by Rick Jones
“Mr. President!”
. . . COOOOOOME TOOO MEEEEEEEEE . . .
The dead were closing the gap between them, their speed unbelievable.
And then there was silence.
The guard stopped and listened, at first hearing nothing but the beat of his heart against his temples. Steam bled from the seams of pipes, relieving pressure, the hissing sounding like a den of snakes, and the hull of the ship began to creak as if the metal was becoming stressed.
The guard backed himself against the wall’s conduits as steam circled in slow-moving eddies at both ends of the corridor.
He stood there, his heart thumping.
Then a form took shape behind a veil of mist, its features obscured by swirls of rolling steam. And then it beckoned to him. This way!
“Show yourself!” the guard called out.
The outline of the man within the fog continued to beckon to him with his hand. This way!
“I said, show yourself!”
But the figure didn’t have to as the pipes relieved enough pressure and steam, the fog dissipating.
It stood at the end of the corridor before a turn, a silhouette, something big, someone the guard did not recognize or care to know.
Then: “Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
“No . . . Oh, God, no!”
The shape moved into the glow of a red emergency bulb, which highlighted its features. It was massive, with broad shoulders and thick limbs, a one-time athlete with the slope of its brow and massive muscle development giving it a simian, ape-like appearance. And when it held the guard riveted with its stare, it did so with eyes that had sunk deep into the hollows of its head.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
It began to move closer.
“Coooooome tooo meeeeeeeee.”
The guard shook his head. “No,” he whispered. Then louder: “NOOO!”
As the guard turned to run, a heavy hand came down on his shoulder and gripped him with the strength of a pinching vise. The fingers clinched, the tips digging deep into the guard’s flesh until they penetrated the skin down to sinew. With a tugging motion, the behemoth ripped its hand free, taking with it a chunk of the shoulder’s meat and the slim rod of the clavicle bone.
The guard screamed, then fell to his knees with his good hand searching for a shoulder that wasn’t there anymore.
The behemoth bit at a piece of meat, the flesh pulling apart like strands of rubber until they snapped free, then swallowed.
When the guard tried to crawl away, the behemoth reached down, spread his clawed hand over the crown of the guard’s head, and began to squeeze, pinching the skull until the suture lines cracked and gave, until the head caved in. Gore and gray matter bled through its clenching fingers like sludge, the gel dripping to the floor. Lifting its coated fingers to its lips, a tongue slid neatly over the bloody pulp until its fingers were licked clean, the taste bitter and sweet at the same time.
As the guard lay there with his head FUBAR, the behemoth reached down, grabbed the man by the collar, and raised him effortlessly off the floor. The suspended guard looked boneless within its grasp as the creature reached for the guard’s wrist, grabbed it, and then twisted his arm free at the elbow. After a quick study of the limb, it began to consume it like a drumstick.
From the ends of the hallway heads poked around the corners.
“Shaaaaare.”
The behemoth ignored them.
“Shaaaaare.”
None wanted to contest him.
“Shaaaaare.”
Without looking at the others, the behemoth cast the body aside as if it was simply waste to be discarded. As soon as it hit the platform, the others pounced on it like scavengers to feed.
Chapter Thirty
“I don’t hear the firefight anymore,” the president said.
Everyone was winded with the exception of Eriq and the two remaining Detail guards, who were physically fit. Eriq had led them to the Infirmary, a small room surrounded by walls constructed of frosted-paned glass, and closed the door behind them.
“Gee, look where we are,” Eldridge stated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “We’re surrounded by glass walls. No way for them to get in here. Feeling safe already.”
“We had to get away,” Eriq retorted sharply. “This location was the only available route.”
“We need to go down,” said President Michelin. “We need to get to the ship.”
Eriq pointed to the door. “Be my guest.”
Eldridge and Michelin were quickly humbled, knowing that horrible things existed on the other side.
“Yeah. I thought so,” said Eriq, lowering his hand.
