“Which way did it go?”
Williamson jerked his rifle barrel forwards, directing it vaguely towards where Tree and Inman were walking. McLeod opened the channel in his headset.
“Careful boys, something might be coming your way.”
* * *
Inman took a cautious step forward, glaring down toward the formless green blob near the ground. Without warning, a flare of orange lit up the night vision, like a cooled oven flaring to life. A brown blur leapt from its place on the grass, scorching through the air and screaming. Oh god, the screaming.
“Jesus!” Tree stumbled backward, swiveling his weapon even as the brown blur struck Inman full on in the chest, knocking him backwards and sending his rifle spiraling from suddenly relaxed fingers.
Inman screamed, scrambling with the strange creature on top of him. “Shoot it! Shoot it! Fucking shoot it!”
“Dammit, Inman get free!” Tree shouted, tracing the rolling, intertwined bodies with his automatic, his fingers tightly clutching the front grip. “Shadows, converge! This thing’s got Inman!”
* * *
Eric Inman thrashed and shouted as the large form brought its full weight down on top of him, knocking him to the ground. With fifteen years of hand-to-hand combat experience, Inman was a certified self-defense instructor, but the creature was suddenly striking from everywhere. Claws slashed across his ribcage, shredding his tactical vest, snarling through the cloth of his commando sweater, and tearing ragged grooves in his skin. A massive object struck at his head and shoulders, slamming repeatedly, and at first the Shadow thought the creature was head butting him, but then he realized it was some sort of tail reaching up from behind it like a scorpion, coiling, and punching at him. Both the claws and the tail were secondary, though... the real threat was the teeth. Scores of needle like fangs which chomped relentlessly on his left shoulder and face, then struggled for his neck. A sudden and unrelenting barrage of pin picks over and over and over...
* * *
“Jesus Christ it’s fucking killing him!” shouted Tree, keeping his weapon trained on the carnage, but not knowing how to proceed. “Permission to engage!”
“Is Inman clear?” came the frantic reply as McLeod dashed through the trees, coming up on Tree’s right.
“Negative! But if we don’t do something, it won’t matter!”
McLeod drew up to a shuddering halt, his eyes peeling wide. Grasping his goggles he yanked them from his face and tossed them aside, staring down at the horrific site on the ground. Eric Inman wasn’t as much a man as he was a ravaged clump of skin and muscle, a strange brown form straddling him, thrashing back and forth. Shreds of skin flew as the creature snapped its head to the left, tearing and ripping at what was certainly Inman’s fresh corpse.
“Open fire!” McLeod shouted. “Weapons free!”
All seven gun barrels erupted at once, sparks and smoke spitting in whispered barks. Outside the forest, the sound was non-existent, but within these close confines the rapid thumpthumpthump of silenced automatic fire was almost deafening.
The entire process lasted for only a minute. All seven rifles clicked to a halt, magazines expended, the small area of trees quiet again. Down at their feet, the brown creature laid on its side, smoke spiraling from its still form, a dark wet grime starting to soak the flesh of the critter, staining the fur overcoat with a red shadow.
Fur was an overstatement. The main body of the creature was a slick sinewy smoothness, glistening in the low moonlight. It was less fur than what looked like a thin growth of mold over the body of the strange looking animal, small thatches of fuzz sprouting from uneven clumps. Its body was long and slender, pulled tight across a cascading, rippling ribcage, the thin, slick flesh no longer rising with breath. Over its haunches, the skin became a thick tail, splayed over the flat grass, and curled into a ‘C’ shape behind the fallen thing. It had four legs, short, but muscular, rounded off with broad, fur covered paws, jagged talons poking through at each rounded toe shape. Across the front haunches, leading up towards the head, the small thatches of mold-like fuzz twisted together into spaghetti strands of hair, linking up and joining, curling up onto the rounded shape of the monster’s skull. Its snout was slender but somewhat elongated, longer than a wild dog, but shorter than a crocodile, and even with its spacious mouth closed, dozens of needle-prick teeth were jutting out in various angled directions. Thin strands of flesh and red gristle still clung tightly in between them, nestled in the crevices of the sharp protrusions of bone.
