by Alan Spencer
Execute the Plan
The team stepped down into the bottommost section of the submarine. Here, the remaining crew stood outside the weapons supply room. One of the officers, a weapon's expert named Robb Fagan, delivered a crash course on how to operate the TAC-10 machine gun. Fagan was normally a handsome, well-groomed, mild mannered person. After having a gash opened up across his forehead, his life flash before his eyes, and survive only to learn he was going to die anyway, the officer had become a hardcore asshole.
"The last thing I ever wanted in life was to die seeing your ugly faces. I'm sure they have better looking trolls in hell. The very least you can do for me is listen to me teach you how to shoot this thing. Not that it's going to save your dumb ass if you don't have the good sense to use it properly. Judging by some of your freaked out faces, many of you are going to die before you squeeze off a single round."
"Shut the fuck up and tell us how to use the damn thing," Anchor said. "Enough with the bleeding heart shit. I bet you journal, too."
"Fuck you," Fagan grunted. "Fine. On with it. You see this machine gun in my hand?"
Anchor studied the TAC-10.
He imagined a chrome bazooka with its large barrel.
"The TAC-10 has several different settings for firing. You can single fire, auto-fire, or spatter fire, which means you can fire ten shots at once in short spats. If you see the switch on the side of the gun, you can go from shooting bullets, to spraying fire or acid. My favorite setting is the static-pulse. It's like lightning shooting out of your gun. Anything that light touches, gets their balls fried extra crispy. If you're in deep shit, and you're fatally wounded and slow to die, you turn that dial on the side to "10" and it will make the gun explode. That explosion can level a five-story building. Careful how you use it. I guess if you're dying anyway, you won't give a flying fuck about your ass. You see somebody go down, you might keep an eye on them to make sure they don't blow all of our asses away before we're ready to buy the farm."
Fagan reached into the small room behind him and handed out the team a TAC-10 weapon each.
"Don't be a pussy when you step out of The Annihilator. I can smell a pussy a mile away, and if you reek of vagina, I'll pop a round in your skull and cut my losses. No wimps."
Anchor wanted to put Fagan in a headlock and break the wise talker's neck. Who was he to judge these people like that? They were scared and in an insane situation. No training could prepare anybody for what was coming their way.
Fagan was just like the other hotheaded officers he'd met. They talked big to cover their own fear. Anchor made a mental bet that Fagan would be one of the first to die.
Everybody stepped into the other supply room next door to Fagan's room. The man was brought in special for the mission, known for his expertise in demolition. He had the face of experience and the voice of confidence. Paul Leeks introduced himself, and he had two items in his hands. They were black boxes that fit snugly in his hands.
"These are the charges you are going to be sticking up this bitch's asshole. You spread them out approximately three hundred yards apart. They'll stick to the fleshy walls inside Gargantuan by the hooks that will protract out the back. Once they're on, you hit the red button underneath the timer screen. This will arm the bomb. I will carry the device that will set off the bombs. The more charges we put out, the more likely Gargantuan will float to the surface in pieces. Everybody take as many as you can carry. I recommend five per person. That is all I have for you people. Good luck. You have one last stop. Dr. Singer will advise you from here. We're America's best. Let's show 'em what that means. No American flag bullshit. Just flex those muscles. Do your job. Die with your chin up and your boot up somebody's ass."
The group was armed and equipped. Anchor followed the group to the very last stop. This was a chamber across from the weapons rooms. Dr. Singer was in the front of a room with clear doors. Suits hung up on the walls. They were dark red with white oxygen packs on the back. They weren't heavy looking like space suits or deep-sea diving suits. These were made of state-of-the-art material; Kevlar meets silicon, meets plastics. There was a plastic bubble over the head. Something out of a cheesy science fiction story, Anchor thought.
Dr. Singer explained that much of the suit. The rest: "We might not need the suits, depending on the atmosphere inside Gargantuan. We haven't been able to determine the exact nature of the conditions inside Gargantuan. It's all been educated, scientific guesses."
"So we could all melt once we step outside?" Olsen asked. "It'd be a waste for all of us to die, just because of that."
