Stranded

by William Vitka

  Doc feels a hell of a lot worse about leaving his guns behind. “I was really hoping you’d be my news source.” He thinks for a minute. “All right. I gotta get some supplies to the sled or they’re gonna think something’s up. But I’ll be back. I’m gonna hit camp, then I’ll come through again.” He grips Mags’ hand. “Then I’ll head for Fairbanks. I’ll find someone there who can help. All right?”

  Mags nods. “Thank you.” She smiles. “Now what do you need for camp?”

  “Same as always.”

  * * *

  Doc checks the dogs. Gets em ready for a hook run up to Sugar Tits. They can sense they’re going back, and they don’t like it. Rubin especially is giving Doc sad eyes.

  Doc says, “I don’t want to either. But we gotta keep our word.” He looks up and sees another soldier walking toward him. This one’s carrying Doc’s guns. The name tape reads: MILLER.

  Miller says, “Sir, I appreciate your swiftness.”

  “You guys didn’t give me much of a choice.”

  “I’m Lieutenant Zach Miller.” Instead of offering his hand, Miller offers Doc back his M1911 and his Henry .45-70.

  It’s a much better gesture than a handshake.

  Doc takes his weapons. “Thanks.” He straps the Colt to his hip and slings the rifle across his back.

  “Could I get your name, sir? Just in case our paths cross again.”

  Now Doc offers his hand. Since this guy is at least trying to be less of a fuck then the other pukes. “Daniel Thompson. But everyone calls me Doc.”

  Miller shakes. “Doc, huh?” He walks over to pet the dogs. Rubin sniffs the lieutenant’s knuckles. Then his palm. Then deems this soldier worthy enough to pet him and allows it without growling. “You're a doctor?”

  “Not at all.” Doc steps on the sled. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to camp.”

  “Fair enough. Where are you set up?”

  Doc bullshits: “Bout thirty miles southeast of here. Gettin the dogs used to the weather and the terrain. Been considering runnin the Iditarod. Wanna make sure these boys know what they’re getting themselves into.”

  “That right? Good luck to you, then.”

  “And to you. With this...spill, or whatever the hell it is you’re dealing with here.”

  “Thanks. We’ll be outta everyone’s hair in no time.”

  “That’d be nice.”

  * * *

  Doc heads south till he’s sure he can’t be seen from Wiseman. Then he cuts east and then hard north. He just wants to drop off shit for the camp and make a beeline for Fairbanks.

  The lieutenant doesn’t seem like a bastard. Not a total one. But he probably knows Doc is full of shit. And it’s hard to think of something worse than the goddamn military knowing you’re a liar.

  14.

  Parker screams: “You did what?”

  “I let him in then I let him go,” Miller says.

  They’re standing in the Pioneer Hall of The Arctic Getaway—a bed and breakfast—which the military has decided to occupy as headquarters along with Boreal Lodging cabins next door.

  Parker paces circles around Miller.

  Miller stands still, and at ease. “You told me to keep the civilians calm. Every hour that we keep them locked up, they get worse. Allowing a visitor in shows some good faith. And it would not do to refuse someone entrance when that person could very well make it back to a population center and start talking to the press.” He cocks an eye at Parker, unsure of whether or not the Homeland agent can tell he’s doing this out of spite.

  Parker says, “You might be right. But don’t do it again without checking with me. And who was this guy? You said he could make it back to a population center. Explain.”

  “He had dogs.”

  “Sled dogs?”

  “Yes. He could get to Fairbanks if he wanted. Start telling people how we’re keeping Americans hostage here.” Miller shoots Parker another look. “Better to let him get his stuff and go.”

  Parker considers this. “Maybe. Where did he say he was staying?”

  “He said south of here. Didn’t give a specific area, and I didn’t push. Again, trying to be that liaison you want.” Miller smirks. “But I don’t buy it.”

  “Neither do I. What are you thinking, lieutenant?”

  “I think he’s up at that logging camp. Near the crash site. He wasn’t dressed for a long haul. He was dressed like he was making a supply run for someone else, only expecting to be out in the cold for a few hours. That and the dogs were groomed like they had a kennel to sleep in.”

