Silent Enemy

AUTHOR'S NOTE

This is the text version of my audiobook, Deadly Silence, also available on Literotica.

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The marine waded through the thigh deep mud between the small islands created by the tangled roots of the tall burgundy grass. He moved with slow, silent steps, the only sound the occasional rustle of the blades in a gentle breeze. No cows were nearby, the giant, six-legged creatures that were the dominate animal life on the planet, but that didn't mean the cats weren't close... and listening.

He was following the barely discernible trail in the grass, the track far too faint to have been left by any native beast. The cows, easily four times the size of the largest earth elephant, simply bulldozed the plant matter aside, their movement leaving behind paths in the grass like an ancient earth icebreaker opening a channel in a frozen ocean. The cows moved in constant migration. The vast herds fed on the grass as they traveled, clearing huge swaths in the unending sea of crimson. The stupid, lumbering creatures left behind scars on the planet that were hundreds of kilometers wide and thousands long, their crisscrossing trails as they fed clearly visible from orbit until the grass reclaimed what had been taken.

When seen from space, the cow's trails through the thin, oily mud, appeared to have been stripped clean, but on the ground it was easy to see plenty of vegetation was left behind. The path he was following was much different. Unlike the huge slashes the cows made, the trail he was following was subtle... a broken blade here, an indention or tear in the matted roots there, or perhaps a blade was curled into a protective tube from a passing touch. The faint signs of passage meandered among and across the floating mats of roots, and there was only one creature on Swamp that left such a trail.

The marine paused as the three-meter-high grass rippled and swayed, alert for an attack, knowing the whisper of the undulating grass could mask the sound of a stalking enemy. He wiped the beaded sweat from his face with a muddy hand. Swamp was hot and humid, with near one-hundred percent humidity, and a temperature that always hovered between thirty-five and forty-five degrees. The planet had an official name, probably a long string of letters and numbers, but the man, a sergeant in the Concordant Union Marines, didn't know what it was, nor did he give a shit. The marines who'd landed five years ago had quickly dubbed the plant The Swamp, and the name had stuck.

He arrived at another tangled mass of roots where he could see his prey had hauled himself onto the mat. Gripping the matted roots with strong fingers, he slowly and silently levered himself out of the mud. He carefully rose, making sure he placed his bare feet on the most entangled sections to prevent himself from falling through the intertwined roots into the mire below.

Satisfied the roots would hold his weight, he carefully parted the dense magenta growth as he took slow, quiet steps, testing the strength of the roots underfoot before committing his weight. He moved silently, twisting and worming his way through the thick grass to leave behind minimal signs of his passage, the blades caressing his naked, sweat drenched body like the fingers of a lover.

Where Earth had numerous and varied climates, with a mixture of plants and animals to occupy every possible niche, Swamp couldn't have been more different. With its orbit between dim, garnet, binary suns, the planet was in a constant rusty shadow, the planet having never experienced the darkness of night nor the brightness of day. The brightest day on Swamp was perhaps twice as bright as a full moon on Earth, though far redder, and its blackest night was perhaps half that.

As there was little variation in the light, the same was true of the weather. With no heating or cooling to excite the atmosphere, in all his years on Swamp, the marine had never experienced a storm. There was no relief from the heat and humidity, and the occasional monsoon like rains were as warm and powerful as the showers he once took. When he cared about his appearance, he used the rain to wash the muck from his body and to clean his uniform, but no longer.

As unchanging as the light and weather, so was the vegetation. The only plant life on Swamp were the grass like plants that covered the planet's entire surface. Some grasses had blades that were sharp enough to produce shallow cuts in a man's flesh if he wasn't careful in his movements, while other varieties would curl into a tube with a touch. Some were the relatively low growing type, like he was moving through now, while others had towering blades that would rival trees on earth. There were no woody trees, no creeping vines, and nothing green. There was only the ocean of scarlet and crimson grass floating in the unending mud.

