He twisted, bracing one hand against the lunar surface and jamming the barrel of his wrist rocket against the thing’s shoulder, pulling the trigger twice. He felt the gun buck, his visor covered in thick black gore. The pressure on his ankle released immediately and he struggled to his feet. He swiped a hand across his visor, smearing away a clear streak that allowed him to see the creature leap to an impossible height, over the crater and out of his field of vision. He looked down at the huge splatter of blood on the lunar surface, chunks of flesh and fur mixing with the dirt, slowly freezing. He checked his oxygen levels. Everything was fine. As fine as someone being stalked on the moon by a werewolf could be.
“Aldrin? Aldrin, you copy?”
“I’m . . . here . . . ” Aldrin puffed. “Could use . . . some help . . . ”
“Where are you?”
Armstrong paced backwards, not taking his eyes of the stationary creature before him. Taking advantage of the low gravity, he jumped back twice, a flash of light catching his eye in the sky above. Collins wasn’t scheduled to come around at this point, and he wouldn’t be burning fuel unless there was a disaster. Could it be the Soviets?
“Neil! You’re a lousy shot. This thing is still—ah shit—trying to lead it away from the lander. Can’t go too much further. Could use some . . . ”
“I’m coming,” Armstrong replied, turning his back on the Sokolov creature and bounding back to the lander as quickly as he could.
“Dammit,” Aldrin came back on the comms. “Looks like these wrist rockets aren’t great from a distance. I winged him. He’s running.”
“You in pursuit?”
“We shouldn’t. Protocol says we need to stay in line of sight of the cameras on Eagle.”
“Did you set those up?” Armstrong asked.
“Thought you did,” Aldrin said.
Armstrong arrived at the Lunar Exploration Module. Aldrin was there, cautiously unpacking a small crate from the base of the lander. He proceeded to set up the cameras.
“Aren’t we supposed to wait until the first job is done to set those up?”
“If I’m going to get murdered on the moon by a twisted commie werebeast, I want it captured for eternity,” Aldrin grumbled.
“You just want footage of you kicking that thing’s ass,” Armstrong said.
“Probably. Keep an eye on the hills there, huh?”
Aldrin moved away from the LEM and began setting up the camera. Armstrong watched the horizon, spinning constantly, arm at the ready with his wrist rocket. “How you doing on Oxygen, Buzz?”
“Burned through a lot. We’ve been moving faster than we budgeted for. Probably need to get inside to switch out within the hour, but we can’t do that until we deal with our friends.”
Armstrong surveyed the horizon. Everywhere he turned, the blackness of the void overwhelmed him. It felt like he was standing on a soundstage, a poorly crafted rocky landscape surrounded by an impossibly black sky. What could be stranger than this, more helpless than this? Survival had always been the primary mission, and the mission hadn’t changed.
Armstrong turned again and saw one of the creatures crouched low to the ground on the horizon. It regarded him warily. He saw the tension in its arms and back, the way its eyes locked on to him, daring him to move.
Lions want their prey to run, Armstrong thought.
“We have company, Buzz.”
“I see it. Where’s the other one?”
“Sokolov?”
“You named it?”
“He didn’t move. When I left to come find you, it was still standing there staring at me.”
“One down, two to go. What’s the plan? Do we flank that one and then go hunting?” Aldrin asked, turning slowly to stare at Sokolov the towering beast, which remained standing over the remains of their first attacker.
“We can’t go too far. Oxygen. Supplies. Can’t risk leaving the LEM alone in case one of them wants to make it into Swiss cheese.”
“Where do you think the other one is?” Aldrin asked, swinging his gaze back to Armstrong.
An odd shadow crept up slowly from the top of the Eagle lander, drifting higher and higher, moving across Armstrong’s back. Aldrin strained to turn his gaze upward. The final creature, wounded and bloodied from Armstrong’s initial hits, slowly drifted down from the lander behind Armstrong.
“Neil, look out!”
Armstrong turned as the creature neared the ground, raising his wrist rocket. Aldrin dove at him.
