Love, Death and Robots. Volumes 2 & 3

KILL TEAM KILL Justin Coates

“This is bullshit.”

It was the second time Macy had said it during the long march up the mountain. Sergeant Nielsen glanced at his MK48 gunner in annoyance as the younger man leaned against an Afghan pine.

“Shut up, Macy,” he said, feeling the same exhaustion he knew the machine gunner felt but refusing to show it. “You can bitch about it once we make it back to Desolation. Take a knee, face out, drink water.”

Macy looked back at his team leader with barely disguised disdain. He lit a cigarette as he got down in the prone, popping out the machine gun’s bipod behind the roots of the pine tree. Nielsen made sure to stump the toe of his boot into Macy’s side plate as he went to check on the rest of Team 1.

Erwin was seated against a smooth limestone boulder. The marksman peered down the scope mounted on his MK14 EBR. The 7.62mm sniper rifle was pulled snug into his shoulder, between where his plate carrier met his Multicam-pattern combat blouse.

“See anything interesting?” Nielsen asked.

“Not a thing,” Erwin muttered, slowly scanning the valleys below. “Not since that weird goatherd guy following us after Meri Khel.” He cocked his head to the side, affecting a higher tone of voice. “Did you see that chicken guy?”

“Yeah,” Nielsen answered. “That guy was weird.”

They both laughed quietly, having shared the same inside joke with the rest of the team for six months now. Being stationed at COP Desolation wasn’t easy; finding humor in the most idiotic or vulgar circumstances had kept the men of the 25^th Infantry Division from killing each other. The combat outpost was tiny, and the daily missions grueling. Bleak humor was all they had.

“We still set to meet with Team 2 on time?” Erwin asked, briefly glancing away from his scope.

“Yeah. If we make this our last stop, we should be fine.” Nielsen fiddled with his Camelback, sucking down a gulp of warm water from the hydration system hose. “Lemme know if you see anything.”

Folen and Coutts were on the other side of the small summit, overlooking a sheer drop of over a hundred feet. Coutts was in the prone behind his M249, the automatic rifle’s stubby barrel poking out into the open air. Folen’s M4 with underslung M320 grenade launcher was propped against a tree while Folen pissed a steady stream of clear liquid over the cliff.

“You’re gonna get shot in the dick if you keep silhouetting yourself like that,” Nielsen said.

Coutts looked up at him, grinning like an idiot. “Right in the diiiick,” he said, spitting out a thick black thread of chewing tobacco. “Quit diiiicking around, Folen.”

“I wanna see how far out I can get it,” Folen said, visibly struggling.

“I’m being serious, asshat. Cut it out.”

Folen buttoned his trousers and took up his position at the tail end of their small formation. “How much further we got to the objective, sarn’t?”

“Another five hundred meters up,” he said, briefly checking the GPS unit attached to his wrist. “As long as we follow this spur we should be fine. Team 2 will be waiting for us there. You all staying hydrated?”

“Roger,” they both replied, their heads returning to the slow, automatic swivel typical of anyone used to patrolling in a combat zone.

Returning to the center of the small patrol base, Nielsen keyed his microphone. “1–7, this is 1–1, over.”

Silence greeted him. He tried to keep his voice down. “1–7, 1–1. We’re within five hundred meters of the objective. How copy, over.”

Silence. Dead, cold, empty silence. Nielsen was sweating despite the cool of the evening. Not for the first time he cursed himself for not speaking out against their platoon leader’s idiotic plan for locating the enemy weapon caches. Splitting the platoon into such small teams was stupid. It flew in the face of common sense; it flew in the face of basic tactics. If not for the platoon sergeant’s total incompetence and unwillingness to confront the new lieutenant, it would never have happened.

There’d been no radio contact for almost twenty minutes now. That was absolutely unheard of. The only thing to do was drive on to the next objective and hope to meet them there. Beyond that, Nielsen didn’t have a clue but he’d be damned if he’d let his team down by showing his fear.

“All right,” he said after a moment. “Let’s pick it up.”

They pushed on another three hundred meters. Every step was the same grueling, knee-locked affair as the last. The air in the mountains was thin. Nielsen resisted the urge to give the order to swap their helmets for patrol caps. Nightfall was coming soon, and they’d need their helmet-mounted night vision for even the shortest movement up the mountain.

