by Coy, David
“You’re gonna get really wet! Sure you don’t want to wait until it passes!”
“No!”
She squatted down and ran her hand over the green fur. It felt like stiff, freshly cut grass. The ends of each strand were hard, but not sharp. She took a grab of it between thumb and forefinger and pulled some loose. It didn’t come away easily, feeling tough and stringy. It left a clean and neat little bald patch. She rolled the clump between her palms and smelled. Chlorophyll. At least this part of it was plant-like. If it was carnivorous like John suggested, you couldn’t tell from here. She pulled up a few clumps and put them in plastic bags.
The rain was falling heavily now, soaking her through. When she looked over at John, he was leaning in the door safe and dry with his arms folded.
“Having fun!” he yelled.
“Got a rope?”
“Why?”
She stepped closer so they wouldn’t have to yell at each other. The rain came harder.
“I’m going over the side. I want to go inside the thing.”
“Now?”
“Now. Besides, it’s drier inside,” she added with a grin.
His arms unfolded, and his hands went to his hips. She could see him thinking.
“Well, do you?” she asked.
“I don’t think it’s such a good idea to go into that thing,” he said.
It was her turn to put hands on hips.
“I do. Get me the rope.”
“That thing is designed to trap animals—just like you.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Who’s the biologist here? I’m a human for God’s sake. I’m not about to fall in any goddamned digestive organ. I’m not stupid.”
He thought about it some more.
“I’d better go with you.”
“Suit yourself. Get the rope.”
He disappeared and reappeared a moment later with a coil of black zylon rope. He peeled off a few meters of it, then underhanded the remainder out to her. She caught it and waited for him to tie it off. He tied the rope off to a handhold on the side of the shuttle then hopped down into the suspensor field and waded across it, squinting against the rain. She didn’t notice the huge pistol at his side until he was almost across.
“It’s a plant,” she said. “You can’t kill a plant with a gun.”
“How do you know?”
She rolled her eyes.
A flash of lightning strobed them with white light. A moment later the thunder boomed over them.
“This is getting bad,” he said.
“I told you it would be drier inside. You sure you want to go along?”
Her clothes and hair were soaking wet. Water dripped off her coarse hair and streamed down her face. He wanted to feel her wet cotton against his skin. He would have gone anywhere with her at that moment.
“Sure.”
She tossed the rope over the side and tested its strength against the hold it was tied to. It felt secure.
“Will the shuttle be okay?”
“You mean will it fall off or something?”
“Yeah.”
“No way. Nothing can move that thing with the suspensors on hold.”
She turned around and lowered herself down the rope; hand over hand, until gravity pulled her into the arm. She slid the rest of the way down. John was down in half the time.
There was a large opening just a meter away, and she moved over to it. She noticed that the ground in front of the opening was almost devoid of plant life as if something had been moving in and out of the hole, dragging itself along. She stuck her head in the hole and sniffed the air. There was a faint acrid twang on the air, and the smell of something she rarely ate.
“There’s, uh, something alive in here that’s not the plant thing.”
“How do you know?”
“I can smell it. It smells like—fish.”
“Fish?”
He stuck his head in and sniffed twice long and loud.” I don’t smell any fish,” he said.
“Men’s noses aren’t as sensitive as women’s. Believe me; it’s there.”
She stuck her head in further and looked both ways then crawled through the hole. John followed after her.
Illuminating the interior quite well, light streamed in from the holes spaced at regular intervals along the arm. Rachel ran her boot over the curved floor once or twice to test it, then squatted down and ran her hand over it.
“It’s slick. Feel it.”
When he squatted down, his knee bumped into her taut thigh. He ran his hand over the floor’s surface.
“Yeah. It’s not like the dead one.”
“It has a slippery, waxy feel like a flower petal. Feel that?”
His libido was in just the right state. The innocent mix of those words generated a sexual throb that ran down his midline like warm syrup.
She moved off down the tube, using the uprights for support.
“These are odd,” she said testing the strength of one.” I can’t figure the purpose. Very strange.”
“Maybe they add support, reinforce the arm,” he offered.
“Doubtful but unknown. The arm seems to have plenty of vertical support.”
Rachel sped up a little, sometimes sliding her feet from pole to pole. When they turned a corner, John could see the end of the tentacle where it emptied into the central chamber about twenty meters ahead.
She stopped and sniffed. “It’s stronger here. Smell it?”
He sniffed. “Nope.”
She made a face and continued on. When she reached the juncture of arm and chamber, she stopped.
The light was dim, but they could see them. They were impossible to miss.
“Wow . . .” she whispered.
“What the hell are those?” he asked.
She shot him a look, her eyes as big as saucers.
The tall poles in the chamber were covered with what looked like irregular growths from floor to ceiling. Bulbous and dark, they were tightly packed like lumps of clay fused together on sticks.
