SNAFU: Future Warfare

Outpost Anthony Izzo

“That ship is going to be crawling with uglies,” Sergeant Tim Mills said as his squad rolled out from Outpost Zulu One Three. He reflected that he didn’t like the outpost. They were near the Canadian border, somewhere near what used to be called North Dakota. It was cold as hell and there wasn’t a decent bar within five miles of the place.

The armored personnel carrier juked and bumped as they rolled along. He would’ve preferred an airdrop, but Zulu One Three was short on aircraft, so they were humping it in this tin can.

“Who are we going after again?” Whitey said, running a hand through his blond hair. Whitey had a portrait of his kid on his forearm. The uglies had gotten his kid when the invasion started. He didn’t talk about it. Poor bastard had to shoot his own son when he was reanimated.

Mills said, “Paige Hamilton, resistance fighter. She’s won some major battles. Stopped them from overrunning the capitol. Command wants her found. She was on that supply ship.”

The supply ship USS Valkyrie had lost contact with command three days ago. Mills and his squad had been ordered to bring back Hamilton and any survivors.

Bronson, driving the APC, said, “We have a visual, Sarge.”

“I want to have a look for myself,” he said.

Mills stepped onto a platform, opened the top hatch and flipped his goggles down. He liked them a lot; they gave him night vision as well as picking up thermal images. Damned things could practically see through walls.

The display on the goggles told him the ship was a half-mile out. It was one of the big Detroit-class cruisers, and had come to rest in some fields. Smoke rose in multiple places from is gray-black hull.

They’d sent Hamilton to some outpost in the galaxy as a consultant. Mills couldn’t figure out why; she’d been kicking ass back here on Earth, from what he’d heard. Now she was likely dead and they were going to be bringing back a body.

He popped back into the APC. “Let’s light it up,” Mills said, and looked around at this squad, or what was left of it. United States Counter Invasion Squadron. Eight guys left after the last operation. One of a dozen teams of elite warriors that Command regularly dispatched to handle situations like this.

They’d been given a DREAD gun and Command had promised them the possibility of support in the form of some hypersonic cruise missiles that could be fired from somewhere around Los Angeles. Maybe a drone strike. And they had Arnie, a six-foot-five, three-hundred-and-thirty pound robotic killing machine that would make the first entry into the Valkyrie.

The squad locked and loaded. Mills watched O’Brien stroke his weapon. “You gonna buy that thing dinner first, at least, O’Brien?”

“She hasn’t let me down yet, Sarge,” he said with a grin.

Whitey said, “You might as well be using a crossbow instead of that fucking relic.”

O’Brien frowned. Dude had the bushiest eyebrows Mills had ever seen. He was also the darkest Irishmen Mills had ever laid eyes on.

“The AK-47 has been used by soldiers for a hundred years,” O’Brien said.

“Yeah. Just like your mother,” Whitey retorted.

The APC jarred to a halt.

“Cool it, you shitheads,” Mills said. “Move out.”

As the rear ramp opened, Mills’ heartbeat sped up. He felt a little like puking, just as he did before every mission. The squad deployed, passing Arnie, who stood statue-like near the ramp waiting for Mills to activate him. Someone had told Mills the guy who invented the technology named Arnie after some killer robot in an old movie. He didn’t care what it was named, as long as the machine did its job, which was killing the slimy fucks that had taken over half the country.

The frozen ground crunched under Mills’ feet. The air stank of burning metal as they stood in the shadow of the freighter.

“Everyone’s AC operational?” Mills asked.

“Check,” came the group’s response.

Adaptive Camo was a wonderful idea in theory. Bent the light around the soldier so you became almost invisible. Problem was, it didn’t always work with their enemy, and the reanimations saw through it every time.

Mills un-shouldered his pack and took out the control pad for Arnie. He punched in some commands and the shiny beast came down the ramp and stood next to Mills. Arnie had twin cannons mounted high on his shoulders and could also launch grenades. Mills would see through the robot’s eyes on his own display.

