Stranded

by William Vitka

  He can run with the pilots. Get close to em. Watch em in all their crazy glory.

  He doesn’t think of the dangers. Doesn’t think of the other guys.

  Doesn’t consider the fact that one of the flytraps might scoop his own body into its digestive flaps. Absorb him. Dissolve him. Eat away at his skin and bones till he’s meat slurry.

  No.

  He wants to leave this awful planet.

  This awful planet and everything else on it can burn.

  He pretends Jennifer is cheating on him to make the thought go down easier.

  39.

  The dogs sleep on makeshift beds in the garage. They eyeball Whitmore and Miller. Curious. But without any particular emotion. They’re tired.

  Whitmore says, “I gotta do what?”

  Miller says, “I need you to watch Doc’s huskies.”

  “I’m a fucking dog walker now?”

  “Jesus Christ. We’ll shore up the garage. You make sure those dogs stay safe.”

  “I should be on the front line. You know that. Who else survived Wiseman? Who else has been by your side and covered your ass through this chaos? Me. Me.”

  Miller doesn’t snap easily. But he grabs Whitmore by the collar and brings his face up close. “I don’t hate you. However, I am sick of your shit. There are four men in the other room—four civilians—who are storming the gates of Hell with two goddamn blue aliens to make sure that this planet survives.

  “Our job is to hold the line. Our job is to draw out as many of the rotten bastards as we can. Cuz maybe we can make it a little easier on the loggers, who are doing this cuz they think they need to.

  “So if I tell you that you need to protect the one thing Doc actually gives a shit about on this blue marble, then you will do it or I will shoot you myself.”

  Whitmore shakes. “Yes, sir.”

  “Besides,” Miller says. “The dogs actually like you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Miller leaves.

  Whitmore sits down with a huff on a stack of wooden pallets. He clasps his hands in front of him. “Well. That could’ve gone worse, I guess.”

  Rocket and Angel trot forward. They sit on their haunches. That uncanny ability of the canine to detect when a human is in distress. Angel moves his muzzle close to Whitmore and chances a gentle lick at the soldier’s fingers.

  Whitmore smiles. He rubs Angel’s head, then Rocket’s. “Maybe I am an asshole.” He lets em lick his face. He sighs. Tired and sad. Cuz he knows he’s let Miller down. Even if it’s in some way he doesn’t understand. “You know what?” He arches his eyebrows, as Rocket and Angel both compete to lick his face. “I’m glad you guys don’t give a crap.”

  Whitmore slings his M4. Walks over to where the other huskies are piled up on top of one another. He sits on his ass in the middle of them. Lies back so he’s staring at the corrugated metal ceiling.

  There’s a sudden, literal dog pile.

  Whitmore’s twelve again. On a farm in Pennsylvania with his parents. His father, James Senior, is just outside, cleaning one of the horses. Picking mud from its hoof.

  Whitmore’s in one of the farther stalls with his mother, Colleen, where their Collie, Stella, is giving birth to a litter of puppies.

  He and his mother watch as they spill onto the hay-covered floor. Stella licks at them and cleans the afterbirth from their tiny, sightless bodies.

  Whitmore uses a towel to help. So does his mom.

  The puppies sniff their way to their mother’s teats.

  Their eyes open a few days later. They become wobbly squeal machines.

  They’re also very interested in crawling over Whitmore and leaving him covered in as much drool as possible.

  That’s what he remembers when the huskies curl up around and on top of him. He knows the dogs are exhausted. Scared. They need someone to look out for them.

  “All right,” he says. “Any goddamn bugfucks come near? They’re dead.” He pats the dogs’ sides. “I promise. You guys’ll be safe.”

  40.

  Doc and Miller stand near one of the gunships on the runway.

  The sun creeps over the horizon. Red streaks claw at the sky. They push back the inky darkness.

  Doc hefts the tanks of the flamethrower. “Holy shit, this is heavy.” He throws it over his back. Stumbles for a second while his legs adjust to the weight.

  “Hey, you asked for it,” Miller says. “The M9A1-7, hot or not, isn’t a skinny gal.”

  “I like em with curves.”

