As I climbed down the long shaft, it occurred to me to think about something cheerful, a silver lining that must exist somewhere in these storm clouds. There had to be something.
And there was. I hadn’t found Arlene’s body yet . . . and so long as I didn’t know what had happened to her, there was hope.
I figured the nuclear plant must be at least six stories down. Just keep climbing, that was all I could do. Climb. Hope. Watch out for demons. Real simple. I preferred thinking about Arlene.
* * *
I remembered the day she showed up from Parris Island and joined the real Corps, the fighting Corps. I looked up from monkeying with the sticky belt-advance on a .60 caliber auto-stabilized, and I saw a brutal babe in cammies, spats, webbing, and sporting a newly shaved high-and-tight. Catching her eye told me all I had to know. She knew what she was doing, all right. The Corps is protective of its haircut, flat on the top and shaved on the sides. We’re talking a sign of distinction, a challenge thrown at every other service. God help the Navy, Army, or Space Force puke who shows up on one of our bases in a high-and-tight! What happens afterward is why God made Captain’s Mast.
But Arlene was no innocent. She wore her cut high and proud, and wore a single, red, private’s stripe.
Lieutenant Weems (pre-punch) took one look at Arlene Sanders, a long, hard look, and curled his lip. He watched her hand her packet to PFC Dodd, who stared at her like she had two heads. So far as I know, that was the first time they ever met, they who were destined for . . . well, not love, exactly; extreme lustlike. (After about a year of ignoring him with all her might, then another six months of despising him, she shamefacedly confessed to me that she’d spent the night in his flat.)
All in all, not the best-foot-forward on this first day for the first woman in Fox Company.
Of course, the opinion of Lieutenant Weems was already a debased currency by this time. But the opinion of the other men mattered. And no one could express that company opinion with more eloquence than Gunnery Sergeant Goforth, the company’s “grand old man.” Hell, he was in his late thirties, an eighteen-year Marine, the last ten in Light Drop.
Goforth looked like Aldo Ray in those old John Wayne movies. He was heavyset, muscular but not fat; he shaved his head but would probably be bald anyway. Goforth was a Franks tank with legs, a few freckles mixed in along with the Rolled Homogenous Armor.
The gunny made a big deal of sauntering over to Arlene and let loose with his thick, Georgian drawl: “Hooo-eeee! Where’ud the lay-dee get thuh purty ’do?”
She looked him in the eye. That was all. Not a bad answer, really, but I thought that under the circumstances a few words of reason might be in order.
I volunteered myself for the task. Partly because I liked a woman with guts; partly because I respected the men in the Corps and felt their position could be expressed in a more thoughtful manner than Gunny Goforth was likely to manage. But mainly I spoke up because at some deep level I hate all rules, symbols, rituals, fighting words, gang colors, routines, decorations, medals, trophies, badges . . . and anything else that suggests one human being is to be taken more seriously than another in a given situation simply on the basis of plumage. Besides, I was making no headway with the damned .60 cal.
I was sitting on the mess hall table and felt very much above it all as I said, “Private, a high-and-tight is not a fashion statement. You gotta earn it.”
That seemed a nice ice breaker. She must have agreed because she spoke to me, not Goforth. “I’m as much a Marine as the next man,” she said, glancing at me before returning her steady attention back to the gunny.
The first retort that crossed my mind was to take a big bite of the red apple that happened to be in my hand. The longer it took to chew and swallow the piece of apple, the more profound would be my clever rejoinder, it seemed to me.
So I did. And Goforth took a step closer to Arlene, deliberately breaking her space. Arlene stood her ground, not budging an inch.
In between bites of the apple, I thought I would essay another arbitration. “You know,” I essayed, “a high-and-tight is not mil-spec for ladies.”
“It’s not regulation for men, either,” she shot back. There was no arguing with that, but there was plenty of apple left to crunch.
Gunny Goforth didn’t have an apple. “Any Muh-reen who wears thet ’do,” he said, “sure as hell is gonna earn it, missy.” I thought the “missy” was a bit much.