He punched in instructions: Find an entry point. Locate survivors. Dispatch enemies. Arnie would take it from there.

The sentry found a breach in the side of the ship and entered a cargo hold. Smoke hung in the air, making the display hazy.

“How’s it look, Sarge?” Whitey said.

“Can’t see shit so far.”

Arnie moved through a series of cargo bays, where containers had been tossed like a child’s blocks. He exited the cargo bays and moved through a connection of corridors.

“See anything yet?” O’Brien said into his comm.

“Nothing yet—”

Movement at the end of a corridor, coming towards Arnie. Shit. A reanimation. On the display, the crewmember jerked and twitched, indicative of the parasite that was controlling its movements. The parasite’s spindly limbs jutted out from its host’s rib cage.

Like a meat puppet.

The sentry targeted the crewmember. The canon flashed white and the reanimated man exploded in a haze of gore. The parasite squealed and tried to rip away from its host, but Arnie blasted the multi-legged creature, spattering whitish fluid on the walls.

“Nothing wrong with his aim,” Mills said.

The sentry moved through the ship. From the intel Mills had received, he knew the crew’s quarters were on Deck Four.

Arnie worked his way to Deck Two, blasting two more of the crewmembers that were no more than walking dead.

“How did the uglies get on the ship?” O’Brien asked, moving on silent feet.

“Beats the shit of me,” Mills said, his gaze flicking between Arnie and the display.

“Why send us to this outpost, Sarge? It’s in the middle of nowhere,” O’Brien said, checking a portal before moving past.

“Well, the ship crashed here, for one. Plus there’s rumor of a joint Canadian and American offensive. American and Canadian forces push from the north. The Marines and First Army push up from Texas — take back the Plains and the Midwest. They intend to use Zulu as a staging area for the Canadian and the American divisions.”

Arnie moved into a large hangar. On the display, Mills saw something big move. Huge and black, it dwarfed the sentry. Arnie targeted it. Two large pincers appeared as Arnie opened up with both cannons. The pincer swiped at the sentry and Mills’ display went black.

“Holy shit,” Mills said, flipping up his goggles. “Cover, take cover.”

In seconds the men were hunkered down, weapons trained forward into the murk.

“Sarge?” Whitey said.

“Something just cut Arnie in half,” Mills said. “Something big. We’re going in. Eyes on and keep cool.”

This would require going in the old-fashioned way, which meant close combat inside a burning, dank ship. “Listen up. JT, Stetson. Get that DREAD gun set up. Anything comes out of there that ain’t us, shred it. The rest of you, follow me. Hamilton’s bunk was on level four.”

They followed him to the door where Arnie had entered. Mills stared into the blackness of the ship, which looked darker than the deepest space.

“Night vision go,” Mills said, flipping his goggles down. “Whitey, take point.”

“Fucking great,” Whitey muttered as he stepped inside.

The rest of them moved in formation behind Whitey. Blood rushed through Mills’ veins. The hollow booms of their footsteps made the place seem like an old tomb to Mills. His breath plumed in front of his face; it was only slightly warmer in here than outside.

They moved through the cargo bays and reached the area where Arnie had met his demise. Mills was grateful the ship had crashed upright. It would’ve been a bitch to get through otherwise.

In the hangar, they found Arnie. He had been ripped in half. Hoses pumped hydraulic fluid onto the deck. His head was twisted at a horrible angle.

“That’s titanium,” Mills whispered. “He’s designed to withstand a blast from a HE round. Something shredded the fuck out of him. Move on.”

They left Arnie behind and came to the stairwell that led to Deck Three. Whitey held up his hand, fist closed. Pointed at the stairwell.

Mills switched his display over to thermal and looked upward. He saw the heat outline of a vaguely human shape standing on the next level, right at the stairway. Maybe waiting and listening for them.

He crept ahead and tapped Whitey on the shoulder, Mills’ knuckle sounding hollow as it rapped Whitey’s armor.

