Friday Fiction: Invasion

More fiction from my crazy World War II universe made famous (infamous) in World at War: Revelation. This is not so much an excerpt as it is a sketch. The next novel in the series is Retribution. It'll release this summer, and is set immediately after the original. This short tale falls chronologically after Retribution and a continent away. 

Invasion

Lightning flashed, but no breeze stirred the still air. The atmosphere’s light show exploded on the southern horizon, and the accompanying thunder following seconds later, underlining its power. The night was warm, but not unnaturally so. Florida’s autumn was always warm, the days nice for sunning on the beach, the evenings perfect for the tourists to dance at the many seaside dance clubs. There wasn’t much dancing now; not since the missiles.

Katarina didn’t care either way. She wasn’t here to dance, not tonight. She was here to kill, to kill her kinds’ sworn enemy, a Lycan. She had tracked this Lycan since nightfall, not that its tracking took great skill. The beast had blown through the land like a tornado, leaving a trail of blood and destruction in its wake. A trail that would first devastate, but then galvanize, the humans it touched. Such brash displays of power were becoming more common and it concerned Katarina. It was these displays that would lead to their destruction. Not just the Lycans, but also her kind, because if their existence became known to the human race, even this wounded and greatly diminished human race, they would be hunted to extinction. So she hunted the hunter. Not because she cared the slightest for the humans it killed, but to save her kind—the vampires.

Of course Katarina didn’t need an excuse to kill a Lycan. She hated Lycans. They were dirty, they were crude, they were little more than beasts. And that made the tracking easy. Once more the lightning burst on the horizon. Strange lightning. Overhead the full moon bathed southern Florida in milky light.

She had tracked the Lycan through rural Florida, inland from the coast, the endless fields interrupted by the occasional farmhouses, inhabited by poor folks chained to a life of growing tobacco, beans, and corn. They were even poorer now, their crops struggling against the radioactive rains brought by missiles, weakened and stunted.  Some were worse than poor. Some were dead.

This was Yeehaw Junction. That what the green sign said. That was five minutes ago, and what had been easy had suddenly turned hard. Yeehaw Junction was dark, the town—if that indeed was what this widening of the road could be called—was dark. There was a gas station, Esso to be exact, a small, wooden general store, the sign over the double doors read Abby’s Store. The station was closed for the night, but the doors glowed softly, illuminated from within. Kat crept across the wooden porch that fronted the store. In the near distance a whippoorwill hooted, under her foot a board creaked. She froze. Somewhere nearby a dog had defecated, the rich fetid aroma turning her stomach. She hated dogs, hated wolves, hated Lycan. They stunk.

At the doors now, Kat saw that light emanated from the drink cooler against the far wall of the store. The light as pale and cold as the Lycan’s trail. After wantonly killing, cutting a swath through southern Florida, the killing had stopped here. But why?

Just past the gas station squatted a low, square building, an empty flag pole in front. She darted between the two buildings. Thunder boomed, the horizon flashed. The squat building was a post office, fronted with windows, unbroken windows. Florida remained remarkably normal. Not like Washington, not like New York, not even like Philadelphia. Especially not like Philadelphia. The thought of the city, its tin horn dictator, and her unfinished business with him rushed through her mind, like a storm wind. One day. One freaking day. She swore she would kill him. No, she corrected herself, better than kill him, she would drain him of every drop of his precious blood and tear him asunder.

But that was the future, and this was the present, and despite the cold trail she was sure this hunt wasn’t over. She crouched at the corner of the post office now. Across the gravel road stood several trailers, homes for the poor. Light leaked from an occasional window. No sign of the Lycan, none of the screams or the trail of blood that had marked its passage through previous communities. Katarina dashed through the trailers, avoiding the lit windows, frequently stopping to listen, but hearing nothing. And then she saw it.

The trailer park ended, leading into a field of tall weeds, a field bordered by a thick stand of pine trees, and on the edge of those trees, two red eyes peered at Katarina. She crouched and reached for the 9mm Glock holstered on her thigh. In one fluid motion, she dropped the magazine from the butt, checked to ensure its nine, sliver-tipped bullets were seated properly, and snapped it home.

Like a shadow she sped through the weeds, lower than their tops, yet moving fast. She stopped once to look for the eyes. They were gone, but she ran on, sure she would find them soon enough. And find them she did.