Arlene Sanders leaned forward into his space, close enough to either kiss him or bite off his round knob of a nose. Instead, she said two words: “You’re on.”
Goforth was just as stubborn. He was native to Georgia but might as well have been from Missouri when it came to matters of proof. “Every Muh-reen is a rifleman fust,” he said. “If’n you want to spoht thet thang, missy, then you had best pick up yer cute lil’ buns and follow me tuh the rifle range.”
She gave him a curt nod. Challenge accepted. They started to leave, then Goforth noticed my juicy, red apple, which had tasted much better than the discussion, far as I was concerned.
“Hey, Fly,” he said, “howzabout grabbin’ thet sack o’ apples?”
As I hoisted the apples and made tracks, I could honestly say that I didn’t have a clue what old Goforth was up to.
The range was a short walk. Every man who had been present for the exchange of words followed along. No one wanted to miss entertainment of this high a caliber, no pun intended.
Goforth walked on over to Arlene and said, “Private, you need a whole helpin’ o’ guts to wear thet ’do. Takes more’n jes’ a steady rifle hand, thet it do!” At least he didn’t call her “missy” this time.
Holding up his hand, palm toward me, he shouted, “Fly, toss me one of those apples. Ya’ll watch a history lesson.” Now that I finally had the idea, I was none too happy, but Arlene just smiled—a little, thin smile. I think she guessed what the gun’ was scheming.
I slapped the apple into the gunnery sergeant’s paw. He casually tossed and caught it a few times, then asked Arlene: “Yuh lak historee, lil’ lady?” He was laying the accent on so thick I could barely understand him.
“Let me guess,” she said with a thick grin. “You like William Tell.”
Goforth looked crestfallen that she had outguessed him, stealing some wind from his sails. But if verbal teasing wouldn’t do the job, he was more than ready to push this thing on to the real thing. I could see it in his face; there was no humor left.
When I had first joined Fox Company, Goforth went out of his way to make me feel welcome. About the worst he did was to tag me with the nickname Fly. He didn’t bag on me the way he was doing to Arlene. He gestured to Dodd to bring over the artillery, and Dodd brought a .30-99 bolt-action sniper rifle, top of the line. Goforth flashed Arlene a big, soapy grin; but she held her ground.
Made me wonder, not just about the gun’, but the other guys, who leered and chuckled unpleasantly. Plenty of men are solid guys, decent fathers and husbands, but revert to Wolfman when confronted by physical prowess in a woman.
As Goforth lived up to his name and went forward with the William Tell bit, I was getting panicky . . . but I kept it to myself. She was going to play this one out to the bitter end. I figured that from the way she planted her feet, put her arms behind her and said, “Go for it!” Abruptly, everybody stopped laughing. Gunny Goforth noticed but wasn’t about to back down with eight, I’m sure it was, eight guys watching. With an almost delicate concern, he carefully placed the apple on her head. Then he took the .30-99 and slowly backed away from her. He aimed just as carefully and said, in a voice that had lost all the sarcasm, “Last chance, honey.” I thought “honey” sounded better than “missy.”
Arlene didn’t move, but I could see that she was trembling ever so slightly beneath her bravado. I sure as hell didn’t blame her. Goforth took a deep breath and said, “All right, darlin’ . . . I suggest in the strongest terms thet you don’t flinch none.”
I was the one who jumped when he squeezed off a shot—and damned if the apple didn’t split perfectly down the middle, each half falling on either side of her head! Everybody let out his breath, and a ragged cheer erupted.
“Way to go, Gunny!” said one man.
“Fox Company ichiban!” said another.
We’d forgotten one item. We’d forgotten that Arlene had put her skull on the line. The drama wasn’t over until she said it was.
As Goforth basked in his moment of glory, the boys all praising him, Arlene walked toward him. Her hands were behind her back and she was smiling sweetly.
I saw what she was carrying before the gun’ did. She held an apple up until he saw it; then she tossed it to him.
Silence again; nobody moved. Then just as smoothly as you please, Arlene Sanders picked up the .30-99 from the table, staring expectantly at Goforth and cocking one of her eyebrows.
