Stranded

by William Vitka

  “Hot damn,” Gordy says. “Score one for the old man.”

  Swift says, “All right, guys. Get that fence up. We’re burnin daylight.”

  19.

  Lieutenant Miller looks at his watch.

  Stupid asshole Parker was supposed to be back before dark. Now there’s a break in the chain of command. And he has to deal with it.

  Only scary thing is: He knows something must have happened. Cuz jerks like Parker are always obnoxiously punctual.

  He tells his men to double up their attention. Stay super vigilant. Report anything and everything that seems funny in this already-fuckin-funny situation.

  It’s getting close to nightfall. He needs men watching the spotlights.

  He needs the men on their guard.

  He needs for Parker to get his ass back, but that doesn’t seem likely.

  So he heads off to call General Anderson and report on Parker.

  Then he hears it.

  A deep braying in the woods. Some kind of obscene whale song.

  Some huge animal with lungs that...

  Sergeant Copper rushes up to Miller. “That a moose or something?”

  Miller shakes his head. “I kinda doubt it. Get the men on patrol. Keep the civilians indoors. I want lights up and I want them pointed at the tree line. Nothing sneaks up on us.”

  20.

  Mosshart checks the leads that run to the fence. He grabs the ripcord on the secondary generator. “Ready?”

  The other men nod.

  Mosshart starts the generator. It coughs to life like an old smoker. But it’s running.

  Gordy says, “How do we know it works?”

  Ackerman says, “Why don’t you go outside and lick the fence?”

  “Eat a dick.”

  “Well, he’s right,” Mosshart says. “Why don’t we put that talon Doc dug outta the greenhorn on it? See what blows up.”

  * * *

  Doc holds the thorn between two gloved fingers. He looks around at the others. He arches his eyebrows and lowers the thorn.

  There’s a flash of blue.

  Doc lets go. The thorn sits on the fence and explodes with quick pops. The stench of burning fingernail fills the air. It cooks till it’s dust.

  Mosshart says, “I think we’re good to go.”

  * * *

  The day dwindles into darkness. Now there’s only the camp’s lights and shadows.

  The men busy themselves in the main building. Either with cards or movies or drinking.

  Mostly drinking.

  Kong says, “So we leave in the morning?”

  “Yeah,” Ackerman says. “If we live that long.”

  “That ain’t funny.”

  “Wasn’t trying to be.”

  Doc says, “Last thing we need is to dissolve into a bunch of pussies scared of our own tails. We wait out the night. We head into town and talk to the military.” He walks past the noisy generator and distributes food for the dogs. “Let them deal with this shit.”

  * * *

  Gordy stands guard at the front door window. He keeps his finger off the trigger of the Remington. Just stares into the darkness where the camp’s spotlights can’t reach. He blinks and there’s a shadow. He blinks again and it’s gone.

  Christ, he’s gotta relax.

  He glances back at the huskies. Glad they’re there. In his mind, he sees em as an early warning system. When the dogs start acting up, it means something bad’s nearby. But they’re quiet. Calm. And he tells himself he should be too.

  There’s a rumble underground. A tremor. Something moving.

  He bumps his head against the glass. A sudden realization. Thinks: What good is an electric fence when the bastards can burrow underground?

  The lights go out.

  He squints. Grips the shotgun to his chest. He forces his eyes to adjust to the darkness by keeping them closed and slowly opening them.

  He hears the smokers ignite their lighters. There’s a flurry of activity.

  Swift says, “Doc, get the Coleman. Mosshart, watch the back windows. Everyone keep a real good eye out.”

  Mosshart says, “Secondary generator’s still fine.”

  “Good.”

  The dogs’re in a frenzy. They bark. Salivate. With Rubin at the lead. Whatever fear they had is gone. They circle an area of the floor. The men gather behind them.

  Mosshart says, “Shit. Shit. Primary generator’s under the main building.” He nods to Swift. “I guess your burrowers aren’t quite as dumb as the others. Or maybe they just sensed the vibrations and went for it.”

