I look down at the puncture-resistant armor. It’s full of holes—and wriggling things. What the hell... I lean down for a better look. They look like larva, white and plump, their tails spinning frantic circles. When one of them slips further into the armor, I realize they’re working their way through it.
Spinning in a circle, muttering a string of curses, I remove the armor and throw it to the stone riverbank. After lifting my black neoprene shirt and confirming none made it through, I calm down and focus on the situation. We still have one BFS on the loose, but with its tail severed, it won’t be multiplying. It’s also left us a nice bloody trail to follow. We’ll find it and kill it. There’s no doubt about that now. It might even bleed out by the time we find it. But these little squirmy bastards present a problem. Collect and study, or exterminate?
Hawkins makes the call before I can, stomping on the armor until each and every larva is a white smear. When he’s done, he looks up at me, back at the mess he’s made and then back to me. “You okay with this?”
“I’m just upset you beat me to it,” I say. “Now let’s go take care of mom.”
After finding a wide, shallow stretch of river, we cross into the woods on the far side and quickly pick up the trail. We don’t even see it at first. The trail of gore smells ungodly, like Satan himself left a skid mark through the forest. The bloody smears move from tree to tree, but slowly shift lower until reaching the ground.
“Why did it move to the forest floor?” I ask.
“Blood loss,” Hawkins says. “Doesn’t have the energy for leaping between trees. It won’t be much further.”
Open space and bright light ahead reveals a break in the forest. While the BFS is missing its tail, it could still be deadly. If there is any kind of civilization ahead, people could be in trouble. I double-time my pace and reach the clearing ten seconds before, and more out of breath than, Hawkins. “Dammit,” I mutter between heaves.
Hawkins steps up beside me and repeats my curse when he sees what I’m looking at. A large swath of the forest has been cleared. All that remains are severed trunks and layers of old, dry, branches, many of them blackened by rot. It’s the perfect place for a BFS to hide.
I’m about to say this could take a while when I spot the blood trail. “There.” I follow the trail with my finger until I’m pointing into the distance, where an aberration mars the bleak landscape.
“What is that?” I ask myself, pulling out a pair of binoculars. I put the lenses to my eyes, find the object and focus. An RV. The FC-P is generally quiet work. Nearly all the reports of strange animals we get turn out to be real and friendly or just plain bogus. But when things go wrong, they go colossally wrong. If anyone is inside that trailer, they’re in trouble.
I lower my binoculars just as Hawkins lowers his own pair. “Let’s go in quiet,” I say. “Weapons hot. But we can’t go John Rambo now. Not until we know that RV is empty.”
He gives a silent nod and we strike out, side by side. Moving through the debris of a hacked-down forest turns out to be a slow and noisy affair. Although we’re back in silent communication mode, there’s not a single place to step where there isn’t a branch to break or a pinecone to crunch. If the injured BFS is still alive, it knows we’re coming.
When we’re within twenty feet of the RV, which looks one part rock star tour bus and one part retiree home, I motion to Hawkins and point to the far side. He nods, and we separate, each rounding the large vehicle. I scan the sides of the thirty foot long RV, but spot nothing unusual. The door is closed. The window shades are drawn, and the front windshield is covered by a reflective visor.
When we reconnect on the far side, Hawkins breaks his silence. “Abandoned?”
I shake my head. “No way. These things cost a fortune, and this one doesn’t look that old. Maybe they’re still inside.”
“Maybe.”
“I’m guessing college age. Sex. Drugs. Alcohol. In the woods.”
“Sounds familiar,” Hawkins says. A slight grin.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, and I head for the door. I’m about to knock, when a tap, tap, tap stops me in my tracks. I find the source of the sound just above and to the side of the door. A mix of white and red, like milk and strawberry syrup, drips from the RV’s roof, onto a branch. I motion for Hawkins to watch the roof, and he aims the shotgun up over my head.
I raise my fist next to the door. “Ready?”
“Just duck if you hear me shoot.”
“Right,” I say, and I give the door three hard pounds. “DHS! Anyone inside?”
Silence is the only reply.
I knock again. “DHS! If anyone is inside, respond now or we will enter.”
I wait for a moment, fist raised and ready to give a final warning before flinging the door open. Before I can knock, Hawkins gives my shoulder a quick tap. When I look back, he points to his ear. Listen.