Stalker

The day’s heat, trapped in the asphalt of the parking lot, barely leaked enough away to not scorch the skin. Large, misshapen rocks formed a barrier along the edges, so vehicles didn’t go down the steep cliffs and crash into the houses below. For those old enough to remember, a one man kiosk used to split the entrance and exit lanes, a silent guard ensuring orderly traffic. But now, all that was left were small, jagged pieces of metal, jutting from the ground like some extinct animal’s rib cage.  

Stalker’s senses came back one at a time. His mind, still swimming in a thick soup, restarted first, with the other systems checking in, one at a time and in random order. Both arms were numb, the pins and needles stabbing both hands. There was the familiar taste of blood and when he tried to wipe it away, his hand connected with his mouth like a club. His eyes sprung open, expecting to see a bloody stump but his hand was all there. The fingers were slow to receive the signals. He squeezed his hands into fists, getting the blood flowing and a thought came to him in a flash. He reached down and cupped himself.

“Thank you, Jesus,” he said.

He bent his knees until the heels of his combat boots were flush with the ground. The ringing in his ears was louder than usual. He rested his head back, looking skyward.

The stars are so bright now. 

The stench of burning fuel, with a hint of cooked rubber, clung to the air with an iron grip. Rolling his head left, Stalker could make out what was left of the Big Nickle. The top left half was gone. A bright but ragged orange scar smoked in the space left behind. 

I never went on the tour. “You still wouldn’t even if you had the chance.” True story. Stalker got to his feet.

Nothing is easy. Got picked on in school and the fights that came from it. Fast forward to getting fired from this menial job for nothing. “Yeah. Fuck you, Clemson. You’re the one who changed the lock on Weasel’s locker.” And now I’m here. “This is SO much bullshit,” Stalker spat as he straightened his back until he felt a crack then shuffled toward his carbine. A stinging pain shot through his lower back as he bent over, giving him pause. He took in a couple breaths until his body stopped screaming at him then picked it up. He checked the mag for rounds and weight then slammed it back into place. Pulling back the charging handle, the brass casing of a chambered round was visible against the dark bluing of the carbine. Letting it go, the action slammed in place. Stalker hit the forward assist and clipped the weapon to his sling.

Next time do that BEFORE firing the M72. “Or any other rocket, you fuckin’ moron,” he ragged on himself. “Damn fine shot though,” he said as he stretched, and gave himself an appreciative nod. As per usual.  

He kicked the still smoking empty tube aside. Got canned like, what, a year ago, and now here I am. “For shit pay to boot”. Could be worse. You could’ve ended up like Clemson and Weasel. “C’mon, Stalker. You ain’t finished yet.” He readjusted the sling, tucked the butt of the carbine into his shoulder and thumbed the safety off. Pieces of wreckage led the way like a trail of metallic crumbs. 

Pretty sure I did a number on my back. “Pain is a sign you’re still alive,” Stalker whispered. A high pitched mechanized whine peaked and fell. Over and over, it sounded like a wounded and desperate animal. It came from the other side of seventy or so meters of darkness, and he wasn’t about to rush. 

Not my first rodeo. 

Activating the light on his carbine, Stalker swept left then right making sure nothing lurked in the shadows. His eyes followed the beam as if they were attached.

Move. Move. 

Dirt, debris and gravel crunched beneath the soles of his boots as he made his way towards the cliffs edge. Being silent wasn’t an option or required but slow and steady was. Heavy breaths, in and out of his nose, provided a cadence for his pace.  

There’s gotta be, what? Minimum five at least. Ship that size. For sure. Gotta be. 

He allowed himself a quick glance at what was left of the main Dynamic Earth building, which wasn’t much. It had collapsed in on itself, most likely from the first days. Bringing his focus back to the front, he cut the blackness with the light.

Reinforcements will be here in less than ten. And they always live through these things. Now, where are you? Gotcha!

It was only the slightest of movements, but Stalker caught it. His rifle up at the ready, he trained the light on an overturned garbage can. Moving in a wide arc to his right, he stepped over the curb where eventually, the broken cement sidewalk gave way to grass. He continued to flank right until it came into view. Stalker kept his distance because even when injured, they were a threat. He double tapped two rounds into the crawling grey mass. Satisfied it no longer moved, Stalker kept going. 

One down. I’ll be able to see my old warehouse from up ahead. I remember me and Clemson would come here after nightshifts in the summer. Before heading home, we’d throw back a couple beers as the sun came up. Great, now I’m thirsty. I’d give my left nut to have beer again. When they eventually put this place back together, beer has GOT to be a priority. Goddamn this heat. Hundred percent better than winter though.

“So, stop your bitchin’ and get on with it,” Stalker said as he reached the edge of the lot.

About a hundred metres distant and crammed into a roof was the tic-tac shaped hull. After slicing the Big Nickel in half, altering its trajectory, it pulled a hard landing into the old Deluxe restaurant. Flames flickered and spread. 

The whole building is lit. Roast them bastards. Time’s wasting. My sweep needs to be quick. 

Casting a last look back the way he came, Stalker was satisfied everything in the lot behind him was dead. Go man, go. Move. Move. 

The last of the glowing metal of the Big Nickel cooled to black as he jumped down the slope and disappeared into the trees.