by Jamie Nash
The stakes are a tad higher than the backyard.
I twist a couple of quad stretches I learned on the junior varsity basketball team. All the other girls went out for cheerleading. But I wanted to hit someone, and I hate wearing miniskirts. My muscles burn, my knees throb, my lip is cut. There’s blood in my mouth and bruises everywhere. I’m a total mess. But if I hurt, I’m alive. So, keep hurting, keep living. I hit the button. The bulkhead ascends into the wall. The dark hallway stares back.
It’s show time.
I step forward, cross the threshold, and step into the dragon’s lair. “Hello?” I call into the shadows. I don’t really expect a response. Truth is, I don’t even want one. I’m stalling, trying to get my fear in check. The only sound is a snap of sparks as they drizzle down in a shower of fiery drops. The monster must have chewed through them. Shame it didn’t electrocute itself.
Still, it’s weird the monster isn’t here. It must have found some other evil deed more interesting than waiting us out. Maybe we should take our chances walking the hall, playing hide-and-seek. I glance back into the chamber. Come on, Taylor, call this off, come up with an alternative plan. She doesn’t. It’s all me.
I move deeper into the hall, drifting away from the shallows. All by my lonesome. Air wafts down the hall and dances in my hair. It’s cold, probably a faulty air conditioner. Not like the hot, thick, monster breath. I’m supposed to be making noise. I guess I forgot. My mind is too filled with images of the nightmarish behemoth. I’ve probably wandered far enough, too far even. I stop. Call out. “Hello.” I whistle the Star Trek theme. It echoes through the steel walls. Good acoustics. I stop before I get to the opera singing part and listen for the monster.
Nothing. No growls, or groans, or crunching bones. Now it wants to be shy.
I take another step forward. A baby step. Inching my way. The key ring attached to my waist rattles like a dinner bell. This time I don’t bother to silence it. I’m dinner. Cheese for the mouse. I sway my hips as I go to give it a bit more of a ding-a-ling, hoping it elicits a Pavlovian response, gets that slimy monster’s saliva dripping down its horrid mouth. “Come and get it,” I call out. “Come and get it.”
Nothing comes, nothing gets it. My nerves can’t take much more of this playing-hard-to-get routine. “Hello?!” I give it a second, and then raise my voice, more emphatic this time. “It’s lunchtime! I’m your lunch!”
I shuffle further ahead, turning the corner. The safety of the control room is no longer in sight. Not that there’s really any ‘safety’ in this place. There are dripping splatters on the walls. I’m sure they’re blood. I try not to look. “Come out, come out wherever you are …”
A new sound answers.
Ping.
It’s like a leaky faucet needling a sink or a metal pot catching drops on a rainy night.
Ping. My eyes search the darkness.
Ping.
The sound leading me.
Ping.
I step into a widening chamber. It acts as a crossroads for four separate tunnels.
Ping.
It’s coming from just ahead. A sharp drip.
A splash of red.
It’s blood hitting floor. Coming from above.
I look.
The beast clings like a spider to the ceiling. Defying gravity. Its fangs are wide. Undigested bits of meat hang from its teeth, bloody strips of flesh.
Fear has taken my voice, my breath. No use screaming anyway.
I run.
The thing crashes down behind me, shuddering the grilled floor.
I keep my eyes ahead. “No side, straight,” a wise hero once told me. Straight. My arms pump. My legs thunder beneath me. Something primal has switched on inside. A fight or flight thing. Though there’s no fight here. It’s one hundred percent flight.
I brace for the teeth, for a hundred daggers slicing my skin.
But somehow, I live to turn the corner. The open bulkhead is within sight. I might make it. Tears flow down my face. I scream a battle cry, spiking my adrenaline and hoping to issue a warning to Shaft and Taylor to be ready. I dive headfirst into the control room.
The monster pours inside behind me and rears up to attack. Its stretched mouth is a Hula-Hoop of daggers. I don’t stand a chance. Three steel tentacles lash out and smash the thing backward.
It’s the W.I.T.C.H. Doctor.
