SNAFU: Unnatural Selection

UNBORN Justin Bell

Against the indigo sky, the black shape drifted southwest, hovering close to the treetops, the only identification a soft, whooshing thumpthumpthumpthump of nearly-silent helicopter blades. The converted Bell 412 utility copter bore no markings and was swathed in flat black, no indication of any military affiliation. The model 412 was chosen because it was not in active use by the United States military, and this offered one more step of deniability, a steep staircase of them down into the basement where the Shadows did their dirty work. The Shadows themselves were not connected in any official way to any world government or military institution, they were all independent contractors who worked together in an unofficial capacity. Their success rate was almost as impressive as their secrecy.

Chuck McLeod leaned out of the front cockpit of the 412, glaring down into a swallowing blackness revealing no shapes, lights, or hint of what lay below.

He flipped a switch on his headset and opened his broadcast to all channels. “At 2215 hours tonight, a military cargo train was lost from radar.” McLeod was reviewing the opened folder in front of him, held on his lap and flipped like a book. “The contents of this train are Classified Top Secret, and apparently we do not have a ‘need to know’.” Leaning back in his co-pilot seat, he thought of his kids, and the visitation he was supposed to have tomorrow morning. He truly hoped this was a quick op, but if they’d called in the Shadows, those chances were minimal.

“Mates, we are almost on site. We are the first responders. We take this clean, we take this quick, and most importantly, we take this quiet! Understood?” The sharp stab of McLeod’s British accent had been dulled by his ten years in America, but still poked through here and there.

The echo of shouted approvals came back at him through low static in his headset.

“Wilcox, proceed to two o’clock, then set us down,” he pointed through the windscreen to a small clearing, just becoming visible up ahead. On the fringe of the cast spotlight, a train car could be seen upright, but angular and twisted, the signature posture of being pulled off the tracks.

The dark aircraft lowered to the ground, long grass blowing apart in a reverse whirlpool, flattening into circles as the whipping blades set their cargo down gently. The wheels touched earth, and black shadows leaped from the cargo area striking the ground in near silence, moving out from the helicopters in well-choreographed fashion.

“Shadows, fan out!” barked McLeod. They spread out from the aircraft then stopped, forming a rough circular perimeter, weapons trained, night vision engaged, still and waiting.

“Landry, you and Wilcox fall back on me, we’re checking out that train. Tree, Inman, you have the perimeter. Keep an eye open, we’re still not quite sure what we’re dealing with here.”

Landry and Wilcox walked low and quick, joining McLeod on each hip, keeping crouched, the long grass snaking up above their knees. The two men and one woman held modified M4 Carbines tucked tight into their shoulders, tactical grip near the front barrel and advanced night sight mounted to the top of the weapon. A cylindrical sound suppressor was firmly attached to each barrel, creating a long, unbalanced weapon for which each well-trained operative was able to compensate. They wore black combat togs with a Molle tactical vest, hooked with several straps around the torso, pouches stuffed with extra ammunition. “Watchtower, this is Ground Team Alpha. The site is secure.” Motioning with his left hand, McLeod directed his two teammates to circle the train, weapons at the ready. The engine was upright, but pulled diagonal on the tracks, its rear wheels barely touching the metal rails as the front side leaned at a 45-degree angle as if a petulant child had kicked it out of frustration. The second car was leaning more steeply, nearly on its side, only held slightly upright by its connection to the engine itself. The third car stood upright, but slightly cockeyed, tipped as if it weighed ounces and not tons. Twisting, the rear car was almost the opposite of the lead car, pulled at a sharp angle in the opposite direction, its back wheels actually pulled up off the rails. McLeod focused his attention on the third car because nearly three-quarters of the entire side of that car was missing.

Layers of metal were pulled apart, peeled and folded back against the train car revealing a jagged, torn cave at the side. Cast in a wide arc from the ragged hole were several broken shards of various materials, most of which appeared to have come from some kind of containment cage inside the train car itself.

“Jesus,” McLeod muttered as he approached.

“Repeat that Ground Team Alpha?” a voice responded in his headset.

McLeod flipped on a tactical light below the gun barrel and raised the weapon in a firing stance, casting an eerie glow across the ground outside the car.

“What happened here, Watchtower?” McLeod asked, nervously casting his gaze across the wrecked train. “What are we after?”

“Need to know,” came the abrupt reply.

McLeod squinted, the only part of his face not covered by the knit balaclava pulled tight and tucked into the layered turtleneck of his commando sweater.

“Uhh... you want us to secure the area, Watchtower. We need to know what we’re securing it against.”

On a stretch of railway between New London and New Haven, Connecticut something had forced this train off the tracks, and it was only by sheer luck it had happened in a rural area. Here the tracks were surrounded by trees and rolling green meadows instead of brick and concrete buildings. Things were playing at least somewhat in their favor. That could change quickly.

“Affirmative, Ground Team Alpha. Advise we have representatives en route. They’ll be arriving in approximately fifteen.”

“Understood, Watchtower. What do you advise we do until then?” Fucking spooks. While he had been with the SAS, McLeod had dealt with his share of spy weenies, mostly from MI6, but these Americans had a special arrogance about them that rubbed him all sorts of the wrong way.

“Keep your eyes open, Ground.”

Click. The channel went silent.

“McLeod!” came a hushed voice from the closed channel. It sounded like Landry.

“Coming.” McLeod walked forward, “Team, report.”

“Tree, standing by.”

“Inman, ready.”

“Berger, five by five.”

“Williamson, here.”

“Schmidt, I’m here.”

“Landry, check.”

“Wilcox, ready.”

Everyone present and accounted for. McLeod didn’t know what was going on here, but something had vacated that train car post haste, and he was pretty sure he didn’t want to meet what did it down a dark alley. Or the dark woods of rural Connecticut.

“What do we have inside?” he asked as he approached Landry and Wilcox.

“Take a look,” Wilcox replied, gesturing inside.

McLeod pulled his weapon from his shoulder and tucked it back into firing position, shining his white light into the car. He blinked several times into the darkness, trying to make sense of the scene inside. The interior of the car looked like the aftermath of a particularly focused and fierce tornado. Firmly attached to the floor of the train car was an empty metallic square, resembling a base or junction point attaching what would have been a containment unit of some sort. There was no unit visible, just the barrage of shattered glass and other material inside and outside the battered car. It had obviously been built to keep something inside.