The guards stood by the glass doors with their firearms at the ready. They were the first and last lines of defenses.
“So now what?” asked Michelin. “We need to get to Air Force Six. The further this ship drifts away, the chances of us leaving this mausoleum diminishes greatly.”
“I understand that,” Eriq returned evenly. “This ship is a maze with intricate networks of hallways and corridors. We can get below, but it’ll take time—longer than we anticipated.”
“How much longer?” asked Father Gardenzia. Clutched within his hands was the Book of Common Prayer, a substitute for the Bible. “I’m an aged man,” he went on. “My legs can only take me so far and so fast, and I refuse to be a burden to you—to any of you.”
“You’re not a burden at all, Father,” said Eriq. “Even if I have to carry you.”
Father Gardenzia smiled. “Should my time come, then it is by the will of God. No matter what those things are out there or what they can do to my body, they can never destroy my soul. I made my peace with God a long time ago. So if I begin to weigh you down, then please, do not hesitate to move along without me.”
“Father,” Eriq walked over and placed a hand gingerly upon the priest’s shoulder. “I will not leave you behind. Obviously you remember the poem “Footprints in the Sand”?”
“Footprints in the Sand” is a poem regarding one’s faith in the Lord. When walking along a sandy beach there are two sets of prints in the sand, one belonging to the man who struggles with his faith, and the other belonging to Christ. But when the person reflects upon his life and notices one set of prints during the most difficult times, he believes that the Lord abandoned him. But the Lord did not abandon him at all. The single set of footprints was when Christ had carried the man through during his most trying times.
“I know I’m a poor substitute for the Lord,” said Eriq. “But hear me when I say that if times become difficult, I’ll be there to carry you through. So please, don’t give up. I haven’t. We are going to get through this.”
The priest reached a hand out to Eriq’s shoulder, the touch one of admiration, and smiled. “It’s not that I’ve given up, Mr. Wyman. Far from it, in fact. But so that you know, not only am I a priest, I’m also a realist. If those things pose a viable threat to anyone here because I slow you down, I want you to know that I am ready to accept God’s embrace.”
Eriq lowered his hand from the priest’s shoulder. Father Gardenzia, however, allowed his to remain, keeping Eriq in front of him. “Mr. Wyman,” he said.
“Yes, Father.”
“You’re a good man, so don’t sell yourself short. Just because you believe yourself to be a poor substitute for the Lord, I assure you that the good Lord may see you differently. Perhaps He sees you as I do, as a man of courageous compassion. Don’t ever let go of that.” After lowering his hand, Father Gardenzia separated himself and walked away, whispering words of prayer.
Eriq stared after him, only to be brought back by the sound of John Eldridge’s voice. “Mr. Wyman, please, time is of the essence here. Is there another way out?”
Eriq sighed through his nose, then pointed to a door at the rear of the Infirmary. “That will take us to a vertical conduit,” he told him. “It’s the ventilation shaft. The problem is, it’ll only take us to the thirteenth level.�
��
“And then what?”
“Then we make our way below from there.”
“And if those things are in the way?”
Eriq put a calming hand on Eldridge’s forearm. “Then you take a seat, lean forward as far as you can, and kiss your sweet ass good-bye.” After giving the chief advisor a couple of pats for good measure, Eriq walked away.
Chapter Thirty-One
Jim Schott stood in the shadows between the two connecting bays and watched as the dividing partition that separated the port and starboard sides lifted. To those of the Force Elite, he appeared as a silhouette with his arms raised in surrender.
“Don’t shoot!” he hollered.
“Do . . . Not . . . Move!” yelled Skully, holding his assault weapon steady.
Four red dots from laser sights centered over Jim Schott’s heart.
“I’m good,” Schott countered. “No problem at all . . . I’m good.”
“On your knees!”
“I’m going on my knees,” he stated, kneeling. “I’m on my knees.”
