There were Castro and Lennon ahead of him -- Banks liked to call them the Commie Twins -- and of course Sergeant Giordano in charge. Olson got to stay in the ERV and never had to break a sweat, let along climb into one of the ponderous Class-A3 hazmat suits the other three had to wear. They made up a team of which Banks was the newest member, and as near as Banks had seen the five of them were the only things left alive in the city of Pittston, Texas, population 33,542 according to the shattered sign they had run over as they crossed into the hot zone.

"Son of a bitch," said Castro's voice in his teammates' headsets. "Dude, are you sure our Geigers are working right?"

Lennon barked back, "I told you twice, you stupid spic. The check source comes up fine. I'm telling you, there's no gamma here at all. Nada. Non el gamma-o. Comprende?"

It had definitely not have been a nuke, then, although that much was already pretty obvious. Banks might only have been on one other spot-and-report assignment, and a simple one at that, but it did not take a trained eye to figure out that something very odd had happened to Pittston. Had there been a Las Vegas-style nuclear blast the destruction would have been complete, not randomly scattered the way it was here. Some smaller buildings stood completely unscathed, every window intact, while other structures had been smashed to little pieces. Other buildings had enormous chunks taken out of them, while still others appeared to have been pushed over by powerful gusts of wind.

A tornado? Not a bad guess. At least Banks didn't think it was, but the Commie Twins had made fun of him for it. "Hey, Amigo, you ever see a tornado that leaves behind an ion field?" Castro had snickered. Admittedly, no. Lennon had suggested that the initial news reports of a meteor strike might have been accurate -- it might account for the bizarrely charged -- but if that was the case then there surely would have been a single big crater with destruction radiating out from it like there had been in Iowa. Here there were craters all over, but they lay inexplicably adjacent to the areas of devastation, not centered within them. Banks felt a little bit better that the veterans were as stumped as he was, but it still did not put them any closer to fulfilling their mission.

Most puzzling of all, though, was the condition of the bodies, or what was left of them. When the team had been sent into Vegas they had come across an endless expanse of corpses that had all been turned into charcoal before they even knew that they were dead. There were people still clutching casino winnings, people lined up at a bus stop, even one fellow caught tying his shoe, frozen forever down on one knee in exactly the position he'd been in when the fucking Ragheads had detonated their stolen Russian nuke atop the Microsoft-Trump tower.

There was nothing like that in Pittston. The crows and the flies had survived whatever catastrophe had befallen and had eagerly reduced what was left of the inhabitants to bare bones. Those bones, however, still told a mute tale of unimaginable violence. Few of them were intact; most were shattered and scattered as though they had been struck by a great cosmic hammer.

"Fifty bucks says there was a riot." Olson's voice came suddenly over the headset and made Banks jump. Luckily the others were ahead of him and did not see.

"A hundred bucks says you can shut the fuck up. You ain't out here getting your feet dirty." That was Sergeant Giordano. "I'll hand it to you, though, that it's not such a long shot. It would account for the condition of the remains. Lennon, are you getting any sort of reading on the sniffer?"

"Nothing, Sarge. Just smoke. Negative for organophosphates, halogens, biologicals… hey, Sarge, why don't we ask the rookie?"

Giordano laughed humorlessly. "It's as good an idea as any. Well, Rook? What do you think? What the hell have you seen that can explain the ionized atmosphere and the damage to the infrastructure and the lack of survivors? And don't say 'tornado' again or I'll come back there and kick you in the balls."

Banks did not answer him.

"Well, Banks?" Giordano turned toward him. "Hey, Rook, I'm talking to -- oh, mother-fuck!"

Banks did not hear his sergeant. He was staring fixedly at the body of a young man of maybe seventeen or eighteen that lay face-up between an overturned delivery truck and the wall of a gutted hotel. The digital display scrolled unheeded across the faceplate of his suit. Banks could not look away from the youth whose glassy eyes stared vacantly at the sky, blinked once, then twitched feebly from one side to the other, then blinked again.

