A sexy spider dealer babe dealt the cards, giving herself a ten up, and the spider commander a King and an eight. The spider commander nonchalantly picked the jar up, touching it to his antenna. The ghost of Harold Crack discretely advised that the dealer had two tens, and that he should hit for another card. The spider commander hit, drawing a three. He won!
So it went for the rest of the evening, piling up tall stacks of chips. Oh, hell yes! Normally the spider thug security guards would have kicked out a winning blackjack player, especially an obvious cheater. However, the pit boss held back. After all, this was the Regional Military Commander, a sword of the Emperor. He could not be accused without evidence.
Cameras zoomed in from all angles, but security could not figure out the scam. It had something to do with that stupid tooth-in-a-jar. The pit boss signaled for security to examine the jar. As they made their move, the spider commander deftly scooped it up, drawing his sidearm. A security guard knocked the jar loose from behind. The jar fell, rolling across the floor.
The ghost of Harold Crack lit up the casino with a fiery display of contained ectoplasm before the jar went dark. It was like shaking fire flies, except different. The spider commander cashed in his chips, ignoring gawkers.
“Nothing to see here!” he announced. “You can order ghosts in a jar online at Amazon.com soon.”
The spider commander ordered personal bodyguards to seize all casino camera surveillance video, citing Imperial security concerns. Using a human pestilence ghost to win big at the casino seemed like a good idea at the time, but in retrospect, it was not one of his best career decisions. Undaunted, he ordered the pit boss arrested, too, for assaulting an imperial officer and impeding an official investigation of casino gaming irregularities.
* * * * *
Cactus-Claw and his gang plea bargained to avoid the death penalty, in exchange for explaining how he captured Harold Crack. Sentenced to hard labor, Cactus-Claw was assigned to a chain gang along the Human Highway with the rest of the snitches, shoulder to shoulder with spiders and scorpions cutting weeds and sage brush. Tireless workers, their claws were perfect for cutting weeds and doing landscaping. Cactus-Claw grumbled about the xenophobic reduction to lawnmower status, just because they had sharp crab-like claws. But what could he do? Nothing.
At high noon legionnaires relieved the Sheriff's Office guard detail. I explained Cactus-Claw was way too high profile a criminal mastermind to be left to the local cops. Immediately I tasked prisoners with digging holes during their rest break.
“What is it with you and digging holes everywhere we deploy?” asked Major Lopez, irritated. “The countryside looks like craters of the moon after we pass through.”
“Orders from on high,” I answered cryptically. “This time make the holes deep. I want a long trench.”
* * * * *
“Dig fast and deep,” ordered Cactus-Claw, clawing at the dirt. “Our very lives depend on it.”
“What?” asked Little-Claw. “This is bullshit making us dig during our lunch break. It's an OSHA violation. I'm filing an inmate grievance. Where's my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and slimy bologna? I want my soy milk. Wait until my lawyer hears about this fascist violation of my civil rights.”
“Dig faster, you fool,” urged Cactus-Claw, peering out their hole at approaching legionnaires. “Angle into the side wall. Quick!”
Hungry as ever, Little-Claw burrowed feverishly. Cactus-Claw tore up a large box of MREs, flattening the cardboard to form a fake wall, covering the hollowed indentation they had just dug. He slopped mud over the cardboard for camouflage just as a Legion armored car positioned itself at the edge of the trench.
A legionnaire atop the turret opened fire with a machine gun on the prisoners. Most fell scrambling to get out of the ditch. Those able to run were quickly cut down by small arms fire, and dragged back to their grave. The armored car's bumper shovel pushed dirt over the trench. Legionnaires stomped the dirt with their boots, packing it for good measure.
* * * * *
Spiders can hold their breath for a long time. They have no lungs, breathing through their exoskeleton. Cactus-Claw and several scorpions survived. He pulled Little-Claw up from the grave, shaken but still alive. They sat in the moonlight on a mound of dirt eating MREs, thanking their stars for being alive. The MREs tasted good, even the spaghetti & meatball surprise.
“I think we're officially dead,” mused Little-Claw. “Want to start a new life? Maybe even get a job?”
“Not really,” answered Cactus-Claw. “I'd rather rob banks.”