  “Good job.”

  “Thank you, sir. What’s the next step?”

  “My men and I are going to fly up and scout the crash site. We might even pay a visit to that logging camp. I want to know what they know. And I want to know if they’re all goddamn liars.”

  * * *

  Miller salutes as Parker and his team take to the air. Their twin-engine Huey throws up gusts of snow and ice.

  The only thing Miller thinks is: I hope that prick crashes.

  15.

  Fiske’s sure he hears something behind them now.

  Maybe an animal looking for shelter. Maybe the structure of the ship warping as it warms. Or cools. Or settles. Like an old house...

  Creaking echoes.

  The men of Sugar Tits went against their urge to survive and entered the ship after a debate that consisted of phrases like:

  “We need to see if there are survivors.”

  “What if those survivors want to kill us?”

  “What if they’re not from here?”

  “Don’t be a pussy.”

  “I really, really don’t wanna go inside.”

  They did anyway.

  It’s dark. Swift’s flashlight and Fiske’s fluorescent Coleman lantern don’t ease the eerie tension. Their tools paint distorted shadows none of the men want to see.

  The corridors they walk are a dull, brushed metal. Tight. Cramped. The floor is grated. The walls are ribbed with pipes and tubing. It’s very much like the men imagine a submarine to be. Or at least what they’ve seen on the History Channel. Except for the fact that the ceiling stretches too high above them.

  These halls were created for something other than a man.

  The air’s heavy with ozone. Small arcs of electricity bounce from the walls and floor to their fingers as they move. Pops of light that spook em and cause more shadows.

  “Static electricity,” Swift says. Then reminds himself he doesn’t have a clue. “Maybe. This big chunk of metal rubbing against all the clouds and stuff in the atmosphere. It gets charged up the same way a balloon does when you brush it against your hair.”

  Ackerman says, “Boss, you see a lotta fuckin balloons crash outta the sky an carve a five-mile long ditch?”

  “Jesus, Sam. I’m just talking is all.”

  “This is a haunted house from space and you doin the Mister Wizard shit ain’t helping.”

  “I should have let your ass drop into that crater.” Swift stops. He faces Ackerman and Fiske. “Little farther and I think we’ll be at that sphere. The cockpit-looking thing. Check that, and then we can bug out, all right?”

  Fiske nods.

  Ackerman says, “Let’s just get it over with.”

  There’s a sound behind them. Not creaking. A soft, fleshy footstep.

  Fiske starts, “Did you guys—”

  “Shut up,” Swift says. He has the Browning BAR out. Balances the gun in his right hand. Works the flashlight with his left. “Keep moving. I’ll watch behind. Greenhorn, you move up with Sam. If there’s a bear followed us in here, we got a better shot putting a .338 round in its head than trying to engage in a chainsaw duel.”

  Swift hopes it is a bear and not what he’s imagining.

  More fleshy steps sound from the direction of their only exit.

  Whatever it is, it’s moving closer.

  * * *

  They make their way to the shiny sphere. The
journey is easy. All of the cramped corridors lead to it. But the men don’t like what they find.

  It’s a control room. Huge. With a golden sheen. The only thing any of them can compare it to is a planetarium. But it’s been damaged in the crash. Sleek round walls have come apart in some places. Mashed. Crumpled. Behind the panels, blue glows from the ship’s inner workings. All mysteries and machinery that none of the men has any chance of understanding.

  There’s an obvious command post at the sphere’s center. A raised platform with a seat. Holographic panels glow and sputter on the walls. They show star systems and clusters. Some of the holograms are bright red. Some have jagged symbols over a topographical 3D map showing their area of the mountains. They appear to be universal signs for Bad Shit Happened Here.

  This ship still has some power, Swift thinks. Not sure I like that idea much.

  There are bodies, too. Broken, mangled bodies. Pieces. Pale blue.

  Not one of them is human.

  Yellow liquid pools around the busted joints and shredded faces and torn limbs.

  Swift says, “Nobody touch nothin.”

  Ackerman moves to the far side of the sphere. “I think part of the wall came apart here. I see daylight.” Daylight means the mountain outside. Earth. Means getting outta this creepshow.

