The Menagerie 2 (Eden)

by Rick Jones

  Whitaker’s team assembled into a V-shaped formation with Whitaker at the fore point, K-Clown and Maestro behind him, Goliath and Quasimodo behind them, their weapons forward.

  The raptor came within their field of vision, glowing green through their NVG lenses.

  The creature was closing the gap with its whiptail snapping the air like a bullwhip, the reports as loud as gunshots.

  Whitaker’s team could not draw a bead on the raptor as their weapons went off in a volley of gunfire and muzzle flashes, the area flickering with quick bursts of light in strobe-like fashion.

  The raptor cut to her left, then leapt through the air with the curve of her serrated talon flexed for a raking kill. Bullets flew, and missed, the creature looming larger in the lenses of their monoculars, a 3-D effect, as she traversed the distance between them with her outstretched leg and distended claw that sliced cleanly through K-Clown’s armor, neatly dividing the soldier at midriff, the man’s upper body sliding and separating off from its lower half, the man not yet dead as he lay there looking with wonderment at his separated half.

  The raptor landed, hard, her tail whipping and lashing out, the sharp and bony ridges along the length of her tail striking Goliath across his abdominal armor, the Tally-Whacker insignia marred with a jagged slash, but the hit was not deep enough to rip into Goliath, as he backed off firing his weapon, the shots stitching across the raptor’s hide as the creature reared her head and cried out in white-hot agony, confused, the apex predator feeling multiple punches as the Tally-Whackers unloaded, their bullets striking with hammer blows that brought the creature to her knees, the raptor trying to stand, failing, then falling to her side.

  When the firing stopped they stood silently by with absorption, watching the raptor’s chest heave and pitch until she expelled her final breath with a deep sigh.

  From the back end of the chamber something screamed out in anguish, an animalistic cry that grated their ears.

  Maestro pointed his weapon in the direction of the cry. “I thought our rear was clear,” he said.

  “Something took territory behind us,” said Whitaker, “while we were occupied with this one.”

  “This was a coordinated attack.”

  “Yeah, maybe. Whatever is in the shadows will now think twice about attacking.” Whitaker tried to focus through his monocular. Whatever was taking refuge in the shadows decided to stay there. “We move,” he finally said. “Forward! Now!” He backed away with his weapon pointing toward the darkness. “Savage and Moore—move!”

  Savage stood, aided Alyssa to her feet, and then made a move toward O’Connell.

  “He stays,” said Whitaker.

  Alyssa spoke up, sounding incredulous, “What?”

  “You heard me,” he said. “He needs to serve a purpose.”

  “A purpose.” She sounded angry.

  “The moment we leave, that thing in the shadows will follow. O’Connell will slow it down enough for us to get topside.”

  “You can’t be serious,” said Savage.

  “I am deadly serious.” He then turned his weapon on Savage. “Unless, Mr. Savage, you’d like to volunteer in his place.”

  Savage said nothing.

  “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  O’Connell tried to stand, but was summarily knocked down by the butt end of Maestro’s weapon.

  Whitaker pointed to O’Connell. “Incapacitate him so that he doesn’t go anywhere.”

  Maestro nodded, removed his firearm from his holster, and with two well-placed shots, put a bullet in each of the man’s legs. Maestro turned to Whitaker as he holstered his weapon. “Consider him incapacitated.”

  The effect of the pain searing through O’Connell took a delayed reaction as his legs suddenly became a tabernacle of red-hot agony, the man crying out.

  When Alyssa tried to help, Quasimodo grabbed her by the upper arm and hauled her backwards, nearly tossing her into the grasp of Savage. “You better keep a collar on her,” he told him.

  In fiery response she reacted by taking a step forward with balled fists. Savage held her back.

  When Quasimodo held the point of his weapon at her, she stilled. “I will kill you,” he told her evenly.

  After a long moment, once the look on her face neutralized, she deflated in Savage’s hold.

  “Good girl,” said Quasimodo. He shifted his weapon elsewhere.