"Fucking-A!" Giordano's voice bellowed in the headsets. "He's alive! Survivor in our location! Olson, get that goddamn ERV in here on the double. Lennon..."

"I'm on it." Lennon pushed the dumbfounded Banks aside and knelt beside the pallid and motionless form. "Kid, can you hear me? I'm Corporal Tom Lennon, U.S. Army Special Hazmat Division. Don't try to move. We have medical assistance on the way."

The kid did not move or speak, but his eyes fluttered weakly as if he understood. Banks sat down against the remains of the hotel's façade and watched as the Commie Twins broke upon their aid kits and started a line in the kid's arm.

There was a crunching sound as some stray bones were ground to powder beneath a heavy wheel, and then came the whine of a power cell. From out of the oppressive haze emerged a tall antenna with an oversized sports pennant fluttering briskly from its tip. It seemed to be floating in midair, a garish green triangle against the smoke of a thousand uncontrolled fires, the grinning face of a cartoon bird framed by the words PHILADELPHIA EAGLES. Olson insisted that it brought the team luck, even though the Eagles had not won a championship since their failed Super Bowl attempt nearly thirty years prior. The pennant was followed by the tapered nose of the ERV as it rolled into view and rumbled to a halt.

Banks was jolted back to reality by a hand smacking him on the faceplate. "Don't stand there playing with yourself, Rook!" Giordano barked. "Grab a skid from the ERV and get it back here on the double. The kid can't move -- probably a spinal injury of some kind."

"R-right!" Training at last kicked in and Banks rushed to the ERV. Within seconds he had returned with the skid, a moldable polymer casing that weighed only eight ounces yet could hold a tank immobile. Castro handed over the I.V .while he and Lennon wrapped the kid up safely in his plastic cocoon, and then the two of them carried the lone survivor to the airlock on the ERV.

"Olson," Giordano said into his microphone, "weren't you getting sporadic contact with the Warm Zone through all this noise a few clicks back?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Have Lennon stay with the patient and roll the ERV back until you find a spot where the backup team can hear you. You know it takes an act of Congress to get them to send in more than one team at a time, but if they hear that we've got a survivor it may give them some incentive. Transfer the patient to the Warm Zone for decon and then get your asses back here as soon as you can."

Lennon cut in. "What the hell? We can't leave you guys here. Why don't we all just head out, drop off the patient, and then come back?"

"Because we haven't found out what we came here to find out," Giordano shot back. "Besides, if we found one, we might find more, and they'll need our help just as much."

"Are you sure about this, Sarge?" Olson again. "Once we're more than a hundred meters off we'll lose all contact with you. This charged atmosphere --"

"I know, Shithead. We're big boys, though. We can take care of ourselves until you get back. Just don't leave us waiting at the altar too long, got it?"

There was a pause, which meant that Olson and Lennon were debating. Finally Olson came back with, "Right, Sarge. If we can't raise the backup team within thirty minutes, though, we're coming back and picking you up, and then we're all going to head to the barn."

"Deal. Now piss off."

"Yes, Sir. Pissing off, Sir."

There was another pause, and Lennon came on the line. "Sarge, you've got your piece with you just in case, right?"

"Of course I've got it. Regulations, remember? You've been watching too many movies, Lennon. These are good god-fearing people who need our help, not a bunch of atomic mutants. Now move your ass."

"Yes, Sir. Moving ass, Sir."

The whine of the power cell grew louder. The ERV pivoted on its center wheels, dropped its drive gear and lurched off into the haze. The last thing that Giordano, Castro and Banks saw of it was the gaudy green Eagles pennant whipping to and fro atop the ERV's antenna, and then that too vanished, and they were left alone.

"Sorry, Sergeant," Banks said sheepishly.

"Yeah, you sure are," Castro grumbled.

