12
I was back to trusting the old Fly instincts again. There were plenty of more unreliable things, such as any decision by Lieutenant Weems. Hadn’t thought of Weems for a while. My lip curled; Weems was probably the first zombie; reworking him would take the least amount of effort.
I felt something in my hand. I stared—the thing I’d fished out of the sludge! I held it up close, staring in confusion. Then it clicked—it was a map, a video schematic of the labs. Jesus and Mary . . . I guess even the greenest cloud can have a silver-screen lining.
I decided to follow the same road map I’d been on for several levels now: down, down, down . . . no reason to stop. I might as well see what was at the very bottom level—which, according to the map I’d seen in the nuclear plant, was the main computer station, two floors down. But in the absence of Arlene marks, I’d have to plan the route myself . . . just as soon as I could make tops and bottoms out of my new toy.
I suddenly felt a wave of weakness and fever; I hoped I hadn’t already given myself a death sentence from the toxin.
Phobos Lab was dark. Phobos Lab stank like an open sewer. But if there was anything left of the original installation here, then medical supplies had to be near at hand, if they hadn’t been left in the typical condition of guns and radio sets. I picked that as my first priority; I needed an all-purpose antitoxin and a stimulant.
Leaning against a wall for support, I found a weapons locker the hard way: I leaned against it and the door collapsed inward.
Guns! I pawed through my treasure trove, scooping up as much ammo as I could shovel into my pack. Then I stared in reverence; beneath the shells and bullets rested a state-of-the-art, AB-10 machine pistol. The question was, did it still work after scores of zombies and spinys had monkeyed with it?
I checked it out, cleaned the barrel, then reloaded it. I almost pulled the trigger to do the only test that really counts, but stuck to my original policy of not making any more noise than was absolutely required.
I cleaned the machine pistol as thoroughly as I could before adding it to my arsenal. There was little doubt of this lethal package receiving a test real soon, with a real target, and hopefully with a margin of error to try something else if it failed. The best choice might be to have the pistol in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Nothing wrong with insurance, even if it made me feel a bit like a Wild West gunfighter.
As I stood, shifting the backpack to be more comfortable and finding a place for all the weapons, a sudden attack of dizziness hit me like a grenade. Medical attention had just become my number-one priority again.
I studied my hand map, working the buttons to make the pretty picture slide up and down. First task was to find me—no helpful “You Are Here” on this puppy. At last I found the wall crossing a trench . . . no sign of toxic sludge on the map, of course.
I must have been living right, because the nearest infirmary—marked with a red cross—was located just a quarter klick away, spitting distance. I found it, and there wasn’t a single monster doctor or devil nurse. Here I’d been expecting a typical medical establishment and was pleasantly surprised.
And there were lights, the first fully operational light I’d found in the complex. If the lights had survived, maybe the doctoring stuff was still here and intact.
I resisted the impulse to cross my fingers as I unlatched and opened the first promising cabinet. Mother lode . . . thanks, Mom. I removed a Medikit with the seal still unbroken and popped her open. Inside were bandages, antitoxin compounds, even ointment for burns. (My face still felt as hot as if I had a sunburn, for which I could thank a fireball instead of a weekend at the beach.)
I found a clean room, a metal table next to a mirror, all kinds of light, even a shower cubicle. It was time for Dr. Taggart to make a house call.
I didn’t do too badly, really. First off, I locked the doors, turned out all the lights except the one in the room with the table and the shower, placed the shotgun right up against the stall, where I could grab it in a second, and, facing the closed office door the entire time and leaving the shower door ajar, I took the risk of bathing.
Sick as I’d been feeling since immersing myself in the ooze, the mere act of washing it all away made me feel considerably better. I turned the nozzle for Hot up as high as I could stand it and felt the cuts and bruises sting, then feel better. My burned face didn’t get anything out of the shower but pain, but the rest of my body was doing too well for me to care.
