by Mark Crilley
“Can it, Weeji,” said Chang Ming without bothering to look at Luigi. He spat again, this time producing a blast of fire big enough to have come from a flamethrower. The resulting cloud of smoke went straight into Billy’s face.
“Now let’s get somethin’ straight, Billy. You want to live to see your next birthday, you gotta learn one simple rule.” He paused and ran a claw across one of his long, curved antennae. “You listenin’?”
“Yes.”
“Smart kid. Now repeat after me: Never.”
“Never.”
“Ever.”
“Ever.”
“Squash.”
“Squash.”
“Cockroaches.”
“C-cockroaches.”
Chang Ming leaned forward and spat so near Billy that the burning ball of saliva nearly hit him. “Think you can remember that?”
“Yes.”
“You better hope you do. ’Cause after today if I get word you squashed a cockroach … or even tried to squash a cockroach … or anything that even looks like a cockroach …” He turned his back on Billy and walked slowly back to the statue. “… I’ll roast you alive. I’ll burn you till your skin gets nice and crispy. Like Peking duck.”
Luigi let out a quiet sigh of relief. They were being let off the hook.
As Chang Ming stepped behind the statue, he stopped, spat, and said, “Leave that biscotti on my plate, Weeji.”
“Yes, Chang Ming.”
“And get rid of that rotten orange, will ya? Hate it when they leave those things.” A moment later he was gone.
“Chang Ming is a demi-creatch,” said Luigi after Chang Ming was safely out of earshot. “I think you figured that out.”
“Yeah, but what … I mean, how did he …?”
“Manther roaches,” said Luigi as he and Billy rose to their feet. “A kind of ground creatch. Chang Ming used to be a human being like you and me.” He paused and reconsidered. “Well, more like me than you, sorry. He was six feet tall, two hundred twenty pounds. That was before he and another Affy—a woman by the name of Feng Lei—got bitten by manther roaches during a creatch op.”
CHZZZZZ
A humming noise pulsated somewhere underneath the shrine. “Watch it,” said Luigi, grabbing Billy by the arm and pulling him a foot or two to one side. “You’re in the wrong place.”
Billy looked down and saw the ground they were standing on—pebbles, weeds, and all—drop a fraction of an inch. It then broke free from the surrounding earth in a neat circle and began carrying Billy and Luigi underground. As they sank past the rim of earth around them, a disk of pebbles and weeds emerged and slid into place to conceal the hole that had been created.
Whoa. A camouflaged hydraulic sinkhole. Billy’s parents had told him about sinkhole “elevators” and how they were used to conceal the entrances to AFMEC field offices, but this was his first time actually riding in one.
“Normally manther venom kills you,” said Luigi as they continued their descent, “but get just the right amount and it transforms you into a demi-creatch: half human, half roach. Some victims stay human-sized but have their intellect reduced to the equivalent of a roach’s. Others get to keep their human intelligence but wind up the size of a roach. That’s how it was for Chang Ming, poor guy. By the time he got back to AFMECopolis his body had absorbed so much venom the transformation was irreversible.”
Billy and Luigi descended farther and farther underground. It was cold and very dark, and the smell of motor oil hung in the air. The humming noise grew louder.
“So what happened to Feng Lei?” asked Billy.
“Feng Lei. That’s the worst part of the story. The two of them were engaged, you see.” Luigi shook his head and sighed. “She was lost in the creatch op and never found. Could have been killed. Probably was. But maybe—just maybe—she’s still out there somewhere. That’s why Chang Ming is a little touchy about people squashing bugs.”
“Oh, man. He’s going to hate me forever.”
“No, Billy,” said Luigi. “You’re lucky. He likes you. I can tell.”
“You’re kidding. How does he treat people he doesn’t like?”
“You don’t want to know,” said Luigi. “Let’s just say his saliva isn’t the only thing inside him that’s flammable.”
