Indian Hill 7

by Mark Tufo

  The majority of the crew stayed an extra few hours in bed; seems humans weren’t quite compatible with the Progerian fruit. Besides the alcohol, which in itself is a poison, we’d been exposed to another toxin. Doc Baker assured us that we’d be fine and to not worry too much about the color of our urine. Sounded okay, but when I saw the neon green of antifreeze exiting my privates, let’s just say I was fairly…nope, definitely, concerned. After a quick call to the doc, I lay back down, only to be interrupted a few minutes later. Or, at least, what I thought was a few minutes later. Ending up being about eight hours, and you would think with all that additional down time I would have been back to normal. Not so much.

  “Have you moved?” Tracy asked as she started to get undressed.

  “Things are moving now,” I told her as she bent over to take her pants off in one fluid motion.

  “Frilly pink panties under your military uniform? I’ve got to think that’s not regulation. Come over here and receive your punishment.”

  “Not a chance. I’ve been hearing horror stories all day about fluorescent green discharges. I’m not taking any chances with having a glow in the dark baby.”

  “He or she would be a lot easier to tuck in at night.”

  “You need to get up. The Progs want to talk.”

  “How did we go from potentially making love to me having yet another exciting talk with the leathery crocs?”

  “What fantasy world do you live in? I’m exhausted. Half the crew was in sick bay or in bed. I was doing double duty while you were playing with your pillow.”

  “Your loss. We could have birthed the Hulk!” I stood up and thrust my pelvis her way.

  “When things don’t look like they were exposed to nuclear contamination, you know where to find me. Until then, I’m getting some sleep.”

  I got dressed and lightly kissed the side of her head, she was already out. I’d felt decent for a few minutes, but the farther I walked away from our room the worse I was starting to feel. Was about halfway to the hangar when I thought about turning back. It was Captain Fields that found me.

  “Wait. I’m here, and Colonel Talbot is in bed. Aren’t you supposed to be running the ship?”

  “Major BT…”

  “Major BT?” I smiled.

  “That’s what he likes to be called.”

  “He’s running the ship?”

  “I believe he likes that seat.”

  “After I talk to the Progs, I think we’ll have a little fun with our new commander.”

  “Not sure what kind of mood you’re going to be in, sir. The Progs are beginning to get a little testy.”

  “Testy?”

  “That might not be the right word. They look like prisoners on the verge of a riot. They’ve been tossing their food and, umm, excrement everywhere. They started a small fire; we’ve since had that extinguished.”

  “They’re tossing shit?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Huh. And here I thought we were the lesser animals in this equation.”

  I walked into the control tower; it was half packed with six Marines who were watching the Progs fucking lose their minds. Captivity had not been a friend.

  “Commander!” Someone had turned to see me enter. Salutes came hard and fast. I realized how much I was still suffering from my hangover when just the air they were moving around seemed to hurt.

  “At ease. How long has this been going on? I was just in here yesterday. Right?” I wasn’t entirely sure I hadn’t been drunk for a couple of days and subsequently recovering for another few. The hangar was trashed. Food, shit, piss, busted furniture, and the occasional tools were tossed everywhere. Was expecting to see the Progs running around screaming, maybe something like Attica. Attica! Instead, they seemed calm, serene, even, as if they had got it out of their system and were ready to relax.

  “Who’s in charge?” I asked over the speaker system. The Progs looked around, some not even registering the fact that I’d spoken. Finally, one stood.

  “I suppose I am.” He looked up to the tower.

  “Come to door thirty-six,” I instructed him. “Fields.”

  “Yes sir, I’ll get a detail down there.”

  I watched the Prog as he moved. Whereas the others had a look of hopelessness and despondency, this one moved with purpose. I was concerned that maybe he knew something that I did not, and in war, that never transfers over well.

  I was surrounded by six heavily armed Marines as another four escorted the Prog from the hangar. If it was some sort of ruse to escape, none of the other Progs made a go at it.

  “Ah, Supreme Commander Talbot.”

