We had the radio on in the mess hall and were periodically picking up messages from Weems’s Weasels. We’d about given up hope of hearing anything from the UAC guys who used to be on Phobos. As I sipped the scalding wake-up-call, wondering who I could sue if I burned my tongue, I couldn’t help but scrutinize the two Rons. Neither gave the impression of being on top of the situation. They kept glancing at the closed cafeteria doors, at the radio, at each other . . . They weren’t paying much attention to their prisoner.
They were also having the same conversation every twenty minutes or so. It generally started like this: “What do you think’s happening?” one would ask the other.
I was tired of listening to variations on I-don’t-know, so I volunteered a theory: “Somehow the Gates turned on, and whoever built them decided the UAC was trespassing. Maybe they were wiped out.”
“But who attacked us?” asked Ron One. Funny; I never thought of Union Aerospace as part of “us.”
“They said monsters were coming through the Gate,” said Ron Two with the same sense of surprise he’d displayed the other half-dozen times.
“They said ‘things,’ ” I corrected. Neither heard me. Things or monsters, I had faith in Arlene and the rest of the guys.
The guards didn’t strike me as being overly interested in the subject of high order physics. They had reached firm conclusions in the realm of the biological sciences, however. They didn’t believe in monsters.
The truth is that neither did I.
In one respect I was as bad as the PFCs. There were questions that couldn’t be answered yet, but they wouldn’t stay out of my mind. Who was the enemy? How had they reached Phobos through the gateways? And most troubling of all, why hadn’t Fox found any bodies yet? Major Boyd and even Colonel Brinkle back on Earth would want answers to these questions and a lot more.
Suddenly, the radio sputtered to life, grabbing our attention, an invisible hand reaching out to choke the breath from us. It was PFC Grayson, out front on recon, reporting to Weems, who was elsewhere in the facility. The young Marine had found a corpse. Weems radioed back the obvious instructions.
“ID impossible, sir,” reported Grayson, his voice tense. “It’s in too many pieces. I can positively say that it was a white male. It looks like—Jesus, sir, it looks like claw marks. And this body’s been chewed.”
Wild beasts on airless Phobos? Judging by the sickened expressions from Ron and Ron, it was all too evident that neither of these specimens had ever seen combat. I’ve seen my share . . . and all at once, the idea of living long enough to attend my own court-martial seemed very appealing. Even five years at Leavenworth looked good. The fact that I didn’t have a gun crawled around deep inside my gut like a tapeworm. Right then I decided to remedy the situation.
The masticated body parts had been found in the processing plant. We heard Weems over the radio issuing orders to converge on that point when a burst of static interfered with the reception.
When Grayson’s voice came in again, it was loud and clear. Up until that moment, the universe still made some kind of sense to me. Of all the military scenarios running through my mind, none prepared me for what happened next: “Jesus Christ! It’s not human,” shouted Grayson. “Too big . . . shaped all wrong . . . humanoid . . . red eyes . . .”
While Grayson was providing this fragmentary report, he punctuated his description with bursts from his rifle. Before he could become more coherent, we heard an inarticulate roar of animal pain from whatever he was shooting, and then he shouted, “I can’t put it down!” The next scream we heard was fully human.
My whole body went cold. Jesus—Arlene was down there.
Keep cool, keep your head—she’s a Marine, damn it!
One of the Rons looked like he was about to throw up. “Okay,” I said, “this has gone on long enough. We know we’re in this together. Give me a gun and let’s make some plans.” If Arlene were being shot at, God damn it, I intended to shoot back! The honor of the Corps was at stake, not to mention my best buddy’s life.
The radio was reduced to background noise for the moment as Weems the Weasel tried to control the situation. The nervous looks exchanged between the dynamic duo in the mess hall made me wonder about training that completely destroys initiative. On the brink of death, all the Rons cared about was going by the book—even if that book printed their own obituaries in flaming letters.
One finally generated the initiative to say, “We can’t give you a weapon!”
