Chapter One
“AH-TEN-HUT!” the call sent the enlisted men in the tent to attention.
“At ease,” the
officer snapped as he briskly strode between the rows of now-standing Marines. The captain stepped up onto the crude platform
and centered himself behind the old wooden church podium. As he
did so, the enlisted Marines sat back down on the seats of rough-cut log benches
that lined the earthen floor of the tent.
Captain DuPont Morris’
six-foot four, two-hundred and fifty pound frame dwarfed the wooden pedestal in
front of him. His BDU sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing
identical dragon tattoos. The inky
serpents undulated down each ebon forearm with their tails at his elbows and their
heads on the back of each hand. The open
jaws spew orange flames that ended at the first joint of each of digit. He took a moment
to gaze at each Marine in the room with intense, brown eyes before he began.
“I need a volunteer,” he
said looking around the tent, “we’ve got two sensors down in sector four. I need a Scout to reconnoiter the area and replace
them if possible.”
The assembled Scouts
gave no immediate response. Sector four was one of the most dangerous areas in the poisonous wasteland dubbed ‘The
Creep.’ CPIC (China and Princes of Islam
Coalition) forces used the zone as a travel corridor and there were reports of things worse than men roaming sector four. Marine Scouts had no problem facing twice
their number of CPIC troops but even Scouts took extreme measures to avoid the once-human
‘Creepers.’ No one traveled to sector
four on purpose.
“I’ll go,” a young Marine
nearly as massive as the captain stepped out of the shadows in the back of the
tent.
Though none of the Marines in the
tent would ever admit it, every one of them was secretly relieved that Sergeant
Parker had once again volunteered for an assignment in the deadly sector.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” the
captain offered as he handed the Marine the orders, “here’s the assignment and
requisition forms for new filters and protein packs.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” was Parker’s only
response as he took the papers from the captain. The tent behind him filled with murmurs as he
left to prepare for another trip into the Creep.
#
Parker
had heard the whispers. He knows some call
him ‘Creep King,’ ‘half-Creeper’ or worse.
He didn’t care. They could call
him whatever they like as long as he kept coming back alive. Coming back alive was all Sarah asked of him.
Settlement dwellers had long
learned to teach their children to avoid romance until after the Culling. To fall in love and then be separated by war was devastating to young hearts, especially when coming back from the war was
entirely too rare. The first time Thomas
saw Sarah Lynn Mitchell he knew he had no choice in this matter called
love. Against all protocol, he asked for
permission to pursue Sarah prior to his Culling. He stood his ground when his
parents protested. He humbled himself
and literally begged her father for permission to call on her. Both fathers relented in their refusal only
when the steely-eyed Parker told them he would pursue Sarah with or without
their permission. The elder men looked
at each other, gave each other grim but knowing smiles and proceeded to teach
Thomas what it meant to be a husband in the times after the End.
Parker and Sarah had hoped he’d
be chosen for Settlement work instead of the Corps. They knew the hope was slight. However slim, they clung to the hope that
Thomas would be chosen as a dirt-warrior rather than a Marine. When he was
chosen for service in the Marine Corps, Sarah wept for two days. He told her his love was still more real than
the war. She still believed him. Her words of, “Come back alive, I’ll wait,”
sustained him. Her words motivated him to
be the very best among the best. Her
words had kept him alive for two years.
Her words were worth remembering--careless words tossed about by other
Marines were not.
#
Parker’s reverie was
broken up by the approaching voice of his trainee, Lance Corporal Hanson,
“Sergeant! Wait up!”
As Parker watched Hanson
he couldn’t help but think of how odd it was that two people as different as he and
Hanson had struck up a friendship so quickly. Parker topped six feet, Hanson
barely touched five-five. Parker was
generally mellow and aloof, Hanson was irritatingly boisterous. Parker was rational, Hanson reckless. Parker was the most experienced Creep-scout in
the Corps, Hanson was a pure noob. In
spite of their many differences, or perhaps because of them, Parker counted
Hanson among the rarest of individuals: a friend.
“Scuttlebutt is you’re
going to sector four again,” queried Hanson excitedly.
“Already?” incredulousness
filled Parker’s reply, “I haven’t even made it to supply yet!”
Hanson grinned, “You’re hot. This’ll be trip twelve
into sector four. No one’s come back
from twelve before.” His smile broadened, “You have the bookies
nervous though, its even odds until after day twelve.”
