Instinct

by Jeremy Robinson

  Pockets of mud exploded as the bullets ripped through the earth at Queen’s feet. Leaping up, she shot the heel of her hand into the nose of the muddied soldier, shattering his face and sending bone fragments into his brain, killing him. Blood sprayed from the man’s ruined face and coated Queen’s. She looked for Trung, but the camp was now empty. Gunfire faded in the distance.

  The VPLA had fled.

  The soldier knocked down by the branding iron grasped her ankle. Queen shouted and kicked him in the throat. The man flopped over like a dying fish, gurgling for breath. She bent down and picked up the branding iron. It wouldn’t go to waste. She clubbed the man’s head once, putting him out of his misery. An act of mercy. More than they would have done for her.

  Through the hiss of rain, Queen heard shouts and wet footfalls. She turned back toward the camp and found twenty terrified regular VPA soldiers staring at her. Queen stepped into the clearing, hair in clumps, face coated in blood, branding iron in hand, and seven dead VPLA Death Volunteers lying behind her on the ground bearing bloody brands matching the one on her forehead.

  The men lowered their weapons and stepped back, their faces showing a terror that only comes upon seeing the supernatural. To them, Queen appeared as a vengeful spirit. The dead returned in search of reprisal.

  They neither ran nor met her hate-filled glare. They simply stepped aside and allowed her to enter the jungle on the other side of the camp. Right now, her anger was directed toward the Death Volunteers. They seemed to understand that much, and wanted to keep it that way.

  As Queen walked through the camp, past the VPA soldiers and the dead men, she noticed that one of the men she had killed clung to a backpack. Sara’s backpack. She bent and took it, and an AK-47, from the man’s hand as she walked past. She glanced inside the pack briefly and saw everything, including the blood sample, still secure inside. Quickening her pace, she disappeared into the jungle like the apparition the soldiers believed her to be.

  Thirty feet into the jungle, the VPLA camp behind her blossomed bright orange and let out a demon’s roar. Fire had spread despite the heavy rain and reached an ammo depot or fuel tank. Whatever it was, the resulting explosion was massive. A wall of heat washed through the jungle, creating a loud hiss as the falling rain and saturated leaves, trees, and forest floor flashed into steam. Queen fell as the shock wave rushed over her body. Out of range of the heat, she quickly recovered and looked back at the camp. Through a copse of burning trees she saw a crater where the camp had been.

  In the wake of the explosion, the jungle fell silent. Both forces were either dead or in hiding.

  In the silence, the breaking branch behind her was like a warning klaxon.

  She spun around wielding the AK-47. But before she could pull the trigger a strong hand caught the barrel and pointed the weapon up. Queen’s shot ripped through the canopy above and disappeared into the sky, falling back to earth miles away.

  It was the only round she got a chance to fire.

  THIRTY-ONE

  IT FELL FROM above, lashing out with its strong, thick-fingernailed hands, and ripped open a gash in Somi’s right leg. As she shouted in pain and fell, Rook spun and fired three shots, opening a jagged six-inch hole in the creature’s chest.

  “What the hell are these things?” Rook shouted as he twisted around, searching for more targets. But the creatures were staying low, out of sight. Rook realized they were smart—smarter than anyone would believe after one look at their ugly mugs. The first to attack from the doorway had been a diversion while the other snuck up from the side. A simple tactic, but it had almost succeeded. Now the others were up to something.

  For a moment Bishop wondered if the creatures had found Knight. As hoots and growls echoed around the grotto, bouncing off the walls, emerging from the bone huts, or above them, he realized all of their attention was on him, Rook, and Somi. As long as they were trying to escape, Knight would be safe. But how long they could hold out . . . well, he didn’t want to think about that. He would survive, of that there was little doubt. Short of having his head taken off, his body would regenerate back to full health. But not his mind. It would descend into a madness that might frighten even these creatures. Since death was preferable, he hoped a confrontation could be avoided altogether.

