Compared to the two cat people Sanford shot—one was stone dead and the little female was bleeding profusely—Frazee didn’t look too bad. The bullet had hit him high in his left chest, just under the collarbone, but he was in a lot of pain. Still, he managed to speak. “You gotta stop him, sir,” he hissed. “He’s cracked his nut, and who knows what he’ll do if he gets his hands on those machine guns!”
“I know,” Mike agreed, though he wasn’t sure they hadn’t finally seen the real Colin Sanford. The elder was calling out more commands and warriors were gathering with shorter spears, more suitable to the close quarters in the jungle. Mike touched the elder to get his attention. Laying his Springfield down beside Frazee, he—carefully—hefted the other man’s Thompson. Pointing at the gathered warriors, he shook his head and made a gesture meant to request that the elder hold them back, then slapping himself on the chest, he pointed at the SMG, then in the direction Sanford fled. Somewhat to Mike’s surprise, the elder seemed to understand. He signified so by taking a step back and calling to his warriors, who appeared to slightly relax.
Mike nodded gratefully. “So long, Frazee. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Just be careful, sir,” the kid winced, as a cat man—hell just call ‘em ‘Cats, Mike thought—continued inspecting his wound. “This seems a nice place and all, but I don’t want to be stuck here by myself.” Mike wasn’t worried about Frazee. He seemed in good hands, and he had all their remaining medical supplies. “I hear you,” Mike replied, and starting jogging off in the direction Sanford went. He never saw the eyes in the great head of the female monster, still glaring at the village, suddenly focus on him. The eyes narrowed. Easing back into the jungle, she began working her way around the village clearing, sure she’d eventually regain the odd new scent of the prey that had led her mate to his over-aggressive, unthinking doom.
Mike wasn’t surprised to discover evidence that Sanford was staying on a well-used trail, and navigator or not, he’d picked one heading roughly northwest, back toward the stranded PBY. Once, Mike heard a startled cry and several rapid pistol shots surprisingly close ahead. He caught himself hoping one of the scary inhabitants of this wildly dangerous island might’ve done his work for him, not only from a personal danger standpoint, but a moral one as well. Mike didn’t want to kill Sanford. But the moral sword is heavy, and he’d recognized back at the village that he was the one who had to wield it. He’d never asked to be in charge and didn’t want to be, but Wheeler’s incapacitation, even before the creepy squall, made him so whether he liked it or not. And being in charge of the men he’d brought to this place also meant he was responsible for them. That hadn’t worked too well for Wheeler, Pike, and now young Frazee, (even feeling sorry for himself, Mike couldn’t blame himself for Garza), but he’d taken a murderer in among apparently peaceful, friendly folk, and watched him kill them. Now if he didn’t stop Sanford, he might return with weapons sufficient to wipe them out. No, the behavior of people he supposedly commanded was just as much his responsibility as their safety, and Seaman Colin Sanford had to die.
Something lunged at him out of the brush and long, narrow claws ripped the leg of his flight coveralls and slashed the flesh of his thigh. Mike instinctively fired a short burst from his Thompson into the thing before he even realized what it was. Now quivering in death, he recognized one of the smaller “lizards” like they’d chased that morning. He’d killed it, keeping most of his bullets in the hideous head, but it had already been wounded by several pistol shots, one of which shattered its leg.
“How did you like my little surprise?” Sanford’s voice echoed through the trees. “Did it get you?”
Mike pressed forward, limping slightly, but didn’t answer. He also kept the heavy Tommy gun up, muzzle questing in front of him, because in addition to Sanford’s voice, he also heard the booming surf pounding into the bay ahead and knew neither he nor his quarry could be far from a confrontation. Most critical of all, if Sanford reached the plane more than a few moments before him, Mike would be a sitting duck on the open beach for Big Boobs’ guns.
