The QUEEN SONG

(17) Scene 38

07/29/2019
Mike W McCoy

Version 1.0

<>38<>  This was a killing field. 

Special agent Boris wheezed with labored breath after the daring dash down into the desert dunes.

“Relax, big boy?  What in the Hell were you thinking?”  He spit a sliver of a second before his severely bruised hip gave out. 

Working with gravity, he stumbled over the crest of the next sand dune and collapsed.  He was farther East of the Grand California Resort proper, and South of the huge dark black helicopter that had disgorged the newest clique of gangsters.  Boris had also lost sight of the creepy cultists chasing him, but their steady shrieks and howls placed them close behind.  

The dim of the dangerous night was split by a crescent moon that seemed to smile on the suicidal scene at the most inopportune times.  A chuckle from ‘Absurdity’ made the stupid grin again just as his feet slid out from under him.  With no coordination or control, the raggedy man slid with a wall of sand towards the bottom of the wide dune bowl.

“Oh swell,” he groaned, grasping the reality of the situation.  “No good, not even close.”

He was now laid slumped against the bottom of the nearly 60 meter wide dune bowl, for a least 6 deep breaths, before realizing he wasn’t alone.  The smell struck 1st with its sickly sweet tinge of rotten vegetation, and an overlap of something worse, ‘Fear’ and ‘Pain’. 

Slowly, Boris adjusted to the gloom of Death Valley darkness, and saw the closest of the 130 or more flesh eating smart-cactus plants.

Wet-brick colored spots smeared the turquoise green fronds which grew up from a central husk the size of a car tire.  Most were still folded closed in a tight conical shape, but the elongated tapered leaves of others had begun to sense his proximity.  The lengthy limbs moved slowly, displaying sharp barbs down their sides, like the teeth of a shark. 

The exhausted man rose into a shaky standing position amongst the trashcan high otherworldly plants.  An upsurge of ‘Panic’ clinched his gut when his foot made contact with the remains of the 1st human skull. 

Instinctively he knew this was a killing field. 

Boris had only seconds to process the scene before the caterwauling cultists came over the rim of the sand bowl.  Subconsciously he was glad the dark night hid most of the horrors that lay scattered around as he lurched between the lethal awaking plants.  If he could see what was being stepped upon, all hope might have been lost.

Human bones of all types, ribs, femurs, spines, and most manner of in-between rotting sunbaked semi-digested limb, were being kicked aside or trampled upon by his frantic crippled maneuvering to reach an open area.

“Stop...don’t move…get him...Keep him alive,” the cultists shouted.

The Soundtrack was also heavy with incoherent yells cast down from others sliding down the shifting sand wall of the deep dune bowl. 

Boris glanced back and saw perhaps 15 crazies charging onward with outstretched arms.  A madness was in their glazed eyes, like back at Club Uzi.  It was as if someone or something was playing puppet master with their limbs.

No time for a detailed study, so a blend of their overall appearance impressed itself on his frantic mode of mind. 

Barefoot or booted, hard to tell which, as the sliding sand obscured both options with voluminous shifting shades.  A few still swayed smoldering cactus frond torches, and the scattering red embers accented with long erratic shadows that shifted violently with each lunge downward.  Images of dark ripped shirts and pants, around thin emaciated waists, became clearer the closer they plunged towards Boris amid the smart-cactus feeding ground.

He did notice a striking similarity of facial expressions.  Be they bald, long greasy haired, or somehow a patched mix of both, each cultist had stretched ash colored flesh drawn back tight, exposing a thrusting jaw, jagged cheekbones, and protruding brows.  The closer they charged, he saw stained teeth and dark eyes, which gave of a resemblance to shrunken skulls. 

“Coward!” Mr. Ash bellowed as he crested the edge of the sand bowl.  “Stand still.  My master isn’t finished with you.”

The awkward yell made Boris pause in mid-stride between two awaking carnivorous cacti.  Turning quickly to the way he came, the special agent felt a strong tug down the fabric of his suit’s jacket.  Fronds from both plants had snagged the expensive material and were proceeding to enfold it deeper within their grasps, intent on devouring the water filled flesh they sensed.  Like upside down octopuses whose arms were edged with serrated teeth, the stained turquoise branches of each began to swat at each other in a blind effort to win the prize. 

Shrugging out of the jacket, Boris stumbled clear of their expressive battle, and kicked aside several smaller human bones, only to stop again as more smart-cactus responded to the disturbance.

He remained momentarily frozen only inches from a half dozen seeking fronds.  He gawked up at Mr. Ash as he led the charge of a new group of cultists, drawn mostly from the ranks of the gruesome train that tramped from the poolside cabanas.

The big shirtless wide shouldered ash painted Polynesian thug thrust his plant based sword towards Boris and yelled something incoherent.  The men and women gathered nearest him immediately dashed forward, oblivious to the awaiting danger posed by the thick cluster of awaking killer plants. 

Being mesmerized by the mayhem wore off as quickly as it materialized, so Boris focused on his survival.  Almost a dozen full sized plants were between him and the nearest clear spot along the base of the deep dune bowl.  Closing in from the left were several of the leading cult crazies, jumping, hooting, and howling disjointed obscenities as they raced towards him, careless of the stirring plants. 

