SNAFU: Unnatural Selection

by Christopher Golden

“Used up? Jesus…”

  “I think ‘used up’ actually means ‘gone’ but I’m not entirely sure. Given what we’ve been through… It was very interested in why we are here. I explained as best I could. Then it wanted to know about you.”

  I swallowed hard. “Me?”

  “It says it wants to talk to you about your maps.”

  The furry creature with all the legs and the snapping teeth dropped from the trees and sped toward me. I felt hot breath as it snarled and circled me, freeing me from the vines amid a tornado of flashing, broken ivory. As it scuttled a few metres away, it clacked its teeth at me.

  The chieftain crouched and placed a fingertip beneath my chin. It lifted my head so I would have to look into its maw as it spoke. After a dozen or so words, it seemed to smile and released my chin.

  “It wants you to be cooperative. If… if you aren’t… the Shadowman will hurt me.”

  I nodded. “Tell it that I’ll do as I’m told.”

  “Fuck that,” yelled Falstaff. “It’s just going to kill us all as soon as it gets what it wants. Don’t you dare help it, Ted.”

  The Shadowman appeared behind Falstaff and silently reached toward his ear.

  “Stop!” I raised a hand and pointed at the chieftain. To my surprise, the Shadowman actually hesitated. “Don’t you dare let that thing hurt him. Lisa, tell it if that… that Shadowman lays a finger on Falstaff there’s no way in hell I’ll do what it wants.”

  Alien words tumbled frantically from Lisa’s mouth. The chieftain laughed and dismissively waved three of its hands. The Shadowman drifted back a few metres, but like a bad dream didn’t dissipate entirely.

  I dipped my head to the chieftain. “Thank you,” I said. “Falstaff, please stay quiet. I think the Shadowman behind you is just itching to rip you apart the next time you open your mouth. Lisa, what does it want from me?”

  The chieftain gathered my maps and rolled them out on the ground. It placed different bits of our gear on the corners to keep the papers from curling up. Murray translated back and forth as we spoke.

  “These are pictures of this world?” the chieftain said.

  “Yes. I’ve shown where there’s water and land. This shade of green is the jungle. Villages are marked. These lines are elevation – how high or low the land goes. See?”

  A crusted talon tapped a dot on the map.

  “This place here. That is the village of Chokohn, yes?”

  I nodded. “It is. You know of Chokohn? Of his village?”

  “I visit him in his dreams.” The smile appeared on the maw. “In his nightmares.” The chieftain’s other hands moved to all the other village dots on all three maps. “I visit them all in their nightmares. They know better than to come out here looking for us. I am surprised old Chokohn did not warn you to stay away.”

  We all lowered our heads. Understanding the gesture, the chieftain laughed.

  “He is a wise man. You should always listen to wise men. Wise men know this territory–” one of its hands spread out over the blank area of the map that represented where we were “–all of this territory belongs to me and mine. We have now taught you – as we once taught their ancestors – this place is not for you. Like their ancestors, we shall allow some of you to go so that you may pass down the notion that this is an unpleasant place to visit.” It tapped the map, then pointed at me. “We let you go specifically to mark that on your picture. A warning that your people may be wise enough to heed. A warning so your people will always know what awaits them when foolish enough to come this way.”

  The chieftain rose, clacking its fingertips twice. The furry creature whirled around Murray, then Falstaff, freeing them both. We all stood naked in the clearing. The chieftain turned to leave, then hesitated. It clacked its fingers one last time. The Shadowman appeared at Falstaff’s side, seized his left hand and twisted off his little finger. As Falstaff slumped to his knees, holding his hand to staunch the bleeding, the chieftain spoke its last words.

  “Do as I ask,” it said, “or I shall send the Shadowman for the rest of them.”

  Dropping to my knees, I scrambled to open the case that held my pens. I outlined the area the chieftain had indicated in black and crosshatched the edges of the lines for emphasis. With a trembling hand, I made the notation.

  “What have you written?” Murray asked.

