by Matt James
Then his night vision picked up the faintest of things off in the distance. He saw a shape lumbering towards them—only—it was big…really big. Irwin was six-tons of nature’s most dominating champion. No land animal was as big as an African bull.
But then he saw the red eyes. There had to be a dozen of them and they were all looking their way.
“The Nach?” Fitz asked, seeing them as well.
Logan shook his head, knowing what they were about to face. “No, mate. Not the Nach…” He breathed in heavy, holding back the tears he knew would soon begin to fall. “It’s a Nach—it’s Irwin… He’s gone.”
43
“Ho-ly shit,” Fitz said, flabbergasted at the sight of the African elephant as it came into focus in his night vision device. It was like something out of a sci-fi flick.
The normally docile—almost playful at times—behemoth, was now the most screwed up, terrifying thing he’d ever seen.
Things just keep getting better and better…
He leaned back, around Mo, and watched Logan, seeing his friend’s shoulders sag. Fitz felt for the guy. Logan had some weird bond with Irwin from before he ever stepped foot on the Dark Continent.
Dark… Fitting name under the circumstances, Fitz thought. Everything about this place represented evil now—down to the very creatures that inhabited it. Usually, he would only think of the poachers as the dark side of nature. The Sith of Africa he joked one night, watching Star Wars.
Fucking Jar Jar… He wasn’t sure why he was cursing the floppy-eared moron’s name. It just felt right to do so for some reason.
HRRRN!
Fitz covered his ears with his hands as Irwin bellowed again, causing them to ring. Miracle ear, here I come. He tried popping them like he was on a plane, but it didn’t work. It felt like the flashbang from when he and Mo squared off against the lions.
“Why is it so loud?” Mo asked, having to yell. He gripped the brakes hard, sending the Wraith into a skidding stop. His hearing was also shot from the sounds of it, as was Logan’s. Fitz watched as Mo shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Then, Fitz saw why the decibel level of Irwin’s trumpet was off the charts.
Not only did it have twelve eyes, but it also had twelve trunks. Plus, Irwin had to be another two—maybe three—feet taller and another couple thousand pounds heavier. His skin was also the same jet black as others who had become infected, including the red, pulsating veins just beneath the top few layers.
“You’re kidding me, right?” Fitz said, dumbfounded. “It’s a damn Woolly Cthulhu. His skin even looks tougher—like this.” He knocked on his chest, hitting the Kevlar vest.
“Cthulhu?” Mo asked.
“He’s right,” CJ replied, cutting in over their earpieces. “Cthulhu was an alien entity—fictional of course—by legendary writer H.P. Lovecraft. It was said to have a humanoid body mixed with a dragon and a face that looked like an octopus. Irwin’s naturally large skull and his prodigious trunk made for a perfect match once the God Blood took over.”
Fitz appreciated CJ’s straightforward information. In any other situation, the detached analysis would have been a little off-putting to him. He generally liked to keep things loose, but he understood why she was doing the zoologist thing right now. They had all grown attached to Irwin. Logan fought harder, CJ changed into an animal encyclopedia, and he cracked jokes. It’s how each of them coped. But now, the candor helped him focus on what to do next.
The only problem was, that was Logan’s gig. He wouldn’t move on Irwin unless the captain gave the word. There were things Fitz was more than capable—and expected—to do on his own, but dealing with Irwin wasn’t one of—
Bullets ripped into Irwin’s face as Logan unloaded into the monster. Fitz expertly followed suit and unleashed one of his grenades. It soared, arcing straight towards Irwin, detonating on his back.
The three men were shaken by the blast, causing Logan to stop firing. Losing some of his resolve, he lowered his rifle and watched. A cloud of smoke and dirt rolled around the Nach and was swept away by a light breeze. What they saw was horrifying.