If the shower was heaven, then the fresh towel was a piece of Eden. Here I had struck a mortal blow against the shores of hell. The rest was pretty simple. I put antibiotic and bandages on the worst of my wounds and cuts, taped my bruised ribs (didn’t even remember where I got them), and took my time smearing the cold, soothing ointment on the burns.
The only moment when Doc Taggart almost failed his patient was when he—when I—noticed thirty or forty hypodermics, all neatly labeled GENERAL STIMULANT. I don’t like needles. Never have.
But there was good reason to pick up one of those needles and give myself a shot. Just as good a reason to pack some in shock-proof carriers and take them along. I could run into Arlene, and she might need a lift. I might run into some other survivor. And if I were going to do all that, the only reasonable thing was for me to give myself an injection first.
You don’t need to do that, said the little voice in my head. Just find another blue-faced sphere.
I argued with the voice: “It might be a once in a lifetime fluke. I can’t count on that happening again.” That’s when I noticed that I was talking to myself. Sheeesh, all this just to avoid sticking myself with a needle!
No more. I bravely wielded the needle, got out the alcohol and cotton swab. This couldn’t be any worse than what I’d been going through lately. Well, not by much anyway.
I wolfed some food from the small refrigerator, then hunted for a flashlight. Alas, all I found was one of those pencil-beam lights; if I wanted to find out if a zombie had a sore throat, or any throat at all, I was set.
According to my map, I had to go north to find some sort of route down. At least my compass was still functioning. I hated to leave, but the infirmary had done its job. I was tired, not exhausted, hungry, not starving, and not shaking like I had amebic dysentery. The only problem, aside from demons, two-legged pigs, and murderous corpses, was that I had lost Arlene’s trail; if she were hurt, laying up somewhere, I might accidentally leave her behind on an upper level. The point was that I could concentrate again.
The last thing I did before stepping out again into the dark was check the boots. They’d held up better than I thought, but I stuffed some pillowcases in for added insulation.
Outside, it was just as dark as before, but I wasn’t as bothered this time; the human race may not have blue spheres, but we do all right. I stayed in that frame of mind as I went north. I scuttled along the corridors, letting my shotgun peek around corners first, until I reached a huge chamber. It was dark, but not the pitch-black I had just come from. At least I could tell I had entered a larger area.
The next moment I was under attack. Claws raked across the shoulder plates of the battle armor I had just reinforced. When I tried to fend off the enemy, I half expected to feel the crocodile-type hide of the spiked monsters; but instead, my hands sank into a pulpy mass. And the contact made my flesh crawl even through my thick gloves.
The light was on, and I should have been able to see the scum, but I was getting nothing. Then as I pushed against the jellylike stuff and took a few faltering steps back, I saw a familiar shimmering. The same thing I’d seen when I thought I was fighting a ghost. That time, the issue was resolved by a miracle fireball; this time, I was on my own.
Didn’t this goddamned, jelly-shimmering, half-assed, invisible son of a bitch know the rules? Ghosts can’t hurt people—they can only scare them to death! Then the Caspar pounded me, knocking me back on my butt and kicking the wind out of me. I thanked Mary for the armor as I s
hoved the barrel of the shotgun right into the shimmering effect and pulled the trigger, hoping that if this thing had a mouth, that was exactly where he was going to get it.
I don’t know if I killed it. I don’t know if it can be killed. But it didn’t bother me anymore after that. Not liking the idea of being followed by more invisible spooks, I jogged for a while, hoping to be done with this part as soon as possible. I also kept both eyes open for a pair of light-amp goggles, but I’d used up my good luck quotient at the infirmary.
To exit the labs, I had to enter the darkest room yet, black as coal. I wasn’t surprised. This was at the north end of the installation, where, after groping in the dark by touch and even daring to use my tiny penlight, I finally found a small opening. This led down a narrow corridor to a tight, metal, spiral staircase going down—way down. I started to get very dizzy, spinning around so many times.
