Stranded

by William Vitka

  Not cuz he likes Doc. Ackerman just wants to fight.

  Doc pats Ackerman on the shoulder.

  Ackerman steps back.

  Doc glares at Whitmore. Says to Miller, “I ain’t sayin we all need to be chums here. But maybe we should wait to start throwing punches till we’re not under threat of being eaten.”

  Whitmore breathes once. Heavy. “You’re still an asshole.”

  Doc says, “Kettle, black.”

  “Okay,” Miller says. “Enough bullshit. From both sides. I don’t like standing around out here. At all. Join me in my office. I’ll fill you in.”

  * * *

  Mags passes out in one of the back rooms.

  Fiske walks with a stiff leg. He spots a worn down couch and flops onto it. He lays back, wounded leg outstretched. “I could sleep for days. Months. This’s the most comfortable I think I’ve ever been.”

  Miller says, “We aren’t going to be here that long.” He tosses the greenhorn a beer from Doc’s dogsled. “I can empathize with you about the leg, though. What happened?”

  “One of the centipede things. Swift calls em ‘burrowers’ and that’s as good a name as any. Thing popped outta the ground. Grabbed me with these pincher...pincer arms. Cut my leg up real bad.” The kid takes a sip of beer. “I think it wanted to eat me.” He shivers.

  Miller drinks from his own can. “It did. I saw them do it. In Wiseman.”

  Fiske nods. “What happened to your leg?”

  “IED in Afghanistan. Ended up looking like my leg had been through a deli slicer.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Miller shakes his head. “Haven’t heard from him in a while.”

  * * *

  Doc brings the dogs in.

  As always, they wanna sniff everything.

  This is a brand new place. They need to check it out.

  Alien horrors or not, interesting smells need to be investigated.

  Such are dogs.

  Angel and Dean pant around. They take particular interest in a trashcan that stinks like death. Knock it over. And promptly roll in it till Doc drags them away.

  Rocket, Pharaoh and Button clamber over one another to plant their doggy butts on a couch. When they finally put their snouts down, they look quite a lot like Fiske: Comfortable after more than a few miles of insanity.

  Rubin sticks with Doc.

  Duster, Dean and Winston, however, think Whitmore is absolutely fuckin fascinating. The corporal tries serving as lookout at the windows, but can’t withstand the slobbery onslaught.

  Mosshart says, “Go ahead, son. Enjoy some fluffy love. Gordy and I’ll watch out here.” He nods to Ackerman and Kong. “You guys should probably check the other rooms.” He thinks of the electric fence. “Maybe see if there’s a spare generator or something.” He smiles. “At least till help shows.”

  Ackerman grins. “Cookin bugs.” He laughs. “Come on, Kong.”

  Whitmore says, “Thanks.” He scratches the dogs’ chins. Lets em lick his face. Without thinking, he starts talking gibberish to them. They wag their tails. Happy as hell.

  Doc walks by. He cocks an eyebrow at Whitmore. “Oh yeah?” He can’t quite bring himself to be pissed at a guy who likes dogs this much.

  Whitmore shrugs. “I grew up with dogs. After what I saw last night... This is just the medicine I need.” He makes a kissy face at Duster.

  Doc tosses Whitmore a beer from the sled. “They don’t call me ‘Doc’ for nothing. I got the cure for what ails ya.”

  Whitmore drinks between loving the huskies. “Thanks. And I guess I apologize for that before. Outside. I’ve never seen... I’ve never even heard of shit like this.” Whitmore drinks again. He turns his eyes to Doc. “Man, you use that line on chicks at bars? ‘I got the cure for what ails ya?’”

  “Sometimes.”

  “It ever work?”

  “Nope.”

  * * *

  Gordy stares out across the airfield.

  He knows they’re watching. The pilots.

  He hasn’t figured em out yet. But he can hear em. Something left over from that explosive radio blast. Something that got stuck in his head.

  And sometimes he thinks he can see em. Slender things moving between the trees. Blue. With their strange disc heads and their yellow eye.

  He thinks they’re as curious as he is.

  But he doesn’t tell the others.