  O’Connell crawled across the floor, leaving behind a bloody trail, and grabbed Whitaker by the ankle. “Please,” he whispered. “Not like this.”

  “Sorry,” he answered. “But it is what it is. It’s nothing personal.” He stepped out of O’Connell’s grasp. And then: “We move! Now! Savage and Moore—point!”

  With a deliberate shove by Maestro, he prodded Savage forward. “Move,” he said.

  Alyssa joined Savage’s side, each sharing a look to O’Connell.

  O’Connell raised a blood-laden hand, a final act of imploring. “Please,” he said weakly. “Don’t leave me behind.”

  From the darkness something cried out, its call was as abrasive as running fingers across a chalkboard.

  Whitaker finally spoke to O’Connell without emotion. “Don’t worry,” he told him. “I’m sure it’ll be quick.”

  The DOD man lowered his head gently to the floor, sobbing.

  And then for Savage’s benefit, Whitaker pointed the way forward with his weapon. “Move,” he ordered.

  Savage reluctantly complied, having no choice but to leave a man behind to die.

  #

  Their prey did not fall back as required by the mechanics of the hunt. In fact, they maintained their position, challenging the apex predator with strength of their own.

  Its mate had become the centerpiece of the battle, striking and attacking with its claw, one quarry going down and another wounded, but not killed, its abdominal hide paring back but revealing no steaming entrails.

  The wounded one fought back as flashes of light suddenly lit up the surrounding area, its mate crying out in agony as its flesh became decimated with a flurry of attacks, bleeding holes appearing suddenly like magic.

  And then it went done, an apex predator, amidst flashing lights and the smell of cordite.

  It never got up.

  The male took a few tentative steps forward, smelling the blood of its kind. In the mix of boiling emotions, the raptor knew that the female was dead. It was a sensation of loss that was complete and absolute. It then stood on its toes until it was at maximum height, reared its head back and cried out.

  In mourning sadness and anger, the creature was suddenly cognizant of its fallibility. Suddenly there was something stronger and deadlier, the raptor no longer sitting at the pinnacle of the food chain.

  In the shadows it remained idle, watching.

  And then the pack moved on, leaving a wounded creature behind.

  With prudent steps the raptor moved from the depths of the shadows. He could hear the creature’s mews of pain, could see it crawling feebly about, a shape against the floor.

  More steps.

  Slowly, it raised its tail above its head and moved it in circular patterns, the appendage readying itself to strike and tear. It could discern the difference between the blood of its prey to the blood of its mate, sensing copper instead of potassium, the wafting taste new and palatable.

  When it stood over its mate, it saw that her tongue extended from between her jaws and sat along the floor like a strip of dry carpet. The spark of life had already gone from her eyes, the once dazzling golden-yellow of her irises now the color of bad mustard, dull and listless.

  The raptor nudged her snout with his, as if to nurture her back to life in a hopeless attempt to resuscitate her, since he didn’t know how to deal with this ‘sudden aloneness.’ And by the nature of their DNA wiring as monogamous creatures, he would eventually die without his symbiotic companion.

  A mewling of pain caught its attention, the raptor lifting its head from its mate and centering its
sight on O’Connell. Taking steps that seemed to shake the floor, the raptor quickly closed the gap between them and pinned the man down by piercing O’Connell through the shoulder with the curve of its talon.

  O’Connell screamed.

  Suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of anger and retribution, the raptor lowered its pointed muzzle and latched its rows of teeth to O’Connell’s skull, the man crying out. In quick motion the raptor twisted its head to the side, snapping O’Connell’s neck and killing him.

  And then it began to feed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Everyone within the Whitaker party stood idle while trying to digest the moment. No one moved. Or spoke. Or dared to offer up a summation as to why O’Connell’s screams were suddenly cut off.

  They just knew.

  When Whitaker finally spoke, he did so with indifference. “Let’s go, people. That sub isn’t gonna wait forever.”

