by Robert Lyons
BLEEP!
SLAM!
The hotheaded tobacco enthusiast nicknamed Smokey smashed his armored forearm and fist into a nearby panel. Everyone turned to look at why the HAWK fighter had lashed out so suddenly.
“Lost track of the Chroma! Target jumped!” Smokey yelled, looking up with his primary firearm against his shoulder at the ready, pointing at the entrance of the room. Mechanical switches began to pop to the open position all around the facility. Following that, the lights above that gave the team the ability to see their surroundings were now shutting off one by one. Red emergency lights flashed on and off brightly as a wailing alarm began to screech throughout the whole facility.
“That fucker targeted the lights, but we still have everything else!” Smokey yelled, slamming his fist into the terminal over and over. He knew this wouldn’t fix the problem, but it was one of many ways to release his anger. Truthfully, Smokey was three cigarette breaks behind on his quota.
John was anticipating this dreadful moment when shit would hit the fan. He had been visualizing the proceeding course of action several times, so he knew exactly what to do. He snatched up his gun that was hanging by the three-point sling. Setting the stock against his shoulder with his eye looking down the sights, he was in the combat-ready position. The move was executed on pure muscle memory.
“Move out!” John yelled. “Smokey, take Roadblock’s side! Sandy, give him a hand! Zoe, cover the front with me! Steeljaws, cover the six! We have to be ready!”
The group fell into the dictated positions. There was no time to second-guess the captain’s orders. They trusted him to make the right calls.
The Chroma suddenly jumping off the radar could only mean one thing. It was nothing like the red-eyed Chroma they had encountered during previous ambushes. This one must have had a cloaking ability that concealed its energy waveform from being detected by the sensors.
Great! More fucking surprises! John clenched his teeth.
Roadblock cried out loudly as he trudged across the floor leading out from the cramped room. Smokey held on to his left arm, holding his own rifle in his free hand while Sandy used her whole body to support Roadblock’s right side.
“Take the turn! We’re close!” Smokey motioned to take the immediate left.
Steeljaws let the others pass him and fell into line as the last man of the group, a position not freely assigned to everyone. In this particular environment, it was the role that tended to have the highest replacement rate. It was labeled the “suicidal role” of the group.
Manning this position was the greatest honor that Steeljaws believed he could attain. His hour had finally come. It was solely on his shoulders to keep everyone else safe. It was an unnerving task, considering that the enemy was watching and waiting to devour them. Still, Steeljaws knew the accompanying details with the role and carried on with pride.
Blinking red lights lining the hallways and the flashlights on the guns were the only sources of light to aid the humans with traversing the dark corridors. Steeljaws kept his sharp eyes open as the muzzle of his rifle pointed down the other direction of the hall. Luckily, the distance to connect with the second hallway to access the secondary escape route was shortening by each passing second.
While keeping his one eye glued to his iron sights, Steeljaws spotted a small movement coming from the corner of the farthest room with the other. His initial instinct was to unload the entire magazine, but Steeljaws froze, just as he was about to pull the trigger. The form shifted its position, jumping from the ground and crawling on the ceiling.
“Wh—?!”
A projectile whizzed right by his helmet; a small metallic ping rang in his ear as the object bounced off the right side of the bucket protecting his head. Caught off-guard, his balance was tipped.
A rush of confusion overtook Steeljaws for a split second.
Which was exactly how long it took for it to happen.
He opened his mouth to warn the others, but someone else’s screaming drowned out his yell.
Everyone’s blood froze in response to the pain-filled shrieking. John turned to see that Roadblock was standing up straight, legs stiff as his whole body quivered with agony.
The captain saw it. A bone spike was driven right through the center of Roadblock’s chest, piercing through the middle of his back.
A harpoon?! It penetrated through the thickest armor plate?!
