Pecos

Rick crossed the tarmac without incident and slipped back into the creek bed.
Approaching his hideout,he spied two figures,standing,with their backs to him.
They appeared to be studying something with great interest, allowing him to creep up unnoticed.
They had found his armament stash. The rat man on his right was holding the Winchester before him, palms up.
The other was bent over it, sniffing it as if it were a prize chunk of cheese.
Rick, not for the first time, regretted not having a silenced pistol.
Aware of the lethal claws, he was reluctant to take them on with the knife. Maybe one, but not two.
That left only one option to kill them quietly. Not a sure thing to pull off, but it was all he had.

 

With a round already chambered, he flicked off the thumb safety as he took two quick steps toward the backs of his prey.
For tactical reasons, he chose to work left to right.
He jammed the barrel of the .45 hard into kidney of left rat man. He heard a soft squeal as he squeezed the trigger.
With the soft body tissue muffling the muzzle blast, all to be heard was a deep WHOOMP as innards sprayed across the desert floor, from the large exit wound created by the rat poison filled 240 grain hollow point.
Not bothering to pivot, Rick swung his arm to his right in a swift, smooth motion.
The rat man's instinct was to strike out with his claws, but he was holding the rifle.
Struck with a costly half second of indecision, he chose to use the rifle as a club.
Before he could even get into a backswing, Rick had the tip of the .45 buried in his sternum, squeezing the trigger. Another WHOOMP as the exploding hollow point disentigrated heart and lungs, taking out a section of spine on the way out.

 

Now where the hell did they come from? Footprints led to the northwest, away from the airport.
Remembering who taught him the human body silencer technigue, he thought he had the answer.
TR (for tunnel rat) was an instructor at the Ranger School at Ft. Benning.
The old master sergeant was a tunnel rat in Viet-Nam and said he would use that method whenever possible, when bumping into a VC face to face in a dark tunnel.
Some sound would still reverbarate, but it cut down on the extreme blast in such a confined space.
Sure enough, a body popped up some fifty feet away, followed quickly by another.
Oddly enough, they were unarmed, and strode boldy towards him, possibly believing they were impervious to bullets.
Despite his snake potion, the secret was out now, it seemed. Probably heard him moving around overhead.
This is too easy, he thought as he dropped them both in as many shots.
Watching the hole for another, he was rewarded as a head popped up.
This one hesitated, seeing his fallen comrades. An indication they weren't automatons, and learning quickly.
Learning that wahatever this fellow was shooting at them wasn't the same as what the agent had in his 9mm.
Rick popped him in the head, before he had a chance to duck. Rick hoped the body would impede others from exiting from the hole, at least for just a minute.
He grabbed one of his fire bombs and lit the rag fuse as he trotted to the tunnel opening.
He dropped it in the hole, but it simply landed on the body below without breaking.
Standing over the hole, he took aim with his pistol, shooting down some dozen feet into the beer bottle, and stepping away immediately.
At first there was only a faint whoosh as the gasoline ignited, and a fiery glow comiing fro the opening.
Rick felt some disappointment in his demolition skills, until...WHOOSH.
The ground shook as a virtual stream of fiery light shot from the hole like a molten geyser.
The supernatural glow featured the colors of the rainbow, and the aroma was sweet, rather that petroleum based.
As beautiful and fragrant as it was, it was surely just as deadly, for the heat wave knocked him off his feet and sent him rolling across the ground.

Gathering his wits, he ran back to his post and looked to the office window through the binoculars.
The hapless agent was still tied to the chair, looking rather pale, but still alive.
At least eight rat men were moving around and chattering excitedly.
Maria seemed to be livid, screaming at a particular rat man and pointing a finger in his face.
This one had some insignia on his uniform, while the others wore plain fatigues.
Rick made a split second decision. If it was wrong, so be it. The events were beyond the point of no return anyway.

 

In less than a minute, there were even more rat men in the office. There must be a cave entrance within the building, possibly in the office itself.
The heat and fumes have undoubtedly forced them out. With that in mind, Rick constantly scanned his surroundings for more visitors, popping up from alternate openings, remembering the lessons of TR.
He felt they were perhaps more dangerous now, after word spread of his lethal bullets.
At least they were openly approaching him before. Now they would be stealthy. If they had any weapons, they would be using them now.