Several scorpions nodded their agreement.
“Me too,” agreed Little-Claw, but the galaxy is conspiring to kill us. We should lay low. How about white collar crime? That and politics are where the real money is to be made. This thug life is wearing me down.”
“White collar crime sounds promising. We will rob mail boxes and UPS truck deliveries. A merry Christmas will be had by all.”
Chapter 13
A naked light bulb illuminating a black mailbox could be seen for miles in the desert night. Being bugs, Cactus-Claw and his new gang were drawn to the light like moths to fire, except different, being sentient and drawn to a light bulb like a smart moth, not a mindless stupid moth. Eager to begin his white collar crime spree, Little-Claw opened the mailbox, stealing a Christmas package. He tore at the wrapping like it was his Christmas, finding a bottle of vodka. One of the scorpions snatched the bottle ofthe good stuff, chugging it down. He died instantly from poisoning.
“It was a Legion trap,” exclaimed Cactus-Claw knowingly. “Caution and discipline are needed if we are to live long and prosper.”
“Cactus-Claw knows what he is talking about,” added Little-Claw. “He's been on cable TV, and is famous for miles in every direction.”
Two scorpions nodded in sober agreement with their new boss, same as the old boss, except different because he was a spider. Cactus-Claw stuffed the mailbox with sagebrush, lit it on fire, and poured poisoned vodka on it to stoke the flame. Explosions caught pistons, driving secret human pestilence technology, transmitting directed gravity summoning a postal jeep. Huddled around the burning mailbox for warmth, they hissed campfire songs. It was an intense spiritual moment under the stars, staring at the fire and the jeep. Maybe they were just hallucinating from eating too many toxic MREs. In the morning the gang was hungover, and the postal jeep was gone with no tracks.
* * * * *
Buzzards circling a remote highway mailbox attracted a Legion patrol. Sergeant Williams inspected the scene from his armored car. A dried scorpion husk had been picked clean by scavengers. Parts were scattered in the brush. An empty vodka bottle lay on the ground by the mailbox.
Sergeant Williams placed a new Christmas package in the mailbox. Corporal John 'Iwo Jima' Wayne,' a large spider legionnaire, checked for tracks, because only aliens can find other alien's tracks. He found mixed spider and scorpion tracks, and a trail of toxic MRE litter. Corporal Wayne shoveled the scorpion remains into a large rodent hole, covering them with dirt.
“Rest in pis, scorpion,” said Corporal Wayne bitterly over the makeshift grave. “May all your ilk die slow and painful.”
“Which way did they go?” asked Sergeant Williams. “East towards Scorpion City?”
“South towards New Phoenix” answered Corporal Wayne. “They're still close. I can smell their foul scorpion odor, and spiders, too.”
“That's unusual. I thought you spiders were mortal enemies.”
“You spiders?”
“Sorry. You know what I mean. Some of my best friends are you exoskeleton species. We'll circle to make sure the track doesn't double back east.”
* * * * *
“It is difficult to get recognizance satellite time, but when you do it's a game changer. Spider and scorpion bandits traveling together got Legion Headquarters' attention fast. The satellite located scorpions fifty miles south of the mailbox. The scorpions burrowed underground as the firs
t legion armored cars arrived.
Sergeant Williams deployed the Tremors 2000 Seismic Detection Unit, new and improved over the old Tremors 1000. A drill mounted on the side of his armored car poked into the ground. Seismic readings accurately detected and located underground movement of anything from a large groundhog to mechanical devices. Numerous groundhogs and scorpions were tracked within the narrowing Legion perimeter. I ordered all movement targeted by the Air Force with bunker-busting bombs.
Bleeding from his hearing receptor holes, Crazy-Sting staggered to the surface. His gang came up fighting. Sergeant Williams cut the first wave of scorpions down with his machine gun. I directed cannon fire as my armored car advanced at the enemy.
A scorpion bandit scaled the side of my armored car, wrestling me off the turret. It stung me on the shoulder as we rolled in the dirt. A scorpion sting would be lethal to most legionnaires, but I have been stung so many times I've developed a resistance to the venom. I drew my jagged combat knife, slicing off the scorpion's telson, and stabbing it in the heart. The scorpion kept struggling. I stabbed the scorpion in its other heart, finally dropping it like a sack of potatoes.