Parker shook his head, “I hope everyone loses then, if I’m in twelve days I’ll be pushing
it.”
Hanson’s eyes glinted in
amusement as he continued, “Any guesses who made the largest bet?”
Parker found the wagers placed on
Creep scouting forays distasteful but understood that such wagers were part of
maintaining Scout morale. Sometimes the insanity of war was curbed only by mocking
it.
Hanson took Parker’s silence as tacit
permission to continue, “The old man! Can you believe it?”
“Captain Blackburn?!” Even Parker
cracked a smile at the idea of their hardcore company commander wagering on a
Creep recon.
“You shoulda seen it! The whole tent went quiet when he walked in,
we thought we were so busted! He just
walked up to the table, put his name in the logbook and dropped a half-pound
bag of coin on you!”
Parker was still sporting that
rare smile when he replied, “Maybe I’ll hurry and get back early to spite him.”
“Pssht. You?
Hurry? That’d be a first,” Hanson
does his best Sgt Parker imitation as he finished, “‘Patience pays in the
Creep, Hanson.’”
Parker’s eyes gazed at someone
miles away as he somberly answered, “That’s how I keep coming back alive.”
Hanson took advantage of the sudden
shift in mood to bring up a serious matter of his own, “I’d like to go with
you.”
Parker kept walking towards
Supply as he considered his response, “Alright.”
Hanson, who fully expected to be
denied, gave a little leap and raised his knuckled hand in the air, “Yes!” Hanson’s countenance, however, dropped at Parker’s next
word.
“But,” Parker glanced sideways at
his protégé with a grave expression, “you will accompany me to the bridge and
then travel south to set up a redundant sensor array in sector two.”
The lance corporal’s face clouded
in anger as he contemplated his superior’s decision, “But that’s a noob’s job! I’ve
passed all the exams! You yourself scored my training trips! Why do you think I
can’t handle this?”
Parker stopped and faced his friend
and trainee, “You’re too excited to get in it, Hanson. Your lack of control
will do nothing but get you killed. You’ve got to gain a healthy fear of the
Creep before I take you to a contested sector.”
Conversation momentarily ceased
as they continued on to the Supply tent. Hanson considered arguing but knows
Parker was at the limit of allowing their friendship to influence his mission decisions. The younger man chose to put off pleading
to go to sector four and to instead be content with his first solo mission to
the Creep. Parker hoped the
inexperienced Hanson would survive the two-day trip and learn the invaluable
lesson of fearing the Creep.
#
Parker paused to survey his upcoming route
while taking a sip of water from the tube inside his protective mask. He tried not to think about the fact that he
had long run out of fresh water and was drinking his own liquid waste but the
filter system never completely got rid of the brackish aftertaste. He
carefully inspected each bump and irregularity in his sight range and then performed
the automatic gear inspection done with any stop: he looked down to check his gloves and raised
each foot to check his boots, there was no sign of fatigue or wear; his fingers
traced the re-breather tubes from his mask to under his arms where they ran to
the filtering unit on his back; he
checked his in-mask display to verify that the filter light was still in the
green--just fading to yellow--so he still had about a half-day before a new one was necessary. There was no need to check
his suit’s seals--if they went bad, he’d already be dead or worse.
Each of his footfalls raised another puff of
the brownish-yellow dust from the powder-covered asphalt. The dust was pervasive. It covered the ground,
vegetation and anything else on the largely featureless terrain. The Marine was thankful that the ever present
wind was mild at the moment; this kept visibility high enough to see about half
a mile in most directions--if the wind picked up, the visibility dropped to zero. Any further than the half-mile, all one could
see was the seemingly never-ending wall of the deadly, swirling, khaki-colored
dust.
Parker’s main battle weapon was a Garand
M-17. The rifle was standard except for
one special modification. It boasted a family heirloom--an auto-adjust, 1x60
magnification, dual-optic, multi-targeting, day/night scope designed by his
father. When developed, the scope was
too expensive and too heavy for the military to implement but Thomas’ father
gave him the prototype when Parker was chosen for the Marine Corps. Parker would sooner die than part with it. It was his single remaining gift from his father. The scope was the only piece
of his equipment not camouflaged to match the coloring of the surrounding Creep.
