Desert Assassin

by Don Drewniak

  Seven months after the attack, three teenagers walked into the delicatessen. Fowler recognized them as being three of his four assailants. As they left the store, he told the owner that he was sick and needed to go home.

  The owner, a crusty old Italian known as the Deli Don, noticed the look on “Young Artie’s” face when the three walked into the store. “Young Artie,” said the Deli Don as Fowler was about to leave the store, “don’t you go nothing stupid.” Not lost on the Don was how much his young employee had bulked up since the attack and how possessed he had become with training.

  Staying well behind the trio, Fowler followed them for nearly two hours as they walked through the Main South area of Worcester. Finally, they stopped in front of a two apartment tenement house. After they conversed for a few minutes, one went into the house; the other two continued walking. It was now dark outside. Fowler picked up his pace, closing to within a half block of the two. They stopped in front of an old three-decker. He grew impatient as the minutes rolled on and considered going after both of them. Instead, he decided to wait, confident he would eventually get all three.

  The conversation finally ended. The taller of the two headed for the front steps of the house while the other walked slowly away. Fowler quickly and quietly closed the gap until he was approximately ten feet behind his prey. Sensing someone was behind him, the soon to be victim turned. Shrouded in darkness, Fowler struck, delivering blow after blow to the head. Just as his victim was about to drop, Fowler applied a wristlock to his right arm and sharply twisted it using every ounce of his strength. Several loud snaps and screams followed. He knew he had broken one or more bones and had torn ligaments. Releasing his group, he calmly watched the piece of human garbage, as he thought of his victim, collapse to the ground. Fowler walked away smiling as he heard the screams fade into the distance. “One down, two to go,” he said to himself, realizing that he would most likely never be able to identify the fourth assailant.

  As he walked into work the next day, the Deli Don asked, “Are you feeling better today, Young Artie?”

  “Yes, I think your pepperoni was bad.”

  “Stronzate,” replied the Deli Don as he dropped a copy of the Worcester Telegram, the local newspaper, onto a counter in front of Fowler. In the left hand corner of the open page was a short account of the previous night’s assault.

  As he heard the Italian word Stronzate, Fowler laughed to himself and thought, “Of course it’s crap.”

  The Deli Don looked straight into Fowler’s eyes and said, “You forgot to sign out last night when you left the store at ten.”

  Fowler had left just before seven. In addition, he had never signed in or out since the day he started working at the delicatessen.

  A second attack, similar to the first one, happened four weeks later in the same neighborhood. Seven weeks after that, the third and last occurred.

  Fowler’s mother passed away several weeks later. Shortly after the funeral, he enlisted in the United States Army. He returned to the city only once. That was fifteen years later for the funeral of the Deli Don.

  Armed with a military GPS and the coordinates of the position of Morgan’s two advance helicopters, Fowler pulled out of Socorro three hours after his phone conversation with Williams. Heading west on Route 60, he passed through Magdalena and then drove to Datil, where he turned onto Route 12.

  He traveled through the night using back roads off Route 12 to position himself in the hills and mountains west of Morgan’s forces. Shortly before dawn, he parked the truck in a deeply wooded area near a shallow stream. He ate a quick breakfast and then fell soundly asleep in the bed of the pick-up.

  Fowler awoke a few minutes past noon. First on his agenda was the opening of a beef stew MRE. Once the meal was finished, he shaved by the edge of the stream, stripped, used the stream water to clean himself and, finally, dressed in civilian hunter’s gear.

  Using both the GPS and a paper map, he estimated than he was about twenty-two miles from the location of Morgan’s two advance helicopters. His goal was to try to get the truck to within five miles of the helicopters by early evening. The terrain was not as bad as he had feared it would be and, as a result, he reached his goal shortly before three. A half hour’s worth of walking yielded a near perfect area to hide the truck and trailer, as well as to set up a campsite.

  Returning to the truck, Fowler put himself through a rigorous ninety minute workout before beginning the difficult drive to the new campsite. The sun was about to set by the time everything was in place. The consuming of two MRE packets and nearly a quart of water was followed by an overnight sleep in the pick-up.

  With a dawn chorus of chirping birds serving as an alarm clock, he took care of the necessities and loaded the ATV with as much as possible. The collection ranged from food to an M1 rocket launcher. He rode the ATV to within two miles of his target and parked underneath a thick strand of trees. Using a knife to mark his path, he walked until the helicopters came into view. It took another twenty minutes to find a vantage point – underneath a ledge outcropping – from which he could not be seen by the helicopter crew, the satellite cameras and the drone. He had an approximate four-hundred foot elevation advantage. Two trips back to the truck to gather the weapons and supplies left him ready. His only fears were that he might not come into contact with Assassin, whatever the hell it was, and with Morgan’s forces.

  CHAPTER NINE

  AT THE START OF DAY THREE following the attack on the tarantula, Assassin began to flatten.

  Williams was asleep in a tent when one of Morgan’s men came up to the opening. “Major, Morg needs to see you ASAP.”

  “Where?”

  “His chopper.”

  “I’ll be there in four.” Williams quickly dressed and was off.