They’d made it almost four hundred meters up the spur when Macy abruptly opened fire with his MK48. “Contact,” he said, dropping to a knee behind a small pile of rocks. The machine gun thundered briefly, firing a burst of nine armor-piercing incendiary rounds. “Two hundred fifty meters. High on opposite ridge. One enemy RPG team.”

Nielsen’s response was drowned out by the heavy crump of an exploding RPG-7. The rocket propelled grenade detonated against a nearby pine, sending splinters of wood and sap flying.

“1–7, this is 1–1, troops in contact,” he said into his useless radio, dropping to a knee as Macy went down into the prone. “Talk the guns!” he shouted as Coutts’ lighter M249 opened up further down the spur. The M249 and the MK48 quickly began firing complimentary bursts, each one opening up when the other paused to re-acquire sight pictures or reload.

A High-Explosive Dual-Purpose grenade sailed through the air from Folen’s position. Nielsen fired his own grenade launcher a second later. AK-47 rounds snapped through the air past his head. He reloaded his underslung grenade launcher, taking note of the bright muzzle flash of the enemy RPK light machine gun.

Both his and Folen’s grenades landed solidly in the midst of the enemy position. A plume of smoke and dust rose from the stand of trees where the enemy had been.

“Cease fire,” Nielsen shouted immediately, fearful for the conservation of machine gun ammunition. “Folen, hit it again. Erwin, tag any squirters you can see.”

Mindful of where he’d seen the RPK, Nielsen sent another grenade hurtling through the air. Folen’s came shortly after, both of them hitting right on top of each other.

There was silence for a moment; then, a single round fired from Erwin’s EBR. “Erwin?” Nielsen said.

“Saw some movement. Just wanted to be sure.”

“All right. Buddy ACE report, then let’s get out of here.”

He moved to Macy’s position, quickly checking the other soldier for any injuries he might not have noticed in the brief adrenaline rush of combat. “Ammo count?” Nielsen said, checking the soldier’s night-vision pouch and tapping his rifle-mounted optic systems.

“Five hundred rounds,” Macy answered. “Should have shot more. Shit’s heavy.”

“Yeah, well, until we link up with Team 2 we need to play it safe.” Nielsen tapped his soldier’s helmet, and quickly showed Macy his own sensitive items. The junior infantryman quickly checked his team leader for any injuries before returning the helmet tap. “Good work, Macy.”

None of the others had been injured, and ammo levels were still at acceptable levels. Not like it matters, Nielsen thought. We’ve got one or two firefights like that left before we need a resupply. He pulled a HOOAH! energy bar out of his pocket, gnawing on the slimy peanut butter mess. Gonna need to start rationing chow if we get to the objective and no one else is there.

Just the thought of it formed a knot of anxiety in his stomach. “I’m not fucking ready for this,” he muttered, washing the energy bar down with a swig of water before turning to the rest of his team. “All right, pick up. We need—”

“Hey, Sarn’t?” Erwin spoke, looking down his scope. “You’re gonna want to take a look at this.”

Nielsen pulled his rifle to his shoulder, glancing through his ACOG scope. The dust was beginning to clear from the enemy position, but he could see the bullet-ridden pine trees shaking. Small landslides of shale tumbled off the opposite ridge, along with a body twisted and bent almost beyond recognition.

There was something massive lurking in the dust cloud. Nielsen caught a glimpse of a broad, black shoulder, bristling with sharp spines. One of the pine trees collapsed underneath a massive claw, its yellow talons circling around the trunk and pulling it up out of the ground.

“What the hell is that?” Macy asked.

“No idea,” Nielsen answered, his heart thundering.

“I’m gonna shoot it,” Coutts said, reaching for his M249’s charging handle.

Nielsen snapped, “Standby, dammit. Just… standby.”

They watched for a moment as whatever it was lumbered down the opposite side of the ridge. For a moment they could still hear it snapping trees and triggering shale-slides in its wake. Then it was gone, leaving nothing but silence in its wake.

“Well, that’s it,” Folen said, putting in a fresh pinch of Copenhagen. “We’ve all gone crazy. Time to kill each other.”

“Oh, thank God,” Coutts said, stretching. “I’m tired of carrying this stupid thing.”

“You fucks don’t have my permission to die,” Nielsen said, shaking his head. Just get to the rendezvous site. “We need to double-time it to meet up with Team 2. Bianchi has the Tacsat, we’ll be able to call back to Desolation and see if they can get eyes on that… thing.”

“It was a honey badger,” Folen said. Coutts snickered. “Honey badgers don’t give a shit.”

