by Tyler Hanson
It wanted to add her to its collection. She had to end this. Now.
Catalina raised her right arm forward as if to give the creature a high-five, her fingertips almost touching its impregnation spike. Her thumb pressed a small mechanical button that rested on the side of her glove, close to the knuckle of her index finger. The response was the faint click of a mechanism beneath Catalina’s sleeve springing forward. Two silver tubes protruded from her sleeve, extending a little past her wrist.
As the tubes emerged, a latch resembling a tiny stop sign flipped up. The pedestal portion formed a hinge with the tube mechanism under her arm, while the more circular pedal landed in the center of Catalina’s palm. She curled her fingers down into a fist and depressed the pedal.
With an unflattering hollow crack, the left tube fired a triple-aught buckshot spread straight into the spike and the back of the Man’s open mouth. The force of the blast, the proximity of the shot, and the size of the pellets created a destructive trinity that disintegrated the entire back of the monster’s head. The tooth-riddled remnants of its skull left behind after the blast quivered, weak and defeated.
Catalina took no chances, though. She shifted her arm down to point at the neck area and depressed the pedal once more. The second spray from the right barrel sheared off the rest of the creature’s head and carved a crescent-shaped crater into its neck stump.
The remainder of the Man went limp, collapsing to the forest floor like fallen tree branches, its arms releasing Catalina. She fell with it, managing a shaky landing on her feet. She curled an arm around her body, the injured rib sending ripples of pain up her side. The wind caught her cloak in the breeze and sent it fluttering.
The moonlight exposed her fallen weapons. She retrieved those still functioning, storing them in their proper holsters. When finished, Catalina glanced at the sprawled corpse one last time before looking behind her, in the direction of the nest.
It’s not over yet.
She approached the dome, assessing her conditions. It was difficult to overlook the rib. She had taken several forceful blows to the spine and neck, which would need examination. There were the shallow slices on her cheek and a busted lip. Bruises were forming in patches along the front of her body. Noticing a sharp sting in her hand, she realized the heat from the emergency shotgun contraption had burned her fingers, too.
Alive is alive, she thought, taking a moment to retract the now-unloaded device back into its waiting position within her sleeve.
She entered the dome and turned to the Medellin cartel member who had addressed her before. He saw her and opened his mouth to speak. Nothing but a whistling noise emerged. While she was gone, the baby spider creatures had begun to tear away at his neck, leaving behind a hole leaking both breath and words.
Catalina grimaced, reaching for her waist. There’s no practical solution to this. The only way to transport everyone is to ask for the help of their friends and family back in the town, which would put them all in danger in this dome. Even then, disconnecting them from the nest would surely cause immediate death. There’s no reason for these children’s parents to watch them die like this, surrounded by these monsters. Hesitating any longer just drags this tragedy out for everyone. Sofía is safe. At least I saved one life today.
Catalina withdrew a Glock, aimed, and fired; the man went limp. The baby monsters around him buzzed in agitation at the loud noise.
She turned her pistol to the young boy next to the dead man. The boy’s eyes fluttered, barely conscious. Two other nearby children weakly turned their heads, their gazes delirious.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Catalina’s shoulders felt heavier with each shot fired. She moved around the wall of the dome, pulling the trigger as she encountered a new child or adult. Most were quiet, and those still awake found a way to avert their gaze, allowing a swift end to their hell.
Eventually, Catalina reached the young, sobbing girl she’d seen when first entering the dome.
The girl trembled within her cocoon, adhered to the wall. Everything below the girl’s waist was already gone. The spider creatures crawled in a line from holes along her torso, carrying out what appeared to be bits of intestine. The girl’s cheeks, while still untouched by the monsters, streaked with tears.
“Please . . . don’t . . .” She choked out in Spanish between sobs. “I’ll be okay. Please.”
Catalina shook her head and gestured for the girl to close her eyes. The girl pursed her lips and shook her head back, the movement vicious enough to disturb the spider creatures above her head.
