So here comes Arlene Sanders with her high-and-tight, tossing back her head as if she had long hair down to her waist, showing off her long neck and firm jaw, and shouldering her piece with as much authority as any man. Yeah, I’ll pretend it’s the day after Halloween and help her blow away pumpkins. But I won’t touch her with my naked hand.
Intellectually, I don’t doubt the Book of Mormon. History shows that a life of marriage and children is intended for men and women on this earth. When we move away from that, we become miserable. When we do our duty, we know a happiness of which no hedonist can even dream.
I guess my problem is that I thought I’d been tempted before. But the women who offered themselves to me for quick and easy sex were not women I respected. They’d never stood up to devils from the depths of space. They’d never encountered the now-or-never choice of giving up your life for a buddy—and surviving only because he’d do the same for you. I’d met plenty of women who were into rock, but PFC Arlene Sanders was the first who could really rock and roll!
Turning down her offer hurts so much because if a buddy asked for anything else, I’d come through without giving it a second thought. How can she treat the act of love so casually? I know lots of men who’d jump at the chance offered by Arlene, but she probably wouldn’t be interested in them. My usual lousy luck—she’s attracted to me because she knows I’ll say no.
Even when I was a jock back in high school, there were cheerleaders after me. Being big and muscular has its advantages. The smart guys thought I was stupid and left me alone. That was probably an advantage also.
I want a family. I want a loving wife who will give me children. It’s that simple, but I can’t make the words come out. Words are fragile tools. When you try to turn them into weapons they often break. I can’t write the letter to Arlene today. I don’t have the Sky words. I pray that I’ll find the words while we’re still together.
In a world of real demons, there isn’t any time to waste. Nor is this a good time to question my faith just because I suddenly discover I cannot govern my passions. I might even have a future in which to raise a family.
Once, when I was reading a book in the Mormon library, I came across a line that stayed with me. I don’t remember the author, but he said: “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” I take that to mean that happiness grows out of love. Love is based on your actions. So is faith.
How do I tell Arlene that I want all or nothing? Especially when she’s already offered me more than I deserve . . . And how can we make a decision for the future in a world like this? My hell on Earth is a world where Arlene is right and I’m wrong. Do we even have a right to try to plan for the future? If we were the last two people in a universe of monsters, there would be a certain legitimacy in trying to make a life together, in however brief a span was allotted to us. But our lives are not our own. There is the Corps. One, two, three, four, she loves the Marine Corps. She loves it more than I do. So does Fly. There is that link between them.
We are under orders more severe than any monastery could impose. Perversely, I have taken an oath of celibacy that she has not taken. Arlene Sanders is a worldly woman, whether on this planet or off.
But I am honest enough to admit that I have no intention of changing. If it were proven to me tomorrow that the Mormon faith is false, I would not become a moral relativist. I would not treat human relations as casual affairs. I take people too seriously for that. I’d still believe in my morality even if no God provided supernatural guidance.
I pray that one day Arlene will understand how much faith I have in her. Suddenly I realize that I can’t write her a letter. I have to tell her all this in person. Despite all my reservations, I must have the courage of my convictions.
I’m going to ask her to marry me.
* * *
“Arlene, look out!”
The little voice in the back of my head just wouldn’t shut up about how stupid it was to go anywhere without being armed to the teeth. Arlene and I hadn’t felt safe enough to go unarmed since the first day of the Phobos invasion. We even kidded each other about going to the beach without either of us packing a piece. I wouldn’t have minded seeing her with a nice Colt .45 strapped to her and leaving its mark on her nearly naked body. She’s my buddy, but I still have an imagination.
Here we were in a stronghold of humanity. This was one place where we didn’t have to feel like the black gang-banger surrounded by white cops in what a police commissioner might refer to as a target-rich environment. Here we could let down our hair—a joke when you have a marine haircut—and go naked, which has nothing to do with clothes and everything to do with being unarmed.