Giordano gave Castro a smack on the back of his headpiece. "Quiet, you. You weren't such hot shit on your first couple missions, remember." He turned to face Banks. Banks could see Giordano grinning at him through the faceplate. "Castro here puked in his suit the first time he came across a corpse. You're doing good enough, kid. You found a live one. Not bad for your second time out. Now I need you to keep your eyes peeled for others. If we're lucky, we'll find one that's still kicking who can tell us just what the hell happened here, and then we can all hit the bar."

Banks nodded. Giordano cautioned them to keep visual contact with one another, and the trio fanned out across the ruined street. They examined every crater, every smashed vehicle, never finding anything but bones and the occasional rat or crow. Other than these there was no sign of life. Unbelievably, out of thirty-three thousand there were no survivors save for one catatonic teenager who, if he even managed to survive, would probably wind up a raving madman from the trauma he had suffered.

But what kind of trauma? The question itself was giving Banks the creeps, even more so than the silent windows and the mountains of wreckage all around that at one time had been sturdy buildings. Was it an earthquake? A tornado? A bomb? All of those things left obvious clues, and there were well-practiced procedures for dealing with every one of them. Bomb blast: turn to page nine. Bio-chemical attack: turn to page twenty. Meteor impact: treat as bomb blast. Everything, however, depended upon knowing what had caused the event.

That was where Giordano's team came in. Ordinarily it did not take long to figure things out once they entered the Hot Zone. They would find bio traces or high gamma readings or pick up frantic calls for help from people who could tell the tale, and sometimes, as with Las Vegas, there was some grinning maniac on TV telling you exactly how he'd done it and that he'd do it again if you did not hand over whatever it was he wanted.

Pittston -- this was a new one altogether. Everything had gone silent all at once. No warnings, no threats, no strutting claims of responsibility. Satellite photos and flyovers showed only a thick pall of smoke. Infrared and radar images came up puzzlingly blank. Radio and microwave communications alike were reduced to static for any receiver more than a few dozen yards away. It was as though Pittston had abruptly vanished into some crackling black void.

The worst part was that nobody had come stumbling out of the ruins. Not one. That was why the governor had decided to quarantine the area. That was why Giordano's team had been assigned to go in alone to test the air and report back on the presence of any bio/rad/chemical traces, and to see if they could pinpoint the source of the strange ionization in the air. In short, as Castro had so eloquently put it, they were the professional canaries. If they came out alive, then the other teams could go in and figure out which page of the book everyone needed to turn to.

Banks tried not to let his nerves distract him. There were more than likely going to be other survivors, and now that he knew he might well stumble over something more than broken skeletons, he was determined not to freeze up again. He was embarrassed as hell and angry at himself over his reaction. He had just been surprised, that's all. Who would have expected to find someone in one piece, especially someone with as ghastly a look as that poor kid had on his face?

I want to find the next one, he said to himself, if only so I can wipe that stupid grin off of Castro's puss

He got his wish when the next survivor literally knocked him off of his feet. The team had just reached an intersection where the path ahead of them was blocked by a fallen building, when from his left someone charged out of the haze and slammed straight into him. The impact sent him sprawling on his ass, and when he sat up he was stunned to see a woman lying on the ground beside him. Her eyes were wide and filled with terror. Behind her three more people appeared, and all stopped short when they saw Banks in his bright yellow Class-A3.

"Ouch! Castro, Sarge -- I got four more here…"

The woman scrambled to her feet and backed away, panting. Banks figured that she was scared to death of him, and with good reason. He probably looked like some sort of space alien in his ponderous suit. Quickly he thumbed the external speaker button on his chest. "It's OK, Miss!" he said as gently as he could. "We are United States Soldiers, Special Hazmat Response. We're here to..."

Neither the woman nor her companions waited around for the rest of the speech. All four of them bolted at once, darting past Banks and into the roiling clouds of smoke behind him. In his headset he could hear Giordano shouting, "What the hell? Hey, stop! We're United States...aw, fuck it all!"

