The Orphan Army (14 page)

Behind him, Milo could hear the sounds of the others in his pod growing faint. He quickly turned to make sure they were still in sight.

They were, but only just.

He turned back to the wolf. . . .

It was gone.

The path through the forest was empty.

He knew that if he went to look for paw prints, he wouldn't find any. Just like yesterday.

“So weird,” he said aloud.

F
reeze!
” hissed Barnaby. He stood stock-still, one fist raised.

Behind him, Milo and the others froze.

It was what they had been trained to do. Like rabbits who want to live a long time in a world of quick-footed predators.

Milo had one hand on his walking stick and the other on the handle of his slingshot. His body was like a statue. The whole swamp seemed to be filled with statues. Everyone stood absolutely still, trying to become part of the foliage. Becoming invisible by not making even a tiny movement that could draw the eye.

Around them the Louisiana wetlands were big and green and noisy.

Frogs thrummed on logs in the bayou. Birds chattered in the trees. Mosquitoes hummed through the air like squadrons of tiny fighter planes. Leaves rustled in the soft easterly breeze.

Milo waited. Everyone waited.

And listened.

Milo prayed this was only an exercise. That it was another drill.

At the front of the line, Barnaby stood with his fist still frozen in the air, his head cocked to listen. Barnaby had been born here in the Cajun swamp country. He knew every inch of the lands all around Bayou Teche. It was impossible to beat him in a game of track-and-trap. So, even though Milo didn't see or hear anything out of the ordinary, if Barnaby said to freeze, then everyone, even the youngest of them, did just that.

Forty feet up and to the right, Shark met his eyes and mouthed the words:
What is it?

Milo didn't risk shaking his head, so he mouthed,
Don't know.

Barnaby was taking a long time listening. That scared Milo. If this were a drill to teach them to react to commands—­which they did a lot—Barnaby would usually turn and watch his team to see if everyone was doing it just right.

So far, though, he hadn't looked back at the team at all.

That was scary.

This had happened three times before on similar training hikes. Each time they'd waited, waited, and then it was over. All a big nothing.

Now they waited, waited, and
kept
waiting.

Milo could feel his stomach clench into a knot. His legs trembled with the urge to bolt and run, and he could do that rabbit-fast. Milo may not have had a lot of muscle or height or bulk, but he could run like nobody's business. Only Killer was faster.

At the moment, Killer was frozen too, his little body crouched down near the ground, eyes alert, ears swiveling like antennae, nose twitching, muscles rigid. A line of hair slowly stood up along his spine.

Then, as Milo watched, Killer's muzzle slowly scrunched into a snarl. He bared all of his teeth and his nails dug into the dirt, preparing him to attack. Or run.

Past him, Milo saw the expression on Shark's face as he saw that snarl too.

That's when Milo knew for sure that this wasn't an exercise.

A moment later, Barnaby screamed out a single word.

“RUN!”

They scattered like leaves.

The pod, their team leader, and one little dog. Fourteen bodies that blew away from the clearing as if pushed by a gust of strong wind.

“Drop packs!”
came Barnaby's order, and Milo felt his heart freeze. Dropping supplies during flight was serious business. You did it only in the worst circumstances.

Oh my God,
Milo thought as he hit the release and let the pack fall off as he ran. Without its weight, he moved twice as fast. He cut left and ran toward a ­tangle of wild bougainvillea, smashed through the spray of purple flowers, and found a deer trail running southeast.

He hadn't taken four steps when he heard Barnaby's voice rise to an even higher shriek.

“No! Not dat way!”

The warning was one step too late.

As soon as Milo crashed through the screen of flowers, he slammed straight into something that rose up to blot out the morning sun. It was like hitting a wall. Milo rebounded from the impact and fell flat on his back, all the air knocked out of him. His walking stave went spinning off into the brush. For a moment all he could do was lie there and stare up at the monster who loomed above him, filling the whole world with horror.

This thing that had no place in the natural world.
Un
natural seemed to define it. Or, simply
wrong.
At full height, it was seven feet tall. Dark. Massive. Hard and cold and so, so wrong.

A green jewel, like a burning emerald, glowed on his chest.

Milo's mind felt like it was coming apart.

It was a
Stinger.

T
his wasn't Lizabeth's wild imagination. This was real and it was here. Right now. A thing he'd never expected, hoped, or wanted to see in the flesh.

If you could call the glistening shell that covered it “flesh.”