He could see the bowl-shaped depression in the center of the chamber, and the enormous root-ball hanging over it was choked with more of the same growths. Many of the masses seemed to have long straight roots that hung down into the bowl.
“Camera . . .” she whispered.
He slipped it out of her pack and handed it to her. She immediately began recording, panning back and forth, up and down.
“What is it?” he said close to her ear.
“Shhhh . . .” she warned.
As he watched, one of the strands hanging into the bowl retracted into the cluster above. Then another descended until its tip vanished into the soup below.
Rachel pointed the camera at one of the poles and gently jabbed him in the side to get his attention.
One of the dark masses had started downward like a huge drop of tar. It appeared to have appendages, soft and elastic, like an octopus from which it hung then sagged, hung then sagged, as it moved downward. When it got to the bottom, it slid off the pile and onto the floor like a rubber sack filled with water. It raised itself up until it looked like a spider on thick, soft legs. Then it began to move in a clay-legged parody of walking. A flash of lightning illuminated the interior for a second. Through the viewfinder, she could see that its body wasn’t a uniform color but mottled, a speckled greenish on dark gray. She could see clusters of glossy specks on the side of the body up front that she took for eyes. She hoped the thing’s visual system keyed on movement, because it was looking right at them.
Suddenly, one of those appendages shot out and wrapped around the base of another pole, and the organism shot forward as if catapulted. No sooner did it reach that pole when another appendage shot out and attached to the next. The thing vaulted like that, pole to pole, until it stopped at the rim.
It covered the five meters distance in a flash.
“What is that?”
“Shh . . .” she whispered back.
The
creature slumped, and the appendages seemed to collapse and shrink. From some part of its body, it extended a tube-like apparatus, shiny and dark, that snaked over the rim of the pit and disappeared. She panned around the rim and noticed several other organisms on the far side with tubes extended.
“They’re feeding . . .” she whispered, keeping her eye in the viewfinder.
“What?”
“They’re feeding . . .” she said a little louder.
“Feeding?”
“Yes. They’re sucking up that stuff from the pit. This is amazing.”
Rachel panned the chamber, her brow tight. And as she did, the pieces fell into place. They fell into place perfectly; the holes in the arms, the slippery surfaces, the poles, the pit, the creatures—all those drag marks outside the hole. One of the things on the far side of the pit seemed to stiffen and raised up on its putty legs. She was sure it had seen them. John started to speak, but she raised her hand to halt him, to halt his movement, his sound—to stop him completely.
Rachel put down the camera and moving backwards slowly, pushed him back into the arm.
“Get out . . . we have to get out . . .”
“Why?”
“Go . . . just get out . . . get out now.”
She shoved him until he was forced to trot on the slick surface. They’d just gone a few strides when the air was suddenly filled with a hideous, high-pitched clicking that crested, rose and fell with a gut-turning oscillation.
“What’s that?"
“Go!”
They ran down the arm, struggling for balance on the waxy floor. Suddenly, John slipped and fell. Rachel was too close and tumbled over him then slid head first into the smooth base of a pole. Stars flashed in her head.
“C’mon, Rachel, get up!”
John yanked her to her feet. She turned her head and saw the first creature flying at them from pole to pole as if thrown.
Such speed.
In her dazed state she wanted to smile. She’d never dreamed an organism could move like that.”Imposs . . .”
The air was torn with a flash and a blast of sound that thumped her chest and rang her ears. A section of the creature exploded in a splash of red and gray. It fell to the floor like a wet, heavy sack.
John pushed her down the tube, keeping his pistol pointed at their rear.
“Here’s another one!”
The creature catapulted toward them, its elastic arms reaching and snagging pole after pole. He waited until it was just two meters away.
He fired and the blast turned the air bright and almost solid for a microsecond. The projectile passed through the thing at its center leaving a spray of stuff behind it. It fell in a wet heap and squirmed aimlessly.
Rachel scooted through the hole and into the pouring rain, found the rope and started up it. A third muffled shot sounded from inside.
She pulled herself with all her might, but the pack slowed her.
“Hurry!” John’s voice said behind her. “Go!”
Her hands slipped on the wet rope, but her feet found purchase on holds on the slope of the arm. She wasn’t going fast enough and she knew it—felt it like a nightmare.
“Move!” he bellowed.
Another blast, this one outside and she struggled against the rope, moving up by centimeters; hand over hand.
“Hurry, Rachel!”
Finally, she was up high enough to get her feet under her. She scrambled up to the arm’s crest. When she turned she saw that John was already halfway up, straining against the rain and gravity.
He was nearly at the top when he felt the strong, rubbery grip on his ankle then the sting in his calf and thought at first he had torn something. The fiery flow that rushed up his leg didn’t stop until it had flowed through his spine and up over his head as if he’d been submerged in hot water. The poison dulled his senses and softened his muscles. He didn’t even feel it when he hit the ground.
