by Bob Mayer
Something new was coming out of the warship. As big as the Cthulhu, but the body was more human, two legs that bent at the knees in a human way, two arms with no webbing, dark leathery skin. An oversized head that Turcotte recognized: a Swarm orb with numerous eyes in all directions and long thin tentacles waving about like hair. A twisted Medusa figure. It moved out from the warship, but no further than a hundred yards, which Turcotte found interesting.
Command and control.
Turcotte realized this was how the Swarm went into combat in gravity. He had no clue where these life forms came from. Were they creatures that Swarm had captured? Other aliens species? Or had the Swarm somehow made them? Regardless, it was obvious the Swarm orb on top of the Medusa was in command.
Several Cthulhu stalked about, heads turning to and fro by the disconcerting means of the waist actually twisting and the entire upper body turning. Naga slithered across the desert.
While the dragons hadn’t paid attention to his spacecraft, Turcotte wasn’t as confident about the Cthulhu. They moved slower, paying more attention. They were flipping over abandoned cars and trucks with their arms, searching through wreckage with their tentacles. Several times the largest of the tentacles would lift a body up, other tentacles wrapping around it, examining, then tossing the corpses aside.
Once, though, a body moved, someone still alive. Turcotte watched, aghast, as the Cthulhu stuffed the still struggling human into the gaping maw in the center of the head. Not as much eating the person as storing them, which was worse. The human disappeared and then Turcotte saw the sack in the back of the head expand slightly, something futilely struggling inside.
That was more than enough.
Turcotte powered the Fynbar and punched into the sky. A dragon came straight at him and he easily avoided it. He wasn’t sure if it had seen him or it was just coincidence, but there was no surviving on the ground or lower in altitude.
Turcotte headed up, toward the only place he could think of in order to do something effective.
The Swarm Battle Core.
SOUTH ATLANTIC OCEAN
Symphony of the Seas is billed as the world’s largest cruise ship. It holds over nine thousand people, combining guests and crew. All the passengers had paid top dollar to be out on the protection of the sea.
As dragons swooped over the ship’s decks, dropping their parasitic load, some of the crew abandoned ship without orders. They raced away in the launches hoping to escape the screaming madhouse the confined space of the ship became.
The warship touched one arm into the ocean two miles to starboard and dozens of kraken slithered out. They easily caught the launches, tentacles wrapping around them. As a tentacle caught a crewmember, the tip would loose a parasite into the victim, through any opening available, whether it was mouth, ear, nose, and anus or, in some cases, simply boring in through the skin.
Then the kraken, like the Cthulhu, would use a tentacle to stuff the human into its maw, storing the still-living in its ‘stomach’.
Within forty minutes, all nine thousand people were in the thrall of the Swarm.
The warship gathered the kraken back inside, then lifted the arm out of the water and hovered over to the ship. It placed one arm on the aft deck, a wide door slid open, and the humans began shuffling toward it.
FORT HOOD, TEXAS
“They’re coming down,” Jeets yelled from his track.
Donovan climbed up from the belly of his armored vehicle and stood on the TC’s seat, waist high out of the hatch. He didn’t need binoculars to see that the warships were descending.
Given the lack of radios, First Sergeant Donovan had pulled all the vehicles of A Company, 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry Regiment, 1st Cavalry Division into a tight perimeter. The Bradleys were almost touching each other, they were backed up so tightly. He had the two Linebackers in the center, their Stinger pods raised and ready. Their search radar was fried. The sergeant in charge of the two tracks was uncertain as to the viability of the Stinger’s infrared/UV targeting. The 30mm cannon were elevated, ready to fire, the gunner using optics rather than computer targeting.
Donovan had already made the command decision that they would not fire on the closet warship when it came in range. The warhead in each Stinger consisted of 6.6 pounds of high explosive. Sufficient to take out a sophisticated human jet or helicopter but it would be like throwing a gnat at a warship two miles in diameter.
