Stranded

by William Vitka

  Fiske smirks. “Man, I’m tellin you. I don’t get laid after all this, I’m gonna pop.”

  “You’ve got that gimpy leg, so I’m sure there’s a pity-fuck in your future.”

  Fiske snorts. “I wouldn’t object. Too bad we can’t listen to some music on the radio or somethin.”

  “What’re you gonna play for four guys, a dog, and an alien, Mister DJ?”

  “AC/DC.”

  “Highway to Hell?”

  “Sounds about right.”

  * * *

  They swoop over the tops of the trees. Close. But not close enough for one of the spider-things to latch onto a landing strut.

  Fiske remembers how the other chopper crashed.

  He slows the Huey down.

  The ship’s in sight.

  It looks...

  New.

  * * *

  Bugs throws open the side door of the Huey.

  Wind slams Gordy, Doc and Rubin.

  Doc says, “The fuck?” He makes sure Rubin can’t get loose.

  Gordy says, “Bugs sees somethin.” He steps forward. Grips handholds to keep from falling. “There, there. Can you see it?”

  Doc ignores his basic instinct to live. He unbuckles himself. Steps with caution to the open door and the hundreds of feet between him and the ground. He stands with Gordy and the pilot. Finds it hard to breathe—cigarettes not withstanding—as gusts slap his face. He pulls down his goggles and covers his mouth with his keffiyah.

  Then, he see it.

  The saucer. Swift had told Doc the thing was huge. And Doc had watched it careen over the camp. But its sheer size had never been cemented in Doc’s mind. A half-mile in diameter. At least.

  The Hroza stands near it.

  Now in the light for the first time.

  The thing. The titan. The behemoth. Forty-feet high. A hundred-feet long. Maybe more. Eight legs. Tentacles down its side. With a tail that looks crustacean. Some fucked up arachnid-squid hybrid. But it’s got a skull that looks fleshless and... human. With two bulging blue eyes. A mass of feelers where the lower jaw would be on any mammalian head.

  Doc looks to Bugs. “Why the fuck would you create a nightmare like that?”

  Bugs says, “Did not create. Found. In space. Told you. The Hroza. Corrupted. Carries parasite.

  “The Hroza is not alone on Earth.”

  Doc eyes him. “I don’t wanna know what that means.”

  * * *

  Fiske pulls back on the stick. “Holy shit.”

  Swift leans forward in his seat. He grabs a pair of binoculars.

  Two days ago, the alien craft was broken. Destroyed. Like a kid’s model smashed against a wall.

  Now it’s out of the mountain.

  Now it’s hovering over the ground.

  None of them realized the size of it.

  Swift’s brain seizes at the sight.

  Thick columns of burrowers and spiders. Organized. Rays zip and zoom over them.

  Doc tells Fiske: “Pull us back a little. Don’t move forward. Let’s pretend we’re lucky to’ve escaped attention. And keep it that way.”

  Swift says, “They’re getting ready to wage war.”

  “That’s their job. Ours is to get the pilot on that ship.”

  “You’re starting to sound like Miller and Whitmore.”

  “That’s arguably the most hurtful thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He says to Fiske: “Get on the horn. Tell Miller what we’re seeing. Tell him we’re ready to go in, but we need him to draw em out.”

  Fiske mock salutes. “Yessir, Cap’n Smokey McDrinksalot.”

  Swift hands Doc the binoculars. “It’s bad.”

  Doc holds the binoculars up.

  All those burrowers. Spiders. Rays. The Hroza.

  Doc says, “Definitely bad.”

  Fiske slams his fist against the dash. “Apparently we all forgot that radios don’t work around the fuckin ship.” He tosses his helmet to the floor. “Just like camp.”

  43.

  Miller looks at his watch. It’s been forty-five minutes. More than enough time for Fiske to move the Sugar Tits men around and up. He hasn’t heard from em. But he knows the ship’ll screw with any transmissions.

  Now’s the time.

  He taps the microphone on his headset. Says to the five Viper crews he’s sending off: “Once you near the ship, I won’t be able to talk to you. And you won’t be able to talk to each other. Be careful.”

