But now, for the first time, after a cumulative seventeen weeks of actual combat intercut into four years of military life, I finally understood that stupid line about there being “no atheists in foxholes.” I didn’t use the words that the Jesuits taught me, but I know who I was talking to, begging for the guts and skill not to hose up.
“Suicide mission” was a weak term for what I was doing. I’m as afraid to die as the next jarhead; but goddamn it, I didn’t want to be damned as a walking dead!
I told the Big Guy what I’d done wrong in the last, ah, seven years and promised him a lifetime of penance if He’d just forgive me and send me into battle shriven. It was a hollow offer, I knew; that “lifetime” was probably measured in hours. Thank God it’s the thought that counts.
Taking a breath, I swung my rifle around, finger outside the trigger guard, and stepped out of the alcove. I continued around a corner toward the clicking noise.
Suddenly I saw what looked like a working radio! Hurrying over—too quickly for caution’s sake—I saw that only the front part of the mechanism remained. The back was ripped out in a way that showed clear sabotage. Up to that moment, it had seemed possible that the radios were destroyed accidentally, casualties of battle; but this was clear evidence of at least human-level tactics, far beyond what I’d imagine the zombies could do.
There was somebody else wandering around here. If I hunted long enough, I figured I’d find it . . . if it or they didn’t find me first.
Turning a corner in the corridor, I saw more evidence of some kind of strategy: on the wall, a map to the installation had been burned beyond recognition, while the space around it was only slightly singed. Whoever that other something or somebody was, it knew that more of us would be coming after it; it didn’t want us to be able to find our way.
Ahead was a hatchway, the door open. The light directly over it was broken; but a steady, green glow emanated from beyond the narrow opening; the glow did not come from any electrical source I could think of. Even as I moved toward the entrance, I knew I wanted to be anywhere else but here. A new odor assailed me, far worse than the sour lemons. This was the loving, sweet aroma of something that should have been buried, or better yet, flushed. It literally burned my nostrils.
I fumbled for the mask that accompanied the combat armor. Jesus, I thought, what I wouldn’t give for a working environment suit! My hands shook as pulled it over my mouth and nose, wondering what horrible, toxic fumes I was breathing.
The surge of air from the suit augmented the bad air; but it did little good. The molecules of the toxin were evidently smaller than oxygen molecules and didn’t react to any of the filters; I could still smell them right through the mask.
Every warning klaxon in my body was screaming; my skin tingled, and the proverbial hair on the back of my proverbial neck jumped up and did some PT. I took a few tentative steps farther in, then I came up short; I’d found the light source.
Pools of thick, green liquid bubbled on both sides of me. The stuff was luminescent, probably radioactive. It looked like boiling lava on Saint Patrick’s day. I wasn’t going to stop and run any experiments; but I had no doubt the gunk would eat right through my combat suit, given enough time. The prudent decision was to stay as far away from the green slime as humanly possible.
No sooner had this thought crossed my mind than a ton of bricks slammed into me from the right, knocking the 10mm pistol out of my holster and into the green toxin. Something had decided to run the experiment after all.
The 10mm made a hissing sound as it disappeared from view. I didn’t care. I had problems of my own.
Flipping over, I struggled to get to my feet and bring my big Sig-Cow into play, if I could figure out what the hell hit me. The impact had blurred my vision. I stood up, dizzy, shaking my head. The figure that had hit me so hard stood just out of sight, in the shadows. I assumed it was another zombie, but a stronger one than I had encountered before.
Then it cut loose with a hiss, and more of that clicking sound I had been hearing. Well, one little mystery solved.
The strength in this—zombie?—inspired greater caution. I rolled my M-211 around and skated to the side, waiting for the creature to come to me. He did.
As the large body moved into sight, I saw brown, leathery skin, rough like alligator hide, with ivory-white horns sticking out from chest, arms, and legs. The head was inhumanly huge, with maddened slits of red for eyes. It was a monster!
It was a demon.