“Whatever it was, I don’t want to be with you idiots when it shows up again.” Nielsen turned and headed back up the spur. The others fell into place, the sound of doubt hiding inside their muttered jokes and curses.

Team 2 was dead. Not just dead; devoured, ripped apart, scattered all over the plateau where they’d been supposed to meet. None of them were remotely identifiable. It was all a jumble of torsos and spent shell casings.

“Honey badger got here first,” Coutts said, kicking at a massive claw embedded in a rapidly-cooling torso. “Look at this thing.” He pulled it free, holding it up like a sword. “Almost as big as my dick.”

“We gonna talk about this?” Erwin said, glancing at Nielsen. “Or are we just gonna keep pretending nothing weird is going on?”

“Pretending has my vote,” Folen said. He pulled a blood-soaked grenade bandolier off a limbless corpse and strapped it over his shoulder. “I know I can’t deal with this right now.”

“Me neither,” Coutts added, holding the claw against his crotch and thrusting suggestively. “Not getting paid near enough to even start to care.”

“The whole team is gone,” Erwin said. The beginnings of panic edged into his voice. “Hajji didn’t do this, Sarn’t. That… thing killed all of them.”

“Sure looks that way,” Nielsen said. He pulled off his Oakley’s, and put his hand on Erwin’s shoulder. “Look at me. Take off your eyepro.” Erwin obeyed, his pupils darting all over Nielsen’s face. “It doesn’t matter who did this. Hajji, honey badger…”

“It was the Loch Ness monster!” Coutts said. Macy and Folen laughed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Nielsen repeated. “We’re gonna get through this. We’re gonna find the Tacsat, call back to Desolation, and get the hell out of here. You with me?”

Erwin stared over his sergeant’s shoulder for a moment. Nielsen slapped him. Erwin blinked, and nodded.

“Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “Yeah. I’m with you.”

“Good.” Nielsen embraced him, and kissed his cheek. “Now let’s find that damn radio.”

Something started screaming to their south. They turned as one, dropping to a knee in a firing line, facing the direction of the spur they’d followed up the mountain. The stand of trees on the edge of the plateau disappeared, pulled down by the same yellow claw now strapped to Coutts’ back.

“For the record,” Macy said, slamming a fresh belt of ammunition into his MK48. “It was a pleasure serving with you gentlemen.”

“All remaining rounds to my position!” Folen quoted as whatever it was roared again. “For the record, it was my call!”

“Lovely fuckin’ war!” They all shouted together as a monster came charging up the spur toward them.

It wasn’t a honey badger. It was a bear, or a wolf, or an amalgam of both. It lumbered on all fours, the sharp spines that covered its shoulders quivering with every step. Its wild, white eyes were already rolling, a purple-black tongue lolling between fangs the size of Nielsen’s combat knife.

It was easily seven feet tall at the shoulder. When it suddenly reared up on its hind legs, spreading scythe-like claws, it was tall enough to blot out the setting sun.

Too close for grenades, Nielsen thought as he switched his M4 selector switch to BURST. Too close to miss.

Macy was already firing. He leaned back, letting the recoil of the MK48 drive him into the ground. The 7.62mm rounds snapped through the air alongside Coutts’ lighter 5.56mm bullets, the heavy tungsten projectiles peppering the behemoth. Folen and Nielsen joined in a second later, followed by the steady crack of Erwin’s marksmanship rifle.

The beast dropped onto all fours, charging despite the firepower leveled against it. It swiped at Coutts, its claws ripping apart his ceramic armor and sending his M249 flying. He fell, rolling to his feet and yanking the recovered claw free. The soldier lunged forward, hacking at the thing’s nose and maw, screaming incoherently. Nielsen circled, trying to get a better line of sight, blasting away at the thing’s thick, knotted skull.

“Fuck you honey badger!” Coutts shouted. Its huge head snapped forward, catching him around the waist. He screamed, coughing up blood as he rammed the claw furiously into its snout. The claw snapped in half as the beast shook its head wildly, hurling him like a shotput. Coutts went flying, disappearing over the edge of the plateau.

Erwin lunged, driving the barrel of his EBR into its chest. He pulled the trigger until his magazine was dry. The creature roared, ramming him with the spines on its shoulder. They burst out the back of his skull, shredding his body armor. It grabbed his body with a clawed hand and shoved the remains into its cavernous maw.

