In Times Like These Boxed Set

by Nathan Van Coops

  “Where did they go, boy?”

  Barley turns and snarls at me, but immediately returns to barking at the door. I search the courtyard for any sign of Jonah and Wabash, but see nothing.

  “Damn it. Why didn’t they wait?” I inch my way toward the door and reach for the handle. Barley stops barking and lets out a low sustained growl.

  The door hisses as I unlatch it. I swing it open and peer inside. Clear-faced masks with thin hoses and little oxygen canisters dangle from a rack. Beyond them another sealed door blocks the entrance. Its single black window stares at me like a brooding Cyclops. I aim my gun into all corners of the room to make sure they’re vacant before stepping inside. I peer through the glass porthole of the inside door but can see nothing more than a few inches into the darkness beyond. The door handle is slick with blood. I grasp it with my gloved left hand but it won’t budge. A red light is dimly glowing to the right of the handle. I look back at the open door behind me, realizing that I’ll have to shut it to continue.

  I clomp my way back to the entrance and grasp the latch on the outer door. Barley is staring silently past me. “You coming?”

  The dog steps over the doorjamb slowly and gives me a wide berth. I take my pack off and locate my flashlight before closing the door. The room is total blackness with the exception of the red light. I flick on my flashlight and throw the locking mechanism on the outer door. The red light on the inner door switches to green. I don my pack again and try the handle. This time the latch opens with a heavy clunk.

  The inner door swings toward me and I aim the beam of my flashlight inside. A few heavy crates look as though they have only recently been shoved away from the door. There are lines in the layer of dust on the floor and black footprints from someone who tracked dirt in from outside. It’s hard to tell how many people have been through. Some of the prints are oversized like my own, but there are others. One smaller set of prints looks like they could belong to Jonah. The others are haphazard and seem to indicate someone staggering or perhaps dragging something.

  I shine my light farther down the hallway and something skitters away in the darkness.

  Does this planet have rats?

  A light appears in the upper corner of my visor and a voice comes out of my helmet speakers. “Environmental oxygen has achieved recommended safety standards. Would you like to begin supplemented ventilation?”

  “Hey. Bout time you woke up, suit. Who am I talking to?”

  “You are speaking with Automated Systems Management Services. My name is Cal.”

  “Cal, I need some information about where I am.”

  “Current satellite triangulation indicates that you are located at the Diamatra Colmetracite Mining Facility, Area 29B, Sector 2.”

  “What’s with the air here? Explain about the oxygen levels.”

  “The atmosphere of the planet Diamatra contains oxygen levels that are lower than standard safety protocols. Exposure to substandard oxygen levels may cause hypoxia, decreased color vision, and loss of mental clarity. Symptoms vary by individual. Prolonged exposure may lead to more severe symptoms and possible incapacitation or death.”

  I look at the dog at my heels and then have a pang of guilt about the crack I made in Viznir’s visor.

  “How long is too long to be out there?”

  “Symptoms vary by individual. Conditions in this facility currently meet safety protocols. I can activate outside ventilation to conserve onboard oxygen.”

  I slide past the containers in the hall and shine my light at the path of dusty footprints. “Okay, do it.” There is a whirring from somewhere in the suit and I get a whiff of stagnant, foul-smelling air. “Argh, seriously? You’re sure this is safe to breathe?”

  “Current air samples contain a variety of biological contaminants, but none that will cause grievous harm to humans.”

  “That nasty funk is harming my ability to not yak in this helmet.”

  “I am unfamiliar with the term ‘yak’ in this context. Do you wish to equip a—wild or domesticated shaggy ox—from—Tibet, planet Earth—with this equipment?”

  “No. Forget it. I’ll deal with the smell.”

  Barley sneezes once from the dust but continues to investigate the tracks. He trots down the hallway.

  “Hey, hold up, buddy.” I hurry to follow him, not anxious to lose my only living companion in this dank and eerie building. I keep my flashlight pointed ahead of the dog as I jog to keep up. “Hey, Cal. You have a map of this place?”

