Leaning back inside the car, Hartmann groped desperately under his seat and finally retrieved his pistol. He snapped in the spare magazine, aimed, and fired. To his horror the bullet ricocheted off the hard, waxy carapace. He fired again and again, but the slugs would not penetrate.
Hartmann’s mind raced furiously. If it was bulletproof how could he kill it?
Holstering his pistol, he reached inside the car and grabbed a stick grenade. The scorpion's carapace was surely blast resistant too, but a different idea flashed in his mind, albeit a desperate one.
He unscrewed the cap on the grenade's hollow wooden handle, letting the cord dangle out. Grasping the ball at the end of the cord, he faced the scorpion, watching and waiting. He would only get one chance before he was ripped to pieces.
The scorpion suddenly rushed forward. Hartmann quickly backed up, but stumbled over a chunk of petrified wood and fell in the hot sand. Pincers lunged for him, mandibles opened. He yanked the ball to light the five-second fuse and flung the grenade into the arachnid's maw.
It detonated inside with a muffled boom.
The scorpion's charge faltered. It stopped, took a couple steps backward, then collapsed. Legs and tail twitched feebly for a few minutes until finally it laid still, bluish blood oozing from its mouth.
Hartmann clambered to his feet, brushing off sand, and warily approached the creature. It was dead.
He did not have a biology degree, but Hartmann knew scorpions did not live or breed in water. They did not even have to drink it. They obtained all the fluid they needed from their prey. How had this one mutated? Perhaps it had scavenged a contaminated mosquito.
And how had the British gotten past this monster? It was not mentioned on their map, so it had likely taken up residence after they had passed through. The horrible effects of the contamination were spreading through the insect population.
Then he heard that ominous, familiar drone. Black specks moved in a sky stained pink by the lingering twilight. His heart sank. Not over.
Hartmann grabbed a triple magazine pouch slung over a rack between the seats. It held extra magazines for Fuchs' submachine gun, which used the same 9-millimeter Parabellum ammunition as the Walther. He also found one of the Webley revolvers they had taken from the dead British soldiers. Hartmann spun the cylinder to confirm all six chambers were loaded, then tucked it in his waistband. Unfortunately he had no extra ammunition for it or for the empty Lee-Enfield.
However he did have the rifle's bayonet – a wicked-looking weapon with a grooved steel blade over forty centimeters long. Despite being largely useless in modern combat, armies stubbornly persisted in issuing such anachronisms. He drew it from the scabbard, snapped it on the end of the barrel, and slung the rifle over his shoulder.
The mosquitos circled in the distance and descended, probably attracted by the corpses of his comrades. That would give Hartmann a little time. He grabbed a greatcoat and a couple of blankets lying on the back seat.
Hartmann carried these to the cave. Gathering broken, thorny branches from the dead tree, he quickly piled them up in a semi-circle in front of the mouth of the cave and spread the garments over the desiccated wood.
He raced back to the car. It still carried two full jerrycans, one stowed in a recess under the dashboard and another lashed onto one of the rear fenders. Each held twenty liters of gasoline. He lugged the steel containers over and splashed their contents on the clothing and wood, thoroughly soaking them.
Then Hartmann sat inside the cave, working quickly and pausing only to light what he grimly knew would probably be his last cigarette.
Anguish over his slain comrades roiled inside him; weighed down with guilt, tormented by the feeling that as their leader he had somehow failed them. But he had to suppress these raw emotions for now. His mind had to be clear and sharp.
Night fell. A full moon had already risen, casting a pale, eerie gleam across the dark, desolate landscape. He extracted rounds from an MP40 magazine to reload his pistol magazines. The rifle he propped against the cave wall.
The swarm had taken to flight again. They headed straight for him now, homing in on him, their keen senses detecting fresh prey, fresh blood.
Hartmann's throat was parched; he swallowed the last drops from his canteen. Drawing in a deep lungful of smoke, he let it out with a long hiss. He was ready. Let the bastards come.
He stepped outside, Walther in hand. As his inhuman foes flew in he took a last puff and flicked the cigarette onto the greatcoat, the glowing tip spraying sparks. Bright, orange flames leaped high with a sudden whoosh as it caught fire and he flinched when the blast of heat hit his face. Black, oily smoke billowed up.
Hartmann doubted this would drive off the mosquitos, but all creatures feared fire and it might make them a little cautious at least. Delay the inevitable.
The insects circled outside the fire, buzzing angrily. Aiming carefully, he shot down three, reloaded, and brought down two more. One fell into the fire and Hartmann coughed at the reek as it crackled and burned.
The Walther was empty; he drew the Webley. The revolver bucked as he sent .38 slugs smashing through heads and abdomens, but as the fire burned low the mosquitos became more daring. They darted in, using their proboscides like lances. Hartmann dropped the pistol, snatched up the Lee-Enfield, and backed into the cave – he could not let them surround him.
Using the rifle like a pike he fended off those hovering at the entrance. He jabbed one in the eye with the bayonet and it retreated; he skewered another through the thorax and it dropped to the ground writhing in its death throes. A third he smashed against the wall of the cave with the rifle butt.
The rest withdrew and patiently waited for their chance to strike, staring at him with their soulless black eyes. It was only a matter of time. Hartmann could not keep them at bay forever. He would eventually tire and they would make their move. Finish him.
Their buzz was suddenly drowned out by the thunderous roar of heavy-weapons fire. A hurricane of bullets and shells cracked past, blasting mosquitos apart in explosions of yellow blood. The shooting continued until every insect was destroyed. Then silence. Ears ringing, Hartmann warily peered through the smoke of the dying fire.
Three heavily-armed trucks sat on the trail, etched against the moonlit sky. The bearded soldiers were white, but dressed in Arab headdresses, shorts, and sandals. When they glimpsed Hartmann in the feeble firelight the muzzle of a 20-millimeter Breda anti-aircraft gun swung down and pointed straight at him.
The savage euphoria of still being alive, the adrenalin rush of combat, was replaced by cold, sober realization. Hartmann had survived but his war was over. He bitterly threw his rifle down, raised his hands above his head, and stepped out to surrender.
One of the LRDG patrolmen strode up to Hartmann and roughly searched him, patting him down and turning out his pockets. He plucked out Hartmann's paybook and handed it to a captain.
The captain did not even glance at it. "Let's get the hell out of here before more of those bloody things show up."
Hartmann did not have to be told twice when ordered into one of the trucks. He could hear droning in the distance.
VENOM
Michael McBride