Banks struggled to his feet and stumbled back across the broken pavement. A chance breeze parted the smoke ahead of him, and through the sudden clearing he could see Castro squatting in front of a metal hatchway set into the sidewalk in front of what might have been a storefront. Castro was gripping two steel handles with both hands and was straining to lift them. "They locked it!" he snarled. "The stupid motherfuckers locked it."

"What the hell?" Giordano stepped forward and rapped loudly on the door. "Hey!" his external microphone barked. "Hey, you in there! Open up! We're here to rescue you."

There was no reply. He banged again, harder. "Open the door! We're the good guys. We've got transport coming to take you to safety!"

Still no answer. Banks arrived and stumbled to a halt, panting, and Giordano turned his faceplate toward him. "Dammit, Rookie, I told you to stay within sight of the rest of the team. What the hell did you say to these people? They all looked scared out of their pants."

"Nothing, Sarge! She -- the first one, the woman -- she ran right into me. I tried to tell them that we were a Hazmat Team but they weren't listening."

"Well, Shit." Castro stopped pulling at the handles and stood up, then gave the door a kick. Once more he jabbed his external microphone. "You people down there, just stay put. We're going to send help back for you." He took his finger off of the button and added, "You stupid fuckwits."

"Can it," Giordano said. "You saw what they looked like. Whatever happened here has them scared shitless. We'll flag this location and let the backup team coax them out. Banks, see if you can raise the ERV."

Castro stretched. "Oh man, I think I strained my back trying to open that goddamn door." He turned to face the others. "Jefe, I'm getting a bad feeling about this. I think we ought to head back and wait for the ERV. We've done our job. Those stupid fucks down there can tell the backup team what went down here." He suddenly stopped and pointed. "Hey...what the hell?"

Giordano and Banks both turned in the direction he was pointing. The wind had picked up further and was swirling much of the smoke higher into the air. All three of them could now make out the silent, dark hulk of an enormous structure across the street. It was a grain elevator, a familiar sight in this part of Texas, and a big one at that, rising as high as a fifteen story building and stretching as far to either side as they could see through the haze.

What held their attention, though, was an immense hole that stretched from the ground all the way up to the top of the wall.

"What the hell?" Castro said again. "Fuck, what do you suppose went through there?"

"It looks like a plane flew into it," Banks offered. They had seen more than enough of those in the last few years.

"I don't think so." That was Giordano. "There's no scorch marks. No wreckage inside."

"Dust explosion, then?" Banks said.

"Maybe. Probably. Jeezus, it must have been one hell of a blast. That hole has got to be a hundred feet across."

Castro suddenly cut them off. "Hey, Amigos! Quiet a minute!"

They held their breath, listening. "There it is again," Castro whispered into his microphone. "Do you guys hear that too or am I going loco?"

All three of them could hear it now. It was faint, yet unmistakable. It was the only real sound that any of them had heard in the stricken city other than the murmur of the wind and the calling of crows, and it was coming from somewhere within the depths of the hole that gaped before them.

Guantanamera...
Guajira Guantanamera.
Yo debo irme a casa
Tal ves mi esposa me espere...

"It's...Spanish," Castro said softly.

"No shit!" Sergeant Giordano shot back. "Come on!"

They ran as fast as the bulky Class-A3's would allow.

The silo stood stark and empty. There was not a trace of any grain inside, only a wide concrete floor that had been shattered and pulverized into gravel by some unimaginable force. Huge chunks of concrete, pieces of the wall no doubt, lay scattered here and there. Light filtered down from enormous holes in the ceiling. The sheer enormity of the silo's interior was dizzying.

The song was coming from a lone human figure that was perched atop one of the fallen blocks of concrete. He stood up when the trio entered, pointed at them and began to babble excitedly in Spanish.

"Mother fuck," Giordano whispered. "Castro, front and center. Talk to this guy. Find out what he's trying to tell us."