That had doubtless been Sanford’s hope, but Mike’s nearby shots must’ve convinced him he needed to finish this differently. Mike emerged at the edge of the trees, moving slow, scanning carefully for any disturbance in the sand near the plane where the waves and tide had scoured away their movements of the previous day. There was nothing.
“Pilots always look ahead too much,” came a gloating voice behind him. “Takes a waist gunner to keep his eyes out to the sides. All I had to do was duck behind some of those big leaves back there and watch you go blundering by.”
Mike turned slowly. The first thing he saw was the big, black, .45 caliber hole aimed at his face. Behind it was Sanford, face twisted into the same cold, malevolent expression he’d shown back at the village, only now it was touched by self-satisfaction.
“You were a crummy waist gunner,” Mike retorted.
Sanford shrugged. “I didn’t care, and I hate flying. Getting busted down to the bottom rung and assigned to Big Boobs was punishment, and I decided to take it out on everyone around me. Now that’s over, and I’m back on top. Don’t even need you anymore.” Sanford’s eyes flicked to the Thompson. “Toss that over. Easy.”
Mike did as he was told, making sure the weapon landed top down in the leafy sand. “I thought you wanted me to navigate for you,” he said as Sanford reached down, never taking his eyes—or his pistol—off him.
“Nah. It occurred to me, with all the guns, and the machine guns in the plane, I can make myself king of those dopey monkeys, or whatever the hell they are. If the Dutch never cared enough about this island to scout it well enough to find all the creepy shit we’ve seen, I bet the Japs never will. I’ll sit the whole war out.”
A dry root cracked behind Sanford and Mike couldn’t help but stare, wide eyed, at the massive dark shape of the female monster, about forty yards back, appear out of the jungle gloom. Sanford half-turned to look and Mike bolted to the side. Sanford shot him. Agony flared behind Mike’s left ear and it felt like he’d been slammed in the head with a baseball bat. His vision went neon red, and he sprawled heavily in the mushy soil, but another shot might be an instant away so he rolled clumsily and pulled his own pistol. A gnarly tree-trunk stopped him, and he knew he’d never gain his feet to run, so he raised the pistol and flipped the safety off. His eyes were still blurry, the color all wrong, but he immediately saw Sanford wouldn’t be shooting at him anymore. He’d probably tried, but his slide was locked back on an empty magazine. And Mike was no longer his problem in any case. The giant, furry lizard was almost on him and it was moving so fast that Sanford must’ve instinctively known he’d never even reach the carcass of the drowned PBY before it got him. Snatching up the sand-packed Thompson with an hysterical shriek, he pointed it at the beast and squeezed the trigger. There came only the muffled Pop! of a half-chambered round, and not only did the ruptured case not fully eject, the grit-bound bolt never went back far enough to pick up another round. After that, all he could do was scream as the monster’s jaws snapped shut and ripped away the Thompson—and both his arms. Still screaming, Sanford turned to run but immediately tripped and fell, face down, less than twelve feet from Mike. Close enough Mike could see his screeching, bulging-eyed face when the giant lizard clamped its jaws on his legs and jerked him up in the air.
I’m next, I guess, Mike thought grimly, pointing his pistol at the terrible beast. But he didn’t fire. Not only was it pointless, he was afraid to attract its attention. Besides, he was getting woozier by the second and probably wouldn’t even hit it. I’m shot in the head, he told himself. I’m done for anyway. The thing had grasped Sanford’s torso in its powerful front limbs, claws digging deep, and quickly gnawed his legs off at the knees amid a spattering spray of blood. All the while, the man kept screaming, and Mike thought he’d never stop. He also began to think he heard a strange trilling sound in the jungle around him. The monster grew
agitated. Jealously clutching its wailing meal, it whipped its head from side to side as the odd noise grew louder. Mike lowered the pistol until his arm lay in the sand. Darkness was coming quickly, and he suddenly felt a powerful regret that he’d never learn more about the island, or the people he met there. His last thought was somewhat detached, merely wondering if the big lizard would eat his corpse, or whether the little lizards or the goofy crabs would win the battle for it.