He dug an emplacement out of the soft sand and formed a perfect resting place for his left elbow and assumed a shooters stance.
Shooting from the darkness into the lit window was optimal. Maria, along with the rat man, were gazing with amazement at the multicolored light show.
Her nose was inches from the glass, turned slightly away from him watching the flames to his left.
Breathe deep, let half of it out, squeeze. He practiced this drill several times with his finger out side of the trigger guard.
The wind was optimal, from his back and there would be no need to compensate for drop at this distance.
He could only hope the metal sight was within tolerance as he became one with the rifle.
Breathe, exhale half, squeeze. By the time he heard the shot, the .303 caliber, copper jacketed bullet had entered Maria's cranium just above her left eye, spraying blood, bone, and brain matter onto the faces of the two rat men standing behind her.

Already agitated, they were now frantic. The one with the insignias was apparently in charge now, for the crowd was looking to him, as he gazed nervously out the window.
He finally gathered his wits enough to order someone to turn the light off.

 

Habit sat there wondering if he had been hallucinating. But the landing gear was up. He wasn't imagining that.
But Rick was dead. He talked to his brother in Georgia. He was a day late for the funeral, being up in Minnesota when he got the word.
Maybe this guy just looked like him. That would be just too weird, but he wasn't turning down any help right now.

He was shaken out of his reverie by a sudden flurry of activity. A loud slam of wood on concrete had the four card players jumping from their seats.
A trap door had been pushed open and it had slapped on the floor. Did this place have a basement?
More rat men were spilling out, accompanied by a sweet smelling smoke. What the hell? They burning incense down there?
It obviously didn't smell sweet to them, for several had dropped to their knees and began puking, while some rolled on the floor in agony.
Then the lights in the office went out, leaving only the dim light burning above the card table.

THUNK...THUNK.
Closer this time, above his head. THUNK
Chips of wood from the crates against the wall were hitting the floor, accompanied by soft squeals. Like puppies crying.

After nailing Maria, Rick shifted his fire to the right, peppering the wall where he saw the crates.
He was now convinced what was in them and what use they had for Habit.
And why the thermostat was set where it was. The little varmits were old enough to travel and Habit was to be their driver.
New York City, maybe? They could thrive in the sewers and subways there, an underground haven. Washington D.C. even.
Jed said this was a breeding ground for evil. It was making some kind of sense now.
The demonic rodents were breeding underground. Maria was their human laison, providing logistics from the outside world.
She also used her humanly beauty to lure unsuspecting men to do her bidding.
Was she what she seemed, or was she an ancient warrior like Jed?
I've been around for a long, long year
stole many a man's soul and faith
and I was around when Jesus Christ
had his moment of doubt and pain
pleased to meet you
hope you guessed my name
Maybe old Mick and Keith were on to something.
He continued putting rounds through the wall, aiming for the top row of crates, aware of Habit on the floor.
He knew the odds were against him getting many direct hits, but he hoped to kill or wound as many of the youngsters as he could, possibly doing enough damamge to cause them to postpone the shipment, if nothing else.

 

POP
Followed by a spark from the edge of the tarmac a hundred feet away.
The rat men had recovered the 9mm sidearms from the INS agents.
He was firing from the corner of the hangar. A statistically impossible shot for even an experienced marksman.
A hundred meters with a four inch barrel doesn't add up.
The second shot was closer, kicking up some sand, but was twenty feet to the right.
POP
From the other end of the building. That shot went completely wild, with Rick having no idea where it went.
He could pick them off with the .303 from here, but wasn't sure if the non poisoned bullets would be effective.
And even so, another would simply pick up the pistol and continue shooting. He had a feeling there were plenty of replacements available.
He had observed that they seemed to learn rather quickly. Their smaller cousins had survived for centuries by adapting to their surroundings.
Only a matter of time until they figured out they needed to move in closer to be effective.
They would be out there circling him in the darkness. They would be patient.
There were ten hours until dawn, and they would get close enough by then.
Apparently the tunnels had been rendered inhospitable, and they were forced to fight above ground.

But the fumes were quite pleasant to Rick. The residue of the magic beer was the cause of that, he was sure.
He lit the fuse on another beer/gas bomb and carefully lobbed it in an arc that would allow it to land just at the edge of the tarmac.
He didn't want to torch the place yet. Still had unfinished business inside.
The blaze was spectacular, with nothing to restrict it. Yellow, purple, blue, violet, green and red.
As deadly as it was beautiful as the asphalt sizzled where the bottle had landed.
The heat and the fumes would keep them at bay for a while and the blinding light would prevent them from seeing where Rick was going.
Which was straight to the tunnel opening.
Having shot six rounds from his .45, he slipped in a fresh magazine.
He took off his shirt and formed a tote for a few of the bombs, tying the sleeves together, and looping them around his neck.
After unloading the single remaining round, he left the rifle behind, stashing it underneath a tumbleweed.

