by Jake Bible
“Hand me the envelope, Doctor,” Alvarez says. “I need to see what is in there.”
Dr. Hall hesitates, then his entire body deflates as his shoulders slump forward. He reluctantly hands the envelope back, but still doesn’t turn to look at Alvarez.
“Keep paddling while I open this,” Alvarez says as he holsters his pistol and grabs the envelope.
There is barely enough light to make out the Presidential seal on the front, but Alvarez doesn’t need light to know what it says. He opens the envelope and pulls out the key card inside, his eyes squinting to make out the name and face printed on the front.
“Holy shit,” he finally says as recognition dawns on him. “This is Senator Granger’s.” He glances up and can see Dr. Hall shuddering with sobs as the man keeps paddling. “Are you telling me that the kid that died was Senator Granger’s son? You left the Chairperson of the Senate Armed Services Committee’s kid behind to be killed by a flock of ooze pigeons so you could save your own skin?”
Dr. Hall doesn’t answer, just keeps sobbing and paddling, paddling and sobbing.
“Jesus Christ,” Alvarez says for the thousandth time that day. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Seven
“Mom?” Kyle croaks. “Can you hand me the water?”
“Are you joking, kid?” Lowell says as gets up, grabs a bottle of water from the table, and tosses it to Kyle. “Have you seen your mom?”
“Lay off, Lowell,” Lu snaps.
“Sorry,” Kyle says, realizing how stupid he sounded asking his concussed mother to hand him water. “Lowell’s right. I forgot.”
“How are you feeling?” Bolton asks Kyle. “Give me symptoms.”
“I feel like shit, Connor,” Kyle smirks. “How are you feeling?”
“Right there with ya,” Bolton smiles. “Lu?”
“Shittier than both of you,” Lu replies, and coughs for a few seconds before she gets it under control. “Even worse now. Coughing is no fun when you have a concussion.”
Kyle stands up and stretches, then grabs onto the arm of the couch to keep from falling over. He looks towards the barricaded door of the break room and the three soldiers that sit there. Holt and Toloski have their eyes and carbines trained on the blocked entrance while Kreigel just sits and moans, his eyes staring at his bare chest and the chemical burns that bubble and blister on his skin.
“You guys need anything?” Kyle asks. “Kreigel? You want some water?”
The man turns his head, and Kyle flinches involuntarily at the way the stricken man looks at him. His eyes are red and puffy, his lips look almost purple, and his skin is mottled and patchy, alternating between spots of bright red and spots of almost pure white. He swallows hard and nods.
“Sit,” Lowell says, pointing at Kyle. “I got this.”
Lowell grabs another bottle from the table and walks it over to Kreigel. He unscrews the top and tries to hand it to the man, but Kreigel’s hands won’t obey and just flop at his sides.
“Here,” Lowell says as he tips the bottle to Kreigel’s mouth and helps him drink. “Slowly, soldier. Don’t choke.”
But even with Lowell’s warning, Kreigel starts to cough and sputter. Pink tinged water spews from his mouth, and Lowell jumps back to avoid the spray.
“Is that blood?” Kyle asks.
“Dude,” Lowell says. “A little tact.”
“And now I have heard it all,” Bolton says. “The convicted murderer scolds the A student about tact.”
“I get B’s, too,” Kyle says. “And even a C.”
“A C? In what?” Bolton asks.
“PE,” Lu laughs, then coughs, laughs, then coughs again. “Fuck. I hate this.”
“PE?” Bolton asks Kyle. “Seriously?”
“There was a girl,” Kyle shrugs. “She had that period off so sometimes I’d ditch and go hang with her.”
“A girl?” Bolton chuckles. “Do we need to have the talk?”
“My grandma took care of that,” Kyle replies, giving both his parents a pointed look. “Just like everything else.”
“Uh oh,” Lowell grins. “Junior is getting all righteous on your asses. Absentee parents should probably choose their words more carefully.”
“Shut up,” Lu and Bolton say at the same time.
“Like that,” Lowell says and claps. “Well done. Way to stand united.”
