Bigfoot War 3: Food Chain (9 page)

Wally let her lead him back deeper into The Bunker as the last of the convoy drove up out of the garage into the sunlight above.

* * *

Lieutenant Charlie Beckham felt like he should be sweating from the hurried journey and the blazing midday sun above, but the Wolf’s internal cooling systems kept him comfortable and the suit itself did most of the work. All of the Mark I and Mark II Wolves formed a battle line in the center of a wide clearing. The pair of Mark III
mechs
were invisible, somewhere in the trees, in positions that flanked them on opposite sides of the clearing. Commander
Weger
wasn’t with them. He had stayed with the soldiers and militiamen half a mile behind at their fallback point. If things went south for Beckham’s unit of
mechs
,
Weger
and his men’s position would serve as a rally point with them, providing cover fire for Beckham’s unit to regroup. Of course, if it got that bad, things were likely lost already.

Each of the Mark I Wolves carried a massive, high-velocity cannon that fired fifty armor-piercing rounds in a single shot at the rate of two such bursts per second. They would be the first to hit the beasts at a distance. The Mark II
mechs
were armed with rapid-fire rail guns that lacked the Mark I weapon’s range though they were equally as deadly. The Mark III
mechs
being designed for stealth and closed-in combat would be held in reserve until the beasts reached the firing line. If the beasts got through the staggering amount of firepower raging against them, the Mark III
mechs
would swoop in, cutting a swathe of carnage through their ranks with their swords and fists to give the other Wolf units a chance to retreat. It was a simple plan, but a good one.

Beckham’s Mark I lumbered into the center of the line as its sensors informed him the beasts were about to enter the clearing and come into weapons’ range for the Mark I units.

“Guns up, gentlemen,” he said to those around him. “Let’s give them hell!”

Beckham’s targeting scope whirred into place atop his Wolf’s right arm as the beasts burst forth from the trees, charging towards him and his squad. He let the suit’s AI pick his targets for him and braced himself for the massive cannon’s recoil. The horde of beasts was so large Beckham wondered if every Sasquatch in the entire south had come for them. He squeezed the cannon’s trigger and the battle began with the earthshaking sonic booms of the combined fire of the Mark I units. Beckham’s burst tore three beasts to shreds in an explosion of bone fragments and gore. The cannons of the other two Mark I
mechs
thundered in rapid succession alongside his own. Only the sound suppression system of his Wolf spared him from being made permanently deaf.

The entire clearing shook on his view screen as round after round cycled into his cannon to be discharged in a blast of flame and flying lead. The beasts fell in waves. One monster’s lower torso and legs danced around wildly before teetering over to its final resting place, its upper half completely vaporized by a dead-on hit from his cannon. The Mark II Wolves opened up, their rail guns chattering and spraying spent shell casings that glowed orange from their own heat into the grass. A beast wailed as a stream of rounds struck its chest and cut a path of bloodied, torn meat to its head before its skull splattered like a blood-filled water balloon. Hundreds of twitching corpses and wounded beasts littered the ground of the clearing so thick the waves of incoming beasts behind them were forced to wade through them. Still more of the monsters came roaring forward. Smoke and the smells of fresh blood and burning hair filled the air. Beckham’s cannon clicked empty. He tossed it aside, shifting his Wolf into a boxer’s stance. The other Mark I Wolves followed suit.

This is where it really gets ugly
, Beckham thought as the last of the Mark II
mechs
finished out their ammo belts as well.

The beasts closed the distance left between them and the firing line quickly with nothing left to hold them back. Beckham’s Wolf lunged forward to meet a snarling monster on a collision course with it. Its
fist
struck the beast in the face. Bone and cartilage folded up under the force of the blow, sending the creature reeling backwards, leaking blood from its broken nose. He saw the pair of Mark III Wolves emerging from the trees, swords out, slashing wildly at the beasts from their flanks. Beckham realized with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that the Mark III Wolves would never reach them in time to make a difference. They had misjudged the beasts’ speed and will to fight regardless of the losses they suffered.

The right hand of Beckham’s Wolf reached out to crush the skull of a beast in its thick fingers while he shoved another off of him with his left. There were just too many of the monsters though. Two of the beasts plowed into him at once. His massive Mark I suit toppled to the ground as the creatures piled onto it, pounding it over and over with red-smeared knuckles. His view screen went dark as the suit’s power failed and its systems went offline. Beckham bounced inside it as it shook from the fury being vented upon its armor. All he could do now was lay there and wait for the beasts to tear their way in to reach him. He hoped his death would be a quick one and that he wouldn’t be alive as they ate him.

* * *

PFC
Maberry
kicked his Mark III Wolf into high gear, taking a running jump into the ranks of the beasts, knocking several of them to the dirt as he landed. His sword sliced two of the creatures before him in half in one vicious swing. The Wolf’s servos strained as he pushed them to their limits, ducking a hairy fist as it came at his head. Cutting the beast who threw the swing’s legs from underneath it, he watched the beast begin to fall as he spun around to engage three more of them. Already warning lights blinked on his display, urging him to go easier on the Wolf’s systems, but he didn’t have an option. The Mark III suits lacked the heavy armor of their counterparts and a single, powerful blow to the right spot could cost him his life.

PFC
Maberry
lopped off the head of the closest beast as it reached for him. Its body staggered about, hands clutching upwards at the spray of blood where its skull had once been.
Maberry
met the next two beasts head-on. His sword flashed, cutting a hand that grabbed him off the arm it was attached to. The beast jerked back its bloody stump and tried to run from him, crashing into those coming up behind it. Beckham drew back his other hand to deliver a bone-shattering uppercut to the next beast in the unending line of the monsters that was threatening to overwhelm him.