It had failed.

Mixed within the sprayed explosion of broken polymer were scatterings of off-white shards, a different material than the containment unit itself, far thinner and broken into much larger chunks, fewer in number.

“What the fuck is it?” asked Landry, his own goggles pulled down over his eyes as if they might add some insight.

“According to Watchtower, we gotta wait thirteen more minutes to find out.” McLeod lowered his weapon and turned back toward the wooded area near where the helicopters had landed. Beyond the mound of curved metal of the modified Bell, McLeod could barely make out the lights of civilization. It was a lot closer than he liked.

“I gotta be honest,” McLeod said, “I’m not loving this situation.”

As if karma was just waiting for this admission, the moment the words came out of his mouth, all hell broke loose.

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy SHIT!”

McLeod stopped cold. He had heard the voice simultaneously in his headset and over the cool night air.

“What the fuck was that?” came the next voice. The shouts were abrupt and high pitched, and McLeod couldn’t nail down who was saying what. Silenced thumps of automatic fire echoed in his ears, and he threw himself into a dead run, pounding over the long grass between the fallen train car and the treeline ahead.

“Landry and Wilcox, on my six!” he shouted, and the other two broke off, charging after him.

“Williamson! Report!” As he ran, he flipped the night vision goggles down over his eyes, casting the area in front of him in a transparent green haze. Off in the distance, he could see the vague thermal forms of his team as they dashed maniacally through the trees, swinging their weapons around at what appeared to be nothing at all.

Williamson backpedaled, his weapon pulled tight as a vague shape charged sideways in front of him. His night vision hadn’t picked it up, and he had barely heard it before it charged from the trees at him and Berger.

Stopping his backward motion, he lifted his weapon and trailed the shape as it crashed through the trees and flattened the grass. Pulling on the trigger in four swift strokes, the M4 bucked in his grip and sent gunfire searing through the trees and grass, but it slammed harmlessly into the soft ground, with one last round careening noisily off of a rock.

“Dammit!”

The woods were silent.

“McLeod, this is Williamson. We’re here. But something else is here, too.”

“I’m on approach!”

About fifteen yards away, Tree and Inman walked between the thick trees, their own weapons raised and drifting back and forth, covering their immediate vicinity.

“What do you see, Inman?” Tree asked, his eyes narrowed behind the night vision goggles.

“Two things: jack and shit,” he snarled, taking each step slow and calculating.

“What the fuck were they screaming about?” Tree asked in a hushed voice. His heart was pounding underneath his thick vest. Tree was once a squad leader in Delta Force and had dealt with all manner of shit during his time there, but he was used to threats on two legs, not four. And whatever Williamson had seen hadn’t sounded human.

The night had drawn suddenly still, quiet, and very, very cold. Tree raised a swift left hand, palm facing out, and Inman halted, regulating his breathing. A pale white moon hung high in the sky, only three-quarters full, so the vague glow it shone upon the dark trees was low and dull. There was the slightest rustle of branches ten feet forward and to their right.

“Fuck me,” Inman groused. His finger tensed on the trigger. Unlike many of his teammates, Inman had never been in the military. He had been a contractor since day one, drifting through law enforcement for a few years before taking hold with an overseas security company. In the end, he’d served a decade through various locations in the Middle East and gotten his pedigree. To some, his lack of a military background made him tougher to control, but to others, that same lack of protocol set him a little more free.

The entire forest seemed to be dipped in black paint and as quiet as a tomb. The brief rustling started, then stopped. Through the green fuzz of his night vision, he saw three of his squad mates pushing forward amid the trees in a neat, organized formation, covering the distance of these dark woods. Farther away, the other three approached slowly, weapons at a slight downward angle as they drew near.

Tree halted his forward motion and extended his arm. “Hold up.”

Inman froze. He heard no noise. He felt no breeze. Everything just stopped cold.

“You smell that?” Tree asked, a trace of disgust dripping from his words.

Inman sniffed, then screwed up his nose in a repulsed snarl. “What the hell?”

Tree stepped forward carefully. “How close to the ocean are we?”

Inman followed, their weapons moving in calculated motions, covering the empty space where the other couldn’t. “Not very. Not close enough to be smelling that.”

It was a dank, saltwater smell. The stink of low tide where the ocean had pulled away, leaving slime-covered seaweed behind like the trail of a mammoth slug. It was a unique and distinctive smell and felt entirely out of place here in the woods, even if the ocean was only about 20 miles south.

Just ahead, the trees shuffled again, a pushing sound, low to the ground.

The two men stopped walking, and both of their rifles swung instantaneously to the source of the sound. Through the night vision, there was a rippling fog of something... but not something they could easily make out.

“You see that?” Inman asked.

“Yup,” Tree replied. “Can’t tell you what that is, though.”

Twenty feet away, McLeod came up to Williamson and Berger, who were still crouch-walking through the wooded area, weapons trained.

“What did you see, Duck?” McLeod asked, using Williamson’s nickname. His long gray beard and penchant for wearing camouflage, even when not on duty, had earned him the nickname after reality show Duck Dynasty.

“It moved quick,” he replied. “Too quick to get a trace on. Real low to the ground, and fucking fast as shit.”

“Which way did it go?”

Williamson jerked his rifle barrel forwards, directing it vaguely towards where Tree and Inman were walking. McLeod opened the channel in his headset.

“Careful boys, something might be coming your way.”

Inman took a cautious step forward, glaring down toward the formless green blob near the ground. Without warning, a flare of orange lit up the night vision, like a cooled oven flaring to life. A brown blur leapt from its place on the grass, scorching through the air and screaming. Oh god, the screaming.

“Jesus!” Tree stumbled backward, swiveling his weapon even as the brown blur struck Inman full on in the chest, knocking him backwards and sending his rifle spiraling from suddenly relaxed fingers.

Inman screamed, scrambling with the strange creature on top of him. “Shoot it! Shoot it! Fucking shoot it!”

“Dammit, Inman get free!” Tree shouted, tracing the rolling, intertwined bodies with his automatic, his fingers tightly clutching the front grip. “Shadows, converge! This thing’s got Inman!”

