He went back to the cockpit and did a scan of his pod for life-signs. A minute went by and then a second minute. After three full minutes had passed and the computer hadn’t finished conducting its scan, he began to get worried.
Please don’t fail on me too.
After five minutes there was a loud beep and the screen read SCAN ERROR—TOO MANY READINGS IN TOO CLOSE PROXIMITY—CANNOT ACQUIRE FIXED SCAN.
Holy fuck, they were nesting in here, Gaines thought.
Scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
The noise came from all around him. Gaines heard the space badgers scratch beneath the floor, in the ceiling, and from inside all the walls. When he opened the panel, it must have riled them up.
Gaines sat still, looking around the small cabin that suddenly seemed much smaller, listening to the animals move about. It sounded like there were hundreds of them.
Well, I guess I know what’s messing with the pod.
It took him a full hour to thoroughly search the entire pod but he safely, and sadly, confirmed that there was no food or water anywhere on the ship. The space badgers must have ate and drank it all. There were also no medical supplies, tools, or weapons. In fact, there was nothing that wasn’t bolted down. Even the emergency space suit was missing. The space badgers had cleaned the pod of everything. Why they did that, Gaines had no clue.
He sat back in his chair and his eyes quickly began to feel very heavy. All the stress and physical exertion were taking their toll on him.
He must have fallen asleep but he snapped awake to the sound of claws scurrying on metal. He looked across the pod and saw four space badgers digging through his toolbox. On the wall next to them, one of the metal panels had been bent forward providing a two foot hole in the wall. Through that, Gaines could see nothing but fur as dozens of space badgers moved within the walls of his pod.
“Hey,” he shouted while standing up.
The four space badgers whipped their heads up and turned to face Gaines. Each held a different tool in their claws and they were as still as statues. Suddenly, three of them made a dash for the hole in the wall. The fourth dropped the tool it was holding, grabbed the handle of the toolkit, and ran—trying to take all the tools with it.
Gaines chased after them. By the time he reached the other side of the pod, three of the space badgers had already escaped with their prizes. The fourth was trying to pull the toolkit through the hole but it was too bulky to fit.
Gaines grabbed the kit and pulled back but the space badger would not let go. He accidently hit the latch and the kit spilled open, dumping tools on the floor. Other space badgers darted out of the hole and snatched up the instruments from the floor.
“No no no no,” Gaines said. Acting out of reflex, he let go of the kit and tried to scoop up the tools from the floor. Each time he tried to grab one, a space badger claw would shoot out, scratch him, and steal the tool. In moments, the space badgers pulled all the tools through the hole and even the kit itself.
Gaines kicked the bent out metal panel. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” he yelled with each kick as he bent it back into place.
When he’d closed it enough to keep out the space badgers, Gaines slumped to the floor and looked at his hands. They felt like they were on fire. Each one, covered with dozens of bleeding scratches. In some spots, the cuts were so deep that the blood flowed down his fingertips and dripped onto the golden metal floor.
He looked around and saw that the space badgers had missed one tool—the screwdriver. Gaines darted across the floor on his hands and knees and greedily scooped up the tool.
Those Goddamn pests got my food, my water, my medicine, and now my tools. All I got is this fucking screwdriver.
He sat on the floor looking at his one tool. If he was going to get this ship moving again, he needed to figure out how to get all the space badgers out of its interior.
He sat for a full half-hour thinking over the situation, when finally an idea came to him. An absolutely insane idea. But if it worked, he could escape. If it failed, at least he’d be dead sooner that starving or dying of thirst.
He went to work right away. First he addressed the panel the space badgers had bent out. He unscrewed four bolts and it fell to the floor with a Clang! Confused space badgers blinked at the bright light from the cabin and half-heartedly hissed at him.
Gaines ran to another wall and unscrewed the first panel he came to. Once it was removed, more confused space badgers spilled out. He unscrewed another panel and another.
Once he removed all six interior wall panels he went to the panel on the floor—the same one where he first discovered the space badger infestation. Now the other badgers had adjusted to the light and were angry at being disturbed. They jumped at his legs and scratched while he unscrewed the final bolts, frantically trying to finish his work.
Finally the last bolt was out. He pulled on the panel and tossed it aside. The interior of the cabin filled with space badgers. They poured out of the openings in the walls and floor.
Gaines kicked the animals aside and made his way across the room to the cockpit. He sat himself down in the chair and strapped all three seat belts—two across his chest and one across his lap.
He pushed buttons on the control panel while space badgers scratched his legs, tearing open dozens of wounds, and began to climb his command chair.
The screen read OPEN DOCKING DOORS? EMERGENCY OPPERATING OVERRIDE YES/NO.
Gaines took a deep breath and pressed YES.
The docking door began to open. Then all air was violently sucked out of the escape pod. The force spun Gaines’ chair around and scores of space badgers flew out the door.
The animals poured from all of the open panels. They just kept coming and coming. Gaines felt his lungs threatening to burst and his eyes felt like they wanted to leap from their sockets.