  “The only thing that makes sense,” I told her. “Here There Be Monsters.”

  Unborn

  Justin Bell

  Against the indigo sky, the black shape drifted southwest, hovering close to the treetops, the only identification a soft, whooshing thumpthumpthumpthump of nearly-silent helicopter blades. The converted Bell 412 utility copter bore no markings and was swathed in flat black, no indication of any military affiliation. The model 412 was chosen because it was not in active use by the United States military, and this offered one more step of deniability, a steep staircase of them down into the basement where the Shadows did their dirty work. The Shadows themselves were not connected in any official way to any world government or military institution, they were all independent contractors who worked together in an unofficial capacity. Their success rate was almost as impressive as their secrecy.

  Chuck McLeod leaned out of the front cockpit of the 412, glaring down into a swallowing blackness revealing no shapes, lights, or hint of what lay below.

  He flipped a switch on his headset and opened his broadcast to all channels. “At 2215 hours tonight, a military cargo train was lost from radar.” McLeod was reviewing the opened folder in front of him, held on his lap and flipped like a book. “The contents of this train are Classified Top Secret, and apparently we do not have a ‘need to know’.” Leaning back in his co-pilot seat, he thought of his kids, and the visitation he was supposed to have tomorrow morning. He truly hoped this was a quick op, but if they’d called in the Shadows, those chances were minimal.

  “Mates, we are almost on site. We are the first responders. We take this clean, we take this quick, and most importantly, we take this quiet! Understood?” The sharp stab of McLeod’s British accent had been dulled by his ten years in America, but still poked through here and there.

  The echo of shouted approvals came back at him through low static in his headset.

  “Wilcox, proceed to two o’clock, then set us down,” he pointed through the windscreen to a small clearing, just becoming visible up ahead. On the fringe of the cast spotlight, a train car could be seen upright, but angular and twisted, the signature posture of being pulled off the tracks.

  The dark aircraft lowered to the ground, long grass blowing apart in a reverse whirlpool, flattening into circles as the whipping blades set their cargo down gently. The wheels touched earth, and black shadows leaped from the cargo area striking the ground in near silence, moving out from the helicopters in well-choreographed fashion.

  “Shadows, fan out!” barked McLeod. They spread out from the aircraft then stopped, forming a rough circular perimeter, weapons trained, night vision engaged, still and waiting.

  “Landry, you and Wilcox fall back on me, we’re checking out that train. Tree, Inman, you have the perimeter. Keep an eye open, we’re still not quite sure what we’re dealing with here.”

  Landry and Wilcox walked low and quick, joining McLeod on each hip, keeping crouched, the long grass snaking up above their knees. The two men and one woman held modified M4 Carbines tucked tight into their shoulders, tactical grip near the front barrel and advanced night sight mounted to the top of the weapon. A cylindrical sound suppressor was firmly attached to each barrel, creating a long, unbalanced weapon for which each well-trained operative was able to compensate. They wore black combat togs with a Molle tactical vest, hooked with several straps around the torso, pouches stuffed with extra ammunition. “Watchtower, this is Ground Team Alpha. The site is secure.” Motioning with his left hand, McLeod directed his two teammates to circle the train, weapons at the ready. The engine was upright, but pulled diagonal on the
tracks, its rear wheels barely touching the metal rails as the front side leaned at a 45-degree angle as if a petulant child had kicked it out of frustration. The second car was leaning more steeply, nearly on its side, only held slightly upright by its connection to the engine itself. The third car stood upright, but slightly cockeyed, tipped as if it weighed ounces and not tons. Twisting, the rear car was almost the opposite of the lead car, pulled at a sharp angle in the opposite direction, its back wheels actually pulled up off the rails. McLeod focused his attention on the third car because nearly three-quarters of the entire side of that car was missing.

  Layers of metal were pulled apart, peeled and folded back against the train car revealing a jagged, torn cave at the side. Cast in a wide arc from the ragged hole were several broken shards of various materials, most of which appeared to have come from some kind of containment cage inside the train car itself.

