Hell Heart

by Robert E. Vardeman

  He studied the craft, finding a pair of large cargo-bay doors, now closed, and the forward weapons. Extrapolating from what he could see, the ship mounted no fewer than fifty laser cannons of incredible size and destructive capacity. If there had been any possibility that this was a peaceful trading vessel, that erased it entirely.

  “Sir,” came the voice of one of his scouts, working her way toward the far side of the spaceship. “Airlock opening. People coming out.”

  “Patch through a video feed,” Diego ordered. It was dangerous using broadband comm so close to a technically superior enemy, but he needed to see what was going on.

  He recoiled when the picture popped up just a few centimeters in front of his face. He adjusted his battle helmet and studied the scene, going cold when he saw the “people” emerging from the spaceship.

  “What are they, sir?” asked the scout, her voice turning shriller as she spoke.

  “Dead,” was all he could say. He recognized one or two of them as they trudged out—guerrillas killed during the Revancha attack. Diego had demanded that every Zapatista killed be identified so their families could be notified. He had flipped through the files, every picture burning itself into his brain.

  “That one’s Mary Stephenson,” said Suarez. “I recognize her from a couple of raids she led. That’s one of Viejo’s top lieutenants! We’ve found the main Zapatista base!”

  “No, Lieutenant, not that,” Diego said grimly. Stephenson moved awkwardly because of a battered metal pack on her back. It unbalanced her, but she seemed not to notice. Fumes vented and hoses ran around her thin body to vanish into her belly and chest. She herded the others, similarly outfitted, toward a spot on the spaceship hull that appeared to need repair.

  Stephenson was still acting like a lieutenant, but Diego doubted it was for José. The others obeying her orders all wore the hissing, venting backpacks, too. And all were in various stages of decay. Some were largely intact. Others, like Mary, had begun to decompose badly.

  “What’s going on, sir?” asked Suarez. “They . . . they look like corpses.”

  “Get all the readings you can, Lieutenant,” ordered Diego. “I don’t know what we’ve found, but it isn’t any Zapatista base.”

  “But Stephenson!” protested Suarez.

  “Dead. I saw the report. I verified the report.” Diego scanned back and forth across the spaceship and the zombie workers making what seemed the last of extensive repairs.

  “I . . . look at that!” Suarez exclaimed.

  Diego thought he had seen everything during his career in Chiapas. He was wrong. His finger tightened on the trigger of his Bulldog, but he hesitated to fire. He hardly believed his eyes, yet what both scouts and Suarez fed him through his battle-helmet monitor confirmed it. Coming out of the spaceship was the most horrendous creature he had ever seen. At first he thought it was only a mirage caused by the intense afternoon heat.

  But it was nothing of the sort, not with the other three reporting the same hideous sight. Tall, thin, wearing heavy interleaved armor, it had a more elaborate pack on its back than those worn by the humans—by the dead humans. Was this thing dead, too?

  Diego and his squad watched in silent horror as the monster approached a group of slaves working to repair one of the ship’s tailfins. Then, from a few meters away came a tremendous clatter as another of the hapless slaves dropped the piece of machinery it was laboring to fix.

  The alien monster’s head jerked around at the noise, and Diego could hear a hideous metallic clacking noise as it opened and closed the mammoth claw attached to its left arm. Before Diego could even blink, the creature had taken two huge strides toward the unfortunate group of enslaved humans—or what had once been humans—and whipped up the energy weapon in its other hand. One burst of the green beam, and the entire group of slaves fell, smoking and dead, to the ground.

  The creature hesitated briefly, staring at the results of its handiwork, then turned back to the rest of the workers busily repairing the ship. It waved an arm, clearly issuing instructions, then gestured curtly at the group by the tailfin and headed out of the clearing, followed by a half dozen zombies. Diego held his breath as the horrific group passed so close to his hiding position that he could have reached out and touched the monster’s beautifully engraved armor, had he been of a mind to do so. But they passed him by unnoticed, and after a few moments he could feel his heartbeat returning to normal.