“Don’t kill me. Please.”
Catalina lowered her head and sighed.
“Please don’t, miss. You don’t want to do this.”
Catalina lifted her gun.
“Miss, I’m not ready to d—“ Pop.
The girl’s head fell forward, lifeless.
Catalina turned away, dropping her Glock as she buried her head in her hands. Blinded by her black gloves, she wandered in the direction of the nest’s entrance. After a moment, she looked back up, turning to face the interior. Blood splattered the cottony walls behind each victim. The baby monsters squirmed on top of each other, at war over the corpses.
Removing her bandolier, she examined it. She had three thermite canisters remaining, and she reached for them. The cool metal pressed against her burned fingers as she pulled the pins.
The bandolier curved from her outstretched arm into the center of the nest. A massive spiral of flame splashed across the bodies of the children and the cartel men, setting them ablaze. The spider creatures withered away, eradicating what she hoped was the last living traces of the monster that plagued the village of La Encarnación.
Catalina made her way back through the forest, retracing her steps past the torn leaves and broken branches the Man had created. It wasn’t long before she could see the orange light of the blaze she kindled earlier in the evening. She drew abreast of the fire, stopped at the edge of the clearing of her first battle, and picked up the elephant gun she had tossed. Continuing around the flaming trees and scorched earth, Catalina maintained a steady pace back toward town.
With proper direction, the townspeople can dig a dirt trench around the flames before they spread too far. Moist as the vegetation is around here, it won’t be long until the fire begins to dissipate. Considering the weather—
Catalina’s thoughts were arrested at the edge of the forest.
Through the last few trees, she saw the bright light of a third fire. One she hadn’t started.
In the town.
The tavern and inn she occupied only hours ago was in flames. Ash floated around the buildings while the fingers of flame reached into the starry night sky. Smoke floated through the streets, highlighting the muzzle flashes of intermittent gunfire. Catalina squinted and stepped forward.
Medellin.
Men in street clothes with bandanas over their mouths ran around the building, firing automatic rifles into the neighboring homes. They pulled people from doors and windows, throwing them to the ground before continuing their warpath. In the dirt near the tavern, a woman in a burgundy dress lay motionless.
Is this a response to the fight earlier? Is this because of me? Catalina stepped forward once more, clearing the tree line. Her boot met a soft resistance, and she pulled back. Beneath her heel was a small leg connected to a body in a white nightgown.
Sofía.
The girl lay face down in a pool of blood. The red stained her dress, leaving it a sickening pink shade. As Catalina bent down, more gunfire erupted from the town. A few stray bullets flew past, splintering against the trees, ruffling the forest foliage.
Catalina looked back at the new bullet holes in the bark, down at Sofía, then forward at the muzzle flashes in the smoke, piecing together what had happened. She clenched her jaw hard enough to create a grinding noise with her teeth, and she formed fists tight enough to evoke droplets of blood from her open wounds.
Monsters.<
br />
Catalina rose, her black cloak billowing around her shaded form. The darkness changed her into a fantasma, much like her mother. Unlike her mother, though, this fantasma was corporeal.
Corporeal and vengeful.
Punctuating the thought, her hand reached down to her thigh and withdrew the Grizzly pistol. The wind ruffled the cloak around her as she moved, as if she floated toward the town, rather than walked. Screams and gunfire grew louder, the smell of smoke more potent. She racked the slide of her gun, chambering a new round.
Catalina melted into and out of the shadows, the smoke obscuring the moonlight and leaving her invisible. From within the darkness there was movement, and the cold steel of a gun barrel was the first part of the shadow that crossed the town’s border.
Her hunt was far from over.
Bomber’s Report
01.10: “Ambush”
Alberta, Canada
May 1, 2011-B
Stacey opened his eyes to the sound of birds chirping outside his window. Their music made him smile, but the sounds of honking traffic came into focus as well, and he rolled his eyes. He turned over in bed, but Sam was still asleep. He shuffled under the covers, wrapping his arms around the man.