Kreigel coughs hard, and then doubles over, his whole body shuddering violently. He vomits up the small amount of water he was able to drink, and the color is no longer pink but an almost black-red. Toloski looks over at his teammate and tries to smile.
“You really are Hellmouth now, Kreigel,” Toloski says. “That ain’t pretty.”
Kreigel gathers his strength enough to flip Toloski off, then lies back on the floor and closes his eyes.
“It...burns...so...much,” he whispers. “I can...feel it...in me.”
“You only got a little on you,” Holt says. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Fat...chance,” Kreigel sighs. “I know...what...fine...feels like. This is...not fine.”
Holt starts to reply, but stops as they all hear a scrabbling sound outside the room. The barricade groans as something places weight against it then settles, and there’s only silence. The group watches the barricade, ready for the attack they know is coming.
“Why don’t they push through?” Kyle asks. “They got past all that concrete out there. Some boards and furniture shouldn’t be too much for them.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, kid,” Holt says. “There was a complete lack of ooze monster training in BUD/S.”
“Buds? What’s that?” Kyle asks.
“SEAL training,” Toloski says. “It’s where the instructors try to kill you and if you live, or refuse to quit, you then get a chance to become part of the most elite fighting groups in the world.”
Bolton snorts.
“Got something to say, GI Joe?” Holt asks.
Lowell laughs. “He called you GI Joe. I sometimes call you GI…”
“Shut up, Lowell,” Bolton says, and then grins at Holt. “Nothing to say. I’ll let you froggies live in your fantasy. Green Berets know better.”
“Dude,” Toloski says, shaking his head. “Hard to take any SpecOps operator seriously with ‘beret’ in his name.”
“Says the SEAL,” Bolton replies. “They teach you to juggle balls on your nose in that BUD/S training?”
“Only the balls of our enemies,” Toloski says.
“That didn’t help your argument,” Kyle says. “That’s just gross.”
“How many kills you got, Bolton?” Holt asks. “In the field, not on Call of Duty.”
“Before or after this volcano shit?” Bolton asks.
“Before,” Holt says. “If we talk about post-eruption kills, then we have to separate human and non-human. Too much work.”
“And...half-human,” Kreigel mutters.
“Shut the fuck up,” Holt says. “Until you glow green, you’re still human.”
“I never kept a body count,” Bolton says, causing both Toloski and Holt to raise their eyebrows in surprise. “No, seriously. My dad taught me never to turn men into numbers. Each kill should be personal, not a statistic.”
“I wouldn’t sleep at night,” Holt admits. “I have to detach.”
“No, I get what he’s saying,” Toloski says. “Each kill is personal. But I still count. Thirteen for me. Lucky, right?”
“How many have you killed?” Kyle asks Holt.
“Twenty-four,” Holt responds. “Six were fragged, but the rest were direct kills.”
“LT said he had forty-six notches,” Toloski says. “But he also spent time as a sniper.”
“Eight,” Bolton says. “Eight confirmed kills.”
“Eight? That’s it?” Holt asks. “How many tours?”
“Four,” Bolton says. “One in the Balkans, and three tours in Northern Afghanistan.”
“You must not have seen much action,�
� Toloski states.
“I saw plenty,” Bolton says. “Too much, really. I wounded plenty. Most of my missions were capture, not kill.”
“Bringing in the mice for the spooks to play with, eh?” Holt asks.
“Something like that,” Bolton says. “We’d bag ‘em, they’d break ‘em.”
“Spooks,” Holt says. “Those are some scary people.”
“Kreigel’s dad was a spook,” Toloski says. “Wasn’t he, Hellmouth? Your dad was CIA, or NSA, or something like that.”
“I...can’t tell...you,” Kreigel gasps. “Or...I’d have to...kill you.”
The man tries to laugh, but all that comes out is a wet, choking sound. In an instant he’s balled up in a fetal position, his entire body convulsing as he struggles to breathe.
“Fuck!” Holt says. “Somebody help him!”
“Don’t think we can,” Lowell states. “He’s beyond an ace bandage and some iodine, which is about what we got in here.”