  “It’s just General.”

  “As you wish. I am Three-Quarter Director Trull.”

  “Could you maybe tell me what’s going on in there, Trull?” He didn’t seem phased that I had not used his title.

  “It is the ‘griefing.’”.

  “Griefing?”

  “They have given up. They no longer see a way out and are grieving the ends of their lives.”

  “Not you, though. Why?”

  “I will not succumb, not as long as I am breathing. There is no reason to think that you will be able to overcome the defenses our home world presents.”

  “What do you want, Trull? I get the distinct feeling you’re just itching to tell me something.”

  “Itching? This context does not seem relevant to that word.”

  “In that case, I would say you’re titillated. You very much want to tell us something but maybe are not sure if you should or not.”

  “I hardly believe it would matter whether I tell you or not. There is little you can do about it.”

  “Then what difference does it make?” My heart was pounding, like maybe this ship would hit some intergalactic trip wire when we crossed over into Aradinia air space and we would become so much space debris.

  “They will know this ship’s emergency buckle was activated; there will be dozens of ships waiting for its return. Some for repair, but most will be combat ships on high alert. This ship will be rendered inert the moment we get home. You will all be captured, tortured, and eventually killed. That is why I am not griefing, because I know the end is coming for you, not me.”

  I started laughing, I mean outright busting up. “Oh Trull, you might want to go ahead and start your grief thing after all. I’m not really of the ilk to tell my enemies all that I have planned and I will not do so now. But, I’m pretty confident they have no idea we’re coming for a visit. Oh, and to top it off, all the pain and suffering you delivered to my world…yeah, we’ll be doing the same to yours. Maybe even up it a little bit as pay back.”

  “You are able to do no such thing!” He took a step toward me. Six rifles were pointed at various parts of him.

  “Sure I am. Now you go back to all your other lizardy little friends and you tell them to clean my ship up so it shines or I’ll fucking space vent every last one of them. You have until this time tomorrow for it to be absolutely spic and span in there. Now go. Get the fuck away from me.”

  He took another threatening step. I recognized the maneuver that it was, that balking half step in an attempt to get your opponent to flinch. One of the guards didn’t see it that way and put two rounds in Trull’s chest. The Progerian listed to the side, his eyes glazed over and his mouth opened wide.

  “Shit.” I pressed the comm to the hangar tower. “Make sure no Progs approach the door,” I ordered. They wouldn’t have the greatest vantage point, but if they gathered close enough, they would be able to see their fallen comrade through the heavy plated glass.

  “Natives look restless, sir. They heard the shots.”

  “Let’s go. We have to get him out of here,” I said. Trull had fallen against the wall but had not fallen from this world quite yet. In fact, he was desperately clinging to life. He took a half-hearted swipe at one of my men as they moved in. Half-hearted as far as a Prog goes, but it had enough power behind it to have eviscerated one of
us. I pulled out my sidearm and put one in Trull’s skull. The bullet punched a neat hole into him, enough power to bust through the thick bone and stir his brains around, but not enough to come out the other side. That would make whoever had to do clean-up a little happier.

  “General, we’ve got four headed for the door in a hurry.”

  “Cover up that window!” I tapped the guard nearest me. He quickly took off his uniform shirt and held it up. Trull had crashed down all the way to the floor, blood leaking out of him from three gaping wounds.

  “What is happening out there?” Came calling out above a thunderous roar as fists pounded against the glass.

  I was busy helping and straining to move Trull’s bulk. I had my head back and my eyes closed as I yanked on his still warm arm. I thought six of us should have been able to move him easily enough; come to find out it was only five. I had a bonehead corporal that had taken it upon himself to move the Progs back away from the door.