  He found his voice and activated his comm mike. “Lieutenant Travis,” he broadcast softly.

  “Here, sir,” came the instant response.

  “Have you been picking up our video feed?” Diego asked.

  “Yes, sir. What the hell are those things?”

  “I don’t know. But we need to find out what they’re up to. My squad will pursue on foot; I want you to get the rest of our soldiers loaded into the Hydra and remain on standby. When we find out what their target is, we’ll notify you.”

  “And we’ll come a-running,” BJ said crisply.

  Diego waited a few moments for Suarez and the others to work their way around to his position without alerting the monstrosities still toiling away in the clearing. When the four had reunited, Diego led them cautiously along the trail left by the alien and its slaves. He had no idea what he would do when they caught up with their prey, but he knew he would have to think of something.

  24

  * * *

  Forward!” José shouted, wiping the blood from his eyes in a futile attempt to clear his vision. A bullet had hit the tree trunk he was using for cover and sent splinters of wood flying into his forehead. But many of the men and women fighting with him had suffered much worse.

  The battle at the crater was not going well. José had waited until most of his former comrades were toiling at the bottom of the pit under the golden monster’s direction before attacking, hoping to gain the advantage of surprise. But there were still plenty of other zombies willing to defend their master with every bit of unnatural strength they possessed. No matter what José’s guerrillas tried, they refused to die.

  And throughout the battle stalked the glowing form of the creature that had raised them from the dead. It carried an ornate cube in one hand, from which deadly lances of blue energy licked out; when they touched a person, that person died.

  But they had to try. José was determined that not another campesino would fall victim to the alien monster’s depredations. He took aim at another zombie and fired. The thing lurched as the bullet tore through one of the hoses cruelly plunged into its torso, spilling noxious fluids everywhere, but it kept coming.

  José backpedaled frantically, striving to stay out of range of the wicked knife it wielded. The zombie slashed and slashed again, and each time José just barely evaded it. The creature was too close for José to fire, so in desperation he swung his Kalashnikov like a club and hit the tank strapped to the zombie’s back with a resounding clang.

  The zombie staggered back a few paces, and purely on instinct José leveled his rifle and fired directly at the tank. The top of the metal pack exploded in a shower of fluids, and the zombie collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. José stared at it, scarcely daring to believe, and then raised his voice, shouting to be heard over the din of the melee.

  “The tanks!” he cried at the top of his lungs. “Target the tanks!”

  A few of his soldiers heard him, and a few more zombies fell. But their sense of loyalty continually worked against them. When faced with the reanimated corpses of their former comrades, many of the guerrillas were reluctant to fire, and that reluctance was deadly. Only Gunther killed without hesitation—killed once or killed twice, friend or foe, it was all the same to him.

  José aimed carefully and took out two more zombies, but the battle was going against them. As long as the golden alien continued to wield its deadly energy beam, the guerrillas were fated to lose. José began concentrating his fire on the creature, hoping that since it wore a tank on its back as well, pu
ncturing it would have the same effect. But the thing was impossible to hit—it seemed to flicker in and out of existence, disappearing from one part of the battlefield to reappear with deadly effect in another part. One lucky shot spanged off a round metal disk at the top of the monster’s tank, staggering the thing but otherwise having no effect.

  José slammed one of his few remaining clips into his Kalashnikov and swore heartily. Wherever she might be, he hoped Consuela was having better luck than he was.

  * * *

  The scent of burning vegetation made Consuela’s nose twitch long before she heard the sounds of fighting coming from the village of Hermosilla, which lay just ahead. She tightened her grip on the Kalashnikov she held at the ready. Following the zombies that had split off from the main group being herded along by that monster had been easy; they had never even noticed her slipping along silently behind them. She had stayed hidden at the edge of the jungle as the zombies had reported to yet another of those hideous creatures. Shortly thereafter, the thing had headed off in the direction of this village.

