The Void

by Greig Beck

The man grimaced behind the small camera he held up to his face. “I’m trying. But everything’s happening too fast. Autofocus can’t keep up.”

  Something darted out, staying just far enough back to be indistinct, and hung there for a moment. Its huge misshapen form remained for a few seconds and Alex had an impression of large, glossy-black lidless eyes in an elongated bulbous head. The HAWCs wasted no time concentrating their fire on the apparition. The squeals of pain brought delight from the squad.

  “Yeah, eat that shit.” Garcia fired again, and every HAWC watched the shadow pass in and out of the curtains of cloud.

  The thing roared, vanished for a moment and then reappeared. The HAWCs now sent hundreds of rounds per second at it, and knew they must have hit it, but still couldn’t bring it down. It appeared again, and again, as if it was taunting them.

  Alex tracked it with his fire, sure he was hitting the thing, but it refused to go down. It was then that from the opposite side of the group another of the creatures launched itself at them. It grabbed Anne, and Alex felt time slow around them. He turned to see it, the thing, holding the female NASA scientist, and looking down at her, and her back up at it. Time froze as the pair, one human and one abomination from hell, locked gazes.

  Anne’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell to the ground, unconscious. The thing looked like it was bending to lift her. Alex bared his teeth, preparing to charge through the group when the HAWCs standing either side of the stricken woman went to close ranks. Even her NASA colleague, Scott McIntyre overcame his fear to push at the thing, but all he managed to do was get in the way of the HAWCs’ RG3s and stopped them from getting off clear shots.

  In the blink of an eye, the creature gave up on Anne, and flicked out one long limb, taking hold of HAWC Steve Knight and yanking him off his feet. Scott McIntyre was pushed aside, but not before getting ripped by one of the spikes extruding from the thing’s arm like a row of huge thorns.

  Alex pushed though the group then, but the creature spun away and then like a shadow vanished into the opaque walls, taking Knight with it.

  “Man down, man down!” Sam roared orders and guns swung back and forth as the swirling fog closed around them.

  Morag was crouched beside Anne Peterson and for a few seconds there was confused chaos around them, until Alex Hunter strode forward, and the group parted like a biblical sea. He began to run.

  “Stay on guard,” Alex yelled over his shoulder as he went after his soldier.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ivan Zlatan halted his men for a break. Though none were fatigued, he needed to get his bearings as he felt they were going in circles. Their tracking equipment was only working sporadically now, and coupled with the heavy snow-like mist, it made navigating by landmarks impossible – it had strained even his iron nerves.

  His men milled around, none talking, all impatient and sullen. All had bleeding noses and gums, headaches and a few of them also exhibited strange, lumpy rashes. But there was nothing he saw that would impede their combat readiness.

  He couldn’t tell if it was the altitude, the strange-smelling air that coated the inside of their noses and mouths, or a combination of both. But at least his lungs didn’t feel hot and tight like they had when they first entered the mountaintop basin. Perhaps we’re acclimatizing now.

  He inhaled, smelling the high-methane content. It added further frustration, as the gas was extremely flammable and even explosive in high concentrations. It meant it would be too risky to use anything incendiary or even small arms. He cursed that bureaucrat Viktor Dubkin for not anticipating this when he sent them on the mission with standard weaponry. But he remembered the initial briefing and images displayed – the fog just wasn’t there when the shuttle first came down.

  It’s spreading. What will it be like in another hour, a day? They needed to complete their mission and get out.

  He joined his men, who all stood, none sitting or lying down. He could understand why; everywhere you looked was coated in a greasy slime that stuck to their boots, and seemed to work its way up their lower legs. His men could deal with any hardships, but why lie in stinking mud if you didn’t have to.

  Zlatan looked at each of them – four remaining – they had lost Valentin on the climb, but he still had Naryshkin, Russlin, Stroyev, and Torshin, all with eyes still burning with military obedience and a desire to fight. None would even think of complaining.