  Fiske and Swift nod to him. They’ve been hearing those footsteps haunting them down the halls for a goddamn hour. None of the men wanna go back that way.

  Swift eyes the crack. “Can we fit through that? We can’t fit through that.”

  Ackerman says, “Lemme see if I can pry it apart some more.”

  “I’ll help.”

  Fiske stares at one of the corpses. It seems intact, except for limbs that’ve snapped in directions the greenhorn can’t imagine felt good. It’s got two arms and two legs. He can’t believe how skinny the damn thing is. The chest only as big as Fiske’s thigh. And its own thigh is about the size of his forearm. Like the human form stretched out to ridiculous proportions. A five-foot man pulled to ten feet, wrapped in leathery blue skin.

  The thing’s head is its strangest feature.

  It looks... God, it looks like a meaty version of the ship. A blue-grey, fleshy disc. There’s a golden yellow orb at the center. Its eye. Or a lens covering a bank of eyes. Who fuckin knows?

  Fiske sets the Coleman lantern down. He tries to look under the disc. See what kind of hardware there is for a mouth. With a gloved hand, he reaches for the lower curve of the head and—

  Swift hisses, “Don’t you goddamn touch that.”

  Fiske jerks his hand back. “Sorry.” Sheepish. “Just looking.”

  “Yeah? Keep it that way.” Swift turns back to the crack and pushes at it with Ackerman.

  Whatever the ship’s made of, it’s impossibly thin but impossibly strong. The thickness of the wall isn’t even an inch. But neither of the husky loggers can bend it with ease. They make progress, though. Horribly slow progress.

  The footsteps get closer.

  Fiske moves toward the sound. The light from the lantern can’t illuminate the whole interior of the sphere. Now he’s staring into the dark. Squinting to see. Straining to hear.

  Is that breathing? Shallow raspy breaths. Unsteady...

  Wheezing.

  Fiske’s heart is a jackhammer.

  He sees a shape. It stumbles. All it is to him is a sliver of pure black moving against the background. But it’s here. It bumps into the doorway. Hobbles forward. It emerges from the darkness.

  Fiske rushes back to Swift. He taps his shoulder. “Tom...”

  Swift bats him away. He and Ackerman push together against the slit in the wall. It moves another inch. Two. There’s enough space for a child. The important thing is that the breeze comes through. Fresh mountain air. Progress.

  Fiske taps Tom again. “Something is in here with us.”

  Swift and Ackerman stop.

  Swift trains the beam of his flashlight on the dark shape on the other side of the control room.

  Ackerman says, “You gotta be fuckin kidding.”

  The thing is a walking mouth. Teeth with grasshopper legs. A meandering Venus flytrap. But red. The men can see pulsing veins on either side of the jaw. Huge teeth protrude from the lips. When the jaws open, the monster stops and laps out a thick, barbed tongue. It tastes the air. The tongue retracts. And it keeps walking.

  Toward them.

  Swift says, “We need this open.” He looks at the crack in the wall. “We need it open right now.” He nods to Ackerman. “No panicking. Just work.”

  Ackerman nods back. He hefts his chainsaw and shoots Swift a questioning glance: Maybe we can cut our way out? Maybe if I have to, I murder the hell outta that thing?

  Swift shakes his head. “I don’t want anyone gettin near that motherfucker.” Swift hands his flashlight to the greenhorn. Says to Fiske, “Keep the beam on it. Sound off if it gets close.”

  Fiske says, “It’s gettin fuckin close.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Swift and Ackerman heave themselves against the slit in the wall. With every push, their escape route widens.

  Christ, do it faster.

  Fiske watches the abomination.

  The flytrap Thing bumps against a bank of monitors. Stuns itself. Pauses. Releases that horrifying tongue. Then starts walking again. It makes its way to the corpse Fiske was toying with. It pauses again. Tongues the air.

  It opens itself up. A meat flower. It slouches forward. The fleshy flaps of its jaws widen. It falls. Its wraps itself around the body of the tall, thin alien. Envelops it like a heavy, wet blanket.

  Jesus Christ. What is going on?

  “Push,” Swift says.

