The Pilot

by Michael Cole

  The pod slowly rocked to-and-fro before settling.

  Its exterior layer pulsed gently, as though it was breathing. It continued this motion for several seconds. From the top, a strand of its shell peeled back. An inch wide, it curled downward, generating a wet sticky noise.

  CHAPTER

  26

  The ocean churned around the island as the typhoon twisted in the sky. Sixty mile-per-hour winds howled as they gusted through the trees. A torrential downpour splattered into the jungle. Leaves and branches rained down from the trees, torn from their bases from the unrelenting winds.

  Rex cursed as he tilted the fuel drum into the generator’s gas tank. Rain pelted him relentlessly, while debris from the trees fell around him.

  Ivan stood at the bunker entrance, standing watch as Rex fueled the generator. He stood firm with his back pressed against the open door, fighting it from being blown shut by the wind. It wasn’t the storm that made him nervous. His eyes watched the jungle, knowing somewhere, the creature lurked.

  Bolts of lightning slashed the sky, as though a war was taking place in the atmosphere. Rex dropped the drum and checked the gauge. The tank was at eighty percent capacity.

  “Good enough,” he said. He grabbed his weapon and sprinted back to the bunker, with the wind at his back. Rain dripped from his face and vest as he marched through the small tunnel. Ivan slammed the door shut, and lowered the locking mechanism into place. He pushed against the door to ensure it was secure, then followed Rex into the operations room.

  Rex shook like a wet canine, splattering water all over the room. The lights were dimly lit in order to minimize visibility from the outside.

  “That’ll last us through the storm,” he said. He looked to Ivan, who was now peering out the machine gun hole. Wind hissed as it blew through the opening, stinging his eyes. “You’re not gonna see anything out there.”

  “Can’t help it, man,” Ivan said. He slammed a fist into the wall. He hated leaving Easley behind. He watched the plants flailing in the wind, looking for the beast to step out. “I almost hope this fucker comes here.” He rubbed the barrel of his M60. “God…give me a shot at him…”

  “Not if I get him first,” Rex smirked. Ivan turned to look at him. His face was serious at first, but a small grin soon broke through.

  “Keep in mind, I’m still three ahead of you. Bitch,” he said. He tapped Rex on the shoulder and walked to the planning room.

  Nagamine stood, staring out of one of the machine gun loopholes. Water rained in through the open segment, constantly spraying his face. Unfazed, he stood like a machine, expressionless, watching the outside perimeter.

  You know, you’ve been doing that for a couple of hours now, was what Rex wanted to say. He knew his words would fall flat, like talking to a statue. He walked past the tracker. “I wish I had your patience,” he said instead as he walked by. As usual, he wasn’t sure whether Nag ignored him.

  His face dripping wet, the tracker moved to another loophole carved out of the wall of the nearby office, peering out to the south side of the bunker.

  Rex checked the storage room. Several boxes were piled into the corner, marked with Asian lettering. He tore one of them open and looked inside. The box had ten smaller boxes in it. He pulled one out and examined it. It was a Chinese MRE, with instructions on the back for use. He tore the box open, revealing the heating pouch full of rice, a sauce packet, spoon, and a small clear plastic pouch. He looked at the pile of boxes. There couldn’t have been more than twenty. He did the math in his head, then thought of the estimated number of soldiers on the island.

  “Damn,” he said. “The North really does have a problem feeding their troops.” He turned toward Ivan. He was peering through one of the openings. “Hey!” Rex called out. Ivan turned just in time to catch the MRE tossed to him. Ivan looked at it, then shook his head.

  “I’m good,” he said.

  Rex shrugged. “If you’re eating, you’re living,” he said.

  “Eating that shit, not so sure,” Ivan said. He gazed outside once more, then followed Rex back to the operations room. Rex took a seat in one of the radio chairs and started sorting out the MRE contents.

  Ivan checked the other office. He peered through the loophole, seeing nothing but darkness. He turned and glanced down at the several weapons left behind. They were mostly assault rifles, and a couple of pistols on the desk.

