glint of its eyes, watching the Jeep pull away.
His pulse raced and his finger twitched on the trigger. Weston forced himself not to run, instead urging the others on. They were focused on him, and he had to keep them from panicking. They all fell in step alongside the Jeep, which rolled slowly back toward the ghost town. The sound of helicopter rotors came from that direction. The headlights of Jeeps and Humvees had made a circle, like a wagon train preparing for attack. If they could just get back there, they would be safe.
Finally on the move, he snapped the mouth piece of his comm. unit into place. “Weston for Squad Leader. Weston for Squad Leader.”
Seconds ticked by and he was about to radio again when he heard a pop on the line. “What the hell are you whispering for, Weston? It’s all over but the paperwork.”
“Maybe not, sir,”
“What happened? You didn’t catch the coyotes?”
“Got ’em, sergeant, but it’s a mess.” He glanced back, saw the thing—the scavenger—framed in the opening in the fence, standing in the very same spot he’d been in just a minute ago, watching them. Fear ran up the back of his neck and prickled his skin. “And there’s . . . there’s something else over here, sarge. We’re not alone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Weston thought about that a second. He looked back again.
Only that gaping hole across the border remained, and beyond it the scattered dead. The creature had vanished.
It darted out of the night so swiftly that he barely had time to aim the M16. The creature came from the left, a paint stroke of fluid black across the moonlit landscape, grabbed hold of the Mexican at the front of their little march and tore open his throat and abdomen in a single pass.
The screaming started.
Weston ran past the others, up to the front of the Jeep, and squeezed off a couple of rounds without a chance in Hell of hitting the thing. It blended too well with the desert and the dark.
“What the hell?” Brooksy roared from behind the wheel of the Jeep.
“Weston. Do you read? Are you under fire?” Ortiz barked in the comm. in his ear.
“Under attack!” Weston snapped back. “Not under fire. That was me shooting.”
Ortiz asked half a dozen questions in as many seconds, but Weston wasn’t listening anymore. He pulled the comm. from his ear and tossed it into the dirt. They were three or four hundred yards from the lights and vehicles and weapons of the DEA and Border Patrol. Not far at all.
Not far
, he told himself.
But those Mexicans hadn’t made it very far, back at the border. They’d been picked off one by one, the stragglers, killed quickly. The thing only slowed down to start its banquet when they were all dead and the screaming was over.
Weston swung the barrel of his M16, searching the darkness all around, knowing the thing could come from anywhere. The Mexicans not inside the Jeep huddled nearby him. Afraid as they were, no way were they making a break for the border now.
“Damn it, Weston, what was that?” Brooksy asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, without sparing the other grunt a glance.
“Fuck this.”
Brooksy gunned it. The Jeep’s engine roared and the tires spit hard-baked earth and stones as the vehicle leaped forward.
“Goddamn it, no!” Weston yelled.
Two of the Mexican men started running after the Jeep, shouting. The others hesitated only a second before following. Weston yelled for them to stop, but they were beyond listening. Exhaustion, starvation, and despair had plagued them earlier—people who’d been taken advantage of by nearly everyone they’d encountered—but now fear drove them to madness.
Weston pursued them. The night loomed up on either side of him. He could feel the vulnerability of his unprotected back, but knew that they were all vulnerable. The darkness shifted. Every shadow, every depression in the desert floor, seemed about to coalesce and take shape and rush at him with its
His pulse raced and his finger twitched on the trigger. Weston forced himself not to run, instead urging the others on. They were focused on him, and he had to keep them from panicking. They all fell in step alongside the Jeep, which rolled slowly back toward the ghost town. The sound of helicopter rotors came from that direction. The headlights of Jeeps and Humvees had made a circle, like a wagon train preparing for attack. If they could just get back there, they would be safe.
Finally on the move, he snapped the mouth piece of his comm. unit into place. “Weston for Squad Leader. Weston for Squad Leader.”
Seconds ticked by and he was about to radio again when he heard a pop on the line. “What the hell are you whispering for, Weston? It’s all over but the paperwork.”
“Maybe not, sir,”
“What happened? You didn’t catch the coyotes?”
“Got ’em, sergeant, but it’s a mess.” He glanced back, saw the thing—the scavenger—framed in the opening in the fence, standing in the very same spot he’d been in just a minute ago, watching them. Fear ran up the back of his neck and prickled his skin. “And there’s . . . there’s something else over here, sarge. We’re not alone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Weston thought about that a second. He looked back again.
Only that gaping hole across the border remained, and beyond it the scattered dead. The creature had vanished.
It darted out of the night so swiftly that he barely had time to aim the M16. The creature came from the left, a paint stroke of fluid black across the moonlit landscape, grabbed hold of the Mexican at the front of their little march and tore open his throat and abdomen in a single pass.
The screaming started.
Weston ran past the others, up to the front of the Jeep, and squeezed off a couple of rounds without a chance in Hell of hitting the thing. It blended too well with the desert and the dark.
“What the hell?” Brooksy roared from behind the wheel of the Jeep.
“Weston. Do you read? Are you under fire?” Ortiz barked in the comm. in his ear.
“Under attack!” Weston snapped back. “Not under fire. That was me shooting.”
Ortiz asked half a dozen questions in as many seconds, but Weston wasn’t listening anymore. He pulled the comm. from his ear and tossed it into the dirt. They were three or four hundred yards from the lights and vehicles and weapons of the DEA and Border Patrol. Not far at all.
Not far
, he told himself.
But those Mexicans hadn’t made it very far, back at the border. They’d been picked off one by one, the stragglers, killed quickly. The thing only slowed down to start its banquet when they were all dead and the screaming was over.
Weston swung the barrel of his M16, searching the darkness all around, knowing the thing could come from anywhere. The Mexicans not inside the Jeep huddled nearby him. Afraid as they were, no way were they making a break for the border now.
“Damn it, Weston, what was that?” Brooksy asked.
“I don’t know,” he said, without sparing the other grunt a glance.
“Fuck this.”
Brooksy gunned it. The Jeep’s engine roared and the tires spit hard-baked earth and stones as the vehicle leaped forward.
“Goddamn it, no!” Weston yelled.
Two of the Mexican men started running after the Jeep, shouting. The others hesitated only a second before following. Weston yelled for them to stop, but they were beyond listening. Exhaustion, starvation, and despair had plagued them earlier—people who’d been taken advantage of by nearly everyone they’d encountered—but now fear drove them to madness.
Weston pursued them. The night loomed up on either side of him. He could feel the vulnerability of his unprotected back, but knew that they were all vulnerable. The darkness shifted. Every shadow, every depression in the desert floor, seemed about to coalesce and take shape and rush at him with its
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