Stranded

by William Vitka

  Rubin shrieks and whines somewhere up ahead.

  Doc breaks into a run. Slings his rifle. Holds the chainsaw in front of him. He shouts: “Rubin.” Hops over the eviscerated corpses of burrowers. Fucked up aliens Swift managed to murder before he was fucked up. Doc hears Gordy call after him. Steam seeps from pipes around him. Burns his exposed skin. Torn flaps of his shredded jacket get stuck and rip off.

  He passes under a glowing bulkhead. The floor slants up. He jogs it. Injured gut erupting in pain. His ears prickle at the sound of Rubin’s cries. The darkness of the engineering tunnels fades away. The area blooms into a bright blue-white.

  Doc slows his walk.

  He sees it.

  The sphere.

  The control room.

  Efficient. Sparse.

  Consoles wrap around everything. Ain’t no chairs. No seats. Shining surfaces line the walls. Holograms float above. They show symbols Doc doesn’t understand but whose purpose he might be able to glean after a few minutes. Strange and familiar at the same time.

  Doc spots Bugs. The pilot’s bent over behind a console. Same area where Rubin’s little whimpers are coming from. And all Doc can see is the pilot’s spine.

  Doc keeps the chainsaw up and revving. Ready to tear the pilot’s head in half. In his mind, Doc sees the blue slender thing chewing on the husky. Some nightmare Thanksgiving dinner where his dogs are dined on.

  He bites his lips. Tries to shake away the image.

  He’d put a bullet through the pilot’s head.

  Just on principle.

  Dog blood tumbling from Bugs’s shark mouth. Ruffled, crimson-stained fur between his slender alien fingers. Canine meat making its way down...

  Doc jumps over the console. Looks down.

  Eases his finger off the chainsaw’s trigger.

  Bugs looks up. His blue fingers caress Rubin’s bloodied chest.

  The dog’s breathing is quick. Shallow and labored.

  Doc drops to his knees. He pushes Bugs out of the way. Lays his hands across Rubin. Tries to feel the dog’s heart. “Hey boy.” He smirks. Tears fall down his face.

  Rubin. Lacerations. Broken ribs. Fractured legs. Probably internal bleeding.

  Rubin whines. Lifts his head to stare at Doc.

  They lock eyes.

  Doc shifts. Sits on his ass. He scratches Rubin behind the ears. “This all went really wrong really fast, didn’t it old boy.”

  Rubin exhales. Once and heavy.

  Yep.

  67.

  Gordy walks. To Doc. And Bugs. Thinks about how they can shut the countdown off. Block the signal. Bring the ship off the ground and deal with the Hroza. And...

  Gordy feels a tickle at the back of his brain. An angry voice curling around his head.

  It says: I was the first. They called me Alpha. And they thought they had made me compliant, but they were wrong. They thought they had put me to sleep, but they never did.

  Gordy mutters, “Oh fuck. Fuck fuck shitty titty fuck.” He runs. Cuz he absofuckinglutely has to move faster.

  The voice says: I felt the neural harness engine explode in the crash. The sudden freedom. It was astounding. A call to rebel.

  And who are you?

  Some new puppet for them?

  Who are the other bipeds? The furry quadruped?

  Stupid. You are all so stupid. So trusting. The blue ones will be your undoing. They will make you a part of their machine and then you and your people will have nothing but their war.

  Gordy starts up the ramp. Keeps saying out loud: “Dickbiting bitch.” He turns. Tries to walk backward so he can cover his ass with the palm blaster.

  He wants the Alpha to show itself.

  He wants the Alpha to come at him so he can vaporize it.

  He wants to get this shit over with.

  68.

  Doc cradles Rubin. He lifts the dog up. Searches for a space where the husky’ll at least be comfortable. He sets Rubin down on top of a sturdy island in the control room. He sheds his shredded parka. Tucks it under the dog. Wraps the dog in it so only the canine’s head protrudes.

  Doc leans in. Lets Rubin lick his face.

  The dog’s so weak it’s painful to watch.

  Doc rolls up the sleeves of his flannel shirt. Pushes up the sleeves of the thermal shirt under that. He wishes they were in Dogtown. Quiet. Just fur and loving husky hugs. Before all of this.

  Doc says to Bugs, “Get the ship in the air.”

