Them

by K. A. Applegate

  Besides, she didnt feel that the Meanie was threatening. It was wary, yes. But it wasnt interested in killing her.

  Hello. Im Miss Blake. Violet Blake. She pointed slowly to herself and repeated, Miss Blake. Im very pleased to make your acquaintance.

  The Meanie watched with its soulless eyes.

  She pointed at Jobs and said his name, at MoSteel and Olga, saying each name in turn. Then at Billy Weir.

  She held her hands open, the universal sign (she hoped) that she carried no weapon and meant no harm.

  The Meanie stared.

  Hey, Jobs said.

  What? Violet snapped, frustrated by the aliens total lack of response.

  Its Billy, Jobs said.

  Violet stepped back two steps, turned, hoping this wasnt some sort of culturally offensive move, and looked at Billy Weir.

  His eyes were closed. His mouth was moving. Like slow, slow speech.

  From the corner of her eye, Violet caught movement. The Blue Meanie. It rose slowly, standing awkwardly on its hind legs. This revealed a flat oval panel on the front of its suit, on its chest, assuming always it had a chest.

  Violet looked from Billy to the alien. There was no beam of light between them, nothing anyone could see, but something was happening.

  And then, looking past Billy, through the rectangular door, through the distant peaked archway beyond, through the nearly forgotten arch that led outside, Violet saw something that brought her heart to her throat.

  In a blaze of orange and red, the far-off sun was setting.

  Darkness obliterated the outer door. Night had fallen. The darkness did not deepen inside the tower, but night was felt nevertheless.

  From all around now, from every shadowed corner, came sounds of shuffling, movement, dragging, and now malevolent whispering and sharp, hysterical tittering laughter that rose to a shriek.

  What the . . . Olga cried.

  Someones there, Jobs hissed.

  Filling the rectangular doorway and cutting off any escape, standing on the steps, edging into the room, came every nightmare of a brilliant, twisted, poisoned mind.

  Demons and monsters.

  Last Judgment, Violet whispered.

  CHAPTER TEN BOSCH.

  Ya-ahh! Jobs cried.

  Whoa! MoSteel yelled.

  The demons skittered into the room, circling, keeping their distance but getting closer all the while.

  Bosch, Violet said. Oh, lord. Its Bosch.

  An antlered deer stood on its hind legs and stared at her.

  Across the floor moved a huge fish head. The fish head had two human legs attached. The legs wore black boots and propelled the monster with kicks and scuffs. Protruding from the fishs gaping mouth was the lower half of a human torso. The fish seemed to be trying to finish the human meal, kicking with its booted feet, trying to swallow more.

  A huge rat walked erect and wore a Tin Man funnel hat.

  A monstrously big mallard duck waddled past. A mans hands protruded from either side like an extra pair of wings. The mans spectacled face was trapped within the ducks shoulders by a silver net. It was as if a duck had been grown around a man. The mans eyes were desperate. He said nothing.

  There came a rush of tiny demons that looked like children mutated with frog DNA. A blue-faced gnome. A shriveled man pierced through and through with a tree branch. Small, swift, red-skinned demons with cat whiskers. A green dragon carrying a tall, smoldering torch.

  They were nightmares of deformity. Perverse creations made of animals and body parts. Walking tableaux of pain and suffering. And worse, delight in pain and suffering.

  There was no standing before them, no resistance possible, no way to hold on to any brave resolve.

  Jobs felt his will dissolve in sheer, bloody panic. He turned and ran. He ran into MoSteel, who stood there, transfixed, horrified.

  The impact stopped Jobs for just long enough.

  We have to get Billy! Jobs yelled. He grabbed MoSteels arm and shook him. Get Billy! We have to get out of here.

  Got that right, Duck, MoSteel yelled, voice quavering.

  They fumbled for the stretcher handles, hands shaking, eyes bulging. Demons were filling the room. There were screams, giddy laughter, groans of deep agony.

  Lets get out of here, Olga moaned, sounding like one of the poor, tortured creatures.

  Theyre just Cartoons, Violet said, but without conviction.