  Time seemed to move at a glacial pace, the ship’s length projecting longer than they remembered. With the phosphorous green light shedding little comfort and distant shadows moving with a life of their own, they moved prudently toward the Compound.

  “Is it me,” began Goliath, “or is the floor angled differently? It seems that we’ve been moving on an even plane, rather than going up.”

  Goliath was right. The remnant had shifted after the last tremor with the brunt of its mass now weighing down the marine terrace. The next tremor would most likely send the terrace and the ship to the bottom of the crater, more than five miles below.

  Whitaker avoided the large man’s question with a curt order to the point man. “Pick it up, Savage. We’re not getting any younger.”

  But Savage remained tentative. The only light offered were the soft lights glowing from the rib-like structures which, at best, were weak and did not give view to anything that might be secreted away beyond the light’s fringe. In the surrounding shadows things moved at the periphery of their vision as mere glimpses, and then they were gone, the shapes never seen as a whole.

  We’re not alone, thought Savage. If anything, we’re being sized up.

  They moved cautiously into the Compound where tables, PC’s and computer monitors lay destroyed in what appeared to be the aftermath of a whirlwind. White lab coats stained the color of candied apple minus their owners were lying in scattered heaps with the fabric of the coats shredded and raked by something wickedly keen.

  One coat, however, was not a coat at all, but a Tally-Whacker vest, a top-of-the-line Kevlar that provided no apparent protection as diagonal tears were clearly displayed from the left shoulder to the lower right abdomen, three straight lines with dried blood the color of chocolate lining the edges.

  Less than three feet away lay the serpentine chain and panels of a dog tag. Maestro picked it up. The tags were marred with smudges of blood, but the stamped name was clearly legible: PITTMAN, LEON.

  Maestro tossed the tags to Whitaker, who plucked them cleanly from the air. “Now we know what happened to Pit-Bull,” he told him. Maestro then lifted the Kevlar for a moment to study its cuts. And then he lay it to the floor as if in homage, softly and carefully. The theory behind wearing vests was to stop bullets. What the Tally-Whackers wore, with the exception of Goliath, gave them no apparent advantage over apex predators at all. In fact, Goliath was lucky to be wearing his abdominal plate, the armor now bearing the diagonal scar from the raptor’s attack. If he’d been wearing his vest instead of his composite shielding, there was no doubt in Maestro’s mind that Goliath would have been neatly gutted.

  Maestro stood feeling vulnerable while brushing a hand over his Kevlar. Might as well be wearing tissue paper, he thought.

  Whitaker fisted his hand tightly over the tags then pocketed them, promising himself that he would put them in a place of honor.

  Four down, he thought. Half his team gone.

  And they’ve yet to reach the Menagerie.

  Whitaker closed his eyes and drew deeply with a long pull of his nostrils, taking in the scents of blood and gore, the smells of war. Releasing his breath with an equally long sigh, he then motioned the point of his weapon to the foreground, a gesture to Savage to take lead.

  The sub was waiting.

  And the walk to get there was a long one.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  By nature the Rex is not a scavenger. But at nearly eleven tons and natural prey a scarcity, it was forced to feed on the dead in order to maintain itself.

  Heavy bones and thick outer shells gave way to the power of its jaws as it rented its way to the meat and marrow, feeding but never satiated.

  After cracking open the crablike shell of something amphibious, the Rex found the meat somewhat gummy and hard to chew, the beast then ripping off pieces and gulping it whole in the same manner that a pelican would tilt its head upward to allow a fish to slide down its gullet, clean and easy.

  On the air, however, the scent of something alive wafted.

  The Rex removed its pinning leg from the shelled creature and sniffed the air, its nostrils flaring as they honed in on the scent. In that instance its brain shot off in synapses, the miniscule filaments of nerve endings registering a threat.

  It then began to whip its tail back and forth, a natural response similar to a dog raising its hackles when sensing great danger. It immediately realized that it was the same scent of the creature that pelted its hide with projectiles, each puncture wound causing match-head flames of pain. Not overwhelming, but enough for it to heed caution.

