"Never mind.'" Disgusted, Harrison shook his head. "If we survive, then I'll tell you." He didn't turn around so he wouldn't have to see the sneer he knew Ironhorse would be wearing.
"Did I interrupt something?" Ironhorse's tone was all innocence.
Harrison went straight to the next ship without answering.
They set explosives in the next two ships without incident, and climbed out of the third ship to find Suzanne waiting anxiously for them. She stood clutching the tank, a worried expression on her face. "We need to get out of here. I think someone's coming."
Ironhorse cocked his head to listen. "Helicopters. Two of them."
Harrison peered uncertainly at the hangar entrance. "How do we know if they're good guys or bad guys?"
"We don't," the colonel replied. "But considering what we're doing, it doesn't make much difference. Come on—we'd better take cover."
Ironhorse dashed to a far dark corner and hid behind a stack of cobweb-covered wooden crates.
Suzanne and Harrison followed and crouched down, Suzanne sandwiched between the two men. The thumping of the chopper blades grew louder; they had landed, Harrison guessed, just outside the hangar entrance. Stay calm. We were probably spotted by some airmen on maneuvers, that's all.
"How much time?" he asked the colonel.
Ironhorse held his watch in front of his eyes and squinted at the digital display. "If we're not out of here in ten minutes, we get to be part of the fireworks." His face was grim.
A sound: someone trying unsuccessfully to open the door. This was going to be bad. Suzanne was squeezed so close to Harrison, their shoulders touched. He could feel her tense next to him.
He whispered in her ear, "Look, I was just trying to say before: thanks for believing me. I can't tell you what your help has meant to me."
She looked at him and tried to smile, but her eyes were wide and frightened. He realized that his own fear had eased in the face of his concern for her and her daughter.
"Look, I feel terrible about this," he said truthfully, too low for Ironhorse to hear. No point in holding back anything; speak now or forever hold your peace. "My own hope was that Debi wouldn't have to go through what I did."
Her expression warmed at that; she managed a weak smile. "Maybe she won't. Maybe that's just air force people out there."
He smiled back, encouraged. "Maybe. And if we do make it through this—"
The metal door exploded under a hail of bullets, shrapnel flying into the hangar, scattering across the floor. Harrison ducked lower and squeezed his eyes shut. Next to him, Suzanne trembled ... or was that himself?
"Shit," he breathed, but it was drowned out by the explosion. He raised his head cautiously and peered through the spaces between the crates. Soldiers were filing into the hangar. His initial reaction was relief— so they'd be arrested by the air force. He could deal with that.
But then he noticed the uniforms were wrong. These guys were army, not air force . . . and as he watched, he saw that some of the men's uniforms were torn and stained with congealed blood. One of them, obviously in charge, turned his head to survey the room . . . and revealed a face half shot away, a red, pulpy mass of dried blood, muscle, and cartilage. Harrison looked away, sickened.
"Jesus," Ironhorse whispered. "My men. Those are my men." He moved as if to rise; Harrison reached past Suzanne to lay a restraining hand on the colonel's forearm.
"Not anymore," he said softly.
The soldiers divided into three groups, each group heading for a ship. With intense relief Harrison realized they didn't suspect anyone else was in the hangar. Maybe there was a chance to make it out alive.
The three huddled behind the crates, not making a sound, until the last soldier made it onto the last ship, and the hatch closed. And then one of the ships began
to hum; its metal began to pulse, dark silver alternating with hot white. Harrison glanced, terrified, at the red targeting eye. Still dull—but the minute the aliens activated their sensing devices, they would discover the three humans hiding in the darkness.
He leaned forward to whisper to Suzanne and the colonel. "We've got to go now—before their ships sense us." He got up and ran, half crouching, toward the entrance, staying in the shadows along the walls. For an instant the memory of thirty-five years earlier threatened to overtake him. Suzanne. Think of Suzanne. Got to be sure she makes it out okay. . . .