John swung his gun around, his furious roar unleashed. Seeing his teammate in that state brought the devil into his eyes. The gun’s light was pointed behind the team. The beam illuminated a fine length of thread that was attached to the back end of the spearhead, tracing the line all the way up to the ceiling about thirty feet away from the group.
John’s battle cry was cut short as his mouth gaped in horror.
It had somehow attached itself to the ceiling with its four legs, while the arms were securely holding the thread attached to Roadblock’s body. The creature reared its demonic head back, a shrill screech expounding from its massive, open jaws.
The upper half of the creature had a similar anatomy to that of a human. Everything else below the waist was straight out of the pits of hell, as four, massive crab-like legs dug into the metal plating of the ceiling and kept the figure cemented. The blacked-out eyes, animal-like teeth, and scales that covered the general hard points in the body were only a few features on the list.
It gazed curiously at the people below, its head cocked from side to side, studying its prey. Then, using its arms, it wrenched on the cord with a violent jerking motion. The strength imposed was enough to rip Roadblock away, reeling his massive body backward. Roadblock shoved both Sandy and Smokey to the side so that they wouldn’t be dragged into the bloodbath.
The team below broke past their shock. They were ready to kill. Guns blazed until the hallway was bright from the muzzle flash, but it was already too late.
As soon as the thunder of guns rang out, the creature jumped down from the ceiling, dashing for Roadblock and closing the gap between the human warrior and itself. In an instant, the monstrous humanoid grabbed the spike lodged in its target and drove the spike down the middle of Roadblock’s body.
David “Roadblock” Shubert was filleted in half from the chest down, loosened organs spilling all over the floor. Sandy screamed as she covered her ears and shut her eyes, trying to block out the horrific sight and sounds.
6.
The monster’s chest was similar to a honeycomb in structure, which was where the bone spikes were being stored. At the moment, one had already been fired into Roadblock, while the other five projectiles were snugly stored in the flesh of the beast. By the time the group caught on to what the demon was planning to do, it was already far too late to stop it.
The monster fired off the rest of the bone spikes, each one arcing to punch through the bodies of the team members. Each one of the HAWK members knew there was no way they could survive a direct hit, after witnessing what had happened to their bisected comrade.
Fortunately, the spikes were slow enough for their HUD’s prediction path calculations that guided the users to safely dodge subsonic projectiles. Almost everyone was able to easily escape the threat, since they had the equipment to aid in that maneuver. One person on the team, however, wasn’t outfitted with the gear.
The medic! Smokey gritted his teeth as he came to the realization.
Smokey saw the fifth bone spike soaring to his left and arcing to intercept the young woman who had absolutely no means of surviving such an attack.
He slammed his feet against the ground, launching his own body into the path of the incoming threat. The spike punched through Smokey’s body.
“FUCK!”
Smokey dropped his gun as the pain emanating from the front of his body flooded his nerve tracks. The other spikes that didn’t hit a target were retracted in a blink of an eye. He was harpooned, his body violently reeled in. After losing a hold of his weapon, he extracted his knife and threw ou
t his arm, weapon pointed out toward the enemy.
Smokey unleashed his rusty, nicotine-saturated war cry.
His blade ran true, hitting its mark. Aiming for the chest, Smokey penetrated the heart under the fifth rib, just under the grouping where the spikes were stored in its rotting flesh. Smokey tumbled backward as he struggled to draw half-breaths with a pierced lung. The roar of the creature was deafening.
The creature then prepared to launch the spikes it had retracted back into its chest, aiming in the direction of the team behind Smokey.
“No—!” Smokey’s shout was cut short as he threw his arms up and wrapped the beast in an embrace.
Like high-powered bullets, the spikes punched through Smokey’s armor and body like he was made out of paper. His form served just enough resistance to skew the spikes’ trajectory from reaching their intended targets. The bone spikes harmlessly slammed into the walls.
Man and monster fell over.
“Dougie!” John yelled while rushing over, knowing there was not a single thing he could do to help. Smokey was far beyond saving.