  No. They’ll think he’s nuts. Even with everything that’s happened. With everything the other men have seen. He thinks the men’ll still think he’s nuts.

  He can’t trust any of em. Not entirely.

  * * *

  Swift comes back from checking on Mags. He wipes his hands on his pants and says to Fiske, “How’s the leg?”

  “Not bad. Gettin better.”

  “Glad to hear.” Swift taps Miller’s shoulder. “Lieutenant. I’m sorry about before. We’re all strung out.”

  Miller says, “I am very, very aware of that fact, Mr. Swift.”

  “You still pissed at us or are we okay?”

  Miller nods in the direction of his beer. Doesn’t make eye contact. Says, “We’re okay.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “No offense, sir, but the plan is to get you the fuck out of here so that me and my men can push up toward that ship. That’s not a knock against your ability to survive—I’m shocked as shit that you’re all here, frankly—but at the moment you’re just another thing for me to worry about.”

  Fiske says, “Going home is a great idea. I’m in favor of that part. Let’s do that.”

  * * *

  Gordy sees them. Really goddamn sees them.

  Out across the landing strip.

  They’re right there.

  * * *

  The dogs hear the Chinook transport helicopter first. They’re all up. Acting jittery.

  Doc says to Miller, “Best early warning system there is.”

  “Yeah.” Miller gestures to the group. “Everyone, civvies, get your shit together. The cavalry is here.”

  The roar of the big chopper’s engines fills the air.

  Swift makes his way to the back and rouses Mags.

  * * *

  They stand out at the airstrip.

  Doc wants to keep the dogs inside till the ship lands. Last thing he needs is one of em chasing a big old wheel on a helicopter.

  The survivors stare up at the dot. It grows larger.

  Doc taps Mags and wraps his arm around her. He plants a kiss on her forehead. Says nothing, but lets her head fall against his shoulder.

  It’s gonna be all right.

  The ever-growing speck and the roar of the dual chopper engines means home. It’s safety. It’s guns. Tools and vehicles and equipment to push the nightmares away.

  It is the most wonderful thing they have ever seen.

  Gordy stares at the shapes of the pilots across the airfield.

  They stare back.

  Big yellow eyes telling him...

  Gordy looks back to the Chinook. It adjusts as it comes in lower.

  Mosshart says, “What the hell is that?” He points to the right.

  Another speck rises from the forest. A dark thing shaped like a Manta Ray. It sounds like a whisk hitting a metal bowl. A high-droning tone. It elevates. Then barrels toward the Chinook.

  The Chinook dips. Its front-mounted M134 miniguns open fire but they don’t connect. The ray’s moving too fast. It cuts through the air like a fly. Changing direction at whim.

  There are no escorts for the Chinook. No gunships to offer more protection.

  Miller realizes this too late. He looks to Whitmore. Panic on both their faces.

  The ray swoops to its side. A flying ax head.

  Miller thinks about the men who were sliced in half with a whisper at Wiseman.

  He hates himself for not realizing it sooner.

  The ray roars. It plunges into the Chinook’s midsection.

  The sky explodes. The ray bursts out
the other side of the fire that used to be a marvel of modern military engineering.

  The aft section of the Chinook falls. Its front half points down. Both halves spin in wild loops out of control, propelled by helicopter blades no longer working in tandem.

  Swift screams, “Run!”

  Miller shouts, “Get out of its path.”

  They do. Scared rabbits jumping and panting and juking. Into the snow. Into the shrubbery. Anywhere but where they think debris is gonna land.

  Mosshart and Swift grab Mags to move her.

  Doc grabs Fiske’s arm and hustles with him.

  Gordy chances a glance toward the pilots.

  They ain’t there anymore.

  The forward rotor of the Chinook hits the tarmac. The blades snap and carve into the asphalt. There’s a bomb blast of burning, screeching metal. The front half of the chopper explodes along the way. A wayward blade obliterates the Humvee. Men inside the Chinook’s cargo bay shriek as they’re burned alive. The disaster grinds its way along the entire length of the airstrip. A football field-long trough of devastation and death.

  Everyone is scattered now.

  Miller says, “Sound off!”

  They all do. They’re all okay.