  One of the little red demons darted forward and stabbed at Jobs with a sharp stick. Jobs dropped his grip on the stretcher and Billy slammed head-down. Jobs wailed and held up his arm, showing the bleeding cut.

  The demon had skittered back, laughing and cavorting happily.

  Down the stairs! MoSteel roared.

  The Blue Meanie was already moving, heading for the stairs. But he stood aside as the panicked humans rushed past.

  From behind, Jobs heard a whirring sound, metallic, sudden, short. Then screams of pain and rage and the heavy tread of the Blue Meanie chasing down the stairs after them.

  The stairs didnt go far, maybe twenty feet to the next lower level. This time Jobs saw the Meanie turn and raise one front leg or hand or whatever it was. The whirring sound came again and a cloud sprayed from the Meanie.

  One of the demons, the fish-headed monstrosity, had descended the stairs. The Meanies cloud hit and the demon was shredded.

  Fléchettes, Jobs realized. The Meanie had fired a fléchette gun, thousands of tiny, sharp-edged shards that hit like buckshot.

  The demons didnt follow, but that didnt stop the panicked flight. Through the only door. Down another stairway. Left. Left again and down farther.

  Jobs felt as if he could keep running forever. The horrors were too fresh, too specific, not some vague nightmare feeling but things of flesh and blood that couldnt be, couldnt be anywhere outside of a psychotics imagination.

  But at last exhaustion stopped them. Jobs was sobbing with each breath. His throat was raw, his arms like lead, his feet felt battered. His heart would not slow down, would not stop the hammering.

  They dropped Billy none too gently and collapsed onto the stone floor.

  The Blue Meanie stayed with them, waited, watched.

  Jobs raised himself on one elbow, looked fearfully around, saw no demons. He started to speak but knew his voice would come out shrill and hysterical. He closed his eyes, forced himself to think. They were Cartoons. Just Cartoons. Matter suspended and manipulated within very sophisticated force fields. The question of the science, the technology involved, calmed him.

  Okay, Violet, Jobs said, what is this? Where are we?

  Bosch, she said, eyes wide.

  Whats that mean?

  Hieronymus Bosch. He inspired Brueghel. But no one ever beat Bosch for coming up with weird, scary . . . for sheer fantasy, for strange and disturbing images . . . Did you see that back there? Do you know where those things are from?

  Jobs shook his head.

  Theyre from hell, Violet whispered. A painting called Last Judgment. Bosch painted hell. And now were in it.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN HERE THEY COME! HERE THEY COME!

  2Face waited, ready for her move, but waiting for the right time.

  Yagos goal was clear and simple: By dividing the group, he hoped to rule. It wasnt even subtle or original. It was high school. If he could decide who was in and who was out, he could basically create the popular clique. He would decide who was cool and who was uncool.

  And just like any high school clique, the main criterion would be looks. Tamara and the baby were different, mutated, perhaps not entirely human. 2Face was deformed. Edward unfortunately, Yago had finally noticed Jobss little brother was some kind of mutant.

  So they were the early targets. If Yago could succeed in defining the four of them as outsiders, uncool, rejects, he would gain power.

  That couldnt happen. Stopping it would be close to impossible. 2Face knew enough to know that there is no appeals process for being labeled an outsider, uncool, a dork
, a freak, whatever. Once the label was applied it was almost impossible to scrape it off.

  She couldnt count on her father for much. He didnt get it. Besides, he was lost in mourning for his wife, 2Faces mother. He was so preoccupied with one loss that he would do little to stop another one.

  Fine, 2Face told herself. Ill take care of it myself.

  And she knew how.

  2Face was going to draw a line between herself and Tamara. Tamara and the baby were real freaks. 2Face was a victim of an accident. There was a difference.

  If she could turn everyone against Tamara, she could save herself by becoming one of the persecutors instead of one of the persecuted.

  It wasnt pretty or elegant. It wasnt moral. It would probably work.

