“Smells good,” said Lee.
The cigarette smoke that Martin blew on the pie’s steaming vents couldn’t usurp the homey, sweet scent that had filled the kitchen. Martin could almost believe that he could step out the back door into a fine summer morning in Brixton, Montana. There might be a couple of semis warming their engines in the parking lot. He’d lean against the back wall of Herbert’s Corner and enjoy the meadowlarks, the blue sky, even the final drags on this last cigarette he ever hoped to smoke.
“Put that thing out,” Jeffrey called over the PA, destroying the illusion. “I’m coming in.”
Martin stubbed the butt into a coffee cup with the other ashes and stained filters and put his hands up. The door opened, and Jeffrey entered, followed by Chumpdark and the accountant. The goons hadn’t come in yet, but the door remained open. Martin had hoped they’d all come in and close the door. Patience.
“It needs a few minutes to cool,” said Cheryl.
“Cut it,” said Jeffrey, and before she could protest, he added, “It’ll cool faster that way.”
Cheryl sighed. “Plates are over there,” she said, sending Martin to a cupboard. He chose one plate for each of their captors. Cheryl waited until he returned before she touched a knife to the center of the top crust. “It’s really better if it…”
“Now,” said Jeffrey. The staple gun pressed the point.
Cheryl sank the knife in and cut first one slice, then the rest of the pie into five even wedges. She dug through a drawer, and then another, and then found what she needed on the sink counter. Martin hoped they didn’t sense her deliberate delay. She returned with the pie server and carefully set the slices on each of the plates that Martin held out for her. The hot filling oozed out into a puddle around each slice and provided a tangy, citrusy aroma. Lee caught Martin’s eye and gave him the most imperceptible of nods.
“Will anyone need a fork?” Cheryl asked.
Chumpdark leaned in to dangle a nostril over a slice and inhaled deeply. His bulbous head bobbled as he lurched back up and grunted a few phrases.
“He says it smells delicious,” Jeffrey said.
“What were you arguing about in there?” Martin asked.
“Arguing?” said Jeffrey. “You misunderstand.”
“I don’t think so,” said Martin.
“Think what you want.” Jeffrey bent over and took his own whiff. “Just like Mother used to make, no?”
Cheryl’s hand hovered over the knife on the table, but Jeffrey waved the staple gun a little closer. “Not much of a sense of humor with this one, Martin. Are you sure you want to spend the rest of your life with her?”
“Oh, I’m very sure,” said Martin. He wanted to pull the lighter from his pocket and prove it, but they needed more time.
Jeffrey tested his piece with the tip of a tentacle, smearing off a bit of the filling and curling it up under a gray flap. Jeffrey slurped, and the tentacle stretched out a bit, then snapped free as he quivered slightly. “Tart, but sweet,” said Jeffrey. “So far so good.” He hurbled to the others and slid his plate closer. The goons entered and took theirs. Chumpdark picked up his plate and deftly inspected it all around on the tips of several tentacles.
The accountant took hers last. She blurted angrily and hurled her plate against the glass. Chumpdark called after her as she slithered out. Martin exchanged a worried glance with Lee, but she had gone. The gray-green filling and shattered crust slid down the glass, even as the unbroken plate rolled across the floor.
“I think she’s more of a cake person,” said Jeffrey. He slid his slice, plate and all, up under the flap of flesh. He closed his eyes, and smooshed deep in his body. He held still as he drew out a clean plate, and then he quivered, bending his body sideways, returning upright, wide-eyed and laughing. “Martin, my friend. Congratulations.”
The goons slurped theirs off their plates. Chumpdark ate his in one slurging bite. His flab and loose head magnified the resulting quiver. Chumpdark tossed up some tentacles and cleaned the crumbs from his sticky fold with others. He jibbled and turned to leave. Martin sniffed the air. Nothing there but pie and cigarettes. Lee shook his head. A few seconds later, the aliens retreated to the viewing room and resumed their argument. The accountant returned, her devices bristling with data. She nudged Jeffrey away to put the information in front of Chumpdark.
“So is it a success?” asked Lee. “The pie, I mean.”
“It’s right,” said Martin.
“There never was a secret recipe,” said Cheryl.