Eric Inman thrashed and shouted as the large form brought its full weight down on top of him, knocking him to the ground. With fifteen years of hand-to-hand combat experience, Inman was a certified self-defense instructor, but the creature was suddenly striking from everywhere. Claws slashed across his ribcage, shredding his tactical vest, snarling through the cloth of his commando sweater, and tearing ragged grooves in his skin. A massive object struck at his head and shoulders, slamming repeatedly, and at first the Shadow thought the creature was head butting him, but then he realized it was some sort of tail reaching up from behind it like a scorpion, coiling, and punching at him. Both the claws and the tail were secondary, though... the real threat was the teeth. Scores of needle like fangs which chomped relentlessly on his left shoulder and face, then struggled for his neck. A sudden and unrelenting barrage of pin picks over and over and over...

“Jesus Christ it’s fucking killing him!” shouted Tree, keeping his weapon trained on the carnage, but not knowing how to proceed. “Permission to engage!”

“Is Inman clear?” came the frantic reply as McLeod dashed through the trees, coming up on Tree’s right.

“Negative! But if we don’t do something, it won’t matter!”

McLeod drew up to a shuddering halt, his eyes peeling wide. Grasping his goggles he yanked them from his face and tossed them aside, staring down at the horrific site on the ground. Eric Inman wasn’t as much a man as he was a ravaged clump of skin and muscle, a strange brown form straddling him, thrashing back and forth. Shreds of skin flew as the creature snapped its head to the left, tearing and ripping at what was certainly Inman’s fresh corpse.

“Open fire!” McLeod shouted. “Weapons free!”

All seven gun barrels erupted at once, sparks and smoke spitting in whispered barks. Outside the forest, the sound was non-existent, but within these close confines the rapid thumpthumpthump of silenced automatic fire was almost deafening.

The entire process lasted for only a minute. All seven rifles clicked to a halt, magazines expended, the small area of trees quiet again. Down at their feet, the brown creature laid on its side, smoke spiraling from its still form, a dark wet grime starting to soak the flesh of the critter, staining the fur overcoat with a red shadow.

Fur was an overstatement. The main body of the creature was a slick sinewy smoothness, glistening in the low moonlight. It was less fur than what looked like a thin growth of mold over the body of the strange looking animal, small thatches of fuzz sprouting from uneven clumps. Its body was long and slender, pulled tight across a cascading, rippling ribcage, the thin, slick flesh no longer rising with breath. Over its haunches, the skin became a thick tail, splayed over the flat grass, and curled into a ‘C’ shape behind the fallen thing. It had four legs, short, but muscular, rounded off with broad, fur covered paws, jagged talons poking through at each rounded toe shape. Across the front haunches, leading up towards the head, the small thatches of mold-like fuzz twisted together into spaghetti strands of hair, linking up and joining, curling up onto the rounded shape of the monster’s skull. Its snout was slender but somewhat elongated, longer than a wild dog, but shorter than a crocodile, and even with its spacious mouth closed, dozens of needle-prick teeth were jutting out in various angled directions. Thin strands of flesh and red gristle still clung tightly in between them, nestled in the crevices of the sharp protrusions of bone.

“Jesus jumped up motherfucking Christ,” hissed Williamson. They were the only words spoken. Perhaps the only ones that could be spoken.

The night had fallen silent with the revelation of this strange five-foot long creature; something out of nightmares and horror movies, something that didn’t – couldn’t – exist in a world they also lived in. McLeod’s mind couldn’t rationalize what he was seeing, and even as a layman, he could think of several different laws of biology being broken here. These puzzle pieces did not fit together, yet some tenacious kid had crammed them together anyway, and bonded them with genetic super glue.

A low whipping sound rolled over the cool night air. McLeod cast one last look at the red and mangled wreckage that used to be Eric Inman, now almost entirely concealed by the fallen beast, a mercy to the rest of the team who wanted to remember their teammate the way he was, not the way this thing had left him. Turning, Chuck squinted out toward the cloudy night sky and could just make out the faded, undulating shape of a third Bell 412 helicopter, flat black and unmarked.

“Fucking great timing,” snarled Tree, his usual good cheer considerably soured.

Wind whipped around McLeod as he marched solemnly, his narrow eyes focused on the helicopter as its door opened and a trio of men in slick white hazmat suits slid free, landing smoothly on the ground. A fourth man exited shortly after, wearing a black commando sweater and cargo pants, but no tactical gear, and sporting a thin pair of wire frame glasses under a thick carpet of dark hair.

“McLeod?” he asked, shouting lightly over the whipping of the helicopter blades.

Chuck continued his determined walk forward.

“How did you make out?” the newcomer in glasses began.

Chuck brought his fist around in a tight arc. The punch smashed into the man’s left cheek, caving in the flesh and spinning him clumsily off balance. He caught himself with one hand against the metallic body of the helicopter and turned to face his attacker. His glasses dangled from one ear, a raw gash marred his cheek, and twin trickles of blood snaked from the corner of his snarling mouth.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked as McLeod took two more steps towards him.

“That thing killed one of my men, asshole,” McLeod growled. But he stood his ground. He figured he was owed one clean punch, but if he pushed it, this dude could push back. Only he likely had more weight behind his pushes.

The man in black straightened, plucking his glasses from his ear and repositioning them on his face. “Sorry to hear that.” He extended his hand – an offering of truce – but Chuck didn’t take it. He figured not beating on the guy again was friendly greeting enough. “You can call me Blaine,” the man in black said, lowering his hand.

Blaine continued his forward progress, coming up behind the three men in lab gear, and Chuck picked up his own pace to match.

“We’re not fucking animal control, Blaine,” he spat.

“Good thing. What we’ve got here is barely an animal.”

Just beyond the clearing, the scientists had made it near to the train. Over where the torn metal splayed out from the boxcar two of them stopped and began removing equipment. The third drifted to the right, approaching McLeod’s men, where they were still collected by the monster that lay draped over their fallen friend.

McLeod and Blaine approached the group, and Williamson sneered.

“I can’t wait to hear this one,” he said, his mouth snarling beneath the long, tangled beard.

“Fucking A,” Berger followed up. “I knew we should have brought the goddamned rocket launcher.”

McLeod was surprised to see that Schmidt was holding his pistol, his fist curled tightly around it, and even in the low light of the moon, McLeod thought the safety just might have been switched off. If ole Blaine here didn’t come up with some good answers soon, things might get worse long before they got better.