5
My first reaction was to laugh. This was a childhood nightmare, a bogeyman. The part of me that had worked so hard to grow up just couldn’t believe in something that looked like this.
Only trouble was, the damned thing didn’t appreciate its own absurdity. It took a few steps toward me where the light was better. Movement made the figure less ridiculous. Shadows played across its rough hide, and I saw that the wrinkled flesh under the eyes were wet. I hated to admit that it really was flesh. The eyes flickered with an angry red light. The worst features were the lips curling back to reveal ugly, yellow canines. This was no Halloween mask with a rigid grimace. Inhuman as this monster was, I couldn’t confuse it with an animal.
Just an alien bastard, I told myself over and over; I was a lot more comfortable with the idea of an alien, even an alien soldier—a cosmic grunt. Not a . . . a demon.
The extraterrestrial stopped advancing. It turned its head at an angle no human could copy, but kept its eyes fixed on me. Mexican standoff.
Despite it having attacked me first, I couldn’t shake the thought that it was my responsibility to try to make contact. No communication seemed possible with the hollow shells who used to be my buddies or UAC workers; the most I could drag out of them was simple parroting of what they had heard, before or after death.
But this one was different . . . this one was—how could I fire up a conversation with an alien “demon” whose interest in humans seemed purely nutritional?
“Who are you?” I asked. I figured it wouldn’t know English, but might at least guess from the tone what I had asked. But it threw me a curve by smiling wide and silently mouthing the same question, Who are you, seeming to mock me.
I tried again: “Human being,” I said, tapping my armored chest. “Understand? Do you talk?”
Nothing. Nada. I took a calculated risk: I wasn’t about to put down my weapon; but I slowly extended one hand, palm forward, in what I hoped was a universal symbol of nonaggression.
There was a response but I didn’t quite know what to make of it. The grotesque humanoid slowly lifted its right hand up to its shoulder and stroked the white protrusion of bone, allowing its thumb to linger on the sharp point. The sight was very strange and it did not suggest peaceful intentions. Definitely a Mexican standoff.
I suddenly got nervous about leaving my hand exposed. The sharp teeth suggested a healthy appetite. I became acutely aware of my environment. The bubbling, green sludge behind me burbled louder, and for the first time, I thought I heard the monster breathing.
The breathing stopped.
Pure instinct took over. Soldiers sometimes take a sharp breath just before attacking . . . some hold their breath as the floodgates open, releasing enough adrenaline to turn coward into hero.
The monster attacked so quickly I couldn’t have gotten a shot off even if my Sig-Cow hadn’t jammed.
Whatever the thing was, it was not stupid. It charged me, clawing for my throat with one set of nails while the other hand fended off my bayonet.
That was the only good news; if it was afraid of my blade, then surely the alien would bleed if I stuck it
If . . .
I stopped pushing and suddenly pulled with the monster, instead of against it. I fell backward, and four hundred pounds of leathery skin and iron muscle dropped on top of me—and right onto my bayonet. With an inhuman scream that nearly ruptured my eardrums, the demon died, convulsing a few last times before instantly stiffening into what felt like a stone s
tatue.
I was mighty damned glad to learn that demons did bleed, at least on Phobos. I was relieved for some reason that the blood was red.
I was less pleased to feel the stone weight of the monster crushing me into the floor. Jesus and Mary, did I wish I could turn off the Phobos gravity generator, just for a moment!
Years spent in Catholic school came back to me; I remembered an old penguin, Sister Beatrice, who was obsessed with the biblical injunction to avoid unclean things. Unclean things!
My stomach heaved; shaking the body off me with more strength than I’d ever experienced before, I almost vomited on the very spot where blood pulsed out of the alien’s belly wound.
Jumping too quickly to my feet, I slipped in the slick, red goo—right next to one of the bubbling pits of green sludge. Heat poured from the boiling, green liquid waste. I didn’t want that stuff any closer to my face than it was already; I had a feeling the luminescence was not harmless phosphorous, and this didn’t seem the time to run any tests.