  Beside the door, he noticed two canisters. He walked around the desk, and pushed the door shut for a better look. Each canister was attached to a harness, with a hose protruding from the top. They were flamethrowers.

  He checked the gauges. Both tanks were on empty. He checked the gun, making sure the triggers worked properly. Determining the mechanisms were fine, he lifted both tanks and opened the door.

  “Tee, get the other fuel drum,” Ivan said. Rex’s face lit up with glee when he saw Ivan with the flamethrowers. He quickly stood up and started for the storage room.

  He turned the corner, passing the stairway entrance as Terrie stepped out. She was visibly fatigued, slumping into a wheeling chair.

  “How’s the doc?” Ivan asked. Terrie wiped a hand over her face, then shook her head.

  “Not good,” she said. “He’s…” She stopped, realizing they’d probably rather not hear the gruesome details of his condition. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it.”

  ********

  “I’m keeping – on the radar---I’ll keep—posted,” Charlie’s voice crackled over the long-range radio. Seymour stood at the end of the lab, where he would have the best reception.

  “Alright, we’ll be on the move as soon as the storm lets up,” he said. “Do NOT attempt to come here until you’ve heard from us.”

  “Roger,” Charlie said.

  “Hatchling out,” Seymour said. He placed the radio down and silently cursed the storm. His mind was in constant motion, planning for any scenario in which they would encounter the creature.

  He turned, watching Agent Hawk tending to Sutton. They placed blankets over a lab table for cushioning, and laid him across. They managed to straighten his arms and legs so he could lay flat.

  His appearance had grown sicklier. His skin seemed to be a shade darker, his eyes bloodshot. Seymour noticed that he seemed a few pounds skinnier. His frightened expression remained frozen on his face.

  However, nothing troubled Seymour more than the growth on Sutton’s chest. They opened his vest and tore his shirt open. Embedded in his skin, the dark grey substance grew. Nearly eight inches in width and dome-shaped, its ends appeared embedded into Sutton’s flesh. Red veins pulsed near the edges, changing into a dark green as they moved over the top of the cap.

  Hawk prodded the object with a utensil. It appeared to have the same firmness and texture as a mushroom.

  “Agent, what in the hell is that?” Seymour said. Hawk turned and pulled away her facemask.

  “I can’t say for sure,” she said. “The spore is organic; it appears to acquire a living host to grow. It grows like a fungus. In the initial stages, it requires living organic tissue. Later on, after the host is deceased, the spore seems to reach a maturity to where it feeds off the dead tissue. Whenever the Pilot stings a victim, it injects a poison rendering paralysis. At the same time, it injects this strange spore.”

  “Alright, why?” Seymour said. “Why does it inject it into them?” Hawk replaced her mask and examined the cap. She gently brushed a scalpel over the surface in a brushing motion. Dark slimy fluid collected over the blade, dripping away as she lifted it.

  “It secretes this thick black liquid, which seems to have an effect on the surrounding environment.”

  “Like how?” Seymour asked. “I mean, what’s its purpose?”

  “I’m not sure,” Hawk said.

  “Listen, Agent…” Seymour ran his hands through his hair. He walked across the lab to Sutton’s table. “Agent…Doctor…as you know; I’m no scientist. I’m nothing more than a soldier. In fact, I’m
not even that anymore. I’m a hired gun, paid to handle a client’s dirty work. But, I can tell you this, that Pilot out there is not planting these things for decoration.”

  “No, it’s not,” Hawk said.

  “You said it yourself, that fluid stuff affects the surrounding environment. We saw it at the gravesites. Could it be a way of altering the environment to suit its needs?”

  “That’s highly possible,” Hawk said. Seymour stared at Sutton’s face. He wondered if he was awake. The thought of which brought the devastating fear that Sutton was in considerable pain. This was no way for any decent person to die.

  “I want it off of him,” Seymour said. Hawk’s eyes widened.

  “I…I don’t know if I can,” she said. “I’m not a surgeon. I don’t have a team. He’d have to be in a quarantined environment.”