"Wonderful observation," Fagan said, standing beside Dr. Singer. "I guess you've volunteered to be the first to step out, huh? Good, ole boy. Any other concerns?"
Nobody said a word.
Singer continued.
"The suit is designed to protect you in multiple environments, atmospheres, and pressures. If your suit is damaged, or cracked, you might, as Olsen put it, melt. The key is to work fast. Place the charges, get back to The Annihilator safely, and then we'll drink all the whiskey and bourbon tucked away on board. It's been an honor working with our country's finest. Now it's time to strap on your suits. Let's get the job done."
Going In
The crew was all business getting their suits strapped on. Anchor enjoyed the lightweight armor suit. What he didn't appreciate so much, was the claustrophobic feeling the bubble over his head created. It would slow him down in the field of battle, but what choice did he have, being inside a monster?
The room carrying the suits doubled as a de-pressurizing platform. It would lower them out of The Annihilator safely. The real risk was once they stepped out of the platform, what would happen? Would the pressure squash them? Or would they melt, like Olsen voiced earlier?
Everybody stood against the walls of the de-pressurizing platform nervously. The platform was a large clear box. Ice-cold air hissed from the ceiling from all points, blanketing them in a chilly fog. Lights glowed on the floor. There were arrows pointing to the center of the room. The center would drop down like an elevator and deliver them outside of the submarine.
Fagan's voice spoke into their headsets.
"Follow the arrows, Olsen. You're up first, kiddo. Tell us what's going on out there."
Anchor was surprised by his response.
"Yes, sir!"
Anchor could see the vague outline of Olsen move through the fog. The sound of the platform shifted and delivered Olsen down from the ship and into the beast. Seconds passed, and Dr. Singer spoke into the headset.
"How's it looking out there?"
"Holy cow. It's amazing. I've never seen anything like it."
"Are you alone out there?" Dr. Singer rephrased the question. "Do you feel okay? No pain or any changes of feeling at all?"
"No, I feel fine. Nobody's out here but me, and...funny looking walls. Wow. I mean, just, WOW."
Dr. Singer advised everybody to wait a few more minutes. Nobody spoke a word. The sound of cold air hissing was all they could hear. That, and Olsen going on about how crazy it was out there.
"Oh shit! What the fuck is that? They're coming! A horde of them. I'm going to cut them off at the pass. I need back up now. There are hundreds of them out there, and they're looking pissed off. I'm not alone out here anymore!"
A string of machine gun fire punctuated Olsen's war cry.
Anchor was ready for battle. "Get us off this thing. He needs our help!"
Anchor followed the arrows to the elevator that lowered them down. Four other crewmembers joined him. He briefly caught Bright and Fagan's face through the fog, along with two strangers.
Olsen was enjoying himself raising hell. "Goddamn, they're ugly! I'm not making them any prettier drilling them full of bullets! Join me in the killing. They go down like any other bad guys."
Anchor was ready to join him in the killing.
The clear box lowered down into a wide-open area. The Annihilator had crashed into a hill of meat the col
or of human tongues. The walls of the area were dark veal meat. Anchor imagined them to be in somebody's throat. This throat turned out to be a battlefield.
Anchor, Bright, Fagan, and the two other officers raced out of the clear elevator box once the main door opened. They raced forward, stepping on material that was soft and squished like mud, but didn't give like mud.
Olsen was up ahead, spitting machine gunfire in wide arcs. Up ahead, from various holes, cubbies, and hideaways, charged forth a horde of monsters. They were the size of SUVS. The beasts had pincer snappers like lobsters. The pincers were half the size of their body with massive crushing power. The sound of them clicking together was like heavy metal locusts. They were on all fours, the lobster-armed, crab-bodied enemies.
"Fallback, Olsen," Fagan shouted. "Join us behind you, I've got a plan."
Olsen was about to fall back when he stumbled. The man lost his gun. The lobster-crabs surrounded him. Pincers bit through his arms, his legs, and crunched through the plastic over his head and decapitated him. The second the pressurized suit was damaged, Olsen's body detonated, turning him into liquid.