He looked back at the rest of the squad. O’Brien was behind him. Beyond O’Brien were Chomski, Barrow, and Meyer. He’d fought with all of them. Battle of Manhattan. The Blue Ridge massacre. The siege in Old Chicago. He trusted all of them with his life, and they were all he had. When the uglies had come, he’d lost contact with Jamie, his wife of ten years. He could only assume she’d been killed in the first wave. There had been no word from her in years.

He flipped off a series of hand signals — they were heading up; possible hostile at the top of the stairwell.

They crept up the stairs at tactical intervals, weapons raised. At the top stood a woman with her back to them. She wore the familiar blue jumpsuit of the United States Navy.

“Ma’am, I’m Sergeant John Mills, USCI. Please turn around slowly.”

The woman turned and Mills got a good look at her face. The skin was a slimy gray that reminded Mills of overcooked beef. The eyes were gone, the sockets tinged with blood. She opened her mouth and a long hiss streamed forth. Two spindly legs crept over her tongue and poked out of her mouth.

The flesh around her mouth ripped like wet cloth in a soundless scream.

Mills raised his assault rifle, fired a short burst, and watched her head spatter the walls. The corpse fell to its knees. The arms jerked. Mills blasted it again, the thing inside the poor woman emitting a blood-curdling shriek as it died.

“God, that stinks,” O’Brien whispered in Mills’ ear.

“There was a crew of two hundred on this ship. Bound to be more of them. Keep your eyes open,” Mills said.

“Where’s the big ugly you saw on Arnie’s display?” Whitey asked.

“Hope we don’t run into it,” Chomski said. As the squad’s grenadier, he carried a launcher that held HE rounds. He could program it to shoot at predetermined distances. Very fucking deadly.

“Keep moving.”

They wound their way up until they reached Deck Four. Mills found it odd that they hadn’t seen any more crewmen, reanimated or otherwise. No sign of the big nasty that had cut Arnie in half, either.

The hair on the back of Mill’s neck stood up. He was being watched. No, not watched. Hunted.

“Double time it,” he said.

According to intel, Hamilton was supposed to be in 403-AA. As they came to the corridor, it was a mess. Empty steel cases, clothes, a half-eaten apple, bedding, soaps, and deodorant bottles were among the many items scattered in the hallway.

“Sarge, I got a heat signature at the other end. Through that door. You see it?” Whitey whispered.

Mills nodded; the outline of a figure crouched near the door. Was it waiting for them? “Stand fast.”

They took up firing positions along either side of the corridor. The figure sprang to its feet and a moment later the door opened and a petite brunette in a Navy jumpsuit bolted through the door. She was carrying a semiautomatic pistol with an extended magazine.

She sprinted halfway down the corridor, crouched, and took up a shooter’s stance.

Mills heard a high-pitched, chattering noise. One of the parasites skittered through the door, legs working overtime. He never got used to the sight of them: the razor-sharp pincer mouth, the multiple onyx eyes, the stinger that jutted from its thorax.

The woman put six shots into the creature. Black, viscous fluid painted the floor. The parasite let out an agonized screech and collapsed. Still.

“I’m guessing you’re Hamilton,” Mills said.

She whirled, gun raised. Squinting, she said, “Who’s there?”

Shit. They still had their Adaptive Camo active. They would be vague shapes to her. “Sergeant John Mills,” he said, deactivating his AC and stepping away from the wall. “We’re here to get you out.”

“Good to see you, Sergeant. We should go. There’s more of them,” Hamilton said.

She wasn’t what he’d expected. Her voice was soft, almost soothing. He’d expected someone who sounded hard as steel. Although by the way she’d coolly taken out the parasite, he suspected she had some metal in her.

“Any other survivors?” Mills asked.

“I’m it,” she said.

“Okay then. Move out,” Mills said with a nod. “Whitey, you’re Hamilton’s bodyguard. Watch her. The rest of you keep her in the center of the formation. Nothing gets behind her.”

Whitey moved up next to Hamilton. The rest of the squad formed around the two of them.

They fell back down to Deck Three and when they turned the corner into the corridor leading to the stairwell, Mills said, “Fuck me.”