  * * *

  Gunships rise into the air. Flown by soldiers Miller doesn’t know. Not personally.

  He thinks of em the same way he thinks of Doc’s dogs.

  That’s not a sleight. Not a slap. Not a backhanded compliment.

  The best beasts Miller can compare these men to are Doc’s dogs.

  Fierce. Loyal. Deadly.

  Fighting to win at any cost.

  44.

  Doc watches the mass of spiders and burrowers through the binoculars.

  They’re gearing up. That much is obvious.

  He sees rays slow over em.

  He exhales through his nose. Looks back at Bugs and Gordy.

  Man. They’re all a long way from booze and porn and smokes.

  He looks again to the alien army on the ground.

  Just in time to see an explosion tear through their front line.

  45.

  The Vipers roar in like lions in the morning sun.

  Their Hydra rockets bring hell to the invaders. Their M197 20mm gatling cannons chew into the burrowers and punch deep, deadly wounds. Bits and pieces of the aliens burst. Gore splatters everywhere. The maelstrom of firepower melts the snow and sends bodies flying.

  It’s chaos.

  A single attack isn’t enough to turn the tide—not even close—but it’s impressive.

  Warrant Officer John Guzman’s never seen anything like it.

  His gunner, Warrant Officer Dom Sastre, shouts, “So did they put all the spics in one chopper to make sure none of us survived or what?”

  “I think it’s got more to do with the fact we’re very good at what we do.”

  “Yeah, but I mean, if we get hit or something, we’re both dead and there go the Hispanics.”

  “We ain’t gonna get hit.”

  “Oh, you got a lot of experience fighting aliens?”

  “Shut up and gun, man. We gotta get the bad guys to follow us to base.”

  Guzman banks hard left. A ray zips by so close he can see the ugly centipede thing riding its back. See its wormy split mouth and its creepy long pincer arms.

  Guzman says, “That’s what we’re worried about. One of those rays hits you, it tears the chopper in half.”

  Sastre grunts. Targets another batch of spiders on the ground. Their limbs fly in multiple directions when his rockets explode.

  Guzman dives. Another ray. Too close. “Target the ships, man. The ships. Base can handle the ground troops.”

  Sastre squints. “Follow the one that just buzzed us.”

  Guzman rotates the Viper. He sees bird from Delta to his right. There’s a ray coming in fast behind it. He screams into his microphone to warn the other heli but all he hears is static.

  The ray slices through the Viper’s midsection. Whatever the ray’s made out of, it rips the metal of the gunship apart. Two halves rupture and tumble.

  The Delta pilot and gunner fall from the chopper. They pop their parachutes.

  Guzman winces.

  Their slow descent over the bloody battlefield makes em look like appetizers.

  Another ray comes at em.

  The front of the creature unfurls. Two fangs spread. Upper and lower flaps of a membranous mouth fly open.

  It goes for the pilot first. Stabs him with one of fangs. Grabs the gunner with its other fang. Plunges both into its huge gaping mouth.

  Guzman can imagine the sounds. The screams. The bones crunching between the jaws of the hideous soaring abomination. He sneers. In his head, he hears someone chewing chunky pe
anut butter.

  He goes after the ray that buzzed his gunship. Pushes the stick forward. Pushes the Viper to its limits while Sastre tries to get the evil thing targeted.

  Sastre says, “Almost...”

  Guzman dips and turns.

  “...Got it.”

  Guzman feels the cannon thud under his feet. 20mm rounds hammer the ray’s ass. Chunks of the biomechanical flyer flay off. He fights to keep the Viper on it.

  He expects the engines—or whatever—to go up in a gout of flame. Instead, the air shakes with the creature’s howls. Baritone ululations. Its rear half crumbles and bleeds. There’s a torrent of red mist. Blood rain.

  The ray shrieks again. Spills into the trees.

  Guzman sees the enormous Hroza. It charges forward. He pulls back on the stick. Brings the Viper up in time to avoid one of its menacing tendrils.

  “I think we pissed em off,” Sastre says.

  “That’s a solid assumption, man.” Guzman dives low. Around the Hroza. Its awful skull face leers. The creepy human eyes in its otherworldly form glare.