Parker wouldn’t paint or otherwise alter the red and silver scope for anything
or anyone. He had been asked to
camouflage or replace his untraditional scope with a regulation scope multiple
times. His reply was always given with a
disarming grin, “If you can take it, sir, I’ll let ya paint it.” The grin was a ruse, one glance at the
too-knowing eyes of this Marine was enough to quell any further requests about
changing his equipment.
Parker’s ensemble was completed by a simple
web belt which held a monoscope case and his genuine M-1918 trench knife, which
he found in a deserted military museum.
Parker enhanced the weapon by dipping it in a tungstenium bath, giving
it a strength and edge undreamed of in the knife’s original time. Parker’s squad mates once teased him about
the antique blade and accused him of having an “odd affection for the thing.” Parker responded with a flourish very unusual
for his normally detached personality.
#
Parker’s steel-blue eyes scanned the tent as
he pulled the knife from its sheath. He
jumped off his bunk, raised the blade above his head and flamboyantly announced,
“I have liberated this weapon of death from centuries of languishing in the ignorant
admiration of the civilian masses!” He
stalked around the barracks brandishing his blade like a barbarian of old, “Look
at the craftsmanship! The curvature of
the blade! The spikes on the knuckle dusters! Someone even carved a skull--the visage of
Lord Death himself--onto the hilt-spike!”
Parker rose to his full six-foot two height, and raised the dagger above
his head as he continued, “This dreaded tool was never meant to be stared at by
pacifistic passersby! No, by Peter’s
beard, this fatal instrument is not meant to be admired. It is meant to be feared! I have liberated this blade to pursue its
original purpose! I have freed this
blade to KILL!” As he spoke the last, he
lowered the knife next to his wide-eyed grin.
Even the most hardcore Marines in the tent were left uncomfortable after
Parker’s grandiose harangue. And the legend of the ‘King of the Creep’ grew.
#
Thomas knew that on the outside he appeared to be an inhuman machine of military technology, but inside it was
different. Inside, behind the mask,
resided a young man who had learned to be very, very scared. Parker hadn’t yet
seen his 21st Culling but he’d been in and out of the Creep more
than any other three Marines combined.
In that time he's realized that if one wasn’t scared when taking a trip
into the Creep, one would soon reach his final destination. “In the Creep, fear is your best friend,” he always
told new scouts. He’d already been in
twelve days. Twelve days was a long time
to live with such an ever-present and ever-hated 'friend.'
The Marine heard it only moments before it
hit. A storm. A storm in the Creep was
different than a storm outside. A storm in the Creep desired, longed to
kill you. A boom slammed through the air
and a demon’s howl screamed through the sergeant’s head. Then the air, filled with poisonous dust and
debris, hit Parker like a wave of airborne knives. He pulled up his arms to protect his mask
lenses and rebreather tubes. He
instinctively recalled the location of the closest shelter--fourteen paces to
the south was the corner of a destroyed building. He stumbled blindly to where
he remembered the two pieces of perpendicular concrete. He peeked between the crossed arms protecting
his mask to look down. No concrete! A
spike of panic hit his brain. He took two more careful steps and looked
again.
Parker breathed a sigh of relief when he saw
the edge of a corner. He took one hand
and gingerly felt his way along one of the walls, avoiding a jagged piece of
rusted rebar protruding from the crumbled concrete, until he detected the
intersecting wall. Carefully, deliberately,
Parker’s hand followed the join to where the corner reached the floor. He then cautiously made sure there was
nothing on the floor that could damage his suit. Satisfied no sharp edges existed, Parker sat
with his back to the corner. He spread
his legs akimbo and rested his lower arms over his re-breather tubes while his
wrists and hands guarded his eye lenses.
If he was lucky, the impact resistant smart-plastic outer coating of his
gear would allow him to survive the storm.
Parker took some peace in the fact that
enemy soldiers wouldn’t be moving in this storm either. That peace was cold indeed as he was seemingly left with nothing but an exhausted yet sleepless eternity of screaming wind. When waiting out a storm, Parker always
wondered if Creepers could move and see within the deadly, swirling Creep. The thought was enough to clench the guts of anyone--even
one who had learned to befriend fear. He
immediately deflected these thoughts to avoid the foolishness terror brought. He knew there was a fine line between fear
and terror. Crossing that line was often the difference between survival and
death. He refocused and reviewed his mission parameters.
