Hart's men found the subject tedious, and were glad when their hosts turned from mythical monsters to more risqué adventures. For the rest of the night the karigi rocked with laughter as stories were exchanged on a subject even more ancient than monsters.
Later, of course, it dawned on Hart that the anatquq had not been trying to overawe them with native lore. She'd had, as she'd put it, a true dream. A fact that haunted Hart almost as much as the attack itself.
Struggling back downriver, alone, he eventually stumbled into the village. The Naupaktomiut were not glad to see him this time.
They had helped him as much as they could, yet they did not offer to escort him to his people. Catastrophe had struck twice. The day after Hart's men had passed through on their way upriver, again three weeks later. All told, seven men had vanished. Survivors spoke of something vast and dark, moving, and Hart's story confirmed them. They equated his earlier arrival with the first appearance of the beasts, and were afraid if he stayed much longer they would return. He was the forerunner of death. Nor could they offer him a bidarki, since too many boats had already been lost when the fishermen vanished.
Still, Hart's memory of the villagers supplied him with a warm inner glow over the tortuous weeks it took him to reach the mouth of the river. The weather was clement, and the nights not unreasonably cold. There were berries and fish to eat, if barely enough to stave starvation. Yet Hart's world was now twisted beyond recognition. He was not even sure he wanted to return to white civilization. The Army would strip him of rank, civilians would look at him askance, and Hart himself would face mirrors with uncertainty. When he finally stumbled into Kotzebue, his hunger was as much of the soul as of the body.
He had believed the creatures were born of the vast unexplored Alaskan interior. How else to explain their absence from the bestiary? Yet here they were, at Midway. The same creatures, no doubt. Thousands of miles from the Kiltik. Still, his fear was moderated by an odd elation. Perhaps his luck was not awful, but spectacularly good. He was, after all, being presented a miraculous second chance.
Even after he was relieved from the fork and spoon telegraph and he fell asleep on a pillow of sand, his mind refused to rest. He did not dream of monsters, however. The embellishments of his imagination fed his fear, yet also somehow transported him beyond horror. He dreamed of things floating, high up and over the horizon, where he was greeted by Abraham.
2200 Hours
Private Lieber, on the other hand, dreamed of nothing but monsters. Before Sergeant Ziolkowski nudged him awake, the terrors from the sea ranged far and wide over the vistas of his subconscious. They consumed everything in sight, including the land itself. One of them wore a mask of the Kaiser and charged with a guttural roar, while donkeys ran in panic, braying in an all too familiar voice. His own.
"Ach!" Lieber's eyes popped open.
"Your shift on the mouth-gram." Which was what Ziolkowski called the fork and spoon.
Lieber could just make out the sergeant's outline in the dark. "Am I awake?"
"Hell, I think so. What kind of question is that? Get down to the bunker."
"I can't see."
"Follow the ropes."
"Ach, where are they?"
"Take my hand."
Lieber allowed himself to be led to one of the guide ropes Anthony had laced the compound with. "Follow this one in," came the gunnery sergeant's command as he secured Lieber's fingers to the rope. The private shivered. He had seen Ziolkowski just before nightfall. The Top was still alive, no question about that. Yet darkness disembodied him. His voice floated down from the infinite. From the realm of the dead. It reinforced the feeling--shared by most of the others--that they were dragging their feet in their graves.
A troglodytic existence might extend their lives a month or so. It was preferable to standing out in the open and waiting for the end, but not by much. The situation was hopeless‑‑and for a handful of them, dreary, even boring. Had the creatures not shown a proclivity for sinking small boats, they would have rowed away no matter what the risk because it was simply something to do.
Lieber was not one of these. He was intensely interested in the creatures. How could puny man destroy such beings? His imagination ran rampant with death‑dealing prospects.
Taking up his post in the bunker, he carefully wiped the saliva off the utensils as the marine he was spelling rose up.
"Semper Fidelis," Depoy whispered sarcastically.
"Shemper F-eeus," Lieber responded, the fork and spoon already in his mouth.