"Fucking fuck!" Anchor growled. "Let that be a lesson. Don't let that happen to you!"
Fagan pointed his finger at his TAC-10. "Turn the dial to six. That's the Electro-Pulse. If we fire it in their direction at once, I think we can kill most of them and make them retreat. It'll sure shock the shit out of them."
Anchor, and everybody else, turned their dial to six.
"On my count," Fagan said. "Three, two—ONE!"
Anchor braced himself for a powerful kick. There was no kick. Out the tip of the giant barrel came forth a bundle of branches. Blue lightning. They spread out like active arteries, pumping electricity into the lobster-crabs. The room was blindingly bright with blue-white color. Once those branches touched the enemies, they were instantly electrocuted. They burst into sizzling chunks of high-speed seafood. Anchor dodged a flying pincher, and Bright ducked in time to avoid a clacking hybrid lobster mouth. The horde was popping and smoldering in boiling puddles of neon green ooze.
"That'll show 'em," Fagan said. "You always have to go up the ass first. There's no other way of attack."
Anchor laughed, "I bet you always go up the ass first, Fagan."
Fagan gave him a wild expression. "In any other situation, I'd kick your ass. Considering we're going to die and you still have a sense of humor, I'd buy you a beer."
Bright was stiff and nervous after the battle, but even she smiled. "I'd settle for ice cream and a foot rub."
The rest of the crew came down the depressurization chamber. While their numbers were growing, Anchor took a moment to notice the outside of The Annihilator. It was a miracle the submarine had made it this far. The sheering blades were twisted back and broken, while others were partially melted. The sides of the steel sub were warped, dented, and covered in dings and scratches made by unidentifiable enemies. A dome light from the front and sides cast the area in a dim yellowish light. The rest of the area was dark, except for the lights from the headpieces on their suits.
Dr. Singer and Leeks approached Fagan and Anchor.
Dr. Singer said to Fagan, "Let's break up into teams. We set the charges, and rendezvous back to The Annihilator in thirty minutes. I'll lead a team. Everybody else start organizing yourselves into groups."
Bright stood beside Anchor. "I'm staying with you. I don't trust these guys."
"Do you trust me?" Anchor asked. "Hours ago, you thought I murdered all those people on the cruise ship."
"I was misinformed," Bright said. "I'm sorry, Anchor. Please accept my apology."
"Done," Anchor said. "Fine, you're with me."
Anchor had eleven people in his group. Fagan, Leeks, and Singer had their groups organized as well. Dr. Singer pointed north. "Anchor, you go north. Fagan, go east, Leeks, west, and I'll go south. Try to stay in a straight line. If there's anything in your path, use the acid in your guns to burn through the walls. They're mostly flesh, gristle, muscle, and fat. Set the charges you have, and then report back to The Annihilator. If you come across any enemy resistance, you'll be on your own. Any questions?"
"Save some bourbon for me on that sub," Anchor said. "I'm ready. So is my group."
"Then let's complete the mission," Dr. Singer said. "Best of luck to all of you."
North
Anchor led his team away from the submarine and the other teams. Down the fleshy corridor, there was a dark opening like the mouth of a cave. He set a charge at the mouth of the cave. Everybody else backed him up as he continued first into the dark recess. The lining of the walls were covered in long throbbing slits. He imagined the gills of a mega-sized fish. Beneath the slits, strange articulations and process pumped life into the vessel. The gills were glowing neon green, giving light to the otherwise pitch-black tunnel.
Bright was memorized by the transfixing colors. Anchor knew the sight was something they would never see again anywhere else, never mind the fact they were on a suicide mission. Liquid gel arms hung from the ceiling. At the end of each arm, was a cluster of fish eyes. Was this their security system?
Anchor trained his ears. He could only hear the running of fluids, the hiss of air from a great life support machine, and the dripping of water. Then Anchor overheard the squishing of steps.
"Hold back. Stay quiet."
At the end of the narrow corridor, he saw them pass by as a fleet of soldiers.
Fish soldiers.
