Right.
The second phase lasts about six months, and it’s your smart phase. You’ve got some experience. You know the score. You do what you’re told, and you know what to look for. Your intuition’s in top shape, and you can just tell when some serious shit’s about to go down. This is the period when you watch out for that skinny fresh meat who just got assigned. Poor jerk got his card pulled, and now he’s out in the bush pissing his pants with bullets flying all around him. You’re his Lord and Savior, and you’ll do anything to keep him safe because he’s one of yours.
So that lasts about six months, and then you get twitchy. This is phase three, and it’s even deadlier than phase one. You can see the end of your tour on the horizon, and you sure as hell want to finish up your time and go home. You know you should buckle down and be careful, but you can’t help it. You’ve got a girl back home, or you’ve received a letter from your mom telling you to take care of yourself. It’s enough to drive a guy crazy.
Or so I’ve heard.
I got sent home after seven months.
We had reached a village. Tiny place, little more than a handful of straw huts in the middle of a jungle clearing. By that point, I’d seen every kind of village there was. I’d been through the communities full of kind people who seemed something close to grateful, and I’d raided the villages that were thinly disguised ammunition dumps for the Cong. This one was like a lot of the others. It sat quietly in the sun, the villagers noticing us and then continuing about their business.
Everything looked fine.
We approached the huts from the south, taking it easy. No need to scare these people if we can avoid it, right? Look everybody. No reason to be afraid. Just some of Uncle Sam’s finest, here to liberate your country from the commies.
We were about forty yards from the edge of the village when we saw the girl. She was four or five at the most, running toward us without a stitch on. She kept yelling “America! America!” like the word made her happier than anything else in the world. She wasn’t holding any toys, and that was a good thing. I’d heard rumors of GIs picking up children only to have their faces blown off when the grenade some VC had sewn inside the kid’s teddy bear exploded. I still got a little twitchy, though. I couldn’t see the girl’s back, and there could have been something taped there. Apparently Evers had the same idea, because he raised his M16 and told her to stay put.
She did as she was told. Just stood there, hands folded in front of her, a grin stretching across her entire face.
We waited, watching the girl. After a moment, we figured she wasn’t going to explode. Evers crept forward, talking to her in soothing tones. She smiled at him and waited. Once Evers could reach out to her, he spun her around once, making sure she wasn’t armed. Satisfied, he lowered his rifle and smiled down at the girl.
“How ya doing, Sweety?”
“America!”
“That’s right, kid. America.”
Evers scooped her off of the ground and held her in his arms. He turned back to the rest of the platoon, a big old smile plastered across his ugly mug.
“Isn’t she the cutest thing?”
And then it happened.
One second, that little girl was hugging Evers around the neck, giving him little baby kisses on the cheek, and in the next second she began to melt. I’m not sure if melting is the right way to describe it, but it’s the best I can do. It was like she went soft, like her bones just disappeared and her body went all rubbery. She sort of slid over Evers’ shoulder and around his neck, and then her skin started to turn black.
By this point, Evers started screaming, but he was going off because he thought something had hurt the kid, like Agent Orange or something. It wasn’t until the tentacles started appearing, wrapping around him and burning through his fatigues, that Evers really started to cry out in terror. I didn’t think anybody could wail like that. Once those tentacles were through his clothes and started to work on his skin though, Evers proved me wrong.
I don’t know what that kid turned into. I don’t know if I could even describe it right. I remember the tentacles, and I remember the body almost looked like a hairless dog. I don’t remember a head, but that can’t be right. Can it?
I’m not sure if anybody tried to help out Evers. I don’t think so. I think by the time we were over the initial shock, Evers was already smoking and bleeding in a thousand places. And that thing was burrowing inside of him with its tentacles. I do remember that.
And the smell. Jesus Christ, do I remember the smell, like bacon and burning garbage. I don’t care how long I live; I’ll never forget that smell.
I know we ran for a few hours, just running to get away from that horrible thing that had destroyed one of our guys.
Later on, we were all given early discharges. I’m not sure anybody believed us, but the whole platoon told the same story, and they couldn’t really argue against that kind of solidarity. Either way, we were too terrified to be worth anything. Nobody wants a soldier who starts screaming whenever he sees a kid.
I can tell you don’t believe me.
Look, you wanted to know why I do it, and I told you. Over the years, I’ve tried to forget what I saw that day, but I can’t. And every single time I see a kid, I’m reminded of it, and I can’t help but think maybe it’s another one. Maybe it’s just waiting to be picked up so it can turn into some horrible thing with tentacles that burn and burrow and make you scream like a siren. You think I’m going to let something like that just walk around? You bet your ass I won’t.
So that’s why I kill kids.
Satisfied?
A TEAM-BUILDING EXERCISE
Adam Clark looked up from his computer when the first explosion rocked the sales department. Through his office window he watched his employees look around with frightened eyes. He could hear a chorus of concerned grumbles through his door. One of the women screamed. Adam felt a brief surge of disappointment.
Then the second explosion came, forceful enough to shatter his window.
He reached under the desk and grabbed the AK-47.
