Age of Blood

by Weston Ochse

  He and the Stoner were going to even the odds.

  He doped the scope to 10 + 2 and sighted on the most obvious target atop the pyramid. Jingo’s eyes were bone white. His face was slack. But there was no doubt that there was some sort of undead life within him. Walker counted to three and squeezed the trigger. At 2,571 feet per second, the round was there so fast it was as if Walker had reached out and split the man’s head asunder. Zombie or not, the threat in the tattooed skin suit was dead—for good now. Jones fell to the ground, his body nothing more than a cage for bones.

  As Walker fired again, he began to hum the chorus to Jingo’s unasked-for namesake, Jingo was his name-o. Walker shot the Los Desollados to the right and to the left of Jingo. He fired again and killed another. His next shot failed to find a home. He fired again with the same result. He couldn’t tell at this distance, but his gut told him they’d thrown up a force field.

  The last two Desollados stared in his direction and pointed. That caught the attention of everyone else in the temple area. It didn’t really matter. There were enough targets.

  Walker shifted his aim to Ramon’s men at the base of the pyramid. He slipped in the magazine with the silver-tipped M118 rounds, doped the scope down, and shot each of them through the chest. They turned toward him as their bodies began to shudder and bend into a wolfine form. He put a round through each of their heads and watched with satisfaction how they fell in midchange, never to complete the transformation.

  Ramon howled, pulled free a pistol and fired in his direction. He might as well have been throwing rocks. Walker was too far for the weapon to have any effect. From his vantage point he might as well be invincible.

  But he spoke too fast.

  A squad of Zetas ran from the lower temple. Seven of them carried FX-05 Xiuhcoatls, which translated into classic Nahuatl meant “Fire Serpent.” The weapon was the Mexican military’s homegrown assault rifle and fired the same rounds as his SR-25. Not as grand a weapon, but the rifle was very capable of putting the rounds on target—in this case, him.

  Walker shifted fire and took out two of them before they were able to get their weapons to bear. Then came an eighth squad member carrying an Ultimax 100 machine gun with an ammo drum capable of holding a hundred of the same rounds as the Fire Serpents, and capable of delivering the rounds in less than ten seconds.

  Walker pulled back and covered his head just as 5.56 × 45 rounds chewed savagely at the ceiling above him. Behind him he heard Jen scream. He couldn’t move to look and could only hope that she wasn’t hurt too badly.

  55

  AQUEDUCT PIPE. SURROUNDED.

  Their MP5s hung empty and useless. Blood and gore covered their masks. They were as blind as they’d been back in the New Orleans cemetery. Now, instead of being in impervious armor, they wore torn and tattered neoprene suits that had been so destroyed, they couldn’t even protect them from the cold of the water and the heat of the ’cabra blood that coated every crease and private place.

  Laws figured they’d killed a dozen of the creatures, putting them down with the sheer weight of 9mm rounds poured from their MP5s. Now that they were out of ammo, it was going to get a lot harder. They could hear the other ’cabras breathing heavily, snarling, sniffing at their dead and plodding toward them.

  Chupacabra were far from stupid animals. They certainly had enough brains to trick a pair of SEALs into exposing themselves. Both Laws and Holmes had found good positions. But when it had looked as if they were going to be flanked, they’d run deeper from the aqueduct system until they found a six-way junction. The moment they’d arrived, the ’cabra had been ready and waiting for them in each of the tunnels, including the one they’d just left.

  They’d dealt with ’cabra before. It was a known fact that Los Zetas used them in most aspects of their business, including narcotrafficking, as they’d done in Arizona on what seemed like a thousand missions ago. In fact, chupacabra were a Zetas signature, as powerful a symbol and as prolific as the ace-of-spades cards that the 101st Airborne Division had laid all over Vietnam.

  How the creatures were trained was another thing altogether. Laws had been trying to work through the problem. A man trying to be firm with a ’cabra would get his arm chewed off. But not if that man was the alpha male of a pack, a man such as Ramon—who was really only half a man. If Laws managed somehow to survive, he might run the idea past Rosencrantz and Guildenstern to see if it had any legs.

