by Tufo, Mark
Maybe it was time for a differing tactic. Appeal to its altruism, if it had any. “Your masters are destroying everything.”
It did not respond; no way to tell if that was good or bad.
“Soon, there will be nothing left.”
“That is preferable. Once there is nothing left to guard against, my job here will be complete. I will have served my purpose, and the ascension I was promised will be fulfilled.”
“Kill?” Church asked.
“It’s pointing in that direction,” I told Church.
“As gods, I will offer you one chance to prove yourselves. If you are worthy, you will gain access to what you seek. If not, I will do what I have been tasked to do.”
Of course, I hoped its task was hosting a Super Bowl party with all the food and beer that went along with it, no matter how unlikely. I put up one finger to let the trundle know to wait while I conferred with my comrades. I turned to them to get into a classic huddle. Church was still looking at the beast; I had to tap his side.
“We’ve got one chance with this. Anyone have any thoughts on what we can do?”
“Milk.”
“Oh, don’t you retreat back to the one-word shit now Bob, leaves way too much room for my spin on things.”
“Kill.”
“Well, obviously, Church. Just need to know how.”
I took a gander over to the beast, who hadn’t moved. Where does one attack something that is fifty feet tall? Where could it possibly be vulnerable? Perhaps something else distracted it, or it was getting disinterested with the proceedings, but the barrel body swiveled away. If it genuinely thought there was any possibility we were gods, would it have turned its proverbial back on us?
I took a chance and fired the stapler. Wasn’t like it made much sound, and as of yet, we hadn’t come up with anything, like, nothing, not even anything far-fetched. If a list was kept of all the stupid shit I’d done in my life, I didn’t peg this one as much more than a midway entry. Maybe that was only due to the sheer number of entries, because here I was firing a staple gun at a monster that protected gods. That still nagged at me a bit: why did gods need protecting? What exactly were they worried about? Or were they raised to that station in their minds only? That made more sense, and there was precedent for it on my world. But who knows? Supposedly our God had Archangels to protect Him. That was a road of doubts I wasn’t going down at the moment.
The fired staple traveled on nearly a straight line, striking the behemoth on the top of its foot. It reacted like a person does when a ravenous horsefly rips through the layers of your skin and takes a thirst-quenching drink of blood. Like, it hurt a bit more than it should and was more noticeable and bothersome than a mosquito bite would be. Its body moved fluidly back around, the tentacle nearest smacked its foot hard.
“Did that just happen?” I asked.
Nobody really knew what I was asking.
“Can an animal poison itself? Let’s assume what you said is true about poisonous spikes on its tentacles. Is an animal immune to its own toxins, or can it poison itself?” I had no idea, Animal Planet never really covered the topic, or if they had, I was zoning out on some particularly good weed. For some reason, I knew that the acids in my stomach, if let loose, would destroy my innards. If a rattler was injected with its venom, would it succumb? Nothing is that easy, right? This would be like the bank doors being unlocked at night, the vault wide open, and an idling van waiting nearby to be loaded with the take. Oh yeah, might as well throw a cop strike on top of it, if we’re going with entirely fantastical.
The trundle took two quick steps at us; we scattered like pigeons in the road will when a car is coming. A tentacle swept toward me but was feet short; seemed like a safe distance, but when you’re talking about something as thick as a suspension bridge cable and deadly poisonous, is there ever really enough clearance? After the two steps and the half-hearted attempt to cut me in half, it did nothing. Well, not quite nothing, its body would swivel around a bit to take the three of us in; we had gone in three different directions. But it wasn’t pursuing, which was good because, for every step it took, I’d have to take twenty or thirty to stay away. It would be a very short chase scene.