The man, a Mexican from the looks of him, was naked and covered with grime. As they approached he jumped from his perch and began to hop up and down, waving his arms wildly over his head. That is, he waved one arm. The other one ended at the elbow. A filthy rag was wrapped tightly around the stump and fluttered with every gesture the Mexican made. He flashed yellow teeth at the team as he chattered excitedly and gestured and finally dissolved into fits of giggling.

"He's nuts, Sarge," Castro said grimly. "What the hell could have happened to the poor son of a bitch? All he keeps talking about is that there is some party and that we're all invited. I can't get him to say anything else."

"Ask him his name," Giordano said.

"Duh. I tried that. He says he doesn't have one. Actually, he says he doesn't deserve one. Jesus."

Banks swallowed. "Ask what happened to his arm," he said softly.

Castro did. The Mexican froze in place and briefly clutched his arm to his side, and then shook his finger in a scolding gesture, grinned, and darted away from them. With a powerful leap he sprang nimbly back up onto his block of concrete and kicked his feet in the air.

Castro kept trying, and then raised his arms in a helpless gesture. "We're definitely not going to get anything useful out of him," he said. "All he said was that she took it away from him because he 'didn't do it right.'"

"She? She who?" Giordano asked.

"I don't know, Sarge. He just keeps saying that 'she' took it away from him, and then he starts laughing like it's the funniest thing in the world. Poor fucker must've had one hell of an unhappy marriage."

"Well, shit." Giordano jabbed a button on his chest. "Entry Team to ERV, come in please," he said. There was nothing but static. "Entry Team to ERV, do you copy?" Static again, and nothing more. "Entry Team to Command, does anyone copy?"

Still nothing. "Fuck me," he muttered without realizing that he was still broadcasting. He tried again. "Entry team to any receiver. We have multiple survivors in our location. Request backup if you copy. Olson, you little shit, are you reading me?"

Banks noticed the light within the silo suddenly grow dim. He turned toward the opening and felt as though his blood had suddenly frozen in his veins. It took a few precious seconds for him to find his voice. "Sarge," he squeaked, "Castro...oh my God...six o'clock..."

The others turned, and in a single instant all three of them understood what had happened to Pittston, what had torn the town to pieces and driven those who remained mad with fear.

She was gargantuan, as tall as the silo was inside, and even then she had to stoop a little. "She" indeed -- built like a woman in body, but her head was a nightmare, something out of an old monster movie. Devil wings blotted out the light. Gleaming lizard flesh, a crazy quilt of evil black and violent yellow, covered every inch of her. Vicious claws tipped each finger and toe. A long tail thudded the ground behind her and made dust trickle down within the silo. Tucked in the crook of her arm was a steel water tank with the remains of letters on the side that would have spelled PITTSTON had the top of the tank not been ripped away.

"Oh, Christ!" Castro croaked. "What the fucking hell is that?"

"Forget it!" Giordano shouted back. "Grab some cover, now!"

Banks needed no encouragement. He fled toward the wall of the silo and frantically searched for a hiding place. He found it in a narrow crack near the base of the wall and squeezed himself inside. It was barely four feet deep, but there was no time to hunt for more luxurious accommodations. Twisting his body around within the confined space he watched as Giordano dove into a trench beneath the opposite wall. Castro scurried behind the great block of concrete upon which the Mexican was still sitting, his knees tucked to his chest and rocking serenely from side to side.

From within the metal bowl that the monster was carrying echoed a wild chorus of screams and howls that sounded like the bleating of frightened animals, but it was men and women who came tumbling out when she lowered the tank to the ground and tipped it on end. They spilled out in a living wave and rolled and piled atop one another, kicking and flailing and gibbering while the beast, grinning through savagely pointed teeth, rose to her feet and stood over them. With a casual sweep of her arm she tossed the empty tank behind her. It boomed hollowly as it struck the ground, rolled, and finally came to rest in front of the opening through which she had entered.

