Generation of vipers fir.., p.30
Generation of Vipers (First Contact), page 30
“It’s eleven in the evening. We can still hear fighting to the north, but we’ve been told that’s not from the airport. The front has shifted four miles north to the Spring-Mercer area. We’re lost. Stranded in the south.”
Hand signals are exchanged in the darkness. Andy catches it on camera. He has no idea what is being said, but it’s the most movement he’s seen in hours.
“We're trapped behind the lines. Thankfully, we haven’t seen any action since sunset. Hopefully, the night is quiet as the battle has moved past us.
“The plan is—once dawn breaks—to leg it over to the interstate and then head northeast to the City of Woodbranch. Hopefully, we can—”
A hand reaches around from behind his head. Fingers close over his mouth.
“Shhhh,” is whispered in his ear.
Against his will, his head is turned. His eyes are directed up to the left, over by the kitchen.
“Thereeee… In the shadowssss.”
Andy can’t see anything. His view is restricted by the thin, half-inch slit in the cardboard. A block of knives sits on the marble bench top, glistening in the moonlight. Beyond them, starlight catches a chrome tap curling over the sink. Out through the glass, there’s an elegant brick wall surrounding the entertaining area and swimming pool. The roof of the next house is visible only as a dark shadow with sloping sides.
He points the camera on the helmet at the roof, glancing at his smartwatch to help his aim. The brightness on his watch is dialed down. He can barely make out anything in the grainy image beyond the moon visible through the trees.
In front of him, the screen door slides open. Rangers slip inside, moving like ghosts. They peel away, treading softly on the carpet and disappearing into the shadows.
Winters holds him still in his chair. Andy wouldn’t move anyway. He understands what she’s doing. She’s ensuring there’s only one person in motion at a time. Her troops retreat inside, avoiding conflict.
Andy still can’t see anything outside.
Tree branches sway in the wind.
The stars beyond them move. The effect is subtle. It’s as though someone’s running a magnifying glass in front of a picture. They shift one way and then return back to where they were as a creature creeps along the top of the brick wall.
“Garage,” she whispers. “Now.”
Andy goes to move, but she’s got her hand on his head, ensuring he remains crouched and doesn’t accidentally tap the cardboard, causing it to sway. He grabs his shotgun, slinging it quietly over his shoulder.
Andy doesn’t want to turn his back on the kitchen windows but he’s got no choice. He leaves his batteries charging. Before he can walk toward the hallway and into the garage, Mahatma stops him with a hand on his chest.
“You need to crawl through this area,” he whispers. “We need to be like them—invisible. If you walk past the front door, your silhouette will break the light from outside.”
The frosted glass window in the door reaches down to waist height. Andy takes no chances. He drops to his hands and knees. His helmet keeps slipping down over his eyes, forcing him to use one hand to push it back. Slowly, he crawls across the carpet. Another soldier waits in a darkened doorway. The man extends his gloved hand, helping Andy to his feet. A second hand on his back makes sure his shotgun doesn’t bump the wall.
Andy’s chin strap is loose. He unclips it, tightens the straps and pushes the black clips back together.
Clunk!
The sound itself is innocent enough and barely audible but it cuts through the silence. Nobody moves.
Glass breaks in the kitchen.
Mahatma squeezes past Andy in the darkness, rushing into the garage.
Winters opens the front door. She’s got something in her hand. Whatever it is, it’s cylindrical. She tosses it out onto the footpath. A plastic garbage can bounces down the driveway. She turns away from the door, pushing Andy back into the garage. Someone closes the door quietly behind them, easing up on the knob without making a sound.
The garbage can bounces until it reaches the road. There’s a change in pitch as it leaves the steep driveway. Garbage spills out as it rolls, adding to the confusion. Aluminum soda cans join in the cacophony of sound outside. They scuff against the concrete like steel drums.
Tiles break on the roof above them. A leg punches through the sheetrock. Claws pierce the roof of the garage as the creature scrambles back up in pursuit of the garbage can at the bottom of the drive.