  That is, if he survived. For now, all he cared about was getting through the next few minutes. He and Holmes were back-to-back, their bodies touching. They had to stay tight. They didn’t want to be separated. Together they had a chance. Apart, they were dead. If there was one thing ’cabra just loved, it was to attack from behind.

  “Stay close,” he whispered.

  “Like conjoined twins,” Holmes replied, his voice tight with pain.

  They each held a 9mm pistol and a knife. They were not only back-to-back, but they were also elbow-to-elbow, so when one elbow went forward the other went backwards. They were a single machine, four arms, four weapons, two SEALs.

  They didn’t have long to wait for the attack. First one ’cabra feinted, then another, then another. Neither Walker nor Holmes took the bait. Instead, the SEALs rotated slowly in a clockwise direction, their hands always moving, creating an impassable barrier. So when the first ’cabra leaped, it met not one but two knives, because they were moving in a circle. Laws couldn’t be sure which part of the ’cabra his knife sliced, but it was soft and blood gushed over his hand, almost making his grip too slick to hold on to the knife. He kicked out with his right foot, sending the ’cabra flying.

  Then one attacked from the other side.

  They had no vision, but they had hearing and they had touch. He felt a jolt from where his elbow touched Holmes, as if he’d jabbed the ’cabra through an eye.

  They kept rotating.

  Two attacked this time.

  Each Seal brought up a knife and a gun. One stabbed, the other fired. Then the one fired and the other stabbed. Both the ’cabras fell.

  They kept rotating.

  This time the growls around them grew louder. Too loud, as if there were more than a dozen.

  “Switch,” Holmes said, the single word said with force, command, and confidence. Enough of all three that Laws felt a little more hope as they began rotating in the opposite direction.

  Then it was as if all the ’cabra attacked at once.

  Like a multiarmed unconventional-warfare interpretation of the Hindu goddess Kali, they moved as one being, rotating, slashing, firing. The barks from their pistols lit up the space, but the SEALs never saw it. Their eyes were slammed shut, every ounce of concentration on their other senses. But as successful as they were, the ’cabra began to connect. A scratch here. A slice there. Holmes was bit, but killed the damned beast that did it. Laws was bit as well, missed his chance, rotated, then felt Holmes connect. They fought faster and faster and faster, until each of the SEALs was screaming, drowning the cries, whines and growls of the chupacabra.

  Laws felt his arms grow tired. He felt his legs turn leaden. He felt his lungs burn. He felt his body abdicate the possibility of winning and prepare to give up. But Holmes fought on, and it was Holmes’s desire to continue that made Laws continue fighting for one more chance, one more strike. So instead of quitting, Timothy Laws went back to his California roots, drawing up every Hollywood hero he’d ever watched, channeling John Wayne, Charlton Heston, Bruce Willis, Steven Seagal, Sylvester Stallone, and a hundred more.

  And they fought.

  And they shouted.

  And the ’cabra screamed in outrage as they died beneath the SEALs’ onslaught.

  56

  BASE OF TEMPLE. CHAINED.

  YaYa had seen a ’cabra run to the edge of the pipe and slip free, falling to the pool below. It hit the water with a great splash, moved to try and get up, then sagged back into the water. Soon, it trembled and shuddered as its head fe
ll beneath the surface. Its body spasmed as it choked and drowned.

  YaYa had barked at the scene. Even when one of the men on the temple came down and kicked him, he still barked. All he could do was bark. It was his sole voice. As he did so, pieces of who he once was returned to him.

  Scenes from a mall.

  A run on the beach.

  The cherry-flavored kisses of a woman called Kelly Manfredi.

  The camaraderie of friends.

  The gloriously acrid bite of an ice cold Coke first thing in the morning.

  The smell of hot shawarma on a cool day.

  Standing at attention saluting the Red, White, and Blue.