There were at least a dozen reanimated crewmembers waiting for them. The parasites that controlled the dead weren’t hiding this time. Spindly limbs burst through the skin, and one poor bastard’s chest was opened up, the creature’s pincers poking out through the ribs. Mills shuddered.

They took up firing positions as the crewmembers shambled forward with herky-jerky motions. The squad gunned down the first row, the crew coming at them shoulder-to-shoulder. Blood slicked the floor. A parasite broke free and scurried across the floor toward them. O’Brien blasted it to pieces.

Mills popped in a fresh magazine. The next row lunged forward.

A parasite tore from its dead host with a wet pop; scrambled up the wall, and got purchase on the ceiling. It came at them fast. Upside down and hissing.

The thing dropped in front of Hamilton. She put two shots in its mouth. Whitey blasted one of its legs clean off, but it still managed to lunge at the woman.

She drew a large knife and drove it downward into the thing’s back, ripping the knife the length of the torso. Stinking, black goop gushed out of the creature.

Hamilton’s expression hadn’t changed the whole time.

The squad picked off the remaining crewmembers then Mills led them down the corridor, the ground slick with blood and entrails and God knew what else.

When they entered the hangar, a heavy chemical-like smell hung in the air. It made Mills’ eyes water and his nose burn.

“What’s that fucking smell?” Meyer said, putting a hand to his face.

As Mills turned to tell him to shut up, something from the ceiling whipped down and lashed around Meyer’s neck. It looked like a thin tentacle, except it was covered with hundreds of barbed spikes. The tentacle tightened around Meyer’s neck. His face turned red as the pressure increased.

“Cut him the fuck loose!” Mills’ ordered.

Mills opened fire. The rounds ripped into the tentacle. It still had Meyer in a death grip.

Whitey went for his knife, but it was too late; blood jetted from Meyer’s neck. The muscles and tendons stretched. His neck was cranked beyond measure, and a second later, his head was torn from his body, the blood now a geyser. Meyer’s torso collapsed, the hands clenching and unclenching.

Hamilton scooped up Meyer’s assault rifle.

Mills looked up. Beams and girders crisscrossed the hangar’s ceiling. Beyond the beams he saw more tentacles lowering toward the ground. A large, dark shape was visible up there. The big beastie that had destroyed Arnie. “Light ‘em up!”

The squad raised their weapons and fired into the ceiling. The creature shrieked as the bullets tore into it.

“Keep moving. Follow me,” Mills said. As he darted ahead, a tentacle whipped in front of him. He dodged left; glanced behind to ensure the squad was following.

A scream.

A tentacle had wrapped around Chomski’s leg. The man fell to the ground as the tentacle tightened, and Chomski was snatched up, screaming. In a matter of seconds he was twenty feet in the air, too high to reach. Mills took aim through the scope, tried to shoot the tentacle, but it was too thin to risk the shot. Chomski was carried into the rafters. The resulting screams churned Mills’ stomach.

Chomski was gone. Nothing Mills could do to help him. Their mission was to get Hamilton to safety. He hated this part of the job.

He signaled the squad to keep moving.

They made it to the other end of the hangar. Steel groaned and shifted above them. Was this unseen horror making its way down to come finish them off?

The squad double-timed it back to the breach in the ship without incident. That concerned Mills. Was something worse coming?

Mills felt the cool air on his face, breathed sweet air and was never happier to see daylight in all his life.

As he stepped out of the ship, Chan and Ramirez had the DREAD gun set up on a tripod; a long ammo belt snaked out of the weapon and ended into a steel case.

“Pack that thing up,” Mills called as he jogged toward Chan and Ramirez. “We’re going back to Zulu.”

Chan said, “Do we have to?”

He sounded like a kid who’d been told to put away his toys and come for dinner. “Sorry Chan, you don’t get to blast anything today. Pack it up.”

“Where’s Meyer and Chomski?”

“Some big bastard got them. Hurry up and stow that thing. We need to go.”

Mills heard the now-familiar chatter of parasites rise from inside the breach, and turned to see three crewmembers shamble out. More shapes were visible in the dark behind them.