  Now she quickened her pace as the sounds of fighting grew louder. She had feared this might come to pass—the zombies were attacking another village, determined to create more of their kind from the hapless campesinos.

  Consuela burst out of the jungle and into the outskirts of Hermosilla. Her rifle was up and firing on full-auto before she was even conscious of reacting, cutting the legs out from under a zombie that was menacing two huddled villagers with a wickedly sharp knife. Crippled but not discouraged, the zombie began clawing its way toward Consuela. She fired another burst into the tank on its back, and it abruptly collapsed to the ground and ceased moving. But now two more zombies had rounded the corner of the building and were advancing on the villagers.

  “Go!” Consuela shouted. “Get to the jungle!” The frightened campesinos stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then dashed for the safety of the enshrouding jungle. Consuela slammed a fresh clip into her rifle and fired a burst into the two approaching zombies, checking their advance long enough for her to do the only sensible thing: turn and run.

  She skidded to a halt in the center of the village, appalled at the sight that greeted her. Across the dusty square stalked the monster she had seen by the alien ship, its huge clawed hand red with human blood, the energy weapon it held in its other hand sending out deadly green beams. Consuela looked around frantically. There was a knot of women and children crouching next to one of the houses, but the monster would undoubtedly see them in a few moments. She gave a low, carrying whistle to attract their attention and gestured for them to get into the village meeting hall behind her. In there, they would have more cover and might be able to hold the things off. For a little while.

  She laid down a long burst of fire to cover them as they ran for the dubious shelter of the hall, then dived in after them.

  Only to find herself face-to-face with a squad of Union soldiers, led by none other than Diego Villalobos himself.

  Consuela instinctively leveled her rifle at him. “I should have known,” she said coldly. “Are you in league with those things outside? Is this how the Union treats its people?”

  “In league?” Diego asked incredulously. “We came here to stop them—whatever they are.” He and Consuela both ducked as the alien’s energy beam cut through the building overhead with a sizzle of frying wood.

  “Look, we can continue this conversation some other time,” Diego snapped. “Right now, we’ve got a job to do—saving these people. Are you going to help, or are you just going to stand there?”

  “Help?” Consuela asked in disbelief. But Diego, oblivious to the rifle she still held pointed at him, had already moved past her to one of the windows and had begun firing out of it, joined by his three soldiers.

  Consuela looked past them and saw a zombie outlined in the open doorway. She fired a burst at it to force it backward, slammed the door, and leaned against it. The door shook with the heavy pounding of the creatures outside, and she knew it wouldn’t hold for long.

  “Suarez!” Diego called, ducking as answering fire from the alien cut through the air. “We’ve got to get these people out of here. I want you to lead them out the back and into the jungle. Use windows, whatever you need to. Blow a hole in the wall if you have to. We’ll try to hold these things off.”

  One of the Union soldiers nodded and raced to the back of the building, urging the dozen or so villagers huddled there up and out through the back door. Consuela braced herself as a renewed attack shook the door.

  “We can’t hold them for much longer,” she gasped.

  “I know,” Diego said grimly. He released his grip on his Bulldog long enough to fumble at his belt. “Grenades,” he said, showing one to her. “We draw them inside and blow the building. That ought to slow them down long enough for us to get these people out, at least.”

  He motioned to the other two soldiers, and they began to retreat toward the back of the building, dropping grenades as they went. Consuela stayed put, holding the door as long as she could against the zombies’ assault. She flinched as a putrefied arm came through the window next to her and a zombie began to clamber into the building.

  “Go!” Diego shouted to her from outside the hall, and Consuela leapt away from the door and ran full out toward him. She had barely cleared the doorway when Diego shouted, “Fire in the hole!”, leveled his Bulldog, and began lobbing grenades into the building. For a second, Consuela thought nothing had happened. Then the blast came, powerful enough to knock her and the Union soldiers off their feet. Dazed, her ears ringing, she crawled back upright. The explosion had leveled the building, trapping a number of zombies in the wreckage.

  “Come on,” Diego said, touching her arm. “We need to take cover.”

