by Nick Pollota
“The radio is in working order,” Hassan said, sliding back his cap. “But much too cumbersome to bring along.”
“Then leave it inside the plane,” I decided curtly. “Can you key it to broadcast a short message every hour?”
“Easily. But the set is powered by the engines, with them gone, the batteries won't last for more than a day.”
I frowned. “Damn.”
“Excuse me, but we have electrical power coming out of our ears,” Richard said, rolling up sleeves.
“Whatchamean?” the pilot asked.
“The NASA fuel cells,” he said simply.
Hassan and I exchanged glances declaring our total abject stupidity. Quiet and efficient, the fuel cells were what NASA used to power space shuttles. Utilizing ionic polarization to chemically convert methane into electricity, the fuel cells would calmly sit there generating power for the next month, whether we used them or not.
“Right,” Hassan chuckled, starting to run off. “I'll get right to work re-wiring the—”
With a startled cry, Captain Hassan lurched, red blood spraying from his neck. As we rushed forward, a watery something behind him yanked a crystal spear from his neck and the pilot dropped to the sand.
Standing brazen, the translucent creature was vaguely humanoid in shape, but totally devoid of any details; facial, bodily or otherwise. Nothing more than an outline. Ridiculous as it sounded, the thing appeared to be made of fluid water, for its body sloshed as the creature waddled toward us and threw the ice spear in a three fingered hand. I ducked and Richard knocked the spear out of the air with his staff.
“Take it alive for questioning,” I ordered, drawing my pistol.
Going into a marksmen stance, Father Donaher snapped off a shot with his pistol, hitting the thing in the shoulder and the water creature burst apart in a gush, the liquid contents flowing into the beach. I watched for treachery in the sand, but apparently it was gone. Maybe they were specifically vulnerable to lead. What a nice change that would be from wooden stakes, silver bullets or depleted uranium slugs.
Then Jessica cried an alarm and I saw several more of the creatures coming from the west. We tried wounding them, but a single shot and poof.
“These guys are wimps,” Richard declared, as a ray from his wand blasted the last and it dissolved into the sand.
Sadly, Jessica agreed. Even her stun rifle had killed them.
A wave from the sea washed onto the shore and four more of the water creatures were formed. Relentlessly, they started waddling forward, ice spears and axes glittering in their chubby mitts.
“Yeah, but there's an ocean of them to seven of us,” I noted. “They will just keep coming until we run out of ammo and eventually keel over from exhaustion.”
“Any suggestions?” Jessica asked, holstering her taser and sliding a shotgun off her shoulder. She jacked the pump with one hand, chambering a cartridge.
Another wave. Six, this time.
“Keep firing for the present. Michael, check Hassan.”
The priest thumped over to the sprawled form and reached to turn him over. Steam arose at the touch and he jumped back.
“Dead,” the big man said, painfully flexing his fingers. “Frozen solid. I nearly got frostbite just touching his clothes.”
I gazed at Richard. “Wimps, huh?” He shrugged.
At this point, Mindy and George returned loaded with our packs, gainfully pushing a wheeled cart over the hard packed sand. Thank God we hadn't tossed both of them overboard. At the end of the beach, I could see a dozen or so of the water demons beating on the plane with their axes. Rapidly, the fuselage started to cake over with ice and I kissed the rest of our supplies goodbye. Even if we fought our way to the DC-3, there was no way we could defrost an aircraft and protect ourselves simultaneously.
Yanking aside the canvas covering the cart, I snatched a bag of ammo and an M16/M79 assault rifle. Half machine gun, half grenade launcher, it combined spray-and-pray firepower with big punch capability and was my favorite thing in times of trouble this side of Not Being There In The First Place.
“How's Abduhl?” Mindy demanded, tossing Donaher a pack.
The priest made the catch. “Dead. For keeps.”
Stringing her bow, Mindy spat an oath that could have raised a bloodblister on boot leather. Wow. Guess she had really liked the pilot a lot. Too bad.
