Yes, Clay had adored those hunts. But here in Bahay… Here was a different sort of game. Here was something more wonderful, intoxicating, sexual.
Here you could hunt men.
True, the slits weren't really humans. Not like he was. They were more like Jews or mongrels. Subhuman. But that made the hunt even more fun. Because Clay was not doing this just for the thrill. Clay was doing something noble here.
Clay was purifying.
He was purifying this planet from the subhuman slits. He was purifying the very galaxy from the inferior races. He was purifying his very soul, scouring it with the blood of his victims.
Back home, he had been nothing. Just an amateur. Back home, he had only ever killed one man. But here, on Bahay?
Here Clay Hagen was a god.
Sitting in the rumbling jeep, he looked over his shoulder. The rest of his platoon rode behind him, crammed into several other jeeps. The platoon he now commanded. Most of them were good men. Good killers. Clay had insisted on commanding the best killers.
I am a god, and these are my angels.
His eyes strayed toward one jeep. A dented old vehicle trailing behind the others.
His platoon was not fully pure.
They were in there. The giant. The Jew. And the stuck-up musician, the worst of the three. They were sinners. They were heretics. Clay would keep them alive for now. He would show them the glory of the hunt. He would wash them with blood. He would break their souls, their spirits, their very humanity. Only then would he break their bodies.
He grinned and licked his teeth.
I will mutilate your corpses, sinners. But first I will shatter your souls into a thousand pieces.
He saw it ahead now. A slit village. The one Colonel Pascal assigned to him. Santa Rosa village.
"My playground," Clay hissed and licked his lips.
The jeeps rumbled closer. They were in northeast Bahay, exploring a remote island. Most slits lived on Bagong Palawan, the largest island on Bahay. But there were thousands of smaller islands like this one, full of more rats. The war hadn't burned this place yet. This was virgin territory. And Clay intended to take that virginity with full force.
The jeeps passed by palm trees and hills lush with rainforest. This land was still sickeningly green, infested with vermin. Clay would cleanse it. As his driver focused on the dirt path, Clay scanned the trees around him.
There!
Movement in the trees!
Clay grinned. The hunt was on!
He aimed his rifle, fired, and—
An ungoy thumped down dead—an alien monkey with six tails.
Clay groaned, spirits crashing. Just a goddamn monkey. Not a slit at all.
"Got a Kenny there?" his driver asked.
Clay snorted. "A monkey."
The driver, a private named William, lit a cigarette. "Same thing. The slits are just monkeys, you know."
"Shut the fuck up, soldier," Clay said. "I didn't come to this world to kill monkeys. I can kill monkeys at home. I came here to kill slits, and that's what I'll do."
"Hell yeah!" said William. "I'm with ya, man. I mean—sir. Sorry, sir, still not used to you being an officer."
Yes, Clay was an officer now. A commander of this platoon. His chest swelled. Back home, they had locked him in jail for killing a man. Here he had killed many men and earned a commission.
By the time I'm done with this village, he thought, I'll be a goddamn general.
The jeeps left the rainforest. They rumbled down a dirt path between rice paddies.
Euphoria leaped in Clay. He hardened at once with desire.
There they were. There in the rice paddies.
His prey.
A handful of Bahayan women stood in the paddies, the water up past their ankles. They wore white dresses, but Clay could already imagine their naked bodies. Straw hats topped their heads, but Clay could already imagine their long, silky hair in his hands, imagine tugging it, ripping it out.
The peasants just stared. Frozen. Deer in headlights.
Clay aimed his gun and fired.
One woman fell down dead.
"Um, sir?" William said. "Didn't the colonel say to kill them only if they run away or toward us?"
Clay shrugged. "The others are running now."
Indeed, the other farmers had gotten the message. They were fleeing toward their village. Dumb bitches! They should be fleeing toward the jungle. This would be easier than Clay had thought.
He fired. Again and again.
The farmers fell. Their blood flowed through the rice paddies.
"Woo!" Clay rose to his feet in the jeep, rifle raised high. "Five slits down so far! Hunting season is open, boys!"
