“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.