Cargo

Natasha placed her freezing hands against the semi-truck’s heater and tucked into her parka. She listened to the storm that raged outside, to the rhythmic banging that came from within the container of her truck, and to the roaring engine that kept her safe from it all. A quick prayer later, and her hands were back on the wheel again. 

It was supposed to be a grade-A military vehicle, the finest there was, but the blizzard pummeled it as if it were one of the plastic toy trucks she used to play with as a kid. She glanced at the GPS, saw that she was still 16 hours away from the closest military depot, and blinked the drowsiness from her eyes. She considered stopping for the night and even started slowing down, but had no more than lifted her foot off the pedal when she heard the noise from her cargo again.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

She gripped the wheel until her knuckles whitened and kept driving. Icy fury raged against her windshield, and she would have to rely solely on the truck’s motion sensors and GPS if she wanted to make it. She took a cigarette out of her bag, lit it with trembling fingers, and inhaled deeply. 

It’s worth it, she convinced herself, not for the first time. We need this to win. 

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Something was wrong; it was too lively. She pulled the mission brief from the passenger seat and began skimming:

Security Protocol for Sentient Bioweapon 364B—

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

A shockwave rippled through the truck and threw Natasha’s body forward, her head colliding with the wheel.

“Blyat!” she swore and rubbed her forehead. She scrambled her dazed thoughts together as best she could and forced herself to focus on her immediate surroundings: The airbags hadn’t deployed, and she wasn’t in a ditch, a small victory in an area this desolate. She didn't get to celebrate long before the motion sensors around her vehicle turned red and started to beep, her monitor showing movement from every direction all at once. Something gargantuan had encircled her, constricted her, wrapped itself around her truck like a hangman’s knot, eager to tighten around her neck. Natasha froze in place and watched the monitor in complete stillness. The beeping sounded like sirens to her—like a flatlining heart—a high-pitched ringing that drowned out even the storm. She took the shallowest of breaths from her snotty nostrils and bit down hard on her lip, seeking to smother her fear with pain and the taste of blood. Neither helped, and all she could do was wait for it to tear open the windshield or to strike through the floor. But it never did. Instead, little by little, the noose came undone, and the monitor gradually returned to its normal blue state as the sirens quieted. It had abandoned its prey, though Natasha couldn’t figure out why. It also didn’t matter to her. She took a shaky breath, salvaging what remained of her composure, and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Then, she grabbed her rifle and backpack from the passenger seat and kicked the door open into the raging blizzard.

The cold cut at her face like a starving predator, hungry for her warmth. She couldn’t see anything beyond the muzzle of her gun, couldn’t hear anything except for the wind’s howling, but she knew she was being watched. Natasha carefully maneuvered to the truck’s backside with unsure steps and found the container torn open from the inside, claw marks telling the tale on the serrated platinum door, which stood shredded as if made of paper. Its cargo was missing, too. 

It was missing.

Quick movement to her right, and Natasha pulled the trigger. The flash from her rifle lit up the night like a match in the dark, and a cry of something inhuman cut through the blizzard’s banshee scream. It fled deeper into the darkness, and Natasha followed with a flashlight in hand, plowing through knee-high snow into the adjacent valley, tracking her quarry through a trail as wide as her truck. She ventured further out until she could no longer see the lights from her vehicle, until the track narrowed to that of something bipedal, which made it all the harder to follow. Before she knew it, any trace of her cargo had disappeared completely.

Natasha reached into her backpack and pulled out two black drones, each with a blue touchscreen that pulsed with the image of a fingerprint. She warmed her fingers under her armpit before pressing her thumb against the cold screen. A second later, the drones took to the air with a beep and a buzz. She watched them fly through the storm, their green searchlight visible even through the blinding blizzard, and prayed once more. She worried that the weather would be too much for them, their lightweight and unassuming propellers not inspiring much confidence. They proved her wrong.

She knew she should return to her truck. She could hear General Nosenko still, her smoker’s voice hoarse in Natasha’s ear:

“If that thing gets loose, you sic the drones on it and return to base. Do you hear me, Captain? You do not fight it alone, no matter what.”

But she couldn’t leave this to someone else. It was their one chance at winning the war. She had to try and contain it, or, failing that, neutralize it so it wouldn’t fall into enemy hands. It was her responsibility and hers alone.

The drones snapped and darted in one direction, then another, then another; a chaotic dance over the icy wastes, two spotlights without a performer. Natasha gripped her gun tighter, steadied her footing, and prepared herself for whatever was to come. As one, the robots turned and surged at breakneck speed towards her. She jumped out of their way and into the ice-crusted layer of snow. They stopped. No more than a few feet behind her, the drones’ searchlights flared red. The captain’s stomach turned as she saw a form illuminated in the eerie glow. It was a man, barely concealed by the blizzard, and he was watching her. Or rather, it was imitating a man; it looked human only at a glance, with a child's comprehension of proportions. She aimed her rifle at it, tracking its movement as it circled her in the snow, and waited for the perfect shot.

“Come inside, little sun,” it said in a voice that reminded her of her mother. However similar, it had a darkness that didn’t belong. As it spoke, the creature’s gait and posture changed until it resembled a woman’s. Not her mother, but a stranger.

The figure whistled two sharp, short bursts followed by a long note. “Come here, girl. I have a treat!” Her dad, calling in their chortai from a hunt. While the voice was still off, it got his proud walk down. She tightened her grip around the rifle.

“Captain,” it said, and Natasha could’ve sworn she smelled General Nosenko’s cigarettes as it spoke. “Lower your weapon.”

Natasha knew it wasn’t her, couldn’t possibly be her. But if that voice told her to stand at attention, she had been trained to do so without flinching. She lowered her weapon and leaned in for a closer look. General Nosenko, or what had once been her, huddled spasmically and shifted shape. It lunged at her with arms that split into ever-reaching claws, tore through her jacket, and dug into her soft belly until the snow was stained with her lifeblood. Her guts tumbled out of her body in steam and slippery wetness, like snakes escaping the breath of some terrible beast, and Natasha felt them unburden her body. There was no pain, only a comforting warmth across her abdomen, and the encroaching darkness snuffing out her vision. As she collapsed into the snow, she felt a primal and savage drumming in her head and heart. It was the war cry of something ancient, and the death rattle of humanity.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Written by Stephen K. Petterson.

Cover photo by Shahin Khalaji.