The Blood Service

by Allen Ivers

  The sliding doors were sealed, so flush against the hull there wasn’t even a seam. Soon those doors would rip open, the floor would drop away, sending two dozen men to face whatever awaited them on the ground. Who knows what would happen next?

  “One minute out.”

  “I have visual on the AO.”

  The Oskie in charge -- a robotic man named Lieutenant Holmst -- consulted a monitor, barking into his radio intermittently. He was on a different channel and the acoustics of the Howler ate whatever other noise he was making. The pale ghost might very well have been placing bets for all they knew.

  The harness yanked on Aaron’s throat again, as the stress cables drew taut.

  The Howler slowed and dipped into a deep circle of the landing zone, strafing the area. Out of the small double-paned window by his elbow, Aaron caught glimpses of the ground below.

  A plume of smoke. Bodies. Blood. No movement.

  Holmst glanced back at Aaron and the other Capitals. Scanning over them. Then he nodded.

  He closed the monitor and pivoted to face the team, “AO is quiet. Capitals: hit the ground hard and secure the area, search for survivors. Oskies and the Howlers will provide air support. Gather anybody you find, bring ‘em to the primary homestead for extract. Mission time no longer than fifteen minutes. Set your watches. Clock starts on the drop.”

  The team reached down to their wrists, setting the digital timers. No heads-up display, not for the Capitals. They had solar-powered panels that were often concealed from sun by gear and uniforms -- real intelligent design.

  Holmst worked his way aft, checking the cables on each Capital as he went. Awfully kind of him to give that much care for expendable munitions. Perhaps it was just habit.

  “You miss the extract, you will get left.” Holmst gripped the drop lever, “Earn your place, Caps.”

  He pulled and the floor dropped away.

  The whir of the dozen or so pulleys vanished immediately, replaced by the air howling past his head -- maybe that’s the reason for the nickname -- as he plummeted to the ground below, held only by the thin aircraft cable on the back of his harness. The tension on his thighs and crotch was tight enough to make his toes tingle. Although the sudden G-forces may have something to do with that, as well.

  As it turns out, they weren’t that high up to begin with. The pilot must’ve done a low pass over the landing site before Holmst unceremoniously kicked everyone out.

  The cable yanked hard, pinching important things, but slowing his fall moments before impact. And just before the ground, the computers above knew to release the lock and drop Aaron safely to the ground. His feet hit dirt with all the laughable force of jumping down the last few steps of a stairwell.

  For all of that drama and intensity, the team was placed on the field like pieces on a chessboard. The dozen folk landing kicked up dirt, creating a wide cloud, blinding Aaron to the world around him.

  He scanned the area for any silhouette he didn’t recognize. Anything big or menacing. But there were no monsters in this closet, not any that would show themselves. This was it.

  He had to get focused now.

  Aaron looked up at the Howlers overhead, as silent as a child’s kite barely a hundred feet up. The doors slid open, revealing the demon’s teeth -- a mounted automatic plasma-launcher that threw off enough energy it could throw the ship off-course.

  Nothing to fear. The hand of God was watching from above.

  Aaron started the timer on his watch -- fifteen minutes. “Two by twos,” Aaron shouted, “Search the buildings. Eden, you’re on medical. Nora, keep her safe. Check your fire, we have friendlies in the neighborhood.” Aaron keyed his throat mic, “Team 2 is on the deck.”

  As crisp as if he was right next to him, Carmona chimed in, “Team 1 is on the ground. Start the clock.”

  Damn, it sounded like they practiced that more than once. Aaron could only hope that luck held. But in the hoping, he was certain he had jinxed it and doomed them all. That would be his luck, after all.

  The homestead wasn’t terribly large. A few converted storage sheds, some silos. A large pit had been carved into the ground, an excavation more akin to a mine than a farm.

  Every few dozen yards, the dirt had been carved up by conflict. Blood caked the ground in thick streams, dried up.

  Aaron could see a human hand in the dust nearby, severed above the wrist, but its owner was nowhere to be seen. In fact, there was a great deal of blood for there to be no bodies.