The platform they were standing on carried them down through the ceiling of a brightly lit room. Billy squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light. The room was long and narrow, with a black marble floor, three smooth concrete walls, and a fourth wall built entirely of glass, beyond which lay a wide fluorescent-lit corridor. Three polished steel columns rose from the floor, each vanishing into its own hole in the ceiling: the hydraulic support systems, Billy guessed, for three other camouflaged sinkholes above. They reached the floor of the room, and the humming noise died down, then stopped altogether.
“Welcome to the Guizhou field office,” said a girl’s voice behind them. “You ready to take on some rogmashers?”
CHAPTER 7
Billy spun around. There, standing with her hands on her hips, was Ana García. She wore a freshly pressed gray AFMEC uniform, a utility belt around her waist, and calf-high mountain-climbing boots. Her long black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and her caramel-colored skin was even more deeply tanned than usual from a series of recent creatch ops in sub-Saharan Africa.
“Heeey,” said Luigi as he strode to Ana’s side with several elephantlike stomps and swept her up in a big warm hug. “How’s my little bambina? You’re getting so tall. No wonder all the creatches are scared of you!”
“Ana!” said Billy as he jumped from the platform to the floor and ran over to her. He wasn’t sure whether to hug her or shake her hand—he knew her well, but not that well. In the end he did neither: just stood there and gestured awkwardly. “What are you doing here? I thought you were battling sea creatches in Norway.”
“That’s where I was up until last night. But we had them pretty much under control, you know, so AFMEC high command took me off the job and brought me here. They must have felt my skills were needed on this thing with the rogmashers.”
This thing with the rogmashers? Hold on, here. You’re coming with me? This is supposed to be my first solo creatch op.
“I … don’t get it. AFMEC is letting you help me out with this?”
Ana laughed. “Good one. Come on, we’ve got to pick up our equipment and get going.”
Good one? What, did I say something funny?
Ana went to a small podiumlike structure in the middle of the floor near the wall of glass. She placed her hand on its upper surface, where an infrared beam hummed quietly as it scanned her palm. Seconds later a small section of the glass wall rose into the ceiling, allowing them all to enter the corridor.
“Sadly I must now bid you both arrivederci,” said Luigi with an exaggeratedly formal bow.
“Luigi, I thought I could count on you to help me take out a rogmasher or two,” said Ana with a grin.
She’s acting like this is her creatch op, thought Billy.
“Ana, Ana,” said Luigi as he took her hand, melodramatically begging for forgiveness. “You know how it pains me to abandon you like this. Never fear, my darling. Billy here will be as splendid an assistant as I could ever be.”
Assistant? This just keeps getting worse!
Luigi gave Billy a good strong handshake. “Such a pleasure it was to meet you, Billy. Don’t you worry about the rogmashers. You will be safe,” he added with a wink, pointing a finger at the vial of olive oil hidden beneath Billy’s T-shirt.
Luigi then stepped through a nearby door and went off, presumably in search of someone to help tow his truck out of the rice paddy.
“Come on, Billy,” said Ana as she marched down the corridor. “We’ve got to get you suited up.” She ran her eyes over Billy’s T-shirt and still-soggy blue jeans. “Don’t want the rogmashers to see you looking like this.” Ana laughed. Billy didn’t.
“Look, Ana,” said Billy
as he quick-stepped to keep up with her, “there must be some kind of mistake here. This is my creatch op.” He held the prep manuals out for her as evidence. “See?”
Ana’s eyes darted back and forth between Billy and the prep manuals. “Billy, that’s so cute. You think getting the prep manuals means this is your creatch op?”
Cute?
“Well, if it doesn’t mean that … then what does it mean?”
“I’ve got the very same manuals, Billy. They were given to me last night. You got the prep manuals because your parents can’t go with you this time, that’s all.”
Ana turned a corner and stopped before a door marked CHANGING ROOM. “First stop. I picked out a nice clean suit for you. No bloodstains. It’s so hard to find AFMEC uniforms like that, you know.” Ana nodded in a way that suggested it was time for Billy to thank her.
“I’ll be right out,” said Billy. He shut the door a little harder than was strictly necessary.