  Whitmore crawls toward the burning wreckage.

  Doc hears his dogs going mad inside. They bark. Shove their noses against the glass.

  Swift looks up. Mags shrieks next to him.

  Kong hauls himself up on his feet.

  Mosshart hollers at him, “Get down, you asshole.”

  “Maybe someone’s alive. I want to see—”

  There’s a whisper. A shadow the shape of a Manta Ray flashes across the ground.

  Kong stops. A horizontal line appears across his chest. His clothes start to fall away. His gun. Blood pours from a paper-thin wound.

  The top half of the cook slops to the ground.

  Mags and Mosshart both cry out.

  Swift clamps his hand around Mags’ mouth. “I’m sorry, but shut up.”

  Whitmore and Miller eye each other. Then nod.

  Miller says, “Crawl. Back inside.”

  “Jesus,” Ackerman says, “Kong. We just lost Kong.”

  “Crawl,” Miller says. “Unless you want to join him.”

  * * *

  Ackerman says, “The fuck are we supposed to do now? What’rwegonnado?”

  Miller says, “I don’t know yet.”

  “Get back on the horn. Call the Army back.”

  “Humvee’s gone. Radio was in the Humvee.”

  Miller lets that sink in.

  After a minute of watching the loggers swill beer and light cigarettes, he says, “We need to come up with something else and fortify our position. I don’t think they want to risk losing their flyers against buildings. So we’re safer indoors.”

  Doc shuts all the dogs except Rubin in one of the spare rooms. The one in back Mags had been resting in. They’re good. They’re trained. But he doesn’t want em charging off getting into trouble. He wants em safe.

  Whitmore says, “We fortify. We hold our position. We rethink everything.”

  Miller says, “Army knows that ship went down. They’ll send more reinforcements. We don’t make the same mistake twice.”

  Doc thinks about his brother. All the other soldiers who’ve lost limbs cuz the military has a habit of doing the same fuckin thing over and over and over. “You assholes don’t have a clue what you got yourself into.”

  Before Miller can respond, Gordy walks to the front door. Ready to go outside again.

  They all stop and watch him.

  He grabs the handle that reads PUSH and says, “They’re here.”

  27.

  They all think about stopping him. But they don’t. Some of its numbness and trauma. Most of it’s the feeling—the certainty—that they’re totally fucked anyway so what’s the point.

  Rubin’s leashed to Doc’s hand. That doesn’t stop the husky from trying to break free.

  It’s the only time Doc’s ever seen the dog behave like this. Which is to say: Rubin’s never misbehaved. Except when Rubin was a puppy a lifetime ago.

  Doc shouts, “Fuck.”

  Rubin won’t sit. Bad sign.

  Doc draws his Colt. Aims at the door.

  Whitmore, Miller and Mosshart shoulder M4 carbines.

  Swift has his Browning up but he’s not looking through the scope yet.

  Mags gawks alongside Fiske.

  Ackerman can’t decide between his chainsaw and the M4 he yanked off a dead soldier. He thinks, I’ll miss that weirdo Gordy, I guess.

  Gordy opens the doors.

  Three pilots stand before him. Tall. Ten feet. Maybe a little more. They’re spindly. Thin. Delicate looking. Blue, with those bizarre disc-shaped heads and the one bulging gleaming yellow eye.

  His comparative shortness lets Gordy see a shark-like mouth, a flap filled with teeth, on the underside of their heads.

  Gordy hears the men behind him shift their weapons.

  He hears Rubin snarl and struggle.

  He thinks, I knew it. I knew they were there. I heard them and know I’m seeing them. And I’m not fuckin crazy. I’m not fuckin crazy. And I’m gonna be the first human alive to communicate with aliens. Holy shit. I’m the first human ever.

  Gordy offers the pilots a meek, “Hi.”

  * * *

  Doc’s having trouble keeping Rubin in place.

  He listens to the other dogs and hears them going bugfuck.

  He worries that they’ll chew their way out.

  * * *

  Ackerman decides on the Stihl.

  He fires up the chainsaw and lets it chug.

  The mean machine’s growl is enough of a message.