Skully and the Force Elite pressed forward with caution, their weapons leveled.
“Hands on your head!” yelled Skully.
Jim Schott complied. “They’re on my head. My hands are on my head.” Then: “Boy am I glad to see you guys.”
“Shut up!”
“I’m shuttin’ up, sir. Yes, sir. Not a word out of me. Not one . . . single . . . word.”
Skully pressed the mouth of his firearm against the man’s temple. “What’s your name?”
“Name’s James Schott, sir. I’m the chief engineer for Mausoleum Twenty Sixty-Nine.”
“Are you alone, James Schott?”
“All depends by what you mean by alone.”
The commando forced the point of the weapon deeper into the soft flesh. “You want to be cute with me, James Schott?”
“No, sir. I’m telling you, we’re safe down here because we’re alone, but they’re all over the place up above.”
“They?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who’s they?”
“You’d never believe me.”
“Try me.”
“It all started when the cosmic cloud passed. It crippled the ship and sent the geospheres into deep space. Soon after . . . they rose from the crypts.”
“What the Hell are you talking about?”
“Bodies that we buried. They’ve been reanimated. They walk the warrens above.”
Juggler nodded his head in disgust. “Skully, this clown’s jerkin’ us around,” he said. “Let’s cap the son-of-a-bitch and get the show on the road.”
“No! I swear. I’m telling you, there was something in the mist. I could feel it against my skin—something like a static charge that made the hairs stand on end. So help me God, I’m not lying.”
Skully mulled this over. He remembered the dust cloud floating slowly across Earth’s atmosphere and noted the putrid colors. Then he felt the crackle of static electricity across his skin, an odd an unpleasant sensation.
He pulled the weapon away from Schott’s temple. “Are you telling me that the insurgents on board this ship did not recently board, but were hiding within the crypts and had been here all along? Is that what you’re trying to say to me, James Schott?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“Skully,” said Juggler. “We’re wasting time. I think he’s one of them.” He started to raise his weapon to the back of Schott’s head.
“Wait!” yelled Schott. “I can prove it!”
“You can, huh?” said Juggler, lowering his weapon, but only marginally.
“In the compartment down below there are monitors. I recorded their images. I can show you. I can show all of you.”
Juggler placed the barrel’s mouth against the base of Schott’s skull. “He’s trying to lead us into an ambush, Skully.”
“I am not!” he screamed. “You don’t believe me? Then take a look inside Air Force Six.”
“And what’ll we find in there?” Skully asked.
“Their handiwork,” Schott returned. “You’ll see what it is they can do to a man, and then I’ll show you what they are.”
“They’re rebels,” stated Meade. “That’s all they are . . . Rebels.”
“If you want to know the truth, then step aboard Air Force Six. But if you want to see the truth, then follow me to the compartment down below. I’ll show you your rebels.”
Juggler looked at Skully. Skully looked at Juggler. Then everyone turned their attention to Air Force Six.
Skully motioned his hand toward the craft. “Go,” he said.
The members of the Force Elite began to fan out and converge on the shuttlecraft with their assault weapons leveled. Skully unbuckled his sidearm from his holster and handed it to the pilot, then he pointed to Schott. “Watch him,” he said.
The pilot did, aiming the weapon to Schott’s forehead.
The team maneuvered quietly around the ship, and took position outside the craft’s door.
It was Funboy who first noticed the broken windows. “Skully, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” He pointed to the openings along the ship. “Air Force Six has been compromised. The windows are busted.”
The windows were supposed be capable of withstanding incredible pressures of low-space travel and resistant to bomb blasts. The glass was supposed to be tougher than steel.
“An RPG couldn’t penetrate that glass,” said Skully.
“Something obviously did,” said Meade.
Juggler advanced toward the ship, and noted that the entry door was smashed inward, the metal twisted and warped on its hinges. “Jesus,” he whispered.
“This ain’t right,” whispered Meade.
