The gunner nodded.
The crew swung the gun to the left. Mills felt a little tingle of anticipation at the thought of seeing the rail gun do its job.
Before they could fire, a buzzing sound filled the air, harsh and grating. And then Mills saw them: a mass of winged monstrosities descending from the clouds and hovering over the crewmen. “What the fuck?” he said aloud.
Whitey and the rest of the squad gathered around.
O’Brien said, “Shit. Flying uglies. Even better.”
The swarm of creatures, all of them slightly larger than an average-sized man, swooped down, each of them grasping a crewmember within those spindly forelegs. They lifted off with the reanimations and sped through the air towards the base.
Mills realized what they intended to do. “Shoot them down! Shoot the fuckers down!”
The squad spread out and took aim. Mills fired, blasting one of the flying creatures out of the air, and it spun to the ground landing with a wet splat.
Automatic weapons chattered. He glanced over and saw Murphy score a hit.
The EMP crew had raised the angle of the cannon. They fired a blast and the resulting pulse hit a dozen of the flying things and shredded them in mid air, along with their cargo.
The first wave reached the wall. One of the suckers flew over his head and dropped the reanimated crewmember behind the wall. The creature banked back around. Mills fired. Missed. It swooped and landed twenty feet from him. It had a nasty face, almost all needle-like teeth. There were no visible eyes, only a shiny, black head. It scrabbled towards him. He took aim and shot it through the mouth. It kept coming, beating its wings then launched itself at Mills.
It knocked him backward. He steadied himself as not to tumble off the wall. He grabbed the jaws that snapped at his face. The thing was slimy and nasty, leaking goop onto his hands.
Whitey came into help and grabbed the upper jaw, trying to pull back. The thing turned its head with lightning quickness. Mills’ grip slipped and Whitey’s hand disappeared into the thing’s mouth. Jaws snapped shut, crunching Whitey’s hand and the solider pulled away a bloodied stump as his hand disappeared down the creature’s gullet. Whitey screamed, the stump pumping blood. Mills managed to get his knees up to his chest and kick the thing back enough so he could scoot out from underneath.
Mills shot to his feet, pulled his sidearm and emptied the magazine into the flying ugly.
Take that, you flying fucker!
He leapt over the creature’s body in an effort to get to Whitey, who was flailing around gripping his wrist. As Mills almost reached him, Whitey seemed drunk. Wobbling around.
Shit. He’s about to pass out.
Whitey’s eyes rolled back, and he tumbled off the wall and hit the ground inside the base. A loud snap punctuated his fall, and he was still.
O’Brien looked down at their fallen squad mate. “Shit, is he?”
“Look at his neck, O’Brien. Your head’s not supposed to sit like that on your shoulders.”
“Goddammit,” O’Brien growled.
A cluster of the reanimated crewmen gathered below. Hamilton stepped up, took aim, and fired a grenade into their midst. The ground shook. An arm catapulted through the air. A parasite missing the rear half of its body and dripping thick, yellow fluid tried to crawl away. Hamilton blasted it.
Murphy came running up to him. “There’s too many. There are more of the winged ones on the way. ETA six minutes or so. We have to pull back.”
“Fall back,” Mills yelled.
As Mills and the squad headed for the metal stairway, he remembered the drone strike. It was worth a try. “Command. This is Mills. Request drone support. Copy.”
“Mills this is Airman Collins. Drone strike is hot. Awaiting your command.”
“Thank fucking God.”
He gave the coordinates to Collins.
“Copy Mills. Advise Stinger is inbound.”
Mills’ squad, Hamilton, and Murphy reached the bottom of the steps. The rest of Murphy’s people were making their way to the stairs, blasting incoming creatures as fast as they could.
A group of reanimated crewmen that had been dropped into the base noticed Mills and the others and started forward. Hamilton stepped up and blasted them with a smart grenade. Mills and the others fired, taking out six or seven more but the bastards were still coming though.
Mills popped in his last magazine. “Murphy. Low on ammo.”
“Armory’s that way. C’mon.”
They moved along the wall, Mills worried about the ammo situation. He had a spare magazine for his sidearm, but that wouldn’t get him far. The other guys had to be getting low, as well.
A reanimated crewman staggered toward Mills. He pulled the trigger. Click. Shit. Dry fire. He slung his rifle and went for his sidearm.
The crewman exploded. He heard the clatter of a cannon and the Stinger drone roared overhead. Shit that was close. Good thing the drones could target things down to the millimeter.
The drone swept over again, rained hell on the remaining crewmen and mopped up the parasites. It was over in a matter of minutes. He watched the remains of the flying creatures fall from the sky.
“Hostiles confirmed killed,” Collins said through the comms.
“Nice shooting, Airman. Thank you much,” Mills said.
Murphy said, “Her airship is inbound. Ahead of schedule. Grab an APC and get her out here.”
A chattering noise reverberated in Mills’ chest. Like cicadas on steroids. It had come from the direction of the downed ship. He felt a little sick as he realized what it was. “That big bastard’s out of the ship.”
Murphy turned to one of his soldiers standing in a pile of remains that had been one of the crewmen. “Go up top and get me a visual. Now.”
The soldier hurried up the stairs and Mills watched him flip down the visor on his helmet. “Big one coming in, sir! Two clicks. Moving fast.”
Murphy said, “Get to the airfield. Command wants Hamilton safe.”
“You heard the man. We reload first and move out,” he said to the remaining squad members.
Bronson pulled the APC out of Zulu’s gate. Mills shifted up front; took a look out at the open plain. He saw the big ugly coming at them with terrifying speed. Its huge legs ground like gears in a machine. Tentacles snaked from its belly. Its pincers opened and closed, as if practicing cutting fresh meat.
“I probably don’t have to tell you, Bronson, but put the hammer down,” Mills said.
“Flooring it, Sarge.”
They drove along the east wall of the base. The airfield was about five hundred yards away. Mills spotted the small, squat building and several concrete landing pads.
“The airship is three minutes out,” Murphy said into his earpiece. “And Mills? That big monstrosity is following you.”
This day just keeps getting better.
“Copy, Colonel. We’ll do what we can.”
“What’s wrong?” Hamilton said.
“The big one has its sights set on us.”
No sooner had Mills got the word out, something slammed into the APC and he was thrown against the wall, then the ceiling. Hamilton smashed into him. O’Brien and the rest of the squad were tossed around like confetti in a steel drum. Someone screamed. The APC ended up on its side. Mills untangled himself from Hamilton. Her head was bleeding. O’Brien was out cold. JT was holding his arm and grimacing. His wrist was bent at a horrible angle. He looked up into the driver’s seat and saw Bronson sitting motionless. He’d been strapped into the controls.
He was pretty sure his gun crew was dead. Not moving or breathing.