SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

by Jeremy Robinson

  But the hunger was also strong. It filled the creature. It consumed every fibre of its being.

  Time to feed…

  The Black Prince coiled, ready to spring. The soldier was certain to land a few blows before he succumbed, but the brief glimpses of fleeting pain would remind the Black Prince that it was alive. Free. And would be feared once again! The beast flexed its taloned fingers. Long, yellowed nails tapered into savage points. The knuckles were pronounced and gnarled, like the knots in a tree trunk. Sinews like cords snaked across the back of its hands and up his arms. It spread its arms, threw back its head and roared – a scream of defiance at those who would incarcerate and starve it for all these years. They were gone. Mere dust and ashes. Corpses for the worms. But Vlad? Ah, Vlad. He was here. He had survived! And now he could feed once more on the blood of a soldier. He lumbered towards his opponent, a low snarl grumbling in the back of his throat cut short when another sound intruded – a soft mewing. The creature stopped in its tracks. Its bloodshot eyes widened in horror and it screeched – a sound so piercing it made his human opponent recoil and cover his ears. The screech went on and on, reverberating around the corridors and echoing through the citadel, folding and doubling back on itself.

  A small, calico cat sat serenely in the middle of the corridor, casually studying him. The skinny creature was one of the hundreds of feral cats that inhabited the citadel. For as long as the stone walls had stood, the cats had been there. They served a practical purpose in that they kept rats and mice under control. But the villagers seemed to have a special reverence for the mangy creatures, leaving out food and milk for them and chastising anyone who might feel the temptation to kick one of the creatures in passing. Cats, in this part of Turkey, were almost sacred.

  Vlad hated them. They represented its madness, its incarceration, its humiliation. Every time it had fed on one of the screeching beasts, the creature’s insides felt as if it had swallowed acid. For days afterwards Vlad would writhe and scream in agony as the cat’s blood burned through its body. For Vlad, this tiny, mewing calico cat represented all the torment, the agony and the rage that had turned a man into a monster. What once had been a brilliant young mind had degenerated into that which terrifies mankind the most – a physical manifestation of the darkest evil that we are all capable of becoming…

  Vlad recoiled in horror, inching backwards away from the calm little cat. Paying the vampire scant attention, the cat cleaned its paw, a tiny pink tongue darting out as it licked the fur smooth. It stood, stretched its back and legs, yawned and sat back down again, curling its tail neatly around its feet.

  * * *

  Flynn watched as the little cat studied Vlad with that casual interest felines have when they’re mildly distracted. Then, it got up, waved its tail in the air and walked towards the creature, purring happily and blissfully unaware that its misplaced show of affection was tormenting the beast.

  Vlad screamed again and vanished down the corridor. The cat, baffled by the reaction, stopped and sat down.

  Flynn looked at the cat in disbelief, amazed that such a tiny little thing could do what he couldn’t – repel a monster. “Well, fuck me.”

  “He hates cats.” The archaeologist had uncurled from the foetal position and stood, supporting his shaking body by pressing his palm against the slick stones that lined the corridor. “Hates them.”

  “You don’t say.” Flynn scowled, and put the knife away and pulled out his gun. He stepped forward and rescued his dropped clip, deftly flicking the clip into the butt of the gun before scooping up the cat. “Okay, kitty, you’re coming with us.” He turned to the archaeologist, Glock 17 in one hand and scrawny cat in the other. “Wanna get out of here before that bastard decides he’s more hungry than he is scared of a little pussy?” He nodded towards the darkened end of the corridor. “Straight ahead. Follow the cables. Don’t worry. Me and puss here are right behind ya.”

  The archaeologist stared open-mouthed at the cat for a second, turned, and trotted away down the corridor, slightly crouched and ready to backpedal furiously if Vlad did his ‘surprise!’ tactic again around the next corner.

  Flynn scratched the little cat’s head affectionately, and let the agile little critter clamber up onto his shoulder. The deep, rumbling purr felt like a massage cushion on his shoulders. He gave the cat one last affectionate pat and ran after the disappearing academic.