Crazy-Sting raised his claws in surrender. “I give up!” he shouted. “Spare my mates, and I will give you valuable information about the spiders bandits.”
What a cheese-eater, I thought. “No deals. Surrender is unconditional.”
“Does that mean no conditions?”
“Yes.”
“That sucks!”
“Sucks to be you.”
“Cactus-Claw survived your massacre. You just missed him, but I know where he will strike next.”
“Go on,” I said, slightly interested.
“Do we have a deal? You will let us return to Scorpion City? I promise to be good. I'm a personal friend of Major Desert-Sting of the Guard.”
“Okay, fine. I agree to all your conditions.”
“Cactus-Claw plans to rob the First National Bank of New Phoenix. He thinks the Legion thinks he is dead, so security at the bank will be light. He has got a dozen traitor scorpions from my gang to join him.”
“Thank you for the info,” I replied magnanimously. “You may go.”
“I need medical help,” said Crazy-Sting, still bleeding from his inner hearing receptor hole. “I'm weak from loss of blood. I need a medic.”
“I tossed Crazy-Sting a roll of duct tape. Ha! Another use for duct tape. Then the venom from the scorpion sting took affect, sending me into hallucinatory shock. I talked to God, and God talked back.
* * * * *
“Colonel Czerinski, I thought you retired,” said God, amicably. “You should have retired long ago.”
“If this is the afterlife, I'm gravely disappointed,” I replied. “Otherwise, I'm in for the duration.”
“Just as well it's not. You wouldn't get past the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter hates your guts. What did you do to piss him off so much?”
“I did my praying at the casino. Old Pete holds a grudge for eternity.”
“Most legionnaires die from scorpion stings. Why are you still alive?”
“ Heard you're letting scorpions into Heaven these days,” I commented, not comfortable talking about my mortality with God. “How's that working out for you?”
“God does not discriminate,” answered God. “It's written somewhere, but damned if I can find it. I think my Son snuck that one into the fine print somewhere. Little bastard.”
“Am I going to survive this scorpion sting?” I asked, a bit nervous about talking to God. “I still got stuff I want to do.”
“Oh, hell yes. It's like you mentioned earlier. You're in for the duration, and that's a long time.”
“It's been good chatting, God,” I said, fading into consciousness.
“Ditto, bro.”
Chapter 14
I deployed legionnaires between New Phoenix and Cactus-Claw's last known location. Panic struck from rumors of imminent attack from Cactus-Claw and his horde of ravenous scorpions. Residents of New Phoenix closed fast food restaurants, groceries, and liquor stores. The city imposed a blackout in case Cactus-Claw attacked from the air. I met Sheriff Mike McCoy at the city limits to coordinate defenses.
“Where are my prisoners?” asked Sheriff McCoy.
“I shot them trying to escape,” I answered.
“All of them? Did you at least save some orange jumpsuits?”
“No and no. Cactus-Claw got away.”
“I want a written report documenting exactly what happened. How am I going to justify federal funding if you keep messing with my numbers?”
“The Foreign Legion doesn't care about numbers,” interrupted Major Lopez, my XO. “Your red tape slows us down.”
“Along the DMZ anyone who keeps resisting is an enemy combatant,” I explained patiently. “Numbers get skewed. Fog of war, you know.”
“No, I don't know,” bristled Sheriff McCoy. “Is there helmet camera video of your latest atrocity?”
“No. More fog.”
“We're not cops,” argued Major Lopez, more animated. “If you did your job better, spider and scorpion gangs wouldn't me marauding across the countryside slaughtering innocents. Now they're even attacking New Phoenix. What are you going to do about that?”
“Have some donuts,” I offered, making peace with free cop-food. “You don't want to shoot bandits on an empty stomach.”
“Thanks,” replied Sheriff McCoy, picking out a Crispy Creme. “Don't think this changes anything.”
“We're an the same side, but have different approaches,” I said reasonably. “You make arrests. If it's from space, we kill it.”
