Instinct

by Jeremy Robinson

  TWENTY

  Annamite Mountains—Vietnam

  AFTER TEN MINUTES of crawling on hands and knees, King wondered if he’d picked the right tunnel after all. They had paused for only a moment when the whole mountain shook and a blast of air shot through the tunnel. Despite being concerned about the cause and whether or not the others were in trouble, there was no time to waste on finding out—or even wondering about—what happened. Whoever took Sara had only a minute or two head start, and they were dragging a prisoner. They should have caught them by now. King stopped and turned back to Queen. He was about to have her backtrack and follow one of the other tunnels when he heard a noise.

  No, a voice.

  The words were impossible to discern. They weren’t English or any of the other four languages King and Queen spoke—they were Vietnamese. King recognized the tangy sound of the language. He also recognized the hurried tones of the two men speaking. They knew they were being followed.

  A new sound filled the tunnel. A loud swooshing sound that faded into the distance. Then another. And finally a third. They were sliding. Sara and two others. King rushed forward through the darkness until he reached the source of the swooshing sound. The tunnel turned downward at a forty-degree angle. The bottom was nowhere in sight and the sound of their quarry faded as they descended the tunnel.

  Queen’s hand gripped his shoulder. He looked back at her. She pointed to the floor next to the drop-off. Through his green-tinged night vision goggles, King saw a block of C4 and a timer counting down. He barely had time to register the number on the display—00:15—when Queen shoved him from behind.

  “Go!”

  King dove into the tunnel alongside her. He counted down the seconds in his mind while he formulated a plan. The two men carrying Sara were probably not alone. They’d leave one or two men behind to make sure no one escaped the tunnel after its destruction, but wouldn’t hang around to risk losing Sara.

  Ten seconds.

  King looked ahead as he continued gaining speed down the smooth tunnel. A tiny speck of light revealed the tunnel’s exit far ahead. “Lose the goggles,” King said as he took his off and discarded them. They were about to be plunged into daylight. The goggles would blind them and seal their fate.

  Queen took off her goggles and tossed them behind her. “Any ideas?”

  Five seconds.

  The exit grew larger quickly. They were going to be spewed from the earth a second too soon.

  Three seconds.

  “Play possum!” King shouted before going limp.

  Their bodies slid out of the tunnel, fell four feet, and tumbled to a stop on top of a bed of leafy ferns. By all accounts, the pair appeared dead. A quick roll would have spared them a jarring landing, but their bodies simply crashed to the forest floor, contorted and still. The two men left guarding the exit approached slowly, weapons raised. They weren’t fearful, but they weren’t stupid, either.

  A muffled whoop sounded from deep inside the tunnel and a light vibration rolled out through the forest floor.

  The two guards stood over King and Queen. They cocked their weapons. King fought the urge to grimace. These guys weren’t taking any chances. C’mon, King thought, just another second.

  Then it happened.

  A plume of dust rocketed out of the tunnel, filling the air and the guard’s lungs. The men gagged and choked, waving their hands in front of their faces and stepping back out of the cloud. When they saw the two apparitions emerging from the brown haze it was too late.

  King buried his KA-BAR knife into the throat of the first man, while the other faced Queen’s arms. His neck snapped a moment later. The two bodies slumped to the forest floor. It would have been easier to shoot the guards, but the men carrying Sara would have heard the reports and doubled their efforts.

  King withdrew his knife from the man’s neck. As he wiped the blade off on a fern, he looked at the uniforms of the dead men. Dark brown and black tiger-striped camouflage patterns were printed on the uniforms, perfect for blending in with the rotting forest floor. But a red patch sewn onto the men’s shoulders, featuring a skull inside a large golden star, revealed them as Death Volunteers.

  King sheathed his knife and searched for tracks. He found them leading into the jungle. He readied his M4 while Queen slid her UMP off her back. They looked each other in the eyes. Both knew they were about to face a special forces unit of unknown size with only two weapons and a heap of guts to help them win the day.

  “Let’s make this a fast-food run,” King said. “Grab and go. I don’t want to be around when the rest of them show up.”