  By lifting its head it tried to get a fix, like radar, centering on their position.

  There were more.

  Toward the aft and coming its way.

  The Rex then bounded toward the direction of its quarry with its footfalls causing disturbances that carried across the remnant’s floor, a shaking that could be felt the same way a sonic boom radiates through air, in ripples and jarring waves.

  The creature trumpeted its approach, a roar that was deafening.

  And anything in its way scattered to the farthest reaches.

  #

  Whitaker and his unit stood idle. The floor beneath their feet vibrated, the tremors growing with intensity every passing moment, getting stronger and more violent.

  And then the crying declaration that something massive was coming their way, a roar that could be felt in their chests.

  Weapons were raised.

  Mouths dropped.

  The floor shivered.

  And something incredibly huge, now a silhouette against the green phosphorous light, was closing in, fast.

  The Rex dipped its head feet above the floor, its razor-ridged tail whipping about over its backside, revealing strips of fresh meat hanging from its serrated teeth, snapped at the open air, repeatedly, the snaps sounding off like gunshots.

  Maestro took the initiative by firing off his weapon, the warrior crying out, screaming like a madman, his weapon strafing back and forth, bullets hitting the mark of the creature’s head and snout, causing bursts of blood to erupt. The Rex halted, becoming confused. And then it reared its head, opened its mouth wide, and cried out with a deep rumble that carried across the air in the form of a concussion.

  Others joined in. Their weapons going off in concert. The entire area lighting up with strobe-like muzzle flashes as bullets struck and hit the Rex’s underside. The warriors moved forward, their guns taking the lead, each man crying out, firing, taking new ground as the Rex fell back, confused, the creature shaking its head as if clearing away cobwebs.

  And then it regrouped. Its mind becoming organized as its instinct to dominate took over, driving it forward.

  It was heavy on its feet. Its skull was low to the floor, its teeth stark and keen.

  And then it whipped its tail over its head. The bullwhip-like appendage moving in a blur, quick and deadly, the razor-like ridges coming across and catching the barrel of Goliath’s weapon, the firearm neatly cleaved and rendered useless, the gun now in two pieces.

&
nbsp; Goliath stared at the sections, unsure what to do.

  And this cost him his life as the tail cut back and sliced Goliath in half at the shoulders with surgical precision, the dividing slice as even and straight as a scalpel cut.

  Savage and Alyssa ducked and took flight as Whitaker’s team scrambled, the line of defense now broken. Whitaker, Quasimodo and Maestro fell back, their guns firing, the men screaming, but more out of alarm instead of bravado.

  Shell casings flew through the air with the slow motion of a surreal and horrifying moment while smoke circled the air in lazy eddies, the smell of cordite overpowering.

  Magazines emptied and were replaced with military precision, starting the firefight all over again.

  The Rex snapped its powerful jaws, its breath rancid with the smell of tainted meat as its tail continued to whip about, missing Whitaker and his team by feet, if not inches. Men dove out of the whip’s path, sensing it close by, they could almost feel the rush of its passing against their skin.

  Savage and Alyssa moved cautiously away from the front line of battle, always aware that the commotion could draw others like insects to light. They hunkered low against tipped over lab tables, a poor defense, but enough to provide a hideaway.

  Alyssa leaned into his embrace, both terrified, their faces detailing every sentiment of their terror.

  Whitaker’s team had broken up, their formation lost and broken as every man ran for the outskirts driven by self-preservation. The creature was vicious, something that seemed to absorb bullets rather than repel them. It just kept coming.

  The creature reared its head, showing the pinprick wounds of the firefight that bled little. And then it sniffed the air with quick pulls of its nostrils, the Rex detecting something different, something new.

  It quickly scanned the area with its poor sense of sight and saw nothing, the creature relying on its supreme sense of smell. Its quarry had scattered to whatever havens they could find, the area falling as silent as a tomb.