The Mexican bounced up and down and chattered excitedly while the monster fixed her gaze down on the people between her feet. They looked tiny there, buglike as she towered over them, with them thrashing and scrambling and pissing themselves in terror. Slowly she passed a thin black tongue over her lips, and then after a tense moment she crouched and reached toward them. She chose carefully, her fingers hovering briefly over their heads before descending and plucking a single squealing figure from the bunch. Licking her lips again she hoisted the prize to her face for a close scrutiny. It was a man that she was holding. He was sputtering and gibbering and pleading as he struggled between her fingers. She did not care. A moment later her tongue flashed forth, slapped around his torso, and yanked him into her mouth. Just like that, he was gone.

It soon became appallingly clear why she had brought these people here alive. Banks and his companions watched from their hiding places as the giantess amused herself with her captives. Like a colossal housecat she toyed with them, lifting some by their heads with their legs still spinning in the air and dropping them, pressing others under her enormous toes and leaving them broken and jerking for agonizing minutes while she pursued others around the silo's shattered floor. The injured suffered unspeakably until she finally noticed them again, and plucking them from the ground by their broken limbs, she would hold them cruelly over her maw for long moments before dropping them in and swallowing them, alive and screaming, like little sardines.

Banks had a sudden sickening realization. An arena, he thought. She has made herself an arena.

All at once the Mexican leaped down from his block and charged forward, hooting and waving his remaining arm and his stump over his head. The monster noticed him just as she was about to step on two cowering figures; incredibly, she withdrew her foot and set it down, allowing the would-be victims to crawl away, and then she sat down and sprawled languidly on her side. Banks was thunderstruck. Is that crazy bastard actually controlling the thing? he said to himself. Before his eyes the monster stretched out an arm toward the Mexican, who moaned ecstatically and began to fawn over her claws, kissing them in spite of the blood smeared across them. A deep rumble, a purr, filled the air, and the beast leaned her head in close. With a tenderness that bewildered the onlookers she flicked her tongue over the Mexican -- once, twice, three times, and on the fourth lick she nudged him backwards. He stumbled and fell, laughing, onto his rump. The dragoness bumped him back with her nose, then rolled to all fours and crawled over him. Slowly, dexterously, she settled herself down, one enormous breast descending toward the waiting man.

"Oh, mother-fuck," Giordano choked. "He's not...tell me he's not..."

The Mexican moaned as the mountainous nipple brushed him. He pawed with his good hand and gyrated, grunting and panting like a lapdog mindlessly humping at the leg of its master.

Through his headset Banks heard the sound of Castro being sick inside his suit.

The unspeakable display continued while the surviving captives retreated to the far end of the arena and huddled there like frightened cattle. The dragoness ignored them, preoccupied with the attentions being lavished upon her by her tiny pet. The interior of the silo echoed eerily with her crooning, with the Mexican's repulsive grunts, with the whimpering of the surviving captives, and with the gruesome sound of human flesh being digested.

At last the spectacle was finished. With a yelp the Mexican jerked his legs and then stopped moving, and the titan lifted away and ducked her head down to lick at him again. The Mexican eagerly hugged the great tongue to himself, and then danced out from beneath her body as she began to crawl forward. Her attention had turned once again to her prisoners, who scattered in panic at her approach. With thunderous slaps of her hands she herded them deftly together again, driving them back against the wall and trapping them there.

Banks was aware of Giordano's voice through his headset but he could not hear what the sergeant was saying. He was too busy staring at the dragoness's feet, which rested closer now to his hiding place and which her pet was now slavishly kissing and caressing. It was not the adulation, though, that had caught his attention. Caught in the crevices of her sole were a few bits of rubble and here and there something wet and red. Between two long toes was wedged a long, twisted piece of metal, and hanging limply from it was the remnants of a garish green pennant bearing the logo of the Philadelphia Eagles.

That's what Giordano was saying. He was trying to raise Olson and Lennon on the radio. Banks heard himself laughing.

