by Rick Jones
“Well, if that’s the case, then answer me this. If Air Force Six is onboard and there’s no other ship inside, then how did these insurgents get onboard?”
Skully nodded. “That’s a good question,” he returned evenly. “But the truth is, I have no idea.”
None whatsoever.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Eriq Wyman took the lead when they got off the elevator and immediately headed for the comm center. The hallways were clear as everyone had rushed through the low-ceilinged corridors where the seams of tubing continuously hissed and bled steam to relieve conduit pressures within the pipes.
Then Eriq’s heart lurched to his throat. The comm center door had been clearly smashed free from its hinges. The door was laying as a crumpled and folded mass across the room with fist-sized dents on what used to be a smooth surface of metal one-inch thick.
“What the Hell,” he whispered incredulously, standing in the doorframe.
“What is it?” asked President Michelin. “What do you see?”
Eriq took a step inside the comm center. Sheena was close behind him.
The area smelled of copper, and the walls were streaked with blood and laden with gore.
“Oh my God,” someone murmured.
Eriq thought it was John Eldridge, but wasn’t quite sure.
Then Sheena Tolbert screamed.
#
John Schott sat idle against the computer podium with his arms wrapped around his legs after bringing his knees up in acute angles. The banging against the door had stopped about fifteen minutes ago, the silence almost as terrifying as the pounding since he didn’t know what was behind the door, if anything.
His mind toiled with a sense of confusion, the world suddenly surreal.
He had seen faces that were livid and pale, faces of those long dead. They cried out to him, they wanted him—the pounding on the door being a testament to that.
Swallowing a sour lump that had cropped up into his throat, Schott got to his feet.
And listened.
It was obscenely quiet.
Then he turned and booted the computer and hit the viewing stations outside the bay’s door. There were multiple views from multiple cameras, everything was steeped in red shadows, but the area was clear.
He zoomed in, panned to the left, and then to the right.
Nothing was out there.
Then he switched areas by downloading live feeds from the starboard bay. Air Force Six sat in its glory, a behemoth of a ship with a modified fuselage and sleek Delta wings. The level was quiet, and the interior lights shone brightly through the windows of the shuttlecraft.
Schott zoomed in from other angles, capturing the ship.
Something was wrong, different.
The windows had been smashed in, including the cockpit window. The ship had been completely compromised and incapable of space flight.
But where was the pilot?
He continued to examine the ship from every angle that was provided him through the eyes of multiple lenses. The only telltale image of what had happened to the pilot was on a camera that was able to zoom in on the pilot’s cabin of the cockpit.
Streaks and splashes of blood canvased the walls. Pulp and gore, most notably a garland of intestine, was draped over the seat.
Schott fell back from the computer, sucking in breath. With a quick stab of his finger he shut off the computer, a hard stop, and fell to his knees, then cradled his stomach, sobbing.
He was going to die here, he thought. Surrounded by the beauty of the universe—
and hordes of the undead.
#
The severed hand was still clutching the wrench when Eriq crouched down to examine it further. Sheena, with her fisted hands to her mouth, watched along with everyone else.
Eriq immediately recognized the coloring of the fingernails, a metallic gold with silver flexes. It was a hand that belonged to Jen Jacoby, who was not in the comm center.
“It’s Jen’s,” he whispered. Or maybe he should have said ‘It was Jen,’ referring to her as a whole rather than a piece.
“So what do we do now?” asked Senator Hines. “We can’t stay here. We have to get to Air Force Six!”
“Not before we see what’s out there,” he said.
Eriq went to the computer, which was already in the ‘on’ position but in ‘sleep’ mode. The moment he tapped the keyboard, all nine monitors flared to life.
“Oh my God,” stated Hines. Senator Newel seconded the motion by parroting her, though he substituted the word ‘God’ with ‘Lord.’
On every level shadowy figures moved quickly about, leaping from one position to the next as if springs were embedded in their heels.
“Who are they?” asked Lisa Millette. Unlike her mother, who was strong in will and strength right up until a bullet took her life, she was not, the girl breaking down the moment the last word left her lips.
Eriq didn’t reply. Instead he played the cameras to get clear fixes, thinking: You mean, what are they?
There were hundreds leaping about on a single level. Perhaps thousands throughout the ship.
Worse, it was sixteen levels to the salvation of the shuttlecraft.
“Mr. Wyman?” It was the president. “What do we do? Where do we go?”
Eriq didn’t know.
“Mr. Wyman, I believe you were once a leading member of the Force Elite, correct?”
Eriq turned to him, readying himself for the president’s point.
“Am I correct?” the president reiterated.
“Yes.”
“Then as a member of the Force Elite, you should know what to do.”
Eriq turned back to the keyboard and began to type in a set of new orders.
“What are you doing?” asked Michelin.
