Cry Havoc

by William Todd Rose

  From the other side of a dense thicket of underbrush, Tanner heard a scuttling sound and froze in place. He stood there for a moment, as motionless as the rocks jutting through the earth, and listened with his head cocked to one side.

  “Rabbit” he thought. “Maybe a squirrel?”

  Perhaps. But the forests were also the realm of the Spewers, which is precisely why settlements needed Sweepers such as him. They hid within the trees and hills like the savage animals they were, scavenging, hunting and poisoning the world by their very presence. Amassing in writhing hives of filth and disease, they rarely traveled alone. So if it was a Spewer, chances were good that more were close by.

  Tanner pulled the particle mask away from his face just far enough to feel the relative coolness against his chin and lips. Behind the goggles that protected them, he closed his eyes and breathed in so slowly that it seemed as if his flared nostrils were analyzing every scent. There was the earthy, old vegetation smell seeping from toppled trees whose rotting wood was speckled with moss and the fan-like blades of mushrooms. A hint of honeysuckle and pine stirred by the breeze tickled his nose and he opened his eyes again.

  Maybe it really had been nothing more than the wind shaking leaves and branches against one another as it wove through the forest Nothing more than Nature's practical joke. But still ... he wasn't convinced.

  Tanner inhaled again, even more slowly than he had before. And there it was. Faint, but unmistakable. It was like the stench of a bushel of potatoes that had rotted to the point that dark gunk oozed from the shriveled spuds. It was the scent of infection.

  Tanner's heart galloped with the cadence of a runaway horse and he allowed the mask to snap back against his face. Flicking the safety off the rifle, he advanced, feeling as if he were moving in slow motion. The green fronds of ferns seemed deeper and richer now and he could make out the faint gurgling of a brook he hadn't heard before. It was as if all of his senses had shifted into predator mode and he pictured himself as a tawny mountain lion slinking through the pools of light and shadow that dappled through the canopy of leaves.

  Cutting straight through the underbrush wouldn't work. Besides being so noisy that his prey would've scattered long before he reached the other side, the thorns that weaved through the thicket would also have pulled and ripped at his protective suit. Instead, Tanner skirted around the edge, each step as silent as a leaf falling to the forest floor.

  As he grew closer, he heard something that sounded like sighing. The tremolo that vibrated the voice, however, destroyed any doubt that it could have been the wind. No, this sound was definitely made by a living creature. A Spewer.

  Near the edge of the brambles, the stench of infection was so pungent that it seeped through his mask and seemed to hang in a thick cloud around his nose and mouth. Experience had taught him that this indicated multiple targets; a single Spewer simply wasn't enough to produce a reek that intense. There had to be at least two, but no more than four.

  He peeked around the corner of the bushes, his face so close to the vegetation that leaves tickled the fuzz on his cheekbones. And there they were –two Spewers, one male and one female. The dirty rags the savages used for clothes hung from the low branches of a sapling and their naked bodies were sprawled at the base of an evergreen.

  The female lay on a bed of pine needles and her matted hair was tangled with leaves and small twigs. With eyes closed and legs spread, she cooed as the male Spewer thrust into her body with quick gyrations of his hips. Even though his back was facing Tanner, the man in the Tyvek suit could clearly imagine the bloodstained gums that would outline his yellowed, decaying teeth. He could picture the jaundiced tint to the eyes and the scabs and scars that pockmarked the face.

  His stomach churned in a concoction of disgust and excitement and he rolled his head to one side as he pressed the stock of the rifle against his shoulder. Squeezing shut one eye, Tanner peered through the scope. Between the crosshairs, the Spewers were magnified to the point that bile shot through his esophagus and stung the soft lining of his throat. Choking back bitter revulsion, his muscles tightened as he made minute adjustments to his aim. His best bet would be to take them both out with a single shot, which shouldn't be too difficult.

  Through the scope, the Spewers appeared to be so close that it looked as if he could reach his hand and tap the male on the shoulder. He could see the greenish yellow pus within the stone-sized blisters that covered their bodies. The blisters were membrane thin and the pressure of infection made them pulse and throb as if tiny hearts were submerged within the cloudy liquid. Portions of the Spewers' bodies were marked with deflated blisters that had yet begun to scab over; directly below these festering wounds, new bubbles of flesh filled with contagion and strained against the skin.

  Filthy fuckin' bastards.

  Tanner took a breath. Just as he was about to squeeze the trigger, a blister on the male's shoulder blade gave way to the forces that pressed against it. A pinprick hole burst through the center and a stream of pus arced through the air, splattering his back and the trunks of neighboring trees with the thick goo. Tanner instinctively winced and his stomach felt as if it were attempting to turn itself inside out as he watched the eruption lose its power. Now that the initial pressure had been relieved, the pus simply oozed down the savage's back like a glob of watery mucus. Within days, new blisters would form wherever the infection had touched; they would balloon out, stretching the skin thin as more and more discharge gushed into the makeshift reservoir. And then they, too, would burst, beginning the cycle anew.

