SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror Read online

  Maybe Chen had a point. If the Humvee was their only means of escape, someone should guard it. Even though he didn’t like it, Watkins nodded.

  “The challenge word is ‘egg roll.’ The response will be ‘pizza.’ If you challenge and don’t get the right response, shoot. Got it?”

  “’Egg roll,’ seriously?”

  Chen’s smile returned. With a shrug he said, “What, I’m hungry.”

  Watkins got into the vehicle and slouched down as far as his long frame would allow. He watched Chen disappear through the crack. This was going to be the longest five minutes of his life.

  After a few minutes of watching the fuselage, Watkins thought he heard something. It was a rustling noise, like someone running through tall grass. He dismissed it as the wind only for the sound to persist. As the sound approached, he thought he heard heavy breathing – a person out of breath. He cocked his head and held his breath, concentrating.

  A shape blurred past the crack. It was too fast to see.

  Watkins heart sped as adrenaline surged through his body. His fight or flight instinct kicked in. Chen gave him a code word for a reason. But what if some of the Delta Force squad had survived?

  Something stopped in front of the crack. The falling sun didn’t provide enough light to see. It could be an infected freak or one of the other passengers from his flight. The only thing Watkins knew was it wasn’t Chen.

  He watched as Lieutenant Bigsby took a tentative step through the crack. As the Lieutenant turned, Watkins saw he didn’t have any eyes. In their place was what looked like miniature television screens displaying static; a myriad of different colored wires pressed into his temples. His flight suit was shredded in places, wounds visible beneath. The weird thing was they weren’t bloody anymore, but a deep blue. Watkins had never seen anything like this before. He clutched his weapon tighter as Bigsby opened his mouth. Instead of a voice, the sound of a radio tuner searching for a signal blipped static over and over.

  Two ironhides came through the crack. They fanned out and started rummaging through the debris toward the rear of the wreck focusing on scraps of metal and little else. Watkins noticed the loadmaster and cursed his good fortune. Dispatching one worm-infested freak would be difficult, but three, by himself, would be a tall order. Maybe too tall.

  Bigsby crouched, looking from side to side. An image of the cockpit flashed on the miniature screens that were his eyes. He walked on stiff joints, almost like a baby who had recently taken its first steps. After a few steps he turned and more blipping static shot out of his mouth toward his two comrades.

  The two ironhides dropped their metal haul and moved to Bigsby.

  They were communicating.

  Watkins palms started sweating. He took slow, measured breaths to help quiet his thundering heart. Somehow he couldn’t shake the feeling this wouldn’t end well. Yet he wasn’t about to sit there and wait to die. Even though he hadn’t fired a weapon in over six months, he eased it up, resting the barrel on the dash. In his mind he had two choices: start shooting now and hope he hit Bigsby, or wait for the group of freaks to get closer and pray they didn’t notice him, blasting all three of them.

  Sweat dripped from Watkins brow.

  He waited.

  Bigsby led his fellow freaks at a cautious pace. It was almost like they could sense Watkins lying in wait. They circumvented some supply crates only a few feet away, slowly but steadily getting closer.

  Just as Watkins prepared to burst from the Humvee, he heard Chen say, “Pizza.”

  Bigsby spun with purpose and screeched, an ear piercing sonic noise. Watkins covered his ears. The two ironhides ran with urgency toward the cracked fuselage, long metal shards in their hands like swords.

  “Pizza,” Chen said a little louder, closer.

  Watkins took aim, careful to target Bigsby’s head. He sucked in a breath, held it, and squeezed the trigger. Bullets forced their way through glass. Bigsby, turning at the sound, was struck in the cheek and neck. He wobbled before falling, a gurgling hiss escaping his mouth. Deep-blue blood flowed from the fresh wounds.

  A hail of gunfire erupted from just outside. Watkins could hear Chen and another man shouting out enemy positions.

  Through the searing pain in his ribs, Watkins exited the Humvee. He hurried over to where Bigsby was trying to crawl away, a snail trail of blue liquid marking his meager progress. When he was reasonably close, Watkins fired another burst. This time he didn’t miss.

