by Rick Jones
And its eyes had gone from red to gray, its emotions signaled not by tears or unbearable wailing, but by the color alteration of its eyes, the sudden hue changes acting as barometers expressing how the Hominid was feeling at the given moment.
In its journey it had seen signs on the walls, some of the script and lettering recognizable and some not. As tribal leader and scribe it had recorded the history of its clan, memorializing facts to be handed down to the tribe’s descendants. But it understood that the discovered writing, although similar, was not of its world.
It was intelligent, an emotional being that had family and responsibilities. It was a creature who had carried the mantle of leadership that had been passed down from its paternal lineage, the scepter of rule to be eventually passed down to its son upon its passing. And suddenly the Hominid anguished, its eyes growing a deeper shade of gray. Its son was dead, it knew, as was its daughter and mate. Their armor-plated hides had gone brittle, and then to dust, long ago.
How it knew this it didn’t know. It simply did.
And then it reflected on its life, remembering what its paternal elder told him before handing him the sword of state by offering a brief summary of what life had been like before the civil war, something it took to be nothing but the ravings of a dying elder who wanted to believe in a sense of utopia. Its elder told it that its world was once a planet with the points of gleaming skyscrapers piercing the heavens, where its kind adorned themselves in elegant cloths and wore jeweled crowns, but most importantly, walked along the myriad of botanical paths flanked by riots of blooming colors, the scents from their leaves indescribably sweet.
And it knew that its elder was speaking from the memory of a story handed down from elder to elder, that the tale was not a fable at all, but the truth of how an ascending species surrendered everything because of political pettiness that became so insurmountable, the prejudices so great to overcome, the intolerances promoting the groundwork for destruction, that its planet had finally succumbed through their actions, which ultimately sent them back to the primordial stage of life, a place of no salvation.
It was a lesson handed down from its paternal elder, a final lesson wrought by its kinds’ inability to wade through narrow-mindedness, which ultimately destroyed a world.
What the planet once provided, the creatures raised in husbandry and the abundance of fruits provided by its environment, had died off as the war waged consistently on, turning its world to a sun-baked planet where its terrain became nothing but sand and stone, with their next meal always coming from the bodies of neighboring insurgents, the natural food chain having died off centuries ago.
It lowered its head, somehow knowing that its planet was completely dead. And that its kind had been rendered extinct by foolish decisions.
It was the last of its kind.
The Hominid stood to its full height and looked down at the carcass of the creature it had killed, albeit in self-defense.
And then it scoped its surroundings. Where there was one, then there’s another. Maneuvering with prudence, the Hominid began to make its way to the aft of the ship.
#
Whenever an opportunity presented itself for the Mist to feed, it did. Whether the sustenance was living or dead, or whether or not the entity acted as a predator or a vulture, did not matter. It consumed everything in its path, growing every time it fed.
It had no conscience. And rules did not apply to it.
It killed without remorse. Nor did it have a sense of salvation since it held no principles.
It simply was as it enveloped the carcass of something dead, the Mist rolling over the mass and devouring as acid devours any tissue, the flesh bubbling and boiling, the bones and organs sizzling, bursting, then gone, leaving the juicy outline of the dead creature upon the floor, a former shadow of itself, until that, too, was gone.
The creature moved along the floor as ground mist, creeping slowly, searching, the composite flooring sizzling as it crossed mere inches above its surface. And then the spangles of lights within its amorphous shape began to shoot off in electrical bursts, the charges small eruptions of energy as the Mist took to midair, the living horror moving with the painful slowness of a bad dream.
#
Though the Rex was satiated, it still needed to feed in the same way that a shark needs to constantly nourish itself in order to continue on.
Its massive weight shook the flooring beneath its footfalls; anything remaining alive scurried for safer quarters.
Its hide had been pocked with bullet holes by Crazy Drake’s act of strafing, the mere pinpricks bleeding marginally with the damage done to the Rex equal to it getting caught within a thorny briar patch, nothing more.
With its need to feed overpowering, the Rex flared its nostrils and pulled, its olfactory senses sending signals as to where its quarry lie, preferring the living over the dead.
It picked up a scent equal to Crazy Drakes, but stronger, the numbers of the Crazy Drakes in this new world moving as a pack.
Rearing its head and opening its grand mouth, the creature bellowed, staking further claim to its ever-expanding territory, and headed to feed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
“Nothing much scares me,” said Maestro. “But whatever is making that noise is scaring the hell out of me. It sounds too damned big.”
Nobody said anything. No one offered to rebut or send a response. Maestro was right. Whatever it was didn’t have to be seen. Everyone knew it was massive—whatever it was.
“Keep your heads on a swivel,” Whitaker finally said. “I need eyes open for Quasimodo and K-Clown.” Everyone knew it was Whitaker’s way of saying ‘Shutup.’
They moved carefully up the ship’s incline, each man knowing that in order to survive this they had to climb four more levels to get to the sub pen. Worse, they had to do it by navigating through the Menagerie.
