“It’s just a simple mopping up.”
Commander Pierce looked over the squad. Four bane spiders, two crabs, and two Fortunatas. Byron Davies twirled his helmet on his finger, impatient to get this over with.
Pierce continued, “Ops 75 went through, which means they left a shitload behind.”
There were some snorts of derision. 75 was noted for ignoring flanks and rear.
Byron said, as the Wolf Spider, the leader of the squad, “What are we up against, Commander?”
“Hell if I know. You know Batty; he’s chronically late with reports. We just don’t want anything rising up out of that warehouse. You all got it?”
They all gave some sort of acknowledgement in return.
They went into the warehouse, fanning out to look for booby traps or other snipers in hiding. Byron was paired up with the Fortunata Donna, who had been sleeping with him. He didn’t like her that much, in bed or out of it. As usual, she was bitching.
“You know, it’s usually the girl who has trouble putting out, so I don’t know what your problem is. I mean, really, you’re allways too tired to do it – that’s just a copout. Because I know you want it–”
“Will you shut up and check around–”
But she was going on and on, even as the beast attacked from the rafters above.
It was dark, and slammed into him like a train, tearing at his helmet and arm. It tore off his armor at the left shoulder – he fleetingly thought he should have gotten that fixed a long time ago. It sunk its teeth into the meat and bone of his shoulder, crushing his shoulder and tearing out a good pound of flesh.
Byron screamed, and grabbed a hold of the beast’s black fur – yes, fur. He tried to tug it off, and then something pushed them both to the floor, holding them there. He tried to shove the creature off of him, but it held fast. He grabbed a hold of its face – it was a wolf.
“Let it go, you dumbass!” yelled Donna, “So I can get a clear shot!”
He wanted to tell her to use her damn mind abilities and not the revolver, when he heard the sound of a gun very close by. The creature in his arms jerked back, and when it did, Byron let go. There was more gunfire, and Byron, training kicking in to kill the immediate pain, rolled onto the torn-up shoulder and behind a crate.
Panting, he saw as the creature was dancing from being shot at by a machine gun. He watched it go down, heard the thud, and the clink of copper jackets on cement. Byron peered from behind the crate, and his helmet registered the other person as a friendly, before he recognized the signature.
“Morse, you fuckhead! You could have killed me!”
“I knew what I was doing,” said Morse in his cold manner, walking up to the creature and unloading a full cartridge into the creature’s head. There was nothing left of that now.
“Fuck you, you did – ”
“Oh, shut the fuck up and go to the fucking surgeon, ya damn baby!” Morse said, whirling around and pointing the gun at Byron. Even though Byron was the leader of the squad on paper, it didn’t mean he was the leader in the field. Morse often was.
Donna was laughing.
Byron tore off his helmet the minute he got outside. He climbed into the truck and that was when the pain hit. He lay his head back against the edge of the truck, fighting back tears of pain and anger and coming down from the adrenaline rush.
“You all right, sir?” came the voice of the driver.
“No, no, I’m not fucking all right.”
“Need me to bring you back to the –”
“Where’s the first aid kit?” He finally got the nerve to look at his shoulder. It was bitten down to the bone, the clavicle snapped into pieces. A good chunk was taken out of it.
The grunt came into the truck and, in the dim light, bandaged what he could. Blood seeped through it almost as soon as he put the bandage on.
It seemed forever until his squad came out of the building, Morse leading them. Byron glared as Morse took off his helmet, shaking his head of sweat. “Not back at the fort?”
“It’s my duty to wait for my squad,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Heh,” Morse said, climbing in. One of the crabs sat next to Byron, and the crab leg came down, its point precariously close to Byron’s shoulder. They hit a bump, and everyone jumped, including Byron, who was impaled for a moment on the claw. He refused to howl in agony, and instead swallowed it with a grunt. He took deep breaths while the crab merely grinned a stupid grin at him, keeping the leg just where it was. Byron tore it out, taking bandages with him, and the wound bled again.
They were at the fort, and they all piled out, leaving Byron to negotiate with a now useless left arm. The driver was kind enough to get him out, though he walked on his own power to the infirmary.
There, they worked on him without anesthesia, resetting the bone. He got to wear a brace, but he was back on duty the next day. He didn’t want Morse getting the upper hand of his squad.
The squad, because of an injury, was then assigned to a boring patrol in St. Martial the next day, expected to be that way for the next month. Byron fought what he considered a fever, and Donna did nothing to help him. Morse, in fact, punched him in the shoulder every chance he got.
They were sixty yards from the fort, milling around Vanguard, when Donna started in on him again, this time in public, and she leaned over to Morse. “You know, I really think Byron’s a faggot.”
“Why do you say that, dear?” Morse asked, leaning over to her, and pointedly looking at her cleavage.
“He can’t get it up.” She turned to Morse. “I bet you can get it up.”
“Oh, I can get it up,” Morse said. He looked at her and licked his lips.
Byron wasn’t angry at Donna’s blatant flirting. In fact, part of him wanted her to just leave him alone. He was more mad at both Morse and Donna, constantly putting him down. He did admit to himself that he wasn’t attracted to Donna – not attracted to any of the female Fortunatas. But the male widows…
“He ain’t saying nothin’,” said a crab. “You a faggot, boy?”
Byron whirled on the crab. “What did you call me?”
“Faggot.”
Morse, by this time, was opening feeling Donna up. The rest of the crabs gathered around, watching, their legs twitching in excitement.
“I’m not a faggot,” Byron said, but no one was listening to him. They were all watching Donna.
“You can’t do this to your bitch?” said Morse, making Donna moan and her helmet slipped off. Her face was in ecstacy. How much of it was real or fake, he didn’t know, but that was the end of it. He started to shake with rage, his lips drew back from his teeth. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He fell to his knees, pain coursing through his body. He felt bones snap, reform, his face seemed to get bigger, larger. His whole body was stronger. He could hear the tearing of clothing. He could smell the sweat of the men and the sex of the woman before him. He could hear things clearly, and when he looked up, he saw the man and the woman, and knew they had to die.
With a roar, he launched up on powerful legs, and grabbed the woman. She screamed, but it soon came out as a gurgle as his powerful jaws bit through her fragile throat, tearing it and her windpipe out.
“Holy fuck!”
“Kill it, you shithead!”
He heard guns loaded, and the world moved in slow motion, but he was faster, much faster. Arachnos training kicked in, as he dodged the bullets, though one hit his leg. He felt the bone shatter, but he could still run. Another clipped his ear. So many whizzed by him. He thought they were on semi-automatic with the slowness of the bullets.
He ran off into the woods of St. Martial.