  Rubin paces between the lieutenant and the sled driver. Excited. Whimpering. Probably sensing that there’s a trip in his near future.

  Miller says to Doc: “You better. We took these out of service for a reason. Too hard to move. Dubious combat results.” Miller adjusts the tank straps so they’re snug against Doc’s frame. “For all of the weight, you’ve only got seven seconds or so of full burn and then you’re empty. The wand unleashes a half-gallon a second. That’s the back trigger. The front trigger is the igniter. Hold the front trigger then the back one, and you get a sixty-foot stream of death.” He arches his eyebrows. “You hold the back trigger without the igniter, you’re pissing gas with no burn.”

  “I feel like there’s a sex joke waiting there, but I can’t think of it.”

  Miller pats Doc’s shoulder. “Well, when you do, you let me know.”

  Doc hunches forward. Tries walking. It’s rough going. Each step takes effort. Nothing like the movies. He won’t be jogging anywhere. On the other hand, a few short bursts from the flamethrower should make short work of the alien bug bastards.

  Unless they just lunge for him while they’re on fire.

  That would suck.

  Rubin jumps and plants his front paws against Doc’s leg. It throws the sled driver off balance. He stumbles to one side. Tries to recover. Can’t with the unusual weight on his back.

  Doc falls against the snow-covered ground.

  Rubin licks his face.

  Doc groans. “You’re not helping.” He gets to his knees. Grabs Rubin by his fuzzy face. “I love you, but I’m gonna shoot you.”

  Miller helps Doc to his feet. He slings Doc’s heavy Henry over the Irishman’s shoulder. Hands him extra mags for the Colt on his side. “You’re carrying a lot of extra weight into combat. Sure you want to do that?”

  “The dogs’ve done more for less.”

  * * *

  Swift gets into the copilot seat next to Fiske.

  The greenhorn stares down at the Huey UH-1Y’s instruments.

  Swift says, “You ready?”

  “Y’know...in a weird way? This is the most comfortable I’ve been in a while.” Fiske leans back against the seat. “This is where I shoulda been all along. At the stick. No bullshit. Just fly.”

  Swift smiles. “Glad you’re here, kid.”

  Fiske smiles back. “Yeah. Me too.”

  * * *

  Gordy walks between the two pilots. He doesn’t know if they consider him one of their own. Maybe they do. Maybe they don’t. But Bugs is still wearing an American flag. Wile E.’s still wearing his heart shirt.

  And they talk freely while Gordy’s there.

  The ship’s almost operational.

  We have to make sure future warmachines cannot function without their harnesses.

  Why would these creatures could harbor such resentment against us? To organize so quickly and carry out their orders, but then be so ready to head back to our home world and seek revenge. A strange dichotomy.

  Gordy thinks: You guys are dicks. Space-age politicians.

  He covers his mouth even though he hasn’t used it. A child ashamed for speaking out of turn. But he’s listened to the banter long enough.

  Bugs and Wile E. stop walking.

  Gordy turns to them. “Well it’s true. You engineered all this. You made it happen. You got into the wars and you didn’t want to fight those wars yourselves. You can bullshit the other guys but you can’t bullshit me. I can hea
r you no matter what tongue you use.

  “The fuck is the phrase?” He thinks for a second. Points his index finger at Bugs. “They’re coming home to roost.” He snaps his fingers. “These motherfuckers are coming home to roost.”

  Bugs says, “I do not understand.”

  “It means you done fucked up is what it means.”

  * * *

  Doc climbs into the Huey. He taps the floor of the big chopper and Rubin jumps onboard. The husky sits himself on one of the seats arranged like benches. Tongue wagging. Like the dog knows he’s going for a ride and hey, it might be fun.

  Doc reaches for the seatbelt to buckle Rubin in. Stops. Says out loud to himself, “Why the fuck would these fit a dog?” And throws the belt away. He grabs Rubin’s collar and digs into his coat pocket for the carabiner he keeps his keys on. Frees it. Clasps the seatbelt buckle and then Rubin’s collar. He yanks on the belt. It stops with the force. “Well, at least that’ll keep you from plummeting to your death if there’s a squirrel you feel like chasing.”

  * * *

  Gordy and the pilots stand outside the chopper on the opposite side of Doc.