“George!” I barked, shoving a 40mm shell into the breech of the bottom-slung grenade launcher. The upper machine gun already had a fully loaded 30 round clip in it.
“Ed?” the soldier panted, as he helped Richard don a bulky backpack twice the size of the others.
“Get the door.”
“Check.”
Grabbing a sealed plastic tube, he pulled the arming pin, extended the muzzle, flipped up the sights, released the safety, aimed and fired. On a lance of fire, the Light Anti-Tank Weapon rocket impacted directly on the rock and detonated with spectacular results. We rushed forward, but halted as the smoke cleared and could see that the surface was undamaged, not even a scratch.
“Have to try something else,” he sighed tossing the exhausted rocket launcher aside.
Watching the beach, Mindy notched an arrow from her double-quiver. “There's no time!”
“Don't be an idiot,” George snapped. “We have plenty of time.” Taking a grenade from a carton on the cart, he pulled the pin, flipped the handle and tossed the canister on the shore, where it bounced along the beach and splashed into the water. A split second later, the ocean jumped and formed a geyser of boiling steam. The process continued as George lined the shore every few meters with the canisters.
“Those are thermite grenades,” he explained lugubriously. “A non-stoppable chemical reaction which burns at 3,000 degrees Kelvin, the surface temperature of the sun. The ocean won't put it out. Can't. On the contrary, the oxygen in the water will only act as additional fuel, maybe doubling the burning time.”
George glanced at his watch. “Okay, I just bought us five minutes. Now you brainy types solve the door.”
“Three on three,” I ordered. “Group A, the door.”
Father Donaher, Richard and Mindy returned their attention to the problem, as George, Jessica and I assumed a defensive position to protect their rear.
Racking the bolt on my machine gun, I spoke to Jessica. “Sometimes, I wonder if we shouldn't put George in charge.”
“I think he already is,” she replied in a stage whisper.
More water babies tried to rise from the sea, and departed this world with a minimum of fuss.
The scholars nosily debated the virtues of the portal, arguing pedantically over this and that. The sea was starting to cool, when a cry of victory cut through the verbal morass.
“Details,” I snapped.
Father Donaher spoke, “Those squares above the door can be depressed in the manner of a keyboard. They must be the way in.”
“Great!”
“Not really,” Richard added over his shoulder. “With almost a hundred squares, there's over eight hundred thousand possible three digit combinations, and the entrance code might be a four, ten, or even a hundred integers.”
Triggering the M16, I mowed down a fresh group of waddling wonders coming in from the east. “Doing the gambit would take longer than we have, that's for damn sure.”
“Wait, I got an idea,” Jessica said, punctuating each word with a shotgun blast.
“Okay, switch!” I cried.
The two groups changed positions.
“Talk fast, lady,” I suggested as we gathered around the door.
She pointed to the symbol on the lintel above the rectangle. “Might that not be an icon for water?”
“What if it is?” George asked, resting the butt of his rifle on a hip.
“Well, you must have observed the definite water motif in every attack on us.”
“And?” I snapped impatiently.
“I'm betting the key for entrance is water.”
“How?” Jessica demanded. “There's no letters.”
An easy problem. “Anybody touch type?” I asked above the gunfire. Donaher could. He and George moved and the priest tried the ploy. Results, negative.
“Try Greek,” Mindy suggested, loosening a Bureau arrow with violent results.
That also failed. As did Latin, Hebrew, French, Russian, Spanish, Morse Code and computer binary.
“This is a complete waste of time and effort,” Richard declared, a golden ray from his wand flashing the liquid demons into vapor at its slightest touch. “These squares are not in the order of any alphabet I know.”
“Still, there is something faintly familiar about that array of squares,” I said, raking my brain for what it was. There was a fleeting memory from my past just outside of range, I could sense it was there, but not quite clearly enough to get even a brief glance.
“Want me to help?” Jessica offered.