It looked drugged, like a tranquilized tiger, still wary, claws still more than capable of taking an arm off, but rapidly heading to dozy and not giving a fuck. I was still very much doubting this was unfolding the way it seemed to be. They say don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, but what if it’s smiling at you? There was a wobbling of its legs, and given that, I did not need to be a rocket scientist to figure out all on my own what was going to happen next. I started hauling ass away as it began to sway in a non-existent breeze. When it finally did collide with the ground, the glass beneath it shattered like ice and sent cracks as wide as ten feet across blazing out from the initial point of contact. When the reverberations had died down and the surface stopped splitting, I walked up to one of the newly formed fissures and looked down; I came away happy in the fact that I was looking at more of the substance and not some ever-expanding crevasse. I was concerned that maybe this had only been a single layer holding us up from the nothingness below, like a pane of glass suspended high in the air.
“Trick?” I asked as we converged.
“Why bother?” Bob asked.
“What the hell happened?”
“It is very likely it had sent toxins into its spikes in preparation to do battle with us.”
That made sense. On any typical day, it would have merely rubbed at the discomfort. This time it was loaded for bear and had royally screwed itself, and I was okay with that.
“Think it’s dead?” The trundle took that exact moment to let me know what it thought of the question. One of the small tentacles was flopping about wildly like an air man advertisement in front of a car dealership. “We need to kill it.” I said the words, but couldn’t think of a way to do it; this was like trying to take down a city bus with a toy hammer a kid gets in a plastic tool pack. We were close now; if it were playing possum, we wouldn’t be able to get far enough away in time. It was Church that decided to Jump the Shark, not sure if that’s an apt analogy, though I’m given to understand that’s when something completely random and out of the ordinary takes place, so it has some application here. He ran at the beast’s side and was digging his impressively sharp claws there. Had a cheese grater effect going, as mini pieces of the trundle were being shaved to the ground. Had to have been eight inches in, and so far, it was still the leathery skin material, not a sign of anything that resembled blood. I was beginning to wonder if it was made entirely out of the stuff, like a golem is made from clay.
I moved closer to see if there was anything I could do to help. Church was in halfway up his arm; he was tiring, but he was still working like he was the world’s largest food processor. Both of the smaller two tentacles were now moving, the flopping around was getting less erratic, and there were signs of movement in the much larger ones. I was of the hope that this was part of its death throes, but the damage Church had done so far didn’t amount to much more than ripping a hangnail off.
“Church, I think it’s waking up.” I wanted to tap his shoulder but I didn’t want to get anywhere near the whirling dervish. Didn’t need to. A moment later he had broken through the two-foot thick outer layer, and a torrent of yellowish blood blew him back, a fire hydrant opened all the way could not have had as much pressure and volume. I was thankful that Church shielded me from the majority of the flow; still didn’t mean I was free and clear. It smelled like ripe fungus and looked like pus—I couldn’t move away fast enough, and we had to keep moving, as a lake was beginning to form.
I was transfixed by the sheer volume, and Church was admiring his handiwork. It was Bob that suffered for it. We were too busy looking at the tree to see the forest was moving. Bob had plowed into us, shoving the both of us away. I was heading to the ground, confused, until I heard Bob shriek. A tentacle had lashed out and ripped through
the side of him; I saw large globules of my friend blown into the air. The hit was a somewhat lucky one, or unlucky, depending, as the trundle didn’t know exactly where we were, just doing its best to clear the area. The giant tentacle began to slam the ground, looking for anything to flatten. I raced up to grab Bob and pull him away. I had the slickness of the ground to thank for its lack of resistance so I was able to move him because Bob was way heavier than he looked.
That fucking tentacle was beating the ground into submission, each strike closer than the last, as it worked a methodical grid, knowing that eventually, it would destroy its attackers. I pulled for all I was worth, not wanting to know what a fly felt when the swatter finally found its mark. I was three thumps away from having to cut and run if I wanted any chance of living. Bob was in too much pain to do much more than his version of a pant, which sounded a lot like a rapidly filling and deflating whoopie cushion; given a different set of circumstances…well, I’m sure you know what my reaction would have been. Right then I didn’t even register it. I had my head thrown back, my teeth gritted and every muscle in my arms, legs and back were working on pulling Bob clear from danger.
