Another Hero

"Brace for impact!" is not the phrase anyone wants to hear.

But phrases are as indifferent as monsters. They do their damage and wander off, unaware. The Philippines has a lot of phrases and even more monsters.

"Tayo!" the young greaser said, skinny and bronze, his skin smoking, but not from the crash. 

"Wh...what?" asked the Army man, confused, weakened, a streak of blood rappelling down the face.

"Get up!" the young man's eyes burned black as if they faded out. "Listen to me very carefully. Plan's the same, even though Dorothy Forever got clamped. I go stall the thing. You set up the weapon and hit it hard. Got it?"

The Army man's eyes dilated. He tasted blood and fear seeped into the heart.

"Private Elvis Presley, do you understand me?"

He snapped his body off the fractured floor and saluted. "Sir, yes, sir! I'm on it. We both have our orders."

"Nah, puting lalaki, you got orders. I got a stash of money waiting on me to get this done. Let's go!" He offered Presley one of those cool cat handshakes and jumped out of the rocket, body fuming, growing larger. That was Carlo for you. Musician. Rogue. Halimaw hunter.

The polar opposite of Elvis Aaron Presley. Ballistics degree. Scientist. Sometime crooner. Drafted into This Man's Army.

He shook off the dizziness only to receive a headache in return. "Where'd he...? Right. Come on. Focus! Rocket down. Weapon. Is the weapon in fighting form?" He surveyed the interior while outside, the world trembled.

"Right. Island of Samar. Crash landing. A dog from Imperial Russia. Mutation. Rampage. Okay." Presley staggered to the rear of Forever, turned the wheel on the heavy door. Nothing. Punch. Kick! On the second attempt, he got it to creak open a half foot and slip inside. There she rested, undisturbed and glorious. 

The Atomic Degrader. The Private couldn't handle the nuclear physics that went into the murderous part of the weapon. But by God, he knew every inch of the huge cannon, the barrel, and the 155 mm shell containing the deadly bomb. Those mechanisms were drafted by his hand. 

Presley rushed to the device then froze. There on the deck lay Holly and Kennedy, skulls shattered. Oh God, they volunteered for this. So young, so damn young. He wanted to vomit and leaned on the barrel, letting his creation support the weight of this day. "I'm gonna make this right, boys." He wiped incessant perspiration from a heavy brow. "You won't have died in vain."

No. Don't touch them. Not a single hug or tear. Get the dog tags. Suck it up. Do the work.

He tiptoed around the bloody miasma and ran the diagnostics. Pressure gauge. Check. Firing assembly. Check. Feed tray and ammo chest. Check. Like a machinegun howitzer, Presley thought. Ain't nothing madder than this baby.

Dorothy Forever shook, her metal skin shrieked. Presley toppled backward, barely grabbing the handle to the cockpit of the vehicle hosting the Degrader. She rocked and rolled, a tin can kicked about by the vile power of Mother Nature's mutated wrath. Presley held on for dear life. He managed to force a beaten body into the vehicle while the rocket came to a creaking, moaning halt.

Presley shoved his behind into the driver seat and forced the ignition. Hard reverse coaxed the rear door, already in shambles, to flee. The Degrader Fast Track, as those with the big rank dubbed it, looked like a gun-mounted mobile platform, aside from a square of armor plating to protect the driver. Presley cared not for caution. He wanted action, adrenaline, a smidgen of vengeance. He drove off into an open land of wild grasses, swaying flora, and indomitable hills in the distance.