James Rollins - The 6th Extinction

“We’ll move up another ten yards and set up the LRAD,” Dylan ordered.

“So close?” Riley asked.

Normally Dylan wouldn’t tolerate anyone questioning an order, but in this case, he didn’t blame his young teammate. Dylan hated these vile little hunters with a passion. They were an abomination.

But right now he needed one.

“Move up,” he said.

They crept slowly, careful with each step. Nymphs were known to attack en masse. To rile one of these nests was like stirring up an anthill. The term used by the researchers was a boil-out —when the entire lair burst forth in response to a threat. It was one of the most terrifying sights he’d ever seen, a carnivorous explosion that could reach tens of yards through the air.

So he understood Riley’s concern.

Still, Dylan was a skilled hunter. He led the way himself, picking a silent path. Finally he lifted a fist and motioned for Christchurch and Riley to move to his right side and prepare the portable LRAD.

They worked as an experienced team. Christchurch lifted the dish high, letting Riley hook up the power cables. Once this was done, Riley took a step behind his teammate’s shoulder, cradling the battery pack.

Dylan pointed to the nest, then gave a thumbs-up.

Riley hit the switch. The LRAD hummed for a second, then screamed at the nest like a banshee in heat. The reaction was instantaneous. While not as dramatic as a full boil-out, it was still a sight to behold, something out of the deepest circle of hell. Hundreds of gray bodies squirmed, bounded, and flew out of their nest, pouring into the main river. Those in the pools or along the banks followed their foul brothers, fleeing from the noise as if blasted by a leaf blower.

Dylan waited for a count of three, then made a cutting motion across his neck.

Riley flipped the battery off and Christchurch lowered the dish.

Dylan rushed forward toward the pond, his scrotum still tightening at the thought of getting near that rotting nest. He searched the pool, but he found what he wanted near the edge of the bone pile.

A single slug squirmed leadenly, stunned by the assault.

Dylan snatched it up in a gloved hand, careful of its circular maw of needle-sharp teeth. He hung it upside down, knowing that the glands rimming its mouth were full of flesh-burning acids, capable of dissolving through his glove to his skin.

With his bait in hand, he hurried to the river’s edge. The nymph was already reviving, pushing out little appendages from its muscular segments, like legs on a centipede.

As it began to squirm more violently, he slipped out his dagger, slit the creature’s belly open, and held out the gutted carcass.

Black blood flowed into the river.

He waited until the nymph stopped writhing, then draped the body on the bank near the water’s edge. He bent down and tied a length of fishing line around its midsection — then took ten fast steps backward.

Once in position, Dylan signaled his teammates to move to his right side and switch the LRAD back on, to keep it pointed at the bone pile. While he lay in wait, he didn’t want those other nymphs to come flooding back to the nest. Unlike the nymphs, what he sought to lure here was deaf to these sonic discharges.

He crouched to one knee, slipped the assault rifle from his shoulder, and placed it at his toes. To hunt this prey, he preferred another weapon.

He pulled out the Howdah pistol from its holster. He’d already chambered the .557 cartridges, one in each of the double barrels. Though the gun was over a century old — used to hunt rhinos and tigers by his ancestors — he maintained it in perfectly good working condition, expecting it still to be firing another century from now when his great-grandson eventually wielded it.

But he wasn’t hunting something as meek as a lion here.

Faster than he expected, his prey arrived. The only warning was a V-shaped eddy in the water, sweeping toward the shore. Then from the river, a scintillating globe rose to the surface, borne aloft on a muscular tentacle. The toxic orb swirled in bioluminescent shades: brilliant blues, electric greens, blood reds.

It was easy to see how these deadly lures might dazzle and attract the denizens of this dark world, but Dylan ignored the display and used a thumb to draw back the hammer of one barrel.

The sphere lowered to the rocky bank, searching the shoreline blindly until discovering the slug’s body. Nymphs were the offspring of Volitox ignis , an immature stage of this monstrous adult hunter.

The orb rolled the limp body around. Its oddly gentle touch did not burn the nymph’s flesh, as if this Volitox queen could control her acidic fire. Little was truly known about the life stages of these creatures. They were too violent, too dangerous to truly study. But the researchers here had already recognized the strong maternal instinct of these queens.

Dylan took advantage of that now.

Lowering one hand, he pulled on the fishing line and drew the carcass farther up the bank and away from its mother. He teased the Volitox closer, letting it believe its offspring might still be alive and trying to crawl away.

The orb probed along its retreating path, stretching to reach the fleeing nymph’s body. Finally the queen had to arc its bulk out of the water to continue her pursuit.

About time .

Her head beached up onto the riverbank, revealing its torpedo-shaped bulk, the size of an orca whale, but tipped by a circular mouth, like that of a lamprey eel. Inside that puckering maw lay a bottomless well of spiraling hooked teeth.

Dylan let go of the fishing line and steadied his aim, cupping one hand under the other. He centered his shot on the exposed base of the stalk, where he knew a huge ganglion lay, leading straight to the brain.

One shot there should drop this beast.

And if he missed, he still had a round chambered in the other barrel.

I never need more than two shots .

His finger firmed on the trigger and began to pull—

— when gunfire erupted down the tunnel.

Surprised, he twitched and his Howdah exploded. The wild round sparked off the rocky bank and ricocheted harmlessly into the darkness.

The firefight continued at the far end of the tunnel, accompanied by the distinct chatter of a machine gun.

What the hell?

Huddled in the cab of the CAAT, Gray took out another man with a shotgun blast to the chest. The soldier’s body went flying back. Out of shells, he tossed the weapon aside and lifted the Heckler & Koch assault rifle from beside his seat.

Nothing like commandeering a vehicle full of your enemy’s weapons .

Not that he and his partner hadn’t come without some firepower of their own.

Across the way, Kowalski stood outside the cab, crouched on the belted tread of the CAAT, shielded behind the open armored driver’s door. He balanced his machine gun on the door’s edge, creating his own makeshift gunner’s nest.

Bodies littered the ground around the vehicle.

Seven total.

The two remaining soldiers teamed up and strafed the CAAT, giving up their attempt to reach the tunnel leading out of here. They turned tail and ran into the depths of the Coliseum, fleeing the lights and disappearing into the cover of darkness.

Gray took a few potshots at them, but they were gone.

“What now?” Kowalski asked.

Gray stared off into that cavern. “Guard the fort,” he said, not trusting that the vanished pair might not try to retake this base. “I’m going after Wright.”

Kowalski hauled his machine gun up and hopped down to the ground. He pointed his weapon at the bigger CAAT. “Time to switch rides. We have a river to cross if we still want to reach that Back Door.”