O’Neil lost count of how many beasts he sent back to the earth when his bolt locked back.
“Changing!”
He sent a new magazine home. Fired until it was spent, too.
Changed again.
The cycle repeated. The beasts drawing farther up onto the roof. Some made it to race toward him, claws slicing through the air. Bodies piled up in tangles of sinewy limbs.
All it took was just one more monster to break through his or Van’s or Tate’s or Reynolds’s fire. One beast tearing into a SEAL, then their whole defensive effort would fall. The researchers would be shredded, whether Stuart, Henderson, McLean, and Loeb could hold back the monsters from the stairwell door or not.
Sweat coursed down O’Neil’s back, his shirt sticking to his spine. He acted like a machine, focusing only on the task at hand, fighting to stay alive for one more second. Then the next. Then another.
He palmed in a fresh magazine once more. Pulled the trigger, sending bursts of rounds into the beasts, finding he had less and less time with each successive kill.
One of the monsters dodged his attack and tore off across the roof, lunging over its dead comrades, claws reaching toward O’Neil. It was built like a linebacker, thick plates of armor wrapped around its shoulder.
O’Neil’s laser traced over the monster’s body, centering on its chest as it loped toward him. He sent a spray of rounds tearing into its armor. Flesh and bone flew from the wounds. The monster lurched forward like it was about to collapse, but then righted itself, blood trickling from those puckered wounds.
The beast let out a roar that shook O’Neil to his core.
Made it to only a few yards from O’Neil. So close he could practically smell the monster’s rancid breath.
He fired a quick burst again, then adjusted his aim, sending bullets coursing through the gnarled bony structures erupting from its head. Rounds punched through its jaw, obliterating bone. One cored through its eyeball, and the beast took another couple of steps before finally hitting the roof hard, its body grinding to a halt.
O’Neil thought he had a moment to take a breath. That he could recover from what had almost been certain death.
But the Skulls proved him wrong.
Another creature lunged up over the roof. A second and third followed in quick succession, beasts rolling up over the lip in a relentless rush.
“It’s here!” Reynolds yelled.
O’Neil had been so focused on stopping the monsters, he had nearly drowned out the drone of the chopper. But true to Reynolds’s word, the rotor wash blasted over O’Neil, pushing against the Skulls.
He started backpedaling toward the lowering bird, his rifle shuddering against his shoulder with each shot. The monsters fought against the rotor wash, torn clothing flapping form their bodies, their matted hair flicking in the wind. They had nearly formed a circle around the chopper, SEALs, and researchers when the helo’s wheels touched down.
A crew chief jumped out. He waved the researchers huddling in the middle of the roof onto the bird. Another soldier manned the M-240 mounted on the side of the craft, raking gunfire over the assaulting beasts.
“Bravo, get on that bird,” Reynolds yelled over the comms.
Tate hopped on first, followed by Van. They stayed close to the open side doors, covering Loeb as he ran from the door that the beasts were hammering.
The other three struggled to keep it closed. As soon as Loeb made it to the chopper, Reynolds signaled for his team to make a run for it. They sprinted away from the door. Soon as they did, it exploded open, Skulls rushing out. The first four or five of them tripped over their own taloned feet in the stampede, and the other creatures trampled them, smashing their bodies into the roof.
O’Neil covered them as best he could with the support of his team and the door gunner. The Skulls were mere feet behind McLean, the last guy on Alpha’s team, as they ran. Reynolds’s men jumped aboard the chopper, with Van and Loeb pulling McLean on last.
“Fly!” O’Neil said, slapping the bulkhead of the chopper.
The helicopter started to rise, the engines roaring as the rotors spun, yanking the chopper away from the roof of the research center. One of the Skulls threw itself up at the accelerating bird. Its claws gripped the deck, and the Skull started to climb its way into the troop hold.
O’Neil smashed his boot onto one of the claw’s hands, grinding at it his heel. The beast lashed out with its other set of claws, nearly slashing open O’Neil’s leg. He leaned back just enough to avoid it, then lost his balance nearly, falling forward.
Someone grabbed him from behind, pulling on his pack. Gave him just enough leverage to smash his heel into the Skull’s face. Its jaw slammed shut, the top of its mouth breaking into bony shrapnel, and its claws slipped. The monster plummeted back toward the roof. Its body cracked when it hit the building, quickly disappearing in the throngs of beasts, leaping and climbing over each other, desperate to get at the Black Hawk even as it soared from their reach.
O’Neil finally let himself fall back inside the chopper.
“You all right, man?” Tate asked.
Tate had been the one to save O’Neil’s life, too.
“I’m good, brother,” O’Neil said, straining to be heard over the engine noise. “Thanks for that. You?”
He looked down at Tate’s shredded uniform, the torn vest. Now that he had fought his way out of the research center, he had no choice but to face the reality of the current situation.
If those claws had penetrated Tate’s skin, they might not make it back to Frederick in time for the USAMRIID scientists there to use the experimental treatment that those Hunter mercs had helped them develop.
As the two medics that were on board began examining the research team, O’Neil helped Tate undo his tac vest. He pulled away the ripped parts of his uniform with one hand, reaching for his Individual First Aid Kit with the other. Pulling open the IFAK, he took his chest seal, ready to at least stop the bleeding of any wound the Skull had left behind.
But as he checked over Tate, he saw no scratches or scrapes beyond the plate carrier ballistic vest.
“I think I’m good,” Tate said, looking down at his chest, probing his neck and shoulders. “I think they just got my body armor.”
Loeb clapped Tate on the shoulder. “Hot damn, bro. Thank all that is holy.”
Van gave him a solemn nod, and Tate started pulling what was left of his jacket back up.
Now that O’Neil knew Tate was safe, he felt only raw anger. Rage.
All directed at that scientist now getting the attention of a medic. The man who had bolted like a frightened deer. The guy couldn’t even hold it together a second. He’d nearly got one of O’Neil’s swim buddies slaughtered by a Skull that shouldn’t have even been a real threat.
“If that dumbass hadn’t run…” O’Neil started.
He wanted to yell at the egghead. To chew him out and curse at him until the guy’s ears were bleeding.
But a fat load of good that would do.
“They’re not as strong as us,” Tate said, his NVGs up on his helmet now. “It’s all good to let it go, man.”
O’Neil stopped staring at the frightened scientist. The guy deserved his ire. Hell, Tate should be pissed at him, too.
“We’re SEALs,” Tate said. “We didn’t make it through BUD/S for nothing, you know what I mean? You remember Hell Week.”
At that, O’Neil had to pause. “I hate that you’re right.”
“Not everyone is cut out to wear the trident, man. And that’s okay.”
O’Neil gave Tate’s shoulder another squeeze. “I’m just glad you’re all right. That was your first time really in the shit with us, and you handled yourself well.”