I tried again. “Staying alive is the objective here. We’ve all got buddies down there. They don’t court-martial the dead! You can’t help anyone or defend anything if you’re dead. Now give me a piece!”
If either of them had shown a glimmer of intelligence or guts, I wouldn’t have taken the next step. But they insisted on being idiots.
Jesus Christ! As the Godfather said, there are men who go through life begging to be killed.
2
Shut up,” said the first Ron.
“You’re going back to detention,” said the other. This was a truly pathetic spectacle. Suddenly, I had become the threat in their eyes, simply because I was forcing them to face an unpleasant situation head-on.
A number of things happened at once: more screams and gunfire came over the radio, and I thought I heard a woman scream. The nearest Ron unholstered his 10mm pistol and pointed it at me—then the poor jerk gestured the direction he wanted me to walk. He gestured with the hand holding the pistol. With an invitation like that what could I do?
I caught his arm, moved the gun aside, and rabbit-punched him in the kidneys; the gun slid across the floor. The other Ron was still fumbling with his holster, so I turned and jabbed him in the throat . . . not hard enough to kill, but with enough impact to keep him busy trying to breathe.
Sorry, Rons; Arlene PFC Sanders means more than the both of you rolled together!
I turned back to the first one, who surprised me by regaining his feet and making a grab with his good arm. Too bad for him, he was off balance and fell toward me, providing another irresistible target. I flat-palmed the back of his head, and he was out like a light. The other Ron was still doubled over, trying to breathe as I collected their weapons.
“You guys aren’t exactly cut out for Light Drop Infantry,” I said in as kindly a voice as I could muster.
Now I had a problem. They weren’t bad guys, but I couldn’t trust their goodwill not to come after me. Their fear might be enough to keep them out of my hair, but I couldn’t count on that, either. Nor did I want to leave them sitting ducks for the hostile forces that were loose in this station. So I helped the one who was still conscious to his feet and waited for his glazed eyes to clear a bit.
“Listen, Ron; we’ve got a situation here. So far as I can tell, we only have these two sidearms between the three of us. This is not good. The lieutenant should have left us with some weapons, don’t you think?” It was a rhetorical question, so I kept on. “I’m leaving one of these guns with you, unloaded.” I let him sink back on the floor and slid the ammo clip across the floor. “When you feel well enough to reload, I suggest you barricade the door better than I can lock it from the outside, and wait for orders.”
He looked sick as a dog but nodded, and I left him to his own devices. I pocketed the remaining ammo clips. I wanted all the edge a few extra rounds could provide until I could find an armory and lay my hands on some real firepower, if the factory had any.
As I locked the mess hall doors behind me, I heard the radio sending out useless static crackle; no Weems, no Goforth—no Arlene. Well, last I heard, we were all going to have a party, with Grayson’s remains as the Guest of Honor. I didn’t like that particular train of thought so I derailed it. Time to get serious.
After ten minutes of humping around the compound, I found a landcart—the last one. That was thoughtful of them. Phobos is so small, a diameter of only twenty-two kilometers, that I almost could hoof it to the factory . . . particularly in the ul
tra-low gravity. But I might need to evac the survivors; and in any case, speed counts.
Although I’m not claustrophobic, I’d lately had my fill of blank walls. The spaceship was the worst. Traveling through a million miles of nothing in a little cubicle just so you can reach another cubicle at the end is not my idea of the conquest of space.
At least for the one day we spent on Mars, we had a view. The domes were made of super-thick, insulated plastic, but were cleverly designed to give the illusion of being thin as a soap bubble. The only trouble was that the view wasn’t very impressive—a blank expanse of empty desert broken by an equally barren, dark purple sky. I was only so thrilled with looking at stars. I liked something bigger up there. Although we could see Phobos from Mars base camp, it was so tiny it almost looked like a bright star trucking across the sky. Not enough moon for a melancholy mood.
But now as I crawled the land-cart out under the black, airless sky of Phobos, I enjoyed my first genuine feeling of freedom since I left Earth. Mars loomed in the sky, three-quarters full, larger than any moon and burning red as all the blood of all the armies ever spilled in uncountable battles across the stupid, drooling face of eternity—the face of a monster.
