SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

“Shut the door! Shut the damn door!” Colby Flynn dived through the opening and into the armoury. As he tumbled through the air he jettisoned a small calico cat from his shoulder, rolled and came back up on one knee facing back out into the corridor, the Glock17 up and ready. He stared out into the gloom. Shadows crowded in, advancing towards the armoury as one by one the Jerry-rigged bulbs Micky Cox had strung like Christmas lights along the corridor flickered, popped and died. Each section plunged sequentially into darkness, allowing the thick blackness to jump ever closer to the place Flynn hoped would be safer. Flynn knew that if the darkness reached them before Micky got the door shut, they’d all die in that room…

Micky slammed the heavy oak door into the frame and turned the key in the lock. There was no rusty squawking or atmospheric creaking from the hinges. Micky was ex-REME, a Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineer, and a damn good one. He hated any piece of machinery that didn’t work as it was supposed to, no matter how seemingly inconsequential. So the hinges and lock had been cleaned and oiled. They worked perfectly, and the reassuring click as the tumblers fell into place was the best damn sound Flynn had heard all day. Micky slid the top and bottom bolts back into their housings, providing additional reinforcement to the lock. He turned, grabbed a thick plank and dropped it into the cradle with a deeply satisfying and wooden-sounding clunk. The huge armoury door was now shut — properly shut.

Flynn lowered the Glock as Micky leaned against the door. Never point ordnance at your mates. Kind of a rule, really.

“Mind telling me what the actual fuck?” Micky turned and frowned at his boss, his vivid blue eyes narrowing. “Also? What’s with the cat?”

“Little Rupert here saved our hides, fella.”

“Rupert?”

“What’s wrong with Rupert?”

Micky’s frown deepened. “Okay, let’s gloss over the fact that you’ve called some mangy, flea-infested moggy Rupert, you weirdo. And just so you know? I’m allergic to cats.”

“Trust me, Mick, you’d be a damn sight more allergic to the thing it stopped from chowing down on our arses, mate. I’d put a week’s pay on that.” Flynn stood and ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair.

Micky shrugged. “I take it that’s what the FUBAR’s all about?”

Flynn glanced down at a heap in the corner. The weeping academic had gone foetal again. Flynn sniffed sharply, grabbed a handful of archaeologist and hauled him to his feet. “Upsy daisy, fella.” He shook the man like a rag-doll. “Oi! Stop now with all that yodelling and tell us what that thing is, and how we can kill it.” He deposited the frightened man on the corner of a table and shook him again. “Because right now, our situ is not good, son. All that’s stopping some insane, bloodthirsty creature from tearing you, me and my boys apart is a five-hundred-year-old door and, for some reason, a bloody cat.” Flynn glanced at the cat, which was winding its skinny body around Micky’s legs and purring loudly. Micky looked decidedly distressed.

“Which damn question do you want me to answer first, Mister Flynn?” The archaeologist sniffed indignantly.

“How ‘bout you work through them in order, mate?” A hard cockney voice snapped angrily from the corner and Gary Parks, a hulk of a man with a passion for blowing things up loomed from the shadows. His deep brown eyes shone out from mahogany skin and he raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Boss?”

“Waiting for Poindexter here to enlighten us, fella.” Flynn focused on the cowering academic. “Well? There’s four of us—”

“And this bloody cat!” Micky sneezed violently. “See? Allergic. Fucking allergic.”

“And the cat, yes, thanks Mick. Take an antihistamine. There’s some in the medipack.”

“Couldn’t we just chuck the cat out?”

“The cat stays, Micky. It stays. Okay?” Flynn jabbed a thumb at a pile of supply boxes. “Antihistamine pill. Now. Get it down your neck, you tart.” He rolled his eyes. “Allergies. Seriously. Who the fuck ever heard of a member of the Regiment with allergies?”

“Damn near got him returned-to-unit, boss, remember?” Gary grinned at Micky and flicked him the finger.

“Bollocks, Parks, you ‘roided up wanker.”

“Focus, you pair of reprobates.” Flynn stared hard at the academic. “So. Wanna fill in the gaps, little guy?”

“Mister Flynn, I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the situation.”

Flynn glowered and slapped the man hard across the mouth. “Really? You think? You think I don’t get the fact that whatever that thing is out there has just ripped your mate to pieces and eaten his fucking heart?”

“Wait, what?” Gary and Micky stared open-mouthed at their boss.

“Or that I emptied two clips of hollow-points into the fucker and all it did was dance a little jig?” Flynn slapped the man across the mouth again. “What part did I miss?”