  Bishop helped Somi to her feet, listening to the intricate variations of the animal voices sounding out around them. “They’re talking.”

  The language was unlike anything any of them had heard before.

  “Great,” Rook said, heading for the open doorway, keeping watch in all directions. He could see them now, faintly in the green glow of the chamber, moving in and out between bone huts: climbing roofs, scaling walls, advancing like a horde of mutant ninjas. But he held his fire. Missing was not an option. The killing would be up close and personal. Damn, I wish Queen were here, he thought.

  Rook reached the darkened doorway and cast his penlight inside, moving it side to side. The hallway stretched on beyond the reach of his light but two positive things stuck out. First, the grade of the hallway moved up. Up was good. Second, he didn’t see any yellow eyes or orange fur.

  A roar turned Rook around. The creatures emerged into the open one by one; their bodies, short but massive, made them look like hellish imps in the green glow.

  Bishop leaned Somi against the edge of the doorway and joined Rook. Twenty of the creatures stood around them in a semicircle, rocking on their heels, waiting. “Not good.”

  Rook looked back at Somi. “Go ahead. Get the hell out of here. We’ll catch up.”

  “No,” Somi said, standing. With her energy flowing from her body along with her blood from the deep leg wound, she wasn’t going anywhere . . . not fast enough, anyway. She hobbled up next to Rook and looked at the waiting gang. “Give me your gun and go.”

  Rook scoffed. “First Knight and now you? He will get out of here in one piece. You’ll be torn to shreds. Now get—”

  Somi began pulling down her pants on one side.

  “What the hell, Somi, you—”

  Rook froze when he saw a brand marking her thigh, a star with a skull at its center.

  “I led them to you,” Somi said. “I let them take Sara.” Somi looked down at the knife wound. “This was my reward. They bought me with my father’s love, then my silence with a knife.”

  Rook’s face turned bright red. Few things stung a soldier more than betrayal.

  “Rook,” Bishop said, his voice tinged with concern. “They’re coming.”

  The half circle closed in slowly. The creatures meant to overwhelm them, give them too many targets . . . but they were still wary of the guns. They had to know some of them would die. What were they after that they would risk their lives to get? It couldn’t be food. They had plenty hanging in their meat locker.

  Then it occurred to Rook. The one that had attacked from above and torn open Somi’s leg could have easily taken off his head instead. But it chose to attack her first. Looking at their bodies closely, Rook saw that they were all females.

  Oh, hell, Rook thought. They were after him and Bishop. And they wanted them alive.

  He stepped back, away from Somi. “Bish, time to fall back.” Bishop stepped back and the creatures started growling loudly. Some began to hoot.

  Somi stood limply in front of them, facing off against twenty of the creatures. She looked back at Rook, guilt washing over her. He’d kept his gun, and for good reason. Why would he trust her after what she’d revealed? She was his enemy. As Rook’s and Bishop’s bodies slid into the darkness, Somi said, “You’re a good soldier, Rook.”

  Rook didn’t reply, but a moment later a single Desert Eagle slid out of the dark and bumped against her foot. She reached down to pick it up as the creatures flew into a flurry of activity. Some beat their chests, angered by the men’s disappearance. Others paced anxiously. And then, as Somi stood again, Desert Eagle in hand, one of them charged. Somi fired two shots. It fell at her feet. Two more charged, their s
creams issuing forth as much spittle as volume. Somi dropped the first and jumped to the side as the second attacked. It bit into her leg before Somi shot a point-blank .50-caliber bullet into the side of its head. The creature’s skull exploded, but its teeth remained buried in her leg.

  Somi didn’t wait for any more attacks. The creatures were close enough. She opened fire, squeezing the trigger four more times, killing two more of the creatures, leaving fifteen very pissed, very unsure beasts left standing. Then came the click.

  Out of ammo.

  The creatures were smart enough to realize this, too. All at once they raised their hackles, roared, and pounded toward her. Somi waited for them, standing still, clutching the handle of the knife in her belt—the source of her pain. Just a few more seconds, Somi thought, and then the pain will be gone.