  Swift hasn’t thought of something that hunts by vibration. “Doc, shut the dogs up. And nobody move. Maybe this thing’ll just go away.”

  Doc says, “Fuck.” The dogs halt and sit, still in a circle. Their wagging tails betray them.

  They want at the monster. They want to tear it to pieces. Or at least try.

  It is only Doc’s training that keeps em restrained.

  Ackerman thinks, Those goddamn huskies are supernatural. He hefts his chainsaw.

  The dogs’ silence doesn’t last. There’s no way to fight evolution.

  Another tremble hits the main building.

  The ground thuds once.

  The dogs go at it again. They bark and howl and shift their circle as the thing under them moves. Even Rubin, the pinnacle of obedience, can’t contain himself.

  Doc pulls his M1911. He casts an eye to the unconscious greenhorn, Fiske.

  Swift puts up a hand. Stop.

  Doc shoots him a look. Shakes his head. No. He points his finger and makes a hook motion going up. The thing’s gonna come through the floor.

  Swift shakes his head back. Makes a motion for everyone to just, Jesus, stop moving.

  Gordy checks the Remington to make sure he’s got a load chambered.

  The floor explodes. Wood splinters fly everywhere. Dirt from ten feet down launches up and falls in a heap.

  A roaring, hundred-armed burrower writhes at the center of the building’s new hole. Its big pincers lash out. Its split worm head opens and drools and screams.

  The huskies pounce. Their teeth find purchase in alien flesh. They tear away massive chunks. They rip limbs off. Eight angry, terrified dogs chew through their fury.

  Ackerman fires up the Stihl.

  Doc jumps back and wraps a hand around his right wrist. His shooting hand. He unleashes seven rounds of .45-caliber hell in a second. He’s careful to aim high. To avoid the dogs. He drops the empty magazine on the floor and loads another from his belt.

  He keeps firing.

  The scene is lit by the lone Coleman. Light blue. And the staccato flashes of the guns.

  The soundtrack is a storm of weapons fire and ravenous dogs and a thrumming chainsaw and a monster not born of this planet.

  Gordy’s shotgun makes thunder. The gun’s slugs punch out sections of the burrower.

  Swift can only watch. His Browning is too far away, resting against the kitchen bar. And what’s happening is too stunning to turn away from.

  Ackerman drives the saw into the side of the burrower. Gore fountains out. It covers him and the dogs.

  Then it’s over.

  Takes less than a minute for the huskies to turn the burrower into sloppy meat.

  The men hear a voice. Something far off. It begs.

  They look down at the burrower. It dies slow. The dogs continue to wrap their jaws around it. None of the huskies suffer more than a few scrapes and cuts.

  And they’re pissed off.

  The voice says: Call them off.

  Doc turns to the others. Says, “Let the dogs eat.”

  * * *

  It takes Mosshart two hours to rewire the generators.

  The primary wasn’t destroyed. But the lines were cut. Easier to reroute everything to the secondary genny. It’s enough to power the lights on the main building if they’re careful. But no excessive shit.

  Mosshart makes sure that the fence is powered, and
the heaters, and the spotlights, and internal lights, so at least the men can see inside.

  But no radio and no electronics.

  Not like he’s gotten the radio fixed yet anyway.

  * * *

  Gordy’s resumes his vigil.

  It felt good to kill that thing. Felt great, in fact.

  He smirks. Watches the dogs curl up against one another.

  If there was ever any creature that deserved rest, it’s them.

  He turns to the dark sky and the shadows.

  He sees something.

  He blinks. Waits for it to go away.

  But it doesn’t.

  He says to Mosshart: “Shut it down. Everything except the fence. Shut it down.”

  Mosshart says, “I just got the fuckin thing workin.”

  Doc gives Gordy a look. Sizes the man up. Then figures it’s better to be safe than sorry. “Do it. Unplug everything except the fence.”

