The Devil's Claw

by Nick Pignatelli

  Keeping his eyes on the brush, he groped for his handgun. At some point during his escape, he had lost it.

  Popavich grabbed a baseball-sized rock. He sobbed. “Come on, you bastard! Come and get me!”

  As if on command, the bushes parted. He raised the rock and threw it as hard as he could.

  “You are to reconnoiter only,” Foster said. “We need to know what’s going on out there.” He paused. “We have to assume Cummings and Vincenzo have been neutralized.”

  “I got it. Eyes only,” Robinson said.

  “I’m serious, Bernie. You look, you get back here, then we make our move. Understood?”

  “Got it,” Robinson said. “I know those guys. I’d be willing to bet they’re okay.”

  “Yeah, I hope so,” Foster said. “If you can check out the entire perimeter, great. If you can’t, I’ll take whatever you can get.”

  Robinson touched his forefinger to the brim of his boonie hat in a cheap salute, then slipped out the kitchen window, and sprinted for the tree line.

  “Collins!” Popavich howled. “Thank God you found me!”

  “Shut up!” Collins scanned the area, the muzzle of his submachine gun following his eyes. “What was all the shooting about?” His eyes settled on the front of Popavich’s shirt. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “I...I don’t know,” Popavich said. “Help me, Collins! Please, help me.”

  “Get a goddamn grip, will you? What happened to Graham and Williams?”

  “I saw Graham. Those...things...chopped him up good. We couldn’t even recognize him.”

  “What about Williams?” Collins persisted. Popavich stared with a vacant look. “Answer me!”

  “Two of them...jumped him,” said Popavich. “They...carved him up with their claws.” His voice broke. “He kept screaming.”

  “Did you kill any of them?”

  “I dropped one. They were...fast. Unbelievably fast. It was almost...impossible to track their movements. It seemed like...we wounded them all, but they just kept coming.”

  “How many are left?” Collins asked.

  “There were...” Popavich tried to remember through the haze of pain, “six of them. And I killed one, so five, maybe less if Williams got any.”

  Shouldn’t be too hard to nail the last five, especially if they were all wounded.

  “And one of the two army guys was wounded.”

  “Bad?” asked Collins.

  “Shoulder wound,” Popavich answered. “He was the one...blowing the whistle and telling the creatures what to do.”

  “He was giving the creatures orders? Are you sure?”

  “I know what I saw! He would blow on that whistle...and wave his arms to tell them what to do.”

  “And they did what he told them?” Collins asked.

  “What do you think?” Popavich screamed. “Half our team is dead and those two guys are still alive!”

  This was something Collins hadn’t planned on. The Centurion he had wasted had not taken any effort at all. He had just pointed his weapon and hosed it until it fell over dead. If these things were controllable that might change his game plan.

  “Please, Collins. Help me get out of here,” Popavich begged.

  “Yeah, on my way back.”

  “You can’t leave me here!” Popavich cried. “I’m hurt! Hurt bad! Maybe those things can smell my blood and find me and...and...please, Collins! I don’t have any ammo left.”

  “Guess you should have been a little more accurate with your shots.” Collins patted his spare magazines. “I’m going to need every round I have thanks to you being a shitty marksman.” He headed in the direction of Popavich and Williams’s last stand against the Centurions.

  “Wait!” Popavich begged.

  “If you want out that bad, then crawl in that direction. You’ll eventually run into Black.”

  Popavich knew there was no point in begging any longer. He crawled to a long, thick tree branch lying on the ground, used it like a crutch to get to his feet, then staggered off in the direction Collins had indicated.

  “Sal, wave your arm over your head while I signal with the whistle,” Cummings said.

  “What am I waving at and who are you signaling?” Vincenzo asked.

  Cummings pointed with the red whistle to the Centurions wandering back out of the foliage where the two men had been hiding. “Them. We’re calling them back here,” he said.

  Sal Vincenzo looked at Cummings from under a deeply furrowed brow. “And now that we’re away from them and have a chance to escape before we become their next victims, we want to call them back to us because...?”

