9
King saw that Rook was going down. He leapt out the still-open helicopter door and raced to meet the man. Rook had almost made it, before he had tripped, just thirty feet away. King cleared half that distance before Rook actually hit the ground. Either to his credit or due to his sheer momentum, Rook continued forward on the rocky soil, rolling forward on the ground, even as King skidded to a halt next to him.
Together, they got Rook to his feet and ran the last of the distance toward the black helicopter. To the pilot’s credit, he had angled the vehicle closer in, toward the men, the pursuing hell worm and the raging whiteout wall.
King simply dove head-first into the belly of the cargo area, willing Rook to follow him. He slid across the floor of the angled craft and his hand grasped a cargo strap, just as someone else’s hand latched onto his wrist to hold him in place.
The helicopter banked away, still rising off the ground. King was worried that the tips of the vehicle’s blades might scrape the rocky soil at such a steep angle of departure, but the pilot was top-notch.
When he turned to look back out the open side door, King saw the massive worm was just below them, but rising up off the ground, pursuing the rising helicopter. The pilot was gaining altitude, but only at a slightly faster rate of gain than the death worm. The black maw followed them into the sky like a pirate ship intent on doing them ruin.
Rook had indeed made it into the craft, and he was now sitting with his back against the bulkhead. He’d formed a figure eight knot on the end of the rope from Knight’s bag and was clipping it to the front of his harness with a black, anodized aluminum carabiner. King expected he would clip the other end of the rope onto the body of the helicopter for safety, but he never got the chance.
As the helicopter began to pick up vertical speed, the worm fell farther from the open door until Knight judged the distance enough. He flicked the switch on his transmitter, holding it up so everyone could see him deliver the coup de grâce.
Nothing happened.
“Son of a bitch,” Rook called. “Try this one.” He reached out the hand of his bloodied arm and slapped the switch on his own transmitter, which was attached to the front of his gear harness.
Again nothing happened.
“We’re too far away from it now,” Queen said, reminding them all that the devices had a limited range. She called to the pilot. “We need to drop altitude a little.”
“Screw that,” Rook said, standing and pulling his twin Desert Eagle pistols. “Somebody get the friggin’ rope.”
With that he leapt head first out the open door, and toward the still rising void of the death worm’s mouth.
Five sets of hands scrambled for the rope bag and the black climbing rope that rapidly unspooled from its depths.
Rook sailed straight down through the air, head first toward the oncoming ring of waving tendrils. He could see that the creature had raised almost half of itself straight up off the ground, chasing the rising helicopter with unrestrained hunger.
He had no question in his mind that the others would secure the rope, preventing him from falling to his death. Instead he worried that his plan to get close enough to the bomb-spikes that the transmitter would work might be flawed. He couldn’t do the math quick enough to determine when his plummeting body would meet the rising worm. He’d always hated those kinds of problems in school.
Instead, he focused on what he knew how to do best.
Time to break shit.
He fired his huge pistols at the inside of the worm’s mouth, blowing huge chunks of skin apart, even from that distance. Then the rope caught taut above him, jerking his descent to an abrupt stop, and he felt the last meal he’d eaten, hours ago, try to leave his body through the top of his head. Then his body flipped upside down, because the attachment point on his harness was in front of him. He was now hanging in the air with his back facing the lunging creature and his stomach facing upward at the bottom of the helicopter.
As the vehicle swung him over the edge of the worm’s mouth, he twisted in his harness, looking down at the outer side of the beast. He could see one of the bomb-spikes implanted in its flesh. He figured he was close enough to the creature now. He slapped a hand still holding a Magnum against the switch of the transmitter on his chest, but the bombs still refused to explode.
“Monkey fucker-noodle!”
A boiling cloud of purple vapor bellowed out of the creature’s mouth, and Rook knew they had just a few seconds before the death worm spewed a stream of poison at him and the helicopter. The edge of the storm had found them, too, suddenly whipping the rope, and Rook’s dangling body.
He raised both pistols and fired both magazines dry at the single bomb-spike he could see on the side of the worm’s slick body. He quickly ejected both magazines and slotted in a single new one for the pistol in his right hand. He took a single steadying breath as the raging wall of white began to cover up the creature’s body, just feet below the silver of the bomb-spike’s surface. The purple cloud coming out of the creature’s mouth was billowing back past the creature, as its mouth still rose into the air. The thick viscous fumes further obscured the explosive spear nailed into the worm’s hide. He started to worry that the acidic nature of the fumes could incapacitate the detonators on the bombs, but then he let the thought fall Zen-like from his mind as he aimed, released his breath and squeezed the trigger.
The effect was instant.
Although the explosive compound in the spears was hardy enough to take a shot from a bullet without exploding, the small detonators on the spikes were not. The bullet impacted the detonator, and the smaller explosive it contained went off, taking the larger explosive with it. The bomb-spike’s explosion then activated the others embedded in the creature’s thick hide, all over the front half of its body. The entire upper half of the giant beast turned into a maelstrom of orange fire, black smoke, purple venom, red skin fragments and white swirling snow and ice.
The helicopter rose abruptly, tugging Rook with it, but his suit still got splattered with gore. Smoke rose from parts of his formerly white covering, melting from the viscous goo that now coated him.
“I’m gonna need a new suit fast,” Rook said over the comms. “And an aversion therapy doctor with a gallon-sized bucket of sour gummy worms.”
“Copy that,” Aleman said. “Are you clear?”
Rook looked up as he was tugged from above. The team pulled him up as King looked down for visual confirmation of Rook’s situation. Rook gave a thumbs up. “Aside from the melting, we’re golden.”
“We’re done here,” King said. “En route to the safe house.”
“Actually,” Aleman said. “The safe house is compromised.”
“Admiral Ward?”
“Uh-huh.” Aleman said in almost a groan. “Better come to me instead.”
“Will do,” King said, adding his muscle to the rope pulling effort. “But then we’re going to have a chat about what to do about this thorn in our side.”
Thanks for reading SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest.
We really hope you enjoyed it, both for the brilliant efforts by our authors and for the wonderful artwork by Monty Borror. We’re proud to present what we consider the best military horror/sci-fi we can find.
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