The Pilot

by Michael Cole

  In a vicious, reactionary motion, the Pilot vaulted backward. Still lodged in the glove, the SEAL knife was ripped from Seymour’s grasp. Blood seeped from the creature’s neck as it stumbled backward. It quickly steadied itself and started for Seymour again.

  This guy just won’t die! Seymour snarled and ran forward, ready to plunge his knife.

  The Pilot thrust its hand out. Its palm struck Seymour square in the chest as its fingers grabbed a fistful of his vest. He felt himself lifted off the floor as the creature swung him in a counter-clockwise motion. A tremor rippled through his body as it slammed him hard against the starboard wall, shaking the knife from his grip.

  Pressed against the wall, Seymour felt his feet dangling two feet off the floor. The creature screeched furiously and drew its left arm back. Like a boxer, it rammed the now-blunt end of its glove into Seymour’s side. Ribs cracked, and painful yells hollered as the blow landed. It struck a second time, cracking another rib. Seymour shouted as a third punch blew his air out.

  It felt as though his ribcage was compressing his lungs. The Pilot stepped back, yanking Seymour from the wall. Screeching viciously, it threw him to the floor like a ragdoll. Seymour struck down hard on his stomach. His jaw clenched as his chin hit the floor, cracking two of his crowns. Blood spat from his mouth as he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

  He looked up over his left shoulder, seeing the Pilot standing over him. It lifted its right leg and thrust its heel down on his side like a battering ram. Pain burst through his body as the force drove him onto his back.

  Coughing and groaning, Seymour clutched his sides. “Son-of-a-BITCH!” he yelled out.

  The Pilot stood over him, gazing at its prize. It lifted its knee again, placing its foot square atop Seymour’s chest. It steadily applied pressure. Seymour felt like an air balloon being squeezed. His chest compressed tightly, and all air left his lungs as he wheezed for breath.

  He tried pushing the foot off, but the creature’s strength was far superior. He felt himself growing weak. His chest tightened like he had never felt before in his life. In a moment, his chest plate would crack, and be driven into his lungs and heart.

  He felt the curtain closing in on his vision. With almost all energy and air depleted, Seymour’s arms fell to each side.

  The tip of his fingers touched something. Something metal. Solid, but loose. Looking to his right, he saw the open metal container.

  Beside it was the fallen flare gun.

  Seymour summoned any remaining energy and seized the weapon by its handle. He pointed up, squeezing the trigger.

  A ball of flame blasted from the nozzle, striking the Pilot square in the face. Sizzling fire scorched its mandibles and ate away at its vision. The Pilot scurried backward in a frenzy. Stumbling into the back of the cabin, it clawed at its own face to rid of the embedded flame.

  Relieved of its weight and pressure, Seymour pulled himself to his feet. Fighting through the intense pain, he ran for the cockpit. He stumbled inside, slamming the door shut behind him. He secured the latch, locking the creature out, then sat at the pilot’s seat.

  He switched off the autopilot and turned the plane around. The hisses echoed through the cabin, and he could see the red flare glinting in his peripheral vision. The nose of the ShinMaywa now pointed back toward the island.

  His chest and sides throbbed intensely. The bleeding from his nose had ceased, and his vision had cleared. He ignored the pain as he quickly ran through a series of plans in his mind. He thought of splashing the plane down into the water but couldn’t guarantee that it would inflict enough damage from this altitude. He quickly realized the best option was to crash the plane.

  The Pilot slammed itself onto the cockpit door. Looking over his shoulder, Seymour could see its enraged face through the window. It punched the door repeatedly, denting it inward.

  Time was running out. Seymour turned his eyes forward. The ShinMaywa had passed over the shore and was now traveling over a sea of green.

  Seymour drew a breath, ready to smash it down; an act that would likely cost him his life. The creature would likely survive the crash, but at least it would be stranded on the island. He dipped the nose, lowering the altitude. He watched the jungle’s detail grow more meticulous as he lowered. The individual details of each tree was perceptible.