Kreigel continues convulsing, black-red foam leaking from his mouth and nose. His eyes roll up into his head and his legs kick out straight, nearly hitting Toloski. Toloski moves quickly, obviously not wanting to come in contact with the stricken man. Kreigel’s mouth opens wide, and the sound of his jaw breaking echoes in the break room, causing almost everyone to flinch.
“Holy fuck,” Holt says as he moves away from Kreigel as well. “Look at his skin.”
Kreigel’s splotchy skin starts turning from red and white to a bright yellow. The foam that continually pours from his mouth and nose changes color as well, and everyone stares in shock as green ooze starts pooling around his head.
Then the ooze shudders and wraps itself around Kreigel’s face and up over his head.
“I think I know why the things aren’t trying to get in,” Lowell says. “Because one of them is already in here.”
“We need to show kindness while we can,” Bolton says, tearing his eyes from Kreigel so he can focus on the two SEALs that stand over their teammate. “That ooze takes him over, and bullets won’t stop him.”
Holt looks up, his face twisted with anger. “You make one move towards him and I’ll….”
The three gunshots are deafening as Toloski steps forward and puts two bullets in Kreigel’s chest, then one in his head.
“What the fuck, Toloski?” Holt shouts.
“I never wanted to bring him in here,” Toloski says. “I knew this is how it would go down.”
Holt starts to say something, then just shakes his head and looks around the room. “Get a blanket. Cover him with something.”
“Oh, man, he stinks,” Lowell says. “How can he stink so bad that fast?”
“More ammonia,” Bolton says. “He’s leaking it.”
“He’s leaking something,” Lowell says.
“Here,” Kyle say as he shoves some jars of pickles and marmalade out of the way to get to a tattered tablecloth sitting on a shelf against the back wall. “Mom has all the blankets.”
“Thanks,” Holt says as he straightens the tablecloth and lets it fall across Kreigel’s body.
“Don’t get pissy, Holt,” Toloski snaps. “He was dying, and that shit was getting a hold of him. Bolton was right, we couldn’t wait.”
“It sucks, man,” Holt says. “It fucking sucks. All of this shit sucks. This was a rescue op, Toloski. Get in, grab the Doctor, get out.” He throws up his hands and looks around the break room. “We don’t even know where the Doctor is anymore! If she had intel, then it’s lost!”
“She didn’t,” Kyle says. “She only told the President that she did so you guys would come get her.”
Holt and Toloski stare at Kyle before Holt starts laughing. He doubles over, his hands slapping his thighs as the laughter overtakes him. No one says a word until he’s done and has had a moment to take a few, painful breaths.
“It’s all for nothing,” Holt finally says, wiping tears from his eyes.
“Not for nothing,” Lu says. “I got my son back. So fuck all of you.”
“Hey, I’m on your side, Lu,” Bolton says.
“Ditto,” Lowell says. “I was with you all, not Doctor Liarpants.”
“It’s not your fault,” Holt says. “It just sucks.”
The body under the tablecloth twitches. Everyone notices.
Holt and Toloski slowly step back from the covered corpse, their carbines up. Bolton takes out his pistol and aims it at the tablecloth. Lowell grabs Kyle by the arm and pulls him over to Lu. They grab the stretcher and move her up against the wall next to the shelves with the pickles and marmalade. Lowell glances over and sees a couple boxes of crackers and a bag of chicken flavored ramen.
“Is it wrong that I’m hungry right now?” Lowell asks.
“We’re all hungry,” Kyle replies.
“Shut up, you two,” Lu says.
The tablecloth twitches again. Then again. Stains start to spread across it, coming from the bullet holes in the body’s chest and head.
“Gas?” Toloski asks.
“Really?” Holt replies.
“I’m hoping,” Toloski says as the tablecloth twitches once again.
Then Kreigel sits upright, sending the top part of the tablecloth flopping into his lap. His back is to everyone, and he’s facing the barricade. Green ooze is smeared across the holes in his environment suit. There should be blood from the gunshots, but there is no sign of red, or even black-red, at all.