  She nodded and started off into the jungle. King stopped her.

  “Queen, if Sara is K.I.A., our objective becomes her backpack.” He hated himself for saying it. But getting the job done sometimes meant being a cold, heartless bastard.

  She could see he didn’t like issuing the order, but she knew it was the right thing to do. They both did. Queen flashed a smile. “Don’t worry, King, we’ll get your girl back.” She took off into the jungle, running fast. King followed close behind.

  “What do you mean, ‘my girl’?”

  Queen looked over her shoulder as she ran. “You stopped calling her Pawn.”

  “Shit.” King realized she was right and picked up the pace. Not knowing the size or skill level of the force they’d be up against when they caught up with Sara’s captors didn’t bother him. He was used to that. This new unknown that had snuck up on him like an assassin bothered him most. Sara. He didn’t know a damn thing about her. Hell, Rook knew her better. But Queen pegged him. Something about Sara had caught his eye and he’d be damned before letting her become another missing American in the jungles of Vietnam.

  Two minutes later King saw the head of the first Death Volunteer as he carried Sara through the jungle. He raised his M4 and took aim.

  TWENTY-ONE

  BEING AN AMERICAN born to Korean immigrants never bothered Knight. He had a traditional Korean name, Shin Dae-jung, but that’s where his connection to his Korean roots ended. He had visited Korea once, on a mission. The team flew into South Korea, crossed the demilitarized zone, saw to some nasty business involving a Sudanese terrorist being hidden, and hopped back over the border in time to share beers with some soldiers at the most laid-back military base he’d ever been to. For military personnel looking for a slow pace, South Korea was the place to be. Knight’s only other true Korean cultural experience had come at age ten, when his mother decided he needed to experience the cuisine of his homeland. The roast squid didn’t go over too well. In fact, the one time Knight truly appreciated the country of his parents’ birth was when he saw the brilliant movie The Host. He’d always been a fan of monster movies. Bold heroes. Guns blazing. Running for your life.

  The real thing, he knew, was no fun at all. Having survived an encounter with the mythical Hydra reborn had taught him that much. It seemed God, or someone, thought he was due for another lesson.

  Vegetation slapped his body as he careened down the mountainside. Trees whipped by in a blur. His breath pulsed in time with his rapidly beating heart.

  He’d been running for two minutes straight. Flat out. Top speed. He’d learned to run as a teenager when it seemed like every jock in high school wanted to pick on the small Korean kid. They never could catch him.

  But these weren’t jocks. Knight wasn’t even sure they were human. The din they were creating sounded almost chimpanzee-like, but there were no chimps in Vietnam. The only thing he knew for sure was that the things were fast. Damn fast. And relentless. They’d been steadily gaining on him since the chase started atop the mountain. He dropped his sniper rifle and shed his backpack to lose weight, but still they gained.

  And now they were twenty feet back. He could hear trees shaking. Branches breaking. Feet slapping earth. And over it all, their chorus of hoots and hollers. These were the creatures from the village. And he had witnessed the carnage they could wreak on a human body. The tw
o soldiers they’d caught were torn apart and crushed like they were nothing more than rotten vegetables. To be caught meant death.

  To evade the predators he had to risk another kind of death. He placed his odds squarely against his own survival, but not trying, lying back and taking it like the Grim Reaper’s whore, just wouldn’t do.

  Knight nearly tripped and fell when he saw what was left of the wall they’d so staunchly defended. A mass of earth and tree had come loose from above and crashed down on the position. He had heard the three explosions that must have brought the mountain down before he heard from Rook, so he knew they’d survived.

  A glitter of sunlight from above revealed the swaying of trees. The trees, with their tall trunks and thick leaves, swayed from a weight high above.

  My God, Knight thought, they’re in the trees!

  Knight leaped over what was left of the ancient wall and sprinted into the clearing the team had made. The VPA soldiers were nowhere to be seen. Not yet, anyway. Hurdling fallen trees and bloody bodies, Knight hopped like a fleeing bunny through the clearing. Out in the open, the predators hunting him down would lose the use of the trees, but they’d also be out in the open. He could look them in the eye.

