The twin suns blasted out heat like a glowing red grill element, roasting the researchers in Sahara Square, searing the metal and concrete of Savanna Central, and threatening to cause a drought in the Canal Zone. Bruce Greystone, a stocky polar bear with silver streaks dyed into the fur on his scalp, cranked the air conditioning full throttle, and the boar beside him maintained a steady, inconspicuous speed as they drove past the sign informing him and the rest of the convoy that they were now leaving the Tundra Zone. Now they were in the perpetually drenched jungles of the Rainforest Zone, taking the 'scenic' route that was seldom used nowadays on account of the other road saving at least ten minutes of driving. Even that other road was lucky if it got used once a day.

That thought shouldn't have unsettled Bruce, but it did. Two months ago, that road would be crawling with colonists just going about their lives. He used to hate the traffics jams that would ensue. Hell, a lot of mammals did. Poor bastards should have worded their wishes more carefully. Other than Bruce's team and the marines still standing, only a skeleton crew was left to clean up the mess.

While there was the monorail, which upon arrival offered a magnificent tour of the colony's main zones, and the boats, which provided passage from a dock on the outer rim of the lake to the docks in the Canal District, only those two roads led in and out of Zootopian Prospect. It was Titanwood Road, the road that cut a thin line through the forest that surrounded the colony, that the company had chosen for the operation. Three vehicles in all, two convertible civilian trucks and a huge armored transport truck in between, made up the convoy that came to a stop at Lionheart's Gate, a sequence of three chambers built into the wall that surrounded the colony. One of two marines who guarded the gate approached Bruce's truck. He was a stocky boar with a half-melted tusk and tired eyes that scrutinised him from beneath the thick khaki helmet as he checked Bruce's documents and waved them through to the first chamber.

The first chamber, an elongated, octagonal-shaped pipe of a room that was coated orange and grey, served as the antechamber of the decontamination room, or Car Wash as the colonists called it. Bruce's truck stopped just before the six-inch thick door preceding the Car Wash, but he only had to wait five seconds before the door was raised, and a bright green light gave him the go ahead to enter the Car Wash first. His truck entered the Car Wash alone, and he heard the electronic whizz of the door lowering back down again. The vast machine that performed the decontamination procedure didn't behave that much differently from an actual car wash as it got to work, dishing out a thorough foam wash all over the vehicle, rinsing it off with powerful nozzles, applying a layer of car wax over the surface and drying off any water that was still left.

The entire process took exactly twenty minutes, and by the time the machine was done Bruce was feeling pretty angsty. He checked the timer on his phone: roughly one hour gone, not nearly as much time as he feared had been wasted. He breathed a little easier as he drove into the third chamber and waited for the armored truck to go through the same treatment. Once all three trucks had undergone the industrial spa treatment they drove into the forest beyond the wall.

"Finally." He grumbled as he double checked the map on his phone.

The hard part was over, now. They'd made it past USCM and now they were beyond the colony limits. After that it was just a twenty-minute long leisurely drive to the meeting point so they could drop off the package. It was so hot that Bruce could see bright wavy lines on the road, a mirage formed by the rising heat and the sinking cold.

Bruce checked the timer again; a little over two hours gone and three hours to go. Then he ordered his driver to pick up speed. It was essential that the package be delivered before the remaining three hours were up. Bruce looked over the paper in his large white paw, the little slip displaying the code word he needed to use when he reached their destination. Artemis. After that the deal would go off just like any other deal. The package would be handed over, and in return they would receive a briefcase of cold hard cash. The boss had refused to tell him just how much would be in the case, only that it was essential that the package be sent first, and well before the five hours were up. The other assets were being delivered in a separate convoy, which should be approaching Bellwether Gate by now, clear on the other side of the colony. The mammals they were meeting had made it very clear that the package and assets were to be kept separated at all times. Bruce was one of the few mammals present who understood why.

He'd been promised a cut, but after everything that happened, he was just glad that it would soon be over. The package would be taken off-planet, the surviving colonists would be given the all-clear to return, and everything would go more or less back to normal.

Bruce hoped it would be as simple as it sounds. The timer beeped two hours, fifty-seven minutes. They were making good time.

Bruce received a shock when they turned a corner and saw that the road was blocked by a fallen tree, bluish-green needles strewn all over the place. The driver slammed on the brakes and the truck screeched to a halt two feet from the makeshift barrier. Bruce didn't bother to check the stump to see if the tree had been cut down. Instead he pulled out his trusty revolver and yelled for his men to take up arms.

The bullets started flying before they could even begin to prepare.