Settling in, he found he was not in the least bored by this duty. It summoned all the patience he used while awaiting the approach of a shark--knowing all the while he might lose a hand, a foot or his life in the upcoming battle. Lieber enjoyed a good shark steak, yes. But more, when he killed a shark, he felt he had achieved a small victory over evil. The big fish did not always win.
Something so magnificent it could not be killed.... It stirred Lieber's soul. With their pluck, intelligence and courage the marines on Midway should have been able to kill any creature on the planet. With cost, perhaps, but with a carcass or head for a trophy in the end. Not so now. There was a new master of the earth.
It seemed oddly appropriate, to be crouched in inky blackness contemplating an indestructible god. The men hunkered around him seemed like bedraggled survivors of a destroyed civilization. The objects in their mouths caused them to hiss and drool as they breathed. The early morning hours lumbered past like ancient freighters. Every so often the man next to Lieber would begin to snore, inciting a kick from him. Once, the sleepy marine murmured, "Aw hell, it don't work. Even if it did work, it don't."
Lieber was connected to Private Kitrell at Picket Point, the northernmost tip of the island. Unlike the men in the bunker, those stationed in the outposts would not be relieved until daybreak. They had been allowed a brief nap before nightfall, but a better inducement to stay awake had been offered by Ziolkowski: "I might be making surprise inspections on you. If I find anyone sleeping, I won't just blow the grampus. I'll shoot him on the spot."
No one doubted he meant it.
Around three in the morning, with the bland unchanging taste of metal in his mouth, Lieber began to wonder if Kitrell had fallen asleep. Outside of chess, Lieber felt a kind of friendly disparagement for Skinny. He was the clown of the detachment, Midway's own human gooney bird, clumsy landing style and all. He had been present the day Skinny made his catastrophic foray into the realm of martial arts. Ziolkowski had been present also. He insisted on calling the new method of combat 'Jew Gyps-You.' His scorn knew no bounds when the Japanese fisherman threw Kitrell so hard they could hear his bone snap twenty yards away.
"Won't gyp many Jews like that!" was Ziolkowski's nonsensical observation.
While helping to set Kitrell's arm, Lieber told him, "Don't pay any attention to the Top, Skinny. When this mends, you can toss him over your head."
"Yeah," was Kitrell's response. Usually voluble, intense pain reduced him to an equally intense inner communion, as if he had finally stopped talking in order to discover what it was he'd been saying.
Lieber wished Kitrell would say something now, even if it translated as a mere signatory taste on his tongue. Hart should have provided them with more than directional signals. A simple way to say 'hi' would have been nice. It would at least have assured Lieber that Skinny had not nodded off.
He began poking his tongue around the fork tines, giving himself small jabs to stay awake. Then he began alternating the tip of his tongue between the fork and the spoon. Funny. All his life he'd used items like this almost every meal, yet he'd never considered their shapes before. The spoon, upside down, like an inverted lip, a kind of culinary representative of Cupid, kissing the diner with each bite. The fork, a diminutive reminder that anything alive could be boiled, sliced and impaled for consumption....
At first, Lieber thought he'd accidentally punched a hole in his tongue with one of the fork's prongs. Suddenl
y, something bitter entered his mouth.
The damnedest sensation. Like taking bites out of a metallic grapefruit.
It happened three times. After a pause, twice more.
"Hey!" one of the men slurred as Lieber threw his utensils down and scrambled over his outstretched legs.
"They're coming! Two of them!"
Ziolkowski was already at the entrance. "Pipe down! What the hell--"
"Two of them! From Picket Point!"
"Enderfall! Get your ass--"
"I'm here, Top!" Enderfall's voice quavered. "You're loaded and ready. You're not going out there, are you? I don't think--"
"Ah! Shit! Goddammit! Shit!"
"You OK, Top?"