Nielsen cursed as he reloaded, fumbling with his polymer magazine. The thing turned on him, snarling, its white eyes rolling back into its head. He slammed another magazine home as it charged, Macy and Folen’s shouts drowned out by its thick, throaty bellow.

It was nearly on top of him when it suddenly began thrashing about. It shuddered, skidding to a halt, throwing up clogs of dirt in all directions. It pawed at its own head, snarling, foaming at the mouth.

“Hey! Over here!”

Nielsen turned to see a soldier emerge from a stand of trees on the other side of the plateau. His thick beard was covered in blood. There was a vicious wound on his left arm, a claw slash nearly six inches long. In his right hand he clenched a dish-shaped device attached to a massive backpack by thick, gray wires.

He aimed the device squarely at the bellowing monster. A high-pitched whine filled the air. The creature’s snarl turned into a mammoth squeal of pain. It turned and fled, thundering back the way it had come.

The young sergeant turned toward the stranger. The other man huffed with exertion, the device shaking in his arm.

“Goddam thing is running out of juice,” he said. “You all right?”

“Fine,” Nielsen answered. “Just peachy.”

“Who the hell is this?” Macy asked, coming with Folen to stand beside Nielsen.

The other soldier clipped the device to his belt. He pulled a wrinkled cigarette pack out of his shoulder pocket and offered one to Nielsen. Nielsen stared at him. He shrugged, and lit it for himself. “Sergeant First Class Morris,” the soldier said. “Attached to Task Force Griffin. Stationed up at Camp Eisenhower a click north of here.”

“Bullshit, that’s where you’re from,” Folen said. “You’re stationed at Camp Bullshit, and you drink from a Camelback full of fucking lies.”

“You wouldn’t know about Eisenhower,” Morris continued, ignoring Folen. “It’s a subterranean facility. CIA built it back in 2002 right after the invasion. We’ve been moving in and out for the last ten years.”

“And let me guess,” Folen continued. “You’ve got all kinds of crazy nasty shit down there including that… thing.” He frowned, noticing the cigarette dangling from Morris’ lips. “Wait. Let me get one of those.”

Morris handed him a smoke, and said, “Yes. All kinds of nasty shit, including Codename: BARGHEST, which you just met.”

“That’s a stupid name for a honey badger,” Nielsen said. “A really fucking stupid name.”

The SF soldier frowned. “It’s not a honey badger. It’s a genetically engineered grizzly with a load of mechanical augmentation. Small arms don’t work for shit; it’s got a solid inch of ballistic-resistant gel and synthetic spider-weave beneath its skin. Most of its organs are redundant, and the damn thing has a graphene battery as a power source if it suffers brain death.”

“Can you kill it with that?” Nielsen asked, pointing at the device clipped to Morris’ waist.

“No. It’s supposed to be a remote control,” Morris said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “But the only setting that seems to still work is the one set to ‘screw off’. I can’t control them, but I can make them leave for a while. If we can make it back to camp I—”

“Stop,” Folen interrupted. “You said ‘them’. Please tell me you meant ‘it’.”

“No,” Morris sighed. “That’s one of two that are still left.”

The entrance to Camp Eisenhower was a hatch in the ground hidden beneath a false layer of loose rock. Morris led the way down a steel ladder, which dropped into a concrete hallway after twenty feet. Pale overhead lamps flickered as the rest of the team followed, spreading out with their weapons at the high ready.

“If we can get to the bionics bay, I should be able to access the control system,” Morris said. “I can recall them from there, and then use the kill switch once they get inside.”

“Or you could just flip the kill switch now without calling them here,” Folen said, his eyes glued to the door at the end of the hall. “That would also work.”

“We can’t leave these things lying around,” Morris snapped. “You think Uncle Sam wants the world to know he’s setting genetically modified bears lose to hunt down hajji? Does that sound like a winning strategy for hearts and minds?” They stopped at the door. Morris quickly punched a code into the keypad. “We call ‘em back here and flip the kill switch as soon as we hear them rooting around. Then I call for MEDEVAC, we go home, and all of you get a fancy award and a weekend in Qatar.”

The hallway they stepped into was covered in blood. The remains of corpses were everywhere, mangled bodies and black, slick blood covering the walls.

“Something must have gone wrong with the command signals,” Morris said as Macy cursed in disgust. “The three barghests were supposed to run a standard patrol last night. Instead, they went berserk. My team was already on patrol when one ambushed us. Managed to take it down, but I was the only one to walk away from it.”