They mimicked humans by their arms and legs, although they were covered in green amphibious skin. Their heads were giant fish heads with big beady eyes, and a red spongy brain was exposed on top of their head. Their hands were long crab claws.
"Fuck those things!"
One of the officers opened fire with a string of staccato bullet fire.
"Everybody take positions, damn it! You gave us away, you dumb ass." Anchor set his gun to automatic machine gun fire. "They're coming. No turning back. Shred 'em!"
The group unleashed a rip-roaring fuselage of bullets. Hundreds of bullets turned brains into flying steaming meat and covered bodies in plumes of green blood. The eight fish were in twitching pieces in seconds. Their bodies were so soft. Anchor stomped in one of their brains to make sure they were dead. Yellow mustard colored shit mushroomed from every broken orifice.
"Nasty," Anchor growled. "Keep moving everybody."
They entered the stretch where the fish men appeared. When all of the team was in place, the entrance sealed itself up. The opening melted at the edges, boiling like cheese, until the flesh sealed itself.
One of the officers tried to punch and rip through it with his arm, but his arm was stuck. The purple fleshy material was eating into his suit like acid.
"Oh God, help me!"
Anchor was about to try to pull him free when the tear in his suit occurred. Instantly, everything inside the suit exploded. The man was bloody slop.
Anchor took the man's two charges and placed them on the wall beside the opening.
"Let this be a lesson," Anchor said. "Don't play hero. Chances are, we're not going to make it back to the submarine. The goal is to set the charges. Nothing else."
"This place could be one giant trap," Bright said. "The opening didn't close randomly. It's like Gargantuan has a security system."
"As long as we blow her up, she can trap us all she wants," Anchor said. "Keep pushing on."
Anchor imagined them being inside of a purple artery. The walls were smooth tissue. Once they had been walking for five minutes, he told one of the officers to set another charge.
"Anchor, behind us!"
An officer pointed at the long trails of slime that dripped down from the ceiling. That slime hardened into something rock hard.
Another barrier, Anchor thought, this is a trap.
Twenty yards ahead, the narrow artery opened into a wide-open chamber. Bone hallways were covered in oily black secretions. The room stank of fish bait and decomposition. Secti
ons of the wall were hollowed out to display sets of human torso bones. Mostly chest cavities, Anchor noticed, with the bones of the sternum shattered.
"Set three charges in this room," Anchor demanded, "before anything else shows up to fuck up our shit."
The ground started to pucker. Air pockets burst. The gel along the floor rippled with motion. The jagged notches of a spine, the red-plated shoulders and chests, the giant pincer on one arm, the giant club fist on the other, the maw of a barracuda, and the gleam of ten demented crab eyes on each face, the six-foot tall monsters rose up from the floor and stood among them in challenge.
"What are you waiting for?" Anchor barked. "They're not here to make peace. Shred 'em! Fish fry time!" Anchor waved his TAC-10 at the group of enemies. "I'VE GOT YOUR HUSH PUPPIES RIGHT HERE!"
Everybody followed Anchor's order.
The room became an instant bloodbath.
Dr. Singer
Dr. Singer knew this was the spot where he'd get his samples. He lucked out finding a treasure trove of samples so soon. That meant he could sneak back to The Annihilator with little trouble. Ditching his team would be another matter. A plan was forming in his head, as the group kept trekking forward, deeper into Gargantuan.
The team had entered a corridor that resembled a giant sinus cavity. Random pockets of pustules and gristle-colored growths bubbled up from ceilings and the floor. Gargantuan was a mega-ton anomaly of function from the best of marine, fish, reptile, amphibian, and even human origin. Dr. Singer understood the need to exterminate Gargantuan, but her information, her potential, would be a shame to bury back under the ocean floor.
The bone walls opened up to a sort of courtyard. The word courtyard came to mind because the walls were now covered in golden fish scales. Tracks of smooth purple flesh created pathways around the green glowing garden. The "garden" was stocked full of plankton, anemones, and a strange patch that looked like thousands of clear gelatinous globes the size of softballs clustered together. Inside those globes were assortments of hatchling creatures. They looked like tadpole eggs, but Dr. Singer knew they weren't tadpoles.