Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Mongolia

“Cap,” Hynd said from outside. “Got something here.”

Banks went out to find the sergeant at the rear of the shack, standing over what looked to be a pile of clothes on the ground. When Hynd moved a jacket to one side, he saw a white rib cage beneath it. A pistol lay near the body, two shell casings beside it, and more of the waxy, noxious remains of one of the worms.

“I guess this is the guy who ran things here,” Hynd said and Banks nodded as the sergeant continued. “What about our ride?”

“Either buggered off already or not coming,” Banks replied. “The radio’s as fucked as the sat-phone so there’s no way to tell. Looks like we’re on our own again.”

Hynd eyed the truck.

“What do you think? Will we get back the way we came in it?”

Banks thought back over their path.

“Mostly, apart from yon dried river bed and we’ll just have to find a way ‘round it. It’s our only way out of this tonight.”

The truck started first time and held more than half a tank of fuel. They found a thermos of coffee, bread, and cheese in a satchel in the shack—the dead man’s breakfast—and took it with them. They stowed their bags securely behind the seats and with Hynd driving made their way slowly south.

“The headlights on this thing are shite,” Hynd said as the truck rattled and bounced in the rough terrain. Even on full beam, the lights did little more than partially lighten up their route ten yards ahead of them. The only saving grace was that it wasn’t raining, for there were no wipers for the windshield.

There had been no sight of either worms or blue electrical flashes since they’d left the old riverbed behind on their way north but now that they were heading back, they saw dancing aurora of blue under heavy cloud cover on their southern horizon.

“It’s still raining down that way,” Hynd said.

“Aye, but we cannae avoid it. That’s the way we’re going and at least this beats walking.”

Banks passed Hynd a smoke and they alternatively drank strong black coffee from the thermos. Banks winced as he tasted the thickly bitter brew.

“I can see why they smoke those crap black fags around these parts,” he said.

“Do we have a plan, Cap?” Hynd asked after a while.

“Beyond getting back to the lads, not much of one. I’m hoping that once the rain stops, the phone will start working again and we can call in an airlift. Failing that, we’ll drive this thing back along the road by yon filling station, head east, and reach the town the professor mentioned as where they got their supplies. From there, we should be able to get some sort of message home, or a better form of transport.”

“And the worms?”

“If they leave us alone, we’ll leave them alone. They don’t seem to give a fuck about us if we don’t make too much noise, so let’s not do anything to change that.”

A twenty-minute drive brought them to the dry riverbed, almost at the point where they’d crossed it earlier. Hynd stopped the truck at the rocky ledge.

“We’ll not get down that way, Cap,”

“Or up the other side. Let’s head west a bit—the worms were going east the last we saw of them and I’d rather not tangle with them again if we can help it.”

Hynd drove west along the lip of the ledge that marked the northern edge of the dried riverbed and after half a mile of crawling they arrived at a dip that would take them down to the softer ground. Banks tried to peer into the night towards the southern bank, hoping to see a matching dip on the far side but the darkness was too impenetrable.

“We don’t have a choice. We’ll have to risk it,” he said. “With the rain off and the sky clear, I’m hoping the buggers have all either moved on east or are well underground.”

“Aye, well if one of them’s big enough to think it can swallow this fucking truck, it’s welcome to try it,” Hynd replied and took the truck down onto the riverbed.

The heavy vehicle wallowed as soon as it hit sand. For a few heart-stopping seconds, Banks thought they were stuck before they got started but Hynd dropped down to first gear, put his foot down, and they began to inch forward, painfully slowly at first before finally gaining some traction and picking up speed.

They went across the dried riverbed at barely more than walking speed but at least they were heading in the right direction. Banks kept shifting his gaze, trying to cover as much ground as possible, anticipating an attack, but there was no sign of any worms.

As they approached the south bank, he scanned the ridge for anywhere they might be able to drive up onto the rock.

“There, ten yards left,” he said, pointing at where there was a dip in the rocky ledge.

Hynd sucked at his teeth.

“Risky, Cap. It looks a wee bit steep to me.”

“Put your foot down, man. Take a run at it.”

Hynd still looked unsure but he lined the truck up with the dip and pushed down on the accelerator. The truck jerked forward three feet then lurched to a halt, almost throwing Banks into the dashboard. His side of the truck dipped a foot lower and he saw sand fly as the front wheel spun in place.

“I didnae mean like that,” he said ruefully as Hynd cut the engine. “Hold on, I’ll get something under the wheel.” He got out the truck, retrieved his kit from behind the seat, and took out his sleeping bag, unrolling it and getting it as far under the front of the wheel as he could manage. As he stood to give Hynd the thumbs-up, he saw the sarge’s gaze lift to a point past Banks out on the riverbed.

“Get your arse in here, Cap,” Hynd shouted. “We’ve got incoming.”

Banks risked a look over his shoulder as he moved.

Out in the middle of the riverbed, a three-foot-high hump showed in the sand as if something moved under the surface, something huge, coming straight at them.

Hynd had the engine going and was pumping the accelerator as Banks climbed inside. Banks retrieved his rifle and leaned out, attempting to get a clear shot as the truck bucked and swayed, trying to get traction. The worm was gaining fast at their rear, surging up as if from some depth, a thing almost four feet wide. Sand tumbled, revealing glistening red skin and a maw of a mouth that looked big enough to swallow the truck in a couple of bites.

“Floor it, floor it,” Banks shouted.

“I’m fucking trying,” Hynd shouted back.

The worm came up out of the sand, trying to bite at the rear passenger side wheel. At the same moment, the sleeping bag finally did its job, the front wheel caught, and the truck took a lurch forward. That meant Banks’ aim was off when he got a shot in, putting two rounds, not in the beast’s throat as he intended but raising two furrows along its back. He expected the wounds to gape but instead saw things squirming in the opened flesh, a myriad of worms, no longer than his index finger, tumbling in droves down onto the sand where they immediately started to burrow. The wounds continued to split like an over-ripened fruit and the thicker mass of the tiny worms bubbled out from the inside.

That was the last sight Banks had of it for a few seconds. The truck sped off the riverbed and bounced hard when it reached rock. For a second, he thought Hynd was going to lose it but as the suspension squealed in protest, the truck climbed precariously up onto the rocky ledge and level ground where the sarge brought it to a halt.

Banks was able to turn and take a last look back at the worm. It was already deflated, as flat as the sleeping bag it laid beside, falling apart into the pink ooze they’d seen before, with thousands of tiny squirming worms leaking out of it onto the sand and burrowing away.