SNAFU: An Anthology of Military Horror

Covert Genesis Brian W. Taylor

Staff Sergeant Solomon Watkins understood something strange was happening when the pilot, Captain Ruiz, said, “What’s that?” A heartbeat later a bright flash of bluish light — it reminded him of lightning — flooded through the cockpit and into the cargo hold. The metal frame of the C-17 vibrated and hummed all around him, like someone tapped a tuning fork. He pushed himself up in his chair and saw lights on the instrument panel flickering and flashing before going dark.

Watkins pulled his seat belt tighter when the co-pilot, Lieutenant Bigsby, yelled, “We’re hit!” It was all he could think to do to keep his mind off the fact that they were in real trouble.

The roar of the engine turbines subsided until clacking to a stop. All of them. At the same time.

“What’s going on up there?” one of the Delta Force guys shouted from the rear of the aircraft.

Watkins ignored him and listened as the pilots flipped switches, mashed buttons, and anything else they were trained to do during engine failure.

“Whatever hit us took out the electrical systems,” Captain Ruiz said to the co-pilot, his voice even, calm. “We’ve got to try and jump-start her.”

The C-17 went quiet. The aircraft swayed on the edge of a great and terrible fall. It was like sitting at the apex of the tallest hill on the tallest roller coaster Watkins had ever been on. He willed the pilot to find some kind of solution and get the engines running. Gravity, however, would not be denied. It wrapped invisible hands around the nose of the aircraft and pulled. Watkins’ stomach felt like it pressed against his throat.

“Mayday, mayday… radio’s fried too,” Lieutenant Bigsby said, unable to conceal his concern. “We’re dead in the air.”

Through the small window Watkins saw how the dying embers of the sun shone red on the clusters of Sugar Maples, White Cedars, and Eastern Pines of the Adirondacks below. It reminded him of a bloody and jagged smile coaxing them lower into its waiting maw. His mouth went dry.

“Strap in, we’re going down!” Captain Ruiz shouted over his shoulder.

Watkins clutched the armrests and was thankful he hadn’t wandered from his seat. A short distance away his friend and electrician, Sergeant Treadway, caught off guard by the sudden power outage, flailed before slamming into a Humvee as the aircraft lurched downward. His death was heralded by the sickening crunch of skull on metal. Blood sprayed as Treadway’s corpse rag-dolled backward, flailing end over end — a human tumbleweed.

Clouds parted as the aircraft was spit from the sky, hurtling downward faster and faster.

Anything that wasn’t strapped down took to the air. A helmet ricocheted off the windshield of the Humvee leaving a spider-web crack. The jet engine mechanic, Lopez, was praying. Her lips moved as she crossed herself. Treadway’s corpse thudded onto a supply crate then floated sideways into Lopez who shoved it away. Watkins watched as gravity guided it, blood and all, straight at him. Unable to move, he waited.

“Level up!” Ruiz yelled, no longer calm. “Pull damnit, pull!”

Treadway’s mouth seemingly parted in a death-defying smile as the body slammed into Watkins. He kicked at the corpse but it rolled up over his leg and along his chest, pinning Watkins to his seat. He tried to grab it — to push it down, securing it under his feet — but slipped. This wasn’t the way Watkins wanted to die — strapped to a chair, pinned under a corpse, and possibly crushed by cargo or blown to bits. Their mission seemed pretty straight forward: recover and repair a downed C-17. He should have known something was amiss when the Delta Force squad boarded. Routine R and Rs almost never included heavy firepower. At least not Stateside.

The plane groaned like an injured beast as their descent hastened. Watkins could actually hear air rushing over the frame of the plane. Treadway shifted, jerking up. The force of their two skulls connecting sent stars washing over Watkins’ field of vision. Everything became one giant blur. He felt something warm rolling down his scalp. His eyes rolled up as the familiar coppery scent of blood filled his nostrils, his dead friend still grinning as if pleased with his actions.

The last thing Sergeant Watkins heard before unconsciousness settled over him was, “Brace for impact!”

Something hurt. Pain was a good thing. It meant Watkins was still alive. He took in a breath and winced as fiery pain stabbed at his mid-section. His ribs, he realized, were likely broken. He sat there a moment clearing the cobwebs from his mind. From somewhere nearby came the crackling noise of what Watkins assumed was fire, followed closely by the pungent smell of cooked meat. Please, God, don’t let it be me. He remembered Treadway’s corpse and opened his eyes.

Much of Treadway’s flesh had been charred black and crispy. The chairs to Watkins right were still smoldering. Thankfully, it looked like Treadway had shielded him from the blaze. Watkins grimaced, pushing what was left of his friend away. The corpse slid down the walkway until coming to rest on some kind of metal case. Where once Treadway’s face had been was an unrecognizable mess of melted flesh. Smoke wafted from his empty eye sockets, lending a hellish vibe to the already chaotic scene. Treadway’s dog tags had been fused to his flesh. There was no way Watkins was going to try and dig those out.

Where had everyone gone? The better question was why had they left him strapped to a chair in a burning wreck?