“Jesus jumped up motherfucking Christ,” hissed Williamson. They were the only words spoken. Perhaps the only ones that could be spoken.
The night had fallen silent with the revelation of this strange five-foot long creature; something out of nightmares and horror movies, something that didn’t – couldn’t – exist in a world they also lived in. McLeod’s mind couldn’t rationalize what he was seeing, and even as a layman, he could think of several different laws of biology being broken here. These puzzle pieces did not fit together, yet some tenacious kid had crammed them together anyway, and bonded them with genetic super glue.
A low whipping sound rolled over the cool night air. McLeod cast one last look at the red and mangled wreckage that used to be Eric Inman, now almost entirely concealed by the fallen beast, a mercy to the rest of the team who wanted to remember their teammate the way he was, not the way this thing had left him. Turning, Chuck squinted out toward the cloudy night sky and could just make out the faded, undulating shape of a third Bell 412 helicopter, flat black and unmarked.
“Fucking great timing,” snarled Tree, his usual good cheer considerably soured.
Wind whipped around McLeod as he marched solemnly, his narrow eyes focused on the helicopter as its door opened and a trio of men in slick white hazmat suits slid free, landing smoothly on the ground. A fourth man exited shortly after, wearing a black commando sweater and cargo pants, but no tactical gear, and sporting a thin pair of wire frame glasses under a thick carpet of dark hair.
“McLeod?” he asked, shouting lightly over the whipping of the helicopter blades.
Chuck continued his determined walk forward.
“How did you make out?” the newcomer in glasses began.
Chuck brought his fist around in a tight arc. The punch smashed into the man’s left cheek, caving in the flesh and spinning him clumsily off balance. He caught himself with one hand against the metallic body of the helicopter and turned to face his attacker. His glasses dangled from one ear, a raw gash marred his cheek, and twin trickles of blood snaked from the corner of his snarling mouth.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked as McLeod took two more steps towards him.
“That thing killed one of my men, asshole,” McLeod growled. But he stood his ground. He figured he was owed one clean punch, but if he pushed it, this dude could push back. Only he likely had more weight behind his pushes.
The man in black straightened, plucking his glasses from his ear and repositioning them on his face. “Sorry to hear that.” He extended his hand – an offering of truce – but Chuck didn’t take it. He figured not beating on the guy again was friendly greeting enough. “You can call me Blaine,” the man in black said, lowering his hand.
Blaine continued his forward progress, coming up behind the three men in lab gear, and Chuck picked up his own pace to match.
“We’re not fucking animal control, Blaine,” he spat.
“Good thing. What we’ve got here is barely an animal.”
Just beyond the clearing, the scientists had made it near to the train. Over where the torn metal splayed out from the boxcar two of them stopped and began removing equipment. The third drifted to the right, approaching McLeod’s men, where they were still collected by the monster that lay draped over their fallen friend.
McLeod and Blaine approached the group, and Williamson sneered.
“I can’t wait to hear this one,” he said, his mouth snarling beneath
the long, tangled beard.
“Fucking A,” Berger followed up. “I knew we should have brought the goddamned rocket launcher.”
McLeod was surprised to see that Schmidt was holding his pistol, his fist curled tightly around it, and even in the low light of the moon, McLeod thought the safety just might have been switched off. If ole Blaine here didn’t come up with some good answers soon, things might get worse long before they got better.
“Talk to us,” McLeod replied.
“You got it? You killed it?”
From his angle, McLeod was sure Blaine couldn’t quite make out what lay in the grass at everyone’s feet, but seemed reluctant to walk much closer.
“Fuck yeah, we got it,” replied Schmidt.
Blaine nodded, almost looking disappointed. “Walk with me,” he said to McLeod, and they continued on towards the train. At the rectangular boxcar, the two scientists knelt in the dirt, looking at the broken pieces McLeod has seen earlier.