  Guzman says, “Put some Hellfires in its gut.”

  “On it.”

  The Viper shudders. Four missiles streak away. They impact. Explode.

  With no result.

  The Hroza shakes its head. It rears back on two of its eight legs. The tentacles along its side lash out. Two Vipers swoop under the whipping limbs. A third gets caught. The Hroza crushes the chopper easy as a beer can. Another pair of tentacles reach in and pull out the flailing pilot and gunner.

  Guzman sees each man put their service pistol under their chin. There are two small flashes. The pilot and gunner stop moving.

  The Hroza slides their corpses into the feelers that hang where its lower jaw should be.

  Guzman hears the sickening sound of crunchy peanut butter in his head again. The Hroza strides after him. He makes a beeline for Wiseman airport. Says, “Miller’s gonna hand these motherfuckers their own asses.”

  “Here's hoping.”

  46.

  Whitmore hefts the heavy flamethrower onto his back.

  He hears explosions thump in the distance. So do the huskies.

  The canines and their temporary master stand at the front of the garage. Its big doors are open, but they’ve been sandbagged. The walls are six feet, with gaps so a soldier can shoot out.

  It’s another Dogtown.

  And also a final defensive position if shit goes bad on the runway.

  Whitmore peers through one of the gaps.

  A few of the dogs jump up on their hind legs. They wanna see, too.

  “Curious mutts ain’tcha,” Whitmore says.

  * * *

  Rocket sniffs in circles near the back of the garage.

  He hears something scuttling around in the wall. It’s driving him crazy.

  * * *

  Whitmore watches one of the Chinooks move forward above the tarmac. Its two M134 miniguns face the forest. Waiting either for the burrowers or the spiders or the rays to storm into the clearing.

  He checks the number of dogs near him. Counts on his fingers.

  One’s missing.

  Rocket.

  He looks back. Sees the husky paw at the wall. “The hell?” His stomach tightens.

  The other dogs take notice and trot over to their companion. Soon they’ve all got their muzzles around the same chunk of wall.

  Whitmore readies the flamethrower wand. The igniter pops to life.

  He snaps his fingers to get the huskies’ attention.

  They ignore him.

  He whistles.

  Nothing.

  He says, “I’m trying to help you here.” He thinks about Doc. “Oh yeah.” He clears his throat and barks: “Fuck!”

  The dogs stop. Turn to him.

  He points to the sandbags. Snaps his fingers.

  The dogs move about halfway. Then sit next to Whitmore.

  That’s as good as he’s gonna get.

  Whitmore nears the wall. They follow a few paces behind him.

  He can hear tiny clicks. A lot of tiny clicks. Like someone tapping their nails against aluminum siding. Which it is, in a weird way.

  He knows it’s the baby burrowers. Probably enough to take over him and the dogs.

  The realization pisses him off.

  Whitmore’s pretty sure there’s a smart solution to this problem, but he doesn’t have time. He doesn’t give a shit, either. He kicks the wall where the sound is heaviest.

  The dogs yip. They get closer, but they don’t pass Whitmore’s feet.

  Whitmore shouts, “I don’t think so, little bastards.” He draws his M9 Beretta. Puts three holes into the wall. Kicks it again and again till the first layer of metal folds in and the hole is the size of his fist. He bows near it. Brings the nozzle of the flamethrower up.

  The small worm head of one of the baby burrowers pokes out.

  Whitmore says, “Hi. No way in hell you’re getting to these dogs.”

  And torches it.

  The diminutive burrower squeals. Falls onto the concrete floor. It tries to skitter away. Weak. Burning.

  Whitmore brings his combat boot down on it.

  It dies with a satisfying crunch.

  More poke their heads out. They spin their awful split faces around.

  The dogs bark.

  Whitmore says, “Not as smart as your older brothers I guess.”

  He lets loose a stream of liquid fire that engulfs the little monsters.

  They shriek. Drop. A few pop when they hit the ground. Guts boil and explode their ugly bodies.

  Whitmore smiles.

  When the things—all twelve—are nothing but crispy remains, the dogs enjoy the burnt snacks.