  She looked him directly in the eyes, liking the way he met her gaze without flinching. So many years she had fought against this man, and this was the first time they had ever met face-to-face.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Why what?” Diego said.

  “You saved the campesinos. And you also risked your life to save me, when you knew I was a Zapatista.”

  “The rules have changed, in case you hadn’t noticed,” Diego said. “It’s human against alien now—and at the moment the aliens seem to be trouncing us.”

  Consuela stood a moment longer, looking at him, then turned and slipped into the jungle without another word. By the time Diego’s soldiers had reached the spot where she had disappeared, she was far away from them, headed back to José to tell him of what she had found. And of what she had learned.

  * * *

  “Captain Allen, you won’t believe what we saw,” the scout said, his eyes wide.

  “What?” Allen asked impatiently. His expedition had taken far too long to reach the crater. He chafed at the delay and had sent two scouts to reconnoiter the position. He knew he had to make certain there were no more crystalline monstrosities lurking at the crater—and from the looks of this pair, he wasn’t going to like what they told him.

  “Dozens of them!”

  “What?” Allen came out of his reverie. “What did you say? Dozens of what?”

  “Creepy, Captain,” the first scout replied. “All these men and women, looking like they’d been dug up fresh out of their graves, working for this tall . . .” The private’s words trailed off as he struggled to describe what he’d seen.

  His companion chimed in. “It was a monster. Shiny armor, holding some kind of box, with this green beam . . .”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying,” Allen said. “These dead people are walking around following orders from some creature with a box?”

  “And they all wore backpacks that hissed and creaked and had hoses running into their guts,” said the first scout. “Even the creature had one, except its equipment was a lot more complicated. It was even beautiful, fancy gold inlay, shiny steel . . .”

  “They were just taking those guerrillas ap
art,” said the second scout.

  “Guerrillas?” Allen asked, his voice rising. “What guerrillas?”

  The two scouts exchanged glances. “The ones at the pit,” the first scout finally said. “The ones we told you about earlier. Weren’t you listening? Sir?”

  If Allen had been listening before, he wasn’t now. He was consumed by a rapidly building fury. Had the guerrillas—those stinking, dirty peasants—actually beaten him to the meteorite? Were they actually digging up his ticket back north and out of this hellhole?

  He was torn about what to do. He had only brought along ten soldiers, leaving the remainder of his command in the post at San Cristóbal. He had tried to get General Ramirez to send reinforcements before venturing out, but the MCF commander in chief had hedged, saying his troops were otherwise occupied and could not be spared for garrison duty.

  Allen knew how tenuous was his hold on San Cristóbal. He had to prove to Ramirez how capable he was, and he was not about to make the same mistake Diego Villalobos had. But at the same time, he dared not let anyone else—or anything else—steal his treasure.

  The armored personnel carrier had settled to the ground about five hundred meters from the crater. The soldiers with him carried the heaviest arms he had been able to find in the San Cristóbal armory. Two struggled along with a Harbinger rail gun and the depleted-uranium ingots it fired, another had a Rottweiler, and the rest had been outfitted with Bulldog rifles to give them grenade-launching capability. He had considered bringing along the one remaining SPEAR missile, but the Aztec cycles that usually carried them were with Lieutenant Travis, wherever the hell she was. His ten soldiers boasted the firepower of an entire company.

  That ought to be enough. Hadn’t he already destroyed the crystal monster? Whatever was trying to muscle in on the monster’s domain at the pit should fall quickly to such firepower, without the need to use the remaining SPEAR missile.

  “Advance,” Allen ordered, hefting his rifle. The going was easier now because he was traveling in the APC instead of slogging through the thick jungle, sweating his brains out. That would make any skirmish easier to win because he and his men were rested, even if it was the hottest part of the afternoon. Not that he thought the scouts’ report about dead soldiers was anything but superstitious claptrap. They had probably seen some of the guerrillas dressed in rags and mistaken them for dead men. This was going to be a cakewalk.