by JE Gurley
Numerous opening of various sizes dotted the walls of the chamber. Most were too small to accommodate his body or too high on the wall to reach. He took stock of his body. He had escaped the fall itself with only a few extra minor scrapes and bruises on his arms and body to go with the gash in his wrist and the cut on his forehead, but the rim of the drum had landed on his right leg, slicing deeply into his calf. It was bleeding badly. He used the last bit of gauze in his med pack to wrap it, and then tested walking on it. The pain was excruciating but he had no choice but to continue moving. The Ticks or some other creature would come looking for him or the drum.
It concerned him that the Kaiju so quickly recognized the K-2 drums as a threat. That showed a marked increase in the limited intelligence displayed by the previous three Kaiju. They had operated on an instinctive level – kill, eat, destroy, defend itself against attack. Kaiju Kiribati seemed to be one step ahead of them. He hated playing catch up.
He checked his ammo situation. He had one clip of the Kaiju armor-piercing rounds in the magazine and one and a half clips of regular rounds in his ammo belt. He had two rounds in his Beretta and one extra clip, and he had his army knife. Arrayed against him were hundreds of Wasps, Squid, Fleas, Ticks, and numerous other alien creatures. It’s like playing rock, paper, scissors, lizard, Spock against a man with a cannon, he mused sourly. He stumbled as the Kaiju lurched. It was a familiar sensation, one he remembered vividly from his ordeal inside Nusku. The Kaiju was moving. He was running out of time.
He longed to perform his afternoon Asr prayers, but he was certain that Allah would understand his urgency. His desire for inner calm would have to take a back seat to stopping the Kaiju. He recalled the story of Jonah and al-hut, the Great Fish, the Koran’s version of the Biblical Jonah and the whale. It seemed somehow fitting to his present situation.
None of the openings looked appealing. He pulled up a schematic of a Kaiju on his wrist computer. He had cracked the screen when he injured his wrist, but by holding it at just the right angle, he could see the image through the spider web network of cracks. The teams investigating the dead Kaiju had managed to map a great deal of the creatures’ interiors, but it was a slow, tedious process, made even more difficult as the organic parts of the creatures decayed rapidly after their deaths, leaving large voids filled with a stinking, viscous slime. The chamber did not appear on his schematic. He would have to trust his judgment and innate sense of direction to find a way to go deeper toward the center of the creature and forward toward the head. He would avoid the large central chamber containing the Kaiju shock absorbers. He didn’t have time for a running battle with the flat, round, lubricating creatures that inhabited that particular section that Gate Rutherford had dubbed Pancakes.
He chose a branch leading more or less toward the acid pit. He was still determined to complete the mission. So far, it had been a cluster-fuck of the first magnitude, some of it his own fault. If he hadn’t changed the target ….
“Stop this shit,” he growled at himself. “Hindsight sucks hind tit.”
He worried about Sergeant Costas. With the loss of both K-2 weapons, he was certain McGregor would abort the mission, but his stubborn sergeant was another matter. Not one to abandon a comrade, the big lug would undoubtedly jeopardize his career and his life in an insane attempt to rescue him. Costas was a good soldier, but a terrible romantic, despite his protestations to the contrary. He saw himself as a slightly tarnished White Knight with a .50 caliber lance. Walker hoped he didn’t shoot McGregor in a fit of rage. He hoped Talent had sense enough to go with McGregor. He didn’t need a civilian death on his already cluttered conscience.
He slung the K-2 drum over his shoulder and set off limping down the tunnel. If his life had been the only one in the balance, he would have detonated the bomb immediately. The Kaiju’s air ducts would disperse the nanites throughout the creature almost as effectively as its bloodstream. However, he wanted to give the others time to escape. He might as well use the time seeking the perfect spot to attack the Kaiju – one last blow for mankind. He was not concerned about himself. He was not going anywhere anytime soon.
By the time he had traveled a hundred yards, he realized he had underestimated the severity if his injury. The top of his boot rubbed against the wound, adding to the pain, and sliding the bandage away from the cut, which was deeper than he had first thought. Blood ran down his leg and soaked his sock. He would have to apply a more permanent bandage soon or bleed to death.