He awoke on his back feeling like he was floating on a choppy sea, bouncing a little roughly, but he wasn’t uncomfortable. He felt pretty good, in fact, just really hungry. Sunlight flickered through the dense jungle canopy above and he realized he was moving.
“Hey! You’re awake!” Frazee cried delightedly. “He’s awake!” he repeated excitedly to some cat people nearby. So it wasn’t a dream after all, Mike thought. Almost immediately, the ‘Cat “elder” was grinning down at him, just a few inches from his face. “Don’t try to rise up, yet, sir,” Frazee warned. “I can walk, but you’re on a travois. A bullet grazed your skull pretty good and they can’t put your head in a sling. You’re healing fast, though. Boy, these folks have way better stuff than Sulfa! I never got a hint of infection!”
Mike tried to talk but only croaked. Frazee gave him a sip from his canteen. He finally managed “What happened? How long was I out—and where are we going?” It had dawned on him as he spoke that he must’ve been out quite a while if Frazee was already up and around, so the travois wasn’t carrying him back to the village. And he also noted there were a lot of heavily-burdened ‘Cats moving in the jungle along what must’ve been an even broader, more permanent trail than others he’d seen. Maybe they’re all here, but why?
Frazee frowned. “I’m not sure how long. I was out a few days myself, doped up on some pretty good stuff. You sort of came to from time to time, enough to eat a little, but you were so loopy I’m not surprised you don’t remember.” He nodded at the ‘Cat elder, still grinning as he walked beside the travois. “Best I can get from him—he’s Taa-Roo, by the way, the chief, and some sort of priest, I think—we’re moving toward that low mountain in the center of the island. Supposed to meet some other tribes there and fort up.”
“Fort up? Why?”
Taa-Roo seemed to get the gist of their conversation and stopped grinning. His new expression never touched his eyes, but something about the set of his mouth, ears, even his blinking, gave Mike the impression he would’ve looked grim if he could. Gesturing around in all directions, he simply said “Grik!” as if that explained everything.
“What’s ‘Grik?’ Mike asked Frazee.
“They showed me some critters painted on a really old pot—look sort of like those middle-size lizards, you know?—and kept saying ‘Grik.’ I started to catch on. Seems they come in ships and they’re scared of them.”
Mike frowned. “And since they’re not afraid of the big lizards around here…”
“Yeah,” Frazee agreed soberly.
Mike considered. “Well, what if we got the machine guns out of the plane? Use them to defend them instead of hurt them.”
Frazee scratched his nose. “Yeah, I thought of that, but the plane’s gone. At first I figured it washed away and sank while I was out, but again—as best I can piece together from what they try to tell me—hell, look at this.” He fished a piece of bright white rawhide, stiff as a board, out of the emergency pouch he still carried and handed it over. Mike stared in wonder at an amazingly well-rendered charcoal drawing of what could only be an American four-stacker destroyer, down to the big ‘102’ painted on her bow.
“USS Mahan,” Mike breathed.
“Yeah. She came in and dropped some fellas off. They must’ve patched Big Boobs up well enough to fly.” Frazee’s expression soured. “After what happened with Sanford, I get why these folks didn’t want to risk fooling with them.” He sighed. “And that’s what they did; they flew her the hell off. But she had to fight her way past some wooden sailing ships with these ‘Grik’ things on them, which really scared the bejesus out of everybody. Seems Grik were just a legend, like the boogeyman, till now. But that’s why we’re moving. Supposedly, if the Grik come back and don’t find anybody near shore—they eat folks—they’ll just go on.”
“Yes! Yes!” Taa-Roo said, and Mike smiled at him while wondering how much English the old ‘Cat’ had picked up from Frazee. Probably more than the kid realized. He looked back at the sky and watched the sunrays shift as he moved.