The back of Kreigel’s skull is a shredded mess, and bits of ooze covered skull fragments fall onto his shoulders, then tumble to the floor. A candle in the corner starts to sputter, and Lowell hurries over to it, picks up another, and lights it before the first one dies.
“I think light is a good idea,” Lowell says.
Kreigel’s head spins 180 degrees, and his eyes bulge from his face as he stares at Lowell. His mouth opens, and a loud hiss which turns into snarls seems to come from deep within his throat.
Several hisses and snarls can be heard responding from the other side of the barricade.
Bolton puts a finger to his lips and looks at Lowell. “Shhhh.”
Lowell gives him a thumbs up.
With his mouth open wide and his head on backwards, Kreigel pushes himself up onto his feet. He wobbles for a second, then takes a step forward, and quickly finds he’s heading in the wrong direction. He turns his body around, then swivels his head back into a normal position. Normal, at least, for a corpse drooling green ooze from its mouth.
“Kreigel? Just stay put, buddy,” Holt says. “Stay right there, and we won’t hurt you.”
Another hiss, another snarl.
The ooze starts to increase in volume and goes from simple drool to a continuous flow. It spreads all down his front, some covering his chest, some flowing into his suit. He takes a step.
“Kreigel! Just stay there!” Holt orders. “Come on, man. Don’t make this worse than it is.”
“It’s pretty bad right now,” Lowell says, getting a glare from everyone except Holt, who is solely focused on Kreigel.
Kreigel takes a second step, and a third.
Holt puts two bullets in his chest, almost hitting the exact same spots as Toloski. Kreigel stumbles back, but doesn’t lose his footing.
There is something in the way his legs move that worries Kyle, but the boy can’t put a finger on it.
A fourth step, a fifth, and Holt fires again and again, riddling Kreigel’s torso with bullet holes and knocking him all the way back to the barricade. An audible click from Holt’s M4 tells everyone the magazine is empty.
“Give me another,” Holt says, his hand out to Toloski.
“I can’t, man,” Toloski says. “I only have one left.”
“Then give me that one!” Holt snaps.
“I mean the one already in my carbine!” Toloski snaps back.
“I have two magazines for my nine,” Bolton says.
“Here,” Lu says as she tosses Bolton one from her pocket. “Now you have three.”
“Shit,” Holt says as he quickly strips his environment suit off and kicks it aside. He drops his M4 and pulls his .45 from his hip. “Pistols it is.”
Toloski strips his suit off as well, and unsnaps the holster his .45 rests in.
Kyle looks down at Toloski’s legs as the man struggles to step out of the suit, the elastic on the cuffs refusing to set him free. That worry comes back, and Kyle wants to warn them of something, but it still won’t quite form in his mind.
“Drop him,” Holt says. “Take out the legs.”
Toloski and Bolton nod, then they all open fire on Kreigel, aiming for his knees and shins.
“No!” Kyle yells as what has been bothering him finally reveals itself. “Not the legs!”
As the barrage of bullets tears into Kreigel’s knees and shins, copious amounts of green ooze starts pouring out of the bullet holes. While he had been standing there, his body had been leaking, and his suit had been filling up. Now, Holt, Toloski, and Bolton were letting all of the collected ooze out.
And into the break room.
“Oh, fuck,” Lowell mutters.
Kreigel’s legs give way, and the man collapses into the pool of ooze at his feet. The green gunk splashes up into the air, but instead of falling back down immediately, it hovers there, bends over on itself, and settles to the ground way slower than gravity would have liked.
“Not good,” Lowell says. “I think that shit just waved at us.”
The ooze pulls back and coats every inch of Kreigel’s body. Once again the man is twitching and shuddering. The body flops about for several seconds, then is up on its feet in one smooth motion.
“What the fuck do we do now?” Toloski asks.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Holt says, then looks over his shoulder at Bolton. “Sergeant?”
“I have no fucking clue,” Bolton says as he lets his empty magazine fall and slams in a new one. He glances at Lowell. “Any ideas?”
“What the fuck are you asking me for?” Lowell shouts.
“You’re the one that figured out the gunpowder thing,” Bolton says, then looks at his 9mm and smiles. “Hold on.”
