by Justin Bell
“We need to keep moving, Keeler, okay?” she said quietly. “We need to keep moving or we’re going to die.”
“We’re not going to die,” Keeler said quietly. “We’ll be okay.” His voice was faint and distant, words forming out of pure habit.
“C’mon, big brother,” Vera said, stepping toward Keeler. She wrapped his hand in hers and pulled slightly, starting to guide him from the clearing, out toward where the rocks and trees started mingling together. Keeler nodded and continued after her, walking slowly and cautiously over the jagged, uneven rocks, taking each step with care, not wanting to risk another spill.
“Keeler, you need to help,” Vera said softly as she tugged at him, and he nodded, trying to pick up the pace. To their left, the trees shifted. Branches leaned apart, and the slender trunks creaked, a shifting, wooden, scraping sound. Keeler halted as Vera walked forward a little, seemingly unaware.
“Vera!” Keeler hissed. “Something’s there!”
The world around him was a flailing tornado of strange color and patterns. He was hot, very hot, and thirsty, and racked with pain, but something was in the trees, something that Vera either didn’t see or was ignoring.
“Vera!” Keeler shouted this time, his voice loud and barking, an abrupt scream to get her attention. Finally, his sister halted, turning back to face him, a questioning look in her eyes. Motion in the trees caught her attention this time, branches scraping and something clicking against the hard ground. Vera gasped, freezing where she stood. Her breath was thin and sharp, a fistful of needles in her lungs and she stepped back awkwardly, glaring into the trees, her eyes locking with twin slits of green.
Two eyes glaring at her from the trees. Narrow, piercing, feline eyes.
As Vera stepped back, the slender, muscular jaguar eased its way out of the trees, huge paws padding the ground, muscles tensing as it prepared to pounce.
***
Now.
Tuesday, June 30th.
Tehran, Iran.
It wasn’t a plume of smoke, it was a wall, a thick, choking blockade of blackness covering nearly the entire horizon, a massive swath of burnt ground and flame, sprawled from edge to edge of their limited vision. The three LAV-25s drew to a stop in the sand, Marcus ordering the halt to their movement.
The city of Tehran, or what used to be, loomed out before them, about a kilometer away, swallowed and drowned by an entire horizon of black sky. Smoke blocked out the pale blue and rose up, twirling and curling in front of the sun, casting a deep and broad shadow over the majority of the nearby desert. Even from this far away, they could smell the city, the deep and scalding burn of its buildings, its fuel… its people. Sporadic fires raged in various areas of the desert scattered in wide arcs around the point of impact, and even from this far away, they could see where the sand had been dispersed by the rolling shockwaves of impact, looking like permanent ripples in an ocean, cascading outwards from the center, creating a gradual crater leading in toward the blackened ground and shattered buildings.
Within the thickness of smoke, the skeletal remains of tall buildings could be seen, most of them ruined and smashed, previously squared off buildings now jagged and uneven, partially collapsed, looking like buildings partially through the construction process instead of finished. Tehran was a blackened and scarred smear on the desert sand, a forever ruined remnant of the city that used to be.
Sergeant Gregory didn’t know what to do or what to say. He climbed up onto the gently sloping armor of the LAV-25 and pressed binoculars to his eyes, looking out over the sprawling sand of the Iranian desert, his mind trying to process what his eyes were seeing, and failing most miserably.
***
Now.
Tuesday, June 30th.
The deserts of Arizona.
Vera didn’t know what to do. Far too young to ever have been taught how to avoid being attacked by a large desert predator, she merely gaped at it, her mouth moving in silence, her eyes darting back and forth, not sure where to focus or what to do next.
Keeler finally found his voice.
“Get away!” he screamed, lunging forward, putting himself between the large cat and his little sister, his voice coming out in a defiant, aggressive howl, the howl of an apex predator protecting its young, and he spread his legs, dropping into a fighting stance, fists clenched and mouth screaming.