Irwin was fine. The only sign of injury was a burnt spot on his back where the 25mm explosive hit. Other than that, he was just peachy. Pissed, but peachy. And to prove it, Irwin reared up on his hind legs and trumpeted again with all twelve of his full-sized trunks, charging as soon as his tree trunk sized front legs hit the ground.
“Get us out of here, Mo!”
Fitz couldn’t agree more. If his weapon couldn’t put a ding in Irwin’s new, more resilient skin, nothing could.
Unless I score a direct hit on its face and blow out a few of its eyes, Fitz thought as Mo spun the Wraith, doing a one-eighty, taking off back towards the Bullpen.
There has to be a chink in its armor. The problem with that strategy was obvious, though. They’d have to be directly in front of him again to get off that kind of shot.
The ground shook as the beast gave chase, catching up quickly. Fitz had no idea how fast they were going, but he estimated it to be around 40mph.
It was huge, fast, and basically armor plated. If this thing got even close to the Pen it would rip through it like it was made of cardboard.
Fitz could see it in his head as Irwin smashed through the concrete and steel walls, collapsing the three-story structure with ease. CJ, Jan, Adnan, and Kel would be killed without a doubt and then Irwin would chase them until they ran out of gas.
We need to change course.
Luckily, they didn’t have to make that decision.
A cacophony of automatic fire rained down from the sky above, hitting Irwin from every direction as he ran. Most found their marks and even more did nothing, but a few did find Irwin’s eyes. He trumpeted again and slowed, thrashing about in every direction with his trunks.
Then it stopped and spun in circles, trying to grab anything that got close—but nothing did. The men landed all around the behemoth and unloaded again and again, never letting up.
The American military had arrived.
Just in time, Fitz thought, watching the skilled precision of the black-clad team of twelve. They formed a semicircle around the Nach and started to even push it back some, their parachutes dragging on the ground behind them.
Then as quick as a viper, each man quickly reached up to their chest and detached their harnesses, ditching said chutes. Then, with what Fitz knew to be meticulous training, each man reloaded and continued their barrage.
Fitz climbed out, as did Logan, and they joined in.
“Keep your men at a safe distance,” Logan yelled to the closet, helmeted soldier. “We can take it out if we hit it with our XM25.” He knew these guys would understand the weapon and its capabilities.
Without acknowledging Logan’s suggestion, the men—all twelve of them—began to quickly backpedal. Fitz and Logan climbed back into their sidecars as Mo threw the vehicle in reverse, backing them up another hundred feet.
He stopped and Fitz stood, yelling, “Fire in the hole!”
He opened up with everything he had, aiming square into the center of Irwin’s face. He let fly three quick whumps, connecting with each of his projectiles. Irwin bellowed again, but it sounded like there was rage mixed in with the pain.
As one, the twelve soldiers ceased firing, never lowering their weapons. They watched fingers on triggers, waiting for the worst to happen.
“Damn,” said one of the Americans.
Fitz agreed, the dust cloud was thick and swirling. They couldn’t see through it and wouldn’t be able to for a while. He looked around and noticed why… The wind had died down.
“Dionysus, Apollo, Hermes—move in,” the man to Fitz’s right said, giving the order. “I want confirmation that it’s down.”
Greek gods?
The three men moved in swiftly, disappearing into the haze. Silence filled the Serengeti for a beat.
Then, screams.
Then…nothing.
44
No one moved. Not a single member of the newly arrived force even flinched. They stayed rooted where they were and held their fire, patiently awaiting the outcome.
Logan watched as something sailed through the air towards another of the men encompassing the dust cloud. He tried to closely examine the projectile, but couldn’t make out the object.
Until it landed.
“Ugh,” Fitz said, leaping back.
It was a head.
Fitz stepped back again, giving the severed head a wider berth.
“Now, what?” Fitz asked, looking to the American team’s commander.
No answer.
Logan stayed silent as well. He knew the beast would eventually emerge—or the dust cloud would dissipate and show it to them—whichever came first.
And then it did.
The extra-large Nach stepped forward, revealing its state.