To make the situation worse, 2 soldiers had died of a strange, very virulent infection. Several others had high temperatures and were complaining of nausea. This had led to several more desertions. Some of the tracks only had one man on board and Donovan had told them to assume the gunner position. Which meant there was no driver or track commander.
But where could they drive to?
“Stay frosty,” Donovan called out. “Hold fire until I give the order.”
The arms of the warship began spewing black objects. Donovan raised his binoculars. “You gotta be shitting me,” he muttered as he saw the dragons unfurl their wings and descend below the warship.
“Air defense,” he yelled.
“Yeah, Top?” the NCOIC of the two Linebackers responded.
“Waste any of those things that come close. If they spout fire, then they got to be hot, right?”
“Roger that.”
A dragon dove toward their position. The Stinger has an effective range of 5 miles. The NCOIC let loose with a single one as the dragon came in range. The ejection motor ignited, pushing it to a safe distance from the launcher, then the main engine kicked in.
The long, thin rocket accelerated to Mach 2.5.
It was headed directly toward the dragon, which didn’t try to evade or dodge.
The rocket hit the dragon just below the open mouth. The warhead exploded, severing the head. The dragon wings went dead and it plummeted straight down, slamming into the ground a mile away with a solid thud. The creature exploded into a splatter of biomass.
A cheer rose from the soldiers.
But Donovan was looking past the small victory. At least twenty dragons were inbound. Shifting his gaze above that, he saw that the warship was going to touch down one of the arms about a mile and a half distant.
The NCOIC fired his remaining Stingers. Two made hits, the other missed.
“Fire cannons at your own discretion and button up!” Donovan screamed as the dragons came on.
He slid inside, sitting on the seat he’d been standing on and slamming the hatch shut.
The chugging sound of the 25mm cannon firing near his head thudded through his helmet. He leaned forward, pressing his face against the viewfinder.
The Linebackers were doing damage, the 30 mm auto-cannon ripping apart several of the inbound dragons. Then the 25 mm of the Bradleys had the range of the dragons. More went down.
The few who survived didn’t spew fire. Instead they vomited parasites.
Donovan heard something raining down on the outside of the Bradley’s armor. He shifted his view to the track to the right. Saw the parasites crawling on the hull. As long as they stayed buttoned up, all hatches closed, those things couldn’t get in.
He was feeling a slight degree of confidence in this battle.
Then the warship touched down and the ground component of the Swarm began to exit.
“Fuck me!” the gunner screamed as he saw the spiders, Naga, Cthulhu and Medusas come out. A large group began heading toward their position.
“Kill the big ones,” Donovan yelled to the gunner, who’d lowered the barrel and aimed.
The 25 mm cannon spewed death, ripping apart Naga and Cthulhu. Donovan fired the co-ax 7.62 machine gun at the spiders.
There were too many. Donovan felt blind, unable to turn the turret given the need to engage what was coming directly toward them. Was this the same on all sides? What would happen when those things got here? Should they drive away? Where? What about the others? The tracks who had only one crew member.
He he
ard the familiar surge in an engine nearby. Someone was running away.
He couldn’t issue orders without opening the hatch. The others couldn’t hear him if they were buttoned up, engines running.
The 25mm cannon clicked empty. Donovan emptied the box of 7.62. Leaned down, grabbed another box. Reloaded.
“Top?” the gunner was looking at him, his weapon worthless. “Top?”
Donovan fired a long burst, ripping apart spiders. Then he aimed up and fired at the closest Naga. The rounds didn’t appear to have much effect. He shifted to a Cthulhu, firing at the hideous ‘face’ of tentacles. There was spurting of gray matter, but it kept coming.
The Bradley rocked. The gunner had slid into the drivers seat and was accelerating the armored vehicle. Donovan kept firing the machinegun. Empty. Grabbed another box. Loaded it. Looked forward. Saw a Cthulhu directly ahead.
“Ram that thing,” Donovan yelled to the driver as he began firing once more.
