by H. R. Romero
Connors asks the Private to clarify his last transmission, hoping that they may have found one of the runners, but unfortunately the clarification that comes is that there is no sign other than the dropped pack, of either of the runners. And that’s not the worst of it.
“We have some movement, Major, standby.”
Connors keeps to protocol, one that he wrote himself. No transmissions when there’re eyes on an unfriendly. He wipes grime and sweat from his brow, takes a swig from his canteen sitting it down near his feet to continue to wait for White Deer to send word of the situation.
Hollander’s eyes scrape like sandpaper trying to remove the peeling paint from Elizabeth Street’s empty storefronts. Five excruciating minutes pass while Connors taps his boot on the floor panel. Much more waiting will have him put a hole right through it.
White Deer whispers one word that’s wrapped in a light blanket of static, but it’s clear enough for Connors to make out something that turns the blood in his veins to a river of ice.
“— Turned –”
More static and a pause.
“We have eyes on a target moving south-southeast. Awaiting orders, sir. Over.”
“Identify the unfriendly, and give me a headcount, White Deer. Over,” says the major. He holds his breath, not wanting to hear what he fears he might, hoping the situation doesn’t go from, oh, crap, to holy shit.”
“— ked Briars, Major. We have eyes on one… no, wait… we have eyes on two, sir. Repeat, two, Wicked Briars, coming up the road as bug ugly as you can imagine.”
As bad as it is, it could be worse, for now, it’s just at ‘oh, crap’ level. Wicked Briars are bad enough. They’re hard as anything to put down and ticked off from the word ‘go.’ A human being twisted and mangled into a shape, reminding those who see it as a cross between a long-legged scorpion and a devil crab, if you can picture that.
The creatures are fearsome foes of inconceivable terror, to say the very least; engineered in the mind of a cursed soul, shrouded in nightmarish skin stretched over a shell of thorny armor.
Residual pieces of the human being it once was, slough from the Wicked Briar, leaving the scent of rotting death in their wake. Trailing shreds of carrion on the ground behind it, like dead leaves left for the buzzards to peck at. The merged human torso and head are usually the only remnants remaining, glued to the undercarriage of the exoskeleton. The human anatomy pushed back and protected beneath it. The best way to kill it is to hit the human head dangling underneath, a challenge to hit, or to completely devastate the thing entirely a well-placed explosive.
And they’re not a brainless animal moving from place to place like cattle, they’re intelligent and crafty, spinning heavy-duty strands of material into a vast network of wicked webs. Any attempt to move through the webbing is like cutting through a dense forest of briars. The webs can put the hurts on even the largest, heavy-duty vehicles; shedding tires, and in some cases piercing radiators. They cut you off and hem you in, and then you’re on the menu, plain and simple. So, it’s best to avoid’em altogether.
Still, the Wicked Briars aren’t as bad as some of the other things Connors has heard tale about. Grubs, for instance, bury themselves below ground and reach from their burrows to drag down any poor soul who steps on the wrong spot, and no one knows what they do to their victims below the earth. Connors shivers trying hard not to think about it.
And then there are the Doldrums, so far as Connors is concerned, these are still a myth, like Bigfoot, or the Easter Bunny, because he hasn’t seen one for himself, and until he does he’ll mark it as bovine excrement. A couple of reports surfaced from Laughlin Air Force Base a few months back. It said something was attacking the men who were outside the fences after dark, no one ever saw anything. The reports said, whatever it was, came from the shadows. It came out and took the men. The morning after, only blood and a few bone chips were all that was ever found of the missing.
Connors is a man, who believes none of what he hears, and only half of what he sees. He prefers to make his own judgment. That’s the problem with these, so-called Doldrums, you can’t see them, they hunt from the shadows and feed in the safety of the darkness. The world is full enough of the creepy-crawlies you can see. Doldrums, if they do exist, sound extra special dangerous, like a shark swimming up from the depths to feed on the occasional swimmer.
