Existential

by Ryan W. Aslesen

  They stepped into the hall and hobbled for the kiosk.

  The third explosion sounded muted compared to the others.

  “That’ll fucking teach you,” Gable shouted as he emerged from the stairwell.

  “WP?” LT asked, his eyes still on the kiosk.

  “Yep,” Gable said.

  “Good call.” White phosphorus munitions caused severe burns and produced thick volumes of smoke. If the creatures needed oxygen to survive, they would have a difficult time continuing the chase up the stairs. LT doubted they did, but perhaps the incendiary would stall the creatures and buy them some time. Just show me the way out of here.

  Miraculously the kiosk hadn’t been upset in any manner. “How we looking back there, Gable?” LT asked as he scanned the directory.

  “It ain’t come out of there yet.”

  “E-Deck Elevator/Exit.” LT found the arrow: left hallway. “Let’s go!”

  The elevator waited only about thirty feet down the hall at a T-intersection. LT called the car via the orange holographic computer. He considered for the first time that they hadn’t had to wait for an elevator until now. Will it even show up? The puppeteer—if such an entity existed—hadn’t granted them any mercy thus far, why start now?

  The car arrived within seconds, its curved door hissing open in invitation. Ball looked apprehensive about entering, likely afraid the door would slam shut on them.

  LT figured that was the least of their worries. “Let’s go. Get him inside.”

  Gable shouted, “Y’all better, like right fuckin’ now!”

  They crossed the threshold with Sugar and stepped inside.

  A black flood poured down the hallway from the kiosk intersection. In a liquid form, the beast flowed effortlessly toward them like a massive blob of mercury.

  As Gable jumped into the elevator, LT glared at the glowing orange gibberish on the control screen. One of these buttons had to close the door.

  “Go, go!” Gable shouted.

  The door didn’t close. Only a few feet away, the flowing beast began a transformation, a fanged mouth taking shape and five pincers sprouting from random locations.

  “Fuck me!” LT jammed an index finger into random prompts and hoped he would hit the right one.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Gable opened fire with his rifle.

  The beast grew two plated scorpion-like tails. It whirled them once through the air to gain momentum and then shot them forward to strike.

  The door slammed shut. An instant later it buckled inward with a bang as the tentacles struck full force. Then the car shot upward, leaving the creature behind. LT released a sigh of relief.

  “That was hairy,” Ball said.

  LT nodded. “Just hope it’s the last one we see.”

  Gable smiled sardonically and looked ready to say something. The words never came. Good. Keep your mouth shut and don’t jinx us.

  The elevator stopped at E-deck. The buckled door opened about two feet and stopped, too bent to open any further. It was just enough. LT and Ball carefully maneuvered Sugar through the opening and into a four-way intersection. A directory sign stared them in the face. LT followed the arrow for the exit.

  After negotiating two turns and a few hundred feet of hallways, LT saw the first indicator that they were near the exit—the dull gray gleam of a few bb’s lodged where the floor met the wall. They walked another twenty feet to a right turn where several dozen bb’s had come to rest in the corner. He saw the brighter gleam of brass shell casings on the floor ahead and smelled putrefaction in the air.

  “I think we’re getting close, boys,” LT said as he turned the corner.

  About fifty feet down the hall he identified the tripod-mounted chain gun guarding the three-way intersection they’d traversed what seemed like decades ago. Brass shell casings and bb’s littered the floor. Sticky black residue coated the deck at the point where the chain gun had blasted the creature. LT felt like a cartoon character walking through a puddle of glue.

  “Still a live sensor in the exit hallway,” Gable reminded him.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” LT responded.

  The chain gun was still loaded and ready to fire. The creature they’d battled outside had either slipped beneath the sensor or hadn’t followed them. Sugar would never get over or under the sensor in his condition. LT pulled the ammo belt from the machine gun, then discharged the round in the chamber. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  They made it to the cleansing room without incident. Suiting up Sugar in his cold-weather gear seemed to take forever.

  “Y’all go for help.” Sugar waved them onward with his remaining arm. “You don’t need me slowing you down. Leave me with a gun and some grenades.”