O’Connell began to stumble, his legs going boneless and weak. “I gotta rest,” he said.
Savage and Alyssa made movements to settle the wounded man to the floor. Whitaker, however, denied the motion.
“Get his ass up and going,” he said, pointing his weapon at them. “I will not have that man slow us down.”
“It wouldn’t be like this if you hadn’t shot him to begin with,” Alyssa returned defiantly.
“Look here, Missy,” he countered; directing his aim at Alyssa, “I don’t need you to pop off at the mouth. Seriously, I don’t. We need to get to the platform and we can only do that once we group together with the remainder of my team and push forward with force. O’Connell, as far as I’m concerned, can stay behind to feed whatever things that are running around this ship. I don’t care. That’s your decision. But you’re coming along, Ms. Moore—with or without him. If you want O’Connell along, carry him. If not, then leave him behind.”
Savage took the initiative. Then to O’Connell: “Straddle my back,” he told him. “I’ll carry you.”
O’Connell nodded feebly, then situated himself piggyback style against Savage’s backside.
“We’re good,” Savage told Whitaker.
“Good. Now remain at point.”
Alyssa took up beside Savage’s side.
Savage whispered to her. “Get back, Hon. Just in case.”
“I’m not leaving you to do this by yourself,” she told him.
“There may be things out there—in the shadows. I may not be able to get away in time.”
“Don’t care.” She reached out and rubbed his shoulder with a loving caress, her touch like glancing silk. “I will always be by your side,” she added. No matter what.
Savage did all he could to dislodge the sour lump in his throat. She had moved him in ways with the power that could move mountains. Everything she said or did, at least in his eyes, was paramount. And in a tone just above a whisper, he said, “I love you.”
She smiled. Ditto.
#
As they moved forward, Goliath quietly took up next to W
hitaker.
Sensing his presence, Whitaker snapped at the large man. “What?”
“You think this is safe? Keeping O’Connell?” he asked.
Whitaker remained silent.
“Cap,” Goliath said louder, “the guy’s covered in blood. These things out there may be drawn to his scent. We might be leading them right to us.”
“I know that,” he finally answered, this time more calmly. “But these things are ahead of us. Leaving O’Connell here makes no sense. Once we group up, then we can leave O’Connell behind as the lure that will keep them away from us as we press forward.”
“What about Savage and Ms. Moore?”
“They’re no different than O’Connell,” he told him. “When things prove difficult, then we’ll throw them to the lions. They’re simply sacrificial pieces and nothing more. Now fall back.”
Goliath nodded. “Yeah, boss.”
When Goliath fell back to the rear, Whitaker remained quiet and vigilant, all the while musing about their position.
Savage was a soldier who knew that if he didn’t act soon, then he was going to die regardless. What it all boiled down to was timing, thought Whitaker. But the team leader had it all planned out. He would leave whatever was left of O’Connell and his feeble body behind. And then he would put a bullet in Savage, wounding and taking away his combat skill set. When the time was right, when things became too heavy, then he would run the blade of his knife across Savage and allow him to bleed out, his blood serving as the honey that would draw the incredibly vicious flies, while they made haste. Ms. Moore, however, would remain in reserve in case O’Connell and Savage weren’t effective long enough.
Savage turned to Whitaker with a sidelong look, as if trying to examine the commando’s thoughts and insights.
Whitaker pointed his gun to the area in front of Savage. “Eyes forward,” he told him.
Savage complied, realizing that time was running critically short. If he was going to take action of any kind, then he would have to act soon.
And there would be no second chance.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
K-Clown and Quasimodo banded with Whitaker and his unit somewhere in the ship’s aft. Savage set O’Connell against the floor and took a seated position next to Alyssa, who sat with her back against the wall.
K-Clown raised the lens of his monocular until it stood straight up on his helmet.
Whitaker motioned to Quasimodo to keep an eye on Alyssa and Savage. O’Connell didn’t appear to be a risk, the man growing weaker.
“Anything between your point and ours?” Whitaker asked K-Clown.
The man shook his head. “Nothing but lots of corpses—engineers, scientists, those things in the containment cells, they’re all dead.”
“And there’s nothing behind us,” said Whitaker. “So there’s no chance of a rear ambush. But we know that there’s something in front of us—something big. But if we’re to get out of here, then we need to go up.” He pointed skyward. “We group up and press forward. And we go right through whatever it is that’s in front of us.”
“Copy that.”
“Eyes open, K. I can’t afford to lose anymore. We’re missing three already.”
“I hear you.”
From that point Whitaker began to outline his plan about getting them topside with the exception of Quasimodo, who stood sentinel next to Alyssa and Savage, keeping them in sight.
#
Alyssa thought the man called Quasimodo was perhaps the ugliest creature she had ever seen. His face was a patchwork of different shades, the results of poor grafting, with the flesh of his right cheek so tight that it seemed to pull at the corner of his eye enough to expose the glistening pink tissue within.