I took a moment to catch my breath. It had been difficult enough to accept the fact of people—buddies!—turned into zombies; but this thing at my feet meant anything could happen next. I didn’t want to let my imagination run wild. Reality was bad enough at the moment.
Not since childhood had I really felt a desire to pray. The first monsters of my life had been stern nuns refusing to answer the questions of an inquisitive mind. But now I felt a need for God, if only to have a power big enough to swear an oath on.
“I’ll stop you,” I promised, “whatever you are, however many you are.” It helped to say the words out loud, even if one of the bastards heard me. Hell, they could hear my footsteps, anyway. “If there is a God, please let me live just long enough to stop these monsters from dropping ship to Earth!”
The small voice of reason was growing smaller all the time; scientific knowledge! Physical law! Like the song says, biggest lie you ever saw.
Survival came first; killing lots of monsters. Learning something useful about the enemy was just fine, so long as it came third. And there was the problem of how I would communicate any useful discovery; and to whom.
Ahead were the remains of yet another smashed radio. A human hand still touched the controls. The hand was not attached to an arm. The best explanation was that the body probably lay dissolving at the bottom of the pool of green slime.
Making my way out of this section seemed the most important move for all three goals, if only to get away from the hot, green liquid. The monster had thrown me off. I couldn’t help imagining the creature from the black lagoon, or green lagoon, waiting at the bottom of every toxic pool.
If I could meet one two-legged nightmare, I could meet more. And I don’t just mean more like the ones I’d already fought; there could be worse things, anything! What were the laws for monsters? Thoughts of horrors crawling around on the bottom of radioactive sludge pools gave way to even more unlikely scenarios. How about creatures that could exist outside the domes, in airless space? And if they didn’t need to breathe, maybe those aliens didn’t bleed, either.
I made myself stop. If I kept this up, I wouldn’t need to be picked off by the enemy; I’d be saving them the trouble.
I heaved a sigh of relief to leave the toxic-spill room, clearing the jammed brass from my Sig-Cow receiver; it made little difference—I only had two or three rounds left and nowhere to stock up.
As if being rewarded for a bad attitude, there was another collection of inanimate dead just through the doorway, awaiting inspection. For the first time since this nightmare began I actually felt relief at the sight of human corpses. At least they were human. Not zombies, not monsters. If I’d been more careful—or paying more attention to my imagination—it might have occurred to me that one of the zombies could be pretending to be a corpse. But somewhere in the back of my brain I had already figured out that the zombies were no-brainers. They weren’t about to pull tricks.
There was something very reassuring about thinking about things that weren’t possible (or at least not very probable). Sure beat the hell out of imagining supermonsters that could do anything! As I surveyed the dead men, the damaged weapons, the lack of ammo, and for dessert, a smashed radio, I finally understood what must have been going through the minds of these soldiers as their lives were ripped out of them.
I understood why they hadn’t done the intelligent thing and withdrawn, regrouped, reported: they’d been so overcome with revulsion, just like Yours Truly, that they’d simply charged into the mob (of zombies? monsters?) in a berserker fury, killing anything that got in the way. They stopped thinking and started reacting instead—and were cut down, one by one.
A heavy rumble from behind grabbed my attention. Setting a new record for spinning around, I realized I had to go back into the blasted toxic-spill room to check this out.
So I did.
The latest surprise: when I killed the monster, it evidently fell across a lift lever I hadn’t noticed. I arrived at this conclusion because of the large, metal platform which finished lowering itself right in front of my nose. Beyond the lift was a brand new corridor I hadn’t seen before.
To enter or not to enter? That was as good a question as any I’d had all day. Staying behind meant facing inconceivable danger and unimaginable odds. Whereas going forward meant facing unimaginable danger and inconceivable odds. Or something.
The corridor ahead had two appealing features: there were no slime pits and the light was brighter. The latter decided me. There had to have been some good reason to make the choice I made.