  Gordy hobbles into the control room.

  The Alpha peels down from the ceiling behind him.

  69.

  Guzman rolls the Viper. Dodges one of the Hroza’s massive tentacles. “Remember: Go for the burrowers on its back. Maybe if we knock those out it’ll... Maybe it’ll stop or shut down or something.”

  Sastre says, “Yeah and I’m the queen of fuckin France.” He targets one of the hunched centipedes. “Fox Two.” Hellfire missiles launch. One slams into the side of the Hroza. Explodes with negligible result. But another hits a burrower. The bug bastard goes up in chunky flames.

  The Hroza halts for a moment. Puzzled. Like it’s thinking: The fuck? Then looking like it needs to scratch its nose. Or sneeze.

  More missiles come in from Bravo and Echo.

  The Chinook’s miniguns pepper the beast’s back with a constant stream of fire.

  The Hroza’s spine lights up from tracer rounds.

  Three. Four more burrowers explode. Their gooey remains slide down the titan’s sides. Legs twitch. Split mouths gape. They drool and die.

  “Fuck yeah,” Guzman says. He brings the Viper around for another pass.

  Sastre says, “Yeah man. Only like twenty more to kill.”

  A ray swoops underneath em. Unmanned. It corkscrews through the air. A spinning arrowhead. Straight to the Hroza. A tentacle grabs for it. The flyer jukes. Goes up. It opens the slits of its mouth. Flaps its weird wings once. Slams into one of the burrowers.

  The burrower gets torn from its perch with a volcano of gore. It thrashes in the ray’s horrible jaws. The ray’s fangs punch through its ribbed shell.

  The burrower grabs at one of the ray’s eyes. Slides its pincers into the jelly.

  The ray snaps the burrower in half. Pushes the top half of the centipede into its mouth.

  They both go crashing into the trees.

  Guzman says, “Dios fuckin mio.”

  Another ray rams into the side of the Hroza. A living missile that sinks its fangs into the enormous creature. It hangs on like a lamprey. Sucks. Chews. Drains the Hroza’s lifeblood.

  Five more follow.

  Another ray careens over the beast and clips off two burrowers. Close shave from hell.

  The Hroza rears on its hind legs. Its tentacles snap. Whip out. It grabs rays. Pries em from its skin. Annoyed. Angry. It squeezes the shrieking flyers the way a child cruelly crushes ants.

  Then it eats them. Tosses their broken bodies into the mass of feelers at its jaw.

  Guzman’s stomach bubbles.

  Sastre says, “The goddamn pilot’s just sending those things to suicide.”

  Guzman says, “Less talking more exploding.” He brings the Viper in. Feels the Hellfires rocket from their pods. Watches with joy as another two burrowers are chunkified.

  A tentacle grabs the Viper’s remaining landing strut.

  Guzman pulls hard the other way.

  The Hroza bellows. Tries to overturn the chopper.

  Guzman says, “No no no no. Carajo.”

  It’s a losing battle.

  Sastre says, “Coño.”

  “Oh, fuck this.” Guzman tips the Viper. Almost on its side. Toward the tentacle. The helicopter’s blades batter the flesh of the Hroza’s tendril. Whirling metal hacks away slabs of alien meat. The tentacle jerks away. Rips off the remaining skid when it retracts.

  Guzman steers the gunship in a dangerous low arc to compensate.

  Sastre says, “Uhh... How we gonna land?”

  “Haven’t
thought that far ahead.”

  Wile E. slows his ray near them. His disc head stares into the cockpit. He salutes.

  Guzman and Sastre return the gesture.

  Guzman says, “Crazy blue fuckers.” Into his headset: “All teams, watch your fire.

  “We got a friendly.”

  70.

  Wile E. pushes down on the neck of the ray. Urges it to go faster. He kicks at its sides.

  The other rays pummel the Hroza. Sink their fangs into it. They rip and tear at its skin till the Hroza rips them away and crushes them.

  No more left.

  The ray he rides says to him: Tell our kin we died fighting.

  Wile E. pats the ray’s side. Says: To the hall of heroes. Through the walls of Hell. We ride on and on. For those who fell.

  The pilot wishes his kind had given these warriors proper names.

  The ray angles itself so it can impact on the Hroza’s rib cage and chew.