  Worms slithered from Bigsby’s ears, nose, and the hole in his head. There were at least a dozen of them. Watkins scrambled toward the crack in the fuselage, not wanting the electric exploding worms to damage their ride. He yelled, “Pizza,” over and over so he wouldn’t be accidentally shot.

  The loadmaster’s head exploded as Watkins emerged from the aircraft, bloody chunks and black worms hitting him in the face. Watkins immediately dove sideways hoping to avoid any more worms and bullets. He felt at least one slithering up the front of his neck. More shots echoed around the crash site.

  “Ironhide down,” Chen said.

  The worm worked its way up to Watkins’ lips, scrabbling and nipping with its pincers. When it was halfway through, Watkins bit down. His teeth caught the soft spot between armored sections splitting it in two. The pincers continued squeezing his tongue for a moment. Before he could spit it out, a buzzing electric current arced through the space between the roof of his mouth and tongue. Watkins twitched, the zap momentarily stunning him. Following a tiny pop, the worm exploded, coating his tongue in bitter-tasting worm guts.

  There was no stopping the second coming of the ham and cheese omelet.

  “Cease fire,” Chen said, holding up an arm. “Watkins, get out of there.”

  Watkins rolled over and saw half a dozen worms slithering after him. He hopped up, his broken ribs hampering him little but hurting him plenty. After hearing several pops, he turned back.

  “You okay?” Chen asked.

  Watkins held an arm out, palms facing Chen and two others. “Stay back. I may be infected.”

  The second Spec Ops soldier raised his weapon. A woman who didn’t look very soldierly yet, for some reason, was dressed in the same black uniform, pushed past him, pressing his gun down. “Ease up, Lawson. If the worm didn’t make it to his brain, he’s clear.” She walked over the loadmaster’s corpse to get a closer look at Watkins. He opened his mouth when she asked. She pulled his eyelid down and made him move his eyes around too. “See?” she said. “His eyes are normal.”

  She patted Watkins on the shoulder. “I’m Doctor Emily Staniszak, parasitologist extraordinaire and all around lover of cheese.” Her smile warmed the fullness of her face. “Why were you yelling pizza like some kind of whacko?”

  “That was the challenge word. Didn’t want to be confused with one of those wormy freaks.”

  Staniszak laughed. “Let me guess, Chen picked the challenge word.”

  “What?” Chen said, patting his stomach. “I told you I was hungry.”

  Watkins walked over to the loadmaster and rifled through his pockets. “Thank God.” He pulled a set of keys from the corpse’s jumpsuit and held them up. “We can get out of here now.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Lawson said with a sneer. “We don’t know enough about those worms. We don’t even know if they’re actually parasites. What we do know is one of them exploded in his mouth. It’s too risky to take him with us.”

  Lawson seemed like the typical grunt – square jaw, fresh buzz cut, in peak physical condition, and apparently no sense of humor. He stood, poised to shoot. Watkins didn’t dare move.

  “Cut it out, Lawson,” Chen said, moving between the two men. “We go together, or not at all. Doc says he’s good to go. You smarter than her?”

  Lawson looked from Watson to Staniszak before looking at the ground. “No,” he mumbled.

  “I didn’t think so. Our mission hasn’t changed. We need to get the Doc to safety so we can figure out what
in the hell is going on.”

  Doc Staniszak peeked in the wrecked C-17. “Holy shit.” She turned toward Watkins. “You do that?”

  Watkins leaned against the wheel well and nodded. He grabbed his weapon and eyed Lawson. While he understood his intentions were noble, or at least he was giving him the benefit of the doubt, it didn’t change the fact that that son of a bitch had just tried to shoot him.

  “Whatcha got?” Chen asked.

  “He killed a technophile all by himself.”

  Chen turned toward Lawson and said, “And you wanted to shoot him. Dumb ass.”

  Lawson stormed off toward the tree line grumbling. He turned like he wanted to say something but didn’t.

  “What’s with him?” Watkins asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know, it might have something to do with the fact that he had to shoot his friend in the face a few days ago. Lawson's never been the most sociable guy to begin with. Throw some freaky alien worms who take over people’s brains and you can respect his crankiness.”

  Watkins grabbed his ribs. “We’ve all seen some freaky shit. Doesn’t give anyone the right to fly off the handle like that. I thought he was supposed to be trained for high-stress situations?”