They slowed and halted next to the torn apart boxcar, Blaine’s eyes scoping the area like the hero in an old school spy movie before revealing his top secret plan.
“We called you in because of the sensitivity of this situation. Something I know you can appreciate,” he said in a low whisper.
“I get it,” McLeod replied.
“What you’ve got here... it’s something we’ve been working on for a long time. It was never supposed to get out.”
“I guess it’s a good thing we caught it when we did,” McLeod replied tersely.
“Agent Blaine?” one of the scientists was looking up at the two men, lifting his gloved hand in a half-wave.
“What is it?” Blaine replied, walking over.
McLeod followed him and now, for the first time, he could see the scientist had tweezers, and one of the broken pieces of containment unit was clasped between the tongs.
“At first we thought these pieces were broken pieces of the cage our friend escaped from,” said the scientist, standing as he carefully held out the tweezers at arm’s length.
“Okay?” Blaine asked, obviously not quite following.
“They’re not. They’re broken pieces of…”
There was a moment of silence. Some sort of strange contemplation.
“Of what?” Blaine asked, insistent.
“Uhhh... egg, sir. They appear to be pieces of an egg.”
The night grew quieter. McLeod was pretty sure the only place with less noise right now was the surface of the moon.
“I don’t understand,” Blaine replied.
The third scientist approached, looking stricken and pale. “Agent Blaine?”
McLeod stood watching this entire exchange. He could almost guess the next words that were spoken.
“This isn’t our subject.”
“Tell me that again,” Blaine replied, and McLeod saw a thin layer of sweat start to glisten at the man’s hairline.
“This creature... it appears to be an offspring.”
“How is that even possible?” Blaine demanded.
“We don’t have all the data, sir—”
“You don’t have the fucking data? God dammit!”
The shout’s echo hung, a dozen other voices yelling back across the wooded terrain.
“So what now?” he turned to ask the scientist.
“Uh, boss?”
McLeod looked up to Landry’s voice as the man walked slowly towards him, a phone in hand. “You may want to look at this.” McLeod snatched it, looked at it then closed his eyes.
“What now?” he asked softly. “Here’s what now.”
Turning the phone, so it’s face was pointing at Blaine, he thrust it forward. The mobile version of CNN looked back at the two men, headline thick and bold:
BREAKING:
CORPSES FOUND NEAR CENTRAL PARK. SUSPECTED WILD ANIMAL ON THE LOOSE
McLeod watched as Blaine closed his eyes and drew a deep, rattling breath then turned to his men. “Shadows, let’s load up! This job ain’t done. We’re goin’ to the big smoke!”
* * *
This was a new sensation, even for Williamson, who was the eldest member of the Shadows. His legs hung out the opened cargo door of the black Bell 412 as it swung gracefully downward, then banked slightly, adjusted and swooped forward, skimming past the New York City skyline. Combat operation in the Big Apple... who’d a thunk it?
“Blaine,” barked the Shadows team leader from the co-pilot seat of the same chopper Williamson sat in.
“We are moving West toward 116th Street, please advise our path is still cleared by the FAA?”
“Affirmative, McLeod, you are cleared.”
“Roger. ETA is four minutes.” On his lap McLeod held a folder with a number of images inside, quickly gathered-together briefings for this operation. Besides a marked map of Central Park itself, there were a few images of a live version of the creature they had killed in rural Connecticut. Dead snake-like eyes glaring at whoever was taking the picture, the elongated snout curling, thick pasta strands of hair stretching down over its head and front haunches. Muscles bulged just beneath the smooth, reptilian skin, membranes of thick sinew stretching at the crook of its legs and torso. Its ribs almost looked to fold in upon itself, a long tail behind it. Tufts of thin hair were scattered about the smooth body, but barely covered the gray-green slime of its skin’s surface.
This thing hadn’t been born. Oh hell no – it had been made. Mankind tempting fate and playing with Mother Nature. Now Mother Nature was playing back.