“Talk to us,” McLeod replied.

“You got it? You killed it?”

From his angle, McLeod was sure Blaine couldn’t quite make out what lay in the grass at everyone’s feet, but seemed reluctant to walk much closer.

“Fuck yeah, we got it,” replied Schmidt.

Blaine nodded, almost looking disappointed. “Walk with me,” he said to McLeod, and they continued on towards the train. At the rectangular boxcar, the two scientists knelt in the dirt, looking at the broken pieces McLeod has seen earlier.

They slowed and halted next to the torn apart boxcar, Blaine’s eyes scoping the area like the hero in an old school spy movie before revealing his top secret plan.

“We called you in because of the sensitivity of this situation. Something I know you can appreciate,” he said in a low whisper.

“I get it,” McLeod replied.

“What you’ve got here... it’s something we’ve been working on for a long time. It was never supposed to get out.”

“I guess it’s a good thing we caught it when we did,” McLeod replied tersely.

“Agent Blaine?” one of the scientists was looking up at the two men, lifting his gloved hand in a half-wave.

“What is it?” Blaine replied, walking over.

McLeod followed him and now, for the first time, he could see the scientist had tweezers, and one of the broken pieces of containment unit was clasped between the tongs.

“At first we thought these pieces were broken pieces of the cage our friend escaped from,” said the scientist, standing as he carefully held out the tweezers at arm’s length.

“Okay?” Blaine asked, obviously not quite following.

“They’re not. They’re broken pieces of…”

There was a moment of silence. Some sort of strange contemplation.

“Of what?” Blaine asked, insistent.

“Uhhh... egg, sir. They appear to be pieces of an egg.”

The night grew quieter. McLeod was pretty sure the only place with less noise right now was the surface of the moon.

“I don’t understand,” Blaine replied.

The third scientist approached, looking stricken and pale. “Agent Blaine?”

McLeod stood watching this entire exchange. He could almost guess the next words that were spoken.

“This isn’t our subject.”

“Tell me that again,” Blaine replied, and McLeod saw a thin layer of sweat start to glisten at the man’s hairline.

“This creature... it appears to be an offspring.”

“How is that even possible?” Blaine demanded.

“We don’t have all the data, sir—”

“You don’t have the fucking data? God dammit!”

The shout’s echo hung, a dozen other voices yelling back across the wooded terrain.

“So what now?” he turned to ask the scientist.

“Uh, boss?”

McLeod looked up to Landry’s voice as the man walked slowly towards him, a phone in hand. “You may want to look at this.” McLeod snatched it, looked at it then closed his eyes.

“What now?” he asked softly. “Here’s what now.”

Turning the phone, so it’s face was pointing at Blaine, he thrust it forward. The mobile version of CNN looked back at the two men, headline thick and bold:

BREAKING:

CORPSES FOUND NEAR CENTRAL PARK. SUSPECTED WILD ANIMAL ON THE LOOSE

McLeod watched as Blaine closed his eyes and drew a deep, rattling breath then turned to his men. “Shadows, let’s load up! This job ain’t done. We’re goin’ to the big smoke!”

This was a new sensation, even for Williamson, who was the eldest member of the Shadows. His legs hung out the opened cargo door of the black Bell 412 as it swung gracefully downward, then banked slightly, adjusted and swooped forward, skimming past the New York City skyline. Combat operation in the Big Apple... who’d a thunk it?

“Blaine,” barked the Shadows team leader from the co-pilot seat of the same chopper Williamson sat in.

“We are moving West toward 116th Street, please advise our path is still cleared by the FAA?”

“Affirmative, McLeod, you are cleared.”

“Roger. ETA is four minutes.” On his lap McLeod held a folder with a number of images inside, quickly gathered-together briefings for this operation. Besides a marked map of Central Park itself, there were a few images of a live version of the creature they had killed in rural Connecticut. Dead snake-like eyes glaring at whoever was taking the picture, the elongated snout curling, thick pasta strands of hair stretching down over its head and front haunches. Muscles bulged just beneath the smooth, reptilian skin, membranes of thick sinew stretching at the crook of its legs and torso. Its ribs almost looked to fold in upon itself, a long tail behind it. Tufts of thin hair were scattered about the smooth body, but barely covered the gray-green slime of its skin’s surface.

This thing hadn’t been born. Oh hell no – it had been made. Mankind tempting fate and playing with Mother Nature. Now Mother Nature was playing back.

Central Park was coming up on the south, and he could feel the helicopter drifting downwards.

McLeod reached into one of the pockets of his tactical vest and peeled out a small, crinkled piece of paper, unfolding it as the city lights converged into yellow-white streams all around him. He looked down into the eyes of his two children, who looked up at him adoringly from one of the few photographs he had of them. Tomorrow began his weekend with them, and it had taken a lot of convincing to get Julia to agree to that. If he missed this chance, he might just blow this whole shared custody thing completely.

He traced his index finger over their innocent faces; faces which would hopefully never know the horror of the thing he just saw. If he had his way, nobody would ever see that thing or anything like it again.

“Bringing us in!” shouted Wilcox back to the cargo bay. Agent Blaine sat there alongside Williamson, Landry, Schmidt, Berger, and Tree – the five of them clutching their M4 Carbine automatic weapons, still fitted with the silencers and infrared scopes. The atmosphere was dead serious. McLeod was convinced that no matter what else happened tonight, everyone on this operation would sleep a little less soundly from here on.

Nightmares were real, and they had lots of fucking nasty teeth.

Tilting at an angle, the black helicopter eased toward the north side of Central Park where several emergency vehicles had set up a rudimentary perimeter. As the helicopter drifted to the ground, Craig ‘Duck’ Williamson, couldn’t help but wonder just how this creature had made it this far... it wasn’t like Central Park was around the corner from New Haven, Connecticut. And nobody had seen this creature slinking along interstate 95 on its way south?

The helicopter set down on the concrete sidewalk just off West 110^th Street, the officers clutching their hats to keep them from flying off from the circular whirlwind of the helicopter blades.

“Never seen animal control piloting one of those mother fuckers before!” shouted one of them as he stared out through the blowing dust.