The tips of its arms knife into the beast’s skin and slam it against the wall. The robot is stronger than I thought as if it’s built to handle something this size. It’s not just for us—it’s an alien slug doctor too.
The abomination flexes, and writhes, and tries to wrench back to the hall. But Shaft slides in behind it and punches numbers into the keypad. The bulkhead shuts, trapping it inside with us.
God, this plan sucks.
The monster curls to Shaft. Shaft steps back. It’s his turn to be a deer in headlights. But the beast has its own fight on its hands. Buzz saws, drills, and bone saws ravage the thing’s scaly hide. A stream of inky black blood spurts out. It splatters me in the face and chest.
I duck into the medical room. Taylor’s there, hovering over the machine’s control computer. She works the joysticks like some pinball wizard. The W.I.T.C.H. Doctor’s strikes target the creature with near medical precision. Taylor knows the monster’s anatomy, and she’s dismantling it. The alien roars and writhes. Instead of surrendering, it fights harder. A wounded animal of the worst kind. It begins to wriggle out from beneath its grasp.
“Kill it,” I say.
“It cannot be killed. It regenerates.” Taylor shuffles over to the second set of controls. The W.I.T.C.H. Doctor maneuvers its last unused arm. At its tip is a blossom of five shotgun barrel-sized syringes. They’re not made for humans. They are monster slayers, specific for horrors like this. They stab down together and pierce deep into the beast’s meaty flesh beneath the thing’s scaly armor. The blue liquid in the syringes injects into the creature.
Finally, the giant slug weakens. First, it moves slower, stiffens, then falls altogether limp, slumping lifelessly, held up only by the robot’s retractable arms.
Shaft begins to wretch. He hasn’t eaten in four hundred years, so it’s mostly dry heaves and spit. I lean against an operating table and catch my breath. Taylor punches in a few more computer commands. A tremendous, wet thud sounds from the control room as the surgical robot drops the monster. But it doesn’t end there. Taylor’s fingers play the keyboards like a piano. The W.I.T.C.H. Doctor dances to her tune, plunging staples into the ravaged alien carcass, gluing its wounds back together.
I grab her arm. “What are you doing?”
She stares out at the creature getting medical attention. “Life is precious. Rare.”
“I thought you said it could regenerate.”
“It can. But we may need it intact.”
“Need it? Why the fuck would anyone need that thing?”
She marches off into the control room, hurdles the beast’s quivering tail, and heads for the closed red bulkhead.
“If we live through this, you have some serious explaining to do,” I say.
She punches the magic numbers into the keypad, opening the bulkhead. She disappears into the corridor without further comment. I stand there, fuming. Not even a high-five for risking my life. This wench is quite a piece of work.
Shaft chases her into the hall. I follow but take the time to shut the bulkhead door to the control room, trapping the monstrosity in there. I hurry to keep pace with Shaft.
“So, we trust her now?” He asks without slowing his stride.
“Not for a second.”
Taylor takes a hard left in front of us without even checking to see if we’re following. She leads us back through the halls where we made our escape from the alien monster. The long galley is in shambles. Splotches of blood drip from the walls. Torn and sparking cables hang like jungle vines, crushed instruments are piled in heaps. Glass from shattered bulbs litters the floor. I ke
ep my eyes ahead. I could use a pair of blinders.
Taylor arrives at a large metal cabinet door, which hangs limply off its hinges. The open unit beside it is steel and resembles an empty gun safe. Shaft hisses a stream of air through his lips in resignation. “Tell me this isn’t where the weapons are supposed to be.”
Taylor doesn’t respond. Honoring his request, I suppose. But we all know the deal. Mr. Psycho-Asshole-Killer is now armed to the teeth. Taylor spins on her heels and is on the move again, faster this time. I jog after. “What kind of weapons are we talking?”
She opens her mouth but says nothing, as if she’s struggling for words I’d actually understand. “Mostly nonlethal. Used to contain threats, not to kill.”
“Mostly?”
“The weapons are not designed to end life,” Taylor says. “But if overused, even a stun gun can prove lethal.”
“If overused, even a glue gun can be lethal,” I say. “But we’re not talking about glue guns, are we?”