  As the images came, he grabbed them and tried to hold fast. He knew he had to. His body had been remade. His mind was that of a dog. His left arm was twice its size, black and orange pus evidence of the foreign invasion making everything happen. But his soul was still his own. He was still Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri and a United States Navy SEAL. He didn’t know what any of that meant, but he knew that it had once filled him with pride. He wanted a return of that pride. He wanted to find out what a Petty Officer was. He wanted to relearn what it was to be a SEAL. More importantly, he no longer wanted to be a dog, soul-chained to a creature that lived in his arm and controlled him at the cellular level.

  He’d been jerking at the chain holding him and it was loose. He knew he only needed a few more hard pulls, and he’d be free. But then what? With every passing second he was becoming more and more human.

  Then came the gunfire and he knew who it was. He knew the type of gun. He could envision breaking it down. The image of a tall blond man came to him—Walker. He remembered when the other man had saved him from the warehouse in Myanmar. He remembered when they’d ridden the old Ural motorcycle and played chicken with the supernatural Chinese creature known as a qilin. He remembered being pulled into the woods and barely saving himself. And of course he remembered driving a blade into the back of the ancient demon Chi Long.

  Where had that person gone? He wanted to be that person again. He wanted to re-become Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri, aka YaYa, aka U.S. Navy SEAL assigned to Special Mission Unit SEAL Team 666. He screamed at the universe but it came out as a bark.

  Someone kicked him.

  He whimpered.

  He fell to the ground and curled into a ball. He covered his head with his hands and thought about who he really was. And with each passing moment, more and more came back to him, more and more of who he’d been and who he’d be again. Like a dog that sat on a porch watching a truck go by day after day, year after year, he promised himself that one day he’d leap from the porch and catch the truck, the moment he’d wrap his strong jaws around the bumper as rapturous as the invention of the universe.

  57

  AQUEDUCT PIPE.

  Laws staggered to his feet. He took inventory. His breather was gone, as was much of his suit. His body armor remained in place over bare skin, probably the only thing that had saved him. His right arm dangled uselessly. Sometime during the fury of the last few moments it had dislocated. He could pop it back in given the correct surface, but right now he needed to be sure he wasn’t going to die. Besides his shoulder, he had a chunk torn out of his right thigh and his left side. These gushed blood. Exposed to the bacteria of sewage, there were probably enough microorganisms in the wounds to kill him. He was halfway ready to sit down and let it take him.

  God, was he fucking tired.

  He noticed Holmes in the gloom of the pipe, face first on the ground, water pouring around him, heading downhill toward where they believed the underground temple complex to be. Laws staggered over, reached down with his left hand and grabbed one of the shoulder straps holding on to the body armor. Using only one arm, he somehow managed to lift his team leader to a sitting position and lean him against a wall.

  “Sam, you alive?” Although the light was low, there was enough of it coming from the pipe opening for Laws to check pupil dilation. They reacted, but barely.

  Laws searched around. He needed to get moving, but he couldn’t do it with one arm. He stood and approached the side of the pipe wall. He reached around with his good arm and grabbed the wrist of his right hand. Then he gritted his teeth as he slammed his shoulder into the wall. The pain was exquisite, like a shiv through the spine. But the shoulder hadn’t snapped back into place.

  He staggered back. He knew he had to do it again, but he wanted to do anything else except that. He pulled hard with his left hand on his right wrist, stretching the arm as far as he could. Then he ran into the wall.

  A second of pain, then the ultimate relief of a pop, as the shoulder went back home.

  He gasped as he brought his right hand in front of his face. It trembled a moment, then stilled. Now to find some ammunition.

  He found pieces of someone’s vest. He grabbed it and pulled out a red smoke grenade and a 9mm magazine. He felt on his thigh, but he’d lost the weapon—probably eaten by one of the ’cabra. Feeling around Holmes’s thigh, he found a pistol. Laws pulled the slide back, cleared it, checked its function, then shoved it into the waistband of his UDTs. He found two more 9mm magazines and a broken HK MP5. Weighing them in his hands, it took three seconds for him to figure out that they weren’t worth it. He tossed them to the side and kept searching.