  * * *

  Miller mutters, “If the gang at The Boneyard could see me now...”

  Whitmore cocks an eyebrow at him.

  Miller says, “Heisenberg and the lot.”

  Whitmore says, “They’d be impressed.”

  * * *

  Swift thinks, Someone needs to do something.

  * * *

  The pilots move first.

  They duck their gangly bodies and walk forward. Human ceilings are too low.

  Gordy backs away. Lets the three aliens crouch-walk into the room with the men.

  Rubin approaches psychopathic. Doc’s not sure he can hold him. And part of his mind is telling him he shouldn’t. But he does.

  The lead pilot, the one walking in front of the others, stares at Doc and Rubin. Or whatever the hell might be considered staring since the pilots don’t have pupils.

  Doc fingers the trigger on the Colt. Says, “You hurt my dogs, you’ll be dead before you hit the ground.” He looks to the two pilots behind the main one. “You and your pals.”

  The lead pilot looks to its two cohorts.

  They back away toward the wall.

  The lead pilot takes a knee. It offers its emaciated blue knuckles to Rubin, in spite of the husky’s snarls and manic drooling.

  Rubin shuts his snout. Sniffs the creature. Starts licking the pilot’s hand.

  Like that. The spell is broken. Rubin loves the goddamn aliens.

  Doc looks to Whitmore. “I’m starting to think my dogs have bad taste.”

  Whitmore smirks. “Jackass.”

  Doc lets go of Rubin’s leash. The dog sniffs around the pilots, who wouldn’t be wise to start some shit now. Three of them against a bunch of armed and angry humans. Species intelligent enough to build a ship that can travel the cosmos should fuckin know better than that. And they appear to.

  Miller steps forward. “I’m Lieutenant Zach Miller. I’m in charge of—”

  The pilot disregards Miller. Or doesn’t understand. Or doesn’t give a damn.

  It reaches a long blue hand to Doc.

  Doc has no idea why it does this. Because he’s the animal handler? Maybe it’s spent this time watching how people interact. Maybe it’s seen all the stupid movies we’ve broadcast
ed out into space.

  But it is a uniquely human gesture.

  Whitmore and the others lower their weapons.

  It’s a handshake, right? It wants to shake hands.

  Doc doesn’t look to his human compatriots. He looks to the pilot before him and the two aliens behind him. Trying to maintain eye contact.

  Rubin saunters back and sits. The dog yips.

  Like, Hey, they’re okay. I swear.

  Doc takes the alien’s hand. It is huge and cold and leathery in his grip.

  He shakes it once. Up and down.

  Doc says, “Now tell me what the hell we’re supposed to do.”

  The pilot nods.

  28.

  The humans and the aliens stare at one another. Both sides waiting.

  “No offense, Doc, but I’m not taking orders from you,” Miller says.

  Doc says, “Well that should do us all fine then, on account of I ain’t giving any.”

  “I mean, again, this is no knock against you, but I am still in command. I still have to answer to General Anderson. I still need to bring in resupply.”

  “I’m not arguing with you.”

  “Good.” Miller stops. He scratches his cheek. “Good.”

  Doc closes an eye. He looks Miller over. “The hell old are you, lieutenant? You’re acting like a nervous kid.”

  “You aren’t nervous? I’m thirty-one. Hardly a kid.” Sounding indignant now.

  “I suppose.” Doc scratches his beard. “And I’m nervous too.”

  “Great. So how the hell old are you?”

  “Guess.”

  “I don’t know. Forty?”

  “Shit.” Doc points to his face. “Is it the beard?”

  “Mostly.”

  Miller stops. He thinks of Kong. “Look, the aliens—”

  “Pilots,” Gordy interrupts.

  “Pilots,” Miller says, “for all we know, they think Rubin’s in charge. He was the first one they approached.”

  Swift says, “They took Doc’s hand first.”

  Doc says, “So what?”

  “So talk to them, for fuck’s sake,” Mosshart says.

  Doc watches the pilots shift on their gangly legs.

  * * *

  The pilots speak with difficulty. Still figuring out just how humans converse. The inflections and nuances. But it’s clear they’ve done their homework. Whatever that homework may have been.