He stood up from his desk, charged the rifle. Nobody was going to attack his floor and live to tell. Maybe customer service would roll over for that kind of treatment, but not Adam Clark’s sales team.
He exited the corner office and surveyed his team. Peter, his senior sales rep, stood up from his desk as he slapped a fresh mag into a .45. He threw Adam a nod, his eyes as cold as steel behind the coke-bottle glasses. Karen let out a sigh, willing her hands to stop shaking, then retrieved a MAC-10 from her purse and machete from beside her chair. She stepped away from her desk, tossing her crimson hair from side to side, and a feeling of both pride and lust swelled within Adam. Once they had repelled the attack, he might have to take Karen into his office for a little victory celebration.
“Who do you think it is?” Peter asked as he took his position at Adam’s side. “Accounting’s been feisty lately.”
“They don’t have the balls to take us on,” Karen said. She grabbed the hem of her skirt and tore it, creating a slit that went all the way to her hip. Adam eyed the smooth, porcelain skin of her thigh. “Mobility,” she answered when she noticed his stare.
“Doesn’t matter who it is,” Adam said loud enough for his entire team to hear. They clustered around him, a little more than fifteen workers. He could hear screams and sobs from the other end of the office, but his team was silent, strong. They’d be ready for whatever was coming.
“We knew this would come sooner or later,” Adam said. “We’re ready for this. We can handle it.” He saw his team members nod, their eyes hungry. Peter hopped in place, the .45 at his side. “Take positions, everybody. We’re not showing any mercy, okay?”
The sales team cheered. Adam threw them a nod, and they dispersed, taking their places among the rows of cubicles. He watched them approvingly. They would do fine.
“Mr. Clark?” It was Karen, looking up at him from behind a red wisp of hair.
“Yes?”
She stepped closer. Her breasts brushed up against him. “Could I have a word with you once we get through this?”
“Sure.” His throat felt suddenly dry.
“Good.” She blew him a quick kiss, then crossed the floor, taking a forward position across from Peter.
Then the attack came.
It was the mailroom, the last department Adam had expected. They poured out of the hallway, hunched over and moving like apes, their war cries high and piercing. Most carried baseball bats, but a few held axes. They had smeared the blood of their previous victims over their faces and uniforms. They must have come up floor by floor, killing along the way, and now they had reached the seventeenth floor, ready to take on the sales team.
Adam opened fire.
The front line disintegrated as bullets tore through them. The next line danced as more rounds slammed into them. They fell as Adam paused to rock in a fresh mag, and another wave moved in behind the dead. There were a lot of them, and they were angry, hungry for blood.
Adam began to worry.
Then Karen and Peter joined the fray.
Karen leapt from her hiding place, blasting the first mail clerk she saw in the face with a burst from the MAC-10. His head exploded like a melon, and Karen swung the machete in a wide arc, decapitating a trio of the beastly clerks before they even had time to spot their attacker. Peter swung his .45 from target to target, taking out each with a single headshot. When his mag went dry, he pistol-whipped a clerk before backing off to reload. Adam smiled at the sight, then opened fire again.
Wave after wave of the primitive mail clerks came, working their way into the room through sheer numbers alone. Karen and Peter fell back to allow the rest of the team to enter the fight, and the battle turned even more savage and chaotic. Adam watched as members of his team fell, clubbed to the floor and torn apart by hand. He saw a mail clerk crouched over Tina, one of the new-hires, gnawing at her open throat. Adam shot the creature in the head, kicked another one that tried to take its place. He had lost sight of Karen and Peter in the course of the fight, but was able to tell their positions from the sounds of dying clerks. They would win this. There was no alternative.
Then an electronic voice cut through the air, and everybody froze.
“Management has called for lockdown procedure. Building will seal in five minutes.”
The floor fell silent, the combat on hold for a moment. Lockdown procedure had never been used before, was to be used only under the most dire of circumstances. In five minutes, every exit would be sealed, as well as all windows and ventilation systems. Then, cyanide gas would fill the building, killing everyone left inside.
Adam looked around. He had eleven team members left. They shot him a questioning look.
“West stairwell!” he answered.
The sales team charged as one unit, cutting through the last of the mailroom staff. Adam herded them along, leading them to the stairwell that would be their means of escape.
Seventeen floors in five minutes. No problem.
Peter and Karen held the stairway door open as the team charged through. A panicked employee came from the other end of the hall. “Help me!” cried the bloodied accountant as he ran for the door. Peter planted a round in his kneecap, and the accountant went sprawling. Karen finished him off with another burst from the MAC-10.
She threw Adam a nod. “Let’s go.”
The west stairwell was dark, the emergency lights sending single shafts of illumination down the walls. The sales team was already two floors below them as Adam followed Karen and Peter down.
“Why do you think they went to lockdown?” Peter asked.
“Doesn’t matter. We just have to get out of here before the gas starts pumping.”
“Amen.”
There was a shudder, a metallic groan, and Peter and Karen stalled in mid-step. Adam heard worried murmurs from his team below. “Keep moving!” he called. “Goddamn it, keep moving!”