“I doubt your mom even knew,” said Martin.
“Unbelievable,” said Cheryl. “Now what? Our plan didn’t work.”
“Not yet,” said Martin. Lee had managed to extinguish the pilot lights on the stove while Cheryl cut the pie. Natural gas was leaking into the air, but too slowly. “There’s still a chance. Maybe we can get them to come back in here.”
Martin heard a sound that, hearing once, he never wanted to hear again—like a plummeting blimp of oatmeal crushing a cow. Mucousy gray chunks and thin, pink liquid had been splattered on the glass. The chunks formed sliding dams of horror. They heard a thumperous struggle, and then the horrible sound again, and then again. The fourth time, a fresh splatter of gray gore coated the windows. A clear slip of plastic stuck to the glass and emitted a 3-D spreadsheet into the kitchen.
“Oh crap,” said Martin. “Help me, quick. We need a lot more gas, and fast.”
Near the stove, Martin smelled the rotten eggy odor. Together they scooted the stove out into the aisle. A metal-wrapped hose stretched between the appliance and the wall. Martin climbed over the stove and tested all the connections. “I need a wrench, or get back here,” he said.
Together they pushed, but the hose stayed firm. “Again,” said Martin.
“We’ll probably blow ourselves up doing this,” Lee said even as they heaved once more. Then a third time.
“Come on,” Martin said, as much to the hose and the stove as to his companions. “Once more. Give it everything.” They backed up to the wall and rushed together.
The oven crashed into the worktable, rearranging everything. Pans banged and clattered across the tiles. The table crashed against the glass and the door. The hose hung loose now, hissing. Martin’s taxed respiratory system already ached for better air.
The door slid open, scraping chunky gray slop onto the floor. A pink and sticky Jeffrey burst in, staple gun first. The path closed off, he slithered onto the table, sliding to a stop on the remains of the baking, looming and breathing heavily. His skin browned and puckered in the volatile air.
Martin held up his lighter, thumb on the striker.
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Jeffrey.
“Why not?” asked Martin.
“You’ll die, too,” said Jeffrey.
“You’re going to kill us,” said Martin. “What’s the difference?”
“You murdered them,” said Cheryl.
“They wanted to shut it down, didn’t they?” asked Lee.
“There was some discussion about the ethics of including such an ingredient in the product, yes,” said Jeffrey. “Chumpdark wouldn’t listen to reason.”
“And you couldn’t give up, could you?” asked Martin.
“Now I return to the board of directors, single-handedly having acquired the recipe and started production. I’m a hero, and lucky to be alive,” said Jeffrey.
“What about them?” asked Martin.
“Unfortunate casualties of a violent, primitive species,” said Jeffrey. “History will thank us for ridding the galaxy of you.”
“You know we can’t let you get away with this,” said Martin.
“Please,” said Jeffrey. “It’s already happening. I initiated the planetary entry sequence right before I came in here.”
Martin repositioned his thumb on the lighter’s little knurled wheel, digging for the will to snap the striker home. Jeffrey jammed the staple gun against Martin’s forehead with a warning
laugh. Lee bellowed and lunged, but Jeffrey knocked him back. Tentacles encircled Martin’s waist and throat. Another snatched at his hand, but Martin kept a death grip on the lighter. Suckers sucked and clawed at Martin’s knuckles and skin. Martin gasped for breath and kicked to get away, scraping at slippery, rubbery skin with his free hand. A tip of one of Jeffrey’s tentacles covered the top of the lighter, and Martin flicked the wheel.
If it sparked, it did nothing. Martin’s head throbbed, and his lungs screamed for a clean breath of air. And then he collapsed, free, as Jeffrey howled a throaty, spewting growl of pain and rage. The wooden handle of a kitchen knife protruded from his torso a few inches above and behind one eye. No small-handled paring knife, but one of the big ones capable of chopping through a whole handful of rhubarb. Cheryl held her footing on the table amid the flailing tentacles, hauled off with a rolling pin, and pounded the knife home. It sank in, handle and all, with a spray of watery pink goo. Jeffrey tumbled sideways, screeching, clutching at his body, eyes panicked.
“Blow us up already!” Cheryl shrieked, clamoring across the table after him with her rolling pin and another knife.