In the woods, darker now, insects quiet, always a sign a predator was about. She moved slowly, low, eyes sweeping left, right, up and down, her Danner-clad feet silent on the forest’s bed of pine needles, the Glock raised and ready. She was not afraid; she was of the clan, fast, powerful, almost immortal, but not as fast as the Glock, nor as deadly as a silver-tipped bullet. Katarina had no doubt she could kill any one Lycan she met, but two or three of the beasts? She liked those odds better with a Glock in her hand.

Ahead a clearing. Pale moonlight illuminating logs arranged in a circle around a now-cold pit. Strange stuff. Perhaps a hunter’s laager? Perhaps something else. She squatted in the brush on the edge. Waiting, listening, but hearing nothing. No, not nothing. In the distance the rumble continued—a shuddering, rhythmic rumble. The rumble tickled the back of her brain. Something about both the rhythm and the shudder was wrong. Like a word on the tip of the tongue or a familiar face, unnamed. Thoughts for another time, she scolded herself. There was only room for one thought now. How to track and kill this Lycan—only that thought mattered. Cautiously she stepped into the clearing and to the logs arranged like seats. Large, claw-like scratches marked the logs, and beside them paw prints on the sandy Earth.  Then came the Lycans.

The first leapt from the towering White Pine on the opposite of the clearing. It made no noise, no howl, no scream of rage, no sound whatsoever. Lycans killed thus—without warning, without sound. But Katarina wasn’t a normal kill. Her senses—heightened with the blood of the clan, heightened by 400-years of experience, heard the creak of the pine bough as the Lycan flexed its legs before the jump. She smelled the beast when it launched. Lycans really, freaking stunk.

Katarina somersaulted toward the leaping Lycan, and it flew over her head, unable to change its trajectory, landing on all fours in the fire pit’s ashes, kicking up a small gray cloud, ready to resume its attack. Katarina’s Glock cracked twice and the Lycan was ready no more. The beast fell back, its skull splintered by the 9mm, silver-tipped rounds.

Three more dropped from the trees, two to her front and one behind. These Lycan were not quiet. They roared, enraged by the death of the first. She fired twice more. Both bullets striking flesh and fur—damaging, but not killing. And then they were on her. She spun, delivering a vicious roundhouse kick to the Lycan behind her, knocking it on its back, but inflicting no serious damage. She dropped to one knee facing the pair of charging Lycan to her front. Grabbing the fur of the first, she used its momentum and body weight to throw it over her head, then before the second could strike, she rolled out of its way. Like a cat she was on her feet ready to attack, but so were her assailants. They closed warily, two moving to outflank her, as the third approached her from the front. Her Glock lay in the ashes beside the fire pit, lost in the scuffle. This fight would be decided up close and personal. She didn’t like the odds, but then again she wasn’t afraid of them either. Like them or not it was clear to her why they were what they were. It was a trap. The young Lycan had sown is trail of blood to lead her here, lead her to her death.

She backed to the edge of the clearing, wary of the two Lycan circling her, studying her foe to the front. He was obviously the alpha--a male, taller and more muscular than the others, a bit of gray speckling his muzzle. His amber irises shone in the moonlight, the narrowed pupils flicking from her to the other Lycans. The three moved slowly, cautiously. In the distance the thunder boomed, its muttering power nearly continuous. The air was thick with the wet dog smell of the Lycan. The two flankers were no more than ten meters distant, on opposite sides of her, and the Alpha stood twenty meters to her front. He lifted his paw, the fingers tipped with talon-like claws, and the flankers stopped.

Katarina snarled. “What’s the matter, doggie? You afraid?” 

The Alpha gave no sign of understanding, although she knew he did. The werewolves didn’t lose their human intelligence when transformed. The Lycan could understand human speech as well as she. The werewolf tilted its head, a curious attitude, one of thought, or one of attention. The beast had no fear of her. Of that Katarina was sure. Three to one odds favored them heavily, and the equalizer--the Glock-- lay in the ashes behind the Alpha. He had not stopped the pack from fear. And then she heard it. Almost hidden by the mumbling thunder, the buzz of a plane’s engine reached her ears. No not a single plane, this was much louder, the drone of many planes’ engines. Right on top of them, hidden by the mumbling thunder, which she realized wasn’t thunder after all. It was something she had heard many times in the past few months--in Germany, in Belgium, in France, but never in America. It was artillery, distant artillery. 

And then the first paratrooper appeared.