  Gordy says, “Hop on in.”

  Bugs Turns to him. “Not yet.”

  Wile E. grabs Gordy’s shoulders. The alien holds Gordy’s hands behind his back.

  Gordy starts screaming when Bugs breaks his fingers and flays the flesh of his palm.

  * * *

  Rubin barks and tries to get around the seats but the belt keeps him in place.

  Doc crawls through the center of the Huey’s seating compartment. Comes out the other side of the helicopter. Brings his flamethrower up. “Drop him.” He points the nozzle of the flamethrower at Bugs and Wile E. “You might fry me but I’ll get a good shot off.”

  Miller and several dozen troops surround the aliens and the screaming logger.

  Bugs holds Daffy’s recovered palm blaster up. “Do not shoot.”

  Gordy winces. “It’s gonna be all right. Just. Hurts. A lot.”

  Bugs lowers the blue disc-shaped device into Gordy’s hand. Five black tendrils crawl out. Flap around. They dig into the muscle and bone of Gordy’s hand.

  Gordy screams again.

  The alien palm blaster settles itself into Gordy like a tick.

  He falls over.

  The pilots stand back.

  Doc and Miller and the operators watch. All anxious.

  Gordy holds his hand. Shrieks. The biomechanical tool finishes affixing itself.

  He stands. Slow. Unsteady.

  Bugs says, “This protect him.”

  Doc shouts to Gordy, “You all right?” Keeps the flamethrower trained on Bugs.

  Gordy says, “Getting there.” He stares at the alien thing in his palm. It glows. Red instead of blue. “This is a gift.”

  Doc lowers the flamethrower. Says to Bugs, “Why’d you need to do that like that?”

  Bugs says, “Is a test of worthiness. Surprise and pain.”

  “Well, the guy passed. Can we get on with our impending doom now?”

  * * *

  Bugs settles into a seat. Awkwardly.

  Wile E. bows his head next to Miller.

  Miller says, “Why aren’t you on that chopper?”

  Wile E. turns to the lieutenant. “Me more effective here.”

  “No, no. You need to get into your spaceship. With your commander.”

  “More effective here,” Bugs says.

  Miller doesn’t want the alien around for a variety of reasons. One being that he doesn’t totally trust the spaceman. The other is he’s worried about his own men getting too twitchy with the pilot in sight. He gestures to Wile E. the way he would a cat. “Go, go.”

  It’s almost exactly as effective, too.

  Wile E. nods once to Bugs then heads toward the Wiseman office.

  Gordy says, “C’mon, Miller. You gonna say no to that extra firepower?”

  Miller squints at Gordy. Bites his lip. Thinks, Goddamn fuckin horseshit. He pounds the front of the Huey.

  Fiske primes the engines.

  There’s a high whine. The blades start to spin up overhead.

  Fiske shouts, “You got any regrets, better make peace now.”

  Miller leans into the cockpit. “Remember—” He taps Fiske “—you head east, loop north. You bring us down. You haul ass back here.”

  Fiske nods. He thinks, Stealing the Huey’d be easy. Just fly away.

  He looks over his shoulder.

  Bugs sits motionless. The pilot stares at him.

  Fiske coughs. Thinks, Never mind.

  41.

  Miller watches the chopper and its cargo of men from Sugar Tits head east. The whump whump whump of the Huey fades after a minute. Becomes a faint drone.

  Miller studies the airfield. The machinegun nests are in place. Four Browning M2 fifty-cals—two on the office roof, two on top of the garage—wait for whatever horrors come streaming out of the woods from the north.

  Wile E. bounds up to the roof of the garage. He takes his gangly place between the two fifty-cal nests. A sentinel.

  Miller hopes the pilot knows what he’s doing. Hopes, more, that the pilot’ll work with his own men and do something besides freaking em out.

  Other soldiers man machineguns from atop Humvees on the ground. And next to the Humvees stand teams of riflemen and flamethrower units.

  He isn’t allowing any foot patrols. But the Vipers fly without end. If they get a visual, they’re under orders to engage. Scorched Earth-style. Anything with more than two legs dies.

  Which is fine in theory, Miller thinks. But these cocksuckers like to tunnel right under our feet. And the burrowers aren’t even what I’m worried about.