Billy grumbled as he changed into the gray jumpsuit and laced up the pair of mountain-climbing boots Ana had selected for him. The fact that she had chosen precisely the right size clothes and footwear served only to irritate him. “Little Miss Perfect-All-the-Time. Where does she get off elbowing in on my creatch op?” he whispered angrily. “Just wait. She’ll start making all the decisions and treating me like her all-purpose gofer boy.”
“Don’t worry about your coat and gloves,” Ana shouted through the door. “I’ve put them in our transport. And a nice warm scarf, too!”
Billy threw his jeans, T-shirt, and sneakers into a locker provided in the changing room and stepped back into the hallway.
“Nice,” said Ana, regarding Billy as if she had dressed him herself. Which she had, pretty much. “Very nice. You’re too thin, though, Billy. You need to come down to Guatemala and spend a week with my family and me.” She flashed him a smile as she turned and led him down a nearby flight of stairs. “Wait until you get some of Mama’s arroz con pollo chapina. Mm. She’ll fatten you up, no problemo.”
Billy was determined not to let Ana change the subject.
“Ana, it’s not just the prep manuals,” said Billy. “When I got the call on my viddy-fone, Dad told me I’d be going solo this time.”
“He said that to you?”
Did he? Sure he did. More or less.
“He used those exact words. Solo creatch op.”
“That’s funny.” The way she said the word it came out like “fawny.”
“Why would your father lie to you like that?”
Ana opened a door at the bottom of the stairs and ushered Billy into a huge, dimly lit underground warehouse. There stood row upon row of tall iron shelves, each stacked top to bottom with AFMEC weaponry. “I’ll get the glaff rifles and the ammo,” said Ana, “if you get the paragglian crossbows and the hortch grenades. Deal?” She smiled, signaling that the solo creatch op discussion was now officially over.
“Look, Ana.” Billy was trying to stay calm. “We need to make this clear at the outset. Whose creatch op is this? Yours or mine?”
“Billy,” Ana said. “This is our creatch op. Yours and mine. Not yours or mine.” She locked her dark brown eyes on Billy’s and stared him down. “Do you have a problem with that?”
Billy took two steps away from Ana. He wasn’t sure how to answer the question. So he didn’t.
“Hortch grenades,” he said. “How many?”
“As many as you can carry.”
CHAPTER 8
“No, no, no,” said Ana. “Never put the glaff rifles on the floor of the truck, you’ll wreck the sight alignment. And the hortch grenades … you pile them up like that, you’re going to blow us from here to Bolivia.”
They were standing inside a barn behind the farmhouse Billy had seen earlier, loading their weaponry into the back of a very small three-wheeled noodle delivery van. Bright red Chinese characters across the sides of the van proclaimed they were delivering lo mein noodles, not a modest cache of weapons calculated to knock a rogmasher on its heels at a hundred yards.
“Put them like this,” Ana said. “Crossbows on the bottom, then the rifles, then the hortch grenades, evenly spaced.”
Aye, aye, Captain.
Billy did as he was told. He’d decided to choose his battles. If he didn’t, he and Ana would be at each other’s throats in no time. That didn’t prevent him, of course, from saying rude things to her in the privacy of his own head.
“Did you get that extra case of paragglian bolts I asked for?”
“Ana, you never said anything about an extra case of paragglian bolts.”
Ana shrugged. “Well, I’m saying it now. Those bolts are the only things that kill rogmashers, you know. There’s a dozen per case, and I’ve only got one case in the van. You don’t want us to be caught shorthanded, do you?”
Billy grumbled as he made his way back to the warehouse through a hydraulic sinkhole in the floor. When he got to the shelf where the paragglian bolts were supposed to be, he found nothing but an empty space and a quarter inch of dust.
Somebody has got to get this place organized.
He ended up finding the bolts in an entirely different aisle, next to a stack of pilot’s goggles. The case wasn’t even clearly marked. The lettering was scuffed and scratched away, leaving only a PARA and the first half of a G.
I guess that’s what happens when you get out into the lesser-used field offices. Everything goes to seed.
He grabbed the heavy case and made his way back to the barn. He put the case in the back of the van and joined Ana in the front seat.
“Chang Ming,” Ana said into an intercom on the dashboard once Billy had strapped himself in, “zou ba!” She turned to Billy and said, “That means ‘let’s go’ in Chinese.”