  He drew in a deep breath, filling his lungs, before letting it out slowly. There was no discomfort this time; yes, they were acclimatizing, he knew it. Zlatan turned slowly; looming from the mist were strange growths rising to about twenty feet in the air, and some with what could have been trunks ten feet around. It was if they pushed up until they came to the limits of the atmosphere bubble and stopped, knowing that beyond that meant death.

  Though it reminded him of some sort of macabre, dead land, he knew there was life out there. They had grown used to the constant background sound that could have been an insect’s thrumming coupled with an underlying soft whine, and he was sure there were other larger movements obscured by the shadows and hanging fog. It was strange, either the things that were making the noise were experts at camouflage, or they were invisible. When he stared at where he thought the noises were coming from, they stopped, and then began again somewhere else.

  Zlatan was about to lead his team onward, when suddenly all surrounding sounds fell away. He held his hand up slowly, pointed at his eyes then ears, and then motioned to the bank of gloom. His Kurgan drew their daggers, alert and waiting.

  They stayed frozen for many minutes in the absolute silence that was like the vacuum of space. Zlatan finally waved them on, and in just a few more seconds he heard it again, the heavy sliding, as if someone was dragging a wet sack over the ground – slide, stop, slide, stop – always keeping pace with them, moving when they did, stopping when they stopped.

  Zlatan felt the ground gently vibrate beneath his feet. He was sure it was coming closer. And then, it stopped again.

  “Ach.” Behind him, Naryshkin stumbled.

  Zlatan turned, about to curse his man’s clumsiness, when he saw that his soldier had been stopped dead, one foot in the front of the other, and the rear one snagged by something.

  Naryshkin went to lift it free but couldn’t. “Is stuck.” He tugged on his foot, and then looked back at it. He recoiled.

  “Po’shyol!” His voice became more urgent. “Something on it.”

  Zlatan clicked his fingers and pointed. Russlin and Stroyev nodded and jogged toward the stuck man and gripped his arms.

  Russlin looked up. “Looks like, maybe a snare.”

  Zlatan crossed quickly to Naryshkin who was now tugging on his leg even harder without being able to set it free. Closer now, Zlatan could see that there was what looked like glistening, dark cables over the toe of his boot. At first, he thought it might have been metallic, perhaps even space debris, but as he watched the cables climbed higher up past his ankle.

  He felt it then, the grinding slide again, and he realized why he could never see it – it was underneath them the whole time, burrowing and sliding along.

  He spun, looking at the ground at their feet. The thing had been listening to their footsteps, following them, and just waiting for an opportunity to shoot up to snatch at them when it was ready. Like it had with Naryshkin.

  “It’s below us.” Zlatan dove toward his trapped man, and reached down to tug at the cords around Naryshkin’s boot. As he did, even more of the glossy cables burst from the greasy mud, and encircled more and more of his soldier’s leg.

  “It hurts.” Naryshkin groaned and threw his head back.

  Zlatan pulled with all his strength, but he couldn’t lift free from what was below them. Whatever held the man was either enormously strong or much bigger than he expected.

  The slimy soil around Naryshkin’s boots began to churn, and the Kurgan quickly pulled his blade and hacked at the cables that were now around his leg to the t
highs. But for every strand he severed another two seemed to take their place.

  The soil started to erupt around Naryshkin. Whatever was below the ground was beginning to surface, undoubtedly to claim its prize. Naryshkin began to panic, and pulled his gun, but Zlatan grabbed his arm and ripped it free, and then ordered his men to attack the ground. All of them started to hack and stab at the cords, the ground, and anything that looked to be surfacing.

  In a five-foot circle around the stricken man, the ground boiled like water and then up rose a ring of tusks. Naryshkin’s curses became incendiary in their intensity and it was then that Zlatan realized that they weren’t tusks at all, but teeth.

  The creature started to appear, a bulbous giant worm, with the cable things that had enmeshed his soldier’s legs extending from its end like a thick beard of tentacles. What held him was the feeding end, open now like a colossal lamprey; a deep-sea creature that had a circular mouth lined with rasp-like teeth for gripping onto flesh and bone.

  Naryshkin was dragged down at the same time as the circle of foot-long teeth began to close.