Like the homogeneity of the plants, so were the animals. There was nothing that flew or swam, nothing that functioned as Swamp's equivalent of birds, insects, or fish. Just the slow, pale cows... and the cats that hunted them.

He again wiped his face, being careful to not get the mud from his hand into his eyes or mouth. If the mud were harmful to humans he'd have died years ago, but while the muck seemed harmless, it tasted foul and stung the eyes worse than his sweat did. He paused again, listening for his quarry, his eyes of little use in the perpetual semi-darkness and tall grass.

A red had killed one of the marine's men three nights ago. After discovering the body, he and his remaining five men had fanned out in pursuit, determine to extract revenge for their fallen comrade. They'd agreed to search for five days before returning to the large grass island they'd made their temporary home. The island was unusually large and strong, which allowed the marines to move about without a constant struggle against the mud. If one of them found and killed the red, they'd remain on their island home, but if their foe slipped through their grasp, or one of them didn't return, they'd have to move. To remain still after discovery invited death.

Since their landing, this approximately twenty-by-twenty kilometer square had been the marine's hell. It was where he hunted his foes... and was hunted in return. They hadn't encountered a red in months, and he'd hoped his marine had killed the last of the red bastards then, but now he knew there was at least one more of the red fuckers lurking somewhere in the vast sea of grass.

He'd picked up the red's trail yesterday and had been following the motherfucker since. He'd survived more than a hundred encounters with a red, and he knew he'd survive this one... and then there'd be one less of the child killing bastards in the universe.

He didn't know if this was the last red--Concordant slang for the Pantheon Space Force, so named because of their red rank insignias--nor did he know how many men were left of the of the approximately twenty-five thousand marines who'd landed on Swamp. The only thing he knew was he was going to find, then kill, this red motherfucker, and he would continue finding and killing reds until there were none left on Swamp.

He took a slow step forward. As he added his weight to the step, he felt the roots below his foot parting. He tried to rear back, but the sudden shift in his weight caused the mat he was standing on to fail. He bit back his cry of surprise as he fell though the matted and tangled roots. Fortunately, the mud was shallow, barely up to his ass, so he was in little danger of drowning, but deep spots were numerous, undetectable, and everywhere.

There were no lakes or oceans on Swap, only deeper sections of the slimy mud that covered the planet's entire surface. The native animals could easily swim in the stuff with their huge, paddle like feet, but if a human went into mud over his head, he was a lucky soul if he could extract himself without aid. During his five years on Swamp, he'd found many bodies, bodies of both marines and reds, who'd fallen into the mud, been unable to escape, and had drowned.

Digging his fingers into the matted roots, his huge muscles twisting with effort, he tried to haul himself back onto the floating tangle, clawing for additional handholds as more of the roots gave way with his struggle. Breathing hard, he ripped and tore at the roots that couldn't support his weight, striving to find a firm enough section so that he could finally haul himself out of the mire. Finally, the roots under his massively strong hands held against his pull, and he slowly dragged himself onto the mat. Lying prone, he wormed his way along on his stomach, his knees and elbows puncturing the tangled roots beneath him, his plunge back into the mud stopped only when his torso was flat against the intertwined of roots.

Where the grass's roots hadn't grown into a tangled mass, a man could move through the thin, slippery mud easily enough, so long as the muck wasn't so deep that his feet couldn't reach rotting vegetation that formed the bottom. If the mud was deep, a man could, with considerable effort, sometimes swim through the muck a short distance in exhausting, floundering, strokes. The most dangerous situation to be in was the one he found himself in now. If he broke through the interwoven roots and became trapped under the mass and was unable to batter his way through the tangle, he'd drown. He was lucky that he he'd been able to reach the bottom, which gave him a fighting chance to force his way through the roots if he'd had to, but better to not to become trapped in the first place.

He continued struggling against the mud and roots until he was clear of the weak spot before slowly, and carefully, standing. The marine glanced behind him, grinding his teeth in annoyance. It looked like a fucking cow had gone through there from the way he'd crushed the blades of grass and ripped open the entangled mass of roots. If his prey circled around behind him, the red would have no trouble discovering he'd passed this way.