  “Treats for everyone,” Whitmore says. He keys his headset. Sets it to the open channel so the whole team can hear: “I just cooked a dozen of the little burrowers. They were in the walls. Watch your asses.”

  47.

  Miller watches the seismometer with increasing impatience.

  It’s just a countdown clock at this point. The number of seismic readings it gives him is approximately One Fuckton. He guesses they’ve got fifteen minutes before the first line of attackers hits the airport.

  Three of the five Vipers return to the base.

  They set down. Quick. The crews replenish their ammo.

  Miller slides down the ladder. He runs over to the Whitmore’s garage. Climbs another ladder to the top of the sandbags. Shouts, “You all right?” He sees the smoking hole in the rear wall and sees the dogs chowing down on charred little bodies.

  Whitmore sits on a stack of pallets. One of the huskies rests its head on his thigh. He gives Miller a quick thumbs-up.

  Miller arches his eyebrows. Jumps from the top of the ladder. He waves Wile E. toward him. The two jog out to his Alpha Viper team: Guzman and Sastre.

  Nobody bothers to salute.

  Miller says, “Sitrep.”

  Guzman says, “We lost Bravo and Delta. Delta to the rays. Bravo to the Hroza. Enemy ground units... Don’t know how many there are. A couple hundred. But we thinned em out pretty well. Turns out bugs don’t respond so good to high-yield explosives.”

  “Or gatling rounds,” Sastre says.

  Miller nods. “How many rays?”

  Guzman crosses his arms. “Only took out one ourselves. Tricky bastards. Hard to get a bead on. Highly maneuverable. Twelve still out there, maybe.”

  “Anyone manage to hurt the Hroza?”

  Sastre shakes his head. “Took four Hellfires to its gut. Barely fazed the motherfucker.”

  Miller looks to Wile E. “These are your freaks. Got any ideas?”

  Wile E. says, “They will regroup on move. Do not need time to recuperate. Get your flying machines in air. They will assume you expecting front attack. They will divide forces to flank.”

  “They have superior numbers. Of course they’re gonna try to flank us. Tell me how to stop them.”

  Wile E.’s
shark-mouth seems to smirk. “Put me in air above them.”

  * * *

  “I’m pretty creeped out right now,” Sastre says.

  Guzman says, “I wouldn’t spout too much shit. Miller says they can hear our thoughts. Last thing we need is the blue guy switching teams.”

  “It’s fine. I think the only thing the alien is hearing right now is, Oh God, this is so weird.”

  Wile E. looks in at Guzman and Sastre from the landing skid he’s standing on. The pilot offers a nod and a little wave.

  Guzman and Sastre shrug and wave back.

  * * *

  Miller spins his hand around in the air. He says into his headset: “This is it. This is where we make our stand. We’ve got a couple hundred squirmy pieces of shit making their way to this airfield. They want to take it.

  “I already gave you one rousing speech. What else do you want from me? Chinooks, keep your distance. You’re my mobile platforms. I want heavy fire on the tree line. Vipers, you’re ray-hunters. Grunts on the ground, I’m with you.” He hops into the driver seat of the lead Humvee. “If you aren’t pulling the trigger, you’re doing it wrong. I want the bodies stacked so high they blot out the sun.”

  48.

  Swift says, “Almost all of em’ve moved off now.”

  On the ground, they see only a few staggering shapes. Wounded maybe. Or just the vile flytraps cleaning up dead in the shadow of the massive alien ship.

  Doc says to Fiske, “Don’t think it’s gonna get much clearer than this. Let’s do it.”

  Fiske brings the Huey down.

  The men all ask themselves: Is this where I die?

  The pilot has no such question in his mind.

  * * *

  Doc slides off the Huey first. He’s got the flamethrower up. The wand primed.

  A flytrap hobbles toward him. Attracted by the noise of the chopper. Attracted by the new smell on the battlefield. By vibration or heat. It doesn’t matter.

  Doc’s weapon belches out a long tongue of flame.

  The flytrap’s engulfed. It staggers. Mutters to itself. A few squeaks. Then it’s on the snowy forest floor, cooking.