The thing that really takes the cake… the thing that eats him up the most… are the little bastards back at Camp Able. No one knows what they are, but they aren’t like any children he’d ever seen. Well, maybe just on the outside. Hell, no one even knows exactly what they can do either, but he’d seen those kids do some weird stuff with his own two eyes. He wants to give them a one-way ticket off the base, but Shaw insists on keeping them around for now, because he thinks he’ll find a magic potion or a silver bullet to eradicate them from the planet. I sure hope we can get’em before they get us. Connors shakes his head to clear the thoughts away. He needs to keep his wits about him and get his tail over to the men hunkering down on Fifth and South Point. There’s work to be done.
Grabbing the M41 helmets and weapons, Major Connors and Sgt. Hollander slog their way over to the last known location of his men. They stay low to the ground, slinking around buildings and abandoned cars. Playing it smooth so not to bring unwanted attention to themselves.
The sun is beating down on the men in waves of unrelenting heat. The sweat rolls off them by the pint, soaking their clothes, so they stick to their backs and legs. Every breath is like sticking your head into a brick-fired oven.
From time to time the major can hear the emerald and black cicadas, that hang in the boughs of the heat-scorched elm trees of Brownsville, Texas. They chirrup and flutter transparent, rice-paper wings in the canopy of dense treetops. Connors scours the street, the last known location of White Deer, but he nor Austin is anywhere to be found.
Where are they? He scans the area again, slower, in case he missed anything. His focus is erratic, his eyes baking in his head from the heat. He suspects dehydration. It’s a regular occurrence nowadays. His head pounds with each beat of his heart, his mouth and tongue are dry, and he can’t remember the last time he pissed. Was it last night? Not good. He left his dog soup in the truck. Rookie mistake. Thirst gnaws at him deeply, and the grit in his throat magnifies the condition if nothing more than to irritate him. Suck it up, major… you’re getting soft in your old age. Instinct drives him to the pavement, so forcefully it nearly knocks the wind from his lungs. Hollander throws himself to the ground, behind the major.
He lifts his eyes upward, dragging them across the jagged elevation of the buildings. Bingo. White Deer is hanging his head far enough over a rooftop for Connors to catch a glimpse of him. Connors and Hollander get ready to move again, checking their gear and changing position, so they aren’t lying on the broiling roadway anymore, but before they can move, a bulky form passes, and then another follows the first across the major’s peripheral vision. Both men drop again, harder this time, but without almost any sound.
Two Wicked Briars scuttle across the road, not far from where the lay in hiding, and disappear into a parking garage in across the street. One beast follows the other. The first carries some sort of dead animal. It flops like wet dough with each step of the Wicked Briar. The creature carries its prize in its flesh-colored foreclaws.
“We have to get a better look at this. Have you ever seen anything like it before?” says the major. He wishes like hell Shaw or Valentine were here to see this behavior.
Hollander shakes his head, “Never. It’s unusual that’s for sure.”
The Wicked Briars move onward seemingly oblivious to the fact they’ve picked up a tailing party of humans. They travel down the road chittering and squawking to one another. Finger-snapping echoes reverberate softly against brick and wooden-clad exteriors as their armor tipped claws scrape and clack upon the street pavers.
Connors dares not to go any further without first meeti
ng up with his men. He allows the colossal freaks to move away and out of sight, long enough for he and the sergeant to make a detour to the roof of O’Leary’s Drug Store.
“Did you call for an evac?” Connors smiles a crooked smile. It’s an awkward, lopsided grin framed by sun-dried and peeling lips.
White Deer is slumped down against the roofline, sopping up the salty sweat, pouring from his reddish-brown skinned forehead, with a blue-checkered handkerchief.
Austin carefully peers over the edge of the rooftop. “Jesus H.,” mutters Austin, never taking his eyes from the street below, “I thought ya’d never get off ya butts and get up here. What, were you two having a picnic down there?”
“Aw, now don’t take it to personal, major, he’s been bellyaching for the past two hours,” says White Deer who has the long barrel of a flamethrower resting across his lap. It bobs with each deep breath he takes.
The major assesses the situation creating a tactical plan in his head. He’s deadly serious, he must be, it takes much more effort anymore for him to concentrate.
“Hubba, Hubba. Would ya just get a load of Jane and her sister down there… I think they might be Khaki-Whacky. What do ya say, boys? Ya in the mood for some dates fellas?”