“What a member of the Force Elite would do in such a situation,” he said. “I’m looking to see what we’re up against.”
Eriq rewound the previous digital images for replay, the images Jen downloaded before the room was forcefully broken into.
In the background the alarm continued to go off: Warning: the ship has been breached. Warning: the . . .”
“And can somebody please shut off that damn alarm!” hollered Michelin.
Eriq complied, hitting a single switch.
Thank you, Michelin said to himself.
Images began to show up on the screen as he rewound the digital memory, the figures moving backwards until he pressed the ‘play’ button, and then everything became clear.
The dead of the ship were wandering about, having freed themselves from their tombs. The skins on some were sloughing off, the meat of their bones rancid with decaying flesh, whereas others, those recently interred, showed little signs of rot.
“How?” asked Eldridge. “How is this even possible?”
Decomposing images played before the cameras as if hamming it up, then ripped them free from their mountings, whereas other cameras continued to memorialize the events as they unfolded.
On the last set of chronicled images, Jen was recording the last moments of her life.
The dead had come upon the comm-center door, pounding against the steel with wispy-thin limbs, and driving fist-sized dents against the metal as they cried out to her. Within minutes they had knocked the door free, and Jen could be heard crying out.
Eriq couldn’t watch any more.
He’d seen enough.
“Now what?” the president asked. “I don’t appear to be getting much of an answer from you, Mr.—”
Eriq wheeled around on the balls of his feet. “Shut up!” he told him.
President Michelin appeared stunned.
“How’s that for an answer?” Eriq returned harshly.
President Michelin didn’t appear wounded, however, but he did try to restore his dignity by smoothing the creases of his leisure suit, then straightening his collar. Then: “Very well, Mr. Wyman. Now I see why you’re no longer fit to manage a team of elite warriors.”
&nbs
p; “What’s that supposed to mean?” Eriq challenged.
“I think it’s quite clear. On the day you were dismissed from duty, it was due to the fact that you could no longer follow through on your orders.”
“You wanted me to slaughter innocent people!” he countered.
“They were savages!”
“They were people starving to death! And you turned your back to them!”
“I did what I had to do in order to protect the Fields of Elysium. Was it a hard decision? Yes, it was, but one that had to be made, which is something I can’t say of you.” He leaned forward to emphasize his point. “And you, Mr. Wyman, are incapable of making the tough decision.”
“I’m not a butcher,” he said.
“You would be if it was your family that was being threatened with starvation.” The president retreated a few steps. “I think I’ve seen enough. I know what I’m up against. Now what I need from you, Mr. Wyman, is to be shown a way out of here without crossing the paths of those things walking the warrens of this ship. Perhaps a map? A schematic? Something to provide me with safe means to Air Force Six without detection.”
“You want a map?” he asked him.
“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”
“The only map is up here,” Eriq said, tapping a forefinger against his temple. “I’ve been aboard this ship for two years now, and as big as it is, I know every inch of it—top to bottom.”
“Normally, Mr. Wyman, I would tell you to piss off, but since time is not a luxury, and since those things out there seem to enjoy their work a little too much when it comes to killing and maiming, I could use the benefit of your knowledge.” Then he turned to Father Gardenzia. “How about it, Father? A little prayer to see us though?”
“Of course. God is listening to our prayers already, I’m sure.”
“Let’s hope so.” Then back to Eriq. “It’s your show, Mr. Wyman. So get us through.”
Eriq nodded. “Follow me.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Winged Banshee maneuvered into position next to the Portside Bay. However, attempts at docking would prove to be a challenge since the mausoleum turned in slow rotations as it drifted.
The pilot hovered close to the mausoleum’s hull, the Banshee absolutely dwarfed by the ship’s immense size. “We’re getting close,” the pilot said over his lip mic. “It’ll be impossible to stabilize the Banshee completely since the mausoleum is in constant motion. But I think I can maintain long enough for Tin Man to secure himself to the outside catch and manually open the bay door. Once that’s done, then I can swing the Banshee inside. No problem.”
“Copy that.”
Tin Man was wearing an EMU, an Extravehicular Mobility Unit, which allows an astronaut to work outside an aircraft for up to seven hours, and though both ships appeared to be traveling at a glacial pace, they were actually moving at rapid velocity. If Tin Man’s failure to connect his hitch-line to the outside catch because the ships were moving at two different rates of speed, even marginally, it could prove fatal. If not properly calculated, Tin Man could carom off the mausoleum’s hull and be killed instantly.
The vehicle moved closer to the mausoleum and paced alongside it as the two moved in sync with one another.
“She’s looking good,” said the pilot.
Tin Man was in the exterior bay. His suit had checked out. “Ready to go, Command.”
“Copy that.” The pilot hit a series of switches, opening the airlock door with a steam-like hiss as pressure was relieved.