  My visor illuminates and a circular map appears in the upper left corner. It shows a set of perpendicular hallways and a blue dot that I take to be my location. I reach the crossing hallway and follow the dog to the right. He leads me past a pair of partially open elevator doors. I get a whiff of cooler, slightly less foul air from the shaft, but the car is missing and the control panel has been pulled from the wall. Wires from the back of the panel have been deliberately cut with no attempted repair, and it hangs from the few remaining strands. Barley stops at a set of double doors next to the elevator shaft and starts to whine.

  “Hold on, bud.” I shine my light through one of the door’s reinforced glass windows but see only the empty stairwell beyond. I try the handle and it turns freely, but the door doesn’t open. I put more force into it and the doors flex slightly, but something is keeping them closed. Barley barks and paces impatiently, jumping up on the right hand door with his front paws.

  “I know, I know. I’m trying.”

  Something scrapes the floor in the hallway to my right. Barley drops back to four paws and stares into the darkness. I flick my flashlight beam down the hall, but an overturned storage cabinet blocks much of the view.

  “HELLO?” My voice echoes in my helmet’s microphone. Something falls to the floor and rolls for a few feet before impacting an obstacle that’s solid and metallic. Disturbed dust floats across the beam of my flashlight.

  “IS SOMEBODY THERE?”

  Silence.

  I take a few steps to the side in order to shine my light beyond the metal cabinet, but all I see are some scattered tools, and at the other end of the hallway, another set of closed double doors. I turn back to the doors in front of me and give them a kick. They stay closed, but I hear a splintering sound. I give the door two more hard kicks, then put my shoulder into it and shove as hard as I can. The splintering continues, and finally, with a last slam of my shoulder, the doors buckle inward. There’s a clang of metal and I stagger as my momentum carries me through. Barley barks and bolts down the first flight of stairs, his claws clattering on the concrete steps.

  “Wait! Barley!” But the dog turns on the landing and vanishes down the steps into the darkness below. I regain my balance and shine my flashlight down the center of the staircase. I see a brief flash of fur a couple floors below, but then the dog is gone.

  “Damn it.” I frown at the darkness. “Why didn’t I put a leash on him?” I return to the doorway and inspect the splintered pieces of wood. It was formerly the handle of a fire axe. The axe head is rusted and the once smooth metal is pockmarked and pitted. The lower half of the splintered handle has a bloody handprint on it. I pick it up and look at the imprint. Who were they running from? I take one survey of the hallway I came from and shut the doors. The handle is now useless, but I wedge the metal axe head through the door handles as a shorter substitute before turning my attention to the stairs.

  I support my gun hand with my arm that’s holding the flashlight, the way I’ve seen cops do it on TV, and ease my way down the first set of stairs.

  “What’s down here, Cal?”

  The presence of the A.I. in my helmet is abstract, but helps me feel a little less alone in the darkness.

  “You are currently descending into Area 29B, Sector 2, sublevel 1.”

  “How many sublevels are there?”

  “At the time my data on this facility was last updated, there were thirty-five sublevels.”

  “How long ago was the data updat
ed?”

  “Nineteen years, seven months, and five days.”

  I pass a single dusty boot on the stairs. It’s still sitting upright, as if someone walked right out of it.

  “What happened here, Cal? What happened to the people?”

  “The citizens of the Diamatra Mining Colony were—”

  Three flashes of light illuminate the staircase below, interspersed with the sound of gunshots.

  “Shit!” I aim my gun and light down the center of the stairwell but back up until my pack collides with the wall. A yell echoes from below that sounds distinctly like Jonah. The yell is followed by snarling and the pounding of feet along a corridor. Something makes a wet thud and the stairwell goes silent.

  “JONAH!” My own voice bounces hollowly off the walls.

  What in the hell were they shooting at?

  As the seconds pass without any more noises, I take a few cautious steps forward. I crane my neck and peer over the railing, but see nothing on the landings below me. I tread softly as I navigate a full rotation of the stairwell to the level below, keeping my gun always steady on my new horizon. Two flights down I come to a doorway that has been propped open with a piece of cinderblock. I ease myself around the door and shine my light into the hallway. Somewhere in the darkness I can hear ragged breathing.