Finally, the atmosphere seemed empty of space badgers—except for one that had its claws dug into Gaines’ calf muscle. The pull of the vacuum wrenched the wounds wider, and the animal still hung on. Gaines kicked at the beast with his other leg. He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. His lungs were screaming but if he tried to take a breath it was all over for him.
Just when Gaines thought he could take no more, the space badger lost its grip and went spiraling through the pod and out the door. Gaines’ hands thrashed atop the control panel and hit the button reading CLOSE.
The docking doors lowered shut and immediately, the life support system adjusted the atmosphere to normal. Gaines gasped for breath.
He hit buttons on the control panel starting a full system scan. In moments the screen read SYSTEM SCAN COMPLETE: ALL SYSTEMS NORMAL.
Gaines almost started crying.
It worked. I have control of the ship again.
He replotted the course to the closest starbase. Sure it would take him two weeks, and he didn’t know what he was going to do about food, water, or all the open wounds on his body—but at least he was moving.
He paused and looked out the glass screen. All around the ship hundreds of space badgers floated in space. They thrashed about and tried to space-swim their way back to the escape pod or to other hunks of floating debris. It would still be another half an hour before their air ran out and they choked to death. Gaines wished he could stay to watch that.
The stars directly in front of his escape pod suddenly looked very weird. It was like they were shimmering and shaking in place. The area turned a familiar neon blue as a huge mass revealed itself in front of the small ship.
The Behemoth was back. It must have had some kind of camouflage system that enabled it to blend into its space background. Gaines finally solved the mystery of how Behemoths can so easily sneak up on ships.
Not that it mattered.
The monster was attracted to all the space badgers floating around. They had nowhere to escape—and neither did Gaines.
He furiously attempted to finish punching in the coordinates but he was too late. The Behemoth’s jaws snapped shu
t around the escape pod and the hundreds of space badgers.
Marx, Split-Tail, Gonzo, and Johnny McRazor were the most badass punk rockers in the Merciful Hearts Nursing Home. They were all over eighty, but they still wore black leather jackets hand-painted with punk band logos and anarchist slogans. And they never went anywhere without their black jeans and black combat boots.
Marx covered his dialysis machine with stickers proclaiming “Kill Whitey,” “Burn the Rich,” and his personal favorite, “Kill Cops.”
Split-Tail dyed his waist-length hair to match his spray-painted walker.
Gonzo had metal screw-in spikes encircling his bald head like a crown.
Johnny had diabetes. He liked to inject his insulin in a public place and pretend to enter the bliss of a heroin stupor, or go into seizures from an overdose. None of the other nursing home residents found this amusing.
They were once the greatest punk band of their day.
Marx, Split-Tail, Gonzo, and Johnny McRazor all met in high school. They bonded over a love for punk rock and drugs. By the time they graduated, they had already self-released three EPs. On their first US tour playing a variety of squats, firehalls, and dive bars, they caught the attention of Satan Dance Squad Records while playing the Mr. Roboto Project in Pittsburgh. Their first full-length came out later that year.
Soon they were making enough money touring and releasing music that they quit their day jobs at the Piggly Wiggly.
They toured with all the greats back in the day. Mouthful of Ants, Night Gaunts, Chainsaw Millipede, The Stupid Stupid Henchmen—you name the band and they rocked out and got drunk with them.
Then those life-altering things that normally happen to people happened to them.
Love. Kids. A mortgage.
But they didn’t sell out. They didn’t have to. With the royalties from the twenty-eight studio albums, four live albums, and more compilation appearances than they could count, they were financially secure for the rest of their days.
But divorces happen, people die, and kids move out.
And that’s where we find them now. Just like the good old days, it’s just the four of them, though Merciful Hearts Nursing Home is a little different than Fifth Street.
The four of them were hanging out around the organic garden. Gonzo smoked a cigarette while Johnny, Marx, and Split-Tail passed around a joint.
Nurse Myers appeared next to them.
“Now Mr. Jameson, we can’t have you doing that. It’s illegal,” she said as she snatched the joint from Marx.
“Fuck the Po-Po.”
Nurse Myers walked off with their drugs. She was always harshing their buzz.
“Man, I’m sick of this shit,” said Johnny. “Can’t even get high.”
“Eh, what you gonna do?” said Split-Tail.
“There’s nothing to ever do around this place,” complained Marx.
“Not this again,” Johnny sighed. “We go through this every day. I’m fucking tired of this conversation. Come on, I got some hash brownies in my room. Let’s go watch some Doctor Who.”
“Nah,” said Split-Tail, “I’m sick of watching TV.”
“So what do you want to do?” asked Johnny.
Split-Tail shrugged.
The four of them stood silent for a moment. Gonzo took a drag on his cigarette. “Let’s play a show,” he said.
“Not this again,” said Johnny.
“Come on, why not?”
“Man, you can’t even stand up on your own. Marx over there is attached to a fucking dialysis machine.”
“You all said it yourselves, there’s nothing to fucking do around here.”
“Maybe we should,” said Marx.
“Fuckin’ A, man!” said Gonzo.
“We’re too old,” said Johnny.
“Shit man,” said Split-Tail, shaking his head, “I can’t believe I just heard you say that. Just to fucking spite you, I’m in.”
“That’s three to one,” said Gonzo.