Barrels point up, waiting to unleash hell.
Bits of sheetrock come loose, falling to the floor.
The creature leaps from the roof.
Timber beams groan under the shifting weight.
“It took the bait,” Andy whispers, determined to continue his commentary.
A fist grabs his shirt, twisting it up in front of him and tightening it around his throat. Gloved knuckles rise into his neck, pushing under his jaw. Captain Winters is inches from his face in the darkness. Her eyes are on fire, burning with anger. Gritted teeth and flared nostrils tell him everything he needs to know. That was beyond stupid. This isn’t one of his fucking parlor games. Dumb shit like this will get them killed.
She shakes her head in disgust and lets him go.
Moonlight comes in through dozens of glass panes in a set of fancy French doors at the far end of the garage. Those doors lead to the pool area. Skimmers and pool toys lie to one side next to gym equipment looking out at the entertainment area.
Winters points at the way the pale light falls on the concrete, indicating that no one—absolutely no one—especially not Andy—should step there. It’s the glare she gives him after pointing at that portion of the garage floor that makes it abundantly clear. Andy swallows the lump in his throat.
The captain crouches on one side of the doors. She’s on her haunches, right on the edge of the light, but she keeps to the shadows. Winters peers across the tiled outdoor entertainment area, staring through the glass at an angle. Mahatma does likewise from the other side of the doors, taking care as he crouches, avoiding the coiled pool hose. They communicate with hand gestures, letting each other know what they see.
Andy can’t see anything out of the ordinary. The creature that leaped from the roof hasn’t come back. It tore the garbage can apart, that much was obvious from the sound of plastic being crushed and ripped. The noise then receded down the road. He’s sure it’s gone.
There’s a kidney-shaped swimming pool in the middle of the entertainment area outside. It should be fenced, but it’s not. Cobblestones lead from the edge of the pool to the house. A barbecue and outdoor table sit under the cover of a sunshade. Grapevines wind their way over a trellis. A six-foot-high brick wall surrounds the property. Next door, there’s an acacia tree. Its branches hang over the wall.
“Options,” the captain whispers.
One of the Rangers holds up a gas can for the lawnmower. He gives it a gentle shake. Liquid sloshes around. He and Winters exchange hand signals.
Andy looks carefully at all the junk at the back of the garage. He’s embarrassed himself. He was so damn focused on his stupid broadcast he almost cost them their lives. He wants to redeem himself.
The garage is huge. It’s big enough for four vehicles parked two abreast, but the owners have used the extra space for storage and a home gym. There are weights, an exercise bike, a treadmill and a cardio-stepper. The pool maintenance gear is neatly stacked.
No one else comes forward with any other options. What options are there? They’re trapped.
What is Andy supposed to be thinking? If Kath or Nolan were here, they’d have some brainstorm that saves the day, but him? Not a chance. Andy’s good at coming up with ideas the next day. If he makes it out of here alive, he’ll wake in the middle of the night and realize the exercise bands could have been converted into a trebuchet or some stupid shit like that. His mind won’t let him rest. It’ll demand answers no matter how dumb they might be—no matter how late they might be.
The reality is, the Rangers are bristling with weapons, but how do you kill something you can’t see? Then there’s the size of the goddamn things. Hit them with an elephant gun and they’ll keep going. Andy once heard of a hunter that shot a Grizzly through the heart. The bullet penetrated the left ventricle but the bear tore him to pieces before it succumbed to its fatal wound. These creatures are even bigger. How many bullets did it take to kill that one by the lake? The fifty-caliber machine gun fired a helluva lot of rounds before the Humvee was flipped.
Winters looks at him. She shrugs, holding her hands out wide. She’s open to suggestions.
His eyes settle on some painting equipment by the door to the house. Even to his untrained eye, it’s obvious this is for renovating rooms. There’s a roller, a couple of brushes, a folded sheet covered in drips of paint, and a few plastic buckets of white paint.