We wind through a few more corridors. Taylor finds an open floor hatch. It’s identical to the type that sealed the climbing tower on the upper level. The three of us stare down the long tunnel. It has the embedded ladder leading into a mouth of darkness.
“Great. This place has a basement,” Shaft says.
“I take it you didn’t open this hatch.” I kick the large disk of metal beside the opening.
Taylor shakes her head. “No. It was him.”
“The bridge is down there?” Shaft asks.
“This tunnel isn’t even on the map.” I unfold the crumbled paper and give it another glance. It only has two levels. Wherever this ladder leads to is uncharted.
Taylor scans the map. “That is only a third of the ship. There are areas that were built after that document was printed.”
Seems weird. Only a dumbass constructs a fancy map before the ship is even finished. And dumbasses generally don’t make good rocket scientists. The ship must have been expanded during its long interstellar flight. “Who builds a bridge after a ship is in flight?” I say. “Seems like that would be the type of thing you would have needed when you first launched into space.”
Taylor straightens, but her eyes stare down into the void below as if she’s conjuring a memory. “There was an incident. The bridge had to be rebuilt. Among other things.”
“Among other things,” I repeat. This house of horrors has a deep history. It’s lucky we survived in those cans this long.
Heh, lucky. Lucky us.
“If you go with me, I will not be able to protect you,” Taylor says. “He will use the weapons against you. He will try to use you as leverage. I will not compromise. I will not play into his hands.”
Terrific. It’s every man for themselves. It’s not as if she’s been Miss Team Player all this time. I’m not sure if she’s absolving herself of what’s about to happen or trying to convince us to turn back. I don’t want to go down there and face him again. But there’s zero chance I’m hanging back and twiddling my thumbs and waiting until we face plant into Tatooine.
I hop on the ladder and lead the way. They both follow.
We descend quickly. The automatic lights flip on and off as we go, both leading the way and heralding our progress. No one speaks. We all know what’s at stake. We’re trying to save our asses, but to do so we need to confront a psychopath who is fully armed. It’s probably suicide. I’m hoping Taylor has a few tricks left up her sleeve. It’s hard to tell if she’s scared or pissed off. “Both” is the likely answer.
The climb down isn’t strenuous. Gravity is on our side … even if it’s artificial. I reach the end of the ladder and hang from the last rung, allowing myself a nice, soft drop into the lower level. My feet land on a soft, furry carpet. Shag. Red shag to be exact. It’s like they let my tacky aunt design a spaceship.
Bubbling sounds behind me. More cryopods? I turn to find percolating lava lamps that paint the room in an eerie fluttering glow.
Groovy.
A tattered brown couch is shoved into the corner. A worn La-Z-Boy chair sits opposite it. On the light stand beside it are a stack of magazines and used up crossword books, even a mixed-up Rubik’s Cube. Whoever is in charge of this miracle of modern science apparently couldn’t solve one of those in over four hundred years. I guess I shouldn’t feel so bad for never getting more than two sides right.
Above the couch, there are black velvet posters on the walls. The kind you get from some guy in a truck selling them on the side of the road. There’s one of the solar system, one of Elvis, and one of a tiger. The vibe reminds me of the apartment I grew up in. It’s missing the constantly filled ashtrays and the Pabst coasters.
Everything’s a little off. The place could use a woman’s touch. Or maybe just someone that prefers their upholstery is patched with something other than swaths of duct tape and thinks that the hanging wall art shouldn’t be crooked.
Speaking of the wall art, on the opposite wall, there’s a smattering of oil paintings. Crappy ones—pears, apples, an ocean, stars at night. It’s all very middle-school art class. A large canvas is propped on an easel in the center of the room. It’s abstract, I think intentionally. It’s a face. A young white dude, blue eyes, curly yellow hair. It reminds me of that Greatest American Hero guy. Fumes are coming off it. Paint smell. Fresh paint.
Shaft and Taylor finally hop down behind me. Without a word, Taylor digs through a large cabinet as if she’s searching for a lost checkbook on rent day. Beside the cabinet is a mannequin of sorts, dressed in what looks to be authentic samurai battle armor. It’s something out of a museum. The sword is missing. Great. He’s got a sword now too. And I thought pool sticks were scary.