  Upon reaching a ten-foot plot of earth that was free of fallen limbs, both tree and human, Knight chanced a look back. He nearly shouted in fear at what he saw, but maintained his composure, though he nearly lost his balance. The things behind him were . . . primal . . . and they looked at him through yellow eyes with a hatred he’d never before experienced. They ran like men, bipedal, but carried the gait of an ape, low and short. Their faces, surrounded by a blossom of orange-brown fur, were almost human—and that frightened Knight the most. One of the beasts roared at him, revealing twin two-inch canines. The hair on their backs rose like a pissed-off dog’s, bouncing wildly as they charged. With every movement, grunt, and breath, they emoted rage. Power. Death. It wasn’t an anger born of revenge for the one he’d shot. They simply hated him for existing.

  Shadows swept around Knight as he reentered the forest. After his eyes readjusted, he spotted what he’d been looking for since reaching the clearing—green uniforms. A lot of them. The large Vietnamese company hadn’t gone far.

  They had yet to spot him, but they were on guard. The sound of the war cries of the beasts giving chase flowed through the forest like a living thing, its source impossible to identify.

  Knight broke through their ranks at full speed. He shouted in fear, eyes wide with exaggerated horror, and pointed behind him. He doubted any of them could understand English, but he shouted, “Run for your lives!”

  His blatant and honest fear coupled with the fact that Knight held no weapon and took no action against them made the Vietnamese men pause. A moment later they realized his warning should have been heeded.

  Men screamed as they were tackled from behind. Skulls cracked. Spines were yanked from backs. One soldier was beaten with the limb of the man standing next to him. The carnage swept through the VPA ranks as Knight continued running and the pack of hunters kept on chasing, killing everyone in their path.

  A few smart men near the back of the group abandoned their mortars and fled. Knight ran with them.

  The man next to Knight couldn’t have been a day over eighteen. He was in shape and fast. The men were neck and neck. Screams rang out from all around them as men on either side were taken down. Leaves and earth shot into the air. Flesh exploded. Guns fired hopelessly, popping at random and then silenced. Knight’s running partner glanced over and his eyes went wide. Evidently he’d taken Knight for one of his own. Realizing the truth, the man reached for his French MAT-49 submachine gun, which bounced on his back.

  As the man brought the weapon around, Knight pulled out his handgun and took aim. The red bead of the laser-aiming module appeared on the man’s forehead a second before a single .45-caliber bullet pierced his skull and ruptured out the back. As the man fell, the whole scene took on a surreal feel. The flash and sound of the bullet leaving the gun were hidden by the weapon’s suppressor. Full of life and fury one moment, the man was still and lifeless the next. But as his body fell to the ground, another filled the void.

  It lunged over the falling body, arms outstretched and claws extended. Knight dove, turned toward the creatures, whose red-rimmed eyes bore into his, and unloaded the entire clip. They fell together, landing in a heap of entwined limbs.

  But only one of them stood again.

  TWENTY-TWO

  ROOK WOKE TO find the air cleared and his head throbbing. He pulled his small Maglite flashlight from his vest and twisted it on. A small amount of dust flitted through the air, but it was breathable. He examined the tunnel, solid stone on all sides. As claustrophobia threatened to take root in Rook’s mind, he turned his attention to the others.

  Bishop sat up and rubbed his forehead. He looked Rook in the eyes and slowly shook his head.

  “We need to get out of here,” Rook said. He pointed the light toward Somi’s shirtless, supine body. She showed no sign of consciousness, but her red-stained, gauze-wrapped chest rose and fell. “She’s alive.”

  Rook stood and bent down to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling. “You manage to grab one of our packs?”

  “No,” Bishop said. “I got this, though.” He held up Somi’s shotgun.

  “Well, that’s something,” Rook said. He took Somi’s hands and pulled up. Her head hung down, but cleared the floor by a few inches. Bent over and holding half of Somi’s weight, Rook pulled her through the tunnel. There was no discussion about which way to go and no debate over whether or not they should go at all. If they stayed still they would die, and there was only one direction they could go.