“I-I got him!” Smokey wheezed, turning his head to look up at the rest of the team approaching him. “Hey, boss? You okay if I s-smoke one last one?” Smokey disengaged his faceplate, pulling the armor away from his face. John extracted the pack and lighter from the utility belt pouch on Smokey’s side.
“You have my permission to suck down the whole pack.” John lifted his own faceplate for a moment, wanting to see his comrade with his own eyes.
“Y-You mind lighting it u-up for me, boss? Arms are feeling heavy all of a sudden.” Smokey’s lips began to tremble, as he was experiencing the coldness accompanying severe blood loss. “I never wanted a headstone and I still don’t want one. You respect that?”
After John put a cigarette into Dougie’s mouth, he reached down and gave the man’s hand one final squeeze. “You never stop surprising me, Dougie. You never came off as the sacrificial type and then you go and do this?” John lit the cigarette; the end began to burn red hot.
“I didn’t think I had it in me, either.” Smokey nodded, motioning his captain to leave him behind.
Despite the situation, John swallowed his emotions and stayed levelheaded. Allowing emotions from the loss of a comrade to affect him could cost the lives of the rest of the team if left unchecked. Before they departed, John flipped the faceplate of his helmet back down, dashing ahead to lead the rest of the team to safety.
Utilizing the red flashing lights set up in the hallway, Smokey looked into the face of the monster he had driven his knife through. It was similar to a Chroma, except for the bottom portion of its body.
Each breath he drew became more agonizing with each interval. He could still lightly puff the cigarette that John lit for him. That little burning cherry of happiness was all he was left with before his time was up.
Smokey wheezed as he began to cough up blood. He weakly bit down on the last straw of hope. The dark-red mist filled the air as his blood sprayed everywhere. At any moment, Smokey knew that he was going to be drawing his last breath. The pain that came with breathing was no longer burning his torso; instead, the cold numbness was spreading evenly across his entire body.
A mild panic overtook him, but Smokey couldn’t find enough strength to actually express his fright. It was the realization that death was finally coming to take him out of this world. A frail but confident grin came over his face. In the end, he felt accomplished with what he had done.
Soft footfalls came from the end of the hall.
Since the alarms were blaring, the limited lighting provided poor discernibility, and all the while suffering from a fatal injury, Smokey didn’t notice the second humanoid’s approach until he was standing directly over the downed fighter.
Smokey stiffened at the dreadful sight of the Chroma suddenly appearing in his blurring vision.
His pale skin contrasted with the jet-black hair that hung over his eyes like a neglected horse mane. The evil smile filled with teeth belonged to a hellhound stretched across his face. His neck was turned at a downward angle as he caught sight of Smokey’s dying form.
“You’ve earned my respect,” the Chroma spoke in English, speaking over the sound of blaring alarms. “None have even scratched my Bifol, but you managed to kill it with nothing more than a mere blade. You’re about to die, so I’ll keep this short.”
The Chroma leaned down and pulled out the knife that was firmly wedged into the creature’s chest. He peered at the blade curiously, turning it over and over in his hands. “A finely crafted weapon…” The colored-eyed beast was genuinely impressed. “The metal used to make this blade is not easy to get a hold of, now is it?”
The dying HAWK fighter’s vision was shifting out of focus as the flashing lights were consumed by the oncoming darkness.
Smokey gritted his blood-coated teeth.
“I admire your sacrifice, but if you think that you’re stalling me—you’re going to be sorely disappointed. I have several Bifol like the one you brought down closing in on remaining humans as I speak.” The Chroma grinned evilly.
Smokey figured that having a single one of these “Bifol” would have not made much sense. Of course, there had to be more.
The Chroma stuck the knife back into Smokey’s holster.
There was a sort of relief and self-accomplishment welling up in Smokey as he lazily locked eyes with the humanoid. Unlike the countless amount of red-eyed Chroma he had faced off against in the past, this particular Chroma standing before him did not possess the hellfire red eye.