  Zlatan and his men fell upon the monstrous worm, stabbing and hacking, but it was like trying to do damage to an armored truck, and their blades refused to penetrate the scaling.

  Naryshkin had sunk now to his waist, his arms flailing, and he reached out, holding onto his comrades, Torshin grabbed an arm, but the sleeve came away in his hands just as the massive teeth came together.

  Zlatan gritted his teeth at the sound of crunching bones. The Kurgan warriors’ bodies were a wonder of massive armor-plated bone growths, but they stood little chance against something that was the size of a killer whale, and whose ocean was the slick mud below them.

  His soldier’s screams turned wet as dark blood spewed from his lips. In a couple of mighty tugs, his body vanished below the greasy surface.

  For several minutes afterwards, they heard dragging and sliding beneath them as the monstrous creature slid back to its lair to enjoy its meal in peace.

  Zlatan got to his feet, and wiped hands, slick with greasy slime and blood, on his trouser legs, leaving long streaks in their wake.

  None spoke, but just stared at the churned ground that quickly seemed to knit together, the weird mud sliding and meshing like a wound closing over.

  “What was that thing?” Torshin asked.

  Zlatan shook his head. “Who knows; but from now on, I suggest we watch where we walk.”

  Torshin balled Naryshkin’s sleeve up and tossed it to the ground where the man had disappeared. “It seems hell reaches up to us even on the mountaintops.”

  “Have you not heard?” Zlatan turned back to stare briefly at the ground. “When you are going through hell, there is only one thing to do.” He looked up to smile grimly at Torshin. “Keep going.”

  Zlatan waved his men on, and they vanished in the swirling mist.

  CHAPTER 19

  Shit! Sam bared his teeth as he stared out into the soupy air, trunk-like legs planted, and hands so tight on his gun, they started to ache. Whatever those things had been they were no dumb animals. They had used a frontal attack as a diversion, so they could then come at them from the rear – a simple and effective tactic.

  With all their tech, they were still nearly blind … and he didn’t like it. He turned and let his voice boom over the group. “HAWCs, armor-up – two-tier.”

  The HAWCs edged back, forcing the civilians into a tight bunch – some went to one knee and the others stood at their shoulders. Then with an almost imperceptible whirring sound, the air began to swirl and condense in front of each of them as they deployed their shields. Over the top of each of these, the HAWCs had their guns pointed out at the surrounding mist, creating a double layer of gun barrels and shields. If anything came at them, they couldn’t help but hit it.

  Sam’s teeth remained grit – they’d underestimated the things, and they just damn well paid for it. He waited, watching, and straining to hear anything over the small and insistent background whine. He turned to look over the group – the HAWCs were like a single interlocked machine. Good. Behind them, the civilians huddled. The camera guy, Renner, tried to film, but his hand shook so violently that after a moment Morag reached up to ease it down.

  “It’s okay.” She smiled, lopsidedly. “It’d just be Bigfoot shots with that shaky hand, right?”

  Renner nodded and tried to smile, but his fear made the attempt look more like a frightened chimpanzee.

  Sam turned back to the alien landscape. The mist swirled and they all became statue-still, their focus intense. Behind him, he felt Morag get slowly to her feet behind the ring of warriors.

  “Have they gone?” she asked him softly.

  After a moment Sam nodded. “I think so; after the captain, I bet.” He half turned, seeing his man losing blood. “Dundee, put a damn patch on that wound and seal your suit.” He looked to the NASA man, Scott McIntyre, nursing a hand that was also showing red through his biohazard synthetic material.

  “Bad?” he asked.

  McIntyre shook his head. “Nah, just spiked on something.”

  “Good, then for now, just patch the hole, put pressure on it, and we’ll worry about blood loss later.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” McIntyre pressed the wound, and Russell Burrows pulled some plastic tape from his pack and helped him seal the rip, binding the arm tightly.

  Sam saw Dunsen still watching the mist. “Now, Dunsen.”

  “Yo.” Max Dunsen looked down, seeming to finally remember that his arm was dripping thick blood to the ground. Sam saw that, oddly, where it fell, the blood quickly vanished as the slime closed over it, or worse, consumed it.