  Wylson had organized an early-warning system. T.R. and Tate had been sent down the ramp about three hundred yards. Half that distance away were 2Faces father and Anamull. If the Riders came, T.R. would yell to Shy and Shy would yell to the main group as both sets of sentries raced for cover.

  It wouldnt provide much warning, but it would provide some.

  That was it, 2Face had realized with a contemptuous sneer, that was all Wylson had managed to arrange. No doubt Wylson was a good businessperson. She was no general.

  I hear something, Burroway hissed from his position by the arch.

  Then, everyone heard it: Anamull and Shy bellowing, Here they come! Here they come!

  Every face was turned to Wylson.

  Wylson was blank, staring. She licked her lips and glanced desperately at Tamara.

  The time had come. 2Face said, We only have one soldier.

  Yago frowned, confused.

  2Face plowed ahead quickly. When they killed Errol the Riders took him on in single combat. Same when Tamara fought them downstairs. They seem to have some kind of code. Maybe some kind of alien chivalry.

  So what? Yago asked, anxious to regain the initiative.

  So why doesnt Tamara challenge their leader, one on one? 2Face said. After all, not only is she a trained soldier, shes . . . she seems to have . . . some special powers. We all know shes different. Her and the baby both. Why dont they go challenge the Riders?

  The sentries came racing breathlessly in.

  What are we going to do? Anamull wailed. How many are there? Wylson asked.

  I dont know, like, like, ten, Tate said.

  More, Shy Hwang said, panting, hands on knees.

  Ritual single combat, 2Face said, trying to keep the desperation and self-loathing out of her voice. They were all that was left of Homo sapiens. All that was left of Earth. They could be building a new civilization. Instead they were playing high-school games. Its the only way.

  The baby cooed.

  Tamara said, Well do it. Well do it for free. This time. But if we win, well, there may be a next time. And next time, therell be a price to be paid.

  CHAPTER TWELVE DONT MESS WITH A MAKER.

  Sergeant Tamara Hoyle heard the words coming out of her mouth and they scared her.

  And next time, therell be a price to be paid.

  What did that mean? Why had she said it?

  What was the baby up to?

  She had grown accustomed to the presence of the baby inside her head. She could feel it all the time.

  At the start, back when she had first awakened from hibernation, shed believed it was the normal connection of mother to child. At first it had been a tendril touching her own consciousness. A gentle touch, welcome, pleasurable, reassuring.

  Then they had cut her umbilical cord and the babys touch had become a grasp. The tentative finger had become a fist.

  At first shed been confused. Not knowing what was baby and what was Tamara. But as the babys control had grown, shed been more and more clear in her mind about what was Tamara and what was baby. There was very little now that was Tamara, except when the baby became bored or distracted.

  The baby never ate.

  The baby wasnt interested in small talk. The baby wasnt interested in the minute-by-minute matters that were handled by Tamaras brain. She was free to eat or not, sit, stand, sleep, smile, or frown. The baby had no interest in her as a person. The baby cared only for the serious decisions.

  The baby had a goal, though Tamara didnt know what it was. She could sense it. She could feel the energy, the will. The baby was determined. The baby was confident, but scared, too.

  Malice. Thats what she felt from that other consciousness. Malice and intent and determination.

  One thing Tamara knew, or thought she knew at least: The baby wasnt really interested in the Remnants. It had other goals and the humans were shadow figures, objects to be used or discarded.

  All except Billy Weir. Billy was no shadow to the baby. Billy was bright and sharp-edged and dangerous. But Billy was no longer here.

  The others . . . Yago, Wylson, 2Face, all of them with their transparent games, they were all beside the point. The baby played a different game.

  What was the baby?

  Tamara didnt know. She thought she saw parts of herself in him, parts of his father. She wanted the baby to be her own flesh and blood. It was. It wasnt. Her feelings changed from hour to hour. It was human, it wasnt. It was something else. Something unnatural, or perhaps a natural result of the terribly unnatural circumstances of its birth.

  Shed been shot, wounded, collapsed. Shed been placed into hibernation, shot and pregnant.

