by Tim Curran
A dizzy sense of calm had fallen over Brock (for seemingly the first time in his life) as he emerged from the thick woods and in to the clearing that he believed he would never set his eyes upon again. In the distance, he could see the widow Garrett's welcoming home, and he could faintly make out an image of her sitting on the porch, rocking lightly in her chair, a coffee pot and two mugs placed before her on an end table, awaiting his return. She was always so very generous to Brock, even with his bitter words and hatred of dummies big and small, and he could not reach her fast enough, calling out like a siren on a beachhead. “Polly!” he belted out, feeling the stress of his rasping lungs, both of the fleshy sacs on the verge of bursting.
He clambered across the stiff white grass of the open field, encircled by rigid pine trees. The white snow was falling so much harder away from the protective overhead canopy of the trees and branches. He would have guessed that they were at the very beginning of some serious white-out conditions, but returned his mind back to his pursuing zombie maniac, grunting from behind him, the sound of his pounding hooves turning to a thudding- a steady drumbeat on the frozen grass of the field. When it fully cleared the tree line, Brock pivoted enough to see it gaining a new found burst of velocity, trudging with a misdirected erratic vector, most likely from the damage inflicted to the ribcage by Brock's sturdy boot, and he was now pleased with himself for committing that unknowingly proactive act. “Got a little problem with your stride, don't ya'? You winkin' at me or you missin' an eye?” he goaded the undead moose, his voice shaky and wheezy from his laborious sprint towards safety.
His knees started to fail beneath him, feeling as though they would simply snap at any moment, his gut swaying side to side as he reached his hand towards the Garrett house, calling for Polly a second time, but now realizing that his previous image of her sitting on the porch was nothing more than a mirage.
The moose put his head down, the greenish drool drizzling from the edges of his mouth and wet nose. The deviant orange and green harbinger of death was set to die as the moose once (twice!) had, and there was no other conclusion in the cards.
Brock was halfway across the fifty yard clearing of land when he felt the bull moose nudge its antlers into the back of his neck, projectiling him and tumbling his ragdoll-body into the fresh powdery snow. As he lay on his stomach, staring into the bloody snow (had he busted his nose? Where was that blood coming from?), he could hear the methodical breathing of the beast behind him, looking him over like a cold dinner before placing it into the microwave. It groaned near his ear, as though it were whispering something to him, much like Lucy had done only a handful of hours earlier. Brock looked to his right, where Lucy lay in the snow, still silent and unwilling to help her master, a sea change in her once gallivanting carefree attitude. “You hippie whore,” Brock managed through choking bloody breaths, now realizing that the bloody one-eyed bastard had pierced one of his lungs with his sharpened antlers. He addressed the moose as well, “You're both a couple of hippie whores.”
Mr. Moose wailed in anger, stepping on to Brock's backside with his front hoofs, dancing a silly jig on the soft bony structure beneath him, snapping through ribs and vertebrae like crushing Ritz crackers into buttery bread crumbs. As Brock slipped on his horrified death mask, he could hear the sound of the forest coming back to life, speaking again its eternal words, knowing that it was forever free of his nauseating influence. Though there were many more that followed behind him, a battle had been won, that of a greater war.
The woods and air and creatures breathed in a deep gust of air, then exhaled with relief.
Mr. Moose and Lucy did the same, flexing their livelihood with thriving satisfaction.
As was always the ultimate end game... there was balance and all was right again.
Loss of Vector
William Wood
Bellamy closed his eyes and counted to ten. The sound of his own breathing inside the bulky, fishbowl helmet was deafening and he was sure he was going to lose the contents of his stomach any second. Or maybe just his mind. Despite of the all the testing and training and even the clean bill of health, mental and physical, from the team of docs on the ground, he was now sure he was unfit for space travel. Not their fault and certainly not his own. Some things you just don't know until you're in the thick of them. And nothing is thicker than the infinite vacuum. Knowing all that lay between him and death by explosive decompression was a few inches of metal and insulation would have been enough to send him packing on the ground. But that was almost three hundred miles away—straight down.
We're supposed to be in space, skipper, his copilot and mission specialist, Sam Morales, had pointed out only hours before. Bellamy had made the mistake of expressing his doubts to the gung-ho Air Force major as they crowded around the viewing port of the modified Apollo module. Skylab hung like an injured bug, one wing clipped, in the blackness above the arc of the Earth. The view was beautiful. Too beautiful.
Human eyes were never meant to see this, he'd said.
Hell, skipper. It's 1979, Morales had continued, a grin spreading across his stubbly face. A century ago we were taming the West and today we're taming space. Now, this is what I call Manifest Destiny.
A bump against his shoulder startled Bellamy and he turned his head inside the helmet. God, how he hated these monkey suits. How did I ever get into this program, anyway?
Because you're a damned good pilot, quick on your feet and get the job done, he heard himself answer. At least the brass thought so. After this mission, he was going to retire anyway. Fifty-one years old was no age to begin traipsing to the stars. This was a young man's business.
