A third tentacle shot straight up into view, and the corporal hacked at it with his Bowie knife. The blade became embedded halfway through and the limb was withdrawn, taking the knife. Wordlessly, the corporal retreated and a sec man charged forward, shoving his blaster barrel into the ground while firing.
“No!” the corporal shouted, hastily raising an arm for protection.
The Kalashnikov chattered briefly, then seemed to expand, the breech stretching and breaking apart, as the jammed weapon exploded. A flash from the blast masked the man, then he was back, staring in horror at the tattered stumps of his arms, blood pumping from the open ends with every heartbeat. His mutilated face contorted in a wordless scream. The sec man staggered, and his pants and shirt turned red from the thousands of deep cuts in his flesh. Blood was everywhere and he fell to the ground face first, transfixed from the shock and the pain.
As if this were a signal, the field erupted with writhing tentacles one snatched a bird hopping on the soil; another crushed a rabbit hidden in a bush. The men yelled in fear and fired their weapons in every direction. The weird limbs shook with the passage of the bullet through them, then headed directly for the source of the noise.
A blue shirt near the framework of the dish was hooked and dropped his blaster to grab the metal struts with both hands. His screams increased as another tentacle caught him in the thigh, and his flesh started to rip away in pieces as the mutie tried to claim the struggling food.
“No, you nuke-sucking bastard!” he screamed, then, as his weakening hands slipped off the struts, the man pulled the ring on a gren and released the arming lever. “Fuck you! Take you with me, motherfuck!”
The lashing tentacles hauled the sec man from sight, the loose soil filling the hole after he was gone. Then a muffled blast shook the field, and all of the tentacles shot stiffly into the air as a section of the ground heaved skyward.
“Hurt you, did we?” a private snarled, hauling a gren from his pocket. “Then try this!”
Following his lead, several of the blues tossed explosive charges, then ducked. Thunder shook the field, and when the roiling smoke cleared two more sec men were in pieces, others badly wounded. The tentacles grabbed the chunks of warm meat and took them away.
“Stop that, you idiots!” the corporal commanded. “Davies, use the freaking cannon and chill this mutie freak!”
The 25 mm cannon cut loose, blows chunks of greenery sky-high, fireballs blossoming under the furious assault. Instantly, dozens of the tentacles lashed at the wag, slapping the hull with ringing force as they tried to gain entrance.
Now with a visible target, the blues concentrated their firepower on the LAV, cutting a limb in two. As the tip fell away, yellowish fluid squirted from the stump. Suddenly, a quake shook the field and the back end of the LAV dipped into the soil. The lieutenant and the gunner screamed from within the APC as the vehicle dropped another yard lower. The big diesel engines started with a roar, the double rows of studded tires spinning in the loose soil, trying to find purchase.
The remaining sec men rushed toward the sinking LAV, firing their blasters at the sticky soil, a few tossing grens. Cutting himself off in the middle of a warning, the corporal backed away from the scene as quietly as possible, waiting for the slaughter.
Exhaust spewing, engines roaring, wheels spinning, the LAV bucked like a living thing as it tilted awkwardly, first this way, then that way. Out of control, the cannonfire swept through the defenders, blowing the sec men to pieces. The corporal used the gory diversion to race away from the area and desperately climb up the support column of the dish until he was high in the sky.
Tentacles, vines, limbs, whatever the hell they were, rose from the land by the dozens, grabbing everything, every bloody boot and severed hand. In moments the blues were gone, and the limbs crawled over the hull of the straggling APC, jabbing into the air vents and blasterports, wrapping around the studded tires, the door handles, stanchions, seizing anything that offered a solid grip. Holding his breath, the corporal watched as the men inside the vehicle fought for their lives, firing through the blasterports and shoving out grens. The electric cannon never stopped firing, the 25 mm shells tearing up the landscape as the machine was inexorably drawn lower and lower into the churning soil. The headlights flared on, and somebody tried to open the back doors, the latch rattling loudly. Soon the grass reached the ob slits, rose over the stanchions, and then the hood, until only the turret itself was visible.
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