Martin sucked what oxygen he could into his lungs through his ravaged throat and nearly blacked out. Knowing only that his thumb had to do something, he fumbled it on the top of the object clutched in his fist. A hand clamped over his.
“Don’t. Not now. He’s gone,” said Lee. Martin longed to lie down on the floor, but Lee grabbed his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
Lee helped Martin over the table, and they followed the slippery trail of alien blood out of the Herbert’s Corner kitchen. The exploded remains of one of the goons coated the vestibule. Lee retched over his squelching feet. Martin forced himself to hold his breath for a few more seconds. A dollop of squid dripped onto the back of his head, and he slapped it away before it dribbled into his collar.
They hung together in the corridor, sucking for air and scuffing gore off their shoes.
“Is everyone okay?” Martin asked as he slumped to the floor with his back on the wall.
“We’re not dead,” said Cheryl.
“Thanks to you,” Martin said. “You were amazing.”
“We have to stop him,” said Lee.
“He’ll be easy to find.” Cheryl pointed her rolling pin toward the trail of pink glops and Jeffrey’s diminishing howls. “Come on.” She offered a hand to pull Martin up.
“No,” said Martin. He still needed a few moments to catch his breath.
“What? Come on,” said Cheryl.
“We have to stop this ship,” said Martin.
“How do you propose to do that?” asked Cheryl.
“Chumpdark’s ship,” said Martin.
“Chump dar…?” asked Lee.
“The CEO, the fat one. His ship’s in the hangar. We fly it out, and then set it on a collision course at whatever looks most like the engines, then get the hell off,” said Martin. “It’s what Stewart and I planned to do. Also…”
“Also?” asked Cheryl.
“We destroy whatever we can on the way out. You should see the rest of this ship. It’s like it’s made of cardboard and chalk. We smash anything that looks important. Set fires. Whatever.”
“This place is huge. There’s no way we’ll inflict enough damage,” said Lee.
“It’s also automated,” said Martin. “Sever enough connections, and stuff stops working. From what Stewart told me, this is mostly a dumb warehouse. Where we are is probably the command and control section, so if we do enough damage here, it might kill off huge parts of the ship. But we’re running out of time.”
“You guys do that,” said Cheryl. “I’m going after Asshat.”
Martin grabbed her wrist. “No. Please,” he said.
“Let go of me,” said Cheryl.
“We have to stay together,” said Martin.
“You don’t know what he’s put me through,” said Cheryl.
Martin let her go and got to his feet. She took a few steps backward down the bloody corridor. “We have to destroy this ship now, before it gets to the portal,” said Martin.
“Then go do that,” said Cheryl.
“I agree. We can’t waste time hunting,” said Lee.
“If the ship gets in the atmosphere…” said Martin.
“He’s wounded. It won’t take long,” said Cheryl.
“Cheryl, I can’t destroy this ship if you’re still on board,” said Martin. “It’s why Stewart asked me to come. Not to kill them, or even to save Earth. He wanted to save you.” Cheryl stopped. “Stay with us. Please.”
“Fine,” she said.
“Besides,” said Martin, “if we destroy the right stuff, he’ll come looking for us.” Cheryl had a great smile.
A few minutes later, they gathered outside the door of Cheryl’s trailer, on the alien side, free from the stench of alien innards and natural gas. On the human side, they’d opened all the doors, and had broken every natural gas line, even as they’d gathered up what Lee called “utensils of mass destruction.” Along with the rolling pin that had nearly killed Jeffrey, Cheryl had rearmed herself with a savage meat cleaver. Lee had a rolling pin and a meat tenderizer. Martin clasped a thick, wooden cutting board with a handle—a shield to go with his rolling pin sword. Their pockets bristled with knives.
Cheryl rolled up an Awake magazine and let Martin light one end on fire.
“I hope this works,” said Martin.
“There’s enough gas in there for another Hindenburg,” said Lee.
The magazine burned quickly. “Open the door already,” said Cheryl.
Lee opened the door, and Cheryl tossed the flaming magazine in underhand. It unrolled, flipping end over end, and struck the ceiling. It fell, igniting the air around it. Lee closed the door, wide-eyed. Martin stared back at him and blinked twice.