“Okay Chan. Do your thing,” Mills said.

Chan took the controls of the DREAD gun and opened up, the gun pumping out deadly rounds in a fan-shape. The crewmembers were vaporized. Still more came. Chan cut them down as they poured from the breach.

The DREAD gun clicked. It was effective as hell, but reloading was a bitch.

“Fuck it. Get in the APC,” Mills said.

They made it to the APC and got the ramp up. Bronson swung it around, the undead crew scraping and scratching at the vehicle. He looked around: six of his people left, plus Hamilton.

“Hope Zulu has some hot chow waiting for us,” Whitey said.

Zulu One Three reminded Mills of a castle: thirty-foot high, reinforced concrete walls, gun turrets at the corners, and a foot-thick steel gate. The military had learned quickly to build sturdier bases after the uglies had overrun base after base, tearing through chain link and barbed wire like it was nothing.

The squad headed to the mess hall. Hamilton stayed with them as the group grabbed mess trays. Mills chose not to eat; his stomach was still queasy.

His people were eating in silence, most of them looking at their food or staring straight ahead.

Hamilton was nibbling on a donut. “What now?” she said.

“Well, an airship is supposed to arrive at twenty-one hundred hours to pick you up.”

“What about your people?”

“There’s room for one extra person on the ship,” Mills said. “You’re it. Besides, they’re probably going to use us for the offensive.”

“Offensive?”

“Command’s sending reinforcements here. Canadian troops, too. Going to take back Denver first, from what I hear.”

“I want to stay and fight,” Hamilton said, determination in her gaze.

“I admire that, but they need you elsewhere.”

“I’m glad you admire that, Sergeant, but if I want to stay and fight, I will. I’m not the property of the USCI.”

“Fair enough. You can take that up with Command.”

Mills heard the familiar click of boot heels approaching; the sound of someone moving with a purpose. A moment later Lieutenant Colonel Murphy approached the table. Murphy had ink-black hair and a mustache to match. He was dressed in camo fatigues, and his boots had a high shine to them. Probably never saw a lick of combat.

“On your feet, boys,” Mills said.

They all stood and saluted as Murphy neared.

Murphy returned the salute. “As you were. Ms Hamilton, good to see you. The Sergeant did his job, I see. I’m Lieutenant Colonel Murphy.”

Hamilton nodded and gave him a thin smile.

“Hamilton, Command has big plans for you. A full press tour, going out to build morale for the offensive.”

“No disrespect, Colonel, but I’m not much for PR, I do my best work in the field.”

“I would think it would be a nice break for you. I heard you kicked ass in Baltimore. Drove them back to the ocean. The public needs to hear from you. This offensive is crucial.”

“I’m sorry, but I want to stay and fight.”

Murphy ignored the request. “Your airship will be here in two hours. Sergeant Mills and his team will secure the airfield and see you off safely.”

Mills said, “Secure the airfield?”

“We’ve lost three airships this month. Those slimy bitches keep hitting the airfield. You’ll keep the area clear while Hamilton takes off.”

Wonderful. “You got it, sir.”

Murphy opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by the ear-piercing wail of an air raid siren. For all their new technology, the air raid siren dated back to the Third World War. That hadn’t changed, at least.

“Mills, get your people and meet me on the wall over the gate,” Murphy said.

Mills gave Murphy a quick rundown of the mission while they stood on the wall looking out at the plains. In the distance, the ruined hulk of the ship taunted.

An infantryman approached Murphy, assault rifle slung over his shoulder. “Colonel we have approximately a hundred to a hundred-and-fifty life forms about four clicks out. Moving slow and steady.

“Visual?” Murphy asked.

“They appear to be reanimations,” the soldier said.

“That would be the crew from the ship,” Mills confirmed.

“Is the rail gun up and running?” Murphy said.

“We might be able to get one blast out of it,” the soldier said.

“Hit them with it. Let’s see what it does.”

Mills looked past the colonel to the EMP gun mounted on the wall. He’d never seen one in action so far. It would fire an electromagnetic pulse and hopefully rip the approaching crewmen apart.

