The pig bucks and squeals, but the goat, now bleating savagely, remains locked in place while its counterpart trots around. The goat starts wrapping the pig in copious amounts of webbing that’s being excreted from its udders! What kind of freak show did Brice unleash?
The kind Hawkins warned me about, I realize. This is what GOD is all about: developing genetic monsters used on the battlefield. It’s a few insane steps beyond strapping laser beams to the backs of dolphins. On the plus side, this whole facility is on the verge of being flattened by the third coming of the goddess of vengeance. On the downside, we’re stuck inside the building with a circus act of scientific horrors between us and the door.
Trying to erase the squealing, winged pig from my mind, I chase Collins and Alessi across the room. I move down the right side of the long room, running along the wall, weapon aimed to the left, but not firing. I nearly trip as I pass yet another freakish battle.
A komodo dragon covered in spines that makes it look absolutely undefeatable swats its tail at some kind of mutated skunk, which turns its ass around and farts out some kind of viscous brown gas. As I run past, skirting the cloud of mutated skunk stank, I see the dragon’s tail stab into the shrieking skunk, but then passing through the gas, the tail melts and falls away. The fight takes just three seconds and ends with both creatures dead.
Luckily, most of the creatures inside the domed containment units have attacked their neighbors.
Most.
At the end of the room, the tentacled crocodile twitches its head back, swallowing its neighbor—some kind of monkey I think. When it’s done, it lowers its head toward Alessi, the closest of us, and drops its jaws open. The two tentacles unravel as though in slow motion, but I think it’s just building pressure, because the two things suddenly spring out and wrap around Alessi’s feet. She shouts and falls back, striking her head and dropping her weapon.
Collins dives without missing a beat, catching hold of Alessi’s outstretched hands. But if the extra weight adds any strain to the tentacles, the croc doesn’t show it. The monster reels in both women, the pulsing tendrils bulging and pulling, bulging and pulling.
“Stay down!” I shout, taking aim. I slide to a stop, knowing that I’ll miss if I shoot while running. The room echoes with the sound of each shot. The croc gives a throaty growl and thrashes its head to the side with each hit, but it doesn’t release the women. If anything, it doubles its efforts. I unload the clip, walking slowly forward, closing the distance between me and Collins to twenty feet. The fleshy mouth is oozing blood, but the croc’s mind is intact, and whatever primal instincts it has tells it to not abandon its prey, no matter how much pain it endures.
I eject the magazine and slap in my only spare, taking aim again. As I pull the trigger, my arms are struck. The round hits the floor just beyond Collins’s head. But that’s all I see, because the world becomes a blur of movement and pain a moment later. I’m being assaulted.
But by what?
With my arms raised over my face in a classic boxer’s stance, I try to peek around my forearms and get a look at what I’m sure will be a hideous attacker. Instead, I see a small army of emperor tamarins with small black monkey bodies, large, white, old-timey mustaches and...talons. Large ones, like five oversized claws had been merged into one, ice-pick sized, curved claw, one in place of each hand and foot. Right now, they’re hurling themselves at me, curling into solid little balls. I can take the punishment, but if one hits my head, it could be sleepy time for Jon Hudson.
I try for my gun, hoping to shoot the croc while deflecting the monkey assault with my free hand. But the little jerks change tactics, opening up out of their balled forms and swinging those claws at me. The first connects with my shoulder, putting an inch-deep puncture wound in meat.
Instincts take over, and I forget all about the gun. I grab the monkey from my shoulder. It bites my hand, but it can’t stop me from flinging it across the room. I meant to throw it across the room and bash it against the wall, but an aggressive seagull swoops through the air and plucks it away. There are several more of them circling the battle, which will soon leave only the most badass genetic monsters. It’s like accelerated evolution. Survival of the fittest. The human race came out on top of the real deal, but in this mutated competition, I’m not so sure we’re going to pull through.
I reach down toward a stabbing pain in my thigh without looking, tear the monkey away and hurl it upwards. A seagull cries out and snatches its prize. A few of the others give chase, but then they seem to notice there are many more of the small meals on the floor, encircling me. They circle and dive. The monkeys, having met their match, forget about me and turn their attention to the dive-bombing seagulls, which I now see have mouths like piranhas.
“Jon!” Collins shouts.