He was sent to check two seismic sensors
which had quit sending data two days prior to his departure. Seismic sensors were more reliable for
recording traffic through the area than vid-cameras because the storms
frequently caused low or, just as often, no visibility conditions. Checking these monitors was always risky as
CPIC soldiers had a penchant for damaging them and then ambushing anyone sent
to repair them. Parker spent three days
in the shell of an old Wal-Meyers monitoring the area the sensors were located
before moving in to inspect them. Once
he found them he saw they were obviously storm damaged and repaired them in
less than an hour. He didn’t regret the
time spent unnecessarily observing the area--patience paid in the Creep.
The second part of his mission was to place
another set of seismic sensors in a new area.
The overall goal was to emplace a web of sensors that monitored key, logistical
regions of the Creep. Any advance
warning of CPIC movement would save lives.
The sensors were always placed in groups of two or three. The sensors were small, the size of a shoe,
and easy to hide but it was always better to place redundant sensors in a region
in case a CPIC squad detected one--perhaps its counterpart would escape
notice. Parker also completed that part
of his mission without any problems but he couldn’t escape the feeling of being
watched while he was placing the new sensors.
He left the area and then circled back to hide under a rock outcropping
for another two days. He didn’t see
anything or anyone but the feeling of being observed never left. He once thought he saw something green--a
rare color in the Creep--flash around the edge of a ruined building. He rushed to the spot but found nothing. He moved some trash around with his boot and
found an old, green food bag. He decided
the wind must have moved the bag, briefly uncovering the color, and then with a
subsequent gust, covered it up again.
The two days he took to watch the area was
necessary but dangerous. The suit had
enough protein and vitamin supplements for six days and enough water--with the
dreaded urine filtration--to last fourteen days. Fasting was a normal part of a Creep scout’s
routine so the food was not a problem but to have only two days of water while
stuck in a storm was...bothersome. He was
only one and a half miles from the rendezvous point and one more mile from
there got him to the edge of the Creep that was closest to base, but if the storm didn’t
let up soon his filters and water supply would become a problem.
He again forced his thoughts to leave things
he couldn’t control and focused on the last part of his mission: Lance Corporal Robert Hanson. All Hanson was supposed to do upon leaving the
bridge was head south for half a mile, set up a redundant array of sensors,
return to the bridge, leave a mark on the side of the guardrail and then go
home. Parker was concerned about Hanson’s
ability to keep himself limited to orders.
The sergeant was half-convinced Hanson would try to follow Parker into sector
four. Parker again figured there was no
use worrying about things outside of his control and he gritted his teeth and
tried to think of something else besides Sarah, dead friends, enemy soldiers, Creepers
and teeth and infection and . . .
The storm suddenly stopped.
Sgt Parker carefully wiped some dust residue
from his mask lenses before inspecting his gear. He found a nick in a
re-breather tube! Another spike of
terror loomed but he checked the in-mask warning system and all lights were
green. That does little to quell his
fear as he’s seen lights malfunction more than once. He snapped open a pocket on the front of his
suit and pulled out a small tube of quick-acting rubber cement. He squeezed out a droplet on the tube,
spreads the cement over the damaged area and prayed as he watches for the
telltale bubble. Parker let out his
breath with relief when no bubble emerged. He then decided it was past time to
continue to the rendezvous point. The
Marine leaned his rifle against the concrete and began to rise.
“Thunk!”
Parker abruptly sat back down and
listened. The hair on his arms and back
of his neck strained to rise against the crush of the chem-suit. He had heard tales of Creepers being spotted
in this sector. Parker strained his ears but heard nothing out of place. He wondered if the fatigue and lack of food was
playing tricks on his mind. But Parker knew better. His training included this kind of scenario.
His mind had been drilled into distinguishing reality from fiction regardless
of the situation. Silence ensued and Parker hoped he was mistaken about the
sound. He decided to wait another few minutes before risking moving. Those turned out to be the wisest two minutes
of his career.
Seconds before choosing to stand, Parker
heard the scrape of something other than trash being blown by the wind. The sound continued with more regularity and
Parker could definitely tell the noise was coming up from the rear of his hiding
place. The feeling of dread from the
unknown moving behind him was nearly overpowering. Panic was one twitch away,
threatening again to cross that line between survival and certain death. Parker typically held his fear close but
panic was a foreigner to him. He didn’t
move. He took slow, deliberate breaths
in an effort to keep his heart rate down; he could barely hear anything over the blood reverberating inside his skull. His success was moderate and he began
to feel his heart in his ears. Panic
continued to claw. He knew he only has
seconds to decide whether to move or to continue to hide. He looked at his legs and saw that the storm
had largely covered him in dust and garbage up to his elbows. His upper body was hid in the shadow of his
shelter and his rifle... Thomas cursed inwardly as he remembered his rifle--it was
leaning against the concrete by his right arm.