Tin Man stood at the lip of the jump-off point, the distance between the two ships about fifty feet. “Ready,” he said, tethering himself to a clip on the side of the Banshee. Then he took a leap of faith.
He drifted slowly between the gap, jettisoning streams of air from his pack to maintain positioning.
“How’s it going, Tin Man?” asked the pilot.
“Doing fine, Banshee.” When Tin Man spoke, it sounded as if he was on a respirator.
“Copy that.”
Tin Man was closing in on the clasp next to the portside door with his arm extended. His hand was reaching to grab the vertical handle. To the left of the clasp was the manual override, a keypad. “Get ready to blow my line free from the Banshee,” he said. “I’m about to hook up with Twenty Sixty-Nine.”
“Copy,” said the pilot. He hooked a finger around the toggle that would pop the tethering hook from the Winged Banshee the moment Tin Man attached himself to the mausoleum.
Five feet away.
“Getting close, Banshee. Just a few more—”
The mausoleum shifted greatly, its side now coming at him with the speed of a freight train, the gap between them closing so fast that Tin Man had no time to register the moment of impact when it hit.
“Jesus!” yelled the pilot, peeling away before an imminent collision. The Banshee pulled sharply to starboard to where it was almost vertical before assuming speed. The line connected to Tin Man’s suit pulled tight as he was yanked away from the mausoleum’s hull, the line dragging him with his arms and legs extended before him as if he was in the ‘up’ position of doing sit-ups.
“Tin Man!” called the pilot. “TIN MAN!”
“What’s going on up there?” came Skully’s voice over the mic.
“Massive shift! Tin Man’s not responding! Banshee to Tin Man! Come in, Tin Man!”
Still no response.
The pilot checked Tin Man’s EMU readings on a 9x12 monitor located at the center of the cockpit panel. Numbers scrolled. And they were not good. All indications pointed to a breach of the helmet’s facemask, the impact creating a fissure along the face shield.
With the temperature of space being -454°F, Tin Man had frozen to death the moment the mask broke.
His vital signs read zero.
“Pilot One!” It was Skully.
Sounding dejected, the pilot responded. “We lost him, Skully,” he told him. “We lost Tin Man.”
#
Jim Schott saw the Winged Banshee come up on the portside and attempt to maneuver for a manual docking. From his vantage surrounded entirely by glass, he had seen the tragedy unfold as the mausoleum shifted heavily in its drift pattern and struck the astronaut trying to board. The man floated in space tethered to a cord attached to the Banshee, his limbs not moving.
Schott got to his feet realizing two things: the man in the suit was dead, and secondly, those inside the Winged Banshee were First Team Responders.
Help had arrived.
He quickly got to his feet, rebooted the computer, and switched on the exterior camera. The Winged Banshee sat there as if determining its next option with the front of the ship facing the mausoleum’s portside, the Banshee continuing to float with the course of the mausoleum’s drift from a safe distance.
Schott then began to type in a program into the computer, which took seconds, struck the ‘ENTER’ button on the keypad, thanked God thoroughly for salvation, and waited.
#
Skully pushed his way through the cockpit door. The pilot’s area was small and cramped, hardly enough room to seat two. “What the Hell happened?” he asked. He could see Tin Man adrift in space. If it wasn’t for the cord that bound him to the ship, his body would have floated off into oblivion.
“He’s gone,” the pilot said, pointing to the monitor that reflected vital signs, which were at zero. “The mausoleum shifted, striking Tin Man and shattering his face mask.”
“Options?”
“Unless you want to make a second run doing the same thing with possibly the same consequences, then this is the only way in. Through the portside. But the variable of attempting to board a ship that’s adrift is completely unpredictable. So to answer your question, we’d have to make another attempt. Question is, who’s going to do it?”
“Are you confident in your abilities to get close and stay there?”
“It’s not my abilities that I’m worried about. It’s the mausoleum’s unstable shifts. I
f that hull hits the Banshee, we’re dead. Simple as that. We’re dead. I was lucky the first time. Who’s to say that I’ll be just as lucky the second time?”
“I don’t think we have a choice, do we?”
The pilot remained quiet.
“I’ll suit up,” Skully told him.
But Skully wouldn’t have to suit up.
The bay door was opening, slowly, giving entrance to a maw that was blacker than black.
“Well,” said Skully. “It appears that we have a friend on the inside.”
“Or enemies trying to draw flies to the honey.”
The pilot redirected the Banshee, then advanced forward with Tin Man still anchored to the ship.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Eriq had led the team to the freight elevator without any contest from the dead, but at the doors, he held them up.
“What’s the problem now, Mr. Wyman?” asked Michelin.
He shook his head. When he was an elite soldier he was driven mainly by instinct and gut feeling. This was too easy. And he told them so. “Something’s not right,” he stated with an air of caution. “It just can’t be this simple.”