The moment the wheels touched down, black shapes hurled from the copter in well-choreographed motion, hitting the ground and running in formation deeper inside. The North Woods section of Central Park was thick and solid, a wall of trees concealing the deeper side of the park from the metropolitan hustle and bustle, and the Shadows immediately moved towards that tree growth, weapons pulled tight, safeties off and night vision goggles swung over their eyes. As soon as they hit the trees, the cityscape seemed to jolt away. It didn’t fade, it just abruptly halted, as if a mute button was thumbed just as they crossed the perimeter into the wooded area.

“Fan out,” McLeod said softly.

The other Shadows acknowledged and did so. To his left, Tree and Schmidt veered east, while Williamson and Berger peeled away and traveled west. Landry came up on McLeod’s six, continuing their path due south.

To the east, Tree approached the edge of the small forest, his weapon trained into the empty area beyond, his heart a rapid hammer as if pounding down the wall of his ribs.

“Clear so far,” he whispered, then stopped.

“What is it?” Schmidt’s finger tensed by the trigger of his automatic.

“I... I’m not sure.”

Dan Tree was a well-oiled military machine, back from his Delta days, though he did sometimes struggle with orders. It wasn’t his skills that had gotten him escorted from the Special Forces, it was an attitude issue and the fact there was very little he took seriously.

This situation he was taking quite seriously indeed.

“Something’s here,” he said. His eyes adjusted slightly to the green fuzz of night vision, but he pulled them closed, focusing instead on his other senses. He couldn’t hear anything outside the normal nocturnal noises, but there was something tingling... something familiar. “You smell that?” he asked, remaining frozen in place.

Schmidt remained stock still, his weapon pointing further east toward Untermyer Fountain. The woods were abundant throughout this area near The Loch, a thickly wooded swimming and recreational area that had been cleared out by the authorities after the bodies were discovered.

“I can’t smell shit,” Schmidt whispered back. He took a few careful steps. “Night vision’s got nothing either.”

“Yeah. Weird, huh?”

“How do you mean?”

“Central Park. It should be lousy with critters. Past few moments, I haven’t seen a single thing on the ground.”

Schmidt considered this. “What about our big boy? Even if the critters are gone, he’d be there, wouldn’t he?”

“She.”

“Huh?” Schmidt asked.

“It’s a she. Remember? We killed her kid.”

Schmidt shook his head. “Fucking women.”

To their west, the trees jerked suddenly and violently, their leafy tops whipping like a teenage boy shaking his hair dry after a shower. Scores of airborne nocturnal creatures screeched and soared into the starry sky.

“Fuck me!” shouted Schmidt, spinning swiftly to his right, finger curling tight around the trigger. Tree followed the motion, tracking his own weapon on a similar arc.

Forest grew thick around them, forcing them to squeeze between trunks and navigate around roots. They both stood still and waited for a moment, listening for any motion. Once again a strong stench drifted past Tree’s nose, forcing its way up into his nostrils – an acrid smell that he could almost taste.

They both took two cautious steps forward then Tree stopped again, dropping to one knee. Schmidt sensed it and spun, his eyes flying wide.

“What is wrong with you—”

He didn’t finish. As he stared back at the former Delta Force operative, he could make out a shape stretching behind the man. A shifting of shadows, nothing more, but clearly visible. It didn’t show up on night vision, but through the distortion of the night air, he could see it. The rounded head, long snout, the telltale spaghetti snakes of tendril hair coiling around its haunches.

“Oh, God,” Schmidt whispered. Suddenly the man with the hot trigger finger couldn’t even lift his weapon.

“What?” asked Tree, his own eyes widening.

“Don’t... don’t move,” Schmidt whispered, raising his weapon inch by cautious inch.

The acrid smell wasn’t just a blowing breeze, it was a full-force gale, charging into Tree’s nose with a spoiled seaweed punch, salty and rotten. Tears formed at the corners of his squinting eyes. For once, Tree was speechless. For once, his face had no smile. Schmidt lifted his weapon, tucked it into his shoulder, careful and quiet, making no swift motions. The creature behind his teammate tensed as if in preparation for a strike. Standing just behind and to Tree’s left, its massive shoulder actually pushed aside one of the narrow trunks, shifting the leaves on top.

Dan Tree heard the rhythmic sounds of huffed breathing at his back, a dry patterned snort and blast of hot air leaving gooseflesh underneath his tactical gear. He felt the shape behind him tense slightly, recoiling.

Then it lunged.

Schmidt had managed to get his weapon level, his eyes down toward the scope, the barrel directed just above Tree’s left shoulder. This new shape stood above the kneeling operative, and the gunner actually thought he saw the slick, smooth skin coil around muscle just before the creature charged. But instead of taking down Tree who was right there, the monster detected Schmidt as the greater threat and leapt forward, knocking the kneeling man aside like a top heavy bag of apples.

“Shit!” Schmidt yelled as the creature became airborne and hurtled toward him, heavy, wet snorts blowing steam from the nostrils perched atop its snout. He had time to pull off a swift barrage of silenced gunfire, but couldn’t even tell if he’d hit the target before the four-legged thing was on top of him, its mouth pulling wide, stretching slick saliva between needle teeth. Breath flew from his lungs as he was hit full on and knocked backward, just keeping his feet, his rifle swinging toward the sky and unloading the rest of the magazine purely by muscle reflex. The large beast clamped its jaws fiercely shut, pounding fangs through cloth, skin, and muscle, puncturing the flesh at Schmidt’s left clavicle, squeezing like a vice. Jaw-clamping force was so strong, it broke bone and closed inside the rugged muscle of the pectoral, squeezing and shooting blood out from piercing wounds.

Tree stared as the creature whipped its head back, throwing chunks of gristle into the sky, Schmidt’s blank stare looking out from fallen night vision goggles as his head lolled uselessly to the right, most of the neck muscles chewed away. Tactical gear was reduced to tatters, his upper left torso a ruined, red soaked mess as he dropped to the ground, his arm flopping, and his weapon clattering.

“Dammit!” was all Tree could shout as he brought up his own weapon and blasted full auto at the gray shape as it came down on his unfortunate teammate again. The creature bucked as muffled thumps barked, and Tree was sure he saw a few puffs of dark gore spurt from wounds across the beast’s left side, but it didn’t seem to notice. Muscles shifted under the slimy, hair-patched skin, and suddenly the large tree-trunk tail lashed out like a whip and slammed Tree in the chest, knocking him back, his rifle flying. Then the large, four-legged animal turned, snarled, and charged.