No section of a Kaiju was safe. In fact, he was surprised he had not already encountered something designed to kill intruders. The aliens were nothing if not thorough, designing layers of defense throughout the creature. His only hope lay in the consensus of most scientists, the so-called Kaiju experts, that most of the creatures performed more than one function. With luck, they were busy with something as innocuous as polishing the woodwork and would leave him alone.
If Gate’s theory was correct, and based on his personal observations it was, Kaiju Kiribati was more aware than the previous Kaiju. It suspected the black drums were a weapon and had taken steps to eliminate them. It would soon send some creature to seek him out and take it from him. Before that happened, he would detonate it and let the nanites do their job. If Allah willed it, so be it. He had come expecting to die.
The Kaiju lurched gain, slamming him into the wall. He leaped back before the cilia could latch onto him. “Take it easy out there, guys,” he yelled, assuming the Navy was trying to slow the creature’s advance. “I don’t mind being shaken up a bit, but have some finesse. Remember, two to the chest and one to the head.”
If the Kaiju was on the move, he hoped the bomb remained in place. If Commander Murdock succeeded in preventing the Squid from arming it, he would deal with the Kaiju. If the commander failed and Gate was right, the Kaiju might survive the resulting explosion, but he doubted anyone inside it would. The concussion would shake them like dried beans in a pair of maracas.
Two hours later, he realized he was hopelessly lost. Though the external design of Kaiju Kiribati and the arrangement of blisters along its flanks was a duplicate of the first three Kaiju, the internal structure did not correspond with his blueprint. The aliens had totally revamped the creature’s design. He wondered what other surprises it had in store for him.
He stopped often to rest and reset his bandage, but the blood-soaked gauze simply wicked blood from the wound and down his leg. He knew next to nothing about the nanites he was carrying. He had no idea how long they needed to incapacitate the Kaiju once released. If the creature continued toward Australia at its earlier speed, he had less than two hours before it waded ashore. He had to do something fast. It was time to detonate the bomb. He hoped Costas was safely out of the Kaiju.
* * * *
After assuring themselves that McGregor, Hightower, and Perez were safely away, Talent and Costas followed Walker down the shaft. Talent struggled down the rope burdened with Hightower’s appropriated minigun. He had relinquished the grenade launcher as too dangerous to use within the confines of the airshaft but felt more comfortable with some heavy firepower. When it came to aliens, there was no such thing as overkill. Unfamiliar with the climbing equipment, he dropped down the shaft in spurts and fits, slamming often into the hard surface of the shaft. He was glad to reach the bottom. Until he looked around.
“This place is from one of my nightmares,” Costas said, dodging a tendril attached to the ceiling of the chamber. It writhed like a boa constrictor dangling from a jungle tree. He pointed to three lumps that might have once been Ticks. Fleshy tendrils from the floor encased them in a cocoon as it sucked them down into the floor. “Walker’s been here.”
“Which way?” Talent asked, examining the openings.
Costas checked his wrist comp and frowned. “This can’t be right.”
“What’s wrong, sergeant?”
“This place ain’t on the map. Should have picked up a Rand McNally at the last service statio
n.”
Talent did not like the confused look on Costas’ face. “So what do we do?”
“Well, the major is a stubborn man. He would head toward the head. This thing has a control center for a brain. He knows it might take a while for the nanites to kill the Kaiju. If they started the job in the brain, it might slow it down or stop it.” He frowned. “Problem is where is the brain?”
“Well, you said the head.” Talent pointed down one of the shafts. “That’s that way.”
Costas eyed the M 134 minigun Talent carried. The 1,000-round belt was draped over his shoulder like a metal serape. “Be careful of that. It’s the best thing GE ever built. It’s made from old refrigerator parts, you know.”
Talent hefted the forty-one pound Gatling gun. It was quite an armful. It had not looked so heavy in Hightower’s big-shouldered arms. “Maybe it has a couple of cold beers inside, or a bottle of chilled white wine.”