  “Do not…!” I was going to tell him to not open the door. It was too late. The guard that had been holding up his uniform was slammed up against the wall, pinned by the heavy door. I heard more than a few bones crack from the impact. Blue bolts flew from inside the hangar. I had no idea where they had procured the rifles from; supposedly my men had scoured the hangar for anything that could be used as a weapon. Somehow, they had missed a few actual weapons. One of my men spun around, the left side of his face a charred and smoldering wound, his good eye registering shock as he collapsed. The man next to him was cut in half, the top of his body landed wetly to the side, his legs might have stood the test of time if they hadn’t been bowled over by the rush of Progs making a break for it.

  Corporal Simmons, the man behind the door with the broken ribs and maybe arm was the safest of us all, as none of the Progs knew he was there. I saw his good arm come up and snag the handle, pulling it closer to the wall as he hid into the small alcove it now afforded him. Alarms started trilling, but help of any significance was precious minutes away. There were four of us standing and we were firing and withdrawing at as rapid a pace as we could. Progs were now streaming through that door, not all of them armed, but enough to easily overrun us if we’d decided to stand and fight. We had thirty feet on them, but that means absolutely nothing when shots are being fired. I turned to help the woman next to me, as she’d been hit square in the chest. The smoke pouring from her back was all I needed to know that she was beyond anything I could do. Then there were three.

  “Run, General! We’ll cover you!”

  “To the right! Let’s go!” I said as we hit an intersection. Enough blue bolts were flying down the corridor to light the area in an ethereal looking flame. Thick roiling smoke of charred material was beginning to choke the area. The third member of my team, a PFC Webber, was late making the turn. A gaping wound as thick as my forearm was savagely ripped from his leg.

  “Rhodes!” I shouted to the Marine who had originally said he would cover my retreat; he had now taken the lead. I reached out and grabbed his shoulder. He turned quickly, fear in his eyes. He saw Webber, and we immediately went back to help the man who was hopping to keep up. Webber was a man known for his gregarious smile even in the worst of situations; he attempted some sort of facial muscle movement to pull the corners of his mouth wide, he just couldn’t pull it off. Shock, blood loss, pain, fear were all working against him.

  Rhodes was dragging Webber and I was quickly going through what remained of my ammunition. I was on a ship, for fuck's sake. I shouldn’t have been expected to carry multiple magazines.

  I heard someone shout “General Talbot!” Just as my breech popped open and stayed that way, signifying the last of the death-dealing or life-giving rounds, depending on which end of the barrel you were on. A squad of five Marines who looked like they’d been in the midst of catching some sleep were racing down the corridor toward us. We were midway between the two opposing forces. I ripped Webber’s rifle from his harness as I pushed my two men close to the wall. Bullets were tearing chunks from the walls and ceiling, blue streaks raced back to meet them. Either we were made from Swiss cheese and the projectiles were passing right through us or we were already dead and our spirits could not be harmed any further.

  We moved as a group a few more feet before Rhodes pulled me through a door, we surprised a couple that thought they had found a decent refuge for their intimate parlay. Whether for better or worse they had not yet had the time to completely undress.

  “General!” Lieutenant Lane stood up, she was fully clothed from the waist down, from there up, though, she only had a blue lace bra which did little to conceal her ample female anatomical parts. Under very different circumstances I may have admired the view for a second or two. This was not one of those times.

  “The door, block the door!” I slammed it shut and braced my shoulder into it, knowing full well if a Prog wanted in, this was going to do little to stop him. Rhodes unceremoniously deposited Webber on the couch the lovebirds had intended to use and was pushing over a huge table.

  Lane punched the still-shocked Hendel. He was in his underwear, but somehow still had his boots on. I didn’t even want to know how he’d managed that. I’ve never even been able to pull pants over sneakers before without becoming a hopelessly tangled mess; I can’t imagine how he could have got something over boots. Blood began to flow back from Hendel’s little head into the thinking one, and he got up to help Rhodes move the desk. Lane was momentarily indecisive whether to grab her blouse, which was on the other side of the room, or keep moving furniture. Self-preservation won out over modesty.