Nothing threatened us on the beach, except maybe that lazy shark we’d noticed right before coming in. We didn’t have any need of firepower when we went through the security check. We simply needed our big bath towels because the air conditioning was on full blast inside. It was still our day of R&R, and neither of us was in a rush to get back into uniform. I’d never enjoyed wearing civvies more in my life.
We weren’t expecting trouble as we went looking for Jill. Ackerman’s monster lab was a lot closer than Albert, who’d “gone to town,” and Arlene figured her beau still needed time alone.
It wasn’t until we went into the biology research department that the old marine training kicked in. Something just didn’t feel right. Maybe it was not seeing more people than we did. But when I noticed the female lab technician from behind, I knew something was wrong. Her long black tresses were a tattered mass stained with splotches of green. She had a great figure, and something told me she’d never let her hair go like that. Her lab coat was wrinkled and disgustingly dirty, though I knew the admiral ran a tight ship and wouldn’t abide slovenliness.
Arlene picked up the pace and started hoofing it over to the technician. As the woman started to turn, I couldn’t believe that Arlene wouldn’t notice the messy hair and the dirty lab coat. My best buddy wasn’t just a great warrior; she was female.
No sooner did I shout, “Arlene, look out,” than I realized I didn’t need to worry about her. She went into a roll that made her a less promising target than I was. Marine, protect your own ass!
Turning sideways, I flattened myself against the wall before the female zombie got off her first shot. Arlene made certain she didn’t get another. Zombie reflexes suck. Even a woman in good physical condition would have had trouble stopping Arlene coming up from the floor, right arm straight up like the Statue of Liberty, and knocking the gun from the cold leathery hand that was yet to get off a second shot.
The next few seconds proved to be the corollary to “Practice Makes Perfect.” We’d both become a little rusty. There was no other explanation for Zombie Girl getting away before Arlene could slam her hard against the convenient back wall—providing plenty of time for one of us to retrieve the gun from the floor and pump lead into the leathery blue-gray face of our walking beauty.
This zombie lass moved very quickly, though—faster than any zombie I’d ever seen. She also shouted something very strange about having to get to court. Then she darted through a door to my left before Arlene could reach her from the rear or I could approach her from the front.
“Those morons!” Arlene screamed. “What kind of security do they call this?”
I was pissed too, but I had more sympathy for a genuine blunder than Arlene did. Watching that bastard Weems order the murder of the monks in Kefiristan had softened me toward mere incompetence. The science boys had to study everything they could get their hands on. I didn’t expect there wouldn’t be risks. But whatever had gone wrong, it was now a job for people like Arlene and me.
She’d already picked up the piece from the floor, a .38 caliber revolver. I liked the idea of acquiring more artillery as quickly as possible.
A scream from the other side of the door brought us back to immediate reality. Reconnoitering was a luxury, and going to the armory was a vacati
on from the job.
We went through the door together, me coming in low and Arlene braced, pointing the gun ahead of us—a beacon of truth with its own special kind of flame. But she didn’t fire right away. She was afraid of hitting the woman that the zombie in the lab coat was carving up like a Christmas turkey.
The victim stared at us without seeing what was in front of her. The broken beaker in the zombie’s hand occupied the woman’s full attention. Zombie Girl had already cut her victim around her breasts and arms. The angle made it impossible for us to alter the events of the next few seconds. That was all the time the zombie needed.
She drew her makeshift knife in a slashing movement across the white throat of the victim. The throat didn’t stay white very long. The lifeblood spurted out so fast that it covered the hand holding the broken glass, and it looked as if the zombie had spilled a bucket of red paint over itself.
Arlene took a few lithe dancer’s steps into the room and placed her gun right up against the Zombie Girl’s head. This walking dead might be fast, but the jig was up. Arlene squeezed off a round. Blood, brains, and gore splattered back over the victim, but the poor woman was past caring. She was still twitching, but that didn’t count. We couldn’t save her.