“Um, run now,” said Cheryl.
Chapter 29
Martin tumbled weightless through the rotating collar of the junction, out of the faked gravity and faked Earthscapes into the ship proper. He collided with Cheryl. A fireball roared down the corridor from where they had come, its flames swirling into balls as the gravity weakened.
A klaxon screeched, and the collar’s aperture swirled shut in an instant. A growl ate at the far side, and then another distant shudder rattled the walls.
“That’s probably got his attention,” said Lee. Martin laughed until he noticed the floating pink globules of alien blood, a trail of breadcrumbs leading them to Jeffrey.
“We have to go this way,” said Martin, pointing in the opposite direction.
“Are you sure?” asked Lee.
“They brought me down here earlier. To get the cigarettes,” said Martin. He gripped a structural rib and whacked at a conduit with his rolling pin. The pipe shattered, and the wire inside ripped apart. Nothing else happened, but it felt good. “Just like going through the jungle.”
Lee hacked at another conduit, but the blow thrust him hard against the far wall. He grabbed the top of his head. “I guess there’s a learning curve,” he said, taking a second whack, this time braced.
~ * * * ~
Martin had envisioned leaving something like the Screwmobile’s tunnel of destruction in their wake. They’d broken countless pipes and conduits, had torn through walls to get to infrastructure, and more than once they’d been sprayed with some kind of oily fluid that globbed out of what Martin hoped weren’t sewer pipes. In one room, they had managed to puncture several enormous tanks without drowning or gassing themselves. In another they had rendered a Skylark-sized lattice of glowing and flashing crystalline plates to inert shards. Drops in the bucket.
The truck had lodged in a cavernous, machine-laden framework, and Martin wondered if they’d hit the jackpot. Lee whistled. “There’s a lot to mess up in here,” he said.
“I—wish—we—knew—if—we—were—doing—any—real—damage,” said Cheryl, as she whacked at an array of conduit.
“We ca
n’t waste too much more time,” said Martin. “We’ve got to crash the ships.” He almost pushed off down the tunnel but uncoiled himself.
“You guys go on,” he said.
“What?” asked Lee.
“Go figure out how to fly that ship,” said Martin.
“I thought we had to stay together,” said Cheryl.
“I’ve got a full load of shrapnel sitting on a full tank of gas,” said Martin. “Should carve out a pretty good hole in the middle of this place.”
“How are you going to do that?” asked Cheryl.
“I’ll figure something out,” said Martin.
“How are you going to get out in time?” asked Lee.
Martin sighed hard, and then said, “I’ve got some slow-burning fuses.” The last cigarettes were bent and crushed, but intact enough. “Set one in the right place, burns down, then boom. Should give me a few seconds.”
“Martin,” said Cheryl, shaking her head.
“This truck’s not good for anything else,” said Martin. “This isn’t up for discussion. Go. I’ll be right behind you.”
“Be sure and have the engine running. Get the gas flowing through everything,” said Lee.
“What? Have you blown up a truck before?” asked Martin.
“No, just seems like a good idea,” Lee replied.
“Enough, go. We might be getting near the portal already, so don’t spend any more time breaking stuff,” said Martin. He watched them float away until Cheryl stopped looking back.
“What are you doing, Martin?” he muttered to himself. There was no procedure in the FastNCo. employee fleet manual for this.
Martin hacked at the wreckage with his cutting board and rolling pin until he could get to the gas flap. He twisted off the gas cap and almost snapped it onto the retaining hook, but tossed it away instead.
Martin returned from the cab with the first pieces of cloth he could find, a couple of FastNCo. polo shirts from his bag. He rolled one tight and fed it as far as possible into the unleaded gas hole, only a few inches at most. Peeling more debris away, he dug into the back of the truck and found the long bolts he’d special ordered for an account in Glendive. He used one to push the polyester a good ten inches down the throat of the gas tank. Martin tied the other shirt in line and tamped in more fabric until he smelled gas. He stretched the wick out to a flat bit of wreckage where he could rest a cigarette. With his rolling pin, he pounded in a couple of two-inch bright-finish eleven-gauge common nails to hold it all into place.
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