Weston Ochse - Age of Blood

That is, if he survived. For now, all he cared about was getting through the next few minutes. He and Holmes were back-to-back, their bodies touching. They had to stay tight. They didn’t want to be separated. Together they had a chance. Apart, they were dead. If there was one thing ’cabra just loved, it was to attack from behind.

“Stay close,” he whispered.

“Like conjoined twins,” Holmes replied, his voice tight with pain.

They each held a 9mm pistol and a knife. They were not only back-to-back, but they were also elbow-to-elbow, so when one elbow went forward the other went backwards. They were a single machine, four arms, four weapons, two SEALs.

They didn’t have long to wait for the attack. First one ’cabra feinted, then another, then another. Neither Walker nor Holmes took the bait. Instead, the SEALs rotated slowly in a clockwise direction, their hands always moving, creating an impassable barrier. So when the first ’cabra leaped, it met not one but two knives, because they were moving in a circle. Laws couldn’t be sure which part of the ’cabra his knife sliced, but it was soft and blood gushed over his hand, almost making his grip too slick to hold on to the knife. He kicked out with his right foot, sending the ’cabra flying.

Then one attacked from the other side.

They had no vision, but they had hearing and they had touch. He felt a jolt from where his elbow touched Holmes, as if he’d jabbed the ’cabra through an eye.

They kept rotating.

Two attacked this time.

Each Seal brought up a knife and a gun. One stabbed, the other fired. Then the one fired and the other stabbed. Both the ’cabras fell.

They kept rotating.

This time the growls around them grew louder. Too loud, as if there were more than a dozen.

“Switch,” Holmes said, the single word said with force, command, and confidence. Enough of all three that Laws felt a little more hope as they began rotating in the opposite direction.

Then it was as if all the ’cabra attacked at once.

Like a multiarmed unconventional-warfare interpretation of the Hindu goddess Kali, they moved as one being, rotating, slashing, firing. The barks from their pistols lit up the space, but the SEALs never saw it. Their eyes were slammed shut, every ounce of concentration on their other senses. But as successful as they were, the ’cabra began to connect. A scratch here. A slice there. Holmes was bit, but killed the damned beast that did it. Laws was bit as well, missed his chance, rotated, then felt Holmes connect. They fought faster and faster and faster, until each of the SEALs was screaming, drowning the cries, whines and growls of the chupacabra.

Laws felt his arms grow tired. He felt his legs turn leaden. He felt his lungs burn. He felt his body abdicate the possibility of winning and prepare to give up. But Holmes fought on, and it was Holmes’s desire to continue that made Laws continue fighting for one more chance, one more strike. So instead of quitting, Timothy Laws went back to his California roots, drawing up every Hollywood hero he’d ever watched, channeling John Wayne, Charlton Heston, Bruce Willis, Steven Seagal, Sylvester Stallone, and a hundred more.

And they fought.

And they shouted.

And the ’cabra screamed in outrage as they died beneath the SEALs’ onslaught.

YaYa had seen a ’cabra run to the edge of the pipe and slip free, falling to the pool below. It hit the water with a great splash, moved to try and get up, then sagged back into the water. Soon, it trembled and shuddered as its head fell beneath the surface. Its body spasmed as it choked and drowned.

YaYa had barked at the scene. Even when one of the men on the temple came down and kicked him, he still barked. All he could do was bark. It was his sole voice. As he did so, pieces of who he once was returned to him.

Scenes from a mall.

A run on the beach.

The cherry-flavored kisses of a woman called Kelly Manfredi.

The camaraderie of friends.

The gloriously acrid bite of an ice cold Coke first thing in the morning.

The smell of hot shawarma on a cool day.

Standing at attention saluting the Red, White, and Blue.

As the images came, he grabbed them and tried to hold fast. He knew he had to. His body had been remade. His mind was that of a dog. His left arm was twice its size, black and orange pus evidence of the foreign invasion making everything happen. But his soul was still his own. He was still Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri and a United States Navy SEAL. He didn’t know what any of that meant, but he knew that it had once filled him with pride. He wanted a return of that pride. He wanted to find out what a Petty Officer was. He wanted to relearn what it was to be a SEAL. More importantly, he no longer wanted to be a dog, soul-chained to a creature that lived in his arm and controlled him at the cellular level.

He’d been jerking at the chain holding him and it was loose. He knew he only needed a few more hard pulls, and he’d be free. But then what? With every passing second he was becoming more and more human.

Then came the gunfire and he knew who it was. He knew the type of gun. He could envision breaking it down. The image of a tall blond man came to him—Walker. He remembered when the other man had saved him from the warehouse in Myanmar. He remembered when they’d ridden the old Ural motorcycle and played chicken with the supernatural Chinese creature known as a qilin. He remembered being pulled into the woods and barely saving himself. And of course he remembered driving a blade into the back of the ancient demon Chi Long.

Where had that person gone? He wanted to be that person again. He wanted to re-become Chief Petty Officer Ali Jabouri, aka YaYa, aka U.S. Navy SEAL assigned to Special Mission Unit SEAL Team 666. He screamed at the universe but it came out as a bark.

Someone kicked him.

He whimpered.

He fell to the ground and curled into a ball. He covered his head with his hands and thought about who he really was. And with each passing moment, more and more came back to him, more and more of who he’d been and who he’d be again. Like a dog that sat on a porch watching a truck go by day after day, year after year, he promised himself that one day he’d leap from the porch and catch the truck, the moment he’d wrap his strong jaws around the bumper as rapturous as the invention of the universe.

Laws staggered to his feet. He took inventory. His breather was gone, as was much of his suit. His body armor remained in place over bare skin, probably the only thing that had saved him. His right arm dangled uselessly. Sometime during the fury of the last few moments it had dislocated. He could pop it back in given the correct surface, but right now he needed to be sure he wasn’t going to die. Besides his shoulder, he had a chunk torn out of his right thigh and his left side. These gushed blood. Exposed to the bacteria of sewage, there were probably enough microorganisms in the wounds to kill him. He was halfway ready to sit down and let it take him.

God, was he fucking tired.

He noticed Holmes in the gloom of the pipe, face first on the ground, water pouring around him, heading downhill toward where they believed the underground temple complex to be. Laws staggered over, reached down with his left hand and grabbed one of the shoulder straps holding on to the body armor. Using only one arm, he somehow managed to lift his team leader to a sitting position and lean him against a wall.

“Sam, you alive?” Although the light was low, there was enough of it coming from the pipe opening for Laws to check pupil dilation. They reacted, but barely.