“I thought you SF guys had special magic beard powers,” Nielsen asked, keeping his rifle tight in his shoulder. “Your beard didn’t protect you?”

“Fuck you.” Morris winced, pressing a hand against the Israeli bandage over his wound. “Take a left up here.”

The kill team headed down another blood-slicked corridor. There were rooms on either side of the long hallway; rooms with doors that had been beaten down, rooms with shattered glass panels and scattered laboratory equipment.

Morris stopped briefly at one of them. “Sweet,” he said, ducking inside. Nielsen followed, nearly tripping over overturned weapon racks. Machine guns, semi-automatic rifles and anti-tank weapons were scattered everywhere.

“Macy, Folen, get in here,” he said, quickly opening ammo can full of HEDP grenades. “Stock up on everything you can carry. Ditch your plates; they’re not going to protect us from those things anyway.”

“Here.” Macy pulled two M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapons out of an overturned locker. He handed one to Folen and took one for himself. “There’s something else in here…” He withdrew a long, hollow tube fitted with a wooden pistol grip.

“That’s a Gustaf,” Morris said, playing with a remote control he’d snatched from one of the few lockers still standing. “84mm recoilless.”

“Will it take one of those things down?” Nielsen asked.

“If you shoot it center mass, it should deal enough damage to the barghest’s mechanical and organic support systems to trigger a total shutdown,” Morris said. “And if not…”

A large metallic crate in the corner suddenly toppled over with a loud bang. A tracked robot wheeled out from where it had been hidden and stopped at Morris’ side. At around four feet tall, the robot was armed with sponson-mounted machine guns and a quad-barrel rocket system.

“This is MAARS-bot,” Morris said, patting the robot affectionately. “He’s armed with one XM806.50 caliber machine gun, two M240L 7.62mm machine guns, and an M202AI FLASH Incendiary Weapon.”

“Sweet,” Macy said. “Is it gonna go rogue and try to eat us, too?”

His answer was an echoing roar from somewhere deeper in the compound. Morris cursed. “All right, one of the two little bears is already home,” he said. “We gotta go. Now. Follow me!”

He sprinted out of the room, MAARS-bot cruising along behind him. The others followed, quickly slinging their rocket-propelled weapons as they sprinted down the hall toward the bionics bay.

“It’s just ahead,” Morris shouted as they rounded a corner. “Oh, shit!”

The barghest they had encountered earlier was just ahead of them. It bled hydraulic fluid and boiling, dark-red blood. It appeared even more massive in the tightly confined space. It roared, its spines scraping and gouging the ceiling.

“Honey badger, 12 o’clock!” Folen shouted, immediately dropping to a knee and opening up. He fired on burst, burning through a 30-round magazine in a matter of seconds.

“Grenades!” Nielsen shouted as the barghest dropped and charged. The HEDP rounds sailed through the air, each of them smashing into the beast’s front legs. Nielsen could feel the intense heat of the blast at such close range. He opened up along with Macy, the other soldier’s MK48 filling the air between them and the monster with armor-piercing rounds.

“Use your stupid ray gun, Morris!” Macy shouted.

“I’m outta juice!” Morris answered, ditching the huge power pack with a curse. He snatched up the controls for MAARS-bot, muttering a litany of profanity as he adjusted the robot’s controls.

“Any second now, Morris! Feel free!” Nielsen bellowed. The barghest was almost on them, growing wider by the second, undeterred by the gallons of blood and black hydraulic fluid pouring from its wounds.

“Got it!”

The robot chirped pleasantly, and suddenly the rocket pods on its central chassis burst into life. Four 66mm incendiary rockets screamed through the air, each one landing right on top of the other. The monster’s front legs were sheared clean off. One of the rockets detonated inside the barghest, showering all of them with blood, guts and machine parts. The metallic skeleton of the creature was revealed, along with sparking wires and steaming organs.

The barghest mindlessly pushed itself toward them with its hind legs. The kill team kept up their rate of fire until it was only a few feet from them. Finally, it stopped, right in front of Folen, a mechanical screech signaling the death of its primary power source.

Folen peered down at its massive, bloody jaws. He chuckled, and kicked it in the eye.

The barghest lunged forward, its teeth sinking into his leg. Folen screamed as it savaged the wound, jerking its head back and forth. His limb came away at the hip, bright arterial blood fountaining through the air. The others yelled, dumping rounds into the creature’s head until its skull was nothing more than a black and red smear on the shattered tile.