  The cat turned and looked back, narrowing its emerald green eyes at something in the shadows. Its ears flattened against its skull and it hissed…

  * * *

  “Shut the door! Shut the damn door!” Colby Flynn dived through the opening and into the armoury. As he tumbled through the air he jettisoned a small calico cat from his shoulder, rolled and came back up on one knee facing back out into the corridor, the Glock17 up and ready. He stared out into the gloom. Shadows crowded in, advancing towards the armoury as one by one the Jerry-rigged bulbs Micky Cox had strung like Christmas lights along the corridor flickered, popped and died. Each section plunged sequentially into darkness, allowing the thick blackness to jump ever closer to the place Flynn hoped would be safer. Flynn knew that if the darkness reached them before Micky got the door shut, they’d all die in that room…

  Micky slammed the heavy oak door into the frame and turned the key in the lock. There was no rusty squawking or atmospheric creaking from the hinges. Micky was ex-REME, a Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineer, and a damn good one. He hated any piece of machinery that didn’t work as it was supposed to, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. So the hinges and lock had been cleaned and oiled. They worked perfectly, and the reassuring click as the tumblers fell into place was the best damn sound Flynn had heard all day. Micky slid the top and bottom bolts back into their housings, providing additional reinforcement to the lock. He turned, grabbed a thick plank and dropped it into the cradle with a deeply satisfying and wooden-sounding clunk. The huge armoury door was now shut – properly shut.

  Flynn lowered the Glock as Micky leaned against the door. Never point ordnance at your mates. Kind of a rule, really.

  “Mind telling me what the actual fuck?” Micky turned and frowned at his boss, his vivid blue eyes narrowing. “Also? What’s with the cat?”

  “Little Rupert here saved our hides, fella.”

  “Rupert?”

  “What’s wrong with Rupert?”

  Micky’s frown deepened. “Okay, let’s gloss over the fact that you’ve called some mangy, flea-infested moggy Rupert, you weirdo. And just so you know? I’m allergic to cats.”

  “Trust me, Mick, you’d be a damn sight more allergic to the thing it stopped from chowing down on our arses, mate. I’d put a week’s pay on that.” Flynn stood and ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair.

  Micky shrugged. “I take it that’s what the FUBAR’s all about?”

  Flynn glanced down at a heap in the corner. The weeping academic had gone foetal again. Flynn sniffed sharply, grabbed a handful of archaeologist and hauled him to his feet. “Upsy daisy, fella.” He shook the man like a rag-doll. “Oi! Stop now with all that yodelling and tell us what that thing is, and how we can kill it.” He deposited the frightened man on the corner of a table and shook him again. “Because right now, our situ is not good, son. All that’s stopping some insane, bloodthirsty creature from tearing you, me and my boys apart is a five-hundred-year-old door and, for some reason, a bloody cat.” Flynn glanced at the cat, which was winding its skinny body around Micky’s legs and purring loudly. Micky looked decidedly distressed.

  “Which damn question do you want me to answer first, Mister Flynn?” The archaeologist sniffed indignantly.

  “How ‘bout you work through them in order, mate?” A hard cockney voice snapped angrily from the corner and Gary Parks, a hulk of a man with a passion for blowing things up loomed from the shadows. His deep brown eyes shone out from mahogany skin and he raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Boss?”

  “Waiting for Poindexter here to enli
ghten us, fella.” Flynn focused on the cowering academic. “Well? There’s four of us—”

  “And this bloody cat!” Micky sneezed violently. “See? Allergic. Fucking allergic.”

  “And the cat, yes, thanks Mick. Take an antihistamine. There’s some in the medipack.”

  “Couldn’t we just chuck the cat out?”

  “The cat stays, Micky. It stays. Okay?” Flynn jabbed a thumb at a pile of supply boxes. “Antihistamine pill. Now. Get it down your neck, you tart.” He rolled his eyes. “Allergies. Seriously. Who the fuck ever heard of a member of the Regiment with allergies?”

  “Damn near got him returned-to-unit, boss, remember?” Gary grinned at Micky and flicked him the finger.

  “Bollocks, Parks, you ‘roided up wanker.”

  “Focus, you pair of reprobates.” Flynn stared hard at the academic. “So. Wanna fill in the gaps, little guy?”

  “Mister Flynn, I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation.”