  * * *

  They gather around the door. Around the window.

  At first they think it’s part of the mountain.

  Till they see it move.

  This gigantic shape against the night sky. It lumbers forward. It’s huge. Impossible to tell how many limbs it has. They guess eight. Arachnid, maybe. But there are other things dangling. Ropes or tentacles along its side. The monster moves like an elephant. Its legs are just thick enough to carry the weight. With every stomp, the ground shakes.

  Gordy whispers: “The Hroza.” He'd heard the word in the static. Something the voices talked about with great fear. Even terror. He eyes the other men.

  It stops and turns toward the camp. A creature they can only see cuz it’s darker than the night sky.

  It bellows.

  The sound is so threatening that even the dogs keep their mouths shut.

  They watch.

  It wanders toward them.

  They hope one of those legs hits the fence. Hope there’s enough juice in the generator to scare it off so it goes back to the ship. Or wherever.

  Anywhere but here.

  A foot hits ten yards outside the fence.

  Close.

  They have no idea what the stride of the thing is.

  Then.

  Another foot lands on the fence.

  The world goes electric.

  The titan bellows again.

  Arcs of hot blue shoot up along the legs of the beast. The men can’t see its face. Just the electric bolts. Bolts that dance up its appendages.

  The generator struggles and chokes as a surge runs through it.

  The men pray that it can keep the charge up.

  It does.

  The titan shakes the fence off. An animal kicking away mud. Then it turns. Struts away.

  The big nightmare they can't even see.

  They all look to Mosshart.

  Mosshart wipes his brow. He exhales. Shakes his head.

  21.

  Lieutenant Miller watches the monstrous shape move in the distance.

  His men scramble to take up defensive positions.

  The damned shape is headed for Wiseman.

  Miller says nothing. His mouth is a hard line.

  He stays silent as the Hroza approaches.

  Part Three: Plans

  22.

  The rest of the night is quiet.

  The men sleep in shifts. Two others stay awake at all times.

  Morning comes. Fiske rouses himself. If not cheerful, at least glad to be alive. He says to Doc, “Thanks for patching me up. How long was I out for?”

  “Ten hours. Give or take.”

  Fiske looks to the hole in the floor. Now carefully covered with plywood scraps. There’s the sickly sweet stench of blood in the air. “What’d I miss?”

  “A lot. Can you walk?”

  The greenhorn hobbles off the table. “More or less.”

  * * *

  Mosshart tells the men to be ready and disconnects the secondary generator. He doesn’t want anyone too spooked by the fact that the heat and electricity are about to die.

  Swift nods. He slings his Browning over his shoulder.

  Gordy, Kong and Ackerman move supplies into the Chevy.

  Doc brings his dogs out and sets up the sled.

  The guys in the truck’ll be going slower than he will, since the roads are a mess from the storm.

  They check their walkie-talkies and their radios. Still fucked.

  Doc nods to the guys.

  He can’t wait to go.

  * * *

  The dogs rush off. Doc doesn’t need to tell em what to do. He watches their tongues wag and their legs kick. He ties the keffiyah up higher on the bridge of his nose so that the cold stings less.

  Doc can’t wait to see Mags. He wants to give her a fat kiss.

  The huskies probably do too.

  * * *

  Swift and Ackerman tuck Fiske into the front seat of the truck. They mind his legs. The kid winces but doesn’t complain.

  Mosshart and Kong load ammo and booze.

  Gordy sits on a wheel well in the truck bed and stares at his feet. He thinks: It’s all coming apart. And where are we going? To the military. Where the Hroza went? Yeah. That’s a great idea.

  Mosshart says, “You all right there?”

  Gordy says, “I’m fine.” Still looking at his feet. Wrapping his hands around the Remington now. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  Mosshart does not want to sit next to him at all.

  * * *

  Doc pushes the dogs harder.

  They plow through the woods at a furious pace.

  Doc’s little shortcuts can trim the trip down to ninety minutes.