Since he'd already left behind signs, he carefully searched among the grass until he found the plant whose blades were more brownish-ocher than the typical maroons and burgundies. He knelt and dug before pulling the plant up by the roots, being careful to break as few of the tubers as possible. He snapped off the useless leaves of the canteen plant and separated the thick roots from each other. Wiping them as clean as possible, he bit the tips off the roots one at a time, savoring the water contained in the large, potato looking root as it splashed into his mouth.

After drinking his fill, he tossed the rest of the plant aside as he paused to rest. Battling the mud and grass in Swamp's slightly higher gravity, and the need for constant, silent, vigilance, was exhausting. While the Concordant Marines might fall back to a better defensive position, they never, ever, retreated, and as soon as he rested a moment, and recovered his strength after his struggle against the planet, he'd continue his pursuit of the red.

As he watched and listened, he reflected on the fucked-up situation he was in. All the marines who'd landed on Swamp should be dead, their supplies exhausted long ago, but they were still hanging on and prosecuting their war with the reds. Many of the plants were edible, and apparently nutritious, if not appetizing, though there were some interesting side effects caused by the native diet. Nobody knew which plant or plants in their diet were the cause, but something they were eating or drinking caused a complete loss of hair and appeared to act like a natural growth hormone and steroid. The constant battle against the planet and the reds, combined with the effects of his diet, had left him, had left all the remaining humans, massively muscled and thickly veined. He had no idea what the native diet might be doing to his body long term, but it was either eat and drink what was available... or die of starvation.

He'd always been a big man, but now he stood slightly more than two meters tall, would easily win any bodybuilding competition, and he had no reason to think he'd stopped growing bigger, heavier, and more massively muscled.

After their supply of energy cells was exhausted, the two factions had resorted to using their power-rifles as clubs, but over the years, even those makeshift bludgeons had been lost to the planet's endless bog. Now all combat was unarmed and hand to hand, and because of the men's massive size, it was almost impossible to land a single blow debilitating enough to gain any quick advantage. Now their confrontations were long, exhausting contests of power where a marine pitted his strength against the strength of a red until one of them was exhausted. On Swamp, death came quickly to the man whose strength failed him first.

A blade of grass tickled his nuts when he moved slightly, causing the marine to unconsciously scratch his exposed balls. All the marines had discarded the remains of their ripped and tattered uniforms years ago. The first to go were their boots, all lost to the mud within weeks of their arrival. The uniform blouses were discarded next. Many men had discarded their blouses early because of the heat, but after the marines were forced into eating the native plants, the rest had finally shed them because they no longer fit and were splitting at the seams. The last to go were their trousers. He was one of the last to discard his pants, but he'd shed the last vestige of his uniform over a year ago. At the time, his trousers were little more than tatters, ripped and split along the seams, but he'd abandoned them entirely after they'd been torn beyond use during a fight with a red. Apparently the reds felt the same way because he hadn't seen a red in full uniform in more than three years, and all of their recent kills had been as naked as the marine who'd killed him. After five years without resupply, the marines and reds had been reduced to fighting like animals, battling to the death with only the weapons and defenses nature had provided them.

The marine slowly glanced around, watching for any unnatural movement of the grass. Noticing a power plant, he reached out and broke off a tiny piece of the blade, put it into his mouth, and ground it between his teeth. The blades of the plant, a deep, ruddy red variety, produced a rush like the Concordant issued stimulates. He'd taken only the tiniest amount, just enough to keep him alert. After discovering the effects of the plant, the marines had quickly learned that before taking on a red in single combat, as all combat was now, a big hit from the power plant was necessary because it was almost certain the fucking red had powered up.