I backed up and took a flying leap; fear lent my feet wings . . . but not jet engines, unfortunately. I landed short and teetered on the edge of the biggest pool of green crud in creation. I windmilled my arms . . . if I hadn’t stepped back, I would have fallen back.
For a second all my foot felt was icy, icy cold, as if I’d stepped into liquid nitrogen. Then the pain struck. I tried to yank my foot free, but my muscles wouldn’t respond!
My leg was on fire from toe to thigh. I lurched forward, falling on my face; my foot was free of the toxin, but I shouted through clenched teeth.
Fighting a suicidal impulse to grab my still-wet foot, I wrapped my arms around my gut instead. If a zombie or monster demon had stumbled across me then, it could have snuffed me with my blessing. It was minutes before the throbbing pain in my leg subsided. I scraped my foot against the floor, rubbing off as much of the toxin as I could; but my leg swelled tight and angry red inside my ruined boot.
But at least, thank God, the pool was behind me.
The new corridor seemed antiseptic and clean after what I’d just stepped in. If there were unpleasant odors, they didn’t penetrate my visor.
I followed the corridor until I came to a room on the right. Something made me hesitate about going in. It wasn’t a sense of danger or anything like that. Maybe it was because the door was closed. Mostly they’d been open. I don’t normally credit sixth sense stuff or mysticism; but I’ve learned in combat that you ignore your instincts at your peril. There are human “predator senses” that normal, civilized life pretty much breeds out of us.
I had my weapon at the ready even though two shots from now the Sig-Cow would be nothing but a fancy spear.
Kicking the door was easy; looking into the room was hard. There was one lone body on the floor, female, her back to me.
6
For a cold-gut second, I thought she might be Arlene. The impression lasted only a few seconds; then I saw it was Tij “Dude” Dardier. We’d fought together pretty closely in Kefiristan, and you get so you recognize a buddy from behind, especially females in a crack fighting unit.
Her face was unmarked, still cute, still a little girl with red hair who had a big surprise for any man who thought she was easy pickings. I wondered if a monster or zombie had gotten her. The ugly wound was in her stomach.
There was something funny about her posture; she lay as if she had a secret.
I stared for a moment, coaxing her dead body to talk to me. Then I figured it out: Dudette was lying on top of something, shielding it from dry zombie eyes.
I touched her gently, then gingerly slipped over her corpse. Dude Dardier was lying on top of the pump-action riot gun I’d been wishing for earlier—her death-day present for Yours Truly.
I felt like a ghoul, but feelings were a luxury. With a shotgun in my arsenal, my survival rating took a big leap up the charts.
I checked the bore and found no obstructions. There were plenty of shells in the bandoleer around her body. I thanked Dudette for being a Marine to the end . . . semper fi, Mac.
Back in the corridor, I found remains of a map on the wall. The Bad Guys evidently followed a plan, proven by destroyed radio gear and vandalized wall maps. But this time there was just enough left of the map to figure out the basic direction toward the lift, which I prayed was still working. Being properly armed did wonders for my psychology; I decided maybe I would do well to generate a tactical plan.
There is no north or south on Phobos, but I oriented myself along the facility’s major axis. Getting to the nuclear plant was the next logical move; it had the largest concentration of equipment . . . and perhaps even an untrained engineer like me could jerry-rig some gear into a working radio.
I found the lift without further molestation; naturally, it was broken, shot to hell—the hydraulics leaked away from numerous gunshot holes. But the manual escape hatch still worked. Placing myself back into a narrow, confined space was about as appealing as it sounded, and my damned imagination started bugging me again at precisely the moment duty called. My imagination was not very patriotic; it needed six weeks of boot camp.
There was a dim light in the shaft, very, very dim. Every square foot of the base was supposed to be constantly lit, bright as day, except for the barracks. Someone in charge must have been mugged by a flashlight when he was a kid and wanted nothing more to do with them. Maybe I shouldn’t have complained; light was light.
Knee-Deep in the Dead Page 4