Bellamy's view was partially blocked by the nontransparent portion of the helmet, but Morales' toothy smile was apparent even through the glare on his visor. The other man pointed at the GO light next to the circular hatch and then at the dogging lever.
Bellamy forced a smile and nodded. They were on a strict radio silence protocol despite the fact all communications were scrambled. An extra precaution deemed necessary by the boys in Washington. Can't have the Russian triangulating even an encrypted signal and figuring out the Americans have a covert manned mission in the sky.
Bellamy swung the dogging handle and felt the pins snap clear. A muted crack and an audible hiss came from all around as the hatch swung in. They were both fully suited up as a precaution. Systems aboard the space station had been remotely activated but no one had been aboard for five years and HQ wasn't prepared to take chances. Bellamy wanted to believe the brass was concerned about their safety, but the truth was, they wanted the package. The science types had discovered over a year before Skylab's orbit was deteriorating far more quickly than could be compensated for from the ground. NASA had pooled their best minds and repurposed unused materials from the abandoned Apollo Program into a covert sister project, Artemis. He and Morales were to stop the loss of vector is possible, and either way, the package was to return home.
Bellamy took a deep breath and pushed himself through the narrow hole into the Airlock Module, tugging along a tethered bag of tools and equipment.
Beams from his helmet-mounted lights stabbed ahead as he drifted down the center of the dark cylinder. Blocks of equipment and other gear jutted from the curved walls, interconnected by runs of conduit and flexible power buses.
Bellamy heard a muffled thump. Using a cabinet protruding from the wall, he spun himself to face Morales who followed a few feet behind. His helmet lights played brightly through the Major's visor causing the other man to squint.
Morales gave an exaggerated nod and shrugged inside his suit. He'd heard it too.
No need speculating, thought Bellamy. In a few minutes they'd be through the final airlock into the OWS, the main body of the station, and they could remove their suits for the duration of their stay.
Grasping the blue airlock handle, Bellamy cycled the lock but didn't swing the lever even though the GO indicator built into the frame showed the pressur
e on both sides equal.
Another thump came from the other side, from inside the Orbital Workshop. He'd felt the impact through his gloved hands. He twisted to face Morales again who drifted into the wall ungracefully and scrabbled to regain control and orientation. His ever-present smile didn't miss a beat. Everything was one big amusement park ride.
Morales pointed at his left wrist and Bellamy could hear the unspoken words. We're wasting time, skipper.
Bellamy took another deep breath and pulled the hatch. White light poured through the opening into the Airlock Module. With a tug against the airlock rim, Bellamy placed his arms at his sides in order to fit through the circular hole. Ideally astronauts would leave spacesuits in the Airlock Module but the brass had spoken again. The suits stay on until the entire station was secure.
Halfway through the hatch, a shadow flashed from his left, something moving fast. He threw his arms up reflexively but too late to stop the wrinkled white tentacle striking his visor with a crack. "Shit!"
He waved his arms like a swimmer, attempting to paddle back into the Airlock Module but Morales was pushing him from behind unable to see the commotion, only aware that his flight commander was not making timely progress.
Cartwheeling through the interior of the Workshop, a vast expanse after thirty hours of the cramped confines of Artemis, Bellamy managed to snag a rung along the arc of the cylinder wall, stopping his tumble. Turning his body to face the airlock and whatever had attacked him, he saw only Morales floating inside the Workshop a yard to one side of the hatch, turning a valve and re-stowing an insulated hose in a shiny aluminum clip.
Bellamy could hear his pulse roaring in his ears. What the hell? A compressed airline? He shook his head slowly and forced his breathing to slow. Probably came lose when they docked. He really was getting to old for this stuff.
Morales pushed himself across the gap between them, his mouth wide in laughter. The sound was more of a cough by the time it reached Bellamy's ears through both of their helmets. Morales made a face of exaggerated terror and mouthed the word shit, throwing his hands up in mock surprise before the coughing noise continued.
Bellamy sighed and pulled his tethered tools in, removing a bulky instrument cluster covered in gauges and dials. If someone had told Bellamy the device was the product of a typical over-budget, over-engineered NASA project to build a baby rattle, he'd have believed them.
"Can't wait to hear how you're going to explain breaking radio silence for that one," snickered Morales once their helmets were off.
"Let's just get this done and get out of here."
Suits secured by straps to a bulkhead, they moved through the open hatch to the aft compartment, the crew quarters. The smell of rubber and ozone tickled his nose, unsettling his stomach.
"You don't look so good, skipper."
Bellamy pulled himself into the small compartment, marveling at the sense of disorientation. Nothing can truly prepare one for prolonged weightlessness. The few seconds obtained by freefalling aircraft and submergence in swimming pools, even skydiving, were nothing compared to the sense that something unnatural was shoving your guts up into your throat. He'd studied the prints of the lab and worked in the mock-up enough to have everything memorized down to the placement of individual bolts and rivets, but looking up from his position and seeing the floor of the crew compartment as the ceiling was unnerving, like the sky was falling.