It was partially hidden by shadow so he didn’t think it would give him
away but it wasn't where it belonged. It wasn't in his hands. Weaponless
hands were not a good feeling in this situation. The noise abruptly stopped and
Parker again felt panic scratching at the edges of his brain. The desire to grab his rifle, run
hysterically from his hiding place and start firing at whatever this
sound-maker is kept pounding at his brain.
He pushed the desire down but it kept clawing back. His right hand inadvertently inched toward
his rifle.
“形容词?” He nearly
blasted out his breath in relief when he heard words spoken in Chinese. CPIC soldiers. At least this was a threat he knew. He watched silently as a five-man squad
quietly strode past his hiding place.
The Marine Corps strategy was to split up their squads to reduce the odds of
detection. The CPIC takes a different tact.
They believed strength of numbers overcame the risk of detection--CPIC troops were able to pack
more gear and stay in the Creep longer than their Marine counterparts and were
better equipped for conflict in the rare case of an encounter between scouts. Like now.
Parker considered trying to kill them but decided their tactics were too
sound in this case. These men were not as
trained as he, but there were five of them.
He might get two, three tops, but the remaining soldiers would kill
him. And he wasn’t ready to die just
yet.
Parker grimaced as he noticed his filter
warning light at full yellow.
He had six hours before the filter went to red. The designers claimed a filter on the red
warning light still had an hour of life but Parker wasn’t one to trust specs
determined in a lab. His mask readout gave
him a time of 1437. He was only one or
two hours walking distance from the nearest border of the Creep but there were still
three hours until sundown and he was unsure how quickly he could move with a CPIC
patrol roving about. That only gave him
one hour of leeway.
The squad stopped about fifty yards from him and had a conversation. Then they started back towards him! Thomas prayed like he has never prayed
before.
After about ten steps back toward the Marine’s
position, the soldiers stopped by the remains of a wall and took their packs from
their backs. Four took up guard
positions as the fifth took a set of four stakes and placed them a rough
square about ten yards in diameter. He
then started placing a mini-cam on each stake.
A listening post! Parker’s options just reduced
dramatically. A listening post was
generally used for ten days. The active
camouflage screen would be set up and they would ambush anyone who came through
the section. They must have deduced that
this area was being used as a Marine entry point and wanted to make sure that
activity stopped. There was no way Parker could
wait them out. In a few minutes they would
have their blind set up and their detectors ready to go. At this range they would detect Parker if he
moved at all. Nightfall wouldn’t help him
as at least one of the enemy was equipped with night vision. Never in his wildest dreams did Parker imagine he
would be praying for a storm.
“Ma-ma!”
The sound was so out of place that even Parker
jerked in startlement. Seconds ago such a
movement would have guaranteed the Chinese spotting him. As it is, they were also shocked by the cry
and failed to notice Parker’s shudder. The
four soldiers serving as guards raised their rifles quickly and headed in the
direction of the sound while the fifth immediately took up his rifle and
began to pace backwards behind his teammates to cover their back trail. Thankfully, their movement placed Parker just
out of their peripheral vision and the Marine took advantage of the
distraction to place his rifle back into his hands. With his rifle in his hands, Thomas felt the
situation was suddenly a little more manageable. He also used this opportunity
to shift his body around a little. He’d
been alternately flexing his muscles to avoid cramping, but any change of
position was a welcome relief after hours of sitting in the same posture. Parker’s vantage point allowed him to detect the
source of the sound a heartbeat faster than the CPIC men. A doll.
An old child’s doll. There’s no
way that got there on accident.
Hanson!
For some reason that fool noob must’ve come back in to find him. Parker had told him, “Look, I’m planning on
ten days but if I’m a few days over don’t worry about it.” Apparently Hanson
didn’t believe him. Parker’s trainee had no idea how much trouble he was in for
this attempted rescue. Parker spent the
next few seconds contemplating every discipline from lashes to
court-martial. Parker’s thoughts were
disrupted by the yells of the Chinese soldiers.