Central Processing had more tight, narrow corridors than anywhere else on Phobos. Good thing I’m not claustrophobic. The light was better than the labs; but that’s like saying L.A. cab drivers are more polite than cab drivers in Mexico City.
And at long, long last, I found another A.S.! I stared at it, overwhelmed by inappropriate emotion. She was alive! She got this far! Relief was a physical thing, perched on my back.
The arrow pointed to a branching corridor that seemed small enough to give a midget a backache; but crawling down it was a good move. At the other end was a completely intact map of this section. The bad guys must have been getting careless lately. If this kept up, I might find a functioning radio.
Central Processing was laid out in a rough triangular shape. Made me think of a robot riding a motorcycle. Maybe I was more wasted than I realized.
The southeast corner was made up of four interconnected rooms. A warning note was attached that three motion detector triggers will close any door in the facility for a span of thirty seconds as a security precaution. I could just see myself getting caught in a room with wall-to-wall enemies while I counted off: “Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight . . . notify next of kin.”
Unfortunately, I couldn’t take the map with me, unless I ripped it out of the wall and dragged it along, and my hand map still showed the labs above; if there were a way of changing the view, I couldn’t find it.
It occurred to me that we humans needed to learn everything possible about these bastards; otherwise, Earth was a sitting duck. We couldn’t shoot it out with these things and expect to survive. We had to outsmart them—or die.
I was surprised that I had survived this long. I was a pretty good Marine. There was no false modesty about that. But Arlene was remarkable; if I could survive, surely she could! Hoped she would keep it up. Hoped I would, too; but this nonsense couldn’t go on forever.
As I looked at the map, I knew, I just knew, that the thirty-second security rule about doors meant there was a welcoming committee waiting for me. Well, you knew the job was dangerous when you took it, Fly. They’ll get you in the end.
But who were “they?”
They weren’t the pitiful wrecks that looked human though dead inside. They weren’t the spinys or metal skulls or ghosts, either. The one making snuffling pig sounds gave me the creeps; but somehow I knew the creature was mentally no more than an animal. If I hadn’t encountered the one monster who enjoyed talking, I’d be tempted to conclude we were being invaded by an alien barnyard.
But the intelligence was there; just well-hidden. Even without the talking demon, the alien technology itself was proof of a “mastermind.”
So why didn’t the intelligence simply organize the monsters and zombies into a naval search pattern and be done with it? Why were Arlene and I being allowed to play Gypsy, entering one level after another, shooting it out with pretty much the same cast of characters, encountering the same hazards . . . and beating them over and over and over again?
Maybe it was all a pre-invasion test, or worse still, a sadistic game. But test or game, it had to be teaching the Enemy Mind something important. The important question for the survival of the human race was: What the hell was I learning?
I hated to admit it, but so far the answer was not much.
13
One thing I was learning, though: speed. While I debated the finer points of philosophy with myself, a mob of zombies and spinys burst through the door at the back end of the corridor, the one I’d come through myself, as if they owned the damned place; they noticed me and tore down the narrow corridor. I did not take longer than a microsecond to resolve the question—I ran like a bat out of hell, a bat trying to get the hell out of hell. Although finding the commanding officer of the invasion was an important issue, I decided it could wait until later for review. Much later.
With this many of the enemy breathing down my neck, the shotgun was useless. Maybe my new machine pistol would have worked . . . but what I already had in my hands was the rocket launcher.
For an instant I considered the narrow corridor that might channel the blast right back in my face, the proximity of the nearest spiny . . . for an instant. Then I dug my heel in and spun, ready to rock ’n’ roll.
The explosion was so loud that I didn’t hear it. I felt it. A giant, invisible hand threw me to the ground. My eyes were open, and I saw the whole contingent that was on my tail vanish in a spray of blood and fire.
The sight was something to think about; especially since it was the last sight I saw.
I must have lost consciousness. An indeterminate time later, I began to hear a sound, too loud and annoying to sleep through. Like all the church bells the penguins ever rung at me, all the bells in the world in my head. I still couldn’t see anything, just a bright afterimage.
