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?”