By contrast, the gray, dull surface of Phobos looked like brittle, laundry soap or dried oatmeal; the only variation was Stickney, the huge crater that covered a quarter of the moon’s surface and filled the rest with impact striations.
At that moment I thought that Mars might be the last beautiful sight I would ever experience. Ahead lay nothing good. The thought that I might shortly die didn’t bother me nearly so much as the dread of letting down my loved ones . . . again.
There weren’t that many back on Earth, but there was one here on Phobos that meant everything to me.
Maybe I did love her, I couldn’t say. I mean that literally . . . I couldn’t say it with her hooked up with Wilhelm Dodd, the dirty bastard. But that didn’t mean crap; if Arlene were in trouble, then putting my life on the line was the easiest choice I’d ever made. Doing my duty didn’t mean I had a death wish; it meant that I would have to stay alive as long as possible to find her and hump her out. All right, and the rest of Fox, too.
So with Mars looming gigantic and our sun a shrunken, distant ball of flame, quickly setting as I crawled toward the factory, I sped through Phobos daylight, across the terminator, and into the black night.
My stomach started roiling the moment I left the zone and entered the correct gravitational field of Phobos—not quite zero-g, but close enough for a queasy stomach. I had to watch my speed carefully here; I wasn’t sure what the escape velocity from Phobos was . . . probably a lot more than a crawling land-cart could make. But I sure as hell didn’t want to end up in orbit—the tractor treads didn’t work too well out there!
I wished I could drive the land-cart right inside the refinery, but I had to leave it in the garage on the surface. It sure felt good to get back under even the half-normal gravity in the refinery zone. The silent station lurked below the surface, containing what was left of Fox Company.
As I began the long descent, I promised to keep very, very quiet. Early in a career in the Light Drop Infantry, you learn the absolute essential of lying to yourself. Sure enough, there was noise, and I was the source of it. Even in the low-g, my boots squeaked slightly. Each squeak was magnified in my imagination as if giant rodents nibbled at my heels. The rectangle of light beneath me grew in size as there was no turning back.
I thought about using the lift, but there was no telling who I’d find inside. The access-tube ladder looked a safer bet.
A popular feature of these permanent stations is how there’s always light and air so long as the small reactor is working. Imagine my disappointment on climbing down the ladder into the hangar when I noticed the first signs that something was seriously wrong: the lights were flickering, and I didn’t hear the whine of the air recirculators.
The light was adequate to show empty corridor stretching in front and behind me. This section didn’t seem to show any signs of recent conflict . . . and no sooner did a small part of me make the mistake of relaxing than I heard a sharp hissing sound. Before I had time to think, the 10mm was in my hand and I had spun around into a defensive crouch. I’m sure I scared the leaky pipe real bad. At times like this, nothing is more welcome than an anti-climax.
As I examined the damaged pipe, mindful not to be scalded by the escaping steam, I realized that I might have found something interesting after all. The pipe had been dented by a blunt metal object of some kind, and there was a rusty stain on the floor underneath it.
There was really only one direction to go, so I went. That direction would also take me toward the hangar control room, where I could swear I heard low, growling noises. Somehow I didn’t feel like reholstering my gun. I didn’t like the way my palm was sweating, either.
Taking it nice and easy, I proceeded down the corridor. I had a good, long view ahead of me. No room for surprises. I didn’t hear the animalistic noises again, but that didn’t make me feel any better. Finally, I reached the control room. Right before I pushed the door open I felt a sudden shiver on the back of my neck and spun around, trying to look down both directions at once, like one of those crazy cartoon drawings of a double take. But there was nothing. At least nothing I could see. No casualties yet, thank God.
The control room was empty, but it had a peculiar odor like sour lemons. After months in a barracks, whether in Kefiristan, on Mars, or in space, you get used to the smell of paint and gallons of disinfectant. But this was nothing like that. I didn’t like it one bit.
