SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

The ground shook as the thing wheeled ‘round and came again. Luke didn’t have time to roll out of the way. He jumped, grabbed a branch, and swung his legs up just as the sightless freight train rammed the base of the huge tree. The tree swayed, and Luke’s grip went queasy. He hooked his legs around the branch, gritted his teeth against the pain in his ankle, and hauled himself up. The thing hit the tree again. Then a third time. It paused, head cocked like it was listening for falling fruit. When nothing fell it walked around the side of the tree with its head held high in the air. It took a step and snuffled. Then two more. Then a third. Luke stood slowly, arms out for balance until he had his back against the trunk. The thing wasn’t sure where he was, but Luke was sure it would find him if he didn’t figure something out fast.

He drew his M-7 and slipped the muzzle ring over the barrel. He held his breath then clicked it into place. There was a pause from below, then the damp snuffling continued. He took a firm grip on his rifle and pressed on the ejector clip with his thumb the same way he’d pushed in the spring lock on his door when he’d been a teenager. The tension built, and it clicked like a tiny twig breaking. The creature paused again, holding its breath. Luke did the same, and after fifteen seconds it started walking and sniffing again. He pressed in the fresh magazine but if the creature heard it around the tree it gave no sign.

Luke shifted his grip on the rifle and waited. The whatever-it-was came closer, circling around the other side of the trunk. It rose up, clawing and sniffing at the lower branches. Luke cocked his arm and let fly. The half-empty magazine sailed through the air and struck a hanging skull with a hollow crack. The skull rebounded, banging off a set of leg bones, which jived along half a dozen ribs. The thing dropped low, pointed itself at the other tree, and Luke jumped. His boots slid on the creature’s skin but he brought his rifle down bayonet-first into the back of its neck. The steel caught against something hard, and turned just as Luke’s boots skidded off the back plates and his ass hit hard enough to make his tailbone go numb.

The creature roared, and the sound reverberated over the water. It shook and bucked, whiplashing back and forth across the broken shore. Luke held on, jerking and twisting the six — and-three-quarter inches of steel embedded just south of the base of the skull. When he didn’t come free, the thing turned back toward the lagoon and started running. It managed three lumbering steps before Luke pulled himself onto his knees, and squeezed the trigger.

A bomb went off in the creature’s neck, and pain raked Luke from crotch to crown. The behemoth spasmed and threw him off. Luke hit the dirt hard enough to jar his brain, skidding through the mud in a graceless ballet. The creature swayed like a drunken prize fighter, blood and ichor pumping from its mangled neck. Its knees gave out slowly and it collapsed with its snout in the water. Blood pooled, pouring into the lagoon and turning it a darker shade of black. Luke watched the thing twitch and scrabble, but he stayed where he was until the creature’s bladder let go in a stream that reeked of battery acid. When he was sure it was dead he levered himself to his feet, collected his light, and went looking for his rifle.

He found what was left of his M-16 half-in and half-out of a mud puddle. The stock was cracked, the carry strap had pulled loose from the front mooring, and a thick clot of muck dribbled from the inner workings. The firing pin had blown through the rear workings, the hammer was bent back like a crippled gymnast, and the barrel ruptured like a rusty sewer pipe. The M-7’s handle was locked in place, but the blade had sheared right off. Luke ejected the clip, unsnapped the strap, and sat on a rock where he could watch the water along with its recently deceased resident.

Luke flexed his ankle and swore. It hurt, but nothing was torn or broken. He took off his boot, wrapped the ankle with the carry strap for support, then laced his boot back up. It still hurt, but he could probably run on it if he had to. He stripped off his jacket, grunting at all the little slivers that had blown back in his face. There were fewer of them than he thought there were, but still enough that it took him some time to pluck them all out. A few of the cuts bled, but not enough to worry about. He put his jacket back on, and ate his crackers while he looked for his helmet. He didn’t find it, but he did find the half-used clip he’d thrown at the bone chimes. A fair trade. He took out his compass. The cover was busted, and the needle was bent up at a useless angle. Luke swore then gathered a couple of big stones.