  “Because I think I can control them and maybe use them to help us,” Cummings replied.

  “I think you’re serious,” Vincenzo said, “and if you are, then I think you’re also nuts.”

  “Come on, Sal. Look how fast we taught them to attack,” Cummings argued. “We can’t stop now. We need them. For all we know, we may still be outnumbered.” Vincenzo looked unconvinced. “And isn’t this the whole point behind the project anyway? This is what we were going to do after they were trained, right? We’ve just fast-tracked the program.”

  “Okay, Kurt. But I still think you’re nuts,” Vincenzo said.

  Vincenzo slowly retrieved the automatic rifles and slung them both over his shoulder, then picked up the pair of SIG Sauer P226 handguns, holstering his and tucking Cummings’s into his belt. He eased back to Cummings. The Centurions had stopped their wandering to stare at his every movement. Vincenzo couldn’t believe he was going along with Cummings’s insane plan. “Now what?” he asked.

  “Now we call them back here,” Cummings said, “and then we go back to the bridge and make our move from there.” He looked toward the Centurions. “Start waving your arm. When you have their attention, point to the ground in front of us and keep saying here, here. Got it?”

  “How can you be so sure they’ll respond?”

  “I paid real close attention to how the trainers did it. These creatures can be taught to respond to key commands, just like a dog. All you need is the right combination of physical actions and verbal commands.”

  “Wish I had your confidence.” Vincenzo waved his arm from side to side over his head. Cummings blew the whistle. The Centurions’ ears perked up, their heads turning toward the two soldiers. Cummings stopped blowing the whistle and Vincenzo called out to them. “Here, here.” He pointed to the ground in front of him. He repeated the command and gesture again. The Centurions just stood in place, looking at him. Vincenzo was beginning to think their luck had run out, his hand edging toward his automatic rifle, when Alpha began to move toward him. The others followed obediently.

  Vincenzo never realized what a good job the trainers had done with the Centurions, and how much Cummings had paid attention during their lessons. As long as nothing happened to Cummings, maybe they had a chance of getting out of this alive. Vincenzo sensed if they could keep Alpha under control, the rest would follow.

  When the Centurions where as close as Vincenzo wanted them to be, Cumming blew the whistle again while Vincenzo held out a hand, palm facing them, and ordered, “Stop, stop, stop.” The Centurions halted, waiting patiently for their next command. Cummings was saddened to see that every one of the creatures had been shot numerous times, but it seemed none of the injuries was serious enough to have stopped them. Some of the Centurions licked their wounds.

  “What now?” said Vincenzo.

  “Now,” Cummings said, “we take them for a walk in the woods.” He blew the whistle while Vincenzo waved for the Centurions to follow.

  “Come, come, come,” Vincenzo repeated as he and Cummings moved away and the creatures eventually followed. Once again, Alpha was the first to respond, following right behind a confident Kurt Cummings and a nervous Sal Vincenzo. The strange group of allies made their way back to the bridge where they would begin their joint offensive.

  Collins stared at the human remains. They we
re no more than a pile of bloody meat and bones that used to be Williams, with a few recognizable body parts and pieces of black uniform. Williams’s expensive black watch, radio, and weapons lay strewn and broken. Empty shell casings littered the area. Whatever had taken Williams apart had done so in a maniacal frenzy.

  Collins wasn’t sure what he expected to find, but this was not it. This scene went way beyond what Popavich had described. For the first time in a very long time, Collins felt he just might be up against something tougher than he was. He strode toward the dead Centurion Popavich took down.

  The huge beast lay on its back, arms spread wide, eyes as big as baseballs staring sightlessly toward the sky, long sharp teeth still lethal-looking even in death. Its chest was blown open, revealing a bloody stew of body parts. How many shots had it taken for Popavich to stop this thing? Collins knew the Centurion he had killed was smaller, but it had still taken damn near his submachine gun’s entire magazine to bring it down.