“Too bad none of the scientists are around to observe that,” I said, pointing. A piece of zombie brain continued to flop around on the floor with a life of its own. I’d noticed this phenomenon before. It seemed to apply only to the better rank of zombies, the ones with a shred of initiative left.
“She was a fast one,” said Arlene, nodding at the woman we didn’t save. “If I were wearing my boots, I’d grind this to pulp,” she sneered at the blue-green brain matter that seemed to be trying to crawl away. She didn’t step on it. Instead, she wasted ammo.
I could relate. Quick as that, we were both back in killing mode. Then we heard another scream—one we both recognized right away. Jill!
8
“We’ve got to save her, Fly!”
Arlene had recognized our kid, too. We’d both started thinking about Jill that way—as our responsibility. We hadn’t gone through all this crap just to let her die now.
“Come on!” I shouted and headed toward the sound.
When we returned to the corridor, another zombie was waiting for us, a male. This was one of the talkative ones. He didn’t babble about the Gateways and the invasion. Instead, he kept repeating, “Write it over and resubmit.” I didn’t give him a chance to repeat his mantra. Arlene had our only gun, but I was angry at not having been in time to save the woman in the next room. Sometimes I like to get personal.
I felt the skin crawl between my shoulders as I hit the blue-gray face with my right fist. Marines were not meant to touch this reeking leather that once was human skin, but I was too angry to care. The sound of the nose cracking did my soul a world of good. Unlike Arlene’s prey, this one was slow. I could have moved a lot slower, but adrenaline surged through me as I did something I’d never done to any of these bozos: I gave it the old one-two with straight fists. No karate, no fancy side kicks, no special training. I just pummeled that damned face in a sincere effort to send it straight back to hell, where it belonged.
“Fly!” Arlene was right behind me.
“Be with you in a second,” I said.
“What about Jill?”
Shit. How could I have been sidetracked so easily? There are certain drawbacks to being a natural warrior. “Take it,” I yelled, resuming the twenty-yard dash—thirty? forty?—to save Jill. I measured distance in kill-ometers. I didn’t bother looking back as I heard the solid, satisfying sound of Arlene putting a round in the zombie’s head.
Arlene stays in good shape. I never slowed down, but suddenly she was running right beside me. We found a dead guard slumped against the wall. Recent kill. Blood still trickling down his arm onto his Ml. Dumb-ass zombies didn’t relieve him of his satisfaction. I grabbed the weapon without slowing down, and then Arlene and I slammed through a pair of unlocked doors, ready for anything.
Anything consisted of a zombie ripping open a sawbones with the man’s own surgical instruments. I fired off six rounds of .30-06 little round scalpels that opened up the zombie a lot more completely than he’d managed to do to the doctor.
“I can save him,” said Arlene, noticing the convenient medikit at the same time I did. In Kefiristan, she’d had plenty of experience treating abdominal wounds. Before I could say diddly, she was on her knees, scooping up the medical guy’s intestines and shoveling them back into the patient. Fortunately, the guy had passed out; and just as fortunately Arlene was really good at handling slippery things.
Jill was my responsibility—if it wasn’t already too late to save her. As if on cue, she screamed again. I gave a silent prayer of thanks to Sister Beatrice, the toughest nun I’d had back in school. She always said the only prayers that are answered are the ones you say when you truly want to help someone else.
I humped. I hurried. I tried my damnedest to fly. . . .
Jill was still alive when I got to her. I almost tripped over the head of Dr. Ackerman, staring up at me with a really surprised expression. I did slip in the blood, and dropped the Ml as I careened right into the back of the biggest freakin’ zombie I’d ever seen. The creep had cornered Jill and was trying to get at her with a blasted meat cleaver. She was holding him off with a metal chair, like a lion tamer. She’d taken shelter in a tight corner, which gave her an advantage: he couldn’t swing the cleaver in a full arc, and she was able to avoid him by sidestepping the blade.