The thought steadied him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Suzanne following, carrying the heavy tank, with Ironhorse bringing up the rear. As he watched, the colonel stopped suddenly, his expression stunned. Harrison followed his gaze. Blocking the entrance was the soldier with the blown-away face, who raised his M-16 threateningly at the escaping trio,
"Reynolds," Ironhorse whispered, then: "Gordie? Don't shoot." He spread his hands in a gesture of friendliness. "Gordie—it's me."
Gordie was unimpressed. He took aim.
Swiftly, Suzanne stepped forward and pointed the tank's nozzle at Gordie; she closed her eyes and turned away as a cloud of gray mist enveloped the soldier.
None of them moved as Gordie dropped the rifle, coughed a few times, staggered forward, and fell.
"It worked!" Suzanne cried, exultant. "My bacteria worked! We can use this on them!"
Gordie coughed again—then, before they could make it past him, began to craw! toward the dropped rifle.
"Better recheck that formula," Harrison told her. He swung the satchel of equipment in a wide arc and struck the fallen soldier on the head—with absolutely no effect whatsoever. Gordie moved relentlessly toward the gun.
With an expression of hardened pain, Ironhorse lifted his own rifle and took aim.
He didn't have time to shoot. Gordie fell forward, his back arching as a convulsion gripped his entire body. His skin began to bubble and swell until it burst, spewing pus and blood and decaying tissue—what was left began to dissolve into an obscene, vile puddle of ooze. Beneath, something dark and living writhed, struggling to free itself.
Ironhorse's mouth twitched slightly as he fired— once, twice, three times, until the thing ceased moving and lay still. He looked up at Harrison and Suzanne, his face terrible. "Let's get out of here."
They ran through the open personnel entrance. Once outside, Harrison gulped in the fresh air and began to run toward the helicopters. The colonel caught him by the arm, almost yanking it from the socket. "No! They expect us to head there! This way!" Ironhorse took off for the open field, beyond which lay the cover of the forest.
"Jesus," Harrison whispered, stopped dead by the horrifying familiarity of the scene. The open field, the pursuing ships . . . The nightmare was becoming reality again ...
"Come on!" Suzanne came up behind him and grabbed his hand tightly. "They're coming! Run!"
She gave his arm a hard jerk, pulling him off balance. Harrison stared at her without comprehending at first—then descended into terror, and ran.
Behind them came a tortured groaning sound, the sound of the huge hangar doors sliding open for the first time in decades. Running wildly, Harrison glanced over his shoulder to see a bright beam—the alien death ray—streak out from the hangar's interior. The helicopters outside glowed a brilliant, painful orange and burst into flames that quickly extinguished themselves, leaving only smoldering, blackened skeletons.
The sight of it made them run harder, crazily, both of them fighting to keep their balance on the uneven terrain. Harrison's breath came in ragged, sobbing gasps. Well ahead of them, Ironhorse disappeared into the cover of the forest.
The air was filled with a deep, ominous hum. At the sound, Harrison's skin began to tingle. He looked back again to see a lone ship sail gracefully through the open hangar doors, past the smoking remains of the choppers. It paused, hovering a mere twelve feet from the ground . . . and its great red eye began to rotate, searching for the intruders.
The shelter of the forest was only a few yards away.
And then Harrison stumbled over a l
arge rock and lost his balance. Suzanne struggled to hold on to him, to keep him moving, but lost her grip on his hand. He fell hard, facedown, onto the sparse grass.
He pushed himself up and looked over his shoulder.
The ship was gliding closer. Harrison felt the hair on the nape of his neck rise.
Harrison, no—
He looked in front of him. Through wisps of smoke that drifted over from the incinerated helicopters, he saw Suzanne stop running and cry out his name, her hazel eyes large with terror, the tendons on her white neck standing out like cords. She was starting back to help him to his feet.
Harrison—
No, Suzanne! He waved her on, tried to scramble to his feet. Run—
But she froze, her eyes wide and terrible, focused on the approaching ship.
Behind them the great eye paused as it found its target.
Harrison dropped back down and covered his head as the ship fired.
