Two hundred yards away, the helicopter’s rotor was already spinning up to speed. The pilot wore an environment suit like the team, so he could keep the side door open and waiting. Pawn was tossing her FN SCAR rifle into the interior and clambering up. Knight was right behind her, slinging his rope bag and empty spear gun inside. Queen was aiming another spear gun in Rook’s direction, but at an upward angle. King, wrapped in a spare, white environment suit, was reaching down to haul Pawn into the doorway.
The sight of his teammates gave him hope, and Rook found yet another burst of speed, his legs beginning to burn, and a cramp forming in his side, just above his right hip.
At one hundred and fifty yards, Rook saw Queen launch her bomb-spike, and then scramble to load another. King was hauling Knight into the open bay, and Pawn was fumbling to load another spear gun.
It was the frantic handling of the weapons that made him look back.
The ground vibrated and rippled beneath his feet, as Rook twisted to see the pursuing creature. The Mongolian death worm raised its head up as it came, looking like a huge, fast-moving wave of surf, ready to crash down on him. Its mouth was a gaping black void around a brilliant, scarlet skin that glistened in the sudden sunlight at the edge of the blowing storm behind the thing.
The creature, like all the others, had no visible nose or mouth. It was just a long, ribbed tube with a dark tendrilled opening at one end and a tapering diameter at the other end. But this worm was so big that the spaces between the ribbed segments on its sides were so deep, Rook thought he could stand inside one without the sides of the segments touching him. He tentatively planned to try just that if it came down to it.
He faced forward and threw the last of his energy into a final press of speed toward the helicopter, which was just beginning to hover. In his quick look, Rook had seen that the storm was closing almost as fast as the giant, hungry cylinder.
The ground shook so hard that rocks the size of baseballs skittered across the jagged landscape. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that Mighty Joe Worm was gaining on him. The fact that all five of his teammates were firing spear guns over his head now was all the indication he needed that his time was almost up. When the pilot raised the helicopter another foot, and started to bank the craft even further away from his frantic dash, it underscored the point for Rook.
When he glanced back one more time and his boot caught on an unforgiving shrub, he felt himself pitch forward, overbalanced. Rook knew it was the end.
9
King saw that Rook was going down. He leapt out the still-open helicopter door and raced to meet the man. Rook had almost made it, before he had tripped, just thirty feet away. King cleared half that distance before Rook actually hit the ground. Either to his credit or due to his sheer momentum, Rook continued forward on the rocky soil, rolling forward on the ground, even as King skidded to a halt next to him.
Together, they got Rook to his feet and ran the last of the distance toward the black helicopter. To the pilot’s credit, he had angled the vehicle closer in, toward the men, the pursuing hell worm and the raging whiteout wall.
King simply dove head-first into the belly of the cargo area, willing Rook to follow him. He slid across the floor of the angled craft and his hand grasped a cargo strap, just as someone else’s hand latched onto his wrist to hold him in place.
The helicopter banked away, still rising off the ground. King was worried that the tips of the vehicle’s blades might scrape the rocky soil at such a steep angle of departure, but the pilot was top-notch.
When he turned to look back out the open side door, King saw the massive worm was just below them, but rising up off the ground, pursuing the rising helicopter. The pilot was gaining altitude, but only at a slightly faster rate of gain than the death worm. The black maw followed them into the sky like a pirate ship intent on doing them ruin.
Rook had indeed made it into the craft, and he was now sitting with his back against the bulkhead. He’d formed a figure eight knot on the end of the rope from Knight’s bag and was clipping it to the front of his harness with a black, anodized aluminum carabiner. King expected he would clip the other end of the rope onto the body of the helicopter for safety, but he never got the chance.
As the helicopter began to pick up vertical speed, the worm fell farther from the open door until Knight judged the distance enough. He flicked the switch on his transmitter, holding it up so everyone could see him deliver the coup de grâce.
Nothing happened.
“Son of a bitch,” Rook called. “Try this one.” He reached out the hand of his bloodied arm and slapped the switch on his own transmitter, which was attached to the front of his gear harness.
Again nothing happened.
“We’re too far away from it now,” Queen said, reminding them all that the devices had a limited range. She called to the pilot. “We need to drop altitude a little.”
“Screw that,” Rook said, standing and pulling his twin Desert Eagle pistols. “Somebody get the friggin’ rope.”
With that he leapt head first out the open door, and toward the still rising void of the death worm’s mouth.
Five sets of hands scrambled for the rope bag and the black climbing rope that rapidly unspooled from its depths.
* * *
Rook sailed straight down through the air, head first toward the oncoming ring of waving tendrils. He could see that the creature had raised almost half of itself straight up off the ground, chasing the rising helicopter with unrestrained hunger.
He had no question in his mind that the others would secure the rope, preventing him from falling to his death. Instead he worried that his plan to get close enough to the bomb-spikes that the transmitter would work might be flawed. He couldn’t do the math quick enough to determine when his plummeting body would meet the rising worm. He’d always hated those kinds of problems in school.