The Bradley accelerated. The Cthulhu jumped. Donovan lost sight of it, then there a loud thud at the beast came down on the top of the Bradley. Donovan could hear several suspension arms to the road wheels snap and the Bradley slewed to a halt.
Daylight flooded the interior as the turret was ripped off, Donovan still inside. It was tossed aside by the Cthulhu. Donovan slammed against steel, bones in his shoulder crunching, his helmet saving his life as his head hit the side of the turret. He saw stars and had a hard time focusing. He was on his back, inside the upside down turret. A Naga snakehead wavered overhead.
Donovan scrambled to draw his pistol, but that arm wouldn’t work, the shoulder destroyed. He reached across his body, trying to get the gun.
The Naga spewed parasites. A dozen landed on Donovan. One entered through an open wound in the shoulder. Absorbed into his spine.
The snakehead darted down. Donovan tried to, but couldn’t scream as the wide-open mouth enveloped him.
Then there was darkness.
EASTERN PACIFIC OCEAN
The USS Wyoming was steaming on the surrace at full speed toward its homeport at Kitsap Naval Base in Washington State when it spotted the warships coming down. Two touched the ocean within sight. The sub had already noted that there was zero radio traffic and no links from GPS satellites.
The captain immediately ordered dive and for torpedoes to be fired as well the nuclear missiles to be prepared to launch. The torpedoes were tracking straight for the arm of the warship until the alien ship lifted up out of the water, letting them pass by.
“Time to launch missiles?” the XO asked.
“Two minutes.”
“We’ve got multiple incoming,” one of the crew announced.
“Where are we targeting?” The Executive Officer asked. “We need to input now.”
The submarine rocked as something slammed into. Something big enough to cause a 560 foot long, 19,000 ton vessel move. There was another impact. Then another.
The Commanding Officer was frozen, staring in the periscope, unable to answer his XO. The boat rocked once more.
“Sir?” the XO screamed. The sub was filled with the sound of the hull plates under stress as if they were at great depth, although they were just under the surface at periscope depth.
The XO shoved his commander aside and peered into the scope. The surface around the ship was full of tentacles and churning water.
“Launch doors will not open!” the Weapons Officer called out. “Sir?”
The XO stepped away from the periscope, grabbed his command officer and ripped out the nuclear key from the chain around his neck. He tossed it to the Weapons Officer. “Activate! Now.”
“But—“ the Weapons Officer and every other person in the command center knew what that meant given the circumstances. Several of them crossed themselves and urgently whispered prayers.
But no one stopped the two officers as they went to consoles on opposite sides of the center and inserted their keys. “On three,” the XO said. “One, Two.” He could be granted some slack for a short hesitation, then: “Three.”
Both men turned.
The Wyoming, everyone in it, the kraken swarming over it, and the closest Swarm warship were vaporized as multiple warheads detonated.
SS SAROV, STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA
The Sarov was slowly ascending. Air was being pumped into the ballast tanks at a carefully controlled rate, the goal to surface as silent as possible. Besides the possibility of the aliens being overhead, there was also the fact they were in the main shipping lane for Seattle and Tacoma.
That was interrupted as a solid thud reverberated through the hull.
“What was that?” the Captain demanded.
“That was the sound of a nuclear explosion!” Vladimir exclaimed, staring at the control room displays. “We are being attacked by the Americans!”
“If we were being attacked by the Americans with nuclear warheads,” the Captain said, also looking at the displays, “we would not still be talking.” He shook his head. “No. That was something else.” He tapped the specialist who understood what they were seeing and hearing. “How far away was that?”
“Hard to determine, sir. Several hundred kilometers at least.”
“The Americans do not miss by several hundred kilometers,” the Captain said. “They are fighting the aliens.”
“Sir?” the sonar man said. When the Captain nodded, he continued. “That was multiple warheads. In the water. A tremendous amount of energy.”
The Captain stood silent for several seconds. “So there will be a tsunami?”