In spite of our situation, I hesitated before saying yes. It was no easy thing to allow another person access to your mind, even a close friend like Jess. But this was an emergency, so I said yes and shouldered my weapon. Stepping close, Jessica cupped my face in her warm hands and our gaze locked. Involuntarily, I stiffened as her thoughts gently slid into my mind, then completely relaxed under a soothing caress softer than a lover's kiss.
Instantly, the years flowed backwards like the fluttering pages of a book in the wind. I was a PI in Chicago, a cop on the South Side, a security officer for my father's trucking firm, in high school, a sophomore, November, 14, Tuesday, 11:45 am, in Chemistry, my teacher droned on about something incredibly dull...
“Got it!” I cried as we broke apart. “Its the periodic table.”
“Nonsense,” George snorted, working the bolt on his weapon to clear a jam. “Doesn't resemble it a bit.”
“Not the new, modern version, but the old original. Dimitri Mendeleef's simple one, circa 1869.”
He got the idea. A couple of thousand years ago, the molecular structure of water would be big juju. Forbidden knowledge. Far beyond the understanding of most common folk, who thought everything was made of the four elements. And sometimes they got those confused.
Reaching above the door, I pressed the first square—hydrogen. It sank, but rose again as soon as I let go. I pressed it once more and now it locked into place with a click. Holding my breath, I counted to the eighth square that should be oxygen and depressed it. The square sank, locked into position and noiselessly the massive stone door swung inward.
“Retreat!” Mindy shouted, charging through the open doorway.
Maintaining defensive fire to protect our rear, the team moved into an antechamber, a seamless cavern of natural stone only a few yards wide. There was no other exit in sight.
“Close the door, please,” Jessica said, taking cover behind the wall and shoving fresh shells into her weapon. Countless waves of the water demons were washing onto the shore, marching at us in nightmarish precision.
“Now would be good!” George shouted, firing a stream of caseless HE from his bulky assault cannon.
Confidently, I searched on the other side of the door, but saw only smooth blank stone. No symbol, no keyboard. No nothing.
EIGHT
“Find another keyboard!” I ordered, searching the walls.
Rosary dangling from his gunbelt, Father Donaher took a position in the doorway alongside George and hosed the front ranks of the creatures with his flamethrower. In a loud hiss, they disintegrated, only to be replaced by dozens more.
“This is getting serious,” he shouted above the roar of the burning spray. “Close the freaking door!”
Jessica dramatically touched it with a single finger and Mindy gave it a roundhouse kick. “We're trying!”
“No time for halfway measure!” Richard shouted, rolling up his sleeves. “Stand back!”
We cleared away fast. Gesturing wildly, the wizard shouted in a foreign language and the chamber was instantly immersed in total blackness.
“Did the spell work?” somebody asked from the dark.
“Yep,” a smug voice replied.
Flashlights clicked and in the bright white beams we saw that the doorway was closed solid with a stout wall of red fireplace bricks.
“Good work, man!” I said, slapping him on the shoulder.
He smiled. “Thanks.”
“Why bricks?” Jessica asked curiously.
“First thing that came to mind.”
Father Donaher adjusted the pre-burner on the sizzling nozzle of his weapon. “Come on, George. Let's form a firing line just in case they can get through.”
Grimly, George nodded. “Check.”
But as the soldier stepped away from the brick wall and the toe of his boot cleared the swing line of the door, the stone mass promptly closed and locked. Stunned silence followed.
“A regulated door,” Mindy gasped in sudden understanding. “The damn thing won't close as long as somebody is in the way.”
Growling a curse, Richard grabbed our chubby gunman by the collar. “You almost got me killed, Renault!” he snarled.
“Won't be the first time, Anderson!” George snarled back.
They bumped chests for awhile, making dangerous-sounding threats, then broke apart laughing.
Strange as it sounds, I have heard of some military leaders who don't allow this kind of horseplay by soldiers. In my opinion, they're the kind of idiots who are either easily defeated by the enemy, or else get killed from friendly fire. Humor relieves tension and improves morale. Besides, it was the first time anybody had actually joked since the disappearance of Raul. We were starting to pull together again.