How do you say “Oooh, I’m so impressed” in Chinese?
CHZZZZzzzzzz
A panel in the roof slid open, sending a dusty beam of sunlight down to the floor.
“Next stop,” said Ana, pushing buttons on the dashboard with one hand and gripping the steering wheel with the other, “Huaqing!”
FFFFFWWOOOOOSSH
In a split second the noodle van rose into the air, tilted back to a vertical position, then shot out through the hole in the roof. Moments later they were hundreds of feet above the earth and heading toward the mountains. Billy was envious of Ana’s flying skills in spite of himself.
“It won’t take long to get there,” said Ana. “I’d go over those manuals one more time if I were you.”
Billy opened the AFMEC Guide to Mountain Creatch Bipeds, turning to the already dog-eared section on rogmashers. At the head of one page was a detailed illustration showing the size discrepancy between rogmashers and humans. Terrifying wasn’t the word. It wasn’t terrifying enough. The rogmasher—a two-legged reptile with lizardlike skin, massive biceps, arms long enough to reach the ground (and then some), and a tiny head that was nevertheless breathtakingly hideous—stood fully fifty feet taller than the silhouetted man beside it.
Billy turned his eyes to the columns of text accompanying the illustration. He had them pretty much memorized by now, but it was worth reviewing the facts one more time.
DIET: Exclusively large mammals. Oxen, horses, yaks, deer, and, on occasion, human beings. The adult rogmasher possesses only six teeth—four cuspids below and two enormous incisors above—but makes skillful use of them when dismembering its prey. Rogmashers are remarkably adept at preserving the skeletal integrity of a carcass so as to facilitate the process of spitting out bones.
LANGUAGE COMPREHENSION:
Rudimentary. Rogmashers share information with one another using a unique combination of grunts, roars, hisses, and nonverbal communication strategies such as boulder hurling and violent blows of the fist about the head and neck.
MOVEMENT: Rogmashers are slow-moving creatures but are tenacious and nearly unstoppable once they have settled on a course of action. Their legs make up in brute strength what they lack in speed. Th
eir extraordinary arm length allows for movement on all fours in a gorillalike manner, though the musculature and reflexes are reptilian in all other respects.
DEFENSES: The arms of the rogmasher are its only weapons, but formidable weapons they are. The arm muscles are quite literally hard as iron, propelling the fists forward with staggering force, and with predictably devastating results. Pity the man unfortunate enough to be cornered within an arm’s length (approximately forty feet) of an enraged rogmasher. His obliteration is all but assured.
WEAKNESSES: The word weakness cannot be easily associated with a rogmasher in its prime. Its leathery skin is invulnerable to the vast majority of AFMEC weapons, and its body chemistry provides it with complete immunity to the effects of any and all tranquilizers. Even normally sensitive bodily regions—eyes, nose, and genitalia—are shielded by impenetrable layers of body armor. A patch of shallow skin beneath the chin provides a possible entry point for projectiles, but rogmashers have learned to carefully limit exposure of this area when in the midst of battle.
SUGGESTED CREATCH OP TECHNIQUES: Glaff rifles are perhaps the best way to keep a rogmasher at bay. The pulsating action of the glaffurious oxide disorients rogmashers for up to five seconds per direct hit to the abdomen. Upon recovery, however, the rogmasher’s rage may temporarily escalate its strength two- or even threefold, so agents must exercise caution. Hortch grenades are less effective but useful in slowing rogmashers prior to a strategic retreat. Potentially lethal to the rogmasher is a single bolt from a paragglian crossbow delivered squarely under the chin. It is a highly risky strategy, however, in that the proximity required for the proper trajectory puts the agent well within arm’s length of the rogmasher. The death of a hapless soul who has failed to hit the mark on the first try will be as swift as it is painful and messy.
“Painful and messy,” said Ana, seeing Billy close the manual upon reaching the end of the entry. “A very odd choice of words, don’t you think? If you’ve been killed, surely it doesn’t matter if the creatch that’s done you in is tidy or not.”