  He always spent the extra time staring at the sky.

  Now he just wants to get to town as soon as possible.

  * * *

  Gordy’s eyes spin around the bed of the truck. He thinks back to the radio. The voices he heard. He wonders if the other men really know what’s going on.

  Everyone else is naming monsters. So he names his.

  Pilots.

  He calls them pilots.

  The ones who were flying.

  He doesn’t think they’re evil. Not the way the other things are.

  He thinks they’re just lost. Stranded here on a rock they don’t know.

  Just like every-fuckin-one else on Earth.

  It’s comforting, that idea.

  But something got loose, didn’t it? A whole lot of awful things got loose.

  And even the pilots don’t know what they’re supposed to do.

  * * *

  Mosshart nods to Ackerman and Kong.

  All three watch Gordy. The way Gordy grips his shotgun. The way he stares into nothingness. The way he seems off. Not like in the yarder. This is new.

  Ackerman nods back to the guys. He taps his chainsaw. With a little smirk that says: The teeth of this Stihl have taken down monsters we were incapable of imagining. Long as I’m here and it’s here, we’ll be fine.

  Yeah.

  So fuck it.

  * * *

  Swift says to Fiske, “You sure you’re all right?”

  They charge down the snow-covered road. The site manager looks for downed trees that might cause a problem. But so far, they’ve been lucky.

  Swift says, “You don’t mind the bumps and all? Knocking your leg around.”

  Fiske grimaces as another bounce juts his knee into his chest. He’s keeps his leg on the dash of the truck. Cuz Doc said it was better to have the thing elevated for blood flow. “Nah. I’m all right.”

  Fiske just wants to get as far from the monsters as possible.

  23.

  Doc sees smoke.

  Never a good sign.

  He halts the dogs outside of Wiseman. They can take care of themselves. But they might run off chasing some monster. Seem to lose their shit around the things. So he ties the huskies to a nearby tree. Just in case.

  He hears the Hroza howl in the distance. Its cry is a horrifying, deep echo throu
gh the mountains. He guesses it’s north and east by a good stretch. Maybe back near the ship.

  He shudders.

  Waiting for the others is the smart thing to do.

  But scouting will help too.

  Doc sticks to the tree line. Just inside it.

  He shoulders his Henry rifle. Peers through the scope.

  He sees giant footprints the size of Buicks. Wherever that Hroza walked. Depressions the same as they had near camp. Deep and wide as kiddie pools.

  He sees carnage. The sandbags and the fencing that had been set up is scattered everywhere. Two guard towers lie in ruins. Another smolders, charred. The bed and breakfast near Mags’ store blazes.

  There are bodies. A dozen or so. Civilian and military. The snow is blood red. Some of the people are in pieces.

  Doc feels bile bubble in his throat. He chokes it down.

  This all seems like a terrible idea. But what choice do they have?

  * * *

  Doc is sitting on his sled smoking a cigarette when the men arrive.

  Swift pulls the Chevy up next to him.

  Fiske says out the passenger side window, “Why aren’t you in town?”

  Ackerman laughs. “You see the Army in there an get scared? Poor precious Doc.”

  Doc shakes his head. “No. It’s cuz there ain’t no town left.”

  * * *

  Mosshart says to Gordy, “Don’t look at the bodies.”

  “Sure,” Gordy says. He gawks anyway.

  It’s the pieces of people they can’t get over. Arms. Legs. Sometimes one of the men sees a finger. If it was just corpses—Christ, there’s someone’s fuckin face there in the snow. Sloughed off like fat from the bone.

  They wait outside the general store with the dogs.

  All they can do is try to process the devastation.

  * * *

  Doc, Swift and Ackerman stand inside Mags’. None of em is sure if they’re looking for supplies or people.

  The shelves are all overturned. Stock splattered and destroyed. There are signs of a firefight. Pockmarks in the walls. Holes from burrowers. Blood from people. The corpse of a soldier. Part of one, anyway. And part of one of the centipedes.