  As the first creature came close, its jaws open wide, heading for her head, she gripped the knife handle tight and yanked the blade from her belt. She ducked down as the beast dove for her. She twisted the knife up and thrust.

  The blade hit sternum, slicing skin. Nothing more. But as the creature’s forward momentum carried it over Somi and the still-thrust knife, the blade slipped up as the sternum ended. A sound like leather being cut was followed by a wet splat.

  Somi stood, ignoring the fact that she was covered in the creature’s disemboweled internal organs. There was no time to feel disgust. The others were upon her.

  She swept her arm in an arc, holding the knife out straight. The blade ripped through throat and windpipe, killing another. In the same motion she swung the knife at a third attacker, intending to shove it through the eye socket and into the brain. But the creature flinched back and twisted, taking the blade in the meat of its thick shoulder.

  The creature spun away. Somi tried to retrieve the knife from its shoulder but the bulging muscles and thick fur held on tight. The knife was gone.

  A screech filled the chamber, bouncing off the walls as though the thousands of glowing green skulls were screaming all at once. Then a shadow fell. Somi looked up and saw a pair of red-rimmed yellow eyes descending toward her.

  Red.

  There would be no defense against this one. Even if Somi had the knife, she knew a killer when she saw one.

  Red planted her feet on Somi’s chest and pounded her to the stone floor of the chamber. A resonant crunch signified the breaking of several ribs.

  With the wind knocked out of her, Somi couldn’t even scream as Red took hold of her arms and yanked. With a sickening wet tear, both arms came away from Somi’s body as though she were a plastic doll in the hands of a weight lifter.

  Red leaned down to Somi’s face as blood drained onto the stone floor.

  Somi’s vision faded, but she could still smell and taste the creature’s rancid breath. As shock set in she wondered if the creatures would eat her alive. Would they tear off her legs too? Gorge on her guts? The creature leaned in closer, moving its lips, searching for something.

  Somi felt her head turn to the side as darkness totally replaced her vision. Hot breath touched her ears. Just before Somi’s heart beat her last, a deep and primal voice spoke. “Big men, ours.”

  THIRTY-TWO

  AS DAWN CRESTED over the jungle, streaks of orange light snuck through the foliage and shot to the ground like laser beams. One of the beams struck King’s closed eye. He twitched. Both eyes opened and darted back and forth. They were alone. The three of them. Huddled together between two large tree roots, covered with large palm leaves, both for camouflage and for fending off the rain, which had stopped only an hour before.

  After backtracking through the dark to Queen and narrowly avoiding being shot by her, the three had taken the weapons, backpack, and flashlights and fled from the VPLA camp without a word spoken about what they’d endured. They walked through the dark and rain for three hours, heading ever up, deeper into the Anna-mite range, where they finally decided to stop and rest. All three fell asleep within minutes, even Sara, whose mixed-up senses usually made sleep under the best conditions a challenge.

  King looked to his right and found Queen facing the other way, her sleeping body curled up away from him like an angry lover. From this perspective she was the same Queen he’d grown to love like his now-dead sister . . . but he knew she’d changed. Become a darker version of her former self. He had yet to see the brand on her forehead, but he knew it was there. And he would have to be careful of how he reacted to it. Had this happened to his actual sister, King might have felt a deep sadness. It was an appropriate response to such a horrible act. But this was Queen. Compassion wouldn’t go over well and might earn him a swift kick in the groin. He made a mental note to not even glance at it when she finally let him see. Better to ignore its existence. Treat her the same.

  Weight shifted against his body to the left. Glancing over, he saw Sara’s sweet face resting against his shoulder. She had long dark lashes he hadn’t noticed before, but they were offset by the dirt on her cheeks and her normally spiky hair lying matted against her head. She’d gone from sophisticated scientist to dirty tomboy. Still beautiful, though, he thought. He wondered what it would be like waking up next to that face under more . . . comfortable circumstances.