Instead, he focused on what he knew how to do best.
Time to break shit.
He fired his huge pistols at the inside of the worm’s mouth, blowing huge chunks of skin apart, even from that distance. Then the rope caught taut above him, jerking his descent to an abrupt stop, and he felt the last meal he’d eaten, hours ago, try to leave his body through the top of his head. Then his body flipped upside down, because the attachment point on his harness was in front of him. He was now hanging in the air with his back facing the lunging creature and his stomach facing upward at the bottom of the helicopter.
As the vehicle swung him over the edge of the worm’s mouth, he twisted in his harness, looking down at the outer side of the beast. He could see one of the bomb-spikes implanted in its flesh. He figured he was close enough to the creature now. He slapped a hand still holding a Magnum against the switch of the transmitter on his chest, but the bombs still refused to explode.
“Monkey fucker-noodle!”
A boiling cloud of purple vapor bellowed out of the creature’s mouth, and Rook knew they had just a few seconds before the death worm spewed a stream of poison at him and the helicopter. The edge of the storm had found them, too, suddenly whipping the rope, and Rook’s dangling body.
He raised both pistols and fired both magazines dry at the single bomb-spike he could see on the side of the worm’s slick body. He quickly ejected both magazines and slotted in a single new one for the pistol in his right hand. He took a single steadying breath as the raging wall of white began to cover up the creature’s body, just feet below the silver of the bomb-spike’s surface. The purple cloud coming out of the creature’s mouth was billowing back past the creature, as its mouth still rose into the air. The thick viscous fumes further obscured the explosive spear nailed into the worm’s hide. He started to worry that the acidic nature of the fumes could incapacitate the detonators on the bombs, but then he let the thought fall Zen-like from his mind as he aimed, released his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The effect was instant.
Although the explosive compound i
n the spears was hardy enough to take a shot from a bullet without exploding, the small detonators on the spikes were not. The bullet impacted the detonator, and the smaller explosive it contained went off, taking the larger explosive with it. The bomb-spike’s explosion then activated the others embedded in the creature’s thick hide, all over the front half of its body. The entire upper half of the giant beast turned into a maelstrom of orange fire, black smoke, purple venom, red skin fragments and white swirling snow and ice.
The helicopter rose abruptly, tugging Rook with it, but his suit still got splattered with gore. Smoke rose from parts of his formerly white covering, melting from the viscous goo that now coated him.
“I’m gonna need a new suit fast,” Rook said over the comms. “And an aversion therapy doctor with a gallon-sized bucket of sour gummy worms.”
“Copy that,” Aleman said. “Are you clear?”
Rook looked up as he was tugged from above. The team pulled him up as King looked down for visual confirmation of Rook’s situation. Rook gave a thumbs up. “Aside from the melting, we’re golden.”
“We’re done here,” King said. “En route to the safe house.”
“Actually,” Aleman said. “The safe house is compromised.”
“Admiral Ward?”
“Uh-huh.” Aleman said in almost a groan. “Better come to me instead.”
“Will do,” King said, adding his muscle to the rope pulling effort. “But then we’re going to have a chat about what to do about this thorn in our side.”
Thanks for reading SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest.
We really hope you enjoyed it, both for the brilliant efforts by our authors and for the wonderful artwork by Monty Borror. We’re proud to present what we consider the best military horror/sci-fi we can find.
Geoff Brown and Amanda J Spedding
READ ON FOR AN EXTRACT FROM SNAFU: HUNTERS
Also From Cohesion Press
Horror:
SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Heroes
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
SNAFU: Wolves at the Door
– eds Geoff Brown & Amanda J Spedding
The Gate Theory – Kaaron Warren
Carnies – Martin Livings
Sci-Fi/Thriller:
Valkeryn 2 – Greig Beck
Crime:
Dark Waters – Deborah Sheldon
Family:
Magoo Who? – Anne Carmichael
May I Be Frank? – Anne Carmichael
Guardian of the Sky Realms – Gerry Huntman
Coming Soon From Cohesion Press
Cry Havoc (August 2015)
Blurring the Line (September 2015)
www.cohesionpress.com
Extract from ‘Bonked’ by Patrick Freivald, featured in SNAFU: Hunters (November 2015)
* * *
Flynn jerked his thumb toward the back. “You want me to get the trunk?”
Matt shook his head. The REC-7 carbine and Auto-Assault 12 combat shotgun could stay where they were, in the trunk under lock and key. If worse came to worse he had his personal Glock 9mm in the glove box. But it wouldn’t. They’d been made as cops in a no-go zone, but hadn’t done anything to justify a murder, even from a gang as vicious as the Camino Reals.
They blew through two red lights, the jeeps swerving and honking behind, but as they passed from one turf to the next the pursuit broke off and didn’t return.