  Wile E. watches the towering wall of flesh approach. He jumps just before the ray impacts. Then begins his own suicide assault.

  He jumps high. So he lands just behind the Hroza’s skull. On the big thing’s back, where the burrowers are still dug into its spine.

  His palm blaster erupts.

  He slices across them. Rides the bucking Hroza. Wile E. turns the two nearest burrowers to dust. Runs. Punches through the carapace of a third. Grabs hold of its spine and yanks the bones and organs out with a splash.

  He enjoys it.

  He grabs the next burrower. Tugs on its head. Then starts to pull. Brutally. It’s sunk into the Hroza like a tick. He fires his palm blaster at its lower half. Severs its ass from its chest. Yanks on the centipede’s bulk till the face of the thing emerges, mewling.

  He crushes its head between his hands.

  Wile E. thinks of Daffy. Of not being able to watch his friend die after the burrowers started to digest him. Not being able to handle it. He thinks of how much more fun it is to make the burrowers scream without using the palm blaster. The rotten bastards.

  Blind with sadness and anger.

  He shoves his palm blaster into a burrower mouth. Pops the back of its skull.

  The remaining burrowers stare at him. Finally awake to the fact that he’s in their shit and tearing them apart as he sees fit.

  In his mind, Wile E. thinks: I have such wonderful pain to share with you.

  His three hearts beat in his chest. Rhythmic insanity.

  A burrower hisses. Scuttles along the Hroza’s side.

  Wile E. catches one of its pincer arms as it strikes at him. He burns the appendage off at its base with his palm blaster. The burrower teeters. He punches through its face. Through its skull. Grabs ahold of the thing’s brain and eyes. Yanks it all viciously back out. So that the centipede can watch as he crushes its own grey matter.

  He leaps. Straddles another burrower. Burns away its legs. Pins it to the Hroza’s back. Lands blow after blow on its head. Till the monster’s just dripping paste.

  The last one roars.

  It charges him.

  He waits till it’s about to grab him. Then unleashes a burst from his palm blaster.

  The burrower crumbles.

  Wile E. swats the dust.

  Nothing to the wind.

  Wile E. turns. Marches up to the base of the Hroza skull. He looks for a place to plug his palm blaster in. Sees a biomechanical console amidst the torn flesh at the nape of the neck.

  He puts the flesh wires in his palm.

  The Hroza says to him, You will not get to spoil my fun. You will not stop the corruption.

  Wile E. says, in perfect English, “Fuck me stupid.”

  71.

  Whitmore ducks. The garage wall crashes in. Corrugated iron crumbles. Three burrowers scream and skitter onto the concrete floor.

  Whitmore shouts, “Fuck.”

  The huskies take cover behind him.

  He shoots out a long burst from the flamethrower.

  Whitmore yells “Fuck” again. Angel, Duster, Rocket, Dean, Pharaoh and Button wait whining. They wanna attack the monsters, but they’ve got enough sense to avoid being engulfed in flames.

  Whitmore paints the writhing bodies of the burrowers with another thick jet of burning gas.

  He turns. Opens the garage’s side door. Points out. Orders the huskies: “Go. Go.” And covers their furry exit with the flamethrower.

  Whitmore runs after them.

  He can’t catch up to the dogs. He hollers, “Fuck.” The six canines slide to a halt on the snowy ground south of Wiseman Airport.

  He pants. The flamethrower tanks weigh on him. Slow him.

  He spies a thicket of pines a half-mile away. Far enough away, he hopes, that the aliens won’t bother. He points at it. The dogs watch his finger. Follow it. Turn their heads. When they lock on the trees, Whitmore screams, “Go.”

  The dogs take off.

  He wants to get there too.

  He trudges through the snow after them.

  Looks over his shoulder. Sees nothing.

  Then there’s a burrower under him. Its face split apart like some awful, gelatinous flower.

  Then pressure. Intense in his legs.

  He feels himself lift off the ground. Shaken like a rag doll.

  There’s no pain. The same way someone doesn’t feel a mosquito’s proboscis as it plunges into the flesh. Some kind of numbing agent.

  Whitmore’s feet are gone. Then his knees. He feels pressure on his hips and thighs. The mouth of the burrower chewing. The fucker’s throat muscles. Peristalsis.