The monster made a low chuckling sound. For several tense moments she merely stared down at her collection of people, her tail lashing to and fro, and then without warning her head lunged forward, jaws agape. A half dozen of the captives were shoveled into her mouth before they even had a chance to scream. The rest dove to either side, only to find their escape blocked by her hands. With nowhere to run they could only press themselves back against the concrete wall and watch in horror as a single great lump rolled down her throat. Behind her the Mexican hooted and cheered.

Licking her lips, the dragoness herded her remaining prey once more between her hands and into a tight knot. There they stammered and shrieked and prayed and clung to one another as she slowly lowered her muzzle. Her jaws parted slightly and she cooed at them, then her mouth opened wide and from the depth of her throat a thick blast of steam exploded forth. It poured over the cowering captives and billowed outward in a heavy cloud that obscured them from view. Their cries ceased as abruptly as if a switch had been flicked.

The cloud dissipated within seconds. The last of the dragoness's prisoners lay in a silent, tangled heap at the foot of the wall. Here and there an eyelid fluttered, a finger twitched, but there was no other movement, no screaming, no sound at all. Every one of their faces bore the same look of frozen horror that Banks had seen on that young survivor they had found.

The silence was broken by a shout from the Mexican. "Aqui! Aqui!" He had scuttled over to the block behind which Castro was hiding and was hopping up and down and pointing with his remaining hand. "Aqui!"

The dragoness's head swung in that direction and her lips drew back from her teeth in a grim smile.

"Aqui!"

Castro bolted.

"No!" Giordano shouted. "No, you son of a bitch!" It was useless, though. Castro was beyond reason. Both Giordano and Banks could hear a high-pitched keening in their headsets. It hardly seemed possible that a human being could make such a sound, even one in such a state of primordial terror.

The monster's head turned slowly, tracking Castro, her eyes fixed on him with malevolent glee. She deliberately waited, letting him get halfway across the arena before she lunged toward him with her mouth open wide. A blast of poisonous steam roared forth and engulfed the fleeing figure.

For a moment Giordano and Banks could see nothing, but they could still hear the unearthly wailing, and then Castro suddenly burst out of the cloud with his Class-A3 suit trailing tendrils of fog behind it. The monster's head jerked back as though shocked by the little scampering being's resilience. She watched him run another twenty yards or so without so much as faltering, and then with a low growl she crawled after him and spat forth another cloud. Again the poison surrounded him, and again it failed to stop him.

Snarling now, the monster resorted to more traditional methods. Castro had nearly made it to the hole in the wall when an immense hand swept down and swatted him violently to the ground. The headsets went silent. Banks thought for sure that Castro had been smashed like a mosquito, but then the ghastly cries began anew, their tone even more frantic than before.

The dragoness closed her hand and gathered the struggling figure up. She held him close to her face, sniffed him curiously, and then as Banks watched, she began to tear him apart. A leg came off first and was discarded, and then the whole front of his suit. His horrendous screams faded to silence as with one claw she carefully gutted him and peered closely at each quivering piece that she pulled off.

The Mexican, ever dutiful, trotted around the edge of the arena. He passed briefly in front of the trench in which Giordano was hiding, then stopped, peered closer, and broke into a wild grin. "Aqui!" he shouted, pointing once again. "Aqui, Aqui!"

"Fucking asshole!" Banks heard just before Giordano stood up from his hiding place and drew his sidearm. Two loud shots roared through the arena and the Mexican abruptly stopped shouting. He stared dumbly down at a pair of trickling holes, one in his chest and one in his belly. Slowly he raised his eyes to Giordano and gaped at him with a stunned, why-on-Earth-would-you-do-that expression, and then he slumped to the ground where he rolled about, groaning feebly in pain.

The dragoness briefly glanced up at the sound of the gunshots, and then went on with her meticulous dissection of Castro. A severed arm was stripped of its protective yellow covering which the dragoness examined closely, and then she finally seemed to lose interest and tossed what was left of Castro aside. Now she rose to her feet and turned her attention to Giordano, who began to fire point-blank at her with his puny pistol. If the bullets penetrated her hide or even if she felt them, Banks could not tell. He could not even hear Giordano's shouts. As soon as the Mexican had fallen Banks had unplugged his headset. After enduring Castro's dying screams he did not have the stomach to listen to his sergeant's.