Nolan would improvise an explosive device using the pool chlorine. Kath would fashion a rudimentary rail gun using the treadmill and the paint roller as a hyper-velocity spear. Andy would paint the spare room.
He feels spectacularly dumb.
Captain Winters seeks him out. It seems she’s trying to balance her anger with leadership. She points at the moonlight coming in through the French doors.
“We’re stuck,” she whispers. Andy notes she’s come around the right side of him so she’s close to his microphone. “Originally, there were two of them. We think there’s still one out there. We can’t kill it, but I think we can scare it off.”
Andy can’t help himself. He was determined not to say anything in case he demonstrated his stupidity yet again, but he’s got to ask, “You think you can scare one of those things?”
“Yes,” she replies, pointing at three Rangers lined up beside the French doors, poised with their rifles pointing down at the concrete in front of them. They’re standing just beyond the light spilling in through the windows, but they’re ready for action. They look as though they’re about to charge through the french doors regardless of whether they’re open.
“Why do you think they’re invisible?” the captain asks. “We’ve seen a carcass, right? Their natural color is blue/grey, so they have to deliberately turn invisible—just like an octopus changes color, but why?”
“I—I don’t know,” Andy whispers in reply.
“They’re vulnerable,” she says under her breath. “We all are. And anything that’s vulnerable knows fear. Even a tiger knows fear.”
“You’re mad.”
“The unknown,” she says, raising a finger in objection to his point. “Everyone’s afraid of the unknown—something new. We’ve got to exploit that. Bullets aren’t going to kill these things out there. Fear is the only weapon we have left.”
Andy would rather sit tight and hide, hoping the aliens move on by dawn. Winters seems determined to take the fight to them. In some ways, it makes sense. If she’s right and they can scare one of these things, they’ll avoid them during the daylight rather than attack. To him, though, it seems like an impossible task.
“I need something to distract them,” she says.
Andy points at the painting equipment, gesturing to the drop sheet. It’ll hide their human outline if nothing else. Are aliens afraid of people dressed up as ghosts?
“Genius,” she whispers, ignoring the sheet and picking up one of the plastic pails. “It’s time to play a little paintball.”
“Play what?”
“Matte white finish,” Winters mumbles, squinting as she struggles to make out the writing in the dark. “That’ll work.”
She holds the pail in two hands, saying, “You’re going to shoot this for me. Understood?”
Andy nods. He understands—but understanding a simple directive doesn’t mean he comprehends what she’s doing or why. His fingers tremble. He wants to tell her this is a bad idea, but he’s already been the instigator of enough dumbass acts of his own. Andy’s not a coward, but he’d rather cower in the corner than provoke one of those things again. His bladder feels as though it’s going to explode. Okay, he’s a coward. He’s man enough to admit he’s afraid. He taps her on the shoulder as she edges toward the light streaming in through the door.
“Ready?” she asks, turning back toward him.
Ready?
What the hell?
No. He’s not ready.
He’ll never be ready.
Andy fumbles with his shotgun, swinging it down from his shoulder. His finger pushes gently on the safety, pushing the button back. There’s already a shell in the chamber. He thinks. He’s not sure. Yes, he pumped the action back when they were setting up in the yard, just before he flicked on the safety. He’s sure he felt a shell load into the breach. If he didn’t, he’s about to look pretty damn fucking stupid pulling a dead trigger. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!
Andy wants to pump his shotgun one more time just to be sure, but the idea of making any more unwanted noise is terrifying. That he’s about to fire a shotgun and wake the dead hasn’t quite registered in his mind. He knows it intellectually, but his mind is caught up on the soft sound of his chin strap clicking moments ago. If he was to cycle the pump-action, he’d draw another creature to attack.
Winters reaches out into the moonlight and slowly pulls on an ornate brass handle. She edges the door ajar. It opens outward. On the other side of the French doors, Mahatma reaches in as well, grabbing an identical brass handle and pulling it down. Once the catch releases, he removes his hand. Like Winters, he pushes on the outside of the frame to gently rock the door open without being exposed to the moonlight.