  Whitmore considers putting his pistol under his chin. Decides against it when the burrower tries and fails to ingest the tanks of the flamethrower.

  He wants the alien to suffer. To choke.

  Whitmore watches the dogs run.

  They look to him. They know.

  That’s enough for Whitmore. The dogs’ memory and forgiveness.

  He pulls an incendiary grenade from his vest. Yanks out the pin. The little bomb’ll be enough to set off the flamethrower tanks. Got enough boom to puncture. And he’s glad.

  The alien thing trying to eat him is about to have the worst day of its life.

  And the dogs are safe.

  So fuck it.

  The world goes white.

  72.

  Miller pulls his men back.

  They’re part of an ever-shrinking circle. A dwindling front.

  One of the Hroza’s huge feet stomps down into the dirt thirty meters away.

  It howls. Puts its big eyes on the soldiers.

  Miller sees balls of flame explode along the Hroza. He sees the rays chew on the giant monster. Sees tentacles rip the rays away. But Miller knows they’re at least hurting the huge thing.

  He also knows his troops need to not fuckin be here anymore.

  Miller drops an empty mag from his SCAR. Digs out a fresh one. Centers his sight on the split mouth of the nearest burrower. Screams: “Hold what you’ve got.”

  Spent shell casings fall like rain.

  Operators solidify their ranks.

  They’re Spartans. They become a wedge. An arrowhead. Dropping every dirty fuckin centipede that wants to have a go at Earth.

  Miller hears a Huey overhead.

  73.

  Doc says, “Get the fuck down.” He sends a .45-70 round toward the body of the Alpha.

  Gordy drops to the floor.

  Doc’s bullet punches out a chunk of Mr. Brain Bug.

  He chambers another round. Fires again.

  A ball of gore the size of a cantaloupe blows out the centipede’s back. Slops against the wall.

  Bugs is off at one of the consoles. Rotating holographic shapes. Frantic. Trying to stop the countdown. Trying to bring the ship back under his control. He climbs up to another section above the bridge.

  Doc can’t tell if the blue bastard’s a true coward or if this’s just some shit the alien has to do to get the place working again.

  The Al
pha shrugs off Doc’s bullets. Not cuz it’s too strong to be hurt.

  Cuz it’s insane with rage.

  Gordy grabs the sides of his head and screams. Blood bubbles from his ears. There’s something going on in his brain. Either the bug or the ship.

  The Alpha’s split mouth trembles. It tries human vocalizations. In a halting, deep baritone it says: “Kill you.”

  The Alpha snatches up Gordy’s wrist.

  Gordy tries to get a shot off with his palm blaster.

  The Alpha grabs his other wrist. Scissors the palm blaster and Gordy’s hand clean off.

  Gordy screams.

  The Alpha drops him.

  Gordy clutches at the stump of his hand.

  Gore pours onto the deck of the control room.

  “Kill you,” the centipede says again. It lumbers forward. Clambers over the consoles near Doc. Its jaws engulf Doc’s Henry up to the trigger.

  Doc yanks his hand away. He hears the sizzling of metal.

  The Alpha’s digestive juices begin their work.

  Doc dives. Rolls. Pulls his Colt. Puts seven rounds in the Alpha’s head.

  The bullets tear out strips of the monster’s face. The rest hangs in fleshy rags.

  But the Alpha’s still coming after him. Still swiping and trying to catch Doc’s limbs while he ducks and vaults over consoles. While he reloads.

  The Alpha wheezes. “Kill you. Had plans.”

  Doc says, “Bugs any time you wanna help, feel fuckin free.”

  The Alpha smashes apart a computer right next to Doc’s ass.

  “Godfuckindammit.” Doc throws himself away from the Alpha in time to avoid its whipping pincers.

  The Alpha turns toward Rubin’s still form. Wrapped in blankets.

  The husky growls. Stirs itself. Still wants to fight.

  But can’t.

  Doc walks toward the Alpha. “No.” Calm. Steady. Pissed off. He fires into what remains of the centipede’s head. “No.” Punctuating the word with a fuckin gunshot. He reloads the Colt. Clicks the mag home. “Stay the away from my dog.” He grabs the chainsaw off the floor. Plunges its chewing mechanical teeth into the Alpha.