World of Hurt

by George S. Mahaffey Jr.

  “The feeling is definitely not mutual.”

  “Well, what’s past is p-past, eh?” the alien sputtered. “I mean, I was against shooting you down in the hoversurf and trying to eat you in the prison. I swear this on the dust of Callisto which, as you know is the second largest moon of Jupiter. Why, I distinctly remember telling the master that Daniel Deus is a good and just man who does not deserve to be treated that—”

  “Cut the crap, Kenyatta,” I hissed, waving a hand. I drew in close to the alien who was flanked by Fincher’s armed personnel, and glared into his middle eye. “Where is Timbo?”

  Kenyatta shrugged. “The Master can be slippery can’t he?”

  “Where. Is. He?”

  “I – that I do not know,” Kenyatta said, pulling back. There were two reasons I knew this was a lie. One, Kenyatta’s outer eyes had rotated toward the ground which was, at least in my experience, an obvious sign of deceit, especially amongst Xhosa. Two, the little sucker was turning a darker shade of blue by the second. Before I could follow up, he was the color of an eggplant.

  “Who’s your buddy?” Billy asked, flanking me.

  “He goes by Carpe Kenyatta.”

  “What is he?”

  “I’m a Xhosa, honorable sir,” Kenyatta said, bowing his head.

  Billy nodded. “Oh, right. Xhosa. I heard of you dudes. The alien office bitches.”

  Kenyatta looked up. “We prefer the term ‘administrative officers.’”

  “Which is a just fancy way of saying ‘office bitches.’”

  I jabbed a finger in Kenyatta’s soft flesh. “Last chance. Where the hell is Alpha Timbo going?”

  Carpe Kenyatta grinned. “Oh, if only you knew.”

  White hot rage welled up inside me. I felt like strangling the alien weasel, but before I could get my hands on him, Fincher’s men dragged him off toward the C-130.

  “Don’t sweat it, man,” Billy said, stabbing a finger at Kenyatta. “Ugly Smurf over there is gonna be talking real soon.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Cause there ain’t no more Geneva Conventions, no more enemy combatants, gloves on, gloves off bullshit. A little of the old enhanced interrogation and the little blue dude is gonna be singing like a caged bird.”

  I turned to see the other operators who were looking at me warily. “What happened back there, Deus?” Simeon asked.

  “I – well … I jumped the gun,” I replied, hanging my head. “There was an alien I knew from the occupation, I mentioned him before … Alpha Timbo. I saw him on the vault and I tried to take him down.”

  “Is he the one that escaped?” Baila asked.

  I nodded and Sato stepped closer to me. “You led us into a trap, Daniel.”

  I nodded. “I guess … I messed up. I’m … sorry.”

  “Sorry’s what you say when you forget to take the dog out for a leak, ace,” Dru whispered, wincing in pain, clutching the side of his head.

  Baila’s gaze wandered to my chest and I tried to fold my arms to block the area where I’d been shot.

  “Holy crap, they shot you didn’t they?” she asked.

  Before I could respond, a voice boomed: “At ease.”

  We all looked back to see Richter. “There will be plenty of time for debriefings and after action analysis once we get back to headquarters. What matters at the moment is that your fire mission was a success. You assaulted the alien vault and destroyed it.”

  “But some of the scuds got away, sir,” Simeon pleaded.

  “And we’ll find them, Mister Simeon. But right now, let’s just savor a win for the good guys.”

  Richter stared at us, then at me. He snatched the elf hat from my head and signaled for us to follow him back toward the C-130.

  18

  I woke in pain halfway through our plane ride back to D.C. Even though we’re pretty well protected inside the mechs, you don’t start feeling what Jezzy called “delayed injury symptoms” until two or three hours after you exit the machine. For instance, I was feeling strong after blowing up the alien vault, but by the time I sat down inside the C-130, it felt like I’d been hit by a car. And the funniest thing was that it wasn’t the area where I’d taken the alien bullet. It was everything else. My hearing was muffled, there were stars in my eyes, and the muscles near my elbows and knees felt like rubber bands that had been stretched to their breaking points.