  On the far side, Aaron could see Carmona’s team milling about, trying to decide how to breach the central housing unit. It was subterranean, a large hole carved into the ground — not uncommon for these homesteads. The dirt was soft and malleable, making excavation easier than construction.

  But something was wrong. They were hesitant, circling. They didn’t want to go inside.

  “What’ve you got, Car?” Aaron asked.

  There was a long pause.

  “Watch your footing.”

  Aaron’s team hovered about for a long moment, pairing off in their duos.

  Quinn staggered up to Aaron’s shoulder, limping on his sprained leg. Apparently, Aaron made a face. “Hey, you got me into all this,” Quinn justified.

  Fair enough. “We’ll check the perimeter for stragglers, see if anybody hauled themselves out of the mess. Everybody else, hit the structures.”

  The terrain was almost dreamlike, flat and level, like someone had come along and beveled the surface to match. The ground was dry, but loose and dark, thick like clay. And it cracked along the surface, the pattern stretching forward for miles.

  They walked for almost a minute in agonizing silence, staring at the open field. Anything that had been here was either still hiding somewhere or had fled long ago.

  “What were they farming?” Quinn asked.

  “No idea.” Aaron was a city boy. He just ate the food. Didn’t much know or care how to came to be.

  “I mean, you can’t grow much in this.”

  In what? Aaron looked back at him.

  Quinn smiled. That sight was refreshing in itself. Quinn stooped down and palmed a bunch of the loose dirt in his hands, “This topsoil is garbage. Contaminated. You see any grass out here?”

  Now that he mentioned it, Aaron did notice. There wasn’t a damn thing growing, not even weeds. In any direction. They said this was a farm. And yet, there were silos for storage, packed with supplies. “In the pit, maybe?” Aaron asked.

  “Possible,” Quinn said, “I’d have to go look, but ya might find usable soil if you dig deep enough.”

  “You a farmer?”

  Quinn’s look soured. “My parents were.” And that was all he wanted to say on that subject. His jaw tightened, and his eyes went back to the horizon, on patrol for motion.

  “We’ve got a live one!” Eden chimed in over the radio.

  “Christ, he’s jacked up.” That would be Nora.

  “Cut the chatter!” Holmst ordered, “What’s their status, Capital?”

  Aaron looked back toward the Homestead, a good hundred meters behind them now. Nothing he could do but continue his own search, but he couldn’t make himself move. He waited with bated breath for the report that might predict their own futures.

  Maybe they had just hit their head, or beaten the demons back with their bare fists?

  “What’s their status?” Holmst repeated, frustrated that he had to repeat himself.

  “Hypovolemic shock,” Eden responded, much more clinical than she had to be, “Traumatic amputation and... a likely spinal fracture.” Aaron knew maybe half of those words but enough of them to draw his own portentous conclusion.

  “Do what you can,” Aaron ordered, “Nora, don’t wander off. Whatever did that might still be nearby.”

  “Too right,” Nora said, nausea tainting her tone. It must be quite the sight to get her riled up. She was acclimatized to violence. This was a woman not easily shaken. And yet...

  Aaron turned bac
k to his patrol to see Quinn frozen in place, chewing on his cheek.

  “Are they gonna be okay?” Quinn asked, trying to hide the quiver in his voice.

  “Who, Eden?” Based on Quinn’s sudden shrug and pursed lips, Aaron gathered an either-or quality to the question, “Nobody’s gonna be okay after today.”

  All he could picture was that arm bone he found in the mine -- the length of it, its weight, and the tapered edge to it -- like a medieval scythe. He could see that being swung down to sever a man’s limbs, with the appropriate force and willpower. It wouldn’t slice, but it might crush or tear, like a powerful vice might.

  He’d seen enough similar injuries with the mining rigs where careless folk would lose a hand to an apathetic and unforgiving pulley system. They were never cut or torn so much as removed.

  The stories told of these critters, the local wildlife, eating their prey. Perhaps there was some truth in the tall tales.

  Aaron pulled the charging handle back on his rifle, just enough to check if the chamber was hot. The last thing he’d want to do is look death in the face and impotently click at it like a cricket being introduced to a lawnmower.

