly mundane until they reached the stockroom. A body lay on the floor. Had the remnants of a dress not been visible, they would have been unable to tell the sex. Most of the flesh had been torn away. Moving forward, they found another body behind a rack, equally mutilated.
“Something’s been hungry,” Ryan whispered. Jack began sniffing the air, and a moment later a familiar smell hit them. “Musk,” Mel mouthed.
Gesturing for her to cover, Ryan advanced. Large storage chillers lay behind more racking. After a moment, he signaled her forward. His face carried a warning, but it failed to prepare her.
Caked in grime, the bodies of three women lay on the floor. The abdomens of all three were ruptured, surrounded by a puddle of congealed blood. Huge swathes of flesh were gone where larvae had eaten their way out. On inspection, Ryan found each body carried an identical injury, far too precise to be accidental.
“Look.”
Each woman had a hole above her right temple, encircled by partially dissolved flesh. The creature had used just enough enzyme to reach part of the brain, conducting a crude chemical lobotomy whilst leaving them alive.
“Jesus,” Mel breathed, hoping those injuries had been the first inflicted. At least that way they might not have felt much. “Why?” she pondered. It certainly hadn’t been an act of mercy, so why?
Jack issued a quiet warning, but they were already rising, having felt a surge of life so strong it could not fail to register. Instructing the dog to stay behind them, Ryan moved forward. Stairs led down into a plant room. Drones stood on guard duty, surrounding a taller creature at their center.
Mel inched sideways, trying to see. Too vile to process, her mind tried to reject the image that confronted it. I’m insane, she thought, because this can’t be real.
The creature was thrusting forward between the legs of a woman pinned on a bench beneath it. There was no struggle. Her body was limp, and the one corner of Mel’s mind that remained detached noted she displayed that very specific head injury. Another woman lay on the floor, her belly distended in an obscene facsimile of pregnancy.
With an eyebrow raised in question, Ryan drew a grenade. Nodding agreement, Mel did the same. They had to kill as many as possible. As for the women below, they were better off dead.
Together, they dropped them.
When the grenades hit the floor, the monster reared up, releasing the victim, but she lay still. It had the same human proportions as the drones, but stood eight feet high, covered in chitinous plates. As they withdrew, Mel glimpsed a long, thorny appendage retracting into a sheath on the creature’s body. Seeing them, it released a long screech that seemed to act as the bugle call for the drones to charge.
They dived back around the corner. As soon as the blast passed them, they went back in. Through clouds of dust, they saw drones lay scattered, some torn apart. The first of the survivors came up the stairs.
They fired, cutting it down. More came, making suicidal attempts to reach them. Then Ryan realized why; it was a delaying action. A group of drones surrounded their commander, escorting it toward a maintenance tunnel.
Ryan tossed another grenade, but as he pulled Mel back with him he saw more drones willingly act as shields. After the blast, they went down the stairs, firing.
Most of the drones looked dead, but small, spider-like creatures began emerging from the junk around the room. Infants, Ryan thought, fresh from a host. One ran at his leg. He took aim, but Jack beat him to it, crushing the creature in his jaws. An injured drone struck him. Ryan felt the liquid armor harden, stopping the claw, but the impact was like being shot. Gasping, he killed it and moved on.
Dispatching another drone, Mel closed in. She fired, but yet another of them leapt forward, sacrificing itself. Finally, she had a clear shot. Switching to automatic, she raked the creature with fire. The explosive rounds ripped chunks of exoskeleton away, but it survived the assault.
Turning with incredible speed, it reached for her. Pincers closed on her arm. The armor can’t stop that, she thought. She bit down, bracing herself, but instead of attacking, it withdrew, dragging her alongside.
Close up, she was able to touch the alien mind. The strongest emotion was anger. Furious at the loss of so many offspring, it wanted her as a new vessel. Next came desire; it plain wanted her, and that urge felt human. With a flash of insight, she knew what it was. A Tachinid male, but a hybrid; somehow, the larvae absorbed genes from a human host. Second, perhaps even third generation, this one had reached the point where interbreeding was possible. Unless she acted, that would be her fate. No, she decided, dead is better. And you’re coming with me.
She twisted, trying for a grenade, but couldn’t reach. She managed to grip her pistol, but couldn’t draw it.
Ryan took fresh aim, but found Mel in his sights. Suppressing a fear that threatened to paralyze him, he aimed higher, and shot the Tachinid in the back.
Snarling, Jack joined the assault. Although the animal was far too powerful for him, he identified a weak spot around the ankle, and bit deep.
Kicking, the creature tried to shake him off, but to no avail. Fighting on too many fronts, it released Mel, swiping at the dog with a pincer.