I slammed hard into the back of her lion, and he fell forward. Jill jumped out of the way and shouted, “Fly!” That was all, just my name, but she crammed so much gratitude into that one syllable she made me feel like the cavalry, Superman, and Zorro all rolled into one.
“Run!” I shouted, now that she had a clear escape route.
“No way!”
The brat liked giving me lip. It was hard to be mad at her though, because she was trying to retrieve the weapon from the floor. The big, hulking zombie was slow, but he didn’t seem interested in giving us all the time in the world.
Jill leveled the M-l at our problem and pulled the trigger. Nada. Either Jill was doing something wrong or the gun had jammed. Zombie was still fixated on her, even though I was behind him again. Jill looked at me with a hurt-little-girl expression as if to say I gave up a perfectly good metal chair for a gun that doesn’t fire?
The bad guy still had his cleaver, and he had plenty of elbow room now, so he could swing the thing and add Jill’s head to his collection. It pissed me off that all my heroics had only made Jill’s situation worse. I did what I could. The big hulk was standing with his feet just far enough apart so that I was able to kick him in the groin. I wished I had on my combat boots instead of sneakers. I wished he were alive, as the dead ones are only mildly bothered by that kind of action. But it was the best I could manage.
The big bearded mother turned his head. That was all Jill needed. She held the barrel in both hands and swung the weapon so fair and true that it was worthy of the World Series. The wooden stock cracked against the zombie’s neck. He was thrown off-balance. As he tried to turn his head, I heard a snap: Jill had done something bad to his old neck bone. Good girl!
The zombie fell to his knees. Before he could get out of his crouch I karate-chopped the back of his neck. No time to play George Foreman now. So far, Jill and I had merely slowed him down. Time for something more permanent.
Jill had the same idea. No sooner did I body-slam the hulk into a prone position than she yanked the cleaver away from him and started swinging it at his head.
“Hey, watch it!” I shouted. “You almost hit me.”
“Sorry,” she said, almost as a gasp. But she kept swinging that wicked blade at the peeling, rotten flesh around the zombie’s neck and head. I wasn’t about to tell her she didn’t have the strength to finish the job. The zombie wasn’t getting up, and I intended to make sure it staye
d down.
As I retrieved the Ml, I realized that no other zombies were showing up to bother us. There was something eerie about Doc Ackerman’s head on the floor, staring at us. (A marine isn’t supposed to use a word like “eerie,” but it was freakin’ eerie, man.)
I picked up the Ml. So it had jammed for Jill. So she’d used it as a club. It’s not like she’d smashed it against a tree. I cleared the bolt. What the hell, we’d give it another try.
“Excuse me,” I said to Jill, busily trying to return the favor to the great decapitator. The meat cleaver was a little dull. And Jill just didn’t have the necessary body mass. She offered me her hatchet. I declined.
I fired the Ml once, point-blank. The head came apart like a ripe cantaloupe. The blood that poured out was a brand-new color on me.
“The gun jammed,” she insisted.
“I know.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong with it!”
“I’m not saying you did. Knocking the gun around probably unjammed it.”
“Well, I just want you to know it wasn’t my fault that I couldn’t fire it.”
There were times when Jill went out of her way to remind me she was a teenager. I really wasn’t in the mood for her defensiveness just then. God knew how many more zombies were roaming the installation. We had to get back to Arlene. And I was worried about Albert. We’d become like a family.
At some moment in my military career I’d become used to the stench of death. I could probably thank the Scythe of Glory and their Shining Path buddies for that. But I would never get used to the sour-lemon zombie odor; and the strongest whiff of it I’d had in a very long time scorched my nostrils as the head of the dead zombie leaked at my feet.
When I threw up, I knew the vacation was over.
* * *
I am Ken. I once was part of a family. They’re all dead now. I once took long walks every day and rode a bicycle. I swam. I ate food off plates and drank wine. I sang. I made love.
Infernal Sky Page 5