  “Holy shit, Webs,” Hendel said as he moved to help his friend once we positioned the table. He had been training to be a medic and moved quickly to ascertain the extent of the injury. He winced when he ripped away the leg of the pants. Fortunately, Webber was in no shape to hear him, he was lapsing into unconsciousness. “He needs to get to medical now,” Hendel said to me.

  “Is there another way out of here?” I asked

  Lane shook her head. “That’s why we come here, sir. It’s pretty secluded.”

  “Do what you can, Hendel. There are five hundred pissed off Progerians out there; I don’t think they’re going to let us through.”

  The rifle fire trailed off. I hoped it was because the fire team had withdrawn and not been silenced. Webber wasn’t going to make it. His leg looked like a shark had taken a bite; it was too severe of a wound to go untreated for long. The alarm was still going off, though in this area it sounded far away like a heavy-sleeping roommate’s alarm clock from the next bedroom over.

  “Where are we?” I asked Lane. I was looking around, it was a big enough room, not gigantic, but somewhere close to six hundred square feet, though it had no discernible purpose that I could see. There was the couch that I’m sure had some amazing stories to tell. A giant rectangular table with no chairs, several plastic-like crates in the corner, a bank of computers on the far side. They were not on, or at least there were no lights indicating power.

  “We call it the green room. Other than that sir, I don’t know.”

  “What’s in the crates?”

  “We’ve never looked. Been, um, busy with other things.”

  “Locked the door, sir,” Rhodes said looking mighty relieved.

  “From the inside? So, this is apparently more than a lovers’ rendezvous point. Lane, you keep an eye on the door, Rhodes come help me with these crates.”

  There were nine total, three rows stacked three high. Rhodes and I grabbed the top most one; didn’t feel much heavier than the container itself. It was indeed empty, as were all the ones on the top and the middle. I was about to forgo this exercise in futility and check out the computers when I peeked into one of the bottommost. There were four canisters packed in tight with enough foam to make a post man envious. I checked the other two crates first, both empty, then I grunted as I pulled a canister out of the only box with anything in it. Had to be somewhere around fifty pounds
, and much like the namesake to the room, it was a deep green color. It was oval; it bulged at the center, kind of like an egg, although both ends were the same size, unlike an egg. More like a football, but not as pointy.

  “Did I just pick up a bomb?” I asked.

  Rhodes backed up.

  “Like that’s going to help. I’m sure something this big only has a ten-foot effective blast range.”

  “You should put it back, sir. Very gently, I think it glowed.”

  “Glowed?” I asked pensively.

  “Sir, someone’s knocking on the door,” Lane whispered, though the knocks had been loud enough to hear down the hall.

  “You didn’t think I could hear that?”

  “I’m nervous, sir,” she replied honestly.

  I was hoping for my troops. I was very disappointed when I heard the gruff voice of a Prog. “General Talbot we are pressing for your unconditional surrender.”

  “Just mine?” I’d actually contemplate that if it meant I could get Webber some help and the rest of these soldiers out of here safely. The whole ship? That wasn’t going to happen, what was happening here was much bigger than the lives of us in the room.

  “No.”

  “No can do,” I said as we fanned out to each get a clear angle of fire on the door we figured they’d be coming through at any moment. There was some hushed Prog-speak like they thought we might understand them and know their ploy.

  “You need to come out of there, General.” The door handle moved slightly and we all tensed up, expecting it to blow inwards and the fireworks to begin.

  They were afraid of something. It certainly wasn’t us, since they had attacked us and chased us down. They were a little more willing to fight than I had ever given them credit for, but to be fair to my judgment, they had also been pushed farther than I’d ever seen them. Hell, they were throwing their own shit around in despair. Now, to figure out what had them so concerned. It wasn’t the couch or the computers that weren’t on. So, I figured it must be the oblong green egg balls. They had to be bombs of some sort, right? I had originally been half kidding with Rhodes, now I was worried I was fifteen feet from some sort of nuclear armament. Much like Rhodes had, I instinctually moved a few feet away, it would just mean I had one more fraction of a micron of a second before I would feel the searing heat from the blast, but still.