They were aiming their rifles to the left of Parker but he couldn’t see or
hear anything. Parker’s had enough; it was
time to take advantage of Hanson’s foolhardiness. Three of the CPIC men were standing together
pointing their rifles at whatever they saw.
The men were only forty yards away so Parker forgoes use of the scope and
located his first target through open sights.
#
Most newer combat rifles used the caseless flechette
ammunition. At thirty meters, the
flechette ammunition spread to a six inch circle of flying, 2cm long blades;
they sustained that spread up to two hundred meters. The spread allowed for a larger target-hit
area and the flechettes were designed to penetrate the reactive plastic that
most body armors and all containment suits used. Once a suit was penetrated, the
Creep took over. However, accuracy was low past 200 yards. In Parker’s estimation another drawback of
the flechette ammo was that its main purpose is to wound. If Parker was shooting at a target he wanted
completely incapacitated opponents, not opponents with the capacity to strike
back until the Creep takes them. Parker chose to use a prototype ammunition:
6mm caseless lances. The experimental
ammunition consisted of a tungsten-lead mix encased around a 2cm duramantium rod. The duramantium destabilized any known
reactive body armor. The lead mushroomed
to a full four centimeters by the time it stopped or exited its target. The
tungsten dispersed upon impact to enhance the shock and size of the wound. “Devastating,” was the word the research
techs used when they issued his platoon a case of the experimental
ammunition.
#
Time slowed for Sgt Parker as he initiated
combat. His instructors were always
amazed at how well he did in the open course training. They told him he had ‘it’ when the heat was
on. The eggheads described this as, “the
ability to control and maximize adrenaline spikes.” They told him, “This
ability results in consistent reactions when under high pressure situations.” Parker didn’t care what anyone called it,
he’s just glad God had blessed him with such a life-sustaining ability. This memory flashed through his mind in less
than a second as he fired off two quick rounds. The initial foe crumpled to the
ground as Parker’s first bullet hit his target in the shoulder, spinning him
around so Parker could send the second shot into the soldier’s heart. The flash suppressor and muffler on the Garand-17
hid Parker long enough to take another enemy out of the fight
without detection.
“Three left,” Parker counted to himself.
One was still apparently mesmerized by
whatever was on Parker’s left while the other two dropped to the ground and were frantically looking for Parker.
Parker’s brain registered mild surprise when the one not looking for him
began firing. Parker hoped Hanson wasn’t
hit. Parker’s next shot hit an enemy in
the head. No need for two shots there,
his armored hood had slipped when he hit the ground. Parker was amazed at the shoddy gear
check. Usually the Chinese were more
professional than that. “Two left,” whispered the Marine.
The next one had found cover and was
systemically scanning for Parker.
Amazingly, his squad mate was still sending rounds to Parker’s left. The soldier Parker was currently targeting was
under cover. Mostly. Parker hit an exposed foot and the man
instinctively pulled his foot toward his body, this action briefly exposed
the top of his head. Parker allowed
himself a self-satisfied smile on the difficult hit. Parker then
dispassionately aimed for his final target.
The last CPIC soldier stood with
his rifle to his shoulder and still fired east of Parker. Parker noted that the man had discarded a
spent magazine onto the ground. A
seventy-round magazine. “Sweet Mary’s
kiss, it’s not Hanson!” realized Parker
aloud. The fear that was forgotten
pounced back to the front of his mind.
Parker
did not want to look around the edge of his concrete corner. He did. Doing so
did nothing to quell his fear.
Creepers!
For the first time in his military career,
Parker was glad for his urine filtration unit. The Creepers moved on all fours
like a gorilla but at a terrifying rate. They were humanoid in appearance and
most had remnants of clothes on. They all had long, matted hair along with multiple
wounds and rashes. Their hands and feet
ended in long, thick nails. Their skin was waxy yellow with veins protruding
everywhere. Parker wished they were
silent but they were not. Their bestial
cries of “Ma-ma!” caused Parker to instinctively recite the Marine’s prayer.
Our
Father who art in heaven,
Hallowed
be Thy name,
The Creepers charged down the slope towards
his position. There were five of them.
Thy
kingdom come,
Thy
will be done,
On
earth as You prepare our souls for heaven.
The CPIC soldier took down the foremost
of them. The remaining creatures loped
towards them at a horrible speed.
Give
us this day our enemies dead,
And
bless the earth we soak to red.
The first Creeper was down at a hundred fifty
yards. The thing was mangled beyond
belief but was somehow still twitching.