  “Jonah?”

  I wait for a response but get none. The raspy breathing continues and I hear a cough. The cough sounds small and pitiful. I inch forward. A vehicle is parked in the hallway with its engine cover removed. Engine parts dot the fender over the knobby tires. A rolling industrial toolbox on the opposite side of the hallway has had all the drawers pulled out and the weight of the tools has tipped the box onto its drawers, bending the bottom two at an odd angle. Wrenches and sockets are spilled on the floor. I accidently kick one and send it spinning away into the wall. It clatters into the darkness and ricochets off something before rattling itself to a stop. That’s when I spot the foot. The small leather boot is toe-up beyond the toolbox, the leg stretched out to it from the shadows. I bring my light to the edge of the toolbox and the curve of multi-colored snail helmet protruding from beyond it.

  “Jonah, are you okay?” I loop the lanyard of the flashlight over the bottom fingers of my gun hand and let the light swing as I reach for the boy’s arm. His breathing is ragged and I expect him to turn toward me when I lay my hand on his shoulder, but he stays facing away. The flashlight beam swings like a pendulum from my fingers as I take a knee beside him.

  “Hey, buddy. How are you feel—” The opening of the helmet finally turns toward me and the face inside lets out an ear-piercing shriek. Hands grasp my chest, yanking and tearing as I try to pull away. The eyes in the helmet flicker in the bouncing light and the mouth hisses through gnashing teeth.

  “Holy—” I fall backward onto my ass in the middle of the hallway, but the creature is still clenching the fabric over my chest. The body is bony and small, and the weight of the helmet causes the creature’s head to tilt. The bony fingers scrabble at the face shield of my helmet as the creature falls on top of me. I swing my free arm across my body and wedge my elbow between it and my torso, pushing as hard as I can to get it off me. The creature has its fingers on the metal collar at the base of my helmet and is chomping its mouth at me and drooling. I frantically shove the thing away from me, but not before it gets its teeth on the fabric of my shoulder. The suit rips as I fling the creature back against the toolbox.

  Holy shitting shit.

  I scramble to my feet and aim the gun and flashlight at it. The creature is wearing coveralls and its abdomen is soaked with blood. Multiple bullet holes punctuate the fabric and my guess is that one of the bullets must have struck its spine. The creature’s legs lie limp and motionless even as the arms flail at me. Upon closer inspection, I realize that the diminutive monster is not a child, but rather a petite woman. The name on the coveralls over her heart reads Eileen. My finger wavers on the trigger.

  Something tugs on my pack. Before I can turn around, I’m yanked backward into the doorway behind me. An emaciated hand scratches its fingernails across the bottom of my facemask. I shove the hand away and spin around to face the new threat. He’s big. My height and broader in the shoulders, even though his face is gaunt, he must easily weigh 250 pounds. Before I can get my gun up, he clenches me in a bear hug, staring at me with hazy yellow eyes. His jaw drops open and his mouth gapes at the sight of me. He lets out a guttural moan and his teeth clunk against the visor.

  Oh God.

  Something is moving in the back of his throat. At first I think it’s his tongue, but it’s yellow and has spiny appendages protruding from its sides. Antennae and a beak precede a body like a centipede, thick enough that it takes up the whole width of the mouth. The yellow centipede scrabbles at the glass of my visor and has started to attach its front legs when I get the gun around the big man’s arm.

  I can only reach his shoulder with the muzzle but the first bullet rips through the muscle and causes his grip to relax. He roars from the pain and releases me. Die die die! I squeeze the trigger three more times before he takes another step. The noise from the gun is deafening inside my helmet, but the shots are effective. Two of the bullets rip into his upper chest and the third goes through his throat. Blood sprays from the last wound and spritzes the darkness behind him. He staggers and falls to his knees, one hand reaching for his throat while the other is still stretched out toward me.