They were relentless, punching star-shaped holes through the windshield and into his driver. Bruce felt at least two enter his arm and hip before he ripped off his seatbelt and slid down under the dashboard while the two bears behind him smashed open their side windows and aimed with their guns. He heard the whistle of a grenade being fired and watched fire and smoke erupt in front of the truck as the engine went up in flames, tarnishing any chances of making a getaway. The rate of gunfire doubled as his men returned fire, and then there were screams. Bruce reached up with his good arm and adjusted the rear-view mirror so he could see what was happening. The third vehicle had come to a stop to the side of the road, and Bruce could only watch in horror as the occupants were gunned down one by one, splattering the windows with a grisly red pattern. A second grenade finished off the vehicle as Bruce grabbed his phone and speed-dialed Administrator Clawhauser.

"Come on, come on!" He growled. He heard a wet thud and looked back up at the rear view mirror; the bear in the left had taken a bullet right between the eyes and fallen back against his fellow passenger.

After an eternity the phone clicked. "Hello?"

"Sir, we're being fucking ambushed!" He bellowed into the phone.

"Ambushed? Where?!"

"Titanwood Road! They've got grenade launchers, so hurry the fuck up and get the-"

A deafening bang, a flash of light, and the seat lurching cut him off. Smoke filled the interior of the car, and there was a shrill tone in Bruce's ears as he tried to figure out what had just happened. The rear-view mirror was cracked, but he could make out enough to see that the back of the car was now a complete smoldering wreck, the two bears behind him reduced to nothing but blackened scraps indiscernible from the twisted metal and bits of seat. Grenade launcher, he thought. His heart froze when a hint of reflection passed over the shattered remains of the windshield. The ambushers were coming out of hiding.

He'd lost his gun when the third grenade hit, so Bruce did the only thing left he could do and went limp, hoping the bullet wounds and minor burns would be enough to fool them. A shadow passed over his closed eyelids. Someone was looking in the car.

"That's all of them, boss!" Yelled the unknown mammal. Bruce barely understood him through the ringing in his ears.

"Alright everybody, let's get this shit out of here!" Yelled another mammal.

The shadow disappeared. Smoke overwhelmed the scent of the killers, so Bruce opened his eyes, looked around to make sure they were no longer looking in the truck, and looked back up at the rear-view mirror. The big transport truck had been riddled with shallow holes in the brief but bloody onslaught of bullets, and it was the transport they all ran to now. They were dressed in black and wearing ski masks, but there was no mistaking their humps. The Canal Camels. He could only watch as two of them pulled the gory body of the truck driver from the cabin and take his place while the rest of them returned to the tree line. Two bronze-painted terraforming trucks pulled onto the road and followed the bigger truck as it made a U-turn and took off back towards the colony.

With their departure, the forest became quiet once more. The dark shape of a four-winged bird flew across the blacked road to another tree. Bruce saw that his phone call had somehow been canceled, and switched it back to the timer.

Two hours, fifty-five minutes remaining.

In spite of it all, up to and including the fact he was bleeding out, Bruce chuckled as he wondered if they had any idea what they had just stolen.


Even after three days of planning, the Canal Camels couldn't believe their luck. With most of the two-hundred and sixteen mammals that occupied this place either fled or dead, it was a hell of a lot easier to get shit done. The ambush had gone off without a hitch and the loot was theirs. They'd even gotten away without a single guy killed. That is, no guy other than the Company's pricks. Bernardo 'El Demonio' Camelcazar chuckled at the irony as he drove the truck past the 'Welcome to Zootopian Prospect' sign and into the colony. Now that they had reached the cover of rush hour traffic it was time for Phase Two. The truck at the rear of the convoy separated from the others and took a side road, heading towards their headquarters in Sahara Square. There was no way they could sneak an armored transport truck bigger than an elephant on steroids in there, so El Demonio was taking it to a more spacious location. If the marines stopped them for whatever reason, the guys in the front truck would take care of it. There were still some bullets left over from the ambush.

They turned left at the next junction, taking off in the direction of the Canal Zone. With those fucking assholes in USCM cracking down on the gang all over the galaxy, they weren't able to stay in one place for too long. The Camels had lost too many men to the USCM ever since that crazy incident a couple of months back. To twist the knife further, a few of his lieutenants had taken a pussy 'I told you so' attitude toward the situation; they'd told him that infiltrating the biodome, built to study the diverse flora of ZV-73, and trying to steal rare flower bulbs so they can breed and refine them into drugs was a bad idea, and they were right.

Speaking of which, El Demonio could feel the crash coming as he reached the narrow bridge connecting Savanna Central to the Canal Zone. He would need to do another snort once they got there, otherwise he wouldn't have a clear head when the time came to unload the goods and disperse them to the rest of the gang.

Then El Demonio would show those rear-echelon motherfuckers what happens when they screw with his business.