  Collins didn’t know the meaning of fear. Never did, never would. But this, well, this was something different. He walked over to another bloody mound. He hoped it was a Centurion, but knew it was Graham, or used to be Graham, as soon as he saw a blood-stained rabbit’s foot. Graham’s lucky charm had not helped him this time. Collins gripped his submachine gun tighter.

  It was time to track down the bastards. Collins scanned the clearing, careful not to get too close to the foliage. He noticed footprints leading out of the area in a ragged single file. Two sets of boot prints and a mass of prints that had to be the Centurions, headed back toward the road. He got on his radio and called Black.

  “Black, this is Collins. Williams and Graham are dead. Looks like the targets are heading your way.”

  “How many?”

  “Two men,” Collins replied, “and a few of the hairbags. I found one of them dead. Hard to get a count on how many are left. Maybe five or six.”

  “Did you find Popavich?” Black asked.

  “Yeah. He was wounded,” Collins reported. “I sent him back your way while I went ahead and sifted through the scene here.”

  “Haven’t seen him so far. How bad was he wounded?”

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  “What’s your next move?” Black asked.

  “I’m going to follow the tracks,” Collins said. “If I can sneak up and surprise them, I might have a chance to wipe them all out, or at least slow them down.”

  “Okay,” Black said. “Do it. I’ll try to find Popavich.”

  Black spoke into his mike. “Rossi, this is Black. What’s your status?”

  “Sitting inside the tree line at the rear of the building. No movement outside. The curtains upstairs move once in a while.”

  “It’s time for you to sneak inside and grab a hostage,” Black said. “Then I’ll move in from the front.”

  “On my way,” Rossi said.

  Black’s simple operation for the day was in serious trouble. His ground force was down to three men, four if he could find Popavich. Sending Rossi in by himself was a desperate move but Black was low on options.

  Black laid his submachine gun on the hood of the Humvee and focused his binoculars on the resort. Rossi should be inside any time now. And where the hell was Popavich?

  Crouched in his hiding place, Bernie Robinson watched Collins comb the area where the gunfire had erupted. This guy was the nut-job Foster told them to watch out for.

  Collins scrutinized one of the dead creatures, then stopped to look at what Robinson thought might be human remains. He spoke into his mike but kept his voice too low for Robinson to hear, then Collins rushed off into the wilderness.

  When he was sure Collins was gone, Robinson examined one of the piles of indistinguishable substance for a few seconds before he realized it was a gruesome mound of bloody remains.

  Next, Robinson checked the dead Centurion. He found the remains of another bad guy, brutally taken apart just like the first one.

  Robinson scrutinized the ground that had caught Collins’s attention. He picked out tracks from two pairs of the same government-issue boots he was wearing. Cummings and Vincenzo are still alive and on the move! Strange tracks were mixed in. His eyes focused on the dead Centurion’s feet. Crap. Cummings and Vincenzo were being pursued by the creatures. Or maybe they’re following the creatures?

  Either way, Collins was also on the trail chasing them now. And that’s just what Robinson would do too. He followed the weird assortment of tracks through the woods.

  Easy stuff, Rossi thought as he crept to the rear of the resort and slipped behind the Dumpster. I’ll be up their asses before they know what happened.

  He peeked through the window of the back door. The kitchen was deserted. He tried the doorknob. It was locked. He wedged his knife blade between the door and its frame. The old wood frame gave easily. He slung his submachine gun over his shoulder, and eased his SIG sidearm from its holster, then slipped into the room, softly closing the door behind him.

  Rossi made his way to the dining room and peeked around the corner. Empty. He slipped in, weaving between the tables and chairs, and continued to the front entrance.

  Rossi heard someone moving. He eased up to the doorframe until he could see into the front lobby. There was a check-in counter to the left and a hallway to the right.

  Rossi froze. A man in camouflage, automatic rifle over his shoulder, pistol in its holster, moved across the lobby, stopping at every window. Rossi tightened his grip on his SIG. Empty hands can get you killed.

