by Rick Jones
The male raptor was alone. And hostile. Its monogamous half lying dead in the ship’s aft, the creature feeling a painful, remorseful loss. It also felt the need to lash out and kill for the sake of killing, the act perhaps a catharsis to appease its immeasurable pain and anger.
It circled the Mist, snapping at open air, its tail whipping above its head like an angler’s line, smooth and even, back and forth, back and forth.
The Mist hovered with its vapor boils rolling within, the spangle-sized lights flaring as a defense mechanism, pops and flashes.
And then the distance between them reduced as the fighters sought for a weakness in the other.
The Mist lashed out with a misty appendage, a quick lapping of the air close to the raptor, the act causing the beast to fade back to reassess the situation, its jaws snapping back in disapproval.
Not too far away, in the clutches of a vanishing green light, and with the shadows growing deeper and longer, John Savage was coming to.
#
The lengthening shadows.
The phosphorous green light, now fading.
The pulsation of that light, now slowing to a swan song.
And the continuous hammering against the wall of his skull.
John Savage got to a sitting position, the world caught within a colorful haze, but a haze nonetheless.
When he got to his feet he staggered, the floor beneath him seemingly unstable. And then he focused, his surroundings becoming more defined, more focused.
About 100 meters toward the midsection of the Menagerie, he could see the Mist becoming the centerpiece of a raptor’s attention.
And then he looked forward, toward the direction Whitaker and the rest of his team took Alyssa. Finding his spirit suddenly resilient, with Alyssa first and foremost on his thoughts, Savage hunkered low and made his way back to where Goliath lie, the ex-SEAL keeping a steady eye on the apex predators, as they continued to size each other up.
Goliath lay there in two sections, his upper and lower halves. If Savage could see the dead man’s eyes, he’d be able to see the beginnings of a milky sheen to them.
Behind him the raptor roared.
So Savage galvanized himself to action.
He lifted the pieces of the assault weapon, useless. And gently laid them down. He then went to the big man’s lower region and removed the combat knife from a sheath strapped to the man’s thigh. He then rolled the lower half over, to the other hip. There was no holster, no firearm. All he had was the knife.
He held the weapon in a tight grasp to feel its balance and heft. A top-of-the-line weapon, he considered, then placed it in the waistband behind him.
Savage then took note of Goliath’s helmet, at the NVG gear, and carefully removed the helmet from the dead man’s head. Putting on the helmet and lowering the NVG monocular, the world became remarkably brighter, and the shadows were no longer. He now had a clear path without obstacles to Whitaker’s team.
Looking at the predators circle before the impending engagement, Savage slowly backpedaled until he thought he was far from the caring of the predators, turned, and ran as fast as he could to close the distance between him and Whitaker’s team.
Removing the knife from his waistband and keeping the point forward, John Savage ran like a man on a mission.
So resilient was the human spirit.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Every creature, like most creatures, though driven to feed or reproduce in different ways, share the common bond of possessing emotional ties, with the exception of the Mist.
The raptor mourned and followed through the emotional steps of loss, the sense of aloneness and abandonment, the feeling of indescribable anger. It circled the Mist but could not find an opening or weakness, the Mist appearing the same from one angle as the next.
So with its whiptail it lashed out at its quarry, a killing blow, a severing cut. But the tail seemed to have passed through something hot and scalding, the tough scales of its hide coming out of the Mist steaming, the chain of connecting bones underneath clearly seen.
The raptor cried out in pain that was deafening, its head raised, the tail suddenly useless.
In an encompassing motion, the Mist gathered the raptor into an embrace and began to smother it with acidic vapor, breaking the animal down to cartilage and bone, to muscle and entrails.
But through it all the raptor did not mind as it saw the Light.
The Glorious Light.
And then its mind began to drift.
And in the end it did not matter.
There was no more pain.
#
There was nothing left of the raptor. Not even a molecule. So the Mist went off in a series of ember bursts, the synapses going off trying to pick up its last quarry.
During its fray with the raptor the other had taken flight, making its way to the front of the ship. Morphing from a boiling cloud to the design of an arrowhead, the Mist gave chase, moving to the ship’s fore like locust to a harvest.
Never once did it slow down.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Whitaker, Alyssa and the rest of the team made it to the teardrop-shaped doorway, the upside down Ankh.
Whitaker and Maestro ducked to fit through the passageway. Alyssa had to be forced through by Quasimodo, the young woman fighting him all the way.
On the other side of the doorway they noted the archaic script within the symbol’s framework: ALL LIFE UNDER ONE.
It had served as the entryway to the Menagerie. Now they were within a short distance from the Umbilical collar.
Alyssa continued to struggle against Quasimodo’s grasp. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he told her.
“Let me go!”
Quasimodo grabbed her by the hair and forced her to her knees. “You’re starting to piss me off.”
“Good.” She slapped his hand.
“Little spitfire, aren’t you?”
She continued to fight back.
Quasimodo struggled to maintain control. “Hey, Cap, is she my toy to play with now?”
“Don’t kill her. Just bleed her out slowly. Leave something for whatever’s left on the other side of that Ankh.”