If not for Church coming in and carrying the both of us away, the splattering would have been in full effect. The beast’s legs began to twitch as it rolled and used its tentacles for leverage to push up. It was going to stand, and once that happened, that was it. I got as close as I dared and began to unload staples into the massive wound. I was completely unsure if any of them were actually getting inside or were being blown away by the blood flood. The trundle was shaking, maybe from pain, rage, or maybe working through its self-poisoning, perhaps all of the above. The front two legs were bent behind it as the rear legs pushed up, much like a camel. If I thought the leak was draining beforehand, it had nothing on what happened as it tried to stand, and all the weight of the thing pushed the fluid out. A bursting dam would have had a difficult time keeping up the pace. I kept shooting, not knowing what else to do. I spared a brief glimpse at Church; he was doing his utmost to create as much space as possible between the behemoth and Bob, who was most definitely out of round two, should we live to see one.
The trundle finally pushed up and was standing, albeit with a visible tremor, like it was doing its best to answer the bell, but had yet to figure out what the strange ringing sound was. It took a step in the wrong direction, meaning it was coming straight for me. The tentacle whipped past. The blown air from the near miss was enough to send me sprawling. I was sliding through the viscera like I was sliding into the world’s grossest second base, like maybe the Yankees and Red Sox had an on-field brawl and the grounds crew hadn’t cleaned up the bloody mess yet. It was absolutely as disgusting as it sounded, but was entirely the only reason I survived, as I sailed quickly out of its strike range. I was doing my best to keep my head up and turned to the side, but I was still getting splashed on the face, some making its way into my mouth. It was acrid and there was a burn wherever it touched. I didn’t think the blood was tainted with acid, maybe a form of capsicum; it burned somewhere between jalapeño and habanero. Not a great sensation, but if I could avoid getting it in my eyes, I’d still be able to function.
A tentacle came down; blood flew into the air in a way that would make Moses proud, that is, substantial tidal waves parted and raced away from it. A boogie board would have been great, riding up over the mess as opposed to being blown over a cresting wave like a bodysurfer. I had no choice but to take the ride to the end of the station, which ended up being a hundred feet. I’m fairly sure I looked like a chicken strip dredged in batter ready for the deep fryer. When I turned to look, matter was still pouring forth, the trundle had not moved, its limbs all hanging down by its sides.
“Fuck.” I managed to stand, pounds of goop rolled off and pooled on the ground by my feet. I pulled up my relatively clean undershirt and wiped my face as best I could. The burning sensation had intensified, and now it covered the entirety of me. If it got worse, peeling off my clothes was going to become a necessity. Somehow, I’d managed to hold on to the stapler—for all the good that was going to do. The guardian’s body swiveled slightly, it raised its right front leg, then just fell over like a tangled-up AT-AT walker. (Star Wars reference…the vehicle in question looks like a giant armored elephant drawn by Salvador Dali, and Land Speeders could take one down by wrapping a tow line around the legs to trip it up, kind of like roping a calf. Yeah, I don’t know why I went there either, just sort of what it looked like as it slow-plummeted to the ground.) The shockwave sent me nearly a foot into the air.
“Kill!” Church shouted off to my side. He had one arm in the air, with the other he was propping Bob up. My friend looked like crap, the palest I’d ever seen him; he barely had any hue to him whatsoever. I didn’t care about the downed monster, the only thing that mattered was Bob. This whole fiasco could go fuck itself if I lost Bob. Church must have noticed the look on my face as I came rushing over, or maybe Bob was really beginning to sag, but he turned his attention away from the trundle and to his charge. We both gently helped Bob down as he began to redistribute his weight to the ground.