The stimulate in the power plant produced a temporary increase in strength and endurance, the dampening of pain, a feeling of invincibility, a massive erection, and a blinding lust for battle and revenge. The effects of the plant were slower to arrive than the Concordant issued stimulates but lasted far longer. Because the power up lasted for hours, instead of minutes like the Concordant drug, no encounter between warriors lasted long enough for the effects of the plant to wear off.

As the men grew in size and strength, their ability to absorb punishment also grew. With the ability to disable their foe in traditional hand-to-hand combat reduced to almost zero, combined with the effects of the power plant, both sides had been reduced to using pain, and their massive strength, to exhaust and weaken their opponents. In a strange twist of biology, the combatants had discovered serotonin diminished the effectiveness of the power plant. Because serotonin was released during an orgasm, the marines had modified their traditional fighting techniques as they adapted to their new reality. Forcing a red to come first gave the marine an advantage, and with each additional orgasm, the effectiveness of the plant was further reduced. As there was no obvious way to judge a red's strength before engaging him in battle, when the red and marine were evenly matched, the surest path to victory was forcing the red to come first... or more often. While fully powered up, a man could shake off a strike to their nuts, but a hard shot to the balls remained a debilitating blow to anyone not powered up or weakened by coming too many times. Once exhausted, or hampered by pain, a man became an easy kill.

As the men became ever larger, stronger, and more heavily muscled, so their genitalia had also increased in size. The manhoods of all left on Swamp were enormous, the length and girth of their penises, and the size of their scrotums, significantly and obviously larger than even the most well-endowed of normal men. As the remaining warriors on Swamp fought, knowing that to falter was certain death, the combatants held nothing back and no tactic or body part was off limits to gain an advantage. The marine had won many skirmishes by making a red come first, or more often, and during his fights, his hard veiny cock had engaged the reds' equally huge and rigid rod in battles as intense, prolonged, and painful as the rest of their bodies.

Combat, if it began on one of the islands of roots, inevitably resulted in the warriors breaking through the tangle to continue their war in the mud beneath surface. Because the effects of the drug amplified their battle lust, the combatant quickly became blinded by their rage and hatred of each other, both fighters willing to die so long as they killed their foe in the process.

He'd nearly drowned several times during his many fights, and probably would have had it not been for the oil like mud making him almost impossible to hold, his drug enhanced strength and endurance, and the high oxygen content of the atmosphere allowing him to fight longer, and harder, without breathing. The weak and poor fighters had been eliminated early, and the survivors had learned the tactics of their specialized, one-on-one, unarmed combat well. Because of lessons learned during their many life-or-death struggles, the men were often evenly matched in skill, size, and strength. Now, death was almost always by drowning as the victor held his exhausted and vanquished foe's face beneath the dark, slimy surface until he ceased to struggle.

Far away the marine heard the high-low, two-tone bellow of a cow, the animal's call drawing him from his thoughts. He slowly rose, the effect of the bit of power plant he'd consumed not enough to give him an erection, but enough to urge him toward combat. One day the Concordant would return for the marines it'd been left behind, and he was going to make damn sure he was one of the survivors. He'd left a wife and young son on Eria, and as soon as he finished killing all these red fuckers, so they'd never kill another member of the Concordant, as they'd killed his sister and her family, he'd return home to them.

-oOo-

The PSF--Pantheon Space Force--Ground Trooper crouched under the stubby atmospheric wing of the crashed transport, sweat rolling off his hugely muscled body in steady tickles as he waited for his prey to enter the trap. Three nights ago, he'd attacked and killed one of the yellow bastards right in his camp before slipping away in the marginally greater dimness of night.

After the kill, he'd left a trail, one that a skilled tracker could follow, but not one so obvious to suggest a trap. Waiting for the yellow he hoped was tracking him, he remembered his previous kill, and wondered if the yellow bastard he hoped was hunting him would fall as quickly and easily. The man was the last survivor of the group of ten troopers who'd joined together for strength and security. The others had all fallen to the marines, but he was death incarnate, and he'd kill all the fucking yellows himself if he had to.