A couple of the trunks were damaged and few were altogether missing. Logan also saw one hanging limply, barely connected by the thinnest of sinews.
The eyes were damaged too. Only five were still lit and presumably working, but he had a strong suspicion that the plagued Irwin could still see just fine. Twelve were obviously better than five, but five were still better than none. He’d also seen how these things fight injured. They would battle as brutally as they could until completely destroyed.
“Um… Captain?”
Logan looked to his left. Mo was still in the pilot’s seat of the Wraith. The look of abject horror was plain to see.
It took three of Fitz’s rounds to the face and lived…
Dread began to eat away at Logan’s determination. He was beginning to believe that this was a lost cause and that they and the Americans were done for.
“Logan…” Fitz whispered. “You got any bright ideas?”
Bright…
Logan perked up at the thought. He then reached into one of the pockets of his combat vest and pulled out a flashbang.
He could see Fitz smiling as he did the same.
So did Mo.
“You sure that’s going to work?” It was the American commander asking, looking over to the three SDF men. Logan just nodded.
“Tell your men to get ready,” Logan said. “I’m assuming you carry these?”
He just cocked his head to the side saying, duh, and revealed an identical explosive. The American then whispered the orders to all his remaining men through their comms system.
Logan raised an eyebrow at how the man just mumbled his orders, never raising his voice enough to be understood, even from the distance he stood from him.
Sub-vocal communications—mostly likely throat mics, Logan thought. Must be Delta.
The United States finest was there, and that, Logan was grateful for. The problem was, they were still knee deep in a large pile of shit and there was no guarantee they would dig themselves out.
“On my mark,” the American said. “Three…two…one…Mark!”
The remaining Americans, along with Logan, Fitz, and Mo, lobbed their respective flash grenades at the monster. They then all turned away and prepared for the concussive bang associated with the explosive.
The pressure wave knocked Logan off his feet, sending him sprawling to the dirt, but otherwise, he was unharmed. He felt sick to his stomach and could feel what little food he’d eaten in the last day churn from the impact but he would be okay. It felt like he’d just gotten off a bad amusement park ride, ready to vomit, but not. He didn’t have to worry about the others either. They were all fully capable of continuing fighting even while working through the flashbang’s nauseating effects.
They’d better be able to.
The Nach, on the other hand, was not used to those same effects and it proved it by its behavior. It writhed on the ground, bucking and thrashing its prodigious head. Its trunks flailed and squirmed like a sea anemone getting tossed by an ocean wave.
“Fire!”
Logan complied with the American commander and let loose on the beast, pouring into the creatures already damaged face. The others just laid into whatever part of the beast was visible.
It’s not enough.
“Bunch up!” Logan yelled, directing everyone. “Converge on my position and aim for its head!”
The American, who at first looked upset at the Aussie taking over his men, agreed, relaying the order. They continued firing but promptly lined up with Logan, Fitz, and Mo—who was opening up with his Mossberg.
“It can’t function without a brain,” Fitz added. “Destroy it and we’re clear.”
And so, they did.
The three SDF men and the nine remaining American Special Forces soldiers added their collective might together, and let fly with everything they had.
Irwin’s Nach form continued to thrash and squirm under the heavy fire, it was still heavily disoriented and couldn’t regain its footing.
Round after round pounded into the creature as Logan and the others reloaded, but still Irwin lived. He was using his ears as some sort of shield, half-covering his face from the abuse. It got one foot underneath itself and pushed, standing on wobbling limbs. Then it took a couple steps forward, advancing through the storm of gunfire.
“Keep firing!” Logan yelled, following his own advice. The only one not firing was Fitz, his XM25 was useless at this range unless he wanted to kill everyone else too.
Armored skin flew as they began to rip apart the protective ears, but still, Irwin advanced, trumpeting through the barrage. He dug his front limbs into the earth and pushed, advancing again.