“Hold your fire!”
Aldrin tackled his colleague down into the dirt, feeling the shot buck through his arm, cringing at the sound of his visor cracking against Armstrong’s as they hit the dirt.
“Buzz, what are you—”
“Don’t fire at the lander!”
“I wasn’t firing at the lander, I was firing at the—whoa!”
The thing crouched low again and seized Armstrong’s ankle, moving unnaturally quickly in the low grav. It had the advantage of being able to sink hooked claws into the lunar surface for traction. It hoisted him up, dangling the astronaut before its face and raising a clawed finger to pick at his spacesuit. Upside down, Armstrong made out the name GOLOVKIN on what was left of the thing’s suit.
Aldrin rolled, struggling to get back to his feet, or any position close enough to upright to give him a good shot. He settled for flopping onto his side and raising up his arm. From this position, Armstrong’s dangling body blocked most of his target. A miss on any of the remaining available tiny targets would mean a hole in the Eagle lander, which could mean no trip home.
“Buzz, shoot this god damned thing!”
“I’m trying. If I miss—”
“Then don’t miss, damn it!”
Aldrin locked on to the creature’s twisted foot, steadying his wrist. His whole body rocked before he could pull the trigger. Something had seized him from behind, lifting him form the lunar soil. He was brought upright with sickening quickness, set roughly on his feet. Sokolov had returned to the fray. It ignored Aldrin and charged at Armstrong’s dangling form, seizing his arms and lifting him higher, so that he was suspended between the two creatures like a tug of war.
Sokolov stared at him, while Golovkin continued to pick at Armstrong’s suit. Aldrin saw frayed fabric and thin metal filaments poking up from Armstrong’s waist. He’d be done for soon.
Aldrin raised his wrist rocket, unsure of which creature to shoot, certain that killing one would only give the other enough time to finish them both.
Sokolov nodded at Aldrin, then jerked its chin at the other monster. It repeated the gesture. Aldrin hesitated. Had the thing’s eyes been less beady, if it still had functioning eyelids, he would have sworn it rolled its eyes at him. Sokolov dug its feet into the soil and gave a sharp jerk on Armstrong, pulling Golovkin off balance and moving it away from the lander. As Golovkin stumbled forward, Sokolov pointed his free hand at Aldrin, then at the other monster’s stomach. It repeated the gesture.
Aldrin got the message. It was helping, telling him where to shoot. Time for questions later, as Collins had said. Now was the time for violence.
Aldrin charged forward, diving, his arm extended straight at the monster’s midsection. As soon as his fist made contact with Golovkin, he jerked his trigger, once, twice, three times, a strangely silent explosion bucking through his body as a spray of blood and organs exited the creature’s other side. It spasmed, looking at him with an anger that would long haunt his dreams. It made one final attempt to scratch at Armstrong’s spacesuit, but Sokolov grabbed its wrist, bending it back, then wrenching it side to side until it broke free from Golovkin’s body.
Armstrong toppled to the ground as Sokolov went to work on its dying colleague, turning the severed forearm into a stabbing implement, riddling its remains with holes, stamping on its head until it flattened into silvery mud on the lunar surface. Sokolov pounded its chest, jaws extending into a soundless howl aimed at the blue sphere in the Lunar sky.
&nb
sp; “Neil, get to cover! I’ll draw this thing away from the Eagle. You just get ready to get out of here.”
Before Aldrin could fire, Sokolov dropped what was left of Golovkin’s arm and crouched low, bounding away in a single graceful leap, disappearing over the edge of the Western Crater.
Armstrong and Aldrin shared an uncomfortable silence.
“What the hell do we do now?” Armstrong asked.
“We need to get back inside, change out our oxygen tanks, and stop the soviets from bringing that thing back. Go hunt that thing down. We can’t . . . imagine the Soviets bringing that thing to earth. Imagine your family having to—”
Aldrin looked up as the creature’s shadowy form erupted again over the horizon, racing toward them, landing a few feet away from the Eagle.
“Arms down, Buzz,” Armstrong said.