The bruised Monster adjusted his stance and awaited them.

Up front was one of the thicker red bandana wearing Enforcer thugs who leapt over the outer edge and began winding closer.  The smart-cactus reacted slowly to his movements, allowing him to avoid their attempts to ensnare.  But not so lucky were the trio cultists who tried to follow the mad man’s example.

The 1st snagged from the trio was a short shirtless gaunt Mexican with long wild hair.  A low coiling cactus frond wrapped itself like an octopus arm around his trailing leg, tripping him face first into a 2nd awaking plant whose foliage had opened wide like a seductive orchid. 

The man’s screams of pain were quickly overshadowed by the surprised shrieking of a dark skinned cult woman who followed directly behind.  The shredded flimsy fabric of her once elegant brightly colored yellow dress quickly became blood stained as more deadly teeth-like plant spikes ripped into her sunburned flesh.

Stumbling in pain she collapsed across the path of the 3rd grimy cultist hot on her heals.  The skeletal thin white man in ripped swim shorts tripped on her thrashing body and landed partway into a pair of thriving plants.  They immediately began to pull large bloody shreds of flesh from his legs and torso! 

Blood spurted and ‘Madness’ yelled.  As Boris did his best to defend against the next crazy eyed cultist who swung wild punches his way.  The special agent tried to catalogue the insanity thrashing around him, but the mental strain was overwhelming. 

Mr. Ash, the Polynesian Enforcer, swatted at the now fully active cluster of smart-cactus with his much harder, and slightly burnt cactus frond sword.  The action soon proved futile as several cacti secured a grip on the swinging weapon and tore it from his grasp. 

More blundering wretched cultists plowed forward into the dark clustered killing field.  Some momentarily held burning torches that glowed an angry red as they too battled their way inside, only to fall onto the blood splattered sand and littered remains of previous victims. 

Their screams added to the Soundtrack of Hell.

Boris maneuvered backwards to avoid Crazy Eyes attempting to grapple him.  The cultist rushed forward and Boris used the man’s momentum on a redirect into a patch of waiting plants.  While the fronds fed into his flesh, Boris glimpsed at the mob of circling cultists spread out around the patch of undulating terror. 

He instantly changed his plans of escape.  Continuing forward was a hopeless cause, if the cacti didn’t get him, the surrounding dregs would pull him down.  Suddenly a crunching sound drew his attention. 

Mr. Ash stood only a few strides away.  Blood flowed from lacerations across his naked chest.  It mixed with the pasty fire-pit ash painting his muscular form, turning into a pinkish seeping mess.  The cult Enforcer smiled crookedly. 

“No more running, understand?”

“Oh crap,” Boris managed before the brute lunged.

Ducking, low he avoided the 1st pair of swings, but the following punches slammed hard into the special agent’s chest and shoulder.  Dodging left, and barely blocking a 3rd swing, Boris kicked his opponent smartly across the leading knee.  Mr. Ash staggered letting out a ferocious yell of anger.‘Absurdity’ made a callback and tipped the scales.

Stumbling over a group of bleached skulls, Mr. Ash did a short slap-stick comedic shuffle sideways.  He stopped abruptly, and shifted into an attack stance.  Too late he realized that his left arm had swung back to maintain balance, and something painful had bit into it. 

He struggled frantically and sprang towards Boris, only to feel the flesh of his bicep and forearm tear away like a ragged chunk of zebra meat ripped off by the jaws of a ravenous lion. 

The horror of the spurting blood and death yells of pain, gave the Boris his chance.

The special agent didn’t have time to locate more threats on the killing field, as the cult mob was closing his escape window.  Weaving drunkenly like a slippery snake, he hobbled past the last few outer rim plants blocking his way, and lurched frantically for the far side of the sand bowl.

During the steep climb his right side began to bleed painfully because with every 2 struggled steps upwards, the shifting sand pulled him back 1. 

Following Boris were a matching pair of mostly bald fanatic females.  Both wore the remains of dull gray colored nurse uniforms over bare deeply gouged blood oozing legs.  They climbed up the dune faster then him, and would soon within striking distance. 

“Oh, damn it,” he grumbled realizing what should be done.

The tallest nurse was closest, so he stuck hard, knocking her head back with a solid right cross.  Her yelp of surprising pain was overtaken by the jumbled curse of the 2nd nurse.  The shorter woman latched onto his left leg, intent on holding him for more cultists, who were now only a few car lengths below them. 

Not wanting to accept that fate, Boris struck repeatedly at the 2nd cultist’s neck.  She struggled to maintain a grip and bite back at the same time.  The seconds ticked, the heartbeats pounded, and the mob’s howls continued closer, up until her hold weakened.  Using a surge of desperate strength, Boris struck with both fists until she was stunned, stopped, and slipped down the steep dune bowl. 

Struggling up to the dune’s crest, Boris glanced back as she slid and rolled several more times before nudging up against the base of the closest smart-cactus.  The man-eating plant, and the others alongside, immediately sensed her as a struggling meal.  They began tearing into her flesh with lengthy sharp spur ridged fronds. 

“Damn, what an ugly way to die.”

Her screams echoed eerily across the wide dune bowl.

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