  The crack widens a little more.

  The sound of churning liquid fills the air. Of chewing.

  The jaw flaps of the flytrap monster convulse.

  Fiske can see the corpse. Its thin arms limp against the flesh trying to consume it. Shadows and shapes show through the translucent red skin of the walking terror.

  Fiske shrieks.

  The flytrap Thing stands. Legs wobbly with the new weight. Its feast sits in its mouth. Another dark shadow that fades away as the flytrap Thing digests it. Arms and legs and bones dissolve. Soon, there’s nothing left of the alien body. Just bubbles of gore. The sound of liquid falling from flytrap lips.

  Fiske mutters, “It eats the dead. It eats the fuckin dead.”

  Swift and Ackerman throw their weight again.

  Ackerman goes spilling outside.

  Swift grabs Fiske. Throws the greenhorn outta the ship. He chances a look back. The flytrap Thing, whatever it really is, moves at a lazy pace. It shuffles over to another body. And begins to digest it. Absorb it.

  Doesn’t give a shit about noise, Swift thinks. Doesn’t care about the light either. Deaf and blind. It smells its way through...

  He brings the Browning up. Aims it. Fires a round through those huge awful jaws.

  The flytrap Thing squeals. Unleashes a torrent of manic howls. Gouts of ichor burst from it. It drops to its knees. But it doesn’t look to see where the shot came from.

  Swift fires again. And again. And again. The harsh stench of gunpowder fills the air. He looks through the haze.

  The flytrap Thing stops moving. It sits in a fallen lump. Leaks.

  Swift walks outside. He falls to his knees and vomits out his fear. Pukes out his terror and the sudden knowledge that not only are humans not alone, but the other things out there are monstrous.

  Ackerman grabs his shoulders. “You all right?”

  Swift nods. “Yeah. We’re out. I’m fine.”

  Fiske mutters, “It eats the fuckin dead.”

  They catch their breath. Ackerman lights a cigarette. Sits in the snow.

  Swift collects himself and walks to the greenhorn. He pats Fiske on the shoulder. “You?”

  Fiske says, “Nope. Just... Nope.”

  Ackerman stands. He looks out over the tree line. The c
igarette between his lips bounces. “Is that a goddamn helicopter?”

  16.

  Parker says into the headset, “There it is.” He points out the front windshield of the Huey. A totally unnecessary gesture. Anyone with a functioning set of eyes can see the crash. The swath of destruction. He’s in charge, though. He wants to show it.

  The Homeland agent watches three distant figures stumble and fall from the golden sphere at the center of the ship. His heart jumps at first. He thinks they might be visitors from somewhere else.

  He’s disappointed but not surprised when he realizes it’s just a handful of idiots. Mountain hicks. Those stupid loggers.

  “Put us down near them,” Parker says to his pilot.

  * * *

  Swift, Ackerman and Fiske stare up.

  The helicopter nears. Its steady whump whump whump grows louder.

  Ackerman shouts over the din, “Army?”

  Swift shrugs. “No idea. Chopper’s not marked.”

  Fiske says, “That’s a Super Huey. Marines use em. Hopefully they’ll give us a ride back to camp. And quick. I’m done with this shit.” He thinks of the meat flower spreading itself over the body. Thinks of it slurping and digesting the dead.

  * * *

  The Huey descends to treetop level. Parker looks into the thick forest of pines. He can see himself taking a vacation here. Maybe when he’s done being a professional asshole. He sighs. But if it wasn’t him doing it, it would be someone else.

  And he is so very good at it.

  They’re thirty feet from the ground.

  Something moves at the top of a tree to his left. His mind registers it as a snake.

  It’s isn’t.

  * * *

  The men from Sugar Tits watch the Huey. It kicks up torrents of snow. They shield their eyes from the intense gusts.

  All Fiske wants is to get back to camp. Have a drink. He doesn’t even wanna watch porn. He just wants to get warm and pass the hell out. Or pound shots till his mind goes blank.

  He watches something in the trees lash out at the chopper. It grabs onto one of the skids. Long and dark green. When it curls around the skid, its color changes to match the grey of the helicopter’s paint.