“Good morning, handsome,” he whispered.
Sam’s eyes fluttered open, and he leaned in to kiss Stacey. “Hey there.”
The pair rose from the bed, shedding their blankets. As Stacey’s feet hit the floor, a small migraine headache formed behind his eyes. He rubbed his temple.
“Headaches coming back?” Sam asked.
Stacey turned. Sam stood there in his white t-shirt and baby-blue pajama pants. He yawned, highlighting the dark stubble on his jaw. Every day, Sam’s hair got a little greyer, though it contrasted nicely against his naturally black hair.
“Yeah, just a little bit. It’s no big deal.” Stacey shrugged it off.
“Well,” Sam said, a tinge of concern creeping into his voice, “let me know if you change your mind about going to the doctor. I worry about you.”
Sam wandered into the bathroom, the shower squeaking to life. Stacey went to the window and looked outside. The birds had since flown away, and fifteen stories below, he could see the mesh of cars forming the morning’s traffic. Stacey tapped on the window before turning to dress.
He opened his closet and pulled out a sharply-creased brown-and-green uniform, the shower stopping as he began to don it. There was a pause while Sam dried himself off. Stacey reached for a thick folder filled with documents on top of the dresser. The bathroom door opened, and Sam emerged wrapped in a towel.
“Is it time already?” Sam asked.
Stacey sighed. “Yeah, it was extremely last minute. Less time to drag out good-byes than I usually get.”
Sam started to dress himself as well, throwing on jeans and a blue cotton t-shirt. “They didn’t say anything about where you were going this time?”
By “they,” his husband referred to the Canadian Special Operations Forces Command, or CANSOFCOM. Stacey’s job.
“Nope,” Stacey replied. “I’ll be briefed on the details in-transit. I already have a private plane waiting at the airport.”
“Let me take you, then! It’s my day off anyway. That way I get to see you a little longer before you’re gone for who-knows-how-long.”
Stacey noted Sam’s eagerness and gave a wide grin. “Hell yeah. Let me just go be vain for a second.”
He walked into the bathroom, wiped the steam from Sam’s shower off the mirror, and stood at attention. In front of him stood a crisply-dressed black man in military attire. His hair was buzzed all the way down to his scalp. He admired how the uniform clung to his body; muscular from his training, but slender, like a swimmer.
Satisfied, Stacey turned to leave, but the sunlight glinted from the bedroom windowsill. He immediately felt a searing pain behind his eyes, and even as he backed away, the fluorescent bathroom lights seemed as bright as the center of a bonfire. He covered his face with his arm, drowning out the bombardment of lights, small tears forming in the corners of his eyes. The pain subsided after a few seconds, and he wiped at his face.
Stacey walked back into the bedroom to see Sam pulling a jacket from the closet.
“Oh, don’t put that on,” Stacey chided. “It’s so tacky.”
Sam smiled at Stacey’s criticism and shrugged on a thick nylon bomber jacket. Dark green stripes—Sam’s self-proclaimed “racing stripes”—ran down the arms and sides of the jacket, breaking up its otherwise burnt orange. It ended at the top with a tapered collar. “But it’s my favorite.”
Stacey sighed. “Fine, fine. But I’m still going to give you so much shit for wearing it.”
Sam chuckled. “Fair enough.”
Abbottabad, Pakistan
May 2, 2011-B
The military transport rumbled along the dirt roads on the outskirts of the small town of Abbottabad. Inside was a spacious, canopy-covered compartment with a series of seats lined along the two wider walls. Stacey, adorned in full tactical military gear, gripped his service rifle and his black, boxy toolkit in his lap. The vehicle was losing momentum, and Stacey looked up at the other five operatives sitting on either side of him. The truck came to a stop.
The four men and one woman all wore their green, battle-ready ensembles. Each carried their own assault equipment, though the specifications of their loadout varied in minor ways. Stacey had been relatively friendly with every one of them at different points in his CANSOFCOM history.