  One detail caught Seymour’s eye.

  In the sea of green, there was something out of place. Something metal. Seymour briefly pondered the new idea in his mind. A heavy blow to the door forced him to make a decision.

  He turned the plane to port. He located the slight gap in the trees; the creek where his team first encountered the Pilot. The cockpit door bent inward, folding in off of the frame. The three fingered hand reached at Seymour through the breach.

  Seymour leaned forward, keeping just out of reach of its grasp. He flew the plane in a tight circle, lining the nose up with the creek. He reduced the speed and began lowering the altitude.

  “This would be a lot easier if they built some damn ejector seats into this thing…” he said to himself as he lowered into a descent. He ducked down and braced for impact.

  Nature and metal collided. The ShinMaywa crashed down. Wings smashed simultaneously against trees on both sides, breaking off the body of the plane. The engines burst like grenades, breaking apart on their own debris. The fuselage erupted into flames, spreading fire into the jungle.

  The body broke into segments. The tail broke apart completely, disintegrating in to unrecognizable fragments. The cockpit detached from the cabin, both fragments rolling through the creek like logs on a river.

  The floor split apart from underneath the Pilot’s feet like a fault line. Driven by the forward momentum of the crash, the Pilot hit the ground. It splashed in the shallow water as the ShinMaywa spread all over the creek.

  CHAPTER

  40

  Smoke and vapor swirled together as the debris settled down. Burning fuel scorched the surrounding trees. Ammo and explosives fired off within the devastated cargo hold, igniting new explosions along the creek. The running water turned black from gunpowder and fuel, and the surrounding canopy turned grey from the vast smoke trail.

  Soot and water dripped from the Pilot’s charred face as it lifted its head. Its sensory nerves pounded through its body. Its senses were in complete disarray. The burns to its face severely narrowed its vision. Broken flaps in its armor folded inward, stabbing into its body. Its left arm was crushed within its glove. One fang was completely broken off at the chelicerae, the other chipped an inch from the tip.

  It stood up to its feet. After assessing its own injuries, it looked at the wreckage. Fragments of the plane lined the crash trail behind it. Its neck throbbed, as the malfunctioning sensory nerves pounded with an overwhelming influx of signals. The Pilot turned away from the trail and looked up the creek.

  The cockpit lay in the water, embedded into the gravel. There was no sign of the indigenous. Ignoring the multiple injury signals in its nerves, the Pilot marched through the shallow water toward the cockpit. Despite its condition, the creature still lived to fulfill its purpose of preserving the species. Doing so meant eliminating any threats.

  It no longer saw the human warrior as a potential host, but as a fundamental threat to its existence. The species had no concept of honor or morality. Right and wrong didn’t exist. All it had was instinct, and the uncompromising drive and intelligence to enact its purpose. The indigenous being was an obstacle to its purpose that must be destroyed.

  Fluid coagulated over its burnt face, forming an orange-black scab. It leaned its head to the left, allowing the intact cells to provide sight. Marching through the water, it approached the cockpit. The cockpit lay across the creek, the broken end angled away from the Pilot. The windows were blackened by smoke, making it impossible to see inside from the front.

  The Pilot flexed its fingers, ready to grab its enemy and strangle it to death. It marched around the nose and approached the
edge of the cockpit. Mustering its strength, it increased its speed and swiftly moved around the corner. It tore into the cockpit, ready to hammer down on the seats.

  It paused. Both seats were empty. Human blood marked the dashboard, though only in small streaks. Not enough to imply death. The Pilot stepped out and looked around. There were no bodies anywhere near the wreckage.

  A faint sound echoed from the jungle. The Pilot froze. Standing in the middle of the creek, it allowed its damaged nerves to pick up on the signal. The sound continued. It heard another sound. Language. Its enemy!

  “Hey! We’re not done yet!”

  The Pilot whipped its gaze toward the trees. It couldn’t see the mercenary, though it was nearby. The alien knew its opponent had no projectiles and was disarmed of its edged weapons. Even with its many injuries, it would easily be the victor in another physical confrontation, as the Pilot had superior strength and ferocity.