“John!”
She could see him lying below, face up, his eyes wide open. She had the feeling he could see her.
“John!”
Several creatures gathered at his feet and wrapped their dark appendages around his legs. They were joined by several others that poured through the hole and intertwined with the ones there until they’d formed a dark and horrid chain. Acting in unison, they jerked him inside like a toy. She didn’t have to see to know they were sliding him almost effortlessly along that waxy floor to the pit.
“Oh, God . . .”
One remained below, looking up at her. It started up the rope but seemed unable to achieve the required grip on it where the rope met the side of the arm. It came up a few feet then fell to the ground. It seemed to look, to think, then it shot up a tree next to the arm. Almost before she had time to turn, it had launched itself from the tree straight at her.
She spun toward the open shuttle door and heard the creature land with a thump behind her. A few strides later she leaped high over the edge of the suspensor field and landed right in it, hoping the thick band of energy would shield her. She waded forward and, looking over her shoulder, saw the rain slickened creature ambling spider-like toward the field. She leaned in the shuttle’s doorway and pulled her feet out of the sticky energy and climbed in. When she turned again, the creature had stopped against the suspensor field, its dark, tiny eyes fixed upon her.
“Go through that, you bastard.”
She took off her pack and tried to pull the door closed. It gave a little creak but wouldn’t budge.
C'mon . . .
She tugged at it again, rattling the handle this time.
“Close, damn you . . .”
The creature began to make its God-forsaken clicking sound and a moment later another one landed and tumbled behind it, then another and another until there were a dozen stacked up against the suspensor’s barrier. Each one had followed the exact path of the last, like ants on a trail.
“Close, damn you!”
She turned and pulled with both hands at the handle, yanking and tugging at it.
There had to be a trick to it; some simple maneuver that would send the door into its slot with just a little yank and a twist. She yanked and twisted at the handle.
“Close . . .”
The organisms were three deep now, and ten across, jammed up like balls of clay against the suspensor field. Some of them had extended their appendages into the field as if testing it.
Suddenly, one of them started into it, walking slowly on its soft, bent legs.
“Close!”
There was a step-by-step instruction sheet pasted to the inside of the door, and she examined it, gobbled it up as she went from step one to step two to three using her finger as a pointer. She was doing just what it said to do!
Close goddammit!
The creature was halfway to her when another one started through, one mushy spidery step after the other.
She tugged at the door, twisting and turning at the latch until the bones in her hands hurt.
The creature was less than a meter away. She hauled back and kicked the door—and heard a resounding click.
The creature lashed out with a tentacle. It struck her ankle and wrapped tight around it.
With one last yank, the door broke free and slammed into place with a bang, severing the tentacle cleanly.
She sagged against the door and pressed the latch down, locking it in place. Then she bent down and unwrapped the dark tentacle from her leg and held it up. It dripped dark fluid from the severed end.
“That’s one way to get a sample,” she sighed. She tossed it down with disgust. She had little interest in its physiology at the moment.
John.
Rachel closed her eyes and tried not to think about his fate. She could only hope that the poison they used dulled his nervous system sufficiently before they dragged him into that caustic pit.
God . . .
She moved to the co-pilot’s seat and looked out the side window. The creatures were drifting a
way, ambling to the side and dropping off something like sacks in two's and three's, apparently aware that their prey had vanished.
As the adrenaline evaporated from her overcharged system, she sagged in her seat as if she were made of putty herself.
She stared out past the rivulets running down the front window and into the green beyond. The rain made the jungle even greener.
Her gaze drifted along the rope, still hanging over the side into the foliage. She’d have to move the shuttle, perhaps fly it all the way back. The controls looked simple enough. She leaned over and studied the console and sticks. Well, maybe not that simple. When she moved into his seat, she could almost feel his aura clinging to it and thought again briefly about how he must have died. A sense of sadness and loss grew in her as the reality of his death sank deeper.
God, he’s dead. He’s dead, she thought and closed her eyes against it. She opened them a moment later and looked at the rope again, teary eyed.
Suddenly, a human hand appeared, wrapped tightly around it. Then another.
“Oh, God!”
She dashed to the shuttle’s door, pulled up on the latch and yanked it open. She jumped down into the suspensor field and felt herself splash in it. By the time she got her hands on his arms, he was almost to the top. She noticed that his clothes were a bloody mess. She continued to yank at him, tugging him up to the arm’s crest.
“You’re alive . . .”
“Yeah . . . I guess so . . .”
Safe inside the shuttle, he laid down and covered his face with his arms.
“I feel sick,” he said.
“It’s no wonder. You’ve been drugged.”
“Drugged?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Not that part. I remember being pulled along and not being able to do anything about it. That’s about all.”
“You’re bleeding. Let me look.”
His clothes were torn with neat holes in a dozen places over his abdomen, chest and legs.