“Nah! White wine is for seafood or veal. This here Kaiju is dark meat, kind of spicy. You want a nice Italian Lambrusco or a French Red Zinfandel. Both are slightly acidic, low in tannins, and won’t overpower the dish.”
Talent was impressed. “Why sergeant, you’re a connoisseur.”
Costas looked embarrassed. “Don’t tell anyone, but I took a sommelier course on one of my R and R’s. People will think I’m a wuss.”
Talent looked at the burly sergeant, broad nose slightly misshapen from too many brawls, his M107 SASR cradled in his arms, covered in alien blood, and laughed. “Oh, I doubt that, Sergeant.”
Costas led the way. Talent followed close behind, keeping one eye cocked on the tunnel behind him. He wrinkled his nose. If he had thought the air in the upper air duct had reeked, he was now being schooled in just how rancid air could smell before it became a solid, fetid mass of putrescence. It smelled as if the Kaiju was already dead and rotting from the inside out. He noticed Costas’ pained expression.
“What’s wrong, Sergeant?”
“I’ve smelled that stink before. It’s from the digestive pool in the head, where it dissolves its prey.”
Talent stopped moving as Costas’ words sank in. “You mean people?”
“Yeah, I mean people.”
Talent fought down the urge to puke his guts out. He knew the Kaiju ate people, as well as anything else organic, but the knowledge had been peripheral, like knowing the contents of a can of Vienna sausages or what menudo was made from but eating it anyway. As horrific as the concept of alien cannibalism was, he could not help thinking, Soylent Green is people.
He began to notice a rocking motion that did not help matters in his churning stomach. “We’re moving.”
“Yeah, I noticed that. I hope that doesn’t mean the alien bomb is armed.”
Talent pulled up short, startled. “What alien bomb?”
“A new pod landed just south of Vanuatu. Gate Rutherford, he’s one of our science buddies, thinks it’s some kind of gravity bomb. The aliens intend to detonate it above the New Hebrides Trench and start up some kind of seismic event. The Kaiju was sent to arm it.”
“Why didn’t I know about this?”
“Well, Walker told me because I’m special. He didn’t tell McGregor because he thought the bastard would turn tail and run, like he did anyway. I’m telling you because … well, who are you going to tell?”
“So what’s happening?”
Costas shook his head. “I don’t know. Commander Murdock was going to attempt to disarm the bomb. The Kaiju’s moving because either he failed and it’s running the hell away from the blast zone to save its alien ass, or he succeeded and it’s getting on with its job of killing people.”
Talent tried not to let Costas see him quaking in his boots, as he slowly shook his head and started walking again. “I need to hang with a different class of people.”
The fact that the aliens had upped the ante was disconcerting, but it fell under the category of Things I Can’t Do Shit About, Talent’s catchall category filled with a myriad of peeves and annoyances over which he had no control. An alien gravity bomb was high on the list but still three places down from Sharknado 1-3 and any beer with fruit in it.
The airshaft ended at a wide tubular corridor that disappeared into the darkness in either direction. Numerous niches in the walls contained an array of tubes sprouting from the walls at different levels, the purpose of which mystified Talent. Costas ferreted out their use. He stepped on a pad directly beneath one of the chest-high tubes and received a squirt of thick, malodorous goop on the remains of his tattered shirt.
“Jesus Christ!” he growled. “This shit stinks.” He eyed the contraption contemptuously. “It’s a friggin’ water fountain.”
“Or a feeding station,” Talent suggested. The horrific idea of aliens feeding on humans had not been far from his thoughts. He looked at one of the tubes almost six feet above his head. “What twelve-foot-tall creature uses that one?”
Costas wiped the goop from his shirt and looked at the high tube. “None I’ve seen. Whatever it is, I wouldn’t want to meet it in a dark alley.”
Talent glanced down the dark tube that looked as if it could run the entire length of the Kaiju. “You mean like this one?”
“Yeah. Come on.”
