by Sara King
“Two dozen what?” Tyson asked, frowning.
“Chickens, Tyson,” Slade cried. He went and grabbed Martha from his makeshift dog kennel cage. Plucking a feather, he then thrust him back inside and locked the gate again. “See this?” He held up the reddish plumage. “This is the key to our food supply.” He went over and found the other two Tupperware boxes containing pieces he had taken from the Huouyt stomachs—one a cluster of brain matter that he had painstakingly removed from the inside of an intact skull with a toothpick, and the other the inner retinas of a dead bird’s eye, cut into pieces. He added the feather to a third Tupperware and dropped it back on the towel with the bundles of chicken feet. “Okay, so here’s how we need to do this. Do you know anything about worms or sea stars…?”
#
Rat was seated on a fallen log, peering out over the camp, when she heard a Huouyt scream. And keep screaming. As she was frowning and turning to look, Sam lunged away from one of the barrels atop the hill, shouting, “Now, Tyson, now!”
Tyson ripped the barrel lid off and yanked the Huouyt out onto the dirt and kicked it free. Recognizing it as the one that had killed the infant, Rat lunged to her feet in horror. “What are you—”
The Huouyt shrieked again, an utterly eerie sound that Rat had never heard before, and it continued to scream as it started to stumble away from Sam, clawing at itself like someone with a horrible itch. Rat found herself staring as it shrieked and ran like a wild, drunken thing, stumbling and rolling down the hill in its haste. All around them, men and women were getting to their feet at their fires, watching the approach of the three-legged Huouyt with nervous concern.
As soon as it reached the bottom of the hill, Rat could see misshapen growths emerging from the Huouyt’s body, almost a dozen of them, taking up more and more of its mass as the rest of its body shifted to accommodate. Immediately, she leveled her rifle on its brain, ready to put it down before it could take a more dangerous pattern.
She hesitated when she saw the tiny bird head emerging from its throat and its scream ended in a choked gargle. What the…? The Huouyt’s legs shortened, then disappeared, leaving it waddling on the ground through the center of camp, moaning as more little heads and feathered bodies began to emerge from its torso. People got out of its way as it shuddered and strained against the lumps forming within itself. Like some monster conglomerate from a horror movie, it crawled the last few rods through camp before the birds fully emerged, feathers wet, shaking all over. Then it slumped, face-first, onto the ground, utterly still.
Total silence reigned in camp as everyone stared at the tiny wad of leftover Huouyt on the ground, even then surrounded by a herd of traumatized-looking birds.
“Excuse me, coming through!” Sam cried, jogging down the hill after them with a handful of burlap sacks. “Okay, guys, these are going to be slightly evil chickens, so keep that in mind, but their offspring should breed true, and they shouldn’t be smart enough to do anything like peck out our eyes while we sleep or anything. They’ll just be antisocial, but it’ll only be first-generational stuff.” He started collecting the stunned-looking chickens from the ground and stuffing them into sacks as the camp stood around and watched.
A few moments later, Tyson came strolling down the hill to join them, looking a little shellshocked.
Finally finding her voice, Rat said, “Sam did you just—”
“Can’t talk, they’ve got a date to see Martha. We want any eggs to be fertile.”
“Martha’s a rooster,” Tyson added.
Rat was just about to ask what a rooster was when Sam lunged past her. “Quick, grab these!” Sam cried, handing Tyson a cluster of sacks. The chickens inside were just starting to wake up and fight against the sack. “We’ll put them all in the tent until we can find a safe zone for them!” Then Sam was charging back up the hill, a group of struggling, squawking sacks in either fist.
Rat watched him depart, then glanced down at the remnants of what used to be a Huouyt. It was, beyond a doubt, dead. What was left looked like a deflated balloon, with only a hollowed-out skin on the ground attached to its flattened head, where its patch of zora had slid out and withered on the ground, now a dull gray instead of the usual crimson. She picked it up with the tip of her rifle to get a better look. In total, the corpse was approximately the same mass as a Human hand and forearm.
