by A. R. Daun
The problem was, the entire city was empty. There were neither friendlies nor bad guys anywhere, and it seemed utterly devoid of any living things larger than insects. Or at least it seemed all empty until a few hours back.
There was sudden movement from the east and an MH-47 Chinook helicopter lumbered into view, its bulky shape casting a wide shadow on the urban landscape below it. The drone followed its slow progress.
An hour earlier, one of the hunter killers had detected movement on the parking lot of a Publix grocery on Hialeah Drive. The information was relayed via Ku-band satellite link to the drone's pilot and its sensor operator, who were based on the aircraft carrier USS Harry S. Truman off the coast of Florida.
A platoon of the elite Navy SEAL Team 4 had immediately been dispatched on the chopper from the carrier strike group, and they were now making their way into the heart of downtown Miami.
The Reaper received a command from its pilot and stationed itself in a circling pattern high above the designated landing area on Babcock Park, which was across Flamingo Way from the target building. Even when fully loaded with munitions, the drone could provide cover for up to 14 hours.
It watched as the 16 man team deployed from the Chinook and fanned out towards the road and across it onto the grocery parking lot, where they concealed themselves behind parked and stalled cars, their FN SCAR assault rifles all aimed at the store's main entrance.
Everything remained still for several heartbeats, then suddenly a four man element separated from the group and rushed into the building. The drone waited, its two man crew from miles away quickly glancing at one another to acknowledge that whatever was going to happen, would happen in the next few seconds. Someone or something had gone into that grocery store, and none of the hunter killers had seen anything come out.
They were right. In the omniscient eyes of the drone it all played out like a silent and deadly ballet. It started when glass fragments sprayed outwards from the store's main doors, followed by a flattened disfigured shape that trailed bright red droplets of blood as it tumbled end over end past the first row of parked cars to break in soggy pieces against the hood of a pickup truck. An elongated figure of acute angles and sharp edges burst from the store, and flashes of light erupted from the circle of armed men as they opened fire with assault rifles and an M249 machine gun on bipods.
The hellish form shifted as if from a sped up motion picture reel as it flickered from one SEAL team member to another. Its gangling limbs slashed at the helpless men and turned each one in turn into shredded pieces of torn body armor and butchered flesh. A bright flare of light bloomed where the creature had loomed only a few milliseconds before over the headless body of the lieutenant in charge of the platoon, and the drone traced its origin to a soldier who had unleashed an FN40 grenade launcher. A heartbeat later the unlucky man was crushed against the dented side door of a green Land Cruiser, his twitching fingers releasing their hold on the ineffectual weapon as the blood-red attacker gnawed his face off.
In the face of this assault, the survivors retreated quickly in a disorganized run for the Chinook. With the SEALs out of the area, the drone finally received the all clear to arm itself and initiate contact with the creature, which had remained rooted to its last kill.
The drone painted the now-still figure with its laser rangefinder and designator and prepared one of the four laser-guided AGM-114 Hellfire missiles it carried. The highly accurate anti-armor and anti-personnel weapon would make short work of the hostile, no matter how invulnerable it seemed to small arms fire.
The four SEALs were crossing Flamingo Way when the creature finally moved, bypassing the frail human figures and propelling itself in long leaps and sprints towards the waiting helicopter. At that same moment the drone unleashed the Hellfire, which accelerated towards its moving target at Mach 1.3, detonating just as the creature reached the Chinook.
“Fuck!” The sensor operator and the drone pilot in the Truman both said in unison as the world erupted in a fiery collage on their screen and the Chinook shook itself apart, throwing smoking shrapnel in a deadly circle. Bloody pieces of the creature added to the wreckage pouring down from the sky, and the melange of metal and organic debris made a sound like falling rain as they plummeted back to earth.
The four SEALs were thrown backwards by the force of the blast. They lay like broken snow angels while their transport burned and billowed black smoke into the Florida sky, and the drone circled high above and mulled its next course of action.
One of the downed figures stirred, then slowly got up. He was holding one arm and bent over slightly at the waist, but other than that he seemed unharmed. The drone took note of this new development and a second helicopter was prepared for evac.
The SEAL straightened up and looked skywards. It would have been impossible for him to see the drone, and yet the sensor operator had the feeling that was just what he was doing. Sensing them somehow across the distance, willing them to come to his aid.
After several minutes the SEAL started limping back towards the grocery, going to where his mates lay in pools of blood and sitting down to rest, his back against a parked car, his eyes closed to the nightmare scene around him. He was still there when they came to pick him up.
CHAPTER 12
Day 3 A.R. (5 pm EST)
Off the Coast of Miami, Florida
Nanotechnology is feasible but biology is based on limited side of materials. Everything is built out of proteins and that’s a limited class of substances. With nanotechnology we can create things that are far more durable and far more powerful.
- Ray Kurzweil
Gunner's Mate 2nd class Denzel Harrison opened bleary eyes and kneaded them with a hand that trembled slightly. He squinted, his face basking in the artificial brightness of the room, forcing the blurry images relayed by his eyes into some sort of order.
The world came into focus.