  Sam shook his head. This place gave him the creeps. He watched as in a practiced motion Dunsen pushed his gun up over his shoulder, and opened the forearm sleeve, exposing the wound. It was a ragged rip that welled blood. He then reached into a kit and took out an adhesive patch, which he slapped over the wound.

  Dunsen saw Morag watching and he grinned. “Med patch, got all the antibiotics, adrenalin and steroids to kill anything nasty and promote rapid healing.” The wound immediately stopped bleeding. “See, better already, darlin’.” He winked at her and rolled down his sleeve, affixed the suit to his glove, and flexed his fingers.

  “Kills anything nasty, huh?” Morag pulled in a cheek. “Anything nasty, that we know about,” she said.

  He looked up sharply, but then snorted. “Yeah, well, the rest is up to the angels then, right?” Bravado and body intact, he fell back into the HAWC line.

  “What now?” Russell Burrows asked Sam.

  “We wait,” the HAWC said evenly.

  “How long?” McIntyre asked.

  Morag scowled. “Jesus, you guys, give Alex a—”

  Russell spun at her. “I wasn’t asking the press gallery.”

  “Asshole,” Morag spat back.

  Russell’s lip curled. “Should have let them leave you beh—”

  “Shut it,” Sam growled as he looked out at the fog from under lowered brows. “We wait until the captain comes back in. End of story.”

  “We’re running out of time.” Russell made a hissing sound between his teeth. “Do you know why we’re here, Lieutenant?”

  Sam’s head came up slowly but he didn’t turn. Russell put his hands on his hips, and turned to Morag.

  “We are both here to find the Orlando Space Shuttle Orbiter module. Accepted it’s for different reasons, but still, that is both our priorities. Please remember, you are here because of us, we are not here because of you.”

  Max Dunsen began to chuckle. Sam Reid turned fully toward Russell then, who looked up at him. Though Sam didn’t step out of the line, he straightened to his full height and loomed high over the NASA engineer. His voice was measured.

  “Without us, you’d all be dead in an hour.” He lowered his head to look the man in the eye. “We will stay until I say so. Clear?”

  Russell stared.

  “CLEAR?”<
br />
  The roar even made Morag jump. Russell nodded quickly and turned away, suddenly finding something else to do. Sam glared for a moment longer and then went back to watching the impenetrable speckled clouds pressing in on them. Sam knew his job right now was to keep everyone alive, and everyone under control … and he’d damn well do it.

  He couldn’t tell how much time passed, as each and every second seemed an eternity of held breath and jagged nerves. But then, just as he felt he might need a new plan, a solitary figure walked out of the mist.

  “Shields down,” Sam said, relief washing over him.

  * * *

  The circle of discs vanished and their group parted as Alex Hunter strode into their center. He threw something to the ground, and they all stared.

  “Knight?’ Sam asked.

  “Gone.” Alex shook his head. “They’re too quick. I followed but the tracks just seemed to vanish.”

  “What – the fuck – is that?” Casey Franks’ scarred lips managed to curl even more in disgust.

  The something was a claw, four fingered, or three and a thumb. The digits were thick, brutish and mottled green, and each ended in a cruel-looking talon.

  “Well, Dundee, now you know what slashed you,” Sam said.

  Dunsen crouched, and drew his long hunting blade, lifting the claw slightly. He whistled. “It looks like it’s from a big, bad ass bird.”

  Russell Burrows and Anne Peterson also crouched beside it. “May I?” Russell took Dunsen’s knife and poked at it. “It’s certainly not from a bird, Mister Dunsen; this thing has got an opposable thumb.” He looked up. “And you say this came from the thing that attacked us?”

  “One of them.” Alex nodded and turned to Sam. “It was big, a biped, and at least seven and a half feet tall, and probably around 500 pounds. One came at me, so I cut that off it.”

  “Good, means we can hurt them.” Sam squared his shoulders.

  “Looks like a hairless bear claw,” Monroe said. “Except for the number of claws or fingers or whatever they are. Maybe it’s a mutation.”