  “I don’t know about you,” Quinn stammered out, “But I’m all for ditching the perimeter and linking up with the others.”

  Aaron scanned the edges of sight one last time. Nothing but dirt and more dirt. Even the blood spatter didn’t extend out this far. “Yeah… I think you’re right,” he said, grasping his throat mic, “Team two perimeter, falling back to extract. How copy?”

  The Howlers swung overhead like silent phantoms, two dogs herding the Capitals back to their pens, “Negative team two,” spake the crisp voice from on high, “Mission time is not expired. Maintain your search pattern.”

  Quinn shivered, “Oh, great. Wonderful.”

  Aaron tapped the boy’s shoulder as he resumed their casual march. In retrospect, Aaron preferred the perimeter. The sights and smells inside the homestead proper were liable to haunt dreams.

  Out here, he got a beautiful view of the rolling mountains on all sides and the comfort of seeing any attack coming long before it got to him.

  What was there to hide behind out here?

  The ground cracked, a thin gossamer line silently dancing its way backward between his legs.

  His eyes followed back toward Quinn, but all Aaron saw was the two outstretched scythes wrapping around Quinn’s midsection, and the boy’s horrified eyes yanked abruptly into the ground.

  When the dust settled, there wasn’t even an imprint in the ground where the rupture had occurred, the dirt settling back undisturbed.

  A monster from under the bed had reached up from the ground and pulled Quinn down into its lair. No sounds of struggle or screams of pain; it was as though Quinn had never been.

  He scanned the ground and the cracked clay in every direction. Cracks everywhere.

  Oh, no...

  Aaron fumbled with his radio. “Perimeter contact. I repeat, perimeter contact!” He hissed into the mic, afraid to disturb the air more than necessary.

  “No shit!”

  The Howlers zipped by overhead, finally low enough for Aaron to hear their disquieting engines, the jet wash kicking Aaron’s hair about his head. The dirt flung about stung his eyes, and he tried to blink away through the cloud, worried he might be taken in the distraction.

  What he saw stole the breath from his chest and froze his fingers.

  They moved as one, too many to pick out one particular shape. In the single moment of Quinn’s abduction, the trap had sprung. Hundreds of twisted shapes emerged from all around the homestead, swarming the Capitals.

  Gunfire and cries for help were drowned out by the baritone staccato of chattering jaws, gnashing teeth, and dry breathing emanating from the unified morass of leathery nightmares.

  The ground cracked again under his feet. And Aaron could feel it rise up behind him.

  A Jergad Drone.

  It had to be eight feet tall, even in its hunched over state. A thick brown carapace over an inch thick covered its flesh like banded iron, camouflaging it with the ground as much as protecting it from assault. Its narrow thorax tapered down to a waspy center but was still thicker around than Aaron’s shoulders, plated with a half dozen articulated scales.

  Its two recurved legs bent backward like a bird’s, with a wide-set foot made for stability and strength. More than enough to rend Aaron’s stomach open in a single strike. As though it needed the help of its feet, with two searching arms ending in jagged blades, scythes articulated to slash. Its stance was wide and low, keeping its massive weight balanced.

  Most of the body was occluded behind its fan-shaped skull crest — likely evolved that way to shield its core from frontal attack. Its lower jaw split open at the center, hinging open to reveal a wide row of large crushing teeth.

  And its growling breath — a sound he’d remember through any dementia — came out in a surreal drum roll, a dissonant collection of angry notes assailing his ears.

  Its pale blue eyes stared right through him, with no focused iris or pupil, as though nothing could escape its cold sight.

  And its arms reached for him, twin bone scythes articulated at the wrist, ready to rend him apart. Eager, as if they had patiently waited for this satisfying moment and were now to be rewarded for their obedient restraint.

  The Howler above opened fire, its door gun unleashing a dragon’s breath of translucent blue fire into the creature’s broad head.

  The crested skull snapped off at the half-mast, spraying the air with a thin mist of red blood. It cried out in agony and rage, flailing madly for Aaron, just out of reach. It leaned back, instinctively trying to catch its fall —

  And exposing its plated chest.