It was about fifteen minutes before the bells were replaced by a buzzing sound, then the slosh-slosh of blood in my ears. I would have been easy pickin’s, as Gunny Goforth would say. Maybe I was saved by looking as dead as the rest of them.
When I was able, I crawled along the corridor, dragging my feet. There was no time to examine my possessions. One thing for certain: if those glass syringes were still in one piece inside their supposedly shock-proof container, I’d be giving more product endorsements.
Shaking my head clear and staggering to my feet, I finally made it to the one long, spacious corridor in the otherwise cramped, tight, ore-processing center. This one was well marked on the map I’d studied—the only route to what the map indicated were the stairs down. Judging from the red and gold and brown streaks on the rough walls, this corridor had been carved right out of the rock of Phobos. I liked it and hoped it wouldn’t be reworked into something sickening.
Halfway down the corridor, I suddenly felt lightheaded and my stomach broke loose from its moorings. At first I thought I was experiencing more symptoms from the rocket blast. Then I realized what was happening. No one goes to space without experiencing zero-g, and you never forget it. This was damned close enough! I should have studied the map more closely when I had the chance . . . the middle section of this corridor must pass outside the ancient, alien gravity-zone.
A handrail was installed for the obvious reason. Grabbing it, I pulled myself along; a single tug was enough to overcome friction in Phobos’s minuscule natural gravity. I’d spent enough time on the ship to Mars that this was simple enough, unless I had the bad luck to be attacked right now; I’d never taken zero-g combat training.
Pulling myself around a corner, I floated practically into the arms of a triplet of spinys. Luck has never been my long suit. But these leathery bastards were walking on the walls and ceiling, as if they enjoyed their own, personal gravity that followed them around, each oriented in a different direction.
One more piece of evidence that they were unbeatable. Then one of them looked right at me and spoke: “Gosh—are we having a ball, or what?”
It hocked a loogie into its hand, where the mucus immediately burst into flame.
My hog leg was tucked in the webbing at my back, and there was no room to draw it in
this corridor, no time to work it free. The demon raised the flaming ball of snot, grinning like a goblin.
I threw my head back, rotating my body in the microgravity. I didn’t bother drawing the shotgun; when I rotated my body so the barrel was pointing at that cracked and grinning face, I fired.
A lucky shot. Blew its head clean off. Guess my luck’s not so abysmal after all.
The blast acted like a rocket, propelling me backward. When I stopped spinning, I grabbed the rail, drew the shotgun free, and pulled myself back where I’d left off.
The two remaining monsters had forgotten all about me; they were fighting each other, claws dug into throats, bloody drool trickling down wrinkled chins and bursting into flame.
Was it possible, just one “brain” to a set? Kill the mastermind, and the rest turn on each other?
Evidently, the Mind behind the invasion had the power to manifest itself through only one or two individuals in a group.
I tucked that one away in the hindbrain; I would use it later.
I waited politely until one brain-dead spiny offed the other; then I rewarded the victor with the spoils: a twelve-gauge blast to the face, this time with my back braced against the wall.
I hauled ass along the corridor to the gravity zone. At the far north end of the facility, I found a switch that opened a door leading to the stairway where I could process myself right out of Central Processing.
Down one flight on the spiral, metal-grate stairway, the Computer Station welcomed me with a thin layer of green sludge. At this point I just didn’t care. I was willing to jump into the ooze and slog through it as long as my boots held out. I wanted out of here! I ran without stopping until I discovered that whatever crap-for-brains idiot designed this playground set it up so you go around in circles before noticing you were going around in circles.
The Computer Station was a haze of forgetfulness. It started out badly when I couldn’t find an Arlene mark. I hunted along every passageway without luck; either she followed a totally different route and our paths did not cross, or more likely, she had a reception committee waiting for her when she climbed down the ladder, and she was in a running firefight until she found a bolt-hole.
Knee-Deep in the Dead Page 9