It was royal purple.
Smokey closed his eyes for the last time. He finished the rest of his thoughts in his mind, no longer able to move his mouth to speak.
John, Zoe, Gunnar … tear this piece of shit apart!
The final struggling breath escaped from Smokey’s penetrated lungs as he finally arrived at his eternal rest.
“I thought that armor would be a little more durable … although it’s nice to see how effective these Bifol are against HAWK armor.” The Chroma’s eyes flashed gleefully.
The growling of the Chroma’s stomach made the monster’s face contort with discomfort. The Chroma let out a frustrated sigh as he bent down. With a little strain, he tore off one of the six limbs of the Bifol that was sprawled out on the floor. Black blood dripped out of the wound of the lacerated body part as he held it up.
Just as the Chroma opened his mouth to take a bite, he glanced back at Smokey and the fallen Bifol.
“It’s a shame that humans don’t taste good…”
CRUNCH!
7.
In the air, near the entrance of Intel Gathering Facility…
A stealth-type chopper cut through the cloudy night sky with virtually no sound signature from the whirling blades overhead.
The craft wasn’t very fast but it had the lifting power to transport a raid team, a pilot, a gunner, and all accompanying gear in the same sortie. That’s where the distinguished gunner operator sat silently at his post. The operator’s green eyes traced over the forest landscape as the craft flew in circles to avoid staying in one spot, should they be attacked from the ground.
Jim McBride was wearing his camouflage pants with a loose-fitting thermal covering his massive upper body. The only armor he equipped was a bulletproof vest with thick plates inserted in the sleeves to protect his organs. His giant, gloved hands were wrapped around the M134 mini gun’s handles; the weapon was fixed to the frame of the chopper. Turning his head, the vertebrae in his neck popped in succession. He was anticipating the call for pickup.
“Jim, you think the team is okay? They’ve been down there for a while!” Evan Morales— the HAWK’s best helicopter pilot—yelled into the comms, relaying the message through the pair of headphones.
“Aw, sure look it!” Jim replied, his voice thick with an Irish accent. “John wud not git his team into a situation dat they cud not git out of!”
“I trust John
too, but based on the data that he’s been uploading as of a three minutes ago, I’m getting the feeling that even as careful as the team is, this mission might be stickier than the ones in the past.”
“Dat’s a fret,” Jim grunted.
Located just above his head was a small monitor that displayed the live feed of the facility’s sensors. The yellow dot located in the labyrinth of tunnels was revealing the position of the remaining Chroma. One of the objectives that Smokey was tasked to complete upon arrival was to repair the data link and transmit readings from the sensors in real time back to the chopper. This would aid the extraction team and inform the higher ups watching the operations on how to handle the developing situation.
“Dare shuld be only one bastard lef.”
“Affirmative. We should be getting the call for pickup as soon as the last Chroma is killed and the data drive is retrieved,” the pilot responded.
Reaching down, Jim flipped a small switch on the side of the mini gun. After hearing the distinctive clink, followed by a whirling sound independent of the chopper’s revolving blades, the gun’s six barrels began to rotate at a high rate of revolutions.
“Weapon’s hot! Ready ter engage!” Jim reported the status of his weapon.
“Acknowledged,” the pilot replied.
“Night Hawk 2, this is Overlord Alpha. Night Hawk 3 is inbound to your location, per the UN’s orders,” an unknown voice came over the comms.
“Overlord Alpha, identify yourself,” the pilot probed.
“This is Commander Hemlock. I am in charge of the 167th that will attach to the HAWK Ninth Force’s team for the operation. Their objective is to provide support and to train combating Chroma that have taken over Intel Gathering Facility.”
“…Acknowledged,” the pilot muttered, trying to hide the reservation from infiltrating his voice.
“Hemlock.” Jim chuckled. “Oi mean to turn ya away from having a whale of a time, but have your men ever seen a Chroma in person? Perhaps dis is not a merry time to train.”
