Not Dead Enough

by O. J. Anderson

conclusion

The high support team remains in the overlook with four Barrett . 50 cals. Low support is at the base of the hill with the squad’s entire load of P-10. They’ve got small arms and the pop-’n’-chuck contingency plan — if things get ugly their instructions are to start popping fuses and chucking demo like double cheeseburgers at a Weight Watchers convention.

Jack takes the go team out to set the ES nodes. It doesn’t take long. Just shove them into the soil. Maybe camo them up a bit if needed. When that’s done they begin working on the means by which Bookner will be quickly extracted from the kill zone. They bend over a couple rubber trees and tie them off. Connect a long section of vine.

In order to make this scheme sound plausible, like they’ve done it before, hundreds of times, and it always works, Jack gives it a technical-sounding name. Holding up the end of the vine, he tells Bookner, “This is a field-expedient fast retrieval system. A FEFARS.”

“A what?”

“FEFARS.”

“FEFARS?”

“That’s it. I’m going to tie this vine around your waist. When the saurians are inside the kill zone, Doc will cut the tie lines holding those two rubber trees in tension. You’ll be pulled out of there like you were just shot out of a cannon.”

“Uh...” Bookner’s obviously, and for good reason, tense. Hands are shaking. Hellish, roiling furnace of death.

Jack ties the vine around him. Then positions him in the center of the clearing. Suggests that he smoke one of those things while he waits. Could be a while. Could actually be days, but Jack doesn’t remind him of that.

Eventually, the sun goes down and it gets dark. The sounds of the jungle increase in volume. Chirping. Buzzing. Humming. The occasional screech off in the distance. Throughout the night Jack sees a dull red cherry glowing at the center of the clearing.

* * *

The sun is high and burning when the reptoid beasts step out onto the top of the pyramid. Giant monstrous ghouls. Five of them. The number of death. They descend the eastern steps.

As they reach the ground, they see the man up ahead. And they want to kill him. Pull him apart. Listen to him scream. Watch him bleed.

But one of the ghouls stops. Looks around. Its forked tongue flicks from its mouth, tasting the air. It knows something. Something is here. It turns and slinks off into the jungle.

The others move on.

By the time Jack sees the four saurians at the edge of the clearing, Professor Bookner is still fast asleep. Or the mosquitos have sucked all the blood from him and he’s slipped into a coma. Or he’s passed out from heat exhaustion. Whatever the reason, he’s lying there totally unaware of the reptoids approaching. Maybe that’s good.

Jack puts his finger on the radio’s push-to-talk button. The signal to fire the ES beam is to break squelch one time. Back in the OSSP, Smith has it all set to go; all he has to do is press ENTER.

Doc is ready with the knife to cut the tie lines.

In a perfect world, the saurians would walk together right into the kill zone, but they don’t. They’re spaced out. About twenty-five meters apart. Although, in a perfect world, Jack Creed would be out of a job. So he’ll take what he can get. And right now he’s got only two in the kill zone. But the other two are on their way.

They are an imposing sight. Large, powerful beasts with a long, slow gait. Greenish, scaley skin. Pointy heads. Those reptile eyes. It’s no wonder people don’t believe in these things. They don’t want to. Too friggin’ bizarre.

Jack soon becomes aware of a dilemma fast in development: if the first two look like they’re about to start eating Bookner — pull his heart from his chest, flay him alive, or whatever — before the other two make it inside, he’s going to have to yank Bookner out of there. Then they’ll have to do it the hard way with the other two. And these buggers are hard to kill; have something of a knack for regenerating themselves. Plus, they deserve to die within the Dome of Doom. It’s a fitting end for a saurian.

When the first reptoid picks up Bookner by the leg, like a doll about to be tossed into a toy box, Jack’s finger tightens on the radio button. He holds off though. Just a few more seconds. Don’t tear him apart yet.

The ghoul waves Bookner around. His arms, neck, and torso dangling limp. The professor is definitely out of it. The second saurian walks up to Bookner. It sees the vine running off into the woodline.

The sound of engines in the distance. High pitched. Like they’re having a run through a patch of mud.

The third reptoid enters the kill zone. Presumably to get its share of the human.

Doc’s hand tightens around the knife’s handle as the saurian lifts Bookner higher, maybe about to slash him open with its claws. Or bite into his throat.

Jack only needs a couple more seconds for the last lizard beast to enter the kill zone. His heart picks up a double-time. Can hear it pounding in his ears.

Things get more intense as the second ghoul starts walking towards their position, following the vine. It’s looking right at them. But they’re well camouflaged, so it probably can’t see them yet. Various modifications to the plan spring through Jack’s mind. But not one of them desirable. All of them butt ugly.

Jack slowly lifts his CAR-15, ready to rip a burst into the reptoid’s face when saurian number four enters the kill zone. Doc cuts the tie lines. The rubber trees spring upward. The vine snaps taut.

Jack is just about to press the button, but something stops him.