"Never you fuckin' mind," Ziolkowski whispered fiercely. He had banged his head hard on the bunker entrance while leaning down to speak to the men inside. Stars flared up. For a moment he thought he was going to pass out. Cursing helped him stay conscious. "Fuckin' goddamn, who built this fuckin'... you! Inside! Stay on your toes! We still got one out there we don't know where the fuck he is. Enderfall, you stupid fuck, you sure the Rexer's loaded?"
"Listen!"
The only sound was a breeze through the stiff grass and the distillery generator.
"I don't hear anything."
"I know, Top," Lieber whispered. "All the donkeys must be gone."
"Shit...."
"Damn right, Enderfall," said Ziolkowski. "We're next on the menu. Where's the teniente?"
"You mean me?" Lieutenant Anthony's voice bubbled like oil out of the dark.
"We got a signal, Lieutenant. Two of them coming in from Picket Point. They should reach the wire any moment."
In the jungles of Mindanao, Ziolkowski had set up trip-wires connected to rock-filled tins to warn his company of the enemy's approach. What was good against Moros would be good against monsters. Hart's biological telegraph gave them advance warning, but the wires would tell them when the creatures were on top of the gasoline drums at the perimeter.
Anthony and the marines with him followed the guide ropes to the northern edge of the compound. The drums were in a direct line with the rope, so they could tell which way to fire.
Ziolkowski snorted when he heard the choppy whispers of the Japanese behind him. They needed every gun on the line, including the Lee rifles.
"Flitz! Is that you?"
Lieber felt Ace grope for him. "Let go, will you? Get in line, so we don't start shooting each other."
"We die together, Flitz?"
"Shut up. You--Listen!"
"I hear it," said Ziolkowski.
A heavy sliding sound like water shoving up under.
Then a lively rattling of cans.
Gunshots rang in volley. The bursts lit up huge forms in front. Black-brown, lifting, so high the heads remained in the dark--until they swooped down in reaction to the flashes.
"They're at the drums!" Anthony fired low to puncture them.
"Fritz!" Ziolkowski yelled. "Grenade!"
"Jawohl, Gunnery Sergeant Ziolkowski!" was Lieber's ecstatic cry as he charged out of the trench, grenade in hand.
"Flitz!"
Lieber raced forward even as the creatures leaned towards him. He broke the hand grenade's fuse against his belt buckle and let it fly, a hissing wasp of smoke spiraling out. He could smell the gasoline. Loud breathing roared in his ears.
"Flitz!"
He looked up. Green Stripes. Looking right down on him. Coming right down.
The men in the compound had stopped firing. Even the sergeant dared not fire his smooth-dealing Rexer.
But a shot rang out. Right next to his ear. The same instant, one of Green Stripe's eyes burst like a chunk of coal busted by a hammer. Its screech of agony was instantly squelched by the grenade and gas blowing.
Lieber and Ace were thrown back by the blast. The German had a brief, crushing vision. Then opened his eyes to see Ziolkowski had taken Green Stripe's place and was looking down at him. He could barely hear the Top through the din in his ears.
"Get up! Got a signal from Frigate Point. Another one's coming from the south!"
Ace was being helped up by his fisherman comrades. His clothes smoldered like a devil's jacket and his eyes rolled slightly, as if he was unsure what was up and down.
Whirling, Lieber saw the gas-fed flames had already begun to die out. "You got one in the eye."
"With a Lee," Ziolkowski said in amazed disgust.
"The bullet should've gone straight into the brain."
"Flitz," Ace said woozily, "maybe they don't have brains. Maybe it's all from the stomach."
They were able to reach the guide ropes before the fire flickered out.
"Fall in here," Anthony called from the south trench. "The big one's coming."
"It's working, isn't it?" came a voice from the center of the compound. "I knew the telegraph would work. I knew it."
"Keep it down, Hart. Do you have a rifle? I can't see."
"I forgot--"
"Then get one! Follow the guide ropes to--"
A rattling of cans.
"Open fire!" Anthony shouted. And immediately followed his command with a frantic, "Cease Fire!" when he saw two men next to the wire, lit up by gunflash.
"Stop!" the two yelled, falling to the ground.