The soldier was a very, very unlucky man. The paratrooper floated from the sky into the clearing. Katarina wasn’t an authority on military tactics, but she guessed that dropping paratroopers into a copse of woods wasn’t a good idea. That meant that this man had scattered, and that meant he was as good as dead. He descended quickly, his hands gripping the straps connecting his parachute to his harness. Above him the chute was large and full of air. He hit the ground hard, rolling as he did so, standing almost immediately, working the D-rings that held his chute to his harness. For the briefest of moments the four watched, surprised by the man's sudden appearance. But the watching was only for a heartbeat, maybe two, and then the nearest Lycan attacked.

The wolf was one of the pair that had been attempting to outflank her. Its blood was up, primed for the kill, and the soldier hadn’t a chance. The Lycan leapt, the soldier screamed, and then the beast was on him, rolling the human on the ground, biting, and slashing, the paratrooper’s chute billowing and snapping behind the two, dragging them slowly across the ground. The second flanker ran to help, jumping on the parachute, spilling the breeze from it.

The entire sequence of events—from the appearance of the paratrooper until the second Lycan’s collapsing its chute--had taken no more than ten seconds, but in that time Katarina had edged slowly toward her Glock, half-buried in the ashes to the side of the Alpha. She was careful, quiet, and slow, but not careful, quiet or slow enough. The Alpha, who had forgotten himself for the briefest of moments, noticed her movement and attacked. At least that was his plan. Fangs barred, eyes bloody red, he turned to Katarina, and then another paratrooper fell through the night, and another, and another, and then three more smashed into the trees surrounding the clearing. One of the younger Lycans ran to kill the second, the Alpha hesitated, his eyes sweeping the night sky, and Katarina, sure this would be her only chance, sprung. Her leap carried her over the Alpha, and she landed in a cloud of gray dust beside the Glock. The wolves were shredding the second paratrooper now, and the Alpha was nearly on her again, but the Glock was cold in her hand. She squeezed the trigger twice. The first bullet smashed into the Lycan’s shoulder, but with supernormal reflexes, the Lycan dropped beneath the second, and buried its shoulder into Katarina’s chest, sending her flying. He landed on top of her, his mouth’s hot saliva dripping on her face. Time slowed, the yellow fangs centimeters from her face, the fetid breath gagging her. The Alpha sat on her stomach, pinning her arms with his massive paws.

Another man screamed—a guttural noise that abruptly ended. A Lycan roared, and a rifle barked, one, twice, three times, and the roar ceased.

“Sacarlo de su!” 

Spanish? She thought, but not a Spanish accent. An automatic rifle chattered, She heard the bullets strike the Alpha like a spatula slapping dry wall, knocking the beast off of her, spilling its blood on her t-shirt. The Alpha hit and rolled, injured, maybe even seriously injured, but not dead, with a snarl it leapt to its feet, backhanding a soldier rushing to aid Katarina. Katarina jumped to her feet and more bullets popped in the clearing. Thankfully, none seemed to be aimed at her. The soldiers, she counted four still standing, were firing at the Alpha. The two younger Lycan lay in pools of blood, as did at least four or five paratroopers.

The Alpha sprinted into the surrounding woods, the soldiers’ bullets humming through the air, raising geysers about its feet, trimming leaves from nearby trees, but none hitting the blazingly fast Lycan.

A man, tall, swarthy and muscular, barked orders—again in Spanish and Katarina knew. In 400 years, she had traveled most of the world, learned to speak many of its languages, and could place an accent within a hundred miles of its origins. This man spoke Spanish, but he wasn’t from Spain, not Mexico, but even closer. The man was Cuban.

His soldiers responded to the orders rapidly, two of the men keeping their rifles trained on the woods, while the other checked the wounded soldiers and dead Lycans. The checking lasted but a second before the soldier yelped in surprise. Katarina knew what had happened. The dead Lycans, unable to sustain the magic that transformed then, had returned to human form. Nor did she intend to find out what the soldiers would think when they noticed the damsel they had rescued had swirling blue eyes, not to mention the incisors that dimpled her lower lip. With the Cubans momentarily distracted, Katarina launched herself into the woods and was gone.

Mark H. Walker served 23 years in the United States Navy, most of them as an Explosive Ordnance Disposal diver. He is the owner of Flying Pig Games, the designer of the aliens-invade-Earth game Night of Man, the author of Desert Moon, an exciting mecha, military science fiction novel with a twist, with plenty of damn science fiction in it despite what any reviewer says, as well as World at War: Revelation, a creepy, military action, with a love story, alternate history, World War Three novel thing, Everyone Dies in the End, and numerous short stories. All the books and stories are available from Amazon Kindle Direct Publishing right here. Give them a try. I mean, what the hell? The games? Well that's Flying Pig Games. Retribution will release in the summer of 2015.