“I think the suns getting to you, Austin,” says Hollander.
Connors takes one last look down at the Wicked Briars and jogs to the ladder which runs down the side of the building and leads to the alleyway below.
The time for joking is at an end, so Austin dries up his comedy bit. They need to stand on their get-alongs and move out and move out now.
The stairs make a sharp squeaking noise as the four of them descend. No matter what they do; soft steps, slow steps, skipping treads, the stairs creak obnoxiously loud.
Once their brown, legging-topped, boots hit the dry red gravel, they cross the road to follow the things’ path which ultimately leads into a foreboding parking garage; five floors high.
Austin levels his Winchester M1987 shotgun, and White Deer lofts the flamethrower. It’s heavy and fully fueled, but White Deer is a huge, muscular man, so it’s not a problem for him.
Connors and the Sergeant Hollander ready their M1 Springfield rifles, and file in single line and tread after the Wicked briars.
The gloom of the garage can’t be helped. There’s no more electricity in Brownsville. The sun is diving toward the horizon and the shadow blankets the concrete floor as if it is pushing the men up and in faster than they are willing to go. Regardless, they proceed to take the site, step by cautious step.
The Major holds his hand in the air and clenches his fist, he unclenches it, and then clenches once more, before returning his grip to his weapon; it feels good in his hands.
The men hold their advance and to group up, tight. It’s thought that grouping together makes you appear larger and perhaps more menacing to the Turned, its well-rehearsed and carried out with precision.
The soldiers take the corner, walking up the gradual slope. The ramp leads to the second level. The realization that their way is being barred by two seething beasts comes like discovering there’s a rattlesnake in your sleeping bag. The situation has officially escalated to holy shit level.
Austin, always jackrabbit-jumpy, bolts from the group and half-ass fires in the direction of the Wicked Briars. The blast from his shotgun rings off the tight confines of the garage walls.
White Deer follows and pulls the flamethrower’s trigger, to release a blast of blistering heat slaps the faces of all four men, causing each to veer away to escape the blistering heat.
An ungodly scream of pain, or maybe it’s one of anger, comes from one of the Turned. The scream rakes across Connors’s tympanic membranes. Hollander fires his rifle and flanks out to the left. The discharge of the rifle can be felt beneath the feet of the soldiers as it travels through the iron and concrete construction of the garage.
Connors’s ears ring from the assault of the shot so close to his head. Tight quarters. He stumbles. He won’t back away from the threat until he pulls his three brothers away from assured death. He pulls. He pushes, he shouts for retreat. He heaves them away from the enemy one by one.
A muzzle flash from the shotgun. Shouting and fighting fills the ramp which ascends to level two, with maddening chaos. The Turned have the high ground. They outweigh the soldiers making them look like tiny children fighting against something three times their size.
The towering goliaths punch, jab, stab and kick. They make a great effort to skewer the soldiers. The beasts spear, and slice, and attempt to run their enemies through cleanly. One disemboweling swipe is all that’s needed. A near miss here and there. The beasts can’t connect with the bodies of the human interlopers.
A pike-like foreclaw pierces the windshield of a black 1937 Ford Coup, shattering it.
Connors fires at closer range than he’d prefer, two yards and some change, at most. His volley bounces off one of the armored plates on the torso of the creature. If the major had been six inches more to the right, he might have caught the ricochet in the throat.
The soldiers are repelled by the Wicked Briars. White Deer sprays flame wide arcs of ignited fuel that washes over the monsters. It’s nothing more than a deterrent if anything that harmlessly blackens the tough spiked epidermis of the angry creatures.
Connors, Hollander, and Austin draw their sidearms and fire in rapid succession. Ammo ricochets and pockmarks the garage walls, propelling lead slugs on unintended trajectories, hitting Austin in the shoulder. He falls. Connors helps him to his feet.
The men are shoved back to the landing of level one and the major, again, orders the men to retreat, but to stay tight. He knows separating would make it easy for the Wicked Briars to pick them off, like penny candy. Before the major can stop him, Austin makes run for cover, but finding none, keeps running leaving droplets of blood on the road behind him.