Johnny pulled out a cigarette and mumbled “motherfuckers” under his breath. “OK, fuck it, one last time.”
Getting back into the habit of the band was like getting back onto a bike (assuming that you could ride a bike, which Split-Tail could not). It was amazing how quickly all their old songs came back to them. “Killing Cops with Lead Pipes,” “Zombies Ate All My Cap’n Crunch,” and all the others.
After two months of practice, the band was ready. Sure, they played a little slower than they did in the old days but they felt better than they had in decades. It brought back a spark that had been missing through all the years of family life and retirement.
They rented the nursing home auditorium for their reunion show. The only step left was to get the word out.
They printed up cheap photocopied flyers of a collage depicting George W. Bush pissing on the monk protester from Vietnam who set himself on fire, surrounded by a bunch of pentagrams and upside-down crosses.
“Damn good work,” said Johnny, looking over the flyer.
“Thanks,” said Gonzo, “it’s been awhile since I’ve done one of these.” He always made the flyers back in the day.
“I’ll hang up a bunch around the place,” said Split-Tail, picking up a stack of flyers.
“We’re gonna have to hit up some shows over the next couple of weeks to get the word out,” said Marx.
“What do you think punk shows are like now?” asked Gonzo.
That Friday, they went to a local punk night at a dive bar called Branx.
“I don’t get it,” said Gonzo at the back of the venue.
There were no gauged ears, there were no patched-up jackets, and there wasn’t even one Mohawk in the entire venue. Not even a spike to be seen.
The band onstage was less punk than a spandex leggings sale at American Apparel. Their name was Strolling Through the Flowers. They played songs about market analysis on three guitars and a theremin.
“I know we’ve been out of the scene for awhile but…” Marx trailed off.
Split-Tail nodded and then turned to the rest of them, “I’m gonna go give some flyers to the bartender.”
He pushed his walker over to the bar.
“What can I get you old man?” asked the bartender.
“I got some flyers for a show coming up. Can you hang them around?”
The bartender took the flyers. He registered a knowing look. “Yeah, I remember those guys. I think my dad used to listen to them.”
“Yeah, I’m in them,” said Split-Tail, “we got a reunion.”
“OK, cool. I’ll hang them up.”
Split-Tail shuffled back to the others, who were staring in disbelief at the band onstage.
“You know what this means?” asked Johnny.
“Huh?”
“We gotta put on a fucking show for these people.”
Over the next four weeks they canvassed the town with flyers and practiced harder than ever before. After seeing the sad affair that was the Strolling Through the Flowers show, and every other show they went to while flyering, they knew they had to give the people a dose of that old classic punk rock.
Finally the night of the show came and the auditorium was packed. All the punks in town, and all of the nursing home residents, had come out to see them play.
The crowd was an even split between twenty-something’s and seventy-something’s. Everyone was uncomfortable and a little confused. The young people were pissed about the lack of alcohol (the nursing home didn’t have a bar), and all the chairs had been removed from the activity center, so there was no place for the nursing home residents to sit down.
The band shuffled onstage. Split-Tail pushed his walker over to the drum kit. Marx set up his dialysis machine next to his bass amp, two tubes trailing from him arm keeping him hooked to the machine. One tube was filled with blood and the other with a yellowish liquid that glowed under the light. Gonzo adjusted the screw-in spikes on his head and slung his old guitar across his chest.
The lights dimmed and Johnny took the stage. His brittle bones caused him to hobble a little, but he still had swagger. He grabbed the mike at the center of the stage and screamed “Fuck you!” at the audience and the band kicked into their first song, “Killing Kittens for Fun and Profit.”
The first song was a disaster. The four old punks had done great in rehearsal but they were rusty playing in front of a live audience. When Marx switched on his amp, it interfered with the hearing aids of the nursing home residents causing a painful high pitched feedback noise for several ear-piercing minutes. The audience covered their ears in unison. Nurses raced around the room trying to help the senior citizens. The band powered through the song but a couple of people in the back left before they even reached the chorus.
During the second song, the crowd started to warm up a little. A couple of old men with mohawks drove their electric wheelchairs into the center of the room and started slamming each other like bumper cars. The young people thought it was hilarious and circled around cheering them on.
Johnny flashed devil horns at the audience and winked at a blue-haired old lady bobbing her head in the front row.
Gonzo looked down from the stage and noticed an acne-faced boy covertly pulling a bottle of beer out of his voluminous black raver pants. He reached down and grabbed the beer from the kid. Gonzo raised it up to his forehead, and in his signature style, deftly opened the bottle against one of his spiked implants. While still playing the bass, he chugged the beer and then smashed the bottle on Marx’s dialysis machine.
This caused something magical to happen in the minds of the residents of the nursing home. Memories of old nu-metal shows, hardcore matinees, Warped Tour, and Ozzfest flashed through their minds.
They drifted to the front of the auditorium. At first they just nodded their heads to the beat but when the next song began, someone in the center started pushing. Soon the whole crowd was bumping into each other and then a full-on mosh pit had started. At least, as enthusiastic a mosh pit as a seventy-plus-year-old crowd could muster.
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