If it were once a dog, it was a dog no longer. Instead of canine hair, it was covered in black-green mottled armor like the segments of an insect. Specifically, like those of a scorpion. The big barrel of its chest was wrapped in bands of the tough chitinous armor, and over the heart was a round socket set with a glowing green stone. The Earth Alliance had tried for years to acquire one undamaged, but never had. It was believed that these gems might contain valuable alien tech. This one was covered by a network of stiff wire, edged with razors. Small wiry hairs wriggled like black worms along the creature's sides. Its forelegs were tipped with razor-sharp claws, but they were not the worst thing about the Stinger. Nor was the grinning mouth filled with teeth as sharp as screwdrivers. Nor even the pair of secondary forelegs that grew from its upper chest and ended with big snapping pincers. No, the worst part of this creature was the massive tail that rose all the way over the creature's shoulder and was tipped by a bright red barb that was as long and sharp as a dagger and filled with paralyzing venom. One touch of that barb could drop a grown man and leave him helpless and vulnerable for hours. The same dose could kill a kid or a dog.

It was the very first monster Milo had ever seen. The first
real
one.

This wasn't in a book. It wasn't in a photograph or a video. This wasn't something he'd made up for one of the stories he liked to write.

This was real and it was right here. Its lifelight pulsed with the beat of its unnatural heart.

Terror was an icy hand that reached into Milo's chest and squeezed his heart with crushing force. For a moment he was frozen there, unable to move, unable to breathe.

The tail quivered in the air above him, and with a flash, it snapped downward, right toward his heart.

T
hen Milo moved.

He moved very suddenly and he moved very fast.

He moved faster than he'd ever moved in his life.

Which is why his life didn't end right there and then.

Milo threw himself into a tight sideways roll, spun like an axle, and as he turned, he brought up his knees and elbows, and then he was on his toes and fingers, and then he was running on all fours like a sloppy dog.

The Stinger struck the ground exactly where his chest had been. The barb hit so hard, it took the Stinger a moment to tear it loose. A blow like that would have stabbed him through and through.

It was a terrifying thought to realize that he'd almost died.

Almost.

Died.

Not tapped in a game of combat tag. Not consumed by fire in a nightmare.

He had almost died for real. Right here. One second ago.

It galvanized him. He moved faster than before, scrambling clear as the Stinger raised its tail again.

He thought about going for his fallen stave, immediately dismissing that as a suicidal move. He didn't go for his knife, either. A small hunting knife against an armored monster was just plain dumb. His slingshot was no good without time to aim and shoot. So, instead of fighting, he did what he had been trained to do.

He ran, ran,
ran
.

That was the plan. That was the training.

The Stinger struck at him with its tail, but Milo was already in motion and the daggerlike barb chopped into the dirt at his heels, missing him by mere inches. It jerked the barb free and jabbed again, tearing bark off a tree. And again and again, each time coming closer.

Milo dodged sideways and tried to slip around the creature by cutting around a stunted cypress. The mutant turned with him, snapping with one of its heavy pincers. Milo jumped backward, but the jagged tip of the insect claw snagged a fold of his shirt and tore it away with a huge
ri-i-i-i-p
.

Wearing only a collar, sleeves, and the flapping back of the shirt, Milo dodged two more swipes of the pincers and then had to leap over a thick bush as the scorpion tail whipped at his head. Small spots of fire seemed to ignite all over his scalp as droplets of venom from the quivering barb splattered him.

Milo hit the ground on the far side of the bush in a very bad roll that sent him tumbling and bumping ten feet down the side of shallow ravine. Roots and half-­buried stones punched him in the back and chest and ribs as he rolled down to the bottom.

He lay there, gasping and dazed.

Get up and run!

Those words—the voices of everyone who'd ever trained him—yelled in a chorus inside his head.

The scorpion dog began moving along the edge of the ravine, testing it to see if it would bear its weight. Hot drool swung in lines from the corners of its mouth.

Milo struggled to his feet and began running along the bottom of the ravine. A heavy thud behind him told him the Stinger had jumped down, landing hard on the spot where Milo had been lying.

A whimper of shear dread broke from Milo's chest.

As he ran, Milo tore the slingshot from his belt and dug into his pouch for a good stone. Found one. Pulled it free. Fitted it into the leather pad. He twisted around midstride, pulled back on the rubber band as hard as he could, and fired. Milo had won prizes—canned food, baked pies—in games like this. Running and shooting. It was the only thing he could do better than any of his friends. Better than Barnaby. And his skills did not fail him now. The stone whipped through the air and struck the Stinger in the face.

And bounced off.

The Stinger howled. Its green lifelight throbbed with the beat of its heart, urgent and furious. If it felt pain, there was no trace of it in that howl. All Milo could hear was hunger and fury.

Oh no
, thought Milo.

The monster dropped down to all fours to chase him, and immediately began gaining ground.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Milo fired one more shot, hoping to hit the lifelight, but it struck an inch too high. He turned and ran. A fallen tree blocked the ravine ahead, but there was a narrow gap beneath it. Milo dove for it and slid through like a runner trying to beat the throw to first base. As he climbed to his feet on the far side, he felt the ground shudder and pitched sideways as the scorpion tail slapped down over the trunk and buried itself ten inches into the ground.