  As he collapses forward onto the floor, oozing darkness onto the concrete, the yellow centipede wriggles from his mouth. I stomp on it with my boot, sending green ooze across the floor and up the side of my other leg. I retch once and have to swallow down the bile that threatens to erupt from my throat. My hands are shaking with adrenaline. I notice the shadows shifting behind the body. Two more pairs of eyes reflect in the glow of my flashlight, and when I shine the beam directly at them, I realize they’re not alone. At least half a dozen figures are crowded near the doorway and all of them now have their attention on me. Shit. I lower my flashlight and flee.

  The thudding of my boots can’t keep up with the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. Shapes lunge at me in the darkness only to be defined in my flashlight beam as mattresses or overturned waste bins. The glowing map display in the visor rotates with each of my turns, but I lack the wherewithal to use it. I just run. When I’ve put the length of a half dozen corridors between myself and the site of the encounter, I finally slow to a walk and assess my options.

  “Cal,” I pant. “What the hell were those things?”

  “The entities you encountered are the inhabitants of this facility.”

  “What happened to them? They looked human, but . . . what was wrong with them?”

  “The Diamatra Colmetracite Mining Facility is home to approximately three-thousand human colonists who have been adapted by indigenous citizens as hosts.”

  “Adapted?”

  “The primary sentient species on the planet Diamatra is the Soma Djinn. Soma Djinn, or ‘Soma,’ are a class of parasitic invertebrates that thrive in oxygen rich environments.”

  “Like mines that have been pressurized by humans?” I lift my light and continue to scan the corridor ahead of me.

  “Indeed. This colony’s automated environmental system is self-sustaining and produces a prime habitat for oxygen dependent species such as the Soma.”

  “What did they do to those people?”

  “Soma Djinn require a host to maximize the intake of oxygen. They utilize a host’s motor functions and respiratory tract for increased efficiency.”

  “So those people are still alive?”

  “The host body’s primary systems are kept intact while a chemical is secreted in the brain to assure responsive reception of the dominant species’ inputs.”

  “They’re like puppets, then. What was it trying to do to me?”

  “In the presence of a healthier host body, a Soma Djinn will frequently attempt to relocate and consume
the previous host body for fuel.”

  “Consume?”

  “Conditions in the Diamatra Colmetracite Mining Facility have deteriorated due to discontinuation of food transport vessels and the depletion of previously stockpiled supplies. The current population of the colony is starving and has been observed to practice cannibalism.”

  “This place sucks, Cal. Get me out of here. Can you locate any of the others?”

  The heads-up display on my visor illuminates and shows a path through an open section of floor plan and three distant blips of light on the far side. “The shortest path to other members of your party is through the hangar bay.”

  “Do you know which racers those blips belong to?”

  “Negative, that information has been deemed unsearchable during chronothon competition.”

  “Okay.” I watch the little dots moving along a corridor. I don’t care who they are. I’d even take Horacio and Donny over more of those creatures.

  I shove through a pair of double doors and get a chill from the cooler air on the other side. The blackness in the room is vast and my flashlight beam refracts off moisture in the air, limiting my view to a few dozen yards. The floor is flat concrete stretching out in three directions. The slam of the door behind me echoes faintly in the dark. I aim my flashlight upward but can’t see the ceiling. A dim light from somewhere above is illuminating the mist overhead but doesn’t reach the floor directly. I get another chill up my neck and shake it off, raising my gun and stepping forward into the haze.

  “You have any kind of schematics on this room, Cal? How far to the other side?”

  “Your destination is 185 meters northwest. Hangar bay corridor Foxtrot Seven Alpha.”

  “What did they keep in here?” I sweep my light side to side as I walk, noting cast off wheel chocks and drums labeled for fuel and hydraulic fluid.

  “Hangar F7 houses air transport craft and subsurface—”

  Shuffling from my left makes me spin and aim at the darkness beyond a decrepit tow vehicle. The winch on the vehicle has been left deployed and a dozen feet of cable is coiled haphazardly on the floor with a heavy tow hook at the end. A moan emanates from the darkness and a figure appears, moving slowly. Dark-skinned with shaggy, tight curls, he’s wearing coveralls that match the creature I found in Jonah’s helmet. He likewise has a name badge on his chest. Terrance.