The jaguar tensed and buckled slightly, moving back on its haunches as the massive, muscular limbs flexed tight beneath its sinewy fur-covered flesh. Eyes narrowed, the beast split its lips wide, revealing jagged, sharp, off-white fangs, peeling away from black lips, a low, guttural growl rolling from deep within the beast’s gullet. Its broad jowls twisted as it growled, then peeled back into an angry tooth-filled hiss, the cat screaming its feral cat scream, tensing its rear legs.
Keeler turned without thinking, scooping up Vera in his arms and charged forward, legs and hips and back screaming. He pushed the pain aside as he lunged, hearing the cat smashing through trees and over rocks just behind him. It had jumped at them and missed, but it wouldn’t take long to recover. Grimacing, Keeler wrenched up and around, tucking Vera tight to his chest, wrapping his arms around her, trying to ignore her throttling cries as he moved, her little body shaking in fear. His foot struck a rock, his ankle twisting, but he ignored it and pushed forward, lunging from the jagged stone, leaping four feet, hitting the path in an angry, pain-filled crouch, before springing forward into a dead sprint.
Far behind them he heard the jaguar adjusting its prowl, turning toward them, springing forward, smashing aside the dried branches of thin trees, claws clacking on stone and dirt. He could imagine small divots and chunks of ground spitting out behind the beast as it ran, muscles moving in concert with each other, a living/breathing machine built purely for killing hot on their heels. Up ahead the narrow path cut a sharp left through more rocks and Keeler grunted as he slammed into one of the rocks with his left shoulder, bouncing off and careening right, loping down the path, precariously off balance, especially with his sister in his arms. Barely holding onto her, he fought to correct his forward progress, angling his legs, picturing himself in football practice, his arms wrapped around the pigskin rather than his little sister, dodging defenders.
Only this wasn’t a human defender he was dodging, it wasn’t a teenage boy trying to tackle him, it was a nearly two-hundred-pound feral cat, barreling toward him, getting closer. He swore for a moment he could feel the hot breath of the beast on the back of his neck, though part of him knew that was just his imagination as he poured on the gas and moved faster, angling right to cut around a rock, then twisting left to chop through a short grove of trees, trying whatever he could do to put some space and some obstacles between them and the creature.
Claws clicked, branches cracked, it was close behind, and then for one horrendous, heart-stopping moment, there was silence. A terrible, frightening silence, terrible because it meant the creature was no longer running, it was jumping, leaping, throwing itself airborne to strike at them.
White hot pain raced through Keeler’s left shoulder, a scorching tear and rip of flesh, gouge of muscle and he screamed, he couldn’t help it, he just screamed. His arms sprang apart and Vera spilled from them, shrieking, trying to grasp, trying to hold onto him, but he was toppling forward, shouting in agony, thrashing, twisting and turning preparing to fight off the cat, then he struck the hard ground, shoulder first, a shoulder already racked with pure agony now exploded in a fresh bout of deep, ragged burning, his momentum carrying him over into a sprawling, clumsy tumble, feet spinning over his head, his back drilling into the narrow trunk of a tree, an ungainly sideways somersault throwing him down a twisting slope, until he finally pounded, spine-first into one last tree, the trunk of this one thick enough to stop him, white flowers of pain hacking through the darkness of his mind.
He thudded to a halt, his back pressed against the tree, his entire body enveloped in a scalding fire of nearly unbearable pain. His vision
clouded over, blurring and smearing, though he could see Vera slowly picking herself up several yards away and to his left, thankfully cast aside, not between him and the jaguar.
The jaguar. The beast was a dull tan color, fur matted and stained, a filthy, animal hunter, not majestic at all, as he had once believed these wild cats to be, but full of muscle and grit and sinew and pure, white, bloodlust. Teeth thrust out from beneath whisker-filled nostrils, flaring evenly in the daytime heat. It snorted and grumbled as it approached in a low, practiced, hunters crouch, prowling toward him, step by cautious step.
As its green eyes blazed, the growl shifted into a low, gravelly hiss, the sound of a creature from the depths of hell preparing to lunge and bring another being down with it.
