It lifted him upside down and he flew through the air as the tentacle retracted back to the body. Blood in his head, his vision twisted, his legs crushed from the grip of the tentacle, Patrick nearly passed out. He gripped the charges tightly as his vision began to fade.
He came over the mantle and saw the gigantic eye and the beak opening wide for its meal. He released the charges as he saw the beak widening, the creature lowering him to his death.
Patrick, in his last moment before the blackness took him, pressed the detonator.
* * *
72
Patrick looked to the broken and bloodied body of the large Texan. His men had the side door open and as anger pumped through him like fire, he went and looked inside.
There were two men, huddled in the corner. What Patrick thought looked like their wives were in the other corner, gripping tightly to a small child, terror in their eyes. The major came down and peered in. He pulled on Patrick’s shoulder and had him step out of the room.
“Russell, these men are enemy combatants. Get me my information.”
“That haji there was a combatant, Major. But I think these are the people that live in the house.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my fucking job, Russell. I want some information. Now get in there and get it for me.” The major pulled out a thick hunting knife. “Get it anyway you can.”
He put the knife in Patrick’s hand. Patrick stepped through the door, and shut it behind him.
The two women were crying now and the men tried to comfort them with soft words, useless words. These were not combatants. Combatants would have fought him. Patrick looked down to the knife. It gleamed in the dim light of the room and he could see his reflection in it. In a basement a lot like this one, he had been a child in a corner, hiding from his father.
He threw the knife on the floor and turned to leave when the major stepped in.
“I knew you’d do some shit like that, Russell.” He stepped close. “I didn’t want no snipers on my squad, but they said I had to take you. Why would they say that, Russell? Your daddy pull some strings to get you on my squad or you suck some dicks to be here? Answer me, boy.”
Patrick stood at attention, as one always did with superiors that wished to yell at you for a time. He watched a spot on the wall that looked like a grease stain and didn’t take his eyes off it.
“I told you to get my information, boy. Are you disobeying a direct order?”
“Sir, no Sir. The captain has determined that these Iraqis have no information, Sir.”
“Oh, so you running my missions now?” He stepped nose-to-nose with him. “I told you I want my information. If you can’t get it, I will.” He reached down and picked the knife up. The major looked to the men and then turned his attention to the women. “Thing about these haji’s they can take some pain. But ain’t nobody able to watch their woman take some pain. Russell, go get me my real men. Get the fuck outta the house and watch the door.”
Patrick didn’t move.
“I gave you an order, Captain.”
“Sir, the captain has determined these Iraqis have no information, Sir.”
“Your ass is mine, Russell! After I get me some pussy.”
The major leaned down, the knife gleaming like a lightbulb. He grabbed one of the women by the arm.
Patrick looked to the door and then back to the major. He was forcing the woman onto her back.
“Shit.”
He ran to the major and kicked him in the jaw. The major flew to his side, the knife up in a defensive position. He was on his feet in a second and swung with the knife. Patrick tackled him and pulled the knife away, lifting it high in the air and bashing the hilt down into the major’s nose.
Blood began to pour and he bashed with the hilt again and again until the major was unconscious.
The door opened and several soldiers came through, in shock at the scene.
“Private Mendez,” Patrick said, “call the MP’s and get—”
Shots rang in the air. Patrick jumped as the major fired a round into the head of the woman, her brains spilling out onto the floor. He aimed for Patrick and Patrick pulled out his sidearm and fired a single round into the major’s forehead. The major’s head fell back to the concrete, his eyes lifeless and cold in an instant . . .
Then, there was the dusty smell of the courtroom. The defense table with the nicks over the smooth surface and the names carved with pens. The jury of soldiers in the military court; the resonance of the foreperson’s voice. Not Guilty of Homicide due to self-defense.
*****
There were only fragments of memory: a sound booming through his head, making his body quake, deafening him. There was wet goop over him, a roar that pierced even his deafness.
The creature swallowed one of the depth charges, the impact of the blast blowing apart its beak, leaving wet lumps of ragged meat in its place. The second charge detonated near its funnel over the head, blowing away bulky chunks of flesh and brains and eyes. Its grip loosened and it fell backward into the sea, several legs caught on ragged metal, tearing away with the weight of the creature as it sank.
Two massive holes were blown into the ship and it instantly began to sink. He remembered hands over him and the tight blackness of a lifeboat. There was rumbling and jarring and then calming sleep.
“What about Hamilton?” somebody shouted.
“He can try and swim back.”
Patrick remembered one portion of the helicopter back to shore: Jane sitting with him, speaking in his ear though he had lost much of his hearing from the blasts and heard nothing but a droning, muffled ringing. But he could make out one thing that she said: Hamilton went down with his ship.
The hospital was filled with men in white who ran to him and then away and then back. They poked and prodded and cut away portions of flesh.
He woke up in the burn unit two days later, a sticky petroleum jelly-type cream over one-third of his body. Jane sat in a chair by the window, asleep. She was wearing the same clothes as when he had been brought here.
He opened his eyes fully and saw her outline. The straight line of her jaw, her full lips, the collarbone that thrust out of her skin. She was beautiful. And she was his.
“You don’t need to stay,” he gasped, his voice little more than a whisper.
She stirred and woke, a smile parting her lips as she saw him. “Yes, I do.”
Rising, she came and stood by him, slipping her hand into his.
“Christopher?”
“He’s back at the hotel,” she said, looking down at his sheets. Her fingers ran over his arm and the bandages around his body. She knelt and gave him a kiss before sitting back down in the chair. “I’m not going anywhere, so you’ll just have to deal with it.”
A smile came to him, causing pain in his burnt cheeks, and he closed his eyes and decided to sleep a while. He felt her hand slip back into his before drifting off into the arms of a dreamless sleep.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Victor Methos is an adventurer, wildlife conservationist, and general adrenaline junkie. He began his writing career with short fiction and his short stories and poems have appeared in literary journals, science fiction and fantasy magazines, and poetry journals. To contact him, get tips on starting your own adventures, or to learn how to help with the conservation of our disappearing wildlife, please visit his blog at http://methosreview.blogspot.com
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