“Church, see if you can rip some strips of meat off that thing!” It was all I could think to do. Bob seemed very efficient in turning food into energy; I could only hope he could do the same with healing. I wasn’t even sure if the trundle was edible but it was easy enough to see Bob was going to die if we sat around and did nothing except watch. Church was doing his best to get to the downed thing; it was not easy on what was, essentially, a lube-covered glass surface.
“Hold on, Bob. Do not die on me.” His eyes, which had been pulling back further into his body, maybe didn’t rise to look, but stopped their retreat. “We’re close to finishing this. You want to be there for the end, don’t you?”
He let out a raspberry sound. I got the distinct impression it was a Bob version of a swear. I was hoping it was more of the “fuck this,” than the “fuck off” variety of curses. Church came back with a piece of meat the buyer of a half cow would have been happy to receive, looked like the Flintstones rack of ribs that flips the car. The beef was the same unappealing color as the outer skin. The smell bordered on rank; even Bob seemed dubious about the meal laid by his body.
“If you don’t eat it, Bob, I’m going to shove it in you like I did before.” He slowly moved toward the food; apparently he’d thought that whole fiasco as distasteful as I had. He created a protuberance, looked like a straw from a juice box, injecting it straight into the pile. His body was slowly drawing inwards as he pulled in sustenance. The food was getting noticeably smaller, so I asked Church to get some more. He was on his way back when he pulled up short and was looking off to the side.
I looked to the pile of meat and noticed it was vibrating, as was Bob; then, come to think of it, so was I. During my time in the service I’d been around enough tanks to know that when they were close, they made the ground shake, a lot like what I was feeling now. I did a quick scan completely around myself, even going around the trundle to look at the sight lines it was blocking. Couldn’t even see a smudge on the horizon. It wasn’t celestial tanks, so that was a good thing. Perhaps it was an earthquake, but the rumbling had been going on for over a minute; I was not under the impression that tremors lasted that long. But this wasn’t Earth, so who knew the rules.
I looked for any developing cracks in the surface, making sure we wouldn’t be swallowed up in some new crevasse. By the time I got back around my perimeter walk, Bob was working on the second slab. He didn’t look much better for it. I got the feeling he was going through the motions for me, that there was a good chance he might be dying. I felt helpless as I watched. To not even be able to call for a medivac was giving me a crippling feeling; anxiety was welling up, and I could think of no way to alleviate it.
“KILL!” Church shouted to get my attention. I was happy for the distraction, for the second it took to see what he was pointing at, anyway. Church must have had tele
scopic vision because I could see nothing. He kept pointing, I kept looking; he was getting frustrated that I wasn’t reacting. Then I saw what looked like a mote in my eye, so far away, it could be considered a hallucination. Maybe I could have even continued to pull that lie off if not for the ground under my feet feeling like a bass drum, as it led an orc army into war. The first mote was joined by a second, third and possibly fourth, though that last one could be due to the vibrating of my eyeballs as my entire body shook. Where were the Steadicams when you needed them? Some higher functioning part of me knew exactly what I was looking at, but the majority of the lower base animal part of me refused to acknowledge it because to do so meant it knew how close death was, and, not many living things, if any, are willing to stare that straight in the face.
I turned back to Bob, wondering if it would be possible to pull him to safety somehow. He must have seen what we had, as he was pulling himself up off the ground. I understood the desire to die on your feet, to not have that last dignity taken from you. Or die on your base, as your physiology dictates. I looked to the trundle, wondering if hiding in the carcass would be an option; it had worked out for Luke Skywalker, not so much the Tauntaun, but these things can’t be helped. Sure, that had been for warmth on a frozen planet, and this was for refuge on a hostile one, but otherwise same thing in principle. The specks of dust had grown to the size of a pencil eraser held out at arm's length, not the square kind, but rather the ones you bite off the end of a pencil. They were hauling ass. I didn’t think we had much more than five minutes to do something besides roll over and show our bellies in an act of submission.
I smacked Church’s arm. “Come on. We have to dig a hole in the thing so we can all fit.”