Ben and Adam, stocky, rugged Québécois, were snickering to one another in the corner opposite Stacey. Stacey looked away. He didn’t want to be involved in another one of their practical jokes.
Xavier sat silent across from Stacey, reading a pocket-sized novel.
“What’cha reading?” Stacey asked him in a friendly tone.
Xavier didn’t respond, and Stacey shrugged. The British Columbian was one of those withdrawn, aloof, artist types. Not an uncommon attitude.
Daanis, sitting to Stacey’s left, nudged him in the ribs, smiling. “Don’t worry about him. He’s channeling the spirit of Glooscap. I told you about Glooscap, right?”
Stacey smiled back at the Nova Scotian Mi’kmaq native. “Yes, Daanis. That’s one of your most popular stories.”
She chuckled. “Well, it’s not my story, of course. It’s much older than me.”
Stacey rolled his eyes at her attempts to be mysterious. “All the same . . .”
The giant, burly, bearded man to Stacey’s right grumbled, interrupting them. Stacey shot him a side-glance.
“Did you say something, Lincoln?” he asked.
Lincoln shook his head. Stacey turned away; as impressive as the man was in combat, his relentless irascibility outshined his skill.
The sound of another vehicle approaching caught his attention. It was the middle of the night, so the headlights outlined the back canopy of Stacey’s transport as they pulled up to the rear. Boots landed on dirt and rock, and a series of footsteps traipsed in the CANSOFCOM operatives’ direction.
The curtain flung open, sending the headlight beams shining into their truck. Heat burned in Stacey’s temple, as if the lights were growing brighter and brighter. Through the pain, the beam turned a shade of orange. He held up his hand, barely able to make out the shadows of people standing a few paces away.
“Hey! Can you turn those off?” Stacey demanded.
“Is this the CANSOFCOM unit that was requested?” came a deep, rasping reply.
Stacey glanced back at the other members of his current team. Though each of their personalities were normally different in wild and noticeable ways, everyone suddenly carried the same calm, quiet demeanor. Was it nerves?
Adam looked up. “Yeah, that’s us.”
“Okay.” The shadow signaled behind him, and the headlights turned off, much to Stacey’s relief.
Six men in black body armor, carrying automatic rifles, clambered up onto the CANSOFCOM transport vehicle and fi
led into the available seats not occupied by Stacey’s team. Between the bulk of their equipment and the rags around their mouths to keep out dirt, Stacey couldn’t notice any distinguishing features of their new friends. One of the men, sitting in the other back corner of the truck, leaned, forward, offering his hand to Adam. They exchanged a brief, cordial handshake.
“This is DEVGRU,” the man said. “We’re sorry for the smoke and mirrors, but we have reason to believe there are eyes and ears close to this mission who don’t share our best interest. That’s why you’re here; the five men with me are the only ones attached to this that I can trust right now in U.S. ground forces. Outsourcing firepower from Canada’s sharpest Spec Ops men and women seemed like a wise alternative, and your superior officer agreed.”
Stacey furrowed his brow. “So, this isn’t an official JSOC mission?”
The man looked at him. “What’s your name?”
“Private Fields, sir.”
“Private?” The man glanced toward Adam. “What happened to Major Edwards?”
Daanis waved her hand dismissively. “He grew ill a few days ago, sir. Private Fields was our alternative EOD; he’s a damn fine explosives tech, though.”
The man nodded. “Well, Fields, welcome to Operation Neptune Spear.”
Lincoln grumbled, “What exactly does this operation entail, mister . . .”
“Johnson. Captain Johnson.” The captain gestured at the other five DEVGRU members sitting with him. “You’ll find that they all answer to Johnson tonight. Got it?”
Lincoln rolled his shoulders. “Okay. Sure.”
Captain Johnson pulled the dust rag from his face so he could be heard more clearly. “And what we’re doing tonight, ladies and gentlemen, is ending the reign of Osama Bin Laden.”
He slammed his fist against the wall that separated the operatives from the driver, and the vehicle bucked before moving forward.