I never doubted what Goforth would do. His basic sense of fair play could be counted on; and he had guts. He wasn’t about to lose his men’s respect. Not Goforth! So, in the words of the old-time baseball player, it was déjà vu all over again.
He put the apple on his head, his icy eyes boring into Arlene’s. She watched him just as intently; no lovers were ever more focused on one another.
She cocked and raised the rifle, which wasn’t even fitted with a scope, just iron sights. A few of the men backed farther away from the cone of fire surrounding the gunnery sergeant. That pissed me off, so I deliberately took a few steps closer to the duel. Something about this girl inspired confidence that she was no more likely to blow away a spectator than the gunnery sergeant.
Goforth had his own concerns: “If you have to miss,” he said so softly that it didn’t even sound like him, “please tuh make it high?” He smiled with an effort. The request seemed reasonable enough.
Arlene said nothing. She lifted the rifle nice and slow. She didn’t make us wait; she pounded out a shot, and the apple was blown off Goforth’s head. Corporal Stout ran over and picked it up. It was still mostly in one piece, but there was a gratifying furrow a little high off the center.
After a long moment, during which no one said a word, Goforth walked up to Arlene Sanders. Putting hands on his hips, he made a big show of inspecting her high-and-tight, while we all held our breath.
Goforth bent down, examined her right side, left side, back, front, then looked her evenly in the eye, winked and nodded. “It’s you, Private,” he said. And I was pretty damned sure he wouldn’t be calling her “missy” again She didn’t miss, you see.
Some of the boys took to calling her Will, though.
7
The odds against Arlene’s survival in this hellish maelstrom were astronomical; but then, so they were against mine. Hope that she might have made it kept me going; fury at the thought of her death spurred me to action. Maybe just when I was running out of steam, the need for revenge would inspire Yours Truly.
As if to test my newfound resolve, Phobos threw some more at me. Glancing down, I saw that the access shaft did not descend the full six stories required to reach the nuclear plant. The ladder ended in a few ragged shreds of metal; an explosion had cut off the rest of that route.
Of course, I could always get to the nuclear plant level really fast, so long as I didn’t mind the sudden stop at the end.
“Damn, I knew this was too good to be true,” I said out loud. Just before running out of ladder, I saw a thick, metal hatchway leading to the next level down.
It looked solid, heavy; a pressure lock held it shut; I would have to spin the wheel to open the door, a happy trick when the ladder ended a couple of rungs above the hatch.
For a moment I was stymied. I could just barely reach the wheel by hanging one-handed from the last rung; but I had no leverage . . . I couldn’t turn it to save my life. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and thought for several seconds.
Jesus—what am I, stupid all of a sudden? I rotated around the ladder, lowered myself until my lower legs poked through the last hole, then slowly let my body down until I dangled upside down from my knees. Now I had the leverage; all it took was muscle.
I cranked the wheel clockwise, loosening it until it spun freely. I wrestled open the door—and now for the hard part.
Holding tight to the wheel of the now-open door, I straightened my legs, dropping heavily as the wheel spun. I clung to it grimly, swinging back and forth until I finally stopped swinging.
I edged around the door, caught the corresponding wheel on the inside and swung myself up and into the shaft. I lost nothing but any desire I might have had to take my name to heart and become a Human Fly as a career path.
The access shaft led me into a tunnel where the light was crappy again, flickering on and off like some sicko nightclub. It was tall enough to stand, and I did.
After five meters I decided this was the weirdest stretch of architecture yet. The light was lousy, but it was good enough to make out the walls—plain and gray with an oddly rough-hewn surface, as if hacked out of the rock with a magic ax.
Large, rectangular designs everywhere gave the feeling of a colossal cemetery. More than anything else, the strong impression of something truly ancient and evil permeated the narrow corridor. Alien, and yet familiar somehow. It was as if I’d been cast inside the oldest labyrinth in the universe and would spend the rest of my life trying to find my way through the maze.
Damn imagination acting up again . . . memory was better; at least it gave me something to hold on to. A link to the past, a better past.