The jaguar bent low, a tensed-muscle curl, its lithe form tensing and compressing all at once, turning into one well-orchestrated muscular machine. Keeler could feel blessed unconsciousness grasping at him, threatening to pull him down, and in a way he welcomed it, he expected it, he had prepared himself to go to a sleep he might never awake from.
But he saw Vera. She had scooched away from the beast and was huddled, back first against a large rock, trying to will herself invisible, her eyes darting to him, then darting to the cat, then back to him. He didn’t want to give up. He wanted to save her, but his mind could only do as much as his body could handle and right now he felt like he could barely function. His left arm hung loose at his side, a warm, wet feeling soaking the sleeve and coating his flesh. His legs wouldn’t move, he couldn’t bend his knees, there was no way he could get himself upright, nothing he could do to protect himself from this unnatural creature, this animal born to kill.
The jaguar coiled its back legs, drew down and prepared to lunge.
Chapter 9
Now.
Tuesday, June 30th.
The deserts of Arizona.
Thunder shattered the sky as the cat prepared to strike. It was a strange sound, Keeler thought as his eyes drifted upwards. There hadn’t been a single cloud in the sky, and it didn’t feel like rain was coming.
But there was not just one sudden clap of deafening thunder, there was a second. And a third. No lightning, just the thunder, and with each sudden blast, the cat jerked and heaved, lunging one way, then lurching the next, hissing, growling and screaming.
Darkness snagged at the edge of Keeler’s vision, a darkness of sight and darkness of understanding. Two more thunder claps and the cat spilled over to its left, paws grasping at the air, its already matted fur growing slick and darkened with crimson.
Vera’s eyes widened from where she was near the rocks and her face seemed to cave in on itself as she looked up toward the sound of the thunderclaps, and she threw herself to her feet, running to Keeler’s left, running somewhere that he could not see. He wanted to stand, he desperately wanted to get up, he was aching to see where the thunder had come from, to try to understand what was happening, but he just couldn’t bring himself to move, he couldn’t get himself elevated, could barely keep his eyes open.
Through the vague haze of his failing vision he saw two figures come into view, two figures wearing camouflage, one of them holding a rifle in their hand as they went carefully toward the fallen cat to make sure it was down.
Barely, through the haze of his injuries and his barely conscious state, Keeler thought he felt hands grabbing at him, tough, but gentle, angling him into an upright position, igniting his entire body in fresh, cascading waves of pain. It was almost too much and he dipped into the darkness briefly, but pulled himself out, seeing Vera being carried in the crook of someone’s arm, someone who was not him, and the strong arm of a second person propping him up, pushing him forward, helping him move down the slope of the mesa and heading toward the flat, empty desert.
***
“You let them go without me?” Marilyn screamed, glaring at Lieutenant Drake. They both stood in the front yard of the small house, and the sun had now risen. Marilyn was ready to go, looking around for the other Marines so they could make their way to the desert and try to find her children.
“They left two hours ago, Marilyn,” Drake said quietly. “You were out of it, just sitting in the living room, half asleep. You needed your rest, but we also knew we couldn’t just sit around and wait. So Percy and Juarez set out to start looking.”
“I should be the one out there,” Marilyn said, her voice cracking. “They’re my children. I need to be the one to bring them home.”
“Then let’s go,” Drake said. “Boskwin will be right out, Scott will be right behind him. When they get out here, we’ll set off. I’m only trying to help.”
“I know,” Marilyn said, her voice cracking. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I can’t just sit here any longer. I can’t just wait.”
Boskwin and Scott emerged from the front door, nodding to Marilyn.
“We’re ready, Mom,” Scott said, adjusting the backpack on his back. “We’ve got supplies, we’ve got first aid kits, plenty of MRE’s. We can be out there all day if we have to.”
“Then let’s get moving,” Marilyn said in a quiet, urgent voice. She gestured toward the mesa and stormed around the side of the house, taking swift, determined steps off into the backyard. Scott rushed to keep up with Drake and Boskwin, bringing up the rear.