The French doors open from the middle, with both soldiers staying out of sight as they ease the doors wider. Neither is in a rush. Behind them, soldiers stand in the shadows with their guns leveled at the door, ready to fire if one of those things pounces.
Winters and Mahatma take their time, allowing the doors to move as though they were never locked and have been caught by the wind and blown open. They move with a natural motion, like the swaying of branches.
A cool night breeze swirls within the garage. Over the course of a couple of minutes, Winters and Mahatma push the doors wide, exposing themselves to the courtyard surrounding the pool. An inflated beachball floats on the surface of the water. The wind pushes it gently around. It bumps into the tiled edge of the pool and rebounds softly, drifting further along the pool in the darkness.
Branches sway on the tree beyond the far wall of the pool. It’s just the wind, Andy tells himself. Now, it’s no longer his bladder he needs to contend with, it’s his bowels. Moments ago, he was fine. Now, he wants to squat in the corner and take a dump. His lower bowel feels as though it’s under pressure and about to burst.
Winters makes eye contact with him. She holds the pail of white paint up, making sure he’s got a good look at it. At a guess, it only holds a couple of gallons of paint. Andy’s still not sure what she’s going to do. The door opens roughly five feet from the pool. At a guess, she’s going to put it down on the rim and he’ll shoot it. Paint will go skidding across the surface and that’ll somehow scare these creatures—that’s not going to work. He’s going to die.
Andy steels himself to shoot the plastic pail. Like the Rangers, he keeps his shotgun pointing at the concrete floor. It’s already pulled hard into his shoulder. He’s ready to swing it into action. To his mind, this is madness, but it’s the Rangers that are keeping him alive. He trusts Captain Winters. If she thinks this will work, he’ll do it. She stands out of sight with the pail hanging from her right hand. With her left hand raised, she counts down from three. Andy sets the shotgun hard into his shoulder and stares down along the barrel. He’s a condemned man on death row. There’s nothing to be done now but to go through with the inevitable. Andy’s ready to step out beside her into the moonlight.
Two fingers.
One finger.
None.
Winters steps into the courtyard, swinging the pail of paint with all her might. She throws it high, sending it sailing over the swimming pool.
Andy walks out beside her, tracking the pail with the bead at the end of his barrel, leading the shot. Several Rangers rush past, but he ignores them. He squeezes rather than pulls the trigger.
Bamm!
The shotgun recoils, slamming into his shoulder and catching the side of his cheek.
The pail explodes.
White paint sprays through the air.
The peppered bucket spirals through the night, sending paint swirling over the pool area. To Andy, it’s like fireworks going off minus the color. He’s mesmerized by the fine drops soaring through the air like tens of thousands of shooting stars falling to Earth.
A hand grabs him from behind, yanking him back into the darkness.
There, on the brick wall, are two alien creatures—only they’re covered in a fine coat of white dots. Their heads and front legs are visible. Most of their bodies are hidden from sight, being draped over the wall on the neighbor’s lawn.
“You can’t hide,” Winters whispers from the shadows in the silence that follows.
The aliens seem perplexed by the sudden crack of noise. They flex, but they don’t attack. This act of violence wasn’t directed at them. They’re baffled by the fine white mist settling around them. It must sound as though thunder broke from the sky and rain is falling. They have no idea they’ve lost their invisibility.
In response to the motion by the garage, one of them leaps down into the courtyard. It straddles the pool. Andy can see its front legs but not its entire body. Claws dig into the tiles surrounding the pool.
“Let’s do this,” Winters says, only she isn’t whispering anymore. She’s speaking out loud with no fear. She steps in front of the massive alien creature, blocking the doorway behind her. She’s got an old-fashioned lighter in one hand. It’s made from either silver or polished chrome. The shiny metal catches the moonlight, reflecting it back at them, making it obvious in her fingers. She flicks the flint. A flame appears. Winters tosses the lighter through the air, saying, “Fuck you!”
The lighter somersaults from her fingers, landing in the shallow end of the pool almost fifteen feet from the creature.