  “He’s flattening,” said Morgan, whose gaze was fixed on the satellite feed.

  What transpired over next few minutes defied comprehension, leaving both men astounded. By the time Assassin finished its latest transformation, its length exceeded three feet, while its height crested at well over a foot and a half. All of the features were in place except for the kangaroo rat fur which had been replaced by what was obviously tarantula bristles. The bristles, however, were a perfect desert sand in color.

  Starting just behind and below what was now a clearly defined head were four large tarantula legs on either side of the body. The rear most pair were positioned directly in front of the kangaroo rat’s legs, both of which were appreciably larger than they had been prior to the latest attack by Assassin. Just below the eyes and forward of the mouth were two fangs attached to chelicerae.

  When Assassin completed its metamorphosis, Williams and Morgan sat in silence for a couple of minutes. Finally, Morgan said, “Satan himself couldn’t conjure up anything close to this.”

  “Stan, quick, come to the van,” yelled Henderson into her radio.

  Ling raced into the van at just about the same time that Williams entered the helicopter. He and Henderson watched the change without uttering a sound.

  Once the transformation was complete and she gathered her thoughts, Henderson said, “It’s difficult to extrapolate what kind of speed Assassin will be able to generate with those legs. I doubt it will be able to run faster than it can hop with the kangaroo legs, but its strike speed may border on the incredible.”

  “I doubt that any exobiologist could imagine anything close to what we are looking at.”

  “The fangs undoubtedly are there to inject venom. Just as significant are the tarantula-like bristles. Some tarantulas can shoot out microscopic barbed bristles which can be very painful if eyes are the target. Who knows what Assassin might be able to fire at an enemy? The force itself might be lethal, let alone the venom.”

  A shiver ran down Ling’s spine. It was identical to the one he experienced following Assassin’s (or Thing as it was then called) engulfing of the assassin bug when Alice had wondered if it would develop the assassin bug’s need or thir
st for blood.

  “Major, could you make contact with Ling and Henderson and get their take on this?” asked Morgan.

  “I’ll be back.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Did you see that, General?” asked Williams.

  “I damn sure did. Bill, if that monstrosity gets away and manages to reproduce the way Alice said it might, who the hell knows what might happen?”

  “Never in my wildest dreams did I ever think I would see this.”

  “What the hell is next?”

  “We should, I hope, get a breather. It should start going after more vegetation. Now, can you patch me through to Ling and Henderson?’

  “Here you go.”

  “Stan, it’s Bill, what’s your take on this?”

  “I’ll put Alice on.”

  Henderson repeated what she told Ling about the metamorphosis. Upon conclusion, Williams thanked her and said he would stay in touch.

  The General, who heard everything Henderson said, put his right hand under his chin and stared at the image on his screen of a now still Assassin. “I hope to hell the asshole is beginning to see what he is turning loose.”

  “He’s does, but he wants more of it.”

  “Bill, do you have time for a drink?

  “Two or three.”

  Three hours after he had left Morgan to visit the General, Williams returned.

  “What have you got?”

  Williams detailed what he had been told by his former girlfriend. As he did so, he reminded himself that Morgan had used Alice as a pawn.

  Assassin went on a fourteen hour eating binge starting at dawn the next morning, demolishing any vegetation in its westward path. The pattern repeated itself six times – attack a clump of desert grass or a shrub, swell and flatten. By the end of the day, Assassin’s length had grown to over forty inches and its height was close to two feet.

  Williams and Morgan were sitting in chairs outside of Morgan’s tent as the sun was setting.

  “Morgan,” asked Williams, “why not see if you can capture it now? What more do you need?”

  “It might seem that is enough, but we still need to see more.”

  “Who is we?”

  “There are bigger fish than me.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a shout of “Morg” coming from inside the lead helicopter. Both jumped up and dashed to the helicopter.

  “It’s moving, Morg, and it’s moving fast.”

  Morgan jumped into the pilot’s seat as Assassin’s image blinked off the screen. “Get the other copters up and the floods ready.” He also ordered the drone launched.

  Two of Morgan’s men jumped in just as the helicopter lifted off the ground. As they did so, Williams sat next to Morgan and began looking at the NVG phosphor screen.

  “We got caught with our damn pants down,” yelled Morgan.

  Williams stopped himself just before asking, “We?”

  The five helicopters fanned out in a V formation with Morgan’s in the middle. Altitude was set at two hundred feet with the distance between them being approximately eight hundred feet. They headed west.

  “Bill, what do you think its speed might be?”

  “So now I’m Bill,” thought Williams. “It was doing eight to ten before the tarantula and it’s a helluva lot bigger now. The rat legs should be stronger and who knows if the tarantula legs are adding anything. Minimally I’m guessing fifteen. Could even be twenty, maybe twenty-five. There is no way of knowing. Also depends on its stamina. I’m guessing it used the grass to fuel up.”

  “Dammit!”

  The General’s helicopter followed in the wake of Morgan’s formation. Rappaport contacted Ling who was in the van. “Stan, Assassin has broken free and most likely is heading for the hills. Your satellite feed will probably be useless with the choppers in the air and the speed of Assassin, but keep a close eye on your screen just in case.”