“Private! Get your ass back here!” says Connors his throat hoarse from the dry evening heat. He ducks, narrowly missing the incoming slice of a foreclaw and it passes harmlessly over his head.
The beasts separate, and one gives chase after, Austin. The pursuit is hot and heavy. Connors can’t afford the time to put eyes on him. They’re dealing with their own life and death struggle.
The distance between, Austin, and the demon on his heels is closing rapidly. He skids making a hairpin turn down an alleyway, nearly falling, his guts churn at the prospect, boots sliding on loose gravel, the smell of the soles disintegrating on the street, but he’s able to keep his feet under him. He grabs at rubbish bins as he passes them. Throws them haphazard into the path of the pursuer, which hurdles it with minimal effort.
A furniture delivery truck blocks the far end of the alley. Austin looks for an alternate route. There’re none to take. Time’s ticking down for him. Prayers are running through his head, rapid-fire. The Wicked Briar slows to conserve energy. Signals being sent to its brain that victory is near. Or, perhaps it wants to prolong the gut-wrenching fear that’s going through the quarry’s mind.
Austin backs away from the Turned until his back presses into something hard. He draws his sidearm. Doom, in the shape of a radiator grill, impedes his way to freedom. The sidearm falls to the ground. It lands with a crunch on the rough gravel, at his feet. Reaching into a pouch connected to his web-belt. He feels the rough sensation of the egg. It teases his fingers. The oblong object emerges from his waist bag. It looks like a pinecone, with a key-pin hanging from its top. The words “Hail Mary” are written on it, in white paint.
He squeezes his finger through a tiny loop, connected to a pin on top and holds the small trigger lever down with his palm. His hands shake nervously. Sweat drips. He shakes his head but catches himself and stops. He won’t beg, like a pathetic excuse for a man, as if he could beg for his life anyway. He’ll go out like the United States soldier he is. The killer coming for him can’t be reasoned with. It moves like a cat stalking its prey.
The beast shakes with ant
icipation. Thick, concentrated slobber run in ropy lines bleeding out between serrated teeth. Rearing up on its spindly hind legs it stabs out in hopes of spearing dinner. Opening its mouth wide fills the air with stench, and two ducts inside its mouth, each casting out fluid; one stream is red; the other is mucus yellow. As the two streams merge the liquids reconstitute into an unquenchable orange acid. The acid drenches Private Austin. He’s already dead where he’s standing, a dancing skeleton. The flesh of his hand melts away. The tendons underneath the flesh give under the weight of the heavy egg and snap apart like dried rubber bands. The grenade rolls and bounces, tumbling end over end until it comes to rest at the foreclaws the beast. Four short seconds later it explodes taking the creature to the deepest bowels of hell. Stalemate.
Connors, White Deer, and Hollander run for their lives. Connors naturally falls into the rear position, covering his men, and firing blindly over his shoulder, not even looking to see if he’s hitting anything, what does it matter? It’s not long before he hears the tale-tale clicking; out of ammo. The men head south, then east. The setting sun roasts their faces. An hour of sunlight stood between them and complete darkness.
White Deer turns. He braces himself. He sprays flame at the demon closing for the kill. The flame keeps the thing from tearing White Deer to pieces. It wails and arches away.
Hollander runs ahead, while Connors pulls at White Deer’s arm, signaling for him to follow. The three men make another direction change to head down Old Hardesty Road, only to find the way has been barred by a jumble of spiked webbing. Hollander pulls his bayonet and hacks away at the unforgiving and nearly indestructible barrier. The web resists the edge of the blade chipping the oil-hardened edge, making it appear saw-like after the hacking is abandoned.
A booming explosion from half a mile away rocks the desolate streets. It’s not a good sign. Private Austin always kept his Hail Mary close by for the ultimate sacrifice and would only use it as a final sayonara and a final offensive hand gesture to whatever got one over on him. Connors ticks off one man from tomorrow’s roster, hoping the base won’t have to fill several empty spaces on the list. He, Hollander, and White Deer may be facing the final moment here, but they won’t go down easy.