He noticed Hamilton had slid up next to him. She was carrying an MP-29 assault rifle with a smart grenade launcher mounted under the barrel.

“Where’d you get the toy?” Mills asked.

“The colonel gave it to me. It’s an early Christmas present,” she said.

Mills flipped down his goggles. The crew shambled along. They wouldn’t be hard to take out, and even if they reached the walls, he didn’t think they could climb.

The crew was getting the EMP gun ready to fire.

“Is that ready yet?” Murphy said. He was slinging an assault rifle of his own, and had also thrown on a pack with extra magazines.

The gunner nodded.

The crew swung the gun to the left. Mills felt a little tingle of anticipation at the thought of seeing the rail gun do its job.

Before they could fire, a buzzing sound filled the air, harsh and grating. And then Mills saw them: a mass of winged monstrosities descending from the clouds and hovering over the crewmen. “What the fuck?” he said aloud.

Whitey and the rest of the squad gathered around.

O’Brien said, “Shit. Flying uglies. Even better.”

The swarm of creatures, all of them slightly larger than an average-sized man, swooped down, each of them grasping a crewmember within those spindly forelegs. They lifted off with the reanimations and sped through the air towards the base.

Mills realized what they intended to do. “Shoot them down! Shoot the fuckers down!”

The squad spread out and took aim. Mills fired, blasting one of the flying creatures out of the air, and it spun to the ground landing with a wet splat.

Automatic weapons chattered. He glanced over and saw Murphy score a hit.

The EMP crew had raised the angle of the cannon. They fired a blast and the resulting pulse hit a dozen of the flying things and shredded them in mid air, along with their cargo.

The first wave reached the wall. One of the suckers flew over his head and dropped the reanimated crewmember behind the wall. The creature banked back around. Mills fired. Missed. It swooped and landed twenty feet from him. It had a nasty face, almost all needle-like teeth. There were no visible eyes, only a shiny, black head. It scrabbled towards him. He took aim and shot it through the mouth. It kept coming, beating its wings then launched itself at Mills.

It knocked him backward. He steadied himself as not to tumble off the wall. He grabbed the jaws that snapped at his face. The thing was slimy and nasty, leaking goop onto his hands.

Whitey came into help and grabbed the upper jaw, trying to pull back. The thing turned its head with lightning quickness. Mills’ grip slipped and Whitey’s hand disappeared into the thing’s mouth. Jaws snapped shut, crunching Whitey’s hand and the solider pulled away a bloodied stump as his hand disappeared down the creature’s gullet. Whitey screamed, the stump pumping blood. Mills managed to get his knees up to his chest and kick the thing back enough so he could scoot out from underneath.

Mills shot to his feet, pulled his sidearm and emptied the magazine into the flying ugly.

Take that, you flying fucker!

He leapt over the creature’s body in an effort to get to Whitey, who was flailing around gripping his wrist. As Mills almost reached him, Whitey seemed drunk. Wobbling around.

Shit. He’s about to pass out.

Whitey’s eyes rolled back, and he tumbled off the wall and hit the ground inside the base. A loud snap punctuated his fall, and he was still.

O’Brien looked down at their fallen squad mate. “Shit, is he?”

“Look at his neck, O’Brien. Your head’s not supposed to sit like that on your shoulders.”

“Goddammit,” O’Brien growled.

A cluster of the reanimated crewmen gathered below. Hamilton stepped up, took aim, and fired a grenade into their midst. The ground shook. An arm catapulted through the air. A parasite missing the rear half of its body and dripping thick, yellow fluid tried to crawl away. Hamilton blasted it.

Murphy came running up to him. “There’s too many. There are more of the winged ones on the way. ETA six minutes or so. We have to pull back.”

“Fall back,” Mills yelled.

As Mills and the squad headed for the metal stairway, he remembered the drone strike. It was worth a try. “Command. This is Mills. Request drone support. Copy.”

“Mills this is Airman Collins. Drone strike is hot. Awaiting your command.”