  He was looking for the butt pouch Holmes had been carrying. In it were two D rings, two Palmer rigs, and 150 feet of nylon rope and some 550 cord. Without them the next step was going to be difficult. But try as he might, he couldn’t find anything even remotely like a length of rope, a ladder, or a portable escalator. A flash of childhood memory invaded his nasty reality—Donald Duck going camping drops a box on the floor, presses a button, and out pops a mansion, complete with swimming pool. Laws would be happy with a simple ladder. Hold the Jacuzzi.

  Laws realized he was a little loopy. Some of his thoughts weren’t making sense. All he knew was he needed to figure out a way to get them from up in the pipe to down in the battle. Then he had a great idea.

  He counted seven dead ’cabra nearby. Each chupacabra weighed more than two hundred pounds. It was hard to move them, but he was finally able to get them near the pipe opening.

  He got down on his hands and knees and peered out.

  A pyramid. Thugs with weapons aimed at him.

  Laws jerked back just as the roof of the pipe above him was scored with a dozen rounds. He ducked, feeling chunks of concrete bite and sizzle into the exposed place on his back. He was lucky that he was in defilade. They could fire all day and couldn’t hit him. Their angle was all wrong.

  He pulled the first ’cabra toward him. Adjusting his position, he got behind it and pushed it toward the opening with his legs. Five seconds later it was falling through the air. He heard it impact with a splash. The sound of water gave him hope. After he pushed the next one over, he snuck a look over the edge, hoping that everyone’s attention was on the dead ’cabra. He was right. No one fired at him and he spied the dead ’cabra floating below in what looked to be a least ten feet of water.

  This time when he pushed out a ’cabra, they opened fire right away, hoping to catch him. A round sizzled past his foot, almost ripping through it.

  But then he heard a different sound. A suppressed SR-25. Walker! The gunfire shifted toward the new source. But if Walker was where he should be, it was on the high ground. The suppressed rifle chatted with the cracks and pops of pistols of several different calibers. Walker was a crack shot and Laws had no doubt that every one found a home.

  Laws used the time to push out four more ’cabras. But he was getting tired, too tired to push any more monsters out of the pipe. He had just about enough energy to get Holmes to where he needed to be. Boy was he going to be pissed. It was a good thing he was unconscious or he’d fight to not get dropped onto a pile of dead ’cabras. He shouldn’t worry, though. If he missed the dead monsters, he’d hit the water.

  A voice rose out of the red mist in Laws’s mind,
suggested he sit down and wait until help arrived. Like any decent SEAL, Laws shook it away. He got his arm underneath Holmes’s shoulder and pulled him to the edge. The extra weight made Laws’s wounds scream. His right leg threatened to give out on him. Still, he made it.

  He didn’t have long. He glanced down long enough to make himself dizzy. He almost fell. Instead, he adjusted his grip on Holmes, aimed as best he could, and let go.

  The leader of SEAL Team 666 fell like a dead weight. Had he been awake, he might have struggled and caused himself to spin. As it was, he fell flat, his left side impacting the uppermost ’cabra in the pile. But then he did something unexpected. He bounced and as he bounced his eyes opened. He reached the apex of the bounce, was about to scream something at Laws, then fell and hit the water.

  A round chewed at the pipe between Laws’s feet. Instead of moving, he pulled his pistol out and fired. His third round took out the thug far below. How the hell had he hit the man? Laws stared at his gun as if it were magic and grinned.

  Laws was about to begin firing on everyone with his magic gun when a life-sized butterfly came up from below.

  58

  TEMPLE FLOOR.

  Yank saw it all happen, including the moment when Laws dropped Holmes from the pipe. The way the team leader fell, he had to be dead. Yank was at once sad and angry. He didn’t even remember drawing the knife in his other hand. He didn’t know what he was going to do with it, but he had it ready nonetheless. Then the obsidian butterfly—God what a crazy misnomer—took to the air and flew toward the pipe to investigate. Butterflies were supposed to be something little children played with. This hellish creature looked like it ate children. Its movements weren’t quick but languid, its great wings catching the air and pulling it free from the Earth’s gravity.