“It's a new day, Czerinski. Many spiders and scorpions are now American citizens. Some even vote. Hell, there are aliens in your own Legion. There are rules. We are sworn to protect the constitutional rights of all citizens.”
“Not when the enemy has automatic weapons and RPGs.”
“Those escaped prisoners didn't have automatic weapons and RPGs.”
“They do now.”
* * * * *
Corporal Tonelli and Privates Telk, Krueger, and Knight lay in ambush along an old game trail near New Phoenix. It was a quiet moonless night, perfect for an ambush. Their motion sensor alarm detected movement on the trail. Rustling could be heard in the brush, getting closer. Corporal Tonelli fired a flare into the air. Private Krueger threw a grenade. Knight and Telk fired their rifles. After the initial mayhem, everyone stayed in place, letting their night vision return. The flare slowly drifted away.
“Did we kill it?” asked Telk, crawling to the left flank. “I think we killed it.”
“Killed what?” asked Private Krueger, pulling another grenade from his pants. “We didn't kill anything.”
Something thrashed in the brush. Corporal Tonelli fired his pistol. It screamed and fell.
“I killed it,” said Tonalli, advancing cautiously. “It's a javelina.”
“A wild pig?” asked Private Knight, joining Corporal Tonelli. “Does anyone have a hunting license?”
“We don't need no stinking hunting license,” replied Kruger, doing his best Major Lopez imitation. “Finally we see combat.”
“This isn't combat,” advised Corporal Tonelli. “It's only combat if one of you accidentally got shot.”
Soft sand by where Corporal Tonelli was standing gave way to a hiding scorpion. More scorpions emerged from hiding, pointing their weapons menacingly at the legionnaires. They were led by two spiders.
“Surrender,” ordered Cactus-Claw. “You are outnumbered. Throw down your rifles. Do it now.”
“This is combat,” commented Corporal Tonelli. “Happy now?”
“It's not combat if we surrender,” argued Krueger. “It's technical.”
“Don't shoot, or I'll sound a radio alarm,” said Corporal Tonelli, thumb on the button. “You might kill us, but you won't outrun Legion helicopter gunships.”
“That's right,” added Private Knight. “Make them a dea
l they can't refuse. Don't mess with Tonelli. He's connected.”
“I've seen you on cable TV,” replied Cactus-Claw, eying Private Knight incredulously. “You're world famous science fiction author Walter Knight. I've read all of your books on Kindle.”
“Wow! All of them?”
“Friends don't let friends watch cable,” said Private Telk, trying to be helpful, but not.
“Sorry about this,” apologized Cactus-Claw, showing genuine concern. “The good news is maybe sales will increase after I shoot you. All press is good press.”
“Maybe you could give me an Amazon book review before we die,” replied Knight somberly.
“When is Book 23 coming out?”
“As soon as my editor gets back from vacation on Mars. She's working on her tan.”
“It's Christmas,” announced Corporal Tonelli. “No one wants to get whacked on Christmas. How about a Christmas truce?”
“Spiders don't celebrate Christmas,” scoffed Cactus-Claw. “We do our New Year's shopping on Black Friday.”
“Scorpions celebrate Christmas,” said one of the scorpions, twitching nervously. “Hanukkah, too. There's so much to steal during the holiday season.”
“You're not helping,” admonished Cactus-Claw. “Good help is so hard to find.”
“I say we eat the pig for Christmas dinner,” suggested the scorpion, a slave to his gullet. “I have bar-b-cue sauce in my backpack.”
“I have beer in mine,” added Private Krueger, being more helpful that stupid Telk ever could be.
“I've got weed,” exclaimed Private Telk, closing the deal. “It will be like Snoopy and the Red Baron, except we'll get stoned.”
“A truce it is, then,” said Corporal Tonelli loudly for all to hear. “We'll roast the pig on a spit, but one false move and I radio Headquarters for an air strike.”
“Whatever,” said Cactus-Claw, lowering his rifle. “Merry Christmas to all you silly human pestilence.”
“Merry Christmas to all scorpions and spiders,” countered Corporal Tonelli, producing a tall bottle of wine from his pouch for a toast. “World peace.”
America's Galactic Foreign Legion - Book 23 - Bandits Page 6