By the time he stopped the vehicle in front of the massive steel shutter, his body was screaming for a fix. Five passed as he waited for his guys to open the way into the warehouse. Six seconds. Seven. Eight. After nine he couldn't take it anymore. He drizzled a line of precious green power along the dashboard and snorted it right then and there.

"Fuuuuuuuuck that's the stuff!" He fell back against his seat, feeling better already. As he sat there, feeling the high coming, he felt the hard form of his solid gold Desert Eagle nestled against his side.

At long last the shutter raised and El Demonio drove the truck inside, almost hitting a pile of crates on the way in. His heart pounded with excitement. He felt wide awake, even though he hadn't slept for fifteen hours. Naptime would wait. He wouldn't sleep a wink until every last one of those colonial fuckers was dead.

Once the vehicle following the armored truck was inside, the shutter fell shut with a clang that echoed around the warehouse. El Demonio kicked the door open and dropped to the stone floor, feeling almost giddy as he waltzed around the long container and stopped before the rear doors. Piggy Banks like this one were reserved only for the most valuable or dangerous of materials. Yep, the bigwigs were hiding something big.

He felt the presence of his men gathering around him, and waited until he was sure they were all present before turning his head. "Who got the keys?"

There was a heavy silence that dampened his drug-induced mood.

"Well?" He fully turned to glare at them.

The camels looked at each other nervously.

"You fucking kidding me?" El Demonio asked slowly and dangerously. "El Demonio told you at least three fucking times before the hit to make sure at least one of you gets the fucking keys!"

"They didn't have any, boss!" One of them yelled.

El Scorpio pulled out his Desert Eagle and pondered what he should do. He'd already lost a lot of men to the ZPD. He'd be an idiot if he lost any more to his own bullets.

'Tell you what." He said. "You get those doors open in one hour and El Demonio'll forgive ya."

Most of the camels scrambled to fulfill his order, racing to one of the offices to retrieve the cutting torches, while several others stayed in the warehouse to guard the goods. One cautiously stepped up to the boss. "Boss, I found this on one of the guys we hit. Just thought you should know."

El Demonio stared at the little plastic object that was handed to him. "What the frig is this?"

"Some sort of timing device sir. Whaddya think it means?"

On the screen was a countdown; fifty-nine minutes at first glance. El Demonio didn't know, and that pissed him off. "Probably how long he'd got until his next fix, who gives a shit? Get that door open!"

The cutting torches arrived and El Demonio moved to lean against the hood of the truck while the guys put on welding masks and got to work, setting the back of the semi alight with sparks. Their boss looked on, his faces alight both with anticipation and the glow of the torches, oblivious to the device still in his hoof.

Fifty minutes left, it counted. After a few seconds it flicked to forty-nine.

Halfway through the process he called the guys in the Sahara HQ and demanded an update. There had been a minor issue with fueling, but other than that the shuttle should be should be ready to receive their stolen shipment and take it the hell out of dodge. El Demonio was on cloud nine when he hung up. He remembered the device he was still holding and looked at the screen. Twenty-four minutes left. What the hell was it counting down to, anyway? The next episode of WWE?

Twenty-two minutes left. The cutting torches ran out of fuel, and two guys ran off to get more tanks. By the time they were refueled, there were eighteen minutes left.

And then, just when El Demonio was thinking he was going to have to shoot someone after all, the cutting torches stopped, and someone shouted that they were done. The gang parted as El Demonio raced back to the scorched semi. He grabbed the handles with both hooves, and looked back at his sweating guys.

"Amigos, it's time to rock and roll!"

He threw the doors open.

The countdown reached zero.

A blast of frigid air hit him like a spit in the face.

Everyone fell silent.

They'd expected Night Howlers, giant blue and purple flowers that resembled snapdragons with gaping maws. They'd expected enough bulbs to earn over ten million in drugs within six months. What they hadn't expected was this.

Not… nothing.

It was almost black inside the interior of the massive truck, but they could see enough to see that it was empty.

Fucking empty!

"What the fuck is this?" El Demonio stared at the contents, or lack thereof. It couldn't be empty. There was no goddamn way Administrator Clawhauser would send a heavily armed convoy out the city to escort an empty truck.

No. The darkness was hiding something. He was sure of it.

"Someone get me a flashlight!" He growled. Almost instantly he felt one being slapped into his hoof. He tossed the timing device aside before climbing up into the truck.

Immediately he realized why the interior was so black. The walls, ceiling and floor were coated in black metal that felt freezing to the touch. There were screens attached to the walls, high-tech flat screens that looked like they'd been snatched out of a thirtieth century emergency room. There were at least two monitoring someone's heart rate.

Where were the fucking bulbs?

El Demonio ventured deeper into the weird truck, ignoring the muttering of his guys as they too wondered what the hell was going on. Halfway through he wandered right into an IV stand that dropped an empty bag as it clattered to the floor.