Then I saw old Gunnery Sergeant Goforth, walking down the corridor in my direction. The failing light made it difficult to make out skin tones; but the smooth, purposeful way he walked made me think he couldn’t be a zombie.
It was Gunny Goforth—and he was alive!
“Gunny!” I shouted, ecstatic to have finally found another live one in this nightmare.
He didn’t answer; my God, that should have told me something.
He raised his old .30-99 and aimed it right at my chest. I threw myself to the floor just as the bullet seared over my head.
“Damn you to hell!” I shouted, outraged that the universe had decided to foist a new, improved zombie on me. Too late; I’m sure he already was—and me with him.
This new horror seemed even more unfair than that crazy brown monster with the spikes. I’d settled into a nice, predictable pattern about what to do with zombies. No fair changing the rules now!
Hey, Gunny, you’re still a pal.
He marched straight for me, no deviations, no ducking, no turning sideways to make a more difficult target. An obliging guy in his way. Of course, he was working the bolt on his sniper rifle, trying to blow my head from Phobos back to Earth.
I didn’t just lie on the floor, waiting for that unacceptable outcome. I had plans of my own.
In life, Gunny Goforth could shoot—hell, could shoot the apple off a young Marine’s head. In death, he shot better than all the other zombies. And he blinked.
I rolled back and forth, waiting until he was ten meters away; then I shouldered the riot gun and squeezed.
It was the biggest mess I’d made on this godforsaken rock of a moon so far. The splatter was sort of an artistic statement. But I must have gotten something in my eye. I kept blinking, but it wouldn’t go away.
Somebody was laughing, sort of a crazy, whacked-out cackle. “Shut up!” I screamed at the jokester, wiping my cheeks. The laughter stopped, and only then did I realize the mirth was courtesy of a poor jarhead named Fly.
This was no good. I had to get a handle on the situation. Running multiplication tables in my head helped me chill while I scavenged Goforth’s pack for ammo. My breathing slowed to something sane, and my heartbeat took a licking but kept on ticking.
In fact, I was so calm I barely blinked when a whirring, metallic skull sailed past my head.
This time I was sure my imagination was off on a wild toot. I’d never done hallucinogens
as a kid, and it just wasn’t fair for my imagination to suggest a giant, white skull had gone flying past (on its way to the demonic head shop, no doubt). So I made a deal with my imagination: if it didn’t throw any more Halloween balloons at me, I’d give it a break when it wanted to go traipsing down memory lane. I can be fair.
I ran like a madman up the corridor, jogging a couple of times. Whatever it was, I’d lost it for now.
Emerging into a big open room made me feel more claustrophobic. That might sound fairly nutty but you’d have to see this place for yourself. I wasn’t bothered by the incredibly high, arched ceiling, supported by grotesque pillars that would be more at home in some ancient palace in India. No, what bothered me was that this huge room was full of barrels of that noxious, green liquid I thought I’d left behind—and good riddance.
The empty, cavernous room was a perfect place for a congregation of Halloween goblins and all species of zombie, fast and slow, dull and the cognitive elite.
No sooner had this unpleasant thought crossed my cranium than the floodgates opened and they started pouring into the room from all directions.
I shrank back into the shadows, trying to look dead and mindless; it worked for a few moments . . . none of the zombies seemed to notice me.
There really wasn’t time for a sanity check, but I ran a quick one anyway. I’d read about a mental condition or a philosophy (I forget which) called solipsism: you think of something, and it happens. The ultimate case is when you think you’re all that exists, and the whole universe is your dream. Man, I was ready to buy into that, if only I could dream away these monsters as quickly as I seemed to be filling up this room with them!
Well . . . what can I lose? I closed my eyes and concentrated real hard, wishing away the bogeymen.
While I was thus occupied, I was blown off my feet by an explosion and searing heat right over my head. Opening my eyes to excruciating pain, I discovered I wasn’t alone on the floor: whatever had blown me down got the nearest few zombies as well.
Knee-Deep in the Dead Page 5