Bright lights. Sterile white room. Equipment scattered all around the room, their monitors mostly blank and staring. An IV bag hanging over him like a limp condom, connected to his arm by a long loop of plastic tubing. And looking down at him a face: plain, brunette-haired, with a button nose and placid brown eyes shaded by thick eyebrows. A female medical corpsman.
“Welcome back, Denzel,” the nurse said, giving him a glass of water to drink. He grunted, then realized his throat was dry and drank greedily.
“Where am I? Where are the others?” He finally asked. “Are they okay?”
A shadow flitted across her eyes before she could hide it, and Denzel knew he was the only one who made it out alive. He groaned and sank back into the sheets.
“You're back in the Truman, the main medical department, ...sickbay,” she amended. “You're ok. A slight concussion, a sprained knee, a few contusions and some minor abrasions. We'll let the doctor tell you all about that.”
Like some well-choreographed play, an older man walked in at that moment and stood next to the nurse, looking down and smiling. He had a craggy face and a genial manner that Denzel supposed was a great asset in his profession.
“And how do you feel, Petty Officer Harrison?” The general medical officer asked, nodding amiably at him.
Denzel swallowed. “I'm fine Doc. I think. I feel like I've been run through a shredder but...well...”
He stopped. How to explain to this man that no matter how bad he felt right now, nothing could feel worse than knowing that you survived, while all your friends died?
The GMO cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said, nodding as if he could read Denzel's mind. “You're the only one who made it out. I'm sorry.”
Denzel's eyes misted and he wiped it with the back of one hand. “It moved so fast,” he said softly. “It took half of us down before we could even get our act together, and even then it took hits and didn't go down.”
He clenched his fists, remembering the explosion. “Did they get the thing?” he finally asked.
The GMO shook his head regretfully. “I
wouldn't know. You'll be debriefed later and they'll give you more details then. For now, I'd like you to get some rest.”
Denzel closed his eyes. “Ok Doc. Where are they?” He asked.
The physician glanced at the nurse. “I wouldn't recommend looking at them,” he said kindly. “The bodies are...well, they're all badly damaged.”
The SEAL opened his eyes and stared at him coldly. “I was there,” he said in a deadly monotone. “I could hear them screaming and calling out to God for mercy as that thing butchered them. I listened to their cries for help as they were torn limb from limb and their bodies scattered like abandoned playthings. I was there Doc.”
The GMO flinched, but to his credit did not blink or look away. “Yes I know,” he said, more softly still. “I'm sorry, but per regulation they're being kept in a prepared freezer until they can be airlifted out. Please rest PO Harrison.”
He nodded again to Denzel, this time more firmly to indicate that he would brook no dissension, then turned to the nurse, scribbled something in his pad and gave it to her.
Denzel closed his eyes again and waited until the two had left, then drifted off to a restless sleep. He moaned as he dreamed of taloned feet rending flesh from bone; he jerked in his slumber as a gaping maw with 2 inch teeth like gleaming icicles gobbled meat and sinews from the mangled bodies of his friends; he turned away from red glowing cat's eyes that blazed with hate and malice.
Sometime later, he opened his eyes to the sound of alarms blaring.
The funny thing was that he was not surprised. Denzel sat up slowly and looked around the small quiet room, his feet dangling from the side of the bed. His throat felt dry, but he couldn't find any glass of water nearby. He thought of pressing the emergency nurse button, but decided anyone assigned to monitor the call would probably have more pressing matters at hand.
Over the ship-wide intercom a message repeated itself: "All hands. General Quarters. General Quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Intruder Alert, security to the forward galley."
He could hear the thumping of feet from the corridor outside as crewmen rushed to their stations.
He knew that watertight and fireproof doors between bulkheads would be shut, but he doubted those would pose much of a problem for the things that had grown from his dead SEAL companions.
Denzel carefully placed one foot on the floor and put some of his weight on it. It didn't give, and he nodded in satisfaction. He put his second foot down and stood. He felt a twinge of dizziness, but the feeling quickly passed. He stumbled towards the door, and carefully peeped outside.
The long narrow corridors that stretched to either side were empty for the moment. Denzel made his way aft, his hospital gown making swishing noises as he reached one of the watertight doors and turned it open.
He tilted his head and listened. His hearing had become quite acute. He could hear the faint pop of guns being used, and quite a lot of them in the distance forward and above him. He encountered a hatchway and climbed up gingerly, snagging a kevlar combat helmet from a dispenser and putting it on. Rules were rules after all.
He was halfway up the ladder when a body tumbled from above and almost dislodged him from his perch before smacking like wet laundry on the deck below. It was in full body armor but missing its head, and all that remained was a bloody chewed up stump that used to be the lower part of the unfortunate sailor's neck.
Denzel kept climbing, keeping his body closer to the ladder to avoid any more incoming detritus. He carefully peered into the next deck and finding it clear made his way to an opened watertight door. Whatever had decapitated the man had come through this door and probably moved onwards. Denzel had no intention of following it. He had to get to the carrier's central island, where the command center for all flight deck operations was located.