  For a moment he wondered what he looked like. Though he’d been tortured, like Queen, the remaining pain from his ordeal resided in his muscles. No one would see it. But his shaggy hair felt heavier than normal. Probably filled with mud, he thought. His clothing clung wetly to his body. He rubbed his cheeks. The stubble on his face was longer than usual, almost a thin beard, and his goatee itched to be trimmed.

  King almost laughed when he realized that for the first time in his career as a Delta operator, he was concerned about his physical appearance while in the middle of a mission. But then he saw a backpack lying next to Sara and remembered that she was more than a pretty face. She was Pawn. And the cure to Brugada—possibly the fate of the world—depended on her success.

  He leaned over and gently tapped his hand against her cheek, ignoring how soft she felt, and refocused on his job. “Pawn, wake up.”

  Sara groaned. He took her shoulder and squeezed. “Ouch. I’m awake, I’m awake.”

  Sara sat up, rubbing her eyes, and issuing a grunt that sounded like “yug.”

  “You can complain later,” King said. “You need to analyze the blood sample in the pack.”

  Sara groaned as her body ached. She looked at King, his hair messy and clumped with dirt. She grinned. “Got any more espresso?”

  “I think the major general drank it all.”

  King watched Sara smile. Times like this, despite the insanity surrounding them and her mind-boggling intellect, she seemed like a normal person. But she wasn’t. Not quite. “So what is it with you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The sniffing. The listening. You sense things before I do.”

  “Intimidated?”

  Truth was, he did find her a little unnerving. He’d made a career from his fast reflexes, keen senses, and sharp mind. She seemed to have him beat on all counts. She just didn’t know how to use a gun.

  She brushed aside the hair stuck to her forehead. “Sensory Processing Disorder. Or Sensory Integration Dysfunction. Depends on who you’re talking to. It’s a neurological disorder, which means no one understands it yet.”

  Her hair fell back onto her forehead. Losing patience, she shook it with her hand and pushed it aside again. “The brain and nervous system are made up of billions of neurons—excitable nerve cells. They communicate with each other through synaptic transmission. Chemical and electrical impulses—electrochemical signaling. Sensory neurons are how the body dialogues with the mind, relaying information on stimuli experienced by our bodies. When a sense, say hearing, detects something, neurons send these signals to the brain following paths that are hard-wired when we’re young. Picture a train track. When we’re children the branches can be shifted back and forth, but as we age the tracks rust into place. Sometimes th
ey rust in the wrong direction and some of the information running from the ears reaches the part of the mind that processes and translates physical touch to our mind. A lot of the information still gets to the right place—I can hear—but I often feel sound too.

  “Sounds interesting, but you wouldn’t think so if you got a headache every time you smelled perfume, or when it rains. I hear distant noises like they’re right next to me. A honking horn is like a punch in the chest. When I see a cute dog, or baby, my gums hurt.”

  “That’s . . . weird.”

  “It’s annoying is what it is.”

  “Whatever it is, it’s kept us alive a few times.”

  Sara brightened. Was that a compliment? Before she could ask, King changed the subject.

  “When she wakes up,” he said, motioning to Queen and then at his forehead, “don’t mention her—”

  King’s sentence stopped short as a fist struck him hard on the left shoulder. He grunted in pain. Queen stood up next to him. “Don’t treat me like I’m some sissy crybaby, King. And don’t ignore it.”

  Ignoring it turned out to be impossible. The brand, still fresh, stood out bright red against her white skin.

  “How’s it look?” Queen asked.

  King and Sara couldn’t help but be curious. They stood and looked closely. King wanted to say something about how it looked painful. How it needed antibiotics. Maybe some aloe. Something to . . . make it better. Turned out Sara knew exactly what to say.

  “Looks pretty badass.”

  Queen reached up and touched it. She winced as her fingers brushed against the singed flesh. “Hurts like a bastard.” Then she was done. “What’s the game plan?”

  King looked at Sara. They both looked at Sara.

  “I’ll test the blood sample.”