Nielsen immediately went to Folen’s side. The soldier clasped his sergeant’s arm, looking up at him with a mixture of sorrow and annoyance.

“Nielsen,” he whispered. “Tell my wife…”

The sergeant squeezed his hand. “I will, Folen. I promise.”

“No… listen. Tell my wife I said…” Nielsen leaned forward, until Folen’s lips brushed his ear. “… fuck Obama.”

“Goddammit,” Nielsen said, standing up as Folen briefly cackled at his own joke before dying. “Macy, how much ammo you got left?”

“I’m Winchester,” Macy answered, unceremoniously dumping his MK48 onto the ground. “I’ll take Folen’s LAW. And his M4, so I can shoot myself once this is all over.”

“Great idea.” He turned to Morris, and gestured at the huge corpse blocking the corridor. “We aren’t getting around this. Is there any other way to the bionics bay?”

“Yeah. We gotta backtrack a bit, but we’ll make it there quick if we hustle. Follow me.”

The bionics bay was as big as some brigade-level operation centers Nielsen had seen. Massive screens covered the walls. Multiple rows of desks were set up, as well as what looked like a laboratory in a separate chamber near the eastern end of the bay. There was no sign of violence like there was elsewhere in the camp; everything was still, almost bizarrely serene.

“You better put me in for a bronze star with valor,” Macy said to Morris, taking up a defensive position behind a row of desks. He unlimbered his LAW, extended the rocket tube, and placed it lightly on his shoulder.

“I’ll deny any award he puts you in for,” Nielsen replied, kneeling behind the row across from Macy. “You’ve got a bad attitude. Maybe you’ll get a certificate of achievement. Maybe.”

“All right, ladies,” Morris said from one of the computers, typing away furiously. “I sent the return command a minute ago. Now all we gotta do is wait.”

The words had barely left his mouth when the sturdy steel doors they had entered through collapsed, along with much of the wall. The remaining barghest exploded into the room, barreling straight for Morris and the command console. Nielsen cursed, squeezing the trigger of the recoilless rifle as Macy opened up with his LAW. Nielsen’s round went wide, landing in the bionics lab with a muted crump. Glass flew everywhere, the lethal shards forcing him to duck and cover.

MAARS-bot opened up with all four machine guns mounted to its frame. The 7.62mm rounds pinged loudly as they penetrated the monster’s subcutaneous shell. The.50 cal rounds blasted huge chunks out of the barghest’s flank. Despite missing most of its left front limb from Macy’s accurate rocket attack, it barged through the rows of desks and threw itself at Morris.

There was a brief moment of panicked screaming, rising only slightly over the nonstop barrage of bullets. Macy fired the LAW he’d recovered from Folen, managing to completely shred the creature’s left rib cage. Blood and pressurized lubricant sprayed everywhere, live wires hissing as they crossed each other.

It turned to face them with most of Morris hanging from its jaws. The console the SF soldier had been busily typing into was mangled, destroyed beyond repair. The barghest roared, sending a chunk of Morris’ leg flying through the air.

“Fuck you,” Nielsen snarled, squeezing the trigger on his M320. The 40mm grenade thundered against its snout with a shriek of tortured metal. Macy primed and threw two hand grenades in quick succession, both of them erupting beneath the monster’s heaving gut.

The MAARS-bot continued its unrelenting stream of tungsten and lead. Subjected to such withering firepower, the barghest’s outer skin was blasted to pieces until it was nothing more than a huffing, wheezing skeleton. It rounded on the robot, flipping it onto its side and viciously pounding it with heavy strikes of its massive paws.

“MAARS-bot, no!” Macy yelled. “Save yourself, robot friend!” The robot chirped weakly in response, before exploding in a shower of sharp metal pieces.

The barghest rounded on Macy. The infantryman hastily backstepped, firing controlled pairs into its mouth as it advanced on him. He tripped over a fallen computer screen and went down. The barghest howled, rearing up on its hind legs to deliver a crushing strike.

Nielsen’s one remaining 83mm round caught it right in the ribs. The projectile detonated with the thunder of a mortar round, blasting the cyborg monster apart from the inside out. The top half of its body blasted toward the ceiling, its torso spewing rancid blood everywhere. Its upper half crashed onto the floor a moment later, its eyes rolling across the ground to stare accusingly at its killer.

The sergeant limped over to Macy and helped him to his feet. Macy looked at the bisected corpse, then glared at Nielsen.

“This is bullshit.”