  Center of mass.

  Aaron shouldered his rifle, snapping three clean rounds through, carving clean lanes through its vital organs and silencing its screams. It crumpled to the ground, slipping halfway back into the tunnel it leapt from.

  “Quinn?!” He called out into the tunnel, trying to ignore the chaotic radio chatter screaming in his ear.

  Maybe the boy was still in there, wounded and frightened. He needed help. Maybe he could pick out the whimpers of a farm boy.

  No answer. Too much to hope for.

  Aaron turned back to the homestead. The blood and the screams and the roiling bodies -- it looked like the Mouth of Hell itself had disgorged a legion of its troops onto the field.

  The Howlers’ door guns beat upon the back of the beast, slaying dozens of individuals but ignored by the whole. They couldn’t reach it, and besides — they had other toys to play with.

  The mob pressed in towards the homestead itself, surging over the sides of the pit.

  He could hear the distinct voices over the radio. Holmst calling out for ground reports. Carmona calling out targets. Eden instructing someone through triage. Nora tossing insults at the ugly beasts. Jensen bellowing encouragement like a Viking general on his way to Valhalla.

  Then suddenly nothing. And he was just watching it happen.

  Aaron broke into a jog, rushing toward a roiling mass of bloodthirsty critters that had evolved from the dirt up to butcher and cleave. They hid in the grass and snatched the unwary.

  They were every bit as horrible as the stories.

  Some of the Drones saw him — heard him — felt him — approaching. They turned to face him, their jaws unhinging, as though to swallow him whole.

  Aaron slowed to a stop, shouldering his rifle and taking careful aim.

  Click.

  Nothing. A stove-pipe jam -- a shell casing was stuck, not having cleared the chamber & crunched by the collapsing piston.

  The Drones hissed and charged, their feet slapping the ground, beating on the skin of a war drum. They stooped low, hiding their bodies behind the crests of their skulls. It was like some kind of demonic bulldozer had been bred with a wheat thresher.

  Aaron pulled the action back, letting the jammed casing
fall free, and slapping a new one home. He shouldered the rifle again.

  The beasts loomed over him, even with their hunched postures.

  The rifle spat fire and kicked into his stomach, somehow harder than it ever had before. He had dropped his stance in his panic.

  But the thirty caliber round slammed into the lead Drone’s face. It slumped, dragging against its neighbors.

  Aaron dropped to one knee, shouldering the rifle properly, before cracking off a fusillade of follow-ups. Some shots skipped off the leather carapace, chunking bits of the natural armor, but refusing to bury any deeper.

  Others hit square, the lead round tumbling deep into the crimson juices underneath. They collapsed in a pile a few feet in front of him.

  Either by cruel fate or sheer determination, one still reached for him, waving its clawed arms at him from underneath its limp brethren.

  Aaron dropped the empty magazine to the ground, fishing a fresh one from his harness as the beast hissed at him, helpless on the ground. He chambered the fresh magazine before snapping the first round into the helpless Drone’s head, ending its futile thrashing.

  As Aaron pressed forward, he passed many fallen Capitals’ bodies -- if what remained could be called as such. For every dead Capital, there were four or five open tunnels large enough for a pit miner’s drill bit. These industrious little buggers had quite a network under the homestead and had laid in wait for fresh prey.

  He made his way towards the homestead’s central pit unmolested, the body of the horde having already spilled inside.

  The Howlers swung overhead, their own gunfire having ceased for some chilling reason. He jogged up to the lip of the maw, breath hitched in his chest for what he might see. What presented itself was both inspiring and terrifying.

  Two stories straight down into the Earth, the farmers had carved their home and their crops. Various holes in the walls, either excavated or natural, had to be the living spaces, with the pit floor acting as the farmland, with solar reflectors lining the walls every few feet.

  Whatever crops had been their craft were trampled into dust under what had to be over a hundred alien feet… and just under a dozen remaining humans. What remained of the Capitals had formed up at the center of the farmland, standing at the center of the crop circle.