  Then, the man performed his routine in the opposite direction, right to left. Time to even the odds. When the man reached the doorway, Rossi darted behind him, SIG at the ready.

  Sean Foster wasn’t sure what made him turn, but he was a second too late. There stood one of Black’s men, pointing a SIG at him with one hand, the other hand holding a finger to his lips letting Foster know he better not make a sound.

  “Lay your weapons on the floor and put your hands on your head,” Rossi whispered. He motioned with the muzzle of the SIG for Foster to get into the dining room. Rossi backed against the stairs, giving Foster plenty of room to pass.

  In that split second, 248 pounds of muscle flew down the staircase and slammed into Rossi, knocking him flat. Rossi’s pistol was jarred from his hand, but not before he fired off one round.

  Popavich finally saw the top of the Humvee on the other side of a long stretch of tall, thick bushes. Black had to be nearby. Weak and delirious, he staggered headlong into the bushes with his makeshift tree limb crutch, thinking he could bull his way through. The foliage was thick, the branches hopelessly intertwined, and he had underestimated how weak he was. The more Popavich pushed, the more the branches tore at his face and stabbed at the raw, bloody wounds on his chest. Fading and frustrated, Popavich screamed as he wrestled with the foliage holding him hostage.

  At the same moment that Black heard the gunshot from the resort, something crashed through the bushes behind him with a piercing screech. Black snatched the MP5N off the hood of the Humvee and in one smooth motion, brought the muzzle of the submachine gun down and pressed the trigger as he spun to face his assailant. The burst from the weapon was short but deadly. Black crept toward the bushes, believing he had just bagged his first Centurion.

  Black sensed no movement. He picked up a tree limb, then leaned in and poked at the dense vegetation, submachine gun still at the ready. He pried the tangled branches apart.

  “Sonofabitch…”

  Black grabbed Popavich by his combat boots and dragged him into the clearing. He felt for a pulse even though the man’s sightless eyes told him not to waste his time.

  “Damnit, Popavich,” Black said. “Why didn’t you announce yourself?”

  Black grabbed Popavich under the arms and dragged his body to the Humvee. He lifted the rear hatch and almost reverently placed him in the cargo area. At that moment, he heard two more shots ring out from the resort.

  Black tried to call Rossi
on his radio but heard only static-filled silence.

  Jack MacGregor saw Rossi at the bottom of the staircase. Without thinking, he dove down the stairs intending to tackle Rossi. It ended up being more of a collision. Jack slammed down on the wood floor hard enough to see stars.

  Sean Foster sat on the floor, his hand clutching his left thigh. Blood seeped between Foster’s fingers, a small pool forming under his leg. Rossi’s handgun had accidentally discharged before being knocked loose. The bullet struck Foster in the thigh, and the handgun came to rest inches from Foster’s right hand.

  Rossi and MacGregor were back on their feet. Rossi made a move toward his handgun, but Foster grabbed the weapon first. Rossi yanked a knife from its sheath and waved it at Jack.

  “Let’s see what you got,” Rossi challenged.

  “Jack!” Sara screamed from the doorway. Jack and Rossi turned to look. Jennifer peeked out from behind Sara.

  “Get back in there and lock the door!” Jack bellowed. But Sara stood her ground, eyes on Rossi’s knife.

  “Get away from us! We haven’t done anything!” Sara yelled.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. Me and your man here got to finish our little dance first.”

  Rossi lunged at Jack, swinging the knife in a vicious arc. He moved so quickly the knife was little more than a blur sweeping in front of Jack. Without warning, two shots rang out. Jack toppled backward, his head slamming against the check-in counter as Sara’s scream filled the lobby.

  Black gave up trying to call Rossi. Either Rossi’s radio had been damaged or… He tried not to think of the alternative. Movement. He watched intently as the front door of the resort opened. There! Rossi, on the porch. Black sighed with relief. Rossi must have taken control of the resort by force.

  Black watched as Rossi waved, then staggered drunkenly to lean against the front porch railing. Black waved back.