Forgive
us our errors,
As
we send fodder for hell’s dark terrors!
Parker assumed a kneeling position, placed
his rifle to his shoulder and looked downrange through his father’s
masterpiece. The scope’s crosshairs fixed
on the closest Creeper’s elbow joint. “Lock,”
whispered Sgt Parker and in less than an eye blink, the scope calculated the
trajectory and rate of the locked target.
The crosshairs brightened. Parker
squeezed the trigger and the first creature tumbled over its shoulder as its
elbow was shattered. Parker then targeted
the same Creeper at a knee joint. The
result was the same. Ignoring the
crippled beast, Parker altered his aim for the next monster. Parker saw the next beast had already closed
to fifty yards. “Peter’s hairy beard,”
Parker cursed, “the brutes are fast!” He
used the same tactic on the next closest and it slid to a stop less than
twenty yards from him. Both of the
wounded were still edging toward him-- Parker surmised he had time before
they reached him.
The CPIC soldier had emptied another magazine
into the fourth Creeper. Its face was a
mangled mess and there was no way its eyes could still be functional but it didn’t
stop! The monster leapt on the soldier
feet first while its hands simultaneously grasped at the soldier’s head and
mask. The Chinaman pulled out a 10mm
sidearm and emptied it in the Creeper’s chest and head. The beast fell back dead and, luckily for
the CPIC trooper, failed to pull off the man’s protective gear.
One fully functioning Creeper was remaining
and Parker focused on finding it. Parker
desperately scanned the area, but the thing was nowhere to be found.
The Creeper suddenly filled Parker’s eyepieces
as it leapt over his head from the opposite side of Parker’s hiding place! Parker instinctively raised his rifle to a
horizontal blocking position. The move
saved his life. The rifle pinned the
Creeper’s arms and chest back momentarily.
Parker reacted with lightning speed.
His left hand grabbed the barrel of his rifle while his left elbow
stabilized the stock--this kept the weapon across the Creeper’s arms and chest
for a moment more. The horror’s snapping
mouth stretched towards Parker’s face. Parker detachedly noticed that the
thing’s canines were substantially more pronounced than a human’s even as his
right hand flashed down to pull his knife out of its sheath.
The spiked knuckles tore the thing’s nose
off. It gave no noticeable response as
it continued to strive for the Marine’s throat. Parker’s backswing sunk the
hilt-spike through the terror’s lower jaw.
No effect. Parker’s ability to
control his adrenaline was gone. His
inner beast took over and left his sanity elsewhere. Parker let out a guttural roar as he jammed
the knife’s blade into the creature’s throat.
In the same motion he pulled his knees to his chest, placed his feet on
the creature’s chest and pushed the Creeper off him. The blood released from the Creeper’s
destroyed throat covered Parker’s eye lenses.
He rose and frantically wiped off the gore only to see the creature
coming at him with the eyes still
full of terrible life! Parker charged
the beast! There was nothing left but
fury now. Fear was gone in the wake of
the terrible need to live. ‘SURVIVE!’ was
all his brain screamed at what remained of his consciousness. The rifle was forgotten in the desperation of
the moment and the blade became the man’s single claw against the beast’s
twenty.
SLASH! A monstrously yellow hand hung limp
from severed tendons.
JAB, YANK! Organs fell out of the monster’s
side to splash in the dust below.
The now-bestial Parker raised up the knife
for another strike. And another. And
another. Again and again Parker stabbed
the monstrosity beneath him. Parker
stopped only when he registered that the beast had gone limp.
Parker came slowly to his senses and found
himself sitting on top of the creature’s chest with his knees pinning its arms
to the sickly yellow-tan colored Creep beneath them. The thing’s chest was a gaping hole of gore
and its face was largely gone. Parker then
noticed the Creeper’s left hand. It was
locked around one of his rebreather tubes!
He quickly checked his in-mask display to verify the tube lights were all
green.
He sobbed the tears of the survivor for a few
seconds before breaking the Creeper’s finger joints in order to release its
death grip on his gear. Only then did
he recall there were more enemies!