Central Park was coming up on the south, and he could feel the helicopter drifting downwards.
McLeod reached into one of the pockets of his tactical vest and peeled out a small, crinkled piece of paper, unfolding it as the city lights converged into yellow-white streams all around him. He looked down into the eyes of his two children, who looked up at him adoringly from one of the few photographs he had of them. Tomorrow began his weekend with them, and it had taken a lot of convincing to get Julia to agree to that. If he missed this chance, he might just blow this whole shared custody thing completely.
He traced his index finger over their innocent faces; faces which would hopefully never know the horror of the thing he just saw. If he had his way, nobody would ever see that thing or anything like it again.
“Bringing us in!” shouted Wilcox back to the cargo bay. Agent Blaine sat there alongside Williamson, Landry, Schmidt, Berger, and Tree – the five of them clutching their M4 Carbine automatic weapons, still fitted with the silencers and infrared scopes. The atmosphere was dead serious. McLeod was convinced that no matter what else happened tonight, everyone on this operation would sleep a little less soundly from here on.
Nightmares were real, and they had lots of fucking nasty teeth.
Tilting at an angle, the black helicopter eased toward the north side of Central Park where several emergency vehicles had set up a rudimentary perimeter. As the helicopter drifted to the ground, Craig ‘Duck’ Williamson, couldn’t help but wonder just how this creature had made it this far... it wasn’t like Central Park was around the corner from New Haven, Connecticut. And nobody had seen this creature slinking along interstate 95 on its way south?
The helicopter set down on the concrete sidewalk just off West 110th Street, the officers clutching their hats to keep them from flying off from the circular whirlwind of the helicopter blades.
“Never seen animal control piloting one of those mother fuckers before!” shouted one of them as he stared out through the blowing dust.
The moment the wheels touched down, black shapes hurled from the copter in well-choreographed motion, hitting the ground and running in formation deeper inside. The North Woods section of Central Park was thick and solid, a wall of trees concealing the deeper side of the park from the metropolitan hustle and bustle, and the Shadows immediately moved towards that tree growth, weapons pulled tight, safeties off and night vision goggles swung over their eyes. As soon as they hit the trees, the cityscape seem
ed to jolt away. It didn’t fade, it just abruptly halted, as if a mute button was thumbed just as they crossed the perimeter into the wooded area.
“Fan out,” McLeod said softly.
The other Shadows acknowledged and did so. To his left, Tree and Schmidt veered east, while Williamson and Berger peeled away and traveled west. Landry came up on McLeod’s six, continuing their path due south.
* * *
To the east, Tree approached the edge of the small forest, his weapon trained into the empty area beyond, his heart a rapid hammer as if pounding down the wall of his ribs.
“Clear so far,” he whispered, then stopped.
“What is it?” Schmidt’s finger tensed by the trigger of his automatic.
“I... I’m not sure.”
Dan Tree was a well-oiled military machine, back from his Delta days, though he did sometimes struggle with orders. It wasn’t his skills that had gotten him escorted from the Special Forces, it was an attitude issue and the fact there was very little he took seriously.
This situation he was taking quite seriously indeed.
“Something’s here,” he said. His eyes adjusted slightly to the green fuzz of night vision, but he pulled them closed, focusing instead on his other senses. He couldn’t hear anything outside the normal nocturnal noises, but there was something tingling... something familiar. “You smell that?” he asked, remaining frozen in place.
Schmidt remained stock still, his weapon pointing further east toward Untermyer Fountain. The woods were abundant throughout this area near The Loch, a thickly wooded swimming and recreational area that had been cleared out by the authorities after the bodies were discovered.
“I can’t smell shit,” Schmidt whispered back. He took a few careful steps. “Night vision’s got nothing either.”
“Yeah. Weird, huh?”
“How do you mean?”
“Central Park. It should be lousy with critters. Past few moments, I haven’t seen a single thing on the ground.”
SNAFU: Unnatural Selection Page 4