“Logan?” Mo asked, having to yell over the noise. He stopped firing, taking his position on the Wraith. His job was quickly changing from pilot to getaway driver with every failed impact.
Then, Irwin reared up and charged, lowering its solid skull like a battering ram. It was still covering itself as well as it could, but now it was beyond angry. It would try to crush them and pound them into paste, using every ton it had in its rage-filled assault.
Two more of the Americans—those that weren’t retreating quickly enough—were each grabbed by a trunk. They lashed out like a squid’s tentacle, stretching to double its length, and snared the soldiers.
Irwin broke one of them in half, bending him backward at the waist, tossing the American away like a ragdoll. The other man was slammed to the ground, getting his head stomped in. Irwin passed over the now flattened man like he had been an unseen ant.
“Run!”
Logan knew scattering was the best way to confuse the monster, but he also recognized that the Nach would not stop, and it wouldn’t get tired. Eventually, they would all be found and killed and once they were gone, no one would be able to defend the Pen.
He turned and ran into the night and almost stopped in surprise. A set of headlights was coming in fast. Logan recognized the shape of the vehicle immediately.
The Rhino…
Help was coming.
45
CJ drove like a woman possessed. She floored the Hummer’s pedal, burying it into the floorboards. She needed to get there faster.
She saw men running in every direction a hundred yards ahead and something massive moving behind them. It was hard to get a good look at the beast that used to be Irwin from where she sat. The Rhino was bucking violently, causing her line of sight to bounce along with it.
As she neared, something slammed into the windshield, glancing off the near-impervious bulletproof glass. A crack and a wet slap told her it was a body that had struck the vehicle, pinging off it like a bug on the highway. The smear of blood was another obvious sign. The monster had flung someone at them.
She reeled at the spreading crimson, but couldn’t look away. She still needed to drive and looking through the windshield was kind of—sort of—important.
Pounding from behind and above, told her to stop. She complied as Jan opened up on the behemoth with the still cooling .50 caliber machine gun. He fired in aimed spurts, not wanting to render the weapon useless.
>
I’m sure we’ll need it again, CJ thought, watching the massive thing in her headlights.
It still had the overall shape of an elephant, minus the face of course, but what Logan had failed to mention was its tusks. They were also longer—like a Woolly Mammoth’s—and pointed like spears.
She watched as it impaled one of the Americans, punching a large hole through the man’s back as he ran. He was then lifted off the ground, kicking and screaming. The soldier was carried away like a sick holiday ornament or a woman’s dangling earring.
Jan scored a direct hit on Irwin’s face, causing one of the eyes to explode in a gout of fluorescent plasma. The spray landed on another of the Americans, causing the man to flinch and fall. His face was coated in the viscous fluid, and apparently, it hurt like hell.
He didn’t get up.
What the hell? CJ thought as she watched the black-clad soldier just lay there—then he sat up and looked her way. His eyes were red and glowing, just like the others.
“Oh, my God!” she screamed. The infected soldier then ran straight at her brother.
“Logan!” she yelled. “Behind you!”
Logan spun as the soldier reached out for him. She could even see the man’s fingernails rapidly elongating into claws. Is the eye-goo an accelerated form of the God Blood?
Her brother dodged the incoming attack, sidestepping the newly turned Nach. He then turned his SCAR on the man and fired.
Click.
Out of ammo.
Logan dropped his empty rifle and drew his Desert Eagle, pumping a round into the back of the Nach’s skull as it stumbled by, obliterating its brain…along with most of its head. He then quickly picked up his discarded weapon, slapped in a new magazine, and waved his thanks to CJ. Finally, like nothing had happened, he began his assault on Irwin again, sending another burst into the monster.
The best, CJ thought.
The ground rumbled as the beast fell—not dead—but definitely injured. It flailed some more, only having half of its original trunks left. The missing limbs revealed its blood covered teeth. It reminded CJ of a massive Piranha jaw. The teeth were small relative to Irwin’s new girth, but no doubt razor sharp.