  It tore into the jungle, following the sounds. The smoke thinned out as it moved further into the terrain. It tore any obstacle out of its path, ripping bamboo and bushes from their roots.

  “Come on! Come on!” the voice continued. The Pilot paused, analyzing the sound in its brain. The voice sounded somewhat different, and slightly muffled. The shouting continued. Suddenly, loud bursts sounded off. Gunshots. The Pilot knelt, ready to avoid incoming fire. Its senses heightened, realizing the human was indeed armed. It activated its gauntlet. Sparks zipped as the device struggled to generate energy.

  The gunfire continued in rapid bursts. Another high-pitched sound reverberated from the same direction. Screeches. Hisses.

  They were cries from its spawn. The Pilot hissed, realizing some of its spawn were still alive. That hiss sustained into a deathly snarl as it realized those spawn were being slaughtered.

  It tore through the jungle in a mad fury, ripping up vines and leaves with each step. The gunfire and screams grew louder and more intense. The enemy shouted, taunting the creatures as they closed in on him.

  The Pilot snarled as it leapt between two large trees. It landed in an aggressive pose, thinking it had landed in the battle-zone. It paused, seeing nothing but jungle. However, the firefight was louder than ever. The creature stepped forward, approaching the large tree several feet ahead.

  Thirty feet high, something rested in the branches. The Pilot gazed up, seeing the old Japanese WW2 plane propped high above it. It stood under the plane, looking around for the source of the gunfire.

  Its nerves pulsed hard in its neck. Despite the sound being strong, there was no vibration around it. No sign of any living creatures moving about. Yet the noise seemed to be coming from here.

  It looked down at the ground. There, something lay in the grass, covered in dirt and ants. Rectangular in shape, it was no bigger than six inches long. The sound boomed from this small device. It picked the object up and flipped it over, revealing a playback screen.

  On the tiny monitor, it observed footage of the attack on the bunker, as Ivan repelled the horde with his M60. The Pilot hissed and looked ahead of it. A red light blinked high above the ground, attached to a small black block. That black block was strapped to a large, cigar-shaped object.

  Ivan yelled in the bodycam playback audio.

  “Adios, Motherfucker!”

  Two hundred meters away, Seymour peeked from behind a large tree and watched as the Pilot stumbled into his trap. In his hand he held a detonator, its antenna fully extended.

  “My sentiments, exactly,” he said. He pressed his thumb on the trigger and ducked behind the tree.

  The Pilot let out one final screech as the C-4 block detonated, triggering the torpedo. Dormant since World War 2, the huge explosive finally met its conclusion, erupting into a massive blast capable of devastating a battleship. The ball of fire ripped up into the tree, the vibration shaking the bomber plane free from the branches. It fell into the ball of fire, detonating the two-thousand pounds of unused explosives contained within it.

  Balls of fire burst in unison as though a string of volcanos had erupted. Trees leaned outward as they absorbed the concussion of the blast. Smoke and dirt hurled outward in a massive ring, sweeping the interior of the jungle. Fire roared inside the resulting crater, reducing the lively green jungle to a hellfire netherworld.

  Smoldering in the middle of it were the fragments of armor and technology: its owner completely disintegrated.

  CHAPTER

  41

  Seymour had limped nearly a mile out before he found air clear of smoke and dust. The artillery explosion had created a mountain of smoke that hovered over the north side of the island. Debris had rained down like volcanic ash, spreading all the way to the shore.

  Seymour took a deep breath as he embraced the clean air. His left arm had been broken in the crash, and he held it close to his stomach. Torn strands of his shirt served as a makeshift tourniquet. Seymour suspected a fracture in his left leg as well, as it was extremely painful to walk with. In the crash, he had turned to the right as he ducked, and the control panel smashed in against him as the ShinMaywa struck down.