  “Okay,” was Ling’s only reply. He immediately called his partner who was in her trailer preparing to get some sleep. She was in the van five minutes later. Ling knew he was in for an interesting night.

  Perched in his nest in the hills, Fowler was looking down at the two helicopters and the figures standing and sitting near them. He was mulling over which of several ways he could take everything out. The easiest would be to use the rocket launcher. Unfortunately he could not do it, as much as he wanted to, without the go ahead from Williams. And that was highly unlikely.

  Williams had been quite specific, “Take no action unless it’s self-defense.” Also, radio contact was to be one way, Williams to Fowler for fear of Fowler and his position being detected. Also, he understood that if things broke the right way, there might very well be a fair amount of cash heading his way.

  His mind was fixed on the three things which usually dominated his thoughts: money, women and combat. He put down his night vision goggles and began to drift into sleep. That ended abruptly when heard voices from below followed by the starting of the two helicopters. Seconds later, he caught sight of a series of dim lights in the distance approaching from the east. “More choppers,” he whispered, “and flying low.”

  Fowler’s immediate thought was that he had been discovered and was about to be attacked. He instinctively reached for the M1, but then reasoned that there was no way the spooks could have spotted him, no matter how sophisticated their equipment. The logical explanation was that Assassin was making a move. “Be patient, Fowler, be patient.”

  Twenty minutes after takeoff, Morgan’s squadron was within a quarter mile of the two ground based helicopters. Nothing had been spotted from either end. Nothing from the satellite. Nothing from the drone.

  “I doubt that we missed it,” said Morgan, more to himself than to Williams. “We’ll retrace and fan out north and south.” The squadron reversed course and began to spread out. The search was joined by the two crews which had been on watch at the base of the hills.

  As midnight approached, Morgan called in all seven helicopters. Two were refueled and sent back up with two crew members each. One crew member was left in each of the remaining five helicopters to monitor the screens, while everyone else, including Morgan and Williams, called it a night until 5:00AM.

  More to keep Morgan off balance than anything else, the General had his pilot bring him and his men back to the home base. Rappaport issued orders for a new crew to be ready at dawn. After a brief meeting with Ling and Henderson, the General and Rappaport went back to the comfort of their trailer.

  Left to themselves, Ling asked Henderson, “What do you think now, Alice?”

  “I may have severely misjudged Assassin’s intelligence and its rate of development. Maybe it is blind luck that has enabled it to escape, but I don’t think so. It seems after building up its reserves, it waited until nightfall to break away. Has it veered to the north or to the south? Or, it is heading toward us?”

  Ling again felt a shiver.

  As dawn broke over a chilled desert, Assassin was still missing. This was what both Morgan and Williams had expected. Well before 6:00AM, all seven helicopters were in the air, but with five man crews. The General and Rappaport, who took flight a few minutes after Morgan, closed the gap.

  Less than an hour later, a satellite image of a motionless Assassin blinked onto Morgan’s helicopter screen. It was seventy-two miles southwest of its departure point of the previous night. Morgan landed his bird a scant five hundred feet away from it and quickly grabbed a rifle. Williams gave him a questioning glance.

  “I’m going to do what I should have damn well done the last time it was resting. This will fire a tracer microchip into the bastard. It won’t even know that it’s been hit.” As he would soon find out, he was to be proven correct.

  “These things exist?” questioned Williams.

  “Yes,” said Morgan, “and the target feels no more than it would from a mosquito bite.”

  The General and Rappaport landed some one hundred yards from Morgan and watched th
e show through field glasses.

  Morgan and Williams carefully and slowly walked toward Assassin. They closed to within one hundred feet. Assassin remained motionless. At fifty feet, Morgan raised his injector rifle and looked through the scope. “Flank?” he asked Williams.

  “I don’t think you need to do it,” replied Williams.

  “Why the hell not?

  “Take a whiff. It’s decomposing.”

  Despite a horrid stench, they got to within five feet of it. Not only was it decomposing, it was doing so at an astounding rate.

  “Dammit!” yelled Morgan. “Can you get Ling and Henderson out here? I’ll send a copter back to get them.”

  Williams radioed the General who in turned alerted Ling.

  “Look at it,” said Williams. “It has started to ooze. By the time they get here there might be nothing left.”

  Morgan radioed one of his men. “Bring the small steel container and a shovel. Now!”

  The General and Rappaport stayed in their helicopter. The General smiled broadly as he pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Nothing but the best, Jim.” He took a swig and passed it on.

  Three of Morgan’s crew arrived at the scene, two carrying a five foot by three foot by three foot container. The third member had the shovel. The smell was overbearing. Morgan was peering at what was then no more than a large pile of a thick brownish liquid. Appearing as if he were about to pass out, the unfortunate shovel holder scooped a shovel full of the mass and began to pick it up. With the head of the shovel a foot off the ground, he dropped the shovel and all five men rapidly pulled back as a cloud of gas broke away from the remaining mass. Two minutes later, what had been left of Assassin had totally vanished.

  The General pulled out two Cuban cigars. It was smoke, not gas, which began to fill the helicopter.