Williamson jerked his head left, his long gray beard shifting under the night vision gear strapped to his face. He’d heard Schmidt’s tell-tale shout, and in the mostly quiet night, even the silenced punches of machine gun fire were audible to his well-trained ears.

“We got trouble, Bergs!” he shouted.

“I heard it too, Duck. Southeast!”

The two men pulled their weapons in tight and dashed toward the source of the sound.

“Shit!”

THUD THUD THUD THUD

“Dammit!”

THUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUDTHUD

Chuck McLeod heard it all, both in his earpiece and in the air itself, and it was the sound of men – his men – dying.

“Landry, on me! We’re heading south, now!”

In his earpiece, he could hear the muffled shouts of Dan Tree, who had stared death in the face a hundred times and always came out smiling. McLeod had run several dozen operations with Tree as his second hand, and he’d never heard any sense of hopelessness or desperation in his voice. But that ‘dammit’ and those muffled shouts he was hearing now... he’d be hearing them in his sleep.

If he survived, of course.

Digging deep, he tried to shut out the noises he had just heard as he and Landry charged forward into the trees.

‘Duck’ Williamson drew up slightly, slowing his pace from a run to a low jog. Up ahead, he saw a few thick trees bowed out slightly, and the huddled shape at the base of one of them looked unfortunately familiar. As the old man of the Shadows team, Williamson had seen plenty of dead bodies, and they had their own unique posture. He could identify a corpse from several yards away, and he knew damn well he was looking at one now. Then as he drew closer, he saw the second.

“Son of a bitch,” Berger said from his right as the man joined him. “I’m going to stuff a grenade up that things ass and pull the fucking pin.”

Kneeling, Williamson investigated the wreckage that was once Dan Tree. The man was slumped at an odd angle, his spine twisted unnaturally, and the tree behind him, a thick oak, was splintered where it looked like his body struck at incredible velocity. Blood had pooled on his lips from internal injuries and smeared down his smoothly-shaven face that had always held some kind of smile. His eyes were open and staring off into the empty darkness, a darkness no doubt blacker and emptier than their Central Park surroundings, which were cast in the pallor of the New York City skyline. It was indeed the city that never sleeps.

“McLeod, this is Berger and Duck. We found our boys. They’re gone.”

Silence from other end.

“Believe subject has continued south. We are moving to engage,” continued Berger.

“Take it slow. Me and Landry are close behind, don’t do anything stupid.”

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Williamson added.

“I know who I’m talking to, Duck. Easy. Take it fucking easy. My life is too busy to get to five funerals. Three will be bad enough.” It was an attempt at levity, but it didn’t feel very funny.

“I’m coming up on North Meadow, just north of the reservoir,” continued Williamson. “Things are clear, there’s no place to hide—” the words were barely uttered in McLeod’s headset before they were choked off into a gasp and muffled curse.

“Williamson?”

“Fucker’s huge,” Williamson responded. He didn’t sound afraid necessarily, just surprised.

McLeod closed his eyes. “Stand down, Williamson! Stand down! We are close behind you, do not engage!” He broke into a sprint, and Landry followed at pace. They were in the thick trees north of the 102^nd Street crossing, and had to dodge and weave while moving forward.

“Williamson!” he shouted into the earpiece.

“Fuck! Shit! Goddamned thing is fast!”

McLeod could hear the panting, a swift burst of silenced gunfire and the pounding of feet on thin grass.

“Berger, fall back!” Williamson shouted from too far away, but an abrupt, choked yell signaled that Berger hadn’t reacted quite fast enough.

“Godammit!” Williamson shouted and this time it was his screams that could be heard all around them.

“C’mon, Landry, let’s fucking move!” As his lungs burned, his British accent was coughed away, evaporated in a blast of good, old-fashioned American profanity.

Silenced gunshots came from the earpiece. “Die you asshole!” More gunshots. A rapid-fire series of footsteps running, some panting, then some deeper, hoarser panting close behind. Suddenly there was a scream, an inhuman yowl, but Williamson didn’t have time to respond, he only made a gagging chortle, then the earpiece was clunking, clattering, and finally silent.

“No, no, no, no!” McLeod shouted, and moments later they burst through the trees out into North Meadow, a closely mowed expanse that encompassed the nearly entire width of Central Park, offering baseball diamonds and recreation to whomever might come. On the pitcher’s mound of one of those diamonds lay the crumpled heap of Craig ‘Duck’ Williamson, the once brown dirt now a darker, deeper crimson.

McLeod dropped his head, his chin tucked to the top of his chest, his eyes closing underneath the night vision apparatus.

What felt like worlds away, the hustle and bustle of New York nightlife drummed along, a single horn blaring abruptly followed by annoyed shouts.

“Sorry, boss,” Landry said quietly, placing a hand on McLeod’s shoulder. The Shadows team lead lifted his head and looked toward the edge of the North Meadow where the trees grew, all along the south side. He could see a path where something had pushed through those trees, spreading them apart and cracking a few trunks.

“That way,” McLeod said, gesturing. “Rack ‘em up. Berger had some grenades on him, I’ll grab those, you strip Duck and let’s go take this thing down.”

“Is that a good idea? We could end up just as dead as the rest. I’m thinking we need a fucking air strike.”

McLeod turned and looked at the man. “We’re all that’s left. All that stands between that thing and the rest of this city. It’s us or nothing.”

Landry drew in a breath and pushed it out through pursed lips.

McLeod took a step closer “Look. You sit this one out. Leave it to me. This thing left a trail anyone could follow.”

Landry cocked his head slightly. “You think you’re leaving me behind on this? With all due respect, fuck you, Chuck.”

McLeod nodded. “All right then.”

Landry headed on ahead, pulling out his magazine, checked it, then slammed it home, almost out of habit. McLeod lingered, pulling the tattered photograph of his kids from his tactical vest once more and looking down at it. He rubbed his thumb over their two young faces, folded the picture then returned it to its spot.

They pushed south, brushing past the North Meadow Recreational Center, then continued on through the thick forest. Up ahead, the trees spread then fell away, revealing a section of grass outside the Jacqueline Onassis Reservoir, large and wide, leaving only small sections of pathways either side. Through the trees, McLeod and Landry had seen scrapes, scratches, and busted trunks, but now they were out in a clearing, it was tough to tell where the creature had gone.