They weren’t alone in the tunnel. Talent spotted several small creatures around them. They came in all shapes and sizes, from insect-size millipede-looking creatures that scurried along the tunnel to creatures the size of desert tortoises that crawled at a snail’s pace, stopping every few feet to deposit what looked like licorice jellybeans in small crevices in the floor. The jellybeans softened and flowed to fill the crevices, like a road crew filling potholes. They ignored the human intruders.
It was not long before they encountered a creature that made Talent’s blood run cold. Even Costas seemed taken aback by it. They had found their twelve-foot-tall alien. It stood in the middle of the tunnel on four spindly, backward-bending legs with four equally long arms stretching across from wall to wall. The creature was bright red with black racing stripes. The creature’s hands dug into the walls, extracting wads of immobile dark threads similar to the ones Talent had seen in the air duct walls. It deposited the wads in a pouch in its abdomen, and then removed handfuls of motile dark threads from a second pouch and inserted them in the previous threads’ spots. It turned its bulbous head to stare at them with a pair of large, cream-colored lidless eyes; and then went back to work.
“It’s some kind of maintenance creature,” Costas said. He raised his weapon.
“No don’t,” Talent cautioned. “It’s not attacking. Let’s see if we can slip past it.”
As he passed beneath its arms, he waited for the creature to attack, but it ignored them. Costas was amused. “It’s bigger than a Wasp but docile. That’s different.”
Talent began to notice narrow bands of ebony armor encircling the tube at intervals. He had no idea what purpose they served, but one particular band with scratches drew his attention. Ebony armor did not usually scratch. No one had discovered any alien writing other than the flowing ultraviolet script on the communications node Commander Langston had reported that may have been writing, but to Talent the marks on the armor looked suspiciously like a word. These lines were not flowing; they were rigidly straight. He played his flashlight over the word.
It looked like a slanted capital N, followed by an A with a dot instead of a crossbar, a Z with double bars at the top and bottom of the letter, a vertical straight line like an I, and two horizontal angle brackets stacked atop each other facing opposite directions bisected by a straight line, like a Daliesque R.
He pronounced the word slowly, “NAZIR.”
“What the hell is nazir?” Costas asked. He turned and saw Talent studying the wall. “Alien graffiti?”
“Could be. They found Egyptian hieroglyphs scratched inside the pyramids naming work gangs. People have been tagging things for years.”
“Maybe a bored alien with time on his hands wrote it
,” Costas suggested. “Lots of down time in the military. Grunts get creative in filling the hours.”
“It looks more deliberate, as if it was meant to be there.”
“Hell, maybe it’s the name of the aliens. Nazir – sounds like a good name for them. It has a nice alieny ring to it.”
“The Nazir,” Talent said experimentally. “It sounds better than ‘The Aliens’.”
“Then it’s settled. The bastards are Nazir. Now, let’s go kick some Nazir ass, or the alien anatomical equivalent.”
As they continued along the corridor, they saw no more writing, but they passed numerous side tunnels. Each one looked much the same as the others, until Costas suddenly stopped at one of the tunnels. “Wait.”
Talent tensed and tightened his grip on the minigun, expecting trouble. “What is it?”
Instead of preparing for an attack, Costas was smiling.
“What’s so funny?” Talent asked.
“Can’t you smell it?” he asked, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly.
The stench had lessened somewhat or else, he had gotten used to it, but all Talent could smell was Kaiju. He took a cautious sniff and shrugged when he detected nothing different from the air ten yards down the tunnel.
“It’s Walker’s cheap aftershave. I could smell that rot from a mile away.”
Costas’ nasal discovery delighted him. Talent did not point out that it did not mean that Walker was still alive. Like Costas, he still held out hope of finding the major. Costas looked at Talent; saw the doubt in his eyes. He cocked his head to one side.
“Come on, Cowboy. Don’t go all negative on me now. He’s alive. I told you he wouldn’t give up.”
Costas started down the side corridor at a fast clip. Talent had no choice but to follow.
23
Wednesday, Dec. 20, 7:30 a.m. Brisbane, Australia –