  Flynn glowered and slapped the man hard across the mouth. “Really? You think? You think I don’t get the fact that whatever that thing is out there has just ripped your mate to pieces and eaten his fucking heart?”

  “Wait, what?” Gary and Micky stared open-mouthed at their boss.

  “Or that I emptied two clips of hollow-points into the fucker and all it did was dance a little jig?” Flynn slapped the man across the mouth again. “What part did I miss?”

  The archaeologist recoiled from Flynn’s raised hand. “Stop hitting me, damn it!” His shaking hands tried vainly to ward off another slap. “I’ll tell you, just… please, stop hitting me!”

  Flynn dropped his hand. “Okay. Start at the top.”

  “Vlad. It’s Vlad.”

  Gary Parks frowned. “What, as in the Impaler?”

  “Isn’t that a type of car?”

  “That’s an Impala, Micky, you idiot!”

  “Yes, as in the Impaler. The ‘Dracula’ of legend. Only he’s very, very real, believe me.” The academic ignored the scowling, sniffling Cox and focused on Flynn and Parks. “Remember that story I told you last night? It’s true. Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are. I expected to find nothing but bones, Mister Flynn, I swear!”

  “Yeah, well that didn’t pan out, did it?” Flynn sighed. “Seriously. Look, sorry about your lad, by the way. That was bad.”

  “So let me get this straight. We’re being laid siege to by Dracula? Are you serious?” Micky Cox’s voice was filled with incredulity. “Fuck off! That’s a myth!”

  “Trust me, Mick, that thing out there, whether it’s actually Dracula or not, is no damn myth. So let’s ignore the fact that we’ve been dropped kicking and, in the case of Professor Braniac here, screaming into an episode of the Twilight Zone and figure out how we kill that fucker and get everyone out of here in one piece, copy?”

  “Copy.” The two ex-soldiers nodded. Everything else was irrelevant. Myth or not, the identity of their opponent could be argued over later. They needed to focus on the reality of the situation. This was now a simple matter of survival.

  “Right. So what’s the state of play with ordnance, Gary?”

  “Not particularly tickity, to be honest. We weren’t expecting gunfights with angry vampires, boss. We’ve got two boxes of ammo for the Glocks and the three P90s are stocked up with subsonic rounds, with two spare magazines each. Other than that?” Gary shrugged. “I got some C4, if that helps?”

  Flynn stared at his friend. “Why? Why do you have C4, Gary, why?”

  “I thought it might be useful. Ya know. If we had a cave-in or something. And had to blast our way out. Hey, look. I don’t feel right if I ain’t got at least a little bit of Play Doh to bugger about with, okay?” Gary’s explanation tailed off into a mumbled, petulant mutter.

  “Normally, I would be gently taking it off you and calling the men in white coats. But today, you crazy fucker, you might just have convinced me that your presence on this op hasn’t been a total waste of a plane ticket.” Flynn grinned at his friend. “Good. So we’ve got C4, some P90s and Glocks, and seriously limited ammo.”

  “And that bloody cat.”

  “And Rupert, yes, thanks, Micky.” Flynn snapped his fingers at the calico cat and it immediately stopped tormenting Micky and leapt back onto Flynn’s shoulder.

  “It’s not enough,” a voice broke in.

  All eyes focused on the archaeologist.

  “What?” Flynn glared at the man.

  “I said, it’s not enough. You’re not dealing with some Taliban terrorist here, gentlemen. You’re dealing with an ancient evil that has defeated whole armies and laid on banquets where his minions feasted on the hearts of his enemies!” The man’s voice was hitting the hysteria button pretty hard. “Once it gets through that door? I promise you, none of us will survive!”

  Flynn grabbed the man’s collar and snarled in his ear. “Not helping, fella, not fucking helping! You’re upsetting my lads, mate! So enough with the ‘we’re all doomed’ shit, okay?” He tossed the man aside.

  “I got a salami sandwich if that’s any use?” Micky held up a brown paper bag.

  “How the hell would that be of any earthly use whatsoever, you tit? We’re up against some denizen of unmitigated fucking evil, not an angry deli counter server!” Gary cuffed his friend across the back of his head.

  “Hey! It’s got garlic in it. Vampires hate garlic, right?”