  I heard a few guttural laughs and looked up to see Fincher rambling down the aisle between us, holding up a sheet that had various colored star stickers on it.

  “I’m starting up a “Greenie Board” for all of you,” Fincher said.

  Billy raised a hand. “Green what?”

  “Something my boys used to do in the Navy. A constantly updated grid hung on the squadron ready room wall that displayed landing grades and kill stats for every pilot, top to bottom with the CO and XO at the top all the way down to the ‘nuggets,’ the newbies. You get a gold star for an A-plus and a brown star, a shitstain, for a ‘waveoff,’ screwup, or any other mistake.”

  Fincher peeled off a gold star and looked to Simeon. “As a result of your actions today, forty-three scud mothers will be weeping over the deaths of their sons tonight.”

  Fincher placed the gold star on Simeon’s forehead. “You’re seated at the head of the class, troop.”

  Simeon smiled wearily as the other operators cheered. I was too beat to cheer or even really notice when Fincher slapped the brown star on my forehead. Whatever. I was too beat to give a damn so I closed my eyes and drifted back off to sleep.

  * * *

  We landed at Dulles and disembarked from the plane to an amazing sight. It was forty-degrees outside, yet the runway was cluttered with hundreds of onlookers. Disoriented from the pain pills, I thought for a moment that I was dreaming. But then Jezzy pinched me and I looked around to see actual people, civilians, cheering us on as we walked down the blacktop toward several dark SUVs.

  Vidmark was in the middle of it all, dressed to the nines, smiling like a proud papa. I assumed he must have arranged the whole thing, especially since there were people filming it with tiny, handheld cameras. He moved toward us, gesturing to the crowd before shaking everyone’s hands.

  “What are they here for?” I asked, bobbing my head at the crowd.

  “They’re here for you, Danny. They’re here for all of you,” Vidmark replied, stealing a look at the hole in the outerwear over my chest. It looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t. Instead, he held up his hands and the crowd cheered. “Everyone knows what your team did. The mission was broadcast in real time.”

  I was shocked to hear this. Nobody had told us that the mission was being recorded. I watched the other operators wade into the crowd. Despite their wounds, Baila and Sato began taking what were once called “selfies” with some of the civilians on retro cellphones. Against the roar of the crowd Vidmark threw an arm around me and whispered: “Do you see that, Danny? Do you see what you’ve given back to the people?”

  I shook my head and he grinned. “You’ve delivered on the promise I made to the people that pull the strings. You’ve gone into the desert and come back like … some prophet of old with something that empires can be built on: hope.”

  I stood there, still disoriented, listening to the people shout our names, and hoot and holler. Peripherally, I spotted Dexter, and then Richter who had a bewildered look stamped on his face. The shouts grew in intensity and it was all too much for me, so I moved over to one of the SUVs and slumped in the back seat, closing my eyes and covering my ears.

  For a moment I was light-headed and then I watched the hairs on my wrist stand at attention, and something seemed to ripple under my skin. I blinked, and when I looked back, the hairs were no longer erect and my skin had returned to normal. My mind wandered back to the Lazarus drug and I wondered one thing:

  What the hell had I injected into my body?

  19

  We were told that we’d be staying in downtown
D.C. for several days at a massive structure that used to be a famous international hotel back in the day. Situated on Pennsylvania Avenue, near 11th and 12th Streets, the building was one of the few that wasn’t destroyed during the invasion.

  Exiting the SUVs, we took in the exterior of the building, which our driver said was the tallest existing structure in the city. There was a clock tower at the peak of the hotel that looked down on the rest of the city, including the twenty or thirty refugees who were huddled across the streets in huts and lean-tos constructed from the debris left when the aliens blew apart some of the nearby buildings.

  I turned and locked eyes with one of the refugees, a guy about my age. He was bearded with raccoon eyes and looked like he hadn’t slept in days. I was about to call out to him, when Jezzy grabbed my arms and pulled me along after the others.