  A cool breeze swept inland from the ocean, indicating he was close to the shore. With pain flooding his ribs, leg, and arm, he limped his way through the jungle. Soon, he could hear the waves splashing against the shore. The sunlight grew brighter as he approached the west edge of the island.

  He stood on a small ledge, which extended only a few feet from the tree line. Several large rocks marked the dirt shore. He sat down on one, fully extending his injured leg. His temples pounded, and his broken arm was swelling drastically. He didn’t care. The airstrike would commence any moment, and he knew the pilots would not allow any square inch of the island to go untouched. There was no escape.

  There was only one thing to do. He relaxed himself and gazed out into the endless blue. It was a beautiful sight. A perfect final note to close his lifetime on. Despite the deception surrounding the mission, he was able to conduct one final act to truly better humanity.

  He watched the ocean, looking for the incoming aircraft that would bombard the island. So far, the skies were clear. But there was sound. The sound of an engine. It didn’t sound distant, however. It was close, and not from two-thousand feet in the air. He gazed up, looking for the source. There was a gentle clamor to this engine sound, something a jet traveling at top speed would have. And it wasn’t coming from high above…

  His eyes lowered back to the Pacific.

  Something was moving along the surface. A boat…a Zodiac. Seymour stood up, his eyes wide with amazement.

  Terrie stood at the helm, gazing up at the enormous cloud of smoke. She lowered her gaze toward the shore, seeing her brother-in-arms waving at her. There was something on his face she rarely ever saw. A bright smile.

  After boarding the vessel, he leaned back into one of the back seats. Terrie stood at the helm, driving the Zodiac as far from the island as possible.

  “Good God, I thought you were dead,” Seymour said. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the cool air brushing against his face.

  “Well, the bump on the noggin did a number on me,” she said. “But, as you said, we have an arrangement.” Seymour opened his eyes, seeing Terrie looking back at him and smiling.

  The resounding echo of jet engines drew their eyes to the sky. White streaks stretched between the clouds, trailing arrow shaped aircraft that rapidly approached.

  Terrie looked back at Seymour. “What’s in store for us after this?” Seymour shrugged, watching the jets lower their altitude.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Hawk’s dead. We know the Agency’s Top-Secret project. They don’t have much use for us.”

  “Maybe,” Terrie said, reaching into her pocket. “We’ll have to see.” She held her hand out, holding Hawk’s flash-drive. A perfect little insurance policy.

  They shared another smile, then watched the jets pass overhead. In the blink of an eye, the large green island erupted in flames as several bombs rained down. Fire r
ipped through the jungle, torching the plant life and any nest that remained.

  “I guess you’re right,” Seymour said. He and Terrie solemnly watched, as a thousand balls of fire rolled from the island’s center into the shore.

  EPILOGUE

  For several hours, fire ripped across the terrain as the bombs continued dropping. The jungle, thick and vast, was now reduced to a smoldering cinder. It was the will of the U.S. Government that no biological trace be left.

  However, the pilots had strict instructions to avoid one specific area.

  By nightfall, the fire had burnt away all life on the island, extraterrestrial or otherwise. The landscape was reduced to an eight-mile long ashtray.

  In the middle of it all, one spot was left untouched. What remained of the Command Post after the attack twenty-four hours earlier still stood firm. The east wall remained intact, along with most of the second-floor laboratory. Dust, ash, and smoke had smothered the building, leaving the interior covered in pasty gray grime.

  However, deeper in, there was an area left mostly untouched. Two steel doors, sealed tightly, protected the quarantine chamber from the burning remnants. Inside, a depleted, mushy corpse lay on the table, its identity completely erased. Protruding from its center, the pod had grown, having healed from the intrusive injury subjected to it.

  Standing six-feet high off the table, its sides pulsated. Black secretion spilled from pores in its pulsating sides.

  A wet tearing noise rasped from its side, as a thin layer began peeling back from the top.

  The End

  Read on for a free sample of Recon Marines

  June 18, 2147 (Earth Calendar)

  1433 Greenwich Mean Time