“Thank fucking God.”

He gave the coordinates to Collins.

“Copy Mills. Advise Stinger is inbound.”

Mills’ squad, Hamilton, and Murphy reached the bottom of the steps. The rest of Murphy’s people were making their way to the stairs, blasting incoming creatures as fast as they could.

A group of reanimated crewmen that had been dropped into the base noticed Mills and the others and started forward. Hamilton stepped up and blasted them with a smart grenade. Mills and the others fired, taking out six or seven more but the bastards were still coming though.

Mills popped in his last magazine. “Murphy. Low on ammo.”

“Armory’s that way. C’mon.”

They moved along the wall, Mills worried about the ammo situation. He had a spare magazine for his sidearm, but that wouldn’t get him far. The other guys had to be getting low, as well.

A reanimated crewman staggered toward Mills. He pulled the trigger. Click. Shit. Dry fire. He slung his rifle and went for his sidearm.

The crewman exploded. He heard the clatter of a cannon and the Stinger drone roared overhead. Shit that was close. Good thing the drones could target things down to the millimeter.

The drone swept over again, rained hell on the remaining crewmen and mopped up the parasites. It was over in a matter of minutes. He watched the remains of the flying creatures fall from the sky.

“Hostiles confirmed killed,” Collins said through the comms.

“Nice shooting, Airman. Thank you much,” Mills said.

Murphy said, “Her airship is inbound. Ahead of schedule. Grab an APC and get her out here.”

A chattering noise reverberated in Mills’ chest. Like cicadas on steroids. It had come from the direction of the downed ship. He felt a little sick as he realized what it was. “That big bastard’s out of the ship.”

Murphy turned to one of his soldiers standing in a pile of remains that had been one of the crewmen. “Go up top and get me a visual. Now.”

The soldier hurried up the stairs and Mills watched him flip down the visor on his helmet. “Big one coming in, sir! Two clicks. Moving fast.”

Murphy said, “Get to the airfield. Command wants Hamilton safe.”

“You heard the man. We reload first and move out,” he said to the remaining squad members.

Bronson pulled the APC out of Zulu’s gate. Mills shifted up front; took a look out at the open plain. He saw the big ugly coming at them with terrifying speed. Its huge legs ground like gears in a machine. Tentacles snaked from its belly. Its pincers opened and closed, as if practicing cutting fresh meat.

“I probably don’t have to tell you, Bronson, but put the hammer down,” Mills said.

“Flooring it, Sarge.”

They drove along the east wall of the base. The airfield was about five hundred yards away. Mills spotted the small, squat building and several concrete landing pads.

“The airship is three minutes out,” Murphy said into his earpiece. “And Mills? That big monstrosity is following you.”

This day just keeps getting better.

“Copy, Colonel. We’ll do what we can.”

“What’s wrong?” Hamilton said.

“The big one has its sights set on us.”

No sooner had Mills got the word out, something slammed into the APC and he was thrown against the wall, then the ceiling. Hamilton smashed into him. O’Brien and the rest of the squad were tossed around like confetti in a steel drum. Someone screamed. The APC ended up on its side. Mills untangled himself from Hamilton. Her head was bleeding. O’Brien was out cold. JT was holding his arm and grimacing. His wrist was bent at a horrible angle. He looked up into the driver’s seat and saw Bronson sitting motionless. He’d been strapped into the controls.

He was pretty sure his gun crew was dead. Not moving or breathing.

The creature bashed the APC again. The side wall — now facing up — had crumpled like paper.

“Airfield Zulu this is Warhawk Three One Niner. Approaching,” the pilot’s voice said in Mills’ ear.

“Warhawk we have a large hostile on the ground. Can you assist?”

“Roger. I see it.”

“Give him hell, will you?” Mills said into his mic.

“He’s about to have a bad day,” the pilot replied. “I need a clear target. Going to drop ordinance on him.”

“We’ll try and draw him away, Warhawk.”

He looked at Hamilton. “Can you fight?”

