SNAFU: Survival of the Fittest

He faced forward and threw the last of his energy into a final press of speed toward the helicopter, which was just beginning to hover. In his quick look, Rook had seen that the storm was closing almost as fast as the giant, hungry cylinder.

The ground shook so hard that rocks the size of baseballs skittered across the jagged landscape. He didn’t have to look behind him to know that Mighty Joe Worm was gaining on him. The fact that all five of his teammates were firing spear guns over his head now was all the indication he needed that his time was almost up. When the pilot raised the helicopter another foot, and started to bank the craft even further away from his frantic dash, it underscored the point for Rook.

When he glanced back one more time and his boot caught on an unforgiving shrub, he felt himself pitch forward, overbalanced. Rook knew it was the end.

9

King saw that Rook was going down. He leapt out the still-open helicopter door and raced to meet the man. Rook had almost made it, before he had tripped, just thirty feet away. King cleared half that distance before Rook actually hit the ground. Either to his credit or due to his sheer momentum, Rook continued forward on the rocky soil, rolling forward on the ground, even as King skidded to a halt next to him.

Together, they got Rook to his feet and ran the last of the distance toward the black helicopter. To the pilot’s credit, he had angled the vehicle closer in, toward the men, the pursuing hell worm and the raging whiteout wall.

King simply dove head-first into the belly of the cargo area, willing Rook to follow him. He slid across the floor of the angled craft and his hand grasped a cargo strap, just as someone else’s hand latched onto his wrist to hold him in place.

The helicopter banked away, still rising off the ground. King was worried that the tips of the vehicle’s blades might scrape the rocky soil at such a steep angle of departure, but the pilot was top-notch.

When he turned to look back out the open side door, King saw the massive worm was just below them, but rising up off the ground, pursuing the rising helicopter. The pilot was gaining altitude, but only at a slightly faster rate of gain than the death worm. The black maw followed them into the sky like a pirate ship intent on doing them ruin.

Rook had indeed made it into the craft, and he was now sitting with his back against the bulkhead. He’d formed a figure eight knot on the end of the rope from Knight’s bag and was clipping it to the front of his harness with a black, anodized aluminum carabiner. King expected he would clip the other end of the rope onto the body of the helicopter for safety, but he never got the chance.

As the helicopter began to pick up vertical speed, the worm fell farther from the open door until Knight judged the distance enough. He flicked the switch on his transmitter, holding it up so everyone could see him deliver the coup de grâce.

Nothing happened.

“Son of a bitch,” Rook called. “Try this one.” He reached out the hand of his bloodied arm and slapped the switch on his own transmitter, which was attached to the front of his gear harness.

Again nothing happened.

“We’re too far away from it now,” Queen said, reminding them all that the devices had a limited range. She called to the pilot. “We need to drop altitude a little.”

“Screw that,” Rook said, standing and pulling his twin Desert Eagle pistols. “Somebody get the friggin’ rope.”

With that he leapt head first out the open door, and toward the still rising void of the death worm’s mouth.

Five sets of hands scrambled for the rope bag and the black climbing rope that rapidly unspooled from its depths.

* * *

Rook sailed straight down through the air, head first toward the oncoming ring of waving tendrils. He could see that the creature had raised almost half of itself straight up off the ground, chasing the rising helicopter with unrestrained hunger.

He had no question in his mind that the others would secure the rope, preventing him from falling to his death. Instead he worried that his plan to get close enough to the bomb-spikes that the transmitter would work might be flawed. He couldn’t do the math quick enough to determine when his plummeting body would meet the rising worm. He’d always hated those kinds of problems in school.

Instead, he focused on what he knew how to do best.

Time to break shit.

He fired his huge pistols at the inside of the worm’s mouth, blowing huge chunks of skin apart, even from that distance. Then the rope caught taut above him, jerking his descent to an abrupt stop, and he felt the last meal he’d eaten, hours ago, try to leave his body through the top of his head. Then his body flipped upside down, because the attachment point on his harness was in front of him. He was now hanging in the air with his back facing the lunging creature and his stomach facing upward at the bottom of the helicopter.