She dropped it to the ground and got back to her feet just in time to see Sam duck into the tent with Tyson. Curious, a little stunned, she followed them at a walk.
At the top of the hill, half-sticking out of a barrel, was a chicken the size of Rat, its head carefully bisected with laser fire, the zora removed. Rat blinked at that, then at the tent, where chickens were squawking as Sam and Tyson cheered them on. She went over to their tent and lifted the flap.
One chicken was getting attacked by another atop Sam’s mattress, the bigger one actually standing on its protesting victim, bobbing its tail as it held the other by the neck. Off in a corner, a herd of rust-colored hens ran mindlessly back and forth along the tent wall, leaving droppings wherever they went. Rat hastily went to retrieve her bag, which had been walked on by Sam’s creations, leaving smelly footprints on her stuff.
Disgusted, she yanked her bag off the floor and, as Sam and Tyson hooted at the chicken on the bed, Rat said, “Sam?”
Looking like a kid in an Ooreiki candy shop, Sam turned to face her, beaming. “Martha’s a pro,” he said. “He’s got six of them already!”
“It’s Wednesday,” Rat said. “And you are profaning my bed with chicken shit.”
“Tyson already pissed on it,” Sam said, waving a hand distractedly. “I figured you wouldn’t mind.”
Rat narrowed her eyes. “Slave,” she said.
Sam winced, and Tyson cocked his head at her in interest.
“Go find me some proper bedding,” Rat said, “or I will kill every one of these little abominations and pass them to the Guild for dinner tonight.”
Sam’s mouth fell open. “You can’t…”
There must have been something in her face, because Sam’s electric blue-white eyes widened and he hastily grabbed his coat and bolted.
“Slave?” Tyson said, one blond brow raised.
“Long story,” Rat said. “How about you go make sure he doesn’t die out there?”
“You got it, sister,” Tyson said. Then, hefting his rifle, he went after the creepy scientist.
Alone again, Rat slumped to a chair inside the tent, put her chin in her hands, and watched Martha get laid atop her mattress. It should have been the distraction she needed to pull herself out of her thoughts of the dead infant, but all Rat could see was the tiny head, caved in at the back, the child’s neck snapped at an odd angle.
In war, she kept telling herself, sacrifices must be made…
But some sacrifices, she knew from experience, stained those who made them to the very core.
The Runt
Tuesday, 77 Days after Judgement
“You know, by taking us towards the massive, scaly walls of death, we’re greatly increasing our chances of becoming breakfast.”
“This says we should be getting close,” Rat said, frowning at the map her ka-par slave had painstakingly hand-drawn for her several weeks before. “Any idea where to start looking?”
Samuel Dobbs raised his brow at her. “By like eight hundred and fifty-three percent.”
Rat, who had by now gotten used to his random spewing of facts and fractions, said, “We’re in the right area. Maybe a ferlii length or two off.”
“Well,” Sam said, cocking his head at something in the valley ahead of them, “you could start with a dead kreenit. Not much in the universe that can kill those things.” He paused, grinning at her and Tyson. “Aside from my booted barbarianess and her fairy princess, that is.”
Rat, well above average height for a girl, was still a ninth-dig shorter than her big ka-par slave, and she couldn’t see whatever it was he was looking at over the s
creen of brush on the hill in front of them.
Sam gave her a wicked grin. “Would you like a boost, milady?”
Rat frowned up at him, knowing that a ‘boost’ would include groping, fondling, and probably a kiss. “No. We don’t have time.”
“You’re right,” Sam said, looking down at her thong bikini. “I think you’ll have to climb a tree, instead. That one, over there. It has the best view.”
The tree in question did not have the best view of whatever was in the valley, but rather, it had fewer low-lying limbs. Rolling her eyes in disgust, Rat grabbed a nearby limb and hopped up to look.
“Aww,” Sam complained, from the ground. “Not fair.”
But Rat wasn’t listening. There was a dead kreenit taking up a swath of mangled forest about a ferlii-length away, its scales an iridescent purple, green, red, and blue, even at that distance. A flock of small black Earth-birds were hovering around the body, sitting in the trees or on the huge, exposed ribcage. The belly of the beast had been ripped away, exposing purple innards.