The space was well-utilized with only enough room for occupants to move around. Future stations would need more openness if man was to ever feel at ease in space—at least Bellamy believed so. Half of the level was partitioned off into smaller compartments, like closets. A tubular shower. A room with a three-pronged table assembly amidst racks and racks of smaller lockers. Another space with three sleeping bags mounted to the walls.
The other half of this level of the station was similarly congested, but with equipment. An electrical distribution panel, a bizarre chair that would put Captain Kirk to shame, an inclined cylinder the size of a 55-gallons drum.
"There," said Bellamy, grabbing a stainless rod protruding from the chair and swinging his feet to touch the floor. He moved to an electrical cabinet, the Experiment Support System, beside the drum and released a latch at its base, allowing the cabinet to swing aside, revealing a smaller cabinet mounted to the bulkhead behind. Unlike the other cabinets and equipment on the station, each bristling with conduit and wiring running to and from them, this object's surface was smooth and white. A silver rim ran all the way across the top and down the sides, two latches on each face, making the cabinet look more like a suitcase than an experiment. Stenciled in small letters between the top latches were four letters. E-PEP.
Extended Preservation Experiment Pod. But the acronym was all that Bellamy knew. The contents were known only by Morales. He was the mission specialist, but he probably didn't know either.
Minutes later the package was free and Bellamy hunched against his tethered kit stowing his tools in their slots and sleeves.
Two snaps came from behind like gunfire and he turned to see Morales twisting two more of the eight latches holding the package halves together.
"What are you doing?"
"You don't think I'm going to not look inside do you?" His white teeth gleamed.
"Thought you already knew what was in it."
"I do." Two more latches snapped free and the cover pivoted on the last two like hinges. "Still not the same as actually seeing."
Bellamy couldn't immediately see the contents but tensed when Morales gasped. "What?" He touched Morales' shoulder and pushed himself up until he could see over the younger man.
The inside was lined with stainless tubing and small black modules linked by multicolored wires, all surrounding a translucent plastic bag nestled into a rigid copper-colored mesh. In one corner of the box was a yellow can painted with the telltale three-lobed symbol for nuclear radiation.
"Close that thing," snapped Bellamy taking the case’s cover floating in the air next to them and thrusting it at Morales. "You trying to kill us or something?"
"Relax, skipper." He reached into the box and released several small catches down the center of the copper mesh. "It's just a battery to power the rest of this contraption. What I want to see is the occupant."
"Occupant?"
Morales pulled the mesh apart exposing the bag within. Two rows of teeth pressed against the inside of the plastic, human by all appearances except for four huge canines. Two milky eyes stared out at them from beneath a heavy brow ridge.
"A frozen chimp?" Bellamy could hardly believe what he was seeing. Why in hell would—
"Not frozen…preserved. His name is Lazy—since he's up here just sleeping the years away, I guess."
A crinkle came from open box, the plastic baggie shifting as it settled without the immobilizing mesh and reinforced cover. They both looked into the face of their evolutionary relative. A small fellow, as near as Bellamy could tell, even for his own species, not that he considered himself an expert on simians. "This is why we're here?"
"This and to—"
A loud clacking erupted from inside case and they both froze, watching as the chimp's jaws opened and closed repeatedly. Two milky eyes twitched and locked onto them.
Morales stepped away from the case pushing Bellamy, still holding onto his shoulders, along with him. The plastic bag expanded like a balloon and ripped down the center. Dust and fibers sprayed from the tear as a spindly arm thrust into the air.
The smell of rotting flowers and formaldehyde washed over Bellamy and he gagged, his own arms extended to stop his spinning motion in the small open section of the room.
A second emaciated arm clawed out of the bag and the chimp squirmed up from the copper mesh. A loose strand in the metal fabric snagged its mangy gray skin, unzipping it and exposing withered brown and black tissues within. It looked at Morales, lips pulling back from its teeth as its mouth gaped. A noise halfway between groan and hiss filled the small
compartment.
"Get it back in the box!" shouted Bellamy grabbing the instrument cluster still tied to his waist and wielding it like a club.
Morales took the cover of the package and pushed against the chair with his feet, launching himself at the hissing simian.
Bellamy shoved off the compartment ceiling, struggling to see but the other man's back combined with the large white cover of the E-PEP completely blocked his view of the action. Rapid impacts came from behind the cover as Morales swung the panel like a shield, trying to prevent the ape from completely freeing itself from its hi-tech coffin.
Bellamy collided with Morales and top edge of the cover struck something with a hollow thunk. Tiny limbs pirouetted over the cover and Bellamy twisted, narrowly avoiding the clasping fingers as the ape thrashed by. The tiny fingers found purchase on Morales' pants leg and in a flash the ape had latched on with all four limbs and sunk its teeth into the specialist's leg.
