Jean Pierre Felipe IV had been tracking the beasts for what felt like weeks. The monstrous pests, ravenous by nature, had been destroying the local crop of haw grass and as the designated town hunter and pest control agent it was up to him to take care of the problem.
He, like much of the rest of the fluffle, had a natural aversion to violence, but it was vital for their survival to kill all the armored bastards that threatened the crop. Truth be told, he would much rather be doing something more enjoyable, like munching on grass, baking carrot cake, or setting up the town anti-feline defenses. But no, he had the unfortunate luck to be born with ears just a BIT too long to be a baker and clumsy hands that made doing anything with close dexterity near impossible. Except for hunting. And soldiering.
The spears on his back pushed against his shoulders, slowing him down, forcing him to redistribute the weight to avoid giving his position away from the clanking of the iron shafts against the glass grenade cases. Just like during the war.
(Of course, during the war he had not been carrying acid grenades, but smoke bombs. He, along with his platoon, was green with inexperience up until that fateful day, the day of the Daffodil Ridge Massacre.)
Carefully he crept after his quarry, silently tracking their nasty trails of slime.
HOP!
He was getting closer.
HOP HOP-PITY HOP!
He had focused so much on tracking the Escargatoire that he had not been paying attention to the changes within the terrain, and thus was unaware that the thick strands of grass had been replaced by the thick trunks of flowers. The buzzing of Yellowjacket wasps broke his concentration
“MEEP!”
Terror filled his lungs as he realized where he was. The horror. The pure, pure, stupidity of what had happened. He had wandered out of the savanna and into the horrible, evil, satanic fields of flowers grown by the second natural enemy of everything that had ever lived, Yellowjacket wasps, the horrific carnivorous cousins of bees. The first natural enemy, of course, being the daffodils that they raised for camouflage.
That horrid stench, the putrid smell of flowers filled his mouth, making him gag, and took him back to his days in the army, to the war, back to the Daffodil Ridge Massacre.
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It was early morning, just after sunrise, and the platoon, fresh out of Basic Training and greener than a field of fresh alfalfa, was preparing for a training patrol in the forest just outside of town. Spirits were high as they gathered their equipment and lined up in formation for the march.
“MEP-Meep” barked Sergeant Billingsly as the newest members of the Legion of the Rabid Hare snapped to attention.
“Meep, mep-meepep. Meepepeem. Meeeep!”
Yes, Sgt. Billingsly was right, they had better pay attention to their surroundings and should take the training seriously, but really, what did it matter? They were not at war, and it wasn’t as if anyone was dumb enough to dare to try anything. No, JP thought to himself, there was nothing to worry about.
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“Meep, meep, meep.”
JP snickered and glanced at Peter in the column marching next to him. Big Dumb Pete, his “best friend” since as long as he could remember. Big dumb stupid Pete, his embarrassing “name-twin” that was constantly rushing headlong into terrible situation after terrible situation without a second thought about how it affects anyone else.
They had both received their conscription notices at the same time and, in true dumb luck fashion that could only afflict the truly unlucky, they had somehow been paired together as training partners. Anyone else, he would have been happy with, but it was now his responsibility to make sure that the big dumb brute, easily twice his size, kept out of danger. A task that, even though it was not a time of war, was more difficult than JP had expected it to be.
The sun, high in the sky, beat warm rays on his face as the columns started moving. Because it was a training patrol, everyone was going to get a turn in the leadership positions, and Sergeant Billingsly was only there to make sure that nothing too terrible happened as a result of incompetence or inexperience on the part of the inexperienced troops.
“Mee-eep-eemeep eep-eep-eep-eem, ‘em-eep,” he mumbled miserably under his breath as he struggled under the weight of his pack; cheap, fake, next-to-unusable equipment that was only there for the sake of adding “realism weight.” His weapon, that he had trained and trained on was not even real! None of them were! Instead of the sharp, hard brass of spears, they were given blunt rods of heavy steel.
It was finally Big Dumb Pete’s chance to lead, and JP, as per every other stupid time in his life up until then, got the unlucky task of being the designated radio operator.
“Meep! Me-epeep empeep mep mep!!”
JP wished that he could muster up the same level of enthusiasm as Pete and the others, but something just felt wrong. He could not place what it was, but there was something in the air that just felt…. Off. His eyes were drawn up as the giant shadow of Big Dumb Pete, Column Leader, stopped moving.
There it was, as if from a dream, flowers unending. The unexpected beauty of the daffodils, yellow as the sun and as fragrant as perfume, waving in the wind much like what JP imagined the ocean would, lulled the platoon into an almost trancelike state.
Flowers? A ridge line? They were supposed to be on the mesa fifteen miles outside of town. Someone had seriously messed up.
The disapproving look from Sergeant Billingsly was all that JP, designated radio operator, needed to know that they were, in fact, in the wrong place.
“Me-epeep!”
He moved up the column to stand between Big Dumb Inattentive Pete and Map-bearer Stupid,
“Meep? Ep-em,” he pointed at the map, to where they were supposed to be. “Ep-me. Pem-pem.” This, this was where they were, somewhere off to the northeast of the map. He could understand how Pete could make such a mistake, but Big Dumb Incompetent Column Leader Pete had not been the one who had overseen the map. Gross incompetence on many accounts. Wait, was this his fault too?
Pete ignored him and, as if in a trance, made his way into the flowers with the rest of the platoon following close behind.
Confused and terrified, JP tried to do his duty as the designated radio operator and call for help, but between the terror of watching everyone mindlessly hop into the flowers like a group of brain addled zombies and his overly clumsy hands he was not able to get through to anyone.
And then the screaming began. JP had never heard anything like it before, and he hoped to never hear it again (although for years he would hear those screams in half-remembered nightmares). Screams of pain, screams of the dying, and the screams of those who were not yet dying but knew that they were soon going to join them. The types of screams that cut through metal, glass, flesh, bone, and time, making any who hear them wish that they were deaf.
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“Meep meep, meep meep meep meep,” he mumbled under his breath, trying to muster up the courage to continue his hunt. This was the first time that he had been around flowers since the war, and try as he might, the terror and fear was too much for him to remember anything beyond the Soldier’s Code.
“Meep meep. Meep meep, meep meep meep meep. Mee...” He was halfway through the code when the stinger emerged from his chest.