  “Jesus,” McLeod muttered as he approached.

  “Repeat that Ground Team Alpha?” a voice responded in his headset.

  McLeod flipped on a tactical light below the gun barrel and raised the weapon in a firing stance, casting an eerie glow across the ground outside the car.

  “What happened here, Watchtower?” McLeod asked, nervously casting his gaze across the wrecked train. “What are we after?”

  “Need to know,” came the abrupt reply.

  McLeod squinted, the only part of his face not covered by the knit balaclava pulled tight and tucked into the layered turtleneck of his commando sweater.

  “Uhh... you want us to secure the area, Watchtower. We need to know what we’re securing it against.”

  On a stretch of railway between New London and New Haven, Connecticut something had forced this train off the tracks, and it was only by sheer luck it had happened in a rural area. Here the tracks were surrounded by trees and rolling green meadows instead of brick and concrete buildings. Things were playing at least somewhat in their favor. That could change quickly.

  “Affirmative, Ground Team Alpha. Advise we have representatives en route. They’ll be arriving in approximately fifteen.”

  “Understood, Watchtower. What do you advise we do until then?” Fucking spooks. While he had been with the SAS, McLeod had dealt with his share of spy weenies, mostly from MI6, but these Americans had a special arrogance about them that rubbed him all sorts of the wrong way.

  “Keep your eyes open, Ground.”

  Click. The channel went silent.

  “McLeod!” came a hushed voice from the closed channel. It sounded like Landry.

  “Coming.” McLeod walked forward, “Team, report.”

  “Tree, standing by.”

  “Inman, ready.”

  “Berger, five by five.”

  “Williamson, here.”

  “Schmidt, I’m here.”

  “Landry, check.”

  “Wilcox, ready.”

  Everyone present and accounted for. McLeod didn’t know what was going on here, but something had vacated that train car post haste, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to meet what did it down a dark alley. Or the dark woods of rural Connecticut.

  “What do we have inside?” he asked as he approached Landry and Wilcox.

  “Take a look,” Wilcox replied, gesturing inside.

  McLeod pulled his weapon from his shoulder and tucked it back into firing position, shining his white light into the car. He blinked several times into the darkness, trying to make sense of the scene inside. The interior of the car looked like the aftermath of a particularly focused and fierce tornado. Firmly attached to the floor of the train car was an empty metallic square, resembling a base or junction point attaching what would have been a containment unit of some sort. There was no unit visible, just the barrage of shattered glass and other material inside and outside the battered car. It had obviously been built to keep something inside.

  It had failed.

  Mixed within the sprayed explosion of broken polymer were scatterings of off-white shards, a different material than the containment unit itself, far thinner and broken into much larger chunks, fewer in number.

  “What the fuck is it?” asked Landry, his own goggles pulled down over his eyes as if they might add some insight.

  “According to Watchtower, we gotta wait thirteen more minutes to find out.” McLeod lowered his weapon and turned back toward the wooded area near where the helicopters had landed. Beyond the mound of curved metal of the modified Bell, McLeod could barely make out the lights of civilization. It was a lot closer than he liked.

  “I gotta be honest,” McLeod said, “I’m not loving this situation.”

  As if karma was just waiting for this admission, the moment the words came out of his mouth, all hell broke loose.

  “Holy shit, holy shit, holy SHIT!”

  McLeod stopped cold. He had heard the voice simultaneously in his headset and over the cool night air.

  “What the fuck was that?” came the next voice. The shouts were abrupt and high pitched, and McLeod couldn’t nail down who was saying what. Silenced thumps of automatic fire echoed in his ears, and he threw himself into a dead run, pounding over the long grass between the fallen train car and the treeline ahead.

  “Landry and Wilcox, on my six!” he shouted, and the other two broke off, charging after him.

  “Williamson! Report!” As he ran, he flipped the night vision goggles down over his eyes, casting the area in front of him in a transparent green haze. Off in the distance, he could see the vague thermal forms of his team as they dashed maniacally through the trees, swinging their weapons around at what appeared to be nothing at all.