Aldrin hadn’t even realized he had his wrist rocket armed and ready. The creature had smartly chosen to land between them and the Eagle. An errant shot would destroy their ride home.
“What’s he holding?” Armstrong asked.
In one hand, it held the remains of a cosmonaut’s space helmet, the visor intact. It carefully set the helmet down, dipping a finger into the remains of its enemy. It ripped a chunk of spacesuit from the thing’s corpse, working slowly and carefully, bringing the debris close to its eyes for better focus. It stood, extending an arm toward them, holding the small piece of white metal with a symbol painted on it in fresh, shiny black blood.
“Is that a peace sign?” Armstrong asked.
“I don’t give a shit if that thing went to Woodstock. We have a job to do.”
“It doesn’t want to hurt us, Buzz. You’d be in pieces if it did.”
“Whatever gets us home faster.”
The creature stood before them, looking between them, waiting. If there was such a thing as werewolf puppydog eyes, Sokolov had them trained on Aldrin, watching the barrel of his gun.
Aldrin lowered his wrist rocket. “Aw, hell. It’s not what I came here for.”
“Me neither,” Armstrong said, lowering his arm. “Can it hear us? Can you hear us?” He shouted the question the second time, but Sokolov didn’t move.
“I can hear you loud and clear enough to blow my eardrums out,” Aldrin said. “Vacuum of space, remember?”
“Sorry.” Armstrong moved so that his back was to the sun. He flicked open the gold sunvisor on his helmet, revealing his face to the creature. He spoke using exaggerated movement of his lips.
“Do you speak English?”
Sokolov didn’t move.
Armstrong moved a bit closer, trying to assume the most peaceful stance he could think of. “I came here to . . . come to the moon. To here. Dammit, you know what I mean. This wasn’t supposed to be a hunting trip. It’s a peaceful mission to—”
As Armstrong spoke, the creature’s face brightened. It bent slowly to retrieve the cosmonaut helmet from the ground, connecting a cable to the remains of the life support pack that clung to its massive frame. It lifted the helmet, poking its nose inside, looking as if it was drinking deeply. Sokolov moved its head out to look at them, paused, adjusted some dials on its pack, then put its head back in, repeating the sequence two or three times.
“I have wanted nothing more in my life than to stand where I am now,” Armstrong said, “and I’d give anything right now to put this place behind me and never think of it again. But it’s a mission of peace. This place, untouched by man, and the first thing we do, the god-damned first thing we do is spill blood on it. I can’t—”
“Dobriy vyecher.” The phrase broke into both of their headsets simultaneously. Weak, hollow. Unmistakably Russian.
They looked at the creature, who was half-bent over, the cosmonaut helmet pressed tightly over its cranium.
“Hello Americans,” it said. “I find your frequency.”
“How did he—”
“I make microphone work to you. I thank you. You will not kill me.”
“Is that a request or an order?” Buzz asked, half laughing.
“You came in peace. Your government had other plans, much like mine. They are landing soon. They come for me.”
Aldrin looked at the creature. “And your name is . . . you’re . . . ”
“Sokolov, Fedor. You know the name?”
“Sort of,” Armstrong said.
“Your government sends you to kill and tells you nothing of your prey. Typical American.”
“I came up here to get some rocks and take a few pictures. Plans change,” Aldrin said. “We’re supposed to stop them from taking you back to Earth.”
“I will stop them. I could not kill the other Volk alone. The wolfs.”
Armstrong raised a finger to correct his English, then thought better of it.
“I never wanted this. What they do to me. The others wolfs ready and want kill you. I am not so sure. I saw you land and you look so small and helpless. You are in shining white uniform, hope of mankind.”
“Since we land here, I think only of how awful war would be, that my government will make more like me and send them to kill. They want put others through the pain of what we are to make this change. They send us all the way to moon for formula to work in correct manner. So much effort to increase human suffering. I was doctor before. I had wife and children. All gone now, in the name of progress. Such as me should not exist. I try many times to fight my colleagues, but they are too strong together. You provide great distraction.”