“Hey, look!” Richard cried, pointing his wand.
We turned and on the cavern wall behind us was a tunnel not there before. Ten feet wide and high, the passage led deeper into the cliff, the end beyond the range of our flashlights.
Mindy angled her beam around for a better look, but nothing new was shown. “Must have formed when the outer door closed.”
“Makes sense,” Donaher agreed, stroking his moustache. “Typical security arrangement.”
“Security infers they have enemies.”
“They do now,” George said gruffly, taping his flashlight to the end of the barrel on his assault cannon.
I was going to immediately proceed into the tunnel, when I noticed the slightly hangdog appearance of the group and remembered that we had been on the go since 4am this morning. Fifteen straight hours. This was no place to pitch camp, but a short rest couldn't hurt.
“We'll hold here for ten minutes,” I said, checking the load on my grenade launcher. “If the water guys haven't gotten through the door by then, we break for lunch.”
“Here?” Jessica asked, arching an eyebrow. “I thought we would at least go down the tunnel a ways.”
“Why?” Mindy replied. “This way, we know one direction we won't be attacked from.”
Jess gave a slow nod. “True enough.”
Everybody assumed an attack position, weapons ready and the ten minutes passed with agonizing slowness. As the second hand on my watch swept to twelve, I breathed a sigh of relief. My innards were gnawing on each other and my head still hurt from the plane crash. Luckily, this double barrier did the trick.
“Okay, short break,” I said. “Water and MRE packs only. No cooking, no fire. Standard guard rotation.”
Gratefully, the group allowed their packs to slide to the ground and set about opening food packages. I took the first shift, dry swallowing aspirins from my pocket med kit and keeping my butt to the wall where I could watch the door and tunnel.
For a few minutes there was no sound except ripping mylar, crinkling plastic wrap, munching and slurping. Wolfing down his food, George relieved me and I happily joined them. Aspirins make very poor luncheon fare.
Chewing a military meatloaf sandwich, Donaher was busy with the flamethrower, checking gauges and th
umping tanks. “I'm afraid this is pretty much drained,” he announced sadly. “No more than a ten second charge left in it. Hardly worth carrying anymore.”
“Then here,” Jessica said, offering the pump-action shotgun. “Take this.”
He hesitated. “But, Jess...”
“It is your preferred weapon, correct?”
“Well, yes.”
“Then take the shotgun. There are plenty of stun bags, and I'll use one of the M16 rifles. Doesn't make much difference to me. I hate all weapons.”
That was certainly true. On just regular day-to-day living, I toted my S&W .357 Magnum into the shower. But even on a field assignment, Jessica only carried a taser. She once explained that it had something to do with the negative psychic vibrations of an offensive weapon disrupting her mental harmony. I chuckled to myself. Telepaths. Can't live with them, can't live without them.
“I heard that,” sang out Jessica, removing the plastic wrapper from an apple.
Oops.
Lowering his canteen, Richard wiped his mouth and recapped the container. “Any ideas about that tunnel?” he asked the group at large.
“Probably a security corridor, similar to the one at our HQ,” I said. “Once past the outer door, people who know what they're doing can stroll along without being molested. But a stranger will blunder about tripping alarms and other nasty stuff.”
“There are an awful lot of assumptions in that,” Mindy observed around a mouthful of candy bar. “We don't even know who we're dealing with yet. Animal, vegetable or mineral. Mortal, spirit or construct.”
“Good, bad or neutral,” Jessica added, finishing the litany.
“When do we ever know anything for certain?” Father Donaher said. “Faith, lass, there's a bit of good in the most evil of men, and a touch of bad in each of us.”
“But death is for keeps,” Mindy snarled, teeth savaging her candy bar.
If they were getting this philosophical, I decided the group had rested enough. Standing, I brushed the crumbs from my khaki jumpsuit. Where was Armani when you needed him?
“Okay, break over,” I announced. “Let's check the supplies and get going.”