He grinned. Blood pumped through his veins.
In the distance, he could see it. A cluster of bamboo huts with thatch roofs. Hundreds of slits would be in there. Hundreds! It would be a glorious day. The best day of his life.
The jeeps stormed forth like chariots, and the gods of Earth descended in all their wrath and glory.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Tears of Santa Rosa
Jon stared from his jeep.
Cold sweat washed him. His heart burst into a gallop.
"He's killing civilians," Jon said. "He just shot farmers."
George and Etty were in the jeep with him, faces pale.
"That bastard." George clutched the steering wheel so tightly he nearly broke it. "That fucking bastard."
The giant's face turned red. He pressed down on the gas. Their jeep roared down the dirt road, racing between the rice paddies. And Jon saw them now. Corpses in the paddies, half sunken in the water.
Farmers. Women. Unarmed.
And Clay was ahead, leading ten jeeps toward the village. All full of soldiers.
George swerved off the road. He took a shortcut through the rice paddies, spraying water everywhere. Soldiers in the other jeeps cursed and shouted, soaked. But George kept racing until they were driving alongside Clay's jeep.
"Clay, dammit!" Jon leaned out his jeep. "Don't shoot the civilians."
Clay looked at him from the other vehicle. Madness filled his eyes. Those strange eyes were nearly bugging out, the pupils like pinpoints. The eyes of some strange bird. His mouth stretched into a deformed grin. A demon grin.
"They were running away!" Clay laughed. "They're the enemy. They're all the enemy! And we're going to exterminate them."
"Clay!" Jon shouted. His jeep bucked beneath him, rumbling alongside the road, splashing water and scattering seeds. "We're here to shoot Kennys. That's it! Kalayaan fighters and nobody else."
They didn't have time to argue any more. The jeeps had reached the village.
One villager, a young woman in a flowing white dress, began to flee toward the hills.
She looked so much like Maria.
And Clay shot her.
She fell down dead.
"Clay, dammit!" Jon shouted. He clutched his rifle. His hands trembled. He didn't know what to do.
Should I shoot Clay? Should we turn and drive away? What do we do? How do we stop this?
"Everybody in the village—freeze!" Jon shouted, not sure if they understood English. "If you run, he'll shoot you. Freeze!"
His eyes burned. His heart thudded against his ribs. He had to calm Clay down. Right now, the lieutenant was like a mad wolf, ready to rip into prey. If the villagers ran, he would see them as prey. He would hunt them down. If the villagers stood their ground, very still and confident—they might survive.
Clay has animal instincts, Jon thought. He's a rabid predator. But rabid predators can be understood. Can be controlled. I must control him.
The jeeps rolled into the village common, a sward between the huts. Their wheels tore up vegetable patches, crushed a handful of chickens, and knocked over carts of fruit. Mangoes and coconuts rolled across the grass. A pineapple crunched under a tire.
Many villagers were already here for market day. Wooden stalls rose on the gra
ss, displaying a cornucopia of fresh fish, tropical fruit, fabrics, spices, and sundry other items. Two or three hundred people were here to haggle and gossip. They wore the traditional clothes of the provinces—tunics woven from pineapple leaves and straw hats. Several girls were carrying baskets of bananas on their heads. Exotic birds squawked in bamboo cages, and a small, leashed monkey hopped about.
Jon saw mostly women and children. A few villagers were old men, bent and crooked. But no young men. Every young Bahayan man was probably off fighting—or dead already.
The villagers froze and stared at the jeeps.
Don't run, Jon prayed silently. Don't run or he'll shoot you. Just stand still and we'll get through this.
Clay hopped out of his jeep. He strutted across the village common, chest thrust out, his rifle hot in his hands.
"All right, you goddamn gooks!" he shouted. "Everyone—out of your huts! Out of your stinking paddies! All slits—gather here for inspection!"
Jon stepped forward. "They don't speak English."
Clay spun toward him, smirking. "So you tell them, slit lover. You speak gook, don't you?"