Ziolkowski eased off the trigger of his machine gun just as a burst was about to cut the men in half. "What the--"
"The guide rope came loose," said a voice in the sudden darkness. "We thought we were following you."
"You stupid plebes, get back here! Hurry!"
They heard the two men stumble towards them, following the Top's bark as though it was a stout line.
"Fuckin' plebes, you weren't following the rope. You carried it out there with you."
"Top... there's something out here."
"Come on...."
"Top!"
The rock-filled cans were tripped loudly, like a hollow clatter of doom.
"Goddamn, can't see shit!" Ziolkowski aimed the Rexer high and squeezed off a long burst. The flashes revealed the two men racing towards the compound. Behind them, the largest serpent was exposed with kaleidoscopic extravagance. One of the running marines made the mistake of looking back. He stumbled against the other man and they fell in a heap.
"Fire! Everyone fire! Up! Over their heads! Fritz--you got the grenades?"
Lieber clutched his rucksack close to his side and struggled up.
"Hold it," Anthony stopped him. "You can barely walk." He reached into Lieber's sack and removed two grenades.
A shout of horror exploded. The two marines had picked themselves up off the ground, but were still close together when the creature darted its long neck towards them. Screams tore out as the monster bracketed them, puncturing their shoulders and lungs with its saber teeth and reaping them in a shower of blood.
The men in the compound would have seen none of this had not Ziolkowski maintained his fire. They jumped back, certain the beast was stretching into the compound proper. That close. So close. They were splattered with blood.
"Fritz! Get a fucking grenade on that!"
Instead, it was Lieutenant Anthony who darted out. As he ran, he heard the metallic dot-dot-dot as Ziolkowski drilled the drums, allowing gas to pour out. Anthony's back tensed. The sergeant was firing only inches past his elbow. Above him, the beast created a grisly rain as it chewed.
Striking the top of one grenade against his buckle, he arced it at the leaking drums. Then fell to the ground, awaiting the shock of explosion.
Nothing happened.
He had just seen two of his men swept up like appetizers. And he was next. Fear cramped his limbs as he struggled to his knees. Shouting with terror, he rapped the second grenade hard against his buckle, desperate to hear the distinctive pop and hiss, to see the tiny curl of smoke that would tell him the fuse was broken and the grenade activated.
"No! You no hit it right!"
The next thing Anthony knew, the bomb was snat
ched out of his hand. Smoke still rising from his baggy shirt and pants, Ace looked like an Oriental joss. "This is how!" he yelled, then banged the grenade against the side of his head.
Even as Ace tossed it at the gas, it dawned on Anthony they were much too close to the drums.
Whoom!
A fiery wreath of flames rose on both sides of the beast. It let out a howl as it whipped in a circle. Ace and the lieutenant had fallen flat, but when the creature's tail whirled down it gouged out a great crescent of earth, lifting the two men like gophers turned up by a plow. In a hurricane cloud of dirt and sand they soared over the heads of the men in the compound.
"Ready!" Ziolkowski cleared the grit from his eyes and swiveled his gun to face front.
But the creature had departed. A wide gap in the flames revealed its escape path.
By the light of the fire, Lieber was able finally to locate Ace. His temple was covered with blood.
"You stupid Nip!" Lieber said, helping him up.
It took a little longer to find Lieutenant Anthony. He had been thrown into the ruins of one of the company houses. His head had fetched up between two support beams. They preferred to think he had felt nothing when his neck snapped.
XVIII
June, 1908 34°50'N, 151°00'W
From a marine's diary:
The Florida banished from the Fleet! Scuttlebutt has it that we're headed for Midway Island; never heard of it; there was a Midway at the World's Fair in Chicago; I don't think it's the same! Must be a scrap heap for derelict battleships; rose at 4 bells, lashed hammock, polished buttons, and ready to go on watch early this morning; later we cleared for action and I drilled on the six pounder; Beck and Garrett! Mother would faint dead away if she saw all the betting going on here.
At the Midway Page 29