Watkins disengaged his seatbelt and stood, careful not to shift his broken bones too much. He had to steady himself on the nearest seat as the floor seemed to be on an incline. It wasn’t just the floor he realized, but the entire aircraft was askew, like it was lying on its side. One look at the windows and the earth poking through the broken glass confirmed his suspicions. He struggled his way over a row of seats toward the cockpit. The first thing Watkins noticed was a trail of blood.

The cockpit had collapsed under an ancient White Pine where the aircraft had scraped to a stop. Captain Ruiz had been folded in half as the instrument panel pressed his legs up. Watkins felt for a pulse. There wasn’t one. The other side of the cockpit was relatively clear of damage or debris. No Lieutenant Bigsby. The trail of blood looked like it originated from the co-pilot’s chair and trailed off toward the rear of the wreckage.

Watkins turned and noticed a giant crack toward the aft section of the aircraft. A sizeable gap had opened up where the tail tried to pull away at some point during the crash. The metal creaked as Watkins stepped past the blocked front entrance. No way to get through the rolled over door.

Further along the belly of the aircraft Watkins noticed two bodies pinned under a Humvee. They were Delta Force judging by their attire. It looked like the vehicle broke from the cargo straps and crushed them against the wall. He thought about trying to retrieve dog tags when the C-17 shifted. It whined in protest as it rolled toward the right. Watkins scrambled away from the wayward vehicle. He looked from the Humvee to the corpses and couldn’t help but feel thankful that wasn’t him. The poor bastards probably never saw it coming. The aircraft eased to a stop, the floor leveling out some. A HK416 assault rifle — he knew because he made it a point to ask one of the Delta Force guys, Haley from California — slid from under the Humvee and came to a stop after hitting Watkins’ boot. He wasn’t sure why he grabbed the weapon. All he knew was that it didn’t feel right leaving it behind. Other than a scuff on the butt, the weapon seemed ready for action.

After the aircraft settled, Watkins knew he had to get the hell out of there before it rolled back to its normal position. If that happened, he’d be a stain under the Humvee too.

A bang came from outside the wrecked aircraft. It droned through the silence like a ghost through a graveyard. Another bang. Watkins followed the sound in the direction of the right wing.

The banging continued in regular intervals. Someone was out there.

Watkins double-timed it through the cracked fuselage. He emerged to find several rows of sugar maples cut in two by the crashed aircraft. The trail of chaos was at least a mile long. It was easy to see where the C-17 first hit by the giant divot in the ground. Skid marks were clearly visible at regular intervals until the aircraft clipped the outer edge of the Adirondacks. Watkins could see the matte grey-blue paint of the left wing some distance away in the vegetation where it had broken free.

He turned his attention to the source of the noise. There were two people, one on top of the wing and another below the inboard engine. It looked like they were trying to knock it down.

Something didn’t seem right. Why wouldn’t they be helping the injured or salvaging supplies from the wreckage? They definitely should have moved the bodies to a more stable location until contacting Command for rescue.

Watkins crouched and inched along the outer fuselage, watching. One of the Delta Force guys was lying on his stomach hitting the engine with a long chunk of metal. The engine swayed, spewing fuel on the ground below. If the fire reached it, well, Watkins didn’t want to think about what would happen.

“Hey, dumb ass, what are you trying to do, kill us?”

The person on the ground turned at the sound. There was no mistaking Sergeant Lopez as she faced Watkins. Her long black hair had fallen from what was left of her bun, blood sticking long black strands to her face. Her arm hung loosely at her side like it was broken. She definitely needed medical attention. Why hadn’t Watkins thought to look for a first aid kit?

Watkins took a step closer. “You okay, Lorena?”

Lopez tensed, her eyes darting from Watkins to the engine with a frantic energy — looking at him with what he’d thought was longing. No, it was something more. She had the look of an addict, of need, just like his cousin back home in Trenton. She inclined her head and narrowed her eyes. It was almost like she was unsure what to do. Her eyes moved around and Watkins could almost see her brain working with thought.

“It’s me, Solomon. What happened to you?”

Lopez’s lip curled up in a snarl. A low growl rumbled from her chest and up to her throat just like a dog.

Watkins stopped, tensed. As Lopez’s eyes moved, he thought he noticed that her sclera weren’t white. He stared. The next time her eyes moved toward the engine he was positive. Each sclera was blue — the color of electricity — instead of white. Weird.

Think as he may, Watkins couldn’t come up with anything that would turn a person’s eyes that color. No disease, condition, or sickness… nothing. This whole scene seemed a little too surreal. Maybe he was still strapped to the chair in the C-17 in a coma. Maybe he was dead. That would make more sense than what he was seeing.

Lopez took a step toward him, spewing a guttural challenge; her eyes no longer unsure but wild and threatening, soulless.

“Don’t move, Lorena.” Watkins raised his weapon.

Without warning Lopez raged toward him, screaming at the top of her lungs. Watkins watched dumbfounded as her head ballooned outward with each step. His legs seemed to know what to do before his brain. He slowly backed up until a large stump stopped his retreat. Lopez kept coming. She was about twenty yards away and closing fast.