Jon had learned a few words of Tagalog, but not nearly enough to communicate clearly.
He took a deep breath. He would have to do his best with English. Hopefully the villagers would understand his tone and gestures if not his words.
"Everyone!" Jon said, arms held open, gun hanging at his side. "We won't hurt you. Gather here!" He pointed at the village square. "We're just looking for the Kalayaan, that's all."
That word—Kalayaan—they understood.
An elderly man stepped forward, hobbling and bent over. His hair was white, his eyes sunken into nests of wrinkles. His knobby fingers clutched a walking stick.
"No Kalayaan!" the old man said. "Just village. No Kalayaan! Just rice." He mimicked eating. "Just rice. Fish. Fruit. No Kalayaan."
Clay approached the peasant. He grabbed him by the collar. "Where are you hiding the Kennys, old man?"
The peasant shook his head. "No Kalayaan! Only village."
Clay snarled and shook him. "You're lying! Where are they? You're hiding them. Answer me!"
"Hey man, lay off him." Jon stepped closer. "He barely speaks English."
Clay spun around, face twisted with fury. "I told you to call me sir! I'm an officer now. And you're my soldier, Taylor." He gestured at the Bahayans. "And these are all liars!"
The old man shook his head again. "No! No lie. No Kalayaan. Village, village! You go. You go away!"
Jon's heart sank.
Don't argue, old man. Please don't argue.
But the old man kept going. He gestured at Clay, then at the village. "No Kalayaan here. Only village. Kalayaan there!" He pointed at the jungle. "Only there. No here. You go there now. You go there! You leave village."
Clay spun toward the old man. "Did you just tell me to get lost, old man?"
"No Kalayaan here! This peace village. You no belong here. You go now. You—"
Clay roared and drove his bayonet into the old man's belly.
The man screamed. Clay twisted the blade, then pulled it free. Blood sprayed.
The other villagers screamed.
The old man gurgled, clutched his lacerated belly, then fell to the grass. Clay kicked him hard in the face, snapping his neck. He spat on the corpse.
"You got off easy, old man."
Jon stood frozen. Blood roared in his ears. His heart pounded. Beside him, George and Etty let out small strangled sounds. A few other soldiers smirked. One imitated the screaming women and laughed.
Everyone in this village is going to die, Jon thought. Unless I can somehow save them.
He stepped toward Clay.
"Clay, enough. I'm calling an end to this." Jon turned toward the other soldiers of the platoon. "Hear me! There are no Kennys here. There aren't even any men of fighting age. We can search the huts. But we must leave the villagers alone! We—"
Powerful arms wrapped around him.
Goddammit! Stupidly, he had turned his back to Clay. And now the brute was holding him, wrestling him down.
"Let him go!" George howled.
But several soldiers leaped onto George too. They looked like wolves piling onto a bison. The giant fell. One soldier pulled out a taser. He electrocuted George again and again, laughing as the giant bellowed.
Etty ran to help him, but soldiers grabbed her too. The petite girl fought fiercely, kicking and screaming. But at sixteen, barely weighing a hundred pounds, she was no match for the men holding her.
Jon struggled against Clay's grip. It was futile. Jon was not a small man, but Clay was much larger and stronger. Pain stabbed the back of Jon's knee. Clay was digging his boot there, forcing Jon to kneel.
"Good," Clay hissed, still gripping him. "This is how I like to see you. On your knees."
Jon roared and spun around, only for Clay to kick him.
Pain exploded across Jon's face.
Blood filled his mouth. Stars floated everywhere.
He hit the ground, and then blows were raining on him. In the distance, he heard villagers scream and soldiers laugh.
Chapter Thirty
Mad God
"Lock them up!" Clay shouted. "Lock the three traitors in a hut!"
Across the village, slits were screaming, weeping, pointing at the dead old man. Clay would deal with them later.
He stared at the traitors who lay at his feet. Jon. George. Etty. All three were bloody and gasping for air. Jon especially was in bad shape, his face already swelling, coughing on blood. Good. It was beautiful to see. Soldiers stepped on their backs, pinning them down. It took three beefy soldiers to secure the giant.