  And five hundred years later shed been revived and the wound was healed and the baby had been born. How long ago? And how had it been born at all from a body that was, to all intents and purposes, dead?

  An unnatural natural consequence of unnatural circumstances. A mutation. An adaptation.

  Or something else.

  Either way, the baby was in her mind, and she could not resist it.

  And when shed fought the Rider, when shed done battle, shed had strength and speed that she knew had not come from her Marine Corps training or her rigorous fitness routine. It was wonderful. Whatever the source, it was wonderful.

  Power. From somewhere else.

  She felt it now as she sauntered out through the arch. Felt the calm that power brings.

  Tamara had placed the baby inside the arch. It didnt matter. The babys control did not rely on touch.

  Tamara shouldered the spear, nonchalant, and stepped out onto the ramp. She took up a stance, legs apart, knees slightly bent, free hand resting on hip.

  The Riders she counted six, not the ten or dozen that Anamull and Shy had imagined. They were skimming along on their hoverboards, holding in a rough line abreast.

  It was happening again. A weirdness in her vision. Like she could see a million miles. No, that wasnt it, either. It wasnt super vision, just different vision. She saw the Riders in detail, detail that went below the skin and the bone. She saw them down to their muscles and tendons. It was as if she could see the very nerves, the connection that ran from brain to hand, from hand back to brain.

  She saw into and through the Riders. She felt she could almost see the thoughts taking shape in their heads.

  The Riders saw her and reined in their hoverboards.

  Hi, boys, Tamara said. Nice night, huh?

  The Riders glared at her. They could glare, the Riders could. They stared at her with an array of insect eyes, small and large. The writhing snake head, the second head, though Tamara knew it was not a true head, more like an animated mouth, gnashed razor teeth.

  The lead Rider you could tell because the leaders hoverboard bore a series of small blue daubs attached to the leading edge let loose the earsplitting shriek.

  Tamara did not quail. She pointed one long finger at her own chest, then turned it to the leader. You and me. She spread her hands wide to make the invitation clear. Right here, right now, one-on-one.

  The Riders face turned a darker shade of rust. Anger? No, the baby knew, worry. The Riders eating head extended a black tongue and tasted the air. Anxiety.

  Behind her, Tamara could sens
e and hear the group gathered in the archway, the bolder ones, anyway. The baby was there. Tamara could see the scene through his eyes. His impossible, eyeless eyes. She could see herself, all alone, before the towering, hovering Riders.

  The baby laughed.

  Tamara cocked her head. Well? You here to fight or just to enjoy the view?

  The Rider could not possibly understand her words, of course, but he knew that he was being mocked.

  A guttural series of clicks issued from his mouth and the other Riders withdrew, forming a semicircle a hundred feet behind their leader.

  Now the blood surged through Tamaras muscles. Now the nerves tingled. Now her every sense was trained, not on the Riders face or arms, but within him, down into his core.

  He would strike with his boomerang.

  A flick of movement and a curved, toothed stick flew. It was thrown at Tamaras head, but meant to miss. It was a trick: The return flight of the boomerang would slice her neck.

  Tamara didnt flinch as the boomerang passed the first time. She waited, eyes on the Rider. The boomerang curved and returned without any seeming loss of blinding speed. Tamara could hear its flit-flit-flit sound.

  She stuck her spear back, slapped the boomerangs leading edge, killing its speed. It dropped straight down and she caught it in her free hand and threw it back without drawing breath.

  The boomerang flew. The Rider chief dodged. The boomerang flew on and caught one of the other Riders full in his face.

  A shriek of pain. The injured Rider fell from his hoverboard, landed hard. He tore at the boomerang, firmly wedged into his main head, just between the large upper eyes and the smaller lower eyes.

  The chief glanced back at his fallen comrade.

  Yeah, Tamara said with a laugh that echoed from the baby.

  The chief surged at her, slid back on his board, and used the underside of the board as a battering ram.

  The board shot through unoccupied space. Tamara leaped straight up, high, impossibly high, more than her own height. She sliced her spear horizontally. Missed! The Rider chief had dodged just in time.