Xashron was filled with exhilaration to be at the controls of a ship again, with Xeera and Konar on either side of him.
"Prepare to destroy their vessels," he ordered, and waited while the last soldier pulled open the hangar doors before dashing back into the sister ship. "There is no point in allowing them an easy escape."
Xeera peered into her viewer, her human form hunched over. The host bodies were awkward, since the ships were not scaled for them, but there had been no time to exit them. "Door open, Commander."
In a weak voice Konar relayed the targeting informa
tion to Xeera, who was poised over her control panel. Konar sighed and rested his head against the panel.
Xashron eyed him with concern. There was no better place for a soldier like Konar to die than at his post, but they could not ajford to lose their targeter now. "Are you able to perform your duties, Konar?"
"Yes," he replied weakly, but was barely able to raise his head.
There was nothing to be done about it; Xashron turned to Xeera. "Fire."
Xeera complied. "Helicopters destroyed; but instruments indicate that the humans are fleeing by foot in the direction of the forest."
Xashron glanced at his unsteady officer. "Target them, Konar."
Konar struggled to do so. "Targeted, Commander."
"Fire."
Harrison felt searing heat skim across the top of his head; for one horrible second he was afraid to open his eyes, afraid of what he would see.
And then he heard Suzanne scream. In front of them a tree exploded in a blaze that faded quickly to blackness. She ran to him, pulled him to his feet, and together they dashed toward safety. Harrison turned to see the targeting eye rotate again, focus on them, and stop as it prepared to fire.
Strong hands grabbed him, pulled him into the protection of the forest behind the cover of a small rise. Suzanne, still fiercely clutching "his hand, was dragged along with him.
"Down!" Ironhorse barked.
Harrison dropped onto his stomach and craned his neck to see over the rise. Their pursuer had stopped; gracefully, the other ships floated out from the hangar to join the first, and the three jockeyed into a triangular formation. Slowly, the deadly triangle made its way toward the humans cowering in the forest.
"Well, shit," Harrison said, bitterly disappointed. It was the only word that summed up the situation, and at the moment he very much understood why on flight recorders recovered from fatal plane crashes the last words of the crew the instant before impact were invariably of the four-letter variety. Now only Norton and poor Clayton would be left to fight the aliens: would they be able to find others to help them?
Harrison glanced over at Suzanne, who lay next to him, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I'm sorry, Suzanne," he said lamely. "And awfully sorry for Debi. I didn't mean for this to happen."
She opened her eyes to look at him, the corner of her mouth quirking with wry resignation in the midst of her fear. "Oh, what the hell." She shrugged cavalierly. "At least it's for a worthy cause. But don't apologize, Harrison. It's hardly your fault. Frankly, I think you're a truly good man."
"I hate to interrupt the love fest," Ironhorse said dryly, "but don't make out your wills just yet. It's just about ten minutes." He glanced from the approaching ships to his watch. "Three ... two . . . one . .. now?'
Nothing happened.
Konar struggled against unconsciousness. His wounds from the human firearms had been extensive, and he had lost a great deal of bodily fluids, which left him weak. So weak that he was aware of the human host struggling to reclaim the body that Xana had permitted him to use.
He obeyed Xashron's order to target the fleeing humans once more, then slumped over his panel to rest. One arm dangled down and brushed against something unfamiliar, foreign—a lump of malleable material with wires and a small mechanical device stuck to it. He stared curiously at it for a moment, then consulted the host brain—a female named Urick, with an incredibly forceful personality. Urick had some military knowledge, and recognized the substance immediately: plastic explosives.
When Konar digested what this meant, he struggled to lift his head, to cry out a warning to the others.
Urick did not let him.
He was weak and dying, too weak to fight her, and in a sheer burst of will she took ascendancy and held him there, silent, in his position, not even allowing him to bend down and remove the explosive.
Urick, too, was weak and dying, but her determination was strong, and the explosive was her chance for freedom, for an end to her torment, to the twilight half-death she endured.
