CHAPTER 10
North Waziristan, the mountainous region of northwest Pakistan, bordering Afghanistan—a land of sparse vegetation, with rugged, barren mountains and hills interspersed with crests of beige stone. In a valley accessible by a dirt road running through a narrow defile lay one of the training camps of Allied Jihad, the world’s most notorious radical Islamic network.
A golden ray flashed across the clear blue sky. The ray took a sharp dive and a radiant being touched down on the dirt road just before the flimsy, wood and barbed wire entrance gate of the terrorist training camp. The man wore a white, formfitting, fullbody suit, adorned with golden shin guards, midsection band, and shoulder spaulders covering his upper chest and back. The spaulders had a connected metal stand-up collar that opened at the front to reveal the whole of his throat.
Two guards in desert fatigues trained their AK-47s on him as he approached casually and shouted threats at him in Pashto. He understood their language and replied with a smile. They opened up with their automatics and the bullets simply ricocheted off him as he walked forward. He held out his open hand and one of the men was pulled toward him, tearing through the gate and landing gripped by the throat in his grasp. He held the man in front of him, letting him absorb the spray of bullets from his comrade, and then tossed him to the side. The other man turned to flee. He extended his hand toward the terrorist and clenched his fist, stopping the man in his tracks, paralyzed. He nonchalantly motioned up and to the side with his arm and the man was hurled so far that the place of his crashing was lost on the horizon. Twenty men who had been practicing on a shooting range in the distance scrambled to their jeeps and pick-ups and made for him. He continued to stalk through the camp, toppling tents with gusts of telekinetic force directed by slight gestures of his hand. One man who had been sleeping secured an RPG launcher, took aim at him, and fired. He decided to display his power by punching the RPG out of the air.
He missed.
His punch angled to the side prematurely and the rocket detonated on his shoulder, blasting him backward to the ground. How embarrassing for one of his stature to receive such summary treatment. Better not to soil my hands on such detestable men.
To the dismay of the man with the RPG, he got to his feet. He dusted himself off, crouched to one knee, and jammed the fingers of his right hand into the sandy earth. “Evolve!” he commanded, transmitting a portion of his own energies into the very soil.
Five, huge, fire-ant-like creatures rose from the ground; they were humanoid in build having two arms and two legs with red exoskeletons and articulated joints, foot-long pincers, and long, transparent, veined wings at their backs. One of the insectizoids grabbed the man with the RPG by the throat and pulled his face toward its chomping pincers—his demise wasn’t painless. The vehicles from the shooting range were approaching rapidly. Some men jumped from the truck beds, strafing and shooting at the creatures, but the bullets had no effect. The ants closed the distance in the blink of an eye, skittering through the hail of bullets before gripping the men in their pincers and ripping them asunder. One of the jeeps succeeded in plowing down an ant. The impact left the creature maimed, but wrecked the jeep as well, flipping it over and ejecting its passengers. Their slight victory was short lived as the other ants converged and tore them apart. The remaining two trucks sped off, kicking up dust as they raced away on the dirt road.
He stood with his arms folded, admiring the carnage of his handiwork. The remaining four insectizoids assembled before him.
“Hunt them down and feast. You’ll need your energy, for our days work is incomplete,” he said with a grave smirk. Their long wings spread and they took flight toward the fleeing vehicles. His laughter resonated through the dessert.