Bookner flies upward, parallel to the ground but doesn’t go anywhere. The saurian’s not letting go. Its incredible strength able to overcome the tension of the rubber trees.

All the saurians have stopped. Now focused on the jungle in the direction of the vine. Jack wonders how long Bookner’s leg will stay attached.

No one moves. Everything’s as though on pause for a second.

The support position sounds off. Four .50 cal. rounds impact the beast’s elbow joint, severing it as though being hacked apart with an invisible cleaver. Bookner begins his flight to the woodline, taking the saurian’s forearm with him.

Jack presses the button. A second later the silvery opaque walls of the Dome of Doom form at ground level. Then up to the apex in an instant. The three Boll Weevils come roaring over the hilltop and poke through the dome.

The dome turns from silvery to bright red swirling with black and yellow as the missiles detonate. Nothing escapes: no sound, no heat, no debris, no screams, and no saurians. Nothing. It’s a tidy little device. The hellish, roiling furnace of death that Jack promised.

Doc pries the saurian’s forearm off Bookner’s leg and tosses it in. Too bad, though... could have made Bookner’s career.

After Smith cuts the ES beam, the Dome of Doom disappears. There are no remains. Simms and Lucky quickly recover the nodes from around the blackened circle of scorched earth. Doc gets busy sticking IVs into the professor’s arms. Checks his leg. Tries to bring him around. They’ll have to carry him out.

Simms runs across the clearing with a couple P-10 sticks. Going to knock down some trees and block the access road. The thirteen families will have to come back next year. This year’s saurians aren’t going to make this one.

“Let’s move out,” Jack tells the men. He then steps aside and waves them on. Tells them that he’ll catch up in a few minutes.

* * *

The beast creeps through the jungle. Closing in on its prey. Up ahead. There, kneeling beside that tree. Got the stench of Creed all over you. Gonna rip you open, Creed. Gonna open you up wide. Let your guts rot here. Let the rats gnaw the gristle from your stinking bones. Gonna slash you open, Creed. Tear you apart.

Closer.

The beast hears Jack Creed say: “Roger that. Ten mikes, over.”

Closer. Been waiting a long time for this chance. Make it count. Gonna enjoy peeling the flesh off you slowly, Creed.

“Roger that. Ten mikes, over.”

The beast swings its claw down across Creed’s back. Rips it open. Three massive cuts. Deep. Enough to kill a man. But there is no flesh or blood or muscle or bone. And no scream of terror or pain. Just some kind of putty. Miffed, the beast rips off the head, also putty. But there, where the mouth should be, is a small black disk. A voice box playing on a loop.

“Roger that. Ten mikes, over.”

* * *

“Target acquired,” Smith says.

Jack, almost to the beach, slows to a walk and tells Smith, “Do it.”

Smith taps the keyboard with a finger. A thin red beam falls from the sky.

* * *

The Death Ray enters through the top of Zarion’s skull. In a flash, its insides turn to mush, like a sandwich bag filled with warm, buttery grits. Zarion falls forward, lifeless, onto the dummy.

If Zarion had any ears left to hear with, or any senses whatsoever with which to sense with, it would detect at this point — now sprawled across nearly 100 pounds of Perplex 10 super-high explosives shaped like a man and dressed in a uniform — the tiny bleating heart inside. Beep Beep Beep. Almost too faint to hear.

* * *

With one leg in the boat, the other dangling in the water, Jack flicks the switch, casually, as though it were a ball of lint taken from his pocket.

Deep inside the jungle there is an explosion large enough to clear a lot suitable for a good sized village, or a small airport... a resort/spa. The gray cap of the mushroom cloud rises over the treetops like an alien flying saucer lifting off, headed back to wherever. And even though his eyes are now closed, Jack can see it in his mind’s eye — where the show is always better.

He inhales softly through his nose, hoping to pick up the peculiar fragrance of P-10 that’s done a good job of blowing the crap out of something. Slightly nutty, with a soupçon of cordite. Wild berry undertones. Total satisfaction. An olfactory orgasm.

When Jack finally snaps out of it, his crew is patiently awaiting instruction. He looks at them. Each of them. In the eye. You’re good men, Jack thinks. You fight evil for a living. And you take pleasure in sending it straight back to hell. He makes up his mind. He tells Rivers, “Shoot us an azimuth to Vera Cruz beach.”

The men are stunned. R & R? No one moves.

“You heard me,” Jack says. “We’re going to Vera Cruz.” Then he nods, satisfied with his decision. Unwraps a fresh toothpick and looks out over the vast waters. Says, “I’ve heard good things about their hot stone massage.”

Maybe it’s the setting sun. The salty breeze. Or maybe it’s the waves’ gentle rocking of the Zodiacs. But Jack’s feeling especially benevolent this evening. He’s picking up another scent now. This one sharply aromatic. Tropical. He says, “And I smell a Mohito with my name on it.”

The squad cheers. Engines roar to life. The boats carve deep trenches in the surf as they race towards Vera Cruz.