  “He is,” Chen said, his tone darkening. “Most of us Spec Ops guys don’t get many days off. We get orders and we go. No questions asked. We literally live for this.”

  “Sorry,” Watkins offered. He understood the life of a soldier. He'd watched a friend forced to serve six months longer than his enlistment due to 9/11. The brass called it stop loss. Watkins called it bullshit.

  A gunshot rang out from the direction Lawson had taken.

  “Stay here with the Doc and get ready to go. I’ll be back in two minutes.” Chen didn’t wait for an answer and took off for the tree line.

  Watkins tossed Staniszak the keys. “Fire the Humvee up. I’m going to make sure their way back stays clear.”

  Staniszak caught the keys. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

  Watkins cracked a smile as she walked through the cracked fuselage. He focused on the tree line, finger on the trigger. From inside he heard the Humvee’s engine turn over and chug to life. Staniszak eased the vehicle out through the already open cargo door of the crashed airplane and waited.

  True to his word, Chen came tearing through the tree line after two minutes, Lawson and an injured Delta Force soldier a short distance behind.

  “Get in the Humvee,” Chen shouted, hopping over a downed tree. He was moving fast. “We’ve got company.”

  As the three soldiers neared the wreck, a static hiss cut through the mountain dusk. A chorus of screeches seemed to answer the call.

  Chen skidded to a stop after reaching Watkins. He raised his weapon and fired into the tree line. Watkins jaw dropped when he saw three screamers come tearing into the clearing. Right behind them were half a dozen ironhides carrying assault rifles, followed by two technophiles.

  Lawson pulled up. He turned and shot, providing covering fire for the injured Delta Force soldier who was running with a limp, blood leaking from a bullet hole in his thigh.

  One of the technophiles spit static and as one, all six ironhides fired. Lawson took a bullet in the shoulder but held his ground. The Delta Force soldier wasn’t as lucky. The first bullet ripped through his midsection while the second went clean through his good thigh, sending him sprawling. Chen fired on the screamers. He put a bullet through the fastest one’s brain and just as quickly took out another. The third plowed into Lawson sending him tumbling over a stump.

  Watkins fired at the line of ironhides. Bullets hit metal and ricocheted away. He got lucky and struck one in the chest and it fell. Without a fresh clip, he tossed his useless weapon aside and ran for the injured Delta Force guy.

  One of the technophiles opened its mouth. An electric blue glow, faint at first, shone from its throat. A rumbling noise came from its chest. It reminded Watkins of a jet engine powering up.

  “Take that glowing bastard out,” Chen shouted. “He’s trying to fry the Humvee.”

  Watkins remembered the blue flash that hit the C-17 right before they lost power. He could hardly believe what used to be a man could be capable of such things. He could hardly believe anything anymore.

  The blue glow intensified as the sound raced faster from within the technophile.

  Chen was yelling but Watkins didn’t hear what he said. The Delta Force guy was on his back firing into the thick of the worm-controlled freaks. A bullet tore through the glowing technophile’s calf and it fell to a knee. The blue glow abruptly stopped.

  The ironhides fired back.

  Watkins danced around as chunks of ground erupted from the hail of gunfire. Someone yelled that they were reloading. An ironhide fell, blood squirting from its neck. Lawson was running toward the Humvee. Watkins slid down next to the injured Delta Force soldier. “Time to go.”

  The guy didn’t answer.

  Watkins checked for a pulse, couldn’t find one.

  Lawson, limping now, hobbled closer, his weapon gone. Watkins hurried to him, placed an arm around his waist and aided his retreat. Chen continued firing. “Last mag,” he yelled, slamming the cartridge into place.

  The ironhides had tossed their weapons aside. Instead of running, they walked briskly toward the survivors, jagged metal tearing into their flesh. Maybe all the metal prevented them from running.

  “Move your asses,” Chen shouted. One of his bullets struck an exposed head. Worms wriggled around under the freak’s scalp until bursting through his skull. Chen moved with ease over a downed tree, doing his best to cover them.

  Staniszak leaned on the horn.