  We were herded through the atrium of the hotel by one of President Landis’s aids, an impossibly perky woman in her twenties named Wendy Beckman. She ran the conversation for most of the time, telling us about the hotel, its history, and how it was liberated by the resistance.

  Ms. Beckman further noted that the building contained over two-hundred and sixty rooms and suites, and what used to be upscale restaurants, lounges, bar, and even a ballroom.

  Apparently, the aliens enjoyed living in style because they’d taken over the building and used it as a command center during the initial years of the occupation before moving operations to their infamous floating fortress. I tuned Ms. Beckman out as she prattled on. Plodding along, I followed the others like a zombie until we were taken to the rear of the hotel where a team of nurses and physicians were present.

  All of us were soon given more vigorous examinations, along with X-rays and, as was the case with a few of the others, MRIs. The nurses inspected the area where my wound had been, but didn’t seem to buy my explanation that I’d been shot and literally brought back from the dead.

  “Brought back from the dead? Are you on drugs?” a red-haired nurse asked, fighting off a giggle.

  I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Alien drugs. I got injected with a bunch of it right here,” I said, pointing to the area where I’d been shot.

  They laughed at this, thinking it was a joke. Then I explained how I’d been by the amber-colored syringe and their expressions changed. I asked them what was in the Lazarus drug and what effect it might have on me, but none of them had any answers. I did have a few additional superficial wounds that they tended to, including a nasty slice on my cheek that seemed to have healed a bit and didn’t require stitches. Instead, the red-haired nurse held up a spray bottle filled with a silver liquid.

  “It’s called ‘Kreas,’” she said. “Liquid skin. Something that the aliens left behind.”

  She squirted the liquid on my cheek and it burned for a moment. I winced and then the nurse held up a mirror and I kid you not, the wound was almost instantly healing. The blood had already clotted and a thin scab began to form. Before I could blink, the scab had fallen away and new tissue was regenerating.

  “Pretty nifty, huh?” the nurse said, flashing me a smile.

  I stood and saw the others being tended to. The nurses were flashing a penlight in Dru’s eyes, spraying Kreas on Ren’s and Sato’s burns (along with Jezzy’s ear wound), and placing splints on several of Billy’s and Baila’s busted fingers.

  After being stitched up, we moseyed through the deserted hotel which Ms. Beckman said would eventually house upwards of a hundred military and civilian personnel including the folks who were part of the rebuilding process.

  Shuttling down the eerily quiet hallways, I had a flashback to a horror movie my old man really liked, one that involved a guy named Jack Torrance who runs amok in a similar place during the winter. I half expected to see Jack, axe in hand, or the demonic twin girls who terrorize the little boy named, you guessed it, Danny, in the movie.

  We crept up a flight of stairs and down another hallway to our sleeping quarters which were housed in what had once been a media center (and thankfully NOT numbered “237”). One of the walls in the space was still composed entirely of an ultra-thin screen that would come in handy, Ms. Beckman said, in the event that we needed to be briefed by some of our (in her words) “handlers.”

  In addition to the screen, there were rows of Queen-sized beds, several refrigerators, a hot tub (to soothe our aches and pains), bean bags, couches, and a collection of retro vidgames, including pinball machines, other assorted shoot ‘em up games, and whatever gear we’d had back at The Hermitage, including our neural glasses.

  “Not too shabby,” Billy said, looking around.

  Ren sat down on one of the beds and closed her eyes. I watched her bow her head twice and then clap her hands twice followed by another bow. Then, with her hands clasped together, she whispered a prayer that I couldn’t hear. Turning, I noticed the others had witnessed the same thing and now everyone had their eyes closed, muttering prayers to themselves. I did the same, grateful that we’d survived another encounter with the aliens. Then, when that was done, someone lowered the lights and we climbed into our respective beds and fell asleep.

  * * *

  We woke several hours later to the cheery sound of Wendy Beckman. She was standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by four assistants who were clutching expensive looking suits and the kind of duds I imagined rich folks wore to weddings and fancy balls and the like.