Quasimodo withdrew his knife, the blade sliding neatly from its scabbard. He looked down at her with a savage smile. In the quasi-darkness she became overwhelmed by the discolorations of the multiple patchwork of grafted skin that pieced his face together, giving him a truly horrific appearance. So she screamed, striking his clutching hand with a flurry. The blows, however, were insignificant.
He leaned closer. His face inches from hers. “How about a smooch?” In the other hand the knife was beginning to raise, the blade glinting with a chrome polish. He puckered his lips. “Give me a smooch.”
“Hurry it up, Quasi, and meet us at the collar.” Whitaker turned, as did Maestro, and left the area. Whitaker called over his shoulder. “You got two minutes! Or we leave without you!”
Quasimodo called after them. “Two minutes? That ain’t nuttin’, Cap!” He didn’t get a response.
Alyssa continued to cry out, a fusion of anger and fear, while her hands continued to battle against Quasimodo’s hold with futility. The blade came up to its highest point above his head, out of Alyssa’s line of sight.
“Just a kiss, sweetheart. That’s all I want. Just close your eyes and give me a kiss.”
“Get away from me!”
And then she surrendered, her arms going limp, the power behind them gone.
“That’s my girl,” said Quasimodo, leaning in.
In the doorway sitting on its haunches, a shape silhouetted against the backdrop of green light, watched everything. Alyssa saw it clearly. Is this how it ends? she asked herself. As feed for something otherworldly?
The shape passed through the symbol of the Ankh, and moved cautiously toward their position.
Alyssa closed her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered to the Tally-Whacker. “I’ll kiss you.”
Quasimodo
hesitated, stunned by her acceptance. And then: “Well, alrighty then.”
She reached up with her hand, cupped the back of his head, and pulled him close. If she held him long enough, she thought, perhaps the shape would take them both.
Their lips met.
#
The shape moved with the quickness and agility of a hunter. It grabbed Quasimodo from behind by cupping a hand under his chin, lifting the man’s head back to expose the range of his open throat, and attempted to drive the blade across the flesh.
But the Tally-Whacker was quick, bringing his arm up just enough to catch the blade across his forearm, the slice a neat line from wrist to elbow. In response, the Tally-Whacker quickly got to his feet and maneuvered with a reverse head butt, the back of his head meeting with his assailant’s, the shape releasing its hold and falling back.
Quasimodo pivoted on the balls of his feet while trying to un-sling his MP5. But the shape was upon him, the blade of the knife coming across and cutting Quasimodo across the face, another slice that would eventually scar over and add to the network of lines he already had.
The blade came across again, this time missing. Nothing but open air.
Even in the growing darkness Quasimodo could recognize the shape.
Savage!
The former SEAL moved in, blade ready. But Quasimodo came up with his right leg and connected solidly with Savage’s wrist, the knife taking flight from his grasp and landing on the floor, the weapon skating off somewhere in the shadows.
By the time Quasimodo undid his weapon, Savage was on top of him by grabbing the MP5, trying to wrench it free. But the men moved about the floor in a drunken tango, one trying to best the other.
Savage brought his foot up and around, catching Quasimodo at the side of his knee, his leg buckling. The soldier quickly went to the floor on one knee, tried to regain himself, but Savage was quick with his movements. The ex-SEAL came across with an open palm strike to the side of Quasimodo’s head, shattering an eardrum, the pain crippling. In a follow-up motion, Savage took the opportunity of the soldier’s hesitance by taking Quasimodo’s head in both his hands, and twisted.
The crunch of the man’s neck breaking was so audible that it echoed throughout the chamber.
The Tally-Whacker fell to the floor as dead weight, the column of his neck awkwardly crooked.
Savage then removed the killer’s knife and assault weapon, both feeling good within his possession. And then to Alyssa: “My body’s not even cold and already you’re cheating on me.”
Alyssa cupped her hands over her face and began to cry.
Savage leaned down and embraced her. “I was just kidding.”
“I thought you were dead,” she sobbed. She brought her arms up and around him, pulling him tight. “I thought you were dead.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not.” As he got to his feet, he helped Alyssa to hers. And for a long moment they looked into each other’s eyes, seeing the loving warmth of unbridled passion. She then pressed the side of her head to his chest and could hear his heart beating. It was the most wonderful sound she ever heard.
His beating heart.
“We have to move,” he told her softly and gently. “We’re almost home.”
She looked at him. “There’s still two more.”
Savage nodded. Whitaker and Maestro. Two against one.
He couldn’t help the approaching smile.
He liked the odds.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Whitaker and Maestro stood next to the collar’s entryway.
“Where the hell is he?” asked Maestro.
Whitaker looked at his watch. It had been nearly four minutes.
“How long does it take to cut someone?” Maestro was getting impatient, Whitaker could tell. Nor could he blame him. They had come through hell to get to heaven, losing most of his team to do so. And now they waited for a man who needed to satiate some in-depth sadistic need? And then to Maestro: “Bring his ass back,” he told him. “I’ll open the gateway.”