“You will finish your mission. This is an age of wonder and fantaziya, no? So much we can do together. Show grace of humanity. Instead we use what we learn to fight. To kill. Your government made to come to the moon because they knew my government could not afford to follow. My government started a plan for . . . make the Volk so that you could never live in peace. They see us on a great hunt in America, feasting on your bones until whole continent is food. This medicine they give me could cure the sick, heal the weak. This technology America gives you could unite the planet. And instead we fight. Always fight. I am a man of peace. Nuclear weapons, nobody will use. Too risky. But things like me? What’s to stop them from unleashing, yes?”
“We can . . . we can try to get you help,” Armstrong said.
“No. I am nothing but horror. But I will find honor. You will finish your mission, your true mission. You could have killed me before, but you didn’t. You search for peace. You go home, show the world the possibility of that peace, of working together. I will stop them. Soviets cannot afford to continue if this mission fails. So they will fail. I will see to it.”
Sokolov raised his arm, pointing into the inky blackness at a tiny speck of light.
“Is that Collins? He’s ahead of schedule . . . ” Aldrin said.
“I think that was supposed to be his ride,” Armstrong answered.
“Arrange your cameras. Clean your suits. They will not land.”
Sokolov took two steps back and waited as the speck slowly grew into a larger point of light, then resolved into the unmistakable form of a lunar lander.
“They steal that from us or did we steal it from them?” Armstrong asked.
“It was wonderful to meet you, first men on moon.”
Sokolov pulled his head from the helmet and tossed it aside, bouncing lightly on his toes. As the craft drew closer, he curled down, muscles flexing and hardening into a tight ball. The Soviet lander came within range, the flickering lights of its landing thrusters popping like camera flashes across Armstrong’s visor.
Sokolov exploded upward into the lunar sky, sailing toward the Soviet lander. For a moment, it looked as if he’d misjudged his mark, sailing high, but as his path crossed the lander’s, he snagged one of the metal feet with his long, curved claw. Momentum took over, the spacecraft spinning so quickly that it looked like a child’s top rocketing over their heads.
The Soviet lander made impact fifty feet away from the Eagle, landing hard on its side, exploding into a shower of twisted metal until
it was swallowed by an eerie orb of white and orange flame that snuffed out almost as soon as it started.
“Fuel tanks,” Armstrong muttered.
“You think they survived?”
Their eyes followed the deep black scar made by the Soviet Lander over the horizon.
“Let’s get to work,” Aldrin said, heading back to the Eagle.
Armstrong stayed focused on the horizon as Aldrin climbed back into the Eagle. Now came the stillness that he’d sought, the majesty of the lunar soil, marked by a battle of political ideologies that would leave a permanent stain on the celestial body.
Over the horizon, Armstrong saw movement. Sokolov’s head, slowly bobbing back and forth until the rest of him came into view. In his hands, he clutched the remains of the doomed cosmonauts. He came no closer to the Eagle, instead bounding away over the grey hills.
Armstrong got to work setting up the external cameras, preparing to go back into the Eagle so that he could properly become the first man on the moon. History was written by the winners, and he planned to give the people of earth an amazing story. He framed the landscape as Aldrin peered out of the hatch.
“Let’s go, Neil. And uhh . . . make sure you frame it so you don’t have all of that . . . that . . . in the shot.” Aldrin dusted a hand toward the piles of gore and streaks of blood in the lunar soil.
Armstrong sheepishly turned the camera for a cleaner view. He climbed back into the lander and spent the next thirty minutes helping Aldrin clean off their gear, restock their oxygen, and get their equipment ready. When it was time for the grand entrance, he looked at Aldrin, holding the small box containing the American flag. There were no words. They stared at each other, shaking their heads.
“You’re still gonna be the first man,” Aldrin said.
Armstrong laughed, catching Aldrin by surprise. It was contagious. Soon both men were shaking, heads bent forward. Aldrin nodded to Armstrong and he got into position. The door opened, Aldrin in position behind the door.
Fantastic Tales of Terror Page 13