“Nothing,” said McLeod softly, looking around their immediate area.

“Thing like that doesn’t just disappear,” replied Landry. “How fast do you think it can run?” Landry continued, walking down towards the reservoir.

“I don’t know,” McLeod replied. “We don’t know shit about it.” McLeod knelt, running a gloved hand over the soft grass. He was looking for some kind of paw prints. The creature they’d killed outside New Haven had huge dog-like paws, but he saw no sign of those unique prints here.

“And how the fuck did it get here so quick? One minute it’s busting from a train in southern Connecticut, the next minute it shows up in New York City. No direct path from there to here,” McLeod said, but his eyes closed slowly. He was remembering something. Something strange about that smaller creature they had killed. A unique smell…

McLeod’s eyes burst open, a sudden spark of realization.

“Landry! Move!” he turned toward his teammate, raising his weapon. Landry jerked at the mention of his name, but stood there, frozen, his eyes whipping back and forth, searching for the threat.

It was too late.

The water of the reservoir exploded upward in a wall, arcing left and right as the massive shape burst through the surface. Sprays of liquid flew in wild blankets, drenching Landry and scattering sideways rain across McLeod’s face and chest. He stumbled backward as the large, awkward shape ejected itself from the manmade body of water, a gray, slimy, twisting thing, its four legs folded up against it’s slick body, still matted by mold-patches of fur. Landry had barely turned when the creature hit the arc of its jump, then barreled down on top of the man, slamming him to the ground in one massive crunch.

McLeod’s weapon was up in firing position, and even as the hunched creature lunged its head forward, sinking massive rows of teeth into Landry’s face and chest, he let out a barrage of silenced gunfire. Bullets stitched up along the back of the creature as it struck, sending spurts of dark ichor up in splashing puddles of mottled blood. Still the creature continued to strike at the fallen Landry, muffling his screams with bites and tears.

“Come get me, you big bitch!” McLeod shouted, as he dashed back from where they’d come, and he could have sworn he heard a growling reply to that insult from the beast, then the thudding footsteps of a lumbering charge.

McLeod burst through the short cropping of trees out into North Meadow again. Crossing the empty area in less than a minute he was approaching the far row of trees when he heard the blistering cracks. Casting a swift backward glance as he ran, he saw the creature burst free from the trees to his south, and in the low moonlight got his first good look at the beast in action. Thrusting muscles were clearly visible underneath thin sinewy skin, connected to strange flaps between its legs and torso, what could have been some sort of natural aquatic appendage. Muscular legs and the thick tail all moved in unison, seeming to work together to throw it forward into an impossibly fast gait, galloping across the empty expanse of grass, growling and narrowing its dark eyes.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” McLeod yelled and pushed himself forward, feeling the massive thuds of the padded feet on his tail. Up ahead the Loch met the North Woods, and there was a mile of trees, where McLeod desperately hoped he could make his stand.

“I don’t like this one bit,” Agent Blaine groused from inside the modified Bell 412 helicopter, its flat black paint melting into the shadows of post-midnight Central Park North. The helicopter still sat on the sidewalk outside the main northern entrance to the park. Wilcox sat in her pilot’s seat, the flight helmet off, but the thick, metal headset still firmly clasped around her short-cropped hair.

“If anyone can take this thing out, the Shadows can,” Wilcox said evenly, trying to keep the hostility out of her voice. Yeah, her team knew the risks, they always did, but it was still this shitheel’s fault her team was out there maybe dying. Meanwhile, she was stuck behind the fucking flightstick as usual.

“Wilcox!” the voice was sharp and loud in her headset. She recognized the British twinge anywhere.

“McLeod! What’s going on?”

“I’m coming through the North Woods, half a mile out! It’s right the fuck behind me!”

“Where you want me, boss?” she asked, leaving her seat and venturing back into the cargo area.

McLeod was huffing and puffing through the headset, his words interrupted by short bursts of breath. “I want you gone! Get the fuck out of there!”

“Tough shit, I’m not going anywhere,” Wilcox said simply. She knelt next to a metallic box by the rear cargo door as Blaine stood from his own seat and seemed suddenly anxious to depart.

“Wilcox, I’m not fucking around! I just saw this thing eat Landry alive!”

Wilcox shook her head and sighed. “All right. Do what you gotta do.”

She clicked the switch on her headset to turn it off and turned around to talk to Blaine. “You may want to be elsewhere, chief.”

McLeod’s lungs burned. His chest felt like an elephant was gently pressing one foot on it. He was a well-trained soldier, but that didn’t include two-mile sprints in the job description, especially with an eight-foot beast hot on his heels.

He still couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it – or smelled it – before. The smooth, slimy skin and that long, thick tail. This fucking thing was amphibious. It hadn’t run to Central Park, it had swam there. Jumped in the ocean and just swam all the way to the fucking New York City coastline.

To this point, McLeod had used the trees to his advantage, darting in between sprouting trunks, while his pursuer had been forced to barrel her way through, probably the only thing that had slowed her down and saved his life. But in a quarter mile, the trees would be gone, and he was going to have to figure out something pretty damn fast.

Then he was there. The trees had vanished, and he was lunging, stumbling forward out into open air. East and West Drive met in a fork before him and reached out to West 110^th Street, his advantage suddenly gone. A black shape stood looming on the pavement about 300 yards away, and McLeod focused on the Bell helicopter, pushing himself faster forward. Seconds later a loud, ramshackle crashing signaled the beast’s own exit from the trees, and the slamming of huge paws grew louder on McLeod’s trail. He could feel the force of the creature’s momentum behind him, almost feel the hot breath on the back of his neck and smell that awful dead fish smell.

He wasn’t going to make it. The copter was still far away, and the monster was too close, she was going to tackle him and drag him to the ground well before he made it to his destination. Then he did feel the hot breath. He did smell the sour salt water stench, and he could sense the slick fish skin of the creature wrapping itself around him.

But the world opened up in a series of jerking, spasmodic flashes of light before him, followed by swift repeating echoes of noise. Gunfire!

“Keep moving, boss!” shouted Wilcox as she stood in a half-crouch in the doorway of the Bell 412. She held a large Squad Automatic Weapon in her arms, the M249, bronze cylinders coughing and flying from the side of the weapon as it barked, sending a stream of deadly bullets just over McLeod’s head and toward the creature.