  “Not happening,” Gable stated. “We all leave together.”

  Sugar gazed down at his right arm. “Not all of us.” The stump had stopped bleeding a while ago; the flesh below the tourniquet now purple from lack of circulation.

  Gable seemed poised to say something encouraging, but he swallowed it.

  They emerged from the tunnel into the gathering light of predawn. The storm had passed. Not a single cloud marred the still star-filled sky. A blustery wind buffeted the men, seeking any opening it might find in their gear.

  “Listen,” Sugar gasped, barely audible.

  From the direction of Base Camp came the unmistakable sound of whirling helicopter rotors.

  “Bird is the word!” Gable hollered.

  “Be careful!” LT said. “There are likely still creatures out here.”

  “I got our backs. Lead on, sir.”

  They walked from the tunnel, around the flipped and burned trailers, and past the mutilated, frozen corpses. And away from Max. Be right back for you, Chief. Their fee was likely forfeited because they’d entered the ship, but LT didn’t give a shit. They were alive, and now they had the necessary backup to bring out Max and hopefully find a way to destroy the ship. They’d lost Coach for sure and Diaz most likely. But Sugar would live. At least you can be proud of that.

  Gable called, “Y’all just concentrate on walking the big guy to the chopper pad. I’ll take care of the rest.”

  As they trudged down the hill and back into Base Camp, LT saw no Greytech personnel or any sign that they’d ventured into camp. All the action clumped around the helipad, where a CH-53 Sea Stallion had landed and shut down, its rotors now still and silent. LT made out bodies in formation next to the helipad—a full complement of heavily armed Greytech security men.

  “Finally!” Ball gasped.

  “Over here!” LT frantically waved to them with his left arm. He was ready to drop after supporting Sugar for so long. He glanced back and saw Gable, about thirty feet behind, poking his nose and shotgun through the side of a trailer ripped open by a creature. “Gable!” LT motioned for him to join them.

  Gable held up a finger and stalked off onto a side street.

  Shit, are the beasts still running around up here?

  “They’re coming!” Ball yelled.

  A squad of ten men marched toward them. Eight were rank-and-file security men holding their rifles at port arms. A ninth man carrying a pistol led them forward, obviously their commanding officer. The tenth man held no weapon, though a holstered automatic pistol rode on his belt.

  “We’re good for now,” LT said to Ball. “Let’s lay him down until they bring a stretcher.” They gingerly lowered Sugar to the freezing earth.

  “LT,” Sugar whispered, his eyes shut.

  “Right here, bro.”

  “Go back for Chief. He’s still alive.”

  LT nodded. “I know he is. We’ll head in as soon as we get squared away with the Greytech team. You just relax and concentrate on recovering.”

  “Can’t concentrate...on shit right now.” His jaw suddenly went slack as his head lolled. His breaths were rapid and shallow, but it was enough that he was breathing considering his injury.

  The squad arrived, their officer callin
g a halt about twenty feet away. They wore the latest in body armor. High-speed comm gear, optics, and grenades adorned their bodies. The troops carried HK G36 rifles; the officer a Glock 21. They might be working for Greytech at the moment, but up close, LT could tell by their bearing and dead countenances that these were more than mere security goons. Battle-hardened, these guys have seen some shit. LT was pleased—they had the skilled backup needed to go back inside and rescue Max.

  LT’s confidence wavered when he saw the tenth man, who stood out from the security detail in brand-new pristine gear. He was a couple inches over six feet and sported a mouthful of perfect teeth smiling incongruously in his creased and weathered face.

  Banner. CIA. LT had met him once several years before at a mission briefing. Max knew him intimately and had nothing good to say about the man.

  “Man, are we glad to see you guys,” LT said to the commanding officer. He then nodded at Banner. “Sir.”

  Banner kept his smile beaming. “Ah, Thompson, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The commanding officer with the pistol smiled as he slid his goggles up onto his helmet. LT recognized Michael Stewart, chief of Greytech security. He cocked his head and looked quizzically at LT. “Looks like matters have gotten out of control.”