  Ten minutes later they reached the three-pronged fork in the road. Rook set Somi down with a grunt. He lay flat on his back, which throbbed from the constant bending. His head ached from bumping it several times while pulling Somi. He reached into a vest pocket, pulled out a small packet of painkillers, tore it open, and swallowed four dry. “Which way, big guy?”

  Bishop inspected each of the three tunnels. He noted the scripted symbols etched into the walls but couldn’t make sense of them. He turned to Rook. “No idea.”

  Rook sat up and groaned as blood rushed from his head, bringing a new wash of pain. He looked at the tunnel floors. Each showed signs of movement, one more than the other two. “Look there,” he said, pointing at the right-hand tunnel. “I’m guessing King and Queen went that way.”

  Bishop nodded and leaned into the tunnel. “I think we should—”

  A muffled whump sounded in the distance and the tunnel shook. A rushing hiss of air and dirt grew louder from the right-side tunnel.

  “Don’t we have all the luck,” Rook said. He took Somi under the arms and charged into the left-side tunnel as a breeze began to swirl the dust in the small crossroad section of tunnel. Bishop followed close behind.

  They’d covered fifty feet of tunnel when the shock wave hit the four-way junction. Dust exploded through the three open shafts.

  Rook charged on, banging his head, pulling Somi, determined to not lose consciousness a third time in the same day. Then the tunnel disappeared beneath his feet. He fell and took Somi with him.

  As he fell, Rook pulled Somi close and kept his back facing down, cushioning Somi’s body with his own. He landed hard and the sound of snapping bones filled his ears. He expected a jolt of pain, but none came. His senses returned. He twisted Somi off of him. A second later Bishop came down on top of him like a wrestler from the top rope.

  Rook coughed as air escaped his lungs. After a deep breath he laughed, then groaned and shoved Bishop off of him. “You’re not my type, big guy.”

  With Bishop’s weight off of him, Rook turned his flashlight on and pointed it up, just in time to see a plume of dust explode from the tunnel, ten feet above. It spread into a cloud and drifted down around them. Rook could taste the grit, but it wasn’t enough to make him gag.

  B
ishop picked up his flashlight, which he’d dropped upon colliding with Rook, and shined it around the room. Rook followed suit. The two beams cut through the dust-filled darkness, revealing a cavern fifteen feet tall and thirty wide. But the details were obscured by dust.

  Rook shivered. “Hey, it’s cold in here.”

  “We’re under the mountain,” Bishop said. “Ambient underground temperature is fifty-four degrees.”

  “Cold enough to chill a beer,” Rook said.

  “Or something else.”

  Rook turned toward Bishop and found him staring at the side of the cavern. The air had cleared enough for them to see the far wall. Three bodies, bound at the feet, hung upside down from the wall. Ropes tied to their ankles rose up and over the edge of the rise and disappeared into a tunnel above.

  Rook’s memory recalled the sound of breaking bones when he’d fallen into the cavern. He shined his light down.

  Human bones lay scattered around the room like discarded trash. They weren’t complete skeletons, just a mix of body parts casually dumped into the space.

  Rook shuffled through the bones and stood next to Bishop, who was inspecting the bodies. Two were men, one a woman. All Vietnamese. All naked. Strips of flesh had been peeled off the meaty portions of their bodies—thighs, calves, shoulders—like they were giant sticks of string cheese. “Bishop, what the hell?”

  “Villagers from Anh Dung.” Bishop looked Rook in the eye, his face deep in shadow. “You were right about the beer, Rook. This is someone’s refrigerator.”

  Distant noise echoed from the tunnel above, like a foghorn, only more organic. Rook and Bishop quickly stepped through the field of bones, knelt next to Somi, and turned off their flashlights. But the darkness didn’t fade completely. Flickering light poured out of the tunnel.

  Bishop raised the shotgun up. Rook snapped his wrist guards into a locked position, allowing him to fire his two Desert Eagle handguns with one hand each. He raised them up, ready to unload a volley of .50-caliber rounds.