The ex-SAS operative could hear the swift thumps of bullets eating into fish skin flesh, tearing into the musculature and ejecting spewing grime out into the air. The thumping footsteps slowed but did not stop.

McLeod gave it one final burst, pushing himself forward, running as fast as he could, his lungs burning, his legs aching.

“Clear out, Wilcox! Get out of the copter!”

Wilcox looked at him curiously, adjusting the aim of her M249 automatic slightly, then squeezing off another burst. The creature tucked its head as more wounds burst open, next to a protruding spine that almost threatened to burst through the thin layer of skin.

“It’s still on you, boss!” Wilcox shouted.

“God dammit, Wilcox, move!” the Bell was only feet away, and he could feel the creature charging closer. But Wilcox wouldn’t, she held her place, firing on the monster, whose pace had quickened even as a dozen ragged bullet holes tore open the skin on its back. Her mouth pried open, forcing a growling scream from whatever lungs were contained within this freaky bag of flesh. It started off as a lion roar, but broke off into a crazed half growl, half eagle screech, spittle flying from its toothy, opened mouth, and spattering across the nape of McLeod’s neck. It was on him again, right on him.

He jumped, throwing himself toward the Bell as the creature lunged. The side cargo door of the helicopter was just wide enough for a pair of gunners to sit, even when completely empty. Tonight, Wilcox sat crouched to McLeod’s right, and the opening seemed quite narrow indeed. McLeod’s feet struck the metal grid floor of the interior of the helicopter, and he surged forward once again, throwing himself through to the other open cargo door. The beast followed.

Wilcox suddenly understood what was happening, and started to backpedal, but too late. With a snarl, the broad, slick-skinned beast slammed her against the metal frame of the copter, her lips pursing and spitting dark blood. McLeod began to slide through the other end, his pursuer’s momentum slowing. It was too large and unwieldy to slip through the two cargo doors, and with a growl and lunge, it was lodged inside the copter, the stump of its thick tail pinned against one side of the entrance door, while its shoulders slammed forward against the inside of the far wall, catching it in a metallic, boxy hug.

McLeod started to fall out the other side, reaching down and clutching the two grenades had had liberated from Berger’s corpse. He pulled them free and with one skillful hook of his fingers, snagged the pins and wrenched them both. The ground was coming up to greet him, and he tossed his arm back, letting go of the two grenades, and more importantly the two firing pins he had held down until their release.

Pain ripped through his left leg, jagged snarls of hot needles, right above the ankle, sending roaring agony up through the muscles of his calf and thigh.

Five seconds.

McLeod twisted in mid-air, slamming back-first onto the ground, the creature’s massive jaws clamped tightly around his lower left leg. Too close! He was too damn close!

Four seconds.

He popped the clasp on his leg holster and slipped his nine-millimeter pistol free.

Three seconds.

Barely thinking, only aiming, McLeod stared deep into the creature’s black eyes, narrowed and squinting. He fired three times.

Two seconds.

All three shots pounded into the creature’s right eye, and it screamed into the night, drawing back and yanking open its large, tooth-filled jaws, dropping McLeod’s broken and bloodied leg to the ground.

One.

Turning over and desperately scrambling across the concrete sidewalk, Chuck McLeod closed his eyes as he dragged himself, visualizing only his two children, remembering that crinkled and folded photograph, desperately wanting that to be his final memory.

Two dull thumps echoed in the helicopter, one right after the other, then something inside the aircraft caught and detonated, the whole Bell erupting into a bloom of flame and spiraling vomits of smoke. Black metal broke apart and scattered high in the air and in wide arcs across the trees, the sidewalk, and West 110^th Street, sending emergency personnel scrambling for cover.

The roar echoed in the busy New York City night, the snaking flames casting an eerie orange glow on the surrounding windows of the buildings, then McLeod lowered his head and all was the darkest of night.

Flashes of crimson stroked across Chuck McLeod’s face as he sat on the metal bumper of the fire truck, head bowed, leg wrapped in tight bandages. He could feel the warm moistness of a fresh wound on the side of his head, and a stream of liquid sneaking down his left jawbone. He blinked his eyes open and saw that he was holding the photograph of his children. He couldn’t even remember pulling it from his pocket, yet here it was.

A shadow cast over him, blocking out the whipping red. A paper cup appeared, and he absent mindedly reached out and grabbed it, wrapping his fingers around the warmth.

“Wilcox?” McLeod asked, bringing the cup toward his lips.

“Sorry. She tried to get free, but was too close when the helicopter exploded.” Agent Blaine was still wearing his black combat togs but now wore an NYPD blue windbreaker over it.

McLeod didn’t respond.

“Good news is, that thing won’t be swimming across the Atlantic again any time soon.”

“Dead?”

“Very.”

That was good. Chuck McLeod looked at the picture of his two children and thought about his team. The Shadows. That foul creature was dead... that evil spawn of whatever genetics lab made it, but he wasn’t sure it was worth the price.

Maybe none of it was.

McLeod pressed the photograph back into the slim pocket in his tactical vest and stood, favoring his left leg, which screamed in pain.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Blaine asked.

“I’m going to see my kids.” McLeod looked at his watch. “If I leave now, I can get there just in time.”

Blaine stood in the wet New York streets watching McLeod hobble away towards the subway station. His phone chirped, and he slipped it from his pants pocket.

“Blaine.” Glancing around, he took a few steps towards the burned wreckage of the helicopter, where the foot traffic was non-existent. “Yeah, they killed it. Couldn’t be helped.” Walking around the other side of the helicopter he looked at the ground where pieces and parts of the vehicle were smoldering. Other parts and pieces were mixed within, considerably more organic in nature. Scientists would be here soon... the retrieval team. “Oh, don’t worry, there’s plenty of genetic material left. Plenty of source material for the next round.”

He took a few more steps towards the trees.

“How do we feel about the results?” Blaine listened for a moment to the voice on the other end, then nodded slightly. “The team did better than expected, I won’t deny that.”

Another check to make sure he was alone, and Blaine took a few more steps deeper into the trees surrounding Central Park.

“I agree. I think we’re ready to move to the next phase. I think it’s time to make this thing operational. Only next time, let’s not send it by train.”