  “Yes,” LT admitted. “We’ve got a real situation on our hands. The creatures—”

  “Where’s Ahlgren?”

  There was no getting around it. “Aboard the ship.”

  “I see. Men.” The final word was his order. Michael Stewart turned his back on LT and started back to the helipad.

  Eight rifles came to bear on LT and Ball, who yelled in surprise and fumbled for the rifle slung across his back. Banner’s smile brightened as he watched, never drawing his weapon, only observing. He obviously liked what he was seeing, appeared to enjoy the spectacle, in fact.

  A hyper shot of adrenaline poured into LT, whose rifle was likewise across his back and out of reach. He saw muzzles flash, heard the brief and deafening roar of massed gunfire, and felt the bullets as they punched into his body.

  * * *

  One of the demon creatures inadvertently saved Gable’s life. He glimpsed it as it ducked around a building and went to investigate, locating some fresh tracks. As he ran back into the camp’s main street to report to LT, gunfire erupted. He took in the massacre for a heartbeat before springing into action, spraying the area with his SCAR and hitting a couple of the Greytech men. Then he popped a smoke grenade and lobbed it toward the detail, cover so he could check if anyone had survived the slaughter. He abandoned that plan when the Greytech men unleashed a hailstorm of return fire.

  In that instant, when he saw LT and Ball gunned down mercilessly, Sugar murdered on the ground where he lay defenseless, just barely alive, Gable’s fate flipped a hard one-eighty. The implications were clear enough: the mission was officially doomed. Survival became his only priority, all other objectives rescinded.

  Attempting to flee Base Camp before the imminent Greytech occupation, he hit up the armory, stocking up on MREs, water, and ammunition for the long wilderness trek back to civilization. He had no time to lose. Though he couldn’t hear the Greytech men securing the camp, they were certainly doing just that, and their orders didn’t call for taking prisoners. Gable got out of the armory fast and made for a trail he’d seen leading off into the woods.

  Just short of the forest path, he spied the tunnel entrance about a hundred yards ahead across the ice. LT and Sugar had believed Max still lived. Gable remained skeptical. But if he’s alive, you need to warn him. You owe him that much and more. He hesitated and then broke for the tunnel instead of the woods, knowing full well he would likely never see sunlight again.

  He thought he’d seen the last of the vast, labyrinthine spacecraft. Now, lost once again in the bowels of the ship, he realized just how little of it he’d seen in the first place.

  And the fucking creatures were everywhere. Within a few minutes of boarding, one chased him into an elevator. The lift deposited him on what he took to be the ship’s lowest deck. He hoped that his relocation had been a fortuitous occurrence since Dr. Rogers had talked of the substance in the cargo hold. Max might be alive down here somewhere. If not, perhaps he would at least locate a clue of his demise and then be free to bolt for the surface.

  He avoided several that he’d glimpsed, but one tailed him now.

  Gable waited around a corner where two passages met; the narrow hallways more like crawlspaces cut through miles of machinery and electronics. He couldn’t stand fully upright beneath the hallway’s ceiling. Stifling air pressed down upon him, hotter than an Alabama July. The entire sector so far had been a warren of dead ends, tight spaces, grating, ductwork, ladder wells, and bridges spanning deep chasms lined with blinking orange super computers. The constant whine and hum of machinery vibrated through the deck and walls. Gable wondered if the noise helped to conceal his presence.

  Don’t kid yourself, boy. Hearing comprised only one of the predator’s senses. He’ll come. He’s got your scent.

  As he waited Gable thought of Sugar and LT lying out there dead, their blood thawing the frozen earth.

  Johnny Gable was raised to be a God-fearing man, instilled with the righteous beliefs of the Pentecostal Church. He still believed in a Creator—but he hadn’t prayed since the first Gulf War. Why bother? The Holy Ghost never appeared on the battlefield, though demons aplenty ran amok. He killed them; he served with them; he brought them home, and they possessed him. Prayer had proven about as pointless as jerking off into a rubber.

  Yet the prayers came, unbidden and unconsciously, the remnants of his righteous youth.

  You’re fucking losing it, Gable!