Funboy and Skully agreed, so everyone approached prudently with their senses on high alert.
Meade took the steps quietly, his footfalls too soft to be heard, with the rest of the team following. Skully took the rear while Meade cleared the way.
The interior was vast and once luxurious. Broken glass littered the floor, the upholstery on the chairs was torn and ripped, as if they had been slashed and raked at, and the walls bore the grooves of claw marks.
The team fanned out, creating a skirmish line.
And then they advanced looking through the sights of their weapons, the points pivoting from one side to the other, searching for targets.
But there were none.
Beneath their feet glass crunched.
“Notice something about the glass?” Funboy asked.
“Yeah.” It was Meade. “It’s was broken from the outside in.”
The closer they neared the cockpit, the stronger the scent of blood and copper.
The door was closed. And badly dented.
“You getting that whiff?” Meade asked Skully.
“Smells like a slaughter,” he answered. Whenever they went to the Wastelands to take care of business by butchering the savages, the aftermath always smelled the same, like blood and copper.
Meade pressed his ear against the door.
Silence.
Then he fell back. “Nothing,” he whispered.
Skully nodded. “Armor-plated door.”
“Something tried to get in,” Funboy murmured ever so softly.
“Get us inside,” Skully ordered.
“Copy that.” Funboy slung his weapon over his shoulder, reached into his side pack, removed several small Semtex pads the size of silver dollars, placed them carefully along the diamond-studded steel by approximating where the inside hinges to the cockpit would be, and then cautioned the team to stand back.
He removed a small controller, lifted the safety cap, and depressed the button.
The hinged side of the door went up as a muffled whump as waves of the concussion’s blast rippled throughout the cabin. Smoke filled the area, but quickly cleared, leaving a gaping hole in the wall.
Everyone raised their weapons and moved forward, the cloud acting
as a thin veil to hide something within. But when they entered the cockpit they saw what Schott was talking about.
The pilot rested on the floor with his abdomen split wide and his entrails missing; the vacancy was left so hollow that the column of his backbone showed. Wreathed around the pilot’s seat like garland were ropes of the man’s bowels. Meat from his arms and legs were missing. As was his nose, eyes and the flesh of his cheeks, the pilot having been picked clean to the bone.
“My God,” Meade stated disbelievingly. He’d seen bodies brutalized before, but nothing like this. “What the Hell are we up against, Skully?”
Even Skully didn’t know, but he knew who did. He looked out the cockpit window and saw Schott on his knees with his hands on his head. “Not sure,” he answered. “But we’re about to find out.”
#
They headed to the lower compartment beneath the docking bays. The entire area was glassed-in, giving everyone within the Force Elite an uneasy feeling as the universe showed all around them with no safety net below, just a glass floor they knew was there but couldn’t be seen.
They walked along the catwalk until they reached the computer podium at the end. Schott began to boot the system.
“You said they were everywhere,” Skully opened up. “How many approximately?”
“I have no way of knowing,” said Schott. “But I do know this. There’s a Hell of a lot more of them than there are of you.”
The picture then grew from a centered mote on the screen to a full image. With a few tap of the buttons, Schott was able to bring up prerecorded images. He stood back from the monitor, pointing to the screen. “There you go. Have fun.”
Team members congregated around the unit, watching, their heads shaking in disbelief, their minds unable to register the reality of what was playing out before their eyes.
“This is a joke, right?” asked Funboy.
“Nope,” Schott stated without feeling. “I assure you, this is quite real.”
Shapes and figures bounded about with incredible agility, leaping farther and higher than any human was capable of performing, and moving with fleeting speed. Shadowy shapes moved in and out of the red glow of burning light, casting enough illumination to reveal that they were at least human to a degree. Their limbs appeared as thin as broomsticks beneath decaying cloth that hung over them like drapery. On some, the burial clothes had rotted until the fabric appeared as gossamer thin as gauze.