It took only a few minutes to establish that all the equipment was in working order—except for the communications system, which was smashed into nonexistence. Then I had a brainstorm. There might be a gun locker here, something left over from when Phobos was an Air Force outpost; something a bit heavier than a 10mm pistol would greatly improve the adjustment to my new environment.
I found the locker and jimmied open the door fairly quietly; but there were no weapons. Bare cupboard. Not even a slingshot. But so it shouldn’t be a total waste, there was a nice selection of last year’s flak jackets; not combat armor, but better than skin and a pressure suit. One looked like it fit me, so I put it on.
There seemed nothing else to do but resume my journey along the corridor that must ultimately take me into the rest of the station. I was reaching that dangerous psychological state when you feel that you are the only living person in what had been a battlefield situation. Another word for it is carelessness.
Reconnoiter, you bastard! My little voice was telling me to get back with the program. And not a moment too soon. A human figure came striding purposefully in my direction from just around the curve of the corridor.
I almost shot first, and asked questions at some undetermined future date. Reminding myself that Arlene and my buddies were here, as well as UAC civilians, I relaxed the old trigger finger that crucial centimeter. But I kept the gun on the human shape and experienced a sickening moment, not of empathy, but of reluctant understanding of Lieutenant Weems and the monks.
When the fearsnake slithers around inside your gut, it’s pretty damned easy to just start squeezing off at anything that moves.
Then I recognized the shape as one Corporal William Gates.
“Bill!” I shouted, relief flooding me at contact with a fellow Light Drop. “What the hell’s going on? Are you all right? Where’s Arlene—the rest of Fox?”
At no moment was there any doubt that this person approaching was the corporal with whom I’d played poker, drank, and told nasty jokes. We’d been through enough together that I didn’t even mind that he was one of the monkeys who jumped on my back when I popped Weems. Bill had a very distinctive face with eyes spaced wide apart and a scar that ran from his prominent chin into his lower lip.
He was walking in an erratic manner; fatigue, I assumed. Men in combat situations can get very weird, and I’d seen plenty worse than t
his.
Battle fatigue might even have explained the strange words coming out of his mouth, stuff that sounded like an old horror movie. Bill was staring straight ahead; but he didn’t seem to recognize me as he chanted, “The Gate—the Gate is the key—the key is the Gate.” I didn’t like the spittle on his chin, either.
As much as I wanted to run over to him, I held back. There was something really wrong here, nothing I could put my finger on yet, but it was like that smell in the control room—little hints that something was FUBARed on Phobos.
“Bill,” I tried again. “Bill, it’s your cuz, Fly.”
This time he noticed me. I could tell because he grinned the most evil grin I’ve ever seen in my life.
Then he raised his rifle and opened fire!
Even then, I didn’t want to believe what was happening. Fortunately, my bodily reflexes were more realistic. Diving behind a pillar, I was already preparing to return fire.
I had to try one more time. “Stop firing, Bill! It’s Fly, goddamn it. Stop shooting!”
3
Bill didn’t stop; he came closer. Desperate, feeling like Cain, I returned fire. Given the half-dead condition Bill was in, killing him all the way should have been easy. The first bullet took him in the throat, above his kevlar armor. That should have done the job, but he kept on coming. I pumped more rounds at Bill, and finally one connected with his head. That dropped him.
But even as brains and blood oozed onto the corridor floor, his body continued to flop around the way a chicken does when its head has been removed. Humans don’t do that . . . and they don’t have a sour-lemon smell either, which was suddenly so overpowering that I could barely breathe.
I stared, shaking like a California earthquake.
I was looking—at—a zombie.
That was all that kept racing through my head, screaming the word over and over again between my ears . . . zombie, zombie, zombie! What utter shit. Maybe Arlene could believe in all that crap and bullroar; she watched those damned, damned horror movies all the—I wasn’t never going to watch anything like . . . a freakin’ zombie? I was crazy, buggin’, freaked like some hippie punk snot flying on belladonna.
Knee-Deep in the Dead Page 2