  “What’s up with the nice threads?” Billy asked.

  “They’re for the celebration,” Ms. Beckman said.

  I raised a hand. “Which one?”

  She grinned. “The one that’s being held in your honor tonight at eight o’clock. All the finest people will be there. It’s a time for celebration. You were victorious and besides, it’s Christmas Eve, remember?”

  Hell no, I hadn’t remembered that. I knew it was Christmas time of course, but in all the excitement I’d lost track of the days.

  One of her assistants handed me a black and white tuxedo, while another gave Jezzy a slinky black dress. “Seriously?” Jezzy said, holding up the dress. “I just got finished gunning down an army of aliens and you want me to play dress up?”

  Wendy Beckman manufactured a huge smile. “It’s only for one night, sweetie. Besides, that dress will look super cute on you.”

  “Yeah, it picks up the black in my leg,” Jezzy replied, tapping her prosthetic limb on the ground.

  * * *

  My tummy started rumbling while the others were trying on their new clothes so after showering, I headed back into the hallway and strolled downstairs. Along the way I slipped on my neural glasses, eager to find out whether Dexter had replied to the message he’d sent when we were back on the plane. I’d seen him when we landed at Dulles, but hadn’t had a chance to talk with him yet.

  My general inbox on the intranet was overflowing with messages and well-wishes from people I’d never met before. I assumed my address had somehow been leaked and now all these random people were messaging, congratulating me (and the others) on kicking the crap out of the aliens. There were even a few “naughty” messages, including several nude photos from some assertive young ladies (and a few guys) that caused me to blush as I flicked on the private messenger and typed to Dexter: “U out there?”

  I paused, half expecting him to immediately respond, and when he didn’t I trotted down a flight of stairs. Padding through the atrium, I followed my nose and soon found my way into the area that once housed the hotel’s bar. Several cooks were visible preparing grub over rows of canned heat.

  The cooks waved me over and said they were making lunch for us and the rest of the people that were staying at the hotel. I was given a tasty flatbread chicken sandwich and was readying to head back upstairs when Dexter replied. “Nice work today,” he wrote, adding a smiley face icon holding two thumbs up. For some reason I was nervous about communicating with Dexter and so I moved over to the far corner of the room.

  “Couldn’t have done it without u guys,”
I answered Dexter.

  “That’s why we get paid the big bucks,” Dexter wrote in reply.

  “Vidmark seemed happy.”

  “Happier than a pig in u know what.”

  “About that message last night …”

  “We need to talk, D.”

  My pulse quickened. “When?” I replied.

  “Tonight.”

  “Where?”

  “The ballroom. There’s a balcony through a red door. Can’t miss it. 9 p.m.”

  “Why so mysterious?”

  “All will be revealed …”

  “U r scaring me.”

  “U kill aliens for a living, bro. Nothing scares u.”

  I stared at the message for several seconds and then it, like all the others, vanished. I looked up and saw a man staring at me from the other side of the room. He was dressed in a suit with a sparkling blue tie, eyes hidden behind a pair of dark sunglasses. I blinked and the man in the suit spun on his heels and left the room.

  20

  Whoever says the mirror doesn’t lie is full of shit.

  I was back in our sleeping quarters, tux at my feet, staring at my half-naked self in a bathroom mirror and I swear I’d gotten bigger. No, it’s not what you think. I meant my upper body had expanded.

  Maybe it was the fact that I was eating real food and lots of it for the first time in years, but I swear to you I had muscles where earlier there was just … gristle. At first, I chalked it up to the training I’d done with Stryker back in prison, but it couldn’t just be that. I was kinda shredded and had muscles (small ones mind you) in places where I didn’t even know muscles went.

  “Looking jacked there, Danny D.,” Billy said, breezing by me in the bathroom.

  I grabbed my shirt and paused and for a moment I spotted what looked like little blue tendrils under my skin.

  What appeared to be … veins, only longer and thinner, and more of them.