 

After first ascertaining the blaze obscured his whereabouts from the rat men, Rick dropped into the hole.
He expected to land on a corpse, but only ashes remained of the creature.
Not surprising, since this one was at the heart of the inferno.
He crawled over several more before reaching open tunnel, which was roomier than expected, considering the size of the rat men.
Perhaps the additional room was for transporting something through here. The crates maybe?
About a hundred feet in, about the edge of the tarmac above, he reached a junction.
There was an opening on his right, which felt south. Staying on his current easterly course should lead him to the hangar, but something intrigued him about the opening.
It was rather wide and he thought he heard some whimpering from within.
Nothing threatening. Almost sorrowful. He crawled in a few feet and flicked his Zippo.
It appeared to be a cavernous space. Cages were against the wall containing grotesque looking human/rat /babies.
Rick almost gagged. A fetus with claws is what came to mind. Some appeared dead, while others were barely breathing.
A large rat/human with a distinctly female face was leaned against a wall.
Much larger than the ones he saw above ground. Her abdomen was swollen, as were the dozen breasts that lined her torso in two rows of six.
She must be a breeder, living a hideous existence. Her breathing was labored and she seemed to be in great discomfort.
Rick saw human emotion in her face. A pleading. Kill me. Just kill me, please?

 

He just couldn't kill the pregnant woman, despite the fact she wasn't entirely human. And the fact that she was deathly ill as a result of his gas bomb.
He had to remind himself that her brethren, and perhaps her offspring were not only doing battle with him, but part of a nefarious plot to disrupt the entire human race.
He also was wary of trickery. Leaning in for a muffled shot, only to have her strike out with her deadly claws.
And he wasn't risking a shot from this distance that would alert them to his presence in the tunnel.
They might not come in here, but they could surely prevent him from leaving.
The fact that they were merely pawns of a greater force was unfortunate, but sometimes hard choices must be made.
He was acting in a matter he felt would please his new commander, not to mention saving his skin.

He backed out of the den and continued to the hangar. The opening there was more elaborate than the hole out in the desert.
Opposing rails, constructed of study timber, provided a method of hoisting out the loaded crates.
Hearing no voices or footfalls, he risked a peek over the rim. The attached office door was open. The light was out, but the colorful light of the beer/gas bomb cast a supernatural glow inside.
They seemed almost hypnotized by the show and observed with detached interest as their comrades fanned out in a wide semicircle in an effort to trap the human out there.
The human responsible for the death of their leader. They killed the remaining agent in retaliation.
He only lived as long as he did per her orders. They never questioned her orders, but she was gone now. And now they feasted on the one eared man, just as they planned on devouring the truck driver.
Their loyalty only went so far, and would most likely make a meal out of Maria soon enough.

 

Looking to his left, he saw he had done some damage to the crates along the west wall.
Wood splinters littered the floor and blood dripped from them. Some whimpering could be heard, a cross between puppies and a babies.
The group that was by the door taking pot shots was no longer there. He imagined they had ventured out, attempting a flanking manuever with the other shooter, thinking he was still out there.
On the other side, Habit had slipped his bindings from beneath the landing pad, and stood motionless, as if unsure what to do next.
Up and out, and within two strides Rick was out of view of the office and approached Habit, withdrawing his hunting knife as he did.
Habit stepped back, startled.
"It's ok, buddy." Rick said reassuredly. "I know you are just a little freaked out about now. I just want to free you up."
He lightly grasped his shoulder and turned him around, slicing through the nylon rope.
"I can't take the time to explain anything right now. Plenty of time for that later. Right now I need your help to get us both the hell out of here. The first thing I want you to do is get that big old K-Whopper fired up."
Some understanding seemed to show in his eyes, and after a brief hesitation, he trotted around to the drivers side. The KW roared to life, the seven inch straight pipes reverberating throughout the enclosed building. So much for sneaking out.
Rick dove up the passenger side steps. Sitting crossways in the seat with the door open, his plan was to heave a beer bomb at the crates as they passed through the bay door.
What was that infernal buzzing? Oh cripes! No air pressure. Both needles on zero and red light flashing.
And the rat men came pouring out of the office.