He heard the sound of footsteps, then another burst of bending metal.
Then screams.
Karen and Peter cast a glance back at him. He listened to the horrified screams below. The sound echoed up the stairway, doubling and trebling in power, until the hallway shook with the sounds of terror and pain. He charged past his team leaders and sprinted down the stairs, chasing after the rest of the team, determined to save them from whatever had happened. Karen and Peter followed on his heels.
He found what was left of the team, a fat man named Derrick and an older woman named Clair, huddled together on the ninth floor landing. The stairway below had been ripped apart. What remained hung from the wall in loose metallic tatters.
“What happened?” he asked.
Clair stared at him with wide, wet eyes. “Something—”
And then a tentacle wrapped around her and dragged her off the landing.
Adam stared as the appendage shook Clair like a ragdoll. It was a sickly gray-green color and as thick as a tree trunk. The emergency lights glistened off of it, reflecting across the rest of the stairwell. Clair shrieked, and Derrick screamed almost as loudly. Adam heard somebody’s hand slap Derrick across his fat face, and the man quieted. Clair’s scream grew in intensity, and Adam saw blood seeping from her nose and ears. He heard her ribs snap one after the next. The tentacle was crushing her to death.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered.
Then more tentacles appeared.
They swept over the edge of the landing, slithering across the floor as if searching for fresh meat. Adam blasted them with the AK, and they retreated. More came, though, looping across the cement and steel as if they were spring-loaded.
“We have to get to the other stairwell,” he told what was left of his team. They nodded, and he kicked open the door, his mind barely registering that Clair had fallen silent. He charged through, holding the door open for the others. A tentacle flopped through the door, and Karen hacked it off with her machete. Adam slammed the door, glad to hear it latch shut, then turned around to examine his surroundings.
They were on the ninth floor. Acquisitions.
Something had happened here.
The floor was choked with fog, great white clouds that rolled over cubicles and through hallways. Adam could only see a few feet in any direction, and his remaining team members appeared hazy and indistinct even as they stood by his side.
“What the hell?” Peter grumbled.
Derrick began to cry.
“How much time do we have left?” Karen asked.
Adam checked his watch. “Little less than three minutes. Let’s go. Stay close to the wall.”
He led the others across the floor, the wall to their left and bays of cubicles to their right. He moved quickly, his eyes scanning the fog for any movement, any sign of life. He could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, but was unable to make out any other sounds. The entire floor seemed still, dead. It set his nerves on edge. Something was wrong. Something was waiting.
“How far?” Peter asked, and Adam could have killed him for breaking the silence.
“Around the corner,” Karen answered. “Now shut the—”
A lonely howl cut off Karen’s admonishment. The sound seemed distant, but there was no way to tell through the fog. Another howl answered the first, and this one sounded closer. More howls rose, filling the thick air until there was nothing else.
Derrick fell to the floor, curling into a ball and weeping. Karen looked to Adam.
“Run,” he said.
They broke for the east stairwell as the wolves bounded out of the fog. They were huge, each standing at least four feet high, covered in black, matted fur. They reeked of dirt and decay. Adam fired a burst from his rifle and saw one wolf’s head explode. He saw a trio of the beasts pounce on top of Derrick and tear him apart as if he were made of paper, Derrick’s screams cutting off before they had a chance to really get going.
He heard Peter bellow a war cry. The sa
lesman began firing as he ran. He unloaded several rounds into a wolf, destroying its skull, then ejected the spent mag and slammed in a fresh one. He squeezed off three more shots before another of the vicious creatures leapt out of the fog and slammed into his side, knocking him against the wall and to the floor.
Peter screamed. Karen lunged forward to help him, but Adam grabbed her arm and flung her toward the stairwell. “He’s dead! Get downstairs!”
Karen reached the stairwell and threw open the door, diving inside. Adam turned to see a dozen wolves exit the fog, their jaws opening and slamming shut in anticipation of fresh meat. He sprayed them all with bullets, not caring what damage he did, just hoping to make them back off. There were yelps and spurts of blood, and he ducked into the stairwell, jerking the door shut behind him.
“One minute,” he said. “Haul ass.”
They dashed down the stairs, leaping from landing to landing. Bodies littered the lower levels, some dead from gunshots and others chewed to pieces. Adam and Karen bounded over them all, not slowing to give them a second glance. As they reached the second floor, Adam checked his watch.
Fifteen seconds.
“Faster!”
They reached the first floor, and Adam barreled through the door, knocking it off its hinges. He pulled Karen after him, racing down the short hallway that led to the lobby and freedom beyond.
They reached the lobby with six seconds to spare. The glass doors stood only thirty yards away. They were going to make it. Karen shrieked with joy, and he joined her as they sprinted for the entrance.
He heard the boom of tearing metal as the elevator doors burst open. He looked over his shoulder and saw hundreds of gray tentacles writhe out of the elevator shaft and into the lobby. They ripped Karen from his grasp, and her shouts of joy became screams of terror. He made a desperate lunge for her, but she was already gone. He could only stand and watch as their tentacles ripped her apart, painting the lobby crimson with her blood.
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