Marilyn took several broad strides through the backyard, her steps wide and angry, fighting back her exhaustion and desperation, eyes focused on the looming mesa ahead to the west. Her eyes were affixed on the huge, looming rock formation, and at first she didn’t see them. They would have been easy to miss, looking faint and small against the majestic backdrop of the jagged range of squat rocks in the distance.
She took several steps to the west, traversing the backyard and making her way out into the desert sands, and she saw them there, approaching slowly, making their way over from where the scraggly forest met the rocks in a strange tangle of different environments.
Three small silhouettes approached from the distance, moving slowly and clumsily, approaching with a strange mixture of abandon and caution, coming fast but careful.
Marilyn stopped walking. She stood there in the dirt and gaped out at the shadows coming toward her, not sure if she dared to believe what she was seeing. She couldn’t allow herself to believe it. She couldn’t bring herself to hope that what she was seeing was true, but as the three shapes got closer, they began to take form.
The one in the center was a woman, Private Juarez if Marilyn was right, and she was carrying a small figure in the crook of her arm. A small figure that appeared to be thrashing and screeching, trying to break loose as it realized who was looking back at it.
Just behind them to the right, two figures were somewhat intertwined, a taller, broader man, Sergeant Percy, twisted up with a limping smaller form. The form of what looked like a young teenage boy.
She tilted her head, looking at the approaching shapes, her breath catching in her lungs. Her heart skipping a few beats, tears welling in her wide eyes. Finally up ahead, the small shape wormed its way free and Juarez chuckled as she bent over, letting Vera slip to the ground, where she immediately broke into a dead sprint.
“Mommy!” she screamed, loud enough that her voice cascaded echoes over the tops of the surrounding mountains, a bolting run, the combination of speed, grace, and joy that’s only possible in young children.
“Monkey!” Marilyn screamed back at her. “My little monkey!” she charged forward, lowering herself and opening her arms, letting Vera leap up into them, swallowing her whole, tugging her tight into an almost suffocating embrace.
“My girl, my little girl!” she screamed, twisting as she embraced her, nearly tossing her from one way to the next, her legs swinging loose.
“He saved me, so many times he saved me!” Vera yelled. “Keeler saved me!”
Marilyn could feel the tears spilling from her eyes, rolling over the puffed flesh beneath them, then following the rounded contours of her cheeks, flowing not just fr
om happiness and relief, but from pride.
“Thank you,” she huffed through ragged breaths as Juarez drew close. The private smiled and nodded back, then patted Marilyn’s shoulder as she walked past, heading back toward the house. Keeping Vera close, her mother strode toward the last two figures approaching, tucking Vera with her right arm and holding her left arm out, wiggling her fingers.
“C’mere, Keeler. C’mere my big boy!”
Keeler pulled free of Percy and limped toward her, walking painfully, grimacing as he did.
Marilyn moved close and wrapped her free arm around his shoulder, hugging him, and he gasped lightly, jerking with the motion.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Sorry, sweetie, but I had to get my arm around you, okay? I had to.”
“I know, Mom,” Keeler replied. “Glad to see you, too.”
Marilyn pulled free, looking at her hand as it had touched the back of Keeler’s shoulder. It was soaked with blood.
“Oh my God!” she screamed. “He’s hurt! Someone! He’s hurt!”
“Mom, I’ll be okay,” Keeler replied through clenched teeth.
“We gave him a quick sew job out at the mesa,” Percy said. “Best we could do with the first aid kits. Drake’s got good field medic skills, she can do a better job.”
“What happened to you?” she asked Keeler, looking at him with wide eyes. “Keeler, you look like you’re at death’s door.”
He smiled weakly. “Don’t feel much better. They gave me water, which helped. But I’m hungry. My arm hurts.”
“You didn’t tell me what happened.”
“Jaguar,” Vera interjected. “Big one. Scary.”
Marilyn snapped her head around, gaping at her son. “Is that… did that…?”