Operation: Amazon

- 15 -

Gunfire echoed around the facility seconds after the shout. Buller woke with a start, spilling beer down his front. He jerked as if hit as another volley of shots rang out.

“Lock yourself in your office,” Banks said sharply. “And don’t come out until I say it’s safe.”

The company man scuttled away. Banks and Hynd left him to it and headed out toward the source of the shots. Wiggins and McCally stood on the open decking that stretched toward where they had docked the boat. They fired into a slithering, squirming mass of giant snakes that teemed over the vessel, tearing it apart in splintering cracks and flying pieces of wood.

McCally and Wiggins’ efforts didn’t seem to be slowing the attack down although their shots raised wounds that gushed black and thick in the dark, and the air filled with the same acrid oil and vinegar oil that was all too recognizable.

By the time Banks and Hynd joined the other two men, there was little left of the boat but floating debris. The shooting had at least accomplished something. Two dead snakes floated away downstream with the wreckage. Banks and Hynd had enough time to push their earplugs in, in anticipation of the firefight to come. The remainder of the snakes came out of the water, a score or more of them, as one headed straight for the squad.

“Get those mother fucking snakes off my mother fucking deck!” Wiggins shouted.

They all fired at once, three quick rounds per man, picking out the closest of the attackers and pumping enough holes in it to slow it down. It opened a mouth that looked like a cave, two six-inch long fangs catching and reflecting the light from the living quarters at their back. Banks put two bullets down the thing’s throat and it fell in a heap. It oozed more of the black viscous fluid, and the sour tang in the air got stronger. Two more of the creatures slid forward to take the dead one’s place, each of them at least 15 feet long and like the ones Banks had seen at the pyramid, as thick as a man’s thigh at the widest point.

“Head shots only, lads,” Banks shouted. “Don’t waste ammo.”

The two approaching snakes went down quickly enough with clean shots, but the others behind weren’t in the mood to come in singles or pairs, and surged forward, a dozen or more all coming on fast at once. Banks put three bullets down the yawning throat of another, then had to take a step back to avoid a searching, slithering purple tongue as one of the beasts reached almost to his feet.

“Back up, lads, double time,” he shouted. “Back to the door. Let’s get them in a funnel.”

He held position as long as he could to let the others retreat, pumping three-shot bursts as fast as he dared, having to dance and jump to avoid striking heads and fangs. The noise almost deafened him, and the stench of acid and oil tickled at his throat, threatening to bring on a gag reflex.

He’d kept count well enough to know when his mag was about to run empty and, not waiting to see if the squad had made the doorway, emptied his weapon into the head of the nearest snake, and turned for the door.

The squad was, as he’d guessed, ready and waiting. They covered his retreat, firing to either side of him and parting to let him through behind them to give him time to reload.

The four stood inside the doorway of the living quarters, allowing the snakes to come forward, then stepped back as a unit, four paces into the hallway, so that the snakes would have to bunch up tight to come toward them.

After that, it was little more than a shooting gallery.

There didn’t seem to be enough intelligence in the creatures for them to form a coherent strategy. They kept coming on, even as the squad blew heads and tongues and fangs to globs of flesh and dripping goop. The stink was even stronger now, causing Banks’ eyes to water and making his head swim as if he’d taken too much liquor. The enclosed space was concentrating the effect.

“Back up again, lads,” he shouted. “To the kitchen doorway and cleaner air.”

There were only four snakes left by the time they reached the doorway and they immediately felt the benefit of cleaner air. Two went down quickly, blasted to dripping gore. A third proved tougher to handle, and slid out a tongue that grabbed McCally by the leg and coiled tight like the grip of an octopus tentacle, trying to tug the man off his feet. Wiggins stepped to one side, put the barrel of his weapon against the thing’s right eye, and fired three times. The snake went down, but McCally had to take some time to untangle himself from the still-coiled tongue around his calf. With two men momentarily out of the action, the last of the snakes, the biggest specimen they’d seen, made a lunge forward. It was so long that its tail was still outside the main door even as it came into the kitchen. Its head was almost as wide as the doorway itself, two red eyes fixed straight at Banks as it reared to strike.

The snake’s mouth opened, and Banks tasted hot vinegar and oil again as he raised his weapon. At the same moment, Hynd stepped under the rearing head, put his rifle under its jaw, and fired. Banks put a shot into each eye for good measure but the thing was dead already as it fell to join the others in the carnage on the floor.

Banks’ ears rang for long seconds after the firing, but he made out Wiggins’ shout clear enough.

“Is that all of these buggers?”

“Go and check. Take Cally and have a keek out the main door,” he shouted back. “Shout if there’s any more of the fuckers. And don’t do anything stupid.”

“You know me, Cap,”

“Aye. That’s the problem, Wiggo.”

McCally and Wiggins left, stepping gingerly over the oozing bodies.

“Sarge, tell the wanker he can come out now. I’ll go check on Giraldo.”

Banks headed for the bedroom. As he reached the open door and stepped inside, he heard Wiggins shout from out in the corridor.

“Cap? You have to see this shite.”

But Banks couldn’t reply. His breath had caught in his throat at the sight of the thing on the bed where he’d left the guide.

It lay in a thick coil in the center on top of the sheets, a snake almost as big as the largest one they’d seen so far. A wide, flat head turned so that it looked straight at Banks.

It had Giraldo’s eyes.

The head dipped and rose again, and a thick purple tongue slid wetly between the fangs that were starting to emerge from bloody gums. It made a rasping noise, deep in its throat, then repeated the sound, this time with its mouth open wider and the forked tongue moving rapidly. He realized it was trying to speak, and he finally recognized the single word being formed.

Promise.

He stepped forward, weapon raised.

“Aye, I did, man. I’m so sorry.”

He put the weapon to the middle of the wide head, between the eyes. Giraldo, what little bit was left of him, looked up, and pressed his head tight against the barrel. Banks nodded, and fired twice.

He had already turned away as the coiled body slithered from the bed onto the floor and lay still.