Peter Cawdron - Xenophobia

“But I am magnanimous,” Adan announced, handing his riding whip to one of the soldiers standing next to him. Bower got the feeling the general had given this speech several times before. “I will not send a man to his death unarmed. No, that would not do for sport. I am fair. I am just.”

Adan pulled a revolver from a holster on his hip. He flipped the gun to one side, opening the cylinder block, exposing six chambers.

“Do you see this?” he asked, emptying the bullets into his hand. “This is a 44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world. This handgun could blow your head clean off your shoulders. So, you’ve got to ask yourself one question. ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well, do ya, punk?”

Adan made like he was going to hand the empty gun to Bosco but then tossed it carelessly into the gaping hole. The gun clattered across the concrete, coming to a rest in a pool of fresh blood.

The soldiers roared with laughter.

“I give you a chance, a fair chance. If you can kill the beast, you go free.”

Adan held up a single bullet. He dropped the bullet in Bosco’s outstretched hand as the rebels cheered. Bower could see Bosco weighing the bullet, tossing it slightly in his hand.

“No,” Elvis cried, pushing down on Bower’s shoulder as he straightened up to face Adan. “This is madness.”

Bosco touched him gently on his good shoulder.

“Don’t worry, big guy,” he said, smiling as he clutched the bullet. “I’ll see you in hell.”

One of the soldiers moved up to Bosco, nudging him with his AK-47. Bower could see Bosco thinking, lining up the soldiers training their rifles on him from either side. He was out of options. It was jump or be pushed.

Bosco had no choice. He turned, facing Bower briefly, and winked as he launched himself out across the hole in the floor. Leaping out as far as he could, Bosco fell heavily on the mattresses some twenty feet below, catching them on one side and rolling onto the concrete floor.

Bower was horrified. She watched as Bosco got to his feet. He limped to where the gun lay. Beneath her, the alien creature screamed like a wild animal, thrashing and striking at the concrete. Although she couldn’t see the creature’s body, she could see dark red tentacles moving through the shadows on the edge of the dim light shining into the darkened first floor. The rebels yelled, chanting something in their native tongue.

Bosco had the gun. She could see him loading the pistol, slipping his one bullet into an empty chamber and moving it in place. He cocked the gun and pointed it into the shadows.

He looked calm.

Bower was shaking. She could feel her left leg lifting off the ground as it shook within her boot. An intense sense of fear gripped her mind as the worst of nightmares unfolded before her.

Bosco backed away from the darkness, staying in what little natural light fell through from the upper floor. He was near the mattresses. He spun one way, then another, pointing the gun out straight before him. Bower couldn’t hear the monster over the noise of the rebel troops yelling, but Bosco seemed to be turning based on sound, spinning one way then the other as he hobbled on his wounded leg. For the creature to move that quick must mean it could cover a hundred yards in just seconds, far faster than a man or land animal on Earth.

Bosco pointed his gun down, as though he were aiming at something low to the ground on the other side of the mattresses, and then spun around with the gun thrust out at chest height.

The creature was stalking him, looking for an opening. Like a lion moving through long grass, or a shark circling in murky waters, the alien appeared to be weighing up its options, using the shattered crates and concrete supports for cover as it lurked in the darkness. From what she could see, the monster was trying to disorient Bosco, trying to confuse him.

The alien creature reared up before Bosco in the shadows. Bower couldn’t make out what he was seeing, but he was pointing the gun up at something several feet higher than himself. His feet stumbled on some loose wood as he backed up. Bosco was yelling something to her and Elvis, but she couldn’t hear what he was saying.

Bower saw the shot before she heard it.

The revolver lashed backwards as a flash appeared at the muzzle, then the crack of gunfire echoed throughout the empty factory.

As the gun recoiled, the creature struck.

Hundreds of tentacles lashed out at Bosco, engulfing him, slashing at his clothing and tearing him apart. His body was flung around like a rag-doll. Whips flayed his skin, breaking his bones and shredding his torso. His Kevlar vest was sliced in pieces, while his boots were torn in half, still holding the crushed remains of his feet. Within seconds, there was nothing but bloody gristle where once a man had stood. A dismembered hand lay to one side grasping the revolver.

Bower struggled not to vomit.

The rebel soldiers cheered.

“Two minutes ten,” someone yelled out, and another roar arose from the soldiers.

Bower found herself deeply moved by the sudden violence with which Bosco had died. Was that all life amounted to? She barely knew Bosco, but she knew there had to be so much more to his life. She couldn’t switch off. Although she’d been surrounded by an appalling, senseless loss of life since the attack on the Humvee, she couldn’t ignore what had happened to him. Bosco wasn’t a statistic. Just moments before, he’d been a living, breathing human being, and the stark finality of his sudden, violent death got to her.

Bosco had parents, everyone did, but she wondered how well he got on with them? He probably had brothers and sisters. Were they older or younger? Had they gone into the army as well? Or had they escaped this fate, becoming accountants or nurses, mechanics or shopkeepers. He’d grown up somewhere, bouncing on the knee of a proud grandparent. He’d attended school, probably fallen in love a couple of times, and one fateful day, Bosco had decided to join the army. What had that day been like? Had the sun shone, or was the day grey, with moody clouds passing overhead?

What had drawn Bosco to army life? Was it a sense of adventure, to escape the mundane routines of life? Had it been because his father or his mother, or perhaps an uncle had served with distinction? Had it been for patriotism or pay? And all those he’d met along the way, all those he’d befriended with his wit, what would they ever hear of this? Would they ever learn what happened? Or just that he was MIA: missing in action, presumed dead? Would they ever hear of his courage under fire? How much heartache would news of his death bring?

Bower felt an ache in her chest.

It wasn’t right that life could be snuffed out like a candle.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

“You are next,” Adan said, looking at Elvis.

“No,” Bower cried. “This is wrong. You can’t do this.”

Adan laughed. “Oh, but I can.”

He held two bullets in his hand, between his thumb and his forefinger, holding them up high so the soldiers could see what he was proposing.

Adan yelled, “What do I hear for a double? How long can two of them last? Do I hear four minutes? Is anyone going to take four minutes for the two of them? Do I hear four? Five?”

The rebels cheered and called out in response as the gambling began in earnest, with money rapidly changing hands.

“You sick bastard,” Elvis said, struggling to hold himself upright. Bower could feel him trembling. Even with his shattered arm, lost below the elbow, his bulk made him look formidable, especially as his bulletproof vest stuck out from his chest. His gruff voice sounded resolved, but Bower knew he was as afraid as she was, she could feel adrenalin betraying him. They were going to die.