“Copy that.” Maestro moved off in a manner that spoke volumes of anger. Quasimodo knew better. An order was an order—two minutes was two minutes. And that time had come and gone. Success by design was to follow the second-hand of a watch, since synchronization was everything. Even a moment beyond what was required could cause a man’s death.
As Maestro walked into the feeble glow of distant green light, Whitaker turned, grabbed the wheel leading into the tube, and turned it. When the wheel was at its final rotation he pulled, the door opening, giving view to the walkway inside the Umbilical collar. The tube was on a downward slant, which meant to Whitaker that the marine terrace was beginning to pull away from the wall, the weight of the platform no doubt adding to the landing’s state of fragility.
He then looked down the direction Maestro just took. In the distance the green light was growing fainter, the pulsation slowing down to its final beat.
The ship was dying.
Whitaker sighed, feeling a prickle at the base of his neck.
Hurry up, Maestro. We haven’t got much time.
The Tally-Whacker was right.
#
“Quasi?” When Maestro spoke he did so in a whisper. But it was more of a measure that dictated the inconvenience of having been sent back to track down Quasimodo like an adult seeking an irresponsible child. Then once again, but this time louder: “Yo, Quasi?”
When he was met with silence he took an exploratory step forward, vacillating between the ideas of falling back or moving forward.
Around him the area was growing dark, the last of the pulsating light winding down to a final glimmer.
“Quasi?”
Still no answer.
Maestro then made the decision to advance forward with the barrel of his MP5 leveled, the man moving soundlessly.
He then took the bend, a slight curve that led to the framework of the upside down Ankh, and stepped into the room that was pooling with dark shadows and even darker recesses. The light was quickly ebbing.
“Quasi?”
Maestro, like any creature, sensed great danger. The girl was nowhere to be seen. Quasimodo, however, lay on the floor with his neck broken. There was an unnatural bend to the spinal column at the base of his throat, the bone obviously severed.
The commando raised his weapon. His head was suddenly on a swivel.
Situated in a dark nook between two rib-like structures a shape squatted on its heels, watching. The silhouetted form was indecipherable, but a living mass, no doubt.
Maestro drew a precise bead, hooked his finger around the trigger, and applied four of the five pounds of pressure needed to fire off a volley of deadly shots.
It wasn’t the female.
And then: Savage!
Maestro stood riveted, the assault weapon poised to kill. “Get up,” he said. And then: “Where’s the woman? Where’s Moore?”
The shape continued to squat.
“It doesn’t matter to me,” said Maestro, backing off a step. The gun remained level. “She’s as good as dead, no matter what shadow you have her stashed away in. Now get up. I’m not gonna to tell you again.” Maestro motioned the point of his weapon in an up-down gesture, the signal for the shape to stand. And it did, slowly, with Maestro’s eyes following the shape’s rise, the figure growing impossibly tall, its shoulders impossibly wide, with Maestro’s head looking upward as if watching the slow trajectory of a rocket, the mass still rising.
Maestro’s heart hammered away at the wall of his chest. In a warrior fashion he cried out, pulled the trigger, the area lighting up as the muzzle flashes gave light to the Hominid, the bullets striking and deflecting off its armor with the impacts chipping away bits of its shell, the ammo punching the creature back into the shadows. During the flashes of light Maestro could see its blood-red eyes, and the toothy spikes running the length of its forearm. It brought up its opposing forearm, a very thick mass of exoskeleton, to ward off the constant peppering of
gunfire.
The Hominid backpedaled, the creature crying out in anger, in frustration.
Maestro continued to press forward, the man yelling and advancing for the final volley.
And then the weapon went dry, the clip empty. In the time it took for Maestro to eject the clip and attempted to seat another, the Hominid was upon him, raking its spiked arm with deadly encounter.
Maestro never knew what hit him.
#
John and Alyssa saw Maestro before Maestro saw them. So they took to the shadows and allowed the Tally-Whacker to pass them without being noticed.
In the ensuing moments they heard a series of gunshots, quick and steady bursts, with Maestro hollering in a manner Savage took to be a testosterone cry of a warrior rather than a man crying out in abject terror.
And then silence quickly followed, one that was complete and absolute.
Alyssa edged closer to Savage and whispered in his ear. “What was that about?”
“Well, I can tell you this,” he returned. “He wasn’t shooting at thin air.”
He then eased her from the shadows and led her to the collar.
#
Whitaker heard gunfire, a distant but distinct sound of an MP5.
And then silence.
Whitaker closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Something was out there in the dark, something in hiding. And at its most opportune moment it took out the rest of his team, leaving him to stand alone.
He held his weapon before him in examination, considering the minimal effect it had against these predators. Nevertheless, it continued to give him a sense of false security.
Something maneuvered toward his position. Though he couldn’t see it, he could sense it.
So he grabbed his weapon tighter.
But no matter how forcefully he held his MP5, his sense of false security had escaped him.
He had no confidence at all.
#
The Mist could feel the sensations of life forces ahead and zeroed in, the light charges going off in dime-sized eruptions, as the spearhead-shaped mass moved toward the front of the ship.