  “You have one right there!” Seymour pointed toward the sealed containment, where the capsule was held. “You have scanning equipment right there, best there ever is. Scan him through it, figure out how deeply this thing is rooted inside him, then cut it out.”

  Hawk felt herself growing increasingly nervous.

  “Seymour…those are designed for analyzing metallic material. They’re not medical devices. And cutting the spore…that’s extremely risky,” Hawk said. “Considering his current state, the growth of the spore, lack of proper surgical equipment…he probably wouldn’t survive the operation.”

  “We’re stuck here all night,” Seymour said. “Charlie had to fly out of the storm. There’s no way we’re getting him to a hospital in time. He’s dead either way.” Seymour looked at Sutton again, now really hoping he wasn’t conscious. He took a breath and looked down for a moment. “He should have morphine in his pack. Could you please give it to him?” His voice was gentler.

  Hawk nodded and walked to the next table where they had placed Sutton’s medical kit. She pulled out a morphine auto injector and inserted the needle into Sutton’s forearm.

  After injecting the morphine, she disposed of the needle and walked over to the large x-ray scanner. A circular power-save button was glowing in a bright green color. She pressed it, and it changed to clear white. Electronic sounds hummed from the machine as it powered on.

  “Give it a couple of minutes,” she said. “I’m not sure how accurate the images will be. This thing wasn’t designed for organic material.”

  Seymour nodded. Biding time, he started walking along the lab, observing the equipment. He looked at the concrete walls. There were remnants of engravings, mostly Japanese lettering. Likely, the soldiers had gotten bored, and searched for things to do. Much of the engravings were worn, and others destroyed when the interior walls were torn down for construction of the lab. He thought of Hawk’s story about the USS Indianapolis, and the documents it secretly contained.

  “You said that capsule was originally discovered in World War Two,” he said. “That means it’s been on this island AT LEAST since then.”

  “At least,” Hawk said. “God only knows when it arrived on Earth, or how long that capsule has been floating out there.” The machine buzzed as it finished starting up. The screen came to life, with touchscreen buttons glowing, ready for operation.

  Hawk looked at it, and then peered inside the containment room at the capsule.

  “You’re already aware of the story,” she said. “Back in the seventh century, there were stories of large streaks of light that came down from the sky, touching down on this island. Of course, we know today they were describing a series of meteorites. The stories say that the lights struck down, and silver dust burst from the impact and covered the island. Of course, we have no scientific explanation for that. For all we know, it’s just a story passed on through the centuries. Whatever it means, it’s why the island’s called Kuretasando.” She looked at Seymour, knowing he understood the translation.

  Seymour turned away, staring at the impact cavity in the far wall.

  “Crater Sands.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  The internal door closed with a loud fizzling sound. The overhead lights lit up inside the containment chamber. Cassie Hawk breathed slowly through her ventilator, struggling to calm her nerves. The orange and black hazmat suit was heavy, yet very flexible. The facemask was clear, with a tiny airflow built in to eliminate fogging.

  In front of her, Sutton lay over a table which she and Seymour moved inside. The IV dripped fluid into his arm. She inserted a sedative into his drip, in case he was conscious. To her right was another table. On it were surgical instruments from Sutton’s med kit spread out over a sterile piece of cloth. Next to them was a microscope, with several glass slides.

  I’m not a surgeon, she repeatedly thought. She took another deep breath and pinched her gloved fingers around the scalpel. She looked up. A camera, installed in the upper right corner, was pointed directly at her.

  Outside in the lab, Seymour hunched over a computer monitor. Watching Hawk preparing to cut into the strange spore, he felt his stomach begin to ache. It was a rare occasion in which he felt helpless. To him, helplessness was the worst feeling. He initially felt that way when diagnosed with cancer. However, his fighting spirit took over. He would not let himself succumb to anything. Not even the wrath of nature.

  Only this time, it was not him, but Sutton on the surgical bed. And even cancer paled in comparison to what was killing him.

  “Okay, let’s begin,” he heard Hawk say through the speaker.