“You sussed those out pretty fast. Precog, yeah?” Flynn asked.
Matt nodded without taking his eyes from the road.
“Brilliant, brilliant. They wouldn’t clear me for it, said I’d had enough. I’m thinking what’s the harm, right?”
“The harm is you go bonk and kill everything around you until other people like you put you down.”
Flynn chuckled. “That’s what I mean, right? The side effect is ‘fun.’”
“Just keep your pants on.”
“Aye, Sergeant.”
Ten minutes later they rolled past the Marquee, a modern glass-and-steel structure at odds with the dilapidated neighborhood. The fading day washed the neon lights to a pale glow but did nothing to hide the ultraviolet paint across the front windows, a cartoon shark swimming through a golden crown that would be invisible to unaugmented eyes.
“See that?” Matt asked.
Flynn nodded. “Fancy. You think the Shades don’t have blacklights?”
Matt shrugged. “One cop in fifty might have augged vision, maybe. Not like the Mako Kings don’t know the police know where they hang out, anyway. As long as they think we’re just cops, we’ll—”
Flynn popped his handle and stepped out, the car still rolling at fifteen miles an hour. He hooked a parking meter with his right hand and used it to spin himself around, stopping with a flourish with his toes balanced on the edge of the curb. As Matt slammed on the brakes and swore under his breath, Flynn took a bow to the wide-eyed onlookers. Flynn waited behind the car for Matt to pull over, put on the brake and get out.
People milled the streets, heading home from work or out for a Friday on the town. As one they gave the car a wide berth, eyeing both newcomers with open suspicion or naked hostility.
Matt stepped up to his friend with his jaw clenched in frustration. “Dammit, Conor, we’re supposed to be scoping the place, not painting bullseyes on our heads.”
A seven-foot tall bouncer, rippling with muscles impossible through normal exercise, eyed them from the front door across the street. Taking in the sea of Hispanics, all either staring or trying too hard not to stare, Flynn ran a hand over the stubble on his pasty scalp. “See, we fit right in, sunnies and all.” He put on his shades and sauntered across the street.
Music trickled out behind the double-doors, Latin horns over a hip-hop beat, death-metal Spanish growling from a microphone. They approached, cop-casual, Matt two steps behind. The bouncer moved to intercept them. His voice rumbled an octave lower than a normal man’s, his accent a blend of Mexican and south Florida. “Can I help you gentlemen?”
“Yes,” Matt said. “We—”
“Looking for a drink and twirl is all.” Flynn spun, an elegant pirouette that ended in a curtsey. He held the pose and looked up under his brow into the bouncer’s eyes. “Heard the Marquee had it happening, am I right?”
“You’re not our target clientele, ese.” The bouncer put his hands on his hips so that his massive frame blocked most of both doors. Matt winced as Flynn’s eyes flashed, an almost imperceptible twitch that showed not the slightest hint of fear. The bouncer put his hand on Flynn’s chest, fingers splaying almost to his shoulders. “You’re going to have to leave.”
“What, because I’m white? You discriminating here? You think the Irish haven’t faced—”
Matt put his hand on Flynn’s shoulder. “We’re not here to pick a fight, Conor.”
“—their share of discrimination, you racist prick? Why don’t you make me leave, big guy?”
To his credit, the bouncer didn’t take the bait. Much. He extended his arm, slowly, forcing Flynn several steps back on the sidewalk. “Move along, little man. This isn’t the place for you.” He extended his fingers and Conor stumbled back two steps.
Matt moved between them and Conor rebounded off of his back. “We’re sorry, sir. We’ll be on our way.” He stepped back, bumping Flynn toward the street, then turned and backed him off the curb and into the road. Through gritted teeth he mumbled, “The point was to maintain surprise, moron.”
Flynn almost frolicked toward the car, locking eyes with anyone and everyone who dared challenge his right to be there. “Nah, there’s no fun in that, and he thinks we’re cops or feds or something anyway. The point was to size that meathead up. You see what I saw?”
Matt recalled the scene, his eidetic memory enhancements bringing to crystal-clear focus details he hadn’t seen in real time. “Tracks?”
“Right i
s right. He’s on the H, not just Jade. We follow him home, wait for him to snow out, bangers and mash,” he mimed tossing a flash-bang grenade, “black bag over the head, voila. New toy for the intel department.”
Matt tried not to smile as he gunned the engine. “Call it in.”
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FUBAR by Weston Ochse
Table of Contents
Foreword
Badlands
SD Perry
Of Storms and Flame
Tim Marquitz & J.M. Martin
In Vaulted Halls Entombed
Alan Baxter
They Own the Night
B. Michael Radburn
Fallen Lion
Jack Hanson
Sucker of souls
Kirsten Cross
The Bohemian Grove
Weston Ochse
After the Red Rain Fell
Matt Hilton
The Slog
Neal F. Litherland
Show of Force
Jeremy Robinson & Kane Gilmour
SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest Page 33