They That Bite and Devour Pt.3

The Finale to my Sci-Fi Military Short Story

Summer is all but stuffed in a box and put in the attic at this point. My summer Sci-Fi reading didn’t check off too much from the ole To Read Pile, but I did complete my reread of DUNE and the two sequels. I’d read them previously, but I wanted to reread them before pushing through the last three. I also wanted to consider them in light of the recent DUNE movies that have come out since. I’ll record some thoughts for a future newsletter, I think.

I also checked off a bunch of old sci-fi kindle books that have been sitting around unread for years. Some didn’t suit me in the moment and were reshelved for a later attempt, others failed to grip me and were deleted. It’s rough out there for free and .99 cent scifi, y’all.

Which is why I’m thankful to you for reading and sending your comments about They That Bite and Devour. Speaking of which, here’s the grand finale of the first draft. [If you want to read or reread the previous installments, click HERE for Part One and click HERE for Part Two.]

The final section will take six minutes and twenty nine seconds to read.

III.

And in the shadow of the valley's glower,
in that final desperate hour,
destroy them, they that bite and devour.

In the following days we found nothing but the husks of bug camps, long evacuated before we came. It could go like this for weeks, tracking back and forth, scurrying one way and stalking back, each side planting traps, planning ambush, plotting blood. Then we heard a launch nearby, just before dusk. 

A hex squad can set up shop or be gone in an hour. Theyd pack up, descend from their perch, and look for another launchsite, while scouts and sentries poke about for Ranger Elites.

Our purple had waned, so we found a vuxberry vine and repainted ourselves as the sun went down. Tiger stripes, livid cuts and old scars were our colors. We felt hidden in blood, humping and thumping, hunting our prey.

Losing his toe had made Freshie quiet. Most times after that dugbugs made you squirrelly entering water, but not Freshie. He entered the water like an old lover, firm, smooth, and knowing. 'I paid my tax,' he said as his scouting took him into a murky soup.

We called him Taxman once he got his first kill. It happened a week earlier, a scuffle of undergrowth, a jungle quiet that signaled movement, a scrabble that could be feet or wind. But then Freshie found a boot print by a hole. He signaled Thick Cakes. It was near a tree, next to a soupy pool, mud, sludge, sticks, and stones.

Bugs often build hidey-holes near swamp to hide their tracks. They'd inflate a tiny dome and listen for Ranger Elites splashing through. Easy kills and clean-ups, just shove the corpses into the muck and burrow back in. 

Not this time. A nod from Cakes and Freshie pulled a pin. The flashbang was slung up the asshole of earth. A deep whump lifted the swamp before it began to sink into a new found pit. Freshie waited until he saw the churn and stir of a Bug kicking free of mudgrip.

When the hand broke free, Freshie shot it, flicking three fingers into the black gravy. A scream bubbled up, then a head emerged, flinging wet clods. Freshie shot him thrice more, shoulder, chest, and forehead, the last shot scattering brains ten feet into the jungle.

Thick Cakes spat and smiled. 'There might be one more that knows how to hold his breath.'

Soon enough another Bug tried to slither out, thinking enough time had passed. 'Make him pay,' Thick Cakes said as brown slop began to stir. Pfap, pfap, pfap went Freshie's gun.

'Taxman,' We declaimed quietly when we joined them. The bodies were stripped, plundered, and slid back into the muck. Thick Cake whispered and mimed the kills. Taxman sat back relieved that death had obeyed his hand this time. We all knew, someday Death will bite the hand that feeds, but not that day.

Earlybird determined the direction of the outpost. They were close, our victims, our rivals in jungle. Though the darkness hid them, though they were clothed in quiet violence, we would find them. We would kill them. We would feast upon the memories of their pain.

Unless they first found us. 

It was unthinkable until the moment they did. A shot rang out and we were painted with the blood and bones of Thick Cakes. With the sound of a cracking coconut, and as wet, the bullet cast the skull like a handful of dice to the dirt.

When we die, we are ignored. Our deaths do not come with the luxury of attention. We die and the moments careen past us, life quickens, time is instant, everything happens together. Our companions lose us for minutes, hours, days, and years for the shock of death kicks us into action. 

Thick Cakes fell, hollowed out by sniper shot. Three bullets more than his life required hit as the door of his body slammed shut upon the earth. His story was left lying at our boots until more death lay scattered about him.

'Sniper!' hissed Str. Gage. We dove whichway as treebark fletched and scattered in sabre fire. Gage stumbled forward and gave his final order. 'Damn it,' he said and died.

Gunners chainsawed the trees above us, hunkering us down, our faces were sticky and wet with the sap raining down from the wounded trees. We were pinned in a loose semi-circle, Thick Cakes dead at our heels.

When the onslaught ceased, Wicks angled an eye to find the sniper. The barrel of his gun sparked and wrinkled and then his hand caught metal. His intricate hand went abstract, liquid, jagged, and limp. He bit off his scream, shook loose a finger, and slumped beneath a barrier log. Unkle lunged and crawled along a ridge of earth to him. Huddled together, Unkle bandaged Wick's wound. 