Clay admired his handiwork.
"There you are. Finally on your bellies before me." Clay spat on them. "Three traitors. I'm going to court martial you for this."
William, the jeep driver, approached. "Sir, we should kill them. Put bullets in their heads. Nice and easy."
Clay shook his head. "No. I want them alive. They are mine to torment. Lock them up! I'm not nearly done hurting them."
His soldiers grabbed the traitors. Jon wasn't even able to stand. Clay watched, smirking, as his men manhandled the traitors into a bamboo hut.
You will suffer, he vowed. So very much. But first I have a village to purify. I will show you what remains, Jon. I will show you all the death and destruction before I break you.
Clay turned toward the villagers. With the traitors out of the way, it was time to have fun.
The old man lay dead on the grass. The other slits surrounded him, too fearful to flee or attack. They just stood there like the useless herd animals they were.
All but one woman. A young woman. Pretty, if a bit skinny. She knelt by the old man, weeping.
"Lolo. Lolo!" She clung to the body. "Lolo."
Clay guessed that meant grandfather.
He grabbed the girl, pulled her off the corpse. "Get away from him, you whore. He stinks."
She faced him, tears on her cheeks. Clay couldn't help but notice how her chest heaved as she wept.
He clutched her shirt. He ripped it open, exposing her breasts.
Soldiers catcalled and hooted. The woman covered her nakedness and shrank away.
"No," she whispered. "Please. No."
"Come here." Clay pulled her close. "You ever fucked a real man? An Earthling?"
She spat on his face, then clawed his cheek.
Clay hissed, raised his hand to his cheek, felt blood.
His soldiers all laughed. Their laughter rolled around Clay. They were mocking him! His blood pounded. His fury flowed over him. The world was red.
"Woo, she's feisty!" said a corporal.
"Watch out for cat-scratch fever, sir!" said another.
Clay saw red. His fists trembled.
"Shut up!" he shouted. "Stop laughing! Nobody laughs at me!"
The laughter died at once.
Clay grabbed the woman. There was blood on her fin
gernails.
She spat on him again. But this time there was no laughter.
Clay clutched a handful of her hair. He dragged her over the grass. Hair ripped from her scalp, but enough remained for him to pull. She screamed all the while. A few villagers rushed forward to help, but his soldiers held them back with thrusting bayonets.
Clay dragged the woman toward the village well. Still gripping her hair, he faced the other villagers.
"This is what happens to anyone who defies me!"
He lifted the woman and shoved her into the well.
She screamed as she plunged down.
Clay dropped a grenade in after her. An explosion shook the well. The screams inside cut off.
When Clay looked down into the well, he couldn't help but laugh.
"You'll be drinking red water for a while, slits!" he said.
The villagers all stared in horror. Farther back, screams rose from a hut. His soldiers were inside, beating Jon and his traitor friends to a pulp.
I'm going to have so much fun here. Clay licked his lips. This village is mine. Here I'm more than an officer. I am a god.
He breathed deeply, nostrils flaring, smelling the fear. The blood. The sex.
And he was a child again, hunting along the streets of Lindenville. He grabbed cats and dogs. Skinned them alive. Dissected and studied their organs and savored their screams. He now knew why he had hunted so many animals.
He had been practicing for today.
"All right, slits!" he shouted. "You're going to do what I say. I am Lieutenant Clay Hagen, an officer of Earth. You are going to kneel before me now. You are going to worship me. Or—"
He frowned, biting down on his words.
What the—?
He heard a sound from deeper in the village. A chant. A prayer.
He inhaled sharply.
"Guard these villagers," he said to William. "If anyone runs, shoot them."
Leaving the village common, Clay walked between the huts. A few other villagers were hiding inside, peering through cracks in the bamboo walls. He would get to them later.
He still heard the chanting ahead. He followed the sound toward the largest building in the village. And the only building of stone.
Earthlings (Soldiers of Earthrise Book 2) Page 22