  Through gritted teeth Watkins pulled Lawson along, ignoring the pain burning like lava under his skin. He’d be damned if he’d die in the middle of nowhere, his brain food for the worms.

  Chen was at his side then and together the two of them pulled Lawson into the Humvee. The uninjured technophile spoke statically to the ironhides who immediately retreated. They ran to the aid of the injured technophile, two of them carrying it toward the downed aircraft.

  As Staniszak weaved through the trees, night fell over the Adirondacks like a lid on a coffin. Watkins leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment.

  Lawson tapped him. “Thanks for the assist.”

  “Together, or not at all, remember?”

  Lawson nodded, cracked a smile. Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all.

  Staniszak slammed on the brakes, swerving around two screamers in fluorescent-orange hunting vests. She threw the Humvee in reverse.

  “Hit those sons of bitches,” Chen said.

  “Hold on.” Staniszak slammed the Humvee in drive and plowed into the freaks. One flipped over the hood and landed with a crunch on the already cracked windshield, the glass giving way. The Humvee rose and fell as it passed over the second screamer.

  Chen grabbed the screamer and struggled to force it back out. Staniszak slammed on the brakes and it flew forward as the vehicle stopped. Chen pushed, sending it onto the hood. Staniszak pressed down on the accelerator, swerving before the screamer could recover. It slid over the side of the Humvee and into the night.

  “Wait!” A helmetless soldier in standard camouflage came running like a bat out of hell from the woods. He looked over his shoulder as he ran. “More crazies behind me.”

  Watkins opened the door and the Delta Force soldier hopped in. It was Haley. Staniszak hit the accelerator and the Humvee shot forward as about a dozen sets of electric-blue glowing eyes raced into view.

  “Glad to see you made it.” Watkins said.

  Haley nodded. “Me too. Thanks for stopping.” He panted a moment, leaning his weapon against the seat between his legs, the barrel pointing up. “I owe you one.”

  They drove on, the screams and screeches of the infected fading. Watkins noticed long faces all around the Humvee. He wondered if anyone else had noticed the civilian freaks. The parasites had already spread to the civilian po
pulation.

  Eventually they followed signs until reaching the naval base. The front gate looked abandoned, a headless soldier their only welcome. A large explosion rumbled in the distance. Watkins sank back feeling deflated, worn.

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Chen complained. Haley passed him a clip. They both readied their weapons.

  Lawson clutched his wounded shoulder. “We should keep moving. The base is a lost cause.”

  Staniszak tapped the fuel gauge. “We’re not going anywhere without fuelling up first.”

  Lawson punched the door.

  “We’ve got work to do,” Chen said, opening his door. He hurried past the dead guard and opened the gate.

  The Humvee sputtered to a stop just inside the base. “Looks like we’re walking,” Staniszak said, her face paling. It was the first time she looked genuinely afraid.

  Watkins exited the Humvee to the sound of distant screams. “What do we do now?” he asked.

  “We survive,” Chen said with grin.

  Bug Hunt

  A Joe Ledger Adventure

  Jonathan Maberry

  -1-

  The last words I heard were, “Something hit us. We’re going down.”

  Yelled real damn loud.

  Then a big black nothing closed around us like a fist.

  We were gone.

  If that meant we were going down then I had to wonder, in those last fleeting seconds before the chopper hit the canopy of trees, how far down was the ride? Was it just to the trees, or to the forest floor below? Or would the world open its mouth and swallow us whole, gulping men, weapons, equipment and everything those tools of war signified? Would we slide all the way down into the pit?

  Yeah, maybe.

  We probably deserved it, too.

  I’ll leave that for philosophers.

  I was too busy dying. I was by the open door, hunkered down over the minigun. When the Black Hawk tilted I felt myself begin that long, bad fall.

  -2-

  I have expected to die more times than I can count. Nature of the job. I’m a first-team shooter for an organization that pits special operators against terrorists who have bioweapons based on absolute bleeding-edge technology. In those kinds of fights a lot of people on both sides take long dirt naps. A lot of my friends have preceded me into the big black. Most of them were better people than I’ll ever be, but being a good person doesn’t make your Kevlar work any better. It doesn’t armor plate you, or make you immune to poisons, venoms, and biological agents.