He started encountering dead bodies as he got closer to the island, which was heavily protected during General Quarters. He saw heaps of corpses with tangled limbs thrown up as if in supplication, the faces bloodied with gaping mouths that seemed to scream silently at him as he passed; he stepped over parts of bodies and broken weapons strewn like the forgotten toys of careless children; and everywhere he waded through pools of blood that formed mini-lakes in the tight confines of the rooms and corridors of the fast dying ship.
As Denzel made his way past the carrier air traffic control center and then the flight deck control and launch operations room, he made it a point to check each area in turn. He still felt it was his duty to make sure no one needed his help. He stopped trying and vomited what seemed like the entire contents of his stomach after finding the aircraft handler and his crew smeared like grotesque urban graffiti on the walls of one room.
In comparison, the bridge was seemingly a model of cleanliness. The bodies of the captain, the helmsman, and some support personnel were draped over their stations as if they had somehow fallen asleep while on duty. Denzel carefully tried to turn over the captain, and the body came off the controls with a horrible sucking sound. He dropped it back down and it slid bonelessly onto the floor. The captain had no face and his entire upper body was one big hemorrhaging chest wound.
Denzel started gasping for air, and he had to support himself on one of the control panels. The tiny pops of small arms fire were dwindling in the distance, and he knew that sooner or later they would find him holed up here in the control center. He looked around and pried a handgun from one of the dead bodies, then looked at the ridiculously ineffectual thing and felt like an idiot.
He sat down on the bridge floor with his back to one of the consoles and gripped the gun between his splayed legs. He stayed that way for a long time, and when at last he heard the soft click of taloned feet coming from the dark corridors behind the bridge, he smiled for the first time in what seemed to him like forever.
The thing entered the room and Denzel looked at it curiously.
Although the broad strokes of its appearance were similar to the entity that they had encountered in the Publix grocery store in downtown Miami, he noticed that it exhibited slight differences in the facial structure, and even in the proportions of its limbs. But it was still a vicious looking monstrosity, and one that would have looked quite at home in a medieval painting of the darker inhabitants who dwelt in some Christian Hell and tortured incoming souls. It stood more than 2.5 meters high and was elongated almost to the point of emaciation, with a lean rust red body that was ridged with ropy muscles, and a barrel chest lined with a dense bony structure that could have been keratin. Its impossibly long arms sported curved thorn-like projections of varying sizes throughout its surface, and ended in five edged fingers that were probably 5 inches long and had smears of blood still on them.
The creature tilted its head, which was long and tapering towards the back and dominated by a long tapering proboscis with a flattened tip that opened slightly to reveal a seemingly endless row of shockingly white even triangular teeth. It issued a tinny high pitched querulous whine from the depths of its chest, an incongruous sound which made Denzel chuckle softly to himself. It had no eyes or nose or even ears, but it exhibited neither aggression nor any signs that it would attack. In fact, Denzel had the distinct impression it was just as curious about him as he was of it.
He stood up slowly, grunting when a flare of pain traveled up his right side. He looked at the gun in his hand and chuckled again, then casually threw it to one side. It bounced off the sagging body of the helmsman and clattered to the floor. The creature swiveled its long head and followed its trajectory before again turning its attention to Denzel.
"You are one ugly sonofabitch aren't you?" Denzel said, but this got neither an affirmation nor a disapproving gesture from the creature.
Denzel considered its face. "Who are you?" he finally said, then rattled off the names of some of his fallen SEAL team members. "Guttierez? Harmon? He had a mug as ugly as yours, but you have better teeth." He chuckled again at his try at witticism.
"Sung? Taylor? Lieutenant Gonzale
s? Or are you made from parts of them?" He considered this last question and decided it was probably the correct answer.
The body of the captain made a low burbling sound, and Denzel glanced at it. It was obvious that the creatures for some reason were reluctant to engage him, but that didn't mean he wanted to be here when all 6000 dead bodies in the ship turned.
He stepped closer to the creature, moving into the span of its open arms, and reached out with one hand to touch the bony carapace that wrapped around its chest. He smelled the faintest trace of some pungent odor redolent of spice emanating from it, and though not altogether unpleasant, he decided not to breathe in too much of the scent. Its skin felt smooth, like something made of slick glass rather than anything organic, and it was cold to the touch.
This action finally triggered something in the beast and it swung one long arm at him, perhaps meaning to impale him in its thorns. Without even thinking about it, and in a blur of movement that Denzel later thought was faster than anything humanly possible, he ducked beneath the blow and used both hands to shove the creature backwards.
It staggered back and crashed into a wall, denting the metal and rebounding to fall on its knees. Denzel rushed to it and slammed a foot onto its back, pinning it flat on the ground just as another of the creatures burst into the scene, its mouth wide open and its razor sharp teeth dripping translucent beads of blood. Denzel moved forwards and slammed the flat of one hand below its chin and broke its neck, sending the flailing monster backsliding into the dark corridor.
He turned back to the first creature and saw that it had regained its footing and was again silently staring at him. He could feel the waves of curiosity pulsing from its body, could almost understand and communicate with it, but for one reason or the other he could not bridge that final chasm of understanding.
