Taylor Anderson - Into the Storm

“Well done, Captain! You made short work of them!” Garrett exclaimed.

“Thanks, Mr. Garrett. Now let’s check these doors. This compartment must’ve been their wardroom. The doors may lead to officers’ quarters.” He pointed with his bloody sword to another door aft. “That’s the captain’s cabin, I expect.”

The heavy door on the forward bulkhead crashed inward and Grik surged inside, slashing with swords and ravening jaws. The Marines lunged forward with their spears and Gray and Garrett fired.

“God, this is fun!” bellowed Silva, swinging his cutlass like an axe. It caught a Grik right across the bridge of its snout and cleaved almost to its throat. Blood geysered.

“Speak for yourself!” screamed Scott, fumbling with another magazine. Silva hadn’t even tried to reload; there’d been no time. He had no idea where the BAR was now. There were many more Grik belowdecks than they’d expected and they’d jumped into a hornet’s nest. The Marines’ shields were useless-there just wasn’t room-so it degenerated into a melee, as Alden had feared it might. Fortunately, at least the Marines were trained in that to some degree. If they lived, some damn good NCOs would come out of this one. Scott finally locked the thirty-round stick and racked the bolt. Silva ducked. Bra-ba-ba-ba-ba-bap!

“I am speakin’ for myself!” Silva replied, hacking down at a lizard trying to crawl in under the fire. He nearly severed its head and the senseless body leaped straight up and bounced against the overhead, bowling others over when it fell. He laughed. He’d killed a lot in his life, before the War even started. Bar fights and back alleys in China, mostly-although there’d been that pool shark down in Mobile too. Most had it coming, by his definition, though he might have been hasty a time or two. The Japs had it coming, and he guessed he’d killed some of them with his number one gun. But that was a team sport. He’d never killed anybody because he was “good” and they were “bad.” They’d just been “badder” than he was. And sometimes Dennis Silva could be a bad man. But now he felt good because the creatures he killed were indisputably bad. They’d killed Marvaney (he made no distinction) and a bunch of his cat-monkey friends. Mallory said they’d wiped out a place the size of Baalkpan at what ought to be Tjilatjap. Now they were trying to kill him! They were mean and ugly and needed killing by anyone’s definition-and utterly righteous killing had a liberating effect on Dennis Silva. He felt like the big mean dragon in the story that everybody was scared of, who swooped down and ate the evil king. Sometimes it felt good to be “good.”

He almost tripped. Several Grik made a lunge for him, but Marine spears and Alden’s pistol probably saved his life. With a nod, Alden reholstered the pistol and went back to his spear. For an instant Silva watched in admiration as the Marine parried another Grik thrust as simply as swatting a fly and drove his spear into the creature’s belly. It screamed and intestines uncoiled on the deck. That’s one Marine I’m never pickin’ a fight with, he swore to himself. He looked down at what had tripped him. “There’s my gun! Gimme a minute, Tony!”

Bra-ba-ba-bap! Bra-bap!

Silva stabbed his cutlass into a dead Grik to keep it handy and seized the BAR. It was slick with blood and rough with chunks of other things. He slammed in a fresh magazine.

“I’m almost out’a ammo!” gasped Scott. “A and C comp-nees should’a been here by now! If that Nip doesn’t get his ass here quick, even you will be ready to play somethin’ else!”

“Don’t worry, he’ll get here!” Dennis assured him and wondered suddenly why he was so sure. “Stand aside!” Bam-bam-bam!

The Grik “wardroom” was an abattoir by the time they hacked and shot their way through the initial push and managed to secure the door. It had a convenient bar to prevent it from being opened from forward. Matt wondered what that said about Grik discipline? One of his Marines was dead and Garrett’s left arm hung almost useless, blood pattering on the deck to join the deep pool there. Matt wasn’t wounded, but he was splashed with gore and his “ceremonial” sword was notched and bloody. Gray was tying a tourniquet around Garrett’s arm, and the three Marines were wedging pieces of the heavy broken table against the door, which rattled with incessant pounding.

“Quick, let’s check these other rooms!” They looked in both compartments on either side. There were no enemies, but the collections decorating each were disconcerting. Skulls, mostly. Like trophies. One cabin held nothing but rows and rows of clay pots or jars, suspended from the bulkheads by netting. At a glance, they had no idea what was in them, but the stench was overpowering. Maybe they were firebombs and the compartment was a magazine? Gray and one of the Marines guarded the door leading forward. Heavy fighting raged on the other side. It was becoming more intense, and they heard a couple of grenades and more firing. They remained there, watching the rear while Matt, Garrett, and the other two Lemurians checked the final door aft. It was locked from within.

“Stand back,” Matt ordered and nodded at Garrett, who fired two shots into the familiar-looking keyhole below the doorknob. The Marines kicked it open and dashed inside. One fell back immediately, a spear through his chest. A Grik waiting beside the door slashed at the other, missing by the thickness of her fur. Garrett bellowed the first obscenity Matt had ever heard him use and fired directly through the wall. Matt lunged through the doorway and spun, raising his sword. The Grik from beside the door grappled with the remaining Marine, trying to tear out her throat. The one that Garrett had shot slumped to the deck, leaving a red stain on the wall. It was dark in the room, but blurred movement caused him to rush forward, driving his blade through a gaudily dressed Grik. It slashed at him with its claws, but they skated across his steel helmet. He yelled and stabbed it again, driving it backward to sprawl into some chairs behind it. Garrett was suddenly beside him, firing at the Grik where it lay. Together, they turned to the one fighting the Marine, and when it glanced at them with toothy, gape-mouthed astonishment, the little female Marine drove her short-sword into its belly, clear to the hilt.

Matt spun back, looking at something he’d glimpsed as he dashed inside. Seated at a dark, highly polished desk and silhouetted against the gray sea through the windows behind it, a startlingly obese Grik glared at him with intense, unblinking eyes. It was lavishly attired in a shimmering red and black silk-like robe and its fur, or plumage-whatever-was shiny and well groomed. A window was open and the desk was littered with tablets. Perhaps it was throwing things out? It snarled at him and a string of saliva foamed on its yellowed teeth. Without hesitation, it grasped a curved blade from the cluttered desk. Matt raised his sword and prepared to spring forward before it could rise. With a defiant cry, the thing drove the knife into its own throat and slashed outward, severing muscle, trachea, and arteries. Blood spumed, and the head, no longer supported by muscle and sinew, flopped backward before rebounding forward and slamming down upon the desk.

Matt lowered his sword and stared. Gun smoke eddied in the breeze through the window, but the sharp stench of blood and voided bowels was overpowering in the confined space. The female Marine, her blood-streaked sword still in her hand, retched in a corner, overcome by nausea and relief.

Gray hurried into the cabin, glancing about, taking it all in. He strode to the corpse of the Grik captain and heaved it roughly aside. It slid to the deck like a sack of wet tapioca. “Bugger was bleedin’ all over the books!” he growled.