His armor took the blow, but the impact sent the dog hurtling into the wall. Whimpering, he slid to the floor.
Free to move, Mel placed her pistol against the neck and fired. Incredibly, it still lived, but began retreating toward the maintenance tunnel.
Run, you fucker, she thought, but the sense of victory was short lived. She felt warm liquid running down her thigh, inside the suit. Incredibly, she had time to feel embarrassed. I can’t believe it, she thought. Have I wet myself? Then the pain kicked in, and she realized the hot fluid was blood. Looking down, she saw a razor-sharp claw emerge from her thigh.
Seeing Mel fall, Ryan fired, but his gun clicked empty. Perhaps sensing victory, the creature stepped toward her, but when he produced another grenade, it turned, heading into the tunnel with the remaining offspring.
Ryan threw the thermite charge. Expanding, the white-hot fire ignited everything close by. He was unable to see past the blaze, but nothing could survive coming back through it. They were safe for now. He returned to Mel. Blood was pooling under her.
“Can you stop it?” he asked, kneeling beside her.
She closed her eyes, trying to draw on her training. Consciousness is a coordinating force at the sub-atomic level. Matter can be bent to your will, one particle at a time.
“No,” she croaked. “It hit the artery. Ryan, you have to put me down.”
“The others can get you out.”
“I’ll bleed out before they get here.”
“I can’t leave you—if one of things finds you…”
“They’ll ignore me if I’m dead. It’s my only chance.”
He tried to construct an argument, but she was right. He took the canister from her belt.
“Mel…”
“Don’t,” she mumbled. “Ryan, listen.” She rationed her words, each one expensive, but shared the knowledge she’d gained of the creature. “Now just do it. Please.” She tried to squeeze his hand, but her grip was weak.
He jabbed her with the needle. Her heart stopped almost instantly. The chemical cocktail took effect, relaxing her muscles, lowering her temperature.
A whine came from amongst the machinery across the room.
“Jack?”
The dog limped toward him on a hip joint obviously broken.
“It’s alright. Good boy.” Stroking him provoked a whimper, and the dog hawked up blood. Internal bleeding, he thought. He drew his own canister. Adjusting the dose for the dog’s smaller body, he put him down.
Ryan looked around the room. He couldn’t leave them here. He needed somewhere secure—and cold, he thought, remembering the briefing. Low temperature was critical. Struggling with her limp form, he carried Mel up to the storage chillers. They were off, but the insulation had kept them cold inside. He set her down, and then bought Jack up to lay beside her.
He kissed her forehead, but it bought no comfort. The body that had felt so warm wrapped around him last night was already cold. Denying his emotions the chance to overwhelm him, he consolidated what little ammunition remained, and then left, closing the door behind him.
One way or another, he resolved, I will kill you. The question was how, without Jack’s nose to follow. Almost on a whim, he flicked the sniffer on. It registered a strong pheromone trace, heading south. Finally, it works. He nearly laughed, but cut the urge off. It would have been the launch pad for hysteria, not humor. Concentrating, he overlaid the readings on a mental map of the mall. Only one destination made sense. It was heading for the lower concourse, linking to the subway station nearby. Once loose down there, they’d never find it. He plotted an intercept course, and ran.
Chest heaving, Ryan zigzagged down the escalators into the lower concourse. The subway link lay to his right. He turned, scanning each direction. As he’d hoped, the trace was now heading toward his position. The slow pace suggested injury, but they’d learned an expensive lesson. Even badly hurt, it would be dangerous. Working quickly, he pre-armed the grenades he’d taken from Mel, leaving them attached to his pack. One way or the other, he thought again. He looked around the concourse. A hundred feet across, it was too open for a fight. Watching the sniffer, he decided to move forward to a better position.
Cutting though another maintenance area, he arrived in the underground service bay. A few vans were parked near stock rooms belonging to stores above. A courier truck stood next to the cargo lifts. A few cars, presumably belonging to store managers, had been left down here. Something—his enhanced senses, instinct, or maybe just common sense—drew Ryan to the truck. It looked normal, but there was something indefinably wrong with it. Circling wide, he saw a man lay slumped against the open rear doors. He cut back, using the vehicle body to shield his approach. His caution proved superfluous.
The man was dead, torn open from throat to stomach. A foul stench indicated his bowels had been punctured, but the smell barely registered. Four tanks of liquid explosive almost filled the cargo body. An array of cables connected them to a black case bolted to the floor—the second bomb. A single cable snaked up to an aerial on the roof. Another ran out to join a device still gripped in the dead man’s hand. A phone lay on the floor beside him.