  All eyes turned again towards the archaeologist. He shook his head.

  Flynn shrugged. “Right. So how about sunlight? Don’t they burst into flames or something when sunlight hits them? If that’s the case, then all we have to do is wait until dawn, old chompy out there has to retreat back to his cell, and we can get you and us out of here, seal up the doors and get the fuck out of Dodge, right?”

  Again the archaeologist shook his head. “We’re underground, Mister Flynn. It could be midday and it wouldn’t make any difference.”

  “Fine. So our options are we either blow the fucker into pink mist with Play Doh, or die of boredom and bad rations locked in here. Well, honestly boss? I didn’t expect to go out like this.” Gary Parks glared at the door and picked up a P90, winding the webbing strap around his arm and priming the stubby gun ready for action. “But whatever happens, at least we can go out shooting, right?”

  “Reserve your ammo, big guy. Don’t get too trigger happy, okay? I’ve emptied two clips into this bugger and it didn’t even flinch. We need to find anoth—”

  A massive impact made the door vibrate in its frame. Particles of masonry floated down. A second impact made the door judder again.

  “Shit! How big is this fucker?” Micky turned and indicated at the ordnance box. Wordlessly and with the fluidity that comes with years of training, experience and working together, Gary grabbed an FNP90 out of the box and tossed it to his friend. Both men took position, stabilising their stance by dropping down to one knee and tucking the P90 hard into their shoulders. They sighted on the door, ready to fill anything that came through with hollow-points. The P90s held 50-shot magazines, so they were pretty sure they could at least dissuade Vlad from simply waltzing in and turning the armoury into an abattoir in short order.

  “Wait out…” Flynn gave the order to stand by to engage as soon as the ancient door gave way. A third impact sent tremors through the wood. All three men primed their guns in unison and waited.

  A fourth impact. The door flexed – but it held. Just. From beyond the iron-hard blackened wood came a primeval snuffling and snarling. Clawed fingers scrabbled at the wood, sliding ineffectually over fibres that had long ago hardened into the consistency of steel ropes. The snuffling and snarling became frenetic, the sound of scrabbling nails more frenzied. The beast let out a howl of rage and launched a barrage of attacks against the door. A final scream of pure fury rang through the granite corridor then silence. The last few motes of mortar dust floated down.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Has it gone?” Micky Cox’
s voice was an equal balance of hard-core ‘bring it on, you fucker!’ and just enough concern to ensure the element of self-preservation kicked in.

  “Doubt it, Mick. Probably just buggered off up the corridor to take a good old run up, mate. Eye’s on.” Gary Parks’ eyes flickered briefly from the door to Flynn. “Now what, boss? Another battering like that and that door’s coming down.”

  “Stand fast.” Flynn shifted his grip on his own P90 and waited. “Okay, Professor, suggestions? Because we can’t hold this thing off forever.”

  “I… sir, I’m an archaeologist, not a damn strategist!”

  “Fella, I’m an ex-soldier, not Buffy the fucking Vampire Slayer, but you don’t see me crying in a corner, do you? Now think! Use that brain of yours to try and figure a way out of here!” He jerked his head towards the table. “There’s a map of the citadel tunnels on the table. Find us a quick way to the surface. Because Gary’s right, that door ain’t gonna put up with another battering like that. Mister Bitey out there is coming through on the next assault, and I want to be ready for him.”

  The archaeologist scuttled over to the table and started poring over the map.

  “Boss? I could set a charge if you like? When Sir Chompsalot comes through I could vaporise the bugger, no probs.”

  Flynn shook his head. “As much as I like the sound of that, it would bring the whole damn chamber down on top of our heads too. Kinda a lose-lose situation, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Nah. I can use it like blasting cord. Loop a line of Play Doh around the door frame and direct the explosion inwards. It would contain the blast, wouldn’t compromise the chamber ceiling, and give Chompy out there one hell of a headache. If nothing else, it would at least buy us some time to make a run for it. And to be honest? I don’t like the fact we’re effectively cornered in here.”

  Flynn looked at his friend. “I agree, mate. Look, are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re sure sure?”

  “Boss, your doubt in my ability to blow shit up in a controlled and refined manner wounds me!”