  Think of Shayla. What would happen to her if she got near one of those things? If one of them spewed when she was playing or . . . .

  The thought of his daughter was all it took. Before his internal monologue even completed, the disgust had been washed away with cold resolve. He held his breath and pulled the trigger.

  The sound of the gunshot boomed through the forest and a flock of startled birds took to the air with a flurry of wings. The bullet tore through the middle of the male Spewer's back and a spray of blood spattered against the female's breasts. The shot should have pierced the male's heart and went on to strike the female as well. But something had to have went wrong. As his body collapsed on top of her, her shrill screams echoed through the hills and valleys as she tried to squirm out from under her dead lover. One hand clawed at the ground, raking furrows into the earth with her fingernails, while the other pushed and shoved at the corpse pinning her.

  Tanner stepped out from behind his cover and worked the bolt on the rifle. The empty casing spat out of the chamber as another round took its place and he peered through the scope again, lining the crosshairs up with the center of the female Spewer's forehead. Her face was contorted into a mask of fear and her pupils had dilated to the point that only a thin ring of iris edged them. Her strained voice undulated in a series of short, piercing screeches as her legs writhed beneath the weight of the male.

  Letting her live was out of the question. There was a chance the mangy bitch had already been impregnated, that her womb would eventually push out another dirty little Spewer to taint the world with its foul presence.

  He squeezed the trigger again and the top of the female's head disappeared in a spray of blood and bone as her body slumped to the ground. Now that they'd both been neutralized, Tanner allowed himself to breathe again, exhaling quickly as adrenaline surged through his body. Bagging a Spewer always made him feel as if the universe were smiling down upon him, bathing him a warm light that chased the tension from his neck and shoulders. He felt as if he could leap from mountaintop to mountaintop as if they were stepping stones, as if every scent, smell, taste, and texture had been specifically designed for his pleasure. He was alive and there were two less vermin in the world, two less threats to his daughter and community. To humanity as a whole, for that matter.

  He lowered the rifle and smiled behind his mask as he watched the bodies for the slightest sign of movement. There was no chan
ce that either one of them was still alive, but Sweeper training demanded that he go through this visual verification. After two minutes of observation, he'd finally be able to take off the suit and enjoy the water sloshing in his canteen. And he deserved it, damn it. He'd done a good job today and a reward was . . . .

  Something caught Tanner’s attention. It wasn’t so much a sound or smell. In fact, everything about the forest seemed just as it had been moments earlier. No, this was more of a feeling – a cold certainty that puckered his ass and plunged him back into predator mode.

  Someone’s out there.

  He could feel the eyes piercing his soul, pinpointing him with a hatred so intense that it penetrated his white suit and bristled the hair on the back of his neck. The swell of pride that puffed out his chest dissipated as quickly as smoke in a windstorm, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable. The rifle snapped back to his shoulder and he ducked behind the trunk of a gnarled oak.

  Pressing himself against the bark as tightly as the fuzzy vines that encircled it, he peered around the edge of the tree and scanned the forest. The carcasses of the two Spewers were still jumbled in the same heap he’d left them in, entirely motionless and definitely incapable of the rage felt beaming toward him. The forest beyond consisted of tightly packed trees on undulating, grass-covered knolls. Ferns and toadstools sprouted from the forest floor and mossy stones pushed their way through the earth like the crowns of enormous, misshapen heads. He watched the overgrown thickets, the deadfalls of decaying limbs and branches, and low lying shrubbery. Nothing moved.

  The only sound was the thudding of his own heart as blood coursed through veins that felt as though they’d constricted into something no bigger than a pine needle. Tanner’s instincts screamed danger and part of his mind babbled that he should run, to just leave the dead Spewers to the insects and crows and bolt through the woods like a spooked deer. Somewhere out there, among the pristine flora, death awaited. He was as sure of this as he was that the couple he’d killed would never infect a settler again.

  Taking a deep breath, Tanner tightened his grip on the rifle until his knuckles throbbed with the frantic rhythm of his pulse and repeated the Sweeper mantra in a trembling whisper: “I will do my duty to my family and community. I will serve mankind and cleanse the world of blight. I will lay down my life so that others might live. I will do my duty to my family and community ….”

  A Sweeper was not expected to be fearless. They were simply expected to do what needed to be done despite cold chills and a palpitating heart. To tilt the scales more toward fight than flight, the mantra was the first tool a prospective Sweeper was given. It was drilled into his head along with multiplication tables and the history of civilization. It was said, like a prayer, before bedding down for the night. It was whispered as a greeting to another day of life upon awakening. And it was effective. Within four repetitions, Tanner’s breathing had calmed to the point that he no longer felt as if the Tyvek suit were squeezing the air from his throat. By the sixth recitation, his hands were so steady he could’ve disposed of sweating dynamite.

  I love you, Shayla. This is for you, princess.

  With that thought, he stepped out from behind the tree to face whatever the Fates might have in store.

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