Ryan picked it up, scrolling through the memory. Seeing the same number had been dialed nineteen times in the last hour, he knew beyond doubt what had transpired. They’d tried to detonate the bomb remotely, via phone call, but had failed to account for the poor reception underground. Then this man had either volunteered, or been chosen, to do it manually.
Mind racing, Ryan picked up the trigger device. Detonation was the simple pull of a lever, but a code was required to arm it. No good. Inevitably, the phone had no signal. Keeping one eye on the sniffer, he examined the bomb in detail, expecting to find a backup timer, but there was none. Amateur, he thought, thumping the truck in frustration. The terrorists had gifted him the perfect weapon of last resort, but he had no way of controlling it. Incorrectly triggered, the nitrogen-based explosive would burn rather than detonate. Extreme heat, he thought, extracting his last thermite grenade.
He wedged it in place above the tanks. If fired, the exothermic charge would melt the plastic tanks almost instantly, leaving Ryan only the five-second fuse duration to outrun the resulting explosion. I can live with that, he thought, smiling at his own gallows humor. Checking the sniffer again, he realized the trace had stopped moving. Could it sense a threat? No, he decided, surely not. It just needed motivation.
He jumped out of the truck. Checking his carbine one last time, he wondered if there was any possibility Mel might survive. She was some way off, but he had no way of calculating the blast. He dismissed the thought. Able to speak, she’d have told him to do it either way.
Ryan took up position in the service tunnel, selecting a choke point formed by air-conditioning machinery. For once, the sniffer proved accurate. The trace grew closer, and then the enemy appeared, a nightmarish mass of shapes moving along the corridor. Two drones were on point duty, scouting ahead. Behind, a few more supported their master. Proceeding with an awkward, stuttering movement, it appeared hurt. The good news ended there.
Fresh reinforcements had arrived. There were few adult drones, but an army of infants marched behind him, hideous half-grown creatures that looked like a cross between a child and a beetle. Looking at their number, Ryan dismissed any ideas of attack. Alone, they would overwhelm him. Strangely, he felt a kind of relief; the decision had been made for him. Only one task remained.
He allowed the first scout to move close before firing. Then, acting like the lure on a greyhound track, he ran for the service area. He paused as if fighting a rearguard action, but it was only to confirm the bait had been swallowed. Again, he allowed the second scout to close in before firing.
Like a general on the battlefield, the Tachinid sent his troops forward ahead of him. Come on, Ryan thought, watching the infants advance. Finally, it followed them. He killed the first ones that reached the doorway, and then ran for the truck, dumping the now-empty carbine.
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br /> The creatures scuttled through the door, spreading out into the service bay. Standing next to the bomb, Ryan drew his revolver and shot one that dared to run at him. The rest held back, massing for an attack, which suited him fine. He waited, determined to get the creature as close as possible.
The Tachinid appeared in the doorway. In better light, Ryan could see it was badly injured. White fluid leaked from countless wounds. It was in no position to fight, but had come to witness his death. It wanted to watch. That’s fine, he thought.
They began to advance.
Waiting, he tried not to think, but felt a touch of regret. On the whole, life was pretty good. He reached for the grenade. Idiot, he thought, looking at the bomb. Could it work? They were still some way off. If I can fix it in place… Taking the grenade, he vaulted up onto the roof. Around him, they closed in. Positioning the charge directly above the tanks, he took out his armor repair kit, using the instant sealer to bond the charge in place. They were close. Out of time.
Ryan flicked the switch and hit the ground running. The tactic had gained him the few seconds the thermite would take to burn through the metal roof. You never know, he thought. The enemy gave chase, just as he wanted. That’s right; you come good and close.
Spurred on by the screeching behind, Ryan sprinted back down the concourse. It might have been his imagination, but he swore he heard frustration in the sound. You lose, he thought. Any second. He was halfway down the stairs into the underground when a flash of light came from behind. Got you, he thought. Then the shockwave came, and he thought nothing at all.
Ryan felt a cold sensation as the stimulant diffused into his bloodstream. He opened his eyes, but couldn’t focus. Everything was blurred. He gave up.
“Don’t try to move.”
“Mel?” Was this fantasy or reality?
“I’m here.”
“You’re alive.” Saying the words aloud made it seem more real.
“Yeah.” She took his hand. “The drugs work, Ryan. Can you believe that? Managed death, they’re calling it. Alive, I would’ve bled out. Dead, my heart wasn’t pumping my blood away, and I—my body—waited in suspension. They repaired the artery, and then bought me back. They were worried about brain damage, but I feel fine. Apparently I have you to thank for that. The temperature in the fridge minimized any cell damage. We were officially dead for eight hours. I’m really not sure what that makes me. A ghost, maybe.”
Both Barrels of Monster Hunter Legends (Legends of the Monster Hunter Book 1) Page 58