“Damn,” Rat said, dropping back beside Sam. “We need to keep our eyes open. There’s another one around here.”
Her ka-par slave grimaced. “I really don’t like those things. One ate my Armani.”
“They do that,” Rat said, grabbing her rifle from Tyson, having no idea what Armani was.
“It was big,” her slave complained. “It crushed a Rolls-Royce in its jaws and threw it aside to get at me.”
Irritated that he was still stuck on kreenit, Rat said, “It’s not going to be hungry.”
His face lit up with hope. “Really? ‘Cause it’s down there eating its friend?”
“Yeah,” Rat agreed. “This way, it’ll just kill a few of us for the fun of it.”
Sam gave her a flat look with his weird, white-blue eyes. “Somehow, I don’t think you’re joking.”
Rat frowned at him. “I’m not.”
“And why am I supposed to agree to this?” Sam demanded.
“Look,” Rat said. She glanced up the hill. “I’m going to go see if I can figure out where the other one went. They like to burrow underground, hang out in caves… We need to be really careful until I can figure out where its den is and kill it. You guys stay here until I get back.”
“Uh,” Sam said, “no, I’ll be going with you and Tyson can stay here and guard the massive, smelly herd of alien breakfast.”
Rat snorted and hefted her rifle. “You’re not coming with me. You’d just slow me down.”
Sam crossed his arms. Too late, Rat realized it was Tuesday.
Grimacing, she said, “Fine, but I get to ditch the bikini and wear combat gear.”
“You may wear combat gear over your bikini,” Sam replied. “Then you may take it off again as soon as the kreenit is dead.”
Rat narrowed her eyes at Sam. “Wednesday is coming.”
For his part, Tyson still hadn’t gotten over the hot-pink bikini. He was eying the two of them like whatever Sam had might be contagious. “Tell me again why you can order her around on Tuesday?” the big man asked. They still hadn’t told him exactly why Tuesdays were Sam’s days, though the big man—and the rest of the Guild, damn them—seemed perfectly willing to accept the days Rat was in charge.
“Divine inspiration and an irreversible disregard for my own safety,” Sam said.
“I have a loaded gun,” Tyson told him.
“So do I,” Sam said, grinning from ear to ear. “Hallelujah praise the Lord. For over a month, now.”
Rat felt herself redden. “Stay here while I get dressed, then we can go kreenit hunting.”
“Oooh,” Sam said, rubbing his big, soft hands together. “That sounds like fun.” He’d made her give him a manicure that morning in front of the entire group, and a pedicure was coming that night.
Rat shuddered inside at the thought of touching his gangly toes, but actually welcomed the company on the hike. Over the last five weeks that she’d been with her ka-par slave, she’d been a little blown away by his abilities to think outside the box. Almost like, for Sam, there was no box. If he had come to her after his morning piss, picking his nose and dressed in holey, shit-streaked underwear, and told her that he’d figured out a way to kill a kreenit with a rock, she would’ve asked how big the rock would have to be, and when he would need it by.
Doubtless, Rat knew, why Tyson put up with his crazy ass.
“Seriously, guys,” Tyson said. “You gonna tell me or what?”
“It’s not contagious, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Rat said, hefting her gun over her shoulder. “Private matter. We’ll work it out.”
Immediately, Tyson’s face cleared. “Oh, well, that’s good to know.”
Sam frowned. “What’s contagious?”
Ignoring him, Rat went to her things, unpacked her combat gear, and began putting it on. Sam followed her and stood behind her as she bent over to dress.
“What’s contagious?” Sam asked, coming around to the side once she’d pulled up her pants.
Throwing her arms into her jacket sleeves, Rat gave him a sideways look. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Sam watched her skin disappear almost wistfully. “How do you know it’s not contagious?”
Rat opened her mouth to state the obvious, then shut it again. She had, after all, just spent the morning in a hot-pink bikini.
