Alluvial. Valos of Sonhadra Book 1

CHAPTER 5

 PRETA

The only good news about the darkness is that even when we catch up to my group, it hides Drogan's proximity to me. His voice is low and hushed when he asks, "You know what would have been helpful?"

I squint off into the distance as if I can actually see through the black. "Being able to determine if questions were rhetorical?"

I get an amicable shoulder-slam before he continues over me. "Popping the plans into your head for things like ship repair."

"Wow, that would have been great. Thanks. Now I wish they'd have given me that instead of a set of phrases that turn me into a psycho killerbomb, ready to detonate on the unsuspecting."

I slap at whatever just stung my neck. It squishes between my fingers, and I add it to the collection of nasty that covers my jumpsuit. This is a hostile planet. And it's only getting more hostile the farther we're forced to walk into it. "That roar sounded way close," I groan—but quietly—I don't want to die—and Drogan's moved to my side, so he hears me just fine.

"You're not really a psycho," he defends absently.

Gee, he's too kind. I purse my lips at him, and I think he doesn't see until he squeezes my fingers.

"The head asshole doesn't want to pack this expedition up just yet." He sounds majorly pissed off about this. Probably because we can barely see the lights from the ship now, the noises of the wildlife are getting louder, not to mention closer, yet we haven't found a damn thing for food or water because it's dark.

All in all, this is a bust. "Because he thinks whatever beast can make sounds like that," I stab a finger in the direction of the scary creature-noise, "won't be able to find us without a flashlight? Speaking of: despite us having them, we're literally stumbling around out here. It's pretty much impossible to forage at night. What exactly does this head asshole expect us to do?"

"I don't fucking know!" he explodes in a furious whisper.

 "Drogan gets growly when he gets scared," I muse. "And remember when I said that being able to determine when a question was rhetorical would be a helpful skill? I wasn't just talking about me."

A hand lands on my ribs and punishes me with the five-fingered spider-dance even as he claps a palm over my mouth so my protests are smothered.

An unholy scream rips through the air.

All around us, the flashlights that had been trained on the path ahead turn into panicked strobe light beams as the others try to pinpoint the what and the where of this sound's origin.

Drogan's hand clamps down over mine, keeping our lights static, keeping us still.

Unnecessary. I wasn't moving. I can't. My body has locked up as my programming informs me that moving targets attract attention.

But ha, take that, programming: I was trained by the best. I already knew this. This leads me to a thought though; what if my program is based off of missions my dad and sister were successful in? Like during debriefing, the things they shared that helped them succeed in missions have now been programmed into me? Just the possibility that it could, in some way, be connected to them makes me resent its presence in my head a little less.

At the very edge of our light, a woman stumbles—

SNAP!

And then it's just a shoe.

I think I saw teeth close over her. Lots and lots of teeth. It was so fast. The muffled sound of her screams devolves into a gurgle as something crunches down on her body.

Panic erupts. Everybody's running.

"Preta, move! I hid packs!" Drogan shouts. "Get back to the ship; we'll grab those!"

I'm all for his plan, I'm more at a loss of how to execute it as we race along, inmates resembling orange wildebeest, all of us stampeding for the safety of the ship's lights.

The monsters aren't afraid of the lights though, and they're waiting for us here like we're the platters that are finally being served to their table.

"About those packs," Drogan says before he forces a string of curses through gritted teeth. "Forget 'em. C'mon!"

I move to follow him.

"Preta!"

The warning shout comes from behind us, and I know this voice.

I whirl around, and illuminate a nightmare.

If you took a Utahraptor, a rock python, and the creepiest freaking bug you could imagine, this is what it looks like.

But bigger.

It had been heading straight for me.

But now?

It's headed for Charlie.

No!

The look in her eyes; it's apology, and regret, and worry. She gives me one nod.

"PRETA! Your six 'o clock! We need to go."

She can't make it to me, and our flashlights are not exactly a match against the things converging on us, so I find my head bobbing back, before my body mechanically turns, and I fall in with Drogan, both of us racing deeper into the woods.