A pack of six of the beasts encircled him as he tried to press forward. PFC
Maberry
checked the icons of the other Wolves on his display screen. His hopes sunk as he saw most of them were already offline and down. He’d failed to reach the firing line in time and the larger
mechs
had paid the price for it. No one had known the beasts would still be so thick in numbers when they closed in and things descended into a hell of close-quarter combat. It was an oversight that was going to cost the whole squad of Wolves their lives. His duty now was to merely stay alive.

“Ed,” he cried over his comm. link to the other Mark III driver. “We’ve got to disengage and make for the rally point!”

“Roger that!” Ed screamed back at him.

Maberry’s
Mark III squatted close to the dirt, putting a good deal of the suit’s power into a single jump. Its mighty legs thrust it into the sky and over the bulk of the beasts’ forward ranks. He hit the ground running. Ed landed several feet from him, but far too close to one of the faster, snarling Bigfoot. With a roar it, it plunged a giant fist into his Mark III’s faceplate.
Maberry
heard the sound of shattering
plexi
-glass and Ed’s pained-filled cries as his Mark III flipped over backwards from the force of the impact. The beasts swarmed over him like the dead tearing at a living body. The active icon of Ed’s suit on his display went dark.

“Damn it,”
Maberry
yelled as he sprinted away from the beasts, heading south where help was supposed to be waiting in the form of Commander
Weger
and his support troops. He made it a total of three steps before one of the warning lights he’d been seeing flared a brighter shade of red and the servos of his Mark III Wolf’s right leg locked up from overheating. His suit went sailing through the air from its own momentum to land with a thud face first on the forest floor.
Maberry
managed to roll over and bring the
mech’s
sword up into the belly of a beast that dove on top of him. Its yellow eyes bugged out as its intestines spilled over the giant blade of his
powersuit
. It grabbed his arm as motors strained against desperate muscles. The beast snarled at him, leaking a mixture of blood and saliva onto his faceplate.
Maberry
rolled again, catching the creature by surprise, and knocked it off of him. He took a swing at it but missed, his blade barely nicking its shoulder, as he tried to get to his feet. A second beast tackled him, its hand ripping power cables from the side of his suit. The damage shorted out the control of his sword arm.

“No!”
Maberry
howled as he grabbed the beast’s head by its fur and smashed his own armored head into its face, crushing the monster’s nose. The beast let go of him, spitting blood and teeth as the remainder of his Wolf’s systems failed one by one. The beast took hold of his dead armor and plunged two of its thick fingers through the glass of his faceplate into
Maberry’s
skull. PFC
Maberry
twitched inside the suit as the beast withdrew its blood-smeared hand and left him where he lay.

* * *

Commander
Weger
had watched it all via the screen of his comm. hook up. He cursed, flinging the small, handheld device aside. “The Wolves are down, boys. It’s up to us now.”

“Is he crazy?” Greg asked Meagan. “If those things took out those suits, how in the world are we supposed to stop them?”

Meagan shook her head as the beasts came tearing through the trees into view. “It’s too late to run,” was all she had time to say before she jerked up her AK-47 to her shoulder and opened fire at the approaching horde.

All of the vehicle-mounted .50 calibers thundered as one, meeting the beasts with their combined firepower and turning their front ranks into something that looked like it leaked from the bowels of a meat grinder. Greg emptied his clip in a continuous stream of automatic fire at the monsters. As he popped it loose to shove a fresh magazine home, the beasts broke through. One monster charged into the men around him. It lifted a soldier from his feet and ripped him in half like a poorly-made doll. The man’s innards flopped from the bottom of his upper half as the beast tossed his two pieces in different directions. Another beast came running at Meagan. She backpedaled, trying to escape its fury. Greg moved to intercept the beast as Meagan put a good twenty rounds into its stomach. Gutted and dying, the monster swatted her into the grass as it closed in.

“Meagan!” Greg shouted helplessly as the thing’s large foot squashed her head into a stain of red goo with jagged bits of white bone, spurting out across the grass. Greg put a burst into the beast as it collapsed onto Meagan’s corpse.

Nearby, a beast yanked a .50 caliber from the rear of a jeep, taking the gunner’s arms with the weapon in the process. Greg’s eyes went wide as he looked up to see the jeep itself flying towards him. Cursing and screaming, he rolled from its path as it smacked into the earth where he’d stood moments before, then bounced on, rolling over and over, before erupting into a mass of flames and shrapnel. Covered in blood, sweat and dirt, Greg hauled himself to his feet as two of the beasts came barreling towards him. He leveled his rifle at them, pulling its trigger tight. He sprayed them both until the faster of the two shoved a fist into his ribs. The beast’s hand emerged from his back as it lifted him up several feet. His rifle dropped from his hands as he struggled to stay conscious. Blood leaked from his mouth in long, wet strands. The sound of gunfire had fallen silent, leaving only the rage-filled cries of the beasts as they continued on in the direction of The Bunker. Greg’s last thoughts were of Anna as his body
spasmed
and wriggled in its death throes on the beast’s arm.

* * *

Bree
flipped off the last monitor. The war room was silent. Wally, Dr. Morrison, and Brad, who had stayed behind to command The Bunker’s remaining soldiers and militiamen, watched her as she took a seat at the table with them.

“How long?” she asked.

“Best guess? They’ll be here in less than an hour.” Brad shook his head and whistled at his own words. “I’d wager the Wolves and the boys cut the size of their forces by more than half, but . . .”