“We’ll need to move fast and keep our voices down,” Rat said, feeling her face heat. She started buttoning her jacket.
“Oh, of course,” the bastard said, grinning. Which meant, all along, he had been patiently waiting for her pea-sized brain to realize that, yes, Commander, what he had was definitely catching, and she had it bad.
Flushing, Rat dropped to lace her boots.
“You know,” Sam said, after a moment, “I’m pretty sure this lab would have the proper equipment to restore certain…facets…of your anatomy. And you haven’t said no. Are you interested? This’ll be your best opportunity, like, ever.”
Rat’s fingers stopped on the laces. She swallowed hard. It was one of the things she had always wondered about, but had just assumed was lost to her.
Then she thought about all the things that could go wrong—from a botched surgery to her losing her mobility to the child—and fear won over. What was she thinking, really? She was a Congie. Congie women didn’t have kids. They killed people for a living, and when they got weak, they were killed in return.
“I’m a warrior, not a mother,” she said reluctantly. She finished tying her boots, grabbed her gun, and stood.
Sam eyed her a little too carefully, and she could see his formidable mental gears turning. “It’s a Tuesday,” he commented.
And, with that single phrase, he made Rat’s heart skip a beat. She swallowed hard, tentatively met his gaze, saw…kindness…there, then, before she could do something stupid like take him up on it, grabbed her pack and headed up the mountain for a better vantage point.
Behind her, Sam heaved a huge, audible sigh and followed.
Though going was tough, Sam stayed right behind her the whole way and did surprisingly little complaining—probably due to the fact that a thirty-rod carnivore was somewhere nearby. And, in truth, Rat was actually somewhat impressed, considering that when she’d first returned to camp with him on a rope, he’d been barely able to jog a few hundred feet without breaking down in an asthma attack. Her morning sit-up, push-up, and jogging regimen—which she made him do with her on Wednesdays through Mondays—seemed to be working wonders.
…and it was also doing very nice things to his shoulders and back.
“You know,” Sam said, as they worked their way up a mountainside, “I could get used to this.”
She glanced over her shoulder at him. “What, not being a total wimp who starts wheezing after a minute of anything resembling exercise?”
Sam blinked at her, then said, “Well, I was actually thinking about not having to wear a thong, as I’m sure that climbing a
mountain in a thong would lead to chafing, but I suppose that too.”
Rat, whose own thong was riding into uncomfortable places, gave him an irritated look. “A pact? No more thongs?”
“Sounds good,” Sam replied. He gave her a wicked look. “Starting now?”
Oh, he was good. Rat was only partially sure the crafty, horny bastard hadn’t planned that. “We’re hunting a kreenit now,” she said.
“We could spare five minutes to remove your thong,” Sam argued. “For the sake of your comfort.”
“Five?” Rat paused in the trail and raised a brow at him.
He winced. “Ten?”
She crossed her arms and waited.
“Okay, twenty, but no more. I’m still exhausted from last time.”
She continued to give him a flat look.
“It’s Tuesday?” he ventured gingerly.
Forty-five tics later, Rat’s thong had been thoroughly removed and abandoned in the mountain scrub and they were back on the trail. Sam was rubbing his rear. “Next time we have a wild frolic in the wilderness, I get to be on top. I’m pretty sure I have an acorn lodged up my—”
A scream echoed across the valley, carried by the wind. “Shhh,” Rat snapped, stopping in her tracks to listen. Sam, oblivious, ran into her, and his exercise-boosted body mass sent her sprawling.
Getting back to her feet, Rat scowled up at her klutz of a slave, but before she could retort, they heard the scream again, a thin, Human wail of terror.
“Was that one of ours?” Sam asked, frowning back the way they had come.
“No,” Rat replied, peering down into the valley below them. “Someone’s becoming breakfast.”
Sam cocked his head. “Sounds female.”
“A lot of men sound like women when they scream,” Rat said.
Sam opened his mouth with a slight frown, then closed it again. “Is it just me, or is it somewhat disturbing that you would know something like that?”
