Read Online Legion Of The Damned - 02 - The Final Battle by William C. Dietz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William C. Dietz
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Booly. “What the hell is that thing anyway? A legionnaire or a laboratory experiment?”
Anger surged and Booly had already taken two steps forward by the time Riley grabbed him and a bouncer sidled up to the marine. Words were exchanged, the marine shrugged, and fell into his seat. The lights began to dim and Booly allowed Riley to guide him into a chair. He looked at Kadien, caught the tail end of a smirk, and knew he’d been had. The other officer wasn’t in cahoots with the marines, but had invited Booly to the nightclub knowing something similar could happen, and hoping that it would.
Booly had no more than settled into his chair, and the knowledge of what was going on, when the bubbles stopped and the oily stuff started to quiver. An ominous hum came over the speakers, soft at first, then grew in intensity until it became a growl. A round black something forced its way up and out of the inky black depths. Eight blobs stood on the platform and became people as hundreds of gallons of thick oily fluid drained away. There were two women and six men. They were naked except for a coating of whatever the stuff was, and in the case of the men, ready for sex.
The hum died to be replaced by the complex sound of drums, their individual beats echoing and overlaying each other to form a rich tapestry of interwoven sound, something the human part of Booly had learned to appreciate and enjoy. But not here, not tonight, not with people like Kadien. The people on the platform started a slow, sensual dance as Booly nudged Riley with an elbow. “Come on, Tom . . . let’s get the hell out of here.”
Riley’s eyes were locked on the now-writhing forms that occupied the oil-wet stage. “Sure, Bill, lead the way.”
Booly rose, considered some sort of excuse for Kadien, and decided to hell with it. Let the racist bastard think whatever he wanted. Pausing only for a much-needed stop in the men’s room, the legionnaires made their way out of the club, and into the parking lot. The grim reaper was on the door but the executioner was nowhere to be seen. They were halfway to the cab stand when the marines stepped out of the shadows. The same marine did all the talking.
“Look, fellas, the wuss patrol, headed for home. Whacha gonna do, pussy? Tell the big bad CO that some jarheads called you a pussy? Cause if that’s whach your gonna do I’d be happy to write it all over your furry ass and sign my name.”
Booly knew the marine wanted to fight and knew there was no way around it. He removed his hat and jacket. Riley wasn’t so sure and tried to dissuade him. “Come on, Bill, let’s get out of here. We’re right smack in the middle of the DMZ. What if someone calls the MPs? We’re screwed, that’s what.”
Booly kept his eyes on the marine. “Can’t be helped, Tom . . . Watch my back.”
Booly had retained his dress shirt but the marine had stripped to waist. He had the chest, abs, and biceps of a body builder. That meant he was strong, but strength wasn’t everything. How much did he know about hand-to-hand combat? Not just the crap the DIs had taught him at OCS, but the down-and-dirty stuff older cubs beat into your head, until it became part and parcel of who you were. The answer would soon become apparent.
The marine wore his hair high and tight. His forehead, nose, and cheeks were sunburned from a field exercise the day before. He grimaced and growled the way his high school football coach had trained him to do, brought his fists up, and danced from one foot to the other. A boxer, Booly decided, or a kick boxer, either one of which he could handle.
A cheer went up from the marines as their champion moved in. Riley started the Legion’s chant: “Camerone! Camerone! Camerone!” and Booly waited the way his uncle Movefast Shootstraight had instructed him to do. He could see the big warrior in his mind’s eye, orange fur rippling in the mountain breeze, the huge .50-caliber recoiless in the cross-draw holster,
Anger surged and Booly had already taken two steps forward by the time Riley grabbed him and a bouncer sidled up to the marine. Words were exchanged, the marine shrugged, and fell into his seat. The lights began to dim and Booly allowed Riley to guide him into a chair. He looked at Kadien, caught the tail end of a smirk, and knew he’d been had. The other officer wasn’t in cahoots with the marines, but had invited Booly to the nightclub knowing something similar could happen, and hoping that it would.
Booly had no more than settled into his chair, and the knowledge of what was going on, when the bubbles stopped and the oily stuff started to quiver. An ominous hum came over the speakers, soft at first, then grew in intensity until it became a growl. A round black something forced its way up and out of the inky black depths. Eight blobs stood on the platform and became people as hundreds of gallons of thick oily fluid drained away. There were two women and six men. They were naked except for a coating of whatever the stuff was, and in the case of the men, ready for sex.
The hum died to be replaced by the complex sound of drums, their individual beats echoing and overlaying each other to form a rich tapestry of interwoven sound, something the human part of Booly had learned to appreciate and enjoy. But not here, not tonight, not with people like Kadien. The people on the platform started a slow, sensual dance as Booly nudged Riley with an elbow. “Come on, Tom . . . let’s get the hell out of here.”
Riley’s eyes were locked on the now-writhing forms that occupied the oil-wet stage. “Sure, Bill, lead the way.”
Booly rose, considered some sort of excuse for Kadien, and decided to hell with it. Let the racist bastard think whatever he wanted. Pausing only for a much-needed stop in the men’s room, the legionnaires made their way out of the club, and into the parking lot. The grim reaper was on the door but the executioner was nowhere to be seen. They were halfway to the cab stand when the marines stepped out of the shadows. The same marine did all the talking.
“Look, fellas, the wuss patrol, headed for home. Whacha gonna do, pussy? Tell the big bad CO that some jarheads called you a pussy? Cause if that’s whach your gonna do I’d be happy to write it all over your furry ass and sign my name.”
Booly knew the marine wanted to fight and knew there was no way around it. He removed his hat and jacket. Riley wasn’t so sure and tried to dissuade him. “Come on, Bill, let’s get out of here. We’re right smack in the middle of the DMZ. What if someone calls the MPs? We’re screwed, that’s what.”
Booly kept his eyes on the marine. “Can’t be helped, Tom . . . Watch my back.”
Booly had retained his dress shirt but the marine had stripped to waist. He had the chest, abs, and biceps of a body builder. That meant he was strong, but strength wasn’t everything. How much did he know about hand-to-hand combat? Not just the crap the DIs had taught him at OCS, but the down-and-dirty stuff older cubs beat into your head, until it became part and parcel of who you were. The answer would soon become apparent.
The marine wore his hair high and tight. His forehead, nose, and cheeks were sunburned from a field exercise the day before. He grimaced and growled the way his high school football coach had trained him to do, brought his fists up, and danced from one foot to the other. A boxer, Booly decided, or a kick boxer, either one of which he could handle.
A cheer went up from the marines as their champion moved in. Riley started the Legion’s chant: “Camerone! Camerone! Camerone!” and Booly waited the way his uncle Movefast Shootstraight had instructed him to do. He could see the big warrior in his mind’s eye, orange fur rippling in the mountain breeze, the huge .50-caliber recoiless in the cross-draw holster,
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