Watkins could see her scalp rippling. It looked like two shapes were moving, almost scrabbling around between her skull and scalp. Faster and faster the lumps moved around the circumference of Lopez’s head until she abruptly dropped to her knees, clutching her skull. She was less than ten yards away and her screams of agony echoed off the mountainside.

Watkins instinctively pointed the gun at her.

Lopez reached a hand toward him, the snarl replaced by a look of confusion, pleading. Under her skin the two lumps sped faster and faster. Watkins actually heard her skull crack. Lopez screamed one last time, clawing at the ground, pulling herself closer to Watkins. Then, incredibly, her head burst apart like a piñata at a kid's birthday party. Instead of candy, bone, brains, blood and… something else rained down.

Watkins jumped back, pain knifing through his ribs. His mind raced, trying to comprehend what he'd just witnessed. This wasn’t supposed to happen. People’s heads didn’t just explode. He was only a mechanic sent to fix an aircraft. Nobody was supposed to die.

He looked down at the body and saw a quick flitter of movement. Watkins leaned forward for a closer look. It was difficult to pinpoint through the remnants of Lopez’s head, but eventually the thing slithered onto her back.

It looked like some kind of black worm, about two inches long with barbed pincers. Its polished body reflected what was left of the light and reminded Watkins of obsidian. He took a few tentative steps forward. The thing — because he had never seen a worm like that before — stopped moving and almost seemed to be waiting. Another emerged from the carnage that used to be Lopez’s head, moving through the grass toward Watkins. Nasty little buggers.

“Back away. Slowly,” a voice whispered from behind. “They don’t live long without a host.”

Watkins wanted to turn and see who the voice belonged to but didn’t. It was nice to hear a real, human voice. He moved back with steady, even steps while watching the black worms. They were moving faster now slithering around in circles, probably looking for a new brain to explode. Why weren’t they going for the idiot banging away at the engine?

As if on cue, the Delta Force guy smashed the engine one more time. A moment later it crashed onto the ground below, jet fuel pissing from the broken manifolds.

Lopez’s worms had slowed. They raised their tiny heads to the sky and opened their pincers, screeching. With a buzz and an arc of what looked like electricity they exploded.

“What the hell were those things?” Watkins turned and saw a soldier dressed in head to toe black crouched near the crack in the fuselage. The soldier motioned him back.

“The worms? I wish I knew.” He pointed to what was left of Lopez, “That your friend?”

Watkins crouched and nodded.

“The same thing happened to a couple of guys from my squad. We call them screamers. Next time put a bullet through the host’s head before they get too close. The worms will still bust out but at least they won’t get inside you. I’ve seen one slither up a guy’s nose. It isn’t pretty.”

“Got a name for him too?” Watkins asked pointing to the Delta Force soldier who was pressing a shard of metal the size of a small book into his stomach. There were already pieces of metal covering his arms. His eyes shone with the same electric-blue light as Lopez’s.

“Those would be ironhides. They stick metal all over themselves like homemade armor. Even seen one pick up a gun and shoot another man down.” The soldier took two silent steps forward and fired. The bullet struck the infected soldier in the eye. As the fresh corpse fell, three worms broke free from the confines of his head. “RIP brother.”

“Who are you?”

The soldier smiled. “I’m Chen. We were sent to investigate a… discovery.” Chen looked up at the darkening sky. “C’mon, let’s get away from here before more freaks show up. The worms seem to be able to communicate. That screeching you heard was a call for help.” He looked inside the wreckage. “That Humvee operational?”

“Beats me,” Watkins said with a shrug. “I didn’t have time to find out as I was falling out of the sky and crashing, not to mention all the weird shit going down after I woke.”

Chen looked from the Humvee to Watkins. “We’ve got to find out. That’s probably our best chance at getting the hell out of here in one piece. There’s a naval base not too far south of here. Edgerton Springs.”

Chen crept through the tear in the fuselage, Watkins staying close.

Chen glanced through the passenger-side window. “Steering lock. If we can find the loadmaster, we should find the keys.”

“He’s not here.”

“Duh,” Chen said. “I just want to make sure the Humvee isn’t fried.”

Chen tried the Humvee's door. It opened. He looked around a minute before releasing the hood. “Take a look and tell me what you see.”

Watkins walked around to the front of the vehicle. To his surprise everything looked in order. The battery didn’t have any char marks like he thought it would. “Looks good,” he whispered back.

Careful to make as little noise as possible, Watkins eased the hood down.

“I want you to stay here while I get the others,” Chen said, inspecting his weapon. “I’ll be back in five.”

“But you just said we should get out of here. What do you want me to do?”

Chen pointed to the open Humvee. “I want you to get in and be quiet.”

A feeling of dread settled in the pit of Watkins’ stomach. He eyed the corpses suspiciously before looking back at Chen. “I’m just a mechanic.”

“C’mon, there’s nothing to be scared of. Those guys won’t be getting up anytime soon.”

“You don’t know that,” Watkins snapped.

The smile faded from Chen’s face. “Look, I move faster alone. You’ll only slow me down. And, besides, someone has to stay with the Humvee.”

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 population.

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.