When he proffered a wink and rolled his tongue lasciviously over his lips at her, she clucked her tongue in disgust, rolled her eyes, and turned away.
“I think he likes you,” John said. He meant it to be a moment of levity at a time when the air was thick with tension and uncertainty.
She answered by reaching for his hand with both of hers, cupped it, and accepted his response, his hand gently squeezing hers. “It’s all right,” she told him. “I’ve made peace with my god a long time ago.”
John blinked back the sting of tears; the ex-SEAL could feel himself on the edge of breaking. He loved her with a boundless love that was indescribable, the kind of love where he would gladly sacrifice his in order to save hers. But at the moment he was completely overwhelmed by the impotence to do anything at all. Especially when his only attempt met with a colossal foot to the face, his failure completed the moment he saw internal stars.
He wasn’t going to fill her with false hope, either. Not anymore. He smiled falsely. “That’s my girl,” he said, bringing her hands up and giving one of them a quick kiss. “The only scientist I know who believes in scientific fact and the existence of God, despite the evidence she finds to the contrary.”
“Not everything can be explained away with science alone,” she said.
“True.” He stared at her for a long moment, appraising her, seeing how incredibly beautiful she was in the glow of the phosphorous green light.
“What?”
“Green is your color,” he said simply. And then: “I’m glad you kept your faith.”
“It’s a powerful tool,” she told him.
“Is that why you didn’t want to discover the truth about what Obsidian Hall brought out of Eden? Is that why you buried it? Was it because you were afraid that the truth of our origin might steal your faith away?”
She leaned into his shoulder. “My faith is bullet proof.”
“But you’re a scientist. It’s your duty to find the truth?”
“The truth, John, has many sides to it. What we found in Eden was the truth of man’s beginnings. The references in the Bible and the Torah and other religious texts also cite the truth. It’s just a variance of interpretations.”
“You haven’t answered my question as to why you buried the evidence when you could have sent it off to discover the truth of the tombs with simple DNA sampling.”
She hugged him. “I did what I did, John, because my faith is my shield,” she told him evenly. “And right now I need that shield.”
And he understood. She was always strong, an inquisitor of some things and a skeptic on others. But faith had always been her constant. Whenever she needed it most, it was always there. Though it would not save her life this time, it did seem to cushion the inevitable that there was still life after life.
“I’m going to get you out of this,” he told her.
“John, it’s over. I know that.”
He leaned into her. “I thought you had faith.”
“I do.”
“Then believe me when I say that there’s a solution for everything.”
She wanted to believe that. But if that was the case, then it could also be said that in Whitaker’s viewpoint, the solution would be to see them dead. Not everyone can have a resolution to fall their way, especially when the outcome is obviously very diverse from one another—John’s solution is to survive, whereas Whitaker’s is to see them die. So whose solution will trump here?
But then she realized that Savage’s faith was to see them through. And it was strong.
And then she realized how funny it was that faith had many sides to it.
“Yes,” she finally said. “There’s a solution to everything.”
He gave her a playful head bump, more of a love tap. “That’s right,” he said. He then faced off with Quasimodo, eyes locking, and then he looked at the weapon he was carrying, an MP5, which was strapped around him, not a good choice to battle over. But then he noted the battle knives strapped to his thigh, no doubt a warrior’s combat blade that was sharp and wicked. They all carried them. And in Savage’s mind it was at least a marginal opportunity. He was absolutely skilled as a double-edged weapons technician.
But then he sighed and came to the realization that f
aith had its limits.
And John Savage discovered that he had no faith at all.
They were going to die.
Quasimodo smiled.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The raptors maintained a steady eye on their quarries, watching them gather as a pack of their own—a challenge for the hunt.
Although they communicated with calls and snorts through the chambers of their sinus canals, the relay was a highly evolved language where communicating was made through levels of various pitches and tones, each informing the other of its intentions.
The calls were barks and grunts in precise and metered divisions, the pauses having specific meaning. The male opted to position itself behind the adversaries, deep in the shadows. Whereas the female would drive them back into the kill zone of the male’s swinging tail, providing him with the opportunity for a fresh kill.
With measured nasal barking, the raptors separated to take their positions as apex hunters.
The male moved silently, taking a wide berth from Whitaker’s team by using the shadows as camouflage, and worked its way behind its prey. The female moved prudently, almost like a feline, slowly raising and lowering her foot, touching down with softness, the creature maintaining a steady eye on its victims.
When she was in position she stood rooted to her spot with her head and neck forward, stiffly erect, her eyes drawing a true bead.
And then the male called out in a series of two barks, informing the female that he was in position, his tail swinging over its head like a fly-fisherman’s line, the appendage whipping back and forth waiting to lash out against his prey.
The female, taking one step after another, picking up momentum with every footfall, charged Whitaker’s team.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Did you hear that?” said K-Clown. “We’re not alone.”
“No. We’re not.” Whitaker immediately lowered his NVG monocular and leveled his weapon. “Eyes down!” he shouted. “Everyone, ready up!”