He told his body to shoot to a fighting
position but he found himself barely able to stand. He detachedly wondered how he would fight. He looked for the two wounded Creepers. One was still fifteen yards away and clawing
its way towards him. The other was at his
feet! Still alive! The Chinese warrior had the thing gripped by
its ankles and was pulling it back with all of his exhausted might. Parker fell to a knee, picked up his rifle
and frantically unloaded the remaining ammunition into the Creeper. The Chinaman released the monster’s heels and
fell back on his side, exhausted. Parker
fumbled a fresh magazine into his rifle, and dispatched the final Creeper with
only ten more shots. Parker collapsed to
his knees and looked at his remaining foe.
The Chinese man.
“Man,”
Parker said to himself, “he’s a man.”
The enemy soldier propped himself up on one
elbow and looked at Parker. Their eyes locked. In heavily accented English the
man plead, “Please.” Parker looked at the man’s gear and
saw why. His suit wasn't
torn off but it was ripped in three places and one re-breather tube was out of its filtering unit.
Parker ignored the man, stood up and
scanned the area for any movement.
Nothing. He then checked his own
gear and detected no damage that would indicate infection. There were two places where his armor layer is
destroyed but not the protective layer underneath.
“Please!” The man begged again.
Thomas walked over to the beginnings of the
listening post, scavenged one the CPIC soldiers’ bags and placed the mini-cams,
protein supplements, water and unit filters in it--expensive technology like
this was never left to rot in the Creep.
Enemy soldiers on the other hand...
“PLEASEEE!!!”
Parker headed to the rendezvous point,
stopped, looked down with a sigh and then haltingly stumbled back towards the
enemy as he recalled his initial thought at the conclusion of the battle. “He is human,” Parker muttered. He stopped and
looked down at the prone man at his feet.
For once, Parker decided to see the person in the mask. This man was as human as he--a man with a
family. A man with hopes, dreams and
fears. The Chinese man’s eyes opened to
gaze at Sgt Parker.
“Please,” the man whispered plaintively. The
Chinaman knew he deserved no mercy.
They both knew he only saved Parker’s life in the hope that Parker would
help him because of his damaged suit. They
both also knew he would either die after two to three weeks of Creep-induced
agony or he would transform into a Creeper. Parker chose mercy. He closed his eyes and slowly nods in
affirmation. Upon Parker’s agreement to
help, the man needed no words; the gratitude in his eyes was apparent in any
language.
That look of gratefulness remained on the
man’s face even as his mouth overflowed with his own blood. Parker’s three shots destroyed the CPIC man’s
heart in less than a second. But he left
this world in little pain. He left this world a man.
#
The indicator light rose to green causing Parker to emit a grunt of satisfaction. With his
rebreather filter replaced and with fresh protein and water he could stay in
the Creep for another two weeks. He
chuckled more than a little insanely at the thought.
It took Parker a bit over four hours to
stagger the final two miles to the border of the Creep. Upon spotting the Marine contingent sent to
pick him up, Sgt. Parker, pushed past the limits of exhaustion, collapsed.
#
Two days later Parker opened his eyes to find
himself lying in a recovery tent.
Apparently the detox chamber verified his lack of Creep infection or he
wouldn’t have awoken this side of Saint Peter’s smile. He
felt like someone put him in a bag of rocks and shook it til the rocks broke against
his body. He pulled back the sheets and looked down at a blackened and bruised
torso. “At least the pain means I’m alive,” he mused to himself. He looked up to
see a familiar face headed down the aisle towards him.
“Hanson.”
“Thomas!
Thank the saints! You’re awake!”
“Master of the obvious, aren’t you, Hanson?”
“Very funny, sergeant. What in the name of Paul’s...”
A glare from Parker reminded the lower-ranked
Marine where he was--it’s one thing to curse in the field but here where there
were ladies and pastors present it was offensive--especially to the conservative
Thomas Parker. Hanson corrected himself
as he continued,
“What in the world happened, sergeant? Captain
Blackburn sent me over to get a debrief.” Hanson gave a smirk and lowered his
voice as he finished, “And he said something about thanking you personally
later.”
Parker ignored the comment about the
officer’s wager and motioned for the younger Marine to take a seat in the folding-chair
next to the bed.
“Before I start, tell me one thing, Hanson.”
“What’s that?”
“Where did you get the doll?”
“Doll?
What doll? What does a doll have to do with the Creep?”
After a long moment of searching his friend’s
eyes for any trace of deceit or mischief, Sergeant Thomas Parker looked down,
closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer of protection for himself and for
his fellow Marines. When he’d finished praying,
he noticed that a crowd had already begun to gather to hear his latest report.
And the legend of the ‘King of the Creep’ grew.
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