“Yes, sir. Sound travels in salt water at approximately twelve hundred kilometers per hour. A tsunami can travel eight hundred kilometers per hour in open water. It slows down when it gets close to the shore.”
“Hold ascent,” the Captain ordered the helmsman. “Pass the word to prepare for turbulence.”
As the order was passed verbally through the crew, the sonar man tensed as he heard something else.
“We’ve got multiple targets, Captain. Close. Strange bounce back. Alive, like whales, but very big. Larger than any whale.”
The Captain was watching the video screens fed from exterior cameras. They showed little at first. Something flickered on one of the screens, moving fast, left to right.
“What was that?” the Captain asked. “Anyone get a good look?”
The answer came in the form of a kraken coming straight at the starboard video. They had a moment to be shocked at the image, then the creature smashed into the Sarov. The Captain was thrown across the control room along with everyone else who’d been standing.
The boat rocked again as another kraken impacted. The Captain scrambled to his feet. The sounds of metal under pressure, the stuff of submariner nightmares, screeched through the ship. The crew was looking at him, waiting for an order.
“Charge the light hull!” The Captain ordered.
The Executive Officer understood immediately. He shoved a sailor aside and took his place at a console, typing in commands, diverting power from the batteries to the outer hull. Most submarines have two hulls: the inner pressure hull, and an outer ‘light hull’ that is hydrodynamic and not pressurized. That was what the kraken were crushing at the moment, but once they pushed that against the pressure hull . . . .
Everyone felt a jolt, electricity pulsing through the light hull, some of it bridging across to the pressure hull.
There was a moment of silence.
The Captain and XO exchanged a glance.
Then the sub was hit again.
“Charge it!” the Captain ordered.
Once more a jolt rolled through the light hull.
Silence.
The Captain checked the screens. Several feeds were gone, the cameras destroyed, but the ones left showed kraken floating listlessly around the Sarov. A few began stirring.
“Fire torpedo, expulsion only, no running, ten second detonation,” the Captain ordered.
“Sir!” Vladimir protested
. “That will—“
“Fire, damn you,” the Captain shoved the man aside. He tapped in the override commands, ensuring that the torpedo would be fired out of the tube by a burst of high pressure air, but deactivating the torpedo’s propulsion so that it would just clear the boat until the initial burst expired. Which meant it would be dangerously close after ten seconds.
The sound of the torpedo firing resonated through the ship. The Executive Office was looking at his watch. “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three.”
Everyone hunched.
“Two.”
The Captain was watching the kraken that were moving.
“One.”
The torpedo detonated, frighteningly close. The sub was hit by a massive hammer, the steel shuddering, straining, plates in the outer hull punched in.
But the pressure hull held.
“We must thank the workers at the sub yard when we get back,” the Captain said.
Crewmen glanced at each other.
“Down,” the Captain ordered. “Quiet. Quiet.”
The Sarov began to sink.
At that moment the tsunami from the Wyoming’s nukes rushed through the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The Sarov was rocked by the surge.
“Maintain descent,” the Captain ordered.
The Sarov hit the bottom with a gentle bump.
“Whisper mode,” the Captain said. “If we’re not moving or making noise, they’ll think we blew up along with their beasts.”
The displays of the few remaining cameras showed almost pitch black.
The Captain and crew began the long wait, to see if this desperate plan worked.
The Captain checked his watch. Just under one hundred hours until Poseidon detonated.
PRIVATE ISLAND, PUGET SOUND
Nosferatu left Nekhbet asleep, although she was more unconscious from lack of fresh blood, in the sleep tube. He slid out, securing the lid behind him. He made his way through the underground mansion to the main hall. The front doors were open and muted light crept in. One reason Vampyr had made the Pacific Northwest his primary home was the lack of sunlight. One could go months without facing the direct rays. Today there was not only the usual Puget Sound cloud cover, but also darker streaks from the ash being carried above the clouds in the upper atmosphere.