To keep us prone, sabre shot would spit through some tree. Once the morphynal kicked in, Wicks gave his council. 'Shooters have us locked down and they have dimmers, so no locating them by shot fire.'

'Listen and kill,' muttered Unkle.

'We have to move their eyes, then take them out,' Taxman said. 

We looked to Premie, the only snipe now that Wicks was a lefty. 'I need one window,' he said. 'And one shot.' We nodded. We were deadly serious.

Earlybird, now the ranking officer, took charge. 'It's a four man squad, two on sabres, one sniper, one with the hexblade.'

'The angle of attack,' said Barnyard examining our meager cover, 'Means theyre up. Maybe thirty feet.'

'Forty five feet up is standard launch specs,' said Unkle.

'That makes it a Quercus tree theyre in,' said Wicks. His eyes were closed as the stone of pain was rolled away. 'West facing limb.'

Domer forces would be to the west. It made sense. Wicks knows a thing.

'Snipe wont be with the squad,' Earlybird said. 'Nearby, but could be higher, could be lower.'

Wicks thinks he knows a thing.

'And the hex will be on its way out,' Taxman added. 'So we have to hurry.'

'I aint gonna say uncle,' said Unkle

Hex squads were equipped with gliders for fast escape once the rig was unbolted and the missiles were packed. Gliding off would give their position away, but better than being caught and killed.

'Okay,' said Earlybird with such grit in his voice that our hearts roared. 'I'll draw fire. Kill the sabres,' he said looking to Barnyard and Taxman on either side of him. Then he looked at Premie. 'And find the snipe.'

'No wait!' said Unkle too late. Earlybird rotated from behind his tree, gun first, and fired in the direction of our attackers. The response was immediate. Earlybird fell, spun back by the sniper's shot to his shoulder, and then a hail of sabre fire pulped his tree.

Barnyard and Taxman slung a wild net of metal into the mist of the jungle. Wicks stayed hidden and listened to the return fire. Seconds had lapsed, but a stutter of sabre shot signaled a kill. Barnyard and Taxman sank back. Unkle hauled himself to Earlybird.

'Got one!' called Taxman.

'Did you locate the snipe, Premie?' Earlybird held a wad of bandage to the gap in the meat of his shoulder. Unkle uncapped a syringe and stabbed Earlybird's thigh.

At the far edge of the semi-circle, isolated from the others, Premie nodded, his eyes still closed. 'I got him. I just need one shot.'

'Alright,' said Barnyard. 'I'll go.'

'Goddammit,' said Unkle. 'Hold up a moment.' From his position he could reach the boot of Thick Cakes. He was able to unlace his boot and tug it off without exposing himself. Unkle nodded to Premie. 'I toss it to you, Barny pops, then you swing out.'

'That will get his eyes wagging,' said Taxman.

'Let's make them wait,' Premie said.

The night had fully fallen. The stars waxed full. A late wind went screaming through the trees, but the animal calls did not come out. Like the jungle was holding her breath. 'The snipe will have put on his noculars,' noted Wicks.

'A mistake,' Unkle mused. 'One shot. Ready?' One-Shot nodded.

Barnyard and Taxman set their feet. Unkle tossed the boot toward One-Shot. Barnyard and Taxman popped and sprayed fire. The boot tumbled in air. One-Shot leaned out and fired. The boot hit dirt. Barnyard and Taxman threw themselves down. One-Shot remained standing.

'I told you,' said One-Shot. 'One shot.'

We confirmed the kills and drank in death. Relief mixed with bravado, sorrow, and wrath. We returned to our dead. Str. Gage was stiff against a tree, looking as disgruntled and grim as ever, and Thick Cakes, face down, seemed to be hugging the earth. One foot was bare and his toes were black. Five shiny dugbugs, dead and long ago affixed to his feet.

---

Song of the Ranger Elites

Rangers, bring down the mighty from their tower.
Elites, make the enemies howl and cower.
Feed them defeat, metal and sour.
Let them taste our terrible power.
In firebomb and acid-flower,
Rain down death and deadly shower.
And in the shadow of the valley's glower,
in that final desperate hour,
destroy them, they that bite and devour.

---

In the next newsletter I’ll make my final comments about writing this story. I’d love to hear your feedback and even your blurbs for the story.

Starting in October I’ll attempt to write 31 odd micro fiction stories. I call it Oddtober. I assume all of you have read Oddly Concerning (a collection from a previous year) that’s available for F R E E on Amazon. I also assume you’ve read Widdershins, my newsletter exclusive book that you can get HERE. Last year, we could not muster the uncanny energies to participate, but this year Hope runs… slightly higher. We’ll see.

After October, I’ll be serializing a ghost story. It’s spooooky and romantic, just like you fine folks. Thanks for the love.