  It was more for herself than anything. For Hawk to get in the right mindset, she had to think of this as a dissection, rather than a surgery. Her plan was to remove the spore piece-by-piece. She held the scalpel over the cap and paused, while deciding whether it was a good idea to start at the center or near the edges.

  “Eenie-meenie-miney—screw it,” she said. She pressed the blade into the center of the cap. Dark fluid squirted from the incision, while red blood from the host leaked from the broken veins. After cutting the blade across the cap, she used the blade to peel back one of the sides. The upper layer was about a half-centimeter thick. Soaking up some of the fluid with gauze, Hawk saw that the inside of the skin was white, appearing rubbery in texture. It reminded her of a ring layer of a mushroom. She cut another incision over the cap, creating four equal sized flaps. Using forceps, she peeled all four flaps back, exposing the next layer.

  “Just like that frog in basic biology,” she said to herself.

  The next layer was composed of thin, light-colored tissue. Hawk brushed the blade over them. They were leaflike plates, like gills, rooted to another layer. Hawk took a breath as she figured out what to do next. Unable to see past the gills, she knew she would have to remove them before cutting deeper.

  She took clamps from the surgical setup. With them, she pinched several of the plates and pulled. They came loose fairly easily, tearing from the interior of the spore. Spurts of fluid and blood sprayed outward as the plates detached.

  Hawk used suction to drain the fluid, and gazed at the inside of the spore.

  “Whatever this thing is, it’s definitely alive,” she said, knowing Seymour was listening.

  “Alive? Can you elaborate?”

  “Obviously not an animal, at least so it seems,” Hawk said. “I hate to keep going back to the fungus comparison, but that’s what it seems like.”

  “So, this alien likes to infect people with a bad fungal infection?” Seymour said. “It doesn’t make sense. Why?”

  “I’m working on that,” Hawk said. She listened to the growling thunder outside as she picked the scalpel up. The heavy rain resulted in a constant battering sound above. Usually that sound was soothing to Hawk’s ears. Now, it was only distracting.

  She looked at the inner layer. “This looks like a tunica. In biology, that’s what we call a layer that covers an organ.”

  “Do fungi have those?”

  “Some do,” she said. “It’s more common in zoology and plants.”

  “If that’s an org
an, perhaps that’s how you kill it.”

  “Maybe,” Hawk said.

  She looked at the x-ray photo, then back into the spore’s cavity. She estimated it was rooted at least two inches into Sutton’s chest. The very thought induced a wave of nausea. Hawk closed her eyes and took a breath. After several seconds, she regained control.

  She gently pressed the blade into the layer. The tissue was thin and wet. She held the suction tube over it, draining the spilled fluid. With a tiny pair of straight scissors, she cut away the two flaps, creating a circular opening.

  Inside was a huge mixture of cords and veins stretching over a blubbery, flesh ball. It was completely different from the outer layers. This tissue was something similar to what she would expect to find in an animal.

  She made a small incision over the top.

  “What the…”

  A long pause followed as she gazed at the insides.

  Seymour watched the monitor as Hawk cut into the spore. The agent grabbed a magnifying glass and leaned in for a closer look. For several minutes, she said nothing. Every so often, she moved the scalpel or forceps, but it didn’t appear she was doing much cutting.

  Shouldn’t you be removing the thing? he thought.

  He watched as Hawk straightened her posture. She looked at the equipment, then at the camera. He couldn’t see her face, but her bodily movements suggested she was nervous.

  “Agent, you alright?” he spoke into the microphone. He watched Hawk look up at the camera. She placed the tools down and walked toward the door. With a key, she opened the touchscreen pad, and typed in the exit code.

  Seymour could hear the loud hiss as the interior door opened.

  “Agent, what’s going on?” he said. Hawk didn’t answer as she stepped into the foyer. The door electronically sealed, hissing until adequate pressure was obtained. From the walls, decontamination gas sprayed from small openings. The gas stopped, and clear liquid rained down from the ceiling, washing the uniform of the alien’s fluid.