  The Hroza.

  It still scares the shit out of him. And he never managed to get a good look at it.

  He climbs up an exterior ladder to the roof of the office. A meager HQ with camo netting fixed to aluminum poles behind the gunners. It has one thing he wants to keep his eyes on: The seismometer. Since the damn thing’s used to track motions in the ground, like earthquakes, he’s hoping it’ll give him a heads up on the warmachines.

  At least, that’s what the movie Tremors 2 taught him.

  He watches the screen. Concentric circles show the area around the sensor they planted at the edge of the airfield. He kinda wants to see a blip. So he knows the damn thing works.

  He needs to draw the aliens out so the road’s open for Doc.

  Or at least a little less deadly.

  Fuck it.

  He keys the microphone on his headset so he can talk to his men. “Boys, are you ready to start some trouble?”

  The response is a unified: “Yes, sir!”

  Miller casts his eyes to the pilot.

  Wile E. salutes him.

  Miller smiles. “Then it’s time to get these bugfucks’ attention. There are four civvies burning a path to that crashed ship. They’re bringing one of the aliens with them. One of those big beautiful blue bastards who can stop all this.

  “We have to clear the way for them. Draw the monsters out.

  “You like this planet? I do. It’s mine. And no motherfuckers from space are going to take it from me. It’s time to kick these rotten bitches out. Lemme hear you.”

  “Hooah.”

  “I said, Lemme hear you.”

  “Hooah.”

  “That’s right. Let’s show em the door.”

  Part Five: The Hroza

  42.

  Doc pats Rubin’s furry flank.

  The Huey passes the ruined remains of Wiseman. The fires seem to be out, but there’s still smoke in the air. It curls in on itself. Black wisps snaking.

  “At least I know Michael ain’t down there,” Doc says to nobody.

  Gordy says, “Who?” The guy still playing with the skin around his new palm blaster.

  Doc grimaces. “My brother.”

  “He’s in the Army?”

  “Was. Before some fuckin Iraqi militant
blew his leg off with an IED. Sneaky pricks.”

  “Your brother and Miller have somethin in common.”

  “Miller didn’t lose his leg.”

  “I’m just sayin I can understand why he’n Miller might be a little xenophobic.” Gordy nods toward Bugs. “Maybe you too.”

  “That right?” Doc lights a cigarette. He squints at Gordy. “What’re we? Children? Wasn’t no Iraqi put my brother in harm’s way.” Now he nods to Bugs too. “Politicians did that.” Doc exhales a cloud. “Maybe someday we can make the greedy bastards fight their own wars.” He locks eyes with Gordy. “You can go ahead and translate for your alien buddy if you need to.”

  Bugs stares down at the floor of the chopper. Glances once at Doc. Then returns his gaze to the floor.

  Gordy says, “No, I think he’s got it.”

  Doc sees the obvious shame the pilot feels. He feels bad for a heartbeat. Pity.

  Then he thinks of Kong. Ackerman. Mags. Mosshart. Winston. All the people of Wiseman. All the soldiers Miller lost.

  Anger reasserts itself.

  Yeah, the pilots’ll say this is just a fuckup. They didn’t mean to do any of it.

  Doc inhales. Exhales. Thinks, Still, at least they’re working to clean up their own mess. He chuckles to himself. Unlike the weasels in Washington.

  Bugs shoots Doc another look.

  Doc says, “Don’t mind me, bub.” He offers his hand to Bugs. “Just your garden variety angry American. But I got that whole drunk Irish thing happening too.” He smiles.

  Bugs takes his hand. They shake.

  Bugs says, “I will make it right.”

  “Boyo, you better.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes and they’ve looped all the way around the edge of the aliens’ landing zone. Fiske pushes them north to get them ahead of the ship. He turns the Huey so that they’re pointed south.

  * * *

  Swift says to Fiske, “What’re you gonna do after you drop us off?”

  “Been thinkin about flyin this bird to some island in the Pacific, where it’s ninety in the shade and the girls don’t wear much.”

  “Hell, this’s only a twenty-two million dollar machine. Military won’t mind. Drop in the bucket for them.”