  * * *

  Williamson backpedaled, his weapon pulled tight as a vague shape charged sideways in front of him. His night vision hadn’t picked it up, and he had barely heard it before it charged from the trees at him and Berger.

  Stopping his backward motion, he lifted his weapon and trailed the shape as it crashed through the trees and flattened the grass. Pulling on the trigger in four swift strokes, the M4 bucked in his grip and sent gunfire searing through the trees and grass, but it slammed harmlessly into the soft ground, with one last round careening noisily off of a rock.

  “Dammit!”

  The woods were silent.

  “McLeod, this is Williamson. We’re here. But something else is here, too.”

  “I’m on approach!”

  * * *

  About fifteen yards away, Tree and Inman walked between the thick trees, their own weapons raised and drifting back and forth, covering their immediate vicinity.

  “What do you see, Inman?” Tree asked, his eyes narrowed behind the night vision goggles.

  “Two things: jack and shit,” he snarled, taking each step slow and calculating.

  “What the fuck were they screaming about?” Tree asked in a hushed voice. His heart was pounding underneath his thick vest. Tree was once a squad leader in Delta Force and had dealt with all manner of shit during his time there, but he was used to threats on two legs, not four. And whatever Williamson had seen hadn’t sounded human.

  The night had drawn suddenly still, quiet, and very, very cold. Tree raised a swift left hand, palm facing out, and Inman halted, regulating his breathing. A pale white moon hung high in the sky, only three-quarters full, so the vague glow it shone upon the dark trees was low and dull. There was the slightest rustle of branches ten feet forward and to their right.

  “Fuck me,” Inman groused. His finger tensed on the trigger. Unlike many of his teammates, Inman had never been in the military. He had been a contractor since day one, drifting through law enforcement for a few years before taking hold with an overseas security company. In the end, he’d served a decade through various locations in the Middle East and gotten his pedigree. To some, his lack of a military background made him tougher to control, but to others, that same lack of protocol set him a little more free.

  The entire forest seemed to be dipped in black paint and as quiet as a tomb. The
brief rustling started, then stopped. Through the green fuzz of his night vision, he saw three of his squad mates pushing forward amid the trees in a neat, organized formation, covering the distance of these dark woods. Farther away, the other three approached slowly, weapons at a slight downward angle as they drew near.

  Tree halted his forward motion and extended his arm. “Hold up.”

  Inman froze. He heard no noise. He felt no breeze. Everything just stopped cold.

  “You smell that?” Tree asked, a trace of disgust dripping from his words.

  Inman sniffed, then screwed up his nose in a repulsed snarl. “What the hell?”

  Tree stepped forward carefully. “How close to the ocean are we?”

  Inman followed, their weapons moving in calculated motions, covering the empty space where the other couldn’t. “Not very. Not close enough to be smelling that.”

  It was a dank, saltwater smell. The stink of low tide where the ocean had pulled away, leaving slime-covered seaweed behind like the trail of a mammoth slug. It was a unique and distinctive smell and felt entirely out of place here in the woods, even if the ocean was only about 20 miles south.

  Just ahead, the trees shuffled again, a pushing sound, low to the ground.

  The two men stopped walking, and both of their rifles swung instantaneously to the source of the sound. Through the night vision, there was a rippling fog of something... but not something they could easily make out.

  “You see that?” Inman asked.

  “Yup,” Tree replied. “Can’t tell you what that is, though.”

  * * *

  Twenty feet away, McLeod came up to Williamson and Berger, who were still crouch-walking through the wooded area, weapons trained.

  “What did you see, Duck?” McLeod asked, using Williamson’s nickname. His long gray beard and penchant for wearing camouflage, even when not on duty, had earned him the nickname after reality show Duck Dynasty.

  “It moved quick,” he replied. “Too quick to get a trace on. Real low to the ground, and fucking fast as shit.”