As he moved further away from the voices outside, he became aware of a sound coming from inside the truck. A slow, deep breathing sound like what he'd imagine coming from a slumbering dragon. He raised his flashlight and his Desert Eagle.

The first thing he saw was the thick grey wheel of a gurney. He raised the flashlight slightly higher, and estimated that the gurney was big enough to hold a buffalo or something a little bigger. His heart, already racing from his fix, skipped a beat when he saw a leg. It was a thick-ass leg built entirely from muscle. The creature was restrained, fixed to the table with thick metal cuffs.

El Demonio 's heart started to pound harder and faster as rage set in. They'd put their necks on the line to smuggle themselves onto this rock, lost a lot of men, and wasted a shit-ton of bullets on the creature from the black lagoon!

"YOU FUCKING PENDEJOS!" He kicked the gurney and turned on his heel.

His men looked rightfully terrified when he stormed back to the rear of the Piggy Bank and stood with his feet spread apart in between the charred doors. "Which perma-fried speed freak motherfucker tipped us off about this convoy!"

Two camels stepped forward, too scared to even consider lifting the machine guns they were still holding. El Demonio knelt down so they could see the look on his face better.
"You call this holicithias?" He snarled at the pair of them.

One camel, El Demonio was too hyped up to remember his name, spoke up with fear and bewilderment. "I don't understand! The intel came from the Administrator's office! There must be some mistake!"

El Demonio struck the camel who had spoken with this flashlight. He wanted to kill every last one of these idiots, right then and there.

"I ASK FOR NIGHT HOWLERS AND YOU GET ME A FUCKING SPECIMEN!"

El Demonio grabbed the camel by the blood-soaked collar and lifted him into the truck. He then gestured with his flashlight for the other moron to climb in after him. He shot a look of pure venom at the confused and fearful crowd before shoving both squealers further inside.

"Look! Take a good long look, amigos!" He thundered, thrusting the dented flashlight at the uninjured camel so he could see for himself. The camel shone the flashlight on the massive form on the gurney.

"What is this?" The camel wondered. The beam of light travelled further up the body, revealing a kind of skin he had never seen on any animal on this planet. His body followed the light, moving further along the gurney.

"Dozen lug lide adyving I eber daw." The other camel said.

"Why don't I get my machete and we'll see how it looks on the inside." El Demonio snarled. He turned away, unable to look at his men without feeling a powerful urge to rip their humps off.

The dumbass with the flashlight moved the beam upwards, towards the faint mist emanating in short spurts from the head of the gurney. Eventually the light fell upon the body's face.

First there was a crack. El Demonio heard a clattering sound and looked down to see a piece of metal cuff skid across the floor past his feet. Then a gasp, and a sound like celery being wrenched in half. Something splatted across the back of El Demonio neck like a glob of spit. He turned round, but the idiot had dropped the flashlight and he couldn't see the gurney anymore.

"Gondo?" The broken nosed camel staggered away from the darkness.

From said darkness emanated a growl almost like a lion's.

"What the hell is that?" Someone called from outside the semi.

Before El Demonio could answer, something reached out from the darkness and grabbed the broken-nosed camel by the neck with a clawed hand soaked in blood. A second hand grabbed the top of his head and twisted, cutting him off mid-scream. El Demonio raised his Desert Eagle, nearly too stunned to comprehend just how badly they'd fucked up. As the freakazoid wrenched the head from the body, spinal column and all, it edged further into the light baring the face of a mutant spider from the pits of hell.

The head came flying at El Demonio, spine trailing behind like the tail of a comet. He managed to fire only once before the bloody projectile hit him full in the face.


The force of the severed head striking the camel's nose sent shards of cartilage shooting back into his brain, killing him before he hit the floor. The creature hadn't intended that, but it had intended to kill all the same.

Most of the wounds suffered in both the crash and the skirmish with the polar bears had healed into fresh scars, and the bullet from the golden gun had only grazed it, dribbling a thin trail of blood on the metal floor of its prison.

Two more camels entered the truck, machine guns in hoof. The moment of shocked hesitation when they saw the creature was their last mistake. The creature slammed one into the side of the truck hard enough to deform the black metal. Then it ripped out the trachea of the second before he could get a single shot. It threw the body out into the crowd, distracting the remaining enemies in the split second it took for the creature to leap from the semi.

The next half-minute was pure chaos, a mess of screaming and bleeding and chattering bullets, but only to those falling by the creature's hand. In the blood-soaked killer's mind, there was a pattern in the massacre. Dismember the first. Behead the second. Smash the heads of the third and fourth together into an explosion of blood and grey matter. Remove an arm. Remove the head. Throw the body into three camels. Throw the head into the fourth.

They all must die.

It must not fail.

It had unfinished business on this planet.