Banks watched as the dragoness strode toward Giordano. The terrible grin had returned to her face, her teeth glistening in the sunlight leaking down through the holes in the roof. The Mexican, still writhing, lay in her path. He raised his good arm imploringly as she bore down on him. What value he may have held, however, must have been spoiled by his wounds. She stepped on him, crushing him flat, and kept going without even a downward glance.

Unlike Castro, Giordano kept his head and made a valiant effort to outwit the advancing titan. He stayed where he was until she was nearly on top of him, and then suddenly sprang forward, rushing right past a mighty foot and darting behind her. The ploy worked, but only for a few seconds. The dragoness briefly stumbled, pivoting and lashing her tail to keep her balance, but she recovered quickly and raised one foot high. That foot, the same one that had just squashed her pet into jelly, came crashing down with a thundering impact right beside Giordano, who was nearly thrown off of his feet by the shock. He staggered and kept running, but the dragoness's other foot slammed down hard in his path. He spun and kicked up gravel as he changed direction, but again a huge foot landed and blocked his escape.

They danced together for what to Banks seemed like hours, the dragoness gleefully stamping her feet and bouncing poor Giordano like a ping pong ball between them. Banks imagined that by now Giordano must be sounding like Castro had, and he was glad that he had unplugged his headset.

Eventually the monster tired of the game and gave Giordano a kick. It was just a little one, barely a nudge with the tips of her talons, but it was enough to send the man flying. He landed flat on his belly and flopped desperately until a massive toe came down on his back. The dragoness held him down for a few long moments, her tail twitching excitedly behind her. She grinned, her expression one of unbridled savagery, and slowly licked over her teeth.

Giordano was still alive. Banks could see his sergeant's arms flapping from beneath her toe as the dragoness sat down. Once settled she raised her foot slightly, allowing the yellow-clad figure to crawl free. Giordano staggered to his feet and started running again; he only made three steps before he was swept up, squirming, in her hand. Just as she had done with Castro she began to rip at Giordano with her claws; unlike Castro, however, Giordano remained in one piece. The dragoness had figured the Class-A3 out and was patiently pulling it off of Giordano's body, one shred at a time. Giordano kicked and punched at her fingers throughout the whole ordeal, but despite his valiant struggles he was soon stripped bare.

A melodious purr rumbled through the silo as the dragoness pinched one of Giordano's arms between her fingers and held him aloft, letting him dangle helplessly. His flailing limbs reflected in her cold yellow eyes as she watched him thrash about. Lifting him over her head she opened her mouth and lowered him inside, then dragged him smoothly out between her lips, leaving his skin glittering and wet. She did this over and over, Giordano's thrashing continuing with ever-increasing ferocity. The dragoness licked her lips and rolled to her back, her massive legs spread. With a horrifying grin she lowered Giordano's writhing body between them.

Banks closed his eyes tightly. When he opened them again Giordano had disappeared. The dragoness was purring huskily, still licking her lips, and…

Banks's heart nearly stopped. She was staring right at him.

He wasted no time in squirming out from the cleft in which he had taken refuge. Swallowing, he unclasped the headpiece of his Class-A3 and let it fall at his side. The dragoness made no move. She watched him closely, her chest languidly rising and falling, rumbling like a locomotive.

Banks shuffled forward while fumbling with the seal on the front of his suit. One by one the tape closures ripped free, and Banks started hopping, working first one leg free and then the other. The suit fell to the ground behind him. As he approached the massive foot of the dragoness reclining before him he yanked his undershirt, his last tie to civilization, up over his head and threw it aside. He knew exactly what he was expected to do. If he was lucky, too, she might let him keep both of his arms.

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