A loud click jolts us. In the hallway, an array of automatic lights has triggered on. Shaft and I spin, ready to fight. Taylor’s taking off, again. A team player she is not. We march out into the hall after her.
A wave of music hits us.
It’s Prince. “Let’s Go Crazy.”
Phantom’s setting a mood. It’s a little on the nose, but I appreciate the choice. I’ve always been a Prince girl. He’s a little dangerous. And so am I.
Without comment, we move on. The automatic ceiling lights are still on. Taylor must be nearby. A wall-mounted security camera tracks us. Phantom’s watching. I flick it the middle finger as we pass.
This corridor is different from the sweaty metal caves we’ve been traipsing around above. It’s cozier. Carpeted. Art on the walls. Fancy stuff. Stuff I remember from a field trip to the Walters Art Gallery.
“This is a Jackson Pollack,” Shaft marvels.
Ugh, more wall art. My life for a poster of Bon Jovi or something. “Unless he’s the pilot of this ship—“
“He’s an artist. A famous one.” The painting is hung crooked and doesn’t really look like famous art level to me—all splotches and splatters. It looks more like the floor of a famous and very messy artist’s studio. Shaft leans back, a glimmer in his eye, realizing something. “I’m an artist. A painter. I remember now.”
Prince’s screaming guitar hails the end of “Let’s Go Crazy.” It’s the bitchin’est part of the song. A solo played by a maestro of madness. A second Prince song kicks off. It’s not one of the Top 40 ones. “Take Me with U.” Phantom’s playing through an entire album. Purple Rain. I wonder if he’s doing this for me. Maybe he found some factoid in my file. Purple Rain is like the only album I own besides the Grease and Saturday Night Fever soundtracks.
A loud clanging interrupts my thoughts. It sounds like someone dropped a wrecking ball on the roof of this thing. It’s all we need to get back on the move. We hurry around the bend. Ahead, Taylor stands by yet another large metallic bulkhead. She’s bent over and clutching her stomach. She barely notices us or even bothers to make some excuse as to why she dashed off.
“Hey!” I shout. She whirls around, startled. The whites of her eyes are pink, tears dribble off her cheeks. She quickly wipes them. This can’t be good. She’s been
so robotic. Something unimaginable must have happened. “What?” I ask. “What’s going on?”
“I thought he found a way in.” She steps over to one of those familiar door lockboxes. The padlock is still firmly in place, which means Phantom hasn’t gotten to the keypad or beyond the bulkhead. “They’re still alive,” she says.
The large bulkhead is the same as all the others, identical to the one that crushed Hero’s legs. Large bold letters are embossed on its steel: “CARGO 12.”
She grabs at the key ring that dangles from my waist. “Give me the keys.”
I backpedal. She wants to rip my face off. “I thought we were in a hurry.” I wave at the bulkhead. “What is this?”
Taylor lashes out and grabs for the keys. I whip them away and shove her right in the chest. Shaft steps beside me getting my back. It’s a nice gesture, but she put him down with one quick strike to the throat before, so I’m not actually more confident.
The ship jolts. I grab for the wall but crash into it. So does Taylor. Shaft falls flat on his face. This might be the end. I stare at the walls and ceiling, expecting them to rip and expose us to the ravages of space.
Then everything stabilizes. We’re alive. But for how much longer? That jolt was just a harbinger of things to come.
I lift the ring of keys, but there’s no way I’m handing them over. “Which one?”
“The red one in the middle.” Taylor reaches out for it. “It’s the master to all of these locks.”
I find the red key, slide it into the large padlock, and turn. Taylor removes the lock, throws open the steel box, and punches in the password. The bulkhead raises, opens.
A gentle gurgling sound greets my ears. Cryopods.
We enter. Taylor struts directly down the center plank that parts the human canisters. An overhead fluorescent light reflects off the water and glass and occasional slumbering face. The chamber is identical to the one that hatched us. There are about twenty pods in total. In the back, I notice a couple of those large bucket shaped things that held the huge snake monster. My worst nightmare times two. I don’t even want to think about it.