In her brush with Konar's mind, she realized that the explosive would end more than her torment alone. She knew little of the aliens, but she had glimpsed the destruction envisioned in Konar's dying brain. Perhaps
393
her hopes of revolution had been naive, narrow-minded, unrealistic; perhaps she had failed in what she set out to do in Jericho Valley, but she would not fail now.
There's more than one way to save the world.
"Konar?"
Alien gibberish; deep, harsh, grating sounds, but somehow Urick understood that they were speaking to her.
"Konar— " The one named Xeera leaned forward to peer curiously at her. "Answer. What are the coordinates of our targets?"
Urick laughed silently. Konar was dying; Konar could not give the coordinates if he wanted to, and Urick would not let him if he did. She glanced down at the timer; there were only seconds left.
The other, Xashron, in the body of a strangled young soldier, rose from his post next to her and moved toward her. "Konar—obey your command, or I shall call one of those below to replace you." He leaned over Urick, brushed against the edge of the panel. Something made him glance down, and see the explosive stuck there; the eyes of the dead soldier widened.
"No!" From the terror on his face it was clear the alien understood. He reached forward with human hands to tear it from the panel, to destroy it.
Konar was dead, and Urick was dying now that his alien strength was leaving her. With enormous effort she rose and fell forward onto Xashron, forcing him to stagger backward, away from the panel. She was too weak to stop him, but she could try to slow him down until—
The timer reached zero.
Liberation, my friend.
The world exploded into a painfully beautiful fireball.
Harrison clicked his tongue in disgust. "And you said you were an explosives exp—"
The first ship burst into a ball of dazzling light, followed swiftly by two more rapid-fire explosions. The force of the blast made the ground shudder; Harrison covered his head with his arms as debris rained down from the sky.
Bits of metal stung as they pelted his back. Long after the shrapnel stopped falling, he stayed facedown in the grass, arms shielding his head.
Silence. Then someone touched him, gently, on the shoulder. He lifted his head and saw Suzanne. She was sitting up, bits of grass clinging to her dark hair. "Harrison," she said huskily, smiling, but her mouth twitched as if sh
e were holding back tears. "Get up, Harrison. It's all right. It's over."
Harrison, darling, get up—
It's over.
He heard the words without understanding them, and pushed himself to his knees. For a moment he stared at her, then tilted his head back to gaze up at the silent sky. The ships were gone; what was left of them lay scattered in twisted heaps of wreckage for as far as Harrison could see.
The sense of relief was dizzying. He reached for Suzanne and gave her a fierce, grateful squeeze. "You're all right. Thank God. Thank God." He laughed softly at the sudden absence of terror and released her.
Ironhorse gave him a joyful slap on the back that nearly made him pitch forward. "We did it!" The colonel grinned toothily. "Son of a gun, Blackwood! We did it!" He held out a hand and pulled Harrison, then Suzanne, to their feet.
"We did it all right," Harrison said, his joy tempered with the memory of past sorrows as he studied the wreckage littering the field.
"It's all over," Suzanne repeated to herself, gazing back at the hangar entrance. "Thank God it's all over."
He stared at her. She was white-faced, dazed, still in shock. He was overwhelmed with relief that they had not been killed, that they had destroyed the ships before the aliens had recovered them, but his relief darkened as an unwelcome thought began to repeat in his brain: It's not over. Not over at all. It's barely begun. .. .
EPILOGUE
For the first time in years Harrison went to bed and slept a dreamless eight hours. By the time he was wakened by a knock on the door, sunlight was filtering through the curtains of the bedroom window. He sat up stiffly and blinked at the clock on the nightstand: seven-thirty, but it took him a minute to figure out whether it was morning or evening. He was still dressed in the army uniform; he hadn't even taken his boots off, had just fallen onto the bed without pulling down the covers and gone immediately into a deep sleep.
"Harrison?" Mrs. Pennyworth called softly on the other side of the door.
"Yes?" he croaked. His throat was parched and
sore.
"There is an important telephone call for you. Dr. Jacobi."
J.M. Dillard - War of Worlds: The Resurrection Page 29