“Well,” Mike said at last, rather philosophically, “we’re all alone, stuck on an island of cat people surrounded by things that want to eat us, and our plane got chased off by even scarier things.”
Frazee nodded agreement as Mike continued.
“On the other hand, the ‘Cats are friendly, and if Mahan hung around long enough for her people to get Big Boobs—cared enough to try—chances are they weren’t running from the Japs anymore. I don’t know what any of that means, but it’s kind of comforting to know we aren’t utterly alone, wherever that squall spit us out.” Mike was quite certain now that this wasn’t the Panaitan Island in the Sunda Strait—maybe even the world—he knew. “We might still have friends somewhere out there, and maybe we’ll see them again.”
* * * * *
Taylor Anderson Bio
Taylor Anderson is the New York Times bestselling author of the Alternate History/Military Sci-fi DESTROYERMEN Series. He's a gun-maker, forensic ballistic archeologist, and technical/historical consultant for movies and documentaries. He has a Master's Degree in History and has taught at Tarleton State University in Stephenville, Texas.
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Website http://taylorandersonauthor.com/
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The Lightnings and the Cactus by James Young
Chapter 1: Bouncing Bettys
Red One
1130 Local
12 October 1942
I hate water, Major Connor Copeland thought to himself yet again. If I had wanted to fly over water, I would have joined the Navy like Uncle Mike did.
Copeland looked at his P-38’s fuel gauge, then allowed himself a grim smile behind his oxygen mask.
Of course, unlike Uncle Mike, I’m probably not going to run out of fuel in the middle of the Pacific and die. Connor glanced around at the fifteen other Lightnings behind and the four large aircraft accompanying them. At least, not unless a whole bunch of people are off in navigation.
While Connor might have doubted the map reading skills of the two C-47 transport crews trailing the formation, the pair of B-17 Flying Fortresses had made the trip from Espiritu Santo to Guadalcanal at least eight times between them. The two transports were carrying the 94th Pursuit Squadron’s mechanics and several drop tanks, while each of the heavy bombers were hauling a full load of high explosives.
Goddamn Navy, he seethed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Sink four carriers at Midway and suddenly they were convinced they could take on the whole Japanese fleet.
Connor looked at his watch, then at the dark shapes of islands that had seemingly just appeared on the horizon. The officer didn’t even need to do math to know the insistent pressure in his bladder was going to need relief before he got his large fighter set down. Using language that made him sincerely hope his mother’s ghost could not manifest thousands of miles from his Midwestern home, Connor began the intricate dance of holding the Lightning’s yoke, his penis, and the fighter’s relief tube in place so that he did not urinate all over his instrument panel.
Maybe that crazy Aussie was right when he said don’t drink wa…
“Bogeys! Bogeys eleven o’clock high!”
“Son of a bitch!” Connor roared, whipping his gaze around even as he was torn between clenching things mid-stream or hurriedly finishing Nature’s task.
Figures I’ve got my dick out in the middle of a cold cockpit when the Japanese show up, he thought angrily as he continued emptying his bladder.
“Buster One…”
“I see them,” came the B-17 pilot’s laconic reply on the 94th Squadron’s frequency. Connor watched as the big bombers turned to starboard, away from the enemy aircraft. With relief, Connor saw that the cluster of dots was headed away from his squadron at an angle. Tucking himself back into his flight suit, Connor began barking orders to the rest of the squadron.
“Green Flight, you stick with the transports and the bombers,” he said quickly. “White, Blue, Red, follow me.”
His orders finished, Connor pulled back on the yoke, then began moving his hands across the cockpit in a drill he had practiced numerous times in the past few weeks. Contorting himself, he first reached for the valves to prepare the empty drop tanks beneath his wings for release. Twisting the stubborn metal to shut off the flow to his internal tanks, Connor briefly considered attempting to turn towards the Japanese bombers with the precious containers aboard.
To Slip the Surly Bonds Page 18