  His brain responded with Romans 14:8: If we live, we live for the Lord; and if we die, we die for the Lord. So, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.

  Sugar would have approved. Now there was a righteous man. Never abandoned his faith, even after all the shit he witnessed. He was a stronger man than me in every way.

  John 15:14 flitted through his mind: You are my friends if you do what I command. He considered the passage fitting for LT. A little rough but not inaccurate. On a good day, LT had the bubbly personality of a snapping turtle hooked on a trotline. But he’d been damn good at his job, a fine executive officer. Gable had truly respected him. Not a natural leader of men, but he never let that stop him.

  He thought of Max, the cement that held the team together for so many years. You better be alive down here, you bastard. And I better sure as hell find you. Max had hired him at the lowest point in his life, right after the Army kicked him out for drunk driving. His first offense—the brass wasn’t forgiving of such transgressions in the modern military. They made an example of Master Sergeant Gable by giving him the boot a mere four months shy of earning his twenty-year pension. He could have accepted it had he been a shitbag habitual fuckup, but he was not.

  No, you’re just a loudmouth who had money coming to you. One fuckup was all they needed to hang your ass.

  Gable told Max his DUI had been an isolated incident. Max took him at his word and hired him. Gable, Sugar, Irish, and LT had been on the team from its inception. He owed Max for believing in him, a debt that still demanded payment.

  A shrewd grunt never relied on luck, but likewise never shunned fortune when it smiled upon him. Gable had nothing to lose, so he powered on his radio and gave it a shot. Maybe the reception had cleared. Perhaps Max was close enough to read him. “Chief, this is Gable. Do you copy? Over.”

  High-pitched sonic feedback sliced into his eardrums. He reached down to adjust the reception and heard, “Copy—” Static, then, “—there, Gable?”

  “Affirmative,” Gable replied. More static, he waited for Max to continue. When he didn’t respond, Gable tried him again. Nothing.

  Pitch blackness entered the limit of his vision. He had his SCAR ready and pointed down the hall. Even from this distance, he couldn’t mi
ss. The creature oozed forward, a thick substance forming a massive blob of black that plugged the hallway floor to ceiling. It amazed Johnny that they could move so quickly in a liquid state, though this one could have moved faster, as others had.

  Cautious. Perhaps they’d tangled with this one before; it seemed to have a healthy respect for both firepower and the convoluted terrain, which offered plenty of hiding spots for its prey. How right you are. He’d rigged a Claymore mine on the ceiling about ten feet down the hallway. It pointed downward, one sensor rigged at floor level and one three feet up the wall. The mine was a decoy, an appetizer.

  So was Gable.

  “Let’s go, fuck knuckle!” Gable shouted. He squeezed off a burst from his SCAR. The reports echoed sharply through the cramped maze of tunnels.

  The creature doubled its speed.

  Gable keyed his radio and tried Max again, not expecting anything.

  “Where the fuck are you? Over,” Max responded, the reception just clear enough to make out his words.

  “Lowest deck. Greytech’s fucked us over, killed LT and Sugar—” Gable had to break off, the creature now only a few feet away.

  “Stay there. We’ll come for you!” Max stated frantically.

  “Don’t bother, Chief. You know me. I’ll be ok.”

  Gable stood transfixed, watching the creature transform into the serpent-like thing that had run off with Ms. Harlow. It had detected his mine sensors and taken to the ceiling to avoid them, crawling upside down. The long tentacles sprouting from its armored, bullet-shaped head preceded it, reaching out for Gable. The new monstrosity moved at inhuman speed, scurrying along the ceiling on its many legs, effortlessly defying gravity. Once it passed the decoy mine, it doubled its speed again.

  A tentacle whipped toward Gable, nearly striking his face as he ducked back around the corner. He had anticipated the creature would sense the decoy mine and sensors and take to the ceiling. He’d rigged two more Claymores on the floor just around the corner, pointing upward, the laser sensors positioned on the walls at ceiling level. Gable ducked past the sensors. He ran a few feet and turned with his rifle leveled just as the two mines exploded with a concussion that left his ears deaf and ringing.