“I’ve had worse than this, Sergeant,” she said, wiping blood from her forehead.

“We’ll open the hatch. See if we can get that thing into the open, draw it away from the APC. Then we’ll get back and tend to the wounded.”

“Sarge, I can fight,” JT said.

“Bullshit, not with one arm. Sit tight,” Mills said.

Mills and Hamilton crawled to the rear hatch. He hit the button and the motor groaned. It opened roughly three feet then jammed. There was just enough room to squeeze out.

The two of them wriggled through and wound up ducking near the APC’s roof. They looked up to see the mottled black-grey body of the beast. They were directly underneath the torso. It hadn’t seen them yet. Two tentacles whipped blindly overhead.

“We break for the control building,” Mills whispered.

“I’ll put two grenades in his belly,” Hamilton said with a nod.

“Go,” Mills said, firing upward into the thing’s gut.

Hamilton weaved between two of its legs, paused and ripped off two grenades. They exploded, greenish fluid raining down from the creature’s gut. It let out an angry screech. One of the tentacles swiped at Hamilton. She ducked before it could wrap around her neck.

Mills grabbed her by the arm. The control building was about a hundred yards away.

Mills broke into a sprint. Body armor came in handy, but he wouldn’t set any Olympic records for speed while wearing it.

As he closed in on the control building, Hamilton at his side, something bit into his calf. He was tugged backward and hit the ground. He rolled over to see the tentacle wrapped around his calf. Hot pain shot through his legs as the barbs worked their way into the skin.

The beast was almost directly over him. He pulled his combat knife from his belt. Despite all the technological advances in warfare, a good knife could still be a grunt’s best friend.

The creature lowered its head, giant mouth open and revealing rows of six-inch spikes.

Mills sawed through the tentacle. It remained wrapped around his calf, the barbs holding tight. The pain was like hot nails being driven into his flesh; his gorge rose, bitter in his throat.

Hamilton stepped up and ripped a grenade into the thing’s maw. It reared its head back, screeching again.

She dragged Mills to his feet and he hooked an arm around her neck. She supported his weight as they moved away, Mills hopping on one good leg, the severed tentacle still digging into his calf. He felt woozy. The ground started to tilt, as if he were on an unpleasant amusement park ride. Was the tentacle pumping some sort of venom into his leg?

The airship swooped in. It looked like a big wasp. Every fucking thing out here looked like a bug, didn’t it? He heard a whoosh and then the din of an explosion.

Hamilton threw him to the ground.

Then darkness closed in.

The next thing Mills knew, he was on a stretcher on the ground, a stout female medic wrapping his leg in a bandage. His boot was off and his pant leg had been cut away. The airship loomed next to him.

“You’re going to make it, Sergeant,” Hamilton said. “The colonel sent help when he saw the ship come in.”

“Thanks. You saved my sorry ass.”

“We both helped each other,” Hamilton said. “Good luck, Sergeant Mills. My ride’s waiting. Not my style, I’d rather stay, but it is what it is.”

She reached down, held out her hand. He shook it and when they were done, she trotted over to the airship, where a ramp was lowered to the ground. A group of soldiers and airmen stood nearby.

“What the hell happened?” he said to the medic.

“That Warhawk blasted the hell out of the big ugly. The venom from the tentacle started to work on you. Lucky I got out here when I did. I gave you an antidote. You’re going to feel like crap for a few days, but you’ll live. The colonel will have my ass if I let you die.”

Mills said, “Why’s that?”

“There’s three divisions on the way here. You’re going to be part of the big offensive.”

“How’s my squad?”

“I patched some of them up. A few others didn’t make it, I’m afraid,” the medic said, continuing to wrap his leg.

“Did the colonel say when we move out?”

“As soon as you’re healed. You did a hell of a job, Sarge. At least that’s what I heard. Command has plans for Hamilton. She’s the face of the resistance. Guess she’s going to tour our remaining bases, fire up the troops and all.”

The ground shook and the airship lifted off. At least he’d earned a few days rest. Then it was back out to fight the uglies, and hopefully take back the planet for good.